《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 7

Plain-Language Reading of Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean of the True Scripture of Southern Florescence, “Yingdi Wang, Chapter Three”

(Preliminary textual notes)

Master Huzi’s way of teaching could at least partly sober those who are hooked on occult arts and intoxicated by clever techniques.

“Wu yu ru yu Xu ye” (“I agree with you—and with Xu”)—Confucius’s “Wu yu Fang ye” is close in sense.

Some manuscripts read wu qi wen where others have ji qi wen. In certain northwestern stroke habits the character for Heaven (tian) looks like wu; adding xiao and bu on top of ce likewise yields wu (the old form of ji).

“Not straight” (bu zheng) means “this is not stopping”; “not level” (bu qi) means “nothing outdoes it”; “this is Zhen” (shi zhen) means “without doubt.”

For “three abysses” (san yuan), Liezi sometimes writes Pan (pronounced pan) for shen, evoking water swirling in a basin; the phonetic gloss on this classic says Sima Biao’s text had pan (coiling/gathering).

Old notes gloss di mi like tui (decline)—source unclear; here we follow Liezi as mao mi, grass bowing in the wind, in line with “wave and flow” (bo liu) below.

Scripture (Yingdi Wang, Chapter Three)

“Wuwei ming shi, wuwei mou fu, wuwei shi ren, wuwei zhi zhu.”

Do not force the post of “name-holder”; let names settle where they belong. Do not hoard the storehouse of schemes; let plans arise from where they should. Do not grab every task; let affairs fall to whoever should carry them. Do not parade cleverness; let wisdom itself be the master that coordinates all.

“Ti jin wu qiong, er you wu zhen; jin qi suo shou hu tian, er wu jian de, yi xu er yi.”

Take in the boundless body of reality and roam in the traceless realm (wu zhen). Fully receive what Heaven (tian) gives you, and do not treat anything as “what I have gained”—that is simply to stay empty and still.

“Zhi ren zhi yong xin ruo jing, bu jiang bu ying, ying er bu cang, gu neng sheng wu er bu shang.”

The person of utmost attainment uses the mind like a mirror: neither courting nor rejecting; responding when things come, not hoarding when they go. Thus he can prevail over things without being harmed by them.

(Main drift of Guo Xiang’s commentary)

Name, scheme, task, and knowing—each lets things take their own place, do their own work, bear their own burden, and be their own master.

Because the world is naturally like this, one can drive the myriad things through the endless. What Heaven bestows is already enough; stop at that sufficiency. If you feel “I have gained something,” you no longer know where to stop. When the heart is not empty, it cannot bear the weight of all feelings and affairs.

Using the mind like a mirror means reflecting without partiality: when something arrives, respond; when it leaves, let go. Even if the whole world came to the mirror, there would be no strain on the spirit.

Summary of Lü’s commentary: Treating “non-action” (wuwei) as a name-shell (only the title, not the real merit) leaves you without a private claim to power, yet no one in the world can rename your place for you. Treating it as a house of counsel (where plans are made) means you do not monopolize scheming, yet the world schemes on your behalf. Treating it as self-assumption of office means that though you yourself are inactive, those who carry out affairs still take responsibility. Treating it as the master of knowledge means you employ no crafty calculation, yet the world thinks for you. Embody what is boundless and extend brightness to the utmost; wander in the realm of no trace (wú zhèn)—where even ghosts and spirits cannot be seen, how much less ordinary people? In this way you fully receive what Heaven grants without taking yourself to have views or gains: this is what is called constantly following nature and not adding extra “life” (not fabricating additional “becoming”). “Emptiness” here does not mean first making a void and then emptying again—the heart is empty from the start. If the heart is like a bright mirror: without “holding” (grasping or sending out), what is past does not linger; without “welcoming,” what is future cannot be seen; responding without storing means the present cannot be filled up and possessed—thus one fully receives from Heaven and so can master things without being harmed by them.

Summary of Lin’s commentary: The heart of the perfected person is open when things arrive and still when affairs end, like the clarity of a mirror—responding to things without partiality, so beauty and ugliness cannot deceive. The perfected person has no busyness of self; right and wrong cannot deceive. Following the time and the pattern, the spirit is not harmed either.

Summary of Xiangdao’s commentary: The mirror faces things; when they arrive it responds, and its light does not hoard; when things leave, it lets them go, and the light returns to stillness. It does not welcome what comes or hold what goes; coming and going are endless yet one responds—constantly empty, without a fixed heart—and therefore masters things without being harmed. From “name-shell without action” through “no views, no gains,” the emptiness of the heart embodies the Dao; from “the heart of the perfected person” through “responding without storing,” the emptiness of the Dao reaches function.

Summary of Bixu’s commentary: If one is a name-shell, the form must wither; if a house of counsel, the spirit must be exhausted; if one assumes tasks, talent must be drained; if master of knowledge, understanding must be dimmed. If embodiment is not complete, there is a limit; if there are traces, wandering is incomplete. Fully receive what Heaven gives and simply entrust yourself to it; to have views and gains is not subtle—to have no views is merely emptiness as well. Use the heart like a mirror: when things come, they are reflected; mirroring their comings and goings, fair and foul do not stick. With no heart set on mastering things, things also cannot harm you.

Synthesis: This passage uses the four images—name-shell, house of counsel, self-assumption, master of knowledge—to show that the sage’s wuwei is not neglect but refraining from private fame, private plots, private office, and private cleverness, letting Heaven, things, and affairs transform themselves. The crux is the heart like a bright mirror: do not grasp the past or welcome the future; respond in the present and pass on, neither hoarding nor stagnating; fully receive from Heaven without “my” views or gains—empty in essence, effective in use, able to master things without being injured by them.

The four wu in “wei shan wu jin ming,” “wei mou fu,” “wei shi ren,” and “wei zhi zhu” all mean forbid or do not—much like wu (“do not”) in the Analects—and repay close attention.

• Wei shan wu jin ming: Do good without chasing a fine reputation.
• Wu wei mou fu: Do not treat scheming as your personal “storehouse”—do not rely on crafty calculation.
• Wu wei shi ren: Affairs must be done, but do not take the burden of “the one who does things” on yourself—act without carrying the pose of the doer.
• Wu wei zhi zhu: You may be without cleverness, but do not let “I am very knowing” be the master—do not treat wit as capital or as what rules you.

“Ti jin wu qiong, ji er xin you hu wu wu zhi shi”: Exhaust the body of the Dao to the boundless, and the mind can roam in the state before things arose.

“Tian shou wo yi ci li, wo neng jin zhi er bu zi yi wei you de; jian qi you de, ze jin yu ji yi”: Heaven entrusted me with this principle; I can carry it through without feeling I have “gained” anything—once you feel you have gained, you are already marked and have fallen to a lower level.

Here the author closes the whole passage with one word: xu (emptiness). The lines from “yong xin ruo jing” onward all explain that single xu. The rhythm rises and falls; plain language holds subtle craft—very fine.

Zhao Xuzhai combined this section with the later “Nanhai zhi di wei Shu…” (Lord Chaos of the southern sea…) into one chapter; his commentary is brief, so it is not discussed in detail here.

By the sense of the text, this passage follows the chapter where Jixian observes Huzi and sums up its meaning:

• Ming shi, mou fu, shi ren, zhi zhu: describe Jixian—relying on clever schemes to read people, seeking fame, taking affairs on himself.
• From “ti jin wu qiong” onward: describe Huzi’s way, unfathomably deep.
• “Zhi ren” means Huzi in particular: not set on defeating things outwardly, yet naturally able to prevail; letting Jixian retreat in shame is exactly that.
• Because he does not contend, he excels at overcoming things—how could outer things harm him? To see that entrusting yourself to the Dao (ren dao) yields inexhaustible effect, while entrusting yourself to technique (ren shu) limits what you can do.

The Lord of the Southern Sea was named Shu, the Lord of the Northern Sea was named Hu, and the Lord of the Central Region was named Hundun (Chaos). Shu and Hu often visited Hundun, who treated them well. Shu and Hu discussed repaying Hundun’s kindness and said: “People all have seven openings—for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing—only Hundun lacks them; let us try to open them for him.” They bored one opening a day; on the seventh day, Hundun died.

(This parable is often read alongside the Jixian/Huzi story: boring openings stands for reshaping original hundun with name, scheming, affairs, and knowing—and in the end destroying life.)

Plain-Language Commentary

Guo Xiang’s reading picks up on Laozi’s line “Those who act spoil it”: when you deliberately do and reshape things, you often ruin what was whole to begin with.

Lü Huiqing starts from the difference between Shu, Hu, and Hundun: you can take “Shu” as if the “north, yin” side suddenly appeared, and “Hu” as if the “central” side suddenly vanished—once being and non-being, yin and yang are split apart, “fang” (barriers, opposition) arises. Shu and Hu differ from Hundun, yet they have not fully left Hundun behind; if you know that “treating Hundun well” is good, but then turn around to “repay” it, the senses used for hearing, seeing, eating, and breathing get “bored open” day by day, more and more connected to outer things, and keeping the original simplicity becomes impossible.

The Yidu commentary stresses: the fullness of the Dao is like “Hundun,” its plainness like “Shu and Hu”; what is essential stays in the “center,” what is crude lies “outside.” Splitting the center into south and north is how the Dao comes to produce “fang.” To “fang” the Dao is often pushed from outside inward, which is why the text speaks of “meeting” at Hundun. Hundun was fine however things were, hence “they treated it very well.” Each boring of an aperture is one more injury of “having something”; when the seventh day’s boring killed Hundun, the point is: you need not wait until the days are complete—bore hard enough and that is already enough to destroy the body of the Dao.

The Xiangdao commentary takes yin and yang joined as Hundun; once Hundun is “fang,” yin and yang split. Being able to join is good; fixating on “fang” skews how the teaching is applied, so ruin comes easily. Laozi’s “there is an image, there is a thing, there is essence” points to states like Hundun and Shu–Hu. To harm Hundun’s de under the name of “repayment” is to extinguish the Dao with human sentiment; boring the apertures to death is to extinguish Heaven with the human. “Seven days” is hyperbole: you need not count to the end—you can kill Hundun thoroughly much sooner.

The Bixu commentary reads the allegory as “Hun” and “Dun” when the three qi are undivided and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) are not yet manifest, and as the great simplicity where being and non-being are not yet distinguished: the southern emperor stands for “deliberate action,” the northern for “non-action” (wuwei), the central emperor for great simplicity. The two southern and northern emperors do not recognize Hundun’s true nature and bore holes at random, so simplicity cannot be preserved—like Laozi’s “open the openings, help affairs along”: for a lifetime there is no recovery.

Wu Chou's note: "Shu" (Sudden) means form is already present in the hidden; "Hu" (Abrupt) means one has already entered the realm of counting in the midst of precaution. Hundun as a whole was originally complete, yet people treated him as the "Emperor of the Center" to protect and nurture—yet this still never departed from the moment when Shu and Hu met. When Shu and Hu met, both were originally in the realm of Hundun; to treat him well ought to have come from impartiality, without private designs; if one still had to "repay his virtue," one had already fallen into selfishness and harbored other intentions. The wholeness of the great Dao was thereby damaged, so one need not wait until the count of "seven days, one aperture per day" was complete—what was mixed had already divided, what was whole had already been guarded against, and Hundun died. This is precisely the outcome of that parable in Zhuangzi.

Zhao's note: The first four chapters of "The True Emperor" discuss the way of governing the world; the final chapter (the death of Hundun) develops the meaning of what came before and attributes it to the virtue of Hundun.

Yizhai says: This passage only means: relying on the cleverness of eyes and ears and forcibly measuring what one does not know becomes a burden to oneself; hence "slough off the limbs, dismiss the cleverness" describes returning to Hundun. It is ordinary language, yet written as "one aperture carved per day"—the brushwork is strikingly bold. Hundun is primordial Qi (vital energy); the human body originally has seven apertures, like an infant at first whose eyes, ears, mouth, and nose exist but have not yet produced knowing and seeing—this is the fullness of Hundun. Once knowing and seeing arise, joy, anger, liking, and disliking follow, and that is the apertures of Hundun being carved. Mencius said, "The great person does not lose the heart of a newborn child"—that is Hundun before carving; Zhuangzi turns this meaning around, opening another pivot, which appears even more singular. Later scholars can hardly match it.

This chapter totals seventy-four characters. Guo [Xiang] cites the Daode Jing and similar sources to sum it up in one phrase—brief, apt, and nothing surpasses it. After studying it, I occasionally had a narrow view of my own, appended after the various opinions.

In the Zhuangzi, Hun Dun (Chaos)—like hun cheng (wholeness undivided) in the Dao De Jing and hun lun (undifferentiated chaos) in the Liezi—names a state that is undivided, originally complete, and not dependent on later cultivation, and uses it to describe the Dao in its fullness.

Yet the world rises and falls, and the Dao shifts with the age: now present, now absent, so the wholeness of the Dao is split apart. When Laozi says “the Dao gives birth to One, One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three,” we are still in the undifferentiated phase, not yet at the point of carving and distinguishing.

When the two emperors Shu and Hu meet Hun Dun, things meet things and mind arises between them—like adding fuel to fire; in principle it is no different. Hun Dun was without distinction; treating him well would have been fitting. But if Shu and Hu could not forget attachment and wanted to repay a kindness, to “do something for him,” then Hun Dun’s virtue could not help being treated as something on which favor could be bestowed and which could be reshaped—and the burden of kindness and harm begetting each other followed. One aperture carved each day, and calamity deepened step by step. After seven days it was the same throughout; Hun Dun died—that is, the gate of desire opened and the guard of harmonious equilibrium was wholly lost; it had to turn out so.

Once the traces of emperors appear, the body of the Great Dao perishes—how is that different from carving seven apertures into Hun Dun?

"Responding to Emperors and Kings" and the Meaning of the Seven Inner Chapters (Plain-Language Interpretation)

In antiquity, those who answered Heaven’s mandate and ruled as emperors and kings acted through Wuwei (non-action); the ten thousand things then ripened of themselves. When no private desire filled their hearts, the realm felt itself rich; when they rested deep and still as an abyss, the people settled on their own. Yao, Shun, and the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou had already proved this in practice. Later rulers who took this as their model to carry on the lineage of the Way and set standards for the age—how could they be lumped together with those who “govern” by schemes and scramble for craft? That is why the Nanhua Jing (Zhuangzi) opens Responding to Emperors and Kings with Nie Que questioning Wang Ni: You Yu (Shun) stands for much plotting and worry, Tai Shi for Wuwei—Wuwei alone matches the Way of Heaven. That is the mandate and the turn of the calendar that true sovereigns should bear, and where the lives of countless people find their trust.

If you try to transform the people under Heaven with formulas and laws you have fixed yourself, it is like laying out arrows and nets on every side to catch birds and rats—you only drive them to fly high and far or burrow deep. Where there is deliberate action, the mind stirs; where the mind stirs, stratagem appears; once stratagem rises, deceit follows. Even the natural bond between father and son sometimes fails to hold—how much less can one expect, between ruler and people, the mutual forgetfulness of branch and wild deer, each leaving the other undisturbed? So when Tian Gen asked how to order the realm, the answer was to keep the heart serene and the breath wide and empty, following the ten thousand things without partiality. When Zi Ju asked how an enlightened king governs, the answer was to forget fame and gain and give well, letting each thing find its own joy—these replies all answer the way of “responding to emperors and kings”: using Wuwei to meet what must be done. Whoever holds the realm or a state—why not take their lesson from here?

In Zheng there was once a spirit-diviner named Ji Xian who could foretell life and death. He stands for the scheming scholar who reads the times closely enough to infer a state’s rise and fall—one who sees the subtle signs early and checks trouble before it sprouts, like the diviner’s yarrow and tortoise of the age. Yet the first time he saw Huzi, he mourned that Huzi would die; the second time he rejoiced that he was better; the third time he doubted his spirit was unsettled—until he could no longer read him at all. Clearly, skill that only watches form and color has its limit. The next day when they met again, Ji Xian lost himself and fled. Why did Huzi change without end while Ji Xian’s art failed? The point is this: those who infer affairs of state cannot escape human contrivance in their schemes and numbers, so their use runs out. A ruler who takes Wuwei as root, embodies the Way of Heaven, governs with robes at ease, lets spirit reach in all directions, merges without end with transformation, vast and undivided so the people cannot name his merit—how could stratagem measure him or number pierce him?

At the end of the chapter, the Southern Emperor and Northern Emperor meet in the Center and discuss the working of the Dao: guarding against separation from things, not entering into “having,” suddenness and slowness as two names for presence and absence—this is why “guard” and “subtle” part ways. To unite them today is not wrong; yet “one” already implies “guard,” and thus opens the chisel of suddenness and slowness. Only if you treat things well will there be a good chiseler; better still that both sides be without mind, forget each other, and transform together. A ship of ten thousand bushels cannot hold a leak of one needle—why wonder that when the seven openings were carved into Hundun, he died on the seventh day? Reflect on the whole Nanhua classic: its words surge like a flood, ten thousand voices at once, seemingly beyond square and compass—yet the inner chapters’ hidden meaning exhausts spirit and transformation, the Dao runs through Heaven and human, and their structure is as strict as the Yijing and Laozi. Beginners who miss the core often wander among the five colors of sunlight. Examine how each chapter is framed and worded—each has its reason: it begins with Free and Easy Wandering and ends with Responding to Emperors and Kings. The key to learning the Way is to turn back and seek in oneself, finding joy everywhere—then look outward at the ten thousand things and see nothing not equal; when things are equal, self can be forgotten; when self is forgotten, the gist of Nourishing Life is within reach. Nourishing life is doing well by oneself; responding to the world is doing well by things—both require filling oneself with De (Virtue/Power). When De is full, the ten thousand things accord. Taking this as teacher, marking the source of the Way, patterning all under Heaven, continuing the life-line for sages and clearing the fog for ten thousand generations—the root of The Great Ancestral Teacher is established. Extended to the way of governing, inward one may become sage or spirit; outward one may answer as emperor or king—this Way gathered in one person is not too much, spread under Heaven not too little. The work of emperors and kings is said to be the sage’s leftover task—yet nothing greater than making the age sincere, leading people to quiet, and answering transformation to the utmost; hence the inner chapters close on this theme. Suddenness and Slowness are born while Hundun dies—an image of outer kingly success and inner sagehood’s loss.

Today many are “carved and die” like Hundun—what can wake them? Answer: stop the openings, close the gates, use them without strain—perhaps that is the true practice of “Hundun.” Look again at the seven chapters: each title has its own focus, examples dense and easy to confuse. A glimpse of the thread: pair ancient figures whose De matched each theme—Free and Easy Wandering peaks in Xu You and Song Rongzi, freeing the realm from the bonds of desire so each completes Heaven’s allotment; Equalizing Things peaks in Zi Qi and Wang Ni, clearing confusion over this and that, right and wrong, until sameness opens the Great Thoroughfare; Nourishing Life peaks in Laozi and Peng Zu, correcting the mistake of over-tending the body and knowing what the way of life must put first; The Human World peaks in Qu Yuan and Jie Yu, showing when to advance or withdraw without brushing the dragon’s scales to invite harm; Signs of Full Virtue peaks in Wang Tai and Shen Tu Jia—inner fullness needs no outer adornment; flourishing De keeps things from leaving; The Great Ancestral Teacher peaks in Confucius and Yan Hui—sage virtue without clinging to rank, spreading this Way to awaken the people; Responding to Emperors and Kings peaks in Shun and Yu alone—where songs of praise and lawsuits find their home, answering Heaven and suiting people, not acting from last resort. Thus Nanhua looks back to ancient sages and brush them into scripture, a measure for ten thousand generations. The real person’s attainment can be sought in the seven chapters—and need not be chained to them; one may leave the seven and still align with them: outwardly blending with dust and light, inwardly keeping wise illumination, passing from the ordinary to the sacred, opening and closing the womb of transformation—not to be bound by form and teaching. Those who study Nanhua well, who seek within the inner chapters, have already grasped more than half.

Outer Chapters: Pianmu, Section One

Are six fingers or an extra digit something one is born with? Yet they count as surplus in De (Virtue/Power). Are wen and hanging warts something that grow on the body? Yet they count as surplus in one’s xing (innate nature). When benevolence and righteousness are piled into many forms and that whole package is forced into the five viscera for daily use, that too is not the straight path that Dao and De were meant to take.

So: an extra lump of flesh joined to the foot is redundant; an extra finger on the hand is redundant. When many layers of emotion are heaped onto the five viscera, when conduct in benevolence and righteousness is pushed past the mark, and when craft and cleverness are applied in too mixed a way—all of that belongs to the same kind of fault: having “one piece too many.”

(continued) Seeking outward in this way, the mind is already more than half spent.

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

Toes joined at birth and extra fingers come from the inherent nature of the physical form—they are not imposed from outside. Whether toes are joined or not, each kind of nature is self-sufficient in itself; only extra limbs like joined toes and extra fingers appear “excessive” relative to nature, hence they are called “superfluous.”

Some say: these are not what nature desires and should be cut off and discarded—if so, that would mean the Dao cannot preserve the myriad things, De cannot sustain them, people would have “useless parts,” and things would have “wasted uses”—how could that match the intent of “perfect governance”?

Things differ in size and in how much they have; what is large resembles “joined” excess, what is abundant resembles “surplus.” The difference between joined limbs and surplus growth appears in every kind of thing. If one does not let each thing rest in its proper place, one has abandoned the nature of all things.

Those who guard against things do not blindly pursue “more.” So those who heap many “methods” (fang) onto benevolence and righteousness, listing them in the five viscera, still only uphold one school’s “correctness”—they cannot yet align each thing’s nature without fixed methods.

The more or less of “methods” has no fixed boundary; once there is a difference of more and less, there is a fixed allotment that cannot be swapped. When each keeps its place, nothing fails to find satisfaction.

Others say: since “more” cannot correct “less,” they want to discard “more” and only rely on “less”—is that not abandoning the whole world?

Joined limbs relative to hands and feet arise directly from ming (life/nature) and xing (nature)—they must be so, not because they are “useful”; just as the dispositions of the five viscera are naturally multifaceted, if the “less” side is forced upward, it turns perverse and loses the “ utmost fitting” that belongs to the whole.

Cleverness has its allotted place: being multifaceted is not surplus, having fewer methods is not lack. But when emotions surge, one need not despise the small and prize the much. If one can forget what is prized and keep one’s plain allotment, there is no “excess” in nature, and every method can be complete.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary:

Joined thumbs and extra fingers are not outside nature, yet they are what De does not include; attached wens and hanging growths are not outside form, yet they are what xing (nature) does not include. Where there should be nothing, something appears—hence “inflating qi.” Matching the Five Phases, five constants, five affairs, and five viscera, applying many methods in benevolence and righteousness—they are not absent from the five viscera, yet if they are not the correctness of Dao and De, they are still merely “what should not be.” Joined feet and extra fingers on the hands are useless; the correctness of Dao and De lies only in Wuwei (non-action) to return to oneness.

Lin Yidu’s commentary:

Joined limbs are born with the form and come from xing; surplus wens arise because of form and come from form. Pair xing with De: xing is in Heaven, De in the person; pair form with xing: xing is inner, form outer. What comes from Heaven, people call “superfluous”; what comes from outside, the inner treats as “superfluous”—this is the pattern of nature.

Benevolence and righteousness and Dao and De never fail to work together; the reason Dao and De dislike the traces of benevolence and righteousness is like surplus wens being hated by the form. Joined limbs illustrate the root of benevolence and righteousness; surplus wens illustrate what can be removed from them—the root of benevolence and righteousness also comes from xing. Surplus wens come from form and can be removed, as the traces of benevolence and righteousness come from human artifice and can be removed. If one can forget the traces of benevolence and righteousness, one merges with the principle of ming and xing and becomes one with Dao and De; if one forgets the burden of the body, joined limbs are only traces of xing. Form and xing illustrate the correctness of Dao and De: joined limbs come from xing and do not differ from form-nature and the four limbs; surplus wens are things outside form—the traces of benevolence and righteousness are things outside xing. Remove them to complete the form; forget them to operate the Dao.

Commentary by Chen Xiangdao: One’s original nature must be established through De, and the physical form completed through that nature. An extra thumb or extra finger ought not to be so in the sense of De; hence they are called an “excess” over one’s nature. The sprouts of benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi) are fully present from the first stirrings of life, like extra branches on the Way; their exercise appears only after birth, like extra warts on the Way. People know useless branches and burdensome warts for what they are, yet do not see that practicing ren and yi is often the same: when one esteems Dao and De, ren and yi look redundant; when one fixates on ren and yi, Dao and De become a burden.

Commentary by Bixu zi Chen Jingyuan: Webbed fingers are innate, arising from nature yet superfluous after birth; warts appear only after birth, arising from form yet adding strain beyond nature—both are called “excess.” When the Five Phases are balanced, the five constants are not skewed—that is the correct path of Dao and De. When ren and yi are overweighted today, it shows the five viscera’s endowment of qi must be deficient somewhere; hence this is not the orthodox way of Dao and De. Webbed fingers spring from the dispositions of the five viscera—useless digits, unfit for biting or grasping. If on top of those dispositions one grows more webbing, if the practice of ren and yi turns crooked, if the use of cleverness multiplies in many directions, it is like adding webbed fingers where function already exists—the load grows heavier still.

Zhu Xi’s Lin Xiyi (Yanzhai) of Zhuxi says: What one receives at birth is called nature (xing); what each person uniquely attains is called De (virtue/power). Webbed fingers belong to the natural; compared with what all alike receive from Heaven, they count as “excess”; warts that become a burden are the same. Here the usage of “xing” and “De” differs slightly from the Confucian classics. “Many directions” is like “many ends”—does it mean arraying them among the five viscera? If ren, yi, and the rest do not issue from within, they are not the orthodox Dao and De. Mencius’s Gao zi held that yi lies outside; Zhuangzi also placed ren outside. Treating ren and yi as crooked and grouping them with cleverness—all are seen as not the “inward-oriented” learning; hence they appear as needless busyness.

Chu's interpretation runs as follows: What heaven bestows is called xing (nature); what allows the myriad things to grow and flourish accordingly is called De (Virtue/Power); when ming (life-destiny), De, and xing are fully embodied in the person, they form the physical xing (form). All of these are received from nature, so one can honor life, align with the Dao, embody heaven, and stand as the ultimate pivot—sincere and unceasing. Whatever lies outside De in its proper sense is superfluous branch and wen—what people mean when they push too hard on "benevolence, righteousness, and cleverness," which is not the straight path of Dao and De. That is why Master Zhuang (Zhuangzi) placed such discussions at the head of the outer chapters. Some feel Zhuangzi undervalues benevolence and righteousness too sharply; in fact the teaching of Laozi and Zhuangzi is not fond of grand slogans or of deliberately slighting benevolence and righteousness. Rather, when Dao and De are truly honored, benevolence and righteousness are already contained within them. What was then called "benevolence and righteousness" was mostly side branches, not the main road—so it had to be sorted out and criticized. When benevolence and righteousness spring from a settled heart and conduct in accord with the mean, how far can they be from Dao and De? As for extra fingers and wen-like growths, they are merely qi gathered for a time; at first they neither ache nor itch. While one lives with them, letting them be without rejection is also possible. Some dislike them as obstacles to cultivation and want to cut or bite them off—the injury is then all the greater. Hence the perfected person is skilled in parables to dispel confusion, so that learners may silently realize inwardly: seeing the true through the false, the great principle of heaven's mandate can be kept whole, the preciousness of "being granted life" can be restored, and Dao and things are one while heaven and human merge. Looking back at extra fingers and wen, why should the body be burdened by them? So-called cleverness and benevolence-righteousness also issue from De; they too are gateways of the Dao—only one must not merely follow their tracks and seek goodness in outer affairs, but reflect back to the root and unite with the great thoroughfare; then one returns to the subtlety of Dao and De—where is the bias?

The phrase "duofang yu congming zhi yong" (multifarious use of cleverness)—in current editions all read duofang. Chen Jingyuan of Bixu commentary notes that Zhang Junfang's collated version lacks the character fang here, citing the later line "duo yu cong" as evidence—a long argument. (This concerns textual collation of variant readings in the Zhuangzi.)

Those who overuse their eyes disturb the five colors and lavish ornament until azure, yellow, brocade patterns, and embroidered insignia dazzle the sight—is this not the way of men like Lizhu, famed for piercing vision? Those who overuse their ears disturb the five tones and abuse the twelve pitch pipes until the sounds of metal, stone, silk, and bamboo, of the yellow bell and the great bell, flood without end—is this not the way of men like Shi Kuang, the blind master of music? Those who branch off into “humaneness” inflate virtue and block their innate nature to win reputation, until the world beats gongs and drums to follow rules that cannot truly be lived—is this not the way of men like Zeng and Shen, the Confucian exemplars? Those who never stop wrangling in disputation pile up phrases and play with names, spending mind on sophistries such as “hard and white” and “same and different,” exhausting themselves in useless empty talk—is this not the way of men like Yang and Mo, of the Yangist and Mohist schools? All of these belong to the method of “extra branching side shoots”; they are not the Great Dao, the most centered and correct path in the world.

What is truly centered and correct does not cast away life and nature as they originally are. Therefore what should stay joined is not forcibly split in two; what is a side branch is not treated as the main trunk; what should be long is not resented as too much; what should be short is not resented as insufficient.

Thus though the wild duck’s legs are short, forcing them longer would only make it suffer; though the crane’s legs are long, cutting them shorter would only make it grieve. What by nature should be long cannot be cut off; what by nature should be short cannot be extended. There is no need to fret over “cutting or keeping, shortening or lengthening.”

(Note: Lizhu is a legendary figure of exceptionally sharp sight; Shi Kuang was a famous blind musician of the Spring and Autumn period; Zeng and Shen refer to the Confucian revered Zeng Shen and the fish-named exemplar Shen; Yang and Mo refer to the Yangist and Mohist schools; “hard and white” and “same and different” are famous disputations of the School of Names.)

Lü Huiqing’s commentary explains that “ming” (clear sight) means taking only what one’s eyes register as “seeing,” and tying that inner “what I see” together with “what appears outside” for side‑by‑side comparison; “cong” ( keen hearing) means taking only what one’s ears register as “hearing,” while pitch and string‑music all lie outside—so the more one listens, the more one tries to pile on from without.

Thus the source from which Dao (the Way) originally arises, and the path one can follow by according with one’s nature, are in themselves enough for everyone under heaven—nothing extra is needed. If one forces virtue upward and blocks natural feeling, people come to despise the life they already have. Only those who go too far and use such conduct to win a name will set the world buzzing after a practice of “never enough”—this is why figures like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu sprout side‑branches on ren (humaneness) and talk themselves ever further off course.

Dao rests in not speaking; when clever disputation is taken for Dao, that is no longer Dao. It is like valuing roof‑tiles for stacking piece by piece, or cord for tying strand by strand—such readings smooth out the lines so the mind of concealment (cang) can stay empty and still, roaming among “hard and white” and “same and different” (the name‑debates associated with Gongsun Long); again, like “half‑steps and standing posture,” using “uselessness” as a metaphor and honoring a law of “never enough”—that is again Zeng and Shi sprouting branches on ren; Dao lies in not speaking, and disputation is not Dao; tiles prized in scale‑like rows, cord prized straight in the strand and tight in the knot—such punctuating of the text also serves to read it through, so the hidden heart values emptiness and wanders among hard‑white and same‑different; “worn gait and tiny steps” standing for useless talk, like piled tiles and knotted cord—this is Yang Zhu and Mozi running side by side on disputation. None of this is the straightest path under heaven.

What is straightest is not losing the disposition of life and nature (xingming zhi qing): wuwei (non‑action) and ziran (spontaneous naturalness), neither adding nor subtracting.

Those whose sight is too sharp are easily disturbed by the dazzling colors of external things, and fail to see that turning inward in contemplation reveals what is more fundamental. Those whose hearing is too keen are easily disturbed by the clamor of the five tones, and fail to hear a “harmony of silence” that no ear can catch.

Those who branch off from Ren (benevolence) into side issues treat Ren as a rule to guard at all costs. They elevate their virtue and obscure their original nature to win reputation; they stir one another like players on sheng pipes and reeds, urging the world to follow their ways—as if that were never enough.

Those who branch off from disputation into side issues pile words as precarious as stacked tiles and hold their theses as tight as knotted rope. They split hairs, cling stubbornly, and spend their strength on empty talk about paradoxes such as “a white horse is not a horse.” All of this is the path of excessive side branches—not the most central Way under heaven. The most central Way under heaven is Dao and De—Dao and De rest on the principles of nature and life (xingming); nothing more.

As for what is “utterly upright”: it straightens external things rather than being dragged by them; it does not lose each being’s natural disposition, so the boundaries of things become clear of themselves. Therefore: what should be joined need not be forced into “parallel” growth; what should branch need not be forced into “extra” growth; what should be long need not be resented as too much; what should be short need not be resented as too little—each follows its natural allotment, and there is nowhere for worry to lodge, so it dissolves.

Chen Xiangdao’s note (meaning): To elevate virtue and block one’s nature in order to display Ren is like Zeng Shen “being benevolent” toward a parent who errs, or Shi Qiu “being benevolent” toward a lord who errs. “Stacked-tile” and “knotted-rope” rhetoric is deliberately ornate speech to win praise. The sage does not seek fame, yet those who sprout side branches from Ren collect reputation—yet the benevolent ought not to worry excessively; when they do, they stray further from the Way. The body naturally has no parallel thumb or extra finger; parallel and extra growth arise on the body—that is not the body’s normal state. The Way naturally has no name of Ren and Yi; Ren and Yi are extended from the Way—that is not the Way’s normal state. When the body rests in its normal state, parallel and extra growth cannot burden it—so “joined” need not mean parallel, and “branch” need not mean extra. When the Way rests in its normal state, Ren and Yi cannot become a calamity— hiding De within and following one’s nature is enough. People today are already trapped in the trouble of Ren and Yi, yet still stare wide-eyed in worry—that is like cutting off a parallel thumb or biting off an extra finger. Those who are not benevolent yet paste on Ren and Yi as a banner to grasp at wealth and rank violate the disposition of nature and life and artificially create parallel and extra growth.

Conjoined Thumb and Doubled Vision

“Conjoined thumb” (pianmu) means the thumb is fused with the neighboring finger; measured against the ordinary five-finger hand, it counts as “one finger short.” “Doubled vision” (pianming) means eyesight is doubled or exceptionally keen, and people call that “having surplus.” The sage gathers in the gaze and turns hearing inward, using them to nourish what is within. Set against the world: some admire the cleverness of sharp-eyed, unrestrained types like Li and Kuang, letting ears and eyes run loose among outer things—and so they also turn their innate disposition of life and nature (xingming zhi qing) into superfluous offshoots.

Chen Bixu’s Exposition

The world admires Li-Kuang-style cleverness and indulges ears and eyes outward, wearing down body and frame—Li and Kuang become offshoots that disturb the commanders of ear and eye. Those who sprout branches on “benevolence” (ren)—figures like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu—raise virtue, block native nature to win fame, and rush about in all directions, likewise losing true nature: Zeng and Shi become standards that bewilder the human heart. The disputations of the vertical-horizontal strategists pile like stacked tiles; miscellaneous learning twists like knotted cord. In debate, do those who guard against the subtle not alter phrases and play with words? Do the cunning persuasions not split and merge right and wrong? Do the praised petty paths not stand like a half-step, locked in place? Great eloquence seems slow; much talk ends in exhaustion—hence Yang Zhu and Mozi can be called chiefs of the vast, bizarre, and uncanny. “Surplus” and “shortage” in form and nature are both not the utmost upright Way (Dao). Whoever can set himself right by the upright nature he receives is called “correcting the correct” (zhengzheng); if you enslave the other to yourself or yourself to the other, both miss the disposition of life and nature. Joined without making a conjoined limb, separated without making a splayed foot—each forgets differences of bodily form. A crane’s leg need not be shortened, a duck’s leg need not be lengthened—no need to chase worry on purpose; worry will disperse on its own.

Yizhai Oral Exegesis

Five colors and patterned ritual, ancient regalia—these can nourish the eye; Zhuangzi likewise points out: if one loses the disposition of life and nature, then joining becomes conjoined limbs and separating becomes splayed feet; one should forget bodily form in mutual regard. Do not break the crane’s shank or splice the duck’s shank—nowhere to go yet worry goes, and worry too departs of itself—the same intent as above: do not harm inner disposition (qing) for outer “sameness” in form.

The oral commentary of Yan Zhai on this passage says: the five colors and patterned designs that the ancients used to nourish the eyes, Zhuangzi treats as licentious disorder—this is the meaning of Laozi’s “the five colors make the eyes blind.” Li Zhu was one who excelled in the clarity of sight; if you think that is wrong, those who win by sharp eyesight think it right. The same holds for excessive cleverness. Virtue (De) is naturally still, yet if one forcefully learns to practice ren (humaneness), that is like uprooting De and blocking one’s nature, so that people under Heaven are stirred into confusion and rush to follow arduous codes of conduct. Much talk without substance is like piling tiles, tying knots, or tampering with wording to show off in debate—then the mind wanders among disputes such as “hard and white” and “sameness and difference.” The phrase “exhausting the trivial and toiling on tiptoe” means that words are useless yet one prides oneself on them, laboring in vain. If you think that wrong, followers of Yang Zhu and Mozi think it right. The extra side branches all speak of minor points, not the utmost correctness. “Correct correctness” means what is so of itself, without losing the truth of xing (nature) and ming (life). Hence one who “fits” does not become an extra finger (pian zhi), does not qi (strain upward on tiptoe), does not have surplus, and does not fall short—these lines repeat the earlier sense of “small as an autumn hair’s tip, large as Mount Tai.” Qi is rising on tiptoe and forcing oneself; wherever there is such straining, one cannot rest level and at ease. The duck’s legs are short and the crane’s long by inborn xing; where xing finds its ease, worry need not be deliberately removed. The line “how full of worry are the ren (humane)!” includes Yao, Shun, Confucius, and Mencius.

This section develops the preceding text: each person has a proper xing, each xing has its native capacity, each capacity has its measure—not one hair’s breadth may be forced upward. Thus those who admire Li Zhu guard against excessive sight, those who admire Shi Kuang impair their hearing, those who imitate Zeng Shen and Shi Yu exceed in ren, and those who study Yang and Mo skew toward disputation—all take what is insufficient and yearn for what is surplus, climbing ever higher without end, which is not the utmost correctness under Heaven. Those who are utterly correct exhaust the truth of xing and ming and envy nothing: people rest in their allotments, things obtain their places—to fit is not to be an extra finger, not to qi, long and short each suit their measure, without the burden of surplus or lack, and the world’s cares need not be chased away before they depart of themselves. This is called fulfilling one’s own xing and then fulfilling the xing of things; thus to complete the joy of things is how one completes one’s own joy.

On close reading of the text, “pile tiles” should read “pile balls”; “those correct correct ones” should follow the earlier wording as “utmost correctness”; “does not qi” should be qi (to strain on tiptoe)—all slips in transmission.

Textual Note (Title Section)

Volumes 23 and 24 of Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Classic of Nanhua) were compiled by Chu Boxiu of the Song dynasty and are included in the Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries. What follows belongs to the outer chapter Pian Mu (Connected Toes), the second [chapter of that section].

Plain-Language Interpretation

Main idea: Are benevolence and righteousness (Ren and Yi) really at odds with human feeling? Why then is it said that “benevolent people” worry so much? When toes are joined, forcing them apart hurts enough to make one weep; when a finger grows extra, biting it off hurts enough to make one cry out. One case is “too little,” the other “too much,” yet the pain is the same. The so-called benevolent people of today knit their brows and dim their eyes, fretting over the age; unbenevolent people violate the original endowment of life and nature to chase wealth and rank. Seen this way, treating Ren and Yi as rules imposed from outside—is that not turning away from what is genuinely human? From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou downward, why has the world been so noisy?

Using hooks, lines, and compasses to “straighten” the ten thousand things is to cut away their native character; using inked cords and lacquer to “fix” them is to encroach on their inherent De (Virtue/Power). Using ritual and music to bend the human heart and Ren and Yi to pacify the world in fact destroys changran—the natural state in which each thing keeps its proper place. Changran means: what is curved need not rely on hooks, what is straight need not rely on lines, what is round need not rely on compasses, what is square need not rely on squares; joining need not rely on lacquer, binding need not rely on cord. The world could originally live and obtain each in peace; the principle is one in ancient and modern times and must not be arbitrarily diminished. If Ren and Yi are wound around people like lacquer and cord, and one insists on moving about inside the natural realm of Dao and De, the world will only grow more confused. Small confusion scrambles one’s direction; great confusion scrambles one’s inborn nature. How do we know? From the time Yu Shun stirred the world with Ren and Yi, there has been no one who did not run himself ragged for Ren and Yi, using right and wrong in Ren and Yi to replace people’s natural endowment—

Guo Xiang’s emphasis (summary): Ren and Yi were originally within human feeling too; one need only follow and allow them. If one fears that Ren and Yi are “against human feeling” and worries all day, that is what “much worry” means. Joined toes are “insufficient” and weep because they are forcibly cut; an extra finger is “surplus” and cries because it is forcibly severed. When all under heaven exhaust themselves for Ren and Yi and swap their nature for Ren and Yi, it is the same principle.

Guo Xiang’s reading: Benevolence and righteousness are already woven into human feeling; it is enough to go along with them. If one constantly frets that ren and yi “do not fit human feeling,” that anxiety itself is excessive worry. Zhuangzi says that webbed toes are cut because they seem “not enough,” and extra fingers are bitten off because they seem “superfluous”—if everyone measured and trimmed themselves this way against others, the myriad things would differ in ten thousand ways and worry would crop up everywhere. When each rests in its inborn nature, completes itself without harm, what worry remains? Once traceable marks such as “universal love” become objects of esteem, the world’s gaze turns chaotic; using such esteem-worthy traces to drain the spirit, then worrying after disaster strikes, is like first pushing people into trouble and then “rescuing” them—yet present government and teaching treat this very pattern as “benevolence.” If there were no traces to esteem, each would keep to their place—who would mutilate themselves to imitate others or grasp what is not theirs? The myriad things have a constant suchness; let them be natural without forced augmentation, and they share sameness while each attaining its own without self-consciousness, unseparated from things yet always whole: resting in the Dao and finding sufficiency in oneself, holding to simplicity and going alone—between these there is no need to borrow things or act with contrivance. When ren and yi become a chain of marks shown to others, they only suffice to bewilder the myriad things and make people guard and obstruct their true nature. Strutting benevolence and exalting righteousness forfeits constant suchness and heads toward the realm of death—this is great delusion.

That living at ease with things without harm was never done in order to “perform benevolence,” yet the trace of benevolence appears; that the myriad principles each hold their proper place was never done in order to “perform righteousness,” yet the achievement of righteousness shows itself. Each holding its place without harm did not come about because ren and yi summoned it—yet the world gallops to copy others, abandoning the self to chase the other, and constant suchness is lost. The heart’s disorder does not necessarily come from ugliness—it often comes from beauty; the world’s disorder does not necessarily come from evil—it often comes from ren and yi—so ren and yi become the tools that stir up the world. Right and wrong use ren and yi to alter native nature; though Yu Shun had no mind to alter nature, the nature of the world had already been altered beforehand.

Lü Huìqíng’s reading: If ren and yi are listed among the five viscera (the feelings stored in heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys), and it is also said that “great benevolence is not benevolent, supreme righteousness is not righteous,” how can one say they are not human feeling? It is only because they are pushed too far and pursued not through the Dao that the nature of the world is altered first.

Lv’s commentary explains that although benevolence and righteousness are placed within the five viscera, “great benevolence” does not show itself as ordinary benevolence, and “supreme righteousness” does not show itself as ordinary righteousness—if one still interprets them by the usual rules of human sentiment and social convention, one will go astray. The trouble is that people push benevolence and righteousness too far and do not align with the true standard of Dao and De, so they end up doubting that benevolence and righteousness fit human feeling.

What is called “supernumerary limb” (pianzhi)—an extra branch or growth—may mean one too many or one too few for the hands and feet; if you cut it off, the person still grieves—in that respect, both cases are the same. Today’s so-called “benevolent person” wears worry in the eyes and frets for the world, as if carrying too many supernumerary limbs; others ruin their lives and scramble for wealth and rank, as if missing a limb. Yet neither sort understands that this is not the natural state of life and nature; if they insist on clinging to these things, they weep when cut away and cry out when bitten—just as one agonizes over an extra limb.

Needing compass and ink line to straighten things, needing glue and lacquer to bind them—that is trimming away original nature and harming De, losing the natural norm. One in the natural norm does not need rules, glue, or lacquer to be upright and firm; not knowing where life comes from or where attainment comes from, neither corrupted in antiquity nor refurbished in the present—that is what is called changran, the “constant naturalness,” and the true alignment of Dao and De. Given that, why must benevolence and righteousness wrap tightly like glue and rope, leaving people adrift inside them until the world is confused: directions reversed, east taken for west; nature reversed, Wuwei (non-action) taken for deliberate action? Humans are born in quietude, yet benevolence and righteousness are summoned to disturb them—that is using benevolence and righteousness to replace and rewrite human nature.

This passage from Yi Hai Zuan Wei explains that when Ren and Yi (benevolence and righteousness) are treated as rules imposed from outside, they turn away from human feeling and from nature—which is why Zhuangzi questioned whether “models of Ren and Yi” such as Zeng Shen and Shi Yu truly accorded with one’s xing (innate nature).

The gist of Yidu Zhu is: Ren and Yi ought to be rooted in human qing (feeling/disposition); if you strip virtue out and block the original nature, then use Ren and Yi to frame people, that is no longer natural. Zhuangzi doubted whether Ren and Yi were necessarily what human feeling is by nature—otherwise why were Zeng and Shi so full of sorrow when they practiced Ren? The ancients practiced Ren and Yi as a natural overflow from their nature; later ages chased the traces left by Ren and Yi and turned it into deliberate artifice, so all they saw was distress. If you do not entrust yourself to the Way of Heaven (tiandao) and instead treat “pianzhi” (extra branches—metaphor for the artificial burden of Ren and Yi) as the affliction of the human way and try to cut them off, you weep and grieve. The pianzhi image: if Ren and Yi can silently merge with nature and share one body with Dao and De, they cannot be removed; if not, and people only follow the traces, seeing the traces they want to cut them away—that is what becomes sorrow.

Those called “humane” in the world today haomu (brows knit with care) over the age; when the heart is troubled, the eyes are unsettled. When things are left to their own course there is peace; when the qing of life and nature is harmed, there is grief. Pianzhi too are natural to xing; now wanting to bite them off and discard them is like the humane person, troubled by the world’s ills and wishing to save it, yet only adding worry. The inhumane, greedy for wealth and rank, tear apart the qing of life and nature and often use the traces of Ren and Yi as a pretext for hypocrisy—hence the doubt that Ren and Yi are not human qing.

Since the Three Dynasties, pu (uncarved simplicity) has been guarded against and cannot be restored—how noisy it all is. Needing hook, cord, square, and compass to set things straight is not natural straightness—it is called “carving xing.” Needing cord, contract, glue, and lacquer to make things hold is not natural solidity—it is called “encroaching on De.” Bending and twisting come from the tail end of ritual and music; houxu (soothing warmth) comes from the traces of Ren and Yi—using these to comfort hearts under heaven is losing changran (the constant, natural state). The constant state under heaven—does it wait on external things to be straight or solid? Not knowing how one lives yet living, not knowing how one obtains yet obtaining—thus past and present align, life and death align; things cannot harm and there is no loss—so why must the traces of Ren and Yi be like glue and lacquer, rope upon rope, endlessly chained, wandering between Dao and De?

This says that followers of Zeng and Shi could not wander in Dao and De with an empty heart; instead they were bound by Ren and Yi and could not free themselves, while people under heaven competed for the name of Ren and Yi and confused their minds. Yifang (changing methods or paths to awakening) can still be understood; yixing (changing one’s nature) is lost with no return—that is the distinction between small and great. Zeng and Shi inherited the traces of Ren and Yi, so they can be criticized; the Ren and Yi of Youyu Shi (Shun) filled his xing—why would Zhuangzi reject that? The point is to blame where it had to begin: the early kings established Ren and Yi to complete the people’s xing and restore them to the Dao; later ages, from the leftover threads of that teaching, adorned the traces and treated them as the utmost of Heaven’s mandate. Clinging to traces that complete xing and then calling that xing—how could that make people abandon the name and delight in the reality? What is rejected is Youyu’s traces; what is preserved is Youyu’s heart. The jing says, “He received the mandate from Heaven—only Shun alone”—precisely taking his preserved heart.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Bi Xuzi’s commentary says: Using carving and shaping to “complete” something is in fact whittling away human nature; forcibly joining, forcing fit, and setting up defenses damages virtue—these all depart from the way things naturally are.

Hemp and flax should bend or stand straight as they will—why need hooks and lines to straighten them? Pearls and jade should be round or square as they are—why need compass and square to cut them? Pine and dodder vine should twine as they naturally do—why need lacquer and glue to bind them? Joined branches and shared grain-heads should stand together as they do—why need rope to tie them? The stuff and inborn nature of the ten thousand things are all naturally so; therefore each thing arises on its own and each finds its proper place—the same in ancient times and today, with nothing artificially raised or lowered.

Abandoning the Dao and De to chase benevolence and righteousness is called “changing direction”; harming life for fame and profit is called “changing one’s nature.” From the time of Shun, promoting the worthy has instead spread disorder; rallying the world under the banner of benevolence and righteousness has stirred up the world, so that everyone under heaven runs after it without rest. Those who would preserve Heaven’s mandate also boast and compete with one another until they are lost—this is what “changing” means.

Yizhai’s oral commentary says: A supernumerary finger (pianzhi) is a bodily ailment, yet it cannot be cut off by force; forced amputation only adds suffering. “Haomu” (eyes half-closed, lashes thick) suggests sitting alone in quiet and wearing oneself out with care for the world; craving wealth and rank is likewise self-torment. Hence both are mentioned together. Again one sighs: Do benevolence and righteousness really match human feeling? They say these are not what comes from the root. From the Three Dynasties downward this fashion has flourished—how noisy it has become!

Nature and virtue arise from the natural; they are not human manufacture. If one insists that only through cultivation can one be “correct,” that is self-injury. Hooks, lines, lacquer, and glue are all metaphors for human artifice. Bending, soothing, and warming to comfort the world—all miss the constant; straight and bent, square and round need no human hand—that is right principle. “You” (to lead astray) and “you” (foxtail millet) sound alike: what grows rank and weedy—who is doing the growing? What things share in common—with whom do they share it? Neither knowing where it comes from nor what is obtained, ancient and modern are one—no increase, no decrease.

“Lianlian buyi” (linking on without end) describes lacquer binding itself, rope binding itself. Turning away from nature to establish benevolence and righteousness, acting without pause, leads to clinging and blockage—how can one move freely within the Dao and De? In vain one confuses the world. Small confusion shifts the four directions; great confusion changes Heaven and Earth’s nature. Setting up the name of benevolence and righteousness to stir the world, the world is driven to run for it; knowing only benevolence and righteousness and not the Dao and De is using external things to alter one’s nature.

Righteousness and benevolence originally arise from human nature and feeling; if one is not truly a person of such virtue, what appears is only pretense. Like supernumerary fingers (pianzhi) or extra branch-like digits (zhizhi) that grow on the body—what is redundant on the form, people naturally dislike.

Nan Hua (that is, Zhuangzi) means: seeing the world honor benevolence and righteousness, people abandon their true selves to imitate others, follow outward traces and forget the root—hence the lament: are benevolence and righteousness truly human constants? They twist innate nature and are done on purpose, not from settled spontaneity; they take the world’s troubles onto oneself as worry. Fearing the realm is not at peace, one rushes to save it and still fears it is not enough; looking everywhere, anxious and troubled—is this not like cutting off supernumerary fingers (jue pian) or gnawing off extra digits (he zhi)?

Those without benevolence may throw away life without a thought, grasping for wealth and rank without stop; when disaster strikes they inevitably eat the fruit of their own acts, losing both person and goods in the end.

Benevolence has a truth within nature, and must also have the falsity of ornament. Hating those who fake benevolence, they hold up empty frames to fool the common people under heaven—hence the renewed sigh: are benevolence and righteousness truly human constants? From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou downward, those who practiced benevolence and righteousness—how restless and shallow!

Things’ native disposition is originally upright, solidly from the natural; if uprightness waits on something else, it is not utmost uprightness; if solidity waits on something else, it is not true solidity. That cuts away native nature, encroaches on virtue, loses the constant natural state—no different from extra fingers or branch digits on hands and feet.

What is “constant naturalness”: whether curved, straight, square, or round, it needs no hooks, cords, compasses, or squares; self-generated and self-obtained, unaware of ancient and modern difference or of completion and ruin. When the Dao and De are blended into one, benevolence and righteousness have no place to deploy—why glue their tracks to confuse the world?

Small delusion misplaces direction—mistaking east for west, the harm is not yet great; great delusion misplaces nature—losing constant naturalness, betraying the Dao and turning from De, harm beyond words. Yet the source of the disease has seeped in for long: from the time of Youyu Shi (Shun), benevolence and righteousness were held up to stir the world, replacing people’s natural nature with benevolence and righteousness; when nature is not true, benevolence and righteousness are also false. The world still runs its life following them, at ease in lost nature without awakening—this is exactly what the True Person laments.

Try to reason it this way: from the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou onward, there has been no one under heaven who did not use external things to trade away their true nature. Petty people trade their lives for profit; gentlemen trade their lives for reputation; great officers trade their lives for their clans; sages trade their lives for all under heaven. What these types do and the names they are given differ, yet in harming their nature and handing over their bodies they are the same.

Zang and Gu were herding sheep together, and the sheep were lost. Asked what Zang was doing, he said he was holding bamboo slips and reading; asked what Gu was doing, he said he was casting dice and gambling. Their pursuits differed, but losing the sheep was the same.

Boyi (son of the last ruler of Guzhu in late Shang, famed for keeping his integrity and refusing Zhou grain) died beneath Mount Shouyang for the sake of reputation; Robber Zhi (a legendary brutal bandit chief) died on Dongling for the sake of gain. The manner of their deaths differed, yet in mutilating life and injuring their nature they were the same. Why must one insist Boyi was right and Robber Zhi wrong? Everyone under heaven is “sacrificing” (xùn)—what they sacrifice for may be humaneness and righteousness (rényì), and the world calls them gentlemen; what they sacrifice for may be goods and wealth, and the world calls them petty men. In truth the way of sacrificing is one and the same; only the labels “gentleman” and “petty man” differ. When it comes to mutilating life and damaging nature, Robber Zhi is Boyi and Boyi is Robber Zhi—why must one still rank them as gentleman versus petty man among them?

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that before the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, traces of Wuwei (non-action) still lingered, so those who practiced deliberate, purposive action took it as something to display—and the moment you display it, you turn away from natural suchness. Sages too are sometimes compelled: to cope with worldly affairs like scars on the body or a crippled leg—those “sores and injuries” of the age—they have no choice but to trade their original state of ruling with folded hands without disturbing their inner nature for something else.

Quails that settle and rest, nestlings that wait to be fed, birds that fly without a fixed pattern—when have they ever stinted or refused to follow nature? They accord with the world’s hidden turnings and change only as circumstances change; their course is simply a course that moves with the world. When what they meet is a time of wounds and lameness, of crippled shins and broken feet, that course becomes a course that harms the world. Yet if the spirit can sweep freely in all directions without being altered, and though the body bears scars the heart and body are not thrown into turmoil, why deliberately submit or chase after things? “Not submitting” means no longer submitting to what one used to submit to—and then one’s course is again no different from living in the world and going along with worldly affairs.

What people under heaven value most is life; if submission and pursuit go so far that life itself is damaged, what was pursued is hardly worth mentioning. Why is life maimed and one’s nature exchanged? Because the mind still clings to old traces of Wuwei. Once you see that one’s course arises from Wuwei, you should drop inflated esteem, strip away excess, and return to silent union with yourself. In “self-attainment,” Yao and Jie can stand on the same footing—so why must the noble person and the petty person be forced into a rigid hierarchy?

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: When spirit descends and becomes a sage king, that already goes beyond the level of “sage.” From the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties onward, people could still see traces of sage kings, but the side of them that made them “spirit” grew ever more hidden. Acts like Yu’s blistered hands and feet, or Tang and Wu’s campaigns of conquest—though unavoidable—still bore the mark of accommodating and going along with the world’s private desires. Zhuangzi wanted to cut off these “traces” and return to the root of spirit and Heaven; that is why he wrote about the sage as he did—not because he looked down on the sage.

Using male and female servants sent to tend Zang Gu’s sheep as a metaphor for “guarding intent”—guarding intent is precisely the method of nourishing the heart. Wearing armor and holding a shield while reading books, trying to do everything to perfection, still cannot avoid falling into what is not good; playing chess and gambling while roaming about, seeming reckless and unrestrained, sometimes produces plans that are not necessarily “poor.” Both ways obstruct guarding intent; the work differs, but losing the sheep is the same—when the mind is divided by other matters, the sheep (the original mind) is lost.

Boyi died for reputation, like losing the sheep while clutching armor and reading; Robber Zhi died for profit, like losing it while gambling and wandering. What they followed differed, but both harmed life and injured nature—there is no difference. Therefore those who cultivate the Way value “forgetting both sides,” dissolving oppositions into the Dao. Moreover, people in the world all “follow” something: those who follow benevolence and righteousness do not know that the body is dearer than reputation; those who follow goods and wealth do not know that the body is more precious than riches. What they follow is one thing, yet there is a distinction between noble person and petty person; once life is harmed and nature injured, Robber Zhi and Boyi are equal in “not knowing that gaining becomes sickness and both ending in ruin.”

Someone offered a separate commentary along these lines: Boyi pursued a reputation for purity and ended dead; Robber Zhi pursued greedy gain and likewise ended dead. Neither had really grasped which matters more—name or the person, the person or goods. What they chased was only the dust and chaff on the outside.

The fair name of Mount Shouyang still circulates today, yet who still has Boyi’s flesh? Treasure heaped at Dongling is like mountains, yet who still holds Robber Zhi’s spirit? So both were alike in mutilating life and wounding their inborn nature, to the same degree. Given that, why must Boyi be right and Robber Zhi wrong? That is the point of the Dao’s being equal and one.

Confucians called Boyi “the sage of purity,” yet Zhuangzi criticizes him sharply, because his track was visible in the world and he was often paired with Robber Zhi as a moral contrast—Zhuangzi says this to correct people of his time who imitated Boyi’s strained austerity, fame-seeking, and ascetic show. Outwardly he stands opposite Robber Zhi, but in spirit he travels the same road as Confucius—students of the Dao must not miss this.

Everyone under heaven is pulled by something: if not by ren and yi for a name, then by goods and indulgence—mostly it never leaves the space between profit and fame. Those who follow ren and yi the world calls gentlemen, without seeing they are already “small people of Heaven”; those who follow goods the world calls petty men, without seeing that in essence they are the same as those so-called gentlemen. Following ren and yi damages one’s native allotment and adds to artificial refinements of character; following goods damages one’s nature and adds to the boundaries of external things—only when each rests in the disposition of nature and life is one a “gentleman of Heaven,” not the gentleman of common talk; the “small person among humans” spoken of in the classics is exactly this sense.

Xiangdao’s note: Before the Three Dynasties, the world traded inborn nature for ren and yi; after the Three Dynasties, it traded inborn nature for material profit. The longer the age, the more simplicity is guarded against and feared. Boyi died for a name—he could not soften his will; Robber Zhi died for profit—he could not harden his bones. Zang and Gu each take one strand of virtue: zang is the goodness of yi, gu the goodness of xin—male servants and sons-in-law are called zang, female servants and daughters-in-law gu, because men are prized for yi and women for xin. The nature of sheep is to flock without forming cliques, deferential and ritually ordered—its nature is never not good. The character for “good” (shan) is written with “sheep” beside “speech”; with sheep and “great” together one gets “beauty” (mei). Zhuangzi uses “lost sheep” (wang yang) to stand for “lost De (virtue/power)”—aptly so. Zang and Gu differ as restraint versus release, yet both alike lose the sheep; Boyi and Robber Zhi differ as good versus evil, yet both alike mutilate life—so why must one split gentleman and petty man between the two?

Bixu Commentary: Whatever has form and can be seen by others is outward pursuit, pulled along by external things. Once reputation spreads, the traces left can never be erased. Zang and Gu both lost their sheep—this is small bewilderment, merely going the wrong way; Boyi and Daozhi both damaged their lives—this is great bewilderment, even their natures were led astray. If everyone under heaven chased external things, then Daozhi could be called a “sage” just like Boyi—why bother distinguishing gentleman from petty man?

Yizhai says: Here heaven-and-earth and the state are spoken of together with fame and profit—using the small to press down the great, the low to lift up the high—this rhetorical move is common throughout the Zhuangzi. What these people do differs, but in “harming life” they are the same; reading books and gambling differ, but in “losing the sheep” (losing the root) they are the same—both are faults of drowning in externals. Did Zhuangzi really not know who between Boyi and Daozhi was worthy and who was base? He mainly uses petty men to satirize so-called gentlemen—again the sense of “using the lower to restrain the higher.”

In high antiquity, folkways were simple and honest. People found joy in themselves and lived in peace without relying on harsh punishments. The common people rested in the natural state of their inborn nature, so the ruler could sit upright with hands folded and govern through the transformation of wuwei (non-action).

From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou onward, people traded their original nature for external things, chasing what is false and guarding against what is genuine. Whether wise or foolish, noble or low, each took what they were infatuated with as “right,” without realizing they had strayed far from the Dao—injuring life and injuring nature was ultimately the same.

Later rulers used punishments, laws, rewards, and penalties to guide, align, encourage, and restrain. Above and below wore themselves out, while deceit flourished all the more. When punishments, laws, rewards, and penalties could no longer hold things in check, the people were no longer the people they had been, and the state was no longer the state it had been. The root lay in both ruler and ruled devoting themselves to partial ends (each sacrificing the whole for one attachment), so both lost what mattered. The image of Zhangu and Gu losing their sheep fits this very well.

If everyone under Heaven devoted themselves to one-sided ends, all would lose their inborn Heaven-given nature, trapped in a single angle of view—and then they would point at those who did not so devote themselves as being in the wrong. Where then is the line between noble person and petty person? The purity of Boyi and the filth of Robber Zhi stand out clearly through the ages; yet the Master of Lacquer Garden (Zhuangzi) viewed them together: as far as what one devotes oneself to goes, neither escapes leaving traces, and even sages cannot escape judgment—how much less Robber Zhi?

The way to govern the world is like a steelyard: pressing down one side and lifting the other is something circumstances force upon you; the aim is only equilibrium. If no one under Heaven devoted themselves to private partiality, the harm of damaging life and nature would be removed, and sage and Robber Zhi would indeed be distinct. Yet what is called good and what is called evil must also be seen from beyond benevolence, righteousness, sagehood, and clever knowing.

As for those who anchor their innate nature in “benevolence and righteousness,” even if they understand and practice it as thoroughly as Zeng Shen or Shi Yu did, that is still not what Zhuangzi calls “good.” Those who anchor their innate nature in judging the five flavors—even if they are as skilled as the legendary taster Yu’er—are not “good” either. Those who anchor it in appreciating the five tones—even if they are as versed as the music master Shi Kuang—are not “clear-hearing” (cong). Those who anchor it in distinguishing the five colors—even if their sight rivals Li Zhu—are not “clear-sighted” (ming).

What Zhuangzi means by “good” is not the package of benevolence and righteousness, but preserving one’s natural De (virtue/power). What he means by “clear-hearing” is not listening to others or to outer things, but being able to listen to oneself and know oneself. What he means by “clear-sighted” is not looking at others or outer things, but being able to see oneself and be clear to oneself.

If you cannot see yourself and only look at others; if you cannot obtain what is yours and only chase what others have—you may gain what belongs to others, but you miss what you originally had. You run after others’ sense of “what fits,” yet never settle your own “what fits”; then even Robber Zhi and Boyi, in the matter of going against innate nature, are alike in being “deviant.”

I (Zhuangzi) feel ashamed before Dao and De—so I dare not parade the conduct of benevolence and righteousness above, and I dare not take the path of reckless deviance below.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: To tie innate nature to “benevolence” is merely to be dragged along by benevolence; in the main (as the text says later), that is the same as Boyi—in Zhuangzi’s eyes both count as “licentious deviation” (straying from the natural). The lines on feeling ashamed before Dao and De, and on not daring to be righteous above or deviant below, follow the main text: neither clinging to the righteousness above nor falling into the deviance below, but holding to the middle in natural De.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: To force a given disposition into the mold of Ren (benevolence) is mostly the work of those who merely conform to and devote themselves to the label “Ren.” What counts as good is to follow one’s inherent nature and be fully attuned to its “flavor”—to what genuinely satisfies that nature. If one does not stand on “self” but hangs every standard on “other”—on other people or external norms—then even when one matches the other in attainment, the rift and opposition between self and other were already there from the start.

Let each person’s eyes and ears do what they naturally do, without being chained to the state of “liguang”—release from fixation and accord with spontaneous flow—and that is true intelligence. Those who excel at zide, finding sufficiency in their own inherent nature, forget deliberate striving after Ren, and Ren is present in that very forgetting. To treat Ren and righteousness as the only goods and cast off the self to serve them is, compared with cherishing one’s own life, to fall into “not-Ren”; when the self is not Ren, how can one truly treat others well?

Only by letting life and fate run their course can one reach others without burdening oneself—a path the same as zide—and only then can one be called good. If one flatly rejects liguang and trusts only one’s own perceptions, then clear understanding across the world may not all be preserved. Not seeing for oneself yet looking to the other; not attaining for oneself yet taking the other’s attainment—that is abandoning the self to imitate others. Once one imitates others, both self and other are lost; the paths of loss may differ, but the nature of the loss is one.

Therefore: though one may feel inadequate before Dao and De, one need not refuse them; obscurely one returns to what leaves no trace, cuts off contrived conduct, forgets name and profit, moves at ease through delight, aversion, toil, and weariness, lets go of self and forgets other—and that is enough.

Lu’s commentary explains: what is called “xing” (nature) is the inherent belonging of each thing, yet it does not belong to the category of external objects. When Zeng Shen and Shi Yu are classed under the path of “ren” (benevolence), Yu’er under the path of flavor, Shi Kuang and Li Zhu under the paths of sound and color—these are not the true “shan” (goodness) that Zhuangzi speaks of. What truly deserves to be preserved lies in De itself; that is the substance of “good.” It is not that ren and yi can fix it in place, but that one need only settle according to the natural course of xing and ming (nature and life).

Once one opens the mouth to preach ren and yi, artificial labels and preferences already arise, and what is “preserved” can no longer be settled or stated with certainty. If one simply follows the conditions of xing and ming, there is no need to force labels—and that is Zhuangzi’s kind of genuine “good.” Cleverness and the ears and eyes work the same way: not listening to or seeing external things, but listening to and seeing oneself—this is what is meant by “seeing what is seen and hearing what is heard.” If seeing and hearing are tied to external things and not to oneself, it is like picking up what others have gained and going where others go; one still cannot obtain one’s own xing and ming or suit oneself—then Daozhi and Boyi would not differ, because neither would yet be on the proper path of Dao and De.

Neither seeking empty reputation in Dao and De above, nor falling into perversity below, one can achieve “liang wang” (forgetting both). Boyi was a sage—how could he fail to be at ease and self-suited? Yet in how he stood in the world and wished to be incorruptible and upright, his conduct still unavoidably involved deliberate action. Zhuangzi deliberately speaks from the conditions of xing and ming, urging people to forget both fame and gain, so he groups both Yi and Zhi under “licentious and perverse” to break attachment; when he later discusses how lofty integrity and stern conduct suffice to reform the age, the integrity of Yi and Qi is listed alongside Xu You, Shan Juan, Confucius, Yan Hui, and others in the “Ren Wang” chapter—that is from the value of “yielding the throne,” not a denial that each had a different orientation in xing and ming.

When the mind-nature clings only to one kind of thing and gets stuck in attachment, it cannot share in the “great sameness” with all things without selfish bias. Figures such as Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Yu Er, Shi Kuang, and Li Zhu applied themselves to benevolence, flavor, and sound and color—yet in the end they could not avoid partiality and chasing after external things. That is not the “goodness” (shan) that Zhuangzi speaks of.

Those who truly “find goodness in De (Virtue/Power)” follow and trust each being’s own nature and the circumstances of its nature-and-life (xingming zhi qing). Those circumstances are proper nature, proper taste, proper color, and proper sound—what all things already possess in themselves, not something forcibly manufactured like the “several masters” did. That path is not self-appropriate.

Only when one can “take nature as nature” does one fail to mis-tie one’s nature to external things; only then can one speak of “taste as its taste, sound as its sound, color as its color.” Abandon clever hearing and listen inwardly; abandon sharp sight and look within. Inward listening is hearing the Dao; inward looking is seeing the Dao—when the Dao is attained, nature is attained as well.

If one rejects “seeing for oneself” and only “sees the other,” that is guarding the self while pursuing things. If one rejects “attaining for oneself” and only “attains from the other,” that is leaving one’s nature to seek the Dao. Yi the recluse and Robber Zhi differ in name, yet their excess and perversity are one. From this we know: the “barriers” of benevolence and righteousness and the “disordering of De” through licentious perversity are both what Zhuangzi refuses to do.

The Xiang Dao commentary goes further: only where there is sound is there “sound”; only where there is color is there “color”; only where there is flavor is there “flavor.” What the ear hears is sound, but sound itself does not emit “color”; what the eye displays is color, but color itself does not display “flavor”; what the mouth tastes is flavor, but flavor itself does not present another layer on top. Human ears and eyes are originally close to “xiyi” (rarefied emptiness)—when sound and color press in, the genuine is lost to the false; the mouth’s relation to taste is the same. Laozi said, “The five colors make the eyes blind, the five tones make the ears deaf, the five flavors make the mouth lose its taste”—how much more so when “many grafted branches” are used to drag and subordinate one’s nature?

Bixu’s note: Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, Yu’er, Shi Kuang, Lizhu, and the like each mastered only one kind of skill, yet they enslaved their temperament and clung to outer things, losing innate genuineness—how can that be called good? One who hides De in the heart takes self-contentment as good, lets the innate temperament of xing and ming be, and finds self-hearing and self-seeing enough. If one always seeks what others seek and fits what others fit, that is fencing oneself in on things; things too lose their innate nature, and goodness is out of the question. One who stores De within still takes self-content as good, follows the temperament of xing and ming, and self-hears and self-sees; if one chases what others gain and what others find fitting, that is guarding and constraining oneself in things.

Yanzhai says: “Let the temperament of xing and ming” is following nature; “self-hear, self-see” is the most distinctive and hard-to-match point in that meaning—the core of the whole Great Canon is no more than this. Self-content and self-fitting are self-seeing and self-enlightenment. Broadly, wanting to separate root mind from outer things yet failing to reach root mind and rushing outward—all falls under biased excess and perversity. Not courting reputation in doing good and not courting punishment in doing evil is exactly “doing good without nearing fame, doing evil without nearing punishment.” Dao and De are nature; nearing fame or punishment is not nature. Read Zhuangzi’s words— is he not also rectifying the heart and cultivating the person? His ridicule of Yao and Shun, Confucius, Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, and Boyi is not truly to reject those men; it is only the brush rousing the reader, using speech to break fixation.

Xing (one’s original true nature) is like the Great Void: pursued to the limit it seems like “nothing,” yet it is nowhere absent. Once it attaches to something or becomes fixated, it leans to one side—that is no longer the right path of De (the natural state aligned with the Dao).

Figures such as Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Li Zhu, and Shi Kuang (ancient exemplars of filial piety, uprightness, sharp sight, and keen hearing) each received a different endowment of qi and excelled in their strengths; yet from the perspective of the Dao, they still could not avoid narrow partiality. How much more so when people envy others’ strengths from the position of their own weaknesses—few fail to end up like the man from Handan who forgot how to walk. Thus these celebrated “goods” are not enough to count as true goodness.

True goodness lies in letting xingming zhi qing (the natural disposition of life) unfold on its own, arising from the correctness of De, without forcing or favoring one side. For ear, eye, and mouth toward sound, color, and flavor, there is no need to force them open or shut them off; let them be natural, without private motive—that is the most upright state under heaven. What external thing could disturb it?

When human congming (discernment) reaches “hearing by oneself” and “seeing by oneself” (not relying on externals or worldly standards, but returning to innate awareness), it differs from the cleverness the world praises. When what one values is “self-contentment and self-sufficiency” (being at ease within oneself, not reaching outward), that too differs from worldly notions of goodness and renyi (human norms and labels). Remove the carving of renyi, and zhenxing (original nature) is whole, resting only in its De (innate virtue). De holds to the zhongdao (the middle way, neither leaning nor excess), opens toward what is to come, and lets go of external things—how could externals enter from outside? If one cannot be self-content and self-sufficient but only follows others, that is partiality all the same; what is there to choose between the worthy and the unworthy?

Nanhua (the Zhuangzi) speaks of itself as not daring to claim rank above or below others in empty pride, but resting in the self-sufficiency of xingming—is that not the correctness of De?

The titles of the inner chapters of this classic come from Qi Garden (Zhuangzi), each with deep intent; the outer chapters were edited by Guo Xiang, who named them from the first character of each piece, yet the main meaning remains. Since the inner chapters already treat Dao, De, and the principles of xing and ming in detail, the outer chapters first discuss what ought not to be in dexing (virtuous nature)—like webbed fingers, extra toes, and wen-like growths on the body.

I take the intent of this chapter to stem from the line in the Daodejing about “leftover food and wen-like conduct” (superfluous action, artificial growth like a tumor)—showing how self-display and self-conceit distance one from the Dao; the Nanhua (Zhuangzi) expands on this with sweeping rhetoric, also to spread the Dao and clarify teaching, and must speak fully to dispel worldly confusion and bring people back to nature and alignment with the Dao.

Human dexing (virtuous nature) is originally like jade in the rough, pure and undivided; what gradually covers it is outward polish such as “moist wood and radiant hills,” and the carving of congming and the splitting by renyi. Seeking goodness only in things, one loses the true simplicity of the self. Hence Zeng, Shi, Li, Kuang, and also Yang Zhu and Mo Di are cited—each with a partial endowment of xing and biased habit, like extra paired limbs or side fingers; yet the world still rushes to admire them, so xingming zhi qing is lost, the correctness of Dao and De is left behind, and the world falls into disorder.

Only by forgetting differences and treating things as one—like the duck and the crane each suiting its nature without forced joining, each not losing what is natural—does one approach the Dao. Yet when all under heaven are confused, what is to be done? Hence the parable of Zang Gu and the lost sheep: Bo Yi and Dao Zhi (one taken as gentleman, one as villain) each take what they follow as the line between gentleman and villain, yet harming life and injuring xing is the same. Truly to shed tracks, cut off admiration, leave xing unattached, return to the root and guard the extreme, and wander at the beginning of things—then paired limbs and wen-like growths are forgotten along with the body, gentleman and villain both return to self-sufficiency, and in the end shun xingming zhi qing (following the natural disposition of life) is supreme; innate congming is not discarded either.

Not hearing the other yet hearing oneself, not seeing the other yet seeing oneself, matches what Yanzi (Yan Hui) meant by “the benevolent love themselves, the knowing know themselves”—self-contentment and self-sufficiency, without longing or envy—then perhaps the worthiness of Yi (Bo Yi) and Zhi (Dao Zhi) may finally admit some distinction.

Summary of the Main Text (Zhuangzi, “Horses’ Hooves”)

A horse’s hooves can tread frost and snow, its coat can ward off wind and cold, it eats grass and drinks water, and lifts its legs to walk on land—that is the horse’s authentic state. Even if splendid terraces and comfortable quarters stand nearby, the horse has no use for such things.

Then Bo Le appears and says, “I am skilled at training horses”: he brands with fire, trims and clips, carves with knives, sears with irons, then ties them with halters and reins and shuts them in stables and stalls—so two or three out of ten horses die. Next he makes them go hungry and thirsty, run and gallop, march in neat formation; in front, the pain of ornamental bits and rings; behind, the threat of whips and riding crops—more than half the horses are dead.

The potter says, “I am skilled at working clay”: what is round fits the compass, what is square fits the square. The carpenter says, “I am skilled at working wood”: what is curved fits the curve ruler, what is straight fits the ink line. Did clay and wood by nature want to conform to compass, square, hook, and line? Yet generation after generation people praise “Bo Le is skilled at training horses, potters and carpenters are skilled at working materials”—this too is the mistake those who claim to “govern the world” commit.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

When draft horses and thoroughbreds each rest content in their own nature, they are self-sufficient; it is not that they dislike saddle and bridle or refuse to be ridden, but that they need not envy splendor and glory. Once one sets out deliberately to “govern,” things are already poorly governed. Treating “governance” as a good thing is in fact already a bad thing. One who is skilled at driving horses originally wants horses to use their full capacity; yet “using their full capacity” lies in the horses’ own exertion, while he insists on driving, hurrying, and demanding performance beyond their nature—hence many horses cannot bear it and die in great numbers. If one simply lets draft horses and thoroughbreds each use their own strength and follow their natural pace, fast or slow, even if their hoofprints reach beyond the eight directions, the nature of all horses can still be preserved intact.

Some hear “let horses follow their nature” and think one must turn them loose and never ride them again; others hear talk of wuwei (non-action) and say one might as well lie down and not walk—how arrogant, and how unwilling to turn back! The world calls leaving things to their nature without artificial contrivance “poor governance,” and calls forcing nature into compass and square until death ends the matter “good governance—is that not going much too far?

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

When horses chew grass and drink water and do not envy splendid terraces and fine chambers, it is like common people farming and weaving to supply themselves and being content within their station. The world calls leaving things to their nature without artificial contrivance “poor governance,” and calls using compass and square to straighten and polish nature until death ends the matter “good governance”—is that not going much too far?

Horses graze and drink on the open plain and live at ease; they do not envy the king’s ornate platforms and roadside chambers. Common people feed and clothe themselves through farming and weaving; they need not envy those lofty metaphors either. Later Bo Le tamed horses with branding, trimming, carving, and marking—dead horses amounted to two or three in ten. That is like forcing benevolence and righteousness onto the world: people begin to doubt. Then horses are driven hungry and thirsty to gallop—more than half die. That is like using rites and music to bend the human heart: the world begins to split apart.

The myriad things of Heaven and Earth each have their own natural constancy; governing should follow innate nature. The potter skillfully shapes things square, round, bent, or straight—and wood and earth lose their original constancy. To break that constancy in order to govern the world is to miss the point of zai you (letting all things rest in themselves with minimal interference), and instead to overdo “governance.”

Commentary by Yidu: A horse’s nature is to roam freely on the plain, not to envy ornate platforms and chambers. Once Bo Le “governs” them, their true nature is injured; they can no longer bear the burden, and more than half die—all because artificial adornment is exalted and authentic nature is suppressed. The potter uses compass, square, curve, and line on wood and earth—but did wood and earth ever want to be cut that way? When the sage uses benevolence, righteousness, rites, and music to govern the world, the principle is the same—yet everyone praises Bo Le for skill in horses, the potter for skill in materials, and the sage for skill in governing the world. The great Dao is blocked off; the wholeness of Heaven and Earth is no longer seen, and “governing people” alone is called goodness. Zhuangzi therefore criticizes this sharply.

Commentary by Bixu: Horses only know to eat, drink, and stand with one hoof raised—they have no use for ornate platforms and chambers, like pheasants in the marsh that refuse to be caged. Once Bo Le takes over, their nature is already harmed; they fail in their tasks and more than half die. Earth has square and round, so the potter applies the compass; wood has straight and bent, so the carpenter applies the line; horses have slow and fast, so Bo Le uses the whip; people have wise and dull, so the sage sets laws—if each were handled according to native disposition, things could still work. When later generations fail at training horses, it is not necessarily that Bo Le lacked talent; when governing people fails, it is not necessarily that the sage lacked the Dao—yet blame is turned on Bo Le and the sage, without knowing what their so-called “goodness” actually consists in. Master Zhu of Qi Garden (Qi Yuan, Zhuangzi) therefore sighs.

Commentary by Yanzai: Yitai and lüqin are where the king dwells (some read xītái and yǎng). Where one lives shifts one’s qi; how one is nourished shifts one’s body. To lay the blame on Bo Le and the sage is not to know what they are “good” at—hence Master Zhu’s lament.

This passage explains that in antiquity there were places such as the “Righteous Platform” and the “Road Chamber” where rulers dwelt (some texts write “Platform of Nurturing,” with the sense of “cultivation”). People say, “Change where you live and your qi changes; change how you nourish yourself and your body changes”—environment shapes temperament, and way of life shapes body and mind. The text then uses treating horses as a parallel: singeing the coat, paring the hooves, carving and trimming, binding—all are ways of “putting in order.” Luo means tying the head; zhi means hobbling the feet; lian is tethering side by side at the manger; jue is the bit in the mouth; and the horse is also fitted with biao and ying and other adornments. Once the horse is fully controlled by humans and cannot live according to its own nature, more and more of them die.

The potter shapes earth and wood into vessels—no different from singeing, paring, carving, tying, and hobbling a horse—yet the world praises Bo Le (the master horse-tamer) and the potter as “capable.” After Taishi (an ancient ruler associated with rule without heavy human interference), people likewise treated “knowing how to govern the realm” as the same kind of “skill.”

All things have a constant native disposition; the common people also have a constant De (Virtue/Power). When De does not leave their nature, the people’s authentic state is preserved. Why over-extract and over-“nurture,” only to harm De and damage nature? The True Person (Zhenren), seeing worldly decline, uses human affairs to suppress the natural, cannot rest content in their allotted place, and seeks wisdom beyond what is proper. Those above govern those below; those below serve those above—often they cannot avoid scheming and stratagem against one another. When stratagem is exhausted, unworthy motives still arise; even harsh laws and punishments cannot hold it back.

Look calmly at the root: those in high position are excessively fond of “knowing” and cleverness—they both stir up much knowledge and use still more stratagem to patch the damage. Is that not doubly burdensome and busy? Hence the horse-taming analogy: to show where “governance” goes wrong, in hope that those who bear responsibility for the Way of governing will take warning.

Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), human nature had already parted from the constant of the Way of Heaven, and only then did punishment, government, reward, and penalty appear. These four are like the jue (bit), shi (trappings), whip, and fang (restraints) used to govern the realm. The seeds of scheming and deceit sprout from this as well; what later passages call “banding together with sage-knowledge to steal,” points along this same line.

So how should one govern the realm today? Answer: take Dao and De as the mainstay, and treat punishment, government, and reward as supplements only. To discard Dao and De and rely solely on punishment and government is like Bo Le’s way with horses—you may still recognize a horse of a thousand li, but many horses suffer harm. If one rejects both Dao and De and abolishes punishment, government, and reward, not even one household can be ordered, let alone the realm.

The discussion of pottery (zhi tao) that follows does not go beyond the horse-taming analogy: the fault lies in self-congratulation—“I am good at governing.” Once there is a will to “govern,” how can the people’s nature be restored and constant virtue preserved? Therefore: to make “governing the realm” one’s special skill is itself a fault.

This passage comes from Zhuangzi, “Horse’s Hoofs” (Mati). It argues that those who truly know how to govern the world do not rely on clever tricks and schemes. The people already have a settled nature: they weave cloth to dress and plow fields to eat. This is called “shared De” (tongde)—living as one body, without forming factions or pursuing private gain. It is also called “natural release” (tianfang): living in accord with one’s innate nature.

Thus in an age of supreme virtue, people walked steadily and looked with plain, undivided eyes. Mountains had no paths carved into them; marshes had no bridges or boats. Each thing kept its place and connected with the rest. Beasts moved in herds; plants and trees grew of themselves. Birds and animals could be tethered and played with together; one could reach up and peer into magpies’ nests. In that age, humans dwelt with beasts and stood among the myriad things—what need was there to distinguish “gentleman” from “petty man”? All alike remained in a state of “not-knowing,” yet their De did not scatter; all alike lacked contrived desire. This is called supu—original simplicity. Where simplicity holds, human nature is preserved.

Then the sage appeared. He treated mincing steps as “benevolence” (ren) and long strides as “righteousness” (yi), and the world began to doubt. He treated indulgence as “music” and awkward postures as “ritual” (li), and the world began to split apart. If you do not split simplicity apart, whence the sacrificial vessel carved from a whole ox? If you do not shatter white jade, whence the jade tablet and ceremonial gem? If the Way and De are not lost, why invent benevolence and righteousness? If true nature is not estranged, why impose ritual and music? If the five colors do not confuse, what use is ornament? If the five tones do not disorder, what use are the six pitch standards?

To carve a whole piece of wood into utensils is the craftsman’s fault. To ruin natural virtue and patch it together into benevolence and righteousness is the sage’s crime.

In Guo Xiang’s commentary, the emphasis is that governing the world means “governing by not governing”—wuwei in the sense of non-interference that lets things be. The passage repeats the themes of the five colors, the five tones, and “mutilating simplicity to make tools, destroying De to make benevolence and righteousness.” The point throughout is that artificial ornament, ritual and music, benevolence and righteousness often come at the cost of damaging what is originally whole in virtue.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that governing by not deliberately micromanaging is the finest form of governance. People may differ slightly in outward conduct, yet in nature they are largely the same; what nature cannot do without is food and clothing, and what daily life cannot abandon is farming and weaving—these are fundamentals shared by all under Heaven. Whoever holds to this Dao reaches the utmost of Wuwei (non-action): letting each person be as they naturally are, not herding them into factions—this is “Tianfang” (Heaven’s release): following Heaven and settling each in their own place.

That self-sufficiency, that refusal to reach outward, seeks no undue gain; one household’s enough is enough, as plain as any household in the world—where would national or familial strangeness come from? When nature is satisfied, one stops; there is no lust to swallow other states, so one completes things with the myriad beings without harm. De (Virtue/Power) does not leave the human person; the people’s nature stays simple; there is no need to fret over cleverness and desire.

The “sage” spoken of here is only the trace left where the people attained their nature—not someone we ought to copy on purpose. When the text says “when it comes to the sage,” it really means “when it comes to the traces of those sages.” Once the sage’s traces are glorified, benevolence and righteousness are no longer genuine, ritual and music depart from nature and remain mere outward form. With the name “sage” come these ills—what then can be done?

Hewing raw wood into utensils, ruining fine jade to make regalia, treating extreme colors as ornament, forcing sounds to strict pitch—all turn simplicity into show, abandon the root for the branch, and already maim innate simplicity. Though the world honors such things, it is not true honor. Craftsmen have rule-bound manufacture; sages too have traces worth esteem—the trouble is: once those “traces” become standards one must imitate, the simplicity of nature can hardly be preserved.

Lu Commentary: When the common people restore their ordinary nature and do not depart from what is genuinely true, what is called “nature” (xing) cannot be pinned down; without desires they remain plain and simple, and suspicion never arises. Sharing the same De without parting, they never know division either. Only when they leave what is genuinely true and begin to fabricate does the sage appear—practicing benevolence and righteousness without it springing from the natural, practicing ritual and music without it issuing from perfect rectitude—then the world first knows doubt and first knows separation.

“Chopping plain wood to make a wine vessel” uses ruining plain timber for a drinking cup as a metaphor: ruining Dao and De to produce benevolence and righteousness. “Breaking jade to make a ceremonial tablet” uses ruining jade for a jade scepter as a metaphor: leaving true feeling and nature to produce ritual and music—all of these belong to the approach of “many redundant side branches.” If one cuts off craft and returns to plain simplicity, the artisan’s fault can be removed; if one abandons benevolence and righteousness and relies on Dao and De, the sage’s error can be avoided.

Yidu Commentary: The ancient spirit-person, “letting the world be as it is” (zai you tianxia), had no intention of governing; he merely followed the people’s ordinary nature and met them at the utmost of their rightful allotment: wove to clothe, plowed to eat, shared the same De in mutual closeness without faction. “Heaven’s release” (tian fang) issued from the natural, not from human contrivance. “Filled” (tian) means genuinely replete within; “displayed” (dian) means truly manifest without: he let the feet go where they would and did not walk crooked paths, trusted the eyes in what they saw and did not fall into perverse sight. Birds and beasts, grass and trees all obtained the principle of their allotted life-span without the harm of untimely death; beasts could be tethered and nests could be inspected—showing that when people have no scheming heart, things fear nothing from them. Dwelling together as one clan, the people found joy in themselves—how could one distinguish gentleman from petty man? Being alike in non-knowing is not being without conscience; being alike in non-desiring is not having nothing worth desiring. Beginning in not parting from their De, ending in what is called plain simplicity—then the people’s ordinary nature was secured.

Limping and straining (both images of forced exertion): practicing benevolence and righteousness without following the principle of nature and life—then the world first doubted. Expansive music and joy, guarding against the bias of plucking and tearing at ritual—through benevolence and righteousness came ritual and music; through ritual and music feeling and nature parted—this is why the world divided. Benevolence and righteousness arise from Dao and De; ritual and music arise from feeling and nature. In high antiquity the age was plain and the people sincere; benevolence and righteousness were one with Dao and De, ritual and music did not part from feeling and nature. In later ages people discarded Dao and De and spoke only of benevolence and righteousness, left feeling and nature and debated ritual and music—hence the benevolence and righteousness of Zeng and Shi, not the benevolence and righteousness of Yao and Shun; the ritual and music of the vulgar world, not the ritual and music of the Three Dynasties. That is why Laozi hammered at them to cut them off and extinguish them—and Zhuangzi too would not take them up.

Ruining plain wood to make vessels—the artisan surely cannot be without fault; yet because of the traces left in remedying decay, the sage too cannot be without error.

On the “age of supreme virtue,” people nourished life without being dragged about by cravings; they walked with steady steps and looked with open, unguarded eyes, and what they sought never went beyond what was proper to them. In those days there were no mountain paths and no bridges over marshes. In that state, seeing others was like seeing oneself, and seeing oneself was like seeing external things—self and things forgotten together, inner and outer without barrier—so one could enter a herd of beasts without scattering them, or walk among birds without disturbing their flight. How could one still distinguish “gentleman” from “petty man”?

When the heart has knowing, it starts to choose and reject; when the belly is without knowing, it can receive the ten thousand things. When intention holds desire, it moves recklessly; when the bones are without desire, one can stand firm in stillness. The sage governs the world by leading those who know back toward “emptiness” and those who do not know back toward “fullness,” so that the people may share in not-knowing; by weakening those who have desire and strengthening those who are without desire, so that the people may share in desirelessness. Sharing in not-knowing, De does not leave the body; sharing in desirelessness, the people keep to plain simplicity. Plain simplicity is the nature as it is—pure white, unstained by outer things; “the unhewn” (pu) is the completeness of nature—formed as one whole, not cut apart by tools and uses. Laozi says, “See plainness, embrace the unhewn; lessen selfishness, reduce desires”; the classic also says that under heaven nothing contends in beauty with plain simplicity, because human nature is originally thus.

The people have a constant nature: they weave cloth to wear and till fields to eat, single-minded without faction, roaming freely in the natural order. Trade had not yet arisen, and they did not come and go among one another; customs were frugal while things multiplied in kind, inwardly without crafty artifice and outwardly without suspicion—plain and simple, so human nature could be preserved.

Those who do not know how to govern the world force benevolence and cling rigidly to righteousness, leave the Dao while calling themselves good, and make people doubtful—do not trust the surface. They bend limbs to perform ritual, indulge pleasure as joy, take perilous virtue as conduct and tear the harmonious middle apart. Sacrifices, wine vessels, and the six pitch-pipes are all methods of ordering the world; pushed too far they become disorder. When it says “the fault of the craftsman, the error of the sage,” it is seeing the corrupted end and tracing blame to the source—a constant pattern in past and present.

What Yizhai calls “shared De” means the same innate nature received from the Way of Heaven—that is what the earlier chapter called “constant naturalness”: inner unity without partiality, at ease and content within nature. Words like “tian tian,” “content,” “dian dian,” and “gazing straight ahead” all describe people as plain, without contrivance, as if they had simply grown that way.

In those times there were no paths on the mountains and no bridges over the marshes—not because travel was deliberately blocked, but because such things were not yet needed. All things lived together, beasts and birds mingled, and none harmed one another; plants grew on their own, and the disaster of axe and adze had not yet fallen on them. Even if you tied up an animal it could still wander freely; even if you built a nest, birds could still poke their heads out and look around—people and things forgot each other and did not intrude. In such a state, how could there be any split between “gentleman” and “petty man”?

Without knowledge and without desire, life fully accorded with heavenly principle. When the sage appeared and forced benevolence and righteousness upon the world, and spread rites and music everywhere, hearts and conduct began to split and were no longer pure and one. Virtue and the Way belong to nature; Zhuangzi treats benevolence and righteousness as something added from outside, hence: “If virtue and the Way were not cast aside, what need would there be for benevolence and righteousness?” Nature and disposition are complete in themselves; Zhuangzi treats rites and music as artificial adornment, hence: “If nature and disposition were not torn apart, what need would there be for rites and music?” Using ornament to confuse the five colors and the six pitch standards to confuse the five tones—both are human fabrication, not what is naturally so—like the craftsman’s blunder or the sage’s error. Here the thread is drawn together: artificial benevolence, righteousness, rites, and music are precisely what pull us away from “shared De” and “constant naturalness.”

Plain-Language Reading of Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Scripture of Nanhua

Earlier passages discussed the defects of governance and how people hoped to remove them; hence it is said that those who truly know how to govern did not follow the methods that came later.

Above, the text first sketches the “age of utmost virtue”: the people’s nature was simple and honest, without rivalry or envy; food and clothing sufficed, and they did not crave more. There were no mountain paths or tunnels, no boats or bridges on marshes and waters—meaning people did not rush back and forth, nor ride in carts or sail in boats. Living beings multiplied in succession, and plants grew of themselves—this speaks of abundant life. Wild beasts could be tethered nearby, and bird nests could be inspected at will—this speaks of people without cunning hearts, naturally at one with the ten thousand things.

From this one can see that when the phoenix nests on a pavilion and the qilin roams the park, utmost harmony mutually resonates, and the principle truly holds. Then those above had no greedy desires, those below had no crafty deceit, De did not depart from the people, and custom stayed plain—how could there be any split between “gentleman” and “petty man”?

In later ages, sages used deliberate action (youwei) to govern the world: they strained to promote benevolence and righteousness and forced rites and music into being, so the people began to doubt and the world began to fracture. Therefore Nanhua (Zhuangzi) treats splitting raw wood and cutting jade as the craft worker’s fault, and abandoning the Dao to practice benevolence as the sage’s error.

Yet if one does not split wood or carve jade, how can one make vessels? If one does not establish benevolence and righteousness, what can uphold the great Dao? It may be understood thus: the world’s “uncarved simplicity” (pu) has long had guardians; one need not fear lacking tools to use. The way of the sage has also been guarded for ages. Once it shifts into benevolence and righteousness, then again into rites and music, after three such shifts benevolence, righteousness, rites, and music often remain empty names—so that later people must mourn for those still later.

Volume note (directory only):

Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Scripture of Nanhua, juan 26; the full work is preserved in the Qing Complete Library of the Four Treasuries, juan 27, by Chu Boxiu of the Song, commenting on the Zhuangzi chapter “Horse’s Hooves” and related material.

Main idea of the passage

Horses live on land: when hungry they eat grass, when thirsty they drink water; when pleased they rub necks together, when angry they turn and kick one another—that is all horses naturally understand. Later people put crossbars in their mouths and ornaments on their foreheads (such as the “yue ti” style of harness), and horses gradually learned to trip at critical moments, strain at the yoke, act fierce, feign madness, chew the bit, and slack the reins on the sly. Horses became so “clever” that they would steal and resist—this is the fault of Bo Le (the trainer and judge of horses).

It is said that in the time of He Xu, the people did not deliberately decide where to dwell or which way to walk; they were content with food in their mouths and wandered about patting their bellies—human beings could simply live like that and that would be enough. When the Sage appeared, he used rites and music to twist and bend people’s conduct, trying to straighten the world’s outward form; he hung up benevolence and righteousness on high, trying to soothe the hearts of all under heaven. Then the people began to stand on tiptoe to get ahead, love cleverness, scramble against one another, and rush after profit without stopping—this too can be called the Sage’s error.

Main points from collected commentaries (as gathered in Yihai Cuowei)

Guo Xiang says: If one can follow the horse’s (or person’s) innate true intelligence and leave things to their natural course, a journey of ten thousand li can still be completed without the herd’s nature being lost. Horses differ in nature by nature; forcing them into a single pattern of “use” is what exhausts their strength, wears out their bodies, and makes them put on an act. The common people could originally be self-sufficient like those who “held food in their mouths and patted their bellies”; after the Sage used rites and music to bend them and benevolence and righteousness as a banner, the people began to love cleverness—the fault often lies in honoring only visible models and forms, rather than keeping to what is true.

Lü Huiqing states the two layers of contrast very plainly: horses eating grass and drinking water, rubbing and kicking when pleased, knowing only to stop there, is like the people of He Xu’s time—without contrived knowing, without deliberate action, food in the mouth and bellies content; adding yoke and crossbar and forehead ornaments is like the Sage bending rites and music and displaying benevolence and righteousness to “rectify and comfort the world.” When horses learn jie ni, gui xian, and stealing the reins until they “steal,” it is like the people on tiptoe, loving cleverness, fighting for profit, unable to stop. Jie, ni, yin, e, and the like are ways the horse learns the tricks of bit, rein, and yoke, then turns fierce and cunning to resist control; if one wishes to avoid this, there is no other way than to return to true nature.

Commentators such as Yidu also stress: the horse’s true nature lies in eating when hungry, drinking when thirsty, and mingling when glad; humans are the same. If one wants horses not to “steal” and people not to “love cleverness,” the key is to turn back to the root and return to true nature, not to add another layer of “clever” training and teaching.

The Horse’s Nature and Being Tamed by Humans

In their original nature, horses simply eat when hungry and drink when thirsty; when content they nuzzle one another, and when angry they kick and strike—nothing more. Once people fitted them with crosspiece yokes and harness, carved “moon-shaped” marks on their foreheads, and demanded only strenuous service, the horse’s body was put to work—and only then did it gradually learn tricks such as ji and ni (“ji” like a retainer’s ji, “ni” echoing the groom’s ni): meaning that because the horse was controlled by humans, a cunning mind arose.

“Yin” describes a blocked heart-and-mind; “e” describes a body that cannot straighten; “zhi” is like a raptor’s strike, “man” like weakness and collapse—images of a horse in fury. Gui xian is secretly spitting out the bit; qie pei is quietly slipping the reins—because people damaged the horse’s true nature, the horse learned pretense and deceit, even behaving like a thief. That is the fault of Bole (the master of judging and training horses).

The Age of Huxu and the Harm of Ritual, Music, Benevolence, and Righteousness

Huxu was the name of an ancient sovereign. People of that time did not fuss over “where one ought to dwell” or “where one ought to go”; they held food in their mouths and bellies were full, and the common folk were as innocent as infants, knowing nothing beyond that.

Later, using ritual and music to “correct” people was only a outer branch—it could straighten outward form, not inward disposition. Hoisting benevolence and righteousness so high that people had to stand on tiptoe to reach them was likewise only an outer branch: it could soothe hearts for a while, but could not bring lasting peace. Then the people loved cleverness and would not stop—and that too was the sage’s error.

Xiangdao commentary: When sages use benevolence and righteousness (Ren and Yi) to settle the hearts of all under heaven, the people begin to doubt; when they use ritual and music (Li and Yue) to regulate the order of the world, the people begin to split apart. Horses eating grass and drinking water is like people plowing fields to eat and weaving cloth to wear—the original, normal way of things. When pleased they draw close neck to neck; when angry they kick and bite—like people gathering in groups without forming cliques for private gain. Piercing the nose for a ring and fitting the bit and headstall are all superfluous human additions. The horse’s inborn nature was understood only by masters such as Zaofu and Taibing: without the whip, there were still horses that could run ten thousand li in a day. Once Bo Le appeared and put on the yoke, the bit, and the headstall, and adorned them with forehead plaques, horses could no longer escape the fault of “deceit in the mouth and theft at the reins.” The people’s ordinary nature was understood only in the age of Hexu—without fixed laws, everyone could follow their innate disposition. After Yao and Shun, ritual and music were used to constrain, benevolence and righteousness to advertise virtue, and rewards and punishments were piled on; strife could not be stopped, and the harm grew worse. So the very conduct of the sage already carries excess. That is why this chapter argues from start to finish in this vein, to reject artificial contrivance. Its main drift is: cast aside the Dao and De and chase after Ren and Yi, and between ruler and minister, father and son, estrangement and suspicion become unavoidable; cast aside Ren and Yi and trust the natural De, and even beasts and the myriad things can dwell with human beings. Hence the chapter closes with the age of Hexu.

Bixu commentary: The horse’s true nature was understood only by Zaofu and Taibing—without the lash, there were still horses that could run ten thousand li in a day. After Bo Le, yokes, bits, and headstalls were added—the same point as above, stressing the harm of human bondage.

Yanzai oral exegesis: This passage again turns the earlier discussion in a fresh direction, and becomes all the more striking. From words like “necks entwined” and “backs turned away” one can almost see how horses look in joy and anger. “Yue ti” is what we now call the forehead mirror or plaque. “Jie” means alone; “ni” means a sidelong look—the look of standing apart and glaring in anger. “Yin e” is the neck bent in resistance, describing a fierce refusal to accept the bridle and halter. “Man” means rushing forward—pushing against people, refusing to be tamed. Trickery enters the bit, reins are added on the sly, and the horse fights the handler—hence it is called “theft”: something Bo Le forced into being. Had there been no yoke, bit, or headstall, how would there be postures like jieni or yine? When the people grow clever and scramble for profit, it is no different from the horse’s deceit at the bit and theft at the reins.

In antiquity, sages took relieving the world as their proper duty: they would not willingly lose even a single person, and devoted themselves to nurturing and settling people in peace. They did this not to seek fame or profit in the world, but from the sincerity of their nature and a moral awareness that “what ought to be done simply ought to be done.” This is what is meant by “upper De does not [claim] De”—the highest virtue does not deliberately display virtue; even closeness and praise cannot keep pace with them.

In later ages, simplicity waned, hearts grew thin and brittle, and cunning deceit increased day by day. Sages who appeared in response to the times crossed mountains and rivers until their feet blistered, to pull the people out of flood and fire; they admonished again and again to rouse those who had lost their way. When they practiced benevolence through cherishing and benefit, the traces of benevolence showed; when they practiced righteousness through judgment and decision, the effects of righteousness became visible; when they practiced ritual through regulated forms, ritual flourished; when they practiced music through harmony and joy, music took shape. These too were institutions fitted to what the people honored and adapted to circumstances—they still did not stray too far.

Yet long governance tends toward neglect, and long enforcement of law tends toward abuse; one reform makes statutes harsh, and orders too strict invite violation—this too is hard to avoid given the momentum of things. Alas, once the seven orifices have been bored open, can one return again to primordial chaos? That is why the “Horses’ Hooves” chapter speaks of the true nature of horses, citing antiquity to illuminate the present with many and wide-ranging analogies. Its closing section again discusses the horse’s genuine knowing and returns to the chapter’s main intent; it also cites the age of Helüshi, when the people knew only the scene of holding food in the mouth and patting their full bellies, living in Wuwei (non-action) and self-contentment—by this one can see that those in high position need not disturb the people overmuch.

The Nanhua [Zhuangzi] commentary Yihai zuanwei cites the past to verify the present, hoping to restore pure custom in the slightest measure; helplessly, the age mutually guards against itself, and strife all turns toward private gain without stopping, until blame is finally laid on the sages. From this, the gentleman who sets forth words can see that those above who do not disturb the people are acting on right principle.

This passage from the Zhuangzi invokes ancient principles to illuminate present affairs, hoping to restore even a fraction of original simplicity. Yet the age is one of mutual suspicion, and strife among people settles on profit—a current that cannot be stopped and in the end goes so far as to surpass the sages and scorn the worthies.

Would the man who sets these words down be content with that? He deeply wishes to awaken hearts and remedy the times, and has no choice but to speak against the grain, using a kind of overcorrection in what he says. If someone then dismisses him as a bitter, contentious rhetorician, that goes too far.

Those who read Zhuangzi well should pursue the intent behind his words and need not be bound to the letter of his phrasing.

“Jie Ni”: Older commentators read this as “Ga Ni,” a harsh pronunciation with a meaning hard to make sense of; the reading adopted here follows the original characters’ sounds. Jie carries the sense of boundary and limit. When a person uses cleverness to control a horse, the horse’s proper limits and cunning begin to show, and tricks like biting the bit and loosening the reins come to mind—the horse is originally without such “knowing”; it is the human who awakens that knowing in it. (Here the horse stands for the person: people are not excessively crafty by nature; it is the practice of “using knowledge to master things” that stirs up deceit.)

The main theme of this chapter can be explained in four sections.

Section one states the theme upfront: using “taming horses” as a metaphor for “governing the people” matches the Shangshu’s image of driving horses as a metaphor for ruling the people. From start to finish this chapter describes a horse’s nature and its joy and anger in the finest detail—no painter’s skill could do more. If that is so, how could the good and bad in the human heart escape such clear scrutiny?

Section two develops the earlier point through pottery: governing with deliberate intent and contrived action disrupts the natural disposition that the world already has; better is Wuwei (non-action), letting things transform on their own.

Section three adds that in the age of perfect virtue everyone was without knowledge and without desire; once later rulers made laws, the world began to doubt—and that is the same as Bo Le singeing hair, cutting flesh, scraping bone, and filing hooves to force a horse into a wind-chasing gait: the name is “governance,” but the harm is immense. What counts as the sage’s fault is setting up benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music to educate the people, issuing orders and pressing them for fear they will not comply—without seeing that when branches flourish the root withers, and when government looks successful, hidden abuse rises. Plain honesty is blocked, punishments multiply, and upper and lower ranks fight without end. So Master Zhuang (Zhuangzi), from Qi Garden, used lofty argument to correct the ills of the age and broad analogies to guide hearts, so that the world might leave the false and return to the real and know what to aim for. From this one can see that the heart of the perfected person still cannot bear to be wholly indifferent to the world.

Section four at the end cites the ancient folkways—simple customs, harmonious and at ease—to show the results of the emperor’s Wuwei rule. Later sages bound people with ritual and music and comforted them with benevolence and righteousness; seeking order too hard, they ended where order could no longer be kept. Laozi said, “Governing a large state is like cooking a small fish”—minimal handling. This discussion in the Nanhua (Zhuangzi) matches that idea exactly.

Note on the chapter title: At the end appears “Quqie, Part One,” a summary in the Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Meaning-Ocean of the True Scripture of Nanhua) for a Zhuangzi chapter (the Quqie chapter). Volume numbers in the source text vary (e.g. “Volume Twenty-Seven,” “Volume Twenty-Eight”); follow the original edition.

To guard against petty thieves who pry open chests, pick pockets, or break into cabinets, people inevitably double the ropes and bolt the doors—what the world calls being “clever.” Yet when the great thief arrives, he hoists the cabinet on his back, shoulders the chest, and carries off the bag, worrying only that the ropes and bolts are not tied tightly enough. Then is what the world calls clever not simply stockpiling goods for the great thief?

Consider this: among those the world calls wise, is there anyone who does not stockpile for the great thief? Among those called sages, is there anyone who does not stand watch for the great thief? How do we know? In former times Qi had cities in sight of one another, cocks and dogs within hearing, nets and plows spread across the land, two thousand-odd li square. Within its borders stood ancestral temples and altars to soil and grain; towns, houses, districts, hamlets, and lanes were all governed—where was this not modeled on the sage? Yet Tian Chengzi (Tian Chang) one morning killed the ruler of Qi and seized the state. What he stole was not only the territory but also “the sage’s laws and the institutions of clever scheming.” Thus Tian Chengzi bore the name of thief yet enjoyed a position like that of Yao and Shun; small states did not dare denounce him, great states did not dare punish him, and for twelve generations his line held Qi—is this not stealing Qi and also stealing the laws of sagehood and wisdom, using them to preserve the thief’s own person?

(Guo Xiang’s commentary) Stockpiling for the great thief and standing watch for the great thief shows that relying on “wisdom” alone is not trustworthy. Those who model themselves on the sage often imitate only the traces the sage left behind; traces are what has already passed, not instruments for responding as circumstances shift, and are not worth clinging to. Holding fast to fixed traces to meet endless change—when change comes, the fixed trace becomes an obstruction. Therefore in guarding a state and in how people prepare their defenses: if the great thief does not steal the sage’s laws along with everything else, he cannot take the state. Sage laws are merely tools people use; they are not a complete reliance for meeting every transformation.

Lu’s commentary on this passage runs as follows: Tying ropes tight and reinforcing bolts and locks to guard against thieves who pry open chests and cupboards—ordinary people call that “being wise.” Yet when a great robber arrives, he carries off the whole chest and is only glad you tied it so securely. So is this sort of “knowing” that people praise anything other than stockpiling goods for the big thief?

Likewise, raising ancestral temples and the altars of soil and grain, building walled cities and district wards to defend the four directions—people call that the work of “sages.” Tian Chengzi (Tian Chang) seized Qi and took over the very laws and norms that so-called sages and wise men had laid down, using them to preserve his identity as a “robber.” So is the “sagehood” people talk about anything other than standing watch over the robber’s estate?

What the world calls “sage” and “knowing” is exactly like this; genuine sagehood and knowing were never like this to begin with.

The Yidu commentary adds: qu means to pry open something in secret. Rope, reinforced bolts, and locks are the conventional wisdom used against petty thieves; when the great robber comes, he walks off with chest, ropes, and locks together. Binding and locking not only fail to stop theft—they conveniently serve the great robber. The world’s “knowing” is not the comprehensive knowing that takes in all things, so it cannot help but amass wealth for the great robber; the world’s “sage” is not the ineffable supreme sage, so it cannot help but guard the realm for the great robber.

This is precisely why Laozi and Zhuangzi insist on utterly rejecting conventional “sage” and “knowing.”

When Tian Chengzi stole the state and even used the methods of “sage knowing” to protect his robber’s person—every trace of sagehood visible within the legal order ends up tied to “robbery.” Yet to compare Tian Chengzi’s “security” with that of Yao and Shun would be going too far, would it not?

The reply: Any embodied form that the realm can latch onto is chaff and thread-end stuff—not worth using to rank higher and lower. As for the level at which Yao and Shun simply cannot be appropriated by the realm, how could Tian Chengzi be mentioned in the same breath?

The Bixu commentary says: “Knowing” means those who make chests and cupboards and add ropes, bolts, and locks; “amassing” means those who scrape together treasures and hoard them; “sage” means those who hold the seals, scales, and axe of authority; “guarding” means those who protect temples, altars of soil and grain, and borders. Moreover, were Qi’s institutions and laws something Tian Chengzi could have fabricated out of nothing? (The point: what the great robber steals is the existing system of “sage knowing”—not something Tian Chengzi invented alone—which shows all the more that conventional sagehood and knowing, along with theft-proofing and guarding the state, fail equally before the great robber.)

Bixuzi (Chen Jingyuan) comments that when Zhi had boxes made, bundles tied, locks applied, and seals affixed, he was guarding against petty thieves; by contrast, the Dao is said to pry locks, break seals, open bundles, and smash boxes—guarding against the “great thief.”

Yan Zhai explains that in ordinary life, small clever devices are meant only to keep out mice and petty thieves; yet when a great thief arrives, he walks off with the chest and everything in it. The Tian clan’s seizure of Qi rested on using their private measures when goods came in and the state measures when goods went out—read how the Zuo Zhuan tells it, and you see how they borrowed the sage’s standards to finish their scheme of theft. The Warring States period largely worked this way, which is why Zhuangzi uses this story as a parable for that pattern.

Context: This passage follows the line of thought in the Zhuangzi chapter “Opening Trunks” (Qiè Qiè): “abolish sages and discard wisdom, and great thieves will cease.” Devices that lock the box against small thieves end up as the very means by which great thieves—usurping ministers who steal the realm—hold power legitimately. When “sagely wisdom” is used to cement a stolen order, it becomes the capital of great theft. The Tian replacement of Qi in the state of Qi is a central historical example from Zhuangzi’s time.

To guard against thieves, ordinary people rely on tying ropes and adding locks and bolts—that is small cleverness of the mundane world. Burrowing through walls, entering rooms, and making off with chests and sacks is another kind of “cleverness” that goes beyond the ordinary. How many people in the world truly possess this “transcendent wit” that Heaven and Earth (zaohua) allot so sparingly? If one uses “stealing Heaven’s timing” to nourish the body and preserve the spirit, and “stealing Earth’s advantage” to enrich one’s house and one’s state—what could be wrong with that? Yet some willingly chase after hidden treasures indoors and covet ill-gotten wealth, heedless of public censure that will not fade or a bad name that will not wash away—how little they reflect!

Look closely and there is a reason: if nothing in the world were stored up for others to guard, how could anyone take it away? Still, from the petty thief who “empties the purse” and never has enough, all the way up to the thief who “steals a whole state,” it is like treading on frost and knowing hard ice is coming—one cannot fail to take warning. The one who steals a state does not merely carry off “the sage’s law” along with it; even if he wins the realm, without a way to stand on his own he cannot last long. “Sagely wisdom” (sheng zhi) is originally a sharp tool of the world—the crux is whose hand holds it and how it is used. Once authority falls into a villain’s snare, it often turns and binds him instead. Later it is said: the thief of a hook is executed; the thief of a state becomes a feudal lord—and at the gate of such lords, benevolence and righteousness are on display. Small thieves are punished; great thieves go unchecked—is that the way to order the people? Having stolen the state and made themselves rulers, they forbid the people to steal, yet they also know benevolence and righteousness cannot be discarded—are they not using “the method of sagely wisdom” to preserve their own “thief’s body”?

Zhuangzi (the Master of Lacquer Garden) raised this argument to strike at the hearts of villains through the ages; the stern straight brush of the Spring and Autumn Annals (the “Lin Classic”) can stand comparison in its age.

You could put it this way: the people the world calls the wisest—are they not the ones who stockpile goods for great thieves? And those called the most sagely—are they not the ones who guard those goods for great thieves? How do we know? Long ago Long Feng was executed, Bi Gan had his heart cut out, Chang Hong was disemboweled, and Wu Zixu was minced into paste—all four were worthy men, yet none escaped violent death.

So a follower of Robber Zhi asked Robber Zhi, “Is there a code to thieving?” Robber Zhi said, “What trade has no code? Guessing what’s hidden in a house is ‘wisdom’; going in first is ‘courage’; coming out last is ‘righteousness’; judging whether a job can succeed is ‘discernment’; dividing the loot fairly is ‘benevolence.’ Without any one of these five, you cannot become a great thief—and there has never been such a case under heaven.”

Seen in this light, good people are few and bad people many, so what sages bring the world is little benefit and much harm. Hence the saying: when the lips are gone the teeth grow cold; when Lu sent up thin wine as tribute, Handan in Zhao was besieged (a small matter can overturn the whole situation). When sages appear, great thieves rise up. Only when sages are removed and robbers left alone does the world gradually settle.

When rivers run dry, valleys stand empty; when hills are leveled, the deep fills up. If sages died and great thieves did not arise, the world would be peaceful and untroubled—but as long as sages do not die, great thieves will not cease. Even if you double your reverence for sages and use them to govern the world, you only double what benefits Robber Zhi. Make bushel-measures and peck-measures to mete the world, and the measures themselves are stolen; make scales and weights to weigh it, and the scales are stolen; make seals and tallies (fuqi) to authenticate trust, and the seals are stolen; use benevolence and righteousness to set things straight, and benevolence and righteousness are stolen. How do we know? A thief who steals a hook is put to death, while one who steals a state becomes a feudal lord—and inside the lord’s gate stand benevolence and righteousness. Is that not stealing benevolence and the wisdom of sages?

So great thieves are honored as lords; they steal benevolence and righteousness and also steal the benefits that bushel-measures, scales, and seals were meant to secure. Neither high office nor heavy rewards can dissuade them, nor axes and halberds restrain them. To prize Robber Zhi’s gains like this yet be unable to forbid him is precisely the sage’s fault.

Therefore it is said: fish cannot leave the deep water, and the sharp tools of the state must not be shown to others. That “sage wisdom” is a sharp tool of the world—not something to be used to illuminate the world for all to see.

This passage develops the Zhuangzi ideas of “abolishing sages and abandoning wisdom” and “when that happens, great thieves arise,” drawing on Guo Xiang’s and Lü Huiqing’s commentarial lines of thought.

Guo’s reading in brief: A tyrannical ruler can use sovereign power to kill worthy ministers while no one dares resist, and often does so precisely by wielding “sage-law”—law and ritual norms framed in the way of the sages. Without that sage-law, how could Jie and Zhou have unleashed their cruelty and made the world look on in fear? The five qualities “sage, brave, righteous, knowing, and benevolent” were meant to forbid theft, yet they became capital for great thieves instead—sages seem to benefit the world little and harm it much; that claim can stand, but it does not follow that we should abolish “sage” entirely. The world’s cleverness and collective wit cannot all be wiped out, so “the way of the sage” is still needed to restrain them. If you remove “sage-knowledge” while crowd-wisdom remains, the harm is worse than when sages exist. Harm from having sages is great, yet it is still slightly better than “no sages and no order”; but even if better than no sages, it is still not as good as “both sage and knowledge abandoned, neither harming the other.” Everyone under heaven seeks profit, yet none can together drop their scheming hearts—how confused, how far from the original point!

When lips are lost it is not for the sake of making teeth cold, yet teeth grow cold because of it; Lu presented thin wine—not in order to besiege Handan, yet Handan was besieged—this is the number (pattern) by which things naturally link and necessarily give rise to one another. Sages do not exist to nurture great thieves, yet great thieves arise from them. Sages do not set up “ esteem” (standards of what to honor) on things, yet they cannot stop the world from highly honoring “sage-law”—the realm falls silent and submits in the dark; that is exactly the footing on which tyrants like Jie and Zhi become great thieves. If one purely esteems plainness, drops prohibitions, and replaces them with few desires, then “strike down the sages” and keep to one’s own plainness; release the thieves and petty evil ceases of itself.

“Draining the river is not to empty the valley, yet the valley empties”—a likeness for not intending cause and effect yet inevitably connecting: to govern the world, nothing beats striking down sages and releasing thieves, forgetting good and bad alike. If the heart is not empty like a valley, thieving intent can arise within it—because “sage” is taken as a deep pool and dammed up. If the sage’s “river” is drained dry, the valley is empty and theft does not arise; if the heart’s deep pool is not filled in, thieving intent can slip inside—because “sage” is taken as a mound and piled high. If sage-mounds are leveled and reduced, the pool is solid and thieves do not invade. This means the way of the sage is dead in the heart, great thieves do not arise, and the world is without groundless calamity (wu gu). “Dead” here means no longer clinging to a mind that gives birth to sages; once thieving intent rises, great thieves arise—even if you double down on sages to govern the world, you are really doubling what great thieves can exploit. The “bundled theft” language below is just this: hook-thieves are executed, but realm-thieves become feudal lords and none can stop them—within the lords’ gates “humaneness and righteousness” still stand, which is to steal sage-knowledge and humaneness-righteousness together; how much more those who go further and hoist the banner of feudal lord? What chariots, caps, axes, and yokes cannot forbid or persuade is all because of departing from the genuine and honoring sages: still displaying sage-law openly under heaven is showing sharp tools to people, so great thieves can seize them.

Lü’s supplement: What the world calls knowing and what it calls sagehood is mostly done through law, names, and divisions; utmost knowing and utmost sagehood originally lie in “not knowing” and “no name,” yet people turn sage-knowledge into labels—the four types of sage cannot keep themselves whole, while Zhi’s sort turn it into capital for theft; worldly sage-knowledge inevitably stockpiles great thieves. Utmost knowing is in not-knowing, utmost sagehood in no-name, yet worldly sage-knowledge feeds thieves—little benefit to the world, much harm; not empty talk. The lip-and-tooth likeness speaks of mutual conditioning; the Lu wine and Handan likeness speaks of not intending mutual conditioning yet really conditioning— to govern the world, nothing beats striking down sages and releasing thieves, forgetting good and bad. When the heart-valley is not empty, thieving intent arises within, because “sage” is taken as a pool and blocked; drain the sage-river dry and the valley is empty, theft does not arise; take “sage” as a mound and overturn it—level sage-mounds and reduce them, the pool is solid, thieves do not invade—the sage is already “dead” in the mind that clings to sagehood, great thieves do not arise, the world is without groundless harm. Thieving intent arises and great thieves rise; though you weigh sages heavily to govern the world, you are weighing profit for thieves. See also below on “bundled theft”: hook-thieves are killed, realm-thieves are feudal lords, stealing sage-knowledge and humaneness-righteousness together; those who go even further and raise the feudal banner—chariots, caps, axes, and yokes still cannot forbid or persuade. All of this is the fault of departing from the genuine and becoming sage; still clarifying sage-law under heaven is showing people sharp tools, so great thieves can take them. When fish lose the deep pool they are caught by people; when sharp tools are displayed they are turned to use by others—so they must not be lightly shown to people.

From the perspective of the Dao, one commentator says: In the world there are gentlemen and petty men. Axes and halberds of execution cannot hold them back, nor can admonition restrain them—all of this is straying from one’s original authenticity and pushing “the sage’s Way” too far; yet people still want to use “the sage’s law” to govern the world. That is like putting sharp weapons on display for everyone to see, so great robbers can seize them.

Another note: In the world there are gentlemen and petty men. When one attains the right alignment with the Dao, then sagehood, courage, righteousness, wisdom, and benevolence are all right; if one starts from what is wrong and tries to patch things up or fill them in, that becomes great robbery. The “Dao” that robbery relies on is nothing but what is hidden in false intent—entering first and leaving later, knowing what is permitted or forbidden, dividing things evenly. Whoever has only one of these traits is a petty thief; Zhi (the legendary great robber) had all five complete. Zhuangzi, in the Miscellaneous Chapters, used allegory and set Confucius in contrast to show that the “great robber” and the “great sage” are the same in “knowing”—only the use differs. Good people use these five to establish themselves; evil people use these five to rob. Good and evil both come from the human heart, and in the world those who do good are few while those who do evil are many—so Zhuangzi wanted to correct this deeply.

“The wine of Lu was thin and Handan was besieged” and “When sages are born, great robbers arise”—these follow the natural pattern of mutual arising and inevitable consequence. When sages establish laws, they never meant to stir up people’s hypocrisy; people themselves follow the traces left by sages to act falsely. What is called “striking down the sages” is deep hatred of the traces sages leave. Chan Buddhism has similar words: “If I had seen Shakyamuni appear in the world back then, I would have beaten him to death with one staff”—the meaning is close. Even “releasing bandits” is meant to extinguish fraud and falsity.

Waters of streams and valleys flow into one another; mounds and deep pools cover the same earth. The traces of sages are precisely what great robbers draw upon. “Abolish sages and discard wisdom”—then great robbers do not arise, and the marks of rivalry and display are removed. If one does not abolish sages and discard cleverness to stop robbery, but instead uses the sage’s law to govern the world with a heavy hand, then people like Zhi will seize the opportunity to become robbers—this only increases the lure of profit.

Dipper-measures, steelyard rods, balance scales, tally-seals, and benevolence and righteousness are all tools sages use to govern the world. Zhuangzi held that whatever involves physical implements and legal standards will be taken by great robbers for their own use. When robbery reaches the point of stealing the state, dipper-measures, steelyard rods, balance scales, and tally-seals are all in the robber’s hands, and punishment and reward are decided by him alone. The governing tools relied on in the ages of Yao, Shun, and the Three Dynasties used the same physical implements and legal standards as later times, yet order and disorder differed—the reason lies precisely here.