《庄子内篇注》Vol. 1

The Zhuangzi can be read as an interpretation of Laozi’s thought. I once said that Laozi has the Zhuangzi just as Confucius has Mencius. Once you have fully grasped Laozi’s Dao, reading the Zhuangzi reveals how all its ideas grow out of and transform that Dao.

Zhuangzi’s imagination was vast, his arguments brilliant, and his writing free-flowing and exuberant. Readers therefore often find him elusive, like trying to grasp the wind or catch a shadow. Once you see the central purpose of his arguments, his words will no longer mislead you.

The Zhuangzi has thirty-three chapters, but the seven Inner Chapters alone fully express his meaning; the Outer Chapters merely develop it along secondary lines. Those who study the text need only grasp the Inner Chapters deeply to attain boundless freedom and joy, and to cease being people of the mundane world. The roots of his learning have already been explained in full in the Treatise on Echoes and Shadows; study it carefully alongside this text. What follows is Volume One, “Free and Easy Wandering.”

This is the opening chapter of the book. Zhuangzi himself says, “Discourse must have a foundation, and action must have a guiding principle.” This chapter establishes the foundation for the arguments of the entire book.

“Free and Easy Wandering” refers to a vast and unrestrained realm, akin to the “unimpeded liberation” described in Buddhist scriptures. Buddhism calls the complete ending of afflictions liberation. For Zhuangzi, liberation means transcending the constraints of bodily form and dispelling the calculating mind, so that one is no longer burdened by one’s individual life or pursuit of fame and achievement. The ultimate destination of the Great Dao, the realm of Free and Easy Wandering, is emptiness and naturalness. The phrases “the land of nowhere” and “the boundless wilderness” later in the text mean the same thing. Only the “True Person”—one who has reached a state of naturalness and Wuwei (non-action)—can roam freely through this vast world. The “Great Ancestor-Master,” the person who has attained the Dao, mentioned later in the text, is such a person.

Ordinary people cannot wander freely because they are bound by the word “I.” Everything they do is for their own fame and gain. From ancient times to the present, people everywhere have spent their lives struggling over these things. When have they ever known a moment of true joy? Only the great sages, by forgetting these burdens, can attain boundless freedom and wander in joy. Sadly, ordinary people are attached and constrained, thinking only of their own plans. Their understanding is narrow: they neither grasp the mysteries of the Great Dao nor believe others when they hear it explained. The chapter’s statements such as “small understanding cannot match great understanding” describe this very condition.

Accordingly, the chapter’s central message is: “The Perfect Person has no self; the Sage has no achievements; the Spirit Person has no name.” The Perfect Person does not cling to the self, the Sage does not claim achievements as their own, and the Spirit Person does not seek fame. Zhuangzi establishes this message at the outset but makes it explicit only at the end of the chapter—a writing style that builds and shifts before arriving at its point. Readers who grasp his intention will also understand the purpose of the book as a whole.

The Northern Sea is vast and unfathomably deep. In it lives a fish called Kun, so enormous that no one knows how many thousands of miles it measures. It transforms into a bird called Peng. No one knows how many thousands of miles the Peng’s back stretches; when it rises into flight, its wings seem like clouds hanging from the edge of the sky. When this bird encounters the currents moving across the sea, it sets out for the Southern Sea. The Southern Sea is the Celestial Pool.

Zhuangzi says that much of the writing in his book takes the form of parables. It often advances its arguments by borrowing the words of people from antiquity, and it also expresses ideas in language that arises in response to things and follows the natural course of events. The sayings throughout the Zhuangzi fall roughly into these three kinds. The story of Kun and Peng is a parable: it uses concrete things to convey a principle. This chapter discusses free and easy wandering, with its main point being that only one who is vast in scope and capable of transformation can be called a sage, and only a sage can reach the state of free and easy wandering. Zhuangzi therefore uses Kun and Peng to symbolize a state of vastness and transformation.

The Northern Darkness is the Northern Sea. Vast and remote, it lies beyond what ordinary people can see, and so it serves as a symbol of the deep, mysterious Dao. The Kun in the sea represents the foundations of sagehood taking shape within the Dao. Just as the great Kun needs the immense Northern Sea in which to grow, the foundations of a sage must also be nurtured within a profound and expansive realm of the Dao. Kun’s transformation into Peng symbolizes becoming a sage through being “great and capable of transformation.”

Although Kun is enormous, it is only a creature hidden beneath the sea, and its vastness is not easily seen. Only when it transforms into Peng does its astonishing scale become apparent. Peng’s forceful ascent into flight means that, being so enormous, it cannot simply raise its wings with ease; it must summon its full strength to take to the sky. This symbolizes how a sage, though fully endowed with the embodiment of the Dao, may remain for a long time in profound obscurity, unable to put that capacity into action. Only by exerting the full power of the Dao can the sage move from stillness into action. Once the sage appears in the world, the sage can shelter all living beings. This is why Peng’s wings, like clouds hanging from the edge of the sky, serve as a fitting symbol—a comparison that cannot be made with Kun while it remains hidden in the sea.

“Movement of the sea” refers to the currents moving across it. It symbolizes a sage appearing in the world in response to a grand moment in time; this is no ordinary event. “To migrate” means to move from one place to another. The Southern Darkness is also called the Southern Light, the bright and sunlit quarter. Here it also draws on the image of a ruler sitting facing south. The meaning is that when a sage appears in the world at the proper time, the sage becomes a sage emperor and enlightened king, facing south to govern all under Heaven. The “Great Ancestral Teacher” discussed in the Zhuangzi’s “The Great Ancestral Teacher” chapter, and the sage’s way of governing described in “Responding as an Emperor,” both resonate with the meaning of Peng’s migration to the Southern Darkness. This is precisely what is meant by the saying, “Words have their source, and affairs have their ruler.”

The “Qixie” is a book that records strange events. It says: “When the great Peng bird migrates to the Southern Sea, it strikes the water and raises waves three thousand li high. Riding the whirlwind, it spirals upward ninety thousand li, and departs with the great wind of the sixth month.”

When Zhuangzi tells the story of Kun transforming into Peng, it sounds so contrary to reason that others might not believe it. He therefore cites this passage as evidence, showing that he is not speaking arbitrarily but has read it in the “Qixie.” Someone asks, “What kind of book is the ‘Qixie’?” The answer is, “A book that records strange events.” It says that when the Peng bird migrates to the Southern Sea, it strikes the water and raises waves three thousand li high. This means that the bird beats the water with its wings, sending waves surging for three thousand li, which gives some idea of its size. “Fuyao” refers to a whirlwind. The Peng bird catches the great wind and beats its wings in flight, rising in a single ascent to a height of ninety thousand li; this makes its vast size even more evident. “The sixth month” refers to the sixth month of the Zhou calendar, which is the fourth month of the traditional Xia calendar. At this time, Yang energy is abundant and the winds begin to grow strong, allowing the Peng bird to catch the wind and beat its wings. “Xi” means wind: the wind between Heaven and Earth is like the breath within a person’s body. This passage is written with great force; used as evidence, it makes the story seem credible.

Clouds that drift like wild horses and dust in the air are formed when living things blow upon one another as they breathe. The sky appears deep blue: is that its true color, or does it look so blue because it is so vast and boundless? Looking down from high above, the Peng bird probably sees much the same.

Here, things are shown growing broader at each level. “Wild horses” refers to Yang energy drifting above marshes, like an illusory apparition. How far does the sky extend? Does it have an end? Looking down from above, the Peng bird probably sees much the same scene.

This describes the idea of “greatness beyond greatness.” “Wild horses” refers to Yang energy rising from marshland. It looks like a drifting breath, but is not a tangible thing. “Dust” refers to the tiny particles visible in the air when sunlight shines through a gap. “Living things breathe upon one another” describes the faint exchanges of breath among the birds, beasts, insects, and other creatures of the world.

The sky appears a vast blue, but that is not its original color. Rather, space is so distant that it lies beyond the reach of human sight. Though the Peng bird is enormous, seen from high above in space it is no bigger than wild horses or dust. Even the “whirlwind” that bears the Peng upward—a great wind spiraling toward the sky—would, from that height, seem like nothing more than the faint breath moving among living things.

So the Peng, looking down, sees no more than this. The passage uses the Peng to show that even a sage, though vast in some respects, remains a tangible being with a defined form. The empty and formless Dao cannot be described through names or words. The sage’s freedom and ease come from the Dao, not from bodily form.

If water does not gather to sufficient depth, it cannot carry a large boat. Pour a cupful of water into a hollow, and a tiny grass stem, no bigger than a small seed, can float on it like a boat. Set a cup on the same water, however, and it will stick fast without moving. The reason is that the water is too shallow for so large a vessel.

If the wind does not gather enough strength, it cannot bear enormous wings. So when the great Peng is to fly ninety thousand li into the sky, the wind must gather beneath it and lift it upward. Once it rises on the strength of the mighty wind and carries the blue sky on its back, nothing can turn it back or impede it along the way. Only when these conditions are in place does it begin to plan its flight to the southern sea, the Southern Darkness.

This section summarizes the meaning of the Kunpeng’s transformation and flight southward. It uses them as a metaphor for how a great sage must build up deep reserves and cultivate himself fully before he can put his capacities to work.

If the waters of the Northern Sea are not deep enough, they cannot nurture a great Kun. After the Kun transforms into a Peng, even if it wishes to fly far, it still needs powerful winds to lift and propel it before it can reach the Southern Darkness—the southern sea. This is a metaphor: if the realm of the Great Dao is not deep and vast, it cannot nurture the foundations of a great sage. Even after one has cultivated a grand spirit, one cannot accomplish great things without undergoing transformation. And even if one has achieved the deeds of a great sage, without the conditions of a changing world and the arrival of the right time, one cannot emerge in response to the age and accomplish work of great scope and brilliance. One must therefore build up deep reserves, cultivate patiently, and wait for the right moment to act. Only then can the great sage fully express both his essential nature and its effects. The text uses water and wind to depict this deep accumulation.

The depth of the water was originally meant to explain the great Kun. Here, however, the text does not describe how water nourishes fish; instead, it shows how water can bear a boat. This shift in the writing keeps the reader from seeing the point at once. If the author had written only about the Kun, the passage would have seemed stiff and clumsy. Through this, the author mocks people of shallow understanding who rely only on hearsay and talk, have not accumulated deep virtue, and yet dare to speak recklessly of fame and achievement.

The cicada and the young turtle dove, just learning to fly, mock the great Peng: “We try our hardest to take off and bump into elm and sandalwood trees. Sometimes we cannot reach them, so we simply drop back to the ground. Why fly ninety thousand li into the sky and then head south?” For a trip to the nearby suburbs, three meals’ worth of food will keep you full on the way back. But to travel a hundred li, you must spend the night pounding rice to prepare provisions; to travel a thousand li, you must store food three months in advance. What could these two little creatures possibly understand?

This passage uses two small creatures as a metaphor for people of limited understanding. They fly among the elms and catalpa trees and think they have reached the limit, so they laugh at the great Peng bird for flying up ninety thousand li. Ordinary people seek only enough to meet their own needs for food, clothing, and daily life, and think that is sufficient. How could they understand why a sage strives for the Great Dao?

Zhuangzi goes on to say that people’s horizons are narrow and they cannot understand the sage because their aspirations do not reach far, and what they have gathered and cultivated is not deep. Each can go only as far as their own limits. For example, a journey of one li requires no provisions: one meal is enough to go and return. For a hundred li, the journey reaches somewhat farther, so rice must be pounded and provisions prepared the night before. For a thousand li, provisions must be gathered over three months. The farther one’s aspiration reaches, the more preparation and accumulation it requires. Those two creatures grew among the elms and catalpa trees; they had no experience of distant journeys or ambition to travel far, so naturally they laughed at the great Peng bird spreading its wings and soaring high. People in the world with limited understanding are much the same.

Small understanding cannot measure up to great understanding, and a short life cannot compare with a long one. Why is this so? The morning mushroom, which grows in decaying soil, sprouts at dawn and withers by evening. It knows nothing of the passage of a month, nor does it understand the changes from the beginning to the end of the lunar month.

Small cleverness cannot compare with great wisdom, just as a short-lived life cannot compare with a long-lived one. The two tiny creatures mentioned earlier serve as examples of people with limited understanding. The contrast between short and long life here likewise illustrates the difference between narrow and broad understanding.

How can we tell? The morning mushroom, which grows on decaying earth and sprouts at dawn only to wither by dusk, knows nothing of the first and last days of a month; it knows nothing of a month’s span. The cicada that appears in summer knows nothing of spring or autumn. These are examples of short lives. In the south of Chu, there is the Dark Spirit, a legendary long-lived divine tortoise: five hundred years count as one spring, and another five hundred as one autumn. In ancient times there was the Great Chun, a legendary long-lived tree: eight thousand years count as one spring, and another eight thousand as one autumn. These are examples of long lives. Today, Peng Zu is famous only for his longevity, and people hope to measure themselves against him. Is that not pitiable?

The earlier image of tiny creatures knowing nothing of the great Peng illustrates how people with limited understanding fail to grasp the vastness of the sage. Each has its own limits of understanding; it is hardly surprising that they know nothing of greater realms. How could the morning mushroom and the summer cicada know that the Dark Spirit and the Great Chun live for so long? People speak of Peng Zu as having lived eight hundred years, regard him as one of the rarest long-lived figures of all time, and hope to be his equal. Yet compared with the Great Chun, even Peng Zu seems pitiable. Such, by and large, are the limits of people’s understanding.

When Tang of Shang questioned Ji, his worthy minister, it was the same principle at work.

Shang Tang asked Ji, one of his worthy ministers, about this very matter: small understanding cannot compare with great understanding. In the barren lands of the far north lies a deep sea called the Celestial Pool. In it lives a fish thousands of miles across; no one knows how long it is. Its name is Kun. There is also a bird named Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging across the sky. Riding a whirlwind, it spirals upward to a height of ninety thousand miles, passes through the clouds, bears the blue sky on its back, and then flies south, bound for the southern sea.

A small bird by the marsh, the Chiyan, laughed at it and said, “Where does it think it’s going? I leap up and can barely fly a few yards before coming down again. I flit among the mugwort bushes, and that is the limit of my flight. Where does it think it’s going?” This is the difference between the small and the great.

Earlier, the text cited the Qixie to support the story of Kun and Peng. Here it cites the account of Shang Tang questioning Ji to show that small understanding cannot compare with great understanding. The example of Kun and Peng shows both the enormous size of the fish and bird and the difference between the small and the great: one story proves two points. Next, the text will further explain how the small and the great each have their own distinct limits.

Those whose intelligence is sufficient to serve in an official post, whose conduct is enough to win the trust of a community, and whose abilities can please a ruler and earn the confidence of an entire state—people who gain recognition within some particular sphere through intelligence, conduct, or ability—regard themselves as satisfied, just like the little quail.

Song Rongzi, a worthy man of the state of Song, still laughed at them. They bustle about, pursuing empty fame through intelligence and personal talent. Even if everyone in the world praised him, he would not become more zealous; even if everyone in the world criticized him, he would not grow despondent or lose heart. He could distinguish what was true within from how others judged him, and recognize the boundary between honor and disgrace. That was all. Song Rongzi could take fame lightly: he believed that inner De (virtue and power) belonged to oneself, while praise and blame from the outside were decided by others, so he did not let them easily unsettle his heart. He was not eager to pursue worldly affairs; he simply had no enthusiasm for seeking empty fame in the world.

Even so, he had not yet reached a fully established state: he could forget fame, but he had not yet forgotten himself.

Liezi, a legendary Daoist figure, rode the wind with effortless ease and returned after fifteen days. He was not eager to seek good fortune, either. Although this spared him the labor of walking, he still depended on something. Liezi could take misfortune and fortune lightly, but had not yet transcended life and death. Since his physical form remained, he could not roam without limit alongside the transformations of nature. He had to rely on the wind to fly, and after fifteen days he had to return; he could not roam for long.

But what must those who act in accord with the nature of Heaven and Earth, ride the six Qi—the natural forces of Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light—and roam without limit rely on? They ride the Dao and roam, merging with the transformations of nature. Naturally, they need depend on nothing outside themselves.

Thus it is said: “The Perfected Person has no self; the Spirit-like Person has no achievements; the Sage has no name.” The Perfected Person, the Spirit-like Person, and the Sage all refer to the same kind of sage; they need not be understood as three different people. This describes the sage who roams freely and at ease: he forgets his physical form, is not constrained by external things, transcends the transformations of life and death, and enjoys vast freedom beyond all things. Taking delight in the Dao, he is not bound by anything outside himself, and so alone can attain the state of free and easy wandering. Those with shallow understanding in the ordinary world cannot grasp this.

Zhuangzi’s purpose in writing this passage was to say that no one, from ancient times to the present, has truly attained carefree freedom. Burdened by their mortal bodies and by the self, people anxiously pursue fame and achievement, laboring all their lives with scarcely a moment of joy. They cling to their own physical forms, see nothing beyond them, and do not understand the Great Dao. Only sages of vast attainment, able to transform and move freely through all things, can forget the self, their achievements, and their reputations, transcend life and death, and roam within the Great Dao. In this way they gain boundless freedom and joy. How could people confined by petty cleverness understand such a state? It is like the cicadas and little doves mocking the great Peng.

Zhuangzi’s central point is that the sage’s state of being differs from that of ordinary people and cannot be understood by those with narrow vision. So he tells the story of the Peng’s transformation to astonish the world. The story is an allegory, meant to shake people out of their conventional assumptions. The essay begins by discussing other matters and only here reveals its real purpose, bringing it to a close in a single sentence. This is the subtle skill of its composition: only a broad mind could create such grandeur. Learners, too, need to cultivate themselves to appreciate its subtleties.

The earlier passage presents an allegory; what follows offers sages who forget the self, achievement, and reputation as proof.

Yao wanted to hand the realm over to Xu You. He said, “The sun and moon have risen, yet the candle flame still burns. Wouldn’t it be difficult to compare its light with theirs? The timely rain has already fallen, yet people still rely on irrigation. Isn’t that a laborious way to nourish all things? If you would only come forward, the realm could be at peace, while I still occupy the ruler’s seat. I feel that I fall short. Please let me hand the realm over to you.”

Xu You replied, “You have governed the realm, and it is already at peace. If I were to replace you now, would I be seeking fame? Fame is merely an appendage to real achievement. Should I become that appendage?” He held that the realm was already well governed and that the achievement belonged to Yao. Since he had no corresponding Virtue or accomplishments of his own, accepting the throne would bring him a ruler’s title without real achievement. He did not want to accept the name of ruler without deserving it.

“Am I someone who lives in an inn and does nothing of substance? The wren builds its nest in the deep forest, yet occupies only one branch; the field mouse drinks from the river, yet takes only enough to fill its belly.” This shows that although Xu You could forget his reputation, he had not yet forgotten himself. He still took his own satisfaction as the limit, much as Liezi, riding the wind, had not yet forgotten his physical form. The spirit being of Mount Gushe, by contrast, forgets everything.

“Go back. There’s no need to come again, Yao!” These words rebuke Yao for mistaking the realm under Heaven for a place worth returning to. The speaker coolly calls him “Lord,” mocking him for valuing only the high status of a ruler. “What would I do with the realm under Heaven? Even if a cook does not enter the kitchen, the ritual attendant who offers blessings at a sacrifice will not step over the vessels and offerings to cook in the cook’s place.” With these two remarks, Xu You means that if Yao will not govern the realm, he should find someone willing to do so instead of approaching a ritual attendant. Xu You is not the right person for the task; how could he abandon the life he has chosen to take someone else’s place?

Read alongside the earlier passage about Song Rongzi, the text distinguishes three states: forgetting oneself through fame and achievement, forgetting one’s accomplishments, and forgetting one’s reputation. Here, Yao yields the realm under Heaven and can forget his accomplishments, but he has not forgotten the reputation attached to yielding it. Xu You refuses the realm and can forget his reputation, but he still cares about his own satisfaction, so he has not forgotten himself. The spirit being of Mount Gushe introduced next is the sage whose state is vast and transformed, and who can forget everything. This illustrates the true state of “free and easy wandering.”

Shanwu asked Lianshu for guidance: “I heard a speech from Jieyu and thought it grand but without foundation. Once spoken, the words were never checked against reality. I was astonished and frightened when I heard them. They seemed as boundless as the Milky Way, wildly exaggerated and completely contrary to ordinary sense.”

Lianshu asked, “What did he say?”

Shanwu replied, “He said that on the distant Mount Gushe lives a spirit being, a perfected immortal who surpasses ordinary people. His skin is as pure as ice and snow, and his graceful form is like that of an unmarried girl. He eats no grain, but breathes the wind and drinks the dew. Riding the clouds and driving a flying dragon, he wanders beyond the four seas. His spirit is calm and concentrated; he can keep all things free from calamity and illness and make the crops yield a harvest every year. I think these are all lies. Surely no such person exists in the world, so I do not believe it.”

Lianshu said, “That is only natural. The blind cannot appreciate patterns and colors; the deaf cannot hear the sounds of bells and drums. A person’s body may be deaf or blind—could the mind not be deaf or blind as well? Shanwu’s understanding is like a mind deprived of sight and hearing, so he cannot see or comprehend these words. What Shanwu has just said is exactly what a deaf or blind person might say.”

A person of this kind possesses such De. Shoulder-Wu, a character in the text, hears these words but understands nothing, like a deaf or blind person, and so does not believe them. Yet his response only reveals his ignorance. The De possessed by such people is that of spirit-like beings: they blend completely with the myriad things, regard the whole world as one, and live in harmony with their nature. Why, then, would they fret and toil over governing the world?

Nothing external can harm such a person. Having transcended the distinction between body and self, they no longer stand in opposition to the things around them. As Laozi said, there is no place where they can be put to death. Even a flood that reaches the sky cannot drown them; even a severe drought, with metal and stone melting and earthen hills scorched, cannot make them feel the heat.

Such a person could, it seems, shape even the basest things—dust and chaff—into sage kings like Yao and Shun. If things so insignificant can accomplish such a feat, how much more can the spirit of a spirit-like being accomplish? With De of this kind, who would trouble mind and body by treating external things as matters that must be managed?

This section explains that the Perfected Person, the Spirit Person, and the Sage mentioned above—the ones who can follow the workings of Heaven and Earth and master the transformations of the Six Energies—are the very kind of figures later called “Great Masters,” exemplars and leaders of the Great Dao. If compelled to deal with worldly affairs, such people could certainly become enlightened rulers. Yet when governing the realm, they have no personal aims: they follow nature and let all things transform of themselves. To them, governing a state is no more worth clinging to than clods of earth or discarded branches. They would never, like Yao and Shun, make the labor of governing the realm their own undertaking. The passage insists that only people of this kind can let the realm be nurtured and transformed of itself through Wuwei (non-action).

People in the state of Song thought ceremonial caps called zhangfu were valuable, so they took them to Yue to sell. The people of Yue customarily cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, and had no use for such caps. This story serves as a metaphor: Yao regarded the realm as precious and deliberately tried to yield it to Xu You, without realizing that Xu You cared nothing for the realm—just as the people of Yue had no use for zhangfu caps.

After governing the people and bringing peace to the realm, Yao visited four recluses south of Mount Miaogushe, by the Fen River. According to the commentary, these were Nie Que, Pi Yi, Wang Ni, and others. When he returned, he seemed dazed and lost, as though he had forgotten that the realm was his.

This passage explains the story told earlier, in which Yao offered the realm to Xu You and Xu You refused it. Although Xu You would not accept Yao’s realm, he could not make Yao forget the realm or forget that he had offered it to him. This was because Xu You had not yet forgotten himself. Now, as soon as Yao sees a spiritual person—someone who has transcended worldly concerns and reached an extraordinary spiritual state—he suddenly feels that the realm is no longer worth worrying about. This is enough to show that the spiritual person’s subtle way of governing worldly affairs lies in following things as they are and ruling through Wuwei (non-action). The central message of the whole book is concentrated in this sentence; it is more than just the ending of “Free and Easy Wandering.”

At first glance, Zhuangzi’s writing seems exuberant, free-flowing, and unrestrained, yet its purpose is precise and tightly constructed, beyond compare. Even “Free and Easy Wandering” alone is profound and ingeniously conceived. After stating its central message, the text develops its ideas through parables—stories that convey meaning through events—and quoted sayings, which express a point by borrowing the words of the ancients or elders. Later, it uses goblet words: flexible expressions that follow the changing nature of things. The writing may look like playful drama, but in fact it gives voice to the author’s own thoughts. Zhuangzi believes that people say his ideas are too grand and useless because they do not know how to use them, or understand that what seems useless can be of great use. So he brings in Huizi’s words to introduce this point.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “The King of Wei gave me a gourd seed. I planted it, and the gourd that grew was as large as five shi. When I tried to fill it with water or other liquid, it was so heavy I couldn’t lift it by myself. When I split it open to make a ladle, it was so large and hollow that I had nowhere to put it. It wasn’t that it was too small; I simply thought it was useless, so I smashed it.”

Zhuangzi said, “You truly don’t know how to make use of large things. In the state of Song, there was a man skilled at making a medicine that kept people’s hands from cracking in the cold. For generations, his family had made their living washing cotton. A visitor from another place heard about the formula and offered a hundred pieces of gold for it. The Song man’s family gathered to discuss it: ‘For generations we’ve washed cotton, and our earnings have amounted to no more than a few pieces of gold. Now we can sell the formula in a single day for a hundred. We may as well sell it to him.’

“After buying the formula, the visitor used it to advise the King of Wu. When Yue sent troops to attack Wu, the King of Wu put him in command of the army. In winter, the Wu and Yue armies fought on the water. Because Wu’s soldiers had the medicine to protect their hands from cracking in the cold, they defeated Yue’s forces. The King of Wu then granted the man land as a reward.

“The same medicine for preventing frostbite brought one man a reward, while another went on making his living washing cotton. The difference lay in how they used it. Now, sir, you have a gourd large enough to hold five shi. Why not turn it into a large floating harness and drift across rivers and lakes, instead of worrying that it’s too big and you have nowhere to put it? Your thinking is as blocked as a stalk of peng grass!”

In this passage, Zhuangzi uses the figure of the “Transcendent Person at Ease” that he created to show that even things that seem useless can serve a great purpose. Perhaps he also entrusted this figure with his own feelings, lamenting that people in the world did not understand him. Huizi was a close, kindred friend of Zhuangzi’s, so Zhuangzi speaks playfully under a pretext to express what he truly thinks.

The passage means that even if a sage exists, people in the world must first be able to recognize and understand him before he can make a difference in his own time. The words sound like a joke, but the feeling behind them is quite sorrowful. To appreciate writing of this kind, one must grasp its particular charm rather than explain it only in ordinary, literal terms; it has another layer of meaning, much as poetry has its own distinctive appeal. Many more passages later in the text use stories to convey an underlying meaning, and readers should pay attention to them. The earlier discussion mentioned failing to make good use of “greatness,” but it had not yet addressed “the use of what is useless.” The following passage therefore develops the point through the image of a great tree.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “I have a large tree that people call the chu tree, a kind thought to be useless. Its trunk is swollen and gnarled, so it cannot be made straight with a carpenter’s ink line. Its branches twist and knot, so they do not meet the standards of compass or square and cannot be made into useful objects. Planted by the roadside, it is not even worth a carpenter’s glance. Your words, too, seem grand but have no practical use. Everyone casts them aside.”

Zhuangzi said, “Have you never seen a wildcat or weasel? It crouches low, waiting for small animals to appear. It darts this way and that, paying no heed to high or low, until it falls into a trap and dies in a snare. Consider also the li ox, a great beast described in old books, so vast it seems like a cloud hanging at the edge of the sky.”

Even if an animal is enormous, it may still be unable to catch a mouse. Here the text speaks of the taurus ox, a huge animal in ancient times: it was so large that it seemed to blot out the sky like a cloud, yet it could not manage something as small as catching a mouse. Sometimes a thing is so big that it cannot do small tasks.

Now you have a great tree. Why worry that it is useless? Why not plant it in the “land of Nothing-at-All,” a place where there is nothing, and set it in the boundless open wilderness? There you could stroll freely beside it and rest at ease beneath it. “The land of Nothing-at-All” and “the wilderness of vast expanse” both stand for the place where the Dao resides. Zhuangzi uses the great tree as a metaphor for himself. Though the world considers the tree useless, it can grow as it pleases, without being forced into some purpose.

Then it will not be cut down by axes. Far from the human world, the tree will suffer no harm. This is like the sage, who is less likely to be harmed by worldly conventions when he seeks nothing from the world. If there is nowhere it can be put to use, what is there to trouble it?

This passage uses Hui Zi (Zhuangzi’s friend Hui Shi) to mock Zhuangzi for being useless. Zhuangzi then takes the opportunity to tease people like Hui Zi, who have a little cleverness but chase after fame and profit, thereby bringing trouble upon themselves. They are like small creatures such as wildcats and weasels, which are bound in the end to die in nets and traps.

A perfected person—one of deep cultivation who follows the Dao—seeks nothing from the world. Even if they appear useless, they can remain content and live out their allotted years in peace. Is this not the true great usefulness: preserving life and nurturing the Dao? If so, what is there to worry or suffer over?

Though these words were spoken casually, they reveal the contentment Zhuangzi found within himself. How could those in the world who possess only a little cleverness understand?

“The Treatise on Things” discusses how people from ancient times to the present have held different views and argued with one another. Zhuangzi suggests that there seems to be no truly wise and enlightened sage in the world. As a result, the various thinkers rely on their limited understanding, each convinced that they alone are right and that the principles they accept are absolutely true. Once someone decides that they are right, they see everyone else as wrong; in the end, no one can be recognized as truly right. On a broad scale, Confucians and Mohists argue over right and wrong; on a smaller scale, the various schools of thought each make their own case. Everyone clings to their own views and criticizes others, yet in the end no one can judge who is right or wrong. These disputes have persisted for a long time because people cannot see the limits of their own understanding.

Zhuangzi’s idea of “equalizing things” does not mean forcing different arguments into agreement. Rather, an awakened Perfected Person—a truly enlightened person—must appear in the world, using true knowledge and realization to forget the distinction between self and other and merge with the Dao (the Way). At this point, there is no need to deliberately reconcile different arguments: disputes over right and wrong will fade away on their own. This is the central idea of “The Equality of Things.”

The chapter gives priority to forgetting the self. To stop clinging to one’s own views and insisting “I am right,” one must recognize the true ruler within—the authentic inner master—and free oneself from the illusory self created by the physical body. One can then naturally merge with the Dao. When cultivation reaches a deep, integrated state, the distinction between self and things can be forgotten. The story of Zhuang Zhou dreaming that he had become a butterfly expresses this very state.

The chapter begins with the “three pipes.” A “pipe” can be understood as the means or force that produces sound. The pipes of the earth are the sounds made when wind blows across the land and whistles through countless openings. The sounds are all different, yet they arise from a single Qi (vital energy), and do not argue over which is right or wrong. The pipes of humanity are the sounds people make by playing bamboo instruments. Though produced by human beings, they need not be debated if no contrivance or cunning is involved. The pipes of Heaven are the words people speak. These, too, originally arise from a natural human capacity. But people often treat their own prejudices as their master, and so reject one another and dispute right and wrong. If speech is free of calculation, there will be no attachment to approval or rejection, and no entanglement in arguments over who is right or wrong. This is the true intent of Zhuangzi’s argument.

Laozi says, “Isn’t the space between Heaven and Earth like a bellows? It is empty, yet it is never exhausted; the more it moves, the more wind it produces. Too many words only bring one closer to exhaustion; better to remain empty and still.” The ideas in “The Equality of Things” affirm this passage. Once this is understood, much of the chapter’s meaning becomes clear.

Nan Guo Ziqi, a man of the Dao who lived in seclusion south of the city wall, sat leaning against a small table. As he sat upright, he suddenly forgot his own body. He raised his head toward the sky and let out a long breath. His expression seemed distant and dazed, as though his body had dissolved and ceased to exist—as though he had lost the body that accompanied his true self.

His disciple Yancheng Ziyou stood beside him and asked, “Master, what has happened to you? Can a person’s body really become like a withered tree, and the heart really become like cooled ashes? The way you lean against the table now is already different from before.”

Ziqi replied, “Yan, you ask well. The person leaning against the table now is indeed different from before. At this moment, I have forgotten my body and flesh. Do you understand what I mean by ‘losing myself’?”

The “Discourse on Making All Things Equal” opens with “losing the self”—forgetting the ego and letting go of fixed views—to show that people’s disputes over right and wrong all arise from their own subjective perspectives. To bring discussions of the myriad things into genuine accord, one must first forget the self. Thus, the sage who reaches the state of free and easy wandering first forgets himself, then forgets his achievements and reputation. This is the point the author is making.

“Have you heard the pipes of people—the sounds made when people play flutes and other pipes—but not the pipes of Earth, when a mighty wind sets a thousand hollows howling in unison? Have you heard the pipes of Earth, but not the pipes of Heaven—the words people speak, through which Heaven’s workings naturally reveal themselves?”

The “Discourse on Making All Things Equal” considers how to view the myriad things, yet begins with these three kinds of sound: the pipes of people, the pipes of Earth, and the pipes of Heaven. This invites us to understand that our own words, too, arise from Heaven’s workings. If we can forget our calculating minds and let speech sound naturally, like wind passing through hollows, we will no longer cling to arguments over right and wrong. Understanding how these three kinds of sound are arranged also gives us the key to the essay’s central idea.

Ziyou asked, “May I ask what the three kinds of sound—the sounds of Heaven, Earth, and humanity—are like?”

Ziqi began with the sounds of Earth, those made when wind passes through openings in the world: “The breath exhaled by the Earth is called wind. Usually the wind does not rise, but once it does, all kinds of openings begin to whistle and roar. Have you never heard the sound of a great wind rising?

“When the mountains and forests sway, the massive trees, each a hundred spans around, are covered with openings. Some resemble nostrils, some mouths, some ears; some are square, like the ancient brackets that supported roof beams, and some are round. Some are like mortars for pounding grain, some like pools where water gathers, and some like shallow puddles. They make sounds of every kind: some like water crashing against stone, some as sharp as a whistling arrow, some like a person shouting in rebuke, some like a breath being drawn in. Some cry out loudly, some moan softly; some murmur on and on, and some bark like dogs.

“When one gust blows gently, the gust behind it answers more loudly. A light breeze makes the openings answer softly; a strong wind makes them roar together. When the fierce wind dies down, the openings fall silent. Have you never watched grass and trees sway? The wind has stopped, yet the plants are still moving. This also suggests that although the person who began an argument may be gone, those who come after continue the debate, each holding fast to what they consider right and wrong.”

The image of “the long wind stirring the myriad openings” is a metaphor. The Great Dao accords with the natural changes of all things and flows among them, like a long wind passing through openings of every kind, making plants sway and causing each opening to sound different.

People are endowed with different bodies and capacities, so their understanding differs, and their arguments vary as well. It is like openings of different sizes and depths producing sounds that differ in pitch, volume, and length when the wind passes through them. One person in antiquity first put forward a view; later people echoed and developed it, and their numbers may have continued to grow. This is like the wind having already stopped while the plants still sway.

Yet the wind of Heaven moves naturally, without deliberate intention. The words of a sage, too, should be like the natural wind, arising without cunning or calculation. People, however, often cling to their own views and speak from subjective intent, so they argue with one another over right and wrong. That is why the text below says, “Words are not like blowing.” It means that people’s differing arguments arise because each clings to a personal view and has a fixed position, without seeing this clearly. Understanding this is the key to grasping the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

Ziyou said, “The sounds of Earth are the noises made by all kinds of openings; the sounds of humans are those made by instruments such as the panpipes. I would like to ask what the sounds of Heaven are.”

Ziqi replied, “When a great wind blows across the myriad things, each makes a different sound, and yet each is made to sound of its own accord … The sounds all come from the myriad things themselves. So who, exactly, rules and stirs them from within?”

Here, “the sounds of Earth” refers to the various noises produced when wind passes through openings in mountains and forests, while “the sounds of humans” refers to the sounds of instruments made and played by people. “The sounds of Heaven” uses the natural sounds of the myriad things to ask what governs them from behind the scenes. The commentary interprets this as the Heavenly mechanism—the innate capacity—that naturally comes forth whenever people speak.

Those of great wisdom are broad-minded and composed, while those with petty cleverness are constrained and caught up in trivialities. Grand words carry force and sweep; fragmentary talk goes on and on. When people sleep, their spirits interact. When they wake, their bodies begin to move. In contact with the things around them, people become entangled with them and react to them, and so the heart struggles without cease throughout the day.

Some people act carelessly; others keep their thoughts hidden; still others are cautious in everything. A small fright leaves a person anxious and unsettled, while great fear leaves them dazed and at a loss. Once a person’s words and actions are set in motion, they are like a crossbow trigger being released. What they take charge of and cling to is the distinction between right and wrong. When their thoughts stagnate, it is as though they have made a vow; what they hold fast to is the struggle to prevail. The spirit gradually declines, like plants withering in autumn and winter. This means that a person’s life is drained away day by day. When someone is absorbed in their own doings, they cannot let the spirit recover. The mind, under pressure, is as if sealed shut; this means it is blocked and unable to flow. Such a mind is already near death, and can no longer be brought back to life.

Joy and anger, sorrow and delight, reflection and sighing, change and alarm, as well as frivolity, indulgence, and affected behavior—all are expressions of activity within the heart. They are like music sounding from an empty space, or like moisture steaming up and giving rise to fungi. Day and night, these changes appear one after another before us, yet people do not know where they spring from.

Enough, enough! In the span of day and night, we have already undergone all these changes. What, then, brings them about? Without things outside us, there would be no self; without a self, things outside us could not appear. To recognize this is already to be close to the Dao (the Way), but people still do not know who, behind the scenes, directs and sets all this in motion.

There seems to be a “true ruler” within, yet no trace of it can be found. Our everyday actions and speech are nothing other than this true ruler at work. We are certain that it truly exists, yet we cannot see its form. It is indeed there, but has no tangible shape.

The preceding passage discussed how people’s understanding differs; this section explains that each person’s circumstances also vary. People often act only according to their private feelings, unaware that an innate nature governs them from within. Having lost sight of this “True Master,” their inner, authentic ruler, they give free rein to their emotions and pursue external things, without knowing how to return to the root. This is the most tragic aspect of human life. Earlier, the text said, “It is all brought upon oneself” and asked, “Who, in the end, is the one who gets angry?” Here, it makes the existence of the True Master clear, aiming to help people understand that genuine insight keeps them from falling into the trap of arguing over right and wrong.

The True Master discussed above is formless, yet it governs the physical body. To understand it, one must see through every part of the body and transcend what has form; only then can one experience the subtlety of the formless. The passage that follows develops this idea further.

The human body is made up of the hundred bones—the skeleton of the whole body—the nine apertures, meaning the ears, eyes, mouth, nose, and the two lower openings, and the six organs: the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, kidneys, and the Gate of Destiny. Together, these make up the human body. But which part, exactly, do I regard as closest to myself?

If I cherish every part of my body, it would seem that there are many “selves” within me. Are these parts, then, like subjects or consorts, all obeying some ruler? Yet subjects and consorts cannot govern one another. Do they take turns ruling? If they do, then there is no fixed ruler. It seems, then, that within the body there may be a true ruler.

Finding this ruler does not make it increase; failing to find it does not make it diminish. It is complete in itself, neither increased nor diminished by a person’s delusion or awakening. This commentary calls it the “True Lord” and holds that one should seek it within. It also observes that this account seems like what Buddhism teaches, though the commentator believes that the inner ruler it identifies is, in fact, what Buddhism calls the “consciousness spirit.”

Zhuangzi’s mind was broad and open, so his writing is like a strong wind passing through hollow openings: it is hard to tell where it begins. When composing, he often held the meaning from beginning to end in mind all at once. Yet the meaning does not reveal itself all at once, and the writing rises and shifts in force, so readers can easily feel at a loss and fail to see how its ideas fit together.

This chapter opens with the “Heavenly Flute”—the sounds arising naturally. It first says that the sounds made by the myriad things are all different, yet each can cease of its own accord. Each sounds in accordance with its own nature. So who, exactly, makes them sound? With this, the chapter establishes its central point from the outset: readers must grasp for themselves and recognize the “True Ruler,” the ineffable source that governs the myriad things. This principle is difficult to express in a single sentence. Thus, the discussion from “Great knowledge is broad and at ease” onward develops the idea that “the myriad things blow forth sounds, each different.” Only from “Once you have this by day and night” onward does the text further explain how each thing makes its own sound, ask who ultimately governs what lies behind them, and point readers toward the “True Ruler.”

This passage reveals that a person’s bodily form is only a temporary “self.” Only by letting go of attachment to the body can one see the “True Ruler.” This is the practical meaning of “losing the self” at the chapter’s beginning.

The text then says that people lose touch with their true nature and pursue what is false. This is the most pitiable state of all, and the passage expresses compassion for humankind.

Once people receive the form bestowed by Heaven and Earth, they live on until that form perishes amid change. People wear one another and external things down through friction and depletion. They rush about as if galloping, without knowing when they will stop. Is this not pitiful? The True Sovereign—the inner ruler—is originally master of the body, yet people do not know how to nurture it. Instead, they let external things tug at their feelings and spend each day struggling against their own thoughts. They take themselves to be nothing more than flesh and blood, and so are continually harmed by external things, worn away like a blade being ground down, never to return.

People spend their whole lives in ceaseless toil, laboring without rest, yet cannot see what they have accomplished or what this life is for. They exhaust body and mind in pursuit of fame and profit, and even when utterly spent, still do not know where they are ultimately bound. Is this not pitiful? People of the world are so benighted that, though their bodies are still alive and others say they have not died, what good does that do? The body changes and perishes, while the mind sinks into this process without awakening. Is this not a great sorrow?

Is human life inherently so ignorant? Am I alone in my bewilderment, or are there people in the world who are not like this? With this piercing question, Zhuangzi urges people to wake up.

This section says that a person’s true heart is trapped within the physical body and harmed by desires for external things. It rushes headlong like a fire, never knowing to turn back, and labors throughout life without knowing when to stop. Even at death, it has not awakened. Is this not a profound sorrow? Because people have become so deeply lost, they reverse right and wrong without realizing it. That is why the text next introduces the words “right and wrong.”

If people follow the “formed heart” they originally possess—here, their inborn true heart—and take it as their teacher, who would be without a teacher of their own? Everyone has this heart and can return inward to take it as a teacher. Why should only sages be able to do so? “Knowing what is borrowed” means that sages understand the body is only borrowed for a time, so they forget the body and return to their original heart. Yet even fools possess this heart.

Before people have understood their inborn true heart, they establish theories of right and wrong. This is like setting out for Yue today while claiming to have arrived there yesterday. They have not actually arrived, yet believe they have; judging right and wrong by this standard is self-deception. It means calling what is absent present, claiming to have obtained what one has not yet obtained, and insisting one knows what one does not know.

Even the divine Yu—the legendary sage-king, Great Yu—might not be able to see through someone who deceives himself in this way. However sage and far-seeing Yu may be, he can know only where things have actually arrived. How could he discern someone who calls what is absent present? If even Yu cannot understand such a person, what can I do? This is a lament that such people will find the Great Dao difficult to understand.

Disputes over right and wrong arise from people who deceive themselves. They do not know, yet insist that they do, and assume their own views must be correct; as a result, they see everything wrongly. They have not grasped the true knowledge they already possess—clear understanding unclouded by deluded thoughts—but mistake false views for the truth. Even a sage would find such people difficult to change. People have an original true mind, yet it is obscured without their knowing; this is truly regrettable. Because they do not recognize their true mind, they cling to their own views as correct and insist that others are wrong. This is the root of disputes over right and wrong.

The following passage further explains the central message of “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

Speech does not arise naturally in the way wind passes through openings. People do speak, but their words often come from personal thoughts and opinions, so it is not always possible to determine whether they are right or wrong.

Consider the matter from the beginning: were these words there all along, or were they absent before? How is deliberate human speech different from the chirping of chicks still inside their shells—a sound arising from natural spontaneity, without conscious intent? Is there truly a difference between the two? And does either involve disputing with the other?

This passage points out that opinions in the world do not agree. Sounds and words have no fixed right or wrong of their own. When speech follows natural spontaneity, people can reflect on their thoughts even as they speak.

This section explains that the differences among things and judgments of right and wrong are not fixed. It begins by pointing out that words and sounds in themselves have no right or wrong. If they were simply allowed to arise through the natural workings of things, there would be no distinctions for people to argue over. Yet seeing beyond distinctions made through language is precisely the aim of the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal,” and that aim has already been revealed here. Readers should grasp that once we see through the natural workings of things, disputes over right and wrong will dissolve on their own.

The passage beginning “Words are not merely like wind blowing” and continuing through the end of the chapter on “Completion and Ruin,” ending with “this is what is meant by ‘illumination,’” is one long section of more than 740 characters. Its meaning unfolds layer by layer; careful reflection is needed to follow its full significance.

The author then points out that those who cling to arguments over right and wrong have lost touch with what is genuine and stubbornly hold to what is false.

In “Where does the Dao become obscured?”, “obscured” means dim and unclear. “Where does the Dao become obscured, so that there comes to be what is genuine and false?” means that the Great Dao originally contains no distinction between genuine and false. The question is raised first: why should the Dao become unclear?

Where has the Dao been obscured, so that distinctions between truth and falsehood arise? Where have words been obscured, so that disputes over right and wrong arise? The Great Dao should have no distinction between truth and falsehood, and the words of a perfected person should have no division between right and wrong. The Dao is everywhere, so why seek it elsewhere? If words follow nature and arise from the workings of Heaven, what is there that cannot be said? But once the Great Dao is obscured, words too become distorted. Words may occasionally provoke disputes, and from these disputes arise judgments of right and wrong.

The Great Dao has not truly vanished; it has only been obscured by people of limited understanding. Their comprehension and achievements reach only so far, so the Dao cannot be made clear. Words, too, have been obscured by empty, showy talk. Such talk cannot carry the Dao, making words of genuine depth difficult to bring to light.

Thus the Confucians and Mohists each hold to one side and dispute right and wrong with one another. According to the commentary, the Confucians advocate lavish burials, while the Mohists advocate modest ones, and so they oppose each other. The Confucians believe that what they approve is precisely what the Mohists reject; the Mohists believe that what they approve is precisely what the Confucians reject. To judge what each side considers “right” and “wrong,” it is better to return to a clear understanding of the Great Dao. Then we can see that both sides in the dispute are merely clinging to their own views, which may not be what is truly right or wrong.

This passage first points out that disputes over right and wrong began with the Confucians and Mohists. Although recluses of the time also expressed their differing views, the Confucians and Mohists were the first to advocate their positions. The author argues that while the benevolence and righteousness taught by Yang Zhu and Mozi were flawed, the Confucians, too, failed to understand the Great Dao—the fundamental principle spoken of by Daoists. Neither school, then, had grasped an absolutely certain standard of right and wrong. The author uses this as the starting point for his discussion: disputes over right and wrong arose with the Confucians and Mohists, spread later among the various schools, and eventually came to focus especially on Huizi. None of these thinkers understood the Great Dao, and so they lost the Dao.

The passage next explains that things have no fixed right or wrong to begin with. People fail to recognize this, however, and cling to their own views, arguing over right and wrong.

“Everything is other than oneself”: If someone regards themselves as “I,” then everyone else in the world is “other” to them. “Everything is right from its own standpoint”: If someone believes they are right, then anyone can believe they are right as well. In this way, everyone in the world considers themselves correct.

“From the other’s standpoint, one does not see”: If you see only what is wrong with the other person, you cannot see what is wrong with yourself. “If you know yourself, you can understand them”: If you can recognize your own mistakes, you can also understand that others are not entirely wrong.

Thus, “the other arises from what is right”: The other person appears wrong because I have already decided that I am right. “What is right also depends on the other”: I consider myself correct because I have judged the other person to be wrong. If people cannot know themselves, they simply insist that they are right, and the dispute over right and wrong cannot be resolved.

This passage says that people suffer from an inability to know themselves, and so take their own views to be necessarily correct. If they can adopt the other person’s standpoint and forget the distinction between self and other, their attachment to right and wrong will dissolve, allowing them to see that things have no fixed right or wrong to begin with.

What ordinary people call right and wrong has no fixed existence in itself. It appears only through opposition and comparison.

“Other” and “self” are defined in relation to each other; only then do people speak of the other being wrong and the self being right. “Relative” means measured against something else: right and wrong arise when people set themselves against one another. Yet this relation has no end. What has just begun may lead to death, and what has just died may turn to life. What seemed possible a moment ago may soon seem impossible; what was called right may soon be called wrong in light of something else. Something is often judged “right” because something else has been judged “wrong,” and the reverse is also true. Such judgments depend on one another and cannot stand on their own.

The sage, therefore, does not follow the ordinary world’s judgments of right and wrong, but observes things through the Dao of Heaven (the natural Way). What the sage recognizes as “right” comes from clear insight into the Dao of Heaven, not from clinging to personal opinions and casually declaring others wrong. The sage’s “following what is right” means following and seeing the Dao of Heaven. This differs from ordinary people’s attachment to their own views and echoes Laozi’s saying, “Humanity follows Heaven.”

This passage says that worldly judgments of right and wrong arise from delusion and attachment. People insist that their own views are right, then rashly judge others to be wrong.

This section says that worldly disputes over right and wrong arise from mistaken views rooted in attachment and confusion. People therefore argue with one another without end. Only the sage does not follow the views of the crowd. Through direct realization of the natural Dao (the Way), the sage sees things clearly and independently as they are, and can thus discern what is truly right and wrong. This is the meaning of “it too depends on this.”

The sage’s “right” is entirely different from what ordinary people take to be right and wrong, so the word “too” marks the distinction. Earlier, the text said that rather than have Confucians and Mohists argue with each other over right and wrong, it is better to “use clarity”; clarity means dispelling confusion. Here, it goes further: the sage views things through the perspective of the Way of Heaven, bringing the truth to light. This is the practice of cultivating the “equalization of things”: once the opposition between right and wrong has been dispelled, one is no longer bound by distinctions that set one side against the other. The passage that follows will further explain what it means to transcend opposition, and will ultimately return to “better to use clarity.”

Right and wrong stand opposed to each other: what one side considers right, the other may consider wrong; what the other considers wrong may be precisely what the first side considers right. Seen from another angle, each side has its own standard for right and wrong. So, is there truly right and wrong between them? Or is there no fixed, unchanging standard of right and wrong at all?

If the distinctions between them can cease to oppose one another, this is called the “pivot of the Dao,” the central hinge of the Great Dao. A pivot is like the center of a wheel: the wheel can turn, while its center remains empty and still. This is a metaphor for how, by grasping the Dao’s emptiness and stillness, a person can respond flexibly to endless change. From this perspective, what is right can change without end, and so can what is wrong. When right and wrong are brought together within the Great Dao, both can be understood through the Dao. Zhuangzi’s criticism of Yao and Shun, too, ultimately belongs to this understanding of the Great Dao.

Thus, the best approach is to use clear insight to contemplate right and wrong. As noted earlier, when Confucians and Mohists each insist on one side of an argument, it is better to contemplate the matter with clarity. Once sages see through these distinctions, they are no longer trapped by opposing claims of right and wrong, and can roam freely with the Dao.

When sages see through and dispel the mind that makes distinctions, they discover that right and wrong have no absolute boundaries. They thus accord naturally with the Great Dao and can respond without limit to change. The subtlety of this state comes from viewing all things in the light of the One. The point is that true right and wrong do not lie in clinging to one side. There is no need to deliberately reconcile the arguments of the myriad things; they can naturally return to equality. This is what Laozi means by “Heaven models itself on the Dao.” The passage that follows uses “finger” and “horse” as metaphors to show that right and wrong have no fixed, unchanging basis.

To use “finger” to show that a finger is not a finger: take one’s own touching finger—the finger used to feel objects—as the point of reference, and say that another person’s middle finger is not one’s own touching finger. Conversely, to use “not-finger” to show that a finger is not a finger: compare one’s own touching finger with another person’s middle finger, and say that it is not that other person’s middle finger either. To use “horse” to show that a horse is not a horse: here “horse” refers to a piece in the board game backgammon. The pieces are black and white; though their colors differ, both are called horses. Compare the other player’s black horse with one’s own white horse, and one’s white horse is not the other player’s black horse. Conversely, to use “not-horse” to show that a horse is not a horse: compare the other player’s black horse with one’s own white horse, and it is not the other player’s black horse either.

Heaven and earth are like a single finger, and the myriad things are like a single horse. Seen from another angle, finger and horse have no fixed distinction, and so right and wrong cannot be established. Once sages see through distinctions, they dissolve not only disputes between self and other; they also see that Heaven and earth were born together with them, and that the myriad things and they are one. From this perspective, Heaven and earth are merely a single finger, and the myriad things merely a single horse. Why, then, argue over self and other, or right and wrong? This passage develops the phrase “Do not rely on understanding” into the idea that sages do not impose human distinctions, but view all things through the Dao of Heaven. It ultimately points to the work of “seeing through”: only by truly penetrating distinctions can one dissolve right and wrong and bring the myriad things back to unity. The author hopes readers will grasp this here.

This passage says that once sages see into the nature of things, they can dissolve distinctions between right and wrong and allow all things between Heaven and Earth to flow together as one within the Great Dao. It goes on to explain what “all things are one” means.

If others say something is acceptable, I go along and say it is acceptable; if they say it is not, I go along and say it is not. When the myriad things move in accordance with the Dao, they naturally take shape. People name things and make judgments about them, and then things are said to be a certain way. Why are things this way? Simply because our minds think they are. Why, then, are they thought not to be this way? Again, simply because our minds think they are not.

Each thing has its own particular qualities and its own uses. For example, the Chinese herbs ginseng and Veratrum root were traditionally considered unsuitable for use together. When ginseng is used, Veratrum root is inappropriate; when Veratrum root is used, ginseng is inappropriate. This shows that everything under Heaven has its own circumstances and its own merits.

So consider together a slender rafter and a tall pillar, a disfigured and sick person and Xi Shi, the legendary beauty, as well as all manner of things that are vast, devious, strange, or unusual. According to human feelings and customs, they differ from one another and inevitably invite judgments of right and wrong. Seen from the perspective of the Great Dao, however, there is no absolute distinction between long and short, or ugly and beautiful. At their root, all things are equal and connected. Only by grasping the Great Dao can one rise above people’s disputes about the myriad things.

The dividing of things also brings new things into being. For instance, cutting a large piece of wood into an implement divides the wood but gives the implement its form. Though the implement has been made, the original wood has been destroyed. This shows that we should not cling rigidly to judging things as either “formed” or “destroyed.”

From one perspective, the myriad things seem to undergo formation and destruction. Seen as interconnected parts of a whole, there is no absolute formation or destruction; in the end, all return to oneness. If we see things this way, why cling to judgments about who is right and who is wrong?

This passage explains the meaning of “Heaven and Earth are one finger, and the myriad things are one horse”: if we view all things with insight into the Great Dao, we naturally move beyond distinctions of right and wrong that set one thing against another. When those distinctions disappear, the Dao runs through all things, making them one whole.

Only those who have grasped the Great Dao know that all things are connected as one from the beginning. They therefore do not cling to their own views, but place themselves within the ordinary course of daily life. “Ordinary” refers to the workings of everyday life: rather than insisting on personal likes and dislikes, one follows the feelings and reason shared by others, taking as one’s own what they like and dislike. To act this way is to be in accord with the hearts of others; to be in accord with all things is to rest at ease. To find such ease in the fitting way is to come close to the Dao.

To follow the inherent logic of things, and through all their changes never lose the Dao—that is what it means for right and wrong to be properly aligned. When one finally follows all things and lets go of the fixations in one’s heart, yet no longer knows why one does so, this is called the Dao.

The focus of this section is to forget distinctions between right and wrong. This is possible only for a sage who has fully understood the Great Dao. Knowing that all things are one in their original nature, the sage does not cling to “right” or “wrong.” Whatever circumstances arise, the sage responds calmly and follows nature. This is the Dao.

The preceding discussion develops many ideas, but here they are finally brought together in a single word: “Dao.” In the phrase “yin shi yi,” the “yi” means reaching the end. In other words, the sage’s cultivation reaches its highest point simply by aligning with the natural course of the Dao. When one accords with the Dao, all things naturally return to oneness. The text goes on to say that fools, by contrast, forcefully pursue unity, and so in the end they cannot attain true oneness.

People wear themselves out trying to force everything into a single way of seeing things, without realizing that all things are connected from the start. This is called “three in the morning.” What does “three in the morning” mean? It describes someone who clings to their own view, insists that it must be right, and wants everyone else to agree. Zhuangzi illustrates this with the story of a monkey keeper. The keeper distributed acorns to the monkeys and said, “You’ll get three in the morning and four in the evening.” The monkeys were all enraged, thinking they should get more in the morning and less in the evening. So the keeper said, “Then you’ll get four in the morning and three in the evening.” The monkeys were all pleased.

The terms of the allocation had changed, but the total amount had not decreased. Yet the monkeys’ anger and delight shifted with the wording. This was because they clung only to the view they had decided was right: they thought four in the morning was correct, and so, without checking the actual total, they were happy simply because they heard it put that way. Those who cannot let go of disputes over right and wrong are like figures such as Boyi and Shuqi.

Therefore, the sage uses “right and wrong” to harmonize people, allowing their minds to rest within the “Heavenly Balance”—a natural equilibrium in which one no longer clings to distinctions between right and wrong. This is called “walking two paths”: from the balance of the Great Dao, both right and wrong can be followed. The commentator holds that this passage concerns people whose cultivation has not yet reached a natural state. They try to force right and wrong into agreement, without understanding the mysterious connections among all things. Such people can only follow what they have decided is “right” and cannot let go of their attachment to what they deem “wrong.”

This section says that when people have not yet reached a state of cultivation in which they follow things as they naturally are, yet try to force right and wrong into agreement without understanding the mysterious interconnectedness of all things, they end up like this: they can affirm only what they themselves insist is “right,” while remaining unable to forget what they oppose as “wrong.”

People such as Boyi, Shuqi, and Jie Zitui upheld noble principles, yet still harbored resentment toward the world and its customs. Confucians and Mohists each clung to one side as “right”: they could agree only with what they already approved of, and could not accept what they disapproved of. Though such people may wish to escape disputes over right and wrong, in the end they still cannot bring the two into unity. The principles they uphold are not necessarily mistaken, nor are they cut off from the Dao. The confusion arises because each treats their own view as the sole standard of correctness.

This is like the story of the monkey keeper, who offered the monkeys “three in the morning and four in the evening.” The total number of acorns was the same; only the wording changed, yet the monkeys’ anger and delight changed with it. These people exhaust themselves trying to reconcile right and wrong, unaware that all things are already connected in a greater way. Only a sage can harmonize right and wrong and rest in nature’s balance, allowing both sides to let go of their distinctions and each find its proper place. Thus the sage joins with the light and blends with the world, becoming one with it and no longer arguing. Nothing, then, has to be declared either acceptable or unacceptable.

The passage that follows means that the ancients understood a state in which all things were originally empty and mysteriously interconnected, so there was no distinction between right and wrong. Later, this state gradually declined.

In ancient times, did people attain the highest level of understanding? What counts as attaining that level?

Some held that the highest understanding was reached before anything had begun to exist: it was already complete, with nothing that could surpass it. Others held that all things existed, but had not yet formed boundaries between one another. Still others held that all things had boundaries, but had not yet been divided into right and wrong.

Once right and wrong became clear, the Great Dao was thereby diminished. As the Great Dao was diminished, partial attachment arose. Here, “attachment” means favoring oneself; “formation” means taking on a particular shape. Once a person takes form and is born, they lose sight of their original nature and cling to the body as “me.” The Great Dao is diminished along with it.

But is there really formation and diminishment? Or is there, in fact, neither? From the perspective of the Great Dao, do formation and diminishment truly exist? If one truly sees that things have never, in their original state, undergone formation or diminishment, the mind that divides things into right and wrong will also dissolve.

Here it says that once people lose the Great Dao, they form an individual self and become attached to it. Once this “self” takes shape, the Great Dao is obscured. Earlier, the text said that once a person receives a physical form and is born, they live on until life comes to an end. Only here does it introduce the word “attachment”: attachment to the self, the root of the grasping at “I.” If people recognize only their small, individual selves, what they can achieve is limited, and the Great Dao disappears from view. This further explains the earlier idea that “the Great Dao is obscured by narrow accomplishments.”

The author then develops the point about limited achievement: people in the world bustle about all their lives, yet cannot see what they have truly accomplished. Three figures are introduced to illustrate this.

Whatever one achieves is accompanied by some loss. When Zhaowen, a skilled musician, played the zither, he attained mastery of the art. But his son could not carry on the tradition, and the family’s musical skill gradually declined. Had Zhaowen never made a name for himself as a zither player, there would have been no family legacy to lose.

Zhaowen playing the zither, Shi Kuang, a master musician, walking with a staff, and Hui Shi, Zhuangzi’s friend and a skilled debater, leaning against a parasol tree as he argued—all can be seen as examples of achievement accompanied by loss. Shi Kuang was clever, yet blind; Hui Shi was skilled in debate, yet, according to the meaning of this commentary, failed to understand the Great Dao. Each of the three had a particular strength and devoted his attention to it until old age.

They focused so intently on their respective pursuits because they wanted to stand apart from others. Believing they had reached the highest level, they then sought to teach others what they knew. Yet what they tried to explain was not something they could truly make clear. Hui Shi had not understood the Great Dao, but thought he had, and went on to explain it to others. In the end, his whole life remained trapped in the confusion of the “debate over the hard and the white,” a dispute about concepts such as hardness and whiteness.

Huizi ultimately pushed his theories toward the debate over the hard and the white—whether hardness and whiteness could be separated—and never truly understood the Great Dao in his lifetime. Zhaowen’s son learned to play the zither from his father, but never mastered it. If Huizi’s and Zhaowen’s achievements went no further than this, can they really be said to have achieved anything?

If this counts as achievement, then my, Zhuang Zhou’s, lack of achievement could also be called achievement. If it does not count as achievement, then neither they nor I can be said to have achieved anything.

What the sage seeks, then, is a state that holds its light within and does not show its edge. The sage does not flaunt their knowledge or insist that their own views must be right, but places themselves among ordinary people. This is called “illumination”: seeing things clearly through insight that reaches their principles, without making a show of it.

This passage brings the preceding discussion to a close, and the author considers its meaning to have been developed in considerable depth. The essay begins with “words are not like wind,” then asks, “Where does the Dao become obscured, so that truth and falsehood arise?” It points out that the Dao is hidden by partial achievements, while speech is obscured by ornate language. People insist on affirming what they believe to be right and rejecting what they believe to be wrong. The author therefore proposes, “Nothing is better than seeing clearly.” This is the first layer of meaning. The essay then explains that “the pivot finds its place at the center of the ring,” and again concludes, “Nothing is better than seeing clearly,” forming a second layer.

Next, the essay introduces the parable of “pointing to a horse” to show that the Dao can bring things together as one. This leads to the statement, “Only those who have arrived know that all things are connected as one”: only those who have reached understanding know that all things can be joined as one. Such a person does not cling to any single judgment, but entrusts it to the ordinary things of everyday life. Here the word “Dao” comes into focus as the key to the whole essay.

The author then uses the story of the keeper of the monkeys to show that names and realities do not, in themselves, gain or lose anything, yet people’s preferences make them seem to bring loss. The Dao, too, is obscured partly through such preferences. The phrase “what love brings to completion” also echoes two earlier ideas: “receiving one’s formed shape” and “taking one’s formed mind as one’s teacher.” Once people receive a fixed form, they are prone to cling to their preferences, and the Dao is diminished as a result. But if they simply follow their formed mind—their rigid preconceptions—and take it as their standard, they fall into distinctions and disputes. The essay threads “formed shape” and “formed mind” throughout, arguing that conspicuous arguments over right and wrong arise from these conditions.

The Dao is hidden by partial achievements, and speech by ornamented language, for a reason: people have not understood the Great Dao. The essay therefore first says, “Nothing is better than seeing clearly”; when it discusses the “pivot of the Dao,” it again says, “Thus I say: nothing is better than seeing clearly.” At the end, the author brings the discussion back to “completion” and “loss,” and identifies Hui Shi as one of those least clear about the Dao. He held fast to the “hard and white” debate—a logical dispute over whether hardness and whiteness can be established separately—and spent his life lost in argument. Finally, the essay praises the sage’s “dazzling light of slippery uncertainty.” The sage does not cling to what he takes to be right, and so returns to the understanding of one who “does not use his own rightness, but lodges it in the ordinary.” The author sums up once more: “This is what is meant by nothing being better than seeing clearly.”

From “Now, words are not like wind” to this point, more than seven hundred characters are needed to complete the larger conclusion. The author likens the passage to a snake in the grass: one can see it winding along, but it is difficult to perceive its full shape. Without a truly discerning perspective, it is hard to grasp how its ideas connect. As for the three figures and their respective “completion” and “loss”: Zhaowen concerns gains and losses in artistic skill; Shi Kuang, gains and losses in physical capacity; and Hui Shi, gains and losses in understanding principle. The essay begins by saying that the Dao is hidden by partial achievements and speech by ornamented language, and ends with the sage. This sage is the one described earlier: a person who knows that all things are connected as one, who does not fix on a single distinction between right and wrong, and who lodges understanding in ordinary things. Only by carefully reflecting on this layer can we see how the rises and turns in Zhuangzi’s writing interweave and flow.

This is called “clarity” (ming), the state of understanding the Dao. At this point, the meaning of the preceding chapter, which began with “Words are not mere blowing,” has come to a close. The author now introduces a new discussion through “the sage who is obscure and perplexing”—a sage whose traces are subtle and hard to fathom—speaking of how sages do not cling to “right” and “wrong.” The discussion continues to the line “Go nowhere; follow what is so,” and comprises a chapter of more than 230 characters.

Suppose someone here puts forward an argument but does not know whether they resemble this sage. They might also believe that they do not resemble the sage. In fact, resemblance and lack of resemblance can themselves be grouped together. As long as one does not cling to one’s own judgment, but lets one’s own experience accord with the sage’s mind and reaches a subtle state of communion, one is no different from the sage and no longer clings to right and wrong. “That person” here refers to the sage mentioned earlier.

This passage draws together the ideas of the two sages and aims to let readers understand for themselves, setting aside the attachment to believing themselves right. In the next passage, the word “although” marks a turn: Zhuangzi develops the idea that the myriad things have no inherent right or wrong and that things are interconnected, thereby revealing the source of the Dao. This is his genuine understanding of the Dao.

Although words need not get caught up in right and wrong, the matter has not yet been fully explained, so I will provisionally try to discuss it.

There is one state that is the beginning of all things; another in which the beginning has not yet appeared; and a further state in which even the beginning’s not having appeared has not yet come to be. This is a series of questions: Where do Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things begin, and how can we speak of a point at which even the idea of “beginning” does not exist? Here the text draws on the Laozi: “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth,” along with “Both are called mysterious” and “The mysterious within the mysterious is the gateway to all wonders.” These phrases show that the source of the formless Dao cannot be defined by names or concepts.

There is a state called “being,” and a state called “nonbeing.” “Being” refers to the existence of Heaven and Earth, people, and things. Seeing these visible forms, people infer that they come from a formless source, and so say, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” But if we inquire more deeply, neither the visible nor the formless existence of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things can be established within the Dao’s original nature. Thus, there is originally neither “being” nor “nonbeing” there. Even the statement that “neither being nor nonbeing exists” must also be set aside. Only then do we arrive at the wondrous Dao of emptiness and nonbeing, beyond all names.

The Dao itself has no names or forms; nothing can be fixed or defined. That is why it is provisionally called the “Great Dao of emptiness and nonbeing.” Suddenly, “being” and “nonbeing” appear, yet we do not know what caused them to arise. Earlier, it seemed that there might be a ruler, yet no sign of its rule could be found. Here we return to that point: What, exactly, makes “being” be and “nonbeing” be nonbeing? If the Dao’s original nature contains neither, where do the being and nonbeing before us come from? And if neither can be firmly established, how could disputes over right and wrong arise?

I have now said these things. Since being, nonbeing, and names and forms have all been transcended, what is there left to argue about? Yet I have, after all, spoken. What my words were meant to express was “wordlessness.” So have I spoken, or have I not? This is like the “nestling’s cry” mentioned earlier: the sound arises from nature’s impulse and carries no fixed meaning of right or wrong. Once we grasp this “speech without words,” distinctions between right and wrong dissolve.

The “words” explained above are not the sounds of wind in nature. One need only grasp the “words without words” I speak—words that do not arise from contrivance and accord with the natural Dao. Do they count as speech, or as no speech at all? If one can understand these “words without words,” disputes over right and wrong will dissolve of themselves.

The “words” mentioned above are not the sounds of wind, but speech that arises from contrivance. Now Zhuangzi speaks of forgetting words and merging silently with the Dao. The point is this: although I have spoken, these words issue from the “True Ruler,” the fundamental Dao that governs all things, and so they are called “words without words.” If one understands the principle, one can forget distinctions made through language and return to unity.

What follows further explains how forgetting words leads to unity and how great and small are connected: in this state, right and wrong no longer stand opposed. This is what it truly means to be “right.”

In the world, nothing is larger than the tip of an autumn animal’s hair, yet Mount Tai seems small by comparison. Nothing lives longer than a child who dies in infancy, yet Pengzu seems to have lived only briefly.

Viewed as physical things, size and lifespan each have their fixed measure and do not change. But viewed from the Great Dao, the common source of all things, the tiny tip of an autumn hair and the boundless expanse of empty space arise from the same source. Mount Tai, though immense, is only a stone within that space. Thus the tip of an autumn hair may be called the greatest, while Mount Tai is the smallest. Though a child who dies young has a brief life, that child is connected to the beginningless source. Even Pengzu, long-lived as he was, is only a finite being within what has no beginning. Thus the child who dies young may be called the longest-lived, while Pengzu is short-lived. From the perspective of the Dao, then, the distinctions between small and large, and between a short life and a long one, are no longer fixed.

Heaven and Earth came into being together with me, and all things are one with me. Since we are already one, what is there to say? Yet to say that we are one is already to speak. The formless, undivided unity, together with the statement “it is one,” becomes two. To speak of these two then makes three. If this process of things depending on one another continues without end, even the most skilled calculator could not reach its limit, much less an ordinary person.

Moving from “nothing” to “something,” one arrives at “something” and already has three levels. If one proceeds from one “something” to another, the levels become even more endless. So do not keep chasing these distinctions; simply follow what is natural and settle your body and mind accordingly. The commentary explains that abiding in this state, before things have divided, allows one to remain clear and constantly in accord with the Dao. This is how the sage follows nature and contemplates the myriad things.

This section explains that when people fully align with the Great Dao, they understand that all things under Heaven and Earth come from one root and are part of one whole. When the mind rests within the Great Dao without making distinctions, it does not become entangled in disputes over right and wrong. This is what is truly right. The section therefore concludes: “Do not cling to any particular direction or position; simply follow things as they are.”

The text then returns to the word “right,” because distinctions between right and wrong begin when someone fixes on something as “right.”

The Great Dao has no boundaries, and speech has no fixed, unchanging standard. Here, “constant” refers to clinging to one unchanging way of speaking. Speech that follows the Great Dao recognizes no absolute right or wrong, no fixed judgments of what is acceptable or unacceptable. Once people declare something to be “right,” boundaries and distinctions arise.

These distinctions unfold in stages: left and right, then social order and moral principles, followed by differentiation and argument, and finally competition and conflict. These are called the “Eight Virtues.” The commentary explains that they develop gradually, from an absence of distinctions to their presence: first left and right, then social order and moral principles, then differentiation and argument, and at last competition. When people treat one side as absolutely correct, they refuse to change. Ordinary people then regard these distinctions and arguments as abilities, and so call them “virtues.” Here, “virtue” means ability.

The preceding passage moves from delusion to awakening, explaining the foundation of the Great Dao and concluding, “Simply follow things as they are.” Here the text raises the question again: if the Great Dao has no right and wrong, where do these distinctions and attachments come from? They begin when someone fixes on the word “right.” Pointing this out helps people recognize and let go of that root.

As for matters beyond heaven, earth, and the four directions, the sage knows they exist but does not discuss them. The Dao (the Way) encompasses heaven and earth and is one with the boundless expanse of emptiness; it has no boundaries to begin with. People have lost the Great Dao and cling to their own views as correct, giving rise to disputes over right and wrong. The sage’s mind accords with the Dao, and therefore…