《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 18

Even in the use of force, one should act in wuwei (non-action)—without deliberate contrivance. If one arrays troops on a grand scale and parades horses for display, what is gained within already hides rebellion, and the outcome is failure. Hold to simplicity (pu): let each thing in its uncarved state fulfill its own capacity, and affairs become upright and settled. Hold to genuine knowing: as soon as there is a fixed form or trace, falsity is easy; when traces are fully shaped, they stand out in plain sight. What people call “change” is precisely the loss of what was originally constant. “Crane formations” are a battle line; “lofty towers” (liqiao) and foot soldiers (tu) are not things one should deploy merely to advertise benevolence and righteousness. To mass chariots and troops while rebellion lurks within is to lose; to keep to simplicity so each part plays its role is to be at peace. When genuine knowing rests in what each is good at, balance can be achieved. Meet the ten thousand things with the Dao, and they will submit—yet there will be no reputation for “conquering.” If one does not know what truly counts as good, then even storming a city is not one’s own victory. If one cannot stop at that, it is better to cultivate one’s own sincerity, so that armor and weapons have nowhere to be arrayed—not because one is deliberately “laying down arms” (yanbing) as a show.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Governing the state with cleverness harms the state; governing without cleverness is the state’s blessing. Thus “loving the people” is already the start of harming them, and “laying down weapons” is already the root of raising armies—because one is relying on cleverness, not on the Dao. When all under heaven agree on what is beautiful, ugliness has already appeared; forcing that beauty into being is the very tool that invites ugliness. Once something has become a fixed “instrument” (qi), it has drifted from the Dao. Even the benevolence that “loves the people” or the righteousness that “stills the armies” is only a false trace. Once the form of “loving the people” is established, self-praise or aggression must follow—that is the beginning of harming the people. Once the form of “laying down weapons” shifts, outward war inevitably follows—that is the root of making armies. Only by not fixing on such traces can one avoid manufacturing them. Crane formations lined up before lofty towers are for spectacle; infantry and cavalry placed on the altar platform are for viewing—they are not measures taken only when there is no alternative. Whenever gain does not follow heaven’s principle, rebellion is already hidden inside. To overcome others by scheming is to trust cleverness, not the Dao; to overcome others by war is to trust military force, not De (Virtue/Power). Killing people and seizing land to feed one’s private desires and “spirit” (shen): selfishness then treats itself as right, and from the side of spirit, such conduct is detested as a disease. Though this is called skill in war and victory, one no longer knows who is “good” or where “victory” lies. If a ruler, with no real choice, must still act, let him cultivate sincerity in line with the genuine situation of heaven and earth—then the ten thousand things will all respond. Why should he fear that the people cannot escape death?

The commentary on Yidu says: Heaven and earth are the greatest among things that have form, yet what they nurture is only the “One.” The “One” is the primordial root. The Yijing calls heaven the Qian yuan and earth the Kun yuan; even heaven and earth take this root as their source—how much more so for human beings.

The correct way of heaven and earth takes balance as its standard; whether one stands high or stays low, there is no need to divide long from short or superior from inferior. Today rulers dwell in high position only to elevate themselves, making the people toil to support them. Outside there is harm from treachery; inside they must guard against it—the spirit cannot be at peace. This is the cause of illness, so the body cannot but be worn down. Duke Wu of Wei again asked about “loving the people” and “laying down arms” (ceasing warfare). When the marks of loving the people show too plainly, the people compete to display them; taking love as benevolence is precisely where calamity begins. Acting righteously brings fame; once fame appears, rivalry arises—hence it is said to be the root of military disaster. These are all deliberate, contrived acts, so they probably cannot succeed.

Once simplicity disperses, it is fashioned into tools; when tools are made, there is beauty and ugliness. Today, even if one wishes to practice benevolence and righteousness, one cannot avoid falling into hypocrisy. Once there is form, one becomes something manufactured; when form is fixed, there is achievement, and conspicuous achievement inevitably leads to self-praise. Change once occurs and the constant way is lost; guarding profit and desire, strife arises outside the person. The “crane formation” is the sight of battle lines; Liqiao is where troops are reviewed; the zhi altar is where military affairs are rehearsed. Gaining for oneself means going against others—this hides opposition within “gain.”

The crafty person’s scheming mind arises within; even if one surpasses others, it does no good for oneself. The planner is indecisive with doubt; the fighter seeks victory by killing. All of these harm what is to be nurtured and must not be done. Using such means to nurture one’s private interest cannot complete that interest; using them to nurture the spirit cannot preserve the spirit. Even if one wins a battle, it is not the correct way of winning well. Only by cultivating sincerity to accord with heaven and earth and refraining from disturbance will the people not die young or be wounded—why then must one practice righteousness or lay down arms?

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) notes: King Wei of Wei had long drowned himself in desire, harming his root; Xu Wugui spoke plainly: this is wearing down the ruler’s body and spirit. Heaven and earth nourish people; ruler and common folk are originally no different. Now taking from those who have too little to supply those who have too much goes against the constant way. Human spirit is as impartial as the heavenly spirit. “Self-granting” means keeping benefit for oneself—that is treachery. The people change with the ruler; when the ruler is ill, the people are hurt—hence it is called labor. The king asked again for the essentials of practicing benevolence and righteousness and laying down arms (stopping war). Fish in a dried pool only then think of moistening each other with spit; the people, when exhausted, only then long for benevolence and righteousness. The reply: where there is partial favor and elevation, there cannot be evenness, and harm is great; once benevolence and righteousness are established, hypocrisy necessarily arises and strife follows. All this fails because of deliberate action—so danger comes and success is rare. When the Dao is lost, then comes benevolence; when De is lost, then comes righteousness. When benevolence and righteousness are exalted, human nature shifts and hypocrisy is born. Deploying crane formations (military arrays) between ornate watchtowers, or lining cavalry in ritual halls with altars—none of this is a lasting way and is not worth esteeming. Following heavenly principle, one does not lose what sustains; fondness for martial affairs breeds designs of swallowing others; too much scheming leads first to poverty; war pushed to the extreme and the state changes hands. Responding to Heaven is public; calling oneself sage is private. How could the spirit tolerate the private? Heaven’s way favors the good—the outcome of victory lies here.

Yan Zhai (Lin Xiyi) oral gloss: Heaven and earth in generating and nurturing the ten thousand things are originally the same; there is no high or low, noble or base. Using external things to nourish the body while harboring private intent in the heart—how could the spirit tolerate the private? Heaven’s way favors the good—the outcome of victory lies here.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi’s style name; here, his exposition of the Zhuangzi) says: Heaven and Earth nurture the ten thousand things without any fundamental difference—there is no ranking of high and low, noble and base. Using external things to sustain the body while the heart cannot rest at ease is what is meant by the spirit’s inability to identify with itself. “Harmony” (he) is becoming one with the ten thousand things; “selfishness” (jian) is looking out for oneself alone. The human spirit is originally one with the ten thousand things, but desires and selfishness cloud it—and that is precisely what the spirit detests—so it becomes illness. When the ruler suffers this illness without knowing it, I come to worry on the ruler’s behalf.

To set the mind on loving the people is to harm them in the end; to set the mind on stopping war (yanbing) is to bring war about. Once good and bad take fixed shape, they leave traces—hence they are called “vessels” (qi). Using a mind bent on deliberate action to do things that leave traces is called “form” (xing). When form is established and fixed, the heart clings without change and cannot flow through—then there is restraint and attack. Resentment and desire stir and wound the inner heart; stirred up again by external things, this is called “outer battle” (wai zhan).

“Crane formation” (helie) is a name for a battle array; “Li tower” (liqiao) is a name for a palace tower; “Zi altar” (zitan) is a place of sacrifice. The point is: if the human heart contends with external things, even within a single room it is as if soldiers stood in formation before you—there is nowhere that is not a field of strife.

Human feelings take gaining as smooth and losing as contrary; without gain there is no loss—so do not hide “contrariness” inside “gain.” That line is well put. “Cleverness” (qiao) means scheming mind. Stratagem arises from crafty cleverness, and war arises from stratagem. Relying on these to seek victory serves only the private pleasures of ear and eye; it looks like winning, yet the breast is already disturbed by battle with external things—though you win, the spirit is worn out. Hence: where, after all, is victory?

“Do not persist” (wu yi) is like saying “do not go on like this.” Simply cultivate your inherent sincerity and respond to the real situation of Heaven and Earth and nature, without clashing with the ten thousand things—winning without contending. The people are already delivered from the disaster of death; why must you seek to lay down arms?

Xu Wugui visited Duke Wu of Wei again—not scheming for himself. Do not persist; with inherent sincerity alone respond to Heaven, Earth, and nature, without conflict with things, winning without contending—the people’s deaths and calamities are already removed—why pursue stopping war?

Xu Wugui—the recluse in the Zhuangzi who admonishes the ruler of Wei—visited Duke Wu of Wei again not to seek appointment for himself but to correct the duke’s faults and spare the people from disaster. The duke said he was tired of coarse fare like leeks used to ward off harm and wanted wine and meat instead, which shows how lightly he already held people. Xu Wugui did not bow to power; he said plainly that the duke was wearing down his own shen and bodily form. That was not mere contempt but pity. The duke still did not understand, because he was sunk in fame, profit, and craving and had no care for form and spirit, so he heard it all in a daze.

Xu Wugui went on to explain that “the nourishing of Heaven and Earth is one”—meant to flatten his arrogant heart. The crux is that “spirit loves harmony and hates cunning”: spirit here is one’s true nature, which delights in harmony and detests trickery. The duke asked about practicing righteousness and stopping warfare. People only think of practicing righteousness after they have lost it, and of halting armies only after they have exhausted themselves in war; to flip suddenly is hardly sincere. Favor and harm beget each other—that is how things work. Only through wuwei (non-action) and following true nature might one perhaps be preserved.

Whatever is accomplished and then displayed as good and fine becomes a “vessel of ill”; “vessel” means the outward trace has shown itself. Loving the people and stopping war are precisely the most conspicuous traces. When I move with this heart and the other responds with this heart, it is called form shaping form; once form is formed, attack is sure to follow. When action clashes with things outside, that is waging war on the external world. Worse still is lining up battle arrays, massing troops, showing off to the world, hoping all under heaven will attach to oneself—what is gained is not in accord with principle, and within it all lurks rebellion. Heaven helps what is compliant; how can the contrary last? Win by craft, and cunning fills the space between things; win by scheming, and plots grow ever larger and harm to things ever deeper; win by war, and there is killing, seizing land, burning cities, turning states to ruins—no calamity is greater. All of this comes from accumulated habit. Yet Heaven’s net is wide and none escape; the self is exhausted along with it, so one should restrain things from the very small. Now, wielding the power of ruling all under heaven, one indulges boundless desire to feed private ambition; compared with nourishing one’s own spirit, who knows which side of this struggle is better or where victory lies—that is for Duke Wu to weigh himself.

If the ruler has not yet understood the way of nourishing spirit, he need only cultivate inner sincerity to respond to Heaven and Earth and not stir things up (wu ying)—that is to comply with Heaven and Earth’s nurturing and to see it as one with oneself. Then ruler and people are at ease, supreme harmony flows unnoticed, nothing suffers flaw or plague, and the people know no premature death or maiming—why fuss over stopping war?

Reverence and caution without going out to disturb things—that is to follow Heaven and Earth in nurturing the ten thousand things, and to see that those things and oneself were originally one. Then ruler and people live in harmony; the utmost harmony flows quietly through everything; the ten thousand things know no calamity, and people do not die before their time. At that point, why still haggle over something called “putting an end to arms”?

From Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence), juan 76, in the Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries; compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song dynasty; here explicating the second section of “Xu Wugui.”

The Yellow Emperor was going to Mount Juzhi to visit Dayou—the perfected person who had attained the Way, and here also the place where the Great Way dwells. Fangming drove the chariot, Changyu rode beside him, Zhang Ruo and Xiepeng went ahead on horseback, and Kunhun and Huaji followed behind. When they reached the outskirts of Xiang, all seven sages, the Yellow Emperor included, lost their way, and there was no one to ask.

They happened upon a boy tending horses and asked, “Do you know Mount Juzhi?” He answered, “I do.” “Do you know where Dayou is?” “I do.” The Yellow Emperor said, “How strange, child! You not only know Mount Juzhi—you even know where Dayou is. May I ask how to govern all under heaven?” The boy said, “Governing all under heaven is no more than this; what else would you need to do? When I was young I wandered on my own within the six directions. I happened to get a dizzy spell in the head. An elder told me: follow the chariot of the sun—rise with it and rest when it sets—and roam the outskirts of Xiang. Now that the illness has eased a little, I am going to wander outside the six directions again. Governing all under heaven is just like that; why look for some other task?” The Yellow Emperor said, “Governing all under heaven is really not your affair. Even so, please say a little more.” The boy declined. The Yellow Emperor asked again. The boy said, “What difference is there between governing all under heaven and tending horses? Simply remove what harms the horses.” The Yellow Emperor bowed twice, touching his forehead to the ground, called him Celestial Master (Tianshi), and withdrew.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What is called “sage” is only a name. Once the name is fixed, people and things are bewildered; once bewildered, even if you wish to go to Dayou, how can you arrive? Each resting in what is inherently so, there is nothing extra; with nothing extra, one can govern all under heaven. Riding the chariot of the sun means rising with it and resting when it sets. Governing all under heaven is no more than letting oneself go and entrusting the ten thousand things—why stir and meddle? Therefore I practice Wuwei (non-action), and the people transform of themselves. Affairs are done by the people themselves; let each find their place, and within that there is its own principle. Horses are harmed because they are driven too hard. Take nature as teacher and remove excess, and Dayou is already here.

Lu commentary: Kui means lofty and great. That which is greatest and highest, with nothing surpassing it, is the Dao. The Dao covers and shelters the ten thousand things—this is the meaning of “Juci.” Huang Di wished to visit Da Kui, yet sent seven sages along with him; thus when they reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng they all lost their way and had nowhere to ask directions. This is like boring seven holes into Hundun until Hundun died. To seek the Great Dao while never cutting off sageliness, wisdom, craft, and clever knowing is to climb high yet still wander in confusion. The horse corresponds to the wu hour, the south, and heart-fire; the child is one who has not yet acquired craft and cleverness. Only by using a child to herd horses can one properly know where Mount Juci and Da Kui are. The human heart inherently possesses divine intelligence (shenming); spirit has no fixed place, yet its wandering never exceeds the bounds of the liuhe (the six directions—above, below, and the four quarters, i.e., all within heaven and earth). This is not truly a disease of dim eyes. To stop this ailment, better to rely on clear awakening and ascend—what is meant by “riding the sun chariot in Xiangcheng” is precisely this. Even so one is only slightly improved, because one still rides the sun chariot; if one travels without the chariot outside the liuhe, would there still be calamity? Governing the world is like nourishing the heart—there is no other method than removing what harms it. Each person follows their own fixed mind (chengxin, preconceived views) in choosing a teacher; who lacks a teacher of their own? Once one understands that the Dao is in oneself, one calls the other the Celestial Master (Tianshi) and withdraws.

Yidu commentary: Da Kui is a strained name used for the Dao. Juci metaphorically suggests thorny brambles, hard going, hard to reach. From Fangming to Huaji, all are fictitious names, standing for each clinging to one side so that the Dao is obscured. Xiangcheng county belongs to Ruzhou, south of Mount Juci. Herding horses means complying with each creature’s nature while training and restraining it. The child has not yet acquired craft and cleverness and bears no partial faction. This is an allegory with Huang Di and six ministers: seekers of the Dao need them to find the destination. Xiangcheng stands for the middle way; the outskirts mean no bias. The horse-herding child could point out the seven sages’ confusion, so Huang Di was astonished. The mountain has not left its place; being has not left the present—this is only the coarse trace of the Dao, something that can be spoken and studied. The subtlety of the Dao cannot be reached except through cutting off learning and forgetting words. The sage governs the world: affairs arise from non-affairs, action from wuwei (non-action)—what else is there to do? “Slightly wandering within the liuhe” means having once been amid human affairs; governing the age cannot be free of trouble, hence the ailment of dim eyes. Riding the sun chariot is changing along with the daily renewal of the sun. The wilds of Xiangcheng, near Juci and far from the dust of the world, are where the illness improves somewhat; wandering again outside the liuhe is going beyond the realm of phenomena. Zhuangzi means that learning the Dao must first arrive where the Dao is—hence the name Da Kui. If one cannot abide there, one inevitably goes forth to respond to the world and is drawn into calamity; hence he says one once wandered slightly within the liuhe and suffered eye trouble; wandering again outside the liuhe enters the way of heaven and wuwei—why add more affairs? Huang Di pressed his questions again and again before the child told him the way of herding horses: remove what harms the horses. This is the sage’s use of punishment to settle the realm.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan of the Song, styled Master Bixu) held that the boy had once fallen into worldly cares, which is why he said that in youth he wandered within the liuhe—the six directions, meaning all of heaven and earth—and happened to suffer from dizziness and confusion; when he wandered beyond the liuhe, he entered the way of Heaven and wuwei (non-action), so why take on further tasks? The Yellow Emperor pressed him without stopping, and only then did the boy speak of tending horses. Removing what harms the horses is the same intent as the sage’s use of punishment to settle the realm.

Bi Xu’s note: The Yellow Emperor, having achieved success without claiming the credit, went to a hidden place to seek the Dao and met the horse-tending boy. The boy used herding as a metaphor for governing: why add more precautions? Horses by nature are satisfied with grazing and drinking; the people by nature are satisfied with eating from tilled fields and wearing woven cloth—nothing more is needed. “Riding the chariot of the sun” means following the way that renews day by day, moving with change without stagnating. When asked again he did not answer, teaching by not speaking. Today those who herd horses do not see that whipping and tying are exactly what harms the horses; those who nurture the people do not see that laws and decrees breed deceit and falsity, yet they say horses are hard to train and the people hard to govern—both sides are wrong.

Liu Kai’s note: The subtlety of thoughtless wuwei can only be felt by the utmost spirit; yet the reason one responds to the realm at all is simply that one cannot do otherwise and shares the people’s cares. Hence: I wander within the liuhe, and happen to have this sickness of dizziness. There is no other way to share the people’s troubles than to follow the clear patterns of Yin-Yang, so that work and rest never violate their principle. Hence riding the sun-chariot to wander in the wilds of Xiangcheng. Thus the people’s troubles are removed. This is precisely the moment to withdraw after success. He turns toward the Dao, not dragged by outer things; hence: now the illness is somewhat better, and I will wander again beyond the liuhe. For governing the realm, nothing surpasses understanding that removing what is harmful is the root of nurturing life, and removing what harms the horses is the gist of herding them. This still belongs to what is coarse and can be put into words, so the boy could not refuse to speak.

Wu Chou’s commentary holds that Xuanci (the mountain’s name) signifies fullness combined with covering and shelter—a metaphor for the totality of the Dao. Whoever dwells on such a mountain is vast beyond compare and lofty with nothing above; hence the name Great Wei (the name of the perfected person, standing for the utmost reach of the Dao). The uninhabited wilds of Xiang Cheng stand for the path that leads to the Dao. Judging from the Yellow Emperor’s journey, he had not yet fully attained the Dao, yet he wished to see it. The Seven Sages served as the means by which he might encounter the Dao. When they reached Xiang Cheng and found no one to ask the way, it was because the whole of the Dao is already truly present in oneself—why must one seek elsewhere for the mountain of Xuanci, and how could the place where Great Wei dwells be something the Seven Sages could see? Only the boy tending horses knew. Tending horses by removing what harms them stands for preserving the genuine condition of one’s inborn life-nature without artificially adding to life; that itself is the mountain of Xuanci and the dwelling place of Great Wei.

Yizhai’s Kouyi (Commentary on the Meaning) treats the names of the six ministers as allegories. “Riding the chariot of the sun” means going forth together with the sun—that is, renewing oneself day by day. As long as a person remains within the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters—the realm of form) and has not left external things behind, they suffer an eye ailment like blurred vision (mau); only one who can leave that illness behind and let the heart roam in nature has truly reached what lies beyond the six directions. Governing the world works the same way: it is enough not to be dragged down by what has shape and form. A horseherd who follows the horse’s nature and does no harm has completed the art of tending horses. “Celestial Master” (Tianshi) is a title saying this person of heaven can serve as one’s teacher.

When the Yellow Emperor went to Mount Juxu to see Da Hui, it was like Yao meeting the four perfected ones on Mount Gushe: spirit and qi were in accord, so one cannot search by outward form. The Yellow Emperor’s six ministers as helpers stand for the six consciousnesses (the discriminations of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) not yet exhausted; he still takes knowledge, views, talent, and understanding as sagely clarity. Though he wished to reach Da Hui, on the way he still fell into confusion. Da Hui as a seamless whole allegorizes the substance of the Dao; Mount Juxu wholly hidden allegorizes the functioning of the Dao. That the outskirts of Xiang still show traces of walls and towns, unlike the vast emptiness of Dongting or Guangmo, shows he had not yet reached quiet emptiness, free passage, and boundlessness. Not only the seeker who asks the way does not know where to go—the sharp ruler too is adrift with no direction; yet knowing to ask the horseherd boy the way still counts as drawing somewhat near.

The horseherd boy allegorizes guarding the spirit-heart, as Chan uses tending oxen as a comparison. Yet what is being herded, and who is doing the herding? When wisdom can turn back and reflect, the six feelings are not really separate from it; skill in tending lies in removing what harms the horse. Governing the world is the same: it was never inherently hard—it matches the idea of “governing the people is like tending sheep.”

Mau denotes an eye disease. When sight reaches only inside the six directions and is bound by bodily things, unable to illumine the boundless outside, that is the illness. Someone teaches him to remove this disease: if one can ride heaven’s light upward and penetrate, what is there to be confused about in roaming the wilds of Xiang? At present the disease has only improved somewhat, so one can roam outside the six directions—hence it is not full recovery, only “slightly better.” The boy needed no more than to take nature as teacher to be like this, so the Yellow Emperor called him Celestial Master and withdrew.

This chapter uses allegory to show how hard it is to learn the Dao and how people often stop halfway. One should inquire into and truly act as master within, ride heaven’s light upward, transcend shaped vessels and roam freely—then Mount Juxu need not be found by asking the way.

Those skilled in stratagem find no joy without shifts in their scheming; those skilled in disputation find no joy without orderly argument; those sharp in scrutiny find no joy without matters of blame and litigation—all such people are bound by external things. Those who gather worldly affairs wish the court to flourish; ordinary scholars take official rank as honor; the strong take overcoming hardship as pride; the brave rise up amid calamity; those who wield arms delight in battle; the withered in appearance cling to reputation; those who speak of law spread governance; those who speak of ritual emphasize deportment; those who speak of benevolence and righteousness value social exchange. Farmers will not draw near unless there is plowing and weeding; merchants will not draw near unless there is market trade. Common folk are diligent when they have morning-and-evening livelihood; craftsmen are spirited when they have skill with tools. When wealth cannot be amassed, the greedy grow anxious; when power cannot stand out, those who love to boast grow sorrowful. Those who attach themselves to power and external things delight in change; when the times offer them use, they cannot remain quiet in wuwei (non-action). All these people follow the season and cling to external things—they cannot transcend things amid change. They drive their bodily form and native disposition, drowning in the myriad things, and never in a lifetime return to true nature. How lamentable!

Guo Xiang commented: Unable to find satisfaction within themselves, they take external things as joy—therefore they are bound. Each binds himself by what he delights in; the myriad things come of themselves without being summoned—it is not that they were forcibly recruited. Among scholars the differences are thus; those who respond to them cannot swap each person’s path. Where aspirations align, affairs align, so they draw near one another; what they do fits their intent, so they are diligent; when affairs do not use their skill, they slacken. When external things match their appetites they rejoice; power arises from the flux of worldly affairs. These scholars each have a season to deploy their capacity—when the season applies, they cannot stop; if they miss the season, even wishing to deploy themselves, how could they succeed? Thus nobility and baseness have no fixed standard. Talents each have limits, like the four seasons that cannot be swapped. What holds command in its turn, following its order, each has its use. Therefore only by following the year’s seasons does one fit the sequence; change native disposition and one cannot truly be what one is—wishing to be a thing yet failing to be a thing—is that not self-destruction? Not guarding the talent proper to one’s own house, yet running in all directions seeking momentary profit—hence there are those who crawl back home. That is the reason for the lament.

Lü’s commentary says: Every person has a place where they may enjoy supreme joy; once they obtain it and let the heart roam within it, that garden becomes boundlessly vast. Those literati, however, only delight in the side to which their temperament inclines; they are then hemmed in by external things and cannot embrace what lies outside them. From “world-recruiting scholars” (those who draw the world by reputation) to “power-and-goods pursuers” (those who chase status and wealth), their inclinations differ, yet once a moment arrives that calls for their kind of action, they cannot practice wuwei (non-action, acting in accord with nature without forcing)—in this they are the same, because they do not know where the true lord (the genuine master within the person) resides. To act only when the times demand it is not to act from xingming (one’s inborn nature and endowment). Times have past and present, as a year has cold and heat; as soon as they meet one situation, they hold to it and cannot be wuwei. They all merely attach to the season at hand: in cold they know no heat, in heat they know no cold—they take what they meet as the constant way and cannot shift with change. Every person originally has a true lord, yet they drive body and temperament, chase external things, and do not know how to return; this is precisely what the perfected person (one who has realized the Way to the utmost) grieves over.

According to one commentary on Yi Du included in this collection: people of intelligence like to show off their wit; debaters love to parade their rhetoric; those who “investigate” insist on pressing others to the end. All three are driven by external things, so they are said to be you—“ hemmed in,” confined within things.

The Dao can draw the world and make people look up to it; affairs can fit what the people need and make them willing to act. Talk of physical strength, arms, and courage means people who can ward off danger for the state. The withered recluse hides away in mountains and forests. Talk of law means enforcing statutes and fixing punishments. Ritual teaching means civilizing the people; benevolence and righteousness mean benefiting affairs and things. Farmers take clearing and tilling the wild as their trade; merchants take market buying and selling as theirs. Ordinary folk have no spare time—from dawn to dusk they have their livelihood. The various crafts, once they have clever skill with tools and implements, can keep their work going long and strong. The greedy strive to amass more; if they cannot pile it up, they worry. Those who love to show off strive for rank and power; if their power does not stand out, they grieve. People who chase power and external things like to youwei (purposeful action); that action is chiefly about change—they take change as their pleasure, and the times they meet are never the same, so they cannot achieve wuwei (not being pushed by externals into reckless doing).

All of the above are tied to external things; each is blocked by a one-sided view and cannot match datong—the Great Way that penetrates everywhere without obstruction.

The year is what governs the four seasons; change (yi) is what governs the ten thousand things. The sage accords with Heaven, so he can govern the year without being governed by the year; he can respond to the ten thousand things within change without being fixed by change into any one kind of thing. Those who are you—hemmed in—within a single narrow angle are the opposite: governed by the year, like the four seasons each with its own climate; turned by change into “a thing,” like the ten thousand things each with its own form.

Chen Jingyuan (styled Bizixu) explains: Drop scheming and calculation, and those who live by clever tricks have nowhere to apply themselves; set aside alliance-and-counter-alliance politics, and those who live by debate are trapped; value simplicity, and those who specialize in nitpicking grow idle. Whoever cultivates inwardly and does not delight in running after the outer world cannot be enslaved by things. People who gather worldly business and honor the worthy can rise in court; middling folk follow the way things work and take office and salary as their glory. When the age is in trouble, the bold boast; when arms are prized, people leave the plow. Withered hermits who do not serve lords and kings treat reputation alone as their stay. When laws multiply, the lazy are driven; when ritual flourishes, people put on airs. Those who practice benevolence and righteousness take networking and keeping their place as success. When scholars do not study, farmers do not store grain, craftsmen do not refine their work, and merchants do not trade, the people lose their livelihood through their own idleness. The greedy weigh wealth above the body; those who love to strut weigh power above life. They use power to drive things outward and love change—as when eye, ear, nose, and mouth reach the moment of use and cannot be held back. When each kind of talent does its part, work succeeds; when the four seasons fall out of order, the year’s work is ruined. Those who cannot follow the year’s timely harmony are all pulled by outer things—the heart shifts and the body follows—this is called being unable to return; it is truly lamentable.

Yanzhai (Lin Xiyi’s Zhuangzi Kouyi) says: Thought has twists to play with, speech has patterns to track; pressing each other in argument and splitting hairs—these three types each make their strong point their pleasure and are unhappy without a day of it; all are caught by outer things. “Recruiters of the age” flash their names and want a place at court; “middling people” are ordinary folk, so they honor rank and stipend. The strong pride themselves on rescuing distress; the brave rejoice when hardship appears. Withered hermits care about name. Legalists mostly want something to govern. Those who fuss over looks are stiff about appearance; those who care about “connections” treat social dealing as what matters. Caolai is tilling the fields; shijing is market trade; bi is shared ease. “Morning-and-evening work” means piling up surplus day by day. Skilled people lean on their craft and feel bold. What you lean on is called shi (momentum/power); what you pile up is called wu (things). Petty people cling to the great and follow them in action; only after they have done something do they feel they have arrived; when the times need them, they cannot be wuwei (non-action) even if they wish. It is like the hundred things of a year, all generated in step with the seasons; the changes among them are not something the myriad things make up on their own. “Not letting things drift in easy change” means change is not the things themselves casually changing. To drive body and mind and drown in outer things without return is lamentable.

This chapter opens abruptly, so one suspects that earlier text is missing and can no longer be recovered. What it praises as the delights of the “knowing officer,” the debater, and the scrutinizer—people who love clever stratagems, argument, and nit-picking—is precisely what those who study the Dao lament. Why are they so opposed? Because each is confined by a single talent and cannot be free. “Zhaoshi” means raising the worthy and summoning talent from across the realm, so the court can flourish; “zhongmin” refers to those fit to govern the people, who should be honored with rank and stipend. Below, the commentary again says that scholar-officials, farmers, commoners, and artisans incline in different directions, each clinging to one corner, all taking appointment as their joy while forgetting the toil and the harm of losing their true nature. Unable to adapt, each use has its limit; at the limit, deceit and disaster arise. When not employed, they fix on being useful, scheming how to be placed— restless fantasies without end; once the times employ them, they swell with success and busy themselves displaying their skills—how can they speak of Wuwei (non-action, aligning with nature without forced contrivance)? The greedy worry when they cannot hoard; the boastful grieve when they cannot stand out—nothing beyond this pattern. All of these rest content in a place they ought not to rest. Like spring, autumn, winter, and summer each presiding over warm, cool, cold, and hot, they follow the sequence of the year yet each holds one bias and cannot change with things: cold cannot rule in summer, nor heat in winter. “Bu wu yu yi” means “bu yi yu wu”—not altering oneself for external things—only the phrasing is inverted. Only the perfected person (zhi ren, one whose cultivation has reached the utmost) has a mind one with the great void (tai xu) and a body equipped with the qi of all four seasons, and so can change with things without being changed by them.

The book title given is the Qianlong imperially approved Siku Quanshu edition of Nan Hua Zhen Jing Yi Hai Cuan Wei (Nan Hua Zhen Jing is Zhuangzi; compiled by Song author Chu Baxiu), volumes 76 and 77, the third section “Xu Wugui.”

Zhuangzi said: If an archer sets no target in advance yet happens to hit, and we call him skilled at archery, then everyone under heaven could be counted as Yi (the legendary archer of antiquity)—would that be acceptable?

Huizi said: It would.

Zhuangzi said: Under heaven there is no “rightness” that all acknowledge; everyone takes what they themselves consider right as right—then could everyone under heaven be counted as Yao (the sage ruler of antiquity)?

Huizi said: It could.

Zhuangzi said: If that is so, among Confucianism, Mohism, Yang Zhu’s school, and Bing (traditionally often identified with Gongsun Long)—four schools—plus you, Master, making five: who is actually right? Could it be like Lu Ju? Lu Ju’s disciple said: I have obtained the Master’s way; I can cook food in cauldrons in winter and produce ice in summer. Lu Ju said: That is merely using yang to summon yang and yin to summon yin—it is not the way I speak of. Let me show you my way. He tuned two se zithers, placing one in the hall and one in an inner room. When he played the gong note, the other se’s gong string responded in kind; when he played the jue note, the jue string vibrated along with it, because the pitches matched. But if one altered a single string so that it matched none of the five tones, and then plucked it, all twenty-five strings would vibrate together. The sounds themselves were not different, yet a master among the tones had already appeared. Are you perhaps also like this?

Huizi said: At present the four schools—Confucian, Mohist, Yang, and Bing—are debating with me, repelling one another with words and overpowering one another with reputation, yet they still cannot show where I am wrong—what about that?

Zhuangzi said: A man of Qi sent his son to Song to serve as gatekeeper, yet did not require that his limbs remain intact; he wished to obtain a gong-bell yet bound it with rope; he searched for a lost son yet never stepped outside his own region—thus he got the categories of things wrong. A man of Chu lodged in another’s house yet went to beat that person’s gatekeeper; in the middle of the night when no one was about he quarreled with the boatman—and before the boat had even left the shore, enough resentment for trouble had already been sown.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Hitting the target without having aimed beforehand counts as luck, not as skilled archery. If accidental hits were taken as skill, everyone under heaven could be called Hou Yi (the legendary archer)—and that cannot be right. If everyone who hit by mistake were Hou Yi, then anyone who privately took himself to be right could also call himself Yao (the sage king). If everyone were Yao, why would the Five Masters—Confucians, Mohists, Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long, and Huizi—need to condemn one another?

It is like Lu Ju and his disciple: the disciple merely summoned yang by yang—relying on affinity between like kinds—yet insisted he was uniquely right. Change one string and the five tones shift with it; without sound nothing can pull another along, and with sound, unlike kinds will not respond. Change only that one string and all twenty-five strings change together—that is tuning by slackness and tightness. Lu Ju used this to show off before his disciple, but it was still merely like responding to like; it did not prove a talent all his own. The Five Masters each clung to a private view and treated what they affirmed as correct—no different from Lu Ju, and none of them truly rose above the others.

“No one has ever said I was wrong” means each person takes himself to be right. Huizi wanted to treat that as the highest doctrine. Zhuangzi then cites the man of Qi who left his son in another state and ordered the gatekeeper to watch him: the moment the son went out, even the watcher could not keep him safe. The Qi man was unkind to his child yet thought himself in the right; he treated protecting a bell vessel as “correct,” binding it with rope for fear it might break. When his son was lost he would not search far; he abandoned flesh and blood of his own kind and never admitted he was wrong.

He also cites the man of Chu who lodged in someone else’s house and handed gatekeeping over to another: both were only staying as guests and could not stand firm in a place of their own; in the middle of the night he boarded another’s boat alone and quarreled before it had even left shore. The men of Qi and Chu acted like this yet never thought themselves mistaken. Are the Five Masters’ self-righteousness today any different?

Lü's commentary: To say that everyone in the world could become Yi (the ancient divine archer) cannot really hold. Huizi knew Zhuangzi's words were aimed at him, yet still thought one could put it this way: whoever hits the target counts as Yi, without needing to aim beforehand; whoever takes himself to be right counts as Yao (the ancient sage-king), without needing publicly accepted standards of right and wrong. That is treating what violates reason as real and beating others as reputation.

Yet if the five—Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, Bian, and Huizi—are not all correct, the claim that "everyone is Yao" cannot stand. Otherwise it is merely like Lu Ju (an ancient master of pitch and tuning) tuning the se: nothing but the same tones and measures responding to one another. Huishi thought himself superior to those four, but in fact he was no different. He thought he and the four had never differed in the first place; though they argued with him, they never refuted him—so what of it? He said these things to make "everyone is Yao" sound coherent.

Zhuangzi moved him with indirect words. Affection between father and son is natural; yet a man of Qi sent his son away to Song to be a gatekeeper, caring nothing whether his limbs stayed whole. This likens Huishi to one who undervalues the genuine feeling of his own life and does not know how to cherish it. People seeking a xing bell (a musical instrument) will bind it carefully, yet when a child is lost they never step beyond their home village. So Huishi treasured disputation, fame, and other external things and did not spare himself when hurt; the nature given at birth was lost, and he did not know to seek it—truly pitiable.

A man of Chu living abroad yet assigning a mutilated criminal to guard his gate is like Huishi losing his true home yet striving to win in the muddle of right and wrong. That cannot truly succeed; it is only failing to accord with things and cannot be called genuine knowledge.

Yidu's commentary: Treating a lucky shot as good archery makes everyone in the world Yi; treating private opinion as public judgment makes everyone Yao. Zhuangzi held this impossible; Huizi held it possible. Zhuangzi said that if it were so, the reputations of Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, Bian, and Gongsun Long would be the same as the master's—yet that is only failing to accord with things, not what is called knowledge.

Yi Du, who wrote commentary on the Zhuangzi, holds that if one treats a lucky shot as true skill in archery, then everyone in the world would count as Hou Yi, the divine archer; and if one treats a private view as the public standard, then everyone would count as Yao, the sage-king of antiquity. Zhuangzi rejects this; Huizi (Hui Shi, a scholar of the School of Names) thinks it can stand. Zhuangzi asks: if that were really so, then among the Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, Gongsun Long (here called “Bing”), and you, sir—which side would actually be right?

A disciple of Lu Ju—a master skilled in pitch and yin-yang arts—in winter wrapped wood in ash that had been stored for a thousand years; in no time it caught fire and could heat a cauldron for cooking. In summer he put boiling water in an earthen jar and lowered it into a well until it froze. The disciple thought he had learned Lu Ju’s Dao. Lu Ju said this was merely using yang to draw yang—it was not the Dao he meant. He then placed one zither in the hall and one indoors and tuned them so the gong and jue notes answered each other; when he retuned a single string in the hall, all five notes indoors fell out of alignment. As soon as that string was plucked, it no longer matched the former pitch. This shows that sound calls to sound and is not fundamentally different, yet only one who truly understands sound can master it. Lu Ju took pride in this, but it was still sameness answering sameness—not a unique attainment. The five schools, each clinging to its own view, are like Lu Ju boasting of his disciple: none can rise above the rest.

Huizi said that the four schools were now debating with him and that no one had yet shown him wrong, so they wished to take that as proof they were right. Zhuangzi then cited the man of Qi: a Qi native left his son in Song and had a gatekeeper watch him; coming and going were restricted, yet he could not keep the boy safe. Such lack of kindness, the Qi man still took to be correct. When he looked for a small bell he tied it carefully with cord; when his son was lost he would not cross the border to search. He loved a curious object more than his own flesh and blood and did not see the fault. Huizi’s self-assurance is the same kind of thing.

Once there was a man of Chu who lodged with someone assigned to gatekeeping as punishment—“gatekeeping under penalty” means guarding the gate because of a crime. At midnight he went alone onto a boat; before it even left shore he was fighting the boatman—just after receiving the man’s kindness, he turned it into resentment. Acting thus without seeing his error is no different from people like Huizi.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) said: To hit the target without having aimed is not skilled archery; for each party to insist that only they are right is not impartial judgment. The Five Masters—Confucianism, Mohism, Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long, and Huizi—treated mutual rivalry for victory as if each were a different Way (Dao). Lu Ju, an ancient adept in occult arts, ranked techniques as superior or inferior yet never grasped that a greater unity underlies them all. When the se zither in hall and inner room is properly tuned, the pitch accord is one; shift gong and jue and the tones diverge. Stillness and solitude are the true master of the five tones; silence is the root of all disputation—yet Huizi took forceful eloquence as the highest achievement.

Zhuangzi drew a parallel with men of Qi who mutilated their sons and sent them to serve as gatekeepers: people discard and harm their own descendants while prizing external things, turn against the Dao to chase victory, and never see their own error. They are like lame gatekeepers living as dependents— their conduct never rises high. What they fight over in the dark holds no real light; before they have even left the shore they are already caught at the edge; and whoever stirs up resentment in the end cannot escape fault in themselves.

Yizhai Kouyi (Lin Xiyi’s exegesis of the Zhuangzi) holds that “the target set in advance” means the arrow mark fixed beforehand. If you shoot without a target, anyone who hits something can be called Yi—the legendary archer. This illustrates that there is no shared standard of “rightness” under heaven; each person clings to his own view, so each can also call himself Yao, the sage-king of antiquity. The five schools of thought differ from one another—who is truly right?

Heating a cauldron without fire in winter and making ice with water in summer seems very hard. Yet at the winter solstice yang begins to stir; at the summer solstice yin begins to stir. Using yang to summon yang, winter need not be cold; using yin to summon yin, summer need not be hot. This is only the principle that opposing the season can still draw a response—it is not what I call the Dao. It merely shows that his way is not yet deep.

So one zither (se) is placed in the hall and another in the inner room. Pluck this one and that one vibrates; gong answers gong, jue answers jue—because the pitches match, that is still easy. Change the tuning of a single string so that among the five tones it does not fixedly correspond to any one—call it gong or call it zhi as you will; hence “without fixed assignment.” Yet when only this one string is plucked here, all twenty-five strings there move together—harder than gong answering gong or jue answering jue. By reason, the five tones all take this one sound as master; none depart from the sound issued on the strings. Hence “never separate from sound itself.” How is this different from summoning yin with yin or yang with yang?

Huizi (Hui Shi), however, thought he had won. That is still each taking his own view as right—not true rightness.

“Fu” means to oppose or counter; “zhen” means to overpower the other side.

“Di” is read as “zhi,” meaning to check the foot so one cannot walk. Sending a son who cannot walk to guard the gate (hun is the doorkeeper) while not using someone whose limbs are whole—he treats his son this way yet thinks himself right. Seeking a small bell yet carefully wrapping and protecting it, loving the object and not the son, he also thinks himself right. It is like losing a son outside yet searching only within one’s own village—this is delusion.

“The man of Chu whose foot was afflicted and therefore became a gatekeeper” is a separate sentence, unrelated to “di” above. “You yilei” means broadly similar. These three cases resemble the situation of the five schools in the main—what the earlier question meant by “is it really so?” The point is not held back until after “enough to breed resentment” but clarified here first—an artful arrangement in the text.

The chapter’s main thrust is to mock Huizi for self-satisfaction. Because he loved disputation, odd words that cannot be grasped at once are used deliberately to corner him. When Dongfang Shuo (Han-dynasty wit) debated with the palace attendant (she ren), the intent was the same.

The earlier remark that “everyone is Hou Yi, everyone is Yao” is Zhuangzi’s way of sharply criticizing Hui Shi (Hui Shi, Zhuangzi’s debating companion) for self-righteousness and of trying to correct his stubborn insistence on his own view. So he tells how Lu Ju (an ancient master of tuning) and his disciple competed: yang calls to yang and yin to yin—nothing more than like kinds responding to like. But when one string here is retuned, the sound of every other string changes; the pitches no longer match, and they no longer resonate. All five tones are sound, yet each has its own place; among them there is what is called the “lord of tones,” which only a keen ear can distinguish. Strike gong (one of the five tones) and the gong string answers; strike jiao (one of the five tones) and the jiao string answers—mere kinship of kind, nothing extraordinary. Those five gentlemen each clung to one partial view; that was not a fair judgment, like gong stopping only at gong and jiao only at jiao, unable to connect. Hui Shi still did not see it. He thought his talent surpassed the other four and that he had never been wrong, so what he affirmed seemed to him the true “this.” Zhuangzi then cited how a man of Qi slighted his son yet prized a bell—that was failing in kindness and going against reason, yet he still thought himself right; and how men of Chu entrusted gatekeeping and then quarreled, not knowing their error. The argument turned layer upon layer, and Hui Shi still did not awaken. From this one can see how deep Zhuangzi’s affection for Hui Shi was; the meaning of the passages that follow makes it clear.

Zhuangzi was on his way to a funeral and passed Hui Shi’s grave. He turned to his attendants and said: In Ying (the region of the Chu capital), a man had a dab of white clay on his nose, thin as a fly’s wing, and asked Craftsman Shi (a skilled artisan named Shi) to slice it off. Craftsman Shi swung his axe with a gust of wind and lopped it away in one stroke: the clay was gone, the nose unharmed, the man of Ying standing there, expression unchanged. Duke Yuan of Song (the ruler of Song) heard of this and summoned Craftsman Shi, saying: Try to do that for me once. Craftsman Shi said: I truly could slice in that way—but the partner who stood still for me is long dead. Since Master passed away, I have had no one to match me, and no one with whom to talk.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Without the partner who stands unmoved and the one who forgets words and meets you in debate, then even the highest discourse and the finest axe-work have nowhere to apply.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: For that very reason Zhuangzi argued with him again and again and deeply regretted that he never reached that understanding.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Hui Shi’s question came first, then Zhuangzi’s reply. After Hui Shi died, Zhuangzi lamented that there was no one left who understood his words, so he used Craftsman Shi’s words to say that his own skill had nowhere left to be shown.

Because of this, Zhuangzi repeatedly debated with Huizi and deeply regretted that Huizi never reached that level.

Lü commentary: Only because Huizi asked questions could Zhuangzi answer. After Huizi died, Zhuangzi sighed that he had no one who truly understood him, and compared himself to Craftsman Stone (a skilled artisan named Stone). A man from Ying (Ying was a place) would smear white clay on the tip of his nose and have Craftsman Stone swing his axe to shave it off. Though the craftsman was skillful, he needed the man from Ying to stand perfectly still as his counterpart before the miraculous feat could succeed. When Lord Song wanted him to demonstrate, Craftsman Stone said he had once been able to shave, but the person who had matched him was long dead. “Counterpart” (zhi) refers to the man from Ying; when that person is gone, the feat cannot be performed again. Zhuangzi felt he had lost Huizi just as Craftsman Stone lost the man from Ying, hence his lament that there was no one to match him and no one with whom to converse— the same meaning as Boya (an ancient master of the zither) breaking his strings and never playing again.

Yidu commentary: Those whose bodily form is quiet as withered wood are not rare; those who face a blade without alarm are few. Those who wield an axe and show off their skill are not rare; those who stand still while another freely swings at the tip of their nose are even rarer. Clearly, a partner who meets you eye to eye and needs no words— how often can such a person be found in the world?

Yizhai kouyi: “Swinging the axe so the wind follows” (yun jin cheng feng) means the axe moves with extreme speed. The white clay is completely removed yet the nose is unharmed— hard enough for the cutter, and even harder for the one who stands motionless. “Counterpart” is the place where skill is displayed; only with Huizi’s debating talent could the reasoning be fully brought out. When Huizi died, there was no one left to talk with.

Zhuangzi embraced and held to the Great Dao, lofty and firm, beyond what the vulgar world could fathom in depth— debate often had no hook to catch on. Only Huizi could draw him out again and again into those vast, boundless discussions, so that what was stored in his chest could pour forth freely.

The Dao that Zhuangzi upheld was lofty and firm—beyond what people of his time could fathom. When the truth is too vast, discussion has nowhere to begin; only Huizi (Huishi, Zhuangzi’s debating companion) could meet him as an equal, so now and then he could unfold boundless argument and give full voice to the strange insights in his heart. To carry the Great Dao in writing and unfold its meaning began precisely here. After Huizi died, Zhuangzi passed his tomb, recalled old times, turned to speak with his attendants—the depth of his feeling can be imagined.

When Craftsman Shi swung his axe, he was a rare master in the world; but without a man of Ying (someone from the capital Ying in Chu) standing perfectly still, the skill had nowhere to show itself. He said that the “material” he worked against had long been dead, so the axe stroke missed not at all—and someone who could forget bodily form and calmly let him cut: how easily does such a person come? Zhuangzi’s loss of Huizi was exactly like this. The line “I have no one left to serve as my material” is not easy to see through at once. Read closely against the text: earlier he said “my material has been dead a long time,” and the other party had to be like dead material—unstartled, unmoved—before he could act. Now Huizi is gone; that material may still exist, but no one responds, so it is as if there were no material at all. The point is that in the world there is no kindred spirit to spark one another, no one left to talk with—a measure of how sharply he mourned his friend.

In life Huizi often spoke with barbed words; Zhuangzi each time did his utmost to correct and set things straight. Though he could not escape the reputation of being eloquent in debate, what he pursued was refined discourse, so he did not fall into the devious habits of the contemporary coalition persuaders (zonghengjia)—thanks in part to the force of sharpening wits with a worthy friend. Thus after Huizi’s death, Zhuangzi still kept his affection and memory alive.

“Listen and strike with the axe”: following Guo Xiang’s commentary, read as “close the eyes and let the hand go freely.” Chen Bixu (Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan), checking the Jiangnan Li family library edition, held that these four characters were originally scripture text, mistakenly cited later as Guo’s note; precisely because they do not belong to the commentary, such confusion arose.

This passage is from Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Classic of Nanhua), fascicle 77. The Qianlong Siku quanshu edition is fascicle 78, by Song author Chu Boxiu, explicating the fourth section of “Xu Wugui.”

When Guan Zhong (the famous prime minister of Qi in the Spring and Autumn period) was gravely ill, Duke Huan of Qi asked him: “Your illness, Zhongfu, is very severe—truly beyond saving. To whom should I entrust the affairs of state?” Guan Zhong asked: “Whom do you have in mind?” The duke said: “Bao Shuyu (Guan Zhong’s close friend).” Guan Zhong said: “That will not do. He is upright and a good man, yet he will not associate with those he considers beneath him. Once he hears of someone’s fault, he never forgets it for the rest of his life. Put him in charge of the state, and toward his superiors he will constrain the ruler; toward the people below he will go against them. It will not be long before he offends his lord.” The duke asked: “Then who is fit?” Guan Zhong replied: “If there is no choice, Yin Peng (a minister of Qi) will do. He holds high rank yet is not arrogant. He feels himself inferior to the Yellow Emperor (the legendary sage king of antiquity) and also pities those who are not his equal. To extend virtue to others is to be sagely; to share wealth with others is to be worthy. To tower over people by worthiness cannot win their hearts; to place one’s worthiness below others—there is none who will not win hearts that way. In state affairs he does not inquire into everything; in household matters he does not scrutinize everything. If you must choose someone, use Yin Peng.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Forgotten above, yet parted below” means holding a high position without arrogance; pitying those inferior to oneself, hence not abandoning people. If one must personally hear and see every matter, all business concentrates on one’s own person and those below no longer know what to do. He can leave some things unmanaged, yet cannot fully let go—so he is only barely usable.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary cites a common Daoist saying: Only with capacity to embrace is there fairness; with fairness comes the bearing of a king; the king aligns with Heaven; aligning with Heaven aligns with the Dao (the Way). Capacity, fairness, kingship, Heaven, and the Dao—these five are what he embodies in practice. Only one who can be fair deserves the name “fair”; only one who can be king deserves the name “king”—the titles of king and “lord” arise from this. Yin Peng’s virtue may be called: with capacity comes fairness.

Commentary by Yidu (Lin Zi, styled Yidu):

Duke Huan of Qi became hegemon because he relied on Guan Zhong’s strength. When Guan Zhong was gravely ill, the duke asked whom he could entrust with state affairs. Guan Zhong asked whom he had in mind; the duke named Bao Shu Ya, who was Guan Zhong’s friend. Guan Zhong said that would not do: Bao Shu Ya keeps himself pure and upright and may be called a good man, but he cannot bear great responsibility. If one will not draw close to those one considers beneath oneself, one loses people’s hearts and lacks support. If one always remembers others’ faults and never lets them go, many will resent one. Put such a man in charge of the state and he would constrain the ruler above and run against the people below; before long he would fall into blame. The duke asked who else might serve. Guan Zhong said that if there were no alternative, use Yin Peng.

“Forgetting above” means forgetting rank and power. “Connecting below” means meeting those below while each side keeps its proper place. Ashamed that he is not the equal of the Yellow Emperor, his Dao rises day by day; pitying those he sees as beneath him, his De spreads wider day by day. The ruler’s way is to share De with others; the minister’s way is to share wealth with others. From the angle of nurturing and transforming, such a person is called a sage; from the angle of accomplishment, worthy. To tower over others by virtue and talent is to “preside over people” in a way that misses the Way; to hold virtue and talent yet place oneself below, excelling at dwelling low, is how people come to attach themselves. Saying that he has what he does not hear and what he does not see means that he can turn hearing inward and look within—hence there is nothing he does not hear and nothing he does not see.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) notes: Bao Shuya could not force himself to endure humiliation for the sake of benefiting all under Heaven; he only wanted everything to be as spotless as he was. Therefore, toward those above he checked and constrained the ruler, and because he would not draw close to anyone he regarded as beneath him, he went against the people’s wishes. Xi Peng neither flattered nor looked down on others; he honored the Dao and cared for the people. The sage does not claim virtue for himself; the worthy do not hoard wealth. Though capable, they willingly place themselves below others—how could they fail to win hearts? Thus one who is truly great should remain in a lowly position. In state affairs he did not pry into every detail; in household matters he did not scrutinize everything; toward all under Heaven he could likewise let go. Bao Shuya recommended Guan Zhong from public-spirited motives—could Guan Zhong’s recommendation of Xi Peng have been selfish?

Yan Zhai (Lin Xiyi), Kouyi: “Not comparing” (bu bi) means not ranking oneself alongside others or drawing them into one’s own circle of intimacy. Gou means to impose restraint or control. Ni means to compel people through ritual and moral norms. “Forgetting what is above” (shang wang) is forgetting one’s own power and rank. “Turning away from what is below” (xia pan) is keeping distance from those beneath while seeking nothing from those above. “Distributing by De” is like the saying that when De descends, the people embrace it—virtue flows downward and the folk attach themselves. “Distributing by wealth” is not treating property as private hoard. “Presiding over others by worth” is monopolizing reputation and boasting of oneself. “There is what he does not hear, there is what he does not see” means he does not investigate minutely. This episode appears in no other book; it is found only in the Liezi, and even there it is no more than a parable.

Baoshu Ya was a worthy friend of Guan Zhong. Duke Huan of Qi asked whom state affairs could be entrusted to; Guan Zhong ought to have recommended Shu Ya, but first asked whom the duke wished to appoint. The duke said Shu Ya. Guan Zhong knew Shu Ya was worthy, but his talent and strength were insufficient for heavy administrative burdens; he also feared that Shu Ya would stick rigidly to the middle way and not know how to adapt—restraining the ruler above and going against the people below—so he concluded he would not do. This was not favoritism from friendship, lest Shu Ya fail in office and offend the ruler. When there was truly no choice, he could only say that Xie Peng was barely acceptable. The phrase “shang fang er xia pan” (restraining above while those below turn away) appears in the Liezi as “xia bu pan” (those below do not rebel). Zhang Zhan’s comment: when one in high position can restrain himself, one need not fear those below turning away in disloyalty. From this we know the wording in this passage of the Zhuangzi is mistaken. The ancient graph pan could interchange with pan meaning rebellion, but given Xie Peng’s character it is inappropriate to read it as betrayal; reading it as the pan of boundary or margin also fails—one should follow the Liezi’s “xia bu pan.” “Yu guo you bu wen, yu jia you bu jian” means that in governing he was generous and did not rely on his own cleverness for harsh, minute oversight; he could willingly stay below others and win hearts, so state affairs could be entrusted to him. Rather than using cleverness to govern the state and establishing laws that harm the people, it is better to be generous and win the multitude so all can rest in peace with one another. Guan Zhong could recognize and appoint people, and thereby achieved Qi’s hegemony; he was loyal to the ruler yet also looked after his friend—right on both counts in terms of the Way. The scriptural line “ke bu wei yun” is in the Liezi as “ke bu hui yun,” which is more fitting.

The king of Wu went boating on the Yangzi and climbed a mountain where macaques gathered. When the troop saw him, they panicked, dropped what they held, and fled into deep thickets. One monkey, however, calmly climbed and scratched, showing off its agility to the king. The king shot at it; it nimbly caught the flying arrow. The king ordered his attendants to shoot together in haste; the monkey was struck and died. The king turned to his friend Yan Biyi and said: This monkey boasted of its skill and relied on its quick body to look down on me, so it ended up killed. Take warning! Do not flaunt your expression and talent before others in arrogance. Yan Biyi went home and took Master Dong Wu as teacher, stripped away his arrogant bearing, left indulgence in pleasure, and gave up display; after three years the people of the state all praised him.

Guo Xiang’s comment: Min means swift; gei means responding in quick succession. Though the arrow flew fast, the monkey could still catch and parry it. “Guo ren cheng zhi” means they praised him for casting off cleverness, removing arrogant color, and settling into simplicity.

This passage collects various commentators’ explanations of the “King of Wu shoots the macaque” episode in the Zhuangzi. A macaque (ju) in the mountains shows off its agility before the King of Wu; the king shoots first, and the animal nimbly catches the arrows; then he orders his attendants to shoot together, and at last it is captured and dies. The king thereupon warns his friend Yan Buyi: one must not treat others with arrogant bearing and expression.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Min” means swift; “gei” means firing arrows in rapid succession. Though the arrows fly fast, the macaque can still catch them. Later the people praised Yan Buyi for shedding cunning craftiness, letting go of outward show in his expression, and settling into plain simplicity.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To treat others with arrogant bearing and expression is for inner arrogance to appear on the face. What is called “hoeing away arrogant color” is nothing but removing that state of mind. The six—countenance, conduct, expression, demeanor, speech, and breath—all disturb the original mind.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: The macaque boasts of its own skill, relies on the convenience of the mountain forest to act arrogantly toward people, and thus meets death. The King of Wu used this to warn Buyi: do not use bearing and expression to look down on others. Buyi accepted the teaching, returned to study under a person of the Way, removed arrogant bearing and held to simplicity, so the people called him worthy.

Chen Jingyuan (Bixu): Deeply hidden fear can avoid disaster; unrestrained wandering and display invite calamity. The macaque relied on a little skill alone and could not escape the crowd’s arrows. Wild creatures in the hills lack understanding; arrogant behavior toward people still could not avoid swift death—how much more so for human beings, the most spiritually refined among the ten thousand things, who have both perception and insight yet still wish to look down on those honored among their own kind? Buyi returned and hoed away arrogant color and won the people’s praise, showing how readily he could awaken.

Lin Xiyi, Yizhai kouyi: “Min gei” means the arrows are shot quickly and the macaque catches them quickly too. “Xiang” refers to the attendants left and right. When the crowd shoots together, though the macaque is clever it cannot withstand them; it is captured and dies. This warns those who flaunt talent and invite disaster on themselves.

The macaque is not of the same kind as humans. In deep mountains and thick forest it holds sway and even hates the sound of human voices—how much more when it sees a human body? Yet seeing the King of Wu it scratches and displays its skill—already a sign of swift death—so it could not escape being shot; that it could catch a few arrows may be called min gei. The king, finding it too clever, ordered his attendants to pursue with arrows; all were within range—how could they miss? That it was captured and died was also fitting. From this the king understood: looking down on outer things quickly brings harm; standing out in display draws disaster. He therefore warned his friend not to use bearing and expression arrogantly. Buyi returned, removed arrogant color, and declined prominence—unless one is bold in turning toward the good, how could one do so? Three years later the people praised him. Doing good must be sustained; only after a thousand days does success appear. Doing evil needs less than one morning to destroy the body, with plenty to spare. Can one fail to take warning?

Nan Bo Ziqi—a sage figure in Zhuangzi’s writings—sat leaning on his armrest, slowly exhaling toward the sky. Yan Chengzi came in to see him and said: “You are the most outstanding person among us; everyone in the state says so. Doing good requires steady persistence—success is built over a thousand days; yet a single day’s wrongdoing is enough to ruin one’s name, with force to spare. How can one fail to be on guard!”

Nan Bo Ziqi sat leaning on his armrest, slowly exhaling toward the sky. Yan Chengzi came in and asked: “You are the most outstanding person among the ten thousand things. Can the body truly be made like a withered skeleton, and the heart truly like cold ashes that have gone out?” (Withered bones and dead ashes describe forgetting body and mind—still and undisturbed.)

Ziqi said: “I once lived in a mountain cave. When Tian He, the ruler of Qi, saw me only once, the people of Qi congratulated him again and again. I must first have had something in me worth praising before they could know it; I must first have shown myself off before they could take it and spread it abroad. If I had never had such things, where would they have learned of them? If I had not displayed myself, what would they have had to proclaim? Alas! I grieve for people who set up defenses for themselves and lose their original nature; I also grieve for those who grieve for such people; and I grieve for those who grieve for the grievers. From then on, I withdrew from all of this day by day.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The three congratulations in Qi treated meeting Ziqi as an honor. Ziqi knew that acting that way could not help the other person—it would only obstruct himself—so he dissolved grief by not grieving; grief gradually fell away, the heart grew plain, the body withered, and thus he withdrew further each day.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Tian He’s one meeting and Qi’s threefold congratulations happened because I first revealed myself and showed off, so they knew and spread the word. The heart had not been fully transformed inwardly; traces remained outwardly, so others knew. The Way of Heaven never fixed things beforehand; as soon as the mind holds the least distinct awareness, that is self-defense. What is called “defense” is losing the original heart. Ziqi grieved here because people defended themselves—he hoped they would return to the root heart. Yet to grieve knowingly when the other is still defending is still defense, not yet return. So he also grieved for those who grieved for the grievers—in that way, defense and grief no longer have a clear place to land. Hence he could withdraw day by day and no longer be dragged by outer things. At that point, how could the body fail to wither and the heart fail to resemble dead ashes?

Yidu commentary: “The exceptional among things” means someone whose talent and wisdom surpass others yet who can still guard body and mind; even so, Ziqi (Nanbo Ziqi) still felt it was not enough. He once lived in the mountains; the ruler saw him only once, yet the people congratulated him again and again. He asked: Why am I held in such esteem? If I had not first exposed my reputation, how would others know, and how would they spread it? Most pitiful of all is the death of the heart. People cling to their conscience, so he grieved for them; that grief itself was again grievable. Using this to shed entanglements still did not reach the end. So he grieved again for “those who grieve for people,” letting go layer by layer, until worldly burdens gradually fell away.

Bixu commentary: Liezi lived in seclusion in Zheng’s garden, like one submerged in land—seeking no recognition—yet in Qi he still received gifts. One who hides fame long is like the sun behind clouds: the light must show in the end. The selling of name and virtue began between Chaofu and Xu You (sages who refused the realm). Later, those who cultivated grandeur in the mountains sometimes used lofty cliff-dwelling as a ladder to office, so there were no true recluses. Grieving for people who guard themselves is anguish at their peddling reputation; grieving for one who grieves for such people is knowing the fault lies in oneself; grieving for the grief of one who grieves for people’s grief is seeing that having a “mind” set on this is already wrong. Then principle and affairs grow daily more remote, merging with the vast undifferentiated (mingxi, chaos before division).

Yizhai kouyi: “Xian” means “sell”: I have visible traces, others then learn of me—that is self-guarding. To grieve for people who guard themselves while they do not know their own grief is more grievable still. The mountain cave was his old dwelling. He said that at the time he was aware only through “grieving for people’s grief,” so the Dao he embodied grew daily more far-reaching, until today his form is withered and his heart ash.

This passage refers to the opening scene of “Discourse on Making Things Equal” (Qi Wu Lun), in which Nan Guo Zi Qi appears—so the reason Yan Cheng Zi (his disciple) comes in to see him and begins to question him is the same. Zi Qi leans on his armrest; in utmost stillness he slowly exhales toward the sky—inner vitality has already stirred—and the disciple seizes the moment to ask him. “You were once the most refined and spirited among the myriad things, yet now you are withered and cold as ashes.” Zi Qi answers by recalling the past: Tian He (ruler of Qi), hearing of his worth, entered the mountains merely to look at him; throughout Qi, people celebrated again and again, thinking they had gained a worthy man to govern with and could reach great peace. His point is: only because I first possessed talent and virtue that others could discern did they come to know me; only because I first displayed talent and virtue like goods for sale did they take them up and proclaim them. This means one cannot keep oneself hidden and thereby draws fame; once name arrives, body and mind are burdened, responsibility grows heavy, and calamity arises. If it were not that one failed to guard oneself, what else would be the cause? That is what makes it lamentable. I lament those who deliberately arm themselves against the world—their tracks remain near and are easily seen. I also lament those who go to pity others; as they go deeper in this way, they eventually return to pitying themselves. And I lament those who lament the “lamenters of others”; at that level one can only resign oneself to what cannot be helped. Thus one no longer uses lament to lament, and lets the piping of Heaven sound and cease of itself—then the entanglements and worries of the world day by day draw farther off, and so one can be withered in form and dead ash in mind like this. From this one can know: to hold talent yet be able to hide it has been difficult in every age; only someone like a dragon that slips the nets of the world, or a wild goose lost in high clouds, can preserve this from beginning to end.

From Nan Hua Zhen Jing Yi Hai Zuan Wei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning of the True Classic of Southern Florescence), compiled in the Southern Song by Chu Bo Xiu, commentary on the Zhuangzi, chapter 78. The same work as collected in the imperial Complete Library of the Four Treasures, juan 79, by Chu Bo Xiu of the Song; the section title is “Xu Wugui,” the fifth chapter.

When Confucius arrived in Chu, King Zhuang of Chu held a banquet and offered him wine. Sun Shuao, the worthy minister of Chu, stood holding the wine cup, and Shinan Yiliao, a warrior of Chu skilled at juggling pellets, took the wine and made an offering prayer, saying: “People of old, on occasions like this, would speak.”

Confucius said: “I, Kong Qiu, have heard of a teaching that uses no words, yet I have never spoken of it; today I shall speak of it here. Shinan Yiliao merely juggled pellets and thus dispelled the danger threatening two houses; Sun Shuao lay at ease with a fan in hand, and the people of Ying laid down their weapons. How I wish I had a mouth three feet long to praise them!”

What those two embodied was the Dao that does not rely on speech; what Confucius speaks of here is disputation that does not dispute. Therefore De gathers into the unity of the Dao, and discourse comes to rest where wisdom cannot know—this is the utmost. The level at which the Dao is unified cannot be fully matched by De; what wisdom cannot know, disputation cannot enumerate either. To wrangle over reputation like the Ru and Mo schools do is to invite disaster. The sea does not reject the waters that flow eastward, and so it becomes vast to the extreme; the sage embraces heaven and earth, and his grace reaches all under heaven, yet people do not know who he is. Thus in life he has no rank, after death no posthumous title; he does not amass solid gain or establish a name—this is called the Great Man. A dog is not a good dog because it barks well; a person is not worthy because he speaks well—how much less can one become “great” by striving! To pursue being “great” is still not enough to be truly great, how much less to pursue De! Nothing is more complete than heaven and earth; heaven and earth never seek anything, yet they are already complete. One who understands this utmost completeness seeks nothing, loses nothing, and abandons nothing, and does not change himself because of external things. Returning to oneself without exhaustion, following the ancient Way without ornament—this is the sincerity of the Great Man.

Guo Xiang comments: The sage has no name of his own; what he speaks is simply the people’s speech, hence it is called wordless teaching. If one treats speaking as not speaking, then even when words issue from the mouth, one still follows the ancient Way without ornament—this is the sincerity of the Great Man.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The sage has no name of his own. What he speaks is only what the people would naturally say anyway, hence it is called “words that are not spoken.” If one treats speaking as not speaking, then though words come from the mouth, they still do not count as truly having been said. What is to be clarified here is precisely speaking within non-speaking. Shinan Yiliao (a man of Chu skilled at juggling) and Sun Shu’ao (prime minister of Chu) did not argue; they simply remained calm and at ease, and litigation and warfare dissolved on their own. If words do not arise from private intent, then even a lifetime of talking equals never having spoken. Thus, even with a mouth three feet long, one still cannot be said to be able to speak; when ordinary people keep silent, that is not the same as not speaking. The former refers to Yiliao and Shu’ao; the latter to Confucius. What the Dao embraces has no fixed boundary; in the end it is nothing but each thing finding its own sufficiency, and so it is one. When speech rests in its own proper place, that is the utmost; each person simply obtains what suits him—not that all are identical—yet the Dao remains one. Once one oversteps one’s place, debate has nothing by which to be marked out. Confucians and Mohists forcibly treat what cannot be made the same as if it were the same, and try to cite what cannot be cited, and so bring disaster upon themselves. The sea receives the myriad things without refusing any, and thereby becomes the great sea. The sage broadly entrusts himself to everything; to have is as if not to have. Posthumous titles are used to speak of merit, but when merit is not one’s own, even a title does not belong to oneself. When the myriad things are each satisfied, real benefit does not gather in one place; when achievement is not made by oneself, fame is not erected. If one acts with deliberate effort and then claims it as one’s own, one becomes petty. Worthiness arises from nature; it is not something speech can manufacture. The greater a thing is, the less it can be obtained by deliberate action—only the natural will do. The completeness of Heaven and Earth is not something sought. One who knows that he is originally complete does not abandon himself to seek things outside, and so has no seeking, no loss, and no abandonment. Returning to guard one’s own principle, one naturally penetrates; following one’s constant nature, one naturally arrives—not by polishing or grinding. Obtaining without acting and by nature alone—this is called sincerity (cheng).

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: These three men did not live at the same time; what is said is also allegory. So-called “words that are not spoken” does not mean having no mouth. If one truly acted like those two, then even with a beak three feet long, it would still be non-speaking. What those two did is the Dao that does not rely on the ordinary Dao; Confucius’s non-speaking is debate that does not use words. How could people of the world understand? What virtue cannot make the same and debate cannot mark out originally has no name. Resting where there is no name is where good fortune stops; otherwise, even if fame is like that of Confucians and Mohists, one cannot avoid reckless action and disaster. The Dao in the world is like the hundred streams returning to the sea—it receives and does not reject. The sage’s embracing and nourishing the myriad things is the same. Not knowing who he is—no rank in life, no posthumous title in death—this is why the sage is nameless and thereby great. If even skill in speech is not enough to make one worthy, how much less can greatness depend on words? What intelligence cannot know, debate by nature cannot mark out—yet there is still debate that does not speak. The sage does not deliberately seek greatness; once one seeks, one is no longer enough to be great, still less if one deliberately cultivates De. What the Dao unifies, virtue cannot make the same—yet there is still the Dao that does not rely on the ordinary Dao. The great completeness of the world is originally complete because there is no seeking. People too each have what counts as great completeness; it lies solely in sincerity. Sincerity means no seeking; no seeking means no loss and no abandonment, because one is already sufficient in oneself and does not replace oneself with external things. The great person knows that the myriad things are all complete in himself, and so turns back to seek within himself without exhaustion; he lasts as long as antiquity without decay, and so follows it without polishing or grinding. Sincerity is hitting the mark without forcing, obtaining without reflecting, achieving without deliberate action (wuwei).

Lin Yidu (a Song dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) explains that in antiquity people always made a small offering of food and wine before eating, dedicating a portion to whatever they revered, as a sign of inner respect. When Sun Shu’ao (Chancellor of Chu) and Shìnán Yíliáo (a Chu performer skilled at juggling) attended the banquet and received the wine, they offered it in libation first because they wished Confucius (Zhongni) to speak and instruct. Hence the text says: the ancient Way has not declined since high antiquity; those who follow it do not wear away or stray from it. What is called cheng (sincerity) is what fits naturally without forcing, is right without deliberate thought, and succeeds without artificial contrivance.

In such gatherings for feasting and conversation, people of old always had something to say. Confucius ordinarily wished not to speak, yet here he says: I have heard of words that need not be spoken—I have never told them before, and only today do I tell them. He wanted people to know that these words arise precisely from “not speaking.”

Bai Gong Sheng (a Chu prince) plotted rebellion and meant to kill Chancellor Zixi (Chu’s chief minister). Both sides sent envoys to summon Yíliáo. He was in the middle of his ball-juggling act and did not even look at the two messengers. Neither side obtained him, and each withdrew its troops. Sun Shu’ao, for his part, reclined at ease with a feather fan in hand, free and unoccupied, yet kept the enemy from invading and stopped warfare a thousand li away. Confucius cites these two cases—crisis stilled through non-action—to show the meaning of “not speaking.” Such words as issue from never speaking: even with a mouth three feet long, one does not thereby fail to be wordless.

Wordless and also without deliberate action (wuwei, non-action)—this is called “the Dao that does not rely on words,” that is, the constant Dao. Words that come from not speaking are called “argument that does not dispute,” that is, great argument. The manifold de (virtue/power) converge and turn toward the Dao: the Dao can unify them as one, but de cannot. What intelligence cannot know, silence can present; disputation cannot reveal it.

If people compete over de, compare speeches for length, mingle their designations with those of Confucian and Mohist schools, and cannot guard their lives with careful concealment, disaster will come.

The sea is great because it accepts everything; the sage is a sage because he embraces heaven and earth, while the world does not know who he is. No one enfeoffed him with rank, yet he is always naturally so. Posthumous titles are established because of merit; when merit is complete and one does not claim it, there is no title. Without rank in life, solid benefit does not accumulate; without a posthumous name after death, reputation is not established. This is what is called a great person (daren).

A dog is good at guarding and does not mind that it does not bark; a shi (scholar-official) is good at acting and does not mind that he does not speak. Speech is already insufficient to be called great—how much less sufficient to be called de! This is the sense in which Confucius wished to be without words.

True completeness (wan) is when one is already sufficient in oneself; once there is seeking, one is still incomplete. Heaven and earth have no deliberate mind toward the ten thousand things, yet the ten thousand things naturally fill the space between heaven and earth—this is great completeness. What is made ready only by seeking is small completeness. To understand great completeness, one must understand non-seeking. Non-seeking means no loss; no loss means no discarding; then one is not changed by external things. Able to return to oneself, one can follow the ancient Way—nothing more than not stepping outside sincerity (cheng).

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, Song-dynasty Daoist) explains in his commentary: nongwan (“playing with pills”) means turning pellets in the palm as a game. Master Guiguzi (Warring States recluse) had a method of “turning the pellet” and discourse on fierce beasts—the idea being that the sage’s wisdom has no limit, like a pellet that never stops turning; the beast’s power likewise has no end. That is why Shinan Yiliao (a man of Chu skilled at pellet tricks) could treat affairs of the world like a pellet in his palm: he could rest at ease, fan in hand, and still command. People like these—do they need words to get things done?

Silently take it in and keep it in mind—what harm if the mouth is long? Once words leave the lips, trouble is born; even sealing the mouth three times (the classic warning against loose speech) brings no real benefit. Hence there is a Dao that cannot be spoken, and a disputation that uses no words. The reason the Dao is one is precisely this unspeakable Dao; to know what one does not know is disputation without words. Confucians and Mohists may be sharp debaters, yet they only draw calamity on themselves for it.

The sea is vast because it receives; the sage embraces all and therefore has no fame. While alive he does not display virtue; after death he leaves no praise. Without amassing what is truly “there,” reputation cannot stand. This is called the daren (great person): talent and virtue complete, yet not like a vessel with one fixed use.

What humans should prize is penetrating the Great Dao—not clever speech. To embrace things is called greatness; to aid widely is called de. To preserve that greatness, one should be humble and reduce oneself; the person of de should appear fragmented and incomplete. Like heaven and earth covering and bearing all things without partiality, or like the tuoyue (bellows) blowing—nurturing the myriad beings so plants and animals grow. Precisely because there is no selfishness and no grasping, one can be called fully great. Gold lies hidden in the mountains unmined; pearls rest in the deep ungathered. Let the people return to simplicity without abandoning them, and do not be led by externals. Return to the root without exhaustion; follow the ancient way without extinction. The great person’s sincerity accords with heaven and earth.

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song, whose commentary on the Zhuangzi is often cited) says that juggling balls is merely play, and holding a feather fan while sleeping soundly both involve no deliberate contrivance. Confucius held that both men achieved “wuwei zhi wei” (acting without forcing—accomplishment that arises naturally rather than through deliberate effort); why wait for them to come and explain? His wish for a three-foot beak meant that he himself lacked such a long mouth and could not adequately put the matter into words.

What the Dao returns to as one is simply the natural (ziran). De (Virtue/Power) is what people draw from within themselves; it arises from human effort and cannot be equated with the Dao of nature. The “De” here differs in meaning from “De” elsewhere in this classic.

Once names and categories appear as in Confucianism and Mohism, it is no longer “buyan zhi bian” (discernment that needs no words). When one cannot tell who or what is truly at stake, there is nothing to name. “Shi bu ju yu yi shen” (goodness does not gather in one’s person) means that even when there is goodness, it is not claimed as one’s own. Worthies do not take eloquence as skill—how much less the “great person”? To bear the name “great person” is still not to be truly great; how much less should natural De need a label?

“Da bei” is “da cheng” (great completion). Because there is nothing to seek, nothing is lost. Neither abandoning oneself nor trading oneself for external things—oneself is then more precious than things. The crux is to turn inward and seek in oneself. Following the ancient Way, there is no room for forced effort.

The ball turns endlessly in the palm; the pivot of its use lies entirely in the heart’s square inch. This illustrates that the myriad changes in affairs all arise from human beings. To the person of penetration, all of this is like play.

Xiong Yiliao was a man of Chu, wise and brave. Sima Ziqi (who appraises Yiliao in the text) said that gaining him was worth five hundred men—a measure of his talent. He lived in seclusion in the southern market, content in that life, and saw nothing in the world worth doing. Bai Gong Sheng (a prince of Chu who plotted rebellion) hoped Yiliao would help him succeed—a profound misunderstanding of Yiliao. Yiliao merely juggled and ignored him, as was only fitting. Though it was play, it prevented Bai Gong’s revolt, spared Zixi (chief minister of Chu) from disaster, and dissolved the crisis of both houses.

Sun Shu’ao (a famed minister of Chu) served three times and was dismissed three times, neither rejoicing nor anger—his measure was hard to fathom. Sleeping at ease in leisure, fan in hand and conversing calmly, he could make a hostile state lay down arms and withdraw. This is what military treatises call subduing others without battle—the “budao zhi dao” (a Way not capturable in ordinary speech) and “buyan zhi bian.”

Even with a mouth, words can hardly describe it. Confucius said he wished for a three-foot beak before he could discuss it—not that he literally had such a long mouth.

What the Dao returns to as one is the root of the ten thousand things; De naturally inclines toward it. To know what one does not know is the truth of the Dao—more than language can hold. Hence De cannot be equated with it, nor can disputation lift it up. Confucians and Mohists, famous for debate, have nowhere to apply their skill here. The sage’s measure is like the sea, embracing all; grace reaches the world yet merit is not hoarded as one’s own. Therefore neither rank nor posthumous title is fixed—name and reality are both guarded. Thus one can be as “da bei” as Heaven and Earth without relying on words or deliberate action.

“Da bei,” so no seeking outward; no seeking, so no loss of the Dao; no loss, so no abandoning of people. To stand in the present yet always follow the ancient Way, to penetrate external things without losing oneself—this rests only on sincerity (cheng). With sincerity, true practice shines forth; what thing would not be transformed?

In the text, phrases like “da bei yi” and “duo yi,” and under “wu qiu” the phrase “wu qiu” should be repeated once more before the following sentence. For “bu mo,” the variant “bu mo” (not grind) appears; reading it as “bu mo” (not polish/grind) fits better.

Ziqi had eight sons. He had them line up before him and invited Jiufang Yi, who was skilled at reading faces, saying: “Tell fortunes for these boys for me—who is lucky?” Jiufang Yi said: “Kun is the lucky one.” Ziqi was both startled and pleased, and asked: “In what way is he lucky?” Jiufang Yi said: “Kun will eat at the same table as the ruler and will do so for the rest of his life.”

Ziqi’s expression darkened. With tears he said: “How could my son come to such a pass!” Jiufang Yi said: “To eat with the ruler—blessing can reach three clans, let alone one’s parents! You hear this and weep; that is to refuse good fortune. The son is lucky, but the father is not.”

Ziqi said: “Yi, what do you know, that you call Kun lucky? What you call auspicious is merely wine and meat passing through mouth and nose—how would you know where it comes from? I never kept sheep, yet a sheep appeared in the southwest corner of the house; I never loved hunting, yet a quail appeared in the southeast corner. If that is not strange, what is? What my son and I wander in together is the space between Heaven and Earth. With him I ask Heaven for joy and Earth for food; I do not join him in affairs or schemes, nor in making oddities; with him I follow the sincerity of Heaven and Earth and do not let outer things entangle us; with him I wind and yield (weishe), and do not demand of him what worldly “propriety” would require. And now there comes this worldly reward! Wherever there is an omen of the strange, there is bound to be strange conduct. Dangerous! This is hardly the fault of my son and me—it is almost something Heaven has imposed. That is why I weep.”

Before long, Ziqi sent Kun to the state of Yan. On the road Kun was seized by robbers. A man with all four limbs intact is hard to sell; cut off his feet (yue) and he sells easily—so the robbers amputated his feet and sold him in Qi, where he ended up right on the street of Lord Qu. There Kun lived out his life eating meat.

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that what seems uncanny is simply because the event is unexpected. What I wander and dwell in is not deliberate action; I only meet whatever heaven and earth bring my way. Following the usual pattern and entrusting myself to inborn nature, one naturally rises above things—this is “non-action” (wuwei). When one simply goes along without picking and choosing, if one has done something for things, things will respond. I had not established any merit, yet I received a return—why? There was no strange conduct, yet there was a strange sign; that shows it was fate (tianming). What succeeds only when you do it yourself stops when you do not do it; what you did not do yet comes on its own leaves you no choice—hence the weeping. Later Kun was sent to Yan and was seized by bandits on the road. If a captive is whole, they fear he will escape; if his feet are cut off, he is easier to sell.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary says this shows that what Jiufang grasps through physiognomy cannot match what Ziqi fathoms through the Dao. Ziqi and his son moving through heaven and earth embody how the perfected person (zhiren) nurtures life—yet odd signs still appear, which shows they were given by heaven and were not invited by oneself.

Lin Yidu’s commentary says the southwest corner of a room is called the “ recess” (ao), paired with the earthly branch wei (Goat); the southeast corner is called yao, paired with chen (Quail). Sheep come from herding and quail from the hunt—that is human affair; that sheep belong to wei and quail to chen is heavenly principle. One did not perform those human acts—so why the marvel of wine and meat? The point is the principle of yin-yang and of nature and life (xingming)—not something a person can evade. “I and Kun move through heaven and earth”: what meets us from heaven we do not refuse but gladly accept; what meets us from earth we do not refuse but take as sustenance. Not sharing business with him is sharing the Way with him; not sharing plans with him is sharing principle with him; not sharing in making marvels with him is sharing in keeping to the ordinary with him—so one can ride the authenticity of heaven and earth without getting tangled up with outer things. What the world calls fitting I have never done; yet now there is a sign of dining with the lord—that is only what the world wishes for, and the return lands on the body. An unusual sign must go with unusual conduct; neither my son nor I had such conduct, yet the sign appeared—it was heaven’s gift. When anything reaches its limit, the sage attributes it to heaven. The command heaven sends can only be met with calm acceptance. Duke Qu’s household was a rich merchant’s family.

At the utmost limit, meeting good fortune instead gives rise to fear; the father took it as ill omen and refused the blessing. When wine and food pass through nose and mouth, one says external support is too lavish; not knowing where it comes from, one says one receives salary without merit. It is as if one never tended the fields, yet sheep and quail suddenly appear inside the house—truly strange. “Roaming in Heaven and Earth, harmonizing with naturalness”: seeking joy from Heaven, one delights in ordinary custom; seeking food from Earth, one finds its fare sweet. Not acting rashly is holding the center; not plotting is following one’s inborn nature; not treating things as odd is keeping to the constant. Receiving Heaven and Earth’s sincerity is to grasp the Dao; not being stirred by outer things is to follow how things go; not being drawn into affairs is having no picking and choosing. True achievement leaves no trace; worldly matters still have reckoning. When odd conduct is gone, one must still beware what comes as Heaven’s gift; though one’s allotted lot (ming) cannot be escaped, dread remains—hence the weeping. Nine Fang Yan trusted his numerology; Ziqi alone saw clearly by the Great Dao. So even cultivated attainment cannot avoid harm—all is fate.

Yan Zhai’s oral gloss: What was never pastured, what was never plowed—yet sheep and quail are born indoors. Worldly affairs are repaid; when strange conduct is absent, one must guard against Heaven’s gifts; though the allotted lot cannot be evaded, worry and fear remain—hence weeping. Nine Fang Yan relied on his arts with confidence; Ziqi alone was clear through the Dao—so even virtue in practice still cannot avoid trouble; all is fate.

Yuanzhai’s Kouyi commentary holds that sheep and quail appearing in the house when one has never herded or farmed is an uncanny event. The point is that the father and son ask nothing of the world—how could there be occasion to dine with the ruler? Content with Heaven’s way and living off the land’s bounty, they neither stir trouble nor scheme, never striking out in novelty but simply following nature; they dare not meet vulgar affairs head-on, so how would they know what is “fitting” or “unfitting”? Just as he rests in Wuwei (non-action), the other speaks of eating with the sovereign—as if a debt to the mundane world were still unpaid. That is a strange omen; his son ought not receive such a lot, and there will surely be strange conduct ahead. “Qu Gong’s lane” means someone who keeps the lane gate at the street—such a person is called a lü (ward gatekeeper).

Wu Chou’s note says Jiufang Ga’s art is bounded by what can be counted and his insight stops at the finite, so his reading of Kun (Ziqi’s son) is cramped. He knows only that dining with the ruler all one’s life is auspicious, not that suffering foot amputation and harm to life is the greatest ill omen. Ziqi weeps precisely as precaution. Jiufang Ga sees people by technique; Ziqi judges affairs by principle. The technician sees only the omen of eating meat and misses the calamity of lost feet; the man of principle fears blessing beyond his station and rests in the ordinary. This touches fixed fate—human effort cannot shift it. How can one know that technique cannot reach principle, or that principle cannot encompass technique? Why argue auspicious or not? Consider the Old Man at the Frontier and His Horse, or the deer found in a banana leaf—what is truly gain or loss? One who knows fate simply lets things be.

Ziqi, precisely because he never raised livestock or tilled fields, finds sheep and quail suddenly there with no known origin—how could he not find it strange? He and his son delight in Heaven’s way and take food from the earth; they make no uncanny plans but follow heaven-and-earth’s straight pattern, so they clash with nothing outside. In conduct they avoid reckoning what is “appropriate,” wholly entrusting themselves to nature. The other says he will eat with the sovereign—a worldly wish, not what he hopes for. He himself does nothing uncanny, yet this uncanny sign appears—probably heaven’s gift. Once he knows it is heaven-given, why weep? Because the perfected person can illumine the fine threads of principle and weigh how things change; he knows great disaster must sprout from the extreme of misfortune—nothing arrives without cause—so tears are unavoidable.

What follows explains how fortune and misfortune lean on each other and turn: the physiognomist said he would eat with the sovereign, yet in the end he only got food at Qu Gong’s lane. The pronunciation gloss notes Qu Gong was a wealthy man of Qi who served as street warden (managing lanes and alleys). Set beside foot amputation, physiognomy does not fully hit the mark; judging by principle comes closer to the Dao and covets nothing by luck.

In volumes seventy-nine and eighty of Chu Boxiu’s Yihai Zuanwei (Gathered Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning) on the Nanhuazhen Jing (the Zhuangzi, as preserved in the Siku Quanshu edition), the chapter “Xu Wugui” (the sixth in that sequence) draws out a hidden point: a physiognomist had said this man would dine with the ruler of the state, yet in the end he only got food on Qigong’s street. The Yinyi (Pronunciation and Meaning) gloss notes that Qigong was a rich man of Qi who served as jiezheng—the head of a street or lane. Weighed against the fact that he still suffered the yue penalty (amputation of the foot), the art of reading faces and fates did not fully come true. It is better to judge by principle (li), which stays closer to the Dao (the Way), than to cling to wishful luck.

When Nieque met Xu You, he asked, “Where are you going?” Xu You replied, “I am trying to get away from Yao.”

Nieque asked, “What do you mean by that?” Xu You said, “Yao tirelessly promotes benevolence and righteousness (renyi), and I fear that in the end he will become a laughingstock throughout the world. Later ages may even come to the point of people eating people! The common people are not hard to assemble: show them love and they draw near; give them benefits and they come; praise them and they strive all the harder; load them with what they hate and they disperse. Love and profit both arise from ren and yi. Few are willing to discard ren and yi, while many use ren and yi to seek profit. Promoting ren and yi is not only lacking in sincerity—it is also taken up as a tool by those who grasp like beasts. To settle the benefit of the world on one person’s judgment is like taking a hurried glance: what one sees is extremely limited. Yao only knows that the worthy benefit the world; he does not know that the worthy can also harm the world. Only someone who stands outside the reputation of worthiness understands this.”

There are those of nuanshu (“warm smugness”), those of ruxu (“clinging dependence”), and those of juanlou (“hunched drudgery”).

Nuanshu means this: having learned the words of a single teacher, one is smug and pleased, secretly self-satisfied, thinking oneself already complete, yet unaware that one has never truly touched the inherent nature of things. Such a person is called nuanshu.

Ruxu is like a louse on a pig. It picks a sparse patch of bristles and takes that for a spacious palace and park; it settles under the pig’s loins, in the crooks of its legs, among its teats and shanks, and takes that for a safe and convenient dwelling—never knowing that when the butcher flexes his arm, spreads straw, and lifts the torch, it will be roasted along with the pig. It advances in that place and retreats in that place: that is ruxu.

Juanlou refers to Shun. Mutton does not court ants, yet ants flock to mutton because of its rank smell. Shun had a kind of conduct that attracted people like that smell; the common people loved him, so wherever he moved three times a town formed, and at the ruins of Deng he had gathered a hundred thousand households. When Yao heard that Shun was worthy, he raised him up to serve on barren land, hoping his arrival would bring blessing. Shun worked in the wasteland until his years were advanced and his eyes and ears had declined in acuity, yet he could not stop and return home—that is juanlou.

Therefore the spirit-transcendent person (shenren)—one whose spirit rises above the ordinary—dislikes having the masses flock to him. When people come in numbers, affinity cannot be maintained; when affinity fails, ill fortune follows. So do not cling especially to anyone, and do not reject anyone especially; hold to inner power (de), nourish harmonious qi, and in that way accord with the world—this is what is called the True Person (zhenren), one who aligns with the Dao. Set aside the cleverness of ants that swarm toward a smell; learn from fish that take their ease in water; discard the mind of the sheep that spreads a rank scent and draws a crowd.

Let the eye see what the eye should see, the ear hear what the ear should hear, and the heart return to the heart itself. Then, in stillness one is straight as a plumb line; in change one simply follows along and goes.

Guo Xiang comments: Ren (benevolence) is the root from which people compete to take it as their model. Once benevolence and righteousness are put into practice, hypocrisy is used to perform them; when traces appear outwardly, the greedy employ that framework to serve their own aims. If benevolence and righteousness each sprang from authentic disposition, cutting judgment ought not to rest with a single person. Mie means to cut or slice. The myriad things differ in form; using one measure to cut them all only injures them. Only by leaving behind the elevation of worth and talent can one avoid falsity. If the heart is wholly spent on outward traces and instruction, how can one know that one alone transforms in the realm of xuanming—the deep, silent natural order that leaves no outward mark? Whoever is not someone who has penetrated change and risen above the world, but only grasps at momentary comfort and gain, is like a louse on a pig, clinging to whatever spot serves the moment. The sage’s body is not different from others’, so the work of ear and eye may fail, while shen (spirit) stays whole. If one has not matured in youth and again declines with age, the sage’s clarity could not last even one morning—how could that be? The masses come of themselves; they are not gathered by fond preference. Thus when Shun held the realm, it was from bu de yi (having no alternative), not from cozying up for advantage. The people received his grace; Shun bore bodily weariness. Ants, fish, and sheep—the three kinds—have not yet shed the drag of ear, eye, and intent, and so cannot yet “leave the ink line and be level of themselves, sever traces and be mysteriously one” (xuantong—merged with the natural way).

Lu Huiqing’s commentary reads as follows. I know what the stories of Shun and Yu amount to: they merely lent a set of tools to people who grab for gain like birds and beasts. Once you name something “benevolence and righteousness,” you cannot help but rely on deliberate knowing (xinzhi, the calculating mind); with that knowing in play, body and things stand apart, and nothing can be truly shared and affirmed by everyone under heaven. To cut the world to one person’s judgment and call that benefiting all is like a quick glance—it is not the way of bending with each thing’s nature and completing them without leaving anything out. The root of great disorder, I say, was already growing in the age of Yao and Shun; the harm of it has carried on for a thousand generations.

Those who treat gentle self-satisfaction as the right way do not see that the world can be genuinely content; those who treat their own refinement as the highest beauty do not see that there is a beauty beyond comparison. They learn one teacher’s words and think they have enough, never grasping that there was never any fixed thing to cling to—such people are what we call “nuanshu”: smug, half-learned, and pleased with themselves.

“Ru” means to soak in and not let go; “xu” means to wait on something, to depend on it. To settle happily in what is low and filthy and not see disaster coming—that is why we speak of “pig lice” (zhishi). To gather people by stooping and yielding, yet refuse to hide one’s “musky” reputation and deeds so that the world envies and flocks to you—that is why we speak of Shun; that is “juanlou,” bent and worn with labor.

It is only because they fixed on one teacher’s doctrine and did not understand that there never was anything to hold: when they gain, they become ru-xu (clinging and dependent); when they suffer, they become juanlou. Judging by the trail Shun left, what did the world really add for him? Enough to wear the body out—hence juanlou. When the masses rush to someone, even a Yao or a Shun is still what the spirit person (shenren)—one whose spirit is free and unhooked from things—dislikes. So the sage does not band together with them for advantage; then those people will not come chasing profit either.

The true person (zhenren), one who is one with the Dao, is therefore neither clinging nor coldly distant. He simply holds to virtue and nurtures harmony (qi) so as to move with the world. When people gladly turn to him, Shun too gladly goes along with them—yet Shun can treat the realm like an old shoe he is ready to drop; and what made Shun “Shun” can treat Shun himself like dust and chaff. Unless one were a spirit person or a true person, how could one live like that?

Ants are busy because of cleverness; fish keep alive by diving deep; sheep grow harsher because they hold fixed intentions. Let the eye return to the eye, and the root of seeing is there; let the ear return to the ear, and the root of hearing is there; let the mind return to the mind, and the root of knowing is there. Drop cleverness and fixed intent, hide in depth and stillness, and what is called self-seeing, self-hearing, and self-knowing becomes level everywhere—assisting things to be themselves without forcing. That is the path of returning to what is genuinely so.

Yidu (a scholar who commented on the Zhuangzi) said: Law and measure begin with Fuxi; the fruits of governance are completed in Yao. Yao was the starting point where the humane left traces in their conduct. When people draw near through love, the common folk gather; when they harmonize through profit, the common folk come; when they exalt through praise, the common folk encourage one another. If what they do not wish for is forced upon them, the common folk turn away. Then those who cast aside benevolence and righteousness grew fewer, while those who used benevolence and righteousness for gain grew many. They sacrificed themselves for reputation, chased outward traces, left their true nature and fell into hypocrisy—wanting to practice benevolence and righteousness without sincerity from the heart. People greedy as beasts would treat benevolence and righteousness as tools, as props for housebreaking. When the whole world steals the name of benevolence and righteousness to rob under heaven, there will afterward be people who eat other people.

To rely on one person alone to lift up the authority of benevolence and righteousness and judge thereby, hoping thereby to benefit all under heaven, is like glancing in haste yet trying to see the four seas. Intending to bring people benefit, one does not know it becomes harm instead. As for those who enjoy the names of worthies, benevolence, and righteousness—only one who stands outside “exalting the worthy” can see them clearly. This matches Laozi’s meaning in “do not exalt the worthy.”

Warm (nuan) is feeling warm oneself; beautiful (shu) is feeling beautiful oneself. Moist (ru) is coveting moisture and ease; waiting (xu) is having something to wait on. Curled (juan) is curling oneself up; hunched (lou) is drawing oneself in. These names were taken to despise the customs of the time. Those who study only one master’s words cling to old traces, do not understand the sage’s Way, rejoice in warmth and beauty by themselves, yet do not know that the Great Dao lies in the time before anything had yet come to be.

The curved heel (kui ti) is where the body bends; between breast and leg is the warm place. Lice live by the pig’s body; taking moisture and waiting as secure benefit, they do not know that when the butcher arrives, they burn together with the pig. This likens those who cannot step beyond their own domain yet depend on something else—all alike cannot escape calamity. Hence it is said they advance and retreat with whatever domain they are in. Unless one is talent that transcends the mundane world, and merely steals ease in the profit of the moment, all such are ru-xu folk—those clinging to moisture and dependency.

Shun received Heaven’s mandate; his true nature was held within and not displayed. What showed forth—surplus threads and clod fragments (tu ju)—was what the common folk delighted in and envied. Three times he moved his dwelling to avoid Yao’s son, yet the people followed on their own. “Barren soil” (tong tu) is wasteland without grass or trees. Shun toiled for all under heaven and could not rest—this is called being hunched and weary (juan lou).

These three types are none of them the true face of the Dao, so the shenren (spirit-person—one whose cultivation has reached spirit-like depth) dislikes the masses flocking to join them. Though the masses come, they do not privately form factions or show partiality—no special closeness, no special distance. Embracing virtue and nurturing harmony (bao de yang he), using that to accord with all under heaven—this is what is called the genuine.

The ant’s cleverness is petty; the fish’s scheming runs deep; the sheep’s mind is fierce. The sage discards petty cleverness and takes up deep scheming; abandons fierceness of mind. Using the eye to see the eye is to let it see for itself; using the ear to hear the ear is to let it hear for itself; using the heart to return to the heart is to let it know for itself. Thus leveling is straight as the carpenter’s line, and change can still follow along. “Following” (xun) here means that one has still not cut off traces and stood alone.

Bi Xu’s commentary says: “Nuanshu” means to be meekly self-satisfied and secretly pleased with oneself; “ruxu” means to cling to comfort and ease and live only for the moment; “juanlou” describes someone hunched and bound, unable to straighten or expand. These images stand for narrow-minded scholars who are smug in their partial views—they do not know that those who penetrate the Dao treat exhausting principle and fulfilling nature as still falling short of “not yet anything,” and they themselves have not yet shed bodily form to stand alone.

To hold a post without doing the work and seek only comfort is called “advancing within the domain.” To find no rest even for a moment while disaster already arrives is called “retreating within the domain.” Bo Yi coming to serve King Zhou of Shang and being killed along with him is no different from lice on a pig. The sage treats the ten thousand things like straw dogs—no convenient handle left for others to grab. When the people turn to him, it is like ants drawn to rank meat. Wherever he stays, in a year it becomes a market, in two a town, in three a capital. Deng is the name of a ruined settlement; “tongtu” is barren land where nothing grows. Yao raised Shun to replace himself, hoping the world would receive his grace; when Shun’s work was done he was already old and still could not rest—precisely because benevolence and righteousness attract people like the smell of rank meat. When achievement is complete, crowds come to draw near and praise; long familiarity with praise and nearness turns to discord, then fear and contempt, and harm follows. Only when there is no partial closeness or distance and fame is set aside do the people cease to gather like ants to rank meat—this is “abandoning knowledge in the manner of ants.” Fish in rivers and lakes forget one another—that is fish at ease; this is “finding their measure in the manner of fish.” Plain and without contrivance, blending virtue to transform others, the people know there is a ruler yet do not mass into a herd drawn by rank meat—this is “abandoning intention in the manner of sheep.” Withdrawing sight and turning hearing inward, letting mind be like ashes extinguished, following one’s root nature so things are naturally level and square, conforming to the plumb line; meeting the outer world and moving with change, nothing fails to follow principle.

Yizhai’s oral exegesis says: “Nuanshu” means shallow understanding with private delight, mocking scholars who do not grasp the subtlety of “not yet anything.” “Ruxu” means those stuck in dependency and greedy for fame and profit: lice cluster in the crook of a pig’s leg and think themselves secure, not knowing there is nothing to rely on. “Domain” (yu) likens the heart imprisoned in wealth and honor. “Juanlou” is the posture of a bent back and bowed shoulders, toiling at one’s own expense—said of those who cultivate virtue until they become famous, everyone gathers to them, and they feel pain and never rest in life; this satirizes rulers who set out to act with purpose. “Embracing virtue and warming harmony” means nurturing virtue without displaying it. Ants, though extremely small, have not yet reached total lack of knowledge; sheep, though extremely dull, have not yet reached total lack of intention; the True Person is without knowledge and without intention. Fish finding their fit in water is how the True Person dwells: water stands for the Creator, fish for the self. The True Person’s heart, eyes, and ears are the same as ordinary people’s—only he does not use them with deliberate intent, hence seeing with the eye, hearing with the ear, and the heart answering the heart. “Plumb line” (sheng) is nature’s level straightness; in facing change he follows its movement.

Nie Que and Xu You both valued returning to authenticity in cultivating themselves and did not treat governing the world as their own business. Judging from their discourse, it was not that they were poor at handling affairs—only that the boundaries of ritual and office must not be overstepped. To move within the world's norms and to transcend them has always meant a distinction between toil and ease.

Benevolence and righteousness stand first among the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness) and must not be lightly slandered. Yet those who could not live up to them in later ages often treated footprints as shoes, losing authenticity all the more. Once one departs from one's nature and indulges desire, benevolence and righteousness are no longer enacted spontaneously; when the mind harbors thoughts of gain, hypocrisy inevitably follows. What looks like the real thing is not—this truly can harm the Great Dao. Hence Laozi and Zhuangzi, in speaking of returning to simplicity and recovering the root, both decline and reject this kind of benevolence and righteousness. As for genuine supreme benevolence and righteousness—embracing Heaven's way, nurturing the ten thousand things, matching Dao and De and establishing the human ultimate—what could there be to reject?

By the time of Yao, benevolence and righteousness had already grown thin. Xu You was ashamed to be mocked by the world on that account; from shadow one can infer form, so he wished to flee and avoid later calamity. Governing the world should mean Wuwei (non-action), letting the people transform themselves. If one tirelessly tries to use force to love and benefit the people yet lacks the strength, hypocrisy follows; once falsity appears, disaster spreads everywhere.

If those above can truly take the people's hearts as their own, even without proclaiming benevolence and righteousness they will secretly accord with them. Otherwise it is like handing crossbows, arrows, nets, and snares to those greedy for prey—the harm to the ten thousand things becomes all the heavier. Therefore, to benefit the world by one person's judgment is like trying to exhaust the truth of all things in a hurried glance. People only know that exalting the worthy is beneficial, not that it becomes a bane for later ages. Only one who stands outside "exalting the worthy" understands this; one must rise a step higher to see through it.

What follows uses Nuan Shu (smug self-satisfaction), Juan Lou (toiling and curling up to fit in), and Ru Xu (clinging in shabby dependence) to confirm the earlier meaning; the extension is fairly detailed and interpretations among commentators are already complete.

The spirit-person dislikes the masses coming to attach themselves. The next two lines mean: when the people turn to Yao and Yao elevates Shun, and all hearts are pleased—this is the natural course of things, not attachment born of partiality. Hence no intimacy, no estrangement—only aligning the world through De (Virtue/Power). This is the effect of the perfected person applying the surplus of self-cultivation to respond to the world.

The three lines on ants, fish, and sheep arise because Shun had a "rank odor" in conduct (behavior that draws people like the smell of mutton). The wording is quite striking. One should speak of ants first, then sheep, and finally conclude with fish: fish are not moved by rank odor. Ants mean abandoning cleverness and not displaying rank odor to sway others; sheep mean abandoning deliberate intent. Thus above and below each keep their place, with no trace of admiring sages or exalting the worthy—like fish not tiring of deep water and forgetting one another in rivers and lakes. Is that not the best approach?

Only then can the eye see what the eye should see without being confused by color; the ear hear what the ear should hear without being confused by sound; and the mind return to what is natural without being enslaved by cleverness. Then the eyes of all under Heaven can agree, ears can be of one mind, and hearts can fulfill their proper roles. Thus he is straight as a plumb line and becomes the world's model; meeting change he follows entirely what reason and nature allow, with no mind to benefit things for private gain and no trouble of clashing with things. Why worry that the world cannot transform itself, yet deliberately use "governing" to govern it?

The multitude take fame and profit as their territory; many lice take the pig's body as their dwelling—their coming and going are like success and failure, ending with the pig's life and death.

In Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Scripture of Southern Florescence), volume 81, the Song scholar Chu Bowei treats a passage from “Xu Wugui,” the seventh chapter. The true persons of old met things with what is naturally so; they did not insert human contrivance into the natural. Guo Xiang glosses this: rest in non-action and wait for affairs, and affairs can be accomplished; chase quiet by staying busy, and affairs only grow more chaotic.

For those true persons, to gain could mean life and to lose death—or gain could mean death and loss life. It is like drugs: aconite (jian), balloon flower root (jiegeng), jiyong, and polyporus (zhuling). Whatever fits the ailment of the moment becomes the chief medicine; the permutations are more than words can exhaust.

King Goujian of Yue led three thousand armored men to hold Kuaiji in retreat. Only the grandee Wen knew how a state on the brink of ruin could still be kept alive, yet he did not know why he himself would meet disaster. Hence the saying: each owl’s eyes suit their own use, each crane’s shanks their own length—to pry them apart by force is lamentable.

Wind crossing a river wears the river away; the sun crossing does the same. If wind and sun together “guarded” the river, the river would still feel undisturbed, because it is fed without cease from the source. Water keeps to earth, shadow to the person, thing to thing—each pairing holds firm and true.

Eyes that hunt for brightness, ears for sharp hearing, a mind that runs after outer things—all of this is perilous; talent piled into the senses is perilous too. Once peril takes shape, there is no time to set it right; harm spreads and stacks up. Turning it around takes strenuous effort, and the effect is slow in coming. Yet people treat such talent as treasure—is that not lamentable? States fall and people are killed without end, largely because this point is never pursued to the bottom.

Guo Xiang, the Western Jin scholar who annotated the Zhuangzi, explains in his commentary: Settle in a state free of cares and wait for things to arrive, and affairs can succeed; fill the mind with business yet try to win peace, and things only grow more chaotic. Life and death, gain and loss, each follow the situation one is in. People treat being alive as gain and often treat death as loss. So when something fits what is needed, there is no question of being lowly; when it is out of season, there is no question of being noble—things simply suit their moment. If one cannot clear the “cannot accept” from the heart and still rejects something, one will swing between loss and grief. Whatever has a body naturally tangles with other things; only what is beyond bodily form, even if worn thin, is not made thinner. Wind and sun skim the river’s surface—the water is in fact diminished, yet people notice nothing, because it still flows on from its source. Without deliberate intent, one stops at the limit of one’s innate allotment (xingfen)—that is true discernment. Once intent stirs, what is sought has no end, and danger follows. What is valuable, then, is not leaning on talent but yielding to the natural (tianran). If one cannot forget cleverness and artifice, calamity sprouts in many directions. Turn back and hold to innate nature, and affairs may succeed without forced doing; rush for quick results, and nothing is achieved. Treat wisdom and ability as treasures, and ruin follows. Punishment and execution are faults of one’s own. People do not see that the root of trouble lies in having a purposive mind, yet they use that same mind to fix the mind, hoping thereby to escape disaster.

Lv’s commentary holds that when one meets things with the natural Dao, one can respond without contrivance and by natural resonance. If one does not mix human artifice into what is natural, then even when one acts, it is as if one had not acted. The True Person ( perfected one who has attained the Dao) does not treat life and death as two opposite poles.

The scripture sometimes says: to obtain it is life, to lose it is death, and without it nothing can live. That is spoken for those who undervalue life. At other times it says: to obtain it is death, to lose it is life—treating life as something to be guarded and death as a return. That is spoken for those who dread death. It is like using medicine: sometimes mild, sometimes strong; one ingredient serves as the “emperor” drug only for a time and cannot always lead; the rest are minister and assistant drugs. Saying “life is gain, death is loss” is medicine for those who slight life; saying “life is guarding, death is return” is medicine for those who fear death—each prescription fits the ailment. Matching the dose to the patient’s condition, the ways of speaking cannot be exhausted.

Grandee Wen Zhong (Wen Zhong, strategist to King Goujian of Yue) knew that Yue’s temporary ruin could be traded for later preservation, yet he did not know why he fell into calamity. It is like eyes that see at night but not by day—their adaptation cannot be transferred elsewhere. A crane’s legs are long by nature and cannot be shortened; some joints were never meant to be taken apart—forcing them apart still clings to physical form and misses the root source. Wind and sun cross the river—they do not fail to wear at the water, yet the river feels never disturbed, because it relies on a source that does not run dry. One who penetrates the great Dao and is at ease with all things likewise has a source of their own.

Water toward earth seeps through worm holes and ant cracks; a shadow toward a person follows sitting, rising, walking, and stopping without fail. This is without deliberate intent, yet held with perfect fidelity. Ears listen, eyes look, the mind thinks—not a moment’s leave; yet when one thing is used to guard another, its cleverness and intent are not as “without feeling” as water and shadow, so danger cannot be avoided. In general, talent has a “storehouse” that entails risk—that storehouse is the five viscera (heart, liver, spleen, lung, and kidney), which are harmed by this. The meaning is: settling into a state one should not settle into, with no time to correct, troubles accumulate. Confusion is not made in a day, so turning back requires sustained effort, and the outcome waits long. Superior persons (those of higher cultivation) keep reducing and reducing because they cannot allow this danger to take shape. Ordinary people treat such talents as their treasure—how pitiful.

Duyi’s commentary holds that treating human affairs by the way of Heaven is to move from sincerity (cheng) to clarity (ming); penetrating the way of Heaven through human affairs is to move from clarity back to sincerity. There is neither gain nor loss, nor any distinction between life and death—this is what is called the supreme realm.

Pinellia, aconite, cockscomb, and foxnut are among the most humble of medicinal substances, yet when the time is right they can cure illness and in turn serve as sovereign or minister drugs (primary and auxiliary medicines). The gain, loss, poverty, and success of human life are no different from this. People vainly calculate, belittle others and value themselves, never knowing that what is taken or discarded depends solely on the times.

Formerly, when King Goujian of Yue encamped his army at Kuaiji, the grandee Wen Zhong knew that after the state’s fall it could still be restored, yet he did not know that he himself was about to die. Like the owl’s eyes, dim by day and bright by night, or the crane’s legs, long but unable to shorten—each suits only a moment’s advantage; remove the conditions it is adapted to, and grief follows. Those who are one-sided cannot avoid being trapped in partiality.

Yin-Yang have qi; the ten thousand things have form. Qi is subtle, form is coarse and heavy. When qi rubs against form, the form must be harmed. Wind and sunlight are the qi of Yin-Yang; river water is something with form. When wind and sun pass over it, the water must diminish without itself noticing. Though they stay together, the river is not disturbed, because it has a source to rely on. This is a metaphor for people dwelling within Yin-Yang: each day there is wear and loss, and what they depend on is that life and nature (xingming) still remain.

Water toward earth, shadow toward the body, thing toward thing—all keep company without mind, and so their keeping is thorough. Though thorough, they still cannot escape the hidden shifting of creation and transformation (zaohua). What was yesterday has already changed today; the muddled do not know it. Therefore, once ears, eyes, and mind chase external things, none can avoid danger.

When talent (cai) issues from the inner storehouses (the zang-fu organs), it is enslaved by external things and must reach peril. Once cast, there is no time to mend it in haste, and disaster grows all the more severe. If one returns to the root and restores the original nature (xing), things go smoothly and succeed. For affairs to bear fruit, one must wait long. The world treats many talents and abilities as treasure—this is exactly what the perfected person (zhiren) grieves over. Even seizing cities and lands and killing the innocent comes from not knowing to trace where calamity begins.

Bi Xu (the sobriquet of Sòng-dynasty Dàoist priest Chén Jǐngyuán) commented as follows: treat people according to the natural Way, let things follow their own course, and do not mix human contrivance into what is natural, for artifice and fakery can hardly accord with what is true. Gain brings life and loss brings death—this is the same as all things; yet gain brings death and loss brings life—this differs from all things. When the ten thousand things meet their season they flourish; when they lose their season they decline. When the True Person (one who has attained the Dao) meets their season they do not appear glorious, and when they lose their season they do not appear withered.

This is like drugs such as celandine, hellebore, and fuling fungus—though all are ordinary substances, a skilled physician treating illness will select whichever one the moment requires and make it the chief medicine. The analogy is that the True Person governing worldly affairs has no time when they cannot set things right.

Wén Zhǒng (Zhòng, chief minister of Yuè) could preserve the state yet could not preserve his own life—like one who can cure others’ diseases but not his own. The owl’s eyes and the crane’s legs each have what suits them and what does not; this shows that though Wén Zhǒng had talent and wisdom, in the end he still could not escape calamity.

Wind and sun gradually reduce the river’s water. One must guard deeply and not let treacherous and sycophantic persons slip in, or loyal ministers will lose their positions. The heavier what one relies upon, the less slight the affronts and resistance one thereby invites.

When water leaves the earth it dries up; when a shadow leaves a person it vanishes. When a thing is separated from things it returns to emptiness; when a person loses the Dao they perish. Only one skilled in scrutiny can take precautions in advance and thereby preserve their wholeness. Eyes that blindly follow Lí Zhū (a man of ancient times famed for exceptional sight), ears that blindly follow Shī Kuàng (a musician of ancient times famed for exceptional hearing), and a heart that blindly follow Zēng Shēn and Shǐ Yú (men of old famed for benevolence and righteousness)—none of these fail to fall into danger. The alternation of fortune and misfortune all stems from the consequences of merit, fault, good, and evil; it is just that one cannot yet see it in the present. In the world there are those who treat achievement as their treasure, yet calamity follows at once—Grandee Wén Zhǒng was such a person.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi’s Kouyi on the Zhuangzi) says: Do not use deliberate intent to interfere with the natural order—this is what is meant by “not letting the human enter into Heaven” (bu yi ren ru tian): not allowing human artifice to be mixed into what is naturally so. Life and death, gain and loss—leave them all to nature: call living “gain” if you like, or call dying “gain”; call living “loss” if you like, or call dying “loss.”

It is like a physician’s prescription: the chief drug is called the “emperor” (jun yao, sovereign drug), and the rest are ministers. The drugs may be the same, yet in use some are light and some heavy. So too with people: when the time is right they are honored, when the time is wrong they are slighted—yet in themselves they are not two different kinds of being.

The grandee Wen Zhong, who served Yue in its revenge against Wu, could find survival in ruin—one might call that wisdom; yet he did not know when to turn back and thereby lost his life. The commentary again cites the owl’s eyes and the crane’s long shanks as images. Wind and sun both wear away the river, yet the river never feels disturbed, because its source runs far. So though outer things wear you down, you need not be pulled about or go against yourself. These five sentences express one and the same point.

Water and earth seep into each other; form and shadow rely on each other; each thing keeps to its own kind—this is the natural order. When ear, eye, and mind chase after outer objects, that is not natural. Whatever cleverness springs from the chest and is taken as one’s own talent is very dangerous. Gei here means ji (“reach, catch up”): it belongs to fanxun (reverse semantic usage)—once danger has taken shape, it is too late to set right. Fu (“overturn, ruin”) means that a heart bent on scheming for achievement necessarily leads to downfall; those long-deferred plans make the mind rigid and unchanging. All of this harms the self, yet everyone treats it as a treasure. From ancient times to now, states have perished and people been slaughtered without end—largely because they do not know to press the question here.

To treat human affairs in light of heavenly principle is straightforward: take heavenly principle as primary and let human affairs conform to it. If one instead puts human affairs first—“human entering heaven”—heavenly principle is violated. The phrase “the realized persons of antiquity” should read simply as “therefore”; the four characters are a scribal duplication from the previous sentence. The meaning is: gaining this Dao brings life and losing it brings death—that is the constant pattern; yet gaining the Dao and dying young, or losing it and living long, belongs to the shifts of human circumstance—examples include Yan Hui (Confucius’s disciple) dying young and Robber Zhi (the notorious bandit of old) living long. It is like wu biao (aconite-type toxic medicinals) and zhu ling (Polyporus): each is applied according to the pattern of the case. As the chief medicinal it is the sovereign drug; as assistant or guide it is the minister drug—what matters is fit for the moment, not a fixed rank forever. Wen Zhong (the Yue strategist) was skilled at planning for the state but not at preserving himself—like the owl’s eyes and the crane’s shanks, each suited to its own use; force what cannot do a thing and sorrow follows. Again, when wind and sun skim the river’s surface, the water is not wholly without loss; it only seems so because it relies on a source, and the drain is hard to see. But if gain, loss, benefit, and harm churn within the heart, can a person remain without drain? To increase and make whole, there is nothing but to take the Dao as source. Whatever comes, if it is not lodged in the spirit storehouse, one’s own source grows strong. The rise and fall of things is no more than a gnat buzzing past the eyes—what is there to disturb or resist? Water stays with earth: in principle they rely on each other, yet in fact there is no deliberate intent. Shadow stays with form: shadow is born from form and the two cannot part. When things cling to things, each side breeds private intent; though the clinging is meticulous, they mutually overcome and scatter and drift—as in “Outer Things” (a Zhuangzi chapter)—and danger cannot be avoided. How much more when one treats what ear, eye, and heart chase after as one’s capacity: danger is already formed before there is time to amend, and calamity’s growth is inevitable. To return to the root, one must work at reform and hold to it over time; in the end there will be success. Ordinary people treat cleverness and mental cunning as their treasure—this is exactly what the realized person pities. Ruining a state and slaughtering the people is the greatest calamity; its beginning truly lies in the unchecked pursuit of ear, eye, and heart. What matters is to be careful and choke it at the source.

When your foot treads the ground, the part that truly makes contact is very small; yet though the contact is slight, you depend on the places you do not tread in order to walk broadly and steadily. What a person knows is likewise very little; though it is little, one must rely on what one does not yet know in order to understand what Heaven speaks. To know the Great Unity (all things penetrating as one), the Great Yin (deep silence and stillness), the Great Eye (letting the ten thousand things display themselves), the Great Equalizer (balancing by following innate nature), the Great Squaring (each direction receiving its proper share), the Great Faith (trustworthiness that does not overstep one's portion), and the Great Fixity (steadfastness undisturbed by turmoil) is to reach the utmost. The Great Unity is used for penetration; the Great Yin for dissolution; the Great Eye for contemplation; the Great Equalizer for following along; the Great Squaring for embodiment; the Great Faith for verification; the Great Fixity for holding fast. The ten thousand things all have what is natural to them; follow it and there is clarity. In the hidden depths there is inherently a pivot; the beginning of things lies in “that”—that is, in the thing itself. Therefore to dissolve it is as if one had not dissolved; to know it is as if one did not know; it is precisely by passing through not-knowing that one then knows. Press it with questions: one cannot say it has fixed boundaries, nor can one say it has none at all. The ten thousand things shift and slide in confusion, yet each has its own reality; past and present cannot replace one another, nor can one be made to suffer loss. Is this not a great weighing and summing up? Why not inquire into this principle—why remain so perplexed? To use “not being perplexed” to unravel perplexity, then return again to not being perplexed, is still to push up and magnify great non-perplexity.

Guo Xiang's commentary holds: Only after forgetting Heaven and Earth and setting aside the ten thousand things can even a cicada's wing possibly be known—how much more if one wishes to know what Heaven and Earth speak of; how can one fail to empty the mind? The Great Unity is the Dao. Employ it only within one's proper portion, and nothing in affairs will be obstructed. Letting the ten thousand things display themselves of themselves is the Great Eye; according with innate nature so that each obtains what belongs to it is the Great Equalizer; entering into experience so that each direction receives its share, and the myriad regions can all be settled—therefore it is the Great Squaring. The limits imposed by allotted destiny, not allowing overstepping, is Great Faith. When true nature is not disturbed it is naturally settled; to hold fast with Great Fixity is in fact not to hold fast at all. The ten thousand things none fail to emerge from the natural; follow it and one is clear—there is no need to fabricate anything further. The utmost principle has its own extreme; only by meeting it in the hidden depths can one grasp the pivot. What makes a thing begin is “that,” so one only narrates and does not act on one's own. Hand it over to dissolve by itself and it dissolves of itself; because dissolution claims no merit, it is as if there were no dissolution. What is used is its own knowing, so it is as if I do not know. When I do not initiate knowing, its knowing operates on its own; when its knowing operates on its own, nothing under Heaven fails to know its own portion. Responding to things should be in the hidden depths without fixed method, each according to its portion. Though the ten thousand things are diverse and unlike, thing by thing each has reality and cannot replace another. To weigh and bring this forth has a great boundary. If one asks about this great weighing, it is that things each have an ultimate limit and portion; forget the self and follow things along, and the principle can be known—why be so perplexed? Perplexity cannot be forcibly resolved, yet to still honor great non-perplexity is the height of folly. The sage simply follows and lets things be natural; therefore the deeds of the august sovereigns (the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors) differ—only names change with the age.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: The foot actually touches very little ground; it relies entirely on the parts that do not touch to walk steadily and move well. This means one must first understand “uselessness” before one can speak of “use.” Human knowing and seeing are limited, yet people follow and deploy it, which is why the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors left different deeds—only names that shift with the times.

What the foot touches is little; what it relies on without touching is what makes movement skillful. Understand the useless, and only then can one discuss the useful. What people know is very little; it is precisely by what they do not know that they come to grasp what Heaven expresses. From this, the Great Unity (Da yi, the Way as one), the Great Yin (Da yin, the utmost depth of yin), on through to the Great Stability (Da ding, supreme stillness), can all be inferred.

Those who cultivate the Way take the Great Unity as their root, and then nothing fails to connect. Enter the gate of deep obscurity (yaoming), reach the root of utmost yin, and one also reaches the root of utmost yang. Things all carry yin on their backs and embrace yang; they are bound and cannot be released because they do not know the root of utmost yin. What the eye can see is limited; without relying on the eye to see, nothing is unseen. Follow that “one”—no one has ever been able to harmonize things by fixing right and wrong; letting both sides go their own way is using the Great Equalizing (Da jun) to follow along. No south or north, no east or west—that is embodying the Great Square (Da fang). Feeling is utterly real, and within it there is what can be tested—that is assessing with Great Authenticity (Da xin). A marsh ablaze does not feel hot, a river frozen does not feel cold, thunder splitting mountains and wind shaking the sea do not cause alarm—that is holding fast with Great Stability.

Exhausting what is natural means resting where knowing cannot know; following the inherent illumination, though one does not know in the ordinary sense, there is nothing not known. In the obscure dark there is a pivot; “that” and “this” then cannot be paired as two opposing sides. Once there is “that,” the ways of responding to that and this originally have no end. His release seems not release: it means there was never bondage, so it is not release after being tied. His knowing seems not knowing: because there was never anything to know in the first place, only after “not knowing” is there true knowing. This is why the perfected person (zhi ren) moves through the world yet appears foolish and awkward.

To ask in terms of “having a boundary” or “having no boundary” still leaves both sides bound. A boundary is sought from the edge; yet one cannot seek it between being and non-being. What cannot be grasped cannot be tied; what slips cannot be held—it is as if there were no thing, yet it is truly there. From ancient times to the present it seems never to replace itself, yet its reality is never diminished. To be able to question in this way—is that not a full round of explication and verification (yang que)? Yang is to bring out what is hidden; que is to ascertain what is real. If the other party does not ask this, I cannot use this to tell them. Only when one sees that originally there never was a thing is one free of confusion. Using that to dispel the confusion of “there is a thing,” yet still clinging to “there never was a thing,” is still confusion. Only when, after release, one returns to non-confusion does one approximate being greatly free of confusion.

Commentator Lin Zi holds that this passage means that what is useless is truly useful, and not-knowing is genuine knowing—the point is already clear. “Great One” (Dayi) refers to Heaven; “Great Yin” (Dayin) refers to Earth. “Great Eye” (Daimu) is Heaven, which nothing escapes seeing; “Great Equalizer” (Dajun) is Earth, which nothing fails to bear. “Great Square” (Dafang) generates the ten thousand things and fully endows them all; “Great Trust” (Daxin) responds to the ten thousand things without prior agreement; “Great Fixity” (Dading) guards the ten thousand things while remaining unmoved itself. Knowing begins from knowing and in the end returns to not-knowing; precisely because of not-knowing, what is known becomes mysteriously profound to this degree—hence it is called the ultimate. “One” bears on number and counting; what matters is penetrating through. Yin governs gathering and condensation; what matters is dissolution and release. Great Eye does not set out deliberately to look—when things come, they are seen. Great Equalizer does not set out deliberately to comply—when things arrive, they are accommodated. Great Square fears ending up without form, so it takes change and transformation as its substance. Great Trust fears having nothing by which to verify, so it uses the Dao to examine and check; in the end it is simply held fast by the Creator (the one who generates the ten thousand things), and that is all.

Each thing under Heaven has its own natural principle: follow the principle and there is clarity; look from within obscurity and there is the pivot. Where there is a beginning, there is the correlative “that”; where there is no beginning and things are not yet born, there is neither “that” nor “I.” Dissolution seems like undissolved; knowing seems like not knowing. When discussion reaches its limit, all first cast doubt through not-knowing, and only then comes knowing—this is the ultimate. Questioning with boundaries is focused questioning; questioning without boundaries is diffuse questioning. Focused questioning can exhaust principle but need not fully reach nature; diffuse questioning can broaden knowledge but need not return to simplicity—so neither alone will do. “Huaji” (slippery paradox) is mostly not factual, yet within it there is solid reason; past and present replace one another, but the principle itself does not replace—one can exhaust this principle, hence it is said there is no loss. Is not what has been set forth above just a grand, luminous “yangque” (raising and sifting the main points)? If something cannot be done, let it go—why bewilder yourself doing it? Human bewilderment has already been opened with “not bewildered,” bringing one back to not being bewildered—yet the one who resolves bewilderment is still greatly bewildered. This is the point Zhuangzi had in leaving these words.