《庄子口义》Vol. 7

Main dialogue

Zhi (here a character whose name means “knowing”—standing for the mind that thinks and discriminates) says: You and I both think we “know,” yet “that one” (bi) “does not know”—who is actually right?

The Yellow Emperor says: The wuwei (non-action) that “that one” represents alone counts as what is “genuine”; Kuangqu only resembles it. You and I (Zhi) will never get close to the “genuine.”

Commentary

The names that appear before and after are all allegorical, not real people. Each of the three names carries a meaning: “Zhi” stands for a mind that thinks and distinguishes; “wuwei” means aligning with nature and not forcing outcomes; “kuang” is wild and unrestrained, “qu” is stiff like a withered branch—together they describe a state that is both wildly free and woodenly blank, close to “not knowing.” The word “kuangcang” (wild and unrestrained) in the text is akin in intent to “wandering freely” in the Xiaoyao You (Free and Easy Wandering) chapter of the Zhuangzi: both depict a condition beyond constraint. The passage means: those who truly “know” do not speak; those who speak do not truly “know”—so the author deliberately sets up many questions and answers where the questioner never gets a clear reply, as if no Chan master could break through Zhi—wanting to answer but forgetting how still counts as Zhi asking; hence the Yellow Emperor says only wuwei is “genuine,” Kuangqu only looks the part, and you and I (Zhi) can never approach the “genuine.”

On “those who know do not speak” and the order of losing the Way

Because “those who know do not speak, and those who speak do not know,” the sage practices teaching without words. The Dao (the Way) cannot be chased down with clever speech; De (virtue/power) cannot be reached through contrived effort. Ren (humaneness) can still be forced to some degree; yi (rightness) already suffers damage; li (ritual propriety) is even more a matter of surface form. Thus it is said: when the Dao is lost, there is De; when De is lost, there is Ren; when Ren is lost, there is Yi; when Yi is lost, there is Li. Li is the far end of the Dao, the starting point of disorder. Therefore those who cultivate the Way daily reduce—reduce reputation, reduce desire, reduce contrivance—reduce again and again until wuwei; wuwei is not doing nothing at all, but not acting recklessly, so that what ought to be accomplished can be accomplished.

Nowadays people already treat themselves as “things,” as objects to be carved and polished, yet still hope to return to the root through hypocritical ritual—how hard is that? How easy? Probably only the “great person” (daren)—one who is thoroughly attuned to nature and united with the Dao—can manage it.

“Those who know do not speak”—those who truly understand do not rely on words to preach. When Bodhidharma came from the west, Chan held to “no establishment of words, direct pointing at the human heart”; that line runs together with Vimalakirti’s “Gate of Non-Duality”: the Dao cannot be delivered by language, and De cannot be obtained through outward conduct. Benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety all leave visible “traces”; once there are traces, one is already far from the Dao. Zhuangzi especially treated ritual as forced, patched-together rules—heavier in trace than benevolence and righteousness—so he called it “the ornament of the Dao and the head of disorder”: ornament is surface display without real substance; what is made to look good on the outside becomes a breeding ground for deceit, hence the start of disorder.

“Dismiss cleverness, cast off the limbs and extensions”—this is “for the Dao, each day diminish”: strip away artificial cleverness and superfluous branches, diminish again and again until almost nothing remains, returning to forgetting the old self and accord with what is naturally so; when one can practice Wuwei (non-action), one follows heavenly principle as it is and does what needs doing when it needs doing. Things are traces; if seeking the Dao still leaves the trace of seeking, one is still on the same level as things yet hopes to see the realm that is “rooted in itself”—naturally that is hard. So-called “returning to the root” means gathering everything in and going back to the root before the myriad things were divided.

“The great person is one who practices Wuwei”—great figures are without deliberate action. The original “the great person then changes it” follows Zhuangzi’s syntax: another writer might have said “only the great person then changes it,” stressing that only the “great person” can make this turn.

Life is death’s companion; death is life’s beginning—who can pin down its pattern? When human vital breath gathers, that is life; when it disperses, that is death. If life and death are only mutual transformation, why should I fear one side alone? Thus the myriad things are originally one body: what people find fragrant they call “marvelous”; what they find foul they call “rotten and vile”—rotten and vile turn back into marvelous, marvelous into rotten and vile; throughout the world it is only the circulation of one breath. Therefore the sage takes “the One” as precious—guarding this single body, this single breath, not clinging to one pole.

Section One (Life and Death as One Principle)

“Living things already carry within them the aspect that will die; what has died is also the starting point of the next birth.” The second line is easy to explain; the first is harder. When flowers and trees sprout, put out branches, and grow leaves, that is “life”—yet what has already grown will in the end wither away, so this kind of “life” is in fact also moving toward “death.” Cheng Yi (Yizhuan) said: “The breath you inhale is not the same breath you just exhaled.” That remark hits the mark exactly—it is this layer of meaning.

The Yijing says “the large fruit is not eaten,” and in the hexagram Bo (Stripping) it also says “what returns is the sprout of stripping.” You can take a ripe fruit as “already dead”—if no one eats it, it falls and rots; when the seed grows again, is that not “taking death as the beginning of life”? Life and death come and go; all things are like this. Who can fix one side as “absolutely right”? When the great fruit is not eaten, only after stripping runs its course does the sprout of the Fu (Return) hexagram appear. To say the “large fruit” is the dead part, yet when planted it lives again—is that not precisely that death is the start of life?

The cycle of life and death is true of all things. Then who is the one “doing” it? Jigang means the threads and master—the one who arranges and drives things from behind. Everyone knows that when Qi gathers there is life and when it scatters there is death. If you see that life and death are originally one principle, why treat life and death as two unrelated matters? Tu here means “to divide in vain and worry for nothing”—life and death are one body, yet people themselves split beauty and ugliness, like and dislike: when flowers are in full bloom they find them marvelous; when they fall to the ground they find them foul and rotten. They do not know that “leaves return to the root”—after rotting they nourish new life; what is foul can again become marvelous. Having lived they fall again; marvel turns back into foulness. From antiquity to today, coming and going is nothing but this one Qi turning. The sage understands this, so he does not treat death and life, poverty and success, misfortune and blessing as separate—hence it is said the sage “values oneness.” One means no division.

Section Two (The Yellow Emperor Asks About Wuwei and “Knowing”)

Zhi said to the Yellow Emperor: I asked about Wuwei (non-action); that person did not answer when I asked about Wuwei—not because he refused to answer me, but because he did not know how to answer me. I asked Kuang Qu; Kuang Qu meant to tell me but did not speak—not because he would not tell me, but because when he was about to speak he forgot. Now I bring it to you: you “know”—why is your answer still not aligned with the Dao? The Yellow Emperor said: Theirs is “authentic” (merged with the Dao), because they “do not know” (do not cling to knowing); yours looks “similar” (close but not yet authentic), because your “forgetting” is not thorough (or: you are in between forgetting and not forgetting). You and I ultimately cannot meet on the same level, because you still carry “knowing.” Kuang Qu heard this and took the Yellow Emperor’s words as words of true knowing.

Note: This passage weaves Yijing hexagram themes (large fruit, Bo and Fu), Cheng Yi’s remark, and the Zhuangzi question-and-answer form. The oral exegesis stresses using “the continuity of one Qi” and “valuing oneness” to relativize life and death and beauty and ugliness. The latter section emphasizes that those who truly accord with the Dao often respond through “not knowing”; to question while clinging to “knowing” is to drift further from the Dao.

Heaven and Earth themselves hold supreme beauty, yet never proclaim it; the four seasons follow clear patterns, yet never argue; the ten thousand things abide by settled principles, yet never explain them. The sage, in this sense, is one who aligns with the beauty of Heaven and Earth and penetrates the principles of all things. Hence the ultimate person practices Wuwei (non-action) and the great sage does not force outcomes—this is what it means to contemplate Heaven and Earth in that way.

That spirit is utmost refined; together with the myriad beings that generate and transform—life and death, square and round—none can grasp where each truly begins. From ancient times the ten thousand things have rested in being, blended into one whole: though the six directions are vast, nothing lies outside them; though autumn down is fine, it still depends on taking form. Under Heaven nothing fails to rise and fall, never ceasing for a lifetime; Yin-Yang and the four seasons each keep their place. It seems gone yet still there, shapeless yet full of spirit. The ten thousand things are nurtured within it without knowing—this is called the “root source,” and one may glimpse it by contemplating Heaven and Earth.

Heaven and Earth hold great beauty, yet they do not rely on words to display it—much like what the Qian hexagram of the Book of Changes calls “beauty and benefit that benefit the world”: they benefit the world with beauty and goodness, yet never speak of how much good they have done; their virtue is so vast it truly cannot be put into words. Those who understand the pattern know that cold and heat alternate, fullness and decline wax and wane, all according to a clear, unchanging order that never waits for human deliberation—hence “not discussed.”

As for “the duck’s legs are short and the crane’s legs are long,” “wheat ears hang down while rice ears stand up,” whether cold or warm, bitter or sweet—all follow the reason of nature. As for why they are long or short, bitter or sweet, the matter cannot be fully explained—hence “there is a fixed pattern, yet it is not spoken.”

“Not contriving” is wuwei (non-action); wuwei and not contriving both mean yielding to nature. The reason sages can yield to nature is simply that they have grasped this from Heaven and Earth—so it is said one must “observe Heaven and Earth.”

“Spirit and clarity reach utmost refinement” speaks of subtle principle; “the hundred transformations” are the myriad changes of things. The “that” above refers to Heaven; the “that” below refers to things. Whether things live or die, whether what emerges is square or round—all is the work of spirit refined to the utmost. Once it is so, who can trace it to the root or exhaust its origin? Hence “things already live and die, square and round—no one knows their root.”

“Fluttering” (pianran) means drifting away without stopping, like “what passes is like this”—the transformations of the myriad things follow one another and depart without end, while the Maker itself abides. Su Dongpo’s line “what passes is like this, yet it has never gone away” captures exactly this. Without a certain insight, one cannot speak through to this depth.

“The six directions form a vast whole, yet never leave its inside”: though Heaven and Earth are vast, they still do not step outside the Maker. “The tip of an autumn hair is tiny, yet one waits for it to become a whole body”: without that tiny body, there would be no name “tip of an autumn hair”—this is what Zhuangzi meant by “nothing under Heaven is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, yet Mount Tai is small.”

“Sinking and floating, coming and going”: rise and fall in succession; “not clinging to the old, ever renewing”: the myriad things come and go without end, day after day—so it is said that nothing under Heaven fails to sink and float, and no one holds to the old state for a whole lifetime; precisely because they do not cling, the four seasons run in their proper order.

“Dim and unseen” (hunran) is obscurity beyond sight; “welling up with life” (youran) is vital force bursting forth. “As if gone yet still present”: death belongs to the same order as life (death is the other face of life); “formless yet spirit”: spirit does not depend on form to exist, nor does it perish when life ends. “To nurture” (xu) means to nourish—what nurtures the myriad things is the Dao, yet people often do not know it. This is the root of the Maker. What it means to observe Heaven is no more than seeing this principle—so it is said “one may observe it in Heaven.”

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Kouyi

Niè Quē asked Bèi Yī about the Dao. Bèi Yī said: Straighten your body and unify your gaze—heavenly harmony will arrive; gather in your knowing and unify your intent—spirit will come to dwell; De will nourish you until you are whole, and the Dao will make its home in you. Let your eyes be like those of a newborn calf—merely seeing, without asking why you see.

Before he had finished speaking, Niè Quē had fallen asleep. Bèi Yī was greatly pleased. He walked away singing: Your form is like a withered corpse, your heart like dead ashes; you truly know what is real, and do not cling to the past; dazed and dim, with no mind to fathom—you cannot be reasoned with. What kind of person is this!

Commentary (rough sense):

Here the text again invents a dialogue between two “realizers of the Dao,” rather like the Buddhist saying that a master’s hand presents a master’s hand, and a red heart meets a red heart within the heart—meaning to show what is authentic right in the present moment.

“Straighten your body, unify your gaze” means letting go of bodily distinctions and the chase of ears and eyes; “gather your knowing, unify your intent” means setting aside discursive thought and conscious scheming (“intent” here means mind-direction and purpose).

Heavenly harmony refers to primordial Qi (vital energy). Only when form, ears, and eyes have faded does that Qi stay whole. Shen (spirit) in Buddhist language is often called the “true master”—coming and going without fixed form, impossible to pin down—so “coming to dwell” is not a simple matter of something arriving and staying. De is the virtue that moistens and completes the person; Dao is the dwelling place—the broadest home there is.

“Eyes like a newborn calf’s, with no asking why they see”: a calf sees as soon as it is born yet never asks “what am I looking at?”; an infant is the same. The line depicts seeing without a deliberate mind.

“Before the words were finished, he fell asleep”: the answer was not even complete and the man was already asleep—not from rudeness, but because minds had already met; nothing more needed saying, so sleep expresses that silent accord.

“Truly knowing what is real”: having genuinely seen this principle. “Not holding fast to the past”: outer things do not enter the heart; old stories do not tie one down.

“Dazed and dim”: murky and indistinct, as if nothing could be clearly seen. The other party is already without mind; if words remain on this side, they cannot be spoken—hence “without mind, and not someone you can consult.” That such a person exists between heaven and earth draws the sigh “What kind of person is this?”—praise at its deepest.

1. Shun and Cheng on “Dao” and the Body

Shun asked Cheng: “Can the Dao be grasped and held as one’s own?” Cheng replied: “Your body is not even yours—how could you possess the Dao?” Shun said: “If the body is not mine, then whose is it?” Cheng said: “It is the form the cosmos temporarily entrusts to you. Life is not yours either—it is the yin-yang harmony the cosmos entrusts. Nature and life (xingming) are not yours—they are the orderly unfolding the cosmos entrusts. Children and descendants are not yours—they are the generational turnover the cosmos entrusts, like a cicada shedding its old shell. So when people walk, they do not know where they are going; when they dwell, they do not know what to hold on to; when they eat, they do not know the taste—these are all driven by the vigorous yang qi between heaven and earth. How could any of that be something you can own or keep?”

Commentary on the meaning: Wei means to gather or to entrust. The four greats—earth, water, fire, and wind—provisionally combine to make the human body, hence “entrusted form”; yin and yang harmonize and then there is life, hence “entrusted harmony”; life and nature seem to be “in me,” but in truth they follow the principle of the maker, hence “entrusted accord”; people pass down generation after generation like a cicada leaving its old shell, so offspring too are “entrusted transformation.” “Vigorous yang qi” is the qi of ceaseless generation; what can move belongs to yang—walking, staying, eating and drinking are all set in motion by this qi and are none of them truly “mine.” This matches the Yuanjue Sutra line asking where this deluded body actually belongs. What is striking here is also “not knowing what to hold”—there is nothing solid to grasp or cling to.

2. Confucius Asks Laozi about “Supreme Dao”

Confucius asked Laozi: “Today I have leisure—may I ask what supreme Dao is?” Laozi said: “You must fast and purify: let your heart be as if washed clean, concentrate your spirit, and cast aside fixed views—only then can you approach the Dao. The Dao is deep, remote, and subtle; it cannot be fully spoken. I will only give the broad outline: brightness arises from obscurity; order arises from what has no image; spirit arises from the Dao; form arises from jing (essence); and the myriad things in turn beget one another according to form. Those with nine openings (such as humans and beasts) are born from the womb; those with eight openings (such as birds and insects) are born from eggs.”

Commentary on the meaning: Laozi’s demand that Confucius first “fast and purify” (zhaijie), “wash snow” from the heart, and “strike down” ordinary knowledge is meant to empty and clarify body and mind before speaking of supreme Dao. From darkness to light, from the formless to ordered relations, from the Dao to spirit, from jing to form—that is the sequence of arising he is sketching. The closing “nine openings, womb birth; eight openings, egg birth” uses familiar kinds of creatures to show that the ten thousand things share one source yet take different shapes, all following the principle of “begetting one another through form.” This is not a separate biological system; it borrows everyday classification to illustrate that form ultimately arises from jing and that the myriad things mutually generate through form.

Plain-Language Interpretation

First half (character glosses and meaning)

“Fangyu” means to dredge and guide; “zaoxue” means to wash and purify; “pouji” means to pat and strike, to drive out what should go. “Yaoran” describes something unfathomably deep; “ya” here means a limit or edge. “Yalüe” says that the profound principle cannot be fully spoken; one can only speak roughly to its margin and outline.

“Zhaozhao” is what is clear and visible; “mingming” is what is dark and cannot be seen. What can be seen and distinguished is called “youlun”—each thing in the ten thousand beings has its own pattern and order. What has no form is creation and transformation; “jingshen” refers to the inner life and awareness of a person. The physical form can be seen; refined qi cannot. Humans have nine openings, birds eight—putting humans and birds on the same footing is meant to deflate human arrogance. Buddhist talk of womb birth, egg birth, moisture birth, and the rest traces back to ideas like these.

The gist: though humans are nobler than the ten thousand things, the way we are born is of the same kind as other beings—so one should abandon the form-body and seek the Dharma-body; Zhuangzi’s point runs the same way.

Scripture text and commentary on the latter half

“Its coming leaves no trace; its going has no cliff-edge”: creation and transformation come and go with nothing to follow and no boundary where they stop.

“No gate, no side-room— everywhere it extends vast and bright”: human dwellings have gates and wings; in the great void one only sees boundless expanse, with no knowing where to enter or leave.

“Those who encounter it here”: who seek and meet this Dao here. “Four limbs strong” is what the Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment calls the body light and at ease; “xunda” is thorough penetration; “yongxin bulao” is not forcing the mind—going with nature; “yingwu wufang” is not fixed in one pattern, responding with things as they come—the kind of mind-use meant by “meeting it with spirit, not looking with the eyes.”

“Heaven cannot but be high, earth cannot but be broad, sun and moon cannot but move, the ten thousand things cannot but flourish—such is its Dao”: if not this Dao at work in heaven, earth, sun, moon, and the ten thousand things, who else would be driving them? These four lines mean: from top to bottom, inside to out, nothing is outside the working of this Dao.

When we speak of “broad learning,” one need not understand every single thing; when we speak of “skillful disputation,” one need not make every sentence clever—the sage has already made this clear. As for the state in which “adding does not feel like increase and subtracting does not feel like decrease,” that is what the sage holds fast to.

Such a realm is as deep and vast as the sea, and as lofty and wide as a cycle that ends only to begin again: it measures and embraces the myriad things without running dry—this is the outward expression of the way of the junzi (noble person). The myriad things turn to it for giving and receiving, yet it is never exhausted.

This Dao also bears on people of the “central land”: some are neither purely yin nor purely yin-yang alone, but stand between heaven and earth; for the moment they are human, yet in the end they return to the root. From the perspective of that root, what we call “life” is no more than a muted, breath-like stirring (yinyi: life as one breath, one sigh) and a temporary lodging of kind and form; even when there is a human body, how much can long life and short life really differ? It is a matter of a fleeting instant in speech—hardly enough to settle who is right or wrong between Yao and Jie.

(Note: yinyi is close to the breath of a sigh [yi qi], picturing life as one breath, one exhalation; fan yu zong means returning to origin and root; Yao and Jie conventionally stand for the sage-king and the tyrant—here they warn against judging worth by standards of a single time and place.)

Section One

“Knowing” does not mean that a person understands everything on their own. What people take for cleverness and eloquence is often trumpeted as personal talent; in truth, not all of it should be credited to individual wit—what truly upholds “knowing” is zao wu (creation: the fashioning of nature, the transforming work of Heaven and Earth). Hence the sage takes creation alone as the standard: neither treating increase as gain nor decrease as loss; what is to be preserved lies in the self, so external things cannot harm it. This is how the sage acts: ending yet beginning again, pure and never ceasing.

Section Two

Measuring and adapting to the myriad things without shortage, responding to things without exhaustion—employing and gauging, hence “measuring and adapting.” This still cannot avoid resting in “having a mind”; it is only the traceable side of the way of the junzi (noble person): responding to things from the self is measuring the myriad things; when things come and the self responds, it is the myriad things all borrowing the self. Sensing, then responding; pressed, then moving—doing so without shortage is called Dao (the Way). Dao is without mind and without trace.

Section Three

Within the realm (tianxia), there are people who say that between Heaven and Earth there is the zhi ren (perfected person, one who has reached the utmost). The perfected person is neither yin nor yang—meaning he cannot be named or fixed by any concrete thing. He has human form, yet the heart roams at the beginning of things (before the myriad things were divided); he only temporarily lodges this body between Heaven and Earth, hence “straightforwardly human for now,” about to fan yu zong (return to the root, the origin). Zong is the beginning of the myriad things.

Section Four

Yin yan (stifled, blocked breath) means qi (vital energy) not flowing smoothly; when the body’s qi does not flow, warts and excrescences arise. The qi of creation that becomes human form is, in a sense, also a kind of “not flowing smoothly”—so viewed from the root, one should look back to the time before Heaven and Earth were divided. This layer of meaning strips down and diminishes the human body—close to what Buddhist discourse calls the body a “skin-bag of blood.” Read closely, much in the Da zang jing (Great Canon of Scriptures) can be traced to sources here.

Section Five

The rights and wrongs of Yao and Jie speak of human judgments of right and wrong; it is because one has this body that such distinctions arise. A lifespan of a hundred years, however long or short, compared with Heaven and Earth is but an instant. These lines too are well put.

Fruit and natural order

Among all things, fruit is one of the smallest kinds. When they grow and how they pass on their seed follow fixed sequences from ancient times to the present, each in its own way without mixing— is this not the pattern of nature? Starting from something so small, larger truths become easier to see.

Human relations and “mutual ordering like teeth”

In human affairs there is much hardship: high and low restrain one another, strong and weak override one another, long life and early death bring joy and grief—all of this can be called “hardship.” Yet all people share the same heaven and earth and arrange themselves like teeth in a row, each fitting with the others. Ruler and subject, parent and child, the central lands and the border regions—all are parts of one whole in the eyes of the Creator. The sage says: like kinds gather, unlike kinds separate—in this sense, whether refined or coarse, whether self or other, all can be said to “mutually order like teeth”; this is a very high way of speaking.

“Meeting it without going against it”: when times differ—favorable or adverse—move with the situation and do not resist by force. “Passing through without clinging”: what one has lived through dissolves one by one; do not cling to the old. Harmonizing in response is De (Virtue/Power); responding as the moment allows is Dao (the Way); when the two join, that is the natural expression of Dao and De. The rise of emperors and kings is nothing beyond this principle.

The brevity of life and coming in, going out

Human life between heaven and earth is like a white colt flashing past a door crack—gone in an instant. “Suddenly” means in the blink of an eye; “being born” is extending, arriving; “entering death” is bending, departing.

“Pouring forth with a rush” describes surging and pushing outward; “smooth and flowing, thinning away” describes lively moistness returning inward—going out is extending and arriving, going in is bending and departing. This is what the Yijing calls fathoming the spirit and knowing transformation: probing the subtlety of change and understanding the bending and stretching of life and death.

Plain-Language Commentary

Section One (On “seeing the Dao” and “hearing the Dao”)

Taking “seeing clearly” for illumination still falls short of truly meeting the Dao—that is a kind of seeing that leaves traces. The Dao cannot be grasped through outward forms; once you fix on forms, there is no genuine “encounter,” hence “clear seeing does not count as a true meeting.” Disputing is inferior to silence; the moment you open your mouth to argue, you have already strayed. What is called “silence” (mo) means keeping the mouth closed and not speaking. The “Dao” spoken of here is not something to listen for on the outside; it is to be inwardly realized in oneself. If you call that “hearing,” it is no longer the Dao. Having hearing is not as good as having no hearing—plugging the ears and hearing nothing at all—hence “the Dao cannot be heard; if you hear it, you might as well block your ears.” “Great attainment” (da de) is like saying one has deeply arrived and obtained it for oneself.

Section Two (Dongguo Zi asks where the Dao is)

Dongguo Zi asked Zhuangzi: Where exactly is the “Dao” that people talk about? Zhuangzi said: It is everywhere. Dongguo Zi said: You have to point to some place for it to count. Zhuangzi said: It is in ants. Dongguo Zi said: Why so low? Zhuangzi said: It is in barnyard grass (tiao). Dongguo Zi said: Why even lower? Zhuangzi said: It is in roof tiles and bricks. Dongguo Zi said: Why more and more degrading? Zhuangzi said: It is in feces and urine. Dongguo Zi had no reply. Zhuangzi said: Your question missed the point from the start. It is like when Zheng Huo asked the market inspector how to estimate a pig’s weight: the inspector said to step on the pig (lü biao)—the further down toward what is base, the clearer the comparison of heavy and light—“the lower you go, the clearer the likeness” (mei xia yu kuang).

Section Three (Comment on this dialogue)

Though this exchange is framed as fiction and the wording is deliberately sharp, the principle is the same: among things there is no absolute “refined” or “coarse”—all share one source and are one continuous discourse. In Buddhism, “insentient things preach the Dharma”—even gravel speaks the Dharma as if ablaze—means the same thing. “Only after you fix a place will you accept it” (qi er hou ke) means: you would only admit the Dao if someone named a single spot; because your question did not reach the root, the answer deliberately descends step by step. The market inspector is like today’s butcher-shop weigher; stepping on the pig (lü biao) means pressing with the foot to know light and heavy. “Kuang” (likeness, comparison) means analogy. The inspector’s status was low; if Zheng Huo had asked only humble people, the comparison would have been clearer still—hence “the lower you go, the clearer the likeness.” Zheng Huo was a market magistrate–type official; Huo is a personal name. Here, estimating a pig is used as a metaphor for how one ought to ask about the Dao.

General Meaning of the Passage

If you do not cling to fixed views, nothing can slip beyond your grasp; as for the supreme Dao (the Way), the same holds for the great teaching. The three terms Zhou, Bian, and Xian differ in name yet share one meaning—they point to the same reality. Let us try to wander together in the “palace of nowhere,” and discuss all doctrines as one—where would the talk ever end? Let us try together to practice wuwei (non-action)—plain and still, vast and clear, harmonized and at ease. How empty and still! My intent is satisfied. There is no fixed destination, nor do we know where we will arrive; between coming and going, we do not know where we rest; we are already in that coming and going, yet do not know the end—we roam in openness as vast as Feng-hong. … (The later text repeats lines on wuwei and the like.) … Great understanding enters this and no longer knows where the ultimate lies.

Commentary (Oral Explanation)

“Mo bi” means not insisting on a single fixed opinion. Without such rigidity, the principles of the ten thousand things cannot escape your grasp—how could you doubt my words? Hence it is said: the supreme Dao is like this, and the great discourse is the same. “Zhou,” “bian,” and “xian” are close in meaning, so the text says they are different names for one reality; this line is a metaphor: things have no coarse-or-fine divide—the principle is one.

“The palace of nowhere” picks up the earlier idea of having no stubborn certainty. “Tong he er lun” means that whether fine or coarse, we speak of them together—where could there be an end? “Diao” and “xian” mean harmony and ease. “Dan, jing, mo, qing, diao, xian” all describe the subtlety of wuwei. “Liao” means emptiness; “yi” is the same as “yi” (already/completed). Whoever can grasp this point of emptiness and unity has a satisfied intent—hence “liao yi wu zhi”: four words, brief and forceful.

If there is no fixed “going,” how could there be a fixed “arrival”? Though there is coming and going, there is no ground one can treat as a stopping place. The two lines above already say that coming and going cannot be pinned down; one more line closes the thought: I am already in that coming and going without knowing where it ends—I only see myself wandering in Feng-hong. Feng-hong is vast emptiness; da zhi is the supreme Dao. When a person enters the supreme Dao, they no longer know where the ultimate is. “Pang huang” means to roam at leisure.

Wu wu (one who regards each thing as what it is and dwells with things as they are) shares no fixed line of demarcation with the myriad things; yet to say that “things and things have no boundary” already invokes the very idea of “the boundary of things”—boundary itself rests within “no boundary,” and “no boundary” in turn falls on the far side of “having boundary.” What is meant, then, is: the no-boundary within boundary, the boundary within no-boundary.

When we speak of fullness and emptiness, decline and extinction: what appears as full, empty, declining, or destructive cannot be pinned down to those labels alone—fullness and emptiness shown there may not truly be fullness and emptiness; decline and destruction shown there may not truly be decline and destruction; root and branch, gathering and scattering are the same: there are traces in name and form, yet the bottom cannot be exhausted. Only when all of this is seen through does one turn toward zhidao (the ultimate horizon of the Dao).

To be without limit in relation to things is to transform and flow together with things; only one who can transform together with things can genuinely “take things as things”—what is called “not clinging to things,” and thereby treating the myriad things appropriately. If one cannot yet transform with things, the mind erects cliffs and limits; where there are limits, one is trapped in what is limited, and where there is a horizon, there is an end. Thus when it is said that “things have horizons (ji),” what is meant is the line of “demarcation of things” that the human mind posits. Pushed to the extreme this is wuji (without pole/limit), pursued to the end this is wujiong (without exhaustion)—no longer bound by “the boundary of things,” and awakening to “no-boundary within boundary, boundary within no-boundary.”

To see that where cliffs seem to stand there are in fact no cliffs, and to turn back and forth between “formless” and “formed,” “non-shaping” and “shaping,” “non-horizon” and “horizon”—Zhuangzi’s phrasing of this kind always works within the layer of ji yu wu (interfacing with things) and then flips out buji (non-interfacing). Commentaries unpack shuai (decline) and sha (slaying/destruction): decline is the reverse of flourishing, destruction the reverse of ascendancy; one instance opens the pattern for the rest. Fullness and emptiness, flourishing and decline, root and branch, gathering and scattering—all seem to leave tracks, yet cannot be exhausted; this is precisely the meaning of buji zhi ji, ji zhi buji (the horizon that is non-horizon, the non-horizon that is horizon).

E Hegan and Shennong studied together under Old Longji.

One day Shennong was dozing, leaning on a low table with the door shut. At midday E Hegan pushed the door open and said, “Old Longji is dead.”

Shennong jolted awake, rose leaning on his staff, and when the staff struck the floor with a sharp crack he burst into loud laughter and said, “Heaven knows I am narrow-minded, rough, and fond of dispute, so it took him from me in death first. From now on there will be no one left to speak such reckless words to me.”

Diao of Yan Gang, hearing of this, said: one who truly realizes the Great Dao is someone the gentlemen of the world rely on and keep in mind. Yet Old Longji, in his relation to the Dao, had not reached even one ten-thousandth of something as fine as the tip of an autumn hair, and still he knew to hold reckless speech in his heart until he died—how much more those who have fully embodied the Dao! The Dao: look for it and it has no form; listen for it and it has no sound. What people can put into words is at best a vague likeness—something “as if there, as if not.” To discuss the Dao in such terms is still not the Dao itself.

Note: This passage comes from commentarial material related to the Zhuangzi. It treats the death of Old Longji (often read as a man who had attained the Dao) and Shennong’s laughing lament at losing a companion who would speak freely with him. Diao of Yan Gang then observes that one who truly embodies the Dao cannot be fixed in words; what is said aloud is only a dim, “as if present, as if absent” hint—not the body of the Dao itself. Names such as E Hegan and Diao of Yan Gang are likely allegorical figures and need not be matched to historical persons one for one.

This passage unpacks several layers of meaning in a Zhuangzi story about mourning Laolongji and Shennong’s discussion of the Dao.

Opening the door and setting down the staff: Zha means to push open. Someone pushes the door and enters; they hear a sharp bo sound, as if a walking staff were being set down. Commentators take tian as calling to Laolongji: while the master was alive, he could still use “great speech” (dayan) to awaken one; once he died, there was no longer anyone who could enlighten one in that way—that is, when Laolongji died, those “great words” were hidden away with him.

Yan Gang and Shennong: Yan is the surname, Gang the given name. This person only hears Shennong’s remarks because he came to mourn Laolongji. Someone who truly embodies the Dao (unites with the Dao and personally realizes it) is one with the Dao; gentlemen throughout the world will turn to such a person and take him as their standard. Shennong had not yet truly “seen” the Dao, yet he could still understand that Laolongji’s death meant his wild supreme speech (here equivalent to dayan, language that transcends ordinary teaching) was concealed. How much more so if someone’s realization matched Laolongji’s? The point: the Dao originally lies in “not speaking”; only when speech is hidden in stillness and death does that accord with the Dao. Shennong had not reached that level, yet he could say this much—someone at a higher level should do so all the more.

Autumn hair and rarity: “The tip of an autumn hair” is the finest point on an animal’s coat in autumn—already extremely fine. To speak of “one part in ten thousand” on top of that is to stress how exceedingly rare something is. Buddhist scriptures use numbers and similes in a similar tone when they expound doctrine.

Discussing the Dao is not the Dao: The Dao is originally without form and without sound; it cannot be grasped by sight or hearing. If one explains it to others, one can only use labels such as mingming (dark, ineffable) to name the Dao—that is forcing a name, not the Dao itself. Hence “therefore to discourse on the Dao is not the Dao,” the same import as “those who speak do not know” (yanzhe buzhi): form and sound belong to you (being); mingming belongs to wu (non-being). To explain by clinging only to you, or to name it only with mingming, is wrong; better still to set aside even the distinction between you and wu (“together with non-being, be without wu”). On this reading, even Shennong’s way of speaking does not yet count as truly knowing; if one not yet at that level can utter such words, someone more advanced need say even less.

Opening the door and setting down the staff: Zha means to push open. Someone pushes the door and enters; they hear a sharp bo sound, as if a walking staff were being set down. Commentators take tian as calling to Laolongji: while the master was alive, he could still use “great speech” (dayan) to awaken one; once he died, there was no longer anyone who could enlighten one in that way—that is, when Laolongji died, those “great words” were hidden away with him.

Yan Gang and Shennong: Yan is the surname, Gang the given name. This person only hears Shennong’s remarks because he came to mourn Laolongji. Someone who truly embodies the Dao (unites with the Dao and personally realizes it) is one with the Dao; gentlemen throughout the world will turn to such a person and take him as their standard. Shennong had not yet truly “seen” the Dao, yet he could still understand that Laolongji’s death meant his wild supreme speech (here equivalent to dayan, language that transcends ordinary teaching) was concealed. How much more so if someone’s realization matched Laolongji’s? The point: the Dao originally lies in “not speaking”; only when speech is hidden in stillness and death does that accord with the Dao. Shennong had not reached that level, yet he could say this much—someone at a higher level should do so all the more.

Autumn hair and rarity: “The tip of an autumn hair” is the finest point on an animal’s coat in autumn—already extremely fine. To speak of “one part in ten thousand” on top of that is to stress how exceedingly rare something is. Buddhist scriptures use numbers and similes in a similar tone when they expound doctrine.

Discussing the Dao is not the Dao: The Dao is originally without form and without sound; it cannot be grasped by sight or hearing. If one explains it to others, one can only use labels such as mingming (dark, ineffable) to name the Dao—that is forcing a name, not the Dao itself. Hence “therefore to discourse on the Dao is not the Dao,” the same import as “those who speak do not know” (yanzhe buzhi): form and sound belong to you (being); mingming belongs to wu (non-being). To explain by clinging only to you, or to name it only with mingming, is wrong; better still to set aside even the distinction between you and wu (“together with non-being, be without wu”). On this reading, even Shennong’s way of speaking does not yet count as truly knowing; if one not yet at that level can utter such words, someone more advanced need say even less.

Taiqing then asked Wuxiong (the Infinite): “Do you know the Dao?” Wuxiong said: “I do not know.” He went on to ask Wuwu (Non-action). Wuwu said: “I know.” Taiqing asked: “You say you know the Dao—does that come with a measure, a standard?” Wuwu said: “It does.” Taiqing asked: “What is that measure like?” Wuwu said: “I know the Dao can look lofty or lowly; it can contract or spread out—that is what I call knowing the Dao’s ‘measure.’”

Taiqing took these answers back to Wushi (the Beginningless): “If that is so, Wuxiong said he did not know and Wuwu said he knew—who is right and who is wrong?” Wushi said: “Not knowing is what runs deep; knowing is what stays shallow. Not (pretending to) know stays on the inside; knowing stays on the outside.” Taiqing then sighed midway and said: “So not knowing is really knowing? And knowing is really not knowing? Who can grasp ‘taking not-knowing as knowing’?”

He asked Wushi again. Wushi said: “The Dao cannot be heard—if you treat it merely as something ‘heard,’ it is no longer the Dao. It cannot be seen—if you treat it merely as something ‘seen,’ it is no longer the Dao. It cannot be spoken—if you treat it merely as something ‘spoken,’ it is no longer the Dao. What people call knowing form—is that knowing the ‘form that has no form’? The Dao should not be pinned down by names.”

Wushi went on: “When someone asks about the Dao and you answer, the one who answers does not really know; and even the one who asks has not truly heard the Dao. The Dao is not a matter of questioning, and questioning is not a matter of answering. When there is no question yet one insists on asking, the question is exhausted; when there is no answer yet one insists on answering, there is no inner substance. Meeting an exhausted question with empty answers—in that way, outwardly one cannot take in the cosmos, inwardly one cannot know the Grand Beginning; so one will not pass Kunlun, nor roam in the Great Void.”

Brief notes (to help with the classical text): Taiqing, Wuxiong, Wuwu, and Wushi function as speakers standing for different viewpoints or levels of realization; their names echo Daoist terms such as “supreme clarity,” “the infinite,” “non-action,” and “without beginning.” “The measure of knowing the Dao” is not a numerical count but how many layers there are to knowing and what counts as genuine knowing. “Not passing Kunlun” and “not roaming the Great Void” use Kunlun and the Great Void as images of the farthest, highest realm where mind and Dao align; failing to pass or roam means the heart has not answered to the Dao and cannot reach that level.

Zhuangzi Kouyi in Plain Language

Opening formula and “thereupon” (yushi)

In lecturing on scripture or the Way, opening with the two characters yushi (“thereupon”) plays a role similar to rushi (“thus”) before “Thus I have heard” in Buddhist sūtras—both establish the thread from which speech proceeds.

When the Dao can be counted and inner versus outer

On certain levels the Dao can be set out item by item: noble and base, joining and scattering all belong to what “can be numbered and spoken.” “Joining” means meeting and merging into wholeness. If you only feel you understand inwardly, that is “inner”; if you treat the Dao as an object outside the mind, you and the Dao become two. That knowing which is “not knowing in the ordinary sense” is the subtlety speech cannot exhaust and names cannot catch.

Without form yet giving form to things

“Form” is what has no fixed appearance to begin with—by not fixing yourself as a “thing,” you can instead mirror all things as they are.

Names and questioning

Once there is the name “Dao,” name and Dao stand in opposition and at once depart from how the Dao is in itself; hence it is said: the Dao ought not be addressed by a name.

Originally the Dao has nothing to do with “asking”; in one question and one answer, the one who answers has already left the Dao, and what the asker hears is not the Dao either. So-called “asking to the end” means that relying only on words and chasing surface views and knowledge, you can question to exhaustion and still gain nothing.

“No inner” means the heart has not yet truly entered this Dao; once it truly enters, you should no longer speak through the form of question and answer.

Cosmos, great beginning, Kunlun, and supreme void

The cosmos you can see and touch belongs to “outer”; the formlessness before heaven and earth in the “great beginning” belongs to “inner.”

Legend places Kunlun beyond the cosmos, and supreme void (taixu) beyond Kunlun—Kunlun itself not yet crossed, how can one say one has reached supreme void? This is a metaphor: if a person has not broken through even the nearer layers yet talks wildly of higher realms, it makes no sense.

Guang Yao questions “Non-Being”

Guang Yao asked Non-Being about the Dao: “Master, are you present or not?” Non-Being could not answer. Guang Yao looked closely: dim and empty, all day looking yet seeing no form, listening yet hearing no sound, grasping yet catching nothing.

Guang Yao sighed: “This is the utmost! Who can reach such a state? I can manage ‘having’ and ‘not having,’ but I have not yet managed ‘not-not-having.’”

Commentary on the oral meaning

The lines about “looking closely at his appearance” simply depict that the Dao (or the perfected person) is not visible, not audible, not graspable.

The line “I can manage having and not-having, but have not yet managed not-not-having” is especially deep: if you still dwell in “not-having,” you remain tied to that word and that thought and have not truly freed yourself—how then speak of the realm of “non-being,” or of “arriving here”?

First Section (On the Invisibility of the Dao)

How can one describe what the Dao is like? It can only be approached through many words: the Dao cannot be seen. I can speak of “being” (you) and “non-being” (wu), yet I still cannot truly reach “non-non-being” (wuwu)—that is, even the thought of “non-being” is let go. That already adds refinement upon refinement; if one still stops at “not yet reaching wuwu,” it shows that “I” remain trapped inside the word “non-being,” bound by “wu,” so how could one enter that depth, emptiness, and clarity where nothing hangs on the mind? The Sutra of Complete Enlightenment says: when speaking of “non-awareness,” one must go further still—awareness that reaches non-awareness is already subtle; if one still treats “non-awareness” as not ultimate, that is exactly what is meant here by “not yet reaching wuwu,” still constrained by “non.” The earlier talk of “knowing” was to guard against people clinging to labels such as “pure,” “empty,” “beginning,” and the like; terms here such as “radiance” and “neither being nor non-being” are meant quite plainly—not as cryptic as the allegorical figures Wang Ni and Bei Yi.

Second Section (The Grand Marshal and the Hook Maker)

“Hook” means the clasp on a belt; “Grand Horse” (dama) refers to the Grand Marshal (da sima). There was an old man who spent his life pounding and forging hooks; at eighty, his hooks were off by not a hair’s breadth. The Grand Marshal asked: Is it skillful craft, or alignment with the Dao? The old man said: I have a method I hold to. From twenty I loved pounding hooks; toward everything else I simply did not look or think—not that hooks were invisible to me, but my mind stayed only on hooks and did not attend to the rest. This is the point: what seems to “use cleverness” actually borrows “non-use”; only by sustaining this over time can one keep applying it without fail. How much more so the great Dao that uses nothing and yet uses everything? Of all things under heaven, which does not depend on it?

Brief background: The first section follows the style of oral exegesis on the Zhuangzi, pairing Zhuangzi’s “wuwu” and “yaoran” (deep stillness) with the Buddhist Complete Enlightenment notion of “non-awareness,” to show that “non-being” as a concept is still not ultimate. The second section follows the same thread as “Hunchback Catching Cicadas” in the Zhuangzi, “Dacheng” chapter—guarding the one, not employing other thoughts—a typical Daoist story of how craft and the Dao meet; the Grand Marshal (da sima) in antiquity oversaw military and civil affairs, hence craftsmen in his service who made hook fittings.

Ran Qiu asked Confucius: Before there were Heaven and Earth, could one know what things were like then? Confucius said: Yes. Ancient times and the present are fundamentally the same.

Ran Qiu had not fully grasped the point and withdrew. The next day he came again and said: Yesterday I asked whether one could know anything about “before Heaven and Earth existed,” and you said, “Yes—ancient is like today.” Yesterday that seemed clear to me; today I feel confused instead. May I ask what this means?

Confucius said: Yesterday it seemed clear because the inner shen—the clear, empty, and responsive awareness in the human heart—first received the principle directly. Today you feel confused because murky qi has obscured that awareness, and you turn outward to seek, so the more you seek, the less you see. From the perspective of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) principle, there was never a fixed “ancient” and “present,” nor an absolute “beginning” and “end.” The creative transformation of the cosmos generates without cease. It is like someone who has not yet had descendants still being able to understand the principle that “there will be descendants”—one need not wait until something already exists before one can speak of knowing it.

Before Ran Qiu could reply, Confucius said: Enough—there is no need to force an answer in words. One does not define “death” by “life,” nor “life” by “death.” Birth and death depend on each other; in the last analysis they belong to one whole, one root principle (yiti)—the spontaneity of creative transformation. He also asked: Could there be something that existed before Heaven and Earth? In truth, “what gives rise to things is not itself a thing”—the level that serves as root cannot be called “a thing” in the ordinary sense. Once it is named “thing,” it already falls on the far side of Heaven and Earth, within the realm of phenomena. So “thing” cannot precede “thing”; one can only say “it is as if there were things,” layer upon layer, without end (wu yi). Commentators often praise this turn of phrase as exceptionally subtle.

The text then unfolds “ancient is like today”: when Taiji first opens, Yin and Yang divide into Heaven and Earth; Heaven and Earth operate and Yin and Yang interact in ceaseless circulation. It was so in antiquity and is so now. Hence answering “can one know before Heaven and Earth?” with “ancient is like today” means that whether Heaven and Earth are already formed or not yet shaped, the principle of movement and rest in that cycle does not change. “Shen” here means the empty, responsive awareness within our person; “not shen” means that clarity of awareness is veiled by qi. Yesterday you were bright because that empty awareness was still present and could receive directly; today you are dim because that empty awareness is absent and you seek outward, hence you do not see.

“No ancient and no present, no beginning and no end” means that in Taiji’s alternation of movement and rest, there is no moment when it is not so; creative transformation generates endlessly, as with a human body there come descendants, with the cosmos there come Yin and Yang—there is no instant of interruption. “Enough—do not answer further”: when the point is reached, it need not be put into speech. Where the word “life” appears, the word “death” appears too, because life names death; where “death” appears, “life” appears again, because death points back to life—this is how “no birth and no death” is turned in language. If birth and death are said to “depend on something,” they are still one body, one root, one principle—the naturalness of creative transformation.

“What gives rise to things is not itself a thing”: if there were another “non-thing” before Heaven and Earth, it could not be called by the ordinary name “thing”; once it is named thing, it cannot be that which is prior to Heaven and Earth. Thus it is still “there is thing,” hence “things cannot come before things—rather, it is as if there were things, without end.” The sage loves people and leaves traces one can follow; in outward form people seek from one another, and this can go on “without end,” yet what is grasped still rests in “there is thing,” without awakening to the level of “what gives rise to things is not itself a thing.”

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: “I once heard you say that one need not deliberately carry anything along, nor deliberately go out to meet anything. I would like to ask: how should we understand you—moving through the world with ease?”

Confucius said: “People of old changed outwardly along with things, yet inwardly they were not shaken. People today are pulled inwardly by things, while outwardly they pretend to be unmoved. Those who can change together with the myriad things are, at root, ‘unchanging’—not stiff and dead, but not dragged about by change either.”

“What should change and what should not? How does one accord with things, and how does one contend with them? Xiwei had his park, the Yellow Emperor his gardens, Yu of Shun his palace halls; Tang and Wu had their ancestral temples. Gentlemen of one sort—Confucians, Mohists, and the like—each cling to their master’s doctrine and attack one another with judgments of right and wrong; how much more is this true of ordinary people?”

“The sage in dealing with outer things does not harm them. When he does not harm them, they cannot harm him either. Only one who ‘harms nothing’ can truly walk with others, meet them, and go along with them—without having to make a show of seeing them off or welcoming them, yet still living together naturally.”

(Note: Names such as “Xiwei” and the places mentioned are figures and settings from legendary antiquity, as Zhuangzi often uses them to stand for power and status; “Ru” and “Mo” refer to Confucians and Mohists, each holding its own standard of right and wrong.)

“Neither holding back nor rushing to meet” means the heart does not cling to outer things: when events arise you can respond, yet you are not dragged about by them—this is external transformation (waihua). Because the outer world stirs you, you answer; inside you do not churn—this is inner non-transformation (nei buhua). So the ancients said: the ancients transformed outwardly while remaining inwardly untransformed—outside they shifted with the situation; inside they held steady.

If, in dealing with people, you constantly scheme against one another and fight in the mind day after day, that is inner transformation (neihua)—the heart is turned by circumstances. If you grind against things like blades and the inner self is enslaved, that is outer non-transformation (wai buhua)—the outside is rigid and cannot pass through. Hence: people today often transform inwardly while failing to transform outwardly—turmoil within, dull response without.

One who truly achieves inner non-transformation still responds to things outside as before. Wherever they pass, things naturally dissolve; there is neither “holding back” nor “rushing to meet,” and so they do not know transformation, nor do they know non-transformation. Transforming together with things is unified non-transformation (yi buhua); whether one settles in transformation or in non-transformation, the one who is unified in non-transformation is the mind of no-mind (wuxin zhi xin). (Here an is often read as qi, “how could.”) “Xiang mi” means grinding against each other; mi is the same as mo.

“Mo duo” (do not contend for more): do not grasp for excess or fight to win. A person of the utmost Dao must live among things without striving for more or defeating others. From Xiku, the Yellow Emperor, Shun, Tang, Wu, down to the founders of Confucian and Mohist schools—none fully penetrated the way of inner non-transformation, so they still wrangled over right and wrong (xiang xu xu). Only after the five flavors have contested with one another can one speak of “harmonizing (xu)”; the passage from Xiku through to Confucian–Mohist debate carries the sense of using the small to suppress the great.

You, pu, and palace halls: metaphors for taking some fixed pattern as a koji—a habit, a cage. “Not harming things” is transforming with things (yu wu hua); having transformed with things, things cannot harm them—meaning the heart bears no burden. Precisely because the heart bears no burden, one can mutually respond and meet (xiang jiang ying) with others—that is, the state described earlier as neither holding back nor rushing to meet, and Wuwei (non-action) yet leaving nothing undone, not treating things as things yet responding to all things—responding as needed without clinging.

Plain-Language Reading of Passages Related to Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Explanations)

Main Idea of the Scripture Passage

When people wander in mountains and forests or across open country, they often feel delight at first; before that delight has run its course, sorrow follows. When joy and grief arrive, no one can hold them back; when they leave, no one can keep them. How lamentable—people are scarcely more than inns where external things lodge for a night.

What people call “knowing” (zhi) usually means only grasping what one encounters—what meets the eye and can be seen—not what is not encountered, what lies beyond sight. What they call “ability” (neng) means only doing what one can do, not what one cannot. Not knowing and not being able are conditions no human can escape. Yet people strain to shake off what they are bound to carry— is that not also pitiful?

Supreme speech (zhiyan) in the end must set aside ordinary “talking”; supreme action (zhiwei) must set aside deliberate “doing.” If “knowing” is limited to what everyone already agrees counts as knowledge, that knowing stays shallow. Hence the line “qi zhi zhi suo zhi”—treating all that is known as on one level, in one scope—still remains narrow.

Kouyi (Commentary)

Ordinary people who go out to mountains and wild places are happy at first; after happiness comes reflection, and from reflection comes grief. Wang Xizhi’s Lanting Ji (Record of the Orchid Pavilion) uses exactly this pattern: joy because of things outside, grief because of things outside; neither coming nor going is under one’s own command—so the heart becomes a lodging house for joy and sorrow. The point is that there was never a fixed master in the first place, yet one is led about by external things.

Encounter (yu) refers to what is visible and tangible; non-encounter (buyu) to what is invisible and intangible. What is visible is mostly human affairs (renshi); what is invisible is the Way of Heaven (tiandao). What can be done belongs to the sphere of human affairs; what cannot be done belongs to what Heaven’s arrangement does not allow people to accomplish. All people under Heaven have aspects in which they do not know themselves and cannot fully realize their capacities—hence “not knowing and not being able are what humans cannot avoid.” Because people only recognize people and do not recognize Heaven, they constantly scheme and deploy cleverness, trying to evade what cannot be evaded—that is what is called lamentable.

Supreme speech is not something everyday phrasing can exhaust—hence “supreme speech departs from speech”; supreme action is not something forced effort can achieve—hence “supreme action departs from action.” Not knowing the unknowable side and taking the knowable as the whole keeps one’s view shallow. In “qi zhi zhi suo zhi,” qi means “all, every”—it refers to leveling or lumping together everything known, which still does not reach depth.

Miscellaneous Chapters: Gengsang Chu, Section Twenty-Three (Opening Fragment)

Among Laozi’s (La Dan’s) followers was a man named Gengsang Chu, who alone received the marrow of the Master’s Way and went north to dwell on Weilei Mountain. Among his disciples, those who put on airs of great “wisdom” left; among his concubines, those who put on airs of great “benevolence” also went far away. The text also contains terms such as “yongzhong” (swollen, clumsy) mixed with glosses on the character qi (“same as tong, still meaning ‘all’”)—when read straight through with the main text, these layers must be kept apart.

Note: The scripture passage at the end runs together with the opening of Gengsang Chu and commentarial glosses; the above separates what can be distinguished into readable blocks. For a continuous plain-language version from the full opening through the “yongzhong” lines, compare a standard received text of Zhuangzi.

Among Laozi’s disciples was one named Gengsang Chu, who had deeply received the Dao and went north to live on Weilei Mountain. When he first arrived, those retainers who seemed full of schemes and cleverness left; those concubines who seemed especially kind and eager to show virtue kept their distance. Only the clumsy, not very calculating people, and those who simply ran errands, stayed with him.

After three years, the Weilei region had a great harvest. The local people gathered and said: “When Gengsang Chu first came, we felt he was no ordinary man; now if we count the yield by the day it never seems enough, but by the year there is surplus—he must be a sage, mustn’t he? Why not honor him together as one honors the corpse-spirit at sacrifice, and revere him as one revere the community and grain spirits?”

When Gengsang Chu heard this, he showed no delight. His disciples were puzzled. Gengsang Chu said: “Why do you think I am different from others? When spring qi stirs, the hundred grasses grow; when autumn comes, the ten thousand things are gathered in. Do spring and autumn come from nowhere? The great Dao is already at work.”

He went on: “I have heard that the perfect person (one who has attained the Dao) can sit still in a small room like the corpse at a rite, while the people go on with their own lives, wild and free, not knowing where to turn. Yet now these petty folk of Weilei whisper among themselves, wanting to lift me up among the ‘worthy’ and honor me with sacrificial rites and vessels—am I the sort who, like a ladle (a ritual implement used and then set aside), is used by others and then discarded? So I cannot feel at ease and unburdened about what Laozi said.”

Disciples (yitú) are students and followers. Partial grasp (piāndé) and exclusive grasp (dúdé) mean each person gets only a slice, only catches one point. Serving as attendant (chén pú) means to serve and follow.

Huàrán describes something clearly outlined and distinct; jiérán suggests gentleness, compliance, and kindness. Yǒngzhǒng means clumsy and plain; yāngzhǎng, like “zhīlí,” suggests being busy and weighed down by petty tasks. Sǎrán yì zhī zhě is seeing someone free and easy, unlike ordinary people. Suì jì yǒu yú means that over time one ends up with surplus and benefit.

Shī zhù shèjì simply means respectfully performing sacrifice to the spirits of soil and grain; the four characters balance each other and all carry that sense. What follows are turns of the brush meant to stir and awaken the reader.

Facing south (nánmiàn) surely refers to sitting with one’s seat turned south. Not at ease, not glad (bù shìrán, bù lè): the heart cannot settle, and there is no joy.

That Spring and Autumn could turn out as they did was heaven’s doing—so it is not without cause that things are as they are. The Great Dao already moves (dàdào yǐ xíng yǐ): the Dao runs of itself; here the text uses “natural” and “without deliberate intent” as a likeness.

Dwelling like a corpse in a ring of walls means sitting still as a corpse in a small room; entrusting oneself to wildness and becoming one with the people means lodging in a “unruly” way and mixing with common folk; none know what they are doing—even they cannot say what they are about. Hence the people are wild and do not know why—the folk in that “wild” state likewise do not know the reason. The Great Dao already moves again says the Dao runs naturally; it is still the figure of natural, non-willed operation.

Not knowing whither to go: rú here also means “to go”—each forgets the other with the world and goes separate ways. Zǔdòu is like office and rank; sháo is a small vessel. Surely I am shallow and easy to see, so others can know me—much like the Buddhist line that one’s practice is weak and ghosts and spirits see one through.

Not at ease with Laozi’s words means the heart cannot accept what the Old Master said; fearing to fail the master’s teaching and therefore not glad—afraid of betraying the teacher’s instruction, and so unable to rejoice.

The disciple said: Not so. In an ordinary narrow ditch, a large fish cannot even turn around, while small fish and frogs swim at ease. On an earthen mound several zhang high, a great beast cannot hide its body, yet foxes and wild cats treat it as an ideal home. Besides, honoring the worthy, putting the capable in office, putting benevolence first, and sharing benefits with the many has been the pattern since the days of Yao and Shun—how much less could the people of Wei Lei be otherwise? You, sir, should hear this too.

Gengsangzi said: Young man, come here. A huge beast that could fill a whole chariot, once it leaves the mountains and forest for open ground, cannot escape nets and snares. A fish big enough to swallow a boat, if washed ashore and stripped of water, will be tormented even by ants. So birds and beasts never weary of height, and fish and turtles never weary of depth. Those who preserve the bodily form and nurture life should likewise hide themselves without wearying of depth or distance—that is all. As for those two, what is there to praise? Their way of arguing is like hacking holes in a wall to plant wormwood, cutting the hair before you comb it, or counting grains of rice before you cook—mean, petty fussing that cannot save the world. Promote the worthy and the people turn on one another; employ cleverness and the people steal from one another. Such devices are not enough to make the people secure. When people chase profit too eagerly, sons kill fathers and ministers kill lords; theft happens in broad daylight, and wall-breaking theft at high noon. I tell you: the root of great disorder must have sprouted in the age of Yao and Shun; its poison still lingers a thousand years on, and a thousand years from then there will surely be men devouring men.

First, the metaphor of the newt and the fox: though the newt is small, it can reign in an ordinary ditch; though the fox is small, it can hold sway on a hill as high as several ren. The point is that no place, however small, has what it honors and relies upon.

Next, on “goodness” and “profit”: once reputation shows itself, profit follows. Yao and Shun treated the worthy in the same way—when someone had virtue and talent, people respected him. Today, though Weilei is a small place, its respect for the worthy is the same as in antiquity; this is urging the Master to heed the local people’s intent.

In “a trough that swallows a boat,” “han” means “to swallow”; “jie” means “alone”; “dang” means to surge and rush. The image is that once a name appears in the world, it harms the body. To preserve life, keep the body whole, and reach what is called “long life and enduring vision,” one must hide the body deep—unafraid of depth, unafraid of distance—so as to stay far from the mundane world and leave no name behind.

The “two sons” are Yao and Shun. Using Yao and Shun to argue is like trying to plant grass on a wall—there is no such logic; the examples cited do not fit.

“Combing when hair is already sparse” and “cooking by counting grains of rice” describe a mind overly finicky, calculating every detail. “Promote the worthy and the people will compete,” “make cleverness the task and the people grow more deceitful,” and what “counting things” sums up—all belong to this kind of concern: the more one schemes over fame, profit, and position, the more the people contend and deceive.

“The people are very diligent about profit” means people toil too hard for livelihood and gain and live in great hardship. “Pi” is a wall; “digging holes in the wall at midday” is breaking through a wall in broad daylight—that is, robbing in daylight. The claim that after a thousand generations people will eat one another traces the great calamity of the realm back to the way of exalting the worthy and exalting names that began with Yao and Shun—not a literal curse on Yao and Shun themselves, but a critique of the long-term harm of “promoting the worthy” and “honoring names.”

(The above is a plain-language explanation of this passage of oral commentary on the Zhuangzi; proper names such as Yao, Shun, Weilei, and long life and enduring vision are kept in line with the original sense.)

Nanrong Chu, a disciple of Gengsang Chu, sat upright with a furrowed brow and said, “Someone as old as Chu—what can I still rely on to learn the Dao and truly grasp what you just said?”

Gengsang Chu replied, “Preserve your bodily form and hold fast to your life; do not let your mind churn with restless scheming and busyness. If you can do this for three years, you will be able to take in what I have said.”

Nanrong Chu said, “Eyes and the body—I see no difference between them, yet the blind cannot see themselves. Ears and the body—I see no difference, yet the deaf cannot hear themselves. Mind and body—I see no difference, yet someone in frenzy cannot find peace. Bodies resemble one another closely; is it external things that stand in between and keep them from joining? They wish to meet and merge yet cannot. You tell Chu to preserve form, hold life, and not let thoughts run wild—I can barely grasp the words on the surface.”

Gengsang Chu said, “I have said all I can say.” He added, “A bee that gathers honey cannot hatch the green larva in a bean pod; a chicken from Yue cannot hatch a swan’s egg, but a chicken from Lu can. They are all chickens—their nature is not fundamentally different. Whether they succeed or fail lies in endowment, and endowments differ in magnitude. My own endowment is small now; it is not enough to transform you. Why not go south and visit Laozi?”

This passage explains the episode in the Zhuangzi in which Nanrong Chu seeks the Dao from Gengsang Chu and Laozi.

At the outset, Nanrong Chu uses “making a living” as his pretext—meaning how he came to study. The speaker wants to follow what Gengsang Chu teaches. People share the same bodily form and broadly the same heart, ears, and eyes, so Nanrong Chu says he does not know how he differs from others. In fact everyone has this same heart; only the wildly unsettled cannot hold themselves steady, like the blind and deaf who cannot see or hear. Bi also carries the sense of opening and being unobstructed: my form and others’ forms could originally be clear and unblocked, yet I am cut off by desire for things. Trying to use the “heart” to seek the “heart” only makes it harder to attain—hence the idea of seeking from one another and not finding. He has just said he cannot obtain the heart by seeking it; the Master (Gengsang Chu) then tells him not to let anxious thoughts churn (yingying); Nanrong Chu thinks that if he strains here to hear the Great Dao, he might still get through. Commentators note that this speech has not yet truly escaped his predicament. Gengsang Chu still wants to go further in pointing him out; his words are unfinished, and he means to send him to Laozi, so he says “my words are exhausted”—a modest formula, not that he truly has nothing left to say.

Next, analogies show why Gengsang Chu cannot finish teaching him alone: the gall wasp is a tiny bee, the huoshuo is a large grub in the bean; the Yue chicken is small, the Lu chicken large, and the swan (hu) is also a large bird. A tiny wasp cannot subdue a large grub; a small hen cannot hatch a large egg—Nanrong Chu’s strength is still too slight for Gengsang Chu to “protect and transform” (fanghua: guard and guide) him by himself, so he is sent to Laozi.

Nanrong Chu carries provisions and travels seven days and seven nights until he reaches Laozi. Laozi asks: Have you come from the region of Chu? Nanrong Chu answers: Yes. The inserted lines about the “large egg” continue the same metaphor: his power is still small and he cannot fanghua on his own, so he must go to Laozi—consistent with the earlier image of the small hen and the large egg.

Nanrong Chu (Nanrong Chu) carried dry provisions and walked seven days and seven nights to reach Laozi (Laozi). Laozi said: “You came from the region of Chu (Chu), didn’t you?” Nanrong Chu replied: “Yes.” Laozi said: “Why did you arrive together with a large crowd?” Nanrong Chu started, turned, and looked behind him. Laozi said: “Don’t you grasp what I mean?” Nanrong Chu bowed his head in shame, then looked up and sighed: “A moment ago I forgot how to answer you, and I also lost the question I ought to have asked you.” Laozi asked: “What do you mean?” Nanrong Chu said: “If I do not know, others will say I am dull; if I fancy that I know, that very knowing instead burdens my body and mind. Without benevolence I would harm others, yet practicing benevolence in turn binds me; without righteousness I would injure others, yet practicing righteousness in turn entangles me. These three matters—I cannot escape them by hiding. I wished to borrow your words to seek clarity toward the land of Chu—or toward the Dao (the Way).”

Laozi said: “Just now, seeing that slight cast in your eyes and brows, I already saw through you. Now that you speak again in this way, I believe you truly are so. You are so cramped and cautious, as if in fear of your parents, yet like raising a pole and going to the sea to fish—seeking what is not within what is, adrift with nowhere to settle. You are one who has lost the original mind; confused and anxious, you wish to return to your authentic nature yet find no entrance—truly pitiable.”

(Commentary) Chu had thought he came alone to seek the Dao; Laozi says he came “together with the multitude”—just as in Buddhist teaching puts it, your breast is in turmoil. The phrase about forgetting how to answer and losing what to ask means the heart is empty and scattered, so question and answer both fall apart; strip away cleverness yet fail to be wise, and others treat you as foolish; cling to a single idea of “knowing,” and knowing becomes a load on the person. The gist is roughly: one must neither set up a deliberate mind nor deliberately set up no-mind—like the Chan saying, “this won’t do, neither will not doing this”; the same layer of meaning runs through the lines on benevolence and righteousness. The harm of “three sayings” is that doubt and meaning were originally one knot. If you… seeing that between your brows and eyes, I already knew you had not awakened; hearing your words now confirms it, hence “again speaking, I trust it is so.” “Gui gui” (gui gui) describes a shallow, narrow, cramped manner. “Raising a pole and seeking things in the sea” is searching for non-being within being, with no foothold. “Wang ren” (wang ren) is one who has lost the original mind; “wang wang” (wang wang) is sorrow without rest; “wishing to return to feeling and nature yet having no way in” is wanting to re-enter the way of natural spontaneity but being unable to enter—hence the pity.

Plain-language interpretation

Nanrong Chu asked to stay with Laozi. Following what Laozi had told him before, he tried to call back what he approved of in himself and drive out what he disliked, seeking certainty and fleeing error—yet liking and disliking still churned within him and things only grew more tangled; for ten full days he tormented himself in this way. He went to see Laozi again.

Laozi said: “You have swept and washed the heart and labored at it a long while (shu here means ‘for a long time,’ like shu, ‘ripe/mature in practice’). Yet your whole person is still downcast and unsettled, and the mind still clings with eager attachment (jinjinran)—so the ‘evil’ (clinging, defilement) is not yet fully cleared.”

“When you rely on outer binding (huo—tying things up with leather thongs), once outer affairs multiply you cannot hold them all, and you turn again to bolting the ‘inner gate’ (nei qian—forcing discipline inside, clamping the mind). When you rely on inner binding, thoughts tangle and wind on themselves (mou—interwoven, tight as silk), and you cannot seize them either, so you turn again to managing the outside (wai qian). Binding outside and binding inside, you cannot even keep the Dao and De already present in the person—how much less can you ‘release along the Dao and walk’ (fang dao er xing)? That means living by the natural principle; only the zhi ren (Perfect Person) can do it.”

(Exegesis) Huo is like restraining things with thongs; qian originally means a door bolt. Both image grasping and tightening. In facing the world outside, if you only inspect and constrain the surface, when business piles up you cannot cope—hence ‘turn to inner bolting,’ forcing effort in the heart. If inside you try to rule thought after thought, the more you wind the tighter it gets and you still cannot control it—hence ‘turn to outer bolting,’ shifting restraint back outward. When one learns the Way without the key, one either controls outside or controls inside and cannot settle either hand. Such a person cannot even hold the virtue already there, still less fang dao er xing—that is the zhi ren’s realm.

Nanrong Chu said to Laozi: In our village someone falls ill, and when neighbors ask what is wrong, the sick person can describe every symptom clearly—yet the illness remains; describing it does not cure it. If I listen to you speak of the Great Dao as I do now, I fear I may be like someone taking the wrong medicine and making the sickness worse. I do not want too much; I only wish to hear the essentials of how to “preserve the body.”

Laozi said: The essentials of preserving the body lie in these questions—Can you keep to unity (shou yi: gather spirit-mind in one place, without scattering)? Can you hold to that keeping without losing it? Can you know fortune and misfortune without resorting to divination (reading them from inner clarity and conduct in accord with measure)? Can you stop when it is time to stop? Can you be self-sufficient without chasing outward? Can you look less at others and turn back to yourself? Can you wander freely without constraint? Can you stay plain and unsophisticated like “dong”—without craft or scheming? Can you be like a little child?

A child cries all day yet the throat does not grow hoarse—that is harmony (he) pushed to the utmost. A child holds something all day yet the hand does not cramp—that is dwelling with De (Virtue/Power), not forcing strength. A child looks at things all day yet the eyes do not tire—because the heart-mind is not dragged about by outer things. Walking, the child does not fix on “where I must go”; staying, the child does not fret over “what I ought to do”—yielding to things as they come, riding the same wave as change. Taken together, these are the constant meaning of preserving the body.

Nanzheng Zhu said: When someone who is ill can still explain their condition clearly, the illness is not yet severe; when it becomes very severe, the person can no longer explain it. I now wish to hear the Great Dao, yet I do not know where my confusion lies—so deep is the obscuring. Though there is instruction, I only become more disordered; hence it is like taking medicine that makes the illness worse. Everyone here dares not ask further at random and asks only to learn the way of “guarding life.”

“Embracing the One” means holding fast to that single wholeness; “do not lose it” means what is innately given and need not be guarded against losing must still not be lost. “Knowing fortune and misfortune without divination” is when utmost sincerity can know beforehand; “able to stop, able to settle” is what Buddhists call the great rest. Abandon seeking in others and seek in oneself; do not pursue the outer but the inner. Xiaoran is the manner of being untroubled by burdens; tongran is the manner of seeming to know nothing. “Can you be like a child?” means not losing the heart of an infant. Hao is to wail, ai is the throat, sa is when the voice is dry.

Again: do not abandon seeking in oneself for seeking in others; do not pursue the outer but the inner; be xiaoran without encumbrance, tongran as if knowing nothing; can you be like an infant? An infant wails yet its voice does not dry, because it has no deliberate mind and does not harm its harmony. Nie is to bend; when a hand long clenched is opened again there is stiffness and obstruction, but a small child is not so, because it is natural—every person is originally thus. “Same” refers to virtuous nature. The eyes look without staring fixedly; though seeing, there is no fixed seeing—they still do not yet know external things; once one knows external things, one is already partial. Shun (blinking) goes with ming (closing the eyes); not knowing where one goes, at rest not knowing what one is doing—that is having no deliberate mind. Weiyi is yielding and following: whether walking or at rest, in movement one follows and flows with things; “same wave” means going along with things together. This can serve as the constant of guarding life; hence it is said, “this is the classic of guarding life.”

Nanrong Chu asked: “In that case, is that the virtue of the person of utmost attainment?”

The answer: No. What was just described is only what is called the stage of “ice thawing and shackles loosening”—like ice melting and bonds falling away; that is still not true completion.

People of utmost attainment eat together on the earth and take their joy together under heaven. They are not stirred up against one another by human affairs, external things, or gain and loss. They do not join others in odd antics, scheming, or busy worldly tasks. Coming and going, they seem quite at ease, and also somewhat absent-minded—this is called preserving life and nourishing the body, the constant way that accords with nature.

Nanrong Chu asked again: “Does that count as having reached the top?”

The answer: Not yet. I told you long ago: Can you be like an infant? When an infant moves, it does not know what it is doing; when it walks, it does not know where it is going. The body is like a withered branch; the mind is like cold ashes. When you reach this, misfortune will not seek you out, and fortune will not specially arrive—when blessing and calamity are both beside the point, you are free from disaster brought by “fortune and misfortune”; but there is still disaster brought by “people.”

(“Person of utmost attainment” [zhì rén] means one whose cultivation is extremely high and who is united with the Dao; “ice thawing and shackles loosening” [bīng jiě dòng shì] metaphorically describes a first step out of fixation and rigidity; “constant way of preserving life” [wèi shēng zhī jīng] refers to the fundamental principle of nurturing life and following nature.)

In Zhuangzi Kouyi (Zhuangzi Oral Explication), Nanrong Chu first asks about the ordinary methods of “preserving life”—a question on a secondary level. After hearing Laozi’s reply he finds it wonderful and turns to ask about “the De (Virtue/Power) of the zhi ren (supreme person).” The question arises quite naturally, yet Laozi again says “No”—in fact because he fears Chu will fix his mind on this level and turn it into another fixed formula, much as in Buddhist teaching “the place where you stand is not the real.” Bing jie dong shi (ice thawing and melting) is a metaphor for mental knots loosening and understanding coming freely; it is not offering yet another new answer.

Zai di yu ren tong chi means eating together with others on the ground—living among people like everyone else; yu tian tong jiao le means sharing joy with Heaven—one’s state of mind in accord with the Dao of Heaven. Jiao is mutual coming-and-going; tong is unity. Xiang ying xiang chu is not deliberately avoiding people or setting oneself apart; wei guai wei yi is not deliberately acting strange or eccentric; bu wei mou is having no scheming mind; bu wei shi is leaving no trace of “I am doing something.” Laozi says: These are the “jing (constant path) of wei sheng (preserving life).” What came before spoke of the zhi ren; here it speaks of wei sheng—so preserving life is precisely what the zhi ren quietly does in ordinary life.

Looking back from here, that earlier “No” clearly was not blocking the path but keeping him from clinging to the letter. Chu listens and asks again: then this must be the zhi Dao (supreme Way)? Laozi again says “Not yet.” Since he says “not yet,” one would expect a new topic—yet he picks up again the line about “being able to be a son”—so “not yet” likewise is not shutting the door but not saying everything, so the person may realize for themselves.

Huo fu wu you means going beyond the opposition of fortune and misfortune; ren zai is harm brought by worldly human affairs. Already outside fortune and misfortune, distant from the vulgar world—how could those worldly disasters still apply? Again and again “No” and “Not yet”—unwilling to lay out every detail, only pointing partway, so one may awaken by oneself—a method often seen in Chan (Zen).

Yu tai ding is the inner being vast and settled; fa hu tian guang is the light of one’s xing (nature) issuing naturally. People see the person; one who has cultivated has already left dust and the ordinary—whence those worldly calamities? Again using “No” and “Not yet,” the intent is the same: not explaining everything, only opening a door.

On “vast peace within” and constancy

When the heart is broad and settled in calm, “heaven’s light” arises from within—that is, a state of sincerity and clarity. Hence the saying: When the inner expanse is vast and still, heaven’s light appears of itself.

Once heaven’s light appears, others may still treat you as an ordinary person, but inwardly you are already one with Heaven. “You xiu” (having cultivation) refers to those who truly cultivate virtue and the Way; when such people manifest heaven’s light, they gain “you heng”—constancy without change, that is, utmost sincerity sustained over time.

With utmost sincerity that endures, Heaven assists them and people turn toward them. “She” here means to rely upon or take refuge in: those whom people rely upon are called “tian min” (people of Heaven)—those aligned with the Way, not ordinary folk in the usual sense; those whom Heaven supports are called “tian zi” (Son of Heaven)—those cherished by Heaven, as a parent cherishes a child.

Learning, practice, and disputation all leave traces that can be followed; only what learning cannot learn, practice cannot practice, and disputation cannot dispute is what is naturally so. For human knowing, to stop at the point of what cannot be known is to reach the limit—hence it is said “zhi yi” (the utmost).

“Tian jun” (Heaven’s balance) refers to creation and nature’s equilibrium. If someone “bu ji shi”—does not assent, is wrong, or insists on going against it—they depart from the principle of creation and transformation; this is called “tian jun bai zhi” (Heaven’s balance is spoiled): the natural order is disrupted and falls out of harmony.

On providing for things and the Lingtai

Provide outward things to settle the bodily form; hide what cannot be fathomed to nourish spirit and mind. With inward reverence and centeredness, one can penetrate “that side”—outer circumstances and the great Way. If one can do this, when myriad evils arrive, one should also understand that much belongs to Heaven’s mandate and is not entirely a matter of human affairs; there is no need to shake the character already achieved.

These truths cannot be stuffed into the Lingtai by intellect alone. The Lingtai (Spirit Tower) is where mind and spirit dwell: it seems to have a master, yet one cannot say clearly what it masters; that mastery cannot be forcibly grasped or held—one can only keep to the center and follow nature, not fix it as a single object.

Summary

This oral teaching explains: inner stability lets heaven’s light arise; those who cultivate the Way gain constancy, then people turn to them and Heaven helps them. Learning, practice, and disputation must have a stopping point, returning to the awareness of “what cannot be known.” To violate natural balance is to spoil it. What follows—that form and spirit are both complete, reverence and center reach the other shore, evil may come from Heaven yet need not disturb the mind, and the Lingtai has a hold yet cannot be clutched—are all in Zhuangzi’s consistent vein of releasing fixation, following Heaven, and holding to the center.

Bei wu means having the principles of all things in ten thousand phenomena fully prepared; yet the principles of all things are already complete within “me.”

Jiang xing means letting the bodily form appear according to the inherent course of life.

Bu yu, bu jidu, bu silü: not worrying in advance, not scheming and plotting, and not turning things over repeatedly in the mind.

When the heart withdraws and hides in the realm where “there is no need to deliberate,” it can still respond naturally to things and circumstances as they arise—this is what Buddhism calls “generating the mind without abiding anywhere.”

Cun yu zhong zhe jing: what is kept within is jing (reverent attentiveness); ze ying yu wai zhe wu bu tong: in outward response, nothing is blocked. This matches the meaning in the Yizhuan (Commentary on the Book of Changes): “With reverence, straighten the inner; with righteousness, square the outer”—use reverence to set the inner right, use righteousness to regulate outward conduct.

Da means penetrating clarity; bi refers to those matters out there in the external world.

Wan e here does not mean evil in general, but unpleasant, unwelcome encounters—things that do not go as one wishes.

If what I usually do and accomplish has already reached this level, yet all sorts of unwelcome things still befall me, that should be attributed to Heaven’s arrangement, not to some obvious fault in human affairs that invited them. Since that is so, how could it be enough to disturb the undivided, whole virtue in my breast? Hence it is said: it is all Heaven’s doing, not something human beings can fully control. It cannot disturb the already undivided lingtai (the platform of the spirit, the seat of mind and spirit).

Xin ye bu na yu lingtai: the heart does not take external things into the lingtai; wai wu bu ru qi xin: external things do not enter the heart. Because external things do not enter the heart, they cannot slip (disturb) that undivided wholeness.

You chi zhe means that in the heart there is a master, a footing. Bu zhi qi suo chi zhe: though there is a master, one does not treat that master as something to clutch and hold fast—only then can one expand and merge with transformation (transform together with transformation, not fixed on any one thing).

Bu ke chi zhe: if one still holds fast to something and refuses to let go, that shows one has not yet transformed—one is still resisting “transformation.”

This sentence uses the word “chi” (hold, maintain) three times in a row; the teaching is extremely fine-grained and must not be skimmed over lightly.

This passage is saying again: someone who is not yet good at cultivating themselves rushes to act outwardly—that is “reckless emission” (wangfa). When one emits recklessly, nothing is done rightly; once stuck in a certain karma (a settled situation, habit, or line of work), knowing it is wrong yet unwilling to change, one is ashamed of the fault yet changes in the wrong direction. Each change of approach only adds error to error—hence “each change becomes a loss.”

When what one does is not good, in broad daylight people will hold one accountable; in hidden, dark places, “ghosts” (in folk belief, spirits that watch what is done in secret) can also reprove. Between the hidden and the manifest, nothing can be slipped through. Only when a person understands that others see and that spirits also observe will they truly “walk alone”—that is the meaning in the Yizhuan (Commentary on the Changes): “Nothing is more visible than what is hidden, nothing more manifest than what is subtle; therefore the noble person is careful in solitude.” Walking alone is carefulness in solitude: the same in private as in a public hall. These lines fit the scripture’s context as well.

“Those within the coupon act in namelessness; those outside the coupon set their minds on scheduled fees”: those who act “within the coupon” (within one’s allotted role, contract, or proper bounds) only seek to keep their place, not chase empty fame—and often a little true light can show through; those “outside the coupon” calculate scheduled profit and fixed charges, like merchants. Others see them on tiptoe, flaunting themselves as if superior, but they are like people dragged poor by external things—externals fill them up instead. Those who compromise with things cannot even settle themselves—how can they make room for others? Without making room for others there is no closeness; without closeness one falls into the state of “all people gone” (everyone leaves, universal estrangement).

Plain-language reading of this passage in Zhuangzi kouyi (oral explication)

What is sought “within the tally” stays inside one’s proper place—like Mencius’s “seek and you will find it,” seeking on the inner side. Someone with no title to begin with cannot have a name pinned on them from outside. “Outside the tally” means seeking outward; a mind turned entirely outward cares only for spending and consumption—in plain terms, seeking for self-interest.

“Only the ordinary truly has light”: the everyday is where real brightness lies. “Ordinary” (yong) means the constant; “light” is what is always there. To abandon oneself and seek outside, with the mind fixed on gain, is the merchant’s mindset—hence “only the merchant.” “Qí” (standing on tiptoe, loftily self-important): seeing others outwardly rich or noble, better than oneself, and taking them as toweringly worthy, not seeing that one chases material desire head to tail until exhaustion— the person is swallowed by things, hence “exhausted with things”: things swallow the person. “Qiě” (make-do, opportunistic): chasing outer objects, settling for petty gains, even at the cost of body and life without regret—hence “make-do with things,” not even room for oneself; when the self is not held, others cannot be held either. Unable to hold others, there is no closeness; without closeness, the human way is cut off—hence “one without kin exhausts humanity,” utterly severed from people. Reading these lines shows how Zhuangzi refuses to treat worldly ritual and law as the supreme standard.

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There is no “weapon” sharper than zhì (fixed intent/will); even the famed swords Moye and Ganjiang rank below it. There is no “bandit” larger than yin-yang—between Heaven and Earth no one escapes it; yet it is not yin-yang that harms people, but the heart’s clinging that makes yin-yang into harm. This is the meaning of “going out like scorching fire, coming in like congealing ice.” These two lines cut closest in the work of the heart-mind: if the heart is even and calm, how can yin-yang injure you? Hence “it is not yin-yang that plunders; when it is in the heart, the heart deploys them.”

“The Dao passes through division; what is completed is also destroyed.” Completion and destruction are originally two matters, yet split into opposing sides; seen through the Dao, they are in fact one and the same—hence “the Dao passes through division.” Once the heart-mind divides “self” and “other,” the partial side always tries to assemble and monopolize everything—hence “division tends toward completeness.” People dislike “completeness” because inwardly they cling to “having,” using possession to seek wholeness.

“Going forth without returning—one meets ghosts; going forth and claiming gain—this is called gaining death.” Responding only outward and not knowing how to turn back sinks one into the ghostly realm. The commentary says: one who can meet outer affairs yet reflect inward is virtuous (de); with de one can become spirit (shen), can become heaven. Chasing outer conditions without inner return drifts into ghostly paths—hence “going forth without returning, one meets ghosts.” What Buddhism calls “making a living in the ghost cave” is exactly this. When the heart does not fix on right and wrong, it stays alive; when it freezes on right and wrong and cannot dissolve, the heart dies. To “go forth” outward and call it “gain” is the wrong view of self-attained gain; Discourse on Equalizing Things says “a heart near death cannot be revived”—that is the point.

“Extinguishing yet holding the real—one kind of ghostliness. Using the formed to image the formless and thereby settle.” To extinguish principle yet grasp the formed as the real is one mode of ghostly path. In the notes, “real” (shi) means the true principle within heaven and earth: without deliberate mind there is emptiness; in emptiness there is realness. If private mind extinguishes principle yet treats what “is” as the real, human and ghost walk the same road—hence “extinguishing yet holding the real—one kind of ghostliness.” Ghostly path and ruin both come from private mind extinguishing principle, greedily holding all that exists, not knowing empty-yet-real fullness. If one can regard the formed as nearly formless, seeing principle is settled. “Image” (xiang) means to compare or liken; Buddhism says “only empty all that is possessed; do not solidify all that is not”—that is the sense.

“Emergence has no root; entry has no opening; there is the real yet no place to dwell.” “Emergence” (chu) is the beginning of the myriad things—the root is there yet cannot be fully known, hence “emergence has no root.” “Entry” (ru) is their end—though one knows there is an end, one cannot see where they enter, hence “entry has no opening.” Real principle exists, yet there is no concrete locale where one can seek it, hence “there is the real yet no place to dwell.”

First section (general account of “Yu” and “Zhou”)

There is something continuous yet without visible beginning or end (ben, start; piao, end). It has a source and a function, yet unlike a vessel it has no fixed opening; it is real, yet has no fixed place to point to—this is what is meant by Yu (space: the four directions and above and below).

There is also something continuous with no visible head or tail—this is what is meant by Zhou (time: past and future).

(Phrases in the scripture such as “where it enters” speak from the side of “entering and leaving.”) Hence it is called real though without an opening: the principle clearly exists, yet one cannot find a direction or location to pursue, so it is said wuhu chu (no fixed abode).

Second section (birth, death, entering, leaving, and the “Heavenly Gate”)

There is birth, there is death; there is going out, there is coming in. Between entering and leaving one cannot see its form—this is called the Heavenly Gate (Tiānmén, the portal through which creation passes, the pass of nature).

Commentary on the three sentences above

“You chang er wuhu ben piao” and the following two sentences

Principle (li, the inherent order of things) is so through ten thousand ages past and present; hence you chang (it has length/duration). Yet one cannot see its start or finish, hence wuhu ben piao—ben is beginning, piao is end. Laozi says “empty yet not exhausted; in motion it ever pours forth”: though it constantly produces, it is inexhaustible; it can “go out” without being crushed because its opening is empty; precisely because it is empty, it becomes real, hence there is going forth yet no opening, yet there is reality. Here “entering and leaving” are one matter (different ways of stating the same principle).

Yu means the four directions and above and below; the Dao has no fixed location—all directions and heights and depths lie within it, so it is called Yu. “The kite flies heavenward, the fish leaps in the deep” means there is nowhere above or below that is not pervaded. Past and future are called Zhou; the Dao comes and goes through ten thousand years yet is always thus—this is Zhou.

Birth is “going out,” death is “entering”; birth and death, exit and entry each have their source, yet one cannot see the trace of creation—that is the subtlety of creation. Heavenly Gate means creation and nature; because the text above speaks of “entering and leaving,” what follows uses the word “gate.”

The passage “Heavenly Gate is you-wu”

Heavenly Gate is you-wu (not “there is nothing at all,” but that primordial state that transcends the opposition of being and non-being). The ten thousand things are born from you-wu; you (being) cannot take “being” as the ultimate ground that produces “being”—it must arise from you-wu; and this you-wu is again one you-wu (pure unity, undifferentiated you-wu), hence you-wu, one you-wu. In the Qi Wu Lun (“Discourse on Making Things Equal”), “there was not yet having begun to have” and “there was not yet having begun not to have” express the same idea.

Cang (to conceal) is to retreat and hide in what is secret; the sage’s mind dwells in this you-wu, hence cang hu shi (concealed herein).

Section One (On the Levels of “Knowing” and the Analogy of Zhao, Jing, and Jia)

In antiquity, grasping the Dao had levels of depth. The deepest held that “there was never any fixed, unchanging ‘thing’” in the first place—whoever reaches this level has gone as far as one can go; nothing can be added above it. One step shallower, people admit there are “things,” and then treat living as a temporary lodging (like an inn) and death as returning to the root—already fallen into “having distinctions.” Still shallower is the view that “at first there was not-being, and only later came being”; once there is birth, before long there is death—taking not-being as the head, birth as the body, and death as the tail. Who can treat “being and not-being, death and life” as one and the same holding without splitting them? Such a person I would be glad to befriend.

The three realms just described differ, yet are like branches from one clan: the Zhao and Jing families rose through holding office; the Jia family rose through holding a fief. Dai here means holding a post. Zhao, Jing, and Jia are surnames, yet all belong to the ducal house of Chu. The earlier line “though the three differ, they share the ducal house” closes below with the four characters “not one”—meaning that names and roles differ, but the root is still the same.

Section Two (“Fang” and Equalizing Things)

At the level where “things are not yet,” birth and death, beginning and end, originally have no separation; only further down do names like “death” and “birth” appear. Fang here means inn, temporary stay. What Equalizing Assessments of Things speaks of is knowing lodging but not knowing return; taking “birth” as fang (lodging) is lodging in heaven and earth. Taking “death” as fan (return) speaks of going back to what is genuinely so: birth is temporary stay, death is return to joy. Once there is a split between birth and death, one is already in “having things”—hence “therefore the split is already there.”

Section Three (The Three Levels, Closings, and Wording)

Highest: no thing—like the undivided moment before Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) separates. Next: there are things—Yin and Yang have already parted. Still next: one says there is “birth”; with birth comes “I”; though one knows there is “I,” one still treats death and life, not-being and being as one—knowing the distinction yet knowing the root does not divide. These three layers have an order, yet none has left the Dao. Like the ducal house further dividing into the three surnames Zhao, Jing, and Jia—the root is still one family. The line above, “though the three differ, they share the ducal house,” closes at “not one”; Zhao and Jing “attach” through office, Jia through a fief. Dai is holding office. Though Zhao, Jing, and Jia are not one surname, all are Chu ducal kin. Ending with “not one” is a device that carries “birth” from above and cuts off below while the sense still connects—a turn of phrasing often noted in oral commentary.

“Yan” and “Shifting the ‘This’”

Once there is “having life,” one becomes yan (darkened, unclear—here obscured understanding), and “springs up” with talk of “shifting the shi (this/right)”—this is the line of argument about “shifting yes-and-no.” Even so, what lies within is still not easy to fathom.

Yan yan (dark blotches and patches on the face) and fu di hei (blackening at the bottom of the pot) both stand for Qi that has stagnated and turned into illness. Heaven-and-earth Qi gathers to form the human body; this kind of ailment is yuanqi (primordial Qi) not flowing smoothly. The earlier line that “to live is yin yi Qi” (the Qi of stifled groaning and sighing) means the same thing: human life is originally one and the same Qi, yet people insist on splitting it apart—hence “piran” (as if splitting open): pi means to divide. Once divided, each side guards its own private interest; guarding private interests, each side claims its own “rightness.” What counts as “right,” however, keeps shifting—it moves and cannot stay fixed. Over there is one set of right-and-wrong; over here is another, in the same spirit as the Qi Wu Lun (Discourse on the Equality of Things), with “yi shi” (shifting what one calls “this” or “right”) singled out here. “What ought not be said” means one should not speak lightly; in the human world much ought to stay unsaid, and once spoken it falls into selfishness. Though each person has a “rightness,” what they take as “right” is not stable—so the text says: though there is “rightness,” it cannot be treated as absolute, dependable knowledge.

At la (the year-end la sacrifice), the sacrificial animal offers pi (omasum, “beef tripe”) and gai (parts such as the toes)—described as “may be dispersed” yet “may not be dispersed”: in la sacrifice the beast is slaughtered and its viscera and limbs are cut apart and laid on the zu (sacrificial board)—that is “may be dispersed”; yet the victim was originally one whole animal, and as a whole it cannot be scattered—that is “may not be dispersed.” Human “rightness” is the same: it shifts and will not stay put. Naming only tripe among the five viscera and only gai among the four limbs follows the classical pattern of citing one instance to stand for the whole.

Guan shi (viewing a single room): to see the room you must also see the qin (sleeping place), miao (ancestral shrine), and yan (place of rest)—this example illustrates “yi shi.” One room, under different uses, is called sleeping quarters, shrine, or resting place; the names differ yet all belong to that one space. If you call it simply “room,” inside it are still qin, miao, yan, and other names—just like “yi shi”: names and reality fail to match and cannot be fixed. These two sentences use room-names to mirror “yi shi.” Ju means to give an example. From la sacrifice and guan shi, the “rightness” people uphold is always yi (shifted) “rightness,” and therefore cannot be nailed down. Hence: when people hoist various labels and designations, they are demonstrating “yi shi.”

This passage explains what Zhuangzi means by yi shi (“shifting what counts as ‘right’”).

Yi shi, in broad terms, means that people take what they themselves deem correct as the only standard and judge everything by it. Once that inner “this is right” is fixed, they treat preserving their own life and interests as the root, trust only their own kind of knowing, and treat it as their teacher; then they pit that standard against others’ right-and-wrong—and ask which side is mere reputation and which is fact. The line “guo you ming shi” (“is there really name and reality?”) means: name and reality are not necessarily fixed the way people assume; what I think is right is not automatically what is real.

“Yin yi ji wei zhi, shi ren yi wei ji jie” (“Taking oneself as the standard and making others treat one’s norms as their rule”) says: people make themselves the measure and want everyone else to live by their rules; for that they may even “yin yi si chang jie” (“use death to pay for keeping one’s principles”)—they would rather die than abandon their own set of views. Then, among serving in office versus withdrawing, success versus hardship, wisdom versus foolishness, honor versus disgrace get sorted out: being employed and thriving counts as clever and famous; not being used and being poor counts as foolish and shamed. Zhuangzi says “yi shi, jin zhi ren ye” (“yi shi is what people today are like”)—this habit of moving the standard to “only I am right” is how ordinary people of the time behaved.

Later the text uses the image from Xiaoyao You (Free and Easy Wandering): the cicada and the little dove mock the great peng bird—short-sighted, yet sure they are right. People who yi shi do not understand those who have grasped the great Way, yet they blame and ridicule them; they are in the same class as the cicada and the dove. Cicada and dove share the same narrow view; people today share it with cicada and dove—hence “tong yu tong” (“sameness with sameness”): everyone affirms the same narrowness together.

In short: kou yi (the oral/explanatory meaning) is saying that the world’s habit of taking self as standard, clinging to right-and-wrong, and dividing honor and disgrace matches the structure of what Zhuangzi criticizes as yi shi; and by having the cicada and dove mock the peng, it shows that this attitude is no different in scope from the short-sighted figures in the peng story.

On the Metaphor of “Stepping on Someone’s Foot”

Walking through a market, if you accidentally step on someone’s foot, they often brush it off with words like “I was being reckless and arrogant”—in truth they are afraid you will be angry.

If an older brother steps on a younger brother’s foot, a few soothing words usually suffice; there is no need for a formal apology—brotherhood is close, and ceremony is unnecessary.

If parents step on a child’s foot, even comforting words may be omitted—when family affection is at its deepest, each side naturally trusts the other, and extra words are superfluous.

On the Lines “Extreme Ritual Does Not Regard the Person…”

• Extreme ritual does not regard the person (zhiren): When ritual reaches its utmost, there is no longer a split between “you” and “me”; even bowing and yielding are forgotten.
• Extreme righteousness does not depend on things: When righteousness reaches its utmost, one need not measure what should be done by external goods.
• Extreme wisdom does not plot: When wisdom reaches its utmost, there is no need to rack the mind with schemes.
• Extreme benevolence shows no partiality: When benevolence reaches its utmost, there is no trace of deliberately “being good to” someone in particular.
• Extreme fidelity dispenses with gold pledges: Bi means to exclude; when trust reaches its utmost, there is no need to pledge with gold and jade as security.

The stepping-on-the-foot image is a lead-in to what follows on the five—ritual, righteousness, wisdom, benevolence, and fidelity (xin).

The “Four Sixes” and Cultivating the Heart

• Nobility, wealth, prominence, severity, reputation, and profit—these six stir up ambition (bo zhi).
• Composure, movement, complexion, breath, principle, and intention—these six disturb the inner heart (miu xin).
• Aversion, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—these six weigh down virtue (lei de).
• Leaving, approaching, taking, giving, knowing, and ability—these six block the great Dao (sai dao).

These four groups of six, if they are not churning back and forth in the breast, the heart can be upright; upright, it can be still; still, it can be clear; clear, it can be empty; empty, one can practice Wuwei (non-action), and within Wuwei one naturally accomplishes without striving (wu bu wei)—what needs to be done still gets done, without forced effort.

On the “Six Harms” and Cultivating the Heart

“Che” and “che” (two homographs) both mean to withdraw or remove. “Xian” is to show off; “hua” is showiness. “Yan” is severity; “wei” is imposing presence. “Bo zhi” means that these six kinds of situation (showing off, showiness, severity, imposing air, and the rest in the same cluster) disturb and betray the heart’s original aim. “Dong” is action; “li” is principle; “ci” is speech. “Miu xin” means these six things entangle and tie up the heart. “Lei de” means that when desire outweighs what is genuine, it drags you down from resting in De (Virtue/Power). “Zhi” is cleverness and scheming mind; “neng” is talent and skill; “sai dao” means blocking the openings through which one connects with the Dao (the Way). “Dang dang” is a restless, unsettled heart. Remove these four groups—six harms in all: bo zhi, miu xin, lei de, and sai dao—and the chest will not be churned up by them. That is what cultivation and inner work should focus on.

The Dao, De, Xing, and “Zhi” (Knowing)

The Dao is what De ought to reverently hold to and follow. “Sheng” is the radiance when De comes forth. “Xing” is the nature one receives as one’s own. “Zhi” is the plain face of that nature. Once xing stirs, it appears as “wei” (doing); when wei slips into artificial doing, it is called “shi” (loss, straying from the natural). Treating “zhi” as answering and responding, and then pushing it into plotting, is all cleverness issuing from xing. Here “zhi” is not used exactly as in the Lunyu or Mencius—when reading Zhuangzi, follow Zhuangzi’s own thread; do not nail every word to a single dictionary sense.

An infant looks at things without the idea “I am looking”—that is called “ni” (a sidelong glance, seeing without clinging to seeing). The wise person treats what they do not know as if known, also like the infant’s “ni”—this matches “the wise person acts as one who has nothing to do”: every move arises from “bu de yi” (unavoidable necessity, not forced by private desire). That is called De, and also “wang wo” (forgetting the self). Within forgetting the self, all doing still comes from the true self—that is what is meant by “the formless within form, form within the formless” (keeping the formless true within the bodily form, and letting that formless true show in bodily action).

Yi, the Sage, the “Quan Ren” (Complete Person), and “Tian” (Heaven/Nature)

Hou Yi was skilled at hitting the bull’s-eye but not at keeping people from boasting. The sage is skilled at following tian (what is naturally so) but not at pandering to people (worldly reputation). Only the quan ren (complete person) can be finely attuned to tian and still be at ease among human affairs. “Only insects can be insects; only insects can be tian”—insects live purely as insects do, and thereby live purely as tian gives them to live. The quan ren does not hate tian, nor hate the tian-nature in human beings; still less need one play favorites between “my tian” and “people’s (worldly) tian.” (That is: do not treat following nature and getting along with people as opposites—the complete person can join both.)

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

Section 1

“Fang” here means miao (subtle, refined skill). When an archer hits the bull’s-eye and reaches that level of finesse, it is called zhongfang (hitting the mark with refined skill).

However divine Yi the Archer may be, he cannot stop others from praising him; likewise, even a sage cannot escape the reputation the world pins on him.

Someone “gong hu tian” (aligned with Heaven) is a person who carries the Way of Heaven through to the end. … (The base text is damaged here; the gist is: what goes beyond “Heaven”—how much more so the split between “human” and “Heaven”?)

“Liang” (read like liang, “good at”) means “skilled”: someone skilled at being human can hide in the crowd and not show off.

“Quan ren” (whole person) means someone whose virtue is complete.

Section 2

When a sparrow flies into Hou Yi’s range, he is sure to hit it—that is his power. If you treat the whole world as one great cage, the sparrow has nowhere to escape.

So King Tang used the role of a kitchen servant to “cage” and win Yi Yin; Duke Mu of Qin used five sheepskins to “cage” and win Baili Xi. The point: unless you cage someone by what they truly want, you will not get them—and those who can be got are no exception.

“Jie zhe” means someone whose limbs are nimble; “hua” means a painter. They stand outside ordinary praise and blame. Xu Li, a man under punishment, is not afraid on a height because he has already set life and death aside.

(The story of Hou Yi shooting the sparrow) is not mainly about how well he shoots; it leads into the idea of “taking the world as the cage.”

Section 3

“Fu” is return and cycle, like the doctrine of return in the Yijing. “Xi” is to drill until it is second nature. “Bu kui” is not handing leftovers to others casually.

(Through such repeated practice) you forget others; go further and forget the opposition between “me” and “others”—then you can be called a “tian ren” (Heaven-and-human person).

So: being honored without special joy, being insulted without anger—only someone united with “tian he” (Heaven’s harmony) can do that.

Anger on the surface really comes from “non-anger”; action on the surface really comes from wuwei (non-action).

If you want quiet, first level the breath; if you want concentration, let the mind follow smoothly—that is “you wei” (deliberate doing). If you want to act aptly, follow “bu de yi” (when there is no other choice)—moving only when compelled; that is the sage’s way.

Whether they respect me or insult me, I do not take it to heart—when others honor me, I do not become especially pleased; when others slight me, I do not become angry. This is what Zhuangzi meant: When the whole world praises you, you do not try harder; when the whole world condemns you, you do not become more discouraged.

“Harmony with Heaven” (Tianhe) is the great harmonious Qi (vital energy) that the Creator endows; being one with “Harmony with Heaven” means being united with this great harmony. Though anger appears outwardly, inwardly there is no anger, so when others insult me, I do not take it as truly being “provoked”—still the same line: When the whole world praises you, you do not try harder; when the whole world condemns you, you do not become more discouraged.

“Harmony with Heaven” is still the creative harmony of the Maker; being one with Harmony with Heaven means being one with it. Though anger appears, there is no anger within means: the anger that shows itself originally comes from “no anger”—it is natural expression, not deliberately manufactured anger. Use this line to contrast with the next—

The Perfect Person (Zhiren) appears in the world and acts, yet in the mind holds no fixed views and no private agenda; though acting, it is also Wuwei (non-action). What they do arises naturally from Wuwei itself—precisely Wuwei and yet nothing left undone (Wuwei er wu buwei).

Lin Xiyi again uses different wording to stress: To be still, you must first let Qi settle; if Qi is not settled, you cannot be still. To preserve Shen (spirit) whole, you must first follow the original mind without obstruction; if the mind moves even slightly, Shen is not whole. Whenever you deliberately act and want to act appropriately, you must follow the situation, and only when there is no alternative does a single thought arise—“no alternative” (budeyi) means responding without deliberate intent; responding to affairs without deliberate intent is the way of the sage, so it is said “no alternative” is the way of the sage.

How does the wording of this chapter differ from the inner chapters? Some say the outer chapters are coarse and the inner chapters refined—that is a misunderstanding.

This passage comes from the “Xu Wugui” chapter of the Zhuangzi, together with a kind of oral commentary, and tells how Xu Wugui visited King Wuhou of Wei and how the metaphors of “judging dogs” and “judging horses” work.

Xu Wugui Visits King Wuhou of Wei

Nü Shang introduced Xu Wugui to King Wuhou. The king comforted him, saying: You must have had a hard time—suffering in the mountains and forests—and now you have kindly come to see me. Xu Wugui said: It is rather I who worry for you; what need is there for you to take trouble on my account? If you indulge sensual desires and feed likes and dislikes, the disposition of nature and life (xingming) will by itself fall out of balance and illness will follow; if you suppress sensual desires and forcibly restrain likes and dislikes, ears and eyes will also fail to function normally—both paths are a kind of sickness. It is I who have come to worry for you; you need not exert yourself for my sake. For a moment the king stepped outside the words and did not reply. After a while Xu Wugui said: I once told you about judging dogs: the lowest sort stop as soon as they are full—that is “li de” (a temperament like the raccoon-dog, caring only to eat its fill); the middling sort fix their gaze as if staring at the sun, unmoving; the highest sort seem “as if they had lost half their spirit”—alive yet like dead, still yet as if absent—and for that reason rank highest.

The oral commentary explains: when sensual desires overflow and likes and dislikes are displayed openly, the “disposition of nature and life” (the inherent order of vital being) is harmed; when one only rejects sensual desires and pan (forcibly drags and restrains) likes and dislikes, ears and eyes at once lose their normal state—both are illness. “Pan” means to pull along or constrain by force. Lower-grade dogs are like raccoon-dogs, concerned only with being fed; middling ones “look at the sun” by gazing upward without blinking; the highest “as if losing half the self” resembles the “wooden cock” in the Zhuangzi—outwardly dull as a wooden bird, inwardly with spirit gathered and concentrated—hence called the highest grade.

Judging Horses Surpasses Judging Dogs

Xu Wugui went on: My way of judging dogs is still not as good as my way of judging horses. When I judge horses: what is straight fits the plumb line, what is curved fits the hook, what is square fits the carpenter’s square, what is round fits the compass—that is a “state horse” (a fine horse chosen within one realm), but it is still not the “horse of the world.” The horse of the world completes its native endowment: it seems guarded yet seems unmoored, as if half absent, able to leap beyond tracks and leave the dust behind, with no one knowing where it stops. The king heard this, greatly pleased, and laughed.

In plain terms: choosing horses to govern a state looks at whether outward form meets standard measure; the horse of the world goes beyond measure—spirit and intent elusive, so swift that even chasing the dust cannot catch it. This belongs to the same line of thought as the highest dog “as if losing half the self”: a cultivation ideal of holding the center while forgetting outward form—not a technical manual on training dogs or horses.

First section

When the text speaks of whether a horse conforms to “rules and measures” (standards such as compass and square) and to “constraints” and “ink lines” (guidelines and straightedges), it is saying that the body and every part fit the proper proportions—hence the analogies of square, circle, curve, and straight line; there is no need to read those words as literally about a horse. “Cheng cai” (becoming timber / having the right stuff) means the inborn nature one already has. “Ruo fang ruo shi” in the passage describes a stifled, dazed state of mind; “sang qi yi” and “wang qi yi” mean losing a part, letting something slip away; “bu zhi qi suo qu” and “bu zhi qi suo zhi” mean neither knowing where one is going nor where one will stop—all of this is metaphor, not a literal description of a horse. Marquis Wu of Wei grasped the point about wu xin (no deliberate mind) and letting things follow ziran (spontaneous nature), so he was very pleased and laughed.

Second section (Xu Wugui explains again)

“Ruo fang ruo shi” is still that muffled, absent-minded condition; “sang qi yi” and “wang qi yi” still mean losing part of oneself; “bu zhi qi suo qu” and “bu zhi qi suo zhi” still mean that both destination and stopping place are unclear—again, all metaphor. The marquis took in the message of wu xin and naturalness, and was greatly delighted and laughed.

Third section

After Xu Wugui came out, Nü Shang asked: How did you alone move our lord? When I used to move him, I appealed across with the classics of poetry, documents, ritual, and music, and along with them the “Jin ban” and “Liu tao” (works in the tradition of Taigong’s military writings); achievements and merit I could not count, yet the lord never opened his mouth or showed pleasure. How did you make him so happy today? Xu Wugui said: I will speak plainly—I was “xiang gou, xiang ma” (reading dogs and horses, i.e., judging character and capacity). Nü Shang said: And that was enough? Xu Wugui said: Have you not heard of people from Yue living far from home? After a few days away they are glad to see anyone they recognize; after ten days or a month, they are glad to see anyone they used to see back home; after a year, they are glad to see anyone who even looks human—the longer one is away from native soil, the deeper the longing. Or take someone who has fled to empty wilderness: leaning on chenopod and mugwort beside a path where weasels scurry, standing in an empty spot—at the first sound of human footsteps he is glad; how much more when kin and friends are beside him speaking? Has the lord not heard a zhenren’s (authentic person’s) words in a long while?

“Golden Tablet Liutao” refers to Jiang Taigong’s military classic Liutao (Six Strategies). Because the work was kept in the imperial secret archives, it was called “golden tablet”—like the precious volumes stored in a “golden cabinet and stone chamber” today. Here congheng (literally “vertical and horizontal”) means to unfold the argument layer by layer, repeat and elaborate until the point is fully clear—not the narrow pairing of the Classic of Poetry and Classic of Documents as “horizontal” and Liutao as “vertical.”

“Serving and following the king’s affairs” means acting in line with the ruler’s governance and assisting him. When the same style of step-by-step exposition and practical application found in the Poetry, Documents, and Liutao is used in real administration, it often yields results—hence the next line that service “achieves great merit.” “Opening the mouth with a smile” is evaluative language, with a touch of knowing amusement.

Liuren are people who have left their own country and live abroad. Suozhi are those one knew well in the past; suochangjian are people one has merely seen, without close ties. Siren zhe means someone who looks like a fellow townsman or “one of us.”

Mountain paths—Zhuangzi compares them to “the path of the weasel”—a narrow track like those worn by weasels or similar small animals, cramped and tight. In the Lang chapter, liang describes wanting to walk but not being steady on one’s feet. Wei here suggests “occupying” or “holding a spot”: exhausted, wanting to move but unable, one can only lie low in the valley. This is the “empty valley”—a broad, silent gorge.

(Zhuangzi writes that) hearing footsteps brings joy; the arrival of any person brings joy—it need not be an old acquaintance or a fellow villager. The point, in speaking of Lord Wu (or a figure in a similar situation), is that one’s original nature and true heart have long been absent; hearing even a few phrases like “serve and follow the king’s affairs” is like someone long trapped in an empty valley who suddenly hears footsteps and cannot help rejoicing. Chan teaching often speaks of “the long-absent guest returning home”—after wandering abroad for years, the slightest hint of home stirs deep excitement; the same mood is at work here.

Qingkai refers to a light cough or clearing of the throat (in Zhuangzi’s original it often stands for the subtlest sound or hint).

Xu Wugui came to see Duke Wu of Wei. The duke said: “You have long lived in mountain forests, eating acorns and wild fruit, filling your belly with scallions and leeks, far from me for a long time. Now that you are old, do you wish to taste wine and meat? Or does my state have some blessing after all?”

Xu Wugui said: “I was born poor and humble and never dared to consume your wine and meat without cause. I have come this time to offer you comfort.”

The duke asked: “Comfort for what? Why comfort me?”

Xu Wugui said: “To comfort your shen (spirit) and your physical form.”

The duke asked: “What do you mean by that?”

Xu Wugui said: “Heaven and earth nourish all alike—standing high, one must not feel oneself loftier for that; standing low, one must not feel oneself lower. Your Majesty alone rules a state of ten thousand chariots, yet you make the whole people suffer to supply one man’s eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. What we call shen does not boast or exalt itself; shen loves harmony and accord and hates partiality and perversity—partiality and perversity are illness. That is why I come to comfort you. Only I do not know where Your Majesty feels the illness lies.”

The duke said: “I have long wished to see you. I wish to care for the people, promote benevolence and righteousness, and stop warfare—is that acceptable?”

Xu Wugui said: “It is not acceptable. ‘Caring for the people’ is often the beginning of harming them; ‘promoting benevolence and righteousness and stopping warfare’ is precisely the root of making war. If Your Majesty goes down this path, success will be hard. Whenever one sets out to do a ‘good’ thing, like fashioning an object, one also fashions a corresponding ‘evil.’ Even if Your Majesty acts with benevolence and righteousness, it will border on pretense. Bodies naturally clash, minds naturally encroach on one another, and changes naturally brew outward into strife—Your Majesty must by all means not array crane-shaped battle lines on splendid towers, not drive fine horses beside the altar of soil and grain, not hoard ‘success’ in the heart, not use craftiness to overcome others, not use schemes to overcome others, not use war to overcome others. To nourish one’s private desires and one’s shen by killing other people’s soldiers and seizing other people’s land—in such war even shen cannot tell which side counts as ‘victory,’ let alone what is good or evil. The crux lies with Your Majesty. If you still do not stop, cultivate sincerity in the breast and accord with the truth of Heaven and earth; do not again offend or alarm the people. When the people are already dead, wounded, or released from bondage, what will Your Majesty use to ‘stop warfare’?”

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

“Bin” (guest) and “bin” (to discard, to push away) are related in meaning: both suggest letting go or pushing something aside. “Yang” (nurturing) refers to life and how it is sustained. People living between heaven and earth are all lives of the same kind, so what heaven and earth nurture is essentially one—yi (one) means sameness and equality. Climbing high does not make you “high,” dwelling low does not make you “low”; there is no rank or height to compare. What outer things nurture is only the xing (form/body). If the heart never finds ease, it is as if guest and host, taking and rejecting, are all tangled together—and the original meaning of “nurturing” is lost. Everyone born between heaven and earth is human, hence “what heaven and earth nurture is one.” Outer things nurture only the form; if the heart is not at peace within itself, it is like discarding guest and host alike.

Shen (spirit) does not praise itself or approve itself on its own. It harmonizes with things and is one with the myriad beings. Deceit and partiality all come from “I.” The shen people receive from heaven is originally one with the ten thousand things; when desire and self-interest arise, it is harmed—and that is exactly what shen detests. Detesting such selfishness, shen falls ill. If the ruler has this illness and does not know it, I (the commentator) say “therefore make him labor”—make him examine his heart in toil: “wei jun suo bing zhi he”—where exactly is your illness?

Intentionally wanting to love the people is often where harming the people begins; intentionally wanting to stop war and still weapons is often where mobilizing troops begins. That draws one close to danger. Acting with this kind of heart, one sees crisis everywhere and rarely achieves anything solid. Once beauty and ugliness take fixed shape, they leave traces—hence the likeness to a qi (vessel) with visible form. Using a heart of youwei (deliberate action) to do things that leave traces is not the level of “whatever passes through is transformed”; hence “when form is fixed, form is reshaped”—when form clings, another layer of form is cast; cheng ding means the heart is fixed and no longer transforms. If this heart does not transform, ke (conquest), fa (attack), yuan (resentment), and yu (desire) flare up and damage what is inner. Hence “where there is accomplishment, there is aggression”—achievement brings violation; and one is further pulled and changed by outer things—hence “changed and disordered by outer things.” Heart and things fight each other—hence “war on the outside.”

“He lie” and “yu li” are names of ancient battle formations; infantry on foot, ji as cavalry, zu as soldiers, li qiao as palace gate towers, zi tan as sacrificial altars. The ancients sacrificed in the lu qin (main hall); here that stands for the inner quarters of the palace. The gist: if the ruler uses his heart to contend with things, then even within one room it is as if infantry and cavalry are drawn up in array; even gate towers and altars become fields of struggle. The Buddhist saying that “everything is made by the mind” connects with this.

Where there is gain there is loss; gain is favorable circumstance, loss is adverse. Without gain there is no loss to speak of—hence “do not hide adversity inside gain”—do not tuck reverse fortune inside what you have won. This line follows neatly. Ji xin is a scheming, crafty heart; stratagem comes from cunning, and war comes from stratagem. Relying on this to overcome others—slaughtering people and annexing land to please the eyes and ears—looks like victory, yet one does not see that the breast is already stirred by things: form and shen war with each other; outwardly one wins while shen is exhausted. To overcome others while exhausting shen—which is gain and which is loss? Hence one does not know which is shan (good)—which counts as “good” after all? Victory like this is nothing to boast of—hence “where is the harm in victory?”—where is the flaw in winning?

Wu ji means: the ruler should not cling to such a heart; he should cultivate only innate sincerity and respond to the natural reality of heaven and earth, without friction with things—this is winning well without contending. When one can win well without contending, the people leave the realm of death and each attains life—why insist on seeking only the laying-down of arms?

When the Yellow Emperor was about to visit Mount Juzu to pay his respects to Da Wei—a sage said to have lived in Huangdi’s time—Fang Ming drove the chariot, Chang Liu served as the left trace horse, Zhang Ruo and Xie Peng led the horses in front, and Kun Hun and Huaji followed behind. When they reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng, the seven sages (Huangdi and his six companions) all lost their way and could find no one to ask for directions.

They happened upon a boy tending horses and asked him the way. The boy said, “Do you know Mount Juzu?” They said they did. He asked again, “Do you know where Da Wei lives?” The boy said he knew. Huangdi said, “How strange—this child not only knows Mount Juzu but also where Da Wei dwells. Let me ask you: how does one govern the world?”

The boy said, “Governing the world is just like what we were doing a moment ago—what more is there to do? From childhood I have wandered on my own through the four quarters of heaven and earth. Lately my eyes have grown dim and my head dizzy; an elder told me, ‘You might as well ride the chariot of the sun and stroll to the outskirts of Xiangcheng.’ Now that I am a little better, I am about to wander again beyond the four quarters of heaven and earth. Governing the world is the same—why should I bother with it?”

Huangdi said, “Governing the world is indeed not something a child like you need worry about. Even so, please tell us how to govern the world.” The boy declined. Huangdi asked again, “How is governing the world different from a herdsboy tending horses? It is merely removing the horse that harms the herd.” Huangdi then bowed twice, prostrated himself, honored the boy as Celestial Master (Tianshi), and withdrew.

Note on wording: In the text, “the seven sages” means Huangdi together with Fang Ming, Chang Liu, Zhang Ruo, Xie Peng, Kun Hun, and Huaji. These names are invented for the parable and should not be taken as historical persons. To read “Da Wei” as a pun on the “Great Dao” is forced allegory. The closing phrase “honored him as Celestial Master and withdrew” means Huangdi took the child as his teacher and then took his leave.

The seven “sages”—Huangdi, Fangming, Changfang, Zhang Ruo, Xipeng, Kunhun, and Huaji—are allegorical names; they need not be taken as real people. Forcing “Da Kui” to mean “Kui of the great Dao” is far-fetched.

“Mumu cheng ri” (dull-eyed, riding the sun): Mumu means dim or confused vision; cheng ri is going with the sun—renewing day by day. Within the six directions one has not yet left external things behind and still suffers self-occlusion and self-dimness; only by roaming beyond that in what is natural does one truly stand outside the six directions. The point: whoever would govern the world should do the same—not be tied down by the burden of “having things”; that is enough.

“Not your business, my friend”: You are an outsider to affairs of state; even so, you must follow me through the reasoning to the end.

Herding horses: When horses herd together, the herder lets each follow grass and water, simply aligning with their nature and not harming them—then the way of herding is complete. There is also a hint of the shepherd who whips the straggler at the rear.

“Tianshi” (heaven-master): Here it means that the person who unites Heaven and humanity can serve as teacher.

The knower, the debater, and the scrutinizer

The knower is unhappy without constant shifts in thought; the debater is unhappy without orderly talk; the scrutinizer is unhappy without dispute and cross-examination—all are trapped in things.

Commentary: Shifts of thought are endless turning and re-turning in the mind; orderly talk is speech arranged into patterns; ling is to override or crush others; sui is to press with questions. The sharp scrutinizer haggles over every fraction and hair. Each type delights in its specialty and is miserable for a day without it—caught in the glare of desire for things—hence “ imprisoned by things.”

Other kinds of “scholars”

• World-recruiting types: make a name and chase reputation in the world
• Middle-citizen types: ordinary folk who take office and rank as glory
• Muscle types: pride themselves on bearing hardship
• Brave types: throw themselves into disaster
• Arms-and-armor types: love war and delight in battle
• Withered ascetic types: cling to a reputation and never come out
• Legalist types: take broad application of punishments and labels as governance
• Ritual-education types: make deferential bearing and ceremony their whole task
• Benevolence-and-righteousness types: treat networking and name-and-status as supreme

(Each holds one corner, each finds joy in its own preference—still the same snare of “things.”)

Plain-Language Reading

Category one: people who chase fame and office at court

“Xingchao” (flourishing with the dynasty) means holding one’s place in government when a dynasty is on the rise. “Zhaoshizhe” (those who summon the age) are people who deliberately put on a “recruiting talent” air and want a name in the world—seekers of reputation. “Zhongmin” (middling folk) are ordinary people. “Rongguan” (honored by office) take rank and salary alone as glory. “Jinli” (sinew and strength) are those who live by physical labor and talent. “Jin nan yi ji huan” means boasting “I can resolve crises.” “Yonggan” (bold courage) refers to warriors. “Fen huan” means getting excited at the sight of trouble and wanting to show off. “Kugao zhi shi” (withered recluses) look austere on the outside but fix their hearts on reputation. “Falu” (law and method) points to the Legalist line. “Guangzhi” (broad governance) means taking on much public business. “Jingrong” (deferential bearing) treats stiff ceremony as outer ornament. “Guiji” (valuing connections) puts networking and pull above all else.

Category two: people in trades who live by skill

If farmers do not work the fields (“caolai” covers clearing land and farm work), they feel ill at ease; if merchants do not hustle in the “shijing” (markets and shops), they feel ill at ease too. Ordinary people who have steady morning-and-evening livelihoods encourage themselves to keep going; artisans with fine tools and craft in hand feel they are “strong enough” and have standing.

Here “bi” means living in harmony; “danmu zhi ye” is income that comes day in and day out; “quan” is delight that spurs self-effort. Craftsmen who puff themselves up on skill are the same pattern.

Category three: the greedy for wealth, status-seekers, and lovers of trickery

Wealth that will not stay hoarded makes the greedy anxious; power that is not big or “you” (sufficient) makes the boastful sad. Clingers to power and property take change and fraud as pleasure.

Those who flatter and scheme attach to the mighty; once power slips and they fall back, they grieve—the hungrier they are for dominance, the worse it feels when it is not “at the top” (“bu you” not “shen”). Backing is “shi” (momentum/power); accumulation is “wu” (things/wealth); “shiwu zhi tu” (followers of power and goods) are people who camp at rich and powerful gates. “Le bian” (delight in change) means taking scheming and shifting tactics as fun. Such petty folk move more than they rest; they often serve powerful households as runners and only feel fulfilled when sent on errands—hence “shiwu zhi tu le bian.” From “not delighting” (or the paired discussion) through “le bian,” the thought runs in one thread; only sentence length shifts. What follows unfolds in the same vein.

Category four: people pushed by the times who cannot practice wuwei (non-action)

When the age calls them into service, they cannot truly be wuwei. They all resemble “shun bi yu sui” (aligning with the year and season)—they do not settle on the constant way of “yi” (ease/simplicity in the Book of Changes sense, “bu wu yu yi”), but drive body and temperament, spend spirit chasing ten thousand things, and never return to what they originally were—a lament.

Brief notes on terms

• Caolai: clearing land and field labor.
• Shijing: markets and trade.
• Shi / wu: power and wealth; shiwu zhi tu are those who cling to rank and riches.
• Shun bi yu sui / bu wu yu yi: fitting oneself to times and years instead of taking the “easy, constant” orientation associated with the Yijing (commentators often contrast worldly bustle with what Zhuangzi values as “yi”).

First section (on the times and the lack of self-mastery)

When a person meets a particular age, that age puts them to use; speech too is pressed out by the force of circumstances. In that situation even the self is not free—wanting wuwei (non-action) is impossible, like someone given an office who cannot truly do nothing at all. Such cases resemble the way, within a year, the ten thousand things arise and perish in sequence and shift with the seasons, yet not because things on their own freely change as they please—hence “following the year’s measure, not letting things change at will” (shun bi yu sui, bu wu yu yi): going along with year and season, not treating change as something things themselves freely control. The line before is an analogy; “not letting things change at will” means the change is not the things’ own decision. “Driving body and nature” (chi qi xing xing) is exhausting body and mind; “sinking among the ten thousand things” (qian zhi wan wu) is being buried in things and never knowing to turn back. Fan (return) in Buddhist teaching often appears as “turn the light to shine within”; here too the point is to turn back from outer objects and see oneself. Zhuangzi treats this with sorrow.

Second section (debating “right and wrong” with Huizi, and Lu Ju)

Zhuangzi said: If an archer who never aims beforehand still hits the mark counts as skilled at shooting, could everyone under heaven be Yi? Huizi said: Yes. Zhuangzi said: If under heaven there is no “this is right” that everyone shares, and each takes their own as right, could everyone under heaven be Yao? Huizi said: Yes. Zhuangzi said: Then the Ru, Mo, Yang, and Bing schools—plus you, Huizi—five positions in all: which one is “right”? Perhaps like the case of Lu Ju? His disciple said: I have obtained the master’s Dao—I can keep a cauldron warm in winter and make ice in summer. Lu Ju said: You did that by using yang to draw yang and yin to draw yin; that is not the Dao I speak of.

(The same exchange is repeated later in the oral commentary, as often happens in such texts.)

Zhuangzi went on: Let me show you what my Dao is like—and he adjusted the zither: one string was set aside in the hall, another in the inner room; when he plucked the gong note the gong responded, when he plucked the jue note the jue responded, and the pitch relations held together. If he retuned one string so that it matched none of the five tones, all twenty-five strings moved together—the visible form of the instrument unchanged, but the “lord of the sound” had shifted.

“So who is really right? Or is it perhaps people like Lu Ju’s disciple?” The question is whether “rightness” means each side flaunting a small trick and calling it the Dao. The changed-string passage is the analogy: each clinging to one side and each calling their own “this is right” is like retuning one string so the five tones all fall out of joint—without a shared “lord of the tone,” there is no shared “this is right” under heaven either.

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

On “having something in mind (you suo zhi)”: Before one speaks, the mind already has an object it intends to point at; only when the words are half spoken can others see what it truly refers to. It is like archery: if you shoot without caring where the target stands, then whatever you happen to hit could be called a shot of Hou Yi—the archery image stands for the argument that follows. The prose here is extremely fine.

“Each person takes his own view as right”: Since the world has no single, universally agreed “rightness,” everyone holds only to his own system; in each person’s eyes, everyone can be called Yao—no one is more genuinely “right” than anyone else.

Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, Gongsun Long (Bing), and Huizi: Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long (Bing), the Confucian and Mohist schools, and with Yang and Bing counted together with Huizi Shih, there are five lines. Their doctrines were never the same—so who holds the real “rightness”?

Going against the season and “summoning Yin-Yang”: In deep winter one does not warm by fire yet guards the cauldron (or another reading), and in midsummer one wants cold water to make ice—this is to go against the season. If you call it difficult, it is difficult. Yet by principle: on the winter solstice Yang qi has already been born; on the summer solstice Yin qi has already been born. Summon Yang with Yang and winter need not be cold; summon Yin with Yin and summer need not be hot. Though it looks like “violating the season,” there is a rationale of mutual summoning. Hence the text says: this is not what I call the Dao—meaning arts of this sort; their level is still not high enough.

Setting aside and the two zithers (se): “Set aside (fei)” means to leave unused; “place (zhi)” means to put in position. Put one se in the hall and another in the inner room—though far apart, their qi already affect each other. (The passage repeats that at the summer solstice Yin is already born, that Yang summons Yang and Yin summons Yin; the sense is the same as above: such techniques seem to have a reason that looks like “against the season,” yet they are still not the Dao as Zhuangzi understands it.)

Like pitch summoning like pitch: When this se moves, that se sounds—gong note answers gong, jiao answers jiao, because the pitch is the same, just as the Book of Changes speaks of mutual response.

One string and the five tones: If you tune only one string, among the five tones you need not fix on a single note—you may strike gong or strike zhi. Hence “the five tones have no fixed slot”—you simply strike one of them; strike here, and twenty-five strings far away will vibrate. Compared with the earlier case—strike gong and gong moves, strike jiao and jiao moves—this is harder still. Yet in principle, whether gong, shang, jiao, zhi, or yu, all are “sound as sound”; so the sovereign of pitch never departs from the sound on the string, and one may say it is never other than sound. This belongs to the same kind of reasoning as “summon Yin with Yin, Yang with Yang.”

Lu Ju and Huizi: People like Lu Ju take themselves to surpass others; their disciples each treat their own “right” as right and each reject others’ “wrong”—so genuine “rightness” vanishes. Moreover, the “rightness” Huizi talks about is really this same situation: figures like Lu Ju each cling to one corner only.

Huizi said: Today the Ru (Confucian), Mo (Mohist), Yang (Yang Zhu), Gongsun Long (Bing), and other schools are all pushing back at me with debate, pinning me down with rhetoric, and riding over me with reputation—yet they never once say they themselves are wrong. What do you make of that?

Zhuangzi said: There was a man of Qi who left in Song a son whose feet were afflicted and who walked with difficulty, to serve as gatekeeper—for a gatekeeper need not have sound use of all four limbs—and he thought this arrangement perfectly right. When he went to get a small bell, he knew to tie it with cord and handle it carefully; but when he looked for his son Tang (lost abroad—“Tang” here means “gone/lost”), he only searched within his own home region and never stepped outside that range. These cases, and what follows, all bear a faint likeness and leave a trace.

There was also a man of Chu, originally someone with foot trouble who served as gatekeeper while living away from home. In the dead of night, when no one was about, he came to blows with the boatman; before the man had even left the shore (whether you read it as cen or the bank), hatred was already fixed.

Notes from the oral commentary (to read the analogies):

• Using debate to oppose, rhetoric to overpower, and reputation (to crush)—“never once saying we are wrong” means the other side from beginning to end will not admit error.
• The lame son (dizi): feet afflicted, walking unsteadily. The Qi man sent such a son to Song as gatekeeper (hun), thinking gate duty need not employ a “whole” person and feeling quite correct; when he wanted a small bell (xing zhong) he would bind and cherish it, but seeking Tangzi (the son lost abroad) he only searched within his domain (yu)—loving things more than people, another kind of delusion, yet equally self-righteous.
• “There is something left over / a faint trace”: the Qi stories above and the Chu exile and lame gatekeeper tale below all resemble slightly Huizi and the Ru, Mo, Yang, and Bing line; the oral commentary says this also answers the earlier “is it so?” but need not go all the way to making enmity (the text closes this thread here first—a turn of composition).
• A Chu man living abroad as a lame gatekeeper: he took passage on a boat homeward; at midnight fighting the boatman is forgetting the kindness of being ferried; before he has left the bank (cen), the grudge is already made. By daylight, can he not feel ashamed? In the heat of the fight he still thought himself right. The oral commentary says these lines use analogies to mock Huizi’s self-assurance; because Huizi loved debate, Zhuangzi deliberately used twisted, hard-to-grasp wording to corner him—like Dongfang Shuo’s playful verbal duels with the attendant—worth comparing for the tone.

Main idea: Huizi boasts that the schools debate him down yet never admit fault; Zhuangzi does not answer head-on but uses the Qi man’s treatment of his lame son, cherishing a bell while neglecting to seek his son, the Chu man who forgets kindness and fights the boatman at night, and the like, to show that always taking oneself to be right is much the same as the debaters’ self-assurance; forgetting kindness and making enemies shows that blindness all the more clearly.

Zhuangzi was attending a funeral and passed the tomb of Huizi (Hui Shi, a leading figure of the School of Names, who often debated with Zhuangzi). He turned to his attendants and said: In the state of Chu there was a man in the capital Ying who had smeared a layer of white mortar on the tip of his nose, as thin as a fly’s wing. He asked a carpenter named Shi to slice it off with an axe. The carpenter swung the axe with wind-like speed and precision; at the sound and rhythm of the stroke he brought the blade down—the mortar was gone and the nose was unharmed, while the man from Ying stood there without the slightest change in expression.

When Lord Yuan of Song heard of this, he summoned the carpenter and said, “Do that for me too.” The carpenter replied, “I can indeed perform that art, but the partner I had for it died long ago. Since Master Huizi passed away, I have had no one left to talk with—and no one with whom I could join in exercising such skill.”

Plain sense of the passage: “E” refers to white mortar applied to the tip of the nose, thin as a fly’s wing, which the craftsman Shi then pared away. “Yun jin cheng feng” describes swinging the axe with steady, swift mastery. When the mortar is fully removed yet the nose is uninjured, the striker’s skill is rare—but rarer still is the one who stands motionless and unchanged in countenance. The “zhi” (counterpart) here means the person or partner on whom one’s refined skill depends. The deeper point is roughly this: only with a debater of Huizi’s caliber could Zhuangzi pursue the utmost in argument; after Huizi’s death, there was no one left with whom he could truly converse.

Guan Zhong fell gravely ill. Duke Huan of Qi came to visit him and asked, “Zhongfu, your illness looks very serious—might one say it has reached the point of a grave malady? If that is so, to whom should I entrust the state?”

Guan Zhong asked, “Whom do you have in mind?”

The duke said, “Bao Shuya.”

Guan Zhong said, “That will not do. He is incorruptible and upright—a man of integrity—but he will not put up with anyone he considers beneath him; if someone commits the slightest fault, once he hears of it he remembers it for the rest of his life. If you put him in charge of the state, toward his superiors he would constrain the ruler like a hook, and toward the people below he would press them hard with ritual and righteousness. The state cannot be entrusted to him.”

(When the duke asked again, Guan Zhong still rejected Bao Shuya for the same reasons.)

The duke asked, “Then who would be suitable?”

Guan Zhong said, “Xi Peng will do. In his conduct, toward those above he can set aside rank and power; toward those below he does not compete with the common people for gain, nor does he make excessive demands on his subordinates. Though he feels himself far short of the Yellow Emperor, he can still feel compassion for those less capable than himself. To share one’s virtue with others is called sageliness; to share one’s wealth with others is called worthiness. To lord one’s reputation for worthiness over the multitude is to fail to win people’s hearts; to hold worthiness yet place oneself below others—there is no one whose heart one cannot win. Governing a state does not require personally handling every affair; running a household does not require seeing every detail with one’s own eyes—Xi Peng can be entrusted with the state.”

Notes on the wording (for understanding): “Entrust the state” and “commit the state” both mean handing over the management of the realm to someone else. Bao Shuya’s “will not compare himself with” those beneath him means he will not associate with or tolerate those he sees as inferior—his capacity to embrace others is too narrow. “Hook” suggests restraining and checking the ruler; “going against” the people means coercing the common folk with ritual and righteousness. These lines all say the same thing: he draws the line between right and wrong too sharply. Xi Peng’s “forgetting above” means forgetting his own high position and authority; in “below he does not pull away,” “pull away” (pian) means drifting apart or keeping aloof—it refers to not being nitpicking or clingy toward those below. “Dividing virtue among others” is like spreading moral influence downward so the people attach themselves; “dividing wealth among others” means not hoarding goods for oneself. “Using worthiness to look down on others” means monopolizing the name of worthiness and showing off over those below. Xi Peng’s “there are things he does not hear, things he does not see” means he is not sharp-eyed over minutiae and does not intervene in every small matter.

This episode is not found in other books; it appears only in the Liezi, and there too it is a parable. Phrases such as whether one “need not speak until the illness is grave” are the duke’s own words to Guan Zhong, asking whether he may hold back until the sickness is truly serious. The passage that repeats the argument against Bao Shuya restates, in oral commentary, that his habit of “looking down on others while flaunting his worthiness” makes him unfit to receive the state.