《庄子内篇注》Vol. 2

Beyond the Six Directions—heaven, earth, and the four quarters, the unknown realm outside them—the sage is not unaware of what lies there. He simply keeps it in mind without discussing it. Since these things cannot be encountered directly through the ears and eyes, speaking about them can easily lead to disputes, so the sage says nothing.

Within the Six Directions, the sage does speak, but does not argue. The sage understands all things, yet speaks only of their general principles: the basic order between heaven and earth, for example, and the relationships between ruler and minister, father and son. The sage does not investigate the particular causes behind every matter.

The Spring and Autumn Annals is a classic for ordering worldly affairs and carries the political ideals of the former kings. The sage discusses the distinctions of status and the institutions it records, but does not argue over the specific rights and wrongs of individual cases.

Thus, although things are distinct, there is also an aspect in which they are not distinct. The Dao is unified by nature and contains no divisions. Yet within the visible world of heaven and earth, human relationships and social order require distinctions. People and things differ from one another, but the Dao has never been divided; at root, the nature of all things is connected.

The same is true of argument. Although the world is full of disputes, some principles cannot be settled through verbal debate, because the great Dao transcends words.

Someone asked, “Why is there a principle of not arguing and not making distinctions?” The sage holds fast to the great Dao and is one with it. The sage understands that the transformations of things are manifold, yet does not cling to distinctions; and understands that people’s opinions are many and varied, yet that words cannot exhaust the great Dao. Therefore, the sage dims their radiance and keeps the Dao within, rather than displaying it to others.

People, however, enjoy arguing with one another and showing off their views. They have not truly grasped the root of the great Dao, yet claim to understand what they do not; they assume their own opinions must be right and endlessly boast about them to others. In this way, the great Dao is obscured.

As the saying goes, “Those who argue often cannot see the great Dao.” This phrase quotes an ancient saying. Laozi said, “Those truly skilled at speaking do not argue; those who like to argue are not skilled at speaking.”

This section explains the “slippery, elusive sage”: one whose mind is seamlessly whole and whose depth remains hidden. The sage’s mind is like the Great Void; there is nothing within or beyond the four quarters of Heaven and Earth that it does not know. Yet the sage holds all this within and does not deliberately argue. In this way, those who enjoy disputation reveal that they have not understood the Great Dao.

The text goes on to explain what it means not to speak or argue deliberately.

The Great Dao cannot be named. The finest disputation can make right and wrong clear without relying on words. True great benevolence does not set out to display benevolence; true integrity does not take pride in its own integrity; true courage does not harm others. “Qian” means self-satisfied, and “zhi” means to harm.

Although the Great Dao shines plainly, once it is singled out in words, it is no longer the Great Dao. However skillful a disputation may be, it cannot reach the Great Dao. If benevolence is always deliberately upheld, it becomes entangled with self-interest and cannot allow all things to fulfill themselves naturally. If integrity is deliberately proclaimed, it lacks genuine Virtue. If courage carries an intent to harm others, it is merely the courage of raw force, not courage in accord with the Dao.

These five virtues may, in name, be practiced in the world. But when they all arise from deliberate effort, they ultimately become difficult to realize in truth and instead approach rigid constraint. To know what one does not know, and to stop at what one does not know, is the highest form of understanding. These shortcomings arise from relying on limited intelligence and assuming one is right, without recognizing the foundation of the Great Dao. The sage can rest content in what remains unknown to them; this is what the earlier statement, “The knowledge of the ancients had its highest point,” means.

Who can understand disputation without words and the Dao that cannot be spoken? If someone does, this is called the “Heavenly Treasury,” like a natural storehouse able to contain all things. The Great Dao’s empty nature cannot be filled by pouring things into it, nor exhausted by drawing from it. Even if the waters of the earth continually flowed into it, they could not fill it. It is like a source that is empty yet inexhaustible, welling up without end when set in motion, though no one knows where it comes from. This is called “Nurturing the Light”: holding brightness within and not letting it show. Only here is the earlier phrase “the radiance of the slippery and elusive” clarified, along with the state the sage seeks: this is Nurturing the Light.

The passage above mentions “the dazzling glow of confusion” and “what the Sage seeks.” It therefore gives examples from the four quarters of Heaven and Earth, and from within and beyond them, to explain that the Sage knows everything yet, though knowing, does not say much, because the Great Dao has no fixed knowledge or distinctions. The Sage dwells in a vast realm of emptiness and wanders among people, blending with the world and its dust: the Sage has radiance but does not dazzle. This is called “preserving the light”—keeping one’s inner radiance intact. The Sage’s cultivation must reach this state to be complete; this is “what the Sage seeks.”

Long ago, Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the three states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. Though I sit on the throne, my heart still feels uneasy. Why is this?” By “uneasy,” Yao meant that he was set on attacking them, yet afterward could not put the matter out of his mind and did not understand why he felt this way.

Shun replied, “Those three states are like tiny places tucked among patches of mugwort and wormwood. Why can’t you let this matter go? Your heart is not yet broad enough to make room for others. Those three states are so small that they are not worth carrying in your thoughts. If you still cannot put them out of your mind, why not make your heart wider? Long ago, ten suns rose together and shone upon all things. How much more could someone whose De is greater than the sun’s do? This means that Yao’s De had not yet reached such a state. If his De were complete, it would be like the vast, bright sunlight, able to encompass all things. How much more, then, could it encompass three tiny states?”

This passage explains the meaning of what came before: the sage who preserves innate spiritual clarity has a heart as broad as the heavenly treasury and can accommodate all things. This state does not come naturally from birth; it is attained only when cultivation has reached its highest point. Before one’s practice is mature, the heart is not broad enough to contain all things. Even a sage like Yao had shortcomings.

The text compares “ten suns appearing at once” to a further increase in De, summing up what came before and bringing to a close the discussion that began with “speech does not arise naturally, like the wind.” It then goes on to explain that the Perfected Person, one who has reached the highest state, knows to stop at what they do not know. This reveals the sage’s achievement in cultivation. If life and death cannot alter the Perfected Person’s heart, how much less can gain and loss, or benefit and harm?

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, “Do you know…”

Nieque asked Wang Ni, “Do you know what all things consider right?”

Wang Ni said, “How would I know?”

Nieque asked again, “Then do you know what you yourself do not know?”

Wang Ni said, “How would I know?”

Nieque continued, “If that is so, are all things without awareness and understanding?”

Wang Ni said, “How would I know? Still, let me try to say something. How can I know that what I call ‘knowing’ is not really not knowing? And how can I know that what I call ‘not knowing’ is not another kind of knowing?”

People are accustomed to taking their own understanding as correct, and so each clings to one side. The understanding of the sage has no such distinctions.

Wang Ni then asked Nieque, “When people sleep in a damp place, their backs and waists ache, and they may even become paralyzed on one side. Is it the same for loaches? When people climb trees, they become frightened and tremble. Do apes feel the same? Among people, loaches, and apes, which knows what place is truly safe? All three are at ease in the environments they are used to, and each considers its own surroundings suitable. So whose judgment should be called correct?

“People eat the meat of pigs, cattle, and sheep; elk eat grass; centipedes relish snakes; owls and crows relish mice. Each of these creatures follows its own nature and favors different food. Which, then, should be said to have truly correct understanding?”

People eat meat because they have grown used to treating it as delicious. Elk and deer eat grass because grass suits their taste. Centipedes like to eat snakes, while owls and crows like to eat mice. Each takes what it likes to eat as ordinary fare. So which of them knows what truly tastes good?

Apes take yuan-sou monkeys as their companions; elk and deer mate with one another; loaches swim alongside fish. Maoqiang and Liji are both regarded by people as beautiful women. Yet when fish see them, they dive to the bottom; when birds see them, they fly high into the sky; and when elk and deer see them, they run away at full speed. Which of these creatures knows what counts as true beauty in the world?

These examples show that the homes, foods, and beauties familiar to people may not be standards accepted by every living thing. People often take their own understanding to be necessarily correct and unchangeable, but other creatures may not see things that way. So who can be said to truly understand? If we insist that human understanding is right, other creatures have their own understandings too, and their views differ from ours. Since right and wrong in the world are so difficult to determine, how can I judge the distinctions among them?

From my point of view, the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness and the boundaries between right and wrong are all tangled and confused. How could I see clearly the distinctions among them? Nieque asked, “You do not know what is beneficial or harmful. Does the perfected person, then, not know what is beneficial or harmful either?” The question is meant to show that the realm of the perfected person—someone whose cultivation has reached a high level—is different from that of ordinary people.

Wang Ni said, “How wondrous the perfected person is! A vast marsh may blaze, yet he feels no heat; the Yellow River and Han River may freeze, yet he feels no cold. Thunder may crash so fiercely that it splits the peaks, and wild winds may churn the sea, yet he feels no fear. The perfected person’s spirit transcends external things and does not stand in opposition to them, so they cannot harm him. Such a person rides the clouds and travels with the sun and moon, wandering beyond the four seas. Neither death nor life can change his heart—how much less can worldly gains and losses?”

This passage develops the earlier idea that “the perfected person rests in what he does not know.” The views people hold are not truly correct, yet they take them for absolute truths. How, then, can we use our standards of right and wrong to understand the distinctions between those views? The perfected person’s wisdom is unfathomable. He transcends life and death, far beyond what an ordinary person can fathom.

The passage that follows will further discuss the oneness of life and death, comparing dreams with waking to describe ordinary people: it is as though the whole world has yet to wake, and those who argue over right and wrong are merely dreaming within a dream. The writing is striking, yet its meaning is sound.

Qu Quezi asked Chang Wuzi, “I heard my teacher say that sages do not take worldly affairs to heart, pursue profit, or deliberately avoid calamity. They are not eager to seek things from outside themselves, nor do they deliberately cling to the Dao. They do not speak, yet teach through silence. Sometimes they speak, but seem to have no particular intention in what they say, as though their words arose naturally. In this way, they can wander freely beyond the dust and turmoil of the world. My teacher thinks these words absurd and impractical, but I feel they express a subtle practice of the great Dao. What do you think?”

Chang Wuzi said, “Even the Yellow Emperor would be bewildered on hearing this. How, then, could Kong Qiu truly understand it? You have reached your conclusion rather too soon. It is like seeing an egg and hoping it will immediately become a rooster crowing at dawn, or seeing a slingshot and already thinking of eating roasted owl. These are examples of making plans too early. Let me speak to you freely about the De of the Perfected Person; you, in turn, listen freely.”

The Perfected One, whose Daoist cultivation has reached the highest level, stands alongside the sun and moon, as if holding the cosmos in his hands. He is wholly at one with the myriad things, merged into a single whole. People sink into lives of confusion and turmoil, putting one another to work while taking these relations of rank and deference for granted. From the Son of Heaven and the feudal lords down to ministers, officials, and gentlemen, all serve and honor one another within this system. The Perfected One sees through it all. He does not compete in worldly pursuits, but sets such distinctions aside and is free of attachment.

People bustle about, driven by external things and desires without knowing it. The sage, by contrast, is unselfconscious and unadorned, like plants before they sprout. He does not flaunt his cleverness or deliberately display his actions in worldly affairs. The sage transcends life and death, as if enduring alongside all ages, and returns to pure unity. Because he does not cling to worldly distinctions, he holds no fixed views of right and wrong.

All things are as they are; within the Dao, they are connected as one, and there is no absolute right or wrong. But people seize on the word “right” and build it into their own prejudices. Thus arise disputes about life and death, and about right and wrong.

How do I know that loving life is not delusion? Life itself offers nothing worth clinging to or coveting, yet people rejoice in it and desire it—is that not delusion? And how do I know that loathing death is not like a child who left home on a long journey and forgot the way back? The sage sees life as a journey away from home and death as a return. Do people who loathe death not resemble travelers who leave home without knowing how to return?

People like Li Ji are those who lost their homeland when they were young. Li Ji was the daughter of an official who administered affairs in Ai. When she was first sent to the state of Jin, she wept until her tears soaked her robes. But after arriving at the side of the Lord of Jin, sharing his bed and rising with him, and eating delicious food, she regretted having wept at first. This story shows that death is the final destination of human beings and may well be the most peaceful state—only those who are alive do not know it.

How do I know that the dead do not regret having been so intent on staying alive? If they know the peace of death, how can we be certain they do not regret having insisted on living? The “joy” spoken of here means release from the hardship and weariness brought by bodily form and existence. It does not mean that everyone in this world should regard death as joyful, nor is it the same as the bliss of extinction described in Buddhism.

Those who drink and celebrate in a dream may wake up weeping; those who weep in a dream may wake up and go hunting. This means that human life is like a dream, and life and death are like night and day. To live with this understanding is how a perfected person acts. People have not yet awakened from the “Great Dream,” so they see life and death as matters for sorrow or delight. If they understood that dreaming and waking are not absolutely distinct, they could regard life and death as one and the same.

When people dream, they do not know they are dreaming; sometimes they even consult an oracle about their dream while still dreaming. This means that people in the world are caught in delusion without knowing they are deluded, just as someone in a dream does not know they are dreaming. They even believe they understand the Way, insist that they are right, and argue with others. This is like consulting an oracle about a dream while still dreaming, without realizing that they remain lost in it.

Only the truly awakened “Great Awakened One”—the sage who fully understands the principles of things—can see that everyone is actually in a great dream. The foolish, however, imagine themselves awake. In private, they take themselves to understand the truth, then parade this self-assurance before others. People in the world delight in arguing over right and wrong, unaware that they remain confused. This has been a common failing throughout the ages.

The text’s “ruler” and “herdsman” allude to rulers from the time of Yao and Shun onward, and to ministers who assisted in governing, from Yi Yin and Lü Shang onward. “Qiu” refers to Confucius; “you” refers to Changwuzhi. The commentator argues that anyone who governs the world through benevolence and righteousness, while insisting that their own views are the Great Way, is like someone discussing a dream while still dreaming. You and I are both in a dream: I say that you are dreaming, but the very words I speak may themselves still be dream-talk.

This kind of saying is called “paradox”: an extraordinarily strange and seemingly incredible statement, one that people caught in a dream often cannot believe. Only after waiting through ten thousand generations for a Great Awakened One to appear, and truly understand these words, would we meet—as though we had met between morning and evening. The commentator explains that Zhuangzi seems to have known in advance that such an awakened one would arise in the future and confirm his view.

This section explains that realized people can transcend life and death and live freely in the human world because they see the world as one great dream. Life and death are like night and dawn, while sorrow and joy are like experiences within a dream. To argue over right and wrong in a confused dream is like divining one dream while still dreaming; to decide what is right and wrong in that confused dream is like recounting a dream in broad daylight. In the end, all of this remains within the great dream. Unless realized people have seen through this, who can know that they are living in a great dream? The foolish secretly believe they are already awake, but their understanding is truly shallow. From ancient times onward, rulers and ministers from Yao and Shun’s eras, as well as Confucius, have all spoken of dreams while dreaming. Zhuangzi adds that these words of his, too, remain within the dream, and no one can prove otherwise.

Even if you and I debate, and you win while I fail to defeat you, does that prove you are truly right and I am truly wrong? Conversely, if I win and you fail to defeat me, does that prove I am right and you are wrong? Or might one of us be right and the other wrong, or might both of us be right, or both wrong? Neither you nor I can judge who truly understands the Way. Since people are inevitably clouded, who can we ask to decide?

Should we ask someone who agrees with you to decide? Since they already agree with you, how can they judge fairly? Should we ask someone who agrees with me? Since they already agree with me, how can they judge fairly? Should we ask someone who disagrees with both of us? Since their view differs from ours, how can they judge? Should we ask someone whose view agrees with both of us? Since they already share our view, how can they judge fairly? It seems that you, I, and everyone else cannot determine which of us is right or wrong. Must we wait for someone else to decide?

What does it mean to “harmonize by means of the Heavenly Equalizer”? (“Heavenly Equalizer” refers to following nature’s distinctions rather than clinging to standards of right and wrong imposed by people.) It means not treating “this is so” and “this is not so,” or “right” and “wrong,” as absolute, fixed judgments that are entirely separate from one another. If a claim of “this is so” could be absolutely established, there would be no need to dispute its difference from “this is not so.” If a claim of “right” could be absolutely established, there would likewise be no need to dispute its difference from “wrong.” The various arguments that change and shift depend on one another, though they may not necessarily depend on one another. Follow nature’s distinctions to harmonize them, and let things unfold naturally through change; then one can pass through life. Forget attachment to the length of life and to names for right and wrong, and let the spirit roam freely in the boundless realm; in this way, one dwells within the infinite.

Human speech and sound seem to issue from people, but they are also manifestations of the workings of Nature. The key is the difference between acting with deliberation and forgetting deliberation; this is what distinguishes ordinary people from sages. The opening passage describes the three kinds of sound—the sounds of Heaven, Earth, and human beings—with the sounds of Earth serving to explain the sounds of Heaven. People’s understanding ranges from limited to broad, and each person clings to their own view, convinced that they must be right.

After describing the sounds of Earth, the text turns to the different ways limited and broad understanding put the calculating mind to work—that is, a mind attached to scheming and distinctions. Neither can accord with Heaven’s workings, just as wind passing through openings of various shapes produces different sounds. Why is this so? People have lost the natural awareness that is their true inner ruler and take only their flesh-and-blood bodies to be “the self.” They then cling to their own views and argue over right and wrong. Forceful disputation is a result of losing one’s original nature.

The text therefore introduces the “true ruler”—the genuine master within life—to remind us first to recognize our original nature. To do so, we must let go of attachment to bodily form. The “hundred bones and nine openings”—the bones and apertures of the body—point us to see through our physical form and recognize the true ruler. When we awaken to this true ruler, our words will naturally accord with the Dao and arise from our natural state. This is the sound of Heaven.

People argue and disagree because their speech arises from the calculating mind, which makes them cling to distinctions between right and wrong. The phrase “speech is not merely wind” opens the discussion and leads into the many questions of right and wrong that follow. The arguments throughout the rest of the text unfold from this statement. Ordinary people are lost and unaware, while sages have awakened; they are therefore not constrained by the judgments of the crowd. When a sage speaks, they can illuminate Heaven and Earth.

“Viewing things from the perspective of Heaven” thus becomes the key to awakening to the Dao. The text then explains that there is no need to force agreement about right and wrong. If we rest in the “Heavenly Balance,” in accord with Nature’s equilibrium, right and wrong will fall into harmony of their own accord. After argument upon argument, the text concludes that no one can render a final judgment on behalf of all the people of the world. From ancient times to the present, people have been like dreamers discussing their dreams; only a sage of Great Awakening can truly discern them. Yet even without waiting for such a sage to appear, if each person awakens to the true ruler within, the many competing views and the distinctions between right and wrong will become clear of their own accord.

Once we awaken to our original nature, our words arise from our natural state and are no different from the sounds that emerge spontaneously from the openings of Earth. The passage therefore concludes with “sounds changing and answering one another.” Until we have attained Great Awakening, when we speak we should view things through the Dao of Heaven and make “resting in the Heavenly Balance” our practice of cultivation. The text ends with “harmonizing things through Heaven’s natural boundaries”—bringing the myriad things into harmony through their natural limits and distinctions. This is the central theme and foundation of the entire passage.

The text shifts through many layers of meaning, making its structure difficult for readers to discern. But once we grasp its central theme, we can see that its beginning and end connect, its reasoning is tightly ordered, and not a single sentence is superfluous. This is the subtle art of a text whose transformations are beyond prediction.

The following passage concludes with images of shadows and dreams to explain how one may recognize the true state of things.

The shadow’s faint outline, “Wangliang” (the shadow beyond the shadow), asks the shadow: “A moment ago you were walking, but now you have stopped; just now you were sitting, but now you have stood up. Why do your movements keep changing, as though you had no will of your own?”

The shadow replies: “Is this because I depend on something? And does what I depend on, in turn, depend on something else? Is what I depend on like the folds of a snake’s skin or the delicate wings of a cicada? And why are they as they are? How could they know why they are this way, or why they are not another way?”

The meaning is that a shadow depends on the human form, while the form itself, like the folds of a snake’s skin or the wings of a cicada, moves with the changes of nature and cannot be entirely its own master. Why things are as they are, or why they are not, cannot be known. The commentary uses this to explain that a cultivator of the Dao can begin to let go of the self by seeing the body as a kind of shadow, no longer clinging to the idea of “I” and thus loosening the hold of self-attachment.

Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed that he had become a butterfly. In the dream he felt light, free, and completely at ease, with no awareness that he was Zhuang Zhou. After a while he awoke and was unmistakably Zhuang Zhou again. Zhuang Zhou did not know whether he had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or whether a butterfly had dreamed of becoming Zhuang Zhou. There must be some distinction between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly; yet the dream and waking states differ so greatly that it is difficult to decide which one is absolutely real.

The commentary sees this story as an invitation to see through the distinctions between dreaming and waking, life and death. If one can regard all things with an even perspective, one no longer clings to boundaries of right and wrong between one thing and another. This is called “the transformation of things”: all things become one through change. At this level, distinctions between people and things, and between right and wrong, cease to be fixed. All things may each have their own views, yet they can also return to unity. Zhuangzi ends with a dream to help people see through the great dream of the world, from ancient times to the present. The commentary holds that Zhuangzi’s learning lies not only in the elegance of his writing, but also in his realization of this state in which all things are equal.

This passage concludes the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” (Qiwulun). Using the difficulty of distinguishing dreaming from waking, it shows how things can transform into one another and carries the idea of “transformation of things” to its limit.

The commentary means that to make all things equal, one must first overcome attachment to the self—the belief in a fixed, unchanging “I.” That is why the opening speaks of “I have lost myself”: here, “I” in the sense of the inner true master is distinguished from “myself,” meaning the physical body. The text first speaks of forgetting oneself without yet describing a specific method of cultivation. It then explains that one should contemplate the body’s illusory and insubstantial nature, examine the hundred bones, nine openings, and six organs one by one, and ask which of them is truly the “I.” In this way, the “True Master” within is revealed. Once one understands this True Master, the physical body can be regarded as something external, and oneself is naturally forgotten.

“Preserving Life”

“My life is limited, but knowledge has no end. To pursue limitless knowledge with a limited life puts one in danger. If one insists on pursuing knowledge, the danger only grows. Do good without seeking fame; do wrong without incurring punishment. Take the middle course in responding to how things unfold, and you can preserve your body and nature, care for your family, and live out your allotted years in peace.”

When Cook Ding butchered an ox for Lord Wenhui, every movement—the touch of his hand, the lean of his shoulder, the placement of his foot, and the pressure of his knee—was perfectly coordinated. The commentary explains that “yi” means kneeling and bracing against the ox, ready to make the cut.

Cook Ding was butchering an ox for Lord Wenhui. His hands touched, his shoulder leaned, his feet stepped, and his knees pressed—all in perfect coordination. As his blade passed through the flesh, it made a crisp sound; each cut fell into rhythm, with not a single movement out of tune. It was like the rhythm of the “Sanglin” dance and the melody of the “Jingshou” music. The commentary explains that this describes Cook Ding’s exquisite, measured skill: he moved with ease, never appearing strained or flustered.

Lord Wenhui exclaimed, “Wonderful! Has your skill truly reached such heights?”

Cook Ding set down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao (the Way); I have gone beyond mere skill.” The commentary explains that Cook Ding did not focus only on practicing the technique of butchering oxen. Instead, he first grasped the natural patterns of things, then applied that understanding to his craft.

“When I first began butchering oxen, all I saw was a whole ox. I had not yet grasped the principles of things, and everything before me seemed to obstruct everything else. After three years, I no longer saw the whole ox. By observing closely, I came to discern its various parts: on the outside were the head, horns, hooves, and shoulders; within were the five viscera, bones, and sinews. Each part was different, each with its own natural pattern, and they could not be confused. Gradually, I understood that an ox was not an undivided whole. In time, I no longer saw a whole ox at all.”

“Now I meet the ox with my spirit, rather than looking at it with my eyes. Through careful observation, I have come to see clearly the structure and natural patterns of every part of the ox, and I understand that each has its own principles.”

So when I butcher an ox now, I do not need to examine it closely with my eyes. I guide the knife by hand, and each cut follows the ox’s natural structure. The senses fall still, and the activity of the spirit unfolds in harmony with it. “Senses” here refers to the faculties of hearing, sight, and the like. The point is that once I know where the knife should enter, my spirit moves along with it. I can then guide the knife freely, and wherever its edge passes, the meat parts along its natural lines.

Following the ox’s inherent structure, I make light cuts where sinews and bones intersect, and guide the knife through the broad spaces between the joints. I move it only along the structure already there. I do not even touch the small places where muscle and sinew connect, much less the large bones. “Que” is read as “xi,” meaning the gaps between joints; “kuan” refers to larger open spaces.

A skilled cook replaces his knife once a year because he only cuts meat. An ordinary cook replaces his once a month because he often chops with it, quickly damaging the blade. I have used this knife for nineteen years and butchered several thousand oxen, yet its edge is still as sharp as if it had just been honed on a whetstone.

There is naturally space between the joints, while the blade of a knife is thin and has no thickness to speak of. When such a thin blade is guided into the spaces between the joints, there is ample room to move, and the blade always has space to turn. That is why, after nineteen years, it is still as sharp as if it had just been honed on a whetstone.

Still, whenever I come upon a place where tendons and bones cross and knot together, I know it will be hard to handle. I grow alert and dare not act rashly. I look closely to see where the blade can enter, slow my movements, and guide it gently. With a swish, the difficult parts fall apart, like clods of earth scattering to the ground.

I lift up the knife and stand, look around, and feel completely at ease. I pause, pleased with myself, then wipe the knife clean and put it away.

Lord Wenhui said, “Excellent! From Cook Ding’s words, I have learned the principles of nourishing life.”

Butcher Ding looked around, calm and at ease, deeply satisfied. He wiped his knife clean and put it away. Lord Wenhui said, “Excellent! From listening to Butcher Ding, I have learned the principles of nourishing life.”

This chapter, “The Master of Nurturing Life,” uses Butcher Ding’s story of cutting up an ox to explain how to nourish life. It is a complete and subtle metaphor. Butcher Ding represents the sage, and the ox represents the many affairs of the world: great matters such as governing the realm and the state, and small ones such as the concerns of daily life. The skill of cutting up the ox represents the ability to handle worldly affairs and govern the state.

The knife represents human nature, the root of life. Acting in accord with one’s nature is like guiding the knife along the ox’s natural divisions. After the sage studies the Dao and understands their nature, they use their remaining strength to attend to the affairs of the realm and state, just as Butcher Ding first mastered the way of cutting up an ox before putting that skill into practice.

At first, before understanding has dawned, people feel at odds with the world at every turn and find it hard to act, just as Butcher Ding initially saw only an entire ox. As their understanding of the Dao deepens and the wisdom within their nature gradually comes into focus, they can see that everything in the world has its own natural structure and patterns. They no longer see only the outward whole of things—just as Butcher Ding later saw “no whole ox before his eyes.”

Once one sees through worldly affairs, one need only follow what is natural. Nothing then seems difficult at every turn, and there is no need to force a way through sinews and joints. Because the knife follows the natural lines instead of rushing and striving, wearing down its edge, after nineteen years it was still as sharp as when it had come from the whetstone. The sage meets matters that accord with reason with clear and keen wisdom, like a knife moving through the spaces in an ox, with room to spare at every turn.

When faced with difficult, tangled matters, one need only stay alert, slow down, and consider things carefully. They will then become easier to sort out and will no longer seem impossible to manage. This is how the Perfected Person moves through the world. Why toil and rush all day, wearing down life and harming one’s nature?

Thus, after hearing Butcher Ding’s words, Lord Wenhui said that he had learned how to nourish life. The point is that the Perfected Person follows their nature and the principles inherent in things, never overstepping what is fitting. In this way, they preserve their nature and avoid harming their body. Reflect on this metaphor closely: its subtle meaning extends beyond words. Metaphors of this kind are common in Buddhist scriptures but rare in secular texts, so they deserve careful consideration; they contain a profound meaning.

Gongwen Xuan saw a man whose right foot had been amputated and asked in surprise, “Who is this? Why is one of his feet missing? Was this caused by Heaven, or by human action?”

The man replied, “It was caused by Heaven, not by human action. Heaven gave birth to me this way. A person’s physical form is bestowed by Heaven; from this, we can see that my impairment was caused by Heaven, not by human action.”

A wild pheasant in a marsh must walk ten paces to peck up a bite of food and a hundred paces to drink a mouthful of water, yet it has no wish to be kept in a cage. Life in a cage may keep it vigorous, but it is not free. Knowing that such a life is restrictive, the pheasant does not consider it good or seek it out.

This passage says that people who do not know how to care for life can easily forget their true nature for the sake of immediate gain, even to the point of disregarding their bodies and lives, and ultimately bringing harm upon themselves. The man with the amputated foot pursued fame and profit so avidly that he neglected himself, enjoying less freedom than even the wild pheasant in the marsh. His impairment was a punishment he had brought upon himself, though he failed to realize it.

This is the point being made: even a sage, if unable to forget personal attachments, has lost the innocence of nature. The story of Laozi is used to illustrate this.

After Lao Dan (Laozi) died, his friend Qin Shi went to mourn him. Qin Shi wept three times and then left, showing no deep grief. His disciple asked, “Wasn’t he your friend, Master?” Qin Shi replied, “Yes.” The disciple asked again, “If he was your friend, was that an appropriate way to mourn him?”

Qin Shi answered, “Indeed. When I first knew him, I thought he was a person who had attained the Dao. Now that he has died, I realize he was not. A moment ago, when I went in to mourn him, I saw elderly people weeping as if they had lost their own son, and young people weeping as if they had lost their own mother. They must have gathered here because Lao Dan, while alive, shared deep affection with them, moving them beyond their own control. They did not mean to weep, yet they wept so bitterly.

“This is to go against one’s nature and betray one’s true feelings: to forget the nature one was originally endowed with. The ancients called this ‘the punishment of fleeing Heaven’—the fault of fleeing one’s nature and injuring one’s original character. Lao Dan treated others with affection, and so they loved him and found him hard to forget. This shows that he had not forgotten attachment and followed nature; therefore, he was not truly a sage.

“To arrive in the world at just this time is to be born in accord with the circumstances; to leave the world at just this time is to depart in accord with change. When one accepts the course of time and follows change, sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart. Understand that life and death have no fixed, unchanging reality, and one will not grieve over death or rejoice over life. The ancients called this ‘the Emperor’s release from suspension’: a person’s life is bound by bodily form, as if hanging upside down; by calmly following change, one loosens that bond.

“The human body will in the end burn away like firewood, yet the fire of life continues to pass on, with no knowing when it will end. Though bodily forms change, the flow of life goes on without interruption, like fire passed from one piece of firewood to another, continuing without end.”

The meaning of this passage is that when a person’s nature is properly nurtured, its original innocence can be fully preserved. Then, whether in life or death, coming or going, one will not be constrained. Thus, although the Perfected Person—the Daoist ideal of someone who has reached an exceptionally high state—has a body no different from that of an ordinary person, their nature of mind stands apart from the secular world and is not shaken by changes between life and death. This is because they have found a way to nurture their nature. One who can nurture their nature and return to their original authenticity can be called a Genuine Person.

The following chapter, “The Human World,” therefore describes how a Genuine Person lives among others without attachment. It also uses the metaphor of Cook Ding carving an ox to illustrate the benefits of nourishing life described in “The Secret of Caring for Life”: only by nurturing one’s nature and returning to one’s original authenticity can one become a Genuine Person. Though the chapters are separate, their central ideas are connected.

The Human World

This chapter broadly discusses how a sage should conduct themselves in the world. “The Secret of Caring for Life” teaches how to keep worldly affairs from harming life; the way to nourish life must also be understood through experience of those affairs. Someone who has truly cultivated themselves will not rely on their abilities or chase fame, nor act forcefully when there is no need. When assisting a ruler or carrying out orders, they will not boast of their achievements or praise themselves excessively.

This way of conducting oneself can begin with “fasting the mind”—making the mind empty and still, free of fixed opinions—and “sitting in forgetfulness”—sitting quietly and forgetting one’s body and distinctions. With an empty, still mind, one can face worldly affairs and suffer fewer misfortunes. The chapter emphasizes how difficult it is to deal with worldly affairs and human relationships: if one cannot meet things with an open mind, even a little reliance on one’s abilities or desire for fame can bring trouble. For this reason, the chapter concludes that being seen as incapable is the proper way to live in the world. To act in the world without suffering misfortune is to show that one truly understands the way of nourishing life described in “The Secret of Caring for Life”; the two chapters illuminate each other.

The commentator cites Confucius as a sage actively engaged in the world and Yan Hui as a leading disciple of Confucius, giving greater weight to the argument and making its principles more persuasive.

Yan Hui went to see Zhongni and asked permission to travel. Zhongni asked, “Where are you going?” Yan Hui replied, “I am preparing to go to the state of Wei.” Zhongni asked, “What do you intend to do in Wei?”

Yan Hui said, “I have heard that the ruler of Wei, Kuai Kui, is in the prime of life, yet acts with arbitrary self-indulgence. He governs the state recklessly, fails to see his own mistakes, and gives no thought to whether the people live or die. Many people are dying as a result. Their bodies are so numerous that they seem to cover the marshes like banana leaves. The people are suffering terribly, yet have nowhere to go and no one to whom they can appeal.

“I once heard you say that when a state is well governed, one should leave it, rather than seek a stipend without having earned it. When a state is in chaos, one should go there to rescue it from danger, restore order, and bring peace to the people. Just as many sick people gather at a physician’s door, those skilled at remedying the ills of the time will encounter many people in need of help. I want to draw on what I have heard and find a suitable way forward. Perhaps I can help Wei improve and spare its people from suffering.”

Zhongni exclaimed, “Alas! If you go, you will likely suffer punishment. The practice of the Way depends on single-mindedness; it must not be mixed with other aims…”

The Dao should not be mixed with other thoughts. When distracting thoughts multiply, the mind is disturbed; when the mind is disturbed, anxiety arises. As anxiety builds, it becomes difficult to remedy.

Those who attained the highest level of cultivation in ancient times first established Dao and De within themselves, then put them into practice with others. If their own cultivation of Dao and De was not yet firm, how could they attend to correcting the conduct of tyrannical people?

Do you know how De is lost and how talent and intelligence come to the fore? De is unsettled by fame, while displaying one’s talent and intelligence can provoke conflict. Those who seek fame push one another aside; displayed talent becomes a tool for contention. Both can bring misfortune, so neither should be flaunted.

Even with deep De and steadfast convictions, one must first understand another person’s disposition and see whether the two are compatible. Even if one does not compete for fame, one must first understand the other person’s character and intentions to know whether they trust you.

If you insist on displaying your virtue in front of a tyrant by invoking rules of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and law, people will resent your self-righteousness. This is called “bringing harm to others.” To bring harm to others means that they will inevitably turn around and harm you.

You may be confident that you can approach people with humility, yet if you do not understand their temperament or intentions and try to admonish them with benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and law, they may become suspicious and refuse to trust you. They might think you are exposing their faults to make your own virtue shine. Once they distrust you, they will take your advice as slander; in this way, you invite harm upon yourself. Acting rashly without understanding the other person may well bring harm upon you instead.

Besides, if the ruler of Wei truly favors the worthy and dislikes the unworthy, then Wei already has worthy people. Why should you go to see him and make a point of setting yourself apart? If you go on your own before being summoned, the ruler may use his authority to compete with you and seek to prevail, refusing to heed what you say.

When you face the authority of a ruler and come under pressure, your gaze becomes unsettled first. Then, trying to extricate yourself, you soften your expression. Once your composure falters, your speech turns hesitant and evasive. Your manner and words lose their usual steadiness, and before you know it, your whole body begins to yield and accommodate. When your outward bearing is shaken, you lose your inner resolve. You have no choice but to abandon your position and cater to the other person, ultimately enabling their wrongdoing.

This is like trying to put out a fire with more fire, or stop a flood with more water: it only makes the flames or waters grow stronger. If you go along with the other person at first, their wrongdoing will later have no limit. If someone already distrusts you and you suddenly speak to them with earnest sincerity, you will surely die at the hands of a violent person. They will not believe you; instead, they will suspect you and take your words for slander. If your relationship is still shallow but you speak with excessive intimacy, you will invite suspicion and disaster.

This passage discusses one of the most important matters in dealing with the world: remonstrating with a ruler. If a ruler has never trusted you, and you suddenly press him with earnest counsel, he will not listen and may even kill you for it. Who could understand this unless they were a sage like Confucius, wise, perceptive about human affairs, and skilled at preserving their own safety? Even Yan Hui had not yet mastered this. Since this is a central matter that the “In the Human World” chapter of the Zhuangzi must address, it is raised at the very beginning.

In former times, Xia Jie killed Guan Longfeng, and King Zhou of Shang killed Prince Bigan. Both had cultivated themselves and were renowned for their loyal candor. Yet they held positions as subjects and showed concern for the people over the heads of their rulers. The “bending down to comfort” described here means stooping to care for the people, showing them affection. The ruler did not love the people, but his subjects bestowed kindness on them in his place. They were therefore seen as deliberately seeking a reputation and defying the ruler’s intentions. The ruler then used their self-cultivation and pursuit of a good name as grounds to marginalize and kill them. This shows that pursuing a reputation can bring disaster.

In the past, Yao attacked the states of Congzhi and Xu’ao, and Yu attacked the state of Youhu. They laid waste to enemy lands, brought about the deaths of their rulers, and took part in the killing themselves. The wars did not cease, and the pursuit of benevolent virtue and achievement had no end. The text argues that they thought they were eliminating tyranny, saving the people, and putting benevolence into practice, yet their unceasing warfare only added to the killing. All these actions were driven by the pursuit of reputation and tangible achievement.

Have you never heard this? Even sages find it difficult to attain both reputation and tangible achievement. How much more difficult must it be for you?

In other words, Yan Hui had no proper method, yet he was forcing himself to go in pursuit of a reputation. In the end, he would surely be unable to protect himself. This shows that he was bound to suffer punishment on this journey. Even sages find it difficult to attain both a good reputation and practical results. How much more so for ordinary people?

Earlier, Confucius told Yan Hui not to go. Now he asks what method Yan Hui might use if he insisted on going.

Confucius said, “Even so, if you insist on going, you must have some way in mind. Tell me about it.” Yan Hui replied, “I would try to conduct myself properly and remain humble in heart. I would focus single-mindedly on offering advice, without concerning myself with reputation or success, or with my own interests and welfare. Would that do?”

Confucius said, “No. How could it? The ruler of Wei is in his prime, full of pride and force, and his moods shift without warning. If you serve him with careful deference, you will only feed his pride, making him more overbearing and causing his moods to show even more plainly. His temperament is so volatile that even those who serve him every day dare not contradict him. How much less would you, who have never even spoken with him, be able to do so?

“If your words provoke him, he will seize on them and turn them against you, using them to reassure and gratify himself. A person like this can scarcely cultivate even the small virtues built up day by day, much less great virtue. He will cling stubbornly to his own views and refuse to change. Even if you appear cautious and compliant, while inwardly unable to agree with him, what good would that do? In the end, you would achieve nothing and only waste your efforts.”

This section says that when dealing with someone stubborn and unwilling to take advice, even if you behave with integrity, humility, and caution, you may not change him. You may even feed his arrogance. This does nothing to improve his virtue and, in the end, achieves nothing; it is simply a waste of effort.

“Then I will be upright within, gentle in outward manner, and draw on the words of the ancients for comparison.” After hearing Confucius’ advice, Yan Hui felt that simply behaving with integrity and humility and striving to remain single-minded might not work. He therefore thought of three approaches: be upright within, conform outwardly to ritual propriety, and ground his words in the sayings of the ancients.

“To be upright within is to take Heaven as one’s companion.” Human nature is upright by nature, bestowed by Heaven. Since you and I share this nature, the other person is a human being just as I am. I need only speak in accordance with this nature. If my words are reasonable, surely they can move him in some way. Since the ruler and I were both born of Heaven, I will speak from my heart without seeking his agreement at every turn or worrying that he may disagree. If my intentions are sincere and not false, perhaps he will see me as someone with an innocent heart. This is what it means to “take Heaven as one’s companion.”

“To be gentle in outward manner is to get along with others.” The gestures of raising one’s hands, kneeling, and bowing when performing rites are the propriety expected of a subject. Everyone observes these practices, so how could I fail to do so? If I act according to the way people commonly follow, others will find it difficult to criticize me. This is what it means to “take other people as one’s companions.”

“To cite the ancients after making one’s point is to take the ancients as one’s companions.” Although what I say carries a note of admonition, it points to facts; the ancients spoke this way too, so it is not my own invention. Then, even if I speak plainly, I need not incur blame for it: I have acted in accordance with ancient ritual and committed no breach of propriety. What, then, is there to criticize? This is what it means to “take the ancients as one’s companions.”

These words may be intended to instruct people, but in practice they point out right and wrong. This approach has existed since ancient times; it is not my own invention. In that case, even if my words are direct, they should not bring disaster upon me. This is called “taking the ancients as one’s companions,” that is, using the words and conduct of people in the past as one’s basis. “Accomplishing through precedent” means citing what the ancients have already said; “comparing upward” means measuring one’s own claims against theirs. In this way, although I am judging right and wrong, what I say has a factual basis and comes from the words of the ancients; it is not something I have made up. So even if my words are forthright, they should not be treated as a fault, since I was not the first to say them. Would this approach work?

Confucius said, “Alas, how could it? Taking these several methods as rules involves too many particulars, and in the end they are not reliable enough. Even so, perhaps one would not be guilty of an offense—but that is all one could achieve. How could this bring someone to a transformation of mind and nature? It still takes one’s own intentions as the standard. In other words, using these three methods may indeed keep one from being found guilty, but that is all; it cannot truly change the other person’s heart. Why not? Because all three methods arise from deliberate action and have not yet let go of the self. If you have not reached a state of wholeness, how could you transform others?”

This commentary interprets the “three methods” as adapted from the Analects’ saying, “The exemplary person has three things in which they stand in awe”: “taking Heaven as one’s companion” corresponds to reverence for the Mandate of Heaven; “taking people as one’s companions” corresponds to reverence for great persons; and “taking the ancients as one’s companions” corresponds to reverence for the words of the sages. Although the passage discusses these three approaches, they remain familiar methods at the worldly level and have not reached the sages’ spontaneous capacity to nurture and transform all things. The intended meaning is not stated directly, but lies beyond the words.

Yan Hui said, “I feel I can go no further. Master, what can I do to continue cultivating myself?” Zhongni said, “First observe a fast, and then I will tell you. You have a particular intention in your heart and want to act on it. Is that easy? If you have not changed yourself yet, how could you hope to change others? Anything that seems easy to you shows that your intention is not sincere enough and does not accord with the Way of Heaven.”

Yan Hui said, “My family is poor. For several months I have neither drunk wine nor eaten meat or fish. Does that count as fasting?” Zhongni said, “That is the fast observed before a sacrifice, not ‘fasting of the mind’—a practice of making the mind empty and still, free from attachment to preconceptions.” Yan Hui said, “May I ask what fasting of the mind is?” Zhongni said, “Make your will single-minded. Do not listen only with your ears; listen with your mind. Do not stop at the mind’s deliberations; instead, sense with Qi (vital energy). The mind joins with the Way, while Qi remains empty and still, receiving all things. Only emptiness and stillness can allow the Way to gather. What is called fasting of the mind is keeping the mind empty and still.”

Yan Hui tried many methods, yet still could not free himself from the impulse to act deliberately. Any words or actions arising from conscious calculation still showed that he had not forgotten the calculating, attached mind. Only emptiness and stillness can allow the Way to gather; making emptiness and stillness the mind’s guiding principle is fasting of the mind.

Yan Hui considered the matter from many angles, yet still could not escape a state of intention and deliberate purpose. When one speaks with a plan in mind, one has not forgotten cleverness. As long as cleverness remains, one cannot truly transform oneself. So Confucius taught him “fasting of the mind,” taking emptiness and stillness as the highest form of cultivation. When the mind is empty and still, the distinction between self and things can be forgotten. Once one has transformed oneself, all things, too, can change naturally and follow their own course.

Yan Hui said, “Before I received your teaching, I did indeed feel that there was an ‘I.’ After hearing your teaching, it seems as though there is no longer an ‘I.’ Could this be called emptiness and stillness?” Confucius replied, “You can say that you have grasped the heart of fasting the mind. Now let me tell you more: You must be able to enter worldly situations without letting fame move you. Speak when it is time to speak; stop when it is not appropriate. Do not decide in advance on a fixed approach, or cling to a particular view and assume it will solve the problem. Settle your mind and remain centered; when something unavoidable arises, respond in keeping with the situation. Then you will be close.

“Keeping away from worldly affairs and cutting off contact with others is relatively easy. It is difficult to live among people without leaving traces of deliberate contrivance. Acting at someone else’s bidding easily invites pretense; acting in accord with the Way of Heaven is hard to fake. I have heard of flying with wings, but never of flying without them.” The contrast between having wings and having none illustrates the difference between acting deliberately through cleverness and acting naturally, with no attachment in the mind.

How could people who rely on their true heart to guide the myriad things act through falsehood?

People have heard that one needs wings to fly, but have not heard of flying without wings. Flight serves here as a metaphor: when people deliberately apply their minds to a task, they may sometimes succeed. But to meet things with a mind free of intention, allowing others to be transformed naturally, is like flying without wings—a rare occurrence.

People have heard that knowledge is needed to understand things, but have not heard of understanding without relying on knowledge. Ordinary people usually depend on what they already know to make sense of things. The sage, by contrast, knows through “unknowing.” This means forgetting the body and setting aside contrived schemes and calculations, then meeting the myriad things with a mind free of intention. Such a state is difficult to attain and rarely understood.

Consider an empty space: when a room is vacant and has an opening, light can enter and illuminate it. This serves as a metaphor for a mind that is empty and still: when the mind is cleared, its inner light appears of itself.

“Good fortune comes to rest here” means that good fortune stays in this place. Once the mind clings to something and stirs with deluded activity, fortune and misfortune follow. Good and ill fortune, along with regret, arise from action. If the mind is empty of things and no thought arises, it can become still, clear, and self-illuminating, and regret will dissipate. The empty, still mind is where good fortune comes to rest.

When the mind cannot abide in emptiness and stillness, this is called “sitting in a gallop”: although a person is sitting here, their mind is pulled by private desires and races elsewhere.

If one can let go of the ears and eyes’ pursuit of external things, turn perception inward, and cease to be governed by worldly intellect, even spirits will come to dwell there—how much more so will people. Here, “sacrifice” means to lose or relinquish; “inner communion” means no longer relying on the ears and eyes to seek outward, but instead turning one’s gaze inward. When the inner self communes with the heart, true radiance becomes apparent, and deluded thoughts and knowledge are no longer put to use. Upon reaching this state of empty stillness, clarity, and silent illumination, one can harmonize with spirits and naturally transform others as well.

This is the ability to fly without relying on wings. Yan Hui’s teaching has reached the highest level! This is the principle behind the transformations of all things, the hinge on which Yu and Shun governed the world, and the rule followed throughout their lives by ancient sage kings such as Fuxi and Jiqu. How much more should ordinary people follow it?

What is being said here is that the transformations of all things ultimately return to the source of the Great Dao: forget the distinction between self and external things, and all things merge into the Dao. Even a sage like Yu regarded this as the key to governing the world; sage kings like Fuxi and Jiqu followed it throughout their lives. If Yan Hui can live by this principle, why force anything?

The text now turns to the art of dealing with the world, beginning with the difficulty of serving a ruler. Assisting a ruler is indeed no easy task. Unless one can forget oneself and external things, meet the world with an open mind, and respond in step with events when circumstances leave no choice, it is difficult to move a ruler or avoid disaster. If one clings to one’s own views, insists that one’s proposals must be right, and presses them on the ruler, one may not only fail to help but also bring about one’s own death. The deaths of Longfeng and Bigan were precisely the result of this.

The text next discusses the difficulty of serving as an envoy.

Ye Gong Zigaol (Ye Gong’s personal name was Liang and his courtesy name was Zigao; he was a minister of Chu) was about to go on a mission to Qi, so he sought Confucius’s advice: “The mission my ruler has entrusted to me is of great importance and may involve war. When Qi receives envoys, I expect they will set many obstacles in my way.”

Prince Ye Gong Gao—whose name was Liang and whose courtesy name was Zigao, a minister of the state of Chu—was about to go on a diplomatic mission to Qi. He asked Confucius for advice: “The ruler places great importance on this mission. It seems I am to handle an urgent matter of state involving the military. Qi may receive its envoys with great courtesy, yet not necessarily act quickly. Ordinary people cannot easily be made to comply, so how much less can the rulers of other states? I am deeply worried. I fear I will fail in the state’s affairs and be punished.

“You once told me that, whether a matter is large or small, it can rarely be accomplished without a conciliatory manner. If Qi refuses to cooperate, the matter will be difficult to manage. If I fail, I will surely suffer the troubles that come from human affairs: the ruler will blame me. If I succeed, worry and anxiety may harm my body and mind, bringing inner distress through an imbalance of Yin-Yang. Whether I succeed or fail, only a sage whose De is complete can avoid harm.

“My usual meals are plain, and I do not fuss over good food. I also keep cooking simple, so the cook never gets so hot that he has to seek a cool place. But this morning I accepted the commission, and by evening I was already craving cold water. Is my heart burning with anxiety? Before I have even begun to deal with the matter, worry has already thrown my body and mind out of balance. If I fail, I will inevitably suffer troubles in human affairs as well. So both kinds of harm weigh upon me. It is truly difficult for a minister to bear. Could you offer me some guidance?”

This passage concerns the difficulty of a minister accepting a commission to serve as an envoy. If a minister thinks only of personal fame, they will devote themselves to seeking merit and success. Various worries will become entangled in their mind, leaving them mentally exhausted and anxious. Ministers in the world often do not know how to find a settled place in this situation, and so they cannot avoid hardship and worry.

Confucius therefore taught people an appropriate way to face a commission: fate and the nature of things each have their limits. If one can accept and handle them calmly, one will not invite trouble. But if one insists that matters must succeed, one is bound to fall into worry. What follows explains further that, when faced with a difficult commission, it is better to do one’s utmost to bear and carry out the charge one has received.

Confucius said, “There are two great principles in the world.” Here, “great prohibitions” refers to the important moral and social laws of the world, among which the commands of a ruler and of one’s parents cannot be changed lightly.

Confucius said, “There are two great constants in the world: one is destiny, the other is duty. A child’s love for their parents comes from their nature and cannot be cut off from the heart. A minister’s service to the ruler is a matter of duty: wherever they may be, they cannot be separated from the ruler or escape the order that governs Heaven and Earth. These are what we call the great constants.

“Therefore, those who serve their parents remain at peace wherever they find themselves; this is filial piety at its utmost. Those who serve their ruler accept whatever circumstances arise; this is loyalty at its utmost. Those who cultivate their inner selves do not let grief or joy change how they respond to events. They know that some things cannot be helped, yet accept them calmly as the arrangement of destiny; this is virtue at its utmost.

“Anyone who serves as a minister or a child will inevitably face things they must do. Since you must act according to the circumstances, you should forget yourself and devote yourself to the task. How could you then cling to life and fear death? Go and do as I have said.”

Here, “destiny” refers to Heaven’s mandate or circumstances that are difficult to resist, while “duty” refers to the standing and responsibilities a minister must fulfill. The commentary uses Confucius’s words to explain that when ministers and children face unavoidable circumstances, they should do their best to fulfill their responsibilities and regard calm acceptance as virtue.

The Zhuangzi, taken as a whole, makes loyalty and filial piety central themes. It holds that esteeming reputation at the cost of losing one’s natural innocence is not worthy of praise. Only the chapter “In the Human World” explains the practical meaning of loyalty and filial piety in such depth that not a single character should be changed. Who can say that Zhuangzi was ignorant of human affairs and simply acted as he pleased? He uses Confucius’s words to clarify the principle—how could that mean he looked down on the sages?

There are two paths of learning: the inner sphere and the outer sphere. Learning in the outer sphere prizes openness and detachment, yet ultimately returns to the Great Dao. Learning in the inner sphere, by contrast, strictly observes the proper bonds between ruler and subject, and between parent and child, since these are vital moral norms and laws of the world that must not be violated. The principles of both worldly and transcendent life are contained here, and each has its own reason. How can they all be judged by a single standard?

Let me explain once more what I have heard: When dealing with neighboring states, people often rely on tally tokens, credentials, and similar signs to verify their exchanges, so there is no need for many words. When dealing with states far away, they must use sincere and trustworthy speech to strengthen their friendship. Words are usually conveyed through envoys.

Carrying words that may make both sides pleased or angry is one of the hardest tasks in the world, because words can affect safety and danger, and bring fortune or misfortune. When both sides are pleased, speech can easily include excessive praise; when they are angry, it can easily turn to excessive blame. The trouble lies in going too far. Excessive praise and blame are both false words: they arise from a deliberate effort to display cleverness and lose their original truth. When words are not truthful, listeners will not believe them; when they do not believe, the messenger may suffer for it.

An old saying puts it this way: “Convey what is true and ordinary; do not pass on exaggerated words. In this way, you may be able to keep yourself safe.”

This passage describes the difficulty of serving as an envoy and conveying messages: the interests of both states may rest on a single messenger. If the words go beyond the facts, listeners may grow suspicious and refuse to believe them, making them a source of trouble and putting the messenger at risk. Only by conveying things truthfully, without embellishment, can one hope to keep oneself safe.

Moreover, even if one temporarily preserves the situation at hand, in the end it will inevitably bring great harm. The consequences of words are hard to foresee, so one must be careful from the very beginning.

For example, people who pit skill against strength may start out happy and playful, yet often end in anger. When things go too far, all sorts of unusual moves appear. This illustrates the need to be careful from beginning to end: at first, the contest is like a game, and both sides take it in a joking spirit. But once the struggle goes too far, each side begins to seek victory and uses unexpected tactics. Those tactics may injure someone; after an injury, the contest becomes serious, the conflict is hard to resolve, and it ends in anger. “Yang” refers to joy; “Yin” refers to anger.

People who drink wine according to ritual may begin in good order, but often end in disorder. When things go too far, all sorts of uninhibited, excessive revelry arise. At first, host and guests drink with decorum; as the wine takes effect and their spirits rise, disorder follows. Other matters are the same.

At the start, relationships are often based on honesty and trust, but in the end they may turn to hypocrisy and deceit. “Liang” refers to keeping faith blindly, without distinguishing right from wrong; “bi” refers to deceit. When people first associate, they may speak openly and trust one another. Over time, however, they may develop a tendency toward hypocrisy and deceit.

Things often begin simply, but as they near completion they can grow large and complicated, becoming hard to manage. This happens not only in human relationships but in practical affairs as well: at first, one usually wants to keep things simple, but by the end they may have grown ever more extensive. This is a common result once matters reach a certain point.

Words can stir changes like waves, while actions may cause the original facts to be lost. It is difficult for anything to remain unchanged from beginning to end, especially words and actions: words can easily give rise to disputes, while actions put inner thoughts into practice. Once actions have consequences, the original facts may also change. Words and actions are therefore central to how a gentleman conducts himself. They affect honor and disgrace, and must be handled carefully rather than used recklessly.

Waves can easily overturn things, and the loss of the facts can readily lead to danger. Understanding this makes clear why one must act with care.

Thus, people’s anger is often stirred by improper words. Events can be like wind and waves, easily capsizing a person; even a situation that was once secure may thereby become perilous. Understand this, and you will know to speak with care.

When beasts are near death, their cries often pay no heed to what is fitting. When a person’s anger suddenly flares, they too may speak without considering whether their words are appropriate, giving free rein to their outburst. Those nearby may hear the words and take them all to be true. Then both sides are hurt, and resentment becomes hard to resolve.

After hearing words that provoke anger, a person may, in the heat of the moment, speak irrationally to the one who angered them, dwelling on that person’s faults without showing any tolerance. If pressed too hard, the other person will surely respond with malice. In this way, trouble takes root on both sides, yet in the end neither knows where it began. If they do not realize that biased words set it off, who can foresee how far things will go?

An ancient teaching therefore says, “Do not presume to alter a message entrusted to you, and do not press for a matter to be completed.” Improper words invite disaster and can cause deep harm. Those entrusted with conveying a message should neither embellish it nor alter the command, and should not rush its completion, lest further trouble arise. Anything added beyond what is required exceeds the proper bounds. Altering a command or pressing for a task to be finished can ultimately ruin it.

Good things require long and sustained effort to come to fruition. Once bad things take shape, it is often too late to correct them. This shows that in carrying out a task, one must not exceed what is appropriate. Adding demands or changing orders at will in an effort to make things happen may ultimately spoil them, and must never be done.

Good things require long and sustained effort to come to fruition, while once bad things take shape, it may already be too late to correct them. How, then, could one fail to act with care? Nothing should be rushed toward completion. If one forces through something inappropriate, the problem may be impossible to undo by the time it comes to light. One must therefore proceed with caution.

Follow the natural changes of external things, allowing the mind and spirit to move among them in peace. When something must be done, respond in accord with the circumstances and thereby preserve the inner center. This is the highest way of conducting oneself. Here, the point is the proper way to carry out an assigned mission: only a “Perfected Person”—someone of profound cultivation who can follow nature—can forget the distinction between self and things and respond to circumstances as they naturally unfold. One must not rely on private desires to force a task to succeed. Instead, when a response is unavoidable, one should handle it properly and uphold the way of the center.

What should one do to fulfill a mission and report back to one’s superiors? The best course is to accept the mission wholeheartedly and carry it out, though this is not easy. Whether a task succeeds is subject to Heaven’s mandate—the objective course of fate that governs its outcome. An envoy, too, must obey the ruler’s command. Knowing that Heaven’s mandate cannot be defied, one should accept one’s limits and follow the circumstances, rather than exaggerating one’s words or forcing matters forward in the hope of a lucky success. Knowing that the ruler’s command cannot be defied, one must not change the orders on one’s own initiative in an effort to force the task to succeed, lest trouble follow. This is what “fulfilling the mandate” means. Only a Perfected Person can do it, which is why it is so difficult.

This passage explains that the hardest challenge in dealing with the world is carrying out a mission as an envoy. Lord Ye’s concern was well founded. Confucius’s words capture the realities of serving as an envoy, reveal the key to the reversal of fortune and misfortune, and show a profound understanding of human nature. The saying “When a scholar faces danger, he fulfills his mandate” means that, in a crisis, a scholar can shoulder his mission even at the cost of his life. Who but a great sage like Confucius, so deeply versed in worldly affairs, could have spoken with such insight?

Yan He was about to become tutor to the heir of Duke Ling of Wei, whose name was Kuai Kui, so he sought advice from Qu Boyu. Yan He said, “There is a man here whose nature is poor from birth. If I do not restrain him or set rules for him, the state will be in danger. But if I try to bind him with laws and standards, my own life will be at risk. If I use rules to admonish him, he will surely refuse to listen and blame me instead. He is clever enough to find fault with others, yet cannot see why he himself goes wrong. What should I do with someone like this?”

Qu Boyu replied, “You ask a good question. Stay alert and cautious; first set yourself right, then deal with him. In your outward words and conduct, it is best to go along with him and not oppose him head-on. In your inner attitude, it is best to remain calm and at ease with him. But both approaches have their dangers: if you appear to comply, he will think you are on his side; if you are inwardly agreeable, he will take you for someone eager to please him. Then you will not dare to admonish him, and danger will still follow.”

In your actions, you may accommodate the other person, but inwardly you should not yield to them without limit. In speech, do not flaunt your sharpness or boast of your strengths in order to expose their shortcomings. If you constantly humble yourself, flatter them, and go along with their wrongdoing, you will only encourage their misconduct, eventually bringing on ruin, destruction, collapse, and defeat. Yet even if you reveal a little of your ability, they may claim your strengths as their own renown and, out of jealousy, harm you. Both approaches therefore carry danger.

If the other person is like an infant who knows nothing of the world, for the time being treat them as you would an infant. If they are utterly uninhibited, for now go along with their manner; if they indulge without restraint, do not confront them directly at first. Once they have trusted you for a long time and no longer suspect you, gradually guide them through concrete situations toward avoiding wrongdoing. In this way, you can encourage what is good in them and remedy their mistakes, and so avoid danger.

Have you never seen a mantis? It raises its forelimbs in fury, trying to block the track of a passing wheel, unaware that it has no strength to withstand it. The mantis acts this way because it relies on abilities it believes to be exceptional; it simply has not measured its own strength.

Though you may possess remarkable abilities, if you devote all your strength to serving a tyrant, disaster may still be unavoidable. Be on guard and act with caution. If you repeatedly display and boast of your abilities, then step forward to challenge the tyrant’s power, you will be like a mantis raising its forelegs to stop a cart. Disaster will be close at hand. How could you fail to be vigilant and cautious?

Have you never seen someone who keeps tigers? He does not dare feed them live prey, because it would stir their urge to hunt and kill. Nor does he dare give them whole carcasses, because tearing them apart would make them angry. The keeper must attend to the tigers’ rhythms of hunger and fullness and guide their anger. Tigers are not of the same kind as humans, yet they grow close to those who accommodate their nature. If their habits are defied, they will injure people.

Someone who loves horses uses a basket to collect their dung and a shell to catch their urine. If a horsefly or mosquito lands on the horse and he happens to slap it at the wrong moment, the horse may become enraged, bite through the bit, and break the halter on its head and the harness across its chest. Once a person’s attention is fixed on something, even their care for what they love may slip from mind. However deeply he loves the horse, if he angers it at the wrong moment, it will break the reins and damage the tack. How could it still take that affection into account?

Does this not teach us to be careful? The example of the horse lover is especially apt. The three parables of keeping tigers, caring for horses, and serving a tyrant all warn us to understand the other’s nature, accommodate it, and act with caution.

This passage explains how difficult it is to assist a ruler. The three points discussed earlier are all difficulties people encounter as they make their way through the world. The meaning is that, in worldly life, one must be humble, accept one’s fate, follow the circumstances of the times, and act with caution. By refusing to insist on always acting or never acting, one can avoid calamity.

If one cannot be humble and acts rashly, relying on one’s own understanding, one may force oneself to act even when nothing needs doing. Yan Hui is an example of this. If one cannot accept one’s fate and worries excessively, tormenting oneself, one may fail to act when action is called for. Lord Ye is an example of this. Neither approach accords with the principles by which a sage conducts himself. One should take Confucius’s words as the guide.

If circumstances truly make it necessary to deal with worldly affairs and serve a ruler, one should build on the ruler’s good qualities, correct and make up for his failings, and do one’s utmost to be loyal. Above all, one must be vigilant and cautious, understand how circumstances change, and seize the right moment. One must neither act carelessly nor rely on one’s abilities to offend the ruler lightly, lest this bring about one’s death. On this point, the words of Qu Boyu, a worthy high official of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, are more appropriate. The twists and turns of human relations in the world have been explained here with great clarity. In conducting oneself, one must heed the warnings of Confucius and Qu Boyu in order to avoid calamity.

The preceding passage discussed the burdens that talent can bring. The following passage turns to how a person without talent may preserve his life.

Carpenter Shi, a carpenter named Shi, arrived in the state of Qi and came to Quyuan, a place-name. There he saw a shrine oak, a tree dedicated to the local earth god. It was large enough to shelter an ox. When he measured the tree’s girth…

The carpenter Shi traveled to the state of Qi. When he reached Quyuan, he saw an oak tree, a sacred tree beside the local shrine to the soil deity. Its crown was so vast it could shelter an ox. It would have taken two people joining their arms to encircle its trunk, which measured a full hundred spans. The trunk rose high above the ground, and its branches did not begin until it stood ten ren above the hilltop. Among the branches nearby, more than a dozen were large enough to make boats. Onlookers crowded around it like people at a market.

The carpenter Shi barely glanced at it and walked straight past without stopping. After looking his fill, his apprentice hurried after him and asked, “I’ve followed you with an axe ever since I became your apprentice, but I’ve never seen such fine timber. Yet you wouldn’t even look at it, and didn’t slow your steps. Why?”

“Enough,” said the carpenter. “Don’t speak of it. This is a useless tree. Make a boat from it, and the boat will sink; make a coffin from it, and it will soon rot; make a vessel from it, and it will soon break; make a door or window from it, and sticky sap will seep out; make a pillar from it, and worms will eat into it. Its wood is unfit for making anything, which is why it has lived so long.”

After the carpenter Shi returned home, the oak tree appeared to him in a dream and said, “By what do you mean to compare me? Do you want to compare me with those useful trees? Hawthorns, pear trees, oranges, pomelos, and other fruit trees have their fruit picked as soon as it ripens, and so they are harmed. Their large branches are broken off and their small ones torn away. Because they are useful, they make their own lives bitter. They cannot enjoy the full span allotted to them by Heaven, and often die before their time. This is the result of ordinary people cutting and damaging them. Most things in the world are like this.

“Besides, I have sought for a long time to become a useless tree, and nearly lost my life because of it. Only now, at last, have I preserved myself through being useless.”

“I have narrowly escaped being cut down many times; only now have I been able to survive.” It is because I am a useless tree that I have been able to preserve my life. That is precisely my greatest use. If I were useful, how could I have grown so tall? Besides, you and I are both things among Heaven and Earth. Why should you regard me as useless just because you consider yourself useful? You yourself have narrowly escaped death many times. How could you understand what it means to be a “scattered tree”—a tree that does not conform to convention and serves no practical purpose?”

When Carpenter Shi woke, he told his disciples what he had dreamed. One disciple asked, “Does the tree mean that it seeks to be useless, and that is why it was made a community altar tree, a tree dedicated to the local earth deity? Why would that be?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Say no more! You needn’t go on. The tree merely takes shelter under the name of community altar tree; it did not set out of its own accord to become one. Those who do not understand what it has entrusted to that name may instead scold and harm it because it is called a community altar tree. Even if it were not one, how could it be in danger of being cut down? Besides, the way it preserves itself is unusual. If you judge it by ordinary standards, you will misunderstand it.”

Moreover, what that tree preserves is unlike anything else. Yet people praise it as “in keeping with righteousness”—isn’t that a serious misunderstanding?

(Note: The tree was able to live out its natural lifespan because it had no practical use, and so its life was preserved. In this respect it differed from other trees. People did not understand the reason; instead, they praised it in moral terms such as “benefiting people, nourishing all things, restraining violence, and correcting wrongdoing.”)

This passage concerns the tree at the shrine of the land god: because it was useless, it lived out its natural lifespan, preserved its life, and escaped harm. This is precisely the “great use of the useless.” It also throws into relief the people described earlier, who relied on their abilities, acted rashly, and sought merit and praise from their rulers, only to bring harm upon themselves. They were worlds apart from this tree. Through it, Zhuangzi expresses a disregard for worldly values and an intention to let the mind follow its own course. What follows is an account of the various ways people fail to preserve themselves, offered to explain his own aspirations. This is the central idea of the passage.

Nanbo Ziqi, a figure in the Zhuangzi, was traveling in the hills of Shang. He saw a great tree and thought it unusual. A thousand four-horse chariots could rest beneath its shade, and its branches and leaves were broad enough to shelter them from the sun and wind.

Nanbo Ziqi was touring Shangqiu when he saw an extraordinary tree. It was large enough for thousands of chariots to stop and rest in its shade. Its branches and leaves were so luxuriant that they sheltered a vast area. Ziqi said, “What kind of tree is this? It must have some remarkable qualities!”

He looked up at the branches and saw that they twisted and curved, making them unsuitable for beams. Looking down at the roots, he found the wood loose and cracked, unfit for making coffins. Tasting one of its leaves made his mouth break out in sores; smelling it left a person dazed as if drunk, with no relief for three days. Ziqi said, “It really is a tree of no use. That is why it has grown so large. Ah, it is precisely by relying on this quality of being ‘of no use’—a quality the world does not consider useful—that the realized person is able to fulfill himself.”

In the state of Song, there was a place called Jing where catalpa, cypress, and mulberry trees grew well. As soon as a tree grew thick enough to span one or two hands, it would be cut down to make a tethering post for monkeys. When it reached three or four arm spans in girth, it would be felled for a large roof beam. At seven or eight arm spans, nobles and wealthy merchants would cut it down for coffin boards. Thus the trees were felled by axes halfway through their natural lives. This was the harm that came from being “useful.” The point is that being useful can invite injury, while being “of no use” allows one to preserve oneself.

In ancient rites to make offerings, seek blessings, and avert misfortune, people chose oxen with white marks on their foreheads, pigs with upturned snouts, and people suffering from hemorrhoids as sacrificial offerings. Because of their physical flaws, these animals and people were not considered suitable offerings to the River God, nor would they be selected to be “given to the river”—that is, offered to the River God. Stories also circulated in ancient times about the River Earl taking a wife, with boys and girls cast into the river. The ritual specialists who officiated at sacrifices and communicated with the spirits knew that such flawed animals and people were regarded as ill-omened. Yet precisely because they did not conform to convention and had no practical use, they might instead escape with their lives. The realized person, too, preserves himself by virtue of this quality of being beyond worldly use; this is his great good fortune.

This passage emphasizes that talent that has no worldly use can instead help a person preserve themselves, while displaying one’s abilities and virtue too openly may invite trouble. Only the spiritual person—a person whose attainment is beyond the ordinary—understands that intelligence can sometimes become a burden. Such people cast aside showy cleverness and the reputation of a sage, appearing uncarved and ignorant, with a tranquil mind. They do not set their hearts on worldly fame and success. Precisely because they seem useless, they can preserve their bodies, nourish their lives, and peacefully reach the end of their allotted years. The passage uses this idea to offer a warning to the world.

“Zhili Shu” is a fictitious name. “Zhili” means physically deformed or misshapen; here it also describes someone who does not display cleverness and has no desire to pursue worldly aims. The latter part of the original repeats the earlier idea.

Zhilishu (a hypothetical name here; “zhili” means physically deformed or misshapen, and is used as a metaphor for forgetting the body and setting aside cleverness) had his chin tucked beside his navel and his shoulders raised above his head. Since his chin was tucked beside his navel, we can imagine how hunched his back must have been. His topknot pointed straight toward the sky, and the acupoints corresponding to his internal organs—the places where the Qi and blood of the meridians flow to the body’s surface—also bulged upward with his hunched back. His thighs had become his ribs, showing just how severely his body was bent.

He could support himself by sewing and washing clothes for others. He could also winnow rice to remove the husks, earning enough from this work to support ten people. When strong men were being recruited, Zhilishu stood among them, waving his arms to signal that his body was deformed and there was no need to worry about his being selected. When large numbers of laborers were conscripted, his long-standing illness exempted him from service. The government distributed grain to the sick, and he was able to claim three zhong of rice and ten bundles of firewood—more relief than ordinary people received.

If someone with a deformed body could still support himself and enjoy a long life, how much more could those who are “deformed” in their De, and who do not cling to worldly cleverness and talent, do so!

The point here is that physical deformity can preserve life and keep one clear of harm. How much more so for those who set aside cleverness and forget the body. This develops Laozi’s idea that “dwelling where the crowd despises brings one close to the Dao.” Earlier, trees served as a metaphor for usefulness and uselessness; here the example shifts to a person, bringing the meaning closer to human affairs.

When Confucius arrived in the state of Chu, the eccentric Chu figure Jieyu, known for his uninhibited behavior, passed by Confucius’s gate and said, “The phoenix…”