《庄子内篇注》Vol. 4

(When the mind and spirit are settled.) Hence it is said, “Fish forget one another in rivers and lakes; people forget one another within Daoist arts.” (Even when fish are kept in a pond, it is hard for them and their keeper to forget one another. Better to return the fish to rivers and lakes, where they can live freely and naturally. When people enter the Great Dao and reach a vast, equal state, they too have nothing to cling to and no longer remain bound by thoughts of one another.)

Zigong asked, “May I ask what a ‘unique person’ is—that is, someone unconstrained by worldly conventions?” Confucius replied, “A unique person appears different in the eyes of the world, yet accords with the Way of Heaven. Hence it is said: ‘Those who are petty from the perspective of the Way of Heaven may be called exemplary people in the human world; those called exemplary people in the human world may, from the perspective of the Way of Heaven, be petty instead.’” (Confucius says that those who live beyond worldly conventions are also unique people. Though they differ from the world, they accord with the Way of Heaven. Some exemplary people who stand apart from the crowd in this world are cautious and self-restrained, but cannot roam freely. From the perspective of the Way of Heaven, they are still petty, though people regard them as exemplary. Those whom the world calls exemplary may not be one with the Way of Heaven.)

This section says that Confucius, a sage living within the secular world, could still guide people toward learning beyond worldly conventions. In other words, even those bound by worldly concerns can enter the Great Dao. A talented and intelligent person like Zigong was still far from attaining the Dao, let alone anyone else.

Next, the text will explain how the Way beyond worldly conventions can also be practiced in everyday life, though ordinary people do not understand this. The author therefore uses Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, to illustrate the point, with Confucius resolving the crowd’s confusion. Yan Hui was indeed eager to learn: he could deeply experience the Great Dao and gain insight into it.

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “When Mengsun Cai’s mother died, he wept but shed no tears; in his heart he felt no grief, and while observing the mourning period he showed no sorrow. Though he displayed none of these three signs, he became renowned for his skill in mourning, and his reputation even surpassed that of the state of Lu. Can someone in this world really have a great reputation without deserving it? I have always found this puzzling.”

Confucius said, “Mengsun Cai has brought the way of mourning to its utmost. His understanding has gone further than that of ordinary people. People in the world know only conventional rites, not the Way of Heaven. Mengsun Cai, by contrast, has grasped the Way of Heaven and knows that returning to one’s true nature is the essence of ritual. He wished to reduce the rites to their simplest form, but could not wholly disregard worldly customs, so he has simplified them as much as he can.”

Confucius continued, “Mengsun Cai does not know where life comes from, nor is he attached to where death leads. He does not regard life as a beginning or death as an end. He understands that life and death are not absolute opposites: while alive, he does not cling to the thought ‘I am being born’; when dying, he also understands that life itself is not confined by death. Thus he calmly follows the transformations of nature and experiences within them the principle of neither birth nor death.”

If people regard themselves as one thing among the myriad things undergoing change, and let themselves experience that unknowable transformation, that is enough. We do not know why we were born. Now that we have a physical form, we can only await the great change that cannot be foreseen and let it run its course. Why cling to all manner of feelings and understandings?

When a person is about to change, how can we know that something unchanging will remain afterward? And when someone seems not to have changed, how can we know that they have not already changed? People know only how to hold fast to the form before their eyes, believing that this is what it means to remain unchanged. How can they know that creation is shifting unseen, and that every moment brings change? Perhaps you and I are both still dreaming, and have not truly awakened. The transformations of life and death are joined as one; only those who have awakened fully can understand this.

Though the physical form vanishes in terror, the mind is not harmed. When Mengsun’s mother died, only her physical form passed away; her innate nature remained peacefully intact. This is what is meant by “dying without perishing.” Life is like the morning, and the body like a temporary dwelling. Though the borrowed form changes, the root that truly governs life endures. Thus the body undergoes change, but true life does not truly die.

Mengsun had simply grasped this truth in a special way. Seeing others weep, he wept along with them, following the feelings and customs of ordinary people. Yet he felt no grief or sorrow as they did. Since he understood that death does not mean life has vanished completely, he regarded his dead mother as he would have regarded her had she not died.

Moreover, if we understand that death does not mean truly vanishing, then we should regard Meng’s mother, who has already died, as we regard Meng Sun, who is still alive. Compared in this way, they are simply one and the same “I”—we see them as a single whole. But who could understand this “I” I speak of in the ordinary sense? Let me explain it with a dream.

You dream that you have become a bird and soar into the sky; you dream that you have become a fish and dive into the abyss. Perhaps you still do not believe what I have said. Then let me ask you: what is the relation between the bird and fish in your dream and Yan Hui when he is awake? This is what I mean by “I.”

As you speak now, are you the waking Yan Hui, or the bird and fish in a dream? If you say you are Yan Hui, then you have already transformed into a bird or fish. If you say you are the bird or fish, that does not prevent you from still being the unchanged Yan Hui at this moment. Try to apprehend for yourself whether the truth that life and death are one is just as I have described. These words are wondrous, and difficult to grasp.

When the mind’s intention first reaches its utmost fulfillment, there is not even time to laugh. By the time laughter appears, that instant of understanding has already passed. The truth that life and death run through one another must be grasped in a sudden flash; words can never catch up with it. Follow the transformations arranged by nature, and you can enter a vast, profound realm in which you become one with the Dao. The “arrangement” spoken of here refers to the perspective of a beginner working at cultivating the Dao.

When one reaches a state of utter purity, free of all admixture, and enters the depths of the natural transformations of all things, sudden understanding arises of itself. Without deliberate effort, one can personally realize and enter the Great Dao.

This section discusses learning that transcends the ordinary world, though some people within it can also grasp it. Such a state is beyond the understanding of ordinary people; only a True Person can know it. The story of Yan Hui and the sage is therefore used to enlighten readers. These words strike especially close to the heart of the matter and can truly awaken people.

Earlier, the text said that fully transcending life and death is the highest state of the Great Dao, and that the key is sudden awakening. It now says that anyone in the world who wishes to learn the Dao must set aside benevolence and righteousness, reverent self-discipline, cleverness and talent, and the habits accumulated over time. Only then can one enter the Great Dao.

Yi’erzi went to see Xu You. Xu You asked, “What did Yao teach you?” Yi’erzi replied, “Anyone in the world who wishes to learn the Dao must set aside benevolence and righteousness, reverent self-discipline, cleverness and talent, and the habits accumulated over time. Only then can one enter the Great Dao.”

Yi’erzi went to see Xuyou. Xuyou asked, “What did Yao teach you?” Yi’erzi replied, “Yao told me that I must practice benevolence and righteousness myself, and clearly distinguish right from wrong.”

Xuyou said, “What have you come here for, then? Yao has branded you with benevolence and righteousness, destroying your original nature; he has also cut your nose with his judgments of right and wrong. How can you now roam freely along the path of untrammeled transformation? Bound by benevolence and righteousness, and by right and wrong, how can you enter the Great Way of freedom?”

Yi’erzi said, “Even so, I would still like to linger at the edge of the Great Way.”

Xuyou said, “That will not do. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of a face and its features; someone whose eyes are sightless cannot see garments embroidered with patterns in alternating blue and yellow. Your mind has been obscured, so it will be hard for you to understand the Great Way.”

Yi’erzi said, “Wuzhuang lost his beauty, Juliang lost his strength, and the Yellow Emperor forgot his own intelligence. These things happened amid the furnace and hammer. The furnace and hammer are metaphors for the transforming power of creation. What those three originally possessed was suddenly lost through the shaping work of the Master.”

“How do I know the Creator will not erase the tattoo on my face and restore my severed nose, making me whole again so that I can follow you, Master?”

Xu You said, “Ah, that remains to be seen. Though you have this aspiration, no one knows what the outcome will be. I can tell you only the general principle; I cannot explain all its mysteries. My Master, oh, my Master! He is the root of all things, and even Yao cannot compare with him. He brings forth and transforms all things, yet does not regard this as practicing benevolence and righteousness. His grace extends through all ages, yet he does not claim the title of benevolent. He existed before high antiquity, yet does not seem aged for it. He covers and supports Heaven and Earth and gives form to the myriad things, yet does not boast of his skill. This is the realm in which I roam.”

The passage says that to learn the Great Dao, one must set aside the impulse to display benevolence and righteousness, deference, self-importance, and cleverness. Only then can one enter the deep and mysterious realm and roam freely within the Dao. Benevolence, righteousness, and intellectual cleverness are often used in the mundane world to gain a reputation, and may therefore become obstacles to experiencing the Dao.

Yan Hui said, “I have made further progress.” The commentary explains that people commonly take benevolence and righteousness, reverence, self-restraint, and wisdom as means of moral cultivation and achievement, and regard them as things esteemed by the world. Yet these can sometimes become obstacles on the path to the Great Dao.

Yan Hui then said, “I have made further progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That is good, but it is not enough.” The commentary explains that forgetting benevolence and righteousness means one has become capable of entering the Dao.

Some days later, Yan Hui came to see Confucius again and said, “I have made further progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” The commentary explains that this means no longer being bound by worldly conventions. Confucius said, “That is good, but it is not enough. Though you are no longer constrained by worldly preconceptions, you have not yet forgotten yourself.”

Some days later, Yan Hui came to see Confucius once more and said, “I have made further progress.” Confucius asked, “What do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “I have attained sitting in forgetfulness.” Confucius asked solemnly, “What is sitting in forgetfulness?” Yan Hui said, “I forget the body’s form, cast aside the distinctions and judgments brought by the ears, eyes, and mind, leave behind physical form, relinquish perception, and become one with the Great Dao. This is called sitting in forgetfulness.” Here, “sitting in forgetfulness” refers to forgetting bodily form and one’s own views through quiet sitting and cultivation, so that inner and outer, self and things, are no longer divided.

Confucius said, “When you are one with all things, you have no preferences; when you follow the transformations of all things, you no longer cling to a fixed self. You have indeed reached a lofty state, far beyond mine. I would like to follow behind you and learn.”

This section says that even people in the world who are one-sided and bound by learning, if they can truly lessen their private desires and forget their fixed ideas as well, thereby connecting with the Great Dao, will be treated with deference even by sages and wise people. The author’s point is that such cultivation cannot be achieved through cleverness and ingenuity. Earlier, Zigong was used to show that he still did not understand; now the text suggests that Yan Hui may be able to grasp it.

Ziyu and Zisang were friends. After ten days of continuous rain, Ziyu guessed that Zisang was probably ill—the commentators say this was because Zisang had run out of food. So Ziyu wrapped up some cooked rice and took it to him. At Zisang’s door, he heard what sounded at once like singing and weeping. Strumming his zither, Zisang sang, “Was it my father? Was it my mother? Was it Heaven? Was it humankind?” The commentators say these were lyrics from a zither piece. So hungry that he could barely make a sound, Zisang could only sing the lines in short, breathless bursts.

Ziyu went inside and asked, “Why are you singing the poem so haltingly, unable to keep a tune?” Zisang replied, “I’m trying to find out what has brought me into such desperate straits, but I can’t.” He continued, “Could my parents really wish me to be poor? Heaven covers all things without partiality, and Earth bears all things without partiality. Could Heaven and Earth single me out for poverty? I try to find the cause of all this, but I can’t. Yet here I am in such a state. Perhaps this is simply my fate.”

This section summarizes the central meaning of the whole work. Since this chapter speaks of the “Great Ancestor Master,” why does it ultimately return to “fate”? It is because the concerns that filled Zhuangzi’s life are difficult to put into words. He seems to have believed that he possessed the Great Dao and could become a “Great Ancestor Master” for all generations. Yet, living in this world, he was not understood and willingly endured poverty and hardship. Was Heaven’s will responsible for placing him in such circumstances? Perhaps it was simply his fate that the people of his time did not understand him. These words carry a profound meaning that is difficult to express fully.

The “Great Ancestor Master” here is the same as the “Perfected Person, Spirit Person, and Sage” described in “Free and Easy Wandering.” They regard “not knowing” as true wisdom. The phrase “because of this, it is true knowing” in “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” also refers to true knowing—that is, the “True Ruler” who governs all things. “The Essentials for Nurturing Life” teaches the same principle. The figures presented in this chapter all embody a state of abundant Virtue and inner self-sufficiency. The author gathers the ideas expressed earlier and brings them together in the figure of the “Great Ancestor Master,” thereby fully explaining the teaching of “inner sageliness.” The next chapter, “Responding as an Emperor and King,” addresses the way of “outer kingship.”

Responding as an Emperor and King

Zhuangzi’s teaching takes “inner sageliness and outer kingship” as its substance and function: inner cultivation is the foundation, while governing the world is its function. The Perfected Person, Spirit Person, and Sage described earlier in “Free and Easy Wandering” are the “Great Ancestor Master” spoken of here. The text also says that even the dust and chaff of the Dao are enough to shape Yao and Shun. The meaning is that the essence of the Dao is used to cultivate oneself; only what remains of it is applied to governing the world and the state. Governing the world, in the end, is merely something left over for the Sage to do.

The first six chapters expound the mysteries of the Great Dao. “The Great Ancestor Master” concerns those who have attained the Dao—that is, Sages who have realized the Great Dao within themselves. Once there is a foundation, its function naturally follows. “Responding as an Emperor and King” therefore goes on to show how the Great Dao can be applied to governing the world. If circumstances require it, and a Sage has no choice but to answer Heaven’s mandate and enter public life, that Sage becomes a wise and enlightened ruler. Even when putting the Dao’s remaining traces into practice, one should follow things as they naturally are, allowing the world to be governed through Wuwei, without deliberate planning or contrivance. The chapter is titled “Responding as an Emperor and King” to make clear the broad scope of this Wuwei governance.

Nie Que sought instruction from Wang Ni, asking him four questions in succession. Wang Ni answered each time that he did not know. From this, one can reason further that the traces of the Dao lie in following things as they are, allowing all beings to transform of themselves, without deliberate intention or action. This reveals the great power of Wuwei (non-action), which is why it serves as the chapter’s title.

Nie Que questioned Wang Ni four times, and each time Wang Ni said he did not know. This chapter takes “not knowing” as its key idea. Here, “not knowing” does not mean ignorance; it means having no attachment to worldly affairs and meeting them with calm detachment.

Nie Que was so delighted that he jumped up and went back to tell Puyi Zi. Puyi Zi said, “Have you only now understood the wonder of ‘not knowing’? You Shun, of the Youyu clan, was not the equal of the Taishi. You Shun, the legendary sage king of high antiquity, seems to have kept benevolence and virtue in his heart and then used them to win people’s support. This could indeed win people over, but it still did not go beyond the ordinary world. He regarded benevolence and virtue as good and deliberately put them into practice. Inevitably, he also valued his own achievements and reputation. He had not yet grasped the mysteries of the Dao of the True Person or reached a state beyond worldly distinctions.

“The Taishi, however, was different. He slept in ease and repose, and awoke at peace and contentment. If others treated him as an ox, he responded as an ox; if they treated him as a horse, he responded as a horse. His understanding was genuine and trustworthy, and his virtue was pure and natural. He did not cling to his own views but could change along with external things. His understanding was not illusory; it came from realizing the truth of his own nature. His conduct was free of human contrivance: he could rest in the Great Dao without falling into nothingness. He could live among people without being bound by self-imposed limits. This was the Taishi’s great subtlety. He had realized the Dao of the ‘Great Ancestor’—the root of the Dao—yet still responded to things and acted in the world. He simply used the traces of the Dao to help people. That is why it is said he did not shut himself away in a realm beyond the ordinary world.”

Shoulderblade met Madman Jieyu. Madman Jieyu said, “To live among all things in the world without ever being constrained or limiting oneself: this is the mysterious realm of Tai, the sage of ancient legend. He has grasped the essence of the Great Master, the fundamental state of the Dao. When applying it in the world, he offers only a little of his remaining strength to help others. That is why he does not distinguish between ‘human’ and ‘nonhuman.’”

Shoulderblade met Madman Jieyu. Madman Jieyu asked, “What did Rizhongshi, the person I once met, tell you?” Shoulderblade replied, “He told me that a ruler should govern the people by measuring them against principles of right conduct, in accordance with the established laws and standards he has set. If the world is governed this way, who would dare refuse instruction?”

Madman Jieyu said, “That is merely a virtue that deceives people. Governing the world this way is like trying to cross the sea on foot or dig a channel through a river; it is like asking a mosquito to carry a mountain. A sage does not deliberately try to control the people. Instead, the sage puts himself in order and then puts his Dao into practice. To ‘put things in order’ here means letting all things rest in their own nature and life. The sage simply first sets himself right, then leads the people to set themselves right. Laozi said that through stillness and Wuwei (non-action), one can become the right way for all under Heaven.

“Each person already possesses a true and definite nature, as well as the ability to follow it. Everyone is born endowed with the Great Dao; their nature is complete from the start and needs no force imposed from outside. If people are allowed to understand their true nature, they will naturally become calm and free of deliberate action, and all things will transform and flourish of themselves. Why, then, govern deliberately?

“A bird flies high to escape the nets and arrows used to catch it. A shrew burrows deep beneath the sacred mound where the soil god is worshipped, to avoid the harm of smoke and digging. Can we say these two creatures lack wisdom? The bird and the shrew simply protect themselves by following their nature. If people use contrivance to govern the people deliberately, how could the people avoid being alarmed and fleeing?”

The previous two sections explain that one cannot govern the world while harboring private intentions, relying on cleverness and insisting on having one’s own way, or claiming the credit for oneself. If one follows things as they are and governs through Wuwei (non-action), the people will transform and flourish of their own accord. Laozi said, “When I practice Wuwei, the people transform themselves,” and, “Stillness and purity are the standard for the world.” If one devises all sorts of measures to control the people, they will not submit; instead, they will hide like frightened birds and rats.

Tian Gen was traveling in Yinyang. When he came to the banks of the Liao River, he happened to meet the Nameless One and asked, “May I ask how to govern the world?” The Nameless One replied, “Go away! You are so shallow—why ask in such haste? I am about to live in accord with the transformations of nature. Weary of the mundane world, I will ride the ‘bird of obscurity and subtlety,’ a symbol of the Great Dao, and fly beyond the four quarters of Heaven and Earth, wandering in the formless realm of the Dao. Why should the business of governing the world stir my heart?”

Tian Gen asked again. Seeing how earnestly he sought instruction, the Nameless One told him the proper way: “Let your heart and spirit rest in calm stillness, let your breath return to emptiness and quiet, and follow the natural transformations of the myriad things without harboring private intentions. If you can do this, the world will settle itself.”

This section directly explains the art of governing through “transformation by Wuwei (non-action)”—acting without deliberate interference while allowing all things to flourish naturally—and urges rulers to follow the ancient practice of ruling without interference.

Yang Ziju paid a visit to Lao Dan and asked, “Suppose there were someone quick to respond and eager to take responsibility, keenly perceptive and clear in understanding things, who never slackened in studying the Dao. Could such a person measure up to an enlightened king?”

Lao Dan replied, “In the eyes of a sage, such a person is like a convict assigned to shifts of forced labor, or a craftsman tied up in the marketplace: he exhausts himself and lives in constant anxiety. Someone so eager to show off and assert himself in everything can barely manage his own affairs. How could he govern the people? Besides, tigers and leopards are hunted because of the beautiful patterns on their coats. Monkeys are captured and tethered for their agility, and hunting dogs for their ability to catch wildcats; people train or drive them as they please. If someone like this could measure up to an enlightened king, then monkeys and hunting dogs should count as enlightened kings too.”

Yang Ziju’s expression grew solemn. “May I ask how an enlightened king governs the world?”

Lao Dan said, “An enlightened king’s achievements extend across the world, yet he seems not to claim credit for them. His benevolence nourishes all things, and all things benefit from it, yet the people do not feel dependent on him. He leaves behind no name to be celebrated; he simply lets all things grow as they will, each content and at ease. He dwells in a realm beyond comprehension and wanders where there are no forms or traces.”

Here, “nonbeing” and “beyond comprehension” both refer to the realm of the Dao. The enlightened king follows the Dao, claims no credit, and imposes no control, allowing all things to grow naturally.

This section develops the ideas about how an enlightened ruler governs a state. It further explains Laozi’s teachings, showing the intellectual roots and grounds for the argument that the text upholds. It strongly praises the Great Master—the highest person who has attained the Dao—who appears in the world as a sage emperor or enlightened king and governs through Wuwei (non-action).

Earlier, the text says that an enlightened ruler can respond to worldly affairs and govern all under Heaven only by dwelling in an unfathomable state and roaming in “nonbeing.” But what, exactly, is this unfathomable state? Can ordinary people learn to attain it too? The text therefore introduces Huzi, an unfathomable figure. The various states he reveals to the spirit medium—a person who can foretell good and ill fortune through divination and other means—embody this state. Liezi’s wish to study with Huzi after meeting him illustrates this point.

In the state of Zheng, there was a spirit medium named Jixian, skilled in reading people’s faces. He could foresee a person’s life or death, good or ill fortune, and length of life, even stating precisely the year, month, and day when his predictions would come true, as though he were divine. People in Zheng avoided him, afraid he might foretell something ominous.

When Liezi met Jixian, however, he was deeply impressed. He returned and told his teacher, HuzI, “I used to think that your Dao had reached the highest state. I never imagined there could be something higher.”

HuzI said, “What I have taught you is only the outward expression of the Dao. I have not yet enabled you to grasp its true substance. And you think you have already attained the Dao? If there is only the female and no male, how could eggs be produced? This is like a person whose heart still holds distinctions and oppositions: only then can a face reader discern good or ill fortune. If one could go beyond such distinctions, what signs would there be to read? You put the Dao to the test against the world, always wanting others to believe you. That is why you give them the chance to read your condition. Bring Jixian to meet me, and let me see whether he can see through me.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet HuzI. Afterward, Jixian said to Liezi, “Alas! Your teacher is close to death. He cannot be saved!” Here, “the female and male producing eggs” is HuzI’s metaphor for Yin-Yang depending on one another and bringing things into being together; face reading means inferring good or ill fortune from a person’s outward signs.

The next day, Liezi took Jixian to meet with Huchu. After they left, Jixian said to Liezi, “Alas, your teacher is close to death and cannot be saved. I doubt he will live another ten days! I saw a strange sign: his face was like damp ashes, utterly devoid of life.”

Liezi went inside. Tears soaked the front of his robe as he told Huchu what Jixian had said.

Huchu said, “Just now, I showed him the ‘earth pattern,’ a state as still as the earth. I settled my mind in absolute stillness: no thoughts arose or moved, and nothing showed itself. So he saw me as though my vitality had ended and thought I was near death. Bring him again tomorrow.”

On the third day, Liezi again took Jixian to meet with Huchu. After they left, Jixian said to Liezi, “Fortunately, your teacher has encountered me. His condition has improved, and he will not die! He is now displaying vitality in full. I saw that his vitality was no longer blocked and had begun to move.”

Liezi went inside and told Huchu what Jixian had said.

The Pot Master said, “Earlier, I showed him ‘Heaven and Earth’—a lofty, open realm, the state of contemplative awareness. There, neither reputation nor reality can enter; this means that one’s original nature is luminous and all distinctions fall away. Yet the activity of contemplation arises from the deepest place. ‘Heel’ refers to the deepest place: the function of observation emerges from a state of deep stillness, like contemplation that arises from cessation. Perhaps he sensed my tendency to use mental stratagems, and so was not bewildered by the realm I showed him. Have him come again tomorrow.”

The next day, Liezi accompanied him to see the Pot Master again. After they left, he said to Liezi, “Your teacher’s spirit is unsettled, and his expression keeps changing. I cannot discern his condition. Let him settle, then bring me to see him again.”

Liezi went inside and told the Pot Master what he had said. The Pot Master replied, “Earlier, I showed him ‘Supreme Emptiness, Unconquerable’—a state of utter stillness and openness. At this point, movement and stillness are no longer opposed. At first, stillness predominated; then movement did; now he rests in utter emptiness, where movement and stillness are united. Perhaps he sensed the harmony of my Qi. ‘The loach’s coiling in the mud is examined as an abyss’—the loach coils in deep mud, and here the abyss is a metaphor for the states of cessation and contemplation…”

The salamander curls up and dwells in deep mud, serving as a metaphor for the original state of stillness. The water, still and profound, serves as a metaphor for observation. Its clear surface reflects all things; this corresponds to the second stage, “observing Heaven and Earth.” Flowing water is also profound: though it moves, its nature remains still and undisturbed. This is a metaphor for maintaining stillness within movement and containing movement within stillness. Movement and stillness are not separate; the mind remains balanced and settled. This corresponds to the final state, “the Great Flux, beyond all opposition,” where stopping and observing become one. There are nine kinds of abyss; the text discusses three of them.

The Master of the Pot said, “Come again tomorrow.”

The next day, Liezi accompanied the shaman Jixian to visit the Master of the Pot again. As soon as Jixian had taken his place, he panicked and fled. The Master of the Pot said, “Go after him!” Liezi gave chase but could not catch him. When he returned, he said to the Master of the Pot, “He has vanished. I can no longer find him. I couldn’t catch up.”

The Master of the Pot said, “Just now, what I showed him was a state that had not yet departed from the root of the Great Dao. The root of the Great Dao is the source of the Dao in emptiness: abiding in nonbeing, without any sign of movement or stillness. This is like what Buddhism calls gathering three forms of contemplation into a single mind. I abide in the realm of utmost emptiness and nonbeing, revealing a form only through the substance of emptiness and stillness, and changing in accordance with the other person’s perceptions. That is why he could not tell what I was. Then I appeared like something scattered and flying about, impossible to gather in, and like waves of spirit surging and flowing, impossible to grasp. That is why he fled.”

Only then did Liezi feel that he had never truly learned before. At first, he did not understand the true attainment of Huzi, his teacher, and so believed the shaman’s abilities had reached their utmost limit. Now he had seen Huzi reveal states that shifted in ways impossible to fathom. Even the shaman, skilled at reading people’s features, could not discern their hidden depths. Liezi thus came to believe that Huzi’s Dao was unfathomable and understood that he himself had not yet truly entered the Way.

Liezi took leave of Huzi and returned home, resolved to devote himself to practice. For three years he did not go out. He applied himself wholeheartedly, cooked over the fire for his wife, and regarded feeding the pigs as no different from serving people. He no longer clung to any particular affairs or drew close to one thing over another. In the past, deliberate refinement had made him lose his natural simplicity; now he returned to that simplicity, at ease with himself, as though unaware and making no distinctions.

Once people take on bodily form and are born, they easily divide themselves from others amid the transformations of Heaven and Earth, give rise to judgments of right and wrong, and cling to their own views, as if separated by one boundary after another. Liezi now understood that the human body and all these distinctions were boundaries that arose amid ceaseless transformation. With this realization, he completed his practice and lived out his life.

This section continues the preceding idea that “the enlightened ruler stands in a realm beyond comprehension and, through Wuwei (non-action), allows the myriad things to transform naturally.” Zhuangzi worried that people might not understand what this “realm beyond comprehension” was, or what kind of person could inhabit it, so he introduced the figure of Huzi. What Huzi reveals before the spirit medium is precisely this realm beyond comprehension. Only someone inwardly settled, like Huzi, can respond to the affairs of the world and be worthy of the name “enlightened ruler”; only such a person can nurture and transform the myriad things through the Way of Wuwei. How could others imitate this so easily?

This describes a teaching that may seem obscure and mysterious, yet it can in fact be learned. What matters is whether one can truly believe in it and put it into practice. Liezi was someone resolved to follow the Great Dao. The intention to inspire people expressed here is difficult to put into words.

The preceding passage uses Huzi to make clear the realm beyond comprehension and points out that this realm can be learned, provided one believes in it and puts it into practice. Liezi was resolved to follow the Dao. The author’s intention to inspire people is beyond words.

The preceding passage discusses Huzi only to make clear the realm beyond comprehension; what follows goes on to explain how this realm works when responding to the affairs of the world.

Do not make yourself the master of reputation (“corpse” means master or controller; a realized person first forgets reputation, so it cannot rule them). Do not make yourself a storehouse of schemes (“storehouse of schemes” means a gathering place for stratagems and clever ideas; let things follow their natural course, rather than putting cleverness in command). Do not force yourself to take on affairs (deliberately assuming responsibility can turn into a burden and a source of trouble; respond only as circumstances change, as though you had not initiated the matter). Do not let cleverness govern you (follow external things, release your attachments, and do not put contrivance in command).

Fully embody the Great Dao, and you can respond to things and change without end. Let your mind and spirit roam in a realm without any signs (“sign” means an indication: the time before anything has appeared and before any thought has arisen). Fulfill to the utmost what Heaven has endowed you with, without feeling that you have gained anything by doing so. In this way, you preserve what Heaven has given without losing it, yet form no thought of “having gained” something. In the end, all remains empty; you add not the slightest thing to it.

The heart of the Perfected Person is like a clear mirror: when things arrive, it reflects them as they are. It does not anticipate how to respond or go out to meet them. As each thing arrives, beauty and ugliness appear plainly, yet leave no trace and stir no attachment to judgments of right and wrong. Responding to worldly affairs with such an empty, still heart, you can meet the myriad things without being harmed by them.

The various circumstances of the True Person and the practices of cultivation have already been discussed. The passage closes with the twenty-two characters beginning “As for the Perfect Person,” which complete the meaning. Zhuangzi’s learning, methods of cultivation, and their results are all contained here; the other elaborations are mostly extensions of what has already been said. The central ideas of the Inner Chapters are also included. Those who study them need only grasp these few sentences and begin from here. Then, when dealing with things, they can set aside their concerns and draw on this teaching throughout their lives. This is what is meant by “Free and Easy Wandering.”

The emperor of the South Sea was called Shu, the emperor of the North Sea was called Hu, and the emperor of the center was called Hundun. Shu and Hu often met in Hundun’s domain, and Hundun treated them well. Shu and Hu discussed how to repay Hundun’s kindness. “Everyone has seven orifices”—eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, for seeing, hearing, breathing, and eating—“but he alone has none. Let’s try boring seven openings for him.” Each day they bored one opening. On the seventh day, Hundun died.

The commentator explains that “Shu” and “Hu” signify the sudden emergence of something from nothing, while “Hundun” refers to the earliest stage in which the myriad things take form: though they already have physical shape, they have not yet developed awareness or distinctions and remain in a state of undifferentiated ignorance. The gradual opening of the seven orifices symbolizes the awakening of awareness and knowledge. Once the mind of distinction arises, one loses one’s original, natural character; hence the words, “On the seventh day, Hundun died.” Fumo explains Shu and Hu respectively as Fire and Water, and Hundun as Earth. The commentator considers this interpretation plausible in some respects but excessively forced; the meaning given above is sufficient.

This passage on “Whirlwind and Suddenness” does more than bring the chapter “Responding to Emperors and Kings” to a close; it also sums up the central meaning of the seven inner chapters of the Zhuangzi. The carefree wandering discussed earlier ultimately leads to the state described in “The Great Ancestral Teacher.” The text has repeatedly pointed out that cleverness can damage life; that caring only for the body while forgetting life’s root, and harming oneself through attachment to external things, all keep a person from carefree wandering. At the root of these problems is excessive artifice. In the end, they arise from deliberately carving open chaos and losing one’s natural authenticity.

From ancient times to the present, since the age of Yao and Shun, it seems that no one in the world has entirely escaped this “carving open of chaos.” This is an allegory about how most people on earth are ordinary and deluded; it is not meant to be taken literally. From a worldly point of view, these words may seem unreasonable. In fact, every word expresses a wish to save the world and compassion for those lost in delusion. They should not be read as mere words; readers should attend to the intention behind them.

My interpretation is not a forced reading. I understand Zhuangzi’s original intent in light of the purpose to which his thought belongs. Here I use the Buddhist practice of “calming and contemplation for the human and heavenly realms”—meditative cultivation directed toward the states of humans, gods, and others—as a point of comparison. As for “calming and contemplation in the heavenly vehicle,” the Zongjing also says that the natural, pure, Wuwei (non-action) Way revered by Laozi and Zhuangzi corresponds to “luminous meditation,” a form of meditative practice in the heaven of the first dhyana. Readers need not regard my comparison of Zhuangzi with Buddhist teachings as a fault.