《庄子口义》Vol. 9

What exactly separates subject from ruler? It is said that one must not use what sustains oneself to harm what one seeks to preserve. “What is used for sustaining” means the resources one lives on—here, the land; “what is sustained” means the people one is bound to protect. “Honoring life” (zunsheng) means holding oneself dear and treating external things lightly. The passage satirizes those of the time who were anxious about gain and loss and forgot their own bodies for profit.

King Father Dan (Grandfather King Dan), the ancient Zhou forebear, may be said to have truly understood honoring life. One who understands it will not harm the body through indulgence even in wealth and rank, nor burden the person through petty gain even in poverty. Yet most who hold high office and enjoy stipends fear losing them, and at the sight of profit lightly throw away their lives—is that not folly?

For three generations in succession, Yue had regicides. Prince Sou, troubled by this, fled to Danyue—a deep mountain cave—and Yue was left without a ruler. When the people could not find him, they tracked him to the cave. Prince Sou still refused to come out. They smoked him out with mugwort and prepared a jade carriage to welcome him. He grasped the mounting cord, stepped up, and cried to heaven: “My lord, my lord! Can you not leave me alone?”

Prince Sou did not despise being ruler; he despised the calamities that office brought. Someone like him does not let state affairs injure life—and that is precisely the sort of person the people of Yue most wished to install as king.

“My lord, my lord”—he is asking: Do you want me to be your ruler? Only one with no heart set on the throne can be entrusted with the state. Thus the people of Yue did not treat “injuring life” as success; that was exactly the kind of ruler they hoped for. (This section restates the same point as the one before.)

Han and Wei were fighting over seized territory. Zihua Zi, a figure associated with the Daoist tradition, visited Marquis Zhao Xi of Han and saw the marquis wearing a worried look. Zihua Zi said: Suppose someone set a covenant before you reading: If you grab with the left hand, the right is maimed; if you grab with the right, the left is maimed—but whoever grabs gets the realm under heaven. Would you grab?

Marquis Zhao Xi said: I would not.

Zihua Zi said: Good. From this, both arms weigh more than all under heaven, and the body weighs more than both arms—while the state of Han is already lighter than all under heaven. The strip of land you now quarrel over is lighter still compared with Han. Yet you cling to worry and harm body and spirit—it is not worth it.

The marquis said: Well said. Many have instructed me, but I have never heard this. Zihua Zi may be said to understand what is heavy and what is light.

Zi Huazi on Heavy and Light

“Jue” means reaching out to grab; “ming” is like a written contract or deed. Tear up the contract and throw it away—even if that document could be exchanged for the whole realm, someone who cherishes their own life would not reach for it. Compare the state of Han to the entire realm, and Han weighs far less. Some people worry because they cannot obtain something, worrying until they harm body and life; that is like losing themselves, heavier than losing an arm. Hence one must understand heavy and light. The analogy teaches the worldly much.

The style of this passage is close to the inner chapters of the Zhuangzi.

Yan He’s Disdain for Wealth and Rank

The ruler of Lu heard that Yan He was a person who had attained the Dao, and sent someone ahead with gifts to visit him. Yan He lived in a humble lane, wore coarse cloth, and fed his own ox. The Duke’s envoy arrived, and Yan He answered the door himself. The envoy asked: Is this Yan He’s house? Yan He replied: This is He’s house. The envoy presented the gifts; Yan He said: I fear the listener may mistake the name and get the envoy into trouble—better verify first. The envoy went back to check and came again to seek him, but then could not find Yan He. Someone like Yan He truly despises wealth and rank. Thus it is said: the true meaning of the Dao is used to cultivate the self; what remains is used to order the household; only like ash is it used to order the realm. From this view, the achievements of emperors and kings and the deeds of sages are all “surplus matters”—not what preserves the body and nourishes life. Today many worldly gentlemen sacrifice themselves for things—how sad? In every move, the sage must see clearly where he is going and for what. If someone used the Marquis of Sui’s pearl to shoot at a sparrow a thousand ren high, the world would surely laugh at him—the means too heavy, the aim too light. Is life not heavier still than the Marquis of Sui’s pearl?

(Note: In oral exegesis, “return, verify again, come to seek once more—then there is no recourse” overlaps with the Yan He episode and the passage on imperial achievement: the envoy checks again and returns to seek him, but then “no recourse”—Yan He has already withdrawn from sight. Likewise “the achievements of emperors and kings are the sage’s surplus matters” and “the true Dao is used to cultivate the body” repeat the same point; oral commentary often stacks phrases this way for emphasis.)

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

Coarse hemp cloth (jubu) is ordinary rough cloth. The listener mishears the words means the hearer took what was said the wrong way.

Earth and chaff (tujie) refer to dregs and leftover residue. The point here is that the achievements of emperors in ordering the realm and running the state count, in the sage’s Dao, as peripheral matters—not the root. The person is the root of the realm and the state; only after cultivating the self can one order the realm and the state—this is what sages have always said. Zhuangzi means the same.

Many people think Zhuangzi splits the “refined” and the “coarse” into two unrelated tracks and talks about each on its own; in fact his emphasis is simply that those who realize the Dao do not let outer things drag down the heart-mind. Yao did not set his heart on the yellow canopy (imperial rank); Shun and Yu had the realm but did not treat it as private property—only in that frame of mind can one speak fully of Wuwei (non-action) in governing. It is just that Zhuangzi’s wording swings too far in praise and blame, which easily misleads.

The four characters “leftover threads” (xuyu) and “earth and chaff” (tujie) both grow out of the idea of peripheral matters—as if to say dust and chaff can still be used to mold Yao and Shun: the concrete work of governing the realm, in the sage’s eyes, is like surplus material and dregs; that is not a denial of governing itself.

Lord Jing’s (Wang Anshi’s) learning really did read Zhuangzi as two separate halves and tried to govern accordingly, so he often cited phrases like “leftover threads and earth-chaff.” Master Zhu (Zhu Xi) therefore argued against this at length. Zhuangzi’s language sometimes goes too far, or misleads later ages—one may criticize that; but his underlying intent was not necessarily so.

Endangering the body and casting off life to chase things means letting outer things burden the heart-mind—the opposite of “those who know the Dao do not let outer things burden the root.”

The two lines “that by which one goes where one goes” and “that by which one does what one does” mean the same thing: if you used a pearl to shoot at a sparrow, no one would agree—people will not let things burden the body; yet people in the world do not understand, though the analogy is very clear.

In style, this passage resembles the Inner Chapters of Zhuangzi.

Liezi lived in straitened circumstances: his face was gaunt and he looked half-starved. A visitor said to Ziyang of Zheng, “Liezi Yukou is surely a man of the Way, yet he dwells in your lord’s domain and remains poor. People may think you do not honor men of worth.” Ziyang at once sent an official with a gift of grain. When Liezi met the messenger, he bowed twice and declined; the messenger withdrew.

Liezi went inside. His wife looked at him, beat her breast, and said, “They say the wife and children of a man of the Way enjoy ease and contentment—yet here you are, with a hungry face. The ruler noticed you and sent you grain, and you refuse. Is this not simply our lot?” Liezi smiled and said, “The ruler does not truly know me himself. He sent grain only because someone else spoke of me. When the time comes to punish me, it will likewise be because of what others say. To accept or reject on the strength of others’ words alone—that is why I would not take it.”

Later the people of Zheng did indeed rise in revolt and killed Ziyang.

Key point of the oral gloss: Ziyang gave grain because of what others said, which shows he was not a true knower of Liezi. If he is not a true knower, then when others praise Liezi he may trust it, and when they slander him he may trust that too. That reading fits the point well. This episode matches the corresponding story in the Liezi.

In the story of King Zhao of Chu losing his state, Tu Yang Shuo—a commoner who made his living slaughtering sheep—followed the king into exile. After the king recovered Chu and returned to the capital, he wanted to reward everyone who had accompanied him, including Tu Yang Shuo. Tu Yang Shuo declined, saying: when Your Majesty lost the state, I also lost my trade as a butcher; when Your Majesty returned, I went back to my stall. The rank and salary that were mine have already been restored—what further reward do I need? The king insisted on giving him something, but Tu Yang Shuo still refused. The king said he would summon him for an audience; Tu Yang Shuo replied: under Chu’s old laws, only someone who had performed great service and received a heavy reward was entitled to be received in audience. My wisdom was not enough to preserve the state, and my courage was not enough to die fighting when Wu troops entered Ying— I fled danger; I did not deliberately choose to follow Your Majesty. If Your Majesty now breaks the law and goes back on established practice to see me, that is not something I wish people throughout the realm to hear about.

The king said to Sima Ziqi: Tu Yang Shuo is low in status, yet what he says is very lofty. Please go and invite him with the honors due to the “Three Banners” (the rank of the Three Ducal Ministers—each of the three ducal chariots bore its own banner, hence the name). Tu Yang Shuo again said: I know the Three Banners rank is nobler than a butcher’s shop, and I know ten thousand zhong of salary is richer than profit from slaughtering sheep. But how could I, for the sake of greedy rank and salary, let the ruler take the name of handing out rewards at random? I dare not accept; I only wish to return to my butcher’s stall—and so he did not accept.

Commentary (kouyi):

“When the king returned to the state, Tu Yang Shuo also returned to his trade as a butcher”—this means each person returned to what properly belonged to his station.

“Three Banners” refers to the Three Ducal Ministers; each of the three ducal chariots had a distinct banner, hence the term. This passage (Tu Yang Shuo declining reward) is also well written.

(Following the line “I only wish to return to my butcher’s stall, and so did not accept”)—again Tu Yang Shuo refusing reward and going back to his stall; it echoes the commentary that each gets what fits his proper place.

Yuan Xian lived in the state of Lu in a cramped one-room shack: the roof was thatched with grass, the doorway left unfinished with a mulberry-wood pivot, and both small rooms had broken pottery jars set into the walls for windows; he also stuffed the openings with coarse cloth to block wind and rain. Rain dripped from above and damp seeped up from below, yet he sat straight and played the zither.

Zigong arrived in a fine carriage pulled by a large horse, deep blue-black reins in hand, his outer robe plain white. The carriage was too wide for the narrow lane, so he had to go on foot to see Yuan Xian. Yuan Xian wore a cap of tree bark, his shoes trailing at the heels, and answered the door leaning on a staff of wild greens. Zigong said, “Ah, Master—what sickness has struck you?” Yuan Xian replied, “I have heard that having no money is poverty, while learning without living it is sickness. I am poor now; I am not sick.” Zigong stepped back a few paces, shame on his face. Yuan Xian smiled and said: to act so as to please the times, to band together in factions for friends, to study in order to impress others, to teach for one’s own gain, to dress up wickedness in benevolence and righteousness, to chase fine carriages and ornament—I will do none of that.

(In the text, ci means roofing with straw; weng you er shi means both rooms used broken jars as windows—holes cut in the wall for light; he yi wei sai means blocking the window with old cloth against wind and rain; kuang zuo is sitting upright; gan is deep blue-red, here the reins; biao su is wearing plain white on the outside; xuan che bu rong xiang means the lane was too narrow for the grand carriage; hua guan is a cap made of bark; xi li is walking with the heels of the shoes dragging; xi shi er xing is currying favor with the world in one’s conduct; bi zhou er you is making friends in cliques with the wrong sort; xue yi wei ren, jiao yi wei ji is studying for others’ eyes and teaching for profit; ren yi zhi te is using benevolence and righteousness to cover up what is crooked.)

Zengzi in Wei

Zengzi lived in the state of Wei. He wore padded clothes stuffed with tangled hemp or old wadding, so worn that the stuffing showed through; his face was swollen and hollow-looking; his hands and feet were covered with calluses. For three days he did not kindle a fire to cook; for ten years he made no new garments. When he tried to straighten his cap, the chin strap snapped; when he pulled his robe closed, his elbow showed; when he put on shoes, the heels split open. Trailing the uppers as he walked, he still sang the Shang Song, his voice filling heaven and earth with a rhythm like bronze and stone.

Thus it is said: Those who nourish aspiration forget the dignity of the body and do not let the body be worn down; those who nourish the form forget external profit and do not chase things outside and weary the body; those who attain the Dao forget private aims—when the heart has no ulterior motive, one is close to the Dao.

Confucius and Yan Hui

Confucius said to Yan Hui: “Go home. Your family is poor and your station low—why not take office?”

Yan Hui replied: “I do not wish to hold office. Outside the city I have fifty mu of fields, enough for gruel; inside the walls I have ten mu of garden land, enough for hemp and silk; playing the zither is enough to amuse myself; the Way I learn from my teacher is enough to delight me inwardly. I do not wish to hold office.”

Confucius’s expression changed. He said: “Good! That is Hui’s meaning. I have heard: one who knows sufficiency is not dragged down by profit; one who truly knows inward joy is not afraid when outer things are lost; one who cultivates virtue within is not ashamed to be without rank. I have pondered these words for a long time; only today, in Hui, do I see them with my own eyes”—this was Confucius’s gain.

Note: “Fields outside the wall” (guo wai tian) means farmland beyond the city; “garden inside the wall” (guo nei yuan) means orchards and plots within it. Yan Hui may not literally have owned such holdings, and Zhuangzi’s (or the oral tradition’s) account may not be taken as historical fact—the story is used to make a point about the Way.

Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Exegesis on the Zhuangzi)

“Outside the guo” means fields beyond the city wall; “inside the guo” means gardens within it. Yan Hui may not actually have been in the situation Zhuangzi describes, and not every line Zhuangzi puts in his mouth need be taken as sober fact. Still, the Way he learned from Confucius is enough to let a person rejoice inwardly—so what is this “joy”? That is why the two Cheng brothers often urged students to locate where Yan Hui’s joy came from; this is not a point to pass over in haste.

Someone who “knows sufficiency” is not dragged down by wealth and gain. To say “enough” is to be self-sufficient within, not leaning on things outside. “Shen” means to check and verify; “xin” means it is really so: if on one’s own side there is something in which one can truly rest content, then the waxing and waning of external things is not enough to stir joy or fear. “Without rank, yet not ashamed”—without office one does not feel ashamed; one is not shamed because others fail to understand one. To recite these lines for long and only now count as having “seen” him matches the old remark: before one only heard his words; today one meets the man. Here “what I have obtained” means truly gaining a friend—or truly gaining something real.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan said to Zhanzi: “My body is above the rivers and seas, yet my heart is tied to the halls of Wei—what am I to do?” Zhanzi said: “Weight life heavily; when life is heavy, profit weighs light.” The prince said: “I understand the principle, but I still cannot master myself.” Zhanzi said: “If you cannot master yourself yet forcibly twist yourself straight, is there no injury to the spirit? If you cannot master yourself yet force yourself not to follow desire, that is called ‘serious injury’; one seriously injured finds it hard to live long.”

Wei’s Mou was the son of a ten-thousand-chariot state: rank high, mind deep—it is hard for him to do what a scholar in plain clothes can do. Though he did not fully succeed, Zhanzi still pressed the point: to lack self-control yet force oneself not to follow along—does that not harm the spirit? To lack self-control yet wrench oneself the other way is “serious injury,” and the seriously injured are unlikely to enjoy a full span. Though a heir of such a state stands high and thinks deep, matching the plain scholar is inherently difficult; even if he did not reach full accord with the Way, one can still say he already showed a turn toward it.

Those who still fix their minds on the palaces of Wei have not yet let go of wealth and rank; those who truly value life treat fame and profit lightly. To grasp how precious the benxin (original heart—the innate, authentic self) is, is to feel less crushed by outward fame, profit, and power.

One may understand the principle yet still fail to master desire—this is what is meant by “reason cannot overcome desire.” When it cannot be overcome, the Commentary says cong (to follow): go with it rather than wrench against it. The point is that even someone dwelling as a recluse between rivers and seas may still feel flashes of longing for wealth and status; there is no need to force that down by main force. Forcing suppression can harm the shen (spirit) and even invite illness. Hence “when one cannot overcome oneself, then follow”: yielding a little does less harm to consciousness and awareness.

“Being unable to overcome oneself” is already one kind of harm; when a thought arises and one stifles and wrestles with it, suffering inside self-restraint, that is a second harm—together called “double harm.” That is not a path on which one can long preserve the body and nurture longevity, hence “not entering the dwelling of those who know how to prolong life”—not stepping into the way of those who truly understand extending years and guarding the body.

Wei Mou was born a prince yet later wore plain white hemp and lived as a recluse; in station it was all the harder for him to “overcome himself.” Though he had not yet reached the Dao, he already had a heart turned toward it. What this passage discusses is much like the “striving to practice it” type of case in the Doctrine of the Mean: knowing it is hard, one still presses on—but in method, yielding is better than fierce suppression.

Confucius was stranded between Chen and Cai. For seven days he had no fire to cook by and could only drink wild vegetable broth without grain; his face was haggard, yet indoors he played the zither and sang. Yan Hui was picking greens outside while Zilu and Zigong talked among themselves: “Our master was twice driven from Lu, pushed aside in Wei, disgraced by the felling of his tree in Song, found no footing in Shang and Zhou, and is now trapped between Chen and Cai. By ordinary standards, killing him would not count as crime, nor blocking him as forbidden—yet he still plays and sings without cease. Can a gentleman be shameless to this degree?” Yan Hui did not know what to say; he went in and told Confucius. Confucius set down the zither, sighed deeply, and said, “You and Ci are shallow in understanding. Bring them in; I will speak to them.” When Zilu and Zigong came in, Zilu asked, “In circumstances like these, can this be called poverty?” Confucius said, “What talk is that! When a gentleman is united with the Dao (the Way), that is called being through; when he is at odds with the Dao, that is what is truly called poverty. Now I, Kong Qiu, uphold the Way of benevolence and righteousness and have merely met the disasters of a chaotic age—how is that poverty? Thus one who looks within without betraying the Dao, who faces hardship without losing his De (Virtue/Power): when cold comes and frost falls, then pine and cypress show their evergreen steadfastness. This crisis of Chen and Cai may be a piece of good fortune for Kong Qiu.” He took up the zither again and sang. Zilu suddenly grabbed a shield and leapt into a dance. Zigong said, “I hardly know anymore how high heaven is or how deep earth is.”

In antiquity, those who had attained the Dao rejoiced alike in poverty and in success; what they rejoiced in was not poverty or success as such. The Dao and De rested in them, and poverty and success were no more than the natural alternation of cold, heat, wind, and rain. So Xu You found his joy at Yingyang, and Lord Bo enjoyed his fulfillment at Qiushou.

“Plain Vegetable Soup Without Grain” and Related Passages (Oral Exegesis)

“Plain vegetable soup without grain” means a broth of greens only, with no rice mixed in. “Borrowing the image of being trampled and ridden over” is a metaphor for suffering bullying and being stepped on. “Those without restraint do not treat it as crime” means that in such straits one does not regard certain overstepping as wrongdoing. When cold sets in, pine and cypress still stand green—that is the familiar “only when the year turns cold do we know that pine and cypress are the last to wither.” Because Confucius, besieged between Chen and Cai and cut off from food, showed how the sage accepts poverty, holds to the Dao (the Way), and keeps his resolve in destitution without wavering, his example could guide later ages; hence “for Qiu [Confucius], was it not in a sense fortunate?” “Xiaoran” is read like xiao (to vanish): a light, unfettered bearing. “Fan qin” is to take up the zither again; “geran” is to rouse suddenly, with spirit leaping alive. Zilu heard this and was glad. What follows about Zigong is that he gained insight from it. “Qiushou” is a mountain name. The “Gong Bo” mentioned need not be the Gong Bo of history; such figures are mostly people of parable, and one need not force them into historical fact. The gist: Zigong spoke gladly and then praised men like Xu You—those who end well do so because, though poor, they still delight in their path. Xu You and Gong Bo are names put in Zigong’s mouth. “Shang and Zhou” refers to Shang-era lands and people still present in the Zhou capital region.

Bei Ren Wu Ze (Scripture and Oral Exegesis)

Shun wished to yield the realm to his friend Bei Ren Wu Ze. Bei Ren Wu Ze said: “That Hou Ji is a strange man! He tilled the fields, yet walked in Yao’s gate; as if that were not enough, he would use his disgraceful conduct to stain me. I am ashamed to face him.” Thereupon he cast himself into the Qingling Abyss.

The oral exegesis says: “Not only so, and stop there” means that what Shun did for himself ought not to be forced on others; it was enough to limit it to his own person and guard himself—yet he would also impose that humiliating way upon me, so Wu Ze died by throwing himself into the abyss. This episode is not recorded in other classics; it too is parable. “Ruxing” (conduct that shames) is like speaking of debased virtue or behavior that disgraces a person.

Plain-Language Commentary

When King Tang of Shang was about to attack Jie of Xia, he first consulted the recluse Bian Sui. Bian Sui said, “This is not my business.” Tang asked, “Then who is fit for it?” Bian Sui said, “I do not know.” Tang then went to Wu Guang, who likewise said it was not his affair and that he did not know who should take it. When Tang pressed again, Wu Guang said, “What about Yi Yin?” and described Yi Yin as someone who could act with force and endure disgrace and humiliation. Tang therefore planned the campaign against Jie together with Yi Yin. After victory, he tried to yield the realm to Bian Sui.

Bian Sui declined, saying: Later people would say that the plan to attack Jie had been discussed with him—they would take him for a traitor; and that after winning, the realm was offered to him—they would take him for someone greedy for fame. He had been born in chaotic times and met a ruler without the Way who again and again approached him in ways meant to humiliate; he could not bear to hear such things over and over, and drowned himself in the Chou River.

Tang then tried to yield the throne to Wu Guang. Wu Guang declined, saying: The wise devise strategy, the martial complete the deed, the benevolent occupy the position—so the ancients said. Why would you offer the throne to me? He also said: Deposing a ruler is not righteous; killing the people is not humane; others suffer hardship while I enjoy the benefit is not honest. I have heard: What is not righteous, one does not accept as reward; in a realm without the Way one does not tread its soil—how much less accept being honored as lord? He could not bear to remain long in the world and sank in the Lu River with a stone on his back.

“Strong force” (qiangli) means boldness and willingness to act; “enduring filth” (ren gou) means bearing worldly stigma and humiliation. “The martial complete it” (wuzhe sui zhi) means those who rely on force to finish the campaign; “the benevolent occupy it” (renzhe ju zhi) refers to Wu Guang as the kind of person who “occupies the position” in that old saying.

Bian Sui and Wu Guang were ancient lofty recluses (gaoshi), but the account of their drowning may not be historically reliable—it may be a Zhuangzi-style parable, using the story to teach the principles of yielding the realm and holding to integrity.

In antiquity, when the Zhou dynasty was about to rise, there were two gentlemen in the state of Guzhu named Bo Yi and Shu Qi. They said to each other: “We hear that someone in the west seems to have attained the Way (Dao); let us go and see.” When they reached Qiyang, King Wu heard of them and sent his younger brother, the Duke of Zhou, to meet them. He wished to ally with them and promised to double their stipends and grant them the highest rank of office. He also slaughtered a victim, smeared blood for an oath, and had the covenant buried in the ground.

The two looked at each other and smiled. “How strange!” they said. “This is not what we mean by the Way. In the past, when Shennong ruled the realm, he offered seasonal sacrifices with the utmost reverence yet did not ask the spirits for blessings; he was loyal and trustworthy toward people and brought good order to the realm yet asked for nothing in return. When he was glad to take part in affairs, he took part; when he was glad to share in governance, he shared. He did not build himself up on others’ misfortune, raise himself by others’ humiliation, or use the times to seek his own profit. Now the Zhou, seeing the Yin in disorder, rush to seize the realm: they scheme from above and use wealth below to win people over; they rely on force to show their power, slaughter victims and smear blood to stand as pledges, display virtue to please the masses, and use war to gain advantage. That is trading one kind of chaos for another kind of violence. We have heard that the gentlemen of old did not shirk their duty in times of peace, and in troubled times did not cling to life at the cost of their principles. The realm is dark today, and Zhou virtue has waned. To join the Zhou would only stain us. Better to withdraw and keep our integrity intact.” So they went north to Mount Shouyang, where they eventually starved to death.

Men such as Bo Yi and Shu Qi would not rely on wealth or rank even if they could obtain them. Their spirit was lofty and their conduct unlike that of the world; they were content to follow their own resolve and took no part in worldly power and position. That is the integrity of these two gentlemen.

(In the original, “Shu Dan” uses “Shu” as a form of address for a younger brother; “double the stipend” means twice the usual salary, and “the highest rank of office” means the top grade of official position. Slaughtering a victim, smearing blood for an oath, and burying the covenant are set in contrast to the age of Shennong. The passage again stresses their lofty integrity, independent conduct, and refusal to serve the powerful—the “integrity of the two gentlemen.”)

Classic: Zhuangzi Kouyi (Oral Exegesis of Zhuangzi)

Shu Dan (Duke of Zhou, son of King Wen of Zhou): “Shu” is an address for a younger brother; “jiā fù èr děng” means salary doubled; “jiù guān yī liè jí qí pǐn” means holding a given office and rank and receiving stipend at that grade. They slaughtered animals, took blood for oath, then buried the victims; invoking Shennong means saying that antiquity did not do this. Sacrifices at the proper seasons—only performing rites on schedule, not praying for blessing; exhausting oneself in governance without chasing reputation means acting in government yet not cherishing fame in the heart. “Jù wéi zhèng” is hurrying to improve good policy; “xià xíng huò” is using rank and salary to entice men of talent under heaven. “Zǔ bīng” is blocking others by force of arms; “xíng xiǎn,” “bǎo wēi,” “lì wǔ” are walking dangerous paths, establishing awe, and exalting martial power; “yáng xíng” is displaying one’s conduct and making one’s name known. “Yǐ luàn yì bào” means sharing Zhou’s (King Zhou of Shang’s) evil; “qí bìng hū Zhōu zhě”—if I joined Zhou in this worldly fashion, I would defile myself, like wearing court robe and cap while sitting in mud. “Bù lài zhě” is not treating wealth and rank as something to rely on (Houshan says: when parents’ years still depend on one’s salary, hence this word lai). “Lì xíng” is arrogant conduct; Ke Yi says “acting arrogant and nothing more”—that is this “lì xíng.” On Boyi and Shuqi: they did not deliberately pose as lofty or walk in arrogant refusal; had there been something acceptable in taking wealth and rank, they would have taken it—they only reached this pass because there was no principle by which acceptance was right. The realm was dark and Shang government chaotic; “Zhōu dé shuāi” means Zhou was rising yet acting thus—condemning using cleverness to seize the realm, hence “virtue declined.”

This chapter does not fully read as Zhuangzi’s own hand; yet passages such as “a pearl of Sui against a sparrow” and “both arms heavier than the realm” are still fine—ultimately not equal to other chapters; Dao Zhi, Shuo Jian, and Yu Fu are even further off.

Zhuangzi, Miscellaneous Chapters, “Dao Zhi,” Section 29

Confucius and Liu Xiaji (a worthy of Lu) were friends. Liu Xiaji’s younger brother was named Dao Zhi. Dao Zhi led nine thousand followers, rampaged under heaven, violated and brutalized the feudal lords, broke through rooms and doors, drove off people’s cattle and horses, and seized people’s women.

Confucius and Liu Xiaji were friends. Liu Xiaji’s younger brother was known as Robber Zhi. He had nine thousand followers, rampaged across the realm, raided the feudal lords, broke through walls and gates, drove off cattle and horses, and abducted women. Insatiable in greed, he neglected parents and siblings and did not sacrifice to his ancestors. Wherever he passed, great states shut their gates in defense and small states fled into fortified hamlets; the common people suffered beyond words.

Confucius said to Liu Xiaji: “A father ought to be able to admonish his son, and an elder brother ought to be able to instruct his younger brother. If a father cannot admonish his son and an elder brother cannot teach his brother, the bond between father and son and between brothers counts for little. You, sir, are a man of talent in our age, yet your younger brother is Robber Zhi, a scourge to the realm, and you cannot discipline him. I am ashamed on your behalf. Please let me go and persuade him.”

Liu Xiaji said: “You say a father can instruct his son and an elder brother can teach his younger brother—but if the son will not heed the father’s admonition and the younger brother will not accept the elder’s teaching, what can even someone as eloquent as you do? Moreover, Robber Zhi’s nature is this: his heart is like a gushing spring, his intent like a sudden gale; his strength is enough to repel enemies, his tongue enough to dress up wrong as right. When you go along with what he wants, he is pleased; when you oppose him, he flies into rage and readily insults people with words. If you go, I fear you will be helpless. And furthermore…” (much as above, stressing how hard Robber Zhi is to persuade.) Confucius would not listen. He had Yan Hui drive the carriage and Zigong ride on the right, and they went to see Robber Zhi.

Robber Zhi was resting his troops at the southern foot of Mount Tai, eating human livers for his meal. Confucius alighted, went forward, and said to the man who announced visitors: “Kong Qiu of Lu, having heard of the general’s great righteousness, pays his respects with bow upon bow.” The messenger went in. Robber Zhi flew into a rage—his eyes shone like stars, his hair bristled and lifted his cap—and said: “Is this not that crafty hypocrite Kong Qiu of Lu? Go tell him: You forge words and falsely claim the ways of Wen and Wu; you wear a hat of woven branches and gird yourself with the hide of a dead ox; you wag your tongue and specialize in making trouble—you bewilder the rulers of the realm, keep scholars from returning to their true nature, and under the pretense of filial piety and brotherly duty seek titles and wealth by luck. Your crime is enormous! Get out—otherwise I will use your liver to go with this midday meal!”

Confucius had someone announce him again, saying he had the good fortune to gain access through the Ji clan and wished to bow before the general’s tent. After the announcement Robber Zhi said: “Let him come in.” Confucius hurried forward, stepped down from the mat, withdrew, and bowed again. Robber Zhi raged: legs spread, hand on his sword, eyes glaring, voice like a young tiger. “Kong Qiu, come here! If what you say pleases me, you live; if it offends me, you die!”

Confucius said: “I have heard that in the realm there are three kinds of virtue. To be born and grow tall, handsome in face, unmatched by anyone, so that young and old, noble and low, all admire you when they see you—that is the highest virtue. To have wisdom that spans heaven and earth and can distinguish the myriad things—that is the middle virtue. To be fierce and bold, gathering crowds and leading troops—that is the lowest virtue. Any one of these suffices to face south and rule as a lord in your own right. The general possesses all three. You stand eight feet two inches tall; your face has luster, lips are red and teeth even, your voice like a great bell—yet you are called Robber Zhi. I am ashamed on the general’s behalf. If you are willing to hear me, I can go south to Wu and Yue, north to Qi and Lu, east to Song and Wei, west to Jin and Chu; build great cities for the general and establish settlements of ten thousand households; honor the general as a feudal lord and renew the realm with all under heaven; lay down arms and rest the troops; let brothers gather and sacrifice to their ancestors—that is the conduct of sages and men of talent, and the wish of everyone under heaven.”

Robber Zhi raged: “Kong Qiu, come here! Anyone who can be moved by profit or corrected by words is a stupid, vulgar commoner. That I grew tall and handsome and that people delight in me when they see me—that was my parents’ gift. Would I not know it without your praise? I have heard that those who flatter you to your face also slander you behind your back. You now use great cities and multitudes of people to admonish me—you want to lure me with profit and treat me like livestock in harness. How could that last? The greatest city is nothing other than all under heaven. Yao and Shun possessed the realm, yet their descendants had not even a place to stand an awl. Tang and Wu became Sons of Heaven, yet their line died out—is that not because the profit was too great?”

He continued: “In antiquity beasts were many and people few. People nested in trees to escape beasts, gathered acorns by day and slept in trees by night—they were called the Nest-builder clan. In antiquity people did not know clothing; they piled firewood in summer and warmed by fire in winter—they were called the people who knew how to live. In the age of Shennong, people knew only the mother, not the father; they lived with elk and deer, plowed for food and wove for clothing, harmed one another not at all—supreme virtue flourished. Yet when Huangdi’s virtue was not yet complete, he fought Chiyou at Zhuolu and blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao and Shun established the hundred offices; Tang deposed his lord; King Wu killed Zhou. After that the strong oppressed the weak and the many bullied the few—from Tang and Wu onward all were men of disorder. You cultivate the ways of Wen and Wu, hold in your hand the rhetoric that teaches later ages, wear wide robes and shallow sashes, speak fine words and act falsely to bewilder rulers and seek wealth and rank—there is no greater robber than you. Why does the realm not call you Robber Qiu, yet call me Robber Zhi?”

He also said: “With sweet words you persuaded Zilu to follow you, had Zilu wear a tall cap and long sword and accept your teaching—the realm all said Kong Qiu could stop violence and forbid wrong. Yet Zilu tried to kill the lord of Wei, failed, and was minced into paste and hung at the east gate of Wei—is that your teaching not reaching him? You call yourself a man of talent and a sage, yet you were repeatedly driven from Lu, left no trace in Wei, were reduced to want in Qi, were besieged between Chen and Cai—the realm would not give you room; you also taught Zilu to end up as mince. You cannot preserve yourself above nor be a model for others below—is your Way worth honoring?”

“What the world honors—even Huangdi could not fully embody virtue. Yao was not compassionate, Shun was not filial, Yu was half-paralyzed, Tang deposed his lord, King Wu attacked Zhou, King Wen was imprisoned at Youli—these six, though the world exalts them, used profit to confuse the genuine and forcibly opposed their inborn nature; their tracks are shameful. So-called worthy men: Bo Yi and Shu Qi resigned the lordship of Guzhu and starved to death on Mount Shouyang; Bao Jiao rejected the world, embraced a tree and died; Shentu Di remonstrated and was not heard, shouldered a stone and drowned in the river; Jie Zitui cut flesh from his thigh to feed Duke Wen, Duke Wen turned against him, Zitui in anger embraced a tree and burned; Wei Sheng made an appointment with a girl under a bridge, the water rose and he would not leave, holding the pillar until he drowned—these four are no different from dismembered dogs, drifting swine, or beggars with gourd dippers. They prized reputation and treated death lightly, never minding the root of nurturing life and fate.”

“So-called loyal ministers—the prince Bi Gan, Wu Zixu—Zixu was sunk in the river, Bi Gan’s heart was cut out; in the end they became the world’s laughingstock. Looked at from above, Zixu and Bi Gan are not worth honoring either. If you want to speak to me of ghosts and spirits, I do not understand; if it is human affairs, it is nothing beyond what I already know. I will tell you human feeling: the eyes want color, the ears want sound, the mouth wants flavor, the will wants fulfillment. Highest lifespan is a hundred years, middle eighty, lowest sixty—aside from sickness, mourning, death, and worry, days when one can open the mouth and laugh are barely four or five a month. Heaven and earth are without end; human beings have a term of death. Entrusting a limited body to what has no end—it passes in a flash, no different from a thoroughbred crossing a crack. Whoever cannot please the will and intent and nurture life and fate is not one who has attained the Way. What you speak of is exactly what I cast away. Go back quickly—speak no more! Your Way is mad, deceitful, and false; it cannot preserve the genuine—what is there to discuss!”

Confucius bowed again, hurried out the door, mounted the carriage, and three times lost his grip on the reins. His gaze was vacant as ashes; leaning on the crossbar, head bowed, he could not draw breath. Back at the east gate of Lu he met Liu Xiaji. Liu Xiaji said: “I have not seen you for days; your carriage and horses show the marks of travel—could you have gone to see Robber Zhi?” Confucius looked up to heaven and sighed: “Yes.” Liu Xiaji said: “He did not go against your wishes, did he?” Confucius said: “He did. What I did was like cauterizing when there is no illness—running to feed a tiger, plaiting the tiger’s whiskers—I barely escaped the tiger’s mouth.”

This passage explains, line by line, a piece of allegorical speech in the Zhuangzi about calling at someone’s gate and boasting of oneself.

“Ru bao” (entering and guarding alone) means shutting the door and holding fast in solitary seclusion; “xin ru yong quan” (the heart-mind like a gushing spring) describes the qi of the heart-mind at full flood, pouring out without end; “yi ru piao feng” (the intention like drifting wind) describes intention as hollow, arrogant, and light—unsteady and not grounded. “Wang cheng wen wu” (falsely claiming Wen and Wu) means recklessly invoking the Way of King Wen and King Wu to elevate oneself. Zhi Mu is a hat carved from a stripped branch; Niu Le is ox-hide (in the fable also a person’s name or nickname); “de xing yu Ji” (finding favor with Ji) says he was on good terms with, and close to, the “Ji” mentioned below. “Wang lü muo xia” (gazing at the feet beneath the curtain) is the formula of a first meeting under the awning, daring only to look at the other’s feet—again the polite language of announcing oneself and asking for an audience.

The speech then inflates his talent: “zhi wei tian di” (knowledge that wraps heaven and earth) claims his understanding seems to embrace heaven and earth, as if they could not lie outside what he knows; “neng bian zhu wu” (able to discriminate the myriad things) claims ability to distinguish and name all things, as if nothing were unknown. “Qi zu zhi ye” asks what becomes of such a person in the end.

The commentary then turns to contrast: Yu pian ku (Yu with one-sided withering) says Yu wore himself out, with calloused hands and feet—the image of one side dried up; shuo lun zhi (who is worth discussing in detail) asks who deserves to be weighed and praised. “Zhe quan liu zhu” (flayed dog, flowing pig) is a metaphor for ruining oneself like a dog being dismembered or a pig being slaughtered; “cao piao er qi” (holding a gourd ladle to beg) is going to others with a dipper to ask for alms. Li (clinging to Li, beauty/fame) means sticking to reputation; thus to li is to chase name and rank without remembering the root, and not to recognize one’s own true nature. Ji ji (same as ji ji, urgently, restlessly) is agitated haste; zhi pei san shi (the reins lost three times) is the hand repeatedly losing grip on the bridle; che ma you xing se (carriage and horses with the look of travel) is horses and carriage as if just setting out or just returning—hurried comings and goings. “De wu wang jian Zhi hu” (could it be he went to see Zhi?) asks whether he ran off to see Dao Zhi (Robber Zhi); “ruo qian hu zhe” (as I said before) means “as I put it the other day”—referring back to the argument already laid out above.

Zi Zhang asked Man Goude: “Why not practice what accords with ‘conduct’ (xing)? Without conduct, one is not trusted; without trust, one is not employed; without employment, there is no benefit. So when one watches reputation and reckons profit, ‘righteousness’ (yi) and ‘sincerity’ (zhen) follow along. If you cast aside fame and profit and turn back to the heart, can a scholar live even one day without acting on this?”

Man Goude said: “Those without shame often grow rich; those who win much trust often rise high. The bulk of fame and profit tends to fall to the ‘shameless’ and the ‘credulous.’ So when one watches reputation and reckons profit, ‘trustworthiness’ (xin) and ‘sincerity’ follow along. If you cast aside fame and profit and turn back to the heart, can a scholar live even one day without acting on this? The shameless grow rich, the overly trusting become prominent—the crux of fame and profit lies almost in shamelessness and blind faith. So when one watches reputation and counts profit, ‘trust’ and ‘sincerity’ work out just like that. If you abandon fame and profit and return inward, when a scholar ‘acts,’ is he holding to his inborn nature and what is natural, or is he still bound by fame and profit?”

Zi Zhang said: “In the past Jie and Zhou were honored as Sons of Heaven and owned all under heaven; yet if you tell a thief today, ‘You act like Jie and Zhou,’ he will flush with shame and refuse in his heart—that is what petty men despise. Confucius and Mozi were poor commoners; yet if you tell a prime minister today, ‘You act like Confucius and Mozi,’ he will change color and call himself unworthy—that is what scholars honor. So being Son of Heaven is not necessarily noble, and being a poor commoner is not necessarily base; the line between noble and base lies in whether conduct is good or bad.”

Man Goude said: “Petty thieves get arrested; great thieves become feudal lords—and inside the lords’ gates they even keep ‘men of righteousness.’ Long ago Duke Huan of Qi killed his elder brother and married his sister-in-law, yet Guan Zhong served him as minister; Tian Chengzi killed his lord and stole the state, yet Confucius still accepted his gifts. In principle these were base acts and in position they were lowly, yet the feeling of word and deed in the breast contradicts itself—is that not perverse? So the old books say: Who is vile, who is fine? Those who succeed lead; those who fail trail behind.”

Zi Zhang said: “If you do not uphold conduct, you must guard against disorder between close and distant, between noble and base without righteousness, between elder and younger without order—how then would you still distinguish the five bonds (between father and son, ruler and minister, husband and wife, elder and younger, friend and friend) and the six positions (Heaven, Earth, the four seasons, spirits and ghosts, and the other ordered stations)?”

Man Goude said: “Yao killed his eldest son; Shun exiled his mother’s younger brother—was there order between close and distant? Tang overthrew Jie; King Wu killed Zhou—was there righteousness between noble and base? Wang Ji was the legitimate heir, yet the Duke of Zhou killed his elder brother—was there order between elder and younger? Confucians polish their rhetoric; Mohists preach universal love—can the five bonds and six positions still be told apart? You straighten names toward fame; I straighten names toward profit. The reality of fame and profit does not accord with reason and does not fit the Dao (the Way). Day after day we wrangle in ‘no-contract’ debate: we say petty men die for wealth, gentlemen die for reputation—when feeling and nature change, they differ; yet when each abandons what he does and dies for what he does not do, they are one. So it is said: Do not be a petty man; instead, die for Heaven. Do not be a gentleman; follow Heaven’s principle. Whether crooked or straight, look to each other at Heaven’s pole, face the four directions, shift with the times; whether yes or no, hold the round pivot—alone complete in intent, wandering with the Dao, turn without forcing conduct, achieve without forcing righteousness—you will lose what you do, rush nowhere yet be rich, die for nothing yet succeed, cast away yet belong to Heaven.”

(Further discussion:) Bi Gan’s heart was cut out; Zixu’s eyes were gouged out—those are the disasters of ‘loyalty.’ Zhi Gong testified against his father; Wei Sheng drowned—those are the troubles of ‘faithfulness.’ Baozi installed his lord; Shenzi would not save himself—those are the harms of ‘integrity.’ Confucius did not see his mother; Kuangzi did not see his father—those are the failures of ‘righteousness.’ These are what the upper age transmitted and the lower age repeats; those who take themselves for scholars straighten their words and insist on their conduct—so they wear their punishments and bear their calamities.

Why not speak on behalf of those who rush about chasing reputation and profit? The point is: why not cultivate your own virtue? Measured from the angle of “name” and by the yardstick of “righteousness”—what “true righteousness” means here is that if you want fame and profit, the only proper path is to treat the practice of righteousness as your main road. If someone casts off fame and profit yet goes against his own heart, cannot be content in himself, and still feels he must pursue them again, then he has no choice but to act righteously—this is the sense of learning ganlu (studying in order to win salary and office).

“Those with much credibility stand out” (duo xin zhe xian): piling up talk that sounds trustworthy in order to become conspicuous—using a false kind of “trustworthiness” for private gain. Zizhang seeks profit through righteousness; Man Goudé says that people today who chase fame and profit are learning the same ganlu track.

The line is explained again: saying many believable things to win glory is too much sham trust, all for self-interest. Zizhang takes righteousness as the way to profit; Man Goudé says today’s fame-seekers are nothing but fraud. If giving up fame and profit really violates the heart and one must have them after all, then one indulges whatever the heart desires and treats that as the calculus of reckless gain—yet this is still counted as holding to one’s innate nature (bao qi tian), without need for artificial posing; hence “embrace one’s Heaven-given nature.”

Petty thieves get arrested; great thieves can become feudal lords—just as in the earlier Quqie (“Opening Trunks”) chapter: what the heart feels and what one says and does pull in opposite directions; conduct ignores speech, speech ignores conduct. The successful become leaders; the failures, tail-enders—matching the earlier distinction between those who catch the right moment as “companions of righteousness” and those who miss it as “wretched men.” The drift is roughly this: acts of ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness) are all deceit and artifice, not sincere naturalness.

“Five regimens” (wu ji) refers to the five constants; “six positions” (liu wei) to the three bonds: ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife. Zizheng, speaking of “acting for the name,” says: you approach me under the banner of benevolence and righteousness; I am only after profit—I need not borrow a hypocritical label. Seeking name and seeking profit alike fall short of genuine principle, so it is said that the reality of fame and profit does not accord with reason and does not reflect the Dao (dao).

“No binding” (wu yue) means no constraint—let things follow their own course. Names like Man Goudé and Wu Yue again carry meaning in the name itself, as with “knowing the name of wuwei (non-action)” in the previous chapter.

“Abandon what one ought to do”: neglect what should be done—meaning failure to preserve life and guard one’s nature. “Die for what one ought not to do”: for profit and for name, one does what ought not to be done. The labels Man Goudé and Wu Yue, once more, embed meaning in the name, as in the earlier chapter’s “knowing the name of wuwei.”

This passage speaks in Zhuangzi’s voice about what it truly means to follow heavenly principle and preserve one’s nature, and through Zizhang and Mangoude it criticizes people who dress up “acting righteously” for fame and gain.

What ought to be done is left undone; what ought not to be done is pursued with zeal

To leave aside what should be done is called failing to nourish life and preserve one’s nature. Conversely, to “devote oneself” (xun) to what should not be done—for profit or for reputation—is precisely what a person ought not to do. If people only devoted themselves to the natural order of Heaven, there would be no names “gentleman” and “petty man” in the world. Hence it is said: do not deliberately perform the petty person’s repertoire; and likewise do not, in reverse, devote yourself only to “Heaven”—do not deliberately play the gentleman. From the perspective of heavenly principle, one need be neither gentleman nor petty man; only then can one follow the naturalness of Heaven within oneself. For you, there is no need to divide crooked and straight: to regard all things as they are is to see each as reaching the utmost of natural principle. Hence it is said: whether seeming bent or seeming straight, when they regard one another, each is the utmost norm of Heaven.

East, south, west, and north each hold their place; spring, summer, autumn, and winter belong in their seasons; waxing and waning, coming and going, are all one and the same qi. Hence it is said: facing the four directions, one is in tune with the messages of the four seasons; holding to the “round pivot” (yuan ji—a hinge that turns without sticking), there is no right and wrong. Whether seeming “this” or seeming “that,” hold to the round pivot; act with the faithfulness of the native heart and attain it for oneself alone, and one can embody the Way at ease. Hence it is said: complete your aspiration in solitude; wander with the Way, not against it.

Turning from the Way and trading “righteousness” for success

If one turns from the Way and styles oneself righteous in order to succeed, one loses what is called the genuine root. Hence it is said: do not turn your back and walk away; do not rely on the repertoire of “achieved righteousness,” or you will lose the genuine root and what you ought to be. If one rushes toward wealth and rank and again devotes oneself to that kind of “success,” one loses Heaven’s naturalness. Hence it is said: do not rush toward wealth and rank; do not devote yourself to so-called success.

Every “do not …” is a prohibition

Whenever the text says “wu” (“without / do not”), it means: do not act thus—it carries a prohibitive force.

“Rectify your words,” “make your conduct sure,” and coming to harm

“Rectify your words” (zheng qi yan) means treating words of loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and righteousness as words one truly speaks; “make your conduct sure” (bi qi xing) means insisting on acting accordingly in loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and righteousness. Here “fu” means being subdued and meeting disaster; “li li” likewise means that speaking and acting in this way necessarily brings calamity.

Zizhang and Mangoude

Zizhang wanted to practice righteousness in order to seek wealth and rank—he borrowed the language of seeking salary and office while hanging out a banner of “acting righteously.” Mangoude took “getting what one can get and filling one’s desires” (goude er man qi yu) as the Way of nature. So the text is cast as question and answer meaning: to pose and ornament oneself to gain advancement is not as good as straightforward feeling and nature—this corrects Mencius’s distinction between the “nobility of Heaven” (tian jue) and the “nobility of man” (ren jue).

Vernacular Interpretation

Wu Zu asked Zhi He: “In human life, almost no one does not want fame and profit. Once wealth comes, others attach themselves; once they attach themselves, rank and position are fixed (superior and inferior follow). When you are lifted up and valued by others, people then feel you have weight. People think that being respected, holding a lower place yet still honored, is the way to long life, bodily care, and ease.”

Wu Zu went on: “Only you seem to care nothing for all this—is your insight insufficient, or do you understand in your heart yet lack the strength to act? So you speak highly of the proper Way while in your mind you cannot let go of other thoughts?”

Zhi He replied: “There are often such people in the world: they treat contemporaries and fellow townsmen as ‘ lofty ones’ who have left the mundane and stand apart. In fact they have no fixed standard and no true Way to rely on; they only follow their likes and dislikes to judge right and wrong through the ages. They drift with the world, discard what should be most valued, abandon the highest station that should be kept, and only do what they think they ought to do. To speak of ‘long life, bodily ease, and joy’ in this way—is that not far from the true Dao? Inner anguish and outward calm—the body cannot show it; fear and delight—the mind cannot tell them apart. They only know that ‘one must act thus’ but do not know ‘why one must act thus.’ So some are honored as Son of Heaven and possess all under heaven, yet still cannot escape disaster.”

Those who speak of “upholding what is right yet never forgetting” mean this: you say you do not care about wealth and rank— is that because you lack wisdom and cannot see through things? Or do you in fact understand the principle but simply lack the strength to live up to it? So you use right principle to suppress the heart that seeks wealth and rank, yet you cannot suppress it or forget it—such a person is still one who belongs to wealth and rank. People in the world who seek wealth and rank are born in the same age and live in the same place as you and I; they are not some otherworldly, unreachable breed. The point is that these are ordinary people right before our eyes—I am not unfamiliar with them.

In such people the mind has no master at all; they throw away the inherent rightness of life and nature and only follow the times to grab their share of advantage, dragged along by vulgar custom—everything they do is what ordinary people do. “Drawing the line between right and wrong” means treating others as wrong and oneself as right, seeking only one’s own gain; “ancient and modern, near and far” means watching how things were in the last moment and how they are in this one, reading the wind and sizing up the situation—still for one’s own profit. They cast aside the natural principle that is weightiest and most revered and busy themselves with what they call seeking wealth and rank—how is that the Way of longevity, security, and nourishing the heart?

Those who seek wealth and rank—body and mind may be at ease or not, sad or glad, lost in it without knowing it—hence “not observing the body, not observing the mind”: they cannot see the body clearly, nor the inner heart. “What is done by acting” is what people deliberately do; “that by which acting is done” is the natural principle of heaven. Knowing only human contrivance and not knowing heavenly principle—even if one becomes Son of Heaven, one still cannot escape harm to the body; how much more so for those of lower station?

Wuzu said: Wealth and rank seem to bring a person no harm—beautifying what is poor, exhausting what power one has; what the perfected person cannot achieve and the worthy cannot reach, the bold knight’s strength may be borrowed for swagger, another’s schemes for sharp sight, another’s virtue for worthiness… (The later text in this passage is repeated and garbled in transmission; the gist remains that blindly seeking wealth and rank—even enjoying the honor of ruling a state—one still cannot avoid bodily affliction, let alone ordinary people.)

For humans, says Wu Zu, wealth is almost always advantageous: one can exhaust sensual pleasures and wield power to the full, reaching heights that the perfected person cannot attain and that even the worthy cannot match. One borrows the courage of knights-errant to display authority, uses others’ cleverness as one’s own discernment, and relies on others’ virtue to pass oneself off as worthy. Though one has no royal title, one still carries the majesty of a lord or a father.

Moreover, people need no instruction to love color, sound, flavor, and power, and their bodies need no teaching to pursue them. Liking and disliking, choosing and rejecting, drawing near and keeping away—all of this requires no teacher; it is innate human nature. Even if the whole realm were not one’s own, who could truly renounce these things?

What is meant by “knowing harmony” is understanding that the wise act as they do for reasons: their conduct does not violate the common lot of the people. Therefore knowing sufficiency means not contending—because there is nothing one must fight for—while insufficiency is what drives contention. Scheming everywhere yet not calling oneself greedy happens because one has surplus and can decline; abandoning the realm yet not calling oneself pure—the real face of integrity and greed is not forced from outside. It is revealed by comparing and weighing: one holds the position of Son of Heaven yet does not act haughty because of rank; one possesses the wealth of the realm yet does not toy with others by means of money; one calculates the harm and fears the backlash, believing it would injure one’s original nature, and so declines what is offered—not in order to fish for a good name.

Yao and Shun ruled as emperors at ease, not because they wished to “benevolently love the realm,” but because they would not let a fine reputation damage their lives. Shan Juan and Xu You received the throne yet refused it, not from false modesty, but because they would not let the toil of serving harm themselves. In each case they took what benefited them and declined what harmed them; the world therefore called them worthy. One may act this way, but they did not do it to burnish their fame.

What follows no longer speaks of “being honored” but of “being rich”: those who exhaust every beauty can pursue what they love to the limit; those who exhaust every advantage of position can instead yield and withdraw—because they do not let affairs injure themselves. Again it is taking benefit and declining harm; the world calls it worthy, and one may practice it this way—but not in order to build a reputation.

This section of the oral commentary says: here the topic is not “nobility” but “wealth”—treating “exhausting fine things” as fully satisfying one’s likes, and “exhausting power and influence” as going as far as one can in scheming and maneuvering. Even a perfected person or a sage may sometimes fall short, on the score of “having strength to use for oneself and wealth to command others,” compared with people who devote themselves entirely to outward pursuit. The point is that wealth has a kind of force: it can be used for oneself, and it can make others depend on you, follow you, and be carried along by you—all of which is close to the idea that wealth can “rule people,” akin to something like “commanding the myriad and penetrating the spirit.” What is desired is wealth; what is hated is poverty. Turning away from poverty and toward wealth needs no instruction—hence “not awaiting a teacher”: this is innate disposition, not something drilled in afterward.

Next a voice of the greedy is put in the mouth: “The whole world thinks this is wrong—how could I refuse?” This is deliberately written as someone greedy and never satisfied, hence the name “Insufficient” (Wu zu)—grasping a little and calling it enough.

Then how the wise act: “They move for the sake of the common people”—what the wise do often takes as standard what the people share with Heaven in obtaining, so they dare not violate the norm on their own. What the people share in obtaining is having things and having rules; here “measure” (du) is “rule” (ze)—law, standard, criterion.

Sufficient and not contending: when De is enough in oneself, there is nothing to fight over. “Nothing to do, therefore no seeking”—the crux lies in Heaven, not in human effort; human power has no part, hence “nothing to do.” Once one knows human power contributes nothing, one does not seek outwardly. But if one still feels insufficient in oneself, and seeks to the ends of the earth, that is not greed either—it is seeking De, seeking inward.

When De is more than enough, external things can all be declined; declining the whole realm is not “incorruptibility” (lian) in the showy sense—the real meaning of greed and of integrity is not performance for others, not outward display, but turning back to heavenly principle and measure to keep watch on oneself, hence “turning back to watch the measure.”

It also speaks of using wealth to play with people and stir the world, and of considering the reversal—turning back upon oneself to reflect. Like harmonizing the people amid changing times (yong li min yu bian shi yong)—not harming life for a fine reputation: that is acting without contrivance, not harming oneself for a beautiful name. Having the realm without taking possession of it can still be called “having”—worthy names under Heaven can be held without shame; Dao and De issue from sincerity at the center, not for the sake of fame.

The closing line means that here Yao and Shun and Xu You are again treated together as exemplars of a certain kind of “good” (oral commentaries often use such pairings; wording may vary slightly with the transmitted text).

Wuzhu said: If one single-mindedly seeks only to “preserve one’s name” and does not pursue wealth or practical gain, yet uses harsh self-discipline, refusal of comfort, and austere regimen to force preservation of life, the result is often long illness and long entrapment—unable to live well and unable to die.

Understanding “harmony” is called balance and correctness; when blessings exceed what is fitting they turn into harm—all things are like this, and “wealth” is especially so.

Today the rich fill their ears with the sound of bells, drums, pipes, and keys; their mouths savor the taste of grain-fed meat and fine wine; their minds are pulled by these things until they forget their proper work—this can be called “disorder.” They also drown in floating, restless qi, like carrying a heavy load uphill—this can be called “bitterness.” Greed for wealth taken to the extreme is just like this.

Greed for wealth seeks comfort; greed for power seeks to drain others dry. In stillness they sink into bodily indulgence; in bathing they drown in outer stimulations—this can be called “affliction.” To seek riches they pile goods at home like a wall, yet do not know how to avoid disaster, and cling without letting go—this can be called “humiliation.” Goods heap up but cannot be used; they clutch them in the bosom and will not release them, hearts full of grief and fear, yet still strive endlessly for more—this can be called “anxiety.” Inwardly they suspect thieves who might extort them; outwardly they fear harm from robbers; they build towers within and dare not walk alone outside—this can be called “dread.”

These six are the greatest harms in the world; people often forget them and do not examine themselves. When disaster arrives, they would give up life and exhaust all possessions just to buy one day without trouble—and still cannot manage it. So they seek fame yet fame cannot be grasped, seek profit yet profit cannot be obtained, yet exhaust mind and wear out the body in contention—is this not delusion?

Clinging to Reputation Without Coveting Material Gain

What “must hold fast to one’s name” means is this: if someone wants reputation alone and not wealth or concrete profit, they often torment themselves in vain—alive in body yet like one gravely ill, renouncing delicacies and eating sparingly just to keep going. It is also like lingering long in sickness without dying, exactly what the Yijing calls “steadfast sickness, long not dying”: the illness stalls, yet the person drags on for a very long time. “Moderation is blessing; surplus is harm”—this holds for all things, and shows most clearly in possessions.

(The commentator holds that this piece is coarser in detail than “Letting Go of Kingship” and “The Fisherman,” yet these four lines are still good words and should not be buried.)

“Xián” (Stuffed Full) and the Heart Enslaved by Intent

“Xián” is the look of stuffing the mouth full, like an ape puffing its cheeks. Someone moved by a fixed “intent” has the heart stirred by it; speech in turn enslaves the heart and makes one forget what one ought to do in one’s proper place.

Feng Qi and Kuài Nì

“Feng qi” is bloated qi, anger blocked and not flowing; “kuài nì” is body and mind ill at ease—like a person carrying a heavy load up a high place who insists on “finding comfort, finding sufficiency” until “finding exhaustion”—using everything up. The folk saying “when you have leverage, do not use it to the limit” is exactly this idea.

Idleness Drowns; a Sleek Body Bloates with Qi

At rest with nothing to do, one sinks into indulgence; when the body is fed until sleek and glossy, qi fills up and pride swells. “Full as a wall” pictures wealth piled high like a rampart—the colloquial “ādǔ thing” (money). Not knowing where to stop, not knowing sufficiency, one rushes after more and more. “Feng” here means leaning on something, unable to let go: the mind clings to it in memory, the chest full of worn, anxious sorrow, yet one still seeks increase without end and never finds ease.

A Heart Full of Anxious Sorrow

With the heart so full of worry and tight unease, one still asks for more—this is the typical plight when greed intertwines with “clinging to name.” The plain meaning of the passage uses Zhuangzi’s images to show how name, profit, and nurturing the body can leave a person “alive yet like grave illness.”

Vernacular Explanation

“Jie” means robbery or forcible seizure. If you hide valuables indoors and fear petty thieves, you raise walls, build upper rooms, and seal everything tight; then you move your goods outside to hide them again. If you fear major bandits, you will not travel alone—you must go in a group. The “defenses,” “windows,” and “upper rooms” mentioned here all refer to things like raising walls higher and building rooms on top of walls to guard against theft.

The “six afflictions” that Zhuangzi speaks of are: turmoil, suffering, illness, humiliation, worry, and fear. “Forgetting and failing to notice” means that a person hoards wealth and guards against theft, overstepping bounds in every way, yet remains completely unaware of doing so.

“Dandu” means “merely”; “gushi” means “going back and forth again and again” (fussing repeatedly). Once illness has set in and disaster has struck, even if you want to preserve your nature and life, or to give away all your wealth just to live one more day like the idle, poor days of old, you cannot. “Jinxing” and “quansheng” mean keeping one’s nature and life intact; “jie” means exhausted; “fan” means the reverse—from rich to poor, shedding wealth for poverty. At that point, where is reputation? Where is profit? “Liaoyi jueti” means that in the scramble for gain, mind and body are bound tight; yet the result is to invite these afflictions—is that not foolish?

Su Dongpo held that the four chapters from “Renouncing Kingship” onward were not written by Zhuangzi himself—a judgment of very sharp insight. Among those four, “Robber Zhi” in particular does not read like Zhuangzi’s own hand. Grand Historian Sima Qian, in his biography of Zhuangzi, only says that Zhuangzi wrote “The Fisherman,” “Robber Zhi,” and “Opening Satchels” to satirize the followers of the Confucian school, and shows no concern at all for whether those chapters match in refinement of language or unity of style. Did Sima Qian mean to speak only of “criticizing Confucius” and neglect to distinguish genuine from spurious text? Otherwise, this book and these chapters may have been lost and then patched together by later hands after the Han, much as people today doubt the authenticity of the Liezi.

In ancient times, King Wen of Zhao was obsessed with swordsmanship. Swordsmen packed his gates as retainers—more than three thousand of them—sparring before him day and night. Over a hundred died or were maimed each year, yet he never tired of it. After three years the state declined, and neighboring lords all plotted against Zhao.

Crown Prince Kui was deeply worried. He asked those around him, “Whoever can win my father’s favor and make these swordsmen stop—I'll reward a thousand in gold.” They said, “Zhuangzi probably can.” The prince sent someone with a thousand in gold to Zhuangzi; Zhuangzi refused it but went with the envoy to see the prince.

The prince said, “You won’t accept instruction and you won’t take the gold—what can I still ask of you?” Zhuangzi said, “I hear the prince wants me to break the king’s obsession. If I displease the king above and fail the prince below, I’ll be punished to death—what would I do with gold? If I can persuade the king above and satisfy the prince below, what could Zhao not obtain?” The prince said, “Exactly. My father sees only swordsmen.” Zhuangzi said, “Very well—I’m skilled at swordsmanship.” The prince said, “The swordsmen my father sees all have unkempt hair, coarse headbands, short jackets; they glare and speak harshly—that’s what he loves. If you go in scholar’s robes, you’ll be in serious trouble.” Zhuangzi said, “Prepare a swordsman’s outfit for me.” Three days later, dressed accordingly, he saw the prince, who took him to King Wen. The king laid aside his sword and drew the blade, waiting. Zhuangzi entered the hall without hurrying and, seeing the king, did not bow. The king said, “What do you intend to teach me? The prince spoke first.” Zhuangzi said, “I heard the king loves swords, so I come as a swordsman.” The king asked, “How far can your sword art reach against enemies?” He answered, “My sword—kill a man within ten paces; travel a thousand li without leaving a trace.” The king was delighted: “You’d be unmatched under heaven!” Zhuangzi said, “In swordplay one first shows emptiness, opens with advantage, strikes late yet arrives first—I wish to demonstrate for the king.” The king said, “Sir, return to your lodging; when I order the arena set, I’ll summon you.” The king then had swordsmen duel for seven days; more than sixty died or were hurt. He picked five or six, had them hold swords beside the steps, and called Zhuangzi again. The king said, “Today please let these men cross swords with the master.” Zhuangzi said, “I’ve long awaited this day.” The king asked, “What length sword does the master use?” He answered, “Any I carry will do—but I have three swords; let the king choose. Hear their nature first, then test them.” The king said, “I would hear of the three swords.”

Zhuangzi said, “There is the sword of the Son of Heaven, the sword of a feudal lord, and the sword of the common man.” The king asked what the Son of Heaven’s sword was like. Zhuangzi said, “The Son of Heaven’s sword: Yanxi and Shicheng as point, Qi and Mount Tai as edge, Jin and Wei as spine, Zhou and Song as guard, Han and Wei as ricasso; wrapped in the four quarters, bound in the four seasons, girdled by the Bohai Sea, belted by Mount Chang, governed by the Five Phases, judged by punishment and De (Virtue/Power), unfolded through Yin-Yang, held through spring and summer, wielded through autumn and winter. This sword thrusts forward without obstruction, lifts up without top, presses down without bottom, sweeps sideways without limit; above it severs drifting clouds, below it splits earth’s veins. Once used, it can set feudal lords right and bring all under heaven to allegiance—that is the sword of the Son of Heaven.” King Wen stood dazed as if he had lost something, then asked about the feudal lord’s sword. Zhuangzi said, “The feudal lord’s sword: the wise and brave as point, the pure and incorrupt as edge, the worthy and good as spine, the loyal and sage as guard, heroes as ricasso. Thrusting forward likewise without obstruction, lifting without top, pressing without bottom, sweeping without limit; above it takes round heaven as law to accord with sun, moon, and stars; below it takes square earth as law to accord with the four seasons; in the middle it harmonizes with the people’s will to settle the four directions. Once used, like thunder in rage—within the borders none fail to submit and obey—that is the sword of a feudal lord.” The king asked about the common man’s sword. Zhuangzi said, “The common man’s sword: unkempt hair, coarse headband, short jacket, glaring eyes and harsh voice; they hack at each other in front, cleaving necks above and splitting livers below—no different from fighting cocks. Once life is spent, it’s useless to the state. The king already holds the Son of Heaven’s position yet loves the common man’s sword—I grieve for the king on that account.” The king then led him upstairs; when the meal was served, the king circled the mat three times. Zhuangzi said, “Let the king sit calmly and settle his breath—the matter of swords is finished; please hear my report.” Thereupon King Wen did not leave the palace for three months, and the swordsmen all died at their posts in shame—or, having no face left to stay, they perished where they had lodged (readings vary in the Zhuangzi tradition; the common moral is that the swordsmen vanish and the king turns from petty dueling to rulership).

Zhuangzi Koushi, Volume 9 (continued) and Opening of Volume 10

The “Loving Swords” Passage (Oral Commentary Related to Shuo Jian)

“One who loves swords” means someone who loves to watch sword-fighting contests. The gate and courtyard are packed with guests; those skilled at the sword who serve as retainers at the royal court number more than three thousand. “Yi bi cong zhe” (bringing payment for attendants) means using money as reward for followers—like today’s idea of tipping or rewarding attendants. They wear their hair loose and wild, sticking out in disarray; the cap hangs low rather than sitting high on the head, like wearing a head wrap today; the chin strap is tied under the neck. They keep a coarse, stubbly beard on the chin (man hu); the back of the garment is short, and the hem does not reach the ground (bu chan).

Before a bout they often trade verbal challenges; they “show emptiness and open advantage,” striking after the opponent moves—like a fierce bird that must gather itself before it pounces. She xi is arranging a sword-fighting show. Dun jian is mutual hacking and cutting. Yu zhang is to wield; here zhang means to handle the sword. The tip is the point, the e is the blade, the tan is the guard, and the jia is the hilt. “Wrapped in the four seasons” means wielding the sword in accord with seasonal timing; “shaped by the Five Phases” means following the logic of Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water. Sun as virtue and moon as punishment, plus yin-yang of sun and moon and spring, summer, autumn, and winter—all express aligning with the spontaneous order of nature. Words like straight, lift, press, circulate, rise, decide, fall, and sever all describe how far-reaching sword technique can be.

When King Wen (of Zhao) heard this, he felt what he loved was too shallow and was dazed as if he had lost something. “Take the Way above as model, earth below as model, and harmonize the people’s will in the middle” is the familiar triad of timely heaven, favorable terrain, and human accord. Si xiang is the four directions. “Led up to the hall” means escorting (Zhuangzi) into the hall. San huan is not sitting but walking—circling the place where food was granted three times—a gesture of shame and self-reproach. Fu is the same as fu (to submit and yield). Since the king would not use this kind of sport, the swordsmen all withdrew and killed themselves where they lodged.

Volume 10

Miscellaneous Chapter: Yufu (The Fisherman), Section 31 (chapter title begins)

While Confucius was traveling in the Forest of Black Silks and resting at the Apricot Altar, his disciples were reading. Confucius played the zither and sang to it. When the piece was half finished, a fisherman stepped down from his boat: white beard and eyebrows, hair loose, sleeves rolled up. He walked along the shore, left hand on his knee, right hand supporting his chin, and listened until Confucius finished.

When the music ended, the fisherman beckoned Zigong and Zilu over, pointed at Confucius, and asked, “Who is that?” Zilu answered, “A gentleman of Lu.” “What is his surname?” “Kong.” “What does Master Kong take as his occupation?” Zilu did not reply; Zigong said, “Master Kong inwardly holds fast to loyalty and trustworthiness, outwardly puts benevolence and righteousness into practice, uses ritual and music to refine himself, and selects and employs people within the proper human relations: serving the ruler above with loyalty, teaching and transforming the people below, intending benefit for all under heaven—that is what Master Kong is engaged in.” The fisherman asked again, “Is he a ruler with a fief?” Zigong said, “No.” “Is he a minister assisting a feudal lord?” “Neither.” The fisherman then smiled, turned to leave, and as he walked said, “Benevolent he is—but I fear he still cannot escape harming himself: toiling heart and body, injuring what is genuinely so. Alas, he is far from the Dao!”

Zigong went back and reported this to Confucius. Confucius set down the zither, stood up, and said, “This must be a sage!” He got down from the carriage to find him. At the water’s edge the fisherman was pushing his pole, about to row away; turning he saw Confucius and stood facing him. Confucius stepped back several paces, then advanced and bowed twice. The fisherman asked, “What do you want?” Confucius said, “Just now the master left before finishing his words. I, Qiu, am unworthy and do not understand your meaning. I wait respectfully downwind, hoping to hear your instruction and complete your guidance to me.” The fisherman said, “Alas, you are too fond of learning!” Confucious bowed again, rose, and said, “From youth I have studied; now at sixty-nine I still have not heard the ultimate teaching—how could I dare not be humble?”

The fisherman said, “Like attracts like; the same note responds—this is the constant pattern of heaven. Let me try to pass through what I grasp to what you are engaged in. What you are engaged in is human affairs. Son of Heaven, feudal lords, ministers, and commoners—these four ranks each keeping their place is the good order of governing the Way; once they leave their place, there is no greater disorder. Each office governs its duty; each person cares for his task—then they will not encroach on one another. Hence arise: fields fallow, roofs leaking, food and clothing insufficient, taxes not paid, wife and concubines at odds, elders and juniors out of order—the worries of the commoner. Unable to meet the demands of office, government not settled, conduct not clear, subordinates slack, merit not shown, rank and salary hard to keep—the worries of the minister. No loyal ministers at court, the state in disorder, the hundred crafts not refined, tribute and levies not fine, the calendar of spring and autumn disordered, not obeying the Son of Heaven—the worries of the feudal lord. Yin and Yang not harmonized, cold and heat untimely harming the ten thousand things, lords violent and disorderly, attacking one another and harming the people, ritual and music broken, wealth exhausted, human relations not set right, the people dissolute—the worries of the Son of Heaven and those in charge.

Now you have neither the rank of ruler nor of those in charge above, nor the status of minister nor official duty below, yet you presume to refine ritual and music and pick and choose among human relations to teach and harmonize the people—is that not doing far too much? Moreover, people have eight faults and affairs have four calamities—one must not fail to examine them.

The eight faults: meddling in what is not one’s business is called lan (overreach); pressing on when others ignore you is called chan (fawning); speaking to probe and please superiors is called yu (flattery); speaking without regard to right and wrong is called kou (reckless mouth); speaking ill of others exclusively is called chan (slander); breaking friendships and splitting kin is called zei (destructive betrayal); using false praise to ruin someone is called te (treacherous deceit); not distinguishing good from bad, shifting with the wind and secretly suiting what is favored is called xian (duplicity). These eight faults outwardly disturb others and inwardly harm oneself; the junzi (noble person) does not associate with such people, and the clear-sighted ruler does not employ them as ministers.

The four calamities: liking to undertake great projects and changing constant methods to grab reputation is called dao (grasping); monopolizing decisions and power, encroaching on others for one’s own use is called tan (greed); seeing error and not correcting it, growing harder the more one is advised is called hen (obstinacy); approving what agrees with oneself and, when it differs, treating even what is good as bad is called jin (partisan arrogance).

Only after one can remove the eight faults and refrain from the four calamities may one receive instruction.

Zī wéi (“Dark Curtain”) is the commentator Lin Xiyi (style name Sùwēng) referring to himself. Yú mèi means lifting one’s sleeves.

“Those who pick out human principles” are people who select moral teaching to instruct the world. “Those who both act and speak” leave without telling Zigong or Zilu— they move and talk on their own. “How far their separation from the Way is!” means they are too far from the great Dao. Ná is a boat pole. Fǎn zǒu is stepping back a few paces and then going forward again. Xù yán is a brief exposition— speaking in outline without saying everything. “In the end they are used to assist and teach Kong Qiu (Confucius)” means they ultimately serve to support and instruct the Master. “Same pitch follows, same sound responds” means this principle is shared by everyone and can be understood by all. “Release what I call my own” means letting go of the doctrine one is attached to as uniquely one’s own. “Lay out what people ought to know” means setting forth what the world should understand. Shì here is “release”; jīng is “lay out in order.” “The four roles right themselves, each fulfilling its office” means each of the four kinds of person keeps its proper place. “When the four leave their posts and encroach on one another’s work” means that once duties are crossed, affairs fall into disorder.

“Each office governs its own duty; each person worries only about his own business” captures the idea. The Classic of Poetry line “In office, think of its burdens” (zhí sī qí yōu) expresses the same point. “Then there is no encroachment” follows from that. “Taxes and levies do not connect” means collection and delivery break down. “Merit and excellence are not claimed” means one does not hoard credit for good work. “Unable to hold and keep one’s place” describes losing one’s station. “The order of the Spring and Autumn audience is reversed” means the sequence of court attendance is wrong. “The Son of Heaven’s ministers and officers” are the ruler’s high officials. “Handling what is not one’s business as if it were— that is called zǒng (overreach or ‘general superintendence’)” defines overstepping. “Forcing oneself to do what is not one’s affair” is taking on what belongs to others. “Advancing speech when no one has asked for it” is pushing words forward by sheer eloquence. Nìng is clever, flattering speech. “Splitting others’ close ties and harming them” is breaking friendships and doing injury. “Praising the deceitful and false” is commending what should not be praised— private fraud. “Ruin and vilification are like disgrace” treats slander as insult. “Destroying what ought not to be destroyed” is tearing down the undeserving. “Praise and blame from private motive are nothing but knavery” means favor and smear serve selfish ends. “Concealing one’s knavery” is hiding ill intent. “Matching one’s expression to what pleases others is called yán shì (facial compliance)” is flattering with looks. “Neither good nor bad— only wanting others to like oneself” is why it is called liǎng róng (“double accommodation”). “Guessing what others desire and secretly drawing them on to grow their vices” is probing preferences and secretly encouraging bad habits. “Such a person is dangerous” marks the schemer.

“The eight defects” are eight serious faults; the gentleman should not befriend such people. “A clear ruler does not employ them as ministers” means petty men must not be used or they will disorder the state. “Fond of managing great affairs of state” means meddling in big national business. “Constantly changing and altering to replace the regular laws” is restless revision of established rules. “Wanting to raise one’s own fame and merit high” is ambition for reputation. Guà gāo is hanging one’s name high for show. Tāo tiǎn is greedily grasping or accepting what one does not deserve. “Relying only on private cleverness and monopolizing affairs” is selfish scheming and sole control. “Usurping others’ authority and delighting in acting on one’s own” is encroaching on power and liking to decide alone. “The greedy person” is defined this way. “Fierce, violent, and refusing remonstrance” (hěn hěn lì) is obstinate rage that will not hear advice. “Even when others have merit, because it differs from one’s own view, one treats it as not good” rejects excellence that is not one’s own. “Self-praise and boasting” is arrogant display. “These four are people’s greatest calamities” lists the worst personal faults. “Only after removing these defects can one study the Way” makes moral repair a precondition for learning Dao. Hence it says ‘only then may one be taught’ (shǐ kě jiào).

All of this is what Zilu should keep in mind in worldly conduct; hence “what Zilu should use (yǐ)”— yǐ carries the sense of yǐ yòng, “use it for”— self-inspection and guard against these faults.

Confucius looked troubled. He sighed, bowed twice, then rose and said: “I, Kong Qiu, was twice driven out of Lu, had my tracks erased in Wei, suffered the humiliation of having a tree cut down around me in Song, and was besieged between Chen and Cai. I do not know what fault I committed to bring upon myself these four rounds of slander.”

The visitor’s expression changed; he said sadly: “You are truly hard to awaken! Someone who fears his own shadow and hates his own footprints runs away—the more he lifts his feet, the more footprints he leaves; the faster he runs, the closer his shadow stays at his side. Thinking he is still not fast enough, he keeps running without rest until he exhausts his strength and dies. He does not understand that if he stays in the shade his shadow vanishes, and if he remains still his footprints do not multiply—how foolish can one be!”

The visitor went on: “You keep weighing benevolence and righteousness, distinguishing sameness and difference, and moving between activity and stillness; you apply yourself to the measure of taking and giving, to the feelings of liking and disliking, and to restraining joy and anger—so it is hardly surprising that you barely escape disaster. You should cultivate yourself and carefully guard your original nature, return external things to others and to nature, and then you will not be burdened. Now you do not cultivate yourself within, yet seek approval from without—is that not putting the root last and the branch first?”

Confucius’s expression changed, and he said, “May I ask what is meant by ‘authenticity’ (zhen)?”

The other replied, “Authenticity is sincerity carried to its utmost. Without utmost sincerity and genuineness, one cannot truly move others. That is why someone who forces himself to weep may sound very mournful yet feel no real grief within; someone who forces anger may look fierce yet lack true authority; someone who forces warmth and puts on a smile may grin outwardly yet feel no real goodwill inside. When grief is genuine, there is often no loud crying—yet it moves others to tears all the more; when anger is genuine, it has not even burst forth—yet others already stand in awe; when warmth is genuine, there may be no smile—yet others feel drawn close naturally. When authenticity is in the heart, expression shows in the face and bearing; that is why people value authenticity.”

“Apply this to human affairs: serving parents calls for genuine compassion and filial feeling; serving a ruler calls for genuine loyalty; drinking seeks genuine pleasure; mourning expresses genuine sorrow. Loyalty aims at achieving merit; wine aims at contentment; mourning aims at grief; serving parents aims at what is fitting—one need not make every achievement visible and on display for all to see. In serving parents, what matters is fitness and appropriateness, not arguing which reasons count as filial; in drinking, what matters is joy, not the rank of the vessels; in mourning, what matters is grief, not rigid adherence to every detail of ritual.”

“Ritual (li) is what society agrees on by custom; authenticity is the nature received from Heaven—spontaneous and natural, not something ritual can casually replace. Therefore the sage models Heaven and esteems genuineness, and is not bound by conventional rites; the fool is the opposite—unable to model Heaven yet anxious about how people will judge, not knowing how to cherish authenticity, blindly following the world’s shifts—hardly worth praising. You were once sunk in artificial contrivance; only now, late, do you hear the Great Way—how regrettable.”

This passage contrasts sincerity with pretense.

When the mind is scattered and the will insincere, nothing in you truly moves others. Only utmost sincerity (zhicheng) makes “moving the spirit” possible—that is, genuinely touching people and, in the traditional idiom, even the divine.

Forced weeping, forced anger, and forced closeness stand against true grief, true anger, and true affection—six paired contrasts that hit the mark. Truth dwells within; the spirit stirs without: what is in the heart must show in conduct. “Spiritual movement” means feeling and spirit flowing naturally into words and bearing.

Serving one’s parents by attuning to them means honoring their wishes, not imposing one’s own measure of right. The beauty of achievement leaves no trace of itself; success without claiming ownership—neither hoarding credit nor leaving a billboard that “I did this.”

Not fussing over vessels means not picking and choosing bowls and flavors. “Do not quibble over the rites; rather than ease in mourning, choose heartfelt sorrow”—form need not dominate; genuine grief outweighs polished ceremony. Ritual (li) is largely ornament on the outside. What the world calls “truth” often still mingles with Heaven’s mandate and natural principle, yet this commentary stresses taking Heaven as norm and honoring what is real (fa tian gui zhen)—measuring by Heaven and prizing authenticity.

Not being bound by custom is not contrarianism for its own sake, but refusing to be tied by what ought not to tie people—by fads that should not rule a life. Those anxious about others’ opinions fear they will not fit in because they do not grasp the nobility Heaven bestows—nobility that lies in truth, not in worldly rank. Hence failing to value what is real: treating worldly stipends and status as the only “blessings,” gladly molded by vulgar currents. Such people often seem never enough, always slightly in debt—in fact steeped in human pretense and drowned in learning that chases the outer show, while the inner life goes hollow.

Confucius bowed again in thanks, then rose and said: “Today I have met you, sir—it is a gift from Heaven. You do not disdain me but allow me to follow at your side and receive your teaching in person. Where do you dwell? I wish to follow you and study the Way to its end.”

The fisherman said: “I have heard that one who can walk the path together should be led toward the utmost subtlety of the Way; one who cannot walk it together does not understand its path and must be careful—not forced to keep company, or harm will come to oneself. Exert yourself. I go—I go.” With that he poled his boat away and vanished along a waterway through the reeds.

Yan Yuan returned to the chariot. Zilu held the reins, but Confucius did not look back. Only when the water was calm and the sound of the pole could no longer be heard did Zilu dare to mount. Standing beside the chariot he asked Confucius: “I have served you, Master, for a long time and have never seen you show such deference to anyone. Even lords of ten thousand chariots or of a thousand chariots—you never fail to meet them as equals, and sometimes you seem quite haughty. Yet this fisherman, pole in hand, stood facing you against the current, and you bowed low as a bending stone and answered with repeated bows—is that not excessive? Your disciples are all puzzled: what has this fisherman done to deserve such honor?”

Confucius leaned on the crossbar in front of the chariot and sighed. “You, Zhong You, are hard to teach! You have drowned in ritual and righteousness so long that your coarse, rustic heart has not yet left you. Come—I will tell you. Failure to respect elders is breach of ritual; failure to honor the worthy is lack of benevolence (ren). If he were not a perfected person (zhiren), he would not make others willing to place themselves below him; and when others place themselves below someone who is not pure in spirit, they cannot obtain the true Way—they only harm themselves. Alas! For a person, there is no greater misfortune than lack of benevolence, yet you alone cling to it. Moreover, the Way is the root from which the ten thousand things arise: lose it and they die; gain it and they live; go against it in action and you fail; follow it and you succeed. Wherever the Way dwells, the sage is sure to honor it. This fisherman has, one may say, attained something of the Way—how could I fail to show him respect?”

Vernacular Explanation

Taking “serving” to mean “serving as a disciple would” refers to how Confucius treated the Old Fisherman. Asking “where you dwell” means asking where the Fisherman lived. Pushing the pole along the reed bank and drawing the boat away from shore—these strokes depict the water settling and the little craft receding. What is meant by “so commanding” is not pomp or bluster, but that the Fisherman inspired such reverence. Standing opposite him is called “facing him upright”; returning a salute with cupped hands is called “bowing in reply.”

“Deeply steeped in ritual and righteousness for some time” means you have been immersed in the study of ritual and righteousness for a while. If the Fisherman were not a “perfect person,” how could he make someone bow before him like that? What is meant by “humbling oneself”: if one does not study deeply and does not receive the true transmission, one must yield sincerely and seek instruction from others before one can hear genuine teaching. This line is fundamental to learning, so it is written at length. “Harming the body” means: without learning in this way, one gains no benefit for the person and may even do harm. The death and birth of the ten thousand things all lie within one Dao; the Fisherman had the Dao, and I honored his Dao—hence my respect.

From “Letting Be a King” through the next four chapters, the style does not read like Zhuangzi’s own hand. In “Letting Be a King” there are still one or two worthwhile passages; “The Old Fisherman” also has merit; “Robber Zhi” is cruder and more blunt than “Explaining the Sword.” According to “Robber Zhi,” which uses the title “prime minister”—a term that did not yet exist in the Warring States period—it is clearly a later attribution. The Former Han Bibliographic Treatise lists Zhuangzi at fifty-two chapters, which does not match today’s chapter count; the Tang catalogue has only forty fascicles, the edition now in circulation. Whether those fifty-two chapters also included “Letting Be a King” and “Explaining the Sword,” or whether Zhuangzi wrote other pieces that no longer survive, remains unknown.

Liezi (Lie Yukou) set out for Qi, turned back halfway, and on the road met Bo Hunmou, a recluse who appears in the Zhuangzi. Bo Hunmou asked, “Why turn back before you arrive?” Liezi said, “Something frightened me.” “What frightened you?” “I ate at ten stalls that sold vinegar or drinks, and at five of them the owners rushed to serve me first.”

Bo Hunmou said, “If that is so, why still be frightened?” Liezi said, “I thought: when inner sincerity is not pure and one has not won release, form and expression leak a kind of shine; using outward bearing to overpower people’s hearts makes them slight age and virtue and indulge their harm. Men who sell vinegar chase only a thin profit from a bowl of soup—gain is small and standing is low—yet they act like this; how much more a lord of a state of ten thousand chariots, who wears himself out in affairs and exhausts his wit in government? If he handed the realm to me and tested me by achievement, I would be afraid—and that is why I turned back.”

Bo Hunmou said, “Well said. If you can keep to your place, people will come and preserve you on their own.” Before long Liezi went again; outside the door shoes were piled where visitors had taken them off. Bo Hunmou stood facing north, staff under his chin, silent a while, then left without a word. Those who had been with him told Liezi. Liezi took up his shoes, ran barefoot to the threshold, and said, “You came, sir—yet gave no teaching?” He answered, “Enough. I said before that people would preserve you—and so they have. It is not that you can make people preserve you, but that you cannot make them refrain from preserving you. Why use stirring and flattery to produce odd effects? There must be something that shakes you; nature has nothing to fight over with you in vain. Those who deal with you also will not put honest words in your mouth. Petty talk is all poison that wounds. Without awakening, you still argue who is right and wrong. The clever toil; the wise worry. The incapable want nothing—eat their fill and wander, like a boat not tied by rope, empty and still adrift in the world.”

This passage explains the admonition in a Zhuangzi story by an old man who sells pulp (Mao Ren): the core is inner sincerity must not be displayed outward; do not move people through reputation and visible traces.

The opening question and the “ten pulp-sellers” analogy

The text begins by asking: you went east and came back—what did you want to say? You drank water at ten pulp stalls; at five of them they offered it to you first without being asked. Their respect was not because you had bought something and they were giving you a gift; it was because harmony had accumulated within and its light naturally shone outward—what the Ru tradition calls inner sincerity not yet dispersed, sincerity gathered inside and not yet fully transformed. Xing die (outward form and bearing) cheng guang means a luminous bearing, the expression of inner accumulation; here that is still treated as a kind of learning that leaves traces—wai zhen ren xin, using outward appearance to steady and impress people’s hearts. Master Zhaozhou said, “This old monk’s practice lacks strength; ghosts and spirits have seen through me”—the same idea: if cultivation relies on outward effort, it is easily seen through.

Honoring the aged and “honoring you”

What people usually honor are the noble and the aged. You are neither old nor noble, yet they slight those and honor you—showing that honoring you can even exceed honoring the noble and the aged. Ji (gather, accumulate) means piling up such things until they inevitably become calamity: the more reputation and traces show, the harder it is to escape the world’s harm. Duoyu zhi ying means seeking profit by always wanting more, surplus; ying is remainder. Those with power in the world can raise or lower others; a pulp-seller is lowly and has no power to raise or lower anyone, yet can honor you like this—how much more when a ruler wears out body and mind and must come to seek your use and offer you his achievements: that is what is called ji qi suo huan (gathering calamity). Xiao means to offer, to present.

Mao Ren’s counsel

Mao Ren (the pulp-seller) says, “Well done— you see something here”; and “You may stop”—no need to wander further; people will return and keep your gate as teacher. The “yi” in chu zhi is a particle; bao means to keep, to hold—many turn to you and guard your door. That single word bao already carries a sense of “not enough”: Mao Ren’s insight goes a step further—hu wai zhi ju man, shoes from outside fill the threshold (many disciples); dun zhang cu zhi hu yi, staff upright, propped at the yi (cheek)—cu is to lean on. Bin zhe zhu is host and guest; ti ju er zou—in antiquity one removed shoes before taking a seat; rushing to welcome Mao Ren, there was no time to put shoes on. Fa yao means to dispense teaching like medicine curing illness; yi yi xiu—the words are exhausted, stop.

“Forgetting the self” is easy; making others forget you is hard

I said before: people will keep to you; you cannot make people not “bao” you—that is what is meant by wang wo yi, shi ren wang wo nan (forgetting yourself is easy; making others forget you is hard). Er yan yong zhi—what use is what you are doing? People are moved and delighted (gan yu) because you cannot hide yourself; strangeness shows outside—hence gan yu chu yi. If so, not only what appears outside cannot be hidden; it will also stir and shake your original nature—especially wu wei (no benefit, useless), you you (all the more).

“Small words,” companions, and “wandering at the beginning of things”

Those who wander with you are friends; what you have learned has not gone deep—the talk is shallow, hence xiao yan (small words). Such talk is mostly poison for people and cannot mutually correct you with you—then you will never awaken; shui fu xiang shu (who will again ask who you are, how you are)—xiang shu is to question, to challenge identity.

People’s clever ones weary themselves, the wise torment themselves; only one who embodies the Way naturally and does not use their abilities seeks nothing outside, eats fully and plays—fan hu ruo bu xi zhi zhou, like an unmoored boat, mind tied to nothing. It comes down to one word: xu (emptiness)—empty, one becomes one with the great void, you yu wu zhi chu (wandering at the beginning of things). Wu neng means wu wei (non-action, not forcing ability).

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

Huan of Zheng studied Confucianism under Master Qiu for three full years, until Huan had become a Confucian scholar. The phrase “a river’s moisture reaches nine li” hinges on the word “empty” (xu): only when the mind can be empty can it unite with the Great Void (da xu) and roam in the realm of the primordial origin of things. “Without contrivance” (wu neng) means the same as Wuwei (non-action).

That a river’s benefit extends nine li is a metaphor for how far his learning and grace spread. Huan used leftover family resources to send his younger brother to study Mohism. Huan was a Confucian; his brother Di was a Mohist—two lineages at odds, so they argued. Their father sided with the younger brother and kept doing so for ten years. Huan resented his father and took his own life. After death he met his father in a dream. The father said: The money you used to send your son to Mohism was really the surplus I left for you both. Now you brothers quarrel, and you kill yourself—on my grave the pine and cypress have already borne fruit, which shows you have been dead a long while.

“Liang” is sometimes read as “yin” (pronounced lang), meaning grave mound. “He hu chang shi qi liang”: Why not look at my grave? Both “he” and “hu” mean “why” or “how.” Zhuangzi cites this old story and then draws the lesson:

When the Creator (zaowu) responds to a person, what is answered is not the side where they show off their own cleverness, but the side of what they have received from Heaven (tian). Huan thought he arranged for his brother to become a Mohist; in truth his brother could become a Mohist because the Creator answered according to his innate endowment, not because Huan’s money and effort could manufacture that outcome. Hence “the former therefore makes the latter so”—the first “bi” is the Creator, the second “bi” is the brother Di. “The man” means Huan: he credited all success to himself, felt different from others (thinking Confucian study blessed three clans and made him superior), and so looked down on and blamed his father—when in fact Heaven had enabled his brother to excel in Mohism, yet Huan treated it as his own doing, resented his kin, and did not know Heaven.

Well water springs up of itself. People of Qi drink this natural water yet fight over it—how can that water be your private property? Their outlook is the same as Huan’s. Most people in the world are like this: they do not know Heaven and contend from private motives. So Zhuangzi says “the world today is all Huan.”

From “the former therefore makes the latter so” through the “well drinking” passage, the tone resembles the style of the four chapters after “Letting Be, Kingly” (Rang Wang) in the Zhuangzi—not necessarily the same force as the Inner Chapters—so the commentator suggests.

Even a person of de (Virtue/Power) ought to treat the Creator as beyond full calculation; how much more one who has the Dao (the Way)? Zhuangzi often raises the argument one level higher, which is why he distinguishes having de from having the Dao. “The penalty of turning away from Heaven (dun tian zhi xing)”: to violate or abandon the principle of Heaven brings punishment from the Creator—this line rebukes people of Huan’s kind.

Brief gloss of key terms

• Ru / Mo: Confucianism and Mohism.
• Creator (zaowu / zaowu zhe): nature and the transforming work of Heaven and Earth—not necessarily a personal deity.
• Answering a person’s Heaven (bao qi ren zhi tian): responding according to endowment received from Heaven, not according to what one claims as personal merit.
• Great Void, primordial origin of things: common Zhuangist images for cosmic ground and undifferentiated origin.
• Dun tian (turning away from Heaven): straying from the principle of Heaven.

What one is at peace with is the pattern of nature; what one is not at peace with is human contrivance.

Do not say it is hard—the hard part is forgetting words. To know and arrive at forgetting words is to be one with Heaven; to know and yet be unable to stop speaking is still not to have left human artifice—traces remain. The ancients were purely Heaven, not human-made.

Dan (exhaust): here, to use up entirely—the family’s thousand in gold was spent to the last. Though the skill was perfected, there was no dragon to slay with it. That is mostly a parable: Zhuangzi’s Way is vast, yet for a time there is nowhere to apply it.

The sage holds as not fixed what must not be fixed, and so has no bing (strife, “armies” in the large sense); the crowd treats what must not be fixed as fixed, and so strife is abundant. Bing here means contention at its greatest, hence the largest case is named.

If one follows the bent toward strife, one moves through the world always looking for something to oppose—self and things have not yet forgotten each other, hence following strife, one’s conduct is full of seeking. To rely on force is to be destroyed in the end, hence what strife depends on perishes.

The petty cleverness of small-minded people never strays from gift-giving, bribery, and the polite exchanges written on bamboo slips—shallow, trivial pursuits. They pour their spirit into such things and still fancy themselves wise, imagining they can benefit all under heaven, guide the ten thousand things, and align with the formless, subtle realm of the Great One (Taiyi)—how could that be possible? “Form is empty” means without fixed shape; if what they see stops there, they lose their way in the cosmos of the four directions and the flow of past and present, because they are dragged down by what has visible form and cannot see the naturally self-so principle of Great Beginning (Taichu).

Only the Perfect Person (Zhiren) gathers the spirit and turns it toward what has no beginning, resting at ease in the “Land of Nothing-at-all”—that beauty and ease like deep sleep is the image of the realm of Wuwei (non-action).

When water flows, people see only its shape and do not know it arises from the formless; when it disperses and runs off, they do not know it returns to Great Clarity (Taiqing)—that is, great emptiness, the vast void. It is like the ordinary person who cannot see where things begin and end, just as when one looks at water.

So it is said: your knowing stops at something as small as a hair’s breadth, yet you do not understand Great Tranquility (Daning)—great peace, great stillness, which is the principle of Wuwei and naturalness. The words “How pitiful!” lead into what follows—“you are…”—and sigh over this tragedy of seeing only the small and not the great.

1. Cao Shang Calls on Zhuangzi

In the state of Song there was a man named Cao Shang, whom the king of Song sent on a mission to Qin. When he set out, he had only a few chariots to his name; the king of Qin was pleased with him and added further rewards, so he returned with a hundred chariots in his train. Back in Song, he went to see Zhuangzi and said: “Living in a narrow lane, so poor I had to weave my own straw sandals, with a withered neck and sallow face—that is where I fell short of others. But one speech that won over a ruler with ten thousand chariots, and a hundred chariots following behind—that is where I surpassed others.”

Zhuangzi said: “When the king of Qin fell ill, he summoned physicians: whoever could lance an abscess and drain pus would receive one chariot; whoever could treat hemorrhoids would receive five chariots. The lower the ailment on the body, the more chariots for a cure. Were you perhaps treating hemorrhoids? How else would you get so many chariots? Be on your way.”

Commentary (plain sense): “Distressed, weaving sandals” means so poor one had to plait straw shoes oneself; “withered neck and yellow face” means aged, neck so thin there is no flesh, complexion sallow, ears dried up. “Yong” is a kind of carbuncle like abscess. Abscesses and yong affect the upper body; hemorrhoids the lower. In the king’s jest, the lower the disease the physician treats, the richer the reward. The metaphor of “many chariots for treating hemorrhoids” is deliberately coarse: it shows that wealth gained by flattery and degrading service is nothing to envy.

2. Duke Ai of Lu Asks Yan He

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He: “I wish to take Confucius as the mainstay of the state. Would that make the country prosper?”

Yan He said: “Dangerous—utter disorder! Confucius is busy adorning with feathers and painting with cosmetics, bent on fine words, using scraps of knowledge as a shield, suppressing true nature to ‘transform’ the people—yet he does not understand that one should not make people trust only surfaces; they should have their own inner master and sufficiency of spirit. How could such a person be a model for the people? You two suit each other; you and he together will err and have no choice but to go on that way. If now you make the people turn from what is real and learn a false set of manners, that is not a proper way to regard and guide the people. Thinking of posterity, you would do better not to do this.”

(The plain reading later repeats the duke’s question and adds: rather than proceed in this manner, it is better to stop.)

First Section

“Firm constancy” is enough to take on great responsibilities. The Book of Odes says “the pillar of the state”—that “pillar” is like a capable minister. The character for “recovery” (chou) indicates that the state’s ills can be cured. “Ruin” (ji) means danger; “peril” (dai) also means danger. “Peril upon ruin!” means danger pushed to the extreme. Applying colored pigments means adding color on top of things and then decorating with feathers—it speaks of excessive ornament. “Flowery words” are eloquence without substance. “Taking the branch as the barrier” means the point one advocates never reaches the root. “Restraining one’s nature and forcing fervor” is suppressing what one truly is and putting on artificial passion. “Looking down on the people” is viewing commoners from above. “Not knowing yet not trusting” is not realizing that one is unreal. “Received in the heart” means the heart is filled with this stuff. “Ruling over the spirit” means Shen (spirit) is dominated by it. “How could that be enough to lead the people?” means it is not enough to be the people’s superior. “He” refers to Confucius; “you” refers to Duke Ai. The question: Did he really benefit you? Hence “Perhaps he suits you?” “Nourishing” him as a worthy would do you no good and would surely mislead you. “There is error, yet it can be accepted” means error is indeed present. If now you make everyone in the state leave what is genuine and learn deceit, that is not teaching the people. “Showing” means displaying it for all to see. If you worry for later generations, better first look after yourself. “Hard to govern” means that once you set your mind on “governing,” it becomes hard to manage.

Second Section

The people need not be handled with that kind of “governing”; once you intend to govern, it becomes difficult. Hence “hard to govern.” Doing for others and not forgetting means acting with deliberate intent and still holding it in mind—this is not the “spread” of Heaven (tian bu: Heaven covering and Earth bearing, giving without contrivance). Merchants are lightly regarded; though one may treat them courteously for business, at the level of Shen (spirit) they are still not ranked with others. External punishment is metal and wood (instruments of penalty); internal punishment is agitation of the heart and fault. Petty people who suffer external punishment are interrogated with metal and wood; those who suffer internal punishment are “consumed” by Yin-Yang (natural process). Only the True Person (Zhenren) can escape both inner and outer punishment.

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

On “Governing” and the “Heavenly Standard”

Ordinary people can be well ordered without deliberate governing. If you always have in mind “I must govern well,” governing becomes harder—hence Zhuangzi says it is “hard to govern.” Bestowing benefits on the people while still wanting them to remember your merit is “governing with a contrived mind.” Here shi (to bestow, to deploy) means laying out measures and pushing teaching and policy. The pattern Heaven naturally spreads out is the tianjing (Heavenly standard, heavenly norm); once you set your mind on deploying policy and teaching, you have already strayed from that standard. It is like merchants: gentlemen usually do not wish to be ranked with them; even when they happen to sit at the same table for some occasion, in their hearts they often still do not want to. Likewise, those who like youwei (deliberate action) are people that those who have the Dao do not wish to stand alongside. This uses merchants as a metaphor for the kind of learning that talks up ren (humaneness) and yi (rightness).

Punishment and Fault

External punishment is things like blades, saws, cangues, and fetters; internal punishment is improper conduct and repeated faults—meaning that every move and every slip is like being under punishment. Xun and ju both mean to examine and question. What is called yinyang shi (being “eaten” by yin and yang) is suffering the Creator’s reprimand; here shi is like shi in rishi (solar eclipse)—being encroached upon, being harmed. The earlier lines speak of external punishment; the next lines continue with internal punishment—the two parts follow one another. Li here has the sense of clinging to something or making it show.

Confucius on Observing People (The Nine Tests)

Confucius said: The human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to fathom than Heaven. Heaven at least has fixed patterns—spring, autumn, winter, summer, morning and evening; people often look thick in manner yet are deep in feeling—some seem modest and yielding while inwardly they brim over; some are tall in stature yet do not look like unworthy types; some appear soft and easy on the surface while their scheming runs very deep; some seem solid yet are actually loose; some seem slow yet are fierce and abrupt (han may be read han [fierce, violent], meaning sharp and sudden). So some when near yi (rightness) are like someone thirsty for a drink, and when they leave yi they are like a flood rushing away.

Therefore the noble person uses nine ways to observe others: send them far on a mission and see whether they are loyal; keep them close at hand and see whether they are respectful; give them many troublesome tasks and see whether they can cope; question them suddenly and see whether they are clear-minded; press them with tight deadlines and see whether they are trustworthy; entrust them with property and see whether they are humane; tell them of danger and see whether they keep their integrity; make them drunk with wine and see whether they lose control; mix with them in varied company and see whether their expression stays consistent. When all nine tests are in place, unworthy people have nowhere to hide.

Plain-Language Commentary

First section (on not judging people by appearances)

People who look plain and simple on the outside but hide a great deal within are hard to read from their carefully managed faces, and the designs they keep inside are hard to fathom. Some look honest and as if they want nothing, yet inwardly they are quite set on gaining advantage; some have real strengths in their hearts but on the outside act as if they have little skill and hardly look capable.

There are also those who seem gentle on the surface but are urgent within, yet who still make sense in how they handle affairs—“man” here suggests something like softness that wraps and yields around the finger; “ji” means haste or urgency. There are those who look rigid but are in fact weak and pliable, winding this way and that (as in the line “once steel tempered a hundred times, now it bends around a finger”—man is that kind of yielding softness). There are those who seem easygoing but are narrow-minded and quick-tempered. The point throughout is that people are hard to see through at a glance.

“Approaching what is right as if thirsty” means rushing forward when advancing; “leaving what is right as if it were hot” means backing away just as fast—the phrase “sharp in advance, swift in retreat,” taken this way, makes the meaning quite distinctive.

When people are far apart, they find it easier to deceive one another, so you watch from a distance whether they are loyal; when they are close, it is easy to grow careless and disrespectful, so you watch up close whether they are reverent.

Give someone troublesome tasks—that is how you can easily corner him—so you test whether he can cope by loading him with difficulty; when things are not yet clear, answers will necessarily be slow, so you question him suddenly to see whether he has real insight.

When deadlines are very tight, it is easy to break faith, so you test him with a strict schedule to see whether he keeps his word; when money appears, it is easy to grab it in a shabby way, so you entrust property to him to see whether he has “ren” (here “ren” is close in meaning to the Dao); in hardship, it is easy to think only of saving oneself, so you tell him of danger to see how he holds to his integrity; wine muddles the mind, so you get him drunk to observe his bearing (“yi” means dignified deportment); beauty bewitches, so you place him amid temptations to see whether he can guard himself.

“Zheng” means to verify. Test with these nine methods, and the worthy and unworthy can be distinguished. The argument here is very upright; it is only put in Confucius’s mouth, which shows that Zhuangzi did not simply dismiss or disrespect Confucius.

Zeng Kao Fu and the “Ru Er Fu” type

Zeng Kao Fu: after one appointment his back bent; after a second, his waist bent; after a third, he bowed so low he almost touched the ground and walked along the base of the wall—who would not show him respect? As for the “Ru Er Fu” sort: one appointment and they swell with pride; a second and they caper on their carriage; a third and they call elders by name—how can they be compared with Tang and Xu (ancient recluses)?

Zhuangzi says: In the Northern Ocean there is a fish

Zhuangzi said: In the northern sea there is a fish named Kun. How large is Kun? No one can say—thousands of li. It transforms into a bird called Peng. Peng’s back, too, is thousands of li across. When it spreads its wings and rises, it is like clouds hanging from the sky; its wings are like clouds at the horizon. Riding the whirlwind, it shoots up ninety thousand li and flies toward the southern sea.

Qi Xie is a book, and it too has words like these: “When Peng sets out for the southern sea, the water is struck for three thousand li; carried by the whirlwind it rises ninety thousand li, and six months pass before it arrives.”

Things like the “wild horse” (drifting breath, motes of dust)—living beings all depend on breath to stir. The sky looks vast and blue—is that the sky’s own color, or does distance without visible end make it seem so? Look downward the same way: if water is not deep, it cannot hold a great ship; a cup of water in a hollow—a little mustard seed can float on it as a boat; put a cup in and it sticks fast, because the water is shallow and the vessel large.

If wind does not gather thick enough, it cannot bear great wings. So for Peng to fly ninety thousand li, the wind below must be piled deep enough; only then can it ride the wind, carry the blue sky on its back with nothing blocking it, and then fly south.

The cicada and the little dove mock it: “When I fly, I reach the elm or the sandalwood and stop; sometimes I don’t get that far and fall to the ground—why go ninety thousand li south to the sea?” For a trip to the suburbs, three meals suffice; for a hundred li you pack food for a night; for a thousand li you need rations for three months—that is all these three small creatures know.

Small understanding does not grasp great understanding, nor a short life a long one—how can one say otherwise? The morning mushroom knows neither month nor last day of the month; the cicada of summer knows neither spring nor autumn, because their lives are short. South of Chu there is a great tree called Mingling, five hundred years for spring and five hundred for autumn; in high antiquity there was a great tree eight thousand years for spring and eight thousand for autumn. Yet Peng Zu is still alive in legend, and the crowd compares itself to him—is that not pitiable?

Tang questions Ji

King Tang of Shang asked Ji (also written “Ji,” a scholar of old): “Do the four directions have an end?” Ji said: “There is no boundary.” Tang asked again: “Beyond the boundless, is there more?” Ji said: “There is.” Asked again: “Does that too have an end?” Ji said: “Still boundless.”

So what has no thickness cannot be piled thick; vastness cannot be measured—it means the infinite. Saying “beyond the limitless there is again the limitless” is a way of picturing endlessness.

Zhengkao Fu and “That Husband”

Zhengkao Fu: the first time he received an appointment, he only bent his back slightly; the second time, he bent lower at the waist; the third time, he almost prostrated himself, walking along the base of the wall—no one dared not take him as a model.

“Yu” means a bent back; “lou” means a bent waist; “fu” means lowering the body. The meaning is: the higher the rank, the more humble the body. “Walking along the wall” means not taking the main path but hugging the wall—showing he dared not presume to be central. If there were such a worthy in the world, who would not take him as a standard? “That husband” refers to the sort of “great man” who, on the first appointment grows arrogant (“lü ju”), on the second dances in his carriage (light and showy), and on the third calls his uncles in the clan by their personal names (“naming the fathers”). Tang refers to Tang Yao; Xu to Xu You—Yao offered the realm to Xu You, and Xu You would not accept. When petty men get their wish, they are arrogant in proportion to what they gain; how could they know the realm of Tang Yao and Xu You? “Xie” means to align or compare: put me together with Tang Yao and Xu You and you can tell weight from light; “who else can align and look at it thus” repeats the same idea.

De That Has a Heart, a Heart That Has Eyes

There is no thief greater than “De carrying a heart”; once the heart has “eyes,” it looks inward; look inward once and you are defeated.

These lines cut closest for those who study the Way. What Chan calls the “leaking mind,” and “the second thought is already it,” is this meaning. “De” is virtue; when you have virtue and still know “this is virtue,” that is having a heart—that harms the Way-seeker most, hence no thief greater than “De having a heart.” Inside this heart-within, there is also thinking ahead, calculating, distinguishing—like opening another eye in the heart; this is leaking, this is the second thought. Use this “eye” to look within and everything splits into differences, clamor and confusion; you no longer recognize the face of undivided wholeness, and the Way cannot be achieved—hence “defeat”: defeat means not succeeding.

(Note: the given scripture at “what is called middle De” seems to connect to the Zhuangzi passage on “middle De”; the original text is not continued; the above interprets only the text at hand.)

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

There are five harmful forms of De (Virtue/power)—the eye, ear, nose, mouth, and mind (xin). Among them the mind matters most: the harm that comes from eye, ear, nose, and mouth still falls short of the harm that comes from the mind. That is why “zhong De (taking the mind as the foremost harmful De)” is listed first.

Some people think too highly of themselves, always saying “I have real ability,” and belittle and ridicule others, using what they can do to mock what others cannot. With a mind like that, one cannot learn the Dao (the Way).

The Complete Enlightenment Sutra (Yuanjue jing) says: Do not look down on those who have practiced for a long time, and do not slight those who have just begun. Master Dahui said: You must not only think “I must guard against others” and forget that “others must also guard against me”—that is exactly this point.

“There are eight extremes in adversity and three inevitabilities in attainment” (in dire straits there are eight extreme situations; in getting through there are also three fixed patterns):

“The form has six storehouses” (the human body has six “depot” manifestations): if one’s beard is fine, the body tall, strength great, the face handsome, the bearing robust, and one is bold in battle—when all eight of these surpass ordinary people, one easily drives oneself into “adversity” (relying on talent and standing above others, competing with people—such a path often does not work).

“Following the thread, slumping along, being trapped, shrinking in fear, and feeling ‘I am not as good as others’”—these three kinds are also tied to attainment (going with custom, slackness, being stuck, timidity, and always feeling inferior to others—each has its own logic of getting through or failing to get through).

When wisdom is only flaunted outward, courage mostly invites resentment, and benevolence and righteousness mostly draw blame—these are common faults in cultivation and in dealing with the world.

“Those who grasp the truth of life are like puppets” (people who truly feel how life works move as circumstances move); “those who have attained ‘knowing’ do not pose” (those who really understand knowledge do not put on a show); “those who grasp the great mandate follow” (those who see Heaven’s great decree go along with it); “those who grasp only the small mandate meet what befalls them” (those who spin only in small turns of fate mostly meet whatever happens to them)—this is about what counts as truly ‘attaining,’ not surface cleverness, courage, benevolence, or righteousness alone.

This passage explains Zhuangzi’s remarks on “eight extremes in confinement,” “three invariabilities in attainment,” and “six storehouses in the bodily form,” and it adds notes on Zhuangzi’s argumentative style and how to punctuate the lines.

“Eight extremes in confinement”: What people call hitting dead ends and meeting obstruction everywhere often comes from leaning on something inwardly. The text lists eight kinds of “surpassing others.” If one relies on them and becomes self-assured, one easily ends in confinement. The eight are: handsome looks (striking appearance), fine beard (handsome whiskers; Fang Xuanling’s commentary says Li Wei liked to grow a full beard—an example of this type), tall stature, large waist (thick, strong build), physical strength, splendor (refined bearing), boldness (high spirits), and daring (firm will). These are the eight formulations of the “eight extremes”—each exceeds ordinary people, yet one must depend on them and become self-reliant in that way, and the outcome is often “confinement.”

“Three invariabilities in attainment”: By contrast, there are three situations in which a person appears pliant and following (soft, doing things only when compelled), yielding and bending (toppling with circumstances and rising with them), and troubled and fearful (anxious when facing hardship). These three seem inferior to others, yet there are times when attainment is inevitable—because one does not contend with the world, people are drawn to one. The author holds that all of this is Zhuangzi deliberately arguing against common opinion in a provocative, contrarian way (“overstrained, contrary discourse”).

“Six storehouses in the bodily form”: The text also says that within the human frame there are six places of accumulation. Storehouse (fu) means a place where things are stored. The six storehouses are:

1. Wisdom as one storehouse: applying intelligence to seeking outward mastery (“the outwardly penetrating”).

2. Courage as one storehouse: relying on force breeds much resentment.

3. Humaneness and righteousness as one storehouse: seeking reputation through benevolence and duty brings much worry.

4. Blame and towering vitality as one storehouse (ze kui da sheng): grasping the principle of “life” (sheng) and becoming loftily self-important.

5. Attainment of wisdom as one storehouse: matching the crowd’s clever views and scrutinizing every detail (“xiao xiang”—the character xiao is read like xiao).

6. Attainment of fate as one storehouse: this splits into two layers—what is attained in Heaven is great, what is in oneself is small; following Heaven means going along with nature; what is attained in oneself means treating whatever one meets as belonging to fate; meeting and parting still involve gain and loss, but if one entrusts everything to fate, the mind has nothing left to cling to. The author says that, grammatically, the final word “fate” (ming) should be read as two sentences, and that this differs from how the preceding six storehouses were explained.

The closing line makes explicit: what precedes discusses the “six storehouses,” while the final “fate” must be guarded against being wrongly joined to what comes before; grammatically it forms another layer of meaning—this too is part of the art of punctuating classical texts.

1. The Song King’s Gift of Carriages and the Pearl under the Dragon’s Chin

Someone went to pay his respects to the king of Song, and the king rewarded him with ten teams of horses. Relying on those ten teams, he became insufferably proud and behaved with the reckless lightness of a child (“jiao zhi”—both arrogant and immature). Zhuangzi told a parable: A family by the river was very poor and made a living selling woven reeds (wei refers to weaving; xiao refers to reed-like grasses, close in sense to “braiding”). The son went into deep water and brought up a pearl worth a thousand in gold. The father said to his son: “Fetch a stone and smash it.”

A pearl worth a thousand in gold must lie beneath the ninefold abyss, under the chin of a black dragon (li long); those who obtain such a pearl usually do so only while the dragon sleeps. If the dragon wakes, the son will not even leave a scrap of bone. Today the “abyss” of Song is deeper than ninefold; the ferocity of the Song king is more than one li dragon. That you could obtain horses and carriages means you caught him while he was “asleep”—confused or dim. If the Song king wakes, you will be ground to powder.

The point is that seeking wealth and rank often takes dangerous paths and deceives the ruler; once the ruler sees clearly, one cannot escape death and will not even preserve a shred of body (“xi wei zhi you”—what trifling remnant would remain).

2. Someone Comes to Offer Zhuangzi an Office

Someone wanted to invite Zhuangzi to serve in office. Zhuangzi said to the envoy: Have you seen the ox used in temple sacrifice? They drape it in brocade and patterned silk and feed it fodder and beans—until it is led into the Grand Temple. Then even if it wished to be a lone calf on its own, could it have its wish?

The meaning matches the earlier Zhuangzi passage about the divine turtle dragging its tail in the mud: better to live freely in the mud than to be fed and adorned and sent into the ancestral temple.

3. Zhuangzi Nearing Death and a Lavish Burial

Zhuangzi was about to die, and his disciples wanted to give him a lavish burial. Zhuangzi said: I take heaven and earth as my coffin, sun and moon as paired jades, stars as pearls and beads, and the myriad things as accompanying grave goods—are my funeral furnishings not complete? Why add more? The disciples said: We fear crows and kites will eat our master’s body. Zhuangzi said: Eaten by crows and kites above, eaten by mole crickets and ants below—snatching from the birds to give to the ants, favoring one side—is that not partial?

This ridicules those who insisted on lavish burial at the time: caring only that birds not eat, yet handing the body to ants—seeing the matter from one side only, not truly penetrating. The words are blunt; unless one genuinely understands the principle, it is hard to speak to this degree.

This passage means that if you seek balance with an unbalanced mind, you become even more unbalanced; if you try to “verify” things in an unreliable way, the verification itself is unreliable. So-called “clear” people are often merely pressed into service to do something; what truly works is Shen (spirit)—natural fulfillment without forced contrivance. Human cleverness and deliberate action long ago fail to match the subtlety of Wuwei (non-action); yet fools cling to what they see with their own eyes, impose it on others, and chase all their effort outward—how lamentable.

The text goes on: “being made to serve” (wei zhi shi) means that there was no need for deliberate doing in the first place, yet one insists on appointing an “emissary” to carry it out—treating the mindless as if it were mindful; the clever often wear themselves out here. At the level of Shen, one simply lets things verify and respond on their own. It repeats the point: clarity does not surpass Shen—human contrivance cannot overcome Wuwei. As for “the emissary of folly,” it is the same mistake: assuming there must be an “emissary” to push things forward; the “clear” often trap themselves this way, while Shen is left to respond of itself. Fools rely on private views to meddle in human affairs and seek achievement outside—equally worth sighing over.

Those who study fangshu (methods and arts) and various skills are already many in the world, and they all take their own line to be supreme and unmatched by others. Where, then, does what the ancients called “dao shu” (the Way and its arts) actually lie? Some say: it is everywhere; others say: from where do spirits descend and clear discernment issue forth? How sages arise and how royal enterprise succeeds all spring from one and the same root.

One who does not depart from the “zong” (root, origin) is called a tianren (Heaven-and-human unity); one who does not depart from “jing” (pure vital essence, spirit) is called a shenren (spirit person); one who does not depart from “zhen” (authenticity) is called a zhiren (perfect person). One who takes Heaven as zong, De (Virtue/Power) as foundation, and the Dao (the Way) as gate, and can foresee change, is called a shengren (sage). One who takes benevolence as grace, righteousness as principle, ritual as conduct, and music as harmony, gentle and kindly, is called a junzi (exemplary person). One who takes law as boundary, names as markers, conduct for testing, and examination for judgment—whose numbering runs one, two, three, four, by which the hundred offices are ordered, who takes governance as constant practice and food and clothing as root, who rears and stores up and cares for the aged, weak, orphaned, and widowed—is following the way of nourishing the people. The ancients were largely complete in this: pairing with Heaven and joining with spirits, sharing the same fullness as Heaven and Earth, nurturing the ten thousand things, harmonizing all under Heaven, and extending grace to the people; clear about the root numbers yet tied to outer measures, penetrating in the six directions and four modes, in great and small, fine and coarse, their operation nowhere absent. Among them, those clear only about “shu du” (measures and numbers, law and calculation) and not reaching the root substance—old statutes, hereditary transmission, record-keeping offices, and the like—were not few in former times; what fell within the Shi, Shu, Li, and Yue was mostly explained by scholars and gentry of the Zou–Lu region. The Shi guides intent and feeling, the Shu guides administration, the Li guides action, the Yue guides harmony, the Yi guides yin and yang, and the Chunqiu guides naming and roles. These principles were scattered through the world yet gathered in expression in the Central Plains—that is the learning of the hundred schools of the masters, each age with someone to state and transmit them.

When the world fell into great disorder, the worthy and sage did not appear, and the Dao (the Way) and De were not one; people under Heaven often seized one side and took it for the whole, each sure of themselves. It is like ear, eye, nose, and mouth each having its function yet unable to substitute for one another; or like the hundred schools and various crafts, each strong in something, each timely in use, yet in the end unable to be thorough or universal—merely “scholars of one tune” (those who hold one end and lose the whole). They split apart the integrated beauty of Heaven and Earth, analyzed the branch-tip principles of the ten thousand things, and examined whether the ancients were complete, yet none could possess Heaven and Earth’s full beauty and the spirit’s complete form. Therefore the way of “nei sheng wai wang” (inner sagehood, outer kingship—the complete learning of inner sanctity and outer rule) was hidden and not clarified, blocked and not unfolded; people under Heaven each followed their own desires and each guarded their own fangshu. Alas! The hundred schools each went their road without turning back—they could not align with the great Dao. Scholars of later ages, unable to see Heaven and Earth’s pure unity and the great substance of ancient learning, saw dao shu torn into fragments by all under Heaven.

This preface argues that learning in every age resembles the closing passages of the Mencius on “hearing,” “seeing,” and “knowing”: when the realm is in order or in turmoil, many “methods” (fangshu—paths of statecraft and scholarship) arise; and when “the Way and its methods are split apart for the world” (daoshu jiang wei tianxia lie), the general preface first sets a theme and then unfolds each school in turn.

The author says the same pattern holds for the schools: since great order in the world, methods have multiplied; and when “the Way and its methods are split apart for the world,” the general preface likewise opens with a headnote and follows with each school separately. Zhuangzi places his own book among the “Masters” (zhuzi), yet spreads the learning of Zou and Lu (Confucianism) through the general preface—from which one can see that the writer understood his own words as often sharp and one-sided, not unaware that the sage’s gate is the orthodox path. Reading this general preface shows that the foundation of his learning was in fact quite upright.

Su Dongpo (Su Shi) said that Zhuangzi was not ridiculing Confucius—and this can also be seen from the layer of “methods” and “learning.” Everyone feels his own learning cannot be improved upon; everyone takes himself as right. What the ancients called “Way and method” (daoshu)—the word shu (method) is used in the same sense as in “benevolent method” (renshu) and “method of the mind” (xinshu).

“Where is it? Nowhere is it not” (e hu zai? wu hu bu zai)—sometimes this means hitting the mark at every moment (shizhong): though the hundred schools differ, the Dao (the Way) is not absent from any of them.

“By what path does spirit descend, by what path does clarity emerge?”—the path of spirit and clarity, the sage-king’s founding of institutions and merit, and the principle by which Heaven and Earth generate things all root in “the One” (yi). “The One” is creation and transformation; whether the text speaks of “ancestor,” “essence,” or “authenticity,” the point is the same as “the One”—only the wording differs.

“Take Heaven as ancestor, take De (Virtue/Power) as root, take the Dao as gate”—all return to Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness (ziran). “Harbingers in change and transformation” likewise stem from “the One.” The sage is the Heaven-person, the utmost person, the spirit-person. “Gently, with deep benevolence” describes bearing and spiritual atmosphere.

“Take law as division, names as outward sign, conduct as test, investigation as decision”—law has distinctions, hence “take law as division”; names have standards, hence “take names as outward sign”; what is tested and decided each has its basis.

“Their numbers: one, two, three, four”—major and minor items are all clear and complete. “Like teeth in rank” means great and small, high and low, in order; “take affairs as constant” means each has its regular duty; “take clothing and food as primary” means teaching the people farming and sericulture; “increase and store” is like tilling for three years and saving a year’s food; “with the old, weak, orphaned, and alone in mind” means that in governing and practicing benevolence, these four groups must be considered first.

Whether dividing offices or setting ranks, governing or teaching—all is the principle of nurturing the people. The ancients (the ancient sages) were thorough in this; to say the ancient sages could exhaust this Way is to say they could match spirit and clarity, harmonize with Heaven and Earth, richly transform the ten thousand things and bring the world into accord, with grace reaching the common people—this describes the breadth of their achievement.

“Root-number and branch-measure” (benshu modu) is like speaking of fine and coarse, root and branch, linked front to back.