《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 19

What people actually know is extremely little—almost nothing. If one tries, through worldly learning alone, to force one’s way back to a state free of delusion, one is still someone deeply deluded: one only emptily admires what is called “great freedom from delusion.”

The Kouyi of Yizhai (Lin Xiyi’s Zhuangzi Kouyi) puts it this way: the ground a person has stepped on is a small patch; what they have never stepped on is vast. That images how what we know is limited, while everything we do not know belongs to Heaven (Tian). Only when we do not lean on what we already know, and instead rely on what we do not know, can we from there come to know Heaven. “Great One” (Dayi) is the working of creation (zaohua); “Great Yin” (Dayin) is utmost stillness; “Great Eye” (Damu) is the breadth of what is seen; “Great Equalizer” (Dajun) is even allotment; “Great Square” (Dafang) is one with the void as ultimate reality (Taixu); “Great Faith” (Daxin) is genuine principle; “Great Fixity” (Dading) is the settledness that gathers all things.

Before any thing has begun, something else must open that beginning. Qiwu Lun says, “Without that other, there is no me”—that “other” is creation (zaohua). Whether we call it Heaven, illumination, pivot, or “other,” it can be talked about and cognized, yet it is also as if it were never talked about or cognized. Not daring to treat what can be explained and known as if one already knew—that is to take not-knowing as knowing, and that is true knowing.

To ask whether the maker’s principle has a limit or has no limit is wrong in both directions. “Slippery turning” (xiehua) means revolving change: the maker cannot be pinned down; it seems to be nothing at all, yet it runs through past and present. There is only this one creation (zaohua), never used up. Is that not worth developing and debating at length? Yet people in the world do not inquire into this principle—so what is left to be doubtful about? Use an understanding that is not doubtful to release the world’s doubts, then return again into non-doubt—only then does one come close to great non-doubt. From the two words “non-doubt” alone these lines are drawn out, closing the chapter’s main theme—a truly striking finish.

The ground under one’s feet is far less vast than what remains untrodden; what the mind knows is far less than what it does not know. Without leaning on what one has walked or what one already knows, and by treating what seems useless as usable, one can then know Heaven. The way of Heaven cannot be taken on trust through guesswork or argued about in speculation, so the mind cannot be settled into it. To rest in what one does not know—that is true knowing. The crux lies in the practice of daily diminishing (ri sun): day by day reducing views, knowledge, and desires. When human desire is spent, Heavenly principle shows itself.

From great unity (da yi) and great yin (da yin) through to great faith (da xin), one must first know Heaven before one can know anything else. Begin by unifying through great unity: the Dao (the Way) runs through the myriad things. The Dao gives birth to the myriad things; receiving yang qi they congeal into form, meeting yin qi they break apart and change—arising from nothing, returning to nothing. Great vision (da mu) sees what things cannot see; great equalization (da jun) follows nature and lets things level themselves; great squareness (da fang) does not take any single thing’s direction as its substance; great faith does not fix a deadline for verification; finally one upholds with great stability (da ding). All this is only to accord with the world’s changes, while oneself remains constantly in wuwei (non-action).

“Exhausting has Heaven” means pushing things to their natural limit; “following has illumination” means following principle until one understands by oneself. In the dark there is still pivot and turn; in silence there is constant movement. What begins from the other side is only response—it never takes the lead.

Use not taking apart to undo the world’s tangles; use not-knowing to know the mystery of the Heavenly Dao. Why insist on probing whether it has an edge or no edge? Speech may look inverted and playful, yet real principle is inside. Unchanged from ancient to modern, each part doing its share—is that not one great raising and drawing out? To raise is to lift up; to draw out is to extend—lift it up and extend it further, and that is to set forth the meaning.

Why do people not ask about this, but instead parade the breadth of hollow learning and blind the Heaven they already have—how then can they grasp what the primordial Heaven (qian yuan, the origin of Heaven) speaks of? When the heart-mind cannot mirror Heaven, delusion is blocking it; so one uses “not deluded” to resolve “deluded,” and returning to not being deluded is still to prize “great non-delusion.” Delusion is the false of wandering emotion; non-delusion is the true of what is originally so. That original truth is my own nature (ziran); if one still knows how to honor it, one has not yet reached great non-delusion. When one truly reaches the state of non-delusion, what non-delusion is left to prize, and what delusion is left to untie?

A ruler who possesses the Dao does not lord it over others by virtue of the throne; a scholar who possesses the Dao invariably uses integrity and moral principle to set the ruler straight. Though Marquis Wu of Wei was fierce and hard to counsel, Xu Wugui could still guide him with parables: beginning with talk of fine horses, he touched the marquis’s heart and showed that a clear-sighted ruler cannot afford to misjudge his ministers. At first there was resistance, then rapport; little by little he was turned from oppressing the people and indulging himself. The human heart’s innate goodness is never wholly extinguished—like someone far from home who rejoices at a familiar face. On meeting again, he finally accepted harsh loyal words and woke to his faults. To love peace and hate treachery is the full measure of self-cultivation; to nurture sincerity and resonate with Heaven and Earth is the full measure of governing. Hearing such words is a blessing for the altars of soil and grain—why must one speak only of “righteousness” to placate the people, or halt warfare to seek order?

When the Yellow Emperor went to visit Da Wei—the embodiment of the Great Dao—the seven sages who accompanied him all lost their way. This means that once the six consciousnesses (the knowing of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) grow dim, the heart that should rule cannot shine on its own. Yet they still knew to ask a horse-tending boy for directions—they were not far from turning back. Hence the perfected person takes this parable: a clear ruler who wishes to behold the Great Dao should lay aside pride in sagely wisdom, seek the spirit that guards the inner self, and remove what harms the self; then Da Wei will come without being chased. How unlike Marquis Wu, who wore out the people to satisfy eye and ear until one who had the Dao refused to approve him—only then did he turn to righteousness and truce.

Later rulers’ virtue was impure and what they honored differed; scholars’ aims diverged accordingly. Sinking into body and mind to chase after things, unable to return to the root, they drifted daily farther from the Dao. Confucians, Mohists, followers of Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long, and Hui Shi each clung to one corner, thinking the Dao was exhausted there; yet where their sharp words struck, something could still be used to show the Dao’s subtlety—like the man of Ying who calmly let the axe cut, enabling Craftsman Stone’s skill. Again, only someone with Xi Peng’s capacity deserved Guan Zhong’s recommendation; in the end Bao Shuya’s private favor did not swap the choice. Monkeys die quickly from arrogance toward humans; people invite praise by feigning expression—both warn against worldly pride. How can that compare with one whose heart is dead ashes and whose form is a withered tree—encumbrances fall away day by day? How can it compare with ball-jugglers like Yiliao, who resolved two houses’ feud by turning pellets, or with those who wielded feathers—crises could thus be undone?

Jiufang Gaen knew Kun bore auspicious signs but did not say he would suffer foot amputation; Xu You feared Yao’s benevolence and wished to flee. These are ones who saw the small and, putting “worth” aside, preserved their good. Smilax, balloon flower, cockscomb fungus, and chuling take turns as the chief drug according to the ailment—an image of how what people call “right” shifts. Wind, sun, and river water clash and stir—an image of how transformation changes people. Things each keep to their kind; distinctions seem clear, yet in the end they still cannot escape being shifted—and once shifted, danger follows. Only one who understands that the foot must rely on ground not yet stepped on, and the heart on what is not yet known, can fully use one’s own nature to mirror the nature of things: not confused oneself, one can also dissolve the world’s confusion.

However carefully one guards external things, one still cannot ultimately avoid being tugged by them; once tugged, one is in danger. Only when one sees clearly what is truly dependable does one refuse to set the heart on what cannot be relied upon. Whoever has not grasped this should exhaust their own inborn nature so as to mirror the nature of the ten thousand things; only when one is no longer confused oneself can one unravel the confusion of all under heaven.

What follows is chapter 81 of the Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Song-dynasty Chu Boxiu’s compilation of various commentaries on the Zhuangzi), together with chapter 82 as preserved in the Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries, treating the first section of the miscellaneous chapter “Zeyang.”

Zeyang traveled in Chu and asked Yi Jie to recommend him to the king of Chu. The king did not receive him, and Yi Jie had to return. Pengyang went to see Wang Guo and said, “Sir, why not speak of me before the king of Chu?” Wang Guo said, “I am not equal to Gong Yuexiu.” Pengyang asked, “What sort of man is Gong Yuexiu?” Wang Guo said, “In winter he spears turtles on the riverbank; in summer he rests on the mountain slopes. When passersby ask, he simply says, ‘This is my home.’ If even Yi Jie could not succeed, how could I? I am not the equal of Yi Jie. Yi Jie is a man who has no genuine De (Virtue/Power) yet possesses cleverness; he does not take himself to possess De, but only manages connections with great skill. From the outset he is sunk in wealth and rank. He does not use De to help others; he helps wear De away. Someone shivering with cold may hope to borrow springtime for a garment; someone scorched by heat may wish for the cold blast of winter—neither is real relief. The king of Chu looks imposing and stern; when he assigns guilt he never pardons—fierce as a tiger. Unless one is a glib flatterer or a man of upright De, who could make him submit? Therefore when the sage is in straits, he can make his household forget poverty; when he flourishes, he can make lords and kings forget rank and salary and become humble. Toward external things he dwells with them at ease; toward people he delights in mutual understanding while preserving himself. Thus sometimes without speaking he can suffuse others with harmony; standing shoulder to shoulder with others he can transform them. He is at ease in relations as fitting as those between father and son; returning to his own place, he treats his own conduct as something lightly held. His distance from the hearts of the world is just so great. Hence the saying: wait for Gong Yuexiu.

Guo Xiang, the commentator on the Zhuangzi, reads the Duke’s account of Gong Yuexiu—a man in reclusion—as aimed solely at curbing Peng Yang’s rush to advance. Gong Yuexiu is not like Yi Jie, who craved wealth and rank and was skilled at cultivating connections. Yi Jie poured his heart into reputation and formal status, using cleverness to press his superiors; when his wit was exhausted, his virtue grew thin and his name faded. Yuexiu simply accepts what the four seasons provide and cannot answer Peng Yang’s urgency.

The sage is calm and without craving, satisfied with what comes his way, and does not treat luxury as the standard of worth, so those at home do not feel poverty as a special hardship. He treats titles and stipends lightly and values moral character, resting in zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness—in stillness, forgetting self and things) without feeling honor cling to his person, so kings and dukes lose the high ground they imagined they could rely on. He does not make himself suffer for external things, yet in meeting others he does not obstruct his own way. Each person simply receives what is theirs to receive—this is yinhe (drinking harmony: transforming others through harmonious qi)—so what need is there for words? People turn and follow as if on the wind, so fathers are fathers and sons are sons, each in their proper place. His giving aligns with the virtue of Heaven and Earth, hence his ease and undivided stillness. The point is for Peng Yang to release his fixation on the king of Chu and follow Yuexiu, letting a quiet, settled atmosphere steady his agitated mind.

Gong Yuexiu—the recluse in Zhuangzi’s “Ze Yang”—wanted nothing, and precisely for that reason he was fit to be trusted by the King of Chu. What is called “spirit” (shen) is where hearts meet one another; it can be pursued to the end and entered. Yi Jie, who had once recommended people to the king, thought himself unable to enter that realm; those he befriended had long since been turned upside down and drowned in wealth and rank, merely feeding one another’s rise and fall—meaning his virtue could not last and was dwindling day by day. Seeking winter clothes from spring in the cold of winter, or summer wind from winter in the heat of summer, is to say that such seeking ultimately gains nothing. The king was harsh and cruel; unless one were a flatterer or a person of pure virtue, no one could turn him. To want me to speak to him is not something I can do. Only flatterers can warp a ruler’s uprightness; only those of genuine virtue can straighten a ruler’s crookedness: the flatterer is Yi Jie, genuine virtue is Gong Yuexiu. When I myself am at ease and not trapped by poverty, my household forgets poverty too. When the Great Dao is honored and virtue is valued, rank and salary are no longer enough to count as nobility, and kings and dukes become humble. Treating people with harmonious qi, virtue is enough to nourish hearts—there is no need to rely on words; standing shoulder to shoulder with others is enough to transform them—there is no need to lean on power. Father and son each settle in their place without abandoning human relations. In giving, leaving margin enough that no household need be as harsh as the “stern and clamorous” (hehe) family with its regrets. He connects with people’s hearts at such a height that entanglements come undone. Gong Yuexiu is such a person; if he speaks to the King of Chu he will surely be believed—hence the saying that one must wait for Gong Yuexiu.

Commentary by Yidu: Peng Yang of Lu, styled Zeyang. Yi Jie was a man of Chu; Wang Guo was a grand officer of Chu; Gong Yuexiu was a recluse who did not take office. Yi Jie lacked De in accord with nature (inner virtue of heaven) and possessed only worldly cleverness and artifice; he could not take pride in the Shen-Way (the spiritual realm aligned with the Great Dao) yet was trapped in wealth and rank. That would only wear down your virtue—it would not help you. It is like someone freezing who counts on spring to serve as clothing, or someone overheated who waits for a cold wind to cool him: both are too slow for the urgent need. From this angle, going to Wang Guo for help is not what matters most right now. Moreover, the King of Chu is stern as a tiger; unless you flatter him, you must move him by the upright Dao. The sage can be poor yet at ease, so his household is not tormented by poverty; when he rises high he does not treat salary and rank as glory, and can make kings and dukes turn their loftiness into humility. He does not clash with outward things but shares joy with them; before he speaks, people already feel his harmonious Qi; in company he can lead others toward goodness and let father and son each keep their proper place and return home. He holds to the One without contrivance, and the Great Dao naturally works through people—therefore he stays far from the world. Rather than entangle yourself with the King of Chu, better set the king aside and follow Gong Yuexiu.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, a Northern Song Daoist who styled himself Master Bi Xu) explains: Ze Yang sought an audience with the King of Chu in order to gain profit and office. When the king actually produced recluses for him, it was to check his greedy, competitive mind. To have cleverness without De (Virtue/Power) is to prize ornament and discard plain authenticity. Someone who cannot regard himself as fit for a bond in spirit keeps his conduct guarded and deceitful and his mind knotted and stiff, and so sinks into craving. Relieving people who are freezing or overheated depends on human effort; the turn from winter cold to spring warmth depends on the season’s timing. Wang Guo followed that heavenly timing and did not force human schemes to fit, and so could remedy Ze Yang’s fault. The wife of Old Laizi wove baskets; the wife of Bo Luan (Liang Hong of the Eastern Han) pounded rice—so their households could forget poverty. Marquis Wen of Wei honored Duke Geng of Mu; Emperor Guangwu of Han befriended Yan Ziling—they were shedding the burden of rank and stipend and turning high status into humility. Delighting in things outside oneself, one can share the dusty world without being muddied by it; rejoicing to connect with things outside oneself, one can merge with their light without showing off. Teaching that warms like spring without words, settling people’s hearts with nameless plainness so they change on their own—De (Virtue/Power) unfolds in order, and people rest secure where they belong. His Dao (the Way) is simple; there is nothing to impose. Those who rush forward and toil for salary are far from the heart of one who has the Dao.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song) glosses it orally: Shen (spirit) is what I naturally have within me. Clinging to wealth and rank and not knowing this natural shen is what is meant by “not taking oneself as worthy.” Each dragging the other down while diminishing oneself is what is called “fading away” (xiao). Someone who is freezing gets clothes and feels warm as spring; someone overcome by heat gets a breeze and feels cool as winter. In human relations, surplus must be used to fill what is lacking. Ze Yang’s zeal to advance is precisely his lack; telling him to withdraw is like rinsing when you hold something hot or giving clothes in the cold—it will help him. The talk of the flatterer and upright virtue means that only a genuine petty person will abase himself to serve. The prince who forgets his title and treats scholars with ritual turns nobility into lowliness. Penetrating affairs and finding joy in oneself, without blockage toward things outside, keeping one’s true self intact and awakening others without speech, is like handing someone the qi of supreme harmony to drink. Standing shoulder to shoulder with others, they transform themselves and the wants in their hearts subside. “Biqí” matches the Book of Poetry’s “biqí zhī zǐ.” The word order here is inverted; what follows is that when such a person goes home and dwells in peace, high and low each find their place, every action is easy and unhurried, and no strain is needed—at home and in the community, each finds harmony. The distance between Duke Gong Yuexiu’s virtue and Ze Yang is just that great.

Chu Shi holds that when Wang Guo said Yijie was eager to advance and could not conduct himself like Gongyuexiu, he was pointing to something real. As for returning home and living at ease, superiors and inferiors, elders and juniors each find their proper place; whatever one undertakes is done with unhurried leisure, without forced effort. At home and in the community, harmony prevails on its own. The moral stature of Gongyuexiu and that of Pengyang stand so far apart.

Wang Guo also said that both Yijie and Gongyuexiu were valued by the king of Chu. Now Zeyang (that is, Pengyang) was bent on winning rank and glory, so he asked Yijie to recommend him. Yijie’s virtue was insufficient while his cleverness ran too deep; he did not know that what deserves reverence within is the numinous spirit, yet outwardly he was infatuated with wealth and status. He did not assist others through virtue but only drained their vital spirit. This is like someone freezing who borrows clothes from spring—it cannot ward off the cold; or someone overcome by heat who seeks the wind of winter—it cannot relieve the heat. To seek against the season and against reason brings no benefit.

The numinous favors harmony and dislikes cunning. Human nature is originally good; there is no one who cannot connect with the numinous—provided one truly gains something within and holds it with firm faith, and only then can one expect this of oneself. Yijie’s greedy striving for advancement is precisely his refusal to rely on the numinous as his own standard. Moreover, the king of Chu was stern and decisive; unless one were a smooth talker or a person of upright character, one could hardly move him. The right and wrong of action fall within these two paths—why not abandon the bad and follow the good, and advance in Gongyuexiu’s manner, so that you might hope for lasting success?

Therefore, from “The sage” onward, the text describes how Gongyuexiu’s virtue was enough to transform people, yet arose entirely from wuwei (non-action)—that is, yielding to nature and not forcing or contriving. As for giving harmony to others without speaking, and standing beside someone so that they are transformed—none but a sage can do this. The sage can penetrate the entanglements of human affairs and merge thoroughly with the ten thousand things, yet does not feel himself to be a sage.

The sage comprehends how things are mutually entangled and interwoven, and views them all roundly as one whole—yet does not know why this is so; that is native nature. He returns to his inborn nature and life (xingming); in bearing and movement he takes what is natural as his model, and people accordingly bestow names on him. If one frets over cleverness and acts through cleverness, such conduct often cannot endure; what way is there to make it stop?

Someone born beautiful is given a mirror by others; if no one tells him, he does not know he is more beautiful than others. Whether he knows or not, has heard or not, his charm never ends and people’s delight in him never ends—that is nature. The sage loves people because others have given him that name; if no one tells him, he does not know he is regarded as loving. Whether he knows or not, has heard or not, his loving never ends and people’s ease with him never ends—that is nature.

Guo Xiang’s commentary reads: To be comprehensive without an outer boundary, and to have everything illumined; not to know the reason yet for things to be so—if that is not native nature, what is it? What shakes shakes by itself, what acts acts by itself; all return to original destiny and take the natural as teacher. This is not deliberately elevating one’s conduct for reputation’s sake; moving according to inner nature, conduct naturally stands high, and people cannot but attach a name. Relying on cleverness to act, worry follows in train. The mirror reflects things without private bias, so people praise it. Would the mirror know it is reflecting before it reflects? By nature it can reflect, and people call it a mirror. If people do not tell one another, there is no knowing it surpasses others in beauty—just as the sage’s title is given by others. What makes the mirror pleasing is its freedom from feeling and partiality: know or not, hear or not, what comes it reflects—hence without end. If reflecting depended on knowledge from hearing and seeing, it would sometimes be set aside; what native nature does not favor, how could it reflect for long? The sage has no partiality; like a mirror among things, affairs are completed in the myriad beings, and people give him a name; if no one tells him, he does not know he is loving. He treats the hundred clans grandly as straw dogs (grass figures used in ritual and then discarded—a image of impartiality), while the Dao aligns with loving people, so it can be without limit. If love arose from knowledge through hearing and seeing, it would sometimes fade; what native nature does not rest in, how could it last?

Lv Huibing’s commentary reads: The human mind gets caught on things and does not know there is such a thing as oneness. Only the sage treats the hundred clans grandly as straw dogs, while the Dao harmonizes with loving people, so he can be without limit. If love came from knowledge through hearing and seeing, it would sometimes fade; what native nature does not rest in, how could it endure?

According to Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The human mind is always entangled in concrete things and does not know that there is also “one body”—that the myriad things are originally one whole. Only the sage understands this, so inwardly he sees no self and outwardly no things; things and self merge into one. What he discerns is already thorough and complete, yet he himself does not feel that it is so, because this rests only in xing (innate nature), not something taken from outside. Fuming (returning to life’s root) is huigen (returning to the root); the myriad things’ stirring and operating, growing in profusion, is yunyun (multitude). Though empty and still yet fuming, this does not hinder following things in their stirring and acting. Thus he speaks all day as if he had not spoken, acts all day as if he had not acted—all by taking Heaven as teacher. Heaven is precisely what mind-and-knowing cannot know. How could he himself know he is a sage? It is only that others call him so. Without such knowing, there is no worry; the masses worry over knowing, act like galloping horses, and soon stop. How can one reach this? One born beautiful is given a jian (mirror) and told so, then knows his beauty—yet that beauty was originally what he himself did not know. Whether knowing or not knowing, hearing or not hearing, what is delightful in this never ceases; others’ love for him never ceases either, because it arises from xing. The sage’s loving people is the same: only after others give him a name and tell him does he know he is loving people. Whether knowing or not, hearing or not, his love never ceases; people rest in that love without end—likewise from xing, neither increased nor decreased by knowing or hearing.

According to Lin Yidu’s commentary: The sage sheds bondage and penetrates the Great Dao, blended into one without inside or outside; he does not feel himself doing so yet is naturally so—this is xing. Fuming is stillness; stirring and acting is motion—both take Heaven as teacher. The sage does not deliberately seek a name; it is the people under Heaven who name him. If one worries that one’s knowing is unclear, that is fondness for using knowing; knowing always reaches its limit, so action does not go far before stopping. How can one arrive at the Dao? The mirror has no feelings toward people, yet people love using it to distinguish beauty from ugliness. Knowing is as if not knowing, hearing as if not hearing; being loved by others likewise never ends. If the mirror had knowing and hearing like a person, with love and hate, its reflecting could not last, and people’s love for it could not be endless. The mirror’s being delightful lies in being without feeling; people’s loving it also comes from innate nature, hence it never stops. The mirror can reflect but cannot speak; if no one tells, a person does not know the mirror has shown his beauty. The sage’s loving people likewise has no end; people give him a name—if they do not tell him, he himself does not know this is loving people. If one loves people by hearing, seeing, and knowing, love has a time when it stops. People resting in the sage’s benevolence also has no end—this is xing.

Bixu (the Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) comments on “attaining close interweaving”: this means penetrating how things are mutually entangled and bound together without being held fast by external things; pervading all and merging into one, so that nothing fails to connect with oneself. If one deliberately tries to grasp this “reason it is so,” one only drifts further from original nature. Stillness and movement differ, yet both take the natural (ziran) as their model. The sage originally had no title; people, moved by his transforming influence, gave him names accordingly. Using a finite life to worry over knowledge without end is why it is said there is often little time; wanting to stop and go no further, yet not knowing what to do. If a person’s face is beautiful, others hold up a mirror so he may see that he surpasses others in beauty. Whether he knows it or not, hears it or not, has that lovable quality in his appearance ever ceased? People delight in such beauty and never stop—this is innate disposition. The sage loves people without mixing in private self-interest; people rest in that love and likewise know no limit—this too is original nature. If “self” remains in love, love will have a point where it stops; the sage’s benevolence and people’s peaceful acceptance both arise from absence of self, and only then count as xing (nature).

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song, Zhuangzi Yizhai Kouyi) says: “Interweaving” (chou miu) refers to yin and yang coming and going, depending on each other without pause. The sage penetrates the principle of yin-yang creation and transformation, exhausts the subtlety of fine and coarse united as one, and follows the natural course without knowing why it is so. Every move and act returns to mandate of Heaven (ming), with the natural as sovereign. Worry over “knowing” is the petty cleverness of private mind; however many worries there are, how many can truly be calculated to succeed and carried through? Hence it is said that what is actually accomplished is often very little. Wishing to act and do something, yet blocked by fate (ming)—what then can one do? Hence when the time comes to stop, what can one do? The “timeliness” here is just “fate.” These anxieties all begin from “knowing”; if one can know what one does not know, there is no worry. Beauty appears only in contrast with ugliness; if one is not told what ugliness is, one does not know one’s own beauty. The distinction between beauty and ugliness is precisely the source from which worry arises. Hence not knowing and not hearing— that joyfulness never reaches an end. I forget beauty and ugliness and have no private stake in things; others’ delight in me likewise has no end. This is the principle of the natural, and therefore it is called xing (nature).

“Chou mou” (entanglement) refers to the way worldly burdens and knots tie one down so that one cannot be free—all because there is a “self” in the mind that sets itself against things outside as adversaries. Only the sage can penetrate all through the Dao, so that the patterns of things are complete and return to a single whole, while he himself does not know why it is so. He relies on innate nature to guard against letting the split between things and self arise in the mind; what then could fail to be leveled and made one? Within silence and stillness there is still movement, which shows that movement too never departs from the way of “returning to the mandate” (fu ming—returning to one’s original nature and life). Movement and stillness mutually serve as root; thus Yin and Yang never reach a moment of being exhausted. All of this takes spontaneity (ziran) as teacher: it is not done from deliberate intent, yet there is still something that presides. When it reaches the stage of vast transformation and nurturing, people call it sagely—but the sage does not call himself sage; that is the meaning of “great virtue is sure to receive its name.” Ordinary people worry that their wisdom is insufficient; what they do often stops before long. If they still try to win a name through cleverness and rush about without rest, what good can that do? It is like a person who knows he is handsome only through a mirror—without anyone telling him, he would not know. The mirror reflects people without end, and people’s love for the mirror has no end. The sage loves people, and for that reason they give him a name— it is the same principle. Thus his love and people’s resting in that love are both inexhaustible; all arise from the naturalness of innate nature, each settling in what is fitting.

From Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei (Song dynasty Chu Boxiu’s commentary on the Zhuangzi; the Zhuangzi is also called the Nanhua zhenjing), juan 82. The edition in the imperial Siku quanshu (Qing official collectaneum) places this material in juan 83, attributed to Song Chu Boxiu, under the title “Miscellaneous Chapters: Zeyang, section 2”—that is, the Zhuangzi miscellaneous chapter “Zeyang” (named after the person Zeyang).

Gazing upon the old capital of one's homeland brings ease to the heart. Even if hills and mounds are thick with trees and grass, hiding nine-tenths of the former scene, one still feels ease; how much more when one sees with one's own eyes what was once seen and hears with one's own ears what was once heard? It is like a platform ten ren high suspended among the crowd—everything clear at a glance.

Ran xiangshi (a legendary ancient ruler) grasped the center of the ring (huán zhōng)—the empty hub that responds to all things—and followed things to completion, having with things neither end nor beginning, neither season nor time limit. What transforms daily together with things is that which does not transform itself, the "One"—when did it ever depart?

If one merely takes Heaven as teacher yet cannot truly take Heaven as teacher, one will perish together with things; taking this as one's task, what can one accomplish? The sage has no "Heaven," no "human being"—precisely that which does not transform itself, the "One"—when did it ever leave? Again, there is no beginning, no myriad things; moving with the world without being discarded, acting in completion without failure or leakage. In accord with the Dao, how can one ask what is to be done?

Shang Tang obtained Yin Dengheng, keeper of the Shiyi gate, to assist him—learning from a teacher without being confined, gaining the way of following along to completion, and entrusting him with the charge of names and ranks. Names and laws are originally superfluous traces, yet he could see both sides. Confucius exhausted his thought to perform such assistance. Rongchengshi (legendary maker of the calendar) said: Remove days and there are no years; there is neither inner nor outer.

Guo Xiang’s commentary reads: To recover what was once lost is already a release; how much more so to recover one’s own original nature? To see again what one has seen and hear again what one has heard is already a release; how much more so to personally recognize one’s own form and put one’s own nature to use? What the multitude is used to, they can hear even when it is dangerous—how much more so for the sage, who has no danger at all?

Ranxiangshi (an ancient sage-king) rested in empty impartiality and followed the ten thousand things, and the ten thousand things completed themselves on their own. He had no beginning or end with things and vanished with them in a flash. Each day he transformed together with things, so he was often without a fixed self, yet he did not often lose himself by following things. Those who act with deliberate intent—why not try to set aside their acting? Only when one has no teacher can one truly take Heaven as teacher; yet even taking Heaven as teacher still does not free one from losing oneself in things—how could that count as a vocation? If modeling oneself on Heaven is not yet enough to call the right thing to do, how much less when one cannot even manage that modeling? Only when Heaven, human beings, origins, and things are all extinguished does one truly align.

Therefore Shang Tang entrusted affairs to the hundred officials and did not intervene himself. He let them gather on their own—it was not that he penned them in; he let them disperse on their own—it was not that he dismissed them. Officials such as the Simu (assistants to Shang Tang) could also follow things so that they completed themselves—this was what Tang attained. Thus reputation rests on things, and merit is not in oneself. Name and norm are merely traces of what has already passed; they are not what hits the mark. Hence it is said: the person of empty, non-coercive mind entrusts governance to the various officials, and his name and deeds appear together in those officials.

Confucius said, “What is there for the world to think or worry about?”—thinking is already exhausted. If there remained the slightest thought, how could one be still and unmoving yet respond without limit, and go to assist the spontaneity of the ten thousand things? The reason we now have years and keep track of days is that there is birth and death; if there were no birth and death, the reckoning of years, months, and days would be abolished.

Lv’s commentary says: To catch sight of one’s old homeland and feel refreshed is ordinary human feeling. Even when grass and trees on the hills have grown thick and hidden the former scene, one still feels refreshed at the sight—only because the root has not been forgotten. How much more when what one sees and hears shares the same span as heaven and earth—that is one’s true capital, and it has been so from long ago. To see it and hear it is like standing on a terrace ten ren high, placed in open “space among the multitude,” seeing everywhere—how can such refreshment be fully told?

The “pivot at the center” (huan zhong—the hub that can respond to the boundless without clinging to one thing) turns without cease, yet never fixes on any one thing; it only follows what is already formed and does not act apart from that, so there is neither beginning nor end, neither “calculation” nor “season.” Calculation means reckoning and comparing. One who transforms together with the ten thousand things keeps to that in them which does not transform—how could he discard it? In acting he often does not reckon or divide time, yet he still has where he stops.

Those who wish to take heaven as model but do not truly model it will chase loss of life together with the ten thousand things, treating that merely as business. The sage never first posits heaven, human beings, a beginning, or things; he moves with the age without breaking off, and in action is thorough without ruin. What is called returning to root-nature in stillness and acting with the tendency in motion—that is truly taking heaven as teacher and matching heaven.

When Tang of Shang obtained Siyu, Menyin, and Denghuan as assistants: Siyu governed regulation and control—meaning the heart; Menyin straightened the gate one enters—meaning the Dao; Denghuan completed enduring cultivation—heng (constancy) being the Dao’s long duration. All of this is taking heaven as teacher. Only following what one takes as teacher without being bound by outer things, and also obtaining “following what is already formed” (sui cheng—going along with what has already taken shape without fabricating), letting that oversee those names—names are superfluous display; from this, standards form, visible on both sides. After following what is formed, names like Siyu all follow one’s own already-formed heart; they are not the names of some deliberate maker. What is subtle is the Dao; what shows surplus is fa (method/law). Seeing where names arise, one knows where standards are accomplished—this is called “seeing on both sides.” Even with such seeing, if one still does not know that under heaven there was never thought first, one has not reached the end. Hence Confucius discarded all thought to take up assisting—but Confucius was not assisting Tang of Shang. Following what is formed is precisely what Ranxiangshi (an ancient person who attained the Dao) understood. From this one knows that names like Siyu all speak of driving and governing. To say that without days there are no years is no longer to posit so-called zhou (time); that without inside or outside is no longer to posit so-called yu (space). Only one who has discarded all thought is adequate to arrive here.

Lin Yidu (Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: If human nature chases after external things, it loses itself and does not know how to return—like someone who has been away from the capital a long time and, seeing it from afar, feels sudden joy; entering the city, they still recognize nine parts in ten and feel gladness in the heart. How much more when they again see what they once saw and hear what they once heard—the delight can be imagined. True nature is like an old site overgrown with hills and grass; the one walking back is like someone about to return to the root: recognizing only nine-tenths means not yet having reached the bottom; only when one again sees the once-seen and hears the once-heard has one truly returned. The joy of seeing true nature is like the joy of seeing the old capital again.

Ranxiangshi was a sage-king before the Three Sovereigns. He attained the principle of empty genuineness (vacuity without obstruction, like the logic of the ring), turned without end, followed the ten thousand things to complete his Way, had no beginning or end, and was not bound to any season—only changing together with things. What can change together with things is the “One” that itself does not change; only this unchanging One can drive all change. Why do those in the world who set their hearts on contrivance not drop what they do and return to the natural? Then true nature can be obtained. Yet if one deliberately tries to model oneself on Heaven, one already fails to obtain it—how much less those who follow external things, throw themselves into them, and do not know how to return?

Originally there was no prior positing of “Heaven” and “human,” yet Heaven and human naturally exist; likewise there was no prior “beginning” and “thing,” yet the start of things unfolds from here itself. Moving in the world, one can bend and stretch without falling away; when affairs are complete, one holds to retreat without overflowing—aligned with principle, why ask what counts as being so?

Si Yu and Men Yin are titles of office; Deng Heng is the personal name chosen for the figure meant. The point is: only one who can ascend the constant Way can serve as another’s teacher. The sage learns from the teacher but is not confined by the teacher—he simply lets nature take its course; if the other is plain as an infant, he too becomes an infant with him—only then is it fitting.

King Tang of Shang took these three as assistants, followed them without being tied down, and went along to complete his Way. Tang in turn upheld their designations for them, yet these three left no trace in the world. Names—and the extra layer of method—all showed doubly on Tang’s side. Tang was a sage who fulfilled the human Way, but standards were not yet complete; by the time of Zhongni (Confucius), change under Heaven was fully arrayed, and he exhausted thought to set down standards—this became in turn a kind of assistance to Tang.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, Song-dynasty scholar of Daoist studies) comments: One who has long been away from home feels joy at the sight of the old homeland. Even if the forest house is filthy and ruined, nine parts in ten gone, one still feels delight; how much more so for someone who sees without losing sight, hears without losing hearing—a person in whom Subtle Being (miaoyou, the subtle reality of existence) stays clear and unmoved? The Great Dao is lofty and bright, hiding nothing, as if one built a high platform in a fine place or hung bells and drums in open country, stirring ears and eyes so that all may understand. “Crowded places” and “sound in the open” mean the broad wilds. The pivot at the ring’s center (huanzhong) turns the ten thousand things only because it is empty; it takes shape with things and cannot be fixed by beginning-and-end or any single moment. Whoever gains the way of the ring’s center has no boundary with things. Change may shift day by day, yet the original remains clear as ever—why divide in the mind what transforms from what does not? Where nothing has yet been taken, nothing has yet been cast away. Without deliberate intent, yet modeling oneself on Heaven—that is truly taking Heaven as teacher. If one is crushed under dust and grime, what then? Who takes Heaven as teacher must forget human affairs; who chases outer things must forget the subtle root. Before “Heaven” is set up in opposition, human affairs are not discarded; before one clings to “things,” the subtle root is not impaired. One mixes with things yet does not betray true practice (zhenlü), completes affairs yet does not sink into the dusty net. To play false amid tangled involvement (chou mou)—why do that? In olden days King Tang of Shang made a worthy minister his steward of governance and took him as master, so he could follow him without being bound. An enclosure (you) is being hemmed in by office to the utmost. Therefore the gate-warden Deng Heng (traditionally said to have assisted King Tang) obtained the efficacy of shaping himself with things and upheld that name. Name and method are what governance finds hard to guard against; how much worse to court the name and add to the method, so that both sides show plainly. The hundred officials and the steward each do their part, each exhausting thought to assist; when thought is exhausted, thought no longer arises, so one can serve as chief mentor. Remove “day” and there is no “year”; beginning and end are not confined. Without inner and outer, there is no death and life. Shaping oneself as one goes along—this is the way that penetrates tangled involvement, runs through to the limit, and merges into one.

Kouyi of Yizhai (Lin Xiyi): After long travel abroad, returning to one’s native land, the heart is bound to be light and free. Entering it, grass and trees tangled and lush—even when nine tenths of what was there is lost compared with before—one still feels at ease. How much more when one has grasped this way that penetrates tangled involvement and runs through to unity as one.

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Song dynasty; his views appear in Zhuangzi Kouyi) says: When a person has wandered abroad for a long time and returns to his native land, his heart is bound to feel light and free. Even if he walks in among trees and grass that have grown thick and tangled into one mass—so that compared with before, nine tenths of what was there is gone—he is still glad. How much more so for one who seeks the Dao: when he suddenly awakens and can see what he originally saw and hear what he originally heard—all of this belonging to him by nature—how could he not rejoice?

A platform is the highest place. Xuan (to suspend, to display) means to set out music with many performers; jian is read in the departing tone, like alternating pipes and bells in combined performance. To listen at the highest place to the interwoven playing of many instruments is already enough to shake the ears and eyes of the mundane world. How much more so when the sage employs the principle of emptiness and ziran (naturalness, spontaneity), following the ten thousand things and sharing joy with them—how high is the ground on which he stands?

“Ring at the center” (huan zhong) is a metaphor for utmost emptiness: no end or beginning, always one and the same. Ji and shi (incipience and season) are like past and present; what one must guard against is the shifting of time. “Day by day changing together with things” means renewing with the ten thousand things each day—and this is precisely what I have obtained that does not change. Why should people not cast off old habits and turn toward the highest Dao?

Taking ziran as one’s norm yet not setting up the label “emulating ziran”—that is merely going along with things. If one sets the mind on making things happen, one no longer knows what to do. When humans have youwei (deliberate action), Heaven has wuwei (non-action). Not only is there no trace of intentional doing—even the one who practices wuwei has no mind-intention (xinzhi); hence “there has never been any.”

“There has never been Heaven, there has never been Man”: once there is a beginning and once there are things, there are traces; if there is no beginning of things, there are no traces. Not only are traces of “having things” absent—even “having no traces” is dissolved; hence “there has never been a beginning, there has never been things.”

Acting in the world the same as everyone else, with nothing abandoned or cut off—all kinds of conduct fully present, yet not stuck in one rut. This is like the “old xie” in Qiwu Lun (the Zhuangzi chapter “Discourse on Making Things Equal”)—meaning mud-stuck attachment, guarding against sinking. Becoming one with the Dao is mutual accord without seeking; if one deliberately seeks accord, one cannot accord.

Formerly Tang of Shang took Yi Yin (the worthy minister of Tang) as teacher, yet was not boxed in by his methods; he obtained the principle by which the ten thousand things are accomplished and followed it, placing himself in the position of wuwei and letting Yi Yin bear the reputation. Tang was wuwei and Yi Yin youwei; Tang without name and Yi Yin with name. That reputation falling upon the world is superfluous regulation. “Two appearances” (liang jian) means splitting body and name in two, failing to attain seamless oneness. Yi Yin bearing great responsibility was not in itself extraordinary; Confucius admired him again, exhausting thought to assist the age, also wishing to do what Yi Yin did. This passage satirizes that point.

Rongchengshi was an ancient sage who joined three hundred sixty days into one year; if one subtracts the days one by one, one can only call them days, not a year. Laozi said “counting the parts of a carriage, yet there is no ‘carriage’ as a whole”—meaning outward names arise from the inner; without inner there is no outer. This example is offered to prove the principle of ziran.

Human true nature (zhenxing) is originally whole and complete; over time the inner is depleted because outwardly one is pulled by seeing and hearing, gradually drifting from the inner. Like leaving an old capital and wandering in a strange land—once one meets an illuminating teacher, how could one not feel expansive when gazing toward the old capital? Even if hills and trees grow dense and merge, nine tenths lost, one still rejoices; how much more to see what one originally saw and hear what one originally heard, issuing naturally from one’s nature—like a high platform set among the multitude, with nothing unseen.

Formerly Ran Xiangshi (an ancient figure who obtained empty, penetrating Dao and governed the realm) obtained empty, penetrating Dao. In governing he followed the ten thousand things and completed their natures. “No end, no beginning” means not bound by the large aspect within change; “no incipient limit, no fixed season” means not bound by the small aspect within change. Large and small, far and near, merge into one. The present is right before the eyes—why be attached? “Day by day changing together with things” is like the flame ahead no longer being the flame behind; “there is one thing that does not change” means today’s me is yesterday’s me—when was there joining or parting?

Wishing to take ziran as model yet also setting the mind to chase outer things—that is already not ziran. Acting thus, how can one succeed?

The sage is not trapped by “Heaven” and “Man,” so he can follow Heaven and also dwell among humans; he forgets beginning and forgets things, so he can both have a beginning and have things. He goes forward with the world without interruption—merely following things, not sunk in ditches and channels. What he does is complete without overflowing, pervading the ten thousand things without excessive acts. Action accord with the Dao—how can this be achieved?

Tang obtained three great ministers as assistants, took as model the Dao of wuwei, and was not framed by administrative craft. The worthy ministers’ craft settled the realm and nourished the people; what made the ruler honored and secure was only the Dao—skill did not participate. This again depends on whom the ruler employs and whom he sets aside; the keys to order, disorder, fortune, and calamity appear from this. Tang obtained the Dao of following things to completion, letting them manage the reputation of governing the realm. Merit was accomplished by the three men, yet reputation returned to Tang. That reputation was all superfluous regulation, not Tang’s true authenticity. “Obtaining the two appearances” means seeing lord and minister mutually relying to accomplish the Dao, deeds displayed in the world. Hence Confucius afterward exhausted thought and completed the norms of governing the age; though not contemporaneous with Tang, he was effectively doing their successor-assistance.

Calendar masters accumulate days to make a year; emperors accumulate wisdom to become sages. Without the three ministers assisting, Tang could not accomplish the way of governance; without Tang and the three ministers opening the way before, Confucius could not complete it alone afterward. This is like inner and outer unable to lack each other. When the Dao is accomplished, virtue complete, and grace spreads without bound, the people are at ease and do not feel the emperor’s force—then sagely wisdom is dissolved together with mind-knowing. This is the meaning of “remove the days and there is no year.” At that point, where is there still a split between inner and outer?

The difficult phrase “ru zhi” in the text is simply the character for “join” or “merge”; it should be read connected to what precedes.

Wei Ying (King Hui of Wei) had an appointment with Tian Hou Mou (the ruler of Qi), but Tian Hou Mou broke his word. Wei Ying grew angry and wanted to send someone to assassinate him. When Xixu (Gongsun Yan) heard of this, he found it shameful and said: You are the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots, yet you would take revenge like an ordinary person. I ask leave to lead two hundred thousand troops to attack Qi for you—capture his people, drive off his cattle and horses, and bring his ruler to such grief and inner heat that fever breaks out on his back, then seize his state. When Tian Ji flees, whip his back and break his spine.

When Ji Zi heard this, he too found it shameful and said: To build a wall ten ren high and then tear it down is what convicts forced into labor find heartbreaking. For seven years now you have not raised arms in war—that is the foundation of a true king’s work. Gongsun Yan is one who stirs up people’s hearts; you must not listen to him.

When Hua Zi heard this, he thought neither side was right and said: Those who strongly urge attacking Qi are troublemakers; those who strongly urge not attacking are also troublemakers; and those who call both the attackers and the non-attackers troublemakers are troublemakers themselves. King Hui asked: What then should I do? Hua Zi said: Your Majesty need only seek alignment with the great Dao.

When Huizi heard this, he introduced Dai Jinren. Dai Jinren asked: There is a creature called the snail—does Your Majesty know it? The king said he did. Dai Jinren said: On the snail’s left horn is a state called Touching Clan; on the right horn is a state called Savage Clan. They often fight over territory, and the dead number in the tens of thousands; the pursuit of a defeated army may take fifteen days before they return. The king said: Alas, is that not empty talk? Dai Jinren said: Allow me to make it real for you. Consider whether there is a limit to the four directions, above and below. The king said there is no limit. Dai Jinren said: When the mind is freed to wander in the boundless, then returns to the realm where human paths meet—is that realm not as if it were and yet were not? The king said yes. Dai Jinren said: In that realm of meeting there is Wei; in Wei there is Liang; in Liang there is the king. Is there any difference between the king and the Savage Clan? The king said there is none. After the guest withdrew, the king was dazed, as if he had lost something.

Huizi came to an audience. The king said: That guest is a great man; even a sage could not match him. Huizi said: A bamboo tube can produce a loud note, but blowing through the ring-hole on a sword hilt yields only a faint sound. Yao and Shun are praised by the world, yet to speak of Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren is like that faint breath through the ring.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Even a snail, tiny as it is, still has two horns on its head. If what people fight over were as minute as that, there would be nothing left in the world worth disputing. Where human footsteps can reach is called “pervading”—meaning within the four seas. Today we take the four seas as vast; set them against the measure of the boundless, and they seem almost not to exist. The King of Wei and the tribes of Man are both finite things. Being finite, whether large or small, neither can be compared with the infinite. Even if heaven and earth together lay within the infinite, they would be insignificantly small. Why cling to the idea that the state of Wei, or the king within Wei, is something worth fighting over? One is then dazed and adrift, lamenting that what is contested is no more than the faintest “xie” of a breath—hardly worth listening to at all.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: No fault is greater than “what is desirable.” Skillfully urging someone to attack Qi is to make them see profit and stir up desire—that already confuses the heart. Skillfully urging someone not to attack is to make them see a good name and stir up desire—that too confuses the heart. Even saying “whether you advocate attack or non-attack, both confuse people” still does not free one from clinging to some view; it is still confusion. Only in seeking the Dao does one not stick to one-sided opinions, and trouble ceases from there. When the heart roams in the boundless, then the pervading lands above and below, east and west—Wei, Liang, and the rest—all arise from one’s own mind. Not only are the King of Wei and the tribes of Chushi and Manshi (the two states warring on the left and right horns of the snail) undifferentiated; the pervading lands and Wei, Liang, Chushi, and Manshi are also undifferentiated. Understanding this, one knows that nothing is larger than an autumn down; Mount Tai, by contrast, is small. The King of Wei thus realizes that what gives rise to contention was never really there, and so he is dazed and adrift. The Spirit Man, the Sage, and the Great Man were never superior or inferior in essence—only the words differ. Blowing a tube gives a “hu” sound because the hollow inside the tube receives the breath; blowing the pommel of a sword gives only a “xie” because there is nowhere for the breath to lodge.

The commentary of Yidu states: Dai Jinren was a man of Daliang (the capital of Wei) whose heart was set on the Great Dao. “Tongda” (what can be reached) means places that carts and boats can get to. The parable of the clans Touch and Man fighting on a snail’s horn—a fable about two tiny states on the left and right horns—is meant to satirize the warlike rulers of the day. The King of Wei thought it was empty talk, but once it was checked against real human affairs, the true point stood out: one must ask whether the four directions, above and below, have any end at all. If a person knows how to let mind and spirit roam in the boundless, then looking back at the “realm of what can be reached” shows that one is simply standing in a limited spot. Within reachability there is Wei; in Wei there is Liang; in Liang there is the king. The nearer one comes, the smaller things get—down to the King of Wei himself. How is he any different from Touch and Man on a snail’s horn? From this it is clear that everything in the world that has a physical form comes with entanglements; all the more so when people fight over territory. A blown pipe is loud; a blown sword is faint. Before Dai Jinren, to praise Yao and Shun is hardly worth listening to.

Bi Xu Zi (Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan) comments that a true king’s army should campaign openly and justly. To treat plunder as the main business, so that the other side’s resentment festers into sores and ulcers, and then to harm their state further, is not what the right Way approves. Today Gongsun Yan, over a small grievance, would raise troops and violate a neighbor—he is already a maker of disorder. Ji Zi argues against attack yet indulges the neighbor’s arrogance; he is equally a disturber. Hua Zi counts even his own criticism of the first two as disorder, intending to bring in someone of the Way to remonstrate. What is called seeking the great Way is nothing more than cultivating virtue and not contending. Huizi then asked the man of Jin (Dai Jinren) to see the king and used allegory to enlighten him: borrowing the snail’s horns as a vehicle, he showed how petty contention really is—when two states fight, they do not step outside one snail shell. Fifteen days is one cycle of qi; when joy and anger reach an extreme, they must turn back. Heaven and earth rest in the great void like a pebble on Mount Tai; a “state that reaches everywhere” rests in the cosmos like a grain of millet in the great granary. Wei lies among such all-reaching states like the tip of a hair on a horse; and within Wei there is only Daliang, and within Daliang only a king—is this not like the tribes of Chu and Man on the two horns of a snail? Now Qi and Wei contend—what difference is there from battle between Chu and Man? The great man stands beyond the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters—the whole cosmos) and leaves things to nature; the sage dwells within the realm and keeps to the law. The sound of a blown tube booms loudly; blowing on a sword ring is only a brief “xiu.” To compare Yao and Shun’s government to that—though praised by men, measured against the great Way it is hardly worth hearing, let alone attacking other states and carrying off the people.

The Luyizhai Kouyi—Lin Xi Yi’s Southern Song lecture-commentary on the Zhuangzi—takes the view that seven years without war was precisely what was admirable in King Wei’s record. Xishou (a martial title then held by Gongsun Yan) urged him to take up arms, as if dismantling a city already built and wasting the labor of those who had built it. Whenever Huazi’s words included the character for “campaign” (fa), a kind of reckoning crept in; so those who favored war, those who opposed it, and those who judged both sides were alike disturbers of the mind. One who truly understands the Dao would not even speak of military affairs. Two states fighting on a snail’s horn was originally a figurative image, yet the narrative later treats it as literal fact. From the boundless vast emptiness (taixu), the scope humans can reach is “the Middle Kingdom”—the limited realm of human civilization. From taixu, the Middle Kingdom is already tiny; from the Middle Kingdom, the state of Wei is smaller; from Wei, the capital Daliang smaller still; and within the capital, King Wei’s own person grows ever more minute. To look from taixu step by step down to the king’s body is no different from Chushi and Manshi, the two petty realms on the snail’s horn. King Wei felt dazed, as if something had slipped away, and only then saw that what was contested was not worth contesting at all. A hole in a flute pipe gives sound; blowing on the sword pommel (jian shou) gives almost none. The point is that before one who has the Dao, even talk of benevolence and righteousness has nowhere loud enough to register.

The commentary adds that Xishou was the title of a martial officer, then held by Gongsun Yan. He asked for troops to attack Qi, to carry off people and strike other states—relying on strength and slighting the enemy, which is already the way of a disturber. Jizi said that long peace was the root of King Wei’s rule, aiming to secure the people and stabilize the realm—so why call him a disturber too? Huazi was setting up what follows and deliberately used such language to prod the king, waiting until he pressed for an answer before speaking further. The subtlety lies in the line that the ruler need only seek the Dao: what Xishou said was not the Dao; Jizi’s wish to stop war had not yet reached the Dao either. To say both sides are wrong while offering no way to settle the matter is still, taken as a whole, to be a disturber. When the king had Dai Jinren—the person of the Way in the text—come to audience, that was truly turning toward the Dao. The two states on the snail’s horn stand for Qi and Wei; what they fight over is utterly slight, and earlier commentators have treated this at length, so it need not be repeated here. The flute’s sound stands for popular praise of Yao and Shun; to speak of Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren is like blowing on a sword pommel—no real sound. To argue over whether to campaign against another state before Huazi is much the same.

In Miscellaneous Chapters, “Zeyang”: Confucius traveled to Chu and lodged with a vinegar-seller at Yiqu. A neighboring husband and wife, with their servant and concubine, climbed onto the roof. Zilu asked, “What are all those people doing crowded up there?” Confucius said, “They are attendants of a sage. They bury themselves among the common people and hide at the field’s edge. Their fame has faded, yet their purpose is not exhausted. Their mouths speak, but their hearts never truly speak along with them. They turn against the world and inwardly disdain going the same way as others. These are people who ‘sink on dry land’—alive in society yet as if submerged and concealed. Perhaps this is Shinan Yiliao of Chu?” Zilu asked to go summon him. Confucius said, “Leave it. He knows that I, Kong Qiu, have noticed him, and that I have come to Chu. He will think I am sure to have the king of Chu summon him—and will take me for a flatterer (ningren, one who wins favor with clever words). If that is so, he would be ashamed even to hear such a person speak; how much less to meet him face to face? How could he still stay there?” Zilu went to look—the house was already empty.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Buried among the people” means mingling with the multitude. “Hidden at the border” means not seeking glory when advancing, and not withering when withdrawing. “Voice extinguished” is diminishing reputation. “Purpose not exhausted” is pursuing long life. What the mouth says may be worldly speech, but the heart is not of the world. Such persons hide in the crowd—like sinking even without water—a way of making this kind of concealment clear. Rather than expect him still to be there, it is better to release him and follow his intent. The house was empty; he had indeed fled.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: When the neighbor saw Confucius approaching, he climbed to the highest part of his roof—signaling that he did not wish to meet or have dealings with him—and intended to move away to some loftier, more remote place.

What is meant by “a servant of the sage” is someone who possesses sage virtue yet willingly holds a servant’s humble station: buried among the common people, he does not act in ways that show off outwardly; concealed in marginal fields and corners, he does not occupy the central, prominent position of virtue. His name may vanish, yet his purpose knows no end; he withdraws and hides in what is secret, and wanders beyond the bounds of the conventional world. Though his mouth speaks, it is as if he did not speak; though he wishes to be silent, he cannot entirely refrain from speaking. Estranged from the ways of the world, he turns away and departs. With sage virtue he moves among human society, yet no one recognizes him—like one who sinks beneath the surface while still on dry land.

As for Confucius’s course, he was urgent and toiling on behalf of the world, and looked like a ning (a clever, pleasing talker). Yet if everyone hid away like Yiliao of Shinan, upon whom would the common people (hengmu folk, “horizontal-eyed” humanity) rely for deliverance? The great Way of the sage would also fall and fail to be transmitted. Formerly Weisheng Mou called Confucius a ning, and Confucius replied that he “dared not” accept that label; now, facing Yiliao, he calls himself a ning—to show that what he truly honors is that kind of hidden virtue, while his restless, busy striving is really something he cannot avoid.

Commentary of Yidu: Yiqiu is a place name; there was a household that sold fermented drink. Deng ji (climbing to the ridge) means climbing high to look around; zongzong describes a large crowd. This sage buried himself among the common people, living the same life as they did, and hid at the edge of the fields so that no one could see his tracks. Sheng xiao (voice fading) means diminishing one’s reputation; “limitless aspiration” means aspiration set on the Dao. When he spoke, he did not mean to speak—he only responded to things as they arose. Inwardly he went against the mundane world; outwardly he looked like everyone else. The sage takes his stand in utmost yin; “on land yet as if sunken” refers to this. People who hide in market towns are much the same. Zhuangzi put his meaning in the story of Confucius and Shinan Yiliao (a recluse of the Chu market town of Shinan), to deny that the sage leaves traces: saying “his house is empty” means one cannot see his tracks. From this we see that Confucius shared the people’s troubles, while Yiliao was one who left human affairs and entered what is natural.

Commentary of Bixu: Deng ji means climbing onto the roof ridge to look. Confucius acting as a driver or servant follows the way of one who models himself on the sage—like Gengsang Chu serving Laozi. “Burying himself among the people” is like Liezi living in the gardens of Zheng, where no one knew him; “hiding at the field’s edge” is like Changju and Jieni obscurely plowing beside the furrows. So reputation fades while the will stays clear; words are spoken yet the heart has already forgotten speech, disdaining to live like the world—on land yet as if sunken. Confucius knew Yiliao would not see him, as Yan Xi was ashamed to meet Xu You (an ancient hermit who declined the realm); “how could he remain?” means you have no grounds to keep this man here.

Kouyi of Yanzhai: Ji means the roof ridge; pu is like a follower or retainer. Mai is concealment; pan is neighborhood. He concealed himself among neighbors so others could not see him (one reading: “did not know him”). Sheng xiao is fleeing reputation. “On land yet sunken” is a figure for hiding in the marketplace. Zhuo is like being known; ning is clever, smooth talk. “How could he remain?” means he would surely leave and not stay.

In ancient times customs were simple and honest. People lived their whole lives without visiting one another, each content in their own station, inwardly fulfilled and not seeking anything from outside—and the reason lay precisely in this. Today Confucius hurries about and travels from state to state, wishing to transform the world through benevolence and righteousness and to make people submit to rites and music, yet in doing so they lose the quiet, joyful nature they once had. Those gentlemen who hide their virtue and do not display their talent naturally move off to remote heights, fearing only that they have not left quickly enough.

Yet the sage’s love for others knows no limit. Whether in hardship or in success, his heart is always set on benefiting all under Heaven—something that cannot be compared with those who withdraw from the world and seek only to perfect themselves alone. The Master knew that the man was merely a follower in the sage’s outer ranks, not one who had entered the inner hall; he too was someone who shunned fame to preserve his mind and will—and that person must have been Shìnán Yíliáo of the market south (a Chu recluse, also called Shìnán Yíliáo). The sage’s discernment of people reached that degree of precision. Zilu wanted to go summon him, but the Master knew he would certainly not come; when they reached his dwelling, it was already empty. The text says to send Zilu back to see him again—by then the man was gone. This especially shows the Master’s foresight and clarity. As for those who hide away and cultivate themselves alone, their place of refuge is inevitably narrow; they simply follow their own views and preferences.

The border guard of Chángwú asked Zǐlǎo: “In handling affairs, do not be rough and careless; in governing the people, do not be light or slipshod. Once when I farmed, I plowed carelessly and the harvest repaid me carelessly; I weeded half-heartedly and the harvest repaid me the same way. The next year I changed my ways—I plowed deeply, tended the soil carefully, the grain grew lush and strong, and I had enough to eat all year.”

When Zhuangzi heard this, he said: “Nowadays people who care for the body and put the spirit in order mostly do as the border guard described: they flee from what is natural, turn against their original nature, extinguish genuine feeling, and lose their spirit, making the pursuit of popular custom their business. Those who treat their nature roughly find that the harm of likes and dislikes is like reeds and rushes—at first it seems almost to support the body, then promptly it uproots and disorders the nature; then festering and leakage break out together and issue forth wherever they will—suppurating sores, scabies, carbuncles, internal heat, and urine thick as paste are exactly this.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: lǔmǎng and mièliè mean acting lightly and negligently, doing things in a slipshod way and not fulfilling one’s proper share. The harm of likes and dislikes becomes one’s nature, like when reeds and rushes first sprout they seem to help the body, but soon they disorder the nature until at last festering and leakage break out together and emerge at random—biāo (swelling), jiè (scabies), yōng (carbuncle), internal heat, and sōugāo (thick urine)—that is what this refers to.

Guo Xiang’s comment: “Reckless and crude” (lumang, mielie) means acting in a hasty, perfunctory, and rough way without doing what properly belongs to one. When one’s allotted share is fully carried out, that is the utmost of Wuwei (non-action). People turn away from nature and lose genuine feeling and Shen (spirit) because they follow what everyone else does. If each person reaches the full measure of their own proper share, what is there to worry about? Weeds such as reeds (huanwei) harm millet and grain; likes and dislikes injure one’s proper nature (zhengxing). When the body is scattered and dissipated, the vital spirit is harmed. Using likes and dislikes to pull one’s nature so that it cannot reach its fitting measure—that is the retribution of recklessness.

Lu Huiqing’s comment: “In pursuing the Dao, one daily diminishes” (wei dao ri sun) until Wuwei—that is the way to govern the body and regulate the mind. If one instead flees nature, turns against innate nature, extinguishes spirit and genuine feeling, and endlessly imitates the crowd, that is recklessness pushed to the extreme. When things are stable they are easy to hold; when trouble has not yet shown it is easy to deal with. Inner likes and dislikes become like weeds; outer cattails and reeds (jianjia) at first help the body stand, but soon they uproot innate nature and the principle of Heaven (tianli) is cut off. By then, if one tries to heal the damage, can it still be done? From “ulcers bursting and leaking together” (bing kui lou fa) onward, everything described is harm done by likes and dislikes acting wickedly and stealing away one’s original authenticity.

Yidu (commentator Lin Zi) notes: In governing affairs and people, if one is reckless and crude, work becomes careless and ineffective. The border warden (fengren) compares this to his own farming—the same principle applies. The next year he changed his method, plowing deep and hilling the soil carefully; the grain thrived and he had enough to eat all year. The more effort one gives, the fuller the return. Governing the body and regulating the mind works the same way. “Dun tian” means fleeing nature; then one leaves innate nature, loses spirit and genuine feeling, and bends to follow the crowd—driving oneself toward death. When cattails and reeds first sprout they grow up with the grain; once they are lush they harm the crop. When likes and dislikes first stir, the body too grows full and strong; if they blaze without restraint, they injure innate nature. So one must check them at the very first sprouting; otherwise they will gradually uproot innate nature. Once nature is lost and desire flares, essential Qi breaks up, leaks, and flows out without choosing where it goes—producing boils, scabies, carbuncles (biaoju, jiejiong), internal heat, and disorders such as sougao, until spirit leaves and the body is ruined. That is the retribution of recklessness in regulating the mind. Sougao is the illness of turbid urine.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song, author of Zhuangzi Oral Exegesis) says in that work that the border official of Changwu used farming to illustrate governing affairs, Zhuangzi in turn used that episode to illustrate learning and self-cultivation, and Su Shi’s Discourse on Farming (Jia Shuo) follows the same pattern.

“Changing the quota” (bian qi) means altering how one farms. Older commentators read qi in the departing tone, referring to farming method. Sima Biao took the wording at face value: changing one’s own way of tilling, not doing as others do; another view is changing Qi state’s farming practices. Bixuzi (Chen Jingyuan) cites older texts: when grain and wheat put forth heads and the ears stand level, that is called qi (“even”). On careful reading of the passage, the departing-tone reading fits better—it matches fenji (a fixed measure or dose). Someone who works rashly and carelessly (lumang) does not reach the proper measure in plowing and hoeing, and the harvest is likewise careless. Now, if you change the old limit and exert your strength fully, the stalks flourish and you eat your fill for the year. Using this to liken tending the body and ordering the inner life is very apt.

The human mind and human nature do not go beyond what is natural. Only because people flee the natural do they leave their true nature (zhenxing), until feelings are extinguished and spirit is lost without their knowing it—all from being sunk in what the crowd busies itself with.

Likes and dislikes harm nature just as reeds harm the grain. Jianjia is reeds when they first sprout—that is, the heart blocked by coarse grass. Once nature is veiled, desire grows on its own, filling the body like young reeds, meaning the whole person is human desire. At first desire seems to support the grain and grow with it; later it overgrows and harms the crop. Using human desire to prop up the physical form, every movement loses the pattern of the natural; true nature is blocked and stripped away, and the principle of nature (tianli) is extinguished. When true nature is lost, qi also falls ill: some suffer festering sores that ulcerate together, some have running sores that break out without choosing a place—touch them and illness follows. Desire blocks nature and destroys the authentic self; the body festers and leaks; wherever it goes becomes disease, until nothing is left. That is the retribution for treating the body with rash carelessness. This passage warns people: indulging desire will surely harm one’s life—can one fail to be on guard?

Bo Ju sought instruction from Laozi (the Old Master) and asked to travel through the realm. Laozi said, “Never mind—the world is the same everywhere.” When Bo Ju pressed again, Laozi asked where he would start; he said he would begin in Qi.

In Qi he saw a man who had died under punishment. He straightened the body, took off his court robes and laid them over the corpse, looked up to heaven and wept: “You! The great calamity of the world has fallen on you first. Those above only warn people not to steal and not to kill. Yet once honor and disgrace are fixed, what people suffer becomes plain; once goods and wealth are hoarded, what they fight over appears. Now they establish what people suffer and pile up what they contend for, tormenting people without end—how can anyone avoid ending like this? In antiquity rulers attributed what was gained and right to the people and what was lost and wrong to themselves; if even one person’s body was harmed, they withdrew and blamed themselves. Today they hide how things really are and then fault people for not understanding; they make tasks impossibly hard and then punish those who dare not attempt them; they load on unbearable responsibility and then punish those who cannot bear it; they set destinations impossibly far and then punish those who cannot reach them. When the people’s wit and strength are exhausted, they can only answer with falsehood. Every day more falsehood is produced—how can officers and commoners avoid being false? When strength falls short they fake; when wit falls short they cheat; when wealth falls short they steal. Who is to blame for the act of theft?”

Guo Xiang (Western Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: The great calamity of killing refers to what follows below. Once the great calamity is done, warning people “do not do it” cannot work. When each gets his place there is no honor or disgrace; when gain and loss are in turmoil, honor and disgrace are fixed and straining on tiptoe to outdo others arises. To rush about in that—what is it if not sickness? If sufficiency counts as wealth, what is there to fight over? When those above have preferences, those below cannot rest in their places. If the ruler does not push loss and injustice onto the people, the people will naturally have gain and set themselves straight. Why is the true form of things lost? Because the ruler disturbs them. Going against native endowment is concealment; following native endowment is clarity. When things are clear, everyone can know them; when affairs are easy, everyone dares do them; when the burden is light, everyone can bear it; when the distance suits the feet, everyone can arrive. When the people’s strength is spent they use falsehood to escape punishment. When the ruler daily feeds falsehood, where can the scholar find sincerity?

In Lü Huiqing’s reading, Bo Ju had probably served in office at some point. He laid his court robe over the dead man as a sign of pity and explained that someone reduced to that state was already guilty—so he did not shrink from criticizing those above. When those in power cannot forget honor and disgrace, the people see the source of their misfortune; when they do not treat goods lightly, the people see what they will fight over. If you now set up what everyone hates and make people suffer because of it, gather what everyone covets and make people struggle because of it, yet expect them not to steal, not to kill, and not to commit capital crimes—how is that possible?

Tang and King Wu of Zhou took the faults of the myriad regions upon themselves alone, gave the gains to the people, and kept the mistakes for themselves. Yi Yin said that if even one person was not settled, it was his fault; if even one person lacked what he should have had whole, he withdrew and blamed himself. To blame people today for being foolish and ignorant, for criminals not owning their crimes, for punishments lacking force, and for executions falling short of the mark—this is not the same as the former kings forgiving those who did not know, and pitying those who could not manage. When the people know their strength is exhausted and have no choice but to keep coping through hypocrisy, those above breed hypocrisy in many forms yet demand that those below not be hypocritical—that cannot happen.

Commentary by Yidu (commentator’s sobriquet): As the Great Dao disperses day by day, deceit and fraud rise day by day; the people’s suffering begins precisely here. What crime did you commit that you should meet this disaster first? Was it robbery, was it murder? The “great calamity” spoken of later means honor and disgrace, goods and wealth, and the ways people are driven into poverty. In antiquity people did not contend over honor and disgrace, so they did not know what calamity was; they did not hoard goods and wealth, so they did not know what contention was. Today’s rulers stand above honor and disgrace and sit in the midst of goods and wealth—that is the beginning of what people dread and the root of what they fight over. They also increase taxes until the people are impoverished and corvée labor never ceases; even if they wished not to die, they could not manage it. From “holding possession to lie with the people” through “withdrawing and blaming oneself” describes how ancient rulers loved the people and, when things went wrong, looked to themselves; the present age is not like that. The following four lines refer to the politics of rulers of that time: they hide things away and instead treat those who do not understand as foolish—the later text makes this clear. These ways do not accord with human feeling but go against it. When the people’s intelligence and strength are exhausted and still they cannot succeed, they then resort to hypocrisy to cope. Those above cannot return to the root and only bustle at the branches—how can they rescue and stop this?

Commentary by Bixu (Bixuzi, commentator’s sobriquet): From one household to another, from one state to another—the world is no different. When he arrived in Qi and saw a criminal executed, with court dress laid over the corpse while people wept, that was ancient ritual; what pained him was that policy had gone wrong until matters reached this point. Because honor and disgrace had been established and goods and wealth gathered, the disaster of execution had already taken shape and contention, plunder, and banditry already filled the land—could one escape the great calamity? Laozi said, “He who bears the ill fortune of a state is the king of the world”—that is returning to the ways of old. Hiding statutes and ordinances while treating the common people as fools, setting inconvenient rules yet punishing those who violate them, handing down heavy tasks yet punishing those whose ability falls short, extending the distance yet blaming the slow and weak for not arriving in time—when the people’s intelligence and strength are exhausted, they think of deceiving the ruler and guarding against those above. When those above have already lost the people’s hearts, those below follow that wind and change accordingly. If you want water to run clear, the key is to clarify the source.

Yan's Oral Commentary (Lin Xiyi's explication) says: What ought not to be done—is that not theft and murder? Honor and disgrace, fame, wealth, profit, and illness are all harms. When those above love reputation, these harms arise; when governing the state means amassing wealth, strife over it arises. “Losing and gaining,” “straightening what is crooked”—when the people err, the blame lies with me alone; when one thing loses its proper form and one withdraws to blame oneself, that is like ordinary people not receiving favor, as if one had pushed them into a ditch oneself. Hiding things and not explaining them, yet treating those who do not know as fools; setting what is hard to do at too high a bar, yet treating those who dare not do it as guilty. Loading burdens too heavy without measuring human strength, setting the road too far without reckoning the journey; forcing people to do what exceeds their power, people will surely respond with pretense; demanding without end, they will surely steal to pay what is owed. This is how those above make people feign, deceive, and steal—yet whom can they blame?

Bai Ju asked to travel throughout the realm—a wish in the same spirit as Confucius’s idea of floating on a raft at sea to leave a world where the Way no longer worked. When he reached Qi, he saw condemned criminals executed and corpses lying in the road, and from that he could read how each state was governed and taught. He covered a corpse with his court robes and wept until his grief was extreme. Being cold and hungry, sick and in distress, imprisoned and bound, anxious and on guard—all of this can be called calamity; yet among the bitter injuries life suffers, none is greater than execution. Why did you happen to meet this fate first? Had you become a robber? Had you taken a life? How did you end up like this? Was it not that honor and disgrace, together with wealth and goods, planted the root of trouble and stirred up strife, until things reached this point? When rulers set up what people dread and heap up what people fight over, that pattern is very old—how could disaster be avoided? These words carry a barbed critique of the politics of the time. The text then turns to how those who ruled the world in antiquity kept in mind a heart of cherishing and nurturing the people, fearing that even one person might lose a place to settle, so that governance succeeded and teaching harmonized. Today is not like that. What follows points straight at the failings of current policy: the speaker is not guilty, yet the listener has enough to take warning from. The closing question—“Who is really to blame?”—also leaves a sigh of things left unsaid, hoping that gentlemen in office will turn and examine themselves. If they could truly limit their own upkeep, remove the root of trouble and cut off strife, and let the people be transformed by De so that punishments lie unused, would that not be as good as it gets? In the text, “one form” (yi xing) should read “one thing” (yi wu)—a copyist’s error, as noted in the Yizhai commentary (Lin Xiyi’s notes on the Zhuangzi).

From Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei, juan 84. Imperial Siku quanshu edition: Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei, juan 85, by Chu Boxiu of the Song, Miscellaneous Chapters, “Zeyang,” the fourth.

Qu Boyu (a worthy minister of Wei in the Spring and Autumn period) lived to sixty. In those sixty years he kept changing: what he first took to be right he often overturned later and called wrong. He could not tell whether what he called “right” today was what he had called “wrong” in the previous fifty-nine years. The ten thousand things all have what gives rise to them, yet one cannot see the root; all have what brings them forth, yet one cannot see the gate of entry and exit. People honor what their own mind already knows, but they do not see that they must rely on what their own mind does not know—and only then can they truly know. Can this fail to be the greatest confusion? Enough, enough! There is no escaping this. Is this what people call “right”? Is it really right?

Guo Xiang (Western Jin scholar, commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: “Transformation” here means adapting to the shifting world, not being stuck in “that” versus “self.” Follow things and let them run their course—that is how circumstances change. Change in circumstances never stops; there is no root and no gate; suddenly it is so, and therefore it cannot be seen. Only someone who does not fix on “birth” and does not fix on “going out” can see the gate and trace the root. What I do not know—within things there is knowing; use the knowing that belongs to things, and nothing need stay unknown. Rely only on one’s own knowing, and what one knows stays small. To refuse to know through things and instead exalt one’s own knowing, thinking nothing is wrong—is that not the greatest confusion? If one cannot use the other, one has no place to rest. What one calls right oneself, the world may not call right.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing: When Qu Boyu (a worthy minister of Wei in the Spring and Autumn period) reached sixty, he had already undergone sixty changes. He would first take something to be right, then later overturn that judgment and treat it as wrong—a pattern said to resemble Confucius’s own. As long as one’s knowledge and perception have not come to rest in what one does not know, there is no fixed standard for what counts as “right”; how then can one be sure that what one affirms today is not what one denied in those fifty-nine prior turns? Things are born, yet one cannot see their root; things emerge, yet one cannot see their gate. What knowledge and perception cannot grasp is precisely the source from which the myriad things arise. People only prize what they already know; when they reach what knowing cannot reach, they often fear emptiness and lack of footing, and turn back at the cliff’s edge. Is such doubt not great? Stop, stop! Moreover, there is nowhere to flee from this. People like this can never truly share the Great Dao with others; they themselves have nowhere to settle. Even if these words are taken as correct now, it is still unclear whether they really are so; one should let people forget the words so they may accord with what is actually the case.

Commentary by Lin Yidu: From youth to old age, the new constantly replaces the old; one stands within the transforming work of creation yet does not feel oneself shifting. Boyu could follow change and renew himself day by day—always at first thinking something right, then at the end thinking it wrong. He still did not know whether what he called “right” today might not be what he called “wrong” fifty-nine years ago. The root of the myriad things is the root of Heaven and Earth; the gate through which things emerge is the Gate of the Mysterious Female (xuannpin zhi men—the portal of the source of all things in the Laozi). Both depend on the Valley Spirit (gushen—the Dao as empty yet responsive, enduring like an inexhaustible valley); at source they are one. What is already known belongs to the wise; to face what one does not know is the work of the sage. People only exalt clever knowing and do not exalt the sage’s way—can this be called anything but deep delusion? “Stop, stop” means it is better to cease the mind’s taking and rejecting. Within the transforming work of creation, nothing can escape this principle. What I take as right, another may take as wrong, and right and wrong arise from that. Each resting in what is inherently so—that alone is fitting.

Bixuzi (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan) on the commentary: Change never pauses for a moment; what has just brushed past us is gone in an instant. When people pursue what is “right,” they are not really seeking principle—they are seeking what agrees with themselves; when they reject what is “wrong,” they are not really removing error—they are removing what does not suit their own mind. What agrees with me is not necessarily truly right; what offends me is not necessarily truly wrong—hence the sigh that what was first called right is later condemned as wrong. What one upheld at fifty-nine may today be taken as right; if today one wakes to the fact that it was not right after all, one knows that what was upheld before was not yet truly right. To see that one’s own “right” is not yet truly right, and to refrain from dogmatically declaring everything absolutely right or wrong—only then does one avoid falling into wrong. Thus, when there is genuine rightness, wrongness is no longer within it; when one is wholly mired in wrongness, rightness is no longer within it. Vacuity and indistinctness are the root of the utmost Dao; plainness and stillness are the gateway to all wonders—myriad things are born from here. What humans know arises from what they do not know; it is precisely because there is what is not known that there is what is known. Fail to grasp this, and how can one avoid great doubt? Affairs of the world are tangled and change day by day; whether known or unknown, nothing is better than ceasing fixation. What people can know is human affairs; what they cannot fully know is the principle of Heaven (Tianli). Human affairs involve action, so right and wrong cannot be escaped; the principle of Heaven is Wuwei (non-action)—how could one escape that? If one insists “it is simply so” on the basis of what one already knows, then among the multitude there are also many who hold that it is not so. “Is it really so?” means: perhaps it is not really so.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) oral exegesis: That at sixty there are sixty changes means that each year’s insight surpasses the last—how then can one know that what one calls “right” at sixty is truly right? When things are born they must have roots; when they appear they must have gateways—only people do not see them; that is precisely what lies in the unknowable. Ordinary people know only what they know and do not know what they do not know, yet think they have reached the limit—this is great delusion. “Cannot be escaped” means: it happens of itself. That “knowing that does not know,” which transcends ordinary understanding, runs through past and present and penetrates above and below—where is this principle not present, and how could one escape it? The “yu” and “hu” in the text are both interrogative particles expressing doubt.

Changes that are visible and tangible are called bian (visible change), while changes that occur in secret and are hard to perceive are called hua (subtle transformation). By the time a person reaches sixty, they have undergone sixty rounds of change: living in the world, their appearance, understanding, and ability to handle affairs—all at first taken as correct—yet the Creator silently reshapes them without their knowing; it is always a matter of first thinking one is right and later finding one was not. At the age of ershun (sixty, when one can hear others’ words without inner resistance), with much experience behind them, one seems able to judge right and wrong and grasp how things work—yet still does not know that what counts as right and wrong today is precisely what overturns the views of the previous fifty-nine years. This means the changes of things are endless, the changes of affairs are endless, and the changes of the human heart are endless. The three convert into one another, thereby forming past and present and showing gain and loss; only after affairs are thoroughly understood and principle is settled can right and wrong be clearly examined—yet one still does not know what later ages will say is fair judgment.

People succeed people, and that makes one generation; affairs succeed affairs, and that makes transformation. Like flood dragons, serpents, and “wild horses” (drifting motes and dust in the air) flashing past—who knows how many—while our most lucid, truly constant root-nature has never changed. If a person understands this, death cannot shake their mind.

The birth and death, emergence and withdrawal of all things each have a root and a gate (source and path of coming and going)—only people do not see them. Everyone knows only to exalt what they already know as their own skill, and does not know they must rely on what they do not know before they can know at all. If one can truly grasp the boundary of what one does not know, the root and gate of things’ birth, death, emergence, and withdrawal can be seen. Birth, death, emergence, and withdrawal are the constant way of principle; whether change is underway or seems absent, all move along with change—what is there to be confused about?

What a person knows and can do in a lifetime is no more than one ten-thousandth of what they do not know and cannot do. Even sages cannot exhaust knowing and ability—how could they escape the transformation of all things? Even what I say now and take to be correct—I still do not know whether it is really so. Whenever sages speak of hua, they use words that cannot be pinned down fixedly; that is precisely its unfathomable subtlety, which is why it is called hua.

Confucius asked Grand Clerk Da Shan, Bo Chang Qian, and Xi Wei (three keepers of records) about Duke Ling of Wei’s drinking. When sages discuss hua, there too are always words that cannot be specified; the subtlety within that cannot be pursued to the end is just hua.

Confucius asked the grand recorders Datong, Bo Changqian, and Xi Wei: Duke Ling of Wei indulged in wine and pleasure and did not attend to the governance of the state; he went hunting and shooting birds and did not go to the gatherings where feudal lords met one another—so why after his death was he given the posthumous title “Duke Ling”?

Datong said: It was precisely because he was like that that he received this posthumous name.

Bo Changqian said: Duke Ling bathed in the same tub with three of his wives; when Shi Qiu came to see him, he had someone hold the gifts of audience and support him at the side. In private life he was that unrestrained, yet toward a man of worth he was this respectful—so he was called Duke Ling.

Xi Wei said: After Duke Ling died, divination for burying him in his original tomb was unfavorable; burying him at Sand Dune was favorable. They dug down several ren and found a stone outer coffin; when they had washed it clean, an inscription appeared: “Do not rely on your own descendants—Duke Ling will take this place for burial underground.” That he would be called “Ling” was fixed long before; how could the first two have understood that?

Guo Xiang held that “Ling” is the posthumous name of a ruler who lacks the Way. Husband and wife bathing together is contrary to ritual; yet when he treated Shi Qiu as a man of worth, had the coins of audience held up and supported him so that the rites could be completed, that was reverence for the worthy. The coins are the gift presented at an audience; he meant by this to correct his private laxity and rudeness. “Ling” can also carry a sense of excellence—which is why Confucius raised the question. The inscription was addressed to Kuai Kui: do not count on being the son—Duke Ling will occupy your burial place. Events first have their allotted pattern, and what is to come can be known; what must happen cannot be avoided, and what should not happen cannot be brought off. The foolish think everything is decided by themselves; they see only what has already come about and do not see that it arises from the natural course of things.

According to Lü’s commentary, Datong and Bo Changqian argued from human affairs, Xi Wei from the way of Heaven; on the way of Heaven, even a posthumous name is not something human effort can fix. Yidu’s commentary notes that all three were grand recorders, which is why Confucius questioned them.

Yidu’s commentary: All three men held the office of Grand Historian (Taishi), which is why Confucius questioned them. Duke Ling of Wei was sunk in wine and pleasure—a path of neglect and ruin—and avid for hunting and the chase, a kind of unrestrained excess. For such a man, why was he given the posthumous title “Ling”? Da Ta said, “Precisely for that reason”—meaning that “Ling” is the title reserved for rulers who lack the Way. The rules for posthumous names state: when affairs are in disorder yet the state has not yet fallen into ruin, the title is “Ling.” Bo Changqian said: Duke Ling bathed together with three wives. When Shi Qiu (the text writes “Shi Fang,” i.e., the Wei minister Shi Yu) was sent to present himself, Duke Ling had someone take his audience gift and support him as he withdrew—because he could still honor the worthy, he was titled “Ling.” Xi Wei said: After Duke Ling died, divination was performed for burial at Shaqiu; they unearthed a stone outer coffin with an inscription reading, “Do not rely on his son—Duke Ling took this place for his tomb.” This means that Heaven’s principle cannot be bent by human effort; the site had belonged to Duke Ling’s father, yet the son obtained it, showing that his being “Ling” had long been fixed. How could the first two commentators have grasped that?

Bixu’s commentary: The posthumous-name canon has both “disorder without ruin is called Ling” and “virtue and conduct refined and clear is called Ling.” His “Ling” was ordained long before; the title naturally matched. If one measures subtle truths beyond the mundane by ordinary sentiment, how can one recognize them?

Yizhai’s oral explanation: The ruler of Wei behaved as he did, yet was titled “Ling”—why? It means even that title was not enough to match his wickedness. “Presenting oneself at court” (feng yu) is like what later ages called being summoned for audience and response; “bo bi” is holding the gift for an audience. That Duke Ling had someone support Shi Qiu shows there was still some observance of ritual. Shaqiu was an ancient burial ground. The stone coffin already bore Duke Ling’s name in advance—clearly fixed in his lifetime; where was human agency? “Do not rely on his son” means descendants cannot be depended on; the place would ultimately belong to Duke Ling.

“Ling” as a posthumous title (a name given after death according to one’s life) could be either commendatory or derogatory, which is why Confucius questioned three people about it. Datuo replied: It was precisely because he lived that way that he received this title—so “Ling” was clearly the bad posthumous name of a ruler without the Way. Bochangqian said: Duke Ling bathed with three wives—a breach of ritual to the extreme; yet when worthy ministers came bearing tribute, he had someone receive the gifts and helped them out. “Bi” here means the garments offered in tribute. The point is that amid blazing human desire, that bit of heavenly principle’s goodness had not yet been fully extinguished; calling him “Ling” could almost be read in a favorable light. Xiwei said: When Duke Ling divined a burial site, they dug up a stone outer coffin with an inscription clearly legible, matching the posthumous name “Duke Ling” a thousand years ahead; he was called “Ling” because it had long been so—how could those other two understand? This is like Chufu’s stone coffin and Tenggong’s “fine city” (the pre-inscribed burial place of Xiahou Ying)—all predetermined. Could name and posthumous title be accidental? People should still do their utmost in human affairs to align with heavenly principle. Whether a posthumous title is fair or foul depends on conduct in life; one cannot be careless. The system of posthumous titles began with the Duke of Zhou: one character to hold praise or blame, extremely strict. The rules say, “One who could not diligently achieve merit is called Ling.” In antiquity, rulers who did not die a natural death often received titles like “Ling” or “Li.” As for the person who has attained clarity, forgetting both good and evil, treating outward seeking and the present moment alike, without obstruction—neither wanting rank nor posthumous name, easefully following change so others cannot judge right and wrong—is that not wholeness and perfection? The three each answered one aspect: first his lack of the Way, then his respect for the worthy, then that heavenly principle had long been fixed. Judged by the facts, their answers cannot but differ in rank; in the end none escapes the certainty of heavenly principle.

Shaozhi asked Taigong Diao: “What is meant by ‘the teaching of qiuli’?”

Taigong Diao said: Qiuli means taking ten surnames and many personal names and merging them into the customs of a locality; it turns the different into the same and also scatters the same into the different. If you merely point at the limbs of a horse, you do not thereby get “a horse”; when the horse is tethered before you and the limbs stand together as one whole, only then is it called a horse. Thus hills and mounds pile up what is low and thereby become high; rivers and streams gather their waters and thereby become great; the great person (impartial and without private ends) joins many affairs together and thereby becomes public-spirited (gong). What enters from outside may have its proper master, yet one does not cling to it; what issues from within may have its correct principle, yet one does not reject others. The four seasons have different qi, yet Heaven does not bestow them on purpose, and the year is thereby completed. The five officials have different duties, yet the ruler is not partial, and the state is thereby governed. Civil and military talents—the great person does not grant them by fiat, and virtue is thereby made complete. The patterns of the ten thousand things differ, yet the Dao is not partial, and so there is no fixed name. Because there is no name, there is Wuwei (non-action); through Wuwei, nothing fails to be accomplished. Time has beginning and end; affairs undergo change. Fortune and misfortune swirl together—what clashes in one place may fit in another; each person pursues along a different direction—what counts as straight here may be off elsewhere. It is like timber in a great marsh, each kind having its use, or trees and stone together on a great mountain. This is what is called the teaching of qiuli.

Shaozhi said: “Then is it enough to call it the Dao?”

Taigong Diao said: No, it is not enough. The count of things is far more than ten thousand, yet they are all called “the ten thousand things”—that is only a label for “very many.” Heaven and Earth are greatest among forms; Yin-Yang are greatest among qi; the Dao is what they jointly belong to. Calling it by its greatness is permissible; but once the name exists, how can you still use it for comparison? To speak by such discrimination is like comparing a dog to a horse—the gap is far too wide.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (the Jin-dynasty annotator Guo Xiang’s notes on the Zhuangzi) says: When the great person has no private mind toward the world, the world’s tendencies return to oneness. What enters from outside is the great person’s transforming influence; what issues from within is the nature of the people and the ten thousand things. When nature is upright, the people have no heart of defection; when transforming influence reaches impartiality, those who govern have nothing to cling to. Thus one can unite qiuli and merge the world, unify the ten thousand things and level every difference. Different qi inherently possess themselves, and only then can things endure; if what was not there originally were relied on as Heaven’s gift, gaps and loss would be hard to avoid. Different roles inherently have their capacities—they are simply employed, not partial grants from a lord. Those who can wield wen do so by wen; those who can wield wu do so by wu—it is not that the great person personally bestows this; if capacity had to come from bestowal, lack would sometimes be unavoidable. It is not only wen and wu—all native endowments are like this. Names stop at the reality of things, hence Wuwei; each thing completes itself, hence there is nothing that is not done. Times and affairs change; one without a fixed agenda simply adapts. What is contrary here may be fitting there; what is correct here may be skewed there. Each trusts and follows the course he takes and cannot leave it. Taking the great marsh and great mountain as a likeness means not discarding any material and merging the different into the same. Having spoken of qiuli, one can infer the same for the world. Numbered things already exceed ten thousand—how much more the innumerable Dao? Is calling it “Dao” enough? It pervades the ten thousand things without partiality; people force the word “Dao” upon it—this is what is meant by a Dao that can be spoken. Once the name is there, can it still be beyond comparison? To discriminate by names—none of that falls short of being wildly off. Therefore to call it Dao is still not enough; one must reach the nameless, wordless ground—only then has one truly arrived.

Lü's commentary says: When many surnames and given names are gathered together, they form "Qiuli" (a community where many clans live together)—this is synthesizing difference into sameness. When Qiuli is taken apart again and restored to individual names, that is dispersing sameness back into difference. This is unlike the view of a single household, where difference cannot be merged and sameness cannot be scattered.

No part of a horse's body is not horse, yet pointing to any one part alone does not yield the whole horse; only when the entire body is taken together is it called a horse. The same holds for the great person (one whose virtue is complete): if you do not view him as a whole, what is called "great" has no basis. Mountains and rivers are used as analogies precisely because accumulation is what makes them supremely large.

Thus, seen from the myriad things, nothing among the myriad things is not already complete in me: what comes from outside, the inner mind has a master and does not cling; though there be ten thousand kinds, all can be held. Seen from the self, one roams at ease and at large among the myriad things: what issues from within has its proper principle and does not reject outer things; it circulates everywhere and reaches every place.

Heaven, toward the four seasons, if it cannot endow each according to its inherent nature, function will be deficient and the year cannot run its course. The ruler, toward the five offices (officials who oversee different duties), if he does not assign each task to the multitude to perform in their own way but monopolizes everything himself, insight will be incomplete and the state cannot be well governed. Literary and martial talent differ; the patterns of the myriad things differ. Not favoring one side, not showing partiality—reason is no more than this. Without partiality there is no self; without self, no one can name it. Without name comes Wuwei (non-action); in Wuwei, nothing fails to be accomplished.

Seasons shift without pause; fortune and misfortune have no fixed rule—there is what goes against and what fits, and what is good sometimes turns into something uncanny. Each thing follows its own nature in pursuit; faces are not alike—there is the straight and the skewed, and what is straight sometimes becomes strangely perverse. Because things are so uneven, the person of Dao treats them only with a public heart and never arises within to pick and choose. Like a great marsh or vast forest that lacks nothing—look at a great mountain: wood and stone dwell together without distinction. This is what is meant by "the saying of Qiuli."

Dao is originally only a name imposed by necessity; calling it "Dao" is not enough to exhaust it. The myriad things are inexhaustible—even "myriad" cannot be counted; using "myriad" to sum them up is merely employing the largest number in reckoning. Heaven and earth are greatest among forms; Yin-Yang are greatest among Qi (vital energy); Dao is what makes each attain its public share. Dao is neither form nor Qi, hence it has no name. Names cannot exhaust Dao; still calling it "Dao" is only naming it from the side of its greatness. Originally nameless—once a name is used, one has already fallen into "being"; how can that compare with the nameless authentic reality? To take the name "Dao" as Dao itself is like taking a dog for a horse.

Lin Zi’s note on “Yidu” (Doubting Solitude): Ten households make a qiu (hamlet cluster), twenty make a li (neighborhood). A qiu or li is simply ten surnames and a hundred people gathered together, forming local custom. People often fail to understand merging the world into what is public (gong): what differs can be united as sameness, and what is the same can also scatter into difference. Without this, the Dao grows ever more fragmented and things grow ever more at odds. If you single out one limb of a horse, you cannot call it a horse; only when the whole horse is taken together is it called a horse. Taken apart it is difference; gathering difference again makes sameness. Low hills pile up from lower ground; great rivers form from flowing waters—an analogy for the great person who merges the world into the public. Precisely because it arises from the public: what comes from outside may have an inner master yet not be stubborn; only without stubbornness can one penetrate. What issues from within may have outward norms yet not reject; only without rejection can one carry things through. Thus without partiality the world is one; without private bestowal the myriad things complete themselves. The four seasons differ in climate, yet Heaven does not favor—only then does the year finish. The five offices (the various ranks) differ in duty, yet the ruler does not favor—only then is the state governed. Wen and Wu have different roles; the myriad things each have their own pattern; ruler and Dao alike do not favor—then virtue is complete and nothing need be named. Without deliberate giving, things finish on their own, and those who receive benefit need not thank. Without partiality, things straighten themselves, and when the work is done there need be no reward. The Great Dao has no private mind toward things, hence it is nameless and wuwei (non-action). In wuwei, the myriad things each go and act—then nothing fails to be achieved. Times change; fortune and misfortune depend on and transform into one another. What is resisted may be seen as fitting, simply because people face different ways; what is taken as right may be seen as skewed, simply because each clings to a private view. In a great marsh, materials differ yet are used alike; on a great mountain, plants differ yet stand in one place. This is uniting difference into sameness, but it has not yet left form and number—hence it is only called “the words of qiu and li.” Heaven and Earth are greatest among forms; Yin-Yang are greatest among qi; the Dao is what they share in common—all are named from their “greatness.” These already have names that can be spoken; how could small and great, noble and base, be compared to the Dao?

Chen Jingyuan (Zi Bixu)’s note: According to the Rites of Zhou, four wells make a settlement; four settlements each have fixed numbers—this is what is meant by “the words of qiu and li.” Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang are greatest among form and qi; the Dao, as the public, is named from its greatness. Once such names exist, how can small and great, noble and base be brought in for comparison?

Bi Xu (the style name of Chen Jingyuan, a Northern Song Daoist priest) notes: According to the Rites of Zhou, four wells make a settlement (yi), four settlements make a hill-village (qiu); five households make a neighborhood (lin), five neighborhoods make a li. The ten surnames and hundred given names are all different, yet together they form the shared customs of one hill-village and one li; when they scatter again, each returns to the difference of surname and individual. It is like taking a horse apart and calling the parts only head, tail, eyes, and ears; only when they are put back together is the whole called a horse. This is precisely the boundary that Gongsun Long drew with “separating hard and white” (hardness and whiteness can be viewed apart) and “uniting sameness and difference” (sameness and difference can be seen together).

A mountain is formed by many stones piled up; a river is formed by the joining of many streams. A great person merges commanderies and states into one public whole: viewed separately, Chu and Yue are not the same; taken together, custom and teaching become one. This is no different from the gathering and scattering of hill-villages and li.

What enters from outside is concrete affairs; if the mind has a master, affairs will not stagnate. What issues from within is principle; if what is outside is not biased, principle naturally reaches far. Cool and hot climates differ, yet Heaven only lets them run their course without favoring either side, and the year’s work is accomplished. The Gong (officer of crafts) and the Yu (officer of mountains, forests, and waterways) have different duties; the ruler assigns them tasks without claiming them as private property, and the realm is governed. Literary and martial talents differ; the great person employs them without partiality, and virtue and achievement are complete. The principles of animals and plants differ; the Dao nurtures them without possessing them, so the Dao itself has no name. Each thing has its own name—not because the Dao forced names upon them; each thing acts on its own—not because the Dao forced them to act. The Dao itself does not act, and thereby all things are accomplished.

As winter and spring alternate, the customs of imperial ages may be shallow or sincere: what here looks like misfortune or disorder may there be fortune or fitness. It is like timber in a great marsh—all sizes meet the measure of use; wood and stone on a great mountain—fine and coarse can be taken from the same place. So-called “words of hill-village and li” are no more than this.

The great Dao has no end; the myriad things have no limit. People now call them “myriad” merely because things are numerous. If the myriad things stopped at ten thousand, the Dao would have a limit—how could it be called “what precedes the image of the Emperor” (the source that existed before the form of the Heavenly Emperor appeared)? The great Dao merges form and qi into one public whole; people reluctantly call it “great” and further name it “Dao.” Once it is called the “great Dao,” it is something with a designation—how can it be compared with that state that never left the original source?

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song) says: Wells gather into hill-villages, hill-villages gather into li. Within a li, ten surnames and a hundred names—people differ, yet custom is the same; this is a metaphor for synthesizing difference into sameness. “Words of hill-village and li” are the shared speech within one li. Uniting difference as sameness—all things share one principle; scattering sameness into difference—each thing has its own principle. Many limbs together make a horse; looking at a single limb, there is no name “horse”; establishing the whole, one then calls it horse. Merging into the public is synthesizing the differences of the myriad things into sameness. The mind has a master yet does not cling fixedly—once one clings, it is no longer natural. What is called “correct” is when the principle of the myriad things issues from the breast and does not resist outer things, so there is no division of sameness and difference. “Not bestowing” means not counting achievement as one’s own. The principles of the myriad things differ in each case; the great Dao merges them into one public body, so it cannot be named. “Pure and flowing” (chúnchún) describes a circulating, transforming appearance. Fortune and misfortune depend on each other without fixed rule; sometimes what meets obstruction becomes fitness—the metaphor of the old man at the frontier who lost his horse. Each person clings to their own heart-mind, like faces that are never identical; if one fixes on a single standard and holds fast, one may lose it. Wood and stone in great mountains and great marshes all meet measure and can be used—this is uniting difference as sameness. Calling things “myriad” by number, gathering form and qi is heaven-earth and yin-yang; saying “Dao” is their public aspect is only speaking from the largest perspective. Though the name “Dao” already exists, how can it be compared with what has not left the original source?

In every hill and every village neighborhood (qiuli, the local hamlets and lanes), there are elders of high standing who look into people’s actual circumstances to settle judgment—much like the so-called “Monthly Dawn Appraisal” (yuedan ping, the Eastern Han custom of rating character on the first day of the month). In each place, local sayings circulate to record its customs and ways of life. This is what is meant by “words of the hill and village” (qiuli zhi yan): bringing what differs together into what is shared. People come from the same hill and the same neighborhood, yet there are differences of age, wisdom, foolishness, wealth, poverty, gain, and loss—sameness within difference. The breadth of all under heaven (tianxia) rises from these hill-and-village units; the breadth of the Dao (the Way) runs through the myriad things. Scatter what is the same and it becomes difference, as when one points only at the parts of a horse; gather difference and it becomes one, as when the whole body is taken together and called a horse. When you speak of it, there is both joining and scattering; when you release it, it returns to undifferentiated unity (hundun). Principle has an ultimate limit; at that extreme, nothing more can be said. Hills and mountains are built up from what is low; rivers are formed by the meeting of waters; the great person (da ren, one whose virtue is vast) joins people with a public heart (gong)—and that is no other than this same pattern. If the differences within a hill-and-village can be joined in the right way, then joining the feelings of things throughout the realm under heaven works the same way—and the whole hinge turns on a single word: “public” (gong). The Daojing (the Daodejing) says, “When there is publicness, one becomes king”: able to be public, one becomes what all under heaven turns toward—how could one decline?

Therefore, what enters from outside is learning (xue). The noble person (junzi) takes the Dao as master in learning; with the Dao as master, nothing among the myriad things fails to connect. What issues from within is reflection (si). The noble person’s reflection takes principle (li) as its standard; with principle as standard, nothing among things is rejected. It is like the four seasons differing in climate yet completing a year, or the five officials (wuguan, the five kinds of office) having different duties yet completing good order—all of which ultimately returns to the complete virtue of the great person, used to display the selflessness of the great Dao (the Way). How then could one still give it a name? Because it has no name, it is non-action (wuwei); because it is non-action, yet nothing is left undone. That is the point to which reason necessarily arrives.

Yet the age changes, and situations have their mutual dependence and turning (yi fu—what leans on what, and what flips into its opposite). Some things look contrary yet fit exactly; some look upright yet skew off course—because each side holds to private feeling, inclinations cannot but diverge. Think of the many kinds of timber in a great marsh, gathered to become material for Carpenter Shi (the famed ancient craftsman)—different, yet one in use. Or timber and stone from a great mountain, scattered for use throughout the world—one source, yet many uses. If by principle one returns to the Dao, why still argue same versus different?

The name “Dao” cannot exhaust the Dao; calling things by the number “ten thousand” (wan) cannot exhaust things—it is only that each uses what is greatest as its label. The greatness of form is encompassed by heaven and earth; the greatness of qi (vital energy) is encompassed by yin and yang (Yin-Yang); the Dao encompasses heaven, earth, yin, and yang—how could its greatness be measured? Yet once the name “Dao” exists, it cannot be compared with the nameless. Therefore the perfected person (zhiren) practices the Dao within namelessness, and no one under heaven can call it by a name. This chapter originally continues the discussion of being and non-being, life and death, in “Equalizing Things” (Qi Wu Lun); here it also bears on the way of governing, and additionally develops the passage on “words of the hill and village,” making the argument ever more striking. Through the names it crafts, it carries a deep point: only supreme publicness (zhigong) can harmonize all under heaven—and that is precisely what Shaozhi (the questioner in this chapter who presses the Great Harmonizer) ought to pursue further.

This chapter follows the discussion of “being” and “non-being,” “life” and “death,” in “Discourse on Making All Things Equal” (a chapter in the Nanhua Zhenjing, also known as the Zhuangzi), and here the theme connects closely to the way of governing a state. The passage also introduces the “words of Qiuli” (likening how a village merges many surnames and many names into one shared custom, as a figure for uniting difference into sameness), and the argument becomes even more striking. The sense carried in the title is that the principle of utmost fairness and thereby harmonizing the realm is precisely what “Shaozhi” (the comparatively less informed interlocutor in this dialogue) ought to investigate and pursue.

Commentary on the Ocean of Meaning in the Nanhua Zhenjing (Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei), compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Southern Song, volume 85.

Catalogued in the Complete Library of the Four Treasures (Siku Quanshu), as authorized in the Qianlong reign of the Qing.

Commentary on the Ocean of Meaning in the Nanhua Zhenjing, volume 86, by Chu Boxiu of the Song: Miscellaneous Chapters, fifth section, “Zeyang.”

Shaozhi asked: Within the four quarters and amid the six directions (above, below, and the four sides), where do the myriad things ultimately come from?

Taigong Diao said: Yin and Yang reflect each other, each covering and each regulating the other; the four seasons take turns replacing one another, both generating and destroying each other. Liking and disliking, approaching and leaving, rise suddenly from this; male and female part and pair, and thus the ordinary myriad things come to be. Safety and danger convert into each other; fortune and misfortune beget each other; urgency and ease rub against each other; gathering and scattering take shape from this. These are matters in which name and reality can be recorded and subtle points can be noted. Things, following order, arrange one another; turning and changing, they push one another along—at the end they return, and when they end they begin again. This belongs to the myriad things themselves; it is also the limit to which words can speak and knowledge can reach—nothing beyond things themselves. One who sees the Dao does not follow things into ruin, nor trace them back to their origin; discussion stops at that point.

Shaozhi asked again: Ji Zhen holds that “nothing acts” (mo wei)—no master is pushing things along; Jiezi holds that “perhaps something makes it so” (huo shi)—some kind of force is driving them. Of these two schools, which fits the facts, and which skews the principle?

Taigong Diao said: The crow of the cock and the bark of the dog—everyone knows them. Yet even a person of great wisdom cannot explain in words why they change thus on their own, nor can they predict what they will become. Analyzed this way, the small can be no smaller, the large no larger than can be bounded. “Perhaps something makes it so” and “nothing acts” have both failed to leave things behind; in the end both are faults. “Perhaps something makes it so” leans toward the real; “nothing acts” leans toward the empty. Having name and having reality is where things settle; lacking name and lacking reality belongs to the emptiness within things. What can be said and thought—the more one speaks, the farther one strays. What has not yet been born cannot be forbidden to be born; what has already died cannot be blocked from dying. Death and life are not far apart, yet the principle between them is invisible. “Perhaps something makes it so” and “nothing acts” are both formulations that doubt relies on. Look at their root: forward it is endless; seek their tip: where they come from has no stop. Endless and nonstop—words have nowhere to lodge, and this is the same as the principle of things. “Perhaps something makes it so” and “nothing acts” are the starting points of discourse; they begin and end together with things. The Dao cannot be fixed as “being”; “being” also cannot be called “non-being.” The name “Dao” is only borrowed for use. “Perhaps something makes it so” and “nothing acts” are but one corner of things—how can one speak of the great square? If words were sufficient, speaking all day could exhaust the Dao; if words were insufficient, speaking all day would only exhaust things. At the extreme of the Dao and things, neither speech nor silence can bear the weight. Not falling into words, not falling into silence—only then does discourse have its utmost limit.

Someone once asked where the myriad things come from, or whether the Dao gives birth to them. In truth, the myriad things are each thus of themselves; there is no separate producer. What people call acting, striving, and letting go—in the near view—arises merely from yin and yang reflecting one another and the four seasons replacing one another; traced further back, one can only stop at spontaneity (ziran). The ordering and mutual impelling of things belong to the things themselves; there is no thing outside the myriad things that can produce the myriad things. Beyond this there is nothing more, so understanding must not overstep this limit. The rise and fall of things have no other origin; discussion should stop here.

Some say the Dao is non-acting (mo wei); some say the Dao is something that drives (huo shi). Those who hold to “perhaps there is a driver” believe there is an agency that drives the myriad things—but things have their own spontaneity; that is not something deliberate acting could create. Seen this way, the view of non-acting (mo wei) is the fitting one. What is most subtle and most vast is not made by another but is thus of itself; mutual impelling among things is likewise thus of itself. Hence it is said “no one acts”—yet that does not mean things fail to be things. The myriad things bustle about, all passing away through non-acting: they seem to move of themselves, yet there is in fact no driver.

If one asks where things ultimately are, the place of things is utterly empty; one must seek beyond words and intent before one can arrive. They suddenly arise of themselves—I cannot forbid it; suddenly perish of themselves—I cannot resist. Even when close at hand on one’s own body, one cannot see why they are thus of themselves, yet still worries over it. The two positions, non-acting and “perhaps a driver,” are exactly where people doubt and where principle reaches its limit. Therefore one must understand that discourse has no end, and only then can one accord with the reason of things. The Dao constantly does not act and is spontaneously thus. The Dao cannot possess itself; what is called “being” is spontaneity. The myriad things rely on it to operate, so the name “Dao” is borrowed. Raise one corner and the rest may be inferred. It is enough to seek the Dao beyond words and intent; to forget words and keep only the meaning is still not enough. The utmost of Dao and things is constantly non-acting and thus of itself—not something speech or silence can discuss. The utmost lies in being thus of itself; it is not something speech and silence can debate.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: When Shaozhi (a figure in the Zhuangzi who dialogues with Dagong Tiao) hears something called “Dao,” he takes it to have become a kind of “being” and no longer comparable to the Dao itself, and turns to doubt by way of “no thing.” What is at issue is not speaking or not speaking; the utmost lies in being thus of itself—not something speech and silence can debate.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: When Shaozhi (a figure in the Zhuangzi of limited insight) first hears something called “Dao,” Dao has already fallen into “being” and can no longer be compared with true Dao. He then suspects that the ten thousand things were originally nonexistent and asks where they arose from. This is being constrained by “emptiness.”

The sun and moon come and go, rise and fall, wax and wane; they shine on, cover, and constrain one another. Cold and heat bend and stretch; the Five Phases flourish and decline, generate and overcome one another in turn—both generating and destroying. Things born between heaven and earth follow the turning of Yin-Yang and the four seasons, so likes and dislikes, going and staying, all ride upon this movement. Male and female part and join; movement and stillness each have their constant pattern, hence there are safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, gathering and scattering. These names and realities can be recorded; the subtle can also be noted—it is not that they cannot be inquired into. What follows in sequence is order; things are orderly and never disordered. “Bridge” means riding it to go forward; “transport” means relying on it to accomplish things. They employ one another yet have no fixed form. When exhausted they return; when ended they begin again—nothing but Yin-Yang, nothing but the four seasons. This is what things themselves possess, not the “non-being” of Dao. Where speech and understanding reach their limit, they only get this far.

This is merely where the ten thousand things arise, not the root that makes them arise. What Laozi calls “the named, the mother of the ten thousand things” refers to this. As for one who has seen Dao, they have never taken things as nonexistent, so they do not follow the path of abandonment; nor have they taken things as existent, so they do not trace back to origins. They are detached and nameless, beyond the six directions—how could speech and understanding reach them?

Ji Zhen’s “no agent” (mo wei) follows the side of abandonment; Jiezi’s “some agent” (huo shi) seeks to trace origins. A rooster’s crow and a dog’s bark are matters already transformed and already accomplished; why they crow and bark, from what they transformed, and into what they will transform— these are beyond speech and understanding. When subtlety reaches the point of no comparison, there is no inside; when magnitude reaches the point of no enclosure, there is no outside. Where ultimately are “some agent” and “no agent”? The reason both still cannot escape things is that if they do not attach to the real, they attach to the empty. Taking the named and real as the dwelling of things, they do not know that things were never truly existent; taking the nameless and unreal as the emptiness of things, they do not know that things were never truly nonexistent. Thus the more they speak, the farther they stray.

Life and death cannot be pushed away or blocked; they exceed speech and intention. Even when close at hand on the body, they cannot be seen. “Some agent” and “no agent” are provisional expressions used in doubt, not the truth of the principle. Going on without end—approaching from ahead, no head is seen; coming without stopping—following from behind, no tail is seen. This is the principle of things, not the form of things. “Some agent” and “no agent” can be spoken and thought, yet still cannot leave things—they only arrive at beginning and end. Where is the so-called non-stopping, non-ending?

Dao cannot be held as existent, because it is originally without being. Being also cannot be treated as nonexistent: it is itself non-being; it is not that I make it non-being. Then “Dao” is only a provisional name—how can a name be used to call Dao? “No agent” and “some agent” are both one-sided views of things, insufficient to accord with the great Dao. If words could exhaust Dao, that would be few words in accord with nature; if words only exhaust things, that would be many words with principles and numbers exhausted. From the perspective of things, Dao is not a thing; from the perspective of Dao, there is no thing that is not Dao. At the extreme of Dao and things, both speech and silence fail to bear the weight. A lifetime of speaking yet never truly speaking—that is not speech; a lifetime of not speaking yet never truly not speaking—that is not silence. When discussion reaches this point, it has reached the extreme.

Yidu commentary: Yin and Yang mirror each other through the sun and moon; they coordinate through heaven and earth; they are harmonized through wind and rain. The four seasons succeed one another, appearing as the alternation of cold and heat; mutual generation belongs to spring and summer, mutual decline to autumn and winter. Because Yin and Yang and the four seasons exist, preference and aversion, male and female, suddenly arise, and safety and danger, fortune and misfortune all stem from this. Extend this to how things mutually order and drive one another, and how at the end they return and after completion begin again—these belong to things themselves; they are the limit of what speech and conceptual knowing can reach, nothing more than exhausting oneself in things. One who sees the Dao sees it beyond form and qi; how could such a person fix the mind on things and probe why they cease or arise? Discussion should stop here.

The view called “no one commands” (Mo Wei) speaks of what is natural; the view called “something commands” (Huo Shi) speaks of human-made causation. When the world is harmonized and united, one no longer clings to a single corner.

The crow of the cock and the bark of the dog—everyone knows them; yet why they cry and what they will do next cannot be grasped by speech or thought even with the greatest wisdom. Extend this to the utterly large and the utterly small—neither is something human effort can accomplish. Holding to Mo Wei, one knows heaven but not the human; holding to Huo Shi, one knows the human but not heaven. Clinging to one side of things is error in the end. Names such as empty, full, being, and non-being arise only in mutual dependence; whatever can be put into speech and thought is farther from the truth—better to seek beyond speech and thought.

Life and death follow nature and ming (destiny/life-mandate)—who can forbid or block them? The principle is not remote; it is in one’s own person, like the cycle of the four seasons, yet not visible to the eye. Thus the Mo Wei and Huo Shi doctrines may be mere borrowings, not the ultimate of xing and ming (nature and life-mandate). Look at the root of “returning to mandate”—where it goes has no end; look at the tip of birth—where it comes from has no stop. Speaking of the Dao as “non-being” aligns it with things in one respect; speaking of the Dao as “being” aligns it with things from beginning to end. Neither being nor non-being is only a forced way of putting it. In this way, both Huo Shi and Mo Wei still sit in one corner of things and do not reach the “great square” (the broad, unbiased realm)—how much less can one discuss the Dao that has no fixed direction?

One whose words are complete lacks nothing inwardly and so can exhaust the Dao; one whose words are incomplete is the opposite. Better neither to cling to speaking nor to cling to silence, so that both the Dao and things are accommodated on both sides.

Bixu commentary: Shaozhi asked where the myriad things in the world arise; Taigong Diao answered by explaining how Yin and Yang and the four seasons mirror one another.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bi Xuzi) comments: When Shaozhi asked how all things in the world arise and come into being, Tai Gong Diao answered in terms of Yin-Yang and the four seasons. (“Zhao zhi” appears as “zhao zhi” [illumination and governance] in another recension.) Yin and Yang respond to each other; the four seasons succeed one another in turn—and within this pattern lie the principles of generation and destruction. Human beings have desire and aversion, approach and withdrawal; birds and beasts have separation of male and female and their pairing; things may arch upward or stand tall, and there are differences of safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, urgency and ease, gathering and dispersal—mutual exchange, mutual production, friction, and completion, none of it uniform. Externally there are names that can be recorded; internally there are subtle and coarse aspects that can be retained in memory. From Heaven and Earth down to the myriad things, each follows the sequence, ordering and driving one another. When things reach their limit they turn back; when affairs have a beginning they have an end. When words are exhausted and knowledge spent, one stops only at the coarse surface of things and cannot glimpse the wall of the Dao. Only one who has seen the Dao does not move with the abolishing and rising of the myriad things, but lets the ten thousand things swirl as they will; such a person keeps silent as if tying shut a pouch, seeking only to preserve life.

Shaozhi asked again: If we say the Great Dao is “mo wei”—that nothing is acting—then how are undertakings accomplished? If we say the Great Dao is “huo shi”—that something is directing things—then how is that still “natural” (ziran)? Judging from how things actually are, which view is skewed and which is straight? The reply uses crowing cocks and barking dogs as a comparison: everyone knows these sounds, yet no one knows why they crow or bark. If we say there is no acting, what makes them suddenly cry out? If we say something directs them, why are other things quietly still? Who can know the principle of self-transformation? Who can discern the reality of what is about to be so? Only by setting aside “mo wei” can one examine the reality of “huo shi”; only by allowing “huo shi” can one scrutinize the rationale of “mo wei.” Pursued in this way, things however vast or minute cannot escape entanglement. What things rely on is name and reality; once the boundary between name and reality is fixed, what is left of the thing? Only subtle ultimate Dao and principle do not fall within thought and discourse. When qi arrives, life comes; when qi disperses, death comes—just born and already dying, just dead and suddenly living again: this is already very close at hand, yet the principle remains invisible, apprehended only in obscurity. Speaking of “huo shi” helps people go about affairs; speaking of “mo wei” enables one to preserve oneself. The penetrating person can touch the root on either side; the confused person’s doubts are not cleared—they merely travel under the label of the Dao.

Consider the root and branch of the Dao: empty, still, indistinct—one cannot follow it or meet it head-on. Say it is endless and without stop, and it is no different from animals and plants. The world takes the useful and wuwei (non-action) as the root of teaching; once teaching takes fixed form, it cannot step outside things, and so still begins and ends together with things. The principles of you (being) and wu (non-being) both depend on a subtle root to operate. Jizhen advocated wu; Jiezi advocated you—both are one-sided discourse, laughable to those of broad insight. When you and wu penetrate each other and principle is fully understood together, speech at that point is sufficient; when speech is sufficient, nothing of the Dao is left out. To fix on you or wu and state principle in fragmented fashion is insufficient speech; when speech is insufficient, things cannot be released. At the extreme of the Dao, silence is not enough to constitute true silence; at the extreme of things, words are not enough to exhaust what can be said. Leave such speech, drop such silence—and then something like the pivot of forgetting words appears; what the eye meets is the utmost of the myriad subtleties.

Yizhai’s oral gloss (Lin Xiyi, Zhuangzi kouyi): “Zhao” is like responding; “gai” is like converging; “xiang zhi” is mutual waxing and waning. Spring generates and autumn kills, following the succession of seasons—only then do desire and aversion, approach and withdrawal, safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, and the rest arise. Within sameness there is also difference: a bridge arches up; a slice is a cut apart. From desire and aversion downward, name, reality, subtlety, and coarseness—each can be seen and recorded. Following the sequence to order one another is Yin-Yang mutual governance; arching upward and running, each side waxing and waning—that is why it is called “shi” (making, directing). Exhaustion and penetration, end and beginning—these are what things necessarily undergo. The limit of words and knowledge goes no further. Only the knower attributes abolishing and rising alike to ziran (spontaneity); discussion stops there.

“Mo wei” means affairs arise by chance; “huo shi” means there is a master. Crowing and barking compare how what people know differs; even great knowing cannot exhaust the meaning within. How one transforms oneself, how one is about to act—if you divide large and small along this principle, principle cannot be exhausted, because all are entangled in things and will ultimately be treated as fault. To say something governs things is to take it as real (shi); to say originally nothing governs is to take it as empty (xu). Where there is shi there is name, and name is burden; speak of wu, and name and reality both vanish—yet this “wu” still remains and still burdens things. Whether you speak of you or wu, both can be conveyed in words and gauged by intent—far from the Dao. What is not yet born cannot be prevented from being born; what is at death’s door cannot be forcibly held back. This principle is before the eyes yet invisible. Now thinking “huo shi,” now thinking “mo wei—the world’s doubts arise from this. Look from before the root stirs: the past is endless; look from motion that has ceased: the future has no end. Only by merging into wu can one become one body with the myriad things. “Huo shi” and “mo wei” have not left things—they begin and end with things—so how can one avoid you and obtain wu? Viewed in truth, the word “Dao” itself is a provisional name. The two schools’ doctrines cling to one corner and cannot accord with the Great Dao. If one has genuine insight, speaking all day is no harm; without genuine insight, however much one says, one never leaves approximate traces. The Dao is refined; things are coarse. Push to the extreme and neither speech nor silence can exhaust it; in what is neither speech nor silence, there is an utmost intent. Buddhism says, “When I press a finger, the sea-mark shines; when your mind moves, worldly dust arises first”—the meaning is the same.

Without genuine insight, however much one speaks, one never gets beyond superficial resemblance. The Dao is subtle; things are coarse traces. Pushed to the utmost, neither speech nor silence can exhaust it; in what neither rests in words nor rests in silence, there is the most ultimate discourse. Buddhism says: “When I press a finger, the Sea Seal samādhi shines forth; when you raise a thought, worldly dust stirs first”—the meaning is the same.

Heaven has yin-yang and the four seasons; people have likes, dislikes, taking and rejecting; things have male and female pairing and parting. Affairs arise from emptiness and are not necessarily spoken of because they have real use; whether without cause or with cause, all come from the mutual transformation of heaven, humanity, and the myriad things—the root is only the overflow of the Dao. From safety and danger down to gathering and scattering, phenomena of this kind are eight in all, and all arise naturally, their traces growing coarser. Then people record them in calendars and chronicles without omission, govern one another in due order, and the principles of ruler and subject, father and son become clear; further, by turning in emptiness and driving one another, the mechanisms of exhaustion, return, ending, and beginning also appear. Such discourse knows how to stop at the extreme of things—it is discourse for ordering the world, belonging to what is “within the square” (the secular realm).

As for those who see the Dao “outside the square,” they do not follow where things come to rest, nor trace where things arise. With head and tail forgotten, the middle too is not established—where could speculation and argument find a foothold?

Jizhen and Jiezi were two schools of the time: Jizhen held to “no one acts” (mo wei), Jiezi to “as if something directs” (huo shi). Each clung to one side, like Yang Zhu’s “for myself” and Mozi’s “universal love.” Because they did not accord with the Dao, they were treated like the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs. People know that cocks and dogs call out, but not why they call; likewise, from what transformation these two schools’ doctrines arose cannot be known for certain.

Seen in this light, whether extremely small or extremely great, “as if something directs” or “no one acts,” none departs from things, and none can escape calamity. “As if something directs” posits a reason and lands in the real; “no one acts,” though it speaks of emptiness, once there is a name, the real clings to it—it is not yet complete nothingness.

Those who spoke of the Dao in antiquity had to leave behind the four formulas: being, non-being, neither being nor non-being, both being and non-being. Only after leaving these is it the Dao—like dropping east, west, south, and north; what remains is the center.

Watch the four seasons come and go, the sun, moon, and stars rush on—heaven moves without ceasing, the tide breathes in and out with regularity—is it that no one acts, or that something directs? So regarded, there is both one who acts and one who directs. Crying out is driven by wind and breath; birth and death are driven by the great clod (nature). The four seasons, sun and stars, heaven and sea all have a true lord presiding—yet acting within wuwei (non-action), directing within non-directing. Human coming and going in birth and death is equally unstoppable. This principle is close at hand in oneself, yet unseen; discourse here works the same way.

Look to its source: forward there is no exhaustion; look to its end: arrival has no stopping point. Thus those subject to creation’s command, from antiquity to now, never cease—not only I alone; how could words say it all? It is only sharing this principle with the myriad things. If one fixates on “as if something directs” or “no one acts,” names and doctrines arise from that, ending and beginning with things, without end.

The Dao must not be taken as something truly existent; once fixed as existent, it blocks and cannot flow—how then reach the subtle function of emptiness? The Dao dwells between being and non-being, yet does not stick to being or non-being; it only borrows being and non-being to operate—nowhere is it not the Dao. To hold one-sidedly like Jizhen and Jiezi—how could one reach the Great Square (the whole of the Dao)?

When words are ample, what is gained is the refinement of the Dao; when words fall short, what is gained is its coarseness. Speech is alike speech, yet there is a divide between the Dao and things. Pursued to the extreme, the emptiness of things is the Dao. Neither speech nor silence can bear it; only by going beyond the surface of word and silence is there the ultimate discourse concerning the Dao.

In his general discussion of this chapter, Chu Shi begins with Zeyang and Wang Guo, praising those who dwell in seclusion in mountains and wilds (shanfan) for using the virtue of withdrawal to counter the scramble for fame and profit in court and marketplace. From this we see that the perfected person (zhiren)—one who has penetrated the Great Dao—is skilled at loosening the knots that bind things so they return to ease and sufficiency: treating others with evenness and letting them be transformed of themselves. That greatly aids the art of governance. His care for the people knows no limit; when the people love him and rest in him, that too knows no limit. Completing the myriad things through the Dao (the Way), with utmost cautious sincerity—how could the people fail to be moved?

People often throw themselves away for external things and drift day by day from their original home; yet when they glimpse it from afar, their hearts still feel relief. So long as that has not been utterly extinguished, they will think of returning; if they could see what they once saw and hear what they once heard, what joy would that be? Cultivating the person is like governing the state: when the heart as sovereign is upright, the five senses fall into order; when the ruler is upright, his assisting ministers are worthy. That helps not only the present moment but is enough to open the way for teaching in later ages—as when King Tang of Shang first gained three worthy ministers to aid him, and Confucius later carried the tradition on, like the four seasons completing a year’s work. Why then insist on splitting “inner accord with Heaven” from “outward rejection of others”?

When Qi and Wei broke their alliance and took up arms, the text compares them to the Zhi and Man clans—the tiny “states” on the two horns of a snail in the parable—showing how war-loving rulers of the time saw narrowly and fought over what was not worth fighting for. Confucius’s stay at Yiqu (Ant Mound) mocks leaving traces and thereby inviting blame; the border guard’s talk of planting crops warns that likes and dislikes breed harm. All of this marks the essentials of how to live and how to cultivate oneself. Bo Ju, a follower of Laozi, lamented over a man condemned for crime and took the fault as his own—first rectifying oneself, then rectifying things; Qu Yuan (Qu Boyu) changed with the years, relying on knowing what he did not know—using wisdom that accords with external things. That again is a way of governing people and transforming circumstances.

Duke Ling of Wei was given the posthumous name “Ling”; the arrangements for his burial had already been fixed beforehand—so in human conduct too there are things that simply must be as they are.