《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 17

Nanrong Chu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) had not yet grasped what Gengsang Chu meant. He assumed that although the body is one whole, the ears, eyes, and mind cannot substitute for one another; judging from the deaf, the blind, and those whose spirit is disordered, ear, eye, and mind seem each to have split off from the body. How could he know that only when the deaf and blind are supple and free of restless thought do they reach the state described earlier—and how could he know that the deaf, blind, and deranged actually show what bodily wholeness truly is? My body and others’ bodies were originally open to things; outward affairs too lay plain to view—only sometimes objects interposed and, on contact, tangled together, each side seeking accord yet failing to find it: this is the work of the “Six Bandits” (the six senses—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—that chase outward and disturb one’s nature). Nanrong Chu knew he had not yet been transformed by Gengsang Chu’s Dao; he had merely forced the words into his ears. The parable of the rushing bee and the Yue chicken means that his own capacity was too small to transform someone of greater talent, so he was sent to see Laozi—the one said to be great and able to transform others.

Bixu (the Song Daoist Chen Jingyuan) notes: Nanrong Chu asked where to anchor cultivation if one pursues worthiness and cleverness. The answer: discard the name “worthy” and the body can be preserved; forget cleverness and one can hold to vital life. Hold to this guarding for about a thousand days, and what was said before will be fulfilled. Though there is a master within, one cannot hold to it, so one cannot attain for oneself; the six roots (again eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) encroach on one another, so outward things sometimes cut a person off. Sensation that stops at the skin never gets past the ears; only true spiritual insight penetrates the heart. Shallow water in an ox-hoof print cannot hold the transformation of Kun Peng (the legendary fish that becomes a vast bird); inside a bee hive one cannot hatch the young of eagles and ospreys—the principle is simply so. Gengsang Chu declined his question in order to rein in his own near-wild words and preserve himself, while entrusting the highest teaching to La Dan (Laozi).

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) oral gloss: Human heart, ears, and eyes are originally open; the deranged cannot attain for themselves, like the deaf and blind who have nothing to hear or see. My body and others’ bodies were originally unobstructed; now they are cut off by desire for things—using the mind to seek the mind, they fail to meet. The teacher told me not to let thought run busily without rest, to strive to hear the Great Dao—perhaps then one can penetrate it. The bee and Yue-chicken parables mean the same as before.

Nanrong Chu heard that the Perfect Person (one who has reached the highest cultivation) never thinks his hiding place too deep, and asked where to anchor practice so as truly to reach that level. Gengsang Chu taught him: preserve the body without harming it, hold to life without leaving it, forget anxious thought and cut off outward worry. Guard vital life in this way for about a thousand days, and it should suffice. Honoring the worthy and valuing good conduct, as spoken of earlier, are precisely the busy-minded efforts that harm the body and uproot one from life. Nanrong Chu still did not awaken and voiced his doubt: eyes and body belong to one person, yet the blind cannot see for themselves; the same holds for ears, mind, and body—the deaf cannot hear for themselves, the deranged cannot attain for themselves. This is like what Lian Shu (a figure in “Xiaoyao You”) said: it is not only the body that is deaf or blind—the mind and knowing can be deaf and blind too. Nanrong Chu was not bodily deaf or blind; the trouble was deafness and blindness of mind and knowing, which is why he needed Gengsang Chu’s awakening. When the body is open, that is awakening. My form and his form were originally open in meeting things, without obstruction; when outer things entered and became master, the so-called “I” became guest. Seeking one another yet failing to meet is like Confucius’s disciples saying that when the master spoke of human nature and Heaven’s way, they could not truly hear. If seeking truly met, it would be mutual penetration like Zhuangzi’s “you know me, I know the fish.” Now though he received the teacher’s instruction, he had only forced it into his ears and had not yet penetrated it in the heart. At this point Gengsang Chu could no longer use his own power alone and sent him to align with someone more accomplished in the Dao, hoping he would soon be transformed—then no confusion would remain unsolved. From this one sees Gengsang Chu’s virtue: he did not blame others as hard to teach but examined his own shortcomings, thereby extending the school’s will to nurture and leading the disciple toward full realization.

The preceding commentary in Nanhuang Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Song-dynasty exegesis of the Zhuangzi compiled by Chu Boxiu) observes that at this stage one’s own instruction no longer suffices, so the disciple is sent to follow someone who has attained the Dao (the Way), seeking swift transformation and awakening, until no confusion remains unresolved. From this we see the de (Virtue/Power) of Geng Sang Chu—a master in Laozi’s line and teacher of Nan Rong Chu: he does not reproach others as unteachable; he turns inward to examine his own shortcomings, thereby extending the school’s wish to nurture later generations and guiding his disciple toward full maturity.

What follows is the miscellaneous chapter “Geng Sang Chu,” as recorded in scroll seventy-one. Nan Rong Chu, carrying dry provisions, traveled seven days and seven nights until he reached Laozi. Laozi asked, “Did you come from Geng Sang Chu?” Nan Rong Chu said, “Yes.” Laozi said, “Then why did you arrive together with so many people?” The “many people” Nan Rong Chu carried were the layers of opinion and attachment in his own mind. Not understanding, he turned in astonishment to look behind him. Laozi said, “Do you not grasp what I mean?” Nan Rong Chu lowered his head, ashamed and sighing. “I have already forgotten how to reply; even the question I meant to ask has slipped away.” Laozi asked, “How is that?” Nan Rong Chu said, “If I do not seek knowledge, others call me foolish; if I seek knowledge, I only torment myself. If I do not practice humaneness (ren), I harm others; if I practice humaneness, I torment myself. If I do not practice righteousness (yi), I injure the other party; if I practice righteousness, I torment myself. I wish to free myself from this trap—what am I to do? These three things are my affliction. I hoped, through my tie to Geng Sang Chu, to ask you.” Laozi said, “A moment ago, reading the look between your brows and eyes, I already knew your state; what you have just said confirms it. You are cramped and adrift, as though you had lost your parents yet went to the great sea with a pole to search for them. You have strayed from your true self—how confused! You long to return to your inborn nature yet cannot find the door in—how lamentable!”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Laozi asked Nanrong Chu why he seemed to have come with a large crowd because, in his heart, he carried three “sentences”—the confusion brought by benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), and knowledge (zhi).

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Nanrong Chu wanted to seek the Dao, yet his mind could not stay single-minded; he also carried those three sentences, so saying he came “as if with the multitude” fits well. He used the Dao to contend with the world, and his thoughts would not stay hidden—so Laozi could see through him merely by looking between his eyebrows and eyelashes. The Dao is the root from which all things emerge; only with a single-minded will can one attain it. Now Nanrong Chu’s mind darted back and forth, narrow and flustered, yet he meant to seek the Dao in the boundless—like losing one’s parents and holding a pole to dredge the great sea: blank and gainless. He wished to return to his original nature and true feeling but found no path; this is exactly what the perfected person (the one who has attained the Dao) pities.

Yi Du’s commentary: “Ying liang” means carrying dry rations. “Seven days and seven nights” shows how eagerly he sought the Dao, never resting day or night. Laozi knew he came from Gengsang Chu and arrived bearing the three sentences, so he asked why he came with the multitude. Nanrong Chu turned back in alarm, unable to tell host from guest, then laid out three doubts for Laozi to judge. He had not grasped the root of ren, yi, and zhi, hence his perplexity. Laozi said: just now, seeing your eyebrows and eyelashes, I already knew you; what you say now confirms it further. Craftsmen in the world who read people by words and appearance follow the same principle—only when learning is incomplete do they fall into reckless judgment. Nanrong Chu lost the Dao’s true authenticity, like a child who has lost kin yet tries to measure the sea with a pole—he surely cannot obtain it. “You are one who has lost your humanity” means he has lost the proper way of being human.

Bixu’s commentary: Asking “why come with the multitude” means his bearing was unsettled and his intent unfocused. He looked back in terror, face full of doubt, having lost his usual composure. What Laozi spoke of was neither words nor looks; Nanrong Chu, startled, forgot to answer; ashamed, he forgot what he had asked. “Zhu yu” means a dull heart-mind. Benevolence, knowledge, and righteousness—each is calamity for self and others. Having already seen in a glance that the Dao is right before the eyes, why rely on words again? The great sea is not where kin are hidden; a bamboo pole is not an instrument for sounding deep water. What he sought had nowhere to return; he was lost and adrift, wishing to turn back to nature yet finding no entrance—hence pity.

Yi Zhai (Lin Xiyi's Zhuangzi Kouyi) observes: Nanrong Chu had come alone, yet Laozi said he arrived with many people—much like the Buddhist saying that “your mind is in an uproar”: thoughts churning, so he was not truly there by himself alone. “Zhu Yu” is like zhuan meng, meaning dull and muddled foolishness. The three lines on ren, zhi, and yi mean that neither acting without using the mind nor acting by using the mind will do, leaving one doubtful and unable to decide. “Gui gui” depicts a cramped, shallow outlook. “Jie gan qiu hai”—raising a pole to seek the sea—is searching for wu (non-being) inside you (being). “Wang ren” refers to one who has lost the original mind; such a person cannot hope to see the way of nature (ziran zhi dao).

The line “Why did you come with so many people?” cuts with great force; that is exactly Laozi’s earnest way of teaching. Without genuine insight inwardly, few who hear this escape doubt. Patriarchs of the Chan gate also habitually use this kind of sharp jifeng (turning phrase). One who has lost the original mind and still seeks the way of nature will never attain it.

Nanrong Chu forgot how to reply and forgot what he had asked; Laozi then continued with the next layer of words to awaken him. Once fear subsided and shame loosened, he laid out these three anxieties, hoping to be freed from worldly entanglements. Laozi told him: you are like a child who has lost parents yet raises a pole and goes to the sea to search. True nature is what should be closest to you; you cannot preserve it, so you guard against loss and lose it all the more, and instead try to hunt through boundless affairs with ren and yi—the farther you seek, the farther you go. The body may still be present, yet it is no different from being lost. “Wang wang” is the look of having nowhere to turn. Wanting to return to one’s own nature yet finding no entrance shows that even in wandering one can still think of turning back; the sage does not abandon such a person, hence pity and guidance. If one can truly pass beyond these three statements without being dragged by them, that is the path of returning to nature, is it not? “Zhu Yu” is hard to explain clearly; Bixuzi (Chen Jingyuan) offers a separate reading.

Nanrong Chu, a disciple of Gengsang Chu, asked to stay in the lodging house, reining in what he liked and stripping away what he disliked. After ten days he was still brooding alone, so he went to see Laozi again. Laozi said: You have already washed yourself clean—why are you still so heavy-hearted? Desires still surge in your heart, and the roots of aversion remain. When you are bound from without, do not keep grasping layer upon layer from the outside; shut the trouble off from within. When you are bound from within, do not keep wrestling and clutching at it; open yourself from without. Someone shackled inside and out cannot even hold to virtue (De)—how much less walk in accord with the Dao?

Nanrong Chu said: In the village there was a sick man; when a neighbor asked after him, the sick man could name his illness. Someone who can worry over sickness as sickness is not yet beyond hope. I have heard the Great Dao, yet it is as if the medicine I took only made my illness worse. I wish only to hear how to nurture life—that is enough for me.

Laozi said: The way to nurture life is this—can you keep to undifferentiated oneness without losing it? Can you know fortune and misfortune without divination? Can you know when enough is enough and stop? Can you release others and turn back to examine yourself? Can you be free and unburdened, plain and unknowing? Can you be like an infant? An infant cries all day yet its throat does not grow hoarse—because its vital energy (Qi) is in utmost harmony. It keeps its fists clenched all day yet its hands do not stiffen—because its virtue (De) is naturally so. It stares all day yet its eyes do not blink—because its mind does not lean toward the outer world. In walking it does not preset where to go; in dwelling it does not preset what to do—it follows along with the ten thousand things and flows with them. This is the way to nurture life.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: To preserve the bodily form and guard vital vitality, it is best to forget crafty scheming and to release the grip of ear and eye. When sound and color bind one from outside, the inner mind is blocked; when likes and dislikes bind one from within, ear and eye are blocked. Only when there is neither gain nor loss can one be said to have attained thorough penetration. To be bound on one side alone is already untenable—how much more when bound inside and out together. When ear and eye are confused outwardly and the heart’s art wanders inwardly, even if one never stops grasping with the hands and wrapping layer upon layer, one cannot hold it back. Embrace and hold to pure unity without leaving it, and nature itself returns to what is natural: hitting the mark is auspicious; overshooting by a hair’s breadth is inauspicious; go too far and there is no stopping point. What is called “stopping” is resting in one’s own allotted place; what is called “having done” is no longer following old tracks. Turning away from seeking in others and seeking within oneself is completing oneself, not imitating others. Leave no lingering traces and set up no barriers. Let sound issue of itself, not ruled by joy or anger; let the hand hold of itself, not deliberately grasping; let the eye see of itself, not tied by form and color. Trust that the feet will walk on their own, allow the body to move of itself; when encountering the rise and fall of external things, move along with that rise and fall.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Knowing that choosing and rejecting stir the heart, one therefore dislikes this and wishes to wash clean and return to empty stillness—yet this still amounts to inviting what one likes and removing what one dislikes; one still cannot manage it, and so broods alone. Stagnant qi fills the interior and also seeps outward in drips. “Binding” means external things stick and are hard to remove. Disliking that ear and eye are bound by sound and color yet trying to seize each thing one by one is a fussy kind of catching; better to close inward. Closing inward: the heart does not run outward, and external things then cannot bind. This is what Laozi meant by “block the openings and shut the doors.” When the heart’s art is bound by doing things yet one tries to stop each thing one by one, that is a tangled kind of catching; better to close outward. Closing outward: external things do not enter, and the inner mind is not bound. This is what Laozi meant by “open the doors and resolve disputes.” Therefore, when utterly still and unmoving, the myriad things are insufficient to disturb the heart; otherwise even one who has De cannot hold firm—how much less one who only imitates in doing so. What is called “hearing the Dao” is understanding that the myriad things were never really existent in the first place, and thus that there is nothing that must be done. Nanrong Chu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) knew his own illness yet still could not bear the medicine of the great Dao; he only wished to hear the constant method of guarding and nurturing life. Guarding life takes non-action (wuwei) as its guiding principle. Pure unity is where the Dao is born and where auspiciousness rests—why need divination? All this is because one can stop deliberation and purposeful action and turn back to seek oneself. Free and unencumbered, without obstruction, one is like an infant. If crying comes from grief and anger and cannot be harmonized, how can the throat not grow hoarse? As for the hand holding yet not feeling that it holds, the eye looking yet not feeling that it looks, going and stopping entirely from no-mind, turning with external things and flowing in the same wave with them—this is the constant method of guarding life. “Guard health” here means preserving vital vitality, not what later ages call public hygiene.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: When good and bad lodge in the heart, one suffers in oneself; wishing to wash away what one dislikes, who can truly do it? Stagnation and outward overflow still show on the outside. Binding is like fetters and guard-posts; closing is bolting the door. Ear and eye toward sound and color are bound by external things—one must not catch them in a fussy way but should gather them inward and close. Body and mind toward what is touched and distinguished are bound from within—one must not catch them in a tangled way but should place them outward and close. What comes from outside will not enter if within there is a master; what goes out from within will not be rejected if outside there is the proper position. The meaning is the same. It is like a household with an unworthy son: the one who does evil outside is seized and shut inside; the one who makes trouble inside is seized and shut outside. Sensual desire harms the body just as an unworthy son harms the household—guard against it strictly. Nanrong Chu used a fellow townsman’s illness to mirror his own: one who can treat illness as illness is not yet truly ill—as in Liezi’s saying that what enables life to live is itself not brought to life. He wished to hear the great Dao but did not get its method, like taking medicine that worsens the disease; so he only wanted to hear the constant Way of guarding life. The answer is: embrace and hold pure unity without losing it—without divination one can know auspiciousness and inauspiciousness; seeing danger and being able to stop, one can truly stop. Content with oneself and not relying on what is outside, one is therefore free and open, not losing the heart of an infant. When breath is unified and reaches softness, constant De does not leave—therefore entering flocks of birds and beasts does not disturb them, and meeting tigers and si (rhinoceros-like fierce beasts) one is not harmed. Crying, holding, and looking all come from no-mind, to the point of letting the feet walk on their own and the body act on its own, sharing the same wave with external things without leaving the Dao.

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixu Zi) comments: Someone who can reflect on the faults already within is not yet deeply ill; someone who grows more confused upon hearing the Dao will find awakening hard. Once you know the vast Way is hard to glimpse, you may be willing to heed only the small vehicle—the nearer, simpler teachings. “Embracing the One without losing it” means keeping the spirit unified and gathering the inner light. Knowing good and ill fortune rests on sincerity and inner clarity. When you can stop and can let go, you are not driven by outward things; when you seek within yourself, you can trust yourself. Carefree and at ease, plain and unpretentious, you are tied down by nothing. “Can you be like an infant?” means keeping wholeness in simplicity. The infant’s pure virtue is not yet worn away, so the cry is full, the grip is firm, there is no clinging, and the spirit stays calm. Going along with things without pushing against them, flowing with them without being thrown into turmoil—these are the essentials of nurturing life.

Yanzhai (Lin Yiyi's pen name) explains in his oral commentary: When the mind still clings to what it takes as “right” and rejects what it takes as “wrong,” likes and dislikes have not yet been released, so one creates sorrow for oneself. Shu here means shu (“ripe, mature”)—one has already practiced for a long time. The heart is knotted and not yet settled in single-mindedness, so agitation still shows outwardly. Huai is binding things with leather thongs; jian is the bolt that shuts a door—both image self-restraint. When meeting external things one tries to constrain oneself, but affairs are many and mixed and there is nothing to grasp, so one turns inward—this is “inner bolt.” When the inner mind is turbulent and one tries to control oneself, yet gets tangled and again cannot grasp it, one turns outward—this is “outer bolt.” The point is that in learning the Dao one has not seized the essential handle and finds no footing whether turning inward or outward. Such a person cannot even keep the De already present in the body, still less act in accord with the natural principle.

Nanrong Chu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) says he is utterly foolish and confused: he wishes to hear the Great Dao but does not know where the root illness lies; receiving instruction only makes him more muddled, as if medicine added to disease. He therefore dares not ask further about the Great Dao and only wishes to hear the weisheng zhi jing (the regular scripture for guarding and nourishing life).

“Embracing the One” means preserving the original genuineness so it is not lost. What is naturally given needs no constant guarding everywhere. Without divination one can know fortune and misfortune—sincerity at the utmost can foreknow in advance. Zhi is settling; yi is complete cessation. “Seek in oneself rather than in others” means not seeking outside but working on one’s own person.

An infant cries all day yet its voice does not grow hoarse because it does not deliberately strain the mind and thus does not harm harmonious Qi. Nie means the hand is curled and cannot straighten; a small child holds a fist for long yet does not stiffen. “Sharing its De” is like saying it accords with innate nature—everyone is originally thus. The eyes do not blink—seeing without scheming in the mind. Not knowing where the body is or what one is doing, only rising and falling with things and drifting with the current—this can serve as the constant way of guarding life.

Nanrong Chu asked to lodge in the master’s quarters, wishing to remain under his teacher’s tutelage. Yet he only attracted what he liked and repelled what he disliked, so he could not escape weighing good and bad, nor could he know whether what he favored was truly good or what he shunned was truly bad. The phrase rendered as “self-reproach” (zi chou) appears in some editions as xi chou or chou xi; none of these readings is perfectly smooth. On careful reading of the passage’s intent, it is much like the Book of Documents’ “blaming and correcting oneself” (zi yuan zi ai)—a matter of self-rebuke. He withdrew and stayed ten days, regretting that his earlier pursuit of learning had not been earnest and his grasp of the Way unclear; though he had now met a sage teacher, he could hardly be molded and perfected at once. When he came again after cleansing his inner state, one could say he had resolve and was capable of renewing himself.

Laozi said he had washed and ripened thoroughly—shu in antiquity interchangeably meant “ripe”—studying with vigor, his bearing full, dense with vitality, the inner fullness showing outwardly, yet with evil not wholly removed. This was encouragement to rise one step further and fulfill the resolve to renew oneself.

Neihuo refers to the knotted fixation of the six roots—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind; waihuo to the defiling pull of the six domains—form, sound, scent, taste, touch, and mental objects; jian means to bar and guard, to hold a strict boundary. Most commentators break the line at zhuo; Lin Yidu alone breaks at fu and miu, which also works. These two kinds of entanglement, inner and outer, are the common ailment of human beings. When the heart has a master and can be held, emotion does not leak outward, the original nature can be restored, the heart is not disturbed, and progress on the Dao can deepen.

Nanrong Chu had not yet understood, so he cited the sick in his village: the sick can name their illness yet cannot cure themselves. He feared this was insufficient for advancing to the Great Way and wished only to hear the “classic of nurturing life” (weisheng zhi jing)—the rules for preserving life.

Hold to pure unity and the heart does not split in two; do not strive to grasp and nothing is lost; without divination one can know fortune and misfortune, because filth is gone and the heart is clear as a bright mirror. When knowing reaches its limit, stop; follow the transforming work of creation and then rest; abandon seeking from others and turn to seek in oneself, the inner store sufficient, with no need to lean on external things.

“Can you be like an infant?” The simile is apt: it asks that one seek within oneself and return to innate nature. Infants cry all day, clench their fists, and stare about, yet differ from adults because inwardly they harbor empty, gentle, harmonizing qi and do not deliberately reckon with the outer world. For the rules of nurturing life, nothing stands higher than this.

Nanrong Chu asked, “Then is this the virtue of the perfected person (someone of the highest cultivation who is one with the Dao)?” The reply was, “No. This is only what people call the ice thawing and bonds loosening. The true perfected person eats from the earth together with everyone else, rejoices in accordance with nature together with them, does not let gain and loss in human affairs and external things tug at one another, does not act oddly toward each other, does not scheme and plot together, does not jointly run worldly business, departs without lingering attachment, and arrives in blank-minded simplicity. This is called the constant method of preserving life (weisheng zhi jing).” Nanrong Chu asked again, “Then has one reached the utmost?” The answer was, “Not yet. I already told you: ‘Can you be like an infant?’ When an infant moves, it does not know what it is doing; when it walks, it does not know where it is going. Its body is like a withered branch; its mind is like cold, dead ashes. For such a person, misfortune does not come, fortune does not come either. When neither fortune nor misfortune exists, how could there be human-made calamity?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary (the Jin-dynasty annotator Guo Xiang) holds that as soon as one can reform oneself and adopt these words, one wants to claim the virtue of a perfected person for oneself; that “ice thawing and bonds loosening” precisely shows one is not originally so. The perfected person has no private ends and dwells with the ten thousand things without being entangled by gain and loss. Nanrong Chu thought that hearing this was enough to arrive? The reply means: not that these words fall short of the utmost, but that one who hears and then learns is not someone who was originally there. If one is not originally there, even on hearing supreme truth one can only take it as a rule to follow—how could that count as having arrived? Thus those still learning have not arrived; those who truly arrive do not rely on learning in this way. Fortune and misfortune arise from a mind of gain and loss; human-made calamity comes from love and hate. When body is like withered wood and mind like dead ashes, that is already the extreme of being free from desire and calculation—where would worry, gain, and loss come from?

Lu’s commentary: The human heart-mind is originally as clear as water, yet it is blocked by learning and opinions and cannot stay empty and still—much as water that has frozen into ice. Once one understands the principles of nurturing life, the ice melts and the freeze lifts. The Perfect Person’s (zhiren) heart-mind always remains like water, so there is no need to deliberately cultivate De (Virtue/Power); the myriad things do not leave him. He eats and rejoices together with others, yet is not stirred by benefit and harm; he does not perform oddities on purpose, so the world cannot treat him as a freak; he does not join others in scheming, so the world cannot fully assimilate him either. With no entanglements and no obstruction, why ask whether one can embrace the Great Dao (Da) without losing it, or whether one can be at ease in Wuwei (non-action), plain and blank? This is only the Perfect Person’s ordinary way of nurturing life—not yet the highest reach. What is called the highest merely stops at what one does not know. Like an infant who does not know where to go or what to do, body and intent like a withered tree and dead ashes—that is how it is. Fortune and misfortune arise from having a body and having thoughts; originally they are in the charge of Heaven, earth, ghosts, and spirits. If a person can make the body like a withered tree and the heart-mind like dead ashes, how can fortune and misfortune burden him?

Yidu’s commentary: Nanrong Chu (the man who sought Laozi’s teaching on nurturing life), upon hearing the way of nurturing life, took this to be the limit of the Perfect Person’s De. Ice melting and frost clearing is a metaphor: the person is obscured by desire; after hearing the Great Dao, he opens up at once. The Perfect Person’s benevolent De is enough to settle where he dwells, so what he receives from earth he eats without picking and choosing; his wisdom is enough to follow Heaven, so what he receives from Heaven he enjoys without refusing. Not using oneself to oppose others, not using oneself to chase externals—benefit and harm cannot move his heart-mind. Not relying on the strange to show oddity, De can stay constant; not relying on cleverness to plot, he can keep benevolence; not being restless and busy, he can stabilize himself in stillness. At ease and blank, coming and going without ties—that is the De of the Perfect Person. Chu asked again: then is this the ultimate? Laozi repeated what he had said before: if a person can be like an infant, body like a withered tree and heart-mind like dead ashes, how can fortune and misfortune fall on him?

Bixu’s commentary: Chu treated these points as the Perfect Person’s De—like seeing a pellet and at once wanting roast meat: the desire is too hasty. Thus needle and medicine to cure illness, and words to resolve doubt, are still not the highest. The highest is this: the Perfect Person cultivates De to harmonize Yin-Yang; ordinary people exhaust themselves in affairs.

Bi Xuzi (Chen Jingyuan) explained: Zhao took this to be the virtue of the perfect person—yet that is like spotting a pellet and at once craving roast meat: far too impatient. Needle-and-medicine cures and verbal teaching that clears doubt are still not methods of the utmost. The perfect person cultivates virtue and harmonizes Yin and Yang; ordinary people do their utmost at tillage. Sharing food nourishes the body; sharing joy harmonizes disposition. When people and things are plentiful, sincerity is not unsettled; forgetting benefit and harm alike and following what is genuinely felt, one no longer finds things strange. Without clinging to emptiness or being, one lets oneself wander at ease—this is the constant scripture of preserving life (weisheng zhi jing). When principle reaches its limit, words may be set aside. To attain the utmost, one must first return to pure simplicity; pure simplicity like an infant is the way into the Dao. To treat language as the ultimate is like chewing spent lees in hope of fine wine.

Yiyi's Kouyi holds that when Nanrong Chu, a disciple of Gengsang Chu, asked about the weisheng zhi jing (the constant method of preserving life), he was only seeking a secondary-level teaching. After hearing Laozi speak in lofty and subtle terms, he asked what constitutes the de (virtue and inner power) of the zhiren (the fully cultivated person). Laozi answered, “It is not so,” because he feared Nanrong would stop and cling there; he therefore used the image of ice melting and frost dissolving, and awakening that releases one into freedom, to point the way.

“Jiaoshi hu di” (receiving food together from the earth) means taking nourishment from the great earth like everyone else; “jiaole hu tian” (rejoicing together with heaven) means finding joy in the same way heaven does. Not being caught in the gains and losses of people and things, not joining in novelty for its own sake or in scheming and calculation, and not leaving traces in what one does—this is the weisheng zhi jing. The zhiren mentioned earlier is here called the weisheng zhi jing; the weisheng zhi jing is precisely how the zhiren lives. From this it is clear that the two words “fei ye” (it is not so) are not a flat denial in the literal sense.

Nanrong Chu asked again: Does this count as reaching the utmost? Laozi said: Not yet. He could have turned to a new topic, but instead repeated what had already been said—unwilling to say everything, wanting the listener to realize it for himself. The Liezi records that a minister of Chen, on a mission to Lu, said that Chen had Kangcangzi (that is, Gengsang Chu), who had attained the Way of Lao Dan (Laozi); the ruler of Lu then sent a high minister with rich gifts to invite him. This shows that Gengsang’s Way was no different from Laozi’s. He extended benevolence, was skilled at guiding, delighted in nurturing others, and feared lest anyone fail to arrive. In this chapter “Gengsang Chu said” appears four times, and Nanrong Chu asks three times; after he goes to see Laozi, “Laozi said” occurs eight times. In that earnest, repeated teaching—unwilling to leave people stranded in loss of the Dao—this much is visible.

Human true nature is like water: empty, bright, and clear, neither simply “is” nor simply “is not.” Once desire obscures and congeals it, it is like water frozen into ice. Water at its clearest becomes turbid when it freezes; shen (spirit) at its most responsive becomes dull when it is bound to the bodily form. Hearing the Dao and grasping its meaning is just ice melting and frost dissolving—clarity and responsiveness are not lost; what one fears is only that people will not turn back and seek within themselves. “Jiaoshi hu di” is plowing fields and digging wells, mutual provision; “jiaoshi hu tian” is being shaped together in taihe (the supreme harmony of heaven and earth). If one truly reaches this, where would the gains and losses of people and things touch oneself? What use would odd behavior or plotting be? How could coming and going fail to be at ease? How could the constant method of preserving life fail to be kept? To study the Dao to this point is already the utmost; yet Laozi still says “not yet.” When Nanrong pressed for the ultimate, Laozi again used words “like an infant” to tell him. This is how a teacher teaches: shifting the formulation, placing the principle clearly in your hands, so that you yourself must have the strength to bear it.

Human disposition is originally soft and gentle; day after day in contact with outer things, external influences ride the momentum and arrive, colliding and grinding until they all become one’s adversaries. If one can truly zhuanqi zhirou (concentrate the qi and attain softness), until one returns to simplicity and recovers the uncarved, pure as an infant—how could fortune and misfortune be imposed from outside? Question and answer have gone back and forth until words are exhausted and the principle fully disclosed; there is nowhere left to apply force. Sadly, Nanrong Chu lacked the strength to carry the great Dao; in the end he never spoke a single phrase of genuine understanding.

At the end of fascicle 71 of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (a Song-dynasty work by Chu Boxiu that gathers various commentators’ explanations of the Nanhua Zhenjing, i.e., the Zhuangzi), the closing point is: what fortune or misfortune could still affect such a person? The back-and-forth questioning ends here—the words are exhausted and the reasoning complete, with nowhere left to apply effort. Yet in the end not a single line truly enables understanding. How regrettable.

Fascicle 72, composed by Song-dynasty Chu Boxiu, included in the Imperial Siku Quanshu, explains “Miscellaneous Chapters: Gengsang Chu,” section three.

The passage means: one whose inner capacity and bearing are settled in peace will emit the natural radiance of Heaven (tianguang). One who emits this heavenly light is seen by others only as he is in himself. When a person cultivates himself in this way, he truly has constancy. With constancy, people come to rely on him, and Heaven assists him. Those whom people rely on are called subjects of Heaven (tianmin); those whom Heaven assists are called Sons of Heaven (tianzi). What is called “learning” is learning what one inherently cannot learn; what is called “acting” is doing what one inherently cannot do; what is called “discerning” is arguing about what one inherently cannot argue. To know how to stop at what one cannot know— that is the utmost. If one does not act accordingly, one will be overturned by the Heavenly Equalizer (Tianjun, the natural balance of transformation).

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: When the vessel of virtue is calm and settled, what shines forth is heavenly light—not artificial brilliance. Thus when people see people and things see things, each side sees only its own aspect and not the other’s; hence one can be at ease and stable. When people cultivate themselves according to human nature, they attain self-sufficiency and long-lasting peace; lasting peace lets them return to their true home and naturally receive help. Going forth to act in the world makes one a Son of Heaven; dwelling at rest in the world makes one a subject of Heaven—both come from this natural ease, not from deliberate contrivance. Therefore whatever lies within one’s capacity: though one acts, it is not intentional action; though one is practiced, it is not intentional learning; though one speaks, it is not intentional disputation. What cannot be known must not be forced—stopping there is the utmost. Though the heart may wish to act, once there is intentional doing, failure is inevitable; in principle it ultimately cannot be accomplished.

Lü’s commentary says: The body’s conduct is not deliberate action; though one is practiced, it is not deliberate learning; though one speaks, it is not deliberate disputation. What cannot be known must not be insisted upon—stopping there is the utmost. Though the heart may wish to act, one who acts with intention will surely fail; in the end the principle cannot be realized.

Annotation by Lu Huiqing: The body is the dwelling in which a person lives. When that dwelling is neither blocked nor disordered, the light of Heaven (the radiance of one’s natural endowment) shines forth. That light does not depend on seeing and knowing, nor on clever contrivance, yet it is clear and penetrating. Others see only that he is human and cannot discern what is natural within him—this is “outwardly human, inwardly aligned with Heaven.” Only through cultivation does one attain constancy; practice must reach union with Heaven before one can endure. Living among others is called “abandonment by people”; receiving Heaven’s aid and completing one’s innate nature alone is “assistance from Heaven.” The “people of Heaven” (tianmin) are not subjects that ordinary people can possess or command; the “Son of Heaven” (tianzi) is so named because he receives life from Heaven. In the world, whatever can be grasped by the mind can be learned, done, or argued about. Only the Dao cannot be known by the mind—hence there is learning that cannot be learned (what the text calls “learning without learning”); action that cannot be performed (“a Way that is not the Way”); debate that cannot be debated (“argument without words”). If one goes the opposite way and still forces deliberate effort, there is nothing but ruin.

Annotation by Lin Yidu: Yu (the cosmic “house”) is the place where qi dwells. When yin and yang interpenetrate, it is called tai (great harmony and unobstructed flow). When the cosmic house is stable in that harmony, blended qi arises from within and natural radiance shines outward. What people can see is the human way; what they cannot see is the way of Heaven. The world does not see the Dao by which the perfected person (zhi ren) is one with Heaven—it sees only the same outward conduct as ordinary people. Those who follow that conduct in practice become persons of constancy. Constancy alone allows endurance; only one who has fulfilled innate nature and completed the human way counts as having done so. Even if people cast him aside, Heaven still assists him. What people cast aside is not the subject of ordinary folk but the subject of Heaven; what Heaven assists is not the child of ordinary folk but the Son of Heaven. A scholar dwelling poor in a narrow lane, unknown to others, advancing and retreating as Heaven directs—such a one is a tianmin. One who rises to prominence in the halls of state, aided by Heaven and yet reverently serving Heaven—that one is tianzi. Students today who force themselves to learn what cannot be learned injure their nature; who force themselves to do what cannot be done injure their virtue; who force themselves to debate what cannot be debated go against the pattern of things. All of this oversteps the bounds of innate nature, so they cannot reach their goal and instead spoil what is naturally allotted to them.

Bixu (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Master Bixu) explains: “Spirit-domain great tranquility” means the mind is at peace, wisdom-light shines from within, and the heavenly court—the clear, luminous place in the heart—is bright and pure. If others call one an ox, one is an ox; if they call one a horse, one is a horse. The ten thousand things each receive their names, yet the inner heaven-light is not lost on that account. One who cultivates great tranquility practices heguang tongchen (harmonizing one’s light with the dust), does not contend with people, never sets oneself apart as extraordinary, and lives in harmony with the ten thousand things—yet is often obscured and cast aside by the world. Such a person reveres Heaven and nourishes the ten thousand things with kindness, receives Heaven’s aid, and is one who embodies constant De (virtue and power).

Yizhai (Southern Song commentator Lin Xiyi, styled Master Yizhai) says that here Zhuangzi is speaking in general about the highest teaching. “Domain” (yu) is like the breast: when it is at ease and settled, heaven-light appears—from sincerity (cheng) to clarity (ming). Once heaven-light has arisen, others see only an ordinary human being, while the person himself is already united with Heaven. To reach this in practice is to possess constancy—that is, utmost sincerity that can endure; then Heaven assists him and people turn toward him. “Celestial person” (tianmin) means one who is no ordinary subject; “son of Heaven” (tianzi) means Heaven cherishes him as a child. Learning, conduct, and disputation all bear the mark of human artifice; what cannot be learned, cannot be enacted, and cannot be argued over is what belongs to nature itself. For human knowing to stop at what it cannot know is the ultimate limit. It is like handling a boat: one should only keep it where it can float at ease; to force speed until it sinks is perilous. How could one who violates nature not meet with failure?

The body is the dwelling of the spirit. When the spirit is settled, the dwelling is calm and firm—just as when the householder is serene the whole household is harmonious, and when the ruler practices Wuwei (non-action) the realm is at peace. Once the inner mind is calmly settled, walking, standing, sitting, and lying down are all forms of stillness (ding); this is not forced grip, like tying a horse to make it halt.

Tian guang (Heaven’s light) is one’s own numinous clarity: it rises from within and shines outward. Others may see no difference from ordinary people, yet such a person has already joined company with Heaven. To cultivate to this point is to accord with constant De (Virtue/Power); when De stays constant, one’s achievement aligns with Heaven’s turning. Outwardly he may seem dull and foolish; the world overlooks and casts him aside, yet Heaven loves and helps him because his heart matches Heaven’s De.

A “citizen of Heaven” (tian min) is one whose De surpasses others yet who keeps his light from showing off. A “Son of Heaven” (tian zi) is one who discerns the Dao of Heaven, sets the standard, and extends De to others. With this in the higher place, it is the De of the Son of Heaven and the emperor; with this in the lower place, it is the way of the xuan sheng (sage who penetrates the Dao of Heaven while hiding his form) and the su wang (one who holds the way of kingship without taking the throne). These are what the junzi (noble person) should study and live out. Most people only learn what others can learn—and in doing so lose the innate capacity they already had.

One who truly reaches the Dao learns what others cannot learn—“learning non-learning”; acts in ways others cannot follow—leaving no rut in conduct; and “argues” what others cannot argue—without disputes in words. To truly attain this is to know what others do not know—the utmost of knowing. If you abandon this and seek another path toward the Dao, you spoil the natural jun (Heaven’s potter’s wheel, which evenly shapes and nurtures the ten thousand things), have no way to refine and complete your own De, and how then can you expect tian guang and Heaven’s aid? The phrase nai jin is hard to parse; it is likely meant as nai he tian jun (“thereby accord with Heaven’s jun”). In older texts the character is written as jun, interchangeable with the sense of “evenly balanced.”

Prepare external things to nourish the physical form, settle unforeseeable matters to cultivate spirit and mind, and reverently guard the inner self so as to harmonize with external things. If all kinds of disaster still arrive after one has done this, that is natural rather than human-made—not enough to disturb virtue already established, nor able to enter the Spirit Platform (the abode of mind and spirit). The Spirit Platform has something that presides, yet one does not know what it is that presides; what cannot be clung to is what truly presides.

If one has not yet seen the sincerity within and yet erupts outward, each eruption is ill-suited; worldly affairs invade the heart and are not set aside, and one loses more and more each time. Do wrong in the open and people may punish you; do wrong in hidden places and ghosts may punish you. Understand both human punishment and ghostly punishment—only then can one walk alone in the world.

Those who stay within their proper allotment act without seeking fame; those who push beyond their bounds set their hearts on seeking and squandering (pursuing and draining themselves on external goods, fame, and profit). Those who do not seek fame find radiance within the ordinary; those whose aim is seeking and squandering are no more than merchants. Others see them stand on tiptoe to appear tall, yet they feel themselves majestic. Those who begin and end with the ten thousand things can let external things enter their hearts; those who clash with the ten thousand things cannot even accommodate their own bodies—how could they accommodate others! Unable to accommodate others, there is no affection; without affection, one cuts oneself off from others.

No weapon is more vicious than the heart-mind—the ancient sword Moye comes second; no harm is greater than that of Yin-Yang—nowhere between Heaven and Earth can one escape. It is not Yin-Yang that harms people; it is one’s own heart that makes it so.

Guo Xiang’s commentary on the Zhuangzi states: Things are already complete in themselves; one need only follow their natural formation. The heart-mind arises of itself—it is not something produced by prior scheming. The principle of the Way naturally reaches outward to things; this is not neglecting the inner while showing respect only on the surface. The principle of Heaven naturally has its limits and its openings; inviting calamity through deliberate action is what counts as human artifice. At peace with one’s allotted fate, one’s formed nature is not disturbed; when the spirit platform (heart-mind) is clear and unobstructed, cares and worries cannot enter. What is called “having a hold” means not being moved by external things—it is not really a deliberate grasp. If one knows what to hold yet tries to hold it on purpose, one loses it instead. When conduct does not issue from oneself, how can it be right? When affairs are not kept within one’s proper share, they count as faults. Whether in concealment or in the open, having no guilt in the heart, one can walk alone without fear. One who moves within his allotted share does not rely on reputation in acting. One who acts without seeking fame already has this luminosity; one need only follow and employ it. One whose aim is to stint himself to please external things peddles even what he does not possess; others see him straining on tiptoe, yet he thinks himself at ease. “Destitution” means sharing beginning and end with things—staying within one’s natural bounds; “moreover” refers to stepping outside one’s proper lot (beyond one’s allotted share) and forcing oneself on tiptoe. If one cannot even contain oneself, one is no longer oneself—how much less can one draw close to others? Hence one is entirely estranged from others. Where heart and will are agitated, it is like scorching fire congealed in ice; the harm is heavier than blades and swords. If the heart drives Qi heedlessly, the two Qi of Yin-Yang tangle within the five viscera; wherever one is, Yin and Yang are present, so there is no escape.

All things and I were originally one body; therefore preparing and providing for external things is also nourishing one's own form. Wherever one goes, nothing among the ten thousand things fails to follow along. When external things arrive, the heart only responds to things as they come—it is not produced from prior scheming. From this arises sincerity and reverence, and with this sincerity and reverence one penetrates outward affairs and people. This is not grasping something on the outside, but using reverence to set the inner mind upright. Even so, various disasters and misfortunes still arrive—that is natural, not humanly contrived. Since failure is not something one has brought upon oneself, it is not enough to disturb virtue already achieved. When the spiritual terrace (another name for the heart) is not shaken, that counts as having something to hold to; yet what truly holds it is nowhere to be found, because it is held by way of "not holding." To understand this is to know that when sincerity arises once, it necessarily accords with measure; otherwise one acts at random and invites disaster—how then could things be fitting?

When occupation (incoming affairs and habitual taint from outside) enters the inner mind, if there is no master within, it will not stay; what is meant by "not clinging" is that it departs quickly. As for losing more with every change—that is because worldly learning forcibly tries to recover the original beginning, with the result that one inevitably becomes a blinded person. The covenant (the token of mutual accord between inner and outer) is what masters the ten thousand things and truly keeps them. When one has genuinely obtained something within oneself and then acts, it is called an inner covenant: sincerity is already established, and so one can practice alone. When one has obtained nothing within oneself yet still acts, it is called an outer covenant: one does not see one's own sincerity, and conduct in darkness and in light cannot be one. The Dao is nameless, and so it can win trust in people without needing prior expectation, and join with others without needing prior expenditure. Those of the outer covenant must expect first before they can gain trust, and spend first before they can give to others. Only when ordinary life itself holds radiance within, without deliberate application, does light return to what is natural. That way of expecting and spending is what merchants use for trade. Others see their lack and yet stand on tiptoe in envy; they themselves remain lofty and self-important.

If a person can see that he never possessed a single thing, he can end together with the ten thousand things and be without fixation on "I." Without self-fixation, when external things enter they meet no obstruction—this is called understanding constant inclusiveness. Otherwise one merely gets by with external things: one cannot even contain one's own body—a small piece of limb, and the qi will not accept it; a section of the body, and the earth will not bear it—how then could one contain others? One who cannot contain others has no closeness; without closeness, his bond with all people is severed. Taking heart-intention as a weapon harms the human heart; Moye (an ancient famous sword) only harms the human form. Harm from thieves can still be fled; harm from yin and yang has nowhere to escape between heaven and earth. Only the perfected person softens his heart-intention and does not insist that things must be a certain way—then there is no such harm from intention. Resting in a state that is neither yin nor yang, without private motive, the ten thousand things then have no way to harm him.

Commentary on Solitary Integrity: All the myriad things are already complete within me, and the principles of nature and life are fully present as well. Store them deep in hidden places; there is no need to guess ahead—when things arrive, respond to them. When reverence and righteousness are established, virtue is not left standing alone. Even so, all kinds of misfortune may still come; that lies in Heaven’s mandate, not in human contrivance. The learning of the perfected person ultimately opens fully into fate; even when encountering what is hateful, it is not enough to unsettle a heart-mind already accomplished.

The luminous terrace of the heart has something to uphold, so that true nature may always remain. If one does not know the method of holding fast, yet sets one’s mind on grasping and refusing to let go, one ends up unable to hold fast after all. When benevolence can first complete oneself and then extend to outward things, nothing is out of place; if one presumptuously stirs into action before oneself is accomplished, and karmic thoughts enter the heart and are not released, what was once “gain” turns into “loss.” To do wrong in the open is to deceive people; to do wrong in secret is to deceive ghosts. With shame in the heart, how could one dare act on one’s own?

To stop within the bounds of one’s allotted portion is not to overstep one’s place or lean on external things, and so one can act within namelessness. To step outside those bounds is to crave prominence and standing above others.

In the oral exegesis of Yizhai (Lin Xiyi), all things are originally complete within one’s own person: one should nourish the bodily form by following the natural course of life, and withdraw the heart-mind to the place where there is no scheming and no premeditation. When the heart-mind meets external things, that response arises spontaneously in the moment—just as the Buddhist teaching puts it, “abide nowhere, and the heart-mind is born.” When reverence and caution are kept within, one naturally extends that attunement outward. At that point, if something still goes against one’s wishes, that is the work of heaven’s intent; it is not enough to disturb the unified virtue-nature in the breast.

“To hold” (chi) means to have something one upholds; though there is a holder, one does not know exactly what is being held—and one must not deliberately cling to holding it. To hold on with fixed effort is still not transformation. Three uses of chi in a single line: that precision is extreme.

This guards against people who, before they have realized themselves, rashly set things in motion; when they act and it is not fitting, the fault is already sunk in. Knowing it is wrong yet unable to let go is to cover the error and go on doing wrong. Each “correction” only makes the mistake greater. Here “ye” is not read as “affair” or “business,” but in the everyday sense of “ye yi”—what has already been done, what has already been carried out. Then neither human punishment nor ghostly blame can be escaped. Knowing that both what is seen and what is hidden are to be feared, one should practice careful solitude (shendu); thus one can walk one’s path alone.

“Inward of the tally” means not overstepping one’s own proper share, so that others cannot name or claim you; “outward of the tally” means seeking outside, asking from others, hoping only for funds to spend, caring only for self-profit. “Only the commonplace has radiance” (wei yong you guang) means virtue is full and its light is always present. To abandon oneself and seek outward, with the aim of gain, is the merchant’s mind. People see him stand on tiptoe, tall and respectable, yet do not know he has already sunk into desire for profit until he is exhausted. As for those who chase externals, grab what they can, and run toward disaster without regret—their own selves have nowhere to rest; how could they make room for others? Kin are cast off, and the way of being human is cut off.

Whatever the heart-mind clings to can wound itself; that pain is worse than weapons. Harm from yin-yang qi is like bandits too. When the heart-mind is at peace, these cannot injure. When one understands that myriad changes are born from oneself, and grasps what is most fundamental among prepared things, one can follow physiological nature. “Store away” (cang) is to enter deeply the place of no deliberation; “the heart-mind is born” is response to things: enter deeply the realm of no thought, and when things come, respond naturally—and respond with no-mind. Though weapons and yin-yang injury are like robbers, with a peaceful heart-mind they cannot add harm.

When a person understands that the myriad transformations all issue from themselves, and possesses the great capacity to meet and harmonize with all things, they can accord with the inherent pattern of life. Here, “concealing” (cang) refers to the depth of one’s practice; “giving rise to mind” refers to responding to external things. When practice is deep enough that deliberate thought no longer arises, things come and one responds—and responds with a mind that does not deliberate. Reverence and caution kept within the heart naturally extend outward; when one’s inner cultivation is complete, external things change accordingly—this is what is meant. Even at this stage, one may still meet calamity that comes without cause (wuwang zhi zai); accepting it calmly is enough, for it cannot disturb the nature one has already preserved.

Lingtai (the “spirit platform,” a Daoist image for the heart) denotes the heart’s emptiness, openness, and clarity. When external things arrive, the heart only reflects them without clinging; if it stores them within, the heart is bound and no longer luminous. What is called “holding” (chi) means to preside over this heart. Precisely because one knows it cannot be grasped, one uses “not grasping” to hold it. Without sincerity in oneself, there is no talk of reverence; what issues improperly from the heart cannot reach external things—these are all faults.

“Karma” (ye) refers to affairs in the world that are deliberately made by the mind. If one does not turn toward good, one inevitably turns toward evil. Those who do good are often few; those who do evil are often many—therefore one cannot escape reproach from people and spirits, cause and effect pulling one another without end. Viewed through the Dao, among the two kinds of karma, good and evil, even good is still illusory—how much more so evil. Those who do evil often feel inwardly indebted; their dreams are not peaceful; at the threshold of life and death, how can they not fear? This is not truly forced upon them by ghosts, spirits, or enemies. If one does good yet harbors the thought of seeking blessing, the moment a deluded thought moves, true nature is already lost, and external things can entice one. Thus whether good karma or bad karma, if either remains lodged in the breast and is not released, one acts ever further off course—how then can one understand holding the Lingtai? Only one who penetrates the real circumstances of both the hidden and the manifest can walk alone between Heaven and Earth, looking up and down without shame.

Those devoted to inner cultivation value what is solid, so in action they do not seek reputation—they establish De (virtue/power) as if stealing (jian de ruo tou: the virtue they establish seems hidden and unobtrusive). Those devoted to outer pursuits value what is showy, so they aim at utility, boast of talent, and inflate themselves. Only one who can employ clarity yet return to original clarity can endure long. A merchant in haste to sell is not one who “stores deeply as if empty” (shen cang ruo xu). This speaks of those without constant De (chang de): they value the outer and slight the inner; others see them standing on tiptoe, unstable, yet they themselves think they are lofty and grand.

One who can exhaust things with things and fathom the nature of things—people still turn toward them. One who clashes with things, setting self against other, cannot even settle themselves—how can they accommodate others? This matches the sense of “If I were truly greatly worthy, what could I not tolerate in others? If I am unworthy, others will reject me of themselves.” Unable to tolerate others, one becomes isolated without companions; everything outside becomes “other people.” Minds differ and mutually undermine one another—the harm to life is no less than invasion by Yin and Yang. Tracing the root, it is the heart that injures itself. The heart’s function is truly great: good and evil arise from it; fortune and misfortune turn upon it. Without grasping the essentials of holding it, material desires shake it and make one slip into insincerity. Then one cannot escape others’ censure and the spirits’ rebuke; though Heaven and Earth are vast, one’s own limbs and joints will have no place to rest. Therefore the noble person is exceedingly careful about everything that issues from the heart.

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (A Song-dynasty compilation gathering various schools’ explanations of the Zhuangzi; Nanhuazhenjing is another name for the Zhuangzi), juan 72, included in the Qinding Siku Quanshu (Imperially Commissioned Complete Library in Four Branches). An older comment states that this character was formerly read as xian; measured against the sense already made explicit in the preceding text, the word here should mean something like “dark and hidden”—only a brush stroke was dropped in copying.

What follows, in order, are the title lines for juan 72 and juan 73 of the same work: composed by Chu Baxiu (Chu Boxiu) of the Song, treating the miscellaneous chapter “Gengsang Chu,” section four.

The Dao runs through every distinction; to complete something is at the same time to destroy it. People loathe “division” because once distinctions appear they want wholeness; they loathe “wholeness” because they already have something and still chase further completeness. Leaving one’s proper place without turning back shows a ghostly cast; leaving that place while fancying one has gained something is what counts as finding death. When true nature is gone, only the bare fact of a bodily shell remains—no more than a kind of ghost. Let the visible body take the invisible Dao as its model, and life can settle.

Emergence has no root; entry has no opening. There is reality, yet no fixed whereabouts; there is duration, yet no beginning or end. That there is appearance without an opening is because it is real in itself. What is real yet has no place is Yu (space—the four directions and above and below); what is extended yet has no first or last is Zhou (time—past and present without end). There is birth and death, going out and coming in, yet going and coming leave no trace—this is called the Gate of Heaven. The Gate of Heaven is “non-being”; the ten thousand things all issue from non-being. “Being” that already is cannot use “being” to make more “being”; it must arise from non-being. Yet that non-being does not even fix on “non-being” itself. Here the sage quietly rests.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Completion and ruin have no fixed measure; though there are distinctions, the Dao pervades them all. Not keeping to one’s lot while seeking completeness is why one hates division; the lot was never fully complete, yet one still seeks completeness—that is why one hates wholeness. Not returning to what is within one’s portion, death is near; not reaching outward and not treating oneself as having gained, one truly gains life. Nature extinguished, even alive one differs little from a ghost. With a body yet a mind empty and unclung, life is whole and the form is stable. Sudden self-arising is not from some source; sudden self-dying is not from some root. To say it appears is only that it is already real in itself—no root-opening births it. Yu has the four directions and above and below, without end; Zhou stretches through past and present, without ultimate limit. Birth, death, out and in all happen suddenly on their own, with no prior cause—hence no visible trace. The Gate of Heaven names the ten thousand things in general, like “the gate of manifold mystery.” Gathering and scattering, hiding and showing, give names of out and in; in fact there is no real out or in. Where is the gate? Taking “nothing” as gate means there is no gate. Before “being” arises, what could produce it? It can only become being of itself—how could “being” create it? “Being” cannot make “being”; things are simply thus—not that nothing can become being. If nothing could become being, what would “non-being” mean? Dissolving even “non-being” is thorough nothingness; if nothingness is truly nothingness, being suddenly appears—this is clear. So the sage only lets the ten thousand things be born of themselves and does not “beget” begetting.

In Lü Huiqing’s reading: every thing already holds the Dao within it, so in truth there is no real coming-to-be or passing-away. What we call “division” is precisely the way things connect with one another; what we call “completion” is also what leads toward ruin. Why does division arise? Because the mind first forms the idea of “possessing,” and then self and other split apart. Why try to possess? Because division has already appeared. When one tries to fill out each side of the divide on top of that “possession,” division no longer matches “penetrating unity.” If this possessing is not the effortless natural state of wuwei (non-action) but something done with intent, then “completion” and “destruction” fall apart from each other. The scattering of the Dao begins right here. Only when dividing does not feel like dividing, and possessing does not feel like deliberate possessing, can one reach everywhere without obstruction. If non-being (wu) is truly complete as non-being, being (you) will suddenly show itself. Hence the sage simply lets the myriad things arise on their own and no longer “gives birth” to that act of giving birth.

The Dao itself neither dies nor lives. Once a thing appears and takes on life, it must return to the state of “not yet born” for that life to be whole. If it only goes outward and does not know how to return, even while still alive it already shows a ghostly cast. That one obtains this kind of life is because of deliberate, artificial action; that one finally falls into death is hardly surprising. After perishing, if one still clings to what seems solidly real, one cannot turn back to emptiness. Only going out without returning, and going out while grasping something as gain, are not really different—so both become ghostly. Only by using the formed to accord with the formless can the heart be settled; once settled, it is no longer thrown about by life and death.

When things appear, there ought to be a root—but what emerges from the Dao has never had a root. When things enter, there ought to be an opening—but what enters into the Dao has never had an opening. What has substance ought to have a place, yet what “comes forth without root,” though substantial, has no fixed abode. What extends through time ought to have beginning and end, yet what “enters without opening,” though extended, has no beginning or end. Therefore the text is best read as: what goes out without root is extension; what enters without opening is substance. Only then is the meaning complete.

“Space” (the realm of the four directions) seems to have definite positions, yet what I call “above” is above me only for me; someone still higher treats my “above” as “below,” and the same holds for below and the four quarters—where is there a fixed place? “Time” (past and present) seems to have length, yet people today call antiquity ancient, while later ages will call our present ancient—where is there a fixed beginning or end? Understanding this, even the cosmos cannot confine such a person; above, below, and the four directions all open through, and there is nowhere one cannot be. Though there are death and birth, exit and entry, their traces never appear—this is called the Gate of Heaven, the total portal through which things pass. The Gate of Heaven is non-being and non-presence (wu-you). Being cannot produce being from itself; it must come from non-being. “The myriad things under heaven are born from being; being is born from non-being”—that is what this means. So-called non-being is not a separate “nothing” placed outside being, but being and non-being both dissolved together—that alone is true non-being. The sage hides in this place and wanders where the myriad things cannot escape yet all are preserved.

Yidu (a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: The Dao arises from what is naturally so, while each person’s allotted portion (fen) is rooted in their own nature (xing). Allotted portions may be fulfilled or ruined, yet the Dao runs through both fulfillment and ruin. When people will not rest in their allotted portion but insist on chasing completeness, they therefore resent “division” (fen); when that portion is not yet complete yet they try to use what they already have to force completeness, they therefore resent “fullness” (bei). If one is already wholly complete and seeks nothing further, what is there to resent?

When things go out from the Dao and do not return, they show up as ghosts—the yin, formed side of qi that has left the source. When they can return, they do not leave Shen (spirit)—mind aligned with the Dao. To go out, gain something, and cling to that gain is called death; Shen itself does not die. When the body is gone but solid attachment remains, one is no different from a ghost. Only when one has a body yet is not dragged down by the body, and constantly takes the formless Dao as one’s model, can the heart be settled.

The myriad things suddenly appear on their own, yet one sees no source; suddenly withdraw on their own, yet one sees no opening. “Going out” is called life, “entering” is called death—this is how we speak when we treat them as if they had real substance. “Without a fixed abode” (wu hu chu) means not sticking to any particular state; “having extension” (you chang) means the Dao runs through root and tip, beginning and end. Once there is goinging out, substance seems to be there, yet that substance is empty from the start, hence “no opening” (wu qiao). Every shaped thing stays within the cosmos, yet its birth, death, going out, and entering cannot be seen—this is called Tianmen (the Gate of Heaven), the natural gateway through which the myriad things pass.

Tianmen is where spirit moves in and out; in closing and opening, all things enter and leave by it, yet in itself it is “non-being”—no fixed, real entity. Every “being” must come from “non-being”; to have being yet not treat it as being, and then not even cling to “non-being,” is the highest reach. The sage dwells hidden in this truth, so outer things cannot harm him.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, Daoist priest of the Northern Song, styled Bi Xu Zi) explains in his commentary: The Great Dao (Da) pervades all things; both being (you) and non-being (wu) are fully present in it. Yet each thing has its own allotted place and cannot be treated as one uniform case. Fish live when they meet water, while ants die when they meet water—nature is fixed from the start; this is what things inherently possess. The reason people dislike “completeness” (being equipped in every way) is that even when they dislike it, karmic residue from past actions (suye, the causal traces left by former conduct) cannot be escaped; hence the text says “it has completeness.” When true nature (zhenxing) drifts outward and does not return, yin qi clings to it, and one then shows the aspect of a ghost. Opening the senses to cope with outer affairs is called “going out”; when what is gained is in fact a kind of loss, it is no different from what was lost—this is called “attaining death.” When the light of Heaven (tianguang, the brightness of original nature) is extinguished, even if a trace of real nature remains, it is indistinguishable from benighted things. Those who study the Dao take emptiness as their body and non-action (wuwei) as their heart; if they are not fixed here, where else could they be fixed?

Creation-and-transformation (zaohua) has no root that can be traced; the Great Void (taixu) has no aperture that can be entered. Though there is no root and no aperture, in principle there is still reality—it is only that this emptiness has not yet been seen through by people. Above the mysterious origin there is no further “Heaven,” so it is said to be vast yet without visible beginning or end. Watch it stand alone, giving birth and transforming—this is precisely reality without an aperture. The four directions and above and below have no limit, and this reality has no limit; past and future have no boundary, and this reality has no boundary (that is, the “space” [yu] and “time” [zhou] spoken of in the classic). There are names for birth, death, going out, and entering, yet no traces of birth, death, going out, or entering—hence it is called the Gate of Heaven (Tianmen, the natural portal through which all things pass). The creator is not itself a thing; everything with form generates itself, and the Gate of Heaven is also simply “non-being and being” (you-wu). Because “being” cannot produce the ten thousand things, the ten thousand things are born from “non-being”; agitation cannot transform form—transformation lies in stillness. Clinging to being or to non-being alike falls into traces, so one entrusts oneself to the utmost non-being and subtle being, merging them into a single “you-wu.” The sage hides here, dwelling together with creation-and-transformation.

The Zhiwuzhai says: Ordinary people treat “completion” and “destruction” as two separate matters; viewed through the Dao, they are in fact one matter—this is what it means to penetrate that distinction. Once the mind splits into “self” and “other,” it inevitably demands wholeness and perfection. All that “is” ultimately returns to “non-being,” yet those who insist on wholeness chase only what “is”; therefore those who possess the Dao loathe such conduct. To respond to outer things and then turn back—that is true gain, and one can reach the wondrous; to chase outer things without turning back is to sink into the realm of ghosts. When one does not pick fights with things over right and wrong, this mind constantly holds vitality; when one clings to right and wrong and cannot change, this mind becomes dead. What is meant by “going out and thereby obtaining a fixed ‘this’” is being enslaved by outer things and thus acquiring a self-righteous view—namely, a mind close to death that can no longer be restored to yang (living vitality). Being and non-being are the solid principle within Heaven and Earth. If private desire blurs this, and one greedily treats every kind of “being” as real, such a person is no different from ghosts and spirits. Only when one uses the formed to reflect the formless can what is seen as principle be settled. The Buddhist teaching says, “Only empty what already exists; do not solidify what was never there in the first place”—that is exactly this meaning. Things necessarily have a beginning, yet it cannot be known; things necessarily have an end, yet one cannot see where they go. The real principle is present, yet there is nowhere to seek it; it has been so from ancient times to the present, and one cannot see its beginning or end. “Cosmos” (yu for space, zhou for time) is used to illustrate the vastness and enduring presence of the Dao. The birth, death, coming, and going of things all have a source, yet nothing visible shows it—this is the subtlety of creation (zaohua). The Gate of Heaven (Tianmen) is creation itself; the myriad things naturally pass in and out through it, hence it is called a gate. All “being” arises from “non-being,” yet this “non-being” is itself not “being.” The sage’s mind is hidden within “non-being”—the meaning of “retreat and store in the secret depth” (tui cang yu mi).

The Great Dao was originally a single, undifferentiated true substance—blended and complete—penetrating and giving birth to the myriad things, and in that process its wholeness came to be dispersed. In that sense, the arising of things is also the undoing of the Dao. The reason one is reluctant to speak of “division” is that each thing receives Dao-qi in its own way and nothing lacks what it needs; the sage worries that when affairs multiply, the Dao scatters further, and when simplicity is spent it is hard to recover. The reason one is reluctant to speak of “completeness” is that people cannot forget outer things in order to align with the Great Dao: the more fully life is furnished, the more distant the paths of nurturing life become—there are cases where goods abound yet the body goes unnourished.

The Dao runs through the myriad things as water runs through the hundred streams. The Dao has no mind intent on penetrating things, yet things cannot fail to receive it; water has no mind intent on filling rivers, yet rivers cannot fail to hold it. When the Dao has penetrated things, the De that arises becomes manifest; when rivers have received water, their function of carrying is fulfilled. So with “division,” how could one truly despise division? With “completeness,” how could one truly despise completeness? This is the same meaning as in Qiwu lun (the Zhuangzi chapter on the equality of things): “To divide is also to complete, and to complete is also to undo; the myriad things have no completion or undoing, and again all pass through as one.”

“Going out and not returning” means forgetting the Dao and chasing externals, so that with every move one heads toward the place of death. The “this” here means this Dao: born, one obtains this Dao; entering death, one likewise obtains this Dao. “Obtaining death” is reaching the death that belongs to oneself, and it answers to “one who knows how to settle his life thereby knows how to settle his death.” People ruin their true nature and treat outer things as real; though the body remains, they differ little from the dead—this is what is called a xing shi (a walking corpse: the form remains while true nature is gone). Only one who can see the formed as unformed empties body and mind together—how then could outer things move him?

Going out is not without root, only people do not know where it sprouts; coming in is not without openings, only people do not know where it tends. If body and mind are truly emptied, one becomes empty yet luminous, still yet reflective: when things arrive they are necessarily mirrored clearly, without the slightest deception—and all the more so regarding where one sprouts from and where one tends.

Shi (real arising) means where nature truly emerges, the place of xing; chang (long enduring) means where xing comes from. True nature shows itself everywhere without a fixed site: in the eyes it is called seeing, in the ears it is called hearing. The lord from which xing derives differentiates into form; people do not know its beginning or end—it has existed from antiquity, long enduring without decay. “There is going out without root, yet still growth” means that at birth one cannot find its root, and it merely flows with change; “there is entering without openings, yet still reality” means that at death one cannot see that gate, and a single point of truth is never dimmed. Master Lü (Lü Huiqing) explained this line clearly: call what has no fixed abode yu (space), and then wherever one dwells one can be at peace; call what has no root or tip zhou (time), and then wherever one goes one can be at ease. How could the cosmos fail to contain people and things? How could people and things leave the cosmos?

Birth and death, going out and coming in of the myriad things, must have something that presides and sustains them, yet its trace cannot be seen—this is called Tianmen (Heaven’s Gate, the portal through which things pass). Because things enter and leave thereby, it is provisionally named a “gate,” yet in fact there is no such thing. If one clings to “non-being,” one still cannot escape falling into “being”; transforming away both “being” and “non-being,” and removing even this “non-being,” one reaches the subtle realm of true emptiness, with the myriad things and myriad principles all fully contained within. The sage stores and guards within non-being and being, and so can have all without possessing anything. The end of the chapter notes: piao means the tip or extremity.

The ancients carried knowledge to its utmost limit. Utmost—how far? Some held that there never was anything from the start: that is the highest, the most complete, with nothing to add. Next came the view that things already were: birth counted as loss (a falling away from the source), death as return—so distinction had already set in. A third said: at first there was nothing; then came life, and life at once turned toward death—non-being as the head, life as the body, death as the rump (the tailbone). Whoever grasps that being and non-being, life and death, are only holding to one and the same—such a person I take as a friend. These three differ, yet all belong to one noble lineage (gongzu, branches of the royal house): the Zhao and Jing clans were known by what they wore on the head (zhuodai), the Jia clan by their fief (zhufeng)—not quite the same marks.

When life appears, it is like dark mottling (wen); spread out, that is called “shift-this” (yi shi). Try to explain shift-this: it is not something speech can exhaust, nor something one can truly know. The belly and shanks from the year-end sacrifice (la ji) can be cut apart yet cannot be wholly taken to pieces; someone touring a house walks through bedchamber and ancestral hall and also visits the privy (yan). That is shift-this.

Shift-this takes life as its root and knowledge as its teacher, and on that basis steers right and wrong. Once name and fact are in place, it takes the self as the measure; it leads people to treat their own fixations as integrity, even to seal them with death. Then to be employed is called clever, not to be employed foolish; to get through is fame, to be stranded is shame. This sort of shift-this is the people of today. Like the cicada (tiao) and the little dove (xue jiu), they are “the same” only inside a cramped sameness with one another.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Life means preventing qi from dispersing and gathering it together; death means returning again to a state of melting and scattering. Although one may want to treat life and death as the same, the two have already become distinct. Then some people, having seen “being,” also try to reduce it to non-being; some, having seen “being,” also try to merge it into oneness; some, while admitting distinction, also try to equalize it. These three views—whether fully expressed or not—can keep the mind from taking up right and wrong. It is like members of the ruler’s clan: the Zhao and Jing lines were distinguished by the caps and robes of office they wore; the Jia line was distinguished by the fief it held. Though all belonged to the same clan, they were no longer one household, and the original “this is so” thereby sprouted difference again.

“Yan” (dark gathering) means qi clumping into a single mass. Once qi scatters and boundaries appear, each side takes what it regards as “right.” “Right” has no fixed place, hence it is called “shifting what is taken as right.” The shift of what is counted as “right” has already shown itself; if those who speak do not spell out this shift, the shift cannot be known—hence they try to explain it. At the year-end la sacrifice, the paunch and hooves of the ox offered to the spirits illustrate how different parts have different uses. Consider also the ancestral hall where one feasts and sacrifices, and the privy screen where one relieves oneself: when one goes to relieve oneself, what had counted as “right” in the hall has shifted to the privy. Right and wrong, self and other, follow and displace each other—and in that way become level. The myriad things change without ever ceasing to come into being, so wherever one is can be taken as root. What is known differs, yet each takes its own knowing as teacher. Whoever can act along with the shifting of right and wrong has no fixed right and wrong in the mind. Names and realities of things do indeed each exist, yet people each treat their own “right” as sufficient and make it master over right and wrong—so they cannot reach one another. Clinging stubbornly to what one holds is not true release, nor can one rest content wherever things go. As for the ancients, originally there was no right and wrong—what then could be shifted? If one merely joins in affirming what the crowd jointly affirms, one differs in no way from the cicada and the little bird (narrow in sight and scope).

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: These three views differ from one another, yet all converge on the Dao—like members of the same noble house (clan of one lineage). The Zhao clan and the Jing clan marked identity by what they wore on their heads; the Jia clan marked it by fief. Near and far were never the same to begin with.

When “life” (sheng) arose in the realm where “there had never yet been things,” it was like a dark spot (yan) growing on the skin—not something formed outside the root body. Yet the latter two schools suddenly split apart: one held that there already were things and took birth as a loss of what is originally so; the other held that at first there was nothing, then in an instant there was birth. Thus the whole of “there had never yet been things” was shifted onto this dark patch called “having birth”—and in truth this cannot be known for certain.

Think of the year-end great sacrifice (la) where a hundred offerings are prepared—among them the belly and hooves of the victim. One cannot say they are not among the hundred offerings, yet one cannot take them out and view them alone; one cannot take them out because they are the lower parts of the sacrificial animal. When you walk through a house, you pass through both dwelling and ancestral hall (qǐnmiào) and also enter the privy. The privy is not something that cannot be called part of the house—only it is not worth looking at; not worth looking at because of the low place it occupies.

The Dao is everywhere, so one cannot say it has moved somewhere else. “Shifting the this and the right” (yí shì)—treating “this” and “is” as movable labels—is not something words can fully explain; the situation is no more than this. The dispute between the two schools arises from here; that is why one says they are only marking out “shifting the this and the right”—they have not reached the ultimate and have not exhausted the principle.

Discourse on “shifting the this and the right” begins from accepting “having birth,” then takes birth as the root; birth in turn comes out of “being,” then takes knowing as teacher. Each side reasons in dependence on the other, and right and wrong multiply. Once right and wrong are shifted, names and realities seem truly to exist, and people take themselves as the standard of what is correct. In the extreme they treat what they affirm as integrity to die for—not knowing that the so-called “self” was originally also part of “there had never yet been things.” Whether employed or discarded, in straits or at ease—none of that is “I.” Deluded people distinguish wisdom from folly, fame from shame. Today’s “shifting the this and the right” has come to this: like the little dove (xuéjiū) that takes its narrow view for the whole—how could it know how vast the Celestial Pool (tiānchí), the great waters the peng bird aims for, really is?

The Yi Du commentary says: Before there was anything at all, we are still prior to the Primordial Beginning—the stage when qi first begins to take shape. Once there are things, we are already after the Primordial Beginning. The Primordial Beginning is the opening of qi. Qi divides into yin and yang, and that is why the myriad things have birth and death. Things arise from “being,” and “being” in turn arises from “non-being.” To see that birth is the loss of the original “non-being” is also to see that death is a return to the root. Yet once birth and death are separated, a boundary has already been fixed. After there are things, birth begins from the original “non-being-and-not-having”; as soon as there is birth, death follows in the same breath. “Non-being-and-not-having” is like the head, birth like the trunk, death like the tail—all three have an order in time, yet in truth they belong to one body. It is like the four clans of Chu—Zhao, Jing, and the others—who originally shared one surname and only became distinct after they scattered.

Hei (dark moles or patches on the skin): to treat life as an extra growth on the body, then to cut it open and pull it apart—this is what is meant by yishi, shifting the standard of right and wrong. Such things ought not to be spoken of, because they cannot truly be known; if one thinks one knows and still speaks, “rightness” is shifted even further away. La is the great year-end sacrifice; pi and hai are the inner organs of the ox. While the rite is in progress, those organs must not be taken apart; after the rite ends, they may be dismembered. When they must not be taken apart, to do so is wrong; when they may be taken apart, to do so is right—so “rightness” can be shifted. In the ancestral shrine, feasting counts as right; in the privy, relieving oneself counts as right—the same principle applies.

People are held fast by life, so they cling to what they take as “right.” If one can let go of attachment to life, where can “rightness” still be lodged? With life comes awareness, and with that one tries to master right and wrong. Right and wrong are empty to begin with, yet people treat them as name and reality and set themselves up as the measure. Once the measure is fixed it cannot move, and the self becomes master over right and wrong; one even demands that others honor the integrity one has fixed, and repays it with one’s life. Such people take being employed or dismissed as wisdom or folly, hardship or success as honor or shame—this is the whole world engaged in yishi. It is no different from the xue jiu, the little bird that takes a clump of wormwood as its only home.

Bixu (Daoist Chen Jingyuan, style name Bixuzi) comments: The realm of “no thing yet” is too deep for words; only those who cultivate diligently and refine themselves in subtle ways can silently grasp it. The next level, “there is thing,” refers to the embryonic form (peitai)—when breath condenses and is about to take shape. The perfected person treats birth as loss and death as return; hence the distinction between life and death. Though life and death differ, both arise from one source: chong qi (the harmonizing vital energy where yin and yang meet and adjust the myriad things). It is like the clans Zhao, Jing, and Qu bearing different surnames yet all belonging to the nobility of Chu; “zhu dai” speaks of splendid dress and cap, “jia shi” of exalted lineage, “zhu feng” of a rich fief granted by investiture. Affairs are many, yet none stray from the capital of Chu. Likewise, when qi darkly gathers and condenses (gang yan ju), that is birth; when it suddenly scatters and disperses (pi san), that is death. People do not know that heaven and earth shift in the hidden, yet they cling to right and wrong: if they take “having life” as right, they take “scattering” as wrong; if they take chong qi as right, they take dark gathering as wrong. Right and wrong have no fixed lord and cannot be nailed down in advance—this is said so that students of the Way may discern carefully. Again by analogy: the paunch and hooves of sacrificial animals may be divided by size, but when the great sacrifice is fully prepared the offering must not be broken apart; birth and death relate to gathering and scattering in the same way. The sleeping hall and ancestral temple on one side and the privy on the other also show that what counts as “right” can shift. The world takes life as the root of right and wrong and knowledge as the teacher of right and wrong; riding that course, there is no end. They also suppose that names and realities truly exist, and cling to their own integrity until death without turning back—each merely treats what they call “right” as right. How is that different from the cicada and the dove (tiao and jiu), caught in the same narrow bias?

Yixhi Commentary (Lin Xiyi's oral explanation): In the earliest phase before anything had yet appeared, birth and death, beginning and end, were still undifferentiated. Only afterward did names like “birth” and “death” arise: to live was seen as a temporary lodging in a bodily form; to die as a return to one’s true home. Once birth and death existed, concrete things existed too, and with them, discrimination. Looking upward, there is “no thing”—the moment when Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) first stirs; next comes “having things,” when yin and yang have already parted; still later comes life, and with it “I.” Though “I” exists, birth and death are still treated as one and the same event. These three levels differ in order, yet none has left the Dao. It is like one ducal clan splitting into three branches whose nature is still one: the Zhao and Jing lines became famous through holding office; the Jia line through a fief. Zhuo (“putting on”) means taking up rank and bearing official duty. Zhao, Jing, and Jia are not the same branch, yet all belong to the ducal house of Chu. After “four also” in the text, a single word fei (“not”) closes the passage—carrying what came before into what follows; the thread seems broken yet still connects; that is the craft of the writing.

Hei (“soot”) is the black crust at the bottom of a pot; it also names a kind of ailment. The meaning is: when primordial qi (vital energy) condenses into a person, that is, for qi itself, something like an illness—the same idea as “the living person is something qi has temporarily gathered.” People originally share this one qi, yet insist on carving out separate identities, each clinging to their own right and wrong. What is said is: everyone holds a standard they take to be correct, yet that “correct” is not fixed, so it cannot be known for certain.

At the year-end la sacrifice, the pi (stomach) and gai (hooves) are only parts of the victim; when the offering is laid out, the carcass is portioned onto various stands—called san (“scattering”)—yet the victim was originally one whole and cannot truly be split apart. This illustrates that what people call “correct” can be shifted and is not fixed. The five viscera are represented by mentioning only the omasum; the whole body by mentioning only the toes—a stylistic device in the prose. Likewise, in one room there may be a bedchamber, a ancestral hall, and a place to rest; the locations differ, yet all are within the same room—again showing that “correct” can move and cannot be nailed down. From la sacrifice and the house we see that what is called “correct” is always a “correct” that can be moved and is not fixed; hence “raising and shifting what is correct.”

Once a person has received their temperament and taken on a bodily form, they have already fallen into the realm of form; to turn back toward that state in which nothing had yet existed—is that not hard? Whatever has already become a thing is illusory and insubstantial; as long as the mind holds discrimination, that “correct” cannot be fixed. Again, from la sacrifice and the house: what is called “correct” is a “correct” that can be moved and is not fixed; hence “raising and shifting what is correct.”

Once a person receives bodily form and becomes embodied, they have already fallen into the realm of formed things (xing er xia); to return to the primordial condition of “when nothing yet existed” is truly difficult. Whatever has form is illusion: while the mind is active, the illusion stands; when the mind is extinguished, the illusion vanishes. When one’s own mind no longer gives rise to thoughts and only abides in still solitude, that can be called “when nothing yet existed.” At that stage, birth and death are merely temporary lodging. Those who attained the Dao in antiquity could reach this.

The next grade are those who already perceive “things” and thus face the distinction of birth and death, yet who can treat life as loss and death as return—they are not like ordinary people drowned in the cycle of birth and death. Still lower is the view that at first there was nothing, then life appeared, and life soon turns to death; so they take “non-being” as the head, life as the trunk, and death as the tail. The three differ, yet all issue from the Dao, as the ducal houses of Chu were one clan but split into the Zhao, Qu, and Jing lineages. That illustrates noble offspring multiplying and enfeoffment taking different forms—likened to a person whose knowledge grows daily while desires and cravings also expand.

Yan is the black scale that cakes on a pot bottom: it seems shaped, yet is not a body in its own right; it only arises on something that already has form. Life lodged in the body is no more than such scale. When it suddenly disperses, what is called “I” shifts elsewhere; one cannot fix it as being or non-being, so one can only speak provisionally. At the la sacrifice (year-end offering to the spirits), the viscera and hooves of the victim must not be cut apart when presented to the deity; once the rite is over and the sacrificial meat is apportioned, they may be dismembered. When one approaches the sleeping hall and ancestral temple (the ruler’s private chamber and royal shrine), one is solemn and reverent; at the privy one naturally grows careless. These are cases where what counts as “this” (the affirmed object of judgment) can shift. The line “please try speaking of shifting the this” belongs, by the sense of the passage, before the sentences just quoted and after “cannot be known”—as Guo Xiang’s Commentary on the Zhuangzi shows.

People insist they are right because they have life; with life comes knowing, and knowing becomes master—the two drive each other without rest until name and reality are taken as one’s essence and will not budge. That is failing to see through illusory worldly appearances, mistaking the false for the true, even treating name and reality as personal integrity and paying with one’s life—all from clinging to what one takes as correct principle. The world follows this habit and does not see the error, no differently from the cicada and the wren content with short flights among elms and sandalwood, unaware that the peng can soar ninety thousand li.

The above is the end of fascicle 73 of the Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Cuanwei (a digest of diverse commentaries on the Zhuangzi; Nanhua Zhenjing is the Zhuangzi). “Imperial Siku Quanshu” and “Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Cuanwei, Fascicle 74” are the headings of the next fascicle in the Siku Quanshu edition.

Essential Meaning of the Nanyang True Scripture, compiled by Chu Boxiu in the Song dynasty, is drawn from the miscellaneous chapters, “Gengsang Chu” (chapter five), together with Guo Xiang’s commentary.

If you step on a stranger’s foot in the marketplace, you apologize and say you were careless and rude. If you step on an elder brother’s foot, a gentle word of comfort is enough. If you step on your parents’ foot, inward regret suffices—no need to say much. Therefore it is said: the highest ritual does not treat the person as an external object to be handled with ceremony; the highest righteousness does not treat things as opposed to oneself; the highest wisdom does not rely on advance plotting; the highest benevolence does not cling to distinctions of near and far kin; the highest trust does not require gold and jade as pledge.

Remove what disturbs the mind, unravel confusion in the heart, drop burdens that drag down De (Virtue/Power), and clear blockages on the Dao (the Way). The six—nobility, wealth, prominence, majesty, fame, and profit—disturb the mind. The six—looks, bearing, expression, speech, breath, and mood—stir the inner self. The six—hatred, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—weigh on De. The six—going and staying, taking and leaving, cleverness, and talent—obstruct the Dao. When these four sets, twenty-four in all, no longer surge in the breast, the mind can stand upright; upright, it is still; still, it is clear; clear, it is empty; empty, one can practice Wuwei (non-action)—and in Wuwei nothing fails to be accomplished.

The Dao is the root that De honors; life is the shining forth of De; nature (xing) is the substance of life. When nature moves of itself, it is called “acting”; when that acting turns false and contrived, it is called “losing.” Knowing is contact with outer things; knowing is also inward scheming. What the knower cannot know is like looking sidelong—the view is not true. Action that arises only when one has no choice is called De; action that never strays from one’s own nature is called order (zhi). In name they seem opposed; in reality they accord with each other.

Guo Xiang comments: stepping on a market-goer’s foot, one says one stumbled by mistake and apologizes; toward an elder brother one bows and soothes; toward parents one need not speak further, because mutual understanding is already enough. “Not treating as other person” means seeing people as one with oneself, with no need for polite refusal—that is the utmost of ritual. When righteousness fits each thing, all things connect with me; to plan first and then know is not natural. Benevolence, righteousness, and other constant virtues need no deliberate closeness—yet benevolence is already at its height. Gold and jade are tokens of small trust; great trust can even dispense with them. Moving from one’s nature is called “acting”—this is genuine acting, not intentional artifice. The eye does not see because it “knows how to see”; the heart does not know because it “knows how to know”—that is why it is natural. If one could stay still yet forces movement, that is forced motion—and thus loss. If conduct merely imitates outer things, it falls into disorder. Once “this” and “that” have names, they seem contrary; when each gets its real situation, they accord.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary reads: When someone else draws a bow to shoot at me, I speak of it with a smile—because he owes me no favor and I expect none from him; if I then stamp my foot to take leave, I cannot avoid a look of reckless pride as I decline. When a brother draws a bow to shoot at me, I speak of it in tears—because he has shown me kindness and I meet that kindness with my own; so even if I stamp my foot, I will not be seen as unloving; a slight bow is enough, without further words. With those closest to us, affection reaches its height and even bowing may be set aside. From this we see that when ritual, righteousness, benevolence, and knowledge are pushed to their limit, none of them depends on outward show.

To grasp the inward meaning of ritual without parading worldly ceremony before others is “ritual that does not treat people as objects of display” (bu ren zhi li). To act in natural fitness without demanding fitness from things is “righteousness that does not treat things as mere objects” (bu wu zhi yi). To respond when something arrives, without plotting beforehand, is “knowledge that does not scheme” (bu mou zhi zhi). To treat the people like straw dogs—straw dogs are grass figures used in sacrifice, honored during the rite and discarded afterward, a image of impartiality—and to let all under Heaven forget distinctions of near and far is “benevolence without partial kinship” (wu qin zhi ren). To be trustworthy yet not bind oneself in advance is “trust that needs no gold as pledge” (bi jin zhi xin). When one attains the Dao, none of these five fail to reach their fulfillment.

Zhi is where the mind is headed; the mind is the harmony of De; De is the Dao as it lives in oneself. Therefore one must first clear away zhi before the mind can be opened; remove entanglements before blockages can be cleared. Nurturing zhi values softness: to take wealth and rank as one’s zhi is not softness but disorder, so zhi cannot go uncleared. Nurturing the mind values emptiness: to take bearing and behavior as the mind is not emptiness but error, so the mind cannot go unopened. De reaches its peak in returning to the original simplicity; then likes and dislikes become burdens on De and must be dropped. The Dao is open when it runs through the One; then “going” and “giving” become obstructions to the Dao and must be cleared. When these burdens no longer churn in the chest, the Dao gathers. Without esteem there is no way to be the Dao, so the Dao is what De reveres; without life there is no way for De to shine, so life is the radiance of De. Xing (nature) is the substance of life. When xing stirs, action arises; when action turns into contrivance, the genuine is lost. Life does not take deliberate knowing as its basis; what we call knowing appears only in contact with outer things—it is not born together with life. When knowing is applied only after planning, that knowing is calculation. What people do not force themselves to know is exactly where knowing arises on its own—just as what the squinting person does not strain to look at is precisely what enables the squint. Thus action that comes from having no alternative is the doing of xing, not human pretense; only that is called the Dao. When in acting there is no place that is not “I,” thing and self are one—how could action disturb anything? Truly so, then throughout the world “that” and “this,” “yes” and “no,” though named as opposites, in fact never fail to accord with each other, for within the Dao nothing is not “I.”

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Between blood kin, lapses in ritual propriety are not resented; with outsiders, the same gaps breed ill will. Tread on a passerby and you must apologize again and again for the slip; tread on an elder brother and a bow and a smile suffice; tread on your father and nothing more need be said. Thus words are not the same as genuine feeling.

The highest li (ritual propriety) is like Heaven—without partiality—so it does not split people into “self” and “other.” The highest yi (righteousness) forgets the self, so it does not treat things as external objects. The highest zhi (wisdom) is one with the ten thousand things, so it does not rely on scheming. The highest ren (benevolence) is universal love, so it has no favoritism in closeness. The highest xin (faithfulness) never changes, so it needs no gold or silver as proof.

When the heart-mind is disordered, it does not penetrate—one must clear it. When thoughts are mistaken and cannot be shaken off, one must release them. When De (Virtue/Power) is burdened, it is not lucid—one must strip the burden away. When the Dao (the Way) is blocked, it is not empty and open—one must unblock it. If these four kinds of disturbance—each with six forms—are not churning in the heart, a person can stand upright and return to the “One”; returning to the One, stillness and clarity, emptiness and penetration follow necessarily.

The Dao that can be spoken of is what De holds in reverence. That which can engender life is the radiance of De. The Heavenly mandate that settles upon me is xing (nature)—the root of life itself. When xing stirs and moves in affairs, nothing is unnatural; what comes from human contrivance is pretense, and error arises from that. Using zhi to meet things and plan affairs always depends on the mind. Those who have zhi still have what they do not know, as one who squints still has what he cannot see; Shen (spirit), by contrast, knows without limit and sees without limit.

Xing arises from stillness; only when there is no choice does it respond to outer things—this is its movement. Movement that does not lose correctness lets the ten thousand things each rest in their own sufficiency—how could they fail to be well ordered? Moving only when unavoidable looks like the opposite of stillness; yet when all things each obtain their place, that is in truth mutual accord.

Chen Bixu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) comments: Toward others, breach of ritual or fault in conduct—if ties are distant, apology cannot be omitted; if ties are close, forgiveness is enough. In the highest ritual, forgetting the self brings order; if the heart still keeps “others” in view, disturbance follows. In the highest righteousness, what matters is steadfast integrity.

Bixu zi (the Song-dynasty Dàoist Chén Jǐngyuán) comments as follows: When we unintentionally offend or wrong someone, those with whom we are distant must apologize and make amends; those close to us may simply be forgiven. The highest ritual propriety (lǐ) is to forget oneself—only then can affairs be well ordered; if the mind still divides “me” and “other,” disorder follows. The highest righteousness (yì) is to hold to one’s integrity and preserve oneself; once one clings to external things, something is always lacking. The highest wisdom (zhì) is to understand naturally, without forced deliberation; the more one schemes, the more one is confused. The highest benevolence (rén) treats the myriad things like cǎogǒu (straw dogs used in sacrifice—used without partiality, then set aside): closeness and distance are all the same. The highest trustworthiness (xìn) never breaks its word—why would one need gold and jade as pledge?

Wealth and rank cannot unsettle such a person, because the mind’s aim is penetrating; looks and behavior cannot entangle them, because the inner mind is empty and clear; likes and dislikes cannot drag them down, because Dé (virtue and inner power) runs deep; coming and going, taking and leaving cannot block them, because the Great Dào (the Way) is luminous and clear. When nothing of this sort stirs the spirit storehouse (the mind), clarity opens through and through, and one can gaze far into the vast void (tàimò). How could the troubles that come from acting in the world overwhelm and drown a heart like this?

What has form can hardly match what is formless; what is withered and bare can hardly match what is rich and bright. Without original nature, even given life, on what basis could one set right its root? Seeing, hearing, eating, drinking, and breathing are all the movements of that nature; if these movements are not genuine, it is a loss of the Dào. Thus, neither mingling with outer things nor plotting—what use is “knowledge”? What one ordinarily knows, one can know; what one does not know stays dim and unclear, as when one looks sidelong and cannot look straight ahead. Only when there is no choice does one move; with that single movement, something is gained. Use this authenticity to cultivate the person—what could fail to be set right? Inner and outer, things and self, are like east and west: opposed to each other, yet neither can do without the other.

Lin Xiyi's Yanzhai Kouyi (oral exposition of the Zhuangzi) holds that when ritual, righteousness, knowledge, and benevolence (li, yi, zhi, ren) reach their utmost, none of them depend on outward things. The image of stepping on someone's foot is meant to be read in light of what follows below. When the "four sixes"—the four kinds of things, six in each, that churn the heart-mind—no longer seethe in the breast, that is where one is taught to begin practical cultivation. Qin (reverent deference) is the respectfulness of guarding and holding; sheng (life/brilliance) is the radiance when De (de) shows forth. Xing (nature) is in oneself and is originally one's innate endowment. Once xing takes action, and that action slips into false contrivance, that is "loss" (shi). Responding to things without and scheming within are both knowing (zhi) that belongs to xing; yet one who has knowing treats what he does not know as if he knew—like an infant's sidelong glance, the gaze does not fix on any one spot. When every move is made only because one cannot do otherwise, that is called De (de)—that is, forgetting the self; within forgetting the self, there is nowhere that is not "I." This is form within the formless and formlessness within form. When outer things cannot disturb it, it is called "order" (zhi). The text says "cannot do otherwise" (budeyi) and also says "nothing that is not me" (wufei wo); the names seem opposed, yet in fact they have always accorded. This is again the same kind of teaching stated in another way.

When you step on someone's foot yet treat them with deference or arrogance depending on how close you are, the ritual forms that the world calls li are nothing but mutual pretense. Ordinary respect goes to an elder brother; momentary courtesy goes to a townsman; with those closest to you there is no need to spell things out—love and respect are already there, and if you accidentally tread on their foot you need not ask again. Thus the utmost of ritual, righteousness, knowledge, and humaneness (ren) none of them depend on external things or deliberate effort; each reaches its own peak from within. This arises from the natural order of Heaven (tianli ziran)—it cannot be plotted in advance—and to act in this way is to align with the Dao (the fundamental Way).

As for “clearing the will, releasing the heart, shedding burdens, and opening blockages” (removing the disturbance of intention, the errors of the mind, the drag of virtue, and the clogging of the Way)—these come from human artifice and stand a rank lower. The “four sixes” (four categories, six items each that stir the heart) no longer churn within; they are used to show what matters for entering the Way: from rectitude comes stillness, so one can respond to the movement of all under Heaven; from clarity comes emptiness, so one can hold the fullness of all under Heaven. This is not separated from the utmost ritual and utmost righteousness spoken of earlier; together they return to the Dao.

Things are what De (virtue or power gained from the Dao) reveres; the Dao is what De reveres—its loftiness is plain. “The living are the light of De” should be read as “De is the light of life”: without De, what is the point of being alive? What all things rely on to live is called De. Xing (innate nature, the substance of life) is preserved when form guards spirit and each thing keeps its proper measure—that is called xing. When xing stirs it is called “doing”; hence one who is in Wuwei (non-action) has not let xing wander. What is falsely done is called “loss”; hence one who acts with intent has not let conduct be true. People lean on cleverness; as soon as they touch the outer world they tangle with things and scheme against one another, fearing incomplete contact and narrow knowledge—so they weary body and spirit without waking up. What they do not know is precisely the reason they can know; like one who looks sideways—not looking straight ahead is what makes sideways looking possible. As this scripture (the Zhuangzi, the “Nanhua zhenjing”) says: the one who treads the ground relies on what is not trodden, and only then can walk far.

Therefore in meeting affairs one moves only when there is no alternative; then action comes from xing’s own doing and is without fault. All of this runs opposite to worldly labels yet accords with reality. Laozi (author of the Daodejing) said, “Straight words seem reversed”—that is why one who has the Dao differs from the common run, dwells among things, and is not harmed.

Hòu Yì excelled at hitting the most minute targets without ever missing. Such talk and the names people use in the world seem to oppose each other, yet in fact they run together. Lǎozǐ said that upright speech looks like its opposite—straight words can sound like reversal. Those who have the Dào (the Way) therefore differ from the common run; they can live among things without injuring them.

Hòu Yì was sharp at striking the tiniest mark, yet awkward at keeping people from praising him. Sages are sharp at following what is naturally so, yet awkward at human affairs. Only someone whole in dé (virtue/power)—a “whole person” in the full sense—can both accord with Heaven and handle people well. Only an insect can rest content as an insect; only an insect can truly accord with Heaven. The whole person rejects what people call Heaven, and rejects the “Heaven” that humans manufacture—how much more, then, “my Heaven” and “my Human.”

When a sparrow flies into Hòu Yì’s range, he is sure to take it—that is sheer force. Make all under heaven the cage, and the sparrow has nowhere to flee. Thus King Tang of Shāng drew Yǐ Yǐn from the kitchen; Duke Mù of Qīn won Bǎilǐ Xī with five sheep skins. To obtain someone without baiting them through what you favor—there is no such thing.

Those whose feet were cut off cast off ornament, because they had put fame and blame aside. Convicts climbing high do not fear, because they have forgotten life and death. Harried again and again yet not striking back, they forget keeping score with others; forgetting others, one may be called a person of Heaven (one who aligns with Heaven). When respect does not delight them and insult does not enrage them, only someone who shares Heaven’s harmony can be like that. When anger shows on the outside but the heart is not angry, then the anger arises from non-anger; when there is doing yet it is truly wúwéi (non-action), then the doing arises from wúwéi. If you want quiet, first settle the breath; if you want the spirit clear, smooth the heart—inward cultivation cannot be forced. If conduct is to be fitting, it must spring from having no alternative. That “no alternative” is the sage’s Dào (the Way).

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that when one’s actions hit the mark at the joint, one is also skilled at winning praise—principle and the ordinary go together. Letting nature take its course is “Heaven”; deliberate contrivance is “human.” Being adept at following the natural is what makes one seem clumsy in human artifice (liang, i.e., zhuo, “clumsy”). The “perfect person” is the sage. When insects can rest content in being insects, that is aligning with Heaven; knowing entirely without using the mind to know, simply allowing things to be as they are—this is called being adept at Heaven. Using power to seize external things, those things are sure to flee. All things under Heaven have their own preferences; if each obtains what it prefers, where could they flee? Painting was originally meant to adorn the face. Someone who has suffered foot amputation (an ancient punishment of cutting off the feet) and whose appearance is already maimed no longer cares about beauty and ugliness, and so sets aside adornment. A xu li (a person bound and sentenced to forced labor) has nothing to rely on for survival, so he does not fear death. Repeatedly placed in such a situation, not depending on others for provision, he thus forgets human affairs and also does not understand what people in the world cherish. Without ordinary emotional calculation, he is naturally a “Heaven-person.” Those whose bodies are maimed like xu li can still commune with “Heavenly harmony” (the natural harmony of Heaven)—how much more so the nature of Heavenly harmony itself? Anger that arises without being anger of the heart, action that belongs to non-action—the meaning is that “non-being” can give birth to “being,” but “being” cannot create “non-being.” When breath is even, one is quiet and principle is full; following the original mind, wondrous efficacy arrives; when everything proceeds from unavoidable necessity, what is done is all fitting. The sage takes these as the Dao—how could that mean going beyond vagueness (the indistinct, hard-to-fathom realm) to seek wuwei (non-action) elsewhere?

The Lü commentary says: The scripture already speaks of the Heaven-and-Earth person, the Spirit person, the Utmost person, and the Sage; here it adds the Complete Person. The Sage avoids change—though skilled at following Heaven, he seems clumsy in human affairs; the Complete Person stands above that, so he is skilled at Heaven and also good at handling human affairs. Creatures that walk on feet, breathe through mouth and nose, and gather in flocks only take on the shape of their kind; they do not know why it is so, yet it is naturally so—this is living things instinctively aligning with Heaven. What the Complete Person detests is “human Heaven.” Human Heaven still knows that one does not understand why things are as they are; Heaven’s Heaven forgets even that “not knowing why.” If one still detests not knowing why, how much more when one uses “Heaven” and “human” as objects of guesswork and debate?

Once a sparrow flies into the range of Yi (the ancient archer of renown), his power will surely hit it; what has not flown in is not something that power can obtain. If one takes all under Heaven as a cage, the ten thousand things are all netted with nowhere to escape—how much more a single sparrow? Only one who is deep, deep, and can penetrate the mind and will of all under Heaven can take the world as his cage. So men like Yi Yin (minister who aided King Tang of Shang) and Baili Xi (minister of Duke Mu of Qin) could not escape—they were caged by what each was attached to.

One who has suffered foot amputation and has only one leg stands outside praise and blame, so he can drop outward ornament and no longer follow it; convict laborers who set life and death aside can climb high without fear. How much more one who can forget human calculations—he should naturally keep to repeated familiar practice without dissipating outward. Even if one tastes and practices again and again, one cannot prevent reactions people cannot stop themselves from having, nor feel ashamed of “guarding against others”; yet borrowing “guarding against people” as a door of entry, one is then seen as a Heaven-and-Earth person. This shows that the so-called Heaven-and-Earth person is not limited to guarding against people—guarding against people is only the beginning of the matter. One who thus merges with Heaven as one body: when others honor him he is not glad; when others insult him he is not angry.

Anger always arises from non-anger; action always arises from Wuwei (non-action). Non-anger and Wuwei are not having a thing beforehand, yet the ten thousand things arise from them. Qi (vital energy) is empty and waits to be stirred by outer things; people cannot settle it and instead agitate it, so they cannot be quiet. One who can truly settle his qi has nothing that is not quiet. The heart in a person is Shen (spirit); people cannot follow it and instead disturb it, so they cannot reach spirit. One who can truly follow his own heart has nothing that is not spirited. To act and wish to act fittingly, one must truly issue from oneself; to hesitate and be careful in affairs, like crossing a river in winter with caution—all are the meaning of acting only when there is no other way.

Relying on coercive power (weishi) to subdue people wins little; relying on genuine sincerity to move them wins much. Grabbing by force, as in hunting, is power; drawing someone in by going along with what they love is De (Virtue/Power). Yi Yin loved cooking and went to King Tang of Shang (founder of the Shang) carrying a cauldron; Tang won him over by treating him as a kitchen steward (a cook). Baili Xi valued five-colored sheepskins; Duke Mu of Qin used such a hide to win him over—so each gained the other’s heart and secured his service.

A man punished by mutilation who has lost a foot (a “jie” figure) no longer adorns himself with finery. Having forgotten the body and put praise and blame outside the heart, he still toils without weariness. Yet when cultivation has succeeded and one fails to repay the teacher, that is forgetting the human way (rendao)—the mutual obligations between people. From there, if one forgets the human way yet imagines oneself to have entered the realm where Heaven and human meet, one is still blocked by one-sided views. If one cannot forget the self, there is entanglement: honored, one rejoices; insulted, one rages. Only someone in harmony with “Heaven’s harmony”—natural, unforced accord—does not let joy and anger rise from being honored or humiliated; those feelings bear on order and chaos under Heaven. When King Wu of Zhou in a single burst of anger settled the realm, that anger came from a place of no-anger. Anger arising from non-anger, action arising from Wuwei (non-action)—that is the pattern.

Do not disturb the breath (qi), and temperament stays calm; do not go against the original mind, and spirit (shen) is preserved. To want every affair to fall just right, one must follow the situation that cannot be otherwise. That is how the sage meets the things of the outer world.

Bi Xu’s commentary: Those who shoot well often fail to hide their reputation; those skilled in what is natural keep far from artificial contrivance. When traces of Heaven and human effort alike vanish, that is the “complete person.” Many birds and insects call themselves “capable creatures” in the sense that each does what its kind does; fliers and walkers do not substitute for one another—this is “capability as Heaven.” The complete person dislikes branding himself with “Heaven”: he does not use his mind to cling to the Way. He also dislikes that portion of “Heaven” split off onto the human side—he does not use human effort to assist what is naturally so. How could he care whether others praise skill and blame clumsiness?

Birds that stray into Yi’s range of fire are like scholars whom the state has already gathered into a cage. When Yi gets a bird he displays his power; once power is displayed, the bird is dead. When the state gets a scholar the realm flourishes; once the realm flourishes, the scholar is worn out. Gain on one side, loss on the other—this is the constant pattern of nature. Yi Yin and Baili Xi could not be without mind or forget their preferences, so Cheng Tang and Duke Mu of Qin kept them in their “cage.” If the heart has nothing it can latch its preferences onto, how could anyone cage it?

Those who adorn their appearance like to be praised; those greedy for life fear death. Chewing over what one loves and refusing to hand it to others is forgetting and releasing human affairs. Habit piled up becomes character and is taken as innate—like the man with severed feet who puts praise and blame outside himself, or the conscript who sets life and death aside. While undergoing punishment and humiliation, where is room for joy or anger?

One whose inborn nature matches the harmony of Heaven is the same. Anger suppressed and not released only accumulates into greater anger; once it bursts out, it opens wide and anger is no more. Wanting to act yet forcing oneself not to blocks the heart that would act; when one acts, one is instead empty and returns to wuwei (non-action). That is because nature is originally without anger, originally without deliberate doing. When qi is level and qi is still, what is there to be angry about? Ease the heart and settle the spirit—what is there that must be done on purpose? Acting from unavoidable necessity fits the matter itself. This is the sage’s Way.

Yan Zhai’s Kou Yi: Yi cannot stop people from praising him, just as the sage cannot escape the world’s reputation. One who exhausts the Way of Heaven yet can hide his tracks among people is a person of full virtue. Birds and insects flying, running, calling, and leaping—each following its nature—is “capable creature” and “capable Heaven.” The complete person does not call himself “Heaven”; to dislike “Heaven” is unwillingness to possess that label. If others still loathe the Heaven–human split, how much more should one refuse to divide Heaven and human oneself? Yi shoots well, so sparrows fear him; if one took the whole world as a cage, sparrows would have nowhere to flee even without being shot. Yi Yin and Baili Xi were also roped in through having preferences; with no preferences, one would stand beyond things—who could cage such a one?

The man with severed feet who strips off fine adornment has a heart that has already cast reputation outside. Convicts like Xu Mi and wall-guards do not cherish their bodies, so they do not fear heights; the image is of a heart without greedy attachment and therefore without clinging. “Fu” is like the return and repeat in the Yijing; “xi” is habit; “kui” is giving to others. The point is that this principle is kept in oneself—not merchandise for sale. Knowing only to guard it for oneself is guarding against others taking it; once you guard against others, you have entered the realm of “Heaven.” The Xu Wugui chapter says, “I had to offer it for sale before the other party would buy”—compare that and you see what “not handing it over” means. Same as the harmony of Heaven is becoming one with the Creator. Anger arises from what was originally non-anger; acting in the world yet not lodging things in the heart—this is wuwei and yet nothing not done. Below, another wording: rising only from unavoidable necessity means responding to things without private motive.

If Yi were not skilled in archery, why would people praise him? If the sage were not good at governing, why would the people attach themselves to him? Yet once things attach themselves, one is dragged along. Where one side is clever, the other is clumsy—this is inevitable. To align with the natural and not show off cleverness in human affairs is still acceptable; but if one is skilled only in the artificial and clumsy with the natural, it is pure human desire—how can such entanglement ever end? Therefore only one who is adept at Heaven yet also good at dwelling among people is complete, and thereby avoids calamity on both the hidden and the overt levels.

Those born from eggs, from moisture, who fly by flapping wings or walk by lifting feet—each fulfills its nature as a living thing. Crows feeding their young, wagtails keeping each other company, spiders weaving webs, dung beetles rolling balls—each fulfills its innate disposition. Human beings can fulfill human duty and also align with Heaven; from this one can infer the pattern. The “complete person” loathes splitting Heaven and human apart and treating what is not natural as Heaven—not because they loathe natural Heaven itself; still less do they themselves divide what belongs to Heaven from what belongs to humans. One must hide the artificial within the natural and merge them into one—this is complete De (Virtue), and only then can one escape worldly entanglement.

When a sparrow flies into Yi, Yi can get it by relying on intimidation. Gaining things by intimidation cannot compare with gaining as many as one who is without mind (wu xin). If one takes the world as a cage, what one obtains is not only sparrows! Only when the heart has preferences can it be caged; if one is calm and without desire, how can others cage you?

One who has suffered foot-cutting and will not adorn the outward appearance, one who serves hard labor and does not fear death—they are already leftovers of punishment, despised by others, with no thought of preserving life; helpless, they simply remain where they are. Long dwelling in such a state, the inner heart no longer feels shame or fear, and can forget what ordinary people cannot forget—thus entering ziran (naturalness). This means that long remaining in calamity one can settle and transform within it. How much more one who is rooted in the natural and can both align with Heaven and dwell among people—can their transcendent awakening be measured? A little respect or slight on the surface—how could that stir a vast heart? Harmony and unity with Heaven is how human ability connects with Heaven.

Compared with his teacher Laozi, Gengsang Chu already possessed the broad outline but on a smaller scale; what he had not yet reached was that a trace of something unassimilated still stood in his mind. When he lived in Weilei, the people praised his virtue—this is the ordinary way sages benefit the myriad things. Yet once the multitude is moved with joy and wants to exalt him, the marks of loving the people and benefiting things show themselves. When things interact with things, feeling arises along with that—so what the disciple Nanrong Ju saw was exactly the situation in Weilei. Gengsang Chu felt his virtue was not yet enough to transform and guide him, and therefore sent him to see his own teacher, so as to shift his mind and awaken him. This is like changing hands to receive and guide the learner, so that he truly trusts and no longer doubts, and only then can the highest words enter. Thus, as soon as he entered the door, Laozi only briefly tested him and did not need to apply the “stick and shout” (the fierce, sudden awakening); question and answer both fell empty together. This is the cliff-edge letting go, where the root of life is cut off—not something one meets by guarding and defending. Regrettably, Nanrong Ju could not accept it on the spot; instead he piled up many fragmented, long-winded words. Laozi saw the root of the illness and applied painful acupuncture; he withdrew to grieve alone and cleanse himself, then came again to seek an audience—one may say he knew how to receive instruction and renew himself. At the second meeting, Laozi seized the moment and pointed directly, stripping away entirely his smug delight in fine distinctions, then gradually applied the medicine. Nanrong Ju judged his own vessel for the Way still shallow and only asked to hear the classic on nourishing life (the principles of preserving life). This is in fact the method of the Way; whether it can be expanded depends entirely on each person. Laozi taught him to hold fast to pure unity, turn inward in search of himself, return to the softness of an infant, and accord with outer things—the main drift of the classic on nourishing life lies here. Pushed to the extreme, it still comes back to “Can you be like an infant?”—words have a theme, affairs have a master.

Next it speaks of the vast dwelling (the heart’s broad abode) issuing heaven’s light, and the spirit platform (the heart) not knowing what it is holding: when the room is empty, brightness arises of itself—there is no need for deliberate mind, deliberate action, or anxious seeking. Again, with the tally inside and outside (what is within one’s portion and what is outside it) and Mo and Ye (names of ancient swords) as comparisons, the learner is made to weigh what is heavy or light and know how to choose. Whether there is or is not, life or death—order their sequence yet they are one body; the ancestral hall and the privy differ in honor and baseness, yet each has its fitting place. This is to make one awaken that the root of life is originally empty, and break the deluded view of “shifting the right” (arbitrarily moving the standard of right and wrong). When one sees that honor, wealth, and likes and dislikes disturb the mind’s intent, one knows the intent must be single and the heart empty and still. Whatever clings to things and blocks the empty brightness should be cast off and left far behind, so that innate nature is preserved and one returns to the Way. The winter sacrifice may be fully furnished with organs and the like, yet that is not a constant method to rely on for long; Yi may be skilled at hitting the most minute target, yet clumsy at hiding reputation. All these are used to undo stuck conventional views, open the wondrous use of empty transformation, blend the natural and the artificial, skill and clumsiness, transcend the this and that of things, forget ruin and praise, insult and respect, and thereby reach a state of neither deliberate action nor anger. In stillness one can settle the breath; nourishing flood-like qi lies in not being disturbed. In spirit one can follow the native heart—favoring harmony and disliking cunning artifice. Thus one dwells calmly alone with the spirit brightness, abiding in unity, meeting outer things without fixed direction. This is the heart-transmission subtlety that Gengsang Chu received from Laodan, like Yan Hui with Confucius—there are places words cannot contain. Zhuangzi, a century later, continued this nearly severed learning, like Mencius catching the wind and knowing; carried to the utmost, success is the same, so it is held up as the model for the world.

Volume 74 of Essential Compilation of the Ocean of Meaning of the Nanzhen Scripture (Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei)—where Nanhua Zhenjing is the honorific title for Zhuangzi—gathers commentaries from various traditions and unfolds the text’s subtle meaning. The work is included in the Siku Quanshu (Imperial Collection of the Four Treasuries). It states that the Meng school (the line associated with Mencius) came to genuine understanding only after encountering the great Dao (the Way); when one holds fast to it and carries practice through to the utmost, the accomplishments thus realized all converge on a single path, which is why that school was upheld as the model for the realm under Heaven. Volume 75 was composed by Chu Baxiu of the Song dynasty and begins with the first section of “Xu Wugui” (a Zhuangzi chapter titled after a person’s name).

Xu Wugui was brought by Nü Shang, a minister of Wei, to see Marquis Wen of Wei. The marquise greeted him, saying, “You have taken great trouble, sir! Life in the mountains and forests is so hard that you were willing to come and see me.”

Xu Wugui said, “It is you who deserve sympathy—why should you sympathize with me? If you keep expanding desires and indulging likes and dislikes, the true condition of your nature and life (xingming) will be harmed. If you suppress desires and force yourself to discard likes and dislikes, your ears and eyes will suffer torment. I came to comfort you—what is there for you to comfort in me?” The marquise was baffled and did not reply.

After a while Xu Wugui said, “Let me tell you how I judge dogs. The lowest kind, having caught prey, eats its fill and stops—that is merely the skill of a wild cat. The middling kind looks as if gazing at the sun. The finest kind seems to forget itself entirely. In judging dogs I am still not as good as in judging horses. When I look at horses: what is straight fits a plumb line, what is curved fits a hook, what is square fits a carpenter’s square, what is round fits a compass—that is a fine horse of the realm, yet still inferior to a horse of the world. A horse of the world is endowed by nature with full talent; its bearing seems troubled and lost, as if it has forgotten itself. Such a horse outruns all others, its hooves raising no dust, and in an instant you no longer know where it has gone.” The marquise was greatly pleased and laughed.

After Xu Wugui left, Nü Shang asked, “With what words did you make our lord so happy? When I admonished him—horizontally through the Poetry, Documents, Rites, and Music, vertically through military texts like the Golden Board and Six Bow Cases—I cited countless examples of great achievements and meritorious deeds, yet he never once smiled. How is it that what you said today delighted him so?”

Xu Wugui said, “I only told him how to judge dogs and horses.”

Nü Shang said, “Was it really only that?”

Xu Wugui said, “Have you never heard of someone who fled to the state of Yue? A few days after leaving his homeland, meeting an acquaintance made him glad; after ten days or half a month, seeing anyone he had known at home made him glad; after a full year, merely seeing someone who resembled a fellow countryman made him glad. Is this not proof that the longer one is away, the deeper the longing? A person who has escaped into a vast wilderness, with weeds choking the paths where weasels run, stumbling about in an empty place—he rejoices at the sound of human footsteps; how much more when brothers and kin laugh and talk beside him! It has been a long time since anyone spoke words of a zhenren—one who preserves authentic being—beside our lord to make him laugh.”

Guo Xiang held that the likes and dislikes of ear and eye have nowhere to settle, whether turned inward toward the body or outward toward the world—hence he called this a “ailment.” Duke Wu of Wei’s cold refusal to answer stemmed from disliking such talk. Why should a True Person (one who embodies the Dao) speak with humble deference? If the other truly has something they favor, one need only follow that favor. When doctrine is laid out at full length yet the ruler never opens his mouth, it is like using bells and drums to amuse quails—the quails only grow distressed. At the mention of judging dogs and horses he brightened, as when someone far from home suddenly meets an old acquaintance: each recalls what their nature inherently favors. Once what is favored is obtained, one no longer broods; no longer brooding, one forgets why one was glad. The True Person’s words can move a ruler because they match the ruler’s nature. At first there is joy; held long enough, that joy fades into forgetfulness.

Lu Huiqing held that Xu Wugui (a recluse in the Zhuangzi), undaunted by Duke Wu of Wei’s power, spoke plainly of the duke’s faults. The duke, because Wugui would not defer to him, responded coldly and would not answer. Wugui then used the examples of judging dogs and horses to show he had no greedy desires. A dog of lower grade eats its fill and stops, like a person who must be hungry before he will serve—thus he still has something to seek. A middling grade is like “gazing at the sun”: the gaze is lofty, yet one has not yet let go of the self. To let go even of that is to know the state of forgetting the self. A horse whose form conforms to compass, square, hook, and plumb line is a “state horse,” like a man of the realm who moves within the bounds of conventional rites and law. A “horse of the realm” in the supreme sense has its stuff already complete and needs no learning to be so: if it is on guard, none can share its joy; if it loses its way, none can match it; if even that bit of self is released, self-loss has reached its limit—not mere forgetting. It gallops beyond the dust so that people cannot fathom why—like a man of the realm who roams outside the bounds, beyond measure. If even superior dogs and supreme horses are like this, why fuss over a ruler’s authority? How could rulers under heaven fail to come seeking? The duke grasped this and therefore rejoiced greatly. Speech is for meeting others through the Dao. When words miss the Dao, even the Odes, Documents, Rites, and Music cannot move people; when words hit the Dao, even talk of dogs and horses can delight. One who loses the true essence of life and nature and sinks into artificial falsity is like leaving hometown kin and wandering far away, or fleeing into empty wilds to keep company with weasels. What is “true” is originally innate in one’s nature, as intimate as kin in one’s native place. Unless one is utterly deluded, who hearing a True Person’s voice nearby would not be glad?

Commentary by Yidu: Xu Wugui was a recluse of Wei who lived in wild country infested with weasels. What is called “the true” is what human nature already possesses from the start—like kin and neighbors one has known for a long time. Unless someone is utterly mad and confused, how could they hear a True Person coughing, spitting, laughing, and talking beside them and not be glad?

Yidu adds again: Xu Wugui was a recluse of Wei; Nü Shang was a favored minister of the king of Wei; Marquis Wu was the son of Marquis Wen. The marquis thought Xu Wugui had endured the hardship of the mountains and forests before deigning to visit, and so he offered him comfort. Xu Wugui said: “Living in the hills and woods does not weary me. If you indulge your desires, the root of life and fate is harmed; if you restrain them, the pleasures of ear and eye are harmed. Neither ailment can be escaped—so it is you who deserve sympathy; why should you sympathize with me?” The marquis did not reply, for the words had touched a sore point. Xu Wugui knew he could not discuss great principle with him, so he turned instead to judging dogs and horses, following the marquis’s tastes to win him over. The lowest sort of dog, once fed, does nothing; the middling sort carries itself with lofty spirit; the finest seems to forget its own body. What is called “the One” is the most subtle—even that can be forgotten, so what need be said of what is coarse? He then spoke of judging horses: conforming to cord, hook, compass, and square is only trained rule. A fine horse under heaven has inborn quality, so one no longer speaks of round, square, bent, or straight. When it looks back it seems troubled, as if something were lost—that much can still be seen in outward form; as for one that can forget itself, it runs beyond dust and tracks and no one knows where it has gone.

To speak crosswise is to go against the other; to speak lengthwise is to go along with them. The marquis loved military affairs and disliked letters, so Nü Shang called the Six Classics “crosswise speech” and military treatises “lengthwise speech,” hoping thereby to suit his mind. She also used people exiled from Yue as a comparison: a few days out of their state, they were glad to see anyone they knew; after ten days or half a month, they were glad to see anyone they had once seen at home; after a year, the longer they were away, the deeper their longing—merely seeing someone who resembled a fellow townsman made them glad. As for one who has fled into vast empty wilds, where weeds block the weasels’ paths and human traces and artificiality are wholly void—then one need not see a person at all; hearing footsteps alone brings joy; how much more when brothers and kin laugh and talk at one’s side—the delight goes without saying. The marquis had long favored dogs and horses, so as soon as he heard talk of skill in judging them he was pleased, without needing to see dogs or horses in the flesh. Thus he sighed: “It has been long since discourse worthy of a True Person stood beside a ruler”—and so even this shallow, near-at-hand craft could make him glad.

Bi Xu (Bi Xu Zi Chen Jingyuan) commentary: When desire runs too strong, the true feelings of xing (nature) and ming (life) are harmed; forcibly cutting off desire makes the ears and eyes sick with craving. This is the “bound inside and out” mentioned earlier. “As if lost” and “as if guarding” both mean not being at ease with oneself; losing that “one” and failing to be content is not as thorough as “guarding the one.” Here he only borrows dogs and horses as a comparison—he is not treating xiang gou xiang ma (judging dogs and horses) as the highest attainment, but turning Duke Wu of Wei’s mind so he enters from what is coarse and is then led toward what is subtle.

Wu Chou commentary: Xu Wugui was originally a divine man who acted with the times and did not insert his own fixed mind. He spoke by way of dogs and horses; likewise he did not take that as the ultimate, but bent Duke Wu’s ideas back so he would go from coarse to fine and then reach the subtle. The words also quietly carry the real intent: follow the direction of the Dao, do not go against principle; follow the other’s likes, do not offend his temperament. So though Duke Wu was stubborn, he still laughed with pleasure—because the guidance hit the mark.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) oral interpretation: “Li de” means a nature like a wild cat—among inferior dogs. “Shi ri” means gazing upward with fixed attention, eyes unblinking. “One” is inborn nature; such a dog though alive is as if dead, looking like a wooden cock (a fighting cock trained to have no will to win)—that is the top grade among dogs. “Middle gauge and hook-line” means everything accords with measure; one need not cling rigidly to conformity. “Cheng cai” means naturally formed talent. “As if anxious, as if lost” is a dazed, empty look. Guarding the one is the same as losing the one—hence it can gallop ahead of the herd with feet not touching dust, not knowing where it has gone. All of this is metaphor. “Liu tao” is Taigong’s (Jiang Taigong’s) art of war. “Jin ban” is like a secret text kept in a golden casket. “Serving with success” means taking it into action and getting results. The exile who leaves his old country—no need to explain further. “Qing kai” is a soft sound from the throat.

Commentator Chu holds that dogs and horses are merely ordinary domestic animals: at most they guard against theft and carry people on their errands. Even if one is skilled at telling their qualities and seeing their true dispositions, that still does not count as a supreme art. Yet Duke Wu of Wei was delighted—why? Someone who is good at persuading must first go along with what the listener already likes and use that as a lead-in; only then do the words go down easily. It is like a ruler who loves warfare: you reason by way of battle. Read closely the line about “horses under heaven that are fully formed in talent”: that bearing of outrunning the crowd with dust never rising from the hooves can only be grasped through imagination. At that level, the craft of a Bole or a Jiufang Gao leaves nothing out. “Gazing at the sun” and “losing the One” can still be pictured in words; but when the text says “as if worried, as if lost, as if bereft of the One,” it is even better at rendering what cannot be drawn—unlike common horses, which one might compare with compass, square, hook, and plumb line. “The One” is the first stir of a thing not yet fully formed; “as if gone, as if lost” is like hovering between being and non-being, with no fixed shape to point to. Because the teaching hit the mark, it moved Duke Wu, and its effect came faster than the Odes, the Documents, or books of strategy. The later remark that leaving one’s old country makes one miss it shows that one who has lost his original nature will seek to recover it; when someone seizes the moment to awaken him, it is like fleeing into open country and suddenly hearing human footsteps. From “It has been long!” onward, the sigh is that no one used the highest Way to reach Duke Wu, so he rejoices at talk of dogs and horses. Had a worthy minister been at his side, gradually guiding him with the subtlest moral language until it worked inwardly, his innate goodness would have turned back like water pouring into a deep pool—vast and impossible to dam. Hence the gentleman does not turn away anyone who is willing to cleanse the heart and turn toward the good.

There is a further layer of meaning. Xu Wugui is a worthy man; when he meets Duke Wu he abruptly discusses dogs and horses, which seems pointless. In fact Duke Wu had long been proud and overbearing: loyal ministers could not get through to him, and the words of those who had attained the Way could not enter either. Xu Wugui asked for an audience because he wanted to set him right; the duke treated him as an ordinary scholar. Xu therefore made his point indirectly: if even in dogs and horses I can tell better from worse and decide whom to keep or dismiss, when you receive men of talent, how can you fail to recognize the worthy and treat them with respect? That is the unstated message.

Xu Wugui paid a visit to Duke Wu of Wei. The duke said: “You dwell in the hills and forests, live on taro and chestnuts, have had your fill of scallions, leeks, and the like”—“fill” (yan) here means eaten enough—“and have kept away from me for a long time.” The implication is again: when you meet people, how can you not discern the worthy and honor them?

Xu Wugui, a hermit, paid a visit to Marquis Wu of Wei. The marquis said, "You have long lived in the mountains and forests, eating taro and chestnuts, content with wild vegetables such as scallions and chives, and have kept me at a distance for quite some time. Are you old now? Have you come seeking the taste of wine and meat, or does my state have some good fortune that has brought you here to lend your aid?"

Wugui replied, "I was born in poverty and have never dared to enjoy a ruler's wine and meat. This time I have come to offer you comfort."

The marquis asked, "How so? On what grounds do you comfort me?"

Wugui said, "I comfort your spirit and your body."

The marquis said, "What does that mean?"

Wugui said, "Heaven and Earth nourish all things equally: being high does not make one high, and being low does not make one low. Yet you alone, as the ruler of a great state, make the people of your entire country toil to supply the pleasures of your eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Your spirit cannot approve of this. The spirit loves harmony and hates partiality; partiality is illness, and that is why I have come to comfort you. What exactly is your illness?"

The marquis said, "I have long wished to see you. I want to care for the people, practice benevolence and righteousness, and cease warfare. Can this be done?"

Wugui said, "It cannot. Caring for the people is precisely the beginning of harming them; ceasing warfare for the sake of benevolence and righteousness is precisely the root of creating war. If you start from here, I fear you will not succeed. Whenever one seeks to achieve a fine reputation, it becomes an instrument for doing evil. Even if you practice benevolence and righteousness, you will almost certainly fall into hypocrisy. Where there is form, opposing forms arise; where there is success, self-praise inevitably follows; where there is change, conflict with others is bound to occur. Do not array your troops in formation like cranes between your splendid towers; do not drive your armies through the ritual altars; do not hide rebellion within greed; do not use cunning, stratagem, or warfare to overpower others. To kill the people of other states and annex their lands in order to nourish your own desires and spirit—what is good about such warfare, and where lies its victory? If you truly cannot avoid taking action, then cultivate sincerity within and accord with the truth of Heaven and Earth; do not disturb things. Once the people are already spared from death, why must you still employ the method of stopping war?"

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Heaven and Earth nourish the ten thousand things on equal terms. They do not set themselves up as rulers; they simply let each thing follow its own course without end. If one exhausts the people to gratify the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, that violates the even-handedness of Heaven and Earth. The spirit-mind (shen) does not treat what it receives as private property—it is only what outer things have lent. To dwell with the ten thousand things in shared existence is harmony (he); to seize and hoard for oneself is deceit (jian). Once the practice of “loving the people” is displayed for all to see, the people will exalt it—and that very love is already insincere. When insincerity arises, reputation swells, rivalry flares, and father and son, ruler and minister, begin to suspect and deceive one another. At that point, how could one still hope to lay down arms and stop warfare? Only by acting in accord with wuwei (non-action) can anything be truly accomplished. When beauty and goodness are deliberately manufactured first, falsity follows; the people will then answer with falsity in turn. When benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi) take on outward form, spurious forms are bound to appear; once they are made, they show themselves on the outside. Here, “change” (bian) means the loss of what was originally constant and natural. Helie refers to deploying troops in formation; liqiao is a lofty tower; tu means foot soldiers. In short, one should not deliberately impose righteousness (yi) on the world.