《南华真经新传》

Xin Chuan of the Nanhua Zhenjing (New Transmission of the Authentic Classic of Southern Florescence)

Imperially commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries, Masters (Zi) section, fascicle 14.

Xin Chuan of the Nanhua Zhenjing — Daoist works.

Summary

Your servants respectfully report: Xin Chuan of the Nanhua Zhenjing in twenty fascicles was compiled by Wang Bi of the Song dynasty. Wang Bi, courtesy name Yuanze, was a native of Linchuan and the son of Wang Anshi. He passed the jinshi examination while still a minor and eventually rose to the post of Direct Attendant at the Hall of Imperial Writings in the Longtu Pavilion. His career is appended to the biography of Wang Anshi in History of Song.

The format of this work largely follows the commentary of Guo Xiang (a Western Jin figure famed for his commentary on the Zhuangzi), but the prose is more concise: it sets out the main ideas without being tied to a phrase-by-phrase gloss. Its central view is that the seven inner chapters have an order of their own and form a continuous whole; the fifteen outer chapters and eleven miscellaneous chapters merely envelop the profound meaning of the inner chapters, so the book treats the inner chapters with particular thoroughness. Appended is one fascicle of Collected Remains and Miscellaneous Notes, used to develop remaining points—likely added after the main text was finished.

Historical writings say Wang Bi looked down on the world and held nothing back; his harsh, obstinate temper is hardly worth praise. Yet his proud, unfettered spirit bears some resemblance to Zhuang Zhou’s vast, unrestrained talk that breaks rules and lets nature take its course, so he often grasped subtle intentions. Sun Ying’ao says in his preface that one should take his words and not reject them because of the man—a fair judgment.

This title is not recorded in the Bibliographic Treatise of History of Song. Chao Gongwu’s Bibliographic Notes on Reading lists it in ten fascicles; in this edition the number of fascicles is doubled. One suspects Bibliographic Notes mistakenly dropped two characters, or that a Ming reprint split each fascicle into two.

Wang Hong’s Mountain Record states: commentators on the Daodejing and the Nanhua Jing number no fewer than a hundred houses, yet those by Lü Huiqing and Wang Bi won considerable esteem. Wang Bi’s talent was especially outstanding; had he been able to study under Master Cheng (Cheng Yi), his achievement would have been beyond measure. He also says: privately one further doubts how, with Lü Huiqing’s sly flattery and Wang Bi’s unrestrained harshness, such works could exist—perhaps petty men stole reputation and had retainers ghost-write them; that cannot be ruled out.

Comment: Petty men are fierce and cunning; clinging to the Learning of the Way was only borrowing a name. Did Xing Shu never study under Master Cheng (see Record of the Origins of the Yi–Luo School)? Did Zhang Dun never visit Master Shao (see Record of Things Heard and Seen)? Yet once they broke away, there was no pulling them back. Why assume that if Wang Bi had followed Master Cheng he would necessarily have succeeded? As for Wang Bi’s learning, it was in fact above the ordinary: of the new commentaries on the classics that Wang Anshi produced, only the Rites of Zhou came from his own draft; the rest were completed with Wang Bi’s help, as Cai Tiao details in Iron Mountain Conversations. Why insist his Zhuangzi commentary must have been written by someone else? What Wang Hong wrote is merely fond of debate and does not examine the facts closely.

Third month, forty-sixth year of the Qianlong reign: respectfully collated and submitted.

Chief compilers: your servants Ji Yun, Lu Xixiong, and Sun Shiyi.

Chief collator: your servant Lu Feichi.

Original Preface to the Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., the Zhuangzi)

Commentaries on the Zhuangzi have been abundant in earlier ages. Apart from Guo Xiang’s commentary and the subcommentary by the Tang Daoist Chen Xuanying (author of the Zhuangzi Shu), Lin Yidu, Lü Huiqing, Chen Jingyuan, Wang Yuanze (Wang Bi), Liu Gai, Wu Chou, and Zhao Yifu each produced annotations; Lin Xiyi wrote Kouyi, Li Shibiao Shilun, Wang Dan Fati, and Fan Wuyin delivered lectures. After Chu Boxiu of Hangzhou gathered the various schools into Yihai Zuanwei and added his own judgments, complete original editions from each author became increasingly rare in circulation. Even where Wu Cheng offered emendations and Luo Miandao wrote Xunben, most treatments were rough and incomplete.

In the jimao year of the Wanli reign (1579), Censor Liu (Jiuyze), on inspection in Yunnan, visited me at Qingping Villa and produced Wang Yuanze’s Xinchuan, saying: this book was given by Hu Lushan (Hu Zhi), while serving as educational commissioner in Chu, to Zhang Taiheng; once Zhang received it he could not put it down and studied it with the greatest diligence. He therefore asked me to write a few words in the hope of widening its circulation.

I took it, read it through, and repeatedly marveled. The world often reproaches Wang Yuanze the man, yet his exposition of the Zhuangzi stands above all other schools—and is so upright in tone. The Song History says he was keen by nature, bold in spirit, and disdainful of his contemporaries; that does not seem false. The censor accepted his teaching and did not reject his words because of the man—truly far-sighted.

Each school interprets the Zhuangzi according to its own ideas, hence agreement and disagreement; Wang Yuanze uses the Zhuangzi to interpret the Zhuangzi, hence no disagreement.

Examining the Zhuangzi’s intent, the gist is that ultimate principle arises from nature (ziran), hence the opening chapter is “Free and Easy Wandering” (Xiaoyaoyou). Where one can wander freely, this and that are equalized, hence next comes “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” (Qiwu lun). Equalization means not clinging to life; not clinging to life, life itself is preserved—hence “The Nurturing of Life” (Yangsheng zhu). Skill in nurturing life suffices to meet the changes of the world, hence “The Human World” (Renjian shi). Meeting worldly change, De (Virtue/Power) daily advances—hence “Signs of Fullness of De” (De chong fu). De is attaining one’s true master, hence “The Great Ancestral Teacher” (Da zongshi). Attaining the true master, nothing under Heaven can oppose—hence “Fit for Emperors and Kings” (Ying diwang). This thread running through the whole book is gathered in the seven inner chapters. The fifteen outer chapters and eleven miscellaneous chapters—now rousing to vent indignation, now strange to correct bias, now expansive to break stagnation, now deep to return to simplicity—merely unfold the vast and subtle meaning of the inner chapters in full.

Wang Yuanze deeply understood this; he alone grasped the guiding rope and, like splitting joints and guiding the blade through the gaps (pi xi dao kuan), made the meaning bend yet flow freely, orderly and clear. His supplementary and miscellaneous remarks especially push to the most hidden points and in the end still converge on the root of the inner chapters. Although commentary on “Bound Feet and Extra Thumbs,” “Horse’s Hoofs,” “Opening Trunks,” and “Letting Be, and Exercising Authority” has gaps, the essential arguments and evidence are nowhere incomplete—they are preserved in commentary on other chapters. To read the Zhuangzi with this book in hand is like crossing a river with a good oar, or climbing Mount Hua or Song with gear that makes the ascent easy—how satisfying!

Having thus outlined the Xinchuan, I also said to the censor: the world judges the Zhuangzi as not matching the Confucian classics, yet ranks it first among the hundred schools. If it does not match the classics, on what basis is it first among the hundred? People see only phrases like “rupturing sage wisdom and discarding benevolence and righteousness” and think it rebels against Yao, Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius—all from clinging to the letter and missing the intent. Only the great Confucian Shao Kangjie (Shao Yong) understood its meaning, saying “Zhuangzi is good at penetrating the ten thousand things.” What is penetrating things? Where Dao (the Way) appears as form, that is a thing; the life and mandate of a thing is Dao. Dao naturally penetrates things; things naturally penetrate me; I naturally penetrate Dao. If one is driven by big and small, right and wrong, success and ruin, life and death, gain and loss, fortune and disaster, how can one penetrate things? Without penetrating things, how can one penetrate Dao? Without penetrating Dao, how can I and the ten thousand things of Heaven and earth be one again? This is the transmitted teaching of Yao, Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius. Zhuangzi glimpsed it, used it to forge the Nanhua, and deployed argument freely—creating a discourse unmatched since antiquity. Straight talk looks like inverted talk; how can one say it does not match the classics? If one only borrows the names of Yao, Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius to elevate oneself, while big and small, right and wrong, success and ruin, life and death, gain and loss, fortune and disaster daily trap one like cages and lacquer glue—how is that the classics? That is precisely what Zhuangzi mocked. Who truly pursues the learning of Yao, Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucious without falling into what Zhuangzi laughed at—against such a one Zhuangzi too would yield, prostrate and looking up for further ascent.

Written on the day of the first crescent of the sixth month, jimao year of Wanli, by Sun Ying’ao, Man of Huaihai.

The Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries (Qinding Siku Quanshu) includes Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan, Book 1, the “Inner Chapters” composed by Wang Bi of the Song dynasty; this chapter is titled “Xiaoyao You” (Free and Easy Wandering).

In the Northern Sea there was a fish called Kun. Kun was so vast that no one knew how many thousand li its body measured. It transformed into a bird called Peng. Peng’s back was equally vast—again, no one knew how many thousand li—and when it beat its wings and rose, they were like clouds hanging from the sky. This bird rides the moving sea and wind to migrate to the Southern Sea. The Southern Sea is the Celestial Pool.

The Dao has no fixed direction and no fixed form. It moves in stillness within hidden darkness, untroubled by the burden of physical things. Only the zhiren (person of utmost cultivation) can realize it and thereby have no fixed self. Without a fixed self, there is no clinging mind; without clinging, one is not ruled by external things and can rest in self-sufficiency, roaming in primordial vagueness. That is true xiaoyao (carefree wandering).

As for Kun and Peng: hidden in the Northern Sea, they fly to the Southern Sea, soar ninety thousand li, and need six months to rest. The cicada and the little bird cannot fly past the elm or the sandalwood; if they cannot reach, they fall back to the ground. All of these have fixed positions and belong to concrete things. Once there is position and concreteness, one is constrained by creation and bound by yin-yang, unable to escape the burden of bodily form—how can that be called xiaoyao?

Guo Xiang said: each thing follows its own nature, each affair matches its own capacity, each bears what it should bear—xiaoyao is the same for all. That view merely holds to the outer limits of things and has not yet grasped what Zhuangzi meant by xiaoyao.

Qi Xie is a record of strange events.

Zhuangzi’s point is to put “the other and the self” on the same footing and to blend the small with the great. To equalize self and other, one cannot avoid making what is inherently unequal equal; to merge small and great, one cannot avoid harmonizing what is inherently unharmonious. That is why the name “Qixie” (Harmonizing the Unequal) is used. Qi here means equalizing what was not equal to begin with; xie means harmonizing what was not harmonious to begin with. The Kun-Peng (the great fish that becomes a vast bird) stands for the great, and the marsh quail for the small. When the Kun-Peng boasts that greatness belongs to itself and smallness to the other, and the quail laments that smallness belongs to itself and greatness to the other, neither equality nor harmony is achieved. Only from a penetrating perspective can one see that the myriad things are all equally things. Once they are equally things, how can there still be distinctions of self and other, small and great? That is the utmost of Qixie—hence the name. Yet the Kun-Peng is not something that literally exists; it is only a parable, which is why the text also calls this “records of the strange” (zhiguai).

Qixie says: When the Peng migrates toward the Southern Depths, it strikes the water for three thousand li, rides the fuyao (a whirlwind spiraling upward) to ninety thousand li, and must wait for half a year’s worth of breath before it can set out.

Though the Peng is vast, its flight does not exceed ninety thousand li, and when it rests it must still complete a full six months—bound by the fixed measures of yin and yang. It is not carefree wandering (xiaoyao)—that is, not the kind of ease that depends on nothing.

The “wild horses” (floating motes in the air) and dust are all produced by living things blowing on one another with their breath.

The Peng’s flight must rely on the stirring of wild horses and dust; without them, its great wings cannot rise. This shows that even when a thing is enormous, it still needs something to depend on before it can move—it is not spontaneous. Even at that scale, it cannot escape being tied down.

The sky looks vast and blue—is that its true color, or does it only seem so because it stretches beyond all limits? The same is true when the Peng looks down from on high. When water does not gather deeply enough, it cannot bear a great ship. Pour a cup of water into a shallow dip in the hall floor, and a mustard seed can float like a boat; set a cup on it and it sticks fast— the water is too shallow for what it must carry. When wind does not build thick enough, it cannot lift enormous wings. So the Peng rises ninety thousand li into the sky, until the wind gathers beneath it, and only then can it ride the wind upward, bearing the blue sky on its back, with nothing to block its way, and set its course toward the southern sea.

The cicada (tiao) and the young dove (xuejiu) mock it, saying: We strain to fly up to the elm or sandalwood trees, and sometimes we fail and fall back to the ground— why must you fly ninety thousand li and then head south? To the nearby wilds (mangcang), three meals suffice for a round trip and you return with a full belly; for a hundred li you must prepare food the night before; for a thousand li you must store up three months’ provisions. The farther the journey, the more provisions you need; the shorter the journey, the fewer— that is the natural order of things. So the Kun-Peng (the great bird transformed from the giant fish) is vast in body and must fly ninety thousand li; the cicada and young dove are tiny and cannot fly beyond the elm and sandalwood— likewise the natural order. Once you grasp this fundamental principle and are not trapped by questions of more or less, big or small, each thing finds its own sufficiency.

What do these two little creatures understand? Small understanding cannot match great understanding; short life cannot match long life. How do we know? The morning mushroom, born at dawn and dead by dusk, does not know the waxing and waning of a month; the seasonal cicada (huigu), living from summer into autumn, does not know the cycle of a year— such is short life. South of Chu there is the Mingling, a tree of legendary longevity, for which five hundred years count as one spring and five hundred as one autumn; in antiquity there was the Great Chun, another immensely long-lived tree, for which eight thousand years were one spring and eight thousand one autumn. Peng Zu, famed in antiquity for his long life, is still singled out for praise— how sad if ordinary people measure themselves against him.

Among people and things in the world, small knowledge falls short of great knowledge, short life falls short of long life— so the morning mushroom is no match for the seasonal cicada, the Mingling no match for the Great Chun, a child who dies young no match for Peng Zu— that much is clear. Yet from the perspective of “no small or great, no birth or death,” all alike are bound by physical form— where then is any “falling short” or “no match”? Unless one is someone who has penetrated the way of the world, who can grasp this deeper layer?

What Shang Tang said when questioning Ji refers precisely to this idea. In the northernmost land where no plants grow (Qiongfa), there is a dark sea called the Celestial Pool. In this sea lives a fish thousands of li wide, whose length no one knows, named Kun. There is also a bird named Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging from the sky. Riding the whirlwind called "fuyao" or "yangjiao," it ascends ninety thousand li high, passes through the clouds, carries the blue sky on its back, and then plans to fly south to the Southern Sea. The chixiao (a small quail of the marshes) laughed at it, saying: "Where is it going to fly? When I jump, I rise only a few ren before falling back, flying among the wormwood and thistles—this is the limit of flight. Where else could it go?" This is the distinction between small and great.

When Kun and Peng wanted to fly south, chixiao mocked them; when chixiao itself leaped, it considered that sufficient. Small and great are inherently different, so this is called the debate of small and great. Yet both Kun-Peng and chixiao remain confined to their respective physical forms, and therefore neither can achieve xiaoyao (free and easy wandering according to one's true nature without constraint). Is xiaoyao about abandoning one's true nature? As long as each rests content at the ultimate of their own allotted nature, all achieve xiaoyao; once bound by physical form, all experience hardship. Thus whether one experiences xiaoyao or hardship depends solely on understanding or failing to understand.

Those whose talent suffices for one office, whose conduct suits one district, whose virtue matches one ruler and wins trust in one state—they view themselves just like chixiao. Song Rongzi (a Warring States scholar who advocated not being moved by praise or blame) still laughed at them. The Dao makes no distinctions among the myriad things; people following the Dao should each find contentment. Though the talents of one office, one district, one ruler, and one state differ, if one can forget the distinction between small and great and find self-contentment, that suffices to escape constraint. How could Song Rongzi laugh at them? His laughter came because they still harbored distinctions in their hearts.

Even if the entire world praised him, he would not strive harder; even if the entire world condemned him, he would not grow despondent. He drew the boundary between inner and outer, distinguished the line between honor and disgrace—nothing more. Toward worldly affairs, he did not urgently pursue. Even so, he still had aspects not yet fully established.

Someone whom the whole world praises does not try harder on that account; someone whom the whole world condemns does not sink into despair on that account. This is what the Huainan tradition calls a person with true self-trust: praise and slander do not shift them. Such a person values what is inward and treats what is outward lightly, takes being rooted in what is genuinely theirs as honor and forgets humiliation, never loses their original mind, and so stays at ease—free and unbound. Hence it is said: once you have fixed the boundary between inner and outer and clarified the terrain of honor and disgrace, that is enough. “This much is settled” means fully realizing one’s nature. Full realization of nature means the human way is complete, yet one has not yet arrived at ming (fate/destiny)—so there is still ground not reached.

Liezi, who in legend could ride the wind as an adept, traveled on the wind—light, graceful—and returned only after fifteen days. As for seeking good fortune, he did not chase it urgently. Though he was spared walking, he still had something to rely on.

When the kun becomes the peng, it must rise on the “wild horses” and dust (the drifting qi and motes in the air); Liezi as a perfected person still had to mount the wind to travel. In each case there is dependence. Where there is dependence, such freedom is not yet fully deep and subtle.

As for one who rides the correctness of Heaven and Earth, drives the transformations of the six qi (yin, yang, wind, rain, dark, light), and roams in the infinite—what would he still depend on?

To ride Heaven and Earth’s correctness, drive the six qi’s changes, and roam the infinite is what the sage can reach. The sage exhausts the emptiness of the Dao, enters the wondrous realm, does not clash with things, and only follows what is fitting: where he goes he is not hurried yet arrives swiftly; where he comes from he does not walk yet is already there—round, flowing, without obstruction, clearly free—how could he depend on anything? Hence “what would he still depend on?” This is Zhuangzi’s kind of carefree roaming (xiaoyao), and also what Buddhism calls the body pervading the dharma realm. Unless one has sage wisdom, who could arrive here?

Hence it is said: the perfected person (zhiren) has no fixed self; the spirit person (shenren) has no deliberate merit; the sage (shengren) has no reputation to cling to.

The perfected person knows the great Dao, merges inwardly in silence, drifts at ease, and is not dragged by outer things—hence “no self.” The spirit person exhausts the great Dao, bends to nothing, completes the myriad things while keeping wondrous function hidden—hence “no merit.” The sage embodies the great Dao, dwells in stillness and wuwei (non-action), spiritually transforms and nurtures the vast while remaining unfathomable—hence “no name.”

Yao wished to yield the empire to Xu You, a hermit of high antiquity.

Laozi said: When your work is complete, withdraw and step back—this is the way of Heaven. The Way of Heaven does not force or bend anything, yet it brings all things to completion; its subtle operation stays deeply hidden, so it is called “without achievement” (wugong). The sage embodies the Great Dao, is clear and still and without contrivance, and his spirit transforms and nurtures broadly in a way that cannot be fathomed at all—so he is called “without name” (wuming).

Yao yielded the realm to Xu You (an ancient recluse). Laozi said that when achievement is complete one withdraws—this is the way of Heaven. After Yao had already brought order to the realm and then yielded the throne to Xu You, he had attained the way of Heaven; having attained the way of Heaven, he was of the same kind and walked the same path as Heaven.

Yao said: The sun and moon have already risen, yet the torch is still not put out—it still tries to compete for light—is that not difficult? The seasonal rains have already fallen, yet people are still sent to pour water on the fields—for moistening the earth, is that not wasted effort? When you, sir, appeared, the realm was already settled, yet I still occupy the ruler’s place in vain.

Broad in transforming and nurturing is called sheng (sagehood); when sagehood reaches what cannot be known, it is called shen (spirit). The sage shares with the people both fortune and misfortune, joy and worry; the spirit does not worry together with the sage. When Yao first governed the realm, he used Heaven’s vastness to transform and nurture the people and shared worry and joy with all under Heaven—that was the phase of youwei (having action). When teaching reached its utmost and turned into transformation, he stirred all things, while all things did not know why it was so—that was the phase of wuwei (non-action). Wuwei emerges from youwei; when wuwei reaches its extreme, one enters into shen. The sage’s achievement is established only through shen; when achievement has reached its peak, one should preserve shen—this is why Yao yielded the realm. When achievement is at its peak yet shen cannot return to its original state, shen is depleted—so Yao used the torch and watering as comparisons, showing that his remaining in the ruler’s place was superfluous.

Yao said: I still see myself as lacking; please take the realm. Laozi said “Great completion seems incomplete”: true great completion does not proclaim itself complete, so it appears lacking. Yao saw himself as lacking—precisely because he did not claim completion for himself.

Xu You said: You governed the realm, and the realm is already well governed; if I came to replace you, would it be for the sake of a name? A name is only an appendage of reality—would I go be that appendage?

Xuyou was an ancient practitioner of wuwei (non-action). Having already attained wuwei, he did not carry the realm in his heart, and therefore refused to take Emperor Yao’s place as Son of Heaven. Youwei (deliberate action) and wuwei are equally subtle; originally there is no ranking of high and low. If one stubbornly treats youwei as shallow and only wuwei as the ultimate, one loses the original point of wuwei: name and reality entangle each other, guest and host separate from each other, and the Dao splits apart. For this reason Xuyou used the principle of guest and host to decline the imperial position.

The wren builds its nest in deep woods yet occupies no more than a single branch; the field mouse goes to the river to drink yet fills no more than its belly. Each can fulfill its portion and find its proper place. Thus even youwei, though small in scope, if it does not burden the inner mind, is likewise the utmost subtlety under Heaven—there is no need to envy the vastness of wuwei. Seen in this light, how could Xuyou take the realm to heart?

Therefore he said: My lord, go back—the realm is of no use to me. The achievements of a sage are established through divine subtlety; when achievement reaches the extreme of divine subtlety, one no longer shares the sage’s anxieties. If one does not share anxieties, how could one treat the realm as one’s own affair? Hence he said: Go back—I have no need of the realm.

Even if the cook does not enter the kitchen, the libationer (zhu, who offers prayers at sacrifice) will not step over the wine vessel and sacrificial vessels to take his place. The ten thousand things each have their allotment and each keep their office: the cook’s achievement lies in slaughtering and cooking; the libationer’s duty lies in pure, quiet sacrifice—each reaches the extreme of its own portion. If the cook does not manage the kitchen, how dare the libationer overstep his office and do the work for him? Once one substitutes for another, offices are disrupted; when offices are disrupted, one cannot avoid being entangled. Yao’s achievement had already reached the extreme of divine subtlety—how could Xuyou dare to overstep the boundary and replace him? Replacement would inevitably mean entanglement; with entanglement, one cannot speak of xiaoyao (carefree roaming—the mind free from all constraint). This is why Xuyou compared himself to the cook and the libationer.

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu: I heard Jie Yu speak—his words were grand yet not grounded in reality, and once he started he could not stop. I was alarmed by what he said, as if facing the Milky Way—vast without end, far from ordinary human feeling, not close to how people usually are. When the heart has entanglements, it is not enough for xiaoyao—so Xuyou used the cook and the libationer as a comparison.

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu: “What I heard from Jie Yu—the Chu recluse—was so vast it had no boundary; once he started, there was no coming back. I was alarmed and afraid; it seemed bottomless as the Milky Way, far from ordinary reason, not what people usually accept as human.” Lian Shu asked what Jie Yu had said. Jian Wu replied: “On Mount Guye there lives a spirit-person whose flesh is white as ice and snow, whose bearing is as graceful as a maiden who has not yet married. He eats no grain, but inhales wind and drinks dew, rides cloud-qi and drives flying dragons, and roams beyond the four seas. His spirit is gathered and still; he can keep the ten thousand things from plague and famine, and make the grain ripen year after year. I took this for mad talk and refused to believe it.” Lian Shu said: “So it is. A blind man cannot admire patterns with you; a deaf man cannot hear bells and drums with you. Is it only the body that can be blind or deaf? The mind can be so as well. These words are aimed at you. That spirit-person’s virtue spreads over the ten thousand things; he only wants the age to be well governed—why would he toil and take the realm as his personal task? Outer things cannot harm him: even if floods filled the sky they would not drown him; even if drought melted metal and stone and scorched hills to ash, he would not feel the heat. The dregs and chaff on his body could still produce men like Yao and Shun—how would he let outer things drag him into action?”

“Jian Wu” names clinging to the self; “Lian Shu” names failing to connect and extend—not being the leader of the ten thousand things; “Jie Yu” names what seems threadbare and almost absent, yet can hold and receive. Zhuangzi lodges his meaning in these three figures to show the utmost reach of the Dao. When the Dao is here, it cannot be spoken in words or grasped by intellect; it is not what people of the world can know. Mount Guye lies in the northern sea—signifying return to the root; the Fen River in the northeast of the central plain—signifying return to the mandate. Riding cloud-qi takes up emptiness; driving flying dragons takes up change; roaming outside the four seas takes up not falling into formed things; “shí nǚ” (the maiden who responds) takes up answering in accord without taking the lead. All of this is to display the Dao at its limit. When the Dao reaches its limit it becomes wondrous; wondrousness is spirit (shen); spirit is wuwei (non-action). Thus Yao pushed wuwei to the extreme and forgot the realm, and therefore ceded it to Xu You. The classic says he went to visit four persons who had attained the Dao and, in a daze, forgot even the realm. This is Zhuangzi using allegory to speak of where the Dao ends—something those of shallow insight cannot understand.

In the state of Song someone went to Yue to sell zhangfu—ceremonial caps. The people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies; they had no use for such hats. After Yao had governed the people and settled affairs within the realm, he went to Mount Miaogushe and to the north bank of the Fen River to visit the Four Masters. Dazed and drifting, he seemed to forget that he had a realm at all.

Yao was lord of all under Heaven, yet in his heart he did not keep the realm foremost—like the man of Song who carried zhangfu to Yue, where people with cropped hair and tattooed bodies had no need of hats.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: “The king of Wei gave me seeds of a great gourd. When I grew it, the fruit could hold five shi. Using it to hold water, it was so heavy it could not bear its own weight and could not be lifted; splitting it to make a dipper, it was so vast and hollow there was nowhere to put it. It was not that it lacked size and emptiness—I considered it useless and smashed it.” Zhuangzi said: “Sir, you are indeed not skilled at using large things.”

Things each have their form; forms each have their use. When use matches material, that is skillful application. Huizi got a great gourd yet treated it as useless—he did not know how to use it according to its nature. Because the mind cannot yet cut straight through, we say the sir’s mind is still as if choked by cogon grass.

In Song there was someone skilled at making ointment that kept hands from cracking; generation after generation the family lived by bleaching silk floss. A traveler heard of it and offered a hundred in gold to buy the recipe. The family discussed it: “We have bleached floss for generations and never had more than a few coins; now we can sell the art once for a hundred in gold—sell it to him.” The traveler got the recipe and went to persuade the king of Wu. When Yue raised trouble, the king of Wu sent him to lead troops; in winter they fought the Yue on the water and routed them, and the king of Wu granted him a fief. The same ointment against cracked hands—one man used it to win a fief, another still could not escape bleaching floss; only the use differed. Now you have a gourd that can hold five shi—why not think of making it into a great waist-boat to drift on rivers and lakes, instead of worrying that it is too hollow and vast to store anywhere? Clearly the sir’s mind is still choked by cogon grass.

The same medicine for keeping hands from cracking: one person uses it to rinse and wash silk floss and can only manage petty chores; another person applies it in the right place and thereby gains a fief and the title of marquis. This means: though the thing is one and the same, when the use fits its native capacity, each has its proper application, and there is no need to be dragged down by doubt. That is what is meant by investigating principle to the utmost and fully realizing one’s nature—pushing reason to the end and letting one’s inborn character come to full fruition.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: I have a big tree people call the chu. Its trunk is swollen and knotted, so it will not take a inked cord or square; its branches are twisted, so they will not fit a compass or ruler. It stands by the road, and carpenters do not even glance at it. Your words now are vast and useless, and people likewise set them aside and pay no attention. Zhuangzi said: Have you never seen a wild cat or a yellow weasel? It crouches low waiting for small creatures to pass, then leaps east and west, high or low, until it steps on a trigger and dies in a net. Now consider the great ox: its body is like a cloud hanging from the sky—it is certainly huge—yet it cannot catch a mouse. You already have this great tree and worry it has no use. Why not plant it in the Land of Nothingness, in the Vast Wilds—places of emptiness and boundless openness—where you may wander at ease and do nothing (wuwei), or lie at leisure beneath it? It will not be cut down by an axe, and nothing will harm it. Being useless from the start, how could it know distress?

The Dao itself does not divide large and small; therefore it is the root of all largeness and smallness. In itself it has nothing to “use”; therefore it is the source of every function. Only the sage preserves the root of life and takes the realization of the great Dao as his own application—hence the parable of the great chu. When the chu’s roots go deep, its branches and leaves can spread; when living things hold to the root, the ten thousand affairs arise from it. If a person can root deeply and hold firm to the foundation, not being pulled by large and small or inner and outer, he can be at ease and unfettered (xiaoyao). The Land of Nothingness speaks of emptiness; the Vast Wilds speak of vastness. The wild cat and the great ox show that uses differ, yet both still meet with hardship. Wandering to and fro speaks of movement; lying down to rest speaks of stillness. Not being cut off by axe and adze, and no outer thing being able to harm—this means not clashing with things, so outer things cannot injure you. This is the highest reach of the ease and unfettered life in Zhuangzi’s teaching; therefore it is placed at the end of this chapter. The above completes Nanhua zhenjing xinzhuan, juan 1.

Volume 2 of the New Commentary on the Classic of Southern Floridity explains the “Discourse on Making All Things Equal.” The myriad things arise from the dual qi of Yin and Yang, and I arise in the same way. Though forms and appearances differ, the root of life is one. To grasp this shared root is to stop clinging to “me”; without a fixed self, one no longer treats outer things as opposed to oneself; without that opposition, one is not dragged about by things. That is why Zhuangzi wrote the “Discourse on Making All Things Equal.”

Nan Guo Ziqi—the adept in the story—sat leaning on his armrest, breathing out slowly toward the sky, his expression vacant, as if he had lost the “me” that stood over against him. Yan Cheng Ziyou stood before him and asked: How can the body be like withered wood and the mind like dead ashes?

The sage who realizes the Dao has no “me” in the heart and no longer sets himself against the myriad things of the world. That is what is meant by Ziqi’s “seeming to have lost his counterpart” (sang qi ou). Ou means a matched pair: everything has something it stands opposite to; only the Dao, subtle and unfathomable, has nothing to pair with. Without opposition, all returns to oneness; forgetting “that” and “this,” the myriad things can thus be made equal. Hence the body may be like withered wood and the mind like dead ashes.

The one leaning on the armrest now is not the one who leaned there before. The remark is like what the Brahmin ascetic (Fanzhi) said: though I come from that person of yesterday, I am no longer that person of yesterday.

Ziqi said: Yan, you ask well. Now I have forgotten the clinging “me”—do you understand? Life is formed when Heaven and Earth entrust harmonious qi to us; every living being receives this same blend of qi. Only Ziqi understood this, so he cut off discursive thought and forgot the bodily form, and through “I have lost me” (wu sang wo) brought things and self together on the same level. Confused people in the world do not grasp this; they only see differences in bodily constitution and extremes of size, then divide into self and other, large and small, and so cannot escape being burdened.

Nanzi Qiji said to Ziyou: "You have heard human sounds—the music people make with instruments—but you have not yet heard earthly sounds, the voices that rise when the great earth’s hollows are struck by wind. You may have heard earthly sounds, but you have not yet heard heavenly sounds (tianlai)—the voices things give forth of themselves, with no external master."

Ziyou asked: "Please explain what this means."

Qiji said: "The breath the great earth exhales is what we call wind. When the wind does not stir, all is still; once it stirs, countless hollows roar with it. Have you not heard that long wind’s howling? In mountain forests, among twisting slopes and ridges, the cavities in hundred-span trees—some like nostrils, mouths, and ears, some like pillar sockets, rings, and mortars, some like deep pools and shallow pits—when the wind pours in, the sounds are sometimes like rushing water, sometimes like whizzing arrows, sometimes like shouts, gasps, cries, and wails, sometimes like echoes in deep valleys, sometimes like bitter gnashing. The sound in front sings "yu," and the one behind answers "yong." In a light breeze the answer is soft; in a strong wind the answer is loud; when the fierce wind stops, every hollow falls silent. Have you not seen how the grass and trees still tremble slightly?

Ziyou said: "Earthly sounds are the voices of the many hollows; human sounds are the voices of bamboo pipes arranged in rows. What, then, are heavenly sounds?"

Qiji said: "When wind blows through the myriad openings, each voice is different, yet each arises from itself. Since every sound is taken up by its own opening, what is it that stirs them all to sound?"

Heavenly sounds, earthly sounds, and human sounds mean that the many hollows do not sound alike. Though the hollows differ, they alike need wind to become sound; though the myriad things differ, they alike receive qi (vital energy) to take form. Hollows resound when wind passes through; the myriad things are set to work by creation and transformation (zaohua). Circumstances may differ, but in the end the principle is one—so things and the self cannot fail to be level with each other. Yet without hollows, wind would have nothing to sound; without the myriad things, creation and transformation would have nothing to employ. If a person can shed the burden of the body, forget false notions and feelings, and become clear and penetrating—knowing that the "self" is not something one can possess—then one enters a wondrous realm, and creation and transformation can no longer bind one.

Great knowledge is broad, relaxed, and unhurried; small knowledge is petty and calculating. Great speech blazes with vigor; small speech is endlessly nagging. In sleep, the hun and po souls intertwine; upon waking, the physical form responds to external things, entangled with them, battling daily with the mind. People have their sluggishness, their wakefulness, their subtlety: small fear is restless anxiety, great fear is mental collapse. Words once spoken are like releasing a crossbow trigger—this is what governs right and wrong. Thoughts that linger are like sworn alliances—this is what clings to victory and defeat. Their withering is like autumn and winter, meaning the vital force diminishes day by day. Sunk in one's own actions, one can no longer return. Blocked as if sealed shut, this speaks of aging and exhaustion, a heart approaching death that cannot recover the yang vitality of life. The states of joy, anger, sorrow, delight, worry, sighing, vacillation, obstinacy, frivolity, indulgence, and recklessness, along with great and small knowledge, great and small speech, great and small fear, sleep and waking—all are entanglements brought by having a physical form.

Having a physical form, one is subject to transformation (the changes of all things). Being subject to transformation, there are movements and stillness, so entanglement cannot be avoided. How can one be as if without form, so that transformation cannot command one? Without spirit (the numinous clarity beyond physical traces), this state cannot be reached.

Sound arises from silence; form arises from formlessness—this is the nature of transformation. Only after resonance does sound become sound; only after gathering and joining does form become form. Thus it is said: music issues from empty space; damp vapor steams and generates mushrooms.

Day departs and night comes; night departs and day follows, alternating without end. This is the wondrous function of the Dao (the Way), yet no one in the world knows where it begins. Thus it is said: day and night alternate before our eyes, yet we do not know from where they sprout.

Dawn and dusk are both spontaneous; the True Lord (the authentic ruler of all things' true nature) is also spontaneous; I too am spontaneous. Yet without the True Lord, I would not exist; without me, the True Lord would have nothing to attach to—meaning the True Lord has nothing to grasp. Understanding it this way comes close, yet we still do not know what truly drives all this.

Between morning and evening, the ten thousand things are so of themselves; the True Master—the Dao’s governance over the ten thousand things—is likewise so of itself, and I too am so of myself. Yet without the True Master, I would not come to be; without me, the True Master would have nowhere to rest. Though I am constantly employed by the True Master and put it to use every day, I myself do not awaken to this—so how could there be any distinction? This is what is meant by treating things and the self as equal. Hence it is said: Enough, enough! What is received between morning and evening is perhaps that from which life arises. Without it there would be no me; without me it could not appear. That statement comes close, yet one still does not know what it is that drives things.

It seems there is a True Master, yet one cannot find any sign of it. The True Master is the subtle sovereign of the supreme Dao, charged with forming and transforming. Because it is spontaneous, it is called “true”; because it creates and governs, it is called “master.” It is neither within Yin-Yang nor outside Yin-Yang; it can only be grasped through spirit, not sought through visible form—hence one says there seems to be it, yet no omen can be obtained.

It can operate and is already trustworthy, yet its physical form cannot be seen; it truly exists yet has no shape. Without showing urgency it accomplishes swiftly; it gives birth to the ten thousand things and makes them stand forth, yet no trace can be seen—this is the True Master. Hence it is said: it can be enacted and is already credible, yet its form cannot be seen; it can be understood through mind and intent, not pursued through images—therefore it is called having real substance yet no form.

The hundred bones, the nine apertures, and the six viscera all exist complete—which of them am I closest to? Do I delight in them all, or favor some? Hands and feet, ears and eyes, heart, spine and flank, lungs, and intestents differ from one another, yet I possess them all and take this as “me.” If there were no “me,” there would be no single part to cling to exclusively; once one clings to something, one cannot be whole and only becomes partial—precisely losing the genuine root. Hence it is said: all these are present—to which am I especially close? Do you rejoice in them all, or is there private preference?

If that is so, are they all merely like servants and concubines? Are servants and concubines inadequate to govern one another? Or do they take turns as ruler and subject? Within this there is inherently a True Sovereign. Whether or not one seeks its actual situation, its genuine reality is neither increased nor diminished.

The so-called zhen zai (“True Master”) is a ruler who acts and takes charge; the so-called zhen jun (“True Lord”) is the genuine master who does nothing and leaves things as they are. “Minister and concubine” (chen qie) speaks of the distinction between superior and inferior, master and subordinate. Though high and low differ, they are unified by the True Lord—hence the saying that the True Lord is present within this arrangement. From birth, every person possesses this True Lord, yet spends the whole day rushing and competing, turning away from it, unable to awaken, and instead losing the genuine. If one can seek and attain it, understanding that the True Lord has always been there, the true nature will not be diminished. Thus it is said: whether you grasp its reality or fail to, its genuineness is neither increased nor decreased.

Once one has received form and taken shape, one clings to this body until it is exhausted, colliding and rubbing against external things, racing through life like a gallop with no way to stop—is that not lamentable?

The Creator begets the myriad things with inexhaustible change; it is only by chance that “this me” came to be. People do not understand this and fix on there being a “me.” Once there is a “me,” one treats oneself as one thing set against other things, grinding and clashing with the outer world, toiling without rest. Then the True Lord is no longer present. When the True Lord is absent—is that not lamentable? This is precisely what Zhuangzi mourned.

People enslave themselves for a lifetime yet never see success; they labor weary and confused, not knowing where to turn—can one not grieve? What good is it if others say one is not yet dead? The body decays and transforms, and the heart follows suit—can one call that anything but the deepest sorrow?

People in the world do not understand that the myriad things share the same root with themselves and cannot treat things and self on equal footing. Thus outwardly they are driven by external things, and inwardly they lose their original authenticity. Though the body still remains, the spirit is already gone, yet they still do not know where to stop—how is that not deeply lamentable? This is why Zhuangzi grieves. Zhuangzi earlier spoke of “grief” (bei); here he shifts to “lament” (ai) because grief has not yet reached the depth of lament—lament goes deeper than grief. When he speaks of lament, he immediately adds that people say even this does not count as death and ask what good there is in it; clearly this is what is truly lamentable, which is why “lament” is placed after.

The body is the qi entrusted by Heaven; the heart-mind is the person’s true master. The heart-mind is within, the form without; the body changes endlessly and has no constancy, but if the heart-mind is settled it will not perish. Those who are penetrating can be this way precisely for this reason. Confused people in the world instead make the heart-mind serve the body, and thus lose authenticity—how much more lamentable. Hence it is said: can this not be called great lament?

Is human life originally this dim and confused? Is it only I who am confused, while others are not? “Dim” (mang) means obscure and unclear. People receive bodily form from the True Master (the source that governs the myriad things)—how could they be born without knowing? Only because they cannot awaken themselves, sink deeper into delusion, do they fall into unknowing. Are all people under Heaven like this? Among them there are also those who are clear and penetrating. Hence: is human life originally this dim? Is it only I who am dim, while others are not?

If each person relies on their own fixed preconceptions (chengxin) and takes them as a teacher, then who has no such teacher? Must it be only those who understand the alternation of things and can choose and discard from the heart-mind who have one? Foolish people have them too.

The heart-mind is a person’s true master and is called the “true lord.” Only when one does not lose this true lord can one be said to have a “formed heart”—a settled, reliable root of mind. When that formed heart is present and one takes it as one’s own teacher, one aligns with the Dao in secret and communicates with spirit without having to master the alternation of yin and yang first—only then is one said to have attained the Way. The foolish do not know there is a true lord to preserve; they only drive the body to seek the Way, so they confuse themselves and seek all their lives without ever understanding.

To fix right and wrong before the root heart is formed is like saying one will go to Yue today but already arrived yesterday—before and after reversed, it simply cannot stand.

The sage keeps the formed heart, so there is neither “this” nor “not-that”; what the text below calls treating right and wrong as a circle and taking what lies at the center refers to such a person. The crowd loses the formed heart, so there is “this” and “not-that”—the same reversal as “going to Yue today but arriving yesterday.”

Therefore to treat “not having” as “having”—even Yu the Great, who knew how to work with water, could not understand it; what can I alone do? Yu tamed the waters by following their tendency and doing nothing extra; he could do so because his heart was not confused. People today cannot preserve the formed heart and fall into this plight.

To take non-being for being—even Shenyu (Yu the Great) cannot know; what can I do? Shenyu moved water by acting in wuwei (non-action); only a heart free of confusion can do that. People today cannot preserve the formed heart but are instead trapped by right and wrong; if even Yu cannot know, why force myself to sort it out? So it is said: if Shenyu cannot know, what can I alone do about it?

Speech is not the same as wind blowing. The speaker does speak, yet what is said has no fixed standard. Is that really speech, or is it no speech at all? People think it differs from the peep of nestlings—is there really a difference, or not?

Where does the Dao hide that there should be true and false? Where does speech hide that there should be right and wrong? Where would the Dao not exist? Where would speech be unusable? The Dao is obscured by partial small “achievements”; speech is obscured by flashy rhetoric—hence the right-and-wrong of Confucian and Mohist schools: each calls what the other denies “right” and what the other affirms “wrong.” To straighten such mutual denial, nothing serves better than “illumination” (ming—clear seeing). Nothing is not “that”; nothing is not “this.” From the other side you cannot see it; only from your own side can you know. So “that” arises from “this,” and “this” depends on “that”—this is mutual arising. Even so, what is being born is also dying, what is dying is also being born; what is just allowable is also just forbidden, what is just forbidden is also just allowable; from “this” comes “not-that,” from “not-that” comes “this.”

One who is not confined to partial achievements is on the great Dao; one who does not add ornate embellishment speaks the utmost word. The reason the world has authenticity and falsity, right and wrong, is that the great Dao hides within small partial achievements, and speech hides within flowery rhetoric. No sooner is “acceptable” said than it becomes “unacceptable”; following “right” gives rise to “wrong,” and following “wrong” gives rise to “right.”

When the great Dao hides in small partial achievements, it is incomplete; when speech hides in flowery rhetoric, it is not true. Then Confucians and Mohists each have their own right and wrong, and things cannot be made equal.

Therefore the sage does not walk the path of right and wrong, but uses Heaven (natural suchness) to illuminate—and that itself is also going along with suchness. The sage’s mind merges with the great Dao, not by the road of right and wrong, but by letting things be naturally as they are; hence there is no fixed right and no fixed wrong.

“This” is also “that,” and “that” is also “this.” That side has that side’s right and wrong; this side has this side’s right and wrong. Is there really a division between this and that? Is there really no division between this and that? When this and that no longer form opposing poles, this is called the pivot of the Dao (daoshu). The great Dao issues from one source; right and wrong share one breath. Forget other and self, and all oppositions are forgotten together—so one can turn without end.

The pivot stands at the center of the circle and can respond to endless change. “Right” can unfold without limit, and “wrong” can unfold without limit. Therefore it is said: better to use clarity (ming—penetrating, unbiased seeing). Using “finger” to show that a finger is not a finger is not as good as using “not-finger” to show it; using “horse” to show that a horse is not a horse is not as good as using “not-horse” to show it. Such disputation likewise has no end—still better to illuminate with clarity. Heaven and earth are but one finger; the ten thousand things are but one horse.

That finger and this finger, that horse and this horse differ only in outward form; in essence they are the same—how could they fail to be unified? Heaven and earth differ, yet both arise from the Dao (the common source of all things); the myriad things differ, yet each arises from the Dao. Heaven and earth differ only in the shape of high and low; the myriad things differ only in the scale of large and small—the root from which they come is the same, so how could they fail to be unified? Thus it is said that heaven and earth are like one finger, and the myriad things are like one horse. Zhuangzi (Warring States Daoist thinker) takes heaven and earth as metaphor for one finger and the myriad things as metaphor for one horse because heaven and earth in stillness obtain the substance of the Dao, and the myriad things in motion obtain the function of the Dao.

What can be, can be; what cannot be, cannot be. A path becomes a path only because people walk it; a thing becomes what it is only because it is named. Why is it so? Because it is inherently so. Why is it not so? Because it is inherently not so. Things inherently have their reasons for being so and for being possible; there is nothing that is not so, and nothing that cannot be. Thus whether one compares a blade of grass to a pillar, an ugly person to Xishi (a famed beauty of antiquity), or all manner of strange and bizarre things—the Dao runs through them as one.

The Great Dao originally has no “can” or “cannot,” no “so” or “not so,” no “complete” or “incomplete,” no “beautiful” or “ugly”; it is utterly one whole, and nothing does not come from it. People who do not understand the Dao look only through empty opinions, and then “can” and “cannot,” “so” and “not so,” “complete” and “incomplete,” “beautiful” and “ugly” appear—they bring doubt and entanglement upon themselves. What Zhuangzi means to show is that the person who has attained understanding can see all of this as one.

Where there is division there is completion; where there is completion there is destruction. Among the myriad things there is no absolute completion or destruction—they ultimately return to being one. Only the person who has attained understanding knows how to unite them as one, and therefore does not rely on private views but entrusts principle to ordinary function. Ordinary is use; use is penetration; penetration is attainment. When one reaches what is fitting, one is already close. Following that point is enough. Stopping there without knowing why it is so—this is called the Dao.

He does not cling or obstruct; he is clear and penetrating yet merges with the highest principle—this is what Zhuangzi calls the “da zhe” (one who has attained full understanding). He does not deny that things arise and perish; he only entrusts that to ordinary use and does not treat it as his own possession—hence “yu zhu yong” (lodging it in the everyday). When one aligns with ordinary use, one can fulfill the myriad functions of the world and reach everywhere without blockage; to be unobstructed everywhere is to obtain the Dao—thus “tong” (penetrating) is “de” (attaining). The moment there is the slightest attainment, one is already close; “ji” (nearness) means almost there but not yet truly arrived.

Straining the mind to force things into one whole, without knowing they were the same all along—this is called “zhao san” (morning three, evening four). A monkey keeper divided chestnuts, saying three in the morning and four at night; the monkeys were angry. He changed it to four in the morning and three at night, and they were pleased. Names and facts were not reduced, yet joy and anger were manipulated—nothing but going along with that disposition. What difference is there between four morning and three evening, and three morning and four evening? The monkeys vainly stirred desire and swung between delight and rage between them—hence “delusion.” The vain passions of people under heaven are no different from these monkeys; therefore they cannot escape delusion.

Thus the sage harmonizes right and wrong and rests in the “Tianjun” (Heaven’s equal measure). The sage forgets right and wrong, follows nature, treats all things alike with no high or low—only then can things be equalized. So it is said the sage harmonizes right and wrong and stops at Tianjun—this is called “liang xing” (both courses proceeding naturally, without partiality).

The ancients’ understanding had a point of arrival. Where did it arrive? Some held that there had never been things—this is the highest, fullest, cannot-be-exceeded limit. Next, that there were already things, but not yet boundaries between them. Next, that there were boundaries, but not yet right and wrong. Once right and wrong appear, the Dao is thereby diminished; once the Dao is diminished, partiality forms. Are completion and loss really so? Are they really not? With completion and loss, it is like Zhao Wen (Zhao Wen, a master of the zither in antiquity) playing the zither—taking this forsakes that; without completion and loss, it is like Zhao Wen not playing—never partial, hence no sense of lack.

Where there is right and wrong, the Dao is diminished; where there is no right and wrong, the Dao is preserved. So one must ask whether completion and loss exist in the end: with completion and loss, it is Zhao Wen playing; without completion and loss, it is Zhao Wen not playing.

When distinctions between right and wrong arise, the Dao is thereby diminished; when such distinctions do not arise, the Dao can thereby remain whole. Zhuangzi illustrated this with the parable of Zhao Wen playing the zither and not playing it.

Zhao Wen played the zither, Shi Kuang beat time with a pointer (Shi Kuang was a celebrated musician of antiquity), and Huizi argued leaning against a parasol tree (Huizi is Hui Shi). The talents of all three neared their peak, so their fame lasted into old age. Each had his own bent and therefore wanted to stand apart from others; having that bent, he then wanted to use it to enlighten others. Others could not truly understand through such means, yet they insisted on making others understand, and so they ended trapped in the murk of “hard and white” disputation (the School of Names’ debate over whether a stone’s hardness and whiteness can be separated). Zhao Wen’s son merely preserved the zither art his father had left him and never achieved anything real in a lifetime. If that counts as achievement, then I too may count as having achieved; if it does not, then neither things outside nor I can be said to have achieved. These three failed to grasp that the great Dao has no fixed shape, that the greatest sound is scarcely heard—that one need only hold to the highest principle to truly attain it, without wearing out the body and draining the mind in forced effort. That is why they never achieved anything to the end of their days.

Therefore “the glare of wavering doubt” is what the sage takes care to address. By not clinging to one’s own narrow use but entrusting oneself to ordinary daily life, this is called “using clarity.”

Wavering doubt is confusion in the heart and inability to decide. When the mind is confused and cannot decide, one can only show off cleverness on the surface to dazzle others and ultimately accomplishes nothing.

Therefore “the glare of wavering doubt” is what the sage takes care to address. By not acting from private cleverness but lodging the teaching in common use, this is called “using clarity.”

Wavering doubt is confusion in the heart and inability to decide. Such a state only leads to displaying intelligence outwardly and misleading the crowd; it is not the way of those who exhaust principle and fulfill their nature. The sage alone does not abandon such people: he lodges the teaching in everyday use and awakens them with great enlightenment so that they may see clearly. Hence it is said: the glare of wavering doubt is what the sage takes care to address; for this reason he does not rely on himself alone but entrusts himself to the ordinary—and this is called “using clarity.”

For the moment I will say something here, without knowing whether these words belong to the same category as what people call “the right” or a different one. When sameness and difference are placed side by side for comparison, they themselves form another category—and then there is no distinction from the other party. Even so, I will still try to say something.

There is what we call “a beginning,” there is the time when “there has not yet been a beginning,” and further there is the time when “even ‘there has not yet been a beginning’ has not yet appeared.” There is “being” (you), there is “non-being” (wu), there is the time when “there has not yet been non-being,” and further there is the time when “even ‘there has not yet been non-being’ has not yet appeared.” Suddenly there are being and non-being, yet one does not know which side is truly being and which is truly non-being. I have already spoken; yet I do not know whether what I have said counts as having said something or as having said nothing.

Nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of the fine down of autumn fur; Mount Tai is small by comparison. Nothing lives longer than a child who dies in infancy; Peng Zu is short-lived by comparison. Heaven and earth exist together with me; the ten thousand things and I are one body. Since we are already one body, what need is there to say more? Since it is already called “one,” how can one claim there was no speech at all?

The tip of autumn down, Mount Tai, the child who dies young, Peng Zu, heaven and earth, and the ten thousand things all have form and trace. Where there is form and trace, one can forget form and trace and thereby reach equalization and harmony. One who understands the Dao (the Way) does not get stuck in the split between life and death, and so can exist together with heaven and earth. He has no fixed direction and no fixed form; the ten thousand things become one with him. Once things are one with him, there is no need to distinguish them through words. Hence it is said: since it is already one, what more can be said?

“One,” together with this speech, becomes “two”; “two,” set against that “one,” becomes “three.” Pushing downward from there, even someone skilled in calculation cannot work it out—how much less ordinary people? Thus from non-being toward being, to push as far as “three” is already tangled beyond bearing; how much more when one goes from being toward being again? There is no need to chase further forward; it is enough to follow this principle as it runs.

Where there is speech, there is opposition; hence “one” and speech together become “two.” “Two” opposed to “one” is how the ten thousand things arise. This is why the Dao, from primal unity, disperses into multiplicity.

The Dao originally has no boundaries, and discourse has no fixed standard. It is only because people cling to a single notion of “rightness” that all sorts of limits are drawn. These limits include left and right, order and principle, distinction and debate, rivalry and contention—this is what is called the “eight deeds.” Matters beyond the six directions (heaven, earth, and the four quarters), the sage holds in the heart and does not discuss; matters within the six directions, the sage may narrate but does not judge right and wrong; the deeds of former kings in governing the world as recorded in the Spring and Autumn Annals, the sage may appraise but does not argue with others over them. Thus, where there is division, there is still what cannot be divided; where there is debate, there is still what need not be debated. Why? The sage embraces these within the heart, while the multitude flaunts them through mutual disputation. Therefore it is said: in every dispute, there is always what lies beyond sight.

The great Dao is unified and whole, with no fixed orientation; the highest discourse is silent and needs no argument. When the Dao is scattered, regions appear; when words are uttered, right and wrong arise. Only the sage understands each thing’s own nature and its proper bounds, yet neither evaluates nor disputes, and so can merge with the utmost of the Dao. Therefore it is said: beyond the six directions, the sage keeps but does not discuss; within the six directions, the sage discusses but does not appraise; regarding historical matters that govern the age, the sage appraises but does not debate.

The great Dao need not be proclaimed; the great debate needs no speech; great benevolence shows no partiality; great integrity does not affect false modesty (xian); great courage does not harm others (zhi). If the Dao is deliberately displayed, it is no longer the Dao; if discourse is argued out, it cannot reach the true realm; if benevolence is confined to one place, it cannot be complete; if integrity is flaunted as purity, it cannot be trusted; if courage harbors harm, it cannot stand. When these five are filed smooth and return to wholeness, they approach the subtle Dao. To know how to stop at what one does not know is the ultimate.

The great Dao is silent and still; it is hard to force a name upon it—hence “it is not proclaimed.” The great debate is simply silent recognition, with no time for distinctions—hence “it is not spoken.” Great benevolence is universal love without private favor—hence “it is not benevolent.” Great integrity embraces everything, neither adding nor subtracting—hence “it is not xian.” Great courage takes benevolence as its root and does not kill—hence “it is not zhi.” If the Dao advertises its own clarity, it is not the Dao—hence “the Dao, when shown, is not the Dao.” Once one argues, right and wrong appear—hence “discourse, when debated, does not reach.” If benevolence is applied to a single thing, benevolence is incomplete—hence “benevolence, when constant, is not complete.” Integrity that proclaims purity becomes deceit—hence “integrity, when pure, is not trusted.” Courage that loves killing is courage diminished—hence “courage, when zhi, does not stand.” When these five blunt their sharpness, they approach the subtle art of the Dao—hence “the five, when rounded, nearly become square.”

Deliberately flaunting integrity and purity becomes deceit and pretense—hence it is said, “Upright and pure, yet not trusted.” Courage combined with a love of killing depletes the virtue of courage—hence it is said, “Bold and contentious, yet unable to succeed.” When these five—Dao, eloquence, benevolence, integrity, and courage—are worn smooth of their sharp edges, they approach wondrous Daoist skill—hence it is said, “When the five are rounded and full, one nearly returns to squareness.”

Who can grasp debate without words, or the Dao that cannot be named? Whoever can know this is called the “Heavenly Storehouse” (tianfu)—nature’s own treasury. Debate without words is great debate; the Dao that cannot be spoken is the great Dao. Great debate embraces all; the great Dao is the source of all—hence it is called the Heavenly Storehouse. The Heavenly Storehouse is where the myriad things are gathered and held.

Pour into it, and it never overflows; draw from it, and it never runs dry—yet no one knows whence it comes. This is called “Preserving the Light” (baoguang)—light that is hidden and unshown, yet grows brighter with time.

To pour without filling and draw without exhausting is what Mencius meant by neither adding nor subtracting, and what Buddhism calls neither increase nor decrease. Zhuangzi speaks both of “Preserving the Light” and of “Heavenly Light”—why? Because the sage’s nature is vast and boundless, growing clearer the longer it endures—hence Preserving the Light; because the sage’s bearing is calm and settled, with radiance issuing naturally—hence Heavenly Light. “Preserving” (bao) means it grows brighter over time; “Heavenly” (tian) means it arises of itself.

Long ago Yao asked Shun: “I wish to attack the states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu-Ao, yet though I sit facing south as ruler, my heart cannot be at ease—why is this?” Shun replied: “Those three rulers are no more than creatures living among mugwort and wormwood. If your heart cannot be at ease, what need is there for concern? In ancient times ten suns rose together, and all things received their light—how much more so one whose virtue surpasses the sun!” The sage has no private self; the myriad things all follow along. Where something cannot follow, there is no choice but to campaign. Thus Laozi has chapters on the use of arms, and Zhuangzi tells of Yao’s wish to attack Zong, Kuai, and Xu-Ao. “No self” means being one with the myriad things. When the myriad things cannot be one with me, there is discord; where there is discord, how can the sage’s heart be at peace? This is why Yao, facing south as ruler, could not set his heart at rest.

Nie Que asked Wang Ni: “Do you know the standard that all things jointly regard as right?” Wang Ni said: “How would I know?” Nie Que asked again: “Do you know what you yourself do not know?” Wang Ni said: “How would I know?” Nie Que pressed once more: “Then are all things ignorant?” Wang Ni said: “How would I know? Still, I might try to say something. How do I know that what I call ‘knowing’ is not unknowing? And how do I know that what I call ‘unknowing’ is not knowing?”

Let me ask you: if people sleep in damp places, their waists ache and they may even lose the use of half the body—would mudfish be like that? If people stay in trees, they tremble with fear—would monkeys be like that? Among humans, mudfish, and monkeys, who knows what dwelling is truly fitting? People eat the flesh of domestic animals; elk eat grass; centipedes relish small snakes; owls and crows love mice—among these four, who knows what is truly delicious? Apes and biao (a beast resembling an ape) take females of their kind as mates; elk mate with deer; mudfish swim alongside fish. Mao Qiang and Li Ji are counted beautiful among humans, yet fish at the sight dive into deep water, birds fly high, elk flee in haste. Among humans, fish, birds, and elk, who knows what is truly beautiful under heaven?”

Here Nie Que—whose name suggests deficiency and incompleteness—stands for a Dao that is not yet whole, and Wang Ni—whose name suggests the first trace or thread of the Way—for its leading edge. Zhuangzi means to clarify the Way’s wholeness and partiality, root and tip, so he lodges his meaning in these two figures. The question about what “all things jointly hold to be right” is meant to open the theme of uniformity (qi) and serves as the opening move. “Although I try to speak” means speech offered under constraint—not to win a dispute. All things share one source; each in itself has what it knows. To treat “knowing” as knowledge is not true knowing; to treat “not knowing” as knowing is profound knowing. Nie Que goes to question the one who “knows”—that very clinging to knowing turns into not-knowing.

True dwelling need not depend on this or that particular house to count as dwelling; true flavor need not depend on this or that particular taste to count as flavor; true beauty need not depend on this or that particular look to count as beauty. In each case, what is “right” is aligned with wu (non-fixation)—not pinning down a single standard. Seen from within each way of life, there is no one fixed canon of beauty; who could declare the one true beauty of the world?

Proper dwelling need not wait until one place after another has been compared before it counts as dwelling; genuine flavor need not wait until one taste after another has been tasted in contrast before it counts as flavor; true color need not wait until one hue after another has been matched against others before it counts as color. In all these cases, what is taken as right is to treat “nothing”—not positing a fixed standard apart from things—as correctness.

Seen from my standpoint, the threads of benevolence and righteousness and the byways of right and wrong are tangled and cross-cut; how could I know how to sort them out?

When the Dao is whole, there is no benevolence or righteousness; when great wisdom stays hidden, there is no right or wrong. Only after the Dao fell into decline did benevolence and righteousness appear; only after cleverness came to the fore did right and wrong arise. Thus Wang Ni, who preserves the Dao as a whole and does not deploy cleverness, shows by that very fact that the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of right and wrong have always been confused and mixed.

Que Que said: If you do not know benefit and harm, then does the True Person, who has reached the utmost in cultivation, likewise not know benefit and harm from the start? Wang Ni replied: The True Person is spirit-like to the utmost degree. A great marsh ablaze cannot make him hot; the Yellow River and Han River frozen solid cannot make him cold; thunder splitting mountains and gales shaking the sea cannot startle him. A person like this rides on cloud-qi and mounts the sun and moon, wandering beyond the four seas. Neither death nor life can alter him—how much less the first stirrings of benefit and harm?

The True Person has no clinging to self; he merges with the state of equalization in which nothing is singled out, and outer things dare not encroach on him. Thus fire and water cannot injure him, cold and heat cannot wear him down, wind and thunder cannot move him. He treads the void, steers Yin-Yang, and goes beyond tangible things, never abandoning what he holds to. How could joy and sorrow be enough to burden his heart? Hence it is said: a great marsh burning cannot make him hot; the rivers and Han frozen cannot make him cold; fierce thunder shattering mountains and great winds shaking the sea cannot startle him. One who rides cloud-qi, mounts the sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas—a person for whom death and life cannot change his own being—how much less could the fine points of benefit and harm affect him?

Qu Quezi asked Changwuzi: “I heard from our master Confucius that the sage does not manage worldly affairs, does not chase profit, does not flee calamity, does not delight in outward seeking, and does not depend on the Dao in order to act; what has not been spoken is treated as spoken, and what has been spoken is treated as unspoken, while one roams beyond the dust and grime of the world. The master took this for Menglang talk—light, rash, and untrustworthy—but I regard it as the practice of the subtle great Dao. What do you think?”

Changwuzi said: “Words like these would baffle even the Yellow Emperor—how could Kong Qiu be equal to understanding them? And besides, you are reckoning too far ahead: see an egg and already want a cock’s crow at dawn; see a pellet and already want roast owl. I will speak at random, and you may listen at random. Why not simply lean upon sun and moon, embrace heaven and earth as one cosmos, let them match and become a single whole, set aside inner confusion and dimness, and look upon the base and the noble as alike?”

The sage embodies the great Dao in stillness and wuwei (non-action): in moving, he is not driven by outer things; in dwelling, he does not deliberately shun disaster. The ten thousand things are already complete within him, so he does not take joy in seeking outside himself. Merged with the utmost Dao, why should he need external supports in order to act? He treats what cannot be done as what can be done, and what can be done as what cannot, and rests in the utmost purity where defilement cannot touch him. Hence it is said: the sage does not busy himself with affairs, does not grasp at profit, does not turn from harm, does not delight in seeking, and does not “depend on the Dao”; the meaningless is meaningful, the meaningful meaningless—and he wanders beyond the dust. “Leaning upon sun and moon” means taking day and night as one continuous whole; “embracing the cosmos” means treating near and far as equal.

The multitude toil and bustle—the sage seems dull and uncrafty (yuzhi). The multitude cling to a self and treat things as objects outside them, and so are enslaved by things—hence they are called “toiling” (yiyi). The sage has no fixed attachment to self, does not set things over against him, and joins with things as one—hence he is called “dull and uncrafty” (yuzhi).

He blends with the changes of ten thousand years and achieves pure oneness; all things are alike in this, and in it they mutually contain one another. How could I know that clinging to life is not itself a kind of delusion? The multitude, because they have a self, are enslaved by things—yiyi; the sage, because he has no self, is one with things—yuzhi.

Joining in the myriad changes of ten thousand years, and coalescing into a single purity—this is how all things are, and thus they contain one another. How do I know that clinging to life is not a delusion? How do I know that loathing death is not like a child who wandered away in youth and forgot the way home? Lady Li was the daughter of a border guard at Ai. When Jin first took her, she wept until her collar was soaked; once she reached the king’s palace, shared his bed, and ate fine meat, she regretted her earlier tears. How do I know the dead do not regret having once been desperate to live?

Someone who dreams of feasting and merriment may wake in the morning and weep; someone who dreams of weeping may wake and go hunting. While in the dream, one does not know one is dreaming; in the dream one may even try to divine another dream, and only on waking knows it was a dream. There must be a great awakening before one knows that this life is a great dream. Fools think they have woken and preen themselves on being clear-sighted—who is lord, who is shepherd—how narrow their view! Confucius and you are both dreaming; when I say you are dreaming, that saying too is a dream. Speech of this kind is called diaogui (paradoxical, hard-to-fathom discourse). If ten thousand years from now someone appears who is a great sage and understands the answer, it would be as rare as meeting that person between dawn and dusk.

Suppose you and I debate: you defeat me and I do not defeat you—are you then truly right and I truly wrong? If I defeat you and you do not defeat me—am I then truly right and you truly wrong? Is one side right and one wrong, or are both right, or both wrong? You and I cannot know each other for certain, and people are already in obscurity—whom can I ask to judge? Ask someone who agrees with you? If he already agrees with you, how can he judge? Ask someone who agrees with me? If he already agrees with me, how can he judge? Ask someone who differs from both you and me? If he already differs from both of us, how can he judge? Ask someone who agrees with both you and me? If he already agrees with both of us, how can he judge? Then you, I, and everyone else cannot know one another for certain—must we wait for someone else?

What does it mean to harmonize right and wrong with tianni (the natural pivot between alternatives)? Where there is “this,” there is “not this”; where there is “so,” there is “not so.” If “this” is truly “this,” the gap between it and “not this” need not be argued; if “so” is truly “so,” the gap between it and “not so” need not be argued. Words of right and wrong depend on each other, yet are also as if they did not depend on each other. Harmonize with tianni, follow manyan (the self-unfolding drift of things) to live out your years. Forget the years, forget right and wrong, and stir freely in wujing (the boundless)—therefore take your place in wujing.

Wangliang (the faint outline outside a shadow) asked Jing (the shadow): “Just now you walked, now you stop; just now you sat, now you stand—why do you have no independent constancy?” The shadow said: “Do I only act this way because I have something I depend on? Does what I depend on also depend on something else? Is my dependence like a snake moving on the scales of its belly, or a cicada flying on its wings? How do I know why it is so? How do I know why it is not so?”

Long ago Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly—a fluttering butterfly, happy and at ease, not knowing he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke and clearly was Zhuang Zhou again. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly was dreaming it was Zhuang Zhou. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly must be distinct; this is called wuhua (transformation of things).

“To join with myriad years and become one purity” speaks of the subtlety of equalizing and identifying. In Zhuangzi’s On the Equality of Things, he first dissolves “that” and “this,” treating right and wrong, completion and ruin, much and little, small and large as the same; carried to the limit, one joins with the ages, penetrates birth and death, and treats dreaming and waking as equal—all transformations return to one, which is clarity without obstruction.

Things are inherently not uniform, and this lack of uniformity is precisely the shared truth of all things. Zhuangzi, seeing the root source and equalizing them, was making people under heaven who had not yet awakened become awakened. Equalizing things and self is acceptable—but how can dream and waking be the same? What one does by day and what one dreams by night are one matter; they differ only because one is awake by day and asleep at night. Ponder long enough and the two blur until they cannot be separated. Zhuangzi knew this as great sameness and treated them as identical, repeatedly discussing how people dream in sleep and dream within dreams, and the subtlety of “great awakening” and “great dream” (seeing life itself as a dream), exhausting the meaning of equalization to enlighten the world. Fearing people would not believe, he allegorically wrote of dreaming he became a butterfly, and said one cannot tell whether Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi’s name) dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreamed it was Zhuang Zhou—pushing equalization to the extreme to awaken all under heaven. Only someone of penetrating understanding could grasp Zhuangzi’s words.

New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (Nanhua Zhenjing is Zhuangzi), fascicle 2, included in the imperial Complete Library of the Four Treasures (Qing dynasty official compilation). Fascicle 3 was composed by Wang An of the Song dynasty (this book’s author). The Master of Nourishing Life (the master that guards what nourishes life).

One who can equalize all things necessarily has no clinging self; without a clinging self, one necessarily does not treat life as one’s possession. Not clinging to life is the master of nourishing life, and life is thereby preserved. Hence Zhuangzi placed The Master of Nourishing Life immediately after On the Equality of Things.

Life has an end; knowledge has no end. Using finite life to pursue infinite knowledge is already perilous; knowing it is perilous and still pursuing knowledge is merely peril. Life is the harmonious qi entrusted by Heaven, what Heaven and Earth entrust. Life has an end; knowledge has no end. Using finite life to pursue infinite knowledge is already perilous; knowing it is perilous and still pursuing knowledge is merely peril.

Life is the harmonious Qi that Heaven bestows. Heaven and Earth hand this harmonious Qi to human beings with each person’s allotted share fixed from the start—it does not go beyond what is due—so it is said, “my life is limited.” When people are pushed by wealth and status, delight in glory and favor, thoughts multiply one after another and wandering ideas know no end—so it is said, “wisdom and knowing have no boundary.” To spend a limited life chasing boundless wisdom and knowing is to fail to keep life intact; when life cannot be kept, how can one escape the drag of hardship? So it is said, “this is perilous.”

In doing good, do not court reputation; in doing evil, do not court punishment. If you take as your constant rule “following the Du meridian”—the central channel along the back of the body, here the even middle Way—you can preserve the body, keep life whole, nourish your parents, and live out your full span.

Those who are good at nurturing life inwardly accord with that ultimate limit, follow what is natural, and forget good and evil, and so they stay far from punishment and fame. Those who are poor at nurturing life inwardly stir up thought, fix on the difference between good and evil, and so they draw close to punishment and fame. Staying far from punishment and fame keeps life; drawing close to them loses it. “Following the Du meridian as constant” means the Middle Way. The perfect person nurtures life simply by not being used by things outside, not losing true nature, not being choosy about conditions, and not injuring innate nature. Not being used by outer things preserves the body; not losing true nature keeps life whole; not being choosy about conditions allows one to serve parents; not injuring innate nature allows one to complete one’s years—all of this is in oneself alone.

Cook Ding was cutting up an ox for Lord Wen Hui. Everywhere his hand reached, his shoulder leaned, his foot stepped, and his knee pressed issued the crisp, answering sounds of hua and xiang. When he moved the knife, by not losing true nature in himself he could keep life whole, by not being choosy about conditions he could serve his parents, by not injuring innate nature he could live out his years—all of this too was only in himself.

Cook Ding (a cook named Ding) dismembered an ox for Lord Wenhui (King Hui of Wei in the Warring States period). Wherever his hand pressed, shoulder leaned, foot stepped, and knee pressed, there came a rustling sound; as the knife entered, there was a swooshing sound, every move matching the rhythm—both the steps of Sanglin (a Shang-dynasty dance) and the beat of Jingshou (an ancient musical piece).

Lord Wenhui said: “Ah, excellent! Can skill really reach such a level?”

Cook Ding put down his knife and replied: “What I love is the Dao (the natural way of things), which goes beyond mere skill. At first when I dismembered oxen, I saw nothing but whole oxen; after three years, I no longer saw the ox as a whole. Now I meet it with my spirit, not my eyes; my senses stop, yet my spirit moves freely. I follow the ox’s natural grain, open the large gaps, guide the knife into the empty spaces between joints, according to its inherent structure. I do not touch even where sinews and vessels cluster—how much less the large bones! A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts; an ordinary cook once a month because he hacks and chops. My knife has been in use for nineteen years, and I have dismembered several thousand oxen, yet the edge is still like fresh from the whetstone. Between joints there is space; the blade is so thin it is almost without thickness. Using what has no thickness to enter where there is space, the knife moves with ample room. That is why after nineteen years the edge is still like newly sharpened. Yet whenever I come to a knot where sinew and bone intertwine, I know it is difficult, become alert and cautious, fix my gaze, slow my motion, and cut with the lightest touch—then the ox falls apart with a splash, like earth scattered on the ground. I stand holding the knife, look all around with calm satisfaction, then wipe the knife clean and put it away.”

Lord Wenhui said: “Excellent! Hearing Cook Ding’s words, I understand the principle of nurturing life.”

Life necessarily has its patterns, and those patterns lie where nature and life meet. To follow them is to grasp everywhere the secret of preserving life. Cook Ding dismembered the ox by following the ox’s natural structure, so everywhere he no longer saw the whole ox. He placed nurturing life within dismembering the ox, deliberately mentioning three years and then nineteen years—meaning that though yin and yang numbers cycle, life is thereby preserved all the more. Hence he says both “I no longer saw the whole ox” and “the edge is like freshly sharpened.” He could dismember oxen because he was good at caring for the knife: preserving the blade’s sharpness, gathering and hiding it without display—hence “I put away my knife with care.” This illustrates that nurturing life must preserve life’s integrity, returning to what Laozi called “returning whole.” Lord Wenhui understood at once that to nurture life in this way is to approach the Dao.

When Gong Wenxuan saw the Right Tutor—a man with only one foot—he was startled and asked, “What sort of person is this? How did he come to lack a foot? Was he born that way, or was it done by human hands?” The answer was: “He was born that way; it was not done by people. Heaven made him one-footed from birth. The human form is naturally paired left and right, so one knows this was Heaven’s doing, not human affairs.”

Life is the root; the body is the branches. When the root is firm, the branches may be damaged yet one can still be considered whole. This Right Tutor, though missing a foot, was whole in life; Gong Wenxuan was only frightened by his appearance.

A pheasant in a marsh takes ten steps to peck one bite of food and a hundred steps to drink once; it does not wish to be kept in a cage and fed. Even if its vital energy were strong, that would not count as a good life.

In the wild marsh the bird eats and drinks, forgetting the body and resting in life; shut in a cage, one merely preserves the body and thereby injures life. Settle into life and the spirit (Shen) can be kept whole; nurture only the body and life is lost. Once life is lost, worry and entanglement cannot be avoided—hence it is called “not good.”

When Laozi died, his friend Qin Shi went to offer condolences, cried out three times, and left. A disciple asked, “Was he not the Master’s friend?” Qin Shi said, “He was.” They asked again, “Is that an acceptable way to mourn?” He replied, “It is. At first I took him for an ordinary man; now I know he was not. When I went in to mourn, I saw the elders weeping for him as for their own sons, and the young weeping as for their own mothers. When people gather like that, they must have been unwilling to speak yet spoke, unwilling to cry yet cried. That is turning away from what is natural, going against genuine feeling, and forgetting what Heaven has given. The ancients called this ‘the penalty of fleeing Heaven’ (dun tian zhi xing).”

The Perfect Person (Zhi Ren) treats being alive as a temporary arrival and death as a temporary departure; he does not rejoice because life succeeds nor grieve because life is ruined. When Laozi died, Qin Shi mourned with only three cries—not from grief at his ruin, but because he could not be entirely unlike everyone else.

When it was time to come, the Master came in season; when it was time to go, the Master departed in accord with principle.

The Perfect Person releases worldly sentiment, preserves what is genuine, and is calm and at ease. Life, death, benefit, and harm never stick in his mind. Thus when it is time to come he responds in season, and when it is time to go he can follow smoothly. Responding in season does not make him happy for that reason; following smoothly does not make him sad for that reason. Life can therefore keep unfolding without being lost.

Those who rest in the turn of times and yield to changing circumstances find that grief and joy cannot penetrate the inner heart. The ancients called this “Di zhi xuan jie”—the upside-down suspension imposed by the Sovereign (Di) is released; xuan here means to hang suspended, as when one is inverted. Heaven is fate (ming). The fate allotted to a person cannot be evaded; to evade fate is instead to burden life—it is to invite affliction oneself, and for this reason it is called “dun tian zhi xing,” punishment incurred by turning against Heaven’s principle. Di is also fate. When the inner heart does not cling or fixate on fate, affliction cannot burden life—this is what is meant by “Di zhi xuan jie.” Those who cultivate life must penetrate the subtlety of these two points.

“Zhi qiong yu wei xin, huo chuan ye, bu zhi qi jin ye”: as one stick of fuel follows another, the fire does not go out; one who understands life and nurtures it accordingly finds that life is not cut off. Because the fire is not extinguished, it can be passed on; because life is not severed, it can endure—hence there is no moment of exhaustion, and so it is said “one does not know its end.” Zhuangzi’s discourse on nurturing life begins from the finitude of life and finally arrives at inexhaustibility: the allotment of nature and life (xingming) has its fixed measure; if one is not dragged by glory and disgrace or by benefit and harm, life is not lost and can extend to the boundless—thus the conclusion “not exhausted.” Who but the truly discerning can reach this?

The “Renjian shi” (Human World) chapter: one who is adept at nurturing life must gain something at the boundary of nature and life (xingming), and thereby achieve wu si wu wei—no reckless thought, no forced action. Wu si wu wei suffices to stand in the human world and meet the changes of the age; affliction is not enough to burden such a person. Therefore Zhuangzi composed “Renjian shi” and placed it immediately after his discussion of nurturing life.

Yan Hui visited Zhongni (Confucius) and asked leave to travel. Zhongni asked, “Where are you going?” He answered, “To the state of Wei.” “For what purpose?” “I have heard that the ruler of Wei is in his prime, acts on his own judgment, lightly commits the state’s strength, yet does not see his faults; he lightly sends the people to their deaths, and the dead are so many they must be measured by the whole realm—like dry grass piled in a great marsh; the people have nowhere left to turn. I once heard the Master say: leave a well-governed state, go to a chaotic one—as when many patients gather before a physician’s door. I wish to apply what I have learned and seek a remedy; perhaps that state can still be healed.” Zhongni said, “Alas! If you go, you will likely meet with punishment and mutilation.”

The ruler of Wei rashly drove his people toward death; the dead were so numerous they had to be counted by the whole state, heaped in the great marshes like withered grass, until the people had nowhere left to turn. I once heard the Master say: when the state is at peace one may leave; when it is in chaos one should go to it—as when the most patients gather at a physician’s door. I wish to apply what I have heard and think through how to respond; perhaps this state still has hope of recovery. Confucius said: Alas, if you go, you will likely go to meet punishment.

Events in the world do not follow one pattern. One who is not skilled in jingshi—handling affairs of the world—is not equal to meeting them and moving among them. The jingshi person is originally without self (wuwo): without self there is no deliberate thought and no contrived action (wusi, wuwei), and calamity cannot settle upon such a person. Confucius was without self: his own view did not stand opposed to outer things, so facing the greatest upheavals and the hardest situations under heaven, he could remain utterly still, without the slightest entanglement. Yan Hui practiced keji—restraining the private self—but had not yet reached wuwo. Seeing the ruler of Wei lightly exploit the people, his heart was stirred at once; he wanted to use what he usually heard to admonish him, and nearly could not escape being entangled. Confucius’s wuwo was wusi and wuwei; Yan Hui’s keji still involved yousi and youwei—deliberate thought and contrived action. Thought in the end leads to no-thought; action in the end leads to non-action (wuwei). Yan Hui thus reached the point of “Yan Hui had not yet begun to exist”—the self called “Yan Hui” no longer existed either; this too is wuwo. The two of them are enough to serve as models for ten thousand generations, which is why Zhuangzi opens this chapter by presenting them.

The Dao does not seek mixture. Once mixed, threads multiply; when they multiply, there is turmoil; when there is turmoil, worry arises; sunk in worry, one cannot be saved.

The Dao gathers in emptiness and is born from the “One”—the One is the subtle root of the Dao. To bao yi—hold fast to this One—is enough to serve as the standard for all under heaven; hence “the Dao does not desire mixture.” Failing to hold the One, the mind splinters into countless threads; hence “when mixed, there are many.” Bewildered by those threads, the heart cannot stop itself; hence “when many, there is turmoil.” When the heart will not rest, worry and burden cannot be avoided; hence “when turmoil, there is worry.” If one cannot free oneself from worry, how can one lift worry from others? Hence “worried and beyond saving.” All of this comes from deliberate thought and contrived action.

The ancient zhiren—those whose cultivation had reached the utmost—first established themselves, and only then went on to establish others. If they had not yet freed themselves from worry, how could they remove others’ worry? Hence the saying: once worry exists, there is no way to save. This too arises from deliberate thought and contrived action.

In antiquity, the perfected person first settled himself within, and only then went on to settle others. When what he needed to hold fast was not yet steady, how could he have spare strength to manage what a violent man was doing? Do you know why Dao and De were scattered and lost, and from where the discriminating mind arose? Dao and De were lost through chasing reputation; the mind arose from rivalry. Reputation is what makes people undercut one another; the mind is an instrument of strife. Both are dangerous tools—not the straight path to bringing things to completion.

The sage has no heart set on fame, and therefore practices wuwei (non-action); he has no mind bent on winning, and therefore makes no claims. Through wuwei, the myriad things all turn toward him without exception; through making no claims, the myriad things do not contend with him. Ordinary people love fame and wield cleverness, so they act with purpose and grasp for gain. Once there is purposeful action, things refuse to submit; once there is grasping, things are bound to come and fight. Hence the saying: fame makes people undercut one another, and cleverness is an instrument of strife.

Even when De is deep and trust is firm and solid—when sincerity is as unyielding as stone—if one has not yet penetrated another’s qi and emotional tone; even when one’s reputation does not compete with others’, if one has not yet penetrated another’s heart, yet one still presses forward with talk of benevolence, righteousness, and the inked cord and plumb line of fixed rules before a violent man, people will resent you for parading your own virtue. When things do not submit, any grasping invites contention—so fame makes people undercut one another, and cleverness is an instrument of strife.

With thick De and trust that has not yet reached another’s qi, with a reputation that does not contend yet a heart one has not yet reached, to insist on preaching benevolence, righteousness, and rule before a violent man is to invite others to hate you for hoarding a good name—they will call you a zairen, one who brings calamity on others. Once you are called a zairen, others are sure to turn and injure you. You may well be harmed by them.

If the other already favors the worthy and rejects the unworthy, why must you make a point of being different? The moment you open your mouth to counsel, the lord is sure to seize your words and test you in quickness of debate. Then the eyes grow dim and dizzy, the face flushes with shame and unease, the mouth is busy with retort, the bearing is shaped to please, and the heart is dragooned into going along. That is like fighting fire with fire or drowning with water—it can only be called heaping disaster upon disaster. Follow that opening, and there is no end. Because earnest words are not trusted, you may die before the violent man.

Dim, dizzy eyes mean the pupils are clouded and sight fails; a flushed, embarrassed face is the complexion turning red with shame; a mouth busy with answer is the tongue racing in disputation; a pleasing bearing is posture and expression bent to flattery; a heart that accommodates is the spirit forced to chase externals. All of this is the drag of failing to settle oneself first.

In former times, Xia Jie killed Guan Longfeng, a worthy minister of his age, and King Zhou of Shang killed Prince Bi Gan, the king’s uncle and another worthy man. Each of these men had cultivated himself and humbled his body to cherish the people, yet in doing so he offended his ruler; the ruler seized upon that very cultivation as a pretext and removed them. Such were men who loved reputation.

In former times Yao attacked the states of Cong Zhi and Xu Ao, and Yu attacked You Hu. Those lands became ruins, their people turned into hungry ghosts, and their rulers themselves suffered execution. Their use of arms knew no end, and their greed for concrete gain knew no limit. These were men who chased after reputation and profit. Have you never heard of such things? Reputation and profit are empty vessels; how could the sage set his heart on pursuing them? Therefore, in silent stillness and wuwei (non-action), fame and bodily trace vanish together, and calamity cannot alight upon one’s person. That is how Yao and Yu could rest securely in possession of the world. The muddled do not understand this and strive desperately after reputation and profit; though reputation and profit may seem established, calamity follows close behind. Cong Zhi, Xu Ao, and You Hu thereby destroyed their own states. So we say: these were men who pursued name and reality. The sage forgets name and reality; once name and reality are forgotten, he leaves no graspable “self” in the world—how then could the myriad things burden him? If the sage did not forget name and reality, once they were established there would be a “self” standing in the world, and the myriad things would surge toward him as entanglements; how could the sage overcome that? Therefore name and reality are what even the sage cannot conquer—how much less so you?

Even so, you surely have some plan of your own; try telling it to me. Yan Hui said: “If I keep my outward bearing correct and my inner mind empty and bright, work diligently yet keep my intention single—would that do?” Confucius said: “No! How could it? The ruler is brimming with yang, his spirit shines outward, and his expression shifts unpredictably; ordinary people dare not oppose him. He suppresses the doubts in others’ hearts and seeks only ease and indulgence for his own mind. A method like that—even calling it the gradual accumulation of small virtue day by day would not succeed, still less great virtue! He will be stubborn and know no change; you would merely agree outwardly without examining inwardly. How could that be acceptable?”

“Upright in bearing and empty within, diligent and unified in purpose” means presenting oneself properly on the outside while remaining humble inwardly, working hard with a single-minded heart. Even when inner and outer are both set right, there is still a distinction between inside and outside. Where inner and outer are split apart, a “self” remains; where there is a self, misfortune cannot be avoided. Laozi said: “My great misfortune is that I have this body.” Yan Hui (Confucius’s disciple) had not yet forgotten himself—so how could Zhongni (Confucius) approve?

Yan Hui said: Then let me try being upright within and compliant without, and appeal to established sayings to align myself with the ancients. To be upright within is to be a companion of Heaven (tian zhi tu)—to go along with Heaven and be of Heaven’s kind. Once you know that the Son of Heaven on the throne and you alike are Heaven’s offspring, why must you chase others’ approval of your words or fear their disapproval? If you can do this, people may call you a child (tongzi—a person of innocent, unartificial heart)—that is being a companion of Heaven. To be compliant without is to be a companion of men (ren zhi tu). Holding the hands together, kneeling long, and bowing low are the rites of subjects; everyone performs them—how could I dare not? Doing what all do, others have nothing to blame you for—that is being a companion of men. To cite received formulations and measure yourself against the ancients is to be a companion of antiquity (gu zhi tu). Such words may instruct, but their thrust often rebukes the listener; yet the words themselves are ancient, not invented by me. Then even blunt speech need not bring disaster—that is being a companion of antiquity. Would this work?

Zhongni said: No! Methods of straightening and correcting are too many; they may fit formal standards yet cannot adapt. You might seem stubborn without being punished, but you would stall at that stage—how could you transform others? You would still be taking your own mind as teacher.

What is meant by “straight within and bent without, forming [views] and comparing upward to antiquity” is to be upright in heart yet outwardly yielding and compliant, and to cite established doctrines to align oneself with the ancients. Someone who acts thus may resemble Heaven, other people, and the men of high antiquity, yet has still not reached “no body”—and without no body, one has not reached no-self. That is why Confucius again answered with “How could that be?” The realized person has no self within and does not set the mind on anything without; they merge with the Great Vacuity (the vast empty body of the Dao), and do not hold the self as something real—therefore they can make the myriad things change together. If one only resembles Heaven, people, and the ancients of old, and has not yet merged with the Great Vacuity, how could one make the myriad things transform on their own? Hence it is said, “How could one reach transformation?” When you do not set the mind on things to drive them, nothing fails to follow along; when you set your heart on transforming others, transformation may not be achieved. Yan Hui wanted to influence the ruler of Wei—that was still acting with intent—so Confucius said he was still “teacher of the mind” (relying on his own ideas as master).

Yan Hui said: I have no further method; please tell me what approach to use. Confucius said: First fast, then I will tell you. To act while harboring a mind that wants to accomplish something—is that not difficult? One who takes the matter lightly will not be approved by Heaven. Yan Hui said: My family is poor; for months I have not drunk wine or eaten meat—is that fasting? Confucius said: That is the fasting of sacrificial ritual, not heart-fasting (xin zhai, fasting that clears the inner mind). Yan Hui asked: What is heart-fasting? Confucius said: Unify your intent. Do not listen with the ears; listen with the mind. Do not listen with the mind; listen with qi (inner breath). Hearing with the ears stops at sound; hearing with the mind stops at matching things outside.

When the will is unified and single-minded, the heart becomes firm and settled, thoughts become clear, the inner self becomes empty and open, and the ultimate Dao naturally gathers within—hence the call to “yizhi” (to gather the mind into one-pointed focus). Once the inner self is empty and the Dao collects there, this is not knowing from outside but attaining from within—hence the saying: do not listen with the ears, listen with the mind. When the mind has attained something, go further and grasp it by means of qi (the breath that is empty yet responsive)—hence: do not listen with the mind, listen with qi. In this way the ultimate Dao gathers in oneself; then by extending what remains of it outward, one can transform and influence others.

Yet the ultimate Dao cannot be sought through desire and emotion; one must first refine hearing to purity. Hence hearing should stop at the ears. The ears belong to the physical form; when the form has attained something, it aligns with the heart; when the heart has attained something, it aligns with qi—hence “the heart’s activity stops at correspondence” (xin zhī yú fú—the heart’s movement ceases in fittingness with things). Qi is empty and awaits what comes from outside; only the Dao gathers in emptiness. This emptiness is “xinzai” (heart fasting—stripping away preconceptions and distracting desires so the heart stays empty and still).

Yan Hui said: Before I received this commission and instruction, there truly was a “me”; after receiving it, there was no longer a “me.” Can this be called emptiness? Confucius said: You have penetrated it thoroughly.

Here “zhai” (fasting) is the zhaijie (fasting and abstinence) spoken of in the Yijing, used to make virtue communicate with the divine. Ordinary fasting focuses on what one thinks about; abstinence focuses on what one does. Confucius wanted Yan Hui to receive his teaching, so he had him practice only xinzai—therefore he said emptiness is xinzai. Emptiness is single-minded unity; fasting is stillness. Unity suffices to respond to ten thousand changes; stillness suffices to restrain all kinds of activity—thus one can transform others. The root of xinzai is no-self and no-mind. After Yan Hui grasped xinzai, he forgot himself—hence he said there was no longer any “Hui.” Once attachment to self is gone, one can also govern and order the world.

Those who can grasp the subtlety of supreme emptiness—profound void and stillness—may live between heaven and earth yet utterly cut themselves off from fame and what reaches the ear. Hence it is said: if you can move within the fences of worldly affairs without being tugged by reputation, the inner life stays clear and still. When something arrives, you respond; when nothing comes, you do not stir on your own—like the human pipe: it sounds only when breath enters and falls silent when breath stops. So: it rings when breath comes in; it stops when breath does not.

“No gate” means skill at closing—using that to conceal one’s effects. “No forcing” means not governing or meddling, so that virtue (De) can show itself naturally. That is letting things follow their own course.

Preserve your nature complete within supreme emptiness; hold to purity and unity and dwell at ease. Do not fix a settled mind on things—respond when they come, and act only when you must. What the utmost Dao speaks of as the end goes no further than this. Hence: settle in your dwelling and entrust yourself to what is unavoidable—that is nearly enough.

To merge in wuwei (non-action), rise above the dusty world, and leave no tracks—the sage finds that easy. To stand above yet engage in action, govern affairs, and still avoid harm—the sage finds that hard. Hence: leaving tracks is easy; walking without touching the ground is hard.

The human is what is driven; Heaven is what is spontaneous. What is driven can be fooled; what is natural cannot. Hence: easy to feign when driven by others; hard to feign when driven by Heaven.

People have heard of flying with wings, not of flying without wings; of knowing by what is already known, not of knowing by not-knowing. Consider the hollow gap: when the room is empty, it brightens by itself; when the heart is empty, it stills by itself. In stillness one can settle; the truth of nature and life (xing and ming) no longer wavers—then good fortune comes to stay. Hence: look at the hollow—the empty room gives birth to light, and auspiciousness arrives and rests there.

When the heart-mind cannot come to rest, this is called “sitting while galloping”: the body may be seated, yet the heart-mind is racing. If the heart-mind is not empty and still, it cannot stop; if it cannot stop, it cannot settle; if it cannot settle, it spreads through the entire dharma realm (all realms of experience), toiling among the myriad things without pause. Though the body sits, the heart-mind is really galloping—so the failure to cease is “sitting while galloping.”

Ears and eyes belong outward by nature, heart-and-knowing inward by nature. Only by forgetting the self can one rise above and find genuine ease. Ears and eyes are not necessarily only outward, nor heart-and-knowing only inward. When the body merges with creation-and-transformation (zaohua), and the patterns of things accord with spirit and clarity, how could affairs in the human world fail to shift with them? Thus it is said: let ears and eyes turn inward in penetration, and set the heart’s cleverness on the outside—then ghosts and spirits will come to dwell in peace, to say nothing of human beings.

This is the transformation of the myriad things—the pivot that Yu and Shun grasped, and the principle that Fuxi and Jirui practiced to the end of their lives. How much more is it true for those whose spirit and heart-mind are not yet unified and still somewhat scattered?

When the body joins with utmost emptiness, it can bring about change in the myriad things. Hence this is called the transformation of the myriad things; ghosts and spirits will attach themselves, to say nothing of people.

Yu and Shun were known for youwei (deliberate action); Fuxi and Jirui reached the extreme of wuwei (non-action). Both youwei and wuwei are profoundly subtle. Here the Dao merges into one whole and no longer splits apart; the sage’s beginning and end lie within this. When the Dao is united, it is utterly subtle; when divided, though scattered it remains refined. To grasp the unified aspect is enough to let things transform on their own; to grasp the dispersed aspect is enough to enter into transformation. Thus it is said: this is the hinge Yu and Shun held to, the principle Fuxi and Jirui followed to the end—how much more for those who still dwell in scattered inattention?

Ye Gongzi Gao (Shen Zhuliang, a grand officer of Chu) was about to go on a mission to Qi and consulted Zhongni (Confucius): “The king has given me a weighty charge. When Qi receives envoys, they are likely to show respect on the surface yet not hurry to act. Ordinary people are hard enough to persuade—how much more so a feudal lord! I am deeply afraid. You once told me that in affairs great or small, few succeed by straying from the right way and relying only on ingratiation. If one fails, there will be human-made disaster; if one succeeds, there will be afflictions of Yin-Yang (worry that harms the body, imbalance of cold and heat). Only someone of De (Virtue) can avoid disaster whether things succeed or fail. I usually eat plain food and do not seek refinement; one who tends the fire to cook does not grow so hot as to crave coolness. Yet now, given orders in the morning, by evening I must drink ice water—surely my heart is burning with anxiety! Before I have even touched the reality of the matter, I already have afflictions of Yin-Yang; if I fail, human-made disaster is sure to follow. Caught between the two, a subject cannot bear it. Can you guide me?”

The way to meet the world begins with forgetting the self, and next with trusting destiny. Forgetting the body leads to no-self; trusting destiny means yielding to what is natural, so worry cannot drag you down. In “Making One’s Way in the World,” Zhuangzi first tells how Yan Hui would transform Wei, then how Ye Gongzi Gao went on a mission to Qi. Confucius explained duty (the subject’s inescapable office) and destiny to Zi Gao—matters for the worthy, so this story ranks a step below Yan Hui. Then come Yan He assisting the crown prince of Wei, Craftsman Shi seeing the oak at the Qi state shrine, and Ziqi gazing at the great tree at Shangqiu—each involves deliberation and action, so they rank another step down. The teaching of “Making One’s Way in the World” cannot be pushed further; Zhuangzi’s exposition of the Dao stops here.

Confucius said: “Under heaven there are two great bonds—fundamental laws from which one cannot escape. One is destiny; one is duty. Children loving their parents is destiny—the heart cannot undo it. Subjects serving their ruler is duty—wherever one goes there is a ruler; between heaven and earth there is nowhere to flee. This is what is called the great bonds.”

First there is Heaven and Earth; only then are there father and son. Once father and son exist, ruler and minister follow. When the principles of father–son and ruler–minister are established, the myriad affairs of the world arise accordingly. Once affairs have arisen, they cannot be treated lightly—hence they are called the “Great Precepts” (dajie): the fundamental norms from which a person cannot escape.

The relation of father and son is inward; that of ruler and minister is outward. Inward relations take ming (the inborn, inescapable bond of kinship) as their basis; outward relations take yi (duty one ought to fulfill) as their basis. Ming means no gap between oneself and one’s kin; yi is what allows one to stand firm in one’s place. With no gap toward kin, one does not turn away from one’s parents; able to stand firm in oneself, one can hold one’s position before the ruler. Parents must not be violated—hence it is said the bond cannot be loosened in the heart. The ruler cannot be evaded—hence it is said that wherever one goes, one is never apart from the lord.

Serving the father within and the lord without are both inherent to the person. Where the self has such allotments, corresponding duties necessarily exist and cannot be shirked—hence it is said one cannot flee from between Heaven and Earth. This is the natural order of things; only by complying with it can one be free from worry and entanglement. Serving kin is inherent to the body, and the duties involved are equally inescapable; only by following nature can one avoid being burdened by care.

Therefore one who serves parents does not pick a place yet can be at peace—this is the utmost of filial piety (xiao). One who serves the lord does not pick tasks yet can be at peace—this is the fullness of loyalty (zhong). Being at peace without choosing place means being at peace in whatever place one occupies; being at peace without choosing tasks means not refusing what is difficult. Only by being at peace in one’s place can there be love; only by not shirking difficulty can there be sincerity. Where there is love, filial piety is necessarily complete; where there is sincerity, loyalty is necessarily complete. The whole principle of being subject and son lies here—hence it is called the utmost of filial piety and the fullness of loyalty. Here “utmost” (zhi) ranks below “fullness” (sheng); “fullness” is broader than “utmost.”

One who keeps to his own heart is not easily swayed by joy and sorrow before him. Knowing there is no alternative yet accepting it as ming and resting in it—this is the utmost of De (Virtue/Power). The son who serves his father knows there is ming in it; the subject who serves his lord knows there is yi in it. Holding these in the heart and following nature, joy and sorrow are insufficient to shake him. Hence it is said: one who keeps to his own heart—joy and sorrow do not easily come before him. Joy and sorrow are not originally fixed in the heart; they are stirred by external things. Able to keep the heart and forget joy and sorrow, one reaches the extreme of yi and ming; life and death are thereby settled—hence this is called the utmost of De.

As subject and son, a person originally has what he cannot refuse. In acting, if he keeps the heart and forgets joy and sorrow, he reaches the extreme of yi and ming; life and death are settled thereby—hence it is said this is the utmost of De.

A person in the position of subject or minister inevitably finds himself in situations where he has no real choice. If one follows the true circumstances of the affair and forgets oneself, how could there still be leisure to delight in life or loathe death? Sir, in going as you propose, you may proceed.

When a subject serves his lord or a child serves a parent, if one can rest content with whatever one meets, one will forget oneself; when one forgets oneself, life and death no longer weigh on the mind. Thus it is said: where would there be spare attention to rejoice in living or abhor dying?

Kong Qiu (Confucius) said: Allow me to speak further of what I have heard. In all dealings, those who are close must sustain one another through mutual trust and compliance; those who are far apart must express loyalty through words—and words must always be conveyed by someone. To convey words spoken in mutual joy or mutual anger is among the hardest things under heaven. Joy that arises from something other than one’s own private pleasure, anger that arises from something other than one’s own private irritation—such speech is fully sincere. Joy that is only joy because one is pleased, anger that is only anger because one is enraged—such speech is not sincere. Fully sincere words observe measure and restraint; insincere words are mostly excessive. Excessive words are hard to convey faithfully. Therefore, to transmit words of mutual joy and mutual anger is an extremely difficult task under heaven.

When both parties are pleased, the words passed along are mostly excessive praise; when both parties are angry, the words passed along are mostly excessive hatred. Whatever is excessive belongs to the realm of falsehood; once falsehood enters in, people do not believe; when they do not believe, the messenger suffers harm. Hence the maxim says: convey only the ordinary factual truth; do not convey excessive words—then one may roughly preserve oneself. Moreover, those who compete through skill and strength begin in open forthrightness (yang) but often end in covert trickery (yin); pushed to the extreme, they resort to many strange contrivances. Those who drink according to ritual begin in good order but often end in confusion; pushed to the extreme, they give rise to much unrestrained revelry.

Ending in underhandedness after contending with skill, ending in disorder after drinking by ritual—these are both cases of going too far. Therefore it is said that extremes produce many strange arts and many strange pleasures—things that sages simply do not do.

The same holds for everything else: at the start there is mutual trust and good faith, but the end is often contempt and estrangement; what begins simply grows vast by the finish. Words are like wind and waves; conduct loses its authentic substance. Wind and waves easily agitate the heart; loss of authenticity easily leads into danger.

Confucius said, “I wish to speak no more.” Would a sage willingly force himself to open his mouth? When people do not speak, external things have no way to disturb them; once they speak, external things respond in turn, and with that response the heart cannot stay quiet. Thus speech is like wind and waves. With no deliberate action, one’s traces stay hidden; once there is action, traces show. When traces appear outward, the inner authenticity perishes. Thus action makes people lose what is real.

When the heart is not still, it tends toward agitation; when authenticity is lost, peace is hard to find—so wind and waves easily shake the mind, and once the real is lost, danger comes easily.

Therefore anger often arises for no apparent reason—simply because of artful words and one-sided speech. It is like a beast at death that no longer chooses its cry: breath suddenly turns rapid and disordered, and a fierce, hostile heart arises along with it.

Set the heart in stillness and in nothing-to-do; harmonious sounds are stored within; night qi (the clear qi nurtured in the stillness of night) is naturally preserved, and one can penetrate the principle of nature and life—every movement and every stillness upright and in accord. If one is suddenly thrust into turmoil and worry, innate simplicity is thrown into disorder, night qi cannot remain, the principle of nature and life is violated, and conduct becomes erratic and at odds. Hence it is said: a dying beast’s cry admits no choice; breath is disordered, and a fierce heart is born with it.

When scrutiny of others is pushed to the extreme, a hostile heart is bound to rise in response—while one still does not see why. Since the cause is not understood, how can one know where things will end?

The perfected person (zhi ren, one who embodies the Way to the utmost) hides innate simplicity and conceals crafty intent; he does not rely on doing things for things to finish themselves, nor on deliberate response for response to arise of itself. In stillness he is one with the myriad things; in movement he meets with auspiciousness. If one flaunts cleverness alone and scrutinizes everything minutely, overusing the mind, action will carry the taint of what is unkind, disaster arrives without knowing what summoned it, and without knowing where it will stop. Thus it is said: when harsh scrutiny goes too far, a hostile heart must rise in answer, and one does not know why; since one does not know why, who can know the end?

Therefore the normative saying runs: Do not alter the charge you have received; do not press affairs to completion. Going beyond what is due is superfluous addition.

As a minister, one need only hold fast to the Way and its righteousness. When carrying out the ruler’s command, do not alter it on your own; when correcting the ruler’s faults, do not insist on success—hence the saying “Do not shift the order; do not urge completion.” If you neither change the order nor force success, yet fail to follow things as they naturally are and instead go against principle to add benefit for the ruler, that is like pulling up seedlings to help them grow—hence “Excess is adding more” (to add beyond measure is to meddle).

Changing the command or forcing completion both make the affair dangerous. What is good must be built up over a long time before it is complete; once what is bad has taken shape, there is no time left to put it right—how can one not be cautious? Goodness is gradually filled in; badness is self-inflicted harm—and both show that nothing must be allowed to fall short. Fullness is not achieved in a single morning, hence “it lies in lasting”; once self-inflicted harm is fixed, it cannot be changed, hence “too late to amend.” Rather than sorting out good and bad, it is better to have neither good nor bad as fixed labels—hence “Can one fail to be cautious?”

Let the mind follow the ten thousand things and roam among them, and take unavoidable circumstances as a resting place for nurturing central harmony—that is the utmost. Why seek some other reward? Better to convey the mission faithfully—and that is precisely what is hard.

The perfected person (one who has attained the Way) has no private mind; he takes the ten thousand things as his mind, coming and going without obstruction, never clinging to one side—this is “roaming in the mind.” In that case, there is only wuwei (non-action); if there is action, it is response only when there is no alternative, and one can strip away excess and keep to the middle way, thus fully aligning with the Dao. Hence “Ride on things to roam in the mind, entrust the unavoidable to nurture the center—this is utmost.” When a minister reaches this, he has fulfilled the way of the minister. Though Zi Gao (Lord Ye) was already worthy, Confucius still taught him the way of the perfected person in the end.

Yan He was about to become tutor to the Crown Prince of Duke Ling of Wei. He asked Qu Boyu: “There is a man whose nature is violent and who loves killing. If I do not set rules in dealing with him, I will harm the state; if I set rules strictly, I will harm myself. His cleverness is enough to see others’ faults, but he does not know where those faults come from. What should I do with such a person?”

Heaven gives birth to people of sage ability and wisdom in order to assist those who are not sage and not wise. If the sage and wise display their sage wisdom, those who are not sage and wise will rise up and become a burden. Only by hiding sage wisdom in the heart while outwardly appearing the same as everyone else can one escape the calamities of the age. When Yan He was about to serve as tutor to the Crown Prince of Wei, Qu Bo Yu expounded to him the principle of holding to correctness and concealing silence; hence this passage follows the story of Zi Gao (Lord of Ye).

Qu Bo Yu said: Well asked! Be on guard, be cautious, and first set yourself straight.

Mencius said: Those who bend themselves cannot set others straight. To set others straight, one must first set oneself straight; when oneself is straight, others will naturally become straight. Therefore when Qu Bo Yu answered Yan He, he spoke first of setting your own person straight.

Outwardly, it is better to comply and draw near; inwardly, it is better to keep peace and harmony. Yet both of these carry danger: in complying, do not sink in; in keeping peace, do not show it outward.

The form is the body entrusted by Heaven; the heart is the true lord of the person. The bodily form cannot go unprotected—hence “outwardly better to comply.” The true lord cannot go untuned—hence “inwardly better to keep peace.” One who preserves the form must not crookedly follow any single thing; one whose heart is at peace must not pour intent outward for display—hence “in not complying, do not sink in; in peace, do not reveal.”

If outward compliance sinks in, one falls, perishes, collapses, and stumbles. If inner peace is displayed outward, it turns into reputation, fame, strangeness, and disaster. If he is like an infant, you too follow him like an infant; if he has no boundaries (no fixed plots or rules), you follow his lack of boundaries; if he has no shore (no fixed limit), you follow his lack of shore. Lead and guide him so that he enters a state without fault.

The noble person outwardly complies and inwardly holds rectitude, not deliberately setting himself apart from others, and so can respond to the times and not clash with things. Thus one penetrates this principle: when he has no boundaries, follow his lack of boundaries; when he has no shore, follow his lack of shore—and guide him to arrive at a condition free of blemish.

The noble person is outwardly accommodating and inwardly upright, and does not deliberately strive to stand apart from others. Thus they can follow the times and respond flexibly to circumstances, without friction against things around them. This comes from having penetrated the Great Dao: they do not raise themselves up by parading small refinements or austere superiority, but take being without blemish as their ideal. Hence the saying: lead the other person so that they enter a realm free of error.

Do you not know the mantis? It spreads its arms in fury to block a wheel, unaware that it is utterly unequal to the task—such is the folly of trusting too much in one’s own ability. Be wary; be careful! If you keep flaunting your strengths and provoke the other side, you are in danger. Do you not know how tiger-keepers behave? They dare not feed live prey, lest the kill stir the beast’s violent temper; they dare not give whole carcasses, lest tearing them apart rouses its rage. They align feeding with hunger and satiety, and ease its anger. Though the tiger is not of humankind’s kind, it treats kindly those who keep it—because they go along with it; when it injures someone, it is because that person went against it. The mantis blocks the wheel: its skill is real, yet it cannot overcome its opponent. The fierce tiger does not harm its keeper: its nature is savage, yet it does not offend one who yields to it. When Yan He went to serve as tutor to the crown prince of Wei, how was the prince toward Yan He any different from the mantis or the tiger? That is why Qu Boyu invoked these images to warn him.

A man who loved horses would carry dung in bamboo baskets and urine in large clam shells. Once, when gnats and flies were biting the horse, he swatted at the wrong moment—and the horse snapped the bit, broke the bridle, and smashed the chest ornaments. Intent had been pushed to the utmost, yet love was lost in the process. Can one fail to be careful?

The benevolent person’s care for things is not ruined by loving wrongly, but by bending and forcing love to satisfy oneself. When something goes against its nature, they guide it back into compliance, never forgetting what they cherish. How would they love to excess and thereby harm what they love? To harm through love is to use human artifice to destroy what is natural. Hence the saying: when intent goes to an extreme, love is lost—can one fail to be careful?

Carpenter Shi went to Qi. When he reached Quyuan, he saw an oak that served as the she tree—the sacred tree at village rites for the earth god. It was big enough to shade a herd of oxen; measured around the trunk, a hundred spans; it rose level with the hills and did not branch until more than ten ren up, and there were more than ten limbs stout enough to be side planks for boats. Onlookers swarmed like at a market, but the master carpenter never glanced at it and walked on without slowing.

When the disciple had seen enough, he ran after Carpenter Shi and said, “Since I have followed you with axe and adze, I have never seen timber this fine. You would not look and kept walking—why?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough—say no more. This is a worthless tree (san mu). Make it into a boat and it sinks; make a coffin and it rots quickly; make vessels and they break quickly; make doors and windows and sap oozes out; make pillars and worms eat them. It is wood that will not serve as timber—it has no use, and that is why it has lived so long.”

After Carpenter Shi went home, the oak she-tree spoke to him in a dream: “What do you mean to compare me with? Do you take me for cultured timber—the sort that gets carved and put to use? Hawthorn, pear, orange, pomelo—when the fruit ripens they strip it; stripping means injury; big limbs are broken off, small ones torn down. All that is because they are useful, so they wear out their lives in misery and never finish their natural span—they die halfway, bringing on themselves the ax from the world. Nothing is not like this. And as for me, I have pursued being useless for a long time—nearly died for it—and only now have I got there. That is my great usefulness. If I were useful, could I have grown this huge? Besides, you and I are both things—why measure me by the standards of things? You, a worthless man who nearly died—how would you understand a worthless tree?”

Carpenter Shi woke and told his disciple. The disciple said, “If it wants to be useless, why become a she tree at all?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Hush—enough! It only borrows the role of she tree to lodge itself in, so people who do not understand will curse it. If it were not a she tree, would it not almost have been cut down? And its way of preserving itself is not like other trees’—yet you judge it by ordinary rules. Are you not wide of the mark?”

When things grow in accord with their own nature, they preserve that innate nature; when they are felled, they lose it. To preserve one’s nature is honor; to lose it is disgrace. Where there is honor, there will be praise; where there is disgrace, there will be slander. Would that great catalpa in the state of Qi, after losing its nature, still wish to win honor? Its refusal to be made into a she tree (the tree under which the community sacrifices to the local earth god) is exactly for this reason—yet the disciple of Carpenter Shi still failed to understand. The point is this: the perfected person (zhiren), living in the world in accord with the Dao and following their nature, forgets the self and becomes one with the ten thousand things, so neither slander nor praise can reach them.

Nanbo Ziqi traveled to Shangqiu and saw an enormous tree, so strangely formed that the shade of a procession of a thousand four-horse chariots could hide beneath it. Ziqi said, “What kind of tree is this? It must have some special use as timber.” He looked up at its smaller branches: they were twisted and crooked, unfit for rafters. He looked down at its trunk: the grain was split and loose, unfit for coffin boards. Lick its leaves and your mouth would ulcerate and bleed; smell its odor and you would be drunk for three days without sobering. Ziqi said, “So it truly is useless timber—and that is why it could grow so vast. Ah, the spirit person (shenren) preserves himself precisely by such uselessness.”

In the territory of the Jing clan in Song, the land suited catalpa, cypress, and mulberry. When a tree reached one or two armfuls in girth, those who wanted monkey tethering posts would cut it down; at three or four spans around, those who wanted grand, ornate roof beams would cut it down; at seven or eight spans, great families and wealthy merchants wanting coffin side boards would cut it down. Thus these trees never lived out their natural span but were killed halfway by axe and adze. That is the calamity that comes from becoming useful timber— from “having talent” and serving a purpose.

Those who have attained the Way can hold fast to the root within themselves and do not seek to be put to use. Whoever can remain rooted in their own person is already complete in themselves, and their efficacy overflows. This is what it means to arrive at ming—the root of life and nature. Ming is the foundation of all things; nothing is greater. That is why Zhuangzi often uses the great catalpa tree as a metaphor: once a tree is taken for use, its root is harmed; only when it is not used do its branches and leaves flourish. Thus to be useless is to be truly useful, and to be unfit for use is to be fit for preservation—things are kept whole and uninjured. Laozi’s teaching of “deep roots and a firm stem”—anchoring the root and steadying the foundation—speaks to this same ming. When Nanbo Ziqi saw the great tree at Shangqiu, he sighed that the sage is like this: useless timber—and that is understanding how to preserve life and nature. If the sage were used because of talent, ming could not be preserved; what difference would there be from the catalpa, cypress, and mulberry of Jing? Those trees die young precisely because they are slightly useful. If a person has a little talent yet does not understand the great Dao or rest in their allotted ming, they only add burdens to themselves. This, then, is the calamity of “having talent.”

Hence the story of the white-foreheaded ox, the pig with an upturned snout, and those afflicted with hemorrhoids: by custom they could not be sent to sacrifice to the river. The wuzhu—those who preside at sacrifice—all knew this and regarded them as ill-omened. Yet for the sage, that is precisely what counts as great good fortune.

Oxen with white hair on their foreheads and pigs with upturned snouts are considered “useless timber” that cannot serve as sacrificial victims because of these features; people who suffer from hemorrhoids are similarly viewed as “useless timber” who cannot be assigned to public duties. Both the shaman-priests (those in charge of sacrifices and praying for blessings) consider these things inauspicious and therefore discard them. Precisely because they are not used, their lives are able to be preserved, and they can live out their natural lifespans. Being able to complete one’s natural span of years is the greatest auspiciousness. Therefore, it is said that this is exactly the great auspiciousness in the eyes of the Shenren (spirit-person). Zhuangzi spoke of this because people living in the world often cannot hide the Great Dao (the Way) and forget themselves; instead, they eagerly show off their talents and boast to the multitude. Although the multitude admires them, the outcome is that their very lives are harmed. How can this compare to hiding the Great Dao, forgetting oneself, and restraining one’s talents in order to preserve life and avoid the calamities of engaging with the world? What he repeatedly asserted carries this meaning.

Zhili Shu (whose body was dispersed and twisted) had his chin receding into his navel, his shoulders rising above his head, his topknot pointing up toward the sky, his internal organs’ orifices turned upward, and his two thighs pressed up against his ribs. He made a living by mending clothes and washing laundry, and was enough to support ten people by sifting and winnowing grain for others. When the government conscripted warriors, because of his crippled appearance, he could wave his arms and walk among the people without being drafted; when the state had heavy corvée labor, he was not assigned duties because of his chronic illness; when the government provided relief to the sick, he received three zhong (an ancient unit for measuring grain) of rice and ten bundles of firewood. A person whose physical form was so dispersed and twisted could still adequately support himself and live out his natural lifespan—how much more so for someone whose virtue was also “dispersed and twisted” (not presenting their virtue as complete and easily employed)! Although Zhili Shu’s outward form was not upright, inwardly he had his own uprightness, and thus was able to preserve his life. Therefore, it is said that he was still able to complete his natural lifespan. If physical dispersion and twisting could still preserve life, how much more so for the dispersion and twisting of virtue!

When Confucius went to the state of Chu, the Madman of Chu, Jieyu, passed by his gate, likened him to a phoenix, and sang:

“Phoenix! Phoenix!

How has your virtue fallen to such decay!

To wait for the future is impossible;

To retrieve the past is also impossible.

When the world accords with the Dao, the Sage can achieve merit and success;

When the world is without the Dao, the Sage can only preserve his own life.

Existing in the present age,

Merely avoiding punishment is enough.”

The greatest sage changes along with the way of the world and does not linger on external things; external things in turn cannot harm him. Confucius’s heart never took governing the world as its main task; he followed this way only by adapting to the times. When the times allowed action, he achieved merit; when they required withdrawal, he preserved his life. His mind was serene and unobstructed, and he did not personally fix on rise and decline—that is how the sage’s heart was. The song of Jie Yu (the “madman” of Chu in the Spring and Autumn period) gave voice to this heart; Zhuangzi cites it to round off the theme of engaging the world, and also laments that he did not meet his time—hence the remark that in the present age one can barely avoid punishment.

Fortune is said to be lighter than a feather, yet no one knows how to bear it; disaster is said to be heavier than the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. What Zhuangzi calls fortune and disaster is not the worldly sort: to preserve life and nature is fortune; to forget life and nature is disaster. The way of fully preserving life and nature is extremely subtle, hence “fortune lighter than a feather”; because it is so subtle, people cannot take it up and practice it themselves, so no one knows how to bear it. The principle of forgetting life and nature is extremely plain, hence “disaster heavier than the earth”; because it is so plain, people cannot clearly see their way clear of it themselves, so no one knows how to avoid it. Zhuangzi therefore laments that people cannot fully grasp the way of preservation.

“Enough, enough”—stop there. Because one cannot lift it up and put it into practice oneself, no one knows how to bear it; those who forget life and nature have the principle staring them in the face.