《南华真经新传》Vol. 2

Therefore, calamity is heavier than the earth itself. Yet when principle has been understood to the utmost, people still cannot perceive it for themselves and steer clear of harm—hence the saying “no one knows how to avoid it.” Zhuangzi sighed over this: people in the world cannot fully grasp the way to preserve themselves.

Enough, enough! To lord it over others by virtue is perilous—perilous indeed! It is like drawing boundaries on the ground and then walking only along them. Thorny paths, thorny paths—do not block my way; I walk winding routes—do not wound my feet.

Trees on the mountain are cut down because they grow to useful timber; tallow and oil are boiled because they can burn. Cinnamon can be eaten, so the tree is felled; lacquer can be used, so the tree is gashed. Everyone knows the use of what is useful, but no one knows the use of what is useless.

Cinnamon is eaten, so the tree is cut; lacquer is used, so the tree is slashed—that is what happens when one has even a little talent or utility yet cannot preserve oneself. The “calamity that talent brings,” mentioned earlier, refers precisely to this. How could one know that the sage treats being untalented as numinous and uselessness as supreme wisdom? To understand that one is untalented and to grasp uselessness is to have the way of living in the world complete. That is why Zhuangzi closes the meaning of this chapter in this sentence.

Nanhuua Zhenjing Xinzhuan (a Song-dynasty commentary on the Zhuangzi), juan 3.

Siku Quanshu (Complete Library of the Four Treasuries).

Nanhuua Zhenjing Xinzhuan, juan 4, by Wang Bi of the Song dynasty.

De Chong Fu (Signs That Inner Virtue Is Full and Naturally Aligned with Things)

One who can pass through the changes of human affairs in the world and avoid the entanglements of worry and harm has truly preserved life. When life is preserved, the heart is at ease; from that ease, De (Virtue/Power) becomes full. When De is full within and does not rely on outward things, there is no need to seek alignment with externals—yet externals come to align of themselves. Therefore Zhuangzi wrote De Chong Fu and placed it immediately after Ren Jian Shi (Human Affairs in the World).

In the state of Lu there was a man named Wang Tai who had suffered foot amputation (yue xing). Those who studied with him were about as numerous as Confucius’s disciples. Chang Ji asked Confucius: “Wang Tai is a man with one foot cut off, yet those who follow him split Lu with you—half and half. He stands without lecturing and sits without debating; people go empty-handed and return fulfilled. Can there really be teaching without words and completion in the heart without visible traces? What kind of person is he?” Confucius said: “This master is a sage. I, Kong Qiu, have merely fallen behind and not yet gone to him. I would take him as my teacher—how much more those less than I! And not only in Lu—I would lead all under Heaven to follow him.”

Sages become sages because they preserve spirit within and forget the body without, utterly dissolving selfish intent and merging with the great transformation—the natural change of the ten thousand things. Wang Tai, though mutilated in form, remained a person whole in spirit. If one can forget the body and abandon fixed intent, becoming one with transformation, one’s influence spreads widely and those who receive transformation are many; that followers of such a person could rival the disciples of Confucius (Zhongni) is only to be expected. People like this can even lead all under heaven to follow them together.

Chang Ji said: He is only someone who has lost a foot, yet he surpasses you, Master—the gap from ordinary people would be enormous. If it is really so, what is the special quality of his mind? “Chang” suggests being bound to the commonplace; “Ji” suggests youth and naivety. Zhuangzi chose the name Chang Ji to imply that with mediocre, immature understanding one cannot grasp the sage. When virtue is full, beauty and greatness are already present; when beauty and greatness are present, followers multiply—this is what it means to be “great and transforming.” That is why Confucius called him a sage. The state of the sage is not something a non-sage can fully explain, so Zhuangzi has Chang Ji put the question to Confucius.

Confucius said: Life and death are among the greatest of matters, yet they cannot make him follow along with change; even if heaven and earth were overturned, he would not lose what he holds. He discerns the authentic that does not depend on external things, does not shift with the flux of events, lets the ten thousand things transform on their own, and himself keeps to the root source. Under heaven there is nothing greater than life and death, yet even these cannot move him; if heaven and earth collapsed, he would not be cast away with them. He examines the great Dao that rests on nothing borrowed from outside, does not migrate with external things, allows the ten thousand things to change as they will, and yet guards that fundamental root.

Among all affairs under heaven, none is greater than life and death. Yet life and death are nothing more than the transformations of the myriad things. Only the sage thoroughly awakens to the state in which there is neither birth nor death, and never shifts along with those transformations. Thus it is said that although life and death are weighty matters, they cannot make such a person change with them. Once one understands neither birth nor death, one quietly forgets the bodily form and becomes one with zaohua (creation and transformation). Even if the dome of heaven and the broad earth were overturned and thrown into chaos, what could be lost? Therefore it is said that even if heaven and earth collapsed and fell, he would not be lost with them. This describes the finesse of qiongli (exhaustively probing the principles of things). To discern the authentic that depends on nothing external and not to alter with outward things is the depth of jinxing (fully realizing one’s nature); to follow the changes of the myriad things while holding to their root is zhi yu ming (arriving at ming, destiny). Wang Tai’s form was maimed—he lacked a foot—yet he could qiongli, jinxing, and zhi yu ming; that is why his de (virtue and power) was full. That is what this means.

Chang Ji asked, “What does this mean?” Zhongni (Confucius) said, “Seen from difference, liver and gall are as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue; seen from sameness, the myriad things are all one body.”

Things and the self differ in bodily form, hence there is difference; things and the self share one root, hence there is sameness. Blinded by difference, one sees only separate forms; understanding sameness, one sees that at root there is no duality. Wang Tai could forget the maiming of his limbs, penetrate to the source of xing and ming (nature and life), inwardly preserve true nature, and outwardly merge with the myriad things as one. Unless de were full, who could reach this? Thus it is said: from difference, liver and gall are like Chu and Yue; from sameness, the myriad things are one body.

A person like this does not fuss over what sights and sounds ears and eyes should prefer, but lets the spirit-mind roam in the harmony of de. He sees only where the myriad things are one and does not see anything as lost; to lose one foot was, for him, no more than dropping a clod of earth.

To listen by relying on the ears is only to reach what can be heard, not what lies beyond hearing; to look by relying on the eyes is only to reach what can be seen, not what lies beyond seeing. This is the obscuration that comes from leaning entirely on cleverness and being dragged down by the senses. Only the sage is inwardly filled with fine De (virtue), and what shows outwardly is true discernment: listening without depending on the ears, seeing without depending on the eyes. However tangled things may be, he does not measure them against his own limited perceptions—so how could he be bound by sight and hearing? His mind opens wide; he wanders in self-sufficiency, and that harmony need not be sent outward through ear or eye. Thus it is said: such a person no longer fusses over what the ears should hear or the eyes should see; he only lets the heart roam in the harmony of De. One whose De is full becomes one with Hua (the natural transformation of all things). When people under Heaven see him change along with transformation, they forget his bodily form; knowing what he has attained, they set aside what he has lost.

Though Wang Tai had lost a foot, people under Heaven forgot why he was footless. It was not that they could not see the stump—they saw that his ample De was the large thing and an incomplete body the small thing. People cherish what is large as they would gold or jade, and forget what is small as they would cast away mud. Thus: look at him only where he is one with the myriad things—do not see what he has lost; see his loss of a foot as no more than dropping a handful of earth.

Chang Ji said: He merely cultivates himself, uses knowledge and insight to obtain the mind, then uses that mind to obtain the changxin (constant heart)—why should the myriad things still gather around him?

The reason a sage makes the myriad things gladly submit is that he shares in the great Hua (transformation); the reason things turn toward the sage is his De. Chang Ji did not understand this and supposed that Wang Tai won the mind through cleverness and that was why the multitude clung to him—this is a subjective guess about the sage.

Zhongni (Confucius) said: People do not take running water as a mirror; they take still water as a mirror. Only when water is still can it reflect a person—this illustrates that when the sage’s inner mind is tranquil, others can take him as their model.

When water flows, not even a hair can be distinguished; when water is still, it can reflect heaven and earth. When De is lost, the myriad things do not follow; when De is full, they come to align with it. This is the necessity of principle and circumstance. For a person to see clearly, one must rely on still water; for things to gather together, they must return to abundant De. People most esteem Wang Tai (who, though footless, moved others by virtue) because he was like still water, fit for reflection. Hence the saying: people do not use flowing water as a mirror, but use still water.

Only when oneself is still can what seeks rest be settled.

The nature of all under heaven is never not tranquil from birth. Tranquility enables uprightness; uprightness enables stability. This upright and stable nature is the same in everyone—only because errant emotion drives them and outer things disturb them does uprightness become not upright and stability become not stable. The reason is that the inner mind has no master. With no inner master, one cannot be still; without stillness, one cannot rest where one ought to rest. Only the sage takes De within as master, outwardly forgets being used by things, and so the root of nature is uprightly settled and still. With his stillness he stills the movement of all under heaven, and movement then stops of itself. Hence: only stillness can still the many stirrings. This is Zhuangzi’s lament for how nature in his time drifted and was lost, put into the words of Zhongni (Confucius).

What receives from the great earth—only pines and cypresses stay green in winter and summer; what receives from heaven—only Shun (the ancient sage-king) alone was upright. He was fortunate to upright his own life and thereby upright the multitude. The sign of preserving the original beginning is fearless solidity. One brave man, fierce and bold, charges into nine armies. Zhuangzi, grieving that people’s nature in his time was cast adrift, therefore placed the meaning in Zhongni’s words.

Trees receive life from the great earth; only pine and cypress stay green through winter and summer. Humans receive life from Heaven; only Shun, the ancient sage-king, could truly rectify himself. Having been fortunate enough to rectify his own life, he used that to help rectify the multitude.

The proof of preserving the original beginning is to be utterly fearless. A brave warrior can charge straight into a vast army formation. Someone who can restrain himself for the sake of reputation can do at least that much.

Trees are entrusted with life by the earth; humans are entrusted with life by Heaven. It is not that the earth favors pine and cypress and makes them alone evergreen, nor that Heaven favors Shun and makes him alone upright. Rather, pine and cypress never abandon their most steadfast nature, and Shun could hold fast to upright character. Therefore it is said: entrusted by the earth, only pine and cypress stay ever green; entrusted by Heaven, only Shun alone is upright. People in the world do not understand that Shun is this way because he keeps to the upright; they all call him a sage. Have they ever reflected that they too are fortunate to be born with upright nature, yet throw it away themselves? Once one recognizes the original uprightness and holds to it, one can likewise help rectify the multitude—why must it be only a sage? Therefore it is said: fortunate to rectify one’s own life, and thereby rectify all living beings.

How much more so for one who presides over Heaven and earth and embraces the ten thousand things: he treats the six bodily parts—the head, trunk, and limbs—as a temporary lodging, and treats ears and eyes as outward signs. What he knows merges into one, yet his heart-mind has never died. He will choose a day to ascend to a lofty, transcendent realm, and people will follow of themselves. How could he be willing to take external things as his business?

The sage is one with the Dao; in all under Heaven none can stand as his counterpart. Though Heaven and earth are vast, they fall under his governance; though the ten thousand things are many, he shelters and gathers them. He does not worry over life and death; the bodily form is like an inn. He does not rely on hearing and sight; ears and eyes are left only as traces. He seeks only to know when De is full and overflowing, and to take “non-being born” as his way of living—then coming and going are entirely in his own hands. This is why he is most outstanding; how could he be dragged down by external things? Therefore it is said: how much more so for one who presides over Heaven and earth, embraces the ten thousand things, takes the six bodily parts as lodging and ears and eyes as signs, merges what he knows into one while his heart-mind has never died? When he chooses a day to ascend, people follow—and how could he be willing to take things as his business? Wang Tai was exactly such a person; Zhuangzi placed him at the opening of this chapter.

Shentu Jia was a man who had suffered foot amputation as punishment and lost one foot. He studied together with Zichan of Zheng under their teacher Bo Hun Wu Ren, a person who possessed the Dao.

Shentu was originally the title of an official charged with instructing the people; jia means goodness taken to its utmost. Zhuangzi chose this name to carry that meaning. Shentu Jia is a worthy person, so the account follows immediately after Wang Tai. Though Jia’s outward form is incomplete, his inner virtue is full; yet because that virtue has not reached the highest level among people, he still cannot do without a teacher. Hence he studies under Bo Hun Wuren together with Zichan of Zheng. Bo means foremost or chief; hun means hidden and not showing; wu ren means no self. One who can be chief among the ten thousand things yet remain hidden and without self is why the worthy take him as master.

Zichan said to Shentu Jia about studying under Bo Hun Wuren: Bo is chief, hun is hidden, wu ren is no self; being chief among things yet hidden and without self is why the worthy take him as master.

Zichan said to Shentu Jia: If I go out first, you stay; if you go out first, I stay. The next day the two again sat in the same hall on the same mat. Zichan said again: If I leave first you remain, if you leave first I remain. Now I am about to go out—can you stop, or not? The perfected person (zhiren) forgets self and outwardly becomes one with the ten thousand things; even when things are incomplete, that cannot stain him. Hence Liu Xia Hui (called “Xia Hui” in the text)—able to dwell with others without being defiled by externals—even when someone sat beside him bare-chested, could not be stained. This is understanding that inwardly one is the same as Heaven’s mandate, so outwardly one can forget the body. Zichan, though a worthy man of Zheng, did not know Shentu’s virtue was already full and only disliked his incomplete body, wanting their comings and goings not to be the same. That is where he fell short of Liu Xia Hui.

Zichan also said: You see a ruler and do not avoid him—do you set yourself on a par with the ruler?

Shentu Jia (who had lost a foot as punishment) said: “Among the Master’s disciples, can there really be someone who relies on his position in power to act? Are you so pleased with being the one in charge (Zi Chan then governed the state of Zheng) that you treat everyone else as beneath you? I have heard it said: ‘When a mirror is bright, dust does not cling to it; when dust clings, the mirror is not bright. To stay long with the wise is to be without fault.’ You take the Master as your model and yet speak this way—is that not a fault?”

Zi Chan said: “You are already in this state, yet you still want to compete with Yao (the ancient sage king) over who is better. Measure your own De—is it not enough for you to examine yourself?”

Shentu Jia said: “Those who excuse their faults and think they should not have lost their feet are many; those who do not excuse their faults and think they should never have kept those feet are few. To see that things cannot be helped, yet still accept them calmly as fate—only someone of De can do that.”

Yan Hui (Confucius’s foremost disciple) followed Confucius: at first he worked hard to restrain himself, but in the end he reached a point where it was as if there had never been any ‘Yan Hui’ at all—he set aside cleverness and forgot his body, and simply stopped repeating his mistakes. Zi Chan followed Bo Hun Wu Ren (teacher to both Shentu Jia and Zi Chan), yet could not restrain himself; he still wanted to rank ahead of all things, and even looked down on those whose De was already full—so he fell into fault. That is exactly where he differed from Yan Hui.”

Everyone stands within range of Yi (the legendary archer’s) bow; the bull’s-eye is where you are bound to be struck. Sometimes you are not struck—that is fate. Many who have both feet intact mock me for lacking a foot. I have flared up in anger, but when I come to the Master, the anger fades and my heart grows calm again. I do not know whether the Master has washed me clean with his goodness. I have been with the Master for nineteen years, yet I have never felt that I was a man with a severed foot.”

Mencius said: Yi, the ancient master archer, when teaching archery always had his students fix their aim on the target butt; those learning to shoot had to fix their aim on the butt as well. The butt is the place the arrow can reach. When Heaven sends a person into the world, no one escapes the path of honor and disgrace, benefit and harm, nobility and baseness, life and death. Some gain glory, profit, rank, or survival because the arrow, once loosed, hits the mark; some suffer shame, disaster, low status, or death because the arrow, once loosed, misses. Hitting or missing is fate—how could one step outside this natural order? Only the sage has no fixed self and does not tie his mind to the myriad things, so honor and disgrace cannot drag him down, benefit and harm cannot touch him, nobility and baseness cannot use him. He sees clearly through to neither birth nor death and dwells alone in self-sufficiency. This is fixing one’s aim solely on fate. Whether the shot hits or misses—what has that to do with me?

Now you and I associate within the physical form, yet you seek me outside the form—is that not going too far? Zi Chan, the minister of Zheng, looked uneasy and changed color. He said, “You need not say any more.”

Those who take an incomplete body as shame are ordinary people; those who feel ashamed that their great virtue is not yet full are sages. Shen Tu Jia, whose body was maimed, sought completeness within and forgot the body without; Zi Chan did not value the fullness of his virtue but only disliked his maimed form—that was going too far. So it is said: now you and I associate within the form, yet you seek me outside the form—is that not going too far?

In the state of Lu there was a one-footed man (one whose foot had been cut off in punishment) named Shu Shan Wu Zhi (“No Toes”). He went on his heels to see Zhong Ni (Confucius). Confucius said, “You were not careful before and have already met with such misfortune. Now that you have come, what good can it do?” Wu Zhi said, “I only failed to know what I should devote myself to and used my body rashly, and so I lost my foot. Now I come because there is still something more precious than the foot, and I mean to strive to preserve it.”

Shu is the “shu” (third-born) in the ranking bo, zhong, shu; shan refers to what has form. Precisely because he did not know what to devote himself to and lightly used his body, he lost his foot; now he comes because something more precious than the foot remains, and therefore he must devote himself to preserving it.

"Shu" is the third in the order of brothers; "shan" (mountain) denotes the largest among visible things. Zhuangzi chose the name to carry this meaning: this man comes after Shen Tu (Shen Tu Jia, another person in the earlier passage who was punished by mutilation yet possessed virtue), in third place, hence "Shu"; his virtue is likewise vast, hence "Shan." The text must have him go to see Zhongni (Confucius) because only a sage is fit to recognize a worthy person.

Toeless said: "Heaven covers all; earth supports all. I took the Master to be like heaven and earth—who would have thought the Master could be like this!" Confucius said: "I, Kong Qiu, am indeed shallow and narrow."

Heaven and earth have no partiality toward things; only because they cover and support without favor do they exclude nothing. The sage has no partiality toward things; only because he accepts all who come does he reject none. Would heaven and earth refuse to cover or support a thing because its form is incomplete? Would the sage blame a person or refuse to join with him because his body is mutilated? That is why the passage above appears. When Confucius says he is shallow and narrow, he is not truly reproaching Toeless for lack of discretion. Zhuangzi uses this parable to exhaust the subtlety of the Dao; students should grasp the meaning within it.

Confucius said: "Why does the gentleman not enter and tell me what you have heard?" After Toeless left, Confucius said to his disciples: "Strive, all of you! Toeless is one who was punished by amputation and lost his toes, yet he still studies diligently to make up for his past faults—how much more should those whose virtue is whole do so!" Toeless said to Laozi (Lao Dan): "Kong Qiu, as a perfected person (zhi ren), probably has not yet arrived, has he? Why must he deferentially seek instruction from you again and again? He still pursues strange and marvelous reputation, and does not know that the perfected person treats such reputation as fetters that bind him." Laozi said: "Why not let him understand that death and life are one thread and that what is permissible and what is not are one continuity, so that he may undo these fetters—would that do?" Toeless said: "That is a punishment heaven has imposed on him—how could it be undone?"

The sage inwardly holds to his own rectitude and outwardly follows constant virtue—the enduring, natural power of the Way—keeping his mind calm and free of private intent, so external things cannot drag him about. Thus life and death, what is acceptable and what is not, leave no tiny sting or grudge in his breast. Is that because he deliberately makes them one? If the sage set his mind on unifying life and death and the acceptable with the unacceptable, he would not have forgotten what ought to be forgotten, and would instead have forgotten what ought not to be forgotten. That would be casting off constant virtue and fleeing heavenly punishment—the sentence heaven imposes, fixed and hard to lift—and how could such a person count as a sage?

Constant virtue cannot be cast off; heavenly punishment cannot be evaded. Only the sage and the person of heaven—one united with the Way of heaven—can preserve these and not lose them. Therefore it is said: how can heavenly punishment be lifted?

When Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius: In the state of Wei there was a man of extremely ugly appearance named Ai Taituo. Men who kept company with him always longed for his presence and could not bear to part from him; women who saw him asked their parents, “Rather than be another man’s lawful wife, we would rather be this gentleman’s concubine”—and such women numbered in the tens, with more joining all the time. No one had ever heard him take the lead in advocating anything; he merely echoed others. He held no ruler’s authority by which to rescue people from death, nor hoarded salary enough to fill anyone’s belly. His looks were ugly enough to startle the world; he only assented and never led, and his understanding did not reach beyond the four borders—yet men and women alike gathered around him. Such a person must differ from ordinary people in some way. I summoned him to see me, and he was indeed ugly enough to startle the world. After less than a month together I came to delight in his character; before a year had passed I trusted him. When the state lacked someone to govern, I entrusted the affairs of the realm to him. He responded with distant indifference, only agreeing after a long while, as if casually trying to decline. I felt myself unequal to him and at last handed the state over to him. Before long he departed. My heart was empty with loss, as though there were no one left in the realm with whom I could share joy.

“Ai Taituo” was originally a name that marked ugliness. Because his virtue was full while his form was ugly, he was called by such a name. The body is only qi temporarily gathered; the person who has attained the Way treats it as lodging on a journey and never divides good from bad by beauty and ugliness. One need only preserve what should be preserved and fill what should be filled—even with an ugly outward form, people still find such a person most worth drawing near. That is why Ai Taituo could make hearts willingly follow him, and why Duke Ai entrusted him with the state.

Duke Ai asked: What sort of person is he really? Confucius said: Once when I was on a mission to Chu, I saw a litter of piglets nursing on their dead mother. In a moment they all threw her off in alarm and fled—for the mother no longer looked at them and no longer responded to them as one of their kind.

Heaven, in giving birth to people, endows all alike with qi and with life and death—there is no special favor toward sages or disdain for ordinary people. Sages are able to fully preserve what should be fully preserved and to set right what should be set right, so their life and nature can be complete and their De can be full. Ordinary people do not understand this and suspect that sages differ from others. Even Duke Ai of Lu did not know what Ai Daituo was full of, and thought he was unlike ordinary people, so he asked Confucius (Zhongni) about it.

One who loves his mother does not love her physical appearance; he loves that by which the appearance is able to exist.

One whose De is full does not seek to merge with external things, yet external things come to merge of themselves. When things come to merge, it is not the form that is loved but the De. Therefore it is said: what is loved is that which makes the form able to stand.

Those who die in battle are buried without the shan (funerary feather ornaments); those who have suffered foot amputation no longer find shoes worth loving—both have lost what is fundamental. The Son of Heaven’s attendants do not trim their fingernails or pierce their ears; a man about to marry is kept outside the palace and no longer serves as attendant. Even an intact body is already enough to support one’s De—hence the saying: what is loved is that which makes the form able to stand.

Those who die in battle are buried without sha (the ornamental fans fixed to the coffin in the funeral procession); a man whose feet have been cut off no longer cherishes his shoes—for in both cases the root of what mattered is already lost. The consorts beside the Son of Heaven do not trim their fingernails or pierce their ears; men who have taken wives remain outside the palace and no longer serve as inner attendants (such attendants were often castrated, so the body was no longer whole). If even bodily wholeness is valued so highly, how much more so a person whose De (Virtue/Power) is complete! Yet Ai Taituo, before he has spoken, makes people trust him; without merit, he draws them close; others would hand him their state and fear only that he might refuse. Such a person must be one whose native endowment is complete and whose De does not show on the surface.

Duke Ai of Lu asked, “What is meant by ‘endowment complete’?” Confucius said, “Life and death, survival and perishing, hardship and success, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, slander and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—these are the shifts of affairs and the turning of fate. They alternate before our eyes day and night, yet human intelligence cannot fathom where they begin. Therefore they are not enough to disturb inner peace or to enter the lingfu (the chamber of the spirit, the inner sanctuary of the mind). One keeps the heart-mind harmonious and at ease, open and unblocked, never losing joy, day and night without break, dwelling in spring-like harmony with the myriad things—this is meeting the outer world while inwardly responding with timely qi (vital energy). This is what is meant by endowment complete.”

“What is meant by ‘De without form’?” He answered, “Levelness is water at its utmost stillness. It can serve as a standard: within it stays settled; without, no ripples arise. De is the cultivation of harmony. When De does not appear in outward form, the myriad things still cannot leave him.”

Later, on another day, Duke Ai told Minzi (Min Ziqian, a disciple of Confucius), “At first I faced south and ruled the realm, held the threads of governing the people, and grieved over their deaths—I thought myself utterly penetrating. Now, having heard the words of the utmost person, I fear I had no such substance after all and rashly used my own person, so that I might lose my state. Confucius and I are not lord and minister; we are friends joined by De.”

The perfected person becomes a perfected person because their endowment (cai) is complete. “Cai” means the subtle principles within nature and life (xingming); only the perfected person can turn what was incomplete into wholeness, and only after wholeness has one fully exhausted this principle. Once the principles of nature and life are exhausted, changes in life and death, survival and loss, poverty and wealth are all seen clearly and do not disturb the inner mind; the alternation of yin and yang and the shift from day to night are not deliberately traced back to where they begin. Shifts in circumstance are not enough to break their harmony, and worry and joy are not enough to shake their spirit. They rest in ease and delight; between day and night they even forget when change has reached its limit, so in meeting the outer world, as soon as they are touched they penetrate through. This is what is called “complete endowment” (cai quan).

Therefore it is said: this is “complete endowment.” Complete endowment means the principles of nature and life suffer no loss. When those principles are not depleted, De (Virtue/Power) is thereby full. The fullness of De is not a deliberate filling, just as still water does not deliberately make itself level. Hence it is said: levelness is the state of water at the height of stillness. One whose De is full holds fast within and does not scatter without, quiet and without visible trace, and all things turn toward them. Thus it is said: keep it within, do not let it slip away without; and again: when De shows no trace, the myriad things do not leave. This is doctrine of the utmost refinement; without a sage one cannot know it, and even knowing it, one can hardly speak it. So when Duke Ai of Lu heard this, he no longer dared treat the sage as a subject and said: Between me and Kong Qiu [Confucius] there is not the relation of ruler and minister; we are friends joined in De.

A man with bent legs, a mutilated body, and no lips advised Duke Ling of Wei, and the duke was pleased; when he looked again at people with whole bodies, he felt their necks were thin and weak. A man with a huge goiter on his neck advised Duke Huan of Qi, and the duke was pleased; when he looked again at people with whole bodies, he felt their necks were thin and weak too. Therefore, when De surpasses others, defects of the physical form are forgotten.

The lame man who speaks of forgetting action, the mutilated man who speaks of forgetting the body, and the lipless man who speaks of forgetting cleverness: to forget action is to leave no trace of movement; to forget the body is to forget the self; to forget cleverness is to be without a scheming mind. Without a scheming mind, one quietly withdraws from the world; without self, one merges indistinguishably with the ten thousand things; without leaving traces, one remains calmly inactive. De is thereby fulfilled. These names were invented by Zhuangzi on purpose to carry his meaning.

Though such a person’s form is defective, his De surpasses others’. When he spoke to Duke Ling of Wei, the duke was delighted and forgot his appearance; when he spoke to Duke Huan of Qi, Duke Huan was likewise delighted and forgot his appearance. They were not different from ordinary people in essence—they simply preserved what ought to be preserved and forgot what ought to be forgotten. Once that is achieved, even external things that would enslave one’s nature cannot weigh one down. Hence Zhuangzi also mentions the man with the jar-sized wen on his neck and says: when De surpasses others, defects of the body are forgotten.

The body is what Heaven entrusts to us—only a temporary gathering of qi; De is what one attains inwardly, and nothing among the ten thousand things can enslave it. How can one cling to this momentarily assembled form and instead discard the subtle excellence that nothing can enslave? Only the sage inwardly does not forget the De that must not be forgotten, and outwardly forgets the body that must be forgotten, so that what Heaven gave is preserved and De does not show on the face. This is true forgetting. Therefore it is said: one who does not forget what people ordinarily forget, and who forgets what people ordinarily do not forget—this is called true forgetting.

The sage has a realm in which the spirit can roam freely. In his view, cleverness and cunning are sources of trouble; covenants are like glue, meant only to patch what has already split apart; virtue becomes a contrived means of drawing people together; and craft degenerates into buying and selling for profit. The sage does not scheme or plot—why would he need cleverness? He does not carve or polish—why would he need glue to mend things? When he has not lost himself, why would he need virtue to patch things up? When he does not trade goods for gain, why would he need to do business? Knowledge, covenants, virtue, and craft—these four are what Heaven uses to nourish people; they are called “Heaven’s nourishment” (tian yu), what Heaven provides to keep people alive. Once people have received Heaven’s nurturing, why should they still rely on human contrivances?

So when we say “the sage has something in which he roams,” we mean that he accords with outer things and lets mind and spirit wander freely, thereby dwelling in Wuwei (non-action) and allowing the patterns of nature to run their course. These four things were never something I deliberately hold on to—why should I use them? Yet they are exactly what Heaven gives to people to nourish them, so they cannot simply be discarded either. To discard them is to destroy one’s inborn nature; destroying inborn nature brings encumbrance. Nor can one add to them—adding is forcing help upon Heaven and ends up causing harm. Then Heaven and the human would no longer be in harmony. Only the sage neither discards nor adds; hence it is said: having already been fed by Heaven, why use human means?

To have the form of a person but not the partial emotions of a person: having the form of a person, one can live among others; lacking partial emotions, right and wrong cannot stick to oneself. The form is small, so one still counts as human; yet spirit is lofty and vast, completing on its own the nature Heaven gave.

“Having the form of a person” means outwardly blending with the crowd like a clod of earth; “lacking partial emotions” means inner stillness and non-doing. Blending with the crowd, one can join the group without setting oneself apart; in non-doing, there is neither “this is right” nor “this is wrong.” Though the body is small, people still treat him as human; virtue is full, and the wholeness Heaven bestowed is not impaired. Hence: small—this is where he still belongs among people; great—he alone completes the nature Heaven endowed. This is precisely what Gaitian Zhili Wuren (the limping, disjointed man without lips from the Zhuangzi) excels at: not relying on bodily wholeness, but aligning with inborn nature.

Hui Shi (Huishi) asked Zhuangzi: “Are human beings originally without qing (emotion)?”

Zhuangzi said: “Yes.”

Hui Shi said: “If human beings have no qing, how can they be called human?”

Zhuangzi said: “The Dao (the Way of nature) gave them their appearance, and Heaven gave them their bodily form—how can they not be called human?”

Hui Shi said: “Since they are called human, how can they lack qing?”

Zhuangzi said: “That is not the qing I mean. What I call wuqing (freedom from emotional entanglement) is that one should not harm oneself inwardly through likes and dislikes, but constantly accord with nature and not artificially add to life.”

Hui Shi said: “Without adding to life, how can one preserve the body?”

Zhuangzi said: “The Dao gives appearance, Heaven gives form—do not inwardly injure the body through likes and dislikes. Now you let your spirit chase outward, wearing down essence and qi, leaning on a tree to chant poetry, dozing against a withered parasol tree. Heaven chose your form for you, yet you make yourself heard through ‘hard and white’ (the logicians’ debate over whether a stone’s hardness and whiteness can be separated).”

Emotions harm one's original nature. When a person is born, original nature emerges from the Dao and the body is given by Heaven; both were originally pure and unbiased. It is only because emotions ravage this purity that purity becomes impure. Huizi (Hui Shi, Zhuangzi's friend, skilled in analyzing names and principles) did not understand this and thought that without emotions one could not be called human. Zhuangzi therefore answered: do not use likes and dislikes to harm your body; he also said: constantly follow nature and do not add anything extra to life. Likes and dislikes arise from emotions and harm the body. Once one has likes and dislikes, one feels life is insufficient and wants to add something beyond one's proper share. Adding too much leads to being enslaved by things externally; being enslaved by things depletes spirit; excessive use of spirit brings fatigue; fatigue gives rise to sensations; unending sensations leave only dull confusion. Thus one is enslaved by the transforming work of creation (zao hua—the generative changes of nature) and cannot merge with the myriad things as one, hence the bewilderment over "hard and white" and "sameness and difference" (the name-distinguishing debates that split attributes of things to argue sameness and difference). Therefore it is said: now you apply spirit outside the body, wear out your vital essence, leaning on a tree to chant or dozing against a parasol tree; Heaven gave you a form yet you contend with arguments on hard and white. The sage's way is to guard purity, preserve what should be preserved, not rely on cleverness, not exhaust spirit, keep the breast empty and vast, become one with creation, see all things as one body—where then can emotions be placed? This is what Huizi did not understand. Zhuangzi wrote "Sign of Virtue Complete" (De Chong Fu)—first Wang Tai, then Shen Tu Jia, then Shu Shan (Shu Shan Wuzhi). All three had virtue full within while their bodies were incomplete. Shen Tu Jia did not reach Wang Tai's level, Shu Shan did not reach Shen Tu Jia's, so each is treated one step lower in turn. Then Ai Tai Ta and Lian Qi Zhi Li Wu Chun (all men ugly or maimed in appearance) likewise had full virtue while extremely ugly in form—again treated one step lower, in the same order as the "Human World" (Ren Jian Shi) chapter. Incomplete bodies and extreme ugliness are only external. Though the surface is so, if the heart is full of De (Virtue/Power), the myriad things will take him as supreme and come of themselves to join. When things come of themselves to join, things and self become one—why need to place emotions within that? So the whole chapter ends with Huizi's question about emotions. This is how Zhuangzi sets forth his words and exhausts the Dao.

Volume 4 of the New Commentary on the Authentic Scripture of Nanhua (a commentary on the Zhuangzi)

Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasures (a large Qing-dynasty official compilation)

New Commentary on the Authentic Scripture of Nanhua, Volume 5, by Wang An of the Song dynasty

Chapter: The Great Master (Dazongshi)

When one’s virtue and conduct are full, one enters the Dao. The Dao is what nothing under heaven fails to follow. Even though heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are countless, all return to one path and merge into one principle. Therefore Zhuangzi wrote the chapter “The Great Master” and placed it after “Sign of Complete Virtue.”

“To know the doing of heaven and to know the doing of humankind—this is the utmost.”

Heaven and humankind both arise from the Dao. One who recognizes the Dao to the end knows what heaven does and what humans do. Heaven’s doing is wuwei (non-action); humankind’s doing is youwei (deliberate action). Wuwei is tranquil; in tranquility one returns to innate nature and life. Youwei is active; in activity there are norms one ought to follow. To grasp the utmost of righteousness and fate is to become what the myriad things revere and take as their model—hence “the utmost.”

“To know heaven’s doing is to be born in accord with heaven; to know humankind’s doing is to use what one already knows to nurture what one does not yet know, thereby completing one’s natural span and not dying prematurely—this is the height of knowledge. Even so, there is still something to worry about.”

Knowing the doing of heaven and of humankind means knowing by means of “not-knowing.” Using not-knowing to know heaven penetrates the subtle principle of wuwei—because nature and life have reached their utmost. Using not-knowing to know humankind exhausts the supreme limit of youwei—because things have reached their utmost. When nature and life reach their utmost, life is natural; when things reach their utmost, the person follows heaven as a kindred being. Yet if one keeps seeking knowledge and will not stop, one is merely relying on cleverness. Relying on cleverness, knowledge becomes excessive—hence “the height of knowledge.” When cleverness is pushed too far, it harms life—hence “even so, there is still something to worry about.”

Once knowledge is pushed to what one takes as its utmost, one may follow heaven—but if one keeps seeking knowledge without stopping, one still only deploys cleverness. When cleverness goes too far, knowledge becomes too strong and again injures life; hence there is still something to worry about.

What we call “knowing” always depends on some object first and then conforms to that object; such knowing has not yet found a fixed footing. How then can we be sure that what I call “Heaven” is not “human,” or that what I call “human” is not “Heaven”?

Heaven is the gathering of one and the same Qi; the human being is also a convergence of that same Qi. Zhuangzi saw this through clearly: he knew that Heaven holds within it the human, and the human holds within it Heaven. Heaven and humanity originally interpenate; there is no need to force a split between them. Hence the question: how do we know that what I call Heaven is not human, or that what I call human is not Heaven?

There must first be a True Person—one united with the Dao and never losing original genuineness—before there can be true knowing. The True Persons of old did not resist scantiness, did not boast of success, and did not plan affairs in advance. When things went wrong they did not regret; when things fell out just so they did not congratulate themselves. Such a person does not tremble on a height, is not soaked when entering water, and does not feel burned when entering fire. This is what it means for knowing to ascend and reach the Dao.

One who merges with transformation, keeps the inner straight without leaning on outer things—only that is a True Person. “True” refers to such a person’s inborn nature. Because the nature is thus, their knowing is not something fabricated by human artifice. So it is said: first the True Person, then true knowing; true knowing is the kind of knowing that does not cling to knowing. The True Person is called true because they hold to yielding in the face of scantiness, dwelling like one who keeps to the feminine or like one who is slightly lacking, not scheming and not summoning—yet affairs come together on their own. Hence: not resisting scantiness, not vaunting success, not plotting ahead. When the True Person is like this, how would they keep fault lodged in the heart? Even if they slip occasionally, they do not let gain and loss stick in the mind. When the heart is not tied to gain and loss, it has no designs on outer things; with no designs on things, there is no clash with things, and things cannot harm them. Therefore: fault without regret, good fortune without self-congratulation; no fear on heights, no soaking in water, no heat in fire. This is not because the True Person’s body differs oddly from ordinary people, but because through true knowing they enter the Dao—so when we say knowing can ascend to the Dao, it is exactly this.

The True Persons of old did not dream in sleep and had no worries awake; they did not crave sweetness in eating, and their breathing was deep, deep indeed. The True Person cuts off entanglements and forgets desire, so in sleep there are no dreams; they rest in Heaven’s mandate and know their place, so awake they are without anxiety; they taste the flavor of flavorlessness, so they do not seek fine food in eating; from stillness they return to stillness yet deeper, so their breath is profound.

The True Person’s breathing reaches deep to the heels; ordinary people’s breathing stops at the throat. Those who are pressed and forced to submit find words stuck in the throat, as if they were about to vomit. The deeper one’s cravings and desires, the shallower the inborn spiritual responsiveness.

The heel is the body’s root; the throat is where breath is guided. The root must not be suddenly disturbed, nor may breath be blocked for long. The True Person’s breath can reach the heels because they return to the root and rest in stillness; ordinary people breathe only at the throat because when breath goes outward it meets obstruction. Returning to the root and keeping still, breathing can last; when qi is dammed up it bursts outward, and breathing cannot last. Lasting comes from forgetting desires; not lasting comes from desires running too deep. In Daoist cultivation, “breathing to the heels” (xi yi zhong) means breath sinks calmly downward to the body’s root—unlike the shallow throat breathing of most people.

In ancient times the True Person did not rejoice in being alive or loathe death; they did not exult at birth or resist entering death, but came and went at ease. They did not forget where they came from, nor did they chase after how they would end; they accepted what they met and rested in it, forgot clinging and returned to what is natural. That is not using the mind to harm the Dao, not using human contrivance to boost what is natural—this is what is called being a True Person. Such a person’s spirit is unified, their face serene, their forehead plain and broad; in solemnity like autumn, in warmth like spring, joy and anger in tune with the four seasons, at home with the ten thousand things in every way—yet no one could fathom their depths.

The True Person merely lodges in the six limbs of head and body; ears and eyes only show things as they appear, resting in the times and yielding to change—grief and joy cannot break in. Hence it is said they know neither delight in life nor hatred of death. Wherever they go, they fit with things, and no one knows where they end.

The True Person treats the six bodily parts—the trunk and four limbs—as no more than a temporary lodging, and treats the ears and eyes as merely outward appearances. Able to rest in the turn of fate and follow change, neither joy nor grief can enter the heart. Thus it is said that he does not take life as something to rejoice in, nor death as something to loathe. Wherever he goes he responds fittingly; whatever situation he enters he is at ease. Thus it is said that going out he needs no guard, and coming in he does not refuse. Going in unfettered fashion is the spirit roaming beyond visible things; coming in unfettered fashion is not being trapped inside the vessel of form. He enters the subtlety of the Dao yet does not forget the beginning; he accords with the Dao in obscurity yet does not pursue an end. Thus it is said that he does not forget where he began and does not seek where he will finish. Content in himself without resentment—thus it is said he receives things with gladness. Forgetting the self and returning to the root of life and nature—thus it is said he forgets and thereby returns. In this way, he moves with the heart yet does not leave the Dao; he lets the ten thousand things be natural yet does not excessively add to their genuineness. This is trueness upon trueness. Thus it is said: not using the mind to turn away from the Dao, not using human contrivance to assist what is natural—such a one is called the True Person, one who is one with the Dao.

The True Person is so because the inner True Lord is settled and free of anxious scheming; the countenance is still and does not move rashly; the brow is broad, plain, and unadorned. Without anger he yet has natural dignity; without deliberate benevolence he yet has natural care. He harmonizes with the sequence of the four seasons and settles the ten thousand things without anything out of place—who can fathom his ultimate reach? Thus it is said: such a one’s mind is settled, his bearing quiet, his brow broad and simple; severe as autumn, gentle as spring; joy and anger accord with the four seasons; in dwelling with the ten thousand things nothing is ill-fitted—yet no one knows his limit.

Therefore, when the sage employs armies, even if he destroys a state he does not lose the people’s hearts; when favor extends through ten thousand generations, it is not from partial love for any one person. Thus, one who merely delights in communicating with outer things is not a sage; one who has private favorites is not humane; one who merely clings to seasonal timing is not worthy; one who cannot see through benefit and harm is not a noble person; one who seeks reputation and loses himself is not a scholar; one who loses the body and is not true to the root cannot command others. Hu Buxie, Wu Guang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Xuyu, Jita, Shentu Di—all were driven by others’ standards, walking paths others thought fitting, unable to rest in what truly suited themselves.

Therefore the sage, in using force, even when he extinguishes a state does not lose the hearts of the people; when his grace reaches through myriad generations, it is not from favoring one person alone. So one who merely delights in communicating with things is not a sage; one who has private attachments is not benevolent; one who only holds to the seasons is not worthy; one who cannot penetrate benefit and harm is not a noble person; one who seeks fame and loses himself is not a scholar; one who loses the body and is untrue to the root cannot employ others. Hu Buxie, Wu Guang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Xuyu, Jita, and Shentu Di were all compelled by others’ measures, walking roads others deemed right, unable to settle where they truly belonged.

The appearance of the true person (zhenren) is that of having achieved “I lost my self”—letting go of the clinging small self—so that the person follows the Great Dao, neither altering inner authenticity nor bending to outer things. Such a one can employ external things without being employed by them, resting in one’s own nature without distorting that nature to suit what the world calls xing (nature). As for figures like Hu Buxie and Shentu Di in antiquity—people who refused to enjoy worldly benefits and finally cast themselves into water—they could not forget the self and thereby lost true authenticity; they could not follow the Great Dao and instead chased the customs of the age. So they were driven by things and could not drive things; they submitted to an outward “nature” and could not truly rest in their own nature. That is why they could not settle their xing and ming (nature and life). Therefore it is said: they did what others commissioned them to do and pursued what others took for comfort, yet could not themselves rest in what truly suited them.

The true persons of old acted appropriately without forming factions; they seemed insufficient yet did not accept what others offered. They stood apart with ease without being stubborn; their minds were broad without showiness. They appeared freely joyful, yet in action seemed to do things only when they had no choice. Their bearing was full and approachable; their de (virtue/power) was generous, so people wished to rely on them. Their presence was solemn, as if dwelling among the world, yet lofty and beyond constraint. Deep and still, they seemed to love concealment; without deliberate intent they forgot speech. They took punishment as the root, ritual as support, wisdom to adapt to circumstances, and de as the path to follow. Taking punishment as root means that even where there is killing, they remained ample and unhurried. Taking ritual as support was for getting along in the world. Using wisdom to fit the time meant responding only when things left no alternative. Taking de as what they followed means that anyone with feet could walk up a hill along the same way—yet the world truly believed they were toiling at strenuous effort.

What is called “xing” (punishment or sentencing) is heaven’s own sentencing—that is, fate or the mandate of heaven. Each thing has its allotted span, and those allotments are already gathered in me; this is what is meant by “taking sentencing as one’s ground” (yi xing wei ti)—making heaven’s mandate the root of one’s being. “Li” (ritual or propriety) is practice. When practice accords with the Dao (the Way), one can arrive without forcing oneself to rush about; this is “taking ritual as one’s wings” (yi li wei yi)—using propriety to help one move. “Zhi” (knowing) is discernment. When knowing does not freeze up, one can shift with the flow of events; this is “taking knowing as timeliness” (yi zhi wei shi)—using insight to meet the moment. “De” (Virtue/Power) is inward attainment: one gains something in oneself and thus each day sees where one can walk at ease; this is “taking virtue as one’s path” (yi de wei xun)—using De as the track one follows.

That my death and the death of all things is only a temporary parting—why should I cling or be stingy about that? So one who takes sentencing as ground meets life and death’s verdict with ample ease. The Dao has no end; I keep practicing without stopping—so “taking ritual as wings” means using it to move in the world. Shifting with events is not the mind deliberately managing affairs—so “taking knowing as timeliness” means responding only when affairs leave no choice. Inward attainment and walking at ease—those with feet can walk upward on that basis—so “taking virtue as one’s path” means arriving at the hill together with those who have feet. These four—the True Person does not set out to perform them on purpose; ordinary people truly believe he is straining to act.

The True Person has no mind of liking and disliking, so favor and disfavor are the same for him. The True Person holds fast to the One (yi)—whether it is “one” or “not-one” is equally the same. Returning to oneness without contrivance is letting nature take its course, so he is of the same kind as Heaven. Holding the One and being one with it, he sometimes also follows the shape of circumstances, so he is of the same kind with people.

Heaven and humanity do not override each other—only then is one a True Person. Life and death are fate, like the constant alternation of night and day—that belongs to Heaven. What people cannot take part in is the plain truth of things. People treat Heaven alone as father and still love it with their bodies—how much more what is utterly beyond! People feel a lord is above them and still die for him—how much more the genuine root of being! When the spring dries up, fish are stranded together on dry land, moistening one another with damp breath and wetting one another with spittle—better to forget one another in rivers and lakes. Rather than praising Yao and blaming Jie, better to forget both and dissolve into the great Dao.

Praise and blame are shifts in worldly human sentiment. Though the sage responds to them as they arise, inwardly he holds to nothing. As for abandoning worldly sentiment and taking “forgetting both sides” as the right path—that is precisely what Zhuangzi opposed; foolish Confucians of the world have turned around and used it to criticize Zhuangzi.

When the spring dries up, fish are stranded together on dry land, moistening one another with damp breath and wetting one another with spittle—far inferior to forgetting each other in the rivers and lakes. Rather than praising Yao and condemning Jie, better to forget both sides and merge into the Great Dao.

The great clod (nature, the creator) uses form to bear me, uses living to make me toil, uses aging to give me ease, uses death to give me rest. Thus one who knows how to settle his life also knows how to settle his death. The true person (one united with the Dao) does not have that extra layer of “taking old age as leisure and death as rest”; that saying is only in reference to “being borne by form and toiled by survival.”

Hide a boat in a valley, hide a mountain in a great marsh—people think that is secure. Yet in the middle of the night a powerful being carries it away, and the confused still do not know. What is small hidden inside what is large—though each has its fitting place, still something can be lost. If one hides the world within the world so that nowhere can escape, that is the constant root-truth of the ten thousand things.

What does not migrate—that is where its constant nature resides; what must pass away—that is where its constant change resides. Nature cannot be altered, change cannot be detained—so Zhuangzi spoke of hiding the boat and hiding the mountain. The boat stands for drifting without fixed abode; the mountain for standing firm and unmoving; the valley for depth, the great marsh for vastness. The boat has no fixed whereabouts, yet is hidden in the depths; the mountain is inherently unmoving, yet is hidden in vast expanse. How much more so when what by nature cannot stay is forced to stay, and what is not secure is forced to be secure! Even if fixed and settled, how could one evade the transformations of creation? This is “the powerful one carries it away and runs.” The working of creation is subtle and hard to guard against—hence “middle of the night”; creation is hard to perceive—hence “the confused.” Zhuangzi is lamenting that people in the world are unwise. Only the true person is one body with creation, one with the ten thousand things, entrusting life and death, glory and decay to nature, and hiding subtle efficacy in tracelessness, turning the constant supreme Dao. Therefore it is said: hide the world within the world so that nowhere can escape—that is the constant root-truth of the ten thousand things.

People merely happen to receive the human form, and they are already glad of it. That form shifts in endless ways, never reaching a limit—so how could the joy in it ever be used up?

The living are not bound never to die; the dead are not bound never to live again. End and beginning turn into each other without exhaustion. Hence it is said that the human form transforms without end. Joy does not vanish because life is not forced yet comes about naturally; the dead are not necessarily cut off from living again—coming and going have no final stop. Joy stays inexhaustible because life is not wrung out by deliberate striving yet arises on its own. That is why one asks: how could such joy ever be fully counted?

Therefore the sage wanders in the place where nothing can slip away from things and yet everything is kept. Even those skilled at accepting an early end, a long life, a good start, or a good finish—the multitude still takes them as models.

Whatever has a beginning must have an end; whatever is complete must fall apart. All are moved by spontaneous transformation (zaohua), and form has nowhere to hide. Only the sage enters the Dao, forgets the self, follows things outward, and lets the heart roam free. Yin-Yang cannot rewrite him; transformation cannot use him as a tool—he is preserved in every mode. Hence it is said that the sage roams where things cannot escape and all are still there.

How much more is this true of that upon which the myriad things depend and to which every change looks for support?

Heaven’s part is to generate and shelter; earth’s part is to give shape and bear up. What generates and shelters cannot necessarily give shape and bear up; what gives shape and bears up cannot necessarily generate and shelter. The myriad things therefore do not yet fully merge into one. Only the sage completes the work of heaven and earth and joins the myriad things into unity. That is where things are tied and where transformation waits—only such a one may be called the patriarch (zongshi), the one the multitude looks up to as having attained the Way. So again: how much more is this true of what all things are bound to and what every transformation depends on?

The Dao is truly trustworthy, yet it does nothing and has no form. It can be passed heart to heart, but not handed over like a physical object; it can be realized inwardly, yet cannot be seen with the eyes. It is its own root: it has existed forever even before heaven and earth appeared. Ghosts and spirits rely on it for efficacy; the Lord on High relies on it for numinous power; heaven and earth are produced by it. It is prior to Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), yet is not considered lofty for that reason; it lies below the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters), yet is not considered deep for that reason; it was born before heaven and earth, yet is not counted as long-lived; it is earlier than high antiquity, yet is not counted as aged.

Xiwei received it and used it to govern heaven and earth; Fuxi received it and used it to harmonize with the mother of Qi (the primordial vital energy that begets the myriad things); the Northern Dipper received it and runs its course without ever straying; the sun and moon received it and never cease their motion; Kanhuai received it and took up residence on Kunlun; Fengyi received it and roamed the great rivers; Jianwu received it and dwelt peacefully in the great mountains; the Yellow Emperor received it and ascended to the sky; Zhuanxu received it and dwelt in the dark palace; Yuqiang received it and stood at the north pole; the Queen Mother of the West received it and presided at Shaoguang—no one knows when she began or when she will end; Peng Zu received it and lived from the age of Yu and Shun down to the time of the Five Hegemons; Fu Yue received it, assisted King Wuding in holding the realm, rode the eastern rope, mounted the stars of Ji and Wei, and ranked among the array of stars.

The Dao is the most numinous thing under heaven: without form, without trace, yet present everywhere. All things are transformed through it, so it seems to have feeling and to be trustworthy; it operates in silent stillness, so it is Wuwei (non-action); it is deep, empty, and still, so it is formless. It can only be grasped through spirit—hard to seek with desire—hence it is said to be transmissible yet not receivable as an object; it can only be realized with the heart—hard to discern with reason—hence it is said to be obtainable yet not visible. Before heaven and earth it formed itself in undifferentiated unity, hence it is said to be self-rooted; it runs through ten thousand ages and endures without ceasing, hence it is said to have existed firmly from antiquity. The numinous power of the Dao has no fixed place. Ghosts become spirit-like through it, the Lord on High becomes numinous through it; heaven and earth are produced by it, yet it does not depend on heaven and earth to exist. It cannot be measured for height or fathomed for depth; it is neither newly formed nor decaying. From Xiwei to Fu Yue, those who gained the substance and function of the Dao used it to set the realm right; their names shine in the record and do not perish, hence it is said they rank among the array of stars.

Nan Bo Ziqi asked Nü Yu, who had attained the Dao: “You are very old, yet your complexion is like a child’s—why?” Nü Yu said: “I have heard the Great Dao.” Nan Bo Ziqi asked: “Can the Dao be learned?” Nü Yu said: “No! How could it be! You are not someone who can learn the Dao. Bian Liangyi had a sage’s talent but not a sage’s Dao; I have a sage’s Dao but not a sage’s talent. I wanted to transmit the Dao to him so that perhaps he could truly become a sage; if not, telling someone with a sage’s talent about a sage’s Dao would not be hard in itself. I still held fast and told him gradually: after three days he could set the world aside; once he had forgotten the world, I held fast another seven days, and he could set external things aside; once he had forgotten external things, I held fast another nine days, and he could set life and death aside. Only after that could he achieve morning clarity (zhao che)—a mind like the sun at dawn, suddenly bright and clear; after morning clarity he could see the One (jian du)—behold the independent, self-sufficient Great Dao; after seeing the One he could no longer distinguish past from present, and then enter the realm where there is neither death nor birth. What brings life to death does not itself die; what brings life into being does not itself be born. Toward the myriad things it sends none away, welcomes none, destroys none, fails to complete none. This state is called ying ning—tranquility achieved only after being stirred and shaken. Nan Bo Ziqi asked: “Where exactly did you hear this?” Nü Yu said: “I heard it from the son of Deputy Ink (Fu Mo); Deputy Ink’s son heard it from the grandson of Lu Song (Lu Song); Lu Song’s grandson heard it from Zhan Ming (Clear-Sighted Gaze); Zhan Ming heard it from Nie Xu (Ear-Attentive Listening); Nie Xu heard it from Xu Yi (Body-in-Service); Xu Yi heard it from Yu Ou (Song); Yu Ou heard it from Xuan Ming (Deep Dark Silence); Xuan Ming heard it from Can Liao (Vast Emptiness); Can Liao heard it from Yi Shi (Doubtful Beginning—the indeterminate origin).”

Dao is the sage’s inner substance; De is the sage’s outward functioning. Substance without functioning is not yet complete; functioning without substance is not yet ultimate. Only when functioning and substance are both fulfilled does one grasp the whole of Dao and reach genuine clarity, free from fixation on the self.

When the self is gone, one no longer clings to “life.” Hence it is said that by holding fast for nine days one can achieve “waisheng”—in practice, releasing the grip on one’s own birth and death. When one does not cling to life, the nocturnal qi (the clear, restored qi that gathers in the quiet of night) can be preserved; hence it is said that only after waisheng can one reach “zhaoche”—a mind as clear and open as the break of dawn. When nocturnal qi is preserved, one can see what is ordinarily unseen; hence it is said that only after zhaoche can one “jian du”—behold the One, the unique Dao. Having seen what cannot be seen, one takes ten thousand ages as a single whole; hence it is said that only after jian du can one be “wu gujin”—free of the divide between past and present. At that point one understands neither birth nor death; hence it is said that only after wu gujin can one enter the state of neither birth nor death.

When Dao is rounded to this fullness, one can dwell among the ten thousand things without being confined by them. Therefore his death is not true death; though he lives among the ten thousand things, his life is not true life in the ordinary sense. Hence it is said: the source that ends life does not die; the source that gives life is not born. The ten thousand things all depend on it, yet its trace cannot be seen—hence “there is nothing it does not send away” (wu bu jiang). The ten thousand things all meet it, yet its beginning cannot be seen—hence “there is nothing it does not welcome” (wu bu ying). Things wither through it—hence “there is nothing it does not destroy” (wu bu hui). Things are completed through it—hence “there is nothing it does not accomplish” (wu bu cheng). The ten thousand things attach to it and thereby find peace; this is called “yingning”—tranquillity sustained amid entanglement and disturbance. Only through such attachment can clarity and fulfillment appear; hence yingning means enduring disturbance and thereby attaining completion. This is the sequence of entering Dao—not something one can reach without being a zhenren, a person who embodies Dao. From Nanbo Ziqiao down to Yishi, these are names Zhuangzi invented to carry the meaning.

Zi Si, Zi Yu, Zi Li, and Zi Lai once gathered and said: Who can take “nothingness” as the head, life as the spine, and death as the tailbone, and who understands that death, life, survival, and extinction are one whole—we will be friends with that person. The four looked at one another and smiled; their hearts were fully in accord, and they became friends.

Before long Zi Yu fell ill, and Zi Si went to see him. Zi Yu said: How vast! The Creator—the nature that nurtures the ten thousand things—is about to make me into this curled and contracted shape. His back humped up with five vessels showing along it, his chin tucked into his navel, his shoulders higher than the crown of his head, and a wen on the back of his neck pointing up at the sky. Yin and Yang were out of balance, yet his mind was at ease and he did not take it to heart. Limping to the well, he saw his reflection and said again: Alas! The Creator is going to make me into this contracted form once more.

What is called a perfected person (zhiren)—one who has penetrated the Great Way—grasps the depth of true emptiness (the ten thousand things have no inherent substance from the start), and understands the principle of wuwei (non-action: aligning with nature and not acting rashly). The ten thousand things cannot command his mind; creation-transformation cannot bind his body. Having already achieved “I have lost my self” (forgetting the clinging self), how could the bodily form become a burden? Zi Si and the other three were just like this: they understood true emptiness, penetrated wuwei, and did not fix their hearts on the changes of life, death, survival, and extinction. They entered the Way together as friends and could be called perfected persons. A bent body and a halting gait were not enough to drag them down.

Zi Si asked: Do you hate looking like this? Zi Yu said: No—what would I hate? If my left arm were gradually turned into a rooster, I would use it to announce the dawn; if my right arm were gradually turned into a slingshot, I would use it to shoot owls to roast and eat; if my buttocks were gradually turned into wheels and my spirit into a horse, I would ride along—why would I need another carriage?

Taking the arm as rooster and slingshot, the buttocks as wheels, and the spirit as horse means every use is already complete in me. Understanding this, one can ride it to roam beyond the bodily form, freely entering and leaving the realm of life and death without stopping midway to change horses or carriages. This is turning together with creation-transformation—hence the saying: why need another team to drive?

Life is gained when the right moment arrives; life is lost when one goes along with the natural course. Settle into the moment and stay in accord, and sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart. This is what the ancients called xianjie—release from being hung up and entangled. When people cannot free themselves, it is because external things have tied them down. External things have never been able to overcome what is natural, and that has been so for a very long time—so what is there to resent?

Before long, Zilai fell ill. His breathing was labored and he was near death. His wife and children gathered around him, weeping. Zili went to see him and cried out, “Step back! Do not disturb this transformation.” Leaning on the door, he said to Zilai, “How marvelous, Creation! What will it make you into next, and where will it send you? Will it make you into a rat’s liver? Will it make you into an insect’s limb?”

Zilai replied, “Children toward their parents—east, west, south, or north—they simply obey whatever they are told. Yin-Yang toward a person is no less authoritative than parents. It is bringing me close to death; if I do not obey, I am going against it—what fault is that on its part? The great earth loads me with a body, uses life to wear me down, uses old age to set me at ease, and uses death to give me rest. So whoever can truly ‘see’ my living can also truly ‘see’ my dying.”

To gain is to hit the right moment—that is to come freely. To lose is to follow the flow—that is to go freely. What comes cannot be blocked; what goes cannot be held back. Be at peace with coming and go along with going—how could worry and joy drive you? It is simply that the heart is not tied down. That is why settling into the time and following what is fitting keeps sorrow and joy from entering; this is what the ancients meant by xianjie. Only when the heart is untied is it genuinely clear and empty; once stray thoughts arise, every mood and form rushes in and confuses one another. That is why people cannot free themselves: external things have knotted the heart. The heart is a person’s inborn nature; external things are what burden the heart. Hold to the heart and cut off those burdens, and the myriad things cannot treat you as an adversary. External things have long been unable to defeat what is natural—so again, what is there to resent? The fully realized person forgets the self in just this way.

It is like a master smith casting metal: if the metal leaps up and says, “I must become Mo Ye!” the smith is sure to take it for ill-omened metal. When a person has already been cast into human form and keeps shouting, “I am a human! I am a human!” Creation is sure to take that for an ill-omened human being. If you take heaven and earth as the great furnace and Creation as the master smith, then wherever you are sent, what could be unacceptable? Then you may sleep in peace—and wake again in an instant.

If a person deliberately tries to become a certain kind of person, they may not truly become that person and will instead incur the displeasure of zaohua—the creative transformation of nature. It is like metal that is bent on being cast into a Mo Ye (a legendary ancient sword): the master smelter (daye) will loathe it. This is refusing to trust nature. Only the zhiren (person of utmost attainment), who is one with zaohua, follows nature, takes the myriad things as a single whole, and never divides self from other; wherever they go, nothing is unsuitable. Hence it is said: take Heaven and Earth as the great furnace and zaohua as the master smelter—where could one not go? “Cheng ran mei” is to depart for a while; “qu ran jue” is to arrive for a while.

Zisang Hu, Mengzi Fan, and Ziqin Zhang became friends. They asked one another: Who can befriend in befriending that is not befriending, and assist in assisting that is not assisting? Who can ascend to Heaven, wander in mist, roam freely in the boundless, forget life and death, and know no end? The three looked at each other and smiled, their hearts in accord, and thus became friends. “Befriending in non-befriending” means harmonizing Heaven and human without using the artificial to aid the natural; “assisting in non-assisting” means responding to the myriad things without being bound by them. Ascending to Heaven and wandering in mist is riding the void and driving cloud-qi; “reaching and stirring the boundless” is pervading the fajie (the full scope of the myriad dharmas). All of this is possible only because there is no fixed self. With no self, one can set life aside; once life can be set aside, its limit cannot be fathomed. Hence it is said to forget life and death and know no end. These three may be called thoroughgoing and unobstructed.

Before long, Zisang Hu died, and the burial had not yet taken place. When Confucius heard of it, he sent Zigong to help with the funeral. Some of the companions composed a song, others played the zither, and they sang to each other: “Ah, Sang Hu! Ah, Sang Hu! You have returned to the root; yet I still remain among humans!” Zigong stepped forward quickly and asked: “May I ask—does singing before the corpse accord with ritual?”

Ordinary people take death to be the loss of the root, so they know only grief; the zhiren takes death to be a return to the root, so they are not grieved. Where there is no grief, composing songs and playing the zither is nothing strange—why should Zigong press the question?

The two men looked at each other and laughed, saying, “How could someone like him understand the true meaning of li (ritual)!” Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) went back and told Confucius, “What sort of people are they? They show none of the usual discipline of cultivation, yet treat their own bodies as if they were nothing; they sing facing the corpse, their expressions unchanged—I cannot name what they are. What kind of people are they?”

Li is something people turn to only after loyalty and trust have grown thin; it is also what binds ordinary people. Ordinary people cling to outward form, vying to outdo one another, and gain only the shallow surface of li, never its depth—they know the appearance, not the inner meaning. The zhenren (perfected person) penetrates the way things work; in bending or stretching, in stillness or movement, they rest in what is deep; in silence or in speech, in laughter, they accord with the root of li—how could they fuss over petty constraints? Zigong used worldly li to reproach Meng Zifan and Zi Qin Zhang (the two who sang before the corpse); the two laughed back that he did not understand the meaning of li, hence: “How could he understand the true meaning of li!”

Confucius said, “They are ones who roam outside the square (fang wai); I, Kong Qiu, am one who roams inside the square (fang nei). Outside and inside do not meet—yet I sent you to offer condolences. How shallow of me.”

To roam outside the square (fang: the scope covered by ritual and law) is not to fall into “form-and-vessel”—into tangible things and worldly norms; to roam inside the square is to enter into them. The way of Zhongni (Confucius’s style name) is vast in itself and not bound by form-and-vessel, yet in how he stood in the world and acted he did not demand of others only what his own level would require; his teaching was such that people of middling capacity could put it into practice—so he said of himself that he roamed inside the square. Compared with those who transcend the world, keep themselves pure and apart, and refuse to be tied down, roaming inside the square looks shallow—hence: “I, Kong Qiu, was shallow.”

They travel in the company of the Creator, roaming within the single Qi of heaven and earth. In their view, life is like an extra growth on the body, and death like a festering sore breaking open. Given that, why bother over whether death or life comes first or where each falls? They lodge in different things yet share one body; they forget liver and gall, set aside ears and eyes, and move back and forth between beginning and end without finding any thread to follow. Wandering lost beyond the dust of the world, at ease in the realm of Wuwei (non-action)—how could they busily perform worldly rites just so the crowd may hear and see?

Zigong asked: “Then what does the Master follow?” Confucius said: “I, Kong Qiu, am one bound by Heaven. Even so, you and I still share the same place within it.”

The perfected person is of one kind with the creative work of transformation and moves in accord with heaven and earth. He treats life as something external and death as a return to what is genuine; he does not trace where life begins nor reckon where death ends. Outer things do not make him peculiar, nor does he stand apart from others because of them. Both sides are forgotten in vast openness, and neither belongs to “self.” Inwardly he lodges in the six limbs; outwardly he appears as ears and eyes; he circulates without end and cannot find a first origin. He wanders freely beyond the six expanses, dwells in stillness in empty openness—how would he cling to ritual and stir the sight and hearing of ordinary people? So how could he blindly perform worldly rites to please everyone’s ears and eyes?

The perfected person is like this because he has penetrated the principle of nature and life—not because he relies on something external. Zigong did not understand and asked which side he relied on. Confucius answered: I am one bound by Heaven; you and I are the same. To be bound by Heaven is to rest in Heaven’s mandate and yet restrain oneself with ritual. Resting in Heaven’s mandate is fulfilling one’s allotted portion; guarding oneself with ritual is fulfilling one’s nature. That is precisely why Confucius could be a sage.

Zigong said: “May I ask about the concrete practice?” Confucius said: “Fish meet one another in water; people meet one another in the Dao. Those who meet in water must find a hole and settle there by their own effort.” Resting in Heaven’s mandate is reaching the utmost of fate; using ritual to restrain oneself is reaching the utmost of nature—that is where Confucius became a sage.

Zigong asked, “May I inquire about the meaning behind this?”

Confucius said, “Fish find peace with one another in water; people find peace with one another in the Dao. Those who find peace in water can sustain themselves by digging a pond; those who find peace in the Dao need no contrivance—their nature settles of itself. That is why it is said: fish forget one another in rivers and lakes, and people forget one another in the methods of embodying the Dao.”

The Dao is everywhere and yet bound by nothing. Where this principle is matched, life settles on its own. Fish in a pond can live just as well—why must they swim to the sea before we call it living? So for one who dwells at peace with the Dao, doing nothing, life naturally steadies. Water is what suits fish; the Dao is what people rely upon. When fish have adapted to water, they can forget the water, and their nature persists; when people follow the Dao, they can forget the Dao, and life keeps unfolding. Hence: fish forget one another in rivers and lakes; people forget one another in the arts of the Dao.

Zigong asked again, “What is a jiren—someone at odds with the common run?”

The reply: “A jiren is unlike ordinary people yet aligned with Heaven. So it is said: what Heaven regards as petty is the gentleman of the human realm; what the human realm calls a gentleman is what Heaven regards as petty.”

The sage has no fixed self and harmonizes with the ten thousand things—why must he seek alignment with Heaven alone? The man beyond the square, aloof and untethered to externals, alone aligns with Heaven. Alone aligning with Heaven, he becomes the gentleman of the human world. Men like Master Sanghu, Mengzi Fan, and Master Qin Zhang—those who in Zhuangzi’s telling transcend birth and death—are what people call gentlemen of the human realm. So: what Heaven counts as petty is the human world’s gentleman; the human world’s gentleman is what Heaven counts as petty.

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “When Meng Sun’s mother died, he wept without tears, felt no grief in his heart, and observed mourning without sorrow. He lacked all three, yet was famed throughout Lu for conducting funerals well. Can there really be reputation without substance? I find it strange.”

Confucius said, “Master Meng has taken principle as far as it can go—beyond mere intellectual understanding. Others wish to simplify funeral rites and cannot; he has already simplified. Master Meng does not know why one is born or why one dies; does not know whether to press forward or hang back; he simply follows change and becomes one thing among the ten thousand, waiting for transformations he himself does not comprehend. If change is underway, how do we know it will not not change? If non-change is underway, how do we know change has not already happened? You and I—we may both still be people who have not woken from a dream.”

The perfected person forgets both ends of life and death, understanding that gathering and scattering are both the natural order. Therefore they are not glad to live nor grieved to die. When Meng Sun Cai’s mother died, he wept without shedding tears, felt no sorrow in his heart, and observed mourning without distress. This was because he fully understood the principle of returning to authenticity (fan zhen)—that people return to their true nature—so he was neither sorrowful nor mournful, and thus gained a reputation in Lu for being skilled at handling funerals. Yan Hui saw only the outward behavior and did not grasp the inner meaning, so he said he found it strange. Confucius could grasp both the inner mind and the outer appearance, and therefore said that Meng Sun Cai had fulfilled this principle and gone beyond ordinary understanding. To thoroughly understand returning to authenticity is to take the Dao as one’s model, which is why Confucius said he had already simplified matters. To take the Dao as one’s model is to be blankly unaware of oneself, and “I” is no longer possessed as one’s own; as for the order of life and death, change or no change, one does not investigate the reasons why, but simply goes and comes along with them. Meng Sun Shi could awaken even within a dream, so Confucius said that he and Yan Hui were still people whose dream had not yet ended.

He also had physical agitation, yet his mind was not harmed; he had the “morning lodging” (dan zhai)—treating the body as a temporary dwelling—yet did not cling to death through emotion. Meng Sun Shi alone was awake: when others wept, he wept along with them, simply following what was so. People all call themselves “I”—how can they know whether what I call “I” is truly me? “Having startled form” means that when others cried, he cried too; “no harm to the mind” means not being sorrowful or mournful; “having morning lodging” means treating the physical form as a sojourn; “emotionless toward death” means not following emotion to pursue the departed. In this way, outer things and self are not different, and the body is not truly owned by me—so how can one be sure that what I call “I” is really me? If you dream you are a bird, you will fly toward the high sky; if you dream you are a fish, you will dive into the deep abyss. Who knows whether the one speaking now is awake or still dreaming? Dreaming as a bird, one surely flies; dreaming as a fish, one surely hides in the depths—so the body is not truly mine, and how can one assert that what I call “I” is me? If you dream of becoming a bird and soar into the sky, or dream of becoming a fish and sink into the depths, how do you know whether the one opening his mouth now is the awakened person or someone still in a dream?

To dream you are a bird is surely to fly; to dream you are a fish is surely to dive. That is the natural course of principle and circumstance. Thus it is said: when you dream you have become a bird, you soar high into the sky; when you dream you have become a fish, you sink into the deep abyss. Dream and waking, life and death are all one—pure emptiness (with no real distinction between them)—so why grieve or rejoice over them? Hence it is also said: how do we know whether the one speaking now is awake or still dreaming?

“Creating comfort” does not match a natural laugh; “offering a smile” does not match natural departure. Creating comfort is not forcing effort but acting from what is genuinely so; offering a smile is not laughing because one is already pleased. Laughter comes of itself; departure comes of itself. If it is not genuine, it is forced—before arrival one stops, hence “creating comfort does not match a laugh.” If one does not laugh from joy yet still laughs, that too is forced—before departure one stops on its own, hence “offering a smile does not match departure.” Meng Sun Cai’s weeping (at his mother’s funeral, crying without grief in the heart)—how does it differ from creating comfort or offering a smile?

“Accept what is arranged and go with transformation—then one enters the vast unity of Heaven.” The Perfect Person rests in temporary departure, forgets what has already transformed, finds ease in the far reaches, and stands level with Heaven, understanding that all things are fundamentally one. Thus it is said: at ease with what is arranged, following transformation in departure, one enters the realm of vast unity with Heaven (liaoyi tian). Though the change of life and death is vast, those who understand do not treat it as great. In life one follows the times; in departure one accords with nature—within the depths there is no deliberate intent. The songs of Mengzi Fan and Ziqin Zhang (who sang at funerals) share the same intent as Zhuangzi drumming on the tub (when his wife died); Meng Sun Cai’s weeping matches Qin Shi’s three cries (when mourning Laozi). These are all deeds of the Perfect Person—only a sage can fully grasp them.

Yierzi went to see Xu You. Xu You asked, “What did Yao use to support and instruct you?” Yierzi said, “Yao told me: ‘You must personally practice benevolence and righteousness, and clearly discourse on right and wrong.’” Xu You said, “Why have you come? Yao has already branded your face with benevolence and righteousness, and cut off your nose with right and wrong—how can you still wander the path of carefree release and easy drifting?” Yierzi said, “Even so, I still hope to roam at its edges.” Xu You said, “No. A blind man cannot take part in appreciating the beauty of brows and complexion; one whose eyes are ruined cannot take part in viewing the beauty of blue and yellow patterns and colors.” Yierzi said, “Wuzhuang forgot her own beauty, Juliang forgot his own strength, and the Yellow Emperor forgot his own mind—all of that was merely within the furnace and hammer of forging and shaping. How do we know the Maker of Things will not smooth away the branding I suffered, repair the nose-cutting I suffered, so that I may rely on what is already accomplished and follow the Master?” Xu You said, “Alas—you still cannot know. Let me give you a rough sketch: my teacher! my teacher! He shatters the myriad things yet that is not counted as righteousness; his bounty extends through ten thousand generations yet that is not counted as benevolence; he outlasts the most ancient antiquity yet that is not counted as being old; he covers and supports heaven and earth and carves the forms of the myriad things yet that is not counted as skill. What is to be wandered is precisely this kind of realm.”

The name Yierzi means “without intention”; the name Xu You means “doing nothing.” To respond to “non-action” with “no intention” is, on the Great Dao, a kind of attainment. Zhuangzi uses the dialogue between these two figures to carry this meaning.

Benevolence and righteousness are only traces left by the Great Dao; right and wrong are only the starting points of cleverness. When one guard them whole in the inner mind, none of them falls outside the Great Dao; once they scatter and show themselves outward, one cannot escape being dragged along. Yierzi said that Yao had him practice benevolence and righteousness and distinguish right from wrong—that is to scatter the Great Dao and display it outside. How then could he escape being dragged along and truly come to rest? So Xu You used the ancient punishments of branding (qíng) and nose-cutting (yì) as analogies, and said: Why not take the far, free, self-so, and change-following path?

Yet though Yierzi was named “without intention,” intention still remained in his mind; he had not yet joyfully exhausted the subtlety of the Great Dao and only wished to wander at the fence of the Great Dao—hence “I wish to wander at its fence.” One who wanders at the fence still has moments when he stops. Xu You then brought in his own teacher to instruct further.

That teacher harmonized the ten thousand things yet did not think himself righteous; he benefited the world for ten thousand generations yet did not think himself benevolent—because the Great Dao is one undivided whole. He was more ancient than highest antiquity yet did not think himself old—because his transforming work returns to the inexhaustible. He covered and bore heaven and earth and carved the forms of the ten thousand things yet did not think himself skillful—because it was only natural transformation, without the stain of human contrivance. All this is reached through no-mind. One without mind follows the ten thousand things and lets the spirit roam—there is nowhere it does not reach—hence “what is roamed is right here.” Xu You’s teacher may be called a grand master of the Dao (dé dào ér kě wéi zōng zhǔ de shīfu, also the title of this chapter). Zhuangzi places this message at the end; Yierzi, Wuzhuang, and Jubiang are all names he invented to carry his meaning.

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” He answered, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “Good enough, but not yet enough.” Some days later he came again and said, “I have made more progress.” Asked “In what way?” he answered, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” Confucius said, “Good enough, but not yet enough.” Again after some days he came and said, “I have made more progress.” Asked “In what way?” he answered, “I sit in forgetfulness (zuò wàng).” Confucius changed color in alarm and asked, “What is sitting forgetfulness?” Yan Hui said, “Forgetting the limbs, putting aside the ears’ and eyes’ sharpness, leaving the bodily form, casting off cleverness, merging with the Great Thoroughfare (dà tōng—the Great Dao that penetrates all)—this is called sitting forgetfulness.” Sitting forgetfulness is the cultivated state in quiet sitting of forgetting self and discriminating mind and becoming one with the Dao. Confucius said, “To be the same as the Dao is to have no partiality; to follow transformation is to have no fixed rule. You are truly more worthy than I! Please let me, Kong Qiu, follow after you.”

Confucius nodded and asked, “What do you mean by sitting in forgetfulness?” Yan Hui said, “Letting go of one’s bodily form, abandoning the cleverness of ears and eyes, leaving the body behind and casting off the mind, merging as one with the Great Communication—becoming fully continuous with the Dao—this is what is called sitting in forgetfulness: the state in which one forgets self and external things and becomes one with the Dao.” Confucius said, “When one is the same as the Dao, there are no private preferences; when one follows transformation, there are no fixed attachments. You are truly worthy! I, Kong Qiu, ask to follow in your footsteps.”

Here Kong Zhongni—Confucius’s courtesy name—stands for “no self”; Yan Hui, his disciple, stands for restraining the self. To refine oneself through self-restraint and yet take no-self as one’s teacher is how practice ultimately arrives at no-self. That is why Zhuangzi has Yan Hui first forget benevolence and righteousness, then forget ritual and music, and only then reach sitting in forgetfulness. Sitting in forgetfulness is no-self; hence there is nothing that cannot be forgotten—which is what was meant earlier by saying “there never was any Yan Hui to begin with.” Only one without self is the great master whom heaven, earth, and the myriad things hold in highest esteem—the title of this very chapter.

Ziyu and Zisang were close friends. After ten days of unbroken heavy rain, Ziyu said, “Zisang is probably ill,” wrapped some food, and went to bring him a meal. When he reached Zisang’s door, he heard him playing the zither; the sound was part song, part weeping, as he sang: “Father? Mother? Heaven? Humankind?” His voice could not hold; he hurried through reciting his verse. Ziyu went in and asked, “Why do you sing like this?” Zisang said, “I am trying to think who has reduced me to such an extremity, and I cannot find out. Would my parents wish me to be poor? Heaven covers all things without partiality; earth bears all things without partiality—would heaven and earth alone make me poor? I search for the ruler who caused all this and find none. Yet to fall into such a state—that is fate!”

The perfected person entrusts everything to fate and is not dragged down by external things; thus wealth and poverty, life and death, and every change are quietly forgotten and do not linger in the heart. Zisang, poor as he was, spoke of his ming—his allotted lot—hence “that is fate.” Zhuangzi composed the “Great Master” chapter: it begins with knowing Heaven, then knowing people, and ends with knowing fate. To know Heaven is to exhaust principle; to know people is to fulfill one’s nature; to entrust the self to fate is to arrive at fate. Exhausting principle, fulfilling nature, and arriving at fate—only then is one a great master; therefore the chapter closes with “fate.” In Zhuangzi’s writing, each chapter’s opening and closing follow an order; students should investigate the intent.

Next comes the chapter “Fit for Emperors and Kings” (Ying Diwang), on aligning with nature and governing through wuwei (non-action).

Emerging from De and entering the Dao, then exhausting the Dao’s subtlety—this is why the myriad things return to one place and take the Great Master as their refuge. Once the myriad things share this return, one can align with this principle and become a true sovereign; within that alignment there is its own order. Students should probe this intent.

Chapter “Ying Diwang” (Responding to Emperors and Kings)

From De one enters the Dao; having entered the Dao, one exhausts its mystery—this is why the myriad things share one return and take the Great Master as root. Where the myriad things jointly return is where one can respond and become a sovereign. Therefore Zhuangzi wrote the chapter “Ying Diwang” and placed it after “Da Zongshi” (The Great Master).

Nie Que asked Wang Ni four questions; Wang Ni four times said he did not know. Nie Que then leaped for joy and ran to tell Pu Yizi. Pu Yizi said, “Do you understand now?”

The principle of being a sovereign lies in Wuwei (non-action—following nature without forcing). In Wuwei there is no trace of artificiality; without traces, nothing can be pinned down in words. This is why Wang Ni did not answer Nie Que. The name Nie Que (“gnawing deficiency”) indicates that what he had attained of the Dao was still incomplete; the name Wang Ni indicates the root of the kingly Way. Nie Que, knowing his Dao was not whole, had no choice but to ask; Wang Ni had already grasped the beginning and root of the Dao, so he said “I do not know”—here “not knowing” is in fact deep knowing. Nie Que then grasped Wang Ni’s intent in saying “I do not know,” leaped like a sparrow in delight, and withdrew to tell Pu Yizi. Pu Yizi then explained the subtlety of Wuwei to him. Wuwei is the true face of the Dao, so Zhuangzi opens this chapter by speaking of this first.

You of Yu (Shun) fell short of the Lord of Tai (a primordial ruler who simply let nature take its course). You of Yu still harbored benevolence in his heart, using it to win people over; he could gain their hearts, yet he never stepped outside the realm of “not-human”—that is, the domain of right-and-wrong distinctions. The Lord of Tai slept soundly and at ease, and woke unhurried and free; whether others treated him as a horse or an ox, he did not care. His mind was sincere and trustworthy, his virtue utterly pure; he never fell into such right-and-wrong at all.

Both the Lord of Tai and You of Yu practiced wuwei (non-action— not forcing, going with the natural course). That You fell short of Tai was not because the Dao itself differed, but because the times differed. In the age of Tai, nature was left to itself; the ten thousand things were in harmony and oneness, without disputes of sameness and difference. Hence he slept at ease and woke freely, and could take himself for horse or ox alike. He did not deliberately use cleverness, yet moved others through sincerity; resting in his own nature, his inner mind was upright—so his mind was trustworthy and his virtue truly real. Liking and disliking were both extinguished; he transcended right and wrong, and so never entered the “not-human.” This was what the age made possible.

In the age of You, governance came from human effort; self and things were divided, and disputes of sameness and difference arose. Without benevolence he could not align people’s hearts—so he stored up benevolence to win them, and he did gain their hearts. Yet once one seeks from others, liking and disliking show themselves, and one falls into right and wrong—so he never stepped outside the “not-human.” This too was what the age made possible.

From the perspective of the Dao, neither is inferior to the other; as for the times, they differ only slightly. Pu Yizi (the ancient recluse who spoke this to Nie Que) wanted to bring out fully the subtlety of wuwei, and so said that You of Yu fell short of the Lord of Tai.

Jian Wu saw the madman Jie Yu (Jie Yu, the madman of Chu). Jie Yu asked: “What did Ri Zhong Shi tell you?” Jian Wu said: “He told me that the ruler, by his own issuing of constant laws and rules, governs people—who would dare not obey or be transformed?” Jie Yu said: “That is virtue of empty pretense. Using it to govern the world is like going to sea to dig a river, or making a mosquito carry a mountain on its back. When the sage governs the world, does he really set about fixing externals? He first straightens himself, then acts—simply doing solidly what is within his power. Birds fly high to escape arrows; the zhi mouse digs deep under the spirit mound (the altar mound) to escape smoke and digging—are these two small creatures really without knowledge?”

What Jian Wu and Jie Yu were saying has already been explained in the chapter on free and easy wandering. “Ri Zhong Shi” is likewise a fictitious name Zhuangzi invented to carry his meaning. “Jing” means what is constant; what is constant is what lasts. Whoever can long hold to the great Dao will see the world transform and mature—hence “bringing forth the classic from oneself.” “Shi” means use; use is also “yong,” that is, being entrusted to ordinary daily life. When the standard rests in the everyday, nothing is out of place—hence “using righteousness to measure and guide people.” In this way root and branch are both complete, inner and outer both can be governed. The way of the emperor takes wuwei (non-action) as root and youwei ( purposeful action) as branch; both wuwei and youwei are exquisitely refined—they are simply applied according to the moment. Jie Yu knew only the root, not the branch; only wuwei, not youwei—so he said, “Does the sage merely govern what is external?” He also used the two small creatures, bird and mouse, to illustrate wuwei: flying for birds and burrowing for mice are natural; only because there are the harms of bow and arrow, smoke and digging do birds soar high in the sky and mouse holes get dug necessarily beneath the sacred mound (shenqiu, the high tumulus of the community altar)—that is being forced. What is natural belongs to wuwei; what is forced still belongs to youwei, yet youwei still does not exceed the proper bounds of flight and burrowing. When Jie Yu himself spoke of root and branch, he had not truly distinguished them.

Tian Gen (“root of heaven and earth,” as Laozi says) wandered to Yinyang and came to the bank of the Liaoshui, where he met the Nameless One (as Laozi says, “the nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth”). He asked, “May I ask how to govern the world?” The Nameless One said, “Get away! You vulgar fellow—what an unpleasant question! I am about to wander with the Creator (the one who generates the ten thousand things); when I grow weary, I will ride the bird Mangmiao (light, elusive bird), fly out beyond the six extremes (the limits of above, below, and the four directions), roam in the Land of Nothing Whatever (wuhe you zhi xiang, the realm where there is nothing at all), and rest in the wild of vast openness (kuanglang zhi ye, boundless open country). Why must you disturb my mind by bringing up governing the world?” To be at once the root of heaven and earth and the beginning of heaven and earth—here lies the subtlety of the great Dao.

Heaven's Root (Tian Gen) is what Laozi called “the root of heaven and earth”; the Nameless One (Wu Ming Ren) is what Laozi called “the nameless—the beginning of heaven and earth.” To be both the root of heaven and earth and their beginning—this is where the Dao (the Way) is most subtle and marvelous. Zhuangzi invented these two names to draw out their meaning. The nameless necessarily develops into the named; the named is the mother of the ten thousand things. Hence the text says: “I am about to wander in company with the Maker of things.” “Riding the bird of misty lightness” means rising lightly without changing carriage or steed; “passing beyond the six extremities” means not falling into anything with fixed form; “wandering in the Land of Nothing Whatever” means entering the depth of true emptiness; “dwelling in the vast open wild” means living outside any bounded realm. This is Wuwei (non-action) and no contrivance in the heart, and the world orders itself. Hence: “Why must you disturb my heart with governing the world?” To reach this is enough to be a true king.

The Nameless One answered again: Let your heart-mind wander in plainness; let breath merge with stillness; follow things as they naturally are without private intent—and the world will be at peace. Yang Zhu (Yangzi Ju) called on Laozi (Laozi) and said: Here is someone quick and strong, clear-sighted, who studies the Way without tiring—can such a person be compared to an enlightened king? Laozi said: Measured by a sage, he is only one bound by duties and skills, wearing out the body and agitating the spirit. Moreover, tigers and leopards are hunted for their pelts; monkeys are leashed for their agility; good hunting dogs are tied up for their skill. Can such a person be compared to an enlightened king?

Jie Yu knew only Wuwei; Heaven's Root knew only deliberate action. One who knows only Wuwei cannot be guided without showing him action—so Jian Wu answered Jie Yu with words about “setting norms and standards from oneself.” One who knows only action cannot be guided without showing him Wuwei—so the Nameless One answered Heaven's Root with words about “wandering the heart and merging breath.” Wandering the heart is an open, free state of mind returning to utmost quiet—hence “wandering the heart in plainness.” Merging breath is deep breathing returning to utmost emptiness—hence “merging breath with stillness.” Empty, still, and without action, yet not clashing with things and not straying from fairness—the world therefore orders itself. Hence: follow things as they naturally are without private intent, and the world will be at peace.

Yang Ziju (a name Zhuangzi invented to carry his meaning) changed his expression and said respectfully, “May I ask how a sage and enlightened ruler governs?” Laozi (Li Er) replied, “A sage and enlightened ruler governs the world so that merit fills the realm, yet it seems as if he had done nothing himself; he nurtures and bestows on the ten thousand things, yet the people do not depend on him; he has virtue and merit, yet no one can name or praise it; he lets each thing rejoice in its own way; he stands in what cannot be measured, and moves in emptiness and nothingness.”

The name Yang Ziju was made up by Zhuangzi to embody a lesson. His question about the way of the enlightened king was a question about how an emperor should rule. The enlightened king’s way is this: merit reaches the whole world without his claiming credit; he fills the ten thousand things with sufficiency while those below do not know it; he dwells in the utmost subtlety and lets Wuwei (non-action) run its course. That is the way of the enlightened king. How could it come from guarding against wrong, scrutinizing everything, and never resting? From this we see that Yang Ziju had not yet grasped the root and branch of the Dao.

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit-shaman named Ji Xian who could foretell whether people would die or live, survive or perish, meet fortune or misfortune, and live out their years or die young. Deadlines he gave—whether in years or in days—proved as accurate as if he were divine. When the people of Zheng saw him, they fled. Liezi went to see him and was utterly captivated. When he returned, he told his teacher Master Huzi, “I used to think your Dao had reached its height; now I see there is something beyond it.”

Huzi said, “What I have passed on to you is only the ornament of the Dao, not yet its substance—how could you claim to have attained the Dao? It is like a flock of females with no male: how could they lay eggs? You took the Dao and pitted it against the world, always insisting on showing your true face, so people could read you through physiognomy. Bring him here and let him look at me.”

The next day Liezi brought Ji Xian to see Huzi. When Ji Xian came out, he said to Liezi, “Alas! Your master is as good as dead. He will not live; he will not last ten days. I saw something strange—like a heap of wet ashes.” Liezi went in weeping until his collar was soaked and told Huzi. Huzi said, “Just now I displayed the ‘Earthly Pattern’—like the markings of the earth, stirring yet still and silent, neither skewed nor straight. He probably saw that I had shut off the vital spring of De. Bring him again.”

They came again the next day. Ji Xian came out and said, “You are lucky your master met me! His illness is turning; he is fully alive again. I saw movement within what had been closed off.” Liezi reported this to Huzi. Huzi said, “Just now I displayed ‘Heaven and Earth’—name and reality did not enter the heart, yet the spring of life rose from the heels. He probably saw my skill at the transforming spring of life. Bring him again.”

They came again the next day. Ji Xian came out and said, “Your master’s qi is not in balance; I cannot read him. Wait until it is balanced, then I will look again.” Liezi reported this. Huzi said, “Just now I displayed ‘Grand Equalization, Nothing Overcomes’—utter empty fullness with nothing prevailing. He probably saw my appearance of balanced qi. Where great fish coil becomes an abyss; where water stands still becomes an abyss; where water runs also becomes an abyss. There are nine abysses; here only three showed themselves. Bring him again.”

They came again the next day. Before Ji Xian could steady himself, he fled in terror. Huzi said, “Run after him!” Liezi could not catch up and returned to report, “He is gone—vanished. I could not overtake him.” Huzi said, “Just now I displayed what had not yet emerged from the source. I met him with empty stillness and yielding. He did not know who I was or what I was; he only felt I was like grass bending in the wind, like waves drifting on the current—so he ran away.”

After that Liezi felt as though he had never learned the Dao at all. For three years he did not leave his house. He stoked the fire and cooked for his wife; he fed pigs as if he were serving guests; he showed no partiality in affairs. He cast off carving and ornament and returned to plainness, standing only by his bodily form like a clod of earth, sealing himself within the hubbub, and in that way he lived out his life.

The Way of the Sovereign is that which can stand equal with Heaven and Earth and unite with Creation. The Way of the Sovereign issues from the domain of Wuwei (non-action, not forcing outcomes) and circulates through the arts of the heart-mind. Its subtlety can enter numinous mystery without fixed direction; its horizon manifests from the utmost void. When the inner mind is made deep and dark and external things are forgotten, when spirit is hidden and bodily form is forgotten, then myriad transformations become beyond measure.

Huizi (Liezi’s teacher) transformed by rooting himself in Wuwei and entering the directionless (wufang)—void, still, and silent, forgetting the outer world and relinquishing form—so spirit-mediums could not read his physiognomy. The Zheng medium (Ji Xian, the spirit-medium of Zheng) was someone people recognized as numinous, yet he had not truly entered the numinous; Huizi was someone people could not see as numinous, yet he had entered it. Zhuangzi speaks of the Way of the Sovereign and touches on the numinous because when that Way enters the numinous, its method reaches the utmost refinement—hence he cites Huizi’s story to show that only one who can do this is fit to be sovereign.

Do not be a “corpse of reputation,” do not be a “storehouse of schemes,” do not take on affairs as personal burden, do not make cleverness your master. Let yourself merge with the boundless and wander in the realm without trace (wuzhen). Exhaust what Heaven has endowed you with, yet do not display yourself as having gained anything—simply preserve emptiness. The mind of the perfected person (zhiren) is like a mirror: it neither sends off nor welcomes in; it responds to things without hoarding images, and so can master external things without being harmed.

“Not to be master of fame” means letting nature take its course, so that reputation settles into its proper place. “Not to be the storehouse of schemes” means remaining still and silent, without stirring up deliberate thought. “Not to take charge of affairs” means staying open and unbound, never enslaved by external things. “Not to be master of cleverness and artifice” means keeping innate simplicity concealed and refusing the calculating mind.

“Comprehending what is exhaustlessly inexhaustible” is not chasing a final end. “Roaming where there is no trace” is not leaving a visible path. “Fully fulfilling what one has received from Heaven” is arriving at one’s allotted span; “seeing nothing as gained” means neither gain nor loss—nothing more than emptiness itself. When the Dao reaches this point, it culminates in true emptiness (genuine vacuity). One who reaches the utmost of emptiness and arrives at true vacuity responds when things come and discriminates when affairs arrive, and so can prevail over things while things cannot harm him. Hence it is said: the heart of the True Person (Zhiren) is like a mirror—it neither sends off nor welcomes in; it reflects without hoarding, and so can overcome things without being injured. The Way of the sovereign is refined to this degree, which is why the text speaks of it at the end of the chapter.

The Emperor of the Southern Sea was called Shu (Swiftness); the Emperor of the Northern Sea was called Hu (Suddenness); the Emperor of the Central Region was called Hundun (Undifferentiated Chaos). Shu and Hu often met at Hundun’s place, and Hundun treated them well. The two wished to repay his kindness and said: “All people have seven openings—for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing—yet he alone lacks them. Let us try to bore them for him.” Each day they bored one opening; on the seventh day Hundun died. This means that using human artifice to carve into what is naturally whole in itself ends up destroying it.

Dao is everywhere; there is no place beyond its reach. When you seek to grasp it, you cannot see its form; when you put it to use, you cannot see its working. All things under heaven live by depending on it, yet none can truly know it—this is Dao. Dao has no fixed direction, no definite shape, no deliberate contrivance, and no name. Once there is direction, there is shape; once there is contrivance, there is a name. When a name is fixed, Dao is thereby no longer whole. That is why Zhuangzi tells of the emperors of the Southern Sea, the Northern Sea, and the Central Region. South and north illustrate direction; calling one “Emperor” (Di) compares it to a bodily form; their meeting stands for deliberate action; Shu, Hu, and Hundun—the emperors of the southern sea, the northern sea, and the center—point to naming. The fable means: once Dao is scattered, it is no longer complete. After Dao has dispersed, even if you knead and blend it back together, it cannot return to its original wholeness—hence the line that after seven days Hundun died: the two emperors, grateful to Hundun, opened one aperture in him each day; after seven days seven apertures were opened, and Hundun died.

Hundun signifies the Great Dao merged as one and returned to unity. One who attains its subtlety may roam freely, treat all things as equal, nurture life, order the world, fill out virtue, and become a true master—yet still be adrift, without fixed direction or shape. When Dao is applied to the business of being emperor or king, Dao has already scattered, and thereupon come action and name. With action and name, how can Dao merge again into undifferentiated unity? That is why the chapter ends with Hundun’s death. The “seven days” correspond to the seven inner chapters: Zhuangzi exhausts Dao within those seven. What the inner chapters treat is nature and the Way of Heaven—the domain of the sage—not what those of shallow insight can fathom. Yet the inner chapters close with “Dealing with Emperors and Kings” because “emperor” is merely the aftermath of becoming a sage, and “king” is only outward achievement; hence it comes last.

The above completes juan 5 of the Xinzhuan on the Nanhuang Zhenjing; juan 6 in the Siku Quanshu edition is by the Song scholar Wang Pi, and enters the “Way of Heaven” chapter.

People in the world outwardly imitate the conduct of Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Yang Zhu, and Mozi, while inwardly they lose their natural rectitude (zhengxing). Once rectitude is lost, one cannot be non-active and still. Zhuangzi therefore wrote the “Way of Heaven” chapter.

The Dao of Heaven flows and turns without ceasing or piling up stagnation, and through this the myriad things come to be. The way of the sovereign flows and turns without ceasing or piling up stagnation, and through this all under heaven gathers in allegiance. The way of the sage flows and turns without ceasing or piling up stagnation, and through this the four seas comply in submission. Someone who is clear about the Dao of Heaven, who has penetrated the way of the sage, and who moreover is unobstructed everywhere—above and below, in the four directions, and through the four seasons (the “six penetrations and four expansions”)—and who accords with the virtue of the sovereign and sage acts from what is inherently so, remains dim and leaves no trace, and in whom nothing fails to be still.

To accomplish affairs by Wuwei (non-action) is called Heaven; to examine and discern with precision and without falsity is called the Sovereign; to be vast and able to transform and nurture is called the Sage. Heaven, the Sovereign, and the Sage all arise from the Dao, and therefore can penetrate it. The Dao of Heaven is Wuwei yet vigorously acts without ceasing, and the myriad things thereby receive their beginning—hence it is said that when the Dao of Heaven turns without stagnation, things are complete. When the sovereign’s way turns without stagnation, the realm returns to unity. The sage’s way naturally and comprehensively embraces the hearts of the people, and the common folk rejoice and turn toward it—hence it is said that when the sage’s way turns without stagnation, the seas within the four borders submit.

To be clear about Heaven is to know Heaven; to penetrate the Sage is to enter into sagehood. Knowing Heaven means penetrating Wuwei; entering sagehood means entrusting oneself to nature (ziran). Thus one can understand the virtue of the sovereign and sage: as inner stillness, nothing outside can obstruct it. Therefore, for one who is clear about Heaven, penetrates the Sage, is “six penetrations and four expansions,” and accords with the virtue of the sovereign and sage, under Wuwei nothing fails to be quiet.

The sage’s quietude is not quietude chosen because stillness itself seems good, but because nothing in the ten thousand things is enough to disturb the heart—so stillness comes naturally. When water is still, it can clearly reflect a person’s beard and eyebrows; when the surface is level, it can serve as a plumb line—skilled craftsmen take it as their model. If still water is this clear, how much more so the human spirit! The sage’s heart is still and clear, like the mirror of Heaven and Earth and the bright glass of the ten thousand things. Empty stillness, plain untroubledness, solitary detachment, and Wuwei (non-action) are Heaven and Earth’s inherent balance and the utmost of Dao and De (Virtue/Power); therefore emperors and sages dwell in them at ease. When the heart finds rest, it becomes empty; only in emptiness does it fill; filled, it accords with natural order. Empty, it becomes still; still, it can respond when things move—and in moving, nothing is missed. In stillness one practices Wuwei; in Wuwei each person in their role bears their own charge. In Wuwei one is at ease and content; worry and harm cannot lodge, and years may extend long. Empty stillness, plain untroubledness, solitary detachment, and Wuwei are the root of the ten thousand things. Who understands this and faces south as sovereign shows what Yao was like as ruler; who understands this and faces north as minister shows what Shun was like as subject. Dwelling above with this is the virtue of the emperor and Son of Heaven; dwelling below with this is the way of the mysterious sage and plain king. Retiring with this to wander, the worthies of rivers, seas, and mountain forests will submit in heart; coming forth with this to govern the realm, achievement is great and fame bright, and all under Heaven unites as one. In stillness one is sage; in movement one is king; in Wuwei one is honored; in plain simplicity none under Heaven can contend in beauty with one.

The sage does not seek stillness on purpose, but returns to the root—so stillness comes naturally. Returning to the root and thereby becoming still is the utmost of stillness; hence it is said one does not still oneself because stillness seems good. Stillness at the extreme: desires and cravings are forgotten and one merges with the natural; plain to this degree, none under Heaven can contend in beauty.

Sages do not deliberately seek stillness; they become still naturally because they return to the root—the source of life. Stillness reached through returning to the root is stillness at its utmost. So it is not that they find “stillness” good and therefore force themselves to be still.

When stillness reaches its extreme, cravings and desires are forgotten, the tianji (innate vitality) lies hidden within, and how can outer things move them? Therefore it is said: nothing among the ten thousand things is enough to disturb the heart—that is why there is stillness.

This ultimate stillness of the sage surpasses even the stillness of water. When water is still, it is clear enough to reflect the tip of a hair; its surface is level and true, and skilled craftsmen take it as their standard. When the sage’s heart is still, spirit is fully restored, clear and penetrating; however vast heaven and earth, however many the ten thousand things, none escape their gaze. Therefore it is said: how much more so for spirit! The still heart of the sage is the mirror of heaven and earth, the mirror of the ten thousand things.

What is called xu (emptiness) is “vast as a valley”; what is called jing (stillness) is “breathing deep and long”; what is called tiandan (plainness) is xiyi (so subtle it cannot be seen or heard); what is called jimo (silence) is obscurity and quiet; what is called wuwei (non-action) is simply ziran (naturalness). These are the utmost of true emptiness and marvelous being. Heaven, earth, and De do not go beyond these few; emperors and sages therefore dwell and rest in them. Thus it is said: emptiness, stillness, plainness, silence, and wuwei are the measure of heaven and earth and the utmost of De—that is why emperors and sages rest here.

When emperors and sages abide in these, the heart finds rest. When the heart rests, it becomes empty; empty, it becomes still; still, it becomes wuwei; in wuwei, one attains self-sufficiency.

Yet emptiness is never hollow nothingness: within emptiness there is fullness, and fullness can exhaust the principles of all under heaven. Hence “when empty, there is fullness; fullness has order.” Stillness is never dead silence: within stillness there is movement, and with movement nothing goes wrong. Hence “stillness then movement; movement then attainment.” Wuwei is never doing nothing at all: within wuwei there is action, and what is done is never inappropriate. Hence “wuwei, and those who hold office each bear their charge.” When those in office fulfill their duty, one is self-sufficient; once self-sufficient, sorrow cannot enter the inner heart, and the body knows no grief. Hence “wuwei then yuyu” (yuyu: ease and contentment). Able to be at ease and content, care and trouble have nowhere to lodge, and years are long.

One who can understand the virtue of Heaven and Earth is called the great root and great source—the most fundamental ground and origin—and such a person is in harmony with Heaven. One who thereby balances and regulates all under Heaven is in harmony with humanity. Harmony with people is called the joy of human affairs; harmony with Heaven is called heavenly joy (Tianle).

Zhuangzi said: “My teacher, my teacher! He harmonizes the myriad things yet is not considered harsh; his grace reaches ten thousand generations yet is not considered benevolence; he outlasts the most ancient past yet is not considered long-lived; he covers and supports Heaven and Earth and carves and shapes the forms of the myriad things yet is not considered clever.” This is what is called heavenly joy. Therefore, one who understands heavenly joy, while alive, acts in accord with nature, and when dead, follows the transformations of the myriad things. In stillness he shares one virtue with Yin (the soft, quiet aspect); in movement he shares one current with Yang (the firm, flowing aspect). Thus one who understands heavenly joy does not blame Heaven, is not faulted by others, is not dragged down by external things, and is not reproached by spirits. Hence it is said: in movement he is like Heaven; in stillness he is like Earth; with a single mind at rest he can govern all under Heaven. When spirits do not haunt and the spirit is not worn out, with a single mind at rest the myriad things all submit. To carry emptiness and stillness through Heaven and Earth and penetrate the myriad things—this is called heavenly joy. Heavenly joy is the mind of the sage, used to nourish all under Heaven.

Stillness is returning to the root—dark silence and quiet self-sufficiency—hence it is said that in stillness one shares virtue with Yin. Movement is unceasing generation, bright penetration, vast unobstructed flow—hence it is said that in movement one shares the wave with Yang. This is the utmost of heavenly joy. Heavenly joy is also what Confucius and Mencius called “joy in Heaven”—contentment in following Heaven’s decree. One who can rejoice in Heaven is not worried by the myriad things; that is the peak of joy, and so it is called heavenly joy.

The virtue of the sovereign takes Heaven and Earth as root, takes Dao and De as master, and takes wuwei (non-action, not acting presumptuously) as the constant way. With wuwei, one can employ all under Heaven and still have strength to spare; with deliberate action (youwei), one is used by all under Heaven and lacks sufficient strength. Therefore the ancients valued wuwei. When those above are wuwei and those below are also wuwei, those below share the same De as those above; when above and below share the same De, those below cannot fully perform the role of subjects. When those below are active and those above are also active, above and below follow the same path; when above and below follow the same path, those above cannot fully perform the role of ruler.

To entrust things to nature itself is for the myriad things to be abundantly supplied and to continue without end—this is called wuwei (non-action, not forcing by private intent). To govern the world thus is to have surplus. To compel things to move according to human will is for the myriad things to use one another and for strength to fall short—this is called youwei (deliberate action from the heart-mind). Thus one is used by the world and always finds it insufficient. This is not the way of the true king.

Those above must be wuwei and thereby employ the world; those below must be youwei and thereby serve the world. This principle cannot be changed. What the ruler holds to is the way of Heaven (natural non-action); what ministers perform is the way of humanity (fulfilling duty). Heaven cannot but be wuwei; people cannot but be youwei. Wuwei is having no private designs toward the world, yet the world turns to one and supplies one for use; youwei is having calculations toward the world, and thus being used by the world. Those to whom the world returns and whom it supplies for use are often at ease; those who follow and are used by others are often worn with toil. This is a principle that does not change through the ages.

Those who ruled the world in antiquity, though their wisdom could cover heaven and earth, did not personally scheme; though their eloquence could adorn the myriad things, they did not personally discourse; though their ability reached across the seas, they did not personally act. Heaven does not produce, yet the myriad things are born of themselves; earth does not nurture, yet the myriad things are reared of themselves; the king is wuwei, yet the achievements of the world are completed of themselves. Therefore nothing is more numinous than Heaven, nothing richer than earth, nothing greater than the king. The king’s de matches heaven and earth. This is the principle of riding heaven and earth, driving the myriad things, and employing the multitude.

The root is above, the branches below; the essentials belong to the ruler, the details to the minister. Mobilizing the three armies and wielding the five weapons is the outer fringe of de; reward, punishment, benefit, and harm, and applying the five punishments, is the outer fringe of teaching; graded order in ritual and law, and the fine comparison of names and offices, is the outer fringe of governance; the sound of bells and drums and the bearing of plumed banners is the outer fringe of music; weeping, hemp mourning garments, and the gradations of funeral dress are the outer fringe of grief. These five outer fringes must have the spirit move first and the heart’s art stir first, and only then do they follow. There were ancients who studied only these outer fringes, but they were not what should come first.

In this chapter, Zhuangzi first treats the Dao of the Heavenly Sovereign and of the sage, then the subtle power of emptiness, stillness, and tranquility, and then heavenly music and the virtue of the true king—so as to make fully clear the principle of Wuwei (non-action): not forcing or contriving, but following what is natural. When Wuwei is pushed to its limit, it must issue in concrete doing; once there is doing, traces are left. The text therefore goes on to the five topics of warfare, armies, reward and punishment, ritual and music, and mourning, and exhausts the traces of purposeful action.

The author also feared that later rulers would suppose that governing the world required nothing beyond these five and, by copying them, would lose their true nature. He therefore calls them the “branches”—the outer fringe—of virtue, teaching, ritual, music, and mourning. Branches imply a root, and that root is the principle of Wuwei. That principle is already in one’s nature and life; to see it and go along with it is for the five affairs to unfold of themselves. Hence the saying: these five wait until spirit stirs and the heart’s art moves—only then do they follow and appear.

The ruler leads and the minister follows; the father leads and the son follows; the elder brother leads and the younger follows; the senior leads and the junior follows; the man leads and the woman follows; the husband leads and the wife follows. Rank and subordination, earlier and later, are how heaven and earth run, and the sage takes this as his model. Heaven above and earth below is the ordering of the numinous; spring and summer before autumn and winter is the sequence of the four seasons; the myriad things are born and change, sprout and divide into distinct forms, rise and fall—this is the turning of transformation. Heaven and earth are most numinous, yet still have rank and sequence; how much more human affairs! In the ancestral temple, closeness of kin matters most; at court, high and low; in the village, age; in public business, worth and ability—this is the order of the Great Dao. To discourse on the Dao without this order is not to discourse on the Dao; to discourse on the Dao while leaving the Dao itself—where then would one “get” the Dao? The deep point of this chapter of the Zhuangzi lies in just this order of priority and sequence.

In this chapter of the Zhuangzi, the aim is to explain in depth the great Dao of nature—what is called “knowing Heaven.” Having reached this point, the text also addresses the order of precedence and subordination among ruler and minister, father and son, elder and younger brother, senior and junior, man and woman, and husband and wife—what is called “knowing people.” Xunzi once said that Zhuangzi was blinded by “Heaven” and did not understand human affairs; but how could Zhuangzi have been ignorant of human affairs?

Thus, among the ancients who understood the great Dao, they first understood Heaven; only after that came Dao and De. Once Dao and De were clear, next came benevolence and righteousness; once benevolence and righteousness were clear, next came the division of roles (each in his place, each performing his duty); once that was clear, next came form and name (fixing designations according to the form of things); once form and name were clear, next came assignment by capacity; once assignment was clear, next came examination of root and actual results; once that was clear, next came judgment of right and wrong; once right and wrong were clear, next came reward and punishment. When reward and punishment are clear, the foolish and the wise each occupy a fitting place, the noble and the lowly each fulfill their station, and the worthy and the unworthy all act according to their true nature. One must distinguish each person’s capacity and must align with their proper designation. With this one serves those above, nurtures those below, governs the myriad things, and cultivates oneself. Without scheming by wit or craft, everything returns to the Heaven of nature. This is called great peace—the utmost of good governance.

The old books say: “Where there is form, there is name.” Form and name—the ancients already had them, but they were not what should come first. For those of old who spoke of the great Dao, only at the fifth step could one speak of form and name, and only at the ninth could one speak of reward and punishment. To speak of form and name abruptly is not to know the root; to speak of reward and punishment abruptly is not to know the beginning. Those who invert the Dao and oppose the Dao in what they teach can only be governed by others—how could they govern others? To suddenly discourse at length on form, name, and reward and punishment is merely to know the instruments of governance, not to know the great Dao of governance. Such knowledge may be applied in the world, but it is insufficient to govern the world. People of this sort are called disputers—those who grasp only one side. Rites, law, methods and numbers, institutions, and the minute comparison of form and name—the ancients already had all of these. They are methods by which those below serve those above, not the root way by which those above nurture the people.

What all things depend on in order to exist is Tian (Heaven, natural and spontaneous being); what all things invariably follow in their going and coming is the Dao (the Way, the fundamental path by which things proceed). When the Dao is realized in oneself, it is De (Virtue, the Dao as attained within the person). Taking De as the basis for caring is benevolence (ren); caring in the appropriate measure is righteousness (yi). Benevolence has earlier and later, righteousness has higher and lower—this is called distinction of roles (rank and difference). Those who come first do not overstep those who come after; those below do not encroach on those above—this is called keeping to one’s place (each holding his allotted part).

Form (xing) is making these distinctions appear on the surface of things; name (ming) is using titles to designate those distinctions. “Appearing in things” means that noble and base, close and distant each have different bearing and ornament to express them; “being named” means that noble and base, close and distant each have different titles to call them. Thus the noble and the base each have their deportment, the close and the distant each have their designations.

Following close and distant, noble and base, and putting people to use in what suits each—this is called entrustment according to suitability (yinren, appointing each to what fits). Once they have been put to suitable use, if one only lets things run without investigation, one must trace back to the real situation and examine conduct—this is called tracing and examination (yuansheng, investigation and review). When tracing and examination are clear, one can distinguish right and wrong; when right and wrong are clear, one can apply reward and punishment.

Therefore it is said: first clarify Tian, and only then De; when De is clear, only then benevolence and righteousness; when benevolence and righteousness are clear, only then rank and keeping to one’s place; when rank and keeping to one’s place are clear, only then form and name (xingming, the appearance of things and their designations); when form and name are clear, only then entrustment according to suitability; when entrustment according to suitability is clear, only then tracing and examination; when tracing and examination are clear, only then right and wrong; when right and wrong are clear, only then reward and punishment. These nine layers advance in order—who among the ancients did not follow them?

In later ages it was not so. People looked up and said: What is that vast, boundless, dim expanse? It is countless miles from me—how could it affect me? I do what I want to do; why bother with it? Thereupon they cast aside De, turned away from benevolence and righteousness, neglected rank and keeping to one’s place, treated form and name lightly, ignored entrustment according to suitability, forgot tracing and examination, and imposed reward and punishment on others according only to their own notions of right and wrong. From this the realm began to fall into disorder, and the weak cried out with nowhere to plead their case.

When the sage no longer appeared, the various masters seized the opening and rose one after another. Those who spoke of De from partial views made it remote and vague, impossible to verify; those who inferred conduct from a single age’s actions held that these were insufficient for discussing form and name; those who clung to things and memorized names toiled to old age yet remained blocked and unenlightened about De. They all forgot that their own wisdom and deliberation were inadequate, yet proudly took themselves for sages. Pitiful!

Therefore it is said: only when one has advanced in order to the fifth layer may form and name be brought up for discussion; only at the ninth layer may reward and punishment be discussed. To speak of the Way without following this sequence—what is there to value in such talk?

In antiquity, Shun questioned Yao. When they spoke of the human condition, it amounted to no more than this—how lamentable. Hence the saying: only after five transformations can form and name be set forth; only after nine can reward and punishment be discussed. To speak of the Way without following the proper sequence—how could such words be heeded?

Long ago Shun asked Yao, “What is the Son of Heaven’s frame of mind?” Yao replied, “I do not look down on those who have no one to rely on, I do not cast off the poor and destitute, I grieve for the dead, cherish the young, and pity women in hardship. That is my frame of mind.” Shun said, “That is good, but it is not yet great.” Yao asked, “What would be better?” Shun said, “Act in accord with Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power): the ten thousand things will be at peace of themselves. Sun and moon shed their light, the four seasons turn, as day and night follow a fixed course and clouds drift while rain falls.” Yao said, “Would that not mean constant bustle and turmoil? You align with Heaven; I align with humanity.” Heaven and Earth have been called great from the most ancient times—what the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all praised together. What did those who ruled the realm in olden days actually do? They merely took Heaven and Earth as their model.

Yao’s refusal to slight the friendless, his not abandoning the poor, his mourning the dead and cherishing children and pitying women—though benevolent, this is favor done with deliberate intent. Where favor is intentional, kindness reaches only some things; its reach is not wide. That is why Shun said it was “not yet great.” How could it compare with favor that is unintentional and naturally bestowed? When favor is unintentional, its scope is vast and the ten thousand things are settled and calm. Hence Shun also said that when “Heaven’s De issues forth, there is tranquility”: one acts from Heaven’s character without leaning on human contrivance, and the ten thousand things find their own repose.

Confucius traveled west to deposit the classics in the archive of the Zhou royal house. Zi Lu proposed, “I have heard that in the Zhou archive there is an Keeper of Documents named Old Dan (Laozi).” Only when favor is unintentional is it far-reaching and the ten thousand things at peace—so Shun judged Yao’s way not yet great and pointed instead to the natural tranquility that flows from Heaven’s De.

Confucius was about to travel west and wanted to deposit his books in the royal treasury of Zhou. Zilu (Confucius’s disciple, named You) suggested: “I have heard that among the archive keepers of Zhou there is an old man called Laozi, who has left his post and lives in retirement at home. If you, Master, wish to store the books, you might ask him to help with an introduction.” Confucius said, “Good,” and went to see Laozi, but Laozi would not agree. Confucius then opened the twelve classics (the Confucian canon) and expounded them to him. Laozi interrupted: “This is too cumbersome—I only want to hear the main point.” Confucius said: “The main point lies in benevolence and righteousness.” Laozi asked: “Are benevolence and righteousness human nature?” Confucius said: “They are. If a gentleman is not benevolent, he cannot achieve anything; if he is not righteous, he cannot survive. Benevolence and righteousness are the true nature of human beings—what else is there to do?” Laozi asked again: “What do you mean by benevolence and righteousness?” Confucius said: “To be sincere and at ease within, and to love all people universally without partiality—that is the reality of benevolence and righteousness.” Laozi said: “Alas, that way of speaking is almost backward! To preach universal love—is that not too roundabout? What is called being without selfishness is precisely a kind of selfishness. If you want the people under heaven not to lose their innate nurture and security, then heaven and earth already have their constant way, the sun and moon already have their brightness, the stars already keep their ranks, birds and beasts already form their herds, and trees already have their places to grow. You need only act according to your innate virtue and follow the great Dao—and you have already arrived. Why must you hurry to hoist up benevolence and righteousness, like beating a drum to search for a lost child? Alas—you are disturbing human nature!”

Shi Chengqi came to see Laozi and said: “I heard that you, Sir, are a sage, so I did not fear the distance and came to seek an audience. I walked through more than a hundred stopping places; calluses layered on my feet, yet I did not dare to rest. Now it seems you are not a sage. Vegetables left beside a rat hole are thrown away carelessly—that is not benevolent. Before you, raw and cooked food more than you can use, yet you still hoard without limit.” Laozi answered indifferently and said nothing. The next day Shi Chengqi came again and said: “Yesterday I mocked you; today my heart has instead become calm and yielding—why is that?” Laozi said: “Those who take cleverness and sageliness as their own—I thought I had long since escaped that. Earlier you called me an ox, and I accepted being an ox; you called me a horse, and I accepted being a horse. If such things were really so, and one were given a name yet refused to accept it, one would suffer harm again. My conduct has always been like this—it is not that I act compliant in order to seem compliant.” Shi Chengqi then sidestepped like geese in flight, avoiding his own shadow, stepped forward lightly, and asked how to cultivate the self. Laozi said: “Your bearing is steep and stern, your gaze protrudes, your forehead rises high, your mouth opens as if to argue, your bearing is proud and self-satisfied, like a horse tied fast that still tries to break free. In action you constantly grasp and control; when you move, you are quick as a crossbow trigger; you observe minutely, are clever in small ways, and fix your mind on arrogance and ease. None of this can be called genuine and trustworthy. On the frontier there are people whose name is ‘Thief.’” Laozi also said: “The Dao—in the large sense it has no end; in the small sense nothing escapes it—so the ten thousand things are all complete in it. It is vast and excludes nothing, deep and beyond measure. Form, conduct, benevolence, and righteousness are only the trailing tips of spirit—not a perfected person (one whose embodiment of the Dao is complete) can settle them properly. The perfected person holds the whole world—is that not great? Yet even that is not enough to compare with the Dao.”