《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 3

Butterfly does not know it was once Zhou (Zhuang Zhou); when he wakes, Zhou does not know he was once butterfly. The two situations cannot always be fused—they must sometimes part. The transformations of the ten thousand things are the same.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary says: The shadow of a shadow (wangliang) exists only after a shadow appears; a shadow appears only after a body is there; a body exists only after the Creator generates it. Relative to the Creator, the body is already illusory—how much more so a shadow? Relative to the body, a shadow is already external—how much more so the shadow of a shadow? None of these is real, so they are not worth disputing over. Moreover, some take what is unreal as truly existent and ask questions about what is not worth disputing. Zhuangzi therefore uses the shadow’s reply to dispel this confusion.

Among all things under Heaven, judged by their signs, none fails to depend on something else; judged by their root principle, nothing has ever truly depended on anything. Take shadow: if we say it exists by depending on a body, then without sunlight or firelight the shadow cannot appear; if we say it depends on sunlight or firelight, then without a body there is no shadow either. So body, shadow, sunlight or firelight—do they depend on one another or stand alone? Who can fix whether the principle is this or that?

The scales under a snake’s belly and a cicada’s wings are examples of very slight function. One who grasps the Dao takes what is real and rejects what is flashy; one lost in surface phenomena takes what is flashy and rejects what is real. Butterfly is something that takes only the surface; that Zhou dreamed he became a butterfly shows that even one who seeks the Dao cannot avoid thoughts born with the changes of things, and even one who values the real cannot avoid dreams that chase the surface. When one wakes, thoughts no longer burden the spirit and dreams no longer replace reality—then Zhou and butterfly are separate at last. Only one who truly penetrates the disposition of change in the ten thousand things can grasp this principle.

Chen Bixu’s commentary states: A shadow does not depend on any one fixed bodily form, and a bodily form does not depend on yin and yang in order to exist—how then could they be treated like an independent thing, comparable to a snake’s sloughed skin or a cicada’s cast shell? Among things that rely on one another, nothing is clearer than body and shadow; to say now that they do not depend on each other is meant to show that external things cannot be fixed in advance, and that the ten thousand things are naturally so. Only when one forgets dependence altogether can one stand apart in clarity and transform with nature, and then speak of transcending life and death and returning to merge with the Dao. This is what is called “the Emperor’s hanging release”—undoing bonds and escaping the predicament of birth and death.

The life and nature of Zhou and the butterfly are both the one qi contained within subtle-yet-real existence (miaoyou). When he earlier dreamed he was a butterfly, it was Zhou who was dreaming; now that he wakes and is Zhou again, is that not the butterfly dreaming? Zhou and the butterfly differ in form, yet the subtle-yet-real qi they receive is one substance. The workings of creation are subtle and hard to fathom. Whoever understands this can grasp creation within oneself and not be dragged about by changes in external things. This is “what gives birth to beings does not itself be born; what transforms things does not itself transform”: the root that generates the ten thousand things does not itself come into being and perish with them, and the root that drives their change does not itself change with them. Once one has already become a formed thing, how could one not undergo change? Life and death alter form and kind; the story of Zhuangzi’s dream of the butterfly has already exhausted the principle involved.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary states: A shadow’s walking, stopping, sitting, and lying all depend on the body; conversely, the body’s showing movement, rest, sitting, and lying necessarily produces a shadow. The body exists within what the shadow relies upon as its root. A snake crawls by the scales beneath its belly, a cicada flies by its wings—but what truly enables crawling and flying is not the scales or wings themselves. Human activity and stillness likewise occur only when there is something to rely upon. The shadow depends on the body, yet what the body depends on is not another body; the body itself does not know why it is so—how then could the shadow be expected to know? Therefore when Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly, person and thing transformed into each other; the light ease in the dream and the state upon waking are not different in kind.

Yizhai’s Oral Exegesis says: “Jing” (scene/shadow) refers to the body’s shadow. My actions depend on the physical form, and the physical form in turn depends on the Maker of things. That the form can be a form at all is like the skin a snake sloughs or the shell a cicada leaves behind: after snake and cicada have gone, the skin and shell still remain—can they move on their own? Since I must rely on the physical form, and the form itself has something it relies on, how can we know how all of this actually comes about? Otherwise, this is precisely the principle that “this depends on that.”

The Duke of Zhou once dreamed he had become a butterfly; in the dream he did not know he was the Duke of Zhou. When he awoke and was the Duke of Zhou again, could one not equally say that a butterfly had dreamed it became the Duke of Zhou? Between dreaming and waking there seems to ought to be a distinction, yet at this point the words seem both to have said everything and not to have said enough—they do not break the matter open outright, but invite the reader to ponder it closely. This is what is called wuhua (the mutual transformation of things): it speaks of the way the myriad things change, and nothing more.

Under a snake’s belly there are scaly folds; some say a cicada’s wings are formed from shed armor as well. Others hold that it is more apt to say they move by belly and wings respectively. A snake crawls by its belly, a cicada flies by its wings—much as the various activities of the human body all seem to depend on certain conditions. Yet when one pursues the matter to the end, one finds that in the end there is no independent master; thus the principle that the myriad things each arise on their own and are not ruled by something outside becomes clear. Argument goes back and forth until it finally rests on “non-reliance” (wudai)—having nothing to wait upon or depend on.

The human body is the same: hearing with the ears, seeing with the eyes, grasping with the hands, walking with the feet—all seem to occur through reliance on the body. Yet what truly enables the physical form to function appears to be something concrete while in fact there is no external master to depend on. All things under Heaven are born from “being” (you), and “being” is born from “non-being” (wu); what has form ultimately returns to non-reliance, and the principle of self-generation stands clear.

People often say that “being” brings benefit while only “non-being” lets things function; thus being and non-being depend on each other and mutually give rise to one another. If one can turn back and investigate the subtlety of “ultimate non-being,” and let the mind roam at the place where the myriad things first arise, one can understand how the body is formed and how it functions. Today people have a body that can act and a mind that can think, yet still do not know what truly presides; then how can a shadow, born from the body, know what it depends on? It is only natural that the shadow of a shadow (wangliang) feels perplexed and asks questions.

The story in the “Yuyan” (Allegories) chapter of the Zhuangzi, in which wangliang questions the shadow, shows that many in the world are confused, so the matter cannot be explained in a single sentence. In that chapter the shadow replies that it is the cast-off shell of a cicada or the sloughed skin of a snake—close in meaning to the “belly folds” and “wings” spoken of here.

The Zhuangzi says that in antiquity the true person (zhenren) did not dream in sleep, yet Zhuangzi himself also speaks of dreaming he became a butterfly—why? Zhuangzi uses waking and dreaming to show that life and death are essentially continuous: while alive one does not know the state after death, just as in death one does not know the state before life. Though the two cannot be experienced by each other, the principle was originally one. Viewed through waking and dreaming, this can largely be understood; why must one worry about death while alive or envy life after dying?

The butterfly has no toil of nest-building and no anxiety of hunger or thirst; it drifts lightly and freely through Heaven and Earth. Those who see it also find it at ease and do not harm it. The origin of butterflies need not come from reproduction of their kind; they often arise by transformation from other insects, and some even say from rotten wheat. The “Zhile” (Perfect Joy) chapter of the Zhuangzi records that the root of the wuzu plant becomes a grub and its leaves become butterflies—showing that the birth and transformation of the myriad things sometimes cannot be traced to a beginning, and after change one no longer knows where one goes. The butterfly may be counted among flying insects that have attained the Dao; hence the true person sometimes dreams of becoming a butterfly.

Humans and the myriad things differ in form yet all receive their endowment from Nature (ziran). Nature is the subtle root of the utmost Dao and the source from which the transformations of the myriad things are established. Thus Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly, in dream and after waking, each do not know the other, yet both ultimately return to transformation; fundamentally they are not different. Animals and plants take myriad shapes; birth, death, and change are inexhaustible; the sentient and the non-sentient all finally return to transformation. Transformation is the beginning and end of every form and the process by which the ten thousand kinds enter and exit, occurring as the creative transformation (zaohua) advances. However great one’s power, one cannot refuse transformation; the myriad things are carved and shaped like pottery, not knowing why it is so—only that it is naturally so. The person who has attained the Way follows transformation, and therefore can merge waking with dreaming and treat life and death as one matter.

Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly are of course distinct; that distinction is each one’s innate nature (tianxing). Though the myriad things each have their nature, all issue from one Nature. If “fen” is read as distinction, distinctions are endless—how then can discourse on all under Heaven be unified? Scholars should still investigate the subtlety of xing (nature) and ming (life/destiny) and understand that the principles of the myriad things were originally continuous. Humans and the myriad things transform together, yet there remains a root that does not vanish with change; if one treats death and life as waking and dreaming and antiquity and the present as morning and evening, what need is there to force the myriad things into artificial sameness? Since Zhuang Zhou, the butterfly, dream, and waking have already been discussed, there must also be those who can grasp the principle.

Mencius said the myriad things are not the same—that is the fact of things; Zhuangzi yet titles a chapter “Discourse on the Equality of Things” (Qiwu lun), so some suspect Zhuangzi’s teaching conflicts with the Ru (Confucian) school. In fact Mencius spoke of real differences in how things appear; Zhuangzi spoke of the myriad things as one from the perspective of principle. Principle returns to one while concrete circumstances differ—thus inequality among things is natural. At the opening of Qiwu lun Zhuangzi arranges dialogue among figures and discusses at length the differences between human pipes, earth pipes, and so on, thereby showing that the pipe of Heaven (tianlai) is spontaneous. The principle of tianlai is not something human “equality” can impose, nor something human “making equal” can reach. Zhuangzi cites widely in the chapter precisely so that once the heart understands, it may see for itself.

The myriad things are mixed and manifold; flourishing and withering, growth and decay, and change are inexhaustible; each takes form, each has color, each waxes and wanes, and all finally return to tianlai. Tianlai is without form and without sound, yet is the source of all shapes and colors and the manifestation of wondrous transformation. If one can trace the origin of human pipes and earth pipes, tianlai too can be understood. Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “What else is there? It is simply the many openings and bamboo tubes responding to one another, jointly forming a whole in the hidden vitality of the myriad things.”

Qiwu lun treats knowledge and speech, waking and dreaming, the “completed heart” and language, wind blowing through ten thousand openings, and permissible vs. impermissible, right vs. wrong, Fang Sheng vs. Fang Si—all as natural change like the ten thousand openings sounding when wind passes. If one grasps the hub of things and meets endless change with a vacant, still mind, one can receive the outer with an empty heart and the outer will not obstruct oneself. Forget attachment and the myriad things each transform on their own; when the wind stops, the openings naturally return to silence—that is the point.

“Heaven and Earth were born together with me, and the myriad things and I are one”—this uses inequality to clarify equality: strange transformations and extraordinary phenomena, under the continuity of the Dao, return to unity; it is not that one must artificially make all things identical—the myriad things can naturally return to oneness. As for the monkey keeper dividing chestnuts and the monkeys’ joy or anger over morning vs. evening portions, or Zhao Wen playing the zither until people are entranced—these show that relying on words and deliberate action is insufficient to make the myriad things truly change; how could they make the myriad things equal?

When one says “Heaven and Earth were born together with me, and the myriad things and I are one,” that may be called equality; yet some worry that once “the myriad things are one” is spoken, “one” and speech become two, two plus “one” make three, and instead one falls into scattered inequality. This very fact shows that utterance itself creates distinction. Only by reaching the state “there has never yet been anything” (weishi you wu), free from division and fixed names, and measuring the myriad things with inexhaustible Dao like a great awakened one seeing through the great dream, can one penetrate the myriad things as a whole.

The story of wangliang questioning the shadow shows it did not understand that within difference there is also sameness. The story of Zhuang Zhou dreaming of the butterfly asks further: what is neither purely same nor purely different? Zhuangzi discusses in depth the differences between thing and self, life and death, waking and dreaming, and finally all return to transformation of the myriad things. That transformation is like the wondrous operation spoken of in the Yijing (Book of Changes)—hidden in indistinct subtlety yet appearing in daily life, not fully graspable by views, knowing, or knowledge. From this one may realize: the myriad things share one body, all bodies return to transformation, all transformation returns to the wondrous root. If one apprehends this wondrousness and penetrates transformation, one no longer clings to which is thing and which is self—that is what Zhuangzi calls “great equality” (da qi).

Human life is finite, yet there is no end to knowledge. To chase inexhaustible knowledge with a limited lifespan must lead to exhaustion and entanglement; and once one is already trapped, to keep pursuing knowledge is all the more perilous. In doing good, do not obsess over reputation; in doing ill, do not invite punishment upon yourself. Follow the right course of things, hold to the mean, and you can keep body intact, preserve your inborn nature, support your kin, and live out your years in peace.

Guo Xiang comments: human life has its bounds, as when lifting or carrying—strength too has its limit. A competitive spirit, however great its strength, may still fail to satisfy its desires; the pursuit of knowledge likewise has no end. What we call “knowledge” often arises from mishandling the way things are; to escape that trouble, one should let each thing develop according to its own allotment—neither adding nor subtracting. Then, even bearing a heavy load, one will not constantly feel crushed; even facing many tasks, one will not feel each one pressing on the self. This is the gist of nurturing life.

To chase boundless knowledge with a finite life—how could one not be trapped? And when trapped, to try to remedy it with yet more knowledge is to harm one’s true nature while supposedly caring for life. One should release fixation on labels of good and evil, stay in the middle ground, and let the ten thousand things run their course, aligning with fitting principle. Then the burdens of punishment and fame fall away, and life’s native character is preserved. Taking the upright, balanced Way as one’s constant rule, one’s conduct becomes apt. Nurturing life is not grasping for what exceeds one’s portion, but safeguarding the constant patterns of life and passing one’s days in ease.

Lü Huiqing said: Life depends on the body, so it always has an end; human awareness constantly pursues outer things, as if without limit. To use a finite life in pursuit of boundless knowledge is to end in exhaustion. When things have gone that far, to press on with knowledge only deepens the exhaustion. When all under heaven know what makes the beautiful beautiful, the ugly shows itself; when all know what makes the good good, the not-good arises. Good and evil both come from distinction and knowing—how far apart are they, really?

Therefore, those above do not hold to benevolence and righteousness to win a name; those below do not indulge in wayward conduct to bring on punishment. Setting aside the split between good and evil, acting along what cannot be avoided and taking that as constant—this is emptying fixed views, stripping off clever knowing, and resting in the way that does not seek knowledge through a discriminating mind. To keep life and body intact, nourish parents, and live out one’s years—what could be better?

Lin Yidu said: Embodied life is bound by the shifts of yin and yang and cannot endure forever; formless pattern seems endless, and no reckoning can exhaust it. To chase inexhaustible knowing with a limited life is to land in exhaustion. Once true nature is divided, good and evil appear; once that division is settled, fame and punishment follow.

To do good without edging toward a name—that is the world’s real good; to act without drawing punishment—that is the world’s real ill. Only by following the original state of nature and life—neither adding to nor taking from the myriad things, being one with them, not chasing praise or blame—can one escape the pull of punishment and reputation. The world calls something “good” because someone fell short; it calls something “evil” because someone went too far. Some treat life lightly to pursue the Way and grab a moment’s fame; some cling to life and chase gain to avoid dying halfway. These are only “good” that nears a name and “evil” that invites punishment—they have not followed the original state of nature and life, nor kept clear of excess.

Chen Xiangdao explains that those who are skilled at nurturing life take the inner self as master and treat external things as guests. They do not use a finite lifespan to chase endless desires, and in that way they avoid danger. They act in accord with the heart and do not go against nature; they enjoy the life before them in moderation and need not reject it entirely, so they are not driven by reputation; they live in harmony with their nature and with the ten thousand things and do not deliberately seek fame after death, so they do not incur punishment.

They respond along the natural grain of events and act only when they must; they take this as their constant way and do not overstep, so they themselves do not oppose outer things and outer things do not harm them. In this way they can preserve the body, support their kin, keep their inborn nature intact, and live out their full years.

The Yijing says: “When good deeds have not accumulated enough, a fine name cannot be achieved; when evil deeds have not accumulated enough, disaster cannot befall one.” That is to say, doing good tends to draw one toward reputation, and doing evil tends toward punishment. Zhuangzi spoke as he did because the “good” he meant is not a departure from the Dao but acting within one’s proper place; the “evil” he meant is not a breach of law and justice but something that differs from what people usually call good. Laozi, describing Nanrong Chu, says that in his inmost heart there still lurks a trace of aversion. The “evil” spoken of here is of that kind; from this one can also see what Zhuangzi meant by “good.”

Chen Bixu explains that both long life and early death are bound by the limits of a finite lifespan, while broad learning and penetration may still pursue knowledge without end. The principle granted by Heaven is deep and hard to fathom; human contrivance is laborious and full of defects. Therefore the crux of nurturing life lies in knowing how to preserve it well. If one craves reputation and chases profit without knowing when to rest, one only adds hypocrisy and artifice, wears oneself out further, and in the end falls into danger.

Good conduct that truly preserves the person, by its nature, ought not to attract a name; Han Yin Zhangren, who kept to simplicity and changed little, is an example. Conduct that harms the person, by its nature, ought not to bring punishment; figures such as Gongsun Chao and Gongsun Mu, lost in indulgence, are examples. Neither striving deliberately to be good nor deliberately to be evil, but taking the centered and ordinary as one’s measure—this is the sage’s middle way. Then one can preserve the body, complete one’s life, support one’s kin, and live out one’s years; this is the root of nurturing life.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary says: From childhood through adulthood to old age, and finally from old age to death, this human life is finite; yet the myriad things and principles in the world stretch through past and present as if without end. If people do not grasp the true principle, they toil busily all their lives and still think they know everything—a truly perilous state. When life ends, one’s understanding vanishes with it; when the body transforms, the mind dissolves along with it—is this not profound sorrow?

In the world, doing good may win boundless praise, and doing evil may draw boundless blame. Boyi died for reputation; Robber Zhi died for gain. What they pursued differed, yet both harmed life and injured their original nature. Evils must not be done, but good need not be pursued deliberately; deliberate pursuit breeds attachment. One need only follow the natural, central course of things (“du” here means the middle, the center) and take that as one’s constant rule. Before joy, anger, sorrow, and delight have yet to appear, one rests in one’s original state; when feelings are stirred by external things, they should still arise from one’s innate nature. Outward expression, too, should accord with this centeredness. Following one’s nature is the Dao; “making the central course one’s constant rule” (yuan du wei jing) means precisely this. In Daoist cultivation there is also talk of the “eight extraordinary meridians,” among which the Governing Vessel (dumai) runs along the body’s midline; here “du” is borrowed to signify holding the center and keeping to the upright.

Lin’s Yuzhai kouyi says: Using a finite life to chase inexhaustible thought—turmoil without end—when will it ever stop? That is precisely what is dangerous and dreadful. People in peril keep exercising their minds, fancying themselves clever, yet still only sink deeper into danger. Zhuangzi’s “in doing good, do not approach fame” is a vital point in the art of nurturing life, and is what Zhuangzi himself practiced. In doing good, one need not chase reputation; in doing evil, one should not go so far as to invite punishment. As the Pianmu pian says, neither cling to the observance of benevolence and righteousness nor commit perverse acts. When one must respond to circumstances, do so without deliberate artifice; taking this attitude as one’s constant rule preserves body and life, supports one’s parents, and completes one’s natural span of years. This is close to what Mencius meant by “whether life is short or long, do not waver in heart; cultivate the self and await what is ordained”—not altering one’s resolve because of length of life, but refining oneself and waiting for fate.

Chu’s Guanjian says: The inner chapters of the Zhuangzi open with Xiaoyao you, which exhaustively treats the learning of fulfilling nature and clarifies the great Dao; next comes Qiwu lun, which exhaustively treats penetrating principle and meeting change; then comes Yangsheng zhu, which treats the root of nurturing life. Following the constant Dao thus preserves the body, completes life, supports parents, and fulfills one’s natural years—which is also Mencius’s not wavering whether life is short or long, cultivating the self and awaiting what is ordained.

In Chu’s Guanjian it is said: The Inner Chapters begin with “Xiaoyaoyou” (Free and Easy Wandering), which treats the learning of fully realizing one’s nature (xing) and is used to clarify the Great Dao; next comes “Qiwulun” (Discussion on Making All Things Equal), which discusses the method of exhausting the principles of things and is used to respond to change; then “Yangsheng zhu” (Nurturing Life), which sets forth the essentials of complying with Heaven’s mandate and is used to cultivate the self.

Therefore the opening of the first chapter argues: do not use a limited life to chase what is limitless. Let life follow its natural course, and you will not meet calamities such as early death or obstruction. Return to being without knowledge and without desire, reach a state of thorough unity with the ten thousand things—once harm to oneself is removed, what danger is there to worry about?

If one can truly do this, one can follow what people under Heaven call good and do good, and follow what they call bad and deal with bad deeds. Even when one acts, one will not thereby incur the entanglements of seeking reputation or incurring punishment. In standing and acting in the world, one sometimes must indeed do good and punish evil; especially sages and worthies who bear the heavy responsibility of governing all under Heaven, who must set the age in order and support the people—some matters of good and evil cannot be avoided. Reward one person and the people under Heaven are encouraged; punish one person and they take warning. Sages and worthies reward and punish according to the likes and dislikes of all under Heaven, like the operation of Heaven and Earth: in spring and summer the ten thousand things grow, yet this is not treated as a favor; in autumn and winter they wither, yet no resentment is incurred thereby. All under Heaven does not intentionally bestow grace or inflict punishment—it is only that cold and heat alternate on their own, and the ten thousand things grow and are cut down according to the season.

Hou Yi was skilled at archery and hit the mark every time, yet he did not know how to restrain his fame—this is the kind of good act that easily draws reputation; if one could be like someone struck by a tile blown along by the wind, injured yet not resentful, one would not draw punishment. The “close to reputation” and “close to punishment” mentioned here may be compared to the meaning of “establish virtue as if stealing” in the Daode jing (Dao De Jing). Explanations by various schools sometimes cite “good not accumulated is insufficient for a name; evil not accumulated is insufficient to destroy the body” to explain this; some hold that if one does not deliberately display benevolence and righteousness, nor commit lewd and wicked acts, one can avoid reputation and punishment. Such views are close in wording but differ in meaning from the classic text. What the classic says is: good and evil in the eyes of ordinary people often carry private motive and artificial effort—they are only the more superficial layer; the good and evil enacted by sages and worthies proceed from impartiality, are not bound by limits, and fundamentally rest in Wuwei (non-action)—not something shallow observers can see through. Emperor Yao removed the Four Evils; Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou drove out Jie and Zhou; Confucius executed Shaozheng Mao—all show what sages and worthies mean by good and evil.

Doing good or evil and thereby drawing reputation or punishment, and not deliberately doing good or evil and thereby not drawing reputation or punishment, are all situations that follow naturally. When sages and worthies today act yet do not thereby draw reputation or punishment, it is because although the world takes their conduct as good or evil, the sages’ hearts always comply with the central way and accord with Heaven’s principle and nature. Thus benefit and harm cannot bind them—this is where De (virtue/power) returns.

The character du is glossed as zhong (“center”): it speaks of the state before joy, anger, sorrow, and delight have appeared—not merely the middle ground between good and evil. If, before the seven emotions have appeared, one always takes this as the constant way, the mind will be empty, bright, and penetrating, unbound by being and non-being, one with Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate). How then could one worry that the body cannot be preserved, life cannot be nourished, kin cannot be supported, or one’s allotted span cannot be completed?

Guo Xiang explained du as zhong but did not say why. Later, Xuzhai cited evidence and explained more aptly: the human body has the dumai (Governing Vessel), which runs along the midline of the spine connecting above and below; the renmai (Conception Vessel) pairs with it. Dumai and renmai concern the root of life—those not versed in nurturing life rarely understand this. Hence the center back seam of a garment is also called du, as stated in the “Shenyi” chapter of the Liji (Book of Rites).

Butcher Ding was cutting up an ox for Duke Wen-hui. Where his hand touched, his shoulder leaned, his foot stepped, and his knee pressed, the knife moved—and with a crisp sound the ox fell apart; the thud of the blade was loud too, yet everything kept to the beat, like the rhythm of the Sanglin dance, like the cadence of the Jingshou music.

Duke Wen-hui said, “Excellent! How can your skill reach such heights?”

Butcher Ding set down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao; it has gone beyond mere skill. When I first began to butcher oxen, all I saw was the ox as a whole. After three years, I no longer saw the whole ox. Now I meet the ox with my spirit and do not look with my eyes. Perception and desire stop, and the spirit moves as it should. I follow the ox’s own structure, cleave the great gaps between sinew and bone, guide the blade through the hollows at the joints, and cut along the creature’s natural lines. I never strike where tendons bind or flesh clings to bone—still less the big bones.

A good cook changes his knife every year, because he cuts meat. A common cook changes his every month, because he hacks bone. My knife has been in use for nineteen years; I have butchered several thousand oxen, yet the edge is still like fresh from the whetstone. The joints of an ox have space between them, while the blade has almost no thickness. Putting something almost without thickness into places that have space, the blade has plenty of room to play. That is why, after nineteen years, the edge is still like new from the grindstone.

Even so, whenever I come to a tangle of sinew and bone that resists, I know it will be difficult. I fix my attention, slow my hand, and move the knife subtly. Then with a single motion the ox falls apart, like earth crumbling to the ground. I stand holding the knife, look all around, satisfied and unhurried, then wipe the blade clean and put it away.”

Duke Wen-hui said, “Excellent! From Butcher Ding’s words I have learned the principle of nurturing life.”

Where his hands touched, his shoulders leaned, his feet stepped, and his knees pressed all fell into rhythm; the sounds he made answered the music of Sanglin, and his movements matched the beat of Jingshou. This shows that Butcher Ding applied his skill by following the ox’s structure, so that every move found its place; what he accorded with was the Dao itself, not merely the craft of butchering.

In Butcher Ding’s eyes there was no longer a whole ox; when he looked at the animal, he saw its grain and its gaps. He met the ox with his spirit, not with his eyes alone; when sensory knowing ceased, his spirit moved along the natural lines of the thing. “Guan zhi” here means the awareness of the senses—eyes, ears, and the like; “shen yu xing” means the spirit acting in accord with the thing’s inherent structure.

He followed the ox’s innate pattern of sinew and bone and did not hack across the grain. Where sinew and bone crossed and left open space, he split along the opening so that joints came apart and flesh separated, guiding the blade along what was already there. Because he followed the ox’s native structure, the knife never struck at random; the edge always moved through gaps and never met hard knots of sinew or bone. Thus after nineteen years the blade was still as sharp as if it had just come from the whetstone.

Whenever he came to a place where sinew and bone clustered and intertwined, he fixed his gaze, slowed his motion, and wielded the knife with care. Then came the sound of flesh parting cleanly, and the ox was already laid open; the separation was as neat as earth crumbling away, and the blade showed scarcely a trace. Butcher Ding wiped the knife at ease and put it away.

The knife was preserved because it was used rightly; Butcher Ding preserved himself by skillfully following the natural structure of things.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary explains: Things, because they have form and substance, easily become obstacles; the Great Dao is empty and unobstructed. Before a person has heard the Great Dao, what the eyes see is nothing but concrete things; after hearing the Great Dao, what is seen is nothing that is not the wondrous Dao. The text uses “the eyes do not look” as a metaphor: one who understands the Dao comprehends with the heart and does not rely on intellectual discrimination. When the sensory faculty of the eyes ceases to dominate, the inner spirit can operate on its own, following the inherent patterns of things—just as when Butcher Ding cut up an ox, he slipped the blade into the large gaps between joints, and therefore did not treat the whole ox as a single solid mass.

Nothing under heaven fails to contain the Dao; the Dao reaches everywhere without obstruction, and it is precisely so. What the eyes see may be nothing but an ox, yet if one hacks with brute force alone, one harms the ox’s life; Butcher Ding’s knife was used for nineteen years yet still seemed freshly sharpened, because he did not injure the ox’s bones or sinews. The physical form of things was never a fixed, solid entity to begin with—is that not like the gaps that naturally exist between joints? Life too is not fixed and unchanging—is that not like a blade that was thin from the start? When Butcher Ding wielded his knife, he always found ample space—does that not resemble one who has realized the Dao, moving at ease among the myriad things?

Still, whenever he came to tangled sinew and bone where progress was difficult, Butcher Ding knew the task was not easy. What people fear as hardship cannot be faced without caution. Then his expression grew alert, his gaze intent, and his movements slowed; only when the work was finished did he wipe the blade and put the knife away. Such care from beginning to end is why the task does not fail.

Lin Yidu’s commentary explains that the story of Cook Ding butchering an ox uses the knife to illustrate the principles of xingming (nature and life). When one acts in accord with the inherent patterns of nature and life and does not force things, life is not harmed; when one cuts along the ox’s natural structure and does not rely on brute strength, the blade is not worn down. Cook Ding’s hand touch, foot placement, shoulder lean, and knee press, as well as the speed of his movements and his advances and retreats, all follow the ox’s natural structure, so his motions fit the five musical tones as if he were performing ritual dance. “Sanglin,” “Tang music,” “Jingshou,” and “Yao’s music of Fang” are names of ancient dances and music; here it means Cook Ding’s butchering moves in harmony like a dance.

Cook Ding said that what he pursues is the subtlety of the Dao, not the surface show of skill. At first, when he butchered an ox, he saw nothing but a whole ox; after a few years, he no longer saw a whole ox but sensed the structure of the body through mind and spirit. Now he relies entirely on mind and spirit and no longer looks with his eyes—the layout of sinew, bone, and flesh is already clear in his heart. What Laozi calls “forsaking desire and abandoning knowledge, letting the senses stop” means ceasing to depend on the senses and clever contrivance; what the Yijing calls “swift without haste” means that the movement of mind and spirit can be rapid without seeming rushed.

Cook Ding follows the natural grain of the ox: where there is a large gap, he splits along it; where there is space between joints, he guides the knife through. All of this accords with the ox’s own structure—it is not forced by personal cleverness or strength. Therefore his knife never strikes the tangled, hard-to-pass places where sinew and bone meet, still less the large bones.

Ordinary cooks and skilled cooks may use a knife for shorter or longer periods and replace blades sooner or later, but in every case the edge is damaged. “Clan cook” means an ordinary butcher; “good cook” means a more skilled one. Cook Ding is different—he is like a “spirit cook” who has a way all his own. He inserts a thin blade into the spaces between joints, so that in nineteen years the edge is still as if freshly sharpened on a whetstone.

Where flesh and bone cluster together is hardest to cut; one must observe carefully, pause the hand, and slow the motion. This stands for how the subtle points of xingming are especially hard to nurture. When Cook Ding reaches this stage, he lifts the knife, looks around, and appears calm and satisfied; once the ox is fully cut, he stops the blade; he wipes the knife clean and puts it away. This shows that one who truly understands the Dao engages with things only when there is no alternative, and afterward withdraws and remains hidden.

Xiangdao’s commentary: If you rely on the eyes, you only see outer appearances and not the principle within, so what you see is always “a whole ox.” If you engage with the spirit, you see the principle inside and no longer fixate on the ox’s overall shape; what appears before you is nothing but texture and gaps in the flesh. Thus the blade, thin as it is, enters where there is space, and once it moves, it turns with ease. Is this not the same point as the way of nurturing life in “The Nurturing of Life” (Yangsheng zhu)? Keep the mind empty and still; do not cling to fixed views. In dealing with things, follow their circumstances; do not force against the grain.

When things are easy, handle them in flow—like the blade passing through the ox with a sound that matches the rhythm. When they are difficult, respond with care—as if alert and on guard. When a task is done, examine the outcome closely—as when Cook Ding lifts the knife and looks around. When it is finished, preserve yourself and withdraw in peace—as when he wipes the blade and puts it away. One skilled at cutting oxen may cut many yet wear the edge slowly; one skilled at dealing with the world may meet much complexity yet leave life unharmed.

Bixu’s commentary: Clear knowing reaches through to affairs; consummate skill hits the mark. Cook Ding originally studied the way of nurturing life; he only borrowed the art of cutting an ox to explain it. At first he saw a whole ox; later he could grasp the patterns in the flesh and no longer held to the image of a whole ox. He engaged with the spirit, not with the eyes fixed on outer form; inwardly he devoted himself to nurturing the self, and was not dragged about by external things. The senses of eye and ear ceased their busy perception, and the work of the spirit opened up; observation and listening no longer depended on ear and eye.

Cook Ding followed the ox’s natural structure of sinew and bone, avoided where sinew and bone meet, sent the blade along the gaps, and let the edge move in empty spaces. He never struck where flesh clings to sinew or where sinew and bone tangle—still less against large bones. So for nineteen years his blade was still like one fresh from the whetstone. The cut was light; the ox fell apart at the sound; Cook Ding seemed unaware that the ox was dead. What he dissected was an ox, but by observing and using the spaces in the body, the blade could move freely and his skill fully unfold. Cannot someone who nurtures life avoid calamity, hide and protect the self, preserve the body uninjured, and thereby keep heaven’s endowment intact?

Li Shibiao’s discussion: Things in themselves have no fixed, unchanging substance; their forms too break apart and scatter.

Li Shibiao said: The being of the ten thousand things was never a fixed substance to begin with; it naturally communicates with the Dao (the Way), penetrating everywhere—so why strain to “resolve” obstructions? What Zhuangzi describes in Butcher Ding carving the ox is a spirit-mind (shen) that has left behind fixed ideas about the ox and no longer sees the animal before him as one solid block. The blade follows gaps and grain; it never meets the resistance of a blunt clash. That is “resolution” in which one does not cling to resolution.

Butcher Ding used his knife for nineteen years and cut apart thousands of oxen; through yin-yang change and the shifts of worldly affairs, the edge still seemed freshly honed. Cling to surface appearance and appearance vanishes in a breath; hold to the root and one can thread past and present. The human body is ultimately phantom-like—where is there a blade that truly “works”? The ten thousand things are all empty show—where is there an ox that truly waits to be cut apart? When thing and self are both forgotten, skill ceases to be a burden. Thus he did not force great cleavages open, yet vast gaps showed themselves; he did not force channels wide, yet broad hollows opened on their own. The blade moved lightly and met the ox’s form without strain; when he stood with knife sheathed, nothing held him back. At last he wiped the blade clean, put it away, and returned to having nothing on which to employ it.

Seen from the perspective of the Dao, if the heart does not treat obstruction as obstruction, nothing needs resolving; if one does not cling to “resolution,” obstruction has nowhere to stand. Butcher Ding, looking at ordinary cooks, thinks they cut oxen by clearing obstructions; ordinary cooks, looking at Butcher Ding, may take his carving skill itself as an obstruction. Set both “resolution” and “obstruction” aside, and what remains is only empty stillness (xujing). Follow such a Way and roam freely beyond the ten thousand things—what could still count as an obstruction?

Zhao’s commentary says: Butcher Ding, in carving the ox, advances and retreats while always avoiding obstruction. If one does not cling to resolution, obstruction cannot establish itself. Butcher Ding sees ordinary cooks as eliminating obstruction when they cut oxen; ordinary cooks may see his skill as obstruction. When resolution and obstruction are both released, only empty stillness remains. Follow this Way and wander outside the ten thousand things—what could become an obstruction?

Zhao Qi's commentary explains: when Cook Ding cut up an ox, every advance, retreat, and turn of his body matched the beat of music. Wherever the ox's meridians and sinews clustered, he could tell from the head; when the butcher thrust the knife into the head, it struck exactly those knots, and the ox's bones came apart at once. That is why Lord Wenhui praised him afterward.

Cook Ding also described how his skill matured: his art had entered the realm of the Dao. Even at difficult spots he stayed cautious and alert, focused in mind and slow in movement, fearing the least slip that might harm the blade. Thus his knife served nineteen years yet still looked freshly sharpened. Other butchers' knives, after some years, wear down or break. That is precisely the lesson of caring well for life.

Yizhai, in his Kouyi, says: “playing the knife” (zou dao) means wielding the knife to dismember the ox; the sound of the blade against the body seems to follow musical measure. Sanglin and Jingshou are names of musical pieces. When Cook Ding says he no longer sees “a whole ox,” he means he can see at a glance where the body may be taken apart. “Meeting with the spirit” (shen yu) is like saying the mind grasps it directly; “the senses' knowing stops” (guan zhi zhi) means hearing and sight cease their ordinary judging, and inner awareness moves on its own. He followed the natural grain of the flesh and the gaps between sinew and bone; those lines, joints, and spaces were already there—he only went with them and never forced the edge into tangled sinew, still less into large bones.

Ordinary butchers and fairly skilled ones differ in how long their knives last, yet all end with damaged blades. Cook Ding's knife lasted nineteen years like one just sharpened, showing almost no wear. A thin, sharp edge entering the space between joints and turning freely there naturally meets no obstruction. The point is that affairs each have their natural pattern; acting with that pattern, the mind stays at ease and outer things find it hard to harm you.

The chapter then turns: in life one cannot always meet smooth going; sometimes adversity comes and one grows flustered. Then one should respond gently and in accord with circumstances, without letting the heart shake; when the matter is past, let it dissolve as if it had never happened. Only then does one truly understand nurturing life.

The chapter on Cook Ding uses the story of butchering an ox to explain the way of nourishing life, depicting the precision of his movements and when to advance or hold back in a way that fits perfectly. Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, one should constantly keep the principles of nourishing life in mind and not leave them for a moment; the writing is so vivid and detailed that it seems as if one were seeing it with one’s own eyes.

Matters great and small in the world all have their underlying principle. Cook Ding, having grasped the structure of the ox’s body, no longer saw a whole ox before his eyes but could find the gaps through which the blade could move; one who nourishes life, having grasped the principles of nourishing life, can handle affairs with ease and not wear himself out because of them. The sound of Cook Ding’s knife strokes matched the rhythm, showing that he met things just right; after finishing the ox he set down the knife and spoke with Lord Wen-hui, symbolizing that one does not cling to the techniques of nourishing life but can grasp the principle within them.

If the mind is always preoccupied with how to cope with external things, everywhere one looks there is an “ox body” that must be dealt with; one who apprehends the Great Dao and follows things as they are is not trapped by the surface appearance of affairs. Cook Ding relied on spirit meeting the ox’s body, not on the eyes scanning each part—following the natural structure and using the blade with a empty, flexible mind, so he did not have to depend on knowledge and observation.

He used the same knife for nineteen years, yet the edge was still like one freshly ground on a whetstone. This means that acting in accord with the natural pattern of things makes damage unlikely; one skilled at nourishing spirit can also long preserve life without decline.

Whenever he came to a place where sinews and bones interlocked and were hard to cut through, Cook Ding would become especially cautious, concentrate his spirit and stay on guard, and only then make his cut. “Zu” denotes those knotted places of sinew and bone; here it stands for moments of busy social engagement and heavy affairs. The more tangled and difficult the situation, the more one must first settle the mind and then respond properly.

People often chase fine food, splendid clothes, grand houses, high rank, and pleasures of sound and color, thinking these nourish life; the more they indulge, the more easily they lose life itself. The scripture’s line that “nourishing the form is indeed not enough to preserve life” expresses exactly this point.

What Cook Ding loved was the Dao, so he could draw principle from everything he encountered. There was no obstruction between daily tasks; even when fortune and adversity alternated and changes piled up, he could still handle them well, as if motes of dust passed before his eyes. This was because he tended the root of life, inwardly filled with profound De, and outwardly could adapt naturally; whether dealing with himself or with things, he could hit the mark, and after finishing could let go. “Putting away the knife well” means storing the knife and no longer clinging to it. How then could the blade wear down month by month?

The True Person worried that later students of nourishing life would sink into quietism and inaction, be unable to meet the affairs of the world, or even abandon daily tasks, so that the true Dao could not be established. Hence the craft of butchering an ox is used to clarify the principle; the point is not to argue whether the ox was cut well or poorly.

Li Shibiao’s reading of “every time he came to the zu” agrees: it is as if Cook Ding, seeing difficult interlocking sinews and bones, became alert and guarded, yet in the end still handled it smoothly. Zhao’s punctuation from “suddenly cautious on guard” onward differs but is also coherent; it only treats the three words “the knife was very slight” as one sentence, which makes the sense less smooth.

When Gongwen Xuan saw Right Master (You Shi), he was startled and asked, “What sort of person is this? Why does he have only one foot?” Someone replied, “He was born this way—it was not done by human hands. Heaven gave birth to him and made him alone in this respect. In outward form people normally have two feet, so one can tell this is innate and not something artificially produced.”

A pheasant by the marsh takes ten steps to peck once and a hundred steps to drink once, yet it will not accept being kept in a cage. Even if a caged pheasant looks spirited and vigorous, it does not regard that as a good life.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that jie means skewed or incomplete in the foot. Such a condition is not something human cleverness can alter; it belongs to Heaven’s mandate (tianming). If one stubbornly tries by wit to obtain two complete feet, one only traps the spirit (shen) and wears out the body. Walking on two feet in parallel is called “having pair” (you yu); when people see the outward look of two feet, they do not doubt that it is natural. The one-footed case is likewise not something the person brought upon himself. Resting at ease in self-sufficiency is precisely the subtle point of nurturing life (yangsheng)—why seek to enter a cage and be fed by others? The pheasant, spirited and free in open country, does not even treat “being well off” as something that must be deliberately pursued.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary adds that Right Master, though he has a human countenance, shows the appearance of being born with a single foot, which is why Gongwen Xuan wondered whether he was still an ordinary person. One’s life and allotted end (ming) are simply as they are; as for the look of two complete feet when one meets things in the world, that is only the usual shape of the human body. The marsh pheasant, finding its own food and water with the mind in accord with nature, is an image of following one’s native disposition. It refuses the cage because even if life in the cage made it look vigorous, that is not what it would gladly accept; better to eat and drink sparingly by the marsh and remain self-sufficient and at ease.

The Yidu commentary holds that Heaven gave birth to this person with only one foot, so his form differs from ordinary people. The key to nurturing life lies not in bodily shape but in keeping the spirit settled and full. A wild pheasant in the marsh may get only scant food yet lives at ease, its spirit unharmed; a caged pheasant may have plenty of grain yet is burdened by the body. Nurturing the spirit means following one’s innate nature—hence through the ages some have dwelt in humble huts, eaten coarse rice and drunk plain water, and taken that as their greatest joy. That illustrates this point.

The Xiangdao commentary holds that a one-footed person cannot interact with the world like others and appears isolated and companionless. You Shi (the one-footed official) accepted the form Heaven gave him, unlike those whose bodies are whole and who can mingle as ordinary people do. What Gongwen Xuan said is precisely explaining this.

The Xiangdao commentary also says that a wild pheasant is naturally suited to marsh life yet fears being kept in a cage. In the marsh its spirit can be said to stretch and rest at ease; trapped in a cage, even with good food, it is not happy. One who lives in the world and deals with things cannot avoid being on guard; one who leaves human affairs and follows nature can be free and at ease. You Shi, disturbed by others, yet shows a settled spirit and contentment with himself; the pheasant in the cage, though well fed, is ill at ease—from this too one can see it has been disturbed.

The Bixu commentary holds that even if one strives to do good, one may still meet calamities from Heaven and earth; doing evil draws one toward punishment. “Having companions” here means being able to associate with others. You Shi, maimed and isolated, suffers a calamity from birth; even if he violates the law, it may be from dull nature rather than deliberate malice. A whole body and the ability to mingle with others are indeed hard to match—but if one envies others for this and forgets oneself, one has long failed to notice one’s own situation.

If one does not understand how things change in the world, when something arrives one is baffled by its cause; in confusion, external things easily harm oneself. If one understands why things happen, one accepts them as they come, no longer fearful within, and can avoid deeper harm.

Zhao’s commentary explains that “You Shi” (Right Master) denotes a man with only one foot, and that “jie” means solitary or alone. Others all have eyes; I alone do not—is that innate, or wrought by human action? He uses this to account for his own bodily lack. A marsh pheasant must walk ten paces to peck a bite of food and a hundred to reach water. It cannot forget vigilance, because its eyes see danger and it dreads harm. Yet with such constant wariness, how could it foresee ending up caged and reared as domestic stock? Bright eyes, then, are not something one can fully rely on. The pheasant may be spirited and full of vigor, but it does not count that as good: trusting its eyes for safety, it still cannot escape capture; better, as the eyeless would, to leave everything to fate.

Yi’s commentary explains that “You Shi” is a penal amputee who held the office of Right Master—someone punished by foot amputation and left with one foot. “Jie” means alone. The phrase “Heaven and the human” here asks whether a person is so by nature or made so by people. Since foot amputation is clearly penal, for You Shi to say Heaven made him uniquely solitary means that excess and lack in bodily form and in life’s turns may all be read as the Creator’s arrangement; facing hardship, one should accept it in peace.

A marsh pheasant needs ten paces to peck food and a hundred to drink, which shows how hard wild feeding and watering are. Even caged with ample food and water, a wild pheasant will not accept such keeping. Though fed and spirited, it is never happy—hence “the spirit may be kingly, yet that is not good.”

The character read as wu refers to someone whose foot has been cut off—a person with only one leg. Cui’s edition uses a different graph; earlier commentators have offered several readings, each with some merit. Here, following the sound of the original character, reading it as yue (the ancient penalty of cutting off the foot) fits best.

The sense of you is still unclear; for now it may be taken as “kind” or “category.”

You Shi’s foot was indeed cut off by others, yet he was born with only one foot from the start, and his outward appearance still matched that of ordinary people. Moreover, the human form is the most refined of endowments, and within it there is something sufficient to fill and sustain the person—how could one, because the outer form lacks one foot, cast aside the wholeness and worth of the self? One should therefore rest in one’s lot and attribute what happens to ming (fate); one must see that what truly deserves to be kept intact is de (virtue). De arises together with life, and xing (nature) is the master of life; not straying from these two is what counts as being nourished. What can a maimed body add or take away?

To help people rest in hardship and follow the natural course of xing and ming (nature and life), one must know that what deserves respect and preservation lies in de, not in the bodily form. The text later compares this to the marsh pheasant (ze zhi): though drinking and foraging in the marsh is arduous, it will not accept captivity; once confined in a cage, though food and drink are plentiful, it loses the space to fly freely. Even when the body is well treated, that is still not a good state.

Most versions read shen shi qi shen wang (“cause its spirit to flourish”). But if its spirit were truly flourishing, how could that be called “not good”? Besides, bound in a cage, one can hardly speak of a flourishing spirit. This is likely a copyist’s error that was never corrected.

After Laozi passed away, Qin Shi came to offer condolences, wept three times, and left. A disciple asked him, “Were you not Laozi’s friend?” Qin Shi replied, “I was.” The disciple pressed on: “If you were his friend, is this how one should mourn?” Qin Shi said, “It is acceptable. At first I took him for an ordinary man; now I see he was not. When I went in to mourn, I saw elders weeping for him as they would for their own sons, and young people weeping as they would for their own mothers. They behaved so, I suppose, because words they did not truly wish to speak had been spoken, and tears they did not truly wish to shed had been shed. That is to turn against one’s inborn nature, betray one’s genuine feelings, and forget the allotment one has received from Heaven. The ancients called this ‘fleeing the punishment that nature itself inflicts.’”

Human beings are born in accord with the turning of fate; when they depart, they simply follow what is naturally so. When one rests in fate and moves with change, sorrow and joy cannot invade the heart. The ancients called this “undoing Heaven’s tether”: where there is attachment, one is as if bound by rope; where there is none, one is truly free.

Human life is like firewood: one log follows another, and the fire passes on in succession, with no knowing when it will die out. Guo Xiang commented that Qin Shi saw others offering condolences and did likewise; saw others wailing and wailed in turn. What puzzled the disciple was that he had not lingered at the door watching Laozi’s end, yet had only wept three times. In truth, the sage has no partial affection; he merely followed the crowd in crying a few times. That the crowd wept as if they had lost kin may be because they poured deep love upon him without keeping the proper measure.

The life Heaven assigns to each person has its own allotment: it cannot be evaded, nor can it be forcibly increased. If one’s responsiveness to outward things runs too deep and one is trapped in worry and pleasure, then even before formal punishment arrives the nature is already exhausted—is that not a kind of punishment too? When life comes, it is the work of timing; when life goes, it is simply how things are. At every moment to rest in fate and yield to change, to merge with the transforming process, is to leave no room for sorrow or joy.

When one stick of firewood is consumed, the fire passes to the next; life is the same—the breath of one moment is not the breath of another, so life continues by constantly receiving nurture. The previous stick is not the next stick, so the fire is transmitted. Both the transmission of fire and the continuation of life depend on being properly sustained. How could one know when life truly ends, or assert that it will be born again?

Zhi’s commentary says: Mourning the dead is meant both to weep for the departed and to comfort those who remain. Confucius wept only three times and then left. If that was mourning the dead, it seemed insufficiently grief-stricken; if it was comforting the living, he said nothing, which seemed insufficiently thoughtful. Hence his disciples doubted whether he ought to mourn in that way.

Confucius had first assumed that those who followed Old Dan (Laozi, the representative Daoist figure of the Spring and Autumn period) had grasped his teaching. Now he saw that whether old or young, all who admired and followed Old Dan were still moved to weeping and could not rest in the times or go along with change. He understood that they had not truly grasped it.

Some feelings are not pursued on purpose yet come forth of themselves: one had no plan to speak yet words appear; no plan to weep yet tears flow. Then inner truth and outer expression answer each other—which is why Confucius mourned with ritual propriety. What humans receive from Heaven is the feeling of their original nature-and-life; originally there is no fixed thing that must make one grieve or rejoice. If one goes against nature, turns away from one’s nature, and forgets the Heaven-given disposition one bears, one will want to flee natural change in every situation and will end up bound and constrained.

To see that when life just arrives one accepts it calmly, and when life departs one follows it—ancients called this “the Emperor’s hanging release” (di zhi xian jie): release from nature’s bonds. That is because, in the root sense, life is not truly extinguished. Fire lodges in firewood and burns, yet fire is not identical with any single piece of wood. When one piece is consumed, fire passes to another; no one knows when it will go out. Fire is like life; firewood is like the bodily form. Whoever understands this knows that life’s continuation is not limited to one body—how then could one be trapped by grief and joy?

Lin Yidu explains: The perfected person has no private attachment in the first place. When Laozi died, Qin Shi came to offer condolences, wept a few times, and left. If it were like the death of Yao, when the people mourned as for a parent’s passing, unless one were truly as unfeeling as grass, trees, soil, or stone, how could one make the whole world forget grief? Still, what Laozi meant by “having feeling” need not be fixed and unchanging.

The Book of Rites says that those who knew the deceased’s life may offer condolences, while those who knew his inner mind will grieve. Qin Shi came to condole for what Laozi had endured in life; he wept three times and left for sorrow at Laozi’s death. The disciples found it strange and asked why he only wept three times—was he not Laozi’s friend? Qin Shi replied: “Three cries are enough. At first I took him for an old companion, so when others condoled, I condoled; when others wailed, I wailed. Now I see that this goes against nature, piles on emotion, and forgets the nature one receives from birth.”

The human form is no more than a surplus appendage; birth and death are like night and day—who can say the living are not the dead, or the dead not the living? Why clutch birth, death, joy, and grief tightly in the heart? Great nature exhales and inhales vital energy, gathers it, and begets the myriad things; people do not know where things come from; heaven and earth and yin-yang cannot be called the parents of the myriad things. Yet worldly people cling to the bond between parent and child and weep for kin. How much more, for someone else’s kin, to grieve as for one’s own parents and children? This is the deep sorrow formed when people meet, gather, and live together—so one speaks though unwilling to speak, weeps though unwilling to weep. These are all matters of worldly human feeling.

Qin Shi held that to act thus is to flee nature, deepen grief, and forget that the nature received from creation was never bound to anguish in the first place. What is called “heaven’s punishment” is fate; to evade fate is to be dragged by it, and care arises from that. To regard the coming of life as meeting the right season, and the going of life as following change—then joy and grief cannot enter the inner heart. The ancients called this “the Emperor’s hanging release”: to have life is like being suspended and bound; to have no life is release.

When life is settled to the utmost, a person can long endure from high antiquity without aging. It is like fire passing to fresh fuel: though the fuel is spent, the fire continues to pass on, and no one knows when it will end.

Liu Kai explains the “fire and fuel” saying: fire passing from one piece of fuel to another illustrates spirit leaving the form and migrating without cease. The sages of old let spirit abide at rest and treated the body as a temporary lodging—precisely this principle. How could such a person harm his own form or ruin his precious body?

Zhao’s commentary says: When Qin Shi wept for Laozi, founder of the Daoist school, he was not truly grief-stricken, and his disciples were puzzled. Qin Shi told them what he had observed. Some explain that Qin Shi was displeased with Laozi and thought people ought not to love him so deeply—but that reading misses the point.

In life Laozi had hidden his sharpness and lived among others without clashing with things. People naturally honored him, yet he did not demand praise; when he died, people naturally mourned, yet he did not demand tears. His death was a departure in accord with transformation—unbound by worldly feeling. To forget that life is received from Heaven and thus go against nature is something Heaven cannot remedy. Hence “evading Heaven’s penalty” (dun tian zhi xing): fleeing the harm that comes from violating natural law.

When life arrives, not treating it as joy; when life departs, not treating it as sorrow—that is “dwelling at ease in the times and following what is fitting” (an shi chu shun). “Suspended release” (xuan jie) means shaking off the great affliction within; “having a body” means that form brings care, and “I now know I am freed from it” means one finally understands that this care can be left behind. “The Creator’s suspended release” means the maker of things burdens people with toil in birth and gives them rest in death.

“Fingers exhaust themselves on the fuel, yet the fire passes on—we do not know when it ends” means the kindling the finger points to will burn out, while fire can keep passing on—we do not know when it will go out. Here, fuel spent and fire transmitted illustrate that the body ends, while the continuation of life’s changes does not simply stop there.

Yan Zhai said: Qin Shi was a friend of Laozi. When Laozi died, Qin Shi wailed three times and left, showing that he did not let grief spill over. His disciples were puzzled and asked why.

Qin Shi said: “At first I thought Laozi was no ordinary man. Now I see his followers weeping as bitterly whether they were close to him or not, young or old. Evidently he had not fully shed the attachments of bodily life, and that is what stirs their hearts. Is that not so?”

Heaven and Earth give us life without anything we need cling to. If we still bind one another with emotion, we forget the original simplicity of life, flee the way of Heaven, and betray our true nature—all of which goes against Heaven and is called “the penalty of shirking Heaven.” Birth is simply arriving when the time is right; death is simply departing when the time is right. One should follow the season of things, without grief or joy over it. Whoever understands this is no longer held by Heaven through life and death; that is what it means to be freed from constraint.

Compare life to fuel and the continuation of life to the passing of fire: any single piece of fuel will burn out, yet the fire in the world runs on from antiquity to the present without end. The discussion closes with three images in succession—a stroke of writing that is truly fine.

Earlier commentators mostly took zhi (the character often read as “finger”) as referring to the physical finger, treating it as a gloss on “when the fuel is gone, the fire passes on.” Read closely, zhi in the text aligns with li (principle): one bundle of fuel is exhausted, yet fire can be transmitted onward—the point is already clear. The “Knowledge Rambling in the North” chapter says Zhou, bian, and xian differ in name but share one substance, likewise pointing at the same layer of meaning; that passage can confirm this reading.

One household’s firewood runs out, yet fire in the world does not die for that reason; one who skillfully passes on fire always finds fresh fuel. One person’s body declines and perishes, yet the shen (spirit) within the body can continue; one who skillfully nurtures life knows how to let shen be preserved. Fire passes from one stick to the next—flame continues, yet each moment’s form differs. Shen lodges in a later body as it lodges in the present one, yet each moment’s qi (vital energy) is not the same. Flame changes, so fuel has a time to burn out; qi differs, so life has birth and death. Still, fire in the world is never wholly extinguished, and shen is not thereby annihilated, because there is always someone who makes it preside.

Hold a mirror to the sun, strike stone, drill wood, rub bamboo—any of these can yield fire. Fire’s nature pervades heaven and earth; it only needs things to manifest. Shen’s movement and change are the same: without fuel, fire has nothing to cling to; without form, shen has nowhere to lodge. Thus fire’s continuation lies in gaining fuel; shen’s lodging lies in gaining form. This shows the subtle efficacy of the perfected person (dé dào zhī rén) and accomplishes the work of harmonizing with heaven and earth. Nanhua Zhenren (Zhuangzi) closes the “Nourishing Life” chapter on this note—meaning runs deep.

Those who penetrate the principle of nurturing form do not harm the body; those who understand the way of nurturing shen follow wuwei (non-action). The body is where life lodges; shen is life’s master. The way of emptiness is precisely for nourishing shen. Ordinary people know only to care for the body and do not understand nurturing life’s master; the more they insist on “nurturing,” the more they may lose life’s root. Hence the Zhenren (perfected person) warns: do not use a finite life to chase what is infinite—then one is near the heart of nourishing life.

The story of Cook Ding butchering the ox is a parable for dealing with things; the knife stands for life. Cook Ding used his knife nineteen years, yet the edge was still like fresh from the whetstone. He handled intricate affairs countless times, yet his own clarity and responsiveness stayed sharp and undiminished. That is life’s master. One should daily nurture oneself well so that at the critical moment one can cope; by not forcing, one achieves greater function.

“As for ‘putting away the knife well’”—when the task is done, store the blade properly. By extension, after responding to outer things, in leisure gather the mind and hide the edge, let the ten thousand things each find their place, align affairs with reason, and keep one’s capacity unspent. Ancient recluses lived in the world and met affairs, yet acted with things while the inner mind stayed quiet—they understood this.

The key to seeking the Dao (the Way) puts emptiness and stillness first: without emptiness, shen cannot be preserved; without stillness, one cannot return to root-nature. When nature and life are secured, nourishing life reaches its limit. Like a mirror on a stand—it reflects the ten thousand things yet leaves no trace; when things come before you, what can burden the inner mind? Ordinary people chase externals, lose the true; affairs tangle them, reason is violated, gain and loss and worry interweave, fear never leaves—how can life not be harmed?

The marsh pheasant would rather peck in the wild than be caged. Later text uses this image and speaks of Laozi’s death. Laozi was a great sage whom Zhuangzi honored; saying he died teaches accepting one’s season and following change, ending in constancy—form disperses, shen transforms—depth not worldly minds can measure. A sage’s death is called “spirit.” Qin Shi went to mourn, wailed three times, and left—already beyond ordinary rites; the disciple still doubted, so he told them: coming thus, going thus, accept in peace, do not resist—that is release from the Creator’s bonds.

Fully grasp that fuel ends yet fire can pass on, and fire can continue without limit; fully grasp nurturing form, and shen can be kept without loss. Form must have an end—that cannot be changed; yet while one lives, one should still know how to care for oneself. Borrow temporary form to cultivate real life—the two can aid each other, but not like Zhang Yi, who over-nurtured the body and lost measure.

Therefore what finally matters is preserving oneself and naturally returning to the true. When form is preserved and returns, shen is not lost; whether manifest in the visible or returning to the invisible, action accords with the right way. Fuxi attained the Dao and could inherit heaven-and-earth’s primordial qi; Huangdi attained it and ascended to the heavens; Fu Yue attained it and rode the stars Ji and Wei among the constellations. The Supreme One said: “To die yet not be forgotten—that is true longevity.”

Yan Hui went to see Confucius and asked permission to travel. Confucius asked, “Where are you going?” Yan Hui said, “To the state of Wei.” Confucius asked again, “What will you do there?” Yan Hui replied, “I have heard that the ruler of Wei is young, acts arbitrarily and rashly, governs the state at whim, and does not see his own faults. He lightly presses the people into service, so that the dead and wounded are many and corpses lie piled like withered grass in a swamp. The people have no way to go on living. I once heard the Master say: Leave a well-governed state; go to a chaotic one; many patients gather at a physician’s door. I wish to apply what I have heard to Wei, in the hope that things there may perhaps improve somewhat.”

Confucius said, “Alas, if you go like this, you will likely meet punishment. The Way must not be jumbled; once jumbled, affairs multiply; when affairs multiply, strife arises; from strife come worries, and in the end nothing can be saved. The truly penetrating persons of old first settled themselves, and only then settled others. You are not yet steady on your own feet—how could you have surplus strength to meddle in a tyrant’s conduct? And do you know how virtue is ruined and where cleverness comes from? Virtue is often harmed by chasing reputation; artifice often arises from competing to win. Those who hunt fame undermine one another; those who wield cleverness use it as a tool of contention. Both are dangerous instruments—not things to wield without limit.

“Your virtue is deep and your sincerity firm, yet you still do not know how to cope with human situations; though you do not contend for name, your name is already abroad, and you still do not know how to cope with people’s hearts. If you forcefully preach benevolence, righteousness, laws, and standards before a tyrant, you will make him hate what you are good at. That is called inviting disaster; one who invites disaster will surely be harmed in return. I fear you may become the victim.

“Moreover, even if the lord of Wei favored the worthy and hated the unworthy, why must you hurry to show yourself different? If you do not admonish him, the ruler might treat you as someone to use and pit you against others. Then your gaze would grow confused, your countenance would change with it, your words would become flustered, your bearing would be constrained, and inwardly you would be forced to align with his ways. That is like fighting fire with fire or water with water—it only makes things worse. Follow that beginning to its end and calamity has no limit. If you speak what is not trusted with ever more earnestness, I fear you will die at the tyrant’s hands.

“In the past, Jie of Xia killed Guan Long-feng, and Zhou of Shang killed Prince Bi Gan. They cultivated themselves and humbly soothed the people, yet in doing so they offended their rulers, who used their virtue and renown to destroy them. That is the disaster reputation invites. Yao campaigned against Congzhi and Xu’ao; Yu attacked the state of Youhu—with the result that those lands became wasteland and the people were slaughtered. They did not cease using arms; pursuit of fame and practical gain never satisfied them. Have you not heard of this? Fame and solid gain—even sages cannot fully command them; how much less you?”

Yan Hui said, “Then I must prepare myself. Allow me to state my plan. I will be upright yet humble, and strive with single-mindedness—will that do?”

Confucius said, “How can it? You inwardly feel yourself full and let your spirit show outward; your expression shifts without rest. Even ordinary people would hardly accept such a manner. You judge others by your own feelings and seek only your own ease— that at best cultivates virtue day by day; it cannot achieve great virtue, still less face a tyrant. You would cling to your view without adapting, conform outwardly while disagreeing inwardly—how could that work?”

Yan Hui said, “Then I will keep my inner mind straight, outwardly follow others, and in word and deed take antiquity as my model—will that do? Inner straightness is to take Heaven as companion. One who takes Heaven as companion knows that ruler and subject alike are born of Heaven and earth—how could one capriciously condemn?”

Confucius said, “How can it? If you speak only your own words and expect others to approve or disapprove, is that not still clinging to self? In others’ eyes such a person is like an innocent child who does not understand the world— that is what ‘taking Heaven as companion’ amounts to here. Outwardly following others is to take humanity as companion. Holding the tablet, kneeling, bowing, and bending in ritual are the manners of a subject; everyone does them—why should I not? Others act thus; I act thus too—then others find nothing to pick at. That is taking humanity as companion. Taking antiquity as model in word and deed is to take the ancients as companions. Even when admonishing or reproving, one relies on teachings long established—not a view unique to oneself. Then even blunt speech need not count as fault. That is taking the ancients as companions.”

Confucius concluded, “That still will not do. Too many rules and measures make people lose their way; even if your attitude is firm, you can at best avoid guilt—how could you change anyone? That is still taking your own mind as the measure.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says that Yan Hui’s cultivation was still insufficient for him to act on his own and transform the state of Wei. If he went with a fixed set of doctrines to remonstrate with the ruler of Wei, the ruler would treat his words as an occasion for rivalry over reputation and argument, and might harm him instead. Yan Hui’s own virtue and insight were not yet firm; rushing to save others might only make the ruler of Wei behave worse.

The commentators further explain that once virtue is used to compete for fame, it easily becomes shallow and unstable; once cleverness and talent are used to compete for victory, strife arises. If Yan Hui admonished the ruler with benevolence and righteousness, the ruler might think he was using them to elevate himself and belittle the sovereign, and would reject him. Even if the ruler favored the worthy and disliked the unworthy, that did not mean Yan Hui could help by going to remonstrate at that moment.

If the ruler of Wei debated with Yan Hui, he might rely on royal power to argue against him, with cutting words and a fierce manner, unsettling Yan Hui’s mind so that he would busy himself with self-preservation and end by yielding. That would not save the ruler but could strengthen his wrongdoing. Longfeng and Bigan, ministers of the Shang famed for blunt remonstrance, both worried for their lords and were killed by them; even Yao and Yu could not change a cruel ruler by words alone. Therefore, if Yan Hui went without adequate preparation, he would be in great danger.

Yan Hui then proposed three ways of dealing with the world: inward uprightness in accord with Heaven; outward tact in accord with human feelings; and taking the ancients as models, acting by ancient methods. Confucius still held that this was not enough. Though these approaches might not be wrong in themselves, they had not yet reached the level of truly transforming people, because Yan Hui still carried a method for coping with external things and remained attached in his mind.

Lu’s commentary explains that Yan Hui was still young, acted too directly, and took responsibility on himself alone, so he lightly placed the life and death of the state and its people on his own shoulders. Yan Hui wished to humble himself in order to uphold the Way; Confucius held that one must first settle oneself before saving others—how could one change a tyrant when one was not yet secure? Rectifying oneself and keeping emptiness and stillness did not yet mean having truly attained emptiness and stillness; forcing oneself to be single-minded did not yet mean being truly single-minded. If one was self-satisfied inwardly and showy outwardly, and used one’s own doctrines to demand that others become good, it would be hard to achieve great virtue, let alone to transform a ruler.

Lin Yidu’s commentary holds that Yan Hui’s temperament was upright and his virtue solitary and lofty, so he easily took the state’s troubles on himself alone. He compared governing the state to treating illness: if the state could no longer be treated, the worthy should withdraw; only if there was still hope should one consider entering office. What Confucius meant was to cultivate oneself first until qi and mind were full and settled, and only then discern others’ qi and intentions. If one had not yet reached that point and only used learned doctrines to remonstrate with a tyrant, the other might hate Yan Hui’s reputation for worth and harm him.

These annotations conclude that Yan Hui took companionship with Heaven, with people, and with antiquity as his ways of meeting the world—still choosing, distinguishing, and clinging to particular methods. True transformation means being able to follow the natural changes of the ten thousand things without clinging to distinctions of inner and outer, ancient and modern, or Heaven and human. Only by reaching non-intention (wuxin) can one truly take part in the process.

When the perfected person faces all affairs under heaven, they never hold preconceived views in advance, yet they can win over those who are full of fixed opinions; they never deliberately set out to act, yet they can ease the worries of those who are bent on doing something. Why is this? Because they respond only when something arises and move only when compelled—they do not busily take governing the world upon themselves as their own task.

Yan Hui thought he could govern worldly affairs through deliberation and deliberate action, but he did not understand how to accord with outer things through a stance of non-thinking and Wuwei (non-action). He wanted to reform the cruelty of the ruler of Wei and rescue the people from danger, which is why Confucius criticized him for a tangled mind and disruptive conduct.

The perfected person first cultivates themselves and holds to pure unity; only afterward do they become a model for all under heaven. When one’s own person is not yet settled, to go and disturb the conduct of a violent ruler will only invite disaster. De (Virtue/Power) is the root of reputation; when reputation outweighs De, De is harmed. Knowledge is an instrument of contention; when contention flares up, cleverness and artifice follow. When De is deep and conviction firm, one should cultivate inwardly; before others trust you, do not hurry to let your name spread abroad, and do not strive to outdo others.

Before you have understood the other person’s mind, to press upon a violent ruler and forcefully expound benevolence, righteousness, law, and Mohist teachings means that the bond between you is still shallow while your words go too deep—you will only earn their dislike. Loving the worthy and hating the unworthy can even bring death before a violent ruler. This shows that knowledge can also bring disaster: King Jie of Xia killing Guan Longfeng is an example. Even sages cannot overcome the harm that comes from reputation.

Rectifying the inner mind, emptying and quieting, and holding to unity are ways of striving to fill Yang energy with fullness. When Yang energy is full, the inner is naturally solid. At first Yan Hui wanted to use stratagem to cope with worldly calamity; when he saw that would not work, he thought to rein in stratagem and return to empty quiet and holding to unity; when he still found that insufficient, he wanted to carry empty quiet and unity through and fold them into three modes of dwelling in the world.

To keep company with the Way of Heaven is to extend oneself straightforwardly and not seek others’ approval or disapproval; to keep company with people in the world is to follow what others do and not touch what they taboo; to keep company with the ancients is to set forth old examples to admonish the present without letting that make others blame you.

Rectifying emptiness and quiet, striving to hold to unity—if one merely clings stubbornly, that is not yet enough to count as De, because one does not understand change and penetration. As for the so-called three modes of dwelling, if one stops at secret watching and guessing in the dark, that too is not enough to count as the art of ordering the world. As the scripture says, one who has not yet reached the level of transformation—how could such a person teach others?

Bixuzi explained that governing a state lightly shows that the ruler does not take the state seriously; driving the people lightly shows that he does not value their lives. Those who care nothing for the people’s life and death are beyond counting, so using a whole state as a metaphor for “plantain” (jiao) fits. “Plantain” refers to hollow, insubstantial vegetation: it means that although the Lord of Wei bestows favor, he is like fruitless plants, and the people ultimately have nowhere to settle.

Yan Hui said, “Many sick people gather at a physician’s door; I wish to find a way to heal them.” The Master warned him that learning too many disparate things easily leads to confusion; one should first cultivate oneself and establish the root. If one’s own root is not yet established, how can one transform others? What passes for guarding virtue is really seeking a name; displaying cleverness invites contention. What people cannot recognize is the greatest reputation; what people do not contend over is the highest wisdom. Not seeking fame and not competing with others is how one can carry the Way through to the end.

If you insist on preaching benevolence, righteousness, Mohism, and the like before a cruel man, he will instead resent your self-righteous air of virtue and may bring disaster on you. Since the Lord of Wei already draws near the worthy and keeps sycophants at a distance, he can already be called wise—why seek a different approach? The Lord of Wei may rely on power to argue with you; then you will be shaken by his force and words, outwardly forcing composure while inwardly unable to bear it, and your speech and conduct will lose their measure. Once fixed opinions form in the mind, you lose mastery, are pulled along by his shifts, and in the end cannot cope.

If you will not heed this sincere advice and insist on remonstrating before a tyrant, you may lose your life. Confucius then cited Long Feng and Bi Gan as examples of those who spoke plainly before unprincipled rulers and died: before the unprincipled, the outcomes of compliance and resistance are obvious; before the principled, that contrast need not be stressed. In the past, even Yao and Yu, facing feudal lords on three sides, could not make them submit by words alone and still had to subdue them by force. Yan Hui hoped to transform the Lord of Wei by empty talk—not only would it do no good, it might bring harm.

Only when the mind is upright can it be empty and still; only with diligent singleness of purpose can one avoid distraction by stray thoughts. Pride and self-satisfaction show outwardly, and everyone rejects them; human nature cannot be violated either—how could empty stillness and singleness alone transform the Lord of Wei? Yan Hui again proposed conforming to Heaven’s intent, harmonizing with people, and modeling the ancients, perhaps to avoid disaster, but Confucius still disapproved, because Yan Hui remained attached to his own fixed views and had not yet truly tasted the great Dao.

Zhao’s commentary holds that the dead were as numerous as the reeds in a marsh—the corpses filled the wetlands, so the marsh became the measure of the dead. “Slaughtering the people like cutting grass” means treating common folk as no more than weeds.

Yan Hui wished to go to Wei to rescue the people. Confucius sighed and said: “If you go, you will surely suffer punishment. When one urges others and fears one’s views will not be accepted, one makes many concessions and mixes in extraneous points to win them over. Then one’s own mind is disturbed first; worry follows, and one has no leisure to save oneself—how could one save others? The principle you hold in your heart is not yet firm; how can you lightly go to a tyrant’s court?”

“Once a name is established, virtue is easily harmed; when contention arises, cunning appears. When a minister remonstrates, the fault may be laid on the ruler while the merit goes to the minister. Fame and profit press against each other and stratagem follows—this is not the way of giving one’s full devotion. Though you have deep virtue and steadfast sincerity, your understanding has not yet opened; if you only proclaim your uprightness and thereby expose others’ faults, you will draw their hatred. This is called bringing disaster upon others and in the end bringing it upon oneself.”

“If the ruler of Wei truly loved the worthy and hated the unworthy, he would seek you of his own accord—why must you go to him? If you did not speak, that would be enough; but once you open your mouth, he will argue stubbornly and try to outdo you. Then your eyes will swim and your heart be confused—you will not dare look him in the face; your countenance will be compliant and you will not dare resist; you will be busy defending your own words. Outwardly you can only submit, and inwardly you will be forced to align with his wishes. That not only does no good—it reinforces what he does. Only by going along with his mind will he not drive you to an impasse.”

Confucius also said: “Long Feng and Bi Gan remonstrated loyally and were killed for it—they had the name of loyal ministers but could not save the state. Congzhi, Xu’ao, and the Youhu clan raised armies and fought; Yao and Yu punished them—they achieved no real merit. Fame and achievement—even sages can hardly have both; do you think you can reform the ruler of Wei?”

Yan Hui said he wished to keep a rectified, empty, and still mind, accord with Heaven’s way and human feelings, and take the ancients as his model. Confucius judged this still would not work: the ruler of Wei was arrogant and indulged his desires; even if one admonished him gently with good words morning and night, he would not accept—how much less if one rushed to correct him? Since he was obstinate and would not change, when Yan Hui arrived he could only seem compliant outwardly and dare not speak his mind inwardly—this too was unsatisfactory.

Yan Hui then put forward another approach. Confucius pointed out that the ruler of Wei’s orders and laws had many failings—how could one compare him to the ancient sage-kings? He might not blame you, but your method would stop there; how could it change his conduct? What the ruler of Wei did matched what he took to be right in his own mind—why would he be willing to take the ancients as his teachers?

Yue Qi said: I have heard that when the state is well governed one should take office, and when it is in chaos one should withdraw. Zhuangzi turns this around: “Leave a well-governed state; go only to one in disorder.” That is like a physician: only when there are many patients does he have a chance to practice his art; if the state is already well ordered, what need is there for me? I wanted to tell the ruler of Wei what I had heard from my teacher, thinking it might bring stability to Wei. My teacher, however, thought I should not go.

From this tangle of worries, it is clear you are bringing trouble on yourself. If you cannot even settle your own person, how can you rescue others? You should first hold fast to inner cultivation. Once the mind turns toward seeking a name, the natural, authentic De dissipates; when selfishness and clever stratagems are put to use, contention follows. Reputation and cleverness are the world’s bane— they must not be pursued blindly. Even if your virtue runs deep and you are honest and trustworthy, if you do not yet understand another’s character and rashly preach benevolence, righteousness, and law to a wicked man, disaster will fall on you.

You went without being summoned. Relying on the king’s exalted rank, he will use your words and try to overwhelm you. Once you are trapped, your gaze will grow confused, your bearing submissive, as you seek only to reconcile with him; your mouth will busy itself with excuses, your body will bow and yield, straining to align with his will. Going forward in such submission will only let his wrongdoing know no end.

In the past, Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan were killed for their loyalty and bluntness— in part because they pursued reputation too far. Yao and Yu campaigned against three states, which shows that even Yao and Yu could not tolerate those who sought names and private gain; how much less can you hope to admonish the ruler of Wei while seeking a name yourself?

Yan Hui said: “I plan to straighten my mind, empty myself and abide in wuwei, and strive for single-minded focus— perhaps then I can go and transform him.” His teacher thought this quite wrong. The ruler of Wei’s spirit is at its peak; if you try to move him with words, he will instead suppress your resolve and use that to satisfy his own desires. If you hold unyieldingly to your course, outwardly upright and empty as if to please him while inwardly forcing yourself to stay single-minded— can such a way really work?

Yan Hui offered three further methods, thinking they might persuade the ruler of Wei; his teacher still disapproved. He said your proposed policies and laws are too numerous and will in the end be hard to settle securely. Even if these three approaches could preserve you, they would only spare you from harm— how could they transform another? What you propose all springs from deliberate, artificial intent; wherever the heart holds something it wants, action leaves traces of human contrivance and is no longer the Dao that follows nature.

The gist of the various schools’ commentaries is already quite full; I do not repeat it here. Where a character’s sense was left out or disputed, I have added my cautious notes at the end of the volume.

The line “ze ruo jiao” is hard to parse. Some also take “ze” as closing a sentence, which then leaves the next two characters unable to form their own clause. “Ze” admits two readings, and “jiao” is likewise debated. Older notes take “ze” as open marsh or wild ground and read “jiao” as “qiao” (wood-gathering)—a reading that can stand: classical texts sometimes reckoned the dead by grain measure, as when histories speak of “gu liang niu ma” (tallying oxen and horses by the granary measure), meaning the slain were beyond count. When common people died on that scale, grain and plants could not be raised as usual; the wetlands seemed everywhere stripped as after woodcutting. From that one infers what public order was like then.

On “qiang yi ren yi fang mo zhi yan shu bao ren zhi qian,” some gloss “shu” as selling and “yu” as selling; some recensions have “e yu qi mei.” Threaded through the passage, those glosses still sit awkwardly. The “Book of Music” in the Records of the Grand Historian has “shi li yue zhi wen neng shu,” where “shu” may be the same word as “shu” (to set forth, narrate); keeping the received graph is enough.

“Bao ren” occurs three times in this chapter. Commentaries often render it “violent man”; on the first two appearances it fits better as “to lay bare, display”—conduct shown openly before others. “Shu bao yu ren zhi qian” read that way runs smoothly and matches the surrounding argument. Only the closing reference points to the truly violent figure—Kuai Kui of Wei in the Spring and Autumn era.

Scroll seven of the Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei ends here. Scroll eight is the second chapter, Renjian Shi (The Human World).

Yan Hui said, “I cannot go any further on my own. May I ask what I should do?”

Confucius replied, “First undertake fasting; then I will tell you. Do you find that easy? If you think it is easy, the bright Way of Heaven will not approve.”

Yan Hui said, “My household is poor. For months I have neither drunk wine nor eaten meat. Does that count as fasting?”

Confucius said, “That is only the fasting done before a sacrifice, not xin zhai—the discipline of emptying and quieting the mind so it can receive things as they are.”

Yan Hui asked, “What is xin zhai?”

Confucius said, “Make your intention single. Do not listen with your ears; listen with your mind. And do not listen with your mind; listen with qi. The ears are limited to hearing sounds; the mind is limited to grasping and matching what it hears. Qi is empty stillness that waits for whatever comes. Only the Dao can gather in that emptiness—and that emptiness is xin zhai.”

Yan Hui said, “Before your guidance I felt there was a solid ‘me.’ After your guidance I feel that ‘me’ is gone. Can that be called empty stillness?”

Confucius said, “Well said. Let me finish. If you can move within the everyday world yet wander freely, not tugged about by reputation; when others take you in, respond—when they do not, stop responding; with no fixed gate and no blockage, resting the heart in what cannot be avoided and in yielding—then you are nearly there. To erase your tracks is easy; never to leave tracks is hard. To be pushed and pulled by others is easy; to follow nature is hard. To listen by deliberate effort is easy; to listen from a naturally open state is hard. People have heard of birds with wings that fly, but not of birds without wings that fly; they have heard of the knowledgeable who know things, but not of knowing without leaning on knowledge.”

“Look at that open, luminous realm: an empty, quiet inner chamber gives birth to light, and good fortune settles in that stillness. When the heart cannot settle, that is zuo chi—the body sits while the spirit races. Let ear and eye turn inward, not led by the mind’s sorting and judging; then ghosts and spirits will come to dwell—how much more so ordinary people? This is the pivot of change in the ten thousand things, what Yu and Shun followed, what Fuxi and Jiequ practiced—how much more so the rest of us?”

The passage on zuo chi stresses settling the spirit, turning the senses back inward, and easing the mind’s habit of dividing and labeling. Only then can the heart stay empty and quiet and move with the changes of things.

Guo Xiang’s commentary states: When the mind harbors a purpose and one acts deliberately, it is hard to call that “following what is natural”; one has not yet seen clearly whether such conduct is fitting. “Single-mindedness” (yizhi) means clearing away stray thoughts and holding to unity: setting aside heterodox doctrines and following only one’s own nature; letting ear, eye, and intent grow quiet and align with one’s natural endowment. This is waiting for outer things to arrive in emptiness and stillness.

Before one has put “heart-fasting” (xinzhai)—the practice of emptying and unifying the spirit—into effect, a person still clings to the self; once heart-fasting is truly achieved, the self is no longer kept in mind. Let the mind rest in the ease that belongs to it; when affairs match reality, stop there—like gong and shang tones answering each other without deliberate arrangement, hence the word “sound” or “cry” (ming). Let each thing be as it is without bringing them under one’s control; let the myriad things of the world settle naturally without harming them by human artifice. “What cannot be avoided” (budeyi) refers to what the situation necessarily demands; abiding in the utmost oneness and following inevitable signs, the Way is fully present therein. If one wishes desire not to arise, that is like wanting to step yet forbidding the foot to touch the ground— it cannot be done.

Guo Xiang also says: Knowledge gained through seeing and hearing is coarse, and therefore easily obscured; the tokens brought by natural operation are subtle and fine, so they are hard to manipulate by human effort. Lose little of the genuine, and the harm is small; lose much of the genuine, and the harm is large. Gain and loss each match their measure; to go against innate nature and try to change things through deliberate fabrication— is that not difficult?

The image of “having wings, having knowledge” means that the appropriate conditions must be present before the corresponding deed can be accomplished. Without a mind of utmost emptiness, there is no way truly to transform the myriad things. “Empty chamber” (xushi) means a mind that is clear and open; when one sees things without being pulled by appearances, that is the empty chamber. When the mind is empty and still, the pure white heart appears, and good fortune gathers from this. If in action one does not know where to stop and does not hold to limits, it is like resting while sitting yet still rushing about inwardly: before outer troubles arrive, the inner self is already worn out— how then can one transform the myriad things?

To block ear and eye yet naturally gain insight means not letting the mind’s deliberate workings rule oneself. One should follow one’s nature, let intent pass through directly without obstruction; then even hidden faults will not arise, still less the entanglements of the human world.

Whether things are noble or base, people always rely on mind and on ear and eye to know them. What the world calls knowing and seeing is not simply “want to know and you know, want to see and you see”; people often seek knowledge because of desire and treat what they know as what they see, so the spirit races inward and ear and eye lose sharpness outward—they can neither settle themselves nor respond to outer things.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary explains: Confucius tells Yan Hui that whenever one acts with a fixed purpose in mind, one runs into difficulty; nothing is easy from the very start. What is called “heart fasting” (xinzhai) is to harbor no stray thoughts and not to act with deliberate intent, letting the heart return to a state free of clinging.

Only when one achieves single-minded concentration can one grasp this realm. Confucius says: “Do not listen with your ears; listen with your heart. Do not listen with your heart; listen with your qi.” Listening with the ears catches only sound; listening with the heart still leaves discrimination and judgment in the mind. Listening with qi lets the heart cease clinging to what it knows, remain empty and still, and wait for things to appear of themselves. “Only the Dao gathers in emptiness” means that the Great Dao collects in vacuity and stillness—this is the method of bringing the heart back to non-clinging.

If one cannot yet let the heart truly function, one inevitably clings to self. Yan Hui had not yet reached this level, so he still felt he had a real “I”; if he could reach it, he could stop clinging to self. When external things come and impinge, the heart responds; when they do not come, the heart is quiet. Like bells and chime-stones, without being struck they give no sound. When the heart is settled, nothing outside can disturb it, and manifold wayward thoughts cannot harm it. Settle the heart in emptiness and stillness; in action, follow what necessity alone requires—living thus already nears the right path.

Confucius also tells Yan Hui: “Leaving no footprints is easy; not walking on the ground is hard.” If one wishes to leave no trace in the world, best is to cut off action at the root; if one wishes not to be dragged by things, best is to forget the body. But if forgetting the body is not genuine, it remains mere pretense. Humans have both knowing and not-knowing, so going along with human affairs easily mixes in artifice; the way of heaven is without partial knowing yet knows all, so aligning with heaven is hard to adulterate with falsity. Preserving the inner heart so that one can follow heaven—this brooks no sham.

Human knowledge is like a bird’s wings; fold the wings and the bird stops and no longer flies. Gaze at the open, luminous realm—in the chamber of the empty heart light arises; auspicious signs appear in turn. Dwell where one should dwell; if the heart still races without rest, that is called “sitting while galloping”—the body sits but the spirit runs everywhere. Fortune and misfortune, regret and worry—all spring from reckless movement.

Truly abiding in stillness, the ears are like the eyes and the eyes like the ears; spirit concentrates and the form seems to melt—the body is no longer a bond. Ears and eyes communicate inward, surpassing ordinary mind-knowing; ghosts and spirits come to rely on you, how much more so ordinary people? This is precisely the realm where the ten thousand things transform, and the ultimate path the ancient sages practiced.

Lin Yidu explained: "Fasting" is most precious when the heart is empty and humble. If preconceptions and stray thoughts remain in the mind, heart-fasting is hard to achieve. If one finds heart-fasting easy and does not take it seriously, Great Heaven will not heed such prayers.

Listening with the ears is ordinary hearing; listening with the heart is turning inward to listen within; listening with Qi (vital energy) means not clinging to the act of listening. With the ears one seeks to exhaust principles of things; with the heart one seeks to fully illuminate one's nature; without using ear or heart to discriminate, but waiting for all things in emptiness and stillness—this is to reach the realm of settling life. Hearing that stops at the ears is inferior to apprehending with the heart; yet once the heart discriminates and judges, it separates things. At the level of Qi, one no longer intends to listen—one only waits in emptiness and stillness for things to come and go. The Dao gathers here; this is the subtle efficacy of "heart-fasting."

The Liezi says: "The form harmonizes with the heart, the heart with Qi, Qi with spirit." The meaning is the same as here. After Yan Hui understood, he said: "At first I had not truly grasped what the Master taught about heart-fasting; then there was indeed still a 'me.' Once I understood heart-fasting, there was no longer the former self that clung to ego." Confucius told him further: even when emptiness and stillness are already achieved, if one is in circumstances that call for action, one must still not be moved by fame.

The heart is like a key: empty and still, it waits for Qi to arrive; when Qi comes, there is response; when Qi does not come, one rests in peace. How could the heart deliberately arrange this? This is letting all things come and go freely, without blocking the gate; entrusting the world to things to govern themselves, not harming them with private desire.

Uphold the great Dao and dwell in peace; only when unavoidable does one rise to respond to external things. Entrust principle within things yet do not possess them—thus one fulfills one's part. After fully illuminating the principles of nature and life, then acting—what one does all arises naturally. If one acts because others drive one, it easily turns false; if one acts in accord with Heaven's way, it is not easy to be false.

"Wings flying, knowing knowing" illustrates Yan Hui: only with a mind of utmost emptiness and stillness can one transform all things. The present realm appears clearly yet is open and unobstructed—this speaks of the heart. "White life arising" means the Dao gathers in the heart; when spirit and mind are settled, auspiciousness arrives. Those who cannot settle—though the body sits, the spirit still runs outward.

Those who can settle need not fix ear and eye only outward, nor need mind and will stay only inward. Thus even when there is thought and action, one is not burdened by worldly affairs. Ghosts and spirits will even come to stay—how much more so people?

In his commentary, Chen Xiangdao says that to act deliberately and with fixed intent has always been hard for the ancients to get exactly right. When the mind harbors thoughts, one should observe purification; when one is about to act, one should be cautious and restrained. Therefore, if one wishes to bring De (Virtue/Power) to a state of luminous, spirit-like clarity, one must first practice xinzhai (heart-mind fasting). This is the teaching Confucius gave to Yan Hui.

The Wenzi says: “The highest kind of learning listens with shen (spirit); the middle kind listens with the heart; the lowest kind listens with the ears.” If one listens only with the ears, one reaches no farther than what the ears can hear; if one uses the heart only to chase after external things, one reaches no farther than what the heart can grasp. If one listens with qi (vital energy), there is nothing one cannot comprehend. “Listening with qi” means not being bound by ear and thought, but letting the spirit-mind be empty, still, and fully open.

When the spirit-mind is broad and unobstructed, it can govern the body without being governed by the body; it can respond to things without being tethered by them. Inner emptiness and stillness leave no blockage; one answers things as they come without storing them in the heart. Thus, concentrating the mind preserves primordial qi; preserving primordial qi leads to emptiness and stillness; emptiness and stillness gather one into the Dao. This is what xinzhai means.

At first Yan Hui had not yet attained this; he still treated the body as a heavy burden. Once he truly understood and embodied it, he no longer fixed on the self called “Yan Hui,” and so had no clinging to self. Then he could enter the ordinary world without being stirred by reputation: if the other person welcomed him, he spoke; if not, he kept silent. He neither clung to entering or withdrawing, nor let external things harm himself. He gathered the active mind and returned it to wuwei (non-action), and rested in what could not be otherwise, letting a wuwei mind dwell within affairs that must be done.

The Dao of Heaven runs of itself; to go with it is easy. The terrain is uneven; unless one steps firmly, it is hard to pass. To follow wuwei is to move through the world with ease; to brush against hardship and danger is to find the world hard. Deliberate action in human affairs is driven by artificial intent, so it easily turns false. The Dao of Heaven moves naturally and follows innate nature, so it does not rely on pretense.

A bird without wings cannot fly; a person without awareness and understanding cannot truly know; a room without empty space cannot hold light. If the heart cannot be empty and still, where can good fortune settle? Therefore the heart must be steadied. If it cannot be steadied, even bowing in silence on a mountain, the spirit will still race outward. When ear and eye turn inward, one is not dragged by sounds and colors outside; when one sets aside for a time the mind’s sorting of things, one no longer schemes or knows falsely. Reaching that state—emptiness and stillness at the utmost—ghosts and spirits will come to dwell there, how much more ordinary people? Therefore the sage can master the changes of the ten thousand things without being changed by them. This is the path of self-cultivation that the sages of old practiced all their lives.

Ritual fasting before sacrifice is only fasting in outward form; fasting of the heart (xinzhai)—gathering the mind and keeping the inner self empty and still—is the method for grasping the root. Do not listen with the ears; use the heart to apprehend. Release fixation on outer things, and you can see subtle principle. Do not rest in the heart’s discriminating thoughts either; use qi to apprehend, and let spirit return to the undifferentiated unity of primordial beginning (taichu).

At this stage beginners often find thoughts scattered and hard to gather, but there is a subtle method: let hearing stop at the ear, and let spirit concentrate on what it holds. Then inner visions will not scatter, and dust of the outer world cannot enter. When thought stops at token signs and omens—the responses and portents that appear in practice—light gathers and merges, the place where mind dwells becomes clear and calm, and the heart’s lord (the inner subject that governs spirit) is undisturbed in stillness.

Thus empty, still primordial qi (vital energy) penetrates open clarity; originally nothing need be relied upon—yet in relying on nothing, numinous things naturally gather. The legendary immortal fruits jiaoli and huozao do not grow in brambles; only those who cultivate can grasp this. Let the subtle efficacy of heart-fasting arise naturally: if you have not yet achieved empty-heartedness, you cannot speak of truly entering “forgetting self”; if you reach empty stillness, even the thought of “empty stillness” must be dropped.

If you can enter the scope set by the teaching—without rash movement or self-conceit toward outer things—you may escape calamity. “Enter” means to heed and accept; “sound” means words free of crafty calculation. Heeding these words, the heart no longer raises other speech; this is the state in which heart-fasting’s efficacy arises of itself. Until heart-fasting is achieved, one cannot speak of true empty-heartedness; after reaching empty stillness, empty stillness too must be forgotten.

Words vast and boundless are called “no gate”; principle and intent plain and tasteless are called “no poison.” When the heart does not split into two sides, it is like a single dwelling; lodging in what cannot be avoided, one entrusts function among the multitude.

To halt and cut off tracks is easy; not to walk while touching the ground is hard. The image means: people are easily deceived; if one stands on one’s own responsibility, one is hard to mislead. With wings one can soar to the high heavens; with the Dao (the Way) one can meet change.

When the chamber is empty and bright, yang qi (vital energy) arises; when spirit-mind is settled, heaven’s light appears. If the body sits in a quiet hall yet the heart harbors likes and dislikes, it is like a horse tied at the manger while the will races a thousand leagues away. Do not let outer things invade through the six openings (the gates of perception—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind), and you can draw the light of spirit back within so that worldly affairs cannot stain spirit-mind.

Zhao's commentary states: "Let the ears simply listen, and let the mind simply grasp what is heard; when the mind is still and unmoving and the breath is empty and quiet, one can wait for things to respond from outside and follow that response through to completion. Only the Dao gathers in emptiness and stillness; when the heart is empty and still, all principles collect there. This is called 'heart fasting' (xinzhai)."

Yan Hui suddenly understood and said: "When one cannot act freely as the heart wishes, it is because there is still a 'self' in the mind; when one can act freely as the heart wishes, it is because there is no longer a 'self'." Confucius praised his understanding and told him further: "If you can enter that state and not be moved by reputation—when views align, speak; when they do not, stop; if your mind has no gap through which others can slip in, and you do not let others treat you as a source of harm, and you handle affairs with an attitude of 'there is no other way,' you will be close enough."

Confucius continued: "To leave no trace among people is easy; not to act deliberately is hard." This also carries the meaning of following what must be done without forcing it. When one is subject to others' commands, the mind still clings to something, so acting artificially is easy; when one acts in accord with heavenly principle, one lets principle run on its own, so pretense is hard. "Flying without wings, knowing without knowledge" means achieving speed without haste and arrival without walking.

"Que" refers to the empty nature. From the empty, still heart-chamber brightness arises, like the vast cosmos giving forth light. "Auspiciousness settles and rests" means good fortune peacefully comes to rest—no further calamity, and no deliberate courting of blessing. If one still harbors the thought of seeking reward, that is called "sitting in stillness while the heart races" (zuochi): the body sits quiet while the mind runs without stop.

If one no longer chases the senses of ear and eye but lets the inner self connect through, the inside becomes bright; if one is not pulled by the discriminating mind, the inside becomes empty and still. Reaching this state, one can keep company with spirits and ghosts—how could people fail to trust such a person?

Yanshi says: Although you have the ability and wish to undertake this task, as soon as that intention arises, Heaven’s will may not yet approve. First you must single-pointedly concentrate the mind and not let thoughts scatter.

When you listen with the ears, what is heard still stays outside; when you listen with the mind, what is heard still remains within the self; when you listen with qi (vital energy), one no longer clings to any particular thing. If listening stops at the ears, it cannot penetrate inward; if the mind stops at matching external signs, person and thing still stand face to face. Emptiness is where the Dao dwells; the Dao gathers only in emptiness and stillness. The character for “emptiness” (xu) here means xinzhai—the practice of fasting and emptying the heart-mind.

Yanzi said that before he received the Master’s teaching, he still had a “self”; after receiving it, he no longer clung to “me.” Forgetting the self, the heart becomes empty and still. The Master further told him that the human world is like a cage. If you can move within it yet not be moved by fame or external things: when the other can accept persuasion, speak with him; when he cannot, stop and do not force. With no fixed direction, there is no door one must enter; with no craving for flavors, no calamity is invited. These are all metaphors for acting without deliberate trace. Taking the blending of all things as one’s dwelling, and settling the heart in responding only when compelled to do so—then the way of engaging the world is complete.

Acting with deliberate concealment of traces easily leaves traces; following the natural course of things, one is not easily enslaved by human desire. When people are ruled by desire, they tend toward deceit and pretense; only by quieting the heart and entrusting oneself to the work of transformation can one refuse to harbor falsity. “Flying without wings” means reaching without forced action—this is what is called the wondrous, used to explain what follows: treating what one already knows as all there is to know is the condition of ordinary people; only knowing that one does not know is true knowing within unknowing—this is the subtlety of realizing the great Dao.

Observe the empty space within a room—light always enters there. Using the room’s emptiness as a likeness for inner emptiness and stillness, clarity arises from that emptiness; that empty clarity is where auspiciousness rests. What is called “stopping” (zhi) is dwelling in emptiness: when the heart can dwell, it is empty; when the heart is empty, it is clear. If the heart has just admitted distracting thoughts and cannot settle, though the body sits, the spirit has already galloped away. What the ears and eyes hear and see all reach the heart; if the heart does not cling to them, even when the ears and eyes take in the outer world, it is as if nothing pulls at oneself. When the heart is empty, ghosts and spirits will come to dwell—how much more can human beings be transformed?

Living in the human world, one inevitably meets sorrow and peril. Therefore the chapter “The Human World” (Renjian shi) opens with the exchange between Confucius and Yan Hui on the ruler’s cruelty and the ways to admonish and transform him. Yan Hui proposed taking emptiness and single-mindedness as the root—the direction was indeed right; but if one relies on deliberate rectitude and strained effort, one has not yet reached non-intention (wuxin)—then how can one guarantee that hidden thoughts will not stir wrongly? Yan Hui then thought of three methods of self-preservation; Confucius still judged the plans too many and not secure enough, because that still could not transform the other. The problem was that the heart had not yet forgotten the self.

At this point Yan Hui seemed to have no way forward, and only then understood: Confucius’s method of transforming others is to go straight to the cliff’s edge, let go, and cut off the path of clinging thought—only then can one step further upward. Confucius had him fast and purify body and mind from inside out—this speaks of moving from understanding the principle to sincere spontaneity.

The commentary notes that “listening stops at the ears,” “the heart stops at matching signs,” and “listening with qi” are raised again in the preceding text for further explanation. If explained separately, each line tends to go its own way and the whole is hard to unify. The gist is: listening with the ears merely hears the teaching and cannot fully put it into practice; listening with the heart matches the teaching but has not yet utterly forgotten the self; listening with qi, nothing is unheard and nothing unmatched—pervasive and penetrating, merging with the Great Void (Taixu), present everywhere. Thus one can respond to things as well as possible, and things cannot escape this thoroughness.

What the ears contact is the heart; what the heart matches is qi. Qi rests in utmost stillness and non-action (wuwei), awaiting all things with an empty heart. Mencius’s flood-like qi filling Heaven and Earth also speaks of this kind of realm. Qi poured in does not overflow; scooped out it is not exhausted; given to others it grows fuller; responding to the myriad things it stays constantly still. Seen this way, what need is there to wait on purpose, or to reject anything by force?

All things under Heaven share one qi—this is the root common to persons and the Great Void. Emptiness and qi cannot be said to be wholly identical, nor can they be said to be separate; they mutually show substance and function. The Dao is neither emptiness nor qi, but that which enables emptiness and qi to function. It can soften the hardest things under Heaven, govern the most solid things, meet affairs with a mind that waits on nothing, and respond skillfully without end.

The subtlety of xinzhai also lies in the one word “empty.” Therefore it can still all movement, clarify the myriad things, like a mirror when its case is opened, like a scale hung in air: the weight, beauty, and ugliness of things under Heaven cannot escape its scrutiny, yet from this no partiality of love and hate, giving or taking, arises. To engage the world in this way is like wandering freely in the midst of affairs.

Yan Hui suddenly understood, saying that before he grasped xinzhai there truly was a “Yan Hui”; after grasping it, he no longer clung to the self called “Yan Hui.” From how quickly he received this teaching, one can see this clearly. Confucius once said Yan Hui all day did not contradict him and seemed like a dullard—this is precisely the practical sign that Yan Hui no longer clung to self.

When Yan Hui was about to go to Wei, Confucius taught him these principles because the inner cultivation usually transmitted heart-to-heart was mostly the fine points of the dual cultivation of nature and life (xingming shuangxiu), mainly for self-cultivation. Now Yan Hui was to enter public life and assist in governing the state, so Confucius explained in detail the dealings between ruler and minister, human feelings, and the advances and retreats of response—so that he could harmonize the qi of body and mind, empty within and compliant without: looking upward to the wondrous use of xinzhai, looking downward to the real mechanism of transforming others. That sages can keep company with Heaven and not be dragged down by the sorrows of the human world lies in this.

Master Ye of Chu, whose personal name was Zhuliang, was about to go on a mission to Qi. He consulted Confucius and said: “The ruler attaches great importance to sending me on this mission. Qi will surely receive the envoy with great respect, yet they may not be quick to act. Ordinary people are hard enough to persuade—how much more so the feudal lords! I am deeply anxious about this.

“You once told me: ‘Whether the matter is large or small, few succeed in a way that goes against reason yet still ends in satisfaction. If it fails, one suffers harm in human affairs; if it succeeds, one may still suffer harm from the shifts of yin and yang. Whether it succeeds or fails, to have no further calamity afterward—only a person of virtue can do that.’ I eat plain food and do not fuss over storing things up; yet now, to keep my mind clear, I deliberately guard myself. I was never one to live with a purified, desireless heart. This morning I received the command, and by evening I was drinking ice water to steady myself. My inner state has probably already grown hot and scorched, has it not? Before I have even grasped the facts of the matter, I already worry about the calamity that success might bring; if the matter fails, there will surely be calamity in the actual affairs of the world. These two kinds of anxiety—a subject like me can hardly bear them. Can you give me guidance?”

Confucius said: “Under Heaven there are two great standards: one is fate (ming), one is duty (yi). To cherish one’s parents is what nature assigns; it cannot be cut out of the heart. To serve one’s ruler is the subject’s portion; wherever one goes, one cannot escape the bond between ruler and subject. These are the great standards.

“Therefore, one who serves parents does not pick the place but seeks only to make them at ease—this is the height of filial piety. One who serves a ruler does not pick the task but seeks only to bear it calmly—this is the height of loyalty. One who cultivates the inner self does not let joy and sorrow lightly alter the disposition of the heart; understanding that in some things there is nothing to be done, one accords with them and rests in them—this is the height of virtue.

“A subject, by his station, has things he must do. Since one must act according to the facts of the affair, one should forget one’s own safety—where is there leisure to cling to life and fear death? Go and carry it out.

“I will tell you something I have heard: in dealing with those close at hand, people should treat one another with sincerity; in dealing with those far away, they must rely on words to convey intent. Yet the hardest thing in the world is to pass on words when both sides are pleased or both are angry. When both are pleased, the words tend toward excessive praise; when both are angry, the words tend toward excessive blame. Whenever speech goes too far, it easily becomes untrue; words that are untrue are hard to trust, and the one who carries the message may suffer harm because of them. So the ancient saying runs: in relaying the usual circumstances of a matter, do not repeat words that exaggerate—only then does one come close to thoroughness.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary states that in affairs large or small, people rarely fail to treat outcomes as reasons for joy or sorrow. When something succeeds, they rejoice in that success; when it fails, they turn to anger. Even King Zhuang of Chu could not escape this pattern. Even when the task is completed and the person’s trouble is lifted, joy and grief still clash like ice and fire, already bound up in the five viscera. To let success or failure rest with the other party and not carry worry in one’s own heart—only someone of genuine De can do that.

In this episode, Master Meng, though facing a blaze, does not think to seek a cool spot; though he knows the food is meager, inwardly he burns as if he had swallowed ice water. That is because he truly fears the matter may not succeed: before it is done, he dreads failure; if it really fails, he fears that terror will knot in his heart and that he himself will suffer punishment and fall into the snares of the law.

Confucius tells him that steadfastly holding to one’s allotted lot and guarding right principle is a vital warning. Once the natural course of an affair has set and hardened, it is hard to unravel. If one could flee one’s lord or abandon one’s parents, such counsel would hardly matter. But knowing there is no alternative, one quietly accepts fate and lets neither sorrow nor joy arise in the heart—what then is difficult to practice?

Master Meng should therefore take everything he meets as fate, calmly, without letting private preference intrude. Even in the daily business of ordinary people one can adapt as things come; all the more so in serving lord and parents, which one must face in any case. The Way runs straight through such situations: accept what you meet and act accordingly. If trust in the Way is weak, and the heart still clings to likes and dislikes, schemes for survival, and fear of death, the affair will be hard to bring off.

Words spoken in joy or anger often outrun the facts; those who pass the story on should weigh both sides and stay fair. Even if they report the moment’s speech a little too strongly, they should show that this was only a passing flare of ordinary feeling, and hold fast to the real intention within—that alone comes close to doing the matter justice.

In Lü’s commentary, matters in the outer world cannot be settled in advance as to how they will turn out. Whether large or small, if you take success or failure as the basis of your joy, you are fixated on a necessary outcome. Affairs may succeed or they may not; if the worries stirred by the shifts of yin and yang then invade the heart, you are held fast by many afflictions. Only one who has De can forget the self. Forgetting the self means not clinging to outcomes, and then there is no worry.

Today, before the matter has even begun, anxiety already torments the heart. That shows a person has not yet lived through the actual situation, yet is already troubled by the harm of yin-yang change—overly sparing of the self. Therefore Confucius told Yan Hui: loving one’s parents is the mandate of Heaven; serving one’s ruler is the demand of righteousness—neither can be cut away from the heart. In serving parents, one does not pick whether the situation is safe or perilous; in serving the ruler, one does not pick whether the task is hard or easy, yet can meet it in peace. That is the utmost of loyalty and filial piety.

One who can settle the inner mind is not easily swayed when joy or sorrow arrive. If joy and sorrow at once steer the mood, one is still choosing among circumstances and cannot rest within them. One who can settle the inner mind, using that mind to serve parents and ruler, has nothing he cannot face in peace. Truly not choosing circumstances yet bearing them in peace, one acts along with how things actually are and forgets the self—how could one still drown in craving life and fearing death?

Lin Yidu’s commentary says: Anyone who wishes to accomplish something hopes for success and fears failure. Thus whether things succeed or fail, one seems hardly able to escape anxiety; those who can avoid such anxiety are probably only people of genuine virtue (De).

Zigao said: “What I eat daily is coarse, not refined, so my body can endure cold; I do not keep the fire long, yet I am not afraid of heat. Now I have just received my commission this morning and must drink ice water by evening—this shows how fiercely worry has already flared within me. I have not yet truly taken up the task, yet the bodily troubles brought by Yin-Yang changes and the cares of the human world are both hard to avoid. As a minister I truly cannot bear this burden. Please tell me what to do.”

Zhongni then taught him what a minister and a child should keep firmly in mind: Fate is decided by Heaven; the path of righteousness (yi) rests in the person. A child’s love for parents cannot be torn from the heart; a minister serves the ruler—wherever one is and whatever one does, one cannot leave the meaning of ruler and subject. The human heart-mind is the true master; if one can recognize and follow it within oneself, one will not be pulled about by affairs of ruler or parents, and will let natural change run its course without being stirred by joy or grief. When things are truly beyond help, one need only act according to how they actually are, forget oneself—and how could one then cling blindly to life and fear death?

Zhongni also spoke of the method of conveying messages for others: When people are close in association, they can verify each other’s words, so they should treat one another with sincerity; when they are distant, they must not omit what is to be conveyed, so one should relay faithfully. Yet passing on each other’s words of pleasure or anger is where mistakes arise most easily: praising too highly or blaming too harshly comes close to falsehood. If the go-between is not careful, disaster follows. To report only what is ordinary and true, and not repeat words blown out of proportion—perhaps only then can one preserve oneself.

Bixuzi’s commentary explains that Prince Yuan of Song was free of greed, his mind was clear, and his diet was plain; yet he still felt as if fire were burning within. This “internal heat” comes from worry and vexation. The prince wished to escape the distress brought by the transformations of yin and yang in human affairs, so he sought instruction from Zhongni (Confucius).

Zhongni told him: the bond between father and son is formed by nature and is called ming (fate, mandate); the relation between ruler and minister is established according to yi (righteousness, duty). Human beings between Heaven and Earth are all bound by the ties of sovereign and parent and cannot evade them—this is the “great taboo,” the weighty norm one must observe. Therefore, whatever situation one is in, one should calmly bear one’s allotted part; if one only picks what benefits oneself, one can hardly speak of loyalty and filial piety.

Those who cultivate the inner self do not let joy and sorrow easily shake them; they need only trust in the Way and rest in their allotted portion. As ministers or as children, people often face responsibilities they cannot refuse. Shun once plowed and fished; Yu once controlled the floods—they gave their utmost, forgot their own safety, and calmly accepted ming and yi; that is enough. Mutual trust and words that express loyalty are outward signs; by observing these signs one can grasp the inner root. Transmitting words is also like following footprints—the value lies in hitting the mark; saying too much or too little may both miss. Missing the mark invites disaster, for straying from the constant Way is error.

Zhao’s note says that if plans for the state fail, one may suffer humiliation—this is distress on the human level; if the affair succeeds, joy and fear surge together—this is distress from yin-yang change. Prince Yuan ate coarse, simple food, nearly without desire, and was in that sense very restrained; yet at first he had no illness of internal heat while his heart already felt scorched by fire. Clearly, before success or failure was decided, both kinds of distress had already gathered on him. Zhongni therefore used ming and yi to enlighten him: the principle of serving a father can illustrate serving a ruler; once one has accepted the role of subject, one should not care only for one’s own safety. Zhongni also taught him how to act, with loyalty and trustworthiness as the key; when joy or anger arise, one must especially be careful in conveying words—then perhaps one can preserve oneself.

Yizhai says that if service to the state fails, one may face punishment and blame—human distress; if one toils in planning and falls ill from worry, that is yin-yang distress. Zhongni further taught him to take loyalty and trust as the main guide in action and to be cautious in passing on words at moments of joy or anger—only then might one hope to keep oneself whole.

In the Yizhai commentary it is said: when one plans affairs for the state and they are not accomplished, one may suffer punishment and censure—that is worry in the realm of human affairs. If one toils in calculation and frets over whether things will succeed, until worry becomes illness, that is worry arising from imbalance of Yin and Yang. From the time I received my commission, I have tasted no flavor in food and my heart has been anxious and unsettled; before I could earnestly handle the business, the task was already done. If it should fail, I would again face punishment—thus a double burden of worry. How should my teacher instruct me?

Confucius told him to hold fast to the “great precepts.” “Precept” means rule: the mandate of Heaven and the duty to serve one’s parents come with birth, so they cannot be cast off inwardly. Righteousness (yi) is what a person ought to do. Serving the ruler is the minister’s foremost charge; in fulfilling filial duty to parents, one goes east, west, south, or north as commanded and finds peace only when one does not pick and choose where to go. When the mind takes loyalty as its anchor, then even when joy and sorrow appear before one, the resolve does not change.

Affairs may be hard or easy; once the ruler’s command is entrusted, they belong to what one must bear. Since they stand together with the mandate of Heaven, nothing remains but to accept them in peace. If a minister unhappily meets a difficult charge, he need only do his utmost to carry the matter through—why then cling to concern for his own person?

When Zi Gao was about to go as envoy to Qi, he sought instruction in what he had heard from Confucius and spoke of the worry that followed his commission: in his heart ice and fire seemed to battle, and he hoped his teacher would give him release. Confucius admonished him with the two rules of “ming” (mandate/fate) and “yi” (righteousness): loyalty and filial piety are life’s great bonds. One cannot cut parents from the heart; one cannot flee the responsibility between Heaven and Earth of serving the ruler. The heart should be settled and not let joy and sorrow rule it. The essentials of how a person establishes himself lie largely here.

Yet the heart is sovereign, and the myriad changes arise from it. If one cultivates the inner mind and fulfills righteousness, then how to serve ruler and parents is not hard to see; if one can peacefully accept what cannot be helped, the mind in daily leisure can be inferred as well. When faith in the Dao (the Way) is firm and one understands one’s own nature, one no longer likes or dislikes according to life and death.

These words teach all who are ministers and children under Heaven to learn calm bearing in situations where rest is hard to find. That is the height of loyalty and filial piety and of fulfilling the way of establishing the person. Afterward Confucius also spoke of the difficulty of going on mission and conveying words, teaching careful conduct so that the ruler’s virtue is not lost and the minister does not disgrace his charge.

This layer of teaching is one step shallower than what he later gave Yan Hui: Yan Hui could grasp the mandate of Heaven and penetrate the spiritual dimension, so Confucius expounded “heart fasting” (xinzhai—making the heart-mind empty and single) and led him toward “seated forgetting” (zuowang—forgetting body and distinctions to unite with the Dao). Zi Gao was still bound to success and failure, benefit and harm, so Confucius only taught him to convey the mission with care and preserve the integrity of a minister. From this one sees that the sage teaches according to each person’s capacity and guides step by step.

When people compete through clever force, the contest often begins with high spirits and a bias toward yang (assertive, hard energy), yet in the end it frequently turns covert and yin-like. When strife is pushed to an extreme, all sorts of deceitful tactics appear. When people drink according to ritual, the gathering is orderly at first, but it often ends in disorder; once indulgence reaches its limit, absurd pleasures multiply. Most affairs follow this pattern: they start in something like sincerity and finish in something coarse or shabby. What looks simple at the outset often grows serious and tangled by the end.

Words are like wind on water—they easily stir the heart-mind. When action loses contact with what is actually so, people easily fall into danger. Thus anger often flares without clear cause: someone provokes another with clever speech and one-sided arguments, much as a cornered beast ceases to care what sound it makes. Breath comes short, rage rises, and mutual resentment deepens. When demands and calculations are pushed too far, unwholesome intentions appear, while the person involved may not know why. If one cannot even see how a matter began, how can one know where it will end?

The ancients said: “Do not alter orders on your own, and do not press for a result as if success were guaranteed.” Altering orders and forcing success both trap the affair in danger. Fine outcomes need time to ripen; if you hurry toward what you already dislike, there is often no room to set things right, and failure follows. Can one fail to be cautious?

To ride along with things and let the heart-mind wander freely, and to lodge oneself in what cannot be avoided so as to nourish the inner center—this is the highest way to live in the world. Why then scheme for arrangements and chase repayment? Better to follow one’s allotted course and accept the outcome the situation actually yields. Even that is hard.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that the shift from yang openness to yin cunning in conflict comes from the hidden growth of the will to win, until one no longer follows ordinary reason; that the move from orderly drinking to chaos is the feast’s slide from restraint into deep intoxication. Many disasters accumulate from small beginnings. Speech stirs the situation; when action is unreal, what could have stayed settled becomes dangerous. Stimulated by clever words and partial doctrines, people flare with anger and then breed resentment and harshness, often without noticing it themselves. To follow the pattern of things and let events ripen in their own time is the fitting course.

What is meant by “riding things to wander the heart-mind” is settling the spirit by going along with the changes of the outer world; “lodging in the unavoidable to nourish the center” is accepting situations one cannot escape and using them to sustain the inner balance.