《庄子口义》Vol. 10

This passage discusses the relationship between the Dao as a whole and partial approaches, and the consequences that follow when learning splits apart.

“The meaning is that root and branch cannot be separated—they are originally one body.”

“Six openings in four directions” refers to east, west, south, north, above, and below: in all six directions one can move and apply the Dao, and there is nowhere it cannot be used.

“Operation” is the movement of the Dao; whether large or small, fine or coarse, all fall within the scope of the Dao, hence the saying that it is nowhere absent. Read together, these lines state the nature and function of the Dao quite clearly.

“What can be numbered and recorded” means those rules and standards that are clear enough to be written down in articles; most of them follow older norms, and successive dynastic histories still preserve many such records—all referring to matters of this kind.

“Scholars of Zou and Lu, and the gentry-scholars”

Here the focus is specifically on the Confucian line: scholars from the Zou and Lu region, and the “gentry-scholars” (originally officials in formal dress; here broadly orthodox Confucian teachers).

“This speaks explicitly of the Confucian gate”—clearly meaning the Six Classics transmitted by Confucius and the Spring and Autumn Annals.

“Dao and name-and-propriety”: the two words “name and propriety” (mingfen) already carry the sense of warning against rebellious ministers and traitorous subjects (as when the Spring and Autumn corrects names and settles right and wrong).

“Its numbers scattered under Heaven” means that although these teachings were kept most complete in Zou and Lu, the learning also spread across the realm; schools were set up throughout the central states and split into many houses. People still sometimes spoke of name-and-propriety and the Six Classics, but they could not preserve the full picture as in Zou and Lu.

“The realm fell into great disorder” refers to the period after the Spring and Autumn era; the way of the sages and worthies was no longer clear—above, there were no figures like King Wen, King Wu, or the Duke of Zhou; below, none like Confucius or Yan Hui. Morality and the Dao no longer stood as one and split into the Hundred Schools.

“Under Heaven, many obtain one [side]” means that people often seize one edge or one aspect of the truth and examine it closely; seeing only that one side, they deem themselves right, take pleasure in themselves, and boast.

“Ear, eye, nose, and mouth cannot interchange functions”—the ear cannot see, the eye cannot hear, the mouth cannot smell, the nose cannot taste; each stays within its capacity, hence “each has what it can illuminate.”

By this analogy, the Hundred Schools and various arts each have their strengths and can sometimes be used, but they cannot cover and fully round out the sage’s Dao; they remain scholars of one corner and one narrow curve only.

Because of this, the beauty of Heaven and Earth is divided and no longer whole; the patterns of the ten thousand things are analyzed apart and no longer fit together.

If one measures by the fullness of the ancients’ learning, one sees that the “one-curve” schools among the Hundred Schools rarely can complete the beauty of Heaven and Earth or match the “countenance of spirit and clarity.”

“Beauty” is the Dao on the inside—the substance; “countenance” is the Dao on the outside—function; “match” means to be worthy of it. “Few can match the countenance of spirit and clarity” means most cannot measure up to that full functional expression of the Dao.

Inner sage is substance; outer king is function. When the Dao of inner and outer is unclear here, each person follows his own desires and crafts his own methods—and so arise the Hundred Schools.

From now on, lost and not knowing how to turn back, it surely cannot be made whole again; later generations of learners cannot see the pure wholeness of Heaven and Earth or the entire body of the ancient Way—this is the misfortune of later ages.

“The Dao and its arts in the world, from this point not knowing return, surely cannot be made whole again… from this all is split.” (The text repeats this idea for emphasis.)

Hence: “The Dao and its arts will be split by the world.” The commentator finds this closing line extremely forceful and exceptionally well written.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi’s discussion of “the teachings of the world’s schools,” and mainly evaluates Mohism. The gist is as follows.

Not leaving extravagance to posterity, not wasting the myriad things, not casually overturning law and measure, binding oneself with compass and line, and preparing for the world’s emergencies—among the ancient teachings of the Way, there was such a line of thought. Mozi and his disciple Qin Guli admired this spirit but pushed it too far and became too rigid. They advocated “non-music” and “frugal use”: while alive, no song and dance; when dead, no mourning garments. Mozi promoted universal love and mutual benefit, opposed aggression, urged freedom from resentment, loved wide learning, yet refused to innovate for its own sake and also would not fully align with the ancient kings—going so far as to abolish the rites and music of antiquity. Tradition says the Yellow Emperor had the music Xianchi, Yao had Dazhang, Shun Dashao, Yu Daxia, Tang Dahu, King Wen the music Biyong, and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed Wu; ancient funeral rites likewise distinguished noble from common—the Son of Heaven’s inner and outer coffins had seven layers, feudal lords five, grand officers three, and gentlemen of service two. Mozi, by contrast, held that in life one should not sing and in death one should not wear mourning, using only a three-inch coffin of paulownia without an outer shell as the norm. To demand this of others would hardly make people love one another; to demand it of oneself would hardly count as self-love. Mohist doctrine thus decayed in its later branches. Though one ought to sing, they opposed song; though one ought to weep, they opposed weeping; though one ought to rejoice, they opposed joy. In life they were utterly toilsome; in death utterly spare in burial. Their teaching was excessively harsh, bred sorrow and grief, and made conduct hard—hardly fit to serve as the Way of the sage. It ran counter to the hearts of the world, and the world would not follow. Mozi could bear it alone, but the world could do nothing about him—he was too far from the “kingly Way.”

Mozi also proclaimed: in antiquity Yu controlled the floods, dredged the rivers, opened paths to the four quarters; the nine provinces had three hundred famous streams, three thousand branches, and numberless lesser waters. Yu himself wielded plow and spade, joined the strength of all under Heaven to channel rivers and streams, until his shins had no flesh and his calves no hair, drenched in violent rain and combed by fierce wind, settling the myriad states. Yu was a great sage, yet his body was worn to such extremity. Later Mohists mostly took him as model: coarse hemp short coats, hemp sandals, working day and night without rest, taking self-mortification as the highest, saying, “Unless we live thus we are not following Yu’s Way and are unworthy to be Mohists.” Disciples of Xiangli Qin, the group of five lords, and southern Mohists such as Ku Huo, Ji Chi, and Deng Lingzi all recited the Mohist canon yet, through sophistry, each clung to one side, calling one another “splinter Mohists,” attacking each other with puzzles of “hard and white” and “sameness and difference,” answering with phrases like “oblique and even, not matching”—taking the grand master as sage, all vying to be successor, hoping to lead posterity; the dispute has never been settled. The intention of Mozi and Qin Guli (universal love, frugal use, relief in crisis) deserves respect; their concrete practice did not. If that path continued, later Mohists would only boast to one another of shins without flesh and calves without hair—that would be the top form of misrule and the bottom form of governance. Even so, Mozi was truly among the rare “good” people under Heaven; one could hardly find his like; though his form withered he would not give up—he may be called a man of real capacity.

Supplementary background (to help read the original):

• Non-music and frugal use: core Mohist tenets, holding that rites, music, and funerals waste goods and do not help the people’s livelihood.
• Universal love and opposition to aggression: love without partiality; opposition to unjust war.
• Grand master and corpse (successor): leader of the Mohist organization and the one who inherits that role.
• Hard and white, sameness and difference; oblique and even, not matching: common topics in Warring States “name-and-dialectic” (logic and paradox); later Mohists loved disputation—Zhuangzi thought this strayed from Mozi’s original aim.

Not passing extravagance to posterity: Do not hand luxury down to later generations, and do not teach luxury to those who come after. What people call “gorgeous display” is not taking the ornament of all things as true splendor; what they call “radiant glory” is not taking the standards of ritual and music as real brilliance. Using cord and ink (rules and measures) to restrain oneself is meant to set society straight, in the hope that people under heaven may have more than they need—the point is thrift and sufficiency, hence “meeting the world’s urgent needs”: when people treat food and clothing as urgent, they compete until disorder follows.

Something in the ancient Way and its arts lay here: In the learning of antiquity there was also this strand. Mozi and Qin Guli alone caught this current and were delighted—so delighted that they went too far, and spoke too strongly. They pressed hard along this road, suppressing themselves excessively, in what was called “making one’s own great compliance”—where “compliance” really meant restraining the self, not true great harmony. Mozi wrote Against Music and Moderation in Use, wanting all under heaven neither to sing in life nor to use music—hence “against music”; at death, no burial garments or wrapping for the corpse, close to bare burial, thus “moderation in use.” He also advocated universal love and caring for all, took contention as wrong, and took not being angry as the Way—spreading the doctrine broadly, yet centering on “upholding uniformity”: though broad, it did not diverge, but the teaching differed from the former kings—from the Yellow Emperor down to King Wu, music was never abandoned, yet Mozi wanted to abolish it; from antiquity high and low never lacked mourning rites, yet Mozi wanted to abolish those too, taking a coffin three inches thick as the model and using no outer shell. Moderation in use taught people with excessive hardship, so it is said this was hardly the Way of loving others, and indeed “not loving oneself”—making one’s own body suffer. Such a path must fail in the end: human life cannot do without song, yet Mohism treats song as wrong; cannot do without weeping, yet treats weeping as wrong; cannot do without music, yet treats music as wrong—altogether remote from human feeling, hence the judgment that the outcome is truly “too plain”—plain meaning harsh thrift: toil in life and meager burial in death. What they practiced was hard to follow and ran counter to the heart of all under heaven; the world could not bear it, yet Mozi alone could shoulder it and endure—if one person can endure, what can the world do to him? Once separated from the human heart, it was no longer a Way by which one could rule all under heaven.

Great rivers are the greatest streams between heaven and earth; lesser channels Yu dammed and dredged; the basket is the vessel for earth, the spade the tool for digging. The nine tones “jiu jiu,” mixed governance of the rivers under heaven—in Mohist terms: if even the great sage Yu toiled himself like this, how much more ordinary people?

Xiang Li Qin also studied under a Mohist master in the world, with many disciples among the followers of the five feudal lords. Ku Huo, Ji Chi, and Deng Lingzi lived in the south; they too read Mohist writings, and their eccentric doctrines exceeded Mozi’s even more—each clinging to one doctrine, calling themselves “Different Mohists”—“neither contradicting nor differing”: odd and even were originally different yet their words did not clash, forced disputation; answering one another with skewed, non-contradictory phrasing, hence “mutual response.” The juzi (chief Mohist) was like the “chief disciple” or “dharma heir” in the Chan school—those who transmitted the learning often chose the greatest recipient of the teaching as the “corpse” (chief), hoping to serve posterity; posterity still called them descendants. Their transmission was indecisive and unbroken; tracing Mohi’s intent, it was originally a fine intention, but practice went wrong, hence intent was right and conduct wrong. Those who transmitted Mohism mutually honored self-mortification, hoping thereby to govern the world—before any governance appeared, they could already summon disorder, hence “the height of disorder.” Mozi’s devotion came from a true heart; in this age there is no such person either, and sought today he is even less to be found. Yet such a person does not stop and does not quit; though utterly withered he still does not cease—one may still call him a heroic talent. Mencius refuted Yang and Mo; this book too, when discussing several schools, often mentions Yang and Mo together; now, in treating the Way and arts and several schools separately, Yang is not included—presumably because his learning does not count for comparison.

This passage presents the Daoist teachings associated with Song Xing and Yin Wen, together with Zhuangzi’s (or a commentator’s) appraisal of them.

Their way of standing in the world: They refused to be weighed down by custom, did not dress themselves up with external things, did not bear grudges against the crowd, and did not lock horns with everyone. Their wish was peace under Heaven and a life for the common people; they treated others like themselves and were content once sustenance was sufficient, and with that attitude they openly declared their position to the world.

The ancient Daoist arts already included this line. When Song Xing and Yin Wen heard of it they were delighted and adopted the “Huashan-style cap” as headwear to mark themselves as belonging to this school.

“Bié yòu” means the same as “zài yòu” (keeping all in their proper place): each person settling into their own share is “bié”; easing the heart and living with little constraint is “yòu.” That was the root of their teaching.

They took this aim as the basis for receiving and responding to the myriad things and people. “The countenance of the heart” means the heart’s aspect or bearing; making the heart’s clear understanding intelligible to others is called “the heart’s conduct”—how the heart acts and shows itself outwardly. The commentary compares this to the later Buddhist phrase “great function fully present”: harmonizing the world through gentle, pleasing means, and intending to honor Song Xing and Yin Wen as the leaders of this line.

Their concrete program for saving the age: Where the people loved quarreling, they responded with the doctrine of “being insulted without taking it as disgrace”; where the age loved warfare, they responded with “forbidding aggression and laying weapons to rest.” Carrying these teachings they traveled the realm, advising rulers above and instructing the people below. Even when no one under Heaven would listen, they still forced the message and would not let up.

Hence an old saying current at the time: Those above and below alike detest them, yet they still insist on thrusting themselves forward. The commentator’s “hence it is said” introduces that line as a genuinely widespread remark.

On “not burdened by custom” and the like: Not burdened by custom means shaking off worldly entanglements; not adorned by things means not relying on external goods for upkeep or display; not resentful toward the crowd means not contending with the masses or going against common feeling. Taking “everyone gets to keep life” as their vow, seeing others as oneself, and hoping only that everyone’s sustenance is enough—declaring that intent to the world—is the learning of Song Xing and Yin Wen. The Huashan cap was their signature headgear. Bié yòu is zài yòu: living within one’s allotment is “bié,” ease and untroubled self-possession is “yòu”—their central aim.

Receiving the myriad things, speaking from the heart, and “the heart’s conduct”: They met people and affairs with this intent; “the countenance of the heart” is the heart’s bearing; explaining inner principle to others is named “the heart’s conduct,” i.e. the heart’s functioning. The note glosses this as harmonizing intent that pleases people (róu hé), using it to harmonize the four seas and intending to honor Song and Yin as teachers of the doctrine. Where the people loved fighting, they rescued with the teaching of seeing insult without shame; where the age loved war, with forbidding attack and resting arms; they urged kings above and instructed the world below; when the realm would not listen they still clung to their clamor and would not quit—never stopping their self-praise.

The closing line: Even so, they never stopped trumpeting their own line; though above and below loathed them, they still forced themselves into view—there must genuinely have been such a proverb at the time, which is why the text ends with “hence it is said.”

Modern gist (excerpt from Zhuangzi on figures like Song Xing and Song Rong)

He did much for others and little for himself, yet said: five sheng of rice per day is enough; the master himself might not eat his fill, while disciples, even when hungry, never forget the world—they toil day and night without rest. Again he said: only in this way can I survive!—What is he scheming for, or what is he putting on? Are those who call themselves “saviors of the world” not just like this?

Oral commentary

First section

“Tu” means scheming and calculating; “ao” means affectation and putting on a show. It can also be read with a tone of hesitation or demurral, as if to say: I suffer this much already so that those in the world who serve as ministers yet harbor divided loyalties may feel ashamed—that is the point. Li Bai’s Drinking Alone and Sending It to Wei Six has “thinking of you wandering in wind and dust, I smile at your proud self-display”—the same “ao,” that kind of self-satisfied pretense.

Second section

Again: the noble person does not engage in harsh scrutiny—if one is harshly scrutinizing, one is not practicing “bie you” (breaking through fixed views and pardoning difference); the idea is that one should not cling to you-and-me or right-and-wrong disputes. “Not lending the body to things” means not using external things to help oneself; in every matter one relies on oneself and does not depend on others to complete oneself. If something benefits the world not at all but harms it, even knowing one could do it, one is better off not doing it—hence “knowing it is not as good as leaving it to oneself.” The general drift of this school’s learning is: outwardly, to advocate stopping attacks and laying down arms; inwardly, to advocate thinning and shallowing desire and emotion. Learning may be large or small, fine or coarse, but the aim of practice goes no further than this. “Shi” means “only”—merely to this limit.

Third section

Same intent as the previous section, stated again: do not be harshly scrutinizing, or you violate “bie you”; there should be no you-and-me dispute. Not lending the body to things is not borrowing externals for self-benefit; what does the world no good, even if one knows it can be done, one does not do. Outwardly forbid attack and cease warfare; inwardly keep desire and emotion sparse and light; whether learning is large or small, fine or coarse, the boundary of conduct stops here and no further.

This passage explains how Zhuangzi treats several Qi debaters—Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao—and their ideas of “leveling things” and “following things as they are,” and notes that Zhuangzi holds they had not truly awakened to the Way.

Neither partisan nor partial, their stance is even; private motives are dropped and they do not cling to one side.“Taking the lead from things” means letting each thing’s own pattern be the standard, rather than splitting reality into opposed poles and taking only one.“Not brooding, not scheming”—no endless calculation over affairs;“no choosing among things”—no biased picking and rejecting, so the view stays level;“going along with them all”—moving with what is natural.

Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao were debaters of Qi. They treated heaven and earth too as “one among the myriad things”; since all are “things,” they were equalized at that level. As for which ranks first or holds sway within that, they assigned it to the way of Wuwei (non-action). Heaven can cover but cannot bear up; earth can bear up but cannot cover—each is limited in its way. The great Way and Daoist learning aim at inclusive unity, not petty distinctions. Another style of disputation then held to one corner: this yes, that no. If you only pick and choose among things, you cannot be thorough; making that picking your doctrine, you never reach the end. Only when you return to the Dao is nothing left out—for to choose is already to admit yes and no. They advocated discarding knowledge and forgetting the self, and Wuwei out of necessity. Lingtai means free and unblocked; “lingran and sifted loose among things”—no hang-ups on things, taking “no obstruction between thing and thing” as the highest principle.

Their teaching also said: if you oppose knowing to not-knowing, you are pressed by “knowing” and nearly harm yourself.Bo means pressing close.Xike suggests something crooked and unsettled.“No appointment”—not fixing the mind on affairs; shangxian means putting people in charge of tasks. Since they would not engage human affairs, they mocked the world’s “sagely learning” that honors the worthy and stresses conduct. Unrestrained and without fixed practice, they treated everyone who preached sagely virtue as wrong.“Chui pai guduan” is the image of no sharp edge—turning with things almost without angle, neither affirming nor denying, only seeking escape from worldly burden; “not taking deliberate thought as teacher”—action nearly without reflection—so they also rejected the world’s “sagely learning” as right. No grasp of before and after, no reckoning.Weiran is stiff immobility; pushed, then they move; dragged, then they go—responding only under pressure, acting only when they must. Wind whirling, feather spinning, millstone turning in its groove—all images of mindless turning with things (sui is the groove). Hui (figures like Huizi in this context) preserved himself by not being condemned in the world; movement and rest follow nature without excess, so they did not offend people.

If their learning was like this, why so? In short: if things were without knowledge, there would be no trouble of self-assertion, no burden of outward concern; movement and rest would all follow pattern, hence “not departing from principle”; not seeking to show cleverness before others, wishing a life without praise—and because there is no praise, “no blame”, hence “never at fault.” Things without knowledge, like wood, stone, tile, rubble.“Establishing the self” is setting up an “I,” self-assertion. So their line: why must one live in the world leaning on sage names? If one could be as unknowing as a clod of earth, one could fail the Way—hence “the clod does not lose the Dao.” Viewed as doctrine, it resembles later ascetics who mortify themselves in deep mountains and ravines; heroes laughed at them as near “dead men.” “Shide guai yan”—the Peng Meng school seemed odd for it.“De bu jiao”—at first they matched each other without waiting to be taught. Peng Meng too had a teacher; the teacher said: ancient holders of the Way took non-yes-non-no as their root.“Xiran” like the rustle of wind—speech like a gust, nothing held in the mind; though they spoke, nothing clung to the words, hence “how could it be spoken?” Their views often opposed the world, could not be read through ordinary ethics, so they became one-sided doctrines and still sought only to avoid sharp edges.“Yuan duan” images no square corners; the words sound bold, but the Way they speak is not the true Way, so worldly mockery did not cease.

Here Zhuangzi cuts off with one line: Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not know the Dao. “Gai hu”—taking a broad view, they too had heard this Way, but did not hit the mean. Such closing lines end the chapter with force.

To treat the root as essential and outward things as crude; to hold that accumulating only leaves one wanting, and to dwell at ease in solitude with the numinous—within ancient Daoist practice, there truly was such a path. Guan Yin and Lao Dan (Laozi) traveled it in broad outline, yet did not fully reach its proper end. In a closing line of this kind, one may look closely at how the author handles the brush.

Guan Yin and Lao Dan heard this current of teaching and rejoiced in it. They established their instruction with “constancy,” “non-being,” and “being,” and took Taiyi (the Supreme One) as sovereign. Outwardly they appeared yielding and humble; inwardly their real meaning was emptiness, stillness, clarity, and not harming the myriad things.

Guan Yin said: Do not forcefully occupy a place in one’s own person—form and things each keep their proper station. In movement, be like water and follow along; in stillness, be like a mirror and reflect clearly; in responding to affairs, be like an echo and answer at once. Dazed and dim as if about to dissolve; silent and still as if clarified. Harmonize with the Dao and you gain it; grasp and cling and you lose it. Never push ahead of others, yet always follow behind.

Lao Dan said: Know what is strong and male, yet keep to what is soft and female, and you can become the stream of the world. Know what is bright and clean, yet keep to what is soiled and disgraced, and you can become the valley of the world. While others all scramble for the first place, you alone take the last—this is called bearing the world’s filth. While others all take solid gain, you alone take emptiness and stillness, as if deeply hidden, so that paradoxically you have surplus and stand out as having more than enough. In standing and acting, be easy and unhurried, without waste; take wuwei (non-action) and lightly mock clever contrivance. While everyone seeks fortune, you alone bend and yield, saying that perhaps in this way one may escape disaster. Take depth as root and restraint as cord, saying that what is too hard will break, what is too sharp will be blunted. Always be broad toward things and do not contend with people—this may be called reaching the utmost.

Guan Yin and Lao Dan—truly lofty perfected persons of antiquity!

This oral exegesis expounds the principle of rooting in the Dao and abiding in naturalness (Ziran): treating all things as “things,” and saying that “to accumulate is to be insufficient,” speaks of concealment—hiding wealth within the world and dwelling with the spirits—this is abiding in naturalness. Guan Yin (Guan Yinzi, traditionally said to be Yin Xi) studied the Dao under Laozi; the oral text says “younger brother before teacher,” a slip of the pen by the author; one should take no-thing as the root and the beginning of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate, the primordial undivided origin) as the master—“establish” here also means “to take as master.” Softness, yielding, and humility mean the tongue’s softness endures; outward form means how one meets the world and appears outwardly should be thus.

When empty, every thing is complete; hence “to take emptiness that does not destroy the myriad things as the real”—here “real” means the true principle. What Master Yuexuan (or a certain master) called “no single thing, yet the myriad things are wholly present” is exactly this. Not dwelling in the self is selflessness; forms and things attach of themselves is letting things appear according to their own shape. Water in motion, the mirror at rest, the empty valley’s echo are all response without deliberate mind. Dim, as if lost—in vagueness, as if there were no thing; still and utterly clear—clear without needing to name it clear. To harmonize is to be one with things; to gain is to gain by not gaining—once there is “gain,” there is loss; hence never going ahead of others, always following behind—moved only under pressure, rising only when there is no choice.

Know the masculine, keep the feminine—to have ability yet remain in inability; know the white, keep the disgrace—elevated yet not contending for elevation. The valley stream stays low yet holds all things; capacity makes greatness; when all take the lead, one alone takes the rear—that is never going ahead yet always following, bearing the world’s disgrace, knowing the white and keeping disgrace. Not taking solid possession as the real, taking emptiness as the real—hence others all take the solid while one alone takes the empty—without hoarding therefore surplus, that is “to accumulate is to be insufficient”; only by taking emptiness as the real, though without store, one stands firm and always has surplus—again the meaning of no single thing and the myriad things wholly present. Ease and rest is not striving, nothing lost; when all take craft as craft, one takes Wuwei (non-action) as craft and is laughed at; when all take fortune as fortune, one takes no calamity as fortune. Bending to be whole is extreme bending to preserve the body; if one escapes blame, no blessing is longer than being without calamity.

Taking depth as root—the root lies in the beginning of Taiji; taking restraint as rule—the utmost simple restraint is the method of guarding the body; “rule” means law. Whatever is hard or sharp meets breakage and ruin—as when teeth are rigid they break; taking capacity to hold the myriad things as measure, then others cannot cut or diminish one. Not cutting others down—speaking of preserving life alone to the utmost—this is the Dao of utmost under heaven, honored as the Vast and True Person (a title for one who has attained the Dao).

The Great Dao is still and without form; its changes follow no fixed pattern. Birth and death are of one piece with Heaven and Earth and move in the same direction as the numinous spirits. In the boundlessness, where is one to go? In the suddenness, where is one to return? The ten thousand things take in all phenomena, yet not one of them can stand as the final place of rest.

In antiquity there was an art of the Way, and it showed itself here. When Zhuang Zhou encountered this way of learning, he was deeply pleased. He used roundabout, spacious, and seemingly absurd language and boundless speech, often letting himself go without restraint and refusing to teach from one narrow angle alone. He thought people in the world were sunk in turbidity and could not be addressed gravely about great themes such as “making all things equal,” so he unfolded his meaning through zhiyan—words like a wine cup that empties and fills again in a cycle—and showed what was true through chongyan, sayings repeated and weighted with authority, and broadened his intent through yuyan, stories that put their point in the mouths of others.

He wandered alone with the spirit of Heaven and Earth and did not look down on or slight the myriad things; he did not insist on right and wrong in a harsh way, so that he could get along with the world. His book, though strange and splendid, chains image to image and winds its phrasing without breaking what is essential; though the lines fall unevenly, they are wondrous and delightful. His inner fullness seemed never to run out: above, he roamed with the Dao that creates; below, he befriended those who treat birth and death as external and see neither beginning nor end.

At root his scope was vast and free, deep and far-reaching; in aim one could say he was harmonizing and ascending to the Dao. Even so, in following change and releasing his grasp on things, he could not exhaust the principle, and its source still could not escape a haze of obscurity—there remained what was left unsaid and unfinished.

The same thread continues: the writing is uneven yet wondrous to read, the spirit abundantly full; above, roaming with the Creator, below, keeping company with those for whom death and life are outer and beginning and end do not bind; in substance, grand and unrestrained; in orientation, one may call it attuned and rising toward the Dao.

Plain-Language Commentary

“Silent emptiness” (jimo) means still and remote: no fixed form, nothing to grasp as an object; change has no fixed rule, and “not-one” is taken as “one.” “Death and life intertwined” means birth and death run together, so people can no longer clearly separate living from dying. Even at this level of meaning, one can see that the Buddhist tradition has very deep and ancient roots.

“Standing level with Heaven and Earth” is sharing the same body as Heaven and Earth; “going and coming with spirit and brightness” is moving in step with creation and transformation. When it speaks of “where to go, where to arrive,” it means movement that leaves no trace. “All things fully gathered in the net” is encompassing the ten thousand things, each exhausting its own principle. “Nothing suffices as the final return” means people cannot find an ultimate resting place and do not know where they belong.

“Vast and far” (miaoyou) is empty and distant; “wild and unbounded” (huangtang) is immense without limit; “without beginning or end” (wuduanai) has no head or tail. “At times freely unrestrained yet not partisan” means letting go without being tied down, yet not leaning to one faction—“freely” (tang) and “faction” (dang) both suggest partiality. “Not seeing through a slanted angle” (buyi qijian) means one’s view does not cling to one corner; “qijian” suggests the odd, the oblique, favoring one side.

Most people in the world are dull and murky; one cannot guide them with plain, straightforward “honest words,” so one must use zhuangyu—solemn, weighty speech that states what is real; “man spreading” (manyan) is unfolding the inexhaustible; “making it true” (wei zhen) is leaning on ancient events so listeners trust them as true; “making it broad” (wei guang) is lodging meaning in allegorical words, wide in scope and not cramped. “Communing with the spirit of Heaven and Earth” is mingling with the spirit of Heaven and Earth; “not looking down on the ten thousand things with arrogance” is not treating the world with a haughty eye.

According to commentators, Zhuangzi in his heart did look down on this world, yet deliberately said the opposite—“not condemning right and wrong” means not fixing right and wrong in stone, so one can live alongside the ordinary world. “Lofty and grand” (weiwei) describes height and strength; “harmoniously blended” (lianran) is mutual accord and fusion; “without injury” (wushang) is not harming or mocking others. “Uneven” (cenci)—now this, now that, now lowered, now raised, with no fixed rule; “droll and uncanny” (zhuogui) is playful and strange. These two lines break the apparent purpose of the book: though the words are bizarre, they can still be savored; only when one grasps this “breaking” can one truly enter the Zhuangzi.

“That fullness cannot stop” means the book’s reasoning is packed full—it is also a kind of book the world cannot do without. “Root” is the main aim: nothing but the Way that is vast, deep, comprehensive, and harmonizing. “Opening wide” (pi) is expansion; “unrestrained release” (si) is free unfolding; “ascending to completion” (shang sui) means it can reach up to the principle of Heaven. Though the text often speaks of wuwei (non-action) and naturalness, applied in the world it can respond to teaching and transform, untie physical and practical knots, and clarify custom through reason. “Its principle never exhausted” means it cannot be used up; “not sloughing off” (butuo) means the words issue from the Dao and do not part from the Dao. “Vague and dim” (manghu meihu) describes how deep the book’s meaning runs; “not yet fully expressed” (wei zhi jin) means what is understood in the chest cannot be fully spoken.

This translation preserves the commentary’s structure and Zhuangzi-specific terms while rendering them in accessible academic English.

The southern sea has no end; to call it bounded is to admit it has limits—and the same holds for the east, west, and north. The text singles out “south” not as a random example but to read off the other three directions: legend has it that heaven tilts toward the northwest and the seas lie especially to the south, farther out than the other quarters, hence the emphasis on the south.

“Today I go to Yue, yet yesterday I was already in Yue”—before your foot crosses the border you already know the name “Yue”; if “what comes later” counts too, then the day you set out can be described as “having been there yesterday.” Two rings linked in a chain cannot be fused into one piece, yet each ring remains a complete circle in itself; unless they are stuck together, they do not count as “linked rings.”

Yue lies south and Yan north; neither was the true center of the world, yet northerners took Yan as center and southerners took Yue as center. In the earliest days, when regions did not yet know one another, each kingdom likewise treated the middle of its own territory as the middle of heaven and earth. If you hold that the myriad things and heaven-and-earth are originally one body, then however vast heaven-and-earth may be, they are still one thing among the myriad things—why insist on ranking large and small? That is “oneness.” The “great view” (daguan) is to treat this insight as the overarching standpoint that stands alone. Huishi therefore used such claims as “the middle of the state is the middle of heaven” and “the myriad things and heaven-and-earth are one” to instruct those who loved disputation; once scholars under heaven praised these debates, his doctrine spread further, and finer puzzles followed—such as whether eggs have hair.

This passage mainly discusses paradoxical propositions from the pre-Qin School of Names and disputation, and Zhuangzi’s criticism of debaters such as Hui Shi, Gongsun Long, and figures like Huan Tuan.

The first part lists a series of famous “strange theses” to show how debaters unsettle common sense: for example, that hair grows on eggs, chickens have three legs, and the state of Chu possesses the whole world; that dogs may count as sheep, horses lay eggs, and the Dingzi (a kind of monster) has a tail; that fire does not burn; that mountains have mouths and wheels never touch the ground; that the eyes see nothing, fingers cannot reach, and even when they reach they never get to the end; that tortoises are longer than snakes, squares cannot be made with a carpenter’s square, circles cannot be drawn with a compass, and mortise and tenon do not fit; that the shadow of a flying bird never moves, and however fast a flying arrow is, there is always an instant when it is neither moving nor at rest; and such violations of name and thing as “a dog is not a dog,” “yellow horse, black-haired ox, three whites, black dog”; plus “a colt never had a mother” and “a foot-long stick, if you cut off half each day, can never be exhausted even after ten thousand generations”—the paradox of infinite divisibility. Debaters match these theses against one another and can argue forever without finishing.

The later part singles out debaters like Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long: skilled at polishing people’s minds and shifting others’ intentions, they can win over people in speech yet cannot win their hearts—this is called “the debater’s enclosure”: debaters trapped in the realm of tongue and lip. Hui Shi every day used his intelligence to debate with others and also played infinite arguments like “taking half each day,” responding to debaters throughout the world, likewise endless for a lifetime. Zhuangzi holds that debaters specialize in contending with everyone under heaven over these strange theses, and the root of the trouble lies here. Yet when Hui Shi spoke he considered himself the most worthy, even saying “Heaven and earth are just that big—I, Hui Shi, stand forth without method”: bold in spirit and fond of disputation, but without truly penetrating Dao and method.

The whole passage aims to show that clever naming and disputation can go on forever yet cannot solve “winning people’s hearts”; Zhuangzi does not accept this kind of disputation that makes a display of paradox.

The following is a plain-language reading of this passage from Zhuangzi Kouyi (An Oral Exposition of the Zhuangzi).

“Eggs have hair”

Saying that there is already hair inside an egg does not mean you can see it now; it means that a sparrow will be a sparrow and a chicken will be a chicken, and the kind of hair differs by kind. When a hen broods duck eggs, what hatches is a duck, and the down is duck down, not chicken feathers—in that sense one can say “there is hair in the egg.”

“Chickens have three feet”

Chickens naturally have only two feet, but they also depend on whatever it is that “makes the feet move and carries the body along.” Some count that layer as well, and you get “three feet.” That is the style of the School of Names (Mingjia), not an extra physical foot.

“Ying possesses the realm”

The capital of Chu was at Ying; the king of Chu ruled as king at Ying, so in terms of titles one can stretch it to “Ying possesses the realm”—forcing “possessing the realm” and “being king at Ying” into one thing by words alone.

“Dogs can count as sheep”

Names like “dog” and “sheep” are what people assign; things do not come with names attached. If at the start you called dogs sheep, later people would treat that animal as sheep; call sheep dogs, and they would treat them as dogs. Name and thing can be swapped by human convention.

“Horses lay eggs”

Horses are viviparous, unlike egg-layers, but categories like “womb-born” and “egg-born” are human divisions. If you insist on calling womb-birth “egg,” you can—and it is the same kind of name-and-thing dispute as “dogs can count as sheep.”

“Dingzi have tails”

Dingzi is the Chu word for the frog (xiaomo). The adult seems tailless, but it comes from the tadpole, which has a tail; speaking from the “beginning,” one can also say dingzi “have tails.”

“Fire is not hot,” “mountains have mouths,” and the like

“Fire rats” and “fire-washed cloth” refer to creatures that can go in and out of fire and cloth that is cleansed by fire—here fire can “wash,” so it is not only the abstract idea of “hot.” In an empty valley, an echo answers when someone shouts; the mountain has not really grown a mouth, but from the side of “being able to respond,” one can play with “the mountain has a mouth.”

“Wheels do not roll on the ground”

When a wheel turns on the ground, the point that has just touched seems not to move, so some say “the wheel does not roll on the ground”—they fix on that instant of contact, not on the whole wheel failing to turn.

“The eye cannot reach where the finger cannot see”

The eye must be able to see before the finger can point; where the eye cannot reach, the finger cannot point either. Seeing and pointing depend on each other and each has limits—this splits and reunites “the eye’s reaching” and “the finger’s reaching” in argument.

“Turtles are longer than snakes”

If a turtle grew as long as a snake, it ought not still be called a turtle; once it is called a turtle, length has the turtle’s own measure. On that premise, insisting “the turtle is longer than the snake” is only a way of talking in names.

“The square can serve as square, the compass as circle”

The ju (carpenter’s square) is for squareness, the gui (compass) for roundness; once something is named ju, it cannot also be used as “squareness” itself; once named gui, it cannot be “roundness” itself—mixing names with tools and names with shapes produces such sentences.

“The tenon is not enclosed by the mortise”

When the tenon sits in the mortise and turns, it is not “bound shut” by the mortise, hence “the tenon is not enclosed by the mortise”—the point is fit and motion, not that geometry fails to enclose.

“Shadows do not move,” “arrows are not swift,” and the like

When a bird flies, its shadow goes with the bird; one should say the bird flies, not that “the shadow moves.” An arrow is very fast, yet at one moment you can fix its place as “still”; toward the target you can say it is “in flight”; between leaving the string and hitting the mark is just the instant of “neither moving nor still.”

“Dogs are not hounds,” “horses are not oxen”

Dog and quan (hound) name one kind; call it dog and you cannot at the same time insist on another naming scheme; horse and ox are two bodily forms. Add coat colors such as yellow and li, and two bodies plus two colors can be counted as “three”—splitting body and color and counting them together again.

“A white dog is not black”

Names for black and white are not built into things from the start; if you play with names, saying white is black is also possible—again, names and things can be shifted.

“A lone colt never had a mother”

The name “lone colt” means without a mother; once it is called “lone,” you cannot also say “it once had a mother”—name and meaning contradict each other.

“A one-foot pestle, take half each day, never exhausted in ten thousand generations”

A one-foot wooden pestle: each day use only half; today use this half, tomorrow that half—in principle you can keep dividing and never use it up—a paradox of infinite division.

The oral exposition treats most of these as in the vein of Hui Shi (Huizi), pushing Huizi’s disputation to the limit and arguing fiercely with others all one’s life; Huan Tuan, Gongsun Long, and their kind belong here too.

“Those who adorn people’s hearts obscure people’s hearts; those who alter people’s intentions disturb and confuse what people mean.”

Embellishing the heart with rhetoric instead blinds it; casually changing what someone means scrambles their original intent.

A momentary victory of the tongue

Winning an argument in speech for a moment does not mean the other’s heart assents; the debater often gets lost inside and does not know it—hence the image of entering a “enclosure” (you), a trap or park.

Hui Shi

Every day he relied on cleverness to argue with people and leaned more and more on artifice; he only traded marvels with a few disciples and startled people—the real foundation goes no further than that—that is “this its root (di).” Trusting in eloquence and fancying himself coeval with heaven and earth, he had no genuine learning.

In the south there was a man named Huang Liao who pressed Hui Shi with questions: why heaven and earth do not fall or collapse, and what accounts for wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. Hui Shi did not decline to answer; he spoke without deep reflection, ranging over all things and arguing without pause. His topics were many yet he never brought them to rest; still unsatisfied, he added yet stranger doctrines. He took refuting others as real learning and outdoing others as reputation, and so he stood apart from the common run of people. Weak in virtue yet forceful in dealing with things, the path he walked grew ever narrower.

Measured against the great Dao of heaven and earth, Hui Shi’s abilities were no more than a mosquito’s against a wall—futile. What use could he be to the myriad things? Devotion to the Dao would have been acceptable; the more he exalted external things, the further he drifted from the Dao. Hui Shi could not settle himself in this; his mind scattered among things without satisfaction, and in the end he became famous for clever disputation. Pity that Hui Shi’s talent ran wild with nowhere to return, chasing after the myriad things without turning back to the root—like shouting oneself hoarse to catch an echo, or racing one’s shadow with one’s body: a thing to grieve over.

Yi ren refers to someone who establishes a reputation by arguing with others and overpowering them in debate. In the south there was an unconventional man named Huang Liao who, upon meeting Huizi (Hui Shi, a leading figure of the Warring States “School of Names”), asked why heaven does not fall, why earth does not collapse, and who makes wind, rain, and thunder—matters that belong to the subtle workings of zao wu (creation and transformation) and ought not to be casually explained away with words. Huizi did not decline; he answered on the spot—quickly, without deep reflection, and with endless citations and variations.

The ten thousand things inherently admit inexhaustible distinctions; his explanations were already numerous, yet he still was not satisfied and added outlandish theories, taking it as his skill to go against ordinary people and parade novelty, hoping to win by eloquence and win fame—hence he clashed everywhere with the world and found no affinity with others. Inwardly he had no genuine attainment, so the text says he was weak in De; outwardly he strained to show off in debate, so it says he was strong toward things. Yi means dark and hidden: the path he took was not open and upright but narrow and obscure. Measured against heaven and earth, Huizi’s abilities were as tiny as a mosquito or gnat beside the cosmos; to treat such talent as something substantial—what use is it to the age? Hence he yong—what is there to adopt, what use is there? If one were content with one’s private views, that would be one thing; but to deem oneself superior and look down on the Dao, that is dai (perilous, verging on ruin)—the more one contends for victory, the more dangerous it becomes. Unable to rest in one’s proper place, scattering the mind among the ten thousand things means that, to accommodate those sophistries, one searches everywhere for principles in things and never finds satisfaction, ultimately never knowing the Dao, and relies on disputation for a name—that is the final outcome.

Huizi was indeed a man of talent, but he wandered among outer things with nowhere to settle, chasing externals without turning back to himself—a real pity. Tai means unrestrained; fang also means dissipation. Echo arises from sound: sound is root, echo is branch. To exhaust oneself on “echo” without returning to “sound” as root is the same error. Shadow arises from form: form is root, shadow is branch. Wishing to extinguish the shadow without seeing that when form stops, shadow stops of itself, yet running along with form—again, not knowing the root. Above, echo and shadow illustrate how debaters chase the branch and forget the root.

This chapter is the closing piece of the Zhuangzi, yet it ends with Huizi. Though he is classed among those who “have not heard the Dao,” a debater’s words often treat non-being as being, and the phrasing itself is strikingly odd—so it belongs at the end. Writing a book differs from composing belles lettres, yet there is still form: opening and closing both express the author’s intent, as when the Spring and Autumn Annals ends its brush at the capture of the qilin, when the Doctrine of the Mean closes with “The carriage of Heaven is vast; without sound or smell,” or when this book’s inner chapters have Hundun open the seven apertures— the same kind of structure, which one must understand. Commentaries on the classics that teach rhetoric sometimes miss the point in doctrine; those who grasp fine principle often neglect literary craft, so reading feels flat and interpretation lacks savor. Only Master Ai Xuan (Chen Chun of the Southern Song, styled Beixi, whose learning transmitted Zhu Xi’s) combined lofty Way with especially refined prose, so the profound meaning of the Six Classics stands out across the ages; regrettably, after Wangshan and Lexuan his line did not continue, and few today know him.

(Zhuangzi kouyi: works that orally explain and interpret the meaning of the Zhuangzi; zao wu: the creating and transforming work of heaven and earth; weak in De, strong toward things: criticism of Huizi in the Zhuangzi; Dao: here the natural wuwei, return-to-root principle that Zhuangzi valued.)

In Zhuangzi’s oral explications, the teaching itself was already exceptionally profound, and the writing is likewise extraordinarily refined and ingenious. For that reason, among the canonical tradition represented by the Confucian Six Classics (the Book of Poetry, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, Book of Music, Book of Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals), his work stands out as distinctly original and unlike the rest.

What has been lamentable for a thousand years is this: after the line associated with “Wangshan” and “Yuexuan” (names of a branch of scholars or a master–disciple lineage devoted to explaining Zhuangzi; the precise referents should be checked against the prefaces and colophons of the original book), this strand of learning could no longer be transmitted. Down to the present day, almost no one truly understands it anymore.

The passage above comes from explanatory remarks at the beginning or end of the tenth fascicle of Zhuangzi Kouyi (“Oral Explications on Zhuangzi,” fascicle ten).