《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 16

Both “rightness” and “genuine knowing” are obstacles to the Great Dao (the Way), and especially hard to remove. The Great Dao has no form or trace; it cannot be obtained by pursuit. Supreme De (Virtue/Power) does not show itself as identifiable conduct, nor can it be grasped through cognition. The benevolent person speaks of universal love, yet partiality arises, and then there is something to do; the righteous person presides over judgment, yet bias appears, and affairs can be arranged by human design; ritual honors dignity and ceremony, yet it slips into artifice, and showy falsity follows. All of these stem from the error of “knowing,” and in the end lead to disorder. Therefore one should first reduce “knowing,” then reduce “not knowing,” until there is no knowing; when nothing remains to be reduced, only then can one practice wuwei (non-action). In wuwei, nothing fails to be accomplished. Wuwei is freedom from clinging to “self”—only the great person (one who has penetrated the Dao) can achieve this.

Only by forgetting life can death no longer bind you; only by forgetting death can you return to the root of life. Those who know its guiding principle can discern what comes first; where there is gathering, dispersion must follow in the end. To treat death and life as one continuous thread is to be at ease wherever you are. What is marvelous is xing (nature/character); what putrefies is xing (form). All things take preservation through xing as beautiful and destruction of xing as evil. Xing becomes form, form returns to xing—it is nothing but transformation within a single qi (vital energy). Obtain the “One,” and all things can be completed—who does not cherish it? Being and non-being serve each other; the coarse and the subtle depend on one another. Hence the text first has Wuweiwei in Zhibeiyou refuse to answer, to show how deep the ultimate principle is; then has Kuang Qu wish to speak but forget, to mark the boundary between speech and silence; finally it borrows what the Yellow Emperor knows, using borrowed words to explain the Dao. To be trapped in knowing is coarse; to go beyond words is subtle.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi, author of Zhuangzi kouyi) holds: the opening separates “genuine,” “right,” and “seeming,” showing that none of them approach the Dao; the theme of the three following sections all comes down to “those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.” It then points out: the Dao cannot be reached through words, De cannot be sought through visible traces. Benevolence, righteousness, and ritual all have visible traces, so the Dao is diminished—and among them ritual is the worst. “Slough off the limbs and dismiss cleverness” (setting aside bodily attachment and clever contrivance) means daily reduction for the sake of the Dao. Keep reducing, forget the former self, attain wuwei, and you accord with heavenly principle and nature—nothing is impossible. Seek the Dao while still keeping traces, and you remain the same as the myriad things; wish to see the root, and it is very hard. Returning to the root means going back to before the myriad things had yet arisen; only the great person’s wuwei makes this easy.

Life is of the same kind as death; death is the beginning of life. Like flowers and trees that sprout and must eventually wither, what is living is already like what is dead. Yichuan (Cheng Yi) said: the breath newly drawn in is not the same breath that was just exhaled—precisely this meaning. Death and life come and go—who knows the principle that sustains them? It is qi. If one knows death and life are a single principle, what is there to worry about? “Tu” means merging into one. Birth and death of the myriad things are originally one principle, yet people themselves divide good and bad, beautiful and ugly: flowers in full bloom are taken as marvelous, fallen leaves as putrid decay—without seeing that fallen leaves enrich the roots and new life begins from there, and that putrid decay turns again into the marvelous. Past and present are nothing but this one qi. The sage understands this, and therefore does not discriminate death from life, or fortune from misfortune. The “One” is absence of discrimination.

In his Guanjian (Overview), Chu Boxiu writes: Zhi’s journey north to Xuan Water—the dark, obscure water that stands for the hard-to-grasp root of the Dao—means someone of wide learning wants to return to the Way’s foundation. Climbing Yinfou Hill shows he still cannot fully hide what he knows and wants to display it to others. Wuweiyu (“he who speaks from nothing-to-say”) no longer relies on knowledge to talk, so when asked he does not answer. Getting no reply, Zhi goes back south of Bai Water and turns toward what is bright and manifest to keep searching. Huque (“gate where doubt is cleared”) means doubt has been dispelled. Kuangqu looks wild to others, but in fact he bends and yields to preserve himself; he would speak but forgets what he meant to say—which shows the Dao cannot be grasped through words. Returning to the imperial palace means seeking inward. The Yellow Emperor sits at the center and holds sway; when someone knocks and asks, he cannot refuse to respond, so he points out: to know the Dao, rest in the Dao, and attain the Dao, the key is simply not to scheme, not to cling to a fixed place, and not to seek another path. Only what truly fits counts as the real situation; what is close is second best; what is far misses the Dao. Zhi and speech stand so opposed that Confuscius spoke little to people and watched what they did; wordless teaching takes the self as example and does not depend on words. The Dao, as it descends, becomes De, benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), and ritual (li)—like a person who, once alive, gains knowledge, from knowledge gains ability, and from ability is driven to run and serve. Once driven, one chases externals, and it becomes hard to return to the root. Only the daren—one who has mastered the great Way—can master things without being mastered by them, and so can change freely. Death and life are only gathering and scattering of the same qi; what people call miraculous and what they call rotten are transformations judged by liking and disliking. The sage values “oneness”; returning to oneness, all boundaries dissolve—why split miraculous from rotten? Only someone who sees death and life as of one kind can discuss this with you. From “Zhi said to the Yellow Emperor” onward, the same ideas are repeated and expanded.

Heaven and earth possess supreme beauty, yet they do not proclaim it; the four seasons have clear norms, yet they do not debate them; the ten thousand things each have their own established patterns, yet no one explains them. The sage traces whence the beauty of heaven and earth comes and penetrates the patterns of the ten thousand things. Therefore the zhiren (one in harmony with the Dao who does not act rashly) does nothing contrived, and the great sage does not initiate new fabrications—meaning that they simply observe heaven and earth and follow along with them.

When spirit and subtlety reach the utmost point, they merge with the myriad transformations of the ten thousand things. Things already have distinctions of death and life, square and round, yet no one knows their root source. The ten thousand things exist as they plainly appear; from ancient times they have been so from the beginning. The liuhe (above, below, and the four directions) is already vast, yet it never leaves their scope; the qiuháo (the fine new hair of autumn, a metaphor for the extremely small) is already tiny, yet it must rely on them to take form. Nothing under heaven among the ten thousand things fails to sink or float, never holding to the old throughout life; yin and yang and the four seasons run their course, each receiving its proper order. It is dim and unclear, as if already gone yet still there; it surges of itself, with no fixed trace yet mysteriously subtle; the ten thousand things are nourished by it, yet do not know it. This is called bengen (the root from which all things arise); from this one may observe tiandao (the way of heaven).

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that the wuwei of the zhiren is simply according with each thing’s own nature. Observing its form and following what suits it, one is no different from heaven and earth. Hence each transformation transforms on its own, and spirit does not seize upon them. What dies dies by itself, what lives lives by itself, what is round is round by itself, what is square is square by itself—never has anyone served as their root source, so there is no knowing. The ten thousand things have existed from antiquity as they are; why wait for anyone to fabricate them? Measuring the liuhe against the boundless and still calling it vast is a shallow view. Though the qiuháo is small, if it were not “nothing” (wu), there would be nowhere to hold its substance. The four seasons run without waiting for anyone to push them. Once plainly visible as if solidly graspable, it has perished; once fixed into a definite form, it is no longer wondrous. Nourishing the ten thousand things yet unable to grasp the root of their nature—one then does not know by what they are nourished.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary holds that heaven and earth are wuwei, yet nothing is incomplete—this is supreme beauty. The four seasons turn and change without confusion from beginning to end—this is clear law. Though the ten thousand things are many, the Dao is everywhere—this is established pattern. Beauty fills them within; clear law is what nourishes the ten thousand things.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Heaven and Earth do not act with deliberate intent, yet nothing is lacking—this is Great Beauty. The four seasons turn and change without ever losing their order—this is clear law (mingfa). Though the myriad things are many, the Dao is nowhere absent—this is accomplished principle (chengli). Beauty fills all within; law can be taken as model; follow principle and nothing is blocked—ultimately all return to the Dao.

The sage probes Great Beauty, penetrates the patterns of things, and understands that principle of not forcing yet naturally being so—nothing more than observing Heaven and Earth. The utmost subtle spirit transforms together with the myriad things; if you look only from the side of things, things already have distinctions of life and death, square and round—how then can you know the root? Even so, the myriad things spring up everywhere on earth; not one thing is other than the Dao. The Dao has been here from antiquity and has never departed.

Yin and Yang, the four seasons each keep their sequence—if not the Dao, who does it? It seems gone yet truly exists; formless yet wondrous—you cannot seek it between being and non-being. The myriad things rely on it to nurture one another, yet do not know it themselves—this is called the root foundation (bengen).

According to Lin Yidu (style name Yidu), Great Beauty refers to yin-yang; Clear Law to generation and transformation; Established Principle to xing and ming (nature and life). The sage traces heaven and earth’s yin-yang as Great Beauty and penetrates the principles of the xingming of the ten thousand things. Inwardly becoming a Perfect Person (one who embodies the Dao to the utmost), they then practice wuwei (non-action); outwardly becoming a sage, even when they act, it flows from “not acting”—not from deliberate imposition. They only observe heaven and earth’s measure of law and, having penetrated it, use it to carry out keyi (liturgy). Shen (spirit) is where heaven and earth are most refined; the hundred things each transform, and spirit accords with them without seizing or disturbing. Hence the death and birth, square and round of things—no one knows their root. The myriad things lie spread everywhere; from antiquity they have always been there, passing through remote ages without decay. The six directions (above, below, and the four quarters) cannot leave this Dao; even an autumn down is completed through it. Nothing under heaven fails to rise and sink by it. The Dao renews day by day without growing stale, so yin-yang and the four seasons each keep their proper order. It seems lost yet still is; without form yet mysteriously unfathomable—the myriad things are nourished by it without knowing it. This is called the root foundation—the very root of the myriad things’ wondrous transformation. From here one may inquire and thus observe the Way of Heaven.

According to Chen Jingyuan (style name Master Bixu), Great Beauty is covering and bearing; Clear Law is generation and killing; Established Principle is each thing’s own distinction. Once it is spoken, beauty slips away; once argued, law goes wrong; once asserted, principle falls into disorder. Only one in wuwei silently follows the four seasons, in union with heaven and earth, with transformation without end—only such a one deserves to be called penetratingly clear. All things come from ziran (spontaneity), so they do not know their own root. The Dao stands alone and does not change; if heaven and earth were not shen (spirit), how could they hold the myriad things? If an autumn down were not utmost refinement, how could it be complete? The sage models heaven and earth’s operation; the myriad things receive their gift and do not know it. This is called the root foundation.

Yizhai (the sobriquet of the Southern Song scholar Lin Xiyi) said: What is called “Great Beauty” is the sense of the Zhouyi phrase “using beauty and benefit to benefit all under heaven”—heaven and earth benefit the myriad things through beneficent, beautiful function. “Clear Law” means fixed, unchanging patterns such as cold succeeding heat and heat succeeding cold. “Completed Principle” means the reason things are large or small, long or short. None of these can be put into words. “Wuwei (non-action)” and “not contriving” both spring from nature itself. That sages can align with nature is simply because they recognize it from heaven and earth—nothing more.

The subtle, utmost power of spirit-intelligence completes the myriad things; who can trace it to its furthest root? “Bian” means “fluttering”: the myriad things change without a moment’s rest, while transformation itself always endures. Su Dongpo said, “What passes is like this, yet it has never gone”—without real insight, one could not say that. The myriad things sink and rise, come and go; they never keep the old shape but are always made new. It is dim and cannot be seen, yet life wells up of itself; it seems already gone, yet still is there; the dead and the living are one lineage continuing. It shows no form yet has wondrous efficacy; it does not need a body to be what it is.

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi) carries forward the previous chapter’s themes of wuwei (non-action) and wordlessness. The opening three lines echo the idea that “Heaven does not speak, yet the four seasons turn and the myriad things are born”: Heaven does not speak, the four seasons run their course, and the myriad things grow as they should. The sage models himself on Heaven and Earth in nurturing the myriad things—does he really sit like a clod of earth or a wooden puppet, dull and motionless, doing nothing at all? No. What moves him is action that arises from wuwei; such action takes non-assertive doing as its root, just as the seasons run and the earth nurtures—none of it steps outside the natural.

The numinous spirit and utmost refinement of Heaven and Earth change together with the myriad things. Flourishing and withering, form and shape are plainly visible, yet one cannot tell what brings them about—this is what is called the “root.” “Amid the profusion of the myriad things” means the myriad things in their bustling diversity: they have been here from antiquity, while the Dao itself does not change. Thus the Dao may be vast enough to fill the liuhe (the six directions—above, below, and the four quarters), or fine enough to enter the autumn hair (the finest filament); it rises and falls with the myriad things and renews itself day by day, while yin and yang each keep their order. It seems lost yet still there; in dim vagueness there seems to be something; without form or trace yet wonderfully numinous, as if one faintly saw a glimmer of light. All things receive birth from here and yet do not know it—this is the root.

The root need not be sought elsewhere: turn back and seek it in yourself—find that by which you were given birth, and that is it. To know this root and hold to it without leaving is called returning to the root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called returning to destiny—a phrase from the Daodejing meaning a return to clarity and stillness and the recovery of life’s original endowment. When practice reaches this point, one may go further; hence “one may observe Heaven”—from here one can observe the Way of Heaven.

Chen Pixu’s (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) commentary, read together with the edition associated with Zhaosanren Liu Deyi on the passage above, gives a sounder reading of the meaning.

The prefatory note to the text indicates that this is the opening of fascicle 67 of the Song-dynasty Chu Boxiu’s Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei as preserved in the Siku Quanshu, explaining the second section of “Knowledge Rambling in the North”; the preceding line marks the end of fascicle 66.

Nieque asked Biyi about the Dao. Biyi said: Straighten your body and fix your gaze in one direction, and the natural harmony of qi will arrive; gather in your cleverness and let your thoughts be simple and one-pointed, and spirit will come to dwell in peace. De will make you whole, and the Dao will be your home. Let your eyes be as innocent as a newborn calf’s, and no longer chase after why things are as they are. Before he had finished speaking, Nieque had already fallen asleep. Biyi was greatly pleased; he walked away singing, and said: The body like dry bones, the heart like dead ashes—this is genuine knowing, not clinging to fixed views and insisting on oneself; dim and unassuming, without scheming mind—one cannot plot affairs with such a person. What kind of person is this!

Guo Xiang comments: “Not holding fast to the past as one’s standard” means moving together with transformation; “having no deliberate mind and therefore cannot be engaged in planning” means letting each thing transform on its own—you cannot treat such a person with contrived human schemes.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To straighten the body is to sit quietly in contemplation; when the gaze is single-minded, one does not look about wildly—deviant qi withdraws and the harmonizing yuanqi (the harmonious vital energy within) returns. Gathering up cleverness means returning to the root; when method is unified, there is no scattering—the spirit comes to dwell and stays with the form without leaving. When De is full and beautiful, one is replete and the same as at the beginning; when the Dao returns to the person, it ceases and gathers in emptiness and stillness. Like a newborn calf, one does not yet know what to pursue. Before the words were finished, Nie Que had already closed his eyes as if asleep—he had heard and understood. Bei Yi sang as he left, pleased that Nie Que had so easily settled into this state. A withered form and a heart like dead ashes are the utmost of stillness; truly knowing the real situation relies on not using cleverness; not holding oneself with old habits is letting go of artificial ways of living. The last three lines say where he came from—the speaker does not know who he is.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: When the body is straight, one is not unrestrained; when the gaze is single-minded, one is not confused—thus the thread of harmony appears. Folding up knowledge and views is to remove knowledge and views; unifying method is to forget method—when the heart is empty, the spirit comes to dwell in peace. Because harmony is utmost, De becomes your beauty; because emptiness and stillness are utmost, the Dao becomes your dwelling. Eyes dull like a newborn calf means the spirit is complete—one does not inquire into old causes but can renew day by day. Before the speech ended Nie Que was already asleep; Bei Yi was glad he had attained the Way and sang as he departed. Truly knowing the real situation and not relying on old methods to sustain oneself is walking with change. Dazed and dim, without scheming, unable to consult with him—this is becoming one with creation and transformation.

Bixuzi (Chen Jingyuan)’s commentary: When the body does not lean and the eyes do not wander, harmonizing qi gathers; when perception is folded in and method is simplified, auspiciousness settles. Then every kind of goodness follows and pure whiteness is preserved; inner light shines in the eyes and the gaze does not drift outward—in this way one is nearly there with leaving the Dao. So the ear hears speakable Dao, the spirit enters the subtle gate; when the words fall, bonds are suddenly released—quiet as deep sleep. Form like dry bones and heart like dead ashes are straight body and single gaze; truly knowing the real situation without holding to old methods is gathering perception and unifying method. Dimness is the beauty of De; no heart and inability to plot together mean the Dao dwells in peace. All of these praise Nie Que’s moral bearing and atmosphere; the subtlety of his feigned sleep cannot be fully told in words.

Yi Zhai (Lin Xiyi's style name) says: Upright posture and a single fixed gaze mean forgetting one's own body, ears, and eyes; gathering in awareness and bringing all measures to one standard mean stripping away deliberation and conscious intent. In this way, primordial qi is preserved intact and spirit comes to dwell at ease. "De is beautiful" means virtue is sufficient to nourish oneself; "Dao as dwelling" means taking the Great Dao as one's home—that is, resting in the broadest dwelling under heaven. Gazing blankly without knowing, simply looking straight ahead, describes a newborn calf seeing things without scheming; an infant is the same. "Not seeking the reason why" means not probing why one looks this way. Before the words are finished, one falls asleep—because the mind is already aligned, there is nothing left to say. Truly seeing this principle, outer things no longer enter the heart. "The go-between is dim and vague" depicts the other party already without mind, and oneself having something that cannot be put into words; "What kind of person is he?" is deep praise.

He also says: One who skillfully unfolds the hidden always sets out few headings; one who learns well accepts transformation swiftly. "Upright form, single gaze" restrains the outer; "gather awareness, one measure" orders the inner—the headings are already brief; falling asleep before speech is finished is change at its swiftest. The line "gazing blankly like a newborn calf" best captures resting in the Dao, mindless wuwei, purely forgetting self and things in mutual oblivion. From this one knows the path of entering the Dao. Beiyi's song matches Zigong's praise of the Old Man of the Han Yin (the elder south of the Han who refused machines and watered his garden with a jar): people's fault lies in using plotting to enslave the inner mind; now he is already without mind, so one can no longer discuss plans with him—hence admiration for his plain virtue, holding that no such person will appear again in the world.

Shun asked his minister Cheng: "Can the Dao be grasped and possessed as one's own?" The reply: "Your body is not even yours—how could you possess the Dao?" Shun said: "If my body is not mine, whose is it?" The reply: "It is the form entrusted by heaven and earth. Life is not yours—it is the harmonious qi heaven and earth entrust. Nature-and-life are not yours—they are the compliant transformation heaven and earth entrust. Children and grandchildren are not yours—they are successive generations heaven and earth entrust, like the cicada's cast shell. Thus in walking one does not know where one goes; in dwelling one does not know what one holds to; in eating one does not know the flavor. These are only the ever-active yang qi between heaven and earth—how could they be seized and owned?"

Shun said: "If I truly understand this, then body, life, nature, and offspring are not mine; who then is the possessor?" Cheng said: "The form is entrusted; life is entrusted; nature-and-life are entrusted; offspring are entrusted. Who is the possessor? You are the form of heaven and earth's transformation, not the possessor of the form. You are the life of heaven and earth's transformation, not the possessor of life. You are the nature-and-life of heaven and earth's transformation, not the possessor of nature-and-life. You are the offspring of heaven and earth's transformation, not the possessor of offspring. Constantly transform, never be a possessor—then how could you be deluded by things?"

Yi Zhai says: "Can the Dao be grasped and possessed?"—this is the same as "Can the Dao be heard?" in the chapter "Knowing It Does Not Know." "Your body is not yours"—this is the same as "Heaven and earth and I were born together." "Constantly transform, never be a possessor"—this is the same as "The Great Dao is vast—do not use it to possess the world." The minister's answers all accord with the meaning of the text; Shun's final question shows he has not yet fully understood—hence the further explanation. "Who is the possessor?" means there is fundamentally no possessor; "you are the form of transformation" means you are only a manifestation of transformation, not a fixed possessor. This is the ultimate meaning of "forgetting self and things."

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The body was never yours to begin with—still less the Dao, which has no fixed form and cannot be grasped. If the body truly belonged to you, then beauty and ugliness, life and death, would be yours to decide. Yet when qi gathers, birth happens whether you can stop it or not; when qi scatters, death comes whether you can hold on or not. The body is only qi naturally coming together; it does not belong to you. Children and grandchildren are likewise qi gathering on its own, continuing the line as a cicada leaves its old shell behind. So walking, dwelling, and eating all come from nature; what is called qiangyang is this ever-active yang qi in motion. Someone who sees this is close to being able to let go of the body and forget clinging to life.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Among everything in the world, nothing seems more under a person’s control than one’s own body—yet it is only the form heaven and earth have entrusted to you (weixing); you cannot truly own it. The body exists through life, but life is the harmonious qi heaven and earth have entrusted (weihe); you cannot keep hold of life once it has taken shape. The root of life lies in xing and ming (nature and life-destiny)—heaven and earth’s entrusted yielding transformation (weishun)—and you cannot go against their inherent right order. Consider this body: at bottom it has no “knowing” that acts as master—so how would walking know where to go, dwelling know what to hold to, or eating know flavor? All of this is the work of heaven and earth’s qiangyang qi. If so, how could you possess the so-called Dao?

Yidun’s commentary: Cheng was someone of old who had attained the Dao. The body is the vessel that bears the Dao, but its being given and taken back belongs to the maker of things—not to me. That is heaven and earth’s weixing. If even the body cannot be one’s own, how much less the Dao? And not only the body—life and xingming are not yours either; they are heaven and earth’s weihe and weishun. Offspring are only weitui, a natural handoff like a cicada shedding its shell. Once you know that none of this belongs to you, you should leave it to nature—so walking, dwelling, and eating all arise from nature, without your understanding why. Human beings receive heaven and earth’s qiangyang qi to live and die when that qi disperses—so how could anyone claim the Dao as their possession?

Bi Xuzi (Chen Jingyuan) comments: The Dao cannot be seen when you look for it or grasped when you reach for it—how could anyone truly possess it? The body simply exists as a spontaneous, unified whole—how could it be “yours”? Someone replies: If we say the ten thousand things each transform and come into being on their own, then the body ought to count as what I possess. Here, wei (“entrust” or “yield”) means to go along with and lodge in something. Even the body is not yours—it only appears because you yield to the form heaven and earth confer; life is not yours—it comes from yielding to the harmonizing of Yin-Yang in heaven and earth; nature and life together are not yours—they follow the ordering principle of heaven and earth; children and descendants are not yours either—they come from yielding to heaven and earth’s shedding of shells, like a cicada leaving its old skin. Thus walking, dwelling, and eating are all set in motion by Qi stirring and circulating—what is there for you to claim as your own?

Yan Zhai (Lin Xiyi) says: Wei means to gather and assemble. When the four greats—earth, water, fire, and wind—temporarily combine, that is the entrusted body; when Yin and Yang harmonize and the ten thousand things are born, that is entrusted harmonious Qi; when nature and life are in this person, it is in truth the principle of creation—entrusted accord with principle; generations of people succeed one another like a cicada sloughing its shell—entrusted transformation through shedding. “Qiangyang” refers to the Qi of ceaseless generation. What can a person actually own?

Yan Zhai adds: Human movement, dwelling, and eating are all propelled by this Qi—they are not possessions of the self. The Sutra of Complete Enlightenment asks, “Where, after all, is this illusory body?”—that is exactly the point. Not knowing what to hold fast to is the same as having nothing to cling to.

Some say “Cheng” was Shun’s teacher; few commentaries explain this clearly. Later, checking Bi Xuzi’s Yinyi (Explanation of Terms), one finds that ancient emperors had four high aides: Zuofu (Left Assistant), Youbi (Right Helper), Qianyi (Front Adviser), and Houcheng (Rear Supporter)—all official titles. This passage means to show that the Dao originally has no form or trace and only manifests by borrowing the ten thousand things. The body is not mine; it becomes luminous only through spirit. Heaven and earth entrust the bodily form to you—where there is arising, destruction must follow; what we call “I” is merely a temporary sojourner. The same holds when we speak of life and of original nature; that offspring are yet another cycle of entrusted shedding is even clearer. Therefore walking, dwelling, and eating should one and all be left to nature. The harmonious Qi of heaven and earth circulates and nurtures the ten thousand things: where one place flourishes, another withers; where beings die on one side, they are born on the other—all is the unceasing turning and transformation of the Dao, while the fate each thing receives knows no final limit. How could you alone possess any of it? This declares that heaven-and-earth’s creating and transforming has no partiality, in order to break the world’s attachment to the body and fondness for descendants—only then can one enter the Dao. This is precisely the Nanhua jing’s (Scripture of the Southern Florescence, i.e., the Zhuangzi) practical key to loosening the bonds that bind people.

Confucius asked Laozi, “Today I have leisure and venture to ask about the highest Dao.” Laozi replied, “First fast and purify yourself—clear and wash the inner heart, cleanse the spirit, and smash cleverness and contrivance. The Dao is deep, remote, and subtle; it is hard to put into words!” Here “fasting and purification” is not only abstinence before sacrifice; it means making the heart-and-mind limpid and dropping fixed views—only then can one approach the Dao.

When Confucius had leisure, he asked Laozi (La Dan) about the highest Dao. Laozi said: First purify yourself through fasting and restraint—clear and cleanse the inner heart, wash away distracting thoughts from the spirit, and break free of cleverness and fixed opinions. The Dao is deep and vast, hard to put into words; I can only sketch its general outline for you.

Brightness arises from hidden darkness; ordered things arise from formlessness; spirit arises from the Dao, and bodily form takes essence (Jing) as its root—all beings in turn give rise to one another through form. Hence creatures with nine openings are born from the womb; those with eight openings hatch from eggs. When it comes, there is no trace; when it goes, there is no boundary. It has no gate or chamber, yet opens everywhere—vast and luminous. Whoever accords with this principle has strong limbs, smooth thought, keen ears and eyes, a mind that does not feel toil, and responses to events without rigid formulas. Heaven must be high, earth must be broad, sun and moon must run their courses, and the myriad things must flourish—this is the Dao!

Wide learning does not necessarily mean true knowing; eloquent debate does not necessarily mean wisdom—the sage long ago cut off such distinctions. What neither grows greater when increased nor grows smaller when reduced—that is what the sage holds to. It is deep as the sea, lofty and solemn; when it ends, it begins again; it turns and carries the myriad things without ever running short. The way of the noble person, I fear, is only its outer aspect! All things draw from it and it is never depleted—this is the Dao!

In the central lands there are people who lean neither to Yin nor to Yang, who stand between heaven and earth—briefly human, yet destined to return to the source. Seen from that source, life is merely a murky gathering of Qi. Even if some live long and some die young, how much can they differ? Only an instant. What grounds is there to judge Yao (the ancient sage-king) against Jie (the tyrant)? Melons and fruits each have their pattern of growth; human relations, though intricate, likewise sort elder from younger. When the sage meets things he does not resist; what is past he does not cling to. Harmonizing and yielding is De (Virtue); mindlessly matching and yielding is the Dao. The rise of emperors and kings also springs from here.

A person between heaven and earth is like a white colt flashing past a crack in the wall—gone in an instant. Surging forth, nothing fails to be born; quietly dispersing, nothing fails to return. Having changed, one is born; changing again, one dies. Living creatures mourn for it; human beings grieve. Release the bonds of nature, slip free of nature’s wrapping—in the swirl and turn of it all, the soul-soul (Hun and Po) depart and the body follows: this is the great return. From the formless one becomes formed; from form one returns to the formless. Everyone knows this, yet it is not what one who will embody the Dao should fix upon—it is only what the crowd talks about together. Those who have truly arrived no longer discuss it; once there is discussion, arrival has not yet happened. Cleverness displayed outward keeps one from meeting it; in argument, silence is better. The Dao cannot be grasped by hearing—rather than listen, stop up the ears. This is called the greatest attainment.

Guo Xiang (a Western Jin scholar who commented on the Zhuangzi) held that speaking of “the formless” and speaking of the Dao both mean that the ten thousand things each arise on their own and do not rely on anything else for support. What has form descends gradually from the subtle to the coarse. Though things in form give birth to one another, all of this truly springs from spontaneity (ziran); what is born from the womb cannot be changed to egg-birth, nor can egg-born things be swapped for another kind—so spirit (shen) and qi (qi) are not something humans can fabricate by artifice.

One should follow one’s natural endowment and walk a path that leaves no trace, placing the body within heaven and earth and lodging spirit beyond the ten thousand things. Hence “no gate, no room, open on all sides in vast ease”: no boundary of gate, wall, or chamber, open and ample in every direction; roaming within the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters), keeping pace with transformation.

When a person is born into accord with this Dao, innate nature is whole and spirit is settled. Heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things cannot do otherwise. Therefore the sage sets aside cleverness and entrusts it to spontaneity, so that each thing keeps its proper place, at ease and without limit. One who moves with transformation may use outer things yet is not enslaved by them. The Dao can supply the ten thousand things precisely because it does not deliberately supply; then each thing obtains for itself. Only when there is said to be no deliberate accomplishment (wu gong) is it fit to be called the Dao. Not clinging to any fixed name, letting oneself go, meeting whatever comes and resting in it—altogether without the heart of fame and merit.

Returning to the root means not chasing the twigs. The ten thousand things are dimly merged in oneness—merely qi temporarily gathered together; life and death are not yet counted as fundamental differences, still less long life and short life. Nothing among the ten thousand things is against reason; one should only yield and follow. Human ethics mixed with the shifts of cleverness are therefore hard to keep pure; when cleverness contends and ranks itself, one should all the more settle where one is, pass with the flow, and harmonize. The rise of rulers and emperors is nothing more than this.

Life is like a white colt flashing past a crack—instant and gone, not worth grieving over. Having been born, one returns to death; both are transformation. When things die, no need to mourn; when people die, no need to weep. “Loosing the tether and dropping the wrappings” (jie tan duo zhi) means breaking free on one’s own. Transformation thickens and closes in; there is no need to labor within it. Not forcing the shaping of the body, the body is completed; insist on striving and you will not reach it; in silence and restraint, one can truly attain.

Spirit, in relation to the Dao, is still only manifest brightness; the utmost reach of the supreme Dao is deep and obscure, hard to discern. When things come into being and their living principle is established, only then do categories and order arise. Its subtlety is utterly real, and therefore formless; yet the myriad things mutually generate one another through form. Coming and going leave no trace; it penetrates the four directions, vast and bright. If one yearns for it and settles therein, one rests in the profound origin of the myriad things; if one strains to think and exhaust it, its functioning has no fixed direction. The coming-to-be of heaven, earth, and the myriad things—none fails to be thus.

Breadth is not true knowing, eloquent disputation is not true wisdom—the sage long ago settled this point. To add to it is not increase, to subtract from it is not decrease—this is what the sage holds to. It is deep and lofty; no one knows its beginning. There is turning and revolving, there is measure and rule—yet this is still not the interior of the Dao; what the myriad things rely upon is not taken from external things. From here one seeks, and the whereabouts of Dao and De (Virtue/Power) can be understood.

It does not favor Yin or Yang; it follows only the Dao. For the moment acting as human, one is no different from the multitude; returning to the root lineage, one is the same as Heaven. What is called yanyun (the dim, fermenting state of life) is not a beauty worth boasting of. Long life and short life are regarded equally—why must Yao and Jie be distinguished? Fruit and melons each have their pattern; so it is with all things. Among human relations, ordering by seniority is the order of the great Dao. Not opposing, not clinging, not abandoning, not grasping—this is suiting and harmonizing; De thereby bends and rounds to complete the myriad things. Only when encountered does it respond; the Dao does not strike and sound of itself. The rise of emperors and kings comes from nothing other than this Dao.

Human life is like a white colt crossing a crack—it cannot be held back. The myriad things mourn and the multitude grieve because they do not understand that in truth there was never true birth nor true death. Loosen the bonds of the natural, and expansion and contraction know no limit; slip free of nature’s wrappings, and rolling and unrolling meet no obstruction. When hun and po depart, the body follows along—what is said does not go outside the Great Smelter (the fashioner of forms in transformation). The formless manifests as form, form returns to the formless—this the multitude jointly knows, yet it is not what those about to arrive engage in. To arrive is to embody and recognize; not to arrive is merely to discuss. Using cleverness to inspect the Dao, one misses it instead—thus disputation is inferior to silence. Truly hearing the Dao, there is no ordinary hearing—thus to listen is inferior to stopping up the ears. The speaker has no words, the listener has no hearing—this is called attaining greatly.

Commentary on “Doubt and Singularity”: First there must be a resolve hidden and stored away in depth; only then can achievements appear that are clear and visible. One must first embody the formless Dao before human affairs can be set in order with proper structure. Being unified and not divided is called jing (essence); what cannot be measured or fathomed is called shen (spirit). The myriad things, through bodily form, give life to one another—and what enables them to give life to one another is precisely the jing spoken of here. Hence creatures born from the womb or from eggs each settle into their own nature and life (xingming), while the marvel of utmost jing arises from spontaneity (ziran). To treat “not arriving” as arrival and “not departing” as departure; to have no gate and no fixed abode, yet be open on every side—vast and bright: when one understands this Dao, the four limbs and the ears and eyes all turn toward truth. Thus the heart-mind is not worn out, and in responding to the outer world there is no fixed pattern or formula. The movement of heaven and earth and the birth-and-death transformations of the myriad things all proceed from this.

As for taking broad eloquence to be wisdom—the sage has long since cast that aside. What cannot be adjusted by adding or subtracting is what the sage holds to. Moving together with change without end, supplying the needs of the myriad things without shortage, and never being exhausted when the myriad things come to draw upon it—all this is the working of the Dao. The phrase “there is a person in the Central Kingdom” means that the sage is neither yin nor yang; speech cannot reach to know him. He provisionally becomes a human being only because he happens to have received this bodily form—not because he intends it—and therefore he can return to the source. The myriad things are born through transformation; it is merely a temporary gathering of qi. Melons and fruits in the world each have their own principle of life; the precedence and subordination, elder and younger, in human relations are the same. To harmonize and go along with this is the human Way (rendao). From this, emperors and kings arise—but that is only the coarse trace of responding to affairs, not the subtle efficacy of the sage. A person in the world is no more than a sudden appearance. Birth and death are like the fact that where there is day there is night; chasing the outer scene and obscuring the principle give rise to grief. All of this is being bound by ties of affection, as if a bow were stowed in its case or a scroll kept in its cover—only one who transcends can release them. Amid multiplicity and turning, the hun (soul) and qi reach everywhere; death is the destination of the human being. From the formless appearing as form is coming to life; from form returning to the formless is departing in death. This is what everyone already knows; it is not the state one is about to attain. The principle of life and death—the crowd can also discourse on it; one who truly reaches tianming (Heaven’s mandate / destiny) does not discuss it, for once one discusses it, one has not yet arrived. Therefore disputation is not as good as silence, and hearing is not as good as shutting the ears closed—this is the vast realm of “attaining by not attaining.”

Bi Xu (the style name of the Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan) explains in his commentary: Yang arises from yin, and being arises from non-being—the principle is perfectly clear. Spirit (Shen) is the lingering trace left over from the subtle emptiness of the Dao; the body is the coarse dregs left behind by harmonized Qi, like mud and chaff. Hence the myriad things are mixed and separated; birth from the womb and birth from the egg each follow their own way. When it comes, there is no knowing whence; who can point to its track? When it goes, there is no measuring its limit; who can mark its boundary? Outward, nowhere is unfilled—what need for a gate? Inward, nowhere is not full—what need for a chamber? Neither lacking nor surplus, vast and luminous, filling all. Whoever accords with this subtle emptiness of the Dao becomes one with Heaven, responding to the myriad things without end. The four lines from “Heaven cannot but be high” onward in the scripture all speak of the Dao; what is called the primordial undifferentiated state (Hunyuan) is precisely “obtaining the One” (de yi).

If you pursue the Dao by discursive knowledge, what you can hear will always be limited; if you explain the Dao by clever wit, words turn clumsy and obscure. To discard knowledge and cleverness is what the ancients valued. What can neither be added to nor subtracted from is what is deep and lofty. The Dao turns and bears the myriad things without omission because it first holds to the root—it does not seek outward. Therefore when all things come to draw from it, it is never exhausted. This shows that the subtle emptiness of the Dao is neither increased nor diminished.

Humans are only provisionally human: the Dao merely borrows Heaven’s form to appear, and in the end returns to the source, entering the vast empty unity with Heaven (liao tian yi). When Qi is turbid, congested, and condenses, there is a living being; before long it disperses back into emptiness. Comparing long and short life, disputing right and wrong—all are empty attachments. Plants, though without consciousness, still possess the pattern of Yin-Yang; the order of human relations does not change and cannot step outside the sequence of before and after. The sage responds when something comes and forgets when it passes—only then does he undertake affairs. The essential point has always been to take harmonizing response as De (Virtue/Power) and easy accord with circumstance as the Dao.

In human life, one often misses it in the space of crossed arms. Only the person who is deep and still has no coming or going; only one who does not shift with outer things has no death or life. “Unloosing the natural bonds and shedding the natural wrappings” means the same as “cutting open warts and bursting abscesses”—both are casting off burdens. In the tangle and turning of the interval between becoming and not yet becoming, if the hun-soul (spirit attached to the body) cannot be held, the hundred bones collapse and scatter, and the spirit returns to its true abode (the spirit’s original home).

“Form that is not form” means that what itself does not transform can transform the myriad things; “non-form of form” means that what can transform the myriad things is itself not transformed. Whatever clings to form belongs to coarse traces—everyone knows that. One who has obtained the Dao forgets both the coarse and the subtle together. To discuss in words is only to talk of the dregs of the Dao—not truly to meet it; therefore hearing stops at the ear, and one should take ordinary “not getting” as true getting.

Yanzhai says: What has order and can be distinguished is the myriad things; what has no trace is zaohua (creation/transformation); spirit belongs to the person. The myriad things beget one another through form generation after generation; humans and beasts are alike in this. Though humans are nobler than other things, in being born they are not different. The Dao has no gate and no chamber to seek; who can know where it enters and exits? If one can meet it by turning inward to observe and thus see this Dao, the body is at ease, the mind is clear, and in responding to things there is no fixed rule. The lines that speak from Heaven and Earth down to the myriad things describe how above and below nothing is not this Dao. People take broad disputation as their talent, yet do not know that what is called wisdom actually comes from the Creator; therefore the sage decides only by the Creator: neither treating increase as increase nor treating decrease as decrease. What is to be preserved is within oneself; external things cannot add anything further. Ending on one side and beginning again on the other, responding to things without end—this still does not escape having mind and leaving traces. The myriad things all draw from it and it is not diminished; that is truly without mind and without traces. It is neither yin nor yang and cannot be named with the names of things. Though humans have human form, the heart roams at the primordial root of things, merely lodging the body between Heaven and Earth. “Zong” (root/ancestor) means the primordial root of things. “Yanyong” (yīn yōng) means qi is not flowing smoothly. Seen from the root, having form becomes a burden; a human lifetime, compared with Heaven and Earth, is but an instant. Melons and fruits each have their patterns; things are born at their season and sprouts have their seeds—all natural principle. In human relations, though high and low constrain one another and strong and weak override one another, all alike dwell in the world, arrayed like teeth: where there is no resistance, one follows; where one cannot hold, one lets change take its course. Harmony and chance alignment are both the spontaneity of De; the rise of kings and emperors does not go beyond this principle. Birth and death are the departing stretching forth and the coming bending back—what the Yijing calls fathoming the subtle and penetrating change. Things are born from nothing and in death return to nothing; the principle is one, yet humans and things grieve for themselves. This is being wrapped by something and not seeing clearly, as if trapped in a bow case or book sheath; once one awakens for oneself, the bow case opens and the sheath falls away. “Fenwan” (fēn wǎn) speaks of change; “dagui” (dà guī) is return to the true destination. “The form of the formless” is what cannot be seen; “the formless within form” is that within form there is still unseeable form—as in Buddhism’s teaching that only the Dharmakaya eternally abides without perishing. Everyone knows this matter, yet cannot seek it apart from form, and so never arrives. If scholars wish to exhaust the highest reach, effort cannot stop here: when one has arrived, there is nothing left to discuss; still discussing means one has not yet arrived. This is speech one level higher. Seeing with the eyes and meeting in encounter is called “zhi” (value/meeting)—that is seeing with traces; the Dao cannot be sought through form, so there is no such thing as meeting it. Therefore disputation is not as good as silence, and hearing is not as good as stopping up the ears. The manifest arises from the hidden; the root of form arises from the subtle—precisely showing that the “being” of the world is born from “non-being.” The myriad things beget one another through form—that is the meaning of “one generates two, two generate three.” Coming and going have no special gate, yet in all directions it is open and boundless—nowhere is not a gate; thought is penetrating and ears and eyes are sharp—nothing is not its function. Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things all issue from here; the work of the Dao can be called great. The world takes small clever disputation as wisdom and tries to use it to accord with the great Dao; the sage long ago cast that aside. So this chapter first has people break through cleverness and thought, then points out that one must reach the point where increase and decrease in the world cannot be added to the body—only then is it deep and lofty, ending and beginning again, turning and holding the myriad things without omission, carving the myriad forms yet not showing off skill. Things come to take from it and it is not exhausted—to the point that “non-being” can still supply need: that is why it is the Dao. “In the Middle Kingdom there is a person, neither yin nor yang” means neither being nor non-being, neither death nor life can bind him; provisionally counted as a person, he has human form without human emotional entanglements, and will return to the root and roam at the beginning of things. Human life is merely the gathering of one breath; though long and short life differ, each is but an instant—why fix the right and wrong of Yao and Jie on that basis? Though melons and fruits have kernels and seeds and flourish each in their pattern, human rank and high and low likewise array in order. Therefore the sage, when things come, follows them without going against their nature; when they pass, forgets them and does not keep them in mind. What is called tuning and what is called pairing are both marvelous responsiveness to things, yet never depart from De—this is exactly where emperors rise and the people attach. The in-and-out of things has its mechanism—ordinary principle—yet the world still grieves, because they have not left the wrapping nature imposes. If reason illuminates and breaks through, the wrapping unties of itself; spirit goes ahead and form follows—that is dagui; why grieve? “The form of the formless” is birth; “the formless within form” is entering death—what everyone knows, not the matter about to be reached that is hard to put in words, but what the multitude discuss together. When principle reaches the utmost, words are forgotten; if one can still speak, one has not yet arrived—so disputation is not as good as silence, hearing not as good as stopping the ears. To be able to stop up and to be silent—that is called great attainment; the failure of disputation and hearing becomes clear. “Yunliang wanwu er bu kui” (operating and measuring the myriad things without shortage)—Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan’s style name), Zhaosanren, and Liu Deyi’s texts read “bu yi” (without omission), which completes the sense better.

This passage appears in Chu Boxiu’s Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Sea of Meaning of the Authentic Classic of Nanhua) from the Southern Song, recording Zhuangzi, “Knowledge Wandered North.” Dongguo Zi asked Zhuangzi: “The Dao you speak of—where exactly is it?” Zhuangzi said: “There is nowhere it is not.” Dongguo Zi said: “Point to one definite place, so I can grasp it.” Zhuangzi said: “It is in the ant.” Dongguo Zi said: “Why so lowly?” Zhuangzi said: “It is in the panic grass.” Dongguo Zi said: “Why even lower?” Zhuangzi said: “It is in the tile and brick.” Dongguo Zi said: “Why more extreme still?” Zhuangzi said: “It is in excrement and urine.” Dongguo Zi fell silent.

Zhuangzi said: “Your question, sir, never touched the substance of the Dao in the first place. It is like when the market official named Huo asks the market inspector how one steps on a pig to judge fat and lean—the answer is that the farther down the leg one steps, the more truly fat and lean show themselves. So long as you do not fix the Dao as necessarily in one place, nothing can lie outside the Dao. The highest Dao is like this; vast discourse is like this too. The three names Zhou, Bian, and Xian differ in word but share one meaning: all refer to universality.

Try wandering together in the palace of nowhere—viewing the myriad things as one—is that not inexhaustible? Be together in Wuwei (non-action): plain and still, silent and clear, harmonized and at ease. My mind is already empty; where I go I know not the destination; when I leave and return I know not where I stop. I am already in coming and going, yet I do not know its end. Roaming in vast, open space—even the greatest understanding that enters there finds no limit.

The Dao that makes things what they are has no boundary with the myriad things; only things themselves have boundaries—what is called a thing’s boundary is just this. The boundary of what has no boundary is precisely the boundaryless within boundary. What people call fullness and emptiness, decline and extinction—in the Dao they appear as fullness and emptiness yet are not fullness and emptiness; appear as decline and killing yet are not decline and killing; appear as root and tip yet are not root and tip; appear as gathering and scattering yet are not gathering and scattering.

Guo Xiang’s commentary opens with the substance: the Dao is nowhere absent. If one still asks where it is, one has not yet reached that substance.

It is like the livestock inspector at the market who steps on pigs to judge fat and lean: the harder a spot is to fatten, the more clearly one grasps the key to fat and lean. To ask today where the Dao is, while comparing it to things lower and lower, only shows that the Dao does not depart from any thing.

If one thinks that “nothingness” (wu) flees from things, the Dao is not whole; if one only roams within “being” (you), one cannot arrive at what is universal, all-pervading, and complete (zhou, bian, xian—different names for the same totality). View being and non-being together, and only then know that the Dao is everywhere; then the heart opens wide, free of attachment, and roams the infinite.

All of this is wuwei (non-action). When the mind is empty and vast, there is nowhere one must go, and no knowing where one will arrive. If the intention to go arises first, the principle has not yet moved but the heart is already startled. Coming and going do not come from clever knowledge, yet they are not without coming and going; coming and going are the natural constant principle—how could they have an end? This is vast emptiness (Feng Hong, xu kuo). Great knowing roams the open expanse and follows wherever change leads, so there is no fixed knowledge.

The “thing-er of things” (wuwuzhe—what makes a thing be a thing) is originally not a thing; each thing becomes itself. Things each have their limit and cannot be confused with one another—this is the true boundary (ji). On the side without boundary, though there is the name “thing-er of things,” it only marks that things are thus of themselves; the thing-er of things is ultimately not a thing—where then is boundary? Once you know the thing-er of things is not a thing, and know that things cannot make themselves, who is it that acts? It is all simply that, in a flash, they are thus of themselves.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Ants, though they have awareness, rank among the most lowly things; foxtail millet and field weeds have no awareness yet possess life; tiles and bricks have no life yet possess shape; excrement and urine have shape yet are already foul and decayed. If even these hold the Dao, one may see that it is nowhere absent. When one asks where the Dao ultimately resides and is directed toward these four kinds of things, what is being indicated is precisely the substance of the Dao. It is only because one shrinks from how the account grows ever more humble and keeps pressing the question that one has not yet reached that substance. “Treading the pig to test its fat” (lü xi): the lower one steps, the clearer the truth; to infer from this that the Dao, the more base the description, the less it can be substance—that is a mistake. To leave the ten thousand things behind in search of a bare “nothing” is likewise not what “nowhere absent” means. Though the four cases differ, each bears the body of the Dao, just as zhou, bian, and xian differ in wording yet alike mean universal pervasion. One who can roam in the palace of nowhere (wu he you zhi gong—the realm where there is nothing at all) and unite with the Dao—in which of these four is the Dao not present? The ten thousand things stir together, yet always share in wuwei (non-action); all that is still and indifferent returns to the root, until only emptiness and silence remain. When the heart does not chase the outer world, one goes nowhere without noticing arrival; in leaving and returning one does not know where one has stopped; in coming and going one knows even less where the path ends. That is because the Dao is never fixed as a single thing, and yet nothing among the ten thousand things is not the Dao. So one wanders in vast emptiness (Feng hong), and even great knowing that enters finds no end. From this one sees: what makes things be things (wuwuzhe—the Dao) shares no boundary with things; its magnitude cannot be measured. Boundaries belong to things; the boundaries of things are not the boundaries of what makes things things. Boundary within the boundless and boundlessness within boundary are like the formless giving rise to form and form reverting to the formless. Fullness and emptiness are the appearances of things; what makes things full or empty is the Dao. Decline, root and branch, gathering and scattering are the same. Then what makes them foxtail grass, ants, tiles, and excrement—who, ultimately, is that?

Lin Yidu’s commentary: The noble who sit above are farthest from the Dao; the humble who sit below are closest when they seek it. Gathering and scattering in the world follow the same pattern. Then what makes them foxtail grass, ants, tiles, and excrement—who is it again?

Yi Du’s commentary explains: Those who esteem what is lofty and exalted stand farther from the Dao; those who willingly stay in what is low and humble come nearer to it. People often slight humble and lowly places, yet do not know that the search for the Dao is closest right there. This matches what Chan Buddhists mean by “the Buddha is in the dung heap.” The market director, named Huo, asked the market inspector how to tell fat from lean by stepping on the pig: the more one steps on the parts that are hard to fatten, the better one grasps the knack of judging the animal. When we now pursue where the Dao is and are led all the way down to humble things, that is precisely to show that the Dao does not leave anything behind. If one said the Dao must avoid humble things, the Dao could not be all-pervasive.

When the utmost Dao is diffused among things, it is principle (li); when the great Dao is diffused in human beings, it is teaching. “Zhou” (comprehensive) means nothing lacking; “bian” (universal) means no partiality; “xian” (all) means no private bias—all are used to say the Dao is nowhere absent. The three names differ, but the substance is one.

“Dan er jing” ( serene and still ) describes the root merging with the mind; “mo er qing” ( vast and clear ) describes the mind merging with qi; “tiao er jian” ( harmonized and unobstructed ) describes qi merging with shen (spirit); “liao yi wu zhi” ( vast—my intent is fulfilled ) describes shen merging with emptiness. This is the progressive mutual merging in quiet cultivation—from root, mind, qi, and shen into emptiness. At this stage, where one goes need not be foreknown as arrival; one arrives naturally. Coming and going are not known as stopping somewhere; one stops naturally. One is already in the going and coming, yet does not know its end—this is the way of spontaneity (ziran).

Thus one may wander at ease in the broad open wilds; great knowing enters there and does not know its limit. This is the person who can “ treat things as things ” (wu wu): even though each thing is what it is, one is not bound by things. One who can treat things as things is one with the ten thousand things and has no boundary. “Ji” (shore, limit) means bank or boundary. When things have boundaries, that is what is called the margin of things. The Buddhist “former boundary” and “latter boundary” mean the same. The boundary within no-boundary—only one who can treat things as things can reach it; so though there are boundaries, they are the same as no boundary. What has boundaries is the same as things; what has no boundaries rests in itself. Having understood that one who treats things as things has no boundary, and also that things cannot make themselves into things, then who makes them so? All at once they are so of themselves. Fullness and emptiness, decline and decay, root and tip, accumulation and dispersal—all lie on the side of outer things; what have they to do with me? One need only empty the mind and observe the transformations of yin and yang.

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan’s sobriquet) reads “being fixed yet not reaching the substance” as saying the question misses the root; he therefore cites the image of the market official who steps on pigs to judge fatness: feeling flesh under the wrist, he knows the upper part of the pig is fatter. The body of the Dao (the Way) is empty void and present everywhere; “non-being” (wu) never leaves things, and things never leave “non-being.” The Dao is pure, secretly united, without the slightest gap, so words coarse or fine alike can run through it. Hence it pervades the realm of supreme clarity (Taiqing), reaches all things, and all things are nurtured by it—like the subtle realm beyond sight and hearing (xiyi), which cannot be chased to the end and is merged as one.

To roam in the palace of “nothing-at-all” (wuheyou): the moment there is any trace of form, it cannot be called “pervasive” (zhou). Taken together, it has no end; if it had an end, it could not be called “universal” (bian). Mutual identity in non-action (wuwei): the moment there is doing, it cannot be called “all-pervading” (xian). Tranquility, stillness, harmony, and ease are the cultivator’s daily manner—nothing more than emptying and quieting the mind. Not knowing where one is going is “pervasive”; not knowing where one stops is “universal”; not knowing the finish is “all-pervading.” Going further, one drifts in vast empty openness (Feng hong) without knowing its limit—something knowledge and deliberation cannot reach.

The Dao has no edge; what it transforms shows no edge either. Edge belongs to things, not to the Dao. Only without edge can it hold everything that has an edge; if it had an edge itself, it could not hold the boundless. The Dao bears names of fullness and emptiness but no real fullness or emptiness; things show marks of decay and cutting-off but no such principle in themselves. Transformation by the Dao may seem to have root and branch, yet the Dao itself has neither; forms of things gather and scatter, but innate nature neither gathers nor scatters. Thus Dao and things are never apart, and subtle efficacy is everywhere.

Yanzai said: What is called zhi (substance) is the root. Your question did not reach the root, so my words only grow more humble as I go on. If you do not hold a mind of stubborn fixation, the ultimate principle of the ten thousand things cannot hide from you.

The three words Zhou, Bian, and Xian are used to show that the ten thousand things have no distinction of refined versus coarse; the principle is one and the same.

The “Palace of Not-Anything” (wu he you zhi gong) means that the mind is already clear, yet without the thought of clinging to what must be believed. Taken together, since there is neither refined nor coarse, how could there be an end? Dan, jing, mo, qing, diao, and xian all describe the subtlety of wuwei (non-action). To fathom this realm of emptiness, stillness, and pure unity is enough for my aspiration; hence “my aspiration is fulfilled” (liao yi wu zhi). The word yi here is read and meant the same as yi (already; it is enough).

Since there is nowhere to go, how could there be any “arrival”? Though there is coming and going, there is no fixed stopping place. I move back and forth within it yet do not know its end; I only see it wandering and roaming, entering the vast zhi (knowing)—that is, the Dao (the Way)—without knowing its limit. Great knowing is the Dao. Where the Dao and things have no boundary, it changes together with things. What does not limit itself to one thing can master and complete the ten thousand things. Before one has transformed and merged with things, there are still boundaries and limits; this is the “boundary of things.” Pushing the finite toward the infinite becomes “no boundary.” Grasping the boundless at the border of things is “the boundary that is no boundary.” The fullness and emptiness, flourishing and decline, root and tip, gathering and scattering of the ten thousand things have traces yet cannot be exhausted; this is the boundary that is no boundary and the no-boundary that is boundary.

The Dao in the world is like water in the earth: its substance and nature pervade the dharmadhatu—the whole field of phenomena. To say “the Dao is in roof tiles and bricks, in weeds and tares” is to speak from the lowest things. Touch any one of them and you know at once that it is everywhere; nothing lacks this Dao. Only people differ, so what they see differs: sages see the Dao and not merely things; ordinary people see things and not the Dao—they are blocked by things, not because the Dao comes and goes. Your question now is shallow and falls short of the Dao’s true substance; it is not even as good as the man who tests a pig by treading on it and grasps what fatness means by going lower down. If you think the Dao flees what is base and low, you cannot achieve Zhou, Bian, and Xian—all names for thorough pervasion. When these three are taken as one, you wander in the land of nowhere-at-all; what limit could there be? What is called tranquil, still, vast, clear, harmonized, and at ease ultimately returns to simplicity alone. “My intent goes nowhere and I do not know where it arrives” means the spirit roams the eight extremes: raise a thought and you are there, not knowing where it stops or where the end is—all images of this Dao’s inexhaustible functioning. What “things things”—what makes each thing what it is—is the Dao; it has no boundary with things; that is, it penetrates and gives rise to the ten thousand things. That things have limits means each thing has its measure; how could the Dao have limits? “Not-limit at the limit” is the Dao dispersing and becoming things; “limit at not-limit” is things wholly returning to the Dao. For the Dao to disperse as things is easy: from the source toward the branch, it is spontaneity (ziran). For things wholly to return to the Dao is hard: flowing back against the current to the source is intentional making (ran). If you realize that what makes fullness and emptiness is not fullness and emptiness, and what makes accumulation and dispersal is not accumulation and dispersal, how would you know that the utmost of making does not return to spontaneity?

Èhégān studied together with Shénnóng under Master Old Longjí (Lǎo Lóngjí). Shénnóng leaned on his armrest, shut the door, and dozed off in broad daylight. At noon Èhégān pushed the door open and said, “Old Long is dead.” Shénnóng stood up, leaning on his staff; the staff fell with a clatter. He laughed and said, “Heaven knew I was narrow-minded and negligent, my words reckless and frivolous, so it abandoned me by letting him die. The master had not yet had time to speak those wild admonitions that would have set me straight, and he was already dead.”

When Yǎnkuāng Diào heard this, he said, “One who embodies the Great Dao (Dào) is someone the gentlemen of the world rely upon. Old Longjí’s attainment of the Dao had not even reached one ten-thousandth of the tip of an autumn hair, yet he already knew to hide his reckless words and then die; how much more so for one who truly embodies the Dao. The Dao has no form when you look at it, no sound when you listen. When people discuss it, they call it dark obscurity; whatever can be talked about in such ways is still not the Dao.”

Thereupon Tàiqīng asked Wúqióng, “Do you know the Dao?” Wúqióng said, “I do not know.” He then asked Wúwéi. Wúwéi said, “I know.” Tàiqīng asked, “Does the Dao you know also have a coherent order?” Wúwéi answered, “Yes. The Dao can be honored or can be lowly; it can gather together or scatter apart. That is the coherent order of the Dao as I know it.”

Tàiqīng took these words to Wúshǐ and asked, “In that case, Wúqióng’s ‘not knowing’ and Wúwéi’s ‘knowing’—which is right and which is wrong?” Wúshǐ said, “Not knowing is deep; knowing is instead shallow. Not knowing is inward; knowing is outward.” Tàiqīng sighed and said, “So not knowing is knowing after all, and having knowledge is instead not knowing? Who can grasp this ‘knowing that is not-knowing’?”

Wúshǐ said, “The Dao cannot be heard; what is heard is not the Dao. It cannot be seen; what is seen is not it. It cannot be spoken; what is spoken is not it. Understand this: that by which the formed gives form itself has no bodily form. The Dao ought not to be identified by means of names.”

Wúshǐ also said, “Some people, as soon as they are asked about the Dao, answer—yet in fact they do not understand the Dao; those who ask also have not yet heard the Dao. The Dao originally admits no questioning; questioning also originally admits no answering. When there is nothing to ask yet one forces a question, that is driving inquiry to its limit; when there is nothing to answer yet one forces an answer, that is that the heart has attained nothing. To meet exhaustive questioning with what is empty and insubstantial—such a person outwardly cannot see the cosmos, inwardly does not understand the Grand Beginning; therefore he cannot cross beyond Kūnlún or roam in the Grand Void.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: He stood up, realizing that death was not enough to frighten him, so he put down his walking stick and laughed. From Jian Wu (a figure in Zhuangzi) downward, people treat the highest teaching as wild talk and refuse to believe it. One who apprehends the great Dao is the true master of humanity; yet the Dao is not something words can grasp—it depends entirely on what one realizes inwardly. Even if one calls it mingming (dark and obscure), that is still not the Dao, which shows that the Dao has no name. Whatever is not obtained through cleverness and book learning belongs to this hidden realm; one must therefore achieve it silently in a domain where there is neither hearing nor seeing, and only then can one arrive. The body merely forms itself; what enables the body to take form is ultimately not a thing. Though the Dao is called “Dao,” there is no thing that matches the name—the name cannot fit it. Because one does not know, one asks; if the other does not respond, what asking seeks cannot be obtained, so in the end one hears nothing. Neither asking nor answering means abandoning learning, stripping away instruction, and returning to what is natural. To ask by force is to demand from emptiness. The Dao is truly “nothing,” yet if one answers by borrowing a “something,” one has already fallen outside it. As for one who enshrouds heaven and earth, roams in empty space, travels far into the vast distance, and enters the realm of mingming—he simply does not respond.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: One who apprehends the great Dao is what the noble people of the world rely upon; the appearance of the sage and the accomplishment of true kingship all depend on this. Now, if one has not yet attained even one ten-thousandth of the Dao as fine as an autumn hair’s tip, its subtlety already reaches a point that cannot be further divided—this is what is called reaching oneness (zhiyi, utmost singleness). Such a person still knows to hide his wild words and then die; how much more so one who truly embodies the Dao, for whom the transformations of the ten thousand things never end! Old Longji (a man who had attained the Dao) hid his wild words and died because the Dao is not something the ears and eyes can reach. When people discuss it, they call it mingming, yet it is not something speech can discuss; therefore the “Dao” that gets discussed is not the Dao. Taiqing (an allegorical figure meaning “utter clarity”) heard that “the Dao that is discussed is not the Dao” and thought he could seek it from Wuqiong (an allegorical figure meaning “without limit”); Wuqiong’s answer was “I do not know.” Wuwei (an allegorical figure meaning “non-doing”) is not the Wuwei that originally had something to do; rather, he understands that there is nothing worth doing and therefore abides in wuwei (non-action)—hence he says he knows the Dao. Otherwise the two would blur into sameness. To know that the Dao can be honored or debased, gathered or scattered, is still to remain within the arts of calculation. Wuqi (an allegorical figure meaning “without beginning”) traces back to the source from which “beginning” arises, and therefore holds: not knowing is deep, knowing is shallow; not knowing is inward, knowing is outward. Taiqing, hearing this middle point, sighed and said: not knowing is knowledge—this refers to Wuqiong; having knowledge is not knowing—this refers to Wuwei. Who can understand this “knowledge that is not-knowing”? Only Wuqi. The Dao cannot be heard, seen, or spoken—then who is it that hears, sees, and speaks? Only when there is form is there a name. To know that what gives form to formed things has no form itself is precisely why the Dao should not be named. Thus: one who hears “hearing” has not truly heard; one who sees “seeing” has not truly seen; one who speaks “words” has not truly spoken. When someone asks and someone answers, that is not knowing the Dao; even the questioner has not yet heard the Dao. There is nothing about the Dao to ask, because what is asked for cannot be obtained; there is nothing to answer, because what is answered cannot be obtained. All this is because the Dao has never been a thing. When there is nothing to ask yet one insists on asking, one pushes questioning to its limit without understanding its boundlessness, so questioning has no starting point. When there is nothing to answer yet one insists on answering, the inner is empty and one has not yet reached inwardly the state of “there was never a thing.” Using inner emptiness to deal with one who has questioned to the limit—such a person cannot survey the cosmos, does not understand Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate, the primordial state before things began), and is not encompassed by time and direction. Unable to pass beyond Kunlun (the utmost height and distance), unable to roam in Taixu (the vast void), one does not know how far formed things extend, nor that heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things are all nurtured within it.

Lin Yidu, who annotated the Zhuangzi, said: As for its substance, it is one with the Dao—not something those who merely study and “know” the Dao can match. The Dao has no form and no sound; it is what Laozi called yi (what cannot be seen) and xi (what cannot be heard). When people debate they speak of “boundaries”; use that to talk about the Dao, and it is still not the Dao. What can divide noble and base, can bind or release, belongs to the Dao’s “number”—its measurable, functional side. What cannot be fixed by noble and base, binding and releasing, is the Dao’s substance itself. Without speaking and without seeking to know, one can see the root. Hence: who can grasp “the knowledge that is not ordinary knowing”? The Dao is soundless, colorless, and nameless; therefore it cannot be seen, heard, or spoken. Whatever has sound, color, or name—what is known of it stops at form. Form arises from the formless; the Dao ought not to be named. Thus the questioner was already wrong, and the answerer was not right either; one who asks about the Dao has not yet known the Dao—how much less the one who replies? When questioning reaches its limit and nothing remains within to ask, better not to ask; better still not to answer. To meet that question which is no question with “no answer”—that is truly marvelous. Outwardly one does not see the cosmos’s vastness; inwardly one does not fathom the mystery of the Grand Beginning (Taichu, before things arose). Step beyond Kunlun (the mythic mountain) and one leaves the earth; fail to roam the Great Void (Taixu, the boundless emptiness) and one departs from Heaven. Unless one is utterly divine (zhishen), who can take part in this?

Commentary by Bixuzi: What all gentlemen under heaven rely upon is taking the Great Dao as the teacher of emperors through the ages. Today, even one who has grasped only the slightest thread of the Dao still knows to keep it hidden and treasured—how much more so one who has fully realized it. Yaoming is a realm beyond the reach of ear and eye; if one uses yaoming to speak of the Dao, that yaoming itself is not the Dao. Thus Taiqing asked the Boundless One, and the Boundless One answered with “I do not know”—for the moment one says one knows, there is already a limit. He asked again about Wuwei (non-action), and Wuwei replied: obtain the Dao and you are honored; lose it and you are base; hold fast and you gather in; let go and you scatter—these are aspects of the Dao that can be counted. “Not knowing” is what is deep and inward, the nameless constant Dao, the subtlety of principle; “knowing” is what is shallow and outward, the Dao that can be named, merely the edge of things. The instant a question is asked, one falls into form and trace—how could one apprehend subtlety? Therefore one who asks about the Dao has not yet heard the Dao; one who truly hears it asks no more. No question and no answer—like comparing the Zi and Mian rivers, easy to set side by side, yet the sweet and bitter in their taste cannot be put into words. Not knowing yet going to ask is called asking without basis; to ask in that way is already to have exhausted principle. Not knowing yet going to answer is called responding without basis; to answer in that way is to lack inner contemplation. To meet a question whose principle is already exhausted with a response that has no inner contemplation is like discussing brocade patterns with the blind or discussing the notes gong and shang with the deaf—how could one recognize the vastness of the cosmos, the emptiness of the Grand Beginning, the height of Kunlun, or the distance of the Great Void?

Yizhai said: When there is one who has realized the Great Dao, gentlemen throughout the world turn to him and take him as their model. Now Shennong has not yet seen the Dao at all, yet he already knows that Lao Long’s death was a way of hiding his bold words; how much more so one who embodies the Dao as Lao Long did? Kuang means “great.” The point is that the Dao lies in not speaking; only by storing words away does one accord with the Dao. The Dao has neither form nor sound; it cannot be seen or heard. If one discusses the Dao with others and calls it yaoming, that too is not the Dao. This is said from the angle of one who does not truly know: form and sound are “being,” yaoming is “non-being”; to know how to treat being as non-being is still not as good as also doing away with that non-being. Thus Shennong’s remarks still fall short of the Dao. Honor and baseness, gathering and scattering—all are parts of the Dao that can be numbered; only “knowing that does not know” is the subtlety that cannot be expressed in words. Let the formed return to the formless; do not treat things as fixed things—only then can one master the ten thousand things. The Dao ought not to be named, nor ought it to be set up as something to oppose. Once there is the name “Dao,” name and Dao stand apart, and one leaves the truth of what is so. Originally the Dao admits no questioning; when someone asks and I answer, I have already left the Dao, and the questioner is likewise outside it. What is meant by “question exhausted” is seeing that to ask is already to reach a limit—that is, clinging to words to seek understanding. What is meant by “no inner” is that the heart has not yet attained this Dao; if one truly attains it, one will no longer answer.

This chapter explains that the Dao is so vast it cannot be exhausted by question and answer; even sages can only devote their whole lives to it until death. Among the myriad things, a person is no more than a hair’s tip on a body—tiny; one’s relation to the Dao is the same. When Lao Longji died, Shennong sighed, and Yan Gai came to mourn. The one who “embodies the Dao” is exactly what Lao Longji’s case illustrates. People who take “what cannot be seen” as the boundary of union with the Dao do not truly know the Dao; they only grasp its “nothingness” and have not yet dissolved even that nothingness.

Taiqing asked Wuxiong (Infinite); Wuxiong said he did not know. He asked Wuwei (Non-action); Wuwei only knew something of the Dao’s patterns. He asked again Wushi (Beginningless); only Wushi could distinguish the depth and inner and outer aspects of knowing and not knowing. This matches the Yellow Emperor’s words at the opening of the chapter: not knowing is true knowing; forgetting comes next; having knowledge is furthest from the Dao. Then Taiqing sighed midway: “Who understands that knowing which comes from not knowing?” The point is that one need not fix on seeking knowledge—there is a natural accord with the Dao. From this Wushi understood: the Dao cannot be grasped through seeing, hearing, or words. “What gives form to the formed is itself formless,” like “what gives birth to life is itself not born”—so the Dao cannot be named. Thus both questioner and answerer had not yet heard the Dao; one who truly hears it neither asks nor answers. When the Dao is essentially unaskable yet one insists on asking, one is trapped by the question; when it is essentially unanswerable yet one insists on answering, the inner self has no master—how then can one know what is greatest, first, highest, and vastest?

The character below “sighed midway” that does not read clearly in the text should be ang (to lift, to raise). In the Classic of Poetry, “gazing up at the vast heaven,” yang and ang share the meaning “to look upward”—a copyist’s error in transmission.

The colophon shows this is from Chu Boxiu’s Collected Essentials of the Sea of Meaning of the Authentic Classic of the Southern Florescence (a compilation of commentaries on the Authentic Classic of the Southern Florescence, i.e. the Zhuangzi), in the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries, juan 68–69, belonging to “Knowledge Traveled North,” section four.

Under the Grand Marshal—the chief military and civil administrator of the state of Chu—there served a craftsman who forged belt hooks. He was already eighty, yet the hooks he made still matched in weight to within a hair’s breadth. The Grand Marshal asked him: “Is this your skill, or do you have the Dao?” The craftsman replied: “I simply keep to one thing. From the age of twenty I loved forging hooks alone; I paid no heed to anything else, and if it was not a hook I would not even look at it. By ‘not using’ my mind on other things, I complete this ‘use’—and so I have kept this craft intact for a long time. How much more is that true of the great Dao, which employs nothing and yet employs everything? Is there anything among the ten thousand things that does not depend on it?”

Guo Xiang comments: That he could gauge a hook’s weight without the difference of a single hair is because his mind was free of entanglements; whatever came from outside, he could meet it in response.

Lü Huìqīng comments: To have what is not used, and yet to have nothing that is not used—only the Dao is like this.

Lín Yídú comments: “Grand Marshal” means the Grand Marshal of Chu. This craftsman was skilled at forging hooks; though old, his art grew finer, so the Marshal asked whether it was skill or the Dao. He answered that it was not the Dao but a firm inner hold that external things could not disturb. From youth he devoted himself to this craft alone, ignoring other objects and examining nothing that was not a hook—hence his mastery. When the mind is spent here, it is not spent elsewhere, and that single art grows ever more refined. What we call “being able to use” is achieved by borrowing “not using,” and thus one can long preserve that use. What uses nothing is the Dao; which of the ten thousand things does not draw upon it? Even the purity of a manual art is like this—how much more the subtlety of the Dao.

Chén Jǐngyuán (styled Master of the Azure Void) comments: The Dao consists precisely in having something to hold to. If one neither examines nor holds, there is nothing at all that can be put to use. Where there is use in one place, there must be non-use elsewhere; one who can use borrows non-use in order to use, and so can long preserve that use. One who is adept at governing the ten thousand things leaves nothing unused, and therefore every function is fulfilled.

Lín Xīyì (styled the Yàn Studio) says: “If it was not a hook I would not even look at it” is the same single-mindedness as the cicada catcher who “saw only cicada wings” earlier. “Use” belongs to skill; “not using” belongs to the spontaneity of the Dao; “using nothing” is the Dao’s wuwei (non-action) and its doing nothing that is not done. When I apply the subtlety of non-use even to a technique, I can still long preserve its use—how much more the Dao of wuwei and inexhaustible efficacy, upon which nothing under Heaven does not rely.

Guangyao (in the text, a figure standing for someone new to the Way who has already begun to see within) keeps reducing from “non-being and being” (you-wu) until he reaches wuwei (non-action), so he can ask nothing further; he only feels the other as deep and empty—impossible to see clearly or grasp. Then he awakens and sighs that this Way is supremely subtle: how must one cultivate to arrive here? It is like Hebo (the god of the Yellow River) meeting Hairuo (the god of the sea) and sighing before the vast ocean. The phrase “you can have non-being and being” means that knowing all dharmas are empty, one alone understands this Way, yet still rests in “non-being” and has not entered chongxuan—the deeper level where even “non-being” is not clung to. The other has already achieved “non-being and being”; from what place was that reached? This is praise again for what cannot be matched.

The man who hammers hooks pays no heed to outer things and does not use them for ordinary utility; this is called “being able to have non-being and being.” It is not that the hook lacks fine discernment; the subtlety lies in how one oneself applies it—this is called “being able to have being and non-being.” As for there being nothing that cannot be used, is that not “non-non-being” (wu-wu)? All things under heaven are born from “being”; “being” in turn is born from “non-being”; being and non-being mutually appear, and the myriad things all depend on this. “Non-being” is deep and empty, hardest to describe, yet the subtlety of the Dao and the turning of utmost spirit truly rely upon it. Worldlings cling to “being” and do not know that the myriad things arise from “non-being” and ultimately return to “non-being.” Therefore the True Person (Zhenren) often uses this to break worldly fixation and clarify the beginning and end of the myriad things. If one can truly seek in stillness and unite in forgetting, and the ten thousand things are all empty, then the one real does not show its trace—and one knows: by borrowing provisional existence without clinging to use, one can long obtain its use. This is no empty saying.

The scripture’s “and when it became non-being and being” reads thus in all editions; on careful reading of the meaning, it should be “non-non-being,” which the passage above can be checked against.

Ran Qiu (a disciple of Confucius) asked Zhongni (Confucius): When heaven and earth had not yet existed, could one know about that state? Confucius replied: One could; antiquity and the present are the same. Ran Qiu had no further question and withdrew. The next day he came again and said: Yesterday I asked whether one could know before heaven and earth existed, and you said one could—that antiquity and the present are the same. Yesterday I understood; today I am confused. What does this mean? Confucius said: Yesterday’s clarity came from the spirit-mind, empty and still, receiving it first; today’s confusion comes from seeking again what cannot be received by the spirit-mind. There is no antiquity and no present, no beginning and no end. Before there were descendants, there were already descendants—is that admissible? Ran Qiu did not answer. Confucius said: Enough; no need to answer. Death is not brought forth by life, nor is life produced by death. Must death and life depend on each other? Each is a whole in itself. Is there something that existed before heaven and earth? What makes things what they are is not itself a thing. Once a thing appears, nothing can precede the thing; as long as there is “being,” that is a thing. Things go on existing without end.

Guo Xiang, who commented on the Zhuangzi, explained: Confucius meant that heaven and earth have always been; there never was a time when they “had not yet appeared.” When the heart is empty and waits in stillness, the spirit-mind is receiving; once thought chases after what cannot be grasped that way, one understands less. Not only can non-being not become being, but being cannot become non-being. Though such being changes endlessly, it never once becomes non-being, so from antiquity there has never been a moment of “never having been”—it is always present. “Descendants” means generation after generation without end. The dead change and die on their own; the living do not give birth to that death. The living change and live on their own. Death and life do not wait on each other; each suffices through self-transformation (each completing change in its own way), each forming a whole. What could stand before things? If one says Yin-Yang precedes things, Yin-Yang are themselves things—what precedes Yin-Yang? If one says “nature” precedes things, nature is simply things as they are. If one says the supreme Dao precedes things, Dao at its utmost is non-being; once it is non-being, how can it be “before”? Then what precedes things? Yet things still exist without end. This shows that things are spontaneously thus—nothing makes them so. The sage’s love for people knows no end because it takes this spontaneous thusness as its model, so kindness flows through the generations without ceasing.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary explains: Who gave heaven and earth their names? Once you understand how heaven and earth came to be named, you understand how heaven and earth came to be; once you understand how they came to be, you know that even before heaven and earth existed, the situation was essentially the same as today. The divine intelligence had already received this principle—it could align with it without deliberate thought. If you then go seeking on behalf of those who lack that intelligence, that is precisely what makes them less intelligent.

Ancient and modern, beginning and end—all exist only in relation to one another; when there is nothing to relate to, all return to Wu (non-being). Only by grasping this do you understand what is meant by “before heaven and earth existed.” That the principle could be known even when heaven and earth did not yet exist is like saying you already have a grandson when you do not yet have descendants—it does not hold. The instruction not to answer is meant to keep people from straining after it with a fixed mind. Only when the mind already holds “birth” does one use birth to infer death; only when it already holds “death” does one use death to cut off birth—that is the error of deliberate seeking.

Are death and birth mutually dependent? From the perspective of root reality, there is originally no dependence. What waits on something and what waits on nothing both belong to one whole. Knowing that death and birth are originally one body, how could there be any “thing” that existed before heaven and earth? If one speaks of what existed before heaven and earth, it can only be that which makes all things into things—the “thing-er of things.” The thing-er of things is not itself a thing, so when the myriad things appear, no single thing can run ahead of them all. The phrase “there was something undifferentiated, born before heaven and earth” merely means that it is as if there were something—and that “as if something” is ultimately endless Wu (non-being): it means there never was an independent thing that came first.

The sage loves people without end by taking this as his model too. This is exactly why the yuan of Qian (originating power of the hexagram Qian) leads the Way of heaven, and why the junzi (exemplary person) internalizes it to nurture the people.

Yi Du, a scholar commenting on the Zhuangzi, asks: Can we really know what things were like before heaven and earth came to be? If we reason backward from the time after heaven and earth appeared, we can know. Xunzi said that the principles of the hundred kings are embodied in the kings who came later; a thousand years ago is, in that sense, today. So when Confucius answered Ran Qiu, he said ancient times and the present are the same. At first Ran Qiu asked in earnest humility; with an empty mind, spirit (Shen) arose, and he suddenly understood. Later he heard the words but did not awaken, because something in his mind blocked him; he sought with a mind that could not reach the divine, and so grew only more confused. Confucius then told him again: there is no ancient or modern, no beginning or end—this is spoken from the level of spirit.

Before there were descendants, one should wait for spontaneous generation; if one rushes to have them, they cannot be obtained. Originally there was no death; death exists because there is life. Originally there was no life; life exists because there is death. Death and life each form a whole and do not depend on each other. In Taiyi—the earliest stage, before Qi has yet to appear—one cannot see Qi; it is neither form nor Qi, and therefore it can generate the myriad things. What can generate the myriad things is itself not a thing. If we also treat it as a thing, though it comes before the myriad things, it cannot truly be prior to them, precisely because “thing” is still present in it, so it cannot stand first. As long as there is still “thing,” there is no end.

The sage treats the myriad things by loving them through “non-benevolence” (bu ren)—impartiality, not favoritism—and that love has no limit; the principle is taken from this.

Bi Xu (Song Dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Master Bi Xu) glosses the exchange as follows. The question “before there was heaven and earth” aims to clarify what existed prior to the ten thousand things. The answer that “antiquity was like today” uses the self to reflect upon the self. “Clear and bright” refers to the keen mind of childhood; “dim and confused” to the clouded spirit of middle age. Those with spirit (shen) first receive the Great Dao; by concentrating qi to achieve softness (zhuanqi zhirou, as the Daoist tradition puts it), they thereby embody the Dao’s simplicity and wholeness. If one then pursues on behalf of the side that lacks spirit, cravings know no limit, and one only tries to polish a dull endowment into something pleasing. If old age were the same as youth, there would be no ancient and modern; if life were the same as death, there would be no end and beginning. Sons beget grandsons—this is the logic of succession in time. It shows that past and present each have their origin: dispersion becomes nothingness, accumulation becomes being—none of this departs from zaohua (the natural becoming and transformation of things). It is not because this life exists that its death is produced, nor because this death exists that its life and death are driven. The point is: the living live by themselves, the dead die by themselves; death does not come because of life, nor life because of death—they originally depend on nothing. The ten thousand things each return to their place yet form one body; being and non-being are not two separate paths. Heaven and earth are the greatest within independent transformation (duhua—self-generation without reliance on an external agent). Even if something were truly “prior,” it would only mean that thing itself comes first; one cannot posit yet another thing born before heaven and earth. Yet things and heaven and earth each complete a single body. Though all are called “things,” each thing arises on its own; the prior thing is not the later, just as sons and grandsons are not the same person. Therefore every thing has its own Taiji (supreme pivot of origin). To say that after one thing comes another, and the later becomes the prior, would mean that as long as there are things, things begetting things never ends. The sage treats the people as straw dogs (chugou—the ritual grass dog used and then discarded, signifying equal regard without partiality), yet the people cherish him without end—again because he takes as his model “not placing himself before the ten thousand things.”

Yi Zhai (the literary name of Lin Xiyi, a Southern Song scholar) said: Shen (spirit) here means my own awareness; when it is “not shen,” the luminous clarity of that awareness is dimmed and obscured by qi (the vital breath that forms the physical body). In the past the mind was bright and clear, and that empty, subtle awareness was still present, so one could “receive” or apprehend; now, dulled and confused, that empty, subtle awareness is gone, and one turns outward again in search. “No antiquity, no present; no end, no beginning” speaks of the principle of creation: generation without exhaustion—like a person who will have descendants; one need not wait until they already exist to understand this. So in the end, it comes down to not needing to say much more about “being able to apprehend.” Where there is the word “birth,” there is also “death,” because birth comes first and death follows from it; where there is “death,” there is likewise “birth.” What birth and death depend on is one and the same root-substance; the substance is the principle (li). The “thing-er of things” (wuwuzhe—the source that makes things be things) is itself not a thing. What is not a thing must lie prior to Heaven and Earth and cannot be named with the word “thing.” Once you call it a thing, you cannot say it is before Heaven and Earth. That is already “having things” (you wu); hence “the arising of things cannot run ahead of things”—the meaning is still simply “there are things”; that is the complete sentence. Once there are things, thing faces thing in mutual opposition, and there is no end to it. When the sage loves people, visible traces remain; traces chase one another without cease, precisely because what is grasped is still “having things,” without realizing that the thing-er of things is itself not a thing.

Ran Qiu’s question came like thunder splitting a mountain. Confucius answered in a few casual words and left him unable to press further, so he withdrew. From this one can gauge the difference between sage and ordinary person. Though Ran Qiu had already entered Confucius’s inner circle of disciples, what he studied was still nothing beyond ordinary worldly learning; what he saw and heard did not go beyond what eyes and ears could reach. How could he know in advance what things were like before heaven and earth existed? It was only natural that he felt puzzled and asked.

The human body takes heaven as its model and earth as its symbol. What existed before heaven and earth not yet being— that is our own original nature. Knowing one’s original nature is knowing what preceded heaven and earth; and what is called knowing what preceded heaven and earth is, after all, only inferring from how things stand after heaven and earth already exist. The sage can hold to the ancient Way in meeting the present age, and therefore can also clarify antiquity from the present— not merely “knowing a hundred generations hence.”

Heaven and earth in empty space are a tiny thing; among the myriad things they are the greatest. What has form arises from what has no form, and in the end must fall into decay and ruin. People simply live in a brief span of time; their eyes do not have time to see it all, like summer insects that do not know ice exists.

“Shen first receives it”: when a person knows what is wondrous, they take it as wondrous and then turn to seek where it is not wondrous, without understanding why the not-wondrous is wondrous. Formerly you were clear and bright because you used knowledge to pursue what is called shen (spirit); that was the spirit receiving first. Now you are dim and confused because, having heard the Way, you forget knowledge— within the not-wondrous there is wondrousness of its own, so why seek again? This is asking people to turn the light back upon the source of mind: to obtain yet not cling to obtaining, neither glaringly bright nor darkly muddled, with no ancient and no present, so that life and death cannot bind them. “Do not use birth to bring forth birth from death, do not use death to kill life from birth” means each transforms on its own (duhua— each changes thus by itself), not depending on something else— like the previous breath is not this breath, the previous flame is not the later flame.

Confucius raised the topic again: is there something that exists before heaven and earth? The point is that only the Dao (the Way) is prior to heaven and earth. Speaking in terms of things, nothing is prior to heaven and earth. What makes a thing a thing is itself not a thing. The Dao gives rise to heaven, earth, and the myriad things, yet cannot be called a “thing.” Once a thing appears and falls into the realm of forms and vessels, it can no longer count as prior to things, because it already is a thing. Once there are things, one gives rise to ten thousand from one; they lie scattered and mixed, displayed before the eyes every day, and few can stand apart without being confused. One can see that people and things have no end because creating-and-transforming (zaohua) has no end. The sage’s benevolent care extends to the myriad things without end, yet all alike cannot avoid scattering plain simplicity into shallow artifice; the great antiquity of rule by Wuwei (non-action) can no longer be restored. To return to that kind of non-action in governing, perhaps only those who are good at seeking their own innate original nature can do it.

In the passage, the word read as you (“still/as though”) is suspected to be a mistake for you (“from/ thereby”).

Yan Hui asked Confucius: “I once heard the Master say that one should not deliberately see anything off or deliberately welcome anything in. May I ask how one can roam and dwell in such a state?”

Confucius said: “The ancients followed the changes of outer things while inwardly keeping to what does not change; people today let the inner mind shift with things, yet outwardly they cling and refuse to transform. One who can change together with the myriad things does so precisely because there is an unchanging root in the heart. Why must you distinguish what transforms from what does not, or rub and defer to outer things? It is enough not to add extra gains or extra calculations. The park of Xīwéi, the garden of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of Youyu, the hall of Tang and Wu—each generation’s dwelling grew narrower than the last. The gentleman-teachers of Ru and Mo already use right and wrong to attack one another—how much more so people today! The sage stands among the myriad things without harming them; one who does not harm the myriad things, the myriad things in turn cannot harm him. Only one who harms nothing can naturally see others off and welcome them in. Mountains and forests, fields and plains—they make me glad; before gladness ends, sorrow follows. When sorrow and joy arrive, I cannot block them; when they leave, I cannot hold them. How sad—people are no more than temporary inns where outer things lodge for a night. People know what they meet but do not know what they have not met; they can do what they can but cannot do what they cannot. There are things one does not know and things one cannot do—this is unavoidable in being human. To strain with all one’s might to escape what no human being can escape—is that not also pitiful? The highest speech discards speech; the highest action discards deliberate doing. To level all one knows to one plane—that kind of knowing is shallow.”

Guo Xiang (Western Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) held that when the heart-mind accords with the bodily form, the form transforms on its own; if one uses the heart-mind to drive the body, the outer world cannot shift along with things. The heart-mind constantly rests in wuxin (non-purposive mind), and so there is an unchanging “One”; precisely because it does not change, it can transform together with the myriad things. Both change and unchange are left to ziran (spontaneous nature). Wuxin and allowing self-transformation are neither deliberate welcoming and sending off nor blind compliance; when enough is enough, one stops. Wuxin while yielding to transformation is the realm in which the sages roam and the heart-mind finds its home.

Teachers of Confucianism and Mohism are the hardest to harmonize with, yet someone in wuxin can still be at peace with them—how much more so with ordinary people. To live among things without being harmed, the utmost yielding lies entirely within oneself. Only wuxin makes the utmost yielding possible; that utmost yielding is why one need not welcome or send off. This natural fitting still ranks above calculated welcoming and sending off.

Mountains, forests, and river meadows do not specially favor me, yet I am glad—this is joy without reason. Joy without reason turns into grief without reason; then what one joys in is not worth joying in, and what one grieves is not worth grieving. People cannot zuowang (forget the split between self and things and rest in one’s original nature) or attain self-sufficiency (zide); they become merely a stopping place for joy and sorrow, like an inn.

What one knows is limited to what one meets; what one does not meet, one does not know. What one cannot do, one must not force; forcing oneself to “be able” is the same. Limits are thus not set by the self—each attains completion in its own natural way. What is gained only after cognition is merely borrowed from learning, and so remains shallow.

Lu Huiqing (Northern Song commentator on the Zhuangzi) held that the ancients, outwardly transforming with things, went along with the myriad things; inwardly unchanging, they kept an indestructible true nature. The heart-mind of people today likewise knows only what it meets and does not know what it does not meet, and does not force what it cannot do—so the boundary does not lie in the self; everything is self-attained (zide). Relying on cognition for what one gains and leaning on study makes it shallow and narrow.

Lü Huìqīng’s commentary reads: In antiquity, people’s outward form changed with external things, so they drifted away together with the myriad things; inwardly they did not change, and therefore an authentic self that was not forgotten could remain. People today let the inner mind change with things, so the heart becomes the same as external things; outwardly they do not change, clinging only to rules before their eyes and unable to keep pace with the passing days. What changes together with things is the “One” that does not change—so how can there still be a split between changing and not changing? If one still divides changing from not changing, that is not true non-change; how then can one grind and polish together with the myriad things, letting them rush like galloping without end?

“Going along with things without excess” means neither seeing them off nor welcoming them—meeting outer things in response without storing them in the heart.

When the classic mentions park (yòu), garden (pǔ), palace (gōng), and chamber (shì), it means that as the world declines, fewer people can roam freely within them and their dwelling places grow narrower. Among gentlemen, even teachers in the Confucian and Mohist traditions still use disputes over right and wrong to suppress one another, and the harm is already deep—how much more so for people today, for whom avoiding friction with outer things is difficult.

The sage dwells with things without injuring them—this is letting both sides each go their own way while he rests in the natural equilibrium (tiānjūn). How then can things injure him? Thus, though he has welcoming and seeing-off in his dealings with people, he alone wanders in a realm where there is nothing to welcome or see off.

The world is driven by outer things; joy and sorrow can enter the dwelling of the heart. Mountains, forests, watersides, and wilds delight people—before pleasure has ended, sorrow follows. The two come and go without rest; what arrives cannot be blocked, what departs cannot be held. The body is merely a lodging for outer things, like an inn.

People only know what they encounter, not what they have not encountered: when they meet things, they keep company with them; when they do not meet them, they part from them. They only know what they can do, not what they cannot: relying on what they can, they are driven by things; placed in what they cannot, they go on to drive things. Ignorance and incapacity are what people cannot avoid—the text speaks of limits that are originally ours and can be sought within oneself. Yet people insist on escaping what cannot be escaped; to lose one’s nature in this way is extreme—is it not lamentable?

The highest speech dispenses with speech; the highest action dispenses with action. If one still uses what one knows to uniformize everything, applying it to escape what people cannot escape, even if counted as knowing, it remains shallow.

Lin Yidu (Song commentator), said: What is meant by “outwardly transforming while inwardly not transforming” is that the body follows external things as they change, while the mind has its own master; what is meant by “inwardly transforming while outwardly not transforming” is that the mind follows external things in changing, yet cannot forget the body. What transforms together with things is only the form changing while the heart does not transform—hence there is said to be an unchanging root. Whether things transform or do not transform, one leaves it to nature, rests at ease in following and harmonizing with them, and lets each fully fulfill its own nature and allotted role, with neither lack nor excess.

An enclosed park (you) is a hunting preserve; a garden (pu) is a vegetable plot. The garden is narrower than the park, the palace narrower than the garden, and the inner chamber narrower still than the palace. This means that human nature and life were originally vast; after the way of the world declined, plain simplicity could no longer be restored, and broad dwelling was squeezed ever narrower—such was the force of the times. Did those sages themselves have high and low ranks? The masters of Confucianism and Mohism each clung to right and wrong and used this to condemn that—hardest of all to harmonize into one. “Harmony” means adjusting so as to make things agree. Sages dwell with things without harming them, and things likewise cannot harm them—like a wild ox with nowhere to butt or a tiger with nowhere to extend its claws. Only one whose de (virtue/power) is fully complete can mingle and interact with people. What is called “receiving and responding” is nothing more than living in harmony with others.

Human feeling tends to love the new and tire of the old. Nothing in the world stays new without turning old. To set what must turn old against a mind that easily wearies—under heaven there is no true joy, and no wonder people are as they are. The rich and noble take power, profit, and status as joy; those at leisure take mountains and forests as joy—all merely draw joy from outer things. Where is there anything new that never turns old, or old that never brings weariness? Once the old brings weariness, sorrow follows. Joy and sorrow lodge in the person like a traveler staying briefly at an inn. Only one who studies until reaching the Dao need not dwell in wealth and rank yet has the means to be master and to command; need not hide in mountains and forests yet can fully observe the changes of the myriad things. The means are stored without exhaustion; transformations issue without end—the joy is ever fresh day by day and never turns old, so how could weariness or sorrow arise?

Bixu (Song Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) said: Chasing after outer things is called outward transformation; preserving true nature is called inward non-transformation; losing one’s nature is inward transformation; clinging to outward superiority is outward non-transformation. Transforming together with things is only the traces of the body following things in change; as the root “One,” it itself has never transformed. Transform or not transform—simply leave it be; not only go along with things, but keep it plain and easy.

One whose inner heart is purely white yet lives in the world is like a sage roaming and dwelling in park, garden, palace, and chamber—why must one deliberately receive and send off? Confucian and Mohist gentlemen still cannot be without mind and must divide right from wrong—how much more those who fall short of them? To dwell with things without harming them is light and dust merged as one; that things cannot harm one is having no division between self and other. Only one who is wholly unharmed can join with others in interaction. To be mindless and not receive or respond is still easy; to be able to receive and respond yet not offend outer things—that is hard.

Mountains and forests are without feeling toward people, yet people often love them because quiet stillness matches their nature. To grieve as soon as change comes is being driven by emotion. The world is swept along by joy and sorrow in receiving and sending, so when things befall them misfortune is many; when they seek nothing, blessing is complete. The capable are instead enslaved; the incapable go enslave others. Therefore sages value being without knowledge and without ability, while the world forces itself to seek knowledge and display ability—mutual harm with things: this is a great illness. If one can discard reckless speech and reckless knowing and enter the state of not knowing how one knows, then it is deep—and far.

Xi Zhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi, a Song-dynasty scholar) said: To meet external things without being dragged down by them is called “external transformation” (waihua). To meet external things while the heart is not stirred is called “internal non-transformation” (nei bu hua). To become entangled and artificial as soon as one touches external things is called “internal transformation” (neihua). To chafe against external things and refuse to go along with them is called “external non-transformation” (wai bu hua).

When one uses this inner non-transformation to meet the myriad things in the world, wherever one passes one changes with things—neither seeing them off nor welcoming them in—so that neither transformation nor non-transformation is something one knows about oneself. What is meant by “single non-transformation” is precisely that heart of no-heart.

In the text, “an” is equivalent to “how could,” and “mi” means to grind or rub. How could one grind against the myriad things and still insist on pressing them down?

Xihuwei, the Yellow Emperor, Youyu (Shun), Tang of Shang, and King Wu of Zhou, along with the founders of Confucian and Mohist schools, had not yet fully achieved inner non-transformation; that is why they used right and wrong to tear at one another. “Mutual pickle” (xiang ji) means something like the five flavors fighting for dominance. The parks, gardens, and palaces mentioned are figures for each side treating these as its own den.

Not injuring external things means changing together with things; only by changing with things can people truly meet and part with one another.

Ordinary people who roam mountain forests are bound to feel joy; once there is joy, feeling follows, and with feeling comes grief. The Lanting Ji (Preface to the Orchid Pavilion Gathering by Wang Xizhi) uses exactly this point. To rejoice or grieve because of things, with comings and goings not in one’s own hands—that heart is only a temporary inn for joy and sorrow.

“Encounter” refers to what is visible; “non-encounter” to what is invisible. The visible belongs to the human realm; the invisible belongs to Heaven (Tian). What one can accomplish is human effort; what one cannot is the mandate of Heaven (Tianming). Everyone has what they do not know and cannot do. To know only the human and not Heaven, yet try to escape what cannot be escaped—is that not pitiful? Thus the highest speech is speechlessness, and the highest conduct is wuwei (non-action). Not knowing what cannot be known, yet treating what is known as the whole of knowledge—how shallow the view becomes.

External transformation is softly gathering one’s light and blending with the world (heguang, “harmonizing the light”). Internal non-transformation is holding fast to integrity and establishing virtue. Internal transformation is the heart altering as it follows external things. External non-transformation is stiff posturing, deliberately at odds with the common world.

Those who can change outwardly with things soften their brilliance with a gentle bearing and blend with the world; those whose inner selves do not change with external things uphold independent integrity to establish virtue. When the inner self is moved and altered by external things, the mind drifts with events; when the outer person refuses to change, one becomes stiff and affected, going against ordinary custom. In the world, what ought to change people refuse to change, and what ought not to change they change anyway—this is how ancient and modern times differ in whether custom is shallow or sincere, and how the gentleman and the petty person part ways.

The sage treats governing the world as dregs (worthless residue): he simply changes along with the ten thousand things; he cultivates the self with authentic nature, yet that bit of true nature never changes. If one can truly govern the person with authentic nature and extend it to the world, that is only a small remainder of the task. Then inner and outer need no longer be distinguished; transformation and non-transformation both return to the same change—so one moves securely with things and never oversteps.

“Enclosed gardens and palace halls” means the realm in which the sage dwells at ease. Later generations who can roam and rest within it grow fewer, and the space they inhabit grows narrower day by day. The Confucian and Mohist masters whom people honor still could not avoid harming one another in disputes over right and wrong—how much more so people today: how can they dwell among things without being harmed, and freely meet and part with others? No wonder they give up the joy of gardens, halls, and living in community, and turn instead to water’s-edge highlands in the mountains to practice self-cultivation in isolation.

The pattern of things is that when motion reaches its limit it must return to stillness; human disposition is that when joy reaches its limit it turns to sorrow. Those who rush through markets and courts envy the quiet of mountains and forests, yet those who delight in mountains and forests also have no principle of never growing weary. Disposition shifts in the hidden, running together with change, without one’s noticing—the body is only a lodging where sorrow and joy stay for a while. The “Outer Things” (Wa Wu) chapter says that great forests and hills are pleasant partly because the spirit cannot bear the turmoil of the world; the meaning here is the same.

“Encounter” (yu) means things coming before one; “non-encounter” is leaving things behind, withdrawing from the crowd—seeing as if not seeing. “Able” (neng) means handling everything aptly; “unable” is like the fool holding to simplicity, utterly rejecting worldly learning, practicing Wuwei (non-action) without reckless action.

There is no one who does not feel sorrow and joy because of what comes and goes outside, yet they do not see that their own body is also only a temporary lodging—and how much more so what one encounters and what one can do, which are temporary lodgings of that lodging. Only non-knowing is true knowing; only non-ability is true ability—this is what people inherently have and cannot escape. Today people discard what is inherent and instead pursue much knowing and much ability, toiling body and mind until they die—this is exactly what the perfected person (zhenren) laments.

Ordinary people certainly cannot do without speech and action, but as long as the mind does not fix on speech and action, speech and action will withdraw of themselves—this is supreme speech and supreme action. If one draws a boundary and treats only what the mind knows as knowledge, that is shallow and does not approach the Great Dao (the Way).

The “gentleman person” (junzi zhi ren) in the text should read “person of antiquity” (gu zhi ren)—the following lines make this clear.

This chapter takes “Knowledge” as its title. Knowledge is the root of deliberate action and of opening one’s mouth to speak. “Wandering north” is the direction toward the source, carrying the sense of returning to the origin. Profound Water (xuan shui) is extremely subtle, yet also nourishes the ten thousand things—an image for the mind still holding the intention to cultivate the Way. Only Wuweiwei (one who does nothing and says nothing) comes close to the Great Dao. That is why three questions in a row go unanswered: not knowing is true knowing. The more clearly the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) answers, the farther he strays from the Dao.

Therefore the sage sheds form and abandons cleverness, drops the body and dismisses keen hearing, acts without acting (wuwei) and the ten thousand things complete themselves, speaks without speaking and the world transforms of itself. He understands that the Dao cannot be possessed, nor can the body be held as one’s own. The “being” of the ten thousand things arises from “non-being”; what pervades the world is a single Qi (vital energy). The marvelous and the rotten transform into each other; Yin-Yang (Yin and Yang) brew in the dark and give birth on their own. They surge forth, then sink back in silence—this is what all people share. As the ten thousand things change, that “One” itself does not change—this is what the sage alone possesses. Not clinging to life, yielding to transformation, the natural bonds (taozhi) fall away by themselves; then, dwelling within transformation yet yielding to transformation: there is no “transforming,” and nothing that does not transform; forgetting transformation, transformation transforms itself. How then could one still speak of transforming or not transforming?

The lower one draws comparisons among things, the clearer the Dao appears—hence the Dao is found even in tiles and bricks (wapi). What is used is preserved by what is not used; thus the craftsman who forges hooks (chuigou) can master his skill. From today one can infer the time before Heaven and Earth arose; not fixing oneself in one place, there is nothing to call “departure.” Without coming or going, inner and outer changes connect through; dwelling among the ten thousand things without being harmed. One who is quiet without relying on external conditions is quiet everywhere; one who is joyful without relying on external things is joyful everywhere. Change and shift cannot move him; burdens cannot injure him. One day can count as a hundred years, a hundred years as one day—who knows whether what we dwell in today is not the world inside the gourd (huzhong tiandi)?

Seen calmly, people in the world are merely inns where outer things lodge for a while; often they ruin life and damage their nature because of their circumstances and talents—as if casting agarwood and sandalwood (chen tan) into a furnace: fragrance rises for a moment, and the form is already ash. Better to lack those circumstances and not deploy those talents, and thereby preserve the genuine self.

The Most High (Taishang, Laozi) said: the teaching without words and the benefit of non-action (wuwei)—few under Heaven can match them. Therefore the Southern Flower (Nan Hua, Zhuangzi) closes the outer chapters (from “Pian Mu” through “Knowledge Wandered North”) with “the utmost word discards words; the utmost act discards action.” The above concludes juan 69 of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Cuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean of the True Scripture of the Southern Flower).

Nanhuá Zhēnjīng Yìhǎi Zuǎnwēi (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Scripture of Nanhua), Volume 70, by Chǔ Bóxiù of the Song dynasty, as preserved in the Qīndìng Sìkù Quánshū (Complete Library in Four Sections)—this is the first part of the Miscellaneous Chapters section on Gēngsāng Chǔ.

Among Laozi’s (Lǎo Dān’s) disciples was Gēngsāng Chǔ, who had received Laozi’s Way in a special measure. He went north and settled on Mount Wèilěi. He dismissed servants who flaunted cleverness and loved to show off how sharp they were, kept at a distance attendants who strained to perform benevolence for show, lived only with those whose looks were clumsy and plain, and had those who worked hard without fuss over ceremony wait on him. After three years, Wèilěi had a great harvest. The people said to one another: “When Gēngsāngzǐ first came, we all felt he was unlike anyone else. Count day by day, you cannot see what he has done; count year by year, and there is surplus. He is nearly a sage! Why not together take him as a spirit lord in our prayers, and set up a shèjì (altars to the gods of soil and grain—treating him as a local protector) for him?”

When Gēngsāngzǐ heard this, he sat facing south, troubled at heart. His disciples wondered at it. He said: “What is there to wonder at? When spring qi stirs, the hundred grasses grow; when autumn comes, the ten thousand things ripen. Do spring and autumn intend to make this happen? They are only the Dao of Heaven running of itself. I have heard that the perfected person quietly dwells in a small room walled on four sides with earth, while the people wander freely and do not even know where they are headed. Now the people of Wèilěi privately discuss wanting to offer me grain and meat on the sacrificial stands and rank me among the worthies—I would become everyone’s measuring rod. That is why I recall what Lǎo Dān said and cannot be at ease.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: huàrán means parading cleverness; jiérán means boasting of humane virtue; yōngzhǒng means plain and unadorned; yāngzhǎng means self-sufficient ease. At first the people marveled that he abandoned cleverness and used simplicity; later they understood that one who moves with the four seasons has no immediate, visible achievement. The growth of spring and autumn all comes from nature—not from deliberate doing. The perfected person dwells in peace, and the people attach themselves on their own, not through artifice; hence he did not wish to be others’ model. Laozi said: when the work is done, the people all believe they did it naturally. What Wèilěi was doing was the opposite, so he was not relieved.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary reads as follows: Laozi’s (La Dan’s) Dao means setting aside benevolence, discarding cleverness, and not exalting the worthy. That is not meant to make the common people sharp and scheming, but to bring them back to plain simplicity. For that reason, even servants and concubines who still cling to a trace of benevolence and cleverness withdraw and keep their distance, and one keeps company only with people like the “swollen and lumbering” and those “with hands full of chores.” “Hua-ran” and “jie-ran” point to petty, showy kindness and petty, showy wit; “swollen and lumbering” means slow and awkward, and “hands full of chores” means tied up in miscellaneous tasks—neither type gets by on cleverness and benevolence.

The people of Weilei, the mountain where Gengsang Chu lived in seclusion, were transformed by his Dao. They no longer wore themselves out in mind and trickery and applied their effort only to food and clothing, so their harvests grew greatly abundant. His way struck people as fresh and new, and the common folk were suddenly astonished. His Dao was effective through non-action (wuwei): measured by days it seemed barely enough, yet measured by years it overflowed.

In ritual, the corpse-medium (shi), the invoker (zhu), and the altars of soil and grain (she and ji) belong by right to the ruler and the head of the lineage. Here the sense is that the people wished to honor him and treat him as a leader to be served. Spring’s growth and autumn’s ripening are Heaven’s doing; the myriad things do not know it as such. Hence the sage sits quiet like the shi, and the people of the realm follow their nature without knowing where they are headed. Yet now the small folk of Weilei want to place me among the worthy with sacrificial stands and vessels (zudou)—which is exactly what prevents people from standing with nothing to lean on. How could I fail to refuse, and instead become the mark everyone aims at?

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Things receive life from Heaven and are thereby subject to Heaven’s command; the people receive government from the ruler and are subject to the ruler; disciples receive instruction from the teacher and are subject to the teacher. Heaven uses birth to set things in motion and death to still them; the ruler uses affairs to wear the people out and wealth to settle them; the teacher uses learning to keep disciples diligent and the Dao to settle them. Whoever receives something cannot escape being commanded. Gengsang Chu studied under Laodan (Laozi), so he is called one who is “subject” (yi). Laodan was not partial to Chu alone; Chu could uniquely obtain his Dao because he filled out the genuine reality already present in his allotted nature.

Weilei is Mount Yu in the Yu Gong chapter, as noted in the Dongling Jing. Gengsang Chu’s servants and concubines were all plain, unadorned people; he sent away those who deliberately showed off cleverness and advertised benevolence and humaneness. Useless timber lived with him, and people without official posts served his needs. After three years the harvest was abundant and the people were astonished. He had no visible short-term effect, so reckoned by days he seemed insufficient; he had long-term results, so reckoned by years he had surplus. The people were transformed by his virtue and wanted him to sit facing south and to treat him with the libation rites due to the altars of soil and grain (sheji). This matches Laozi’s saying that the world can be entrusted to such a person. When spring comes things are born; when autumn comes they are completed—the way of nature proceeds of itself while people do not know it. “Dwelling like a corpse” means he was still; “a room whose walls meet” means his dwelling was plain. The people came to him in wild, admiring abandon—they went on their own, not through clever scheming. Now the little people of Weilei want to place me among the worthies with ritual vessels—that is to treat me as a ladle (shao). A ladle is only a small utensil for everyone’s use; to do that would go against Laodan’s teaching, so he was uneasy in mind.

Bixu’s commentary: That Gengsang Chu “partially obtained” Laodan’s Dao means he understood the principle most deeply, so he took neither cleverness nor benevolence and humaneness, and only worked alongside those who were swollen and useless, busy yet content in themselves. At first people were startled and their hearts were plain; later they rejoiced as customs grew rich and virtue increased. When the people wanted to offer him libations as to a spirit, he still was not at ease, because even that would leave a trace. Spring and autumn are both the way of nature—it runs without words—what credit is that to me? So he dwelt like a corpse, hidden and silent; the people had no way to know him—how could he consent to be everyone’s marked ladle? To accept the offering of sacrificial vessels (zudou) would be not to understand the teacher’s words and to go against them on purpose.

In his commentary, Liu Kai notes that Laozi said that when merit is complete and affairs are settled, the people all believe they did it naturally. Yet the people of Kewei—the mountain district where Gengsang Chu had withdrawn—wanted to treat Gengsang Chu as an object of sacrifice and offer prayers to him. From this it seems that Gengsang Chu had probably not yet truly arrived at the Great Dao. It is also said that if someone genuinely possesses solid virtue and others try to thrust fame upon him yet he refuses to accept it, he may instead bring misfortune upon himself. Now, as soon as he hears of this, he sits facing south and cannot put the matter out of his mind. From this it seems that in yielding to things as they are, he had not yet truly succeeded either.

It is also said that Yao did not treat the people as his private possession, nor did he let himself be relied upon by the people; what was passed down to later ages a thousand generations hence was only the record of what he had done. Gengsang Chu’s Dao, then, had reached only “non-action” (wuwei) and had not yet achieved “leaving nothing undone” (wu bu wei).

Lin Xiyi (style name Yizhai), in his Kouyi, explains: “yongzhong” and “yangzhang” suggest someone whose body is distorted and who seems useless; “saran” means free and unworldly, unlike ordinary people. “Insufficient by the measure of days, abundant by the measure of years” means that only after a long time do the benefits show. “Shizhu” and “sheji” both refer to reverent sacrifice; such passages are written with vivid, spirited brushwork. “Bu shiran” means displeased or unsettled. Spring birth and autumn harvest—did they come about because anyone deliberately sought them? Heaven simply is thus; the way of heaven is already at work—this is an image of the natural and the non-willed. “Not knowing whither to go” speaks of mutual forgetting between oneself and the world. “Shao” is a small vessel—a figure for one’s own smallness and easy visibility, which is why others can know him. A Buddhist saying runs: “I have no special skill in cultivation, yet ghosts and spirits have seen through me.” Gengsang Chu could not set his mind at ease about his teacher Laozi’s words; fearing he had failed his master’s teaching, he grew depressed and unhappy.

Chu Shi’s Guancjian (Limited Views) states: Geng Sang—whom Grand Historian Sima Qian wrote as “Kang Sang” and also as “Kang Cang”—belongs among the masters; in the Tang he was enfeoffed as the True Lord of the Cave Spirit (Dongling Zhenjun), a title in the Daoist pantheon. His book says Geng Sangzi lived on the summit of Mount Yu; in He Can’s commentary, Mount Yu lies in Xuzhou. The “Weilei” (Mount Awe) in Zhuangzi refers to his plain, awkward appearance. “Hua ran” and “jie ran” both mean showing benevolence and wisdom openly rather than hiding them—so those who lack benevolence and understanding resent him, and disaster is never far off. He would rather keep company with dull, blunt people, with no scheming between them, in an atmosphere of simple integrity and ample livelihood. In time the people gladly accepted his guidance and wished to honor him. “Count by days and it seems not enough; count by years and there is surplus”—the image of threads piling up into cloth. Geng Sang felt they did not truly know him and feared that popular attachment would become his burden. Spring growth and autumn ripening run by themselves as the way of Heaven; in an age of sages, how would the people know the emperor’s exertion? Yet now they have ranked me among the worthy: though I do not call myself worthy, they still esteem me—as if one set up a target and invited arrows and stones. How could I accept that? On this reading, Geng Sang at Weilei did not hide his light tightly enough; he could not bring people to mutual forgetting (jian wang, forgetting one another), unlike Liezi in the Zheng outskirts (Zheng pu), who merged with the place and left no trace.

A disciple objected: That is not so. To speak of something vast in an ordinary ditch is still like erecting a target and drawing missiles—how could I accept that? Geng Sang in Weilei had not concealed himself deeply enough to make people forget one another; he was not like Liezi in the Zheng fields, who blended in without a mark.

The disciple said: That is not so. In ditches as narrow as a chang (eight chi make one xun; twice that is chang—meaning very tight quarters), large fish cannot turn around, yet loaches and other small fish can still move about. On knolls no higher than a step or a ren (meaning very low), great beasts cannot conceal their bodies, yet fox spirits treat such spots as auspicious ground. Besides, honoring the worthy, putting the capable in office, and giving benefits and profit first to the good has been the way since Yao and Shun—how much more for the people of Weilei (the place where Gengsang Chu lived)! Master, you might as well let them have their way.

Gengsang Chu said: Young man, come here. A beast whose mouth can hold a carriage, once it leaves the forest alone, cannot escape nets and snares. A fish big enough to swallow a boat, once stranded from the water, can be harmed even by ants. So birds and beasts do not disdain high mountains, and fish and turtles do not disdain deep water. Someone who wants to preserve body and life finds refuge precisely in not disdaining what is remote and secluded.

And what is there to praise in those two, Yao and Shun? Their habit of sorting good from evil is like smashing a wall to plant wormwood, or combing hair hair by hair and cooking rice grain by grain—petty and cramped; how could it save the world? When worthies are promoted, the people undercut one another; when cleverness is employed, they deceive one another. Such measures cannot make the people plain and sincere. When the people chase profit too hard, sons kill fathers and ministers kill lords, rob in broad daylight, and break through walls at noon. I tell you: the root of great disorder must arise in the age of Yao and Shun, and its aftereffects will linger for a thousand generations; after a thousand generations, people eating people is inevitable.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The disciple assumed that a great man must receive rich stipends, and so urged the Master to accept. The answer is: only by leaving profit and keeping harm at a distance can one preserve oneself; if one throws oneself into salary and rank, one’s standing becomes coarse and shallow—not even as secure as fish and turtles in deep water. The “two men” are Yao and Shun—what is there to praise? That path invites later ages to carve and embellish at random, breeding filth and disorder, fussing at the tip of an awl or the edge of a knife like “combing with a bamboo slip” or “counting grains of rice.” Only when all is blended into one without forced contrivance can one benefit the world. If one goes against one’s nature to court what is exalted, the true nature cannot be sustained, and hypocrisy follows. Seeking to live by hypocrisy—is that not theft? When the common people are too eager for profit, they heed nothing else. It is precisely because Yao and Shun left their deeds behind that hypocrisy was dressed up and handed down, producing this disease.

In Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Laozi took the root as subtle and refined, outward things as coarse traces, and accumulated possessions as never truly sufficient; tranquil and serene, he kept company with spiritual clarity alone. Gengsang Chu, who learned the Dao from Laozi and lived on Mount Weilei, therefore hid himself and did not disdain depth or distance. Though his virtue could be left behind even by Yao and Shun, he himself did not set out to act with deliberate intent. To distinguish Yao and Shun within the primordial state before things had arisen is no different from breaking through a wall to plant wormwood—ill-suited and utterly useless. Only by assisting the ten thousand things to follow their natural course and not daring to impose arbitrary action can one achieve results through simplicity; otherwise it is like parting hair strand by strand or counting rice grain by grain—how can such petty reckoning save the world? When the sage governs, he keeps the people from cleverness and from greedy desire. Yet judged by the practices Yao and Shun handed down, they could not avoid elevating the worthy and employing the wise, until people finally overthrew and robbed one another. Thus “having knowledge” is precisely the greatest among desires; human nature is pulled and altered by it, and disorder arises from there.

In Lin Yidu’s commentary: The disciple thought that a person of virtue should be honored with rank, and a capable person should be given office; if Yao and Shun’s age was still like this, how much more the common folk of Weilei, moved by Gengsang Chu’s transforming virtue? The answer is: fish do not tire of deep water nor birds of high mountains, so as to escape harm; for a person to preserve life, hiding oneself means merely not disdaining depth and distance. Yao and Shun were only traces left when a true person (one who embodies the Dao) responded to the world—like dust and chaff—hardly worth praising. The two disciples’ arguments could not accord with the principle of nature and life; it was just like breaking a wall to plant wormwood. “Parting hair and counting grains” means they only knew how to tally small gains. Though the virtue of Yao and Shun was vast, it gradually departed from the natural and fell into the artificial; Zhuangzi criticized their deeds to guard against abuses that would follow. Fearing that the people would overthrow one another, he did not exalt the worthy, so that people would not stir up rivalry; fearing that the people would rob one another, he discarded sage wisdom, and benefit doubled instead. Worthiness, cleverness, and the like are not enough to make custom honest—they only make high and low contend with one another, until people dig through walls to steal in broad daylight without shame. These evils all stem from following the traces of Yao and Shun. Beasts devour one another, and humans still find it repugnant—how much more when people devour people?

Bixu Commentary: A turbid little ditch is where ordinary fish alone hold sway—sharks and whales do not swim there. A small knoll is ground foxes favor; tigers and rhinoceros-like beasts do not linger on it. When De (Virtue/Power) shines broad and full, the mundane world can hardly keep it hidden. Putting goodness and benefit first is what sages constantly confront. Only those whose resolve is lofty and whose insight runs deep cannot be harmed by gain or loss; those who merely want to preserve body and life are not worth acclaim. Sorting worthies from fools erodes plain simplicity; picking through hair strand by strand and counting grains of rice may forfeit the state of undifferentiated oneness. The sage does not exalt worthies or discard sage wisdom so that the people stay simple and do not turn to usurpation and theft. Those who lean on cleverness chase only immediate success—how could they foresee failure later?

Yanzhai Oral Exegesis: Though Fanghu is small, it can oversee ditches and channels; “knoll” means that earth, however small, each has what it honors. First proclaim goodness and benefit—once the name is out, benefit follows. When people have talent, others are bound to respect them. Now the common folk of Wei Lei delight in honoring the able and revering worthies; the Master should meet this with calm indifference. A beast leaving the mountain forest, a fish deprived of water—this likens how a name shining in the world wounds the person. “Jie” means “alone”; the gloss takes “dang” as the same as reckless abandon. Taking Yao and Shun as grounds for dispute is like hacking a wall to plant wormwood—there is no sense in it. Being utterly worn down by profit means making a living is bitter hardship. “Xue kui” denotes thieves who bore through walls and dig holes.

The disciple holds that honoring the worthy and putting goodness first were methods left by Yao and Shun, and that applying them in Weilei (where Gengsang Chu lived in seclusion) was not wrong. The reply says: the person of supreme cultivation (zhiren) hides and withdraws, not disdaining remote, hidden places—like a dragon in a deep pool, first lying still in concealment, only then able to show marvelous effect.

Yao and Shun took the throne and ruled as sovereigns; their achievements and complete governance all proceeded through benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi), and on the surface seem beyond reproach. Yet the Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua zhenjing, i.e., the Zhuangzi), following Laozi’s purpose of abandoning ren and yi, whenever it would exalt the Dao and De and restrain ren and yi, always takes Yao and Shun as examples first—meaning to guard against harm at the root, and having no choice but to do so. Readers should grasp this main point and not be misled by incidental wording.

Hence it is said: though you cite these things in defense, it is like planting wormwood, gathering filth, or picking out hairs one by one—mere wasted toil; how could it save the world? Moreover, benevolence, wisdom, and such things are what people already value, thinking that through them the world can be well governed; if there is no Dao to gather and hold them, and one only follows their outward form, wickedness will arise in great quantity—not only people overthrowing and robbing one another. Once custom has grown thin and everyone rushes for profit, the minister’s proper role cannot be secure, the father-sovereign’s dignity is no longer feared, and acts that violate human ethical order will know no limit.

Gengsang Chu did not accept the people of Weilei’s honors and praise because he saw the root of trouble before it had taken shape, and first strengthened the foundation. Thus, from what direction could the world’s harm reach him?

Nangongchu (a disciple of Gengsangzi) sat up straight with solemn attention and said: I am already quite old—where should I place my practice so that I can reach the state you describe?

Gengsangzi said: Preserve your physical form, hold fast to your life, and do not let your mind chase and churn without rest. Live this way for three years, and you can reach what I speak of. This is asking a person to stay settled in themselves and think less, not running after things outside.

Nangongchu said: The eyes grow on the body—I do not see how they are any different from the body, yet the blind cannot see themselves; the ears are the same, yet the deaf cannot hear themselves; the heart is also in the body, yet the deranged cannot find peace in themselves. Body and body ought to be connected, yet it is as if something stands in the middle—you want to attain it but cannot attain it on your own. Now you tell me to preserve my form, hold my life, and not scheme and fret. Though I strive to listen to the Way, it only reaches my ears.

Gengsangzi said: I have said all I can. A small bee cannot transform the large insects on bean leaves; a small chicken from Yue cannot hatch a swan’s egg, but a large chicken from Lu can. One chicken and another are not different in nature—whether they can or cannot depends only on how great or small their endowment is. My endowment is small; it is not enough to transform and guide you. Why not go south and see Laozi?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Preserve the form” means keeping to one’s proper place and not grasping for what lies beyond life. Eye resembles eye, ear ear, heart heart in outward form, yet their capacities differ—there is no need to force imitation. Though the two forms are open to each other, they cannot connect because something blocks the middle. “Reaching the ears” means one has heard early on, yet is still cut off by the physical form, so transformation is hard.

Lü’s commentary takes the view that when virtue surpasses Yao and Shun yet is without contrivance and without accumulation, that is the ultimate—so where should practice be placed? Forms look alike yet capacities differ; do not force imitation. Though two forms are open, they cannot mutually attain, because something stands between them. “Reaching the ears” likewise means one heard early, but the barrier of form makes transformation difficult.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: When De (Virtue/Power) has already left Yao and Shun—the sage-kings of antiquity—behind, yet one does not act on that basis; when inwardly nothing stagnates or piles up, only then has one reached the utmost. So on what basis should one cultivate in order to attain this teaching? The answer: whether human form can constantly preserve spirit (Shen) and thereby keep living depends above all on “the One” (yi). Is it only when there are external things that harm arises? When ears and eyes cling to sound and color, nose and mouth cling to odors and flavors, and the heart is driven by outer things, the body is depleted and no longer whole, life is scattered and can no longer be held fast, and restless thought never stops—so one cannot be without things. Only by fully preserving the body, embracing life, and not giving rise to thought can the constant heart be attained; as for so-called sagely wisdom and benevolence and righteousness, how could they remain lodged within?

When ears and eyes do not discriminate sound from color, and the mind-heart does not distinguish right from wrong, ordinary people call that deafness, blindness, and madness. Those who cultivate the Dao, by contrast, treat not showing oneself as blindness, not hearing oneself as deafness, and not thinking one has attained as madness. The difference between madness and sainthood lies solely in whether a single thought arises or does not arise.

This body and that body alike originally preserve spirit. Spirit has no fixed place—how could it be shut off and not open? When each seeks the other yet cannot meet, it is only because something external stands between them. Nánróng Chǔ (who questioned Gēngsāng Chǔ; tradition makes Gēngsāng Chǔ a disciple of Laozi), though he had not yet heard the Dao, already saw differently from ordinary people; he simply had not yet truly taken Gēngsāng Chǔ’s words into his heart.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Nánróng Chǔ feared that Gēngsāng Chǔ’s Way would be hard to reach, and so asked what basis of effort he should rely on. The answer “fully preserve the form and embrace life” is just what the Laozi means by “yíng pò bào yī”—making the hun-soul and po-soul hold to the One: when one can yíng the po, the form is whole; when one can bào the One, life is complete. Add to this “concentrating Qi (vital energy) until it is soft” (zhuān qì zhì róu), with no thought and no deliberation, and one can reach this teaching. Nánróng Chǔ had not yet grasped Gēngsāng Chǔ’s meaning; he thought that though the body is one, ears, eyes, and heart cannot unite.