《庄子翼》Vol. 11

Commentary by Fang Sian: When desires are excessive, the spirit (Shen) is harmed; when desire is cut off altogether, the spirit is blocked as well. Only the perfected person (zhi ren)—one whose cultivation has reached the highest level—can move within desire without being led by it; that is what it means to be skilled at nourishing the spirit. “To move within desire without being led by it” is something only one who has attained waish sheng—who holds body and life as lighter than external things—can achieve. “As if one had lost one thing, and again as if one had lost one thing”: this is a figure drawn from waish sheng; when commentators such as Master Lü (Lü Huiqing and others) read it as a metaphor for ministers guarding against power, they miss the depth.

Another passage of commentary by Fang Sian: When desires are many, the spirit stirs and wavers—mind and spirit grow restless and unsteady, hazy and indistinct, as if present and yet not, dwelling in the space between being and non-being, so that its form cannot be fixed in words. Only by opening and guiding it in the right way can one win the heart of the Marquis of Wu. The effect comes faster than studying the Classic of Poetry, the Book of Documents, and the Taolue.

Xu Wugui came to see Marquis Wu of Wei. The marquis said, “You, sir, have long lived in the mountains and forests, eating acorns, wild scallions, and the like, declining my hospitality for a long time. Are you old now? Or have you come for the taste of wine and meat? Or perhaps you have come to seek blessings for my state?”

Xu Wugui said, “I am a poor and lowly person and have never dared to consume my ruler’s wine and meat without cause. This time I have come to take trouble upon myself on your behalf—to take trouble with your Shen (spirit) and your physical form.”

The marquis asked, “What do you mean? Why take trouble with me?”

Xu Wugui said, “Heaven and earth nurture all things equally: what stands high cannot be said to be ‘more long,’ and what stands low cannot be said to be ‘more short.’ Yet you alone act as lord of a state of ten thousand chariots, making the people of the whole realm suffer in order to supply your eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. But Shen (spirit) does not approve of such a life for itself; the spiritual nature delights in harmony and detests perversity and partiality—perversity is illness, so I must help you labor it away. Only this illness is in you, your majesty—what is to be done?”

The marquis said, “I have long wished to see you, sir. I wish to cherish the people, practice benevolence and righteousness, and cease warfare—is that acceptable?”

Xu Wugui said, “It is not acceptable. ‘Cherishing the people’ is often the beginning of harming the people; ‘practicing benevolence and righteousness and ceasing warfare’ is precisely the root of military disaster. If your majesty goes down this path, success will be hard to achieve. Whenever one sets out to achieve a ‘good name,’ one must first produce the opposing ‘bad name’ that goes with it—just as where there is fine ware, there must be coarse ware to match. Even if your majesty acts with benevolence and righteousness, it is nearly contrived and pretended; once the outward form is contrived, the outward form invites conflict; once turmoil turns to outward strife, your majesty must by all means not array crane formations in lofty watchtowers or drive fine horses beside sacrificial altars and palaces—(to do so) will likely fail. Every good name is accompanied by a bad name; though your majesty practices benevolence and righteousness, it is close to sham display. Once the outward traces are contrived, the traces invite attack, and turmoil must turn outward in contention. Your majesty must by all means not array crane formations in high towers or drive fine horses beside altars; do not hoard what was wrongly obtained as your own, do not prevail over others by cunning, by scheming, or by force of arms. Slaughtering other men’s soldiers and annexing other lands to feed your private desires—even Shen (spirit), which shares in this whole way of life with your majesty, cannot tell which side counts as ‘rightly victorious’; the evil, I fear, lies on your majesty’s side. If your majesty still does not stop, you should cultivate sincerity within the breast and accord with the truth of heaven and earth, and not disturb the people. The dead cannot be brought back to life—what use is there in your majesty still talking of ‘ceasing warfare’?”

Heaven and Earth nourish all things alike; they do not indulge a ruler without limit simply because he is sovereign. If one feeds one’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth by squeezing the people, that violates the balance of Heaven and Earth.

Shen (spirit, mind, and intent) does not proclaim itself on its own; external things stir it into activity. Being in tune with things is harmony; proclaiming oneself and competing for victory is treacherous cunning.

When “loving the people” leaves visible traces, the people take it as a model worth imitating; once it is revered, the “love” already mixes in falsity. Practicing righteousness makes one’s name shine; when the name shines, rivalry arises; when rivalry arises, the genuine is lost. Father and son, ruler and minister each harbor schemes and deceive one another with sentiment—how can one truly lay down arms? Only when youwei ( purposive action) arises from wuwei (non-action) can affairs be accomplished.

A fine reputation is established first; pretense necessarily follows after. Thus those who build a fine reputation become, in turn, instruments of harm. When the ruler practices benevolence and righteousness, the people may follow with pretense and need not become genuine persons. Benevolence and righteousness have visible forms; pretense must also manufacture forms. Once forms appear, they show themselves—hence there is fazhan ( deploying force and altering the normal order), which is called losing the constant norm.

Helie (crane-array battle lines), marshaling troops, liqiao (ornate high towers), foot soldiers called tu—these ought not to exist solely for practicing righteousness and loving the people; one should also practice wuwei. Massing armies and riding hard: when one hits the mean, there is peace; when rebellion and disorder appear, one loses that mean.

Not defeating others by craft is called guarding pu (simplicity). Each kind of simplicity has its own capacity, and then there is balance. Not defeating others by stratagem is called following genuine knowing (benran zhi zhi, knowing as it inherently is); each kind of knowing has its strengths, and then there is evenness. Not defeating others by force is called responding to things with the Dao; things submit and there is no name of “victory.” Not knowing what counts as good—even if one subdues others, it is not truly one’s own victory. If one cannot stop oneself, nothing is better than cultivating sincerity in oneself; then armor and weapons need not be displayed, and it is not a feigned laying aside of arms.

(Note: This passage presents Guo Xiang’s reading of the Zhuangzi: Heaven and Earth’s equal nurturing, harmony and treachery, how loving the people becomes pretense, how benevolence and righteousness take visible form and lead to military deployment, and guarding simplicity, following genuine knowing, responding with the Dao, and cultivating sincerity rather than empty pacifism.)

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi

Main thrust of Lü’s commentary

Using clever scheming to govern a state is actually a calamity for the state; governing without cleverness and in accord with the Dao is the state’s blessing. Yet once “loving the people” is frozen into a fixed policy, it becomes the starting point of harming them; once “laying down arms” is frozen into a fixed posture, it becomes the root of raising armies—because one relies on knowing (zhi) rather than on the Dao.

When everyone in the world agrees to call something “beautiful,” evil (the opposite, the skew) is already there: when “beauty” is made into a fixed mold, evil solidifies into qi (outward form, reified practice); once there is qi, one is far from the Dao. Even when there seem to be humane love for the people and righteous cessation of war, most of it is wei (artifice), not the true Way.

If “loving the people” is turned into a fixed outward form, conquest often hides inside it, and harm to the people begins there; if “laying down arms” is turned into a fixed show, when disorder appears one must fight again, and the ledger for making arms begins there too. Only the Dao—the Dao in its origin is formless; formlessness is what leaves nothing fabricated.

Arraying the crane formation on the liqiao (ornate watchtower) is for display; tethering thoroughbred horses beside the zi altar (sacrificial mound) is for amusement—weapons should not be used casually; use them only when there is no alternative.

Whatever goes against Heaven’s principle yet is forced to “obtain” something is like hiding ni (a heart that rebels against principle) inside “getting.” Defeating others through scheming and calculation is relying on knowing rather than on the Dao; defeating others through war is relying on military might rather than on De (Virtue/Power). Killing people and seizing land to feed one’s private ends and nourish one’s private shen (spirit), then boasting of “spirit”—in fact one sickens and corrupts the spirit, yet calls it good warfare and victory over others, unable even to tell which is good and which is evil, or whom one’s victory has made evil.

If a ruler must do such things as a last resort, he should cultivate cheng (sincerity) to respond to the qing of Heaven and Earth (their true, unforced disposition); then things will respond of themselves—why still worry that “the people cannot escape death”?

Line-by-line exposition

“Bin” is the same as “guest” (bin): to discard, to reject; here it connects to “nourishing life.”

Heaven and Earth produce the myriad things as one body; originally there is no high or low, noble or base; he (harmony) is being of one kind with things.

Jian (craftiness) is self-seeking: my shen was originally one with the myriad things; through desire and self-seeking it grows dim—that is what is hated.

If the ruler’s sickness lies here yet he does not know it, that is “exhausting the ruler”; intending to “love the people” turns into harm, intending to “lay down arms” turns into arming—doing deeds with traces from a youwei (deliberate, contriving) heart is called xing (fixed form); once form is set and the heart clings unchanging, the inner is injured first, then stirred up by outer things—that is called wai zhan (outer strife).

Helie is the name of a battle formation, liqiao a tower name, zi tan a place of sacrifice—the metaphor: if the human heart contends with things, even within one room it is like cavalry in battle array; everywhere is a realm of contention.

Human feeling takes “getting” as accord and “losing” as rebellion; without getting there is no losing, hence “do not hide rebellion in getting.”

Qiao means scheming mind and stratagem; scheming comes from qiao, and war again comes from trusting one’s own clever scheming; contending for victory and gratifying the private eye and ear seems like outer victory, yet the chest is stirred by things in battle and shen is exhausted instead—where is the evil in “winning”?

Simply cultivate innate cheng, respond to the reality of Heaven and Earth, be without conflict with things, prevail without contending—then “the people’s death is already released”; why still seek to lay down arms?

The Yellow Emperor was going to Juci Mountain to visit Da Wei, a figure said to have attained the Way. Fangming drove the chariot, Changqi and Cancheng rode as attendants, Zhang Ruo and Xiepeng led the horses ahead, and Kunhun and Huaji followed behind. When the group reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng, the seven sages—the Yellow Emperor and six worthy companions—lost their way and could not find anyone to ask for directions. They happened upon a boy tending horses and asked him: Do you know Juci Mountain? The boy said: I do. They asked again: Do you know where Da Wei lives? The boy said: I know that too. The Yellow Emperor said: How strange—you are only a child, yet you know both Juci Mountain and where Da Wei dwells. Please tell us: how should one govern the world? The boy said: Governing the world is just like this; what else is there to fuss over? From childhood I have roamed on my own within the four quarters of heaven and earth. I had lately been dizzy and unwell, and an elder told me: ride the chariot of the sun and go play on the outskirts of Xiangcheng. Now that I am a little better, I am about to wander again beyond the four quarters. Governing the world is the same—nothing more to it—so why should I bother with such matters?

(The middle of the original repeats the same ideas as above.)

The Yellow Emperor said: Governing the world is indeed not something a child like you need worry about; still, please say a little more about how to govern the world. The boy declined to answer. The Yellow Emperor asked again: How is governing the world different from tending horses? It is simply removing the horses that harm the herd. The Yellow Emperor then bowed twice, touching his head to the ground, addressed the boy as Celestial Master (Tianshi), and took his leave.

Guo Xiang commented: What we call a “sage” is originally just a label. Once the label is fixed, the myriad things become lost in names. Even if one wishes to seek an audience with Da Wei, how could that be possible? Saying that governing the world is as the boy described means each person keeps to their place and finds joy in it, and then there is no need for meddling. When there is no meddling, the world can be governed. “Riding the chariot of the sun” means that going out and coming in, resting and rising, all follow nature. For governing the world nothing suits better than letting be (fangren); once things are let be, why should outer things come to clash? Hence “I practice Wuwei (non-action) and the people transform themselves.” Affairs are done by the people themselves; government only helps each get what belongs to them, and within that there is necessarily the Dao (the Way). Horses become harmful to the herd through excessive indulgence; remove what is excessive, and Da Wei arrives of himself.

Lü Commentary

If you set out to visit Great Sovereign and seven sages travel with you, they all lose their way in the end—just like boring seven openings into Hun Dun (the god of primal chaos) and thereby killing him. If you wish to see the Dao face to face yet refuse to let go of the whole apparatus of “sage” and “wise one,” it is no wonder that even when you fancy yourself “ascended and penetrating” (shangda), you remain trapped in delusion.

The human heart-mind inherently possesses shen (spirit); shen has no fixed form and no fixed direction, and its roaming never strays outside the realm of heaven and earth in the six directions. Only when the inner heart is turbid and confused, as if stricken with dazzled disorder, does one fall into such chaos. To still this confusion, the text speaks of using clarity to “ascend and penetrate” and of riding the sun chariot to roam in Xiangcheng—yet even so, one is still deluded and unawakened. The human heart-mind inherently possesses shen… (as above)—at best this is a slight improvement, because one is still on the level of “riding the sun chariot.” If one does not ride the sun chariot and roam beyond the six directions, would there then be no calamity at all? One who would govern all under heaven need only nourish the heart-mind and remove what harms it—nothing more.

Bixu Commentary

The boy’s use of horse-herding to stand for governing the realm carries deep meaning: when horses simply follow their true nature in grazing and drinking, they have enough; when the people simply follow their true nature in tilling fields for food and weaving cloth for clothing, they have enough, and nothing need be added. Asked again, he does not answer—this is the teaching without words (buyan zhi jiao). Today’s horse-herders do not see that whipping harms the horses; those who govern the people do not understand that laws and decrees breed deceit and falsity, and then they say horses are hard to tame and the people hard to rule—both sides are mistaken.

Those who delight in intellectual speculation find no joy unless their thinking shifts and turns; debaters find no joy unless their discourse follows a clear order and method; those who scrutinize and pick at others find no joy unless they can belittle or mock someone—all of them are hemmed in by external things, trapped in one narrow kind of pursuit.

Those who seek to make a name and win influence in the world rise up in court; people of middling talent take official rank as their glory; those who live by physical strength take pride in bearing hardship; the brave take zeal in facing danger and risk; military men take delight in war; those who emaciate body and name take reputation as their final home; Legalists spread governance by punishments and names; devotees of ritual and music busy themselves with outward deportment; advocates of benevolence and righteousness prize social ties and fixed roles.

Farmers do not associate unless there is clearing and weeding to do; merchants and traders do not associate unless there is market and exchange; common folk with fixed daily tasks encourage one another; artisans feel solid and capable when they have tools and skill. When wealth is not hoarded, the greedy worry; when power is not conspicuous, the vain grieve; when rank and riches cannot be freely shifted or traded, people cling to and compare themselves with one another—all such people take adapting to the times and changing with things as their pleasure; when the moment offers a use for them, they cannot remain in wuwei (non-action). They all measure themselves against the year and the season, rather than resting in their nature within the unchanging constant of transformation (Yi); they drive body and mind, drowning in the myriad things, and never return to what they originally were—a thing to mourn.

Guo Xiang’s commentary in brief: Unable to be content within themselves, they seek joy in outer things, so each is encircled by what he delights in—not forced from outside, but summoned by the nature of the thing. What follows distinguishes types of scholars—rising in court, glory in office, and so on—each in his place cannot swerve from his direction; where aims align, affairs align, hence mutual comparison; where each gets his wish, they exhort one another. Where the craft does not fit, each thing gets what it craves and rejoices. Power and status arise as circumstances change. Each kind of scholar has his season; when the season uses him, he cannot act from himself alone. If the time does not meet him, even wishing to employ himself he cannot—so nobility and baseness have no fixed rule, each has its limit, like the four seasons that cannot be swapped. When things then follow their proper order, each has its use; following the year is following the season; changing nature is not stuck on one thing—“treating things as things without being possessed by a single thing” is not destroying things, but not clinging to one skill alone while opening to the ten thousand directions, to suit the profit of the time. Hence there are those who crawl back broken—that is why it is lamentable.

Main idea of Lu’s commentary

Every person has something that could be their deepest source of joy. Once you find it and wander freely in it, the “garden” in your heart is already vast. Yet some scholars fixate on only one kind of pleasure that their nature favors; they end up penned in by outer things, unable to enter a larger realm and unable to truly hold the world in check.

From those who “take the world upon themselves,” to officials at court, to people chasing power and profit—aims differ, but whenever the times seem to call for “useful” action, they cannot help acting. What they share is not knowing where the “True Lord” (the true self, the master of the heart) actually dwells.

Acting because the times demand it is not what your nature and life were originally meant to do. Ages have their past and present, like a year has cold and heat. Some meet one turn of fortune and cling to it as if it were forever, insisting on action and unable to practice wuwei (non-action)—all of this is following only the “year’s cold” and not knowing there is also summer heat, or living only in summer and not knowing winter. Treating a chance encounter as eternal and failing to transform with change is what is meant by “not letting things ride the easy transformations.”

In fact, within everyone the True Lord abides constantly; yet people indulge the body, scatter their original nature, chase outer objects and do not turn back—that is precisely what the perfected person (one who has attained the Way) finds lamentable.

Following the root (word notes)

• Ling sheng: to override and press; sheng means to reprove or cross-examine. Always wanting to dominate others and pursue every point to the end.
• Zhao shi: to pull the affairs of the world onto oneself, as if “gathering up worldly business.”
• Xing chao: to rise and make a name at court, to hold office.
• Su ming: to lodge one’s name for posterity.
• Gui ji: to prize human ties and social exchange.
• Bi he: to align with others, to form factions or cliques.
• Bu bi: not to fit in, to drift without a place.
• Quan zhe: one who urges himself on in effort; zhuang zhe: one who acts from boldness and hot blood.

General meaning (how commentators classify it)

Commentators divide “being penned in by things” into two types; one type is people who stand outside events yet use schemes and calculation. They further split “going along with the times in comparison” into ten situations—including office at court, leaving a name, valuing connections, faction, loss of position, earnest striving, and flaunting strength—all the same pattern of mistaking the moment for a fixed rule and not knowing where the True Lord is.

General Meaning

Those who are bound by external things mostly stand outside affairs yet fancy themselves wise; those who go with the times are perhaps five or six out of ten actually inside affairs and exerting themselves. Only those who are not lightly stirred by things and are not dragged along by them can change and adapt without being enslaved by things. The various skills and states described earlier all resemble what has a fixed form, a boundary, and refuses to be casually altered by things—yet can change without being trapped by them.

Zhuangzi said: If an archer who hits the target without aiming first counts as a good archer, then everyone under heaven could be Hou Yi—is that acceptable? Huizi said: It is. Zhuangzi said: If there is no shared standard of “right” under heaven, and each person takes only their own view as right, then everyone under heaven could be Yao—is that acceptable? Huizi said: It is. Zhuangzi said: Then among Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, Gongsun Long, and you, Huizi—five of you—who is actually right? Could it be like the man Lu Ju (legendary adept at the zither)? His disciple said: I have obtained the master’s Dao—I can cook over fire in a cauldron in winter and make ice in summer. Lu Ju said: That is merely using yang to summon yang and yin to summon yin; it is not the Dao I speak of. Let me show you my Dao—and he tuned the zither: one string he discarded in the hall, one in the inner room; when he plucked the gong note the gong string responded, when he plucked the jiao note the jiao string responded—the pitch matched. If he retuned one string so that it matched none of the five tones, and plucked the other twenty-five, all would vibrate, yet the sound would be no different from before, while the “lord of the tone” (the governing pitch) had already changed. What you and Huizi dispute—is it not like this?

Huizi said: Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, and Gongsun Long are now trying to oppose me with debate and overwhelm me with words, making a great noise, yet no one has settled that I am wrong—so what of it? Zhuangzi said: There was a man of Qi who left his son in the state of Song, sent him to serve as gatekeeper, yet did not ensure the son’s safety; he sought casting molds for a bell but tied them with rope for fear of damaging the bell; when his son Tang was lost he did not search far, only leaving behind the same kind (or the same habit). Again, a man of Chu living elsewhere, serving as gatekeeper, fought the boatman at night when no one was about—before he had left the dangerous shore (“cen,” the high bank) he had already made an enemy. Huizi said: (Still) Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, and Gongsun Long are debating with me… Zhuangzi said: The man of Qi who left his son in Song… (same idea as above: leaving a son abroad, a gatekeeper fighting at night—each thinks themselves right and invites trouble.)

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Hitting the target by mistake without aiming first is not good archery; if every lucky hit were called good archery, everyone under heaven could be called Hou Yi—that claim does not hold. If everyone who privately insists they alone are right were called Yao, Zhuangzi uses this to show: a chance hit is not Hou Yi, and self-assurance is not Yao. If everyone were Yao, why would the five still deny one another? It is like Lu Ju boasting of his zither, summoning yang with yang, imposing his own judgment—or changing one string so all five tones shift with it: without sound there is no mutual resonance; with sound, what is not alike does not respond. Now if this one string of “self-righteousness” is retuned, that is not true Yao; if all were Yao, why would the five need to call each other wrong? Again, Lu Ju boasting to his disciple that changing one string makes all twenty-five vibrate—still responding alike to alike, unable to stand apart on their own. The five each cling to their view and each take their own as right, no different from Lu Ju praising his disciple while neither can surpass the other. Those who “have never admitted they were wrong” are really each insisting on their own right. Huizi wanted to take this as ultimate truth; Zhuangzi then cited the man of Qi who left his son in a foreign land and had a gatekeeper watch him yet could not keep him safe—this is the Qi man’s lack of benevolence, but also his self-righteousness: binding things out of care for the bell, fearing damage; when Tang was lost he did not search far, leaving habits behind, never admitting error. He also cites the Chu man living abroad, the gatekeeper: alike in lodging abroad yet unable to put themselves on high ground, the dangerous shore; going alone onto a boat at midnight and fighting the boatman before leaving shore. If the men of Qi and Chu act thus yet never think themselves wrong, how is that different from the five each taking their own as right?

Lü’s commentary explains that if everyone under heaven were like Hou Yi—recognizing only one standard, such as hitting the bull’s-eye— that would already be wrong. Hui Shi knew Zhuangzi’s words were aimed at him, so he felt he could turn them into an argument: when an arrow strikes the center, you call it Hou Yi’s skill, but that need not be Yao’s fairness; to settle right and wrong that way is to treat “words that go against human feeling” as solid truth and to treat “pressing down on others” as reputation.

Although those several schools (Confucian, Mohist, and the like) do not all share one measure, if you insist that “all of it is Yao’s Way,” that line of talk cannot stand. Otherwise it is like Lu Ju tuning the se—you cannot avoid using pitch and tone to draw each other in and flatter one another. Shi (people like Hui Shi) take themselves to be above those four, yet in fact they are no different; they think “they and I are fundamentally the same,” yet in disputation still say “if not me, who will speak?”—trying to make the equalizing doctrine that “all under heaven is Yao” sound coherent. Zhuangzi uses subtle words to wake them: affection between father and son comes from inborn nature. There was a man of Qi who left his son in Song and made him a gatekeeper, with no thought of keeping him safe—a figure for Shi straining at rhetoric and fame while slighting the feelings proper to life: what ought to be cherished is not cherished, and what ought not to be harmed is harmed. It is also like seeking a belt or a bell yet binding yourself with rope, or like Tang Zi, who never stepped outside his border—a figure for Shi contending for victory where right and wrong are murky, doing nothing to settle life, only going against things; that is not the knowledge Zhuangzi speaks of.

The image of the man of Chu living abroad and the gatekeeper points again at Shi: having lost the “true dwelling” and returned, yet still fighting for name where yes and no are blurred— not enough to help affairs. That is not the knowledge Zhuangzi means.

Vernacular Commentary on This Passage in Zhuangzi Yi (Wings of Zhuangzi)

1. Archery and “Who Counts as Yao?”

An archer must first aim at the target and hit it to count as skilled. If one does not aim in advance and only happens to hit by chance, that still counts as skilled, then everyone under heaven would be Hou Yi. The point is: if there is no shared standard of “what is right” under heaven, and each person treats only their own view as correct, it is as if everyone under heaven were Yao—which clearly does not hold.

2. Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long, and “Strange Events”

(Debaters often invoke) Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long, and others. Cooking without fire in winter and making ice with water in summer look bizarre, but they are really just yang qi arising at the winter solstice, yang calling yang to produce fire, and yin qi arising at the summer solstice, yin calling yin to produce ice—not truly strange.

3. Two Zithers, the Same Pitch

In one hall, one room, each holds a se (zither). Pluck the gong (fundamental) tone on this se and the gong on that se responds; pluck the jue (third) on this one and the jue on that one responds. It seems miraculous, but it is only because the pitch standards match and sound and qi resonate—ordinary principle, not a marvel.

4. The Stone Chime and the Bell—Cao Shaoqi

In the Tang dynasty, Cao Shaoqi understood pitch and temperament. A monk in Luoyang had a qing (stone chime) in his room that rang day and night; he took it for a demon and fell ill. Shaoqi, who was on good terms with him, came to inquire; the monk explained. Before long, when the fasting bell sounded, the qing rang again. Shaoqi smiled: “Tomorrow prepare a good meal; I will rid you of this marvel.” The monk did so. After the meal Shaoqi took a file from his robe, filed the qing a few times, and left—the sound stopped. The monk asked why. He said: this qing’s pitch matched the bell’s, so striking one made the other respond. The monk was delighted and recovered.

5. Cart Bell and Underground Bell—Li Sizhen

Li Sizhen also reported: when a cart bell (duo) vibrated on the ground, a responding tone came from below; digging revealed a bell. Sources do record such cases of “mutual response,” which can serve as corroboration.

6. Xueji (Record of Learning) and “One String Commands the Rest”

The Xueji says: if a drum accords with none of the five tones (has no proper place among the five), or the tuning is changed and only one string is plucked, all twenty-five strings move. That one string is not otherwise special, yet it can do this because it is the master of the other strings—one pluck and the rest obey. All sixty-four modes stem from the gong of the Yellow Bell; gong is the “ruler,” so it can govern the other pitches—again ordinary principle, nothing strange.

7. Zhuangzi and Huizi: Among Five Schools, Who Is Right and Who Is Wrong?

If what (Huizi) clings to is that kind of heterodox talk: does what Huizi takes as right resemble the bias of “Lu Ju”? Huizi answered: Zhuangzi lists me with Ru (Confucians), Mo (Mohists), Yang (Zhu), and Bing (Gongsun Long) as five schools, not knowing who is truly “right”; yet the four debaters never refute me, so I am right and the four are wrong.

8. “The Staggerer,” Abandoning a Son, Cherishing a Bell, Employing the Hall Servant

“Di” means didu—walking without advancing. The Book of Rites has “didu yan, chichu yan.” Xing zhong: to tie and secure a bell. Tang: the path before the hall, the courtyard passage (Shi jing: “zhong tang you bi”). Tang zi: a servant on the hall path, like the Zhou li “men zi,” colloquially “fang zi.”

In Qi there was a man who walked with didu. He sent his son to Song to serve as gatekeeper (hun)—because the body was incomplete, he cast him off in a foreign state. However incomplete the form, he was still his own son; how could he bear to abandon him thus? Try looking from the angle of “tui” (weighing, partiality): when he wanted the bell secured, he tied and maintained it, fearing damage—compared with abandoning his son, how does that look? When he wanted a tang zi, he only had someone serve on the hall path and never go beyond—compared with casting his son off in another country, how does that look? Viewed this way, the logic of “tui” has gaps: people are partial toward near and far, dear and cheap, without noticing—analogous to Huizi knowing the four debaters’ arguments are wrong yet not knowing his own error.

9. Li (Li) and Quarreling with the Boatman

“Li” is the same as li, “to arrive.” Cen: a mountain shore. A man of Chu lived on a boat, walked with didu, and served as gatekeeper in another state; in the dead of night when no one was about he quarreled with the boatman—before reaching shore, how could he fight the boatman? He only made an enemy for nothing. This goes a step further: to argue with others is not only to be blind to one’s own fault but also to invite harm.

Brief Glossary of Proper Names and Terms

I. On Arguing with Others

When Zhuangzi was on his way to a funeral, he passed the grave of Hui Shi and turned to his attendants to tell the story of the man from Ying and the craftsman who chopped off the nose-tip (see below). Here he adds another layer: to argue back and forth with others not only blinds oneself but also easily breeds resentment and invites trouble.

II. Zhuangzi Passing the Grave of Hui Shi (Zhuangzi, “Xu Wugui”)

Zhuangzi was attending a funeral and passed the grave of Hui Shi. He turned to his attendants and said: In the state of Chu there was a man in Ying whose nose-tip had a speck of white plaster on it, thin as a fly’s wing. He asked a stonecutter to chop it off with an axe. The stonecutter swung the axe like the wind, struck at the sound, and shaved off the plaster without harming the nose; the man from Ying stood there, his face unchanged. When Lord Yuan of Song heard of this, he summoned the stonecutter and said, “Try that on me too.” The stonecutter said, “Your servant could indeed do that once, but my partner (the one who could match me) has been dead a long time. Since Master Hui passed away, I have had no one left to dialogue with—and I have had no one left to speak to.”

III. Guo Xiang’s Commentary

“Axe swinging like the wind, eyes closed and hands letting go”—that only works when there is a unmoving, cooperating counterpart (zhi). Without such a dialogue partner, even the finest doctrine and skill as clever as the chop have nowhere to be applied.

IV. Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

Precisely because Hui Shi could serve as such a “counterpart,” Zhuangzi often debated with him at length and deeply regretted that he had not awakened to what lay beyond.

V. Guan Zhong Ill; Duke Huan Asks Who Can Be Entrusted with the State (Zhuangzi, “Xu Wugui”; slightly different from Liezi)

Guan Zhong was gravely ill. Duke Huan of Qi asked, “Zhongfu’s illness is severe. If we must say it is beyond recovery, to whom should I entrust the state?”

Guan Zhong said, “Whom does Your Lordship have in mind?”

The duke said, “Bao Shuya.”

Guan Zhong said, “That will not do. He is upright and protective of good men, but he will not tolerate those beneath him; once he hears of someone’s fault he never forgets it for life. To put him in charge of the state will not work.”

The duke named others; Guan Zhong again rejected Bao Shuya for the same reasons.

The duke said, “Then who can?”

Guan Zhong said, “If Your Lordship can set aside fixed views, Xipeng will do. In his conduct: toward superiors he is not stubborn; toward inferiors he does not turn disloyal (Liezi has “does not rebel below”). Though he falls short of the Yellow Emperor, he knows shame; toward those less capable than himself he shows compassion and does not harshly blame. To divide people by virtue is called ‘sage’; to divide them by wealth is called ‘worthy.’ A worthy who lords it over others cannot win hearts; a worthy who stays below in serving others has never failed to win hearts. In great affairs of state he does not meddle in every detail; in household matters he does not inspect every small thing—if Your Lordship can avoid clinging to your own views, Xipeng will do.”

(Note: Another version says Bao Shuya “curries favor above and goes against the people below” and would quickly offend the ruler; here the main text follows Zhuangzi’s “upright and protective of good men” and related lines.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary

“Facing those above, one can forget rank; facing those below, one does not turn away” means holding high position without arrogance; “pity for others does not stop at the surface,” so no one is cast aside. If one must personally hear and see everything and take every matter upon oneself, subordinates will not know how to act; therefore it is feasible to “set aside” some affairs. Yet one cannot entirely let go and ignore them, so this can only be called “acceptable,” not perfect.

Lu’s commentary

“Being broad-minded leads to fairness,” and the like, match the previous passage: lofty yet not haughty, grieving as if still inadequate, hence no one abandoned; if one hears and sees everything personally, affairs all pile on oneself and the group below is at a loss, so leaving some aside is possible, but one cannot leave everything aside, hence only “acceptable.”

It also says: being broad-minded leads to fairness, fairness leads to kingship, kingship leads to Heaven, Heaven leads to the Dao—these five levels are realms to embody and attain. The titles “fair” and “king” arise from this. Can Sui Peng’s virtue be called “broad-minded and thus fair”?

Jiang Yu’s commentary

“Guarding from above” means the ruler’s orders are lenient and simple, not nitpicking; “not rebellious below” means the people’s customs are honest and solid. Ashamed at not matching the Yellow Emperor, not self-satisfied and pretentious; with “grieving as if still inadequate” as the heart, using goodness to save people. Dividing people by virtue so the folk can each restore their mandate and return to the root—that is the way of the sage; dividing people by wealth so the folk are not trapped providing for parents above and children below—that is the virtue of the worthy. Using worth to oversee people is like a mountain, lean (not hoarding to fatten oneself); using worth to defer to people is like a marsh, enriching and moistening what is below. “In the state, not heard; in the family, not seen” does not mean truly not hearing or seeing, but that one’s moral breadth is enough to embrace all. Whether Sui Peng is fit to serve and whether Bao Shu is unfit—the difference lies precisely here. The preface to Ge Fu in the Book of Poetry, Wei section, says the lord of Wei was stingy, narrow, and impatient; the poem says “Such is a narrow heart—hence this satire”—how a narrow heart harms governance is visible in this.

(The closing section of the text is confused and repetitive; the gist still follows the above: whether Sui Peng and Bao Shu are fit to serve, and Ge Fu satirizing how a narrow heart harms rule.)

The King of Wu Ascends Mount Ju

The King of Wu went by boat on the river, then climbed Mount Ju (a mountain named for its many gibbons). At the sight of him, the whole troop panicked and scattered into dense thorn thickets. Only one gibbon stayed calm—climbing, scratching, showing off its agility before the king. The king ordered his men to shoot it. Though nimble in catching and deflecting, it was struck dead the moment an arrow flew. The king turned to his companion Yan Bu Yi (personal name) and said: “This gibbon trusted its cleverness and skill, acted arrogant toward me, and ended like this. Take warning! Do not use your bearing to look down on others.”

Yan Bu Yi went home and took Dong Wu (personal name) as his teacher, to “hoe away his coloration” (grind off the self-satisfied, haughty “look” in face and manner) and drop the habit of pleasing others and competing for display. After three years, people throughout the state praised him (for forgetting cleverness and returning to simplicity).

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The gibbon’s climbing was twisting and showy. “Caught dead”: Sima Biao said it was caught and killed. Guo notes: though the arrow was fast, the gibbon could still parry—what people praised was forgetting cleverness, laying aside that “coloration,” and letting natural simplicity be.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To look down on others by one’s bearing is arrogance in the heart showing on the face; hoeing away coloration is removing that from the heart. What people praised was likewise forgetting cleverness and returning to simplicity. The six—bearing, movement, complexion, principle, words, and qi—are all signs of a skewed heart.

Nan Bo Zi Qi

Nan Bo Zi Qi (personal name) sat leaning on a table, exhaling toward the sky. Yan Cheng Zi (personal name) came in and said: “Master, you truly stand out among living things! The body may indeed look like dry bones—can the heart also be like cold ash?”

Zi Qi said: “I once lived in a mountain cave. When Tian He (personal name) saw me, the people of Qi congratulated him three times. I had to be ahead of him—so he could know me; I had to ‘sell myself’ to him—so he could ‘yù’ me (treat me as a rare prize to boost and parade). If I did not put myself first, how could he know it was me? If I did not sell myself to him, how could he yù me out? Alas, I grieve for those who lose their root; I grieve for those who grieve for others; I grieve for those who grieve for ‘those who grieve for others’—after that one drifts ever farther from the true self, day by day.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Qi’s threefold congratulations meant taking it as an honor to have seen Zi Qi. Zi Qi understood: what people do (chasing fame, boosting one another) cannot save the other yet harms me—so with grief that does not indulge grief, that grief gradually fades; heart empty and without contrivance, body withered—hence “farther day by day.”

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Tian He’s one sighting and Qi’s three congratulations came from my going ahead and “selling” myself, so he knew me and I grieved; with un-grieving grief, grief eases; heart empty and without contrivance, body withered—hence day by day farther.

Commentary by Lü: As soon as Tian He saw the three sets of “first taste of the new harvest” tribute gifts from Qi, he rushed to sell them off. He had not yet thought through the Way inwardly, yet he left traces outwardly—so people saw through him. The Way of Heaven has no fixed form; as long as the mind retains the least distinction of “I know, I understand,” that is called “self-loss”—what is lost is the naturalness of the original heart-mind. Ziqi grieved for those who “lost themselves” and wanted to bring them back; but if one only knows they are lost and grieves for them while still remaining within loss oneself, one has not truly returned. I then grieve for those who grieve over the lost—thus whether the lost or those who grieve for the lost, neither knows where to return, and day by day they drift farther from the Dao. If one is not dragged down by outer things, perhaps the body would not yet wither and the heart would not yet turn to ash.

When Confucius went to Chu, the people of Chu offered wine. Sun Shuao stood holding the cup; Shinan Yiliao received the wine and performed the libation, saying: “Is this what the ancients would do?” On such an occasion Confucius said: I have heard of “speech that uses no words,” but I have not yet spoken it here with my own mouth; now I will speak it here. Shinan Yiliao juggled pellets and dissolved a feud between two houses; Sun Shuao slept soundly with a feather fan in hand and made the people of Ying lay down their weapons. Confucius said: I wish I had a three-foot beak—that is called “a Dao that does not accord with the constant Dao,” also called “argument that uses no words.” Thus De is gathered in the realm where the Dao returns to oneness; words stop where knowledge cannot know—and that is enough. Where the Dao returns to oneness, the label “De” alone cannot fully align everything; what knowledge cannot know, argument alone cannot bring forth. To fight over labels like “Confucian” and “Mohist” is perilous. The great sea does not reject the waters flowing east—that is the utmost of “great.” The sage embraces heaven and earth and extends grace to all under heaven, yet does not set himself up as anyone’s master—therefore he reaches the extreme. Hence: no enfeoffment in life, no posthumous title in death, no hoarding of solid gain, no raising of a reputation—this is called the “great person.” A dog is not judged a good dog because it barks; a person is not judged worthy because he talks; how much less is this true of “greatness”? Merely being “great” is already insufficient to count as truly great—how much less is it true of De? “Great” is already complete enough; nothing is more complete than heaven and earth—what more could one seek? Yet heaven and earth are already fully complete. Whoever understands this full completeness seeks nothing, loses nothing, abandons nothing, and does not swap himself for outer things. Returning to oneself without exhaustion, holding to ancient constancy without wearing away—this is the sincerity of the “great person.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What the ancients called “words” always had to guard against forcing different things into sameness. The sage has no fixed formula of “what must be said”; what he speaks is simply what ordinary people would say—hence “words that do not speak.” If one treats “what should be said” as “what need not be said,” then though words leave the mouth, it is as if they were never spoken; here, “speaking within words yet not speaking” means exactly this.

Yiliao and Shu’ao used silence to settle disputes, kept themselves plain and detached, and military calamity dissolved on its own. If what is said is not one’s own proper share, then speaking without end all one’s life is the same as not speaking. Hence even a mouth three feet long does not suffice to be called “long.” Ordinary people falling silent is not necessarily “not speaking.” (In the text) “there” refers to Yiliao and Shu’ao; “here” refers to Confucius.

What the Dao holds may have no fixed corners, yet it never strays from “each attaining its place.” To speak of “oneness” is to speak of each reaching its allotted portion—what more can be said before that is complete? Each keeping its place is not “sameness” but “the Dao is one.” Knowing what exceeds one’s portion, even disputation cannot produce a counterexample; Confucians and Mohists try to force uniformity and cannot unify it, nor can they produce examples—hence the danger.

The sea holds the myriad things and pushes nothing away; thus it becomes great. The sage is broad and trusting toward all: in life he does not seek rank, having yet not possessing; in death he does not seek a posthumous title—a posthumous title records merit, and when merit is not on oneself, though there is a title it does not count as “self-possession.” Real benefit does not gather to oneself; he lets the myriad things each fulfill their desires.

The name does not keep merit for itself; merit is not for the self—so the name returns to things. This is called “the great person.” If one tries to “have” through deliberate action, one becomes small. Worthiness arises from nature, not from words—how much more so “greatness,” which cannot be obtained by deliberate action; only through ziran (natural spontaneity) can it be attained.

Heaven and earth are fully complete—not sought from outside. One who knows they were complete from the start does not abandon oneself to seek externals; hence no seeking, no losing, no casting away. Returning to guard the root principle, the root principle opens of itself; following constant nature one arrives spontaneously—not from deliberate polishing. Through wuwei (non-action) one attains oneself—hence it is called cheng (sincerity/authenticity).

Lü’s commentary explains: “Three people, three ages” is likewise an allegory. What is called “word that is not spoken” does not mean having no mouth; if one contends for victory like the Confucian and Mohist schools, even with a mouth and eloquence enough to “move three feet,” that still counts as “not speaking”—in their case, it is called “the Way that is not the Way.” Confucius “did not speak,” yet that was “disputation without words”; how could ordinary people understand?

What De (Virtue/Power) cannot equalize and disputation cannot exhaust originally has no fixed name. Resting in the nameless is where auspiciousness finds its support; otherwise, even if one’s title is as upright as Confucian or Mohist renown, one cannot avoid reckless action and thereby invite misfortune.

Dao (the Way) in the world is like the hundred streams returning to the sea: the sea receives them and does not refuse. The sage embraces and moistens things in the same way. Not knowing which surname they bear, without rank or posthumous title—the sage is nameless, and therefore can be great.

To take fine words as worthiness is already inadmissible; how much more to be great? Is greatness in words? Then what knowing cannot know and disputation therefore cannot exhaust—within that there is inherently disputation without words. The sage does not act great—once one acts great, one is no longer adequate to be great, still less to perform De? What Dao unifies, De cannot identify with; within that there is inherently the Way that is not the Way.

Heaven and Earth are fully complete because they are originally without seeking yet fully complete. Human beings too all have what is called full completeness—nothing but authenticity (cheng). Authentic then without seeking; without seeking, hence no loss, no discard; sufficient in oneself, not exchanging oneself for things.

The great person: knows self is within, the myriad things all complete in oneself, hence turning back without exhaustion, extending beyond antiquity without decay, hence following it without friction. Authenticity is: hitting the mark without effort, obtaining without deliberation, accomplishing without deliberate action.

Following the Original Text

When ancient writers discussed this passage, they were praising Confucius—not to measure modern people against him, but to have the ancients themselves “ask Confucius” how to speak and how to live in the world.

Two examples from before Confucius’s time

Sun Shu’ao was the son of Wei Jia; his given name was Ai (Ai Lie). He served as chief minister under King Zhuang of Chu and lived before Confucius. Through quietness, non-contention, and not leaning on his achievements, he dissolved danger. (Note: lingyin was the highest executive office in Chu.)

Shinan Yiliao was skilled at nongwan—juggling small balls, often with eight in the air and one in his hand. When Chu and Song were at war, he bared his chest and stood before the armies; with blades crossed, he still juggled and rang his balls, the armies stopped fighting, and Chu won. That too happened before Confucius.

What the commentator means (allegory)

After Confucius died, people used allegory to say that Sun Shu’ao and Shinan Yiliao both used Wuwei (non-action) to escape hardship and stop war. If hardship and war could be settled without words, why should I talk at all?

If speech really worked, I would wish for a “three-foot beak”—an absurdly long mouth to say everything; if speech is useless, then this mouth is just like that three-foot beak: surplus.

Note: This passage belongs to commentary in the Zhuangzi line. It takes Sun Shu’ao and Shinan Yiliao as parallels to “Zhongni” (Confucius) and to the worth of “speech,” arguing that in crisis, not speaking, Wuwei, and showing awkwardness or artifice (as juggling stopped the battle) sometimes succeeds more easily than relying on argument.

Ziji had eight sons. He had them line up before him and sent for Jiufang Ye, who was skilled at physiognomy, saying, “Look at these boys for me—which one is most blessed with fortune?”

Jiufang Ye said, “Kun is the most fortunate.” Ziji’s face lit up at once; pleased, he asked, “How do you mean?” Jiufang Ye answered, “Kun will in time share meals with the ruler of a state and live out his years in peace.”

Ziji’s expression then faded; tears ran down his face. He said, “How could my son end up in such a plight?”

Jiufang Ye said, “To eat with the ruler—favor can reach three clans of kin, let alone one’s parents. The master hears this and weeps; that is turning good fortune away. When the son is fortunate, the father is instead left without fortune.”

Ziji said, “Ye, how can you be sure Kun is truly fortunate? All you see is wine and meat going in through nose and mouth—you do not know where fortune really comes from! I never kept sheep, yet a ram appeared in the inner rooms; I never favored hunting, yet quail showed up beside the stove—you did not find that strange, so on what grounds do you find other things strange? The days I spent raising my son were days of roaming in Heaven and Earth: taking joy with Heaven, finding sustenance with Earth; not meddling in worldly affairs with him, not scheming with him, not playing odd games of reputation with him. We followed the genuine feelings of Heaven and Earth and did not let outer things crash into one another; we bent and straightened together with circumstances and did not force things to be ‘as they ought to be.’ Now there is retribution in the human world. Wherever odd signs appear, odd conduct follows—perhaps not entirely the fault of father and son, but also Heaven arranging things. That is why I weep.”

Before long, Kun was sent on a mission to the state of Yan. On the road he fell in with bandits. Taken whole, he was hard to sell; only after they cut off his feet could he be sold. Thus he was sold into Qi, where he happened to serve in the household of Duke Qu—a wealthy man in Qi who held the post of street overseer—and lived out his life with meat to eat until he died of old age.

Notes (terms touched on in the text)

• Jiufang Ye: A fangshi skilled at judging horses and people; in the Huainanzi the name appears as Jiufang Gao.
• Kun: Ziji’s son, the one Jiufang Ye singled out as “fortunate.”
• Duke Qu: A rich man of Qi who served as street overseer (manager of the market quarter); he bought Kun as a servant.
• Female sheep (zang): A ewe; linked with omens such as “a ram in the inner rooms,” illustrating that a “fortunate” face in physiognomy is not necessarily real fortune.
• Turning away fortune (yufu): Pushing away fortune that is already in hand and losing it.
• Weiyi (yielding and bending): Adapting to the way things lie, without forcing.

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi

Guo Commentary (Guoxiang lineage)

Portents appear because they fall outside what one expects. “Wandering” (you) is not doing things with a fixed purpose; it is simply meeting whatever the world presents within heaven and earth. Yao means encounter; guai means something uncanny or out of the ordinary. Following the constant way and letting things be natural means not deliberately acting—only going along without picking and choosing. If one has “merit” toward people or things, things may “respond”; if I do not deliberately seek merit, how could there be a response? Hence “no portent” (wu guai): people act as usual, yet strange signs still appear—showing that this is Ming (Heaven’s decree), not something human effort can arrange. Deliberate action makes one feel “I did this”; without deliberate action, events arrive on their own, and one can only accept them. That leads to the later story of weeping: binding one’s son and selling him to Yan, where bandits get him; the seller, fearing escape, amputates his feet (yue zu) first so the boy is easier to sell—using a concrete episode to show how “portent” relates to “non-acting.”

Lü Commentary (Lü Huiqing lineage)

The passage shows that Jiufang Gao, who “reads faces and forms,” is inferior to Ziqi, who measures people by the Dao. Ziqi and his son wander in heaven and earth, embodying the constant way by which the perfected person preserves life and nurtures vitality; there can still be “portent” and precaution, but Ziqi understands it as what Heaven has decreed, not something human effort can deliberately “obtain.” So Jiufang, looking at appearance and detail, is not the equal of Ziqi viewing things through the Dao.

Xunben (Following the base text and collation)

In the base text, at passages such as the southwest corner of the inner chamber and the southeast corner of the deep chamber, it says “never herding sheep, never hunting,” yet a ewe (zang) and quail (chun) appear in the room—echoing Classic of Poetry lines like “You did not hunt or chase—why do I see a quail hanging in your court?”: the sense of uncanny sign when there was no hunt. Collation notes “slight difference in characters below dan” (dan xia de sheng zi cha yi) mean wording differs slightly from other editions without changing the main point: still using “no portent yet there are signs” to show Ming, not human contrivance.

Thread of the main idea: Guo stresses that portent comes from the unexpected and that one wanders in heaven and earth without deliberate action; Lü connects the same story in Renjian Shi (Human World) to the contrast between Ziqi and Jiufang Gao in knowing people; Xunben stays close to the scripture’s strange omen of “quail though there was no hunt,” mutually confirming “knowing what belongs to Tian.”

Nie Que met Xu You and asked, “Where are you going?” Xu You said, “I am going to get away from Yao.” Nie Que asked, “Why?” Xu You said, “That worried, benevolent air of Yao—I fear he will become a laughingstock to all under heaven, and later ages may see people eating people. Herding the masses is not hard: cherish them and they draw close, profit them and they flock in, praise them and they exert themselves, and when you push them toward what they loathe, they break apart. What is called love and profit often marches under the banner of benevolence and righteousness (renyi); those who genuinely cast off benevolence and righteousness are few, while those who use benevolence and righteousness to grab advantage are many. When benevolence and righteousness are only outward polish with no sincere heart, it is all sham—like a vessel built for greed. Using one man to dam and rule the world’s profit is like taking in the world with a single eye (pie)—the view is too small. Yao knew only that the worthy help the world, not that they can also harm it; perhaps only someone who stands outside the name ‘worthy’ sees this clearly.

There are also what is called “nuanshu,” what is called “ruxu,” and what is called “juanlou.” Nuanshu is learning one master’s teaching and then basking in private, self-satisfied delight, thinking one has enough, without realizing one has not yet reached the root of things (wu)—that is nuanshu. Ruxu is like lice on a pig: they pick out the sparse hairs and imagine they live in a great palace and park; between the hoof’s curve, beside the teats, among the leg folds, they think they have snug rooms and fine quarters, unaware that one day the butcher will roll up his sleeves, spread straw, and kindle a fire so that they roast together with the pig. Entering by this tiny patch, retreating by this tiny patch—that is ruxu. Juanlou speaks of Shun: mutton does not seek ants, but ants seek mutton because mutton carries a rank smell. Shun had a virtue like that rank smell, and the people were drawn to it, so when he moved three times, each stop became a settlement of ten thousand households; at the ruins of Deng there were a hundred thousand. Yao heard Shun was worthy and promoted him to barren soil (tongtu) where nothing grew, saying he hoped Shun would moisten that land; Shun was sent to the barren ground, grew old, his keenness faded, and still he could not rest or find a final home—that is juanlou.

Therefore the spiritual person (shenren) loathes “the multitude” to the utmost—for when the multitude is pushed to the extreme, there is no true kinship, and without kinship there is no real benefit. So one need not cling too closely or cut off too sharply; hold to virtue and warm harmony (yanghe), and accord with all under heaven—this is what is called the True Person (zhenren). Toward ants, drop clever scheming; toward fish, grant where they can dwell at ease; toward sheep, drop selfish intent. Let the eyes see what eyes ought to see, the ears hear what ears ought to hear, the heart answer the heart’s own truth. So doing, one is as level as a plumb line and as changeable as turning in a cycle.

(The term pie, in the received phonetic tradition, denotes seeing with one eye; nuanshu names a soft, self-pleased sufficiency; ruxu names clinging to a moment’s shabby ease; juanlou suggests limbs contracted and hard to stretch. Tongtu is land without grass or trees; yanghe means nurturing with harmonious qi; some readers also gloss it as “melting into harmony.”)

In this commentary Guo Xiang explains Zhuangzi: what people call “humaneness” (ren) was originally something everyone rushed to claim for themselves, and that is why it leaves trouble for later ages. Once “humaneness and righteousness” (ren and yi) are turned into public institutions, people start faking the look of them; as soon as the traces show, the greedy use that label to serve their private ends. If humaneness and righteousness each sprang from genuine feeling in each person, the restraint would not fall on one individual alone.

Using one standard to cut every one of the myriad shapes of things is bound to harm people and things. Only when “worth” (xian) is treated as an outward display for show does the fake “worthy who is not genuine” appear. Those who perform warm, attentive kindness and exhaust their intentions in the performance are also being false; when that show becomes visible, the greedy again borrow it for profit. If humaneness and righteousness each came from authentic feeling, guarding against abuse would not have to depend on a single person.

To slice the myriad forms of the myriad things with one blade (one measure) must cause injury. So-called “outward worthiness” puts the label of worth on the outside for others to see, and then worthiness too can be counterfeited. Those “performers of cozy kindness” pour all their intent into outward teaching and refinement—and how could they know that the true self (in Zhuangzi’s sense) transforms independently in the obscure realm? Without the talent to move with change and look past the dusty world, and merely stealing comfort in a moment’s advantage, such people are “pig lice”: parasites on a pig, clinging to the moment and missing the larger picture.

The sage’s body looks no different from an ordinary person’s, so the uses of eyes and ears may decline while spirit is often fully preserved. If we said “young and not yet mature, then declining with age,” would the sage’s sageliness not even last a single morning?—this refutes the mistake of divinizing the sage.

“The masses come of themselves to the ears—it is not that he loves to draw them”: the people gather on their own; it is not that the sage deliberately recruits them. To see clearly that Shun had the realm under heaven because he could not do otherwise (circumstance compelled him), not because he competed for beauty or doled out benefits to the people to win the realm.

When benefit is measured against the people, in Shun’s case the body is worn like an ant’s, like a fish’s, like a sheep’s—these three cannot do without eyes, ears, mind, and intent, so they cannot shed the rope and level themselves on their own, nor cut off traces and rely wholly on obscure guarding: unlike a higher state, they cannot drop the cords of constraint and settle themselves, nor erase all tracks and rest entirely on protection within the dark unknown. The point is: whoever has senses and a mind finds it hard to shed artificial plumb lines and footprints entirely; Shun’s bodily toil also stops at this limit.

Regarding the stories of Shun and Yu, I have come to see it clearly: they merely took the pattern of “birds and beasts contending for food out of greed” as their instrument, and then called it benevolence and righteousness (renyi). Once that happens, one cannot avoid relying on cleverness and craft. Where there is cleverness, one is cut off by material forms and implements and cannot dwell in the same realm as everyone under heaven.

So “the root of great disorder must arise in the age of Yao and Shun, and its aftereffects will linger for a thousand generations” refers to exactly this. Taking partial ease and security as right shows ignorance of the world’s inherent ultimate sufficiency; taking mere prettiness as wrong shows ignorance of the world’s inherent ultimate beauty. Learning only one master’s words and thinking that is enough shows ignorance of the layer where “things have never had any fixed identity” (weishi you wu)—and then all sorts of labels appear.

Like the pig louse (shishi)—a metaphor for clinging to one spot and not seeing disaster—when there is profit it “clings and will not leave” (ruxu). Like “juanlou”—curling up to hide when harmed—a metaphor for settling in baseness and not knowing disaster; hence the name shishi (pig louse). Or gathering people without hoarding what one truly holds (shan—the native scent, what one stands for), so that people under heaven admire and flock to you—hence the name Shun. Because one learns one master’s doctrine without knowing “things have never had fixed identity,” in times of benefit one clings (ruxu), in times of harm one curls up (juanlou).

From the outward traces of Shun, what could the world actually add to him? It was only empty toil of body—hence calling it juanlou. When the masses come and attach themselves, even someone like Yao or Shun is not someone a spirit person (shenren) or true person (zhenren) would wish to stand beside. Without comparing oneself to them, those things (merit, fame, gain) bring no real benefit to them—yet people rush toward them on their own. The true person therefore does not go to extremes of closeness or distance; he simply holds De (virtue/power), warm and gentle, and accords with the world. When the world is pleased and gathers to him, Shun too is pleased and accords. Shun looked on the world like a worn-out shoe; and that by which he was “Shun” looked, in his own eyes, like dirt and chaff on Shun himself. If that is not a spirit person or true person, what is?

Ants rely on cleverness and therefore bustle with affairs; fish rely on deep water and therefore preserve life; sheep rely on bluster and therefore grow fierce. Use the eye to look at the eye, and there is seeing—whoever gets “seeing” has got it. Use the ear to listen to the ear, and there is hearing—whoever gets “hearing” has got it. Use the mind to return to the mind, and there is knowing—whoever gets “knowing” has got it. Strip away cleverness and private intent, hide yourself in deep obscurity, and then seeing, hearing, and knowing each rest in their place—there is nowhere that is not level. Assist things in their natural course without acting (wuwei)—that is the path of returning to the genuine.

When governing the world, one should practice wuwei (non-action) and let the ten thousand things transform and nurture themselves. If one tries hard to rule through “benevolence and profit,” the effort often falls short—and one inevitably makes up for it with fabrication and pretense; once pretense appears, troubles pile up one after another.

Those in high position who truly take the common people’s heart as their own heart may never put on the name of benevolence and righteousness, yet still match what people feel in their hearts. Otherwise it is like someone who greedily hunts birds with bow, arrow, and net—the harm done to the ten thousand things is all the greater.

Therefore, to think that one person’s bans and control can benefit and relieve the whole world is like trying to grasp the full situation of everything under heaven in the blink of an eye—seeing only the good in elevating the worthy, and not seeing the harm it stores up for later ages. Only someone who stands outside “worthiness” can see through this; one must step above “the worthy” before the point becomes clear.

The three passages on ants, sheep, and fish (linked to Shun’s “mutton-scent” way of acting) make a very striking argument: the order should be ants first, then sheep, then fish. Not to be changed by that “mutton-scent” conduct: ants stand for giving up cleverness—not using that scented, persuasive manner to win people; sheep stand for giving up deliberate intent. Then above and below each keep their place, with no trace of admiring sages or elevating the worthy; and fish do not dislike the deep—they forget one another in rivers and lakes—is that not the right move?

From there: let the eye see as the eye sees, not led astray by color; let the ear hear as the ear hears, not thrown off by sound; let the mind return to the mind, not driven by knowledge and schemes. Then, straight and level as a plumb line, one can be the measure for the world; in meeting things and changing with them, one follows entirely what is natural in the Way. Why worry that the world cannot transform itself? Why keep the fixed aim of “governing for the sake of governing”?

Essential Meaning

Ants are already as small as can be, and sheep as soft as can be—yet they still cannot escape having knowing and intention. The True Person takes that state of utmost fineness and suppleness as the place to settle the self, sets aside both knowing and intention, and moves as freely as a fish in water—nothing more.

Commentary

Use the eyes to see what the eyes see—not use “I” to see. Use the ears to hear what the ears hear—not use “I” to hear. Let the heart return the heart to what is so of itself—not use “I” to grasp and hold. Once a person fixates on an “I,” they cannot follow along with outer things; places where they miss the center and lose balance multiply. Ear, eyes, and heart each left to their own nature, with no further mixing in of “I’s” meddling—this is what Liezi meant by “discard the heart and use the form.” Could anything be more level than a plumb line, more purely following along with “change”? “Change” speaks of the myriad transformations of the ten thousand things. Here heart is mentioned together with ear and eyes—what is meant is “I restored” (letting the heart that clings to self return). Wherever there is “I,” one cannot follow outer things… (What follows repeats the same idea: ear, eyes, and heart all entrusted to themselves with nothing contributed from self—namely Liezi’s meaning of discarding heart and using form; again the levelness of the plumb line, the straightness of water, and following change are cited, alongside variant readings in Wang Yuanze’s edition such as “its levelness,” etc.—the intent is to align with Buddhist “six roots”: intention listed with eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind as the six roots, seeking their levelness; the plumb line figures change, following figures moving with things and hitting center.)

The True Persons of antiquity were those who attained the Dao in olden times. They settled themselves in Heaven—aligning with nature and not using human craft to interfere with or invade the way of Heaven.

The True Persons of antiquity took gain and loss evenly: in life they felt they had “gained”; in death they felt they had “lost.” Turn the view around, and in death one may also say one has “gained,” in life one may also say one has “lost.” Gain and loss shift with circumstance; no single formula need be fixed.

What is called medicine is really nothing more than things like aconite, platycodon, qian (water caltrop), and zhuling (polyporus, the “poria” mentioned in Jinxue jie as xiling). Each is prized only in its season and its use, then honored like an emperor; how value rises and falls with time and function cannot be told to the end.

Goujian, king of Yue, once led three thousand armored men to hold Mount Kuaiji (the text writes “Fangji”). Only Wen Zhong understood what could still keep a state alive when it was on the brink of ruin; and only Wen Zhong did not brood over his own body and name—because he put “what must be done” first, not private gain and loss.

So it is said: the owl’s eyes have a range they suit; the crane’s shanks have a length that fits. Forcibly cut the long and patch the short, and sorrow follows.

When wind crosses a river, the river suffers; when the sun crosses a river, the river suffers too. If wind and sun alone “guarded” the river, the river might think they never truly harmed it—because wind and sun merely follow their source and come and go naturally. Thus water keeping to earth (flowing with the soil) is secure; shadow keeping to person (moving with the body) is secure; thing keeping to thing (each holding its place) is secure—this is called shen, careful discernment: each in its allotment, without reckless motion.

Eyes in brightness, ears in acuity, mind in chasing externals—all easily lead to dai (exhaustion, danger). Whatever heaps talent in the fu (the inner storehouse, the heart) and pushes hard will end in dai; dai piled up becomes more than one can meet; disaster long brewing gathers and arrives. Turn back and keep to native nature without vain seeking, and achievement need not be forced yet completes; haste misses the mark, hence “the fruit waits on long time.”

People treat cleverness and ability as their treasure—is that not sorrow? Hence ruined states and slaughtered people, disaster upon disaster, often because they do not ask: whence comes the harm?—often from deliberate making, then trying with the mind again to “save” the harm.

Guo Xiang’s gloss, in brief: the True Person “dwells in non-action to await affairs”—first holding empty stillness, then responding when things come. If when affairs arise one still insists on “no affairs,” confusion only worsens. Life, death, gain, and loss each follow where one stands; what is needed makes high and low lie not in the name of the thing itself; out of season, even the noblest drug is not noble. What has form tangles with form; only one who wai fu xing (treats form as external) is not worn down when things grind against him—like wind and sun crossing the river: harm has already happened yet goes unnoticed—not that there is no harm, but that they follow the source and go, without contending in intent. Where there is intent, there is no bound; hence valuing wu neng (non-forcing) and entrusting oneself to the natural. Without empty stillness and clear seeing, the roots of disaster gather; turn back and keep to one’s nature, and work may not be “done” yet completes itself. Taking knowledge and ability as treasure—ruined states and butchered people often come from this. Not knowing whence harm comes, yet bent on “cultivating the mind” to flee harm, is still using the mind—not truly entrusting to Heaven.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary: Main Idea

When one aligns with the Way of Heaven (Tiandao), one responds through wuwei (non-action) and is not moved by resonance—one does not force human affairs upon the Way. Though one may act, one has never truly “acted.” The perfected person (zhenren) understands that life and death each have their appointed time: to speak of “gaining” refers to being alive; to speak of “losing” refers to dying. Nothing can do without the aspect of “birth”—this is said for those who prize life alone (treat staying alive as the only real gain). Again, to say “gain” lies in death and “loss” in life—to treat life as loss and death as return—is said for those who dread death (treat death as absolute loss). Like medicine, whether sweet or toxic, according to timing (occasion, the state of the illness) one ingredient serves as “lord” and the rest are merely assistants. If one takes life as gain and death as loss, that is medicine for those who prize life; if one takes life as bereavement and death as return, that is medicine for those who dread death. One prescribes according to the other’s malady—its transformations cannot all be told.

Zhong Dafu (Wen Zhong) knew that after destroying Yue, Yue could still endure, yet did not know why he himself would come to grief—like the owl (chou: owl-like bird), whose eyes see at night but not by day: each has what suits it; one cannot forcibly swap them. The crane’s shanks (he jing) are fit to be long, not short; they have their own measure and must not be “shortened” (cut). Forcibly cut them and life is harmed. The point is only to follow and yield to nature.

Wind and sun skim the river’s face—it is not that water is undamaged, yet the river thinks itself never disturbed, because it relies on the source (yuan) and does not run dry. One who penetrates the Dao responds to things without exception—again, only because there is a “source.” Water entering earth reaches every worm hole and ant crevice; the shadow follows the person—in sitting, rising, walking, or stopping it never fails to follow. That is a likeness of what is without feeling yet keeps to things steadily (shen: firm, genuine). Ear in hearing, eye in seeing, mind in thinking—never for an instant absent—then things keep to their things and keep steadily; human intelligence and intent are not “without feeling” like water and shadow, so one cannot avoid danger (dai).

Whatever is called “capacity” is all stored in the inner storehouse (fu: inner treasury, a figure for the viscera). Saying “the five viscera are in danger” means settling where one ought not settle, refusing to change—then calamity gathers. Only pursuing (xu: steadily practicing) is not the work of a single day; its turning back (fan) comes from accumulated effort; its fruit (cheng) waits on long time. Superior persons (shang shi) therefore reduce again and again—precisely because “danger” cannot be rushed away. Yet the world treats sharp ears and eyes, clever mind and craft as treasures—is that not lamentable?

Following the root says: From “the owl’s eyes” onward, five “therefore” (gu) clauses extend the meaning—the owl’s eyes are bright at night, dim by day; each has its fit. The crane’s legs are long; short would not suit; if one cuts with a knife, life is harmed—one should only follow nature. The passage on wind and sun adds something intimate: it is not teaching one to force events aside when they arise, but that one has a root and master (zhu ben)—like water having a source, only then can one thus keep to earth, keep to people, keep to things. This principle has always kept company and never parted—like water keeping to earth, shadow keeping to person, thing keeping to thing, steadily settled and unmoved. Then three “danger” (dai) turn the three prior “steadily” (shen) on their heads: if heart together with ears and eyes chase outward, one cannot be steadily settled and falls into danger. Further: whatever counts as “capacity” is all harmful; mention the storehouse and it lies hidden within. Danger formed—change comes too late and harm grows. Speak of “bad” and it comes very fast; to turn from danger to peace, calamity to blessing, requires step-by-step, gradual work; even one who conquers himself with sudden firmness must still wait long—speak of “good” and it is very hard. The world dotes on ears, eyes, intelligence, and the desires of thought as treasures—near at hand they ruin the person; on a large scale they destroy states and slaughter the people; harm does not end—yet they do not know to ask about this, and none have understood.

This passage says: Water arises from earth yet cannot separate from earth; a shadow appears with a form yet cannot separate from the form; the myriad things are born from the “Creator” yet likewise cannot separate from the Creator. Therefore one must firmly hold to this mutual dependence and see it clearly. In fact earth has no intention of “keeping” water, yet water naturally clings to earth; the form has no intention of “producing” a shadow, yet the shadow naturally follows; the Creator has no intention of “completing” things, yet the myriad things naturally take shape. In all three cases there is no deliberate reliance on one another—how could ordinary people learn to be like that?

So the eyes always demand to see clearly, the ears always demand to hear keenly, and the heart always demands to accommodate outer things (or to fix on the senses). Once you insist on clarity, you become attached to “clarity”; once you insist on keen hearing, you become attached to “hearing”; once you insist on accommodating, you become attached to things. If you single-mindedly pursue cleverness and accommodating the external world, you cannot avoid falling into danger. How is that still the principle of water, shadow, and things—mutual support without intention?

The ancient sages knew that excessive scheming and excessive cleverness are the root of disaster and disorder. Though they possessed knowledge, they often remained in a state of “not using knowledge,” so when calamity touched them it could not drag them down. Ordinary people cannot do this; they boast of their cleverness instead, and disaster grows all the more. When calamity first stirs, it often hides within good fortune and lurks along with success—as when the grandee Wen Zhong at first could preserve the state of Yue. Thus it is said that the return of disaster often arises from earlier achievements. When disaster truly strikes and reaches one’s person, it is not a matter of a single morning or evening—as when Wen Zhong in the end still could not escape death. Thus it is said that bitter fruit takes long to show. All of this is summoned by “wisdom.”

The world does not understand this principle and instead treats cleverness as a treasure for preserving the self—this is precisely what is meant by people who are deluded and benighted.

So when the feet walk on the ground, each step lands on some particular patch of earth, yet to walk steadily and freely you still depend on the ground you have not stepped on—un-trodden ground still supports you. What people know is inherently limited; precisely because it is limited, you must rely on the realm of what is not known before you can touch the kind of “knowing” that Heaven speaks of.

This passage discusses several forms of “great” knowing:

• Knowing the Great One (da yi): To know the “Great One” (the One that gathers and holds all things) is called tong—penetrating the whole, not stuck in side issues.
• Knowing the Great Yin (da yin): To know the “Great Yin” (the deep, hidden, earth-like bearing aspect) is called jie—untying blockages, no longer meeting things head-on.
• Knowing the Great Eye (da mu): To know the “Great Eye” (the “eye” that surveys the whole without clinging to one corner) is to use it to see—not a single point, but how the whole shows itself.
• Knowing the Great Balance (da jun): To know the “Great Balance” (natural evenness without partiality) is to follow it in yuan—responding along with things, not forcing uniformity.
• Knowing the Great Square (da fang): To know the “Great Square” (form that is not trapped in one corner) is to establish ti (substance) through it—rooted and grounded, yet not boxed in by one shape.
• Knowing the Great Trust (da xin): To know the “Great Trust” (trustworthiness that matches reality and can be checked) is to ji it—measure against what is so, neither believing blindly nor doubting emptily.
• Knowing the Great Fixity (da ding): To know the “Great Fixity” (settledness and steady holding) is to chi it—mind has something to hold to, without drifting.

Pushed to the limit, this is “the utmost”—these kinds of “great knowing” together approximate the knowing Heaven seeks.

It also says: Heaven is fully present; follow it and there is illumination; even in ming (darkness, what cannot be grasped) there is still a shu (pivot, hinge). From the start there is “that” (outer things, one pole of opposition); to resolve it seems unresolvable; that knowing also seems like not knowing—first admit not-knowing, then you can speak of “knowing.” Questioning cannot rest only on ya (fixed boundaries, dead answers), yet cannot have no ya at all (no footing whatsoever); where things are jié huá (tangled and mixed), there is still shi (real ground); past and present cannot replace each other, yet neither can be called deficient—is this not a great lifting up and great opening out?

“Closing” (he) is it not also a question that reaches here? Why still be perplexed? If you use “unperplexed” to resolve perplexity, and end up back at “unperplexed,” that still does not count as great unperplexity. (Note: Xiang’s commentary says jié huá means disorder; Yang Que cites ancient commentaries: fang has the sense of lifting up and displaying.)

The gist: knowing need not pile up on the “already known”; like the foot relying on untrodden ground, rely on “the unknown” to connect with Heaven. The “six great knowings” Zhuangzi lists, each paired with tong, jie, seeing, yuan, ti, ji, and chi, are different faces of the “great,” not scattered tricks. True resolving and knowing often look like not resolving, like not knowing; questioning cannot be frozen on rigid boundaries either. Only then do you approach “great unperplexity.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

When Heaven and Earth have returned all things to their own natural state, even something as fine as a cicada’s wing can be understood in principle. How much more so when one wishes to grasp what “Heaven” is saying and pointing at—how could that be done without emptying the heart of settled opinions and fixed attachments?

What is called “great vision” (damu): following each thing’s inherent pattern and letting it rest in its proper place is “great equalization” (dajun). When this principle is carried through so that each finds its station, and the myriad regions under Heaven each obtain what suits them, that is “great method” (dafang). What allotment and mandate fix—neither overstepping nor slipping away—is “great trust” (daxin). When true nature is not bent out of shape, the heart settles of itself; to hold that settlement without clinging to it is “great fixity” (dading). Responding to things as they require, without a rigid formula, yet with a limit that cannot be crossed—each keeps its own share. Forms and temperaments differ in countless ways, yet each has its own reality: none can take another’s place, and none should fall short of its portion; each should fulfill its allotted share. If one presses to the furthest limit of this boundary, things have their ultimate divisions. Therefore, by entrusting oneself to the li (principle) of the myriad things, one may know—why be so perplexed? Perplexity cannot be wholly dispelled by “explanation,” so one still upholds “great non-bewilderment”—which is the utmost of simplicity. The sage follows this and entrusts himself to it; hence the titles of emperors and kings and their deeds differ with the age, and names arise with the times.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

The ground the foot actually treads is limited, yet one must rely on the parts not yet stepped on to reach where one is going. Thus, by entrusting oneself to the li of the myriad things, one may know—why be perplexed? Perplexity cannot be “solved away,” so one still honors “great non-bewilderment”; that is the extreme of simplicity. The sage follows this and entrusts himself to it; hence the traces of emperors and kings differ, and names arise with the age.

This commentary by the Lü school explains how Zhuangzi’s “Perfect Person” uses shao (the little) rather than duo (the much), and bu zhi (not-knowing) rather than self-assumed knowing—and how various realms are gathered under the Great One (da yi).

The “reverse use” of knowing and acting

What the feet actually tread is a small patch of ground; yet only by still relying on and respecting the vast space not trodden does one truly understand “breadth.” Likewise, only after seeing that much knowledge is ultimately “useless” can one speak of using others’ knowing; relying less on what one already thinks one knows and acknowledging more what one does not know approaches the “knowing” that is one with Heaven. Heaven takes the Great One as its standard; from the great yin one can reach the great fixity (da ding)—this is the master thread of cultivating the Way.

Cultivation takes the Great One as lord

One who walks the Way takes the Great One (the unity and overarching principle of Heaven and Earth) as sovereign, and then nothing is blocked; entering the gate of yaoming (depth and obscurity), arriving at the root of ultimate yin, one also reaches the root of ultimate yang. The ten thousand things carry yin and embrace yang (turning from yin toward yang, yin and yang clasped together); they are bound and hard to free because they do not know there is still a root of ultimate yin. What the eye sees is limited; if one does not take the eye as the limit, nothing is unseen—this is yuan qi yi (holding to oneness, aligning with the One); no one can fully harmonize by “right and wrong”; one can only let the lines of “is” and “is not” run side by side—this is yuan da jun (the great equalization, great leveling). No south, north, east, or west—taking ti da fang (great openness without fixed direction) as one’s substance; its essence is utmost truth, and within it is trustworthiness, verified in da xin (great trust). Mars and fire do not burn, rivers do not freeze in cold, thunder splits mountains and wind shakes the sea without alarm—holding to da ding (great stillness and fixity).

The Perfect Person who seems foolish and clumsy

Their understanding seems not to understand—because fundamentally nothing is tied down, they first “do not understand,” and only then truly understand; their knowing seems not to know—because fundamentally there is no knowing, they first “do not know,” and only then truly know. This is why the Perfect Person (zhi ren) moves among ordinary people looking foolish and clumsy. Questions framed in you ya and wu ya (with boundary, without boundary) are answers still within bondage; that side is relative, and responses never end. Whether asked with boundary or without, one is still tied to limits; seeking from between being and non-being, one still cannot grasp it.

Slippery, solid, and the “great kernel”

What is jie (hard, obstructive) cannot be tied; what is hua (slippery) cannot be held—yet there seems to be nothing while still seeming to have substance. Past and present seem not to replace each other, yet nothing is ever lost. To pursue questions in this way—is it not a great fang (opening the hidden)? Yang is bringing out the hidden; fang is checking the solid kernel. If the other does not ask from “is,” I cannot answer with “is”; only when one has seen wei shi you wu (the state before “things” had yet to be distinguished) is one free of confusion. Using “is” to resolve confusion about “there are things”—if the mind still retains that layer of “before there were things,” it is still confusion; only when resolution returns to non-confusion does one nearly approach da bu huo (great non-confusion).

Questions with boundary

The passage “ask with boundary, without boundary” is restated in the commentary: with boundary or without, both involve being tied; ya means seeking from edges and limits, and one cannot grasp only in the gap between being and non-being. The Perfect Person’s “seems not to understand, then understands; seems not to know, then knows” still stresses not showing cleverness or clinging to one side among people, holding to da yi, da yin, da ding, da fang, da jun, and da xin, while questioners who fix on boundaries and on being/non-being never reach the bottom.

In terms of the root principle: the ground your feet actually tread is very little; what truly enables you to walk is rather the ground you do not tread. What people know is very little; great wisdom is rather in what is “not yet known.” Da Yin (great shade), Da Mu (great eye), Da Jun (great balance), Da Fang (great square), Da Xin (great faith), and the like are all realms that do not cling to small particulars or small knowledge. I thought that speaking to this point had already said everything, but there is still an inexhaustible “Heaven”; I thought it was enough for each to walk the path that belongs to them, but there is still a power that shines from above; I thought it had already become unfathomably dark, but there is still a layer that holds the hub and turns the key; I thought “from here it begins,” but there is another “that,” and that in turn becomes its own beginning.

Because the text above discusses the explanation of Da Yin, when you press to the bottom, explanation seems not really to explain, and knowing seems not really to know. Yet it is precisely by first standing in “not knowing” that one can then speak of “knowing.” Since the preceding passage speaks of “not knowing” and “questioning,” the section ends by using the word “question” to tie it off.

If one asks: this Dao is originally without boundary, yet it is not without boundary either—when put into words it resembles the old debates over “hard and white,” “same and different,” and the like, but here there is genuine meaning. Ordinary things undergo change and wax and wane; this Dao has no alternation and cannot be diminished.

“Ju fang” (raising and turning the hand): ju means to lift up or display something in public; fang means to turn the hand back and forth. In a public gathering or in question-and-answer dialogue, one repeatedly points and gestures with the hand. This Dao, when spoken of, seems greatly divergent, yet it is not empty—it is indeed a topic worth raising and answering in the open. Why not question it here, instead of letting yourself be fooled into “there is a fixed delusion”? If someone can, by no longer being deluded themselves, undo others’ delusion so that everyone returns to non-delusion, then delusion is largely gone. Even when no one comes to ask, one still hopes for a “immortal among humans” who can awaken—such is often the heart’s aim.

Although Marquis Wu (Zhuge Liang) was stern and hard to approach, he was not beyond persuasion. Opening with talk of fine horses and the like won his heart, which also shows that a ruler must not lack the eye to know his ministers—thus one can first oppose and later align. Human conscience and innate goodness cannot be wholly erased. It is like someone far from home who, at first sight of someone who seems a fellow townsman, feels joy; only on meeting again will he accept blunt loyal words that warn him of his faults. Loving what is good and hating what is evil is essential to self-cultivation; cultivating sincerity in response to Heaven and Earth is the way to govern a state—going beyond merely acting with righteousness and benefiting the people, and resting above all in laying down arms and seeking order.

When the Yellow Emperor met Da Wei (a figure standing for the great Dao), the seven sages all lost their way: a metaphor for when the six senses are dimmed, so the heart-mind as sovereign cannot see clearly on its own. If an enlightened ruler wishes to encounter the great Dao, he should reject sageliness and abandon knowledge, seek to guard the spirit of the heart, and remove what harms it—then Da Wei will come without being sought. Later scholars took different paths; they buried their nature while chasing the myriad things, with no hope of returning to the root, and so drifted daily farther from the Dao. Confucians, Mohists, Yangists (followers of Yang Zhu), and others such as Bian and Hui each clung to one side and thought they had exhausted the Dao; yet where their words and sharp exchanges touched things, they sometimes brought out subtle points of the Dao—like the man of Ying listening to the axe-strokes, enough to complete the craftsman’s (Craftsman Shi’s) work.

Another metaphor: only someone with the talent of a Yin of the lowlands could bring about an achievement like Guan Zhong’s; arrogance that treats others with contempt leads quickly to ruin, while fawning with pleasing looks wins praise—thus warning the world against pride and insolence. How could that compare with those who day by day grow more distant like disheartened souls with withered forms, or with the art of juggling pellets and wielding feathers (Daoist images of effortless skill)—hard to explain to the uninitiated.

Jiufang Yin knew the fine horse Kunxiang without speaking of its mutilated hoof—a case of seeing the subtle and knowing the manifest. Xu You feared that Yao’s benevolence would corrupt him and fled—examples of discerning the small and recognizing the great, and of honoring the worthy for profit.

When the stem of the wild plant withers, it can still serve as a ruler’s scepter—a metaphor for how people change. Wind, sun, and river water press against one another—a metaphor for how transformation shifts. Things that cling only to things may be careful, yet in the end they cannot escape change; once shifted, they are endangered. Only those who know sufficiency, who rely on not treading on the heart, who rely on not-knowing, exhaust their Heaven-given nature to illuminate the Heaven in things, and without confusion resolve the world’s confusion.

Zhuangzi, "Ze Yang," Section 25 (Summary)

Ze Yang (Peng Yang) was traveling in the state of Chu. Yi Jie spoke to King Chu on his behalf, but the king did not receive him. When Yi Jie had left, Peng Yang went to see Wang Guo and said, “Why did you not recommend me to King Chu?” Wang Guo replied, “I am not the equal of Gong Yuexiu.” Peng Yang asked, “What does Gong Yuexiu do?” Wang Guo said, “In winter he catches turtles in Jiangxia; in summer he lives in the mountains. When passersby ask him, he says, ‘This is where I dwell.’ Even Yi Jie cannot manage that—how much less can I? And I am also not the equal of Yi Jie. Yi Jie has no De yet is very clever; he does not take pride in himself but uses ‘spiritual communion’ to attach himself to others, turning upside down in the arena of wealth and rank. He does not assist with De but wears people down with cleverness. One who is freezing asks spring for a garment, while one overcome by heat longs for winter’s cold wind—King Chu is lofty in station and stern in manner; when he punishes, he shows no leniency, like a tiger. Unless one is a flatterer or a person of upright De, who can move him? Therefore when the sage is in straits, he lets his household forget poverty; when he is eminent, he lets kings and dukes forget rank and stipend, and he himself becomes lowly. Toward external things, he shares their joy; toward people, he rejoices in their success and preserves himself. Thus sometimes he does not speak, yet it is as if he were urging others with harmonizing wine; he stands shoulder to shoulder with people, yet moves them to transformation. Father and son each find their place; he probably returns to quiet retirement, a layer apart from the world—yet the influence he exerts on people’s hearts reaches this far. So one must still wait for someone like Gong Yuexiu.”

Summary of Guo Xiang’s Commentary: Wang Guo describes Gong Yuexiu’s conduct in order to dampen Peng Yang’s eagerness to advance and cling to power; by saying he is not like Yi Jie, who loves wealth and rank and can forge connections, he exhausts the meaning of striving upward with reputation, office, and cleverness. [The commentary aligns with the main text on the figures: Peng Yang’s courtesy name is Ze Yang; Yi Jie was a man of Chu; Wang Guo was a grandee of Chu; Gong Yuexiu was a man of Lu.]

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Wang Guo said that Gong Yue Xiu’s way of being was meant to check the sort of drive Peng Yang had—always in a hurry to get ahead and climb upward.

He also said: Gong Yue Xiu was not like Yi Jie, who craved wealth and rank, excelled at networking, wore out “form and name” (outward show and reputation), and used cleverness to lobby those above. What “mutual aid, mutual fading” means is that if you push ahead at all costs, De (virtue/power) thins out and your name fades too. The images of freezing and hunger on one side and heatstroke on the other mean that Gong Yue Xiu simply went along with what the four seasons offered (nature’s gifts) and could not match Peng Yang’s push to get on.

The sage is calm and without craving, content with whatever comes, not treating luxury as precious but taking moral worth as honor—so those at home did not feel poverty as something to dread. Treating rank and salary lightly and moral worth heavily, he sat at ease beyond ordinary standing and did not feel glory as something on his body, so kings and lords lost what they took to be their “height.” Sharing joy with others, he did not treat things as external and torment himself; delighting in things yet keeping himself intact, he moved between self and other without losing himself. When each person has his place, harmony is already drunk in—what need for many words? Standing together they transform; at a glance the wind bends them—so there a father is a father, a son a son, each in his place. This is applying a virtue like heaven and earth’s, hence still and undivided.

Again he said: the point is for Gong Yue Xiu to get the King of Chu to set aside the throne and follow Gong Yue Xiu, using a wind of stillness and peace to settle what stirred in the king’s heart.

Gong Yuexiu sought neither fame nor profit and was content with poverty while devoted to the Way; conduct like that explains why King Chu trusted him.

What is called shen (spirit) is the depth at which minds meet and understanding can be pursued to the end. Yi Jie felt he could not reach that level. The people he kept company with had long lost their bearings in the world of wealth and rank, each reinforcing habits that drain vitality, so it is said his De (Virtue/Power) could not last—it was worn away day by day. It is like shivering in winter yet waiting until spring to borrow a coat, or suffering heat in summer yet seeking winter’s cold wind: one wants something but cannot get it, because the season is wrong and the approach is wrong.

King Chu was harsh and cruel by nature. Without flattering sycophants, upright De could not move him; only upright De could straighten a ruler’s crooked ways. Here the sycophant is Yi Jie, and upright De is Gong Yuexiu. Someone asked me to speak to the king, but I could not go: only a sycophant can bend the ruler from the right path, and only upright De can correct the ruler’s twisted heart.

Gong Yuexiu himself rejoiced in poverty, so his household followed and accepted poverty. When the Dao is honored and De is prized, rank and stipend need not be high—kings and lords will still lower themselves. Nourishing people with food and drink and completing one’s De through harmonious qi is enough to moisten the heart-mind without many words; standing shoulder to shoulder and transforming others does not require much power or position. Father and son returned home to live together without breaking human bonds; acting within a small room, there was no violent regret to chase after.

Because Gong Yuexiu was this kind of person, he could advise King Chu and be believed. Hence it is said: to accomplish this matter, one must wait for Gong Yuexiu.

Plain-Language Reading

Following the Root (Acting from the Fundamental)

One does not use one’s own “superior insight” to overwhelm others or to make relationships seem mysterious; instead one bends the self and goes along with others, so that others cannot gauge one’s depth. It is like someone who is freezing: when spring comes, it is as if warm clothing appears at once; or someone overcome by heat: when a cold breeze blows, it is as if deep winter returns in an instant—the cold and heat serve as a metaphor: though King of Chu is sunk in profit and desire, if someone guides him well, he can easily turn around.

Nao (yielding, bending) means submitting and being won over: ning ren (flattering, sycophantic people) use smooth talk to make others yield; upright people use the upright Way to make others yield. Hua bei (transforming into lowliness) means becoming humble and bending the body. Standing side by side with someone can transform the relation into something as fitting as father and son; standing alongside outsiders can also become as close as father and son. Whether one praises their words or hides or deploys them, one does not let the mind be stirred outwardly, and stays far from the profit-and-desire mind of ordinary people—that is the sense of yu zhai (“the dwelling where I, Gong Yuexiu, am at peace”). The passage above is about Gong Yuexiu; Yi Jie could no longer achieve this kind of mutual waxing and waning and mutual support; the text again asks who could nao (move or bend) Yi Jie and the frozen person; and again speaks of King of Chu. Hence, below the Sage, the thread picks up again from Gong Yuexiu.

Fangzi Ji (On Fangzi and What Reaches Him)

Someone who is freezing must borrow clothes; however thick the garment, it cannot match spring’s harmony, by which the cold loosens of itself. Someone stricken by heat must have wind; however chill the breeze, it cannot match the winter solstice, by which the heat disperses of itself. Those who crave appointment must lean on powerful patrons; however profitable the patron’s gate, it cannot match quiet withdrawal and self-respect. With the power of King of Chu, the situation is more than the chill of freezing or the blaze of sunstroke—yet those who are benighted, King of Chu also rejects; how then can their aims be fulfilled? So “wait upon Gong Yuexiu” means to counsel others and take Gong Yuexiu’s conduct as the standard.

Sages penetrate mouchou—being intimately intertwined with heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things, without the least barrier—and they can also illuminate the “One Body,” the whole of the heavenly Dao itself, yet they do not know why they are so; this is entirely the natural expression of their original nature. They move in accord with the mandate of heaven and take heaven as their teacher; ordinary people follow along by naming and defining them. If sages rely too much on clever scheming, what they do often does not last; when it is time to stop, what then? Things that heaven makes beautiful, others take as a mirror and a standard; if this is not explained beforehand, people will not know that such beauty belongs to the heavenly Dao and to nature itself. The sage’s love for others works the same way: if others do not speak for them and say “I am loving people,” the world does not know they are loving people—seeming to know yet not quite knowing, seeming to hear yet not quite hearing. Such love never ceases, and the world resting in it never stops either; likewise it springs from original nature.

According to Guo Xiang’s reading: mouchou means intimate entanglement and communion with the Dao; yiti (One Body) refers to heaven, the Dao as a whole; mingming (naming) means the way people attach labels and purposes to persons and affairs.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

What is meant by “attaining the interwoven bond” (da chou mou) is penetrating how the ten thousand things are mutually tied and seamlessly connected. What the Sage realizes is to carry “oneness” through to the end: without dividing inner from outer, everything can be illumined. Thus “not knowing how it is so, yet it is so” is not gaining some separate doctrine from outside; it comes from innate nature. What moves moves of itself; what acts acts of itself—nothing fails to return to the root and fulfill its destiny (gui gen fu ming), taking what is heaven-endowed (tianran) as its model. This is not raising one’s conduct high in order to seek a name; by acting in accord with nature, conduct naturally appears lofty, so others cannot belittle that reputation.

If one acts through cleverness and calculation, anxieties press upon one another. A mirror is for reflecting. In reflecting things it has no partiality, so people praise the mirror. But does the mirror “know it should reflect” before it reflects? Heaven-endowed with the power to reflect, people call it a mirror. If no one told them, others would not know that “for people it is a fine mirror.” It is like the Sage: people too bestow the title upon him. What makes a mirror pleasing is that in reflecting it is without feeling and without bias; without asking whether it knows or does not know, hears or does not hear, when something comes it reflects—so it can go on without ceasing. If reflecting depended on hearing and knowing, there would be times of reflecting and times of not reflecting; what innate nature does not favor—how could it reflect for long? The Sage too is without feeling, like a mirror; only his achievements extend to the ten thousand things, so people call him one who “loves people.” If no one told them, others would not know that he loves people. Like treating the common people as straw dogs (chugou)— utterly without clinging—while the Dao still accords with loving people, he can go on without ceasing. If loving people depended on hearing and knowing, love would sometimes rise and sometimes fade; that is not what nature rests in—how could it last?

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

When the human mind gets tangled in things, calculating and comparing, it does not know there is “oneness”; only the Sage can reach this state, so inwardly he does not see a self and outwardly he does not see things—self and things are one. What he realizes is inherently all-pervasive, yet again “not knowing why it is so”—this stops at the allotment of nature (xingfen); it is not something obtained from outside. Fu ming (returning to destiny) is returning to the root; yao and zuo are the transformations of the ten thousand things. Though still, one can return to destiny; that does not obstruct movement and action. Hence “speaking all day yet seeming not to have spoken, acting all day yet seeming not to have acted”—all of it is simply taking Heaven as one’s model. Heaven is “what knowing does not know”; how do I know myself to be a Sage? It is only that people follow along and name me so. Without knowing, there is no worry; the multitude worry over cleverness; in what they do they race like galloping horses and seldom stop. How can one reach this? Heaven-endowed with the quality of a reflector, people give it the name “mirror”; after being told, one knows that for people it is a fine mirror. Whether knowing or not knowing, hearing or not hearing—then there is no worry—while the multitude worry over knowing, race in action, and seldom stop.

Heaven-endows the power to reflect; only after people inform us do we know its beauty for people. Whether knowing or not, hearing or not, what is pleasing is that it never ceases; people’s delight in it also never ceases, because it comes from innate nature. When the Sage loves people, people likewise give him the name; after being told, one knows he loves people. Whether knowing or not, hearing or not, his loving people never ceases; people’s resting in him also never ceases—likewise from innate nature, neither increased nor diminished by knowing, not knowing, hearing, or not hearing.

Tracing the Root (Summary of Meaning)

To trace matters to their source: affairs are tangled like roots and knots, and only the sage can see them through. From head to toe there is nothing but this principle, yet people cannot say why it is so—this is called xing (innate nature). In stillness one returns to the root and restores destiny; in movement one responds and acts—both in accord with Heaven and human, and such a person is called a sage. If one clings only to cleverness while conduct stays narrow, that is exactly what is meant by “life does not last a hundred years, yet one worries as if for a thousand.”

Scripture (Vernacular Passages Related to Zhuangzi)

“The old state, the old capital—gazing at them brings ease”

Returning to a familiar old state and capital, one feels at ease even from afar. Even if hills, mounds, and plants have changed in nine-tenths (“nineteen” parts) and blend together, one still feels at ease—how much more when one sees and hears the old scenes directly?

“A terrace ten ren high”

A high terrace suspended among the crowd—a metaphor for standing amid the world’s clamor.

“Ran Xiangshi obtained the hub of the ring and followed completion”

Ran Xiangshi grasped the “hub of the ring” (the still center of a circle, likened to an unmoving pivot) and followed along with completion and ruin. With things he had neither end nor beginning, neither few nor many, neither ancient nor modern; he transformed daily with the sun without “transforming himself.” He once thought of abandoning this way—he was the model for the multitude.

“Taking Heaven as teacher is not enough; Heaven and things each pursue what they take as their affair”

Merely taking “Heaven” as teacher is still insufficient; Heaven and things each follow their own tasks—what then can one do?

“The sage: never yet Heaven, never yet human, never yet beginning, never yet thing”

In the sage’s mind there are no fixed divisions of “Heaven, human, beginning, thing” beforehand; he moves with the age without getting stuck, and what he does is thorough without overflowing (“xu” suggests flooding or ruin). How can one put into words his accord with nature?

Tang, Men Yin Deng Heng, Zhongni, and others

King Tang obtained Si Yu (stewardship); Men Yin Deng Heng served as his fu (assistant), followed the teacher’s method without boxing himself in, obtained the way of “following completion,” and served as name-keeper—named Ying Fa. Obtaining “twofold seeing,” Zhongni exhausted his cares and served as fu. Rongchengshi said: “Except the day, no year; no inside, no outside”—not bound by day versus year or inside versus outside.

Changran, xu

Changran is delight; xu may mean excessive or ruinous; one reading takes it as decay. Where the multitude habitually dwells, even in peril it is like mounds and ruins—liable to break down.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (Vernacular)

If even obtaining the “old” brings ease, how much more obtaining xing? Min means to unite and enter. If what is seen and heard already brings ease, how much more when xing is substance and xing is function? The environment the multitude is used to, though as dangerous as mounds and ruins and seemingly about to collapse, they still remain within it.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: To see what one has seen before and hear what one has heard before can still bring full satisfaction—how much more so when one truly realizes one’s nature and takes nature as both substance and function? What people are used to can feel secure even in danger; how much more so for the sage, who has no peril from the start? Ran Xiangshi was an ancient sage-king who dwelt in emptiness, followed things so that things completed themselves, had no end or beginning with things, and suddenly transformed together with things. Because he was constantly without a fixed self, he was constantly unchanged. Those who insist on deliberate action—why not try letting go of what they do? Only when one does not cling to a single teacher or method can one be said to take Heaven as teacher; yet even “taking Heaven as teacher” still falls short of being impartial—how could that count as ultimate? Even taking Heaven as teacher is not enough to count as real achievement—how much less what lies below that? One must reach the unity of Heaven and human and the forgetting of self and things—that is true merging. So Cheng Tang entrusted affairs to the hundred officials and did not intervene himself, letting things gather on their own—that was not binding them with line and plumb; letting them disperse on their own—that was not deliberately breaking them apart. Even matters of control and administration could be fulfilled as things themselves completed, so Cheng Tang’s name rested on things while his merit did not stay on his person. Name and law are traces of what is already past, not what fully serves the present—hence it is said: with utterly no mind, entrusting rule to the various offices, name and trace appear there.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To feel at ease when one sees old things is human nature; even when trees decay and old ties are rejoined, it is as if in life—also because of this. If there is no death and no birth, one need not count by years and days; if there is no other and no self, there is no inside and outside.

When people see things from the past that they know well, their hearts open and flow freely—that is human nature. Even trees on a mound and bundles tied with cord may look just as open and at ease; in truth they have not strayed far from the root. Moreover, what we see and hear in daily life has always coexisted with Heaven and Earth and has long been the “capital” in our hearts; yet once we treat those perceptions as a ten-ren-high platform hung among the crowd, that ease shows everywhere and still cannot be fully told or explained. “Among the crowd” means a situation where no one is alone.

Turning ceaselessly within the “ring center,” there was never a fixed thing to begin with; succeeding with things without deliberate acting, there is neither beginning nor end, and no need to use “ji” to count time (“ji” means counting or a time limit). One who changes together with things—if he cannot transform, why cling tightly? His going and stopping too are sometimes still, sometimes in motion. Those who wish to take Heaven as teacher but cannot often perish together with things in whatever affair they have fixed upon.

The sage from the first never sharply separated Heaven, humanity, and things; the three proceed together without replacing one another, complete without blockage—this is what is called “returning to the mandate” and “swaying into action.” One who truly takes Heaven as teacher is thus united with Heaven. The mentions of Tang obtaining “Siyu” (master of regulation), the gate keeper’s proper entry, and Deng Heng’s completion speak of steady cultivation: what regulates is the heart, what is properly entered is the Dao; where the Dao is constant, the Dao can endure. These stories all illustrate “taking Heaven as teacher”—following only what one takes as teacher, without being trapped by outer things.

There is also the meaning of “accomplishment that follows”: names arise as accomplishment follows; name when naming is due. “Ying’s method” obtains “two kinds of seeing”: as accomplishment follows, names such as Siyu all follow what is accomplished in one’s heart—they are not fixed labels belonging to some deliberate agent. Its essence is the Dao, its fullness is method (fa); seeing where a name comes from, one knows where method is accomplished—this is “two kinds of seeing.” Even with this seeing, if one still does not know that the world fundamentally never had deliberate thought, the seeing is not yet complete. Hence it says Confucius “exhausted deliberation” and became tutor—here Confucius is not really teaching Tang; as accomplishment follows, it is like what Lord Ranxiang obtained; from this one knows names like Siyu are all allegories.

If you remove “day” there is no “year,” and one would not know there is “time” (zhou); if there is no inside or outside, one would not know there is “space” (yu). Only one who has “exhausted deliberation” is adequate to align with this principle.

【On Doubt Alone】

Some doubt: is speaking only of “the joy of seeing one’s true nature” the same as “the joy of revisiting an old capital”? On a high terrace one first feels danger; after habit, going up feels as ordinary as level ground—how much more so for one who truly realizes true nature?

Ran Xiangshi (a sage said to predate the Three Sovereigns) realized the principle of “empty clarity without attachment.” He moved without limit, followed the myriad things and completed their Way, with no beginning or end. When does one transform together with things? One who transforms with things has a pivot that “does not transform”; only one who can “hold to one unchanging” can guide transformation. Those in the world who deliberately act—why do they not abandon deliberate action and return to the natural? Then true nature can be attained. But if in the heart one still thinks “take Heaven as teacher,” one will not attain it; how much less those who sink with things and refuse to turn back?

Originally there was no “Heaven first, humans after”—Heaven and humans each exist in their own right. Nor was there “beginning first, things after”—beginning and things both arise from self. Moving in the world, one bends and extends without failing; fully acting, one stays modest without overflowing—darkly aligned with principle. How can this be?

Siyu (officer in charge of the chariot) and Men Yin (gatekeeper)—named Deng Heng—who spoke of the Way of “Deng Heng” could serve as teachers. The sage follows the teacher yet is not bound by the teacher, only letting things be natural. If the other acts like an infant, one acts like an infant with them—that is the meaning.

Tang (King Cheng Tang) obtained these three as transmitters, followed them without being confined by them, and smoothly completed his Way. Tang also took the role of Siyu. Those three left no trace in the world. This account appears together with the “Ying” and “Fa” versions in Tang’s story: though Tang exhausted the sagehood of the human Way, ritual and law were not yet complete; by Zhongni (Confucius) the world’s changes were fully in place, so he exhausted thought to establish ritual and law—this again was Tang’s support.

【Following the Root】

“Heaven” is the natural. If one discards teacher and law and seeks elsewhere, that is not the natural. In the world there are those uneasy with the natural who sacrifice themselves to things—they then think it must be so. When the world’s changes are complete, one exhausts thought to make law—this again was Tang’s support.

【Xun Ben】

“Heaven” (tian) here means nature—the state of things as they inherently are. If one still looks elsewhere for a master to follow and deliberately imitates him, that is already no longer natural. In the world there are people who cannot rest content with the natural; they let the body be sacrificed to external things (yi shen xun wu). How can what they do be called aligning with the Dao? The sage is one with Heaven; in the mind there is no longer any separate “human,” “beginning,” or “thing.” Though he moves with the world, he is not dragged down or obstructed; though he responds to affairs and handles things, his conduct is complete yet he does not sink into things. Given that, how could the two words “natural” (ziran) fully capture his accord with the Dao? The two phrases “ruo zhi he” (“what of it?”) in the text actually express two distinct layers of meaning.

“Men Yin Deng Heng” likely refers to Yi Yin: Tang obtained Yi Yin and Deng Heng as teachers. Yi Yin was not bound by fixed rules; he succeeded wherever he was placed. What he achieved was merely to assist Tang and make his name known under Heaven. But “name” is from the start an extra pattern outside the person—it does no real good to one’s proper station; it only lets people see a pleasing ruler-and-minister pair. Confucius’s disciples, by contrast, exhaust their thought to please the rulers of the day—that is a deviation.

At the end the text again cites Rongcheng’s words: a year is called a year because three hundred and sixty days accumulate and receive that name; remove the days and there is no year. If a person can, from the finest point of a single thought, remove attachment to external names, there is no burden of external names; without inner (grasping) there is no outer (entanglement).

【Xu Shizhang】

From “Tang obtained his charioteer” onward, the three “obtained his …” phrases echo one another. Read this way, one can perhaps make sense of the line “remove it from the finest point of a single thought and there is no burden of external names; without inner there is no outer.”

The Yellow Emperor ordered Rongcheng to devise the calendar, hence his saying “remove the days and there is no year.” Some commentators take Rongcheng to be an ancient sage, but that is mistaken (here “Rongcheng” should be understood in the sense of devising the calendar and reckoning years; there is no need to treat him as a separate ancient sage).

Wei Ying (also called Wei Fang) had once made an agreement with Tian Hou Mou, but Tian Hou Mou broke it. Wei Ying was furious and wanted to send someone to assassinate him.

Xishou (an official title; here it refers to Gongsun Yan), hearing of this, felt ashamed and said: “You are the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots, yet you seek personal revenge like a commoner.” Yan (Gongsun Yan) asked for two hundred thousand armored troops to attack the other party on your behalf: capture the people, drive off the cattle and horses, so that the enemy ruler suffers both internal and external trouble, then destroy his state; let Ji (a person named Ji) flee as well, then whip his back and break his spine.

Jizi, hearing of this, felt ashamed and said: “To build a wall ten ren high, only to tear it down when it reaches ten ren—that is the torment of convict laborers called xumi (penal servitude). If for seven years you do not raise troops, that will be the foundation of a great king. Yan is one who stirs up people’s hearts; do not listen to him.”

Huazi, hearing of this, found it shameful and said: “Whoever skillfully argues that Qi should be attacked is a troublemaker; whoever skillfully argues against attacking is also a troublemaker; and whoever says ‘whether to attack or not, anyone who brings up these matters is a troublemaker’ is yet again a troublemaker.”

Wei Ying asked: “Then what should be done?”

Huazi answered: “Your Majesty need only seek the Dao (the Way, the fundamental principle)—that is enough.”

Huizi, hearing of this, brought Dai Jinren (a sage who transcended ordinary limits) to see Wei Ying. Dai Jinren said: “There is a tiny creature called a wo (snail)—does Your Majesty know it?” Wei Ying said: “I know.”

“On the left horn of the snail there is a state called Chu Shi (Country of Touch); on the right horn there is a state called Man Shi (Country of Man). They often fight over land; corpses pile up by the tens of thousands; they chase the defeated for fifteen days before returning.”

Wei Ying said: “Alas—isn’t that empty talk?”

Dai Jinren said: “Allow me to make it real for Your Majesty: there is a tiny creature called a snail—does Your Majesty know it?” Wei Ying said: “I know.” Dai Jinren told again of Chu Shi and Man Shi fighting. Wei Ying again said: “Alas—empty talk.”

Dai Jinren said: “Allow me to verify it for Your Majesty: when you let mind, will, and thought roam above and below and in the four directions, is there any limit?” Wei Ying said: “There is no limit.”

“Knowing how to let the mind wander in the infinite, while the body still dwells in the open world—does your realm seem to exist and yet not exist?” Wei Ying said: “Yes.”

“In the open world there is Wei; in Wei there is Liang (the capital of Wei); in Liang there is Your Majesty. Is there any difference between Your Majesty and the ruler of Man Shi?” Wei Ying said: “There is no difference.”

After the guest withdrew, Wei Ying was dazed, as if he had lost something.

Huizi saw Wei Ying again. Wei Ying said: “That guest is truly a lofty person—even a sage might not measure up to him.”

Huizi said: “Blow a guan (pipe) and there is a huhu (full pipe tone); blow the jian shou (the small hole on the sword guard) and you get only a faint xuexue (whisper, like wind passing). Yao and Shun are praised by people; to speak of Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren is as insignificant as a single xue (that tiny sound).”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The snail is exceedingly small, yet it bears two horns on its head—if one truly grasped that what people fight over is nothing more than matters this slight, there would be no contention under heaven. Where human footsteps can reach is called “penetrating access” (tongda), meaning within the four seas. People today take the four seas to be vast, yet within the boundless infinite they are as if real and as if not. King Hui of Wei and the states of Chu and Man are alike: all are finite things. Being finite, size need not be debated—none can be measured against the infinite. Even heaven and earth together, within the infinite, are so small as to be negligible; how much less are the state of Liang within Wei, or King Hui within Liang, worth fighting over? Hence he feels empty and lost, grieving that the object of strife is utterly fine—like the sound “xue,” scarcely worth a word.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: There is no fault greater than “what can be desired.” Favoring an attack on Qi is seeing profit as desirable and already disturbing the heart; favoring restraint is seeing “goodness” as desirable and likewise disturbing the heart. To say both attack and non-attack disturb people still clings to a partial view and again disturbs people. Only seeking alignment with the Dao avoids fixation on one-sided views, and the root of disorder can then rest. If the heart roams in the infinite, then the mutually penetrating realms above and below, in every direction—whether Wei, Liang, or otherwise—are all arisen from this heart alone; it is not only that King Hui and the Chu–Man dispute need not be distinguished. Those mutually penetrating Weis, Liangs, Chus, and Mans equally need not be distinguished. Understanding this, there is no difference greater than an autumn hair or smaller than Mount Tai. King Hui realized that the root of contention was never really there, hence his sense of loss. Spirit-persons, sages, and great persons have no rank of high and low or superior and inferior; they differ only in the angle of their teaching. The pipe-blower’s “huo”—as if receiving something; the sword-ring-hole blower’s “xue”—as if receiving nothing.

Supplementary note (summary): Blowing a pipe and blowing the hole in a sword guard illustrate that spirit-persons, sages, and great persons are not graded superior or inferior but speak from different standpoints: the pipe gives a “huo” sound, as though something is taken up; the tiny hole at the sword hilt gives a faint “xue xue,” like wind passing through, with nothing taken up.

Blowing a Tube and Blowing the Sword Pommel Ring

When you blow through a bamboo tube, the mouth is small; the breath rubs against the tube wall and can still produce a fairly loud sound. If you blow through the ring hole on a sword pommel, the air merely whistles past and is almost inaudible. Why? The tube’s opening, though tiny, has breath and form rubbing together, so it can still become sound. The ring on the sword is shallow; once the breath passes through, it scatters and cannot form a proper sound.

The Sage Before a “Great Man”

If, in the presence of a “great man”—someone with power and renown—you deliberately expound the Way of the sage, the sage loses his true character; how could there still be a voice truly worth hearing? Even Yao and Shun, famed for yielding and deference, could barely tolerate empty, showy talk; how much less could there be any “Way” in the “battle of the snail horns”—people fighting bitterly over hollow fame and petty gain?

Confucius at Ant Mound Hill

When Confucius went to the state of Chu, he stayed near the home of a family that sold water and syrup in the Ant Mound Hill area. Next door, a husband and wife with servants and concubines were busy climbing onto the roof to repair the ridge beam, noisy and bustling. Zilu asked: What are all those people making such a racket about?

Confucius said: They are “followers of the sage”—people who pursue the Way of the sage yet bury themselves among common folk and hide themselves at the edge of the fields. Outwardly they are silent; inwardly their aims run deep. What they say with their mouths may not match what they hold in their hearts. They turn against the world and disdain going along with vulgar custom; they belong to the type called “sinking on dry land”—those who could stand out in the world yet hide in the dust as if submerged without water. Perhaps they are people like Shinan Yiliao?

Zilu wanted to go and invite them out. Confucius said: Forget it. He already knows that I, Kongzi, am “caught” on him—that he has seen through me; he also knows I am heading to Chu and assumes the king of Chu will surely summon me and treat me as a scheming flatterer. Someone like Shinan Yiliao is ashamed even to hear the words of a flatterer—how much less to see the flatterer in person? Why should we go to “invite” him and prove “I am here”?

Zilu went to look; the house was already empty—no one was home.

Brief Notes on Names and Terms

Ant Mound Hill is a place name; here it refers to the neighborhood where Confucius lodged. “Selling syrup” means running a shop that sold water and drinks. “Ridge” means the roof beam; “climbing the ridge” means going up to repair it. “Bustling and noisy” describes a crowd with clamor and commotion. “Followers of the sage” means those who follow the Way of the sage yet choose reclusion—not “servants” in the literal sense. “Sinking on dry land” means one who ought to appear in the world yet vanishes as if sunk in a place with no water. Shinan Yiliao is an extraordinary figure in Zhuangzi’s stories, skilled at hiding and at extinguishing fire; here he stands for the lofty neighbor Confucius guesses at. The “battle of the snail horns” is a metaphor for fighting over the smallest gains, from the Zhuangzi tale of the war between snail horns.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

To “bury” virtue among the common people is to live alongside them and not show off. “Hidden at the edge” means not occupying the central place or the spotlight: in advancing one does not chase glory, in retreat one does not look withered. One lets fame fade as much as possible while keeping a far-reaching aim—intent on wholeness, as if seeking what lasts. What one says aloud is still ordinary worldly talk, yet inwardly one is not of the world. If among the crowd one still tries to stand out clearly, it is like sinking downward when there is no water—one misses one’s proper place. How then could one “remain” in the world? Better to set aside mundane affairs and follow one’s original heart. When later the room was found empty, it was clear he had indeed gone.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary

When Confucius came, he went up into the hall—showing he did not wish to meet him and meant to withdraw to a higher remove. When the sage “buries” sage virtue among the people, he does not act in ways anyone can read at a glance; “hidden at the edge” means not fixing upright virtue in plain sight. Fading reputation with boundless intent is retreat into concealment and roaming beyond the square: the mouth has words that are not necessarily true words; wanting total silence yet still unable not to speak with the world—at odds with the vulgar yet unwilling to drift with it. If one truly withdraws from the world, it is by leaving in this manner. To roam among people with sage virtue while they do not know is like being on dry land yet seeming to sink in water—beyond grasp. From the traces Confucius left—hurried comings and goings, mind on all under heaven—he much resembles the “nimble” type (clever speech, compliance). Yet if everyone imitated Yiliao in withdrawing, who would shoulder the crisis of the sage’s Way about to fall? Long ago Weisheng Mu pointed at Confucius as “nimble”; Confucius replied that he did not willingly accept that label. Here, set against Yiliao, he calls himself “nimble” to show what is prized on the side of withdrawal—while Confucius’s restless urgency truly comes from having no choice, not from loving to play the clever courtier.

Brief notes on proper names

• Yiliao: Recluse in Zhuangzi whom Confucius visited; here he stands for the path of leaving the world and burying virtue among the people.
• Weisheng Mu: An ancient figure who criticized Confucius; Confucius answered with “I dare not” (denying the charge).
• Nimble (ning): Here it often means polished, compliant, or outwardly smooth in the world—not necessarily “treacherous flatterer” alone.
• Restlessly urgent (qiqi): Diligently on the move, unable to rest at ease.

The border warden of Changwu asked Zilao: “In handling affairs, do not be rash and rough; in governing the people, do not be careless and perfunctory.”

He went on to relate his own experience: “In the past when I farmed, I plowed carelessly and the harvest repaid me carelessly; when I weeded I did it half-heartedly, and the harvest repaid me half-heartedly. The next year I changed and did everything properly: I plowed deep, broke the clods fine and firm, and the grain grew thick and strong—I had enough to eat all year.”

When Zhuangzi heard this, he said: “People today who tend the body and put the mind in order mostly resemble what this border warden described—turning away from nature, leaving their inborn nature, extinguishing genuine feeling, and losing spirit and clarity, taking going with the crowd and pleasing the many as their standard. Those who indulge inborn nature and treat life roughly are people in whom likes and dislikes make trouble within nature itself—like reed and rush shoots just breaking soil, they brace the human form and tug at inborn nature, leaking and dispersing together; they do not care where it escapes—floating sores, scabies, abscesses, inward heat, and running pus are just what comes of that.” (“Bian qi” means bringing every proper boundary to completion; “yun” is weeding; “wei, jia, and lu” are waterside plants akin to reeds; “bing kui lou fa” means essence dispersing, leaking upward and downward, with no place spared.)

Guo Xiang’s reading is roughly this: “Lu mang” and “mie lie” mean acting lightly, loosely, and not fulfilling one’s share; “bian qi” is fulfilling one’s share completely, leaving nothing undone. Only when one turns away, abandons, extinguishes, and loses—and adopts the habit of “taking the many as one’s measure”—do such consequences follow; if each keeps to its limit and each fulfills its allotment, what fear is there that reeds would harm the grain? When desires and aversions injure true nature, the body is propped and pulled by outer things and spirit is harmed; when desires and aversions drag inborn nature and one does not stop where one should, one falls into the ills below “bing kui”—that is the retribution of rashness. So those who cultivate nature—how can they fail to align their own share with the utmost?

Lü Huiqing’s reading stresses: the way of Dao is daily to reduce until wuwei (non-action)—that is the right path for ordering the form and mind; if instead one flees Heaven, leaves nature, extinguishes spirit and loses feeling, takes the crowd as standard and does not know when to stop, that is rashness at its extreme. The Dao classic says, “What is at rest is easy to hold; what has no sign yet is easy to plan for”—inner desires and aversions are like rush reeds; outer reeds and rushes again support the form and pull up nature, and Heavenly principle grows dim; then if one tries to fix it, is there still time? Everything from “bing kui lou fa” onward is the havoc of desires and aversions and the work that steals the genuine—such is what true nature does.

Yang Yongxiu says: To plow poorly is called lumang (reckless, slipshod farming); to weed poorly is called mielie (careless, botched weeding).

Lu refers to hard, saline-alkaline soil. Plowing such land demands real effort. What the Lüshi Chunqiu, “On the Way of Plowing,” calls “softening strong soil” means exactly this. Mang refers to land choked with wild growth; the Book of Poetry line “cutting weeds, cutting thorns” describes clearing vegetation—that is skilled plowing. Neither improving saline, hard soil nor clearing weeds is lumang farming.

Yun means removing weeds. There is an ancient phrase niao yun (bird-style weeding): weeding close to the ground the way a bird dips its head to peck—that is weeding done well. The Lüshi Chunqiu says: One who weeds well keeps the good seedlings ( xiong, the fine grain) and removes the tares ( di, plants like smartweed and pigweed); one who weeds badly keeps the tares and uproots the good grain—this is mie (ruin). Lie means lumping clods together and then breaking them up haphazardly. It also says: When yu (desires) and e (aversions) first stir, people still think they can “nourish” the body, but soon they disturb their original nature. Here the character shi (beginning) corresponds in sound and sense with xun (the exegetical link to “xun” is made at this point). Reading “when reeds and rushes first sprout” as a single phrase in common usage is mistaken.

Bai Ju studied under Laozi and said, “Please let me travel through the lands under heaven.” Laozi replied, “Forget it—everywhere under heaven is the same.” Bai Ju asked again, and Laozi said, “Where do you plan to start?” He answered, “With Qi.”

When he reached Qi, he saw a man undergoing punishment (a “guren,” one punished according to his crime). He pushed through the crowd, went forward, took off his court robes and draped them over the punished man, and wailed toward heaven: “You, oh you! The world holds great calamity, yet you were the first to bear this suffering.”

The punished man said, “Do not steal, do not kill. Only when standards of honor and disgrace are fixed do people see what counts as fault; only when goods and wealth are gathered do people begin to fight over them. Now what others most dread is set up as the standard, and what others scramble for is piled in one place—people are driven to exhaustion and have no rest. Could they avoid ending up like this?”

“In ancient times those who governed the world gave benefit to the people and kept blame for themselves; they gave fairness to the people and kept partiality for themselves. So when someone’s body was injured by punishment, the ruler stepped back and blamed himself. Today it is not so: faults are hidden as if they did not exist; stupidity is feigned to cover up real understanding; hard tasks are pushed onto others while one dares not bear the guilt; others’ burdens are increased yet punishment never reaches the right people. The road goes ever farther, yet execution never catches those who deserve it. When the people know their strength is spent, they answer with hypocrisy. Hypocrisy in society grows day by day—how could scholars and common folk not learn to be hypocritical? When strength falls short they put on an act; when wisdom falls short they deceive; when goods fall short they steal. For deeds like theft—whom should we really blame?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary

What is meant by “a great calamity that kills people” is that from this point on, once the great calamity spoken of below has taken shape, could one still manage things by admonishing people with “do not act this way”? If each person kept to their proper place and obtained what was due to them, there would be no turmoil of gain and loss in honor and disgrace. Once honor and disgrace have been set up as standards, people boast of what they take to be “honor” and stand on tiptoe to measure themselves against what they call “disgrace,” rushing back and forth between boasting and comparison—is that not seeking affliction for oneself? If one takes being content as wealth, what is there to contend over? When those above have preferences, those below cannot keep to their proper places. When the ruler does not overstep bounds or lose measure, the people will naturally each obtain their due; when the ruler does not act crookedly, the people will naturally be upright. The form and nature of the myriad things are originally complete in themselves—why should they be lost? It is all because the human ruler stirs things up that these calamities arise. Therefore (here Guo’s note connects to “self-reproach”) one must turn back and return to original nature. When nature is put to use it shows itself; when one is led by things, one is seen through at every turn; when one is altered by external things, everyone dares to offend; when the wrong people are entrusted with tasks, everything fails; only what the feet can reach should be assigned—then it can be done. When the people know their strength is exhausted, they use falsity to cope, to escape punishment. When those above daily multiply artifice, from where below can genuineness still be preserved? Who is to blame? Blame lies with those in high position.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary

“Ju” (the square, the measure) probably refers to someone who once held office taking off court dress (acting according to ritual), expressing compassionate concern—even to understand things to that extent was already a fault, so one does not shrink from criticism of those above. When those above cannot conceal honor and disgrace, the people see what brings affliction; when they cannot treat goods lightly, the people see what brings contention. Now you set up what people fear and force them to fear it, gather what people fight over and force them to fight for it—yet you want them not to steal and not to resist unto death: how is that possible? Tang of Shang and King Wu said, “The guilt of the myriad regions is mine alone,” attributing loss to the people and lack of virtue to themselves. Yi Yin said, “If a single man is not provided for, I say the fault is mine”—if one life does not obtain its proper place, he calls it my crime. In that age, once form and nature lost their proper form, they withdrew and reproached themselves. Today the foolish do not admit guilt, dare not punish, and cannot bear execution—far indeed from the former kings’ leniency toward those who could not read and their weighing of human capacity in compassionate pity for those who could not manage. When the people know their strength is spent, they have no choice but to answer with falsity; when those above add extra pretense yet demand that those below not be false, it cannot be done.

Main Meaning of the Passage

Qu Boyu lived to sixty, and throughout those sixty years his views kept shifting: each time he was sure “this is right,” he later overturned it as “wrong.” Who can say that what one takes as “right” today is not what one took as “wrong” on one of those fifty-nine earlier occasions? The ten thousand things are born, yet one cannot see their root; they have a source, yet one cannot see their gate. People prize only what they already know, and refuse to rely on what they do not yet know to complete their understanding—is this not “great doubt”? Enough, enough! No one escapes this situation—when we call something “right,” is it really right?

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (in Plain Language)

“Transformation (hua)”: To follow worldly affairs without binding oneself to the opposition of “that” and “self”; to follow things and let each thing’s inherent disposition flow naturally.

The shifting of things’ dispositions: Change has no end; there is no fixed root or fixed gate—suddenly thus, suddenly otherwise—so root and gate cannot be seen.

“What I do not know, things have one who knows”: What I do not understand, other things or other people may understand; if one used only the wisdom of “things,” in principle one could know all; if one relied only on one’s own small cleverness, what one knows stays very limited.

“Now not relying on things to know, yet esteeming one’s own knowing”: Nowadays people do not use outer things and others’ knowledge to fill their gaps, but trust only their own bit of knowing—things will not come to inform them; is this not “great doubt”? If one cannot make good use of the other (outer things, others), body and mind have nowhere to rest; when one asserts “so it is,” the world under Heaven may not all agree that it is “so.”

Lu’s Commentary (in Plain Language)

Boyu’s sixty years of constant change resemble what Confucius described; but if understanding has not yet rested in “what is not known,” then what counts as “yes” was never settled—how can one know that today’s “yes” is not one of the “no” of those fifty-nine earlier turns? Things are born yet the root is unseen, they issue forth yet the gate is unseen—knowing what one does not know is precisely where the ten thousand things arise and where they issue from; yet people honor only their own “known,” and at “what is not known” they lose heart and dare not rely on it, often retreating at the sight of a cliff—this is doubt, and doubt on a large scale. Enough—with words of this kind, one can hardly keep company with those who have truly arrived; the self has no room either. Even if what is said now sounds “so,” one cannot tell whether it is truly “so”; if one forces language to fit by human effort, it is still doubt.

A Narrow View (guanzhong kuijian—a glimpse through a bamboo tube, meaning one’s limited personal insight) says:

Human beings, through encounters with people and events, give rise to everything in the world; events in turn succeed one another and give rise to change. These are like gnats and wild horses (Zhuangzi’s image for the fine dust motes dancing in daylight—symbols of the most fleeting appearances) flashing past the eyes, too many to count, yet the true constancy (benran bu bian de zhenxing—the unchanging true nature) of “I” has in fact never changed. If a person understands this, life and death cannot disturb the heart.

Things, through meeting people and through the turnover of events, likewise achieve change—again like gnats and wild horses flying past the eyes, their number unknown—while the true constancy of “I” has never been altered. If one knows this, life and death are not enough to move the heart.

The birth and death, coming and going of things each have their root and their gate (the source and path from which arising and perishing proceed). If one can truly know what “people cannot know,” then the roots and gates of the ten thousand things can be illumined. Birth, death, coming, and going belong to ordinary principle—what is there to be confused about?

Roughly speaking, what a person knows and can do amounts to no more than one ten-thousandth of what they do not know and cannot do. Even the sage cannot exhaust all knowledge and capacity—how then escape wuhua (transformation among things, being turned and changed along with the myriad beings)?

Even so, whether what I say today is right or wrong is still not known for certain.

(Note: This passage expounds Zhuangzi’s themes of life and death, true constancy, transformation among things, and the limits of knowledge; the tone carries the self-deprecating “narrow view,” and the closing line pulls back to doubt whether speech itself is trustworthy—close in spirit to the Qi Wu Lun and Yangsheng chapters of the Zhuangzi.)

Confucius asked the Grand Historian Datán, Bochang Qian, and Xi Wei: “Duke Ling of Wei indulged in wine and pleasure, neglected state affairs, hunted and shot birds, and failed to respond to the diplomatic overtures of other feudal lords—yet people still called him ‘Ling.’ Why was that?”

Datán said: It was precisely because of such conduct that he received that title.

Bochang Qian said: Duke Ling had three wives bathing together in one tub—a gross breach of ritual. When Shiyu (the attendant famed for integrity) presented offerings, the duke was utterly inattentive, even leaning on and fumbling the ritual silks with the utmost disrespect; yet when he met a worthy man, he became as deferential and solemn as could be—so people called him ‘Ling.’

Xi Wei said: After Duke Ling died, divination for burial in the old tomb was inauspicious; divination for burial at Shqiu (Sand Mound) was auspicious. They dug several ren deep and uncovered a stone outer coffin; when it was cleaned, an inscription on the coffin read, in effect: Do not rely on your son (to hold and guard this site)—Duke Ling will take this place and be buried here. That Duke Ling was “Ling” was in fact a fate fixed long before; Datán and Bochang Qian, viewing matters only from human conduct and ritual propriety, could not truly grasp the reason.

(According to the commentaries of Guo Xiang and Lü Huiqing) Datán and Bochang Qian discuss the posthumous name from the perspective of “human affairs”: bathing together without propriety, or putting on solemn respect before the worthy, might seem grounds for calling someone “good” (shan). Xi Wei, by contrast, argues from “Heaven”: the posthumous title and burial place are not whatever people wish them to be; the inscription’s “do not rely on his son” means that descendants cannot be depended on, and instead Duke Ling obtained this tomb. All things first have a fixed destiny; what has already happened can be traced back, while what has not yet happened arises from nature itself—fools think success and failure depend entirely on themselves, which is wildly mistaken; to see only what has already occurred without understanding that “what is already so” originally proceeds from nature—that is where insight is high or low.

In Fang Sian’s reading: by the rules for posthumous titles, “disorderly yet not ruinous” can be called ling (spiritual/effective), and “virtue refined and bright” can also be called ling. Duke Ling of Wei's conduct was what it was, yet he was posthumously styled Ling—the title seems ill matched to his wrongdoing. In the text, fengyu (attending in audience) corresponds to being summoned into inner service and answering face to face. Someone supported Duke Ling of Wei, and his speech still showed some propriety. “Bathing together” is one matter, and fengyu is another; they need not be forced into one simultaneous scene. The gist is to begin from human affairs and return to Heaven’s intent; though it looks like “making it so because it is so,” Zhuangzi esteems ziran (naturalness), hence such analogies. Some editions write li (neighborhood/mound) as mai (bury). Reading the inscription closely, the punctuation often falls on rhyming lines; the rhyme of lizi fits the main text. In antiquity a burial place was called Haoli (the wilds of the dead); to take li as “bury” is probably mistaken.

Shaozhi asked Dagong Diao: What is meant by “discourse of qiuli”?

Dagong Diao said: Qiuli is where many surnames and many personal names are gathered together to form the customs of one place. It merges difference into sameness, and spreads sameness back into difference. If you only point to each part of a horse, you cannot get a whole horse; yet the one hitched in front, joining all the parts, is called “horse.” Thus a hill rises from low heaps to height; rivers join streams to become great; the great person merges many intentions and is called “public” (gong). What enters from outside has views yet is not stubborn; what goes out from within has standards yet does not reject. The qi of the four seasons differ, yet Heaven does not favor one with a special gift, so harvests are plentiful or lean; the five senses and offices have distinct roles, yet the ruler does not play favorites, so the state is governed; the way of wen and wu and the virtue of the great person are not bestowed as gifts, so virtue and ability are complete. The patterns of the myriad things differ; the Dao does not favor one thing, hence it has no name; with no name, hence wuwei (non-action); wuwei and yet nothing is not done. Seasons have end and beginning; the age has change and transformation; fortune and misfortune mix; when a phase is reached, what goes against also has what fits.

(Again) each clings to what he loves and faces differ; what is corrected also has what is skewed; compared with the great marsh, every kind of timber takes it as home; look at the great mountain—wood and stone share one altar—this is what is called “discourse of qiuli.”

Shaozhi said: Then, does this suffice to count as “the Dao”?

Dagong Diao said: Not yet. Now in counting things, there are more than ten thousand, yet they are lumped under “the myriad things”—the greatest number in the count is used as the name. Heaven and Earth are greatest in form, Yin-Yang greatest in qi, the Dao is what they share; calling it by its “greatness” can still pass. But when there is already a definite name and one still forces comparisons, arguing from private bias, it is like giving random names to dogs and horses—too far off.

Editorial note (proper names and terms in the commentary): In the Zhouli (Rites of Zhou), four wells make a yi, four yi make a qiu; five households a lin, five lin a li. Ci here carries the sense of granting or partial bestowal. Fu is the same as li, “going against.” Mian is orientation, direction—people’s hearts differ and right and wrong are not one, hence there is correction and there is deviation. Du is read like ju, “dwelling.” Though districts differ, all alike take the great marsh as dwelling; though wood and stone differ, all alike take the great mountain as altar—with this meaning, it truly deserves the name “discourse of qiuli.”

Guo Xiang says: When the great person does not treat the world with private motives, the temper of the world can become one. What is poured in from outside is the teaching of the “great person”; what grows from within is the nature of the people and the myriad things. Each keeps its nature and each finds its place, and people have no heart of resistance. Teaching must reach what is public, so the ruler need not cling to one fixed stance and can align with Qiuli, unite the world as one, and bring all groups and differences among things back to level parity.

Because qi differs in each case, each can constantly have its own qi. If there were originally none and heaven merely bestowed it, it would sometimes be cut off. Offices and roles differ because each has its own capacity and is appointed accordingly—not because the “cultural” role is privately granted to someone. The capacities for wen and wu are each originally there; they are not gifts from the great person. If capacity had to be granted before one could serve, posts would sometimes stand empty. This is not only true of wen and wu; it holds for every nature.

Names stop at what is actual, hence wuwei (non-action); the actual each acts on its own, hence nothing is left undone. The age changes, and those without contrivance follow it. Fortune and misfortune flow thickly and turn without fixed rule: what is perverse here may be fitting there. Each trusts what it takes as right and cannot be torn apart from the rest. What is correct on one side may miss on another—like a great marsh that wastes no material, or like viewing Mount Tai as merging differences into sameness. When we speak of Qiuli, the world becomes intelligible: things that can be counted do not stop at ten thousand; how much more when the count is beyond number—can speaking of the Dao suffice? Things each attain passage; passing through things without selfishness, yet we forcibly call it the Dao. The name “the Dao that can be spoken of” already exists, so nothing can be set beside it for comparison. Today the distinctions of names do not reach the far; therefore to call it the Dao is still not enough. One must arrive in the nameless, wordless domain; though there is naming, nothing compares.

Lü Huiqing says: Can combining surname and personal name into “Qiuli” be compared? Today the distinctions of names do not reach the far; therefore to call it the Dao is still not enough. One must arrive in the nameless, wordless domain; though there is naming, nothing compares.

【Lu’s Commentary】

When different surnames and personal names are brought together, they are jointly called “Qiuli”—using “difference” to form “sameness.” Split “Qiuli” apart again, and it becomes surname and personal name—using “sameness” to produce “difference.” This is not like private talk within one household: difference alone cannot truly fuse into one whole, and sameness alone cannot break a single whole apart.

The saying runs: every part is horse, yet you cannot point to any single part as the whole horse; only when the hundred parts are assembled is it called horse. Likewise, unless the great person (daren) views things from the standpoint of the “great totality” (da quan), what is called “great” cannot be held.

Taking hills, mountains, rivers, and streams as comparisons is precisely speaking of the utmost of “greatness.”

From the side of “things”: among the ten thousand things, there is nothing the person does not already have. What comes from outside—the inner mind has a master yet does not cling to possession as “mine.” The myriad as one body: nothing fails to be embraced.

From the side of “the person”: broadly speaking, the myriad things flow away and pass on. What issues from within—there is uprightness without partial rejection. Circling the four quarters, nowhere is unreachable.

Heaven in relation to the four seasons does not “bestow” according to each thing’s fixed, original form. If it did, the functions that ought to be fulfilled would not be complete, and a year would not become a year. The ruler in relation to the “five officials” (wuguan, here a metaphor for the functional roles of the hundred offices) does not hand all affairs to the multitude while alone hoarding “what is mine.” If he did, knowledge would not reach everywhere, and the state could not be governed. Literary and martial talents differ, and the patterns of the myriad things differ—yet the meaning of “no bestowing, no partiality” is the same.

Because there is no selfishness, there is no “self.” Because there is no “self,” there is no one who can be singled out by name. Because there is no name, there is Wuwei (non-action). Through Wuwei, nothing is left undone (wuwei er wu buwei).

Times change without pause; fortune and misfortune have no fixed pattern. There is going against and there is fittingness; what is good can also turn strange. Things each indulge their partial inclinations, so faces differ. There is the upright and there is the skew; the upright can also turn odd. That the Dao (the Way) is called “impartial” (gong) is precisely for this reason. “Dao” is originally a name chosen as a makeshift label—only then is it called “Dao”; it must not be treated as if the word had said everything. The Dao originally has no name; once a name is used to address it, “being” (you) is already there—how then can it be placed on a par with the nameless?

【Following the Original Text】

The great person merges many differences into “the impartial,” so what comes from outside is inwardly governed by impartiality without obstinate clinging; what issues from within outwardly meets others with impartial uprightness without partial rejection.

Absolutely no bestowing, no treating it as favor; the seasons have end and beginning, the age’s course has change and transformation—one must not cling to a single fixed point.

Plain and solid—that is all.