《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 22

Wu Zu (the figure in the text who craves profit and never knows when to stop) is sunk in profit, so he dwells on how the rich ease the body and please the mind, holding that once one is wealthy, nothing in conduct or self-cultivation is not advantageous. Zhi He (the figure who understands harmony), addressing those sunk in fame, says that action must not overstep measure, that when enough is enough one must not keep hoarding, that one must reckon with calamity and with how things turn into their opposite, and that knowing profit is unreliable in fact invites disaster and hastens ruin—hence he declines to accept. This is not done to chase reputation, yet reputation comes to him of itself. Wu Zu in turn mocks guarding reputation while wearing out the body as no different from long illness, distress, and clinging to a bare survival. Zhi He tells him: what is level and correct is blessing; what exceeds is harm—this is the utmost principle that runs through all under heaven. Wu Zu, hearing this, is inwardly won over.

The lines where the harm of wealth is drawn most sharply are exceptionally fine. Men (mouth stuffed with fine flavors), gai ni (sunk in it and unable to be at ease), ping qi (wrath pent up so breath does not flow), and wei (as when, to be satisfied, one demands to the limit and carries things to the end): even sitting still, one is still drowned in desire; the body is plump and glossy yet carries arrogant self-satisfaction. Goods pile like a wall and one still grasps and will not let go; worry and burning fill the chest. What is stored at home is feared stolen; what is moved outside is feared seized by robbers—truly both anxious and afraid. When disaster comes, even if one would give up life to drop the goods, one cannot obtain even a single day of peace such as the poor might have. Jin xing is preserving life in its fullness; jie cai is exhausting piled goods—“merely” in the sense of “only.” Liao yi jue ti means the mind is tangled in deep brooding and one resolutely stakes the body and forgets life and death.

From here to the end of the chapter, the conduct of the rich is set out one by one. Their schemes cannot escape the insight of the penetrating person, yet they do themselves no good; in the end they only amass and guard goods for the great robber. When calamity arrives, knowing one was wrong is already too late. Shi Chong, on the way to the eastern market (the place of execution in antiquity), sighed: “These slaves wanted my wealth.” That is exactly the point. The Nan Hua (i.e., Zhuangzi) records this so that those who hear may take warning.

Gai is pronounced like “gai”; qi gai means out of the ordinary; ping (for Feng) is pronounced like “ping,” meaning smoldering resentment with blocked qi; jiao is the same as “jiao” (burning). Lou shu is the window frame. Liao rao qi yi speaks of deep thought; jue jue qi ti speaks of forgetting life.

Liu Kai said: Under heaven there is originally no right and wrong; right and wrong arise from human feeling. Under heaven there is right and wrong, yet right and wrong are extinguished in human nature. The virtue of “right” is auspicious; the virtue of “wrong” is inauspicious. The Yi says: “Auspicious and inauspicious—constancy wins.” If one cannot guard the mind, brooding without end and resolutely abandoning the body is forgetting life.

Liu Kai, a scholar who annotated the Zhuangzi, says: In the world there is no fixed right and wrong from the start; right and wrong arise from human feelings. Once the world has right and wrong, right and wrong are dissolved again in one’s original nature. To take “right” as virtue brings good fortune; to take “wrong” as virtue brings misfortune. The Yijing says: good and ill fortune go to those who hold to the center and prevail. If people cannot hold to the center and cannot equally forget distinctions, and only busily dwell in the realm of deliberate action (youwei), things each prize themselves and look down on others—who can judge? Thus even though there is a difference between Confucius and Robber Zhi (an infamous bandit of antiquity), they would still call each other “robber.” Zhuangzi is not unaware that one should honor Confucius and disdain Robber Zhi; because people in the world do not understand the principle of equally forgetting distinctions, they contend with cleverness and boast of talent. If one then follows feeling to exalt one side, right and wrong stand out all the more and the true nature of nature and life (xingming) scatters further. So he takes someone the whole world jointly condemns and recounts how that person insists he is right; even a sage cannot win by argument. At the end of the piece he does not treat the words of Zizhang (a disciple of Confucius) as adequate, but closes with the view of “knowing harmony” (zhihe)—being content and in tune.

Chu Boxiu’s general commentary holds: What Robber Zhi says—forced argument to cover wrong, putting others down and lifting himself up—has gone to the extreme; in the end even the shared teachings of sages and worthies are made to yield, which makes him the worst of violent evil under heaven. Some say his slandering sages and violating the classics comes from later hands attaching the text, and that this view is mistaken. Confucius’s benevolence (ren) is brought to a close with the discourse on knowing harmony.

Chu’s general commentary holds that, judging from Robber Zhi’s words, he twisted reason to excuse wrongdoing, belittled others and exalted himself to an extreme, and even made the shared teachings of sages and worthies seem as if they were in the wrong. He was the most conspicuous of violent and wicked men under heaven. Some say that his slander of sages was not orthodox doctrine but later forced interpretation; that view is mistaken. Confucius’s benevolence and Robber Zhi’s violence need no debate to be clear. The fiction of this debate is meant to show the utmost reach of Confucius’s way and the breadth of his inclusive virtue. How Confucius became a sage is not something Robber Zhi could grasp. He measured others’ conduct by his own and others’ hearts by his own, and so his arguments turned out as they did. That only expresses as much of Confucius as Robber Zhi could recognize. If Robber Zhi could fully understand Confucius’s sageliness, he would no longer be Robber Zhi. Thus, though Confucius is disparaged, his fame grows more honored; though Robber Zhi praises himself, his viciousness stands out all the more. The shared right and wrong of the world has never been extinguished.

Inferring principle from the wording, each school’s explanation is clear enough, and none stands especially above the rest. I have carefully pondered the subtle intent beyond the letter and feel there is further allegorical purpose that readers have not pursued in depth, treating slander of sages uniformly as a fault, so that supreme principle still cannot be clarified after a thousand years. I therefore offer this correction.

The original intent of the text is to satirize the lords and ministers of the time who relied on wealth and rank, arrogated the power of life and death, and could not be moved by reason. Even if Confucius were born again, he would not escape their insult. So they are likened to Robber Zhi, and Confucius is used to stand for the author himself.

Next it has Zi Zhang question Man Goude. “Man Goude” means already full yet still grasping for more; his answers are no different from Robber Zhi’s. Such people overwhelm others by eloquence alone and do not see that they harm true nature, violate constant principle, and depart from the great Dao. Then it has Wu Zu question Zhi He. They aim to broadcast fame and chase profit, putting bodily ease and mental pleasure first—again no different from Robber Zhi, likewise belonging to those who grasp despite having enough. So Zhi He tells them: what makes the rich valuable is that they can accumulate yet are willing to disperse wealth, benefiting the multitude and aiding all things, so the poor live by them and are spared wandering exile and death in ditches and gullies. Long ago Tao Zhugong (Fan Li) was skilled in business; when he grew rich he gave to neighbors, dispersing his wealth three times and moving three times, and even shunned the reputation of his own kindness. Today’s rich drown in sensual indulgence and never stop acquiring; goods pile like walls while dread fills the breast. The heavier the profit, the deeper the harm. The precedents of Meiwu (Dong Zhuo’s treasure fort) and Jingu (Shi Chong’s Jingu Garden) are warning enough. That is worse than those who plow fields and dig wells, eating by their own labor—who can nurture life, live out their years, and be free of encumbrance.

These words cut deeply at worldly ills already beyond cure and quietly display the sages’ teaching. Scholars should set aside surface events and pursue why the words are said as they are, dissolve the private heart that chases name and profit, and return to the great root of virtue and the Dao. The teaching of Wuwei (non-action) and quiet purity suffices to extend benevolence and long life to the eight directions—the farthest reaches under heaven—not merely to secure one person’s body and livelihood. From this one sees that Nanhua (Zhuangzi), in guarding the Dao, supporting transformation, rescuing the age, and pitying the world, walks the same path as Confucius and Mencius.

Searching for the full text and commentary themes for an accurate translation.

Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Classic of Nanhua (Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zhuanwei), juan 97, from the Siku Quanshu edition; juan 96 is the preceding fascicle. The author is Chǔ Bòxiù of the Song dynasty. Miscellaneous chapters, first section: “Shuo Jian” (Debate on Swords).

In ancient times King Zhao of Zhao was devoted to swordplay. Swordsmen flocked to his court until they numbered in the thousands; day and night they dueled before him, and for three years the dead and wounded piled up, yet the king’s passion never cooled. The state grew weak, border troubles mounted, and no minister dared remonstrate. The heir apparent, Prince Kai, said to the minister Wen Zhong: if you can turn the king around, the throne is yours; if you fail, we both perish. Wen Zhong agreed and went in to see the king, who sat with a naked blade on his lap, his face marked by cuts. Wen Zhong did not scold him at first; he asked how such devotion could fail to harm the body, disorder the realm, and endanger Zhao among its neighbors. The king brushed him off: never mind that—I only want to talk about swords. Wen Zhong then said that among his followers was a man who, with nothing but a bamboo stick, could best every swordsman in the hall before the king’s eyes. The king was delighted and ordered him brought at once.

That man was Wenwen, also known as Zhao Wen Liao, who had come from Song. When Wen Zhong’s messenger reached him, Wenwen said he needed three days to prepare, then entered the court with Wen Zhong. The king asked what he wanted regarding swords. Wenwen replied: your servant has heard that the king loves swords. The king said he wished to see the finest blades in the world. Wenwen answered: the sword your servant carries is not the sort one puts on display. The king was displeased, but Wenwen explained that swords are not all one kind—they differ according to the person who wields them. He then spoke of three swords.

The Son of Heaven’s sword takes the peaks of Yan and the great blade of Juque as its edge, binds Qi and Jin and wraps Wei and Song, girds it with the four seasons and girds it with Mount Heng, hangs on it the Five Phases and the balance of punishment and virtue, straightens it with yin and yang, and holds it with the four seasons and the eight winds. When it is unsheathed, no one under heaven fails to submit; when it is pointed, the whole realm is rectified. This is the Son of Heaven’s sword.

The feudal lord’s sword takes wise and courageous men as its edge, purity and integrity as its steel, loyalty and trust as its guard, meritorious deeds as its wrap, the myriad people as its binding, the laws of the former kings as its balance, the four seasons as its straight edge, and the hundred officials as its handle. When it is unsheathed, thunder and lightning follow within the borders; when it is in the scabbard, the feudal lords are at peace. This is the feudal lord’s sword.

The common person’s sword takes a wild, undisciplined look as its edge, a dissolute manner as its steel, recklessness and bravado as its guard, recklessness as its wrap, vulgar speech as its binding, murder and plunder as its balance, cruelty and injury as its straight edge, folly and stupidity as its handle. When it is unsheathed, you cut down whoever stands before you; when you fight, you destroy yourself. This is the common person’s sword.

The king then demanded to see Wenwen’s own sword. Wenwen said: wait a moment—I will show it. He stood before the throne with a sword at his side, yet the king saw nothing. Wenwen explained: this is the sword that has no visible form—the king’s own sword is not what hangs at the side of swordsmen; it is the sword of the Son of Heaven that should rule all under heaven. When Wenwen advanced, the king felt an unbearable pressure, as if breath failed and he could not move. Wenwen touched the king’s neck once and said: the king has long looked at others’ swords and has never examined his own. The king came to himself; Wenwen was already gone without a trace.

Chǔ Bòxiù’s commentary reads this tale not as a manual of fencing but as a mirror for rulership and for the Dao (the Way). King Zhao’s “love of swords” stands for fixation on a narrow skill and on spectacle—killing as entertainment—while the realm decays. That is the “common person’s sword” elevated to the throne: sharpness turned inward against the body and outward against the people. The heir’s gamble and Wen Zhong’s indirect approach embody the only safe remonstrance when direct speech would mean death: meet obsession with a greater story, not with empty moralizing.

The three swords are allegories, not inventory. The Son of Heaven’s sword is the Dao of cosmic order applied to government—seasons, mountains, yin-yang, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), “punishment and virtue” (xingde) as the two edges of policy—so that when the ruler “draws” it, he does not hack at men but aligns heaven, earth, and human affairs. The feudal lord’s sword is De (virtue/power) expressed through ministers, laws, and the people: loyalty and merit as tempering, so thunder is justice inside the domain and stillness is peace with neighbors. The common person’s sword is what the king’s court had become: brawlers whose De is violence and whose “straight edge” is injury. Zhuang Zhou places the worst blade where the highest seat sits, to show that what Zhao called “swords” were already the lowest kind.

Wenwen’s empty scabbard and invisible blade teach Wuwei (non-action) and “non-killing” transformation. He does not compete in the king’s game; he makes the king feel the presence of a sword that is not a physical object—the responsibility and awe proper to a true Son of Heaven. One touch on the neck is not execution but awakening: you are about to die by your own path unless you turn back to your own sword, the way of ruling under heaven rather than delighting in blood. His disappearance matches the Zhuangzi pattern of the sage who arrives without trace and leaves without footprint; the event is a shift in the ruler’s mind, not a duel won for sport.

Thus “Debate on Swords” closes the miscellaneous chapters by returning from clever disputers and odd skills to the question of what a true king should “hold.” The sage does not forbid strength, but he refuses to let strength become identity. When the Son of Heaven’s sword is understood inwardly, the thousands of contesting swordsmen have nothing to test against the throne, and the state can heal without another corpse in the yard. That is why this chapter sits after tales of persuasion and before the collected “Yao Jian”: it warns that the finest edge, without the Dao, is still the common person’s sword—and that the only sword worth displaying is the one that pacifies all under heaven without being seen.

In former times, King Wen of Zhao loved swordsmanship. More than three thousand swordsmen lived at his expense, dueling before him day and night. Over a hundred died or were wounded each year, yet he never tired of it. After three years of this, the state declined and neighboring lords began plotting an attack on Zhao. Crown Prince Kui was troubled and offered a reward to anyone who could turn the king’s mind and stop the swordsmen: a thousand in gold. His attendants said Zhuangzi could do it.

The prince sent an envoy with the gold. Zhuangzi refused it and went with the messenger to see the prince. He asked, “What does the prince wish to tell me, that you also send a thousand in gold?” The prince said, “I hear that you are wise and enlightened. I prepared the gold for your retinue; since you will not take it, what more can I say?” Zhuangzi said, “I hear the prince wants to use me to end the king’s passion. If I remonstrate above and go against his wish, yet below fail to satisfy the prince, I will be punished and die—what use would gold be then? If I can move the king above and satisfy the prince below, what in Zhao could I not obtain?” The prince said, “That is so—but my father only receives swordsmen.” Zhuangzi said, “Very well. I am skilled at the sword.” The prince said, “Those my father sees are swordsmen with disheveled hair and jutting temples, caps worn low, thick coarse cap cords, jackets with short back panels—they glare and speak with difficulty. Only then is the king pleased. If you go in scholar’s robes, things will go very badly.” Zhuangzi said, “Let me get swordsmen’s dress.” In three days it was ready, and the prince brought him to the king. The king drew a sharp blade and waited. Zhuangzi entered the hall door without slowing his step for ritual, and when he saw the king he did not bow. The king said, “What do you intend to teach me, that you had the prince introduce you first?” Zhuangzi said, “I heard the great king loves swords, so I come with the sword.” The king asked, “What can your sword do against an opponent?” He answered, “My sword kills a man every ten paces; for a thousand li none can block me.” The king was delighted and said, “You have no match under heaven!”

Zhuangzi said, “The one who wields a sword first shows emptiness, then lures with an opening, strikes late yet arrives first. I wish to try.” The king said, “Go rest at the guest lodge; when I have arranged the bout I will summon you.” The king had swordsmen fight for seven days; more than sixty died or were wounded. He chose five or six, had them hold swords and wait below the steps, then summoned Zhuangzi and said, “Today let them cross swords with you.” Zhuangzi said, “I have long wished for this.” The king asked, “How long is the sword you use?” He answered, “Any sword I take will do. But I have three swords; let the great king choose. Explain first, then we test.” The king said, “I would hear of the three swords.” He answered, “There is the sword of the Son of Heaven, the sword of the feudal lords, and the sword of the common man.”

The king asked what the Son of Heaven’s sword was like. Zhuangzi said, “The Son of Heaven’s sword takes Yanxi and Shicheng as its point, Qi’s Mount Tai as its edge, Jin and Wei as its spine, Zhou and Song as its guard, Han and Wei as its hilt; the four borderlands wrap it round, the four seasons bind it, the Bohai Sea encircles it, Mount Heng serves as its belt; the Five Phases regulate it, punishment and virtue measure it, Yin and Yang open and close it, spring and summer hold it, autumn and winter deploy it. This sword thrusts straight and none ahead can block; lifted up, nothing is higher; pressed down, nothing is deeper; swept aside, nothing blocks on any side. Up it can split drifting clouds; down it can sever the earth’s sustaining cords. Once this sword is used, feudal lords are set right and all under heaven submits. That is the Son of Heaven’s sword.” King Wen was dazed and unsettled. He asked what the feudal lords’ sword was like. Zhuangzi said, “The feudal lords’ sword takes the wise and brave as its point, the clear-minded and vigilant as its edge, the worthy and good as its spine, the loyal and sagely as its guard, the heroic and outstanding as its hilt. This sword likewise thrusts with none ahead, rises with none above, falls with none below, sweeps with none beside; above it takes round heaven as model to follow sun, moon, and stars; below it takes square earth as model to follow the four seasons; in the middle it harmonizes the people’s will to settle the four directions. Once this sword is used, it is like thunder shaking—within the borders none fails to submit and obey the ruler’s command. That is the feudal lords’ sword.” The king asked what the common man’s sword was like. Zhuangzi said, “The common man’s sword is disheveled hair and jutting temples, cap worn low, coarse cord and short jacket, glaring eyes and choked speech—men strike each other before others, cutting necks above and splitting livers and lungs below. Such a sword is no different from cockfighting; once life is lost it is over, and it is of no use to the state. Now the great king holds the Son of Heaven’s position yet loves the common man’s sword—I privately find that unworthy of you.”

The king then drew him up into the hall. The steward brought food; the king walked three circuits around the mat. Zhuangzi said, “Great king, please sit at ease and calm your breath—the matter of swords has been fully set forth.” Thereupon King Wen did not leave his palace for three months, and the swordsmen, each in his lodging, died of resentment.

Bixu (Song dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan) notes: One who can plan ahead and prevail in the court can become an emperor; one who can transform the realm through spirit can become a king. Court strategy takes heaven and earth as its model; spiritual transformation takes the four seasons as its model. Thus when domestic governance is clear, distant lands admire its virtue; before battle is even joined, victory is already assured, and the feudal lords submit to its awe. This is treating the realm as a single sword—how could mere blades like Taie or Ganjiang (famous ancient swords) compare? King Zhao of Zhao loved swordplay; the proud official (Zhuangzi) went to counsel him, aiming at divine martial prowess without killing (to win through marvelous martial virtue, not slaughter). In antiquity there was a famed sword called Hanguang: look and you cannot see it; touch and you feel nothing; its shadow does not distinguish straight from bent, its sound does not distinguish clear from dull. Kept in the hall of state, it could awe the four barbarian quarters; deployed in an enemy land, a single child wearing it could make three armies retreat. If one displays inner emptiness and stillness, unfolds outward indifference, operates through the formless, and moves from no-mind, then advance and retreat are like the phoenix dancing and the qilin rousing, bending and stretching like the phoenix soaring and the dragon leaping—why measure length against length, vie for speed, strike waist and neck, or hack until wounded and dead? Weapons are inauspicious tools; the sage uses them only when he must. The sword is mere courage of a common man, like cockfighting—life is lost in an instant; what use is that to a state of ten thousand chariots?

Liu Gai, the scholar who annotated this chapter, holds that the usual disposition of things in the world is invariably to reject what differs from oneself and to honor what resembles oneself, to discard the small and envy the grand, and in seeking to avoid harm and pursue benefit, to act in just this way. When something does not accord with oneself, one will not follow it even if it is advantageous; when one cannot see the benefit, one will not envy it even if it is vast. Zhuangzi discourses on the Dao, yet in this chapter he also records the words of debaters and persuaders—because the utmost principle is lodged in what is subtle and recondite, and one must rely on language to bring others to understanding.

The disposition of things always values the self and devalues the other, affirms the self and denies others. If one tries to win another’s assent from positions that differ on both sides, then even a sage like Confucius could be overborne by the violence of Robber Zhi. Conversely, if one persuades by aligning with what the other already accepts, a single discourse from Zhuangzi could cut off the King of Zhao’s lifelong obsession—the reason lies precisely here.

Unkempt hair standing out at the temples, a cap worn low, coarse cap tassels in disarray, short jackets suited for quick movement, glaring eyes and halting speech—this was what the King of Zhao favored; it was not Zhuangzi’s true inclination. Zhuangzi temporarily altered his usual manner and put on attire outside ordinary dress so that the king would respect the doctrine he was about to expound. He spoke first of the Son of Heaven, then of feudal lords, and finally belittled commoners, so that the king would envy what was greater still. The greatest can awe the realm under Heaven; the next can bring the four borders to allegiance; the least merely severs the neck—this was guiding the king toward genuine benefit. The disposition of things is no more than this. When the sage harmonizes and complies, treating external things as what can be domesticated and trained, then the troop of monkeys heeds the trick of “four in the morning and three in the evening”—is there not reason in it?

As for “if you bend yourself first, no one can straighten another out,” taken at face value Zhuangzi’s discourse on swords seems to be seeking others’ approval. Yet from “Robber Zhi” and “The Old Fisherman” one can see that those were not Zhuangzi’s own affairs. The import of such speech was originally for mutual disputation, while the reasoning runs very deep. If one pursues only outward traces, how can that count as understanding what is said?

Lin Xiyi (Yizhai) explains: “Wearing the cap low” means not raising the hat high—it is like what people call the “martial hero’s kerchief.” “Man hu” suggests roughness and uncouthness. “Short back” means the rear of the robe is cut short, with no long front panel. “Yu nan” is mutual verbal challenge and cross-examination. “Showing emptiness and opening to offer advantage” means deliberately exposing a weak point and yielding an opening to lure the opponent in. “Striking later yet arriving first” means hiding the sword’s intent just before the blow, so the later stroke lands before the other’s. “Dun” is clashing blades and cutting through. “Tan” here denotes the blade; “jia” the hilt. The four seasons, the Five Phases, sun and moon, and Yin-Yang all signify alignment with natural creation and transformation. “Cutting floating clouds above and severing the earth’s cords below” describes how far the sword’s power reaches. Walking three times around the place where one eats yet not daring to sit shows shame and inability to rest easy. Once the king had understood, he no longer indulged in this sword-play; the swordsmen withdrew in submission and died in their own quarters.

Master Chu’s overall view: Zhuangzi (the Master of Nanhua) spoke to clarify the Great Dao (Da)—lofty as the nine heavens, deep as the nine earths—and also used analogies to show how vast its efficacy is. The king’s walking three times around the dining ground without daring to sit expresses shame and unrest; once awakened, he abandoned that sport, the swordsmen submitted and withdrew, and perished where they lived.

Chu Boxiu’s general remarks on the Dao: Zhuangzi expounded the Great Dao in words that soar above the nine heavens and reach to the nine depths of earth, opening and closing with creation itself—something even ghosts and spirits can hardly fathom. Though he drew comparisons from ordinary things, what he said never strayed outside worldly affairs; within that frame lay subtle meaning enough to awaken people and remedy the ills of the age. The chapter “Discussion on Swords” (Shuo Jian) is vigorous in style and refined in intent; a thousand years of transmission show it was never empty talk. The Han shu records that a branch of the Sima clan in Zhao became famous for transmitting sword theory—evidence that sword lore is very old, and that Zhuangzi borrowed it to give voice to the extraordinary designs in his breast. Some fixate on outward form and treat it as discourse on alliance-building and vertical-horizontal diplomacy; once the original intent is lost, people take a night-pearl for a fish’s eye.

Chu Boxiu, not presuming depth, sought Zhuangzi’s purpose in speaking and explains as follows: Zhao stands for the human body; King Wen of Zhao’s love of swords is the heart caught by profit and desire; Crown Prince Kui’s worry is like the mind already aware yet unable to suppress inner bias. Asking Zhuangzi to dissuade the king from his passion is an image of using principle to overcome desire. The three swords he names show that reason has higher and lower grades—those with discernment can tell them apart. “One man every ten paces” speaks of irresistible edge; “a thousand leagues without lingering” speaks of swift deployment—close to one who nurtures the virtue of a whole person. The Son of Heaven’s sword relies on neighboring states as ramparts, the feudal lord’s sword on worthy men as its backbone, the commoner’s sword on mere personal bravado. The king of Zhao is exalted in rank yet favors the commoner’s sword—oblivious to the supreme worth of De (Virtue/Power) and chasing the basest of material cravings. Swordsmen striking day and night before him—how can they avoid harm? The comparison to fighting cocks shows the baseness all the more. To remedy this fault and recover the original state, one must restrain oneself with utmost principle. When principle prevails and desire fades, only the upright nature remains; a poisoned blade can turn into a divine instrument, and the heart need no longer dwell on it. This is seeking return from delusion—a path that cannot avoid difficulty, what is called acting with effort; when it succeeds, the outcome is the same. The gradations among the three swords are like differences in endowment’s thickness and inclination’s height—success then has finer and coarser grades. Rulers of old who governed the realm with divine martial prowess yet did not kill all obtained this sword and used it subtly—how could mere Taie or Ganjiang (celebrated ancient blades) compare?

Then the king of Zhao circled his meal yet could not eat: rites and righteousness pleased his mind, and rich fare no longer tasted sweet. When Zhuangzi had him sit quietly and settle his breath, the discussion of swords was complete. The heart is disturbed by reckless movement; nature is attained through quiet clarity—gaining nature is returning to original truth, and that too is like having nothing to gain. The king did not leave the palace for three months—he could hold fast in stillness and nourish emptiness so the nature already achieved would endure unchanged. The swordsmen dying where they stood is an image of every sort of cunning mind dying on the spot: those who showed skill departed, those who matched skill also ceased; look again at the so-called divine instrument—it too is dissolved, and what difference remains between Son of Heaven and commoner? Zhuangzi, at the crown prince’s request, declined reward—of the same purport as Lu Zhonglian saving Handan yet refusing a thousand in gold; in the end he stopped the king’s frivolous passion and settled the state, and within that lay governance of the Way as well—not a one-sided reading.

Zhuangzi grieved that people drown in material desire, lose their nature, and do not know it; hence this discourse, showing that recovering nature depends on the inner self having a master, and guarding against desire as against an enemy. Once the heart awakens, use principle to conquer desire—there is no need to wait until swordsmen crowd the gates and strike day and night before calling on a skilled speaker to stop it. Here the Way is lodged in craft to speak; interpreters often only match outward signs, so upright principle long lies submerged and supreme words fall into the orbit of debaters—a true pity. Dig to the utmost and one sees return to root and source; one hopes this accords with the intent of the original words. Some have already grasped the marrow of this classic; bold prose and subtle argument can keep pace with it—yet on this chapter alone they say nothing, leaving readers to enter deeply on their own. Lest someone doubt for that reason, one must clarify.

From Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Compendium of the Profound Meaning of the Southern Flower True Scripture), fascicle 98, compiled by Chu Boxiu in the Song dynasty. What follows is the scripture of the Miscellaneous Chapter “The Fisherman” (Yufu).

Confucius was traveling in the Grove of Black Canopies (a wood so dense and dark that the foliage seemed like hanging curtains). He rested on the Apricot Altar (the earthen platform where tradition says he taught). His disciples read; Confucius played the zither and sang. Before the piece was half finished, a fisherman came ashore from his boat. His beard and brows were white; he wore his hair loose and had his sleeves turned up. He climbed from the low bank to higher ground and stopped. With his left hand on his knee and his right supporting his chin, he listened to the end of the piece, then signaled to Zilu (Zhong You, a disciple of Confucius) and Zigong (Duanmu Ci, another disciple).

The two went forward. The fisherman pointed at Confucius and asked, “What does he do?” Zilu said, “He is a gentleman of Lu.” The fisherman asked his surname; the answer was Kong. He asked what the Kong family cultivated. Before Zilu could reply, Zigong said, “The Kong family single-mindedly holds to loyalty and trustworthiness, personally practices benevolence and righteousness, puts rites and music in order, and arranges human relations; above, he serves the rulers of the age with loyalty; below, he transforms the people through teaching, hoping thereby to benefit the whole world. That is what the Kong family does.” The fisherman asked, “Does he have a fief and hold lordship?” Zigong said, “No.” “Is he a minister assisting a feudal lord or king?” “No.” The fisherman smiled, turned away, and left, saying, “To speak of benevolence is already to be benevolent—but I fear one cannot escape harming oneself. To weary the mind and body is to injure what is genuinely one’s own. Alas, he is far from the Dao!”

Zigong reported this. Confucius set aside the zither and stood up. “Could this be a sage?” He went to the edge of the marsh. The fisherman was about to pole his boat away; seeing Confucius, he turned and stood facing him. Confucius stepped back several paces, bowed twice, and came forward again.

The fisherman asked, “What do you seek?” Confucius said, “Just now the master’s words were not finished and you departed. I, Qiu, am without talent and do not understand your meaning; therefore I wait respectfully downwind, hoping to hear instruction that may help me.” The fisherman said, “You are indeed fond of learning!” Confucius bowed again, rose, and said, “From youth I have studied until now, at sixty-nine years, yet I have not heard the highest teaching—how could I dare not be humble?”

The fisherman said, “Those of the same kind follow one another; those of the same tone respond to one another—this is the constant pattern of Heaven-and-earth. For the moment I set aside what I hold to and use it to measure what you pursue. What you do is human affairs. Son of Heaven, feudal lord, grand officer, and commoner—the four ranks, each keeping to its proper place, is the beauty of governing the Way; when the four leave their stations, there is no greater disorder. When officials fulfill their duties and each person cares for his own task, they will not encroach on one another.

Fields overgrown, roofs leaking, food and clothing insufficient, taxes not paid, wife and concubines at odds, elders and juniors out of order—these are the commoner’s worries. Talent not equal to office, public business not managed, conduct not clear, subordinates slack, no achievement, unable to keep rank and salary—these are the grand officer’s worries. No loyal ministers at court, the state in disorder, craftsmen’s work unskilled, tribute and levies not fine, appearing late at the spring and autumn audiences, unable to follow the Son of Heaven—these are the feudal lord’s worries. Yin and Yang not harmonized, cold and heat untimely and harming the ten thousand things, lords violent and attacking one another and injuring the people, rites and music without measure and wealth exhausted, human relations not set right and the people dissolute—these are the worries of the Son of Heaven and his officials.

Now you have above neither the power of ruler nor of presiding officers, and below neither the duties of a minister, yet you on your own adorn rites and music and arrange human relations to transform the common people—is this not taking on too much?

In a person there are eight blemishes; in affairs there are four calamities—one must not fail to examine them. Managing what is not one’s business is called “overreach.” When others pay no heed yet one insists on speaking is called “sycophantic pushiness.” Guiding one’s words to fit another’s wishes is called “flattery.” Speaking without distinguishing right and wrong is called “fawning.” Delighting in others’ faults is called “slander.” Breaking up friends and kin is called “malice.” Praising fraud and falsity to ruin others is called “wickedness.” Not distinguishing good from bad, pleasing both sides, and secretly drawing out what the other wants is called “treacherousness.” These eight blemishes disturb others outwardly and harm oneself inwardly. A gentleman does not befriend such people; a clear-sighted ruler does not employ them as ministers.

The four calamities are: loving to take charge of great matters and changing established ways to seek fame—called “presumption”; monopolizing wisdom and affairs, encroaching on others, going one’s own way—called “greed”; seeing error and not changing, hearing remonstrance and becoming all the harsher—called “obstinacy”; approving what matches oneself and, when different, calling good bad even when it is good—called “conceit.” Only when one can remove the eight blemishes and avoid the four calamities may one receive instruction.”

Confucius changed color, sighed, and bowed again. “In Lu I was driven out twice; in Wei my traces were erased and I could not dwell in peace; in Song someone cut down the tree under which I taught; between Chen and Cai I was besieged. I do not know where I went wrong—why these four humiliations?”

The fisherman’s face turned grave. “You are very hard to awaken! Someone who fears his shadow and hates his footprints runs to escape. The denser his steps, the more footprints; the faster he runs, the more the shadow does not leave him. Thinking himself still too slow, he runs until strength fails and he dies. He does not know that standing in shade the shadow vanishes and staying still the footprints cease—how foolish! You finely distinguish benevolence and righteousness, examine the boundary between sameness and difference, observe the shifts of movement and stillness, adjust the measure of taking and giving, comb through likes and dislikes, harmonize the nodes of joy and anger—and still you barely escape harm. Carefully cultivate the self, cautiously guard what is genuinely yours, return outer things and affairs to each in his place, and there will be no entanglement. Now you do not cultivate yourself yet seek in others—is this not abandoning the inner and seeking the outer?”

Confucius, somber, asked, “What is authenticity (zhen)?” The fisherman said, “Authenticity is the utmost of sincerity and truthfulness. Without sincerity and truthfulness one cannot move others. Forced weeping may look sad but is not grief; forced anger may look severe but has no majesty; forced intimacy may smile but is not warm. True grief needs no crying to be already deeply sorrowful; true anger has not yet burst forth yet already carries authority; true closeness has not yet smiled yet is already harmonious. Authenticity within makes the spirit show outward—therefore authenticity is precious.

Applied to human relations: in serving parents, it is kindly filial piety; in serving a lord, loyalty; in drinking, joy; in mourning, grief. Loyalty takes achievement as its point; drinking takes pleasure as its point; mourning takes sorrow as its point; serving parents takes the parents’ ease as its point. The beauty of completed work does not lie in one fixed method. In serving parents, seek their comfort—do not quibble over the manner; in drinking, seek joy—do not pick the vessels; in mourning, seek sorrow—do not probe the ritual forms. Rites are what the world fashions; authenticity is what Heaven endows—arising from nature, it cannot be altered. Therefore the sage models Heaven and values authenticity and is not bound by custom. The fool is the opposite: unable to model Heaven, he only worries over human affairs, does not know to honor authenticity, and busily lets the world reshape him—thus he is unfit to discuss the Dao. Pity that you sank early into artificial adornment and heard the Great Dao so late!”

Confucius bowed again and rose. “Today meeting the master is like fortune sent from Heaven. The master is not ashamed to treat me as a menial and instruct me in person. May I ask where you dwell? I wish to follow and complete my study of the Great Dao.” The fisherman said, “I have heard: with those who can travel the path together, one may reach the wondrous Dao; with those who cannot, who do not understand the Dao—by no means go with them, and the self will be without fault. Make your own effort; I leave you.” He poled away, slowly vanishing among the reeds.

Yan Yuan (Yan Hui, a disciple) turned the carriage around; Zilu handed up the mounting cord. Confucius did not look back until the ripples stilled and the sound of the pole ceased—only then did he dare mount. Zilu leaned on the carriage and asked, “I have served the master long and never seen you hold anyone in such awe. Sons of Heaven with ten thousand chariots and lords with a thousand—when they received you, you never failed to meet them as equals, with ceremony yet without losing dignity; you even showed a proud bearing. Yet today the fisherman stood with his pole opposite you, and you bent like a bow, answering with bow after bow—is that not excessive? The disciples are all puzzled. By what right does the fisherman deserve such treatment?”

Confucius leaned on the carriage rail and sighed. “Zhong You, you are hard to reform! You have steeped in rites and righteousness for some time, yet coarse heart remains. Come—I tell you: not honoring an elder is loss of ritual; not respecting the worthy is lack of benevolence. Unless he is a zhiren (a person of the utmost attainment in the Way), one cannot make others willingly place themselves below; if in lowering oneself before others one is not fully sincere, one does not obtain authenticity and will long harm oneself. Alas—for a person nothing is a greater disaster than lack of benevolence, and you alone cling to this fault. The Dao is the root from which the ten thousand things arise. Things that lose it die; those that gain it live. Affairs that go against it fail; those that follow it succeed. Wherever the Dao is, the sage honors it. Today this fisherman may be said to have attained something of the Dao—how could I not show respect?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: This chapter means that only someone who can live at ease without leaning on rivers and seas will humbly defer to recluses who dwell on those waters. What Confucius freely goes along with is not limited to the fisherman alone: he moves through the vast openness of the six directions, extending everywhere without boundary, so that every stirring kind of life can follow its own bent, and he pursues things to their principles and on to the mandate of Heaven—this is already the way of the zhenren (person of ultimate cultivation).

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: If Confucius could awaken to his true nature, keep to his spirit, and wander in the everyday world, how could the fisherman mock him? The text is written this way because people who study Confucius often stop at his outward deeds; so Zhuangzi uses the fisherman in an allegory to show that what Confucius truly valued was not what the world takes him to be. What Zigong told the fisherman is exactly the Confucius that ordinary ru scholars have in mind. Though all under Heaven is vast, it is still only external things. What makes Confucius Confucius—who would treat externals as the main task? The root of the Dao is for ordering the self; only its surplus and coarse leavings are applied to ordering the state and the realm. If things were really as Zigong said—doing what is not one’s proper role—would he not be far from the Dao? The eight flaws and four ailments the fisherman names would then be hard to avoid. And when we look at later people who grasp only the outer shell of Confucius’s deeds and what they actually do, Zhuangzi’s words still feel as if we were seeing it with our own eyes even after a thousand years—is that not remarkable?

Lin Yidu, a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi, held that Zhuangzi uses the Fisherman fable to show that only when one can follow the heart’s inclinations at seventy without overstepping proper bounds does one enter the state of settling one’s nature and life; before sixty-nine, one is still only treading the path Confucius left for managing the world. The eight defects and four ailments are likewise hard to avoid in human affairs. The sage shapes ritual and law in accord with human feeling; though these norms appear in speech and conduct, the mind no longer clings to them. What Zhuangzi’s parables criticize is precisely this outward trace. From Son of Heaven to commoner, each has his station and order; the defects and ailments discussed all cut to the heart of the matter. Confucius said that even at sixty-nine he had still “gotten nothing”—was that not because he had not yet reached “following the heart”? Once the heart is truly followed, one sees that clinging to benevolence and righteousness, pushing loyalty and trust, polishing rites and music, and picking and choosing among human relations—all the methods used to govern the world—are not reality itself, like using a finger to point at the moon while the finger is not the moon. At that point Confucius no longer needed instruction; before the Fisherman words had no place, hence “I leave you, I leave you”—each forgets the other in wordless mutual release.

Bixuzi (the Daoist Chen Jingyuan) held that when the four classes—scholar, farmer, artisan, and merchant—each rest in their proper work, they are not pulled about by worldly profit and affairs, and so live in plenty without worry. Small ambition lacks the plan for great undertakings; one who has lost the way of mastery lacks the means to hold on, so merit cannot stand and rank and emolument cannot be kept. Scheming goes wrong and speech breaks faith; corvée too heavy makes work shoddy, demands too many make tribute crude, and turning against the Great Dao breeds resentment. What the Way achieves only late, if one changes what was fitting, loses harmony; altering the constant Way harms the ten thousand things. Anger run deep brings disorder; hatred pushed to the limit brings fighting and war. Rites and music too elaborate make the heart reckless; food and levies too much impoverish the people. Only by turning back to cultivate oneself can these defects be avoided. To wander the states seeking employment yet expect no blame is like running through flying dust and hoping one’s clothes stay unstained, or walking in rain and hoping one’s headcloth stays dry. Return things to things and human affairs to human affairs; cultivate the person and hold to true nature, and neither self nor other is dragged down. What is called “the true” is natural endowment: inwardly it issues from utmost sincerity, outwardly it resonates with Heaven and people; applied among human relations, loyalty, filial piety, grief, and joy each find their place, and the beauty of completed work leaves no single fixed trace. Rites are the world’s teaching; the true is Heaven-given nature. The fool thinks only of human affairs and changes with the vulgar, so for the Dao he is inadequate. The Fisherman’s Way does not manage or scheme, is calmly without desire, and every kind of good follows of itself—that is why Confucius turned his heart to honor him.

Liu Kai’s commentary: When someone agrees with you, you approve of them—so the ruler of Zhao took Zhuangzi for a worthy. When someone disagrees with you, you reject them—so the violent Robber Zhi called Confucius a thief. There is no absolute sameness and no absolute difference; what counts is where the Dao stands. I want to trace the principle the text honors and explain it as far as I can. That is why the “Fisherman” chapter was written and why it had to cast Confucius in a parable.

Natural genuineness and human norms are far apart, yet root and branch, what comes first and what follows, are never simply discarded. Genuineness builds up within; Shen (spirit) stirs outward; and the use of punishments, titles, and ritual law sits still further outside. Confucius saw clearly what affliction is and why it arises, so he shared the people’s concerns in order to benefit all under Heaven. Those who guard genuineness also set the highest value on cherishing their own person. Laozi said: only when one holds caring for one’s own person as precious in serving the realm can the realm be entrusted to one. Among steady ways to benefit the realm, there is governing without forced governance (wuwei)—and that is what Confucius took. As for Chang Ju and Jie Ni, recluses who kept themselves pure yet broke human order, Confucius always turned away. From this one can see what the parable is driving at.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) says: After the Spring and Autumn period, human relations and the court were entrusted to the realm; among steady ways to benefit it, governing without forced governance is what Confucius took, while he declined and avoided those like Chang Ju and Jie Ni who kept themselves pure yet broke human order—so one can know where the parable’s point lies.

Yizhai said: After the Spring and Autumn period, the order of human relations and of court audiences had fallen into disorder. People would hypocritically praise—commending what ought not to be commended—in order to ruin those they disliked; they would also slander what ought not to be slandered. Adjusting one’s expression to match another’s pleasure is called “countenance conformity” (yanshi); wanting everyone, good or bad alike, to think well of you is called “double countenance” (liangrong). The Eight Blemishes and the Four Ailments are great afflictions for human beings; only when these are set aside can one speak of the Dao.

The Fisherman said: Confucius in everything he did was acting for others’ sake, so he could not escape the world’s reproach. If one cultivates the person and holds fast to what is genuinely one’s own, without setting “things” against “self,” there is no entanglement. Nowadays people do not seek from within themselves yet hurry to act on others’ behalf—is that not putting one’s effort on the outside? Without purity and without sincerity, one cannot truly reach others; that is the sense in which utmost sincerity can move even the spirits. Forced weeping, forced laughter, forced intimacy, as opposed to weeping, laughing, and drawing close from the heart—these six points are put very earnestly. When what is genuine is within, spirit and bearing show without; ritual is only outer adornment, the way of the world. Genuineness is the principle of Heaven’s natural endowment. Those who do not recognize the worth of Heaven’s nobility (tianjue) take worldly stipend as honor and willingly let themselves be shaped by vulgar custom—hence one sees them inwardly uneasy and always somewhat lacking. If one cannot be humble toward others and is not wholeheartedly sincere, one will not obtain what is genuine. This again is said for those who would learn.

The Fisherman is a person of the Dao; I revere his Way, and therefore I hold him in respect.

In his "Limited View" (a modest name for his own humble insights), Chu Boxiu writes: Some take the Fisherman to be Fan Li, who drifted in a small boat on the five lakes, or the man Yu the Poet met by the marsh. I think we need not fix on who he was; anyone who reined in virtue, hid his light, and withdrew to lakes and seas will do—figures like Taigong Wang (Jiang Shang), Yan Ziling, Zhang Zhihe, and Lu Guimeng; among them are some who hid even their names, so how could we identify every one? "Ziwei" (dark canopy) refers to dense woods so dim they seem draped in curtains, hence used as a place name. Zhuangzi sets the Fisherman's exchange with Confucius as a parable, with the same intent as when the Madman of Chu sang as he passed before Confucius. Confucius was urgent to save people and the world; his path in public life stood out too plainly, so people could talk about him. The Fisherman therefore tells him: shed faults, keep clear of harm, cultivate yourself, hold to what is genuinely yours, and give external things back to others. Reputation is also an external thing; the Maker of things is sparing with it—go beyond your measure and you invite jealousy. What is genuinely yours is the precious thing you already have; externals are not worth comparing to it. If people do not know to cherish what is genuinely theirs, they have no master within and can only drift with the world, changing as fashion changes. The two similes—fearing one's shadow and hating one's footprints (both arise from oneself, so flight is useless), and forcing tears or forcing anger (what does not come from the heart is not real)—are exceptionally apt. From "In serving parents, be filial and kind" onward, the passage is of great use for the art of governing a state. Thus the Fisherman is not someone who seeks only to perfect himself in isolation; entering office and withdrawing each have their season. Confucius, hearing this, awakens, is willing to set aside what he had learned, and at last accepts the teaching. One who governs the world through deliberate action, once he hears the good of Wuwei (non-action), cannot but hold it in esteem. The Fisherman poles his boat away—showing that passing by he can transform others yet leaves no trace. Confucius waits until the ripples subside and he can no longer hear the oar before he dares mount his carriage; this shows that as soon as he heard ultimate truth he was won over in heart. The man was gone, but reverence remained. Everything the Fisherman said was meant to show that the world's understanding of Confucius goes no further than the outward deeds by which he moved among people. Only Zhuangzi grasped Confucius's heart, pointed at those deeds, and criticized them—only then can what is "genuine" be silently aligned. Many blame this classic for slandering Confucius; I hold that in Zhuangzi's treatment of Confucius, he alone catches the subtlety of honoring him. What Laozi calls "straight words seem reverse" means precisely this.

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning of the True Classic of the Southern Florescence), fascicle 99, by Chu Boxiu of the Song, Miscellaneous Chapters, “Lie Yukou,” section 1.

Lie Yukou (Liezi) was on his way to Qi when he turned back halfway and met Bo Hun Miao Ren, a recluse of deep attainment in the Way. Bo Hun Miao Ren asked why he had returned. Lie Yukou said he had been frightened: at ten drink shops where he had taken meals, five had rushed to bring his drink before the others. Bo Hun Miao Ren said, “Is that all? Why be alarmed?” Lie Yukou replied that when inner sincerity has not yet fully opened, one’s bearing and demeanor already shine outward and startle others, so that people slight the honored and the elder and trouble follows. The shopkeepers were only selling thin gruel and hoping for a little extra profit—gain slight, authority light—yet they treated him so; how much more would a ruler of ten thousand war-chariots, worn out by state affairs and drained by government, entrust business to him and demand that he yield up merit? That was why he was afraid. Bo Hun Miao Ren said, “You see it well. If you keep standing thus, people will gather to you.”

Before long Lie Yukou came to call. Outside the door, shoes were already piled full. Bo Hun Miao Ren stood facing north, set his staff under his chin, and remained silent a while, then left without a word. A guest told Liezi; Liezi took his shoes, ran barefoot to the threshold, and said, “You came, sir—will you not speak a single word of piercing counsel?” Bo Hun Miao Ren said, “Enough. Long ago I told you people would gather to you, and now it is so. It is not that you can make people gather; it is that you cannot make them not gather—so why put on a look that pleases and sets you apart? If you go on this way, external things will surely stir and shake your nature, all to no purpose. Those who keep company with you will not warn you either; their small talk is poison that harms. No one notices, no one wakes up—how can they see one another clearly? The clever wear themselves out, the wise are burdened with care; one who is wuwei has no craving, eats his fill and wanders at large, like a boat never moored, the inner void bright as he roams in freedom.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Jiang” refers to the shopkeeper who sells thin gruel or broth. “Xian kui” means they rush to offer it first, as a show of respect. When the inner mind cannot melt and open, the outer bearing becomes stiff and artificial; actions are overly deferential and a kind of sheen appears. That can only press people down from the outside—it is not enough to win them inwardly. When winning others comes from inner fullness, the feeling of honoring the old becomes more sincere. Relying on a fine outward appearance to move people is how disorder arises. The cup-seller’s authority is slight and his profit thin; he need not ask favors of others. As long as he cannot forget bodily form and social rank, wherever he goes people will crowd around and “guard” him. “Bao” means to gather round and watch over someone. One who can rest in the ordinary and follow change has no craving and no demand; without craving and demand, one will not be guarded. To bestow favor before seeing how the other party stands is favor not issued for that person—it is novelty displayed in advance. Once one must be moved by something, one’s native disposition is stirred along with it. What slips subtly into people’s hearts is “small talk” (xiaoyan). Only the sage truly has nothing to show off; from there down to insects, nothing can forget its own capacity and leave the crowd to itself.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The sage wears coarse cloth outside and hides fine jade within (bei he huai yu—a figure for deep talent and virtue), preserves body and life, and hides himself without shrinking from depth. When inner sincerity cannot dissolve, the mind has not yet forgotten scheming. Sincerity reaching the face as a glow lets others see through—it is not the way to hide. Eating at ten gruel-shops in a row, half the time food is offered first: that is using the outer show to subdue hearts, so people slight honoring the aged and instead value themselves—calamity is invited by oneself. Ji and ji (two homophonous words in the text) both mean to bring on or incur. Only when moved does one respond; embodying one’s nature, holding to spirit, and wandering in the world of custom can keep others from clinging. Deliberately appearing different means one’s skill is not well concealed; feeling moved in advance stirs native disposition—that is a great harm in nurturing mind and storing spirit. Hence those who do not admonish each other but only speak small talk are poison; those who neither notice nor awaken cannot be called mutually “steeped” (shu). Shu suggests gradual steaming and perfuming until completion. Students of learning gain day by day, so they do not seek fullness in eating or ease in dwelling; seekers of the Way lose day by day, drop cleverness, return to non-ability, and are like an unmoored boat—empty and still, roaming freely.

Yidu’s commentary: Those who speak small talk are poison; those who neither notice nor awaken cannot be called mutually steeped. Shu means gradual steaming and dyeing until achievement. In learning one gains daily, hence eating without seeking satiety and dwelling without seeking comfort; in pursuing the Way one reduces daily, removes cleverness and returns to non-ability, hence like a boat without mooring lines—empty and still, roaming in freedom.

In Lin Yidu’s commentary, “inner sincerity not yet released” (nei cheng bu jie) means the heart has not truly been freed, so brilliance shows on the outside. “Spy” (die) means to scrutinize minutely. If one cannot fill oneself with De (Virtue/Power) inwardly, one leaves traces of trying to subdue people’s hearts from without; people then chase outward display and look down on those who are truly worthy and venerable. “Fragmented” (ji) describes things broken and in disorder: when De has not yet reached xuanjie (liberation from entanglement), the mind of secret watching appears outward, and calamities arise in confusion.

A gruel-seller’s profit is thin and his power slight, yet people still rush to attach themselves; how much more when the lord of ten thousand chariots wears out body and mind and exhausts wisdom seeking worthies to assist him—he is sure to demand achievement of you, so you feel alarm. “Well said—what a view!” means not only seeing the other person but also turning back to see oneself. By ritual, when visiting a senior one removes shoes and goes up to the hall; when shoes pile up outside the door, it shows many have come to attach themselves—and indeed one has been “protected” (bao: surrounded and upheld). “Dispensing medicine” (fa yao) means teaching with good words, like using drugs to cure illness.

Liezi could exhaust his own nature but had not yet reached ming (fate/life’s mandate); he could not forget form and erase display, so people “protected” him. It was not that he made people protect him, but that he could not keep people from protecting him. The scripture’s saying that it is hard to make all under Heaven forget even oneself together points exactly here. One who forgets both things and self responds only when the outer world moves him; why show unusual conduct beforehand to draw attachment? Once such attraction exists, it shakes one’s nature and the outer world can enter. Fellow travelers do not tell the truth but use flattery to enter the heart—this is “human poison” (ren du), which cannot wake people from delusion. Why “mutual ripening” (xiang shu)? “Shu” means “to know” (zhi); mutual knowing then becomes mature familiarity. Those skilled in cleverness cannot escape worry and toil; neither clever nor wise is “no ability”—eating one’s fill and roaming freely, like a boat not yet moored, drifting.

Bi Xuzi (Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan) comments: When sincerity within has not yet fully ripened and the heart is not yet empty and still, the body and face already shine with a polished air—that is making a display of imposing bearing. Using outward brilliance to overawe others, so they submit to your presence, slighting venerable elders while exalting yourself—trouble may well spring from this. He sells broth for scant gain, yet treats me so; how much more would this apply to a lord of ten thousand chariots? When a ruler esteems the worthy, the burden of responsibility is not light, hence his alarm. Shoes crowd the threshold outside the gate—people do indeed come to attach themselves. Stern admonition is like a physician dispensing medicine.

Where there are visible traces, people cling; if one is without contrivance, they have no handle by which to know you. Liezi could avoid losing his virtue, yet he still could not keep virtue from being split apart and scattered, not gathered into something that could be displayed.

When moved by things outside to delight, and the mind deliberately shows what is unusual, nature is shaken—by principle that is hard to sustain. Those who follow and keep company with you are none your match; loyal words are not heard, and only clever speech that does harm is spoken—who can openly remonstrate with one another? Moreover, those who come to attach themselves to you are not seeking Wuwei (non-action); they insist on learning craft and clever knowing.

Only the sage understands this. Therefore he keeps the heart empty and unattached, leaves affairs to the many kinds of talent, without labor or worry—simply eating his fill and wandering at ease.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi) says: Sincerity piled in the heart, not yet dissolved—when the bearing moves, it becomes a brilliant demeanor, and so people honor him. Zhao Zhou said: “This old monk’s practice has no strength.” Hence one must hold the heart empty and unattached, entrust things to the group of talents, without labor or worry—eating one’s fill and roaming freely, and that is all.

Yan Studio—the sobriquet of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song—said: When sincerity builds up in the heart and has not yet been spent, one’s face and bearing take on a bright, dignified air, and people therefore respect you. Chan Master Zhao Zhou’s remark, “This old monk’s practice is weak; the spirits see right through me,” hits exactly this point. People who are old and worthy of honor ought to be respected; yet nowadays people slight them and instead look up to me. The more your outward traces gather and show, the more you are exposed—and the harder it is to dodge the troubles of the age. If even a syrup-seller’s household treats me with such deference, how much more a ruler of the state? A ruler, wearing himself out and straining every wit, is bound to put me to use and demand results from me—that is precisely the disaster you bring on yourself. People will flock to you, lean on you, and take you as their teacher. The word bao (to keep, to rely on) already implies that what is “kept” is still not enough. Look again at Bo Hun Mao Ren, the adept in the text—his insight stands a step higher. In ancient custom one removed one’s shoes before taking a seat. In his haste to greet Mao Ren he had no time to put them on and ran off holding his shoes. “You cannot even stop people from coming to rely on you” means it is hard to make people forget you. “And by what do you use that?” asks what power you have to move people to such delight. You surely cannot hide yourself; the extraordinary shows on the outside and you stir your inborn nature—especially to no good. Without friends who counsel one another, you will never wake up for life. Ask once more: What then? The clever must wear themselves out; the sharp-witted must worry themselves sick. Only one who embodies the Dao, follows what is so of itself, and does not put their own contrivance to use—such a one is content to eat their fill and wander at leisure. The passage ends on the word xu (emptiness)—truly deft writing.

This chapter’s wording appears in the Liezi through the passage about “wandering” and “knowing each other well” (you, xiang shu — traveling together and being thoroughly familiar; in ancient texts shu often stands for shu “ripe/familiar”). Only two or three characters differ between the two books. The Nan Hua (Nan Hua Zhen Jing, i.e. the Zhuangzi) adds a few lines from “the skilled one” onward, summing up what came before—and those lines are even sharper, like Li Guangbi taking over Guo Ziyi’s army (two famous Tang generals): one round of tightening discipline and the whole force comes alive again.

Liezi (Lie Yukou) lived in Zheng’s orchard for forty years without anyone knowing who he was. From that we can infer that “the five syrup-sellers vying to feed him first” (wu jiang xian kui) must have happened before he withdrew to Zheng’s orchard. Yet the moment he saw someone bring him food, he panicked—showing that at that time his skill at watching others and checking himself was still shallow. Later, when shoes filled the doorway, that was exactly when he could no longer hide himself and people rushed to attach to him. Why use such a people-pleasing trick, showing yourself as different to move others? Whoever wants to transform others must first stir their nature; only then do they change—what is there to praise in that? If I have no deliberate mind, even ghosts and spirits cannot fathom me—how much less other people? Your friend did not warn you either; you relied on clever talk to please others while remaining unaware yourself—why have you both been steeped and habituated to this point? The world competes in deploying cleverness, and so toils in worry; no one is willing to rest in “being without ability.” Here “being without ability” is wuwei (non-deliberate action). Wuwei is wanting nothing: once full, one wanders at will, like an unmoored boat adrift—simply dwelling in the ground of emptying the self. Bixuzi (Chen Jingyuan), following the Liezi text, glosses it as “no surplus gain” (wu duoyu zhi ying).

In the state of Zheng there was a man named Huan who spent three years reciting and studying the Book of Odes and Documents in the district of the Qiu clan. In only three years he had become a Confucian: his kindness spread like river water for nine li around, and blessings reached his three clans. He then sent his younger brother to study Mohism. The two brothers argued back and forth according to Confucian and Mohist doctrine, yet their father sided with Mozi, the founder of Mohism. Ten years later Huan killed himself. His father dreamed that Huan said to him: “It was I who made your son a Mohist. Why don’t you come and see my grave? I have long since turned into the fruit of an autumn cypress.”

When the Maker of things repays a person, it does not repay what he has made of himself afterward—it repays the nature he was born with. That the younger brother became a Mohist was simply what his inborn nature inclined toward. Huan, however, took himself to be different from others and therefore looked down on his father—like people of Qi who draw from the same well yet grab each other and fight over it. So it is said that people in the world today are mostly like Huan. They insist they are right; even someone of virtue may fail to see this point—how much more so someone who merely holds to the Dao! The ancients called this “the punishment of turning away from Heaven”—meaning that one goes against one’s natural endowment and brings suffering on oneself. The sage rests in what ought to be rested in, and does not rest in what ought not to be rested in; the multitude rest in what ought not to be rested in, and do not rest in what ought to be rested in.

Guo Xiang (commentator on the Zhuangzi) explains: Zhai was the name of Yuan’s younger brother. Yuan resented his father for favoring his brother, killed himself in anger, and after death appeared in a dream, saying that he had been able to become a Confucian (Ru) himself and could also teach his brother to become a Mohist (Mo). His brother received the teaching but did not acknowledge him as a worthy teacher, and so died embittered. Their sincerity and spirit reached the utmost and turned into the fruit of the grave-side cypress (the cypress’s nut).

From “Now the Creator” onward is Zhuangzi’s own voice. What the Creator rewards is the nature perfected through cultivation—not deliberate contrivance. Learning only completes what is already in one’s nature; it is not something people force into being. One has this nature first, and only then goes to learn. Yuan boasted of Confucian learning, thinking it the fruit of accumulated study, unaware that it arose from nature.

Those who credit themselves and thereby look down on others spare not even kin; those who can set aside the self and hold high and low level by innate nature neither gain nor lose their proper place. Digging a well is to draw forth spring water; chanting and reciting are to give voice to innate nature. Without spring water there is nothing to dig for; without innate nature there is nothing to chant. The world forgets that spring water and innate nature are already there by nature, sees only the side effects of digging wells and chanting, and then boasts of them as one’s own—is that not confused?

Yuan’s mistake was to think all this was learned. The father let things follow their natural course, understood this in his heart, and so did not interfere. To treat innate endowment as one’s own achievement is to flee Heaven (turn against the natural)—and such a person meets punishment. The sage has no fixed ease and no fixed unease, but simply follows what people find easeful in their hearts; what each finds easeful differs—and that is why the multitude is the multitude.

Lu commentary: Huan made himself a Ru (Confucian) and had his younger brother become a Moist (follower of Mozi), so the brothers argued with each other; their father sided with Zhai (the Mohist brother), and Huan killed himself. All of this was merely human doing. That Huan was a Ru and Zhai a Mohist came from the “Heaven” (natural endowment) each received. As persons, father and son and brothers are not one man, and Ru and Mo are not one vocation; as the Heaven in each person, there is only one. What the father dreamed was Huan’s Heaven; Huan’s Heaven was also his brother’s Heaven—Huan could not monopolize that Heaven as his own. The younger brother becoming a Mohist was truly Heaven making him so. What is called “liang” (innate goodness) comes from one’s nature; it is not something study can manufacture—it is likewise just Heaven. Huan said he had made his brother study Mohism and took his own talent to be “liang,” thereby forgetting the bond of father, son, and brothers. Studying Ru and becoming Ru, studying Mo and becoming Mo, and Huan turning into the fruit of a cypress—all are recompense for what was received, entirely driven by Heaven, while people do not know what is driving them. People are originally not different, yet they fancy themselves unlike others and even despise kin, like Huan—how can that not be pitiable? It is no different from the men of Qi treating the well as their own and coming to blows over it. Those in the world who do not know their own Heaven and therefore value themselves and cheapen others are all like Huan. They lose their nature in that way only because they have self-assumed “knowing.” The virtuous preserve their Heaven by “not knowing”; how much more those who have the Dao? Once there is this knowing, one flees Heaven; fleeing Heaven and turning from genuine feeling, one cannot escape recompense—hence the ancients called it “dun tian zhi xing” (the penalty of fleeing Heaven). The sage rests in what should be rested in; the multitude rest in what should not be rested in. What should be rested in is Heaven; what should not be rested in is human artifice.

Yidu commentary: “Yin shen” is the sound of reciting and chanting. Qiushi is a place name. For a Ru truly to gain a name, he must penetrate Heaven, Earth, and humanity; what three years of chanting yielded was only the crude outer part. Even men like Huan were rare as thorough Ru, yet the state of Zheng still employed him. “He run” (river’s moisture) likens beneficence reaching far. “San zu” means parents and wife. Huan as Ru and the brother as Mo each filled out their allotted nature and each used his own method to debate right and wrong. The father helped Zhai; Huan therefore killed himself and, in a dream, said: it was I who made your son study Mohism. Zhai would not yield to him, and the father again aided Zhai, so he died nursing resentment. His true nature had turned into the fruit of catalpa and cypress. “Liang” is like liangxin or liangneng—the knowing, capacity, and heart all issue from true nature, hence “liang.” Autumn cypress is firm and stays green after the cold season, meaning the nature that makes one a Ru cannot be changed. Each person has his Heaven; learning only fills out what one’s capacity can seek. What the Creator gives, one cannot force away; what the Creator withholds, one cannot force to exist. The split between Huan and Zhai, Ru and Mo—even with a father’s dignity and an elder brother’s affection—could not be altered, because each had a Heaven that made it so. People who slight kin because their views differ from others’ all stem from partiality in learning; though this is human doing, Heaven is in it too. Men of Qi drinking from one well yet fighting, knowing only to draw water and not the source of the water, is like Ru of that time clinging to minor points and disputing right and wrong. If learning does not reach ming (what is given), one cannot know the root. Those with De can still treat not-knowing as knowing and not boast; how much more those who cultivate the Dao? “Tian xing” means the mandate of nature cannot be evaded; Huan wanted to evade it, so Zhuangzi does not approve of him. What is rested in as “an” is benevolence; what is not rested in is lack of benevolence—both are still the human way. The way of Heaven has no “an” or “not an”; it is only responding to the situation in accord with principle.

Bixu commentary: Huan killed himself from accumulated anger; the father’s dream came from deluded thought. Catalpa and cypress bearing fruit on the grave means he remained steadfast and unyielding, gathering the quality of enduring the cold year, taking that as proof. Lizhu (whose sight was utmost sharp) and Shi Kuang (whose hearing was utmost keen) were clever by nature, and the Creator repaid them with cleverness. What the nature originally had is repaid on the body. It was not that Huan himself could be a Ru and also teach his brother to be a Moist. Scholars vying to teach and debating each other, like fighting over well water, are all driven by the mind that must win. Only those with De do not wish to be known; how much more those who have the Dao? “Dun tian zhi xing” means abandoning heavenly principle and imposing punishment on oneself. The sage rests content with the crane’s long shanks and does not go on lengthening the duck’s short legs; the multitude do the opposite, so heavenly principle and human affairs part ways.

Yizhai (the pen name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song, referring to his commentary in Zhuangzi Oral Explanations) said: “The river moistens for nine li” describes how virtue and grace spread far and wide. Huan drew on surplus wealth to send his younger brother to study Mohism (the teachings of the Mohist school). The brothers pursued different paths, so their views diverged. Their father favored the younger brother Zhai and shielded him; Huan resented his father for this and eventually took his own life. He then appeared to his father in a dream, saying: “The means that supplied your son to study Mohism came from my surplus grace; now, because of this quarrel, you have brought about my death—why not look at the autumn cypress on my grave? It has already borne fruit.” This indicates that he had been dead for a long time. The character liang in the text should be read as lang, meaning a tomb or mound.

Zhuangzi then judged: Huan believed he had made his younger brother a Mohist, but failed to grasp that the Creator—the natural process of nurturing and transforming—has its own principle of retribution toward people; it does not respond according to human talent or effort. That his younger brother studied Mohism and became a Mohist was the Creator completing him through his inherent nature; it was not something Huan achieved by supplying funds through human effort. In “bi therefore makes bi,” the first bi refers to the Creator, the second to his younger brother; “fu ren” refers to Huan. People of Qi who fight over water at a well, treating the well water as private property—this narrow view is the same as Huan’s. A person of virtue still holds the Creator to be unfathomable; how much more so one who has attained the Dao. “Dun” means turning away from one’s natural principle; “xing” means thereby offending the Creator.

Each person carries an upright nature endowed by Heaven that cannot be altered. Huan became a Confucian and Di a Mohist—both dispositions were already in their inborn nature and only came to fruition through study. Confucians take Yao and Shun as models; Mohists take the Great Yu; both are learning from sages. Confucians uphold the Doctrine of the Mean, while Mohism drifts into jian’ai (impartial, undifferentiated love for all). Both excess and deficiency stray from the right path, so the sage’s tradition does not adopt Mohism.

At the time, Confucianism and Mohism flourished side by side, either enough to bring a person honor and success. Huan, however, boasted that he could be a Confucian himself and make his younger brother a Mohist, and prided himself on that. The two teachings differ in aim, so they argued with each other. Their father could not judge by principle and instead favored Di. Huan should have settled where he belonged and awakened gradually; there is no inborn nature that cannot return to its root—why be so quick to resent his father and even take his own life? He had already lost a great deal.

His resentment still unspent, Huan appeared again to his father in a dream, saying: why not try to see—he was already covered by the grave mound, and his numinous essence had turned into the fruit of catalpa and cypress (trees often planted at graves). The fruit was still one kind of substance, meaning he remained steadfast and his genuine nature was still there. Zhuangzi therefore concludes: what the Creator rewards in a person is not that person’s physical form but that person’s tian (Heaven); “reward” means return, and “Heaven” here means innate nature. Huan changed into something else; his form did not come back, yet he could still explain himself in a dream—showing that innate nature is not destroyed. “That is why It makes that” (bi gu shi bi) picks up the earlier thread: the human form cannot long endure, but innate nature must return to unity; what a single thought holds cannot be wiped away. Huan died resenting his father, yet his nature did not perish and became steadfast trees. Then for those who nourish life properly, live out their full years, shed entanglements, follow change, and return to the beginning—where will their genuine nature go?

A man of Zheng turning into catalpa and cypress sounds strange, yet Kuafu (who died of thirst chasing the sun in myth) becoming the Deng Forest (the grove from his staff)—such things may also happen. The transformations of the sentient and the insentient never end; none of them fall outside the permutations of form. People caught in this without knowing it go along and transform with things. If one knows there is something without form that does not change, one will not be transformed by things but can transform things.

When people reach this point they are all like Huan, so Zhuangzi rebukes worldly Confucians for being this shallow in understanding—how can one expect them to penetrate the three powers (Heaven, Earth, and humanity) and govern the myriad things? What the person of virtue speaks of is “not-knowing.” Huan lost the Dao because he set his mind on knowing and discriminating; only by being unified and not discriminating can one preserve the nature received from Heaven and Earth. “Escaping Heaven’s punishment” (dun tian zhi xing) has been interpreted in more than one way; one should read what follows—what is secure and what is insecure is the proof. Some treat it as a separate chapter, which breaks the continuity of the text’s meaning. The sense is this: Huan evaded natural principle and betrayed the heaven-given bonds of father, son, and brothers—that is not resting in what one should rest in; resenting and bringing punishment on oneself is resting in what one should not rest in. Zhuangzi closes Huan’s case with “escaping Heaven’s punishment,” as a warning to later generations who do not rest in heavenly principle, who are harsh, stubborn, and insist on going their own way.

From Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, fascicle 100 (compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song), on the miscellaneous chapter “Lie Yuke” (Lie Yukou): Zhuangzi said that knowing the Dao is easy, but not speaking of it is hard. To know and not speak is the path toward what is naturally so; to know and then speak is already human artifice. The ancients followed the natural and did not fall into the artificial.

Zhu Hanman studied dragon-slaying under Zhili Yi. He exhausted his family’s wealth of a thousand gold; after three years his skill was complete, yet there was nowhere this craft could be applied.

The sage treats what is “certain” as “not yet certain,” and therefore has no warfare; the multitude treat what is “not yet certain” as “certain,” and therefore contention is abundant. Acting in line with contention, every move carries craving; relying on contention leads to ruin.

Those of shallow insight never get beyond gift-giving (baoju) and the back-and-forth of letters and documents (gandu). They spend their spirit on what is petty, yet wish to bring benefit to the ten thousand things and to reach the Supreme Unity (Taiyi) and the formless. Such people wander lost between Heaven and Earth, dragged down by the body, and do not know the primordial beginning (Taichu).

The perfected person turns spirit toward what has no beginning and is content to sink into the “Land of Nothing Whatever” (Wuhe You Zhi Xiang). Like water that holds no fixed shape, they disperse into the Supreme Clarity (Taiqing). Pitiful! You apply knowing to matters as fine as hairs and do not know the great tranquility (Daning).

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Even when the heart-and-mind has already reached through heaven and earth, it still never opens the mouth to speak and thereby pull external things along; it only responds according to what its own station allows. In affairs, what matters is fitness and appropriateness—there is no need to chase distant effects. Even when a principle is necessarily so, one does not fix on it as having to be so; that is what is most yielding and accordant—whence would military strife arise? When things are not necessarily so, yet one hardens that judgment into necessity, each person clings only to his own view, and deviation and conflict arise from this. The ten thousand things, each following its own nature, are already sufficient; sufficiency means nothing is sought outside. When one must act as a last resort, those who take tranquil simplicity as supreme do not perish on that account. Using wrapped gifts (baoju) to send presents and bamboo slips (gaodu) to exchange greetings—this is merely what petty cleverness runs after. Drowning in petty affairs, what one gains was shallow to begin with, yet wishing to bring benefit to all under heaven and guide the ten thousand things, passing through empty space and crossing to distant regions—ambition too vast and spirit worn down, the body again becomes a drag; thus one is confused and does not reach what should be reached. The True Person (Zhenren) is plain and without deliberate action (wuwei), letting the natural run its course; if one sets the mind on using wisdom, what is obtained is instead fragmented and fine. One must accord with native endowment and arrive at great peace and ease—only then can one truly reach the goal.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The distinction between “reaching toward Heaven” and “reaching toward people” is precisely why Wuweiwu (the one who is namelessly without words, having attained the Way) is praised; Kuang Qu (who would speak but forgets what he would say) is close to this, while Zhihe and the Yellow Emperor in the end are still not close enough. The dragon’s transformations approximate sage wisdom; what is called “slaughter” (tu) is to cut off and utterly discard such artifice. “A single thousand-gold household” means exhausting everything a house of a thousand pieces of gold possesses. Such cleverness originally has nowhere it can be applied, so there is no need to trouble oneself to discard it further—this is preserving Heaven’s wholeness intact. There is no weapon more bitter than the heart-and-mind; Mo Ye (an ancient famed sword) comes only after that. The sage’s endowment makes him stand when he stands and go smoothly when he walks the Way—it looks as if one could assert necessity; yet he never treats himself as necessary, and attributes all to Heaven. Therefore, if one treats “must” as “need not,” one is not harmed by failure to achieve one’s aims, and hence there is no disaster of arms. The multitude is the opposite, so disasters of arms are many; following the path of military contention, with something to covet and something to rely on, one perishes on that account. Ordinary knowledge cannot leave the sphere of gift-giving and letter-writing; it spends the spirit on what is shallow, yet wishes to bring benefit to all and guide things, unite with the Great One (Taiyi), and keep the body empty and still—this is not something such a one can bear. Therefore he is confused amid the cosmos, dragged down by the body, does not know the Grand Beginning (Taishi), and cannot become one with the Great One and empty stillness like it. Only the sage turns the spirit back toward no-beginning and is willing to rest in sleep in the Land of No-Thing (Wuheyou zhixiang). When he must act, it is like water without a fixed form, pouring forth into the Grand Clarity (Taiqing)—only then can he truly bring benefit to all and guide things, unite with the Great One, and keep the form empty. The heart does not know which way to turn; originally it is also vast—yet people’s knowing and seeing cannot leave the interval between wrapped gifts and bamboo slips. Such knowing stays on matters as fine as a hair and does not know great peace and ease—truly lamentable.

The commentator Lin Yidu, a Song-dynasty exegete of the Zhuangzi, explains that the sage does not speak from a settled intention to talk; speech is only a response to things when there is no alternative. Confucius and Mencius shared the same inner orientation, yet their formulations differed for just this reason. Zhuangzi, at points where silence would have sufficed, still spoke and took language as the resting place of the mind’s ease—without any fundamental break from the Confucian masters. Heaven and humanity are parted only by the thinnest margin, the difference between speaking and not speaking. Hence the saying: knowing the Dao (the Way) is easy; refraining from putting the Dao into words is hard. Only when the Dao has subdued external things can one keep silent. To separate Heaven and the human by speech and silence is a pedagogical device; in truth the two were never split. Worldly people burn with desire, so this teaching is meant to correct them.

“Dragon-slaying” names a virtuoso skill of the literati for which there is no occasion in the world. The point is that Zhuangzi’s path exhausts the nature of things and one’s own nature until it aligns with fate and the mandate of Heaven, and refuses effort that brings no real benefit—so one must be cautious with techniques of the Dao.

Those who accord with fate act in a way that naturally fits righteousness (yi). The sage has circumstances in which righteousness could be held fast, yet handles them through yielding (shun), because fate is already at work within them, and so strife does not arise. Ordinary people lack any fixed circumstance in which righteousness must be done, do not understand fate, yet insist that things must go a certain way—hence contention abounds. Mencius said that in some cases “words need not be kept and deeds need not be carried through to the end,” treating what is obligatory as optional; an old saying holds that one who rigidly demands “words must be kept and deeds must be finished” is a shallow petty person—treating the optional as obligatory.

What is meant by “strife” (bing) is not battle outside the body but joy and anger warring in the breast. Joy and anger are unavoidable in human life: follow them in action and what one seeks may still be attained; lean on them as weapons and ruin follows—so they must be restrained. Using wrapped fragrant herbs for sacrificial rites and bamboo slips to convey sincerity are the ways of petty worldly people, who spend their spirit on narrow, shallow affairs—not on embracing the myriad things, guiding events, and seeking alignment with the Taiyi (the origin of number) and the Way of form-as-void. Such persons are lost within the cosmos, dragged down by the body, and do not know the Taichu (the origin of qi). “Taiyi” is spoken in connection with form-as-void; “Taichu” with being burdened by form—because void cannot be without number, and those encumbered by form still fall short of true void. “Without beginning” (wushi) means the time before any beginning has yet appeared; “the land of nothing-at-all” (wuheyous) is the great void.

In the correspondence of the Five Phases, water belongs to the kidneys and governs essence (jing). Ordinary people deploy spirit on tasks and let the mind race among appetites; the perfected person (zhiren) stores spirit in “without beginning” and rests in tranquil obscurity in the land of nothing-at-all. For the ordinary person, water flows in the visible form and is easily exhausted; for the perfected person, water flows in the formless and is never used up, issuing into the great clarity (taiqing) and reaching everywhere. Petty people do not understand the great peace (daning)—and that is lamentable.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan’s sobriquet) explains: When the heart holds judgments of right and wrong yet one keeps silent, that accords with what is natural; when compassion stirs in the heart and one speaks it out, that is human artifice. Holding to the natural and not slipping into artifice, inner awareness stays present—who could deceive such a person? Those whose aims are empty and boundless seem to learn on a vast scale, but in truth their learning is hollow; those who chase only strange, flashy skills find what they gain broken into fragments. The dragon excels at transformation—gathered, it takes shape; scattered, it shows its patterns. It cannot be pinned down and seen clearly, so how could one slaughter it? So-called “learning to slay dragons” is mostly grand talk. When the skill is complete yet there is nowhere to use it, the point runs deep. Outer events cannot be forced to turn out a certain way, so the perfected person (one who has attained the Great Dao) calmly accepts what comes, lest resentment build and collide with others. Insist that things must go your way, and you invite calamities like gouged eyes and hoarded blood—can you afford not to be careful?

Gengsangzi (the figure in the text said to have attained the Dao) said: Resentment stored in the heart before it erupts is already the disaster of war—not to mention blades and arrows on the body. Pouring spirit into shallow trifles may win small gains and lose the greater whole. Those dazzled by the myriad forms of the cosmos who do not grasp Taichu (the primordial beginning before things took shape) are like eyes that see an autumn hair’s tip yet miss Mount Tai and Mount Hua, or ears that tune to silk and bamboo yet miss thunder. Turning spirit toward what has no beginning is to fold in and hide cleverness; resting calmly in deep stillness in the “Land of Nothing Whatever” (the place where nothing at all exists) is to embrace emptiness and openness. Thus one can move in boundless space and act in utter stillness. Yet you now cling to twigs and lose the root—that is pitiable.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi’s sobriquet) said: “Do not say it is hard” means the hard part is forgetting words. Realize the Dao and forget words, and you leave human artifice behind and keep company with Heaven. Spending a family fortune to learn dragon-slaying, then having nowhere to apply it when the art is mastered—Zhuangzi uses this to say his teaching is great but not yet given room to work. The sage does not treat what is not necessarily so as if it must be so—that is knowing what one does not know. The crowd treats what cannot be made necessary as necessary, so contention is endless. War is the greatest contention. Follow the contentious heart in the world, and every act looks like picking a fight; lean on strife and you only destroy yourself. Gifts and polite letters are small, shallow matters; to think they can save all under Heaven, guide the ten thousand things, and match the origin of the Great Unity and the subtlety of the formless—is that not delusion? Dragged down by forms in the cosmos, people forget the way of Taichu and the natural. The perfected person turns spirit to where the ten thousand things have not yet begun and dwells in the place of wuwei (non-action). “Sweet slumber” means sleeping peacefully—a image for resting at ease in oneself. Water flows; people see its shape and do not see that it comes from the formless; when it runs off and disperses, it returns to the void of the Great Clarity. Most people, not knowing how things begin and end, look at water the same way. Insight that stops at the width of a hair sees very little; “Great Tranquility” is the principle of wuwei and the natural, holding everything.

One who understands the Dao yet still puts it into words is engaged in “knowing”; one who understands the Dao and can forget words is engaged in “sageliness.” Reaching the ground of the sage is unity with Heaven. Those with insight who expound the Way in speech can still instruct others and have not yet committed a grave fault. Yet there are people whose learning is shallow and whose experience is narrow, yet who are smug and self-satisfied: though their mouths say nothing, their bearing already speaks—how could they grasp the ancients’ subtle accord with the principle of Heaven?

Most explications of “slaying the dragon” belittle the theme and miss the scripture’s intent. Only Master Lü (Lü Huiqing) got the essential point. Bixu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) called this chapter “of no benefit,” which is also off the mark. It is now retitled the “Forgetting the Subtle” chapter, with a brief sketch of a modest reading: learning to seek the Dao is like going to sea to find a dragon—few who seek actually see one, and fewer still who see one can “slay” it. This is a metaphor for how hard the Way is to attain; after seeing the Way, being able to forget it is harder still.

At first one seeks the dragon and succeeds in seeing it, and then knows that oneself holds inexhaustible transformation; only when one finally obtains the dragon and can “slay” it does one deserve to say this Way holds supreme subtlety that leaves no trace. The dragon does not appear in deathlike stillness; one must seek it in the depths of indistinct obscurity. So-called slaying is not something a blade can impose—it transcends the sound of the cleaver and the joints of sinew and bone. To exhaust such subtlety—how could the dance of Sanglin (an ancient ritual dance, often used to describe Cook Ding’s butchering) describe it? To spend a fortune is to empty all possession; a thousand days’ labor may succeed, yet the skill has nowhere to apply—then one relies wholly on spirit meeting spirit, power and understanding forgotten together, no longer knowing what the dragon is or who the slayer is. Chan has a saying: the dragon of Longya Mountain—one glimpse and mind’s intent ceases. That is only the first stage of this work.

Read closely: these lines on slaying the dragon are marvelously strange in wording, extremely spare in language, and in meaning they can stand beside that long chapter on Cook Ding. That chapter still leaves room for “use”; here essence is already merged in darkness, even “use” is forgotten—hence the supreme level.

The sage treats what need not exist as nonexistent; the multitude treat what need not exist as something they strain to possess. What is called “arms” (bing) means the battle of craving and desire within the heart; whether such battle exists depends entirely on the person. Those who follow contention act out a will to grasp and take, not seeing that relying on it ends in ruin. Petty cleverness busies itself with trivial sights and questions, wearing down spirit—this too is warring with oneself. How then can one expect a heart set on universal aid, guiding the world’s principles, and plumbing Taiyi (the origin of number) to reveal the world’s empty pervasion?

Taiyi is the beginning of number. From it all things pass from non-being into being; forms succeed one another, generation and transformation never rest. The multitude are confused by the myriad phenomena of the cosmos because they are dragged down by present form and do not know that in the primordial beginning there was originally non-being. The perfected person turns spirit toward the beginningless—that is, the “land of nothing-to-rely-on” where primordial unity had nothing at all. Water is the first of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water): visible yet not graspable, with form and without form—form descending moistens the ten thousand things; qi ascending disperses into the Great Clarity (the far, clear, empty realm). Following yin-yang’s turning it completes creation and transformation; the principle lies here. Worldlings apply mind to the minute and do not know there is also the Way of “Great Tranquility” (Daning), which never ceases with Heaven’s movement. Great Tranquility is true nature not yet stirred, this heart not yet born. When outer things arrive and one responds naturally, that is what is meant by Heaven-One producing water and releasing it into Great Clarity.

In the state of Song there lived a man named Cao Shang, who went as envoy for the king of Song to the state of Qin. When he set out he had only a few carts; the ruler of Qin took a liking to him and added a gift of a hundred more. Back in Song, Cao Shang called on Zhuangzi and said: “Living in a cramped lane in the back alleys, so poor that I made a living plaiting straw sandals, with a scrawny neck and a sallow face—that was where I fell short of others. But once I won the favor of the ruler of a great state with ten thousand war chariots, and my retinue ran to a hundred carts—that is where I excel.”

Zhuangzi said: “When the king of Qin fell ill he summoned physicians. Whoever could lance a carbuncle or burst a pimple received one cart; whoever would lick his hemorrhoids received five. The more lowly the part treated, the more carts one got. Did you go to treat his hemorrhoids? Otherwise how did you end up with so many carts? Be off with you.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The baser the task, the higher the merit seems; the higher the merit, the heavier the reward. That is why those whose aspirations are lofty and whose hearts are calm cast aside glory and splendor.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Anyone who treats his own body lightly in order to win favor belongs to the same kind as the man who licks hemorrhoids.

Yidu (Lin Zi) commentary: Cao Shang loudly boasted once he had the carts; Zhuangzi used the parable of the physician treating hemorrhoids to show contempt for him at its sharpest.

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan) commentary: The lower the treatment, the greater the reward. Thus those who keep to the Dao renounce glory, while those who grasp at profit forget shame.

Yanzhai (Lin Xiyí): Pimples (ji) belong to the same class as carbuncles. The more lowly the part cured, the richer the reward—here the point is to despise such filth and treat it as unworthy of esteem.

Cao Shang flaunted his carts to magnify himself; Zhuangzi, by the great Dao, kept his own dignity. The pomp of a train of carts blazes only for a moment, while the stench of the deed never ends; the dignity of the Dao passes down through ten thousand generations, and its good name does not cease. Can one afford to be careless in choosing which path to follow?

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan Hui: “I plan to make Confucius the mainstay of the state. Can the ills of Lu be set right?” Yan Hui said: “This is perilous! Confucius is busy adding fresh paint to feathers and polishing his language; he treats branch tips as defenses, forcibly suppresses his own nature to show off before the people, yet does not understand himself and is not sincere. When his doctrines enter people’s hearts and dominate their spirits, how can he stand above the common folk? Does his way suit you? Is it fit for nourishing yourself? Only someone who has mistaken what is right would think it is. To make the people leave simplicity and learn hypocrisy is not the way to teach them. For the sake of later ages, you had better stop; otherwise governance will be hard.”

To bestow favor on others and then keep reminding them of it is not the impartial giving of Heaven. Even merchants look down on such people; even when business forces one to deal with them, in spirit one still does not respect them.

External punishment is metal and wood—that is, blades, saws, axes, and halberds, beating, cangues, and fetters. Internal punishment is reckless action and excess. Petty people who trigger external punishment undergo metal-and-wood torment; those who trigger internal punishment are eaten away by the qi of Yin-Yang. Only the perfected person—the zhenren, one who can hold to what is genuinely so and not be stirred by outer things—can escape both kinds of punishment. The zhenren is someone who keeps to authenticity and is not disturbed by external things.

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that one who has attained the Way takes the people’s tranquility as peace. Once a person is installed as the state’s mainstay, traces are preserved for ten thousand generations; people compete to adorn benevolence and righteousness and polish the surface, the masses are already in danger, and even those who have attained the Way cannot be at ease. One-sided ornament is not following what is genuinely so; it makes later followers lose the substance and selfishness flourishes. Later rulers admire the model Confucius left, restrain their nature, and put on a face before the people; above and below copy one another without knowing it. To lead the people this way means that later generations suffer not only external punishment but also hand over their minds to be driven—they can no longer find satisfaction within themselves. The people and Duke Ai each have what suits them; imitating one another loses authenticity; taking what one sees before one as a model for the other is not the right way to nourish oneself—it simply will not do. This is thinking ahead for posterity, not claiming the state can be cured at once; as soon as one sets out to “fix” things, hypocrisy follows, so sages do not govern thus. To give and then demand remembrance is not to treat things like straw dogs—used and set aside without clinging. Merchants already despise it; how much more gentlemen? In affairs one may have to deal with such a person, yet because he never forgets his favors, the mind still looks down on him—that is ordinary human feeling. When the inner mind is quiet and conduct is fitting, neither inside nor outside suffers punishment. Those who will not walk the bright, level path are called “night people”—people of narrow vision. One reckless move with excess damages temperament and vital breath within and meets metal-and-wood punishment without. Unless one is a zhenren, no one can hold to their own proper place.

Lü’s commentary: The Changes takes “constancy” (zhen) as the trunk of action, and also says that all change in the world returns to “the One.” Only by forgetting contrivance can one reach the One; reaching the One is what truly counts as the trunk. Those who govern the realm and the state—if they do not understand this point and only wish to govern by means of sage wisdom (the sage’s clever contrivance)—will inevitably fall into the very predicament the classic describes.

The Dao models itself on nature: like the swan, which need not bathe every day yet its feathers are white of themselves. Once one is dragged down by sage wisdom, it is as if one painted over the feathers again. Feathers are the natural color; painting is human ornamentation. This is also like piling up flowery rhetoric, making the large seem small and confusing names with realities. When affairs do not arise from nature, they are all forced effort—suppressing one’s true nature to display oneself to others—so that others neither understand nor trust. Such a person cannot forget contrivance and accept what the heart naturally receives, nor can they embody spirit and let spirit be master; they remain merely an ordinary commoner—how then can they stand above the people?

The Dao cannot lightly be given to someone, because that person has no inner master in the heart and cannot hold to constancy. So—is it Confucius who can make you fit and at ease, or is it you who must nourish yourself? Only by cutting off vulgar learning and cultivating the inner self can one reach the One. To want to take the sage alone as the trunk is already a mistake; it is not the upright Way. To leave the real and study the false is also not a way to guide the people. If you wish to transform and nurture like clouds moving and rain falling, why not forget cleverness and contrivance?

Ancient ritual stipulated that merchants were not ranked by age alongside scholars; ordering people by occupation was a later adaptation of ritual. Those who embody the Dao do not divide human nature by rank. Valuing righteousness and slighting profit—ritual in truth springs from human nature; grasping profit and forgetting righteousness is losing the original heart.

Metal and wooden implements punish the body; reckless movement and fault punish the heart. Stillness without stirring is the heart’s correctness; once there is reckless movement, nothing fails to go astray. If one acts with purpose and wishes to be appropriate, it must come from having no alternative; otherwise it is all fault and error. Yang Xiong said: those who act in daylight err little; those who act at night err much. “Night” (xiao) means darkness. One whose cultivation has not yet reached broad illumination, and who cannot escape punishment inward and outward, is still a person of the night—one who gropes in darkness. Only the true person (zhenren), still and without purposeful action, moving only when there is no alternative—how can punishments of body and heart drag him down?

Lin Yidu’s commentary says: Duke Ai of Lu saw only Confucius’s outward, superficial side and wanted to use him as the backbone of the state. The turning of all affairs should return to what is genuinely so—like many branches depending on one trunk to live. Yan He held that putting Confucius in charge of the state would not only fail to set things right but could endanger the realm. Confucius was polishing his ceremonial display and spreading ornament, busy with fine words rather than real work; taking side issues as the main aim obstructs one’s true nature, and forcing restraint when desire arises shows this is not authenticity. Showing this to the people, he still did not see that the people would not trust it. Later rulers who saw only these traces and tried to grasp them with the mind and govern with spirit—without transcending the body and following life-and-nature—how could they be fit to lead the people? Besides, the people and Duke Ai each have ways suited to their own life-and-nature; why must they imitate you? Wanting to imitate him in order to get “nourishment” is not the right way to nourish. Treating Confucius as the state’s backbone might pass as a moment’s mistake in speech; treating it as correct doctrine will not do. Leaving simplicity to learn pretense is not how to show the people the way; fearing that later ages will follow these traces and fix bad habits, it is better to leave things to nature.

Cloth currency is like ancient circulating money—its use has light and heavy sides. Bestowing favor on others and never forgetting it is human giving. Heaven’s giving: the giver does not see what is given, and the receiver does not know the grace. Human giving gives and then demands return. Even merchants look down on such people; though they may deal in affairs, the spirit-person who has attained the Way will not keep company with them, because human affairs and the Great Dao are not the same.

Metal and wood (metal and wooden punishments) harm the four limbs; agitation and error harm the five viscera. The “night person” is the benighted petty person, so they cannot escape punishment from without and within. Calamity begins when yin and yang are out of balance; if one cannot return to the original state, the punishments of metal and wood follow. Only the True Person (Zhenren) can escape this calamity.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Master Bi Xu) comments: Using painting and feather ornaments for display, and florid, branching rhetoric for polish, and deliberately governing the people—customs then grow doubly false. When affairs wear out the heart and managing things enslaves the spirit, one falls ill oneself; where is there spare strength to govern others?

“Ru, yu, yi, yu” is read like the “yu” in “dang yu” (partisan alliance); “yu cong tui yu” is pronounced “bi,” and both refer to Confucius (Zhongni). “Ru” and “er” refer to the multitude. The meaning is that Confucius’s De ought to be supported by the people joining together to nurture the folk; if one mistakenly tries to apply this [doctrine], it is not yet known whether it will work.

To leave what is real and pursue the false—better to stop. Yet in governing one wants the people never to forget one’s De: that is not being without intent, but having a scheme. Even peddlers who carry loads sometimes do not demand repayment; how much more so gentlemen? Benefit given and benefit returned is what vulgar sentiment calls fair; benefit given with no return is what divine principle (the subtle order of heaven) honors. Because benefit demands return, punitive harm arises from that.

External punishment is the metal and wood implements of penalty; internal punishment is restlessness and error—neither in the open nor in the dark can one escape. Those who make laws battle ice and fire within; those who break orders meet axe and halberd without. Above and below lose harmony—how can one hope for peace and good order?

Yizhai (Lin Qiyi’s style name) said: What is meant by “upright stem” is like speaking of a capable supporting minister—the sense of “steadfast enough to manage affairs” in the Changes. Once painted in color and then adorned with feathers means rhetoric has reached the utmost ornament. Taking branches and twigs for the root is not knowing the foundation. Forcing down one’s nature and deliberately acting in an extreme way, standing above the common people to put on a show, yet not understanding that this is unreal—holding fast to it in the mind to meet things, so that spirit is ruled by it—how can such a person lead the people?

“Yi” is like benefit; “yi” (in Yi) is nourishing. If you treat him as a worthy and support him, it does you no good; what you get is delay—it would be better to stop. The people could be governed by not insisting on governing; keeping the thought of governing in mind makes them harder to govern. Carrying out administration and never letting go of it is having a mind set on governing. This is like merchants: men of learning disdain being ranked with them; even when they happen to gather for some affair, in spirit they are unwilling. Those who set their hearts on acting—people of the Way disdain going along with them.

“Xun” and “ju” mean to examine and interrogate; “shi” (to “eat”) is as in ordinary speech: to harm people and make them ill. A person’s stirrings and faults are the same as suffering bodily punishment—only the True Person (one who has realized the great Way, pure and simple, practicing non-action (wuwei)) can be exempt.

Duke Ai of Lu wanted to employ Zhongni (Confucius’s style name) as a supporting minister, hoping the ills of state administration would improve—this is being sick and seeking a physician. One who seeks governance urgently necessarily expects much, so he asked Yan He (a worthy of Lu) to confirm his own intention. Yan He then listed the failings of the worthies of the age: exalting them is of no benefit; it only makes people follow outward traces and breed hypocrisy, so the people become even harder to govern.

Confucius was the most famous worthy of the time; the argument takes him as its example: adorning with feathers and adding bright colors stands for engaging in flashy words, breaking things into fragments without reaching the root, distorting one’s nature to show the people while not knowing one is insincere—and instead drawing out hypocrisy to please. When outer things come, the mind receives them with intent; once the mind receives, spirit is dominated, the inner is not still while the outer is in turmoil— the same as ordinary people—how can one stand above the people?

Yan He asked in return: Is Zhongni really of benefit to you? Can you yourself nourish the people? “Wu” (error) is meant to wake you—you should examine yourself here. The practices described above all make people leave simplicity and learn falsity; they are not the right way to instruct the world—it would be better not to do them. The people are hard to govern because cleverness is too abundant; in truth it is the men of learning who stir them up. So such people are like merchants, not to be ranked with scholars; even if for a time they stand together in affairs, as at the She sacrifice (to the earth god) or the village drinking rite, in spirit they disdain sharing the occasion—meaning their aims diverge, and worthy and unworthy are distinguished thereby.

Those who learn hypocrisy—such petty night-walkers—naturally cannot escape inner and outer punishment. “Xiao ren” (night people) means acting in darkness without true insight: though it is broad day, it is like unending night. “Dong” is the moment a single thought in the mind begins to go wrong; “guo” then shows in action—the fault has taken shape and cannot be covered, so implements of metal and wood are used to interrogate, and yin and yang are used to eat away at one. The True Person’s substance is pure and simple, without deliberate action—how can inner and outer punishments be applied to him?

Confucius said: As a rule, the human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, and harder to fathom than the patterns of heaven. Heaven at least has fixed seasons—spring, autumn, winter, summer—and the rhythm of day and night; yet people may look plain and honest on the outside while hoarding deep schemes within. So some seem dull and cautious but are in fact greedy for gain; some seem to bear the dignity of an elder but are not virtuous; some appear compliant and restrained yet are actually penetrating in mind; some seem steadfast but are slack at heart; some look easygoing but are fierce and hasty. They rush toward the Way as if parched for a drink, yet abandon it as quickly as if fleeing scorching heat. Therefore the noble person tests others: send them far away and see whether they stay loyal; keep them close and see whether they remain respectful; give them difficult tasks and see whether they have ability; question them suddenly and see whether they have insight; set a tight deadline and see whether they keep their word; entrust them with property and see whether they are generous and kind; tell them of danger and see whether they hold to integrity; get them drunk and see whether they still observe propriety; let them mix with a crowd and see whether their bearing breaks down. When all nine tests are applied, the unworthy can be recognized.

Guo Xiang commented: From “more treacherous than mountains and rivers” through “abandon the Way as if fleeing heat,” the point is that human feeling and outward appearance can be so opposed—hard to know, yet not without traces. For the noble person they are easy to observe; the unworthy are hard to see through clearly—but by watching where their conduct comes from and where they settle, inquiry finds its path, and one can still know.

Lu Huiqing commented: Those who are cautious and dull seldom build themselves up, hence they oppose greed for gain; bearing the dignity of an elder opposes being unvirtuous; compliance and restraint oppose penetrating clarity. One who is penetrating is plain, upright, and devoted to the Way—such a one is not the compliant, restrained type. Steadfastness and slackness, ease and haste, each oppose the other. Therefore examination cannot rely on a single path alone.

Lin Yidu commented: Watch where they come from, observe where they rest; inquiry finds its path—and then one can know.

Lin Yidu (a Song-dynasty scholar who annotated the Zhuangzi) said: The peril of mountains and rivers has visible form and can be seen; the peril of the human heart has no form and cannot be inspected. Heaven’s course has fixed seasons—spring, summer, autumn, winter, dawn and dusk—while the heart’s shifts have no fixed term. The danger of landscape and the changes of heaven are already hard to fathom, yet they still fall short of how unfathomable the human heart is. “Thick in appearance, deep in feeling” means the outer bearing is earnest and generous while the inner mind is deeply concealed—hard to gauge. From outward deference with inner greed for gain, to outward ease with inner haste and fierceness, feeling and face run opposite; even so it is not entirely without traces—only hard to discern. Zhuangzi’s “nine signs” are ways to read the inner mind from marks left in conduct, and thereby know the true colors of the noble person and the petty person.

Chen Bixu (Chen Jingyuan of the Northern Song, a Daoist scholar styled Bixuzi) said: The peril of mountains and rivers can be seen with the eyes; the peril of the heart is hard to measure. Some look strict outwardly yet are more arrogant within; some look loyal and thick outwardly yet are not virtuous within; some look compliant and urgent outwardly yet are distant within; some look hard and rigid outwardly yet are slack and lax within; some look slow and easy outwardly yet are impatient and fierce within. Inner and outer oppose each other so—one cannot judge from a single angle. Therefore the noble person uses the method of nine signs: the loyal, when entrusted afar, do not change heart; the reverent, when close to others, do not slack; the capable, when burdened with heavy tasks, do not fail; the wise, when meeting change, are not cornered; the trustworthy, when bound by agreement, do not betray; the benevolent, when facing goods and wealth, do not cheat; the principled, when caught in hardship and danger, do not alter their aim; those who keep ritual, when they drink deeply, are not confused; the pure, when placed in turbidity, are not stained. If one does not verify with actual conduct and relies only on physiognomy and “wind appraisal” (judging people by looks and bearing), that is not enough to see through the true feeling of noble and petty persons.

Lin Xiyi (a Southern Song scholar styled Yanzhai) said: Some look honest and thick outwardly yet in fact chase profit; some have real strengths within yet outwardly seem unworthy; some are yielding yet narrow and urgent, and oddly penetrate affairs; some seem hard and strong yet are actually weak; some seem broad and slow yet are narrow and impatient. This is saying people are hard to know. “As if thirsty” describes pressing forward keenly when advancing; “as if hot” describes hurrying to withdraw when leaving. Test with the nine signs, and worthy versus unworthy stand revealed. This discussion is very upright, and spoken again through Confucius’s mouth—so one can see that Zhuangzi did not fail to respect Confucius.

Heaven has its shifts of cold and heat, sun and rain—changes that can be reckoned by calendar and number. Earth has mountains, rivers, gullies, and defiles—obstacles that can be crossed by climbing or by boat. The human heart is no larger than a square inch, yet its turns and its peril cannot be fathomed. The reason it resists measure is that when the mind holds on, it is present; when it lets go, it is lost; it goes in and out with no fixed hour—hence it is hard to know and hard to see. Still, once the heart clings to something, that clinging shows in outward traces. Watch the face and weigh the words, and you may grasp six or seven parts in ten; if someone hides behind depth and weight of manner, you cannot avoid putting him to the test. Where the heart is upright, every move is upright; where it is crooked, every move is crooked. Even clever disguise finally leaves something uncovered. The line between noble person and petty person lies here.

What matters is that those above do not let desire step outside the rule, and meet the people in plainness and closeness—then the hearts under heaven are like one heart, and customs under heaven like one household. What worry remains that they cannot be known or taught?

From “outward reverence” (mao yuan) downward, the various phrases all speak of inner and outer reversed. From sending a man far away to making him live among the crowd—that is testing whether his conduct holds firm. Using the “nine signs” (from afar, from near, and the rest—the nine ways of reading people in the Zhuangzi) to tell the worthy from the unworthy is fine, but you yourself are not spared weariness. Better, when things come, to meet them with empty stillness (xu jing): slowly watch whether the eyes are settled or restless, and you will see as clearly as the lungs and liver within; then check against what is said—how could that escape the fair scale and mirror of judgment?

When Zhengkaofu, a grand officer of Song, received his first appointment he bowed his head; at the second he bent at the waist; at the third he walked hugging the wall—who would dare not follow the rules? Someone like you, at the first appointment swells with pride, at the second dances on your carriage, at the third calls your elders by name—how could you match Tang Yao and Xu You?

The greatest harm is nothing other than having a mind that sets out to practice De (Virtue/Power) while that mind also has an “eye.” Once the mind has an eye, it turns inward to watch itself; turning inward to watch itself, one fails. There are five kinds of ill De; “central De” ranks first. What is central De? It is being sure one is right and slandering what one does not do oneself.

There are eight extremes of impoverishment and three inevitabilities of success; the form has six viscera. A fine beard, great height, imposing looks, and bravery—when these eight surpass ordinary people, one is trapped in poverty for it. Following things as they are, bending and yielding with others, and in difficulty feeling ashamed that one is not their equal—these three can lead to success. When wisdom shows outward, complaints multiply; when benevolence and righteousness are displayed, reproach multiplies. One who penetrates the real situation of life is great; one who penetrates cleverness is small. One who penetrates the Great Mandate goes along with it; one who penetrates the small mandate meets what befalls him.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that here “Tang” means Tang Yao and “Xu” means Xu You. The point is: among people like “Erfu” and Zheng Kaofu (a minister of Song in the Spring and Autumn period, famous for humility and restraint), who can match the way Tang Yao and Xu You acted?

To set one’s mind deliberately on cultivating De is not true De. True De comes suddenly and of itself, and one does not even know where it came from. Acting from De by following one’s original heart may still be barely acceptable; but if the mind is spent on minute scrutiny “between the eyebrows and lashes,” hypocrisy has already gone too far. To go on probing what is hidden and obscure and to make profundity one’s sole concern is for both mind and affairs to fail together. To be self-righteous and reject others draws attacks from more than one side, and one becomes the foremost of vicious kinds of De. If the heart holds no private preference and lets each thing affirm its own “this is so,” without any such affirmation being lost, then all under Heaven will wish to honor such a person.

What is meant by “exhaustion” (qiong) is being trapped in bearing servitude. People under Heaven are not exhausted because of their shortcomings; they often trap themselves through their strengths. “Yuanxun” means acting by leaning on external things; “yan’ang” means being unable to bow down and manage affairs; “kunwei” means timidity. These three types are not entrusted with affairs themselves, yet are used to assist others, and so they must reach thorough understanding. When wisdom opens outward, it harms the inner heart because it has no limit; timidity that can yet be still makes the self simple and solid.

Those who practice benevolence and righteousness are expected by all under Heaven to show love, but love cannot cover everything, so they are often blamed. “Kuiran” describes great awakening; “xiao” means laying aside defenses and dispersing in ease. One who can “follow” (sui) merges indistinguishably with change and moves with it. What is called “encounter” (zao) is pausing at each joint and pivot—only then is there insight.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: From Zheng Kao Fu (a grand officer of Song in the Spring and Autumn period, famous for growing humbler the more he was favored in Yue) down to “who could match the capacity of Tang Yao and Xu You,” the point is how far human measure can differ. “Without knowing, without scheming—only following the Lord’s rule”: once that rule is broken, the person becomes a thief. When De (Virtue/Power) is mixed with private intent, the heart breeds a discriminating eye; when knowledge is complete, the natural order is spoiled—there is no greater harm. Inward looking—turning the mind inward to judge and fancy oneself clear—is exactly that kind of thief. When the five senses stir and one does not turn back from delusion, nothing is free of harm; chief among these is “middle De,” the sort of virtue that already harbors cunning. With cunning comes “I”: affirming oneself and denying others, then self-congratulation and mockery of what others do not do.

Beauty, beard, height, size, strength, splendor, courage, and boldness—when these eight surpass others, one grows complacent and for that very reason falls into want; yielding, deferring, and timidity—when these three fall short of others, one presses on and so can succeed. Mencius said that an isolated minister and a son born out of wedlock, through worry and hardship, can still succeed—the idea is the same. When cleverness is displayed outward, outer things crowd in; when one acts rashly in bravado, resentments multiply; when one holds up benevolence and righteousness, demands multiply. This shows what the world calls beautiful is not truly beautiful, and what it calls hateful is not truly hateful. What matters is that those who earnestly practice the Way have resolve, and only seek to set aside the fetters of the bodily form.

If one can penetrate the truth of life, then what is called being born in accord with Heaven need not rely on clever contrivance—one is simply vast and at ease without leaning on artifice. For one who penetrates “knowing,” it is clear that one’s knowing arises from not-knowing, yet one has not truly reached not-knowing—it is only an approximation. Fate is what the Creator (the nature that nurtures the ten thousand things) assigns; I take the Creator as companion. Hence one who penetrates the great fate (the root fate of life and death) follows it and does not leave it; knowing that poverty and success lie with Heaven and not with oneself, one who penetrates the small fate (passing fortune and setback) does not refuse it when it comes.

Commentator Yidu explains: one appointment makes one a shi (entry-level official), two appointments make one a daifu, three make one a qing (a higher noble rank). From bowing and bending the back to walking along the wall—all describe deferential, self-lowering bearing; the higher the official rank, the heavier the required humility. “Not keeping to the proper way” means showing disrespect. “Lü ju” describes sitting bolt upright; dancing on a carriage is frivolity taken to an extreme; calling one’s elders by their personal names is arrogance taken to an extreme. Tang Yao and Xu You could yield the realm to others; people like these cannot—so who could be put on a par with Yao and Xu You? The point is that when a gentleman receives an appointment he becomes more respectful, whereas when a petty person receives an appointment he becomes more insolent.

When De (Virtue/Power) is mixed with scheming, it is only lower De; higher De is without deliberate intent. When the mind has an “eye” upon it, that is the moved mind; in stillness of mind there is no such eye. De with scheming injures the Dao; a mind with that “eye” injures De. Once Dao and De are harmed, artificial falsity arises; when falsity arises one turns inward to pry and probe, thoughts churn in disorder, and true nature is spoiled.

“Fierce De” refers to the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and mind. The mind is the central De among them: when the mind stirs, the other four follow. When the mind holds its own likes and dislikes, and others do not suit those preferences, one slanders them—this is harm wrought by the mind.

When one surpasses others in all eight respects, one cannot escape being used by others and so falls into hardship; when one is inferior in three respects yet can preserve oneself, one is unobstructed. People have the “eight extremes” and the “three inevitabilities,” just as the body has the six fu organs—all according to natural principle. When wisdom and cleverness reach outward, the inner is damaged; bold action often offends others, and resentment follows; when one insists on benevolence and righteousness, others look to one for care, and reproaches multiply.

One who penetrates the real circumstances of life is called a kui (literally “great” or “monstrous” in form)—meaning that as a person one cannot be the same as Shen (spirit/the divine). One who penetrates the real circumstances of fate is then the same as Shen. One who is adept at wisdom and craft is called xiao (“like” or “resembling”)—meaning that the self is small while the Dao is vast, so the two do not seem to match. One who penetrates the great mandate forgets life and death and is free of entanglements—such a one delights in following Heaven. One who penetrates the small mandate, regarding wealth and poverty, long life and early death, accepts whatever comes and rests in it.

Bi Xuzi (Daoist Chen Jingyuan) glosses the Wenzi thus: when the Dao acquires clever contrivance, disorder follows; when De acquires deliberate intent, peril follows; when the heart grows “eyes” to inspect things, confusion follows. “Having a heart” means giving rise to love and hate, right and wrong; “having eyes” means chasing after outer sights; “inner vision” (neishi) means discriminating, choosing, and rejecting within the mind. The harmful De is the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and heart—with the heart presiding in the middle, deeming itself good and right and belittling those unlike oneself: that is inner vision, and inner vision leads to failure. One who outdoes outer things to the extreme will in time be trapped in want; one who feels inferior to others will in time gain thoroughfare. That is the logic of waxing and waning (increase and decrease). Chasing outer things by cleverness, inviting resentment by bold force, finding that benevolence and righteousness cannot reach everywhere and are all misapplied—none of this is a way to preserve oneself. Hence one who penetrates the truth of life is awakened yet unattached; one who penetrates knowing seems dull; one who penetrates the great mandate (the limit of birth and death) goes along with life and death; one who penetrates the small mandate (momentary lot) rests in whatever comes. How could poverty or success drag such a one down?

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song) observed that the lines on “De has a heart” fit the practitioner’s own situation most closely. The Chan school calls this the “leaking mind”—when thought leaks outward and cannot stay whole—and also the “second thought,” the discriminating mind that arises after the first instant. To practice De yet know that one is practicing De is already to have a mind; within that mindedness, to scheme ahead and reckon backward is like opening a second eye. When one uses this one-eyed mind to look inward, the ten thousand differences appear and one no longer knows the undivided whole. “Fierce De” refers to heart, ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. “Having something by which to favor oneself” means taking pride in one’s own ability and mocking others for falling short—a mind unfit for learning the Dao. The Perfect Enlightenment Sutra says, “Do not overvalue long practice, do not belittle the beginner”—the same point. “Eight extremes” means that whoever leans on something is bound to reach extremity and want; “three certainties” means that those who feel themselves lacking may sometimes find clarity instead. Yuanxun is yielding compliance; yan'ang is bending and swaying with events, now rising, now falling. “The form has six storehouses” means the human body has six places where things accumulate: knowing, wisdom, courage, boldness, benevolence, and righteousness. To “penetrate life,” “penetrate knowing,” and “penetrate fate” is to be clear about life, mind-and-knowing, and destiny. In zao (encountering), one still calculates gain and loss while resigning to fate; in sui (following), one lets things be and no longer holds on. After the six storehouses, the author draws two closing lines from the character for “fate/mandate” (ming)—a typical rhetorical move in the essay.

Zheng Kao Fu was Confucius’s ancestor ten generations back and served as a grand officer in the state of Song. This passage continues the thread of Duke Ai of Lu’s exchange with Yan He: the sage in the world does not let poverty or prominence weigh on the heart. Zheng Kao Fu received his commission three times yet bowed his head, bent his waist, and walked along the wall—treating prominence as something to fear. Another man, also commissioned three times, called his father by name to his face—because prominence had made him proud. Both kinds still cannot escape being shaken by favor and disgrace; how could they compare with the loftiness of Tang Yao and Xu You? Yao sat beneath the yellow canopy of imperial rule yet did not cling to it in his heart; Xu You refused to step from his place and take charge of all under heaven. One went forth to serve, one withdrew to hide; their situations differed, but their hearts were the same. Here the earlier chapter’s meaning is brought to a close.

The text goes on to describe how people in the world indulge self-preference, not knowing that poverty and success are both decreed by fate. If you cultivate virtue with a scheming mind, discriminating thought arises and kindness cannot spread wide; if you further toil the mind and cling to what you see, thought grows tangled and the inner self cannot rest quiet. When kindness does not spread, virtue is harmed; when the inner self is not quiet, the heart is harmed—so these are the greatest banes. Looking inward, guessing what one intends to do, arranging and laying plans as if success were already before the eyes, taking success as certain—and then comes failure and ruin.

In Buddhism there are five kinds of eye; only the divine eye and the flesh eye sit on the face—the wisdom eye, dharma eye, and buddha eye all dwell in the heart. The Buddhist “eye of the heart” shows the signs of virtue fulfilled; the “eye of the heart” spoken of here warns against the root of virtue’s collapse. Without heeding failure, how could one reach success? The two traditions’ words mirror each other inside and out.

There are five vicious traits: when seeing, hearing, speaking, bearing oneself, and thinking stray from the right way—the heart presides in the midst, so it is listed first. Once a person favors himself on this account, thinks others all fall short, and slanders them, that is the start of virtue’s ruin; the other four vicious traits follow, and what evil could not then be done? If one can turn back from this mind, the turn is not far; changing the vicious into the auspicious lies in one’s own earnest practice.

The Eight Extremes and Three Necessities likewise express how the odd and the straight give rise to each other in ceaseless cycle—like the viscera of the body responding to yin-yang’s waxing and waning without the person ever knowing it. Wisdom is meant to nourish virtue; applied outward and threaded through affairs, it turns rash and draws much resentment. Benevolence and righteousness are meant to spread kindness widely, yet to rescue all people is hard—when it cannot reach everywhere, blame follows instead. One who penetrates the truth of life has a broad heart and rests in release; one who penetrates wisdom disperses attachment and forgets clever contrivance. When the great mandate arrives, one follows and accepts it; the small mandate one settles into as one’s lot. Worthies and gentlemen find ease whether in want or in success; the world’s calamities cannot harm them—and the reason lies here.

The characters read as “yu yi” and “yu” in the text are hard to interpret; they are suspected to stand for “ru” (you) and “xiao”; “xiao” is pronounced like “xiao” (to vanish) and carries the same sense.

Zhuang Nan Zhen Jing Yi Hai Zuan Wei (i.e., the Zhuangzi), juan 102, compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song dynasty, included in the Complete Library of the Four Treasures. This passage belongs to the mixed chapters, “Lie Yukou,” section four.

Someone paid a visit to the king of Song and was rewarded with ten chariots. He then went to Zhuangzi to boast and treat him with contempt. Zhuangzi said: By the river there was a poor household that made a living weaving reeds. The son dove into a deep pool and came up with a thousand-jin pearl. His father said: Bring a stone and smash it. Such a pearl must lie in the depths of the ninefold abyss, beneath the chin of the li dragon (black dragon). You could take it only because the dragon happened to be asleep; if the dragon woke, you would not keep even a scrap.

Another man came to invite Zhuangzi to serve. Zhuangzi told the messenger: Have you never seen the sacrificial ox? It is draped in embroidered cloth and fed fodder and beans—until it is led into the Grand Ancestral Temple as an offering. By then, even if it wished to be an unnoticed calf again, that would be impossible.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Seeking wealth and rank must accord with what the people expect. If one takes strange doctrines to the royal avenue and stirs the ruler’s mind, a clear-sighted lord will not accept it. Thus, to praise someone one must first test him among the people; only when there is no dissent and all lift him up does he match the wish of the myriad folk. The Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties could follow the straight Way for this reason. Those who delight in life fear the fate of the sacrificial ox and decline appointment; a skull (dulou, a dead person’s head bone), hearing it might live again, only furrows its brow. Feelings toward death and life differ; each settles in its own place.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: In the world, those who risk probing, who seek favor and fame and gamble that the other party has not yet woken, are all like the man who dove for the pearl. That is precisely what the zhiren (person who has reached the utmost in cultivation) finds dangerous and pities; yet he uses it to boast before others and look down on them—is that not absurd? The moods of death and life are not the same; each has where it rests.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: People in the world who take reckless risks, hoping by luck to win favor and fame yet fortunately not waking the other party, are all like someone who dives into a deep abyss to steal a pearl. That is precisely what a zhi ren (person of supreme attainment) treats as perilous and grieves over. That such a person then takes what he gained and shows off, looking down on others—is that not absurd? Zhuangzi had already entered the realm where there is neither death nor life; he saw dying as as secure as facing south in honor, so he did not fear becoming the sacrificial ox in the Grand Temple (where the Son of Heaven sacrifices to ancestors). Ordinary people, by contrast, ruin body and life in pursuit of profit—hence he conducted himself as he did.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Weaving reeds to trade for food is the most lowly way to live. When a son dives into the abyss and obtains a thousand-jin pearl, he must have hit the moment when the li long (black dragon) was asleep; if the dragon woke, could his body still remain? Your receiving chariots from the King of Song—how is that different? Zhuangzi answered the envoy who came to recruit him with the parable of the Grand Temple sacrificial ox to show he would not let salary and rank burden his life.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: Living on woven reeds yet gaining a pearl is no different from not plowing the fields yet casually receiving quail. Even though the dragon happened to be asleep, it was already very dangerous. To boast of ten teams of chariots and forget the disaster of being ground to powder compares with refusing the appointment and envying a lone calf’s free life—the difference between the wise and the foolish in what they hold to becomes clear.

Lin Yuzhai’s explanation: Jiao zhi means arrogant and self-important, treating others like children. Wei xiao means weaving reeds into matting. Obtaining the pearl because the dragon was asleep is a metaphor: the path people take to seek wealth and rank is always hazardous; once the ruler wakes to it, disaster will not be light. “How could even a scrap remain?” means not even a remnant of the body would be left. The passage on the Grand Temple ox matches the idea of the divine turtle that would rather drag its tail in the mud—preferring a lowly but free life to being honored after death.

Wei xiao appears in one manuscript as “reed gathering,” referring to gathering firewood to get by; Bixu’s edition follows that reading. The son diving into the abyss to play in the water and getting a pearl was never intended, so he did not find it strange and paid no mind whether the dragon slept or woke; when the father wanted to take a stone to crack it and test, that was the start of scheming. It also says that if the dragon woke there would be the calamity of the body shattered to powder; among ten thousand deaths one might by luck keep a life—how could one enter the abyss again? This likens seizing what others covet to a heavier disaster; even if one gains it by chance because the other was off guard, such luck cannot happen a second time. Some suspect the character wei in “how could even a scrap remain” lost the word qu (body) below it, but that is not so—the four characters are precisely the subtle point; Yuzhai’s reading is sound. The sacrificial ox analogy is plain and needs no further gloss.

When Zhuangzi was dying, his disciples wanted to give him an elaborate burial. Zhuangzi said: “I take heaven and earth as my inner and outer coffins, the sun and moon as paired jade disks, the stars as pearls and gems, and the myriad things as funeral offerings sent on my way. Are my burial furnishings not already complete? Why add more?” The disciples said: “We fear that master will be eaten by crows and kites.” Zhuangzi said: “Exposed above, I feed crows and kites; buried below, I feed ants and mole crickets. To rob the one side to give to the other—why such partiality?”

To seek fairness with a standard that is not fair is to obtain a fairness that is not fair; to seek verification by means that cannot verify is to obtain verification that cannot be verified. Those who rely only on clever insight are merely driven by outer things; those whose spirit is unobstructed can let things respond naturally. That cleverness cannot match spirit has been so for a long time. Yet fools parade what they see and meddle in human affairs, while merit stays outside—how pitiful!

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: To impose one’s own notion of fairness on the myriad things is inferior to letting the myriad things balance themselves. Not following their natural response but answering with one’s own view necessarily fails to harmonize. Once a person enslaves himself to his opinions, the enslavement is already great—how could things be made to follow? Only by following the spirit can one be utterly at ease, and then there is responsiveness everywhere. What cleverness reaches is no more than the bodily form; when utmost compliance is achieved, near and far, deep and hidden, each finds its place—effect arises from the other party, and merit hides within things. If one clings to what one sees and insists one is right, even wishing to intervene in others, things cannot be made to follow, and merit remains outside affairs.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary runs as follows. If one can recognize the “One” toward which heaven, earth, and the myriad things all converge, unite with it, and take it as one’s ground, then while alive every thing may nourish the body, and at death every thing may serve as funeral offerings—this is no empty claim. If one fears the corpse being eaten by crows, kites, mole-crickets, and ants, one cannot help but take sides, merely robbing one party to give another. Only when the mind of distinction does not arise is there neither giving nor seizing; seek balance and rectitude in this way, and balance and rectitude are real; seek verification in this way, and verification is real. Once intention enters in, preference and rejection are unavoidable; to lose the constant mind—the abiding original heart—is to be utterly unverifiable and utterly unbalanced. Try on purpose to make things level, and the levelness you get is not level; try on purpose to verify, and the verification you get is not true. It is like water: left unstirred, it is level by itself. The master craftsman models himself on water: because it is level in itself, it can level what is not; because it can serve as a standard, it can verify. What people today call giving and taking is only ming—outward, discriminating cleverness. What they do not know and do not deliberately attend to is shen—the spontaneously marvelous working. Ming can only be put to use; only shen truly verifies. Hence ming never surpasses shen. Fools do not know what shen is; they rely on nothing but what they see in dealing with others, spend all their effort on the outside—how then can they return to the authentic truth of nature and life?

According to the commentary attributed to Lin Yidu: The ancient kings established funeral rites and used coffins and shrouds to cover the body only to fulfill the hearts of sons and daughters. They were not unaware that after death the hun-soul returns to Heaven, the po-soul sinks back into earth, and the physical form is like a cicada shedding its shell—soon it becomes something else. Because children cannot bear it in their hearts, the ancient kings followed the feelings already present in human nature and used ritual to restrain and adorn them. Zhuangzi was not ignorant of what the ancients meant by making ritual; he arranged his own end that way because the rites of his time had grown too lavish and people vied in extravagant burial until it was no longer mere wholehearted devotion. So he used lofty words to correct that, hoping people would return to the root and recover simplicity. Taking Heaven and earth as coffin and outer casket also shows he had penetrated ming (what nature assigns—the limit that cannot be forced). Whatever has form and image under ming can be used for oneself; thus the ten thousand things are all complete here, and there is no need to seek outside. The perfected person (zhiren) treats himself thus; toward others, the rites the ancient kings laid down still apply. Whether the body is left on the ground or buried in earth, it cannot avoid being eaten by other creatures; to take from one side and give to the other is always one-sided. That is why the sage preserves spirit and does not preserve the physical form.

Those who deliberately seek “levelness” cannot truly be level; those who deliberately seek “verification” (making things respond and fit) cannot truly verify. To level the world by not deliberately leveling it—the world levels itself naturally; it is not that one sets out to level it. To verify the world by not deliberately verifying it—the world responds naturally; it is not that one sets out to verify it. Once there is levelness in the world, there is relative unlevelness; if levelness arises from “unlevelness,” nothing cannot be leveled. Once the ten thousand things are verified, there is relative non-verification; if verification arises from “non-verification,” nothing cannot be verified. Levelness and verification are ruled only by Shen (spirit); ming (discernment/clarity) is then put in its service. Shen belongs to the way of Heaven; ming belongs to the way of humanity—so ming cannot overcome Shen. Fools in the world rely on what they see, move from cleverness and artifice into artificiality, and thereby extinguish their inborn nature, spending all effort outward and not knowing there is an inward side—how pitiful!

According to Bi Xu (Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Bi Xu Zi): Jade disks and pearls were originally what the rich used to adorn coffins; now taking sun, moon, and stars as those burial ornaments—are the funeral goods not complete? Letting both crows, kites, and ants take their share alike—that is levelness; taking from one side to give the other—that is unlevelness. If people work only outward and do not know the inward side—how pitiful!

Bi Xu Zi (Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan) comments: Jade disks, pearls, and precious gems were once the treasures with which the wealthy adorned their coffins. If one takes the sun, moon, and stars as burial goods instead, what could be lacking? Let crows, eagles, and ants share the body equally on both sides—that is what counts as fairness; stripping one side to enrich the other is what counts as unfairness. To “level” the ten thousand things by means of biased partiality—how can the ten thousand things be leveled? To meet change by means of biased partiality—how can change be met? Discriminating division is Ming (the discriminating mind); those who rely on such clarity are in turn mastered by it. Shen (spirit—the empty and numinous) is vast, without fixed form, and pervasively responsive, so that nothing fails to answer to it. Discriminating division has its limit, while the vast and formless is inexhaustible; therefore Ming cannot prevail over Shen. The fools of the world do not understand this.