《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 2

Before a thought or a word has been voiced, does that already count as speech? When it is on the verge of being spoken but not yet made clear, it is hard to tell what it is, like the cry of a nestling. The Dao (the Way) was never lodged in contrived argument, yet people fixate on true and false; discourse can say anything, and people draw lines between right and wrong. Confucians and Mohists attack each other and dispute right and wrong, but there is no definite criterion to decide the matter.

Nothing is absolutely “that,” and nothing is absolutely “this.” “Right” is defined in relation to “wrong,” and “wrong” is established in relation to “right”: “right” belongs to the angle of Heaven, “wrong” to the angle of humankind. Seek the Dao from someone else’s standpoint and it is hard to see; start from one’s own understanding and one can know something; know one’s own nature and one can know the Dao of Heaven.

“That” shows itself through “this,” and the formed arises from the formless; “this” also rests on “that” to be established, and the formless depends on form to appear. This is the idea that “that” and “this” give rise to each other—that is, being and non-being, movement and stillness, depend on one another and turn into each other.

The world loses itself in right and wrong and cannot see clearly. The sage understands the logic of right and wrong, yet in practice he only follows how things are and accepts that they are simply so. “That” and “this” rely on each other; being and non-being arise together—they cannot be split off cleanly. Only what goes beyond the oppositions of the two sides and of being and non-being, and stands on its own, is the pivot of the Dao.

The “pivot” is like the hinge in the middle of a door that moves the leaves as it turns. It meets endless change the way a ring goes round without a stop; only someone of real wisdom can take this in.

Yanzhai's oral commentary says: "Mangmangran" describes a state of ignorance and dim, unenlightened confusion. Heaven above nourishes the people; the myriad things each have their own patterns—these principles of Heaven have always been clear and evident. It is only because people and things become obscured that they turn dim and confused. How could someone who understands the great Dao be like this?

"Complete mind" (cheng xin) refers to the heavenly principle that is whole and complete, lacking nothing. If one can take that heavenly principle as one's standard, who would lack it? "Knows change" (zhi dai) is a name for the ancient sages; "dai" means change—it refers to understanding the principle of transformation. What is called "self-appropriation" (zi qu) means each person holding his own view. If one has not yet seen the unified heavenly principle but forcibly divides right from wrong, it is like setting out for Yue today yet claiming one arrived yesterday; having seen nothing at all yet insisting one has seen. Even a sage could not make such a person understand.

The sounds emitted by the myriad things differ, but they are all merely sound; when sound takes on a definite pattern, it is called speech. Speech is not the same as the natural wind's noise, because the speaker expresses his own meaning in each case. The four words "each declares his own intent" are precisely the source from which disputes over right and wrong arise: whether what is said comes from yourself or from the Creator. Therefore it is said that "not yet settled" is like the peeping of a fledgling—there is as yet no clear cognition; the same applies here.

The Dao originally has no true or false—why, once obscured, do true and false appear? Speech originally has no right or wrong—why, once obscured, do disputes over right and wrong appear? The Dao encompasses large and small, coarse and fine; speech involves all sorts of judgments of right and wrong. Those of shallow vision each cling to bias and boast of themselves, chasing reputation; once biased words prevail, discourse that accords with the great Dao is obscured. Then there arise the mutual reproaches of the Confucian and Mohist schools.

If one wishes to decide right and wrong, one must use the natural heavenly principle to illuminate them. Things and the self stand opposed to each other, and only then do distinctions of right and wrong arise; hence it is said: "That side arises from this, and this exists because of that." It is like life and death depending on each other—they cannot be separated. Better to follow each side's own asserted principle and understand them accordingly. The sage does not fix on one extreme but illuminates the myriad things with heavenly principle, penetrating this and that—this is grasping the hub of the great Dao. It is like the empty center of a ring, able to follow things and respond to endless change. Disputes over right and wrong have no end; one can only illuminate them with heavenly principle.

When we survey the various commentators’ readings, many take chengxin (the “formed heart,” the mind once it has taken shape) as something good. Yet in light of what follows—“before the heart has even formed, right and wrong are already there”—chengxin is precisely where the split between right and wrong first stirs; it cannot be called good. I once attended lectures at the seat of Master Fan the Hidden One of western Shu. The master said: “Before the heart has formed, true nature is whole and round, as vast as the Great Void; once the heart forms, it has already left native nature and good and evil appear. Living in the world among things, one inevitably develops chengxin. When that happens, one should turn inward and seek the state before the heart had formed. Then good and evil have not yet sprouted, right and wrong have no trace—what could not be equalized and seen as one?” That insight is apt and clears up the earlier doubt. I add a point of my own understanding.

Stopping thoughts is not hard for a person; what is hard is not letting them go on generating. If from the very moment the heart begins to form one pursues the state before it had formed, thoughts will not link up in a chain and true nature can be restored. Therefore, facing things, mind-thoughts arise; forgetting things, native nature appears. The heart is the functioning of nature, the root of the myriad patterns and the master of the whole person—it cannot be wiped out entirely; but if one speaks of chengxin, that slips into subjective intent.

The heart has no fixed time of coming and going, and one does not know where it stays; yet whatever the heart intends to do is never without being stirred by outer things. Li (Fire) in the Five Phases cannot show a form by itself—it must cling to something before it can be seen. If the heart were like the Great Void, it would have nothing to cling to. When the heart clings to things to do good, that is still inferior to no-heart and wuwei; how much more when it clings to things to do evil?

Guan Yinzi said: “When outer things touch me, it is only as brief as a spark from fire; responding with native nature, outer things lightly float past.” That is the secret of letting go of things, gathering intent, and returning to nature. Students who go back and seek this for themselves will find what to take as their model.

The character for “know” (zhi) was read in the departing tone in older usage; some also read it in its base pronunciation. From the line below, “the foolish and those with proof alike”—both the foolish and those who have the Way can verify this—reading it as zhi (wisdom/knowing) fits better. The gloss of yu as “partisan companions” (dangyu) appears only in Bixu’s reading, unlike the other commentators. Examining the text’s meaning, “using knowing in place of natural functioning, taking for oneself from the Dao”—that describes people who substitute clever knowing for spontaneous action and thereby bring trouble on themselves; they take that kind of knowing as their chengxin.

Some people use zhi (the signifier, or “finger”) to show that a signifier is not the real signifier; it is better to use “not-a-signifier” to make that clear. They use ma (horse) to show that a horse is not horse; it is better to use “not-a-horse” to make that clear. The myriad things of heaven and earth can all be treated as one signifier; the myriad things can all be treated as one horse. Is it all right to speak this way? It can be all right; saying it is not all right can also be all right. The Dao shows itself in how the ten thousand things operate, and things thereby take shape; people address them with names, and they are acknowledged as such. Why is something this way? Because it is already acknowledged as this way. Why is it not that way? Because it is already acknowledged as that way.

Things each have grounds on which they are taken to be “so,” and each has what counts as acceptable about them. There is nothing that is not taken to be so, and nothing that is not taken as acceptable. Therefore, pairs as unlike as bamboo chopsticks and a house pillar, an ugly person and Xishi (the famed beauty of the Spring and Autumn period), and all sorts of strange and monstrous things—in the light of the Dao they connect and return to one whole. What distinguishes things from one another is precisely what comes from their having taken form; once formed, they also contain the possibility of ruin. Whether things form or are destroyed, in the end they can all be understood as flowing back into oneness. Only one who has attained thorough understanding knows that the ten thousand things are one in their connectedness.

Therefore one does not insist on forced effort, but entrusts oneself to ordinary, everyday affairs. Ordinary affairs are application; application is thorough penetration; thorough penetration is attainment. To attain appropriately is to be close to the Dao. It is enough to follow things as they already are. If one relies on the mind to strain at sorting the myriad things apart, without knowing that they were originally connected, this is called “morning three.”

What is “morning three”? A keeper of monkeys divided acorns among them and said, “Three in the morning, four in the evening.” The monkeys were all angry. The keeper said, “Then four in the morning, three in the evening.” The monkeys were all pleased. The names and the actual count did not change; only the monkeys’ joy and anger followed the wording. This too is handling things according to how circumstances run. Therefore the sage harmonizes the myriad things through the shifting of “is” and “is not,” so that the heart rests in natural balance; this is called “both lines of yes and no run together”—that is, letting the two ways of speaking each have their course.

Chen Bixu said: As for the parables of zhi and ma, from Sima Biao, Xiang Xiu, and Guo Xiang down to eminent scholars of the Tang, all took them as Zhuangzi’s invented allegories, so each school’s reading of the point differs. Now, examining Gongsun Long’s “On the White Horse” and “Signifiers and Things” among the Six Discourses, one finds already the claims “a white horse is not a horse” and “a signifier is not a signifier,” and one realizes Zhuangzi’s discussion draws on another source.

Guo Xiang holds that people habitually take themselves to be right and others to be wrong—a very common pattern. When you measure someone else’s finger by your own, you will decide that the other’s finger does not count as a finger; turn it around and measure yourself by the other’s finger, and you too will be judged not to count as a finger. Each side insists it alone is correct and the other is wrong; such disputes are nothing but each party clinging to its own bias.

The sage understands that Heaven and Earth may be regarded as a single finger, and the myriad things as a single horse. Therefore his mind is broad and at peace; he lets the myriad things each find its place and each be at ease in itself, no longer fixated on who is right and who is wrong. What suits oneself, one treats as suitable; what does not suit oneself, one treats as unsuitable. There is nothing the Dao cannot accomplish, and nothing among the myriad things that fails to stand as what it is. Every thing affirms its own condition and affirms what it takes to be worth having.

This is like a thin bamboo slip laid crosswise and a pillar set upright, an ugly person taken as repulsive and Xi Shi (celebrated in the Spring and Autumn era for her beauty) taken as beautiful. Must “making things equal” mean forcing bodies to look exactly alike and all to match one identical standard? Even the strangest and most anomalous things, under the pervading reach of the Dao, return to oneness. What some call destruction, others call accomplishment; what I call accomplishment, others call destruction. Such judgments all arise from respective viewpoints: each sees only itself and does not see the other.

Only the person of thorough penetration does not remain trapped in any single standpoint. He follows each thing’s proper use, accords with its natural changes, and adds no artificial contrivance. It is not a matter of first knowing some human method and then acting accordingly—this following of the situation is called the Dao; the Dao is also “the One.” Facing the One, why should the person of thorough penetration strain body and mind? If one exhausts thought trying to force the myriad things into unity, that is no different from clinging to their mutual distinctness—it is also like a troop of monkeys each following its own preference and declaring itself right.

Therefore the sage does not favor any side. He lets the myriad things naturally tend toward balance and merely allows the world’s various judgments of right and wrong to coexist without one overpowering another.

Lu Huiqing holds that to judge one finger “not a finger” by another finger—even when the two differ in name or size—they still belong to one whole; how can one therefore say it is not a finger? To judge one horse “not a horse” by another horse—even when coat color and quality differ—they still belong to one kind. In the end, it is simply a matter of letting the world’s differing judgments of right and wrong each stand side by side.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary runs as follows: To illustrate the claim that “a finger is not a finger,” one may distinguish name from thing, or the greater from the smaller—yet none of these distinctions step outside a single whole; how then can one say it is not a finger? To illustrate that “a horse is not a horse,” one may distinguish coat color, quality, or strength—yet none of these differences leave the same category; how then can one say it is not a horse?

Only when one is not pulled by judgments of right and wrong, and instead looks from the standpoint of the natural Dao—without imposed preconceptions—can one transcend the limits of “one whole” and leave behind the divisions of “one category,” and thereby discern what is truly right and wrong in the world. Thus, though heaven and earth are vast, they do not differ in essence from a single finger, for they arise in the world together with me and belong to the same whole; though the myriad things are many, they do not differ in essence from a single horse, for they merge with me into one body and belong to the same kind among the ten thousand things.

Who, then, decides whether things are acceptable or not? The Dao takes shape in people’s practice; it is not something that forms of itself in idle non-action (wuwei). What people call a thing is what it appears to be—it is not necessarily what it originally is. That things are judged “so” or “acceptable” is precisely what gives rise to their opposites—not so, not acceptable. If one asks who makes these judgments and finds no fixed master, one sees that things have no unchanging standard—why rush among competing choices of take and leave?

Small and large, beautiful and ugly, have always stood opposed; yet when one penetrates them from the angle of the Dao and treats them as one, then a thing’s being distinguished as this very thing is just the condition of its being what it is—and its completion is just the condition of its ruin. Formation and destruction of the myriad things interpenetrate and can ultimately be returned to oneness.

Only the person who has attained clarity understands that the myriad things communicate and are one. Therefore I do not force my own judgments but let each thing function according to its own situation; following the myriad things, one can penetrate; after penetrating, one can be at ease in any circumstance. Yet this ease is only an approach to the Dao, not yet true attainment of the Dao, because one still knows why one is so. To see that “this” has no fixed substance and to act in accord with it—when at last one no longer clings even to knowing why one is so, that is penetration of the myriad things as one.

The Dao can penetrate the myriad things because distinctions such as large and small, beautiful and ugly, each have their arising. If one does not understand these arisings but exhausts the spirit forcing judgments, the myriad things cannot return to oneness.

This is like the tale of “three in the morning, four in the evening”: the keeper gave the monkeys three acorns in the morning and four at night, and they were angry; he changed it to four in the morning and three at night, and they were pleased. The total was still seven. The monkeys were controlled by the keeper, and the keeper merely adjusted his words to the monkeys’ reactions—nothing more.

Disputes over right and wrong often arise because each side clings to its own view and treats the other’s position as alien. If you measure “my” finger against “his” finger, you will take your finger as correct and his as wrong; if you reverse the standard and take his finger as the measure, the result becomes that he is right and you are wrong. The same logic applies to the metaphor of the horse. When people compare back and forth in this way, both sides think themselves right and the other wrong. If right and wrong can both be referred back to the Dao, then even though heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are numerous, taking what is near—oneself—it is no more than a finger; taking what is far—the myriad things—it is no more than a horse.

“There is nothing that must be done, and nothing that must not be done; nothing that is absolutely so, and nothing that is absolutely not so”—this speaks of the most fundamental principle in the world. The “reasons” people talk about only show themselves in practice; the names of things are simply what people call them, and then they are taken as such. If you call it “this,” it is spoken of as this; if you call it “not this,” it is spoken of as not this. Whoever fixates on these judgments is inevitably bound by standpoint. Better to follow the natural state of things themselves and let distinctions such as vertical and horizontal, good and bad, flow back into unity. Then the Dao is accomplished everywhere, and nothing among the myriad things fails to find its place.

Only when things are differentiated do they appear as concrete forms; when a concrete form is fixed, it also means other forms are excluded. Whatever has a beginning must also have an end. The Dao itself has no “forming” or “destroying”; forming and destroying are changes seen from each thing’s own standpoint. Split wood and fashion it into a vessel—when the vessel is finished, the original shape of the timber is altered; that is simply part of the transformations of creation. The person who has attained understanding does not cling to a single viewpoint but grasps the principle of thoroughgoing connection, does not treat some fixed opinion as an absolute standard, and instead entrusts himself to ordinary, everyday things. Then wherever he is and whatever he meets, he can move freely—this is close to the Dao.

Originally the Dao is neither something to “attain” nor something to “reach”; it is only because people are constrained by things that words like “attainment” and “reaching” arise. Once this is understood, one can return to a state without clinging to distinctions—and that is enough. Things are already as they are, yet people may not know why they are so, and then forcibly give that “why” the name “Dao.”

Human numinous clarity (shenming—the spirit and inner luminosity) resides in oneself; one should follow and trust nature. If one strains to force the mind back to “oneness,” one in fact drifts far from the Dao. This is like the monkey keeper in the old fable who divided acorns: three in the morning and four at night; when he changed it to four in the morning and three at night, the total number of acorns did not change, yet the monkeys’ joy and anger shifted with the wording. People who do not penetrate the root principle are like those monkeys, moved by different ways of speaking. The sage harmonizes right and wrong, does not fixate on argument, rests in the natural, and lets opposing sayings each stand on their own—yet in the end they return to one fundamental principle.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary says: Explaining heaven and earth by what is nearest—oneself—even heaven and earth, for all their vastness, can be compared to a finger; explaining the myriad things by the myriad things themselves—even though they are many, they can be compared to a horse. This is because heaven and earth, however great, do not depart from concrete form; the myriad things, however numerous, do not depart from actual function. As form, heaven and earth in boundless emptiness are no more than a finger; as function, the myriad things at work in the world are no more than a horse. As for the Dao, it has no fixed form, yet through it the forms of things are accomplished; it has no particular function of its own, yet it completes every function. It is nowhere not present, and nothing is not in it; it does not act with deliberate effort, yet nothing fails to be accomplished. Therefore the Dao cannot simply be called one finger or one horse.

Chen Bixu’s commentary explains: “Zhi” (pointing) means to identify and judge right and wrong. Ordinary habit is to treat what one points to as correct and what others point to as mistaken—without realizing that others will likewise deem one wrong and point back. Clinging to one’s own judgments, one insists one is right and others wrong.

If no one in the world accused one another, things would each keep their native state and would not be forcibly defined; “pointing” would remain mere pointing, no longer twisted into arbitrary judgment by self-certainty. What is meant by not pointing at things’ “pointings” is that originally there is no division of “this and that” or right and wrong. Forcibly inventing “this and that” and right and wrong in order to point at things—that is erroneous pointing.

A horse naturally has its own form and color. If one sets color aside and names only by “horse,” one speaks of the horse as such; horses of every kind may be called horses, and white or black does not alter that. If one recognizes horses by color, then what is called a “white horse” excludes yellow and black horses. Thus, in pursuing color one neglects the horse’s whole bodily form—hence the saying “a white horse is not a horse.” If society at the time prized white, people would take white as correct and horse as wrong; that is treating error as right and right as error.

When the heart holds deep prejudices about right and wrong, one cannot see the myriad things as equal. If one can forget the split between “this and that,” then even differences within heaven and earth may be viewed as one; if one can release attachment to kinds and to form and color, then however numerous things may be, they may still be viewed as one. From the angle of sameness, the myriad things may be said to be the same; from the angle of difference, they are indeed not the same. Without following the Dao to know things, judgment goes astray; when judgment goes astray, who can truly benefit?

Looking along with each thing’s principle, the myriad things are each as they are—nothing is not so; looking against each thing’s principle, everything seems wrong—nothing is held to be right. If one fully accords with principle, one sees that nothing among the myriad things is not so and nothing may not be so, and naturally achieves thorough penetration.

The myriad things differ in form and abound in kinds, yet the Dao runs through them and brings them to oneness. This is like a craftsman making vessels: valuing the use of the finished article, who still cares that it was once unworked timber? Speak only of the vessel and not the timber; speak only of the timber and not the vessel. From the Dao’s perspective, the two can be threaded into one. Hence the person who has attained the Way follows the Dao, understands that the unworked, plain state may not suit worldly use yet can host one’s own application; “application” here is precisely what is realized by not forcing application. Understanding “use through non-use,” one can settle oneself at ease and fully grasp the reason within.

Still, understanding in this way leaves traces of deliberate effort. One who truly deeply knows the Dao only apprehends it in the heart and merges with it; after apprehension, one no longer knows why it is so, and does not leave traces of consciously following some doctrine. To exhaust mind and strength forcing the myriad things into oneness is like the trainer who uses his cleverness to manage a troop of monkeys—the troop is still led by his moods of pleasure and anger. That too is acting by means of artificial distinction and control.

In his commentary, Wang An uses “finger” and “horse” as illustrations: one should not fixate on the finger or the horse as such, but grasp the relations among things. If one then insists that there really are fingers and horses, one is still caught in concrete particulars; only when one reaches the state of “there has never yet been any thing” (no longer clinging to the separateness of things) has one truly understood.

Heaven and earth each have their form; the ten thousand things each have their function. Whatever has form, however vast, is bounded by the limits of existence; whatever has function, however numerous, also has a point where it is exhausted. If one says “nothing is not included, nothing is not pervaded,” can that refer merely to a single finger or a single horse?

Amid the transformations of the ten thousand things, there are naturally distinctions of permissible and impermissible, of right and wrong; one need only hold to the root principle and not let the mind be pulled about by these distinctions. The Dao accomplishes nothing that does not succeed; the ten thousand things likewise each establish themselves. Permissible and impermissible, right and wrong—each accords with the root principle. Viewed in accord with principle, the ten thousand things, whatever their forms or whether fair or foul, can all be returned to oneness.

The Dao is hidden within the ten thousand things; when things end, there is again a new beginning. So-called completion and ruin are distinctions people draw from changes in things; from the perspective of principle, there is no absolute completion or ruin. That the Dao and the ten thousand things communicate as one does not mean that the completion, ruin, and change of things do not exist—it only means one should follow ordinary changes as they come, without taking them as one’s own possession. Therefore, in whatever situation one finds oneself, one can be penetrating; being penetrating, one gains insight, and thus draws near to the Dao.

If one exhausts mental effort trying to force the ten thousand things into a single unity, how can one truly understand that they were originally interconnected? Hence the text goes on to the story of the “monkey keeper”: he gave the monkeys three acorns in the morning and four in the evening, then changed to four in the morning and three in the evening. The way of speaking changed, but the total number of acorns did not increase or decrease. Affairs in the world change in endless ways, yet the mind need not rise and fall with gain and loss. If one merely follows worldly moods and does not examine the root principle, one will be like those monkeys, led by surface differences. The sage understands the relativity of right and wrong and lets the various ways of speaking each run their course in parallel.

Zhao Xuzhai explained: Beyond the finger, there is another force that makes it move; therefore one knows that “finger” is not merely the finger itself. Beyond the horse, there is another force that drives it to run; therefore one knows that “horse” is not merely the horse itself. Fingers and horses are things with form; if one wishes to show that what has form is not its true essence, it is better to use what has no form to explain it.

From this one can know that the turning of heaven and earth and the growth of the ten thousand things each have another power that governs them. If one seeks beyond heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things, one finds that possible and impossible, so and not-so, crisscrossing, beautiful and ugly, and all sorts of strange and bizarre matters, together with right and wrong and success and failure, can in the end connect and return to one whole. Since that is so, there is no fixed, unchanging right and wrong; even if one takes something as “right,” one need not cling to that.

“Yong” has the sense of the ordinary. The ordinary Way is precisely the principle that seems useless yet can function; when one has penetrated it, one gains something and draws near to the Dao. Acting in accord with things as they naturally are, disputes over right and wrong cease—not only does the side deemed wrong stop arguing; the side deemed right stops as well. After right and wrong have dissolved, still not insisting on tracing causes and reasons—only then is one not artificially chasing “true knowing.”

What is called “leaving form and discarding cleverness” is freeing oneself from attachment to the body and to artifice; “sitting and forgetting” means in quiet sitting forgetting the body and discriminating mind. If one treats these as deliberate practices to pursue, they become wearisome instead. Shen is clarity, and clarity is Shen. “Three in the morning and four at night” and “four in the morning and three at night” are originally the same; the monkeys were confused by the order of distribution and did not see that there was no real difference. The keeper arranged things the way the troop liked—that too was complying with how things naturally stood.

The Yizhai kouyi says: “Zhi” means the finger. If one takes one’s own finger as the correct way of pointing, one will deem another person’s way of pointing wrong; and the one deemed wrong will in turn insist that his own way is right. Thus people stand opposed to one another, and right and wrong cannot be fixed.

“Ma bose chou” appears in the “Touhu” section under the Record of Rites: in the pitch-pot game, the counting tallies vary in number. Judgments of right and wrong among players likewise differ, like tallies that are more or less, because each side’s standpoint differs. Yet Heaven covers the myriad things and Earth bears them—can that too be divided by opposing standstands? This shows that discourse about the myriad things should not cling to one side’s right and wrong, but should let views connect and align.

What one approves, one calls acceptable; what one disapproves, one calls unacceptable. When affairs are carried out and outcomes form, all of this is spontaneous. Each thing in its way finds it so and approves it so, and each has its “thus it is” and its merit. Originally each thing has its fitting place: nothing is wholly against reason, and no affair is absolutely impossible. Crooked and straight each accord with their allotment; beautiful and ugly each preserve their nature. Thread these differences together and return them to the formative power that generates the myriad things.

Destruction and completion among things depend on each other: without destruction there is no completion; without completion there is nothing to call destruction. For example, felling timber to build a house—when the house stands, the timber is destroyed. Understanding this, one need not fix on one judgment of right and wrong, but should lodge oneself in ordinary things and employ them by following their course. However one applies them, one can penetrate; penetration yields gain, and gain exhausts the principle.

When people are trapped by toil, the mind easily fixates on one doctrine and fails to see that the principle was always interconnected. “Zhao san” (morning three) is a parable; its manner of expression matches sayings of the “fang sheng” (mutual arising) type: names and reality do not change, yet joy and anger shift with them. It likens how names of right and wrong differ while the reasoning behind them connects. So long as one views problems by following how things originally are, strife in the world naturally lessens, and various rights and wrongs can coexist.

Chu’s Guanjian (Limited Views) observes that when people stand on different sides, their judgments of right and wrong can point at each other and invert one another. What the east household calls “west” is what the west household calls “east”; what is called the beginning of Heaven and Earth can also be said to come after the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji). Such differences have existed from antiquity to the present. The perfected person uses the parables of “finger” and “horse” to show that the myriad things can be equalized—truly a fine way to unfold the meaning of Discourse on Equalizing Things.

To use “finger” to illustrate that “a finger is not a finger” is the ordinary person’s view; to use “not-finger” to explain that “a finger is not a finger” is the utmost person’s insight. The same holds for “not-horse.” In the world, refined views are few and ordinary views are many, so a saying like “Heaven and Earth are no more than a finger, the myriad things no more than a horse” tends to increase confusion instead.

How then should one explain it? People’s situations under Heaven differ, yet the principles under Heaven can connect. If one principle runs through ten thousand situations, then “not-finger” can also be called “is”; if the myriad things cannot be gathered into one principle, then “is horse” can also be called “is not.” “Finger” and “horse” touch concrete form and outward signs, so they easily fall into dispute over right and wrong; “not-finger” and “not-horse” go beyond form, number, and the range of words and debate.

Heaven and Earth are vast, yet they can be explained by “one finger,” because Heaven and Earth exist together with me; the myriad things are numerous, yet they can be grasped in one saying, because the myriad things and I are originally one body. If one can observe how things are and penetrate their principle, then even when the myriad things differ, they can merge in the mind; affairs a thousand leagues apart can still meet in the heart. What the ancients meant by “the feelings of the multitude” and “the great thing” is understood in just this way.

Taishang says, “Obtain the One, and the ten thousand affairs are complete”—meaning that when you gain the root principle, the ten thousand affairs run through. That is the state to which the principle of equalizing the myriad things can arrive, and where discussion can stop; but it is not the end of words and debate.

In ancient times, some people’s understanding reached the ultimate level. What is that ultimate level? It is the view that at the beginning, nothing had ever come into being at all. Such understanding is already extreme; nothing more can be added to it.

Next is the view that things already exist but have not yet been distinguished from one another. Still further down is the view that distinctions exist but that “this” and “not this” have not yet been marked out. Once right and wrong appear, the Dao is thereby diminished; when the Dao is diminished, partiality and attachment arise. But is there really “completion” and “loss”? Or is there in fact no completion and no loss at all?

If one holds that there is completion and loss, then when Zhao Wen played the zither, the music acquired success and failure, gain and loss. If one holds that there is no completion and loss, then when Zhao Wen did not play, there was nothing to count as success or failure, gain or loss. Zhao Wen playing the zither, Shi Kuang beating time with his staff, and Hui Shi leaning on the parasol tree to discourse on principle—the wisdom of these three approached the highest realm, and each excelled in his own way. Therefore they spent their whole lives absorbed in what they loved. Because these pursuits differed from others’, they wished to use them to display their insight.

Yet what they wanted to display was never something that could truly be displayed. Forcing display, they fell into the confusion of the “hardness and whiteness” debate. Hui Shi’s son, in turn, spent his life inheriting Hui Shi’s disputatious doctrines. To live one’s whole life without achievement—can that be called achievement? If that counts as achievement, then I too have achievement. If it does not, then all things and I alike are neither successful nor failed.

Therefore what the sage seeks is to dissolve disorder, doubt, and the glare of showing off cleverness. He does not cling to these disputes but rests his mind in ordinary affairs. This is called “using clarity”—understanding things by aligning with how they are in themselves.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that if a person understands that from the very beginning there were never really any myriad things, they will no longer cling outwardly to heaven, earth, and the cosmos, nor inwardly to their own body. Their mind becomes open and unburdened, and they can respond to all things.

Next, if one holds that the myriad things already exist but have not yet been marked off from one another, although one has not altogether forgotten the myriad things, one can still forget the distinctions among them. Still further, when the myriad things already have their respective boundaries but judgments of right and wrong have not yet arisen, although one cannot forget the differences among them, one can still forget praise and blame toward one another. Without discriminations of right and wrong, the Dao can remain whole; once the Dao suffers loss, feelings and intentions incline to one side, and likes and preferences become partial. As for completion and loss, being and non-being—what fixed standard can there be?

The sounds of music cannot all be fully expressed in words. When one blows on pipes or plucks strings, no matter how intricate the technique, many tones are inevitably left out. If the performer fixates on making every sound conspicuous, the sound itself is diminished; only by not striving to display it can sound be complete. Thus seeking completion in fact produces loss. Zhao Wen was skilled at the zither yet could not bring every tone to perfection; had he not played at all, there would have been no such shortcoming.

Those three men each wished to use principles they did not truly grasp to refute others and prove their own views, until their hearts and minds were exhausted and their bodies worn out. Zhice refers to propping up one’s arms or resting with the aid of implements; juwu refers to leaning against a parasol tree for rest. Only by relying on such expedients could they barely sustain themselves for long; otherwise they would long since have been worn down in distress. The three believed themselves exceptional and wanted others to accept what they cherished, yet others never truly understood, so their own Dao practices ultimately appeared dim and confused. Wen’s son finally inherited his father’s pursuit, yet he too achieved no success.

If what those three did counts as success, then my own lack of success could also count as success; if even that cannot be called success, then the myriad things and I alike have no such thing as success or failure. Sages each deploy what they are capable of, accommodating the diverse circumstances of the myriad things so that each thing is brought to completion and nothing is left out. Now these three wish to persuade others by their personal preferences—is that not arbitrary presumption?

Sages have no private, self-centered views. Toward strange, variegated things that are hard to discern clearly, they observe and demarcate their scope; toward vast, uncanny phenomena that shift unpredictably, they connect them with one another and return them to unity. In this way, the myriad different things each settle into their own place, the multitude do not lose their respective judgments, and the sage need not act personally—the efficacy of the myriad things manifests on its own. Toward things that are unrestrained, changeable, and extraordinarily odd, the sage also bends and accommodates them flexibly. Though the efficacies of the myriad things differ in countless ways, each appears clearly in its own right.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary runs as follows: The Dao is nowhere absent, so there is nothing that is not the Dao; since the ten thousand things are all Dao, there is nothing outside the Dao. This is what the ancients meant by “nothing has yet taken form as a thing”—not that the world is literally empty, but that one realizes things and the Dao were never separate, and can discern the Dao through concrete things.

When understanding reaches this point, it is already very high. Those one step below acknowledge that things exist, yet hold that things have not yet been marked off from one another; they cannot yet discern the Dao directly in things, but can use the Dao to penetrate the ten thousand things. Still lower are those who think things already have boundaries but not yet right and wrong among them; they cannot use the Dao to penetrate things, but can let go of attachment to particular things in order to align with the Dao. Though neither of these two levels is fully complete, their grasp of the Dao is still not impaired.

Once distinctions of right and wrong appear, the Dao is damaged by that; when the Dao is damaged, human feelings arise and partiality and clinging take shape. Yet from the perspective of the person who has attained clarity, since things from the outset have never truly “begun to exist” as separate entities, could there really be a divide between “being and non-being,” “completion and loss”?

Zhao Shi (a master of the qin) played the zither, Shi Kuang (an ancient music master) beat time with his staff, and Hui Shi (a philosopher of the School of Names) leaned on a parasol tree in debate—all showing their grasp of the principle of being/non-being and completion/loss, and coming very close to the mark. If such cases are called achievement, then “no achievement” also counts as a kind of achievement; if they cannot be called achievement, then the ten thousand things and I ultimately achieve nothing. Why should the mind be ruled by the split between being/non-being and completion/loss, and still hope to gain achievement through that?

Whenever inner clarity is not yet pure and doubts about being and non-being arise from distracting thoughts, those doubts should be resolved one by one until one returns to clarity—that is true rest; how much more so when the heart still harbors attachment to the ten thousand things? Therefore the sage does not force outcomes by subjective intent, but lets each thing play its own part. This is what is meant by “using clarity”—illuminating the ten thousand things with a clear mind.

Lin Yidu holds that birth and death are the greatest transformation among the myriad things. If one can transcend birth and death, the passing away of other things need not be feared; therefore, to regard the myriad things as never having existed is the deepest level. Next is to recognize that things exist but that boundaries between them have not yet been drawn: one has not yet escaped the idea of birth and death, but things are not yet divided into separate domains. Still further, things already have boundaries but there is not yet distinction between right and wrong. Even when a person leaves the world to study the Dao, the mind may still harbor a sense of self and other; if one can understand that each side’s situation differs and allow each its own judgment without clinging to who is right or wrong, one will not be trapped by right and wrong.

The substance of the Dao is originally undifferentiated unity, without self and other or right and wrong. Once these distinctions are fixed and each side holds to its corner, the Dao is diminished. Favoring one side leads to rejecting the other, and thus self and other and right and wrong arise. When the noble person discusses principle, the intent is to repair this diminishment; yet once principle is stated clearly and distinctly, the distinctions may deepen instead. Hence Zhuangzi does not definitively say whether the Dao is whole or diminished, but asks people to grasp the meaning and forget the words.

When the ancient sages reached the highest clarity, they were still and silent, like Zhao Wen not playing the zither; when they accorded with ordinary things and responded in penetration, it was like Zhao Wen playing the zither. Shi Kuang (the master musician) leaned on his staff, and Huizi (Hui Shi) rested against the parasol tree—their skill and insight approached the Dao but had not yet reached it. Their talents flourished, yet even in old age they had not fully awakened. Failing to exhaust one’s innate nature leads easily to disturbance; failing to exhaust principle leads to doubt. When brilliance shows forth, it can also confuse. What the sage does is awaken people, not lead them into delusion. Therefore Zhuangzi lodges meaning in everyday things so that people may awaken within them.

Chen Xiangdao holds that “Great Easy” (Taiyi) is the state before qi has appeared; those who penetrate this level regard the myriad things as never having existed— the deepest level. “Great Beginning” (Taichu) is the start of qi; those at this level treat birth as beginning and death as return. “Great Start” (Taishi) is the beginning of form; those here treat the formless as beginning, birth as the body, and death as the body’s resting place. To treat birth and death as beginning and return already falls into concrete things and has not left the Dao; when each thing has its boundary, that is the scope of De. To treat formlessness and birth and death as head and tail of the body is already bound by limits but has not yet entered dispute over right and wrong.

The Dao originally knows no diminishment; only when right and wrong appear does it seem diminished. Affection originally has no fixed shape; only when the Dao is diminished does partiality arise. The Dao is plain and undifferentiated; right and wrong are like formed vessels—once the vessel takes shape, plainness is broken. The Dao is like a great river or lake; partiality is like fish moistening one another with spit when the waters dry. When the lake dries, fish use spit to wet each other. These transformations alternate endlessly; Zhuangzi does not decide for them whether they are completion or ruin, but lets each person examine them by their own understanding.

Joy that does not depend on external things is Heaven’s joy; joy that depends on external things is human joy. The pleasures of Zhao Wen, Shi Kuang, and Huizi all depended on externals—they merely loved different things from ordinary people. What their bodies delighted in ultimately seemed right yet might not truly accord with the Dao. The myriad things can neither be said to have no formation at all nor to be fully formed. In worldly eyes all three succeeded in their arts; yet if such display does not accord with the Dao, it can confuse people under Heaven.

Chen Bixu holds that “the myriad things never existed” is the mind roaming at the beginning of things—hidden within things without clinging to traces; “things exist but without boundaries” is a state of undifferentiated unity; “boundaries without right and wrong” is the kind of realm Zhuangzi means by “I have lost myself—do you understand?” (forgetting the ego’s fixed views and quieting the heart-mind). Once right and wrong stand out, the Dao is diminished and partiality is born. Whether these levels and changes count as completion or ruin has no fixed answer.

Zhao Wen, Shi Kuang, and Huizi each had innate gifts. To make those whose nature is not suited to such arts understand their skill would exhaust the mind and still not satisfy both sides. The point is to know oneself and cultivate oneself; to display one’s skill for others is to live by craft—how can that be called truly reaching the Dao? Sages do not treat extraordinary skill as the Dao but regard it as something that easily disturbs the mind. They mark out each thing’s proper scope so that the myriad things each rest in their place, and keep skill for personal use; thus the abilities of Zhao Wen, Shi Kuang, and Huizi each have something worth taking from them.

When Zhao Xuzhai commented on the Liezi, he said: whatever can give rise to the myriad things cannot be called “nothing.” From Wuji—the root before any distinction appears—to Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the state in which yin and yang have not yet split but already hold the root of generation and transformation, Taiji contains yin and yang, and with that come boundary and distinction. When yin and yang divide, hard and soft take shape, and good and evil arise along with them.

Before joy, anger, sorrow, and delight have stirred, things seem not yet to show themselves; yet to call this state “the center” (zhong) does not mean there is literally nothing within it. Once the four emotions appear, distinction arises; whether feeling stays within proper measure, and right and wrong, become visible from that. When the center stirs, innate nature becomes active and turns into emotion. Love is the root of emotion; where there is movement and stillness, there is gain and loss.

Zhao Wen was skilled at the zither, but without encountering Shi Kuang—the master who could discern tones—no one would understand his playing. Hui Shi was skilled at disputation, but without encountering Zhuangzi no one would grasp his subtlety. All three had reached exquisite refinement, yet none truly understood the realm of “drumming without drumming” (grasping the zither without relying on striking strings), “listening without listening” (apprehending sound without relying on the ear), or “arguing without arguing” (seeing the point without relying on debate).

Therefore Zhuangzi later held that his difference from Hui Shi lay in what each understood: what he himself saw clearly was not what Hui Shi was pursuing. Hui Shi took what need not be clung to and made it the stuff of debate; even if he elaborated “separating hardness and whiteness” and “identifying difference and sameness” (disputes over the attributes and unity of things), in the end he remained in obscurity. If Zhao Wen’s son did not understand the mystery contained in a stringless zither, he would ultimately achieve nothing. Such an outcome can be called achievement or non-achievement; what matters is whether one truly understands. What the sage values is clarity that shines forth amid confusion and bewilderment.

In this section of the Yizhai Oral Exposition, although the discussion begins with the primordial state of heaven and earth, those who grasp its meaning can verify it in ordinary affairs right before their eyes. For example, before a single thought has arisen, one may speak of “nothing has yet taken form” (wei shi you wu); once a thought arises, there is something thought of and a distinction of “self” appears, and a boundary is drawn. As things are distinguished, likes and dislikes, joy and anger follow, and right and wrong come into being.

If one cannot turn back and inspect the state before the thought arose, and only feels turmoil and agitation in the chest, then the Dao has been harmed and partiality and clinging arise from that. When that thought passes and all returns to stillness, one sees: where is there truly gain or loss? To experience this in one’s own person is cultivation that truly avails.

The scripture first explains the principle of “completion” (cheng) and “deficiency” (kui), then uses playing the drum and qin as a simile; it then mentions the three masters Shi Kuang, Hui Shi, and others. Relying on their specialties, they were renowned all their lives, yet they treated their own pursuits as extraordinary, boasting without end, while listeners could not follow—so in the end they never truly achieved completion. When Zhuangzi speaks of Gongsun Long’s debate on “hard and white” (jian bai), he suggests that Hui Shi merely used parsing the categories of hard and white to display rhetorical skill; such talk seems right yet is wrong, leaving one perplexed and unable to judge clearly.

The sage’s mind never clings to fixed traces, so it seems to attain something and yet seems to grasp nothing. The character tu is glossed as yu (desire): what the sage desires is precisely this—not to hold fast to some fixed right and wrong, but to rest the heart in ordinary things; this is called “using clarity” (yi ming)—discriminating without fixation.

The ancients valued genuine insight and discarded false understanding; they released attachment to concrete things and preserved the mysterious intangible "being," thereby guarding the authentic nature of life and preserving the way of nature. Later, people's hearts grew increasingly shallow, and the customs of the world declined from generation to generation: external things blocked the mind's inherent clarity, and fixed opinions drew boundaries around what could be known; self and external things stood opposed, right and wrong appeared accordingly, and once right and wrong were sharply divided, the Dao was harmed and partiality took shape. Do things truly have completion and loss?

The author raises this point again to remind people to examine their inner selves and grasp the fundamental aim of the Discourse on Making Things Equal. So-called completion and loss are merely surface signs of things. If one can truly return to a state without objects of attachment, what completion or loss would remain?

Zhaowen (an ancient master of the zither) played with supreme skill, yet because he was still bound by physical form, sound, and the rules of pitch and rhythm, he could never escape completion and loss in the end. What Zhi Ce (beating time with a staff) and Ju Wu (leaning on a armrest to discourse) represent are the respective talents of Shi Kuang (a master musician) and Hui Shi (a master debater). Each took his own ability as right and never tired of it even into old age; not only did they delight in it themselves, they wanted to use it to prove that others ought to accept it too. They paid no heed to whether the other party was suited to it and simply argued forcefully for agreement, until in the end they remained confused and unresolved. Zhaowen's disciples in turn made playing the zither their lifelong occupation, yet in the end achieved nothing.

This shows that the first three men gained in skill yet lost in the Dao, and still thought they had achieved something; Zhaowen's disciples neither mastered the skill nor grasped the Dao, yet still considered themselves in the right. These examples indicate that what each calls "right" and "wrong," completion and loss, are only one-sided partial views; completion and loss have no fixed standard.

"Slippery doubt's radiance" means that the three men's skills stirred up the mundane world and dazzled people's eyes and ears. What the sage must do is not let such things dominate people, but entrust them to the everyday Dao, so that people gradually return to their original state. This is called skillfully using brightness without flaunting its glare.

For the moment, let us speak a few words here—whether these words belong to the same category as talk of “right” and “wrong,” or a different one, is unclear. If sameness and difference were lumped together as one kind, there would be no distinction between them. Even so, let us try to say something: there was a beginning, and there was never a beginning; there is also the case in which even “there never was a beginning” never existed. Things have “being” and “non-being”; there was also never a time when there was no “non-being,” and even “there never was non-being” never existed. Suddenly “non-being” appears, yet one cannot tell whether “being” and “non-being” are which is which.

I have already spoken these words, yet I do not know whether what I said counts as having been said or as never having been said at all. Under heaven there is no greater doubt than this: which of being and non-being is being, and which is non-being? I have already spoken, yet I also do not know whether I have truly spoken or have not spoken at all.

Nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of an autumn hair; Mount Tai is small by comparison. No one lives longer than a child who dies young; Peng Zu is short-lived by comparison. Heaven and earth were generated together with me, and the ten thousand things and I are one body. Since we are already one, what is there to say? Yet having said “one,” how can we say there is nothing to say? “One” together with “saying one” makes two; two plus one makes three. Continue calculating from here—even the most skilled reckoner cannot finish, let alone ordinary people. Thus from non-being to being, calculation already reaches three; how much more when going from being to being? Better to follow things as they are and stop pushing the inquiry further.

Guo Xiang comments: To say now that there is no right and wrong, without knowing whether that belongs to the same category as saying there is right and wrong or a different one—if one calls it the same category, then I take “no” as correct while another takes “no” as wrong, and they are not the same; yet even when each side’s right and wrong differ, they still do not escape right and wrong, so they remain the same category. Sameness and difference oppose each other and again fall into one category, no different from the other side.

To escape discrimination entirely, it is best to have no fixed views: first drop the judgment that others are wrong, then drop attachment to that judgment; keep dropping in this way and right and wrong vanish. Even so, let us try to say something: to say there is a beginning necessarily implies an end; to say there never was a beginning is not to divide beginning from end or to treat life and death as two things. To say even “there never was a beginning” never existed is to treat the ten thousand things as one body—yet it is better not to insist on “one” and let things naturally equalize; that is to release even “one.”

Once there is “being,” beauty and ugliness, right and wrong appear; once there is “non-being,” one still does not know whether non-being is truly achieved, and likes and dislikes remain in the mind. Knowing that “non-being” too is gone, one has not yet released that knowing itself; going further, even “there never was non-being” is released. Being and non-being suddenly appear, and one cannot tell which is which. When all cognizing is forgotten, one suddenly sees that the ten thousand things were never divided. Heaven, earth, the myriad things, and mutual right and wrong open into sameness; the mind holds no lingering attachment, nor clings to whether one’s own words count as being or non-being.

If one compares by physical form, Mount Tai is indeed larger than an autumn hair’s tip; but if each accords with its nature and is content with its own allotment, then what is large in body is not surplus and what is small is not lack. Content with native endowment, an autumn hair need not be seen only as small, nor Mount Tai only as large. If accord with nature and each getting its place counts as greatness, nothing under heaven exceeds an autumn hair’s tip; if one does not take external size as the standard, Mount Tai can also be called small. Mount Tai as small means there is no absolute largeness under heaven; an autumn hair as large means there is no absolute smallness under heaven.

Content with the nature heaven gives, at peace in one’s own allotment—thus heaven and earth are not necessarily longer-lived than I, nor are the ten thousand things necessarily different from me; they are all one body with me. Each thing finds its place according to its form and naturally returns to oneness; the Way needs no words, yet because things sometimes cannot see this for themselves, “the ten thousand things are one” is used to explain it. But the moment one says “one,” there is already speech; “one” was originally one, yet in saying it one splits it into “there is one” and “there is speech”—two items. One and two together—does that not make three? Names for things are beyond counting. Thus deliberately saying they are one does not make them different from the myriad things; forgetting the talk of “one,” the myriad things instead naturally return to oneness in silence.

People cannot let go of the distinction between self and other or forget right and wrong until they reach the state in which “there has never been the myriad things” because they do not understand where the notions of self and other, right and wrong, first arise. To grasp this, one must observe from the very starting point of thought.

What is meant by “there is a beginning” is that originally there was nothing to rely on, yet this beginning appeared—and then there came to be something to rely on. What is meant by “there has never been a beginning” is to release fixation on that starting point; if one cannot let go even of this release, one still falls within having something to rely on. To speak further of “there has never been ‘there has never been a beginning’” is to release even that release. With neither anything to rely on nor anything to release, it becomes clear at once where the mind’s intent arises: everything that exists now emerges from “non-being” (wu). Once this is understood, existence and non-existence are decided by one’s own mind; if I wish something not to exist, it has no way to arise.

Yet when we speak of “being and non-being,” even “non-being” may be treated as a kind of existence. Hence one must also speak of “there has never been non-being,” to release attachment to “non-being”; and again of “there has never been ‘there has never been non-being,’” to release that release. Neither the original starting point of the myriad things nor absolute emptiness can be pinned down; insight then naturally aligns in the space of a bow and a glance. This is “suddenly there is being and non-being,” while it is still unclear which of being and non-being counts as being and which as non-being. The student should forget words and grasp the meaning with the heart.

Even so, what I say now still does not amount to saying that there is truly some thing. As for whether this counts as being or non-being, how could I be sure? The student should also understand that words are not truly words. Only when one recognizes where one’s own mind’s intent arises does one see that what is as fine as a hair’s tip and as vast as Mount Tai, the short-lived child who dies young and long-lived Peng Zu (the ancients’ emblem of longevity), and even heaven, earth, and the myriad things—all manifest from here. Seen this way, small and large, near and far, have no fixed, unchanging form.

“The nameless” is the starting point of heaven and earth. Understanding this, one knows that I too arise from the nameless; with me come heaven and earth, so heaven and earth are generated together with me. “The named” is the root of the myriad things. Understanding this, one knows that I too am born from the named; without me there are no myriad things, so the myriad things and I are one.

Lin Yidu’s commentary says: Only by not clinging to words can the unique Dao be revealed; only by realizing that uniqueness can one escape the fetters of worldly distinctions. Yet once one opens the mouth to speak, the intention is to use language to dispel attachment to “being” (you); but as soon as words are uttered, they become a new kind of “being.” If one tries to eliminate “being” and turn toward “non-being” (wu) in order to differ from worldly distinctions, the moment one fixates on that elimination, one falls into another kind of distinction—then “sameness” and “difference” belong to the same category again, still no different from ordinary views.

Yet without speaking, one cannot awaken those who are confused throughout the world, so one must provisionally use words to explain. What is called “having a beginning” means that things already have form and can be seen—but what is seen is things, not the Dao. What is called “never having had a beginning” means that qi, form, and substance are all present, but there is not yet a state in which they are separated from one another; this is called hunlun (undifferentiated unity, an unbroken whole), the utmost of the Dao. What is called “being” is not the subtle, mysterious “marvelous being” (miaoyou); what is called “non-being” is not absolute non-being in the true sense. We still do not know, regarding so-called being and non-being, which should count as being and which as non-being.

The mutual transformation of Yin and Yang is called the Dao; when Yin-Yang change is hard to fathom, it is called Shen (spirit—the unfathomable working of change). But since we cannot yet forget words, we must reluctantly say: should we call it being, or non-being? What people in the world call large and small is measured by physical form; what I call large and small is spoken from the standpoint of the Dao. What people call long life and short life is measured by the length of a lifespan; what I call long life and short life is spoken from the angle of transcending birth and death.

The fine new hair on a beast in autumn is so small it almost has no form; compared with Mount Tai, it surely counts as small. Yet from the Dao’s perspective, where there is no fixed large or small, Mount Tai can also count as small. One who dies in infancy almost lives as briefly as if he had not lived at all; compared with Peng Zu (the legendary long-lived man), Peng Zu surely counts as long-lived. Yet from the Dao’s perspective, unconstrained by the distinctions of birth and death, Peng Zu can also count as short-lived. Approaching the realm where there is almost no birth, one can endure together with heaven and earth; approaching the realm where there is almost no form, one can merge into one with the ten thousand things.

Chen Xiangdao said: The Dao in heaven and earth has no end and no beginning; to call it existent is wrong, and to call it nonexistent is wrong as well. Yet when the Dao shows itself in the myriad things, it appears as cycles of beginning and end and as the mutual turning of being (you) and non-being (wu). So from the side of what appears, one may say it has a beginning, or call it “being”; from the subtle side, tracing back to “what has not yet begun,” even to “what has not yet had ‘not yet begun’ or ‘not yet being/non-being,’” that is the deepest way of putting it. Laozi’s “the nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth”—here “non-being” (wu) is the root, and “beginning” is its functioning. To speak first of “having a beginning,” then of being and non-being, is to trace from function back to the root. This reality called the Dao, though termed “non-being,” is not hollow void; though termed “being,” it has no fixed shape. It is nowhere absent, yet does not force itself to act; it is everywhere present, yet is not stuck in deliberate non-action (wuwei). So when the ancients spoke of the Dao, they often used approximate, allusive language, not clinging to “being” or “non-being,” so as to slip free of the snares of words.

Chen Bixu said: “Having a beginning” means the Dao gives rise to the One; “not yet having a beginning” is undivided chaos, vast emptiness; “not yet having ‘not yet a beginning’” is a depth beyond sight and hearing, more hidden than mere void. These three levels describe the Dao before it has formed as Qi (vital energy). “There is being” is when forms have already appeared and each thing stands on its own; “there is non-being” is when forms are not yet visible, quiet and empty; “not yet being/non-being” is before form appears, still and empty, close to utter non-being; “not yet ‘not yet being/non-being’” is a still, open depth that cannot be grasped—the “non-being within non-being.” These four levels describe the Dao before it has taken on physical form.

Before long, “non-being” too can be spoken of, because the Dao is omnipresent and birth-and-change never stop. The myriad things flash into view and turn again; heaven and earth move in silence—who can tell whether they are being or non-being? Whether you say “being” or “non-being,” you are still on the surface. To get past both ways of speaking, one must likely forget the splits made by language.

Zhao Xuzhai said: “Having a beginning” and “there is being” both belong on the side of “being.” Trace further upward and you reach no beginning and no being. Yet if you already call it non-being while an “I” is still fixing it as such, it is not yet true non-being. Then how is “there is non-being” known at all? Heaven and earth arise together with me, without any difference in span of life; the myriad things and I…

Zhao Xuuzhai’s commentary states: “‘Having a beginning’ and ‘having being’ both belong to ‘being.’ If you trace further upward, you arrive at ‘no beginning’ and ‘no being.’ Even if you take everything as empty void, there is still an ‘I’ that exists—so it still cannot be called true non-being. Then from what standpoint are so-called being and non-being known at all?

Heaven, earth, and I arise together, so there is no distinction between long life and early death; the ten thousand things and I were originally one body, so there is no distinction between vast and minute. As soon as you utter a ‘one,’ you have already fallen into ‘being’; once you speak of ‘being,’ number and distinction appear. Turning from ‘non-being’ toward ‘being’ can go on without end; only by not inclining to either side does what is called ‘following what is so’ (yinsi) have nothing to stand on—how much less its opposite, ‘what is not so’?”

Yanzhai’s oral explanation says: “Having a beginning,” “not yet having a beginning,” and “not yet having ‘not yet having a beginning’” are layers of questioning into the origin of things. “Not yet having a beginning” corresponds to what the Liezi calls Taizhi, Taisu, and Taichu ( successive accounts of the primordial state of the cosmos). Again, if you take Mount Tai as large, heaven and earth are larger than Mount Tai—so Mount Tai can also be called small. Even if Peng Zu (the legendary long-lived figure) lived very long, compared with heaven and earth he would count as dying young. Heaven, earth, and I are born alike within heaven and earth; even grass, trees, and insects are intimately connected with me, one undivided whole.

When we look at the forms of heaven, earth, and the myriad things, nothing seems larger than Mount Tai and nothing seems longer-lived than Peng Zu—yet such comparisons rely only on physical form and cannot be called truly boundless. Viewed from emptiness and original nature, Mount Tai is no more than something tiny, and Peng Zu no more than a newborn infant. Though an autumn hair is exceedingly fine, at the moment life begins it shares the same root principle as all things; though a child who dies young lives but briefly, it possesses the same innate nature as Peng Zu. Thus the greatest and the longest-lived are not absent—they are simply lodged in the vastness of heaven and earth’s forms and in the gathering of the myriad things’ shapes. Traced back to their source, there is in fact no difference.

The scripture repeats its teaching from many angles in order to break the world’s fixation on large and small, long life and early death, so that people may inquire into things’ root principle. From there one can go further and grasp what is meant by “a grain of millet holding a whole land” and “a mustard seed containing Mount Sumeru”—that the extremely small can yet hold the vast world. If the student can grasp the emptiness at the center of the ring—neither clinging to one extreme nor losing natural balance—then an autumn hair may seem large and Mount Tai small; a child who dies young may seem long-lived and Peng Zu short-lived.

These statements are not merely correcting vulgar prejudice or urging people to stop craving long life. Pursued to the root of the principle, they have a genuine basis. Pity that people see only the chaotic, unequal surface of the myriad things, so the clarity within the heart is disturbed as well—like water rushing downhill, unable to glimpse the source. Therefore the True Person (the one who has attained the Dao) again and again teaches people to return to the root of things, to merge self and myriad things into one, to regard all things as kin, as one body. Then one can dwell at ease in harmony and quiet purity— the very scene of the age of Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor, and the heart-method secretly transmitted by sages. At that point, what need is there to dispute long life and early death, self and other, large and small, or ancient and modern?

“Born together as one” is largely akin to the earlier metaphors of “one finger” and “one horse.” The words sound as if they defy common sense, yet the reasoning is extraordinarily fine and penetrating. What Laozi called “straight words seem reversed” is exactly this sort of speech—only those who can grasp it are fit to hear it.

The Dao has no boundaries to begin with, and words have no fixed, unchanging standard. Only because people each insist that “this is right” do all sorts of boundaries get drawn. As for those boundaries, there are left and right, rank and principle, division and disputation, rivalry and contention—and taken together these are called the “Eight Virtues.”

Matters beyond the four directions of heaven and earth the sage keeps in the heart and does not discourse on; matters within the four directions the sage does discuss. When it comes to distinctions in the world, again there are left and right, rank and principle, division and disputation, rivalry and contention—what is meant by the “Eight Virtues.” Concerning affairs under heaven, the sage may discuss them but does not wrangle. The Spring and Autumn annals record the way of good order—the intent left by former kings; the sage comments on them but does not dispute.

Thus even in what we call “distinction,” there are cases where no distinction is made; even in what we call “disputation,” there are cases where no disputation is offered. Why? The sage holds the pattern in the heart, while the multitude display their views to others through debate. Hence debate can sometimes obscure what people see.

The great Dao does not rely on naming to show itself; great disputation does not rely on words to win; great benevolence does not perform benevolence on purpose; great integrity does not boast of purity; great courage does not harm others by force. Once the Dao is displayed on purpose, it is no longer the Dao; once words dispute, benevolence is not reached; if benevolence is fixed as a routine, it is hard to complete; if integrity seeks only a reputation for purity, it cannot be trusted; if courage becomes injury and bravado, it is not true courage. When these five are pursued to excess, they tend toward narrowness.

To know where to stop at what one does not know is true wisdom. Who can understand disputation without words, the Dao without being named? Whoever can is called the “Storehouse of Heaven”—like the treasury of nature itself: pour things in and it is never full; draw from it and it never runs dry, yet no one knows where it comes from. This is called “preserving the light”—holding brightness without displaying it.

Long ago Yao asked Shun, “I wish to attack the regions of Zong, Kuai, and Xu-Ao. When I think of it, I am uneasy in heart—why?” Shun replied, “Those three peoples still live among weeds and coarse grass in remote places. That your heart is uneasy is nothing strange. Once ten suns rose together and all things were illumined—what if the growth of De surpassed the sun?”

Guo Xiang explains that the Dao originally has no fixed boundaries, so there is nowhere it does not pervade; nor is there an eternal, unchanging standard, so what is deemed right or wrong has no fixed, immovable divide. Because the Dao has no boundary, the ten thousand things can each live according to their own endowment and circumstance: some suit the left, some the right; every thing has its own principle. The various kinds each have their distinctions, yet people often argue without end. In broad terms, the ten thousand things possess eight kinds of virtue (de).

Beyond the six directions (heaven, earth, and the four quarters), although the principles proper to each thing still hold, they do not stir the sage, so he does not discourse on them. Within the six directions, one should set forth each thing’s endowment so that it may rest in itself. The intention of the ancient kings was to follow how things naturally take shape and to treat that as the most fitting arrangement. Hence each thing has its allotted place and each affair its proper distinction. If one divides things only by one’s own ideas, one fails to see that they are already distinct in themselves.

The sage keeps non-disputation at heart, while the multitude competes to preach what each knows to others; thus they miss the distinctions things bear in themselves. The “Great Dao” does not rely on naming to make itself manifest—the ten thousand things naturally display it. “Great disputation” does not rely on verbal struggle—affairs naturally show their differences. “Great benevolence” has no deliberate partiality, yet is naturally present. “Great integrity” does not parade its purity or haggle over gain and loss. “Great courage” does not insist on force; wherever it goes, it accords with the way things are. To judge others by principle is for both sides to lose their natural boundaries; to carve out others’ right and wrong with words is inferior to letting things reveal their own differences. Benevolence, if clinging to affection, can never be fully adequate; integrity, if pursued with harsh zeal, turns into aloof rigidity; courage, if it goes against the order of things, is detested throughout the realm. These five attitudes all harm one’s original nature through deliberate effort: one cannot rest in what one is and keeps reaching outward instead. It is like using the round to demand the square, or giving up the nature of fish because one envies birds.

Thus whatever lies outside what one can know belongs beyond endowment and allotted place. Not forcing oneself to know, and stopping at the limit of what one does not know—that is already the utmost. Not clinging to speech and not forcing clarification is called the “Heavenly Treasury” (tianfu)—the state in which heaven naturally holds all things. The mind of the utmost person responds with things yet does not hoard them within; principle is present, yet no trace of deliberate contrivance remains. He lets things clarify themselves, and so their brightness is never obscured.

In antiquity, Yao wished to campaign against three states and asked Shun’s view. Shun said that the ten thousand things each have where they may settle, and no situation is inherently base. Mugwort and wormwood are precisely the milieu in which those three rulers rest at ease; if you would tear them from it, how could they accept that gladly? When the ten suns rise together, their light leaves nowhere unreached; if virtue surpasses the sun’s radiance, it should be all the more without limit. To seize the place where people like mugwort and wormwood are at home, then attack them and compel them to follow your Dao shows that this Dao has not yet truly expanded. Therefore, if one grasps this inwardly and lets the ten thousand things each unfold its nature and rest in itself, then nothing the other does is out of place, and one has no occasion for discontent or unease.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing: “The Dao is everywhere and has never had fixed boundaries. Since one cannot say where it begins, how can one say it is absent anywhere? The Dao originally has no fixed form; because it is not any particular concrete thing in itself, it later appears as existence, and thus boundaries arise.

“Where there are boundaries, there is distinction between left and right, and rivalry follows. When things reach this point, it shows that people cannot accord with their inherent De. Therefore, sometimes the Dao is kept in the heart and not brought out for discussion; sometimes it is discussed but not further judged; sometimes it is judged but not argued over. Observing the sayings in the Six Classics (the six Confucian classics), one can see why the sage sometimes does not discuss, judge, or argue. When principle reaches its utmost, distinctions need not be further divided, and in debate there are points where argument need not continue. If every thing must be clearly distinguished, in the end contention and strife arise. The sage knows that principle cannot be exhausted through disputation, so he keeps it in the heart; the multitude display themselves to one another through argument and thus fail to see the Dao.

“Hence when the Dao speaks of the five virtues such as benevolence, integrity, and courage, each must be made round and whole, without sharp edges—the sharp points worn smooth—before one approaches the Dao. Once mind-intent is exposed, it becomes sharp; making it round and wearing away the sharpness, mind-intent no longer arises—where could deliberate views and knowing still find room? This is debate without words, the Dao expressed without relying on speech.

“The ‘Storehouse of Heaven’ (tian fu, like a treasury granted by Heaven) holds the myriad things, each different yet abundantly full, so pouring into it does not fill it and taking from it does not exhaust it—and one does not know where its source lies. This is brightness without display.

“Yao wished to attack Zong, Kuai, and Xu Ao, yet felt uneasy in heart; those three places were still remote lands overgrown with mugwort and wormwood—Yao had not yet sent troops. To be unsettled before troops were even sent shows he could not yet accord with outer things without hoarding them in the heart, and had not yet achieved acting only when events call for it. As De increases day by day, would anything still remain that the heart cannot release? This means Yao’s wisdom had not yet reached the stage of daily refinement, so such discussion still arose. The affairs of Zong, Kuai, and Xu Ao are not recorded in the histories.”

Commentary by Lin Yidu: “That the Dao has distinction means the myriad things each show their own distinctions; what is called ‘no distinction’ is that I do not deliberately distinguish. Each thing naturally has its own discourse; what is called ‘no debate’ is that I do not deliberately debate. The myriad things naturally have distinction, so the sage distinguishes without clinging to distinction; affairs naturally invite discourse, so the sage discourses without clinging to discourse. The sage hides the Dao in the heart and does not speak much; the multitude argue and display it to one another, and so in truth have not heard the Great Dao.”

The Dao has no boundary, yet the ten thousand things each have their own distinctions. “No distinction” does not mean that I step in to mark them off for them. Things each show their own dispositions; “no disputation” does not mean that I step in to argue on their behalf. The sage holds the Dao in the heart and is not eager to put it into words. Ordinary people often dispute and parade their doctrines, and so they fail to see the Dao. The Dao is everywhere and cannot be pinned down by names. To grasp the Dao without relying on verbal wrangling—that is true disputation.

The greatest integrity has no sharp edge, so there is nothing for self-congratulation to latch onto. The greatest courage does not harm others; even with godlike power, it does not take pride in killing. Where things stiffen and stick, edges appear; where they flow freely, there is no fixed boundary. When the Dao gets stuck in plain speech, it is hemmed in by speech; stuck in debate, hemmed in by debate. Benevolence stuck in fixed routine, integrity stuck in forced purity, courage stuck in rivalry and harm—grind these edges away and align with the whole Dao, and you draw near to the Dao’s level.

“Treasury of Heaven” (Tianfu) means nature’s storehouse, the place to which the ten thousand things return. Pour water in and it never fills; scoop from it and it never runs dry. It is like the nature and allotted life of things—neither increased nor diminished on that account. Ask where it comes from and no source can be found. This is called “preserving the light” (baoguang): light kept within, not displayed outward. The sage’s mind is still and deep; the ten thousand things each rest in their place. Near or far, shallow or deep—all are left to themselves, each finding its own footing. That is how the Treasury of Heaven holds all things and preserved light can arise.

Originally the Dao had no boundary; barnyard millet, foxtail, tiles, and rubble all lie within it. Speech originally had no fixed standard; discussion and debate each arise from their own occasions. Later the Dao was carved up and boundaries appeared: in form, left and right; in principle, constant order and righteousness; in words, distinction and debate; in affairs, rivalry. How then can one expect the ten thousand things all to become the same?

Those who trumpet doctrine but do not truly keep the Dao are people like Gongsun Xiu. Those who are clever at words but never touch the great Dao are people like Gongsun Long. Those who insist on a fixed kind of benevolence and lose what is genuine are people like Mozi. Those who make a show of purity but miss what is reasonable are people like Yuling Zhongzi. Those who are fierce, competitive, and harm others are people like Beigong You. These five paths all sharpen edges; round those edges and you approach the Dao. Push further upward and you reach the unfathomable, numinous realm—what is called knowing that does not take knowing as its goal. Where the Dao hides everywhere, that is the Treasury of Heaven; where the genuine is not damaged, that is preserving the light. This means that nature is neither lost nor gained beyond what it already is.

Without disputing in words, yet penetrating the myriad affairs; without deliberately preaching doctrine, yet leaving nothing unconnected—that is the reach of fully realizing one’s nature. One who expands the great Dao treats the ten thousand things as one. To those near, he gives deep care; he can also look after those far away. If one splits self and things into “this” and “that,” takes right and wrong as grounds for argument, and tries to strike at others amid weeds and grass—or even after ascending a throne still cannot let go—then what is sought is too narrow and what is lost is too great. That is not truly understanding “preserving the light.”

Chen Bixu’s commentary states: When “nothingness” enters what has no gap, nothing can obstruct it; once something is fixed or bounded, it meets the barrier of limits. The most fitting speech accords with everything; as for what is called the unchanging standard—who establishes it? Since the Dao can be spoken of and discussed, how could it be utterly without norm or measure? Sorting left from right and arranging ethical ranks belong to drawing boundaries; splitting hairs in debate and competing with one another belong to speech. Both boundaries and speech touch on concrete affairs, so they are said to involve obstruction.

Matters beyond the four directions of heaven and earth the sage does not discuss, for when principle rests in the heart, particular tasks can be set aside; matters within the four directions the sage also does not discuss casually, for when affairs are handled well, words can be forgotten. The deeds of successive emperors in order or in chaos the sage will weigh in detail, praise or blame, leaving lessons for those who come after—not to show off erudition or eloquence.

Therefore those devoted to inner cultivation do not cling to outer distinctions; those skilled at analyzing one side may not clarify the other. The sage keeps the Dao hidden in the heart; the truly wise speak little, while the crowd loves argument—and those who talk much often do not truly understand.

The great Dao cannot be pinned down by fixed words, because there is nothing it cannot adapt to. When the five—benevolence, integrity, courage, and the rest (in the full pentad of virtues)—are all present, one can follow the great Dao without reckless action, and the inner balance comes naturally. Clinging to one thing alone harms what is fitting, like forcing a circle against a square: it must clash with how things are. So do not overstep your measure to chase knowledge, lest you harm your innate nature. Speechless disputation and the Dao that needs no words both dwell in the human heart—is this not like the “heavenly treasury,” the storehouse where nature keeps its principles?

A visible vessel, once full of water, cannot take more; water from a source, drawn again and again, will run dry. Yet there is something that is neither full to overflowing nor exhausted—that is because it has no visible source. Its depth cannot be fathomed, its vastness has no shape; so deep and wide that it cannot be seen, it is therefore called “embracing the light”—light hoarded and not displayed.

The three masters still lived among weeds and thicket, like the wren content on a single branch; “ten days” figuratively describes Yao’s virtue—his moral influence reaching even the darkest recesses. The Daodejing says the great state only wishes to annex and nurture the small state, and the small state only wishes to enter the great state and serve it. When both get what they want, the great state should take the lower, yielding position.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary states: The Dao has never drawn a boundary; wherever one goes, it is there. Speech too has never had a fixed, unchanging rule—it cannot be said that nothing of it can stand. People divide boundaries only to settle who is right and who is wrong. Gu here means valley.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary states: “The Dao has never had boundaries; there is nowhere it does not exist.” The point is that the Dao is not fixed and unchanging, and there is no place where it cannot be present. Only to tell right from wrong in things do people draw boundaries, distinguish left from right, and so stir up dispute.

“Outside the six directions” means beyond heaven, earth, and the four quarters—the formless realm; “within the six directions” means within heaven, earth, and the four quarters—the world of form. What has form comes from what is formless and must take the formless as root. On this matter, merely knowing it is there without discussing it is “not speaking”; to open the mouth and talk is “having words”; once one goes on to judge and argue, strife never ends.

The Spring and Autumn Annals is a book the sage shaped by cutting and arranging historical records, using praise and blame to show right and wrong—something done only because there was no other way. Later commentaries did not always grasp the sage’s intent, so some of its meaning was never made plain. Zhuangzi uses this to explain his own purpose in writing.

“Great Dao is not named” means the Dao cannot be put into words; “supreme great courage does not harm” means true courage does not injure others. “Round and almost turned square” means the way of roundness nearly approaches squareness; here “round” suggests removing sharp edges and making things whole, while “almost turned square” means nearing the Dao. All five phrases express the Dao. If you fix a name on the Dao, the Dao is split apart. To know how to stop at what one does not know is to have nothing that must be forced into a name—and that is the utmost of the Dao.

“Word that is not spoken” is still words; one who “speaks with words” is not the true Dao. “Dao that is not spoken of” still becomes a dao; one who “daos with a dao” is not the true Dao either. Whoever sees this keeps the mind empty and still, and so is called the “Celestial Storehouse”—the source from which the ten thousand things emerge.

“Pour in and it is not filled; ladle out and it is not exhausted” means it is like a spring: pour in and it never fills; scoop out and it never runs dry. It has no traceable end, and no one knows whence it comes—even knowing it should be set aside. “Preserving the light” means gathering radiance inward and not displaying one’s wisdom.

Commentary on the Youzhai Oral Explication says: “having boundaries” means drawing divisions in the mind and fixing some view as primary. The utmost Dao and the utmost words originally know no split between “this” and “that”; because the human heart is partial, the character for “right” (shi) arises, and from it many lines are drawn.

To cultivate De (virtue/power), one must first let go of the opposition between things and self. Once “this side” and “that side” are separated to reason and argue, each side holds its ground and dispute has no end. Therefore, concerning matters beyond the four directions of heaven and earth, the sage keeps them in mind without debating them. What Buddhism calls the four dimensions above and below—beyond reckoning—means the same thing. Within the six directions there are many principles; the sage does not refuse to speak of them, but does not argue them in detail or force the world to accept such talk. What the histories record are the former kings’ intentions in governing the age; the sage certainly discusses state affairs too, yet never strives to win arguments or cling to right and wrong. Principles under heaven reach their height when words can be forgotten; once one falls into disputation, it often shows the heart has no real grasp. So some matters need neither sorting out nor quarreling over.

“Great Dao is not labeled” means the Dao has no opposing pole; “great disputation does not speak” means the finest argument does not rely on words; “great benevolence is not benevolent” means true great benevolence shows no trace of deliberate kindness. Where monkeys hide food is called qian—meaning “full.” If one treats integrity as something to boast of, the heart is already full and cannot be called truly great integrity. “Bu zhi” means not showing off boldness. Yuan suggests roundness and completeness. These five attainments are like round things, originally whole and undivided; the moment a fixed shape appears, it is like a square thing with corners—fallen into discrimination.

True wisdom does not cling to “knowing,” and only then can one touch the place where heavenly principle gathers. It does not wish to add anything, nor need to subtract anything, yet one cannot say where this state comes from. Gathering in radiance and not flashing edges is called baoguang (preserving inner light).

The story of Zong Kuai and Xu Ao has no solid basis in received texts and is probably pure allegory. Between mugwort and wormwood is a metaphor for being blocked by desire for things. Those three men were blinded by desire and could not turn toward the Dao; if I then felt displeased because of them, I would again fall into the split between things and self. The sun shines on all things without omission; if De is vaster than the sun, how could it not make room for those three? So the sage sets aside the oppositions of things-and-self and right-and-wrong and does not argue, because he views all things through heavenly Dao. The “ten days” image likewise serves to show that one does better to follow the principle that illumines the myriad things.

Yao wished to subdue the three states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu Ao. On the surface this passage seems unrelated to what precedes it, yet the opening “therefore in antiquity” shows that it continues the earlier discussion and offers an illustration. The episode itself is not attested in other received texts, so it is hard to verify; the names and meaning of the three states are also difficult to pin down, so the various explanations may be left aside for now. Only the Yin Yi records that Master Cui held that “Zong,” “Kuai,” and “Xu Ao” were the names of three states. Chen Bixu’s Yin Yi likewise cites Master Cui and notes that the “Renjian shi” chapter mentions Yao’s campaigns against “Congzhi” and “Xu Ao.” Readers should nevertheless ask what the author is arguing for here, rather than getting stuck in the factual details of the story.

I append my own tentative reading at the end of the chapter for those better versed in the tradition to judge. As I read the line of thought in the text: the previous section speaks of demarcations, fixed norms, and territorial limits; the three states stand for the “inside and outside of the six directions.” The “discussion, deliberation, and disputation” in the “intent of the ancient kings” are all things to be broken through and discarded, so as to escape the snarl of right and wrong in words and return to the abstruse stillness of the Way and its virtue. Yao still could not master himself and went to Shun for guidance. Shun replied that those three still lingered among tangled weeds and brush—that is, they were already there, and there was no need to pick a fight over them; it was better to let them rest undisturbed where no one goes. Then the mind would not be burdened and the other would not be obstructed—what could not be set at ease?

The text then gives an example: once ten suns rose together and all yin withdrew; each had its eyes and feet and awaited the completion of its task. How much more so now, when Yao’s virtue outshines the sun—the three need not be attacked and will disappear of themselves, for that is the way things naturally are. This is likely an allegory: once disputation and debate no longer arise, right and wrong quiet down on their own. That is the gist of the “Qi wu lun.”

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, “Do you know what all things collectively take to be right?” Wang Ni replied, “How would I know?” Nie Que asked again, “Do you know what it is that you do not know?” Wang Ni said, “How would I know?” Nie Que pressed on, “Then are all things devoid of awareness?” Wang Ni answered, “How would I know? Still, let me try to put it this way: how do I know that what I call ‘knowing’ is not in fact not knowing? And how do I know that what I call ‘not knowing’ is not in fact knowing?”

“I ask you further: when people sleep in damp places, their waists ache and they may even become half paralyzed—does the loach do the same? When people stay in trees, they tremble with fear—do monkeys do the same? Among human beings, loaches, and monkeys, who truly knows the most suitable place to live? People eat meat; elk eat grass; centipedes delight in eating snakes; owls and kites delight in eating mice. Among these creatures, who knows the finest flavor? Monkeys and gibbons seek mates among their own kind; elk mate with deer; loaches swim with fish. Mao Qiang and Lady Li were regarded as beauties. When fish saw them, they dove to the bottom; when birds saw them, they flew high; when elk saw them, they fled at once. Among these living beings, who knows what true beauty in the world is?”

“As I see it, the boundaries of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of right and wrong are interwoven in confusion—how could I clearly sort them out?”

Nie Que asked, “If you do not know benefit and harm, does the perfected person not know benefit and harm either?” Wang Ni replied, “The perfected person is spirit-like and unfathomable. A great marsh ablaze cannot make him feel heat; rivers frozen solid cannot make him feel cold; thunder splitting mountains and gales churning the sea cannot frighten him. A person like this rides the clouds and mist, mounts the sun and moon, and roams beyond the four seas. Even life and death cannot alter him—how much less so benefit and harm?”

Guo Xiang commented: What all things collectively affirm is not necessarily correct, and what differs among them is not necessarily wrong; none can adjudicate for another, so there is no need to cling to one’s own judgments. If one thinks one knows what one does not know, one has already turned it into “knowing,” and can no longer let each innate endowment unfold on its own. The perfected person rides cloud and mist, mounts sun and moon, and roams beyond the four seas; life and death cannot move his heart—still less benefit and harm.

Guo Xiang held that when people confront things, they often know only that they differ from one another, yet fail to see that each thing has its own principle; one cannot judge right and wrong by one’s own understanding alone, so there is no need to pride oneself on being clever. If one thinks one knows what “not knowing” is, one is still clinging to something and cannot let each kind of capacity play out freely and find its proper place.

Nieque (the questioner) asked three times; Wang Ni (the one who answered) each time replied, “I do not know.” Nieque then pressed him: “Do you mean that what I call ‘knowing’ is not really not-knowing, and what I call ‘not knowing’ is not really knowing?” Fish swim in water, and creatures of the water all take that as fitting; from a bird’s point of view, what birds find fitting need not suit fish. The text goes on to list humans, deer, monkeys, and other living things, and their different judgments of beauty and ugliness and what they prefer—showing that each kind of being has what suits it, and that under Heaven there is no single standard of good and bad that everyone accepts.

Since different things each have their own way of seeing, if one uses only one standard to reject other views, one cannot recognize what they share. Only by not clinging to distinctions and dispute can every kind of thing find its proper place. Nieque had not yet grasped the subtlety of “not knowing”; he still assumed that the Perfect Person (one who has reached the deepest level of attainment) must know everything, so his doubt remained unresolved. The Perfect Person is spiritually penetrating: able to discern how self and the myriad things meet and connect; even through ten thousand transformations, the authentic self is never lost.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says that when knowing stops at “not knowing,” one no longer gets stuck in sorting out sameness and difference among things, nor settles right and wrong by a private view—then each thing can find its place. Nieque had not yet understood this subtlety of “not knowing”; he still thought the Perfect Person should know all things without exception, so his doubt was not cleared. The phrase “the Perfect Person is divine in spirit” means that the Perfect Person can connect with the myriad things; through every sort of change, the self is not lost.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing

To know how to rest in “not knowing” is to understand that the ten thousand things each have what they share in common. Recognizing that things share something in common does not mean knowing everything. Only the Dao cannot be grasped by ordinary knowledge: to think one knows is precisely to show one does not yet know; to understand that one cannot know it in the usual way—that alone counts as knowing this much. From this one can see the substance of the Dao.

People rely on bodily feeling and take ease and comfort as the right place to dwell, meat and fine flavors as good taste, and beauty as true color. Yet what monkeys prefer to live in, what maggots and crows find delicious, and how fish, birds, and deer keep company—all differ from human likes. Since each takes its own knowledge as the correct measure, how could there be an absolute standard for dwelling, taste, and color as humans and the myriad things define them? If one admits that dwelling, taste, and color have no fixed correct standard, then what each party takes as standard may not be truly correct.

From my perspective, benevolence, righteousness, right, and wrong tangle and blur together—how could I fix their distinctions? Hence, faced with four questions, the answer each time is “I do not know.” The perfected person (zhi ren) is unfathomably subtle and can let the ten thousand things each display their own excellence. Nothing is otherwise; and “I” too am among the ten thousand things. When “I” no longer cling to self, who could make me tremble at cold or heat?

Commentary by Lin Yidu

Humans, birds, and beasts each follow their own preferences, loving and hating one another. Who can say what the truly correct dwelling, taste, and color in the world are? The world’s true dwelling is dwelling without a fixed dwelling; true taste is taste without a fixed taste; true color is color without a fixed color. Yet to treat “nothing” (wu) as correct is still only to have seen a “nothing.” Therefore the commentary speaks only of how visible kinds of dwelling, taste, and color differ, and does not treat “nothing” as the sole correct standard.

From my perspective, right and wrong, benevolence and righteousness, are jumbled and mixed—on what basis could one judge which is correct? Saying “I do not know their distinctions” is precisely another way of showing that distinctions have no fixed standard.

Commentary by Chen Xiangdao

The Dao takes “not clinging to knowing” as its inner root and concrete knowledge as its outer expression. Thus to cling to knowing is really not knowing; to understand that one does not know is really knowing. But if one then clings to “knowing that one does not know,” one still falls into a state of having something attained. Hence one does not fix which side is “knowing” and which is “not knowing,” nor treat formless dwelling, taste, and color as the only correct standard. These formulations are all meant to remove the bonds imposed by words and concepts. The very fact that the ten thousand things can be distinguished is also the reason they can be distinguished at all.

Chen Xiangdao explains that the Dao takes not-knowing as its inner foundation and knowing as its outer manifestation. Thus true knowing includes awareness of what one does not know; to think one knows everything is still a kind of not-knowing. Yet if one clings to the idea of knowing that one does not know, one still falls into deliberate contrivance. So the text neither fixes on calling something knowing or not-knowing, nor posits some third place beyond both. When Zhuangzi speaks of flavor and color, it is likewise only to loosen the grip of attachment to words and concepts.

When marshes burn they do not feel the heat; when rivers freeze they do not feel the cold; when thunder rolls they are not startled—because they fully preserve their innate nature and their spirit (Shen) is not diminished. “Riding cloud-qi and steering sun and moon” means aligning with the movement of heaven-and-earth qi: one can arrive swiftly without hurrying and reach a destination without walking.

Chen Bixu’s commentary states: If you treat what is alike as right, you will treat what differs as wrong; if you treat what is alike as wrong, you will treat what differs as right. The forms and kinds of the ten thousand things are not the same, and they cannot fully understand one another; even if all forgot their own knowing, each thing would still exist on its own. How can what I know show that I also know what others do not know? How can what I do not know show that others know? The ten thousand things by nature cannot fully know one another.

What I call “knowing” is grasping the principles of the ten thousand things; what I call “not knowing” is failing to grasp each thing’s own nature. Thus when Zhuangzi on the bridge over the Hao River knew the minnow’s joy, how could one be sure he truly knew? Cicadas drink dew and do not eat; silkworms eat mulberry leaves and do not drink water—they do not know why they are so. The ten thousand things differ in form; color and flavor differ as well; innate endowment and disposition differ, so how can one force them to be the same? Therefore questions of benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong probably should not be argued over insistently by the sage.

The perfected person (zhiren, one who has reached the deepest level) transforms in spirit in ways that cannot be measured, so creation and transformation cannot alter him. His mind is empty and bright; he does not take the body as “mine.” He can ride cloud-qi without relying on eyes and ears to see and hear, as if he could command sun and moon. Wherever he is, he is at ease; the four seas are all open to him. Birth and death cannot move his heart—what need is there to care about benefit and harm?

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary states: What we take ourselves to know may not be real knowing; what we take ourselves not to know may not be real not-knowing. Confucius said: “Do I have knowledge? I have no knowledge.” Only when one reaches the “not-knowing” of non-attachment is there true knowing. Dwelling, flavor, and color—each person has preferences; humans and birds and beasts differ in preference too, and complete sameness is impossible. Mencius’s saying that “the nature of a dog is like the nature of an ox, and the nature of an ox is like the nature of a human” means exactly this. To know the right principle of dwelling, flavor, and color, one must transcend attachment to dwelling, flavor, and color; only then can there be genuine understanding. To know the right principle of benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong, one must likewise transcend attachment to benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong; only then can there be genuine cognition.

When Queque again asked Wang Ni about the perfected person, Wang Ni told the story of the spirit person of Mount Guye—both are figures in allegory. Yizhai’s oral exegesis says that Queque asked what “same affirmation” means, and Wang Ni answered that he “does not know”—which exactly embodies knowing where to stop (zhizhi): to know what one does not know is true knowing; to call not-knowing knowing, or knowing not-knowing, is not true knowing. Not-knowing itself is precisely true knowing.

What follows, on proper dwelling, flavor, and color, all uses the gap between things and self as metaphor; it ends with benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong tangled together. Since dwelling, flavor, and color are not the same, how can one forcibly argue out one standard everyone accepts? Wang Ni is the wondrous perfected person: he attunes to the ten thousand things yet leaves no trace, feels no heat, feels no cold, and is not shaken; his spirit roams in the undifferentiated origin of things. Even birth and death cannot move his heart—how much less benefit, harm, and right and wrong?

Commentators from various schools do not seem to have fully explained the line in which Nie Que first asks what all things have in common. On my own reading of the text: what humans and things share is xing (nature); what sets them apart is qing (emotion and disposition). When nature expresses itself as emotion, each thing takes its own view as right, bias arises between them, and they reject one another like disputants arguing whether a name fits its object (zhi ma xiang fei). When opinions diverge, rifts appear; when argument reaches an extreme, anger and conflict follow. Even those as close as liver and gall can turn against each other, or father and son become strangers. These disasters all stem in the end from one word—zhi (knowing): people impose arbitrary distinctions and cling to their own judgments.

Therefore Wang Ni three times answered, “How would I know?”—to lead Nie Que to turn back and seek what he did not yet know, to grasp the nature that all things share, and thereby to apprehend the datong (great universal penetration) that runs through all things, thus drawing near to the Dao. Fearing that Nie Que might still fail to grasp the deeper point, he offered a parable: people impose false distinctions just as humans, birds, and beasts each have what suits them—by which one may show that there is no absolute standard for taste or color. Then is what we call “knowing” truly knowing? Is what we call “not knowing” truly not knowing?

Taishang says: “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.” Yet words have now been spoken—how are we to understand this? One may put it thus: set aside excessive knowledge and seek what one does not yet know; follow what has been said and pursue what was left unsaid. Then who can insist that “not knowing” is not genuine knowing, or that “having spoken” means one has not truly spoken?

Qu Quezi asked Chang Wuzi: “I heard my teacher say that the sage does not busily engage in worldly affairs, does not chase profit, and does not flee from harm; does not deliberately seek anything, and does not cling rigidly to the Dao. They do not call what is ‘is’ nor call what is not ‘is not’; they wander at ease beyond the dust of the world. My teacher finds such talk wild and reckless, but I take it as the practice of wondrous Dao. What do you think?”

Chang Wuzi said: “Even the Yellow Emperor would have been baffled by such words—how could Kong Qiu [Confucius] be equal to understanding them? And you are too hasty: you see a quail and want it to crow at dawn; you see a crossbow and want roast owl to eat. The cock that announces morning and the roast meat do not come straight from what is before your eyes. I will speak at random—listen at random: why not treat sun and moon as things at your side, and take the whole cosmos into your embrace, so that the ten thousand things mutually accord? Set aside those tangled, one-sided notions that lift some things up and push others down. The masses bustle busily, while the sage is blank and undivided, simple and unfragmented. Let the changes of ten thousand ages gather into one and achieve a wholly unified state; when nothing fails to be so, they can contain one another. How do I know that clinging to life is not delusion? How do I know that loathing death is not like losing the way in childhood and never knowing the road home until now?

“Li Ji was the daughter of a border guard of Ai. When she was first taken to marry in Jin, she wept until her tears soaked her collar; once she reached the king’s dwelling, sharing his great bed and eating rich food, she regretted having wept. How do I know that the dead do not regret having clung to life?

“One who drinks and revels in a dream may weep upon waking; one who weeps in a dream may go hunting when awake. While dreaming, one does not know one is dreaming, and may even divinate the dream within the dream; only after waking does one know one was dreaming. One must wait for the great awakening to know that all of this has been a great dream. The foolish think themselves awake, privately sure they understand everything, and dispute who is ruler and who is herdsman. Kong Qiu is truly stubborn! You and I are both in a dream; when I say you are dreaming, that saying is still dream-talk. Such discourse may be called strange and uncanny. If after ten thousand ages a great sage appears who grasps its meaning, meeting him will be like meeting morning or evening.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: Affairs come of themselves, principle shows itself—the sage does not deliberately pursue, but only accords with things and goes forward calmly, neither fleeing nor grasping; that is what is unique here. “Not calling what is ‘is’ nor what is not ‘is not’” means that what speech says and what the heart hears should not be fixed; only by going beyond worldly notions and aligning with the subtle realm beyond sight and hearing can one act. Qu Quezi, having just heard words that seemed wild, thought he was already practicing wondrous Dao—like seeing a quail and demanding it crow at dawn, or seeing a crossbow and asking for roast owl.

Chang Wuzi’s “I will speak at random—listen at random” means treating life and death as the alternation of day and night, and the ten thousand things as one body taken into the cosmos. If one belittles something to exalt something else, rank and low arise; ideas tangle and each side holds to one corner, each sure of being right. Better to let things be natural so the ten thousand things mutually accord. Hence the masses run and toil while the sage seems dull and unknowing, yet is simple and unforced; they take the changes of ten thousand ages into their view—one might say they embrace multiplicity yet fuse with change, abiding constantly in self-sufficiency. Gathering the changes of ten thousand ages, the ten thousand ages return to one; gathering the conditions of the ten thousand things, the ten thousand things return to one.

Since the ten thousand things are all thus and mutually contain one another, how can I be sure that craving life or loathing death is not delusion? In one lifetime Li Ji’s mood changed so greatly—how much more do life and death differ, and how can one know in advance? Between waking and dreaming, feeling and circumstance shift; wishes toward life and death need not stay the same. Though life and death differ, each may suit the person’s wish at the time. As in a dream one does not know one is dreaming, so at death one may not know one is dying; only the great awakening reveals that great dream. The foolish in their dream think themselves awake, privately calling what they like “ruler” and what they dislike “herdsman and servant”—stubborn and shallow, and still divinating the dream within the dream. Such extraordinary speech is strange and hard to resolve; in ten thousand ages, to meet once one who understands it is like meeting morning or evening. One who can speak wondrous Dao and return life and death to one body is exceedingly rare.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary explains: The sage does not fix on benefit and harm, so does not deliberately seek profit or avoid harm; nothing is lacking, so nothing is deliberately grasped. All affairs are nothing but Dao, so one does not cling to Dao either. “Being” is the path to “non-being,” and “non-being” is the path to “being”—only the person without fixed mind can grasp this. Qu Quezi heard Kong Qiu’s words and found them wild; Chang Wuzi took them as wondrous Dao. Yet neither view has truly held Dao, for Dao is not something speech or silence can carry.

The quail hatches from an egg, but the egg is not the cock that crows at dawn; roast owl comes from a bird taken by crossbow, but the crossbow is not the roast meat. Wondrous Dao may be stirred by hearing, but what is heard is not Dao itself. Hearers of Dao today think they have awakened, not knowing they must daily diminish until wuwei (non-action)—such people resemble Qu Quezi. Dao cannot be transmitted by words: I speak, you listen with the ear—both are provisional; in the end one must forget words and grasp with the heart.

If one understands how sun and moon are sun and moon and joins their light, one may say sun and moon are at one’s side; if one understands how the cosmos is the cosmos and holds the key to its turning, one may say the cosmos is in one’s embrace. Making the ten thousand things mutually accord is practicing wondrous Dao—not stopping at hearing alone. Tangled notions that cling to one side and mutually exalt or demean should be released, not grasped. The masses are busy yet see no achievement; the sage seems foolish and unknowing, yet is simple and un scattered. Through ten thousand ages one can still gather change into one—that is achieving the state of unity.

“Nothing fails to be so, and they mutually contain one another” means my body holds the ten thousand things, and the ten thousand things are all within my body. If the changes of ten thousand ages return to one, a child who dies young may live as long as Peng Zu; if the ten thousand things mutually contain one another, an autumn hair may be greater than Mount Tai. Judging from Li Ji’s experience, how do we know the dead do not regret having clung to life? Then how can we be sure life is worth craving or death worth loathing?

Lin Yidu said that when the sage responds to external things, it is because response cannot be avoided—not because he busies himself with affairs on purpose. He does not make deliberate choices of acceptance and rejection, so he does not intentionally draw near and does not intentionally keep away. When the inner mind is full and sufficient, there is nothing further to pursue. Only then can one be silent when silence is called for and speak when speech is called for, standing apart from the turmoil of the mundane world.

Hearing should chiefly be clear and sharp; sight should chiefly be discerning. The Yellow Emperor, though endowed with intelligence, could still avoid being misled and deceived—so on what grounds could Kong Qiu (Confucius) be sure that he himself truly knew these things?

When things fit one another, people call that smooth going; when things are chaotic and obscure, one lets each go its own way until it reaches its limit. The subject belongs to the ruler, the servant to the subject—such is the situation that forms of itself. Allow things each to differ without harming the principle of inner equality; then even if one is dull and ignorant, there is no need to discriminate on purpose. Let the myriad things unfold through the changes of long ages until they return to purity.

All people love life, yet life cannot be lengthened; all people hate death, yet death cannot be escaped. While alive, live in peace; when Liji was brought to the border of Ai, she grieved over it. When dead, accept it in peace; now Liji dwells in the royal palace. Who knows whether the dead might regret it—regret that they once clung so hard to staying alive?

Chen Xiangdao said that the sage does not shut himself off from external things, nor does he forget affairs and refuse to respond; yet he is not burdened by things and is not enslaved by affairs. Gain cannot add anything to me, so I do not deliberately draw near; harm cannot subtract anything from me, so I do not deliberately turn away.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary explains: the sage does not, because he has transcended worldly affairs, forget human business or refuse to respond; nor does he let external things drag him along so that he is driven by tasks. He holds that what seems to benefit oneself cannot truly add to oneself, so he does not chase after it; what seems to harm oneself cannot truly injure oneself, so he does not flee from it. When external things need a response, he responds without rejoicing over it; his heart is one with the Dao, so he is not pulled by outward things. The sage may go all day without speaking, yet that is not because he has no words; he may talk all day, yet that is not because he clings to speech.

“Manglang” means rash and impractical; “ting ying” means to hear and then understand clearly. Confucius took these sayings to be rash to the point of excess, while Qu Quezi took them to express subtle truth—so each side went too far in its own way. What is meant by “planning too early” is judging and scheming before the time is ripe. To stand beneath sun and moon yet not be bound by sun and moon; to live within the cosmos yet not be confined by the cosmos—only one who can master Yin-Yang and encompass heaven and earth can align with this. When aligned with the Dao, one does what lies within one’s power; when the mind is confused and dim, one sets aside what cannot be done. Even when ruler and subject relate to each other, it is only because circumstances happen to be so. The sage is busy with affairs yet takes no credit for it, appearing dull and slow—just as Laozi said: “All others seem capable; only I am stubborn and lowly.”

To treat ten thousand years as a single instant is to erase the distinction between past and present; to return to pure oneness is to unify the ten thousand things from that ground. People all know that living brings joy, yet do not know that living also brings pain; they all know that death is hateful, yet do not know that death is also a kind of rest. Thus they cling to birth and death without seeing that the mind that loves life and hates death is already biased—how much less do they truly understand birth and death? The ancients called the dead “those who return home”; then the living are “travelers.” The young and ignorant do not know that the dead have returned, and so think the dead are lost; yet they know life and not death—is that not also being lost? Birth and death turn in cycles like waking and dreaming. If sorrow and joy in a dream need not be taken as real, how can sorrow and joy while awake be wholly real?

Chen Bixu’s commentary: “Menglang” means coarse and imprecise; “ying” means the luster of jade. Discerning jade ought to rely on the eyes—yet to say one must rely on the ears to hear is surely deluded? The Yellow Emperor was a master who embodied the Great Dao; in grasping the Dao he did not cling to hearing or seeing. If one has not yet forgotten words, one still seems to be “hearing ying”—bewitched by language and unable truly to comprehend.

Waiting for the owl to appear before the cock crows at dawn or before roasting meat—these phenomena each have their root; only by following the principle in the heart can one understand. Today some rejoice at surface appearances alone—they are short-sighted and rash. With sun and moon beside one, one can constantly receive their light; embracing heaven and earth within the breast, one can encompass the ten thousand things. The sage acts in accord with the Dao, leaving no trace; setting aside turmoil and confusion, one also forgets opposition and compliance among things. Worldly people enslave one another and vie for rank above and below; the sage is plain and without contrivance, as if dull, inwardly still, the body not deliberately adorned.

Taking ten thousand years as a single moment, one can penetrate past and present, as when viewing morning and evening; embracing myriad changes, one can merge with the Dao as undifferentiated whole. If one merely rests content in life and delights in death, one has not yet stepped beyond the sphere of yin-yang and birth-and-death—how then can one count as truly embodying the Great Dao? The woman of Lirong lost the joy of Aifeng yet gained the delight of Jin; abandoning one side and turning to the other—originally there was no fixed gain or loss. In a lifetime, joy and sorrow cannot be foretold; at the threshold of life and death, how can one lightly pass judgment?

Drinking or weeping in a dream arises from shifts of emotion—not the state of the zhenren ( perfected person who embodies the Dao and reaches a lofty realm). Taking ten thousand generations as a single dawn is precisely the realm of one fully awakened; taking life and death as one path—where then would dreams remain? The foolish, though in a dream, think themselves awake; they honor themselves as rulers and treat others as herded folk—truly shallow in the extreme. The zhenren take birth and death as the great awakening itself; the multitude take psychic interplay and bodily activity as dream and waking. They invert right and wrong, treat the strange as real, and are deluded by notions of life and death. Those who penetrate therefore speak profound doctrine on dream and awakening, lamenting how perversely the world chases death.

The bonds of life and death have no rope or hook, yet are hard to release. If only after ten thousand generations one meets a great sage and can undo those bonds, such a meeting is as rare as encountering one another between morning and evening—yet as precious as that instant when day and night meet.

Wang Bi’s commentary states: The reason Confucians hold that Confucius never stepped outside the realm of form and concrete things is that they have not yet fully grasped the Dao. What is called “not knowing” is sometimes precisely true knowing. Whatever is put into words and received through hearing cannot exhaust the real principle; all of it may be called “delusion.”

“Side by side with sun and moon, embracing the universe” describes a state only one who knows the great Dao can enter; it cannot be explained to ordinary people. When a person merges with the Dao, it is like two things fitting together without a gap. When the world is turbulent and slippery, one should let each thing reach its utmost and not hang them on the mind. The distinction between subject and ruler, servant and minister was originally a relation formed by nature itself; in themselves they have no rank of high and low. Ordinary people are driven by affairs; the sage can release attachment to things. Over a thousand years, the changes of the ten thousand things are intricate and interwoven; when these changes are viewed together, they all return to purity. This can only be grasped in the heart; it cannot be passed on in words.

What follows speaks of loving life and hating death, and uses the story of Lady Li as a simile in a very apt way. The argument of Discourse on Evening Up Things begins with evening up self and other and ultimately settles on treating life and death as one body. Once life and death are the same, what among the ten thousand things cannot be evened up?

What is called “great awakening” has no fixed “awakening” that can be stated; only relative to those who have not yet awakened is the name “awakening” provisionally set up. Such “awakening” is still awakening that is not awakening; neither awakening nor non-awakening should be clung to. Fools take themselves to be clear-headed, yet they too are still within a dream. Precisely because people cling to this dream, I have no choice but to call it a “dream” in speaking; yet one who is truly greatly awakened knows that awakening and dream originally have no distinction.

The ancients spoke only when they had no alternative, in order to clarify the principle here. Their words accord with the highest principle, yet they appear at odds with ordinary views.

Zhao Xuzhai explained that phrases such as “the sage does not busy himself with affairs and does not busy himself with debate,” and “beyond dust and filth,” were what Changwu ordinarily said to Quehezi. Quehezi took this talk to describe the subtle Dao; Changwu thought it empty and vague. Quehezi still had doubts, so Changwu told him: “These words belong to a realm that the Yellow Emperor heard and saw—I cannot know it myself. You have not yet truly reached that realm, yet you hurry to treat it as the subtle Dao; you are concluding too soon, are you not?”

Some people who teach nourishing life do not understand where the Great Dao actually lies. They take Qian and Kun as gate and pivot, Kan and Li as axle, and try to match the transformations of heaven and earth’s movement to the human body. Where things are hard to explain, they set them aside and speak only of arranging the hundred bones, nine openings, and six viscera into a scheme of ruler and subject. How can that be enough to harmonize the parts of the body with one another? What is meant by “taking servants as the standard of honor” is speaking only of the high and low of the body’s parts, without knowing that there is a true master within.

Ordinary people bustle about, turned upside down and confused by gain and loss; the sage seems utterly unknowing, yet understands in the heart and does not expose it. Each thing in its own way possesses this principle; vitality goes out and returns in cycles—how can one insist that death is less joyful than life?

The Liezi records that in the region of Zhou there was a man named Yin whose household and business were very large. At night he dreamed he had become someone else’s servant; his servant at night dreamed he had become a lord. Whether lord or servant in the dream, each felt it was real. The question-and-answer between you and me now is originally like talk in a dream; what I tell you is a dream, and when you repeat it, it is still a dream. This way of speaking is called “diao gui”—words that are strange and contrary. Everyone is sunk in dreamlike confusion without noticing—a thing truly to be regretted. If, ten thousand generations later, a great sage should appear who understands my meaning, meeting him would be as close as morning and evening; to grasp this principle may take only an instant.

Yuzhai kouyi explains: “Menglang” means impractical and groundless; “ting ying” means hearing and then being able to understand. “Too early a reckoning” means that the doctrine you have heard is still only at this stage, yet you prematurely take it for the subtle Dao—there is a sense of shallow knowledge that fancies itself deep understanding. Talk of matching sun and moon, embracing the cosmos, and merging with the Dao sounds muddled to worldly ears; as for taking subject and servant as an order of honor and lowliness, that too can be set aside and need not be discussed much. Servants are by nature subordinate, yet people imagine there is high and low among them.

Ordinary people rush to and fro; the sage looks on all things with undivided unity. Gather ten thousand years into one view—in the end there is only this one principle, nothing else mixed in. Lady Li once wept in regret after waking—this too shows that attachment to loving life and hating death can be broken. The shifts between drinking and weeping, waking and dreaming are so inconstant that the saying “interpreting dreams within a dream” portrays human feeling very thoroughly. Seen this way, Wei Jie’s question and Yue Guang’s answer had not yet reached full awakening.

The distinction between ruler and subject, noble and base, is strange and hard to unravel from the start. When I speak this way, it can be called very odd, yet subtle principle is contained within. If ten thousand generations later a great sage appears who understands such a view, meeting me will seem separated by no more than morning from evening. If later ages produce a Yang Ziyun, he too will surely grasp my meaning.

The sage accords with the ten thousand things, acts without forced contrivance, and lets all things run their natural course. Thus benefit and harm cannot sway them. This is not because they set out to shun one thing and cling to another, but because they do not grasp or cling; their mind is empty and clear. They are not pulled by outer things, and they do not even cling to that “empty clarity” itself.

They do not speak, yet affairs still get done—not because they must turn “wordlessness” into a kind of deliberate doing. When they do speak, they leave no trace of rigidity, and they need not split “having words” and “having no words” into opposites. Reaching such a state, how could dust and grime stain them?

Qu Que had heard Confucius speak in this vein and took it for absurd talk; yet he also treated these same words as the subtle Way and practiced them, then went to ask Chang Wu. Chang Wu said: “These words are indeed subtle—only the Yellow Emperor, hearing them, could truly grasp them. Confucius himself may not have fully understood; how much less you, whose practice is still shallow, while you only praise how fine it all sounds. It is like seeing an egg and already expecting the cock’s crow—far too soon.”

Chang Wu went on: “Let me speak loosely, and you listen loosely—what do you think? Surpassing the light of sun and moon, embracing the whole cosmos—that is the realm of the spirit person. To shine with sun and moon and endure with heaven and earth is not something one can discuss lightly. Only if you can reach the sage’s level described earlier can one go on to speak of this.”

The key is careful discernment: what fits nature, follow it; what in the world slides into confusion, let go. From shallower levels one enters finer ones, like ranks rising step by step—from scholar to grand officer to minister and duke, upward layer by layer, until from sage one enters the divine.

Ordinary people are driven by what they see, hear, and discriminate; they cannot rest for an instant. The sage seems dull and does not make such splits. So even through ten thousand years and myriad changes, they can merge all into one, stay utterly pure and whole, unbound by past and present, forgetful of life and death. The sage not only reaches this state themselves but also helps the ten thousand things taste and nourish this Way, and so can endure with heaven and earth and become one with all things.

Most people fail to reach this because they crave life and hate death, clouding the original mind; joy, anger, sorrow, and delight further harm innate nature. What follows goes deeper to dispel this confusion. Lady Li wept when she was first taken away, yet later she regretted that grief—how can we be sure the dead do not regret having clung so hard to life?

Drinking and laughing or weeping in grief have no fixed grounds; waking and dreaming shift endlessly and are even harder to pin down. To dream within a dream that one is interpreting a dream is a metaphor for people lost in sleep yet unaware. Only after “great awakening” does one know that before was all a great dream. The foolish, still inside the dream, think themselves awake and argue over ruler and subject, noble and base—how deep that blindness runs! If the whole world is dreaming, why insist on “you” versus “me”?

So the penetrating person, hearing this, finds it fitting; the confused person is shocked and calls it absurd. One who can understand is rare in ten thousand ages—as if only between dawn and dusk might such a person appear. The author laments how few in the world truly see this Way. The chapter’s aim is to open understanding with the words “great awakening”; the reader should ponder them carefully. Qu Que and Chang Wu are fictional figures for question and answer; “the Master” in the text means Confucius, again in an allegorical setup.

Even if you and I debate, and you defeat me, does that prove you are right and I am wrong? Or if I defeat you, does that prove I am right and you are wrong? Perhaps each of us is partly right and partly wrong, or perhaps we are both entirely right or both entirely wrong. Neither you nor I can know for certain who is right and who is wrong, so any third party is bound to be confused as well. Whom should we ask to decide?

If we invite someone who agrees with you, since he already sides with you, how can he judge whether you are correct? If we invite someone who agrees with me, the same problem arises. If we invite someone who disagrees with both of us, since he does not share our views, how can he determine who is right? If we invite someone who agrees with both of us, his judgment would still be shaped by our shared outlook. In this light, you, I, and any bystander cannot mutually establish who is correct; must we then wait for yet another person to settle the matter?

How can such disputes be harmonized? One must follow the natural dividing line (tian ni)—the boundaries and measure that arise from nature itself—and allow “this” and “that,” “so” and “not so,” each to stand on its own footing. If your view is genuinely correct, the difference between it and an incorrect view is already clear and needs no further debate. If a situation is genuinely so, the difference between “so” and “not so” is equally clear and needs no further debate. The various positions are like shifting, flowing voices responding to one another; once we stop treating them as opposites that must prove and overpower each other, we can follow the natural dividing line and let change extend without end—thus one may live out a whole lifetime. Forget counting years of life; forget clinging to distinctions of right and wrong in principle; unfold body and mind in the boundless, and entrust yourself to what has no limit.

Guo Xiang’s commentary states: Precisely because there is what one does not know, people press on in inquiry; precisely because things are not seen clearly, people argue. After arguing, one still cannot be sure, because people always set themselves over against external things. Arguing all day long, one sinks into dim confusion, and no one can decide; better to leave it to things themselves and let them become clear on their own.

When views align, one assumes the other is correct; when they differ, one assumes the other is wrong—neither is enough for genuine certainty. If a view is truly correct, there will be no opposing view; if it is truly wrong, there will be no contrary judgment. Thus disputes over right and wrong stem from fondness for debate; only when contention rests in the natural balance can each position find its place and show itself clearly. Treat both sides as each having its own ground, and there is no need to wait for someone else to prove you. When right and wrong, permissible and impermissible, and mutual opposition no longer require argument, one can follow the natural dividing line.

The positions in dispute are voices in constant change; these voices depend on one another and cannot judge each other. Once one no longer fixates on such opposition, one can follow the natural dividing line and let boundless change unfold. Then the bounds of right and wrong dissolve naturally, and the aim of life and innate nature can fully appear. Forget length of years, and one can connect with the mystery of birth and death; forget distinctions of principle, and one can penetrate right and wrong. Let everything return to oneness, and one approaches the utmost principle. The utmost principle extends through the boundless, so one who dwells within it is not confined by finite limits.

Lu Huiqing held that what people call right and wrong comes down to “I say yes and you say no,” or “I say no and you say yes”; or both may say yes, or both may say no. These four patterns all arise from each side’s own view. If I and the other person cannot understand each other, right and wrong cannot be settled, and people remain stuck in confusion. To decide right and wrong, we have to rely on someone else; yet if that person does not agree with me, they may agree with the other; if they do not agree with the other, they may agree with me. Either way, we stay within these same kinds of opinion, and no one can truly judge. Seen this way, I, the other, and bystanders cannot understand one another, so none can deliver a final verdict on right and wrong. These views depend on one another and also fight one another—which shows that right and wrong have no fixed standard.

The sage understands this. Even when they hear many voices arguing, they know those voices have no unshakable ground. Then the opposed “that” and “this” no longer tangle with each other, and the heart rests in natural equilibrium (“tian jun”—following nature without clinging to one side). Why? Right and wrong in speech have no fixed substance; they are only sounds arising in change. Whether I and others depend on each other is likewise a vain calculation made by discriminating mind. The sage harmonizes these distinctions with the measure of nature, does not force judgments, but extends along the thread of how things change, so that the myriad things no longer burden the inner life. Living to the end of one’s years, one can join and merge with ten thousand years—this is called purity.

We stop arguing “yes and no,” “so and not-so,” because we see that the myriad things share one root and each thing has its own “is.” Living to the end of one’s years, one forgets the passage of years; without disputes over right and wrong, one forgets human-made standards. The beginning of the myriad things starts from what has no end, and in the end they also lodge in what has no end.

Lin Yidu thought Zhuangzi probably wanted people to forget words, which is why he raised this discussion. He said: even if you and I debate, if I am truly skilled in debate, I should also know that the myriad things share one root and each has its reason. Living to the end of one’s years, one forgets the passage of years; without disputes over right and wrong, one forgets human-made standards. The myriad things begin from what has no end and in the end lodge in what has no end.

Lin Yidu’s commentary holds that Zhuangzi offers this discussion so that people may release themselves from words and disputation. Suppose you and I argue: is it I who am wrong, or you? If we ask someone who shares your view to judge, he will side with you; if we ask someone who shares my view, he will side with me. If we ask someone who agrees with neither you nor me, how can he decide? None of these judgments can settle the dispute, so we must set them aside one after another until there is nothing left to set aside—only then have we reached the utmost.

To call something “right” (shi) is not necessarily to be right; to call something “so” (ran) is not necessarily to be so. Right and wrong, sameness and difference, have no absolute verdict. “So” and “right” also oppose each other and remain trapped in dispute.

There is change, and there is the root that makes change occur; there is sound, and there is the root that makes sound occur. Change without sound cannot show itself; sound without change has no way to manifest. Change is the root of sound, and sound is the expression of change—the two depend on each other. Yet sound arises from change, while change itself is not something sound can know; change encompasses sound, yet sound cannot know change in its entirety, so they also seem not to depend on each other.

This mutual dependence arises only when two things stand over against each other. If the changes of the myriad things are gathered into one, the relation of mutual facing has nowhere to appear. Sound can emit by itself; it need not wait on something else to exist. The one who hears sound, however, depends on sound for the arising of hearing. Change occurs ceaselessly by itself; it need not wait on sound to exist. The one who sees change, however, depends on sound for the corresponding arising of hearing. Thus the two both depend on each other and also seem not to depend on each other.

As for the root that makes change occur, it is not something change itself can alter; as for the root that makes sound occur, it is not something sound itself can voice. Viewed this way, how can we still speak of dependence or non-dependence? Harmonizing the myriad things through the root of nature and life (xingming), and going along with the various phenomena that change brings, then the years of past and present will in the end have a limit, while what truly constitutes “me” at the root is not bound by past and present and has no end.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary says that Tianni (the heavenly beginning) is the opening thread of the original root of nature and life (xingming), and manyan (endless proliferation) is change without limit. Using Tianni to harmonize the myriad things and going along with boundless change, one is not obscured by self and things or by right and wrong; each can fulfill the allotment that nature and life (xingming) bestow, and thus complete one’s allotted years. Forgetting the count of years, one treats life and death as one continuous vein; forgetting distinctions of right principle, one treats what is permissible and what is not as mutually penetrating. Life and death, the permissible and the impermissible, originally have no end; the saying “to know the Dao (the Way) is to forget these distinctions” does not take them as concrete objects—it is only a provisional way of speaking.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: Those who truly understand do not cling to disputation; once one enters into debate, one is often far from understanding. When argument never stops, matters grow obscure and unclear—because neither side trusts the other’s judgment. When water is clear, it can reflect beauty and ugliness; when the mind is empty and luminous, it can view differing opinions on equal terms. If the inner mind lacks its own standpoint and everything depends on what is outside, the heart will shift with every external thing.

From Jizi’s standpoint, Bigan seems foolishly upright; from Bigan’s standpoint, Jizi seems timid and lowly. In the eyes of Guan Zhong and Yan Ying, Boyi and Shuqi seem pedantic and stiff; from Boyi and Shuqi’s standpoint, Guan Zhong and Yan Ying seem grasping and covetous. People’s choices clash with one another, and likes and desires differ—who is to decide? Birds that fly roost in nests; beasts that run dwell in burrows—each rests where it belongs; who can say they are not alike?

Mutual distinction arises from relative relations; disputes over “right” and “wrong” are also nothing but shifting words. If feelings no longer oppose one another, where would “that” and “this” be? If disputation no longer clings to right and wrong, where would there be tangled, changing words? Therefore one should make the mind empty, quiet, broad, and harmonious, and comply with the boundaries between self and other; employ refined wisdom to dissolve inner obstruction. Only then can one fully enjoy one’s natural span of years and not be trapped by right and wrong. To fully enjoy one’s natural years is to forget counting the length of life; not clinging to right and wrong is to forget the worldly standards of duty and righteousness. Then one can expand freely in a boundless realm and entrust endless things and limitless principle within the infinitely endless.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary: Principle grasped through personal experience is hard to explain to others in words. Once spoken, disputes arise in swarms—who can adjudicate? Confucius said, “No one understands me,” and also, “Those who understand me, perhaps only Heaven”—this is the same idea. Sounds answer one another, like the inner and outer pecking at an eggshell—life is generated in the same instant. “Harmonizing with the Heavenly pivot” means complying with nature’s dividing lines; “following along to spread and unfold” means extending in step with change; “blending one’s light and mixing with the dust” means reining in one’s sharp edge and merging with the mundane world. Right and wrong, correct and incorrect—no final verdict can be fought out. Seen this way, people in the world cannot know one another; even when they speak, they can hardly be understood. This is precisely the situation where words change yet cannot truly respond to one another. So it is enough to rein in one’s light and go along with the world, peacefully enjoying one’s full years—why insist on endless chatter? What is meant by forgetting years and forgetting righteousness is entrusting this life and the principle within it to wordless creation (zaohua). Creation is inexhaustible, and I go on with it into the same inexhaustibility.

Yizhai Kouyi says: Victory and defeat cannot serve as grounds for judging right and wrong, because when you and I argue, neither of us can truly know the other. When what both sides see is unclear, who can decide?

If the discussion agrees with the other party, it cannot be used to judge; if it agrees with me, it still cannot judge; if it differs from both me and the other, it still cannot judge; if it agrees with both me and the other, likewise it cannot judge. Seen this way, all three of us cannot know one another, and we can only wait for “that” to decide. Here “that” refers to zaohua (creation, the transforming process)—what is called “tian ni” (the natural boundary or dividing line).

Tian ni means harmonizing one another by following the natural boundary. Whether something is “is” or “is not,” “right” or “wrong,” let both positions stand side by side first; if you insist on ruling one side correct, the other side’s incorrectness is dragged in, and you fall back into dispute over right and wrong.

“Hua sheng” (transforming through words) means using speech to persuade the other so they submit; “xiang dai” (mutual facing/opposition) means standing opposed and arguing with each other. If you always use words of right and wrong to fight each other and try to talk the other into agreement, it is better to follow each person’s own acknowledged principle and no longer treat each other as enemies. Hence it is said: “If without opposing each other for victory you can still meet and connect, that is harmonizing by tian ni.”

When you wander and unfold in this way in accord with nature, until years are exhausted, even years and principle are forgotten together, and you move freely in a state of non-attachment. “Zhen” also carries the sense of carefree roaming. If you can truly do this, you can spend your whole life resting in non-attachment.

Right and wrong, victory and defeat each cling to one side; neither can correct the other, so I, you, and others cannot truly know one another. Then leave judgment to zaohua. Commentators on this section have already explained it in great detail; only the meaning of “hua sheng” is somewhat obscure—the crux is understanding the difference between the state of mutual opposition and the state of no longer opposing.

Right and wrong, victory and defeat—each side clings to its own position, and neither can truly set the other straight. Then you and I, I and others, likewise cannot genuinely know one another; we can only leave things to Zao (the transforming work of nature). The various commentators on this section have already explained it at length; only the meanings of duhua (unique/spontaneous transformation) and sheng (voice/sound) remain subtle and hard to grasp, and the logic of mutual dependence versus non-dependence is not easily exhausted in words. Only those who exhaustively investigate spirit and penetrate transformation can attend with the heart and grasp the principle.

Among the commentaries, the discussion of “yi du” (relying on the One / the solitary One) is the most penetrating—it forms its own school and mutually illuminates the original Zhuangzi text, going beyond ordinary philological glossing. Yizhai’s treatment of “hua sheng” (transformation and voice) is distinctive; especially the point that one need not exhaust the beginning and end of the myriad things is insightful. In brief: the distinction between death and life, waking and dreaming, arises from transformation; disputes over “this versus that” and right versus wrong arise from voice. Waking and dreaming depend on bodily form; right and wrong spring from intention and feeling—they seem mutually dependent. Yet transformation occurs on its own, and people do not know why it happens; voice arises on its own, and people do not know why it is uttered—they then seem not mutually dependent. In the end, the principle of the myriad things never departs from the spontaneity of Zao; this is precisely the root through which all transformations enter and exit, and through which the myriad things are equalized. Here, the mutual dependence of “transformation and voice” matches the mutual dependence of “form and shadow” earlier in the text—the two passages explain each other.

The note appended after Lü’s commentary observes that the passage about “transformation and voice being mutually dependent yet ultimately not departing from the spontaneity of Zao” originally belonged before “What is meant by harmonizing through tianni (heaven’s angle / natural balance)”; because of a lacuna in the arrangement of the fascicles, it was misplaced here. The sense of the text makes this clear.

Wangliang (the faint penumbra at the edge of a shadow) asked the shadow: “A moment ago you walked, now you stop; a moment ago you sat, now you stand again—why do you have no fixed constancy at all?”

The shadow replied: “Do I do this because I have something I depend on? And does what I depend on also depend on something else? Do I depend on things like the scales on a snake’s body or the wings of a cicada? How would I know what makes me thus, or what makes me not thus?”

Long ago Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly—light and free, taking himself to be the butterfly, perfectly content, unaware that he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke and knew clearly that he was Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly was dreaming it was Zhuang Zhou. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly must differ; this is called wuhua (transformation of things—the mutual turning of beings in change).

Wangliang—the faint shadow beside a shadow—stands up and sits down not because it depends on the shadow for its movements; all of this is the spontaneous operation of tianji (the natural pattern of generation and transformation). When a snake sheds its skin or a cicada leaves its shell, something is relied upon, and the reason is still easy to grasp. What is hard to grasp is precisely that things do not depend on such conditions yet each changes on its own. If you pursue what they rely on and seek the root of their change, you will finally see that things originally have no external support but transform by themselves—this is the right principle of creation.

Some say Wangliang depends on shadow, shadow on form, and form on the Creator. Then I ask: does the Creator exist or not? If not, how could all things be created? If yes, who created the Creator? From this we know that the myriad things each arise and each change without needing something else as support—this is the correct doctrine of creation. Wangliang and shadow arise together; it is not that shadow produces Wangliang. Shadow is not dispatched by form, nor is form produced by change from “nothing.” Change and non-change, being thus and not thus—whether caused by outer things or by oneself—I cannot know the reason.

When Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, he did not know he was Zhuang Zhou; suddenly he woke and clearly knew he was Zhuang Zhou. From Zhuang Zhou’s standpoint this is called waking, yet one cannot say he is not still in a dream. Now Zhuang Zhou not knowing he is a butterfly is no different from the dream-butterfly not knowing it is Zhuang Zhou; each conforms to the mind of the moment, so one cannot prove the butterfly’s dream might not be Zhuang Zhou’s. Some people doze and in a dream live a hundred years—then we also cannot prove that the hundred years we now experience are not one long dream.

The distinction between waking and dreaming is no different from that between life and death. We feel we follow our hearts and are at ease because the boundary of each state is already fixed—not because no boundary exists. Time does not stand still; this present moment before us will not endure forever; yesterday’s dream has already changed and gone by today. Is the change of life and death any different? Why trouble the mind over it?

Lü Huiqing said: Wangliang (the faint edge at the margin of a shadow) and shadow belong to the same kind, yet they do not know that shadow does not depend on physical form to exist on its own; this is like you and me, or one person and another—we belong to the same kind, yet we do not know that each does not depend on others to exist. The shadow’s moving, staying, sitting, lying, and rising all follow changes in the physical form, so it has no independent conduct. But shadow originally has no consciousness—how could it know that it depends on something? If we say shadow depends on form, then on what does form depend for this to be so? Shadow’s dependence on form is not like a snake needing feet to crawl or a cicada needing wings to fly. How do we know the reason is not like this? When Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, he was light and at ease and did not know there was a Zhuang Zhou; when he woke as Zhuang Zhou, he was clear and self-possessed and did not know there was a butterfly. A single person’s transformation is something even he cannot notice—how much less can things with different forms and changes know one another? When the myriad things cannot know one another, each returns to itself; when they do not depend on one another, there is no fixed correspondence between them. Is there really inequality among them?

Lin Yidu said: Shadow arises from physical form and appears mutually dependent, but in fact it is not so. Wangliang does not know that both form and shadow come from zaohua (the transforming work of heaven and earth), and therefore thinks every movement of the shadow is wholly determined by the form. Yet without the light of sun or fire, even with a form, from where would shadow arise? This is what is meant by “not depending on each other.” When shadow says “I have something I depend on,” what it depends on also has something it depends on: shadow depends on form, and form too cannot be without support—here both depend on zaohua. Shadow’s dependence on form is already a very subtle relation; form’s situation within zaohua is even more negligible. Therefore speaking of shadow as depending on snake’s feet or cicada’s wings is using extremely fine things to clarify the principle. What the Outer Chapters of the Zhuangzi say about insect arms and rat livers is the same idea.

Zhuangzi used the butterfly dream to show that there is no fixed distinction between dreaming and waking. Once one grasps the principle of the butterfly dream, what is said about life and death can also be understood: in the dream one becomes a butterfly and does not know oneself as Zhuang Zhou; on waking one is Zhuang Zhou and does not know oneself was a butterfly. The two states cannot exist at once—there must be a moment of separation. The transformation of the myriad things is the same.