《庄子注》Vol. 5
About this page. The original text of 《庄子注》 Vol. 5 (Zangwai Daoshu 藏外道書, 5 volumes) is shown in Classical Chinese as transmitted in the Godners/DaoZang edition. An English interpretation of the 1 passages on this page accompanies it: select a passage or press “Interpretation” to show it. All texts in English
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Source text (with commentary)Interpretation
Zhuangzi says that true wisdom means understanding which things arise naturally and which result from human action. Those who understand the principles of nature live in accordance with their inborn nature. Those who know the limits of human capability use the knowledge they already possess to care for what knowledge cannot grasp, allowing life to run its natural course rather than ending prematurely. This is what it means for wisdom to be complete.
Heaven and Earth are vast, and the myriad things are numerous, yet they all follow one fundamental principle: “no-mind”—no deliberate arrangement or partiality. In the end, both the workings of Heaven and Earth and human action belong to nature. If people entrust themselves to nature, inwardly refrain from clinging to themselves, and outwardly blend with the myriad things, they can follow the current of things wherever it leads.
“Nature” here is what is meant by “Heaven.” Neither action nor understanding is invented by people out of nothing: action occurs naturally, and understanding appears naturally. The true person—one who embodies the Dao and lives by it—does not cling to knowledge, yet understands by following the course of things. They do not act deliberately, yet respond to circumstances as they arise. They accord with nature, neither damaging their inborn nature through contrivance nor setting their hearts on fame and achievement.
Though the human body measures only seven feet, what life depends on is connected to all things under Heaven and Earth. The body contains many things: some we know, others we do not. The principles governing things are vast, while what we can do for ourselves is limited. We therefore cannot use limited knowledge to demand that we master everything, nor require everyone to follow the same standard. Pursuing only the small portion of knowledge we are familiar with can damage us as a whole. The wise know that human understanding and ability have limits. They use only the knowledge that is appropriate, and do not let endless striving entrap them. In this way, what they know and what they do not know can remain in harmony within their lives.
Yet knowledge, too, depends on conditions, and those conditions may not be fixed. Who can say that what is called the working of Heaven is not the working of people, or that what is called human action did not arise naturally? However abundant one’s knowledge, it is less free of worry to let go of fixed ideas and accord with nature. Those who understand action still depend on certain conditions; those who accord with nature respond appropriately to whatever they encounter.
Life has an end: this is natural. The wish to keep adding something inwardly is human contrivance. But what is called “human contrivance” is itself a distinction people make from their own point of view. From the perspective of the myriad things, nothing is outside nature. If people follow nature, they need not insist on attributing order or disorder, success or failure, favorable or unfavorable circumstances to their own actions.
Only with true persons is there true understanding. The true persons of antiquity did not resent their own smallness, rely on success, or scheme to control others. When they made a mistake, they did not regret it; when they did something well, they did not grow proud. Their understanding reached the Great Dao, not because they were so bold as to venture into danger, but because gain and loss, calamity and good fortune, could not disturb their original mind. True persons did not regard heat as something to fear, dampness as something to fear, or death as an absolute loss, and so they were not thrown into panic by fear. This does not mean that they deliberately walked into fire or water. It means that they did not let fear rule them. The myriad things each have their own processes of arising and changing. True persons simply let these processes unfold naturally, without calculating in advance what they might encounter.
The true persons of antiquity did not dream when they slept, and had no worries when they awoke. They did not crave flavor in their food, and their breathing was deep and long. Zhuangzi describes this with the saying, “The breath of the true person reaches to the heels; ordinary people breathe from the throat.” This portrays a state of cultivation in which breath is deep and calm. It emphasizes few desires and a settled mind and spirit, rather than prescribing a particular breathing technique. True persons did not cling to life or loathe death. They accepted life calmly when it came and did not resist when change carried it away. They did not let mental contrivance damage the Great Dao, nor use human effort to forcefully supplement nature.
The true person’s mind is empty and still, and their expression serene. They can respond appropriately as things change, like the gentleness of spring or the solemnity of autumn, without deliberately cultivating joy or anger. They follow the needs of the myriad things in their own ways and do not obstruct them with personal preferences.
When a sage uses military force or governs, they follow the people’s feelings and the course of events. So even when they punish, they do not lose the people’s support. When they extend generous kindness, it is not to show how much they love others. True benevolence does not mean deliberately favoring someone; true worthiness does not mean always seeking the most advantageous moment. Acting for the sake of fame causes one to lose one’s inborn nature. Abandoning oneself to imitate others at every turn makes one subject to them.
The true persons of antiquity cannot easily be summed up using ordinary descriptions of character. They lived among people without forming factions. They seemed to lack something, yet did not compete for praise. They were open and unadorned, accommodating without being rigid. They used penal law as a tool of governance, ritual as a guide for conduct in the world, knowledge to respond to changing circumstances, and De (Virtue/Power) to follow the principles of things. This does not mean that they deliberately devised a system. Rather, they responded to reality without claiming institutions, knowledge, or virtue as their own achievements. Each thing has its own natural measure, and the true person lets it remain so. In this way, they can stand at the center of affairs while remaining at ease.
Death and life are changes ordained by fate, like the alternation of day and night: they are a constant course of nature. People cannot take part in or control this change; it is simply how things are for the myriad things. Since people can accord with day and night, they should also accord with life and death. What is called “standing apart” means transforming independently and naturally, without relying on external things. True persons do not regard life and death as matters they can choose at will. They are therefore at ease with change and do not rejoice or grieve over what they cannot control.
When a spring dries up, fish are stranded on land and moisten one another with damp breath and spit. Better than depending on one another this way would be to return to rivers and lakes, where they can forget one another. Zhuangzi uses this image to show that rather than relying on each other out of scarcity, it is better for each to be fulfilled and not burden the other. Praise for Yao and condemnation of Jie both rest on judgments of right and wrong. If one can become one with change, one is no longer attached to praise and blame, or to life and death.
Hide a boat in a valley and a mountain in a lake, and this may seem secure, yet an outside force may still move them. Hide the whole world within the world, and there will be nowhere for it to escape. This is the enduring reality of the myriad things. A person’s body is only one circumstance within the changes of the myriad things; there is no need to rejoice especially in it. Being born, growing old, and dying are all changes that “I” undergo. Life sets me to work, old age gives me leisure, and death gives me rest. All four states belong to the changes of life, so there is no need to crave just one of them.
Change is happening all the time, and Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things are constantly renewed. Yet people often mistake what is before them as something that has always remained the same. The “I” of yesterday is no longer the “I” of today, but people still want to fix everything as it appears in the present. If we do not cling to storing things away and possessing them, but let the myriad things change, we can accord with change and stop holding fast to the distinctions between inner and outer, life and death.
The Dao is formless and inactive, yet real and trustworthy. It can be spoken of, but cannot be handed to another like an object; it can be experienced, but cannot be seen directly. It has its own source and existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. Spirits and gods, emperors and kings, Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, and figures of antiquity all fulfilled their distinct roles through attaining the Dao. The Dao does not itself wield divine power to create the myriad things. Rather, the myriad things arise naturally, and the Dao is present in this natural arising. Since the Dao is everywhere, it cannot be confined by distinctions of high and low, deep and shallow, far and near, old and new.
Nanbo Zikui asked Nüyu why she looked like a child despite her age. Nüyu replied that she had heard the Dao. She said that Boliang Yi had the capacity to become a sage, but had not yet embodied the Dao; she herself understood the Dao, but might not have the capacity to teach someone to become a sage. She taught Boliang Yi, step by step, to “set aside the world,” “set aside things,” and “set aside life”—that is, to let go of attachment to the world, external things, and life. After this, he reached “dawn clarity,” a state in which the mind suddenly becomes clear. He then “saw the Solitary,” experiencing the Dao as independent and self-sufficient. No longer bound by past and present, he eventually entered a state beyond distinctions of life and death. This condition, in which one encounters the myriad things without being burdened by them, is called “stillness amid entanglement”: though one meets and is stirred by external things, the mind remains at peace.
Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai spoke of life and death, seeing birth, death, existence, and extinction as one. Ziyu fell gravely ill, his body bent and distorted, but did not regard this as a disaster to fear. He said that if his arm became a rooster, he could use it to announce the dawn; if it became a crossbow, he could shoot birds. If his body became a cart and his spirit a horse, he could ride along. To receive something is for the moment to arrive; to lose it is to depart with the current. Being at ease with the moment and following change keeps sorrow and joy from entrapping us. This is called “release from suspension”—undoing the knot by which external things bind the mind.
As Zilai lay dying, his family gathered around him, weeping. Zili urged them not to disturb his transformation. Zilai said that Heaven and Earth had given him form and made him experience labor, decline, and death. If one treats life well, one should also treat death well. If Heaven and Earth are a great furnace and the process of creation and transformation a smith, then wherever change carries him, he can accept it calmly. If a piece of metal insists that it must be forged into a particular sword, it will seem ill-omened. A person who insists on wanting only to be human is likewise constrained by their form.
After Sang Hu died, his friends played music and sang. Zigong thought this improper according to ritual, but Confucius explained that his friends were people “outside the bounds”—people unconstrained by worldly ritual and custom. Confucius’s phrase “wandering beyond the bounds” does not mean escaping from human society. It means that the mind is not bound by worldly forms. Those who truly embody the Dao can still live among people and respond to affairs; inwardly, however, they are not burdened by external things. The sage “wanders outside and is in harmony within”: from a transcendent state of mind, they return to daily life and blend with reality without being controlled by it.
Confucius also said that fish survive in water, while people find stability in the Dao. Fish in rivers and lakes forget one another; people, too, can forget deliberate striving within the Dao. A “singular person” is someone whose conduct does not conform to worldly norms, yet is in harmony with nature. Yan Hui spoke of Mengsun Cai, who did not show grief while mourning his mother. Confucius said that Mengsun had understood the principles of change in life and death: he did not deliberately choose life or deliberately refuse death, but regarded change as a natural process. If people always try to prescribe grief and joy through ritual, it becomes hard to follow their true feelings. Those who are truly at ease with change respond appropriately to whatever they encounter.
Xu You believed that if benevolence, righteousness, and judgments of right and wrong are treated as fixed doctrines, they are like punishments imposed on people, preventing them from roaming freely. The Dao he revered allows the myriad things to arise in their own ways, yet does not claim to be “benevolent.” It benefits all generations, yet does not call itself “benevolent.” Yan Hui first said that he had forgotten ritual and music; later he said that he had forgotten benevolence and righteousness. At last, he reached “sitting in forgetfulness”: forgetting attachment to the body and senses, letting go of distinctions made through knowledge, and joining with the Great Dao. Confucius believed that in this way one can accord with the transformations of the myriad things and no longer cling to a constant, unchanging self.
The opening of “Responding to Emperors and Kings” says that Nie Que asked Wang Ni four times in succession, and each time Wang Ni answered, “I don’t know.” Nie Que was delighted, believing that this was true understanding. Puyi said that Youyu still used benevolence and De to make demands of others. Though the people responded, he had not completely gone beyond distinctions of right and wrong. Tai Shi, by contrast, let himself and the myriad things follow their natural states and did not divide people into those who were “acceptable” and “unacceptable.” He was therefore closer to nature.
Kuang Jieyu criticized the attempt to make laws according to one person’s will and demand that the world obey them. It was as futile as crossing the sea to dig a river, or asking a mosquito to carry a mountain. When a sage governs the world, they do not impose their own standards on the myriad things; they allow each thing to preserve its inborn nature. Birds fly high to escape bows and arrows, and harvest mice burrow deep underground to avoid fumigation and digging. The myriad things each have their own ways of preserving themselves. Those who govern need only avoid obstructing them.
The Nameless Man urged Tiangen to abandon the idea of governing the world, let things follow their nature, keep the mind clear and quiet, and join with the myriad things without mixing in private desires. Then the world could settle of itself. Lao Dan, too, said that a true enlightened ruler benefits the world without claiming credit. When the myriad things each find fulfillment, the people believe everything has always been this way and do not feel dependent on the ruler.
Jixian, the spirit medium of Zheng, could predict people’s misfortunes, fortunes, longevity, and early death. Liezi therefore thought that the Dao he had learned from Huchu was not yet sufficient. Huchu let Jixian observe him and successively displayed different states: at times he was still as a dead tree and cold ashes; at times he showed the vitality of nature; at times he merged with the myriad things and could not be distinguished; and finally he flowed along with change. Jixian could not see through him and fled. Liezi then realized that he had not truly embodied the Dao. He returned home, stopped seeking outwardly, gradually shed embellishment and artifice, and returned to simplicity.
The Perfect Person uses the mind like a mirror: things come, and it reflects them; things go, and it retains nothing. It neither actively welcomes them nor deliberately holds them back. In this way, it can respond to the myriad things without being harmed by them.
At the end, Shu, the emperor of the South Sea, and Hu, the emperor of the North Sea, often visited Hun Dun, the emperor of the Center. Hun Dun treated them very well. Shu and Hu wanted to repay him, so they observed that everyone has seven openings for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing, while Hun Dun had none. Each day, they drilled one opening for him. On the seventh day, Hun Dun died. Through this story, Zhuangzi shows that deliberate action undertaken with good intentions can still destroy the natural state things originally possess.
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