《南华真经新传》Vol. 3

The Dao has no end in its vastness and leaves nothing out in its minuteness, so the myriad things are all complete within it. It is so expansive that nothing lies outside it, and so profound that it cannot be fathomed. Bodily form, De, benevolence, and righteousness are only the outer fringe of Shen; unless one is a perfected person, one cannot truly settle such matters. The perfected person may hold all under heaven, yet even that vast scope is not enough to weigh him down. When people under heaven scramble for power, he does not scramble with them. He sees clearly the state of not leaning on externals, does not shift with gain and loss, clarifies things’ true nature and keeps to the root—therefore he sets heaven and earth aside and forgets the myriad things, while his spirit never grows cramped. He penetrates the Dao and accords with De, puts benevolence and righteousness behind him and keeps ritual and music in a subordinate place, and his inner mind comes to rest.

People treat books as if they were the precious Dao itself, yet books are only words. Words matter because of meaning, and meaning in turn has something it follows—and what is followed cannot be put into words.

The Dao is present everywhere. Heaven and Earth, vast as they are, arise from the Dao; the cicada and the sparrow, tiny as they are, are also brought to completion through the Dao’s growth. Thus whether the Dao appears in what is great, it never fails to reach into what is small; whether it appears in what is small, it is never less than fully expansive. When it shows itself as great, no end can be seen—hence the saying “in the great, it never comes to an end”; when it shows itself as small, no lack can be seen—hence “in the small, nothing is left out.” Great without knowing a limit, small without showing insufficiency—the functional completeness of the ten thousand things is fully present, hence “the ten thousand things are broadly complete.” Once the ten thousand things are complete, nothing lies outside inclusion, hence “how vast—nothing it cannot contain”; able to hold the ten thousand things yet bottomless in depth, hence “how deep—nothing by which it can be fathomed.” Such is the Dao. Unless one is a Supreme Person—someone whose cultivation has reached the utmost—who can discern and put it into practice?

The Supreme Person embodies the Great Dao: though the world is vast, he is not burdened by it—hence “having a world—is that not vast? Yet it is not enough to become a burden to him.” When people in the world wield schemes and struggle for power, he does not go along with them—hence “when all under Heaven wrestle for the handle of authority, he does not join them.” He understands that external things arrive only by chance, and therefore is not enslaved by them—hence “he discerns that there is nothing to borrow or pretend, and does not shift with profit.” He distinguishes right and wrong without losing his true nature—hence “he penetrates the genuineness of things and can guard their root.” In this way, Heaven and Earth are not enough to confine him, the ten thousand things are not enough to drag him down; life and nature (Xingming) are secure, and he is free and at ease—hence “he puts Heaven and Earth outside himself, leaves the ten thousand things behind, yet his spirit (Shen) is never trapped.” He withdraws from artificiality and returns to Wuwei (non-action); understanding comes of itself; he ranks benevolence and righteousness as secondary and sets ritual and music aside; the true lord within—the inner spiritual master—remains deeply still and does not act rashly—hence “he steps back from Daode (the Way and Virtue) and treats ritual and music as guests.” The heart of the Supreme Person thus finds its resting place.

People value language, so they pass books down through the generations. Yet even though they treasure these books, they still do not grasp what is truly precious, because what they prize is not the truly precious thing itself. What the eye sees is only shape and color; what the ear hears is only names and sounds. How lamentable! People imagine that shape, color, names, and sounds are enough to capture the real state of things. When shape, color, names, and sounds are insufficient to grasp the real, those who truly know often do not speak, while those who talk endlessly often do not know—and how could ordinary people see this?

Duke Huan of Qi was reading in the hall while Wheelwright Pian (a wheelwright named Pian) was below, hewing a wheel (chopping wood to make a wheel). He set down mallet and chisel and came up to ask: “May I ask what words my lord is reading?” The duke said: “The words of sages.” The wheelwright asked: “Are the sages still alive?” The duke said: “They are long dead.” The wheelwright said: “Then what my lord reads is nothing but the dregs of the ancients (the lees left after brewing wine—a metaphor for the coarse residue in words and books).” The duke said: “I am engaged in reading, and you—a wheelwright—dare to comment! If you can give a reason, fine; if not, you die.” The wheelwright said: “I speak from my own craft. When I pare a wheel, if the stroke is too slow the wood slips and the wheel is not firm; if too fast, it binds and the tenon will not fit. Neither slow nor fast—when hand and measure are just right, the heart responds naturally, yet the mouth cannot put it into words; there is a knack and measure in between. I cannot explain this skill clearly enough to pass it to my son, and my son cannot receive it from me—so at seventy I am still hewing wheels in my old age. The ancients died taking with them what could not be put into words; then what my lord reads is nothing but the dregs of the ancients.”

The Dao (the Way)—look and you do not see it, listen and you do not hear it, touch and you do not grasp it. It cannot be fathomed by cleverness, nor sought by intent. It is subtle to the utmost, marvelous to the utmost. What can be spoken or written down is only dregs.

The Dao cannot be seen, heard, or grasped; it cannot be measured by cleverness or pursued by emotion. It is so subtle and so wondrous that only the sage who comprehends it inwardly can know it. The reason the sage can intuit it is that the Dao is wondrous, profound, and vast—later generations cannot fully know it. All that can be done is to record its rougher, more outward aspects in books; writing is only the coarse trace the Dao leaves behind. Duke Huan could not awaken to the ultimate Dao in his heart and merely read the coarse traces the sages left; it was only natural that Wheelwright Pian mocked him. Yet though Pian mocked Huan, his own craft of wheel-making—though he said it came from the heart—was not without fault either: splitting a century-old tree, bending and shaping it into a wheel, makes the wood lose its native nature. How can that compare with never carving a wheel at all? Reading books and carving wheels alike are burdens brought on by deliberate effort. That is why Zhuangzi spoke these words at the end of this chapter.

Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan, juan 6. Siku Quanshu (Imperially Commissioned Complete Library of the Four Treasuries). Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan, juan 7, by Wang Bi of the Song, Tianyun (Heavenly Revolutions) chapter.

Wuwei is the subtle way of Heaven. If the way of Heaven stopped at Wuwei alone, that way could not be called divine. Only when one acts by way of Wuwei—acting without forcing—does the Dao become both subtle and divine. That is why Zhuangzi wrote the Tianyun chapter.

Does Heaven revolve? Does Earth rest still? Do sun and moon vie for their places? Who presides over this? Who maintains it? Who sits idle yet sets it in motion? Are they bound by some mechanism so they must behave thus, or do they turn on their own and cannot stop? Do clouds become rain, or rain become clouds? Who raises clouds and sends rain? Who sits idle, takes delight in this, and brings it about? Wind rises from the north, now west, now east, soaring aloft and wheeling about—who breathes it in and out? Who sits idle and blows it? What is the reason for all this?

The shaman Xian said: Come, I will tell you. Heaven has six extremes and five constants; when emperors follow them, the realm is at peace; when they go against them, disaster follows. When the business of the Nine Luo is accomplished, virtue is complete, its radiance shines upon the land below, and all under Heaven look up to him—this is called the Supreme Sovereign.

The sun and moon, clouds and rain, and wind and air are all the workings of Heaven. Heaven possesses these workings yet does not wield them with deliberate intent; only then do they never cease. The sage takes this as a model: by extending leniency throughout the realm—without tightening control and letting people live at ease—merit is not diminished, and the Great Dao is preserved through yielding (only by bending and yielding can one remain whole). Nothing in the farthest reaches escapes being known and illumined; the people’s hearts gather in support, and authentic nature is preserved. When the ruler aligns with this, there is stability; when he goes against it, there is danger. When the governance summed up in the Nine Categories of the Luoshu is fully accomplished, virtue is complete; shining upon the land below, the world gives its allegiance—this is what is meant by the Supreme Sovereign (Shanghuang).

In Song (descendants of the Shang, hence called “Shang” in the text), Grand Steward Dang asked Zhuangzi what benevolence (ren) is—love and care toward others. Zhuangzi said, “Even tigers and wolves have benevolence.” Dang asked, “How so?” Zhuangzi said, “They cherish one another as parent and child—how is that not benevolence?” Dang asked again, “What is the highest benevolence?” Zhuangzi said, “The highest benevolence is affection without partial closeness.” Dang said, “Without closeness there is no love; without love there is no filial piety. Can one say the highest benevolence is unfilial?” Zhuangzi said, “No. The highest benevolence is so far above that filial piety cannot even describe it. That is not because filial piety goes too far, but because it falls short. It is like someone who has gone south as far as Ying and then faces north—they cannot see Ming Mountain in the north, simply because they are too far away. Ultimate benevolence stands equally far from filial piety. So it is said: to fulfill filial piety through reverence is easy; through genuine love, hard; through genuine love is easy, but to forget the pull of attachment to parents is hard; to forget that in oneself is easy, but to have parents forget their attachment to me is hard; to have parents forget is easy, but to forget the whole world together with that is hard; to forget the world in oneself is easy, but to have the world forget me is hard.”

Here, ultimate benevolence has not yet reached great benevolence; it stops at impartiality, so we say ultimate benevolence is “without partial closeness.” Since there is no partial closeness, how could parents still be attached to me? Therefore having parents forget me is still the easier step. When parents forget me, that only means I no longer fix my heart on family ties—not that I am equally indifferent to the world—so forgetting the world as well is harder. The world is merely something outside one’s cares; why treat it as solid and let it burden the heart? One may simply forget it—hence forgetting the world is again the easier step. Yet the myriad things still depend on me for their sufficiency, so having the world forget me is hard. This level of ultimate benevolence still falls short of mutual forgetting, in which both sides release one another. Only the person of attainment lets nature take its course and returns affairs to the myriad things themselves—that is mutual forgetting. When mutual forgetting is reached, one enters the empty clarity where all grasping has fallen away.

Such virtue abandons even the deeds of Yao and Shun; its grace reaches ten thousand generations, yet the world never knows. Why sigh and talk empty talk of benevolence and filial piety? Filial piety, brotherly respect, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and purity are all things people force upon themselves and drive their nature to perform—they are not worth exalting. Therefore the highest honor casts aside rank and title together; the greatest wealth casts aside the state’s goods together; the deepest satisfaction of heart casts aside reputation together. Thus the Dao does not change.

All things are already complete within me. If I can fully preserve them without the slightest loss, then the highest honor, the highest wealth, and the highest aspiration are all contained therein—how could the Dao be increased or diminished? Therefore it is said: the highest honor is one with the rank of the state, the highest wealth is one with the state’s goods, and the highest aspiration is one with fame. Thus the Dao does not change.

Beimen Cheng asked Huang Di: “When you played the music of Xianchi on the plain of Dongting, at first I felt fear; hearing it again I felt weariness; when I heard it to the end I was instead bewildered—my spirit dazed, silent and speechless, unable to settle myself.” Huang Di said: “You are probably just like that. I perform according to human affairs, verify it with the way of Heaven, carry it out through ritual and righteousness, and establish it upon the utmost clarity (Taiqing).”

What is called supreme joy first accords with human affairs, follows Heaven’s principle, practices the five virtues, and responds to nature; then it harmonizes the four seasons and brings the ten thousand things into harmony. The four seasons rise in turn, the ten thousand things grow along with them; flourishing and decline each have their pattern in civil and martial order; clarity and turbidity, yin and yang in harmony, radiance flowing with the sound of music. Creatures in hibernation begin to stir—I startle them with thunder. This music has no tail when it ends and no head when it begins; now dying, now living, now falling, now rising—ordinary change without end, yet wholly unpredictable. So you were afraid.

Again I perform with the harmony of yin and yang and illuminate with the brightness of sun and moon. The music may be short or long, soft or hard; change is uniform yet does not cling to the old constant. Meeting a valley it fills the valley, meeting a hollow it fills the hollow; blocking gaps, holding fast to spirit, taking the ten thousand things themselves as the measure. The music spreads wide and easy, its name lofty and bright. Therefore ghosts and spirits keep to hidden depths, sun, moon, and stars move each in its order. I make it cease where there is an end, and again let it flow where there is no stopping. You wish to think of it yet cannot know it, look at it yet cannot see it, chase it yet cannot catch up. You stand blankly on the road of empty space on all sides, leaning on a withered paulownia to chant; eye and mind exhaust themselves on what you wish to see, strength exhausts itself on what you wish to pursue—you can no longer catch up. The body is full yet the heart is empty, and so you can only yield and turn with the flow. Because you relaxed and followed in this way, you were weary.

Again I perform with a tone that knows no weariness, regulated according to nature’s mandate. Then it is like mixing in pursuit, clustering and arising together—many sounds together yet no form seen; scattered and stirred yet not pulled, dim yet without sound; movement without fixed direction, dwelling in depth and hidden darkness. Some call it death, some call it life, some call it fruit, some call it flourishing—turning and dispersing, not holding to fixed sound. The world is puzzled and inquires of the sage. What is called sage is one who penetrates the real situation and accords with Heaven’s mandate. Heaven’s mechanism is not deliberately set up, yet the five senses are all complete—this is what is called music of Heaven (Tianle): without speaking, the heart is already joyful. Therefore the ancient emperor Yan had a eulogy that said: Listen—you cannot hear its sound; look—you cannot see its form; it fills Heaven and Earth and wraps the six directions. You wish to listen, yet there is nothing to receive it—so you are bewildered.

This music begins in fear; fear stirs the spirit. Next it turns to weariness; weariness makes the spirit retreat. Finally it reaches bewilderment; bewilderment returns to plain simplicity and foolishness. Only foolishness can unite with the Dao; the Dao can be borne and traveled with.

The most subtle Dao under Heaven—in its undivided wholeness, the fine distinctions of Heaven and human, yin and yang, and the ten thousand things are not yet within it. When it disperses, Heaven and Earth take their places, yin and yang qi differ, things each become what they are—nothing is not from it. Huang Di thereby completed the music of Heaven; Zhuangzi borrows Huang Di’s playing of Xianchi to lodge this meaning. Xianchi stands for the wholeness of the Dao; playing stands for the Dao’s dispersal. The Dao whole—therefore there is substance; the Dao dispersed—therefore there is function. With function comes action; with action the living beings each attain completion—what need has such music for sound? Hence Yan said it is heard yet not heard, seen yet not seen. Not seen means it has no form; not heard means it has no sound. This shows that action ultimately reaches wuwei (non-action). Wuwei can return to original destiny and revert to true nature—therefore it is finally said: only foolishness can unite with the Dao; the Dao can be borne and be one with it.

When Confucius traveled west and passed through the state of Wei, he listened yet heard nothing—meaning that the Way is originally without sound. This shows that deliberate action in the end arrives at Wuwei (non-action). Through Wuwei one can return to one’s original destiny and revert to true nature; that is why, in the end, it is simply called “foolishness.” The Dao can be borne, and the person walks together with it.

Yan Hui asked Master Jin (a musician named Jin): “My teacher acts in this way—what do you make of it?” Master Jin said: “Alas, your teacher is going to be in dire straits.” Yan Hui asked: “Why?” Master Jin said: “Before the straw dog (a dog made of grass for sacrifice) is set out for offering, it is placed in a bamboo basket and covered with an embroidered cloth; the impersonator of the spirit and the invoker who leads the prayers must first fast, then respectfully present it. Once the rite is over, passersby tread on its head and back, and wood-gatherers pick it up to burn. If someone were again to put it in a basket, cover it with embroidered cloth, and sleep beside it while traveling or lodging, even if that person had no nightmares, he would surely be restless again and again. Your teacher is now taking the straw dog that the former kings have already used and leading his disciples to wander and lodge beside it—so in Song he had the tree cut down against him, in Wei his tracks were erased, and in the lands of Shang and Zhou he was worn down. Is this not that kind of dream? Besieged between Chen and Cai for seven days without being able to kindle a fire to cook—pressed up against death—is this not that kind of mental disturbance?”

On water, a boat is best; on land, a cart is best. A boat is made to move on water, yet if you push it on land, you will not get it to go in a lifetime. The difference between past and present is not like that between water and land? And the difference between Zhou and Lu is not like that between boat and cart? To try now to carry Zhou’s whole system into Lu and put it into practice is like pushing a boat on land—toil without effect, and one’s person is bound to meet harm. He does not understand that unfixed turning and change, adapting to things without end, is what it means to follow circumstances inexhaustibly.

Have you never seen a well sweep (a lever-style device for drawing water)? Pull it and it goes down; release it and it rises. It is pulled by a person; it does not pull the person. So whether it bows or lifts, it gets no blame from anyone. The ritual and law of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors—what is valuable is not that they are identical, but that each can govern the world well. To compare them is like hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo: the flavors differ, yet all are pleasant to eat. Thus ritual and law must change with the times. If you catch a monkey and dress it in the Duke of Zhou’s robes, it will surely bite and tear them until it has ripped them all off and feels satisfied. The gap between past and present is like the gap between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou. When Xishi had heart pain and frowned, an ugly neighbor thought it beautiful, went home and pressed her hands to her chest and frowned too. A rich neighbor saw it, shut his door and would not come out; a poor neighbor saw it and fled with wife and children. She knew only that frowning looked good, not why frowning looked good. Alas, your teacher is going to be in dire straits.

When Confucius reached fifty-one and had still not heard the Great Dao, he went south to Pei to see Laozi. Laozi said: “You have come? I hear you are a worthy of the north—have you attained the Dao?” Confucius said: “Not yet.” Laozi asked: “From what did you seek it?” He answered: “I sought it in numbers and measures for five years and did not obtain it.” Laozi asked again: “From what else did you seek it?” He answered: “I sought it in Yin-Yang for twelve years and still did not obtain it.” Laozi said: “So it is. If the Dao could be presented, no one would fail to present it to his lord; if it could be offered upward, no one would fail to offer it to parents; if it could be told to others, no one would fail to tell brothers; if it could be passed on, no one would fail to pass it to sons and grandsons. Yet it cannot be done—and there is no other reason: without a master within, the Dao will not stay; without the right path without, the Dao cannot be practiced. What goes out from within, if the outside will not receive it, the sage does not bring it forth; what enters from without, if there is no master within to receive it, the sage does not store it away. Fame is a vessel shared by the multitude—it must not be taken in excess. Benevolence and righteousness are like the inns of former kings: one may lodge for a night, not long stay; shown too long, they draw many demands.

The utmost persons of old borrowed benevolence as a road, lodged in righteousness, wandered in places of carefree ease, took food from fields of simplicity, and stood in gardens where giving was unnecessary. Carefree ease is Wuwei; simplicity easily nurtures the body; not giving means nothing is expended. The ancients called this “travel of gathering the true”—travel that gathers what is authentic. Those who take wealth as right cannot decline salary; those who take prominence as right cannot decline reputation; those who crave power cannot hand power to others. Grasp it and they fear; let go and they grieve—with no mirror in the heart, they only spy on what never rests. Such people are punished by Heaven. Resentment and favor, seeking and giving, admonition and teaching, giving life and giving death—these eight are tools for setting things straight; only one who follows great change without blockage can wield them. Therefore it is said: what is called “correct” is to correct what is already correct by nature. One whose heart does not assent—Heaven’s gate will not open for him.

In this chapter Zhuangzi first describes the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) performing music, then Confucius traveling west—both are instances of deliberate, purposeful action (youwei). When he turns to Confucius’s western journey, the music master Jin compares his Way to a straw dog (chugou, a grass effigy used in ritual and discarded afterward), judging it inferior even to what the Yellow Emperor did, and so the discussion is lowered a step. Yet Master Jin only sees that Confucius’s Way is like a useless straw dog; he does not grasp that uselessness is precisely where usefulness lies. Huangdi’s actions, though still within deliberate doing, already mark its highest reach; when deliberate action reaches its limit, it at last passes into non-action (wuwei—not forcing, but following what is natural). Hence the text goes on to Confucius asking Laozi (Lao Dan) about the Way.

The Way gathers in emptiness; only emptiness is spacious enough to hold the Way. When the heart is empty, it can be single-minded, and in acting nothing is blocked. Without emptiness, the Way cannot gather—hence “without an inner master, one does not stop”; without singleness of mind, one cannot penetrate—hence “without outer correctness, one does not proceed.” What has gathered within must manifest outward—this is emerging from the center. What emerges from the center—does it come by receiving from outside? That is exactly why the sage holds fast to the inner, hence “what comes from within is not received from without—the sage does not go out.” What manifests outward is because it has already gathered within—this is entering from without. What enters from without—can it gather without emptiness? That is exactly why the sage must act in the world, hence “what enters from without has no master in the center—the sage does not hide.” This is what Laozi meant by the beginning and end of entering the Way and putting it to use.

When Confucius went to see Laozi and spoke with him about ren and yi (benevolence and righteousness), Laozi said: When chaff is blown into the eyes, the directions of heaven and earth all seem wrong; when a mosquito or gadfly bites the skin, one cannot sleep all night. When ren and yi suddenly stir my heart, the disorder they cause is greater than anything else. If you could keep the people of the world from losing their plain authenticity—their natural character untouched by artificial carving—you should move with the wind and stand firm in de (Virtue/Power). Why must you proclaim yourself as loudly as beating a great drum to search for a lost child? A swan need not bathe every day to be white; a crow need not dye itself every day to be black. The true colors of black and white are not worth arguing over; the outward show of reputation is not worth spreading. When a 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 one another in the rivers and lakes.

When Confucius returned from seeing Laozi, he did not speak for three days. His disciples asked: Master, when you saw Laozi, what did you intend to use to admonish him? Confucius said: Only today have I truly seen a dragon. A dragon gathered becomes a whole body; scattered, it becomes patterned splendor. It rides on clouds and mist and is nourished by yin and yang. I opened my mouth but could not get words out—what could I use to admonish Laozi?

Zigong (Confucius’s disciple, named Ci) said: Then is there truly someone who in stillness is like death yet in spirit appears like a dragon, whose voice is like thunder yet whose calm is like an abyss, whose movements are like heaven and earth? May I go and see him too? So he went to see Laozi using Confucius’s name. Laozi was sitting casually in the hall and said softly: My years have already passed—what will you use to warn me?

Zigong said: The Three Kings and Five Emperors governed the world with different methods, yet the fame they sought was the same. Only you, Master, hold that they were not sages—why? Laozi said: Young man, step forward a little. On what basis do you say they differed? Zigong answered: Yao passed the throne to Shun, Shun to Yu; Yu relied on labor to control the waters, Tang of Shang relied on military force to conquer; King Wen of Zhou submitted to King Zhou of Shang and did not dare resist, King Wu of Zhou resisted King Zhou and would not submit—so they say the methods differed.

Laozi said: Young man, come closer still. I will tell you how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world. When the Yellow Emperor ruled, he made people’s hearts uniform; when someone’s kin died and they did not weep, others did not blame them. When Yao ruled, he made people’s hearts lean toward affection; when someone lowered the rank of mourning for kin, others did not blame them. When Shun ruled, he made people’s hearts competitive; pregnant women gave birth after ten months, infants spoke at five months, and before children were fully grown they began to distinguish one from another—people from then on began to die young. When Yu ruled, he made people’s hearts changeable; everyone harbored schemes of their own, and using troops was seen as rightful conduct. Killing a thief was not counted as killing a person; each person formed their own faction—the world was no more than that. Thus the world was greatly disturbed, and Confucian and Mohist schools rose together. At first matters still had order and principle; now they have fallen into such chaos—what more is there to say! I tell you: the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world in name as governance, yet the calamity and disorder were greater than any before. The cleverness of the Three Sovereigns disturbed the light of sun and moon above, turned against the essence of mountains and rivers below, and in between ruined the proper movement of the four seasons. Such cleverness is more vicious than a scorpion’s sting; even tiny insects and beasts cannot keep to the nature of their lives in peace—yet they take themselves for sages. Can they not feel shame? They are truly shameless!

When Zigong heard this, he stood awkwardly, ill at ease.

Confucius said to Laozi: I have studied the Six Classics—the Shi, Shu, Li, Yue, Yi, and Chunqiu—and thought that after long effort I had mastered their old matters. I went before seventy-two rulers with them, expounding the ways of the former kings and clarifying the deeds of the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao, yet not one ruler would adopt them. To persuade people is truly hard! Is it that the Dao is hard to make clear?

Laozi said: You have not met a ruler who can truly govern the age—consider that good fortune! The Six Classics are only the old footprints left by the former kings, not the shoe that made the footprint. What you speak of now is still nothing but footprints. Footprints come from shoes—are footprints the shoes themselves? White herons face each other without moving their eyeballs and conceive by mutual resonance; among insects the male calls upwind and the female responds downwind and they conceive by resonance; creatures called “lei” have both male and female in one body and can generate in the same way. This kind of transformation by influence means living things conceive and change through mutual responsiveness. Nature cannot be altered, fate cannot be changed, the times cannot be halted, and the great Dao cannot be blocked. One who truly obtains the Dao has nowhere they cannot go; one who loses the Dao has nowhere they can go.

Confucius did not leave his house for three months, then went again to see Laozi and said: I understand now. Crows and magpies hatch their young; fish exchange by blowing bubbles; the potter wasp transforms other insects to continue its line; when a younger brother is born, the elder brother weeps from loss of affection. For long I could not follow change in being human; if I cannot follow change in being human myself, how can I transform others?

Laozi said: That will do. Kong Qiu, you have understood.

When one acts with deliberate purpose, traces are inevitably left. At this point in the text, Zhuangzi uses a parable to have Laozi (Lao Dan) rebuke Confucius: governing the people by merely following the tracks left by predecessors. The Six Classics (Confucian canonical texts) are books that bear the Dao, yet what is fixed in writing is only the coarse outline of the Way; from the coarse one may advance to the subtle, and the subtle is precisely Wuwei (non-action). Confucius had already understood this.

Deliberate action necessarily leaves traces, so here Zhuangzi, in a parable, has Laozi mock Confucius for governing people through inherited tracks. Though the Six Classics carry the Dao, the words on the page are only the rough imprint of the Way—from the rough one can reach the refined, and the refined is nothing other than Wuwei. Hence the chapter closes with Confucius’s words on “not making oneself a man alongside transformation.” Not making oneself a man alongside transformation means not forcing oneself to keep pace with creation and transformation as a person, but letting change complete itself in things; entrusting matters to self-transformation is Wuwei, which is why this theme concludes the whole chapter. The text says: Qiu cannot follow transformation and be a man for others; if he cannot do this, how can he transform others? Laozi said: “You may—Qiu has already understood.”

New Commentary on the Authentic Scripture of Southern Flowering, fascicle 7.

Complete Library of the Four Treasures (Imperial Qing dynasty compendium).

New Commentary on the Authentic Scripture of Southern Flowering, fascicle 8, by Wang Peng of the Song dynasty.

The “Deliberate Intent” chapter (on deliberately adorning mind and conduct): Once the Dao of emptiness, stillness, and silence is abandoned, contrived, carved, eccentric conduct rises up. This is the world forgetting Wuwei and extinguishing innate nature (natural disposition). Zhuangzi therefore wrote this chapter.

Some people deliberately refine their conduct, withdraw from the world and reject common ways, speak loftily and complain and mock—merely seeking a reputation for aloof superiority. This is what those who hide in valleys and reject the age, and those who waste away and throw themselves into rivers, prefer.

Some people preach benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness, courtesy, frugality, and modesty—merely seeking self-cultivation. This is what those born in peaceful times who take teaching others as their work, and those who travel to study and dwell in learning, prefer.

Some people talk of establishing great merit and a great name, treating ruler and minister with ritual and correcting the order of high and low—merely seeking good governance. This is what those in court, and those who honor the ruler, strengthen the state, and build achievement while annexing other states, prefer.

Some people go to lakes and marshes, live in empty places, fish and idle—merely seeking quiet Wuwei (non-action). This is what those who roam rivers and seas, avoid worldly affairs, and crave leisure prefer.

Some people blow and exhale, breathe in and out (slowly releasing and drawing breath), expel stale air and take in fresh, practice “bear-hanging” and “bird-stretching” (like a bear clinging, like a bird extending its limbs)—merely seeking long life. This is what those who practice daoyin (guiding and pulling—using movement with breath to nurture the body) and preserve the form, and those who enjoy great longevity like Peng Zu (legendary figure of extreme long life), prefer.

As for those who are naturally lofty without deliberate artifice, naturally cultivated without preaching benevolence and righteousness, naturally well-governed without seeking fame and merit, naturally at ease without hiding on rivers and seas, naturally long-lived without daoyin—there is nothing they cannot forget, and nothing they cannot have. They are calm and quiet without end, and every good thing comes to them. This is the Great Dao of Heaven and Earth, the De (Virtue/Power) of the sage.

Hermits in mountain valleys, those who wish to pacify the world, those devoted to strengthening the state, recluses who withdraw from society, and those who fix solely on nurturing the body—all they do is cling to the sense of “me.” Where there is “me,” there are thoughts and intentions; where there are thoughts and intentions, delusion cannot be avoided, and each person is hemmed in by a one-sided view. Hence those who love mountains, forests, lakes, and marshes go off and cannot return; those who enter court service step in and cannot step out; those content with teaching and admonition bend themselves and cannot unfold; those sunk in preserving the physical form hoard the body and cannot forget it. This is not how true nature is by origin—it comes from forcibly correcting and trimming the mind—so how could it be the same as the sage?

The sage is simply “without self.” Without self, there are no clinging thoughts; without thoughts, there is nothing to be deluded by, and so one can forget the bodily form and penetrate all affairs, ascend to the highest Dao, and enter the vast oneness with Heaven (liao tian yi)—that boundless, empty expanse in which one is one with Heaven.

How could this be loftiness achieved by deliberate artifice? The sage benefits the myriad things and extends grace to the world—not by imposing something from outside; how could cultivating oneself be done for the sake of promoting benevolence and righteousness? He is lofty and broad, treating the world with Zaiyou (letting-be, leaving all at ease without interference)—not in order to build merit and fame through governance. He is deep, still, and reticent, roaming at ease in self-sufficiency—not to seek leisure by dwelling beside rivers and seas. His breath is gentle and his true nature intact; his form never decays—not to pursue long life through daoyin (guiding and pulling—breath work and limbering exercises) alone.

He seems to persist yet does not cling to persisting; seems absent yet is not fixated on absence. No one knows his end point, yet the highest Dao gathers to him of itself. All this is the utmost subtlety of Wuwei (non-action), which only the sage can attain. Therefore it is said: without deliberate loftiness, one is naturally lofty; without brandishing benevolence and righteousness, one is naturally cultivated; without chasing fame and achievement, one can naturally govern; without relying on rivers and seas, one is naturally at leisure; without practicing daoyin, one naturally enjoys long life—there is nothing that cannot be released, and nothing that cannot be fully possessed. When one is plain and unforced without exhaustion, every kind of excellence comes of itself. This is the great Dao of Heaven and Earth and the De (virtue/power) of the sage.

Therefore tranquility, stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action) are the original equilibrium of Heaven and Earth and the essence of Dao and De (Virtue/Power). When the sage rests in stillness, the heart becomes level and plain; once the heart is level and plain, it returns to tranquil simplicity. Being both level and plain and tranquil and simple, care and calamity cannot invade, and perverse qi cannot assail—thus De is complete and Shen (spirit) is not depleted.

While alive, the sage moves with the natural course; when dead, he transforms along with the myriad things. In stillness he shares one De-nature with Yin (the soft, quiescent aspect); in movement he flows with the surge of Yang (the firm, active aspect). He does not rush ahead to seek fortune, nor open the gate to disaster; he responds only when stirred, acts only when pushed, and rises up only when he must. Casting off cleverness and artificial contrivance, he follows only the principle of nature—so there are no disasters from Heaven, no entanglement from external things, no censure from others, and no punishment from ghosts and spirits. Alive, he is like one adrift; dead, he is like one at rest. He does not scheme or plan ahead. Bright yet not showy, sincere yet not bound to fixed promises. When he sleeps he dreams no dreams; when he wakes he bears no anxiety. Shen is pure, Hun and Po (soul and spirit) unwearied. Empty, tranquil, and plain—this accords with Heavenly De (the virtue that belongs to nature by birth).

Therefore it is said: sorrow and joy are deviations of De; delight and anger are faults against Dao; liking and disliking are the loss of De.

When the mind is even and unobstructed, that is ease; when there is no anxious thought or clinging, that is tranquility (tian dan). “Affliction cannot enter” means neither sorrow nor joy can penetrate the inner self; “no perverse qi can invade” means neither delight nor anger can sway one. In that state one rests in self-sufficiency and the vigor of spirit (shen wang) flourishes.

Thus when De is complete, spirit is not depleted. When spirit is not depleted, one treats birth and death as no more than a brief coming and going. While alive, the sage acts in accord with the Dao of Heaven; in dying, he transforms together with the myriad things. If even the greatest matters of life and death are regarded only as passage, how could minor fortune or misfortune bind him?

Therefore he does not rush ahead of blessing nor become the source of calamity. “Responding only after being touched” means De is full and he merges with things; “acting only when pressed” means he meets events as they arrive; “rising only when there is no choice” means he does not plot beforehand. He does not drive himself with cleverness nor harm Heaven’s mandate through artificial contrivance—he simply holds to the natural truth. Hence one should discard cleverness and deliberate artifice (zhi and gu) and follow Heaven’s principle.

Without calamities from Heaven, one shares virtue with Heaven and Heaven sends no disaster. Without being burdened by things, one harmonizes with the myriad beings and they cannot enslave him. Without reproach from others, one stands beyond the reach of blame while clear awareness does not scatter. Without ghostly punishment (wu gui ze), one shares fortune and misfortune with spirits and is protected everywhere. Who but a sage could achieve these several things?

When the heart is neither shaken by sorrow nor lifted by joy, that is the utmost of De (Virtue/Power). To be single-minded and unchanging is the utmost of stillness. To meet external things without friction is the utmost of emptiness. Not to be entangled or entwined with what is outside is the utmost of plainness (dan). To be without anything contrary is the utmost of purity. Therefore it is said: if the body is worn with labor and never rests, it will be exhausted; if spirit is spent without cease, it will be depleted—and depletion leads to drying up.

The inherent nature of water is to be clear when nothing mixed defiles it, and level when nothing stirs it; yet if it is blocked and cannot flow, it cannot stay clear either. That is just how the virtue of Heaven (tiande, natural virtue) appears. Therefore it is said: to be pure and unmixed, tranquil and single-minded without change, plain and without deliberate action, and in movement to follow what is natural—this is the way to nourish spirit (yangshen, conserving the spirit).

There is a sword from the region of Yue, famed for its blades: placed in a case and kept in store, not daring to use it lightly—only thus is cherishing carried to the extreme. When spirit extends in all directions and flows abroad together, reaching everywhere—ascending to Heaven, spreading over Earth, transforming the ten thousand things—yet cannot be pictured in any fixed form, its name is “same as the Emperor” (tong di, sharing the Emperor’s function). The way of pure simplicity lies solely in holding fast to spirit; hold fast without losing it, and one becomes one with spirit; in the subtlety and penetration of that oneness, one aligns with the principle of Heaven (tianlun, Heaven’s natural order).

The sage’s heart is a place where neither joy nor fear can gain entry, yet he remains utterly at ease within himself. Hence it is said: when the heart knows neither worry nor elation, that is the utmost of De. Holding to unity (shou yi—guarding inner singleness) without wavering, nothing in the outer world can disturb him. Hence it is said: singleness without change is the utmost of stillness. Posture settled and upright, free of entanglement, the breast broad and responsive—hence it is said: nothing opposes him; that is the utmost of emptiness. Outwardly he can employ the ten thousand things, yet inwardly he is clear and penetrating—hence it is said: not tangled in interchange with things; that is the utmost of plainness. Aligning with great compliance (da shun—accord with nature), he reaches refined purity—hence it is said: nothing runs counter to him; that is the utmost of essence. Such is the sage’s heart. This speaks of the inner state of nourishing spirit and guarding unity.

The sage’s heart is the dwelling of spirit (the inner Jing and Shen). Only the sage can nourish his Shen and not lightly expend it—as one stores a sharp weapon and dares not use it rashly. Hence it is said: one who possesses the sword of Gan and Yue keeps it in its scabbard and dares not draw it; that is cherishing to the extreme. The sage’s cherishing of spirit is the same. His penetration reaches everywhere; subtlety turns with Heaven and Earth; he transforms and begets the ten thousand things, yet what appears has no visible form—it is simply what Heaven accomplishes. Hence it is said: spirit flows together and spreads; there is nowhere it does not reach—ascending to the sky’s edge, winding below upon the earth, transforming and nurturing the ten thousand things, unable to be drawn as a concrete image—this is called “same as the Emperor” (tong di—function identical to the Heavenly Sovereign).

Common saying has it: ordinary people value profit; incorruptible gentlemen value reputation; worthy men esteem purpose; sages treasure Jing (essence). Profit serves to pair with righteousness—ordinary people merely prize it, hence “the multitude weight profit.” Reputation is the appendage of reality—the incorruptible gentleman merely prizes it, hence “the incorruptible gentleman weights reputation.” Purpose is the direction of the heart, used to accomplish what is vast—the worthy man exalts it, hence “the worthy man honors purpose.” Jing is the Way in pure undivided form—the sage treasures it, hence “the sage esteems Jing.” Therefore profit does not match reputation, reputation does not match purpose, purpose does not match Jing—so the ordering is spoken in sequence.

What is called “plainness” (su) says precisely this: the worthy man honors purpose; the sage treasures pure undivided Jing; profit does not match reputation, reputation does not match purpose, purpose does not match Jing—the saying has its proper order.

What is meant by “su” (plain simplicity) is that nothing is mixed in with anything else; what is meant by “chun” (pure simplicity) is that one does not drain one’s own spirit (shen). One who can discern and hold fast to this purity and plainness is called a zhenren (True Person)—one who preserves original authenticity and accords with the Dao.

Chun is being unmixed; su is being plain and unadorned. From su one may reach chun, from chun one may reach cui (refined purity), from cui one may reach jing (essence), and from jing one may finally reach shen (the utmost of spirit). Thus the way of chun and su consists solely in guarding the spirit; one who can guard it and rest naturally in sufficiency is no different from a sage. Hence it is also said: hold fast without losing it, and one becomes one with spirit. This “one” is the subtle root of the Dao, ultimately returning to natural wuwei (non-action). Thus it is said: the subtle penetration of “one” accords with the pattern of Heaven’s spontaneity. This describes the stages of entering the realm of spirit.

The “Shanxing” (Preserving / Restoring Nature) Chapter

Forced carving, eccentricity, and perverse conduct do not arise from human genuineness but are born from the hypocritical heart of the world. Once the hypocritical heart is set in motion, the proper nature is lost because of it; nature is already lost, yet one does not understand that one has lost it oneself and still wants to patch and repair with hypocrisy. Zhuangzi therefore composed the “Shanxing” chapter (on how to cultivate and restore nature).

Using worldly learning to repair nature in order to recover the original; using worldly deliberation to disturb desires in order to gain clarity—such a person is called a bimeng zhi min (a person obscured and deluded).

Heaven endows human nature with nothing but quiet purity. In quiet purity there is clarity; in clarity nothing is blocked. Worldly people receive this quiet nature yet insist on restless motion and do not treat quiet as good; though clear they do not display it, feeling it insufficient to show off before the crowd. Then outwardly they chase heterodox learning to improve their quiet, inwardly they apply deliberation to increase their clarity. Even if heterodox learning yields something, quiet turns into agitation; the finer the deliberation, the dimmer the clarity. Using this reversed agitation to govern nature in order to recover quiet, using an ever-darker heart to drive deliberation in order to recover clarity—this is not the person of thorough penetration. Hence such people are called the obscured and deluded.

In antiquity those who governed by the Dao used tiandan (quiet plainness) to nourish knowing-and-perception; through life they did not use knowing-and-perception to act—this is called using knowing-and-perception to nourish tiandan. Knowing-and-perception and tiandan nourish each other, and harmony and order arise from nature itself.

Tranquility means quietude; wisdom means activity. Quietude that arises from calm detachment is what counts as skill in stillness; activity that arises from wisdom is what counts as skill in movement. When movement reaches its extreme it must return to stillness; when stillness reaches its extreme it must turn toward movement. Relying on calm detachment for stillness, nothing in the ten thousand things is enough to disturb you; relying on wisdom for movement, nothing in the ten thousand things is enough to block you. The sage is skilled in movement and stillness yet does not violate the principle within them—it is as if each simply issues from nature itself. Hence it is said: knowing and calm detachment nourish each other, and both harmony and order arise from true nature.

De is harmony; Dao is order and pattern. De can embrace all things—this is benevolence (ren). Dao gives each affair its proper pattern—this is righteousness (yi). When the measure of yi is clear, the ten thousand things draw near—this is loyalty (zhong). When the inner mind is pure and full and one returns to genuine disposition—this is joy (le). When conduct is sincere and bearing is fitting, and one accords with cultural refinement and ritual form—this is ritual propriety (li). Li and le are meant to regulate conduct and feeling; if they are pushed one-sidedly, the world falls into disorder. When a person straightens himself and holds De quietly within, De is not imposed outward; once it is forced upon things, the ten thousand things inevitably lose their own natures.

De means “attainment”: having attained within, the inner person is harmonious and does not wish to display it—hence De is called harmony. Dao is a path that can be followed; to follow it is necessarily to have order—hence Dao is called pattern. To have attained and yet be able to embrace is universal care—hence De, in embracing all, is benevolence. To follow Dao and accord with pattern so that nothing one does is inappropriate is righteousness—hence Dao, in leaving nothing unordered, is righteousness. When yi is applied fittingly, one occupies the center and is upright, and things attach themselves—hence clear yi and close things is loyalty. Inner purity and return to true feeling is joy issuing from the heart. Sincere conduct and appropriate bearing that accord with outer adornment is li fashioned from without. Li and le are only the trailing extensions of De; the sage in governing the world does not rely on them exclusively—so when li and le are emphasized and pushed, the world is disordered. This is what Zhuangzi (the Daoist thinker) meant in not valuing li and le.

In ancient times, people lived in a state of primordial chaos (hunmang)—an undifferentiated, obscure original condition—sharing quiet simplicity with their entire generation. Yin and Yang were harmoniously at rest, spirits and ghosts did not disturb, the four seasons followed their proper cycles, nothing in the ten thousand things suffered harm, and no living being died prematurely. Though people possessed intelligence and skill, they had nowhere to apply them. This was called the most perfect unity (zhiyi)—the supreme state of pure oneness.

When De (Virtue/Power) began to decline, Suiren (the Fire-making Ruler) and Fuxi came to govern the world. They could only follow the inclinations of the people, yet could no longer preserve that pure unity. When De declined further, Shennong (the Divine Farmer) and the Yellow Emperor governed the world. Though the realm was settled, they could no longer act in accord with natural spontaneity. When De declined again, during the reigns of Tang-Yao and Yu-Shun, the currents of governance and transformation arose. What was genuine and thick became thin and shallow; what was plain and simple was scattered and lost. People abandoned the Dao (the Way) to pursue goodness, used deliberate action to harm the virtue of naturalness, and thus forsook their original nature to follow artificial contrivance. Minds measured one another through cleverness, yet this was insufficient to settle the world, so ornamentation was added and erudition was piled on. Ornamentation extinguished plainness, erudition drowned the original mind, and from then on the common people grew confused and disordered, unable to return to their true nature or recover their original simplicity.

Viewed in this light, the world lost the Dao, and the Dao lost the world—the two mutually lost one another. How could a person of the Dao arise in the world, and how could the world enable the Dao to arise? The Dao could not arise in the world, nor could the world cause the Dao to arise. Even if a sage did not withdraw to the mountains and forests, his De had already been hidden away.

The age of Suiren and Fuxi might be called plain and simple, yet Zhuang Zi considered it inferior to the primordial chaos of the beginning, and therefore said that De had already declined. The age of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor might be called supremely peaceful, yet Zhuang Zi considered it inferior to the age of Fuxi and Suiren, and therefore said that De had declined further. The age of Tang-Yao and Yu-Shun might be called excellently governed, yet Zhuang Zi considered it inferior to the age of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, and therefore said that De had declined once more. Thus Zhuang Zi did not regard any of these ages as the highest. What he valued was the remote primordial beginning, when people preserved their true nature, letting everything follow natural spontaneity. How could they have known the first traces of benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, or the conduct that transcends ordinary humanity? How could they have deliberately cultivated their nature to imitate such things? This is the meaning Zhuang Zi intended, using it to critique the secular world—a point consistent with the previous chapter's discussion of the age of supreme virtue and the primordial time when nothing whatsoever existed.

Reclusion is not deliberately hiding oneself away. What the ancients called recluses were not people who shut themselves in and artificially cultivated their nature in imitation of withdrawal. Zhuangzi discusses this idea in order to criticize conventional society; his purpose aligns with what earlier chapters call the “age of utmost virtue” (zhide zhi shi) and “in the grand beginning there was nothing” (taichu wuyou)—the primordial state before anything existed.

True withdrawal does not mean hiding from oneself. Ancient recluses did not simply vanish from sight, fall silent forever, or bury their wisdom. They acted as they did because the times and their fate were greatly out of joint. When the age was flourishing and the Dao could prevail throughout the world, they returned to oneness (yi) with the Way and left no trace behind. When the age was failing and the world was utterly impoverished, they sank deep roots, rested in utmost stillness, and waited. That is the method of preserving oneself.

When scholars withdrew to mountains and forests, they were not trying to conceal their bodies, seal their speech, or smother their talents. They had no choice—hence the phrase “the times and fate were greatly mistaken.” In a thriving age they added nothing extra; they simply held to oneness and dwelt in quiet simplicity—so when the times allowed the Dao to spread widely, they “returned to oneness without a trace.” In destitution they did not diminish themselves either; they only strengthened their foundation—so when the times were utterly barren, they “deeply rooted themselves in stillness and waited” (shen gen ning ji er dai). In this way they could keep body and life intact; that is why it is called the way of preserving the person.

Those in antiquity who preserved themselves did not adorn cleverness with rhetoric, did not use cleverness to harry the world, and did not use cleverness to strain their virtue. They solemnly guarded their proper place; after returning to their original nature, what more was there to do? The Dao does not dwell in petty conduct, and De (virtue/power) does not dwell in narrow views. Small cleverness injures De; small actions injure the Dao. Therefore it is said: straighten yourself and that is enough; when joy is whole and complete, that is called attaining one’s aim (de zhi).

What the ancients meant by attaining one’s aim was not carriage and cap (xuannian—the emblems of high office). It meant that nothing further could be added to their happiness. What people today call attaining one’s aim is precisely office and rank. Rank draws one into affairs and thereby harms the Dao—hence again: only rectify yourself; when joy is complete, that is true attainment. Regalia attached to the body is not something native to life and nature; it is an external thing that arrives by chance and lodges temporarily. When it comes, you cannot block it; when it goes, you cannot detain it. Therefore do not let high position loosen the mind, and do not cling to the vulgar when poor; joy is the same in both situations, so one can be without worry. Today, when that temporary lodging is lost, there is no joy—showing that this kind of happiness has never failed to disorder the heart. Hence it is said: those who lose themselves in externals and lose their nature in custom are called inverted people (daozhi zhi min)—people who have reversed root and branch.

“Being complete in joy” means delighting in aligning with the Way of Heaven and understanding one’s own destiny, so that one’s original nature is never harmed. Delighting in Heaven serves to recognize the Way of Heaven; knowing destiny serves to grasp one’s allotted fate thoroughly. Once the Way of Heaven is recognized, one can leave everything to nature; once destiny is understood, external things can no longer enslave one. In this way the pure original nature can be fully preserved. When nature is preserved, the inner self finds satisfaction; when one can be satisfied, nothing in one’s aims fails to go smoothly. Therefore, being complete in joy is called “having attained one’s aim.” One who has attained his aim is not burdened in heart by death and life, worry and peril, wealth and honor, or poverty and obscurity—how much less by such slight external things as carriage and official cap (symbols of rank and worldly glory)? Thus “having attained one’s aim” does not mean gaining carriage and cap.

In the chapter “Autumn Floods,” Zhuangzi observes that people in the world who cultivate their nature do not follow the sage’s proper Way but chase the vulgar learning of the various masters. Though that learning is boundless and drifts without fixed mooring, it still has points worth noting; who can say it has no root at all? For this reason Zhuangzi wrote the chapter “Autumn Floods.”

When the autumn floods came in season, countless streams poured into the Yellow River. The waters spread vast and wide; between the two banks and the islets, one could not tell ox from horse at a distance. He Bo, god of the Yellow River, was delighted and thought that all the grandeur under heaven belonged to him alone. He followed the current eastward until he reached the North Sea. Looking east, he could not see where the water ended. He turned his face toward the boundless sea and said to Ru, god of the North Sea: “There is a saying that ‘he who knows many principles thinks no one can equal him’—that describes me. I once heard that someone belittled Confucius’s insight and looked down on Boyi’s integrity; at first I did not believe it. Now that I have seen your vastness, which has no end, if I had not come to you I would have been in danger of staying narrow forever and becoming a long-standing joke to those who understand the Great Dao.”

Ru of the North Sea said: “A frog in a well cannot be told about the sea, because it is confined by its dwelling. An insect of summer cannot be told about ice, because it is limited by its season. A man of narrow views cannot be told about the Great Dao, because he is bound by the teaching he received. Now you have left your riverbanks and seen the ocean; you know your own smallness—only then can one discuss the great principle with you. There is no body of water under heaven greater than the sea: the myriad streams flow in without cease, yet the sea does not overflow; the Weilu (the legendary outlet where the sea drains) discharges without stopping, yet the sea is not exhausted. Neither the change of spring and autumn nor flood and drought can alter it. Its volume exceeds that of the rivers beyond counting. Yet I never boast of this, because I merely take my place between heaven and earth and receive the breath of yin and yang. I stand within heaven and earth like a pebble or a sapling on a great mountain—I already feel myself small; how could I think myself grand?”

The sage’s Dao is unified and whole from beginning to end, so deep it cannot be fathomed and so vast it cannot be exhausted. Draw on it and it does not run dry; gather it and it does not overflow. Its surplus of moisture is enough to rescue the world; its fine tributaries are enough to govern a state. Nothing is excluded; nothing lies beyond it—this is the sage’s Dao.

When the Dao is scattered, the age cannot be revived; when the age declines, the Dao cannot be revived either. Then the various schools (zhuzi) rise one after another and spread far and wide. Zhuangzi therefore wrote the River God’s (Hebo) words of glad self-satisfaction. The River God’s joy stands for how the schools delight in seeing their own teachings prevail. Though they are pleased that their doctrines spread widely, how could they know that the sage’s Dao is still there? Zhuangzi therefore also wrote of the River God going east to the Northern Sea (Beihai).

Yet the sage’s Dao is honored throughout the world; nothing fails to follow it. It is empty and yielding yet never overflows; it is used yet never noticed as being used. It has existed from the beginning; it does not change in order or in chaos. How far it surpasses the doctrines of the schools! The sage never boasts of breadth, depth, or subtlety, nor claims wealth for himself alone, and so can remain inexhaustible to the end.

Thus it is said: Of all waters under heaven, none is greater than the sea. Myriad rivers flow into it without cease, yet it is not full; the Weilu (terminal outlet, where the sea is said to drain away) discharges it without pause, yet it is not empty. Spring and autumn do not alter it; flood and drought do not affect it. Its volume exceeds the flow of rivers and streams beyond counting. Yet I never take myself to be vast because I compare my form to heaven and earth and receive my breath from yin and yang (the two complementary vital forces). Between heaven and earth I am like a pebble or a sapling on a great mountain—I already know how small I am; how could I think myself vast?

Consider: the four seas within heaven and earth are not like an ant hole (lei kong) in a great marsh? China within the four seas is not like a single grain of millet (ti mi) in the great granary (taicang)? We call the number of things “ten thousand,” and a person is only one of them. A person amid the mountains already feels small—how could he think himself vast?

The four seas sit within heaven and earth—are they not like a tiny hollow in a great marsh? China (here meaning the Central Plains) sits within the four seas—is it not like a single grain of millet in the Grand Granary? The kinds of things are so many that we call them by the ten-thousands, yet a person is only one among them; people spread across the nine provinces, wherever grain grows and boats and carts can reach, and each person is again only one among that multitude. Compare a person to the ten-thousand things—is he not like the tip of a hair on a horse’s hide?

The Five Emperors succeeded one another, the Three Kings contended for power, benevolent people worried, and capable men who took on affairs toiled—all of that falls within this same scope. Boyi declined the throne to win a name; Zhongni (Confucius) talked about such things to display his learning. In taking pride in themselves thus, were they not like you earlier, facing the river and thinking yourself vast?

The River God (He Bo) said: Then may I take heaven and earth as great and the tip of a hair as small—is that acceptable?

The Lord of the Northern Sea (Beihai Ruo) said: It is not acceptable. The number of things has no end; time has no stopping point; the boundary between gain and loss is not fixed; and ending and beginning have no constant cause. Therefore the person of great wisdom (da zhi) contemplates near and far: the small he does not treat as too little, the large he does not treat as too much—this is understanding that quantity is inexhaustible. He verifies past and present: the distant does not bore him, the close at hand he does not stretch on tiptoe to grasp—this is understanding that time never stops. He discerns fullness and emptiness: gaining brings no joy, losing brings no grief—this is understanding that the line between gain and loss is not fixed. He sees that life and death are like a level road (tantu): living does not delight him for that reason, dying he does not treat as disaster—this is understanding that ending and beginning cannot be held to fixed causes. What people know falls short of what they do not know; the time they are alive falls short of the time before they were born. With one’s extremely narrow understanding to exhaust an extremely vast domain—thus one is confused and disoriented and cannot find satisfaction in oneself. Seen in this light, on what basis can one know that the tip of a hair suffices to mark the boundary of what is most minute (ni)? On what basis can one know that heaven and earth suffice to exhaust the greatest extent?

The River God said: People who discuss such matters in the world say that what is most subtle has no form and what is most huge cannot be measured—is that really so?

The Lord of the Northern Sea said: Look at the huge from the tiny and you cannot see to the end; look at the tiny from the huge and you cannot make it out clearly.

If the eyes fix solely on examining the finest autumn down—the newly grown filaments of autumn, a metaphor for the tiniest things—they are blocked by that down, and the great hills are not seen whole. If the eyes fix on the great hills, they are blocked by those hills, and the finest down cannot be seen clearly. Thus it is said: viewing the large from the small, one cannot see it all; viewing the small from the large, one cannot see it clearly. Both cases are merely seeing what one sees, and what is seen still has places it does not reach; merely attending to what one attends to, and what is viewed still has omissions. How does that compare with storing away bright discernment—relying not on cleverness to make distinctions? When one can do this, the myriad things all stand clear before the eyes.

“Jing” (essence, the refined) is what is finer still within the small; “vast extent” is what is more expansive still within the great. Each has what suits it, and that is precisely the situation in which one cannot see all or see clearly. Likewise, only seeing what one sees and only viewing what one views still leaves what is not reached and what is missed; better to hide bright discernment, and the myriad things become plain to see.

Both refinement and coarseness still limit themselves to what has form. What has no form cannot be divided by number; what cannot be bounded cannot be exhausted by number. What can be talked about in words is the coarse side of things; what can be apprehended in thought is the subtle side of things. What words cannot discuss and mind cannot discern no longer belongs to refinement or coarseness.

Refinement is the finer end of the coarse; coarseness is the trace left by refinement. Neither leaves behind form and quality, so refinement and coarseness are spoken of only with regard to what has form. Because there is no form, even a skilled reckoner cannot calculate it; because it cannot be bounded, even the keenest sight cannot measure it. Silent, deep, and obtained from the heart itself—there refinement and coarseness are forgotten together. This is the utmost that Bei He Ru (the god of the northern sea) spoke of the Dao. Thus it is said: what has no form, number cannot divide; what cannot be bounded, number cannot exhaust. It is also said: what speech cannot discuss and mind cannot discern does not fall within refinement or coarseness.

Therefore the great person in action does not proceed from harming others, nor treats lavish benevolence as precious; in movement does not act for profit, does not despise those who cannot keep up—and such conduct cannot be exhausted. It is also said: what speech cannot discuss and mind cannot discern does not belong to refinement or coarseness.

In the conduct of one who has attained the Dao, he does not set out to harm others, nor does he treat lavish kindness and favor as a mark of excellence; in action he does not chase profit, yet he does not scorn gatekeepers and servants; he do not wrangle over goods, yet he does not overdo refusal and yielding; in his work he does not lean on others, nor is he greedy for living by sheer force, yet he does not look down on the money-minded; his way of life differs from the world’s, yet he does not play at being odd on purpose; he goes along with the crowd in what he does, yet he does not lightly honor fawning and sycophancy. Ranks and salaries in the world are not enough to win him, punishment and shame are not enough to break him. He knows that right and wrong cannot be cut apart cleanly, and that large and small cannot be drawn with fixed lines. It is said: one who has attained the Dao does not chase fame, the highest De does not chase gain, the truly great do not fix on “me.” That is what it means to hold one’s place to the utmost limit.

The River God (Hebo) asked: With things—outside and inside—what finally fixes what is noble or base, great or small? The North Sea Lord (Beihai Ruo) said: From the Dao, things have no noble or base; from each thing’s own view, each treats itself as noble and the other as base; from common custom, noble and base are not settled by oneself alone. From the angle of difference: call it large from the side of largeness, and nothing is not large; call it small from the side of smallness, and nothing is not small. Once you see that Heaven and Earth may be a single grain of millet and the tip of a downy hair may be a hill, the reckoning of relative difference is clear.

Worldly habits are led astray by the teachings of the various masters, and so people cling to “there is a me.” Once there is a me, there is other versus me, small versus large, and differences cannot be leveled into sameness. Here Zhuangzi, through Beihai Ruo’s words, carries the idea of making all things equal and one. Everything comes from the Dao; they differ only in form and scale—Heaven and Earth are larger than hills, hills larger than the finest tip. Seen through the Dao, each is equally one thing. Who can prove hills are not larger than Heaven and Earth, or the finest tip not larger than hills? Why insist on comparing shapes and sizes and splitting other from me, small from large? Hence: know that Heaven and Earth may be one grain of millet, and the finest tip may be a hill.

From function: from the side of “has,” everything has—nothing lacks having; from the side of “has not,” everything lacks—nothing lacks lacking. Know that east and west oppose each other yet cannot be without each other, and the line of functional division is set. From orientation: from what each takes as right, everything is right—nothing is not right.

From the perspective of function: if you affirm what each thing has, nothing is not "having"; if you affirm what each thing lacks, nothing is not "lacking." East and west oppose each other yet cannot do without each other—each side’s role and boundary is fixed in that way.

From the perspective of orientation: if you affirm what each takes as right, nothing is not affirmable; if you deny what each takes as wrong, nothing is not deniable. Once you see that Yao (the sage-king who abdicated in antiquity) and Jie (the last tyrant of Xia) each condemn the other according to their natures, people’s inclinations and commitments become clear.

Long ago Yao and Shun abdicated and became emperors; King Kuai of Yan (a Warring States ruler of Yan) abdicated and ruined his state. Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou won kingship through battle; Lord Bai Sheng (a Chu prince) fought for power and destroyed himself. So the rites of contention and yielding, and the conduct of Yao and Jie—their nobility and baseness shift with the age; they cannot be treated as fixed norms.

A massive beam can ram a city wall but cannot plug a small hole—tools differ. Qiji and Hualiu (fine steeds) can run a thousand li in a day yet are worse than wild cats and weasels at catching mice—skills differ. The owl catches fleas and sees fine hairs at night, yet by day stares and cannot see a hill—natures differ.

How then can one only imitate “yes” and reject “no,” only imitate “order” and reject “disorder”? That is not yet understanding heaven and earth’s principle and the real state of things. It is like only imitating heaven and rejecting earth, only imitating yin and rejecting yang—failure is obvious. To keep talking on and on is either folly or deliberate deceit.

The way emperors abdicate differs; how the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) inherited the throne differed too. Whoever goes against the times and custom is called a usurper; whoever fits the time and follows custom is called one who accords with the Way. Be still, He Bo (the god of the Yellow River)! How would you know the gates of nobility and baseness, the divisions of large and small?

He Bo said: Then what should I do and not do, accept or refuse, approach or leave—how am I to decide?

Bei Hai Ruo (the god of the northern sea) said: Viewed through the Dao, there is neither nobility nor baseness—that is called fan yan (turning toward the opposite). Do not bind the mind until it runs far against the great Dao. There is neither few nor many—that is called xie shi (decline and bestowal alternating). Do not cling to one method until you fall out of step with the great Dao.

Stern like a ruler of a state, yet not partial to one’s own favor; gentle like the sheshen (earth god) in sacrifice, yet not partial to one’s own blessing; vast like the four directions without end or border. Embracing all things—who is specially sheltered? That is called not being confined to one place. Things are originally equal—who is short, who is long?

The Dao has no beginning or end; things have birth and death—do not rely on a moment’s success. Now empty, now full, not fixed in one form. Years do not stay; time does not stop. Waning, growing, filling, emptying—when one cycle ends, another begins. That is the gist of the great Dao and the account of how things are.

The growth and change of things is like horses galloping and chariots racing—no movement that is not change, no instant that is not shift. What to do, what not to do? They will change on their own.

He Bo said: If that is so, what is precious about the Dao?

Bei Hai Ruo said: One who knows the Dao must penetrate affairs; one who penetrates affairs must understand quan bian (flexible adaptation to circumstances); one who understands quan bian will not let outer things harm the self.

One who understands all things is one who understands the Dao—the root of the ten thousand things. One who understands the Dao and does not stray from it understands li, the inherent order of things. One who neither strays from this nor fails to respond as circumstances change understands quan—the timely, situational flexibility of judgment. Able to adapt in this way, how could one be dragged about by external things? Thus the body is often kept whole. Therefore it is said: those who understand the Dao surely penetrate li; those who penetrate li surely understand quan; those who understand quan do not let external things harm themselves. The Dao is the substance of li and quan; quan is the functioning of li and the Dao. If the two do not rely on each other, neither can be fully realized.

What is called a person of “supreme virtue” (zhide) cannot be burned by fire, drowned by water, injured by cold or heat, or harmed by birds and beasts. This is not because they deliberately court such dangers, but because they see clearly what is safe and what is perilous, rest easy in fortune and misfortune, and are very careful about advancing, retreating, going, and staying—so nothing can harm them.

The person of supreme virtue is the “perfect person” (zhiren). The perfect person does not clash with external things, and external things cannot harm them—how then could water, fire, cold, heat, or beasts do injury? Thus it is said that the person of supreme virtue cannot be burned by fire, drowned by water, harmed by cold or heat, or injured by beasts. Yet the perfect person does not necessarily make fire, water, cold, heat, or beasts unable to harm them; they simply accord with nature and do not lightly give offense. So this does not mean they go up to danger on purpose: when crisis comes they do not flee in panic; when it is time to leave they do not rashly provoke—that is seeing safety and danger. Facing one another with sincerity and resting in life and death is keeping peace amid fortune and misfortune. Going out and in with things without violating the way things are is being careful about deciding to stay or go.

Therefore, nature is hidden within, while artificial action shows on the outside; true De (Virtue/Power) takes its root in what is natural. To understand how Heaven and the human each ought to act, one must take the natural as foundation, rest content in one’s allotted place, advance and retreat, bend and stretch in fitting ways, return to what is essential—only then does speech reach its limit.

The god of the He River asked: What is Heaven, and what is the human? Beihuo Ru (the god of the northern sea) said: Oxen and horses are born with four legs—that is natural; putting a halter on a horse and a nose ring on an ox—that is artificial. So do not use human contrivance to destroy natural endowment, do not use deliberate cleverness to ruin the fate that belongs to you by nature, and do not sacrifice what you inherently possess for the sake of reputation. Carefully guard these and do not let them slip away—that is called returning to the genuine.

Kui (a one-legged creature of legend) envied the many-footed worm; the worm envied the snake; the snake envied the wind; the wind envied the eye; the eye envied the mind. Kui said to the worm: I hop on one foot and already cannot manage; you deploy so many feet—how do you do it? The worm said: It is not like that. Have you never seen someone sneeze? What flies out—large like pearls, small like mist—falls in a chaotic shower beyond counting. I only set my tianji (natural capacity) in motion and do not know why it works. The worm said to the snake: I walk on many feet yet still cannot keep up with you who have none—why? The snake said: When tianji moves, how can it be swapped? I have no use for feet. The snake said to the wind: I twist my back and ribs to go along and still seem to have a body; you whuff from the northern sea and whuff into the southern sea as if you had nothing at all—why? The wind said: So it is. I blow from the northern sea to the southern sea, yet a person can defeat me by pointing a finger, defeat me by stepping on me. Even so, only I can snap great trees and tear off roofs. Thus many small “non-victories” add up to one great victory—and only the sage can achieve that kind of great victory.

Confucius traveled to the state of Kuang; the people of Song hemmed him in layer upon layer, yet he kept playing his zither and singing. Zilu went in and asked: Master, why are you still so at ease? Confucius said: Come—I will tell you. I have long shunned distress, yet cannot escape it—that is ming (fate). I have long sought success, yet cannot obtain it—that is shi (the times). In the age of Yao and Shun no one in the world was in distress—not because their cleverness won that; in the age of Jie and Zhou no one in the world succeeded—not because their cleverness lost that. It was the force of the times. To walk on water without fear of dragons is the courage of a fisherman; to walk on land without fear of rhinoceros or tiger is the courage of a hunter; when naked blades meet before you, to treat death like life is the courage of one who dies for principle. To know that distress has its fate and success its season, and to face great peril without fear—that is the courage of the sage. Zilu, settle down; my fate has its limit. Before long the man leading armed men came forward to apologize: We thought you were Yang Hu—that is why we surrounded you; now we know you are not—please let us withdraw.

Gongsun Long asked Wei Mou: In youth I studied the Way of the former kings; when grown I understood humane and righteous conduct. I could merge sameness and difference, separate hard and white, call the not-so so and the impossible possible; I tied up the cleverness of the hundred schools and stumped the eloquence of the crowd—I thought myself most penetrating. Now, having heard Zhuangzi’s words, I feel dazed and strange, unsure whether my discourse falls short or my insight does not match his. I cannot even open my mouth—what is the reason? The prince leaned on his armrest, sighed, and laughed up at the sky: Have you not heard of the frog in the shallow well? It said to the turtle from the eastern sea: How happy I am! I hop on the well curb, rest on broken brick ledges; I jump into the water and it lifts my armpits and chin; I step in mud and it covers my feet to the instep. Looking back at mosquito larvae, crabs, and tadpoles in the well, none can compare with me. Moreover I alone possess this pool, legs spread in the shallow well—this joy has reached its peak. Why not come in often and see? The eastern-sea turtle had not yet put its left foot in when its right knee was already stuck. So it backed out and told the frog about the sea: A distance of a thousand li cannot express its vastness; a depth of a thousand ren cannot exhaust it. In Yu the Great’s time there were nine floods in ten years, yet the sea did not grow; in Tang’s time there were seven droughts in eight years, yet the shore did not shrink. It does not change with long or short time, does not advance or retreat with more or less rain—that is the great joy of the eastern sea. When the well frog heard this, it was alarmed and lost, empty and confused.

Your wisdom still cannot fix the boundary between right and wrong, yet you want to spy on Zhuangzi’s discourse—that is like asking a mosquito to carry a mountain or a centipede to race a river: it surely cannot manage. Wisdom not enough to discuss the subtlest Way, yet grasping only momentary petty comfort—is that not the frog in the shallow well? On Zhuangzi’s side: feet tread the yellow springs below, head climbs the azure sky above; no south or north, suddenly open on all sides, plunging into the immeasurable; no east or west, setting out from the dark and abstruse, returning to the great thoroughfare. Yet you cautiously use scrutiny to seek and debate to probe—as if viewing heaven through a bamboo tube or pointing at earth with an awl—is that not too small? Be off! Have you not heard of the youth of Shouling who went to Handan to learn how to walk? Before he learned the capital’s gait, he forgot how he used to walk and had to crawl home. If you do not leave now, you will forget your original skill and lose your former learning. Gongsun Long’s mouth would not close, his tongue would not stay put—and he fled.

Zhuangzi was fishing on the bank of the Pu River. The king of Chu sent two grandees ahead to convey his meaning: We wish to burden you, sir, with affairs within our borders. Zhuangzi held his rod, did not turn his head, and said: I have heard that in Chu there is a sacred turtle, dead already three thousand years, wrapped in cloth and boxed in bamboo, kept in the hall of the ancestral temple. Would that turtle rather die and leave its shell to be treasured, or rather live dragging its tail in the mud? The two grandees said: Rather live dragging its tail in the mud. Zhuangzi said: Please go back—I will drag my tail in the mud.

When Huizi was prime minister in the state of Liang, Zhuangzi went to see him. Someone told Huizi: Zhuangzi has come because he wants to replace you as prime minister. Huizi was afraid and searched the state for three days and three nights. Zhuangzi came to him and said: In the south there is a bird called yuanchu (a phoenix-like bird)—do you know it? Yuanchu flies from the southern sea toward the northern sea; it will not roost except on the parasol tree, will not eat except bamboo fruit, will not drink except from sweet springs. Meanwhile an owl got a rotten rat; seeing yuanchu pass, it looked up and glared and cried “sha!” Are you now trying to “sha” me with your state of Liang?

Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling on the bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi said: The minnows swim out at ease—that is the fish’s joy. Huizi said: You are not a fish—how do you know the fish are joyful? Zhuangzi said: You are not me—how do you know I do not know the fish are joyful? Huizi said: I am not you, so I indeed do not know you; you are originally not a fish—you do not know the fish’s joy. That is fully settled. Zhuangzi said: Please return to the start. When you said “how do you know the fish are joyful,” you already knew I knew and came to ask me. I knew it from the bridge over the Hao River.

Zhuangzi wrote this chapter out of grief that people in the world constantly set themselves apart from external things; within it he entrusted the meaning of “harmony with all things”—that is, being equal and at one with the myriad things. At the end he also says he knows the fish’s joy (watching fish from above the Hao, debating with Huizi whether fish are happy on their own); this serves the same purpose as the closing of “On the Equality of Things,” where he dreams of becoming a butterfly (and on waking cannot tell whether Zhuang Zhou dreamed the butterfly or the butterfly dreamed Zhuang Zhou). Readers of Zhuangzi should seek Zhuangzi’s own original intent.

The passage above comes from New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (Nanhua Zhenjing is the honorific title for Zhuangzi; “new commentary” means a newly written exegesis), in volumes eight and nine, preserved in the Complete Library of the Four Treasures. Volume nine was composed by Wang Bi of the Song dynasty, explaining the “Ultimate Joy” chapter (which discusses what truly counts as the highest joy).

One who can abandon heterodox learning, guard the nature of original authenticity, forget the self, and harmonize equally with the myriad things—such that death and life, wealth and rank, success and failure, long life and early death cannot lodge in the breast like a thorn or a scorpion’s sting—may rest content and wander freely between Heaven and Earth. For this reason Zhuangzi wrote the “Ultimate Joy” chapter.

Is there ultimately any supreme happiness in the world? Is there any way to preserve one’s life? What ought one do now, and on what ought one rely? What ought one avoid, and where ought one settle? What ought one approach and what leave behind—and what count as joy, and what as aversion?

What people under heaven honor is wealth, rank, long life, and a fine reputation. What they delight in is bodily ease, rich food, fine clothes, beautiful colors, and pleasing music. What they look down on is poverty, low status, a short life, and a bad name. What they find painful is when the body is not at ease, the mouth tastes nothing fine, the body wears nothing splendid, the eyes see no beauty, and the ears hear no sound. When they cannot obtain these things, they are greatly worried and afraid. To preserve the body in this way is deeply confused.

The rich toil the body and hurry in anxious work, amassing much property yet unable to use it all themselves—treating the body by putting what preserves it outside the body. The noble think day and night about whether affairs are good or bad—treating the body in a way equally far from true nourishment. From birth one arrives together with worry. Those who live long drift in dullness, worrying for ages yet unable to die—how painful that is! To preserve the body like that is even further from nourishing life.

Those who fiercely uphold principle and sacrifice themselves are regarded under heaven as good, yet they may still fail to preserve their own lives. I do not know whether that “good” is truly good or not really good. If it is taken as good, it is not enough to preserve oneself; if it is taken as not good, it can yet save others. Therefore it is said: when loyal, straight remonstrance is not heeded, step back and comply—do not press the contention. Wu Zixu (the great officer of Wu in the Spring and Autumn period) harmed his own body through contentious remonstrance; had he not contended, his name would not have been made. Whether this so-called good exists or not is hard to say.

As for what the world now does and what it likes, I likewise do not know whether that is happiness or not happiness. I see what the world pursues as joy: the multitude rushes together, competing eagerly as if unable to stop, and all call this happiness. I do not simply call it happiness, nor do I flatly call it unhappiness. Is happiness there or not? I hold that Wuwei (non-action)—according with nature and not forcing arbitrary deeds—is true happiness, and that is precisely what the world finds most bitter.

Nothing in the world is worth enough to cause worry—this is supreme joy (the highest joy). Supreme joy does not enter from outside, nor does it arise because one hears sounds; it comes from forgetting oneself and achieving Wuwei (non-action, not forcing affairs but aligning with nature), so that people under heaven barely notice it. Thus it is said: Is there supreme joy in the world? Only when one can forget the self and practice Wuwei does supreme joy appear on its own. When supreme joy is present, the body can be preserved; when the body is preserved, how could there be no joy? So again it is asked: Is there any way truly to nourish life?

Yet people in the world do not know where supreme joy comes from. They take wealth and rank, long life, a fine name, ample food and clothing, music, and beautiful forms—all complete—as happiness. When they obtain these, they wear out the body and drain vitality, drowning in them without waking up; when they lose them, they pursue them deliberately and harm life, never stopping in their quest. This is great delusion. How could they know that the joy of supreme joy lies within the heart, while the joy of worldly pleasures lies in external things? Zhuangzi therefore said that what people do for the sake of the body is sometimes foolish, sometimes spent on what is outside the person, sometimes guarded against on every side, and sometimes moves further away from preserving life.

Thus it is said: Supreme joy is not treating joy as joy; supreme reputation is not treating reputation as reputation. Right and wrong in the world indeed cannot yet be settled; even so, Wuwei can be used to settle right and wrong. Supreme joy and nourishing life—only Wuwei comes close to preserving them. Try to explain the principle: Heaven is clear through Wuwei, earth is at peace through Wuwei; when these two Wuwei join, the myriad things are all born and transformed. Dim and indistinct—one cannot see where they come from; vague and hazy—one cannot see any fixed form. The myriad things flourish in abundance, all gestated from Wuwei. Therefore it is said: Heaven and earth seem without action, yet nothing fails to be accomplished. Among human beings, who can truly reach Wuwei?

The highest joy arises from wuwei—following nature without forced effort. Wuwei is not a separate kind of pleasure, which is why it is said that “ultimate joy is joyless.” The highest reputation comes from what cannot be named; if it cannot be named, it is not reputation pursued on purpose, which is why it is said that “ultimate reputation is reputationless.” Such wuwei accords with the way of Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth do nothing deliberate—they only let the ten thousand things arise on their own—so where would exhaustion and hardship come from? That is why joy reaches its limit. If a person can be wuwei, that is ultimate joy; yet how can a person truly achieve wuwei? Hence it is said: Heaven is clear through wuwei, Earth is at peace through wuwei; when the two meet in wuwei, the ten thousand things are transformed and born—this is ultimate joy. It is also said: among people, who can really be wuwei? This is Zhuangzi’s mockery of the worldly.

When Zhuangzi’s wife died, Huizi (Hui Shi, Zhuangzi’s friend) came to offer condolences, but Zhuangzi was sitting with legs spread, casually drumming on a clay basin and singing. Huizi said: She lived with you, raised your children with you, and only died in old age—not weeping would be enough; drumming on a basin and singing—is that not going too far? Zhuangzi said: It is not so. When she had just died, how could I not feel grief? But tracing back to the beginning, there was originally no life; not only no life, there was originally no form; not only no form, there was originally no qi. Blended in the hazy undifferentiated chaos, change produced qi; qi changed and there was form; form changed and there was life; now again there is death—like the cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. She has quietly gone to sleep in the great room (Heaven and Earth as one vast house). If I followed with wailing, I would show that I do not understand Heaven’s command, so I stopped weeping.

The perfected person (one who has realized the great Dao) treats life and death as coming and going: alive, he is not glad because he has taken form; dead, he is not sad because form is destroyed. When Zhuangzi’s wife died, he sat with legs spread, drummed the basin, and did not wail loudly—because he saw that life and death are the ordinary way of things, and thus reached ultimate joy. This matches the intent of Mengzi Fan and Ziqin Zhang (two figures in Zhuangzi who, after a friend’s death, one composed a song and one played the zither).

Zhi Lishu and Hua Jiejie were together at the mound of Mingbo (a dim, secluded hill), in the wilds of Kunlun, and at the place where the Yellow Emperor (the legendary ruler of high antiquity) had once rested, looking about and taking in the scene. The name Zhi Lishu indicates someone whose bodily form is crooked and incomplete; the name Hua Jiejie indicates someone whose mind harbors no clever contrivance. Zhuangzi devised these two names to carry a point: one who is bodily misshapen can forget the body; one without mental cleverness can forget cleverness.

Before long, a willow suddenly sprouted on Hua Jiejie’s left elbow. Disturbed in mind, he showed aversion. Zhi Lishu asked, “Do you loathe it?” Hua Jiejie said, “No. What is there for me to loathe? Life is only a temporary loan; the life that arises on the strength of that loan is like grime and dust. Death and life are like the alternation of night and day. Moreover, you and I came here in the first place to watch the transformations of the ten thousand things; now that transformation has fallen upon me, why should I loathe it?”

To forget body and cleverness is to see death and life with clarity and thorough understanding. The two traveled together to those places precisely in order to observe the subtlety of change. To watch change is to view the shifts of death and life with full penetration. When one can see through the changes of death and life, how can outer things entangle one? So when a willow grew on the left elbow, he did not loathe it for that reason. People like them—nothing among the ten thousand things is enough to cause worry, and within they can still preserve the highest joy.

When Zhuangzi traveled to the state of Chu, he saw an empty skull whose dried bones still retained a human shape. He tapped it with his riding crop and asked: “Sir, did you end up like this because you clung to life and went against what is natural? Or because your state perished and you suffered execution by axe and halberd? Or because you behaved badly and brought shame on your parents, wife, and children? Or because you starved and froze? Or because your years simply ran out and you reached this point?”

Having spoken, he pulled the skull over and used it as a pillow to sleep. In the middle of the night, the skull appeared to him in a dream and said: “You talk like a debater. Everything you mentioned belongs to the burdens of the living; once dead, none of it remains. Would you like to hear what death is like?” Zhuangzi said he would. The skull said: “After death, there is no ruler above and no subject below, no seasonal duties—ease and freedom, with the turning of heaven and earth as one’s span of years. Even the joy of facing south and ruling as king cannot surpass this joy.”

Zhuangzi did not believe it and said: “If I ask Siming (the spirit who governs human lifespan) to restore your form, give you back flesh and bone and skin, and send you home to your parents, wife and children, neighbors and old friends—would you want that?” The skull frowned tightly and said: “How could I abandon the joy of facing south as king and go back among the living to suffer toil again?”

Life is the temporary gathering of one qi (vital energy); death is the temporary dispersal of one qi. Life does not necessarily mean wuwei (non-action), and death is not necessarily “having action.” Because life is not necessarily without action, supreme joy is incomplete; because death is not necessarily with action, supreme joy can be whole. This is what Zhuangzi meant by having the skull refuse to give up the joy of facing south as king.

The six bones—the head, trunk, and limbs—are only lodging places in a person. In life, qi temporarily gathers; in death, qi temporarily scatters. Gathering and scattering are not something “I” can possess—so why cling to the body and from that posit an “I”? Once one clings to having a self, one cannot forget the physical form; unable to forget form, one acts; acting leads to friction and wear with external things—how then can supreme joy be preserved within? That is why the skull was unwilling to return to human life.

When Yan Hui was traveling east to the state of Qi, Confucius wore a troubled look on his face. Zigong rose from his seat and said, “Your student ventures to ask: Yan Hui is going to Qi—why does the Master look worried?”

Confucius said, “You ask well. Long ago Guan Zhong put it in a way I fully agree with: ‘A small pouch cannot hold something large; a short well rope cannot draw from deep water.’ The point is that each person’s allotted endowment has its own measure of fulfillment, and each bodily form has what suits it—neither can be casually stretched or cut down.

“I fear that Yan Hui will explain to the Duke of Qi the ways of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, and add to them the words of Suiren and Shennong. The duke will search for these things inside himself and not find them; when he cannot find them he will be confused, and when a person is confused he invites ruin and death.

“Have you never heard? Once a sea bird alighted in the outskirts of Lu. The Duke of Lu welcomed it into the ancestral temple, offered wine, had the Jiushao played for its entertainment, and set out a tailao feast—beef, mutton, and pork in full—to feed it. The bird’s gaze was dull and it was grief-stricken; it dared not eat a morsel of meat or drink a cup of wine, and in three days it was dead. This was using the way one nourishes people to nourish a bird—not using the way one nourishes a bird to nourish a bird.

“To nourish a bird as a bird should be nourished, one should let it roost in deep forest, roam open plains, float on rivers and lakes, peck small fish, fly and rest with its flock, and settle at ease. It simply hates human voices—why must one clamor to disturb it!

“When the Xianchi and Jiushao are performed on the wilds of Dongting, birds hear them and fly away, beasts hear them and run, fish hear them and dive to the bottom; people hear them and crowd around to watch. Fish live in water; people die in water. Because what they like and dislike differ, their responses differ too.

“Therefore the ancient sages did not demand uniform talent or identical tasks. Names stop at what is real; principles are set where they fit. This is what is meant by flowing smoothly through and keeping fortune intact.”

The Great Dao of Suiren (the legendary emperor who taught fire-making by drilling wood), Shennong (the legendary emperor who taught farming), the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun is not something one can discuss with anyone who is not a sage. Duke Jing of Qi was only a ruler of middling ability—how could he be fit to hear such a teaching? When Yan Hui was about to go to Qi, Confucius’s face showed worry for exactly this reason. To explain the sage’s Dao to someone who is not a sage only muddles his mind. Once the mind is muddled, pursuit will not stop, and life is harmed; when harm to life runs its course, there is only death—how then can the fullest joy be kept intact? Hence the saying: muddle leads to death. Better to follow his natural endowment and teach him the doctrine of the mean (the idea of neither leaning to extremes nor straying from one’s proper station). Then he will not be muddled, life can be preserved, and joy can be preserved as well. Confucius’s image of “nurturing a bird the way one nurtures a bird” (yining yang niao) is precisely this point.

Liezi (Lie Yukou), traveling on the road, stopped to eat by the wayside and saw a skull a century old. He parted the overgrown grass, pointed at it, and said: “Only you and I truly know the Great Dao, do we not?” To be free of such muddle is to preserve life and to preserve joy along with it. That is the same lesson as Confucius’s “nurturing a bird the way one nurtures a bird.”

On the road, Liezi ate as he walked. When he saw a skeleton a hundred years old, he pulled up a tuft of wild grass and pointed at it, saying: “Only you and I understand: there has never been death, and there has never been birth. Do you truly grieve over this? Do I truly rejoice over this?”

The transformation of species has its subtle threshold. Where water is gained, one becomes “ji” (the thread-fine life in water). Where water and earth meet, one becomes the mossy “wafu zhi yi.” On high ground one becomes “ling xi” (a plant like cheqian). When ling xi meets dung-soil, it turns into “wuzu”; the root of wuzu becomes a grub, its leaves a butterfly. Before long the butterfly changes again into an insect born under the stove, shaped like something just shed from a shell, called “quduo.” After a thousand days quduo becomes a bird called “ganyu gu.” The saliva of ganyu gu becomes “simi,” simi becomes the vinegar mite “shiyi.” “Yilu” arises from shiyi; “huangkui” from “jiuyou”; “maorui” from decayed “quan.” “yangxi” clings to old bamboo that no longer sprouts; long-standing bamboo gives birth to “qingning,” qingning to “cheng” (a beast), cheng to horse, horse to human, and the human returns again into ji. All things emerge from ji and return to ji.

The perfected person—one who has thoroughly attained the Way—keeps to the utmost limit of birth and death. He treats living as never having lived and dying as never having died. Only by “never having lived” does living truly count as living; only by “never having died” does enduring truly count as enduring. That is why Liezi, seeing the skeleton, could say that he and it had never died and never been born.

What has never been born is what lets the myriad things keep being born; what has never died is what lets the myriad things keep changing. Hence the account continues: the arising and transformation of things has no end. Yet this endless change, in going out and coming in, is entirely through ji. Ji is the subtle root of the Dao; how could the myriad things be produced merely by their various names? Therefore it is said: all things come forth from ji and enter into ji. Since their going out and coming in are all through ji, is their generation not joy? This is what Zhuangzi intends to clarify at the end of the chapter.

The chapter “Perfected Life” (Dasheng) means: if a person can set the bodily form aside, forget the distinction between self and other, and fully rest in supreme joy that is “no worldly pleasure,” then the reality of xing and ming (nature and life) is completely realized. Zhuangzi therefore composed the “Perfected Life” chapter.

Those who truly understand the situation of life do not force what life itself cannot accomplish; those who truly understand the situation of fate do not force what even knowledge cannot overcome. To preserve the body, one must first rely on external things—yet there are cases where external things are abundant and the body still cannot be kept well. There is life, and one cannot first leave the body—yet there are also cases where the body remains while life is already lost. When life comes, it cannot be refused; when it goes, it cannot be held back. How lamentable! People think that nurturing the body is enough to preserve life; if nurturing the body truly is insufficient to preserve life, then what in the world is worth doing? Even when it is not worth doing, some things still cannot be left undone—and such people ultimately cannot escape toil.

If you wish to be free from running about for the body’s sake, it is better to withdraw from worldly entanglements (to set aside attachment to mundane affairs). Withdrawal brings no burden; without burden, the mind is upright and calm; upright and calm, one can renew oneself together with the transformations of nature; able to renew in this way, one is close to the Great Dao.

Life is what the times briefly bring and what a person receives within a limit; fate is what Heaven bestows, flowing on in natural continuity, with no gap for interference. To see that life is only a temporary arrival is to understand the true situation of life; to see that it is Heaven’s gift is to understand the true situation of fate. Knowing that life is limited and not harming it with external things is “not pursuing what life has no means to accomplish”; knowing that Heaven’s mandate leaves no opening and not scheming with cleverness but instead holding back (converging one’s brilliance and not displaying wit) is “not pursuing what knowledge cannot help.”

Still, where there is life there must be a body, and the body must be nourished. Trimming away desires that ought not to exist and then preserving it is “nurturing the form must first rely on things.” If one enslaves external things and is insatiably greedy for the sake of nourishing the body, even when things pile up in plenty the body is bound to fail—hence the saying that there are cases where things are more than enough yet the form still cannot be nourished. The body is only where life lodges; it is not truly “mine.” Having this body yet unable to forget it is “having life, one cannot first leave the form.” Unable to forget the body yet treating it as one’s own, the body grows ever more depleted and life is sure to be lost—hence the saying that there are cases where the form has not departed yet life is already gone. Only those who can forget life and also forget the form treat arrival as the turning of the times and follow along when departing—hence the saying that when life comes it cannot be refused, and when it goes it cannot be stopped.

In the book of Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi, author of the work recorded in the Nanhua zhenjing), some chapters discuss nurturing life (namely Yangsheng zhu), and some discuss attaining life (Dasheng). Nurturing begins from within; attaining extends outward. Because the focus is inward, nurturing life is placed among the inner chapters; because it involves the outer, attaining life is placed among the outer chapters. This was Zhuang Zhou’s intent in composing the book.

What in the world is worth clinging to so stubbornly that you must have it, and what in life is worth cherishing so fiercely that you must preserve it at all costs? Set aside worldly business and the body will not wear itself out; loosen your grip on the obsession with survival and jing—the vitality of mind and spirit—will not be drained. When body is preserved and spirit restored, one merges with Heaven as a single whole. Heaven and Earth are the parents of the ten thousand things: when the two unite, they give form to the things; when they part, things return to their original source. When neither body nor spirit is depleted, this is called being able to shift and flow along with change; refining what is already refined, one turns back to assist the Way of Heaven.

Affairs have no end, but life has its limit. To meet endless affairs with a limited life is to overstrain one’s strength and put one’s nature-and-life in peril. Only by dropping worldly tasks, yielding to the natural course, forgetting the self, and resting in wuwei (non-action) can one roam freely and keep spirit full and bright. Thus it is said: drop affairs and the body knows no exhausting toil; ease off the fixation on mere survival and spirit knows no depletion.

When the body is not worn by toil, that is how the body is kept whole; when spirit is not drained, that is how spirit is restored. Preservation returns one to the true root; restoration settles one in emptiness and stillness—and then one is not apart from Heaven. Thus: when body is preserved and spirit restored, one is one with Heaven. Being one with Heaven, the ten thousand things take one as their pivot. Again: Heaven and Earth are the parents of the ten thousand things. As parents of the ten thousand things, they can generate and complete them. Therefore when they unite, form appears; when they scatter, there is return to the beginning. “Beginning” speaks of birth and emergence; “form” speaks of completion and fulfillment. Nurturing and completing the ten thousand things without wearing the body or spending the spirit, shifting together with creation and transformation in a way that leaves no trace of effort—this is the utmost refinement within refinement, the turn toward what is so of itself. Thus: when body and spirit are both unimpaired, it is called being able to migrate with change; refining upon refining, one turns back to align with and assist Heaven. So the teaching runs: preserve body and restore spirit, and you are one with Heaven; Heaven and Earth as parents; unite and there is form, scatter and there is return to the source; wuwei, forget the self, and flow with change at the finest edge of jing.

Liezi asked Guan Yin—the Guardian of the Pass, traditionally identified as the keeper of Hangu Pass—how a perfected person (zhiren) could walk underwater without drowning, tread on fire without being scorched, and move among the myriad things without fear. How could one reach such a state?

Guan Yin said: This comes from guarding pure qi (chunqi)—qi that is single and unmixed—not from cleverness or bold daring. Sit down; I will tell you. Whatever has form, appearance, sound, or color is a thing. How far apart can thing and thing really be? How could they ever reach the origin that precedes the myriad things? They are only outward shapes and hues. The myriad things arise from what has no form and cease where change no longer occurs. Whoever grasps this and exhausts it—how can outer things block him? He rests in a measure that does not go too far, hides in the web of what has no beginning, and moves in the space between the beginning and end of the myriad things.

The perfected person responds to the myriad things with an empty heart and meets nothing he cannot pass through; hence it is said that moving hidden does not choke. He treats things with sincerity, and things cannot harm him; hence it is said that treading fire he is not burned. He returns to assist what is naturally so and his heart is not tied down; hence it is said that he moves above the myriad things without fear. The perfected person can do this because his spirit (shen) is not depleted—not because of cleverness or brute strength. So it is said that this is guarding pure qi and does not belong to cleverness and daring.

Devote yourself to your inborn nature, nurture breath and qi, and align your De (virtue/power) with this, so that you may penetrate the source by which the myriad things are fashioned. Such a person keeps his inborn nature whole, his spirit without cracks—and from where could outer things enter?

To devote yourself to your inborn nature is not to force yourself away from the root. To nurture qi is not to step outside harmony. To align with De is to hold fast to what you already possess. Not leaving the root, uprightness is preserved. Not overstepping harmony, genuineness is complete. Holding what you have gained, faults are forgotten. Then the True Lord (inner sovereign of the genuine) is empty and still, yet can clearly know the starting point of the myriad things—hence it is said that by this one penetrates what the myriad things are made from. When the perfected person is thus, his Dao can bend yet remain whole, his subtle functioning cannot be measured, and the myriad things—how could they disturb or use him? So it is said: such a person’s spirit has no gap, and outer things have no way in.

A man who is drunk falls from a cart; even if he is thrown down hard, he does not die. His joints are the same as anyone else’s, yet the harm he suffers is not the same, because his shen (spirit) is whole. When he gets on the cart he does not know it; when he falls he does not know it either. Life, death, and alarm cannot get into his heart, so when he meets external things he is not afraid. If wine can preserve the spirit to this degree, how much more can one preserve it by relying on one’s innate nature?

Someone bent on revenge will not break swords like Mo Ye and Gan Jiang; even if he harbors resentment, he will not blame a tile that the wind happened to blow down on him. Thus the world can be evened out. There is no calamity of attack and war, and no punishment of slaughter—all of this follows from this principle.

Do not open up artificial cleverness; open up innate nature instead. Open up the innate, and De (virtue/power) is born; open up the artificial, and disaster is born. Do not wear out your inborn disposition, and do not treat human affairs lightly—then the people will be close to living by their authentic nature.

Confucius went to the state of Chu. Coming out of the forest, he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a pole as if he were picking them up off the ground. Confucius said, “You are skillful! Is there a Dao (Way) to this?” The old man said, “I have a Dao. After practicing for five or six months, I could balance two pellets on the tip of the pole without their falling—then I hardly ever missed. With three pellets, misses were only one in ten. With five pellets that still would not fall, catching cicadas was like picking them up. When I stand, my body is like a broken tree stump; when I raise my arm, it is like a withered branch. Though heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are many, in my heart I know only cicada wings. I do not turn my body or let my mind wander; I use nothing to replace my focus on those wings—how could I fail to get them?” Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “Single-mindedness without division—then the spirit can gather. That is what this hunchbacked old man shows.”

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “Once when I was crossing at Shang Shen, the ferryman handled the boat with marvelous skill. I asked whether boat-handling can be learned. He said it can: people who know how to swim pick it up after a few tries; as for those who can dive, even if they have never seen a boat, they can steer at once. I asked again, but he would not tell me more. What did he mean?” Confucius said, “Those who can swim learn it in a few tries because they have forgotten the water. Those who can dive have never seen a boat yet can steer because they take the deep abyss for a hill and capsize for something as ordinary as a cart rolling backward. Capsizing, retreating, and every sort of situation may lie before them, yet none of it enters their inner heart—where would they not be at ease? Bet with tiles and you are nimble; bet with fishhooks and you are afraid; bet with gold and you are muddled. The skill is fundamentally the same, but once you care about something, you are valuing an external thing. Whoever values external things has an inner clumsiness.”

Using a bamboo pole to catch cicadas and steering a boat on water are trifling skills; yet once mastery is complete, the practitioner remains unhurried wherever they go. Someone who bets with roof tiles stays dexterous; someone who bets with belt hooks grows timid; someone who stakes gold grows mentally scattered. Their skill was the same to begin with—once they cling to what they might lose, they load weight onto external things. Whoever prizes externals above all finds the inner self turned clumsy.

Cicada-catching and boat-handling are among the smallest of arts. Yet if one fixes the will and polishes the practice again and again, refinement at the utmost edge approaches what is almost miraculous. How much more so the work of preserving life—life is the greatest of concerns. Fix the will on preserving it to the same extreme, and one may enter that miraculous depth. Ordinary people fail at this; hence Zhuangzi has Confucius praise the old cicada-catcher and Yan Yuan (Confucius’s disciple) praise the ferryman at the crossing—both stories carry that lesson.

Tian Kaizhi called on Duke Wei of Zhou. The duke said, “I hear Zhu Shen studies nurturing life. You keep company with him—what have you heard?” Tian Kaizhi replied, “I only sweep the courtyard and wait at the gate—what could I hear from the master?” The duke said, “Do not demur; I wish to hear.” Tian Kaizhi said, “I heard the master say: one who is good at nurturing life is like a shepherd who whips whichever sheep falls behind.” The duke asked, “What does that mean?” Tian Kaizhi said, “In Lu there was Shan Bao, who lived among cliffs, drank spring water, and did not scramble for worldly gain; at seventy his complexion was still like an infant’s. By misfortune he met a starving tiger and was killed and eaten. There was also Zhang Yi, who never spared grand mansions or humble doorways hung with bamboo blinds; at forty he died of a disease of inner heat. Shan Bao had cultivated the inside, yet a tiger devoured his outer form; Zhang Yi had worked the outside, yet illness invaded his interior. Neither man whipped the side that lagged behind.”

Life necessarily has form; form necessarily has a body; the body in turn divides into inner and outer. One who preserves life nourishes both alike so that neither side fails—only then is life kept whole. Nurture only the inner and neglect the outer, and the outer collides with things—harm cannot be avoided; that is why Shan Bao lost his life to a tiger’s mouth. Work only the outer and forget the inner, and the inner harmony is boiled away—harm again cannot be avoided; that is why Zhang Yi died of disease. Both fell short of the Dao and met disaster. That is what Tian Kaizhi meant by herding sheep and whipping the straggler.

Confucius said: Do not withdraw inward to hide, and do not step outward to show off; stand upright in the middle, like bundled firewood tied in place. When “entering concealment,” “emerging in yang,” and “holding the center” all match their names in practice, cultivation has reached its height.

On a dangerous road, if one traveler in ten is killed, fathers and sons and brothers warn one another; people only dare set out after gathering a large party, for fear of meeting harm on the way. Are people not clear about that kind of danger? Yet what they ought to fear—desire on the couch and indulgence at the table—they do not guard against, and that is a mistake. Tian Kai Zhi, who discussed nurturing life with Duke Wei, used shepherding as a comparison: a good shepherd does not drive the lead sheep or whip the stragglers; he simply keeps to the middle of the flock.

The ritual officer Zhu Zong, dressed in black ceremonial robes, came to the pigsty and reasoned with the pig: “Why must you fear death? I will feed you for three months, then observe ten days of abstinence and three days of fasting, lay white rushes beneath you, and place your shoulder and haunch in a carved sacrificial vessel—would you want that?” If the choice were the pig’s, it would rather eat coarse mash and stay in the pen. When people plan for themselves, they gladly accept living with chariots and caps of rank and dying inside painted hearses and ornate coffins. They reject what they would choose for the pig and grasp what they choose for themselves—how is that different from the pig?

Duke Huan of Qi was hunting in a marsh; Guan Zhong, whom the duke honored as Zhongfu, was driving the carriage when the duke saw a ghost. He gripped Guan Zhong’s hand and asked, “Zhongfu, what do you see?” Guan Zhong said, “I see nothing at all.” After returning, the duke was unsettled and fell ill, staying indoors for days. The scholar of Qi, Huangzi Gao, said: “You have harmed yourself—how could a ghost harm you? When pent-up anger disperses but cannot be gathered back, the body grows empty and depleted. When qi rises but does not descend, a person becomes quick to rage. When it sinks but does not rise, one grows forgetful. When it neither rises nor falls but lodges in the body’s center directly opposing the heart, illness follows.” The duke asked, “Then are there ghosts?” He answered, “There are. In the mud there is Lu; on the stove, Ji; in the gate’s inner earth dwell Lei Ting; below the northeast wall, Bei’a and Kuilong leap about; below the northwest wall lives Yiyang; in water there is Wangxiang, on mounds there is Wei, in mountains there is Kui, in the open country there is Panghuang, and in marshes there is Weishe.” The duke asked what Weishe looked like. Huangzi said: “As large as a chariot hub, as long as a chariot shaft, wearing purple robes and a red cap. It hates the sound of the thunder chariot; when it hears it, it holds its head and stands still. One who sees it is close to achieving hegemony.” The duke laughed and said, “That is exactly what I saw.” He then straightened his robes and cap and sat with Huangzi; before a day had passed, his illness had quietly lifted.

Ji Shengzi was training a fighting cock for the ruler. After ten days the ruler asked, “Is the cock ready?” He answered, “Not yet—it is still hollow and arrogant, relying only on raw blood-and-qi.” Ten days later the ruler asked again; he said, “Still not—it still reacts to every sound and shadow.” After another ten days he said, “Still not—it still glares and swaggers with fighting spirit.” After another ten days he said, “Nearly there. Even when other cocks crow, it does not stir at all; it looks like a wooden cock—its De is complete. No other cock dares to fight it; those that see it turn and run.”

Ji Wuzi (an ancient master at training fighting cocks) raised cocks, and Ziqing (a carpenter of Lu) made a wooden bell-stand (zhu)—both preserved their innate true nature and followed the natural course. When true nature is preserved, virtue is complete and one aligns with Heaven. So that cock finally reached the point where no other cock dared challenge it, and when the stand was finished, it seemed as if spirit itself had settled upon the work.

Confucius watched at Lüliang (a place of many waterfalls): the hanging water rose thirty ren high (ren is an ancient unit of length), and the churning foam stretched forty li. Turtles, crocodiles, fish, and turtles could not swim there. He saw a man swimming in the water and thought he was in distress and wanted to die, so he sent disciples downstream to rescue him. The man swam several hundred paces before coming out, shook out his hair, walked along singing, and strolled below the embankment. Confucius followed and asked, “At first I took you for a ghost; looking closer, I saw you were a man. May I ask: is there a method to swimming?” The man said, “No, I have no method. I begin from what is inherently mine, grow along with my nature, and complete it in Heaven’s mandate. I sink with the whirlpool and rise with the surge, follow the water’s path, and add nothing of my own will. That is why I can swim.” Confucius said, “What do you mean by beginning from what is inherent, growing along with nature, and completing it in Heaven’s mandate?” He answered, “Born on high ground, I am at home on high ground—that is what is inherent; growing up by water, I am at home in water—that is my nature. I do not know why it is so, yet it is naturally so—that is Heaven’s mandate.”

Ziqing carved wood to make a bell-stand. When it was done, viewers were astonished and thought it the work of spirits or gods. The Duke of Lu asked, “With what Daoist skill did you make this?” He replied, “I am a craftsman—what skill would I have! Yet there is one thing: when I am about to make a stand, I never dare waste my spirit; I always fast to quiet the heart. After three days of fasting I no longer think of reward, rank, or salary; after five days, of praise or blame, or whether my craft is clever or clumsy; after seven days, I suddenly forget that I even have limbs and a body. Then there is no court in my heart, skill is single-minded, and outer disturbance vanishes. Then I enter the mountains and observe the trees’ nature; where the form is most fitting, a complete stand seems to appear before my eyes—only then do I take up the tools; otherwise I do not. This is matching my nature to the tree’s nature. That the object was taken for divine workmanship is probably for this reason.

Dongye Ji presented himself to Duke Zhuang by driving a chariot: advancing and retreating followed the carpenter’s line; turning left and right followed the compass’s circle. The duke thought even painted patterns could not surpass him and had him wheel a hundred circuits and return. Yan He heard of this and came to see the duke, saying, “Ji’s horses will break down.” The duke was silent. Presently the horses did break down and the man returned. The duke asked, “How did you know?” He answered, “The horses’ strength was already spent, yet more was still demanded of them—so they broke down.”

Gong Chui (a legendary craftsman of antiquity) could draw a circle freehand and surpass compass and square. Finger and tool became one; he did not measure with the mind, so his spirit platform (lingtai, the mind) was unified and unbound. Forgetting the feet means the shoes fit; forgetting the waist means the belt fits; when the mind forgets right and wrong, the heart fits; when the inner self does not shift and one does not blindly follow the outer, one meets affairs in just the right way. Beginning from fitting and never being unfit—that is forgetting the fitting of “fitting” itself.

A man named Sun Xiu came to the door and said in surprise to Bian Qingzi, “In my village no one says I neglect virtue; in hardship no one says I lack courage. Yet in farming I miss good years, in serving my lord I miss good times—in the village I am cast out, driven off by the district. How have I offended Heaven? Why such a fate?” Bianzi said, “Have you not heard how the perfected person (zhiren) acts? They forget liver and gall, set aside ears and eyes, wander lost beyond the dust of the world, roam free in doing nothing (wuwei). Thus they have achievement without claiming it, let things grow without dominating them. Now you parade cleverness to startle fools, polish yourself to show others’ filth, and walk bright as though carrying sun and moon. You can keep body whole, all nine openings intact, not ruined mid-course by deafness, blindness, or lameness—you still count among ordinary people; that is luck enough. What leisure to blame Heaven? Be on your way!”

Sun Xiu left. Bianzi came in and sat; after a while he sighed toward Heaven. A disciple asked, “Master, why do you sigh?” Bianzi said, “Sun Xiu just came; I told him the virtue of the perfected person, fearing he would be startled and fall into confusion.” The disciple said, “That is not so. If Sun Xiu was right and you wrong, wrong words cannot confuse one who is right; if Sun Xiu was wrong and you right, he came already confused—what is there to blame?” Bianzi said, “No. Once a bird alighted in Lu’s outskirts. The lord of Lu loved it, feasted it with the grand sacrifice (ta lao—ox, sheep, and pig), and played the Nine Shao (an ancient refined music and dance) to delight it—the bird only grew sorrowful, dazzled, and dared not eat or drink. That is nourishing a bird the way you nourish yourself. To nourish a bird as a bird, let it roost in deep forest, float on rivers and lakes, feed what it naturally eats like mudfish, and leave it on open plain—that is enough. Now Sun Xiu is narrow in sight and small in hearing; I told him the virtue of the perfected person—as if loading a mouse with chariots and horses, or making a sparrow happy with bells and drums—how could he not be alarmed?”

The principle of preserving life is something only the True Person—one who has reached the utmost height of cultivation—can truly grasp. To expound the way of full preservation of life to someone who is not a True Person is like trying to entertain a bird with a full tai-lao sacrifice (ox, sheep, and pig together) and the music of the Nine Shao: how could it fail to panic the bird? That is why Bian Qingzi (Master Bian) feared that Sun Xiu would sink into confusion. Zhuangzi wrote this chapter to awaken people in the world who have not yet understood the principle of preserving life; yet people in the world cannot instantly receive the teaching of full preservation, so he closed with Bian’s sigh and lodged his authorial intent there. In this, one may say Zhuangzi fully carried his meaning through.

Mountain Tree (Shanmu)

When one can penetrate the real circumstances of life and practice Wuwei (non-action), Wuwei returns one to empty stillness and silence, and the timber of one’s inborn nature is preserved. Once that timber is preserved, one does not seek to be put to use by the world. Zhuangzi therefore composed the “Mountain Tree” chapter.

While walking in the mountains, Zhuangzi saw a large tree with lush, spreading branches. A woodcutter paused beside it but did not cut it down. When asked why, the man said, “It’s no good for anything.” Zhuangzi said, “This tree has been able to live out its full span precisely because its wood is good for nothing.”

When Zhuangzi left the mountains, he stayed at an old friend’s house. The friend was pleased and told his servant to kill a goose for cooking. The servant asked, “One of them honks and one does not—which should I kill?” The master said, “Kill the one that cannot honk.”

The next day a disciple asked Zhuangzi, “Yesterday the tree in the mountains lived out its years because it was useless as timber; today the master’s goose died because it was useless in that way. How, Master, are you going to place yourself?”

Zhuangzi smiled and said, “I, Zhuang Zhou, intend to stand between being useful timber and being useless timber. Yet that ‘in-between’ looks right but is not really so; one still cannot escape being dragged along. If one can roam freely in accord with the Way (Dao) and Virtue (De), it is not like that: neither praised nor slandered; now like a dragon, now like a snake, shifting with the times and not clinging to a single fixed course; rising or sinking, taking harmony as one’s measure, drifting in the root-source of the myriad things. To put outer things to use without being put to use by outer things—how could one then be entangled? That is the pattern Shennong and the Yellow Emperor took as their model.

“As for the real state of the myriad things and the transmitted patterns of human relations, it is not so: where there is joining there is parting, where there is completion there is destruction; what has sharp corners gets broken, what is lofty gets talked about; where there is acting there is loss; the capable get schemed against, the incapable get pushed around—how can one insist that things must go a certain way? How lamentable! You disciples, remember: only by turning toward the realm of the Way and Virtue can one be at ease.”

What is called ming (allotted nature, the root of one’s being) is the underlying substance of cai (talent or intrinsic quality); what is called cai is the functioning of ming. Cai is what separates the greater from the lesser; yong (use) is what separates the useful from the useless.

The sage’s cai is great cai. When cai is great, cai is whole; once it is whole and one can treat the useless as useful, life can be preserved. That is why trees in the mountains, because they are not good timber, live out their natural years. The cai of ordinary people is small cai. When cai is small, cai is incomplete; once it is incomplete, yet one still treats the useless as useful, life is lost instead. That is why the goose at a mountain inn, because it could not honk, was killed for the pot. Not being able to honk looks like a mountain tree’s failure as timber—they are only alike in appearance, not truly whole in cai—so disaster cannot be avoided.

Hence the saying: to dwell between being timber and not being timber may seem to be the answer, but in truth it is not; one still cannot free oneself from being pulled along.

Shi Nan Yiliang (a worthy of Chu, known as Master Shi Nan because he lived south of the market) called on the Lord of Lu. Seeing worry on his face, he asked, “Why are you troubled?” The Lord said, “I study the Way of the former kings, carry on the work of my predecessors, revere ghosts and spirits and respect the worthy—I do these things myself and dare not slacken even for a moment—yet I still cannot escape misfortune. That is why I am troubled.”

Master Shi Nan said, “Your way of removing harm is too shallow. Foxes with thick fur and leopards with fine patterns live in mountain forests and hide in rocky caves—that is stillness; they move at night and lie low by day—that is caution; even when hungry and thirsty and in hardship they go far to rivers and lakes to find food—that is prudence. Yet they still cannot escape nets and traps. What crime have they committed? It is that coat of theirs that brings disaster. Lu today—is it not your coat? I wish you would shed the burden of the body, cast off this coat, cleanse the heart and drop desire, and wander in empty wilds where no one goes.

“In the far south there is a city-state called the Land of Jian De. Its people are simple: little selfishness, faint desire. They know work but not hoarding; they give to others and ask nothing back. They do not know where righteousness should apply, nor how ritual ought to be practiced. They seem to act at random, yet in fact tread the great Dao. Alive, they can live at ease; dead, they can be buried in peace. I wish you would leave your throne, set aside worldly affairs, and go forward in the company of the Dao.”

The Lord of Lu said, “That road is long and dangerous, with rivers and mountains—I have no boat or carriage. What am I to do?” Master Shi Nan said, “Do not be arrogant or affected, do not cling and stay put—take that as your carriage.” The Lord said, “That road is remote and empty—whom shall I have as companion? Without grain, how can I arrive?” Master Shi Nan said, “Cut expenses and restrain desire; even without grain you will have enough. You cross rivers and float on the sea, the far shore out of sight, going on without knowing where it ends. Those who see you off all turn back from the cliff’s edge, and from there you go far alone. One who possesses the people is weighed down; one possessed by others has sorrow. Yao neither possessed the people nor was possessed by them. I wish to lift your burden and clear your sorrow, and with you wander only with the Dao in the great empty realm (a vast land without things).

“When boats are tied side by side to cross a river, an empty boat that bumps you will not anger even a narrow-minded person; if there is someone in the boat, he will shout for the other to steer clear or come alongside. Once, twice—no response—and on the third call he is sure to curse. Before there was no anger and now there is anger, because before the boat was empty and now there is someone in it. If a person can empty himself and move through the world, who can harm him?”

When talent and nature are complete, one can understand the Mandate of Heaven; once the Mandate is understood, worry ceases. The Marquis of Lu’s talent and nature were not complete—he could not grasp the Mandate of Heaven—so worry merely showed on his face. Worry arises from being dragged down by external things. The Marquis tied his mind to state affairs, and the realm became his burden. Shinanzi of Shinan (a recluse of Chu) used the parable of the fat fox and the patterned leopard, whose beautiful pelts bring disaster, to instruct him. If one wishes the state no longer to weigh one down, it is better not to reckon with externals and to let nature take its course; not to force action upon the people and to let them transform on their own. Wander calmly where self-satisfaction is found; rest in the utmost emptiness and stillness—then one’s own talent and nature can be preserved, one’s effect returns to “uselessness,” and one enters the vast Heaven (liaotian, the open expanse of the Way). Who could then harm you? Hence “From this you may keep far from worry and harm,” and again “Empty yourself to wander the world—who can injure you?” This is the deep-rooted, firmly grounded path of wuwei and purity that Shinanzi taught the Marquis of Lu.

Beigong She collected levies for Duke Ling of Wei to cast bells. He set up an altar outside the outer city gate; within three months the bells were cast and could be hung in tiers. Prince Qingji saw this and asked, “What method did you use?” She said, “I held to a single ‘one-pointedness’ and dared not set up any other approach in between.” He had heard: though carved and refined, one must still return to simplicity. Dull as if without insight, dazed as if slow and hesitant—in boundless confusion, seeing off what goes and welcoming what comes: what arrives is not blocked, what departs is not held back; the hard is followed, the yielding is followed too, and each is left to reach its own end. Thus morning and evening he collected taxes yet never harmed the people so much as a hair—and how much less those who walk the great road?

The Dao is originally one, yet cannot but change; after change it returns to true simplicity. It nourishes the myriad things yet lets each grow by itself; completes the myriad things yet lets each finish by itself. It neither adds nor subtracts and does not clash with things; wuwei (non-action), not seeking utility—no one knows where it ends. These are the subtle substance of the utmost Dao; to awaken to them is enough to preserve life. Beigong She precisely entrusted this teaching to bell-casting and altar-building—hence “how much more those who have the great road to walk?”

Confucius was besieged between Chen and Cai and for seven days could not kindle a fire to cook food. Tai Gong Ren came to offer sympathy and said, “You are about to die, are you not?” Confucius said, “Yes.” “Are you afraid of death?” Confucius said, “Yes.” Tai Gong Ren said, “I once spoke of what it means not to die. In the eastern sea there is a bird called Yi Dai. It flies slowly and sluggishly, as if it had no real ability; it needs companions to lead it before it will fly, and when it roosts it presses close to other birds. Advancing, it dares not rush to the front; retreating, it dares not fall behind. When eating, it dares not taste first—it only picks what is left over. Thus it is never pushed out of the flock, and outsiders can never harm it, and so it escapes disaster. Trees that are truly fit for timber are cut down first; sweet wells are drained first. You, I suspect, adorn your wisdom to startle foolish people, cultivate yourself to reflect others’ filth, and walk about as brightly as if holding up the sun and moon—so how could you avoid calamity? I once heard a person of complete accomplishment say: those who boast of themselves have no merit; when achievement is complete it is destroyed, when fame is complete it is lost. Who can discard merit and fame and give them back to the multitude? The Great Dao circulates without displaying itself; De operates without dwelling in reputation—plain and ordinary, like a madman; erasing tracks, casting off power, not seeking renown. Therefore one does not demand of others, and others do not demand of one. The Perfect Man does not seek a name—so why should you be fond of reputation?” Confucius said, “Well said!” Thereupon he took leave of his friends, dismissed his disciples, fled into the great marshes, wore coarse fur clothing, and ate acorns; he entered herds of beasts without scattering them, entered flocks of birds without startling them into flight. Birds and beasts did not dislike him—how much more so with people?

Confucius asked Zisang Hu, “Twice I was driven out of Lu; in Song I lectured under a tree and even the tree was felled; in Wei I could not remain and my traces were erased; in Shang and Zhou I fell into hardship; and I was besieged between Chen and Cai. Meeting these misfortunes one after another, relatives and old friends grew more guarded, disciples and friends scattered further—why is this?” Zisang Hu said, “Have you not heard of the man of Jia who fled? Lin Hui abandoned a jade disk worth a thousand in gold and fled carrying an infant on his back. Someone asked, ‘Was it for money? The infant is not valuable. Was it because of burden? The infant is an even greater burden. To discard a thousand-gold jade disk and run carrying an infant—why?’ Lin Hui said, ‘The jade disk was joined by profit; the infant is joined by what is natural in heaven-and-earth.’ What is joined by profit, when poverty and disaster strike, is abandoned by one another; what is joined by nature, when poverty and disaster strike, is taken in by one another. To take in and to abandon—how far apart they are! Moreover, the friendship of gentlemen is as tasteless as water; the friendship of petty men is as sweet as sweet wine. Gentlemen are bland yet remain close; petty men are sweet yet easily break apart. What joins without cause also separates without cause.” Confucius said, “I respectfully receive your instruction.” Thereupon he returned at an easy pace, abandoned vulgar learning, and cast aside books. His disciples no longer bowed and saluted before him, yet their affection for him grew deeper.

Later one day Zisang Hu said again, “When Shun was dying, he clearly admonished Yu: ‘Be careful! The body is best when it follows along; the disposition is best when it is genuine. Following along, one does not lose one’s place; being genuine, one is not worn out. Not losing one’s place and not being worn out—then there is no need to adorn the body with artifice; not adorning the body with artifice, then there is no need to seek from external things.’”

Zhuang Zhou, wearing patched coarse cloth garments, straightened his belt and tied his shoes to visit the King of Wei. The king said, “Sir, why are you in such distress?” Zhuang Zhou said, “It is poverty, not distress. When a scholar has De yet cannot put it into practice, that is called distress; when clothes are torn and shoes worn through, that is poverty, not distress. This is failing to meet the right time. Has Your Majesty not seen the leaping gibbons? When they are among great trees such as nan, zi, or zhang, grasping branches and living among them, even skilled archers like Yi and Peng Meng cannot so much as glance sideways at them. When they drop into thickets of zhe, ji, zhi, and gou, they walk carefully, look askance, tremble with fear. This is not that their sinews and bones suddenly stiffen and lose suppleness—it is that the situation is unfavorable and they cannot deploy their abilities. To be among muddled rulers and chaotic ministers today and wish not to be in distress—how is that possible? This is exactly the kind of omen seen in Bi Gan’s having his heart cut out!”

Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai and for seven days could not kindle a fire to cook. He leaned his left hand on a withered tree and tapped with a withered branch in his right hand, singing the song of the Yan clan. There were striking implements but no regular beat; there was sound but no gong or jiao scale—yet the sound of wood and the sound of the voice clearly moved the heart. Yan Hui stood upright with hands folded, stealing glances to the side. Zhongni feared he would exaggerate himself and push the realm too high, and also pitied himself and sank into grief, so he said, “Hui, not taking to heart the injury heaven sends down is easier; not accepting the benefit people give is harder. There is no beginning that is not also an ending—human and heaven are originally one. Who is it that is singing now?” Yan Hui said, “May I ask what it means that not accepting heaven’s injury is easier?” Zhongni said, “Hunger, thirst, cold, heat, being bound in poverty and obstruction and unable to follow one’s will—these are the operations of heaven and earth, the shifting and waxing and waning of the ten thousand things. That is what is meant by going along with them and passing through. Even one who serves as minister dares not leave his post; to hold to the way of the minister is like this—how much more so in serving heaven!” “What is meant by not accepting the benefit people give being harder?” Zhongni said, “As soon as one is employed, one is connected in all directions; rank and salary arrive together without end. The profit that external things bring is not originally one’s own—it belongs to the outer portion of one’s fate. The gentleman does not act the thief; the worthy man does not act the pilferer. If I were to take these, what would I be? Therefore it is said: among birds none is cleverer than the yiyi. When the eye sees a place unfit to linger, it does not even look; even if something falls, it no longer turns its gaze.”