《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 23

People rely only on what they themselves see, probe others’ hidden truths, seize them as their own, and pour effort into external things without knowing how to turn back to themselves—so the perfect person (one who embodies the Dao) sighs at this.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi, the Song commentator on the Zhuangzi) says: This chapter satirizes the abuse of lavish burial in that age. Taking from crows and kites to give to ants shows a skewed view. The way of all things is even by nature; if I use an uneven mind to “even” things, what was even ceases to be. The principles of things can each be tested; if I test them with a mind that cannot test as things truly are, what was testable becomes untestable. Nothing was acting in the first place, yet one imagines something is directing it—treating non-mind as if it were mind. The sharp-eyed person ties themselves up in knots, again and again. As for Shen (spontaneous efficacy without contrived thought), one need only let it respond on its own. “Clarity does not overcome Shen” means that deliberate intention cannot beat wuwei (non-action). The fool, trusting private opinion alone, sinks into artificial contrivance and hunts for merit outside— truly lamentable.

In antiquity people buried the dead against hillsides: they raised no mound and planted no trees as markers; above, they kept odors from seeping out; below, they did not dig down to spring water—they only sought to hide the physical form. From this we can see that coffins, shrouds, and grave goods of that time were plain and spare. Later ages came to prize display: jade disks and pearls were already too much for use in life; to adorn the coffin with them meant that the profusion of mingqi (objects made solely for the dead) and the grandeur of tomb chambers and passageways need hardly be described. Because the living had leaned on rank and lavish pleasure, rites at the end of life could not stay simple. Consider the lavish tombs of old—Tiger Hill (traditionally the grave of King Helü of Wu) and Mount Li (site of the First Emperor’s mausoleum)—thought secure for countless ages, yet in the end they merely stockpiled wealth for thieves.

When disciples of Nanhua (Zhuangzi, later honored as Nanhua Zhenren) wished to give their master a lavish burial, that was natural human feeling, but it still followed worldly custom. Hence his sigh: “I take heaven and earth as my inner and outer coffins.” How far-reaching those words are—something the ancients had not said. Later Yang Wangsun (a man of the Western Han) argued for burial without grave goods; Liu Bolun (Liu Ling) had men carry spades behind him and bury him where he fell—both lines of thought spring from here.

Once the body is entrusted to the great earth, how can one avoid crows, kites (birds of prey like the eagle), mole crickets, and ants feeding on it? The meaning is: my life originally arose from “non-being”; while alive, lice and fleas breed on the outside and pinworms within—all exist because “I” am here. After death it is like a cicada’s cast skin or a snake’s slough: one drops it and goes, while Shen (spirit) goes everywhere—why worry over crows, kites, and ants?

What is called ming (discernment, the bright knowing that belongs to the visible) means the part of the body that can be seen must be ruled by what cannot be seen. When it should move, it moves; when it should stop, it stops—within that there is what is genuinely reliable; that is zheng (responsiveness and verification). What is not level is the bodily form: bodies differ in wealth and poverty, length and brevity of life, while Shen in a person is the same. View all things with Shen and nothing is uneven; view all things with the body and things are uneven. Zheng is: knock once and there is answer; feel once and there is communion.

If you approach things without trust, things will not answer you with trust. The body has no verification of its own; verification is taken from Shen. Seeking verification from outside inward is to take the inner as weighty and the outer as light. If you seek verification from inside outward, that verification is not true verification; when verification is untrue, the equality (qiping) obtained from it is not true equality. Ming is only what is employed—it has limited use; Shen is what is verified, and its still, settled root has no end. Thus ming cannot surpass Shen.

The True Person (Zhuangzi, the realized one) set forth this teaching not only to correct the abuse of lavish burial in his day, but also so that later students of the Way would value the inner over the outer and cultivate Shen rather than form. Equality and verification both issue from oneself; Shen and ming merely rely on each other for a time. Truly reach that state and you merge with heaven and earth and shine with sun, moon, and stars; then to take heaven and earth as coffins and pearls and jades as shrouds is no excess at all.

Master Zhuang of Southern Blossom (Zhuangzi) and Master Lie of Void (Liezi) appeared in their time to teach; their cultivation focused on spirit, not on physical form. The signs of harmony and balance showed in this way—spirit and clarity merely depended on each other for a while. If one truly reached that stage, one merged with Heaven and Earth, and sun, moon, and stars shone together; to take Heaven and Earth as coffin and shell and pearls and jade as grave goods would then be no exaggeration.

The two masters taught when the age called for it, so the world was clear and at peace and their instructions have lasted through the ages. The intent of their two classics illuminates each other, and originally neither could be ranked above the other. This classic opens with Liezi riding the wind yet still having something to depend on; later it cites Liezi many times, and the wording is not uniform throughout. Someone asked: with the brilliance of Zhuang of Lacquer Garden (Zhuangzi, who once served as clerk at Lacquer Garden) roaming freely and inventing fresh ideas, what need was there to follow the old path of Master Lie of Void? I have looked into the reason: a person of virtue necessarily has words, and words are for expressing conduct; when conduct is the same, words at root cannot differ. Spoken to the limit, ancient and modern agree; direct speech, indirect figures, affirmation, and reversal all serve to clarify the great Dao. Master Zhuang of Southern Blossom liked to praise the merits of earlier sages; sixteen whole chapters borrow others’ material to carry his own meaning. In some chapters Liezi’s original is very brief while Zhuangzi’s account is much fuller. Therefore at the end of many chapters one sees the pupil surpass the master in brilliance. Zhuangzi received Liezi’s text and made it richer; Liezi’s text also gained clarity through Zhuangzi. The opening remark that riding the wind still involves dependence still views things from outward traces; taking the subtlety of his teaching later shows accord of mind. The book ends with a chapter titled “Lie Yu Kou” (Liezi), showing that what is cited is not hidden and that the aim aligns with Liezi.

Still, the Liezi passages recorded in this work are not many; perhaps from Guo Xiang (who commented on and edited the Zhuangzi) onward there was trimming. The story of offering drink warns against deliberately standing out to move others; soon shoes piled up outside the door, showing one cannot leave people with nothing to rely on. Next, Huan and Zhai fight, die in anger, and become catalpa and cypress: this is fleeing the penalty of nature and also the Creator repaying each according to innate nature. One who truly knows the Dao does not speak, like Heaven’s turning; to know and then speak is to shallow the omen. Hence the art of dragon-slaying, once mastered, has nowhere to be used—skill alone does not suffice for slaying dragons; those willing to lick hemorrhoids gain more carriages, yet many carriages do not honor licking hemorrhoids. All this is meant to wake students and needle the faults of the age. As for relying on the loyal to uphold the state, it is better to rest and awaken; movement and excess bring inner penalty, and the heart should be all the more cautious. Using the nine tests (ways of observing people) to know others, the unworthy still slip in; when official mandate reaches the three mandates, reverence and arrogance divide accordingly. The eight extremes and three necessities are not fixed forever; one pearl must pass nine deaths before it is barely obtained. This again illustrates that dealing with the world and things shifts endlessly, and greed for fame and profit invites disaster. If one can return from an existing body to the origin before anything existed, the burdens of human life can be shed. Giving up the sacrificial ox to be an unnoticed calf still depends on a person’s firm faith and effort. The final chapter closes with Zhuangzi’s death, showing that the illusory body is not worth clinging to and that all things must end. Disciples feared crows and kites would peck the corpse—still seeing with worldly eyes. Only the perfected person forgets the body and trusts transformation, giving and taking without partiality; taking spirit as substance and clarity as function, the earlier signs are shown not to err. This is precisely his leaving the human and entering the natural, rising and resting secure in the Dao.

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, juan 102–103 (included in the Qing Complete Library of the Four Treasures), by Chu Boxiu of the Song. Below is the scripture of the first chapter of the “Miscellaneous Chapters: Tianxia” (All Under Heaven).

Many under heaven study the arts (particular methods and branches of learning), each believing that what they hold could not be improved upon. Where, then, is the dao-shu spoken of by the ancients—the learning that embraces the whole from a single root? It may be said: it is nowhere absent. Ask again: from where does spirit descend, from where does clarity arise? How do sages come to be, how do true kings achieve their standing? All take “the One” as their origin.

Those who do not depart from the root and patron are called “Heavenly Persons”; those who do not depart from pure refinement are called “Spirit Persons”; those who do not depart from authenticity are called “Utmost Persons.” Taking Heaven as patron, De (Virtue/Power) as root, and the Dao (the Way) as gate, and able to read omens in change—such are called sages. Using benevolence to bestow grace, righteousness to set things in order, ritual to conduct affairs, and music to harmonize—gentle and full of compassion—such are called gentlemen. Taking law as duty, titles as markers, comparison as test, and examination as verdict—like one, two, three, and four each with its place—officials are ranked accordingly. Taking office as constant work, food and clothing as pressing need, fostering growth, storing and hoarding, and keeping the old, weak, orphaned, and widowed in mind—these are the principles of nurturing the people.

How complete the ancients were! They matched the spirits, enriched Heaven and Earth, nourished the ten thousand things, harmonized all under heaven, and extended grace to the people. They understood the numbers of the root and connected them through to the finest rules. Above and below, the four directions—all was open; the four seasons unfolded. Whether great or small, coarse or fine, the Dao’s movement was nowhere absent. What shone forth in ritual and law still survives in old statutes and histories handed down through generations. What was preserved in the Poetry, Documents, Ritual, and Music—scholars of Zou and Lu and gentry in official sash and tablet could largely expound. The Poetry guides the heart-mind; the Documents, government; the Ritual, conduct; the Music, harmony; the Changes, Yin-Yang; the Spring and Autumn, naming and duty. These norms and arts, spread through the realm and established in the central states, were constantly cited and taught by the Hundred Schools.

Later all under heaven fell into disorder; worthies and sages no longer appeared clearly; the Dao and De could not be unified. People often took one partial insight and treated it as the whole truth—as when ear, eye, nose, and mouth each excel in one function yet cannot substitute for one another. The hundred schools and crafts were the same: each had its strength and sometimes sufficed; yet they were neither complete nor all-round—only those who clung to one corner. They carved up Heaven and Earth’s full beauty, split the ten thousand things’ order, and dismembered the ancients’ wholeness; few could possess the beauty of Heaven and Earth or match the bearing of the spirits. Thus the way of inner sagehood and outer kingship (nei sheng wai wang) dimmed and did not shine; it stagnated and could not flourish. Everyone under heaven acted from private desire and called that “the arts.” Alas! Once the hundred schools were gone, they could never again merge with the great Dao. Later students, unlucky enough never to see Heaven and Earth in pure wholeness or the ancients’ great frame, saw dao-shu carved up by the realm.

This chapter of Zhuangzi surveys the schools of thought under heaven and contrasts partial “arts” with the unified dao-shu of antiquity—the thread running from Heavenly, Spirit, and Utmost Persons through sages, gentlemen, and orderly government down to the classics and the Hundred Schools, then the loss of wholeness when each school holds only a fragment.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Once each school treats its own “deliberate action” (youwei) as genuine conduct, true conduct has no falsity and nothing need be added. Spirit responds through events and then manifests, so that the ten thousand things each return to the root and hold to unity (return to the fundamental and keep to the one Dao), without outward adornment—thus the sage-king is born and completed. The designations Heavenly Person, Spirit Person, Utmost Person, and Sage Person refer to one and the same person; only the names differ. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are coarse traces of these names, which worthy gentlemen and junzi uphold. Titles, laws, verification, and scrutiny are ordinary principles for governing the people; sages do not violate them. The ancients are the four kinds of person mentioned above: when the fundamental measure is clear, the branches do not depart from the root; the Dao is everywhere, so they are called complete. The reckonings that can be stated are many but already lie on the surface—they can only clarify deeds, not the source from which deeds arise. The Six Classics are scattered throughout the world and all speak of the deeds of sages and worthies; if one merely follows those deeds without a unifying framework, the world still falls into disorder—so to understand the deeds of sages and worthies is not easy. The hundred schools patch and drill, each trusting its bias, unable to embrace the whole. The sage gathers the great feelings of the people and establishes institutions for them; the people entrust their feelings to this gathering and forget private likes and dislikes, and thus dwell in detachment together with the age (tranquil, without clinging to likes and dislikes). When there is disorder, the opposite holds: people indulge what pleases them at the moment; every household uses its own canon, state policies differ, domestic customs vary; each has strengths but they cannot be applied universally, insufficient to bear complete governance—they each use one bend of the Dao (one partial aspect), and so split the pattern of the ten thousand things; the Way of the sage-king grows dim and blocked, because the complete person is hard to find. The great frame of the ancients was that each returned to the root and held to unity—this is the wholeness of Heaven and Earth. When the arts of the Dao flow into abuse, each school exerts itself only on its own side; if a partial method is made to rule the ten thousand things, things leave their nature to follow what is above, and the truth of nature and life is harmed.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Under Heaven, the hundred schools all suppose that the specialized methods (fangshu) they govern, applied as deliberate action, are already so good that nothing more can be added. The methods differ one from another—where then is the ancient daoist art (the Dao that runs through the whole)? Answer: it is everywhere. It simply cannot be gathered into any single partial method; if a partial method is made to rule the ten thousand things, things leave their nature to obey what is higher, and the truth of nature and life is obstructed.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary explains that every school of thought under heaven is convinced that by putting its own methods into practice and achieving results, nothing more could be asked. Since those methods differ, where, then, is the ancient daoshu—the full art of grasping the Dao? The answer is: it is everywhere, yet people fail to obtain its wholeness. Without that wholeness, how could Shen (spirit) descend and ming (clear illumination) appear? When spirit descends, the sage arises; when illumination appears, the king is perfected. “The One” is what governs spirit and illumination. The so-called Heavenly Person, Spirit Person, Perfect Person, Sage, and junzi (exemplary person) share substantially the same substance; they differ only in the angle from which they are described. To speak of the Dao, one must first understand Heaven. Heaven is the source to which one looks up; not departing from that source is what makes a Heavenly Person. Jing (essence) is what enters into spirit; without genuineness one cannot reach the utmost. The Sage is one who fully preserves Heaven and embodies the utmost of spirit, and therefore unifies De (Virtue/Power) and the Dao and gives rise to transformation—this is spirit descending and becoming sagehood. When this appears in benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, warm and kindly as a gentle breeze, one calls it junzi—this is illumination appearing and becoming kingship. Above the Sage, one is the same as Heaven; below the Sage, one is the same as humankind. Boundaries are set by law and must not be violated; distinctions are marked by names and must not be confused; integrity is tested by conduct and must not be deceived; judgment is settled by investigation and must not be mistaken. All of this has shu (principles of order) within it: where the shu are many, position is high and function is great; where they are few, one stands lower and governs the small—the hundred officials are arranged in sequence accordingly. Above, the sage is thus produced; below, the king is thus perfected—nothing is incomplete, and therefore one can match spirit and illumination, harmonize purely with Heaven and Earth, nurture the ten thousand things, and bring the world into concord; one understands the root shu without doubt and holds the outer measures without error. Its Dao is not confined to the liuhe (the six directions—above, below, and the four quarters, i.e., the space between Heaven and Earth); it turns and operates everywhere. Such was the general shape of ancient daoshu. As for spirit itself, shu cannot count it, measures cannot gauge it, and it cannot be handed down through books and words. What is illuminated and falls within shu and measure is fixed in law by officials and recorded in deeds by the royal historiographers; what survives in the Book of Songs, Documents, Ritual, and Music is what scholars of Zou and Lu can often explain. From using the Odes to express intent down to using the Spring and Autumn Annals to guide naming and distinction—all of this belongs to the part of ancient daoshu that was already clear and lodged in shu. Former kings used these measures to administer affairs and to guard and govern the world, so the hundred schools often recited them, yet still did not step outside ancient daoshu. When the world had the Dao, sages and worthies were manifest, De and the Dao returned to unity, and scholars could see the whole and were not misled by strange methods. When disorder came, most people under heaven grasped only one thread, examined it, and took themselves to be right; though each had strengths, none could embrace all sides—they were merely partisans of one corner. Heaven and Earth have great beauty, yet they carved it apart; the ten thousand things have settled patterns, yet they split them up; then they went to scrutinize the wholeness of antiquity—and those of the hundred schools could rarely possess the beauty of Heaven and Earth or match the bearing of spirit and illumination. Therefore the way of the sage-kings grew dim; each person did what he wished, and the Dao was torn apart under heaven.

Lin Yidu’s commentary explains: The arts of the Way are present everywhere, while specific techniques each have their limits. The substance of the Dao pervades all things, yet its functioning does not stay fixed in any one place. It may be called spirit (shen), clarity (ming), sagehood (sheng), or kingship (wang); it may descend and appear, or give birth and bring things to completion—can there truly be a fixed abode for it? Spirit is the inner store of clarity; clarity is the outward display of spirit. Sagehood is the beginning of kingship; kingship is the fulfillment of sagehood. Blending and harmonizing every distinction so that nothing is blocked or divided is like the four seasons having different qualities of qi yet together completing the work of a single year. Heaven, spirit, the utmost, the sage, and the gentleman and the hundred officials—root and branch, refined and coarse may differ, yet none departs from “the One.”

What goes forth yet still keeps to the root is the fundamental; what is born yet does not sink into the coarse is refinement. True refinement is the utmost of sincerity and spirit; united with Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power) and penetrating the Dao—only then is one called a sage. The four are neither simply the same nor simply different; the paths of going out and returning differ. When the sage appears as the gentleman, Dao and De divide into benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, and further into law, titles and ranks, verification, and judgment—for use by the hundred officials. That is already the sage’s surplus and remainder. When the sage applies the Dao in the world, there is law; when sameness diverges into difference, there is division. The hundred officials only expound law and institutions without reaching the Dao; they only speak of division without reaching application. Names are appendages of reality; forms are the outer layer of inner substance. The hundred officials fill out names and forms yet do not exhaust reality and inner depth. What they hold to is conduct that can be verified outwardly; what they examine is knowledge that decides by results. The numbers one, two, three, and four are names, laws, and the tools of office. Implements have large and small; insight has near and far—the hundred officials grade things accordingly: they take official duty as the norm and food and clothing as the main means to nourish the people; they teach so that the people multiply, settle them so they accumulate stores, and provide for the aged, the weak, orphans, and the widowed; they can also align with the spirits and Heaven and Earth, then nurture the myriad things according to their natures and harmonize the realm so it responds to the seasons, until favor reaches the common people.

Root-number speaks of the subtle; branch-measures speak of the coarse trace. Being clear yet connected in sequence, the Dao is complete and present everywhere. What appears in nature-and-life (xingming) can be transmitted heart-to-heart; what law cannot transmit may be possessed in one’s own person; what history cannot record may still be one’s own. What appears in number-measures and in the Book of Poetry and Book of Documents—the study of institutions, the historiographer, and the gentry can elucidate. The Six Classics each teach something, yet all converge on good governance. Laozi and Zhuangzi attacked benevolence and righteousness, intending to straighten what was bent—but over-correction became another bias; here, speaking only of the sage and the Six Classics is precisely to correct that earlier excess. Once the Six Classics were split apart, the hundred schools each took their own view as right, and the arts of the Way grew obscure. People only repeated the Way on their lips and could not grasp it in the heart; sages and worthies were dimmed, and Dao and De split apart and could not reunite. Each did as he pleased, taking private discernment for wisdom and personal preference for benevolence—so few could embody the beauty of Heaven and Earth or match the image of the spirits, and they could not align with the way of inner sagehood and outer kingship.

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan) explains: Every school of method under heaven forms its own lineage, each claiming to serve the world—yet where is the true Dao? This means the essential has been lost and only dregs remain. When people take their private partial insight for wisdom and their personal preferences for benevolence, few can embody the full beauty of heaven and earth or match the bearing of the spirits; they will inevitably fall short of the way of the inner sage and outer king.

The spirits and gods descend from and manifest through the Dao; the birth of a sage and the founding of a kingship are not two separate paths. Taking heaven as one’s root makes one a tianren (person of heaven); essence without admixture makes one a shenren (spirit-person); guarding truth without falsity makes one a zhiren ( utmost person). If one honors the principle of nature, takes not claiming merit as one’s root, walks the path of empty openness, and moves in and out of the subtle workings of spirit, one is the sage who governs the world, occupies the greatest position within the realm, and gathers the three titles above.

Next, concerning the noble person and the hundred officials: they govern all under heaven through benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music—gentle and kind, with grace reaching the myriad things. They establish law to fix duties, confer names to display character, observe conduct to test ability, and rely on audit to decide promotion and demotion—all of which involve reckoning and method. When the Dao is insufficient, they use law; when law is insufficient, they use technique (shu); when technique is insufficient, they use expedient power (quan); when expedient power is insufficient, they use positional force (shi). When force is insufficient they fall back to expedient power, expedient power falls back to technique, technique falls back to law, and law falls back to the Dao. In the Dao there is wuwei (non-action), and the myriad things transform of themselves.

Technique is the ruler’s hidden application; subordinates must not presume to peer into it. Force is the sharp tool for mastering affairs; subordinates must not presume to wield it on their own. When the ruler has technique and ministers can see through it, the technique is not deep; when the ruler has force and ministers can act on it alone, the force is not weighty. The key is first to rectify names and roles so neither side oversteps; only then can technique be applied and force be concentrated. The hundred officials are ranked by office, yet still within the order of first, second, third, and fourth, and within such items as law, name, conduct, and audit—used to nurture the people so they do not lose their livelihood.

In utmost antiquity, things were naturally complete; completion did not depend on setting up institutions. Aligned with the spirits, there was stillness without false marvels; blended with heaven and earth, the four seasons ran smoothly; nurturing the myriad things, the harvests were ample; harmonizing the realm, people did not die young or turn wicked. Benevolence could reach grass and trees, trust could reach pigs and fish—because the root measures were understood and tied to the finest gradations of law. The ruler was honored through wuwei—that is the root number, belonging to the way of heaven, also called fenshou (allotment and guarding). Ministers toiled through purposeful action—that is the branch measure, belonging to the way of earth, also called yuansheng (tracing back and examining). The difference between root and branch lies only in discernment.

This Dao is open in six directions and four quarters, without obstruction. Heaven and earth and autumn hair, spirit and physical form—all turn and shift in motion, with no gap to enter. What appears in Yin-Yang, calendrics, and in the Book of Poetry, Documents, ritual, and music—its numbers and measures spread through the realm, and the hundred schools often invoke them. When simplicity was lost and custom grew thin, the age declined together; each person clung to one side and was pleased with himself, unable to connect and use one another—the way of the sage-kings was no longer clear, everyone went as desire led, never returning, drifting ever farther from the Dao. The arts of the Dao were thus split apart under heaven—a misfortune for scholars.

Lin Xiyi (style name Yizhai) observes: In the final chapter Zhuangzi discusses learning ancient and modern, much as the last chapter of the Mencius distinguishes “knowing through hearing” from “knowing through seeing.” From the opening through “the Way and its arts will be torn apart for the realm,” the passage serves as the chapter’s general preface; only then does he treat each school in turn. He places his own book among the various schools as well. The learning of Zou and Lu (Confucianism; Confucius was born in Lu, Mencius in Zou) is set out in that general preface, which shows that although he often uses sharp, provocative language, he still recognizes that the learning of the sage’s gate is the orthodox line. Everyone thinks their own learning cannot be surpassed and each takes themselves to be right. “The Way and arts of antiquity” and “the art of benevolence”—the word “art” (shu) is the same as in “art of the heart-mind” (xinshu). “Where is it?” (e hu zai) means it is nowhere absent; it carries the sense of timeliness (shizhong): though learnings differ, the Dao is everywhere present.

How does spirit descend and how does clarity appear—where can this be seen? That “the sage has what he generates from and the true king has what he completes” means that the principles by which Heaven and Earth come to be all issue from “the One”; “the One” is creation and transformation (zaohua). Calling it ancestor, essence, or truth all shares the meaning of “One”; only the wording varies. From “taking Heaven as ancestor” to “taking the Dao as gate,” all is Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness. “Harbingers in transformation” likewise stem from “One.” “Gently benevolent and kindly” describes the quality of atmosphere and bearing. Standards of measure differ, names have their norms, and testing and judgment each have their basis. “One, two, three, four” portrays exhaustive fineness and completeness. Putting food and clothing first, teaching the people to plow and weave, and caring for the aged, the weak, the orphaned, and the widowed are the root of issuing policies and extending benevolence. The four lines on “matching spirit and clarity” speak of how vast the function is. Root and branch are essence and coarseness. “Six penetrations and four openings” means nothing cannot be applied. The sequential account of learning in the Six Classics clearly refers to Confucius. When it disperses into the hundred schools and myriad crafts, most under Heaven grasp only one corner yet boast that they understand—as when ear and eye cannot communicate, something of Heaven, Earth, and spirit is lacking. Inner sagehood is substance; outer kinghood is function. When the paths of inner and outer are unclear, people each take what they desire as their method (fangshu), lose their way and do not return. The line “the Way and its arts will be torn apart for the realm” concludes with tremendous force.

The chapter opening also says: Scholars of the time each devoted themselves to their own talents, thinking that once they had something to apply there was nothing more; yet when substance and function, inner and outer are not clear, each clings to what they desire and forms a method, loses the way and does not return—and the Way and its arts will be torn apart for the realm. That sentence too is concluded with great force.

This opening section first states that scholars of the time each clung to their own talents, treating whatever skills they could deploy as supreme, yet failed to grasp the subtle principle of Wuwei (non-action) and natural spontaneity—hence they stood far from the Dao. Where, then, did the ancient art of the Way reside? The answer: everywhere. Later generations each established their own separate methods, and from that came division; when states differed and schools diverged, the art of the Way drifted down into specialized, one-sided techniques.

The art of the Way was originally meant to align with the divine, advance governance, deepen custom and teaching, and penetrate the real circumstances of all things, so that the people could follow it without knowing they did, and return to natural nurture. This is why the sage rulers of high antiquity could sit upright with hands folded and govern through Wuwei, watching the people born under heaven grow daily in abundance. The arrival and manifestation of the divine is a response to events—sensing as things arise; though there is action, it is as if there were none. From this sages arise and true kings are made—this is the proof of the divine carrying out transformation. From never abandoning the root, until one is called a sage, is what completes Heaven’s work—belonging to the sage; the realms of the spirit-person and the perfected person are already implied therein. From taking benevolence as grace, until one is called a noble person, is what completes human work—belonging to the true king. The Dao shows itself in governance, so it must be spoken of from both inner and outer aspects.

What follows recounts laws, measures, and the Book of Songs, Documents, Rites, and Music—all tools the former kings used to bring the world to order, which can only be applied when the right person is found. When the Dao can align with the divine, heaven and earth become rich and harmonious; when De (Virtue/Power) can nurture the ten thousand things, all under heaven can be harmonized. What is called the root number is that “One”; after the One, all are branch tips. What sages spring from takes the One as root; what kings accomplish uses the Two as aid. Root and branch rely on each other, and only then is the way of governance complete.

The ancient sage-kings governed with thorough care and worried for the people with deep concern—not only seeking order for the moment but intending to set standards for ten thousand generations. From using the Odes to express the heart’s intent, to using the Spring and Autumn to clarify names and roles—all are traces left by the sages in bringing the world to order. Applied under heaven, their effects run shallow or deep; reduced to concrete affairs, government may be well ordered or chaotic. This is because the aim of the sage is not clear enough and the orientation of De is not unified. Scholars value only the straw dogs already laid out and discarded once the rite is over; order is not achieved, while strange portents rise instead. Each seizes one partial side and takes it for the whole—no different from pointing to a bit of water in an ox’s hoofprint and calling it the eastern sea.

The great beauty of heaven and earth cannot be complete without the Dao; the bearing of the divine cannot be matched without De. How can those who each set up their own method reach such a level? The closing lines of this piece are few in words but sharp in meaning—enough to show Nanhua’s (Zhuangzi’s) intent, like Confucius’s cry of “What a timely bell!” As for the text: below the character wei in “you wei bu ke jia” (active effort cannot be added) there should be a repeated wei; “yu yan” should read “yu wei.” Compare carefully and the sense becomes clear.

The Compendium on the Deep Ocean of Meaning of the True Scripture of the Southern Florescence (Nan hua zhen jing yi hai zuan wei)—a Song-dynasty compilation of annotations on the Zhuangzi edited by Chu Boxiu; Nan hua zhen jing is the honorific title for the Zhuangzi—appears in volumes 103 and 104 of the Qing Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu). The section title is the Miscellaneous Chapter “Tianxia” (Under Heaven), the second part. The collation note (jiaoyu) states that the ordinal marker di should not be inserted here; beneath wei there ought to be a second wei repeated; and yu yan should read yu wei. A close reading of the passage’s sense makes this clear.

In antiquity there was a way of thinking that held that later generations should not sink into extravagance, that things should not be wasted, and that one should not show off in ritual and law—only disciplining oneself with strict rules so as to meet the world’s emergencies. Mo Di (Mozi, founder of Mohism) and Qin Guli (a leading disciple of Mozi) heard of this trend and were drawn to it. Yet they went too far and were too harsh in restraining themselves. They wrote “Against Music” and also gave their teaching the title “Economy in Expenditure”: while alive, no singing; after death, no mourning dress. Mozi advocated loving all people broadly and benefiting one another, opposed strife, and in his way there was no anger. He also loved learning and was widely informed; he did not deliberately seek novelty, yet he did not approve of the ancient kings and even wished to abolish the rites and music of old.

In antiquity rites and music each had fixed forms: the Yellow Emperor had “Xianchi,” Yao had “Dazhang,” Shun had “Dashao,” Yu had “Daxia,” Tang had “Dahu,” King Wen had the music of Piyong (the royal academy where ceremonies were held), and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed “Wu.” Ancient mourning rites too were graded by rank: noble and common had different ceremonies, high and low different degrees—the Son of Heaven’s inner and outer coffins were seven layers, feudal lords five, great officers three, and knights two. Mozi alone insisted that while alive one should not sing and after death one should not wear mourning, using only a coffin of paulownia three inches thick with no outer shell, and treating this as the standard everyone must follow. To teach others this way can hardly count as loving people; to practice it oneself can hardly count as cherishing oneself. Even so, one cannot simply say on that account that Mozi’s way has been refuted.

Yet when one ought to sing, to forbid singing; when one ought to weep, to forbid weeping; when one ought to make music, to forbid music—is that truly in accord with human feeling? He wore himself out in life and kept funeral rites miserably spare; his way was so severe that it made people anxious and sad. Such conduct is hard to achieve and can hardly serve as the way of a sage. It goes against the heart of all under heaven; the world cannot bear it. Even if Mozi could bear it alone, what could he do for the people under heaven? Once you leave the people behind, you are far from the way of a true king.

Mozi described his own way thus: In the past Yu dammed the floodwaters and cleared the rivers so that the four barbarian regions and the nine provinces were connected. Famous mountains numbered three hundred, main streams three thousand, and lesser streams beyond counting. Yu himself carried the basket and wielded the spade, joining and channeling the rivers of the realm; his shins grew thin until they had no flesh, and the hair on his calves wore away; rain drenched him and fierce wind beat his face, until at last the myriad states were settled. Yu was a great sage, yet for the realm he toiled his body to such an extreme. Later Mohists for the most part wore rough fur and coarse cloth, walked on wooden clogs and straw sandals, and never rested day or night, taking self-denial as the highest norm, saying: Unless you can live like this, you are not following Yu’s way and are unworthy to be called a Mohist.

The disciples of Xiang Li Qin, the followers of the Five Lords, and the southern Mohists Ku Huo, Yi Chi, and Deng Lingzi—all recited the “Mohist Canon,” yet split from one another and spoke differently, each calling the others “heretical Mohists” (deviants from orthodox Mohism). They attacked one another in disputes over “hard-white” and “same-different” and answered one another with talk of odd-even pairing and non-conflict, taking the juzi (the head of the Mohist community) as a sage and all willing to stand as the sacrificial “corpse” (the ritual stand-in who receives offerings) for him, hoping to become his successor—quarrels that to this day have not been settled.

The intentions of Mo Di and Qin Guli were right, but their practice was wrong. Carried on in this way, later Mohists were bound to compete in showing shins without flesh and calves without hair through self-mortification—and nothing more. That is a top strategy for disordering the realm, yet only a bottom strategy for governing it. Even so, Mozi was truly one of the rare good men in the realm; such a person cannot be found by seeking. Even when his body was withered, he did not abandon his convictions—a man of real talent indeed.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Excessive frugality and austerity make a person haggard, so such conduct is not truly glorious; hoarding surplus goods for emergencies already goes too far. If one merely follows precedent without gauging what people can actually manage, scarcity leads to strife. Making the people frugal yet well provided, they then treat contention as wrong. They do not rage outwardly but harshly restrain themselves; once convinced they are right, they try to make all things conform to themselves. The former kings, by contrast, allowed each difference to stand, after which sameness arose naturally; everyone obtained what suited them without knowing whence it came. They discarded ancient rites and music because they found them wastefully lavish. Things are truly cared for only when each exerts its capacity and matches its nature; fixing frugality as law and pushing it to extremes, though aiming to enrich the realm, is not the proper path of care. This completes only the way of Mo Di (Mo Di, founder of the Mohist school), not universal virtue, and cannot accord with the real state of things. That path is withered and lacks moisture, breeds sorrow, and is hard to practice—it cannot serve as the sage’s way. The sage’s way lets the people each obtain what their nature delights in, and then nothing under heaven is difficult. Therefore the true king must gather the world’s hearts and advance together with the ten thousand things. Mo Di saw only Yu the Great’s bodily toil, not the ease of his nature, and took self-mortification as exhausting the Way; clinging to that law when times had changed, he became the Mohist school. Within Mohism factions split; the juzi (chief of the Mohists) who could best clarify what he held correct used it to govern action, and all wished to take him as leader to continue the enterprise. The intent was not luxury but guarding against worldly emergencies, hence self-assurance; when pushed too far it was wrong. No calamity exceeds going against things and harming nature—this belongs to the lower grade of governance. Because it sprang from genuine inclination, sages did not oppose it, yet it cannot be used to teach others; forced on people it is not accepted. None under heaven shares it; body and spirit wither yet they do not quit—so it counts as real devotion, but only as men of talent, not as persons of virtue.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: The governance of the former kings reached completeness in reputation, rites, music, and cultural artifacts—not to flaunt luxury before later ages. None under heaven could match them; withered yet they did not abandon their course—so it counts as real devotion, but only as men of talent, not as persons of virtue.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: When the governance of the ancient sage-kings had reached the point where reputation, ritual, music, and cultural institutions were all fully in place, they did not lay up extravagance for later ages, did not squander things on the myriad entities, and did not parade measures and standards as a display—for those were not their unchanging constant way. They used the plumb line and the square only to correct themselves, in order to cope with the world’s urgent crises. Part of the ancient Daoist teaching lay precisely here.

The root of the Way can both hold to constancy and exhaust transformation. Mozi saw only the side that meets worldly emergencies and took it as an eternal norm; that is to seize one corner and treat it as the whole. He favored his own method and could not require everyone to be like him. From the work Against Music and the advocacy of frugal use, down to wide learning that refuses to acknowledge differences—all of it went too far; he followed the rules of his own school with excessive strictness.

The ritual and music of the ancient sages had their proper measure; funerals had their proper forms. Mozi, however, held that while alive one should not sing, and after death one should not wear mourning garments—unlike the ancient kings, he rejected and discarded the old ritual and music. Frugality to that degree meant not only failing to love others but failing to love oneself. He took universal love of people and shared benefit for all under Heaven as his aim, yet did not consider that others could not bear it; he was willing to suffer himself and still demanded that others do the same. An old saying has it that those who err through excess restraint are few; on that view, Mohist teaching had not wholly failed. Yet joy and grief are feelings people cannot escape; the ancient sages only set bounds for them. Mozi would have people forbidden to sing when they should sing and forbidden to weep when they should weep—how can that accord with human feeling? To toil while alive and be niggardly after death only breeds sorrow. The ancient teaching had this aspect too, but Mozi pushed it too far; it cannot be called the way of the sage. Even if he himself could bear it, the world could not—what use was it? He had already strayed far from the kingly way.

Long ago Yu the Great met the flood and toiled to that extreme—it was an extraordinary response to the world’s crisis. Mozi treated it as a constant rule, and that was wrong. To make urgent toil the everyday norm is to go too far. The world cannot bear his conduct; such a path is mistaken and would only make later followers of Mohism compete in outdoing one another in self-imposed hardship. Diligence and frugality are hard to practice in the first place, yet Mozi could do them well—truly a rare talent under Heaven, one who may be called a man of exceptional ability.

Once the Great Dao had been obstructed, one school after another arose among the masters. Among them were the followers of Mo Di and Qin Guli (Mo Di’s chief disciples), the school of Song Xing and Yin Wen, and finally people like Hui Shi, who debated one another at length, often in thousands of words. Zhuangzi declined and refuted them, his mind broad and open, untroubled by their disputes.

Mohism taught people to be diligent, frugal, and austere, treating ease, pleasure, and wasteful luxury as faults. Therefore it did not emphasize the ornamental splendor of ritual and law, but used cord and ink (rules and measures) to straighten oneself, hoping to be enough to meet the world’s emergencies while still having surplus in goods and funds. Mo Di’s followers heard this spirit and submitted to it gladly. Yet when they put it into practice they went too far, and when they used it to restrain themselves they became too rigid. While alive they did not sing, hence the doctrine of “condemning music”; they took frugality as the Way and taught people diligence, thrift, and plain living, opposing ease and extravagance; when people died they wore no mourning garments. Their Way was to have each person be content and not fight, to restrain oneself and thus not resent; they loved learning and yet wanted all external things to be the same as oneself, so though broad in scope they did not acknowledge difference. Diligent in life, meager in death, they discarded ancient ritual and music and differed from the former kings.

From the Yellow Emperor’s Xianchi down to the Wu composed by the Duke of Zhou, every age had music and dance—so “no singing in life” was wrong. From ancient mourning rites down to double coffins for officers, high and low each had its system—so “no mourning when dead” was also wrong. What is meant by “not yet defeated” is that such practice would ultimately fail. To forbid what should be sung and what should be wept—how can that accord with human feeling? Who alone established Mohism while going against the real situation of the ten thousand things? It had already changed form. Their Way was too harsh for people to carry out, and too far from the former kings. The former kings shared hardship with the people; their Way arose from human feeling. It was not that they deliberately wanted life to be hard—only that they wished the world to be as they hoped it would be.

In former times Yu dammed the floodwaters and cleared the rivers, himself holding basket and spade, exposed to rain and wind, toiling for the world to that degree. Later people imitated him and took tormenting themselves as the ultimate. In fact Yu’s way was not Mohist doctrine; as the custom was handed down for long, abuses accumulated, and only then did what is called Mohism appear. From Xiang Li Qin to Deng Lingzi, these people all recited the Mojing, yet opposed one another and split into strange divergences—one gate with many directions. They used disputation to slander one another and words to answer words, taking the best debater as sage and willing to take him as patriarch, hoping to inherit his enterprise.

Mo Di was right to use thrift and diligence to guard against disaster; he was wrong to torment himself so severely. As for increasing disorder, they rank high; as for governing the world, they rank low. Even so, Mo Di was still one of the rare outstanding figures under heaven—to find another of his kind would be impossible. Mo Di’s talent was close to Yu’s, but his principle was far from Yu’s, so flaws could not be avoided, and in the end he stopped at the single school of “Mo” alone.

Bi Xu (the style name of the Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan) explains in his commentary: The teaching of the Mohist school rejects extravagance and waste, does not chase conspicuous display, and insists on diligence and thrift while holding oneself to strict discipline, all in order to relieve the world’s urgent distress. The trouble is that thrift is pushed too far: the master can live by it himself, but the multitude finds it hard to follow. Rejecting music and cutting expenses to the bone, they fill life with worry and toil and keep funerals spare and thin—conduct that, one may say, runs sharply against ordinary human feeling.

Still, loving many people broadly comes close to benevolence; seeking benefit for all comes close to righteousness; opposing strife comes close to ritual propriety; and not flying into anger easily comes close to wisdom. They also love learning and widely promote “exaltation of conformity” (shang tong)—holding that standards of right and wrong should align with those above—which again sets them apart from common custom.

Where they fail to accord with the former kings, the rejection of ancient rites and music stands out most. From the dance Xianchi (traditionally attributed to the Yellow Emperor) to Wu (associated with King Wu of Zhou), and the rules for coffins and outer casings—all belong to the rites and music of antiquity. Mozi, by contrast, held that while alive one should not sing, still less enjoy string and bamboo; after death one should not wear mourning garb, still less bury pearls and jade. To bind oneself with such rules is already remote from human feeling; to teach others by them is excessively harsh, and in the end one cannot escape the fault of departing from the constant way—becoming eccentric and without proper order.

People’s singing, weeping, laughter, and joy all spring from innate disposition. To oppose and abolish them across the board is to fall out of step with the temper of the world. Days grow withered and barren, without moisture or ease, breeding sorrow and bitterness. None can endure it—only Mozi could bear it. That neither matches the heart of all under heaven nor draws near to the kingly way.

Mozi honored the thrift of Yu the Great and therefore praised his merit in controlling the waters. The saying that he repeatedly dredged the rivers under heaven means that he cleared and opened the streams of the nine provinces so they would no longer be blocked—working until his shins were worn thin and almost fleshless. Even when he divided the realm into myriad states, he was still following such rough, visible achievements and had not reached the subtle root source. Later ages imitating him took self-imposed hardship as the utmost; some went so far as to cut flesh from their bodies or sever limbs to seek blessing—another abuse that arose from learning Mozi.

The disciples of Xiangli Qin (a branch among later Mohists) had not yet corrupted Mozi’s way. But once those skilled in rhetoric and fond of grand debate are taken as teachers, one falls into the malady of empty talk and contentious display. Using thrift to guard against sudden hardship is right; using worry and hardship to instruct people is wrong. If later ages imitate that, disorder reaches an extreme—what hope is there then for good governance?

Yet Mozi loved learning, was diligent and sincere, and under heaven none could compare with him in that respect. Striving in study and fixing one’s resolve, he could teach in a way that matched Confucius (Zhongni)—he was among the outstanding talents of his kind. Only his conduct strayed from the straight path of virtue.

Yizhai says: Mozi did not hand down teachings of extravagance to later generations. Therefore he did not drape the myriad things in lavish ornament, nor take ritual, music, and the full apparatus of rites and measures as a glittering display; instead he used standards and rules to restrain himself and to correct the ways of the world, hoping that the world’s consumption would always have a surplus. Taking frugality as their main principle, they made supplies adequate, because people often turn to strife and disorder when food and clothing fall short. Later followers of Mohism pushed this restraint too far. “Against Music” (Feiyue) and “Moderation in Use” (Jieyong) are chapter titles in Mozi. They opposed contention and did not treat anger as a way to live in the world; what is meant by “broad and comprehensive without setting up a separate doctrine” is extending impartial care (jian’ai) and upholding identification with those above (shangtong). Teaching people in this way, care for others and care for oneself both miss the human mean; it is out of tune with how people actually feel. For that reason one cannot on this account simply deny the Way of Mozi—but that Way is exceedingly harsh and austere, like an extreme of raw simplicity, and such conduct is hard to put into practice. It goes against the heart of the world, while Mozi himself was content to live that way. Since it does not accord with people’s hearts, it cannot be used to rule the realm as a true king. Mozi appealed to the ways of antiquity, even to the point of describing how Yu exhausted his body laboring for the realm, and he set forth Yu’s achievements: the character jiu (“nine”) is sometimes read jiu in the sense of “gathering together to dredge rivers in mixed labor.” Odd and even numbers are inherently unlike each other, yet he said they do not clash—this is forced argument. Juzi was the great synthesizer of Mohist learning; when one wishes to find such a person and cannot, it means there is no longer anyone like him. Even if one is reduced to utter poverty and emaciation and still does not stop doing it, such a person may still be called a heroic stalwart.

Not to be extravagant toward the myriad things, not to show off in ritual and ceremony, to be diligent, careful, and frugal so as to meet the world’s emergencies—if there were again someone like this, who though reduced to the utmost poverty and gauntness still would not cease, he too could be called a heroic stalwart.

Emperor Yu did not squander extravagance upon the myriad things, nor did he chase brilliance and display in ritual and ceremony. He was only diligent and cautious, frugal and self-restrained, so as to meet the world’s urgent crises. This is where Yu’s conduct showed itself in the world.

Mo Di (Mozi, who advocated universal love and opposition to offensive war) and Qin Huali (a disciple of Mozi) heard of this example and were delighted; they took it as a model but carried it too far—laboring to a degree hard to practice, holding to rules so rigidly that their bodies grew gaunt and their appearance lost all luster. They put forward “Against Music” and “Moderation in Expenditure” to instruct the world: while alive, no singing; when dead, no mourning garments. This is how “Against Music” and “Moderation in Expenditure” appeared in conduct. Broadly loving others was meant to benefit all; opposing strife was meant to prevent anger. That was not without merit and depth. Yet they loved learning and pursued breadth, wishing everyone to be like themselves; in their hearts they still competed, and had not shed private motives. As for discarding the ritual and music of antiquity, that not only violated the sage’s norms but also went against the genuine grief and joy of people under heaven. Forcing the people to do what was hard to follow meant that others and they themselves could not truly love one another. From this one can see that the way of Mozi was bound to fail and could not be carried out in the world for generations to come. When one should sing, not singing; when one should weep, not weeping—already remote from human feeling. Laborious in life, sparse in burial after death— hardship and sorrow, contrary to ordinary feeling; people could not bear it, and it was far from the kingly way.

Mozi also praised how tirelessly Yu controlled the floods, so later followers of Mohism were sure to take self-mortification as the utmost, striving with all their strength to uphold this teaching. They did not understand that Yu faced the extraordinary crisis of great floods; that his father Gun failed at flood control and was put to death was crisis within crisis—only then did he toil and give his body, inheriting and completing the work. That cannot be taken as a constant rule. Applying measures meant for extraordinary times to ordinary days is like continuing acupuncture after the illness is cured—only adding pain, and it is hard to say which hurts more.

Xiang Li Qin and others further called themselves “Different Mohists,” reproaching and debating one another, promoting those who mastered the learning as sages and juzi (Mohist leaders)—much as Confucians called outstanding scholars “great ru”—each wishing to succeed them, with no settled conclusion to this day. This is another layer of meaning, showing that within Mohism at the time there were already divisions.

Turning again to Mo Di and Qin Huali: their intention in how they lived was right; teaching people to torment themselves was wrong. As a cause of disorder, this approach ranked first; as a means of good governance, it was a low expedient. Yet what Mozi naturally loved, no one under heaven could match; he finally established a teaching in his age. Though it was not the way of the sage, it could still be called a man of talent.

Formerly Mencius rejected Yang Zhu and Mo Di, holding that they did not accord with the way of the sage—his words harsh, his refusal extreme, as if they could not share the same sky under heaven. Thus one sees his merit in guarding the way. The Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of the Southern Florescence, i.e., the Zhuangzi) again details Mohist practice and lineage, points out its faults, yet does not discard its strengths—one may say its judgment was fair and left room for leniency; though Yang Zhu is not named directly in the discussion, the meaning is included. Mohism looks back to Yu the Great; Yang’s school looks back to Old Dan (Laozi, the Old Master). Both issued from the gate of the sage, yet what each learned was partial—like Zizhang (Zhuansun Shi) and Zixia (Bu Shang) studying under Confucius: one went too far, one fell short. This is the sprouting of the teachings of Yang and Mo; therefore in learning one cannot but be careful.

In ancient times there was a strand within the teachings of the Way that held: do not be dragged down by worldly affairs; do not adorn yourself with external things; do not grovel to please others, yet do not set yourself against the multitude either. One only wished for peace under heaven so that the people might live; when one’s own sustenance and that of others was sufficient, one stopped and sought no surplus—and in this one showed where one’s heart stood. In the old arts of the Way, there were those who belonged to this line.

Song Xing and Yin Wen (Warring States thinkers who advocated ceasing warfare and reducing desire) heard this spirit and took delight in it. They made caps flat above and below, in the shape of Mount Hua, to mark how they conducted themselves. In dealing with the ten thousand things, they began by distinguishing each thing’s limits and clearing away fixed bias and partiality (bie you). They spoke of the atmosphere that appears within the heart-mind and called it “the heart’s conduct”; they softened people with gentle harmony and thereby tuned the world, hoping to establish such teaching as what everyone should follow. When insulted they did not count it shame; they checked the people’s quarrels, forbade attack and stilled arms, to rescue the world from war. Carrying these ideas they traveled the realm, persuading those above and instructing those below; even if no one under heaven accepted them, they kept talking and would not let go. So it was said that high and low alike grew weary of them, yet they still forced themselves forward. Even so, they did too much for others and planned too little for themselves. They said: we ask only to have five sheng of rice prepared—that is enough. Those called “masters” still worried they might not eat their fill; those who called themselves “disciples,” though hungry, did not forget the world, working day and night without rest. Again they said: must I insist on staying alive myself? How lofty and self-assured these saviors of the world looked! They also said: the noble person does not pick at petty faults and does not bend himself to fit external things. Whatever one judged not to benefit the world—rather than spell it out at length, it was better to leave off. Outwardly they devoted themselves to forbidding attack and stilling arms; inwardly they cultivated thin, sparse desire. Whether viewed in the large or the small, the fine or the coarse, their practice stopped precisely at this point.

Guo Xiang (a Western Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) explained: zhi means to go against. “When sustenance is enough, stop” means not hoping for surplus. The Mount Hua cap, level above and below, signifies conduct that is fair and even. To distinguish each thing’s own limits is not wishing them to trespass on one another; then one forcibly harmonizes them with one’s own principle so they blend. Song and Yin hoped such people could be established as masters over the ten thousand things. “Insulted yet not shamed” means taking saving the people as urgent; checking quarrels and stilling weapons is what they meant by harmony. That when the world would not accept them they still urged on without ceasing is because they believed the principle of harmony ought to be so. Being disliked yet still forcing oneself to appear—their “no shame” is not following things as they change on their own but hardening oneself to soothe them; in that way their effort was too heavy. Asking only for five sheng of rice shows precisely how little they planned for themselves. They called the people of the world “masters” and themselves “disciples,” toiling day and night for the common folk—meaning that the people too ought to repay them. “Tu ao” is the bearing of holding oneself high and proud. “No petty scrutiny” means aiming at leniency. “Not bending oneself to external things” means insisting on exerting oneself. Where something did not benefit the world, they dropped it—that is the way of these saviors; their action went only this far and had not yet entered the vast, open ground of emptiness and penetration.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary holds that one should not let oneself be weighed down by worldly affairs, should not rely on external things to adorn oneself, should treat others with sincerity, and though occupying a humble place should not contend with others—only wishing that people be cared for and sustained, without greedily seeking more. When something in the heart is amiss, one washes it away as filth; this is what is meant by “white heart” (making the mind clear and pure).

Things contend because they encroach on one another and make harsh, pressing demands. To meet this with “bie you” (discriminating what is at issue and extending forbearance toward the other) is precisely the way to still contention and seek peace. The heart by nature holds nothing it cannot contain, and so should engage in no rivalry. Song Xing and Yin Wen pursued the heart’s largeness and, by gentle means, sought harmony and the ordering of the world under Heaven—this is what is called “the heart’s conduct” (xin zhi xing). They wished to take this practice as root and to honor and uphold it. From “to be insulted is no disgrace” down to “qiang guo bu she” (not ceasing to press one’s views though others will not listen), all belong to this conciliatory, yielding approach.

The ancient craft of embodying the Way (Dao) included this strand as well, yet because these two did too much for others and too little for themselves, they did not fully accord with that craft. They held that by day and night they never ceased saving the world; people would surely not haughtily pose as saviors and refuse to heed them; thus they would certainly manage to live on and need not fear starvation. Their practice went no further than this; beyond that point lay what these two could not know—in other words, they had not yet heard the Way.

Lin Yidu’s commentary states: As for transcending worldly concerns and not being dragged down by external things, following nature without putting on airs toward others, resting content in one’s place without demanding much of the multitude, going along without resentment, and wishing only that the realm be at peace and daily needs be met—that is where Song Yin and Yin Wen differ slightly from Mo Di, which is why they are discussed after him. The point is that vestiges of the ancient Way still survived in later ages, and when people heard of such figures they were glad at heart. The “crown of Mount Hua”—flat and even—was how Song and Yin showed how they conducted themselves. They engaged with the myriad things starting from distinguishing and forgiving differences of size; the sage’s Way, by contrast, treats self and things as one and needs no such division—large and small share the same ground and need no special tolerance or accommodation. What they embraced was only outer form; what they practiced did not come from the heart’s root. When the two spoke of the heart’s capacity, they called it “the heart’s conduct.” They wanted the realm to be settled, so they used a gentle manner to bring people together, thereby harmonizing the world, and they asked that this approach be established as fundamental—much like the idea that everyone would wish to be its steward. From “being insulted yet not taking it as disgrace” through “pressing on in persuasion and refusing to stop,” they took responsibility upon themselves to an excessive degree. Admonishing rulers above and teaching the people below shows how much they did for others; from not counting insult as shame down to needing only five sheng of grain, one sees how little they demanded for themselves. Their spirit was lofty and their scope broad, and they took saving the world as their task. To be humane yet unable to adapt is not enough to establish righteousness; the two went too far in benevolence and fell short in righteousness. “The noble person does not engage in finicky discrimination” means that action must spring from one’s own strength; if scrutinizing things brings no benefit to the world, it is better to stop. That is to say they were wholly bent on saving the world. Outwardly they aimed to stop warfare; inwardly they aimed to reduce desire. However their teaching differed in refinement and scope, what they actually achieved went no further than this.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) comments: Without private attachments, one is not weighed down; by holding to simplicity, one does not dress oneself up with external things; by keeping to the straight path, one does not compromise to flatter others; by following nature, one does not bear grudges against people. They wish only for peace under heaven and for the people to survive; their support is not excessive—they simply make this resolve clear, and that is all. The “crown of Mount Hua” (a flat-topped cap) stands for inner firmness and uprightness; governing level as a mountaintop summit serves to separate the worthy from the unworthy. They take leniency and canonical law as the root of governing the state, and in word and deed they are not unduly severe. When laws are mild, they match the people’s hearts; the world praises them and gladly sets them up as rulers. They endure insult and stop quarrels so the people do not fight; they halt warfare and hold to kindness and softness so the people value the feminine and quiet (rouhe stillness). Using this teaching to persuade the world, they hope the people will surely heed it and wish them to live in peace—this is caring too much for others. Thrifty and enduring hardship, they ask for no more than five sheng of rice a day (bare subsistence), yet even that they yield to their teacher, choosing hunger for themselves rather than forgetting the world—this is caring too little for oneself. “I shall surely get to live” means: my heart is set on saving people, so Heaven is bound to let me survive; “plotting arrogance” means: not seeking pride at all—how could it be boasting for the empty fame of saving the world? They do not pursue harsh scrutiny; they devote themselves to self-restraint. They do not bend the self to fit external things; they embody the Way and thereby lead the multitude. Whatever does not benefit the world, they do not do. Outwardly they harmonize the dispositions of the ten thousand things through non-contention (wuwei); inwardly they temper their own nature through few desires. Though affairs differ in fineness and coarseness, they only strip away what is unreasonable and then act—this is the utmost reach of the Way of governance.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi's style name) said: “Adornment” is like caring only for one's own upkeep while going against human feeling. “Separate letting-be” (bie you) is close to “letting be” (zai you)—letting things be without imposed control: accommodating oneself to one's lot is called “separate”; dwelling at ease in spaciousness is called “letting-be.” “Substance” (rong) means the root body; “application” (xing) means how it is put to use. Gathering people's goodwill through gentleness and harmonizing all under heaven—this is wanting to establish that way as the foundation. “Forcibly talking without stopping” (qiang guo bu she) means that when others are already tired of listening, one still boasts on without end. With only five sheng of rice a day, master and disciples eat together; if the master still cannot eat his fill, how much more must the disciples go hungry. Enduring hunger, tormenting oneself, never resting day or night—is that a way to live long? This is meant to correct those who take the name of saving the world while in fact serving themselves; “plotting haughtiness” (tu ao) means using this self-torment to correct them. As Yu Rang (the Spring and Autumn assassin) said: “I do this extremely hard thing to make everyone under heaven who serves a lord yet harbors divided loyalty feel ashamed.” He also said: do not make petty, finicky inspections; do not draw lines between “you” and “I”; do everything yourself without borrowing others' strength; for things of no benefit to all under heaven, even knowing they can be done, better stop. The general drift is to leave no outward strife of attack and war, no inward turmoil of desire—and to stop there.

Free from worldly entanglements and without adorning oneself with external things, the heart stays empty and bright and can hold to simplicity. Not yielding casually to others, yet not resenting the multitude, one can devote oneself to sincerity and live in harmony with people. Using this to transform customs and conduct relations with others, one only wishes everyone peace. When one’s own consumption does not exceed what is enough, one does not rashly seek to hoard wealth and thereby invite disaster upon oneself—this is the principle of lasting peace and security. They used this teaching to establish instruction under heaven, to make clear the human heart-mind without affectation or pretense. Song Xing and Yin Wen (Warring States thinkers who advocated reducing desires and opposing war) heard of this ethos and rejoiced, then followed its way. They wore caps shaped like Mount Hua (flat-topped caps signifying upright conduct) to show rectitude in behavior; in dealing with others they strove for even-handedness, taking the discernment of good and evil and forgiveness of folly as their basis, so that people would not turn to wickedness and custom could be made sincere and teaching flourish. Yet this approach still had one-sidedness and fell short of the completeness and durability of the sage’s governance.

“The countenance of the heart” is like speaking of the countenance of the hands or feet—it refers to the bearing of one’s movement and stillness. “The conduct of the heart” means how intention is disposed and put into action. Broadly, it means embodying the goodness of the original heart in deeds, harmonizing the realm, so that people do not fight or grow angry, and all have peace with sustenance sufficient and no more. The remark carries the sense of “knowing only to dispense small favors without understanding how to govern.” They wanted to make this doctrine a root and hoped people would follow their teaching.

Bearing insult, stopping quarrels, and ceasing warfare all express the idea of holding to softness and not contending with others. They preached loudly again and again, insisting that people obey their words. Asking only for enough rice to fill five sheng shows how little they planned for themselves; yet preferring to go hungry rather than forget the world shows how much they planned for others. Day and night without rest, until utterly exhausted, they still sighed, “Surely I can go on living”—meaning: having toiled so to save others, the Creator (the nature that begets the myriad things) must let me live. Ascetics who practice severe austerities today (touduo in Buddhism) are frugal toward themselves yet thoughtful and caring toward others—much like them, only lacking learning and wisdom and falling far short by comparison.

The line about “tu ao” is hard to explain; among various readings only Guo Xiang’s commentary comes close. It is a sigh from the author of the Zhuangzi (Nanhua). Tu ao is like mou fang: their designs are vast and loose, impractical. These two men wished by their own strength alone to relieve all under heaven, without gauging how difficult that truly was.

Not harshly scrutinizing others is called skill in forgiveness; not using external things to glorify oneself, and stopping what does no good to the world, is called skill in discrimination. Outwardly forbidding aggression and stopping arms, so that each person has enough and does not contend; inwardly reducing and thinning desire, restraining oneself from greed and thus avoiding calamity. Affairs differ in magnitude and fineness, but their practice reached its limit here. This means they could not enter the depths of the sage’s learning and therefore remained at Mohist (Mozi’s school) doctrine. This passage discusses the bias of Mohism in that age; some sentences state their views, others the author’s judgment—the roles of subject and object in the rhetoric must be read carefully.

Volume 105 of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song dynasty, draws on Part Three of “Tianxia” in the Zhuangzi miscellany, appraising the line associated with Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao, with appended notes by Guo Xiang and Lü Huizhong.

This school held that one should be fair without forming factions, plain without partiality, decisive without taking oneself as master, follow things without splitting into two sides, neither look ahead nor behind in anxious thought, nor rely on clever scheming; toward the myriad things they made no picking and choosing, but only went along with them together. Among the ancient arts of the Dao there was a path belonging to this tendency. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao (Warring States thinkers; Shen Dao was later often classed with the Legalists, while his teaching also bordered on Huang–Lao) heard this spirit and rejoiced. They took equalizing the myriad things as their chief principle and said: Heaven can cover all things but cannot bear them up; Earth can bear all things but cannot cover them; the great Dao can embrace all things but cannot discriminate among them. From this one knows that each thing has what suits it and what does not. Therefore they said: where there is choice, there cannot be thoroughness; where there is deliberate teaching, one cannot reach the utmost—only by following the Dao is nothing left out.

Hence Shen Dao discarded cleverness and removed attachment to self, acting only along what the situation made unavoidable. He let the myriad things clarify and sift themselves, and took that as the pattern of the Dao. He said: though one clearly does not know, yet if one belittles knowledge, one will next harm oneself. He was loose and refused responsibility, and so mocked the world’s esteem for the worthy; he was unrestrained and careless of conduct, and so criticized the world’s great sages. By beating and grinding away corners he turned with the myriad things; abandoning right and wrong, he sought only to escape harm. He did not take wisdom as his model, nor worry about before and after—he simply stood towering alone. Pushed, he moved; pulled, he went—like a whirlwind turning, like a feather wheeling, like a grindstone revolving—preserving himself without falling into dispute, neither in motion nor at rest committing fault or giving offense. Why? Because things without knowledge have no calamity of establishing a self and no burden of exercising mind; in motion and rest they never leave principle, and so through life they had no reputation. Thus they said: to be like a thing without knowledge is enough; there is no need for worthies or sages; even a clod of earth does not lose the Dao. Heroes together laughed at him: Shen Dao’s Dao is not the conduct of the living but a path toward the dead—precisely what makes it strange.

Tian Pian was the same. He studied with Peng Meng and received the transmission of “no deliberate teaching.” Peng Meng’s teacher said: the ancients who had the Dao simply arrived at affirming nothing and denying nothing. That spirit was like the sound of a contrary wind—dim and hard to speak; how could it be made clear? They often opposed the world, did not gather crowds for display, yet still could not avoid having their edges filed away. What they called the Dao was not the Dao; what they affirmed could not escape being wrong. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not truly know, though in broad outline they had each heard something.

Guo Xiang held: to be resolute without a master means each relies on its own nature. Things each have what they tend toward, so they can unite as one; only when all follow their use can there be thoroughness; only by trusting their nature can one arrive. Lengtai is like letting things scatter and clarify themselves. Those of shallow wisdom do not know to trust the natural, so they both belittle knowledge and thereby injure themselves. Affairs are not entrusted to one person alone but to the multitude; when each can act, there is no need further to exalt the worthy. Criticizing the great sage aims to erase the traces of sages and worthies so that the myriad things no longer chase outward marks. Though the Legalist art is subtle, it still involves beating and shaping, so it cannot yet merge indistinguishably with the Dao. Not knowing right and wrong or before and after, closing the eyes and indulging feeling, seeking only to escape present calamity—thus standing towering alone. Moving only when pushed or pulled is what is meant by acting from the unavoidable. Calamity arises from reputation; reputation arises from establishing a self. Only the sage can remove cleverness and artificiality, follow heavenly principle, let foolish and wise each find their place, noble and base each hold their rank, worthy and unworthy each rest in their true condition. Yet they said there was no need for worthies or sages, and so were judged not to know. They wanted people to strip away mind and become like a clod of earth; but the myriad things are tangled and cannot thereby obtain the Dao—the Dao is not partial to any one thing. Removing mind and trusting nature—then spirit illuminates; that is what makes sages and worthies. They said a clod of earth does not lose the Dao. If a person were like a clod, would that not be death? Hence heroes laughed at them. They had not yet merged with the utmost Dao, and so appeared odd. “Receiving no-teaching” means each is left to its own self-nature. No affirming or denying is equalizing the myriad things. *Xu*ran is the sound of wind blowing against one. They did not follow what people’s hearts hoped for; though they set up law, the corners were already ground away. The Dao is nowhere absent, yet they said only a clod of earth does not lose the Dao—hence “not knowing.” Though in broad outline they had heard, they had not yet arrived.

Lü Huizhong held: not forming factions and having no private mind leaves the heart empty without a master, and thus one becomes one with things; not scheming and not plotting means going together with things. The ancient art of the Dao originally lay in still silence. Their joy on hearing the report was a response after being stirred, wanting to penetrate affairs under Heaven—that was precisely what the three did not understand. Heaven, Earth, and the great Dao, though vast, each have what they cannot do; thus it is clear that each thing has what is possible and what is not. Where there is choice there is no thoroughness; where there is teaching one cannot reach the extreme—only by using the Dao to equalize is nothing left out. Shen Dao abandoned knowledge and removed the old, acting from the unavoidable. Leng is clarifying turbidity; tai is removing disturbance. The ancients entered the Dao from here—they did not take this procedure itself as the Dao. They halted the Dao at this point because they did not know that wisdom and self were never substantial to begin with. The myriad things arising together is precisely the pivot of their return; luxuriant growth is precisely the process of their returning to the root—not enough to disturb my heart. Shen Dao understood the pattern as “knowing that one does not know,” belittled knowledge, and neighbors were injured nearby, thinking only ignorance could preserve one. He knew only that “knowing” has what it does not know, and did not know that “not knowing” itself is true knowing. Unfixed conduct and unrestrained lack of conduct, while criticizing the world’s worthies and sages—that was his abandoning knowledge and self. Chui pai is forging and trimming; wan duan is breaking off and removing corners; wan zhuan is turning together with things—hence forgetting wisdom and before and after, simply standing towering. Moving only when pushed or pulled, like wind, feather, or grindstone—the motion is not from me. To be like a thing without knowledge is to have no calamity of self or the trouble of using mind; motion and rest do not leave principle, hence no reputation and no fault. Shen Dao took this as the Dao. The saying that a clod of earth does not lose the Dao: he knew the language of abandoning sages and discarding wisdom, but that very act of abandoning is the display of sage-knowledge; if one stops only at ignorance, how is that different from the path of the dead? Hence heroes laughed and the world found it strange. Tian Pian studied with Peng Meng and obtained “no teaching” because once there is teaching one cannot reach the Dao. The ancients only arrived at no affirming or denying—their wind dim and hard to speak, close to the idea that where there is no right and wrong, the knower does not speak. Yet their conduct opposed people; though they wished not to gather crowds for viewing, they still could not avoid filing edges and breaking corners. The Dao was never a single thing; taking emptiness that does not destroy the myriad things as real—why constantly oppose people, why beat and grind corners? What they called the Dao was not the Dao; what they affirmed could not escape error, because they stuck in ignorance. Though the three were not truly knowing, in broad outline they had heard. As for Mo Di, Hua Li, Song Xing, and Yin Wen (Mohists and the Song–Yin line), they not only did not know but had never heard. The Dao originates in the reality of nature and life; its truth is for ordering the person. What Mo Di and Hua Li established in conduct wholly departed from human feeling under Heaven, even to the point of being unable to love others or oneself—the most severe obstruction of the root and loss of the genuine—so when narrating the arts of the Dao that split the world, they are mentioned first; next Song Xing and Yin Wen count as knowing; Tian Pian and Shen Dao as somewhat knowing and closer to the Dao. This is from coarse to refined.

Lin Yidu (commentator on the Zhuangzi in the Song dynasty) said: The art of the Dao is indeed reflected here. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao heard this current of thought and took delight in it. Their way differed from that of Song Xing and Yin Wen, so they put leveling all things (qi wanwu—treating everything as equal, without high and low) first, unlike that school, which began with contacting outer things and bie you (discriminating and clearing away fixed biases).

Heaven can only fulfill heaven’s function, not earth’s; earth can only fulfill earth’s function, not heaven’s. The Dao moves within this, can embrace all, yet does not discriminate. From this one knows that the ten thousand things each have what they can and cannot do. When merged, there is completeness; when left to themselves, each reaches its limit; when embraced, nothing is lacking—add discrimination and something is left out.

So Shen Dao cast aside cleverness and did not argue, dropped private views and did not respond to things from self-interest, and only followed the track where there was no alternative. He never sought to be stirred by things in order to connect with them, nor sought to set speech in motion in order to make it penetrate. With the attitude of lengtai (cool letting-go, without clinging), he released himself and was not dragged by outer things. Therefore he held that even the last scraps of cleverness still verge on harming the Dao, and he wanted to forget them entirely. Without exclusive attachment there is no “affairs”; without acting there is no trace. Worthies have undertakings; sages have virtue (de)—he mocked and rejected these, all to show that he did not exalt them.

“Chuipai” means bracing the body that is about to go forward; “waduan” means trimming away what remains of what is already broken off. Turning with things as they come, the entanglements of right and wrong can be shed. Not taking cleverness as teacher, forgetting before and after, the mind like dead ashes, standing alone in grandeur—he never took the lead in initiating, yet constantly responded; never sought to be moved, yet constantly answered. Action was like a cart that moves only when pushed; going forward like being pulled—always because of following what could not be otherwise. So it was like wind whirling, feathers spinning, a grindstone cutting a groove. His virtue (de) was whole; in movement and stillness he was without fault. Precisely because he did not use knowing toward things and did not set up a self toward himself, misfortune and entanglement could not reach his person.

Good and ill fortune arise from action; ruin and praise arise from “having” (you—having a mind, deliberate doing). They wandered outside good and ill fortune, ruin and praise, and thus arrived at being like things without knowing—taking the kuairan (the lump-like, utterly unmoving) as not losing the Dao. The Dao is what all formed things jointly pass through; virtue (de) is what all who have mind jointly attain. Even as fine as tile or pebble, the Dao is nowhere absent. But Shen Dao’s Dao was not the conduct of the living; it fell exactly into the bizarre.

Tian Pian and Shen Dao studied under Peng Meng and obtained a Dao grasped without relying on words. Their style was deep and hidden, with a tinge of doubt; its shape could not be stated plainly. They often went against others and could not gather a crowd for people to look up to, because they had not yet truly leveled all things. “Waduan” means the appearance of having no guijiao (sharp corners, cutting edges). What they called Dao sometimes fell into what was not Dao; what they called “right” sometimes fell into what was not right. These three men broadly had only heard of the Dao; they had not truly attained it.

Laozi said “jue sheng qi zhi” (abandon sageliness and discard clever knowing); here Zhuangzi does not approve of Peng Meng and Shen Dao—a seeming contradiction. In fact he lodges the principle in these two men and pares away their tracks, only hoping thereby to warn later ages, so people would know that was language meant to correct a moment in time.

Yuzhai (the style name of the Song scholar Lin Xiyi) says: What is meant by “following things” is that the myriad things each have their own principle: they cannot be split into two sides, nor forcibly made into one. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao were all recluses of Qi. They held that heaven and earth are themselves merely one thing among the myriad things, and that what stands foremost is the Dao of Wuwei (non-action). Heaven and earth each have their partial limits, whereas the great Dao embraces everything and does not make distinctions. Things all have what is admissible and what is not; if you pick and choose, you cannot be thorough; if you try to teach, you cannot exhaust it—only by returning to the Dao is nothing left out. Casting off cleverness and the self is Wuwei; treating the myriad things with calm acceptance and without imposing constraints is to be unobstructed. They said: If you separate knowing from not-knowing, you will be pressed by the demand to know and will come close to harming yourself. “Xièluǒ” describes hesitation and inability to take responsibility, with the mind not staying fixed on affairs; therefore they mocked the world’s esteem for worthies, indulged themselves without restraining their conduct, and regarded the world’s learning of the sages as mistaken. “Chuí pāi yuán duàn” means grinding away sharp corners so there are no angles—thus one can turn with things as they come, not dividing right from wrong, so as to avoid being entangled by worldly affairs. The whirling of wind, the drifting of feathers, and the grooves of a whetstone are all metaphors for turning without deliberate intent, following things as they move. Only by being like things without knowledge is one free of the calamity of proclaiming oneself and the burden of calculating with the mind; in movement and stillness one follows principle, not seeking to be known—without reputation there is no fault, so why need the title of sage or worthy? So long as one is utterly without knowledge, one can avoid losing the Dao. This sort of discourse is like those today who practice severe austerities in mountain forests; hence heroes and outstanding men mock them, thinking them no better than the dead. People in this line of learning naturally agree with one another; there are things one can do without waiting to be taught.

Their teacher’s words say: In antiquity those who practiced the Way took having no right and wrong as fundamental; their speech was like a gust of wind—suddenly empty and silent, with no room for the heart to lodge in it—hence “how could it be put into words?” Their views often oppose ordinary people; they cannot integrate human relations and practical affairs, and inevitably become one-sided doctrines, aiming only to have no sharp corners. The “yuán duàn” here is the same as what was said before. Though their words are forceful, the Dao they speak of is not the true Dao. These three did not understand the Dao—this is Zhuangzi’s decisive verdict. Still, taken broadly, they too had heard something of the Dao; they simply had not obtained the correct Way.

Those who can avoid forming factions or acting with partiality have no “goodness” that belongs to them alone; when judging, they do not take personal bias as their guide, so the tendencies of all things under heaven converge toward unity. Without private scheming or clever plotting, they simply move along with things as they are. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao (pre-Qin thinkers who advocated abandoning cleverness and following things as they are) heard of this spirit and rejoiced, for their ways were fundamentally the same.

They established their teaching with equalizing all things as its core. Things in themselves are not originally uniform; what can make them uniform is the Dao. Heaven and earth are already the greatest among things, yet even they cannot be fully complete in merit—how much less the rest? The Dao embraces all things without distinguishing among them, and for that reason it can equalize them. Each thing has what it can and cannot do; if one picks and chooses and tries to instruct, things become all the more unequal. When the Dao governs and guards, nothing is left out.

Therefore Shen Dao discarded cleverness and seemed dull and clumsy; he set aside private aims and let things take their course, responding only when he had no choice. Though he acted, he did not act with deliberate intent. He clarified his own root source until it was cool and clear, then used that to sift all things—nothing failed to comply. His knowing arose from not-knowing. Mere contempt for knowledge still comes close to harming one’s nature; only when one reaches genuine ignorance can one be said to preserve it. Being “xiele”—eccentric and unfit for office—and refusing to take on affairs, he mocked those under heaven who honored the worthy and hoped to govern the realm through talent.

The next line pairs with what precedes, and the sense is clear on its own. “Zhui pai” and “wan duan” refer to the wan duan mentioned later—punishing criminals by law. Even when applying punishment according to law, one can still follow the disposition of things, turning and extending everywhere, fair and suited to the facts. Abandoning the right and wrong fixed by the world and holding fast to how affairs and principle actually stand, one can be free of disaster; to say “only seeking to escape harm” is modest speech. Not taking cleverness as one’s model, one forgets worry before and after and stands lofty like dead wood, moving only when pushed or pulled. That movement is like the wind’s whirl, like a feather’s spin, like a millstone’s turn—there is no deliberate mind toward movement, so there is no fault.

Things without knowledge do not set themselves up and do not use cleverness; in motion and rest they have no private aim and naturally accord with principle. With no praise to seek, how could slander remain? So he did not envy the names of sage or worthy and took muddled ignorance as attaining the Dao—yet he did not understand that there is still the principle of responsive communion and silent transformation. Heroes and outstanding men therefore mocked him, finding it strange, and treated him as no different from a corpse.

Tian Pian studied under Peng Meng. He only let the nature of things run its course, using learning to support that nature without twisting the root—hence “de bu jiao yan”: to learn the Way until there is nothing in right and wrong that one can affirm or deny. Words that leave the mouth pass like wind through a hole—empty and traceless; there is no deliberate mind toward debating right and wrong, so how could one go on to trace why things are so? Therefore he often went against human sentiment and did not gather crowds to watch under heaven—a point akin to “making one’s towers dangerous to view.” Even so, he could not avoid relying on penal law; without law, governance was hard. The way they spoke of was not the true Dao, so even when their words were apt, they still could not escape criticism.

These three had not yet truly understood the Dao. Their learning was once famous in the world and cannot be entirely erased. Reading closely what the Nanhua zhenjing (the Zhuangzi) says, the teachings of Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao still surpass those of Kuo Huo, Chi Ji, and their like—hence they are placed later, closer to Guan Yin and La Dan (Laozi).

In ancient times there was a Daoist teaching that took the primordial origin as subtle and refined, took external things as coarse and shallow, and regarded any stockpiling as insufficiency. Such a person would dwell calmly and alone in communion with the numinous clarity of the Dao. Guan Yin (traditionally identified as Yin Xi, keeper of Hangu Pass) and Laozi (Lao Dan) heard of this spirit and were delighted by it. They taught from “the constant non-being and non-having” (chang you wu), and took the Great Unity (Taiyi)—the one primordial source—as lord and master. Outwardly they appeared soft and yielding; inwardly they practiced emptiness and refrained from harming the myriad things.

Guan Yin said: When one holds to nothing and does not cling, what has form naturally shows itself clearly. In movement one is like flowing water; in stillness like a bright mirror; in responding to things, like an echo. One seems to vanish in vagueness, yet is quiet and clear. When one mingles with things, there is harmony; when one “gains,” one may in fact lose. One never races ahead of others, but constantly follows along behind them.

Laozi said: Though one knows strength, one keeps to the soft and yielding, and becomes the stream-bed of the world; though one knows purity, one rests in disgrace and obscurity, and becomes the valley of the world. While others strive to be first, one alone stays behind—this is called bearing the world’s filth; while others grasp what is solid, one alone takes what is empty. Because one does not hoard for oneself, one paradoxically has surplus and stands ample and at ease. One acts with ease and does not exhaust oneself; through wuwei (non-action) one can smile at clever contrivance. While others seek blessing, one only seeks to bend and preserve oneself, hoping to avoid fault. One takes deep hiding as root and plain simplicity as the guiding thread. What is too hard is easily broken; what is too sharp is easily dulled. One is always lenient toward the myriad things and does not cut others down—this may be called reaching the utmost. Guan Yin and Laozi were truly the great perfected persons (zhenren) of antiquity.

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that treating accumulated possessions as insufficiency arises because one deposits surplus upon the world and only then appears to have enough. If one speaks of “nothingness,” on what basis could anything be established? What is meant by establishing through “constantly having and not having” is precisely the insight that the ten thousand things establish themselves on their own. Heaven, earth, and the myriad things each obtain what suits them; there is no need to add further ornament— is this not taking the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) as sovereign? When things arrive, one responds; responding without hoarding privately, merit departs with the things themselves. Not insisting on one’s own rightness, one returns affairs to the myriad things, and each thing’s form becomes manifest on its own. Moving like flowing water and still like a bright mirror is a metaphor for the heart never harboring partial feelings. One who is dim and quiet and constantly preserves does not feel that anything has been gained. When each thing keeps to its own station, there is only silence— there is no need to flaunt “masculine” vigor or “white” brilliance. Those who flaunt vigor and brilliance are competitive and eager to show themselves; is this not pursuing knowledge and views beyond one’s proper share and thereby harming life? The ancients did not follow boundless knowing, and so their nature was preserved; when nature was complete, the world came to rely on them like streams flowing into valleys, gladly honoring them without weariness. “Feminine,” “humiliation,” and taking the rear and the lower place are what the world calls filth and disgrace. Those who grasp only the “substantial” know the convenience of “having” but not the efficacy of “not having”; those who grasp the “empty” hold to bland emptiness and stillness to meet every kind of actuality. One who hoards nothing hands the myriad things over so that each may guard itself— hence no fear of lack, standing tall and self-sufficient. In establishing oneself and acting, one benefits people according to what truly benefits them, accomplishes in accord with the four seasons, and constantly aligns with the Way— hence no haste and no waste. Those who play with cleverness and act with purpose instead injure the “divine vessel” (the naturally complete native endowment); those who practice wuwei (non-action) follow the myriad things as they generate and complete themselves, and each thing comes to be what it is. Even spiders can spin webs— everyone inherently has capacities; there is no need to exalt the artisan Chui. Entrusting oneself and yielding to supreme principle, one can constantly remain whole; not seeking outwardly yet finding sufficiency in one’s own blessing, following outer things, one thus incurs no blame. This principle is rooted from the beginning in the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate); it cannot be called shallow. Taking simplicity as the guiding thread removes excess; when yielding reaches its limit, even metal and stone are no longer “hard,” and once one goes against it, even water and qi (vital energy) are no longer “soft.” Yielding preserves, opposing destroys— that alone is correct principle. Rash advance without limit is “sharpness”; each keeping to its own station naturally leaves ample margin without cutting others down— that is preserving native nature.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary holds: taking the Dao as refined makes things coarse; taking things as coarse is likewise taking “no thing” as refined. The Dao has never clung to things, hence viewing accumulated possessions as insufficiency. Emptiness must reach the extreme, stopping only when there is nothing left to accumulate— merely dwelling calmly alone with spirit (shenming, the luminous authentic self). In ancient Daoist teaching, root and branch, refined and coarse, are everywhere; saying here “take the root as refined” is only speaking in accord with the times. The Dao originally has no thing, yet things appear as the moment demands— it is as if it were not yet truly established; establishing through “constantly having and not having,” outer things cannot obstruct it. Once “one” is spoken, that one and the words become two; when there is a “one” that can be indicated, it is not the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). At the Taiji, even “one” cannot be grasped— so the myriad things turn toward it without knowing who is sovereign. The Dao has no trace, hence it does not contend, and outwardly appears as softness, humility, and dwelling below; from its outer aspect one can know what is embodied within. Each thing returns to its root; the substance is originally empty— thus taking “empty and not injuring the myriad things” as substantial differs from those who take beating, rounding, and forcible cutting as the Dao.

Guan Yinzi’s eleven sentences all treat the efficacy of “oneself not lingering— form and things then manifest on their own.” Laozi says: know the masculine yet keep the feminine, know the white yet keep humiliation— the feminine aspect is quiet and does not lead; the humiliated aspect yields and returns to the root, like a stream conveying without storing, like a valley answering without hoarding, from which rivers and seas take their source— this is what is meant by establishing through “constantly having and not having” and taking the Taiji as sovereign. Standing behind and bearing filth and disgrace is taking softness and humility as the outer form; dwelling in emptiness with nothing hoarded, one does not injure the myriad things— they instead serve one’s purpose; hence the sense of surplus. Not rushing ahead of others but following behind, one is at ease and unstinting— unlike those who toil the body and exhaust themselves yet think they have attained the Dao. Following the inherent emptiness of the myriad things without injuring them differs from conduct that resembles mindless things. Bending to preserve oneself and avoid excess blame— that is what is called blessing. Taking deep concealment as root, one need not rely on hardness; taking simplicity as the guiding thread, one need not rely on sharpness. Empty to the utmost, vast to the utmost— hence one can constantly contain the myriad things without cutting others down. Taking the root as refined, dwelling calmly alone with spirit, what is embodied is the Dao’s truth— one may say the utmost is reached; hence the praise: this is the ancient, vast authentic person.

Yí Dú, a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi, said: Only by constantly keeping free of desire can one see the subtlety of the Dao (the Way)—here the root is taken as what is most refined. If one always looks from the side of desire, one can only see the outer edges and traces of things (jiào)—treating what is outside as coarse and secondary.

To treat what one has already stored up as still not enough is to make accumulation ever more limited; only by guarding against greedy hoarding does enjoyment stay inexhaustible. Zhuangzi said that “the utmost non-being supplies all that is sought”: what feeds everything that “is” in the world is the utmost non-being; what answers everything solid in the world is the utmost emptiness. Detachment and lack of desire therefore set one apart from the myriad things, yet without leaving this subtle root one dwells with the spirit—that pure, luminous clarity.

Ordinary “non-being” is non-being defined against “being”; “constant non-being” is not that relative non-being and does not stand opposed to being. Likewise, what is called “constant being” is not opposed to non-being. When the teaching is framed by constant non-being and constant being, greedy accumulation is already checked—why still split jiào from miào, the coarse trace from the subtle wonder? Constant non-being and constant being both return to the Great One, the supreme undivided whole. The Great One is the “One” under Heaven; nothing can be placed before it, so one holds to softness and weakness and acts with humble yielding. “Manifest attitude” (biǎo) means how this shows outwardly.

Others grasp what is solidly real; one alone takes emptiness, treating emptiness as what truly sustains one without being used up. Wuwei (non-action) and scorning clever contrivance mean taking non-harm to the myriad things as the real substance: to preserve oneself, rely on emptiness; to meet things, rely on not injuring them. Softness, weakness, humility, and yielding are Laozi’s way of acting; emptiness and non-injury are Laozi’s de (virtue-power).

When one does not cling to a fixed place, things too are not locked in place; changing with the moment, one goes beyond the six defilements—form, sound, scent, taste, touch, and mental objects—so that one’s traces appear naturally, without obstruction. In motion, accommodating, hence like water; in stillness, clear, hence like a mirror. Dim and indistinct, as if there were a form yet as if none; silent, yet as if pure. Harmonizing with things without claiming to be the same as them—hence true harmony; having gain without claiming possession—hence seeming loss. Never striving to be first, always following others—only responding, never leading. A stream holds because it receives; a valley answers well because it is empty.

Knowing strength yet keeping to the soft and yielding, not pushing ahead of things; knowing purity yet dwelling in disgrace, using honor and shame to temper oneself. Profit is what people rush for; filth and disgrace are what they shrink from. Others take the solid and accumulate, so they are never satisfied; one takes emptiness and does not hoard, so there is surplus—standing like a mountain, yet without lack. In action he seems ever duller, yet afterward ever more beneficial; outward things increase while the inner self is not harmed. All is left to nature, without carving or polish.

Others seek blessing by deliberately seeking; he does not seek—by bending and yielding he preserves the body, aiming only to escape calamity; that is blessing. Depth is the root of the Dao; restraint (yue) is its guiding thread. What is hard is destroyed—guard it with softness; what is sharp is blunted—nourish it with emptiness. Broad patience toward things is tolerance; broad patience toward people is not encroaching or cutting them down. This is the Dao of Guan Yin (Yin Xi, keeper of the pass) and Lao Dan (Laozi).

Bixu’s commentary: The subtle root of the Great Dao can only be apprehended through inward understanding; the coarse side of things that have form alone can be put into words. When the mind hoards and clings, one feels lacking; yet nothing is more full and abundant than the supreme void—the vast body of the Dao. To dwell alone with the spirit is to be in a dark room and still not deceive oneself. “Constant non-being and being” is how the Dao is put to use; the Supreme One (Taiyi) is the sovereign of the whole person; empty stillness and harmony (chongxu) is the source of the ten thousand things. The perfected person has no fixed, grasping self, and the ten thousand things all connect with that person. In action there is no private motive; in stillness one can reflect; at the first touch of things, understanding opens, without being bound to any fixed mood. What looks like extinction is not a falling into nothingness; what looks like clarity is not a rejection of turbidity; harmonizing with things is not sinking into their mire; what is forgotten is not mere self-protection. Not striving to be first but following behind is placing oneself at the rear. Knowing the strong yet holding to the soft is cultivating oneself through humility; knowing the bright yet dwelling in disgrace is staying in obscurity while the inner mind stays clear. Bearing the world’s filth is the capacity to endure humiliation. Not hoarding for oneself, one has surplus; giving to others, one becomes richer still. Haste wears down the spirit; cleverness makes one another’s tool. If one can avoid fault, why chase after blessings? The root is deep and firm, so one never leaves the source; the guiding thread is simple, so it is easy to hold to. Being broad toward things, compassion grows vast; not harsh with people, relief and aid spread wide. These are only the rough traces of how the perfected person moves in the world—yet they are what Guan Yin and Lao Dan diligently practiced; they are the Dao of Guan Yin and Lao Dan.

Yuzhai’s remarks: To treat accumulation as insufficiency is to store wealth in the world without claiming it as one’s own. To take Wuwei (non-action) as the aim and the beginning of Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate) as one’s master. What appears outwardly is responding to affairs and adapting to change. Being broad toward things makes compassion vast; not harsh with people makes relief and aid broad. These are all coarse traces of the perfected person’s engagement with the world—the very things Guan Yin and Lao Dan diligently practiced.

Yizhai (the style name of Lin Xiyi of the Song dynasty) said: What is meant by “taking accumulated possession as insufficiency” is not treating private hoarding as wealth, but placing one’s riches in the care of the world and sharing them with all. In action, take “nothing” as the root purpose and Taiji (the primordial state before things are divided) as the master.

“Outward bearing” refers to the attitude one shows in dealing with others. When the heart stays empty, the myriad things can each preserve themselves—only then is the truth real. What Yuexuan (Chen Zao) meant by “not a single thing possessed, yet the myriad things are wholly present” is exactly this.

Do not fix yourself in one place, nor favor anyone in particular; the principle that governs then appears of itself, merely taking shape along with the forms of things. The flow of water, the stillness of a mirror, the echo in a valley—all are responses without deliberate intent, naturally aligned.

What seems to perish is really as if present yet absent; what seems clear is clear to the point that it cannot be named. Take blending with the myriad things as harmony; take having nothing to gain as true gain.

Know the strong and male, yet abide in the soft and female—this is hiding what one can do within what one cannot do. Know purity, yet abide in disgrace and dirt; dwell in a high place yet do not treat yourself as high. This is the meaning of the valley lying low and thereby able to hold the myriad things.

Because one treats emptiness as fullness, outwardly there is nothing stored, yet inwardly there is surplus; because one moves with steady ease, the self is not worn away. Others take craftiness as clever; I take Wuwei (non-action) as clever. Others take blessings and rank as fortune; I take freedom from fault as fortune.

“Taking depth as root” means that the root lies in the origin of Taiyi (the undivided, supreme whole before the myriad things); “taking simplicity as rule” means using plainness as the law for guarding the person. Whatever is hard and sharp is bound in the end to be broken and ruined; if one takes holding the myriad things as one’s measure, others have no way to encroach or diminish one, and one can preserve one’s own life. This is the Dao of the highest extreme under heaven.

Dao is the root from which the ten thousand things arise—so subtle it cannot be seen. The ten thousand things are merely the trailing threads of Dao; their coarse, heavy forms lie plain before the eyes. People exhaust themselves amassing external things to sustain life, yet the more they accumulate, the less enough feels. Vast and far-reaching, the void is where spirit (shen) finds its dwelling: it embraces all and receives the ten thousand things, with neither ruin nor achievement to speak of. Even if every thing under heaven were overflowing with wealth, how could that surpass the “nothing” of the void? If one can be plain and without desire, body and mind align with Taiji (the supreme ultimate, the primordial source of the cosmos) and dwell with spirit. Without hoardings outside, the breast itself holds surplus—this is what Guan Yin (Guardian of the Pass, Yin Xi) and Laodan (Laozi) excelled at.

The “having” of the ten thousand things all springs from “non-being”; human delusion, by contrast, clings stubbornly to “having.” To hold fast to “constant non-being” is already hard; to treat “having” too as “non-being” is harder still. To stand in constant non-being without leaving the realm of having, one must take Taiyi (the One before form) as sovereign. Taiyi is “there is that One, yet no trace of shape”—the state before heaven and earth, the first stirrings of human nature. With it as master, one knows that in origin there never was a thing; thus one shows softness and humility outwardly—“outward showing” means making it visible in conduct. In mingling with the ten thousand things one does not set up self and other; empty in oneself, one does not destroy the ten thousand things. Not destroying them means letting them be without passing judgment: when self is forgotten, things transform on their own—why must one destroy things to count as “non-being”? What piles up before the eyes is “fullness”; whether one is empty depends on oneself alone. “Having no fixed abode, form and things appear of themselves” carries the same meaning. The flow of water, the stillness of a mirror, the echo in an empty valley—all image action without contrivance, natural and unwilled: like vanishing, it cannot be possessed; like clarity, it cannot be muddied. Merging into one brings harmony; clinging to possession brings loss. Hence not striving to be first but following along—through life one meets no calamity. Knowing the strong yet keeping to the soft, seeing hardness and recalling softness, knowing the bright yet keeping to the dark, dwelling in light yet honoring obscurity. Valleys and streams illustrate delight in lying low; then all streams turn toward them. Bearing the world’s filth enlarges the measure of De (virtue/power); not hoarding, one has surplus; empty yet never exhausted—set in motion, it pours forth without end.

Thus one stands towering above the ten thousand things: nothing stands between it and the heart, and nothing is not one’s own. In action one is not hasty yet is often self-sufficient; the heart delights in wuwei (non-action) and does not envy worldly cleverness. While others chase extra blessings, one alone takes accepting humiliation and restraint as blessing; if one can avoid fault, that is the greatest blessing. Deeply rooting is inward stability; “binding the tally” (yue ji) means reducing outer ties—only so can hardness escape shattering and sharpness escape breaking. Broad and inclusive of the ten thousand things, one does not strip others to fatten oneself. All of this is already the utmost of how people stand and live in the world; for the vast true person (zhenren) it is only a coarse trace. The Daodejing has “know the white, keep to the black,” which differs slightly from the original wording in the Zhuangzi.

Nanhuah Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Scripture of the Southern Florescence), scrolls 105–106, by Chu Boxiu of the Song—this passage comes from the fourth section of the Miscellaneous Chapters, “Under Heaven” (Tianxia). It describes the line of Daoist practice associated with Zhuang Zhou.

Solitary and without fixed traces, changing without fixed patterns—whether in death or in life, he was one with Heaven and Earth and moved together with the numinous. Vague and indeterminate, where was he bound? In a flash, whither did he turn? All things were embraced within him, yet nowhere could truly serve as his resting place. Among the ancient ways of the Dao there was one that belonged to this path; Zhuang Zhou heard of this spirit and rejoiced in it. He used language that was remote and unfounded, words vast and unrestrained, and prose without limit; he wrote freely as the occasion arose, yet did not cling to one faction, nor parade partial views as his own. He felt the world was turbid and that straight, solemn speech could not reach it, so he unfolded meaning through zhiyan (goblet words that follow change and never run dry), showed what is trustworthy through chongyan (words repeated in the names of the ancients so they carry weight), and spread the Way through yuyan (words lodged in stories). Alone he communed with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, yet did not look down on the myriad things, nor wrangle over right and wrong; thus he moved among the world. Though his book is strange and grand, it winds on continuously and does not violate principle; though the phrasing is uneven, it is marvelously worth viewing. His inner fullness would not let him stop: upward he wandered with the Maker of things; downward he befriended those who transcend death and life and know no beginning or end. Speaking of the root, it is vast and open, deep and expansive; speaking of the aim, it is harmoniously fitting and opens upward. Even so, in following change and freeing himself from things, the principle has no end; when it comes, it leaves no cast-off shell; dim and subtle—it is something no one has yet fully fathomed.

Guo Xiang’s commentary means: formlessness and inconstancy mean following the myriad things; death and life mean yielding to transformation. As for following change and freeing oneself from things—the principle unending, arrival without trace, dim and not yet exhausted—that is precisely the remainder of meaning in this line of practice.

Guo Xiang (Western Jin commentator on the Zhuangzi) says: Without fixed form or fixed constancy, one simply follows along with the myriad things. Birth and death are left to change as they will; where to go or where to settle—there was never any deliberate aim. Since things have nothing to depend on, one wholly lets them be placed as they may. He uses language without fixed bounds—now expansive and free, never one-sided—and does not hurry to make people grasp his intent. The world is snared by form and names; it treats solemn speech as wild talk and refuses to trust it, so he does not speak in that mode. “Cup words” (speech without fixed views) and allegorical speech alike reach the deepest principle and match the nature-and-life of the myriad things. Having no yes-or-no of his own, he lets things run both ways in parallel. He mingles among the myriad things and lives with ordinary people in mutual accommodation without harm. His writing is not only for the business of the moment, so his phrasing is uneven and varied—always full, always holding more within. Zhuangzi generally speaks of himself in the same plain way he speaks of others; follow his wording and you see an oceanic breadth. Even Yu bowed to receive words of real benefit—what is there to object to?

Lu Huiqing’s commentary says: It has no form, so it cannot be seen; it has no fixed constant pattern, so it cannot be measured. If you think it is dead, it has never had birth; if you think it is alive, it has never had death. If you think it exists together with heaven and earth, it has never been divided into past and present; if you think the spirit has departed, it has never had a “this side” and “that side.” Thus there is only vagueness and dimness, wuwei (non-action), and stillness without movement. The ten thousand things are all embraced; nothing cannot be borne, yet there is nowhere to which one can return and stop. Is this not the work of shen (spirit)?

He uses language that is absurd, remote, vast, and inexhaustible, letting himself write freely at times, yet never in a careless or perfunctory way. Although the Way has two relative sides, he does not look from only one side, so even when there is no solid evidence and one does not follow ordinary rules, that does not prevent these words from being trustworthy. Solemn utterances are like teachings one may take as models—they simply follow the Dao. Zhiyan (words like a tilted cup that do not cling to fixed views) show that the Dao’s operation in daily life has no end. Chongyan (words that cite the ancients to add weight) and yuyan (words entrusted to stories) are meant to fit the times. People do not believe what he says on his own account, so he invokes antiquity to give his speech gravity; when chongyan still cannot make things clear, then he uses yuyan.

What Zhuangzi realized was to wander alone with the spirit of heaven and earth, without looking down on or slighting the ten thousand things—and his speech is the same. “Ao ni” (haughty reserve) is like guarding oneself and not drawing near lightly. He does not pursue right and wrong, so he can live together with the world. Though his writings are strange and grandly beautiful, they are continuous, rounded, and harm nothing. “Lian” means there are no gaps; “quan” (in the commentary’s sense) means there is a definite embodiment, yet it cannot be sought and obtained—this is not what the world values. “Zhuogui” (startling, uncanny speech) is the strangeness of his language, and that too is not what the world can despise. Because inner fullness is complete and cannot but be expressed, above he roams with the maker of things, below he befriends those who transcend birth and death and have no beginning or end—thus he enters the realm of spirit. His root is vast; he takes heaven as his ancestor—one may say he harmonizes and is centered, rising and penetrating without leaving the root. So he follows change and the principle never runs out; he releases things without having to go through sloughing—the bodily form need not wait until the shell is shed to be untied. Vague and dim, without end—that is where spirit cannot be known.

Lin Yidu (Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) said: The perfect person lets the spirit-mind roam in stillness and lets breath and qi merge with empty vastness. Though they have a body, it is as if they had none; they constantly shed the old and renew, and do not cling to what stays fixed.

Heaven and earth are the substance of the numinous; the numinous is the functioning of heaven and earth. The substance is constant, but functioning chiefly lies in change. From setting externals aside, one advances to setting life and death aside; from apprehending the great Dao, one advances to yielding to transformation. Even when all things are fully embraced, nothing goes beyond the scope of the Dao.

The Dao of the ancient sages could become the norm for ten thousand generations and win the esteem of the world because it excluded nothing and left nothing blocked. Zhuangzi spoke to correct the faults of his age. Knowing he could not avoid language that was remote, insubstantial, vast, and hard to verify, he placed himself after the various masters who “heard his style and took delight in it.” His discourse was freely expansive, yet he did not take sides or form factions; he looked through everything in the round and did not hold to one-sided views.

Since people under heaven could not be addressed in solemn, orthodox terms, he went on to explain himself through goblet words (words that shift with things and hold no fixed verdict), repeated words (words that borrow the weight of the ancients to gain trust), and allegorical words (words that lodge meaning in stories). He communed with the spirit of heaven and earth yet did not look down on the ten thousand things; what he taught was a through-line of principle that still fit each thing. Right and wrong did not exist in the first place, so there was no need to labor at dispelling them; when someone clung to words and thereby made distinctions, he used words to undo those distinctions.

Because he blended right and wrong, he met no friction in dealing with the world. His language was gorgeously grand yet gently yielding and did not wound; his prose was irregular and strange yet worth reading. All of this was inner fullness naturally spilling outward—he could not hold it in. He wandered with the Creator (what gives birth to the ten thousand things), without attachment to life, death, beginning, or end; therefore his root was vast, his aim well adjusted, able to follow transformation and release fixation on things. Acting according to principle does not run dry; moving with the times does not leave the source—hence one is dim and boundless, with no visible edge. Though without beginning or end, one never departs from the aim of the great Dao.

Bi Xuzi (Chen Jingyuan, a Song-dynasty Daoist priest) notes: Loneliness without form is the substance of the Dao; change without fixed rule is the function of the Dao. Birth and death are the Dao’s transformations; heaven and earth are its constant pattern; spirit and numinosity are its signs. Vast and dim, one does not know where it is going; at the end there is nothing to rely upon—this is the wonder of the Dao. “Not leaning” means conforming to the measure of centrality and correctness; not viewing from one side alone means having no partiality. “Grand discourse” is upright, great speech. Nanhua (Zhuangzi) wrote his book with centrality and correctness as its aim yet extending without end, with thick virtue as its root and genuine without falsity, with entrustment and metaphor as its function and broadly teaching; he communed with the spirit of heaven and earth yet did not look down on the myriad things, and thus was equal to heaven yet not blind to human affairs, and therefore could dwell in the human world. His language is gorgeous and strange, yet flows on in succession; his tone is uneven and unsettled, bizarre yet worth viewing. His Dao is full, deep, subtle, and inexhaustible, so he could unify change without deliberate intent, be vast and reach the root source, adjust to the principles of things, and ascend to connect with the origin of creation and transformation. If the Dao could be spoken of to the utmost in words, would not the refined subtlety of the undifferentiated whole be too coarse? If it could be exhausted by thought, would not the empty stillness of creation and transformation be too shallow? Therefore from antiquity sages and worthies have handed down writings in succession, and cannot stop.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi of the Song) says: From “loneliness without form” through “suddenly where is it going?” he explains that the highest spirit runs together with creation and transformation without leaving traces, so the myriad things are all displayed before one yet one does not know where they tend; not leaning to one side. If the Dao could be exhausted by thought, would not the realm of empty, still, silent vastness of creation and transformation be too shallow? Therefore from antiquity sages and worthies have succeeded one another in writing, and never could stop.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi, a Southern Song scholar) said: From “lonely and without form” to “suddenly—where is it going?” the text shows that the highest spiritual dimension moves with creation and transformation yet leaves no trace. Therefore all things lie spread before one, yet no one knows where they ultimately go. Without partiality, one need not view things through a one-sided lens, and what is seen is not locked into a single angle. “Dignified, earnest speech” (zhuangyu) means upright and solid words; “communing with the spirit of Heaven and Earth” means befriending creation and nature itself. “Bu qian” is being bound by nothing; “lian pan” is moving easily among others without harm and without ridicule; “cenci” is rise and fall without fixed tone; “zhuogui” is the grotesque and playful. These are all points where he himself clarifies his purpose in writing the book. “Fullness that cannot be exhausted” means principle fills the work inside and out, and this book too is something the world cannot do without. “Shang sui” is ascending to Heaven’s principle, so one can align with teaching and explain the reasons of things; “bu tuo” is not leaving the Dao; “mang mei” means the book is far-reaching, while what is truly gained in the heart is not something words can fully say. From the general preface onward this chapter divides into five sections; he places himself last, right after Laozi, to show that his learning has a lineage. In the first three sections he uses “although” three times, each time judging right and wrong among the schools—only the section on Laozi does not; here “although” appears again to say that his learning is not useless to the world. At these turns of the brush, the writing’s force is at its height.

“Formless and inconstant” means the Dao has no fixed shape yet transforms wondrously; phrases like “death and…,” “going and…” mean that people yield to change without end. From “obscurely…” through “…to return” describes one who forgets where they are headed—nowhere is not a place of return. To say this learning is not useless in the world is precisely where the text turns and the brush is strongest.

The Dao has no fixed form and no unchanging constant state; it is not a concrete thing, yet it can transform wondrously. Humans follow the creative transformation of nature, flowing and turning without end. In the midst of obscurity one returns to the utmost; forgetting what it means to be a "fitting" person, wherever one goes one is fitting. With words vast and boundless, one gives free expression without being careless—like seeming wild and reckless while every step treads the great Dao. Not letting outward things see one's sharp edges and partiality means mingling with the world without losing the Dao. Because people in the world cannot converse in solemn, orthodox language, he established zhiyan (words that pour forth spontaneously, like a wine cup taking shape from what fills it), chongyan (words that borrow weight from those who spoke before), and yuyan (words that lodge meaning elsewhere) to express his intent. To commune alone with the spirit of heaven and earth is to leave the constraints of human society and enter what is natural, roaming freely to the eight extremes; not looking down on the ten thousand things, not harshly judging others' right and wrong—thus in the world one dims one's brilliance, responds to things in harmony without clashing. Though his pronouncements are grand and strange, they accord with the age and harm nothing. When phrasing is uneven and irregular, that is what is called extravagant, paradoxical, and worth contemplating—what is called magnificent; when the inner is full, it shows outward in this way. Roaming with the Creator, befriending those who transcend life and death and have no beginning or end—that is communing with the spirit of heaven and earth, a subtlety beyond words. His root is vast and deep, like taking depth as foundation; his aim is harmoniously balanced and upward-reaching, like taking heaven as ancestor. "Responding to transformation" means being born; "releasing from things" means entering death. Humans stand within the work of creation, pushed by the pivot of change—its principle cannot be exhausted, its arrival cannot be escaped, obscurity without end: this is creation. If one can truly guard the heart in that obscurity and embody the ultimate that drives change, one can commune with the spirit of heaven and earth and not be ashamed of having received a spiritual nature as a human. This passage of the Zhuangzi first discusses change, then describes his own words and conduct, and finally returns to change—showing that he can exhaust the wondrous and penetrate transformation, so whether he speaks horizontally or vertically, it is nothing but the Dao.

Huishi (a scholar of the School of Names) had many methods; his writings could fill five cartloads, yet his doctrines were tangled and contradictory, and his arguments did not hit the mark. In probing the meaning of the ten thousand things he said: what is so large it has no outer boundary is called the "great one"; what is so small it has no inner dimension is called the "small one." What has no thickness cannot be piled up, yet its extent can reach a thousand li. Whether he spoke horizontally or vertically, it was nothing but about the Dao.

Huizi’s learning was broad and his interests many; his writings could fill five cartloads, yet his doctrines were muddled and impure, and his arguments often missed what really mattered. In surveying the intentions behind countless things, he roughly held that what is maximally large and has no outside is called the Great One; what is minimally small and has no inside is called the Small One. What has no thickness cannot be piled up, yet can extend a thousand li. Heaven and earth are equally low; mountains and lakes are equally level. The sun at noon is already declining; everything just born is already dying. The difference between great sameness and small sameness is called lesser sameness-in-difference; that all things are wholly the same and wholly different is called greater sameness-in-difference. The south has no limit and yet has a limit; one sets out for Yue today and can also say one arrived yesterday. Linked rings can be taken apart. The center of all under heaven lies north of Yan and south of Yue. Love all things broadly; heaven and earth are originally one body.

Huizi took these as the great overview of the world, using them to guide those skilled in disputation; debaters under heaven also gladly argued with one another. They had further odd doctrines: hair inside an egg; a chicken has three feet; the capital of Ying possesses all under heaven; a dog can count as a sheep; horses lay eggs; tadpoles have tails; fire is not hot; mountains have mouths; wheels do not touch the ground; the eye does not see; the finger does not reach things; even when one arrives there is no end; a tortoise is longer than a snake; the carpenter’s square is not square; the compass cannot draw a circle; mortise and tenon do not fit; a flying bird’s shadow never moves; though an arrow is swift, there are moments when it neither advances nor stops; a dog is not a hound; a yellow horse plus a piebald ox is three; a white dog is black; a motherless colt never had a mother; a one-foot stick, halved each day, is never exhausted in ten thousand generations. Debaters matched these against Huizi and could argue a lifetime without finishing. Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long belonged to the same line of debaters: they ornamented people’s minds and altered their thoughts, could win in words but not win hearts—precisely the limit of disputation. Huizi daily used his cleverness to dispute with others, deliberately manufacturing odd doctrines with debaters everywhere; the above was the root of his position.

Yet Huizi boasted of his eloquence, thought himself most worthy, and said how vast heaven and earth were while he harbored grand designs—yet he had no genuine Dao technique. In the south there was a strange man named Huang Liao who asked why heaven and earth do not fall or collapse, and why wind, rain, thunder, and lightning occur. Huizi did not decline to answer, did not pause to think, replied at length on all things, talked without stopping, words beyond limit—and still found that insufficient, adding more paradoxes. He treated violations of common sense as solid truth, hoping to win fame by outdoing others, and so could not get along with the multitude. His virtue was thin while his drive to chase things was strong; the path he walked was narrow and skewed. Viewed from the great Dao of heaven and earth, Huizi’s talent was no more than the toil of mosquitoes and gadflies—what use had it for the ten thousand things? To fill out one principle was barely enough; if one could thereby esteem the great Dao more, one would approach the right track. Huizi could not settle himself this way: he scattered his spirit among the ten thousand things without weariness, and in the end was known only for skill in disputation. Pity that his talent ran wild with nowhere to rest, chasing things without knowing return—like using sound to exhaust an echo, or making body race shadow. Lamentable!

Guo Xiang’s note: Before I read the Zhuangzi, I heard people dispute “the foot-long rod” (halving it day by day without ever exhausting it) and “interlocking rings” (whether they can be untied), and all said these were Zhuangzi’s words—so I took him for a sophist (someone who lives by disputation). In this chapter’s appraisal of the various masters he is relatively even-handed; only at this section does he say Zhuangzi’s Way is tangled and his words miss the mark—then I knew how hearsay distorts things. I also feel there is no governing order in this; it truly reads like useless talk. Yet sons of wealth and rank play by nature; or, tired of canonical phrases, if one can sort names and analyze principle to vent qi and steady thought, and pass it to later ages so nature does not turn licentious—is that not still better than gambling and chess? So I preserve the text without judging it, for those who care to look.

Lü Huiqing’s note: Laozi said “many words, number exhausted” (much speech leads to dead ends) and also “rare words accord with nature” (few words fit the natural)—showing that speech is a last resort. Some take it up for mouth-debate and fancy themselves worthy, not knowing heaven and earth are vast and empty while the self is overweighted, unable to “keep to the female” (hold to yielding softness). No wonder they treat heaven and earth as a chessboard. So I preserve it without judging, for those who care to look.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary says: Laozi taught that “many words often lead to exhaustion” and that “few words accord with nature,” so speaking is originally something done only when one must. Hui Shi, however, relied entirely on verbal disputation, taking himself for wise without realizing that heaven and earth are vast and empty—his attachment to self was too heavy, and he could not “guard the feminine” (yield and not contend). He would measure his strength against heaven and earth, his heart set on rivalry, yet had no real way to succeed.

The sage treats non-speaking as speaking, and De (Virtue/Power) is thereby established. Hui Shi, trusting in his talent for debate, took refuting others as genuine learning and surpassing others as reputation, but in fact he did not understand non-speaking. He was enslaved by words and could not overcome himself, so his De was thin; making victory over others his name, he showed force upon external things. That path is narrow and dark—not the way of “six penetrations and four openings” (universal reach in every direction).

Heaven and earth are vast because their Way is Wuwei (non-action). Hui Shi’s ability, however, never left the “I.” Seen from the Way of heaven and earth, however eloquent and broad he seemed, he was no more than a gnat’s toil—of what use to the ten thousand things?

The One and the many are both Dao: the One is root, the many are branch. To hold only to the One, though one cannot fully unite root and branch, is still better than forgetting the root and chasing the branch; it comes closer to honoring the Great Dao. Hui Shi did not know how to return to the root and rest in it. He drowned in the ten thousand things without wearying, and in the end was known for skill in disputation, chasing externals without turning back. Where there is no sound, echo ceases; where the body stands in shade, the shadow vanishes; when the self is without self, under heaven none contend with one. Though talented, he did not know this—he contended with things only at the level of words and petty distinctions, no different from using sound to chase echo or making body race shadow. He lost his nature too deeply; hence the profound regret and sorrow.

Lin Yidu the commentator writes: If outside still has further outside, one can only call it “large”; only when largeness has no outside left does one call it the “Great One”—the whole at the outer limit. If inside still has further inside, one can only call it “small”; only when smallness has no inside left does one call it the “Small One”—the utmost of the small. Hui Shi’s disputing could overturn people’s minds and shift their views. Sometimes he argued about quantity with everyone under Heaven, as in “a chicken has three feet”; sometimes about names, as in “a dog is not a hound”; sometimes about shape, as in “the carpenter’s square is not square” (the square is the instrument for drawing right angles); sometimes about color, as in “a white dog is black”; sometimes about height, as in “Heaven and Earth are equally low”; sometimes about length, as in “the tortoise is longer than the snake.” His line of thought, in broad terms, was that the ten thousand things have no high or low, no long or short, no difference of form and name or of square and round, no division of blue, yellow, black, or white—and that putting the equalization of all things first was what mattered. He held that once the Dao was fenced in with limits, form and name appeared, all from private opinion and nothing but human-made differences. Hui Shi used this to debate the world and ended up famous only for clever argument. Yet measured against the work of Heaven and Earth, that debating was effort as slight as a mosquito or the tip of a awl. That is why the ancients did not practice it and scholars do not praise it, and why, for Hui Shi, one does not say that “the ancient learning of the Dao was embodied here.” Zhuangzi therefore lamented that he had talent yet finally chased outer things and blocked his true nature—what was originally authentic in him.

Bixuzi (the style name of the Song Daoist priest Chen Jingyuan) comments: The Great Void is vast—beyond it there is no further boundary, and in itself it admits no “this” versus “that”; as fine as the tip of an autumn hair, inwardly nothing remains to be subdivided—yet if one accumulates even a little, thickness appears, and how could it be less than a thousand li? Viewed from the Great Void, Heaven and Earth both seem low; viewed from the azure sky above, mountains and lakes and marshes all lie level. When arms cross for an instant, that moment is already past—so when the sun stands at noon, it is simultaneously slanting; in one bow and one rise all becomes what is gone—so when a thing is just being born, it is at the same time dying. All things have form, appearance, sound, and color—this is the great sameness; things gather by kind and separate by group—this is the small difference. All things arise from one Qi, hence are wholly the same; myriad bodily forms differ, hence are wholly different. Once direction and position are fixed, there is an end. “Setting out today, arrived yesterday” means the mind arrives first and the body follows. Body can be divided and spirit can go forth—thus linked rings can be undone: this speaks of skill, not of principle. North of Yan and south of Yue each take itself as the center; yet the rushing void mixes into one and never breaks off. Huizi (Warring States debater, Zhuangzi’s sparring partner) used such talk to expound “the great,” displaying it to the realm; debaters delighted in it like voices answering one another.

An egg originally has no feathers; hatched into a chick, it has feathers. A chicken originally has two feet; add the function that makes it walk, and the count becomes three. Because Chu built its capital at Ying, it was said to “possess the realm.” “Dog” and “goat” are names people imposed; calling a fetus an “egg” is no more than dialect difference. Chu people call a toad a “Ding-zi,” saying it has a tail—meaning when it is still a tadpole. Fire is not inherently “hot”; a protrusion on a mountain is called a “mouth,” as when people say “stream mouth” or “road mouth.” What a wheel leaves when rolling is called a rut—so one no longer says it rolls on “ground.” The eye does not see by itself; what truly sees is Shen (spirit). Whatever is pointed at is what has not yet been reached; if already reached, where realm meets foot, such arrival never cuts off. Saying a tortoise is longer than a snake concerns lifespan, not bodily form. Compasses and squares are methods for drawing circles and squares—they are not themselves round or square things. Tenon and mortise merely meet in temporary assembly; in principle they do not depend on each other, like form and shadow each changing: the bird moves in flight, the shadow never moves. An arrow flies straight on without stopping; when it falls, it stops and no longer goes forward. Only a dog with “suspended dewclaws” is called quan (hounds)—then an ordinary dog would not be quan. “Yellow horse and piebald ox make three” splits sameness and difference then joins them again, like debating “hard white stone” by separating hardness from whiteness. A dog white in body but blind in one eye is called blind, not white; lame in hoof but white in body—people forget the white and only call it lame. A colt still has its mother, so it cannot be called a “solitary colt.” A square inch used morning and evening is never exhausted through ages—this is the meaning of “a foot-long pestle taken bit by bit is never used up”: it speaks of Dao, not concrete things. Among debaters under Heaven he seemed singular—this was his root. Heaven moves with firm strength, Earth bears with broad thickness—that is true vigor. Huizi relied on eloquence to match them, yet did not understand guarding softness and quietly nurturing natural Qi; he clung only to the hard side and had no real method. “Leaning on others” means wanting to stand on ancients’ words without founding one’s own school, and so asking the reasons of Heaven, Earth, wind, and thunder—Huizi laid everything out, verbose and strange. Taking oneself as lofty and loving victory is weakness in De (virtue); broad debate and exalting difference is forcing strength on things. View Huizi’s talent through Heaven-and-Earth Dao—it is like mosquitoes and gadflies: how could it count? The world values Dao because books transmit it. If Huizi’s writings merely counted as one school’s sayings, that would be tolerable; but from “the chicken has three feet” downward, such discourse is not what the age urgently needs. He did not understand that the greatest debate seems tongue-tied, yet distinguished chaff-fine differences, trapping and exhausting spirit. Zhuangzi of Qi Garden (Zhuangzi, once clerk of Qi Garden) therefore especially sighed for him.

Kouyi of Yanzhai (style of Southern Song Lin Xiyi) says: Mozi, Song Xing, Yin Wen, Peng Meng, and Shen Dao still saw Dao with partiality; Huizi specialized in debate, so he is not placed among those who speak of Dao-methods and “heard the wind of Dao”—only at the chapter’s end is he treated separately. Examining his “survey of things”: “great—outwardly no boundary” speaks of the Great Void; “small—inwardly no remainder” speaks of the tip of an autumn hair. These eight characters match Zhuangzi, yet once one calls them “great one” and “small one,” dispute arises. One originally has no large or small; within it difference is born—then sameness within difference, difference within sameness. “No thickness” is thin to the extreme; accumulated it becomes thick, large enough for a thousand li. When sky-qi descends, it is as low as the earth; when mountain-qi connects with lakes and marshes, it is as level as marshes. The sun at zenith, seen sidewise, is no longer centered; a thing just arising—its seed must be what died the day before. Things large and small are small sameness and difference; viewing all things’ sameness and difference together is great sameness and difference. The great does not exceed small accumulation; the small combined can become great—then there is neither sameness nor difference. “South” points to the sea: once “infinite” is named a direction, there must be an end. Heaven tilts northwest; the sea lies south—the other three directions are even more remote. “Going today, arrived yesterday” means though the person has not reached the place, the name is heard first, then arrival follows. Linked rings are each a circle, originally unconnected—like already undone. Yan north and Yue south are certainly not the center of All-under-Heaven, yet each nation takes its own middle as the middle of All-under-Heaven. Heaven and Earth are also one thing among the myriad things, like one body. Feathers in an egg though invisible—duck becomes duck, chicken becomes chicken, feathers differ by kind, so one says there already are feathers. A chicken originally has two feet; add what makes it move—that is three. Chu built its capital at Ying and styled itself king—same as possessing All-under-Heaven. Names for dog and goat come from people: had dog first been called goat, today it would be taken for goat. Viviparous and oviparous differ, yet names alike come from people—so calling a horse oviparous is also possible. Ding-zi is the toad; as tadpole it had a tail. “Water cold, fire hot” are also human names; since there are fire-living rats, fire is not necessarily hot. One shout in an empty valley brings echo—is that not the mountain having a mouth? A wheel running on ground is a wheel; stuck flat it cannot turn—so one may say the wheel does not grind earth. Eyes see first, fingers can then point; eyes cannot reach there, fingers cannot see—then so-called arrival cannot be split apart between eye and finger. If a tortoise were long as a snake, it could no longer be called tortoise—its length should only be thus. Already called “square,” it cannot also be called “square thing”; the compass is the same principle. Tenon in mortise—its turning is not something the tenon itself can halt; surround it and you do not surround it. Bird flies, shadow follows—one can only say the bird flies, not that the shadow moves. On the string the arrow is “stopped”; toward the target is called “going”; off the string, not yet at target—that is neither not going nor not stopping. Dog and quan were originally one; called gou, it is not called quan. Ox and horse are two bodies; yellow and piebald are colors—two bodies plus colors make three; attaching yellow and piebald to horse and ox bodies together also makes three. Names black and white are not inherent from the start—calling white black is also possible. Called “solitary colt,” there is no mother—yet that admits it once had a mother. A foot-long stick split in two—use this half today, that half tomorrow—never exhausted through ten thousand generations: that too can be said. Later scholars extended Huizi’s sayings, answering each other in forced debate without end. “Root” means his skill amounted only to this. Trusting eloquence he deemed himself vigorous, even matching Heaven and Earth; taking what he guarded as hard strength, he had no real learning. “Leaning on people” means the singular who stands alone aloof. Heaven, Earth, wind, and thunder are the marvel of creation—how could speech exhaust them? Huizi did not decline; to each question he answered, explaining all. He made contrariness his talent, out of tune with the world. No true inner attainment is called weak in De—debate only on the outside. “Ao” is dim obscurity. View what Huizi could do through Heaven-and-Earth Dao—it is like mosquitoes and gadflies: of what use? If one were content with personal opinion alone, so be it; if one thought this surpassed those who value Dao, that would be perilous. Huizi never understood Dao; he relied on debate for fame—one may say he had talent; only he wandered without knowing return, which is lamentable. Echo comes from sound; sound is root, echo is branch—chasing echo with sound to exhaust it is not knowing the root. Body racing shadow is the same. Zhuangzi at the end of the whole book uses Huizi to close: though not listing him among those who heard Dao, his words are also singular, so they are preserved, not discarded.

Writing books differs from composing essays—each has its form; beginning and end are where the author’s care lies. As Spring and Autumn ends at capturing the qilin, and Doctrine of the Mean speaks of Heaven’s transforming nurture—this book’s inner chapters end with Hundun having seven openings opened: the same kind of form. Commentators on the classics—those skilled in literary form sometimes fail in principle; those deep in principle sometimes rough in wording—rarely perfect. Only Master Aixuan of Putian—Vice Minister of Works, posthumous Wénjié, Lin Guangchao (zi Qianzhi)—was lofty in Dao and refined in writing, so his explication of the Six Classics surpassed a thousand years. Sadly, passed to Master Wangshan Lin Yizhi (zi Xueke), then to Master Lexuan Chen Zao (zi Yuanjie), the lineage did not continue; today almost no one knows it. They all have collected works in circulation. Master Lin of Zhuxi—Master Yanzhai—was legitimate transmission from Lexuan.

Lu Deming (a Tang-dynasty classicist and author of Explanatory Notes to the Classics) notes at the end of his Zhuangzi Pronunciation and Meaning that the commentary is by Zixuan (the courtesy name of Guo Xiang; Guo Xiang lived in the Western Jin, and his Commentary on the Zhuangzi became the standard Zhuangzi commentary in later ages).