《南华真经新传》Vol. 4

He actually dropped what he had and fled, because he feared people in his heart; yet this pattern still plays out among human beings, and the altars of soil and grain—the land and the harvest that stand for the state—remain.

What is meant by “no beginning is not also an ending”: Zhongni (Confucius’s courtesy name) said that the ten thousand things are all born and transformed; people do not know who receives and replaces them, so how could they know where they end or where they begin? Simply set yourself right and wait in peace.

What is meant by “human beings and Heaven are one”: Zhongni said that where there are human beings, there is Heaven; where there is Heaven, there is likewise Heaven. Human beings cannot possess Heaven as their own—that is how their nature is. The sage simply rests in accepting the passing of the bodily form until life reaches its end.

Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi) was wandering among the fence rails at Diaoling when he saw a strange magpie fly in from the south, its wings spanning about seven feet and its eyes about an inch across. It brushed past Zhuangzi’s forehead and alighted in a chestnut grove. Zhuangzi said: What sort of bird is this—wings so large yet it does not fly far, eyes so large yet it does not see? He hitched up his robe, strode after it, and waited with his crossbow.

He saw a cicada that had just found a fine patch of shade and forgot itself; a mantis hid behind a leaf to snatch it, saw its gain, and forgot its own form; the strange magpie followed to take advantage and, seeing profit, forgot its true nature. Zhuangzi suddenly woke up and said: Alas! Things naturally entangle one another—these two kinds draw each other on. He threw down his crossbow, turned, and left; the park keeper who guarded the grounds ran after him and scolded him. Zhuangzi returned home and for three months did not step out of his courtyard.

His disciple Lan Que asked: Master, why have you been so downcast lately and not left the courtyard? Zhuangzi said: I clung to the outer form and forgot myself—like staring at muddy water and losing the clear deep spring. Moreover I heard you say that when one arrives somewhere, one should follow the customs there. Now I wandered at Diaoling and forgot myself; the strange magpie touched my forehead; I entered the chestnut grove and forgot my true nature; the keeper of the chestnut grove took me for someone who deserved blame. That is why I have not left the courtyard.

The bodily form is the endowment Heaven assigns to a person and also what life and fate burden one with. Only when one can forget the form is one able to forget outer things; forgetting outer things is enough to preserve life and fate; when life and fate are preserved, life itself is preserved. If one cannot forget the form, one cannot forget things; if one cannot forget things, one cannot fully preserve life and fate; if one cannot fully preserve life and fate, one cannot fully preserve life. Zhuangzi spoke of taking up the crossbow, the strange magpie, the cicada, and the mantis precisely to make this point. Taking up the crossbow to shoot the magpie while forgetting the prohibition in the chestnut grove is being driven by outer things—failure to forget the form. The mantis catches the cicada while forgetting that the strange magpie will profit from it—that is grasping at gain and failure to fully preserve life and fate. When one can neither forget the form nor fully preserve life and fate, trouble cannot be avoided; how then can life be fully preserved? That is exactly why Zhuangzi suddenly understood and no longer left the courtyard.

When Yang Zhu traveled to the state of Song, he lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines—one beautiful, one plain—yet the plain one was favored and the beautiful one was slighted. Yang Zhu asked why. A young man at the inn said, “The one who thought herself beautiful—I did not find her beautiful; the one who thought herself ugly—I did not find her ugly.”

Yang Zhu said, “Students, remember this: if you act worthily and also drop the idea that you are worthy, where would you fail to be well regarded?”

Those who wish to preserve life and live out their natural years do best to forget their outward form in outward dealings. When form is forgotten, the inner self can rest at ease—how could one not feel settled wherever one goes? That is why Yang Zhu took the young man’s words to heart. People who deem themselves beautiful are not seen as beautiful; those who deem themselves ugly are not seen as ugly. In both cases they have forgotten outward form, and beauty and ugliness are forgotten together. Is that not preserving the authentic truth of life? Hence Zhuangzi returns to this point at the end of the chapter.

New Commentary on the True Classic of Nanhua (a commentary on the Zhuangzi), fascicle 9. The Complete Library of the Four Treasures edition, fascicle 10, by Wang Pi of the Song, on the “Tian Zifang” chapter.

The true person can preserve supreme joy, penetrate the principle of life, take “uncultivated timber” as timber and “uselessness” as use, yet never lose original authenticity. The teacher of Wei Wuzu (Tian Zifang) was such a person; Zhuangzi therefore composed the “Tian Zifang” chapter.

Tian Zifang (personal name Wuzhe) sat beside Duke Wen of Wei (ruler of Wei during the Warring States period) and repeatedly praised Xigong. The duke asked, “Is Xigong your teacher?” Zifang replied, “No. He is a fellow townsman. When he explains things he is often right on the mark, so I praise him.” The duke said, “Then you have no teacher?” Zifang said, “I do.” The duke asked, “Who is your teacher?” Zifang said, “Dongguo Shunzi.” The duke said, “Then why do you never praise him?” Zifang said, “In his conduct he is utterly genuine: though he has the form of a person, inwardly he is at one with Heaven; by empty stillness he accords with outward things and thereby preserves his true nature; his mind is clear and can embrace the ten thousand things. When someone or something is not in accord with the Dao, he simply straightens his bearing so that the other person understands, and the other’s intention naturally dissolves. How could someone like me, Wuzhe, be fit to speak of him with praise!”

After Zifang left, Duke Wen was lost in melancholy. All day he did not speak. He summoned the attendants standing before him and said to them, “How lofty— that gentleman whose virtue is complete! At first I thought that the words of sages and the conduct of benevolence and righteousness were the highest reach. After hearing how Master Zifang’s teacher lives, my body feels as if it has come apart and I do not want to move; my mouth feels as if it were clamped shut and I do not want to speak. What I have learned is truly nothing but a clay puppet! Wei has truly become my burden!”

What is called a “true person” is one whose inner mind is upright and who does not lean on external things; though he has human form, he entrusts everything to wuwei (non-action)— hence “human in appearance yet Heaven within.” He is empty and still without losing the right Way— hence “empty in accord, preserving the true.” His inner mind is limpid enough to contain outward things— hence “clear and embracing things.” When perversity comes to intrude, he shows the other the source from which he has never departed from the great Dao, so that perversity extinguishes itself— hence “when things are without the Dao, he corrects his bearing to awaken them, and the other’s intention dissolves.” All of this matches the Dao’s quality of being beyond naming. Since the Dao is nameless, how can one force a name upon it? That is why Tian Zifang said he was not adequate to praise his teacher with words. When a teacher’s realm is like this, how could the ten thousand things become a burden? Duke Wen therefore lamented that what he had learned was not the true Dao, and that Wei had instead become a weight upon him— so he said what he had learned was like a clay effigy of earth, and that Wei was truly his encumbrance.

Wen Bo Xuezi (the adept described in the text) was on his way to Qi and stopped over in Lu. Someone in Lu asked to see him. Wen Bo Xuezi said: No. I have heard that gentlemen of the Central Plains are skilled in ritual and propriety but clumsy at reading the human heart—I do not wish to meet him. When he returned from Qi and again lodged in Lu, the man once more requested an audience. Wen Bo Xuezi said: He asked to see me before and asks again now; he must have something that can stir me. He went out to receive the guest and, on returning, sighed. The next day he met the guest again and again sighed on coming back. His servant asked: Every time you see this visitor you sigh when you return—why? He said: I told you long ago. People of the Central Plains understand ritual and propriety but are poor at understanding the human heart. The man who saw me earlier moved in and out as straight as compass and square; in repose he seemed like a dragon or a tiger. He admonished me like a son and guided me like a father. That is why I sighed. Confucius (Zhongni) met him but said nothing. Zilu said: Master, you have long wished to see Wen Bo Xuezi—why, after meeting him, do you not speak? Confucius said: A person like this—when our eyes meet, the Dao is already there; there is no longer room for words.

The True Person (Zhenren)—one united with the Dao—is as solid as uncarved timber, as open as a valley, as deep as the root source of the ten thousand things; neither cunning measure nor verbal exchange can grasp him. Wen Bo Xuezi was just such a one, which is why Confucius, on meeting him, could not speak. Not to speak is because the heart has already understood; when the heart has understood, what need is there to rely on words? Hence it is said that sound can no longer find a place.

Yan Yuan questioned Confucius.

The teacher of Tian Wucuo (Tian Zifang) and Wen Bo Xuezi had both gained something of the Way, yet neither reached the level of Confucius; therefore the narrative has Yan Hui expound Confucius’s Way and develop it further. Confucius’s Way is utmost in subtlety; what he attained came from Lao Dan (Laozi), and so the text continues with Confucius and Lao Dan discussing the Dao. Wucuo’s teacher fell short of Wen Bo Xuezi, Wen Bo Xuezi fell short of Confucius, and Confucius in turn took Lao Dan as teacher—each step one grade lower. This is Zhuangzi’s device of having these figures praise and discuss teachers in layers, down to the finest point of the Dao.

Yan Hui said: “When my teacher walks slowly, I walk slowly; when he quickens his pace, I quicken mine; when he runs, I run. Once he races ahead and leaves the dust far behind, I can only stare wide-eyed and lag behind. It is by following this man whom the disciples call their teacher and discussing the Dao with him that I have been able to reach such subtle depth.”

Confucius asked, “Yan Hui, what do you mean by that?” Yan Hui replied, “When my teacher walks, I walk; when he speaks, I speak along with him; when he quickens his pace, I quicken mine; when he debates, I debate; when he runs, I run; when he expounds the Dao, I expound the Dao. But when he races ahead and leaves the dust far behind, I can only stare wide-eyed and fall behind.”

Zhongni had already entered the Dao; Yan Hui merely knew the Dao. One who has entered the Dao has arrived at true emptiness—the still, open state in which nothing is clung to—so he can race ahead and leave the dust behind, and others cannot catch up. One who knows the Dao has not yet reached that emptiness, so though he hurries and runs to keep up, he can only stare from behind. When others cannot catch up, that person stands alone as a sage; when someone can follow close behind, that person can inherit the sage’s place. Thus Confucius is the teacher of ten thousand generations, and Yan Hui is the sub-sage—the sage second only to Confucius.

Though the teacher does not speak, people still trust him; though he does not form private factions, he treats everyone broadly and evenly; though he holds no noble rank or ritual emblems of office, the common people come forward to follow him, without themselves knowing why. Confucius said, “How can one fail to examine this closely? Nothing is more lamentable than the death of the heart; the death of the body is secondary. The sun rises in the east and sets at the far west, and nothing among the ten thousand things fails to align with it. All who have eyes and feet must wait for it to rise before they can accomplish their tasks: when it comes out, the ten thousand things live; when it goes down, they perish. The ten thousand things are the same—they die because they depend on something, and live because they depend on something.”

Confucius treated the ten thousand things with sincerity, so even without speaking he could win trust; he treated those below him with deep loyalty, so even without favoritism he could reach everyone; without noble rank he was yet most revered, so without the insignia of office the people gathered to him; without position or power the ten thousand things came to him, so people walked before him without knowing why. That is why Confucius became a sage.

Once a person has received a physical form from the True Master (Zhenzai), that form can no longer be altered; it can only be maintained until life ends. People move in response to outer things, without rest day or night, yet do not know where they will ultimately return. Though the body is warmly alive, even one who understands fate cannot foresee what lies ahead. For this reason Kong Qiu felt that he was losing something of himself every day. My companionship with you in this life is like arms briefly touching and then missing each other—how can that not be sorrowful? You probably cling only to the outward traces I show. Those traces have long since vanished, yet you still treat them as something real to seek—like looking for a horse in a market where there are no horses at all. What I keep of you in my heart has largely faded; the same is true of you toward me. Even so, why need you worry? Though the “I” of the past is forgotten, something that cannot be forgotten still remains here.

The True Master fashioned things so that I received a form and became the person I am now. Once the form is fixed, it cannot be shifted; it must run its course until life reaches its end—yet that alone is not enough to shake off the drag of cares. Therefore the sage looks through things with clarity, forgets his own body, and in that way achieves no-self.

Confucius went to see Laozi. Laozi had just washed his hair and was drying it loose; he stood there blank and still, as if he were not a person of this world. Confucius withdrew to one side and waited; after a while he came forward and said: “Is it that my eyes are failing, Kong Qiu, or is it really so? A moment ago, Master, your body was stiff as dead wood, as if you had cast off outer things, left the crowd, and stood alone in utter solitude.” Laozi said: “I was letting my spirit roam in the beginning before things had taken shape.” Confucius asked: “What does that mean?” Laozi said: “When the heart is blocked, it cannot know; when the mouth is open, it cannot speak. Let me try to give you a rough account of its main drift.”

The beginning of all things is non-being (wu). Non-being is the true substance of the Dao (the Way); it is not paired or matched with anything. Laozi’s spirit roamed there—hence Confucius saw his body like dead wood, as though he had cast things aside, left others, and stood apart. To leave the crowd is to step beyond the realm of ordinary people; to stand in oneness is to enter the sphere where one is united with Heaven. That is precisely what makes Laozi so wondrous.

The utmost yin is cold and killing; the utmost yang is blazing and brilliant. The killing qi issues from heaven; the blazing qi rises from earth. When yin and yang meet and harmonize, the myriad things are thereby generated. Some would set order and measure for them, yet no form can be seen. Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness, darkness and light—day by day they shift, month by month they transform; each day there is activity, yet no achievement appears. Life has a place where it sprouts; death has a place where it returns. Beginning and end oppose and join each other, without starting thread and without known end. If it were not this Dao, who could be lord of the myriad things?

One yin and one yang—that is called the Dao. The Dao is born from yin and yang; when yin and yang divide, the Dao becomes manifest. Yin alone cannot complete; yang alone cannot generate—there must be meeting and interchange before the myriad things can be born. Hence it is said: the utmost yin is solemn, the utmost yang is resplendent; the solemn emerges from heaven, the resplendent issues from earth; the two interchange in harmony and things are born. Heaven belongs to yang, earth to yin; yin qi issues from heaven and yang qi rises from earth—right there is where yin and yang meet.

Kongzi asked: How does one wander the heart in this? Laozi (La Dan) said: To obtain this is supreme beauty and supreme joy. To obtain supreme beauty and roam in supreme joy—that is called the perfected person (zhiren), one who accords with the Dao.

Only by fully accord with the Dao can one fully preserve nature and life (xingming); when nature and life are preserved, that is the greatest joy. So Laozi spoke of supreme beauty and supreme joy: to obtain it is supreme beauty and supreme joy; to obtain supreme beauty and roam in supreme joy is called the perfected person.

Because one fully accords with the Dao, one can preserve nature and life; when the mandate-life is whole, there is no joy greater. The Dao is the supreme beauty under heaven; life-mandate (ming) is the supreme joy of the myriad things. Supreme beauty arises from the Dao—look yet you cannot see it; supreme joy arises from the mandate—listen yet you cannot hear it. Only by entering the Dao can the mandate be made whole; only where there is beauty can there be joy. These two—no one but the perfected person can possess both fully. Hence it is said: to obtain supreme beauty and roam in supreme joy is called the perfected person.

Confucius said: I wish to hear the reasoning behind this. The reply was: Beasts that eat grass do not feel distressed when they move to another meadow; creatures of the water do not feel unsettled when they shift to another deep pool. One’s conduct may change in small ways without losing the great constancy—the law that all things uphold and that never changes. Joy, anger, sorrow, and delight do not enter the heart. The world under Heaven is originally the One to which all things belong in common. If a person attains this One and merges with all things as one, then limbs and body are as negligible as dust; death and life, end and beginning are like the alternation of day and night—nothing can disturb him. How much less can gain and loss, fortune and misfortune—petty matters that stand in between—do so? Casting off what is external and attached is like casting off mud, because one knows that the self is more precious than such attachments. What is precious is oneself, yet without losing the One one upholds amid change. Moreover, the myriad things transform without end; what is there worth troubling the mind over? One who has awakened to the great Dao understands this principle.

All things under Heaven and Earth arise from the Dao and thus return together to the One. If one understands the subtlety of “attaining the One,” one practices Wuwei (non-action); in Wuwei there is no private self; without a private self, the body is like discarded mud, and death and life, coming and going, cannot encumber one. How then could gain and loss or benefit and harm lodge in the heart like a tiny sting? Therefore it is said: the world under Heaven is the One that all things share in common. Obtaining it and becoming one with things, the four limbs and hundred parts of the body are all mere filth; death, life, end, and beginning are like day and night and cannot unsettle one—still less can gain and loss and fortune and misfortune, which intervene between, do so.

Confucius said: The Master’s virtue is sufficient to match Heaven and Earth, yet you still rely on the highest teaching to cultivate the inner mind. Which ancient gentleman could avoid doing the same? Laozi said: It is not so. Water wells up naturally without human contrivance, and its quality is already complete in itself. For the perfected person (zhiren), virtue likewise needs no deliberate cultivation; yet the myriad things cannot do without him—just as Heaven is naturally high, Earth naturally thick, and sun and moon naturally bright. What need is there to cultivate? Confucius went out and told Yan Hui: In regard to the Dao, I am like the vinegar-gnat in the jar (xiji—a metaphor for one whose vision is blocked and scope is narrow). Had the Master not lifted the covering that shrouded me, I would not have known that Heaven and Earth are so vast and complete.

Zhuangzi went to see Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, “In Lu there are many Ru scholars, but few who study your Way.” Zhuangzi replied, “In fact there are few Ru in Lu.” The duke said, “The whole country wears Ru robes—how can you say they are few?” Zhuangzi said, “I, Zhuang Zhou, have heard that Ru wear round caps because they understand celestial timing; they wear square-toed shoes (juli) because they understand terrain; and they hang a jade ring with a notch (jue, symbolizing decisiveness) at the belt because when a matter arises they can decide at once. A gentleman who truly has the Way may not dress in this garb at all, and those who dress in it may not truly understand the Way. If Your Highness will not believe this, why not issue an order throughout the realm: anyone who wears this dress without possessing this Way shall be sentenced to death?” After the duke issued the order, within five days no one in Lu dared wear Ru robes anymore—except one man in Ru dress standing at the palace gate. The duke summoned him and tested him with affairs of state; however the questions changed, he could not be stumped. Zhuangzi said, “In all Lu there is only this one genuine Ru—can that be called many?”

Baili Xi had no rank or salary in his heart, so he tended cattle; the cattle grew fat, and Duke Mu of Qin therefore forgot his humble origins and entrusted him with government. Youyu Shi (Shun) had no fixation on life and death in his heart, and so he could move people’s hearts.

Duke Yuan of Song was about to have a painting session. The painters all arrived, bowed to the ruler, and stood at attention; they licked their brushes and adjusted their ink, and half of them still waited outside. One painter arrived late, walked slowly and did not hurry forward; after bowing he did not stand waiting but went straight back to his lodging. The duke sent someone to look in on him and found that he had stripped off his clothes, sat with legs apart at ease, entirely naked. Duke Yuan said, “Enough—this is the true painter.”

King Wen of Zhou was touring in Zang when he saw a man fishing. Though he held a line, he seemed not to be fishing at all; it was not that he gripped tackle while his mind fixed on a catch, but that his mind stayed constant and he fished without deliberate intent. Wen wished to employ him and hand over government, yet feared his ministers and elders would be uneasy; he wished to let the matter drop, yet could not bear that the people should lack someone to rely on. So one morning he told the grand officers, “Last night I dreamed of a worthy man: a dark face, a beard, riding a piebald horse with one hoof red. He charged me: ‘Entrust government to the old man of Zang—then the people may nearly be saved!’” The officers said in alarm, “That was the former king.” Wen said, “Then let us divined about it.” They said, “This is the former ruler’s command; Your Majesty need not doubt further—why divined at all?” So they welcomed the old man of Zang and gave him the administration. He did not alter the existing statutes nor issue partial or private orders. After three years Wen looked over the realm and saw scholars breaking up factions and cliques, local chiefs no longer advertising their own merit, and foreign measures that did not match the standard daring not enter the borders. Scholars dissolved factions because they valued shared purpose; chiefs did not make their own virtue a banner because they served one common task; measures did not enter the borders because the feudal lords had no divided hearts. Wen then appointed him Grand Tutor and, facing north in the posture of a subject, asked, “Can such government be extended to all under Heaven?” The old man of Zang looked indifferent and did not answer; he took leave casually—in the morning he had received his charge, by night he had fled, and afterward was never heard from again.

Yan Hui asked Zhongni (Confucius), “Was King Wen not already perfect? Why did he still need to pretend it was a dream?” Confucius said, “Stop—say no more. Wen had already done what was complete—what is there to criticize? He was only following the crowd and yielding for the moment.”

Lu had many Confucian scholars and Zhou had many ministers of the royal house, yet only one true Confucian and one true gentleman truly attained the Way. Lu gained that true Confucian: when Duke Ai of Lu asked him about affairs of state, he could respond in endlessly varied ways. Zhou gained that true gentleman: when King Wen entrusted him with governance, the feudal lords of the four quarters held no divided loyalty. In both men inner fullness left surplus for outward action—they were complete in talent, yet their virtue did not show on the surface. That is why Zhuangzi speaks of them in this chapter.

Lie Yukou (Liezi) was shooting for Bo Hun Wu Ren (a master who embodied the Way). With the bow fully drawn and a cup of water balanced on his elbow, he loosed one arrow after another: as one left the string, the next was already nocked. He stood as still as a puppet. Bo Hun Wu Ren said: “This is shooting with deliberate intent—it is not shooting without mind. Suppose you climbed a high mountain, stood on a crumbling ledge with a hundred-zhang abyss below—could you still shoot?” So he climbed the mountain, stepped onto the perilous rock, and faced the chasm; backing toward the void until two tenths of his foot hung over the edge, he bowed and invited Liezi to come forward. Liezi fell prostrate, sweat streaming to his heels. Bo Hun Wu Ren said: “The perfected person (zhiren) can gaze up at the blue sky, dive down to the yellow springs, and move freely through the eight extremes, yet his spirit and bearing do not change. Now you are so frightened that your gaze wavers—your inner heart is already in danger.”

The perfected person moves submerged through the world without being blocked; wherever he goes he is at ease. He settles his heart beyond Heaven and Earth and does not drop it into visible things; even peril is forgotten—how then could he fear? That is the meaning of Bo Hun Wu Ren’s saying that one can look up at the blue sky, down to the yellow springs, and sweep through the eight extremes while spirit and bearing stay unchanged.

Jian Wu asked Sun Shu Ao (a worthy minister of Chu): “You served three times as lingyin (chief minister of Chu) without seeming elated, and three times you left office without regret; when you stood in danger, were you ever afraid?” This carries the same point as Bo Hun Wu Ren’s words about gazing at the blue sky, diving to the yellow springs, and moving through the eight extremes without change in spirit and bearing.

Jian Wu asked Sun Shu-ao: “You served three times as chief minister—the highest administrative officer of Chu—and showed no sign of pride; you left office three times and wore no look of grief. At first I doubted you, but now I see your breath easy and your bearing relaxed. What is going on inside you?”

Sun Shu-ao said: “What do I have that others lack? I only hold that when office comes, it cannot be refused; when it goes, it cannot be held back. I treat gain and loss as not belonging to me, so I simply have no look of worry. What else is special about me? Besides, I do not know whether nobility and baseness lie in outer things or in myself: if in outer things, they are not mine; if in me, they are not in outer things. I am at ease, looking all around—where would I find time to fuss over others’ high or low station?”

When Confucius heard this, he said: “The True Person of old—clever debaters could not argue him down, beauty could not seduce him, robbers could not coerce him; even Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor could not befriend him on equal terms. Life and death are already the greatest changes, yet they could not alter his self—how much less rank and salary? Such a person’s spirit would not be blocked by great mountains, would not be soaked entering deep springs, would not be trapped in lowly places; he fills heaven and earth. Having given everything to others, he himself is all the more full.”

The king of Chu sat with the lord of Fan. Before long, attendants of the king of Chu three times announced that Fan had fallen. The lord of Fan said: “The fall of Fan is not enough to destroy what I preserve within. If the loss of Fan cannot make me lose my inner being, then the survival of Chu is not enough to secure that inner being either. Seen this way, Fan was never truly destroyed, and Chu was never truly secure.”

The Perfect Person treats the body as a temporary lodging and life and death as comings and goings—how much more so rank, salary, and the carriage and cap of high office, which are outer things? So Sun Shu-ao, three times in office and three times out, showed neither pride nor grief. Rank, salary, and emblems of office are only things temporarily lent from outside: when they come you cannot reject them, when they go you cannot stop them; coming and going depend on outer things, not on me—therefore gain and loss do not belong to me. Since gain and loss do not belong to me, why rejoice or grieve over them? Hence he said he simply had no look of worry. This is how Sun Shu-ao could forget outer things—and Confucius cited the ancient True Person to praise him.

“Knowledge Rambling in the North” (Zhi Beiyou) is the title of the chapter to which this passage belongs.

That which is deep, silent, subtle, and abstruse is the true substance of the utmost Dao. This substance cannot be grasped through emotion or probed with cleverness; only through “not-knowing” can it be attained. Zhuangzi therefore wrote the chapter “Knowledge’s Journey North.”

Knowledge (a allegorical figure standing for cleverness) wandered north and came to the dark waters of Xuan, climbed the hill of Yinmie (hidden and secluded), and there met Wuwei Wei (a name meaning “no acting, nothing to say”). Knowledge asked him three times: By what thinking and scheming can one know the Dao? Where to dwell and what to do to rest in the Dao? What to follow and what path to take to obtain the Dao? Wuwei Wei did not answer—not because he refused, but because he did not know how to answer.

Unable to get an answer, Knowledge returned south of the White Waters, climbed Fox Knoll, and saw Kuang Qu (a name suggesting both striving forward and bending back). He asked the same questions. Kuang Qu said, “Ah, I know—I was just about to tell you,” but halfway through he forgot what he meant to say.

Still without an answer, Knowledge went to the Yellow Emperor’s palace and asked him. The Yellow Emperor said: Without thinking or scheming, one begins to know the Dao; without fixed dwelling or particular conduct, one begins to rest in the Dao; without leaning on anything or following a path, one begins to obtain the Dao. Knowledge asked again: You and I know, while those two do not—who is right? The Yellow Emperor said: Wuwei Wei is truly right; Kuang Qu only approximates it; you and I in the end still fall short. Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not truly know—therefore the sage teaches through wordless instruction. The Dao cannot be summoned; De cannot be forced into attainment. Benevolence can still be practiced, righteousness can be trimmed back, but ritual is mutual pretense and ornament. Hence it is said: When the Dao is lost, one speaks of De; when De is lost, one speaks of benevolence; when benevolence is lost, one speaks of righteousness; when righteousness is lost, one speaks of ritual. Ritual is the gaudy surface of the Dao and the beginning of disorder. Therefore one who seeks the Dao daily reduces and reduces until reaching wuwei (non-action); in wuwei, nothing remains undone.

Now that we have already become formed things, wishing to return to the root—is that not hard? To make it easy, perhaps only the “great person” (one who has attained the Dao) can do so. Life is death’s companion; death is life’s beginning—who knows their thread? Human life is the gathering of qi: when qi gathers, there is life; when qi scatters, there is death. If birth and death are seen as following the same kind, what is there to worry about? Thus the myriad things are originally one body. What people love is called wondrous; what they hate is called foul. Foul turns again to wondrous; wondrous turns again to foul. Hence it is said: What penetrates the world is a single flow of qi. The sage therefore values this “oneness.”

Knowledge said to the Yellow Emperor: I asked Wuwei Wei; he did not respond—not because he refused me, but because he did not know how to respond. I asked Kuang Qu; he was about to tell me but could not finish—not because he refused me, but because he forgot while trying to speak. Now I ask you, and you know—why do you say you still fall short of the Dao? The Yellow Emperor said: Wuwei Wei is truly right precisely because he does not know; Kuang Qu only approximates precisely because he forgot; you and I in the end fall short precisely because we know. When Kuang Qu heard this, he took the Yellow Emperor’s words as understanding how speech works.

“Knowledge” names yang brightness; “north” names yin obscurity. Only by not using brightness and instead hiding in obscurity can one enter the depths of the utmost Dao. Hence the story places Knowledge’s northward journey on the dark waters and the hill of Yinmie, where he meets Wuwei Wei. One named Wuwei has not yet escaped being “someone who acts”; not having escaped acting, how can that suffice to know the Dao? That is why he does not answer. Because he did not answer, Knowledge returned to the place of yang brightness to resolve his doubt—hence returning south of the White Waters, climbing Fox Knoll, and seeing Kuang Qu. South of the White Waters indicates yang brightness; atop Fox Knoll indicates doubt in the heart that cannot be decided. “Kuang” is seeking; “Qu” is bending—still not wuwei; not wuwei, again not enough to know the Dao—so he only says, “I know—I was just about to tell you.” Knowledge thought those two did not know; without a sage one cannot clarify, so he went to the Yellow Emperor’s palace. The Yellow Emperor is a sage, adequate to know the utmost Dao.

“What thinking, what scheming” is no-mind; “where to dwell, what to wear/do” is no fixed form; “what to follow, what path” is no fixed direction. No-mind speaks of utmost emptiness; no form speaks of true emptiness; no direction speaks of utmost subtlety. Utmost emptiness is where the Dao gathers—hence one can know the Dao; true emptiness is where the Dao abides—hence one can rest in the Dao; utmost subtlety is where the Dao resides—hence one can obtain the Dao. These three levels—only a sage can know them; therefore the Yellow Emperor said: You and I know, those two do not. Wuwei Wei and Kuang Qu are names Zhuangzi invented to carry his meaning.

Heaven and earth hold supreme beauty yet do not speak; the four seasons have clear norms yet do not discuss; the ten thousand things each have their settled patterns yet do not explain. The sage traces heaven and earth’s great beauty and thereby penetrates the principle of the ten thousand things. Thus the perfected person takes no deliberate action, and the great sage does not contrive—meaning they observe and take heaven and earth as their model. Spirit reaches the utmost subtlety and moves with every change among the ten thousand things. Things die or live, square or round—no one knows their source. The ten thousand things flourish vigorously; from ancient times they have simply been thus. Though the six directions are vast, nothing lies beyond this; though autumn down is fine, it takes this to take form. Nothing under heaven fails to rise and sink with the times, never staying in an old shape for life. Yin and yang and the four seasons turn, each in due order. It is dim and unclear—seeming gone yet still there; it surges naturally, without showing form yet with wondrous efficacy. The ten thousand things are nourished by it yet do not know it—this is called the root source, and from here one may observe the Way of Heaven.

Those who truly know the Way do not proclaim it; those eager to proclaim it do not truly know. Heaven and earth are born from the Way yet never declare to people the merit of covering and bearing the ten thousand things; the four seasons run with the Way yet never tell people when cold and heat will come; the ten thousand things are transformed from the Way yet do not explain to people the principle of their arising. The sage’s virtue aligns with heaven and earth, his sequence with the four seasons; he subtly threads through the real situation of the ten thousand things and secretly accords with and holds the Way, never lecturing people at length. So it is said: the sage traces heaven and earth’s great beauty and penetrates the principle of the ten thousand things. The perfected person’s wuwei is to leave things to nature and not act with contrivance; the great sage’s non-doing is to let things complete themselves and not manufacture on his own. This is the perfected person and great sage matching heaven and earth’s way of not speaking—observing and taking heaven and earth as model.

Nieque asked Beiyi about the Dao. Beiyi said: Straighten your form and fix your gaze in one place, and the natural harmony of qi will arrive; put away your cleverness and align your measure, and spirit will come to dwell within you. De will complete your inner goodness, and the Dao will be the place where you abide. Your eyes will be clear like those of a newborn calf, and you will no longer chase after the reasons of things. Before he had finished speaking, Nieque had fallen asleep. Beiyi was greatly pleased and left, singing. In his song he said: The body is like withered bones, the heart like extinguished ashes; he truly knows, yet does not hold himself by old fixed views; dim and without scheming, one cannot plot with him—what kind of person is this!

To straighten the form is to keep the body from weariness; to fix the gaze in one place is to keep one from seeing things worth coveting. When the body is not worn out, the form is preserved; when one does not see covetable things, spirit returns. When form is whole and essence restored, one merges with Heaven as one, and so it is said that natural harmony will arrive. To put away cleverness is to be without thought and without contrived action (wusi wuwei); to align one’s measure is neither to add wrongly nor to subtract wrongly. Without thought and without contrived action, one returns to simplicity; neither adding nor subtractting, one preserves unity. Returning to simplicity while remaining whole, spirit is not depleted—hence it is said that spirit will come to dwell. That De completes your goodness is to move in the ease of a settled heart; that the Dao is your dwelling is to abide in the utmost empty stillness. Eyes like a newborn calf, no longer asking for original causes—that is returning to the first natural state. These are the real principles of entering the Dao, so Nieque suddenly understood in his heart and, before the words were finished, had fallen asleep.

Shun asked Cheng: Can the Dao be taken and possessed as one’s own? The answer was: Your body is not even yours—how could you possess the Dao? Shun said: If my body is not mine, whose is it? The answer was: It is the form entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Speaking of life—the words were not yet complete when the person had already fallen asleep.

Shun asked Cheng (an ancient official title; some say he was Shun’s teacher): “Can the Dao be obtained and held as one’s own?” Cheng replied: “Your body does not even belong to you—how then could you possess the Dao?” Shun asked: “If my body is not mine, who does it belong to?” Cheng said: “It is the bodily form entrusted by Heaven and Earth. Life is not yours—it is the harmonious qi entrusted by Heaven and Earth. Nature and destiny are not yours—they are the yielding transformation entrusted by Heaven and Earth. Even your descendants are not yours—they are what Heaven and Earth entrust, like shells left behind after a molt. So when you walk, you do not know where you are going; when you dwell, you do not know what you are holding; when you eat, you do not know the taste. All of this is the movement of the strong Yang qi between Heaven and Earth—how then could it be possessed?”

When Confucius had leisure, he asked Laozi (Lao Dan) about the highest Dao. Laozi said: First undertake fasting and purification—the preparation before one may hear the Great Dao: open and clear the heart-mind, wash the spirit clean, and cast off cleverness and artifice. The Dao is dark and abysmal and hard to put into words; I can only sketch its general outline for you.

Manifest brightness is born from obscurity; ordered things arise from the formless. Spirit (Shen) is born from the Dao; the root of the bodily form is born from essence and Qi (Jing and Qi); and the ten thousand things, through their forms, further beget one another. What has nine apertures (mostly humans and beasts) is womb-born; what has eight apertures (mostly birds) is egg-born. When it comes there is no trace; when it goes there is no limit. It has no gate, court, or room, yet it opens on every side—vast and unobstructed. Those who can unite with it have strong limbs, penetrating thought, and keen ears and eyes; the mind is used without strain, and in meeting things there is no fixed method. Heaven cannot but be high, earth cannot but be broad, sun and moon cannot but run their courses, and the ten thousand things cannot but flourish—this is the Dao.

Wide learning does not necessarily mean genuine knowing; skill in debate does not necessarily mean wisdom—the sage has already abandoned such pursuits. What the sage holds to is that which, when you add to it, is not further increased, and when you diminish it, is not further diminished. It is deep as the sea, lofty and vast, yet turns and cycles; it moves and carries the ten thousand things without being exhausted. Seen in this light, even the way of the noble person still lies within its scope. All things draw from it, yet it is never used up—this is the Dao.

In the Central Kingdom (here, the human world of the middle realm) there are such beings: neither yin nor yang alone, placed between heaven and earth—temporarily human, yet destined in the end to return to the root. Fundamentally, life is only something obscure and murky—Qi briefly gathered, a dim, unclear mass. Even if long life and short life differ, how great is the gap? It is merely a way of speaking of an instant—far too slight to settle the rights and wrongs of Yao (the sage king) and Jie (the tyrant). Melons and fruits each have their own pattern; though human relations are difficult, from this too an order of priority and sequence arises. The sage, when he meets things, does not oppose them; when he passes through, he does not cling. Harmonizing and yielding is De (Virtue/Power); responding without deliberate intent is the Dao. From this imperial dominion rises and royal enterprise begins.

A human between heaven and earth is like a white colt flashing past a crack—in a moment, it is gone. Whatever surges forth vigorously is born from this; whatever quietly disperses enters through this. Already transformed, one is born; transformed again, one dies. Living creatures mourn it; people grieve. The heavenly fastening is unbound, the heavenly wrapping falls away; amid turmoil and turning, the hun and po (soul and corporeal spirit) are about to leave, and the body follows—this is the great return, the final homecoming. From no form one becomes form; from form one returns to no form—this everyone knows, yet it is not what those who are about to reach the Great Dao take as their task; it is only what the crowd talks about together. Those who truly arrive no longer discuss it; those who still discuss it have not yet arrived. Deliberately seeking and scrutinizing misses it; disputation is inferior to silence. The Dao cannot be got by hearing and inquiring—to listen and chase after it is inferior to closing the senses. This is called the great attainment.

Laozi (Laozi, also known as La Dan) was a divine being whose marvels had no fixed abode and whose depth could not be fathomed. When he expounded the Dao to Confucius, he moved from the subtle to the manifest, from non-being to being: he began by saying that brightness (zhaozhao) arises from obscurity (mingming), and ended by speaking of form that is not form—form that does not settle into fixed shape. Brightness arising from obscurity means that Heaven and Earth arise from the undifferentiated Dao (hun cheng, the Dao before division). Once Heaven and Earth exist, human relations follow; once human relations exist, the myriad things follow; and the ways of ruler and subject, of sovereign and minister, are all thereby in place. Such is the generation of the Dao. Yet the Dao cannot be argued about—arguing is inferior to silence, hence "to argue is not as good as to be silent"; the Dao cannot be heard—hearing is inferior to not hearing, hence "to hear is not as good as to block the ears." Not arguing and not hearing, one can be without deliberate action (wuwei, non-action) yet gain something in the heart—this is called "great attainment." Laozi's discussion of the Dao with Confucius, from beginning to end, followed this order.

Dongguo Zi asked Zhuangzi: "Where is the so-called Dao?" Zhuangzi replied: "It is nowhere not present." Dongguo Zi said: "You must point to a definite place." Zhuangzi said: "It is among the ants." Laozi's discussion of the Dao with Confucious, from beginning to end, followed this order.

Dongguo Zi asked Zhuangzi, “Where exactly is this thing called the Dao?” Zhuangzi replied, “There is nowhere it is not.” Dongguo Zi said, “You have to point to a definite place.” Zhuangzi said, “It is in ants.” Dongguo Zi said, “Why something so lowly?” Zhuangzi said, “It is in wild barnyard grass.” Dongguo Zi said, “Why something even lower?” Zhuangzi said, “It is in tiles and bricks.” Dongguo Zi said, “Why something still more extreme?” Zhuangzi said, “It is in excrement and urine.” Dongguo Zi said no more.

Zhuangzi said, “Your question, sir, never hit what really matters. When Zheng Huo the market officer asked the market inspector how to tell a pig’s fatness by stepping on it, the lower on the leg one stepped, the easier it was to see fat and lean; the lower the place, the more plainly the truth showed. As long as you do not insist that the Dao must be in one place, nothing can escape being outside the Dao. The utmost Dao is like this, and great words are like this too. Zhou, bian, and xian are three different names for one and the same thing.

Why not go together to the Palace of No-Where—nothing at all—and merge our talk to see whether it has an end? Why not together do nothing, stay plain and quiet, silent and clear, harmonized and at ease? My mind is already empty and still: I go without knowing where I arrive; I come and go without knowing where I stop; I move within it without knowing where it ends. Wandering in vast openness, when great understanding enters, one still does not know its limit.

The Dao that completes the ten thousand things has no boundary with things; what has boundaries is the limit between thing and thing. That boundary which is without boundary is the unbounded within boundary. What we call full, empty, decaying, and dwindling: the Dao gives things fullness and emptiness but is not itself full or empty; gives them decline and destruction but is not itself decline or destruction; gives them root and tip but is not itself root or tip; gives them gathering and scattering but is not itself gathering or scattering.

Ehegan and Shennong studied the Dao under Laolong Ji. Shennong leaned on his armrest, shut the door, and slept through the day. At noon Ehegan pushed the door open and said, “Old Long is dead!” Shennong took his staff, rose, dropped the staff with a clack, and laughed: “Sir knew I was narrow, shallow, arrogant, and rude, so he left me and died. Alas! Sir had not yet opened me with those wild words before he was gone!”

Yan Gangdiao heard this and said, “One who grasps the Dao is what the gentlemen of the world rely on. Laolong Ji had not attained even one ten-thousandth of the tip of an autumn hair’s breadth of the Dao, yet he knew to hide his wild words and die—how much more one who truly embodies the Dao! The Dao looks as if it has no form, sounds as if it has no sound; when people speak of it they call it dark and deep—that is only talk about the Dao, not the Dao itself.”

The Dao is what the ten thousand things follow. As substance it is substance; as function it is function. It has no name and leaves no trace, yet it is nowhere absent. Viewed from “being,” one can know its outward edge; viewed from “non-being,” one can know its subtle depth. Empty, still, far-reaching, without beginning or end—this is the Dao’s finest principle. Dongguo Zi did not understand and still asked where the Dao was; he was blocked by a single partial view. Blocked by partial view, one cannot know the Dao’s depth—so Zhuangzi answered: the Dao is in all places.

Taiqing—the embodiment of supreme clarity—asked Wuji, existence without ultimate limit: “Do you understand the Dao?” Wuji replied: “I do not understand.” He then asked Wuwei, existence that follows nature without deliberate action; Wuwei said: “I understand the Dao.” Taiqing asked: “Does the Dao you understand have a structure that can be put into words?” Wuwei said: “It does.” “What is that structure?” Wuwei said: “The Dao I understand can stand in honor or in lowliness, can gather or scatter. That is the structure by which I understand the Dao.”

Taiqing took these answers to Wushi, existence without beginning: “If so, between Wuji’s not understanding and Wuwei’s understanding, who is right and who is wrong?” Wushi said: “Not understanding is depth; taking oneself to understand is shallow. Not understanding is gained from within; taking oneself to understand is only gained from without.” Hearing this, Taiqing sighed from the heart: “Is not understanding true understanding? Is taking oneself to understand actually not understanding? Who can grasp this ‘understanding’ that is not understanding?”

The Dao is nowhere absent; heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things all depend on it to come into being. It cannot be exhausted in speech, nor confined by rules and measures. Therefore the sage, though knowing the Dao, does not speak of it rashly; though attaining it, does not cling to it. That is why Wuji answered Taiqing with “I do not understand.” What is called not understanding is in fact deep knowing; deep knowing is gained from within. Hence Wushi said that not understanding is depth and not understanding is inward.

At first Taiqing took Wuji to mean that he truly did not know, so he questioned Wuwei again. The name Wuwei still does not wholly escape youwei (deliberate action), so Wuwei answered that the Dao can be noble or base, contracted or dispersed. Such knowing is only shallow knowing; shallow knowing is gained from without. Hence Wushi also said that understanding is shallow and understanding is outward.

Wuji has no ultimate and Wushi has no beginning; it is precisely for this reason that these two can truly know the Dao, and Taiqing for that reason suddenly awakened and sighed.

Wushi also said: the Dao cannot be grasped by the ear—what is heard is not the Dao; cannot be grasped by the eye—what is seen is not the Dao; cannot be grasped by speech—what is said is not the Dao. One must understand that which gives form to the ten thousand things yet has no form of its own. The Dao ought not to be pointed to by names and appearances.

Dao cannot be heard, so it is said that "the Dao cannot be heard"; it cannot be seen, so it is said that "the Dao cannot be seen"; it cannot be grasped by touch, so it is said that "the Dao cannot be spoken." What can be heard is not the Dao, so it is said that "hearing is not it"; what can be seen is not the Dao, so it is said that "seeing is not it"; what can be put into words is likewise not the Dao, so it is said that "speech is not it." What cannot be heard or seen is form without form, so one must understand: that which gives form to the myriad things has no form of its own. What cannot be spoken is name without name, so it is said that "the Dao ought not to be named." Wushi (No Beginning)—a figure in the fable whose name means "without a beginning"—understood these things and could thus penetrate the Great Dao.

Wushi said: If someone asks about the Dao and you answer, you show that you do not understand the Dao; even the one who asks has not truly heard the Dao. The Dao is inherently beyond questioning, and when questioned there is nothing to answer. To insist on asking when there is nothing to ask is to push questioning to its limit—this is called "exhausted questioning"; to insist on answering when there is nothing to answer is to gain only what is outside while the inside is empty—this is called "no within." To meet questioning pushed to the limit with an empty within—such a person cannot observe the cosmos (the four directions and the flow of past and present) outwardly, nor know Taichu (the primordial origin before the myriad things arose) inwardly; therefore they cannot pass Kunlun (the highest and farthest realm) or roam in Taixu (the boundless void).

The Dao is supremely subtle and inherently unaskable; it is also formless and inherently unspeakable, so it is said that "the Dao is not for questioning, and questioning has no response." To force a question when there is nothing to ask gives the question a terminal limit, hence "exhausted questioning"; to force an answer when there is nothing to answer yields only external things, hence "no within." With emptiness within, understanding is not deep; when questioning reaches the ultimate, what is seen is not broad. How then can one reach beyond the endless, clarify what lies before Taichu, wander freely in the vast wilderness (Guangmo zhi ye), and move at ease in the land of nothingness (Wuhe you zhi xiang)? For this reason Wushi again instructed Taiqing (a fable figure whose name suggests "great clarity"): the Dao is not something that can be conveyed in words.

Bright Radiance (Guang Yao)—clear, discerning wisdom—asked Nothing-at-All (Wu You), who stands for true emptiness: “Sir, do you exist, or do you not?” When he could get no further with the question, he studied Nothing-at-All’s form closely and found only depth, stillness, and void: all day he could not see it, could not hear it, could not grasp it. Bright Radiance said, “This is truly the utmost! Who can reach such a state? I can manage ‘having and not-having,’ but I have not yet reached ‘non-non-being’—where even ‘non-being’ is no longer held on to. Once you treat ‘non-being’ as a kind of ‘being,’ from what starting point can you arrive at this?”

In the household of the Grand Marshal there was an artisan who hammered belt hooks. At eighty he still turned out hooks that missed neither a hair’s breadth nor the finest tip. The Grand Marshal asked, “Is it skill in the hands, or is there Dao in it?” The artisan said, “I keep to something I hold fast. From twenty I loved hammering hooks; I looked at nothing else, and whatever was not a hook I did not examine. That is how useful craft is carried by not fixing the mind on other things, so it can long perform its work. How much more the Great Dao, to which nothing is useless! What thing does not rely on it?”

What Bright Radiance speaks of is discerning wisdom; what Nothing-at-All speaks of is true emptiness. Using discerning wisdom to seek true emptiness can only stop at coarse views and marginal signs—hence the text says he studied the form carefully. Yet from coarse knowing one must advance to the refined, from the margin to the subtle; therefore Bright Radiance all day saw nothing, heard nothing, touched nothing—that is arrival at subtlety. At subtlety one knows one’s learning still falls short, hence “I can manage having-and-not-having, but I have not yet reached non-non-being.” The subtle principle of true emptiness is obtained from “non-being” itself, not reached only after learning—hence “once it becomes having-and-not-having, from where can one arrive?” Zhuangzi uses these two figures to allegorize the wonder of the utmost Dao.

Ran Qiu asked Confucius, “Before Heaven and Earth existed, can one know that state?” Confucius said, “One can. Ancient and present are the same.” Ran Qiu could ask no further and withdrew. The next day he came again and said, “Yesterday I asked about what comes before Heaven and Earth and what follows after.” Hence also: “Once it becomes having-and-not-having, from where can one arrive?” Here too Zhuangzi lodges the wonder of the utmost Dao in these two interlocutors.

Ran Qiu asked Confucius (Zhongni): Before heaven and earth had yet to appear, could one know that state? Confucius said: One could. The ancient and the present are the same. Ran Qiu did not know what to ask next, so he withdrew. The next day he came again and said: Yesterday I asked whether one could know when heaven and earth had not yet existed, and the Master said one could—that ancient and present are the same. Yesterday I was clear about this, but today I am confused; may I ask what this means?

Confucius said: Yesterday you were clear because your spirit-mind (shen) had first received it; today you are confused because you are again trying to force understanding with an unillumined mind, are you not? There is no ancient and no present; no beginning and no end. There are not yet descendants, yet one says there already are descendants—is that possible? Ran Qiu did not answer.

Confucius said: Enough; no need to answer. Do not use birth to bring forth death from birth, and do not use death to bring death upon birth. Are death and birth mutually dependent? They belong to the same whole. Is there something that existed before heaven and earth, yet is still one thing in itself? What makes things into things is not itself a thing. When a thing appears, there cannot be something more prior than that thing; if there were, it would still be a thing. As long as there are still things, there is no end. The sage’s love for people never comes to an end—this too takes its model from here.

What once felt clear was the heart tacitly aligning with the Way (Dao); hence the saying that the spirit-mind receives first. What now feels confused is the more one seeks, the more one is lost; hence the saying that one again uses an unspiritual mind to seek. No ancient, no present, no beginning, no end—this is precisely the subtle essential body of the Way. To penetrate this essential body is to enter the state of neither birth nor death. Therefore Confucius did not wait for Ran Qiu to answer before saying: do not use birth to bring forth death from birth, and do not use death to bring death upon birth.

Yan Hui (Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius) asked Zhongni (Confucius): “I have heard the Master say, ‘Do not deliberately go forth, and do not deliberately welcome in.’ How can one wander so freely?” Confucius said: “The ancients changed outwardly with things while their inner mind did not change; people today let the inner mind shift with change while outwardly they become stiff and unyielding. The one who can change together with the myriad things is precisely the one whose inner mind stays unchanged. Be at ease with change and at ease with unchanging; be calmly worn and polished together with things, yet never add anything extra on one’s own. The park of Xihu Shi (a legendary ancient ruler), the garden of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of Youyu Shi (Yu Shun), the halls of Tang and Wu (King Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou)—all were like this. As for gentlemen, even teachers of Ru and Mo (Confucianism and Mohism) still grind one another with right and wrong—how much more so people today! The sage dwells among the myriad things without harming them; one who does not harm things finds that things cannot harm him either. Only one who harms nothing can naturally send off and welcome others in life.”

Outward transformation with inward non-transformation means the heart has already attained the Dao (the Way), and the bodily form naturally merges with it in silent union. Inward transformation with outward non-transformation means the heart is impatient to reach the Dao while the bodily form does not follow along. To change with things yet hold to one thing that does not change is to be able to equalize with the myriad things while guarding the “One” (the unchanging true self). Being at ease with transformation and with non-transformation is to let things transform on their own and not to drive them to transform. Being calmly worn and polished with things is to have no deliberate mind toward things—not to grind against outer things like blade against blade. “Definitely not adding more” means that clothing and daily needs are already sufficient, yet one does not think oneself has a surplus. The mention of the park of Xihu Shi, the garden of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of Youyu Shi, and the halls of Tang and Wu is to say that the great Dao is the realm where sages roam; being without deliberate mind is enough to rest and wander within it.

The highest speech is speech that dispenses with speech; the highest action is action that dispenses with action. To stop only at what the mind knows and can label is shallow. The utmost speech is really not speaking, which is why it is said that utmost speech must drop speech; the utmost action is really Wuwei (non-action), which is why it is said that utmost action must drop action. In these two matters, unless one has already entered the ultimate Dao, how could one drop speech and action? That is why this is said at the close of the chapter.

The Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., the Zhuangzi) speaks of setting aside words and reaching the highest conduct: the highest conduct is to act without acting (wuwei), hence it is called “ultimate conduct”; at the same time one must also set aside deliberate, contrived action. These two things—who could accomplish them without already having entered the Way to the utmost? Hence they are explained again at the very end of the work.

Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan, juan 10. The Siku Quanshu edition includes Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan, juan 11, by Wang Peng of the Song.

Chapter: Gengsang Chu

Those who can penetrate the subtlety of the utmost Dao rest in non-action (wuwei), trust what is natural, and do not deliberately set out to teach—yet the ten thousand things transform on their own. Gengsangzi could do this; Zhuangzi therefore wrote the “Gengsang Chu” chapter.

Among Laozi’s disciples was one named Gengsang Chu, who alone received Laozi’s Dao. He went north and lived on Mount Weilei. He sent away household officers who showed off cleverness, kept at a distance concubines who made a display of purity and benevolence, lived only with those whose looks were clumsy and plain, and used for errands people who toiled and ran about. After three years, Weilei had a great harvest. The local people said to one another: “When Gengsangzi first came, we suddenly felt he was not like others; now, counted by days you see nothing special, counted by years there is more than enough—surely he is a sage? Why don’t we all take him as a spirit lord to sacrifice to, and set up a sheji (altars to the gods of soil and grain) to honor him?” When Gengsangzi heard this, he turned to face south and was not at ease in his heart.

Laozi’s Dao takes empty fullness (vacuum) as its substance and marvelous being (miaoyou) as its function; who but a perfected person (zhiren) could truly grasp it in the heart? Gengsangzi may be called a perfected person: he could penetrate the purport of empty fullness and marvelous being. Hence it is said he alone received Laodan’s Dao. To obtain empty fullness is to be utterly empty; to penetrate marvelous being is to be utterly still. Empty, still, and without acting—then one moves with heaven and earth and harmonizes with yin and yang, never clashing with the ten thousand things; wherever one dwells, transformation and nurturing follow. That is why Weilei had a great harvest. Yet the perfected person does not mean to differ from others—it is people who feel he is different; that is what the people of Weilei meant by saying Gengsangzi was unlike them. He acted yet did not rely on himself; when the work was done he did not claim credit. When he saw others honor him he was startled; when he heard people praise him he was anxious. The people attributed the harvest to Gengsangzi and wanted to sacrifice to him and set up sheji to honor him—so when Gengsang Chu heard it, he was displeased at heart.

Though Gengsang Chu had achieved something, he did not claim it for himself; when he received favor he was alarmed, and when he heard praise he was afraid. The people of Weilei (a mountain region) believed their good harvest was due to Gengsangzi (a disciple of Laozi) and wanted to honor him as their she and ji (patrons of soil and grain) with full sacrificial rites—so when he heard of it he was displeased.

His disciples found this strange. Gengsangzi said: Why find it strange? When spring qi stirs, the hundred grasses grow; when autumn comes, every kind of fruit ripens. Do spring and autumn gain something extra to make this happen? It is simply that the Dao is already at work. I have heard that the perfected person sits still as a corpse in a cramped hut with walls on every side, while the common people rush about wildly and do not know where they are going. Now the folk of little Weilei privately wish to set me among the worthies with sacrificial vessels and offerings—must I become someone others take as a measuring ladle and standard? That is why I cannot be at ease with what Old Laozi said.

The perfected person hides his heaven-given genuineness and forgets the heaven-endowed mechanism; he dismisses cleverness and casts off cunning calculation, blankly forgetting his own doing and leaving things to nature—hence the saying that he “dwells like a corpse in a small room.” He does not touch outer things, and outer things do not know why he is thus—hence the saying that the people run wild and know not whither they go.

The disciple said: Not so. In an ordinary ditch, a great fish cannot turn its body, yet the minnow and the mudfish can lord it there; on a hill a few feet high, a large beast cannot hide, yet the wildcat and fox take it for an auspicious place. Honoring the worthy, appointing the capable, putting the good first and benefiting all—since the time of Yao no one has known where that path leads.

The disciple said: It is not so. In a ditch no wider than usual, a great fish cannot even turn around, yet minnows and loach can have it all to themselves; on a mound no higher than a few paces, a huge beast cannot hide, yet a lone fox takes it as an auspicious dwelling. Moreover, honoring the worthy and employing the capable, putting good conduct and benefit first—this has been so since the ancient sages Yao and Shun, so why should the people of Ailei (the mountain where Gengsangzi lived in seclusion) be any different? You, Master, ought to follow this approach as well.

Gengsangzi said: Young man, come closer. A beast whose mouth can hold a whole cart, once it leaves the forest alone, cannot escape the net; a fish that can swallow a boat, once washed from the water and deprived of it, is harassed even by ants. Therefore birds and beasts do not disdain high mountains, and fish and turtles do not disdain deep water. Those who wish to preserve body and life need only hide without disdaining what is deep and obscure. What is there to praise in those two, Yao and Shun? To take them as the standard for judging right and wrong is like recklessly breaking through a wall to plant wormwood, or combing the hair strand by strand and cooking rice grain by grain—petty, furtive fussing that cannot save the world. When the worthy are promoted, the people vie with one another; when cleverness is employed, the people steal from one another. Such measures cannot make the people simple and sincere. When the people pursue profit too urgently, sons kill fathers and ministers kill lords; theft happens in broad daylight and walls are dug through at noon. I tell you: the root of great disorder must arise in the time of Yao and Shun, and its harm will linger for a thousand generations; after a thousand generations, people eating one another will surely occur.

Fish belong to yin and beasts to yang. Yin governs concealment and yang governs manifestation—this is the natural order of things. The disciple cited the great fish and great beast to explain the principle of hiding and showing to Gengsangzi. Yet what should be hidden naturally hides, and what should be shown naturally shows; each keeps to its own measure and then avoids being dragged into trouble. If concealment exceeds its measure, it is constrained by what is manifest; if manifestation exceeds its measure, it is bound by what is hidden—this too is the necessity of circumstance. Thus Gengsangzi replied: when the beast leaves the mountain it is caught by nets; when the fish loses water it is tormented by ants—because they have lost the proper distinction between hiding and showing. How can that compare with each keeping to its measure and withdrawing into depth and obscurity? From this it is clear that the consummate person (one of highest cultivation) can merge in silence with the measure of their own lot, and thereby preserve themselves.

Nanrong Chu, a disciple of Gengsang Chu, sat up straight with solemn composure. Here fish serve as a comparison: when fish are trapped by nets and snares and once they leave the water, they are tormented by ants and mole crickets—because they have lost the proper measure of when to hide and when to show themselves. How much better to each guard their own utmost limit and withdraw into what is deep and subtle? From this one can see that a realized person—one who has attained the Dao—can hide their sharp edge to the utmost and thereby preserve themselves.

Nanrong Chu sat upright again and said, “At my age I am already old. On what learning and calling should I rely to reach the state you describe?” Gengsang Chu said, “Preserve your bodily form, hold fast to your vital life, and do not let your thoughts and worries bustle without rest. After three years of this, one can begin to speak of this level.” Nanrong Chu said, “As for the eyes in relation to the body, I see no difference—yet the blind cannot see for themselves; as for the ears in relation to the body, I likewise see no difference—yet the deaf cannot hear for themselves; as for the heart-mind in relation to the body, again I see no difference—yet one whose heart-mind is unsettled cannot find peace for themselves. Body and body are inherently connected—is something blocked by external things, so that they wish to connect but cannot? Now you say ‘preserve the whole form, embrace life, do not let thought be busy’—I strain to listen to the Way, yet it barely passes my ears.” Gengsang Chu said, “I have said all I can. The small bee cannot transform the large green caterpillar on bean leaves; the Yue chicken cannot hatch a swan’s egg, but the Lu chicken can. One chicken and another are not different in nature—whether they can or cannot depends on native endowment being large or small. My endowment is small; it is not enough to guide you. Why not go south and visit Laozi?”

Nanrong Chu took provisions and walked seven days and seven nights until he reached Laozi. Laozi asked, “You come from Gengsang Chu?” Nanrong Chu said, “Yes.” Laozi said, “Why have you brought so many people with you?” Nanrong Chu looked back in astonishment. Laozi said, “Do you not grasp my meaning?” Nanrong Chu bowed his head in shame, then sighed toward heaven: “I have forgotten how to answer, and what I came to ask has slipped away.” Laozi asked, “What do you mean?” Nanrong Chu said, “If I am ignorant, people call me dull and stupid; if I am knowledgeable, I am instead tormented about this body of mine. Being unkind harms others, yet practicing kindness torments my own person; being unjust injures people, yet practicing justice torments myself. Where can I flee? These three things are my afflictions. I wished to borrow Gengsang Chu’s introduction to seek instruction from you.” Laozi said, “Just now, from the space between your brows, I already knew; now that you speak again, it is confirmed. You are so cramped and uneasy, as if your parents had died, as if you were holding a pole and going out to sea to search. You are one who has lost your true nature—dazed and confused! You wish to return to your original nature yet cannot find the entrance. Pitiful!”

Nanrong Chu asked to stay. He called back what he had liked and cast off what he had disliked; alone he brooded for ten days, then saw Laozi again. Laozi said, “You have washed yourself quite thoroughly on the outside, and your bearing looks composed; yet within, the dregs still seep through—evil not yet fully removed.”

“Preserve your form” means not harming or depleting your body; “embrace your life” means knowing how to nurture life well; “do not let anxious thoughts churn without rest” means the heart does not cling to external things. These three qualities cannot all be possessed together except by the supreme person (one whose cultivation has reached the utmost).

When outward constraints cannot be blocked and seized from the outside, one must turn inward to gather and close oneself off. When inward constraints cannot be grasped and held by entanglement within, one must turn outward to release and loosen. When bound both inside and out, even Virtue (De) cannot be maintained—how much less can those who wish to let themselves go freely and act in accord with the Way (Dao)?

Nanrong Chu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) said: When someone in the village falls ill and neighbors come to inquire, the sick person can describe their ailment; yet someone who can treat illness as illness is not deeply ill after all. I have heard the Great Dao, and it is as if I drank medicine and my condition grew worse.

The ears and eyes belong to the outer realm; the mind and its schemes belong to the inner. When the ears and eyes are driven outward, the mind churns within; when the mind churns within, the ears and eyes are used even more on the outside. Those who exert themselves outwardly may seem to gain something, yet the mind follows and becomes hard to restrain—hence it is said: outward binding cannot rely on blocking and seizing; one must turn inward to gather. Those who churn inwardly likewise seem to gain something, yet the ears and eyes follow and become hard to shut—hence it is said: inward binding cannot rely on entangling and grasping; one must turn outward to release. When inner and outer alike are confused by what they seem to gain and cannot govern themselves, Virtue (De) is hard to keep—hence it is said: when bound inside and out, Virtue (De) cannot be upheld either. All of this is the burden of “having a self.” Only the supreme person is without self: outwardly they set aside the chase of ears and eyes; inwardly they forget the reckoning of mind and cunning; they enter the state of empty void and self-attainment (stillness without clinging, resting in one’s own natural ease)—a state that from ancient times has always been inherently there. This is the way of the supreme person that Laozi expounded to Nanrong Chu.

Nanrong Chu said: I only wish to hear the essential teaching on nurturing life (weisheng zhi jing). Laozi said: The essential teaching on nurturing life lies in being able to hold fast and guard unity, to cast off the ears and eyes, inwardly to forget mind and cunning, and to enter that state of empty void and self-attainment that from ancient times has been inherently there. This is the way of the supreme person that Laozi made clear to Nanrong Chu.

Nangong Kui said he only wished to hear the constant method of nurturing life. Laozi said: In the constant method of nurturing life, can you hold to unity? Can you keep from losing it? Can you know fortune and misfortune without divination? Can you stop? Can you let go? Can you cease seeking from others and turn to seek within yourself? Can you be free and unconstrained? Can you be plain and unassuming? Can you be like an infant? An infant cries all day yet its throat does not grow hoarse—this is harmony at its utmost. It holds its little fists all day yet its hands do not stiffen and clench—this is being in accord with innate De (Virtue/Power). It looks all day yet its eyes do not blink without cease, because its mind does not fix on outer things. It walks without knowing where it is going; it stays without knowing what it is doing—it follows the winding changes of the ten thousand things and rises and falls with them. This is the constant method of nurturing life.

Nangong Kui asked: Then is this the De of the perfected person (one who has cultivated to the utmost)? The reply was: No. This is only what is called ice melting and thaw dissolving—the stagnation has just begun to loosen.

“Weisheng” (nurturing life) means guarding and preserving one’s own life. Only when life is guarded and preserved can it endure and remain constant; hence it is called the scripture of nurturing life. The principle of preserving life is, first of all, not to disturb your Jing (essence, the root of life). Hence the question “Can you hold to the One?” When Jing is not disturbed, you gain something of your own; hence “Can you keep from losing it?” When you have gained, you can clearly distinguish fortune and misfortune; hence “Can you know fortune and misfortune without divination?” When fortune and misfortune are clear, you are not enslaved by outer things; hence “Can you stop?” When you are not enslaved by outer things, the mind becomes unobstructed; hence “Can you let go?” Once unobstructed, you forget others outside and preserve yourself; hence “Can you cease seeking from people and seek within yourself?” When the body is preserved, birth, death, gathering, and scattering cannot burden the breast; then you return to the state of an infant—hence “Can you be free? Can you be plain? Can you be like an infant?”

Returning to the infant: though the voice sounds, it is from concentrating Qi until it is soft; so the infant cries all day without hoarseness—this is the extreme of harmony. Though the hand grasps, it is not to seize anything; so it holds all day without stiffness—this is sharing in its De. Though the eyes see, they do not deploy clever contrivance; so it looks all day without the eyes ceasing to rest—the mind does not lean outward. Though the feet walk, there is no goal that must be reached; so it walks without knowing whither. Though the body stays, there is nothing deliberately to be done; so it dwells without knowing what it is for. Harmonizing with the ten thousand things and flowing with the same current—this is the way of preserving life; therefore following the ten thousand things and sharing their wave is the scripture of nurturing life.

The Perfect Person eats on the same earth as everyone else and shares the same joy as Heaven, yet is not disturbed by the gains and losses of people and things, and does not join others in scheming, plotting, or taking action. They depart without constraint and arrive in pristine simplicity. This is the constant method of nurturing life. Someone asked: Is this the ultimate? The answer: Not yet. I have told you: Can you be like an infant? When an infant moves, it does not know what it is doing; when it walks, it does not know where it is going. Its body is like a withered branch; its mind is like dead ashes. For such a person, misfortune will not come, nor will good fortune. When neither misfortune nor fortune exist, how could there be human-made calamity?

The Perfect Person is one with the myriad things, yet no different from ordinary people. They eat what they eat and delight in what they delight in. The mind is empty and still, yet adept at responding; affairs cannot entangle them. They have no intention toward things—how could the strange and uncanny move them? How could there be human-made calamity?

The Perfect Person is one with the myriad things, not different from ordinary people, eating what they eat, delighting in what they delight in. Empty-minded yet skillfully responsive, affairs cannot drag them down; toward things they have no deliberate intent, so the strange cannot shake them. Without deliberation, how could there be further scheming? Without mind and without deliberate action, they do not treat affairs as things that must be done. Coming and going without obstruction, free and unobstructed—this is the Perfect Person’s way of preserving life and enduring. Hence it is called the constant method of nurturing life.

When the heart’s dwelling is peaceful and settled, Heavenly Light (natural radiance) shines forth. One who emits Heavenly Light—only then do people recognize them for who they are. When a person has cultivation, only then do they have constancy. One who has constancy—people rely on them, and Heaven assists them. Those whom people rely on are called people of Heaven; those whom Heaven assists are called Sons of Heaven.

The Perfect Person returns to the state of an infant: essence (Jing) is complete, spirit (Shen) is vigorous, the will is broad, and breath (Qi) is full. When essence is complete and spirit vigorous, one is one with Heaven; when the will is broad and breath full, radiance illumines of itself. Hence it is said: one whose heart-dwelling is peaceful and settled emits Heavenly Light. Yu (the cosmos) is where spirit and will reside. How could the Perfect Person’s spirit and will be changeable and unsettled? Therefore it is called supreme stillness (taiding). Because of supreme stillness, there is natural clear illumination—hence it is called Heavenly Light.

The learner learns what cannot be learned; the actor does what cannot be done; the debater argues what cannot be argued. To know and stop at what one cannot know—this is the ultimate. If someone does not comply with this, the Heavenly Scale (tiānjūn, the naturally balanced force of the Dao) will defeat them. Preparing external things to support the form, storing and holding within—this is called Heavenly Light.

Those who learn learn what they were never able to learn; those who act do what they were never able to do; those who debate argue what they were never able to argue. To know when to stop at what cannot be known is the utmost. If one does not act in this way, the natural balance of heaven (tianjun—the turning of creation in even, spontaneous motion) will ruin him.

The way to preserve life in full cannot be learned by learners, carried out by doers, clarified by debaters, or grasped by the clever through cunning. Only by abandoning learning, forgetting deliberate action, dropping disputation, and laying aside cleverness, and letting everything follow nature, can it be attained. Those who cannot do this yet force themselves to pursue and to act not only harm life but also lose the nature and mandate they received at birth.

Stocking things to nourish the body, hiding away in what cannot be foreseen, keeping the heart alive, and reverently guarding the inner self so as to reach outward things—even so, all kinds of misfortune still arrive. They come from heaven, not from people; they are not enough to disturb virtue already achieved, and they should not be shut into the spirit platform (lingtai—the seat of mind and spirit). The spirit platform seems to hold something, yet one does not know what it holds; what can truly be kept cannot be clung to on purpose.

To move outward before making the inner self sincere: every move is wrong. When outer affairs invade the heart and one refuses to let go, each shift becomes a fault. Doing wrong in the open, people can punish; doing wrong in hidden, dark places, ghosts can punish. Only when one understands both human punishment and ghostly punishment can one walk alone.

Those on the inner tally (quan neizhe—those who keep to inner duty) act without seeking a name; those on the outer tally (quan waizhe—those who chase outer things) set their will on the fame and gain they hope for. Those who act without seeking a name find their own light in plainness; those whose aim is fame and profit are no more than merchants. Others see them straining on tiptoe and still think them grand and extraordinary.

Those who can be with all things from beginning to end find that the outer world naturally returns to them. Those who compromise with things or turn against them cannot even tolerate themselves—how could they tolerate others? Without tolerance there is no closeness; without closeness one is abandoned by everyone. There is no weapon more vicious than the heart-mind; the famed blade Mo Ye ranks second. There is no calamity greater than Yin-Yang—nowhere under heaven can one escape it. Yet it is not Yin-Yang that harms people; it is the heart that commands. The Dao runs through distinction; to complete is also to destroy. Distinction is wearisome because it serves completeness; completeness is wearisome because the heart already seeks. When spirit goes outward and does not return, a ghostly aspect appears and spirit scatters and dies. Going outward and “gaining” something is gaining death. When true nature is extinguished yet one still clings to what seems real, that too is a kind of ghost. Only by letting the formed follow the formless can one be settled. To preserve wholeness in life one must first empty the heart; an empty heart can hold the ten thousand things. When the heart makes distinctions, it seeks completeness; with completeness, spirit goes out and does not return—one sees ghosts and meets death. Only when form relies on the formless does one become stable.

The way to preserve life must begin by making the inner heart-mind (xin) empty and still. Once the heart-mind is empty and still, there is room to accommodate; when it can accommodate, things that arrive are not rejected. If the heart-mind is not empty, it cannot accommodate external things; unable to accommodate external things, it cannot settle itself; when the self cannot even be settled, how can it accommodate others?

Therefore one who is obstructed by things and incompatible with them cannot even contain their own body—how could they contain others? Unable to contain others, “that” and “this” are split apart. Once self and other are divided, others guard against you and will not draw close or rely on you; people can only keep their distance from one another. Thus one who cannot contain others has no one close; with no one close, one is cut off from everyone. All of this is because one fails to make the inner heart-mind empty and still.

When the heart-mind is not empty, the governing intention of the heart-mind (zhi—the aim that directs words and deeds) runs wild and injures life; the harm exceeds that of sharp weapons. Therefore no weapon is more ruinous than a wild heart-mind; famous blades such as Mo and Ye come only after that. When intention runs wild, Qi follows into disorder: joy piled on joy injures Yang (piyang); anger piled on anger injures Yin (piyin). Such injury goes deeper still—how then preserve life and step free of the limits of embodied things?

Therefore no thief is greater than Yin-Yang imbalance; between Heaven and Earth there is nowhere to escape it. Yet when life is harmed so severely, it is not Yin and Yang themselves that cause it, but joy and anger arising recklessly because the heart-mind is not empty and still. Therefore it is not Yin and Yang that harm people—it is the heart-mind that drives them to do so.

Things appear without any root source, and their entry has no opening or pore. They have reality yet no fixed abode; they have continuity yet no beginning or end. What appears without pores is still real. Reality without a fixed abode is Yu (space); continuity without beginning or end is Zhou (time). There is birth and death, exit and entry, yet entry and exit leave no visible trace—this is called the Tianmen (Heaven’s Gate, the portal through which all things pass). The Tianmen is wuyou (non-being). All things emerge from non-being. What already is cannot beget further “being” from “being”; it must arise from non-being—and that non-being is sheer nothingness. The sage takes refuge there.

The ancients’ understanding reached a certain point—but to what point? Some held that there never were things at all; that is the utmost limit, beyond which one cannot go further. Next were those who granted that things exist, yet treated birth as loss and death as return; from this, distinctions arose. Still others said: at first there was nothing, then there was birth, and birth soon passed into death. They took non-being as the head, birth as the body, and death as the tailbone (wei). Whoever grasps that being and non-being, death and life, guard one and the same thing—I will befriend him. These three views differ, yet belong to one lineage, much as the Zhao and Jing clans won renown through the offices they held, while the Jia clan won renown through the fief it received—not the same kind of fame at all.

Once life appears, it is like a dark stain (yi); people then take to “yishi” (shifting what counts as right and wrong). Try to explain yishi: it is not something speech can pin down; even so, there is no way to know it for certain. At the year-end la sacrifice, the entrails and hooves laid out for offering can be arranged separately, yet cannot truly be split apart; someone touring a house may walk through bedchambers and the ancestral hall, and still end up in the privy. That is why yishi is brought up.

yishi means: taking life as the root and the knowing mind as teacher, and on that basis dividing right from wrong; once one insists that names and facts are real, one makes oneself the measure, expects others to follow one’s standards, even trading life for those standards. Then being employed counts as cleverness, not being employed as stupidity; success as reputation, hardship as shame. yishi is what people do today; they share the same cramped outlook as the cicada and the wren.

Step on a stranger’s foot in the street and you apologize, calling yourself rude; step on an elder brother’s foot and a word of comfort suffices; step on your parents’ foot and no further reckoning is needed.

To be alive is to pass from “non-being” (wu) into “being” (you); hence birth has no traceable origin—it is called “emerging from non-being without a root.” To die is to return from “being” to “non-being”; hence death has no aperture one can enter—it is called “entering non-being without an opening.” With neither root nor opening, what form could there be to see? That is why we say its form cannot be seen. When form is unseen, coming and going are simply spontaneous—this is called the Tianmen (the gate through which the myriad things naturally enter and leave). The Tianmen arises from spontaneity; it is not a concrete thing—so the Tianmen is said to be “non-being without being” (wu you). Only this “non-being without being” is the true substance of the Dao (the Way); the myriad things all issue from it—hence “the myriad things come from non-being without being.” That non-being does not become “being” by relying on “being”; things merely must pass through it. Therefore “being” cannot beget “being” from “being”; it must be generated from non-being without being. Though the Dao is non-being without being, within it one can still “embrace the One” (bao yi)—hold fast to the single authentic reality. The sage therefore hides his efficacy and entrusts himself to non-being without being—hence “yet there is non-being without being; the sage keeps himself therein.” This is Zhuangzi using parable to point at the utmost subtlety of the Dao.

Hence it is also said: the utmost li (ritual propriety) has no fixation on “person”; the utmost yi (right conduct) has no fixation on “things”; the utmost zhi (knowing) does not plot; the utmost ren (humaneness) has no partial kinship; the utmost xin (trustworthiness) dispenses with gold as pledge.

The highest ritual has no fixed ceremony, so it does not insist on distinctions between self and other; the highest conduct is not tied to which particular act counts as fitting, so it does not cling to things; the highest knowing does not depend on cleverness, so it does not scheme; the highest humaneness has no favorites, so it has no private partiality; the highest trustworthiness does not use tangible goods as security, so it sets aside gold and the like as tokens of faith (bi jin). These five take “non-being” as their root, and thus accord with the subtlety of the great Dao.

Remove what stirs the mind, release what tangles the heart, cast off what burdens De (virtue/power), and clear what blocks the Dao. Nobility, wealth, prominence, dignity, fame, profit, and emolument—these six disturb the mind. Countenance, bearing, expression, tone of speech, breath, and emotional intent—these six bewilder the heart. Aversion, desire, joy, anger, grief, and pleasure—these six drag down De. Leaving and approaching, taking and giving, cleverness and talent—these six obstruct the great Dao. When these four groups—twenty-four items in all—do not churn in the breast, the heart is upright; upright, it is still; still, it is clear; clear, it is empty and open; empty and open, one can practice Wuwei (non-action), and nothing cannot be accomplished. This is what the Daoist tradition calls inner cultivation: not reliance on outer ceremony, but keeping the heart from being stirred by these things.

Sweep away the agitation of the mind, and the mind will become single-minded; release the confusion of the heart, and the inner self will become empty and still; remove the burdens on virtue, and one can be at ease in oneself; clear the blockages of the Great Dao, and one will no longer be obscured. When the mind is single-minded, wealth and rank can hardly enslave you, prominence and authority can hardly subdue you, fame and profit can hardly shake you. When the inner self is empty and still, bearing and conduct naturally settle, expression and principle naturally flow, breath and intention naturally rest at ease. When one can be at ease in oneself, aversion and greed do not arise, joy and anger do not burst outward, sorrow and delight do not invade the inner heart. When no longer obscured, going and staying are necessarily careful, taking and giving necessarily fit, cleverness and talent are necessarily applied aptly. None of these can disturb the mind, confuse the heart, burden virtue, or block the Great Dao—so the breast is upright, quiet, clear, and open, and one acts with purpose through wuwei (acting in accord with nature, without forced contrivance).

Therefore it is said: sweep away the agitation of the mind, release the confusion of the heart, remove the burdens on virtue, and clear the blockages of the Great Dao. Wealth, rank, prominence, authority, reputation, and emolument—six items that stir the mind; bearing, conduct, expression, reasoning, breath, and intention—six that bewilder the heart; aversion, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and delight—six that burden virtue; going and staying, taking and giving, cleverness and talent—six that block the Great Dao. When these four groups, twenty-four items in all, do not surge within the breast, the person can be upright; upright, then quiet; quiet, then clear; clear, then open and empty; open and empty, then wuwei—and wuwei can accomplish all without forcing.

The Dao is what De (Virtue/Power) holds in reverence; life is the radiance of De; nature (xing) is the substance of life. When nature stirs into activity, it is called “acting”; when action slips into false contrivance, it is called “losing.” Knowing is contact with outer things; knowing is also inward deliberation. What people cannot know is like looking sidelong—you see only one corner. Action that arises from having no choice is called De; action that is never not from one’s own nature is called “well-ordered.” The names oppose each other, yet the realities accord with each other.

The Dao is supremely subtle and is honored by De—hence “the Dao is what De reveres.” Life is the light received as the seasons turn—hence “life is the radiance of De.” Nature is utterly still and is the root of life—hence speaking of nature in relation to life. Action that all issues from oneself is called “well-ordered”; the names oppose, yet the realities accord.

Dao is the most subtle and more honored than De; hence it is said that Dao is what De reveres. Life arrives in its season and thereby shows clarity; hence it is said that life is the radiance of De. Xing (human nature) is utterly still and void, the root of life; hence it is said that xing is the substance of life. When xing contacts outer things it necessarily stirs into activity; hence it is said that the stirring of xing is called wei (acting). If such wei comes from deliberate human contrivance, it is not what is naturally attained; hence it is said that contrived wei is called shi (loss).

Yi (the ancient divine archer) was skilled at hitting the finest targets yet poor at making people stop praising him. The sage is skilled at complying with the natural yet poor at responding to human affairs. One who can both follow Heaven and treat people well—only the quanren (person of complete virtue) can achieve this. Only insects can rest content as insects, and only insects can naturally accord with Heaven. The quanren does not despise Heaven; what he despises is the “Heaven” that humans contrive; how much more so when people still divide “my Heaven” from “my human side.”

When a sparrow flies into the range of Yi’s bow, Yi is sure to take it—that is his power. If the whole world were treated as a cage, the sparrow would have nowhere to flee. Thus King Tang of Shang won Yiyin through the path of a kitchen steward, and Duke Mu of Qin won Baili Xi with five sheets of sheepskin. To win someone without pandering to what pleases him—such a thing has never happened.

One who has suffered foot amputation no longer adorns himself, having set aside fame and blame. A convict climbing high does not fear, having forgotten life and death. If one repeatedly habituates to the Dao, even gifts and exchanges can be released, and thus one forgets others; forgetting others, one can become one with Heaven. Therefore only one who accords with tianhe (natural harmony) can be honored without joy and insulted without anger. When anger arises, one does not dwell in it—that is anger issuing from non-anger. When one acts, one has no mind bent on acting—that is action issuing from wuwei (non-assertive action in accord with nature).

Yi’s skill at hitting fine targets yet difficulty in making others forget to praise him means that “making people forget me” is hard. The sage’s skill at following nature yet awkwardness in human affairs means that “making the whole world forget even oneself” is hard. As for the shenren (spirit-person united with Dao), his Dao accords with Heaven, his influence benefits people, and he inspires the ten thousand things without the sage’s anxious care—this is merely jianwang (mutual forgetting on both sides). Thus it is said: only the quanren can both fit the natural and handle human affairs well.

To seek quiet, one must first settle the qi; to seek shen (spirit and inner clarity), one must first follow the heart-mind as it naturally is. If one wants right action in what one does, it must arise from having no choice (acting only when circumstances force one to, not from deliberate scheming). Whoever can act from having no choice follows the way of the sage.

Qi is the dwelling of stillness; the heart-mind is where shen hides. When qi is balanced and smooth, one is necessarily quiet—hence “to seek quiet, settle the qi.” When one acts in line with the heart’s nature, one necessarily attains shen—hence “to seek shen, follow the heart.” In action, if one can settle qi and follow the heart, one’s movement is not reckless impulse but response only after things touch one—hence “to seek what is fitting, rely on having no choice.” Responding after being touched—how is that premeditating toward the myriad things? Who but a sage can do this? So “having no choice” is precisely the sage’s way.

New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi commentary), juan 11.

Complete Library of the Four Treasures: New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing, juan 12, by Wang Fu of the Song (son of Wang Anshi).

“Xu Wugui” chapter: If one can settle the heart and nurture qi in accord, take the Dao as what matters, and forget poverty, wealth, obscurity, and prominence, one enters the realm of the zhenren (person who has reached the utmost in attaining the Dao). Xu Wugui could do this; Zhuangzi therefore wrote this chapter.

Xu Wugui, via Nü Shang: If one can settle the heart and follow qi, take the Dao as what matters, and forget poverty and wealth, obscurity and prominence, one enters the realm of the zhenren. Xu Wugui could do this; Zhuangzi therefore wrote the “Xu Wugui” chapter.

Xu Wugui (a reclusive sage of the mountains) was brought before Marquis Wu of Wei at the introduction of Nü Shang (a minister of Wei). The marquis greeted him with concern: “You have taken on a great burden, sir! Life in the hills is so hard—yet you were willing to come and see me.” Xu Wugui replied, “It is I who ought to worry over you—why should you comfort me? If you indulge your appetites and feed your likes and dislikes, the true nature of your life and vitality will be injured; if you shut out appetites and rein in likes and dislikes, your ears and eyes will feel oppressed. So it is I who should worry for you—what is there for you to comfort me about?” The marquis looked blank and said nothing.

After a while Xu Wugui said, “Let me try telling you how I judge dogs. The lowest sort eat their fill and stop—no more than the nature of a wild cat. The middling sort have a gaze like one staring at the sun. The highest sort seem to have forgotten themselves. When I judge dogs, I am still not judging as well as when I judge horses. In horses I look for this: what is straight fits the cord, what is bent fits the hook, what is square fits the square, what is round fits the compass—that is a good horse within one state, yet it still falls short of the finest horse under heaven. The finest horse under heaven has its native endowment already complete; its spirit seems troubled and adrift, as though it had forgotten even itself. Such a horse gallops beyond the common run without raising dust, so that one cannot tell where it has gone.” The marquis was greatly pleased and laughed.

When Xu Wugui had withdrawn, Nü Shang said, “With what sort of words did the gentleman finally move our lord? When I counsel him, speaking across I draw on the Poetry, Documents, Rites, and Music; speaking lengthwise I draw on the Golden Board and Six Bows—those who have served the state and won great merit are beyond counting, yet the lord has never once opened his mouth to praise them.”

Laozi said: The Dao is the profound dwelling of the ten thousand things and a treasure that the good cherish. Good people cherish the Dao because outwardly they can forget the body, inwardly they can keep the heart empty and still, remove craving and desire, forget likes and dislikes, and rest in the true condition of nature and life—therefore they cherish the Dao and preserve themselves through it.

Those who are not good are the opposite. For them the Dao seems present yet absent: outwardly they cannot preserve the body, inwardly they cannot empty and still the heart; craving and desire fill them, they cling to likes and dislikes, and turn away from the true condition of nature and life. Can that still be called cherishing the Dao? Duke Wu of Wei (a ruler of Wei in the Warring States period) was exactly like this. Unable to preserve the body or empty and still the heart, with desires overflowing and fixated on likes and dislikes, turning away from the true condition of nature and life—how could he cherish the Dao? So when he heard the words of Xu Wugu (a recluse), his expression was distant and he could not respond.

Duke Wu was only of middling capacity; one must not abruptly tell him the supreme Dao. One should first follow his inclinations to please him—hence Xu Wugu spoke of judging dogs and horses (discerning quality in dogs and horses). He was not truly an expert at judging dogs and horses; he lodged the meaning of entering the Dao within those words. The highest quality in a dog is “as if one part were missing”; the horse of the world (the finest horse under heaven) is one that “has formed talent.” “As if one part were missing” means the form is whole and the spirit is sovereign—able to forget oneself. “Has formed talent” means virtue is vast, calm, and settled, without injuring the root. To forget the body is Wuwei (non-action); not injuring the root is “non-use” (not spending one’s original nature on utility). Only through Wuwei and non-use can one enter the Dao. The meaning is thus—but Duke Wu did not grasp it; he merely liked the words, so he was greatly pleased and laughed.

The merchant woman asked: What did the gentleman say to our ruler that made him so pleased?

Xu Wugui said: I only told him that I can tell good dogs and horses from bad ones.

She said: Is that really all?

Xu Wugui said: Have you never heard of people who fled from Yue? After a few days away from home, they are glad to see anyone they know; after ten days or a month, they are glad to see anyone they once saw back home; after a full year, they are glad even to see someone who merely looks human. Is it not true that the longer one is cut off from people, the more one longs for them? Someone who has fled into empty wilderness, with weeds choking the paths where weasels run, stumbles about in the open—when he hears footsteps he rejoices. How much more when a brother or kinsman is right beside him, coughing and talking! For a long time no one has spoken to the ruler in the words of a True Person—one who has realized the Dao—and had him listen at his side.

Xu Wugui went to see Duke Wu of Wei. The duke said: You live in the hills, eat acorns and chestnuts, and fill yourself with scallions and leeks; you have kept your distance from me for a long time. Are you old now? Do you want the taste of wine and meat, or does my state also stand to gain some blessing?

Xu Wugui said: I was born in poverty and low station and never dare to enjoy a ruler’s wine and meat. This time I have come to comfort you.

The duke asked: How do you comfort me?

Xu Wugui said: I comfort your spirit and your body.

The duke asked: What does that mean?

Xu Wugui said: Heaven and earth nourish the ten thousand things, and in origin they are one. To stand on high is not for that reason to be lofty; to stay low is not for that reason to be base. You alone are lord of ten thousand chariots, yet you wear out the people of the whole realm to satisfy the desires of your eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. The spirit itself does not approve of this. The spirit loves harmony and hates one-sidedness; one-sidedness is illness. That is why I have come to comfort you. Why should you alone have caught this illness?

The duke said: I have wanted to see you for a long time.

Heaven and Earth treat all people alike: they endow each with the same ming and xing (life and innate disposition), assign each the same allotted role and measure, and provide sustenance in equal measure. How could they discriminate between high and low, or between elder and younger? Therefore it is said that the nurturing of Heaven and Earth is even-handed. Wei Wu (Emperor Wu of Wei, Cao Cao) did not understand this principle. He exhausted the goods of the realm to nourish his own body; finding that still insufficient, he also wearied his spirit in pursuit of more. The more his spirit was strained, the less it could hold sway; the more his body was pampered, the less it could be preserved or kept at ease. If one sets aside the six bodily parts (head, trunk, and four limbs), forgets cravings and desires, and lets the heart-mind roam in carefree ease, how could body and spirit fail to be whole?

“I wish to cherish the people, practice humaneness and righteousness, and stop warfare—is that permissible?” Xu Wugui (a figure in the Zhuangzi who admonishes rulers) said: “It is not. To ‘cherish the people’ is precisely where harm to the people begins; to lay down arms for the sake of humaneness and righteousness is precisely the root from which warfare grows. If you start from here, you will probably not succeed. Whatever wins a fine reputation is an instrument that invites ill consequences. Even if you wish to practice humaneness and righteousness, you will almost certainly slide into hypocrisy. Where there is bodily form, more form is sure to be produced; where there is success, self-congratulation is sure to follow; where there is change, external strife is sure to arise. You must not array crane formations (military ranks) between lofty watchtowers, must not mass infantry, chariots, and horses in the palace altar courts, must not hide rebellious intent within what you seek, and must not use stratagem, scheming, or war to overcome others. Slaughtering another state’s people and annexing another state’s land to feed your private desires and your own heart-mind—in such wars, which side is truly better, and where is the so-called victory? If you cannot stop here, then cultivate sincerity within your breast, accord with the truth of Heaven and Earth, and do not stir things up. Once the people have escaped the disaster of death, what need have you for ‘laying down arms’?”

The Dao is the plain and natural state of non-action; weapons are tools born of deliberate action. The sage constantly practices non-action, and the people transform themselves; as for weapons, they are displayed but not employed. Lord Wu of Wei could not achieve non-action, yet wished to practice benevolence and righteousness and halt warfare to love the people—so Xu Wugui, the hermit in this chapter, answered that this would not do.

The sage treats the people as straw dogs (grass dogs used in sacrifice—honored in the rite then discarded, a metaphor for equal regard without partiality), without deliberately “loving” them; only by treating them in this way can the people live in harmony. If one “loves” them through love, love will fail to reach everywhere, the people will resent, and that is enough to harm them. Hence it is said: loving the people is the beginning of harming the people.

Take righteousness as outward show without forcing it into practice; only by not pushing in this way do things comply. If one thinks something can be done and does it, there will be what is inappropriate, things will surely not go smoothly, and that is enough to lead to the use of arms. Hence it is said: stopping warfare in the name of righteousness is the root of making war. If one cannot act thus yet insists on loving and insists on doing, how can the way of governance be preserved? Hence it is said: if the ruler starts from here, he will probably not succeed.

The Yellow Emperor was going to Juzhi Mountain to visit Da Wei, a figure said to have attained the Way. Fang Ming drove the chariot, Chang Fang rode as companion on the right, Zhang Ruo and Xie Peng led the horses in front, and Kun Hun and Huaji followed behind. When they reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng, all seven sages lost their way and could find no one to ask. They happened upon a boy tending horses and asked him: “Do you know Juzhi Mountain?” The boy said, “I do.” They asked again: “Do you know where Da Wei lives?” The boy said, “I do.” The Yellow Emperor said, “How strange, child! You not only know Juzhi Mountain but also where Da Wei dwells. Tell us: how should one govern the world?” The boy said, “Governing the world is no more than this—what else is there to fuss over! When I was young I wandered within the four quarters of heaven and earth; by chance I fell ill with dizzying vision, and an elder taught me: ‘Ride the sun-chariot and roam the outskirts of Xiangcheng.’ Now my illness has eased a little, and I will wander again beyond the four quarters. Governing the world is the same—why should I trouble my mind over it?” The Yellow Emperor said, “Governing the world is truly not your affair. Even so, please say something.” The boy declined. The Yellow Emperor pressed him again. The boy said, “Governing the world—how is it different from tending horses! It is only a matter of removing what harms the horses.” The Yellow Emperor bowed twice, touched his forehead to the ground, addressed him as Celestial Master (Tianshi), and withdrew.

Those who live by stratagem are unhappy unless their thinking keeps turning out something new; those who live by disputation are unhappy unless talk follows a ranked order; those who live by nitpicking are unhappy unless they have something to cross-examine and argue over—all of them are tied down by external things. Those who take saving the world as their task want the court to flourish; ordinary scholars take office and rank as glory; the strong and hardy take overcoming hardship as their pride; the brave rise up before disaster; those in armor take battle as their joy. Those who hold to dryness and silence cling to reputation; those who push law spread governance; those who honor ritual and music value ceremony; those who parade benevolence and righteousness stress social ties. Farmers cannot rest without clearing weeds and opening land; merchants cannot rest without market trade. Common people with day-and-night livelihoods urge one another on; craftsmen with skill in tools grow bold in spirit. When wealth does not pile up, the greedy worry; when power is not dazzling, the boastful grieve. Those who chase power and things welcome change; once the times give them an opening, they cannot settle into Wuwei (non-action). All of them merely echo the moment and cannot lift themselves free amid change. They drive body and disposition, drown in the myriad things, and never turn back in a lifetime—how lamentable!

Zhuangzi said: “If an archer hits the mark without having aimed beforehand and is called a fine archer, then everyone under heaven could count as Yi—the legendary archer—could they?” Huizi (Hui Shi) said, “They could.” Zhuangzi said, “Under heaven there is no standard everyone accepts as right; each person takes what he thinks right as right—then everyone could count as Yao—the sage-king—could they?” Huizi said, “They could.” Zhuangzi said, “Then the Ru, Mo, Yang Zhu, and Bing schools—plus you, sir, make five: which is right? Perhaps like Lu Ju? His disciple said: ‘I have obtained my master’s Dao (the Way): I can boil a cauldron in winter and make ice in summer.’ Lu Ju said: ‘That is only using yang to summon yang and yin to summon yin—it is not the Dao I speak of. Let me show you my Dao.’ He tuned two zithers, one placed in the hall, one in an inner room. When he plucked the gong note, the gong note on the other responded; when he plucked the jue note, the jue note responded—because the pitches matched. Suppose he retuned one string so it agreed with none of the five tones; when he plucked it, all twenty-five strings vibrated—the sound did not become two kinds, yet that string had become master of all the tones. Is that what you people are like?” Huizi said: “Nowadays the Ru, Mo, Yang, and Bing schools are debating with me—refuting with words, overwhelming with noise—yet no one has ever shown me wrong. What of that?” Zhuangzi said: “In Qi someone crippled his son and sent him to Song as gatekeeper, not requiring wholeness of limb; when looking for a small bell he tied it carefully with cord, but when searching for a lost son he never left his home village—he had the weighty and the light completely upside down! In Chu someone living abroad quarreled with the gatekeeper and, in the dead of night when no one was about, went to fight the boatman—before the man had even left the shore, enough resentment was already sown.”

Da Wei (the divine being they sought, a metaphor for the Great Dao) stands for the Great Way; Mount Juci (a mountain name, metaphor for the substance of the Dao) stands for the still, wuwei (non-action) body of the Dao. How could a sage who acts with deliberate intent ever find it? That is why all seven sages lost their way. Only by releasing fixed ideas and concentrating the breath, returning to the state of an infant (reverting to pure simplicity and freedom from desire), can the heart truly know and understand—hence he is called the horse-tending boy; and it is also said that he not only knew Mount Juci but knew where Da Wei dwelt. To know the true body of the Great Dao is simply to rest in wuwei. So when asked how the Yellow Emperor (an ancient ruler) should govern the realm, he answered, “Why trouble yourself with so much?”: wuwei and quiet emptiness, keeping the heart in a state of self-contentment—the breath-horse (using the horse as a metaphor for vital breath) has nowhere it must go. Thus governing the realm is no different from tending horses. When the breath-horse seeks nothing, outer things cannot drag it down; so it is enough merely to remove what harms the horses. All of this reaches the utmost of naturalness; heaven, earth, and the myriad things therefore take this as their model, and the Yellow Emperor for that reason called him Celestial Master (a teacher aligned with the Way of Heaven).

When Zhuangzi went to attend a funeral and passed by Huizi’s grave, he turned to his attendants and said: In the state of Ying there was a man who smeared white plaster on the tip of his nose until it was as thin as a fly’s wing, and had Craftsman Shi slice it off. Craftsman Shi swung his axe with a gust of wind and lopped it away in one stroke—the plaster was gone, the nose unharmed, and the man stood there unchanged in expression. Lord Yuan of Song heard of this and summoned Craftsman Shi, saying: Try doing that for me. Craftsman Shi said: I could indeed do it, but the one who matched me has been dead a long while. Zhuangzi added: Since Master Huizi died, I too have had no one to match me—no one with whom I can truly talk.

When Guan Zhong was gravely ill, Duke Huan of Qi asked him: Your illness is very serious; we cannot put this off. If the moment of crisis comes, to whom should I entrust the government? Guan Zhong said: Whom does Your Lordship have in mind? The duke said: Baoshu Ya. Guan Zhong said: That will not do. He is upright and a good man, yet he will not draw close to those he deems beneath him, and once he hears of someone’s fault he never forgets it for life. Put him in charge of the state and he will constrain the ruler above and go against the people below; offending the ruler would not take long. The duke said: Then who will do? Guan Zhong said: If there is no choice, Suipeng will do. Above, he can forget himself; below, he does not make people turn away. He feels himself inferior to the Yellow Emperor, yet can pity those inferior to himself. To share virtue and kindness with others is called sagely; to share goods and wealth with others is called worthy. To tower over others with worth cannot win hearts; to place one’s worth below others wins every heart. In state affairs he may leave things unasked; in household matters he may leave things unexamined. If there is no choice, use Suipeng.

The King of Wu was boating on the Yangzi and climbed the mountain where a troop of monkeys lived. When the monkeys saw him they fled in panic into dense thorn thickets—except one, which leisurely climbed and scratched, showing off its agility to the king. The king shot at it; it nimbly caught the flying arrow. The king ordered his attendants to shoot together in haste, and the monkey was killed. The king said to his friend Yan Bu Yi: This monkey flaunted its skill and, trusting in its quick body, looked down on me—so it came to this end. Take warning: do not treat people with arrogant bearing in face and manner. Yan Bu Yi went home and took Master Dong Wu as his teacher, shedding arrogant looks, leaving indulgent pleasure, and giving up rank and glory; after three years the people of the state all praised him.

Nanbo Zikui leaned on his armrest, sitting with head thrown back, exhaling slowly. Yan Chengzi came in and said: Sir, you are truly outstanding. Can the body truly be made like withered bone, the mind like dead ashes? Nanbo Zikui said: I once lived in a mountain cave. Then Tian He, lord of Qi, came to visit me, and the people of Qi congratulated him again and again. Surely I had first revealed something, and only then did he know me; surely I had advertised and sold myself, and only then did he come to proclaim it. If I had not held these things, how would he have known? If I had not sold myself, how would he have broadcast it? Alas—I grieve for those who lose their true self, and grieve for those who grieve for others, and grieve for those who grieve over such grieving; after that I day by day moved farther from all this.

When Confucius went to Chu, the king of Chu set out wine to entertain him. Sun Shu Ao stood holding the cup; Shinan Yiliao received the wine and performed the sacrifice, saying: In antiquity people had words to speak on such occasions. Confucius said: I have heard of wordless speech but never spoken of it—I will speak of it here. Shinan Yiliao merely juggled pellets, and the crisis between two houses was resolved; Sun Shu Ao slept peacefully with fan in hand, and the people of Ying laid down their weapons. Even with a mouth three feet long I could not say it all. What they practiced was a Way (Dao) that does not rely on the usual path; what is spoken of here is disputation that uses no words. Thus when De (Virtue/Power) returns to the unity of the Way, words stop where intellect cannot know—this is the utmost. What the Way unifies, De cannot equal; what intellect cannot know, argument cannot enumerate; to contend for fame like the Ru and Mo schools is perilous. The great sea does not reject east-flowing water—only then does it reach the utmost greatness.

Zhuangzi’s words are spoken only when there is no other choice. Without Huizi, they could not be understood. When Huizi died, who could still understand Zhuangzi’s words? So he uses Craftsman Shi as a comparison, and says again: I have no one with whom to talk.

The sage embraces Heaven and Earth; his grace reaches all under heaven, yet people do not know who he is. Thus while he lives he holds no noble rank; when he dies he receives no posthumous title; he does not hoard wealth or seek a name. Such a one is called the “Great Person”—someone whose virtue is complete and who accords with the Dao.

A dog is not judged a good dog merely for barking well; a person is not judged worthy merely for speaking well—how much less can one become “great” by trying? Even deliberate striving to be great falls short of true greatness; how much more so deliberate striving to cultivate De? When it comes to completeness of greatness, nothing surpasses Heaven and Earth—yet Heaven and Earth never seek anything. Because they seek nothing, they are complete in this way. Whoever understands this completeness seeks nothing, loses nothing, rejects nothing, and does not trade himself away for external things. He returns to himself without exhaustion and follows the ancient Way without fading or straying—this is the Great Person’s sincerity.

Ziqi had eight sons. He had them stand before him and summoned Jiufang E, saying, “Look at these boys for me—which one is blessed?” Jiufang E said, “Kun is blessed.” Ziqi was startled and pleased, and asked, “In what way?” The answer was, “Kun will eat at the same table as a lord of the state, and so until the end of his life.” Ziqi’s face fell; he wept and said, “How could my son come to this?” Jiufang E said, “To eat with a lord of the state—favor can reach the three clans (father’s, mother’s, and wife’s kin), let alone the parents. Now you hear this and weep—you are refusing blessing. The son is auspicious; the father is not.” Ziqi said, “E, how do you really understand this, or understand Kun’s good fortune? That is only wine and meat passing through mouth and nose—how can you know where it comes from? I never kept sheep, yet a ewe lambed in the southwest corner of the house; I never loved the hunt, yet quail appeared in the southeast corner. If that is not strange, what is? My son and I wander together—we wander in the midst of Heaven and Earth. With him I invite joy from Heaven and food and clothing from Earth. I do not join him in scheming affairs, in plotting, or in manufacturing oddities. He and I ride upon the genuineness of Heaven and Earth and do not let things disturb or jostle him; we follow nature and do not force what affairs call “fitting.” Now he receives worldly reward. Where there is a strange omen, there has first been strange conduct. Perhaps this is not my son’s fault or mine—could it be Heaven’s gift? That is why I weep.”

Before long, Ziqi sent Kun to the state of Yan. On the road Kun was seized by robbers. They found it hard to sell him intact and easier to sell him if they cut off a foot, so they amputated his foot and sold him in Qi—right in the market where Lord Qu lived. Kun thereafter had meat to eat for the rest of his life until he died.

Nieque met Xu You and asked, “Where are you going?” Xu You said, “I am getting away from Yao.” “Why?” “Yao is so busy practicing benevolence that I fear he will be mocked by all under heaven; later generations may devour one another. The people are not hard to gather: love them and they draw near; give them profit and they come; praise them and they strive; impose on them what they hate and they scatter. Love and profit both spring from benevolence and righteousness. Those who discard benevolence and righteousness are few; those who exploit them are many. The spread of benevolence and righteousness is not sincere—it is seized by the greedy and trumpeted aloud. Therefore to cut the empire to fit one person’s judgment, thinking it benefits the empire, is like judging from a single hurried glance. Yao knows the worthy benefit the empire but does not know the worthy also harm the empire. Only one who stands outside ‘worthiness’ understands this.”

There is the type called nuanshu; there is ruxu; there is juanlou.

Nuanshu: one learns the words of a single teacher, then smugly rejoices in vague self-satisfaction, thinking oneself already sufficient, never knowing one has never truly touched the root of things. Hence the name nuanshu—shallow learning swollen with self-content.

Ruxu: like hog lice. They choose sparse patches of bristles and take them for vast palaces and great parks; they lodge between flank and hoof, in crooked hollows, beside teats and shanks, and think they have safe, convenient homes—never knowing that when the butcher swings his arm, spreads straw, and lights the fire, they will be scorched along with the pig. They advance with that patch of hide and retreat with it. This is ruxu—clinging to a narrow ease.

Juanlou: this refers to Shun. Mutton does not envy ants, but ants envy mutton because it is rank. Shun had this rank, attracting quality in his conduct; the people loved him, so three times he moved and wherever he went towns formed; when he reached the wilds of Deng, a hundred thousand households had gathered. Yao heard Shun was capable and raised him up from barren ground, hoping for the grace his coming would bring. Once Shun was employed from that wasteland, he grew old; sight and hearing failed—yet he could not stop and go home to rest. This is juanlou—drawn and bent by the crowd’s attachment, unable to cease.

The Great Person is one who fills virtue to fullness. When virtue is full, he can stand high without displaying nobility, achieve without claiming merit, enrich the ten thousand things without fixing on their use, cover all under heaven yet have nothing by which to praise himself. The Way of the Great Person is so. Hence it is said: alive without noble rank, dead without posthumous title, not hoarding solid gain, not raising a name—this is called the Great Person. Rank and posthumous title are extras beyond one’s portion; name and fact are empty vessels of the world. Why would the Great Person set his mind on these four? That is why Zhuangzi speaks of “establishing nothing.”

Therefore, the spirit person (shenren) dislikes crowds of people arriving in throngs. When the multitude comes, harmony cannot be achieved; without harmony, there is no benefit.

The spirit person is spoken of in terms of the Dao. The spirit person stirs and transforms the ten thousand things, yet unlike the sage does not worry over them. The ten thousand things return of themselves—it is not that the spirit person, out of fondness, summons them. Hence it is said that the spirit person dislikes the multitude pressing in together.

Thus: nothing is excessively close, nothing is excessively distant; embracing De and nurturing harmonizing qi (yanghe—gently tending harmonizing qi) to accord with the world—this is called the perfected person (zhenren). The perfected person is spoken of in terms of original nature. The perfected person does not divide the ten thousand things into near and far; they let each thing obtain what belongs to it and guard pure unified qi—how could they go against the world? Hence it is said: neither excessively close nor excessively distant, holding De and nurturing harmony to accord with the world—this is the perfected person. Yet the perfected person still falls short of the spirit person, which is why this is placed after the discussion of the spirit person.

“Toward ants, discard cleverness; toward fish, the method is obtained; toward sheep, discard intention”: toward ants, discard cleverness—meaning not using rank, fishy odors to please and draw them; toward fish, the method is obtained—meaning withdrawing into deep, remote places to preserve oneself; toward sheep, discard intention—meaning having no mind that drives external things to come admiring.

Using the eye to turn back upon the eye is using clarity to awaken what is not clear; using the ear to turn back upon the ear is using acuity to perceive what is not acute; using the heart to return to the heart itself is using stillness to settle what is not still. Thus one’s evenness becomes upright thereby, and transformation becomes correct thereby. Hence it is said: such a person is even as water’s surface, upright as a plumb line, transformation following a standard—that is, even and upright as a cord, transformation compliant. Who but a perfected person could achieve this?

The perfected persons of antiquity treated things with what is natural, without mixing in the human where the natural belongs. The perfected persons of antiquity: obtaining was life, losing was death; obtaining could also be death, losing could also be life. Medicinals are the same—there are aconite (jian), platycodon, foxnut (yong), and chuling (polyporus); only at the right time does one become the dominant agent—cases of this sort cannot be exhausted in words.

The True Person’s inner nature is upright and does not lean on external things. Therefore they entrust everything to nature in dealing with the myriad things, and do not use deliberate action to disturb wuwei (non-action). Coming at the right time is responding to the times; leaving at the right time is being able to follow along. When they come, they know it is only a temporary departure; when they go, they know it is only a temporary arrival. Clear and aware, they are never entangled from beginning to end. Thus it is said: the True Person of old used Heaven to treat people—they did not mix human artifice into Heaven.

King Goujian of Yue once led three thousand men in armor and with shields to hold out on Mount Kuaiji. Only Wen Zhong understood how the state could still be preserved when it was on the verge of ruin, yet did not understand why he himself fell into distress. Therefore it is said: the eyes of the owl each have their proper use, the legs of the crane each have their natural measure—force them apart and the result is pitiable. When wind blows across a river, the river loses water; when the sun passes over the river, it also loses water. If wind and sun together “kept watch” on the river, the river would think they had never disturbed it, because it relies on its source to flow on without ceasing.

The Perfect Person knows themselves but does not go to know others, sees themselves but does not stare at the other party—so fortune and misfortune, auspice and omen, cannot entangle them. Grand Master Wen Zhong was the opposite: he knew others but did not know himself, saw the other party but did not see himself—anxiety and disaster were enough to become a drag on him. When Zhuangzi spoke of the owl’s eyes and the crane’s legs, he meant exactly this.

Water stays secure by holding to earth; shadow stays secure by holding to a person; things stay secure by holding to what they should hold to. Therefore the eyes, in chasing sharp sight, are in danger; the ears, in chasing keen hearing, are in danger; the heart, in outward pursuit and offering the body as sacrifice, is in danger. Whenever any faculty lingers fixed in its own storehouse, there is danger; once danger has formed, there is no time to change it.

Water arises from earth yet cannot leave earth behind; shadow arises from form yet cannot leave form behind; the myriad things emerge from the Creator (the source that transforms and generates all things) yet cannot leave the Creator behind. Thus water stays with earth in secure union, shadow stays with the person in secure union, and things stay with things in secure union. Yet earth has no deliberate intent toward water, and water still draws near; form has no deliberate intent toward shadow, and shadow still appears; the Creator has no deliberate intent toward the myriad things, and the myriad things still come to completion. These three do not rely on one another with deliberate purpose—how could ordinary people manage the same?

The eyes always chase brightness, the ears always chase keen hearing, and the mind always chases external things. Insisting on brightness is deliberately aiming at clarity; insisting on keen hearing is deliberately aiming at acuity; insisting on chasing is deliberately sacrificing oneself for things (she ji zhui wu). Once one deliberately pursues cleverness and chasing, danger and entanglement inevitably follow—how is that the natural way of mutual reliance? Therefore for the eyes, “brightness” is dangerous; for the ears, “keen hearing” is dangerous; for the mind, chasing external things is dangerous.

When calamities pile up ever higher, their turning back stems from craving merit and achievement; the bitter fruit often appears only after a long delay, yet people treat this as their treasure—is that not deeply lamentable? Thus the ruin of states and the killing of people never cease, and still they do not ask into the root cause.

The foot treads the ground; though the place it touches is small, it must rely on the ground not stepped on before it can travel far. Human knowledge, though slight, must rely on what one does not know before one can grasp what Heaven intends to show.

The ultimate persons of antiquity regarded excessive knowledge as the root of calamity. Though they had wisdom, they could always set that wisdom aside, so calamity could not entangle them. The ordinary people under Heaven cannot set wisdom aside; instead they boast of it, not understanding that knowledge is inherently limited and that one must rely on what one does not know in order to know what Heaven means.

In antiquity, the perfected person regarded excessive cleverness and cunning as the root of calamity. Though they had wisdom, they could always set that wisdom aside, so calamity could not weigh them down. People in the world cannot set wisdom aside; instead they boast of their cleverness, and calamity therefore grows and spreads. Hence it is said: the increase of calamity is something that accumulates gradually. Where calamity arises, it lurks within good fortune. As for merit, it begins with Grandee Wen Zhong (Yue’s strategist, who helped Goujian preserve Yue)—his talent could achieve the merit of saving the state; hence it is said: when fortune and calamity turn, it is merit that sets it in motion. When merit becomes a burden, that too does not arrive all at once; Grandee Wen Zhong in the end could not escape the grief of losing his life—hence it is said: the outcome takes a long time to appear. All of this is invited by cleverness and cunning. Ordinary people do not understand and instead treat cleverness as their most precious possession—how deep the delusion! This is what Zhuangzi mourned; hence he said: yet people take it as their treasure—is it not pitiable?

To know the Great Unity, the Great Yin, the Great Eye, the Great Equalizer, the Great Square, the Great Trust, and the Great Fixity is to reach the utmost. The Great Unity is used to penetrate; the Great Yin to release; the Great Eye to behold; the Great Equalizer to follow along; the Great Square to embody; the Great Trust to verify arrival; the Great Fixity to hold fast.

The Great Unity is the Great Dao; the Great Yin is subtle efficacy; the Great Eye is the highest clarity; the Great Equalizer is constant nature; the Great Square is constant allotment; the Great Trust is non-speech; the Great Fixity is non-movement. The Great Dao—nothing is not passed through by it, and it is nowhere absent; hence “penetrate it.” Subtle efficacy is hidden and stored yet used in everything; hence “release it.” The highest clarity sees what is usually unseen and does not look at what is usually seen; hence “behold it.” Constant nature—each reception has its limit, yet all follow along; hence “follow it.” Constant allotment—each attainment has its measure, yet all are upheld; hence “embody it.” Non-speech—there is no prior expectation, yet affairs necessarily arrive; hence “verify it.” Non-movement—nothing can alter it; one only holds firm; hence “hold it.” These seven are the utmost subtlety of the Great Dao; only a sage can reach this state.

If a person can exhaust what is naturally given, they push everything to the utmost subtlety of nature and themselves do nothing forced; if they can follow the light to illuminate, they rely on the inherent clarity of the mind’s own principle and turn back to reflect on themselves; if they can grasp the pivot in the dark, they remain hidden at the margin where things operate, without rash movement on their own part; if they can see the beginning from “that,” they understand that the myriad things arise from the supreme beginning—that is, the very first opening of the cosmos. Such a person explains things as if not explaining, because knowing still returns to non-clinging; they know as if not knowing, because having knowledge still returns to not-knowing. Only after not-knowing does one truly know—this is the subtlety of the Dao; none but a sage can reach it.

To question this principle, one cannot fix a boundary, because the mind must be empty yet responsive, without end; nor can one say there is no boundary at all, because responding to things must not overstep what is due.

The myriad things are tangled yet each has its real principle—meaning the teeming ten thousand things ultimately return each to its own root; past and present do not replace one another—meaning there is no “ancient” and no “present,” never altered from the start; this truth cannot be diminished—meaning it does not generate anew or change, yet nothing fails to be accomplished. Is this not a broad outline of the claim? Why not simply ask into this principle—why be perplexed about it?

Without cleverness there is no confusion; once cleverness appears, confusion is born. The Dao cannot be questioned; to question is already confusion. It cannot be answered; to answer is to resolve confusion with confusion. Only by dropping cleverness is one free of confusion. Using non-confusion to undo confusion, then returning again to non-confusion—there is neither question nor answer, only a turn back to what one originally had. This alone is to honor the greatest non-confusion.

The above is Volume 12 of the New Commentary on the True Classic of Nanhua. This book is included in the Complete Library in Four Sections as commissioned by the imperial court. Volume 13, “Principles of Yang,” was composed by Wang Peng of the Song dynasty.

Those who cannot guard their pure original nature and merge with the supreme ultimate, but instead are misled by chance external things and ceaselessly seek official advancement—that is why Ze Yang (Peng Yang) acted as he did. Zhuangzi therefore wrote the chapter “Ze Yang.”

Ze Yang was traveling in the state of Chu. Yi Jie recommended him to the king of Chu, but the king did not receive him, and Yi Jie returned. Peng Yang saw Wang Guo and said, “Why did you not speak of me before the king?” Wang Guo replied, “I am not equal to Gongyue Xiu.” Peng Yang asked, “What kind of person is Gongyue Xiu?” The answer was: “In winter he spears turtles on the riverbank; in summer he rests at the foot of the hills. When someone passing by asked him, he said: ‘This is where I live.’ If Yi Jie could not manage it, how much less could I? I am not even equal to Yi Jie. Yi Jie is a man without De (Virtue/Power) but with cleverness; he does not claim to transform companionship through spirit, yet he is already sunk in wealth and rank. He does not help others with virtue but helps them to wear themselves down. A person freezing asks spring for clothes; a person suffering heat instead longs for winter’s cold wind. The king of Chu—his bearing is noble and stern; he never pardons faults, like a fierce tiger. Unless one is both eloquent and upright in character, who could turn him around?”

The Perfect Man rests in the natural disposition of nature and life (xingming), keeps far from the path of benefit and harm, is startled when favored, and afraid when he hears praise—how could his heart be tied to wealth, rank, and profit? Ze Yang could not be like this; he humbled himself to seek advancement. That is why Wang Guo spoke of Gongyue Xiu’s conduct to restrain him. Spearing turtles on the river in winter is following heaven’s natural sustenance; resting at the hillside in summer is preserving heaven’s natural ease. When heavenly sustenance is followed, desire cannot disturb; when heavenly joy is complete, nothing in the ten thousand things can grieve him. How could he be dragged by favor and rank? Gongyue Xiu’s way was like this—this is entering the realm of the Perfect Man.

Therefore when the sage is in straits, he can make his household forget poverty; when he is eminent, he can make kings and dukes forget rank and salary and become humble instead. Toward things, he shares their joy; toward people, he delights when affairs go smoothly while still preserving himself. Thus sometimes without speaking he can affect others like harmony that is as if giving someone water to drink; standing shoulder to shoulder with someone, he can transform them. When father and son are in accord, he returns home and dwells at ease, with a calm distance toward all he bestows. His influence on people’s hearts is this profound. Hence it is said: one must wait for Gongyue Xiu.

The sage exhaustively investigates the principles of things and fully realizes his own nature; he delights in according with Heaven and also knows fate. When poor and constrained, he settles his mind in self-contentment and lives by fields that need no borrowing from others, so that his household inwardly rejoices and forgets poverty. When eminent and successful, he occupies a rank none can match and holds lofty power, yet makes kings and dukes forget themselves and lose their pride. He harmonizes with the ten thousand things as one, and only then is joy preserved—hence it is said that toward things he shares delight with them. He has no barrier with people, and only then is authenticity kept—hence it is said that toward people he delights in mutual connection while preserving himself. Without speaking he can make others hold to simplicity—hence it is said that sometimes by not speaking he lets others drink in harmony. Without opposing others he makes them transform themselves—hence it is said that standing alongside people he transforms them. He clarifies names and duties and does not lose fitting relations—hence it is said that he speaks of what is fitting between father and son. He returns to rest and ease, lets the body be at leisure, and spreads benevolence evenly—hence it is said that he gives in a leisurely, even way. With mind thus, the sage can enter the vast empty Heaven (liao tian)—the realm of the far-reaching, open Way—and is extremely far from the heart of ordinary people. Only Gong Yuexiu (the one in the text who has attained the Way) can do this; hence it is said that one must wait for Gong Yuexiu.