《庄子口义》Vol. 5

First section (praising the ruler’s wuwei)

This is not about elevating the emperor for its own sake. It means: when the ruler accomplishes work on a par with Heaven and Earth through wuwei (non-action), he is like Heaven and Earth themselves. “Riding Heaven and Earth” is like the Book of Changes image of “riding the six dragons to steer Heaven”; “driving the ten thousand things” is commanding all that moves. These lines use metaphor to praise the way of rulership that takes wuwei as its root.

Root and branch (overview)

The root is above, the branches below; the pivot is the ruler, the details are the ministers.

• The three armies and the five weapons (military campaigns)—branches of De (Virtue/Power);
• Rewards and punishments, benefit and harm, the five punishments (penal institutions)—branches of teaching;
• Rites and law, measures and grades, names and forms, comparison and detail (things, regulations, matching)—branches of governance;
• Bells, drums, plumes and banners (ceremony and music)—branches of music;
• Weeping, hemp mourning garments, graded funeral dress (mourning rites)—branches of mourning.

These five kinds of “branch” all depend on spirit in motion and heart-mind as the lever before they can be put into practice. Later scholars who studied the branches also existed, but those cannot be taken as what comes first or as the deepest root.

Wuwei as root, youwei as branch

What follows speaks of “youwei” (deliberate action): wuwei as root, youwei as branch; the root is the ruler (the ruler’s way is wuwei), the details are the ministers (the minister’s way is youwei).

• Martial awe and civil virtue are supports, hence the three armies and five weapons are called “branches of De”;
• Clear penalties to support instruction—hence rewards, punishments, and the five punishments are “branches of teaching”;
• Measures and grades mean rank and hierarchy; names and forms mean institutional categories; comparison and detail mean matching rules and fine print—all “branches of governance”;
• Rites, measures, bells, drums, plumes and banners are not the root of ritual and music—much as the Analects asks: is ritual only jade, silk, bells, and drums?
• “Branches of mourning” also carries better sincere grief than polished display (“If you cannot manage it with feeling, better plain sincerity than show”).

These lines are even-handed: everything grows from within; nothing is bolted onto people from outside.

“Later branch-learning existed among the ancients, but it is not what should come first”—especially worth noting: Zhuangzi is not calling for abolishing arms, punishments, ritual, and music altogether.

Order of priority

Ruler before minister, father before son, elder brother before younger, senior before junior—order given by birth, not imposed from outside.

Branch-learning existed among the ancients too, but cannot lead; from this line we see especially clearly: Zhuangzi is not arguing to discard military, penal, ritual, and musical institutions wholesale, but to distinguish root from branch, with wuwei as root and youwei as use.

In plain terms: when the ruler goes first and subjects follow, when the father goes first and the son follows, when the elder brother goes first and the younger follows, when the senior goes first and the junior follows, when the man goes first and the woman follows, when the husband goes first and the wife follows—this ordering of high and low, first and after, is itself the pattern by which Heaven and Earth run. That is why the sage takes it as a model.

Heaven above and Earth below is the ranking of the divine order; spring and summer before autumn and winter is the sequence of the four seasons. The ten thousand things are generated and transformed: after the first sprouting each takes its own form, and in rising to fullness and falling into decline each has its turn—this is the flow of change. Heaven and Earth are most sacred, yet they still observe rank and precedence; how much more should human relations do so?

In the ancestral temple, kinship and seniority of line are honored (as in the zhao-mu arrangement of generations); at court, noble rank is honored; in the village, age is honored; in appointing people to tasks, worthiness is honored—these are all orders within the Great Dao. To talk only of “Dao” while violating this order is not Dao; to talk only of “Dao” yet walk the wrong path—how then could one obtain Dao?

The string of “first” and “follow” at the start is an analogy: what should lead leads, what should follow follows—both are the principle of Heaven and Earth. The sage models himself on this, hence the saying that rank and precedence are the conduct of Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth and the four seasons are likewise analogies for before and after. What is meant by “transformation and generation” is birth and growth—as in the Book of Odes line where the plant “begins to sprout.” “Sprout” is the first bud; “division” is differentiation—once a thing is born, its form is not the same as another’s; as it flourishes and declines in time, each has its order, hence “the stages of flourishing and decline.” From precedence one comes to rank; rank itself is also a kind of precedence.

“Honoring the worthy in conduct” means that in carrying out affairs and assigning office, the capable come first. Kinship, noble rank, age, and worthiness are all natural orders under Heaven, together called “the order of the Great Dao.” “How could one obtain Dao?” means: if one does not even understand this ordering, how could one truly attain Dao?

Therefore, among the ancients who truly understood the Great Dao, implementation proceeded step by step downward in this order:

First clarify “Heaven” (nature as it is, and the Way Heaven runs); then speak of virtue and power; once virtue and power are clear, then speak of benevolence and righteousness; once benevolence and righteousness are clear, then speak of each person keeping their place and fulfilling their duties; once duties are clear, then fix names and ranks and make grades explicit; once names and ranks are set, then appoint people according to what their talents suit; once appointment follows rules, then conduct inspection and verification; once inspection is clear, then distinguish right from wrong; once right and wrong are clear, then carry out rewards and punishments; when rewards and punishments are fair, the foolish and the wise each find their place, the noble and the lowly each rest in their station, the worthy and the unworthy each follow their nature, ability has its boundaries, and name matches reality.

With this whole system one serves superiors, nurtures subordinates, and governs the myriad things, and also cultivates oneself. Without crafty schemes and power plays, everything returns to the natural Way of Heaven—this is called great peace (taiping), the highest reach of governance.

This passage explains the order for governing the world, arranged in nine levels: Heaven comes first, Dao and De second, benevolence and righteousness third, holding to assigned duties (each office keeping its post) fourth, form and name (matching names to realities; here form overlaps with punishment/penal law) fifth, entrusting according to capacity (assigning roles in line with each person’s proper function) sixth, remission and reduction (waiving and cutting what need not be done) seventh, right and wrong (discerning good and evil) eighth, and reward and punishment ninth.

Holding to assigned duties means each person keeps to his office; form and name means correspondence between names and what they denote (here form and penal law are linked); entrusting according to capacity means boldly employing people along the lines of the roles they ought to fill; remission is leniency and reduction is cutting back—when someone is not fit for a task, waive or drop it: that is remission and reduction; right and wrong is telling the worthy from the vicious; reward and punishment is making rewards and penalties clear through whipping, demerit records, chariots, robes, and insignia.

When Zhuangzi sets out this order of governance, one oral exegesis objects: if one does not first know that Heaven punishes the guilty and Heaven blesses the virtuous, are reward and punishment not still Heaven’s work? Why must one pass through nine shifts before reaching them? Such talk strays far from the sages. One should first clarify Heaven, then Dao and De, and only then take up the sections below; that is not abandoning the coarse for the refined. Fool and wise each rest in his place; being where one fits is occupying what one should; fulfilling one’s post is the same as being in the right position; inheriting here means settling—settling in one’s disposition: noble and petty each have his station. Names must govern conduct—pursue the name and demand the reality; scheming is not relied on—everything must return to Heaven. Though each affair has its allotted place, the mind must not harbor private aims; all reverts to the natural—only then is it a age of great peace.

Hence the classic says: there is form and there is name; form and name existed in antiquity, yet they were not what should be spoken of first. In ancient speech about the great Dao, after five shifts form and name could be mentioned; after nine shifts reward and punishment could be discussed—to jump straight to form and name without knowing the root, or straight to reward and punishment without knowing the beginning, is to speak against the Dao and talk athwart the Way. That is the art of human administration; how can it truly govern people? To speak abruptly of form, name, and punishment is to have tools of rule but not the Way of rule; one may use them under Heaven yet not use them to govern Heaven. That is what is meant by disputatious scholars and one-sided men.

Rites, laws, measures, and numbers, and detailed comparison of penal names and forms—the ancients had these too, but they were what those below use to serve those above, not what those above use to nurture those below.

Plain-Language Commentary

This passage is about how to read ancient books. Classical texts do discuss “form and name”—outward institutions such as titles, ranks, and the names used for rewards and punishments—but reading must not abandon the root for the branches, so one should not lead with these topics. If you do not know what is fundamental and what is secondary and still speak up rashly, you lose the source.

“Dao” and “wu” both mean to turn things upside down or go against what is right. To go against the way of nature and treat branch matters like “form and name” as the root is to “govern people”—to use institutions to control the populace, to be a set of tools “used by the world,” rather than to “use the world”—to align with heaven and earth and let the realm run naturally. Using form, name, reward, and punishment as instruments of rule, and division of duties and benevolence-righteousness as the way of rule, is not wrong in itself; what is wrong is mixing root and branch and treating them as the same thing.

“One-sided” (yi qu) means clinging to a single angle. Above nurturing those below is the way of the ruler; below serving those above is the way of the minister.

Long ago Shun asked Yao: “How does the king of heaven use his mind?” Yao said: “I do not slight those with no one to plead for them, I do not abandon the poor and common people, I comfort the dead, care for children, and pity widows—this is how I use my mind.” Shun said: “That is good, but not yet great enough.” Yao asked: “What should it be then?” Shun said: “Heaven’s virtue flows forth of itself and brings peace, like sun and moon shining down and the four seasons turning, like day and night keeping their rhythm and clouds moving while rain falls.” Yao said: “From this it seems you unite heaven with humanity; I unite humanity with heaven. Heaven and earth are what the ancients valued most, what Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all praised together. So what did those who ruled the realm in antiquity do? Nothing more than unite with heaven and earth.”

“Ao” means arrogance and contempt; “ku” means pity, and “jia” means joy. Here “furen” (the woman) refers to a widow. This passage pairs with the earlier discussion of the “ruzi” (infant): even though the word “guo” (widowed) is not written out, the meaning is there—it speaks of tiande (Heavenly Virtue), the virtue that Heaven and Earth naturally possess.

“First among the myriad things, all lands find peace”—this means that when the myriad things each find their proper place, the realm naturally becomes tranquil. Sun and moon alternate, cold and heat succeed one another; sun and moon shine while the four seasons run their course. After day comes night, and after night day returns again, in endless cycle. Clouds move and rain falls, all in accord with the seasons. These images all illustrate how, through wuwei (non-action), the realm settles of itself.

“Jiaojiao raorao” describes a mind in turmoil, unable to find rest.

Yao said: What I do still falls short of you (his interlocutor); I am still caught in “youwei” (deliberate action), so I only align with the human level and have not yet aligned with Heaven. The three lines that follow are Yao’s words of self-reproach.

Heaven and Earth are what the ancients most often invoked to unfold the great meaning—the natural principle of Heaven and Earth, from antiquity to the present, there is no greater theme. Gongmei means what all share in recognizing and aspiring to as good. Wang tianxia (ruling all under heaven) needs no elaborate method; one need only take Heaven and Earth as one’s model.

When the text earlier discusses Yao and Shun there is praise and blame in turn; here Yao is mentioned alongside the Yellow Emperor, and the tone does not rank one above the other. If one fixates on names and splits them into higher and lower, the meaning of the text becomes rigid and unreadable.

Confucius wanted to deposit his collection of books in the secret archive of the Zhou royal house. Zilu suggested: “I have heard that Laozi, the Zhou official in charge of the archives, has resigned and gone home to live out his old age. If the Master wishes to store the books, you might first visit him and use the occasion to accomplish this.” Confucius said, “Good.” He went to see Laozi, but Laozi would not agree. Confucius then went through the twelve classics again and again, explaining and arguing with Laozi, hoping to persuade him. Laozi interrupted: “You have said too much. I only want to know what you take as the essential point.”

Confucius said: “The essential point lies in benevolence and righteousness.”

Laozi asked: “May I ask—are benevolence and righteousness part of human nature?”

Confucius said: “Yes. A gentleman cannot establish himself without benevolence, nor conduct himself in the world without righteousness. Benevolence and righteousness are what a true human nature ought to possess—how could they be treated as mere external ornament?”

Laozi asked again: “Then tell me—what do you mean by benevolence and righteousness?”

Confucius said: “Inner harmony and outward gentleness toward things, loving all people impartially without favoritism—that is the meaning of benevolence and righteousness.”

Laozi said: “I’m afraid you have it backwards. What you call impartial love is too roundabout; to proclaim ‘no selfishness’ is already a kind of selfishness. If you truly took human nature as your ground, why add all this extra effort?”

(Confucius spoke again of benevolence and righteousness; Laozi objected again—the gist is the same, so it is not repeated in full here.)

Laozi went on: “Do you want people under heaven not to lose their proper places? Heaven and earth already have their constant Way; sun and moon already have their brightness; stars already have their order; birds and beasts already have their kinds; trees already have their places to stand. If you follow virtue as it naturally is and walk along the Dao, that is enough—why must you bustle about raising up benevolence and righteousness, like beating a drum to hunt for a lost child? In my view, you are disturbing human nature.”

Context: This dialogue belongs to the Zhuangzi school’s critique of Confucianism: Laozi treats “benevolence and righteousness” as often being later name-and-teaching and artificial refinement, inferior to letting heaven, earth, and the myriad things each keep their native order; Confucius insists that benevolence and righteousness are the root of what it means to be human. Zhuangzi puts words in both mouths to show the clash between two value paths—“nature” and “name-and-teaching.”

This passage explains the oral meaning of passages in the Zhuangzi about Laozi traveling west to the Zhou archives and lines such as “wuyu kaizai” and “jihu wei” (almost perilous).

Traveling west to the Zhou archives. Laozi is said to have gone west to Zhou territory intending to view the stored books there; the repetition stresses what was on his mind halfway through the journey. He felt those writings were overly tangled and hollow, with speech too full and overflowing. Wuyu kaizai means taking external things as one’s delight and merging with things. Hou yan you yue qianjin zhi yan means later formulations still seem shallow. Jihu wei means nearly dangerous. Wu zhi bu qi, he you jian’ai asks how one can forcibly extend equal love to all when things are inherently unequal—this is a tortuous, half-finished line of reasoning.

Cai you wusi zhi ming means that once the mind holds the label “selflessness,” the chest still harbors a trace of “self”; possessing the two characters “wusi” (no-self) is already a form of intent, hence “no-self is itself private.” Mu means to nurture or shepherd. Yu shi tianxia wu shi qi suo yang means that if one wishes everyone under heaven not to lose their proper nourishment, heaven, earth, and the myriad things have their own natural making—human force must not be imposed rashly; one should only release and follow natural virtue and the natural way; reaching that point is already the utmost, hence “it has arrived.”

Wangzi is a runaway son. Jigu er qiu means beating a drum to summon people—laborious and shocking to the world; that disrupts human nature, so Laozi sighs as he speaks. Fuzi you wuzi ye means “you, master, are still you.” Jiji describes a toiling, straining appearance.

Shicheng Qi visits Laozi. Shicheng Qi heard Laozi was a sage and came from afar without shirking the distance; bai she chong jian er bu gan xi depicts exhaustion on the road—calluses heavy on the heels, yet not daring to rest. Now he finds him not like a sage: leftovers from the kitchen are still thrown to a younger sister—unkind; while alive, consumption never ends, yet after death hoarding is boundless. Laozi is indifferent and does not reply. Shicheng Qi returns the next day and says: yesterday I had barbs for you; today my heart is upright and settled—why? Laozi says: as for the clever, wise, and “sagely,” I thought I had already shed those names. Formerly you called me ox and I answered ox, called me horse and I answered horse; if things are so, when others name you, not accepting would instead invite harm. My fu (acceptance, assent): constant assent—not because there is a label “fu” that I assent, but because it is so by nature.

Jian is a callus on the heel. Ma ye er wei zhi ma matches the “ox” line—going along with whatever people call you. Wu fu ye heng fu, wu fei yi fu you fu means my assent is constant assent; I do not assent in order to possess the name “assent.”

Section 1 (Ten kinds of “inauthentic” behavior)

The text compares certain people to geese that fly sideways to dodge their own shadows—one step glued to the next—or to someone inching forward on tiptoes. Yiran (“cliff-like”) suggests a stiff, conspicuous posture, as if perched on a precipice; chongran a blank, fixed stare; kanran a gaping mouth; yiran (in the yi of “righteousness”) a rigid, moralizing air. Horses naturally want to run; tied up, they still strain outward—that is the famous zuo chi (“sitting while the mind gallops”): the body still, the heart in flight. “Moving yet holding back” means every gesture is guarded and performative. “Speech like a sprung trigger” (fa ye ji) is the habit of firing off judgments the moment one speaks. “Probing and auditing” is treating others with microscopic scrutiny, leaving no slack. “Cleverness that shows as overbearing ease” is trusting in one’s wit and letting arrogance and indifference show on the face.

These ten patterns all stem from bu cheng—lack of sincerity, failure to align with what is actually so. The scripture therefore says: whoever acts thus is bu xin, not grounded in real trust or honesty. One who sees things as they are does not fall into these faults. In border country, people may point at such a person and call him a “thief”—not necessarily because he steals, but because his calculating mind refuses to follow the natural course and his way of living in the world invites trouble.

Section 2 (The “Master” on the Dao)

Here “the Master” (fu zi) refers to Laozi. He says: the Dao is so vast that it has no outer limit and so fine that nothing falls outside it; therefore the myriad things are complete within it. How expansive—nothing fails to fit; how deep—beyond fathoming. Form, De, benevolence, and righteousness are branch tips and leftover traces of shen (the Dao’s subtle efficacy), not the root of the Dao. Unless one is a zhi ren (Perfect Person), who can settle what is root and what is branch?

Section 3 (Further explanation)

“Vast without limit” is greatness; “fine without remainder” is smallness. “Nothing left out” matches the old saying that speech cannot exhaust the great nor pierce the small—however large, it is contained; however small, nothing slips through. Nothing among the myriad things escapes this Dao, hence “the myriad things are complete.” “Expansive, expansive” names its breadth; “deep, deep” (yuan hu) its depth. “Form” is outward trace and appearance; “shen” is wondrous function. “To settle” (ding) is to adjudicate and distinguish root from branch. Who but a Perfect Person can settle the relation between form, De, benevolence, righteousness, and the root of the Dao?

Section 4 (The Perfect Person)

The Perfect Person may “have” all under Heaven, yet the realm is not great enough to burden him. When others scramble for name and gain and guard against one another, he does not join the fray. Seeing the principle of wu jia (no reliance on the false or on borrowed labels), he does not swerve for profit; he can exhaust how things truly are yet hold to his own root. Therefore he treats Heaven and Earth as external and releases the myriad things—he does not clutch them as possessions—while his spirit is not trapped thereby. He merges with the Dao and accords with De, puts benevolence and righteousness behind him, and treats branch tips as guests, not as the host.

The Perfect Person (zhiren, one who has reached the utmost in spirit) may possess all under heaven—is that not a great matter? Yet even a realm so vast is not enough to burden his heart. While others scramble for power and profit, straining to fang (vigorously guard rank and position), he does not share that frame of mind. He discerns what is wu jia (without reliance on externals, without borrowing status or office) and is not shaken by gain or loss; he exhausts the true principle of the myriad things, and so can hold to the stillness that belongs to his original nature. He treats outer heaven-and-earth and things outside the self as wai and yi (external and set aside—without clinging or being bound), while his spirit is never trapped. He tong (unites) with the Dao (the natural order, the suchness of the myriad things) and he (harmonizes) with De (virtue that accords with the Dao); he puts Ren and Yi (benevolence and righteousness, what Confucian teaching stresses) in a secondary place, and treats Li and Yue (ritual and music—the forms of regulation and cultivation) as guests—and thus the heart of the Perfect Person finds its ding (settled stillness).

“Having the age” and “having all under heaven” mean: though the realm is vast, it is not enough to weary the heart. Fang refers to guarding rank and power; though others strive to grasp authority over the realm, this heart does not go along with them—this is speaking of a heart that does not stir; “not shifting for profit” means not calculating benefit and harm. Exhausting the true principle of the myriad things, one can keep the stillness of the original nature; wai heaven-and-earth and yi the myriad things means not being moved by what is outside; when the heart does not move, how could spirit be trapped? Tong means naturally aligning with Dao and De. Tui ren yi (putting Ren and Yi behind) means placing benevolence and righteousness after something more fundamental—not making them the first things to uphold. Bin li yue (treating Li and Yue as guests) means taking native disposition as host and ritual and music as guest. Ding is stillness. This is why the heart of the Perfect Person can be still and settled.

What people in the world usually prize as “Dao” is often shu (books); books are no more than yu (words). Within words there is something worth prizing—the worth lies in yi (meaning, the essential point). Yet meaning also has something it follows—what meaning follows cannot be put into words; and still people prize words on that account… (If more follows, continue in the same vein.)

What people of the world value as the Dao often settles on books. Books are only carriers of speech; what is truly worth having in speech is the meaning—the layer of intent one means to convey. Meaning also has something it rests on and points toward; that layer cannot be made clear with the mouth. Yet people of the world, because they prize “putting words into books,” especially exalt books. Even when everyone values books so highly, books still do not count as truly precious—because what people value is not what ought to be valued.

Thus: what can be seen is form and color; what can be heard is name and sound. How lamentable! People of the world suppose that by form, color, name, and sound they can grasp the Dao’s true state. If form, color, name, and sound truly cannot grasp that state, one should understand: those who truly know do not rely on much talk to show off, while those who love to talk at length are not those who truly know—yet how could people of the world see this?

Books can bear the Dao, so people value books; but what is precious is the Dao, not the book. To speak from the Dao, the words are naturally worth hearing; yet what is more worth cherishing is meaning (yi), not words (yan). Where meaning goes, words cannot follow and cannot be written—then neither words nor books are worth much. Treating what should not be prized as precious is “making precious what is not truly precious”—valuing what is not what truly ought to be valued.

Name is designation; form and color can be seen, name and sound can be heard—how could the Dao have form, color, name, or sound to speak of? To force the Dao, which cannot be seen or heard, to yield its solid reality through sight and hearing—how lamentable! Qing is the actual situation; if one must judge decisively, sight and hearing are absolutely insufficient to obtain it. Therefore those who know need not speak much; those who speak much are necessarily not those who know—how could the insight of people today measure up to this principle? That is why it is lamentable.

Zhuangzi Kouyi · Tianyun: The Episode of Wheelwright Pian Carving a Wheel (Plain-Language Reading)

Duke Huan of Qi was reading in the hall while Wheelwright Pian was carving a wheel below. Pian set down hammer and chisel, came up, and asked: “May I ask what words my lord is reading?” The duke said: “The words of a sage.” Pian asked: “Is the sage still alive?” The duke said: “He is already dead.” Pian said: “Then what you are reading is nothing but the leftover chaff of the ancients.”

The duke said: “I am reading—how dare a wheelwright speak out of turn? If what you say makes sense, very well; if it does not, you deserve death.”

Pian said: “From my own craft I see this: when carving a wheel, if I work too slowly the rim is smooth and will not bite; if I work too fast it is rough and the tool will not enter. Neither too slow nor too fast—then the hand has its own measure and the heart responds naturally, yet the mouth cannot put it into words; that shù (knack) exists only in between. I cannot make my son understand it, and my son cannot take over my skill—so at seventy I am still carving wheels. The ancients and what they could not pass on are likewise gone. Then what you read is still only the ancients’ chaff.”

(The Kouyi sharpens the point: this passage follows the previous parable that the Dao cannot be conveyed in words; using wheel-carving as a comparison is extremely apt. “Sweet” means smooth; “bitter” means rough and sticky; “slow” is relaxed, “fast” is hurried—too slow and it goes in easily but lacks firmness; too fast and it is rough and hard to enter; only neither too fast nor too slow gives the hand its true measure. Yet that measure cannot be spoken; a father cannot transmit it to his son. Books can only record what the ancients said; when the person is gone, where does one get what could not be passed on? What flavor of wine remains in the dregs?)

(Another comparison: if the Dao could be presented, everyone would present it to their ruler; if the Dao could be transmitted, everyone would transmit it to their son—the same idea.)

(Kouyi overview: When Zhuangzi wrote his book, what he recorded often involved more than one incident, yet the whole work turns on a single theme—the principle of naturalness (zìrán zhī lǐ)—weaving many stories that grow stranger as they unfold, with no second subject. Read this way, Zhuangzi’s stature only rises. Buddhist texts should be read with the same eye.)

Each of these lines is extremely compressed. Five successive uses of hu (the question particle “is it that…?”) appear in a row—something no earlier writer had done and few later ones could match.

“Does Heaven revolve on its own?”—Does Heaven turn by itself? The sky’s daily circuit is exactly Heaven moving under its own power. “Does Earth stay fixed in place?”—Is Earth motionless? In fact Earth has “four wanderings” (movement up, down, left, and right) and is not forever anchored in one spot. “Do sun and moon vie for their allotted positions?”—Do they struggle over their places? The sun departs and the moon arrives, yet the text says they “contend for their stations,” as if people were chasing and snatching from one another. Who could take up the thread after these three hu?

“Who presides and upholds this? Who holds the net and cords?”—Who asserts and who maintains order? Zhuzhang and weigang here mean forcefully holding and pulling the lines. “Could it be that something is wound like a spring and cannot do otherwise?”—Is there a mechanism that must move? “Could it be that once in motion it cannot stop itself?”—Does it run and never halt on its own? Even here, it is not that someone deliberately arranged it; something like a mechanism seems to be pushing.

“Do clouds become rain, or does rain become clouds?”—Which turns into which? Heaven’s qi descends and Earth’s qi rises—that is how clouds and rain form—yet the text insists on asking in this odd, striking way. “Who makes them swell and who makes them cease?”—Who lifts the clouds and rain and who lets them subside? Long is swelling upward; shi is stopping and resting—the same idea as tension and release—asking who is behind the rise and the pause.

“Who sits idle yet pushes all this forward?”—The lines on clouds, rain, the spring-like mechanism, and unstoppable motion then repeat (the scripture has duplicate passages).

“Who sits idle, indulges in excess and play, and thereby encourages all this?”—Who, with nothing to do, uses reckless amusement to foster the clouds and rain? Here yin is indulgence; le means playful performance; quan is to assist and complete. The question is: who, for the sake of reckless entertainment, brings these clouds and rains about?

“Wind rises in the north, now west now east, now up now drifting—who breathes it in and out? Who sits idle and lets the wind sweep and flutter so?”—Pifu is to blow and sway. Saying “up” without “down” is a deliberate abbreviation in the wording.

“May I ask why?”—(Heavenly Revolutions) asks again: what is the reason?

The shaman Xian (a ritual officer) is said to reply: Come, I will tell you. Heaven has the “six extremes” and the “five constants”; when emperors follow them, order prevails; when they go against them, disaster follows. When the affairs of the Nine Luo (methods of governance tied to the Luo River chart) are fulfilled and virtue is complete, their light shines upon the realm below and all under Heaven look up to them—this is called the “Supreme Sovereign.” (This passage continues Xian’s answer to Heavenly Revolutions on the pattern of Heaven’s motion, set against the earlier questions about who makes clouds, rain, and wind, and shows that governing the world also follows an order rooted in the Dao.)

Plain-Language Commentary

First section (on the “superior sovereigns”)

The text does not name anyone directly when it asks the question—that is again the author’s indirect style. “Six extremes” means the six qi; “five constants” means the five phases. Both the six qi and the five phases are patterns in nature. “Nine Luo” refers to the nine provinces; luo means gathering, and in ancient usage it could interchange with “fall” (luo). When a ruler governs the nine provinces in accord with these natural patterns, achievements are complete and virtue fully realized, shining over the world so the people look up to him—this is the kind of sage who “faces upward,” like the Three Sovereigns, hence the name “superior sovereigns” (shanghuang).

Second section (Taizai Dang asks about Ren)

Taizai Dang of Song asked Zhuangzi about Ren (benevolence). Zhuangzi said: Even tigers and wolves have Ren. Taizai asked: What do you mean? Zhuangzi said: Father and son are deeply attached to each other—how can that not be Ren? Taizai asked again: What is “utmost Ren” (zhi Ren)? Zhuangzi said: Utmost Ren has no partial favoritism toward kin. Taizai said: I have heard that without kinship there is no love, and without love there is no filial piety—can utmost Ren be unfilial? Zhuangzi said: That is not so.

Third section (oral commentary)

Calling even tigers and wolves Ren is close to saying “even robbers have their Way”—both push back against Confucian talk of Ren. The wording is sharp, but there is a point. The proverb “a fierce tiger does not eat its cubs” is exactly the Ren of tigers and wolves. “Utmost Ren has no [fixed] kin” means: Ren shows itself as mutual closeness, but one need not cling to labels of who must be close to whom; at the level of utmost Ren, the word “filial piety” alone is no longer enough—it is not that filial piety is rejected, but that filial piety still sits below that level. Utmost Ren is above filial piety; it is a state that “goes beyond filial piety.” What Taizai is really asking still falls short of the layer where filial piety is fully discussed; he has not yet exhausted Ren, yet already finds filial piety insufficient; once Ren is fully spoken, one is already above talking only of filial piety.

Fourth section

If you travel south to Ying yet look north and cannot see Mount Ming, why? Because you are too far away and facing the wrong direction. So it is said: to keep filial piety with reverence is easier; to practice filial piety with genuine love is harder (the oral commentary then continues: when I can fully express Ren, I am already above filial piety).

Someone who travels south as far as Ying (capital of Chu) and then looks north will no longer see Mount Ming. Why? Because they have gone too far.

So it is said: Filial piety with reverence is still relatively easy; filial piety through natural affection is harder. Filial piety through love is still relatively easy; forgetting the bond of kinship is harder. Forgetting kinship is still relatively easy; forgetting the whole world as well is harder. Forgetting the world is still relatively easy; letting the world forget you is hardest.

(Here “the farther from the mountain, the less you see it” serves as a metaphor: filial piety too has levels—the higher you go, the more you must let go of the visible traces of “filial piety.” The style is distinctive: reverent filial piety still leaves marks; filial piety through love means mutual forgetting; above that come forgetting kin, forgetting the world, and the world forgetting you—each step higher than the last.)

Dao and De mean abandoning and disdaining sage-kings like Yao and Shun without taking it to heart; grace and bounty extend through ten thousand generations without calling oneself benevolent—why then sigh loudly and parade one’s benevolence and filial piety? Filial piety, brotherly respect, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, faithfulness, integrity, and constancy—these eight virtues people treat as fine qualities are in truth merely mutual urging and self-compulsion. Hence “exhorting oneself to enslave one’s De” is nothing to admire.

Why should my supreme nobility need a ruler’s rank? Why should my supreme wealth need a state’s riches? Why should my supreme fulfillment need reputation? (Here “bing” is read as “ping”—to reject and cast aside entirely.) Supreme nobility, supreme wealth, and supreme fulfillment mean the Way of wuwei (non-action)—rank of state, wealth of state, and fame are all set aside; unchanged and unmoved, this is what is called “constant suchness” (changran).

Those eight virtues belong to deliberate action and self-imposed toil; what I hold to is constant suchness and wuwei.

Beimen Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi): “When you played the music of Xianchi in the wilds of Dongting, the first time I heard it I was afraid, the second time I grew slack, the third time I was bewildered. My spirit felt scattered, I fell silent and could not hold myself together.” This passage uses music to spin a strange tale—yet another odd turn of events. At the opening, Beimen Cheng questions the Yellow Emperor: fear at first hearing, slackness at the second, confusion at the third—three shifts in how one receives this music. “Scattered” means the spirit coming apart; “silent” means the mouth closed and no words spoken; “could not hold myself together” means unable to rest at ease—all stirred up by the music.

The Yellow Emperor said: “That is likely how it was for you. I took human affairs (ren—human order and feeling) as what is played, Heaven (tian—the Way of nature) as what harmonizes, ritual and righteousness (liyì) as what carries it forward, and Great Clarity (Taiqing—the highest, clearest reach of the heavenly Way) as what fixes it in place. The four seasons take turns in rising, the ten thousand things are born in sequence, waxing and waning in turn; wen (culture, civil virtue) and wu (martial force, vigor) each keep their proper order, the clear and the turbid opposed yet matched, Yin-Yang in mutual accord. Sound and light stream forth; creatures in dormancy begin to stir—I use thunder to startle them. This music has no tail at the end and no head at the beginning; death and life alternate, falling and rising turn upon each other, change without end, and no one form can stay for long—so you were afraid.”

This passage is explaining to the listener that your initial fear was perhaps understandable. What I speak of is the “music” (le) as I have experienced it; when you come to listen, a reaction like yours at first is only natural.

What is meant by the “three transformations” (san bian) is that the performance truly unfolds. The “hui” here is like the hui positions on the qin—the marks where the strings are stopped. As the music moves, rises and falls, each gesture lifts in turn: what belongs to “human” affairs speaks of human events; what belongs to “Heaven” speaks of the Way of Heaven. Ritual and righteousness appear in the tones and measures, orderly and clear. “Great Clarity” (Taiqing) in harmony with creation means that at the opening of the piece the sound should be level and correct—just so.

From “the four seasons succeed one another” onward, the text again describes change in the working of the music: now startling, now delightfully surprising, now sounding, now stopping—yet for a long time no resting place can be seen. What grows is like “pattern” (wen); what slays is like “martial” force (wu). “Order and principle” (lun jing) means sequence—the four seasons’ nurturing and killing, all things growing in order, flourishing then declining, just as in music there are wen and wu, order and sequence. The qin’s wen string and wu string express precisely this.

“Flowing radiance” (liuguang) is when, after yin and yang, clear and muddy tones are balanced, sound and light run smoothly and shine forth. Such flow is like the moment when dormant insects are about to wake and thunder is about to sound. Press forward and you cannot see the head; follow behind and you cannot see the tail—hence “never a tail at the end, never a head at the beginning”: “head and tail” are beginning and end. Death or life, falling or rising—both ordinary and yet constantly changing—so “the constant” is inexhaustible. One seeks a single place to “return to oneness” but cannot find it—hence “the One cannot be waited upon.” The reason you were afraid when you first listened lies in these layers.

Again I used the harmony of yin and yang Qi to perform, and the clear light of the sun and moon to shine forth. This music could be brief or prolonged, soft or firm; though it changed in countless ways, it remained one undivided whole and did not cling to a single fixed form—hence it was everywhere: in empty valleys it filled the valleys, in low hollows it filled the pits and ruts. It guarded heart-mind and spirit and took the ten thousand things as its measure; its sound was vast and far-reaching, its name lofty and bright. Thus spirit hid in the dark depths, and sun, moon, and stars each kept to their constant courses.

I brought this state to rest in what is limited, yet also let it flow toward the boundless. If you try to grasp it with thought, you cannot pin it down; if you try to see it with the eyes, you cannot see it; if you try to run after it and seize it, you can never catch up. All at once you seem to stand upon the Way of the “Four Voids”—the realm of empty openness without clinging—leaning against a withered paulownia and chanting at length. Your eyes have exhausted what they wished to see, your strength what it wished to pursue; since you can no longer catch up, body and emptiness merge into one, until you wind and yield at ease and follow what is natural. Once you wind and follow thus, the will is no longer strained, and you may naturally settle into repose.

Plain-Language Explanation

When yin and yang are in harmony and sun and moon shine, that only means things are smooth and bright. Long and short, soft and hard all belong to change; you cannot pin them to fixed labels, so change is said to be uniform (qi yi)—not holding to one pole as the norm. Uniformity is the old (jiu), yet it does not cling to old norms either, which is why the more you talk, the more new meanings seem to appear.

“Full pits and full valleys” means (Dao or qi) fills heaven and earth. “Tu qie” means blocking cleverness; “qie” is the same as “xi” (gap), referring to the seven apertures of the body. Block cleverness and guard with spirit; measure along with the ten thousand things—meaning to make music without artifice and follow nature.

When its sound moves freely and spreads with ease, the name “gaoming” ( lofty brightness) applies. “Shen guards the dark” means spirit keeps to obscurity; “hun is not weary” means not wearing out the hun-soul. Sun, moon, and stars each run by their own pattern, coming and going naturally. It seems to stop yet seems not to stop, hence “stopping at what has an end, while flow has no end.”

“Desire to think yet not knowing, desire to see yet not seeing, desire to pursue yet not reaching”—all describe something as if there were a thing, yet not really a thing. “Four emptinesses” means the great void. I then stood in the great void, singing softly; I wanted to see but could not see to the end, wanted to pursue but could not catch up. Form was full, yet I forgot myself, like emptiness; even to yielding and release—how much more so for you? You are slack precisely because you are so released, hence your laxity. “Song ran” is the look of having no deliberate mind.

This passage discusses Zhuangzi’s account of “Heavenly Music” (Tianle): I then perform it with the “sound of non-sloth,” and harmonize it with the “ mandate of nature” (the inherent pattern of nature itself). It is as though the myriad things mix and chase one another, growing in dense clusters—delight is present yet no form is seen; they scatter and wave yet cannot be held; dim and obscure, yet no sound is heard; movement has no fixed direction, dwelling in depth and hidden obscurity. Some call it death, some call it life; some call it substance, some call it glory. Going, staying, flowing, scattering, and migrating—it does not hold to one constant tone. When people of the world are puzzled by this, they consult the sage. The sage is one who penetrates the reality of feeling and fully accords with the mandate of nature: the celestial mechanism does not forcefully expand, yet the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body are all complete—this is called Heavenly Music.

What the Surangama Sutra (Lengyan Jing) calls “turning the flow back to complete unity, the six functions inactive” is precisely the meaning of not stirring the celestial mechanism while the five senses are fully equipped. Heavenly Music is a joy that cannot be spoken; hence in antiquity the Yan clan composed a eulogy: one listens yet hears no sound, looks yet sees no form—it fills heaven and earth and wraps the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters with heaven and earth). If you wish to listen, there is nothing to receive—hence confusion instead. What “non-sloth unceasing” refers to is precisely this Heavenly Music.

“Wordless yet the heart rejoices” means this joy cannot be fully expressed in words. Even if you wish to listen here, you cannot catch it—hence bewilderment. At this point another eulogy is composed separately—this is the subtlety of layering in literary composition. “Filling heaven and earth, wrapping the six extremes” means saturating heaven and earth. These four lines of the eulogy carry no separate meaning on their own; turning the layer once more reveals the rhythm—this is a technique of writing.

“The mandate of nature” is the principle of nature itself. “As if mixing, chasing, and growing in clusters” is like the myriad things sprouting in profusion while mingling and pursuing one another; “forest delight” is the forest-like abundance where all is joy, yet no shape appears; scattered and waving, it cannot be pulled by external force; dim and dark, it cannot be heard; change has no fixed place, abiding in the deep-hidden, inexhaustible, unseeable—neither purely birth nor death, neither glory nor substance. “Going, flowing, scattering, migrating” means having no fixed standard; “not presiding over a constant tone” means not clinging to a fixed, unchanging sound-form. When people of the world stall in obscurity at this point, they question the sage; “ji” means to examine and inquire. “Penetrating feeling” is penetrating real principle; “accord with the mandate” is exhausting the utmost of nature. The five senses on the body are complete while the celestial mechanism does not move—ears, eyes, hands, and feet are present, yet hearing, seeing, and acting seem not self-aware—only then does one obtain natural joy, hence Heavenly Music. The Surangama Sutra’s “turning the flow back to complete unity, the six functions inactive” is precisely not expanding the celestial mechanism while the five senses are complete. “Wordless yet the heart rejoices” means this delight cannot be made clear with the mouth. Even if you wish to listen, you cannot connect with it—hence confusion instead.

On the Layers of “Joy” and Entry into the Way

The “joy” spoken of here is not ordinary pleasure in food, drink, or amusement. It begins from a deeper experience: it often starts with “fear”—first there is awe in the heart and a refusal to take things lightly. Because of fear comes “reverence” (chong): the bearing becomes solemn and grave, as if held in place by something; the person appears clear and refreshed.

Next comes “weariness” (dai)—body and mind are tired and cannot rouse themselves, yet one has not fully let go, so one “withdraws” (dun): wants to hide, escape, and pull away from the old path. Further down is “confusion” (huo)—even clear discrimination becomes difficult. When confusion reaches an extreme, one seems “foolish” (yu)—not truly stupid, but clever scheming has quieted. In foolishness one can align with the Dao—the Dao can be “carried” in the person and walked with others; it is no longer only doctrine on the lips.

Commentators say that fear, weariness, and confusion resemble stages of practice in Chan Buddhism: chong is austere and bright; dai leading to dun is unable to stop yet unable to advance, caught between; huo leading to yu is the fading of conscious intent, the six senses (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind) no longer running wild. Breaking “joy” into these three layers is somewhat like using three provisional names (san jia) to encourage people—the differences are small; mainly the point is fully stated.

A Story from the Zhuangzi: Confucius in the State of Wei; Yan Yuan Questions Shi Jin

Confucius went west to the State of Wei. His disciple Yan Yuan asked Shi Jin (a man who read the times): “Given our teacher’s way of acting, how will things turn out?”

Shi Jin said: “What a pity—your teacher will probably have nowhere to turn.”

Yan Yuan asked: “Why?”

Shi Jin offered a parable:

Before the straw dog (a dog shape woven from grass, treated as a sacred object in sacrifice) is brought out, it sits in a box, covered with an embroidered cloth; the zhuzhu (the officiant who leads the rite and reads the invocation) fasts and brings it out with reverence. After the rite is over and it has been displayed, passersby step on its head and back; gatherers of firewood take it for fuel. No one puts it back in the box, covers it with cloth, and sits or lies beneath it again—if one insisted on that, even in dreams one would be unsettled; the eyes would keep feeling as if dust had gotten in (shu mi), never at peace.

Shi Jin’s point: what Confucians honor is often old teaching from the age of the former kings—already “sacrificed over,” like a used straw dog—not necessarily useful in the present world. Yet Confucius still carries these things to teach disciples and settle body and mind, so he easily meets obstruction.

He also spelled out Confucius’s recent troubles: in Song he drew trouble over a tree (“felling the tree in Song”); in Wei he was pushed aside and could not keep his footing; in Shang and Zhou he was in straits; between Chen and Cai he was besieged and for seven days had no warm food—life and death pressed together. Was this not like a dream? Like dust in the eyes, unable to see the road clearly?

Shi Jin added: in Confucius’s time there were already the old man carrying a hoe, Jie Yu the madman of Chu, and Chang Ju and Jie Ni—people who would not be bound by old ritual names and sought another way to live. What scholars guard, in the eyes of their contemporaries, is like treating an old straw dog as treasure again and again; Confucius traveled and dwelt with his disciples, sleeping and waking under these “stale words”—so Shi Jin said he would likely reach a dead end.

(The above is a continuous modern explanation of the meaning of “fear—weariness—confusion” and the “straw dog” passages in the text and commentary; terms such as zhuzhu, straw dog, and the siege between Chen and Cai are kept in their original classical contexts.)

Walking and Using the Right Means

To travel on water, a boat is best; on land, a cart is best. A boat can move on water, but if you insist on dragging it onto dry ground to use it there, you will never get anywhere in a lifetime. The point is that what Confucians mostly learn is language handed down from antiquity—hard to apply directly to the affairs of the present world.

(Note: The image of boat and water criticizes mechanically imposing ancient institutions on the current age.)

“Transmission Without a Fixed Method”

Zhou and Lu, water routes and land routes, boats and carts—these were never meant to be confused. If in Lu you still applied what only suited Zhou, it would be like hauling a boat over land: effort without result, and harm to yourself. They still fail to see that what has truly been passed down is the great Way that does not cling to one fixed practice but changes with circumstances, so it can respond to things without limit and engage the world without exhaustion. The analogy of boat, cart, river, and road means when the age changes, the method must change; what has been transmitted since antiquity is precisely wisdom that adapts in time and does not hold to a single form.

The Metaphor of the Shaduf

Have you never seen a shaduf (a counterweighted lever for drawing water)? Pull it down and it sinks; release it and it rises. It is pulled and released by someone—it is not “pulling people”—so whether it dips or lifts, no blame falls on the shaduf itself. It rises and falls as the operator moves it, with no stubborn stance of its own—that is exactly what “without fixed method, responding to things” means.

The Three Sovereigns, Five Emperors, and Ritual and Law

What is valuable in the ritual, righteousness, and laws of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors is not that they were identical in every detail, but that they could govern the realm well. It is like zha fruit (a pear-like fruit with a sour taste), pears, oranges, and pomelos: the flavors differ, yet all can be eaten. Ritual, righteousness, and law should likewise fit the times—not freeze one outward form forever.

The Ape and the Duke of Zhou’s Robes

If you catch an ape and dress it in the Duke of Zhou’s ceremonial robes, it will tear and bite at them until they are in shreds—only then is it at ease. The gap between past and present is like the gap between an ape and what the Duke of Zhou (properly) should wear: it is not that “antiquity” is wrong in itself, but that when the subject and the age do not match, forcing the fit goes against nature.

Using the rites and music of the ancients to force people of today to comply is like forcing a monkey to wear human clothes. The text does not say “human clothes” but “the Duke of Zhou’s ceremonial attire” (Gong Zhou zhi fu), to mock and ridicule the sages—hence commentaries often note “many words in the text work like this.” The Duke of Zhou established ritual institutions, including rules for caps and robes, so the phrase means his prescribed dress.

When Xishi had a pain in her heart, she walked with a furrowed brow. An ugly woman in the same neighborhood saw this and thought it looked beautiful; she went home and copied the hand-on-heart pose and the knitted brow. When the rich saw her, they shut their doors and would not come out; when the poor saw her, they fled with wives and children. They only knew that “a furrowed brow looks good,” not why a furrowed brow looked good in the first place. Alas—sir, you are probably at your wit’s end.

“Pin” (biàn) means to knit or furrow the brow. When people today imitate the ancients, it is like that ugly woman imitating Xishi’s frown. For the frown to be beautiful, there must first be a Xishi; for the Dao to be practicable, one must measure against the ancients and make sense in their terms. Yet you say “you”—addressing the Master or gentleman. This parable uses six comparisons, and each section is strong; in writing, metaphor is the hardest thing. Wang Xuanmai once said that in a whole lifetime one may fail to invent a single fresh metaphor—as soon as one thinks of one, the ancients have already used it. Every place the Zhuangzi uses comparison is striking in its own way.

The Text (from a story in the Zhuangzi)

When Confucius was fifty-one, he had still not truly awakened to the Dao, so he traveled south to Pei to visit Laozi. Laozi said: “You have come? I hear you are a learned man of the north—have you also attained the Dao?” Confucius said: “Not yet.” Laozi asked: “Where did you seek it?” Confucius said: “I sought it in ritual, music, institutions, and the categories of names and things; for five years I did not obtain it.” Laozi asked again: “Where did you seek afterward?” Confucius said: “I sought it in the transformations of Yin-Yang and the principles of the myriad things; for twelve years I still did not obtain it.”

Laozi said: “If the Dao could be presented like a gift to a ruler, everyone would present it to their lord; if it could be offered to one’s parents, everyone would offer it to father and mother; if it could be told to brothers, everyone would tell their brothers; if it could be passed to sons and grandsons, everyone would pass it to posterity—yet the Dao is not something that can be taken out and given to someone in that way.”

Commentary

Here, “categories and measures” (dushu) means ritual, music, institutions, and the system of names and things; “Yin-Yang” means the principles by which the myriad things in heaven and earth operate. When Confucius speaks of “five years” and “twelve years,” we need not fix on the numbers at first—the point is that he sought finely and broadly in every kind of learning for a long time and never awakened to the Dao.

From the fourfold parallel “If the Dao could be presented…” onward, the exposition is excellent: it is precisely that the Dao cannot be transmitted—it cannot be handed over like an object—so Laozi uses the chain “if it could… everyone would…” to bring that out by contrast.

Yet the reason the Dao “cannot” be transmitted is simply this: without a master within, the person cannot rest; without correct principle without, conduct goes wrong. What arises from within cannot be forced in from outside, so the sage does not treat the Dao as something that can be “sent out”; what is poured in from outside cannot be held when there is no master within, so the sage does not treat the Dao as private goods that can be “stored up” within.

Plain-Language Commentary

“Without a master within, one cannot retain what is gained”—this does not mean relying on seeing or understanding by oneself alone. Even if a student hears much from outside, if there is no true master within, no insight that grows from one’s own heart, then whatever one tries to hold onto cannot be held.

“There is nothing outside that can set one right”—meaning there is nothing one can use as a fixed standard to check against. What Chan calls yinzheng (“verification”) is exactly this: one must first have some attainment of one’s own, then seek confirmation from someone who has the Way; only with that verification can one walk steadily. If one has nothing of one’s own, what is there to ask another to verify? Though these two lines speak separately of “inner” and “outer,” the crux in both is zide—self-attainment: what arises from within is not bound by outer circumstances. This describes the one who teaches: though my words come from my heart, if you cannot receive them, it is like Confucius talking with Yan Hui all day—Yan Hui could take it in; if you cannot, the sage will not force it on you—hence “the sage does not go out.”

“What enters from outside has no master within”—this describes the one who receives teaching: though words come from outside and you seem to listen, there is no true standpoint or genuine insight in your heart; even if you hear, it is as if you had not truly received. This is what Chan means by “what enters through the door is not the family treasure”—what you pick up at someone else’s threshold is not your own heirloom. Since you have not truly attained, using the sage as a cover is useless; the sage hides nothing. “Do you think I have something hidden from you? I have nothing hidden from you”—that is the point.

These four lines exhaust the root of why the Way cannot be transmitted, which is why the text first says “yet it cannot be transmitted—there is no other reason.” Later Zhuangzi is cited: “Fame is a public vessel of the world; one must not take too much; benevolence and righteousness are the sage-kings’ overnight shelters—one may lodge there for a night only.” Fame and benevolence cannot be a permanent home; they align with “the Way must be attained within oneself—it cannot be sought outside.” These four lines are extremely fine-grained and repay slow, careful study.

This passage develops Zhuangzi’s critique of ming (reputation), ren and yi (benevolence and righteousness), and ordinary worldly values, and describes the kind of person Heaven punishes.

Ming is a vessel shared by all under heaven; one must not grasp and hoard it. Ren and yi are like the thatched hut (qulu) the ancient kings left behind: you may lodge there for a night, not settle for life. Once there is fame and visible tracks, blame and trouble follow easily—hence “when seen, much blame”: when you are seen and pursued, burdens multiply. The ancient zhiren (supreme person) only borrowed the Dao through ren and lodged in yi, to roam in free and easy ease; they made a living in a plain, spare “field,” and stood firm in a “garden” that took nothing from outside and did not run at a loss. Free roaming is wuwei (non-action); plain spareness means adjusting food and clothing to the age—easy to sustain, easy to be content. Bu dai (not extending credit) is like the saying “don’t break even downward”—don’t put capital out, don’t drain spirit. Cai zhen zhi you (the journey of gathering the real) means holding to what is genuinely so. “Ming must not be taken in excess” mocks Confucians who crave fame.

Those who treat wealth as right cannot bear to yield profit; those who treat prominence as right cannot bear to yield rank; those close to power refuse to yield authority to others. Once they hold position they fear losing it; once they let go they grieve—they cannot part with it. These three kinds lack clear mirror-like insight; they only peep and chase, never stopping. This is tian zhi lu min (people punished by Heaven): the greedy die for profit, the martyr dies for name, the show-off dies for power—all the same pattern. Grasping brings trembling, releasing brings grief, yet they have no mirror; they only spy and cling, lost without return. No clear sight within, unable to look back on their own confusion—that is someone whose spirit Heaven has taken. Tian zhi lu min means Heaven uses such bitter straits to punish them.

The eight—yuan, en, qu, yu, jian, jiao, sheng, sha (resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, teaching, giving life, taking life)—are the “implements” for straightening and correcting people: the handles and means of authority. Only one who can follow the great transformation without stubborn blockage may wield them; hence “the correct is correctness”—using correctness to correct others. If inwardly one does not deem it fitting, the Tianmen (Gate of Heaven—the opening to natural understanding) will not open for them.

Between lord and minister, one uses remonstrance; between teacher and friend, one uses instruction. Wherever such human relations exist in the world, there are the functions of these eight kinds of roles and the proper uses of things. Use each only where it belongs—that is what “correct” means. Only someone who is wuwei in the sense of having no contrived mind (wuxin) can truly use things correctly. Follow the great transformation and accord with zaohua (creation and transformation): neither obstruct nor drown in it. When I can accord with zaohua without being dragged under, what is upright on my side can then help set outer things right. If I am not yet wuxin but treat “the natural principle” as something wrong, the “Heaven” within my breast is already blocked—hence it is said the Celestial Gate does not open. In the Classic of Poetry, “Heaven takes the people as its window” (tian zhi you min) means the same as “Celestial Gate”: Heaven uses the people as its opening; when it opens, there is passage; when it is blocked, there is closure.

Confucius went to see La Dan (Laozi) and spoke at length about ren (benevolence) and yi (righteousness). La Dan said: When chaff and husks are flung about, they dazzle the eyes, and the four quarters of heaven and earth seem out of joint; when gnats and mosquitoes bite the skin, one cannot sleep peacefully all night. That whole bundle of ren and yi, packed to overflowing, upsets and disorders my heart—there is no greater disorder than this. If you would keep the people of the world from losing their simplicity (pu, their original unadorned state), you yourself should “release with the wind and move, gather virtue and stand”—move with the breath of transformation (zaohua), hold to De (virtue/power) and stand on your own. Why act like someone who shoulders a raised drum and goes looking for a child who has already run off—self-important and doing what is needless?

“Dazzling the eyes” and “biting the skin” are images for narrow-mindedness and going against the heart. “Xi” means “evening”; the Zuozhuan has “guarding Wei for one evening.” “Xiran” describes a fierce, poisonous look—here, self-torment. “Fen wu xin” means going against my heart. “Luan mo da yan” means disordering one’s own nature.

Fang feng (releasing with the wind): acting in accord with transformation, hence “move with the wind.” Zong: to hold fast. Zong de er li: to hold to De and stand firm. If the world did not lose its original simplicity, everyone would move with transformation and stand holding De—why would you still need to go teach them to accord with transformation?

Jian gu: the drum set up on a pole. “Wang Jian set the road drum at the bedroom gate” refers to Wang Jian placing the summoning drum at the inner gate. Calling all under heaven to be taught is like carrying a great drum to find children who have already fled—futile and showy. Jieran: the look of someone who sets himself above others.

A white swan need not wash every day to stay white; a black crow need not dye every day to stay black—the natural black and white are not worth arguing over; the glare of fame and honor is not enough to count as breadth.

When the spring dries up, fish crowd on dry land, wetting one another with spit and foam—far worse than each swimming in the great rivers and lakes and forgetting one another there.

Brief notes on names and phrases: La Dan is Laozi; jian gu and lu gu are ancient summoning drums; fang feng er dong, zong de er li and xiang wang yu jianghu (forgetting one another in the rivers and lakes) come from related chapters of the Zhuangzi. Here the point, in La Dan’s voice, is to criticize Confucius’s “teaching of ren and yi” as too deliberate—it disorders nature instead of restoring it.

On Black and White, Right and Wrong

Swans are white by nature and crows black by nature—that is how things are; there is no need to dye them black again with qian (a blackening agent). These two images fit best: qian is what is used to blacken. What is meant by “the simplicity of black and white” is that black and white each have their own natural quality; there is no question of beauty or ugliness, and originally there is nothing to argue about. Once one views things through the lens of fame and blame and displays them to the world, the idea of right and wrong arises—where there is praise there is slander, and the heart can no longer be expansive. Black and white, right and wrong: the metaphor works in just this way.

Rivers and Lakes, and Mutual Forgetting

When fish are taken from the water, they moisten one another with spittle—how long can that last? But if they return to the great rivers and lakes, they forget one another while dwelling in the water. In an age of utmost Dao, each person follows nature; there is no mutual right and wrong, and those above and below forget one another and no longer keep score.

Confucius Meets Laozi

After Confucius had seen Laozi, he did not speak for three days. His disciples asked: “Master, when you saw Lao Dan, what remonstrance or advice did you intend to offer him?” Confucius said: “Until today I have truly seen a dragon—gathered it becomes one body; scattered it shows clear patterns; it rides the cloud-vapor and nourishes yin and yang. My mouth hangs open and I cannot close it—how could I still offer remonstrance or advice to Lao Dan?” (The account repeats in similar terms: seeing the dragon, gathering and scattering, riding the clouds and nourishing yin and yang, the mouth open unable to close—xie meaning to shut—so that nothing further could be said by way of remonstrance to Lao Dan.)

Here gui means to admonish or remonstrate; “gathered into one body” means a seamless whole, and “scattered into patterns” means distinct and patterned brilliance. The dragon in heaven and earth is both visible and invisible, hence the image of gathering and scattering. “Riding the cloud-vapor” refers to being above creation and transformation; “nourishing yin and yang” means finding joy in the way of heaven and earth.

Zigong said: “Then is there truly someone who in repose lies still as a corpse, yet when he appears rises like a divine dragon (shenlong) soaring; who in silence is deep as a still pool, yet when he moves thunders like rolling sky—whose rhythm of stillness and activity seems to turn with heaven and earth? May I go and meet such a person?” So he borrowed Confucius’s name and paid a visit to La Dan (Laozi).

Laozi was about to take a high seat in the hall to receive him. His tone was indifferent and his voice very soft. He said: “I am already old. Why do you still come bearing words to admonish me?”

Zigong said: “The Three Kings and Five Emperors governed the realm in ways that differed, yet they left the same fine reputation in later ages. You alone say they were not sages—why?”

Laozi said: “Young man, step forward. Tell me where they differ.”

Zigong answered: “Yao passed the throne to Shun, Shun to Yu. Yu ruled the realm through forced labor; Tang relied on military force. King Wen of Zhou submitted to King Zhou and did not dare resist; King Wu turned against him, refused further submission, and attacked—so I say they were not the same.”

Laozi said: “Young man, come closer still; I will tell you. The Three Emperors and Five Sovereigns governed the realm by constantly reshaping the hearts of the people.”

When the Yellow Emperor ruled, he made people’s hearts return to unity: each person recognized only their own parents; when parents died they did not weep, and no one thought that wrong.

When Yao ruled, he made people’s hearts partial and private: people would kill to avenge their parents, and still no one thought that wrong.

When Shun ruled, he made people’s hearts contend with one another. (The text here repeats and is corrupt; the general sense is that after Shun the customs of the age leaned further toward rivalry.)

When Yu ruled, he made people’s hearts change again: everyone harbored private aims and took warfare for granted; thieves were killed when they should be, and that was no longer treated as a great crime. Laws and prohibitions had already grown extremely detailed, yet people still kept their own fields, loved their own kin, and cared for their own children—they merely shared the same realm under heaven. That is what is meant by “and that was all under heaven” (er tianxia er).

(Commentary:) Zigong came as a formal disciple of Confucius, with a written request to visit. Laozi’s “occupying the hall” (ju tang) means seating himself on high in the hall, with an air of looking down on his visitor; “responding faintly” (ying wei) means answering in a very low voice.

(Further on the Yellow Emperor passage:) The Yellow Emperor’s rule accorded with nature. The following section continues the same line of thought; a few extra sentences appear here and read rather oddly. Mourning dress was graded by closeness of kin, hence “for their kin they killed those who should be killed”—meaning that in antiquity there was originally no system of mourning garments; ritual was invented later. Some ancients said a child was born at fourteen months and spoke at two years; here “born in ten months and speaking at five” means early birth and early speech. “Not waiting until infancy before asking ‘who’”: before the child could even be called an infant, it already had to ask “who is this?”—“beginning” (shi) means too soon; “who” (shui) means “who is this, who are you?” After Yu, “making the people’s hearts change” means that relative to high antiquity human hearts had shifted; “people had hearts” means each person had private aims; “warfare had its propriety” (bing you shun) means treating battle as something normal and right. Killing robbers when they deserved death was not counted a crime because legal prohibitions had already become exhaustive. Then each person tilled his own field, each honored his own kin, each cared for his own children—they only dwelt together in one realm under heaven, hence “and that was all under heaven.” “At first their doing had order” (qi shi zuo you lun) means that when this way began, human relations still had some pattern; now the abuse has gone so far as to disorder those relations, even taking a woman as wife in forbidden ways—what more is there to say? The situation had become intolerable. Passages in the Book of Rites such as “the Great Way was for the public” (da dao wei gong) connect with this theme, though Zhuangzi states it in extreme terms.

I say to you: when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the realm, they called it “good order,” yet nothing was more disorderly than that. The “cleverness” of the Three Sovereigns violated the brightness of sun and moon above, cut apart the essence of mountains and rivers below, and in between disrupted the course of the four seasons. Their scheming was more poisonous than a hornet or scorpion’s sting and sharper than the petty greed of foxes and the like—yet living beings could not rest in their natural allotted lives, while those rulers still styled themselves sages. Is that not shameless? When Zigong heard this, he grew restless and could not stand steady.

Commentary on the wording: The “wisdom” of the Three Sovereigns likewise goes against the principle of heaven-and-earth’s spontaneous creation. Earlier passages often honor the Three Sovereigns while slighting the Five Emperors; here both are criticized together. Chai means hornets and scorpions, whose tails carry venom; xian means few or slight; gui means to seek or grasp, as in the small desires of little beasts—no more than a fox’s “gui”—a figure for how such cleverness is no more than insect or beast cunning. Ji is to mock or satirize; wu is to despise; beiyi is to belittle or suppress; cucuran describes an uneasy, fidgeting manner.

Confucius said to Laozi (Lao Dan): I have studied the Six Classics—the Odes, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn—and thought I had studied them long. Who would have guessed what lies behind them? I took this learning to persuade seventy-two rulers, expounding the way of the ancient kings and making clear the achievements of the Duke of Zhou and Duke of Shao, yet not one would accept it. Are people truly hard to persuade, or is the Dao (the Way) itself hard to make manifest?

Laozi said: You were lucky—you did not meet a “ordering-the-age” kind of ruler. The Six Classics are the chenji (old footprints, written records) left by the ancient kings; they are not the Dao itself. What you speak of now is still traces. A trace is the mark left where a foot has passed; is a trace the foot itself?

Commentary on the wording: The Book of Rites also mentions Laozi, addressed as “Sage”; Confucius once wished to ask him about ritual and bowed to him as teacher. Shu zhi qi gu means who knows the story behind this. Gou means to take up or adopt. Xing bu yu (“fortunate not to meet”): had you met one of those ancient “sages,” they would have laughed at you all the more. Only with a foot can there be a trace; to grasp only the trace and not the foot is like the metaphor of zaopo (dregs and lees—you keep the sediment and lose the essence).

White egrets pair off face to face; their eyes need not turn—when the wind rises they naturally mate and conceive. Small insects too: the male chirps on the windward side and the female answers on the leeward, likewise transforming through the wind until male and female find each other—this is fenghua, “transformation by wind.” So it is clear that the inborn nature of the ten thousand things cannot be altered, their allotted span cannot be changed, the seasons cannot be held back, and the Dao (the Way) cannot be blocked. When a person accords with the Dao, there is no fixed “self,” yet one does not lose the Dao; when there is no clinging “self,” the Dao can truly be upheld.

Confucius (who had once studied under Laozi) came to visit again within three months and said, “Qiu has understood.” Crows brood their young, fish keep each other alive with mouth-to-mouth moisture, and even slender-waisted katydids can breed and multiply; cases as odd as “the younger brother crying while the elder brother does” have been around for a long time. Confucius said: if Qiu cannot transform along with the transformation of the ten thousand things, and if people cannot transform along with transformation, how can they go on to transform and guide others? Laozi said, “Good—Qiu has attained the Dao.”

This passage discusses how Zhuangzi Ke Yi uses “transformation birth” (hua sheng) as a metaphor for the Way of nature—a case the oral commentary (kouyi) praises as especially ingenious among “borrowed-text” arguments (using stories to teach principles).

First, the silver pheasant (or a related water bird such as the white yi): male and female do not mate; they need only face each other with their eyes to transform and produce offspring. The kouyi holds that all things under heaven can be said to arise from “wind-qi” (fengqi)—the character feng (wind) contains chong (insect/creature), already implying life and living beings, which is why the ancients spoke of fenghua (wind transformation): begetting through wind and through qi. It also cites “calling on the upwind, responding on the downwind”—one calls above, one answers below—like the Yellow Emperor walking with the direction of the wind, in the same spirit as the “wind” here; yet this “wind” is not quite the same as the feng in fenghua.

“Self-forming yin and yang” means: among the myriad things, this kind can pair and complete transformation on its own, without mating like other creatures—hence they can “transform by mutual gaze.” The rice stem borer and the guoluo (potter wasp) do not follow this “self yin-yang” path; they rely on “spell transformation” (zhouhua)—using incantation and habit to turn another species’ larva into their own offspring. Talk of ming (fate), xing (nature), shi (season/timing), and Dao all expound natural principle and must not be violated.

The text then adduces familiar Zhuangzi examples: magpies and crows mate and nurture (wuque ru); fish in a drying pool keep each other alive and reproduce by sharing saliva (xiang ru yi mo); the potter wasp’s huahua is transformation layered upon transformation. There is also “having a younger brother while the elder cries”: brothers share one mother; the younger can only be born after weaning, so the elder no longer nurses milk—then there is a younger brother, hence “the elder cries.” The kouyi calls this line especially striking; Buddhist scriptures often use similar qi (startling analogies), and to grasp literary finesse one must know such examples.

“Not joining those who transform with the maker of things” refers to people who know only human affairs, not heaven’s Way, and cannot unite with creation (zaohua). What follows—“knowing people yet not knowing heaven”—states the theme: use the principle of creation’s endless begetting to illustrate the natural Way. What Confucians mostly study is youwei zhi wei (action that is deliberate doing), not wuwei zhi wei (action that is non-action); true wuwei zhi wei shares the work of creation. Buddhist teaching on womb birth, egg birth, transformation birth, and moisture birth (taisheng, luansheng, huasheng, shisheng) aims similarly at showing this body arises from “nothing” yet is one with the myriad things, to break worldly selfishness and self-attachment—but that angle differs from Zhuangzi here, which breaks the habit of “knowing heaven without knowing people” or knowing people without knowing heaven.

Some people deliberately cultivate character, withdraw from the world, and make a show of being unconventional; they talk loftily and rail against society—nothing but a display of purity. That is the path favored by those who hide deep in mountain valleys, refuse to go along with the vulgar world, and the sort who wither themselves and plunge into the depths.

Some speak only of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trust, respect, humility, and yielding, and take self-cultivation as their end—that is what gentlemen in an age of great peace favor, along with those who make a living from teaching and students who travel to learn.

Some speak only of achieving great merit and a great name, of regulating ruler and minister through ritual and setting right superior and subordinate, and take ordering the state as their end—that is what court gentlemen favor, along with those who honor the ruler, strengthen the realm, and compete for merit and annexation.

Some lodge in wild marshes and open wastes, fish and live at leisure, and take non-action (wuwei) as satisfaction—that is what those who lodge their hearts in rivers and seas, withdraw from the world, and seek ease favor.

Some use blowing breath to warm the body, exhaling and inhaling, and bear-hanging and bird-stretching postures to nurture longevity—that is what practitioners of daoyin who care for the body favor, and those who, like Peng Zu, chase long life.

As for not deliberately seeking loftiness yet naturally appearing lofty; not talking of benevolence and righteousness yet being cultivated in oneself; not chasing fame and merit yet having the realm well ordered; not leaving rivers and seas yet mind and will at ease; not doing daoyin yet living long—remembering nothing yet lacking nothing, possessing nothing at every moment; tranquil without limit, with every kind of excellence arriving of itself—that is the great Dao of Heaven and Earth and the De (virtue/power) of the sage.

Carving means chiseling and forcing effort; gong means wearing oneself out in mind and will. Taking conduct and display as the standard means valuing action and show. Being strident means standing out and being eccentric. Resentment and slander mean resenting the world and speaking ill of it. Railing at the age and hating what is crooked means hating the times and detesting perversity. Judging the world means debating right and wrong in worldly affairs. Withered, lonely, and still describes austerity and solitude. Plunging into the abyss means throwing oneself into water. Throwing oneself into the deep and seeking stillness means entering the abyss to find quiet. Fearing the grove is not secluded enough, fearing the mountain is not deep enough—worrying that withdrawal from dust is insufficient and that entering the hills is not far enough—are both signs of zeal for refinement and purity. Teaching others and being a teacher in the world means making instruction one’s livelihood and standing as a teacher among people. Achieving merit in more than one way—Zhuangzi at that time saw several types: withdrawal from the world, leisure (living apart in quiet self-restraint), and the like. Fleeing the world and going far means shunning strife—a path different from those who are strident and judge the world.

Bear-hanging and bird-stretching—like the bear craning its neck and the bird extending its legs—are the kind of daoyin (guiding and pulling) later seen in Hua Tuo’s Five Animal Frolics. Nothing forgotten, nothing lacking is wuwei (non-action) and nothing left undone. Without limit means no fixed stopping point. All excellences follow means every good quality is complete. The sage obtains the Way of heaven and earth in its naturalness, and so can be like this.

Therefore it is said: quiet ease, stillness, emptiness, and wuwei (non-action) are the level ground that heaven and earth originally have, and also the inherent texture of De (Virtue/Power).

Therefore it is said: when the sage is at ease and unhurried, he becomes plain; plain, he becomes quiet and light; plain and quietly light, cares cannot enter and perverse qi cannot invade, so De is whole and Shen (spirit) is not depleted.

This chapter is one continuous flow from start to finish; from here on come many “therefore it is said” passages; the end closes with a metaphor and finishes with yeyu (“rustic talk”—Zhuangzi’s modest label for humble speech)—one must read closely his brushwork and waves.

The texture of De: being originally thus is called substance. Plainness and quiet ease mean wuwei; Shen not depleted means De whole—with these three words, the spirit appears all the fuller.

Therefore it is said: While the sage lives, he moves like Heaven in natural course; when he dies, he merges into transformation like the myriad things. In stillness he shares the virtue of yin; in action he flows with yang. He does not rush ahead to seek good fortune or take the lead in inviting misfortune. Only when the outer world stirs him does he respond; only when circumstances press upon him does he act; only when he truly cannot decline does he rise. Stripping away craftiness and fixed habits, he follows Heaven’s principle, and thus has no calamities from Heaven, no entanglement from external things, no strife over human affairs, and no reproach from ghosts and spirits.

Heaven’s motion (tianxing) means acting in accord with Heaven’s principle and the natural Way. Transformation of things (wuhua) means treating oneself like a cicada’s cast shell—life and death are only changes of form. Same current (tongbo) means flowing with yang and moving as the situation requires. Responding only after being stirred, with no prior scheme in the heart, he can step outside the calculus of fortune and misfortune. Moving only when pressed and rising only when there is no alternative is responding to things without prior intent—not acting with preconceived designs. Zhi (knowing) here means private cleverness and a calculating mind; gu (fixed “that’s how it is”) means ingrained views and old routines. Only by dropping private cleverness and not clinging to traces of achievement can one follow what is natural.

His life is like floating; his death is like rest—alive as if drifting on water, dead as if at ease; he does not think ahead or plan in advance. He has light but does not show it off; he is trustworthy but does not insist others be a certain way. In sleep he has no dreams; on waking, no worry. His Shen (spirit) stays pure and whole, and hun and po are not worn out by strain (ba here means the same as exhaustion). With a mind empty and unattached, quiet and plain, he matches Heavenly De (tiande)—the virtue Heaven bestows.

(The following passage repeats and expands: Heaven’s motion is moving by Heaven’s principle; transformation of things is seeing the body as a cast shell; same current is flowing together and following the trend. Responding to what stirs him, with no hidden agenda, he goes beyond fortune and misfortune. Sleep without dreams and waking without care show that Shen is preserved and therefore pure; hun is still and therefore not worn out (ba and pi mean the same). The whole point is that the sage, guided by Heaven’s motion, transformation of things, responding after being stirred, and removing knowing and fixed habits, reaches a state of tranquil Shen and hun, in harmony with Heavenly De.)

The scripture says: Sorrow and joy are skewings of De; delight and anger are excesses of the Dao; likes and dislikes are losses of De.

Therefore: When the heart is not entangled by sorrow and joy, that is the highest reach of De; being single-minded and unchanging is the highest reach of stillness; having no opposition or friction within is the highest reach of emptiness; not being tangled or bound up with outer things is the highest reach of plainness; having no defiance or resistance is the highest reach of purity (the sublime essence).

Once sorrow and joy, delight and anger, or likes and dislikes arise in the heart, one is no longer in a natural state. When sorrow and joy do not hang on the heart, that counts as supreme De; single-mindedness without change is holding to oneness, not being pulled away by other things; being without friction (wu) is following what is natural. (Lines in the text such as “when anger carries likes and dislikes, it is not natural,” and the like, mean the same as “likes and dislikes are a loss of De” above—they stress that as soon as emotions and preferences appear, one has left the natural.)

Wu means going against, clashing, or talking back. Not mingling with things means, first, not getting mixed up with outer things and not being led by them; one responds when needed. Though one meets things, one is not burdened by them—you engage affairs but are not dragged down or tied by them. What follows on stillness, emptiness, plainness, and purity describes the same natural De, only from different angles; wu and ni (going against) are close in sense, but wu is the stronger term and ni somewhat lighter, so the text uses two phrases. Further on, pure without blemish (cui er wu ci) means utterly pure, without fault or dross.

The commentary also draws on Zhuangzi’s meaning: If the body toils without rest it wears out; if spirit is exercised without stopping it grows exhausted; exhaustion leads to depletion. Water’s nature is: unmixed it is clear, unstirred it is level; if blocked and not flowing, it cannot stay clear either—this is like how Heaven’s De shows itself. Hence: pure and unmixed, still and one without change, plain and without forced action, and in movement acting by Heaven’s Dao—this is the method of nourishing spirit (yangshen).

When the body is overworked it becomes depleted, and when essence and spirit are overused, fatigue sets in—plain talk from the longevity tradition, and the same point as the earlier line that one must not disturb one’s Jing (essence) if one is to preserve life. Unrelenting strain inevitably leads to exhaustion; hence it is said that overwork drains one dry. Take water as a likeness: the words are homely, yet the claim that if it is stagnant and does not flow, it cannot become clear is not teaching people to become dead wood and cold ash, utterly motionless.

When nothing is mixed in, it becomes clear; when nothing is stirred, it becomes level—that is one face of Wuwei (non-action). Yet if water does not flow, it cannot turn clear; here within Wuwei there is still purposeful action (youwei). Chan master Xiangyan said: call it idle sitting and you still miss the mark—if one merely stagnates and does not flow, one becomes dead wood and cold ash, what the Chan school calls sitting in that ghostly hole, the sort of skewed practice known as “silent illumination.” Heaven’s motion completes one circuit in a day—can that be Wuwei without the youwei inside it? So this is called the image of Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power).

Nurturing Shen (spirit) is nurturing life; as soon as one says Shen, the teaching feels intimate—this is characteristically the Daoist path. Buddhists often hesitate to speak of Shen in this way; yet lines such as “since beginningless time the root of birth and death” and “fools call it the original body” amount to a repudiation of this way of speaking about Shen.

“One who owns swords of Gan and Yue keeps them cased and stored, daring not to use them lightly—that is how one treasures what is most precious.” Shen (spirit) should be treated even more so; the earlier analogy about essence and spirit overused brings fatigue is exactly this point.

“Spirit extends in the four directions and flows together without obstruction, reaching everywhere: above it meets Heaven, below it coils through Earth, transforming and nurturing the myriad things, not fixed into any one form—its name is ‘same as the Emperor’” ( tong di — one with the way of Heaven)—spirit runs everywhere without block, above to Heaven, below through Earth, transforming and nurturing all things, not capturable as a single image; that is what tong di means.

“The way of pure simplicity: only guard Shen; guard it and do not lose it, become one with Shen; when that unity’s Jing (essence) penetrates, one aligns with Tianlun (Heaven’s natural order).” On the path of pure simplicity, the whole task is to guard Shen: hold it without dispersing it, unite with it; when the Jing of that unity goes through, one harmonizes with Tianlun.

The passage about Gan-Yue swords is from Zhuangzi-style wording; the long quotes on spirit extending everywhere and on pure simplicity guarding Shen are classical Daoist phrasing tied to nurturing life and internal cultivation.

(On “Spirit” and the Learning of Pure Simplicity)

If one treasures one’s sword, one puts it away in its scabbard for safekeeping; if even a sword is treated so, how much more so “spirit” (shen)? The earlier saying “when essence is used, it grows weary” uses exactly this as a simile. The working of spirit reaches in all directions without obstruction, sinks downward and rises upward—this is what is meant. Transforming and nurturing the myriad things also depends on this “spirit”; yet it has no trace that can be sought, hence “it cannot be made into an image.” “Same as the Emperor” means its function is the same as the Way of Heaven.

Those who cultivate “pure simplicity” at first only guard spirit and single-mindedly sustain it, holding it without letting it scatter; through long application, in time they merge with spirit as one. This is the stage of “great transformation.” To guard without yet being transformed still divides one from the Dao; once transformed into unity, one is one with the Dao. “Heavenly principle” (tianlun) is the principle of Heaven; from unity one advances to thorough mastery and aligns with Heaven—this sacred, unfathomable realm is called “spirit.” This chapter largely agrees with this book’s commentary (kouyi), except that some people, pulled by stirring and change, drift into heterodox paths.

(Original Text from Zhuangzi)

A folk saying goes: ordinary people value profit, the incorruptible value reputation, the worthy esteem aspiration, and the sage holds “essence/spirit” (jing) precious. Thus “simplicity” (su) means not mixed with anything else; “purity” (chun) means not injuring or dissipating spirit. One who can embody the Way of pure simplicity is called the “True Person” (Zhenren).

(Commentary, kouyi)

“Wild saying” (yeyu) is speech from the fields, like village proverbs. The “jing” in “the sage holds jing precious” is spirit (shen). The three lines on profit, name, and aspiration below distinguish the types of people mentioned earlier; from there “simplicity” is introduced. “Simplicity” in its root sense is an original color, hence “nothing mixed in”; “purity” is wholeness without loss, hence “not dissipating spirit.” Pure simplicity is the pure “essence” (jing) spoken of in the Qian hexagram. The True Person is the Utmost Person (Zhiren). Earlier “the virtue of the sage” is discussed, and here “True Person” appears—like “the utmost person has no self, the spirit person has no name” in the inner chapters: different names for the sage, not a rank above the sage for True Person or Utmost Person.

(Distinction Between the Chapters “Purposive Will” and “Repairing Nature”)

Purposive Will (Keyi) discusses nurturing spirit, with talk of “Heaven’s conduct” and “transformation of things”; Repairing Nature (Shan xing) discusses preserving the body, with “timely fate” and “mistaken conduct.” Some split nurturing spirit and preserving the body into two chapters; one should carefully compare how the two differ in learning and practice, or it is hard to grasp Zhuangzi’s meaning handed down through a thousand years.

Outer Chapter: Repairing Nature, Sixteen

In worldly learning one patches and adjusts innate nature, hoping thereby to restore humanity’s original state; in worldly thoughts one slides and chases desire, hoping through speculation to see more clearly—such a person is called a deluded, self-barricading commoner.

Sho xing means to adjust and settle one’s true nature. Here the phrase is used to borrow su xue (the fashionable learning of the day) in order to satirize Confucian and Mohist talk about “xing” (nature): nature ought to mean the principle of the natural and the character of what is naturally so.

Hua means to sink or fall into; mi likewise means to be submerged. When the mind hua in yu (desire) and mi in the su (vulgar world), it is dragged by profit and desire and stuck in the everyday. Ming refers to the principle of empty clarity. To use su xue to “govern” xing and try to restore nature’s original state, yet spin in profit and desire while hoping to reach empty clarity—that is extreme folly and ignorance. Those bi (obscured) by this are the people called by that name. An opening like this is the hardest kind: only after three sentences pitched this way can the rest hold. The ancients who cultivated the Dao wrote this way; Su Dongpo said that reading the Zhuangzi taught him how to write, and only after putting it into practice did he truly understand.

Those in antiquity who cultivated the Dao used tian (quiet simplicity) to nourish zhi (wisdom): at the beginning of life there was originally nothing, so one need not treat zhi as something to show off—this is “using zhi to nourish tian.” Zhi and tian nourish each other, and he li (harmonious principle) arises from true nature. “De is harmony, Dao is pattern”: De is inclusiveness, called ren (humaneness); Dao is order, called yi (rightness); when yi is clear, things relate as kin, called zhong (integrity); when the inner mind is pure and returns to true feeling, that is le (joy); when trust is solid and bearing and conduct fit ritual adornment, that is li (ritual).

If li and le are pushed one-sidedly, the world falls into disorder. Those who think themselves upright are in fact bi (blinded); those who think themselves virtuous find de not full (mao—bearing the name of de without the substance), and when there is mao, the ten thousand things necessarily lose their true nature.

Plain-language interpretation

Tranquility and stillness are samadhi (ding); only when you are settled can wisdom (hui) arise—hence the saying that one nourishes understanding (zhi, here: insight into the Dao) through tranquility (tian). When people are first born they are free of those distracting thoughts; how can one reach this state of zhi? Only after that can stillness (jing) and ding appear—hence nourishing tranquility through zhi. The six words “tian nourishes zhi, zhi nourishes tian” are especially subtle. Buddhism speaks of precepts giving rise to samadhi and samadhi to wisdom, but has not yet said that wisdom can also give rise to samadhi; passages like this repay close reading.

Dao-de (virtue in the Way) is harmony and accord—hence “de harmonizes (de he).” Li (principle/pattern) is the Dao; “nothing is rejected (wu bu rong)” means loving nothing in exclusion; “nothing is without li (wu bu li)” means each thing gets what suits it.

When yi (rightness/propriety) is clear in the heart, one can be at home with things—this is what “exhausting oneself (jin ji)” calls zhong (wholeheartedness/fidelity). Qing (feeling/expression) is what shows outwardly: the sincere purity at the center appears outside; from that expression one turns back to the center—that is le (joy), and then he (harmony) is born. Once born it cannot be stopped—hence “when the center is pure and solid and returns to qing, that is le.”

Xin (trust/faith) is trusting; xin xing means something like conduct in peace. In outward bearing and action there is a natural rhythm and form—that is when every movement and turn in company hits the mark of ritual—hence “xin and conduct, bearing and body, accord with patterned ritual (wen li).”

De gathers in oneself without self-display, and things right themselves—hence “they are upright while one hides one’s own de”—“they are upright” means things are upright. “Not imposing (bu mao)” means: one is not forcing de onto others; if de is not self-concealed and one tries to force it on people, spontaneity is lost—hence “imposition and things necessarily lose their nature (xing).”

To subdue or serve all under heaven with goodness is not as good as nourishing all under heaven with goodness—that is the point. (The level-tone reading bian for a form mistakenly written with the “step” radical is a copyist’s error.)

Main Meaning of the Scripture

In antiquity, people lived in a state of primordial obscurity—chaotic, veiled, each keeping themselves hidden and unassuming—and shared with the whole age a mind of tranquil indifference, neither demanding much of others nor of themselves. Yin and Yang were harmoniously still; the mountain and river spirits were not disturbed; the four seasons each kept their proper measure; nothing among the myriad things was harmed; and living beings did not die before their time. Even when people had cleverness and skill, they had no need to put them to use. This is what is called “perfect unity” (zhiyi)—complete oneness with the Dao. At that time no one acted with deliberate purpose; everything was simply as it naturally was.

Commentary

“Within primordial obscurity” means remaining veiled and unrevealed, not showing off or asserting oneself. “Tranquil and indifferent” means above and below did not make harsh demands on one another but each stayed in its place. Everyone in the world preserved wholeness and purity and lacked nothing with respect to the Dao, hence the name “perfect unity.” “No one did anything [deliberately]” means there was nowhere that force or contrived action was needed. “The spirits were not disturbed” means the mountain and river spirits too were at peace. “The four seasons kept their proper nodes” means Heaven and Earth each held to its measure, so the four seasons could fully unfold.

Continuation of the Scripture

When De (virtue and power) declined further, and Suiren and Fuxi began to govern the world, people could only follow along and could no longer maintain the virtue of “perfect unity.” De declined again; when Shennong and the Yellow Emperor governed the world, they could only bring stability and could no longer maintain “ultimate De.” De declined once more; when Tang of Yao and Yu of Shun governed the world, they raised the wind of teaching and transformation. Plain sincerity was lost and primal simplicity fell apart. People left the Great Dao and took themselves to be “good”; they left their root in De and valued only “conduct.” After that they abandoned their innate nature and followed the inclinations of the heart-and-mind; heart-and-mind and clever knowing were no longer enough to settle the world, so they added ornamentation on top and piled on broad learning besides—ornament extinguished primal simplicity, and broad learning drowned the original mind. Then the common people began to be confused and lost, and could no longer return to their natural disposition or recover their original condition.

Commentary

This passage contrasts with the earlier “perfect unity”: Suiren and Fuxi could still “follow”; Shennong and the Yellow Emperor could still “settle”; but by the time of Tang and Yu, teaching and transformation flourished so greatly that “culture” and “erudition” overpowered “substance” and “nature,” and people drifted ever farther from the primal state.

This passage explains that once people begin to settle the realm with principles, names and roles, and instruction, they move step by step away from the Dao.

“Three,” Decline, and the Rise of Artifice

In the lower stages of decline, writing and ornament multiply, and people feel that “following reason is enough.” But as soon as there is “what reason to follow,” the originally undivided wholeness is already split apart. Hence compliant yet not one: each side takes its own reason as valid and thinks there is principle to rely on—and once there is “I know, I understand,” one is already far from the Dao. Hence at ease yet not one: the heart feels settled, yet it is not truly aligned with the Dao.

If one sets the mind on acting for the realm and promoting instruction on a grand scale, that is no longer Wuwei (non-action) and natural spontaneity. Hence the pure grows scattered, the uncarved block dissolves—original fullness and simplicity are stirred apart. Once there are names for “goodness,” one is far from the Dao; once De (Virtue/Power) must be displayed for others to see, De is no longer plain and natural. Hence leaving the Dao through “goodness,” making De treacherous through visible conduct—using the label of “good” to depart from the Dao, using showy deeds to make De uneven and unsafe. Casting off innate nature and following the calculating heart, one departs from the Dao; when conduct is on display, De is no longer easy and natural—still leaving the Dao through “goodness” and making De treacherous through action: abandoning nature and obeying the mind.

Heart to Heart, Knowing to Knowing

“When I have a mind, the other responds with a mind,” so it is heart answering heart, knowing measuring knowing, mutual scrutiny. The “heart” here is always the human heart—the scheming, discriminating mind—not the original heart that is one with the Dao.

Culture, Erudition, Ritual and Music

“Culture” (wen) is literary splendor; “erudition” (bo) is the proliferation of names and things; ritual, music, and every affair are fully provided. Mere knowing is not enough, so ritual and music are piled on top—hence knowing is insufficient to fix the realm, and one adds culture and increases erudition—when erudition grows, much accumulates but the essential is lost, and the mind is spent on these things like sinking in water and unable to pull free.

World and Dao Mutually Lost

Seen in this light: the age loses the Dao, and the Dao loses the age—world and Dao each undo the other. How can a person of the Dao rise in such a world? How can the world rise by means of the Dao? The Dao cannot be revived by this “world,” nor can the world be revived by the Dao in this way.

Sagely De Does Not Dwell in the Mountains

Even if a sage does not live deep in the hills, their De is submerged (yan)—hidden, not displayed—submerged, so it is not deliberate withdrawal from the world.

The gist of the whole passage: smoothing reason, resting in reason, civilizing the world, naming “good,” showing De, heaping up ritual, music, and culture—all abandon nature and follow the mind; world and Dao are lost together; the true sage’s De is naturally submerged, not flight from the world.

Plain-Language Explanation

Dao and the mundane world wear each other down and block each other out; what each side says cannot reach the other. If they cannot reach each other, how can those who have Dao go along with or awaken the sights and hears of the mundane? How can ordinary people understand Dao from this? If the whole world does not know Dao, even when a sage stands before them, people will not recognize him. This is not because the sage deliberately hides—it is because people simply cannot recognize him. There is no need to seek concealment on purpose; concealment comes naturally. So when we speak of “being hidden,” it does not mean the sage sets out to hide himself—he is plainly present, yet people do not know him; that is what “hidden” means. These five characters (such as “not hiding oneself”) also read with a striking, angular tone in the prose.

What ancients called a “hidden person” (yinshi) did not mean hiding the body so no one sees you, holding words back so one does not speak, or locking wisdom away so one does not share it. Rather, the times and one’s allotted role were greatly out of joint: when the time and fate were right, one could fully carry Dao through the world, yet act contrary to visible form and leave no trace; when the time and fate were wrong and the world was deeply exhausted, one took deep root, held firm, kept still and waited—that is the way to preserve life and keep the person intact.

The passage above moves from “hidden” to “hidden person”: a hidden person is not someone who deliberately crouches in obscurity, seals the mouth, or hoards knowledge—it is that the time is not fit for action.

In antiquity, those who cultivated themselves did not use eloquence to polish cleverness, did not use cleverness to drive everyone under heaven into a corner, and did not use cleverness to squeeze De to the limit. Peacefully occupying the place that belonged to them and returning to innate nature was enough—what else was there to fuss over? Dao was never meant for petty tricks and small uses; De was never meant for little cleverness and small calculations. Petty cleverness injures De; petty tricks and small uses injure Dao. Hence it is said: straighten yourself and that is enough. To preserve innate joy is what is called “fulfilling one’s will” (dezhi). Because the earlier text spoke of “keeping the person intact,” here it speaks again of “conducting the person”: one way of living when not employed, another when employed.

(The above interprets the existing scripture as it stands; where it still does not fully connect with the whole work, take the surrounding text in the original book as authoritative.)

Main Idea of the Passage

What the ancients meant by “attaining one’s aspiration” (dezhi) was not holding office and wearing the official cap and crown. It meant that inwardly there was nothing left to add to one’s joy—already self-sufficient within, with no need to seek outwardly—hence “nothing by which to increase that joy.” What people today mean by “attaining one’s aspiration” refers solely to rank and ceremonial dress.

Official robes on the body do not belong to the root of xing and ming (nature and life); wealth and goods are things that happen to arrive on one’s person, so they are called “lodged” (ji). What is lodged cannot be held back when it comes or kept when it goes. Therefore one does not indulge every whim when prominent, nor truckle to the world when in want; that joy is the same whether “there” or “here,” so there is no worry. People nowadays are unhappy as soon as external things leave them; from this it is clear that even when they are happy, they never fail to neglect their true nature. Hence it is said: those who abandon themselves in things and lose their nature in the vulgar world are called “people who stand things on their heads.”

Oral Explanation

Those who are inwardly self-sufficient do not seek outside themselves, so “nothing by which to increase that joy” means the myriad things are complete in oneself—turn inward and be sincere—and no joy is greater than this. Xing and ming and the “nobility of Heaven” (tianjue) are the root; rank and cap are external things that arrive by chance, hence “accidentally come” (tanglai); whether they stay or go depends on them, not on me—hence “lodged”—these three words are used with striking force. Knowing that coming and going cannot be guaranteed, one does not indulge when prominent nor truckle when in want; hence neither indulges the will for rank and cap nor chases the vulgar when poor and constrained. “Chasing the vulgar” means bending oneself to fit the times. “That” is the Dao; that joy is the same as others’ joy in rank and cap, hence joy in that and in this is alike. When joy is in oneself, there is no time when worry can arise; when joy is in things, when things go, joy goes too. If joy has coming and going, it is not true joy—hence though they are happy, they never fail to neglect their nature. “Standing things on their heads” means not knowing root and branch: self and xing are root; things and the vulgar are branch. Honoring the branch and losing the root—hence “people who stand things on their heads.”

When the autumn floods came on time and filled the river, many tributaries poured into the Yellow River. The water surged up turbid and yellow, waves breaking against both banks—hence the phrase “the vastness of the flowing stream.” Here “both shores” (liang si) does not mean the Jing and Wei rivers; it refers to the two banks of the Yellow River. Sandbars and water’s edge: the flood was so immense that, standing between the banks and the midstream islets and looking out, one could not tell ox from horse. The river god He Bo was therefore pleased with himself, thinking that all beauty under heaven lay in his river. He followed the current eastward until he reached the Bohai Sea; looking east, he could not see where the water ended. Then he turned his face and, gazing up at the sea god Ru, sighed and said: As the proverb goes, “Having heard one hundredth of the Way, one thinks no one compares to oneself”—that is me. I once heard of someone who, knowing a little of Confucius’s learning, looked down on Boyi’s integrity; I did not believe it. Now, seeing your vastness beyond measure, had I not come to your gate I would nearly have gone wrong; I would long have been laughed at by those who have attained the Great Way.

The oral exegesis explains: Yang means the sea; it is also the name of the sea god. The world’s principles branch in countless ways; one hears a hundredth and takes that for abundance—“having heard one hundredth of the Way” is wording the ancients already used; the author borrows the metaphor of river and sea to speak of Confucius and Boyi. Dafang means the Great Way, the great horizon.

What follows is the sea god Ru beginning to speak (the received text is damaged here, with only the opening line): To a frog at the bottom of a well one cannot speak of the sea, for what it is bound by is limited—in original meaning this contrasts with He Bo’s shame at leaving the river for the sea, showing how people often grow complacent because what they see is narrow.

Beihai Ruo (the god of the northern sea) said: You cannot speak of the great sea to a frog at the bottom of a well, because it is trapped in a narrow space; you cannot speak of ice to an insect that lives only in summer, because it knows only one season; you cannot speak of the great Dao to narrow-minded scholars, because they are bound by what they have learned. Now you have come from the river to the seashore and seen the ocean—you know how shallow you were before. Only then can one discuss the great principle with you.

There is no body of water under heaven greater than the sea: ten thousand streams pour in and never seem to stop, yet the sea is not full; weiyu (in legend, seawater drains here into Wojiao and dries as it flows out) keeps discharging and never seems to end, yet the sea is not empty. Spring and autumn do not change it; flood and drought do not touch it—compared with rivers, the sea is so vast it cannot be measured. Yet I have never been proud because of this: I place myself within heaven and earth and receive qi between yin and yang; I am in the midst of heaven and earth like a small stone or a little tree on a great mountain. If I still thought myself “small in knowledge,” what would there be to boast about?

(Kouyi commentary) “Confined to the hollow” means trapped in the little place one lives in; “fixed to one season” means knowing only one time of year. Huigu (a kind of cicada that lives in summer and dies in autumn) does not know the turn of spring and autumn. “Knowing your own ugliness” means seeing how laughable you were before and feeling shame. Weiyu is Wojiao, from the Classic of Mountains and Seas: seawater flows there and dries as it drains. Compared with heaven and earth, the sea shows only its smallness—you may not yet grasp its greatness. Chan Buddhists say, “To bear greatness one must start from the earth”: however high the earth, there is still heaven above—that is the point.

The four seas are within heaven and earth—are they not like one small pebble in an empty valley? China is within the four seas—are it not like one grain of rice in a great granary? The myriad things are called “ten thousand,” and a person is only one of them; people fill the nine provinces, living on grain and reaching one another by boat and cart—each person is again only one among the “ten thousand.” Compared with the myriad things, is that not like the tip of one hair on a horse’s hide? What the Five Emperors handed down, what the Three Kings fought over, what the humane worry about, what men of responsibility toil over—all lies here. Boyi yielded the state for a name; Zhongni talked much to seem learned—they thought themselves grand, did they not, just as you once boasted beside the water?

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

“Lei” means a small hole in empty space; “fengchao” is a bee hive. When the text speaks of “people as a multitude,” it means that among the myriad things, human beings count as just one kind—within the broad frame of the Great Void (taixu), whatever can be named and discussed falls under this same point. Narrow the view to the Nine Provinces, and a person is again only one item—on a par with plants, trees, birds, and beasts. These two lines are developed with exceptional force. Yuexuan once said: though heaven and earth are vast, the human body is small; yet one can hold a pebble in the fist and roam freely in the open air—that is exactly this idea.

What is called “the number of the world” still belongs to the Great Void: everything that can be named is covered by this general account; within the Nine Provinces, the human being is again a single thing, of the same order as grass, trees, birds, and beasts—these two lines likewise unfold with remarkable brilliance. Yuexuan said: though heaven and earth are vast, the human body is small; with a pebble in the fist one makes a victorious journey in mid-air—that is the sense here.

The world is small to an extreme: the Five Emperors, the Three Kings, the myriad sages, the thousand worthies—what they knew and could do did not step outside this tiny square inch. Such language is indeed far-reaching, yet when unfolded it has its own logic. Boyi declined ( Zhou Wu’s offer ) to preserve a whole reputation; Confucius spoke of it as breadth—who in earlier times could have put it so well?

“Renshi” means one who takes on affairs—that is, one who governs the age.

This passage comes from the “Autumn Floods” chapter of the Zhuangzi, in which the River Lord and Northern Sea Lord discuss “large and small.” The oral commentary explains the original line by line.

The River Lord asked: “Then if I regard heaven and earth as very large and the tip of a fine hair as very small, is that acceptable?” Northern Sea Lord answered: “No. The measure of things is inexhaustible; time has no end; the boundary between gain and loss is not fixed; and ending and beginning have no fixed cause. Therefore, a person of great wisdom, though viewing from afar, is as if viewing from near—so something small does not seem too little, something large does not seem too much, and one thereby understands that ‘measure’ is boundless. Understanding that present and past are ultimately one, one is not vexed though distant matters are long ago, nor impatient though what is at hand is easy to reach—thus one understands that ‘time’ has no end. Discerning gain and loss, fullness and emptiness, one is not especially joyful when gaining nor especially grieved when losing—thus one understands that the ‘boundary of allotment’ is not fixed. Seeing the right path of life as a level road, one is not especially glad to live nor especially calamitous to die—thus one understands that ending and beginning have no fixed ‘cause.’ Consider: what a person knows is less than what he does not know; the time he is alive is less favorable than the time before he was born; using an extremely small self to exhaustively investigate an extremely vast heaven will naturally lead to confusion and no peace. From this angle, how can one know that the tip of a fine hair suffices to define the utmost point of minuteness? How can one know that heaven and earth suffice to exhaust the utmost range of vastness?”

The commentary continues: This turn again connects to what went before. Earlier it spoke of being larger than heaven and earth; here it says there is no absolute small and no absolute large—that is the meaning of “Nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, yet Mount Tai is small.” “The measure of things is inexhaustible” means things cannot be fully measured by a fixed scale; “time has no end” means cold and heat, day and night alternate without end; “the boundary of allotment is not fixed” means the division of being and non-being, gain and loss in a person may come earlier or later, with no fixed number at first; “ending and beginning have no fixed cause” means there is no fixed end, no fixed beginning, no fixed new, no fixed old.

Therefore “great knowing” refers to the person of great wisdom; only then come the four kinds of “knowing”: viewing from afar as if from near, so one does not feel excess or lack because of size, and thus knows measure is boundless; examining and clarifying present and past (now and antiquity), understanding that now and antiquity are one body, so what has not yet arrived, though distant, is not worried over, and what is within reach, though near, is not fetched on tiptoe in haste—thus one knows time has no end; discerning fullness (gain) and emptiness (loss), as fullness and emptiness wax and wane with the moment without joy or anger on that account—thus one knows the boundary of allotment is not fixed; seeing the level road is recognizing the right path; following the right path and entrusting oneself to life and death is the meaning of “not doubting longevity or early death, cultivating the self and awaiting”—understanding this, one knows ending is like beginning and cannot treat “end” as a fixed “cause.” This is the method of “tracing origin and grasping end.”

What people know are affairs of the human world; what they do not know is the Way of heaven. For example, only after one is born can one say “I know”; before birth, how could one know? This is what the Chan school asks: “Before your parents were born, what was that?”—The utmost small is “I”; the utmost large is “heaven”; using the utmost small self to exhaustively investigate the utmost large heaven—confusion and lack of peace are only natural. In the Chan school these lines would be a major public case; Zhuangzi here merely points it out in an ordinary way.

Therefore, from “great knowing” onward explains the earlier sentences. The wording expands and contracts, long and short unevenly, yet the intent is unified—this is Zhuangzi’s brushwork. “Ni” is endpoint, thread; “yu” is place, range. To say the small has no exhaustible endpoint and the large has no limiting boundary is to ask: on what basis fix the utmost fineness with a hair’s tip? On what basis exhaust the utmost vastness with heaven and earth?

He Bo, the god of the Yellow River, said: People who discuss such things often say that what is most subtle has no form, and what is most vast cannot be fully enclosed—is that really so?

Bei Hai Ruo, the god of the North Sea, replied: If you look at what is large from the standpoint of what is small, however large it may be, you cannot take in the whole; if you look at what is small from the standpoint of what is large, however small it may be, you cannot make it out clearly. What is called “fine” (jing) means extremely small and subtle; what is called “feng” (vast enclosure) means extremely large and flourishing—“yin” here also means abundant and grand. “Different fitness” (yi bian) means each thing suits its own place and follows its own advantage; large and small have this difference by nature.

What can be put into words as “fine” and “coarse” all belong to things that have form; what has no form cannot be exhausted by counting; what cannot be enclosed cannot be exhausted by numbering either. What can be stated in language is the coarser side of things; what can only be grasped in the mind is the finer side. What neither speech reaches nor the mind can penetrate need not be split into fine and coarse anymore.

(In oral exegesis) Here “xin qing” asks whether one can trust that this account is true. Viewing the large from the small, one never sees it all—like peering at the sky through a bamboo tube: you see only a strip, not the whole sky. Viewing the small from the large, one never sees it clearly—like the great Peng looking down from high above: wild horses (drifting mist) and dust appear as nothing but a blur.

What is “subtle within the small” is called jing—so small it cannot be made smaller; what is “grand within the large” is called feng—so large it cannot be made larger. The two lines on “different fitness” added after the discussion of large and small show a very lively turn of thought. The utmost subtlety has no form; what is smallest cannot be divided by number—speak of hairs, speak of the finest motes, and you still cannot exhaust it; the utmost vastness cannot be enclosed; what is largest cannot be exhausted by number—speak of zi, speak of zhao (the greatest numerals), and you still cannot finish. All things, whether fine or coarse, are bound to having form, so one can still discuss and infer them; but when large and small both reach the formless, speech cannot finish and the mind cannot reach the end. Since we speak of the formless, we can no longer distinguish by fine and coarse, hence “do not expect fine and coarse”—there is no need to hope to fix boundaries with fine and coarse. What is called “cha zhi” is to investigate the ultimate, to investigate the extreme limit.

The Great Person—one who has attained the Dao and whose vision and conduct are expansive—acts in the following way.

He does not overstep his proper place to harm others, nor does he make a show of “benevolence and kindness,” piling it on for display. In action he does not serve private gain, and he does not treat everyday matters like closing a door as beneath him. He does not wrangle over property, and he need not speak at length about yielding and deference. In his work he does not rely on borrowing from or occupying others, and he does not exhaust other people’s labor. He does not treat corruption as contemptible only to pose as morally superior (nor does he use virtue as a weapon against others). His way of life differs from the ordinary world, yet he does not deliberately seek novelty or eccentric behavior. Outwardly he moves with the crowd, yet he does not despise or cheapen the arts of accommodation and smooth compliance (this is not sinking into the mire with the vulgar, but refusing to wield “moral loftiness” as a club).

Rank and stipend in this world are not enough to entice him; punishment, execution, and humiliation are not enough to touch him with real shame. For he understands that right and wrong cannot be carved into two fixed halves, and great and small cannot be bounded by a single rigid line (the ten thousand things originally circulate within one Qi; one cannot take one pole as the absolute standard).

The ancients said: the person of the Dao does not broadcast his name, and supreme De is not something you can “obtain” by deliberate striving; the Great Person has no fixed “self” (he does not cling to ego or solidify the I)—this is the utmost of keeping to one’s portion and resting in one’s allotted role.

Oral gloss on the earlier lines “does not go beyond harming others, does not multiply benevolence and kindness”: though he does not injure outer things, he also does not treat ‘cherishing the ten thousand things’ as a talent to parade—hence “does not go beyond harming others, does not multiply benevolence and kindness.” It connects to “the person of the Dao is not heard of, supreme De is not acquired”: true supreme De does not live in reputation; therefore the Great Person is without self and keeps to his portion—that is where this passage arrives.

This passage explains in plain language the way of living attributed in the Zhuangzi to the sage or the zhi ren (perfect person). The gist is as follows.

Not making a show of “benevolence”

The sage does not harm things, yet does not treat “caring for all beings” as a special virtue to boast of—hence “does not overdo benevolence”: benevolence is not exaggerated or worn as a badge.

Neither despising low work for profit nor advertising “not seeking profit”

“Gate” here stands for a kind of person who seeks profit through humble, menial service. As when someone says, “Even if I had to hold the whip and drive the carriage, I would do it”—the point is not that profit is rejected, but that one does not treat “seeking profit through lowly service” as shameful or as something that must be opposed—hence “acts not for profit’s sake, yet does not despise the gate.” Once there is a split between “low service” and “honoring oneself,” traces appear and the stance is no longer natural.

Not competing for goods or parading modest refusal

One does not wrangle over wealth with others, nor display “yielding and declining” as a skill—hence “does not contend over goods, does not overdo declining.” Too much declining edges toward “nearness to name”—using humility to win reputation.

Supporting oneself, without using up all one’s strength

In affairs one prefers to do what one can oneself and not lean on others; yet one does not pour every ounce of strength into mere self-support—hence “in affairs does not borrow others’ effort, does not overeat one’s strength”: not living off others’ labor, and not exhausting one’s energy, meaning there is surplus and one dares not use it all up.

Not despising the grasping, yet not setting oneself apart in conduct

Toward the greedy and base, one need not meet them with petty contempt—“each for you, each for me,” each on their own path. Their ways may differ from the common run, but one does not deliberately build a cliff between “them and me”—hence “does not despise the greedy,” and “conduct differs from the vulgar without overdoing eccentric separation” (bi and yi both suggest deliberate novelty and lofty self-distinction). This is going along with the crowd and blending light with dust—moving with the world without picking fights, not despising the sycophantic or the slick, able to be among them without staining one’s inner aim. “Not despise” means not looking down on them with fixed aversion.

Mixing right and wrong, holding neither name nor gain-and-loss

If one can cease splitting right from wrong and large from small, one is a man of the Dao, of supreme virtue, a great person: not chasing reputation (no “being for name”), not clinging to getting or losing (no getting, no losing).

Yue fen (keeping to one’s portion)

“Yue fen” is holding the deepest principle within the simplest share of what is one’s to do—only doing what duty fully requires. The ancients said, “I have heard this saying from of old”; “yue fen” is the same thing as “jin ji” (doing all that is oneself)—the same idea in different words.

Hebo said: When we look from outside things and from inside things, how do distinctions of noble and base, large and small, come about?

Beihuo Ruo said:

From the perspective of the Dao, the myriad things originally have no division into noble and base.

From the things themselves, each takes itself as noble and others as base, looking down on one another.

From the eyes of the world, noble and base are not for oneself alone to decide; one is pulled along by external things and by rank and title.

From the perspective of “difference”: If you follow what is “large” in something and call it large, then nothing under Heaven is not large; if you follow what is “small” in it and call it small, then nothing is not small. If you understand that the vastness of Heaven and Earth is no more than a grain of t mi (the tiniest rice), and that the tip of a hao mo (the finest hair’s end) can be regarded as a mountain, then the point of “how much do large and small really differ?” becomes clear.

From the perspective of “function”: Follow what is “having” in them, and the myriad things all have something; follow what is “not having,” and the myriad things all lack something. You also know that east and west face opposite ways yet cannot do without each other—then what each can and cannot do is settled.

From the perspective of “taste, inclination, and choice”: Follow what is “so” in them, and the myriad things are all thus; follow what is “not so,” and the myriad things are all otherwise. If you understand that Yao and Jie each follow their own nature yet deny each other, then people’s clinging to one side and each having their own standard becomes plain.

Note: In the text, “t mi” means the smallest grain of rice; “hao mo” means the tip of a fine hair, standing for the most minute thing. The whole passage says that noble and base, large and small, having and lacking, right and wrong, are not fixed—they shift with the angle of view and the standard used. Zhuangzi, through Beihuo Ruo’s mouth, teaches people not to cling to one pole and rashly rank things as high or low.

Section One

As noted earlier: one need not treat certain things as inherently “base,” nor must one condemn “greed” across the board. The discussion then turns to “noble and base” and “large and small” under the same logic.

If one considers things from both their inner and outer aspects together: where do “noble and base” and “large and small” ever reach a final stopping point? What is called the “ultimate” is what is pursued to the end. From each thing’s own standpoint, each takes itself as noble and the other as base—much as in the Zhuangzi, chicken droppings and poria fungus are sometimes offered as tribute to the Son of Heaven; they may not seem noble to me, yet in another use they are held in high regard. The hundred parts and nine openings of the human body come together to make one person—do they not also play lord and subject to one another? The point is the same. This line hits the mark: noble and base are not held in one’s own hand, like a carriage or a crown that happen to fall on one by chance—they are not what one was born to possess.

“Gradations of rank” mean hierarchical difference. Between heaven and earth and the myriad things, if one compares the tiniest grain or hair-tip to Mount Tai, the gap is beyond numbering—thus one sees what gradations are like.

“Functional division” means each keeping its place and doing its duty; only together do they count as achievement. Farmers, merchants, craftsmen, and traders each exert themselves according to their station—none can be dropped from the world; just as east, west, south, and north oppose one another yet cannot do without one another.

“Orientation and conduct” refer to a person’s bent and integrity. To take Yao as right and Jie as wrong seems, from the angle of how one ought to live, as if orientation and conduct were fixed that way. Yet when one sees cases where “because a certain kind of person or event was absent, the ruler could not rise,” one knows orientation and conduct cannot be treated as an iron law that never changes. One must decide according to a thing’s size, presence or absence, and what it is in itself—not cling to a single standard. That is the meaning of “following the is” (yin shi) in the “Discourse on Making Things Equal” (Qiwu Lun).

Section Two

Thinking likewise “according to size, presence or absence, and inherent nature”: Yao and Shun yielded the throne and became emperors; King Kuai of Yan yielded the state and lost the kingdom; Tang and Wu fought and became kings of all under heaven; Bai Gong Sheng fought and was destroyed. Set against these examples, the ritual norms of “contention” and “yielding,” and conduct like Yao’s or Jie’s—noble and base, right and wrong, often shift with the age and the situation; they cannot serve as eternal, unchanging law.

Placing Yao and Shun beside Yan Kuai, Tang and Wu beside Bai Gong is the sort of argument made in heated critique of the times; the text offers many such pairings. When reading, follow the momentum and line of reasoning—do not nail every sentence to a single literal reading.

Plain-language explanation

A roof beam is large timber that can be used to ram city walls, yet it cannot plug a small hole—this illustrates that tools and materials each have their own use and cannot substitute for one another (“shu qi” means distinct kinds of implements).

Famous horses such as Qiji and Hualiu can run a thousand li in a day, but for catching mice they are no match for li (wild cats) and sheng (weasels)—this illustrates that skills each have their strengths (“shu ji” means distinct kinds of expertise).

The chixiu (a nocturnal bird of prey, also called xunhu or xiao in commentaries) can catch fleas and see the finest hairs at night, yet by day it comes out with wide-open eyes and cannot even make out hills and mountains—this illustrates that natures each suit different conditions (“shu xing” means distinct kinds of disposition).

So it is said: if you take only “this side” as your teacher, you suppose there is no “not”; if you take only “order” as your teacher, you suppose there is no “disorder”—that means you have not yet grasped how Heaven and Earth operate, nor seen how the myriad things each have their own situation. It is like taking Heaven alone as teacher and not Earth, Yin alone and not Yang—clearly that will not work.

Yet some people keep repeating such talk and will not stop; they are either confused or deliberately misleading.

Yao and Shun abdicated; Yu and Tang passed the throne from father to son—the way emperors handed down rule was not the same, and the succession systems of the Three Dynasties differed too. What went against the age and custom was called usurpation; what fit the age and custom was called acting as righteousness demands—so-called noble and base, so-called great and small, each has its own threshold and destination, and one standard cannot judge them all.

He Bo, think quietly: how could you see through the threshold of “noble and base” or the destination of “great and small”?

(Commentary gloss: liang means roof beam; “li” is read like “li” and means the ridge beam. Large and small timber each serve where they belong, hence the analogy to distinct implements; horses and li/sheng each excel in their own way, hence distinct skills; chixiu is blind by day and sharp by night, hence distinct natures. From this the text shows that right and wrong, order and disorder in the world are like Heaven and Earth and Yin and Yang—they cannot be reduced to one pole, and one side cannot be taken as the absolute standard.)

The River God asked: If that is so, what should I do and what should I not do? In choosing, rejecting, advancing, and retreating—what will become of me in the end?

Bei Haires of the North Sea replied: From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), what is called noble and what is called base? This is fanyan (mutual derivation)—nobility and baseness are relative and transform into each other. The mind need not be shackled by conventional views; it should share the vastness of the Great Dao. If you cling to one side alone, you turn against the Dao and meet obstruction everywhere. What is called little and what is called much? This is xieshi (declining and bestowing)—more and less also circulate and yield to one another. If you insist that only one path is right, you fall out of step with the Dao’s uneven fullness.

One who is a sage or has attained the Dao is dignified like the lord of a state, yet does not favor people with private partiality; at ease like the spirit of the community altar, yet does not bestow private blessings selectively; vast like the four directions without boundary, with no fixed border; embracing all things without especially thickening one or especially relying on one—this is called wufang (no fixed direction)—not holding to the view of a single side. Things are originally equal—who is long, who is short? The Dao has no beginning or end; things have death and life, yet no single form is treated as eternally unchanging. Now empty, now full—form was never meant to stay fixed in one place. Years cannot be piled up; time cannot be halted; waning and waxing, emptying and filling, end and then begin again.

The above is spoken to clarify dayi (the great meaning) and to discuss the principle of the ten thousand things. The birth and death of things are as swift as a galloping team; one stir and they change, one moment and they shift. Must one still ask “why act” and “why not act”? They transform of themselves by nature.

This passage asks: if, from the Dao’s perspective, there is neither high nor low rank and neither right nor wrong, then by what standard should we speak, accept or refuse, take or give? The answer is to broaden the mind and not be tied down by such fixed judgments. “Fan yan” (turning back and spreading outward) means turning inward to seek within oneself: seen through the Dao, rank and worth were never there to begin with, so when you return to your own person, the heart naturally grows spacious and at ease.

If you constrain yourself with notions of worth and worthlessness, right and wrong, you go against the Dao; that is why Zhuangzi says not to narrow and fix your aims—once you do, you seriously obstruct the Great Way (“yu dao da jian”). Where there is giving and receiving, there is more and less; when you release the idea of giving and receiving, there is no division between much and little—this is “xie shi” (declining or letting go of giving). If you cling to one way of acting and are bound by how much you give or receive, you are out of step with the Dao; hence the warning not to insist on a single path, or you will be unevenly aligned with the Dao (“yu dao can ci”).

That the state has a ruler and sacrifices have an earth god are images for something else: the heart should take the Dao as its lord and not act from private intent—hence “the virtue of no private bias” and “the blessing of no private bias” (“wu si zhi de, wu si zhi fu”). When the heart is as vast as the space beyond the four directions, boundless, there is no field-boundary of selfishness—hence “no delimited territory” (“wu suo zhen yu”). (Note: three successive lines each use the same word for “its,” but the three referents differ.)

“All things are complete in me” means embracing the ten thousand things with a wide forbearance, without partial favor toward anyone—hence “who would lean to shelter and favor?” (“qi shu cheng yi”)—“cheng yi” suggests protecting or showing partial affection. “Wu fang” is being without a fixed, calculating mind; when I have no such fixed mind, things have neither long nor short, neither birth nor death; not insisting that one’s own success is assured is what was meant earlier by “bu xiong cheng” (not crowing over achievement). Fullness and emptiness shift with the season—they cannot be frozen in place—so at one moment empty, at another full; “bu wei hu qi xing” means not fixing one’s form and trace in a single position.

“No ancient and no modern”—then the years cannot be counted off one by one; “no going and no coming”—then time cannot be halted. The great meaning is the Great Way itself. When the ten thousand things arise, it is like a team of horses at full gallop; “the passing is just like this”—turning and flowing never rest for an instant. What to do and what not to do are both entrusted to zizaohua (self-so creation and transformation); hence “things will indeed transform themselves” (“fu gu jiang zi hua”)—the ten thousand things were always going to nurture and change on their own.

He Bo asked: If that is so, where does the preciousness of the Dao lie?

Bei Hai Ruo replied: Those who grasp the Dao can surely see through to the heart of things; those who see through to the heart of things can surely tell when to adapt and when to hold firm (moving with circumstances rather than clinging to one fixed stance); those who can tell when to adapt are not harmed by external things. People whose De (Virtue/Power) has reached its height do not rely on sheer toughness—the stories that fire cannot burn them, water cannot drown them, cold and heat cannot hurt them, and wild beasts cannot harm them do not mean their skin is thick and tough, but that they see clearly what is safe and what is dangerous, can steady their minds in the face of fortune and misfortune, advance when they should and withdraw when they should, so that nothing can truly harm them.

So it is said: Heaven is within, the human is without; De takes Heaven as its root. To understand the way of Heaven and the human, the root lies in Heaven; each finds its proper place and is settled there. In advancing and retreating there may be hesitation and change, but in the end one returns to what is essential and speaks to the root.

Someone once raised an excellent question: if one is to submit to the ordering of nature (zao hua—creation and fate), is there any need to study the Dao at all? In the Classified Conversations of Master Zhu or in his recorded dialogues, Liao Deming asked a similar question; Zhu Xi never answered it head-on, probably because he found it hard to put clearly.

When Zhuangzi reaches this point, his use of quan (expedient adaptability) is masterly— the brushwork of an insider—and with the line “do not let external things harm yourself,” the meaning becomes all the sharper. Seen this way, Zhuangzi’s grasp of the Dao is very genuine; yet readers of his book keep feeling he is undermining the project of cultivation, always saying one need not cultivate the Dao.

Li is each thing’s own inherent principle; quan is the flexible adaptation that only someone who has already grasped the Dao as a whole can deploy. To understand quan is to “not let external things harm yourself”—to know what weighs heavy and what weighs light. A person of supreme De certainly knows that events have their fixed allotments and that destiny is not such that external things can necessarily harm him; yet one cannot on that account assume one may rashly court danger or tough out everything. Dying by fire or water may be called fate—but may one jump into fire or water oneself? When the text says “be careful in approach and withdrawal,” the meaning is clearer still. It is like Mencius: one who knows destiny does not stand beneath a wall about to collapse. To inspect safety and danger, judge fortune and calamity, and be cautious in going and staying—that is the Dao in the human heart; the human heart does not simply leave everything to nature. When Zhuangzi writes to this point, where is he vague or irresolute? It is the same spirit as Mencius: one who knows destiny does not stand beneath a crumbling cliff.

“Heaven within, the human outside” is what an earlier chapter calls “the lord is the Way of Heaven, the minister is the Way of the human.” That De resides in Heaven means natural De; yet the text must say “knowing the conduct of Heaven and the human”—that word know arises from the human heart. Rooted in Heaven, established in what one obtains: grounded in nature and at peace in what is rightfully one’s place—hence rooted in Heaven and established in obtaining; this line again settles on the mind of the Dao, as peace of heart in the position one occupies.

Di is advance and retreat; “in bending, stretching, advancing, and retreating, each follows its principle”—this line again settles on the human heart. At this juncture we are at what matters most in the Dao, where principle reaches its peak—hence “return to the essentials and speak to the utmost,” like Mencius’s “I will return to the essentials.”

Someone asked: What is meant by “Heaven,” and what is meant by “the human”? Beihai Ruo replied: Oxen and horses are born with four feet—that is “Heaven” (what is naturally so). Putting a halter on a horse and a nose ring on an ox—that is “the human” (what people deliberately make).

So the text says: Do not use the human to destroy Heaven; do not use contrived habit to destroy your innate allotment; do not greedily grasp gain and chase empty reputation. Hold to this and do not let it go—that is called “returning to true nature.”

These lines draw a sharper line between the human mind and the mind aligned with the Dao. A horse’s or ox’s four feet are given from birth; they need no halter or ring to be useful—once you halter and ring them, you are in the territory of “the human.” If one “uses the human to destroy Heaven, contrivance to destroy one’s allotted life, and greed for gain to serve empty fame,” the human mind has already stepped into danger. The three “do not…” warnings are prohibitions, much like the Confucian “Four Prohibitions.” Once you know what is Heaven and what is human, and here carefully keep that knowledge without losing it, the principle of Heaven is complete; hence it is said “this is called returning to the true”—returning to one’s authentic Heavenly mandate and Heavenly principle. The following passage on “human affairs” says the same: if you use the human to destroy Heaven, contrivance to destroy your allotted life, and greed for gain to chase reputation, the human mind is in peril; the three “do not…” are still injunctions; knowing Heaven and the human and then guarding that without lapse—that is returning to the true.

A Vernacular Reading of Zhuangzi Kouyi

The centipede pities the hundred legs, the hundred legs pity the snake, the snake pities the wind, the wind pities the eye, the eye pities the mind—this is a chain of “who envies whom”: the many-footed centipede, legless movement, formless wind, seeing eyes, and thinking mind are set against one another; each has its own way of “how to move, how to go.”

Someone said to the centipede (a small many-legged creature like a millipede): “I get around by hopping on one foot and already can’t manage myself. You have all those feet—how do you get them to work together?”

The centipede said: “It’s not like that. Haven’t you seen someone spit? What flies out has big drops like beads and fine spray like mist, falling in a tangle no one could count. What moves in me is Tianji (the inborn, naturally activated capacity); I myself couldn’t say why it works that way.”

The centipede asked the snake: “I rely on many feet to walk, yet I still can’t keep up with you without feet—why?”

The snake said: “When Tianji stirs, how could it be changed? What would I need feet for?”

The snake asked the wind: “I crawl with my back and ribs on the ground and still have some kind of shape. You peng peng—surging up from the Northern Sea and peng peng— pouring into the Southern Sea, as if you were nothing at all. What is going on?”

The wind said: “Yes—I rise from the Northern Sea and enter the Southern Sea in just that way. Yet if someone points at me or touches me, I can’t outdo that single point; if someone tries to stop or block me, I can still overcome that obstruction. Only I, though, can snap great trees and tear down huge houses. So: you may not win in many small contests, yet you can win big in the whole—and only the sage can pull off that kind of ‘great victory.’”

(Where later text repeats the snake questioning the wind, the wind answering that it “moves where it should move—what need for feet?” and the lines about “a finger beats me in one spot, yet blocking me I also overcome,” the sense is the same: each acts according to Tianji and need not compete in minor details; though the wind can be pinned at one point or blocked in one place, it can wreak great destruction; the sage, likewise, knows how to gather small non-victories into one great victory.)

In the Classic of Mountains and Seas there is a strange beast with one foot and no horns, hopping along on a single leg. The centipede has a hundred feet; the snake has none. From the one-footed case to the footless case, all speak of Tianji—movement that is naturally so of itself, not forced by intent—and rank among the strangest passages in the world. In the middle, human saliva is used to liken the centipede’s feet; the brushwork is again marvelous. The closing turns on “wind,” while “eyes” and “mind” are no longer spelled out in detail—all such shifts are transformations in the writing, strange upon strange.

“Chanchuo” describes the way of hopping on one foot. “Wu ru yi” means “nothing resembles me”—not like me. “He ke yi ye”—how could one swap or change? It cannot be altered. What follows—“you si you ke jian zhi xiang ye, pengpeng ran feng sheng ye, zhi wo yi shou zhi feng ye, fang wo yi zu jian feng ye”—runs: as if there were a visible image; the wind sound pengpeng; pointing at me as if pointing at the wind; guarding against me as if treading on the wind. Within “wind” yet another layer of walking is added—still not like me, not changeable, as if visibly there, wind roaring pengpeng, pointing at me like pointing at wind, warding me off like stepping on wind. Here the phrase “cannot win yet greatly wins” adds a further twist, all the more marvelous: it is the sense that the human multitude may prevail over Heaven, yet Heaven’s decree prevails over the human. Where the small scale cannot win, the great victory is that nothing among the ten thousand things can step outside creation and transformation. What is so of itself—nothing among things can go against it.

Confucius Besieged in Kuang

When Confucius traveled in Kuang, the men of Song surrounded him in many rings, yet Confucius still played the zither and chanted without stopping. Zilu went in to see him and said: Master, why are you so at ease? Confucius said: Come, I will tell you—I have long dreaded poverty and still cannot escape it; I have long sought success and still do not attain it. The times are simply like this: in the age of Yao and Shun no one in the world was poor, yet not everyone truly attained the Dao; in the age of Jie and Zhou no one in the world flourished, yet not everyone truly lost the Dao. The situation happens to be thus.

On water, not fleeing dragons and serpents is the fisherman’s courage; on land, not fleeing rhinoceros and tiger is the hunter’s courage; white blades before one and facing death unflinching is the martyr’s courage; knowing that poverty has its allotted span and success its season, and facing great peril without fear—that is the sage’s courage. Zilu, my fate is fixed.

Before long, men in armor entered to apologize: they had thought he was Yang Hu, hence the siege; now knowing he was not, they asked leave to withdraw and retire.

This passage of oral commentary begins by noting that the discussion here is simply about how the turns of time, fortune, and fate belong to nature and cannot be known in advance by human effort; once that is clear, what is there to fear? The comparisons of the fisherman, the hunter, and the man of fierce integrity to the sage also make sense in their way; as for the idea of “making it stop and not needing to speak further,” the commentary holds that layer need not be elaborated.

Gongsun Long Questions Prince Mou of Wei

Gongsun Long said to Prince Mou of Wei: In youth I studied the way of the former kings; in maturity I mastered the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I could “harmonize sameness and difference” and “separate hard and white,” and settle what is so and not so, possible and impossible—tying up the knowledge of the hundred schools and exhausting the debates of every disputant. I thought I had reached the summit. Now, hearing Zhuangzi’s words, I am dazed and feel something different—is it that my discourse cannot keep pace with his, or that my insight falls short of his? At present I cannot open my mouth. May I ask how I should understand this?

Prince Mou sighed toward heaven and laughed: Have you never heard of the frog in the well? It said to the great turtle of the Eastern Sea: How happy I am! I hop on the well curb and rest by a gap in the broken bricks; going into the water I brace under my arms and hold up my chin, and in the mud the water barely covers my feet—I mingle with red worms, little crabs, and tadpoles, and none can match me. I alone occupy this pool of water and stride on the well curb; this joy of the well has reached its limit. Why do you not come into the well now and then and look?

The great turtle had not fully put its left foot in when its right was already caught; so it drew back and told the frog: A reach of a thousand li is not enough to describe the sea’s vastness; a height of a thousand ren is not enough to measure the sea’s depth. In Yu’s time there were nine floods in ten years, yet the water did not grow more; in Tang’s time there were seven droughts in eight years, yet the shore did not shrink. It does not change with long or short time, nor advance or retreat with much or little water—this is the great joy of the Eastern Sea.

When the well frog heard this, it was startled and alarmed, despondent and lost.

Prince Mou Advises Gongsun Long

Moreover, if you cannot even fix the bounds of right and wrong, yet wish to measure Zhuangzi’s kind of speech—it is like asking a mosquito to carry a mountain or a shangju (a tiny insect) to cross the Yellow River: strength is bound to fail. Unable to grasp words of utmost subtlety, yet content with the profit of momentary disputation—you are no different from the well frog.

The other treads down to the yellow springs and climbs up to the great heaven, opens wide in the four directions, and sinks into what cannot be fathomed—neither south nor north, neither east nor west; beginning in the dark obscurity, returning to the great passage. Yet you would exhaust it with petty clarity and hunt it with verbal dispute—truly using a tube to peer at heaven and an awl to point at earth—is that not far too narrow? Be on your way.

Have you never heard of the young man of Shouling? He learned how the people of Handan walk; he did not master the gait of the state, lost his old way of walking, and had to crawl home. If you do not leave, you too will forget your former work and lose your original path.

Gongsun Long’s mouth hung open, his tongue would not lift; he could only flee.

Commentary Notes

Gongsun Long was a famous disputant of the time; naming him here serves to break the edge of his sophistry. “Well frog and sea turtle” is a parable Zhuangzi unfolds at length; the commentary marvels: how could Zhuangzi’s breast hold so many “low images” (concrete, vivid worldly pictures).

Hang: red worms in the well. Xie: a kind of crab. Kan jing: shallow well; hang, xie, and tadpoles all turn in the well, hence “still mingling with hang, xie, and tadpoles.”

“Ten years, nine floods; eight years, seven droughts”—if taken literally as nine years of water and seven of drought, people would long since be dead; Zhuangzi’s wording shows force in a different sense; even in casual lines his craft shows.

Shishi: alarmed like “xixi.” Shangju: a small insect. Ci: to tread. Dahuang: heaven. Treading the yellow springs below and climbing to heaven above means how far and high his vision reaches. Shiran is shiran (released, at ease); si jie is passage in all four directions; lun yu bu ke ce is entering depths beyond measure; shi yu you ming is before the limitlessness of the Wuji; fan yu da tong is returning to the utmost Dao. To exhaust and seek with petty clarity and verbal dispute is too small.

The “Handan, lost gait” analogy is especially apt: guo neng is the Handan people’s native skill at walking; the learner did not succeed, lost the old step, and so could only crawl back.

The passage in Liezi about Prince Mou and Gongsun Long is wholly different in wording from this one—the commentary flags the variant text; readers comparing the two should take note.

Fishing and Refusing the Chancellorship

Zhuangzi was fishing by the Pu River. The King of Chu sent two grand officers ahead to find him with a message: the king hoped to entrust all affairs within the state to him—to serve as chancellor. Zhuangzi kept hold of his fishing rod and did not turn his head. He said: I have heard that Chu has a divine turtle that died three thousand years ago. The king wrapped it in a bamboo box and fine cloth and enshrined it in the ancestral temple. For that turtle, which would it prefer—to die and leave its bones to be honored and displayed, or to live and wag its tail in the mud? The two officers said: It would rather live and wag its tail in the mud. Zhuangzi said: You may go. I still prefer to wag my tail in the mud.

Side notes

“Wang xian” means sending envoys ahead first to see him and to state the king’s wish up front; “yi jingnei lei” means wanting to load the whole realm’s business onto his shoulders and entrust him with governing the country.

The image of the divine turtle—“dead, its bones kept and revered” versus “alive, dragging its tail in the mud”—makes the point with odd clarity: he will not be tied down by rank and office and would rather live at ease.

Another block of mixed text (the source is garbled or copied together)

The opening also repeats that the King of Chu sent two grand officers ahead with words like “willing to burden you with affairs within the borders,” while Zhuangzi holds the rod—the same episode as above. What follows is stitched in from elsewhere: lines about “the kind of step one can take in the state of Handan,” and “before the new walk was learned, the old step was lost too, so he crawled home.” That is the Handan xue bu motif—going to the state of Zhao to learn their gait, failing to learn it, forgetting how he used to walk, and having to crawl back. It is not the same thread as discussions involving Wei Mou and Gongsun Long in the Liezi line of material. Several anecdotes are mixed in one place here; when reading, treat them as separate stories.