《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 24

In broad terms, this too counts as having grasped the limits within which Zhuangzi set forth his teaching. Scholar Guo (Guo Xiang) long ago lamented the heedless secondhand talk of the wealthy and powerful; I have since seen the idle chatter of noble scions. Times change, yet the fashion is the same—what more is there to add?

Some say: Zhuangzi and Huizi marked their mutual understanding with the bond of Haoliang Bridge (their debate on whether fish know joy, showing how well they knew each other), and held up the Ying craftsman’s model (the tale of the hatchet stroke that removed the white on another’s nose—emblem of hearts perfectly aligned)—yet also said their paths were jumbled and inconsistent and their words did not strike what mattered. If understanding ran as deep as the Ying craftsman’s praise, with such unity that one could stop the axe for the other, why need mutual reproach flare so sharply?

The reply: To carry teaching to its utmost and make discourse reach the numinous, how could one not temper language and carry metaphor through? In the seven Inner Chapters Zhuangzi raised a subtle voice and sent these writings into the world. Chóngyán (weighty, borrowed speech) all travels the road toward mystery; when treating affairs, it unfolds in patterned narrative. The talk does not prize empty disputation, yet the teaching is never issued in vain. Still, the text is easy to read while its intent is hard to see. Perhaps someone feels stirred yet not fully clear and suspects it against reason. To lift the veil from the text, he therefore brought forward Huizi’s grand arguments at length.

Liu Kan, in a comprehensive account of the Dao, said: The substance of the Dao is vast, enveloping without omission. Teaching that takes form begins from the One; odd and even mutually beget each other. From there onward, even a skilled reckoner cannot count it all. The ancients’ deep intent is hard to glimpse; perhaps one whose heart is moved but not yet fully open will suspect excess and unreason within it. To dispel the obscuring of the text, Huizi’s grand arguments are therefore brought forward at length.

Liu Kai’s general discussion runs as follows: The substance of the Dao is vast and boundless; it enfolds the ten thousand things and leaves nothing out. Formed beings and the work of transforming them all begin from “the One”; odd and even mutually beget each other—and from there onward change is inexhaustible, so that even the most skilled calendar reckoners cannot count it all.

The ancients followed the order of the great Dao and accorded with the reason of the spirits; thus arose the way of the inner sage and outer king—cultivating sagehood within while achieving good governance without. As for concrete ritual and law, they are tangled and hard to grasp in full; yet root and branch, earlier and later, all issue from the One and scatter into myriad forms, always interconnected. Hence one may serve in office or withdraw, be still or active, shorten or lengthen one’s course, to set straight the world’s bias and respond flexibly to uneven change.

Fuxi was not without institutions, but institutions were not complete until Yao; the two emperors Yao and Shun were not without civilizing teaching, but that teaching was not fully in place until the Zhou. They did not crave novelty before the time was ripe, nor cling to old forms after the time had passed. Therefore even sages in high position could not possess every excellence. Yi Yin took holding office as his calling; Boyi used lofty purity to correct excess—yet purity verged on narrowness; Liuxia Hui then tempered matters with harmonious ease—neither violating the way of the world to keep integrity nor flattering the age to win a name. Thus even sages in humble station could not be perfect in every respect. These judgments treat Yi Yin, Boyi, and Liuxia Hui respectively as sages of “responsibility,” “purity,” and “harmony.”

The Dao reached Confucius and was gathered into a great synthesis—roughly once in a thousand years. Before Confucius, sages adapted to the times and often had no choice but compromise; after Confucius, the various masters each established a doctrine and all took themselves to be right. By Zhuangzi’s age the distance from the sages was already great: moral virtue, benevolence, and righteousness were split apart by Yang Zhu and Mozi; Wuwei (non-action) and pure clarity were lost to the line of Tian Pian and Peng Meng; and Song Xing, Yin Wen, and others, catching the wind, each proclaimed their own views. Zhuangzi wished to restore the way of Zhongni (Confucius), but it was no longer Zhongni’s era; so he elevated discourse on the utmost Dao to correct the world’s baseness, advocated Wuwei and return to simplicity to cut off the world’s showiness, and used clarity, emptiness, and stillness to heal the world’s turbidity. He thought concise words could not lift people’s obscurations, so his writing spreads endlessly and does not keep to one school; he thought weighty words could not instruct the vulgar, so his speech seems absurd and without limit.

His book has thirty-three chapters, ending with “Tianxia” (Under Heaven). In it he prefers to honor Laozi (Laozi) and ranks Zhongni second; when discussing the masters he does not place Zhongni among them. He first treats Mozi and Qin Guli’s line, then Laozi and Guan Yin, then expounds his own learning, and finally closes with Huizi’s many-sided disputations. The point is: unless it is an age of great synthesis, even a broad and genuine person may still hold to one corner. Laozi’s writings grasp his root, and so can adjust and ascend; Huizi’s writings grasp only his branches, and cannot escape being one-sided.

Do the masters’ books not honor Zhongni? Yet none understands better than Zhuangzi why they honor him. Scholars should grasp this from beyond the words—that is enough.

The Nanhua Zzhenjing (Supreme Classic of the Southern Florescence)—that is, the Zhuangzi—is organized into inner and outer chapters to survey the great themes of the Dao, virtue (de), nature and life (xingming), ritual and music, and punishment and governance; the teaching of the inner sage and outer king is woven throughout. Its language rises to a height unlike the other masters, so later readers find it hard to follow from the plain to the profound; it has therefore been taken as eccentric and fantastic. Yet it is like thunder in a deep abyss or a bright pearl in dark night—its brilliance cannot be extinguished.

The miscellaneous chapters record human affairs in full through side allusions and indirect comparisons. Although Guo Xiang (the Jin-dynasty editor and commentator on the Zhuangzi) trimmed and rearranged the text, what remains in wording and narrative is largely as it was. At the end, when the work reviews the various arts of the Way under heaven, none escape deliberate effort; their orientations are sometimes one-sided, and none can long endure without harm. At first reading it seems chaotic and hard to grasp; yet when one examines the chapters with a calm mind, the order is clear: first the way of the Ru (Confucians), second the teaching of the Mohists, third the School of Names, fourth discourse on the Legalists, fifth praise for Laozi, sixth an account of Zhuangzi. The arts of the Way from antiquity to the present are here treated in full. Because the discussion is long, lest scholars cling to phrases and miss the intent, the work closes with a critique of Hui Shi (the Warring States dialectician of the School of Names): it records his eloquence yet refutes what is confused and mixed, so that later readers know which path to follow.

When I first read this classic, from the section “Hui Shi had many methods” near the final scroll onward, I could not see the thread; it seemed very much like the words in the Liezi in which Gongsun Long (a School of Names dialectician) deceived the King of Wei—impossible to think through; what I wanted to say stayed blocked in my heart for many years. In the Chunyou bingwu year (1246), I was fortunate to meet Master Wuyin of western Shu, Fan Yingyuan, when he traveled to the capital; I attended his lectures for about two years. As he was nearing the end of the entire book, I said privately to a fellow student: this classic has many difficulties; this is the last barrier—who knows how the master will open it? I thought it would exceed ordinary hearing. When this passage was read, everyone listened in rapt attention. The master asked: what do you make of this discussion? The group, modest about their ability, asked him to clear the fog. He said: the classic has already said that “the vast, the strange, the deceptive, and the anomalous—in the Dao they penetrate as one”; keep the original text and need not force an interpretation. All were astonished and asked again for clarification. After a long silence he said: have you still not understood? These are not Zhuangzi’s words but the confused, unsound doctrines he refutes—why explain them at all? From “the greatest has nothing outside it” through “Heaven and Earth are one body” are Hui Shi’s words; from “a chicken has three feet” through “ten thousand generations without exhaustion” are the replies exchanged among dialecticians who studied with him. Accustomed to clever speech, they specialized in odd doctrines to boast, speaking without restraint until they reached that point. Some, without investigation, took it for Zhuangzi’s own speech, and doubts multiplied—all because they did not see the root. Guo Xiang knew this yet did not plainly say so, leaving readers to grasp it themselves. In the world there are the curious who are misled by those strange sayings, who ponder hard and invent forced interpretations; however diligent, it avails nothing. Then everyone’s mind opened as if layers of covering were lifted and they saw the sun.

I think: sages and worthies leave teachings to awaken later generations; the meaning is as broad as the sea, and each draws according to his capacity. In the learning of commentary, insight has higher and lower levels; one must meet a clear teacher with heart-and-mouth transmission, or one easily goes astray. Otherwise, clinging dead to Hui Shi’s phrases, one cannot pass Zhuangzi’s higher gate; even with many methods and a library of five cartloads, one remains but a dialectician. The old saying runs: rather than only pursuing study, go seek a clear teacher. The master’s grace is as vast and boundless as Heaven. I therefore gathered explanations from various schools and completed the work in seven years. Respectfully I offer a single stick of incense and bow nine times to the west, as if Lecturer Wuyin were before me and as if the Nanhua immortal (Zhuangzi) looked down in witness. I only regret that fellow students then scattered north and south; what was heard may have gaps with no way to check, and I can only sigh deeply.

The master’s name was Yingyuan, style name Shanfu, a native of Shunqing in Shu. His learning joined inner and outer cultivation; his insight reached to Heaven and man. Calm and steady, upright and square, his every movement accorded with ritual. He was just the sort of person the classic describes: without speaking, he could moisten others with harmonious qi; standing shoulder to shoulder, he could transform those beside him. Elders of virtue on the rivers and lakes knew him well—no need to say more. I record at the scroll’s end only the reason for this meeting of master and disciple, so that later scholars may know whence the lineage of the Way descends.

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, Volume 106. Nanhuazhenjing is the Taoist canonical title for the Zhuangzi; Yihai Zuanwei is a commentary that collects explanations from various schools and expounds the subtle doctrines within. This is the title page for Volume 106 of that work.