《南华真经新传》Vol. 6

This is what it means for the mind to be bound to something. Thus one who has penetrated wisdom is like this: yielding to fate, one accepts whatever length of life is allotted. That is why it is also said: one who has penetrated the great mandate (fundamental determinations such as birth, death, and lifespan) follows it; one who has penetrated the small mandate (momentary turns of fortune) rests content with what comes. In this way, “reaching life” means exhausting the principles of things; “reaching knowledge” means fulfilling one’s own nature; “reaching mandate” means arriving at Heaven’s decree.

Someone paid a visit to the King of Song and received ten teams of chariots and horses as a gift; he then used those ten chariots to show off before Zhuangzi (Zhuang Zhou, thinker of the Daoist school). Zhuangzi said: By a river there was a poor household that made a living weaving rushes; the son dove into a deep pool and brought up a pearl worth a thousand in gold. The father told him: Take a stone and smash it. A pearl of such value must lie in the depths of a ninefold abyss, under the jaw of the black dragon (Li dragon). That you could obtain the pearl surely means you happened upon the dragon while it slept. If the black dragon had woken, would you have had even a scrap left?

Again, someone came to invite Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi replied to the messenger: Have you seen the ox used for sacrifice? It is draped in brocade, fed on fodder and beans; yet when it is led into the Grand Temple (the ancestral hall where sacrifices are offered), even if it wished to become an ordinary calf again, could it?

Zhuangzi may be said to have been unattached to things. Earlier the King of Chu summoned him, and he compared himself to the sacred turtle kept in a box (honored and enshrined—thereby showing he preferred to live in freedom); when someone came to invite him again, he used the sacrificial ox led into the temple as his analogy. This means that wealth and rank could not tie down his mind. If wealth and rank could not tie down his mind, how could life and death stir him? That is why the narrative then turns to his death.

When Zhuangzi was on his deathbed, his disciples wanted to give him an elaborate burial. Zhuangzi said: “I take heaven and earth as my inner and outer coffins, the sun and moon as paired jades laid beside me, the stars as pearls and gems, and the myriad things as the offerings sent off with the dead. Are my burial furnishings not already complete? Why add anything more?” The disciples said: “We fear crows and kites will come and peck at you, Master.” Zhuangzi replied: “Exposed above, I am eaten by crows and kites; buried below, I am eaten by ants and mole crickets. Snatching from one side to give to the other—why be so partial?” Using what is not truly even to seek evenness yields a false evenness; using what cannot truly verify to seek verification yields a false verification.

When a person dies, it is simply that the season of fate has arrived for departure, and qi disperses for a time. Where there is departure, there must be return; where there is dispersal, there must be gathering again. The Perfect Man (zhi ren)—one who has penetrated the Great Dao—understands this. Why would he worry that the body has not been properly laid to rest? Zhuangzi therefore spoke of taking heaven and earth as coffins, sun and moon as paired jades, stars as pearls, and the myriad things as funeral offerings: the furnishings are already complete and nothing need be added. He was expounding a kind of “burial that is not burial.” Such a non-burial burial is return to original genuineness (ben zhen). The disciples remained confused, fearing only that their teacher would be pecked by crows and kites. That hardly counts as grasping Zhuangzi’s transcendent equanimity.

Those who have mere clarity can only be driven by external things; only what is truly spirit-like (shen miao) responds in harmony with things. Clarity (ming) has long been inferior to spirit (shen). Yet the obtuse rely on what they see, sink into artificial distinctions, and exhaust their effort on outward things—is that not lamentable?

Here “spirit” and “clarity” correspond to what Buddhists call the great spirit and great clarity. The great spirit has no fixed place; great clarity has boundaries. Clarity cannot surpass spirit because their functions differ—hence “ming does not overcome shen.” The function of spirit is to see the One alone (jian du)—to behold the singular genuine reality; the function of clarity is to see multiplicity (jian you)—to see things as separate existents. Only by seeing the One can one see the Way of Heaven; seeing multiplicity leads one into human artifice. Once caught in artifice, confusion is unavoidable. Hence: the foolish, trusting their sight, fall into artificiality and spend their effort externally—is that not pitiable?

The above is from Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan (Wang An’s Song-dynasty commentary on Zhuangzi; Nanhua Zhenjing is the honorific title for Zhuangzi), preserved in the Siku Quanshu (Complete Library of the Four Treasuries). After juan 18 comes juan 19, attributed to Song author Wang An, with the chapter title “Tianxia” (“All Under Heaven”).

The Way of the sage was never meant to be split apart. Once it scattered, it fell into outer branches; falling outward, it grew chaotic; in that chaos, the virtue of the world could no longer return to unity. Zhuangzi therefore wrote the chapter “Tianxia” (All under Heaven).

Many people under heaven study the arts and methods of the various schools, each believing their own system complete and incapable of further addition. Where did the ancient “art of the Way”—the great technique that runs through everything—actually lie? The answer: nowhere it was not. From where did spirit descend, from where did clarity arise? Why sages appeared and emperors succeeded—all stem from the same “One.”

When the sage’s Way dispersed, the learning of the hundred schools flourished. Each school’s method spread under heaven yet could not unify; each took what it practiced for the whole of the Way, thinking nothing could be added. Hence so many pursued the arts of method, each feeling theirs could not be surpassed. Yet how could one know it was confined to a single aspect? So again the question: where was the ancient art of the Way? The answer remained: nowhere it was not. Since the Way is everywhere, its unfathomable depth is spirit (Shen); its visible edge is clarity (Ming); inwardly becoming sage, outwardly becoming king—all issue from that one numinous root. Thus: how spirit arrives, how clarity appears, how the sage is born, how the king is made—all originate in the One. This is Zhuangzi, in the final chapter of the book, carrying the great Way to its limit and treating spirit, clarity, sages, and kings as four aspects of one theme.

Those who do not leave the root source are called “Heavenly Persons” (Tianren)—those in accord with Heaven. Those who do not leave pure refinement are called “Spirit Persons” (Shenren)—those whose spirit is undivided. Those who do not leave true authenticity are called “Perfect Persons” (Zhiren)—those who reach the utmost. Taking Heaven as sovereign, virtue (De) as foundation, the Way (Dao) as gateway, able to read the signs of change—such are called sages (shengren). Dispensing kindness through benevolence, ordering affairs through righteousness, shaping conduct through ritual, harmonizing hearts through music, gentle and full of compassion—such are called gentlemen (junzi). Using law to distinguish, names to mark, practice to verify, and examination to decide—here the original text is defective.

Beyond these levels lies the Way of the sage. Thus: matching the spirit of Heaven and Earth, enriching and nurturing the myriad things, harmonizing all under heaven, extending grace to the people; also harmonizing through music, gentle and benevolent—called the gentleman; using law as division, name as sign, conduct as test, audit as verdict—here too the original text is defective.

There remains what lies outside these ranks—and that is the sage’s Way.

The Dao of sages does not all rest on levels ordinary people can see. Therefore it can align with the numinous and bright, so that heaven and earth stay pure and harmonious, the myriad things are nourished, the realm under heaven is orderly, and grace reaches the common people. It understands the root principles and numbers, yet also connects with fine rules and measures; it reaches through the four directions above and below, and the four seasons open and flow smoothly; whether great or small, coarse or fine, its operation is nowhere absent.

The Dao of sages, in its subtlety, rests on utmost refinement, so only sages can discern it alone; in its grosser form it is entrusted to rules and measures, so the multitude can also follow and practice it. Thus gentry scholars can understand it. What appears in numbers and measures still survives in old statutes and records handed down through generations; what is entrusted to the Classic of Poetry, Documents, Rites, and Music is largely explained by scholars of Zou and Lu and by gentry teachers. What Zhuangzi ultimately sought to clarify was precisely the Dao of Confucius along this line.

The Poetry expresses the heart’s intent, the Documents record governance, the Rites regulate conduct, the Music harmonizes disposition, the Changes explain Yin-Yang transformation, and the Spring and Autumn distinguishes names and roles. These principles were scattered across the realm and practiced in the central lands; the hundred schools often cited and expounded them.

Later the realm fell into great disorder, the way of sages and worthies no longer shone clearly, and De was no longer unified. Most people grasped only a partial view and took it for the whole truth. It was like ear, eye, nose, and mouth each having their own clarity yet unable to connect with one another; or like the various arts of the hundred schools, each strong in its specialty and each useful for a time—yet incomplete and not comprehensive, merely people confined to one corner. They split heaven and earth’s full beauty, scattered the myriad things’ proper order, and examined the ancients’ complete Dao—yet few could match heaven and earth’s beauty or accord with the numinous and bright.

Zhuangzi’s virtue lay in not letting external things disturb his own thinking, and thus in being able to hold fast to his Great Dao. It was not that he failed to understand benevolence and righteousness; he simply regarded them as too narrow to serve as the basis for cultivating oneself. Nor was it that he failed to understand ritual and music; he regarded them as too shallow to transform the world. Hence Laozi said: When the Dao is lost, then there is De; when De is lost, then there is benevolence; when benevolence is lost, then there is righteousness; when righteousness is lost, then there is ritual. From this it is clear that Zhuangzi was not ignorant of the meaning of benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music—he considered them merely the outermost branches of the Dao and therefore treated them lightly.

Confucian scholars may speak eloquently, yet they have not sought Zhuangzi’s true intent. Those who delight in Zhuangzi’s words may indeed read his books, yet they too have not truly sought his intent.

By Zhuangzi’s time, the legacy left by the ancient kings had already run dry. Deceptive ways prevailed throughout the world, and plain genuineness had largely vanished. Even among the scholars and officials of the day, none understood the principle of valuing oneself and treating external things lightly. People therefore cast aside the foundations of ritual and righteousness, scrambling and seizing among profit and harm—chasing gain without shame and losing their lives without resentment—until they sank into this state beyond recovery. Zhuangzi was troubled by this and wished to use his teaching to correct the world’s ills and return it to the right path. After deep reflection, he concluded that benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music were insufficient to set the age straight. He therefore equated right and wrong, leveled “this” and “that,” blended profit and harm, and took inner sufficiency as true attainment. This was his method for correcting the world’s disease.

Having used his teaching to remedy that disease, he still feared that later generations would take his words as final doctrine and fail to see the pure authenticity of Heaven and Earth and the great pattern of the ancients. He therefore entrusted this intention to this chapter as a self-explanation. Thus the chapter says: The Odes express the heart’s intent; the Documents record affairs of government; ritual regulates conduct; music harmonizes disposition; the Changes clarify yin and yang; the Spring and Autumn Annals distinguish names and roles. Viewed in this light, could Zhuangzi have been ignorant of the sages’ Great Dao? It also says: Ears, eyes, nose, and mouth each have their own clarity yet cannot fully communicate with one another—just as the various arts of the hundred schools each have their strengths and their proper occasions. This shows that the fullness of the sages’ Great Dao lies on that side, not in any one-sided grasp. He further grouped his own writings with those of Song Xing, Shen Dao, Mozi, and La Dan, treating them all as incomplete figures who had captured only one corner—meaning that his words were written with specific targets in mind, not as the whole of the Dao.

Was Zhuangzi not then deliberately addressing the world’s ills while preserving the sages’ Great Dao? Boyi’s lofty purity and Liuxia Hui’s gentle compliance were both forms of correction aimed at the world; Zhuangzi’s purpose belonged in the same company as these two sages.

The Great Dao, when hidden in the heart, is “sagehood”; when manifest in outward conduct and governance, it is “kingship.” This is the way of inner sagehood and outer kingship. Yet the hundred schools rose in rivalry and mutual confusion, obscuring this path—hence it is said to be dim and unable to shine forth, constricted and unable to flourish. People under heaven each act according to their own desires and take their private practice as the right way. Alas! The hundred schools only advance and will not return to the Great Dao; they cannot fail to fall out of harmony with the Way. Since the Dao of Heaven is no longer clear and cannot flourish, how can ordinary people see its complete, undivided face? Later students, unhappily, cannot see the primal purity of Heaven and Earth, nor the ancients’ grasp of the Dao in its entirety—and the art of the Way is cut to pieces under heaven. Not seeing this wholeness is precisely why the Great Dao was ruined and split; only then does Zhuangzi go on to describe the different teachings of the schools—this is the order of his narrative, from the general to the particular, running through from start to finish.

Mozi and Qin Guli did not hoard wealth for posterity, waste the myriad things, or flaunt ritual and law; they used a plumb line to restrain themselves and cope with the world’s emergencies. Among the ancient Ways there was this strand. Mozi and Qin Guli heard of it and delighted in it—but they carried it too far and their austerity was too severe. They wrote “Against Music” and called their program “Economy in Use”: while alive, no singing; when dead, no mourning garments. Mozi advocated universal love and benefit for all, opposed strife, and grounded his Way not in anger. He loved learning and sought broad knowledge, yet demanded that people be undifferentiated and not follow the former kings—rejecting ancient rites and music.

The Yellow Emperor had the “Pool of Xian,” Yao had “Great Order,” Shun had “Great Shao,” Yu had “Great Xia,” Tang had “Great Hu,” King Wen had the Biyong music, and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed “Military.” In ancient mourning, rites followed rank and hierarchy: the Son of Heaven’s coffin had seven layers, feudal lords five, great officers three, and knights two. Mozi alone held that while alive one should not sing and when dead one should not wear mourning; a coffin of paulownia only three inches thick, with no outer shell—that was his standard. Teaching others by this could hardly count as loving people; living by it oneself could hardly count as loving oneself. That alone might not refute Mozi’s Way—but when one should sing one does not, when one should weep one does not, when one should rejoice one does not: does that accord with human feeling? Life in toil, death in meagerness, a path so narrow it breeds worry and grief—conduct hard to sustain, hardly the sage’s Way. It goes against the heart of the world; the world cannot bear it. Though Mozi alone might shoulder it, what could the world do? Cut off from the world, one is far from the kingly Way.

Mozi described his Way thus: In antiquity Yu dammed the flood, dredged rivers, linked the four quarters and nine provinces—three hundred great streams, three thousand branches, countless smaller waters. Yu himself carried basket and spade and joined the rivers of the empire; flesh gone from his legs, hair gone from his shins, he bathed in wind and combed in rain and settled the myriad states. Yu was a great sage, yet wore his body to this point for the world. Later Mohists wore rough fur and hemp, wooden clogs and straw sandals, toiling day and night, taking self-imposed hardship as the utmost, saying: Unless we live thus, we are not in Yu’s Way and unworthy to be called Mohists.

The followers of Xiangli Qin, the group of Five Lords, and southern Mohists such as Ku Huo, Yi Chi, and Deng Lingzi—all recited the “Mohist Canon” yet split into factions, calling one another “heretical Mohists,” attacking with “hard-white” and “same-different” disputation, answering with odd-even mismatch; they took the “giant master” as sage and all wished to be his heirs—still unresolved to this day. Mozi and Qin Guli had right intent but wrong practice. Later Mohists would surely torment themselves, vying over “no flesh on the legs, no hair on the shins.” That is the top strategy for disorder and the bottom strategy for order. Even so, Mozi was a rare good man under heaven—hard to find another; though withered he would not quit—a man of real talent.

Not bound by the vulgar, not adorning oneself with externals, not treating others carelessly, not contending with the crowd in envy—only wishing peace under heaven and life for the people, stopping when one’s own and others’ sustenance sufficed, using this to show one’s heart. Among the ancient Ways there was this strand. Song Xing and Yin Wen heard of it and rejoiced. They made the “Mount Hua cap” their badge, met the myriad things by shedding fixed views, spoke of inner acceptance as “conduct of the heart,” and used gentleness to harmonize the realm, hoping to make this the root. Insulted, they felt no shame; they stopped the people’s quarrels, forbade attack and stilled arms, and rescued the world from war. They carried this through the realm, persuading above and teaching below; even when the world would not listen, they still pressed on. Hence: high and low alike disliked them, yet they still forced themselves into view.

Yet they thought too much for others and too little for themselves. They said: Five pints of rice is enough. The master might go hungry; disciples, though starving, would not forget the world—ceasing neither day nor night, saying: Must I live at all? Truly lofty world-savers. They also said: The gentleman does not nitpick; he does not let himself be used by things. What does not benefit the world—once understood, better drop it. Outwardly they forbade attack and stilled arms; inwardly they thinned desire. Whether viewed as small, large, fine, or coarse, their conduct went no further.

Fair without faction, level without partiality, decisively without prior bias—going with things, without a second mind; no calculation, no scheming wit; no picking among the myriad things, going with them together. Among the ancient Ways there was this strand. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao heard of it and rejoiced. They put “equalizing the myriad things” first, saying: Heaven covers but cannot bear up; Earth bears up but cannot cover; the great Dao embraces but cannot distinguish. Knowing that each thing has its fit and unfit, they said: With selection one cannot be thorough; with teaching one cannot reach all—only the Dao leaves nothing out.

So Shen Dao discarded wit and self, followed what had to be. He let things be, weeded out bias, and took that as principle. He said: Insisting on knowing the unknowable, one is pressed by knowing and hurts oneself. Carefree, he undertook no office and mocked the world’s esteem for worthies; loose and unrestrained, he faulted the world’s great sages. Beaten round, polished smooth—turning with things; abandoning right and wrong, only to escape entanglement. Not taking wit as teacher, neither looking ahead nor behind—standing alone. Pushed, then moving; pulled, then going—like whirlwind, like spinning feather, like grinding stone: preserved yet never wrong, in motion or rest without fault, never guilty. Why? Things without knowing, no worry of erected self, no drag of applied mind—in motion or rest never leaving principle, hence no praise all life. Thus: Reach the state of the unknowing thing—that suffices; no need for sages. A clod of earth would not lose the Dao. Heroes mocked: Shen Dao’s Way is not the living’s conduct but the dead’s doctrine—sheer oddity. Tian Pian was the same, studying under Peng Meng and receiving the “teaching without teaching.” Peng Meng’s teacher said: The ancient man of the Way reached the point where there was neither right nor wrong—that was all. Such air is silent and trackless—how speak it in words? They often went against human feeling, won no esteem, yet still could not avoid cutting judgment to things. What they called Dao was not Dao; what they affirmed could not escape error. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not truly understand the Dao—yet on the whole they had heard something of the Way.

Taking root as subtle, things as coarse traces, stored wealth as insufficiency—serene and alone with the spirit. Among the ancient Ways there was this strand. Guan Yin and Laozi heard of it and rejoiced. They built doctrine on “constant non-being” and “constant being,” took the Great One as purpose, weakness and humility as outward form, emptiness and not harming the myriad things as substance.

Guan Yin said: When the heart does not hoard fixed views, formed things naturally clarify. In motion like flowing water, in stillness like a bright mirror, in response like an echo. Dim as if perishing, quiet as if clear. What blends with things harmonizes; what grasps gain loses. Never rushing ahead of people, yet always following them.

Laozi said: Know the male, keep the female, become the world’s ravine; know the bright, keep the dim, become the world’s valley. All rush ahead; I alone hold back, saying: I take the world’s disgrace. All seek substance; I alone take emptiness. Not hoarding, hence surplus; standing alone at ease, yet ample. In conduct, relaxed without waste—Wuwei (non-action), and laughing at cleverness. All seek blessing; I alone bend and yield, saying: I only seek to avoid fault. Taking deep hiding as root, simplicity as thread, saying: Hard breaks, sharp snaps. Always tolerant toward things, not encroaching on others. One may call this the utmost. Guan Yin and Laozi were truly the great perfected ones of antiquity.

Lonely, without fixed form; changing, without constant pattern—is it death or life? With Heaven and Earth together, or with spirit going forth? Vast—where bound? Dim—where arrived? All myriad things embraced, yet nothing suffices as home. Among the ancient Ways there was this strand. Zhuang Zhou heard of it and delighted. He used far-flung discourse, inflated phrasing, boundless rhetoric—always free yet not one-sided, not flashing a single angle. He held the world too murky for upright talk, so he pushed with heartless “goblet words,” borrowed heavy words from the past for credibility, and spread principle through allegory. Alone he wandered with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, not lording it over the myriad things; not pressing right and wrong, so as to dwell with the vulgar. His book is strange and grand yet winding and continuous, never wounding things’ nature; the language uneven yet marvelously seen. Inner fullness he could not stop. Above, with the Maker roaming; below, befriending those who escape birth and death and know no end or beginning. For root—vast and penetrating, deep and free; for aim—one may say harmonized and ascendant. Yet following change and freeing oneself from things, principle without end, source never swapped—in the haze, none could exhaust him.

Hui Shi had many arts; his writings could fill five carts—his Way mixed and impure, his words not to the point. He set forth views on things: as large as having no outside—called “great one”; as small as having no inside—called “little one.” Without thickness, it cannot pile up, yet may span a thousand li. Heaven and Earth equally low, mountains and marshes equally level. The sun at noon is also slanting; all things just born are also dying. Great sameness and little sameness differ—“little sameness-and-difference”; all things wholly same and wholly different—“great sameness-and-difference.” South has no bound yet has a bound. Go to Yue today and you can say you arrived yesterday. Linked rings can be undone. I know the center of the world is north of Yan and south of Yue. Universally love the myriad things; Heaven and Earth are one body.

Hui Shi took these as great visions and showed them to debaters under heaven; debaters rejoiced to argue: There is hair in an egg; a chicken has three legs; Ying possesses the world; a dog can be a sheep; a horse lays eggs; a toad has a tail; fire is not hot; a mountain has a mouth; a wheel does not touch the ground; the eye does not see; pointing does not reach, and reaching has no end; a tortoise is longer than a snake; the square is not square, the compass cannot…

When one’s nature reaches utmost genuineness, one may be called a True Person of old—broad in spirit—meaning in Daoist terms one who has attained the Dao. Zhuang Zhou himself described his teaching as “far-fetched and remote” (miaoyou), his discourse as “vast and extravagant” (huangtang), and his phrasing as “without thread or boundary.” He did so because he used lofty language to exhaust the Great Dao and correct worldly bias; people would inevitably read his book as remote, extravagant, and boundless, so he spoke thus in advance. The text that follows is incomplete; where it speaks of blockage and failure to get through, that alone does not count as clear insight and foresight.

New Commentary on the Nanzhen Jing, fascicle 19. Supplement to the Nanzhen Jing, by Wang Bo of the Song.

The sacrificial ox of the Grand Temple: Zhuang Zhou wrote by way of parables. Those who fix on wording and do not use the mind to seek the root meaning—this is exactly why readers of Zhuangzi dispute among themselves. Zhuang Zhou said that those above must practice wuwei (non-action) before they can employ the realm; those below must have purposeful action before they can serve the realm. He also considered himself caught between muddled rulers and ministers, so that in hardship his talent could not show. Who says Zhuang Zhou’s words cannot be applied between ruler and minister, father and son—and that, born in his age and meeting a lord, he could never have been put to use? When he cited the Grand Temple’s sacrificial beast—the ox fattened and adorned for ancestral rite, then led to slaughter, unable ever to become a calf again—to decline the envoy from Chu, that was only using extreme words to refuse a decadent age’s ordinary offer. With Zhuang Zhou’s gifts, would he have been confused about serving or withdrawing, merely fearing becoming a sacrificial victim?

The Spring and Autumn as ordering the age: The sage has lun (comprehensive exposition) and yi (deliberative judgment), but not bian (disputation). The masters have bian, not lun. Lun means stating the principle fully and stopping; yi means judging the matter and stopping; bian is only arguing whether a single affair is right or wrong. Outside the six directions (heaven and earth and the four quarters), the sage keeps the matter but does not expound it; within the six directions, the sage expounds but does not judge—thus the sage has exposition. The Spring and Autumn judges but does not dispute; as the record of ordering the age, it only passes judgment—thus the sage has judgment. When the sage judges, it is from necessity, not like the crowd who specialize in quarreling and use it to show off to one another.

Wangliang Questions the Shadow

In the Zhuangzi, Wangliang—the faint edge around a shadow—questions the shadow twice. People treat the shadow as shadow and assume it must depend on a body, yet the two do not actually depend on each other. Those who do not understand take sitting, rising, bowing, and looking up as all decided by the body, unaware that the shadow does not really wait upon the body at all. If one insists that shadow must wait on body and body must wait on a creator, one cannot merge with duhua (each thing transforming on its own, without leaning on anything else). Once one can merge with duhua, one sees that shadow does not wait on body and body does not wait on a creator; in the end one arrives at nothing more than “non-being.” Hence the text says: who can know why it is so, or why it is not so?

Dreaming One Is a Butterfly

When Zhuangzi wants to speak of living at ease, he tells of dreaming he became a butterfly; when he wants to speak of joy, he speaks of joy like that of fish. A butterfly is small yet flutters everywhere; a fish stays in the deep pool yet keeps its life. What is reached is still only “non-being,” so again: who can know why it is so, or why it is not so?

Zhuangzi uses the butterfly dream to express ease with oneself and the joy of fish to express joy in oneself. The butterfly is tiny yet soars without limit; the fish dwells in the abyss yet preserves its body. He lodges the meaning of ease and self-preservation in these two images, aiming to equalize and harmonize the ten thousand things.

Zhiyan (Goblet Words)

Zhiyan are words that do not cling to one fixed formulation—like a wine cup that tilts according to how much wine it holds. Because formulations differ, the more one moves them the more they multiply without end; hence “daily renewal.” Though formulations are not uniform, each utterance has a root source; hence “harmonized with the natural tianni.” Tianni is the subtle root of nature itself—the natural boundary and balance already there. When speech has this root, it can endlessly follow change; hence “extended and spread according to circumstances.” When speech responds to change without limit, the years of past and present may sometimes run out, yet my words have no end; hence “lasting through the years.” Zhuangzi’s words, though free and not of one pattern, never leave the root of the Dao. For this reason Guo Xiang (commentator on the Zhuangzi) regarded Zhuang Zhou as one who knows the root—this is deep understanding of Zhuangzi.

Miscellaneous Notes

“Zashuo” means miscellaneous recorded explanations—scattered remarks and glosses.

What all things follow is the Dao—the source of the myriad things and the principle by which they move. The Dao is that by which the myriad things come and go, yet it is not confined within any single thing. Therefore it dwells in the vast without ever overshooting, and dwells in the minute without ever leaving anything out. Thus within each thing’s endowment, nature, and allotted share, each takes what belongs to it. When Zhuang Zhou—that is, Zhuangzi—wrote this book and spoke of the kun and peng (the great fish that becomes a great bird), the cicada and the little bird, the crested quail, the wren, and also ants, sheep, fish, butterflies, horses, oxen, mountains, trees, and the like, it was for this very reason. The Dao’s origin lies before Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), yet that is not counted as “high”; its roots reach below the six extremities (the limits of the six directions), yet that is not counted as “deep.” When heaven and earth did not yet exist, it was already there; born before heaven and earth, yet that is not counted as “long-lived”; from antiquity it has always been thus—older than highest antiquity, yet that is not counted as “old.” That the myriad things differ from one another is called richness; threading the different into one is called greatness. To be thus rich is called great accomplishment. One who can reach this is a sage.

Once there is form, there are then names; once there are names, there are then roles; once there are roles, there is then what each holds to. Zhuangzi said: When form and name are already distinguished, division and holding are then established.

What Zhuangzi meant by not breaking the Moye (a famed ancient sword) and not resenting roof tiles blown down by the wind, and by not growing angry when bumped by an empty boat, is the same in meaning: when the other party has no deliberate intent, one does not direct anger at it. Heaven and earth possess supreme beauty yet do not speak; the four seasons have clear regularity yet do not debate; the myriad things have established patterns yet do not explain. Therefore when Confucius wished to remain silent, he said: What has Heaven ever said? Yet the four seasons turn in their course and the hundred things grow as they will. Who but one who has realized the Dao could do this?

Following one’s inborn nature is the natural (ziran); deliberately cultivating and forcing things to be so is the artificial (ran’er). The natural belongs to Heaven; the artificial belongs to human beings. What is within the natural is truly one’s own; what goes beyond one’s allotment and is added by artifice is what one does not have. How can a person strip away what they truly have and pile on what they never had? Thus what one truly has is xing (nature); what is not one’s own but is added from outside is what Zhuangzi calls excess (chi). De (virtue as one’s native endowment) is what one already possesses; to add further on top of what one already has through human effort is excess, and therefore does not count as genuine possession. Hence it is said: split toes and an extra finger grow from inborn nature, yet relative to De they are surplus; attached wens and hanging excrescences grow from the physical form, yet relative to xing they are surplus.

The noble person’s path in life may know hardship or ease, yet the sage’s Dao knows no distinction between dullness and sharpness. What the world sees is just this.

Though the noble person’s outward course may be blocked or open, the heart knows no difference between hardship and ease. Hence it is said: in hardship one is at peace, in ease one is at peace—treating hardship and ease only as the natural sequence of cold and heat, wind and rain in turn.

Zhuangzi said: “Do not use deliberate contrivance to extinguish natural endowment.” What people call gu (deliberate contrivance) is willful artifice; what Heaven calls ming (endowment) is natural allotment.

The Dao is like the year’s sequence; the sage is like the seasons within it. When Zhuang Zhou wrote “The Floods of Autumn” and spoke of “when the time arrives,” he meant nothing more than fitting the moment. Yet narrow-minded people seize on this to cavil—like summer insects that cannot be told of ice, or frogs at the bottom of a well that cannot be told of the sea.

Zhuangzi said: Yan Hui had already forgotten benevolence and righteousness, but had not yet forgotten ritual and music. Forgetting benevolence and righteousness first and ritual and music afterward is what is meant by “benevolence and righteousness are not equal to ritual and music.” Zhuangzi speaks first of forgetting the inner, then of forgetting the outer: benevolence and righteousness belong to the inner—at that stage one has not yet forgotten the outer; ritual and music belong to the outer. When both inner and outer are forgotten, one can then “sit in forgetting”—in still absorption, forgetting the split between self and outward norms. His way of putting it differs for this reason.

The sage treats what “must be so” as what “need not be so”; the multitude treat what “need not be so” as what “must be so.” What does this mean? One of broad virtue need not bind speech to every promise or deeds to every outcome—that is taking the “must” as “need not.” Ordinary people insist speech must keep faith and deeds must succeed—that is taking the “need not” as “must.” Zhuangzi’s words sometimes align with the sages; they cannot be dismissed wholesale.

The sage does not deliberately set up intention, yet intention is always present; does not cling to a self, yet the self is always present. He moves only when pushed, rises only when he must. He does not act from private motive, nor stand on ego—he simply accords with things. Zhuangzi said: “One who settles things is not settled by things.” This matches Xunzi’s saying that one who has mastered the Dao can “take things as things.” Stillness is root; movement is branch. In stillness he dwells with things as usual; in movement he responds as things require—such is the sage. In stillness he stands apart from things; in movement he is entangled with them—such is the multitude. The sage masters things; the multitude are mastered by things—nothing more than this.

Confucius said: “The noble person studies in order to reach the Dao.” Zhuang Zhou said: “The Dao cannot be reached by striving after it.” Confucius said: “The virtue of the Mean—surely it is the highest!” Zhuang Zhou said: “That still belongs to the human realm.”

To be separate from things when still and to mingle with things when active—that is the ordinary person. The sage masters outer things; the ordinary person is mastered by outer things—nothing more than that.

Confucius speaks of “reaching the Dao”; Zhuang Zhou says “the Dao cannot be reached.” Confucius calls the virtue of the Mean the utmost; Zhuang Zhou says “virtue cannot be arrived at.” Why do they differ? What Confucius says concerns the human; what Zhuang Zhou says concerns Heaven. From Heaven’s perspective, why must one “reach” the Dao that is already natural, or “arrive at” De that is already present? From the human perspective, without deep cultivation, if one does not reach the Dao, how can one obtain it? If De is not renewed day by day and not “arrived at,” how can one obtain De? Only after one can reach can one then not need to reach; only after one can arrive can one then not need to arrive.

Zhuang Zhou’s book probes the hidden depths of xing (nature) and ming (destiny/life), gathers scattered Dao and De, and would replace dimness with clarity. Hence there is talk of “returning to the root and restoring life” (gui gen fu ming) and of “smashing bushels and breaking steelyards” (pou dou zhe heng)—doing away with crafty measure and contention. Yet if the Dao is in the heart but blocked by discursive intent, when others ask there is no response—so why wait for words? Not speaking can exhaust the subtlety of the Dao, but if one never speaks, others cannot understand. Thus he speaks only when he must, acts only when moved, responds only when pressed, and commits his teaching to writing for later ages, so that learners may grasp the meaning and forget the image, grasp the image and forget the words. That too is what Zhuang Zhou hoped for the world.

Zhuangzi said: The true persons of antiquity—those who had attained the Dao—did not regret when they had faults, and did not insist they had done what ought to have been done properly. This means that sages are not people who never err. When one has faults yet does not treat them as something to regret, one is aligned with Heaven; if one is like ordinary people in acknowledging fault but does not hesitate to change, everyone will look up to such a person. Warm winters and cold summers are faults of Heaven and Earth; if Heaven and Earth can err, how much more so sages?

The Zhuangzi penetrates the distinction between nature (xing) and fate (ming), and does not let the mind be moved by life and death or by fortune and misfortune—it already approaches the sage. Without wisdom one cannot reach this; once one has wisdom, reading the sage’s teaching is enough to get there. If one still falls short of this, one must guard against drowning in Zhuangzi’s doctrine.

Nanhua Zhenjing Shiyi (Supplementary Texts to the True Scripture of Nanhua): “Nanhua Zhenjing” is the honorific title for the Zhuangzi; shiyi means supplementary material recording lost or additional passages.