《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 4

When you act in this way, you can avoid the calamities that come from being entangled in human affairs. When the heart moves to act, it is pulled by external things; acting along with external things means letting the heart drift with them—and that still counts as deliberate doing. To comply with what truly must be done, and to use that unavoidable necessity to nourish the inner center, is the fitting approach.

Now, being sent on a mission to Qi: the best course is to convey the charge and fulfill your role. “Zhiming” (devoting life to the charge) means doing your utmost to complete the ruler’s commission. When you reach that point, birth and death, fortune and misfortune no longer tug at the heart, and you can handle affairs properly. Why must you deliberately perform something extra to repay the sovereign? Simply fulfilling the mission and settling the matter well is already hard enough.

Lin Yidu’s commentary says: those who wrestle with stratagems are glad at first and angry at the end; those who drink by ritual rules are restrained at first but may lose measure at the end. So-called “qiaoqiao” (clever tricks) are deceit and artifice; “qiyue” (extraordinary pleasure) is joy that departs from the ordinary. At the start one can still keep faith and substance, but later one turns crude and vulgar; at first one honors simplicity, but in the end one often becomes extravagant. These are common shifts in human feeling.

The heart may be compared to water; words are like wind that stirs ripples on it. De (Virtue/Power) is inner truth; “xing” (conduct) is outward manifestation. Without outward show, inner De is not thereby harmed; without flashy display, inner truth is not thereby lost. Once the heart sinks into delight, it is easily stirred by things; once De is lost, danger easily follows. Anger often arises from clever speech, empty words, and biased, unreasonable talk. It is like a beast driven to extremity: its cries no longer care to sound pleasing; breath knots up and illness follows.

This passage means: in handling affairs, let the heart rest in the realm of Wuwei (non-action). To lead people onto a path of worry and harm is like driving a beast into a dead end. Over-scolding and over-pressing others makes unworthy people respond without even knowing they have stirred. For an envoy to alter orders on his own or to rush matters to completion are both dangerous courses. Fine outcomes need long accumulation; benevolent De must mature through nurturing. If the other party loathes something and you still force them toward it, failure and regret come quickly—how can one not be cautious?

Follow the ten thousand things and let the heart roam freely; align with the utmost principle and nourish the inner life. Only when something truly must be done do you do it—this is “using the unavoidable to nourish the center.” “Yuandu yiwei jing” (taking the central line as the constant) means taking the path of balance as your rule—that is, relying on what cannot be avoided to nurture the inner center. That is enough; why forcibly do more to repay the sovereign’s favor? The best way is to complete the mission without bringing disgrace on yourself—and even that is not easy.

Those who are clever at change will inevitably stir up conflict; those who delight in reform easily bring about disorder. Words are like wind and waves—they readily stir the heart; when action is carried through to the end, it is hard to close the matter. Drive a beast to desperation and it will snarl; reprove someone too harshly and harmony dissolves. These shifts arise of themselves, yet people do not grasp why.

Those who follow the established order do not lightly alter fixed rules; those who know their inner cultivation is complete need no further urging. Fine achievement lies in accord with nature and lasting endurance. The saying “the great vessel is completed late” also shows that success cannot be rushed. If one never meant to bring something to completion yet is forced to finish it, it cannot endure. To take something, one often must first give.

Let the mind follow outer things so the spirit stays at ease; lodge yourself in what cannot be avoided, and the heart can be stilled. To act on purpose hoping for reward is affectation. Forget the self and you more easily follow things as they are. To fulfill the charge entrusted by the ruler—why call it hard? The task is neither simply hard nor simply easy; only one who has the Dao can do it.

Zhao’s commentary: Things begin with yang and end with yin; from start to finish, order and disorder turn into each other—this is necessary principle. Water meets wind and waves rise; a beast at death roars—both are what the situation demands. Once a word is spoken, if it provokes another, it is like raising wind and waves; when anger is already aroused and action follows to vent it, real harm is done.

Casually changing laws or forcing others to finish tasks is going too far; push further on that basis and the matter turns dangerous. Beautiful outcomes that arise from joy naturally are precious when they can last; those who never wanted success but are compelled to achieve it cannot sustain it. Letting the heart rest on outer things yet settling only in what cannot be avoided, so the heart is not moved by externals—this is the best way to cultivate the inner self. Why calculate in advance whether things will succeed and then act deliberately for return? Better to accept the entrusted charge and do your utmost—that is precisely where the difficulty lies.

Discourse of Yuzhai (Yuzhai Shuo)

Joy belongs to yang; aversion belongs to yin. Once emotion flares too far, mistakes come easily. Using ingenious, showy ways to receive others is still inviting them with ritual. When the feast is set out and guests are seated, the mood stays orderly; after wine has gone too far, people shout and quarrel. Drink past measure, and pleasure readily turns into dispute.

In human dealings, words back and forth often start the trouble; if one always chases reputation and outward show, the real thing is lost. Anger often rises from clever or one-sided speech—as when a beast at the point of death cries out, with no leisure to pick its words. Fury and harshness grow together and harden into meanness. So even when the unworthy are carried away by such feelings, they do not know why they are that way.

When you are sent on a mission and must deliver orders, do not change them on your own. Report the situation as it ordinarily is; do not press to make the outcome certain—let it follow its natural course. If thoughts step beyond what is proper and you scheme for extra gain, your plans become dangerous.

What is fine in a relationship must be tended over time. People cannot treat one another well in a single day. When something goes slightly wrong, if you yield in time, it need not turn to ill will; if feeling is left to run on, there is no catching it. Settle the mind according to what you meet, let affairs unfold as they will, and take what cannot be avoided as a chance to nourish inner balance—that is the fitting way. Why must you “have done something” before the charge is fulfilled and you return with your report? Simply convey the ruler’s command in good faith; do not brood excessively over whether the affair will succeed.

The way to transcend the secular world is actually embodied in secular life itself. To dwell in the world without being dragged down by it is what is meant by “transcending the world while still in it.”

The passage first speaks of how hard it is to go on a mission by royal command and deliver the ruler’s message, then turns to affairs in general: people are often moved by circumstances, events seem bound to happen, yet they do not understand why, and can only seek the principle behind them. The line that the winds and waves truly bring ruin hits the mark.

In “ke he tai zhi” (the kernel pushed to an extreme), some commentators do not explain “he” (kernel) in detail; others split “wei yi du” (only doubt, alone) and gloss each word separately. Here we follow the basic sense of “he”: the kernel of a fruit holds the life that will grow; ancients used it as an image of humaneness (ren). If the kernel is cut and damaged, that inner life is cut off; if one deliberately pares away a person’s conduct, one injures his sense of right and duty and severs human ties. Thus, once a thought that should not arise takes shape, it often draws a matching response. “Xiao” means likeness, the same kind. A humane heart lets one treat one’s kind with kindness; when humaneness is gone, people no longer treat one another warmly, and every sort of wrong becomes possible. This shows that disaster is often invited by oneself; one must be careful at the moment a thought first stirs.

The “Duke of Zhou” chapter of the Wenzhongzi says: “To chase the odd and prize the bizarre, to indulge without stopping, is sure to summon unworthy responses of the same kind.” That is exactly the point.

“Mei cheng e cheng” (good is slow to form, evil is quick to form) sets good and evil against each other. Some glosses read “e” (evil) with a falling tone; here we keep the plain sense of the word: good conduct must be piled up over a long time before it is formed; wrong is easy to take shape, and when one wishes to change, it is often too late. The first line warns against casually changing the state’s orders; the second warns against feeding the pride of the ruler of Qi.

Adapt to things and settle the spirit; act according to reason without clinging in advance to success or failure; when there is no choice, nurture the inner self, and when the matter is exhausted, stop—then one will not miss the middle way. That is enough. Why force some display to repay the ruler? Better to fulfill the mission and leave life and death to fate. To handle affairs this way, what is so hard?

Confucius first warned the envoy with “ming” (command) and “yi” (duty), and in the end returns to that same point. This section treats human feeling and worldly affairs with great completeness. How can one say the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Authentic Scripture of Southern Florescence, the Daoist title for the Zhuangzi) only looks down on the world and neglects its affairs?

Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei. He went to ask Qu Boyu: “There is a man whose inborn character is unlike that of ordinary people. If I indulge him and impose no restraint, the state may be in danger; if I set rules for him and try to keep him in line, I myself may come to harm. His intelligence is just enough to see others’ faults, yet not enough to see why he himself goes wrong. Faced with someone like this, what should I do?”

Qu Boyu said: “Well asked! Be alert and careful, and first straighten yourself. In dealing with him, it is best outwardly to go along with him, and inwardly to keep your mind even. Even so, both approaches have their risks: in going along outwardly, do not follow him so far that you sink in too deep; in keeping your mind even, do not let your own views show. If you go along outwardly yet sink in too deep, you will overturn, ruin, collapse, and fall; if you keep your mind even yet let your views show, you will draw reputation to yourself and may also bring trouble upon yourself.

If he acts like an infant, you act like an infant with him; if he pays no heed to rules, you go along without clinging to fixed forms; if he has no boundaries, you go along without showing boundaries of your own. Only then can you move freely and leave no fault behind.

Have you never seen the mantis? It raises its forelegs to block a cart wheel, not knowing it cannot possibly withstand it. It only shows off its ability. Be alert and careful: if you rely on accumulated merit and on talent you take to be your own and provoke him, you are in danger.

Have you never seen those who keep tigers? They dare not feed them live prey, because live prey makes the tiger pounce and kill; they dare not give a whole carcass either, because tearing the prey stirs its ferocity. They learn when it is hungry or full and calm its temper accordingly. The tiger is not of the same kind as humans, yet it is close to those who feed it because they go along with it; it hurts people when they go against it.

Those who love horses use baskets for dung and shell vessels for urine. When gnats or mosquitoes land on the horse, if the keeper swats without watching the moment, the horse may bite through the bit, smash its head, or kick its chest. The one who swats acts from affection, yet may for that reason lose the horse’s trust. How can one not be careful?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary states: In petty persons, if you deliberately restrict and forcibly control them, they resent it; if you indulge them without limit, they bring disorder and harm. When you do not grasp why people err yet only blame them without correcting yourself, how can the problem be settled?

In dealing with others, you must both adapt to them and guard against excess—only then can you straighten yourself without going against the constant order of things. To draw near is to follow their disposition and let them act at ease; to harmonize with them is to help them along the Way and also to let your own clarity show. If you merely agree and do not know how to support the other, you both sink together; if you only display yourself, you invite dislike and even needless disaster. Therefore one should “mysteriously unite and blend light with dust”—not letting others easily judge one by nearness or distance, gain or loss. In human relations, be like an infant: show no sharp edge and do not touch what the other forbids.

Today, when one knows something cannot be helped yet still takes the burden on by force, it is like a mantis raising its arms against a wheel; to rely on talent and a fine name and thereby draw danger is to bring ruin on oneself. Follow the pattern of things, and even unlike kinds may grow fond of one another; go against principle, and even the closest kin may turn and fight. Whether to follow or to oppose in how one meets the world must be weighed with care.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary states: When the other’s character is like a nature born to kill, you cannot make it flourish; if you follow him without principle, the state is endangered; if you constrain him by your own principle, you are endangered—so neither course seems safe. To know that others err but not why they err is especially hard to handle.

The fault in drawing close is total compliance, until you share the same drift; the fault in harmonizing is insisting on your own clarity, until you stand apart. Overthrow, collapse, or harm to one’s reputation arise because, when together with others, one does not know how to support them, and when apart, one does not know how to follow them.

From “be with him as an infant” through “be with him as without a shore” the meaning is to follow tendencies already in the other’s nature and lead them through to the right Way. Then, even in following the other without fixing on one method, one need not endanger the state; even in acting by principle, one need not endanger oneself. King Xuan of Qi loved valor and prized goods; Mencius followed those inclinations and guided him toward the kingly Way. The later images—the mantis and the wheel, the horses, and the rest—are already plain and are not spelled out line by line here.

“Heaven-born violence” refers to a fierce, destructive character that seems innate and hard to change. If one indulges such a person’s desires and lets him step outside all bounds, he will act recklessly and ruin the law—then the state is in danger. If one instead locks him tightly within rules, suppresses his desires, and strips away his will, the one who does the restraining also falls into danger. People see only what he does wrong, not why he is that way—what can be done in such a situation?

The answer is: first set yourself straight. Outwardly, adapt to the other person and prefer a yielding approach; inwardly, keep your own standard and prefer calmness without drifting with every wind. When you yield, do not let him treat you lightly and grow unrestrained; when you are gentle, do not parade your own views too loudly. Yielding that invites contempt and license leads to overturn and ruin; showing yourself too much invites reputation and disaster. Therefore be like an infant—no sharp edge on display, no hard line drawn, no lofty posture assumed. Go along with his actions without clashing head-on, then guide him so he gradually reaches a state without fault.

The mantis raises its forelegs to block the wheel—this warns Yan He not to meet the other’s edge head-on. Raising tigers and horses means guiding each according to its nature and its proper principle—this shows Yan He should lead with methods that fit the case.

Xiang Dao’s note: Serving as a minister is easy; teaching someone is hard; teaching an ordinary person is easy, teaching the crown prince is harder still. The heir’s rank is high and his power heavy—he is hard to educate to begin with, and all the more when his character seems violently heaven-given, so people are afraid. “Outward compliance” (xing jiu) means drawing near outwardly without merging into him—outward gentleness. “Heart at peace” (xin he) means holding to your own view inwardly without fighting him—inner uprightness. Outward gentleness keeps harmony with others; inner uprightness keeps you from losing yourself.

If you only follow him, you blur boundaries and blend into him—the state is then in danger. If you only insist on principle and show your edge, you yourself are in danger. So one should be like an infant—no boundary set, no edge shown—and step by step guide the other toward being without fault. In antiquity some rulers were dissolute and ministers followed their dissoluteness; rulers were extravagant and ministers followed their extravagance—this is the kind of response meant.

According to Bixu’s commentary: In dealing with people, if you go along with them in doing wrong, you invite disorder; if you constantly impose principles on them, you may harm yourself. Only someone who knows how to gauge when to advance or retreat and what to take or leave can handle such relationships well. If you examine your own faults, you need not be on guard against others in a forced way. Setting your own conduct straight is better than lecturing others with empty words.

Toward others, you may outwardly follow their ways without clinging to fixed forms; inwardly keep a gentle attitude, yet let your choices accord with reason. If you go with the flow and join in their wrongdoing, you will collapse together and bring the state to ruin; if you seem compliant on the surface but in fact rely on your own cleverness and show it everywhere, you may draw disaster and hurt yourself. Therefore, from the softness of an infant to the boundless beyond measure, all can illustrate the principles of holding back or letting go, giving and taking.

When a mantis raises its forelegs to block a cart wheel, it pits feeble strength against great force—how could it not fail? The images of raising a tiger and training a horse mean that mastering external things requires method, and directing others requires flexible skill; lose that flexibility and method while trying to control what is outside you, and you only bring trouble on yourself.

Zhao’s commentary says: Outwardly following others keeps them from turning away; inwardly remaining gentle is meant to make up for what they lack. Here “harmony” is like seasoning a stew—it does not mean making everything identical. Even so, one must be careful: going along and being drawn in means colluding in their wrong; being gentle yet showing oneself off may expose their faults. The former ties both parties to ruin; the latter may bring disaster through seeking reputation. Therefore one should hide one’s edge and live among the world so that others cannot easily find fault—that is what is fitting. The mantis, the tiger, and the horse are three different situations, but the point they express is the same.

Yizhai said: "'His virtue is diminished by Heaven' means his character has been worn down and harmed by Heaven—he acts without principle or law. If you let him ruin the norms, the state will surely be endangered; if you step in to correct him, disaster will surely fall on you. What can I do? 'Teach by first setting your own body right' means first taking yourself as the standard, then using that standard to require it of others. 'Join' (jiu) means to follow and draw near; 'harmonize' (he) means to blend. Outwardly you follow him, inwardly you try to harmonize—perhaps you can still escape harm. Following until you merge with him is 'joining and entering in'; harmonizing while slightly showing your own edge is 'harmonizing and coming out.' Even so, you may still invite ruin and disaster.

"Likening a person to an infant and saying he has no 'boundaries and rules' (dingqi), no limits, describes someone ignorant and acting at will. Since he is in that state, I first follow him; when he shows a little awakening, I seize the chance to guard and guide him from a gentler angle so he suddenly sees—perhaps he can be brought to a place without fault.

"'The mantis raises its arms in anger' compares someone whose talent is small yet who takes himself for capable, who hard-headedly takes on great matters—such people rarely avoid failure. The parables of 'raising tigers' and 'loving horses' are equally clear.

"Consider how Wei minister Qu Boyu instructed Yan He (the man appointed to assist the crown prince of Wei, son of Kuaikui), going a step beyond how Confucius instructed Zigao (sent on a mission to Chu). Zigao still knew to respect the ruler of Chu and inwardly feared the mission he had accepted, so Confucius warned him to understand mandate and righteousness, strictly keep the great precepts, and finally guided him with 'ride things and let the heart roam, entrust yourself to what cannot be avoided': follow outer things and keep the heart free, lodging yourself in what must be done. Though Zigao had accepted a mission, he still knew how to preserve himself; he did not simply flatter others and forget himself.

"Yan He had already seen that Kuaikui could not be assisted, yet still went to assist him; he had doubts in his heart yet also hoped the other would trust him—in principle he was already off course. Therefore Qu Boyu warned him to first set his own body right: first establish the root, then you can handle the branches. 'Form joined, heart harmonized' means seeing that the situation could not be corrected by force and temporarily adopting a way to preserve oneself; this is not the proper path of assisting another, still less constantly following and only harmonizing on the surface.

"As for following like an infant, with no boundaries and no limits—that is following pushed to the extreme. One may still watch for chances to guard and guide, but as a teacher, is there not a more fitting way to lead step by step without having to go this far? Even if this keeps the other temporarily without fault, how can it truly transform another? 'The mantis raises its arms' is precisely to warn Yan He: he may end up overestimating himself and inviting failure. The parables of 'raising tigers' and 'loving horses' further spell out what came before and urge him to be extremely careful."

Craftsman Shi, a carpenter, went to the state of Qi. When he reached Quyuan, he saw an altar tree—a oak tree. It was so large that an ox standing in its shade would be hidden from view; its trunk was a hundred arm-spans around. The tree rose almost to the mountaintop, and only after some thirty feet did it put out branches. More than a dozen of its limbs were thick enough to serve as timbers for boats. The crowd staring at it was as dense as at a market, yet Craftsman Shi did not so much as glance at it. He walked straight on without stopping.

His apprentice watched for a long time, then hurried after him and said, “Ever since I have followed you with axe and saw, I have never seen timber this fine. You would not look at it and kept walking—why?”

Craftsman Shi said, “Enough—say no more. This is a useless tree. Make a boat from it and it sinks; make a coffin and it rots quickly; made into tools, it breaks easily; as a door, it oozes sap; as a pillar, worms eat it. It is not good material and has no practical use. That is why it has lived so long.”

After Craftsman Shi returned home, the oak altar tree appeared to him in a dream and said, “What do you want to compare me with? Do you mean to liken me to useful timber—the kind used for making things? Trees like catalpa, pear, orange, and pomelo, and all the other fruit trees, are picked when their fruit ripens, and so they are harmed. Large limbs are broken off, small ones stripped away. Because they are useful, they make their own lives miserable; they never finish their natural span and often die halfway. They bring upon themselves the cutting and grabbing of the world. Most things are like this.

“I have sought to be a useless tree for a long time—nearly died doing so—and only now have I finally attained this. For me, this is the greatest use. If I were useful, could I have grown this huge? Besides, you and I are both things among things—why must we judge and rank each other? You are a man near death—how could you understand a useless tree?”

When Craftsman Shi woke, he told his apprentice about the dream. The apprentice said, “If it seeks to be useless, why does it serve as an altar tree?”

Craftsman Shi said, “Hush—do not say that. It merely lodges here, borrowing the name of an altar tree. If it were not an altar tree, people who did not understand would curse it and cut it down. The reason it is not felled is largely this identity. The way it preserves itself is unlike the usual. To praise it with ordinary standards of right and wrong would miss the mark by a vast distance.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “It does not belong among what can be used.” Timber that can be worked into objects is called “patterned wood”; all things are often harmed precisely because they are taken for use. Only Carpenter Shi saw that this oak was useless, and understood that it was precisely by virtue of that uselessness that it preserved its life.

The disciple still resented its role as a shrine tree (the tree dedicated to the local earth god), as if the oak were glorifying itself through that fame. They did not grasp that “using uselessness as use” means the shrine tree is merely lodged there by circumstance—the oak did not seek to become a shrine tree. The oak would rather think the shrine tree failed to understand it and treated the role as insult and suffering; how could it take that as honor?

A useless tree, even if it were not a shrine tree, would not be approached for felling. The oak preserved itself by “not being treated as useful timber,” while ordinary people take “being useful” as the way to preserve the body. Useless things rest in Wuwei (non-action), and each kind of material then plays its own part; if you praise it with the fame of a shrine tree, are you not far from its original intent?

Lü’s commentary says: The oak shrine tree is not timber for construction, yet it has something numinous about it. It is thick enough to shade an ox, which shows that trunk and roots are deep and firm. It preserves itself by not being timber; onlookers only see a beautiful tree—this is precisely not understanding it. Because it knows itself to be useless timber, it can live long; this is the logic by which Carpenter Shi inspects every kind of wood and decides what to take or leave. If a tree is made into a boat, it may sink; if made into a pillar, it may be worm-eaten—showing it is unsuited to be material. The oak’s not being timber is its native nature. Hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo bear fruit and for that reason suffer breaking, felling, and injury. Outward ornament and utility can damage a thing’s original life.

First people came with axes to look the oak over; then Carpenter Shi gave it up and turned away, and so it escaped death and was preserved. That is its greatest benefit. If it could serve as boat or coffin, how could it still keep such a massive body? Only by not being bound by outer things can one employ the myriad things; how could the myriad things judge and dominate one another?

The oak never knew itself as “useless,” still less sought anything actively. The shrine tree was not what the oak sought; it was only lodged there by chance. To say it sought the name of uselessness is not to understand its situation. In the past some did not understand it and even took being “timber” as something fine—for the oak that was shame and harm. It merely happened to be used as a shrine tree; how would it know it was called “useless” or go out of its way to seek that? It was not cut down because it was not timber; even without being a shrine tree, why would it be felled? The crowd preserves the self through “usefulness”; the oak’s way of preserving the self is different. These points cannot be explained through worldly praise; the learner should set aside fixed views and enter into the meaning.

The Yidu commentary says: Useless timber is not what compass and square can cut to measure; the “useless person” is not what benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music can constrain—only someone whose De (Virtue/Power) has reached a profound level is fit to discuss such matters. Hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo harm their vitality because they bear fruit; things in the world mostly injure themselves through being useful. I have long pursued not being taken as useful; yet carpenters often look at me sidelong, and almost killed me. Now Carpenter Shi decides I am not timber, and only then am I truly preserved. This use of uselessness is indeed great use. If I were useful, how could I have grown to such a size?

You and I both receive our mandate from the Creator (the power that gives form to the myriad things); we are alike among the myriad things—why should we judge one another?

Carpenter Shi’s disciple asked the oak: “Why do you not deliberately keep yourself useless, yet still serve as a shrine tree?” Carpenter Shi replied: “The oak did not seek to be a shrine tree; the shrine tree is merely lodged on it. Put it that way, and the oak would only feel you do not understand it and are reviling it. It preserves itself through uselessness; even if it were not a shrine tree, would it be cut down? It preserves the body with ‘uselessness,’ while the crowd preserves the body with ‘usefulness’—that is how it differs from the multitude.”

This passage explains the story of craftsman Shi and the great oak at the She shrine in the Zhuangzi, and draws on commentaries to clarify its meaning.

The enormous oak at She looked worthless to ordinary eyes; had craftsman Shi, who could see its real worth, not recognized it, men with axes would have felled it long ago. That it could preserve complete simplicity—its whole, uncarved natural state—was precisely because “uselessness” was its greatest use. Yet people still fault craftsman Shi for retaining discrimination in his mind, for still “knowing good timber.” His disciples, meanwhile, treated the tree as fine material and made it the She tree—the sacred tree at the community shrine. Craftsman Shi said: it was the shrine that attached itself to the tree, not the tree that sought to become the She tree. Crooked trunks and village opinion take serving as She as a disgrace and call it abuse and rejection. The person of utmost attainment preserves life through uselessness; the world casts away what it calls “worthless timber.” The oak at She and ornamental timber suited for carving are not the same thing—only craftsman Shi understood that. If even wood cannot be judged by others’ praise or blame, how much less the Way of the person of utmost attainment?

Zhao’s commentary holds that the chapter on craftsman Shi develops “great usefulness in the uselessness of the great tree,” in the same spirit as carefree wandering. Yanzhai kouyi, Lüshi yidu, and other lines of interpretation differ in detail but mostly take the “uselessness” theme; yet if one clings only to “uselessness,” that seems at odds with the text’s tone and meaning—this tree forgot about chasing “uselessness”; why must it become the She tree at all? The closing line “to seek praise and blame by principle”: using moral principle to pursue reputation and disgrace is far from the Way of the person of utmost attainment.

The previous chapter explained in detail how hard it is for people to find a secure footing in the world and cope with everyday affairs. This chapter returns to the story of the oak at the earth-god shrine—the great tree honored as the sacred tree of the local land shrine—to show how it keeps itself safe by being “unfit for timber,” and thus brings out the idea of the usefulness of uselessness. It also has Craftsman Shi answer his disciple’s questions so that same point becomes clear.

The oak at the shrine seems to say: “You and I alike receive a body and become one thing among the myriad beings—so why would you want to use me for something? People who are pressed into service because they have talent often die because of that talent. I am at ease in my uselessness—how could you understand that?”

The disciple asked again: if the oak already preserves itself through uselessness, why does it still end up as a shrine tree? Craftsman Shi said there was no need to go on. It merely happened to lodge itself at the shrine; it did not set out to become a shrine tree. It treated the shrine as something that did not truly know it, and so let people curse and look down on it; and since it was already content to be useless, even if it were not a shrine tree, how would anyone cut it down?

What the oak relies on is being “unfit for timber,” which is why it is unlike ordinary trees; calling it a shrine tree is a label far from how it actually lives. That image stands for how plain, uncorrupted people keep themselves safe in the world: they do not want others to praise them or put them on a pedestal; if they happen to be spoken well of in the neighborhood, they take it as accident, not as honor. Because they do not let others treat them as a source of gain, they are not easily hurt.

While traveling in Shangqiu, Nanbo Ziqi saw an enormous tree whose shade was broad enough to shelter a thousand chariots. He said, “What kind of tree is this? It must have some extraordinary quality in its wood.”

He looked up at the fine branches—they were twisted and could not serve as beams or rafters. He looked down at the trunk’s great roots—the heartwood was loose and could not be used for coffins. If you licked its leaves, your mouth would ulcerate and hurt; if you smelled it, it would muddle your mind like drunkenness, and you would not come clear for three days.

Ziqi said, “No wonder it is useless timber—only because of that has it been able to grow so huge. Ah, the person of spirit (shenren) also relies on just this kind of ‘uselessness.’”

In a place in Song called the domain of the Jing clan, catalpa, cypress, and mulberry grew well. When a tree reached the thickness of a handspan or two, those who wanted perches for monkeys would cut it down; when it reached three or four arm-spans around, those who wanted tall, splendid buildings would cut it down; when it reached seven or eight arm-spans, nobles and wealthy merchants wanting coffins would cut it down. So these trees never lived out their full years but were killed halfway by the axe—this is the disaster that comes from being useful timber.

At sacrifices, an ox with a white forehead, a pig with an upturned snout, and a person afflicted with hemorrhoids may not be sent down to the river as offerings. Shamans and invokers know these taboos, because such things are considered inauspicious. Yet in the eyes of the person of spirit, this condition—rejected by the world as inauspicious and useless—is precisely the greatest good fortune.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The so-called “Heavenly King” does not personally fill every post among the hundred officials; he lets each official do what belongs to his office: the clear-eyed look, the sharp-eared listen, the wise plan, the brave defend. What does the “Heavenly King” himself do? Only remain silent and still. Once every kind of talent is in its place and doing its work, those who seem “unfit for use” become indispensable conditions for everyone else’s fulfillment as “fit timber.”

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Earlier the text told how a great tree enjoyed its full span of years because it was “unfit for timber”; next it tells how catalpa and cypress in the Jing region were felled by axe and adze because being “fit for timber” became a disaster. Therefore sages and divine persons (shenren), where usefulness is concerned—the more likely they are to be used by others, the more deeply they hide and do not show it. Thus outward uselessness can open onto great use; seeming unfit for timber can make “timber-worthiness” serve them. Those who move among people seeking fortune and avoiding harm, sharing the people’s worries, above all must not fail to understand this point. (This passage is suspected to be an independent gloss.) “The beauty of a lofty name” and “a house of high display” mean a name adorned with glory and a dwelling that stands out; shan refers to a side coffin—here, the cultured tree dies young because it has “timber”; jie denotes the jiesai rites of release at sacrifice.

White forehead, upturned nose, and hemorrhoids: These three types (the white-browed ox, the pig with a turned-up snout, and people afflicted with piles) are all deemed inauspicious and unfit for jiesai sacrifice; what the invoker-priests (zhushu) treat as “inauspicious,” the divine person reads from the angle of “usefulness of the useless” as “great auspiciousness.”

Xiangdao’s commentary: Laozi says, “Bent, then whole; crooked, then straight.” The divine turtle, because it showed its numinosity in a dream, fared worse than dragging its tail alive in the mud; the macaque, because it was clever, was caught to perform tricks—worse than keeping its life in deep woods. Clearly “unfit for timber” is how the divine person becomes great timber; “inauspicious” is how the divine person takes it as supreme good fortune.

Bixu’s commentary: When the seven apertures busily seek outward, they clog and fail to connect; when the hundred limbs are overworked, weariness and illness undermine the body. Only the nameless, numinous Dao holds the whole person together—light unspent, filling the great void—so the myriad spirits can find shelter in it. The wu and xi reject certain offerings as “not for slaughter” (unfit as sacrificial victims); the divine person honors yueji (boiled offerings—simpler rites that do not kill victims).

Zhao’s commentary: The great tree at Shangqiu carries the same moral as the “oak of the community altar.” Catalpa and cypress in Jing, because they were useful, could not finish their natural years; better to be like the white-browed ox, the upturned-nosed pig, or the person with hemorrhoids—unfit for use and thus self-preserving.

Yizhai holds that the passage on “the tree from Shangqiu” matches the previous chapter’s theme: a shenren (divine person) can preserve life and nature largely because of bucai—being “useless” timber, seemingly unfit for ordinary use.

In Jing country, the land suits catalpa, cypress, and mulberry; those trees are often cut for zhuang (wooden stakes and similar uses). “Liwu dong” means tall, splendid roof beams, and also gaomen dahu—great gates and wealthy, high-standing households. “Gaoming” (eminent position) sounds like “gaoming” in a different written form; the text is pointing at that kind of visible rank and success.

In older texts, wu and zhu (shamans and prayer-officers) held that an ox with a white forehead or a pig with an upturned snout was unsuitable for river sacrifice. There was also the custom of human sacrifice to the river (as in Ximen Bao’s breaking of the “Hebo takes a wife” rite), so the scripture adds “one afflicted with zhi (hemorrhoids)”—such a person was also treated as buxiang (inauspicious). All three—the white-browed ox, the high-snouted pig, the person with hemorrhoids—were buxiang to wu and zhu; precisely because they were “unlucky,” they were not chosen as victims and so escaped death. From the shenren’s view, that is daxiang (great auspiciousness): life is preserved.

Commentaries already explain the main idea clearly; what follows fills in word meanings still worth spelling out.

“Yong jiang bi qi suo yi”—as if shade suddenly spreads and covers and shelters a stretch of ground. Some link a variant character (readings like “guo”) to the prior line and break the sense; by the flow of the passage, the stress remains on yicai and bucai—odd or “useless” wood.

“Fu” opens the next thought; it should be read apart from “zhou” and what follows, not forced into one sentence.

“Zhou”: some gloss it as grain that curls or fans out in the wood.

“Yi”: small stakes used to tie or perch xianhou (macaques).

“Chan” here means the intact side panel beside the coffin (a term in burial gear, contrasted with “whole” vs. partial pieces).

For “gaoming” and “li”: some take “li” as “wu” (house); it is better to follow li in the sense of Liezi’s “the lingering tone circles the beam li.” Gaoming then means gaoming in the sense of eminent, noble households—that reading runs smoothly.

Yizhai’s reading is sound. This chapter aligns in doctrine with the one before; it then adds that people deemed inauspicious because of hemorrhoids and the like avoid the river-sacrifice ordeal, and closes on why the shenren counts that as daxiang. The scripture’s point is already clear; there is no need to repeat it here.

Meaning of the Passage

In the state of Lu there lived a man named Zhili Shou whose body was extraordinary: his chin tucked into his navel, his shoulders rose above his head, his topknot pointed skyward, his internal organs showed on his upper body, and his two thighs were like ribs. He made a living mending clothes and winnowing grain, enough to support ten people. When the state conscripted warriors, he waved his arms and walked among the crowd; because he had a chronic illness he was not drafted. When the authorities issued grain to the sick, he could receive three zhong of rice and ten bundles of firewood.

Zhuangzi says: A man whose physical form is so “scattered and broken” (zhili) can still support himself and live out his full years—how much more so one who is “scattered and broken” in De: who does not cling to conventional virtue and does not compete with things for merit.

Main Points from Commentarial Traditions (as gathered in Yihai Cuanwei)

• Guo Xiang: The spirit-man (shenren) does not exert force on outer things, but lets the ten thousand things each fulfill their use; fame and achievement belong to the multitude. In dealing with things he leaves no trace, and so escapes the calamities of the human world. One who constantly dwells in solid De and lets a fine reputation hide itself—this is “scattering and breaking one’s De.”

• Lü Huiqing: “Scattered and broken” is not bodily wholeness; “analysis and separation” is not merging with things. In dividing, one connects and becomes clear; in separating, one connects without the body’s afflictions. When the form is scattered and broken, conscription cannot be imposed; when De is scattered and broken, affairs and actions cannot cling as burdens.

• Yidu: A scattered and broken form means forgetting the body and overcoming oneself through principle; scattered and broken De means forgetting De and abiding in fate (ming). “Shedding the body and dulling the senses” is forgetting form; “supreme De that does not De” is forgetting De. One who forgets form can preserve the body, complete the years, and keep distant from disaster; one who forgets De knows all things yet returns to simplicity, is bright as sun and moon yet returns to obscurity—not something forgetting form alone can match.

• Bixu: Uselessness in how one lives is “scattering and breaking one’s form”; holding the Dao like a fool is “scattering and breaking one’s De.”

• Zhao’s commentary: Ordinary people know the beauty of De but not that De can also become a burden; therefore Zhuangzi uses Zhili Shou as a parable.

When Confucius came to Chu, there was a man known as “Mad Jie Yu” who wandered in front of his gate, singing:

“Phoenix, phoenix—how your virtue has declined!

The age to come you cannot wait for; the age gone by you cannot bring back.

When the world is in order, the sage can accomplish his work;

When the world is without the Way, the sage seeks only to preserve his life.

In times like these, merely escaping punishment is already enough.

Good fortune is light as a feather, yet no one knows how to carry it on the back;

Misfortune is heavy as the great earth, yet no one knows how to step aside.

Enough, enough—using virtue to reform others is perilous, perilous!

Running inside a circle drawn on the ground—the dazzling yang dazzles and you lose the path.

Dazzling yang, dazzling yang—do not obstruct my walking;

I take detours—do not hurt my feet.”

Jie Yu’s meaning was roughly this: Trees in the mountains escape being cut down because they fail to grow into useful timber and thus preserve themselves; oil burns itself up because it can catch fire; the cassia tree is felled because its fruit is edible, the lacquer tree is gashed because its sap is useful. People all know the uses of what is “useful,” but no one understands the use of what is “useless.”

Guo Xiang’s note: Go straight ahead with the momentum of the times, and you can fully grasp the fitness of “total interpenetration” (huitong). The rise and fall of the world may be regarded with indifference—let it be as it is—and the Way will generate itself; it does not change its rhythm because of order or disorder. An age of order completes itself on its own, so letting go of fixation on “completion” means you do not fail; an age of disorder preserves life on its own, so forgetting attachment to “living” means you do not die. It all comes down to seizing the meeting of the present moment: though you guard against things, you still merge with the momentum of the times—only then can the subtle teaching be kept whole and formal names and punishments be avoided. Know where to stop at what cannot be known, and where to stop at what cannot be done; use things as they use themselves, let things do as they do themselves; inwardly follow your nature without adding the slightest outward calculation. This is the utmost ease of Wuwei (non-action): there has never been anyone whose nature and life (xingming) were incomplete through Wuwei; and it makes no sense in principle that nature and life should be complete yet there be no blessing. What we call blessing is what was said above—wholly not borrowing from outer things—so how could one treat a swan’s down as a heavy burden? Acting in accord with one’s nature, action not overstepping one’s portion, is the utmost ease under Heaven; the lifter lifting by itself and the bearer bearing by itself is the utmost lightness under Heaven. To abandon this utmost ease of Wuwei and practice the utmost difficulty of deliberate action; to discard this utmost lightness of self-lifting and take on the utmost heaviness of bearing others—that is what people commonly suffer from. Blessing is within, so at the extreme it is light; calamity is without, so at the extreme it is heavy. Calamity is heavy yet cannot be avoided—that is the great delusion of the world. If you walk in circles drawn on the ground, the traces can never be fully hidden; if you insist on yourself in facing things, you need not guard against things. Do not use your own clarity to shine on others, but let others be clear by themselves; do not use your own De (virtue/power) to oversee others, but leave others to obtain by themselves. Then you merge with all under Heaven as one, inner and outer sharing the same blessing.

Lü’s note: The sage’s “completion” is completing oneself and completing things; the sage’s “living” is fulfilling one’s life and merging with all under Heaven as one, inner and outer sharing the same blessing. Being deluded by yang (yang) is like losing yang; losing yang means relying on isolation, not being swept outward, bending to complete one’s form—each already sufficient in itself.

Lu Commentary

Zhuangzi says the sage “accomplishes” (cheng) by completing both self and things; when he speaks of “living” (sheng), he means only keeping one’s own life intact. The greatest good under heaven is none other than aligning with the Dao (the Way); the greatest blessing is the same. What is accomplished outwardly then lies beyond sight and hearing—light as a swan’s feather—yet no one in the world can truly bear it. The greatest evil under heaven is none other than turning away from the Dao; the greatest misfortune is the same. What is accomplished outwardly then runs from the formless to the formed—heavy as the earth—yet people cannot escape it. To approach others with De (Virtue/Power) is like racing inside lines already drawn on the ground: danger is hard to avoid. Dazzled by outward sharpness, one no longer knows where to go—only “qu” (yielding and following things as they are) is the way to preserve wholeness. Trees in the mountains, cassia, and lacquer trees are felled because their very “usefulness” invites it; people understand only “the use of what is useful,” not “the use of what is useless.” In the world there are times of order and times of chaos; in chaotic ages, one who can still qu (yield) and keep one’s nature whole truly knows how to live in the world.

Yidu Commentary

In an age when the Dao prevails, the sage institutes rites and music and achieves merit in his time; in an age when the Dao is absent, he preserves the whole person, keeps clear of harm, and holds on to life. The sage is not shackled by “staying alive”: if one seeks only bodily survival and to leave norms for later generations, that can be called “accomplishment” (cheng)—the Duke of Zhou toward Zhou is the sage’s “accomplishment”; Confucius toward Lu is the sage’s “living” (sheng). Blessing does not stray outside the bounds of one’s allotted nature; rarely does one chase outward at random. Misfortune mostly arises outside those bounds, while craving never stops. Within one’s allotted nature: what can be lifted or carried—how could it weigh like a swan’s feather? Outside it: everything hangs on the body, heavy as the earth; the deluded drown in it and do not flee, because they have not seen the root of blessing and misfortune. That root is here: precepts, concentration, and wisdom (the Buddhist threefold training—here, keeping precepts, settling the mind, and opening insight) are blessing within nature; greed, hatred, and delusion are misfortune outside nature. One may approach others with De yet still fail to guard against straying from the Dao; one may race on ground one has marked yet still cannot hide one’s tracks; “lost in the sun” (xuanlu—showing off and competing) dims clarity and also injures the way of preserving life. Empty and purify the mind, qu (yield) and follow things, and each person is enough within their allotted nature. Mountain trees, cassia, and lacquer are cited to show: failing to keep harm at a distance and greedily seeking “usefulness” instead harms the person.

Xiangdao’s commentary: The sage’s heart is not bent on plotting every affair or on making “governing the world” a fixed occupation. He simply follows the times and responds when the moment calls. What people take to be Confucius usually stops at “each keeps his place, each rests in his nature.” The passage uses mountain trees, cassia, and lacquer trees that draw disaster as images: unable to escape harm, one still seeks to be “useful”—and so injures oneself.

Xiangdao (continued): Those who “get” Confucius mostly see his traces and utility, not his wuwei (non-action). So the text first sets out his worldly path, then brings in Jie Yu’s song as proof: where outward action ends, the original mind shows. “The sage completes” (shengren cheng yan) means giving the body for the Dao and finishing the work; “the sage is born / preserves life” (shengren sheng yan) means holding the Dao to keep the body and whole life. “Enough, enough”—when it speaks of “racing within lines drawn on the ground,” it is how people in office act today; when it speaks of “sun of confusion, sun of confusion, do not hurt my feet,” it is how people cultivating the Dao act today.

Bixu’s commentary: With the Dao, one gladly completes the work; without the Dao, one preserves life. One who can bear fortune as light as a feather is a person of wuwei; one who will not shun the “heavy ground” of calamity chases profit and momentum. To lord it over others with virtue is already deep self-attachment; to drive people to follow one’s tracks makes the way still more dangerous. “Sun of confusion” (miyang) is dimness and lack of clarity; in dimness one must walk with full care. “Quxqu” (quequ) is stepping back, bending to preserve wholeness, resting in one’s allotted place. The images of mountain trees, cassia, and lacquer all illustrate “fitting others’ fitting,” not “fitting oneself in one’s own way.”

Zhao’s commentary: Jie Yu’s song originally laments that Confucius did not meet the right age—it is not a sneer at Confucius. “When the world is without the Dao, the sage preserves life” means the phoenix does not appear—the time is wrong; in such a world, escaping punishment is already enough. The point about guarding small fortune while failing to ward off great disaster, and not knowing to give way, describes how deluded people are. To meet others with virtue is to invite resentment of one’s excellence; to draw lines on the ground and rush is to make people follow tracks. “Enough, enough” says one must stop; “perilous, perilous” says danger is hard to survive. “Sun of confusion, sun of confusion, do not hurt my feet”—by hiding one’s brightness, the walk can stay intact. From the mountain tree through “the usefulness of being useless” is originally Zhuangzi’s language, used here to gather the thread of the preceding chapters.

Yizhai says: When the Way prevails in the world, sages can accomplish great undertakings; when the Way is absent from the world, sages seek only to preserve their lives. In the present age of disorder, to escape punishment is already good fortune—how could one dare hope for more? In an environment of constant upheaval, to be born and then avoid punishment and keep one’s life is a blessing as slight as a single feather; yet you do not know that in chaotic times great calamities often come and bodies are often destroyed—danger as heavy as being pressed to the ground—and you do not know to keep clear.

Using De to approach and transform the people is instead a path that invites disaster; it is not as good as drawing a circle on the ground for yourself and walking only inside it—meaning to bind yourself tightly and invite suffering on your own, which is equally dangerous.

“Miyang” (lost sunlight) compares a person who has lost their original true nature: when brightness is gone, how can one still walk in the world? “Qūqū” (crooked winding) means twisting and dodging along a bent path; in the end it must injure your foot—such a way of going simply will not work.

(Earlier commentators have already explained this in detail; there is no need to repeat it here.)

According to the Wenzi, “Records of History” chapter: “When the Way prevails in the world, the sage hides; when the Way is absent from the world, the sage makes himself conspicuous.” The phrasing resembles the Nanhua (Zhuangzi), but the meaning is opposite—each passage has its own point. I think that since the Qin and Han, many thinkers writing books have borrowed language from the Nanhua; only in the classics do parables and analogies almost never tread old paths—instead they grow stranger and stranger. That is what makes a marvel of a text, not an ordinary essay.

“My going is qūqū (crooked), without harming my foot”—most editions read thus. “Qie” is usually read like “xi” (gap); only the Bixu edition reads “qie” by the character as written. In the proper text it should be “qūqū”; only “qūqū” connects with what precedes. The Yuan edition may originally have had it so; transmission and copying introduced error, mistakenly duplicating the words “my going.” Those who understand can tell the difference.

Living in the human world, the names of ruler and subject are the weightiest obligations and cannot be left unfulfilled; yet one must also gauge what is possible and appropriate, strictly observe the measure of advance and retreat, and take the ancients as a model. (On “qūqū” across editions and the duplicated “my going,” same as above, omitted for brevity.)

On Being in the Human World

In the human world, the distinction between ruler and minister is paramount and cannot be neglected. Yet one must weigh what is feasible, grasp when to advance and retreat, measure oneself against past and present without shame, and stand alone beyond regret and hesitation—only then is one truly good. Thus when Yanzi was about to go to Wei, the Master explained in detail how serving a lord brings many troubles, how fame and knowledge grind against each other, how before heart and intent have aligned, praise and blame already arrive; how banners of reward and blades of punishment lie ahead, and these things are real. How much more so if a minister who does not overstep and seems dull were to rush off to transform a young ruler who acts alone—who could guarantee no regret? So he strongly dissuaded him, so that the lord of Wei would know that the worthy do not enter office lightly, would strengthen his respect for the Way, and would in time transform himself—why must one go lightly and indulge a proud will or provoke violent conduct? Yanzi then spoke of “making the end empty,” “making the effort one,” “straight within and bent without”—perhaps one could preserve oneself; the Master said that would only avoid harm, how could it reach transformation? To transform is to be trusted without words and to dissolve others’ hostile intent—how could that lie in piling up laws and punishments to stir opposition in things? By then Yanzi had nothing more to advance, and asked for the method—precisely when human desire empties and the principle of Heaven is about to appear. The Master seized the moment of his awakening and told him of fasting, so he would receive teaching with an empty heart: do not listen with the ear but listen with the heart; do not listen with the heart but listen with Qi. Then at those words he understood that there had never been a “Hui”; heart empty and form forgotten, then transforming things is not hard.

When Zigao was to be envoy to Qi, he was taught to forget the self in carrying out affairs and to watch the waves and guard against losing what is real. When Yan He was to tutor in Wei, he was taught to go in without forcing entry and to harmonize without forcing exit, to grasp the tiger’s anger and the horse’s nature. All of this shows that worldly troubles are many and outer things cannot be relied on—that those of high insight see through and guard against the subtle, advancing and retreating according to rightness.

As for the chestnut tree at Crooked Shore worshipped as a spirit, it is preserved by not preserving; Qiu of Shang’s strange timber—see the spirit in what seems not spirit. The text again explains how talent becomes a burden yet people do not see it: they often rely on talent to seek employment without gauging whether rank and role fit; fame appears and jealousy follows, profit gathers and disaster arrives—even wishing to bloat oneself to stay whole becomes impossible. So the main thrust of this chapter is to respond outwardly to the world while inwardly preserving complete truth: the Dao never leaves, and things transform themselves. Ancient sages and worthies, when they had no choice but to accept worldly roles, all secretly followed this Dao; hence the dialogue between Kongzi and Yanzi is placed here to expound it. At the end the song of Jie Yu is cited to dispel the trace of sage-kings engaging the world through deliberate action, and to block the crowd’s heart that never tires of chasing things; it closes with the metaphor of tallow fire and cassia lacquer—a warning to the age especially sharp. Only by knowing how hard it is to enter the world can one live in the world without difficulty. The Supreme One says: the sage still treats it as difficult, and so in the end there is no difficulty.

Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean of the Nanhua True Classic, Scrolls 10 and 11

“De Chong Fu” (Signs of Full Virtue) — Excerpt

On the title of the passage

Scrolls 10 and 11 of Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean of the Nanhua True Classic (as preserved in the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries).

In the state of Lu there was a man named Wang Tai, who had only one foot (wuzhe: someone with a severed foot or born without a full foot). Those who studied with him were about as numerous as those who studied with Confucius.

Chang Ji asked Confucius: “Wang Tai is a man with a maimed foot, yet those who follow him to learn rival in Lu those who follow you. He stands without opening his mouth to teach, sits without debating with others, yet students leave empty and return full. Could there really be wordless teaching and inner completion without visible traces? What sort of person is he?”

Confucius said: “This master is a sage. I, Kong Qiu, have merely fallen behind and have not yet caught up with him. I intend to take him as my teacher—how much more so for those inferior to me! Why limit this to Lu alone? I, Kong Qiu, would lead everyone under Heaven to go and learn from him.”

Chang Ji said: “He is a man with a maimed foot, and Mr. Wang (Wang Tai) differs vastly from ordinary people. If it is really so, his mind must be singular—what is going on?”

Confucius said: “Life and death are also great matters, yet he can change with them without being dragged along; even if heaven and earth were to topple and fall, he would not lose himself along with them. He sees clearly into wujia (not relying on externals or borrowing from names and forms), and therefore does not shift with outer things; he follows the transformations of the ten thousand things yet holds fast to his zong (root, true nature).”

Chang Ji asked: “What does it mean to hold fast to the zong?”

Confucius said: “From the side of difference, liver and gall are as far apart as Chu and Yue; from the side of sameness, the ten thousand things are originally one body. A person like Wang Tai does not fix on what the ears and eyes ought to hear and see, but lets the mind roam in the harmony of De (the realm where virtuous nature merges naturally). In viewing things he sees only what they share in common, not what is lost; he treats losing one foot as like dropping a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji said: “He cultivates himself, uses his intelligence to know the ten thousand things as one, and with the mind thus attained holds to changxin (the constant, unchanging true nature). How could outer things overpower (dominate) him?”

Confucius said: “When a person looks at his reflection, it is unclear in flowing water but clear in still water; only stillness can make all restless thoughts cease. Grasses that receive their mandate from earth mostly wither and flourish with the seasons; only pine and cypress stay green in winter and summer. People who receive their mandate from Heaven mostly cannot keep themselves upright; only Shun could rectify himself and transform the multitude with upright De. This is the proof of baoshi (guarding the beginning) and the reality of fearlessness. A brave man who charges alone into the ranks of nine armies—for the sake of fame yet still holds to his purpose—is already like this; how much more one who takes heaven and earth as his office and the ten thousand things as his treasury (sharing the vastness of the Great Dao), treats the six bodily parts as lodging for a guest, ears and eyes as mere symbols, and relies only on what the one knowing knows, while the mind never dies with things? He will choose a day to dengjia (ascend and borrow: rise and pass through a higher realm; some read this as attaining immortality), and the multitude will follow him—how could he treat governing things as what matters?”

Brief glosses (for reading alongside the text)

• De Chong Fu: Virtuous nature is full; outer appearance (such as a maimed body) cannot diminish its “sign and verification” (authentic De).
• Zhongfen Lu: Within Lu, those studying with Wang Tai matched those studying with Confucius.
• Buyan zhi jiao, xin cheng: Teaching without relying on words or visible traces, so that students’ minds naturally come to completion.
• Wujia / shou qi zong: Not leaning on externals and empty reputation; guarding one’s inherent nature.
• Jian liushui / jian zhishui: A metaphor—when the mind follows circumstances it is confused; when the mind is still it is clear.
• Baoshi, bu ju: Guarding the beginning yields fearlessness; paired with the “brave man” later, showing courage in De rather than in bodily form.

First Section

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Emptiness and fullness, going and returning—each resting in its own place is already enough in itself. Wang Ni’s body was maimed, yet his spirit-mind was whole. If he suddenly went off alone, no one under heaven could leave him behind—how much less could a single state? Birth and death are the greatest change for a human being; he was one with change, so birth and death could not touch him.

Second Section

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Ease and bitterness differ in nature; beauty and ugliness differ in feeling—each treats what it finds beautiful as beauty, and the beauty of the myriad things is originally one body. Each treats what it finds right as right, and the rightness of all under heaven is one body. To force a split between this and that because of difference is to miss the point. One with the greater view knows that “difference” is not enough to make things truly different, so he joins through what is the same; and knows that “sameness” is not enough to make things truly the same, so he joins through what is not there. Without beauty and ugliness, eyes and ears find nothing out of place; when nothing is out of place, nothing is out of harmony. To see birth and death as one is to treat losing a foot like losing an ear. Chang Ji still thought Wang Ni had not yet forgotten knowledge so as to subsist on his own, nor abandoned mind to find contentment in himself—those who get the constant mind and go evenly cannot go evenly and meet things in constancy, so they make things come to them. Confucius used still water as a simile and a mirror as a model; that does not mean Wang Ni drew things to follow himself.

Third Section

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Among those of lower rank, only pine and cypress can be made straight; among those of higher rank, only the sage can be made straight—those who are not straight all come seeking straightness. If every plant were green, pine and cypress would have no special worth; if every person were upright on their own, there would be no need to admire the great sage and hurry after him. It is fortunate that each can be upright by itself—it is not that one uses “straightness” to straighten others. To live together with change is to be prepared wherever one goes; when mind accords with birth and death, there is no moment that is not life. “Choosing a day to ascend by borrowing” originally meant not missing the right encounter and picking the time; this person does not choose—he follows heaven and moves with the season. So one who borrows (who relies on the Way of heaven) goes from here to that state—how could he still treat outer things as business that must be done?

Lu’s commentary says: Those who study the Way must learn what they do not yet know how to do and practice what they cannot yet accomplish. Zhuangzi therefore uses the parable of Wang Tai. Followers who travel with Confucius, if they only imitate what he can do and ignore what he cannot do yet surpasses him in, could not match Wang Tai even if all of Lu were lined up against him—each side would at best get half. If one only follows the path of “knowing and doing,” one ends up teaching when standing and debating when sitting: teaching never leaves words, and accomplishment never leaves visible traces. If one only follows the surface of “knowing and then doing,” it is still “teach when standing, discuss when sitting”—not truly going empty and returning full. Confucius and Wang Tai are inner and outer to each other, mutually illuminating. Only when one does not take what one already knows as the basis for being master and teacher does the “use of the useless” stand far from ordinary ways.

Who else can change with him in life and death? Who else can forget together with him in covering heaven and earth and holding all things? Ponder “without borrowing” (wujia—not relying on externals): then one sees that what he attained is real and does not shift with things. Life and death overturning upon him does not change him—that is fate transforming with things while he himself does not transform, guarding the root and never leaving the foundation.

If people cannot view things from sameness, ears and eyes cannot turn inward; if one views from sameness, ears and eyes no longer know which end to hold, so when all things are seen from sameness, one does not see what is lost. Chang Ji said Wang Tai inwardly holds the sage’s Way yet seemed to “make it his own”—treating knowing as forgotten mind and heart-attainment as ordinary mind—so how could things exalt him as supreme and honor him as master? Only because “stopping” can stop the stopping of the multitude: where the many stop, he stops first; that is why people follow him for guidance.

No tree escapes receiving its mandate from earth, yet only pine and cypress are fully preserved; no person escapes receiving mandate from Heaven, yet only Shun alone is upright. Did Shun count himself lucky to “rectify his own person” and fail to take “rectifying all living beings” as rectification? Today those who style themselves brave can still charge into nine armies—how much more one who “administers heaven and earth and stores the myriad things,” whom life and death cannot change with—is not comparable to one who seeks fame for himself. He chooses a day to ascend in transformation (dengjia—rising on borrowed form, as if riding cloud-qi and steering change to come and go), coming and going at ease like this—how could people not follow and exalt him as the utmost person?

Yidu’s commentary says: At first the learner has not yet attained, so they go empty; when understanding finally comes, they return full. The teacher instructs in silence, and the learner receives in silence. Liezi said: To use non-speech as speech is still speech; to use non-knowing as knowing is still knowing—that is exactly this meaning.

Only after being shaped by yin and yang do life and death appear; if one rides cloud-qi and steers sun and moon, life and death cannot change with one. Without borrowing (wujia), one can fulfill nature, so one does not shift with things; commanding things reaches the utmost command, so one constantly guards the root. The gallbladder attaches to the liver—they are originally one body; Chu and Yue are thousands of li apart—viewed from difference, even one body is separated by a thousand li; viewed from sameness, one merges with the Dao and all things are one. Wang Tai heard and saw for himself, so he did not know what ears and eyes should hold or what they should lose; his virtue and form not only forgot his own form but made things forget him too.

Chang Ji said Wang Tai had not yet forgotten knowing—taking knowing as self, heart as ordinary heart—so how could things rank him highest? The answer: Wang Tai’s being highest is like still water receiving a mirror; stopping is nature’s inherent state—only one who stops first can stop the stopping of the multitude. All are wood, yet pine and cypress alone stand upright, braving frost and snow to crown the trees; all are human, yet Shun alone is upright, clarifying the myriad things and discerning human relations—fortunate to rectify the living to rectify the multitude, to rectify self and thereby generate things—that is what “upright” means. The brave forget life and boldly enter nine armies; those who seek fame for themselves are still like that—how much more one who embodies the Way? Using the formless to govern the formed is called administering heaven and earth; using the non-thing to store the myriad things is called storing the myriad things. What lodges the six bodily parts is entrusted without hoarding; what images ears and eyes is kept without using; when one knowing knows all it knows, one is one with creation and transformation. His heart never died, so he could choose a day to ascend in transformation and come and go freely.

Plain-Language Commentary

Those whose virtue (de) is full carry inner moral fullness; outwardly they may seem incomplete or odd. Those whose virtue is not full can look whole on the outside while inwardly they are not truly complete. Wang Tuo was like this: de full within, form forgotten without—life and death could not alter his constancy, and even overturn and fall did not make him lose his footing. So petty matters of benefit and harm showed up more clearly on him.

What is meant by scrutiny of “no falseness” (wujia: not leaning on externals, not pretending) is not sacrificing the inner to please outer things, but moving with the changes of the ten thousand things and not letting branch tips harm the root. The ten thousand things differ in kind from me, yet in the whole, I and they are originally one body—so one sees only “the One” and does not fix on what is lost. One whose de is full does not hear and see only through ears and eyes; therefore one does not cling to “what alone suits me.” On my side, one can forget the form’s incompleteness and preserve its de; on the thing’s side, one sees only the continuity of my de and is not bound by my form’s lack of wholeness.

Hearing uses the ear, yet what is truly heard is not only the ear; seeing uses the eye, yet what is truly seen is not only the eye. Hence one can stand without lecturing, teach without speaking; sit without disputing, yet in discussion be trustworthy. The ordinary mind returns to oneness; confusion and awakening distinguish themselves. Water’s nature is the same, yet where it stops and flows differs—water becomes a clear mirror by resting; a person reaches the utmost by rectitude.

Pine and cypress do not change color with cold and heat, so among trees they last longest; Shun did not shift his rectitude with poverty or success, so among people he was most sagely. Wang Tuo and Shun differed in rank and obscurity, yet both received the upright mandate of Heaven and Earth; both could use rectitude to engender rectitude—first rectifying the birth of the self, then rectifying the birth of the multitude. Rectifying one’s own birth is the sage’s root task; rectifying the birth of the multitude is the sage’s surplus work—hence the text says “fortunate indeed.”

A brave warrior, inwardly holding fearlessness and outwardly bearing the name of one who guards the beginning, still does not take life and death to heart and can enter nine armies—this is the fullness of qi. How much more the fullness of the Dao? One whose Dao is complete takes Heaven and Earth as servants, the ten thousand things as storehouse; lodges in the six limbs without clinging to possession, mirrors ears and eyes without using them; unified knowing is not split by things; mind is preserved without going in harness with form; command of fate is kept within, not without—therefore one can choose a day and dengjia (ascend, transcend).

(Bixuzi) Commentary: The sage need not govern the world for the world to stay in order; need not establish a teaching or speak at length, yet people naturally trust him; he can sit in quiet without arguing with anyone. With sincere fasting and purification he seeks the Dao: first emptying and clarifying the heart, then acting in accord with the Way; only after grasping the Dao does he return—then he truly settles and returns to the root. Outwardly he has no fixed form, yet inwardly he is complete; solitary and upright, his De (Virtue/Power) is full.

The so-called Perfect Person: heaven and earth cannot alter his De, birth and death cannot change his nature. In any circumstance he holds himself and does not change; heaven and earth shift invisibly, yet “I” remain as ever. If breath and conduct are not one between action and rest, the same body and mind can split like two lands (Chu and Yue); when movement and stillness return to the Dao together with the ten thousand things, there was never a split between heaven and earth. Chasing sound, form, and desire, the ears and eyes each follow their own cravings; when self and things are blended, there is no longer favor or distance in affairs.

Therefore, with nothing the heart clings to, wherever one goes nothing is blocked; mutual yielding in harmony, gain and loss naturally fade. Nowadays, when students throng the gate, people say the heart is already attained; when someone is plain and self-contained, people say he is “using the mind.” The ordinary heart has no trace to begin with—things should not be tied to it. How can that be called “ultimate”?

To observe the face, one must use still water as a mirror; to seek the Dao, one should visit a clear teacher. Only one who can stop himself can still the myriad hearts.

Plants grow from earth; those that receive the correct earthly qi are pines and cypresses. Animals receive from heaven; those that receive heaven’s correctness are sages. Leading oneself by what is correct, one acts according to the teaching of empty stillness and quiet. Thus the great person takes the Dao as refuge; life, death, fame, and power are not worth boasting of. Heaven and earth cover and support each in its place; moving and rooted beings each have their gathering. The body was never “mine,” so one need not be bound by seeing and hearing; when knowing is not twofold, how can the heart have a date of death? One chooses a day to ascend; coming and going have their time. Ordinary people follow the situation; the True Person rests in himself and is at peace.

(Zhao’s note) Wang Tai’s body was maimed yet he stood alone; everyone looked down on him, but Confucius wanted to lead the whole realm to follow him—the Master’s vision was far from ordinary. The body is not mine, so one need not be bound by seeing and hearing; when knowing is not twofold, how can the heart have a date of death? One chooses a day to ascend; coming and going have their time. Ordinary people follow the situation; the True Person rests in himself and is at peace.

Summary of Zhao’s commentary: Wang Tai was maimed in body and ugly in form; the crowd despised him, yet Conf Kongzi wanted to lead the whole realm to follow him—what the Master saw differed vastly from ordinary people. Chang Ji then asked: what is the working of his heart-mind? Zhongni said: the Dao that Wang Tai embodies—while the myriad things have birth and death, in his heart-mind there is no birth and death; while Heaven and Earth may capsize and collapse, in his heart-mind there is no capsizing and collapse—presumably he can scrutinize “wu jia” (seeing what is real to the full, without clinging to false appearances) and hold fast to that root-origin. Chang Ji still did not understand; Zhongni again used the one body and the myriad things as a parallel: liver and gall, Chu and Yue—sameness within difference; things and self—difference within sameness. Thus one need not rely solely on eye and ear, but accord with nature, blending self and things—why then fuss over whether the “foot” is lost?

Chang Ji suddenly understood and said: that is learning for oneself—using one’s knowing to obtain the heart-mind; it means a person possesses a heart-mind of empty, numinous awareness; through extending knowing one may obtain the heart-mind and grasp the constant heart-mind; it means entering through empty, numinous awareness into what neither dies nor is born. What Wang Tai attained is no more than this—why is the realm most honored by him? Zhongni again cited “only what can stop can stop the stopping of the multitude”—the multitude stop the heart-mind through desire and seek stopping outward; one who can stop the heart-mind is therefore worthier than the crowd. He also spoke of the proof of “bao shi” (preserving the beginning) and the reality of “bu ju” (fearlessness): the beginning exists before Heaven and Earth; if a person can preserve it, when life and death arrive he is not afraid; warriors who die for a name can still be so—how much more one who has never died? This Dao spans Heaven and Earth and completes the myriad things in its curves; it is merely lodged in the six limbs, takes form in eyes and ears, and endures through all ages. “Deng jia” is like ascending to the void; “yu zhai” means formless and nothing seen—the heart sincere, and it transforms; “zhi hou” is still late; “xi jia” means “how merely.” The line “life and death are also great” is where Buddhist discourse often starts; “Heaven and Earth capsize” is like the great kalpa—when the cosmos is destroyed, “yi” also has the sense of falling away. “Shen hu wu jia” means seeing the real completely. “Ming wu zhi hua” says the myriad things receive their mandate from me; “zong” is where things begin. Ordinary people do not know that things share one beginning—even liver and gall are split as Chu and Yue; if one knows this, then the myriad things and I are one, not relying only on ear-hearing and eye-seeing. “Wu shi suo yi bu jian suo sang” means that in viewing the myriad things nothing is lacking—read the chapter “De Chong Fu” and this intent appears; it is cultivation for oneself.

“Yi qi zhi” means a person has this knowing and awareness and can cultivate this body and obtain the heart-mind; “yi qi xin” means having this perceiving heart-mind one can obtain the original heart-mind—original nature and perceiving awareness are not two things; the phrasing is just thus. In sum: everyone has knowing and heart-mind; if one can exhaust them, one can work for oneself and obtain the heart-mind and grasp the constant heart-mind—that is all; why should things most honor someone? Flowing water and still water both metaphorize the heart-mind; one who can stop the heart-mind is worthier than the crowd. The multitude stop the heart-mind through desire and seek stopping outside—hence “only what can stop can stop the stopping of the multitude”—a very striking saying. Pine and cypress, Yao and Shun alone differ in what they receive from Heaven, and so can correct their living to correct the living of the multitude; “sheng” and “xing” share the same meaning. Preserve the beginning origin, and proof must include the reality of fearlessness—meaning men like Jing Ke and Nie Zheng can still be unmoved by life and death; how much more one who has the Dao? “Guan tiandi, fu wanwu” each performs its office and gathers what is gathered; the six limbs are merely what I lodge in; the eye images the eye without stopping at seeing, the ear images the ear without stopping at hearing—thus one can unify what knowing knows and know without limit. “The heart sees nothing, the heart dies there”—how pick a day to ascend to the Dao? It means there is no moment not in the Dao.

Establish the “teaching that does not teach,” and the world transforms of itself; abide in the “discussion that does not discuss,” and the world trusts of itself.

To be able to respond to this, one must have virtue (de) filling the inner self and things matching the outer—without this level, one is not fit to speak of it. This is the Way where Wang Tai halted and which has ever been taken as the mirror for self-examination. The learner washes the heart to seek instruction, hence goes forth empty; in the end genuine insight fills within, hence returns full. Without emptiness one cannot receive teaching; without fullness one cannot awaken to principle. At the extreme of awakening to principle, clarity penetrates everywhere—when things come, they are mirrored forth—and that is nothing but emptiness after all.

Therefore the crux of practicing the Way is nothing else: a skilled teacher assists things in their naturalness; a skilled learner seeks to recover their naturalness; function is not imposed yet the substance manifests of itself—it is not something embellished from outside. The Supreme Sage said: “When I am without doing, the people transform of themselves”—the teaching that does not teach is teaching at its utmost. Confucius said: “What does Heaven say? The four seasons turn”—the discussion that does not discuss is discussion at its utmost. Thus did the ancient sages teach; as for those who receive teaching, how should they respond? And: “He is for himself; with his knowing he obtains his heart-mind, with his heart-mind he obtains the constant heart-mind”—how could outward things be ranked supreme?

(Below: sentence divisions and variant readings recorded in Yihai’s collected glosses—collation notes)

• Guo Xiang punctuates after “with his knowing” and “with his heart-mind,” leaving “obtaining the constant heart-mind” unconnected; Cheng Xuanying, Lin Xiyi, and Wang An agree with Guo. Only Lü Huiqing punctuates “obtain the heart-mind, obtain the constant heart-mind” as one clause, which fits the context; Xuzhai and Wugou both follow Lü; here we follow Lü.
• The main text from “Receiving mandate from earth … only Shun alone” is uneven in line length, as if something is missing. Chen Jingyuan (Bixu) restores from Zhang Junfang’s collated text: “Receiving mandate from earth, only pine and cypress alone—standing green in winter and summer; receiving mandate from Heaven, only Yao and Shun alone—standing at the head of the ten thousand things.” Seven missing characters are supplied and the passage reads smoothly. Checking Guo’s commentary, the lower line has “only pine and cypress” and the upper “only the sage”—so the original scripture likely had “standing at the head of the ten thousand things,” lost in transmission.
• On “He will yet choose a day and ascend jià; people then follow him”—Guo ends the line at “ascend,” with “as” belonging to what follows; Bixu follows this. Lü ends the line at jià, reading the character as xiá (“distant”). Wang An and Xuzhai follow Lü. Yanzhai ends at jià, reading it as gé, drawing on the later chapter’s “ascend jià in the Way.” Here we follow “ascend to the distant (xiá)”—the sense is clear: one who attains this Way comes and goes without obstruction, rising into far-off realms. Further, in Liezi, “Book of King Mu,” the graph jià is also read like xiá, which supports this reading.

Shentu Jia had suffered foot amputation and lost one foot. He studied under Bo Hun Wu Ren together with Zichan of Zheng.

Zichan said to Shentu Jia: “If I go out first, you stay; if you go out first, I stay.”

The next day they again sat in the same hall on the same mat. Zichan said again to Shentu Jia: “If I go out first, you stay; if you go out first, I stay. I am about to go out now—can you make way? Or will you still refuse? You see a chief minister and do not step aside—do you think yourself as honored as Zichan?”

Shentu Jia said: “Under our master’s roof there are already people who serve as ministers—is it really like this? You pride yourself on being a minister and still want to push others behind you?”

(Zichan would not let it go. Shentu Jia continued:)

“I have heard: when a mirror is bright, dust cannot cling; when dust clings, it is no longer a bright mirror. To stay long with the worthy is not to keep making mistakes. Now the great person you respect is the master, yet you speak like this—is that not a fault?”

Zichan said: “You are already in this condition (with a maimed body), and you still compare your virtue with Yao’s? Is your cultivation not enough for you to examine yourself?”

Shentu Jia said: “Many who confess their faults think they ought not to die; few who do not confess their faults think they ought to live. Knowing there is nothing to be done and yet settling into acceptance—this is called fate—and only a person of De can do it. To live in the world is like standing in the range of Hou Yi, the ancient master archer: the bull’s-eye is the center of the earth, and missing the mark is the arrangement of fate. Those with two whole feet laughing at me for lacking a foot are too many. I used to be angry about that—until I came to the master, and that anger dissolved. I do not know whether the master washed my heart with the good Dao. I have kept company with the master for nineteen years, and he has never noticed that I lack a foot. Now you and I wander together at the master’s gate within the realm of the inner self (spirit and virtue), yet you come to pick at me outside the realm of the inner self (appearance and limbs)—is that not going too far?”

Zichan at once changed expression and attitude and said: “You are right.”

(Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary, for reading reference)

When Zichan said “if I go out first, you stay,” he was ashamed to walk shoulder to shoulder with a man who had been punished, and he also acted as chief minister—proud and rude. Shentu Jia pointed out: here we speak of De, not office. Zichan hinted that with a “damaged body” the other did not deserve to stand among the worthy; Shentu Jia replied that in the world profit and harm attack one another, everyone is like a target for Hou Yi’s arrows, and whether one is hit lies in fate; to laugh at the incomplete with one’s whole feet is not to know fate—and that he had been angry without end was also not to know fate. The perfected person knows fate and forgets form, so anger subsides and the mind returns to calm. De is inward, form is outward; to wander together in De yet demand things of physical form—that was Zichan’s fault. When Zichan understood, his “you are right” meant he accepted the words and would not argue further.

Main idea of Lu’s commentary

Shen Tu Jia could set aside bodily form and did not take others’ power and status to heart; once Zi Chan took office he put on airs and could not set aside his own position. Those who cultivate the Way must “wash the heart and remove defilements,” letting the mind be like a clear mirror that reflects things without clinging. Zi Chan was still tallying rank and standing on ceremony as one in office—the heart was not yet clean, and dust still blocked what should be clear.

Shen Tu Jia was not boasting that “my foot ought not to have been cut off.” He accepted what could not be helped and rested at ease with fate. It is like the range of the archer Hou Yi: hitting the mark is hitting the target; walking on the ground one can still reach a place without shame and avoid harm; if the shot misses, that is fate—misfortune then cannot be escaped. If others laugh at his incomplete body and he flares up in anger, he has already lost. In a place where the Way of the ancient kings transforms people, one is transformed by the Way and forgets such distinctions—unsure whether another’s virtue and goodness washed you or you grasped it yourself. Nineteen years is the utmost of yin-yang numbering; he roamed within bodily form and never felt he was a “withered one” (one whose foot was severed by punishment); now you come seeking him outside bodily form and demand things of him—is that not going too far?

Lin’s supplementary notes

“Not going against” can be read as not deliberately avoiding walking shoulder to shoulder with others. Because he held office, Zi Chan took himself seriously; Shen Tu Jia used the metaphor of the mind-mirror to rebuke him: with a body so mutilated, yet still competing with others over “goodness” and “virtue”—as if to vie with Yao over who is more good. Ordinary people often split apart what should be kept and what should be let go; Zi Chan failed to forget outward things and bodily form, valued official rank while slighting the virtue of the “withered one,” and spoke of competing in goodness with Yao—exposing his own flaw, not knowing what “ought to pass away” should be released.

“Knowing what cannot be helped and resting at ease with it” is knowing fate. What the bow’s strength reaches is “within the bow’s range”—a metaphor that one need not further grasp along the path of “withered”; yet “withered” itself is also fate. “Within bodily form” refers to the principles of virtue, nature, and life; “outside bodily form” refers to hands, feet, and appearance. To seek a person on the outside and forget the inside is to go too far.

A person whose De is complete treats wealth and rank as lightly as clouds drifting in the sky, and regards the physical body as no more than a temporary resting place on a journey.

Zichan looked down on those of lower station because of his own high rank, and despised those with physical defects because his own limbs were whole—someone like that cannot yet be said to understand “De,” still less “ming” (fate). An old text says: Within the range of Lord Yi’s target, whoever is not hit—that is ming (not something technique alone can guarantee).

Anger is grime on one’s nature; once one sees through it, the grime falls away and the heart-mirror clears—this is the path of first being lost, then awakening.

Commentary by Bixuzi says: Zichan studied the Dao under Bohun Wuren yet still could not forget the “I”; Shentu Jia left the same gate yet still could not forget De; those worse than they need not be mentioned. Too many people who ought not to stay in the mind do stay there, and too many gloss over their faults; too few hold on to what should be kept, and too few confess wrongdoing. Using “Lord Yi’s target” as a likeness: people wish to preserve themselves yet may not escape calamity—all of this is tianming (Heaven’s decree). When others laugh at my incomplete body, I flare up in rage—that shows wind and fire (resentment) still live in the heart. Only before the Master is it like facing a mirror on still water: suddenly one sees oneself—walking with Bohun Wuren for nineteen years without ever noticing one’s own mutilation; that is forgetting De and forgetting form.

Zhao’s note says: Most people prettify their faults and feel they “should not forget that they still have sound feet” (they should not take wholeness as a boast); truly admitting error is rare, and there is luck in that difference. Like Lord Yi shooting the swan—the bull’s-eye ought to be a sure hit, yet once in ten thousand it misses; that is ming. One does not feel one’s own narrow escape yet laughs at others; when others laugh at one’s imperfection, one resents it—that too is not understanding ming. Before Bohun Wuren one finally relaxes: before, roaming with Bohun, one never knew oneself as “wu” (footless); now you roam with me inside the form, saying you lodge in the six limbs and mirror the ears and eyes—then you are me; yet you seek “me” outside the form—you say you are you and I am me, mutually unknowing. Zichan then apologized: say no more; I know I was wrong.

Yanzhai’s oral gloss says that the four words “contending with Yao in goodness” are likewise figurative speech. Once a person is already bodily maimed (wu), even if he can act well, how could he be compared with Yao? Without turning inward in self-examination, he still overreaches himself; he recounts his faults yet deems himself sufficient—what ought not to remain yet remains: such people are many. He does not recount his faults yet deems himself sufficient—what ought not to endure yet endures: such people are few. Only one of virtue knows that ming (fate) is at work here; how could that be something a person could force?

These three sentences describe three kinds of people. The phrase “wandering in Yi’s bow-range” is especially striking: it means that in human life in the world, every movement is already crisis. “Within the bow-range” is the spot the arrowhead covers when the bow is drawn—an image of how dangerous the way of the world is; if one is not struck, that is ming. The discussion of inside and outside the bodily form—all of it develops points no earlier sage had opened.

Shentu Jia accepts fate and forgets his wu: De (Virtue/Power) fills him within, and outer things cannot harm him. Zichan prides himself on office and looks down on his wu: his heart chases the outer, and he is unclear within. They studied together at Master Beren’s gate and should have forgotten each other, yet Zichan still clung to the thought of holding power—“So it is!” Though he served a clear master, he still valued rank and position and could not forget each other and be transformed: the heart-mirror was not clear, so dust could stick.

“Those who ought not to perish are many; those who ought not to remain are few” is probably Shentu Jia’s argument about whether the foot should remain or perish: those who know they are at fault yet rest content are few. Yet good fortune and bad alike come back to ming—so one can see that Shentu Jia’s wu did not come from crime. Or, if one takes these two lines to mean that Zichan could not forget bodily form, the sense is quite far off.

“Wandering in Yi’s bow-range—none of it is outside the target; if there is a miss, it is only a narrow escape.” A person in the world—nothing but worry and peril; if one avoids peril, that too is luck. Yet because others, lucky themselves, laugh at my ill luck, I still feel anger—I have not forgotten myself. Collapsing and turning back, I forget myself too—was it that the master washed me with goodness, or that I awakened on my own? Then other and self are both forgotten, thing and self interpenetrate: what anger could stir, what bodily form could one still grasp at?

This chapter comes from Nan Hua Zhen Jing Yi Hai Zuan Wei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Classic of Nan Hua), compiled by Chu Boxiu in the Song dynasty—a commentary on the Zhuangzi “Inner Chapters,” chapter “De Chong Fu” (Signs of Full Virtue). What follows is a plain-language exposition aligned with the text’s main ideas.

De Chong Fu (Chapter 2)

In the state of Lu there was a man who had lost a foot. His name was Shushan Wuzhi. He went to visit Confucius. Confucius said, “You were not careful enough before; you brought disaster on yourself and ended up like this. Even if you come now, what can still be mended?”

Wuzhi replied, “I blame only myself for not knowing what to keep and what to let go, and for rashly ruining my body until I lost my foot. But I come today because something in me is still worth preserving as a ‘foot’—meaning the wholeness of personhood and De (Virtue/Power)—and that is why I seek to make myself whole. Heaven covers all; earth bears all. I took you to be as vast as heaven and earth—who would have thought you still see things this way?”

Confucius said, “I, Kong Qiu, am shallow in my understanding. Why not come in and share your insight with us?” Wuzhi took his leave. Confucius said to his disciples, “You must exert yourselves! Wuzhi is a maimed man, yet he still studies diligently, hoping to make up for past faults—how much more should those whose De is complete do so!”

Wuzhi said to Laozi, “Confucius has probably not yet reached the level of the Zhiren (perfect person who attains the Dao and is one with it). Why does he still bustle about like a guest, learning this and that from others? Does he still want to shine with strange, hollow reputation? Does he not know that the Zhiren treats such things as fetters?”

Laozi said, “Why not help him see life and death as one thread, approval and disapproval as a single strand, and loosen those fetters for him—would that work?”

Wuzhi said, “That is a punishment heaven has placed on him. How could it be undone?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

“Chong” (following with the heel) means walking step by step with the feet. To live in the world, one need not force things artificially; simply follow how life unfolds on its own—that is what it means to value the body and know what to hold to. If one forgets this “self-generation” and instead becomes stiff and self-important, that is rashly wearing oneself out. Though Wuzhi had his foot cut off, what enables walking was never lost—this is the meaning of “he who honors the foot still has it”: to say a foot was removed does not diminish his de. Drop pretension and stiffness; let life complete itself naturally—that is the way to seek wholeness. If one treats heaven and earth as one’s own canopy and support, even that will eventually come to rest.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary:

Wuzhi lost his foot, but what is “used for walking” was never forgotten—that is called “honoring the foot.” When Zhongni wanted to enter and explain to him what he had heard about “nature and the way of heaven,” that was not material meant to be taught indiscriminately to ordinary learners. Wuzhi left without speaking; in their mutual regard there was already a understanding that needed no words. Yet he still approached as a student and doubted the perfected person—he probably had not fully awakened, had he? The Dao takes “cutting off learning” as supreme; what people study, in the eyes of the perfected person, is mostly strange and deceptive, and becomes their own shackles instead. Only when birth and death are seen as one thread and “acceptable / unacceptable” as one continuity can the shackles be released. Why not let people be so? What can be released is human punishment; heavenly punishment cannot be released.

(Continuing Guo and Lü’s line of thought)

Zhongni is not one who fails to guard name and teaching—only when one follows things, names and traces appear, and in the end one cannot escape the shackle of “name.” Who can undo it?

Learning was never meant to produce the bizarre; the bizarre arises because of learning. Ritual was never meant for show; show arises from ritual. Hence the perfected person treats these as shackles and wants to use straight principle as a guard. Confucius is not one who fails to guard—but once he follows outer things, names and traces stand, and he can hardly slip the shackle of “name.” Who can undo it?

Wuzhi left without speaking; in their mutual regard there was already a tacit understanding that could not be voiced. Yet he still came to learn in guest-and-host form and still doubted the perfected person—he probably had not quite arrived. The Dao takes cutting off learning as supreme; what the world studies, to the perfected person, is mostly grotesque and deceptive and becomes one’s own shackles. Only when birth and death are one thread and acceptable and unacceptable one continuity are the shackles released. Why not make it so? What can be released is human punishment; heavenly punishment cannot be released.

Plain-Language Reading of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei

Commentary by Yidu

To fault someone only by outward conduct without grasping the principle of “things and self” is called forgetting things (wang wu); to slight and relinquish this bodily form is called forgetting form (wang xing).

“Honoring the feet” (zun zu) here means treating the feet as what matters and keeping one’s nature whole—preserving the Way as it is, rather than taking the physical body as the ultimate.

Wuzhi (“Footless”), intent on preserving the great Dao and setting aside the body-as-outer-shell, thereby keeps “the body” intact in a higher sense. If one matched his de (virtue/power) with Heaven and Earth yet singled out Confucius for being “insufficiently cautious” or “falling short,” that would be judging by traces—by outward behavior alone. Judging by the heart: Confucius declined on the ground of “crudeness” and invited Wuzhi indoors to speak what he had heard—precisely this meaning. Wuzhi was silent yet the other understood; hence Confucius urged his disciples to recognize this. When Wuzhi saw Laozi, he suspected Confucius of deferring like a student (binbin ran) to seek renown through bizarre and fantastical display, not knowing that for a perfect person (zhi ren) such things are shackles (zhigu). Why not consider how to undo them? Roughly: Confucius studied with Old Dan (Laozi) as something required in worldly affairs, not from coveting gain. Laozi, seeing Wuzhi had not yet clarified his mind, had him go undo those “shackles.” Wuzhi took it as Heaven’s decree (tian ming) and held it could not be undone.

Commentary by Xiangdao

Shentu Jia and Shushan Wuzhi toward Wang Tai: their bodily incompleteness (xing can / wu) was the same, but their way of living with disability differed. Shushan toward Shentu: their commitment to learning was the same, but their method of learning differed.

By teaching names and ritual, “name” ranks highest in the teaching; by the body of the Dao, “name” becomes a burden to the person. Hence the ancients who obtained the Dao: guarded gain and loss within themselves, returned merit and fame to the multitude—this is called the hanging release of the emperor (di zhi xuan jie)—who could impose honor or disgrace on them? Yet people vie for momentary empty praise, chase posthumous glory, wear themselves out without knowing return, cramped as if self-bound—how is that unlike a heavy prisoner in fetters?

Still, Confucius was not one who sought oddity to win a name. If one loathes those fetters and wants to undo them, that is indulging the self against fate—where then is Confucius?

Commentary by Bixu

Honoring the feet means nature (xing): when nature is not impaired, one may be called whole. Zhongni (Confucius) asked Wuzhi indoors to expound the Dao; Wuzhi understood at a glance, intent aligned, and spoke without words. Confucius used Wuzhi’s outward trace to instruct his disciples’ hearts.

Wuzhi said to Old Dan: Why does Confucius defer like a student (binbin) to seek learning, using strange marvels for reputation, not knowing the perfect person treats this as punishment and execution? Why not think how to release it: above, one with creation and transformation—life and death as one thread; below, one with things and self equalized—acceptable and unacceptable as one continuity. Heaven’s punishment cannot be undone—because traces have not yet been erased.

Zhao’s commentary explains: Shushan Wuzhi treated the loss of his foot as punishment and mutilation—yet why not ask how to loosen that grip from within? Looked at from above, human beings and the transforming work of nature (zaohua) are one whole; life and death belong on the same thread. Looked at from below, outer things and the self can be leveled, and “this” and “that,” right and wrong, can be seen as one continuous flow. What is called “Heaven’s punishment” (tianxing) is not something external force can remove; it remains because one has not yet fully dissolved one’s bodily traces and stubborn fixations into the Dao.

Lin Xiyi (style name Yanzhai) says: “Not knowing what one should attend to” means not understanding affairs; “honoring the foot” means honoring the inner nature and life; these two phrases are used in a strange way. “Binbin” describes a respectful and cautious manner; “chugui huanguai” describes a fondness for reputation and for setting oneself apart through novelty. Those who are put in shackles are burdened by reputation; “heavenly punishment” is punishment from Heaven. These are all fables. As for a mutilated man like Shushan Wuzhi (in “The Fullness of De,” one whose feet were cut off under the punishment of yue and who sought the Dao), he still studied hard to make up for the faults of his former conduct—how much more so one whose De is complete? This statement is beneficial for the edification of the world and its customs. The first section’s Wang Tai (one who attained the Dao in “The Fullness of De”) is a person who attained the Dao and was at peace with Heaven’s mandate; the next section’s Shentu Jia (likewise a footless person of virtue) is one who possessed De and understood destiny; this section’s Wuzhi is one who devoted himself to learning and made up for his faults. The Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi) discusses “the fullness of De” in three grades, with the same meaning as what is set forth in “The Human World” (a chapter title in the Zhuangzi). Confucius said that Shushan Wuzhi was careless and suffered misfortune, so there must have been a reason for his feet being cut off; Wuzhi also said that he did not understand affairs and rashly used his body, and that he already knew his fault. It is precisely because one knows one’s fault that one can remedy it, so the school of the sage does not reject him. “Honoring the foot” refers to that nature which is more honorable than the foot and by which the bodily form is established; to devote oneself here to preserving it and seeking its Dao is correct. Wuzhi regarded Confucius as Heaven and Earth, hoping to receive covering, sustaining, and tolerant embrace; Confucius pointed out his former fault, meaning that coming to study now was already too late to catch up. Wuzhi sighed that Confucius still spoke this way and was somewhat displeased in his heart; he did not realize that Confucius’s words were precisely the means by which he covered and sustained him. If Wuzhi had thought about making up for his former faults and becoming a person of complete De, how could the mutilation of his bodily form diminish him further? From this it can be seen that the transformative teaching of sages and worthies perfects all things through indirect means and leaves nothing out; people’s qualities differ, and their attainments are graded, as with the various people listed in this chapter.

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius: in the state of Wei there was an ugly man named Aitai Tuo (a fable character in “The Fullness of De”). When grown men spent time with him, they thought of him and did not want to leave; when women saw him, they asked their parents, saying, “Rather than marry another man as his wife, I would rather be this gentleman’s concubine.” Such women numbered in the dozens and still it did not stop. People had never heard of him taking the lead in advocating anything; he was simply ordinary and natural.

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius: “In Wei there was a man famous for being ‘ugly,’ named Ai Tai Wo. When men stayed with him, they could not get him out of their minds and did not want to leave; when women saw him, they asked their parents, ‘Rather than marry someone else, we would rather be this gentleman’s concubines’—and dozens did so, and did not stop. No one heard him take the lead in speaking; he only responded and went along. He had no throne by which to rescue people from death, no salary with which to fill people’s bellies, and a face shockingly ugly—yet he harmonized without initiating, and his wisdom seemed not to exceed the ordinary; still, men and women naturally gathered to him. He must be unlike other people. I summoned him and looked: he was indeed terrifyingly ugly. After he stayed with me, within a few months I felt goodwill toward him as a person; within a year I trusted him. When Wei had no chief minister, I handed him the state. He seemed downcast; only after some time did he accept, as if he wanted to refuse. I said, ‘Am I really so worthless?’ In the end I gave him the state. Yet he set up no defenses—why? When he left to wander, I felt as if something were lost; it seemed that with him there, the state was at peace. What kind of person is he?”

Confucius said: “Once when I was envoy to Chu, I saw piglets suckling beside their dead mother. After a while they all fled in alarm and would not go near again—not because they loved the mother’s carcass, but because they loved what had once animated that form. A soldier who died in battle is buried without the feather fan (shà) used in funeral rites; shoes of a man whose feet were cut off—no one wears them again. Where what is called ‘love’ has lost its root, nothing is worth clinging to. The attendants closest to the Son of Heaven do not trim their nails or pierce their ears for ornaments; a man who takes a wife stays outside the palace and no longer serves on duty—if even preserving the bodily form is treated with such care, how much more one whose virtue is complete! Now Ai Tai Wo: without speaking he is trusted, without merit he is intimate with others; when people hand him a state, they fear he will not accept—this must be ‘talent fully complete while virtue has no outward form’ (cai quan er de bu xing).”

The duke asked: “What is meant by talent fully complete?”

Confucius said: “Life and death, survival and perishing, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, praise and blame, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—these are the shifts of events and the movements of fate. Day and night they alternate before our eyes, and human planning cannot trace where they begin. Therefore they are not enough to disturb inner peace, and must not be allowed to enter the Spirit Storehouse (ling fu), the depths of the mind. One should keep the inner self harmonious and unobstructed, not losing joy (dui), so that day and night nothing blocks the flow and one shares spring with outer things—this is meeting nature in accord and keeping the heart in step with the times. That is what is meant by talent fully complete.”

“What is virtue having no outward form? When water is still, it is fullest and can serve as a standard; hold that level inwardly and outwardly do not be dragged about by things. De (virtue/power) is the cultivation of achieved harmony (cheng he); when virtue has no outward form, things cannot separate from one. Things cannot pull him out of that harmony, yet he does not display his de as a badge—that is what is meant by virtue having no outward form.”

Later the duke one day repeated this to Minzi. Minzi said: “When I first faced south as ruler, held the reins over ten thousand people, and grieved over the people’s deaths, I thought myself thoroughly enlightened. Now, hearing the words of a person of utmost attainment, I fear I lack that kind of real virtue, lightly used this body, and nearly lost the state. Between me and Kong Qiu it is not lord and minister—it is friendship in de.”

This passage comes from an exposition of the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi), with two layers of meaning—Guo Xiang’s commentary and Lü Huiqing’s commentary—explained in plain language below.

[Main idea of Guo Xiang’s commentary]

It is not about intimidating people with power and forcing them to submit; true clarity does not depend on rank; and the comings and goings of daily life are not about drawing people in with physical beauty.

Someone whose talent and De (Virtue/Power) are complete does not harm external things, so entering a herd of beasts does not disturb the herd, and entering a flock of birds does not disturb their flight—becoming the “forest and marsh” where all things can safely rely.

Duke Ai of Lu kept company with Yan Hui; in less than a month he felt Yan’s aspirations were lofty; in less than a year he entrusted him with state affairs. Yan Hui responded quietly, as if unwilling to say much; neither favor nor disgrace moved him.

While alive, a person takes talent and De as their “form”; when one dies, talent and De are no longer there, so it is said one “loses form” and departs. If one’s feelings and understanding are all tied to this layer of “form,” the form may change, but as long as talent and De remain, one can still avoid harming things; if even this layer of “form” comprising mood, talent, and De is gone, not even the bond between mother and child can hold one’s resolve.

Here, “form” means precisely talent and De. The sha (ceremonial feather screens and the like in processions, symbolizing martial authority) are things used only in war; when battle is real, the sha have their use—otherwise where would you put them? Choosing consorts, taking favorites, and the joy of new marriage all satisfy themselves with appearance, so they can sway the heart of the supreme ruler and change a chaste woman’s constancy. That one complete in talent and De is naturally close to external things is simply the way of nature.

Life and death, existence and extinction, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—their principle is as it should be, and no one can escape it. Human life is not a “mistaken birth,” and what one possesses is not empty false possession. Though heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are many, what I encounter falls exactly in this moment and this place—so even exhausting one’s strength and utmost cleverness cannot change this fate or this encounter.

Fate must run its course; affairs must change; day and night never stop. The beginning is not something wisdom can plot in advance, so it is not something human feeling can cling to forever. Once you know that fate must proceed and affairs must change, how can you plan the “end” only at the end, or at what is new still cling to what is old?

If you understand that nature and life are meant to be thus, then through life and death, success and failure, and myriad transformations you can still remain clear and at peace; the principle of harmony and compliance is within you. The lingfu (the seat of mind and spirit) is not startled or disturbed by worry and distress, so the nature of harmony and compliance is not lost; the lingfu stays at ease and does not lose its joy, merging with things and letting them be, following the four seasons in joint transformation and nurture.

When the world is at peace, nothing fits better than still water: inwardly guarding clarity, outwardly without deceit; like a mirror reflecting things, without partiality—thus one can preserve one’s “form,” practice the constant way, accomplish all undertakings, and harmonize with all things. This is the state in which “De does not show fixed traces in form,” and therefore the world gladly upholds such a person without growing weary.

[Main idea of Lü Huiqing’s commentary]

(Lü’s note continues from the closing line above; the gist is:) Without relying on the throne, one can likewise be clear within and without falsity outwardly; like a mirror that illumines all, impartial toward things—thus one can preserve one’s form, practice the constant law, leave nothing undone, and harmonize with nothing—this is De that does not take shape outwardly, so the world delights in promoting such a person and does not tire of it.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Without the position of ruler, the most honored De (Virtue/Power) has no name to attach to it; without the salary that comes from gathering revenue, the richest enterprise has nothing to compare with. When everyone in the world seeks these things through private desire and cannot obtain them, they take them to be utterly mysterious and turn them over in their minds again and again. Shen (spirit) has no fixed place, yet is nowhere absent—therefore “knowing” does not step outside the scope of heaven and earth and the four directions.

The ten thousand things turn their backs to yin and embrace yang, and so there is distinction; male and female first join, and the subtlety of yin-yang is unfathomably deep—therefore people suppose it differs from humanity. If one is merely dull and drifting, at odds with the Dao, one will not truly take things to heart; even if in the end one entrusts the state to another, it is only a temporary lodging. One can act without setting guards everywhere; yet if the heart has already slipped away into obscurity, it is as if one has lost the root. This is like the simile of “when the child dies, the mother dies”: it says Shen lodges in the mother, and therefore shows itself in the child—the two rely on each other and are one. If Shen leaves its mother, it cannot unite, and so departs. In battle there is sha (feathered insignia on the chariot) for protection; when a man dies in fight, the sha is useless; a man whose feet were cut off does not cherish old sandals—all because the root is lost. Shen borrows form to appear; form is its root. When a consort first marries, she is still valued for the integrity of her body—how much more when De is complete? “Trust before speaking, closeness without merit”—such a person must be one whose talent is whole and whose De does not show in outward form.

Names such as death, life, survival, and extinction are, in a person, shifts in circumstance; in heaven, the working of Ming (fate/destiny); day and night alternate, and even clever planning cannot fully map it—why should I hang my mind on that?

He (harmony) is what Shen delights in; lingfu (the spirit’s dwelling, the heart-mind’s seat) is where Shen abides. When vital Qi is harmonious and unobstructed, and one does not lose open responsiveness (dui), then Shen has no gap, and one cannot see a break between day and night; meeting things is like encountering spring Qi—it is letting the season arise in the heart while contacting the ten thousand things. When water is still, it is level and bright; its nature is originally so: keep inward and do not surge outward—do not disturb it. This compares to human nature as well. When the ten thousand things each have what they need, they are complete; when they return to oneness, there is harmony—De is the cultivation that accomplishes this “harmony.” When De does not show its tracks, it is one with the beginning; how could things leave the place whence they themselves arise?

Lin's commentary: Though Ai Tuo Ta held no office and received no stipend, talent and virtue (caide) filled him inwardly, so people all gathered around him. Because he was not driven by affairs outside his proper sphere, his knowing did not stray beyond the four directions; because he was one with things, even when male and female walked ahead, he remained in harmony.

Further: Dull and open like still water, without deliberate mind and without being tied down; he withdrew before long—hard to draw in, easy to let go.

Piglets and their mother: While alive they stay close to her; once dead they no longer do—this likens the noble person to treating talent and virtue as kin, not loving the bodily form. The body is the six limbs and the senses; what gives the body its order is the principle of Dao, virtue, nature, and life (Dao, de, xing, ming).

Dead in battle with no feather fan at the bier; amputees with no use for shoes: The form takes talent and virtue as its root; without that root, the form is useless.

Concubines trim nails and pierce ears; when taking a wife one avoids those maimed in form: People choose those whose forms are whole for service—how much more so for one whose virtue is whole?

Life and death, survival and perishing, hunger and thirst, cold and heat, events changing and fate unfolding, day and night succeeding each other: Even the utmost knowing cannot measure where they begin. Only one whose talent is whole neither gains nor loses, simply entrusts himself to what is—so nothing can disturb his harmony, he does not fall from joyful openness, day and night without gap, forgetting the arrival of change, being springtime with things—there is that which gives them life.

This means creation and transformation are boundless; things are ever born anew and never cease. Things never truly die—they connect and life arises in the heart-mind. The utmost person meets the time and responds to things, is moved and then penetrates—that is all.

The Annotated Meaning of the Vast Ocean of the True Classic of Nanhua — This passage uses Ai Tai Tuo (a sage in the Zhuangzi chapter who is extremely ugly in appearance yet widely admired) to show that outward deficiency and “ugly” form need not forfeit wholeness; when virtue dwells deep and does not show, it can naturally win trust and set all things at ease.

Plain sense:

The commentator (Xiang Dao’s note) says: Wang Tai (a parable figure akin to Ai Tai Tuo), though marked by wu (a head incomplete, form not whole), could win the trust of things; Ai Tai Tuo, though ugly in form, was not abandoned by people or beasts. This is because zun xing (honored form) still remained—form may be damaged, yet wholeness endures; and zhi ni ( utmost beauty) is also there—looks may be foul, yet beauty remains inwardly. Zhi ni means cai quan er de bu xing: talent complete, while de does not appear in outer appearance.

Hence men and women admired him, birds and beasts drew near; even the ruler wished to entrust him with the state. It was not that he deliberately made outer things whole; rather outer things naturally stayed whole—because he had root and had de.

A mother’s love takes the form of nurturing as root; a warrior takes courage as root; a traveler takes the feet as root. Ai Tai Tuo, when present was trusted, when gone was missed, likewise had root and had de. When de is complete, it outwardly appears as talent (cai); when cai is complete, it inwardly returns to de. When de does not take shape (does not cling to names and appearances), then life and death, survival and loss all proceed naturally, without failing in “dui” (joy, exchange, being swayed), not trading oneself for things (not swapping the original mind for externals).

From day and night without que (no fault, no break) to sheng shi hu xin (vitality residing in the heart), not forgetting things for the sake of oneself (not losing the root of self and things in private interest); preserving within then one does not lose the real, not adrift without then one is not moved by empty names (not confused by reputation through outward seeking).

What is called de is simply cultivating one’s nature and returning to cheng he (harmonious completion)—nothing more.

Duke Ai and Confucius: at first lord and minister, later friends in de; their realization was probably also very subtle (wei miao, unobtrusive)—in the same vein as Ai Tai Tuo’s principle of de bu xing (de not showing in form).

In one line: Ugly in form yet zun xing and zhi ni within—cai quan, de bu xing—then people, beasts, and rulers draw near and entrust of themselves; having root and de, inner substance without outward drift, is de of cheng he.

Bi Xuzi’s commentary reads as follows: When rank and stipend come together, they can be used to save lives—so people gather round. Today an ordinary person can also draw the multitude, because he takes virtue (de) as his foundation, like a mound of earth. This is “self-nature” (jixing): while alive one keeps to one’s true self; in death one loses that true self. When the sow dies she loses her own nature, the piglets lose their true nature too, and so they leave the mother and go. The image stands for Duke Ai’s shallow virtue—the perfected person (zhiren) keeps away from him.

Using the ceremonial feather fan (sha) to display martial might, and shoes to adorn the feet—when a man dies in battle or his feet are cut off, the point of those adornments is forgotten; what use are they then? (Likewise, clinging to outer things and forgetting self-nature.)

Life and death, cold and heat, and the rest of the sixteen kinds of affairs are all the snares of the dusty world. Whoever enters worldly life cannot fully escape them; to hand all of this over to the mandate of Heaven is called “virtue fulfilled” (de chong). Yet that is still the person of the square within. Those who wander outside the square are at ease in release and enter the realm of great subtlety. Hence Confucius embodied virtue (de) through “forgetting words,” and Duke Ai had no choice but to stop his questions.

The alternation of heat and cold, the unceasing turn of dawn and dusk—even the finest calendar cannot fix what lies ahead; who can reckon the final outcome? Once the chamber of the mind is empty, one naturally accords with principle: leisurely, unobstructed, often joyful, with the subtle mind never broken off.

Spring qi (vital energy) richly nourishes the ten thousand things, like the heart of the sage in nurturing things. When water is still to the utmost fullness, that is what the great craftsman takes as his model. Virtue (de) within completes the self; applied outward it harmonizes with things. The principle of completion and harmony cannot be reached without cultivation.

To grasp only the bonds by which people are ruled, yet still fear that they will die, is still not to treat the ten thousand things like straw dogs. Forget the state, and the person is rich; forget power, and virtue (de) is full.

Zhao’s commentary compares Ai Tai Tuo—the ugly yet fully virtuous figure in the Zhuangzi chapter—to “Confucius without words.” When Confucius returned from Wei to Lu, his appearance was so repulsive that people said “Wei has a dreadful man.” Yet men who stayed with him could think of him but not tear themselves away—a figure for feudal lords bowing in respect; women who wished to become his concubines—disciples following along. He harmonized without leading the song and transmitted without authoring—owning a lord’s seat and gathering stipends—figures for the Dao aiding all under heaven while he acted as suwang, a “plain king” with no crown but real moral sway.

“Knowledge does not step outside the domain” means what he knew went no further than daily affairs; “male and female align before him” means what he saw did not exceed the dullness of husband and wife—so how was he different from other people? Duke Ai set aside form and took virtue, handing him the state; Ai Tai Tuo left before long. Confucius used the image of piglets nursing at a dead sow: in a moment they know she is not their mother and run off; when the roast did not arrive, Confucius went away without removing his cap—as if he had no choice. “Useless funeral fans for the battle-dead, like useless shoes for the foot-amputee”—metaphors of new brides among the concubines again show talent complete while De shows no form: the sixteen matters such as life and death, cold and heat, none can escape, day and night cycle, no one can fix their start and end, yet they do not enough to disturb my heavenly harmony—enter my heart’s square inch and joy brims; the ten thousand images are spring; contact gives rise to timeliness; feeling then flows through.

Yuezhai says: “Knowledge not outside the four domains” means knowing does not go beyond the world outside; “male and female align before him—intimate with things” is the sense of gulls unafraid. The piglet image: human affection, once one knows it is not one’s own, is cast off. “Water at rest holds all under heaven as its model”; “When De is cultivated it becomes harmony; in harmony one shares De; part from things and there is form; with form, it is not De”—hence Duke Ai called Confucius a deyou, a friend in De.

Yizhai observes that human knowing does not extend beyond the domain of the four directions—meaning that wisdom need not be sought outside this world. When male and female join before us and one draws close to things as intimately as the seabird that does not startle the heart, that is the point. Using the piglet as a figure shows that what people love and hate is not really about physical beauty or ugliness.

Those who fall in battle are not sent off with the shan, the feather fan used in ordinary funerals—they are not buried by the usual rites. That is like making shoes for someone without feet when there is nowhere to wear them: a figure for bright virtue (mingde) dwelling within, not in outward display. Concubines who do not trim their nails or pierce their ears honor keeping the body whole and refuse cosmetic fuss. Exempting the newly married from corvée appears in the Book of Rites; here, the habit of preserving the bodily form stands for preserving the innate virtue of De (Virtue/Power).

Life and death, poverty and success, change and circumstance, fate and allotted span—day and night take turns unfolding before our eyes. Even the wise cannot trace every thread to its end, yet none of this is enough to upset the harmony in the breast or to enter the spiritual storehouse and stir the heart.

“Day and night without break” means renewal that never stops; “with things as spring” means meeting whatever comes with the ease of spring. “Receiving and bringing forth the timely in the heart”: receiving is responsive contact; the timely is the right moment within timeliness—what is felt as each affair arises, and what answers as the moment asks. “Complete endowment” (cai quan) means nature, substance, talent, and De all in place; “De without form” (de bu xing) means neither puffing oneself up nor parading one’s merit—inwardly steady, outwardly unshaken—a level others can take as a model.

To realize this harmony within one’s nature is the work of cultivating De. Where De has no outward shape, there is nowhere that is not De, so things cannot simply fall away from such a person. The bond is not the ceremony of lord and subject but friendship joined through De—much in the spirit of Mencius on friendship.

On the two characters “male and female” (cixiong), commentators have not agreed. Some, following the Liezi passage about “the male going ahead and the female following, gathering at the tail in a flock,” take them to refer to birds and beasts. But if you look closely at the context in the Zhuangzi—before it we have “when a man stays with her, he thinks of her and cannot leave,” and after it “a woman wishes to become a concubine,” with everyone coming to attach themselves—the “male and female” here fits better the earlier analogies of husband and wife: it means that people attach themselves and follow, and need not be forced into a reading about birds and animals.

The line “those who die in battle are buried without using the sha as provision” also divides readers over punctuation and the sense of “zi” (provision/send/use): some gloss it as “use,” some as “send off,” some pass over it in silence, and no single view has prevailed. Later readers sometimes explain “zi” from the side, via the character “sha,” to smooth the wording and clarify the meaning of the classic.

Further examination of the “Tan Gong” chapter in the Record of Rites: when the Zhou arranged Confucius’s funeral, they adorned the coffin enclosure and set out sha; they also laid out wrapping shrouds and set out lou-sha (sha are ceremonial objects in mourning rites, shaped like square fans, often with wooden frames and cloth surfaces, sometimes painted with cloud patterns, arranged by rank on both sides of the hearse). The “Positions in the Bright Hall” chapter also records the Zhou “bi-sha”: Zheng Xuan’s commentary says that for the Son of Heaven, all eight sha bore jade disks and hanging feathers; for feudal lords, six sha bore gui tablets; for great officers, four sha; for common officers, two sha—all with dangling tassels (as on caps). Thus in antiquity mourning rites widely used sha; they were not invented solely as “military adornment.”

As I understand the original intent of the Nanhua (Zhuangzi): the ancient sages instituted ritual so that the living could be supported and the dead buried, leaving fewer regrets. The Zhou took coffin and shroud as the substance and adorned them with willow-sha and the like, with gradations of honor and modesty matching each rank—this is “being careful at the end and remembering the distant past.” If one dies in battle, that is not a proper death, and moreover one has failed the way of employing troops; at burial one therefore does not use the full mourning ceremony with sha, and the body often cannot return whole—how then can one demand complete ceremonial objects? It is like someone whose feet have been cut off: there is no point in cherishing the old shoes.

This chapter begins from the analogy above, “a piglet feeds on a dead mother—do not rouse her,” and ends by stacking several analogies for the same point: those whose De is full within need no outward adornment; those whose De is thin within gain nothing from outward adornment. “Being spring with things” means meeting things and giving life, like the season of spring advancing; “timeliness in the heart” means that talent is complete while De shows no form—supreme harmony is stored within, meeting things without gap, like the green yang spreading its blessing so that nothing misses its nurturing favor; taking no-mind as mind, therefore there is no stimulus to which one does not respond. Master Lianxi’s “do not remove the grass before the window” shares the same idea in his own words.

Someone may ask: before there is stimulus or contact, where does harmony reside? The answer: like the music of a suspended bell—the sound is in the bell and does not leak outward.

“Sign of Complete Virtue” (De chong fu), Chapter 3 (excerpt)

Kuiqi (someone lame on one foot, walking with a limp), Zhili (someone mutilated in the limbs), and Wuchun (someone without lips, barely able to speak) went to persuade Duke Ling of Wei. The duke admired them and still saw them as “whole persons”; only their necks looked unusually thin. Again, someone with a great goiter on the neck went to persuade Duke Huan of Qi. The duke likewise admired him and also took him for a “whole person”; his neck too looked unusually thin.

So it is said: when De (Virtue/Power) has its strong points, defects of the body can be forgotten. Ordinary people often forget what they should not forget (clinging to bodily lack) and forget what they should not (forgetting the De they already have)—this is “false forgetting.” True forgetting is cheng wang—genuinely releasing from the heart one’s fixation on the physical form.

Therefore the sage moves within the Dao (the Way), treats cleverness as a baleful growth, covenants as fetters, deliberate virtue as pandering, and craft as huckstering. The sage does not rely on scheming—where would cleverness be needed? Does not split the natural—where would glue be needed? Does not lose what is naturally so—where would forced virtue be needed? Does not chase profit and trade—where would merchant tricks be needed? Cleverness, covenants, virtue, and craft—these four are what Heaven bestows and Heaven nourishes (tian yu, tian shi). Once one has received them from Heaven and Earth, why depend further on human artifice?

One has the form of a human yet is not dragged by human likes and dislikes. Having form, one lives among others; free of emotional entanglement, right and wrong do not harm oneself. Compared with “people,” what binds one is too small; compared with Heaven, what one achieves is too great—alone one is one with the Way of Heaven.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “Are human beings originally without qing (feelings/affect)?”

Zhuangzi said, “Yes.”

Huizi said, “Without qing, how can they be called human?”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gives them countenance; Heaven gives them form—how can they not be called human?”

Huizi said, “If they are called human, how can they be without qing?”

Zhuangzi said, “The ‘qing’ you mean is not the ‘qing’ I mean. My ‘no-qing’ means that a person does not let likes and dislikes harm the self, constantly follows the natural, and does not artificially add to years or pamper the body.”

Huizi said, “If one does not add to life, how can there be this body at all?”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gives countenance; Heaven gives form—you do not harm the form through likes and dislikes; yet now you drive the spirit outward and exhaust the essence—chanting long under a tree, sleeping leaning on a withered paulownia. Heaven picked out this frame for you, and you make the ‘hard and white’ debate ring through the world.”

(Hard and white: Huishi, Huizi’s personal name, was famous for arguments such as “hard and white” and “sameness and difference”; Zhuangzi here satirizes him for chasing disputation while neglecting self-cultivation.)

Vernacular Explanation

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: When virtue excels at following along with the myriad things, those things no longer fixate on whether one’s appearance is ugly; when virtue excels at going against the myriad things, they no longer fixate on likes and dislikes. Virtue is what people cannot easily forget, whereas physical form is something the Way itself does not cling to. Thus “forgetting form” is not true forgetting, while “forgetting virtue” (De) is forgetting through and through.

Roaming in the realm where one finds joy in oneself, letting go so that nothing is unreachable—this is the person whose talent and virtue are complete. Knowledge, restraint, virtue, and craft naturally give rise to one another; the principle is already there, so the sage need not deliberately deploy them. The myriad things are not random: each follows what utmost principle tends toward; one need only allow their natural course.

Someone whose appearance is like withered wood (as in Dechong Fu: outwardly misshapen yet inwardly whole in virtue) moves with vast ease, alone completing their Heaven-given nature. If a person is not produced by “qing” (affectivity/dispositional preference), then how could birth itself be something “qing” could know? Huizi had not yet understood that such a figure of odd form is not without “qing,” yet he still questioned Zhuangzi.

Zhuangzi meant: If you treat right and wrong as “qing,” then one without right-wrong preferences—though having the outward form of such a person—is still essentially human; where then would “qing” lodge? Not letting likes and dislikes harm oneself, going straight ahead by following nature—this is not the artificial work of “qing,” but aligning with the natural and not vainly adding to life, stopping where one should stop. Huizi still did not grasp that life already has its own principle and that principle is self-sufficient. Zhuangzi told him again: principle is self-complete in the body of such a one; let it be and it persists; affective likes and dislikes only wound oneself. Leaning on a tree or resting on a parasol tree speaks of how the affective person traps themselves—this is what the world calls “qing.” Speaking of “Heaven’s choice” (tian xuan) is to make clear that “qing” is not produced by “qing”—how much more so for everything else?

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: Wuzhi and Dashu appear beautiful because virtue is long; the two lords are cases of forgetting something about form. People do not know to preserve their spirit (Shen)—that is what ought to be forgotten; they are enslaved to seeing, hearing, and discursive thought—that is what ought not to be forgotten. Forgetting what should be forgotten while forgetting what should not be: this is “sincere forgetting,” going beyond merely forgetting something about form. Sincere forgetting is where the sage roams; things cannot escape and all are contained within.

If so, taking knowledge as a burden is not the root; taking restraint as glue is to bind what would scatter; taking virtue as connection is to link with what differs in kind; taking craft as trade is to finish vessels. The sage does not scheme yet dislikes using knowledge; does not chop yet dislikes using glue; has nothing to lose yet dislikes using virtue; does not merchandise yet dislikes using trade—all four are Heaven’s endowment, so there is no need to seek them outside. Having human form without human “qing” is because what one roams in is sincere forgetting: dwelling among people, one roams within worldly right and wrong; when preferences do not settle in the body, one embodies Heaven’s balance (tian jun)—the small belongs to the human, the great belongs to Heaven. In the case of such an outwardly odd figure, movement and dignified bearing are nothing but the form of the Dao; the six limbs and nine openings are born of Heaven—enough to be human; why doubt that one cannot be “without qing”?

Huizi flatly said that being without feeling like wood and stone cannot count as being human. Zhuangzi replied: What I call “qing” is that right and wrong do not lodge in the body; what I call “without qing” is not letting likes and dislikes inwardly harm the body—if so, that is enough to have one’s body; why vainly seek to add to life? Huizi did not know “stillness within movement”; he leaned on the parasol tree seeking stillness. Only because he did not know this did he fail to find his place, letting form be Heaven’s choice while trumpeting himself with the “hard and white” sophistry.

People often remember only a person’s outward appearance and easily forget their inner virtue. If you reverse that—never forgetting the virtue others forget, while letting go of the appearance and fame others cling to—you have both talent and virtue in full. This is called chengwang (sincere forgetting: genuinely releasing attachment, not pretending).

Liezi said that to observe the changes of all things and move freely among them is the height of “wandering.” The wise make plans; those who draw up contracts bind things as with cord and ink; craftsmen make tools for profit, like merchants. These four are ordinary worldly practices. The sage does not scheme, does not carve and polish, does not worry about gain and loss, does not hoard goods—why depend on those four? Though they belong to human affairs, they are also how Heaven nourishes people: since people receive food and clothing from Heaven, why rely so much on artificial contrivance?

The sage’s body is like everyone else’s, so he can live among them; but his disposition differs from ordinary people’s, so right and wrong do not cling to his physical form. Small appearance belongs to the human side; great Heaven completes his tian (Heaven/nature). Huizi understood only what “qing” (disposition/feeling) is, not why disposition is as it is.

Zhuangzi said: Do not harm yourself through likes and dislikes; only when aligned with xingming zhi qing (the true condition of nature and life) can one speak of completing Heaven’s way. Likes and dislikes arise only in response to things; the body need not mix in. Without deliberately “extending life” (over-nourishing or forcing longevity), one can follow physiological limits to the end and not misuse awareness. Dao is like Heaven: when the body is not wounded by likes and dislikes, it is enough to truly keep this life.

Now you exhaust spirit outwardly and weary essence inwardly, leaning on zithers and leaning on parasol trees (indulging in sound and color, toiling the mind on external things)—all burdens of “having feeling.” Heaven chose your form and made you unique among the ten thousand things, yet you still “extend life” and confuse the crowd, like Gongsun Long’s “hard and white” debate—winning people’s words but not their hearts. This is failing to understand xingming zhi qing and instead being driven by zaohua (creation/transformation).

Xiangdao Commentary: The sage’s Dao has no fixed direction, yet is present everywhere; it has no fixed form, yet there is nothing it does not do. Therefore the heart does not cling to any one place, but rests only in “roaming.” “Roaming” means ease and release, free from all ties and burdens.

The phrases “why use cleverness,” “why use binding agreements,” “why use virtue,” “why use merchants” describe the realm in which such people roam. Cleverness arises from scheming; covenants (yue) arise from cutting and carving; virtue appears when ritual is lost; craft flourishes for profit in goods—these four are tools by which people in the world support one another. One whose virtue is full has no need of them; natural fare is enough.

In outward form the sage resembles everyone else, so in that respect he seems small; in inward disposition he differs from others, so he alone can fulfill his Heaven-given nature. The sage is not without feeling: liking without forced liking, disliking without forced disliking—following nature without reckless fabrication. Calling this “non-feeling” (wuqing) is acceptable. At birth, form is chosen by Heaven and the nature is alert among things; originally it was never less than full—it is only harmed by being dragged by external things. Remove that harm, and virtue fills itself. Huizi talks too much and harms this especially; hence this chapter ends by refuting Huizi.

Commentary holds that what the two commentators say amounts to forgetting distinctions of bodily form while still not having let go of attachment to De.

The sage roams beyond forgetting form and forgetting De: in daily life they may use knowledge and De, yet without self-congratulation. Hence kinds of jiao (entanglement, stirring up trouble) and nie (harm, calamity) have no foothold—If you do not scheming for benefit and harm, what use is cleverness? If you do not hack at qing and xing (emotion and nature), what use is jiao? If you lose nothing to things, what use is De? If you do not hoard goods and wealth, what use is commerce? These four matters are all nourished of themselves.

The qijiu (dung beetle) rolling its ball and the spider weaving its web are intelligence that comes without scheming; dragon clouds and tiger winds, pine and cypress with female dodder—this is jiao without cutting qing and xing; birds and beasts in forest and marsh, fish and turtles in rivers and lakes—this is De without being stripped by things; each thing benefiting itself, each kind making its living—this is commerce without amassing goods and wealth. All of this is what Heaven feeds (tianshi); hence it is called tianshi. Having form without qing, to look at it is like a muji (wooden rooster).

A face of one chi may differ in appearance—that is what Dao gives; a body of six chi with orifices that do not differ—that is what Heaven gives. Neither belongs to qing. One who merely bears the form of a person—could they possess qing? Yin’ai (mute, inarticulate)—and that is all that arises of itself.

Now you have human form, no different from the crowd, yet you force jian bai tong yi (hard-and-white, sameness-and-difference) style disputation (the kind associated with Hui Shi) to clamor before others and call yourself worthy—like gold leaping back into the smelting furnace (yueye zhi jin)—how can one not find it strange?

Zhao’s commentary says: the man without shins and with a great wen on his neck—ugly in form, as one can imagine. Yet the rulers of Lu and Wei were glad to receive him and treated him as a whole person: they forgot his appearance and drew near to his virtue.

Ugly form could be forgotten, yet the world cannot forget it; virtue ought not to be forgotten, yet the world forgets it. That is what is meant by true “forgetting.”

The sage moves through the world without these four: mousuan (scheming and calculating), zhuoxue (carving and artificial refinement), sangshi (losing the original mind), and huozhi (amassing the world’s goods). Hence it is said: no scheming, no carving, no loss, no hoarding.

How small the form, how great the virtue! Huizi still had doubts about how to live by wuqing (non-emotional prejudice). Zhuangzi answered: the wuqing I speak of is not letting likes and dislikes harm oneself—that was direct instruction, yet Huizi still picked at side issues. Zhuangzi warned him: Sir, you drain your spirit outward and weary your mind inward—you drive yourself too hard! If Heaven one day takes back your body, will you still open your mouth and prattle on about “hard and white” and “sameness and difference”?

Yanzhai kouyi says: to love his virtue and forget his form is true forgetting; ordinary people only know form and do not know virtue.

When the sage “has somewhere to roam,” it is the heart roaming with Heaven—using wisdom to handle outer affairs, using restraint to check the self within, meeting the outer while forgetting the inner. The merchant still peddles reputation through the world. When the heart roams with Heaven, one knows these four are all burdens, so one does not use them. Heaven’s nourishment is like Heaven’s rank. In the discussions above, virtue and knowledge are treated as beautiful; here they are treated as ugly—the brush lifts with enthusiasm, with a slight lapse in restraint. From “having human form” onward is language Zhuangzi often uses in his writings.

When the heart roams with Heaven, one knows these four are all burdens to oneself, so one does not employ them. Heaven’s nourishment is like Heaven’s rank. Virtue and knowledge are regarded as fine in the earlier discussions, here as foul— the writing is stirred up, with a place where guard is lost. From “having human form” downward is phrasing Zhuangzi commonly uses.

So Huizi asked further: Heaven gives form—a thing exists; the Dao gives… things must have their norms. What I call wuqing is forgetting likes and dislikes without harm, following nature without adding. Now Huizi, you weary spirit and tax refinement on debates of hard-white and sameness-difference—and Heaven gave you a body; why torment yourself so?

People whose De runs truly deep find their joy in De itself, not in face or figure; those who can forget the bodily form set aside outward appearance and let the heart meet the Dao. These two worthy men won the esteem of two rulers, and those rulers in turn won lasting praise from later ages.

Where sages travel, they never leave the human world behind; easy and unhurried, they roam at leisure and watch in stillness as affairs shift and turn. They do not walk by feet alone or see by eyes alone, so the traces of the ten thousand things hide nowhere, and human hearts hold nothing back from view. Yet the care they felt for all under heaven never rested for a single day.

Fame and hollow repute unsettle the true nature; when people treat such things as wisdom, greed and trickery spring from that. In high antiquity people tied knots to keep agreements, because custom was plain and honest; later ages clung to fixed rules and would not bend, and deceit grew out of that rigidity. Craftsmen fashioned tools so people could use them, but once exchange hardened into commerce, artifice and falsehood followed. Each of these is a sickness of the age’s ways.