《南华真经新传》Vol. 5

If you give someone a mirror but do not tell him, he will not know that he is more beautiful than others. Whether he knows or does not know, whether he has heard or has not heard, the joy in his heart knows no end, and others’ affection for him knows no end—this is original nature.

The sage can penetrate all kinds of entanglement and mutual dependence—that is, see through what is subtle and abstruse. What is called being all-encompassing and merging into one means that he embraces the ten thousand things and is of one substance with them, yet does not feel that he is doing so on purpose—this is nature: not using emotion to seek accord with the wondrous root (the source of the Dao). Fuming (returning to destiny) is returning to empty stillness; yaozuo (stirring into action) is issuing forth into change and transformation. Taking Heaven as teacher means taking the natural as one’s standard. When people follow along and give him a name, that is only a label arising from outside, not a fixed and constant designation.

The sage loves people—this title is given him by others; if he does not tell people, others will not know that he loves them. Whether they know or do not know, whether they have heard or have not heard, his love knows no end, and people’s ease in this love knows no end—likewise this is original nature.

It is like beholding one’s old homeland and capital—one naturally feels glad at heart; even if hills and mounds with dense grass and trees cover nine-tenths of the view, one still feels glad upon seeing. How much more when one sees again what one has seen before and hears again what one has heard before—that is as clear as a platform ten ren high (ren is an ancient unit of length) standing conspicuous among the crowd.

Ran Xiang Shi (an ancient person who attained the Dao) grasped huanzhong (the pivot at the center of the ring—the hollow hub of a circle that turns with things), followed along so that things naturally came to completion, and toward the ten thousand things had neither beginning nor end, nor fixed term or season. What day by day changes along with the ten thousand things is precisely that person whose own being is always one and unchanging—how could he ever depart from this principle? If one wishes to emulate Heaven yet cannot truly take Heaven as teacher, one will perish together with the ten thousand things; to treat this as what ought to be done—what recourse is there?

How could the sage deliberately set out to love people? He can use “not loving” to perfect love, so that this love can universally cover the ten thousand things. Once love is universal, the ten thousand things commend him, and reputation arises. Therefore it is said: the sage loves people—this is a name people give him. Since people already call him thus, how could those who hear not tell one another? If they do not tell, they will not know that the sage’s love is like this—therefore it is said that if one does not tell people, they will not know he loves them.

Yet when the sage bestows benefit on things, he does not regard it as benevolence; when he extends grace to things, he does not regard it as righteousness. His love never bears the trace of “going to love”—the ten thousand things simply each follow their own course. This love dwells between being and non-being, and in the end cannot be exhausted. Therefore it is said: whether one knows or does not know, whether one has heard or has not heard, his loving people never has an end.

The sage has never had a “Heaven,” never had a “human being,” never had a beginning, and never had things. He moves through the world together with others and never stops, yet in all he does nothing is left incomplete, and nothing gets blocked. Things come into accord with him on their own—how, then, can that accord be put into words? Tang of Shang obtained Deng Heng, gatekeeper and chariot master (Siyu and Menyin were titles; Deng Heng was the man’s name—a minister assisting Tang), to support him. He followed a teacher yet was not confined by the teacher, and thereby attained suicheng (achieving along with things as they are), letting names and designations govern affairs. Names and designations are in themselves superfluous rules, yet through them he could see both sides at once. Confucius (Zhongni) exhausted thought in assisting this Way. Rongchengshi (the legendary ancient emperor who devised the calendar) said: Remove the day-by-day count, and there is no year; without inner, there is no outer.

Wei Ying (King Hui of Wei) made an alliance with Tian Hou Mou (King Wei of Qi), but Tian Hou Mou broke the agreement. Wei Ying was furious and planned to send someone to assassinate him. Xishou (Gongsun Yan), hearing of this, felt ashamed and said: “Your Majesty is lord of a great state with ten thousand chariots, yet you would take revenge like an ordinary person. I ask leave to lead two hundred thousand armored troops to attack Qi for you—capture their people, drive off their cattle and horses, until their ruler’s heart burns with anxiety and fever as if poison had risen to his back, then seize his state; when Tian Ji flees, whip his back and break his spine.”

Jizi heard this and felt ashamed as well. He said: “To build a city wall ten ren high and, once it stands, tear it down—that is what convicts at forced labor find unbearable. For seven years now we have not raised armies; that is the foundation of true kingship. Gongsun Yan is a man who stirs up hearts and minds; do not heed him.”

Huazi heard these arguments and found them all ugly. He said: “Those who insist on attacking Qi are troublemakers; those who insist on not attacking are troublemakers too; and whoever calls both sides troublemakers is equally a troublemaker.” King Wei asked: “Then what should I do?” Huazi said: “Your Majesty need only seek the Way (Dao).”

Huizi heard of this and brought Dai Jinren to see King Wei. Dai Jinren asked: “There is a creature called the snail—do you know it?” King Wei said: “I do.” Dai Jinren said: “On the snail’s left horn is a state called Chushi; on the right horn is one called Manshi. They often go to war over land; fallen corpses number in the tens of thousands, and it takes fifteen days to return from pursuing the defeated.” King Wei said: “How can that be anything but empty talk?” Dai Jinren said: “Then let me make it real for you. Think: do the four directions, and above and below, have any limit?” King Wei said: “They have no limit.” Dai Jinren said: “When the mind roams in what has no limit and returns to the realm where human traces reach, is that realm as if it exists and yet does not?” King Wei said: “It is.” Dai Jinren said: “Within that vast reach there is Wei; within Wei there is Liang; within Liang there is Great King. Is Great King any different from the lord of Manshi?” King Wei said: “There is no difference.” When the guest withdrew, King Wei was dazed, as if he had lost something.

After the guest had gone, Huizi came in. King Wei said: “That guest is an extraordinary man; not even a sage could match him.” Huizi said: “Blow a tube and it can sound; blow the tiny hole at a sword guard and you get only a faint puff. Yao and Shun are what people praise—but to speak of Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren is like that faint puff.”

Confucius went to Chu and lodged with an ale-seller at Yique. In the next house, husband, wife, servant, and concubine had climbed onto the roof. Zilu asked: “What are all those people doing crowded up there?” Confucius said: “They are attendants of a sage. That sage buried himself among common people and hid in the fields; his name faded, yet his purpose was not spent. His mouth spoke, but his heart did not truly speak. He turned against the ways of the world and inwardly scorned going along with the crowd. He is one who hides on dry land—probably Shinian Yiliao of the market south?” Zilu asked permission to go summon him. Confucius said: “Leave it. He knows I understand him, and he knows I have come to Chu; he will think I am sure to have the king of Chu summon him and will take me for a glib man. And so it is—for crafty flatterers he finds even listening shameful, let alone meeting them face to face. How could you find him?” Zilu went to look; the house was already empty.

The sage holds fast to the Great Dao and meets the world with wuwei (non-action), responding to things from emptiness and stillness. Trust is not something he deliberately seeks; anger is not something he deliberately unleashes. The realm under heaven is not enough to burden him, and the myriad affairs are not enough to disturb his mind—how then would campaigns and wars be launched? He simply lets things follow their nature and finds peace in that.

Weiying (King Hui of Wei) did not understand the Dao. For a time he wanted to act on purpose: he demanded that others keep faith according to his own notion of xin (trustworthiness), but people could not respond with trust in that way. Therefore Tian Houmou (the Lord of Qi) broke the agreement. The agreement was broken because his “trust” was trust born of clinging to trust; Weiying, unaware of this, grew angry again—anger born of clinging to anger—so people did not truly submit to him. When matters stood thus, Xishou (Gongsun Yan) also asked to send troops on campaign, and the state became a burden; attack and war were carried out, and the myriad things fell into disorder. No wonder Huazi urged him to seek the Dao.

One who can seek the Dao can know the Dao; knowing the Dao, one can enter the Dao; entering the Dao, one must rest in wuwei. Resting in wuwei, though the realm under heaven is vast, it is as if forgotten—not kept on the mind. How much less could one small state be a burden? This is why Huizi (Huishi) used the snail’s horns as a simile. The snail’s horns refer to the tiniest strife on a snail’s antennae.

The frontier officer of Changwu asked Zilao, “Must one rest in wuwei to have the Dao?” Resting in wuwei, though the realm under heaven is vast, it is as if forgotten—how much less could one small state be a burden? This is why Huishi used the snail’s horns as a comparison.

The border official of Changwu said to Zilao: “In handling affairs, do not be rough and careless; in governing the people, do not waste and ruin them at random. In the past when I planted grain, if I plowed carelessly, the harvest repaid me in a half-hearted way; if I weeded violently, the grain came back to me broken and spoiled. The next year I changed my approach—I plowed deep and harrowed fine—and the seedlings grew lush and strong, and I ate my fill all year long.”

When Zhuangzi heard this, he said: “Nowadays, when people nurture the body and put the spirit in order, most of them are just like what the border official described. They flee what is natural, turn their backs on their inborn nature, extinguish genuine feeling, and lose their spirit—taking only what the crowd does as their standard. Those who treat their inborn nature so roughly take the branching outgrowths of likes and dislikes for their true nature. Weeds like reeds at first sprout as if they could support the bodily form, but soon they pull the inborn nature into disorder; then putrefaction and leakage break out everywhere, erupting without choosing a place—abscesses, scabies, carbuncles, internal heat, and turbid urine like pus: that is how such things arise.”

Boyu went to study with Laozi and asked to travel through the realm. Laozi said: “Forget it—the world is the same everywhere.” Boyu asked again, and Laozi asked where he would begin. He answered: “With Qi.” When he reached Qi, he saw a corpse executed and displayed for public warning. He straightened the stiff body, took off his court robe to cover it, and wept toward heaven: “You! You! There is great calamity in the world, yet it was you who met it first. People only say: ‘Do not steal! Do not kill!’”

Those who lead the multitude dare not fail to be upright—that is government; those low in station cannot but follow—that is the people. Government should take the people as its root. It was for this reason that he covered the corpse and wailed, saying: “The great disaster of the realm, yet you alone bore it first; people can only shout ‘Do not steal, do not kill!’”

Leading the multitude yet not daring to be unseemly—that is governance. Though their station is low, one cannot fail to depend on them—that is the people. Governance takes the people as its root; the people take governance as their foundation. Affairs of state must not be handled rashly; the people must not be governed lightly.

The border official of Changwu who guarded the frontier of Changwu therefore spoke of not being crude and ruinous—rash and destructive—in just this sense. Governing the state and managing the people has its proper method; plowing fields and planting seedlings has its method too. Both arise from the Dao; only the manner of practice differs slightly. The border official used farming to instruct Zilao (the one he admonished)—that is the point. It is not only that governing the realm and the people resembles tilling the soil; nurturing the body and ordering the mind follow the same principle.

To nurture the body is to keep the body intact; to order the mind is to keep the mind empty and still. When the body is intact, spirit can preside within; when the mind is empty and still, qi can be gentle and harmonious. Thus the root of nature and life is firmly preserved.

The world’s common ways are not so: they flee their natural endowment, abandon their utmost true nature, sever the genuine facts of nature and life, and lose the spirit that ought to master the self—driven by outer things, they force themselves to act. How is this different from reckless, ruinous farming? That heart and body cannot both be preserved lies in this. Hence it is said: fleeing the natural, turning from one’s nature, extinguishing true feeling, losing spirit—simply following the crowd.

Once the categories of honor and disgrace are fixed, people can see the harm that follows from them; once wealth and goods are piled up, people can see the strife that follows from them. When those in power both establish honor and disgrace that hurt people and gather wealth and goods that make people fight over them, they press body and mind to the limit and give people no pause—yet still expect them not to end up in that state. How can that be?

In ancient times, those who governed the people treated gain as something that belonged to the people and fault as something that belonged to themselves; they treated what was right as belonging to the people and what went wrong as belonging to themselves. So if even one person’s body was harmed or lost its natural state, the ruler would step back and blame himself. Today it is not like that: facts are hidden, yet those who do not know are called fools; things are made needlessly hard, yet those who dare not try are blamed; burdens are made too heavy, yet those who cannot bear them are punished; the road is made too long, yet those who cannot finish are faulted. When the people know their strength is spent, they can only keep going with pretense. As pretense grows day by day, how can officials and commoners stay honest? When strength is not enough, they fake it; when wit is not enough, they cheat; when goods are not enough, they steal. For theft—who is really the one to blame?

Qu Boyu, the worthy minister of Wei, reached sixty; in those sixty years he kept changing. What he first took to be right, he would later reject and call wrong. He could not tell whether what he now calls “right” is exactly what in the previous fifty-nine years he had called “wrong.”

In an age when Dao and De were most whole, those above were like twigs at the top of a tree—high in place but not proud; those below were like deer in the open country—at ease and unbound. They did not exalt the worthy or prize rare goods. Not exalting the worthy meant dull and sharp were not split apart and ranks were not graded; not prizing rare goods meant leaving gold on the mountains and pearls in deep pools, so that under Heaven people no longer knew honor, disgrace, wealth, or rank. In later times Dao fell apart and De was lost; what was honored was the so-called worthy, and what was valued was wealth and goods. Once all under Heaven knew honor, disgrace, wealth, and rank, they lost their true nature and fought one another with all their might. That is why Bo Ju, in Zhuangzi’s story—the man who went to Qi—wept when he saw people there executed after punishment. So it is said: when honor and disgrace are set up, the harm that comes from them appears; when wealth and goods are gathered, the strife that comes from them appears. That is the point Zhuangzi puts in Bo Ju’s mouth.

All things have their arising, yet no one can see the root; all have their emergence, yet no one can see the gate. People only value what their minds already know, and fail to understand that genuine knowledge comes from relying on what the mind does not know—is this not the greatest delusion? Enough, enough! There is no escape from this situation. This is what is called “it is so”—but is it really so?

Confucius asked Grand Clerk Da Tan, Bo Changqian, and Xi Wei: Duke Ling of Wei was addicted to wine and pleasure, neglected state affairs, and when hunting spread nets and used corded arrows to take birds and beasts; he also failed to respond to alliances and exchanges among the feudal lords. After his death he was given the posthumous title “Ling” (Spirit-like)—why?

Da Tan said: Precisely because he acted in this way, he received that title. (In posthumous naming, “Ling” can mean a ruler who is dissolute and chaotic yet has not yet ruined the state.)

Bo Changqian said: Duke Ling had three wives and bathed with them in the same tub. Yet when the worthy minister Shi Qiu (a Wei grandee, also written Shi Yu) came bearing the audience regalia, the duke had someone receive the ritual gifts and support him on both sides. In private he was negligent to that degree, yet toward the worthy he was respectful to that degree—this is why he was called “Ling.” (“Ling” also carries the sense of revering the worthy and being clear in affairs.)

Xi Wei said: After Duke Ling died, divination for burial in the original grave site was inauspicious; burial at Shaqiu was auspicious. They dug down several ren (an ancient measure of depth) and found a stone outer coffin. When it was cleaned, there was an inscription: “Do not rely on his descendants to occupy this tomb—Duke Ling will seize it and bury himself here.” That Duke Ling would be “Ling” was long since fated; how could the first two have understood!

All things emerge from the “mechanism” (ji) and return to the mechanism. The mechanism is the wondrous root of the Dao, and also the gate from which all wonder proceeds; look at it, yet you cannot see it—that is all. Therefore it is said: things have their birth, yet the root is unseen; they have their going forth, yet the gate is unseen.

One of limited understanding asked the Harmonizer (Tàigōng Diào): What are “words of the gathered hill” (qiūlǐ zhī yán)? The Harmonizer said: A gathered hill is when ten surnames and hundreds of people are woven together into custom. Difference can merge into sameness, and sameness can also break apart into difference. If you only point to the parts of a horse, you do not get a horse; when the horse stands before you and its parts hold together as one, only then is it called a horse. Hills and mountains pile the low until they become high; rivers and streams gather water until they become vast; the great person joins many differences until fairness (gōng) appears. So what comes in from outside has something it follows yet does not cling; what moves out from within has something it aligns with yet does not refuse.

The four seasons differ in weather, yet Heaven does not grant favoritism—only then is a year complete. The five officials differ in office, yet the ruler does not show partiality—only then is the state governed. Civil and military roles and the great person do not grant with bias—only then is virtue whole. The principles of the ten thousand things differ, yet the Dao (the Way) is not partial, and therefore has no name. Having no name, there is wuwei (non-action); in wuwei, nothing is left undone.

In discussing the Dao, the Harmonizer moves from the plain to the fine. First he speaks of the merging and scattering of sameness and difference, the piling of hills and rivers, the great person’s merging, and the going-out and coming-in of inner and outer—those four themes still belong to the realm of names. Then he arrives at no name, and therefore wuwei and the fact that in wuwei nothing is not done.

The Grand Duke’s discourse on harmonizing theories proceeds from the coarse to the subtle step by step. That is why he first treats how sameness and difference gather and scatter, how mountains and rivers accumulate and meet, how the great person merges inner and outer and moves in and out—and only then turns to how the qi of the four seasons differs, how the five senses each have their office, how civil and martial roles diverge, and how the ten thousand things arise each in its own way—before finally speaking of wuwei (non-action) and “doing nothing yet leaving nothing undone.” This is the path from coarse to fine.

The great person can merge and act from a public heart because he unifies custom and has no private ends. This way of blending unity comes toward people from outside; people know what to face toward yet are not bound. Hence it is said: what enters from without has something that presides, yet one does not cling. The principle people face toward arises from what the heart knows within; one can hold the correct way without straying. Hence it is said: what issues from within holds the correct way, yet does not reject others.

The four seasons arise from nature—they are not something Heaven deliberately bestows. Hence it is said: the qi of the four seasons differs; Heaven does not favor one; only then can the year run its course. The five senses are employed according to the public heart—they are not something the ruler may treat as private possession. Hence it is said: the offices of the five senses differ; the ruler does not show partiality; only then is the state well governed. Civil virtue suffices to make things clear; martial awe suffices to inspire reverence—these are not something the great person manufactures on purpose. Hence it is said: in civil and martial affairs the great person does not play favorites; only then is virtue complete. The ten thousand things arise, each with its own principle—this is not because the Dao shows partiality. Hence it is said: the principles of the ten thousand things differ; the Dao is not partial; therefore it cannot be named. Without name is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. The beginning of Heaven and Earth is “non-being”; if it is non-being, how could there be deliberate action? So through having no name one returns to wuwei. Wuwei is not doing nothing at all—it is acting without showing that one is acting. Hence it is said: wuwei and nothing is left undone.

Time has its end and its beginning, and affairs in the world never cease to change. Misfortune and blessing flow mixed together; people sometimes meet with what goes against them, yet within that there is also what fits. Each pursues a different direction—some are taken as right, some as skewed. It is like timber of every kind being usable in a great marsh, or wood and stone sharing the same mountain. This is what is called “words from the hill village”—ordinary talk among neighbors.

Shaozhi asked: “Then is it enough to call all of this the Dao?” Taigong Diao said: “No. The count of things is not limited to ten thousand, yet they are always called ‘the ten thousand things’—simply because their number is vast. Heaven and Earth are the greatest among things with form; Yin and Yang are the greatest among qi; the Dao is what they share as their common root. Because the Dao is vast, calling it by this name is acceptable. But the Dao is already self-so—how could anything else be used to compare it? To discriminate in that way is like comparing a dog to a horse—the gap is far too wide.”

Shaozhi asked again: “Within the four directions and the six directions of the cosmos, where do the ten thousand things come from?” Taigong Diao said: “Yin and Yang reflect, cover, and constrain each other; the four seasons alternate, mutually giving birth and mutually destroying. Likes and dislikes, going and staying, arise from this; male and female pair and join, and ordinary things appear. Safety and danger turn into each other; misfortune and blessing beget each other; urgency and ease rub against each other; gathering and scattering take shape from this. In all of this, names and realities can be recorded, and subtle points can be noted. Order arranges one another; movement pushes one another; at the limit they return, and when finished they begin again. This belongs to what the ten thousand things possess, and it is the limit of what words can exhaust and what mind and intelligence can reach—nothing beyond things themselves. One who sees the Dao does not follow how things decay, nor inquire where things begin; discussion stops there.”

Shaozhi asked: “Jizhen holds that nothing acts (mo wei); Jiezi holds that something seems to drive things (huo shi). Which of the two fits reality better, and which strays from the Way?” Taigong Diao said: “The crowing of cocks and barking of dogs are known to everyone. Even with great wisdom, one cannot use words to explain how they change by themselves, nor use thought to foresee what they will become. Analyzed in this way, the small can be finer than any further division, the great can be larger than any measure. To say ‘something drives’ or to say ‘nothing acts’—neither has left things behind; in the end both are fault. ‘Something drives’ leans toward the concrete; ‘nothing acts’ leans toward the empty. Where there is name and reality, that is where things dwell; where there is no name and no reality, that belongs to the empty side of things. What can be spoken and what can be conceived—the more one speaks, the farther one drifts. What has not yet been born cannot be forbidden to arise; what has already died cannot be blocked from ending. Birth and death are not far apart, yet the principle within is invisible. ‘Something drives’ and ‘nothing acts’ are both ways of speaking that doubt uses to stand on.”

Heaven and Earth and Yin and Yang all arise from the Dao. The Dao is prior to Heaven and Earth and Yin and Yang—how could Heaven and Earth or Yin and Yang be used to compare it? If one compares the Dao to Heaven and Earth, Heaven and Earth are only the greatest among things with form; if one compares it to Yin and Yang, Yin and Yang are only the greatest among qi. The Dao lies beyond form and qi; toward the ten thousand things it has no partiality, and its greatness cannot be measured by things. One merely calls it the Dao in deference to its vastness—so to name it thus because it is great is acceptable.

When yin-yang (Yin-Yang) is compared with the Dao (the Way), yin-yang is only the greatest within qi (vital energy). The Dao lies beyond qi and physical form; it shows no partiality toward the myriad things. Can its greatness be measured by any particular thing? Hence one can only follow its vastness and, as a makeshift, call it “Dao.” That is why it is said: to name it according to its greatness is acceptable.

“I look at its origin: going forward there is no end; I seek its end: arriving, there is no stopping point. Without end and without stopping means it cannot be fully put into words, yet it shares the same principle as the myriad things. ‘You shi’ (you shi — the view that something drives the myriad things) and ‘mo wei’ (mo wei — the view that nothing external pushes them and they are so of themselves) are the root of these discussions; they begin and end together with the myriad things. The Dao cannot be treated as a fixed existent, and ‘being’ cannot be called empty nothingness.”

The substance of the Dao is subtle and wondrous; the more it moves, the more it generates without exhaustion—hence “I look at its origin: going forward there is no end.” Its marvelous functioning is abundant and unceasing, as if present yet hard to grasp—hence “I seek its end: arriving, there is no stopping point.” Without end means there never was a boundary; without stopping means there never was a pause. This is the same as the principle by which the myriad things arise. Hence “without end and without stopping: in speech it is ‘nothing,’ yet it is the same principle as things.” This is the order in which Zhuangzi speaks of the Dao.

The name “Dao” is borrowed for use. You shi and mo wei each cling to one corner of things—how can they speak of the great whole (the entirety of the great Dao)? When words are enough, one can speak of the Dao all day and still not exhaust it; when words are not enough, one can speak of concrete things all day and only exhaust those things. The utmost of the Dao and of things—speech and silence both fail to carry it; relying neither on speech nor on silence, discussion reaches its limit. The Dao cannot be seen—hence “the Dao cannot be possessed as a fixed entity”; it generates the myriad things yet cannot be fathomed—hence “being cannot be called non-being.” The Dao is the path the myriad things travel; because it can be indicated in words, it is called Dao—hence “Dao as a name is what is borrowed for going.” The Dao’s substance is supremely subtle; speech and silence are insufficient to exhaust it—hence “the utmost of Dao and things—speech and silence are not enough to bear it.” Neither speaking nor staying silent, yet obtaining it from the heart-mind, one can penetrate its wondrous root—hence “neither speech nor silence—discussion has its limit.”

New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi commentary), juan 13. The Qianlong Siku Quanshu edition includes New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing, juan 14, by Wang Bi of the Song dynasty, for the “Outer Things” (Waiwu) chapter.

When the Great Dao disperses, the myriad things arise in its wake; once the myriad things arise, the signs of calamity and fortune, disgrace and honor interweave, and one can no longer assert that any outcome is fixed. Zhuangzi therefore wrote the chapter “Outer Phenomena” (Wai Wu).

Outcomes in the outer world cannot be made to turn out as one wishes. Thus Guan Longfeng (loyal minister to King Jie of Xia) was killed, Bi Gan (loyal minister to King Zhou of Shang) was dismembered, Jizi (uncle of King Zhou) had to feign madness, and E Lai (favored minister of King Zhou) also died—yet Jie and Zhou alike perished. No ruler fails to want loyal ministers, yet loyalty does not necessarily win trust: Wu Yuan (Wu Zixu) was thrown into the river, Chang Hong (a minister of Zhou) died in Shu, and his blood, kept for three years, turned into green jade. No parent fails to want filial children, yet filial piety does not necessarily win affection: Xiao Ji (son of King Wuding of Shang) lived in grief, and Zeng Shen (disciple of Confucius) lived in sorrow. When wood rubs against wood it catches fire; when metal stays near fire it melts. When Yin and Yang run awry, heaven and earth are greatly shaken—then come thunder and lightning, fire in water, and the great locust tree is burned. When a person’s worry runs too deep, caught between two horns with nowhere to escape, he grows fearful and accomplishes nothing; his heart hangs between heaven and earth, depressed and vexed, sunk in distress. Benefit and harm grind against each other, and inner restlessness flares like fire; the multitude thus burn away the breath of harmony. Clear and still as the moon, it cannot overcome this fire—so spirit collapses and the Great Dao reaches its end.

Calamity, fortune, disgrace, and honor each arrive with its own causes. People then assume that doing good must bring fortune and doing evil must bring calamity, taking this as the necessary shape of things. Yet Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan were upright and were put to death in the end; Wu Yuan and Chang Hong were loyal yet suffered exile and death; Xiao Ji and Zeng Shen served their parents and still could not escape grief. E Lai joined Jie and Zhou in cruelty, yet enjoyed long life, emolument, and honor. Was any of this necessary? Therefore it is said that outer things cannot be forced to a fixed outcome. Worldly people do not understand this; they twist themselves in vain pursuit and burn the harmony within, so life cannot be preserved. Only the True Person (one who has penetrated the Great Dao) knows that outer things cannot be made necessary; he empties his heart and forgets himself—calamity and fortune do not stick to him, disgrace and honor do not attach to him, grief and joy do not enter his inner mind. He rests in himself at ease, and life is thereby preserved.

Zhuangzi’s household was poor, so he went to ask the River Keeper—a fief lord charged with the river—for grain. The River Keeper said, “Very well. When I have received the tax revenue from my fief, I will lend you three hundred gold. Will that do?” Zhuangzi’s face flushed with anger. He said, “Yesterday on my way here I heard someone calling out. I looked back and saw a crucian carp in the rut water left by a wheel track. I asked, ‘Crucian carp, what are you doing here?’ It said, ‘I am a subject of the Eastern Sea. Can you give me a dipper or a ladle of water to save me?’ I said, ‘Very well. I will go south at once to persuade the rulers of Wu and Yue and bring the waters of the Western River to welcome you. Will that do?’ The crucian carp also flushed with anger and said, ‘I have lost the water I usually rely on to live and have nowhere to stay. All I need is a dipper or a ladle of water to survive. Talk like that—you might as well look for me early at the dried-fish stall!’”

What lacks must depend on what has surplus; what has surplus should relieve what lacks—this is the way things naturally go. Zhuangzi went to borrow grain because he expected he would surely get it; the River Keeper would only lend after collecting year-end taxes, which shows what was borrowed was not something he could count on receiving. Can things outside oneself truly be treated as certainly obtainable? That is why Zhuangzi used the crucian carp as a comparison.

Lord Ren of Ren fashioned a huge hook and a thick, dark fishing line, used fifty gelded oxen as bait, crouched on Kuaiji, and cast his line into the Eastern Sea. He went fishing every day and for a whole year caught nothing. Later a great fish took the bait, pulled the giant hook down into the water, then leaped up, spreading its fins until white waves rose like mountains, the sea heaved, and the sound was like spirits; its power shook the land for a thousand li. Lord Ren got this fish, cut it open, and dried it; from east of the Zhe River to north of Cangwu, no one went unfed. Later, people of shallow talent who loved to debate were all startled and told one another about it. As for those who raise fine rods and silk lines and run to ditches to wait for small fish—trying to land a great fish is very hard. What is meant by “polishing petty tales” is dressing up trivial talk.

The passage above says that such a person may be called a gentleman who follows what is natural. Laolaizi, a hermit of Chu, still admonished Confucius: discard your self-importance and put away the air of deliberate cleverness—only then may you count as a gentleman. This means that Zhongni (Confucius) still carried a reserved, affected bearing and had not yet become a true gentleman. Yet Laolaizi’s words need not be taken as final truth either.

The sages held that benevolence and righteousness suffice to nourish the age and put all things in order, and so they spread the great Dao throughout the world. Who could have foreseen that later scoundrels would steal benevolence and righteousness and thereby bring disaster? That outcome was not inevitable either. Hence it is said: unwilling to watch one generation suffer, yet by that very act bringing calamity upon ten thousand generations.

Duke Yuan of Song dreamed at night that someone with disheveled hair was peering in at the side gate, saying: “I come from the abyss of Zaolu. I was an envoy sent by the Clear River to the River Lord (Hebo), and the fisherman Yu Qian caught me.” When the duke awoke, he had the dream interpreted; they said it was a divine turtle. He asked his attendants whether there was a fisherman named Yu Qian; told there was, he ordered Yu Qian to attend court the next day. Yu Qian said he had caught a white turtle in his net, five feet around. The duke commanded him to present it. When the turtle arrived, the duke wavered between killing it and releasing it; uncertain, he divined, and the omen said: killing this turtle to use in divination would be auspicious. So they opened the turtle’s belly and burned its shell for divination seventy-two times, and not once did the reading fail. In antiquity one often scorched turtle plastrons and read the cracks to judge fortune and misfortune.

Confucius said: The divine turtle could appear in Duke Yuan’s dream, yet could not escape Yu Qian’s net; its wisdom could make seventy-two divinations without a single error, yet it could not avoid having its belly cut open. Clearly, cleverness and craft have moments when they are trapped, and even spirits have limits to what they can reach.

The divine turtle dreamed, believing it would surely escape—yet Duke Yuan instead opened its belly and drilled its shell for divination. Under such circumstances, dreaming would have been better than not dreaming; one cannot treat outcomes as necessarily fixed. Though the turtle possessed divine wisdom, that wisdom sometimes could not be applied—hence the saying that wisdom has its impasses and the spirit has what it cannot attain.

Even the highest wisdom cannot withstand ten thousand people scheming together. Fish do not fear nets, yet they fear the pelican, a water bird skilled at catching fish. Discard small cleverness, and great wisdom becomes clear; remove deliberate, artificial goodness, and natural goodness appears. Infants need no master to teach them speech—they learn simply because they spend all day among people who talk.

Small knowledge is the kind of knowing that takes itself to know something; great knowledge is knowing that does not cling to “knowing.” Once you declare that you know, what you know always falls short of something; if you are not bound by that kind of knowing, nothing is beyond reach. Ordinary people’s knowing is “knowing something,” so it must have limits; the sage’s knowing is “not knowing,” so nothing lies outside their clear awareness. To seem to know nothing is really because they can let go of small knowledge. Hence it is said: discard small knowledge, and great knowledge becomes clear.

Shan (goodness) is something people can pursue. As soon as there is something to pursue, shan is held up and made conspicuous; when there is nothing to pursue, shan is shan in itself. Hence it is said: let go of attachment to shan, and shan arises naturally.

Huizi (Hui Shi, a scholar of the School of Names who often debated with Zhuangzi) said to Zhuangzi, “Your words are useless.” Zhuangzi replied, “Only when one understands the useless can one discuss the useful with him. The earth is not unvast, yet what a person actually uses is barely enough to stand on with both feet. But if you dug away all the soil at your feet, down to the Yellow Springs (the deepest underworld), would the remaining patch of ground still be of use?” Huizi said, “It would not.” Zhuangzi said, “Then the usefulness of the useless is clear.”

Zhuangzi also said: If a person can roam freely, how could they fail to roam? If they cannot roam freely, how could they roam at all? That frame of mind that flees the world and the conduct that resolutely abandons society—alas, is that what supreme wisdom and deep de (virtue/power) are meant to bear? They do not turn back even when overturned and falling; they rush on like fire without looking back. Even if for a time one was lord and the other subject, it was only a momentary turn of fate; when times change, there is nothing left by which to demean each other.

Speech that insists on being useful in the end fails to be useful; speech that rests in the useless in the end becomes useful precisely for that reason. To use what is “useful” is not marvelous; to use what is “useless” is utmost marvel. Huizi took Zhuangzi’s words to be useless because he did not understand the usefulness of the useless. So Zhuangzi used the analogy of digging away the soil at one’s feet to show that one cannot conclude that the useless is truly without use.

Thus the sage who has attained the utmost in cultivation does not cling or get stuck in his conduct. To venerate antiquity and look down on the present is a common failing of ordinary scholars. If one measured today by ages like that of the legendary emperor Xīwéi, who could keep the heart from wavering? Only the sage can move through the world without eccentric fixation, follow others without losing himself. He need not learn another’s teaching in the usual sense; he receives its meaning without being bound by the “other” side.

When the eyes are unobstructed, that is clarity (ming); when the ears are unobstructed, that is acuity (cong); when the nose is unobstructed, that is keen scent; when the mouth is unobstructed, that is true taste (gan); when the mind is unobstructed, that is knowing (zhi); when knowing is unobstructed, that is De (virtue/power). The great Dao above all fears blockage: once blocked, things choke; when choking does not stop, they trample and harm one another (pian), and every sort of harm arises from this. Sentient beings live by breath (qi); when breath is not flourishing, it is not heaven’s fault. Heaven opens the orifices for life and never slackens day or night, yet people themselves block those openings. The human body is like a womb: from the start it has layer upon layer of spacious hollows (chong lü).

The gist of the new transmission is this: the way of the sage is round and penetrating, one with creation and transformation; his inborn nature is clear and harmonious, and as affairs shift he never accumulates stagnant burdens—hence it is said the sage does not linger in his going. He can suit the times and meet things without rigidity, and so wander in the world without oddness; he does not clash with people and can let go of gain and loss, and so follow others without losing himself. What he sets right is human nature itself, not something picked up afterward—hence it is said he does not “learn that teaching.” He takes in another’s intent and can also forget the opposing “you,” hence it is said he receives the meaning without making it “the other.” With no veil over the eyes, he sees what is usually unseen—so eye-penetration is ming. With no blockage in the ears, he hears what is usually unheard—so ear-penetration is cong. With no congestion in the nose, he smells what is usually unsmelled—so nose-penetration is keen scent. With no error in the mouth, he tastes what is usually tasteless—so mouth-penetration is gan. With no obstruction in the mind, he knows what is usually unknown—so mind-penetration is zhi. Knowing without confusion, he thereby gains something in himself—so penetration of knowing is De. Inner and outer connect; there is no burden of congestion and dimness—that is why he can attain for himself, and only at the end does the text speak of De. The sage is nothing more than this.

When the human heart can achieve tianyou (celestial roaming—the spirit resting in emptiness and quiet, free and unbound), it is no longer glued to outer things. If a house leaves no empty space, a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law crowded together will quarrel; if the heart lacks tianyou, the six borings (the apertures of eye, ear, and the other senses) will jostle and harass one another. Great forests and hills benefit people in the same way: openness lets the spirit spread and breathe; nothing oppresses the spirit like being packed and blocked.

When De (Virtue/Power) is too full, it spills over into reputation; when a name grows too loud, it turns into display and strife. Scheming arises from haste, cleverness from contention, and obstruction from clinging. Whether public business can be carried through depends on whether it fits what most people can live with together. Spring rain falls on season, grass and trees flourish, and only then do people take up hoes and mattocks to trim and tend; yet grass and trees planted upside down still live more than half the time—and no one knows why. Stillness can nurse illness, rubbing the corner of the eye is said to slow aging, and calm can check urgency. All of that belongs to the world of those who toil; those whose spirits are truly at ease never bother with such things.

The heart is the real sovereign of a person. It dwells in the utmost void, hides in the subtlest reaches of Shen (spirit), practices Wuwei (non-action), and cannot be tied by anything—hence the saying that the heart has tianyou. Once there is fixation, the six roots (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) stir one another up; the person is driven by things outside—hence the saying that without tianyou in the heart, the six borings grab at each other.

What sages would use to stir the whole world, the divine person does not pursue. What worthies would use to stir an age, the sage does not pursue. What the superior person would use to stir one country, the worthy does not pursue. What petty people use to curry favor with the times, the superior person does not pursue. At Yan Gate someone lost a kin and mourned so fiercely that he was made a ritual overseer of mourning; neighbors copied him until about half died from grief. Yao offered the realm to Xu You, and Xu You fled. Tang offered it to Wu Guang, and Wu Guang raged. When Ji Ta heard of this, he led his disciples to withdraw beside the Kuanshui; feudal lords came to console him, and three years later Shen Tu Di threw himself into the river.

Virtue broad enough to nurture and transform is called sagehood; sagehood so deep it cannot be fathomed is called divinity. One fit to serve as minister, to assist those above and benefit others, is called a worthy; such a person can govern from above.

One whose breadth is great enough to transform and nurture the myriad things is called a sheng (sage). When a sage’s stature is so high it cannot be fathomed, that is called shen (spiritual potency). One fit to serve as minister, assist those above, and bring benefit to people is called xian (worthy). One who can govern the state from above and treat the people below as one nurtures one’s own children is called junzi (exemplary person). One who understands only lowly affairs and falls short of the exemplary person is called xiaoren (petty person).

What shen and sheng worry about is not the same; the paths of sheng and xian are not the same; the virtue of junzi and xiaoren is even less the same. Hence when the sage comes forth to meet change, the shen person does not inquire in the first place; when the worthy comes forth to rescue the age, the sage does not inquire; when the exemplary person comes forth to act, the worthy does not inquire; when the petty person seeks only momentary compliance, the exemplary person likewise does not inquire. What is meant by hai is disturbance and setting things in motion. The doings of sage, worthy, and exemplary person are merely to let affairs run smoothly beforehand—would the realm, the age, and the state fail to follow? Each silently rests in their own utmost limit, without mutual inquiry.

The fish trap (yú quán) exists for the sake of fish; once you have the fish you may forget the trap. The rabbit snare (tù tì) exists for the sake of the rabbit; once you have the rabbit you may forget the snare. Words exist to convey meaning; once you have the meaning you may forget the words. Where can I find someone who has forgotten words, to talk with?

One who truly understands the Dao does not speak; one who talks without end has not truly understood. The great Dao of the sage is grasped only in dimness and stillness; only when the heart truly receives it is one fit to discuss it with them. Zhuangzi wanted to find such a person to speak his Dao with, hence: “Where can I find someone who has forgotten words, to talk with?” From this it is clear that Zhuangzi originally wished not to speak at all; that he still spoke was truly because he had no choice.

Xinhuan Zhenjing Xinchuan (Song Wang An’s commentary on the Zhuangzi), juan 14.

Siku Quanshu: Xinhuan Zhenjing Xinchuan, juan 15, by Wang An of the Song.

The “Yuyan” (Allegories) chapter: people in the world, confused by heterodox teachings, do not understand the sage’s great Dao; one must rely on words to make them understand—therefore Zhuangzi wrote the “Yuyan” chapter.

Among the forms of speech, allegorical discourse (yuyan) accounts for nine tenths; weighted, elder-backed speech (zhongyan) for seven tenths; and goblet words—utterances that do not cling to fixed views but shift with the matter at hand—arise day after day and are harmonized with Heaven’s pivot (tian ni), the natural seam of things. Allegory predominates because it borrows others to carry the point. A father by blood does not play matchmaker for his son: when a father praises his own son, it is never as convincing as praise from an outsider. This is not my fault, but the fault of partiality in the world. What matches oneself is approved; what differs is rejected; what agrees with oneself is called right, what diverges is called wrong. Weighted speech counts for seven tenths because it reasserts one’s own saying through what counts as the words of venerable elders (qiai). One may be older in years, yet if one lacks insight that runs through root and branch in proportion to those years, one is not truly ahead of others. If one has nothing by which to be ahead of others, one lacks the way of being human; lacking the way of being human is to be a stale person (chenren)—someone worn out and useless. Goblet words appear each day, tuned to Heaven’s pivot; they extend along the grain of things and are used to live out a lifetime. Confucius said, “I wish to speak no more.” Mencius said: this refers to those advanced in age. One may precede others in years, yet without the warp and woof of root and branch matching those years, one does not count as ahead; one who cannot be ahead of others has no way of being human; without that way, one is a stale person. Goblet words arise daily, in harmony with Heaven’s pivot; from there they unfold and are used to exhaust one’s allotted years.

Confucius said, “I wish to speak no more”; Mencius said, “Do you think I enjoy disputation?” These sages originally had no wish to open their mouths. When they still had to speak and argue, it was only because they had no choice. Zhuangzi spoke for the same reason of necessity: to clear away the world’s confusion and bring people back to the true root of nature and life.

Zhuangzi’s words are not of one kind only, hence there are yuyan (allegories), chongyan (authoritative speech), and zhiyan (goblet words). Yuyan aim to set forth fully the true emptiness of the Great Dao (the real, still root); the world is sure to find this far-fetched and strange, so he puts the words in others’ mouths so that people believe nine parts in ten—hence “yuyan are nine parts in ten,” and it is said that he “uses outsiders to discuss” (borrowing others’ words to make his point). Chongyan expound the correct Way of high antiquity; to make the world listen gladly and never tire of hearing, he ascribes them to the words of qiai (venerable elders) to give them weight, so that people believe seven parts in ten—hence “chongyan are seven parts in ten,” and this is said to be what stops disputation. Zhiyan do not fix what is said once for all but always renew it, like a zhi (wine cup) now tilted, now upright, never in one position; because the world finds it hard to grasp the subtle root, he uses divisions that follow nature to harmonize—hence “zhiyan issue day by day, harmonized with the natural equalization (tian Ni).” These three are the methods Zhuang Zhou (i.e., Zhuangzi) used in his book. Only by following these three in seeking his meaning can one understand his intent.

Not speaking, things are uniform; uniformity and speaking are not uniform with each other, and speaking and uniformity are not uniform with each other. Therefore one must return to not speaking. To say “not speaking”: one may speak all one’s life yet never have truly said anything; one may never speak all one’s life yet never have truly failed to speak. Things each have their grounds for being so, for not being so, for being acceptable, for being unacceptable. What counts as “so”? According to its being so; what counts as “not so”? According to its not being so; what counts as “acceptable”? According to its being acceptable; what counts as “unacceptable”? According to its being unacceptable. Things naturally each have their “so” and each have their “acceptable”; there is nothing that is not “so,” nothing that is not “acceptable.” If zhiyan did not pour forth day by day in harmony with tian Ni, how could this principle endure? The ten thousand things are all seeds, succeeding one another in different forms; beginning and end like a ring, with no fixed order to be found—this is called tian jun (the natural, even turning). Tian jun is tian Ni.

Nothing is absolutely forbidden. If goblet words (zhi yan—speech that holds no fixed view and shifts with things) were not renewed day by day, and if natural divisions (tian ni) were not used to harmonize them, what could endure for long? All things arise from seeds and pass through one another in different forms; beginning and end circle like a ring, with no starting point to find—this is called natural evenness (tian jun). Natural evenness is natural division (tian ni).

Things and I share the same root. When I do not speak, the ten thousand things and I merge into one; that is why not speaking achieves equalization. Once equalized, if one opens the mouth to discriminate, things and I split apart again; that is why equalization and speech do not agree. When they disagree, stop speaking, and equalization returns; that is why one must be without words. Without words, equalization comes of itself; things and I are naturally on a par—this is called natural evenness. Natural evenness means holding to the natural limit; that is why natural evenness is natural division. The reason goblet words do not cling to one fixed saying lies here.

Zhuangzi said to Huizi (the School of Names scholar Hui Shi): Confucius lived to sixty; for sixty years his views kept changing—what he first took as right, he later rejected. Who knows whether what he now affirms is not again a rejection of what he affirmed at fifty-nine? Huizi said: Confucius was one who strove in purpose and applied his mind to learning. Zhuangzi said: Confucius had already let go of that; he simply did not say so plainly. Confucius once said: Human beings receive their endowment from the root of the Dao (the Way), restore their spiritual nature and live; their voices accord with pitch, their words with measure. When profit and righteousness stand before them, likes, dislikes, right and wrong can only win assent on the lips. If one could make people inwardly convinced so they dare not resist, and thereby settle all under Heaven—enough, enough—I am still not equal to such a level.

As for the sage: if likes, dislikes, right and wrong seek only lip-service, that is not enough; one must make hearts submit without daring to resist and establish the settlement of all under Heaven. Enough, enough—I still do not match such a person.

The wonder of the sage’s entry into the Dao lies in becoming one with transformation and moving forward with the times—where could there be the drag of stagnation and rigidity? Thus Zhuangzi said that when Confucius reached sixty, he had already changed sixty times. One who keeps pace with the times and adjusts only with change is not the same person from past to present: what was once held right is now held wrong; what is now held right is precisely what was once held wrong. Only when native endowment is complete and one can also reach ming—full accord with one’s nature and life—does one become so rounded and unobstructed. Huizi (Hui Shi) did not understand that the sage is originally like this; he thought one must strive in resolve and fix it in memory before understanding, which is why Zhuangzi spoke of “receiving one’s endowment and returning to emptiness.” Endowment is the root of nature and life; emptiness is the dwelling of spirit. The sage penetrates the root of nature and life, preserves the home of spirit, and meets things with a mind of emptiness and stillness—when things come, they naturally resonate; it is not deliberate speech, yet what is said is always fitting. Like a single pitch: when breath enters it sounds, when breath stops it is silent, so that people under Heaven are persuaded in heart and he himself is at peace. Hence it is said that resonance accords with pitch and words accord with measure; and again, that one makes people submit in heart, thereby settling what under Heaven ought to be settled. Such is the sage’s transforming influence.

When Zengzi (Zeng Shen, a disciple of Confucius) took office again, his heart changed once more. He said: “While my parents were alive I served in office; my salary was only three fu, yet I was happy in heart. Later it rose to as much as three thousand zhong, but I could no longer support my parents in time, and I was sad in heart.” A disciple asked Zhongni (Confucius): “Can one say that someone like Zengzi is free from the fault of being bound by salary?” Confucius said: “He is already bound. Would one truly unbound still grieve? For such a person, three fu and three thousand zhong are like a stork or a gnat flashing past the eyes.”

The superior person does not set their heart on seeking office, yet may still take office at times—for the sake of their parents. To serve as an official for one’s parents: even if the stipend is thin, as long as one can support them, the heart is deeply glad. When Zengzi (Zeng Shen, a disciple of Confucius) first took office, he had only three fu—a very small grain allowance—yet could support his parents, and so he was once happy. Later his stipend grew to three thousand zhong—a very large allowance—but his parents were gone and he could no longer support them, and so he was once sad. His heart was the same, his office was the same; what differed was grief and joy, and that turned only on whether his parents lived or died. Hence it is said that Zengzi went out to serve twice and his heart changed twice. With his parents in mind, how could windfall stipends drag at his inner life? When parents are dead, no stipend, however rich, brings joy. Confucius (Zhongni) likened this to a gnat or mosquito flying before the eyes—because that grief and joy depend on the parents’ life and death.

Yan Chengzi fang said to Dongguo Zhiqi (the man of the Way in the text): Since I heard your words, my mind has shifted year by year—one year, returning to plainness; two years, yielding and going along; three years, clear and penetrating; four years, one with things; five years, coming home; six years, the ghostly (the subtle and numinous) entering the heart; seven years, joining with Heaven; eight years, no longer knowing death or life; nine years, entering the great subtlety. If life comes from deliberate doing, that is death. Think about it: that kind of death has a wherefrom, yet the arising of yang qi has no wherefrom—is that really so? Where is it fit to go, and where not? Heaven has its cycles and numbers; the earth has where people dwell—where should I seek? Not knowing where it ends, how can one say there is no fate (ming)? Not knowing where it begins, how can one say there is fate? If there is mutual response, how can one say there are no ghosts (gui)? If there is no response, how can one say there are ghosts?

The great Dao of the sage is profound and subtle, belonging to a realm of emptiness and stillness; it cannot be grasped at once and is attained only through long cultivation. Yan Chengzi Fang heard what Ziqi (Nan Guo Ziqi) said, and only after nine years did he enter a wondrous realm. The first year was called “wildness”—blunting sharp edges and returning to simplicity. The second was called “following”—harmonizing with the world and blending with dust, not clashing with custom. The third was called “penetration”—following the times and resting in change, no longer confused or deluded. The fourth was called “things”—being one with the ten thousand things in harmony, dissolving the distinction between self and other. The fifth was called “arrival”—wherever one goes, one can reach it, and one gains something of one’s own. The sixth was called “ghostly entry”—penetrating the deep and subtle, spirit merging with the hidden and dark. The seventh was called “completion of Heaven”—fully yielding to nature, without lack. The eighth was not knowing birth and not knowing death—fully awakening to the principle that there is no birth and no death. The ninth was called “great subtlety”—reaching the utmost of empty stillness and subtle being (the unity of true quiescence and subtle existence). One who enters the Dao but has not reached great subtlety cannot yet be said to have truly understood in the heart. Yan Chengzi Fang reached great subtlety only after nine years; one could say he attained it through effort. Yet he still fell short of the sage: the sage knows from birth—why wait until day by day and month by month to obtain it? That is precisely why the sage is the sage.

Many faint penumbras (wangliang—the still fainter edge of a shadow) asked the shadow: “Just now you bowed your head, and now you raise it; just now you bound your hair, and now you let it hang loose; just now you sat, and now you stand; just now you walked, and now you stop—why is that?”

The shadow said: “I merely follow along with movement—why press the question! Though I have these motions, I do not myself know why. I am like the shell left by a cicada or the skin cast off by a snake: they look similar, but they are not the thing itself. When there is firelight and sun, I gather and appear; when cloudy sky and dark night come, I sink away and vanish. Perhaps that is what I depend on? How much more so for things that themselves must depend on something else! When it comes, I come with it; when it goes, I go with it; when it stirs restlessly without pause, I stir restlessly without pause along with it. From the start it is simply this following in motion—what is there to question?”

Yangzi Ju was traveling south toward Pei. Laozi (Laozi) was going west through the land of Qin, and they agreed to meet in the suburbs. When he reached Liang, he met Laozi. Halfway on the road Laozi looked up to heaven and sighed, saying: “At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot.” Yangzi Ju did not answer. When they reached their lodging, he offered water for washing and rinsing the mouth, a towel and comb, left his shoes outside the door, knelt and stepped forward, and said: “Just now your disciple wished to ask the Master, but on the road you had no leisure, so I did not dare ask. Now there is leisure—may I ask what this means?” Laozi said: “You stare with wide eyes and carry yourself proudly—who would be willing to stay with you? What is most white seems as if it holds dirt; one whose virtue is full seems as if something is lacking.” Yangzi Ju at once changed his expression and said respectfully: “I reverently receive your instruction!” When he had gone there, the innkeeper came out to welcome him, the host himself spread the mat, the hostess personally brought the towel and comb to serve him, guests yielded their seats, and those warming themselves by the fire moved away from the stove. When he returned, those staying at the inn were already contending with him for seats.

Shadow is produced by the physical form, and the form is something one originally possesses. Though shadow arises from the form, it does not depend on the form; though the form is one's own, it does not rely on that "self." What shadow truly depends on is fire and the sun; what the form truly rests upon is simplicity (pu). When fire and the sun are bright, shadow gathers because of them; when simplicity is preserved intact, the form is forgotten on that account. This is why Zhuangzi wrote of Wangli (the faint penumbra at the edge of shadow) questioning shadow, and why Laozi instructed Yangzi Ju—the principle lies here. Wangli is a dark, yin-soft thing; Yangzi is a bright, yang-strong person. Dwelling in deep yin, one need not interrogate shadow; dwelling in bright yang, one need not adorn the form. Thus both sides should be forgotten. To forget both is to guard against going to extremes. Therefore Zhuangzi placed this meaning at the end of the "Allegories" (Yuyan) chapter.

New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing, fascicle 15. The Siku Quanshu edition includes New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing, fascicle 16, by Wang Bi of the Song dynasty.

In the "Yielding the Throne" (Rangwang) chapter: kingship is but a name outside the Dao; the realm is but one thing beyond ordinary measure. The perfected person sees through this and holds neither in mind; Zhuangzi therefore wrote the "Yielding the Throne" chapter. Yao offered the realm to Xu You; Xu You refused. Yao offered it again to Zizhou Zhifu.

Yao offered the empire to Xu You, an ancient recluse; Xu You refused. Yao then offered it to Zizhou Zhifu, an ancient worthy. Zizhou Zhifu said: “For me to become Son of Heaven would still be acceptable—but I am afflicted with a grave inner ailment and am busy treating it; I have no leisure to govern the empire.” Though the empire is the most prized thing in the world, one must not harm one’s own life on its account—how much less other things! Only someone who does not set his heart on the empire can be entrusted with it.

Shun offered the empire to Zizhou Zhibo, an ancient worthy. Zizhou Zhibo said: “I am afflicted with a grave inner ailment and am busy treating it; I have no leisure to govern the empire.” Thus the empire is a weighty vessel, yet it cannot be exchanged for one’s life. This is how a person of Dao differs from ordinary people.

Shun offered the empire to Shan Juan, an ancient recluse. Shan Juan said: “I stand within heaven and earth—fur in winter, fine hemp in summer; in spring I plow, and my body is enough for the work; in autumn I harvest, and my body is enough for food and rest. When the sun rises I go out to labor; when it sets I rest. I wander freely between heaven and earth, content in my own mind. What would I want with the empire! How sad that you do not understand me.” He refused, went away into the deep mountains, and no one knew where he ended.

Shun offered the empire to his friend, the farmer of Shihu. The farmer of Shihu said: “How toilsome this ruler’s way of living—nothing but someone who exhausts himself in striving!” He judged that Shun’s virtue was not yet complete, so husband and wife shouldered their loads, the wife carried theirs on her head, and with their child they went off to the sea and never returned for the rest of their lives.

Yao and Shun were sages who acted with purpose. Yet acting with purpose in the end comes round to non-action (wuwei). As for the person of non-action—is he not beyond confusion?

When the great king left Bin (the ancient homeland of the Zhou people), he was extremely careful about whether to stay or go. All people born under Heaven are equally endowed with their nature and equally entrusted with their life—how could one let external things damage the truth of that life? The great king understood what Heaven had entrusted to him, and therefore dared not attack the Di people (northern tribes) and cut short human lives; he gave up the state and departed. This is what it means that the great king understood Heaven’s way of acting. To understand Heaven’s way of acting is to become one with Heaven; to be one with Heaven is to become what is most precious among the ten thousand things—so the people of Bin followed one another and came to join him. Therefore it is said that the people kept company with one another and at last established a state beneath Mount Qi.

For three generations the people of Yue killed their own rulers. Prince Sou was troubled by this and fled into the Cinnabar Cave (a mountain grotto). With no ruler in Yue and no way to find Prince Sou, they tracked him to the cave. He refused to come out; the people of Yue smoked the cave with mugwort and sent the king’s carriage to fetch him. Prince Sou took hold of the carriage strap and climbed in, looked up to Heaven and cried, “The throne, the throne—can you not leave me in peace?” Prince Sou did not despise being king; he despised the calamities that come with being king. Someone like Prince Sou can be said not to let the state harm his own life. That is precisely why the people of Yue wanted him as their ruler.

Han and Wei were fighting over seized territory. Zihua (a figure of the Warring States period) went to see Marquis Zhao of Han (ruler of Han), who looked deeply worried. Zihua said, “Suppose someone wrote an inscription before you that read: ‘If you grab with the left hand, the right is ruined; if you grab with the right hand, the left is ruined—but whoever grabs will certainly possess the world.’ Would you grab?” The marquis said, “I would not.” Zihua said, “Very good. From this it follows that the two arms are weightier than the world, and the body is weightier still than the two arms. The state of Han is far lighter than the world, and what you are fighting over now is far lighter than Han. Yet you torment your body and harm your life, grieving because you cannot obtain it.” The marquis said, “Well said! Many have advised me, but I have never heard words like these.” Zihua can be said to understand what is heavy and what is light.

Territory and the state are nothing more than empty vessels. People who are blind to this do not understand it and throw away their lives fighting over such things—this is why Yue saw regicide for three generations in a row. Only those who have attained clarity grasp this: they do not set their hearts on the throne or the realm. That is why Prince Sou of Yue withdrew into a cavern to preserve his life. Though he fled, the people of Yue still insisted on making him ruler. This is what is meant by “rising only when pressed”: he came forward because circumstances forced him, not because he wished it from the heart—hence his sigh toward heaven. Someone like Prince Sou can also be called a true person—the Daoist ideal of one who has reached the highest level and is not burdened by external things.

The Duke of Lu heard that Yan He was a person who had attained the Dao and sent someone ahead with gifts of silk to invite him. Yan He lived in a humble lane, wore coarse hemp, and fed cattle himself. When the envoy arrived, Yan He answered the door himself. The envoy asked, “Is this the home of Yan He?” Yan He replied, “This is my home.” When the envoy presented the gifts, Yan He said, “You may have been misinformed; that could even get you in trouble. You had better go back and verify.” The envoy returned to inquire and, when he came again to find him, could no longer locate him. Thus Yan He truly despised wealth and rank. One can say he was penetrating and without flaw: he did not resent poverty and low station, nor did he delight in seeing wealth and honor. When the Duke of Lu sent gifts, he paid them no mind and even led the envoy to think he had the wrong house. How could he treat chance arrivals from outside as joy? That is precisely why Zhuangzi praised him.

Therefore it is said: the authentic Dao is for cultivating the person; only its surplus is for ordering the state; only its dregs—like mud and withered grass—are for governing all under Heaven. Seen in this light, the achievements of emperors and kings are merely the leftover business of sages, not methods for preserving the body and nurturing life. The phrase “the authenticity of the Dao is for governing the person” means taking the self as the root of entering the Dao, letting oneself enter into the Dao.

Tuyang Shuo said: I dare not accept punishment. When the king returned to the state, it was not because of my merit, so I dare not accept reward. The King of Chu said: Summon him. Tuyang Shuo said: According to Chu law, one must have achieved great merit and received heavy reward before one may see the ruler. My wisdom was not enough to preserve the state, and my courage was not enough to die fighting the enemy. When the Wu army entered Ying (the Chu capital), I fled danger and hid from the enemy—I did not deliberately follow the king. Now the king wishes to set aside law and break established agreements to summon me; this is not something I want to become known throughout the world for. The King of Chu said to Sima Ziqi (a Chu minister): Tuyang Shuo’s rank is low, yet what he says is lofty. Go in my name and invite him with a position among the Three Insignia (rank comparable to the Three Ducal Ministers). Tuyang Shuo said: A post among the Three Insignia is more honored than a mutton shop, and a salary of ten thousand zhong (exceptionally rich grain stipend) is richer than profit from selling sheep—I know all that. But how could I covet rank and salary and leave the ruler with a reputation for reckless enfeoffment? I dare not accept; I only wish to return to my mutton shop. So he did not accept.

Life is the root of xingming (nature-and-life); external things are merely instruments for nourishing life. Life is heavy, external things are light. Those who are tongda (penetrating/attuned) preserve the life they value and forget the external things they treat as light, so life can keep being nourished; ordinary people forget the life they should value and risk their lives for light external things, so life cannot be preserved. This is why Zhuangzi used the image of sui zhu tan que (using the precious Sui Marquis pearl as a pellet to shoot at sparrows—gaining little while losing much).

Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) lived in Lu in a hut of earthen walls on four sides, with a roof of thatch and a door woven from coarse grass. Those who are tongda preserve what they value and forget what is light, so life can continue; ordinary people forget what is heavy and chase what is light, so life cannot endure. This is why Zhuangzi has the parable of sui zhu tan que.

Yuan Xian lived in the state of Lu in a dwelling so small that only four earthen walls enclosed it. The roof was thatched with freshly cut grass; the gate woven from couch grass was incomplete, with mulberry twigs for hinges and a broken jar for a window. The space was divided into two rooms, the gaps stuffed with coarse cloth. Rain leaked from above and damp rose from below, yet he sat upright and played the zither.

Zigong arrived riding a tall horse, dressed in dark blue beneath and white on the outside. His large carriage could not even turn in the lane. He came to visit Yuan Xian. Yuan Xian wore a cracked hat, shoes without heels, and leaned on a staff of pigweed as he opened the door.

Zigong said, “Alas, Master, how reduced you are!” Yuan Xian replied, “I have heard that lacking goods is called poverty, while learning the Way yet failing to live by it is called affliction. I am only poor now—not afflicted.” Zigong drew back, shame showing on his face. Yuan Xian smiled and said, “I cannot bear to act so as to please the world, to make friends by forming factions, to study in order to be seen, to teach in order to profit, to hide wrongdoing behind benevolence and righteousness, or to adorn myself with chariots and horses.”

Zengzi lived in Wei wearing an old padded robe without an outer cover. His face was swollen and his hands and feet were thick with calluses. Often he went three days without lighting a fire to cook, and ten years without adding new clothes. When he straightened his cap, the cord broke; when he pulled his robe, his elbow showed; when he put on shoes, the heels split. Yet he shuffled in worn shoes and sang the “Shang Odes” from the Classic of Poetry, his voice filling heaven and earth as if issuing from bells and chimes. The Son of Heaven could not make him a minister, and feudal lords could not become his friends. Therefore, those who cultivate the mind forget the body; those who nurture the body forget profit; and those who attain the Dao forget even their thoughts.

Wealth and honor are what people desire; poverty and low status are what they dislike. Liking and disliking arise from deliberate calculation. Only when one can be without fixed intent do attraction and aversion fade. When they fade, one in wealth and honor no longer feels wealthy and honored, and one in poverty and low status no longer feels poor and lowly. The breast stays calm and free, and thus one may wander at ease between heaven and earth. Men such as Yuan Xian and Zengzi may be said to be without fixed intent. Yuan Xian dwelt in a hut of four mud walls, with a couch-grass door and a broken jar for a window; Zengzi’s face was swollen and his hat, clothes, and shoes were in tatters. Neither, because he hated hardship, abandoned the Great Way. One played the zither, one sang—they forgot the body and were content in themselves. How could they exhaust themselves chasing external things and thereby harm life? This is where they differ from ordinary people. Therefore it is said: those who attain the Dao forget their thoughts.

Confucius said to Yan Hui: “Hui, come here. Your family is poor and your station low—why do you not take office?” Yan Hui replied: “I do not wish to serve. Outside the city I have fifty mu of land, enough for thin gruel; inside the city ten mu, enough for mulberry and hemp for clothing. Playing the zither gives me joy for myself; what I have learned from the Master’s Way is enough to make me glad. I do not want office.” Confucius’s expression grew solemn. He said: “Good—this is truly your heart! I have heard: one who knows sufficiency does not let profit drag him; one who truly rests in self-sufficiency does not fear loss even when something is taken away; one who cultivates inwardly does not feel ashamed without rank. I have recited these words long; only today do I see them in you—this is my gain.”

Zhongshan Gongzi Mou said to Zhanzi: “I dwell in seclusion by rivers and sea, yet my heart still hangs at the Wei gate (the gate-tower of the court, standing for rank and power)—what am I to do?” Zhanzi said: “Hold life dear. When life is weighty, emolument becomes light.” Gongzi Mou said: “Though I understand the principle, I still cannot restrain myself.” Zhanzi said: “If you cannot restrain yourself, follow your inclination—then spirit will not be harmed. If you cannot restrain yourself yet force yourself hard, that is double injury. One doubly injured will hardly live long.” Wei Mou was originally a great state’s prince; hiding in cliffs and caves was harder for him than for commoners. Though he had not yet reached the Way, he already had a heart turned toward it.

Only when outer desire is checked and not pushed to extremes can the inner self be sufficient; sufficiency brings no grief. Yan Hui was one who could melt such desire to the utmost. He had sixty mu of land, would not take office, and took joy only in the zither. Not taking office was because he was already sufficient; self-amusement was because he had no worry. No worry is the greatest joy; perfect joy is nothing but self-sufficiency. So Confucius praised him and called it his own gain. What “my gain” means is that the sage deeply received something from this.

The passage on Gongzi Mou and Zhanzi belongs to the Zhuangzi tradition on holding life dear and not double injury—relevant to inner sufficiency though not identical to Yan Hui’s case.

Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai. For seven days they did not kindle a fire to cook; their wild-vegetable broth held not a single grain of rice. His face showed deep exhaustion, yet he still played the zither and sang in his room. Yan Hui was picking vegetables nearby while Zilu and Zigong talked between themselves: “The Master was twice driven from Lu; in Wei he could not stay and his footprints were erased; in Song, while practicing ritual under a tree, the tree was cut down; in Shang and Zhou he was destitute; and now he is besieged in Chen and Cai. Those who would kill him are not punished, and those who insult him are not forbidden—yet he keeps playing and singing without a break. Can an exemplary person really be shameless to this point?”

Yan Hui did not know how to reply and went in to tell Confucius. Confucius set aside the zither, sighed, and said, “You (Zilu, whose name was Zhong You) and Ci (Zigong, whose name was Duanmu Ci) are men of shallow understanding. Call them here—I have something to say to them.” Zilu and Zigong came in. Zilu said, “We have come to such a pass—surely this is dire straits!” Confucius said, “What kind of talk is that! When an exemplary person is one with the Dao, that is called being unobstructed; when the path of the Dao cannot be followed, that is called being in straits. Now I, Qiu, hold the Way of benevolence and righteousness in my heart and meet the calamities of a chaotic age—how can that be called straits? Therefore, when I turn inward and examine myself, I am not in straits on the Way; facing danger, I do not lose my virtue. When bitter cold has come and frost and snow have fallen, only then do I know that cypress and pine remain lush through winter. The hardship of Chen and Cai may, for Kong Qiu, be a kind of good fortune!” Confucius calmly took up the zither and sang again. Zilu’s spirit rallied; he picked up a shield and danced the martial rite-dance (an ancient ritual dance, of the same order as zither and song in ritual and music). Zigong said, “I truly do not know how high Heaven is or how thick Earth is.”

In antiquity, those who attained the Dao were joyful in hardship and joyful in success alike; what they rejoiced in was not poverty or success itself. When the Dao is embodied in the person, poverty and success are as ordinary as cold, heat, wind, and rain succeeding one another with the seasons. Thus Xu You (the ancient hermit who declined the realm) found ease and joy on the north bank of the Ying River, and Gong Bo likewise rested content at Qiushou.

Shun offered the realm to his friend Bei Wu Zze. Bei Wu Zze said, “How strange this ruler’s conduct! He lived among fields and furrows, yet went to wander at Yao’s gate. And more—he would use his own shameful behavior to defile me. I am ashamed to face him.” Thereupon he threw himself into the Qingling Deep (a deep pool).

The sage can preserve his heavenly joy (joy in accord with heaven’s nature). When that joy is preserved, nothing in the world is enough to make him worry. That is why Confucius, though besieged between Chen and Cai, never stopped playing the zither and singing. Zilu and Zigong did not understand that the sage is content with heaven and knows fate (letian zhiming—at peace with destiny and clear about it) and therefore does not grieve; instead they thought a gentleman in such straits ought to feel shame. Confucius had to explain to them what “obstruction” and “penetration” really mean. Obstruction is not being blocked on the Way; penetration is not worldly success. Not knowing the great Dao is called obstruction; being able to run through with the Way is called penetration. The sage is not obstructed on the Way—he can bend and still connect with it. What he has not met is only the turn of the times—not like the petty person (xianren), who gets himself stuck on the Way. So the sage rests in this contentment and does not change his joy. Joy unchanged, gain and loss, honor and disgrace cannot disturb his inner mind; he simply lets outer things change as they will. Zigong thereupon woke up at once—which is why we have the saying that “in antiquity those who obtained the Way were joyful in obstruction and joyful in penetration,” and again that when virtue is established here, obstruction and penetration are like the seasons of cold, heat, wind, and rain.

When King Tang of Shang was preparing to attack Jie of Xia, he first consulted Bian Sui. Bian Sui said, “This is not my affair.” Tang asked, “Then who can help?” He answered, “I do not know.” Tang went next to consult Gu Guang. Gu Guang also said, “This is not my affair.” Tang asked, “Who can help?” He answered, “I do not know.” Tang asked again, “What about Yi Yin?” He answered, “He is forceful in action and can endure disgrace; beyond that I do not know.” Tang then plotted with Yi Yin to attack Jie. After victory, he wanted to yield the realm to Bian Sui. Bian Sui declined, saying, “When you were attacking Jie you came to consult me—later generations will surely take me for a cruel man. After you won you offer me the throne—they will surely take me for one who covets power. I was born in chaotic times, and men without the Dao have repeatedly stained me with such shameful conduct. I cannot bear to hear such talk again.” He then threw himself into the Chou River and died.

Tang tried to yield the throne to Gu Guang, saying, “The wise plan, the brave accomplish, and the benevolent hold the position—this has been the way since antiquity. Why will you not take the throne, sir?” Gu Guang declined, saying, “To remove one’s ruler above is not in accord with righteousness; to kill the people is not benevolence; others risk danger and hardship while I enjoy the profit— that is not integrity. I have heard: what is not righteous, its stipend one does not accept; when the age is without the Dao, one does not set foot on its soil—how much less accept honor as sovereign! I cannot bear to look long on such a state of affairs.” He then shouldered a stone and drowned himself in the Lu River.

In former times, when the Zhou dynasty was rising, in the state of Guzhu there were two gentlemen named Bo Yi and Shu Qi. The two discussed: “We hear that in the west there is a man who seems to have the Dao—we should go see.” When they reached Qiyang, King Wu heard of it and sent Duke Dan (Zhou Gong Dan) to meet them and make a covenant with them: “We will increase your stipend by two ranks and grant you office of the first rank,” and they killed a beast, took its blood, and buried it in the earth as a pledge. The two looked at each other and smiled: “Ah, how strange! This is not what we call the Dao. In antiquity Shennong possessed the realm: he offered sacrifices at the proper seasons and exhausted reverence, yet did not pray for blessing; he governed the people with loyalty and good faith to the utmost, yet asked nothing in return. Let the people be governed as they wished to be governed; let them be ordered as they wished to be ordered. He did not use others’ ruin to complete himself, did not use others’ lowliness to raise himself, and did not seize the moment for his own profit. Now the Zhou, seeing disorder in Yin-Shang, hurry to replace them: above they use schemes, below they buy people with goods, rely on armed force to maintain prestige, kill beasts and swear oaths as if that were sincerity, display their conduct to please the masses, and use attack and conquest to seek profit. This is pushing turmoil forward to swap one tyranny for another. We have heard that ancient gentlemen, meeting an ordered age did not shirk responsibility; meeting a chaotic age they did not cling to life at any cost. Now the realm is dark and Zhou’s virtue has decayed. Rather than attach ourselves to Zhou and stain ourselves, better to withdraw and keep our conduct pure.” The two went north to Mount Shouyang and there starved to death.

Men like Bo Yi and Shu Qi—even if wealth and rank could be obtained, they would never grasp for them. Their integrity was lofty; their way of acting went against the world; they took only their own resolve as joy and did not seek achievement from society. Such was the integrity of these two gentlemen.

People like Boyi and Shuqi (the two sons of the Lord of Guzhu at the end of the Shang) would not rely on wealth and rank even when they could have had them. Their integrity was lofty and pure, their conduct ran counter to the common world, and alone they took joy in their own purpose without going out to bustle in worldly affairs. That was the integrity of these two men of principle.

Tang the Successful banished Jie of Xia, and King Wu of Zhou overthrew Zhou of Shang, in order to follow Heaven’s mandate and the people’s hearts. Following Heaven’s mandate may be called understanding Heaven; following the people’s hearts may be called understanding people. To grasp what Heaven and people require is why Tang and Wu became sages. Guanguang and Biansui (each had refused the empire when Tang offered it and later drowned themselves), together with Boyi and Shuqi, did not understand Tang and Wu’s actions and jointly condemned them; unable to bear even to hear of such things, some threw themselves into great rivers and others starved to death on Mount Shouyang—they were men whose vision was incomplete and who did not see things through. To harm benevolence is called “banditry”; to harm righteousness is called “cruelty.” Benevolence and righteousness are the clear outward form of virtue; when they are injured, the Great Way is abandoned all the more. Once the Great Way is abandoned, people’s true nature and the genuine truth of life cannot be set straight. That is precisely why Tang and Wu had to campaign—to bring nature and life back to the right path. These men did not penetrate the subtle principle; blinded only by narrow views, how could they be called thorough and far-seeing?

Zhuangzi wrote this section to recount the conduct of the perfected person (zhìrén) and to clarify the subtle Way of no-mind (wúxīn), with each topic in its proper order. To hold the throne at the center of the world is what people desire, so he first speaks of Yao and Shun not keeping the empire in mind and yielding it to each other. To rule a single state is also what people desire, so next he tells how King Tai (Gugong Danfu, Zhou’s remote ancestor) and Prince Sou (the prince of Yue who fled rather than be made ruler) would not let the lands of Bin or Yue burden their hearts and went away. Poverty and low status are what people loathe, so he further speaks of Yan He, Liezi, Yuan Xian, Zengzi, and Yan Hui not keeping poverty and low status in mind and seeking only to withdraw. At the end of the chapter he speaks of Confucius stranded at Chen and Cai and of Tang and Wu removing Jie and Zhou, in order to illuminate the Way of no-mind. When Confucius was at Chen and Cai, was he deliberately dwelling in distress? Hence he never ceased strumming and singing and was at ease in himself. When Tang and Wu removed Jie and Zhou, were they deliberately trying to gain the empire? Hence they only removed those who mutilated benevolence and righteousness and brought the age back to the right track.

This passage comes from volumes 16 and 17 of the Nanhua Zhenjing Xinchuan (New Commentary on the Scripture of the Nanhua Perfect Realization), as preserved in the Siku Quanshu (Imperial Edition Complete Library of the Four Treasures). The work is a Song-dynasty new commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing—that is, the Zhuangzi—by Wang Ping; the section here is the “Robber Zhi” (Dao Zhi) chapter.

The point is that someone who truly understands life sees that life is only a brief coming together of things, and for that reason is not driven by wealth, rank, or profit, but lives at ease according to innate nature. Robber Zhi—the great bandit of legend—was as he was for exactly this reason. Zhuangzi therefore composed the “Robber Zhi” chapter.

Confucius and Liu Xiaji—that is, Liuxia Hui, a worthy man of Lu in the Spring and Autumn period—were friends. Liu Xiaji’s younger brother was named Dao Zhi, the legendary great bandit. Dao Zhi led nine thousand followers in rampaging across the realm and harming the feudal lords: breaking through walls and prying open gates, seizing cattle and horses, and carrying off women. Greedy for wealth, he forgot his kin; he neither cared for parents and brothers nor performed sacrifices to his ancestors. Wherever he passed, great states bolted their city gates and small ones fled into their fortresses, and the common people suffered beyond words.

Confucius said to Liu Xiaji: “A father must be able to instruct his son, and an elder brother must be able to teach his younger brother. If a father cannot instruct his son and an elder brother cannot teach his younger brother, the bond between father and son and between brothers is hardly worth honoring. You, sir, are a man of talent in our age, yet your brother Dao Zhi has become a scourge under Heaven, and you cannot discipline him—I am privately ashamed for you. Allow me to go in your place and admonish him.”

Liu Xiaji said: “You say a father must be able to instruct his son and an elder brother must be able to teach his younger brother; yet when a son will not heed his father and a younger brother will not heed his elder brother, what can even your eloquence accomplish? Moreover, Zhi’s thoughts gush like a spring, his spirit swerves like a gale; his courage and strength are enough to face enemies, and his tongue enough to gloss over wrongdoing. When things go his way he is pleased; when they go against him he grows angry—and he readily insults people with his words. Sir, you must not go.”

Confucius would not listen. He had Yan Hui, his disciple, drive the carriage and Zi Gong, another disciple, sit on the right as companion, and went to see Dao Zhi. Dao Zhi was just letting his followers rest at the southern foot of Mount Tai, cutting up human livers to eat. Confucius alighted from the carriage and stepped forward. He said to the usher—the attendant who announced visitors: “Kong Qiu of Lu, having heard that the general holds to lofty conduct, has come with respect to pay his respects.” The usher went in and reported this to Dao Zhi.

Robber Zhi said: “That is merely the virtue my parents left me. Even if you, Kong Qiu, do not praise me, do I not understand it myself? I have heard that those who like to flatter people to their faces also like to slander them behind their backs. Now you use great cities and multitudes of people to persuade me—you want to lure me with profit and raise me up like a docile subject. How could that last? No city is larger than all under heaven. Yao and Shun possessed the empire, yet their descendants had not even room to stick an awl; Tang and Wu became Sons of Heaven, yet their lines died out. Was it not because the profit they grasped was too great?

“I also hear that in antiquity beasts were many and people few; people built nests in trees to escape harm, gathered acorns and chestnuts by day and roosted in trees by night—hence they were called the Nest-Builder people. In antiquity people did not know how to wear clothes; they piled firewood in summer and burned fires in winter to keep warm—hence they were called the Life-Knowing people. In the age of Shennong, lying down was secure and rising was at ease; people knew only their mothers, not their fathers, lived among elk and deer, plowed to eat and wove to clothe themselves, with no thought of harming one another—that was the height of virtue. Yet the Yellow Emperor could not reach that virtue and fought Chiyou on the wilds of Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao and Shun arose and set up ranks of ministers; Tang exiled his lord and Wu killed Zhou. From then on, the strong oppressed the weak and the many bullied the few. Since Tang and Wu, all have been people who disturb the human heart.

“Today you cultivate the governance of King Wen and King Wu, wield the world’s debates to instruct later ages, wear wide scholar’s robes and narrow sashes, speak affectedly and act falsely, bewilder the rulers under heaven, and thereby seek wealth and rank. There is no greater robber than you. Why does the world not call you Robber Kong, yet call me Robber Zhi?

“You sweet-talked Zilu into following you, made him remove his high cap and unfasten his long sword, and accept your teaching—the world said Kong Qiu could stop violence and forbid wrong. Yet Zilu tried to kill the lord of Wei and failed; at the east gate of Wei he was minced into paste. That is your teaching falling short. You take yourself for a worthy sage? Twice you were driven from Lu, in Wei your traces were erased, in Qi you were reduced to want, between Chen and Cai you were besieged—with no place under heaven to rest your body. The disciple you taught met such disaster: he could not preserve himself above nor establish himself as a person below. Where is your Way worth honoring?

“What the world most esteems is none other than the Yellow Emperor—yet even he could not complete his virtue and fought on the wilds of Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao was not loving, Shun was not filial, Yu toiled until half his body was withered, Tang exiled his lord, Wu attacked Zhou, and Wen was imprisoned in Youli. These six are the most honored in the world; examined closely, all were deluded by profit from their true nature, forced against their own dispositions—their conduct utterly shameful.

“The so-called worthy men of the world: Boyi and Shuqi resigned the lordship of Guzhu and starved on Mount Shouyang—their bones unburied; Bao Jiao polished conduct and reviled the age, hugged a tree and died; Shentu Di remonstrated unheeded, shouldered a stone and drowned in the river, eaten by fish and turtles; Jiezi Tui was utterly loyal, cut flesh from his thigh to feed Duke Wen of Jin, then when Wen betrayed him he left in rage, hugged a tree and was burned; Wei Sheng arranged to meet a woman under a bridge—she did not come, the water rose and he would not leave, and he died embracing the pillar. These men differ not from dogs dismembered, dead pigs adrift, or beggars with gourd dippers—all strayed from their lot, prized reputation and slighted death, heedless of root and uncaring of life’s preservation.

“The so-called loyal ministers of the world—none surpass Prince Bi Gan and Wu Zixu. Zixu was sunk in the river, Bi Gan’s heart was cut out; both were called loyal yet in the end were mocked by the world. Seen thus, even down to Zixu and Bi Gan, none is worth esteeming.

“What you use to admonish me—if it concerns ghosts and spirits, I cannot know; if it concerns human affairs, it is only what I have already heard. Now I tell you human feeling: the eyes want beauty, the ears want sound, the mouth wants flavors, the mind wants satisfaction. Upper lifespan is a hundred years, middle eighty, lower sixty—aside from sickness, wasting, death, and worry, days in a month when one can open the mouth and laugh are barely four or five. Heaven and earth are without end; human death has its term. To lodge a limited life in what is without end, then vanish suddenly—is no different from a fine steed flashing past a crack. Whoever cannot make the heart rejoice and preserve life has not grasped the great Way.

“What you speak of is all I discard. Go back at once—speak no more! Your Way is frantic, crafty, and false; it cannot preserve true nature—how is it worth discussing!”

Confucius bowed twice, hurried out, and when he mounted the chariot dropped the reins three times; his eyes saw nothing, his face was like dead ash; leaning on the chariot rail he bowed his head, barely breathing. At the east gate of Lu he met Liuxia Ji—Robber Zhi’s elder brother, who had earlier urged him not to go. Liuxia Ji said: “I have not seen you for days; your carriage looks as if you traveled far—could you have gone to see Zhi?” Confucius looked up to heaven and sighed: “Yes.” Liuxia Ji said: “Did Zhi, as I said before, go against your heart?” Confucius said: “Yes. I was like one without illness who burns himself with moxa—rushed to tug the tiger’s head and braid its whiskers, and almost failed to escape its jaws.”

Great cities, many towns, high rank and thick stipend—all are external things that arrive by chance. When externals arrive by chance, they tug at the bodily form; when the form is tugged, life is harmed. How can one use a limited life to serve chance things? Then the right principle of life and fate no longer holds. Moreover, between heaven and earth a person’s span rarely reaches a hundred years; of those hundred, sickness and worry take more than half—moments of ease are very few. Why still enslave externals to harm life? That is why Zhi was unwilling to be a feudal lord and chose instead to suit his own nature. Hence it is said: Heaven and earth are without end; human death has its term; to lodge a limited life in what is without end and vanish suddenly is no different from a fine steed racing past a crack. This is Zhuangzi speaking through Robber Zhi; the chapter belongs to the category of allegory.

Zizi asked Mangoude: Why do you not cultivate De (virtue)? Without De, no one trusts you; without trust, no one employs you; without employment, there is no profit. So when one weighs reputation and calculates gain, righteousness is what ought truly to be practiced. Yet if you set aside fame and profit and turn inward to reflect, can a scholar who cultivates De afford to skip even a single day?

Gaze to the limits of the four directions and follow how circumstances wax and wane. Do not get tangled in right and wrong; hold to the round pivot (yuanji—a supple, responsive hinge), let your own mind take shape, and wander with the Dao. Do not bend yourself to perform De by force, and do not demand that righteousness be “completed”—otherwise you will lose something. Why must you never pause for even one day?

Having reached the utmost, one looks out in all four directions and rises and falls with the times. Right and wrong are both held within yuanji—the pivot that turns with change and does not cling to a single fixed stance—so that one alone fulfills one’s own intent and drifts in step with the Great Dao. Do not twist how you act, and do not treat success as righteousness, or what you do will lose its way; do not chase wealth and rank, and do not sacrifice yourself for success, or you will betray what is natural.

Bigan had his heart cut out and Wu Zixu had his eyes gouged out—the calamities of loyalty. Zhigong testified that his father stole a sheep, and Weisheng kept his word and drowned—the misfortunes of trustworthiness. Baojiao stood until he withered to death, and Shensheng would not speak in his own defense—the harm of excessive self-restraint. Confucius never saw his mother again, and Kuangzi never saw his father again—the failures of righteousness. These are stories handed down from antiquity and retold in later ages. People think that scholars must speak uprightly and act resolutely—so they meet disaster and suffer misfortune.

Wu Zu (he who is never satisfied) asked Zhi He (he who knows harmony): “Is there anyone who does not seek reputation and run after profit? Whoever is rich, others attach themselves to him; once they attach themselves, they willingly take the lower place; and in taking the lower place they honor him as noble. What lets people stay below and yet be honored is precisely the path to long life, ease for the body, and joy for the mind. Yet only you seem indifferent to this—is your insight insufficient, or do you know but lack the strength to do it, or do you cling to the right way and cannot let go?”

Zhi He said: “Such people treat those who share their time and hometown as figures who transcend the dust of the world and rise above their age. That is because they have no inner master and no alignment with the Dao, so they go looking at past and present, sorting right from wrong, and shifting with the vulgar world. People discard what matters most and cast away what is most precious, then do the things they do. To speak of the way of long life, bodily ease, and a pleased mind in these terms is not wildly off the mark? Agonizing illness and comfortable well-being cannot be clearly discerned in the body; terror and delight cannot be clearly discerned in the mind. They only know to act, but not why they act. So even if one is honored as Son of Heaven and owns all under heaven, one cannot escape calamity.”

Wu Zu said: “Wealth is not harmful to people. To exhaust splendor and reach the peak of power is what the zhenren (person of the highest cultivation) cannot match and what the sage cannot equal. One borrows others’ courage to show might, takes others’ cleverness to show sharp insight, and relies on others’ virtue to show worthiness. Even without ruling a state, one’s authority is like that of lord and father. Sound, color, flavor, and power over others—in the human heart one need not study them to love them; the body need not imitate them to rest content in them.”

The name Man Goude means someone who fills his desires by grasping at external things in a shabby way. The name Wuzhu means someone enslaved by external things who never finds satisfaction for himself. Zhuangzi gave these two names to convey his meaning. Zizhang was a worthy man who held that the way of benevolence and righteousness was enough to cultivate oneself and establish a reputation—why grasp at external things in a shabby way and harm one’s life? That is the point Zizhang used to blunt Man Goude’s sharpness. But Man Goude was deluded by “getting,” so much so that his nature changed; how could he still care whether the way of benevolence and righteousness could hold? So in the end he would not listen to Zizhang. Zhihe is also a made-up name, meaning that the way of central harmony was enough to regulate the inner mind and settle one’s own conduct—why be driven by wealth, goods, and power and harm one’s life? That is what Zhihe used to block Wuzhu’s desires. But Wuzhu was deluded by “not enough,” his mind restless because of it; how could he still care whether the way of central harmony was present? So in the end he would not believe what Zhihe said. Zhuangzi uses these two men’s delusion to mock the world for losing its true nature, so the meaning rests on “Is this not delusion?”—that is, expressing it through parable.

Chapter “The Sword”: The realm under heaven and the state are the sage’s sharp instrument; to use them one must know how to keep them stored away, and the authority within them must not be displayed to others. For this reason Zhuangzi wrote the chapter “The Sword.”

In former times, King Zhao Wen of Zhao was fond of swordplay. Swordsmen thronged his gate as retainers—more than three thousand of them—and day and night they crossed blades before him. Each year more than a hundred died or were wounded, yet he never tired of it. After three years of this, the state declined and neighboring lords began plotting against Zhao. Crown Prince Kui was deeply worried. He offered a reward to his attendants: whoever could persuade the king and put a stop to the swordsmen would receive a thousand in gold. They said, “Master Zhuang can do it.” The prince sent the gold to Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi refused it and went with the messenger to see the prince. He asked, “Why does Your Highness summon me and also send a thousand in gold?” The prince said, “I have heard that you are wise and prepared this gift for your escort. Since you will not accept it, how dare I speak my request?” Zhuangzi said, “I know why Your Highness wants me: you wish to end the king’s obsession. If I remonstrate with the king against his heart’s desire and also fail to satisfy Your Highness, I will be punished with death—what use would gold be then? If I can move the king above and satisfy Your Highness below, then what could I not obtain from Zhao?” The prince said, “That is so—but the king receives only swordsmen.” Zhuangzi said, “I am skilled in swordplay.” The prince said, “Those the king sees all have unkempt hair and bristling temples, wear caps pulled low with tangled chin straps, short jackets with high hems, bulging eyes, and halting speech—that is what pleases him. If you go in scholar’s robes, things will go very badly.” Zhuangzi said, “Please have swordsmen’s attire prepared for me.” Three days later he visited the prince, who presented him to the king. The king drew a bare blade and waited. Zhuangzi entered the hall without hurrying, and when he saw the king he did not bow. The king asked, “What do you intend to teach me?” The prince had already asked him to speak first. Zhuangzi said, “I heard that Your Majesty delights in swords, so I have come with the sword.” The king asked, “What can your sword do against an opponent?” He answered, “At ten paces I slay a man; charging a thousand li, no one blocks me.” The king was delighted and said, “Then you are matchless under heaven.” Zhuangzi said, “In swordplay one must first show emptiness to the foe, then open what can be exploited, strike after he moves, yet arrive before him. I wish to demonstrate.” The king had him wait at the guest lodge while swordsmen were chosen for a trial, then summoned him again. For seven days the king tested swordsmen; more than sixty were killed or hurt. Five or six were selected to hold swords below the hall, and Zhuangzi was called in. The king said, “Today let them cross swords.” Zhuangzi said, “I have long awaited this.” The king asked, “What length is your sword, sir?” He answered, “Any will serve. But I have three swords—let Your Majesty choose. Please hear of them first, then we may try.” The king said, “I would hear of the three swords.” Zhuangzi said, “There is the sword of the Son of Heaven, the sword of a feudal lord, and the sword of the common man.” The king asked, “What is the sword of the Son of Heaven like?”

Zhuangzi replied: It withdraws into hidden depths yet holds supreme authority; alone it turns the myriad transformations within what cannot be measured. Its power is enough to revolve heaven and earth, yet the world sees no sign of its force. Its majesty and virtue subdue the realm within the seas, yet people do not call it martial. That is why the sage can wield such an instrument. How could one display its wonder and invite the crowd to gossip? Thus when Zhuangzi spoke of the sword, he said: show emptiness, open with advantage, strike after the opponent, yet arrive first. To show emptiness is to retire into obscurity; to open with advantage is to turn the myriad changes; to strike after is to revolve heaven and earth with power; to arrive first is to awe the realm within the seas. Dwelling in obscurity, the people benefit daily yet do not know it; turning the myriad changes, the ten thousand things grow full and receive nurture; revolving heaven and earth, one secretly moves with creation and begets the ten thousand things; awing the realm within the seas, one teaches through the way of spirit and is not bound to fixed methods. Here Zhuangzi entrusted the principles of governing the realm in the language of swordplay. King Zhao Wen did not understand and had him sent back to the guest lodge to wait for a sword trial—how utterly closed-minded.

The sword of the Son of Heaven refers to the great instrument of all under Heaven; the sword of the feudal lords refers to the great instrument of the state; the sword of common people refers to a tool meant for deliberate action. The great instrument of all under Heaven must not be forced into use—those who force it fail for that very reason. Only one who can practice Wuwei (non-action) and conceal its efficacy without forcing outcomes will see all under Heaven transform of itself; hence it is said that the realm submits. The great instrument of the state must not be grasped presumptuously—those who grasp it presumptuously lose it for that very reason. If one can likewise practice Wuwei and hide its function, the borders on all four sides will settle of themselves, so that within the four frontiers none fail to obey. A tool meant for deliberate action must not be rashly deployed—once deployed rashly, regret arises. If one cannot sheathe weapons and halt martial affairs, but instead delights in mobilizing them, state affairs will waste away of themselves; hence it is said that such a sword is of no use to governance. These three swords are what Zhuangzi uses to explain the principles of Wuwei and deliberate action for emperors and feudal lords alike. King Wen of Zhao at once grasped what Zhuang Zhou had said, bowed to Zhuangzi, and ordered the steward in charge of meals to set out food; the king himself attended.

The above appears in New Commentary on the Zhuang Nan Jing (Zhuang Nan Jing is Zhuangzi), juan 17. The version in the Qianlong Complete Library of the Four Treasures is juan 18, by the Song scholar Wang Piao.

The Fisherman (chapter): Only the fisherman dwelling in the woods can forget worry, preserve the true self, shake off worldly bonds, and gladly make his home on the banks of rivers and seas—therefore Zhuangzi wrote the Fisherman chapter.

Confucius was traveling in the somber forest—a grove so deep and shadowed that the trees seemed draped in black curtains. He sat down to rest on the Apricot Altar, the earthen platform where he taught. His disciples read aloud while Confucius played the zither and sang. Before he had finished half a piece, a fisherman stepped off his boat and approached. His beard and eyebrows were white; his hair hung loose. Swinging his sleeves, he climbed from the high bank and stopped a little short of the water’s edge. With his left hand on his knee and his right hand under his chin, he listened to the music. When the piece ended, he called to Zigong and Zilu, two of Confucius’s disciples, and the two went forward together. The fisherman pointed at Confucius and asked, “What does that man do?” Zilu answered, “He is a gentleman of Lu.” The fisherman asked his surname. Zilu said, “Kong.” The fisherman asked, “What does the Kong family take as its business?” Before Zilu could reply, Zigong said, “The Kong family keeps faith and loyalty by nature, personally practices benevolence and righteousness, honors ritual and music, and puts human relationships in proper order. Above, he is loyal to the rulers of his age; below, he transforms the common people, hoping thereby to benefit the world. That is what the Kong family is engaged in.”

The fisherman asked again, “Is he a ruler who holds land?” Zigong said, “No.” He asked, “Is he a minister who assists a lord or king?” Zigong said, “No.” The fisherman smiled, turned back, and walked away, saying as he went, “You speak of benevolence, and it is indeed benevolence—yet I fear it still cannot keep one from harm. To exhaust the mind and weary the body is to injure one’s true nature, the authenticity one has from birth. Alas, he is far from the Dao!”

Zigong went back and told Confucius. Confucius set aside the zither, stood up, and said, “This must be a sage!” He went down to look for him and came to the edge of the marsh. The fisherman was about to push off with his pole when he turned and saw Confucius. He turned to face him and stood there. Confucius stepped back several paces, bowed twice, and then came forward. The fisherman asked, “What do you want?” Confucius said, “Just now you left a remark and went away. I, Kong Qiu, am without talent and do not yet understand your meaning, so I have waited humbly downwind, hoping to hear whatever casual instruction you might offer, so that it may finally help me.” The fisherman said, “Alas! You are too…”

Those who refuse to change and become even more excessive when they hear remonstrance are guilty of "hen" (stubborn recalcitrance). Those who approve of what matches themselves and treat what differs as bad even when it is good are guilty of "jin" (arrogant self-importance). These are the four calamities. Only after one has rid oneself of the eight blemishes and ceased committing these four calamities may one receive instruction.

Confucius (Kong Qiu) sighed in sorrow, bowed twice, and rose to ask: I was twice driven from Lu, my footprints were erased in Wei, my tree was cut down in Song, and I was besieged between Chen and Cai. I do not know where I went wrong—why did I suffer these four disasters?

The guest (Yufu, the fisherman) changed countenance sadly and said: How hard you are to awaken! Someone who fears his shadow and hates his footprints runs to escape them. The more steps he takes, the more footprints; the faster he runs, the more his shadow sticks to him. Thinking he is still too slow, he runs without stopping until he exhausts his strength and dies. He did not know that staying in the shade makes the shadow vanish and keeping still makes footprints cease—how foolish! You examine benevolence and righteousness, distinguish sameness from difference, observe change in movement and stillness, grasp the measure of receiving and giving, regulate likes and dislikes, and harmonize joy and anger—yet you can barely escape disaster. You ought to cultivate yourself with care, guard your original authenticity, return outward things to others, and then you will be free of entanglement. Now you do not cultivate yourself but demand from others—is this not seeking outside while abandoning what is within?

Everything the Creator fashions receives its own allotted fate and its assigned portion. Only humans, once their form is complete, undergo no further transformation—they simply wait until life is exhausted, and then worry and anxiety become a burden. That is why the Fisherman—the recluse in the Zhuangzi who instructs Confucius—speaks of the four worries, the eight defects, and the four harms.

Where there is mind, there must be self; where there is self, one cannot merge with the ultimate (the farthest source of the Dao). When one cannot merge, insufficient food and clothing, insecure rank and salary, disgrace in tribute and office, and lack of wealth all become sources of worry. Once worry arises, people strain to command outer things to dispel it, and the eight defects follow: overstepping one’s role to take charge, forcing one’s way into affairs, currying favor, flattery, slander, sowing discord, scheming for profit by stealth, and harming others through deceit. After the eight defects come greed, grasping after reputation, arrogance, and knowing one’s fault yet refusing to change—all because there is mind and self and no merging with the ultimate.

Only when commoners, grand officers, feudal lords, and the Son of Heaven alike merge with the ultimate—without mind and without self—are food, clothing, rank, salary, tribute, office, and wealth matters outside oneself; how could they bind a person or become worry? Thus one simply does not worry. Without worry one rests in self-contentment (an benran); in that contentment one enters a state free of defect, and how could the eight defects and four harms arise in tangle? This is the meaning Zhuangzi puts in the Fisherman’s mouth about merging with the ultimate. Can words like Zhuang Zhou’s really go unsaid?

Confucius, whose given name was Qiu, looked solemn and asked, “May I ask what is meant by authenticity?”

The visitor said, “Authenticity is the utmost of sincerity and purity. Without purity and without sincerity, one cannot move others. Someone who forces himself to weep may look sad but is not truly grieved; someone who forces anger may look fierce but has no real authority; someone who forces closeness may smile but is not truly warm. Genuine grief has no need for wailing, yet sorrow is there; genuine anger has not yet broken out, yet authority is already present; genuine closeness has not yet shown a smile, yet warmth is already there. Authenticity is stored within, and expression naturally flows outward in one’s bearing—therefore authenticity is precious.

When authenticity is applied to human relations: in serving parents one is loving and filial; in serving a ruler one is loyal and steadfast; in drinking one is joyful; in mourning one is sorrowful. Loyalty takes accomplishing one’s task as its aim; drinking takes obtaining joy as its aim; mourning takes grief in the heart as its aim; serving parents takes making them at ease as its aim. When achievement is complete and fine, one need not cling to a single fixed method; in serving parents, as long as both parents are at ease, one need not quibble over the manner; in drinking, as long as there is joy, one need not pick the vessels; in mourning, as long as there is grief in the heart, one need not ask whether every ritual detail is complete. Ritual is what people in the world have devised; authenticity is what one receives from Heaven— it arises from nature and cannot be altered. Therefore the sage emulates Heaven and values authenticity, and is not bound by worldly constraints. The foolish person is the opposite: unable to emulate Heaven, he only worries about others’ opinions, does not know to honor authenticity, and drifts with custom in a muddled way—thus he is not worth speaking of. Alas—you were long sunk in artificial falsity and only late heard the Great Dao.”

Confucius bowed twice more, rose, and said, “Today to meet you, sir, is truly fortune sent from Heaven. You do not disdain me but treat me as one fit to serve and be taught, instructing me in person. Where do you dwell? I wish to follow and receive instruction and learn the Great Dao to the end.”

The visitor said, “I have heard: those who can travel the path together— go with them all the way to the subtle Dao; those who cannot travel it do not understand the Dao—by no means impart the Dao to them, and then you yourself will be free of harm. Apply yourself! I leave you—I leave you!” Then he pushed off his boat and glided slowly along the edge of the reeds.

Yan Yuan turned the carriage around; Zilu handed Confucius the cord for mounting. Confucius did not turn to get in at once; he waited until the ripples on the water had stilled and the sound of the paddle could no longer be heard before he dared to ascend— a mark of respect.

Zilu asked at the side of the carriage, “I have attended you, sir, for a long time and have never seen you treat anyone with such reverence. When lords of ten thousand chariots or a thousand chariots come to see you, you always meet them as equals, with something of reserve in your bearing. Yet this fisherman stands opposite you with an oar in hand, and you bow low like a sounding-stone, answering with bow upon bow—is that not excessive? Your disciples find it strange: on what grounds does the fisherman deserve such treatment?”

Confucius leaned on the chariot crossbar and sighed. “You, Zhongyou, are truly hard to teach! You have been steeped in ritual and righteousness for some time, yet coarse habits in you are not gone. Come—I will tell you. Not to show respect to an elder is a breach of ritual; not to honor the worthy when you meet them is lack of benevolence. If he were not a perfected person, he could not make others defer to him so; if one defers without utmost sincerity, one will not receive his authenticity, and will harm oneself for a long time. Alas—no harm from lack of benevolence is greater than this, yet you specialize in just that. Moreover, the Dao is the root by which the myriad things are generated and on which they rely: lose it and they die; gain it and they live. Act against it and you fail; follow it and you succeed. Wherever the Dao is, the sage honors that place. This fisherman has attained something of the Dao—how could I fail to show him respect?”

Inner uprightness that does not depend on external things is “authenticity” (zhen). Inner uprightness rooted in jing (essence), and not relying on externals arising from cheng (sincerity)—thus authenticity is the utmost of sincere devotion. When jing is fully preserved, one can merge with Heaven; when sincerity reaches its limit, one can move Heaven. If one can do this, how could one fail to move people? Only when there is neither refined essence nor sincerity can one not stand with Heaven, cannot move Heaven, and therefore cannot move people. Hence the saying: without refined essence and sincerity, one cannot move others. This section too belongs to yuyan (stories that carry a teaching).

Chapter “Lie Yukou” (“Yukou” is the same name written with the character Kou)

One who already knows the Dao and has penetrated de (virtue/power), yet outwardly cannot forget the bodily form and forget the self, remaining the same as the myriad things—that person is still not a zhiren (one whose cultivation has reached the utmost). Zhuangzi therefore composed the chapter “Lie Yukou.”

Lie Yukou (Liezi, a Daoist figure of the pre-Qin era) was on his way to Qi when he turned back halfway and met Bo Hun Mao Ren, a hidden sage who had attained the Dao. Bo Hun Mao Ren asked, “Why did you come back halfway?” Liezi said, “I was afraid.” “Afraid of what?” “I once ate at ten shops that sold gruel, and at five of them they rushed to bring me the gruel first.” Bo Hun Mao Ren said, “Is that all? Why be afraid?” Liezi said, “The sincere simplicity in my heart had not yet fully opened and transformed, yet my bearing and expression already leaked a kind of brightness. I used that outward shine to impress others, so that people treated me as weightier than honored elders—and that invited trouble on myself. The gruel sellers only make a living from soup and drink; their extra profit is small and their power is light, yet they treated me like this. How much more so a ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots! He wears himself out for the realm and exhausts his mind in affairs; he will hand matters over to me and expect me to deliver results. That is why I was afraid.” Bo Hun Mao Ren said, “You see it well. Settle here, and people will come to gather around you.”

Before long Bo Hun Mao Ren came to visit. Shoes were already piled outside the door—many guests had arrived; in antiquity one removed shoes before entering a house. He stood facing north, planted his staff under his chin, and remained silent for a while, then left without a word. The host told Liezi, who grabbed his shoes, ran barefoot to the gate, and said, “Since you came, sir, how could you leave without a single word of healing counsel?” Bo Hun Mao Ren said, “Enough. I told you long ago that people would gather around you, and now they have. It is not that you have the skill to make people gather—it is that you cannot keep people from gathering. Why put on that pleasing, distinctive air? That will surely stir things up, shake your inner nature, and then it will all be pointless.”

The sage of the utmost keeps the authentic self hidden inwardly and blends his radiance outwardly with others. To hide the authentic is essentially to forget outward form; to blend radiance is above all not to stand apart from things. So in dwelling he does not make others feel his rank; in action he does not let others see through to his bottom; he sinks into obscurity with the world, yet inwardly he has his own attainment. That is the way of the sage of the utmost.

Liezi was not like this. Though he could ride the wind and follow his nature, he had not yet forgotten form or equalized himself with the ten thousand things; outwardly he still kept reserve and ornament. Once he reached Qi, five gruel shops rushed to serve him first. That rushing ahead was people showing him respect—and respect did not stop there.

Heaven bestows upon each person their own nature. When people receive this nature from Heaven, their capacities nonetheless take different directions. Following that direction through repeated habituation, in the end they simply come to accord with nature. Huan (a figure from Zheng in a Zhuangzi parable) was by nature drawn to learning, so he ended up a Confucian; Zhai (Huan’s younger brother, whose nature leaned toward austerity) ended up a Mohist. Thus the Creator—that which generates the myriad things—responds to a person not as that individual in isolation, but as the side of them that is innate nature. To “respond to innate nature” means to bring someone, through habituation, into sameness with nature. Huan did not grasp this. He assumed his younger brother was someone he had shaped through teaching, yet the brother surpassed him; he then gave way to resentment and even harmed his own life. This is profound delusion—which is why Zhuangzi ridicules his confusion.

The sage is at ease in what ought to bring ease, and not at ease in what ought not; the multitude is at ease in what ought not, and not at ease in what ought. When the sage is at ease where ease belongs, that is preserving what is upright and doubly upright; when not at ease where ease does not belong, that is stripping away what is not upright. When the multitude is at ease where ease does not belong, that is preserving what is not upright; when not at ease where ease belongs, that is casting off what is upright and doubly upright. Because what is upright and doubly upright is preserved, one becomes a sage; because what is not upright is preserved, one remains among the multitude.

Zhuangzi said: “To know is easy; not to put it into words is hard.” To know and not speak is to move thereby toward Heaven; to know and speak is to move thereby toward humanity. The ancients accorded with Heaven, not with humanity. Zhu Ping Man (a learner in a parable) studied dragon-slaying under Zhi Li Yi. He exhausted a fortune of a thousand in gold; after three years his skill was complete—yet there were no dragons in the world to slay, and his art had nowhere to be applied.

The Dao is like a broad highway, so knowing it is easy—hence the saying that knowing is easy. To know the great Dao and yet refrain from speaking—that is what is difficult—hence the saying that not speaking is hard. To know and remain silent is non-action (wuwei, not imposing arbitrary effort); thus knowing without speaking is called moving toward Heaven. To know and expound is deliberate action (youwei, doing with intent); thus knowing and speaking is called moving toward humanity. Only the sage inwardly realizes the Dao, practicing non-action rather than deliberate action—hence the ancients are said to belong to Heaven, not to humanity.

The sage treats what seems necessary as not necessarily fixed, and so there is no “weaponry” (strife, force); the multitude treats what is not necessarily fixed as necessary, and so weaponry abounds. To act by following strife is to act with something sought; to rely on strife is to perish.

Dao is the spontaneous simplicity of wuwei (non-action); the military is an instrument of deliberate, purposeful action. The sage embodies the great Dao, which is why the ancients said to follow what is natural rather than impose human artifice. The sage treats what “must be so” as not necessarily so, and therefore does not resort to arms; ordinary people treat what need not be so as something that must be so, and therefore wars multiply. Once one goes along with the use of force, action turns outward in pursuit. Military force is something the sage uses only when there is no alternative—it is not something to delight in or rely upon. To rely on arms is to put oneself in peril of ruin; hence the saying that a state that leans on the military will perish.

Dao is the unadorned simplicity of wuwei; the military is the tool of intentional action. The sage understands wuwei and accords with things as they truly are, so there is no warfare—this is “treating the necessary as unnecessary, hence no armies.” When the multitude loses the Dao and acts with deliberate intent against the nature of things, battles become frequent—this is “treating the unnecessary as necessary, hence many armies.” When armies multiply, one follows the path of war and seeks outwardly; thus “going along with the military, action becomes grasping.” Arms are a last resort, not something one may happily depend on; once one depends on them, the state is hard to preserve, so “those who lean on the military perish.”

Ordinary cleverness cannot do without the trappings of ritual courtesy—gifts wrapped in grass and messages on bamboo slips—yet spends the spirit on shallow matters while hoping to benefit all under heaven, align with the Dao, and keep body and spirit empty and still. Such a person is lost in the cosmos, the body burdened, ignorant of the Grand Beginning (the origin before anything has begun). The perfected person (zhiren) turns the spirit toward what has no beginning and rests at ease in the Land of Nothing-at-All (wuyou zhi xiang), flowing like water into formlessness and dispersing into the Grand Clarity (taiqing). Pitiful—your knowing and seeing stop at the finest hair’s breadth, and you do not know the great peace. The world takes tools of gift-giving and letter-writing for the Dao, shallow views for wisdom, clouds the spirit and yet hopes thereby to benefit the world and guide the ten thousand things—this is to miss the subtle utmost Dao and the truth of the Grand Beginning, precisely the confusion of mind and the weakness of power. The perfected person enters the utmost subtlety of the Dao, the mind wanders in the Grand Beginning; going out and coming in are all in the boundless, so action is not blocked and application has no fixed rule. He moistens the world and transforms the ten thousand things, yet all under heaven does not know he is acting. How is this like the ways of the world? Hence it is said: the perfected person turns the spirit toward what has no beginning, willingly abides in obscurity in the Land of Nothing-at-All, like water flowing into the formless, released into the Grand Clarity.

In the state of Song there was a man named Cao Shang, whom the king of Song sent as envoy to Qin. When he set out he had only a few chariots; the king of Qin took a liking to him and added a gift of a hundred more. When he returned to Song and saw Zhuangzi, he spoke of having lived in want without putting himself forward, and of giving voice to his mind in the Great Clarity—that utterly pure, empty realm. He also said: “To dwell in remote, narrow lanes, so poor that one earns a living weaving straw sandals, with a withered neck and a sallow, yellow face—that was my failing; but once I won the favor of a lord of ten thousand chariots and came back with a hundred chariots—that was my strong point.” Zhuangzi said: “When the king of Qin fell ill he summoned physicians. Whoever could lance a festering sore or squeeze a pimple received one chariot; whoever treated hemorrhoids received five chariots. The lower the part of the body one treated, the more chariots one got. Did you go to treat his hemorrhoids? Otherwise how would you have so many chariots? Be on your way.”

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Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He: “I take Zhongni (Confucius) as the pillar of the state. Can the state’s sickness be cured?” Yan He said: “Dangerous—it is already on the brink of collapse! Zhongni is like painting ornament onto feathers: he specializes in fine words, takes petty details for defenses, suppresses innate nature to model behavior for the people, yet does not truly understand himself and is not sincere. He obeys the calculations of the heart, and his spirit is ruled by them instead—how can he stand above the people? Is he right for you? Can he nurture you? Employ him wrongly and it can only turn out like this. To make the people abandon simplicity and learn hypocrisy is not the way to lead them. For the sake of later ages, you would do better to stop, for he will hardly be able to heal the state. One who bestows favor yet cannot forget it is not giving in the natural way. Merchants have never been held in esteem; even if you rank them with scholars, a divine person of the Way would disdain to keep company with them.”

The sage harmonizes in De (Virtue/Power) with Heaven and Earth and shares the efficacy of Yin-Yang. He does not display wondrous subtlety; he only lets the ten thousand things change on their own. He does not show his footsteps, yet people naturally turn toward him in admiration. Profound in depth, he practices Wuwei (non-action) and returns to simplicity—how could he agree to serve as a minister in the world of his day? When Duke Ai of Lu wished to employ Zhongni (Confucius), Yan He warned him: “Danger! This is exceedingly perilous!”

The wondrous mystery of emptiness and stillness is the sage’s Dao; depth, obscurity, and silence are the sage’s trace. The Dao cannot be known, and the trace cannot be seen. If he were to serve as counselor in Lu, the Dao would become knowable and the trace visible. Then everyone under Heaven would surely adorn their outward appearance and prize florid rhetoric in imitation. The sage would be forced to act with deliberate purpose, and the world would have to guard against genuine simplicity—this is not the way to bring about true order. Hence it is said: just when one would add painted ornament to feathers, single-mindedly pursue ornate language, and take branch-and-leaf trivia as a shield; and again: now this is hard to cure. From this we see that Yan He understood the sage’s “use of the useless”—what seems unused yet carries great use.

External punishment is the metal and wooden instruments of the law; internal punishment is agitation and error. The dim person (xiaoren), clinging to self and harboring cunning intent, cannot harmonize with the ten thousand things when “I” is present; with a scheming heart, he grinds against outer things like blade on blade, and so suffers both punishments. Those who cannot harmonize with things bind themselves and harm life—hence sufferers of external punishment are tried by metal and wood. Those who grind against things burn away harmonious Qi and likewise injure life—hence sufferers of internal punishment are worn away by Yin-Yang. Are these not the dim? That is why they are called xiaoren. Only the true person (zhenren), without self and without scheming heart, is not dragged down by the ten thousand things—how could he have the affliction of harming life? Therefore, only the true person can be free of internal and external punishment.

Confucius said: The human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, and harder to know than Heaven. Heaven at least has predictable seasons—spring, summer, autumn, winter—and times of day and night. People, by contrast, may look honest and thick while feelings lie deep. So some seem outwardly cautious and modest yet are inwardly arrogant and full of themselves; some have the virtue of elders within but look on the outside like failures; some appear compliant and quick-tempered on the surface yet are inwardly penetrating and clear; some look strong outside but are slack and slow within; some seem gentle and easy outside but are fierce and violent within.

The heart dwells in utmost emptiness and in deep silence and stillness—it cannot be measured by cleverness or artifice. Hence the saying: the heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to know than Heaven. Heaven has its functioning, and so it can be known; the heart also has its functioning, yet one cannot truly know it from that alone. The regular return of spring, summer, autumn, winter and of dawn and dusk is Heaven’s functioning; the differences among feeling and appearance, modesty, penetration, ease, and fierceness are the heart’s functioning. Heaven’s functioning arrives on schedule, so it can be known; the heart’s functioning is hard to fathom, so it cannot be known. This is Confucius’s deep sigh of lament.

Therefore some rush toward benevolence and righteousness as if parched and at last drinking; some turn away from them and burn inside with heat. Seeing what is right and doing it, like finding water when thirsty—that is thirsting for righteousness. Seeing what is right and not doing it, with torment rising in the heart—that is turning from righteousness and burning within. These are still deliberate effort—how can they compare with “acting by not acting” (acting without contrivance, what arises naturally)? Who but a person of utmost attainment (one aligned with the Way) can reach that?

So the gentleman tests people thus: send them far away and see whether they are loyal; keep them close and see whether they are respectful; give them troublesome tasks and see their ability; question them suddenly and see their insight; set urgent deadlines and see whether they keep faith; entrust them with property and see whether they are humane and generous; tell them of danger and see their integrity; get them drunk and see whether they still keep bounds; mix them with a crowd and watch their expression. When all nine tests are applied, those who are unworthy can be identified.

A noble person conducts himself with uprightness and modesty, diligence and single-minded purpose; inwardly he is straight, outwardly he is not enslaved by things. Therefore his loyalty is sufficient to win the ruler’s trust, his respect sufficient to serve those above, his ability sufficient to decide complex affairs, his wisdom sufficient to meet change, his trustworthiness needs no contract to sustain it, his benevolence sufficient to aid many, his integrity sufficient to rescue one from peril. Wine cannot disturb his spirit; beauty cannot sway his heart. This is the virtue the noble person stores within, and what the petty person finds hard to match. If one must recognize the noble person, Zhuangzi therefore says: send him far away and observe his loyalty; keep him near and observe his respect; give him difficult tasks and observe his ability; question him suddenly and observe his knowledge; press a deadline and an agreement on him and observe his trustworthiness; entrust wealth to him and observe his benevolence; tell him of danger and observe his integrity; get him drunk and observe whether he still keeps to principle; let him mix with all sorts of people and observe his bearing. When observation leaves no room for pretense, the petty person can naturally be told apart. Thus, when all nine tests are applied, the unworthy are identified.

Zheng Kaofu (a minister of Song in the Spring and Autumn period, an ancestor of Confucius), on first receiving an appointment, bowed with curved back; on the second, bowed lower; on the third, bowed deeply and walked along the base of the wall—who would then dare not keep to the right way? As for that other sort, on first appointment they are arrogant; on the second they dance and show off from their carriage; on the third they call elders of the clan by personal name—how can they compare with Tang Yao and Xu You (the ancient sage ruler and the lofty recluse)?

Zengzi (a disciple of Confucius), when he took office again, his heart changed again; Zheng Kaofu over three years became ever more respectful in body. Zengzi held that salary and rank, however ample, were not enough to count as glory—so one speaks of his “transformation of heart” (xinzhi sui waijing er bian). Zheng Kaofu may be called one who underwent “transformation of form” (demeanor growing ever more humble), may he not? Were it not so, why would Zhuangzi have taken him up as an example?

No calamity is greater than this: De that carries deliberate mind, and that mind sprouting “eyelashes” (the heart looking outward, pulled by things). Once there are eyelashes and one tries to look inward, inward looking fails.

What is obtained without thinking is De that uses no mind; what is obtained only after seeking is De that uses mind. De with mind injures true nature—hence the saying that no harm exceeds De with mind. Once the heart has intent, it delights in outer things—hence the saying the heart has eyelashes. With eyelashes, one cannot turn back to gaze upon Fu (return to the source) and only looks from within outward, thus harming what is genuinely so. Hence it is said: when the heart has eyelashes and one looks inward, inward looking is ruined.

There are five kinds of inauspicious De (virtue/power), and “middle De” ranks first among them. So-called middle De means taking oneself as right, admiring oneself, and disparaging what one rejects or refuses to do.

There are eight extremes of obstruction and hardship, three inevitabilities of success and penetration, and six fu (viscera) in the bodily form—the gallbladder, stomach, large intestine, small intestine, bladder, and triple burner. Beauty, a long beard, height, a large frame, strength, splendor, fierceness, and boldness—when these eight qualities surpass ordinary people, one often relies on them and falls into hardship. Yet following things as they come, deferring to others, and shrinking back while feeling oneself lesser—these three can still lead to penetration and success. Wisdom shown outward easily draws resentment; fierce, reckless action easily breeds enmity; pushing benevolence and righteousness easily invites others’ demands.

The eight extremes of hardship, the three inevitabilities of success, and the six fu all arise from clinging to “me.” Only when there is no self do the eight extremes no longer bind, the three inevitabilities no longer command one, and the six fu no longer harm life. Unless one is a True Person—someone united with the Dao and free of self—who can reach this?

Those who penetrate the truth of life have vast minds; those who penetrate cleverness remain small. Those who penetrate the great mandate (natural transformation) move with it; those who penetrate the small mandate (personal fate) rest in what befalls them. To truly penetrate “life” is not to cling to living; to truly penetrate “wisdom” is to leave cleverness unused; to truly penetrate “mandate” is to follow fate. Without clinging to life, the body returns to Wuwei (non-action). Thus those who penetrate the truth of life are great; without cleverness, the heart settles into emptiness.