《庄子口义》Vol. 8

Plain-Language Commentary

I. The Monkey and Yan Bu Yi

There was a monkey that, whenever it saw people, would panic, drop whatever it was holding, and flee into thick undergrowth. It would twist and leap among the branches, grab and swing, showing off its agility before the king.

The king shot an arrow at it; the arrow flew fast, yet the monkey could catch and deflect it with equal speed. The king ordered his attendants to shoot together. Clever as the monkey was, it could not withstand a volley; struck by the arrows, it died and was taken captive. Dying, it turned to its companion Yan Bu Yi and said: This monkey (whether speaking of its kind or of itself) relied on dexterity and swaggered before us with its tricks—that is how it ended up like this. Take warning! Do not use your talents and your bearing to look down on others.

Yan Bu Yi went home, took Dong Wu as his teacher, and used the method of “hoeing the complexion” to work on his expression—stripping away the pride that comes from ability. Qu le (giving up pleasure) meant willingly accepting hardship and not chasing enjoyment. Ci xian (declining prominence) meant refusing rank and staying in a lowly place. After three years, people throughout the state praised him.

Weiyi jue nie (in some readings sao): describes twisting, leaping, grabbing, and swinging on the branches. Min ge: the arrow flies swiftly; the monkey catches it just as swiftly. Xiang zhe: attendants at the king’s side. When all shoot together, the monkey cannot resist and dies—hence zhi si (captured dead). Chu qi se: removing a haughty look. The episode warns that flaunting ability invites disaster.

II. Nan Bo Zi Qi and Yan Cheng Zi

Nan Bo Zi Qi sat leaning on a low table, sighing toward the sky. Yan Cheng Zi came in and said: Master, you truly stand out among living things—how can your body wither like dry wood and your mind sink still like dead ashes?

Nan Bo Zi Qi said: I once lived at the mouth of a mountain cave. Whenever Tian He saw me, the people of Qi congratulated him three times. If I had not gone first, how would he have “known” me? If I had not offered myself up, how would he have “sold” me (pushed me, traded on me)? If someone were like me yet did not “possess” that fame of being known and marketed, how could others know? If someone were like me yet did not “sell” himself, how could others peddle him?

Alas, I pity those who lose their own nature; I also pity those who pity others’ loss—such people are even farther from the Dao. After that there is still the scheming: “I must go first; I must sell myself.” If I do not possess and do not sell, how could they know or peddle? The same lament repeats: grieving that people lose themselves, then grieving those who grieve others’ loss—push that chain further and you are ri yuan (farther from the Way day by day).

(The above is a plain-language rendering of the given Zhuangzi Kouyi passages; proper names and commentarial terms follow the source, with brief clarification where needed.)

“Among all things, humans stand out most—our stature and presence are greatest.”

Tian He was the ruler of Qi. His people congratulated him because he could recognize worthy persons. I (whether Yan Hui or a figure in Zhuangzi’s account) could not hide my conduct at that time, which is why there is talk of being “first.” “First, they said I was for sale” means: I must have had visible traces, so others could know me from them. Letting others see you through such traces is really a loss of self. To grieve another’s self-loss yet fail to notice one’s own is itself something to grieve over.

Shanxue zhi kou is a place name. I then turned from grieving for others back upon myself, so the Way grew daily until today my body looks like a withered corpse and my mind like dead ashes. Hence “after that, each day grew more distant”—distant means the Way rose ever higher and farther.

When Confucius went to Chu, the king of Chu held a feast. Sun Shuao stood holding the wine cup; Shinan Yiliao took the wine and offered the ritual toast, saying: “Is this someone from antiquity?” After that he added: I, Kong Qiu, have heard buyan zhi yan (speech that conveys without ordinary words), yet I have never spoken it here in ordinary language. Even so, Shinan Yiliao juggled pellets and ended a feud between two houses; Sun Shuao lay at ease with a feather fan in hand and made the people of Ying lay down their arms. I, Kong Qiu, wish I had a three-foot beak (too much talk)—what that refers to is budao zhi dao (the Way that does not teach through speech); what this refers to is buyan zhi bian (disputation that wins without arguing).

Therefore De (Virtue/Power) should be gathered under where Dao (the Way) unifies; speech should stop where knowing cannot know—there is the limit. Where Dao unifies, De cannot fully match it; what knowing cannot know, disputation cannot lift out and exhaust in words. Reputation that contends like Ru and Mo is perilous.

Thus the sea does not reject east-flowing waters—this is the utmost of “greatness.” The sage embraces heaven and earth and extends grace to all under heaven, yet does not feel bound to any one school or surname. So in life there is no rank, in death no posthumous title; real virtue does not cluster in names, and names are not established because of it—this is called a daren (Great Person).

A dog is not a good dog because it barks well; a person is not worthy because they speak well—how much less greatness? Merely being “great” is not enough to be truly great, how much less De? Greatness is already complete; nothing is more complete than heaven and earth—what more could one seek? Heaven and earth are already “fully great.” Who knows this full greatness seeks nothing, loses nothing, abandons nothing, and does not alter themselves for external things. Returning to oneself without end, holding to the ancient Way without wear—this is the daren’s sincerity.

What the ancients meant by such words: When the ancients spoke in this vein, they meant that once one has truly “sought” and found, one becomes “greatly complete” (da bei—fully sufficient, nothing lacking). Those who know this great completeness do not grasp, do not lose, and do not cast away; they do not trade their own true heart for external things. They turn back into themselves without being exhausted, and follow the ancient Way without forcing—this is the sincerity of the “great person” (daren), one who has truly attained.

The passage on drinking and lively talk: Here the ancients mean that when drinking, one may speak freely at length—and the ancients did the same. The Master (the figure in Zhuangzi’s dialogue) replies: I have a “wordless saying” (buyan zhi yan) that I have never spoken to anyone; now I say it here. He then uses “juggling pellets” (nong wan) and “holding a feather fan and sleeping contentedly” (bing yushan er ganqin) as images of the meaning of non-action (wuwei). He says you two can both perform the “doing of non-doing” (wuwei zhi wei); why need me? “A three-foot beak” (san chi zhi hui): hui is a bird’s bill; the image is that one has no bill that long—meaning there is no need for long-winded speech.

Yiliao and Shu’ao: Unlike what appears in historical records, these too are parables. The Dao is One (yi)—unity, the natural order; De (Virtue/Power) is what one realizes in one’s own person. One who merges with the Creator is not the same as one who acts artificially, so De cannot be equated in that way. If you fix “names” into the Confucian (ru) and Mohist (mo) schemes, that is no longer “wordless disputation” (buyan zhi bian). Hence it is called “inauspicious” (xiong)—if one does not know whose lineage it is, the common people cannot give him a name. “Merit does not gather” (shi bu ju): though there are good deeds, one does not pile up credit on oneself alone; even the worthy do not take much talking as their ability—how much more the great person? Once there is the name “great,” it is already not truly great; how much less can natural De be captured by a name?

Great completeness and great fulfillment (da bei, da cheng): precisely because there is no seeking, there is no losing and no abandoning. Not exchanging oneself for things (bu yi wu yi ji): one’s own person is more precious than external things. Following the ancient (xun gu): going along the old Way. Not forcing (bu mo): not straining or rubbing against things by effort.

Ziqi had eight sons. He had them line up in front and invited the physiognomist Jiufang Gaun, saying, “Look them over and tell me which son has an auspicious sign.” Jiufang Gaun said, “Kun has the sign.” Ziqi was suddenly delighted and asked, “What kind of auspicious sign is it?” Jiufang Gaun said, “Kun will one day share meals at the same table as the state lord, and will do so until old age.”

Ziqi’s face suddenly changed; tears flowed as he said, “How could a son end up at such an ‘extreme’?” Jiufang Gaun said, “To share the ruler’s stipend, with favor extending to three generations of kin—how much more so for his parents! Yet you weep on hearing this—you are turning fortune away from your door. The son is auspicious, but the father becomes inauspicious.”

Ziqi said, “Gaun, on what basis do you declare Kun auspicious? If you take ‘auspicious’ to mean nothing but wine and meat stuffing mouth and nose, how can you know where blessing and disaster come from? I never kept sheep, yet a ram appeared in a corner of the house; I never went hunting, yet a quail showed up on the kitchen beam—if you do not treat that as uncanny, what would you call it? What I ‘wander’ with my son in is wandering in Heaven and Earth: with him I invite joy in the heavens and invite sustenance on earth; I do not with him scurry through worldly affairs, plot profit and loss, or hunt the strange and grotesque. I let him live according to the genuine disposition of Heaven and Earth, without using external things to stir him up; I let him follow things as they bend and settle where they may, without letting vulgar business lead him by the nose. Yet now there is this worldly, retributive sort of ‘auspicious sign’—wherever there is an uncanny omen, behind it there is uncanny conduct. I fear this is not the fault of my son and me, but Heaven arranging it thus—so I weep.”

Before long, Kun was sent on a mission to the state of Yan. On the road he was seized by bandits. The bandits thought selling a whole person was troublesome; cutting off the feet and selling him would be easier, so they amputated his feet and sold him in the state of Qi—right at the gate of Lord Qu, a minister of Qi. Kun lived out his life eating meat until he died.

Note (to help when reading the original): Here “auspicious sign” carries two layers: in the physiognomist’s eyes it is a mark of wealth and honor; in Ziqi’s Zhuangzi-style view, living on the ruler’s support—or, after amputation, serving as a retainer at a great man’s gate—often means fate twisted by external things, so he treats “auspicious” as a dangerous omen and weeps. The episode belongs to the thematic family of “Xu Wugui” in the Zhuangzi; the vernacular account retells the story and draws out its meaning.

This passage explains a stretch of meaning in the Zhuangzi, roughly as follows.

Wine and meat enter through mouth and nose, yet one does not know where they come from—on what basis can one say one has truly “obtained” them? “Zang” and “pin” refer to a ram and a ewe; “ao” is the southwest corner of a house, and “jiao” the northeast corner indoors. Without ever herding or farming, such things suddenly appear inside the dwelling—an uncanny occurrence. The point is metaphorical: my son and I do not seek anything from the world; how could such enjoyments arise out of nowhere? Those who invite joy from Heaven find delight by aligning with Heaven; those who invite sustenance from Earth nourish themselves as the age allows, with no further demands. “Affairs” (shi) mean worldly business; “scheming” (mou) means private plotting. When worldly business and private scheming are mixed together, that looks bizarre from the standpoint of the way of nature. I did not deliberately discuss these matters with my son; we were simply without worldly intent. Hence the text says: do not join him in managing worldly affairs, do not join him in pursuing private gain, do not join him in producing strangeness—everything follows along in yielding compliance (wei she), merely moving with what is natural. Not seeking to respond to events, and not knowing what worldly affairs ought or ought not to be done, the text again says: do not join him in managing worldly affairs.

“One must repay what is owed”: I am happily practicing wuwei (non-action), yet the other party comes to share the ruler’s provisions with me—like still owing a debt of worldly obligation within one’s allotted lot. Such mutual strangeness is itself an omen: my son was never meant to receive these things; something contrary will happen later, which is why it is called “strange.”

“Walking Hangqu Gong’s street, at the gate facing the lane, stands the doorkeeper”—this section adds that unexpected things often occur in human life, likewise because of allotted fate.

Nie Que met Xu You and asked: Where are you going? Xu You said: I am fleeing Yao. Nie Que asked: Why? Xu You said: Yao’s xuxu brand of benevolent zeal—I fear he will be mocked by the world, and later generations may end up eating one another. Gathering people is not hard: love them and they draw near; benefit them and they come; praise them and they strive. Once you impose what they hate, they scatter. Love and profit often travel under the banner of ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness); few discard ren and yi, while many use them for gain. The practice of ren and yi often lacks sincerity and is full of pretense. Like beasts greedy for bait, one must set traps and snares. Using one man’s arbitrary rule to “benefit the world” is like trying to net the whole world with a mie—a thin, small mesh. Yao knows only that the worthy “benefit the world,” and does not see that they can also “harm the world.” Only someone “outside the category of the worthy”—who transcends the name “worthy” and does not cling to being worthy—can grasp this.

Main idea of the preceding passage

When you stay close, people attach to you; when you offer profit, they come; when you praise them, they exert themselves; when you drive them toward what they hate, they scatter. Whoever grasps these four points can gather the people. What is meant by “driving them toward what they hate” is not what the people truly want. If you forcibly push them into what they detest, they will not stay with you. Seeking popular approval by following their likes and dislikes is, at bottom, serving private interest. If benevolence and righteousness are treated as deliberate, outward “doing something” for others, one may say they lack full sincerity. People greedy like beasts sometimes even borrow the names of benevolence and righteousness—hence they are called “sham.” Beast-like greed is like being cut slice by slice. Once someone sets out to “benefit the world” by methods of cutting and controlling, the people’s original simple, natural nature is also cut slice by slice. “Beyond the perspective of the worthy” means viewing from a level above the idea of “worthiness.” Only from higher than “worthiness” can one see that those worthies who mean to “benefit the world” are in fact harming the world.

Commentary on Nuanshu, Ruxu, and Juanlou

There is a type called “Nuanshu”: having learned a few phrases from one teacher, they are pleased with themselves and think they have enough, never knowing there is a realm of “what has never yet existed as a thing”—this is Nuanshu.

“Ruxu” is like lice on a pig: they pick the sparse places among the bristles and imagine they live in a great palace and park; or they cram into the bends of the hooves, beside the teats, or in the groin, and think they have a safe, advantageous home—unaware that the butcher will one day roll up his sleeves, spread straw, and kindle a fire to roast pig and lice together. Getting by on “this patch of ground” going forward and “that patch of ground” going back—such people are Ruxu. (The text repeats the point once; the meaning is the same.)

“Juanlou” takes Shun as the example: mutton does not chase ants, but ants flock to mutton because mutton has a rank smell. Shun had a similar “rank conduct” that the people liked, so when he moved three times, each stop became a settlement; at the ruins of Deng there were already a hundred thousand households. Yao heard that Shun was worthy and raised him from Tongtu (barren land), saying he hoped even the marshes there could be put in order. Shun was employed while still in Tongtu; he was already old and his keenness had faded, yet he still could not rest and return home—this is Juanlou.

First Section

“Nuan shu” describes shallow insight and little learning coupled with smug self-satisfaction; it satirizes those who love learning yet still fail to grasp the subtlety of “there has never yet been any thing.” “Ru xu” suggests being mired and dependent—people who cling to rank, power, and profit. “Shu lie” is the bristly mane of a pig; “qu wei” is the crooked nook by the hoof; “gu” refers to the hip and thigh near the legs and feet—like a beggar warming himself by a fire or leaning on an iceberg, what they rely on cannot truly hold them up. “Yu” (domain) means the heart is shut inside the circle of wealth and status without knowing it, hence “advancing within that domain, retreating within that domain.” “Juan lou” is a stooped, self-tormenting posture. The general sense is: someone who cultivates De (Virtue/Power) takes himself to have a name and draws the crowd to follow, yet suffers for it—toiling all his life without freedom—thereby satirizing and slighting the ruler. “Tong tu” is the same as “tong shan”: at first the place one dwells in is barren, unfertile land.

Second Section

“Zhong zhi” means the many come to attach themselves; “bu bi” means not in harmony; “bu li” means it turns and harms oneself. Therefore one need not be excessively close to anyone, nor excessively distant; hold to De and keep warmth and harmony (yang he), and in that way accord with the world—this is called the “True Person.” Toward ants one need not deploy clever tricks; toward fish that is what fits; toward sheep one sets aside fixed prejudices. Use the eyes to see what eyes should see, the ears to hear what ears should hear, and the heart to respond to the original heart. Then what is level and straight is like a plumb line; what changes follows nature itself. The True Persons of old met things with Heaven (tian), and did not let human affairs intrude upon the Way of Heaven. The True Persons of old: what was gained in life was also lost in life; what was gained in death was also lost in death—life and death are one continuum, without clinging to a single pole.

When people gather, they become what others turn toward; yet if they neither attach to one another nor live in harmony, each will harm themselves. Hold to virtue and nourish the inner warmth and smoothness of qi to cultivate de, without displaying that virtue outwardly. “Yang” here means the heart warming and nourishing itself from within.

Ants are among the smallest creatures, and even they cannot achieve complete “no-knowing”; sheep are among the dullest animals, and even they cannot achieve complete “no-intention.” Only the perfected person (zhenren) can be both without knowing and without intention. Hence it is said: learn “discarding knowledge” from the ant, and learn “discarding intention” from the sheep.

Fish in water rest at ease. When the perfected person plans for themselves, it is like the fish—here water stands for the creative source, and the fish for one’s own body. Ants and sheep still seek food outside themselves and cannot be without seeking, so they fall short of the fish. The heart, eyes, and ears of the perfected person are the same in bodily form as those of ordinary people; they simply do not employ them with deliberate intent. Hence: use the eyes for what eyes should see, the ears for what ears should hear, and let the heart answer to its own nature—like the level of the plumb line, like natural evenness. When change arrives, go along with it; follow its movement without using the mind to guess the principle of nature in advance. Hence: do not use human cleverness to intrude upon the Way of Heaven (tiandao).

Life seems sometimes gain and sometimes loss; death too seems sometimes gain and sometimes loss—do not treat birth and death as profit and loss to be counted. However life unfolds, calling it “gain” is fine; however death unfolds, calling it “gain” is also fine, and calling it “loss” is also fine; at birth, calling it “loss” is fine as well.

In the matter of “medicine,” what is meant are things such as jian (chuanwu, Sichuan aconite), jiegeng (balloon-flower root), jiyong (jítóu, “cock’s comb” herb), and shuling (mù zhū líng, wood hog fungus). Each becomes momentarily “sovereign” only in the time and role where it applies and in the condition it governs—how could such titles ever be exhaustively listed?

Goujian once withdrew to Kuaiji with three thousand armored men; only Wen Zhong understood why “perishing” could still mean “preserving.” Yet Wen Zhong did not understand why his own person fell into worry. Hence: the owl-hawk’s eyes have what they are fit to see; the crane’s shanks have a length that suits them—force cutting and reshaping brings only grief.

What “medicine” speaks of is precisely jian, jiegeng, jiyong, shuling, and the like. Whatever fits its use and governs the case is for a time prized as “sovereign”; that principle cannot be fully spoken. Jian is chuanwu; jiyong is jítóu; shuling is mù zhū líng. In compounding remedies, each ingredient has its main indication; the chief drug is called the “sovereign,” the rest are “ministers”—all are called “medicine,” yet in substance they are the same, differing only in weight according to use. Likewise a person in the world, employed in season, appears noble; out of season, appears low—but for oneself as such, there is originally no noble or base. These lines are deliberately striking prose.

Goujian retreated to Kuaiji with three thousand shield-bearing troops; only Wen Zhong knew why “destruction” could still preserve life; Wen Zhong did not know why his own body sank into anxiety. Hence: the owl’s eyes have their proper range, the crane’s legs their proper proportion—violently dissecting them leads to sorrow.

Plain-Language Reading

Where danger comes from

Wanting only to be clever, wanting only sharp ears and clear eyes, wanting to sell your life for external things—these are not ways to settle yourself, so they are called dai (danger).

Fu means the chest and belly, the inner organs. Crafty cleverness wells up from the heart; people who think they have real skill are all in peril. Hence the saying: heaping all your skill in the “fu” (inner storehouse) is dangerous.

Bu gei means still not enough, still wanting more. Once danger is fixed in place, there is no time left to change; this kind of growth keeps piling up (zi and zi in the same sense—more and more accumulation).

Scheming for merit and waiting long

Ruin often starts from craving merit; outcomes come from “having waited long enough.” Yet people treat this whole pattern as a treasure—is that not sad? So ruined states and lost lives follow one after another, all because they will not reflect here and only talk without asking about the Great Dao.

Fan is overturning; yuan is cause. Because there is a mind that schemes for merit, one necessarily ends up undoing oneself; having an outcome is inevitable. If there is calculation that “it only succeeds after a long wait,” the heart becomes stubborn and unchanged—these all harm the person. Yet everyone still takes pride in this, as if they had gained a treasure, hence “people take themselves for a treasure.” Through past and present, those who lose their state or suffer execution are endless—all because they do not know to question here and only speak without asking the Dao.

Feet and ground, knowing and not-knowing

When people walk, each foot only treads a tiny patch of ground. If you dug away all the ground not stepped on and left only enough for two feet, you could not go far. To go far, beyond what is stepped on, there must still be ground the feet have not touched.

Zhi (knowing) is the same: what people know is very little. Though little, you must rely on what is not known (the Dao, the whole) to truly understand. What the Dao displays lies precisely here—do not lean only on “what I know,” but lean on “what I do not know,” and only then can you know Heaven.

Knowing the “great” virtues

Knowing the “great unity” (tong), knowing the “great yin” (release), knowing the “great eye” (seeing), knowing the “great balance” (following), knowing the “great square” (uprightness), knowing the “great faith” (trust), knowing the “great stillness” (ding)—at that level, one is nearly there.

“Great unity” is penetrating thoroughness; “great yin” is untying bonds; “great eye” is contemplative seeing; “great balance” is following what is fitting (being at ease with one’s lot); “great square” is holding to the square (integrity). What is not known all belongs to Heaven. Not relying on one’s own knowing but on one’s own not-knowing—only then can one know Heaven.

To know the Great One, the Great Yin, the Great Eye, the Great Balance, the Great Square, the Great Faith, and the Great Fixity is to reach the summit.

The Great One is the master pivot of the running of creation; Heaven differentiates the myriad things from the “One,” and creation works in this way. The Great Yin means ultimate stillness; the Great Yin is utmost quiet—when stillness reaches its extreme, nothing remains that cannot be “released” (jie, read like xie in “crab,” akin to “liberation” in Buddhist texts). The Great Eye sees far and sees broadly. The Great Balance is the great boundary and great equipoise; yuan means to follow along. The Great Square is like the great void; the Great Square has no sharp corners—it is one blended whole, hence “the Great Square embodies it.” The Great Faith is the truth of reality; ji means to decide and judge. Once this layer of truth is clear, there is no hesitation that cannot be settled. The Great Fixity is the fixed principle shared by all things; chi means to hold and gather overall. What gathers and holds the myriad things of the world is this principle of “fixity.”

“When human affairs are exhausted, there is Heaven; when one follows, there is illumination; in the dark there is a pivot; at the beginning there is ‘that’ (bi)—then resolving them is like one who does not resolve, knowing them is like one who does not know; only after not-knowing does one truly know.”

When human effort is carried to its limit, the Mandate of Heaven appears—hence “when exhausted, there is Heaven”: when human affairs are spent, heavenly principle shows itself. Xun is following nature; then the patterns of fortune and misfortune, honor and disgrace, gain and loss all become visible—hence “when one follows, there is illumination.” Within obscurity there is something that holds the hub—the level that steers the whole network—hence “in the dark there is a pivot.” Before there are things, there must first be “that” (bi) to initiate; the Qi Wu Lun says “without that, there is no me; without me, nothing is taken”—that is this word bi, hence “at the beginning there is bi.” Bi is the creator and the principle of nature. Heaven, illumination, pivot, and bi can be explained and can be known, yet one must also be like “not resolving” and not dare to think one has fully resolved, like “not knowing” and not dare to think one fully knows—because taking not-knowing as knowing is what it really means to know.

This passage explains how to question the principles of creation, what to ask, and how to move from doubt back to “non-doubt.”

The speaker wants to press further into the principles of creation—the root account of how heaven, earth, and the myriad things arise and are transformed. If you treat those principles as having a fixed boundary and a clear beginning and end, that misses the mark; if you treat them as utterly without boundary and blank emptiness, that also misses the mark. Such principles are as stubborn and hard to pin down as they are slippery and shifting—you seem unable to grasp them, yet they act in real ways upon the ten thousand things. Hence the phrase “stubborn and slippery, yet with reality” (geng hua you shi).

From ancient times to the present, what runs is one and the same process of creation and transformation—not a swapped-in “new edition”; creation is used without being exhausted, and does not diminish in the least. Hence “past and present do not replace one another, yet nothing is lost or diminished.” On this reading, can we not say this is a great theme worth lifting up and spelling out at length? Yang que means to bring the teaching forward, develop it, and argue it through clearly.

What is he (closure)? It is the principles of creation themselves. Given that, why not question this very principle of creation directly—what is there still to doubt? Hence “why still be perplexed?” The right move is: use what is already clear and no longer doubtful to untie the world’s perplexities, then return to a stable ground where doubt no longer arises—only then do you approach “great non-doubt.”

In Chan, Zhaozhou’s question to Nanquan about “the way of non-doubt” largely turns on these lines. Shang means “still, almost”; shang da bu huo points roughly toward that “great non-doubt.” The commentator notes: Zhuangzi could have hit the theme with the two words “non-doubt,” yet deliberately unfolds these sentences to close the chapter—the rhetorical force is striking; and holds that this piece is of one spirit with the inner chapters of the Zhuangzi.

The modern interpretation runs as follows. Zeyang traveled to the state of Chu. Yijie spoke to the King of Chu and wanted to recommend him, but the king did not receive Zeyang. When Yijie returned, Pengyang was able to meet the king. The king said, “Why did you not recommend me to us?” Pengyang replied, “Yijie has already spoken of you, and you still did not see him. My ability falls even shorter of Yijie’s—how could I dare bring it up again?” The king said again, “I am not the equal of Gong Yuexiu in knowing and employing people.” Pengyang asked, “What does Gong Yuexiu do?” The answer was: “In winter he catches soft-shelled turtles in the Yangtze; in summer he rests on Mount Fan. When passersby asked him, he would say, ‘This is my home.’”

From this Pengyang reflected: what Yijie could not achieve, he could not expect to achieve either. Moreover, Yijie as a person lacked genuine De (Virtue/Power) yet was very crafty. He did not stand on real virtue, but used talk of supernatural powers and the like to cultivate ties with the powerful and wealthy, mixing in circles of rank and riches. That was not assisting one another with De, but wearing each other down with craft and desire. Someone freezing wants to borrow the warmth of spring; someone overcome by heat wants to hide in winter’s cold wind—each takes what suits them. The King of Chu stood high, his dignity severe; when he punished, he showed no leniency—like a tiger. Unless one relied on flattery and bent one’s character, who could sway him? So when the sage is in straits, he can keep his household from suffering because of poverty; when he rises high, he can make kings and dukes forget rank and stipend, while he himself remains humble. Toward things, he can share joy with them; toward people, he delights to see all things connected and also preserves himself. Sometimes he need not say much, yet it is as if he “drinks” harmony into another’s heart; standing shoulder to shoulder with someone, he can transform them. The fitting way for father and son to be together also lies in this naturalness. Retiring to one side, he is far separated from others in heart, yet his influence runs deep. Therefore it is said: one must still wait for someone like Gong Yuexiu.

Vernacular Commentary on Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Explanations of the Zhuangzi)

Zeyang: His surname was Peng, given name Yang, courtesy name Zeyang. Yi Jie once recommended Zeyang to the King of Chu, but he was not appointed and went home. “This is one who has no fixed dwelling” means the man has no settled place. Peng Yang was eager to advance, so such phrases as “lodging temporarily, no fixed abode” were used to nudge him toward self-understanding.

Having wisdom without De (Virtue/Power): To be clever without moral character is to ignore the natural order and rely only on private scheming.

Shen (spirit) here is what is naturally in me: “Shen” means the natural spiritual clarity that belongs to a person—not something added from outside. When one is lost in ties of wealth and rank, bonds tighten until they cannot be undone; then the original mind is lost and one forgets the natural shen within the body. Hence “not granting oneself the shen”—refusing to acknowledge shen as one’s own endowment.

In dealing with people… mutual aid in decline: In human relations, they do not join in doing good but lead each other on paths of self-harm—so the help is not in De but in “xiao” (mutual consumption). What follows—“one who loves cold gets clothes…”—continues this: someone who loves cold gets clothes and feels warm as in spring; someone overcome by heat gets wind and feels cool as in winter. In human dealings, one always uses surplus to fill lack. Peng Yang’s eagerness to advance is precisely his “lack”; teaching you to hold back, like warming yourself with ashes or giving clothes against cold, is what supplements you.

Form lofty and stern: Relying on power and high station, harsh toward those below.

Not pardoning the guilty, killing like a tiger: Ruling without mercy, killing like a tiger—that is inhumanity.

Nao means to bend oneself: Nao is to humble oneself and yield in body.

Were it not a true petty man, who could…: Only such a “true petty man” could serve others by bending so. “Having the upright De of the flatterer” refers to the true petty man; the four characters “yet so” connect well to what follows.

Thus when the sage is in straits…: From here on, the point is that one who has the Dao, even when unfulfilled, does not seek advancement.

The king and duke are honored, yet forgetting rank and stipend they can defer to scholars: Though kings and dukes are exalted, they can forget titles and salary and place themselves below scholars—lowering the high to the low.

Exhausting the principles of the ten thousand things for one’s own joy… sharing joy with things: Probing the principles of the ten thousand things and rejoicing in that, finding joy together with things.

Following the principles of the ten thousand things in human affairs… rejoicing in the flow of things while preserving oneself: In human affairs, following the principles of the ten thousand things with almost no obstruction, taking preservation of the authentic self as joy—“rejoicing in the flow of things while preserving oneself.”

There is teaching without words…: There is wordless teaching that awakens others, like drinking supreme harmony; what Buddhist texts call drinking ghee is this idea.

The eye meets it and the Dao is present; a composed countenance makes others’ distracting thoughts dissolve: At one glance the Dao is there; upright bearing dissolves others’ idle thoughts.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with others and transforming them: Standing beside people and thereby transforming them.

He is like what the Ode says, ‘That man of theirs’: Again citing the Ode’s “that man of theirs.” This line should be read with the following meaning inverted in mind.

If each returns to his place so that superior and inferior, elder and younger each get what fits, it is called the fitness of father and son; he returns to where he belongs: If each takes his proper place so that ranks and ages are as they should be, that is father and son each in their fit relation; “he” (that man) returns to where he ought to dwell.

What he applies springs entirely from ease, and does not rely on forced effort: His conduct comes wholly from leisure and does not depend on strained force.

This says that at home and in the community he attains harmony: This means that in the family and in the village he achieves harmony.

In human hearts, the distance can be so great: The gap between hearts can be as vast as this—Gong Yuexiu’s heart is thus, Peng Yang’s heart is otherwise; they are far apart.

I am again not like Yi Jie: I am not like Yi Jie either. Yi Jie was a flatterer who also sought advancement; it was he who recommended you to the king. How could I be like him? This is contempt for Yi Jie.

【“The fitness of father and son; he returns to where he belongs” is one sentence】: The bracketed note is the original editor’s mark that in the source text “the fitness of father and son; he returns to where he belongs” forms a single sentence.

Note: This passage is an oral-style exposition of the Zeyang chapter of the Zhuangzi, interweaving commentary on Peng Yang, Yi Jie, Gong Yuexiu, and themes such as shen, De, xiao, how sages conduct themselves, and “that man of theirs.” For comparison with the received Zhuangzi, the classical text itself should be taken as authoritative.

Section one (on Yi Jie)

The sage can penetrate the principle of chou mou—the way yin and yang in creation are bound together in endless mutual turning—and can explain “pervading the whole as one body” very fully. But someone like Yi Jie is a crafty flatterer and a climber; if he recommends you to the ruler, why would I follow that path? That is contempt for Yi Jie. The parenthetical line fu zi zhi yi, bi qi hu gui ju (“what is fitting between father and son—where would they return to dwell?”) should be read as one continuous sentence.

Section two (the sage, xing, and Tian)

The sage penetrates chou mou and the unity of the whole, yet need not deliberately ask why it is so—that is what is called xing (innate nature, “it is simply thus”). Movement and doing (yao zuo) all return to the mandate of Heaven; taking the natural as teacher is therefore called “taking Tian as teacher.” Others follow and label him “sage,” but he never had that intention in the first place—hence “people then follow him and name him.”

“You you hu zhi” (anxiously relying on one’s own knowing): using personal cleverness to worry and calculate, weighing myriad details—what can actually be carried out is often almost nothing, so “what is practiced is constantly few.” Sometimes fate says stop; what can a person do? Hence “when the time has its stopping, what then?”—shi (timeliness), ming (fate), zhi (stopping), and ni (obstruction) are all in play here. These two lines lay bare worldly truth: disaster often begins in “thinking oneself knows”; if one knows what one does not know, there is no need to worry. Below, “the beautiful one as mirror” and “loving people” serve as analogies.

Section three (the metaphor of wu ji)

Someone born beautiful—others take him as a mirror; if no one explains it, he may not know that “beauty lies in others’ eyes.” Seeming to know, yet not knowing; seeming to hear, yet not hearing—what is worth rejoicing in is that in the end there is wu ji (no fixation on “I am beautiful”); when others delight in him, he is also wu ji (no fixation on “people approve of me”)—that is xing.

The sage’s love of people is the same: the world gives him the title “one who loves people”; if no one explains it, he may not know that “the world is calling him a lover of people.” Seeming to know, yet not knowing; seeming to hear, yet not hearing—the heart that loves people is ultimately wu ji; when others are at ease, he is also wu ji—again xing.

Beauty and ugliness arise in pairs. What we call “yan” (beauty) exists only in relation to “chou” (ugliness); unless people first know what ugliness is, they will not feel how beautiful they themselves are. Once distinctions such as beauty versus ugliness and good versus bad appear, the root of worry grows from there.

Hence Zhuangzi says: there is no need to strive to know or to hear; the heart can instead hold a joy free of “I”-attachment. When I no longer draw a line between beauty and ugliness within, and no longer hold a discriminating mind toward outer things, whether others like or dislike me, I no longer treat that as “my honor or shame”—this is the way that accords with nature.

(What follows picks up the metaphors of “nature” and “mirror-like judgment of beauty,” and speaks again of the name attached to the sage who “loves people.”) In gist: if a sage “loves people” to the point of fame and labels, the heart already holds artifice and discrimination; once such “intentionality” appears, one is already far from authentic nature.

Zhuangzi is also cited on “the old state and old capital”: returning to a familiar homeland and old capital, a single glance opens the chest; even if hills and scrub look nine-tenths “in the way,” the whole still feels expansive—how much more when one sees and hears the old scene in person? It is like a high terrace suspended among the crowd. Master Ranxiang obtained the “huanzhong” (pivot at the center) and let things complete themselves as they may; dwelling with things, there is no beginning or end, no more or less, no fixed season; transforming with the day and with things, yet there is one pivot that does not transform—He (perhaps a certain realm) once tried to cast it aside, (but could not, for that alone is where one rests secure).

Brief notes on terms:

• Yan and chou: beauty and ugliness.
• Huanzhong: the unbiased, non-clinging pivot (from the Zhuangzi).
• Master Ranxiang: a figure in Zhuangzi’s parables who attains “huanzhong” and follows things through change.
• “One who transforms with day and things is one who does not transform”: outwardly changing with things, inwardly there is one that does not change.

After long travels, returning to one’s homeland and seeing familiar scenes often brings a sudden sense of clarity and relief—as if a weight has lifted. That is emotion stirred by old surroundings. Even if one enters the old country and the people have changed entirely, and the hills are overgrown so that only one part in ten still looks as it once did, as long as something still resembles the past, one can still feel that open, moved response. How much more so for someone on the path who suddenly awakens: what is seen and heard is what was always one’s own, always already there—how could joy not arise? What Buddhists call “the original face” and “the scenery of one’s native place” mean exactly this.

“Ten ren high terrace” refers to a very lofty platform; “suspended music” means instruments hung up for performance; “many suspended” are the various suspended bells and chimes; “interwoven” is like alternating pipes and large bells in succession. Standing in such a high place and hearing all these instruments play in turn is enough to shake the ears and eyes of ordinary people. How much more so the ancient sages, who take joy in the principle of empty stillness and Wuwei (non-action), following nature and rejoicing with the ten thousand things—how can the height of the realm they inhabit be put into words?

“Ring” uses a circle in empty space as a metaphor: there is no end, yet there is no true end either; beginning and end are originally one. “Almost no seasons” means no fixed turning of time; “no ancient or modern” means not bound to past or present. “Ji” here means the shift of seasons. “Daily transformation with things” means changing day by day along with the ten thousand things; “together with things, each day new again and again”—what is gained is an unchanging ground, yet it is lived out just so in daily life. “The one who lets go—what is let go? What is closed?” Why not drop old habits, why not shut the door? It is asking why worldly people do not release old patterns and return to the ultimate Dao. “Ran Xiangshi” is an ancient sage.

“Wishing to take Heaven as teacher yet failing to take Heaven as teacher”: treating one’s fixed views and attachments as the business to be done, going along with things in that way—what can come of it? The sage never makes “Heaven” an external object, never sets “human” over against it, never fixes “beginning” once and for all, never clings to “things” as solidly real. They walk the same road as the world without altering what is constant; what they practice is already complete, never exhausted or blocked. In what way, then, do they align with this Dao?

When King Tang obtained Si Yu (an official in charge of chariots or ritual), Men Yin Deng Heng became his teacher. King Tang followed the teacher without shutting himself in, went along with events to completion, and again obtained a teacher named “Si”—this borrows a historical allusion to illustrate the relation between following a teacher, yielding to circumstances, and naming (the specific figures and plot should be checked against the corresponding chapter of the Zhuangzi and the “oral commentary” text this passage follows).

Vernacular Explanation

To want to take Heaven as one’s teacher, yet in fact be unable truly to take Heaven as teacher; to pay lip service to “spontaneity” (ziran) as one’s standard, yet never grasp what that label “spontaneity” really points to—in the end it is only going along with and following the ten thousand things, hence the phrase “all go with things and are spent for them” (all turn and drift with things).

Once the mind holds the thought “I must act,” things go wrong; as soon as there is the slightest intention to act deliberately, it is already not natural. Among humans there is purposeful action; the Way of Heaven is Wuwei (non-action). One must not only erase the traces of Wuwei but also dissolve the very “one who is without action,” hence “there has never been Heaven, there has never been a person”—and one must negate the level of things still further: “no beginning of things, no trace.” Not only remove the traces of things but also let go of the layer of “no trace,” hence “there has never been a beginning, there has never been things.” Empty out the “doer” as well, so it is said again “there has never been Heaven, there has never been a person, there are traces of things”… (The text repeats these layers of negation again and again in order to break attachment.)

Moving in the world, one has never failed to live as others do; in human affairs one need not cut off ordinary business entirely, hence “going with the world in one’s conduct without ceasing”—“without ceasing” means not abandoning or stagnating. Every kind of conduct is complete, yet one does not cling to any single method, hence “what one practices is complete without sinking in.” The “old sinking” in the Discourse on Making All Things Equal (Qiwu lun)—“sinking” (xi) means miring and drowning in something.

Uniting with the Dao, one joins it without seeking; if one sets one’s heart on seeking union with the Dao, one cannot unite, hence “as for that union, what can be said of it?”

As for Tang (Cheng Tang, founding ruler of the Shang) and Yi Yin (the famous minister at the start of the Shang): Tang studied the Dao under Yi Yin, then took him as minister—the Zhuangzi original text here changes characters and names, sometimes reading “Director of Chariots,” sometimes “Gate-keeper Deng Heng”; all of that is that kind of playful, unsettling rhetoric. “Fu” means to assist: Yi Yin assisted Tang. Though Tang took Yi Yin as teacher, he was not confined by the role of disciple, hence “following the teacher without being hemmed in.” Tang’s Wuwei was attaining the self-so completion of the ten thousand things and going along with it, placing himself in the position of spontaneous non-action, while the assisting Yi Yin bore the names and labels of “having action,” hence “attaining that following completion, acting as master of its names”—Tang was without action and Yi Yin had action; Tang was without name and Yi Yin had name. “Si” means to preside over and take charge; the gate-keeper took on many names of “having action.”

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

On “Name” (ming) and “Surplus” (ying)

Here, “name” (ming), in the sense tied to ying, carries the idea of “what is extra or left over”—the “name” people scramble for in the world is like something superfluous, a burden.

“Two kinds of seeing” (liang jian) means treating “the person” and “reputation” as two separate things. If you set your heart on chasing fame, you cannot obtain that undivided wholeness; hence it is said one “gets the two seeings”—one only sees the split pair of opposites.

Remarks on Confucius and Yi Yin

The affairs Yi Yin took on were never anything extraordinary to begin with; yet Confucius admired that way of acting and exhausted his ingenuity, wanting to serve as a supporting minister in his own age. The point is: Master Kong also wanted to do what Yi Yin did. The tone carries mockery and a slighting attitude toward the “sage.”

“Lord Rongcheng” (Rongcheng shi) is a borrowed title from an ancient sage—it is not really a discussion of the historical Lord Rongcheng as a person.

“Remove the days and there is no year; no inner, no outer”

A full year must add up to three hundred and sixty days; if you subtract day after day, what remains is only “days,” and it can no longer be called a “year.” Hence “remove the days and there is no year.” The line itself is quite direct.

Laozi’s “count the parts of the carriage and there is no carriage” (shu che wu che) works the same way: once you enumerate and break things apart, the whole no longer holds.

Names of inner and outer

The “name” that faces outward is born from within; without an “inner,” there is no talk of an “outer.” Hence “no inner, no outer.” Commentators use these two lines to show that one need not forcibly split inner and outer—one may discuss them as they naturally arise.

King Wei of Wei (Wei Ying) had once made an agreement with King Wei of Qi (Tian Hou), but King Wei of Qi broke it. King Wei of Wei was furious and wanted to send someone to assassinate him.

When Gongsun Yan (Xishou) heard of this, he felt ashamed and said: You are a ruler with ten thousand chariots, yet you would take revenge like a common man. Yan asks to lead two hundred thousand armored troops to attack Qi for you: capture the people, drive off the cattle and horses, so that the ruler of Qi is shamed in his heart and his state is overturned.

When Master Ji heard of this, he too felt ashamed and said: To build a wall ten ren high and, when it has just reached ten ren, to tear it down again—that is what convict laborers (xumi) suffer most bitterly. Seven years without using troops was a fine thing for King Wei’s foundation to be secure; Xishou now urges you to use troops—it is like tearing down a wall already built. Yan is one who disturbs people’s hearts; do not listen to him.

When Master Hua heard of this, he found it even more unsatisfactory and said: Those who are good at arguing for attacking Qi disturb people’s hearts; those who are good at arguing against attacking Qi also disturb people’s hearts; and those who say “both arguing for and against war disturb people’s hearts” are likewise disturbing people’s hearts.

The King of Wei asked: Then what should be done?

The answer: The ruler need only devote himself single-mindedly to seeking the Dao—that is enough.

Note: The original text of the final passage has repetition and miscopying in transmission (the sections on Xishou and Master Hua are nearly duplicated). The account above follows the usual narrative order: Xishou favors war; Master Ji uses “tearing down the wall” as a metaphor for wasting the people and undermining the foundation; Master Hua points out that anyone who clings to a fixed view on “war or no war” is “disturbing people”; the conclusion returns to not being fixated on debates over arms and strife, but turning toward the Dao—consistent with the “equalizing things” and “releasing fixation” themes often found in Zhuangzi-related texts.

Huizi heard of this and introduced a lofty visitor from Jin—Dai Jinren—to see King Hui of Liang. Dai Jinren said to the king: “There is a tiny creature called the snail—does Your Majesty know it?” The king said: “I do.” Dai Jinren said: “On the left horn of the snail there is a state called Chushi; on the right horn there is another state called Manshi. The two often fight over territory; the dead and wounded number in the tens of thousands; pursuing a routed army can take fifteen days before the troops return home. Does Your Majesty take this as empty talk or as real?” The king said: “Of course empty talk.” Dai Jinren said: “Then allow me to apply the same reasoning to what is real: if Your Majesty sets your mind on the four directions and above and below, is there a limit to that space?” The king said: “There is no limit.” Dai Jinren said: “Since you know the mind can roam in a boundless domain, yet you still return to the ‘accessible’ realm of the human world—in the face of the infinite, are the state of Wei, the capital Liang, and Your Majesty yourself as if present yet as if absent?” The king said: “It is so.” Dai Jinren said: “In this accessible world there is Wei; in Wei there is Liang; in Liang there is the king. Between Your Majesty and the lord of Manshi, from the perspective of the infinite, is there any difference?” The king said: “None.”

After the guest withdrew, King Hui felt unsettled and empty, as if he had lost something. Huizi came to see the king again. The king said: “That guest is truly a lofty person—even a sage might not match him.” Huizi said: “When one blows a pipe, there is at least the sound ‘ho’; if one blows only the round hole at the sword guard, there is merely a faint ‘xue’ (an extremely slight sound). Yao and Shun are praised by people; before someone in Dai Jinren’s kind of awakened state, that praise is as insignificant as a single ‘xue.’”

Explanatory note (why this passage works so well)

This passage is exceptionally well wrought: Huizi, having heard that Huazi harbored an aspiration to seek the Dao, only then recommended Dai Jinren to the king of Liang. Dai Jinren is a person who has attained the Dao. The parable of the snail’s two horns sounds at first like fantasy; step by step, however, it grounds “great and small, honor and disgrace, fighting over land” in real force—hence “allow me to make it real for you”: through the boundless, the accessible, and “as if present yet absent,” Wei, Liang, the king, and Manshi are all brought onto one scale.

“Boundless” here means a realm like the great void, without edge; “accessible” here means this layer of reality that can be named and inhabited in the human world. After the king is moved, he is “unsettled as if he had lost something”—precisely the moment when old attachments are emptied out; Huizi then compares blowing a pipe, blowing the sword pommel, and the fame of Yao and Shun, showing that before one who truly roams the mind in the infinite, the highest renown of the mundane world weighs no more than a single breath of sound.

This passage is beautifully argued. When Huizi learned that Hua Zi wished to pursue the Way, he recommended Dai Jinren (Wang Jinren, a man of the Way) to meet him.

The image of “fighting over territory on a snail’s horn” sounds like empty talk, yet the reasoning that follows is utterly concrete—hence “please take this as the solid truth for you.” Viewed from the boundless great void, the “realm of universal passage” is simply the Middle Kingdom; measured against that, the kingdom seems to exist or not at all—thus “as if present, as if absent.” Du Fu’s line “Looking down I see but one breath—how can I tell emperor from common street?” expresses the same idea. From the Middle Kingdom down to the state of Wei, things shrink further; Liang is Wei’s capital, and within Wei the capital is smaller still; within the capital, searching for the King of Wei alone, one finds ever less. Descending step by step from the void, how is the king’s person any different from Man and Chu on a snail’s horn? Hence “no distinction”—they are the same. Dazed and emptied, one sees that what was fought over was not worth fighting over.

“Even a tube still has holes”: a wind instrument like a flute or pipe, though it does not form a full melody by itself, still gives the player a hoarse breath-sound when blown; blow through a sword hilt and you get only a puff of air—almost silence. The point: before one who has the Way, even if you wished to parade benevolence, righteousness, the Way, and principle, there is no room for the slightest sound.

When Confucius went to Chu, he lodged with a syrup-seller at Ant Mound. Neighbors had affairs of husband and wife, servants and concubines “ascending to the summit” (rising to the highest place or rank). Zilu asked: What are all these busy people doing? Confucius said: They are attendants of a sage—burying themselves among the people, hiding at the field’s edge, their names erased, their aspirations endless. Though the mouth speaks, the heart does not truly speak. They squarely oppose the vulgar world and inwardly disdain going along with it; they are people who “sink into the land” (Lu Chen—hidden in the mundane world). Are they perhaps of the same kind as Shinan Yiliao? Zilu was about to call on them. Confucius said: Forget it. Such a one knows Confucius would involve him—knowing Confucius was bound for Chu, he assumed Confucius would surely have the King of Chu summon him; he would take Confucius for a master of clever speech. Someone like that is ashamed even to hear a rhetorician—how much less to see one face to face. Why bother to “keep” him ( detain or befriend him)? Zilu went to look; the house was already empty.

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

Yiqiu and the Vinegar Seller

In the district of Yiqiu there lived a family that sold vinegar; the Master (Confucius or the teacher he followed) once lodged with them. “Deng ji” means climbing to the highest point on the roof and looking down at people below; “zongzong fenfen” describes crowds coming and going in a busy, disorderly way.

“Shengren pu” refers to disciples of the sage: they bury themselves among ordinary people and live in hiding among the folk. “Pan lin” means dwelling nearby while others do not know who they are; “qi sheng xiao” means their reputation is also concealed. “Chen bu zai shui er zai lu”—not submerged in water but on dry land—uses that image to say that the recluse hides in markets and streets. The person meant here is very likely someone in the line of Shinan Yiliao. Yiliao bore the surname Xiong, lived in the southern market quarter, and was a man of Chu—likewise dwelling among neighbors unknown to all, with no fame; “sunk” not in water but on land, a figure who hides in the bustle of the town. The person spoken of should be understood as belonging to that Shinan Yiliao tradition.

“Zhuo yu ji” means “I am sure I can recognize and understand him”; “zhuo” is to hold firmly to the conviction that one knows someone. “Ning ren” is a glib, meddlesome talker. “He yi wei cun” asks: how could someone like that stay? He would surely leave and not remain long. “Qi shi xu” means the person has already fled and the house stands empty—he feared the Master would speak to the king of Chu and summon him from reclusion, so he left first.

The Border Guard of Changwu Questions Zilao

The border guard of Changwu asked Zilao: in governing affairs, do not be “lumaang”; in managing the people, do not be “mielie.”

In the past when I farmed: if I plowed carelessly and roughly (lumaang), the harvest repaid me in the same careless, rough way; if I weeded perfunctorily (mielie), the harvest repaid me just as perfunctorily. The next year I changed my whole approach (bian qi): I plowed deep and hoed fine, and the grain grew thick and strong—I ate my fill all year long (yan sun).

When Zhuangzi heard this he said: nowadays many who cultivate the body and tune the heart are just like what the border guard described—they turn away from nature, leave their inborn nature, extinguish genuine feeling, and lose clear spirit, taking going with the crowd as the norm. Those who treat their nature carelessly find desire and aversion tangled together like weeds; once such things sprout, they swell and distort the body, uproot and twist the nature, bursting and leaking everywhere with no telling where it will break out—superficial sores, scabies, carbuncles, and inward pus, urine, and greasy discharges are examples of that.

The Commentator’s Summary

The border guard used farming as a metaphor for governing; Zhuangzi in turn used the same story as a metaphor for learning. Su Dongpo’s Essay on Farming (Jia Shuo) is in effect written in the same vein. “Bian qi” means changing the old way of doing things and adopting a new method. “Yan sun” means eating one’s fill.

“Meng yi fu wu xing, xun zhuo wu xing, bing kui lou fa, bu ze suo chu”: once a bad thought sprouts, it props up and damages the body; it keeps pulling up and warping the nature, bursting and leaking together, with no telling where it will emerge—superficial sores, scabies, and carbuncles, and inward pus, urine, and greasy matter, are all metaphors for that condition.

The keeper of the community altar used farming to speak about governing the state; Zhuangzi in turn used metaphor to speak about learning—and Su Dongpo’s Essay on Farming (Jia Shuo) was in effect written in the same spirit.

“Those who would change Qi’s ways” means changing how Qi did things (or overturning old institutions). Yan sun means eating until one is overfull; here “speaking in terms of the multitude” means that such people are very common in the world. E (evil/harm) refers to the harm of likes and dislikes: when preference and aversion act like baleful influences, they obscure our original nature, just as rushes and reeds block the road—that is, “the thatch clogs the heart.” Once nature is obscured, confusion and desire grow inside like young reeds (jian jia), until the whole person seems filled with worldly craving.

“Supporting” means propping up the bodily form with desire: seeing, hearing, speaking, moving, rising, resting, eating, and drinking all run counter to the natural order—hence “gradually they pull up my true nature.” Xun is “little by little,” zhuo is “to pull up.” At first it is only that true nature is veiled; at the extreme, true nature is as if uprooted bit by bit, and the principle of Heaven (tianli) is wholly lost. When true nature is lost, qi also turns into illness—hence conditions that “burst together” and those that “leak and break out”: touch them and sickness flares, with no knowing where it will strike. “Burst together” refers to suppurating ailments such as drifting abscess, scabies, and carbuncles; “leak and break out” refers to wasting illnesses such as internal ulceration, urinary disorders, and bone marrow decay. This is a single extended metaphor warning the world: to indulge desire and not study the Way is to bring harm upon oneself in the end.

Bo Ju asked Laozi for instruction, saying: Please let me travel through the realm. Laozi said: Never mind—the realm is the same everywhere. Bo Ju pressed again; Laozi asked: Where do you mean to begin? He said: With Qi. When he reached Qi, he saw men undergoing punishment—crowded, forced down, their court robes stripped off and thrown over them—and he lifted his face to heaven and wept loudly: “You, oh you! The realm holds great calamity, yet you are the first to suffer it.” (Laozi or Bo Ju) said: Do not steal, do not kill; only when honor and disgrace are set up can one see what people suffer; only when goods and wealth are heaped up can one see what people fight over. Now you erect what makes others suffer and gather what others contend for, trapping bodies in exhaustion with no rest—can desire stop short of that?

“The world is still like this” means that people everywhere often end up in exactly this kind of situation.

When the text speaks of those told “do not steal, do not kill”: you are sentenced and thrown into prison—is that necessarily because you stole or killed? Not always. It is not that everyone under heaven has become a thief or a murderer before such a state of affairs appears.

Honor and disgrace arise from ming (name, reputation); goods and wealth arise from li (profit, gain); illness, affliction, and disaster often grow from these as well. When those above value fame, trouble below is what follows; when the ruler is bent on amassing wealth, strife and rivalry appear. In other words, such things usually begin from above—from institutions, customs, and the prevailing ethos.

Laozi’s “Do not exalt the worthy, so that the people will not compete; do not value goods hard to obtain, so that the people will not steal” points to the same layer of meaning: driving people with fame and profit, people trap themselves with no end in sight—how could matters not evolve into what we see today?

The gist: in utmost antiquity there was no scrambling for fame and gain; customs were simple and honest, and within the state there was no need for punishments or prisons packed with inmates.

Plain-Language Commentary

First section (On governing and artificiality)

Whether gain and loss are justified, and whether crookedness and straightness are reasonable—these two layers of meaning can be summed up in the phrase “when the people err, the fault lies in me alone”: if the ruler of a state cannot even secure the people’s basic livelihood, he ought to step down and blame himself—as if ordinary people received no kindness and were thrown into a ditch. What “it is not so today” refers to is the situation in later ages.

In later times, those in power often hide what ought to be public and say nothing, yet treat those who do not understand as fools; they themselves do difficult things to the extreme, yet treat those who dare not act as guilty; they add burdens without gauging human strength; they stretch distances without reckoning whether people can finish the journey. They force people to do what their strength cannot achieve, and punish them when they fail; they order people to reach places they cannot reach, and kill them when they do not arrive. Those above grow more hypocritical in their orders day by day—how can scholars and commoners not follow suit in hypocrisy? When people are driven to use strength they do not have, they can only meet demands with false appearances; when they are driven to use wisdom they cannot reach, they can only meet demands with deceit. When demands are endless and never satisfied, people can only steal to fill the gap—thus hypocrisy, deceit, and theft are all things we have forced upon them; whom else can we blame? The three lines ending in “whom can we hold responsible” express one layer of meaning; the line on “theft” above pulls the thread tight. It is not only here—the sense is easy to grasp, and the grammar holds together.

Second section (Qu Boyu)

Qu Boyu lived to sixty, and in those sixty years his views changed sixty times: not once without first taking something as “right,” then later revising it to “wrong.” So one cannot know whether what is taken as “right” today might in fact be the fifty-ninth “wrong.”

Oral commentary note

“Sixty years, and sixty years of change”: each year’s understanding seemed just as solid at the time; but who can guarantee that what counts as “right” at sixty is truly “right”? This is a opening for further reflection.

Third section (Knowledge, root, and gate)

The ten thousand things have life, yet one cannot see their root; they have emergence, yet one cannot see their gate. People only honor what they “know,” and do not know that relying on what knowledge cannot know is what counts as truly knowing—is this not “great doubt”? Enough, enough! Nowhere to escape—this is what is meant by “so and so” (ran yu ran), is it not?

Brief notes on proper names: Qu Boyu, a minister of Wei in the Spring and Autumn period, famed for self-examination and knowing when he had been wrong; Zhuangzi kouyi (“oral explication of the Zhuangzi”) is a line-by-line teaching commentary on the Zhuangzi, often weaving the original text together with politics and self-cultivation.

Plain-Language Commentary

I. On “the Unknowable” and “Nowhere to Escape”

Everything that comes to life must have a root; everything that emerges must have a gate—only ordinary people cannot see them. That is what is meant by the unknowable. If someone judges solely by what they know and refuses to acknowledge the realm of what they do not know, they are a person of great delusion.

It also speaks of nowhere to escape: affairs unfold naturally of themselves; there is no need to flee on purpose. That knowledge which is not confined to finite knowing—which does not cling to limited knowledge yet accords with the Great Dao—runs through past and present and penetrates above and below. Everywhere it is this one principle; how could one “escape” it?

II. The Oral Sense of “Yes” and “No” (from the “Duke Ling of Wei” chapter)

Phrases like “is it really ‘yes’?” are trailing tones at the end of a sentence. To call something “yes” (right, so it is)—is what is labeled “yes” truly “yes”? When Zigong answered “yes” and “no, not quite,” he meant exactly this: between yes and no, one cannot take either side as a final verdict.

III. Confucius Asks the Grand Scribes: Why Was Duke Ling of Wei Called “Ling”?

Zhongni (Confucius) asked the grand scribes Datao, Bochangqian, and Xiwei: Duke Ling of Wei drowned himself in wine and hunting, neglected state affairs, and did not receive other lords—so why was he still called Duke Ling (“the Spirited” / “the Numinous”)?

• Datao said: “It is because of this very thing.” (The words carry irony or a deeper point; commentators differ, but the gist is: between name and reality, things are not always as they appear on the surface.)

• Bochangqian said: The duke had three consorts bathing in the same pool, behaving in a very casual, disrespectful way; yet when Shiyong (or Shifang, a chamber attendant) held silks and supported the duke’s arm to present him to worthy men, the duke became solemn and reverent, as if he were another person. Such respect toward the worthy—that is why he deserved the title Duke Ling.

• Xiwei said: After Duke Ling died, divination for burial in the old tomb was inauspicious; divination for Sand Dune was auspicious. They dug several ren deep and found a stone outer coffin. When it was cleaned, there was an inscription on it, roughly meaning “Do not rely on his son.” The duke took the inscription’s intent to heart and was buried accordingly. Worthy men honored him so highly—that too is why he was called Ling. Xiwei added: Duke Ling’s being “Ling” in fact goes back a long way; Datao and Bochangqian, the two of them, saw only one facet each and were not enough to truly grasp where the “Ling” lay.

(Note: The “Ling” in Duke Ling’s name, in this passage of the Zhuangzi, is often read as goodness, quickness, capacity to align with the Dao, or the “numinosity” between name and reality—not simply “wise and brilliant” in the usual sense. The three grand scribes each speak to one aspect; the oral point is to teach people not to judge worth and folly by vulgar appearances alone.)

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

On Duke Ling of Wei and the Posthumous Title “Ling”

People who trap birds and beasts for human use are one sort of example. When feudal lords exchanged visits, custom called for a fitting response; Duke Ling refused every time. A man like that still received the posthumous name “Ling” (Spiritlike)—how does that make sense? Because written words still cannot exhaust how bad he was.

Dayin said: This too was a posthumous title the people as a whole agreed on. The graph for “superior” and the word “this” can be read as equivalent here. “Advance” means where one advances or dwells. “Attending the ruler” is like today’s being summoned to audience and reply. “Clasping the gift” is holding the presentation gift for a meeting. Duke Ling had to be supported yet still showed some ritual and reverence. On the stone outer coffin at Shaqiu the name “Duke Ling” was already there—as if the name were fixed before he was born. What human power could fix that? This is a parable: affairs often arise from nature, not from human force.

Dayin, Bo Changqian, and Shaqiu

“The two men” means Dayin and Bo Changqian. Shaqiu was an ancient burial ground. “Not entrusting it to his son” means not leaving the matter to his son—his descendants were unfit to be entrusted with it, and Duke Ling took it from them. “Entrust” (feng) is “to commit to another’s care” (tuo).

Shaozhi Asks About “Words of the Hill-Mound”

Shaozhi asked Grand Duke Diao: What are “words of the hill-mound” (qiuli zhi yan)?

Grand Duke Diao said: “Hill-mound” (qiu li) means combining the surnames of ten families and the names of a hundred families into one local custom. It merges difference into sameness and scatters sameness into difference. If you only point to each part of a horse’s body, you never get “horse”; tie the horse at the front, take in the hundred parts as one, and call it horse—that is horse. So a hill grows high from piled low places; rivers grow great from combined waters; the great person merges and becomes public (gong). What enters from outside has a master yet does not cling; what goes out from within has a standard yet does not reject. The four seasons differ in qi; Heaven does not favor one, so the year completes. The five offices differ in duty; the ruler does not play favorites, so the state is governed. Wen and Wu differ in use; the great person does not favor one side, so virtue is complete. The myriad things differ in principle; the Dao does not play favorites, hence it has no name. With no name, there is wuwei (non-action); in wuwei, nothing is not done.

Time has order from beginning to end; the age changes; fortune and misfortune arrive mixed together (read chunchun by the characters). Where something goes against the flow, something else still fits; where one sacrifices for appearance, something still goes straight and something still goes awry. Compared to a great marsh, every kind of timber can be measured; viewed from a great mountain, wood and stone share one altar—this is what is called “words of the hill-mound.”

Gather many wells into an earthen mound, then gather those mounds into a neighborhood lane—that is why it is called “qiu li” (mound-and-neighborhood). Within one li there may be people of ten surnames and a hundred given names; the persons differ, yet their customs can still align. That image stands for “merging difference into sameness.”

“The words of qiu li” are the shared public judgment of that neighborhood: to synthesize differences into one sameness is to say that the ten thousand things share one principle; to split one sameness into many differences is to say that each thing has its own principle.

“Combine a hundred bodily parts and call it a horse—on any single part there is no name ‘horse’”—that is splitting sameness into difference. Only when those hundred parts are established as a whole do we call it a horse; that is merging difference into sameness. Amassing the small to form a mountain and merging streams to form water carry the same point: merger yields what is public, synthesizing the differences of the ten thousand things into one sameness.

To have what one takes as master yet not cling: what is mastered may lie within, but one must not be stubborn; the moment one clings, it is no longer natural. What is called “upright” (zheng) is the principle of the ten thousand things. When the principle that rises from the breast-mind matches the ten thousand things, one naturally goes along with them instead of pushing against them. Neither clinging nor rejecting is what accords with nature, without forcibly dividing sameness and difference in the mind.

Heaven does not “bestow” anything, nor do things bestow on one another. The five senses each hold their place—only these five, each doing its work—so why should a ruler show partiality in weighing one against another? The great person’s De in culture and in martial strength—when the time calls for culture, culture; when it calls for martial strength, martial strength; use what can be used—not as if one party were gifting another—and that is why such De is complete. Each of the ten thousand things has its own principle, hence “distinct principles”; merging them through the great Dao into what is public, hence “not private.”

“Without name” means there is nothing from which to fix a name; pure, flowing circulation is just ziran, spontaneous nature. Fortune and misfortune, blessing and calamity, arrive in mutual turning without a fixed pattern. Sometimes what looks contrary turns out fitting—as in the old frontier tale of losing a horse and gaining a horse: “contrary” means not as one wishes; “fitting” means as one wishes.

If people harbor the heart of “dying for one’s own view”—each clinging to a private opinion—they are like faces, no two alike. If one holds something as “correct” and fixes on it, or clings somewhere, then “taking one thing as the model misses the mark”—hence “where there is something taken as correct, there is deviation.”

Think of a great marsh: materials of the hundred creatures each hit their measure; nothing too small or too large but can be put to use. “Same mound” means sharing one ground; wood and stone originally belonged to one mountain—at first, when were they ever split apart? That is exactly the sense of merging difference into sameness.

Shaozhi asked: If that is so, is it enough to take “Dao” as one overarching name?

Taigong Diao answered: No, it is not enough. When we count things, the count does not stop at the single label “the myriad things”; people agree by custom to use the largest number-word in the series and call everything “the myriad things.” Thus Heaven and Earth are the greatest names among forms; Yin and Yang are the greatest names among qi. “Dao” is a shared designation—it may also be spoken of by borrowing the word “great.” Once the name is already there, can anything else still be brought in for comparison? If you argue by such forced analogies, it is like insisting that dogs and horses belong to one kind—they simply do not fit together; the gap is far too wide.

Things are not limited to “ten thousand”; saying “the myriad things” is a rounded, summary way of speaking. Heaven and Earth too are only the great names of form and qi; form and qi are not exhausted by Heaven and Earth and Yin and Yang—we merely take what is largest and speak of that. That “Dao” is common to all is likewise a borrowing of “great” as a way of naming. Although the name “Dao” already exists, how could form, qi, and the like be used for comparison? Hence “once it is already there, how could one still get something to compare it with?”—dogs and horses cannot be treated as the same species. If one argues by matching the name “Dao” to other things for comparison, it is like the difference between dog and horse: they do not align; “not reaching” means not being alike, and “far” means being very far apart.

Shaozhi asked: Within the four directions and in the midst of the six directions, where is the source from which the myriad things are born?

Taigong Diao answered: Yin and Yang mirror each other, cover and conceal each other, and govern each other; the four seasons alternate, beget and destroy each other; liking and disliking, going and staying, arise from this in tumult; male and female part and join from this; then ease and danger exchange places, fortune and misfortune give birth to each other, urgency and slackness rub against each other, gathering and scattering complete each other. That names and realities can be recorded and subtle meanings can be kept in mind all stem from here. Following order they govern one another, turning and serving like bridges at a crossing; when exhausted they reverse, when ended they begin—things exhaust themselves here, words exhaust themselves here, knowing exhausts itself here; at the limit it is still only “things.” Those who see Dao do not follow what has been discarded, do not trace to the root of beginnings—the boundary of discourse stops here.

Section One

From what moment do we count something as “having life”? Zhuangzi begins from opposition and mutual response: things mirror and answer one another, cover and fit together, check and wax or wane. Spring birth and autumn killing, the four seasons turning in their proper order—thus arise the affairs of human life: desire and aversion, going and staying, female and male, parting and joining, safety and danger, fortune and calamity, slack and haste, gathering and scattering. All of this is said to follow from Heaven-and-earth and yin-yang, and then from human affairs. Each of these is “difference within sameness”: like an arch that rises and splits, divides yet joins again; the ordinary holds a constant way; things complete one another—only the words change.

From desire and aversion through to gathering and scattering, names and realities can all be recorded and the details told: each item can be seen, not only spoken but written. Adjusting to one another along the seasons is the mutual ordering of yin and yang; rising, turning, pushing and pulling in mutual waxing and waning is called “mutual sending.” Exhaustion leads to passage; ending begins again—the cycle is like this. These are necessities that all things have: in the end it is no more than this; at the limit of knowing it is no more than this. Exhaust heart and strength, and what is grasped is still the word “thing”—hence “reaching things and no more.”

Only one who “knows the Way” assigns what is discarded and what arises to “nothing,” to spontaneity (ziran); discussion stops here—beyond this there is nothing to take hold of.

Section Two (The Debate between Shaozhi and Taigong Diao)

Shaozhi said: The school of Jizhen holds “no doing” (mo wei)—no external master; the school of Jiezi holds “perhaps there is a driver” (huo shi)—perhaps something drives. Which side fits the facts better, and which leans to one extreme?

Taigong Diao said: Cock crow and dog bark—everyone can tell them apart; even the greatest wisdom cannot fully read in words how they “transform themselves,” nor fix by intent what they “are about to become.”—If one analyzes further on this level of principle, fine beyond compare, vast beyond enclosing, then “perhaps a driver” and “no doing” still cannot escape the level of “things”; in the end they will be seen as a bias, a fault.

This passage discusses two opposing worldviews in the Zhuangzi and the problems each entails.

Two Positions

At the time, two thinkers—Jizhen and Jiezi—each held a view. One was “nothing does it” (mo wei): all things in primordial chaos have no master; everything is contingent. The other was “something makes it so” (huo shi): there is a master behind things and necessity in events—“going, perhaps something makes it go; stopping, perhaps something makes it stay” expresses this. From the angle of qing (how things feel and appear), each can seem plausible; but if you cling to one side of li (principle), you see only half the picture. Which is more right or wrong? Like a cock crowing and a dog barking—they differ, and human knowledge is limited. Even someone of great wisdom cannot exhaust it in words or fully grasp it in thought.

“Self-transformation” and the limits of words and intent

Self-transformation (zihua) means the subtle way things manifest on their own. Here “du” is close to “reciting.” The subtlety of self-transformation cannot be understood by reciting a few phrases; what a person is about to do or intends in the mind cannot be fully captured by guessing at intent alone. So words cannot exhaust meaning, and meaning cannot exhaust the subtlety of self-transformation. Using this reasoning, one can speak of the large or the small, but discourse never finishes. Whether the focus is the infinitesimal (what cannot be enclosed) or the vast, both views still rest on the form of things (wuxiang)—in the end each has a flaw; the author says they “each have a sticking point” (jie bing).

“Something makes it so,” “nothing does it,” and the named and the nameless

“Something makes it so” leans real (shi): in primordial chaos there seems to be something in charge, so it is called real. “Nothing does it” leans empty (xu): in primordial chaos there is no master, so it is called empty. Once you fix on the real, name and reality bind together and you are burdened by things—“ju” means “to rest in”; name and reality both rest in things, hence “dwelling in things” (wu zhi ju). If you say “nothing,” name and reality are both absent, but that “nothing” still occupies a place—you cannot erase it together with “nothing”—and you are still weighed down by things, hence “emptiness within things” (zai wu zhi xu). In short, whether you speak of “being” or “non-being,” both can be put into words and grasped in thought; yet once fixed in language, you drift further from the Dao.

Life, death, and principle

What is not yet born cannot be forcibly forbidden from being born; what is already dead cannot be forcibly kept from dying. Birth and death are not far apart in themselves, but li (principle) is not something the eye sees directly. “Ji” means to forbid: before birth it is not that birth is “not allowed”; once born, when the time to die comes, human power cannot block it.

Wengong Daoism (also called Tongjiao, the “Universal Teaching”) is a Daoist lineage that takes Lingbao as its doctrinal root. Its scriptures are organized into five classics—the Changes, Documents, Poetry, Rites, and Spring and Autumn—together with the Sanhuang (Three Sovereigns) and Basu (Eight Pure) texts, and the Three Caverns (San Dong). The Taiji Upper Cavern (Taiji shang dong) holds the Taiji Dongzhen Jing, the Taiji Dongxuan Jing, and the Taiji Dongzhen Shangjing. The Taiji Middle Cavern (Taiji zhong dong) holds the Taiji Zhongzhen Jing, the Taiji Zhongxuan Jing, and the Taiji Zhongzhen Shangjing. The Taiji Lower Cavern (Taiji xia dong) holds the Taiji Xiazhen Jing, the Taiji Xiaxuan Jing, and the Taiji Xiazhen Shangjing. The Upper Cavern of the Three Sovereigns (Sanhuang shang dong) holds the Sanhuang Shangzhen Jing, the Sanhuang Shangxuan Jing, and the Sanhuang Shangzhen Shangjing. The Middle Cavern of the Three Sovereigns (Sanhuang zhong dong) holds the Sanhuang Zhongzhen Jing, the Sanhuang Zhongxuan Jing, and the Sanhuang Zhongzhen Shangjing. The Lower Cavern of the Three Sovereigns (Sanhuang xia dong) holds the Sanhuang Xiazhen Jing, the Sanhuang Xiaxuan Jing, and the Sanhuang Xiazhen Shangjing. The Upper Cavern of the Eight Pure (Basu shang dong) holds the Basu Shangzhen Jing, the Basu Shangxuan Jing, and the Basu Shangzhen Shangjing. The Middle Cavern of the Eight Pure (Basu zhong dong) holds the Basu Zhongzhen Jing, the Basu Zhongxuan Jing, and the Basu Zhongzhen Shangjing. The Lower Cavern of the Eight Pure (Basu xia dong) holds the Basu Xiazhen Jing, the Basu Xiaxuan Jing, and the Basu Xiazhen Shangjing. The Upper Cavern of the Five Classics (Wujing shang dong) holds the Wujing Shangzhen Jing, the Wujing Shangxuan Jing, and the Wujing Shangzhen Shangjing. The Middle Cavern of the Five Classics (Wujing zhong dong) holds the Wujing Zhongzhen Jing, the Wujing Zhongxuan Jing, and the Wujing Zhongzhen Shangjing. The Lower Cavern of the Five Classics (Wujing xia dong) holds the Wujing Xiazhen Jing, the Wujing Xiaxuan Jing, and the Wujing Xiazhen Shangjing. The Upper Cavern of the Three Caverns (San Dong shang dong) holds the San Dong Shangzhen Jing, the San Dong Shangxuan Jing, and the San Dong Shangzhen Shangjing. The Middle Cavern of the Three Caverns (San Dong zhong dong) holds the San Dong Zhongzhen Jing, the San Dong Zhongxuan Jing, and the San Dong Zhongzhen Shangjing. The Lower Cavern of the Three Caverns (San Dong xia dong) holds the San Dong Xiazhen Jing, the San Dong Xiaxuan Jing, and the San Dong Xiazhen Shangjing. The Upper Cavern of the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji shang dong)—already listed above—is paired with the Middle and Lower Taiji caverns in the same threefold pattern of zhen, xuan, and shang scriptures.

This lineage traces its transmission through Lingbao masters and emphasizes universal communication (tong) between heaven, earth, and humanity—hence the name Tongjiao. Ritual and cultivation follow Lingbao forms: repentance, merit, and salvation for the living and the dead. Wengong here refers to the tradition associated with Wengong as patriarch or place-name in local histories; details vary by region, but the core is Lingbao scripture and San Dong classification.

Practitioners study the five classics and Three Caverns as the framework of doctrine; Sanhuang and Basu texts supplement the canon. Upper, middle, and lower caverns correspond to grades of teaching and levels of initiation—not always mapped one-to-one to Dongzhen, Dongxuan, and Dongshen in other lineages, but structurally parallel the Three Caverns scheme.

In summary, Wengong Daoism / Tongjiao is a Lingbao-rooted tradition with a large classified canon (Taiji, Sanhuang, Basu, Wujing, San Dong), stressing tong (communication and pervasion) as its distinctive label, while sharing Lingbao ritual, soteriology, and Three Caverns organization with broader Lingbao and Shangqing-influenced Daoism.

Passages Related to Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Explanations of Zhuangzi)

On “Words That Suffice” and “Words That Fall Short”

“Words that suffice” and “words that fall short” mean this: if you truly have inner realization, then even if you speak all day, what you say is the Dao; if you lack genuine insight, no matter how long you talk, you only circle around things. The Dao and concrete things differ in fineness and coarseness; neither speech alone nor silence alone can hold the whole picture. It is in the space between “not speaking and not staying silent” that the most apt understanding arises. Buddhists often say, “When I point, the sea seal emits light; when you raise a thought, worldly dust stirs first”—the idea is much the same. They also say, “I am king of the Dharma, free in the Dharma.” One who has attained the Way can use even “is” and “is not” with ease; before that attainment, treating “is” as an absolute standard is already a bias. This chapter and the inner chapters share one spirit.

Miscellaneous Chapters: Outer Things, Section 26 (Excerpt)

External Things Cannot Be Relied Upon as Fixed

What lies outside the self was never something you could fully control. Thus Long Feng was killed, Bi Gan’s heart was cut out, Jizi feigned madness, and E Lai was executed; Jie and Zhou lost their states. Rulers all want loyal ministers, yet loyalty is not necessarily believed—Wu Yun (Wu Zixu) was ordered to die and his body floated on the river; Chang Hong was unjustly killed in Shu, and his blood was said to lie hidden for three years until it turned green. Parents all want filial children, yet filial piety does not necessarily win affection—Xiao Ji lived in worry and pain, and Zeng Shen often carried sorrow.

Brief Notes on Proper Names

External Things (Matters Outside Oneself)

Matters outside oneself were never something one could “obtain” by seeking within the heart. In the age of Jie and Zhou, the worthy and the unworthy alike met with disaster—showing that fortune and misfortune cannot be settled in advance. The text was originally about Zhou, yet Jie is brought in as well; that follows the drift of the argument in writing, and may be understood in that way.

Chang Hong (a grandee of Zhou, famed for loyalty and integrity) was sent back to Shu in exile and died from disembowelment; the people of Shu kept his blood in a small chest, and three years later it turned into green jade. This differs slightly from the account in the Zuozhuan and sounds like a fantastic tale. Under Emperor Yuan of Jin, a minister was executed because grain shipments failed to arrive; his blood flowed upward against a pillar. In Northern Qi, at Mingyue Fort, Hu Liguang (a famous general of Northern Qi) was killed; his blood fell on the ground and could not be wiped away—such things do occur in the world. Xiaoji was a son of King Gaozong (Wu Ding) of Yin, driven away by his stepmother; Zengzi (Zeng Shen) is not recorded in history as “weeping in grief”—that likely draws on stories such as “when Zeng used the staff heavily, the child would run.” When reading this book, one need only grasp the main intent; examples like those above need not be pinned down line by line. The overall point: loyalty and filial piety are honored by people, yet can sometimes harm the body—these are all “external things”; one cannot count on them turning out a certain way.

Yin and Yang Stimulating Each Other and Calamity

When wood rubs against wood, fire appears; when metal and fire stay together, the metal melts and runs. When yin and yang run in disorder, heaven and earth undergo great upheaval (“da gai,” near in sound to “hai,” meaning great change and great chaos)—then come thunder and lightning; fire can even appear in water, and so the great locust tree burns.

The Commentator’s Explanation

Wood by itself has no fire; rub it and fire is born—today’s shipwrights use elm and willow to kindle fire by the same principle. Metal dwelling with fire refers to melting. Wood originally has no fire yet fires when rubbed; metal is utmost hard yet flows when it meets fire—both express the idea of “nothing is certain.” “Da gai” means great anomaly, great disorder. In violent thunderstorms, trees are sometimes struck and burn, hence “fire in water” burning the great locust. Other trees are not named, only the locust, because the locust was thought capable of producing fire—hence the special mention. The Huainanzi, “Generalities,” also has “old locust gives birth to fire”; it is not that only the great locust burns. All these are calamities and prodigies from disordered yin and yang—uncommon—and again show that affairs in the world cannot be counted on.

Anxiety, Fear, and Being Trapped (Fragment)

Extreme anxiety is like falling into a double bind with nowhere to escape… (The following text involves “chan” and similar terms; the original breaks off here, and the oral commentary does not continue.)

Main Thread to Hold When Reading This Passage of Oral Commentary

External things are not certain: loyalty, filial piety, reputation, and political fate are never entirely within one’s own control. History and fable are used together: Chang Hong, Xiaoji, Zengzi, Emperor Yuan of Jin, Hu Liguang, and others illustrate that good people may also meet disaster. Natural anomalies serve as metaphor: wood rubbing gives fire, metal meeting fire runs, thunder and lightning burn the locust—all “yin and yang running awry,” likening how human affairs likewise cannot be reckoned by ordinary reason. Method of reading: the oral commentary explicitly says one need not insist every allusion match the historical records perfectly; what matters is how Zhuangzi (and the speaker) uses these cases to show the layer of meaning called “nothing is certain.”

General Meaning of the Passage (Zhuangzi Original)

When worry and fear reach an extreme, a person falls into “double entrapment” with nowhere to flee; inwardly they are as restless as the skittish insect chicheng, unable to settle the mind— the heart seems suspended between heaven and earth. Dull depression and being mired in peril; benefit and harm grind against each other in the chest, producing much “fire,” and the multitude then burn away the harmony (he) they originally possessed. The original mind is like the bright moon, yet profit and desire corrode it; when that is so, the moon-nature naturally cannot suppress that fire, and one can only let oneself go yiran in release—until the natural principle of Heaven is exhausted.

Commentary

“Extreme worry” means fear and anxiety pushed to the limit. “Double entrapment” refers to nothing other than two kinds of trouble: calamities in human affairs, and calamities of yin-yang and circumstance—the “two” spoken of in Human Affairs (Renjian shi) is exactly this. “Chicheng” depicts someone timid and unsettled, unable to find stillness. “Cannot be achieved” (bu de cheng) means that when fear runs too deep and there is no escape, the mind cannot hold steady. “The heart as if suspended between heaven and earth” means the heart is tied to externals and at odds with itself. “Weimin” is gloom and stagnation; “shentun” is being stuck in danger, unable to pull free. Benefit and harm battling in the chest is inner friction fiercer than scorching fire—hence “much fire is kindled.” All of this describes people in the world who do not understand the Dao: they do not know that outer things cannot be certainly obtained, yet they strain their minds to the utmost and land in this state—they burn away the supreme harmony in the chest, hence “the multitude burn harmony.” “The moon” stands for the nature received from Heaven; the crowd originally had this moon-like harmony, but sensual desire taints it, the blaze of fire rises, moon-nature cannot check the fire, and harmony is consumed. Huang Tingjian’s line “The original mind is like sun and moon; profit and desire eat into it” uses precisely this image. “Yiran” is a relaxed, self-releasing attitude of letting things be. “Dao jin” means the natural principle of Heaven is worn away to the end. In sum: the multitude drown in profit and desire, never awakening their whole lives, until they grind the natural principle of Heaven to nothing—only then do they stop.

1. Borrowing Grain from the Overseer of the River

Zhuangzi’s household was poor, so he went to the Overseer of the River to borrow grain. The overseer said, “Fine—when the rent from my fief comes in, I’ll lend you three hundred gold pieces. Will that do?”

Zhuangzi’s face changed; he was very displeased, and told a story: “Yesterday on the road I heard someone call me. I looked back—it was a crucian carp in a rut in the wheel track. I asked, ‘What do you want?’ It said, ‘I am a subject of the water in the Eastern Sea. Could you give me a dipper or a pint of water so I can live?’ I said, ‘Fine. I’ll go south at once to persuade the kings of Wu and Yue to open the waters of the Western River to escort you home. How about that?’ The carp’s face changed too: ‘I’ve lost the water I normally rely on to survive; I have nowhere to go. A dipper or a pint would keep me alive. You talk like that—you might as well look for me early at the dried-fish shop; by then I’ll long be dried fish.’”

Commentary: Some identify the Overseer of the River with King Wen of Wei—that is not necessarily correct. He may have been an official in charge of the river, called “Lord” (hou) by courtesy; or “Hou” was simply his surname. “Fief gold” (yijin) means rent collected from a fief. The passage above was a popular joke of the time, recorded here—what people today call “distant water won’t put out a fire close at hand.” “Shop of dried fish” (kuyu zhi si) means: by the time that water from the Western River truly arrives, I will already have been sun-dried into fish. “What one normally relies on” (chang yu) is the bit of environment one usually depends on and lives within.

2. Sir Ren Angling for the Great Fish

Sir Ren made a huge hook and thick line, used fifty oxen as bait, crouched by Mount Kuaiji, and cast his pole into the Eastern Sea. He fished every day; for a year he got no fish. Then a great fish took the bait, pulled the hook down, and when it broke the surface its fins and tail spread wide—white waves like mountains, the sea churning, sound like ghosts and spirits, alarming the land for a thousand li. Sir Ren caught this fish, split it and dried it; from east of the Yellow River to north of Cangwu, there was no one who did not eat its flesh. After that, those of shallow talent who could only recite a few lines all told the tale to each other in amazement.

Yet if you raise a fine pole to the edge of a ditch and wait for loach and small crucian carp, hoping to land a great fish—that is very hard. If you dress and act like a petty household and chase fame and profit, you are also far from the Dao. So one never hears of anyone living by Sir Ren’s style—that sort of path was never meant to govern and benefit the world; the gap is even wider.

3. The Same Lesson as the Borrowing-Grain Story

The overseer’s “three hundred gold” and Zhuangzi’s “waters of the Western River” are both promises of a large future gift; what the carp and Zhuangzi need is only dipper-and-pint water before their eyes. The commentary makes it plain: recording the joke here is exactly “distant water does not save a nearby fire”; speaking of the dried-fish shop means that when that great flood finally comes, the person is already a dried fish—“what one normally relies on” is that little bit of water and place that keeps one alive; once it is lost, one cannot live on empty promises alone.

Plain-language explanation

“Ju zi” refers to a thick, long black rope; “jie” (written with the character read like jie, “boundary”) means the large rope used to hobble cattle. “Fang” and “xian” here mean much the same thing. When the sea is stirred it surges violently—the commentary compares this to the Goddess of the Luo River: when such a great fish flicks its tail, the sea roars and terrifies; people a thousand li away can hear it and tremble. “Yan yan” means eating one’s fill; “quan cai” denotes someone whose measure is shallow and whose vision is short; “feng” is repeating what one hears without grasping change—knowing only the usual, not the exceptional, seeing the small but not the great—so that a single fright spreads alarm everywhere. “Lei” is a small embankment; “guan” is to pour or flood in; “guan du” likens something to a narrow ditch or trickle; “ni” and “fu” are small fish. “Xian ling” is like a public notice posted today; “xian” and “xuan” (to suspend) are related—it means hanging up regulations, reward lists, and the like. People of narrow view polish their wording and press upward against those suspended rules; even if they happen to match them, how much can that matter? So they are still far from “da da” (great penetration, full alignment with the Great Dao). The commentary also says “yuan yi” means “far too short of the mark.”

“Su” means worldly people; one cannot explain statecraft and ordering the world to such folk, so they too are far from “jing yu shi” (governing the world)—again “yuan yi,” still far too short.

(Continuing with the Zhuangzi main text and oral commentary) Confucian scholars, invoking the principles of the Book of Poetry and Book of Rites, open a grave: the senior scholar passes the word down in order: “The east is bright—what shall we do?” The junior says: “The lower garment is not yet unfastened; there is a pearl in the mouth. The Poetry itself says: ‘Green, green wheat, growing on the mound; no gifts while alive—why hold a pearl when dead?’” So they pull the lower jaw, press the forehead; the scholars use a metal mallet to brace the chin and slowly pry apart the cheeks, careful not to damage the pearl in the mouth.

The oral commentary explains line by line: the senior and junior scholars are two Confucians, one higher in rank, one lower; “lu chuan” is message passed from one to the next; “dong fang zuo” is dawn breaking in the east; “shi zhi he ruo” is how to handle the affair; “wei jie qun ru” means the deceased’s lower robes are not yet undone; “kou zhong you zhu” is a pearl held in the mouth—ancients sometimes placed a pearl in the dead, called “han zhu” (mouth pearl); “qing qing zhi mai” and the following lines quote the Poetry to mock giving nothing in life yet hoarding a pearl in death; “ye qi shun” is to press the forehead; “jin chui” is a metal pestle or mallet; “kong qi yi” is to support the jaw; “xu bie qi jia” is to pry the cheeks apart slowly; “wu shang kou zhong zhu” is to take care not to injure the mouth so the pearl can be removed.

This passage explains several stories and analogies from the Zhuangzi, along the following lines.

The Parable of the Great Ru Stealing Pearls

Here Zhuangzi satirizes those wandering “knights of persuasion” (you shi) who wrap their cunning in the words of the Shijing, Shujing, and sages. There are two ways of speaking: speaking downward from above is called lu (expounding); speaking upward from below is called julü. Chuan means the great Ru stands in front and transmits downward to disciples. The line in the Shijing, “Green, green the wheat, growing on the mound,” refers to burial in a field tomb; “In life he gave nothing—why hold pearls in the mouth?” mocks the rich—unwilling to give while alive, yet holding pearls in the mouth after death. That poem has only four lines; whether it is an old poem or one Zhuangzi made up cannot be settled.

What follows—cuo, ye, shan, yi, kong, bie, and the like—describes how the great Ru teaches the lesser Ru: joining and pressing with the hands, prying open the other’s jaw (“kong qi yi”; bie also means “to open”), reciting that poem while slowly taking the pearls, trying not to harm the corpse. The great Ru’s point: since the poem asks “why hold pearls,” taking them fits the poem’s intent.

Laolaizi and Zhongni

Laolaizi’s disciple went out to gather firewood, met Confucius returning, and told Laolaizi: Over there is someone tall and slender, upper body long and lower short, back slightly bent and ears set back, eyes as if surveying all under heaven—I don’t know whose son he is. Laolaizi said: That is Kong Qiu (Confucius). He had him called. When Confucius arrived, Laolaizi said: Qiu, drop the bodily stiffness and the show of cleverness—only then are you a junzi (gentleman). Confucius bowed and withdrew, his expression changed, and asked: Can pursuit of the Way still advance? Laolaizi said: Unable to bear a moment’s hurt, yet letting ten thousand generations’ harm run free—is that innate poverty, or insufficient scheming? Trading what pleases people for arrogance is a lifelong disgrace. What ordinary people call “conduct” is mostly mutual tugging with reputation and binding with profit—praising Yao together and reviling Jie. Better to forget both sides and put away what you boast of. Turning this way and that only harms yourself; reckless movement is only perversity. The sage is cautious in action and often succeeds—why must you carry stiffness on your back all your life?

“Chu xin” means going out to gather firewood. “Xiu shang er qu xia” describes a tall, slender figure with a light step. “Mo lou er hou er” means a slightly hunched back and ears set back. “Shi ruo ying sihai” means far-reaching gaze, as if managing great affairs under heaven. “Ye” means learning or the Way. “Gong jin” is bodily stiffness in bearing; “rong zhi” is wearing cleverness on one’s face and showing off wit. “Liang wang” means forgetting the opposition of right and wrong on both sides; “bi qi suo yu” means no longer outwardly praising what one upholds. “Zai yan zhong jin er” urges Confucius not to carry stiffness on his back until old age.

Going out to gather firewood: the body seems tall and upright from above. Hurrying along: steps quick and restless. Slightly bent at the end: the back a little hunched. Ears behind: seen from the front, the ears are hidden (the head thrust forward and the back slightly stooped). Eyes as if tending all under heaven: the gaze of one who furrows his brow over the calamities of the age—hao mu yi you dang shi zhi huan, anxious for the world’s ills. Body held stiff: a constrained, formal posture—the air of juchi (reserve). Rong is outward bearing; zhi is inward scheming.

Whether the practice can be advanced: whether one can learn and progress in the Way. A generation’s wound: people of this age worn and pitiable, stirring grief. Ao: proud, smug, and indifferent. The point: if you fret excessively over the present, you may store up trouble for those who come after, while you stand aloof and unconcerned. Given that, when the Way is exhausted, it is fitting; when you are destitute, that too is fitting: your path has run its course and want is appropriate—because you fail to see that in the affairs of the world, some things cannot be done by wit and stratagem; hence “wang qi lüe fu ji ye” (wang equals wang, to forget or forgo—nor can clever schemes reach the goal).

Hui Shi (a leading figure of the Warring States “School of Names”) bestows benefits on others; huan is the wish to be liked—treating the currency of bought favor as capital for self-importance. Pride built on that still misses that some things lie beyond strategy; hence again “wang qi lüe fu ji ye.” Such a way of living will not work; it is shameful for a whole lifetime. What ordinary people do is no more than this—so it is said “zhong min zhi xing jin yan er”: zhong min are mediocre folk who “advance” only by pulling one another up in rank and title, joining through half-hidden calculation; this sketches the manner of the zhong min.

Forgetting both Yao and Jie: clinging neither to Yao’s goodness nor to Jie’s evil, there is no slander and no praise; hence one must “bi qi suo yu”—shut off what is praised. If one still goes against the natural order, nothing fails to harm the Way; disliking stillness and loving agitation, nothing fails to turn crooked. The sage is otherwise: chouchu is the wish to go forward yet holding back; to act from chouchu is to respond only when there is no choice. Because there is no deliberate mind, things often succeed—yet there is still zai—to carry, to lean on oneself. Why must you spend your whole life in reserve and self-conceit? Hence the sigh: “nai he zai qi zai yan zhong jin er”—why load yourself and stay proud to the end?

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

King Yuan of Song dreamed in the middle of the night that someone with hair hanging loose was looking in from the A Gate (palace gate), saying: I come from the depths at Zailu (a place name); I was originally a divine turtle in the service of the River Lord (He Bo) in the Qingjiang, but the fisherman Yu Qie caught me.

When King Yuan woke, he had someone interpret the dream; the diviner said: This is the divine turtle speaking through a dream. He also asked those around him: Among the fishermen, is there one named Yu Qie? They answered: Yes. He then ordered Yu Qie to come to court.

The next day Yu Qie attended court. King Yuan asked: What did you catch fishing? Yu Qie said: Yesterday I cast my net and caught a white turtle about five feet across. King Yuan said: Bring the turtle as tribute. When the turtle arrived, he wavered between killing it and keeping it alive and could not decide; he divined again, and the oracle read: Slaughter the turtle and use it for divination—auspicious. So they split the shell and drilled seventy-two holes for divination; the readings were accurate every time, never once failing.

Confucius (called Zhongni in the text) commented on this affair: The divine turtle could appear to King Yuan in a dream, yet could not escape Yu Qie’s net; it could make all seventy-two drill-divinations come out right, yet could not escape the disaster of being gutted and disemboweled. Thus knowing (zhi) has its limits, and spirit (shen) has what it cannot reach. Even the highest wisdom cannot withstand everyone scheming together. Fish do not fear the fishing net, yet they fear the pelican (a water bird that specializes in catching fish). That is why Zhuangzi wants people to drop petty cleverness so great knowing can show, and drop deliberate “doing good” so one can return to goodness as it naturally is. A newborn needs no shi shi (master teacher) to learn to speak, because day after day it is among people who talk.

Note: This passage comes from the “Divine Turtle Dream” story in the Outer Chapters section “Things External” (Wai Wu) of the Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi Kouyi is an oral lecture-style commentary on the Zhuangzi; here it is explaining knowing versus fate, usefulness versus uselessness—however numinous the turtle and however accurate the divination, it still could not escape being killed and shelled open; that aligns with Zhuangzi’s recurring themes that spirit has what it cannot reach and discard small knowing to gain great knowing. In the original, the phrase “this one sentence opens in a striking way” is a commentator praising how well that opening line is written, not part of the canonical text itself.

Zhuangzi Kouyi (Plain Explanation of Zhuangzi)

A Qu is the gate on the curved side; Zai Lu is the name of an abyss—the spirit of the clear river. I was sent to see the River Lord (He Bo). Twice they wanted to kill me, twice they wanted to keep me; they wavered again and again and could not decide. The divination said that “kill” was auspicious, so they killed me. The turtle shell was drilled seventy-two times for divination—the turtle was accurate for others yet not for itself; hence the saying that zhi (knowing) has its limits, and spiritual power too has what it cannot reach. The gist is: once you call some capacity “knowing,” it already has an end. The sentences that follow broadly sketch how people in the world doubt and cannot decide when things arise.

When the oracle said killing was auspicious, they killed; seventy-two drillings of the turtle for divination describe the same kind of use. The turtle was spirit-like for others but not for itself—so it is said that knowing has its straits and the numinous has what it does not reach: call something “knowing,” and it always runs out eventually. Further on, worldly situations are used to nail down the point: even someone of “ utmost knowing”—how could one person’s body outmatch the schemes of the multitude?

The pelican catches fish by first drinking the water dry, then scooping up every fish—this is deliberately harming fish, unlike the net’s way of taking without such intent. The passage above says: if someone sets out to harm me, how can one person’s stratagems prevail? Here it says: if I act with intent, others will answer with intent in turn—hence this image. Only by dropping small cleverness and handing things over to nature does great knowing become clear. Strip away the label “I do good; I stand on being good,” and goodness naturally settles on you—thus “drop being-good and goodness itself remains.”

Shi and shuo (large/great) are connected in sound and sense. Shi Shi (Stone Master) points to the vast way of the teacher—the kind of master who can teach. An infant learns to speak without first finding a teacher; put among people who already speak, and speech comes naturally. Great knowing’s self-goodness is the principle of nature; “can speak without being taught” is the parable used to show that through nature.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: what you talk about is all useless. Zhuangzi said: first understand “useless”—only then are you fit to discuss “useful.” The earth is not un-vast or un-great, yet what people use is only the patch that holds the feet. If you dug away every foot-sized spot and filled down to the Yellow Springs, would people still have anywhere to stand? Huizi said: then it would be useless. Zhuangzi said: seen this way, “useless” itself is also a kind of “use”—and that is quite clear.

Source: Zhuangzi, "Xu Wugui" (as explained in oral commentary)

Walking is like planting your feet only where they can truly hold—beyond that lies abyss, so you must not step at random. That is what the earlier line means: “what the foot treads depends entirely on what it cannot tread upon.” Hence Zhuangzi speaks of “the usefulness of the useless.”

Zhuangzi says: If a person can “roam” (you), how could they not roam? If they cannot roam, how could they roam? That sort of aim that chases external things and never returns, that manner of utterly breaking with the world—hardly befits those of “utmost knowing and thick virtue.” They are like someone who has fallen into an abyss yet will not turn back, or who gallops amid fire yet will not look behind: all are dragged by the worldly and cannot turn inward to see themselves, which is why it is said “no turning back” and “no looking behind.” Even when for a time there are ruler and subject, noble and base, once a person is dead what difference remains in rank? Kings and lords end in the same mounds as ants. Only the perfected person (zhiren) acts without clinging to the world; hence “the perfected person does not linger in conduct.”

To honor antiquity and belittle the present is the pedant’s habit. If one measured today by the ways of Xishiwei—the legendary sage-king before the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors—who could avoid being carried along by the age’s waves? Only the perfected person can “roam” in the world without bias, follow human feeling without losing the self. What others teach they take as right; I need not adopt it, yet I can still go along with their intent and not force a you-versus-me split—this is the sense of equalizing things and going along with affirmations, hence “receiving intent without making ‘that’ the other.” Those who can roam, roam; those who cannot never roam in a lifetime. The point is that in the world some penetrate the Way and some do not. “Roaming” means finding joy in oneself. “Drifting away” (liudun) is pursuing things and forgetting to return; “breaking clean off” (juejue) is taking a path wholly apart from worldly sentiment.

“Utmost knowing and thick virtue” names those who act with nature; their conduct avoids drifting away and breaking off. “Toppling fall” (fuzui) means drowning in worldly affairs; “fire-galloping” (huochi) means rushing after the world like fire. Such people are bound by the mundane and cannot turn the light back upon themselves, so they cannot “turn back” or “look behind.” Though for a while there are high and low, names of ruler and subject, once the body is gone what rank remains? Kings and ants alike return to the mound. Only the perfected person’s way leaves no attachment in the world; hence “the perfected person does not linger in conduct.”

Human feeling in old times and now is broadly the same—there is no absolute “pure” versus “decadent.” Scholars who honor antiquity and scorn the present do not grasp how the world changes. Xishiwei lived before the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors; if one viewed the present from the first opening of heaven and earth or from deepest antiquity, most people would sway with the waves and lose their inborn nature—hence “who indeed can fail to wave?” When pedants say “antiquity,” they often mean only from the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors onward; here there is also a barb aimed at ancient kings.

“Bias” (pi) means partiality. “Roaming in the world without bias” means not splitting right and wrong by old versus new: one may harmonize with the dust and not clash with the world, yet what “I” preserve still stands—hence following others without losing oneself.

Plain-language reading

Che means thorough penetration: when a person grasps the natural principle and opens fully, what the ears hear and the eyes see is genuine clarity and genuine sight; what the nose smells and the mouth tastes is genuine discernment and genuine sweetness; what the heart knows is genuine knowing—and when knowing penetrates all the way through, that is supreme De (Virtue/Power).

Dao should never be blocked. Once it is blocked, it chokes; choking without knowing where to stop, one falls into xingji (traces of bodily form)—xian is the mark left by the foot on the ground. When form-traces weigh one down, every kind of harm arises. Every sentient being with perception lives by xi (breath and vital breath); this xing (innate nature) is in everyone. Only with the nature that receives life does perception arise; what we call perception also rests on this breath. All people are alike in this. When at times the path of principle goes wrong, it is not that Heaven is stingy or fails to treat you generously (buyin means “not as it should be”), but that the principle of Heaven is originally in the human heart, day and night shining forth through the heart’s openings—where it shines forth there is never a pause, hence the phrase tian zhi chuan zhi (“Heaven pierces through it”), as if piercing the heart’s openings; riye wujiang—jiang means to cease. Dou also means the heart’s opening. Because people obscure themselves with desire for things, they block that opening. Gu here means “yet, on the contrary”—people instead plug the opening shut.

Main Meaning of the Passage (Zhuangzi Original)

Within the human body there are layers of spacious cavities, and the mind can roam freely in accord with the natural order. If the dwelling is cramped with no room to breathe, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law will quarrel without end; if the heart lacks this “heavenly roaming,” the six roots (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) will vie and clamor against one another. Great forests, hills, and mountains may be loved partly because the spirit cannot bear the strain (of being pulled by outer things). When virtue overflows into reputation, reputation overflows into cruelty; scheming is trapped in craftiness, and cleverness arises from strife—like firewood piled in defense—until affairs of office come to this. When spring rain comes in season, plants and trees surge upward, and hoeing and weeding begin; more than half the plants fall broken, yet no one knows why.

Oral Commentary

The membrane, the layered chambers, and heavenly roaming

“Membrane” (bao) means the membrane wrapping the body; within flesh and skin there is another membrane-like network protecting the whole body. “Layered chambers” (chong lang) refers to inner spaciousness. The body’s interior is so open, while the ruler of the heart finds joy in the natural order—this is called “heavenly roaming” (tian you). “Bo xi” means quarreling. When the house is narrow, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law often clash. “Six borings” (liu zao) are the six roots: eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind. When the dwelling is not empty, superior and inferior push against each other; when the heart is not empty, the six roots grab and fight. If the heart can be empty, how can outer things disturb it? What is called “good” (shan, delight) is because the heart is not empty and the six dusts (form, sound, scent, taste, touch, and mental objects) come to stir it. People who love mountains and forests today also find their spirit unable to bear endless toil; suddenly seeing open space, the heart must rejoice—yet they are overcome by the outer scene, first elated then saddened.

Great transformation and being turned by things

Great transformation shifts in the dark, and people are simply pulled along by outer things.

Stillness, mending illness, resting age, stopping haste

“Jing ran” means settled and at ease. “Bu bing” means letting go of the old and welcoming the new, abandoning the branch and returning to the root. When the heart is at ease, it can nourish sickly qi; closing the eyes can rest aging; tranquility can stop urgency. Even so, these are still what busy people should do—not what the truly idle wanderer has never passed through yet comes casually to ask about.

(The following repeats the lines on “stillness can mend illness…” and the gloss “jing ran means at ease, bu bing means…” with the same sense: stressing heart-ease, renewing by shedding the old, returning to the root and guarding stillness—matters for those who apply effort, not what genuine free roaming is about.)

In this way, what was previously incomplete can be filled in and restored to wholeness.

“Zi” and “jie” (following the original phonetic notes: zi read as usual; jie read like the “mie” type of pronunciation) mean: shut desire outside, preserve the inner norm of Heaven (tianli), and one can live out one’s years at ease. When the heart is too rushed and restless, settling the mind stops that urgency.

The lines below follow the same pattern: “hai” (same sense as startling or shaking people) means to stir the human world with one’s presence and reputation. When the sage governs all under Heaven with benevolence and righteousness, that is “startling” the world—yet the divine person (shenren, one who has attained the Way and left ordinary society behind) never bothers with such things. When the worthy person “startles” an age with great virtue, the sage does not bother with that either. When the gentleman “startles” a state with fame, the worthy person does not bother. When the petty person schemes to please the moment, the gentleman does not bother.

At Yanmen, someone mourned his parents with such extreme filial devotion (“shan hui” means mourning to the full ritual extreme) that he was ennobled and made a guanshi (a local official in charge of teaching and administration). Would his associates also ruin their health or even die in mourning, just to imitate him and chase reputation? That is pushing the harm of craving a name to an extreme.

Yao offered the realm to Xu You; Xu You fled and refused. Tang offered it to Wuguang; Wuguang took offense and refused. When Ji Ta heard of this, he led his disciples to withdraw and hide by the Kuanshui—squatting in seclusion (“cun” matches “dun,” suggesting scorn for the world and distance from it). He too had hoped a lord would yield the realm; instead the lords only came to offer condolences for his hardship—which was already absurd. Three years later Shentu Di, smitten with the fame of this “yielding the realm,” threw himself into the river and died. That again takes the burden of craving a name to the limit.

The quan (bamboo fish trap) exists because there are fish; once you have the fish, you can forget the quan. The ti (rabbit snare) exists because there are rabbits; once you have the rabbit, you can forget the ti. Words exist because there is meaning; once you have grasped the meaning, you can forget the words. Where am I to find someone who has already “forgotten words,” so I can talk with him in words?

The main exposition is already complete; the closing brings in biān tí (the fish-trap and the rabbit-snare) to round things off, in the same pattern as the earlier discussion of when words are enough and when they fall short.

Biān tí names the bamboo fish-trap (biān) and the gear used to run down rabbits (tí): once the fish is in hand and the rabbit is caught, those implements can be laid aside—there is no need to keep clutching them. Speech works the same way: language is there to carry meaning; when meaning is understood, the words themselves should be released. If one cannot let go of words and digs into the literal surface, one grows rigid and fixed, and the genuine point slips away. Only someone who can wang yan (“forget words”) can be said to use language in the full sense.

This section is equally careful in its wording. The rabbit is the instructive case: what counts is getting the rabbit, not forever hugging the snare; the stress falls on the meaning, not on the trap.

The opening of this chapter has Zhuangzi explaining that the book employs three modes of discourse. Yuyan (metaphorical or entrusted speech) means voicing one’s own meaning under another person’s name; the figure “nineteen” indicates that roughly nine out of ten chapters belong to this type—examples include “Nie Que,” “Wang Ni,” and “Gengsang Chu.” Chongyan (repeated or weight-giving speech) invokes the names of the ancients to add authority, such as the Yellow Emperor, Shennong, and Confucius; “seventeen” means this kind accounts for about seven tenths of the whole. Zhiyan (goblet or spillover speech): zhi is a wine vessel—anyone may drink from it and find flavor—so the image stands for words everyone can accept and that hold together; richu (daily renewal) means each chapter includes such day-by-day refreshed formulations. He is harmonizing; tian ni is the natural principle of Heaven. One uses Heaven’s principle to harmonize people’s hearts.

Jie (borrowing) means the words do not come from one’s own mouth but from another’s, hence it is called wailun (external discourse). It is like a father praising his son to arrange a marriage: the other party often will not believe him, and the praise must come from someone else’s mouth—that is the point of yuyan. The fault is not mine; it arises because people will not trust direct speech, and so this kind of entrusted tale appears. If everything were taken as “I” speaking, listeners would inevitably split into agreement and disagreement—approving or rejecting, following or not following one’s own bent—this describes the private, one-sided views ordinary people cling to.

Chongyan makes up seven tenths, so it is also “one’s own speech”: because someone advanced in years and senior in standing need not lay out every thread of principle from start to finish—mere age suffices to make him a standard of right and wrong. If a person cannot take virtue and conduct as what leads the way for others, he does not truly possess the human way; without the human way and relying only on seniority in years is to be a chenren—an old formula without fresh insight.

On “Stopping” and Relying on Elders of Worth

“Having stopped” (yǐ zhǐ) means: one’s own words can end where they should, so as to cut off pointless dispute. When one borrows the weight of qiai—elders who are advanced in years and in virtue, fit to be consulted—listeners dare not lightly dismiss what is said, and contentious talk can be blocked. The ancient kings, emperors, sages, and worthies of old all count as qiai worth relying on. What is meant by “warp and woof, root and branch” is knowing the constant, knowing change, knowing the beginning, and knowing the end.

A Full Year’s Age and the “Stale Person”

Qinian and qiyi denote years of great longevity. Even when one is very old, if there is no visible achievement in learning and one is called a venerable elder only because one has reached qiyi age, that kind of “being ahead” is not truly being ahead—it means there is nothing that surpasses others. If a person cannot excel others in talent and virtue, they cannot fully fulfill what it is to be human; such a one is merely a chenren (stale person). Chenren refers to people who have grown old in the world without real usefulness. The point here is to show: what I rely on is genuinely respectable qiai, not treating someone as a banner to borrow simply because their generation is senior.

Zhiyan, Tian Ni, and Equalizing the Unequal

Zhiyan (words like a tilted cup—filled and emptied without clinging to one side) is spoken day after day in harmony with Tian Ni (the natural boundary, the divide of heavenly principle), and from there manyan (layer upon layer of extension) unfolds, so that a whole lifetime can be exhausted in this movement. If one does not speak, then there is sameness; once one speaks, sameness and words are not equal, and words and sameness are not equal. Hence it is said “no words”—within words there is again wordlessness; for a lifetime one is in words, yet never stuck in fixed “words”; for a lifetime one is without words, yet never not in words. Where there is zi (self-assertion, a fixed stance), there is zi that may be held and zi that may not; where there is zi, things are not so. How is one “so”? By being so on what is so; how “not so”? By being not so on what is not so. How “acceptable”? By accepting on what is acceptable; how “unacceptable”? By rejecting on what is unacceptable. Things inherently have their “so” and their “acceptable”; there is nothing that is not “so,” nothing that is not “acceptable.”

Tian Jun and Seeds Transforming in Succession

Without zhiyan, speaking day after day in harmony with Tian Ni—who could sustain that long? The ten thousand things are all like zhong (seed, root); in different forms they xiang shan (transform and replace one another in succession), from start to finish like a ring, with no fixed end to find. This is called Tian Jun (heavenly equalization, the leveling of heavenly principle). Tian Jun is precisely Tian Ni.

Note: This passage develops the oral sense of Zhuangzi’s “zhiyan,” “Tian Ni,” “Tian Jun,” relying on qiai, and rejecting those who are honored only for age; it aligns with common lines in the inner chapters and is best read alongside texts such as “Discourse on Making Things Equal” (Qiwu Lun).

Plain-Language Reading

“Man” means roaming at ease and finding joy in oneself; “qiong nian” means living out one’s years in that way—letting days and months pass in it.

Without speaking, one can align with qi (the equality of all things, without fixed distinctions). If one uses “speech that is not speech,” one returns to a single principle—that oneness. Once that principle is shaped into words and argued in words, something is still held and asserted, so true oneness cannot be reached. Hence it is said: qi and speech do not align, and speech and qi do not align. Only non-speech aligns with qi—here “non-speech” is speech that does not cling to speech. One may speak all one’s life yet seem never to have spoken, because the heart is not bound to words; one may never speak all one’s life yet seem never to have been silent, because in not speaking one can still awaken to principle—it is not that one truly never speaks.

In whatever people call acceptable or unacceptable, so or not so, each line of talk has its own origin; each side holds one edge and takes its own as right. If I follow that, I “so” what they call so and “not-so” what they call not-so—yet things each have their own “so” (each is what it is for itself). Since each has its own rightness, every thing can be called so, hence “nothing is not so, nothing is not acceptable.” The Qi Wu Lun (Discourse on the Equality of Things) treats this at length.

It is not by “zhi speech” (words like an upturned cup—renewed daily, not stuck on one side) harmonizing day by day with tian ni (the natural boundary) that anyone could keep it up forever. If one sinks with the crowd into the mouth of right and wrong, how could one ask for anything lasting? The pattern of nature cannot be overturned for a thousand ages. Seeds of all things issue alike from the Creator; only their forms differ as they replace one another in heaven and earth. People see grass as grass, trees as trees, birds as birds, beasts as beasts—they see only differing shapes and do not know that all share one primordial qi; the seed is one. All things come and go in heaven and earth, beginning and ending like a cycle; the subtle order within cannot be exhausted by human knowing—this is called unknowable to the end, and this is what is meant by tian jun (“heaven’s leveling”): jun means sameness, the sameness of heavenly principle—hence tian jun.

Zhuangzi said to Huishi: When Confucius reached sixty, he had undergone sixty transformations—what he first took to be right, he later came to see as wrong; so it is hard to be sure whether what we now call “right” might actually be the fifty-ninth turn of “wrong.”

Huishi said: Confucius set his heart diligently on his aim and took intellectual understanding as what he lived by.

Zhuangzi said: Confucius had long since ceased to be like that. He did not habitually speak as if everything were settled. Confucius said: One receives the endowment of nature from the Dao, returns to spirit and guards life; let voice accord with musical pitch and words accord with law; set profit and righteousness before oneself—as for likes and dislikes, right and wrong, if one only gets others to submit in speech, that is not enough—one must win them inwardly so they dare not go against it; only then can one stabilize the realm. Stabilized? Stabilized? I fear I have not yet reached his level.

(In the text, “Huizi” is Huishi, a Warring States representative of the School of Names who often debated with Zhuangzi; “Confucius” here is borrowed by Zhuangzi to discuss change and truly winning people over—it is not a historical account of Confucius’s life.)

On “fú zhī” (serving knowledge): In “fú zhī,” fú means to apply oneself or exert effort, and zhī refers to knowledge and discernment. Applying the mind wholeheartedly to knowledge and discernment is what is called “broad learning” (bóxué). Xiè means to set aside or leave behind. The point is that Confucius had already put broad learning behind him and moved on to seeking the Dao, but simply had not stated this plainly to others. The line “Confucius said” in the text is Zhuangzi quoting Confucius to show that Confucius had once expressed such a view.

“Receiving one’s endowment from the great root” (shòu cái hū dà běn): Human talent and nature come from the “great root.” The great root is creation and transformation, the root of Heaven and Earth—that is, the innate nature of spiritual clarity and perceptual awareness. Fù means to return: only by returning to this original nature of awareness can one walk the path of human life aright.

Lines such as “restoring the spirit to give life” (fù líng yǐ shēng), etc. (oral commentary repeats and expands): Míng also means to speak; lǜ is rule or principle, and dāng means to accord with reason. When benefit (lì) and righteousness (yì) are put first, there arise right and wrong, like and dislike, self and other stand opposed, and one can only win people’s mouths, not their hearts. One must let go of benefit and righteousness and forget right and wrong and like and dislike before hearts can truly be won, no one dares oppose you, and the constant norms of the realm can be settled. “Āi” is pronounced like “wù” and also suggests contrariness; “āi lì” is standing face to face—compliant on this side, contrary on that. In the Zhouli, “to receive the princes’ approach” (nì) also means coming toward me as “nì.” After Zhuangzi finishes quoting the Master, he sighs to Huizi: “Enough, enough—how could I compare with that man Confucius!” From this we know Zhuangzi was not someone who failed to honor the sage.

The passage on Zengzi taking office again:

When Zengzi took office again, his mind had shifted once more. He said: While my parents were alive, holding office with income enough for three cooking pots, I was still at ease in mind; later, when my stipend reached three thousand zhong, it could not fill my heart—I felt grief instead. A disciple asked Zhongni: “Can someone like Shen be said not to have had his mind suspended by stipend and thus incurred blame?” Zhongni said: “It was already suspended. Once the mind is suspended, how can we say there was no sorrow? He regarded three pots and three thousand zhong like sparrows or gnats flitting past his eyes.” (Meaning: the mind still moved with gain and loss; he was not truly without attachment; only when outer things are seen like smoke passing before the eyes does one approach “having nothing suspended.”)

On “not yet reaching the point of speaking” and the passage about Zengzi

“Not yet reaching the point of speaking” means the words have not yet hit the mark—they have not yet reached the level of “closeness” (qin).

In “is there nothing by which his fault is suspended?” (wu suo xuan qi zui hu), “xuan” means to tie, hang, or be encumbered. The question is whether Zengzi’s remark carries the fault of being tied up—or whether it does not—because he shifts twice, first grief then joy, which makes one wonder whether he is still hung up on external things.

“Already suspended” means: if the mind stops on that grief and joy, that is being tied up. If one were truly without tie-up, then even when the weight of externals exceeded what one had clung to before, it would be no more than birds or gnats—how could one then grieve or rejoice so greatly? Once there is grief or joy, there is mind, there is attachment.

Yan Chengzi You’s “nine years” to Dongguo Ziji

Yan Chengzi You said to Dongguo Ziji: Since I heard your words—

• One year and wild: returning to plainness, with less artificiality.
• Two years and following: compliant, keeping pace; no longer stiffly resisting right and wrong, like and dislike.
• Three years and penetrating: thorough, awakened.
• Four years and thing-like: like withered wood or dead ashes—unmoved by external things.
• Five years and coming: within stillness there is again a vitality that is “not still dead”; in Chan this is called “the great dead man comes back to life.”
• Seven years and heaven-complete: one with the Way of Heaven.
• Eight years and not knowing death, not knowing life: the boundary between life and death dissolves in the mind; there is no entering in which one is not at ease.
• Nine years and great subtlety: reaching the finest, most wondrous level.

Kouyi further explains: from one year to nine years, “years” are borrowed to mark stages in order; this kind of work cannot be measured by calendar months and years.

Life, death, yang, ming, and “correspondence”

“Life as you-wei (deliberate doing), death also as admonition”—treating “life” as a kind of artificial doing and “death” as a kind of warning or turning (Kouyi here follows the scripture in speaking of both sides of life and death).

“Lord, since his death also has a ‘self,’ yet life and yang seem ‘without self’—is it really so?”—asking whether death seems to have “self” (its own ground), while life and yang seem “without self,” yet whether that is truly the case.

“Where does it go that suits, where does it go that does not suit?”—where in fact is the going that fits, and where the going that does not?

“Heaven has its reckoning, earth has what people occupy—where am I to seek it?”—Heaven has its patterns, earth has the positions people hold; where should I go to find the answer?

“Not knowing where it ends—how then say there is no ming (fate)? Not knowing where it begins—how then say there is ming?”—“Ming” here means fate, the mandate of Heaven—the kind of limit that cannot be fully fathomed.

“If there is mutual correspondence, how then say there is no hun (soul, spirit)? If there is no mutual correspondence, how then say there is hun?”—if mind and things, mind and Dao, can correspond, how can one say there is no hun? If there is utterly no correspondence, how can one say there is hun?

The above is a modern paraphrase in the tone of Zhuangzi Kouyi, staying close to the logic of the original sentences; if it differs slightly from the wording in your edition, take your base text as authoritative.

These passages explain the principle of “no birth and no death.”

Those who say “to live is to have life” treat “life” as something genuinely real; once life is taken as real, death cannot be avoided. To set life and death in opposition is a view rooted in the private self and one’s own body. To counsel others with a heart of utmost impartiality is to help them see that, within the great design of the Creator, no existence can endure forever without dying—hence it is called “counseling with public spirit,” using the side of death to awaken people. Yet as soon as one speaks of death, death seems to have a “whence it came”; to say death has an origin is to seek “life” at the first stir of emergence—and at that first stir there was never any “self” to begin with. Since there was no birth from the start, how could there be death? (Here yang movement, beginning, and the relation of life and death are woven together.) Explained in terms of such birth and death, is it truly so—or is it merely “happens to be thus, happens not to be thus”? What matters is: if one exhausts heaven and earth and the myriad things in one’s view, on what basis can one say “must be thus, must not be thus”? To say “there is” is wrong; to say “there is not” is wrong. Hence: is it really so? And on what basis can one say where one ought or ought not to go?

Using calendrical reckoning to track the comings and goings of stars, sun, and moon, people have records and degrees (as in almanacs); they also infer from footprints and places that can be verified (as in gazetteers). Can such reckoning truly exhaust the principles of heaven and earth? Therefore it is said: why must I seek only between heaven and earth? As the sun shifts and the moon turns, who knows their limit? This turning and direction seem to have a Creator behind them—how can one simply say “there is no Mandate of Heaven”? Yet in the vast beginning there was originally nothing—how can one simply say “there is a Mandate of Heaven”? Morning must have evening, cold must have heat; when the season arrives, qi responds without the slightest error—it seems very “responsive”—how can one simply say “there are no ghosts and spirits”? Yet the modest are not always blessed, the benevolent not always long-lived; the hidden and the manifest do not always correspond—how can one simply say “there are ghosts and spirits”? These lines develop the point: the Creator, the Mandate of Heaven, and ghosts and spirits cannot be fully pinned down by human calculation and everyday common sense.

There is a figure called “Wangliang”—a fainter shadow beyond the shadow—who questions the shadow: “A moment ago you had your head bowed; why is it raised now? A moment ago your hair was tied up; why is it loose now? A moment ago you were sitting; why are you standing now? A moment ago you were walking; why have you stopped? What is going on?”

The shadow replies: “I too am only dim and intermittent, appearing and vanishing. Your questions are so rough—how could I explain clearly! I have my own condition, yet I myself do not understand why it is so. One might compare it to this: the cicada has already shed its skin and only the empty shell remains; the snake has sloughed its skin, and the skin is still there—using these as likenesses is somewhat similar, yet not the same thing. When there is fire and sunlight, I gather there and become visible; on cloudy days and at night, I am replaced by something else and cannot be seen. What I depend on—is that not the ‘other’ (the physical form)? So it is said that I have something I rely upon. How much more so for things that themselves must rely on something else in order to move! When it comes, I come along; when it goes, I go along; when it moves because of ‘strong yang’ (the stirring of yang qi, bodily activity), I move along too. As for what ‘strong yang’ itself really is—that is not something the physical form can truly grasp. If you ask me again, what use would that be?”

Plain-Language Reading

Yangzi Ju (Yang Zhu, a Warring States philosopher) traveled south toward Pei, while Laozi (Laodan) went west toward the state of Qin. The two met in the suburbs; later they ran into each other again in Liang. Halfway along the road Laozi looked up to heaven and sighed: “At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot.” Yangzi Ju did not reply. When they reached their lodging, after washing up he took off his shoes, sat respectfully outside the mat, stepped forward, and said: “Just now your disciple wanted to ask, but while you were walking I did not dare interrupt; now I may ask—where did I go wrong?”

Laozi said: “Your eyes dart and glance this way and that—who would want to stay close to someone like that? One who truly understands seems as if wronged; one whose De (Virtue/Power) is full seems as if still not enough.” Yangzi Ju’s face changed at once; he said respectfully: “Your disciple has received the teaching.”

What follows is commentary, in substance as follows:

“May I ask where my fault lay” means: You said I cannot be taught—what was my error?

“Suìsuì xīxī” describes a stiff, unnatural manner; “who would stay with you” means he had not yet let go of the split between “me” and “others,” as if always crowding against people and unable to set aside his air of superiority.

“Great clarity seems like disgrace” means plainly understanding yet not showing off, as if shamed; “abundant virtue seems insufficient” means having great De yet acting as if it were not enough and not claiming merit.

“Yingjiang” is welcoming and seeing off; “jiagong” is the innkeeper; “holding the mat, holding towel and comb” means the host and his wife personally bring the mat and hand towel and comb—signs of utmost respect. “Yangzhe” is the person who tends the fire and cooks; “yielding the mat, yielding the stove” means giving up seat and stove out of respect. “Contending for a seat” means later sitting like ordinary folk and scrambling for a place—no longer treating him as an eminent person.

Main point of the whole passage: Before he heard Laozi’s words, Yangzi Ju already carried himself with affectation and self-importance, so others treated him with special deference. After Laozi’s rebuke and his own stepping back, people took him as an ordinary person and no longer gave him exceptional honor— the story illustrates the idea that true De does not show off and that “great skill seems clumsy” (da qiao ruo zhuo). The commentary says the wording of this chapter is very fine and walks through that meaning line by line.

Yao offered the empire to Xu You, but Xu You would not accept it. Yao then offered it to Zizhou Zhifu. Zizhou Zhifu said: “I could manage being Son of Heaven, but I have a hidden, lingering ailment like youyou and am still tending it—I have no leisure to govern the empire. However weighty the realm may be, it must not be traded for one’s own life, still less for other things outside the self. Only someone who does not treat possessing the empire as what matters is truly fit to be entrusted with it.” This is “having the empire without holding it as one’s own”—unlike ordinary people.

Youyou refers to a concealed, chronic illness, as we might say today of a hidden, lingering sickness. “Those who do not take the empire as their concern” means people who do not wish to be Son of Heaven and do not keep the realm on their minds—yet they may be the ones to whom the empire can be entrusted. It is the sense of having the empire without clinging to it or claiming it, which sets them apart from the vulgar.

Shun offered the empire to Zizhou Zhibo. Zizhou Zhibo said: “I have a youyou ailment and am still treating it; I have no leisure for the empire.” So even though the realm is a great vessel, it is not exchanged for one’s life—on this point people of the Way differ from ordinary folk.

Shun offered the empire to Shan Juan. Shan Juan said: “I stand between heaven and earth. In winter I wear furs, in summer hemp; in spring I plow, enough for my body to work; in autumn I harvest, enough for my body to rest. I rise with the sun and rest at sunset, wandering freely between heaven and earth, my mind at ease. Why should I want the empire? It is a pity you do not understand me.” He refused, left, entered the deep mountains, and no one ever learned where he went.

Shun offered the empire to the farmer of Shihu, a friend. The farmer of Shihu said: “Juanjuan—alas! Those who later hold power are mostly people who strain to preserve the body and toil in hardship. With Shun’s virtue, one still cannot say it has reached the level of natural wuwei (non-action).” Then the husband carried loads on his back and the wife bore them on her head; they took their child and went out to sea, never to return.

Juanjuan describes the look of wearing oneself out; baoli means toiling with strenuous effort. “Virtue has not yet arrived” means it is not yet the virtue that is spontaneous and wuwei. Both of them fled: the wife carried things on her head, the husband on his back; together they took their child to sea. These two passages do not introduce a new break in the argument; their meaning continues what went before.

Duke Danfu lived in Bin, the Zhou people’s former homeland. When the Di people attacked, the people of Bin offered furs and silk to sue for peace; the Di refused. They sent dogs and horses; still refused. They sent pearls and jade; still refused. What the Di truly wanted was the land.

Duke Danfu said: “To live as another man’s elder brother yet go kill his younger brother; to live as another man’s father yet go kill his son—I cannot bear such a life. Settle here as best you can. What they want is land.”

He said the same again: to share life with someone’s elder brother yet kill his younger brother, with someone’s father yet kill his son—he could not bear it. They should try to live on in peace. The dispute was over nothing but land.

(In the closing line) To be my subjects, or to be the Di’s subjects—the text contrasts the two fates and ends there.