《庄子内篇注》Vol. 3

And so it became ever more urgent.

When Confucius arrived in Chu, Jieyu, the mad recluse of Chu—who used the word “mad” to express his refusal to follow worldly conventions—passed by Confucius’s lodging and said, “Phoenix, Phoenix, how has your virtue declined to such a state? The ways of the future cannot be counted on, and the ways of the past cannot be restored. When the world is guided by the Dao, a sage can accomplish his work; when the world is without the Dao, a sage can only preserve himself. In this age, merely escaping punishment and disaster is enough. How could anyone still dare speak of achieving great things?

“Good fortune is light as a feather, yet people do not know how to receive it; calamity is heavy as the earth, yet people do not know how to avoid it. Enough, enough! To try to transform others through virtue is perilous. Be cautious, be cautious! Do not force your way forward by following the rules. Confusion, confusion! Do not obstruct me as I follow my own path. My path is winding and hard to travel; do not wound my feet.”

Trees on the mountain are felled because they grow into useful timber. Oil in a lamp is burned away because it gives light. The cinnamon tree is cut down because it can be eaten; the lacquer tree is wounded because it yields lacquer. Everyone knows the value of what is useful, but no one knows the value of what is useless.

The central theme of “In the Human World” is introduced at the outset by portraying Confucius as a sage skilled at dealing with worldly affairs, then using his words to lead into the chapter as a whole. The author argues that even someone like Yan Hui, endowed with benevolence and wisdom, may not be suited to take part in worldly affairs; if he forces himself to act, he may instead make needless mistakes. The story of Lord Ye then shows that someone living amid the world cannot even keep himself safe, making it all the harder for others. The chapter also tells of the recluse Yan He, who, though he had withdrawn from the world, imagined he could intervene in the affairs of the time. This was beyond his abilities, so Qu Boyu—a senior official of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, known for his insight and understanding of the world—counseled him to stop. These stories all show that acting on the strength of one’s talents can easily bring disaster.

The chapter therefore uses the stories of the oak at the village shrine—a great tree preserved because its timber was useless—the mountain trees, and Zhilishu, whose disabled body spared him from forced labor, as analogies to show how difficult it is to live in the world and deal with its affairs. At the end, the madman of Chu, Jieyu, mocks Confucius, suggesting that even a sage can fall into trouble if he does not know when to stop. Through this, the author reveals his true meaning: dealing with the world really is this difficult. He therefore chooses to stand apart from worldly affairs and preserve himself through the Dao, to be content with poverty and low status, and to live in seclusion without sorrow, expressing his aspirations through writing. This is the purpose behind the words of “In the Human World.” The chapter closes on this note, in effect revealing the author’s own resolve.

The central theme of “The Sign of Virtue Complete” is that those whose Virtue is full within can transcend the limitations of physical form and remain unconfined by the body. Knowing that the body is a source of distress, they are not ruled by external things or desires, and their minds and spirits can roam with the Way of Heaven. When people encounter such a person, they understand him intuitively and forget physical form and cleverness, though they cannot explain why.

Those who study the Dao, then, need only devote themselves to cultivating inner Virtue; they need not concern themselves with an outward reputation. Even if they do not seek to be understood by the world, people will naturally recognize them. The chapter cites stories of several figures to make this point, broadly expounding Laozi’s saying: “Dwell in the places people despise; thus one comes close to the Dao.” To be at ease in circumstances others reject is to draw near to the Dao.

In the state of Lu there was a man named Wang Tai who had lost one foot to amputation. About as many people studied with him and sought his company as followed Confucius.

Chang Ji asked Confucius, “Wang Tai is a man with a severed foot, yet the number of people who follow him is as great as the number who follow you, Master. He does not stand up to teach others, nor does he sit down to offer his views. People come to him with empty minds, yet leave as though fully laden. Can there really be a teaching that is conveyed without words, that does not show itself outwardly, yet enables people to understand inwardly and achieve something? What sort of person is he?”

Confucius said, “Master Wang Tai is a sage. I have always been behind him and have not yet had the chance to learn from him. I would like to take him as my teacher; how much more so should those who are less accomplished than I? Why should this be limited to the state of Lu? I would bring everyone under Heaven with me to follow him.” This is Confucius’ way of describing Wang Tai as his teacher and esteeming his level of attainment.

Chang Ji said, “He is only a man with a severed foot, yet he surpasses ordinary people. The distance between you, Master, and ordinary people is already so great. How does his mind work, to be so extraordinary?”

Confucius said, “Life and death are great matters in human existence, yet they cannot change his state of mind. Even if Heaven and Earth were overturned, he would not be caught up in it. He can see that things are not reliable foundations, and so he is not shaken by changes in the external world…”

“Without falsity” refers to the Dao—the fundamental principle—which lies beyond physical form and is utterly real. It stands apart from all things, so it does not change as external things change. “Letting things undergo their transformations while keeping to their source” means allowing all things to change naturally while holding fast to the fundamental principle.

Chang Ji asked, “What does this mean? I don’t understand what it means not to change along with things.”

Confucius explained, “From the standpoint of difference, the liver and gallbladder are as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue. From the standpoint of sameness, all things are originally one. Someone who has reached this state no longer clings to how the ears and eyes ought to perceive. Instead, they let their mind and spirit roam at ease in a realm of harmonious De. People see only how this person is connected with all things; they do not see what the person has lost. Even if they see that the person has lost a foot, it is like seeing someone discard a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji asked again, “But this person has merely remained in such a state. Through their own understanding, they found their original mind, and through that original mind, they attained the ordinary mind. Since everyone has this mind, why do people hold this person in such high esteem?”

Confucius said, “People do not use flowing water as a mirror; they use still water to see themselves. Only stillness can bring the many things to rest. The thoughts of ordinary people rush about like flowing water, while the sage’s mind is tranquil as still water. That is why only the sage can quiet what is agitated.

“All things receive their endowment from the earth, yet only pines and cypresses remain green through both winter and summer. ‘Only’ means that the pure, unified vital energy between Heaven and Earth appears in the pines and cypresses alone, though all things are many. Human beings receive their endowment from Heaven, yet only Shun attained the right Way. Fortunate in setting his own life and nature straight, he was able to set others straight. Shun received the Mandate of Heaven and obtained the upright nature Heaven bestowed. He first made himself upright, and only then could he correct the deviations of others.

“The proof that one has safeguarded life’s original condition lies, in truth, in being fearless. A warrior who charges alone into the ranks of nine armies, seeking fame yet also keeping himself in check, can still manage to feel no fear. For this reason, the person who possesses the Way is also fearless. How much more so the sage, who governs Heaven and Earth, gathers all things within the heart, regards the six parts of the body—the head, trunk, and limbs—as temporary lodging, sees the ears and eyes as contingent forms, understands that the transformations of all things return to oneness, and yet never loses the original heart?”

People often lose their original true heart; only the sage does not, and so can regard all things as one undivided whole with himself. That person will choose a day to depart, ascending to a distant immortal realm and transcending the world. People follow him, yet what they actually follow lies beyond his physical form. How, then, could he regard things outside himself as what he seeks?

This chapter is titled “The Sign of Virtue Complete.” It opens by using Wang Tai, whose body is impaired, to explain its teachings. The closing lines make the point that when De (Virtue) is truly full within, it naturally becomes visible without. People follow him not because he deliberately draws them to himself. In Buddhist terms, forgetting the body and using a single mind to apprehend things means breaking free of the discriminating mind that clings to the self. Overcoming this attachment allows one to attain the fruit of arhatship—the spiritual attainment of Buddhist practice—and gain supernatural powers and transformations. Here, Zhuangzi speaks from a worldly perspective: cultivating the ability to forget the body and set aside cleverness can also bring one to a similar state. This is what is meant by “the perfected person forgets himself.”

The “six bodily parts” mentioned here—the four limbs, head, and torso—along with “the forms of the ears and eyes,” meaning the senses manifested through the body, and “what is known by unified awareness,” meaning apprehending things with a unified mind, correspond in Buddhist terms to “contemplation of the provisional”: a practice of observing that things appear to exist yet have no fixed self-nature. This method of contemplation is regarded as a way to practice in the world while transcending birth and death. It is also what the commentator calls “cultivating meditation that leaves behind desire,” or practicing meditative absorption free from desire.

Shentu Jia, a disabled man from the Warring States period who is described in the text as having had a foot amputated, and Zichan, a senior minister who governed the state of Zheng, studied together under Bohun Wuren. The commentator suggests that “Bohun Wuren” may be a fictional name invented by the author, inspired by Laozi’s line, “Everyone is bright; I alone seem dim,” with “dim” serving as a title for a sage.

Zichan said to Shentu Jia, “If I leave first, you stay; if you leave first, I’ll stay.” The commentator sees this as showing that Zichan could not let go of his status and reputation. Proud of his achievements and authority, he thought it undignified to come and go with a disabled man and wanted to avoid being seen with Shentu Jia.

The next day, Shentu Jia and Zichan were seated together in the same room again. According to the commentator, Shentu Jia had forgotten his disability and paid no attention to Zichan’s dislike of him. Zichan then said, “If I leave first, you stay; if you leave first, I’ll stay. Now I’m leaving. Will you stay, or would you rather not? When you see someone in government, you don’t step aside. Do you think you can stand as an equal with a ruler?” The commentator points out that Zichan said this because Shentu Jia had not moved aside for him. He used his official position to intimidate Shentu Jia, displaying a narrow mind.

Shentu Jia replied, “Can there really be someone like you among our teacher’s students?” He was mocking Zichan’s narrow-mindedness: “You care only about your position as a ruler and look down on those beneath you. That is truly shallow.”

Shentu Jia continued, “I’ve heard that when a mirror is bright, dust will not settle on it; once dust settles, the mirror is no longer bright. Spend a long time with a worthy person, and you will not make mistakes. Now the teacher you esteem most is our teacher, yet you still speak this way. Have you not made a mistake?” The commentator understands these words as a criticism of Zichan for failing to understand what is right.

This draws on Laozi’s saying, “One who knows himself is enlightened,” to mock Zichan for failing to examine himself. The point is: “Though Zichan is a disciple of a sage, he still says things like this. Clearly, he has not truly learned.”

Zichan said, “You have already fallen into such a state, yet you still argue with Yao over who is wiser. In my view, your understanding is too limited for you to reflect on yourself.” Here, Zichan ridicules Shentu Jia for being disabled, yet failing to examine himself and still thinking himself wise and sage-like. But his words also reveal Zichan’s own true character.

Shentu Jia said, “If you can clearly see your own faults, you will find that many people in the world are more at fault than I am. So I should not be punished merely because I am missing a foot. If you cannot see your own faults and instead make much of mine, then few will think I should not be punished.” The commentator considers the meaning of these two sentences in the original somewhat awkward, and suspects that the phrase “those who think I should not be punished are few” may contain an extra “not.”

When one knows that what has happened can no longer be undone, one accepts it calmly and regards it as fate’s arrangement. Only a person of De can do this.

People are like those walking within the range of Yi, the legendary archer, standing where he could surely hit them. If they are not struck by an arrow, it is not because the place is safe, but because they have escaped by chance. People in the world who find themselves in danger, on the brink of disaster, and yet get away often do so by chance as well. I failed to escape because of misfortune. Is that not also the work of fate?

People often mock me for my maimed foot. At first, I would get angry, too. Later, when I came to the Master and heard of the Great Dao, the distinction I held in my heart between “you” and “me” faded away, and even my original anger completely subsided. I do not know whether the Master cleansed my heart with the goodness of the Dao. In the nineteen years I have spent with him, I have never felt that I was a man with a severed foot. Now I meet you heart to heart, yet you still judge me by my outward appearance. Isn’t that going too far?

When Zichan heard this, his expression immediately turned ashamed and respectful. Composing himself, he said, “Please say no more.”

Through Zichan’s experience, this chapter shows that a sage does not dwell on his own achievements. When inner De is full, one is no longer constrained by bodily impairment and can accept one’s fate with contentment. When people meet through the Dao, they can forget the distinction between you and me. This is the state one reaches after making progress in learning the Dao.

In the state of Lu, a man named Shushan Wuzhi had lost one foot as a result of punishment. Walking on his heel, he went to visit Confucius. Confucius said, “You were careless in your conduct and suffered this misfortune in the past. Now you have come, but I fear it is already too late!”

Wuzhi replied, “I lost my foot because I did not understand that I should devote my mind and strength to learning the Dao, and treated my body recklessly. I have come to see you because there is still something more precious than a foot: a person’s original nature. I want to do my best to preserve it. Heaven covers all things, and Earth bears all things. I thought you were as broad-minded as Heaven and Earth. How could I have known you would value bodily appearance so highly?”

Confucius said, “My understanding was shallow! Why don’t you come in, sir? Please let me hear what you know of the Dao.”

After Wuzhi left, Confucius said to his disciples, “You must strive to learn! Though Wuzhi has lost one foot, he still works to learn the Dao and make up for his past mistakes. How much more should those whose De is complete and whose bodies and minds are whole?”

Wuzhi said to Lao Dan, “I fear Confucius has not yet reached the state of the Perfect Person. Why, then, did he once humbly present himself as a student and seek instruction from me? He pursues a reputation for the strange and bizarre, without realizing that an empty reputation is like shackles, binding a person’s body and mind.”

Lao Dan said, “Why not tell him to regard life and death as one and the same Dao, and to see approval and disapproval, good and evil, right and wrong as joined in a single whole? Then he might be able to free himself from those shackles.”

Wuzhi replied, “This is a punishment Heaven has imposed on him. How could he be freed from it?” Here, the commentator explains “Heaven’s punishment” as an inborn disposition: Confucius seems naturally inclined to pursue fame, and is therefore difficult to change.

This commentary argues that the chapter explains how the sage is indifferent to fame. The commentator portrays Confucius as someone who pursues empty reputation but gives little weight to genuine virtue: he cares only about worldly judgments of right and wrong, good and evil, and does not know that the Perfected Person has long since transcended life and death and regards fleeting fame as a bond. If one cannot forget life and death and rise beyond judgments of right and wrong, one remains constrained by ordinary worldly feelings. The sage does not regard such a state as an attainment.

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius, “In the state of Wei there is a man of strikingly ugly appearance named Ai Taituo. Men who spend time with him find themselves thinking of him and cannot bear to leave. When women see him, they ask their parents, ‘I would rather be his concubine than marry anyone else.’ There are more than ten such people. He has never been known for any outstanding ability, and simply goes along with everyone else. He holds no position as a ruler and cannot save anyone’s life; nor does he have an accumulated income that could feed people. His appearance is so ugly that it could frighten the world. In his ordinary conduct he simply goes along with others and shows no exceptional talent. His understanding does not extend beyond the common range. Yet when people face disputes with one another and cannot decide who is right or who has won, they often ask him to judge. This man must have something out of the ordinary about him.”

In the commentary, “male and female” refers here to contests over who will prevail. “His understanding does not extend beyond the four domains” means that his insight does not go beyond the range of ordinary people in the world.

The ruler said, “I summoned him to meet me, and, as expected, his ugly appearance startled me. I could see no particular merit in him. After spending several months with him, I began to think he had something to recommend him, though I still did not fully understand him. Before a year had passed, I trusted him completely. There was no chancellor in the state, so I entrusted him with the affairs of government. At first he remained silent and seemed displeased; later he appeared indifferent, as though he meant to refuse. I felt ashamed of this, but in the end I still handed the affairs of government over to him. Before long, he left me. I grieved at his departure, as though I had lost something, and felt that there was no one left who could govern and enjoy the state alongside me. What kind of person was he, to make me value him so highly?”

Confucius said, “I was once on a mission to Chu when I happened to see a group of fawns nursing beside their dying mother. After a while, they saw that their mother’s eyes no longer blinked, and they all abandoned her and ran away. That was because their mother could no longer see them or respond to them as she had when she was alive. They loved their mother not for her outward form, but for what had made that form move. The body is merely a vessel; what makes it move is the true master. The love between the fawns and their mother arose from their nature.”

Long ago, while a piglet suckled, it was attached to its mother. What was it attached to? Not to her physical form, but to the life-giving reality that animated it. The body is only something borrowed for a time; what brings it to life is the true master. The piglet’s attachment to its mother arose from its nature: when it suckled, how could it not love her? Now that its mother has just died, the piglet at first still goes to suckle. But when it sees that her eyes no longer move and realizes that her spirit is gone, it leaves her and runs away. This shows that life and death are not far apart: as soon as the piglet senses that life has departed, it leaves at once. What it was attached to was not its mother’s corpse, but the reality that had made the body alive. If even so dull a creature knows to cherish its innate nature, how much more should a human being?

A fallen soldier should not be buried with a general’s banner—the funerary flag used in ancient rites—as a burial offering. Nor need a person who has lost a foot through amputation cherish shoes, since there is no longer a foot to wear them. Such things have lost their foundation. The examples of the banner and the shoes show that what truly deserves cherishing is the foundation.

When choosing concubines for the Son of Heaven, people required them not to cut their fingernails or pierce their ears, so as to avoid harming the integrity of their bodies. A man taking a wife was also to let his bride remain at home for a time after the wedding and not make her work, so that her hands and feet would not develop thick calluses. If people take such care to preserve bodily integrity in order to win affection and form bonds, then a person whose De is whole deserves even greater esteem. This passage uses the example to explain that Lord Jun of Lu cherished Tai Ta because he had forgotten her outward appearance.

Even a person whose physical form is complete can inspire affection; how much more so a person whose De (Virtue) is complete? (An emperor must know how to govern people, and newlyweds must learn how to build affection between them. Each must take on the appropriate bearing to win favor and establish a bond. Yet even mere physical completeness can have such an effect—how much more so completeness of De? Duke Lu may have cherished Ai Taituo because he forgot his appearance and loved the source from which that appearance arose. The quality that makes him lovable is hard to put into words, which is why Confucius went on to give three examples: what makes him lovable lies in his source.) Now Ai Taituo has not even spoken, yet people trust him; he has done nothing to earn merit, yet people grow close to him. They would even hand him the state, and fear only that he might refuse. This must be someone whose innate nature is complete by Heaven’s endowment, while his De remains unseen on the outside.”

Duke Ai asked, “What does ‘complete in innate capacity’ mean?” (Here, “innate capacity” refers to the natural goodness bestowed on people by Heaven—that is, their authentic nature. Zhuangzi calls it the “true ruler,” the authentic principle that governs life. To be complete in innate capacity means not allowing external things to injure one’s nature, so that it remains whole and unharmed.)

Confucius replied, “Life and death, preservation and loss, hardship and success, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, disparagement and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat: these are changes in the affairs of the world and the workings of destiny. (Confucius begins with these sixteen conditions because each can damage life and injure one’s nature. People often cannot help being affected by them, and so their authentic nature is harmed.) They are like the alternation of day and night, appearing before us one after another. (Throughout life, these changes take turns appearing day and night; there is no moment when we can entirely avoid them. Each can damage life and injure one’s nature.) The human mind cannot trace them back to their beginnings.

Therefore, although these things may change ordinary people’s emotions, they are not enough to disturb the innate equilibrium within the heart. Those who understand the Way know that such changes have no fixed reality, so they do not lose their nature because of them. These changes therefore cannot enter the inner “spiritual abode” (the heart’s dwelling, a metaphor for a person’s inner life) and unsettle their true nature.

To keep the heart balanced, peaceful, and joyful, and to understand things without losing emptiness and stillness, is called “being harmonious, content, and responsive without losing openness.” Here, “openness” means a state of responding freely to things without leaving contrived traces. The True Person preserves their innate nature precisely by adapting to changes in things without losing their own nature.

The True Person’s nature flows on without interruption, day and night. When they encounter things, they are gentle as spring, bringing warmth and moving others to change. This is the heart’s natural grasp of the right moment: when it meets things, it acts when action is called for and rests when rest is called for, changing with things without resisting them. The ignorant, by contrast, become entangled in conflict with things. This state of adapting to things while always preserving one’s nature is called “wholeness of innate endowment” (the preservation of one’s inborn nature).

“What does it mean that ‘Virtue does not take outward form’?” Duke Ai asked.

Confucius replied, “Stillness is water’s fullest state when it has come to rest.”

This De can serve as a standard. When the mind remains tranquil, external things cannot disturb it. The “De” spoken of here is the virtue and function inherent in one’s nature. It is difficult to describe in words, so still water is used as a comparison: when at rest, water is deep and clear, and can serve as a standard by which to measure things. Human nature is the same. Deeply still and lucid, unmoving in quietude, it allows the mind to discern things clearly. One can both preserve one’s nature and remain undisturbed by the external world. This is a metaphor for guarding the root, and it also shows that only a tranquil, empty, and clear mind-nature can illuminate the myriad things.

De is brought to completion through the cultivation of mind and nature by harmonizing them. An empty, tranquil, and lucid mind is the sign that De has been fulfilled; it is attained through harmonizing and cultivation, not formed by chance.

When De does not show itself outwardly, the myriad things do not depart from it. This means that people and things are wholly united, without separation. People therefore see only the outward changes of things, not their nature; a person’s De, too, is not easily revealed. It is like seeing only someone’s unattractive appearance without knowing that they are endowed with both talent and virtue. The author holds that Confucius’s words to Duke Ai aptly and profoundly explain the meaning of the Zhongyong: “Harmony is the common path followed throughout the world.”

Later, Duke Ai told Minzi—Min Sun, a disciple of Confucius, whose courtesy name was Ziqian: “At first, I thought that as ruler I was already deeply discerning: I governed the world, held authority over the people’s laws, and worried over their lives and deaths. Now, having heard the words of the Perfected One, I fear that I may in fact lack the corresponding De, and that by recklessly directing myself I might instead bring my state to ruin. Confucius and I are not lord and minister, but friends joined through De.”

This chapter describes the conduct of the sage. One must forget distinctions based on outward form and preserve one’s inherent nature, bringing the inner foundation and its outward expression into unity. The mind must also be free of barriers between itself and the world, attaining a state of equality, stillness, and single-mindedness. Only then is cultivation complete. The highest level of the sage’s cultivation is to possess complete inner wisdom without displaying it outwardly. When inner wisdom is complete, the inner and outer are no longer divided; when De (Virtue/Power) is not displayed, people and all things become one. This is why the sage’s cultivation comes to fruition and De becomes full and embodied. After hearing of the sage’s conduct, the ruler of Lu was also able to forget distinctions of status, be moved by the sage, and wish to become his friend.

The man with the twisted, crippled body went to persuade Duke Ling of Wei, who took a great liking to him. Yet when Duke Ling saw a man with a sound body, he thought the man’s neck looked too slender. The man with a huge, jar-shaped growth on his neck went to persuade Duke Huan of Qi, who also took a great liking to him. When he looked again at people with sound bodies, their necks seemed too slender.

This shows that when a person has inner virtue in some respect, others readily forget their outward appearance. People forget the nature they ought to cherish and cling to the physical form they need not cling to. This is true forgetting.

The sage rests and wanders within the Great Dao, forgetting material desires. Clever schemes bring calamity; using benevolence and righteousness to restrain people’s hearts makes them rigid and hard to loosen. Buying people’s favor with small acts of kindness is merely a way of managing social obligations. Seeking profit through clever devices and contrivances is like a merchant chasing gain. The sage does not deliberately scheme, so what need is there for cleverness? The sage does not carve and shape people’s hearts, so why bind them with benevolence and righteousness? Nothing has been lost in the first place, so why try to make up for it by bestowing favors?

Why accumulate wealth? Then why engage in buying and selling? (This passage refers to four artificial practices, all of which harm people’s original, unspoiled nature. The sage abandons them in order to preserve the De endowed by Heaven.) These four wholesome qualities are all bestowed by Heaven. “Heaven’s nourishment” means that Heaven grants people De; it may also be understood as the lifespan Heaven gives them. Since we have already received our endowment from Heaven, we are, in effect, nourished by Heaven. Why pursue things of human making? Heaven has endowed me with my nature and De, giving me all I need to follow and enjoy. Why rely on human striving?

Though the sage has a human form, he has no worldly feelings. His form is human, so he can live among other people; but without worldly attachments, the disputes and gains and losses of human life cannot disturb his heart. He lives among the crowd, yet his heart remains apart, and he does not let external things become a burden.

Human beings are only one among the myriad things within the Great Void, exceedingly small. What is there to cling to? Yet human nature is vast and transcendent. By preserving this De bestowed by Heaven, one can move from the human realm to the realm of Heaven.

The preceding passage said that one should use wisdom to forget the body. But wisdom itself still remained, and the mystery of the Dao had not yet been fully understood. This chapter therefore goes further: one must even forget the act of “forgetting wisdom.” When wisdom is no longer something to cling to, De can flow freely from the human realm into the realm of Heaven.

Although the earlier passage spoke of relying on “knowledge” to forget the body, knowledge itself still remained, and the mystery of the Great Dao had not yet been fully experienced. This chapter therefore goes further and speaks of “forgetting one’s attachment to knowledge”: when knowledge itself is forgotten, De can transform naturally in accordance with the Dao of Nature, preserving one’s innate De and bringing it to fullness.

Thus, when the two rulers met the two accomplished men, they were able to see them without regarding them as embodied persons. This was proof of the depth of their De. The highest state attained by sages in cultivating the Dao is complete only at this point. For this reason, the chapter concludes the meaning of the work as a whole.

Huizi asked Zhuangzi, “Are people born without feelings?” In other words, are people inherently free of emotional desires?

Zhuangzi replied, “Yes.” He meant that human nature is not originally constrained by emotional desires, and so he affirmed the claim directly.

Huizi asked, “If a person has no feelings, how can they still count as a person?” Huizi was voicing a common view: someone without feelings does not seem fully human.

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao gives people their form, and Heaven gives them their body. How could they not count as people?” People become human by receiving their nature from Heaven, and that nature comes from the Dao. With such a nature, they are of course human.

Huizi asked again, “If they are called people, how can they have no feelings?” He still believed that being human necessarily meant having feelings.

Zhuangzi replied, “That is not what I mean by ‘feelings.’ By ‘having no feelings,’ I mean that people do not let likes and dislikes injure them. They follow their nature and do not deliberately add to their life.” Here, “having no feelings” does not mean severing the bonds of duty between ruler and subject, parent and child, or husband and wife. It means letting go of greed and desire. People often indulge their desires and recklessly seek to gain more, thereby harming their own lives. Zhuangzi’s “having no feelings” means not being constrained by such desires.

Zhuangzi explained, “By ‘having no emotions,’ I do not mean completely abandoning the bonds of affection between ruler and subject, parent and child, or husband and wife. People indulge their desires in the hope of making life better, but end up harming their lives. So what I advocate cutting off is the emotion of craving, not the bonds of human relationships.”

Huizi asked, “If you do not seek to increase life, how can you preserve your body?” Zhuangzi replied, “The Dao gives people their appearance, and Heaven gives them their form. As long as likes and dislikes do not harm the body from within, that is the fundamental way to preserve life and care for the body. Why deliberately seek to increase life?”

Zhuangzi continued, “Now you set your spirit outside yourself, exhaust your mind, and lean against a tree as you discourse, or rest against a zither—the ‘withered paulownia’—as you ponder. Heaven gave you this form, yet you display your arguments about ‘hardness and whiteness,’ debating whether hardness and whiteness can be separated. You have cast aside the De bestowed by Heaven and become absorbed in disputation. You have truly lost your original nature.”

The main theme of this passage is to forget private attachments and cut off craving in order to preserve the De bestowed by Heaven. The earlier passage has already explained the subtlety of preserving one’s nature; at the end, it clarifies that “having no emotions” does not mean disregarding human relationships. Rather, it means cutting off craving and preserving Heaven’s De, as a warning to the world.

“Yu” is read as “yu” and means “empty.” “Gu” is read as “gu” and refers to a large bone. “Huo” is read as “xu” and describes a sound made suddenly and swiftly. “Shen” is read as “shen” and refers to a large clam that can be made into a container. “Men” is read as “men” and describes the flow of grease or fluid. “Zha” is read as “zha” and refers to a wooden railing. “Zhen” is read as “zhen” and refers to divining about horses. “Lai” is read as “lai” and means “to provide shade.” “Shi” is read as “shi” and is synonymous with “to lick.” “Yi” is read as “yi” and refers to a wooden stake used to ward off wild animals. “Chan” is read as “chan” and refers to one side of a coffin made from a single block of wood. “Xie” is read as “xie” and means “to wash clothes.” “Sha” is read as “sha” and refers to feather ornaments or banner-like decorations on a coffin. “Ao” is read as “ao” and describes something vast.

Volume Four: “The Great Ancestral Teacher” (chapter title).

Zhuangzi wrote his book with a fundamental purpose and a central idea running through it; it was not a collection of casual reflections. He divided its chapters into “Inner Chapters” and “Outer Chapters” because the subject is the Way of “inner sageliness and outer kingship.” If one apprehends the Great Dao within the heart, one becomes a sage inwardly; if circumstances make it necessary to engage with worldly affairs, one can govern the world outwardly and become a ruler. This learning concerns both ultimate reality and its practical application. It is not empty talk.

The seven Inner Chapters follow one another in sequence. “Free and Easy Wandering” sets out the sage’s complete state. The saying “When one’s greatness reaches the point of transformation, one is called a sage” means that when one’s state is so vast that it can encompass change, one may be called a sage. This chapter presents the book’s fundamental purpose and the central argument on which it rests.

Next comes “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.” It points out that, from ancient times to the present, most people have failed to understand the source of the Great Dao. Each takes their own view to be correct, and so they argue with one another over right and wrong. The opening mentions the Confucians and Mohists rejecting each other, and says that neither has yet apprehended the Great Dao. Each merely takes the narrow doctrine of the school they inherited as absolutely correct, clinging to it without change. In doing so, they lose sight of the true ruler—the inner true nature or spiritual foundation—and presume that their own view must be right. People throughout the ages have been caught in this confusion; few have truly awakened, and in the end no one is left to set them straight. This passage laments how people cling to their own opinions and are consequently left bewildered.

Next comes “Nourishing the Lord of Life.” Having lost sight of the true ruler, people instead take their flesh-and-blood bodies to be their true selves. They concern themselves only with personal gain, pursuing fame, profit, and status to preserve the body, while unknowingly harming their inner true nature. People throughout the ages have been lost in this way, with no real understanding of what they should be nourishing. If one can nourish the lord of life, one can rise above the harms of material desires and avoid wasting one’s life. Truly understanding how to nourish life allows one to recover one’s natural nature and preserve the foundation of the Great Dao. This is the basis for attaining the sage’s state.

Next comes “The Human World,” which teaches how to conduct oneself in society. One cannot force worldly affairs to conform to fixed preconceptions; they are not easily handled. Those who single-mindedly pursue fame and praise, relying on their abilities to act as they please, inevitably damage their lives and harm their nature. Yan Hui and Lord Ye both acted under constraint because they could not accept their circumstances and did not understand themselves. Only by forgetting oneself and meeting the world with an open mind, as a sage does, and responding only when compelled, can one avoid calamity. “The Human World” fully reveals the many hardships and twists involved in dealing with society. To move through the world without suffering calamity is where the sage’s great influence is put into effect.

Next comes “The Sign of Virtue Complete,” which explains that sages forget distinctions of outward form and set aside cleverness and calculation. They embody both inner substance and outward function. Though free of worldly concerns, they walk in accord with the Dao (the Way). This is the proof that their virtue is complete.

“The Great Ancestral Teacher” draws together the main ideas of the preceding six chapters: the Dao’s substance is whole, virtue is complete, and one merges seamlessly with the great transformation, forgetting oneself, one’s achievements, and one’s reputation. Those called Perfected Persons, Spiritlike Persons, and sages must reach this state to become teachers whom all generations revere and emulate; hence the title “The Great Ancestral Teacher.” This is the great sage who has attained completeness. For the inner-sage tradition, this is the highest state: realizing the substance of the Dao. If one then responds to worldly affairs when compelled, one can become a sage emperor or enlightened king. Thus “Responding to Emperors and Kings” follows, bringing the central teachings of the inner chapters to a close. The outer chapters, meanwhile, extend and elaborate on the ideas established in the inner chapters.

Only someone who understands both the workings of the natural Dao and the workings of human beings can be said to have attained the highest understanding. The “knowing” spoken of here is not ordinary knowledge gained through what one sees and hears, but genuine insight. “Heaven” refers to the natural Dao, the source of all things; heaven, earth, and all things are transformations within the Dao as a whole. The Dao has no intention of its own, yet naturally brings all things into being and nurtures them. Human beings, too, are among the myriad things born of the Dao. Endowed with the Dao, they possess spiritual awareness. The Dao grants human nature, which governs the human body. Our perceptions, sensations, and everyday activities all express the Dao’s subtle workings. Truly understanding that Heaven and humanity are connected and united is therefore the highest understanding.

To understand how the Dao is expressed in the human person is to understand that we are born endowed with the Dao. To know how to use the perceptions we already have in daily life to cultivate the nature we have not yet perceived, and to live out the full span of life without dying prematurely, is to reach a mature state of understanding. In daily life, people can perceive what they see, hear, and feel, yet they often lose their way in desire. They focus only on satisfying their desires and preserving their bodies, without knowing to rid themselves of greed and attachment in order to cultivate their nature. If they can free themselves from greed in everyday life, reflect clearly when they encounter things, and recognize their nature anew, they can use the understanding they already possess to cultivate the nature they have not yet perceived. This is what it means for understanding to be mature.

Yet this way of speaking may itself be problematic. For understanding to be sound, it must have a basis, and that basis may not be reliable. People often act on mistaken understanding, claiming to know what they do not know and treating states they have not yet experienced as though they had already experienced them. They act recklessly and end up damaging their nature. Even if they wait until they have experienced something before making a judgment, they still cannot be sure that what they experienced was genuine insight. Only when they have truly and fully understood that Heaven and humanity are connected from the beginning can they be said to possess true knowledge.

How can we be certain that what I call “Heaven” is not “humanity,” or that what I call “humanity” is not “Heaven”? Only when there are people who have truly embodied the Dao can there be true understanding. To cultivate one’s nature through the routines of human life does not mean that some mysterious Dao exists apart from everyday life. Heaven is humanity, and humanity embodies the Dao. Only by realizing that Heaven and humanity have always been without distinction or deficiency does one become a perfected person—one who has truly embodied the Dao—and attain true knowledge.

This section centers on “knowing” and sets out the main argument of the entire text. The ancients said that the character for “knowing” is both a gateway to all manner of subtle principles and a gateway through which all manner of misfortune may enter. Only understanding gained through genuine insight deserves to be called true knowledge. Only those who possess true knowledge deserve to be called genuine people, worthy of respect and emulation. Knowing Heaven and knowing humanity are pathways to subtle principles.

Yet the pursuit of knowledge carries hidden dangers: “knowing” can also become a gateway to misfortune. If people insist on presenting what they do not understand as though they did, or rely on their own supposed cleverness to act recklessly, knowledge can bring harm instead. This is a common failing among people in the world who consider themselves clever.

What is a “True Person” (a person who has realized the Great Dao and lives in accord with nature)? The True People of antiquity did not reject those with little virtue or wisdom, nor did they pride themselves on being complete in talent and virtue. They did not make deliberate plans for everything. They simply lived with an open mind and did not let external things burden their hearts and spirits. They felt no regret when events had passed, and when things happened to go well, they did not congratulate themselves.

A True Person could climb to a high place without fear, enter water without getting wet, and walk into fire without feeling its heat. This means that a True Person has no concern for gain or loss, benefit or harm, and does not attach their feelings to external things. In this way, they can transcend the constraints of the outside world, preserve their inborn nature, and draw close to the Dao.

The True People of antiquity did not dream when they slept, had no worries when awake, and did not find food especially delicious. Their breathing was deep and long. To say that a True Person “breathes from the heels” uses the heels as a metaphor for breath so deep it is hard to measure, describing a settled heart and spirit untouched by external disturbances. By contrast, ordinary people “breathe from the throat”: their breathing is shallow and hurried, their hearts and spirits restless. In daily life they are always pulled along by external things and cannot experience the Dao.

Those with restless hearts and spirits often speak as though rushing words out of their throats. Their words are shallow, and they are easily made to yield. The deeper their desires, the shallower their inborn clarity. In other words, desire obscures a person’s nature, drawing them into acquired distinctions and delusions and depriving them of genuine realization.

This section explains that the perfected person, who has realized the Dao and transcended worldly distinctions, deeply understands their own nature and therefore possesses true understanding. The way they cultivate body and mind is entirely different from that of ordinary people, so they also appear unusual in the eyes of others.

Earlier, the text mentioned “having concerns”: the worry is that people may not have truly realized the truth, yet mistake illusory understanding for something they have attained. The harm caused by this misapprehension is considerable. Here, the point is developed further from both the positive and negative sides.

The perfected people of ancient times knew neither attachment to life nor aversion to death. The earlier passage broadly described how perfected people forgot worldly gains and losses; here, it goes further, explaining that they transcend not only gain and loss but also the distinction between life and death.

The perfected people of antiquity neither clung to life nor loathed death. The preceding passage said that, in their dealings with the world, they could forget about gain and harm. Here, it goes further: they could transcend life and death as well. Because they were one with the Dao, they understood that life’s source was not truly brought into being, so they did not cling to life while living. They also understood that death was not true disappearance, so they did not loathe it.

They felt no joy at birth and offered no resistance at death. “Coming and going” refers to life and death, as in the Laozi’s saying, “Coming forth into life, entering into death.” The perfected people neither clung to life nor resisted death. They seemed to come and go freely, without attachment.

They did not forget life’s beginning, nor did they pursue its end. Knowing that life had not truly come into being, they did not forget its beginning. They traveled with the Dao, did not imagine they had a world they must leave, and saw all things as one; therefore, they did not ask after an end.

They accepted life and embraced it gladly. Even when their minds seemed to forget the things around them, they always returned to the Dao. Ordinary people see life as a burden and so feel sorrow rather than joy. The perfected people, however, lived bearing the Dao, and could therefore rejoice in receiving a bodily form. Though they lived among other people, their hearts did not turn away from the Dao. They could forget themselves in the things of the world and merge with them, while their thoughts continually returned to the Dao. This is called not abandoning the Dao because of one’s own preconceptions, and not treating human contrivance as a burden. One who does not use human effort to interfere with nature is called a perfected person.

This section describes how the perfected people lived in the world: they forgot not only gain and harm, but also life and death. Though they dwelt among people, their hearts rose above worldly things. Without genuine understanding and realization, it is difficult to reach this state. The passage invites us to understand the state cultivated by the perfected people.

A realized person has no fixed intention in the heart. His expression is quiet, and his forehead seems broad and relaxed. The phrase “heart and intention” appears in another version as “forgetting,” meaning a lack of attachment to worldly affairs. “Quiet in countenance” describes a calm expression, a still inner state, and an outwardly composed manner. “Broad forehead” depicts a relaxed, open brow without any sign of constraint.

He appears grave and austere, solemn like the air of autumn. Yet when one draws near, he feels warm and approachable, like spring. His joy and anger shift with the four seasons, responding fittingly to different things, but no one can discern any fixed rule behind them. In other words, he does not deliberately cultivate joy or anger; he responds naturally to the way things affect him.

Thus, when a sage wages war, even if another state is destroyed, he does not lose the people’s support. His benevolence can reach across generations, yet it does not arise from a deliberate wish to care for any particular person. This means that the sage governs worldly affairs without selfish motives, following the Dao of Heaven. Even in war, he does not act from a desire to kill; when he benefits others, he does not do so in order to win their affection.

To deliberately seek communion with all things is not the way of a sage. To harbor partial affection is not true benevolence. To speculate about Heaven’s timing and calculate the turn of events is not the way of a worthy person who follows what is ordained. One who does not understand advantage and harm cannot be called a gentleman. One who pursues fame through words and actions at the cost of losing the true self is not a person of integrity. And one who sacrifices himself for others while failing to preserve his true nature cannot be said to command external things or to make others follow.

Hu Buxie, Wu Guang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Xuyu, Jita, and Shentu Di were all made to serve others and acted according to other people’s standards. They were not truly at ease with their own nature and choices. The commentator holds that they lacked genuine wisdom: they sacrificed what was true in themselves for the sake of fame, and so stood far from the Way of the sage.

This section first summarizes the point: people whose knowledge is not genuine cannot forget themselves or their reputation. They devote themselves to seeking praise, and in the end sacrifice what is real for the sake of fame. None of them is a truly wise sage. The text then goes on to explain the True Person—a person who embodies the Dao in practice and whose spirit is pure—and genuine wisdom.

The True Persons of antiquity had no fixed views about what must or must not be done in dealing with the world. Their hearts were at peace, yet they did not simply follow the crowd. They seemed to lack something, as though they could not take anything in, because their hearts were empty and they did not claim the things of the world as their own. They lived among others while remaining upright, but were not rigid or inflexible. They acted when called for, yet their hearts remained clear and empty, without pursuing outward display.

They seemed joyful, but were not attached to joy. They could also be humble and yielding, as though circumstances required it. They treated others with humility, simply responding to the situation rather than putting on an act. Their hearts were quiet and full, and their faces naturally showed warmth and kindness; those around them were glad to stay in their company. They were composed and dignified, as if they conformed to worldly manners, yet they stood beyond the constraints of ritual and were not bound by them. They were restrained and self-possessed, seeming to prefer seclusion, but they were not deliberately hiding anything. They were modest toward others, as though they paid no mind even to their own words.

The True Person takes “punishment” as a foundation. Here, “punishment” means leaving no room for personal bias: the heart holds no private thoughts, and this becomes the basis for action. Ritual serves as an aid. Though not attached to ritual, the True Person uses it to act in the world. Wisdom helps discern the right moment, deciding when to act and when to stop. De guides the response to circumstances, so that one acts in keeping with how things actually are.

To take “punishment” as a foundation means clearing away selfish desires while leaving room to go further and diminish self-interest even more. To use ritual as an aid is to act in the world. To discern the right moment through wisdom is to respond as circumstances require. To guide the response through De is to guide people in an appropriate way, so that those capable of advancing can continue along the Dao. These four points explain, respectively, the earlier references to punishment, ritual, wisdom, and De.

People in the world think the True Person acts with strenuous effort and diligence. In fact, as the Laozi says, “use it without exertion”—“exertion” means laboring hard. As the True Person moves through the world and deals with affairs, they do not force themselves; though they act, they do not feel worn out.

This section describes the True Person (zhenren)—one who has realized the Great Dao and follows the natural course—as moving through the human world with an open mind. Though living amid the dust of the world, they are not entangled by worldly concerns; though among other people, they do not follow the crowd blindly. This is what “true knowledge” looks like in practice.

Thus, whether they like something or dislike it, they return to the same state of calm; whether following nature or living amid the world’s confusion, they return to the Great Dao. The “unity” spoken of here means that Heaven and humanity unite in the Dao: though the myriad things are diverse and complex, they ultimately merge wholly into the Great Dao. Such a person is in harmony with Heaven and can still live among other people.

Only when Heaven and humanity neither suppress nor harm one another can someone be called a True Person. To stand apart from the world is to let one’s heavenly nature suppress human life; to chase external things and lose one’s original nature is to let human desires suppress heavenly nature. The True Person allows heavenly nature and human life to coexist in peace, so that neither is harmed.

This section summarizes the work of understanding the Dao of Heaven and the affairs of human life in advance: when Heaven and humanity have become wholly integrated and flow through one another, one can then follow what is natural and true. In this way, what belongs to Heaven accords with the Dao of Heaven, while what belongs to humanity follows human affairs. Heaven and Earth spring from a single source, and all things are interconnected; therefore, the Dao of Heaven and human affairs do not suppress one another.

Only through such true understanding and profound realization, allowing body and mind to merge with the transformations of all things, can one be called a “True Person”—an ideal person who accords with the Dao. This cannot be attained through forced study or baseless speculation. The passage describes the complete cultivation needed to become a True Person. Thus, from the next chapter’s opening, “Life and death are matters of fate,” through the end of the chapter on “Hiding a Boat,” the text repeatedly urges people to learn the Dao and cultivate themselves in earnest.

Human life and death are both governed by destiny. The alternation of day and night follows a fixed pattern; this is simply how nature works. Human beings are born and die just as the seasons pass through day and night: neither can be avoided. Yet though day and night change, empty space itself remains constant. Though the human body is subject to life and death, its true nature remains unchanged, just as empty space is unaffected by day and night. This is what is called “Heaven.”

There are things people cannot control by their own efforts; this is simply the way things are. What is called true nature is naturally present within each person. It is not something human effort can create. Everyone possesses this original true substance, also called the “True Ruler” or “Heavenly Lord.” It must be nurtured before it can be recognized.

Everyone takes Heaven as their father, because both their true nature and their physical form are received from Heaven and are complete from the beginning. People cherish their bodies; how much more should they cherish the nature that transcends bodily form? The body is a temporary vessel of flesh and blood, born through one’s earthly father. People still nourish the body and honor their father. Then should they not even more carefully nurture and honor the nature that bears and governs the body, standing apart from it and unconstrained by it?

People regard the ruler as superior to themselves, and some are even willing to give their lives for him. How much more, then, should they forget the burdens of the body and serve with loyalty the “True Sovereign” who truly governs them? To fail to do so is the height of folly. These words are deeply earnest. Anyone who reads them and still does not awaken has failed to understand the matter.

This passage says that a person’s true nature resides within them, yet is not governed by life and death; it is the constant, unchanging nature. People lose sight of it without realizing, damage it through their desires, and fail to understand that it must be nurtured. This is utter foolishness.

When the spring runs dry, the fish are stranded together on land. They moisten one another with damp breath and wet one another with saliva. Rather than struggle to get by this way, it would be better for them to forget one another in the rivers and lakes, living freely.

The Laozi says, “When the Dao is lost, De appears; when De is lost, benevolence appears; when benevolence is lost, righteousness appears.” Here, the fish stranded away from water serve as a metaphor: only after people lose the Great Dao and De do they rely on benevolence and righteousness to support one another. Upholding benevolence and righteousness is like fish stranded on land, moistening one another. Better to forget these distinctions and roam freely in the realm of the Great Dao.

Rather than praise Yao and condemn Jie, it is better to forget both praise and blame and merge with the Dao. With neither praise nor reproach, one can leave behind distinctions between good and evil and become one with the Dao. This is true and profound understanding.

Heaven and Earth—here called “the Great Clod”—gave me my form, make me labor in life, grant me ease in old age, and give me rest after death. Therefore, one who knows how to treat life well also knows how to treat death well.

People live between Heaven and Earth. Toil or ease, life or death: all arise naturally and cannot be refused. This is destiny. Understand the principles that govern life, and one can grasp where the Dao resides. From there, one can comprehend the Way of Heaven. If one understands that Heaven and humanity are originally undivided, one can merge completely with the Dao, without letting human intentions harm what is natural. Living with an empty and tranquil mind, one passes through life without forgetting the Great Dao. To treat life well is also to treat death well. This expresses the highest understanding: Heaven, humanity, and the Dao are united; one faces life and death without a change of heart, following the natural transformations of creation.

This passage says that people in the world do not understand the Great Dao, yet take benevolence and righteousness to be the highest standards. So they treat their families with compassion and devote their lives to serving their rulers. Though these actions come from good intentions, they have not yet reached the true state described by the Great Dao. It is like a spring drying up, leaving fish stranded on land, where they can only breathe moisture onto one another and wet each other with spittle.

If one can fully understand the Great Dao, one will see that all things are originally one and will no longer cling to distinctions between good and evil. This is like fish living freely in rivers and lakes, with no need to care for one another deliberately or depend on one another. Only upon reaching this state can one be said to know Heaven and humanity: one’s De accords with the Way of Heaven, and one transcends attachment to life and death. Whether living or dying, one remains at ease, finding nothing improper in either.

People think it is secure to hide a boat in a ravine and a mountain in a great lake. Yet in the middle of the night, someone strong enough might carry them away, and no one would know. Hiding the true nature of life within the body is like hiding a boat in a ravine; placing physical things within Heaven and Earth is like hiding a mountain in a great lake. People think such arrangements are firm and lasting, but the transformations of creation are constantly at work in secret. Even Heaven and Earth change along with them, though ordinary people do not notice—just as they fail to know when things have been quietly carried away.

Hiding things of different sizes in places suited to them cannot prevent change and loss. If all things under Heaven can be placed within Heaven, with nowhere to escape and no need to flee, then this is the enduring reality of all things. If we understand that we and all things under Heaven are one with the Dao, without distinction within the undivided transformation of the whole, it is like hiding what is formless within the formless: there is naturally no question of escape. This is the true condition of Heaven and Earth and all things.

When people happen to acquire human form, they are overjoyed. Yet the human form, too, changes along with all things, and change has no end. Since this is so, each thing has something in it to delight in. How could we ever count all the pleasures within them?

Thus the sage’s spirit wanders in a realm where nothing can escape and nothing fails to endure. The sage meets short life and long life, birth and death, with equanimity, and the world takes the sage as its model. How much more, then, does the Great Dao serve as the root on which all things depend and the basis through which their transformations flow together as one? The Great Dao is the foundation of Heaven, Earth, and all things, and the object the sage honors and follows.

This commentary explains that the supreme “Great Dao” has no physical form, yet is the foundation of Heaven, Earth, and all things. Everyone receives life from this formless Dao, which is the true master of life. Those who comprehend the Dao see through Heaven, Earth, and all things, and become one with the world beyond them in both body and mind. A person who fully understands this principle is called a “Great Master” (one who takes the Dao as their foundation and teacher), a sage who has attained vastness and transformation.

At this level, one can forget the self, remain unattached to achievements and fame, roam freely beyond the myriad things, and transcend the constraints of life and death. Most people do not understand the mysteries of the Dao. With their narrow knowledge, they assume they are right, cling to their own views, and argue with one another. In doing so, they lose the root of life and chase worldly fame and profit, making it impossible for their De to accord with the Dao.

The commentator holds that the first five chapters offer some explanations but do not fully bring this point to light. This chapter therefore begins by discussing “knowing Heaven and knowing the human,” and says that those with genuine wisdom are true persons. It then introduces the “Great Master” to reveal the fundamental principle honored by Laozi and Zhuangzi in establishing their teachings. The chapter later turns to the word “Dao” on its own and develops it further, showing that the whole book is connected from beginning to end. Though the chapter’s language is expansive, its purpose has a clear foundation.

From the words “Now, the Dao…” onward, the commentary moves into a new discussion. The preceding passage has described the character of the Great Master; this section follows on from it and brings its meaning to a close. “Master” in “Great Master” means one who honors and takes refuge in something. The Great Dao is the foundation on which all things depend and from which their transformations arise.

The Dao’s essence is real in its nature and reliable in its evidence. “Having feeling” here does not mean human emotion. It means that although the Great Dao is profound, still, and empty, it is not wholly without substance: it has a true essence and function. “Having evidence” means that it is real and trustworthy. The Great Dao acts without contrivance and has no fixed form. It is silent and tranquil, beyond names and appearances.

The Great Dao can be passed on through a meeting of minds, but it cannot be handed over like a tangible object. It can be understood inwardly, but it cannot be seen with the eyes. It takes itself as its own basis and root; no other thing brought it into being. The Dao existed eternally before Heaven and Earth appeared. Spirits, ghosts, and the Heavenly Emperor reveal their wonders through it, and Heaven and Earth were transformed into being from it.

The Great Dao precedes Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), yet is not lofty; it lies beneath the four directions of Heaven and Earth, yet is not deep. It came into being before Heaven and Earth, yet is not ancient; it existed before high antiquity, yet is not old. The Dao endures by nature and cannot be measured by time or space. After obtaining the Dao, Xīwéi Shì, an ancient ruler, could take part in the transforming and nurturing of Heaven and Earth and bring order to the realm.

Fuxi (a legendary ancient ruler) attained the Great Dao and thereby received the primordial Qi from which all things arise and transform. The Northern Dipper, the pivot of the celestial movements, attained the Great Dao, and so has moved without error since ancient times. The sun and moon attained the Great Dao, and so have continued on their courses without ceasing since ancient times.

Kanhuai, the spirit of the Kunlun Mountains, attained the Great Dao and thus presides over those mountains. Fengyi, the river god, attained the Great Dao and thus journeys along the great river. Jianwu, the mountain god, attained the Great Dao and thus dwells on Mount Tai. The Yellow Emperor, a legendary ruler, attained the Great Dao and thus roams the cloudy heavens. Zhuanxu, an ancient ruler, attained the Great Dao and thus dwells in the Dark Palace. Yuqiang, the god of the Northern Sea, attained the Great Dao and thus stands at the North Pole. The Queen Mother of the West, a legendary female immortal, attained the Great Dao and thus dwells in the Palace of Shaoguang.

No one knows when the Great Dao began, nor when it will end. All the gods and rulers mentioned above, as well as the sun, moon, and stars, rely on the Great Dao: each rests in its proper place and moves without ceasing. Thus no one can know the Great Dao’s beginning or end.

Pengzu attained the Great Dao, and his life extended from the legendary age of Youyu to the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period. After Fu Yue attained the Great Dao, he assisted King Wuding of Shang. Later, he rode the Eastern Dipper and took his place between the stars Ji and Wei, becoming one of the stars in the heavens.

The “Great Master” refers to the fundamental Dao that people revere. The Dao is the common sovereign of Heaven and Earth, the myriad things, and spiritual beings and humans. All people receive the Dao and are born; what sustains life within the body is one’s inborn nature. The body is temporary, while nature is what is real, so it is called the “True Ruler”—the inner governor of life. When people comprehend the Dao and see their true nature clearly, they can transcend attachment to the body and become one with the transformations of Heaven and Earth. They then become the common foundation of all things in the world. This is why the Dao is called the “Great Master.”

The Great Master here is the spiritual being, sage, and perfected person described in “Free and Easy Wandering.” The phrase “has feeling and has evidence” corresponds to the “True Ruler” in “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” and the “master of life” in “The Essentials for Nurturing Life.” If people enter the world without comprehending the Dao, they cannot avoid the serious troubles that arise from having a body. Yan Hui’s “fasting of the mind” in “In the Human World” teaches people how to comprehend the Dao. Only after realizing their nature can they transcend attachment to the body.

Up to this point, the chapters preceding “The Seal of Virtue Complete” have presented various ways in which people across the ages lose or comprehend the Dao. Here, the principle is finally made explicit. The earlier statement, “Words have their source; affairs have their ruler,” means the same thing. The preceding text has already explained the Dao, but has not yet discussed how to cultivate entry into it. What follows therefore explains the genuine practice of entering the Dao.

Nanbo Zikui asked Nü Gui—both are fictional names; Zhuangzi often uses question-and-answer exchanges between characters to express his ideas, so there is no need to investigate whether they really existed: “You are already very old, yet your appearance is like that of an infant. Why?”

Nü Gui replied, “I have heard of the Dao (the fundamental principle and path of cultivation taught in Daoism).”

Nanbo Zikui asked, “Can the Dao be attained through study?”

Nü Gui said, “Alas, how could it be learned so easily? You are not suited to study the Dao. Buliang Yi had the innate capacity to become a sage, but no aspiration to seek the Dao. I possess the Way of the sage, but lack the innate capacity to become one—that is, my abilities are insufficient, so I have to work at it for a long time. I want to teach the Great Dao to Buliang Yi, in the hope that he may eventually become a sage. His abilities are probably enough to make this possible; I simply do not know whether he can truly accomplish it. If one teaches the Way of the sage to someone who has both the capacity to become a sage and the desire to seek the Dao, it is much easier. People who possess both capacity and aspiration are rare indeed. I continued to hold fast to the Dao and teach it to Buliang Yi. After three days, he was able to ‘place the world outside himself’—that is, to set worldly affairs outside his mind and no longer be burdened by them.”

I continue to hold to the Way as I teach him. After three days, he is able to set the world aside (the world is relatively distant from the self, so it can be forgotten in three days; this is the first step in his instruction). Once he can forget the world, I continue teaching him while holding to the Way. After seven days, he is able to set all things aside (all things are gradually drawing closer to the self, so it takes seven days to forget them). Once he can forget all things, I continue teaching him while holding to the Way. After nine days, he is able to set life and death aside (life is closest to the self, so it takes nine days of practice to forget it). Only after he can forget life and death does he reach “dawn clarity” (like the sky suddenly growing bright at dawn: a sudden illumination, as though waking from a dreamlike haze into full understanding).

Only after reaching “dawn clarity” can he “see the unique” (recognize the singular, true nature, which does not depend on the bodily form). Only after seeing this true nature can he transcend the distinction between past and present (because this nature transcends Heaven and Earth and is not bound by time). Only after transcending past and present can he enter the state of “neither death nor birth” (having awakened to the true nature and understood that it transcends Heaven and Earth, past and present, he recognizes that it was never subject to life and death).

What brings the forms of life to an end does not bring the true nature to an end (here, “life” means embodied existence and its constraints. Once one recognizes the true nature, the bodily form is no longer a burden, and constraints imposed by external things also fall away. Thus, when the body perishes, only the nature remains on its own; hence it is called “undying”). What enables all things to arise and flourish does not itself cause this nature to be born (when the body changes but the nature remains whole, one becomes one with the Dao and can take part in bringing all things into being. But the true nature is clear and unchanging, so the source of all things’ ceaseless arising is not the birth of the nature itself).

The Dao as the source of all things (the Dao that is “neither death nor birth”) can bring anything into being (it transforms in countless ways, nurturing without end).

“Employ” means to make use of or rely on. There is nothing one cannot meet, because the Dao is present in the myriad things of everyday life and can be encountered everywhere. There is nothing one cannot dissolve, because the Dao can shape and transform all things, soften what is sharp, and resolve conflict. There is nothing one cannot bring to completion, because things take shape naturally wherever they are, without deliberate arrangement.

This state is called “stillness amid disturbance.” “Disturbance” refers to the turmoil, hardship, and adversity of the world, which unsettle the mind and spirit. Those who cultivate the Dao must temper themselves through favorable and adverse circumstances until no situation can shake their composure, and their minds remain clear and serene. This is what “stillness amid disturbance” means: such serenity is attained only after passing through turmoil and trial.

Earlier, when discussing the Great Dao, the text said that it is worthy of reverence and can serve as a model for practice, but this was still general and did not identify the essentials. This section now explains more specifically how to learn the Dao. Its point is that although everyone already possesses the Dao, no sage is born knowing it; it must still be attained through learning. Those who wish to learn must have good natural ability—the capacity to understand and practice—so they are suited to receive instruction. Teaching, too, must not be done carelessly: someone must repeatedly remind and personally guide the student, and teach methods of maintaining and practicing the Dao. Practice must not be rushed, but proceed step by step.

Thus practitioners should gradually awaken: after three days, they forget what lies beyond the self; after seven days, they forget external things; after nine days, they forget life and death. Then they reach “seeing the unique” (jian du, perceiving the Dao as singular and independent) and “dawn-clear” (chao che, a mind suddenly open and lucid). These are the effects of awakening. Once they have understood the Dao, wherever they are, they can naturally respond to everything they encounter in daily life. They move through all things without obstruction. Even amid the toil and bustle of the world, their hearts remain settled and peaceful, their spirits still and clear, unmoved by their surroundings. This level of cultivation is called “stillness amid disturbance” (ying ning). The term means that a person cultivates amid a chaotic environment and worldly affairs, passing through agitation before reaching peace; hence it is said, “disturbed, then fulfilled.”

This shows that although Zhuangzi’s words range widely and at length, the practice of the Dao he describes came from rigorous cultivation, not casual talk. How, then, can readers today treat his writings as mere literature?

The earlier passage discussed the practice of entering the Dao; the following passage discusses hearing the Dao. One can also gain insight into the Dao through written words, so here the teaching is developed through repetition.

Nanbo Zikui asked, “Where did you hear these principles?”

The reply was: “I first encountered them in written texts. Through repeated recitation and reflection, I gradually saw the clear principles within them. Then I took what I had heard to heart and came to agree with it inwardly. Even after gaining some understanding, I still had to test it in practice, so that the principles would become clear in every situation and accord with the Dao. Only then could I advance toward their subtle depths.

“After that, I had to dwell on them and savor them again and again, letting my understanding sink in and blend within me. Then I entered a deep realm beyond words, and ultimately reached a vast, open expanse—the true abode of the Dao. There, one returns to the ‘beginning in doubt,’ tracing back to the beginning before beginnings. This is the ultimate attainment of studying the Dao.”

This passage describes a process that begins with reading and reciting texts, proceeds through understanding and practical testing, and culminates in deep reflection and entry into a far-reaching realm of stillness and emptiness.

This section says that sages do not comprehend the Great Dao without any basis. They also gain insight from written words and spoken teachings. Then, in their everyday conduct and dealings with others—even while chanting, coughing, or spitting—they accord with a realm that is profound and mysterious, vast and boundless. They trace their way back to the beginning before beginnings and reach what cannot be fathomed. Only by experiencing this deeply and verifying it for themselves can they be said to have attained it. Clearly, it cannot be gained merely by listening to someone speak; that is why such a person is called a “Great Master,” one who has reached the highest realization of the Great Dao.

The preceding text explained why the Great Dao is worthy of reverence and said that those who realize it may be called masters. It did not yet establish whether anyone has truly attained the utmost. Concerned that people might not believe this and dismiss it as empty talk, the text now presents Zisi and others as examples of people who genuinely attained the Dao.

Zi Si, Zi Yu, Zi Li, and Zi Lai were talking together. “Who can take the formless as the head, life as the body, and death as the tail? Who can understand that death, life, being, and dissolution are all one from the beginning? We would like to be friends with such a person.” The four looked at one another and laughed, their thoughts in accord, and so they became friends.

Zi Yu fell ill, and Zi Si went to visit him. Zi Yu sighed, “The Creator is truly remarkable—to have turned me into this twisted shape!” He went on to describe his body after the illness: his back was bent, sores had grown on him, and his body was hunched so that the openings of his five organs all faced upward. His cheeks had sunk below his navel, his shoulders towered above his head, and his topknot pointed toward the sky. He added that the Qi of Yin and Yang had lost its harmony.

Although my body was formed through the transformations of Heaven and Earth, it became so broken and misshapen because the Qi of Yin and Yang fell into disorder and failed to harmonize. Yet my mind is at ease and free, with nothing to trouble it.” This means that though his body is disabled, his mind is free of attachment. It shows that he can follow the natural course of things and find contentment in it, without treating his body as a burden.

Leaning on something as he hobbled along, Ziyu went to the well to look at his reflection and said, “Ah! The Maker has fashioned my body into this twisted shape. Will he make me even more disabled and unsightly?”

Zisi asked, “Do you hate this body?” Ziyu replied, “No. What is there for me to hate? My mind feels no aversion at all. On the contrary, it is moving along with these transformations. If the Maker gradually changes my left arm into a rooster, I’ll use it to announce the dawn. If he changes my right arm into a slingshot, I’ll use it to shoot an owl and roast it. If he changes my buttocks into wheels and my spirit into a horse, I’ll ride out on them. Why would I need another carriage?”

Here, “the Maker” means the force that brings all things into being and transforms them. “Announce the dawn” means to crow at daybreak, and “roasted owl” means an owl cooked over a fire. Ziyu believes that since the body can change along with the transformations, there is no need to cling to its original form. By following change, one can also find a use for it.

So, even if the body is like an external object, as long as it truly follows change, both form and spirit can reach a subtle and wondrous state. The Perfected Person—one who has realized the Great Dao and follows nature—travels through the world by virtue of this. What need is there to ride anything else?

To gain something is due to the times; to lose it is to follow change. At ease with the course of events and in accord with change, one does not let grief or joy enter the heart. This is what the ancients called “release from suspension”—freedom from bonds like those of someone hanging upside down. Human existence is, by its nature, like being suspended upside down and made to suffer; to move beyond attachment to life and death is like being released from that torment. The Perfected Person forgets the body and follows what is true in their nature, so form and spirit are both free. They do not let gain or loss disturb the heart, and find contentment in every circumstance; thus grief and joy cannot trouble them.

People could, by nature, be free of these burdens and at ease beyond them. They cannot free themselves because external things and attachments have bound them. In any case, no thing can ultimately overcome the transformations of nature, so why resent them? We can only let the workings of creation carry us through change. Since we cannot overcome nature, we should follow it.

This section describes the true understanding attained by the perfected person: the body is not something eternal or unchanging. Once it temporarily takes form, it becomes a burden on life. The perfected person therefore regards the body as if it were a boil and does not cling to it; they also regard it as if it were a shadow, impossible to grasp.

In this way, they let transformation take its course and no longer concern themselves with gain or loss. The changes of life and death cannot disturb their inner being. They can therefore follow the moment in peace, allowing neither sorrow nor joy to enter their heart. This is what is called “suspended liberation”: escaping bondage as if released from the plight of being hung upside down.

Seen this way, everyone could naturally be free; it is only because people are burdened by their own bodies that they ultimately cannot loosen their bonds. This is not Heaven’s fault: people have confined themselves. As for the relationship between Heaven and humanity, people cannot prevail over Heaven. I understood this long ago. Even though the form I possess is only temporary, I can still act through it in reality. Why, then, should I despise it? This is the state of the perfected person, worthy of reverence and emulation.

Before long, Zilai fell ill. His breathing grew labored, and he seemed close to death. His wife and children gathered around him, weeping. Li went over and called out, “Hey, stand back! Don’t disturb his transformation!” Leaning against the doorway, Li said to Zilai, “How great is the transforming power! What will it turn you into, and where will it send you? Will it make you a rat’s liver, or an insect’s arm?”

Zilai said, “Parents raise their children, and children obey their commands, whether they are sent east or west, north or south. Yin and Yang—the forces of life and death and transformation—have a greater hold over us than our parents do. They are bringing me close to death. If I refused to obey, I would be defying them. What fault lies with the transforming power?

“The earth gave me my form, made me work through life, gave me ease in old age, and will give me rest in death. So to treat my life well is to treat my death well. When a great founder, a master metalworker, casts metal, if the metal leaps up and declares, ‘I insist on being made into Moye, the legendary sword!’ the founder would surely consider that metal ill-omened. Now, by chance, I have passed through the transformations of all things and received a human form. If I were to say, ‘I want to be human and nothing else,’ the transforming power would surely consider me ill-omened.

“Now, if Heaven and Earth are a great furnace, and the transforming power is the great founder, where could I go that would not be all right?” After speaking, he slept peacefully, then suddenly awoke. Life and death are like falling asleep and waking: simply different stages of transformation. Why, then, cling to choosing one over the other, or to liking one and disliking the other?

The state realized by a True Person is beyond the understanding of ordinary people. This is why Zili rebukes them and turns away: only someone who truly possesses wisdom can be called a True Person. Like Zilai, such a person follows change and moves freely, remaining unmoved by life and death: neither clinging to life nor resisting death. Those who study the Dao must reach this detached, self-reliant, and utterly unblemished state. Only then has their learning and cultivation reached its highest point, and only then can they be called a “Great Master” (a master of the Great Dao).

The passage above says that a True Person can follow the course of life and death, but does not explain how this state is reached. The story of Zisang Hu and his two companions that follows makes clear that only those who transcend worldly conventions and realize the Dao can do so. The “learning” referred to here is the study of cultivating and realizing the Dao. It is beyond the grasp of ordinary scholars bound by worldly assumptions.

Zisang Hu, Meng Zifan, and Ziqin Zhang were friends. They talked together, saying, “Who can live among all things without clinging to the forms of their relationships? Who can follow the Great Dao and act without striving? Who can rise into the heavens and wander among the clouds and mists, roaming freely beyond the bounds of the infinite? Who can forget, while still alive, that they are living, and remain untouched by the limits of beginning and end?” They believed that such a person’s mind and spirit wandered with the Dao, as if there were neither beginning nor end. The three looked at one another and laughed, their thoughts in accord, and so they became friends.

Some time later, Zisang Hu died, before he had been buried. When Confucius heard of it, he sent Zigong to offer condolences and help arrange the funeral. Meng Zifan and Ziqin Zhang, however, had one compose a tune and the other play the qin. Singing in response to one another, they said, “Ah, Sang Hu! You have returned to your true nature, while we remain in the human world as ordinary people. How moving this is!”

Zigong hurried forward and asked, “Is it proper to sing beside the body?” The two looked at each other and laughed. “How could you understand the true meaning of ritual?” they said. They believed that ritual’s foundation lay in returning to one’s true nature, a depth that Zigong did not understand. When Zigong returned, he told Confucius what had happened and asked, “What sort of people are they?”

He cultivates himself but pays no heed to worldly rites and rules, and makes no effort to polish his words or conduct. This is called “cultivating without a fixed way.” He holds his body lightly and does not take life and death seriously. Even when facing a corpse, he sang, his expression unchanged and without the least sign of sorrow. It is hard to know what to call such a person. Who, then, is he?

Confucius said, “He is one who roams beyond worldly rites and rules, while I, Confucius, remain within them. Those within and those beyond the world cannot readily understand one another, so I should not have sent you to offer condolences according to worldly ceremony. My judgment was shallow indeed! He is living in mutual aid with the Creator, roaming amid the original Qi of Heaven and Earth. Though he lives among people, his mind seems joined to the undifferentiated Dao that existed before Heaven and Earth were born. He regards life as an extra growth on his body, and death as an abscess bursting and the growth falling away. How could someone like this care which comes first, life or death?”

Formed through various external things, one entrusts oneself to the whole that accords with the Dao. “Formed through external things” means that a person’s true nature takes shape with the help of the “Four Greats,” the basic substances that make up the human body, as though temporarily borrowing external things that never truly belonged to oneself. “Entrusting oneself to the same whole” means that the mind and spirit connect with the Great Dao, as if dwelling within one shared whole.

To forget the liver and gallbladder is to regard life as a temporary sojourn and thus stop clinging to the body. To forget the ears and eyes is to live in the human world without being led astray by what one hears and sees. Life and death turn and change without end. How, then, can one claim that birth is a beginning and death an ending?

The True Person—one who has realized the Dao—wanders freely beyond the dusty world, at ease in the realm of Wuwei (non-action). Why would such a person busily cling to worldly rites and display them for all to see? Here, the text draws on Confucius’s words to show that Confucius, though living amid the everyday world, was not unaware of cultivation that transcends it. The True Person regards life in the world as a temporary stay and the body as a burden. Thus they forget the body, set aside clever contrivances, rise above worldly concerns, wander beyond the common world, and rest peacefully in the still realm of Wuwei.

This section describes the learning of the True Person, who transcends worldly concerns: wandering beyond the myriad things and experiencing a state of freedom and contentment that lies beyond the understanding of ordinary people. The author develops this idea through the words of Confucius and Zigong, aiming to break down the narrow view that clings to ritual rules, loosen attachment to worldly proprieties, and guide people toward a state of transcendence and contentment. This is the very purpose of the Zhuangzi.

Zigong asked, “Then what state of being do you rely on, Master?”

Confucius said, “I am merely one constrained by Heaven, still entangled in life and death and worldly affairs, not yet free of my bonds. Even so, I would like to join you in experiencing and wandering through a realm beyond the mundane.”

Zigong asked again, “May I ask how one reaches such a realm?”

Confucius said, “Fish take water as their home, and people take the Dao as their home. Fish live by water; people live by the Dao. To sustain fish, people must dig ponds and provide food. But when people return to the Dao, they can refrain from imposing needless action, and their hearts settle naturally.”