《庄子口义》Vol. 4

Deer too are taken with the same sort of nets—ju and fu are both snares for game. Here, “using stratagems and counting on cleverness to outwit one another” is tied to “staining one another, the filthier the messier”: the tone of the age is slick and corrupt, and the times are in chaos. Expressions such as jie gou, ge jiao, and jian bai were labels from the name-distinguishing debaters of the period; the author lines up fishing, fowling, and hunting with those arguers—much as if one placed moral paragons like Zeng Shen and Master Shi beside the dou, the hu, the steelyard, and the balance weight as satire: fair in appearance, each with a private agenda. People do this again and again until the realm is in uproar—all because “clever contrivance” is prized too highly.

So everyone under heaven hurries after what they do not yet know, and does not rest in or put to use what they already know; everyone is busy rejecting what others call bad, and does not turn back to ask whether what they call good might also be at fault—and the world is thrown into disorder.

Those who lack understanding always look outward for novelty and difference; what should be understood has always been close at hand, plain to see—the ordinary way of nature. People are used to putting “bad” on others and “good” on themselves—spotting only others’ faults, never their own “rightness.” In the Qiwu lun (Discourse on Making Things Equal), the habit of “I am right, you are wrong” is itself a narrowness: to know only others’ wrongs and not one’s own “rightness” is wrong in the same way.

Plain-language commentary

(Zhuangzi) says: Those above go against the brightness of sun and moon; those below drain the vital essence of mountains and rivers; those in between disrupt the normal course of the four seasons—even creatures that breathe and crawl, soft-bodied worms, and small flying insects and beasts, none fail to lose their original nature. It has gone too far! That way of “loving to show cleverness and loving to deploy cunning” has thrown the world into disorder. From the Three Dynasties downward it has been so: abandoning plain folk who each keep their place, yet drawing close to those who rush about scheming and fawn for favor; casting aside quiet non-striving, yet favoring noisy, argumentative “ideas.” Mere endless chatter of that kind has already thrown the world into disorder.

(Kouyi) This is a sigh of lament, closing the preceding passage in a single stroke. What is meant by chuan nuan (chuan “gasping,” nuan “soft”) belongs with xi (“breath”)—things that crawl on the ground, such as earthworms and centipedes; xiao qiao: xiao means small, qiao means light—small flying insects like bees and butterflies (xiao is sometimes read like xiao). Zhong zhong depicts layer upon layer like fruit in a husk, full of variety; yi yi means the mind turned outward in restless striving and fabrication; tun tun means muttering speech, nitpicking over words. Though the line above already closes the topic, here “from the Three Dynasties downward” pins it down: from the Three Dynasties on it has indeed been thus, hence “from the Three Dynasties downward it has been so.” Tun tun and yi yi are paired in two lines; below, only tun tun is used to close— the same intent as “with simplicity plain, the people’s nature was restored” in the earlier chapter. In Xiaoyao You, “Tang’s question to Ji was just this” opens the passage; here “from the Three Dynasties downward it has been so” closes it—the wording at opening and closing differs, but the pivot is the same.

Scriptural passage (main ideas from Zhuangzi)

One hears only of letting the world rest in freedom (zai you); one does not hear of relying on “governing the world” to keep order. “Being at ease” (zai) means fearing that people will indulge and corrupt their inborn nature; “granting freedom” (you) means fearing that people will be pulled by human desires and gain-and-loss until they lose their original De (Virtue/Power). If people’s natures are not disordered and their De is not shifted by external things, why would anyone need to “govern the world” in earnest?

Long ago, when Yao ruled the world, he made people exuberant and each follow their nature—that was already a kind of unrest. When Jie ruled, he wore people out and made them suffer against their nature—that was already joylessness. Unrest and joylessness both turn away from De. Once De is lost, to hope for lasting peace—under heaven, nothing of the sort has ever happened.

Commentary (kouyi)

This chapter again opens with “let the world rest in freedom; do not speak of governing the world,” and the whole piece hangs on that theme. “Being at ease” is roaming freely in one’s place, not letting temperament run wild; when temperament is settled, it does not run wild. “Granting freedom” is leniency and forbearance, letting people find themselves without being dragged by things; when De is not displaced, there is no need to press order through governance. If under heaven nature is not disordered and De is not shifted, what is “governing the world” for?

The commentary sets Yao and Jie side by side: on Yao’s side people “rejoice in their nature,” which is already not fully tranquil; on Jie’s side people “suffer their nature,” which is already not joyful. The book often places Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (sages Confucianism honors) alongside figures like Robber Zhi, in that kind of brushwork; the reasoning is not always straight doctrine, but the force of the writing is hard to match. Here, if “not tranquil” and “not joyful” are merely listed in parallel, the weight is wrong—Yao’s fault leans toward excess joy, Jie’s toward excess suffering; they cannot be flattened into one line.

Scripture continued

When a person is wildly glad, they cling to the Yang side and harm themselves; when wildly angry, they cling to the Yin side and harm themselves. When Yin and Yang both lean to extremes, the four seasons lose rhythm, cold and heat lose harmony, and the person is harmed instead. When joy and anger have no constancy, dwelling has no stability, and thought cannot hit the middle, the Dao cannot stand firm. Then under heaven appear pretense, rivalry, and harsh force, and paths like those of Robber Zhi and of Zeng and Shi, each pushed to an extreme.

Use all the rewards under heaven to praise “good,” and rewards still fall short; use all the punishments under heaven to punish “evil,” and punishments still are not enough. So even the vast realm is not something that can be handled by reward and punishment alone. From the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) downward, people have bustled and scrambled, always treating reward and punishment as the great business—who still has leisure to let people settle into the truth of their nature and life (xingming)?

Commentary (continued)

Great joy and great anger both “cling” (pi) to one side of Yin-Yang and break the rhythm of body-and-mind with heaven and earth; once a person loses the center, all sorts of perverse conduct appear. Zeng and Shi stand for one extreme of “good,” Robber Zhi for one extreme of “evil”; chase them with all the rewards and punishments under heaven and you still cannot catch up—showing that taking reward and punishment as the root of governing the world neither saves nature nor lets life (ming) rest easy. From the Three Dynasties down, the noisy fixation on reward and punishment is exactly where the world departs from “resting in freedom” and fails to let people’s nature-and-life find their own ease.

Section One: Joy, Anger, the Mean, and Reward and Punishment

Joy belongs to yang and anger to yin; leaning too far in either direction harms the body—the kind of illness medical texts call “excess.” When people can hold to the “center” and to “harmony,” heaven and earth each keep their place; once the mean is lost, the four seasons go awry and cold and heat fall out of step. When the order of qi turns upside down, people fall ill along with it.

The “one who makes people so” here means rulers above like Yao or Jie, who reduce the people to this state: joy and anger without measure, dwelling without constancy—that is reckless action and reckless movement. When the heart goes anxiously to and fro and companions sway one’s thoughts, that is thinking that cannot rest. Affairs should “take form”—be orderly and accord with the middle path; when they do not take form, the middle path is lost. “Lofty” means improperly high; “cross-examining” means mutual blame; “standing alone” means isolation; “fierce” means harsh force—all four words describe “not harmony.”

Robber Zhi, Zeng Shen, and Shi Yu are only different names swapped in for “worthy” and “unworthy.” When the heart is not in harmony, neither worth nor unworthiness can be trusted. Those who govern the realm reward the so-called worthy and punish the so-called unworthy; yet the “worthy” are often not truly worthy—mostly they chase reputation and pretense, and the whole world is like that. You cannot reward them all, nor give enough to those who deserve it. There are many such people in the world. The point of this passage is to speak in counterpoint to the side of “doing wrong,” and especially to push down the idea of “worthiness”: when everyone only seeks reward and avoids punishment and deals with one another through pretense, how can they settle their own xingming zhi qing—their innate disposition and the condition of their life?

Section Two: The Distorted Side of Various “Delights”

Moreover: to delight in brightness is to be stuck on form and color; to delight in keen hearing is to be stuck on sound; to delight in benevolence is to have one’s moral nature stirred out of order; to delight in righteousness is to have principle violated; to delight in ritual is to sink into rivalry over technique and display; to delight in music is to sink into mutual admiration of the flashy and shallow. (Read with the previous section:) when the multitude only seeks reward and avoids punishment and associates through pretense, they likewise cannot settle their xingming zhi qing.

Moreover, to treat “delight in clarity” as good is in fact to be sunk in form and color; to treat “delight in sharp hearing” as good is in fact to be sunk in sound; to treat “delight in benevolence” as good is in fact to disturb one’s De (Virtue/Power); to treat “delight in righteousness” as good is in fact to go against the Dao and its norms; to treat “delight in ritual propriety” as good is in fact to use one another to compete in artifice; to treat “delight in music” as good is in fact to use one another to fan excess and indulgence; to treat “delight in sageliness” as good is in fact to use one another to show off cleverness; to treat “delight in knowledge” as good is in fact to use one another to attack and expose faults. If the world could still settle each person’s innate nature-and-life disposition, these eight orientations could exist or not—it would not matter. If the world cannot settle nature-and-life disposition, yet people pick from among these eight and begin to slice and parcel things like cutting meat or rolling up a pouch, stirring up the world, then the world instead honors and cherishes them—the world has been deluded indeed. How can this be dismissed as merely “a little excessive”? Should they be discarded? Yet people fast, purify the mind, and speak of them; kneel and sit in solemn posture to present them; beat drums and dance to perform them—if I were to follow along in that way, what could I do?

To make the eyes bright, people chase after the five colors; to make the ears sharp, they indulge in the five sounds—both of which disturb a person’s original simplicity. Therefore, virtue that is overly adorned goes against the natural order; when benevolence and righteousness are forced and artificial, they disrupt true character and turn away from Heaven’s principle.

Skill (craft/technique) and excessive pleasure (overindulgence in entertainment): they treat ritual and music as something external, which is why the text speaks of “mutually reinforcing skill” and “mutually reinforcing dissipation”—each side egging the other on until it goes too far.

Artisan toil and affliction (flaws, sickness): laboring through craft, tormenting oneself through one’s own defects—and then intoxicating oneself with the labels “sage” and “wise”—only makes the toil and pain worse. Hence “mutually reinforcing toil” and “mutually reinforcing affliction.”

Here the word sheng (often rendered “sage”) is close in meaning to neng (ability), much as people today call someone a “cao sheng”—a “grass sage,” a master of calligraphy. So in the Zhuangzi chapter Pian Fu (Opening Trunks), even thieves are said to “sheng” when they “presume to know what is stored in the room”—the same graph carries different force in different contexts. Readers must judge case by case and not confuse it with usage in the Mencius.

The eight are: clarity (of sight), acuity (of hearing), benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music, sheng, and knowledge. If one can rest in what is natural, these eight may be present without dragging one down—hence “they may remain, or they may go.” If one does not rest in the natural, these eight become harmful.

Luan suggests something rolled up or bound tight. Cang nang suggests busy, cluttered fuss. Qi zhi guo ye er qu zhi—not merely skimming past once and stopping. Qi jie yi yan: after solemn fasting and purification, then grand speech. Gui zuo yi jin: kneeling and sitting to present something with utmost deference. Xiang xu shou: handing things back and forth to one another. Gu ge yi wu zhi: words are not enough, so hands and feet must dance as well. All of this satirizes the scholars of that age.

“If we were like you, then what?”—What are you people really after? This is not Zhuangzi speaking of himself, but of others—like a wife in the Classic of Poetry calling her husband “my lord” as she says “let me pour from that golden goblet,” or Weizi in the Documents addressing King Zhou as “I” while saying “I have drowned myself in wine.” That is how classical Chinese works; the line must be read in that spirit.

Therefore, when a person of noble character has no choice but to govern the world, nothing surpasses wuwei (non-action). Only through wuwei can the authentic condition of life itself be settled and at ease. Hence, only one who holds his own person as precious as the whole world may be entrusted with the world; only one who loves his own life as deeply as he loves the world may be given charge of it.

If such a person does not disturb the five viscera (so that the heart-mind is not pulled about by desire), and does not parade cleverness and artifice, he can show majesty like a dragon hidden in a body lying still as a corpse, and hold silence deep as an abyss while his presence rolls like thunder. When spirit stirs, it naturally moves in step with the Way of Heaven. Easy and wuwei, the ten thousand things return to their places like smoke curling upward each to its own height. Given that, how would I find leisure to “govern” the world?

This passage speaks plainly of governing through wuwei (non-action) and governing in accord with nature. The three words bu de yi (acting only when one has no alternative) already carry the sense of “though one holds all under heaven, one does not treat it as one’s private possession.”

Laozi says that because the self is more precious than all under heaven, one can entrust all under heaven to this bodily form; because the self is more worthy of cherishing than all under heaven, one can lodge all under heaven upon this body. These two lines have a striking, unconventional literary force yet upright reasoning. When reading Zhuangzi, lines of this kind call for especially careful reflection.

The Liji (Book of Rites) says that when the sinews and bones are loosened, the five viscera are no longer bound. Zhuo means pulling or straining—using force to excess; “overusing one’s cleverness” means applying intelligence beyond what is fitting.

Shiju (corpse-like sitting) means sitting as still as a corpse—as in the Qu Li (Arrangement of the Rites) phrase zuo ru shi (sit like a corpse). Though one is in wuwei, bearing remains dignified and naturally shows pattern and brilliance, hence shiju er long xian (still as a corpse while the dragon appears). Yuan is deep stillness; mo is silence, not speaking; lei sheng (thunder) refers to moving people’s hearts—though the mouth does not open, virtue can transform and stir others. Chan masters often say that though one does not speak, the sound is like thunder, hence yuan mo er lei sheng (deep silence and thunder). Shen is spirit; tian is heavenly principle; in every movement and every going out and coming in, nothing fails to accord with heavenly principle, hence shen dong er tian sui (spirit moves and heaven follows). Having read these three lines, can one still treat Zhuangzi as a heterodox book? When the principle is fully realized and the literary energy is extraordinary, the work can stand above the various masters.

Chuilei echoes the Zhuangzi image of wild horses, dust motes, and the myriad beings blowing each other with their breath. Chui is motion; lei is fine dust gathering. Sunlight seeping into an empty room, bright as an egg, and the floating dust in the shaft of light show how oddly apt these two characters are: seeming to move yet not really moving, seeming many yet not appearing as a multitude—hence chuilei. The point is: if I above practice wuwei, people under heaven rise with the sun and rest at sunset, each at ease in their own way, like the myriad beings in chuilei—why should one wear out heart and spirit to govern?

Main idea of the passage (background in Zhuangzi)

Cui Qiu asked Laozi: If one does not govern the realm, what can steady people’s hearts? Laozi said: Above all, do not stir and disturb the heart.

Commentary

Read alongside Mencius’s line that the heart “goes in and out without fixed times, and no one knows where it will lodge,” and you see how extraordinary Zhuangzi’s style is.

“Wu ying” means do not disturb or provoke. “Pai xia” is sinking into dejection and slackness when things go badly; “jin shang” is scrambling upward whenever fortune turns. Whether the heart pulls down or climbs up, in both cases it locks itself in and torments itself—it wears itself out in self-inflicted hardship.

“Nao yue” suggests a light, ingratiating softness that wins favor; “xuan mei” is the same sort of clever, pleasing manner. Even someone naturally hard can be softened by such charm—Xiang Yu weeping before Consort Yu is a familiar example.

“Lian gui” is like sharp, cutting corners; “diao zhuo” is fine carving and polishing. The folk saying “enter like a water caltrop, leave like a chicken’s crest” means someone goes in with sharp angles and comes out rounded off—that is exactly the image. The young and successful often have many sharp edges; after trouble and worldly wear, those edges get ground down—hence “lian gui” and “diao zhuo.”

“Qi nei jiao ru huo” is the heart in blazing anger; “qi han ning bing” is the heart frozen in fear and dread. These lines sketch how the heart swings among agitation, rage, worry, and terror.

“Within a single bow and lift of the head, it again ranges beyond the four seas”: in the briefest glance up or down, thought has already raced to the ends of the earth—so swift. “Fu” here suggests passing over or traversing; one thought passes, and it is as if one were again beyond the four seas.

“At rest it is deep and still”: when the heart does not stir and stays settled, it is deep and quiet, like an abyss. “In motion it is suspended and sky-like”: once a thought moves, it is like something hung in the sky—drifting and hard to fix.

“Fen jiao er bu ke xi”: “fen” overlaps with “fen” (wrath); it is an arrogant, explosive mood that cannot be harnessed or tied down. The Buddha’s frequent question “how does one subdue the heart?”—the word “subdue” (xiang fu) captures this kind of untamable, reckless heart.

This passage’s portrait of the heart is among the finest; without Zhuangzi’s pen, it would be hard to reach this level of precision.

In ancient times, the Yellow Emperor began using benevolence and righteousness to stir up and disturb people’s hearts. By the time of Yao and Shun, they had worn themselves so thin that their thighs bore no calluses and the hair on their shins was rubbed away—all to sustain the physical needs of everyone under heaven. They wore out their five viscera pushing benevolence and righteousness, and drained their blood and qi drafting laws and standards. Even so, they still could not keep the world in order.

So Yao exiled Huan Dou to Mount Chong, banished the San Miao to Sanwei, and drove Gong Gong to Youdu. That is what “could not govern the world” means: after exhausting heart and body to that point, they still had no way to control all under heaven and had to resort to exile and execution.

(Note: the banishment of the “four criminals” including Huan Dou originally belongs to Shun’s story, but Zhuangzi writes it as Yao’s deed—typical of Zhuangzi’s “uneven” (canci) yet marvelously strange (zhuogui) style. He is in effect exposing Yao and Shun’s predicament: if even they were like this, then extending to the kings of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties is all the more shocking.)

“Shi” here means to carry on or extend. Once the three dynasties’ kings had gone this far, below there were men like Jie and Zhi (tyrant and great robber), while above gentlemen vaunted the reputations of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu (sages prized in Confucianism), and both Ru (Confucian) and Mo (Mohist) schools rose together. Then joy and anger bred mutual suspicion, the foolish and the clever deceived one another, good and evil denied each other, and the absurd and the sincere mocked each other—so the world declined. The virtue of the Great Dao could no longer coexist; the logic of nature and life lay in utter disorder. Everyone under heaven loved clever tricks, and the common people were squeezed until they were drained of strength and resources.

“Gu wu bei” means the flesh on the thighs could not even grow plump; “jing wu mao” means the feet were so overworked that the hair was worn off. “Jin” is read like “qin” and matches “chan” (spear-shaft)—as in the line from the account of Xiang Yu, “hoe, plow, thorns, and spear-shafts”—here it means forcing one’s blood and qi up stiffly like a spear-handle; “gui” means “to do,” referring to laboring thus for benevolence, righteousness, and law.

Though they toiled to this extent, there was still what nothing could fix—hence punishments of exile. “Bu sheng tianxia” means having no way to cope with the world.

That the four criminals were banished and the world submitted is originally Shun’s story, yet Zhuangzi assigns it to Yao—as discussed in the “Under Heaven” chapter, this is one of those “uneven” touches; in reality he is laying bare Yao and Shun’s situation: if they were still like this, extending to the three dynasties’ kings is even more alarming.

Once the three dynasties’ kings had come to this, below came conduct like Jie and Zhi’s, above came admiration for the names of Zeng and Shi and the joint rise of Confucian and Mohist teachings—pleased with oneself, one added anger toward others; taking oneself as wise and others as foolish, oneself as good and others as wrong, oneself as sincere and others as deceptive—each side doing the same, hence mutual suspicion, deception, denial, and mockery—the sense of “this too has its right and wrong, that too has its right and wrong” in “Discourse on Making Things Equal.” The word “lanman” (in disarray) is well chosen: the rationale of nature and life is by then a complete shambles. “Qiu jie” means those below are squeezed dry with nothing left to give.

Main Meaning of the Passage

Then saws and axes were used to cut and trim, inked cords and plumb lines to “correct” and constrain, mallets and chisels to carve and decide—and the world fell into disorder because the root lay in stirring up and disturbing the human heart-mind. So worthy people hid in deep mountains and rocky caves, while lords with ten thousand chariots trembled with fear in their ancestral halls.

Down to our own day, people who died in different ways lie sprawled in heaps; those in cangues and fetters shove against one another; those undergoing punishment and execution meet the eye everywhere—yet Confucians and Mohists at just such a time still lift their feet, stretch their arms, and strike poses as if lofty, between the shackles. Alas—they have reached the utmost of shamelessness!

I truly do not know whether so-called “sagely wisdom” might not instead become the crossbeams and wedges on punitive gear, whether so-called “benevolence and righteousness” might not instead become shackles and mortise-and-tenon joints that bind people with a tight, inescapable fit; nor how we could know that moral templates like Zeng Shen and Master Yu would not be taken by figures like Jie and Zhi as whistling arrows—the first shot whose sound rallies the rest—to glorify themselves and harm others. Hence the conclusion: discard the sage and discard cleverness, and the world will truly be well governed.

Oral Commentary (Layer by Layer)

This passage means that sagely wisdom and clever contrivance could not hold the world in order, so governance slid all the way to rule by punishments; saws, axes, cords, ink, mallets, and chisels are all instruments of penal coercion. Cords bind; ink here refers to branding and mutilating punishments such as tattooing and cutting off the nose. Jiji (a restless, jumbled, uneasy state) describes the disorder. The fault lies in stirring up the heart-mind—from the time of Huangdi’s way of “governing the world,” the heart-mind was thrown into confusion.

Worthy people withdraw and do not emerge; the ruler himself toils in the hall of the temple; those suffering under heaven are frighteningly many—the scene is like this—yet Ru and Mo precisely then still elevate themselves, standing among a street full of offenders to discourse on learning. Hence they are said to “only then lift their feet and stretch their arms among the shackles”: li qi means raising the foot, walking aloof in a fragmented, high-and-dry manner; rang bi means waving the arms in grand talk, self-satisfied and self-important. Yi is an exclamation; shen yi zai means they go too far.

The two occurrences of “shen” (extreme) differ in tone—both are deliberate strokes in the writing: here, Ru and Mo know no shame to the utmost.

Heng yang is penal apparatus; xiang tui means those being punished pressed together, pushing one another. Heng yang jie xi (crossbeams and wedges on the cangue) exists because people pursue “sagely wisdom”; zhi gu and zao rui (shackles and mortise-and-tenon) exist because “benevolence and righteousness” are advertised. Jie and Zhi borrow the language of Zeng and Shi (Zeng Shen and Master Yu) to gild themselves and harm others—so Zeng and Shi become the whistling arrows of Jie and Zhi (a whistling arrow: one arrow flies with a sound, and a volley follows). Jie xi is the crossbeam and wedge on the cangue; hao shi is the whistling arrow—first one sound, then a chaos of shafts. The conclusion remains: discard the sage and discard knowledge; the great order of the world.

In the nineteenth year of his reign, the Yellow Emperor's decrees were carried throughout the land. Hearing that Guangchengzi dwelt on Kongtong Mountain, he went to visit him and said: “I have heard that you have penetrated the utmost Dao. I venture to ask: what is the essential purport of the utmost Dao? I wish to gather the essence of heaven and earth to nourish the five grains and sustain the people, and also to take charge of Yin and Yang so that the myriad things each find their proper place—how should this be done?”

Guangchengzi said: “What you wish to ask about is the inherent nature of the myriad things—that is, what was called above the utmost Dao. What you wish to ‘take charge of’ is precisely what harms the myriad things. ‘To take charge’ (guan) means that each fulfills its office and keeps its place—Yin and Yang do not clash, each holds to its role; that is what is meant by ‘taking charge.’ The way things originally are is called their ‘substance’ (zhi), and that refers to the utmost Dao. ‘The marring of things’ (wu zhi can) means the work of injuring the myriad things. The principles of heaven and earth, Yin and Yang, arise of themselves; the five grains and all living beings also grow and follow their course on their own. If you set your mind on forcibly taking charge, you will instead become a scourge upon the myriad things.” (Here “you” refers to the Yellow Emperor.)

Guangchengzi continued: “Ever since you have governed the realm, rain has fallen before the clouds have gathered (rain here and drought there—Yin and Yang out of balance), plants have withered before turning yellow (against the seasons), and the light of sun and moon has grown ever dimmer (eclipses of sun and moon, their radiance impaired). With a mind as shallow and narrow as yours, how could you be fit to speak of the utmost Dao?” (“Zu” means to gather; “jianjian” means shallow and petty.)

Huangdi abdicated and relinquished rule over the realm. He built a quiet room, spread white thatch, and lived alone in seclusion for three months before going to pay his respects to Guang Chengzi. Guang Chengzi lay with his head to the south. Huangdi approached from downwind, crawled forward on his knees, bowed and knocked his head on the ground, and asked: I have heard that you have attained the supreme Dao—may I ask how to cultivate the self so as to endure long?

Guang Chengzi suddenly sat up and said: Well asked! Come, I will tell you about the supreme Dao. The essence of the supreme Dao is deep and unfathomable (yaoyao mingming); its utmost point is dim and silent (hunhun momo). Do not use the eyes to look, do not use the ears to listen; hold the spirit (Shen) in stillness, and the body will naturally return to its proper place.

(Commentary) Huangdi did not ask about governing the world but about governing the body—hence it is called a good question. Yaoyao mingming means profound and inexhaustible; hunhun momo means deeply hidden and invisible. “Do not look, do not listen” means letting eyes and ears forget external entanglements; “hold the spirit in stillness” means settling the Shen in the heart-mind. One must be still and must be clear; do not weary the body, do not shake the essential Qi (Jing), and only then can one live long: the eyes see nothing, the ears hear nothing, the heart knows nothing—your Shen will guard and hold the form, and only then can the form live long. The “Shen” here is what later cultivation masters call the “infant” (original spirit, infant Qi).

(Alternate reading) The two phrases “do not look, do not listen” and “hold the spirit in stillness” mean that when Shen guards the form, one can live long. Today’s arts of cultivation all trace their root to this passage; the path of becoming an immortal or a buddha existed from antiquity—it was not first invented by Zhuangzi. The “wu” in “do not toil, do not shake” is the same as “do not” (wu/wu as prohibition). “The eyes see nothing, the ears hear nothing, the heart knows nothing” can also explain the two lines “do not look, do not listen” and “hold the spirit in stillness.” When Shen guards its form, one lives long—this word Shen is what present-day cultivation masters call the infant.

Vernacular Commentary on the Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi Kouyi)

You must treat the inner self with care, shut off the outer world, and use cleverness sparingly; knowing too much in fact spoils things. I explain for you: keep going upward to Great Brightness (supreme illumination, the realm of Grand Vacuity), arrive at the source of utmost Yang, and then lead you through the Gate of Deep Concealment (the door of hidden closure, standing for the beginning of the Wuji [Limitless]); you must also reach the source of utmost Yin.

Heaven and earth each have their offices; Yin and Yang each have their storehouses—in the human body likewise there are the order of heaven and earth and the vaults of Yin and Yang. As long as you guard this body carefully, the various constituents upon it (essence, qi, form, spirit, and the rest) will naturally grow strong.

I hold fast to “the One” (single-mindedness, pure unity) and dwell in harmony, so in cultivating the body I have already passed twelve hundred years, and my form has never declined.

“Treat the inner self with care” means not letting the mind stir rashly. “Shut off the outer world” means not letting outer things disturb the inner mind. Talent and clever knowing are burdens; “not knowing, not cognizing” is when virtue and power are complete—hence “much knowing leads to failure.”

The beginning of utmost Yang is Great Brightness; the beginning of utmost Yin is Deep Concealment. “Source” means the original start. “Above Great Brightness” points to what lies above Grand Vacuity; “the Gate of Deep Concealment” points to the opening of the Limitless. The Yijing (Book of Changes) says “one Yin and one Yang—this is called the Dao,” which is the same kind of idea, only more indirect in wording; Zhuangzi wanted to speak plainly, so his tone is this forthright. “For you” means teaching you; “then” means going, arriving; “enter” carries the sense of exhausting depth and penetrating inward—he intends to teach you into those states.

“Office” is like an official post; “storehouse” is like a treasury—in the body there are heaven-and-earth and Yin-Yang of one’s own. My heaven and earth each keep their places; my Yin and Yang each rest in their stations—only then can this body be guarded with care. “Things” means everything the body possesses, hence “things will naturally grow strong.”

What is guarded is the One, without mixture; what is dwelt in is nothing but harmony in all dealings. “Dwell” means how one handles affairs and responds to things. Heaven and earth here are the vigor (Yang) and yielding (Yin) of this very body. Therefore, though the form has passed twelve hundred years, it does not decay.

Huangdi again performed great obeisance, his forehead touching the ground, and said: “What you, Guangchengzi, have said is already teaching at the level of the Way of Heaven.”

Guangchengzi said: “Come closer; I will tell you. The myriad things are by nature inexhaustible, without end, yet people in the world always suppose they have a limit. They are by nature unfathomably deep, yet people always suppose they have a boundary. One who attains the Dao (the Way) may, in the highest place, become a sovereign; in a lower place, be styled a king. One who loses the Dao may, in the highest place, blaze only for a moment; in a lower place, turn to dust and ashes. Now the hundred kinds of things all spring from the soil and in the end return to the soil. Therefore I will leave you, enter the gate of the infinite, and wander in the wilds of the limitless. I share light with sun and moon and long life with heaven and earth. When I abide in depth and obscurity, blended and made one with things, while others have all died away, I alone endure— is it not so?”

Guangchengzi’s “Heaven” means that a person can unite with Heaven and become one.

Among the myriad things there is no fixed end, yet people always chase an “end”; among the myriad things nothing can be fully fathomed, yet people always hunt for an “ultimate.” To use the finite in pursuit of the infinite—these two lines are deeply telling. Put bluntly, it is like beating an iron threshold with iron, or a drunkard who sees it and claps and laughs: the same point. The Yijing does not finish at Jiji (things accomplished) but continues in Weiji (things not yet accomplished); from this we know that things are endless and unfathomable. Confucius at the river said “it passes on like this”—he too meant this endlessness and unfathomability. “Above one can be sovereign, below one can be king”—here “sovereign” and “king” follow “the sage completes human relations, the king completes institutions,” as in the “Under Heaven” chapter’s “inner sage, outer king”: the sovereign is wuwei (non-action), the king is active governance—not the Three Sovereigns and the kings of the Three Dynasties. Above, what gives light are sun and moon; below, what is earth is soil—meaning to stand between Heaven and Earth in blank unknowing: look up and there are only sun and moon, look down and there is only earth. The hundred flourishing things are born from earth and return to earth; leaves fall back to the root; what rots becomes wonder and wonder rots again—all one meaning. “Leave you” is to leave the human world; “the gate of the inexhaustible” and “the wilds of the limitless” are like beyond Heaven and Earth—there one can long endure with sun, moon, and earth, hence “share light with sun and moon” and “be constant with Heaven and Earth.” “Min” is the same as “fang,” dimness; “coming toward me” is approaching me, “going far from me” is turning away. Coming and going of things—I am wholly unaware of them—hence “what comes toward me is dim, what goes far from me is obscure.”

When Yun Jiang, the cloud deity, traveled east and passed among the branches of Fusang—the sacred tree at the place of sunrise—he chanced upon Hong Meng, who was slapping his thighs and hopping about like a sparrow at play. Yun Jiang halted at once, stood with deference, and asked, “Old sir, who are you, and why are you like this?” Hong Meng kept slapping his thighs and jumping and gave no pause. Yun Jiang said, “I am Yun Jiang,” and added, “I would like to ask you something.” Hong Meng looked up at him. Yun Jiang sighed and said, “Heaven and earth are not in harmony, the earth’s qi is knotted and stagnant, the six qi—yin, yang, wind, rain, obscurity, and clarity—are out of tune, and the four seasons are wrong. I wish to harmonize the refined essence of the six qi to nurture the myriad beings. What should I do?” Hong Meng slapped his thighs, leaped, shook his head, and said, “I do not know, I do not know.” Yun Jiang could draw nothing from his questions.

Three years later Yun Jiang traveled east again and, in the outskirts of Song, met Hong Meng once more. He was overjoyed, hurried forward, and said, “Has Heaven forgotten me? Has Heaven forgotten me?” He bowed twice, kowtowed, and sought instruction from Hong Meng. Hong Meng said, “Wandering freely, not knowing what to seek; letting go without restraint, not knowing where to go; the wanderer busy yet beholding what is naturally so—what could I know?” Yun Jiang said, “I thought myself unrestrained, yet the people follow me; I have no choice but to oversee them, and now the people are even more unrestrained. I would hear a word from you.” Hong Meng said, “Disturb the constant way of Heaven and violate the innate nature of things, and you will disorder Heaven and fail in your task. Scatter the herds of beasts, and birds and animals cry out at night; disaster reaches the grasses and trees and harm extends to insects. Alas—this is the fault of governing people.”

The branch of fuyao refers to the region associated with the legendary Fusang tree, where the sun is said to rise; fubi queyue—slapping one’s thighs and leaping like sparrows—depicts wild, joyful abandon. Tangran zishi means suddenly feeling empty and adrift; zhiran yili means standing upright with solemn composure. The sou (old man) here is Hong, a divine bird akin to the great Peng.

In Chan there is the koan of Zhaozhou visiting Touzi and returning from buying oil: Zhaozhou says he had long heard Touzi’s great name, only to find someone like an oil seller; Touzi answers “you, you”—meaning depends on how you take it. Chan often uses the word for “oil” to break through; that is not the same as Zhuangzi’s you (to roam/play), and one must not read “oil” as “roam.”

The passage about Yun Jiang describes heaven and earth exulting and the ten thousand things roaming in transformation; Yun Jiang looks up, sighs “xu,” and says the painting is truly marvelous—much like the earlier scene where the Yellow Emperor puts questions to heaven and earth. Diaotou and yaotou are turning the head away and shaking the head.

“Has Heaven forgotten me?”—zhen here means “I,” the speaker referring to himself, not the imperial “we.” Calling Hong “Heaven” means: we met the other day—do you still remember, or have you already forgotten? Fuyou is wandering and drifting; kuangcang is untrammeled freedom; yidang is transcending constraints. Buzhi suoqiu and wusuoqiu, buzhi suo wang and wusuowang, all say there is no utilitarian aim and no fixed destination. Yangzhang describes busyness and toil; wuwang here means what is genuine and unforced. Amid universal bustle, one reflects on one’s true face; only when there is no choice does one respond to the world and speak to others—in truth one would decline but cannot.

Fang means to take as model or pattern. Min yi wo wei fa—the people take me as their standard. Heaven’s constant way and things’ real situation are naturally so as they are; if one governs with deliberate mind and cleverness, one disrupts nature—how can natural transformation be achieved? Hence  tian fu cheng— suggests emptiness or what is prior to human artifice, the layer that is naturally there before deliberate action; with that layer disturbed, completion in the natural sense fails.

Shou qun er bu zheng—beasts gather in herds without strife, originally no different from  and  (kindred gathering together); once each scatters its kind and each goes its own way, distinctions of you, me, same, and different arise. Niao jie ye ming jing—birds startled into night cries and flight—also fails to follow the natural course of the ten thousand things and instead makes them lose their native disposition; grass, trees, and insects all suffer for it. All of this comes from governing people with a deliberate mind from the start, which is why the text earlier says zui zai ying ren xin—the fault lies in stirring up human hearts and breaking what is natural.

Yun Jiang said, “Then what should I do?”

Hong Meng said, “Alas, it is difficult! You had better go back at ease.”

Yun Jiang said, “I have met with great difficulty and wish to hear one word that truly matters from you.”

Hong Meng said, “Alas! Nurture yourself with the heart-mind: you need only rest in Wuwei (non-action), and outer things will transform and grow of themselves. Set aside your bodily form, cast out your clever contrivances, blend with the myriad kinds of things, forget mutual distinctions, and become one with that primordial vastness before division. Undo the bonds of the mind, loosen the grip of spirit, drift with nothing to hold you—as if you had no soul. The ten thousand things teem in confusion, each returning to its own root—each returns to its root yet does not know it; in turbid oneness they never leave this whole for a lifetime. If someone fancies that he ‘knows,’ he has in fact left the root. Do not chase after names, do not pry into inner secrets; the ten thousand things simply arise of themselves.”

Yun Jiang said, “Heaven has shown me favor, using De (Virtue/Power) to instruct me and silence to reveal me; I have sought the Dao in person, and only today have I truly gained something.”

He bowed again, kowtowed, rose, took his leave, and departed.

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Explications of Zhuangzi)

“Then what am I to do?”

The point is: since things have already come to this pass, what can one do?

“How poisonous!”

Like the stone monk’s frequent “How bitter, how bitter!”—it means people make their own lives into torment.

“Xianxian— the look of hurrying away”

Xianxian describes the manner of rushing off.

The sense is: you have already tormented yourself and brought suffering on yourself—go back at once; there is no need to ask me again.

What follows is a later fabricated question-and-answer, written very much in the sharp give-and-take style of Chan Denglu (lamp records).

“Nourishing the heart” (xinyang)

This is not ordinary “nourishing the heart” (yangxin) but xinyang—“heart nourishing”—and those two word orders must be distinguished carefully.

The meaning is: you need only abide in wuwei (non-action); outer things will transform and nurture themselves, coming and going without ceasing—that is what “self-transformation” (zihua) means.

Spit out all former cleverness and scheming; do not keep them in the heart.

“Lun is the same as lun (to sink): sinking and forgetting oneself with things”

Sink together with things and forget distinctions, and you merge with the great sameness of xingming—the vast undifferentiated dark before there was qi or form.

“Unbinding the heart,” “releasing spirit,” “no soul”

“Unbinding the heart” is unbinding the heart that calculates and schemes;

“releasing spirit” is letting go of shen (spirit) that knows and discriminates;

“moran” is settled, unmoving;

“no soul” is without knowing.

Jing (essence) is the corporeal soul (po); shen is the ethereal soul (hun); “no soul” is as said earlier—like a thing that stands only by the bodily frame.

The “heart” in “unbinding the heart” here is not the same as the “heart” in xinyang;

the “spirit” in “releasing spirit” is not the same as the shen in “embracing spirit and keeping still”—such words must be tasted line by line.

“Multitudinous and many—each returns to its root”

The ten thousand things are in turmoil; in the end each returns to its root.

Where there is birth there must be perishing; yet perishing is not utter annihilation—in extinction something new is born again, hence “each returns to its root.”

If you still do not understand, that is the look of muddle and unknowing.

In muddle one can stay with the Dao all one’s life; once there is knowing and discrimination, one and the Dao split into two—hence: “If he knows that, he has already left it.”

This line is extremely essential; when you read it, pay special attention: whatever discriminates is called “name”; whatever likes and dislikes is called “emotion.”

“Kui means to see. No questioning, no peering”

Kui is to see, to pry.

No questioning, no peering—then there is no discrimination, no likes and dislikes: that is wuwei and spontaneity (ziran).

“If I can be wuwei and ziran, then each thing fulfills its life—that is its gu (what is so of itself)”

If I can be non-active and natural, the ten thousand things each grow according to their own nature—that is “gu”—it is inherently so.

“Mo means not speaking. Grant me the De of nature; show me the principle that needs no words”

Mo is silence, not speaking.

Bestow on me the De (Virtue/Power) of the natural; indicate to me the principle that cannot be put into words.

“Turn inward and seek it—you have already obtained this Dao; gongqin is to do it yourself in person; zi is the same idea”

Turn around and seek within yourself; you have already got this Dao—“gongqin” means to practice it personally on your own body; “zi” (self) carries the same sense.

“Then he bowed in thanks and left”

Thereupon he bowed in gratitude and withdrew.

People in the world generally want others to be like themselves and dislike those who differ from them. They wish everyone to match them, yet they themselves refuse to be like the crowd—such a mindset is really an attempt to “rise above the masses.” But how can someone whose heart is set on surpassing others truly surpass them? Needing everyone to affirm what one has heard before one feels secure is worse than simply having the same practical skills as everyone else; in fact one ends up with fewer skills than the masses. Those who would govern another’s state try to seize the benefits attributed to the Three Kings (Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and the kings Wen and Wu of Zhou—the sage rulers of the three dynasties in Confucian tradition), yet fail to see the calamities involved; they are staking another’s kingdom on a gamble. Those who gamble and avoid ruin are almost none; those who truly preserve a state are fewer than one in ten thousand; when nothing succeeds, the loss is ten thousand times greater. Yet holders of land and kingdoms remain so blind—how lamentable.

From this passage to the end of the chapter, Zhuangzi develops his own commentary: demand that others be like you and reject those unlike you, and you place yourself above the crowd. You insist that what you have heard must be shared and followed by all before you feel at ease—yet in what way are you different from ordinary people? You wish to stand out, but from what do you stand out? If you call it “unique insight,” everyone else would have to be ignorant; yet you also want everyone to agree with you—then are you not less capable than the masses? Laozi said, “Those who know me are few; thus I am honored.” Zhuangzi here adds another twist; what Han Yu meant in “On Literature” by “there is still the opinion of others involved” points in the same direction. With such a heart, yet aspiring to be another’s ruler, is to grasp the Three Kings’ gains without seeing their disasters; to seek another’s state with this mind is to chase luck. A heart fixed on luck sees only chaos and ruin—how can one speak of success?

Yet those who hold territory do not know who is saying this and are instead misled by such words. “Those who have soil” means those with fiefs and states—in that era, the feudal lords. The meaning is plain: it is a satire aimed at the itinerant persuaders who traveled from state to state lobbying the lords.

Those who have a realm and can bear great undertakings cannot treat the myriad things as “objects” to be arranged at will; precisely because they do not cling to treating outer things as outer things, they can truly encompass the myriad things. Understand this: what “using things to master things” (yi wu yi wu) targets is not “things” in the ordinary sense. Is such a person merely enough to govern the people under heaven? They move in and out among the four quarters of heaven and earth, roam above the nine provinces, come and go alone, walk with the Dao—this is called being “unique” (duyou). Only one who can be “unique” deserves to be called supremely noble.

“Treating things as things” (wuwu) means the mind has attachments and actions leave traces, using outer things as tools; “not treating as things” (bu wu) is governing through wuwei and following what is natural. Wuwei is not doing nothing, but not acting rashly or by force, so all things can be accomplished—hence: only by not clinging to things can one truly encompass the myriad things. If one understands what “thing” is involved in “wuwu,” that is far more than governing the world alone. Hence “entering and leaving the six directions, roaming the nine provinces”—the Dao transcends the surface of the myriad things, moving freely in the opening and closing of creation, one with heaven’s way, not on a par with ordinary people; hence coming and going alone, being “unique”; at that point one is supremely noble.

The teaching of the “Great Person” (the perfected person, the uniquely alone one) is like body and shadow, voice and echo—utterly natural. When someone asks, they respond from what is so, with an open heart; they harmonize with all under heaven yet rest where there is no sound or noise, acting without fixed corners. They bring you back to the naturally bustling state, roaming the unbounded: entering and leaving without bias, with sun and moon having no end. Form and spirit merge in great unity (datong)—in datong there is no stubborn “self”; without “self,” from where would one grasp “being”?

Those who once “saw being” were the gentlemen of old; those who can “see non-being” and befriend heaven and earth are the higher level. (“Seeing being” means seeing phenomena and names; “seeing non-being” means awakening to the formless Dao and aligning with heaven and earth.)

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Exposition of the Zhuangzi)

Section One: On the “Great Person” and the “Perfect Person”

The “Great Person” (daren) and the “Perfect Person” (zhiren) are those who alone keep in step with the Dao and do not drift with vulgar custom. Form necessarily casts a shadow; sound necessarily leaves an echo—such is the way of nature. When someone puts a question to me, I answer with everything I truly understand inside; to meet the world in this way is to take upon one’s shoulders, alone, the weight of the world’s great affairs. I am host; the world is guest. There is no echo, no sound, no scent, no fixed direction, no track that can be followed.

Naonao names the restless bustle of the multitude, never at rest; shi wang is leading everyone toward some destination; ru here means the people under heaven; fugui is bringing them back again into that same restless turning. The point is: though one transcends the vulgar, one does not leave the world behind—withdrawal from society and engagement in society are not two separate methods.

Wuduan wu shi: no head, no starting point; wu pang: no margin on any side. In this boundlessness one goes out and in, drifts and roams, day after day, without seeing where it ends or knowing where it begins—hence “yu ri wu shi” (without beginning together with the day). As far as the body is concerned, we praise it because in this respect it merges with heaven and earth as one body—hence “he hu da tong” (in accord with the Great Unity). Since my body is the same as the ten thousand things, I cannot scheme only for myself; this is wu ji (no-self). Once there is no-self, what is left to call “having”? It is what Layman Pang (Pang Jushi) said: empty all that is “having”; do not treat “non-being” as something real.

The gentlemen of old—we only saw their “having,” their friendship with heaven and earth, and then went on to see their “non-being.” The “gentlemen of old” (xi zhi junzi) spoken of here, from Yao and Shun downward, all fall within this meaning.

Section Two: What Is Lowly yet Cannot Be Cast Aside

Zhuangzi, in this passage, is still teaching how to handle affairs and how to stand in the world—not merely spinning abstractions. Master Yichuan (Cheng Yi) said: in Buddhism, “reaching upward is ample, foundational learning is insufficient”—a sharp remark. The lines below can be read against that—what is unchangeable is the Dao; what must be followed and done is Heaven (heavenly principle, the order of nature).

• Things (wu): low in rank, yet one cannot refuse to bear and use them (what must be used, use).
• The people (min): lowly in station, yet one cannot fail to guide and govern them (the folk must still be settled).
• Affairs (shi): may be kept hidden and need not be displayed, yet one cannot fail to do them.
• Law (fa): seems plain and un-subtle, yet one cannot fail to set it forth and enforce it.
• Righteousness (yi): seems distant and not intimate, yet one cannot fail to uphold and occupy its place.
• Humaneness (ren): is naturally partial and near, yet one cannot fail to extend it (from the near to the far).
• Ritual (li): requires restraint and cannot be indulged, yet one cannot fail to accumulate and practice it.
• Virtue (de): holds the middle way, yet one cannot fail to elevate and cultivate it.
• The Dao: is utterly one, yet one cannot fail to change without losing its root (hold fast when one should, adapt when one must—meaning constancy without losing the source).
• Heaven (tian): belongs to the layer of the “spiritual” (shen), yet one cannot fail to act in the light of heavenly principle.

Notes

• Kouyi: oral exposition of a classic’s meaning—something like lecture notes.
• Layman Pang (Pang Jushi): Tang-dynasty lay Buddhist Pang Yun, often quoted in Chan for “empty all that is ‘having’; do not reify ‘non-being.’”
• Yichuan: Cheng Yi, Northern Song Neo-Confucian; he often faulted Buddhist and Daoist traditions for an imbalance between “reaching upward” and “foundational learning.” Here the commentator uses Cheng’s phrase to show that Zhuangzi’s passage is really about “foundational learning”—things, people, affairs, law, righteousness, humaneness, ritual, virtue, Dao, and Heaven must each be worked at in concrete practice.

Reading this far, one can see that Zhuangzi was not someone who spoke only of the abstruse while ignoring human affairs—he was always engaging with what happens in actual life.

Cheng Yi (Yichuan) said that Buddhism has “what reaches upward” but lacks “learning at the base”—a apt remark. Yet even in these few lines, one can see both something close to “base learning” (concrete practice and daily use) and the idea that the refined and the coarse cannot be split apart.

When the Dao is taken as supreme, things appear base—but how could people entirely cast things aside? Hence it is said: though things are lowly, they cannot be left unused (ren); one should employ things, not be enslaved by them.

When the Dao is honored, the human side seems humble—yet how could the Dao exist apart from people? Hence it is said: though the people are humble, they cannot be left unrelied upon (yin); each side depends on the other and neither can stand alone.

“Hidden” (ni) means obscure and unclear; what is “clear” is the Dao. When concrete affairs are measured against the Dao, affairs look dim; yet how could worldly matters all be discarded? Hence it is said: though affairs are obscure, they cannot be left undone.

The Dao is refined; law (fa) is coarse—yet law cannot be wholly abandoned. Hence it is said: though law is coarse, it cannot be left unproclaimed (chen)—set forth and put into practice.

To speak only of “rightness” (yi) is to drift far from the Dao—yet how could yi be removed? Hence it is said: though yi seems distant, it cannot be left unheld (ju)—maintained and carried out.

The Dao has no near or far in partiality; benevolence (ren) has love. Ren is not yet the highest Dao—how could it be cast off? It must be extended. Hence it is said: though ren is partial in its affection, it cannot be left unextended (guang).

Rites have forms and restraint, as if binding the secular world—yet they cannot be omitted. Hence it is said: though rites are formal, they cannot be left unaccumulated (ji)—built up and realized. Three hundred major rites and three thousand minor observances cannot be completed in a day or by one person—so one must “accumulate De.” De is what the many accomplish together.

Though one harmonizes with the world, there are places where one must stand on one’s own—not everything can be copied from others. Hence it is said: De must be “central” (zhong—balanced, moderate), yet cannot be kept low—centrality harmonizes with others, while De must also have its own height.

What is wholly natural is the Dao—yet worldly affairs always call for adaptation; how could one cling to one unchanging form? Hence it is said: though the Dao is “one” (unified, root-one), it cannot be left unchanged (yi)—altered according to the times.

What cannot be known is “spirit” (shen); what Heaven does cannot be fully known. Human affairs cannot be left unfinished—how could everything be pushed onto the unknowable? Hence it is said: though Heaven is wondrous, one cannot leave action undone; people must still fulfill what lies within what can be known.

(The closing lines repeat themes from earlier on rites, accumulating De, centrality, and not wholly conforming—oral exegesis was often recorded as the teacher spoke; the sense remains that rites must be accumulated, De must be balanced yet self-standing, and one must not become identical with everyone else in every respect.)

Therefore the sage takes Heaven’s Dao as what they look to, yet does not put extra force into “helping” along; they let De complete themselves, yet are not weighed down by the name of De; they act from the Dao, yet do not lean on schemes and calculation; they use benevolence (ren) to restrain themselves, yet do not lean on benevolence to advertise themselves; they hold righteousness (yi) lightly and do not deliberately stockpile righteousness to win a reputation; they meet what ritual (li) asks, yet do not dodge and stall; they touch worldly affairs, yet do not shirk and flee; they align with law and measure, yet do not stir up disorder; they rely on the people, yet do not look down on them; they go along with external things, yet do not abandon what duty requires of them.

External things are not worth clinging to excessively, yet what must be done cannot be left undone. One who does not understand Heaven’s Dao will not have pure De; one who has not opened the Great Dao has no path that can be walked naturally. One who does not understand the Great Dao—how pitiable indeed.

Not “helping” (bu zhu): It is not straining hard or claiming credit for oneself. In human affairs one inevitably must act, but seen with the “eye of the Dao,” even when one acts, one does not hold the effort “within” oneself—hence “observing Heaven and not helping.” The “help” here is the same as in “helping things grow” (zhu zhang)—forcing them along.

Not “piling up” (bu lei): It is not stacking fame and status layer upon layer to elevate oneself; the higher the stack, the less natural the heart becomes. “Lei” is read like “lei” (to pile); it means accumulation.

Not scheming (bu mou): The mind does not calculate or keep petty accounts. Not relying on merit (bu shi): One does not feel that others owe one a great debt of gratitude.

Gathering together (hui ju): Coming together in one place. Accumulating without transforming (ji er bu hua): Piling things onto oneself without letting the heart-nature transform; only when one stops piling can transformation be discussed.

“Bo” (thin/near) means to press close, to stay near. What one does may approach “righteousness” (yi), yet one does not take credit for being righteous—this is what Mencius meant by “gathering righteousness” (ji yi); if one acts righteously while feeling very righteous, one no longer “transforms.”

Not bound by taboo (bu hui): Not fettered by prohibitions. Responding (ying): Meeting and handling affairs. If one is trapped in ritual form alone, one becomes afraid to do this or that; when something should be done, one does it and responds to events as they come—hence “responding to ritual and not being taboo-bound.”

Yielding (rang): Shrinking back. Meeting affairs without yielding (jie yu shi er bu rang): In handling affairs the heart goes straight and acts straight—when one should step forward, one steps forward, without shrinking.

Using “law” or “pattern” (fa) to align the myriad things, affairs may be complex, yet in the mind there is a direct standard—hence “not chaotic.” The people may be relied upon, yet one does not slight oneself; external things may be used, yet one does not abandon the root to chase the branches—the sense of the lines above is complete here.

Then another “thing” (wu) is raised: “No thing is worth insisting on, yet one cannot fail to act” (wu mo zu wei ye er bu ke bu wei)—this word “wu” coarsely means affairs and outer objects, and in the refined sense it also connects to the Dao; both affairs and things are included. Seen with the heart of the Dao, nothing among “things” is truly worth clinging to, yet one cannot avoid doing something—this is spoken from the side of “human heart.” Reading this line, Zhuangzi is not unaware that refined and coarse, Dao and things, can originally be one.

It also says: “One who is not clear about Heaven cannot be pure in De.” Affairs in the world cannot be left undone, but one must know the naturalness of heavenly principle; if one does not understand that naturalness, one’s own De is no longer pure. “Not penetrating the Dao” (bu tong yu dao) is the same as “not clear about Heaven” (bu ming yu tian).

“Nothing succeeds through ‘self’” (wu zi er ke): There is no place where “I” can be master and everything goes smoothly—the foregoing said not clear about Heaven, not penetrating the Dao; here the point is still: not clear about the Dao, then intellectual skill is biased; not clear about Heaven and not penetrating the Dao are ultimately one matter.

This passage is exceptionally precise and intimate on the level of doctrine, yet readers often skim it without thinking it through.

What is honored through non-action (Wuwei) is the Way of Heaven; what is burdened through deliberate action is the Way of humankind. The first line speaks of the “mind of the Dao”; the second speaks of the “human mind.” The word “burdened” here is close in sense to the “precarious” in the Book of Documents line “the human mind is precarious.” What should rule is the Way of Heaven—that is, the mind of the Dao should be master; what should serve is the Way of humankind—the human mind should obey. The “ruler and minister” here are not the ruler and minister of the court—readers who only read it as political hierarchy miss the point. This is ruler and minister within one person. Equalizing Things asks whether things “take turns as ruler and minister for each other” and whether “there is a true ruler among them”—that should be understood in this light. Zhuangzi’s book on the whole prizes non-action and treats deliberate action as lower; earlier sections say that where action is required one cannot refuse to act, yet also fear that people will treat action and non-action as the same thing—hence here again: the Way of Heaven and the Way of humankind differ greatly; one must not fail to distinguish them clearly.

From opening and closing, restraint and release, to foreshadowing and echo, when you can see that the author lived what he wrote, the prose comes alive; only Zhuangzi’s language is tangled and swings sharply, so some cannot fully digest it. Middle passages such as “distant yet one cannot fail to dwell in it,” “righteous yet kinship cannot fail to be broad,” “benevolence,” and the like do not follow the same lines as the Analects and Mencius, so they are easily labeled “heterodox”; one must not read them like the Confucian classics to get through.

From “self-lowly yet one cannot fail to employ it” through “one cannot fail to examine”—this is a major framework in the Zhuangzi, of the same kind as “All Under Heaven.” Su Dongpo held that Zhuangzi was not really mocking Confucius—that can be felt from “All Under Heaven”; here too one can say Zhuangzi was not unaware that refinement and coarseness, root and branch, are ultimately one principle. There is another layer: the words of sages and worthies do not change for ten thousand generations; the hundred schools also have sharp things to say. The Changes says “what is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called the vessel,” and also speaks of cutting and shaping as change, pushing forward as penetration, placing among the people under Heaven as enterprise; it also speaks of presenting as image, fashioning as vessel, using as law, the people all using it as spirit—when did it only speak of the refined, only of the coarse? Stated so completely, naturally there is no gap.

Master Yuexuan (Zhang Shi) said: When Confucians awaken to the Dao, the mind grows finer; when Chan Buddhists awaken, the mind grows coarser—that goes to the marrow of Confucianism and Buddhism; no one had put it that way before. This Zhuangzi passage calls many worldly affairs base and coarse, then adds the three characters “cannot fail to” throughout—that brushwork is coarser still and lacks the atmosphere of “only the refined, only the one, sincerely holding the center.” Only when one can separate these atmospheres of refinement and coarseness does one know Yuexuan had awakened and had great discerning eyes. Others who refute Buddhism only scratch the surface; he both treated the Buddhist name as world-renouncing teaching and refuted with “severing human relations”—how could Buddhism accept that in good faith?

Outer Chapters: Heaven and Earth, Chapter Twelve

Heaven and Earth are vast, yet the changes and coming-to-be within them are, at bottom, the working of one and the same primordial Qi. The myriad things are many, yet the root principle by which they are ordered is also one—namely zaohua, creation and transformation itself. People are many, yet what presides over them is like a single ruler—and the “ruler” meant here is one who takes De as foundation and takes Heaven as fulfillment.

Hence it is said: those who governed all under Heaven in remote antiquity acted by Wuwei (non-action), relying on nothing other than Heaven’s De. “Its transformations are uniform” means that the changes of the myriad things all reduce to the work of primordial Qi. “Governance is one” means that though kinds of things are countless, what leads them all is only one creation and transformation. Though people are many, their head is as one ruler—just as there cannot be two suns in the sky, the people cannot have two sovereigns. What Heaven gives us is De. If people can trace De to its source and see that it is completed from Heaven, then human effort need not be piled on further. A ruler who grasps this can govern by Wuwei and follow what is natural; Wuwei and naturalness—that is Heaven’s De. “Yuan” (written with an alternate graph in some texts) means “far”; “remote antiquity” (yuangu) is the deep past.

Use the Dao to view words, and the right way of rulers under Heaven is straightened. Use the Dao to view titles and roles, and the meaning of ruler and minister is clarified. Use the Dao to view capacity, and offices throughout the land can each be rightly managed. Use the Dao to view broadly, and how the myriad things answer one another is complete. Thus what communicates with Heaven and Earth is De; what moves through the myriad things is the Dao. What above governs people is shi—affairs of government; what can deploy a given skill is ji—technique. Technique gathers into affairs; affairs gather into yi (rightness); yi gathers into De; De gathers into the Dao; the Dao gathers into Heaven.

Between Heaven and Earth there is Qi; only with Qi is there sound; only with sound are there names. Once names include “lord,” the boundaries of who is high or low and who leads or follows in the world are set. This was not arranged afterward by people; from the moment Heaven and Earth opened and sound first arose, those boundaries had already taken shape in nature. Hence it is said: when one views “names and speech” through the Dao, the position of the world’s lord holds firm. “Speech” means sound and name; the Dao is also what is natural. Once this distinction exists, the meaning that lord and subject each keep their places becomes clear—just as when low and high are arrayed and noble and base each find their station.

Hence it is said: when one views “distinctions” through the Dao, the meaning of lord and subject is clear. Affairs under Heaven are not for one person to monopolize; people in the world each take up a role according to their endowment, and what each can do is also what Heaven grants—Heaven begets the multitude, each handling their own task. Hence it is said: when one views “capacities” through the Dao, offices under Heaven are each properly governed.

Nothing exists in isolation: where there is cold there is warmth, female and male, above and below, before and after, left and right—each responds to the other, all arising from nature. Hence it is said: when one broadly views through the Dao, the responses of the ten thousand things are all complete. These four lines are especially fine; the tone of the text is exceptionally clean.

Heaven can cover and give life; Earth can bear and bring things to completion—virtuous character communicates and shares one source. Each of the ten thousand things follows its own principle, and principle operates within them. Hence it is said: what moves among the ten thousand things is the Dao.

What those above use to govern the world—such as ritual, music, penal law, and administration—are all governance of affairs; each craft and each profession, with each person fully applying their skill, is human technique (yi). Dao and De lean toward the refined; affairs and technique lean toward the coarse; refined and coarse both come from nature. Thus technique returns to affairs, affairs to righteousness (yi), righteousness to De, De to the Dao, and the Dao to Heaven. “Jian” (combining) means merging the two into one. In some editions “yi” (righteousness) was written as “yi” (craft/art)—a scribal error from similar pronunciation.

Hence it is said: in antiquity those who nourished the world kept desires few and the world was self-sufficient, kept artificial action sparse and the world was naturally at peace; their De returned to the Dao, and the Dao returned to Heaven. “Jian” again means unity; mixing it with “craft” (yi) is likewise corruption from near-homophones.

Therefore, in antiquity those who “nurtured all under heaven”: when they themselves had few desires, the world was self-sufficient; when they themselves practiced non-action (wuwei), the myriad things were naturally transformed and nurtured; when their inner hearts were deeply still, the common people naturally settled in peace. The Record also says: When one penetrates the “One,” the myriad affairs are complete; when the heart holds to nothing, even ghosts and spirits submit. Here “nurturing all under heaven” is what Mencius meant by “nourishing all under heaven with goodness”: I do not grasp greedily, and the world is not in want; I do not force action, and the world transforms of itself; I keep still, and the people are at peace of themselves. “Deep stillness” (yuan jing) is stillness that is deep and clear. The myriad affairs are no more than one principle, hence “penetrating the One and the myriad affairs are complete.” If one can truly be without contrived mind, not only do people submit—ghosts and spirits submit as well. “The record says” means “the ancient books speak thus”: handed down from former ages, Zhuangzi cites them to corroborate his own teaching. These five sentences are exceptionally pure; the first three are close to the Laozi.

The Master said: The Dao covers and bears the myriad things—it is vast indeed! The noble person cannot but “hollow the heart” (kua xin)—opening the heart and emptying fixed views; this is not cruelty but shedding attachment and cunning mind.

• Acting yet in non-action (wuwei)—this is called Heaven (acting in accord with Heaven, not forcing things awry).
• Speaking yet in non-action—this is called De (Virtue/Power) (words flowing from the natural, not fabricated for fame or gain).
• Loving people and benefiting things—this is called benevolence (ren).
• Treating what differs as one body—this is called greatness (da).
• Not clinging to one corner, not contending with others to stand apart—this is called breadth (kuan).
• Containing the myriad kinds of difference—this is called richness (fu).
• Holding fast to this virtue without dispersing it—this is called constancy or the thread (ji) (the guiding cord, the root).
• When virtue’s work is accomplished—this is called establishment (li).
• Following the Dao in conduct—this is called completeness (bei) ( thorough and rounded).
• Not letting outer things break one’s resolve—this is called wholeness (wan) (preserving the original authenticity).

When the noble person understands these ten points, they can lodge and nourish the “heart” within great affairs—the heart’s capacity becomes vast; and again like great water, surging and flowing, letting the myriad things each go where they belong without blocking or damming.

This passage has Confucius speak of his teacher (understood in the Daoist tradition as Laozi or the sage the Way honors as “teacher”): kouxin means peeling away, layer by layer, the “discerning mind” that lives on distinction, calculation, and clinging. Only when that mind—which always wants to grasp and judge—is stripped back can one truly study the Way and return to what is natural.

Acting in a natural manner is what it means to align with Tian (Heaven, the natural order); what one has already realized in oneself need not be talked to death, hence wuwei (non-action, acting without forced contrivance); saying what needs to be said, precisely, is De (Virtue/Power). “Wuwei in speech” is not playing mute—it is having no surplus words to pile up and no hidden jixin (scheming heart) to stash away.

Outwardly things differ, yet at the root they are one, hence “butong” (not-same)—not erasing difference, but seeing the one within difference. That sameness is vast. Cliffs each differ, yet all leave traces; the heart is broad and can hold. The ten thousand things are each unlike the others, yet “I” lack none of them—hence “you wan”: the myriad kinds all dwell in this one inclusive awareness. When the myriad are present in the person without lack, that is fu (richness, fullness).

Ji is order: the De one holds has degrees and sequence, each in its place—hence “upholding De is called ji.” When De stands firm, lofty and unleaning, De is established. Following this Dao, what should be present is present—bei (complete in equipment); the body of the Dao is rounded—quan and wan (whole and finished). Outer things do not break the will—buyi wu cuo zhi (not letting things thwart the intent)—that is wan. The ten terms named here—Tian, De, ren (humaneness), da (greatness), kuan (breadth), fu, ji, li (standing firm), bei, wan—string together the stages by which heavenly De and the cultivation of the human heart are ordered.

Tao is to conceal and contain: the myriad affairs are gathered in, nothing left outside, all taken up in this one heart. The heart is so great it can tao (embrace and hold) the affairs under heaven without overflowing.

Shizhe is the going, the passing—like flowing water that moves on without stopping. The ten thousand things come and go without end, yet the “I” that shares this with them is likewise inexhaustible—hence a peiran (vast, overflowing) breadth, sharing with the myriad in their passing and in their boundlessness: not being dragged by things, but in the infinite not losing one’s wholeness.

If that is so, then to hide gold in the mountains and pearls in deep waters is not to reject wealth and goods, but to refuse to treat profit and gain as one’s private possession. Not deliberately clinging to wealth and rank is, in truth, keeping a certain distance from them. One does not rejoice because life is long, nor grieve because death comes early; one does not take success as glory, nor poverty and obstruction as shame (the original uses a character whose tone fits “shame” even better than the usual word for “humiliation”). The good of a whole lifetime is shared with the world, not fenced off as “my share”—this is the sense of “someone lost a bow, someone picked up a bow”: nothing is privately hoarded.

Even if one holds sway over all under heaven, one does not treat oneself as nobly eminent—as when it is said that the yellow canopy (the mark of imperial dignity) was never Yao’s true heart. What the breast illuminates is the principle of Heaven and Earth; that alone is called “manifest.” Hence one does not take “ruling the world” as one’s own glory. The myriad things gather and return to a single principle, and so it is called “one storehouse.” Birth and death are, in the largest sense, vast; yet for oneself there is no otherness—seeing them as one is why it is called “the same form.”

The Master said again: the Dao is deep and dwells in peace; it is clear and limpid. Metal and stone do not sound of themselves—they need conditions before they can ring. Metal and stone therefore have sound, yet without being struck they will not ring. Among the myriad things, then, who can decide which is “Heaven” and which is “the human”?

“The abyss in its dwelling” speaks of stillness: to dwell is not to move, but to settle. “Limpid in its clarity” means unmixed and undefiled. The ringing of metal and stone is likewise the naturalness of Heaven. Thus “metal and stone cannot obtain [their voice] without sounding” means that the very capacity to ring is itself the Dao. Yet though metal and stone can sound, without a person’s strike they do not ring; when a person strikes, that too is the mechanism of Heaven. These two lines repeat the same point as before: how do we know that what we call “Heaven” is not “the human,” or that what we call “the human” is not “Heaven”? Hence “among the myriad things, who can fix it?” Heaven cannot be apart from the human, nor the human apart from Heaven—they complete each other in just this way. Only in this book are the words pushed to an especially strange and striking pitch.

People of kingly virtue are those who possess the De to govern the world. They live in simplicity and follow their nature (sù shì—taking plainness as their way and acting according to innate disposition, like “walking the plain path ahead”), and though they can do all things and leave nothing undone, they do not treat clever contrivance as their true skill; therefore they take shame in being adept at worldly affairs (chǐ tōng yú shì—ashamed of showing off mastery in mundane business). They stand on the primordial root (the beginning and foundation of all things) and know and connect with spirit (zhī tōng yú shén—being in touch with the divine and the principle of creation and transformation, sincere to the point of seeming like spirit).

Hence their De is vast. When something in the outer world is worth taking up or can stir them, the heart responds accordingly—this is “when the heart moves outward, it is because things have stimulated it” (“cǎi” means to be stirred, “chū” means to respond). Everything with form is born from creation and transformation, all along this one Dao; if one cannot awaken from within, the Dao stays unclear—the “birth” (shēng) mentioned below refers to being born endowed with the central Qi of Heaven and Earth.

“Preserve the bodily form, exhaust the meaning of birth; establish virtue, clarify the natural Dao”: to keep the body whole and thoroughly investigate the principle of how life begins; to raise up virtue and make the Dao of nature manifest—none but a sage can do this; such are people of kingly virtue. “Vast and boundless” (dàng dàng)—speaking of their breadth; “suddenly emerging” as when the myriad things first appear; “surging into motion” when they must act and cannot do otherwise; “the ten thousand things follow them”—the sage acts and the ten thousand things look on.

“Look toward fáng fáng; listen where there is no sound”: fáng fáng denotes the realm without form. Where there is no form yet one sees, then one alone perceives the dim image (huang hu hū hū, within it there is a semblance); where others all take there to be no sound, one alone hears harmony (within it there is tone). Thus going deeper and deeper, one can “thing” the ten thousand things; going more spirit-like and more spirit-like, one can “refine” the refined. In meeting the ten thousand things, one reaches utmost emptiness (zhì wú—attaining empty non-being) yet still supplies what they seek; sometimes extending freely yet seeking one’s home (shí chěng ér yào qí sù—opening out in season, yet returning to one’s resting place)—whether large or small, long or short, near or far, all are contained within.

This passage discusses the realm of formlessness (wuxing). So-called formlessness means guarding in a place where there is no form: one “looks” where nothing is visible to be seen, and in that way sees with perfect clarity—much like what the Daodejing says: “Indistinct! Vague! Yet within it there is image.” Others may think this region utterly silent, yet only you can hear it, as when the eight tones harmonize. What is meant here is not looking at or listening to external things, but self-seeing and self-hearing—clarifying this principle from within oneself. Going further inward is entering depth and entering subtlety, while still responding to the myriad things, so that coarse and fine are both taken into account. Shen (spirit) is inherently without form; jing (essence) is qi (vital energy). It appears through the formless, with a sense of “above form” and “below form”: what is preserved in oneself is emptiness; what responds to things is presence. Because one does not cling to “self,” one can arrive at nothingness and yet supply what the myriad things need. At times one emerges and acts in season; where one settles is not fixed. Whether speaking of small and large, long and short, near and far, all express the meaning of being timely and centered (shizhong). As for the two characters xiuyuan (“far-reaching cultivation”), some gloss them as “long,” but the near meaning is included as well—since the text above already treats small, large, long, and short, to speak of xiuyuan here should also embrace the near; otherwise it reads like a slip of the brush in haste. These scattered lines of prose are extremely refined; it would be hard for anyone else to write in this style.

The following section is a story from the Zhuangzi: the Yellow Emperor, having traveled north of the Red Water and ascended the heights of Mount Kunlun, looked south and then returned—and lost the xuan zhu (the dark pearl, a metaphor for the Dao and the original mind). He sent Zhi (standing for intellectual knowing and discrimination) to search, but Zhi could not find it. He sent Lizhu (standing for sharp, penetrating sight) to search, but Lizhu could not find it. He sent Chigou (standing for speech and disputation) to search, but Chigou still could not find it. Finally he sent Xiangwang (standing for no-image, no fixed knowing) to search—and Xiangwang obtained it. The Yellow Emperor said: How strange! Xiangwang was the one who could get it.

The oral commentary uses this to explain: seeking the Dao cannot rely on cleverness and cannot rely on words—just as Buddhist scripture says, using a mind of discrimination to seek great awakening is as impossible as trying to burn Mount Sumeru with the light of a firefly. Here the text stages a little story as a parable: the xuan zhu stands for the Dao; Zhi for perception and discrimination; Lizhu for penetrating clarity; Chigou for verbal debate—all of these fail to obtain the Dao. One must be without deliberate mind (wuxin) before it can be attained. Parables of this kind are themselves extraordinarily striking.

Lineage of teachers

Legend has it that Yao’s teacher was Xu You; Xu You’s was Nie Que; Nie Que’s was Wang Ni; and Wang Ni’s was Bei Yi.

Yao’s question

Yao asked Xu You: “Can Nie Que ‘match Heaven’—that is, rule the world in a way that accords with the Way of Heaven? I want to use the matter of Wang Ni (of the same line as Nie Que) to get this clear.” (In oral commentary, such questions are often taken as parables: starting from an “extraordinary” talent to see what truly accords with Heaven.)

Xu You’s criticism

Xu You said: Dangerous—this would harm the world!

Nie Que is clever and perceptive, quick in calculation, and gifted beyond ordinary people; yet he uses human wit and contrivance to take on and impersonate ‘Heaven,’ rather than acting in harmony with Heaven.

He knows how to avoid mistakes carefully, but does not know where mistakes come from—how can that amount to matching Heaven?

He still relies on ‘human’ capacity and lacks ‘Heaven’ (what is naturally so, transformation without forced action);

already takes the bodily form and social role as root, yet still morphs with things;

already exalts cleverness and rushes outward like fire;

already does petty tasks and menial service (dragged by side issues);

already becomes the tether of external things (bound by objects);

already looks everywhere and responds to whatever appears;

already caters to what the crowd considers fitting;

already changes with things and never holds steady—

under such conditions, how could he match Heaven?

On “father of the multitude” and order versus chaos

One may have clans and ancestors and become father of the multitude (lord of a region, head of a lineage), yet cannot become “father of the fathers of the multitude” (lord of all under Heaven, the great pivot to whom all people turn).

For that role is the hinge of order and chaos:

Facing north as a subject brings the misfortune of the subject’s position; facing south as king brings the “robbery” of the king’s position—in Zhuangzi’s sense, taking artificial rank and power as the root is already straying from the Way of Heaven; so however clever Nie Que is, he is not fit to “match Heaven.”

This passage unfolds layer by layer and grows stranger as it goes. Someone might ask: does this show that the outer chapters are less finely wrought than the inner ones? Pei tian (“matching Heaven”)—as in the Shangshu phrase about the Yin rites ascending to match Heaven—means ritual aligning with Heaven; here it describes wang tianxia (holding sway over all under heaven): taking Heaven as the standard and matching virtue to Heaven, so one can command the realm.

Yao means to invite or draw toward oneself. Ji and dai both mean danger.

Congming rui means clever, penetrating, and far-sighted. Xing is innate nature. Gei means quick and responsive. Shu means urgency. Min means seeing and grasping swiftly. When things arise, one meets them with the quick insight of nature, so responses are fast and apt—that is where one surpasses ordinary people. Using human affairs to answer Heaven’s pattern is why it says yi ren shou tian (“receiving Heaven through the human”). Shen ming means clear and penetrating understanding.

Jin guo is like still using the mind to suppress faults—the heart has not truly transformed. If you know where faults come from, you need not rely on “prohibition.”

Cheng ren er wu tian means doing only human affairs and youwei (deliberate action), without knowing wuwei (non-action). Cheng is to ride along or follow; xing is conduct in the human world, hence cheng ren. Shen wo sets “self” against “things,” hence ben shen er yi xing (“rooting in self while forms differ”).

Huo chi is like fire rushing. Zi zun shang qi zhi er ji yong zhi—hence zun zhi er huo chi (“honoring knowledge and racing like fire”). Xu is thread or trailing edge; mo is minor matters. Dragged by trailing threads and unaware of the root—that is xu shi. Cong cuo is trivial and cluttered. Wu gai is bound by outer things; wei shi is enslaved by tasks. Things come from the four directions; one looks around and responds—si gu er wu ying (“looking four ways while things respond”). Every affair gets a response, each fitting its place—ying zhong yi (“responding to the many as each requires”). Pulled by outer things and losing the constant of nature is not the capacity to settle the mind and respond—hence yu wu hua er wei shi you heng: hua is being changed by things; chang is oneness; wei shi you chang means one has not yet attained constancy.

One “bi qie” and seven “fang qie”—when has any writer wielded language like this? The turn of the argument: though one cannot yet fully pei tian, there is still something worthy of respect. When a clan gathers, it must honor its ancestor—you zu you zu (“having a clan, having an ancestor”): even those four words are strikingly placed.

Zhong fu is one who emerges from the multitude and can stand as father to the multitude—a person a cut above the age. Zhong fu zhi fu is a level higher still. Zhong fu zhi fu tian points to Nature, Heaven. Shuai is a commander; such a person employed in the world can bring order or bring chaos. Bei mian faces north as minister; nan mian faces south as ruler—using this as the way of minister or king brings disaster both ways, hence bei mian zhi huo, nan mian zhi zei (“calamity in facing north, treachery in facing south”).

Meaning of the passage (in plain language)

When Yao traveled to the region of Hua, the border official there said to him: “Ah, sage! Allow me to offer blessings for the sage—may the sage live long.” Yao declined. The man said, “May the sage be wealthy,” and Yao declined again. He said, “May the sage have many sons,” and Yao declined once more.

The border official was puzzled: “Long life, wealth, and many sons are what people ordinarily wish for—why do you refuse them all?” Yao replied: “Many sons bring many worries; wealth brings many complications; long life brings many burdens of shame. None of these three is a way to nurture virtue (De), so I decline them.”

The border official said: “At first I thought you were a sage; now I see you are only a junzi (superior person). When Heaven brings forth the myriad people, it surely assigns each person their proper share. If there are many sons, as long as each has his allotted role, what is there to fear? When one is wealthy and lets others share in it, what task cannot be completed?”

Commentary in plain language

Wealth, long life, and many sons are blessings in ordinary eyes; those who study the Dao (the Way) do not take these things too seriously to begin with. Zhuangzi here deliberately inverts the usual view—the more he does so, the clearer his loftier perspective becomes. “When Heaven brings forth the myriad people, it surely assigns each their share” is like saying that as soon as a child is born, their portion of food and clothing is already allotted—similar to the valley saying that “the hundred grasses dread spring rain”: every thing has its allotted place. “When wealthy, let others share the burden” means putting wealth at others’ disposal so each gets what is due.

On “the calamity of facing north” and “the banditry of facing south” (from the earlier passage)

Yao held that governing the world by the way of the ruler means trouble in every affair. Hence he said: facing north (as subject, under constraint) brings calamity, and facing south (as ruler, in power) brings banditry—being sovereign is no lighter a load.

The border official later added: the sage is like a quail, content wherever he is, eating when he finds food; like a bird in flight, leaving no trace. When the world follows the Dao, he flourishes with the ten thousand things; when it does not, he cultivates virtue and withdraws from the dust. He may live a thousand years, weary of the human realm and rise as an immortal, riding white clouds to the court of the Emperor on High—then the three kinds of trouble do not come, the body is free of disaster, and what shame or burden remains? (This is another reply to Yao’s refusal of long life, wealth, and many sons.)

Living like a quail, with no fixed abode: Like a quail, one has no settled dwelling.

Nestling (chou, a bird just out of the shell): The mother feeds it; though it eats, it does not deliberately seek food—meaning to be “without mind” toward food: eating naturally, without clinging.

Birds in flight leave no sign, no trace: Flying birds leave no tracks; they lodge wherever they happen to be, without fixating on one place.

All things and I each flourish: Every being and I each live out our lives without harming one another; each finds its proper place.

Cultivating virtue leads toward ease: To cultivate virtue is to move toward quiet leisure; without the Dao, virtue wanes and qi grows coarse (Kou Yi here uses language like “great peace” turning to “decline”—a flourishing age without the Dao slides into decay).

Weary of the world and ascending to immortality: A wish to leave the dusty world, seek liberation, and rise toward emptiness.

The imperial realm in white clouds: The realm above emptiness— as if the emperor’s domain lay beyond the white clouds.

The three afflictions: youth, prime, and old age (the Surangama Sutra uses the Ganges as a simile; the “three afflictions” here connect with that)—the body often free from disaster, finding joy in oneself. The passage first speaks of long life, wealth, and many sons, then puts “long life” later; that reversed order is the essay’s pivot, its turning hinge.

The border guardian (feng ren): One who guards the frontier. When the border guardian leaves, Yao follows to question him; the guardian only says, “Withdraw” (go back). Yao still wants to ask; the guardian does not answer and again says, “Withdraw”—meaning: go; do not ask further. Jie Yu’s evasive hurry, the old man with a staff who comes and goes—the sort of “mechanism” Yichuan (Cheng Yi) called “you cannot speak with those not in the same boat”: the other party will not discuss the Dao with you; he only tells you to step back.

Bo Cheng Zi Gao: While Yao ruled the realm, he was installed as a feudal lord; when Yao passed the throne to Shun and Shun to Yu, Zi Gao resigned his fief and went to farm. Yu went to see him and found him plowing in the wild. Yu stood on the leeward side and asked: In the days when Yao ruled, you were a feudal lord through Yao and Shun down to Yu—yet you gave up your fief to farm. May I ask why?

Zi Gao replied: When Yao ruled, he did not bestow rewards yet the people urged themselves on; he did not impose punishments yet the people stood in awe. Now you employ rewards and punishments, yet the people are still without benevolence—virtue declines from this, punishments arise from this, and the chaos of later ages begins from this. Has the Master perhaps gone astray? Do not disturb my plowing. He merely bowed his head to the field and never looked back at you.

(The “governance by reward and punishment” that Yu represents stands against what Zi Gao remembers: “no rewards or punishments, yet the people transform themselves.” The border guardian’s “Withdraw” and Zi Gao’s “plowing without a backward glance” belong to the same literary type—refusing to debate merit and fame with emperors and only keeping to one’s allotted role.)

First section (oral commentary)

The passage is saying again that the world declines from one age to the next. By the time of Yu, things were already not what they had been under Yao and Shun. In wu luo wu shi, luo means to let something go neglected or fall into disuse—the sense is: I have no leisure to argue with you, for fear of neglecting my farm work. Yiyi describes someone bent over, busy at labor. Under Yao, rule did not depend on rewards or punishments; now you lean on reward and punishment, and the people turn unkind. The underlying point is roughly that it would be better to do without reward and punishment—rather like the idea that one should “make it so that there are no lawsuits.” The speech is put in the mouths of Yao, Shun, and Yu; it is not meant as straight historical narrative.

Second section (on Taichu and De, Ming, form, and nature)

Taichu names the moment when heaven and earth were still undivided and creation had just begun. Then there was only wu (non-being); the word you (being) did not yet exist. You still arises out of wu, so there is as yet nothing to name—this is where the “One” comes from: that One is precisely that wu.

Once there is the One but still no definite shape, the myriad things can be generated from it; this stage is called De (Virtue/Power).

What is not yet formed yet already has boundaries while remaining seamlessly undivided is called ming (decree, allotment, life-pattern).

Clinging to movement, it gives birth to the myriad things; when things mature and each follows its own inherent course, that is called xing (form).

When the formed body holds fast to spirit and each thing has its own measure and norm, that is called xing (nature, inborn character).

When xing (nature) is cultivated to completion, one returns to De; when De reaches its utmost, one is again the same as at the beginning. That sameness is emptiness; emptiness is great union—many voices sounding as one, in accord with heaven and earth. That accord is dense and unbroken, like stupidity, like obscurity: this is xuan de (mysterious Virtue), one with da shun—the greatest fittingness, the natural order itself.

Great Beginning (Taichu) is when creation first starts. What is called “being” at that point is still really “non-being”; the word “being” does not yet exist. “Being” arises from “non-being,” and only then is there “one”—“one” rises from “non-being.” That stroke of meaning is really “non-being,” hence “there is one, but it has not yet taken form.”

When things can be born, there is “being.” Each thing has its own “being”—that is De (each thing’s natural endowment). “Not yet formed” means “one” has just arisen and has not yet split into shapes; it seems as if there is already distinction, yet it cannot truly separate—hence “for the time being without gap.” The “for the time being” (qie) often implies “as if” (ran) below it; “without gap” is undifferentiated unity, while “with division” is clear separation. This word “ming” (decree) is Heaven’s decree (tianming), the “ming” that concerns xing (nature).

“The moving that stays and begets things”: the movement of primordial Qi (vital energy) turns without rest; when movement stays and settles, it transforms and begets the myriad things—the moving part stays here, hence “staying movement.” These two words are extremely precise and must not be skimmed: movement belongs to yang, staying belongs to stillness, stillness belongs to yin; in this one line there is already the idea of yang generating and yin completing. When things receive it and are born, once they are things, the principle of generation is fully present; the “moving” aspect within primordial Qi becomes what makes “me” live—this is called xing in the sense of form (xing). See how “form” is used here: it points to what elsewhere is often called “bodily form.”

“Preserving spirit, each with its pattern and rule—this is called xing (nature)”: this line is like the Odes’ “things have their patterns,” and like the Zuo Commentary’s “the people receive the central harmony of Heaven and Earth to live, with patterns for movement, bearing, and demeanor.” It is more concrete than a loose “bodily form, preserving spirit, each with patterns.” Bodily form is Qi; within Qi is Shen (spirit); the so-called patterns and rules are all governed by this spirit—they are what is originally in xing: benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, and the like. On this book’s reading, in these four lines: the “De” in the first line actually speaks of xing; this word xing speaks of xing’s functioning.

“When xing is cultivated, one returns to De”: cultivate this xing to recover natural De. When De is complete and exhausted, one is the same as at the beginning before things existed—“return to De” is like “return to ritual.” At the utmost, one is the same as before things existed—then one is empty; empty, then great. Empty and great, there is speech that is not speech: “those whose beaks are closed”—beak closed, not open, is non-speech; “those who cry out”—beak open and crying, is speech. With “speech that is not speech”… the next three characters are another striking turn; then it turns again and says “beak-cry union”—this “union” differs from the “closed” above: when the beak cries, taking non-speech as speech, it unites with nature; with this natural union one unites with Heaven and Earth—hence beak-cry union, united with Heaven and Earth.

Mianmian (dim, blurred) is like minmin—muddled, as if foolish, as if dim—describing this “union.” This is mysterious De (xuanmiao zhi de), the same as great accord (dashun)—great accord is the principle of Great Beginning and nature.

Confucius asked Laozi: “Some people cultivate the Way as if they were copying each other step for step—is that acceptable? Is it right or wrong?”

Disputants would say: “If someone can argue fine points like ‘hardness and whiteness are separate’ as clearly as if they were hung on a city wall for all to see—could that count as being a sage?”

Laozi said: “That is merely someone tied down by petty skills and tricks, wearing out the body and unsettling the spirit. A hound trained to catch raccoon-dogs grows more restless the more it is trained; an ape taken from the mountain forest is likewise ill at ease.”

“Confucius, I will tell you what you cannot hear and cannot speak: as a rule, those with heads and feet yet without heart or ears are the mass of living beings. The formed, the formless, and what has no fixed shape—all exist together. From the start there is no fixed scheme of who should move or stop, live or die, fall or rise; that is not the original meaning of the Dao.”

“The way to govern the Way lies in the person. Forget external things; forget fixation on ‘Heaven’—this is called ‘forgetting the self.’ One who can forget the self is said to be ‘one with Heaven.’”

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Exposition on the Zhuangzi)

This passage is about the idea that the ruler and the common people share one principle and one thread of meaning: what I can explain and accomplish is used to illuminate what the other party cannot explain or accomplish; what I affirm is used to illuminate what the other denies. Disputants bring up topics like “hard and white” and “sameness and difference” in many guises, while someone who understands in the Zhuangzi manner can sort these out clearly, as if suspended in the vault of heaven, plain for all to see.

“Li xi” (analysis, taking apart) means to analyze and unpack what is said (“li” here means to separate and examine). “Xu yi ji xi” was already explained in the earlier commentary. “Cheng si” (formed anxiety): only when one is confined and guarded does one swell with anxious thoughts. “Those who come from the mountains and forests” refers to people said to have been captured from the wilds. The earlier text has “zhi li” (holding the fox); if one reads “zhi lao,” the character is wrong—it should be “zhi li.” “What cannot be heard, what cannot be spoken” carries the sense of the Analects line that nature and the Way of Heaven are not something one can simply hear or fully put into words—the deepest layer is not exhausted by ear or mouth.

“You shou you zhi” (having head and toes): from head to foot, form and qi are one whole. “Wu xin wu er” (no heart, no ears): not that one literally lacks heart or ears, but that in a certain state one does not cling to views and knowing, as if without knowledge or perception. “Wu xing wu zhuang” (without form, without shape): behind what is visible in the realm of formed things there is still a layer of what is so of itself; from the formed one can also see the formed-above and what coexists with “without form or shape.” This line is also praised in the oral exposition as “remarkably pointed”—it runs through being and non-being, the formed-above and the formed-below in one stroke.

“Jin wu zhe” (the utterly empty): in the world there is no person one can name who fully matches this description of “utter emptiness”; it speaks of a principle, not a character to look up. “Movement and rest, rising and dwelling” are the daily rhythms of life; “decline and rise, obstruction and penetration” are ruin and flourishing, hardship and success. Between dwelling, life and death, and hardship and success, what is so of itself is at work all along; ordinary people only see “movement and rest, death and life, decline and rise” as phenomena and take the phenomena for the whole, without asking why these phenomena are these phenomena—what the “because” behind them is.

Han Yu’s preface Song Wenchang Shangren Xu (Preface for the Monk Wenchang) has a similar layer: rivers flow and people multiply for reasons that can also be “seen” in words, but people today read lightly and do not think deeply. “Zhi zhe, zhi shi zhi zhi”: here “zhi” means governing—handling affairs and ordering human matters. “Ren zhe, ren shi”: because one must act within human affairs, one speaks of governing; if one could truly govern affairs without the mind still hanging on “I am governing,” that would be “there is governing in the person” yet no need to credit oneself—so the text later says one must forget not only things but also the self that stands over against Heaven; this is forgetting the self; forgetting the self is no-self.

“Ru yu tian” (entering into Heaven): returning to the natural; the same vein as “entering the non-human” earlier (not becoming inhuman, but not stuck in human-versus-other opposition). The previous section explicitly says “forgetting Heaven”; here it says “entering Heaven”—forgetting is releasing grasp, entering is uniting with Heaven; only after forgetting can one become one. In Ying Diwang (Response of Kings, an inner chapter of the Zhuangzi) it says one has “not yet stepped out of the non-human, has not yet forgotten Heaven; has not yet entered the non-human, has stepped out above creation and transformation”—the tone of “entering Heaven” here is not quite the same. The oral exposition warns: these are all words to rouse and awaken; one must not nail them to the literal; once one clings, one cannot keep reading Zhuangzi.

Brief notes on terms

• Jian bai, tong yi (hard-white, sameness-difference): standard topics among Warring States disputants, especially Mohists and the School of Names.
• Xing er shang, xing er xia (formed-above, formed-below): from the Xi Ci (Commentary on the Appended Phrases) of the Yijing—principle above form versus vessels below form.
• Ying Diwang: inner chapter of the Zhuangzi, “Response of Kings.”
• Song Wenchang: Han Yu’s preface for the monk Wenchang.

Jiang Lu Mian went to see Ji Che and said: “The Lord of Lu asked me to come and teach him the way to govern the state. I could not refuse and have already agreed. I do not know whether what I will say is right—please help me judge it. What I told the Lord of Lu was this: You must personally practice respect and frugality, promote those who are fair and loyal, and avoid favoritism and partiality—then which of the people would dare to be unruly?”

Ji Che, sitting with legs drawn up, gave a little laugh and said: “Your words, measured against the virtue of a sage-king, are like a mantis in a rage, raising its forelegs to block a chariot wheel—the strength is not enough; it simply cannot bear a task of such magnitude.”

Jiang Lu Mian said again: “I do not know if it is suitable—please judge once more. What I still told the Lord of Lu was the same: one must be respectful and frugal, employ the fair and loyal, and not show private favor—then which of the people would dare to be unruly?”

Ji Che again laughed with legs drawn up and said: “If it were really like that, you would not only fail to measure up—you would also put yourself in danger. If you display your virtue like someone on a high viewing platform, with many things and many people, those who come to follow and tread in your footsteps will grow ever more numerous—the greater the fame, the more who flock to you, and the more you burden yourself.”

Jiang Lu Mian was alarmed and uneasy and said: “I am quite at a loss over your words, sir. Even so, I still ask you, sir, to outline the main drift and the surviving spirit of the teaching.”

(Oral gloss on the meaning: “Jian” means to set forth or present; “promoting those of public loyalty” means recommending the capable without faction or private bias; “ji” means to settle or pacify. “Juju” is the appearance of laughing with legs drawn up. The mantis’s “nu bi” (angry forelegs) against the wheel rut means force too slight to take on great matters such as ordering all under Heaven; in Zhuangzi there are other uses of “nu” such as “nu er fei” (anger and then flight) and “caomu nu sheng” (plants springing up vigorously)—here “nu bi” is the same kind of figure. “Self-placement as if in peril” means that if you set yourself up as a “guan tai” (viewing platform) for others to look at and show off to people, they will come and go, flocking in succession; the more people and renown, the more followers, and the more you tie yourself down. “Xixi” is the look of being startled; hearing yet not understanding is why he says he is “mang ruo” (dazed as if) before the master’s words. The “feng” (wind) he asks about means the surviving tone and main idea—that is, he asks for a rough account.)

This oral commentary explains what “swaying and shifting” mean, and how to understand “solitary resolve” (duzhi) and “seeing the solitary” (jiandu).

Swaying and shifting refer to the heart-mind constantly changing and turning in new directions. Thieving heart (zeixin) is not the ordinary idea of a mind that steals, but a heart that is deliberate, artificial, and acting with ulterior purpose—in contrast to the “no-mind” (wuxin) that follows what is natural.

Solitary resolve means a purpose one holds alone and realizes for oneself. Morning clarity (zhaoche, a Zhuangzi expression for dawn-like sudden openness) and seeing the solitary both describe the person who has shed impurities: the mind is clear and the Way is seen.

Once the people have been instructed and custom has changed, they extinguish private intent and turn toward the Dao. This unfolds like innate knowing (shengzhi)—complete in itself from the start—yet one need not be aware of “who taught me.” Hence not knowing by what it is so (buzhi qisuo you ran): not knowing which path it came by; in fact it is the fruit of the ruler above (the sage) transforming and nurturing, while the people do not feel they were “taught into it.”

The commentary next examines an attitude: if in the heart one exalts Yao and Shun and lowers oneself, while on the lips one treats Yao and Shun’s teaching as elder brother and oneself as younger (xiong Yaoshun zhi jiao er di zhi), yet also says “How could Yao and Shun surpass me? I am not beneath Yao and Shun”—that is self-contradictory. Similar tones that may follow carry something of eccentricity (qi, hunting the odd and competing to win) and of obscure depth (mingxing, dark and unfathomable): bowing the head in seeming submission while not truly yielding. Here the people (min) means persons (ren) in general: if one could truly do what was said above—drop private intent and align with nature—how could one only pay lip service to honoring Yao and Shun’s teaching while deliberately placing oneself beneath Yao and Shun?

To align with the virtue of nature, the heart joins the virtue of Heaven’s Way; one dwells at ease (ju an)—settled in comfort, no longer contending over rank. Here desire (yu) is not “craving” but “wishing, hoping it be so”: the sage wishes the people to be like this—what the sage hopes for is precisely that the people may thus unite with the virtue of nature and be at peace, without treating Yao and Shun as names pressed down upon them.

The gist of the passage: instruction should let people forget contrivance and follow transformation, not swing between “honoring Yao and Shun” and “I am not below Yao and Shun.” When one truly aligns with the virtue of nature, one neither falsely demeans oneself nor falsely contends for superiority.

Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) traveled south to the state of Chu. On his way back he passed through Jin and, walking along the north bank of the Han River, saw an old man tending a vegetable garden: he was opening furrows and building beds, digging a channel down to a well, then climbing back up carrying a clay jar to pour water. He was panting hard, expending great effort for very little result.

Zigong said, “There is a device that can water a hundred beds in a day—less toil and much more gain. Would you not care to use it?”

The gardener looked up and asked, “How does it work?”

Zigong said, “You shave wood into a mechanism: heavy at the back, light at the front. Drawing water is like pumping—it comes up as fast as boiling water surging. It is called a shadoof (a lever-style water-lifting tool).”

The old man’s face changed color and he gave a cold laugh. “I have heard my teacher say: those who use devices are sure to have crafty contrivances; where there are crafty contrivances, there is a crafty mind. When a crafty mind is lodged in the chest, one cannot preserve pure simplicity; when pure simplicity is incomplete, the spirit is not at peace; when the spirit is unsettled, that is not what the Dao will bear. It is not that I do not know of it—I feel ashamed and refuse to do it.”

Zigong was suddenly ashamed and lowered his head without speaking. After a while the old man asked, “Who are you?”

Zigong said, “I am a disciple of Kong Qiu (Confucius).”

The old man said, “Are you not the sort who studies widely and hoards learning, hoping to measure up to the sage; who talks big and tries to outshine the crowd; who sets himself apart and advertises his purity, wails and laments over himself, and peddles his reputation across the realm? You ought to forget your spirit and discard your form—then you might come close to the Dao. If you cannot even set yourself in order, what leisure do you have to set the world in order? Be on your way—do not delay my work.”

Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Explication of the Zhuangzi) — Plain-Language Reading

The Well Sweep and “Mechanistic Mind”

Between the furrows they cut channels to lead water; draw and lift, and the water brims and gushes forth—this is saying that drawing water can be very easy. These lines describe the well sweep (a lever-style device for raising water from a well): the device itself is ingenious machinery; once you put it to use, it becomes a “mechanistic affair”; and whoever knows how to use it acquires a “mechanistic mind” in the heart. Once that mind is there, purity, singleness, and empty clarity cannot be kept: the spirit cannot settle, and one cannot hold fast to stillness or guard unity; the Dao cannot bear such things, and words cannot exhaust the Dao. Those who study and cultivate should ponder these points carefully.

The Passage “What Are You Doing?” (Ridiculing “Selling One’s Name”)

“What are you doing?” (zi xi wei)—similar to “Where did you come from?” (xi zi) in the Analects: studying the sage’s words and admiring the sage, with an air of self-importance, singing and playing the lute alone—others do not understand him, yet he talks to himself and peddles his reputation. Singing alone is a metaphor; if one compared it to striking the stone chime in Wei in the Analects, it would not be the same.

“Forget your spirit and vital breath” is like putting aside cleverness and contrivance; “cast off your bodily form” means forgetting the self. Only then is one roughly there; otherwise one cannot even govern oneself—how could one govern others? This satrizes that kind of “sage” talk. “Without lack” (wu fa) means “without falling short” (wu luo)—nothing missing, nothing left undone.

After Zigong Meets the “Old Man”

Zigong felt ashamed and changed color, was ill at ease, and only after thirty li did he recover. A disciple asked: What sort of man was that just now? Why did the Master change countenance after meeting him and could not collect himself all day?

The Master said: At first I thought there was only one such person under heaven (meaning Confucius); I did not know there was someone like this too. I have heard the Master say: In acting, seek what is feasible; in establishing merit, seek what can succeed—little effort, great achievement—that is the way of the sage; now it seems that is not so. One who holds fast to the Dao has complete De; when De is complete, the form is complete; when the form is complete, Shen (spirit) is complete; when Shen is complete, that is the way of the sage. Entrusting one’s life and walking with the multitude, not knowing where one is going—how thick and whole! Utility and clever contrivance must be forgotten in such a person’s heart.

Brief Notes on Names

• Well sweep: An ancient lever apparatus beside a well for drawing water.
• Mechanistic mind (jixin): The calculating heart that arises from relying on devices and clever artifice (a standard Zhuangzi term).
• Purity not preserved (chun bai bu bei): The inability to maintain plainness without admixture and empty, unified clarity.
• Zigong: Confucius’s disciple Duanmu Ci; here continuing the Zhuangzi parable of meeting the Old Man of Hanyin (the gardener).
• Entrusting life and walking with the people: Committing one’s life to the natural course and traveling the same path as ordinary folk, without clinging to fame and success.

biezui cannü zhi mao, xuxu zishi zhi mao: A look of abject shame and embarrassment, and again a look of bewilderment, as if he had lost himself.

bu zi fan: Unwilling to turn back upon oneself in reflection.

yan bu fu qi chang ye: The point is that he no longer returns to the constant way or the constant norm.

tianxia yi ren, yan Kong fuzi ye: “The one person under Heaven” here means Kongzi (Confucius).

shi qiu ke, ke wei ze wei ye: In action one asks only whether something can be done; if it can, one does it.

li shao er gong duo, bian shi jiegou zhi (yong): Little effort for great effect—that is exactly the use of the jiegou (a lever device for lifting water for irrigation).

tu du ye, jin qi ren du bu ran: Most people are like that; this man alone is not.

yan Hanyin zhangren ye: This refers to the old man (zhangren) of Hanyin (a place name).

tuo qi sheng yu shi, sui suo xing yi yu ren tong, er bu zi zhi qi suo wang: He entrusts his life to the world; though what he does looks much like everyone else’s, he does not know where he is going.

ji fuyou er bu zhi suo qiu, fangkuang bu zhi suo wang ye: Like drifting without knowing what to seek, or roaming wildly without knowing where he is bound.

gu yue tuo sheng yu min bing xing er bu zhi qi suo zhi: Hence the saying: entrusting life, walking among the people, yet not knowing whither one goes.

chunbei chun yi hun quan ye: Pure, complete, unified, and whole.

mang hu wu xingji zhi mao: Vast and without any trace to be grasped.

gongli jiqiao bi wang fu ren zhi xin: In such a person’s heart there is no room for utility, craft, or stratagem.

ci wang zi yu wang tong, wu ye: Here “wang” (to forget or leave aside) is the same as “wang” (to be absent or gone)—that is, “there is none.”

ruo fu ren zhe: A person like this—

fei qi zhi bu zhi, fei qi xin bu wei: What his heart does not aim at, he will not go to; what his heart does not will, he will not do.

sui yi tianxia yu zhi, de qi suo wei, ao ran bu gu: Even if all under Heaven praised him and said he had what was fitting, he would loftily pay no heed.

yi tianxia fei zhi, shi qi suo wei, tangran bu shou: Even if all under Heaven decried him and said he had lost what was fitting, he would calmly not accept it.

tianxia zhi fei yu, wu yi sun yan: The world’s blame and praise neither diminish nor augment him.

shi wei quan de zhi ren zai: This is what is called a person of full De (virtue/power held whole).

wo zhi wei fengbo zhi min: Whereas I am only one of the folk tossed by wind and waves.

fu ren zhe, zhi Hanyin zhangren: “Fu ren” here means the old man of Hanyin.

bu yi huiru wei sunyi, yu qie bu gu, er kuang hui hu: He does not let blame or praise add or subtract from him; he ignores even praise, how much more slander.

suo yan xing yu shi, yue de qi suo wei; suo yan bu xing yu shi, yue shi qi suo wei: When words and conduct fit what the world calls for, that is called “obtaining what is called for”; when they do not fit, “losing what is called for.”

fengbo, yan wei shigu suoyi er bu zi ding ye: “Wind and waves” means being driven by worldly affairs and human ties, unable to settle one’s own resolve.

fan yu Lu, yi gao Kongzi: (Zi Gong) returned to Lu and told Kongzi.

Kongzi yue: bi jia xiu Hundun shi zhi shu zhe ye: Kongzi said: That man merely borrows the practice of the art associated with the Hundun clan (tradition of primal simplicity—holding to undifferentiated wholeness rather than splitting right and wrong).

shi qi yi, bu zhi qi er; zhi qi nei, er bu zhi qi wai: He knows one side but not the other; he tends the inner but not the outer (the side that engages the world).

fu mingbai ru su, wuwei fu pu, tixing bao shen, yi you shisu zhi jian zhe, ru jiang gu jing hu: Someone clear and plain, entering simplicity, practicing wuwei (non-action) and returning to the uncarved block, embodying nature and embracing shen (spirit), wandering among the mundane—would you not be startled?

qie Hundun shi zhi shu, yu yu ru he zu yi shi zhi zai: And as for the art of the Hundun clan—you and I, how could we be equal to truly knowing it?

Jia here means vast and unobstructed; jiaxiu means great cultivation—practice on a large scale.

Hundun shi symbolizes the primordial state before Heaven and Earth were separated. What follows expounds this stratum of the Dao.

One who knows only “the One” holds to chunyi—single-minded devotion to the Dao, without mixture or disorder. Not knowing a second means the mind must not split in two: within, guard the original heart-mind (benxing); without, do not grasp at outer things (external distractions). When the mind is thus clear and bright, one can enter the state of su. Su is supu—unadorned authenticity. Together with wuwei, one can return to natural simplicity (tianran zhi pu)—what is so of itself, untouched by artificial contrivance.

(Later repetitions in the source convey the same meaning: the mind not divided inside and out, holding to the One and embracing simplicity, wuwei and return to the uncarved.)

Tixing means to preserve and complete one’s essential nature; bao shen yi means to hold spirit and the One together—the Daoist themes of guarding the One and embracing unity.

“Ru jiang gu jing ye?”—“Will you then be startled?” Gu yi ye—“Being startled is only fitting.” The point is: you have not yet penetrated this layer of the Dao, so surprise is to be expected.

Vernacular Interpretation

Chunmang planned to travel east to “Dahe” (the Great Gully). On the seashore he met Yuanfeng. Yuanfeng asked where he was headed. Chunmang said he was going to Dahe. Yuanfeng asked what he would do there. Chunmang said that Dahe is the sort of place you can pour into without ever filling it, and scoop from without ever emptying it—he wanted to roam there for a while.

Yuanfeng said: “Do you pay no heed to those ‘people with horizontal eyes’?” (In antiquity this phrase was used broadly for ordinary people under heaven.) “I would like to hear what is meant by sagely governance.”

Chunmang said: What is called sagely governance is this: offices and duties are arranged so each has its proper place, without mismatch; selection and appointment put everyone’s talent to use, with no one overlooked; the actual circumstances and concrete affairs are seen clearly, and what can be done is carried out in accord with those facts; words and deeds arise from oneself and from the logic of things, not as a show performed for others—and under heaven people are naturally transformed and nurtured. When the sage lifts a hand, turns a glance, or points with a finger, the people in the four directions have none who fail to respond—that is what the Documents (Shangshu) means by “only in moving does one greatly accord and await their intent.” Here “hand lifted, glance turned, finger pointed” can also be read as between commanding and bowing in ritual—the common people will of themselves gather in harmony. Governance of this kind is called sagely governance.

The oral commentary further explains: “Dahe” in the text stands for the great sea; saying one wishes to roam in “Dahe” is a metaphor—that the vulgar world is not worth fixating on, and one should take as one’s aim a realm as vast and deep as the sea. The passage on sagely governance depicts how sage-kings of high antiquity ruled all under heaven: offices matched their posts, talent was not missed, they saw affairs and acted, they acted from themselves and transformed others—not by deliberately striking poses for people—yet the world naturally turned toward them.

On the Person of De (Virtue)

Someone asked what counts as a person of De. The answer: such a person does not churn with idle thoughts in daily life, and does not deliberately plot their actions; they do not keep in mind a split between “this is right or wrong, that is beautiful or ugly.” When everyone under heaven can benefit together, they take that as joy; when all can be content together, they take that as peace. At times their expression is like an infant who has lost its mother—blank and adrift; at times like a traveler who has suddenly forgotten the road—dazed and vacant. That means they do not much attach to worldly affairs, as if they were only here because they had no choice. They have enough wealth and goods but do not ask where they come from; enough food and drink but do not ask how they were obtained. That is the bearing of the person of De, and how they rise, rest, move, and stay still. In motion and in stillness they do not tie the mind to outer things—hence “dwelling without brooding, acting without scheming.” Not hoarding judgments of right, wrong, beauty, and ugliness is close in spirit to the Buddhist phrase “do not think good, do not think evil.” Shared benefit and shared provision mean rejoicing with others and being content with others. Changhu describes a mood of loss and emptiness; like an infant without its mother or a walker without a road, it pictures a heart not set on human affairs, with a hint of “having to pass once through this world.” Wealth and food seem to arrive naturally; they do not pursue the question—meaning the mind holds nothing fast. The person of De stands one step above the “sage governance” described earlier.

On the Spirit Person (Shenren)

The text says: the supreme spirit person “rides the light,” dissolves together with the bodily form—this is called zhao kuang (illuminative vastness); exhausts fate to the end and fully releases the genuine feeling within nature, taking joy in the Way of Heaven and Earth, so that the ten thousand affairs no longer drag on them and the ten thousand things each return to their root—this is called hun fang (blended wholeness).

Kouyi explains: “Upper spirit” means the spirit rises and transcends, as if beyond Heaven and Earth; even the light of sun and moon seems to shine beneath their feet—hence “riding the light.” “Dissolving with form” is having a body yet as if bodiless. Zhao kuang is thorough awakening, illumination without obstruction. Zhiming (exhausting fate) is going to the limit of heavenly mandate; jinqing (fully expressing feeling) is bringing out all the feeling that belongs to nature—here “qing” (feeling/nature) belongs to the same family of usage as Mencius’s “if you treat it as qing, one can become good.” Finding joy in the principle of Heaven and Earth, outer things no longer bind them—so “Heaven and Earth are joyful and the ten thousand affairs vanish.” Fu qing (returning to feeling) is each thing returning to its real principle; when all things return to real principle, they merge with “me.” Hun fang is hunlun (undifferentiated chaos)—the realm associated in legend with the Lord of Hun Dun (Chaos). The spirit person stands a level above the person of De. This tiered unfolding is meant to show: above the ancient emperors there are realms ordinary people cannot reach.

(Phrases in Kouyi such as those involving “Gate without… Chi Zhang Manji” use stories of Hun Dun, Chi Zhang Manji, and the like to highlight the meaning of hun fang / Hun Dun, in connection with the section on the spirit person.)

Section 1 (Men Wuyan and Chi Zhang Manji on “governing the world”)

Men Wuyan and Chi Zhang Manji watched the formation of King Wu of Zhou’s army. Chi Zhang Manji said: This probably still falls short of the age of Youyu (the legendary era of Shun), doesn’t it? That is why one must escape this kind of calamity.

Men Wuyan said: If the world were already evenly settled and at peace, would there still be any need for Youyu to “govern” it? Or is it rather that the world first fell into disorder and only then needed someone to set it right?

Chi Zhang Manji said: Everyone in the world hopes for stability—that is human nature. Yet if the “Youyu way” is taken as the prescription for governing the world, it is like someone who is not sick brewing medicine, who is not bald wearing a wig, or who is not ill going to see a doctor. A filial son brings medicine to “serve” his father, and his father’s face only grows more troubled; a sage who saw this would feel ashamed. Manji compared King Wu’s campaign to Youyu’s “bowing and yielding in abdication” and said the campaign was still “inferior” to the latter; Men Wuyan then pressed the question further and rejected the “Youyu way” as well—everyone longs for peace, yet because Youyu came to govern, it became a burden instead.

“What need to brew medicine when there is no illness? What need for a wig when one is not bald? What need to seek a doctor when one is not sick?” The point is: to describe the world as something that must be “governed” is already to be “sick”; if Wuwei (non-action) truly ruled, there would be no such sickness. A filial son who arranges medicine for his father cannot be fully at ease in heart; how much better if the father had never been ill. Therefore the sage holds that the very intention to “govern the world” is shameful. The similes here may seem odd, but the meaning concerns “cultivation”: do not treat “governance” as a proper calling.

(Note: In ancient texts “shame” and “cultivation/advancement” are often written with interchangeable characters; “cultivation” here carries the same sense as “shame.”)

Section 2 (The age of utmost virtue)

In the ideal age of utmost virtue: worthies were not exalted and the capable were not employed; those above were as natural as treetops, those below as free as wild deer. People were upright without knowing it was called “righteousness,” affectionate without knowing it was called “benevolence,” sincere without knowing it was called “loyalty,” and trustworthy without knowing it was called “faithfulness.” The myriad things stirred and helped one another without treating that help as a favor bestowed. Thus: action left no trace of self-display, and work was neither spoken of nor displayed as achievement.

This passage explains in plain language lines from the Laozi such as “do not exalt the worthy, so the people will not compete,” and sketches how people lived in the Grand Antiquity age.

“Do not exalt the worthy; do not employ the capable”

At that time the world was simple and unified; there were not yet labels like “worthy” or “capable,” so there was no need to lift up the worthy or specially appoint the talented.

“Withered branch” (biaozhi)

Like a dead branch—only the trunk is seen, not the foliage—an image of people who were plain and few in desires, without the branching tangle of distracting thoughts and rivalry. Wild deer and the withered branch both stand for being free of selfish emotion and desire.

Uprightness, mutual love, mutual trust

People cultivated themselves in an upright way, cherished one another, and treated each other with sincerity; loyalty (zhong) arose naturally from the heart; actions were fitting and appropriate.

“Uprightness” and the several “did not know” phrases

The same point: in that age there were not yet names for benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness, yet people were upright and loving all the same—they simply did not know they were practicing benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness.

“Stirring life” and the common people

All living beings that move and breathe; they helped one another like friends, did not treat help as a favor or a debt of gratitude; when they acted, they left no trace, and their conduct had no flaw—because there was not yet the whole apparatus of right and wrong, blame and praise.

In sum

All of the above describes the world of Grand Antiquity: no names for worthiness and capability, no names for benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness, no right and wrong or blame and praise—and yet people were upright, loving, and helpful of their own accord.

This passage discusses how filial sons and loyal ministers ought to treat parents and rulers, and where Zhuangzi’s “Dao” diverges from ordinary standards.

I. The worldly double standard on “obedience”

It says that a filial son must not wrong his parents, and a loyal minister must not flatter his lord—ordinary expectations for the relations between ruler and subject, parent and child.

Yet if whatever parents say, the child nods; whatever parents do, the child copies, the world often calls the child an “unworthy son” (xiaozi).

And if whatever the lord says, the minister agrees; whatever the lord does, the minister praises, the world again calls the minister an “unworthy subject.”

So one asks: Is the idea that “total compliance is wrong” necessarily right?

Turn it around: if what the world calls right, you call right; what the world calls good, you call good, people may not necessarily label you “one who leads others on” or “one who fawns” (daoren, fangren—going along with others, currying favor).

Does that mean worldly demands for “obedience” are oddly stricter when it comes to parents and rulers?

II. “Leading on,” “fawning,” and remonstrance

If someone says you are “leading others on” (dao) or “fawning” (fang), you change expression and take offense, yet what you do all your life sometimes still looks like leading on or fawning—you deny it in words but walk the same path as the world.

Not to flatter or toady originally meant being able to remonstrate with lord and parents; but if whatever they say you take as right, whatever they do you take as good, then remonstrance is blurred: before lord and kin, to remonstrate is praised and not to remonstrate is blamed; out in the world, whoever says good is good you follow, whoever says yes is yes you follow—from this angle, is the world lax on other matters but perversely twisted on relations with lord and parents?

III. Zhuangzi’s view of “Dao” (the commentator’s elaboration)

The commentator states the theme: what people today call “Dao” is mostly whatever the world already approves—not the Dao of seeing clearly within oneself and roaming with the “Creator” (zaowu).

Here “dao” is explained as compliance and following; “fang” as flattery and ingratiation. If what I call Dao is only the same as the world, then what I do is merely following the world and pleasing the world; if others hang the labels “leading on” and “fawning” on me, I am displeased, yet all my life I cannot escape this pattern—I cannot truly take a path apart from the world.

Sages take the principles that hold for all under Heaven as Dao; Zhuangzi felt Dao should stand a notch above the age, so he spoke of ancient emperors and sages from a lowered, critical angle—the rhetoric is fierce, and the commentator admits: Zhuangzi sometimes goes too far.

IV. The following stretch: gathering crowds, pleasing the age, and “the many”

Again: using piled-up figures and polished phrases to draw a crowd; root and branch, beginning and end not each kept in their place (not “sitting” in their proper seats).

Draped robes, display, shifting countenance—pleasing the whole age without admitting one is “leading on” or “fawning”; mixing up right and wrong with those people without admitting one is one of “the many”—the commentator likewise finds this too extreme, said too absolutely.

In one line: This stretch of oral commentary uses Zhuangzi to show how worldly standards for filial piety, loyalty, compliance, and remonstrance often contradict themselves; it also criticizes equating “Dao” with what the world already says, and Zhuangzi’s way of uniformly demoting sages and emperors—insightful in places, but “excessive” in tone.

The phrases “combining analogies,” “embellishing rhetoric,” and “gathering crowds” mean this: assembling every kind of analogy under heaven to build one’s doctrine (combining analogies), polishing language until it gleams (embellishing rhetoric), and drawing all the scholars under heaven into one’s own school (gathering crowds). Judging from the initial ambition, it looks as if one aims to rise above the age; when one follows the outcome through, one never breaks free of the same sort of people as the age—beginning and end, root and branch fail to match. Hence “not sitting together” (bu xiang zuo): they do not align; they cannot hook up.

“Draping in gown and robe, setting out colors, moving one’s countenance” describes the Confucian style: wide sleeves and formal dress, ornament and pattern, teaching disciples with measured grace so as to please and look respectable in one lifetime—this is “flattering the age.” All of this ridicules the methods of the “sage” (here, the kind of self-styled transmitter of the Way that Zhuangzi criticizes): what one holds right, one’s followers all call right; what one holds wrong, one’s followers all call wrong. Those who follow one are mostly people who drift with the crowd. What Zhuangzi targets is that one’s own judgments of right and wrong are not really separate from those people’s—they amount to the same as ordinary folk. Already of one kind with mediocrities and still refusing to admit one is mediocre is folly pushed to the limit, a total lack of self-knowledge.

Most of this passage by Zhuangzi comes from the fact that what he alone understood others could not grasp, so he felt himself unlike the multitude and spoke in this resentful tone. It is not offered as a strict, positive theoretical argument in doctrine.

To know that you are dull and slow-witted is not yet the deepest dullness; to know that you are confused is not yet the deepest confusion. Someone who is greatly confused may never unravel it in a lifetime; someone who is greatly dull may never gain insight in a lifetime.

When three people walk together and only one loses the way and does not know where to go, they will mostly still get there—because the lost one is in the minority. If two are lost, they will wear themselves out and fail to arrive; when the confused side forms the majority, it overpowers the clear-headed side.

Yet now the whole world is lost, and even if I have prayers and longing turned toward the Dao and toward Heaven, how can I truly attain (enlightenment or a final home)? Is that not deeply sad?

A vast, thundering voice cannot enter the ears of a narrow lane; tunes like Zhe Yang and Huang Hua—popular, easy pieces—make people “clack clack” with laughter instead. So lofty discourse cannot reach the depths of the multitude; the utmost words cannot be spoken, and common talk wins the day instead.

(Zhuangzi often uses the image of two clay jars and one bronze bell mixed together: once they blur into one another, you cannot tell which to listen to or which way to go.) Today the whole world is lost; though I have my prayers and orientation, how could they be answered as I wish? To know you cannot get it and still force the pursuit adds another layer of confusion. Therefore it is better to let go and stop pushing—if you do not push, who will be more worried than whom? (The text later repeats the same point: when all under heaven are confused, do not strive further; release and stop there.)

Section one (on “not knowing oneself” and the difficulty of speaking)

“Never understanding in a lifetime, never clear in a lifetime” refers to people who lack self-knowledge: they do not really know where they are headed or what they believe.

It is like three people walking together while two are already lost; they toil on but never arrive. If everyone under Heaven is caught up in some fashionable doctrine, then even if I alone see the right direction, how could I turn the whole age around? Here “yu” (I/me) is Zhuangzi speaking of himself.

Zheyang and huanghua are tunes popular in lanes and alleys; dasheng (great sound) means the solemn ya music of antiquity. Zhuangzi uses them to show that the deepest truths, if they cannot lodge in ordinary minds, cannot be gotten across in speech. Zheyang and huanghua stand for common talk; when common talk wins the day, zhiyan (the most penetrating words) is pushed down.

Chui zhong means sitting with feet hanging, unwilling to step forward. Two who sit with dangling feet are the “two who are both confused” mentioned earlier; suo shi bu de (what they aim at, they do not attain) is “toiling yet never arriving.” In transmission, chui was sometimes miscopied as a homophone for “jar,” and zhong as “bell”; read against the context, chui zhong (dangling feet) makes sense. To keep talking when you know it will not get through is to add another layer of confusion—Zhuangzi laments that, knowing he cannot pour the truth into the world, he still forces himself to speak; he too adds one more confusion.

Shi zhi is to let go; bu tui means not to push or argue by force. Bi here has the sense of “drawing near”: when you hold your words and do not speak, you avoid the spiral where talk breeds vexation and worry. This is how Zhuangzi consoles himself.

Section two (the afflicted man who bears a child)

A li man—one with a foul disease or ugly appearance—bears a child in the dead of night and at once lights a fire to look, in frantic haste, for fear the child resembles him.

Section three (ironic contrast with “not knowing oneself”)

Li ren is the evil or afflicted man; inserting the particle zhi in the sentence follows the same pattern as phrases like “Li Zhi Ji” (Concubine Li of Jin). That the evil man fears his son will be like him shows he knows his own evil. Those who wander in delusion without waking lack even that much self-knowledge and fall short of the afflicted man. Earlier it was said that great confusion never resolves in a lifetime and great foolishness never clears in a lifetime; comparing them to the afflicted man, the author deliberately does not tie the two sentences off with a neat closure—commentary marks this as a rhythmic pause and deliberate open stroke in the writing.

Section four (the sacrificial goblet and the loss of innate nature)

A tree a century old is split and made into a xi zun (sacrificial wine vessel), painted with green and yellow patterns—a fine show; another section of the same tree, broken off in a ditch, is merely rotten wood. The xi zun and the ditch fragment differ greatly in beauty and ugliness, yet in losing their original nature they are the same. Zhi (the bandit Zhi) and Zeng and Shi (Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, famed for ritual integrity) differ greatly in conduct, yet both equally lose their nature—there is no essential difference. Commentary also notes that after qie fu (moreover) there should originally have been a closing line; here too the text is left open—again the author’s deliberate pause and buildup.

Meaning of the Passage

A tree that has grown for a hundred years is split open and fashioned into a sacrificial wine vessel (xi zun), painted with green and yellow patterns; the leftover splinters are thrown into a ditch. Compare the “xi zun” with the “broken wood in the ditch”—in beauty and ugliness they are indeed different, yet in losing the tree’s inherent nature, they are the same.

Zhi the Robber, on the one hand, and Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, on the other, differ as heaven and earth in conduct and moral reputation, yet alike in losing their nature (becoming estranged from what is originally so).

The harm of losing one’s nature falls roughly into five kinds: the five colors disorder the eyes, so the eyes lose clarity; the five sounds disorder the ears, so the ears lose acuity; the five odors assail the nose, so the nose is blocked and reversed (song, meaning qi rushing upward); the five flavors foul the mouth, so the mouth loses its clean sharpness (li shuang, a failure of normal taste); preferences and rejections (distinctions of right and wrong, likes and dislikes, taking and leaving) slip the heart, so the original nature flies off unrestrained. These five all injure life. The teachings of Yang Zhu and Mo Di—barely li qi (standing apart, straining to be singular and novel)—already take themselves to have attained (de, “got the Way”); that is not the “attainment” spoken of here. If being trapped also counted as attainment, then an owl or hawk caged up could be said to have “attained” as well.

Oral Commentary (Explanation)

What lies in the ditch is the wood left over after the tree was split to make the xi zun. From one and the same tree, some becomes the xi zun, some is cast into the ditch—honor and disgrace differ, but in the end all is dead wood. This matches the Zhuangzi parable of Zang and Gu both losing their sheep.

The five colors, five sounds, five odors, and five flavors are all human artifice, hence they are said to disorder the nature; these four are grouped with preferences and rejections so that all may be lowered and criticized together. Kun song means what reverses and assails the human nose; zhong song runs from the nose up to the forehead (song); “fouling the mouth” means defiling the mouth; li shuang means deviation and loss; qu she refers to right and wrong and likes and dislikes—because qu she disturb the heart, the nature of spontaneity is lost, hence “preferences and rejections slip the heart and make the nature fly off.” The teachings of Yang and Mo are precisely the path of qu she slipping the heart, yet they imagine they succeed.

Trapped by their own doctrines, they still call it “self-attainment”; if that counts as self-attainment, then beasts and birds in cages are self-attained too—a scorn pushed to the extreme.

Oral Commentary Continued (Outward Adornment and Inner Entrapment)

Again: they stack firewood within (chái qí nèi, filling and disturbing the inner self) with preferences and rejections and with colors and sounds; outwardly they bind and trim the surface with leather caps and egret-feather hats, tuck tablets, tie sash-belts, and polish deportment. Inside, packed full as if fenced with brushwood; outside, wound round with layer upon layer of binding cords—huàn huàn (eyes turning restlessly, the look of one trapped) caught in those cords. They trap themselves and still call it self-attainment; if that counts as self-attainment, then beasts and birds in cages are self-attained too—the same scorn pushed to the extreme.

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Oral Exegesis: Outer Chapters — Heavenly Dao, Chapter Thirteen

I. Heavenly Dao Moves Without Piling Up

Paraphrase of the original: The way of Heavenly Dao (Tiandao) runs without heaping things in one place (wu suo ji—nothing accumulated), so the ten thousand things each take shape and each fulfill their use. The Way of governing of the August Person (Diwang) likewise does not pile up in one spot, so all under Heaven turn toward the sage (shengren). The Way of the sage also moves without accumulation, so within the four seas all submit. One who penetrates Heaven and aligns with sagehood, and in the virtue of the August Person attains sixfold penetration and four openings, finds that wherever the eyes reach—even in dim places—nothing fails to be still. This means: wherever influence extends, everything returns to peace (an).

Lin Xiyi’s gloss: “Nothing accumulated” does not mean doing nothing at all; it means not clinging or damming in one place. Heavenly Dao circulates, so the myriad things complete themselves; the Way of rule does not stagnate, so the realm submits.

II. Why the Sage Can Be Still

Paraphrase of the original: The stillness (jing) of the sage is not forcing oneself to say “I must be still.” It is being good at following what is fitting, and naturally becoming still. Nothing among the ten thousand things is enough to disturb the heart—hence stillness. When water is still, it is bright as a mirror; even eyebrows and whiskers show clearly; level as a water level—the great artisan (dajiang) takes it as the standard for measuring. If still water is so clear, how much more spirit (shen)? The still heart of the sage is the mirror of Heaven and Earth, the mirror of the ten thousand things.

Main points: Stillness is the outcome of the heart not being dragged by outer things—not dry sitting. The water-mirror image: when the heart is clear (cheng), it is bright (ming); bright, it views things without losing truth.

Link with the Previous Chapter (Letting Be, Zai You)

The previous chapter spoke of letting be (zai you), not using ritual and law to bind the inner, constraining the outer; this chapter speaks of the movement of Heavenly Dao and the stillness of the sage—both governance and heart should not accumulate, not disturb; still then bright, bright then responsive to things.

Note: This passage opens the Outer Chapter Heavenly Dao; phrases such as sixfold penetration and four openings and the Way of the August Person are often explained by Lin Xiyi along the Way of rule and heart learning together. If read against the standard Zhuangzi · Heavenly Dao, wording may differ slightly; the gist is Heavenly Dao’s circular motion, the sage’s still heart, and the water-mirror analogy.

Plain-language commentary

Section one

“The way of the emperor” and “the way of the sage” were never easy to split cleanly; in this passage Zhuangzi seems to match “emperor” with the Three Sovereigns and “sage” with the Five Emperors. “Movement without accumulation” is like the Book of Changes’ “pure and never ceasing”—turning and flowing on without piling up into a lump; once “without accumulation” is added, the point reads more clearly. The argument borrows this image, and what really matters is the word stillness: at the utmost stillness, within it there is still “movement without accumulation,” not withered wood or dead ashes; only readers often miss that. “Penetrating the six directions and opening the four quarters” means east, west, south, north, above, and below—nowhere blocked; meiran (dim merging) means merging in obscurity, a hidden accord.

The sage’s stillness is not because stillness is judged good and therefore chosen (“it is not that he calls it stillness—because he is good at it, he is still”—this line is crucial): because he is adept in this way, he naturally rests in stillness. That is, he does not first love stillness and then force himself to be still; outer things are not enough to disturb his heart, so he need not seek stillness yet is still. Nao is the same as rao (disturbance); water and the mirror illustrate stillness—the image is right before the eyes, yet the wording is extremely fine.

Section two

Emptiness, stillness, plainness, silence, and wuwei (non-action)—one word, “stillness,” is unfolded into eight words; the distinctions must be kept clear: emptiness, stillness, plainness, silence, and wuwei are the constant way heaven and earth rely on and the utmost reach of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), so emperors and sages take them as their resting place (“xiu yan”). Whoever can stop here has a empty heart; only with emptiness is there fullness, and with fullness one aligns with human order; only with emptiness is there stillness, with stillness comes movement, and with movement comes attainment. In stillness there is wuwei; in wuwei concrete affairs are handed to those who can bear them; in wuwei there is ease (yuyu), in ease afflictions cannot harm the body, and years may be long.

Emptiness, stillness, plainness, silence, and wuwei are the root of the ten thousand things. Whoever understands this: facing south one may govern like Yao, facing north serve like Shun; in high place one may embody the virtue of emperor and son of heaven, in low place the way of the recluse and “plain king”; with this one may withdraw and wander rivers, seas, forests, and hills; with this one may advance, settle the age, establish merit, make a name, and bring the realm to unity.

Emptiness, stillness, plainness, solitude, and Wuwei (non-action)—Zhuangzi expands this single word “stillness” into eight characters, and each must be distinguished clearly. “Level” (ping) means reaching the utmost point: it refers to the constant principle of Heaven and Earth and the ultimate attainment of De (virtue/power). “Rest” (xiu) means to stop: the hearts of emperors and sages stop right here, as in the Great Learning’s “rest in the highest good.” Once one rests, one becomes empty—hence “only the Dao gathers emptiness” and “auspiciousness rests and rests again.” It then says: when empty, one becomes full—“full” here means ethical order and pattern; within full principle there is inherent pattern, which is the lucid clarity within seamless wholeness. The previous line says emptiness then fullness; the next says emptiness then stillness, stillness then movement—movement and stillness mutually root each other; when movement is never inappropriate, it is said that in moving one attains. When each in office fulfills his duty, that is Wuwei yet nothing left undone. “Yuyu” is the look of ease and joy; “cares and woes cannot take hold” means cares and woes cannot enter—what the humane person does not worry over; long years of life is the longevity of the still person. These four sentences use emptiness, stillness, Wuwei, and related words to generate one another in the text—typical Zhuangzi brushwork.

Here the eight characters—emptiness, stillness, plainness, and the rest—are raised again, summed in one line: the root of the ten thousand things—“root” means beginning, saying this principle arises from before the ten thousand things existed. “Standing above” refers to the ruler facing south; “standing below” is one who does not take office. Having the De of a sage without the position of a sage is the uncrowned king (suwang); withdrawing to leisure and wandering is reclusion in ease; advancing to govern the age is putting it to use in the times. Read this one sentence: how could the meaning not wish to serve the world, how could it not treat movement and stillness as one body?

In stillness one is sagely, in movement one is kinglike; in Wuwei one is honored, in unadorned simplicity none under Heaven can compete in beauty with one. One who is clear about the De of Heaven and Earth is called the great root and great ancestor, in harmony with Heaven; one who can harmonize the world and be in harmony with people—with people is called human joy, with Heaven is called Heaven’s joy.

Plain-Language Reading of Passages Related to Zhuangzi Kouyi

I. On “Heavenly Joy,” Wuwei, and Simplicity

In stillness one has enough to become a sage; in action, enough to become a king. Together these are what people call nei sheng wai wang—sagehood within, kingship without. Add Wuwei (non-action), and that is the highest honor. Among the ways of the world, nothing is more precious than Wuwei.

Simplicity (pusu) means adding no ornament and making no deliberate polish. It looks plain on the surface, yet no beauty under Heaven surpasses it—hence the text says: in simplicity, nothing in the world can rival its beauty. The point is stated plainly: if one can grasp this great virtue of Heaven and Earth, one may walk with Heaven (Tian)—that is what harmony with Heaven (yu tian he) means: “harmony” is mutual accord. Great Root and Great Ancestor (da ben, da zong) praise the virtue of nature (ziran zhi de), close in meaning to “self-rooted, self-founded.” When one evens and orders the world, one also accords with people—as Yao says in Zhuangzi: you harmonize with Heaven; I harmonize with people. The text speaks of harmony with Heaven and with people, and of human joy and Heavenly Joy (ren le, tian le), layer by layer—roughly in that direction.

II. Zhuangzi: “My teacher… this is called Heavenly Joy”

Zhuangzi said: My teacher, my teacher! Destroying the myriad things without being called cruel; bestowing benefit on ten thousand generations without being called benevolent; enduring from deepest antiquity without being called long-lived; covering and supporting Heaven and Earth, carving all forms, without being called skillful—this is called Heavenly Joy (Tianle).

These lines match the Da Chong Shi (Great and Venerable Teacher) chapter, yet here three words are added at the front: “Zhuangzi said.” Earlier the words were Xu You’s; here they are treated as Zhuangzi’s own—showing that episode after episode is yuyan (fable/allegory); one cannot read everything as literal record.

III. One Who Knows Heavenly Joy: Life, Death, Movement, Stillness

Therefore it is said: One who knows Heavenly Joy lives by following Heaven (Tian), and in death follows things (wu) in their transformations. In stillness he shares the De (virtue/power) of Yin; in movement he rides the wave of Yang. Thus one who knows Heavenly Joy has no resentment against Heaven, no blame from people, no drag from external things, no reproach from ghosts and spirits. Hence: in movement like Heaven, in stillness like Earth; with heart-mind (xin) settled, he kings the world; physical form (xinghai) is not worn down, spirit (shen) is not exhausted; with heart-mind settled, the myriad things submit. Extending emptiness and stillness to Heaven and Earth and opening it to the myriad things—this is called Heavenly Joy.

Heavenly Joy is what the sage’s heart uses to transform and nurture the world.

This passage uses the method of kouyi (oral exposition) to interpret the Zhuangzi, and along the way sets Confucian “do not blame Heaven, do not blame others” beside Daoist wuwei (non-action).

“Tianxing” (Heaven’s movement) means acting in accord with the pattern of Heaven and with what is naturally so; “wuhua” (the transformation of things) means changing and turning together with the myriad things. In stillness one is yin; in movement one is yang—moving on the same wave and in the same current as the ten thousand things, never cut off from them.

Sages in the Confucian tradition often speak of not blaming Heaven and not blaming others; here two further lines are added—“no burden from things” and “no enmity and blame”—meaning one is not dragged down by external things and does not load resentment and reproach onto others, so the spirit is more self-sufficient. When this state shows in a person, it is called “chong qi gui bu chong”: here gui (often glossed alongside hun as the psychospiritual side of the person) and hun both point to spirit and mind—the shen is kept inward and not displayed outward; “qi hun bu pi” means the spirit does not wear out or drain away. When the heart is settled, spirit settles of itself, and the myriad things naturally comply.

To carry this principle of emptiness and stillness through Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things is why the text says one “extends it through Heaven and Earth and opens it through the ten thousand things,” and uses it to “xu tianxia”—to nourish and gather All under Heaven, so that people are well tended and the world is brought to accord.

The virtue of the emperor-sage takes Heaven and Earth as model and Dao and De as root, and takes wuwei as the constant Way. In wuwei, one deploys the world and still has surplus; in youwei (deliberate action), one is merely used by the world and falls short. Hence the ancients prized wuwei.

When above there is wuwei and below also wuwei, that is “below shares the same De as above”—if below shares the same De as above, below is no longer minister. When below is active and above is also active, that is “above shares the same Dao as below”—if above shares the same Dao as below, above is no longer lord. Therefore: those above must use wuwei to employ All under Heaven; those below must use youwei to be employed by All under Heaven—this is the unchanging principle.

When “chong” is read like “honor and uphold,” it means to esteem and hold fast; when read in “gui bu chong,” the stress is that spirit does not show outward or disturb others. The core of the whole passage remains the Zhuangzi themes of emptiness and stillness, wuwei, and each level—above and below—keeping its proper place.

Heaven, Earth, and Dao-De all teach the principle of wuwei (non-action). Here the text again sets wuwei against youwei (deliberate action): take wuwei as the way of the lord, and youwei as the way of the minister.

“If those below share the same virtue as those above, they are not true ministers”—if ministers, like the ruler, only pursue clarity and empty wuwei, they fail as ministers; the point is that ministers must take on labor and act. “If those above and below follow the same path, the one above is not a true lord”—if the ruler busies himself like his subjects, he fails as lord; the point is that the ruler should remain at ease and hold to wuwei.

“The lord exists for All-under-Heaven; All-under-Heaven employs the minister”—the lord is there for the sake of the world; the minister is employed by the world. Read this way, lord and minister gain another layer of meaning, and the formula cannot be simply equated with the “Way of Heaven, Way of Humankind” scheme in the In the Realm of Freedom (You) chapter.

If you read too rigidly, you will not understand Zhuangzi. This chapter says the lord should be wuwei and the minister youwei, yet earlier passages also say “with this understanding to face north [as minister], such was Shun as subject” and “advancing in this way to govern the age, then merit is great and fame shines”—the minister’s way sometimes also tends toward wuwei. Is that not self-contradiction? Precisely because literalism makes the text unreadable, one must not read Zhuangzi that way.

So the ancient emperors who ordered All-under-Heaven: though their wisdom could encompass Heaven and Earth, they did not scheme for themselves; though their eloquence could refine the ten thousand things, they did not use it to please themselves; though their capacity could be fully deployed within the seas, they did not act willfully for themselves.

Heaven does not “produce” anything, yet the ten thousand things are naturally transformed and nurtured; Earth does not “grow” anything, yet the ten thousand things naturally thrive. The emperor, through wuwei, accomplishes merit of the same kind as Heaven and Earth—hence the saying: nothing is more spirit-like than Heaven, nothing more abundant than Earth, nothing more august than the emperor—the emperor’s De (virtue/power) matches Heaven and Earth.

This is what is meant by upholding Heaven and Earth, driving the ten thousand things, and applying the way among the people.

“Encompassing Heaven and Earth” (luo tiandi) means to cover and include them (“luo” is interchangeable with “luo,” to net or bind). “Refining the ten thousand things” means skill in acting upon things. The ten thousand things are transformed and nurtured of themselves—it is not that Heaven is “giving birth”; they grow of themselves—it is not that Earth is “growing” them—hence “Heaven does not give birth, Earth does not grow.” The emperor’s wuwei and the world’s accomplishment of merit connect to this layer of meaning. “Riding Heaven and Earth” (cheng tiandi) can be understood as relying on and continuing the Way of Heaven and Earth in one’s conduct.