《庄子翼》Vol. 13

What people call “relying on force and bearing a foul name”—that is not something I understand; there are other ways of acting besides that. Tang of Shang then plotted with Yi Yin to attack Jie of Xia. When they succeeded, he tried to yield the realm to Bian Sui. Bian Sui declined, saying: “You once consulted me when you planned to attack Jie—people will surely take me for an accomplice. After you defeated Jie you offer me the realm—people will surely take me for one who craves a name and profit. I was born in a chaotic age; unprincipled men repeatedly use such humiliating offers to stain me—I cannot bear to hear it again,” and drowned himself in the Zhou River (or Tong River, in another reading).

Tang then tried to yield the throne to Gu Guang, saying: “The wise plan, the brave finish, the humane occupy the seat—such is the ancient pattern. Why not take your place?” Gu Guang declined: “To remove one who holds the throne is not righteous; to kill the people is not humane; others suffer hardship while I take the benefit is not upright. I have heard: what is not righteous one does not accept as salary; in a wayless age one does not tread its soil—how much less accept being honored on the throne! I cannot bear to linger long in the world,” and sank himself in the Lu River (or Lu River, in another reading) with a stone on his back.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Confucius said that when the scholar sets his heart on humaneness, there are those who would die to complete humaneness and would not preserve life at humaneness’s expense. When aspiration is lofty and bearing transcends the age, one is not the same as those who grasp profit and forget life—hence stories of “yielding the realm” like these. The older view held that men like Bian Sui and Wu Guang regarded the realm as something outside the six directions—beyond what outsiders could fathom. Guo Xiang holds that view is mistaken. Those who hold the realm lightly have nothing they treat as “weighty” in the heart; where nothing is weighty, there is no “ground of certain death.” Only because they treat the realm as outside the six directions do they hand it to Yao, Shun, Tang, and Wu; drifting untied to worldly currents, gain and loss not fixed in the mind—why must they drown themselves? Men like these two may be said to die for a name and admire loftiness; they cannot yet be said to be “outside the realm.”

When the Zhou dynasty was about to rise, two worthy men lived in the state of Gu Zhu—a dependency of the Shang, in the region of present-day Liaoning. Their names were Bo Yi and Shu Qi. The two discussed the matter and said, “We hear that someone in the west seems to be a person who has attained the Way. Let us go and see.” When they reached the south of Mount Qi, King Wu learned they had come and sent the Duke of Zhou, Dan, to meet them. He made a covenant with them, promising to raise them two ranks in nobility and grant them an official post, and after killing sacrificial animals and taking blood for the oath, the animals were buried.

The two looked at each other and laughed. “Strange!” they said. “This is not what we call the Way. In antiquity, when Shen Nong held the realm, he offered sacrifices at the proper seasons and was utterly reverent, yet did not ask for blessings; he treated the people with full loyalty and good faith and governed the realm well, yet sought nothing in return. He took music as the root of government and took joy as the root of governance. He did not treat others’ failure as his own success, others’ lowliness as his own honor, or seize advantage from the times for himself. Now the Zhou, seeing disorder in Yin, hurry to take power—seeking authority above and profit below, blocking the way with arms and taking slaughtered beasts and blood-oaths as trustworthiness, pleasing the masses by violent acts and seeking gain through killing. This is profiting from chaos. We have heard that the shi of old, when the age was at peace, took up responsibility; when the age was in turmoil, they still did not cling to life at any cost. Today the realm is dark and Zhou virtue has declined. To mingle with the Zhou would be to defile ourselves. Better to withdraw and preserve our bodies and conduct intact.” The two then traveled north to Mount Shouyang, where they eventually starved to death.

Men like Bo Yi and Shu Qi: if they could obtain wealth and rank, they would certainly not depend on it. Their spirit was lofty and their conduct strict; they took only their own purpose as joy and would not be used by the world. Such was the integrity of these two shi.

Note (as in the source): Gu Zhu lay in the Lingzhi area of western Liaoning; some versions read “kill the sacrificial animals” rather than “blood from the sacrificial animals.”

Guo’s commentary: The Analects only says Boyi and Shuqi went hungry on Mount Shouyang; it does not say they starved to death. Calling them “the dead” here means they held to their integrity and refused food to the end—it need not mean they literally died of starvation.

Lu’s commentary: Figures such as Wuzhe, Suiguang, and Boyi and Shuqi did not merely refuse another’s realm and rank and emoluments; even hearing such talk and living in such a world felt like defilement to them, to the point of drowning themselves or starving. They delighted in the Way and forgot life—something ordinary people can hardly imagine, and worldly folk often refuse to believe.

On life and death: these men were all sages and already understood what life and death mean. The ancients said some deaths weigh heavier than Mount Tai and others lighter than a goose feather; Shun and Yu yielding the throne—their influence is even harder for common feeling to credit.

These men were all sages and already clear about life and death. The moral force of Shun and Yu giving up the world reached even to Weizi and Bi Gan at the end of the Shang. If the world and later ages heard the example of Wuzhe, Suiguang, and Boyi and Shuqi, would that be a small gain? So we know they did not cling to death because they loved dying. Han Fei, however, said: Tang feared the world would call him greedy, so he offered the throne to Wuguang; Wuguang feared accepting it, so Tang had Suiguang take it; Tang wanted to shift the bad name onto Wuguang, and Wuguang then drowned himself. Sima Qian also did not believe Suiguang was a real person. Since Han Fei understood “knowing to sacrifice the body” (understanding when to give up one’s life), his judgment of Tang and Wuguang was probably along those lines.

Xu You, Zhifu, and Zhibo would not exchange their lives for the empire, teaching later people to honor life and treat profit lightly; Wuzhe, Suiguang, Boyi and Shuqi, and the like, gave up life to benefit the world, teaching later people to forget life and weight righteousness. Their benevolence is one and the same.

In chapters such as “The Great Master,” Zhuangzi treats the utmost Dao and leaving fame and profit behind—figures like Boyi and Shuqi and Suiguang are among those he criticizes; in “Kings Who Declined the Throne” he discusses yielding the throne and seeing through the vulgar habit of risking the body for things—then they are all praised. Readers who notice this grasp the intent without getting stuck on the wording.

Guo Xiang’s General Commentary

The main point of this chapter is to promote a spirit of lofty withdrawal and yielding retirement. People caught up in that mood—even those who crave fame and fortune and take the path of “climbing the thoroughfare to heaven and entering the purple court” (seeking high office at court)—sometimes sigh halfway through; how much more so ordinary people? So figures like Yi (Boyi) and Xu (Xu You) can be set alongside Ji (Hou Ji) and Qi (Shang Qi), and alongside Yi (Yi Yin) and Lü (Lü Shang).

Those who live in valleys and look down on the world may not all become ministers who assist sage-kings, yet are they not still above people smeared with the dust of the world? Such a life is hard, but this way of life has fewer faults, so it is worth passing on.

Someone asked: What are the faults of the Yi–Xu style? Answer: Xu You’s fault is that it teaches people to put on humility to get ahead, until it reaches situations like Zi Zhi yielding the throne to Kuai (the Yan succession that ended in disaster). Boyi’s style lets cruel rulers unleash their poison with no one daring to resist. Yi Yin and Lü Shang’s fault is that it lets greedy, bold usurpers in the world dare to usurp power.

Only the Sage leaves no trace, so there is no fault. If Yi Yin and Lü Shang are taken as “traces of the Sage,” then Boyi and Shuqi are also “traces of the Sage”; if Boyi and Shuqi are not “traces of the Sage,” then what Yi Yin and Lü Shang did is not sagehood either. The Sage acts as circumstances require, so there is no trace. What is called “Sage” is originally traceless; when each thing gets its trace, the trace is forcibly named “Sage”—then “Sage” is only a name for the traceless.

Lu Deming

Someone asked: In the “Deifying Kings” chapter, why do figures like Chong Sheng and Mou Guang (types associated with Shennong and Xu You) throw themselves into water? Answer: The Zhuangzi aims at returning to the root; returning to the root must first shed glory (renouncing honor and favor), so it titles this “Deifying Kings” to mark proud detachment from the world. It aims at not lowering oneself to stir up the vulgar and not fattening the body to preserve life (not pampering the physical self to save one’s nature). Where the text speaks of “valuing life,” it also means turning away from glory, to deeply purge the harm of worldly entanglements.

A second kind merely wear coarse cloth and sip thin gruel to keep body and soul together; their aim to preserve the whole person is still lofty—they transcend the vulgar in ease, and would rather cast themselves into cold clear water than ever bow to worldly burdens.

Liu Kai said: Those who will only stop when they are “left no choice” tend to push everything away; that comes close to juan (being overly scrupulous and inflexible). Those who could stop but will not tend to want to hold on to everything; that comes close to kuang (being overly aggressive and lacking restraint). If the sage can meet them from the zhongdao (the central Way), both skews can be dropped; if the central Way is not reached, both belong among what must be trimmed and corrected.

Kuang and juan were originally two ways of missing the central Way. Later “kuang” was not only bold advance; people clung to life, feared death, craved gain, and indulged desire, drowning in wanting. Later “juan” was not only “refusing to do certain things”; some washed their ears or leapt into deep water, rejecting Yao and Shun to escape a bad name. That is a further skew beyond kuang and juan.

Zhuangzi held that the name “rang” (yielding, deferring) should sit between giving and receiving without losing what is right. The king is great within the realm; greater still than “king,” yet able to yield—what would not be allowed? So the sage only when he must does he take charge of the world; someone like Prince Sou shows this. When outwardly nothing in the world weighs on him, who can speak of being “worn out”? Taking the world as his task, inwardly without a fixed self, the world comes to him of itself—how could he refuse? Then Yao and Shun’s abdication, Tang and Wu’s punitive expeditions, Yi Yin serving Tang, Boyi shunning Zhou—whether one’s feet stood in Yao’s gate or one lived in a furrowed field—amount to the same.

Guanjian zonglun (Overview in Humble Opinion) says: This chapter sets out the lofty integrity of the “yielding kings,” from Yao and Shun, Xu You, and Shan Juan down to Prince Sou—all prized the Dao and life itself and would not let wealth and rank burden the heart. Yi and Qi turned from Zhou; some walked in Yao’s gate, no different in spirit from those in humble fields.

Overview of My Humble View

This chapter treats high-minded stories of the type found in “Yielding the Throne”: from Yao and Shun to Xu You and Shan Juan, and on to figures such as Prince Sou—all of whom held the Dao as supreme and valued life above all, refusing to let wealth and rank burden the heart, and treating the realm as lightly as a worn-out shoe.

Zihua, Yan He, and others in the line of Zeng, Yan, and Zimou kept to what is genuine and embraced simplicity, unwilling to trade integrity for profit and office, and regarding riches and honor as drifting clouds.

Among them, Wei Mou (Lord Mou of Wei), if measured against those sages, may seem not quite their equal; yet as heir to a great state, to renounce the throne and withdraw to mountain caves was already exceedingly rare. The lasting effect of their example made rulers more intent on honoring the Dao and cherishing life, helped establish the teaching of qingjing wuwei (pure stillness and non-action), and thus gave luster to the work of the “uncrowned king” who transforms the world through virtue without occupying the throne.

People who forget their roots and chase after things wrangle over gain and loss down to the smallest fraction. To hold royal rank and yet yield it is among the rarest deeds under heaven. Those who embrace the Dao and virtue and on whom others pin their hopes—some never wished for a realm and retired to forests and hills; history knows such cases. Why then did figures like Wuyou and Suiguang (Wu Guang) go so far as to cast themselves into the water, not sparing their lives? Perhaps when scholars cannot walk the middle way, their uncompromising integrity tilts to excess: those extreme in grasping grasp without end, until usurpation and rebellion; those extreme in yielding have nowhere left to yield, until drowning themselves is the only end—this too can come from caring too much for a reputation. Only the sage keeps to the middle without this fault, yielding or accepting as fits, hiding or appearing as circumstances require, at ease on the central path—Yao and Shun were like this.

Bo Yi and Shu Qi, after yielding the realm, fled to Mount Shouyang and ended their days gathering ferns—if that was deliberate affectation to win fame after death, that is another matter. If one was already ruler and then abdicated, the deed is more visible; if one stepped aside before becoming ruler, it stays more hidden. The inward intent to yield is the same; the difference lies only in timing.

In Zhuangzi Yi, the passage “Confucius Meets Don Zhi” is retold in plain language as follows.

Confucius and Liu Xia Ji were friends. Liu Xia Ji had a younger brother named Don Zhi—a figure in legend who gathered rebels and terrorized the realm. Don Zhi led nine thousand followers, plundering the feudal lords: breaking through walls and door frames, seizing cattle and horses, abducting women, never satisfied, ignoring parents and siblings, neglecting ancestral rites. Wherever they passed, great states shut their gates and small ones fled into forts; the people suffered terribly.

Confucius said to Liu Xia Ji: A father ought to be able to teach his son, an elder brother his younger brother. If father cannot teach son or brother cannot teach brother, the names “father,” “son,” “elder,” and “younger” mean little. You, sir, are a worthy of the age, yet your brother is Don Zhi, scourge of the world, and you cannot reform him—I am ashamed for you. Let me go and persuade him.

Liu Xia Ji replied: You say fathers and elder brothers must be able to teach their sons and younger brothers—but if the younger ones will not listen, what can even your eloquence do? Besides, Don Zhi’s nature is this: his heart gushes like a spring, his intent races like a gale; his strength can face a thousand troops, his tongue can gloss over wrong as right. Please him and he is glad; cross him and he rages—one sentence can humiliate a man. Sir, do not go.

Confucius would not listen. He had Yan Hui drive the carriage and Zigong attend him, and they went to see Don Zhi. Don Zhi was resting his band on the southern slope of Mount Tai, eating human livers. Confucius alighted and stepped forward, telling the usher: Kong Qiu of Lu, having heard of the general’s high purpose, humbly bows twice and asks an audience. The usher went in and reported. Don Zhi flew into a rage—eyes bright as stars, hair lifting his cap—and said: Isn’t this Kong Qiu of Lu, the smooth talker? Go tell him: You weave words and borrow the names of Wen and Wu; you wear a cap ornate as branching wood and a belt of stiff ox-hide; you wag your tongue, stir up trouble, and bewitch the rulers of the world so scholars abandon their proper work and falsely preach filial piety and brotherhood to win fiefs and wealth—your crime is enormous! Get lost, or I’ll add your liver to my midday meal!

Confucius sent word again: Kong Qiu, fortunate to have old ties with the Ji clan, wishes to pay respects beneath your tent. After the report, Don Zhi said: Let him in. Confucius hurried forward, gave up the seat of honor, stepped back several paces, and bowed repeatedly to Don Zhi. Don Zhi raged still more—legs spread, hand on sword, eyes glaring, roaring like a cub tiger: Kong Qiu, come forward! Speak to my liking and you live; against my liking and you die!

Confucius said: I have heard that in the world there are three kinds of virtue. To be born tall, handsome, and unmatched, so that young and old, high and low, all defer—that is highest virtue. To fathom Heaven and Earth and distinguish the myriad things—that is middle virtue. To be bold and resolute, gathering troops and leading armies—that is lowest virtue. Any one of these suffices to face south and rule as king. You, general, have all three: eight feet two in height, radiant face, red lips and white teeth, a voice like a great bell—yet your name is “Don Zhi.” I am ashamed for you and urge you to cast off that name. If you will heed me, I can go south to Wu and Yue, north to Qi and Lu, east to Song and Wei, west to Jin and Chu; build great cities for you, fiefs of ten thousand households, honor you as feudal lord; with the world change course, end war, nourish the people, reunite brothers, restore ancestral sacrifice—this is what sages and worthies do and what the world hopes for.

Don Zhi grew angrier: Kong Qiu, come here! Those who can be moved by profit or corrected by words are petty folk. My good looks and others’ deference were given by my parents—if you did not praise me, would I not know myself? I hear that those who love to flatter to one’s face also love to slander behind one’s back. You now bait me with great cities and multitudes—you would keep me as an ordinary man; how could that last? The greatest city is none other than the world. Yao and Shun had the world, yet their descendants had not room to stick an awl; Tang and Wu became Sons of Heaven, yet their lines ended—is that not because “profit” was too great?

He went on: In antiquity beasts were many and people few; people nested in trees to escape beasts, gathered acorns by day, slept in trees by night—called “Nest-Dwellers.” They did not know clothing; in summer they piled wood, in winter they burned fires for warmth—called “Knowers of Life.” In the age of Shen Nong, sleep was peaceful and waking idle; they knew the mother, not the father; they lived with deer, farmed and wove, harming none—that was utmost virtue. Then Huang Di’s virtue fell short; he had to fight Chiyou at Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao and Shun set up lord and minister; Tang deposed his lord; Wu killed Zhou—from then on the strong bullied the weak and the many crushed the few; since Tang and Wu all have been disturbers. You cultivate the way of Wen and Wu, grip the world’s opinion, teach later ages; wear wide-sleeved robes, speak falsehood and act deceit, bewitch rulers for wealth and rank—no thief greater than you; why does the world not call you “Don Qiu” yet call me Don Zhi? With sweet words you trick Zilu into following you—he doffed cap and sword to study with you—the world said Kong Qiu could stop violence and forbid wrong; yet Zilu failed to kill the lord of Wei and was minced and hung at Wei’s east gate—you did not teach him well. You call yourself talented and sage, yet in Lu you were driven out, in Wei you left no trace, in Qi you were hard pressed, in Chen and Cai you were besieged—the world had no place for you; the disciple you taught, Zilu, was pickled—is your Way worth honoring?

The Huang Di the world exalts could not preserve virtue intact; he fought at Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao was not kind, Shun not filial, Yu half-wasted, Tang deposed his lord, Wu attacked Zhou, Wen was imprisoned in Youli—these six the world lifts high, yet all were warped by profit, forced their natures, and acted shamefully.

So-called worthies: Bo Yi and Shu Qi yielded the lordship of Guzhu, starved on Mount Shouyang, bones unburied; Bao Jiao made a show of purity and hugged a tree till he died; Shen Tu Di remonstrated unheard, shouldered a stone into the river and was eaten by fish and turtles; Jie Zitui was utterly loyal, cut flesh from his thigh to feed Duke Wen of Jin; when the duke later broke faith, Zitui in anger hugged a tree and burned; Wei Sheng had a tryst with a woman under a bridge—she did not come, the water rose, he would not leave, hugged the pillar and drowned—these four, like quartered dogs, drifting pigs, and men begging with gourds, all threw away their names and lightly died, ignoring the root of nourishing life.

So-called loyal ministers: Prince Bi Gan, Wu Zixu—Zixu was sunk in the river, Bi Gan’s heart was cut out—the world calls them loyal, yet in the end the world laughs at them. Looking down from above, Zixu and Bi Gan are not worth honoring either. You tempt me; if you speak of ghosts and spirits, I do not understand; if you speak of human affairs, it is only these “loyal minister” stories I already know.

Now I tell you human feeling: the eyes want color, the ears sound, the mouth flavor, the will to be full. Long life is a hundred years, middling eighty, short sixty—subtract sickness, age, death, and worry, and days one can open the mouth and laugh may be four or five in a month. Heaven and Earth are endless; human death has its time. To lodge a limited life in the endless interval and let it flash past is like a swift horse passing a crack in the wall. Those who cannot follow the will and nourish life’s span do not understand the great Way. What you say is what I discard. Go! Your Way is frantic, forced, deceitful—it cannot preserve true nature; what is there to discuss!

Confucius bowed again, hurried out, mounted, took the reins—and lost his grip three times. His gaze was vacant as ash; he leaned on the crossbar, head down, unable to draw breath. Back at Lu’s east gate he met Liu Xia Ji. Liu Xia Ji said: I have not seen you for days; your carriage looks travel-worn—surely you went to see Zhi? Confucius looked up and sighed: Yes. Liu Xia Ji said: He did not go against your wishes? As before? Confucius said: Yes. I was moxibustion without illness—rushed to stroke the tiger’s head and braid its whiskers, nearly into the tiger’s mouth.

Note (editorial points from the original): “Liu Xia Ji” is Zhan Qin, a man of Duke Xi of Lu’s time; if one rigidly aligns chronology with Confucius and Zilu’s deaths, more than a century separates them—they could not literally be friends. Here it is parable and intent; do not bind it to historical dates. “Breaking door frames” means breaking the pivot to enter and steal; “branching-wood cap” means a cap ornate as dense branches; “belt of stiff ox-side” means an ox-hide belt; “wide-sleeved robe” means the broad-sleeved fengyi style. Dissection, exposure, and boiling name different ways of execution and cooking the corpse.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

This chapter is explaining the following: if you remove what people already want removed, in step with the multitude, then even tyrants like Jie and Zhou can be overthrown. If you do not follow the multitude and instead rule by your own opinion alone, then not even someone like Robber Zhi can be withstood.

Lu Huiqing’s Commentary

Confucius and Robber Zhi stand as opposites—one good and one evil, one auspicious and one inauspicious. As the myriad affairs of the world shift and change, there must be some “correct” standard to rely on; only when you stay within opposition yet do not cling fixedly to a single side can you really talk about who wins and who loses. Watch how Robber Zhi turns Confucius away, and you see that most people under heaven who are unkind and chase profit follow much the same pattern; it is hard to get through to them with reason. Those who cultivate the mind, if they cannot wholly drop their attachment to sages, cleverness, benevolence, and righteousness, still cannot avoid falling into the struggle of craft and profit. Therefore the perfected person (zhiren) understands that good and evil are not far apart, neither exalts Yao nor condemns Jie, lets go of both sides, follows the transforming Dao, and returns to the primordial state “before there were things”—that is mind brought to its limit, merged with the body of the Dao. The text does not say this outright but conveys it through Confucius and Robber Zhi; saying it straight would be too hard to grasp, so it argues back and forth to help readers see what is really going on.

Scripture

Zi Zhang asked Mangoude, “Why not…” (In the received text the line stops at this point, so the full question is missing; all we can infer is that Zi Zhang is asking Mangoude whether one ought to act in a certain way and what it would mean to be capable in every kind of conduct.)

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi

Zi Zhang asked Man Gede: “Why not do what fits ‘conduct’ (xing)? Without conduct, others will not trust you; without trust, they will not employ you; without employment, you gain no profit. So when you weigh reputation and calculate benefit, ‘righteousness’ (yi) and ‘authenticity’ (zhen) show up right there. If you cast off fame and profit and let the heart return to itself, can a scholar act for even one day without doing this?”

Man Gede said: “The shameless grow rich; the overly trusting become prominent. The bulk of fame and profit often falls to the shameless and the overly trusting. So when you weigh reputation and calculate benefit, ‘authenticity’ is right there. If you cast off fame and profit and let the heart return to itself, should the scholar’s way be to hold fast to one’s inborn nature?”

Zi Zhang said: “In the past Jie and Zhou were honored as Sons of Heaven and owned the realm; today if you tell a servant ‘You act like Jie and Zhou,’ he blushes and resents it inwardly—this is what petty people despise. Confucius and Mozi were so poor they were mere commoners; today if you tell a prime minister ‘You act like Confucius and Mozi,’ he changes expression and says he is not equal to them—scholars are indeed valued. So being Son of Heaven is not necessarily noble, and being a common pauper is not necessarily base; noble and base are decided by the beauty or ugliness of conduct.”

Man Gede said: “A petty thief is arrested; a great robber becomes a feudal lord—and in a lord’s gate they still keep men of righteousness (yishi). Long ago Duke Huan of Qi killed his brother and took his sister-in-law, yet Guan Zhong served him as minister; Tian Chengzi murdered his lord and usurped the state, yet Confucius still accepted his gifts. In argument it is base; in practice it is low—when words and deeds war in the breast, is that not contradictory? So the old books say: Who is ugly, who is fine? Who succeeds leads; who fails follows.”

Zi Zhang said: “If you do not practice ‘conduct,’ closeness and distance have no order, noble and base have no rightness, elder and younger have no sequence—how then can the five norms and six ranks be distinguished?”

Man Gede said: “Yao killed his eldest son; Shun exiled his younger brother from another mother—was there order in closeness and distance? Tang banished Jie; King Wu killed Zhou—was there rightness in noble and base? Wang Ji was the legitimate heir, yet the Duke of Zhou killed his elder brother—was there sequence in elder and younger? Confucians polish words; Mohists preach universal love—do the five norms and six ranks still differ? And you scramble for fame while I scramble for profit—the reality of fame and profit does not accord with reason and cannot stand examination by the Dao (Way). I argue with you daily in ‘no covenant’ (wu yue): the petty person dies for wealth, the gentleman dies for reputation—changing feeling and altering nature, they already differ; yet to discard what one does and die for what one does not do is the same thing again. So it is said: the petty person who should be wuwei (non-action) instead dies for Heaven’s mandate; the gentleman who is wuwei follows Heaven’s principle. Seeming bent yet straight, take Heaven as the pole; face the four directions, shift with the seasons; seeming yes yet no, hold the round pivot and turn alone; intention wanders with the Dao—do not turn yet move, and achieved righteousness is lost; all doing becomes empty. Do not rush toward wealth, do not die for success; about to abandon it and return to Heaven.”

(A repeated passage—“wuwei petty person… all doing empty”—same idea: the petty person ought to follow Heaven yet instead dies for fame and profit; the gentleman follows Heaven’s principle, bent and straight both measured by Heaven, adapting with time, not clinging to one side.)

“Bi Gan’s heart was cut out; Wu Zixu’s eyes were gouged out—those are the disasters of ‘loyalty.’ Zhi Gong testified against his father; Wei Sheng drowned—those are the afflictions of ‘faithfulness.’ Bao Jiao stood withered (or Bao Shi), Shen Tu did not save himself—those are the harms of ‘integrity.’ Confucius did not see his mother; Kuangzi did not see his father—those are the failures of ‘righteousness.’ These are what the upper age transmitted and the lower age discusses. Those taken as scholars straighten their words and fix their conduct—therefore they submit to such calamities and meet such troubles.”

(Note: “Zang ju” refers to those who gather by theft; “Bao zi” may mean Bao Jiao, who refused office at the end of Zhou and starved; “Shen Tu” may mean Shen Tu Bao with the jar, or Shen Sheng, etc.—traditions differ.)

Main idea: Through Zi Zhang and Man Gede, this dialogue argues that fame and profit and “conduct” often come to the shameless and overly trusting; the noble or base of Son of Heaven and commoner lies not in rank but in the beauty or ugliness of action; great robbers can become lords, and examples like Guan Zhong, Tian Chengzi, and Confucius accepting gifts show how judgment and practice often clash. It then questions whether Yao, Shun, Tang, Wu, legitimacy and ritual truly embody “order, rightness, and sequence,” and whether Confucian and Mohist teaching really separates noble and base. Finally it says petty people die for wealth and gentlemen for reputation—both alter nature; only “following Heaven’s principle,” not rushing to wealth or dying for success, nears wuwei. Loyalty, faith, integrity, and righteousness, if frozen into dogma, bring disasters like those of Bi Gan, Wu Zixu, Wei Sheng, Bao Jiao, Shen Tu, and the like; if scholars insist words and deeds always match these labels, they can only bear the corresponding calamities.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

This chapter argues that when “conduct” is raised too high, conduct easily turns artificial; when the “scholar” is honored too highly, the scholar easily turns hypocritical. Zhuangzi therefore deliberately lowers outward conduct and holds scholars lightly, so that inner authenticity can be preserved—only then can conduct truly be lofty and the scholar truly noble.

Lü’s Commentary

Good and evil form a relative pair, which is why even Confucius could not reform Robber Zhi; fame and profit form another such pair, which is why Zi Zhang could not persuade Gou De. Because people like Gou De exist, dispute arises in the “No Compact” (Wuyue) passage. Zi Zhang studied in order to hold office and draw salary, so he recognized only “fame”; Gou De recognized only “profit.” “No Compact,” by contrast, speaks of embodying the Dao and keeping faith—on a different level from the oppositions of good and evil, fame and profit.

From the measure of the human realm: doing wrong and seeking private gain, people call a petty person; doing good and seeking reputation, they call a gentleman. From the measure of the Way of Heaven: what the human realm calls a gentleman may, in heaven’s eyes, be no less a petty person; if one simply follows heaven and accords with its principle, gentleman and petty person no longer divide.

Straight and crooked, viewed only from “heaven’s center,” have no fixed straight or crooked; turned toward the four directions and shifting with the four seasons, even standing at the center does not freeze “center” as the one and only middle. That is why the Dao can penetrate in six directions and open in four, present wherever one goes. Right and wrong are originally one continuum, without end; holding the round pivot, nothing goes unanswered. Each person fully realizes their own nature; mind and Dao roam together, and though action may hesitate, it often succeeds. All of this is “walking toward heaven”: not forcing a turn yet naturally arriving, seeming to let go yet still aligned with heaven—this is one’s own heaven, not abandoning the Way of Heaven because of human affairs.

Loyalty, faith, integrity, and righteousness—the world exalts them as “good” and as “fame,” yet calamity still cannot be avoided. People know only that profit and evil weigh them down; they do not see that fame and good are likewise not the substance of the Dao. Hence the “No Compact” discussion returns to this point again and again.

Personal View

(Bsame point as the closing of Lü’s commentary.) Figures such as Confucius and Zi Zhang also could not escape calamity. The world treats profit and evil alone as burdens and fails to grasp that fame and good are not the Dao itself either; for that reason the argument in “No Compact” must be stressed repeatedly.

According to this reading, the argument between Robze and Zeng Shen (or the two other figures named in the text) never settles who is right, which is why the exchange with Wuyue (the clear-sighted figure in that Zhuangzi chapter) arises. From the petty person’s greed for wealth through to the end of the chapter, the discussion never really reaches what “Wuyue” is getting at.

The commentator takes both sides to be stuck on one extreme, so neither truly fits the Dao (the Way). Better to stop clinging in the mind to good and evil, to favor nothing, and let things be as they are—without forcing a line between “gentleman” and “petty person”; let each stay in the proper state of their inborn nature. Why wrangle over crooked and straight, inner and outer, right and wrong? Keeping oneself intact without being pulled about by outer things is what lets one roam with the Dao without losing the way. Twisting natural conduct into the name of “righteousness,” or chasing wealth for supposed success, both turn away from Heaven’s natural order and sink into attachment to things.

Wu Zu asked Zhi He (a figure in the parable who stands for “knowing harmony and adapting to change”): In a human lifetime, almost no one fails to chase fame and profit. When others grow rich, people flock to them; once they have followers, their position looks “lower,” yet being respected even in a low place is the path to long life, bodily ease, and contentment. You seem indifferent to all this—is it lack of wisdom, or knowing but not doing, or holding fast to the Way and refusing to forget your roots?

Zhi He said: Some take people of their own time and village as “world-transcending sages,” but that is pure subjectivity with no standard, used to judge right and wrong across ages. If you truly care nothing for fame and gain, is it again insufficient wisdom, knowing without acting, or steadfast adherence to the Way without forgetting? (This echoes the first question and presses the motive again.)

Zhi He also said: Some treat contemporaries and neighbors as “world-transcending worthies,” with no fixed criterion of their own, and use them to read the times and right and wrong through history. Merging with the vulgar world, they cast off their weightiest duties and highest integrity to do what they think they ought—then talk of long life, bodily peace, and delight: is that not far off the mark? Grief and ease, if they do not show in the body; fear and joy, if they do not show in the heart—knowing what to do without knowing why—even as Son of Heaven with all under heaven, one still cannot escape disaster.

Wu Zu said: Wealth and rank seem to help a person in every way: extremes of beauty and power beyond what even the perfected or sage can reach; borrowing a knight’s courage for might, others’ schemes for sharp sight, others’ virtue for worth—is that not ruling the realm and standing stern as a father to the people? Color, sound, taste, and power attract the heart without study; the body feels at ease without deliberate imitation; likes, dislikes, approach, and avoidance need no teacher—that is human nature. Though the realm is not mine, who could refuse?

Zhi He said: The wise act so that in motion they do not clash with the feelings of the people; hence the foot does not strive. Through Wuwei (non-action) they do not grasp; through insufficiency they seek—yet if one scrambles everywhere without calling it greed; through surplus one can decline; one abandons the realm without calling it integrity—the reality of integrity and greed is not forced from outside but seen by measuring oneself. Some become Son of Heaven without using rank to condescend, hold all wealth without playing with others by money, weigh disaster and fear backlash as harming true nature, and so refuse—not for reputation. Yao and Shun ruled as emperors and the realm was harmonious—not because “benevolence toward the realm” was a fine name that harmed life; Shan Juan and Xu You had the throne offered and declined—not feigned humility that harmed themselves. All sought benefit and avoided harm; the realm called them worthy, and that can be so—it was not to chase a glorious name.

Wu Zu said: If one must cling to reputation, torment the body, renounce sweetness, and restrict nurture to preserve life, that is like long illness and confinement—alive yet in suffering.

Zhi He said: Balance is blessing; excess is harm—all things are so, and wealth harms most. Today’s rich: ears full of bells, drums, pipes, and keys; mouths full of grain-fed meat and fine wine; mind and will confused, forgetting their proper work—call that disorder. Drowning in Fengqi (blocked, stagnant Qi), like hauling a load up a slope—call that toil. Greedy for wealth to soothe themselves, greedy for power to exhaust others—at rest they soak the body; near marshes they choke on damp—call that sickness. For desire, wealth, and profit they pile up like a wall and do not know retreat, clinging to blockage without letting go—call that disgrace. Hoarding useless riches yet clutching them, heart full of anxiety, forever seeking more—call that worry. Inwardly fearing robbers who extort; outwardly fearing bandits; inner chambers like layered towers, outer paths like open galleries (defenses within, guarded exits without)—dare not walk alone—call that dread. These six are the greatest harms under heaven, yet people often forget them and never examine them. When disaster comes, they would spend nature and fortune for one day without cause—and still cannot buy it. Reputation cannot be seen; profit cannot be grasped; yet they exhaust body and will in the fight—is that not delusion?

(Note: passages such as “Is it insufficient wisdom…?” ask whether wisdom is too small to apply, or whether one holds to the Way and simply does not apply it; “inner layered towers and outer open galleries” means fortified dwelling and guarded inside and out.)

Guo Commentary

The main point of this chapter is: only those who know contentment are truly satisfied in heart.

Lü Commentary

To treat “having no surplus yet taking that as already being rich” as an attitude, and to treat “not looking down on poverty and low status” as a way to settle the body and find joy in life—this is what is called “settling the body and taking joy.” Those who take “guarding harmony” as their wealth are born in the same world and the same places as everyone else, yet people look down on this way of living. From this we can see that they have no real master in their hearts; they merely drift with custom. People discard what they should cherish most—the true feelings of xingming (nature and life)—to conform to worldly practice, and still call it settling the body and taking joy. In truth they are already far from it.

If inward distress and quiet pleasure are both left unexamined, if fear and delight are both left unscrutinized, one will only “know what to do” without knowing “why one should do it”—like the common saying about using the Marquis of Sui’s pearl to shoot at a sparrow a thousand fathoms up. Even the richest and most honored cannot escape disaster; how much more so for those who rest content in pleasure alone and do not examine the heart—they too only “know acting” without knowing “the reason for acting.”

Taking “no surplus” as richness means: human nature is often like this—who can refuse it? Taking “guarding harmony” as richness: those who do not know contentment refuse to yield, so they compete everywhere yet do not think themselves greedy; those who know contentment do not treat the realm as their private possession, so in giving up the realm they do not think themselves incorrupt. The substance of integrity and greed turns only on the size of one’s capacity. Capacities differ—so to say human nature is uniformly thus would also be wrong.

Indulgence in talk of “relying on qi (vital energy)”: trusting in abundant assets, in arrogant, full qi, in a plump body and face, and thinking one can depend on such fullness and hold sway—yet not knowing how to nurture life—this is pushing to an extreme the harm of “wealth.” In the end, seeking fame, fame does not appear; seeking profit, profit is not gained. People instead weary heart and spirit and harm the body in contention—exactly what was said above: they only know “acting,” not “why acting.”

Confucius could not transform Robber Zhi; Zi Zhang could not make a dragon submit—if one only seeks “getting by,” taking the straight path where there is no restraint and no far sight, one is inferior before “knowing harmony.” Clearly good and evil, fame and profit are not enough truly to subdue the heart; only de (virtue/power) is sufficient to overcome it—this is the direction Lü’s commentary aims to conclude.

In a state of emptiness and stillness, one sees this: among the myriad things, nothing is weightier than the body, and within the body nothing is weightier than life itself. Yet people today drift with custom, abandon root for branch, and discard what is truly “heavy” and “noble,” chasing only outward action—how then can they speak of settling body and mind and finding contentment in themselves? Where does one begin to explain this?

Look closer: the poor and lowly are wary at every turn, while the rich and honored rejoice in self-sufficiency—this is losing the root and prizing only the branches. So-called “deliberate action” (youwei) is mostly for fame or profit; they do not see that wealth and rank often arise naturally. If one gives up what is spontaneously right and forces oneself toward fame and gain, one learns in the end that one cannot escape this trap.

Ants piled on rotting flesh gather only where it stinks; the gentleman who covers his face with his sleeve, ashamed to accept food offered with a sigh—fish in the great rivers and lakes forget each other, and those who live by the Way forget each other in the same way. Why must one rely on coercion or leverage? The unrestrained delight at the sight of beauty and sound; the proud and extravagant feel at ease once they hold power—this is human nature; who does not desire it? Yet to act for the people and not for oneself, not to overstep law and measure, to keep private desires few—this is the true sense of “contending on all sides”: campaigning in the four directions with the aim of settling the people, not coveting treasure, and therefore not acting from greed; and when merit is complete and fame established, yielding the throne in due ritual, still not priding oneself on integrity.

Prince Zhi sou fled into the red cavern; Yan He fed oxen and declined appointment—was that for reputation? Shun offered the empire to Shan Juan, who went on plowing and paid no heed—was that pursuit of fame? The greedy treat quiet simplicity as illness and solitude as hardship; they do not know that plainness is blessing and surplus is harm. Wealth alone draws disaster most of all, more cruel than other things, yet the world does not wake to it. Those who take quiet simplicity and solitude as their aim see bells, drums, and fine wine as disturbing the Way; they see rich fare in abundance as stirring up much toil and pain. Those who seek comfort through power sink into sickness of body and spirit; those who seize gold without regard suffer worse than disgrace under the blade; yet hoarding without end, worry and fear never lift—when calamity comes and the person collapses, they only wish their hoard were gone sooner. By then true nature is exhausted and goods are empty; to fly hawks again on Mount Cai or hear cranes cry at Huating Pavilion—how could that ever be again?

I. Yang Yongxiu’s Notes on “Shallow Ingestion and Drowning in Fuyu”

Older commentators took “food reaching the throat” as kuai (shallow, throat-level eating) and read feng as “resentful and full.” Yang Yongxiu argued that feng should be read like feng in Fuyu (crossing a river on foot): the rich hoard wealth as if carrying a heavy load—already hard enough, yet they still climb and climb further, which is especially difficult; hence “one may call this bitter indeed.”

He also explained the whole line “shallow ingestion and drowning in Fuyu” with “When dwelling in quiet one drowns; when the body is sleek one fengs”:

• When dwelling in quiet one drowns: Long ease and indulgence in feasting and sensual pleasure are like drinking poison to quench thirst—without water one still drowns oneself; hence “drowning the body.”
• When the body is sleek one fengs: The body is nourished until oily and comfortable, yet the person still scurries in servitude, like Fuyu wading across a river—easy to fall into an abyss; hence “feng.” There is no need to force feng to the pronunciation of “resentment.”

The gist: rich living and hoarding both pull one deeper in—not ease but another kind of “bitterness.”

II. Liu Kai’s General View (Right and Wrong, and Zhuangzi’s Aim)

Under heaven there is no fixed right and wrong; they come from human attachment. Once one clings to right and wrong, fortune and misfortune, right and wrong, tangle together. The Yijing says fortune and misfortune depend on whether “correctness” can be held. People cannot guard against attachment with “correctness,” yet still fight over right and wrong in the world of deliberate action; each thing values itself and despises the other—who can fix a standard? So even the split between Kong (Confucius) and Zhi (Robber Zhi), in each other’s eyes, can be called “robbery.”

Zhuangzi was not unaware that one should honor Kong and despise Zhi; he saw that people could not grasp junwang (equal forgetting—leveling and dropping opposition), yet used clever disputation to crush one another and boast of ability. If one then followed human sentiment to honor Kong and despise Zhi, right and wrong would only stand out more, and xingming zhi qing (the true nature of life and character) would only scatter further. So Zhuangzi used figures the world jointly rejects and wrote the side where they “take themselves to be right”—even a sage cannot win by disputation alone.

In the final chapters (such as “Under Heaven”), Zizhang’s words are judged inadequate, and the discussion closes with the doctrine of zhihe (knowing harmony)—same thread: not to win on branches of right and wrong, but to return to harmony and junwang.

In one sentence: Yang’s note stresses that feng is the peril of bearing weight and wading a river—rich living and hoarding are both bitter; Liu’s view stresses that Zhuangzi uses extreme figures to break worldly attachment, not to fix Kong above Zhi forever, but to lessen fighting over right and wrong and return to xingming zhi qing and he (harmony).

The Danqian Lu cites two approaches to reading the Zhuangzi.

Shao Yao fu (Northern Song Neo-Confucian) said: In the Robber Zhi chapter of the Zhuangzi, it is said that some things cannot be helped and even a sage cannot change them; a cook, even if he does not manage the kitchen, will not run off at random; the zhuzhu (the officiant at sacrifice) will not step over the wine jar and meat stand to pour wine for the host on the host’s behalf—this means that a gentleman’s mind does not overstep his role or take on what is not his to manage.

Yang Zhongli (Yang Shi) said: The chapter “Free and Easy Wandering” speaks of what Zisi called a gentleman’s being “at ease wherever he is”; the chapter “Nurturing Life” is close to what Mencius meant by “acting as if doing nothing” (doing what ought to be done without forcing). Only someone who can read the Zhuangzi with this kind of eye counts as a “master of flexible understanding” and is fit to discuss the masters and the nine streams of thought. Most people in the world who criticize Zhuangzi simply have not understood Zhuangzi.

Taken together: do not misread Zhuangzi with the yardstick of overstepping one’s role and doing another’s work; only with the yardstick of each staying in his place, self-contentment, and yielding to what is natural can one enter the gate.

In ancient times King Wen of Zhao was obsessed with swordsmanship and kept more than three thousand swordsmen in his service. Day and night they crossed blades in the front hall; every year more than a hundred were killed or wounded, yet the king never tired of it. After three years the state grew weak and neighboring lords began to plot against Zhao. Crown Prince Kui was deeply worried. He gathered his attendants and said: “Whoever can please the king and put an end to these swordsmen shall receive a thousand in gold.” They told him Zhuangzi could do it. The prince sent a messenger with the gold; Zhuangzi refused it and went with the envoy to see the prince, asking what he was meant to teach. (This passage repeats what came before and is likely a copyist’s error.)

The prince said: “I have heard that you, Master, are wise. I offered a thousand in gold as a gift. Since you would not take it, how dare I say more?” Zhuangzi replied: “I hear the prince wants me in order to stop the king’s passion. If I please him above while going against his wish, and below fail to satisfy the prince, I will be punished with death—what use would the gold be to me? If I can persuade the king above and satisfy the prince below, what in Zhao could I not obtain?” The prince said: “Yes. My father sees only swordsmen.” Zhuangzi said: “Very well; I am skilled in the sword.” The prince said: “The swordsmen my father sees all have disheveled hair and bristling temples, wear drooping caps and coarse unpatterned cord at the throat, and short jackets that leave the lower back exposed; they glare and bandy harsh words—that is what pleases the king. If you, Master, come in scholar’s robes, you will surely go greatly against his taste.” Zhuangzi said: “Let me prepare the dress of a swordsman.” Three days later he saw the prince, and the prince brought him to the king. The king laid aside his sword and waited with a bare blade at his side. Zhuangzi entered the hall without hurrying and, on meeting the king, did not bow. The king said: “What do you intend to teach me? Was it the prince who spoke of you first?” Zhuangzi said: “Your servant heard that Your Majesty delights in swords, so I come as a swordsman.” The king asked: “What can your sword restrain?” He answered: “Your servant’s sword kills a man at ten paces and leaves no trace over a thousand li.” The king was delighted: “Then you have no match under heaven!” Zhuangzi said: “The way of the sword is to show emptiness first, open with advantage, and strike only after the other moves. I beg to demonstrate.” The king said: “Master, return to your lodging first; I will order an arena prepared and invite you.” The king then had swordsmen duel for seven days; more than sixty were killed or wounded. Five or six were chosen to present swords below the steps, and Zhuangzi was summoned: “Today we ask the Master to cross swords with these men.” Zhuangzi said: “I have long looked forward to this.” The king asked what length of sword the Master carried. He answered: “Whatever I have brought will serve. I have three swords; let the king choose among them. Hear their nature first, then try them.” The king wished to hear of the three swords. Zhuangzi said: “There is the sword of Heaven, the sword of feudal lords, and the sword of commoners.”

The king asked what the sword of the Son of Heaven was like. Zhuangzi said: The sword of the Son of Heaven takes Yanxi and Shicheng as its point, Qi and Dai as its edge, Jin and Wei as its spine, Zhou and Song as its guard, Han and Wei as its hilts. It is wrapped in the four directions, bound with the four seasons, girded by the Bohai Sea, belted by Mount Chang, governed by the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), ordered by punishment and virtue, unfolded through Yin-Yang, held in spring and summer, deployed in autumn and winter. This sword thrusts forward with nothing before it, lifts with nothing above, presses with nothing below, and wheels with nothing at its side; it cuts through drifting clouds above and severs the earth’s cords below. Once wielded, it can set feudal lords right and bring all under heaven to submission. That is the sword of the Son of Heaven.

King Wen was dazed as if he had lost something, then asked about the sword of feudal lords. Zhuangzi said: It takes the wise and brave as its point, the pure and incorrupt as its edge, the worthy and good as its spine, the loyal and sage as its guard, heroes and outstanding men as its hilts. This sword likewise has nothing before, above, below, or beside it; above it takes the roundness of Heaven and follows sun, moon, and stars; below it takes the squareness of Earth and follows the four seasons; in the middle it harmonizes with the people’s will and steadies the four quarters. Once wielded, it is like thunder in anger; within the borders none fail to submit and obey the ruler’s command. That is the sword of feudal lords.

The king asked about the sword of commoners. Zhuangzi said: The sword of commoners is those same men with disheveled hair and bristling temples, drooping caps and coarse cord at the throat, short jackets and glaring, quarrelsome speech—who strike each other in the forecourt, cleaving necks above and splitting livers below. It is no different from fighting cocks; once lives are lost, it is of no use to the state. Your Majesty holds the throne of Heaven yet cherishes the sword of commoners; your servant finds that regrettable for the king. The king then led him up to the hall; the cook served food, and the king walked three circuits around the meal (a sign of shame and awakening). Zhuangzi said: “Let the king sit calmly and settle his breath; the discourse on swords is finished.” Thereafter King Wen did not leave the palace for three months, and the swordsmen, each at his post, took their own lives in shame (because they were no longer honored)—or “took their own lives” means they ended themselves in that very situation.

Notes common in transmitted versions: “Manhu” refers to coarse, unpatterned cord at the throat; the edge (e) is the blade, the guard (tan) the mouth of the hilt, the hilts (jia) the grips—some say the guard lies on the back of the ridge and the hilts on the blade side of the ridge. The three circuits mean the king, hearing what was right, felt ashamed and could not sit still after two rounds around the meal. “Took their own lives” means the swordsmen, seeing themselves no longer esteemed, each ended his own life.

Commentary by Lu

Zhuangzi’s stance toward living in the world is to prefer dragging his tail alive in the mud rather than being the sacrificial beast in the ancestral temple—by this he wakes people to the worldly habit of giving body and life for external things. As for matters like “forging swords,” he never truly cared; he likely used talk of swords only to show that wherever the Dao is applied, nothing is off limits. If one can stop a ruler’s obsession and settle a state’s peril, how could the grace conferred be small?

“The Son of Heaven’s sword takes all under Heaven as its blade”—this explains the principle that “all under Heaven is a divine vessel; it must not be moved rashly”: first show emptiness, then open with benefit, then issue with release, then crown with utmost arrival—that is how one handles the divine vessel. What must not be done with the divine vessel, one does not do; knowing where root and tip, heavy and light lie, and the rules of design and conduct—once it is wielded, all under Heaven submits.

From Yan’s streams and Qi’s Mount Tai to the Bohai Sea and Mount Heng, the text likens the Son of Heaven’s sword to taking the world as its substance; from the Five Phases and punitive virtue down to piercing the earth’s axis, it likens spirit so subtle it has no fixed form and is never absent. Only a divine person can master the divine vessel, and so can set feudal lords right and make the realm submit. The “sword” of which Zhuangzi speaks is exactly this.

King Wen, on hearing this, was dazed as if he had lost something and realized that what he loved was not the true sword. Feudal lords take one state as their sword, so the text uses the knight (shi) as a metaphor—the knight is what the common people look up to: knowledge and courage go in front, hence the edge; purity and integrity come next, hence the guard; the worthy lean upon him, hence the spine; loyalty and sageliness are planted firm, hence the guard (tan); heroes are what he carries into action, hence the side pieces (jia). A ruler of a state looks at whether edge, guard, guard-plate, and side pieces match one another, and thereby knows whether the weapon is sharp or dull and whether the state is safe or in peril.

All under Heaven and a single state differ in scale, yet in both the art of application lies in the movement of spirit (jingshen)—on that point they are the same. When the text comes to the common person’s sword, it points straight at what the Great King loves, to correct his error.

Commentary by Liu Kai

The disposition of things in the world is often to discard what differs from oneself and honor what agrees, to leave the small and admire the large—even to choose harm when it brings gain; broadly, it is like this. If something differs from oneself, one will not follow even when it is advantageous; if one cannot see the benefit, one will not envy it even when it is vast. When Zhuangzi discourses on the Dao, this chapter touches the words of rhetoricians and swordsmen: he lodges the highest principle in what seems slight, and must rely on language before people can grasp it.

Each thing values itself and despises others, takes itself as right and finds fault with the rest; if one stubbornly uses “difference” to demand that people become “the same,” then even the sagehood of the Master would yield before the violence of Robber Zhi. To prevail through what is shared with others—Zhuangzi, in a single speech, cut off the Zhao king’s lifelong passion; that is understandable in principle.

Hair bristling, cap askew, Barbarian-style short jacket, glaring eyes and the word “challenge!”—that is what the Zhao king loved, not Zhuangzi’s own aim. If today one tries to alter their fixed nature and change their usual dress, the other party will only honor the sword that was forged. The discussion rises from the Son of Heaven, passes to feudal lords, and looks down on common people—yet the other party will only admire what is “great”: great enough to subdue all under Heaven, next to win the four borders as guests, lowest to cut throats and heads—and will go toward whatever profits him. The bent of things is no more than this. The sage harmonizes and responds, stores and nourishes—and then the troop of monkeys submits to “three in the morning, four in the evening”; is there not a Dao in that? If one bends oneself yet cannot straighten others, then Zhuangzi’s “Discussion on Swords” would seem to be seeking agreement. “Robber Zhi” and “The Old Fisherman” were not his own business; in the main their words mutually attack, while the reasoning is extremely fine. If one only tracks footprints on the page, how can one know the speaker’s intent?

Confucius was traveling in the Forest of Black Canopies and resting on the Apricot Altar. His disciples were reading while Confucius played the zither and sang. Before the piece was finished, a fisherman came ashore: his brows and beard were white, his hair loose, his sleeves fluttering. He walked along the path to the bank, stopped, pressed his left knee with his hand, and supported his chin with his right as he listened. When the music ended, he beckoned Zigong and Zilu, who stepped forward. The fisherman pointed at Confucius and asked, “Who is that?” Zilu answered, “A gentleman of Lu.” Asked his surname, Zilu said, “Kong.” Asked what Kong practiced, Zilu did not reply; Zigong said that Kong by nature devoted himself to loyalty and trust, embodied benevolence and righteousness in his conduct, refined ritual and music, sorted human relations, was loyal to his ruler above and transformed the people below, and wished to benefit the world—that was Kong’s pursuit. Asked whether he was a ruler, Zigong said no. Asked whether he was minister or aide to a lord, again no. The fisherman smiled, turned, and walked away, saying, “Benevolent he is, yet he probably still cannot escape harming himself; to weary the heart and strain the body is to endanger what is genuinely one’s own. Alas, how far from the Dao!” Zigong reported this. Confucius set aside the zither and stood: “Surely he is a sage!” He went down to find him. At the marsh edge the fisherman was holding a pole and pushing his boat. Seeing Confucius, he turned and stood. Confucius stepped back several paces, bowed twice, and advanced. The fisherman asked, “What do you want?” Confucius said, “Just now the master had words left unfinished and departed. I, Qiu, am unworthy and do not know your meaning. I wait downwind and wish to hear instruction so I may complete my learning.” The fisherman said, “Alas, you love learning too much!” Confucius bowed again and rose: “From youth I have studied until today at sixty-nine, yet have not received the ultimate teaching—how dare I not be empty and sincere?” The fisherman said, “Like seeks like, same voice responds—this is heaven’s principle. I will try to match what I know against what you pursue. What you pursue is human affairs: Son of Heaven, feudal lords, great officers, commoners—each keeping his place is the good of order; leaving one’s place, there is no greater disorder. Each office its duty, each person his task—then there is no encroachment. The commoner’s worries: strength insufficient for the work, official business not managed, conduct not clear, subordinates slack, merit not shown, rank and salary not secure. The great officer’s worries: no loyal ministers at court, the state in disorder, craft not refined, tribute not fine, audiences and assemblies out of order. The feudal lord’s worries: yin and yang not harmonized, cold and heat untimely harming things, lords violent and disorderly, attacking one another and harming the people, ritual and music without measure, wealth exhausted, human relations not set right, the people dissolute. The worries of the Son of Heaven and responsible officials: … (each level rises). Yet you have neither the power of lord or official above nor the rank and office of minister below, yet you on your own set ritual and music in order and select human relations to transform the common people—is that not overreaching? People have eight defects (ba ci), affairs have four pests (si huan)—these cannot go unexamined. Managing what is not one’s affair by force is zong (overreach). Advancing without being asked is nai (fawning). Speaking to please intent is chan (flattery). Speaking without regard to right and wrong is yu (sycophancy). Speaking only of others’ faults is chan (slander). Driving wedges among kin and friends is zei (malice). Deceiving and ruining others is te (deceit). Accommodating good and evil and smiling to what one favors is xian (treacherous). The eight defects disorder others outwardly and harm oneself inwardly; the gentleman does not befriend such people, the clear ruler does not employ them as ministers. The four pests are: fond of grand projects and changing constant methods to win reputation—diao (presumption); acting on one’s own authority and encroaching on others—tan (greed); having faults yet not correcting them and growing worse when advised—hen (obstinacy); agreeing when others agree with you and denying when they differ, treating even the good as bad—jin (arrogance). Only when the eight defects are gone and the four pests absent can one be taught. Confucius changed color, sighed, bowed again and rose: “Qiu has often been driven from Lu, erased in Wei, the tree cut down upon him in Song, besieged between Chen and Cai—I do not know what fault brought these four slanders.” The fisherman’s face turned grim: “You are too hard to awaken! Someone hates his shadow and footprints and runs—the more he runs the more footprints, the faster he runs the closer the shadow sticks—thinking himself still too slow, he sprints without stop until strength fails and he dies. He did not know that standing in shade rests the shadow and standing still rests the footprints—utter folly! You examine the bounds of benevolence and righteousness, inspect sameness and difference, observe movement and stillness, measure receiving and giving, order liking and disliking, harmonize joy and anger—and you still barely escape harm. Carefully cultivate the person, guard what is genuinely one’s own, and when giving things to others, then there is no burden. Now you do not cultivate yourself yet seek from others—is that not turning outward?” Confucius looked troubled and asked, “What is genuineness (zhen)?” The fisherman said, “Genuineness is the utmost of sincerity and essence; without essence and sincerity one cannot move others. Forced weeping is not sorrowful, forced anger not awesome, forced intimacy not harmonious; true grief has no sound yet is sorrowful, true anger not yet released yet is awesome, true intimacy without laughter yet is harmonious—genuineness within and the spirit moves outward; hence genuineness is prized. Applied to human affairs: serving parents, then kindly filial; serving ruler, then loyal and steadfast; drinking, then joyful; mourning, then sorrowful. Loyalty and steadfastness take merit as main; drinking takes joy as main; mourning takes sorrow as main; serving parents takes what fits as main. The beauty of completed merit need not leave traces; serving parents, what fits—no matter the means; drinking for joy—no choosing of vessels; mourning in sorrow—no need to ask about ritual. Li (ritual) is what the world establishes; genuineness is received from heaven, natural and not to be changed. The sage models heaven and prizes genuineness, not bound by custom; the fool reverses this, cannot model heaven yet pities people, does not know to prize genuineness, busily accepts vulgar change—hence not worth pity. You early drowned in pretense; only late did you hear the great Dao.” Confucius bowed again and rose: “Today Qiu is fortunate to meet the master, who does not disdain comparison and personally instructs. May I ask where you dwell? I wish to receive instruction and complete learning of the great Dao.” The fisherman said, “Those with whom one may go—go with them to the subtle Dao; those with whom one may not go— they do not know its Dao; be careful not to go with them, then the body will be without blame. You exert yourself—I go.” He poled his boat away and vanished along the reed margin. Yan Yuan turned the carriage, Zilu handed the reins; Confucius did not look. Only when the water was calm and the pole could no longer be heard did he dare mount. Zilu at the carriage side asked: “You have long served, yet I have never seen the Master treat anyone with such reverence. Lords of ten thousand chariots or a thousand—when they saw the Master, he never failed to meet them as equals, yet still showed pride; today the fisherman stood with pole reversed and the Master bowed low, answered with bows and words—is that not excessive? The disciples all wonder—why does the fisherman deserve this?” Confucius leaned on the crossbar and sighed: “You are too hard to transform! Drowning in ritual and righteousness for days, yet the coarse rustic heart to this day is not gone. Hear me: not revering elders loses propriety; not honoring the worthy lacks benevolence. Without utmost benevolence one cannot defer to others; deferring without essence one does not get genuineness—hence elders harm the person. Pity! Lack of benevolence toward others—no greater misfortune—and you alone monopolize it. Moreover the Dao is what the ten thousand things pass through: those who lose it die, those who gain it live; in affairs, against it fails, with it succeeds. Where the Dao dwells, the sage honors it. Today this fisherman in the Dao may be said to have it—how dare Qiu not revere him!”

Notes (from the original): “Waving the sleeve” is yu mei; “common people” is qi min; “Spring and Autumn out of order” means audiences out of sequence, not matching rank; “two-faced fitting the cheek” means using a smiling face for both good and evil alike.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (Summary)

This chapter shows that even someone with no connection to “rivers and seas” can still, in attitude, defer to those lofty persons who take rivers and seas as their home. What Confucius transmitted and entrusted—was it merely meeting a fisherman? (Zhuangzi uses this episode to point elsewhere.) The way of Confucius was meant to circulate through the six directions and connect with all that lies beyond, so that every creeping and crawling creature could fully express what it holds within; to exhaust heavenly principle and pursue fate to its limit—that is the way of the perfected person.

Lü’s Commentary (Summary)

Confucius took the nature-body as his foundation and, embracing spirit, moved through the mundane world; he was never in the position the fisherman mocked. Zhuangzi wrote this passage because most people who studied Confucius in his day learned only his “traces”—outward words and conduct—so he used the fisherman parable to show what Confucius truly valued was not what worldly Ru scholars understood. Zigong’s introduction of Confucius to the fisherman stands for the Confucius ordinary Ru scholars had in mind. Though the realm is vast, in the end it is still an assembly of “things”; what makes Confucius Confucius is who would take chasing externals as a lifelong occupation? The marrow of Dao is for cultivating the person; what remains—the leftover threads and coarse talents—is for ordering family, state, and all under heaven. If one really did, as Zigong claimed, force oneself to take on what is not one’s proper share, how far would that be from Dao? (Confucius once discussed the “eight blemishes” and “four afflictions.”) With those faults, drawing ridicule is only natural. Look at later people who learned only Confucius’s “traces”—set their conduct beside this, and Zhuangzi’s words a thousand years on still read as if seen with one’s own eyes; to call Zhuangzi a “spirit-man” is not too much.

Note: The “eight blemishes” and “four afflictions” come from the Fisherman chapter of the Zhuangzi—faults and failings in conduct one should avoid. The Guo and Lü commentaries are older notes collected in the Ming-Qing Zhuangzi Yi (Wings of Zhuangzi), compiled by Jiao Hong. Volumes seven and eight are the original book’s sectional titles and add no further doctrine.

Liezi (Lie Yukou) was on his way to Qi when he turned back halfway; on the road he met the Daoist Bo Hun Miao Ren. Bo Hun Miao Ren asked: “Where have you come from, and why do you return midway?” Liezi said: “I am frightened in my heart.” Asked what he feared, Liezi said: “At ten shops where I ate gruel (shops selling water, wine, or broth), five proprietors rushed to serve me first and showed me special deference.”

Bo Hun Miao Ren said: “Since they treat you so, why are you afraid?” Liezi said: “In my inner heart I am not truly sincere and steady, yet outwardly I assume a posture; every move is calculated to please, and I shine conspicuously (what is called xing die cheng guang—the body’s traces become a glare). I use outward bearing to overpower and steer others’ hearts. That makes people undervalue the weight of ‘honoring elders,’ and easily invites disaster. Shopkeepers who chase a sliver of profit from food and drink have little power, yet still flatter in this way—how much more a lord of a state of ten thousand chariots? Worn by state affairs, with all his wisdom spent on government—if he entrusts heavy duty to me and measures me by achievement, that is why I am afraid.”

Bo Hun Miao Ren said: “Well seen! Wherever you go, people will attach to you and gather around you (bao ru—‘protect you,’ in the sense of flocking to you). You need not guard against it on purpose; change your lodging and shoes will pile up at the door.” Having spoken, Bo Hun Miao Ren stood facing north, leaned on a stout staff with its end under his chin, and stood silent a long while before leaving.

The gatekeeper told Liezi. Liezi took his shoes, ran barefoot to the gate, and said: “Since the master came, why did he leave without a word of guidance?” Bo Hun Miao Ren said: “Enough. I told you before: people would attach to you—and they do attach. It is not that you can make everyone attach; it is that you cannot make everyone not attach. Why must you use gan yu—stirring the heart and offering favors in advance—to show yourself different from others? Once the heart is moved by outer things, native disposition cannot rest in peace. None who deal with you truly wake you; their petty talk is the ‘human poison’ that harms. Without awakening, how can they see each other clearly?”

(According to Guo Xiang’s reading: the gruel-sellers’ serving first is courtesy to a guest; if inwardly there is no solid sincerity and outwardly one ornaments conduct, it becomes a show of brilliance—though it may momentarily overawe others, it makes people slight the rite of honoring elders and invites the harm that follows. Even with thin profit and light power, gruel-sellers act thus—how much more a great state’s ruler. Bao ru means the crowd gathers and clings; fail to leave behind one’s “form” and one is bao’d everywhere. Let things level themselves and there is nothing to be stirred, nothing to be sought—then no mutual clinging. Beyond this, down to insects, none forget their capacities yet leave the crowd to itself—only the sage can be “without capacity” and roam free. Some gloss “eat and roam” as “eat one’s fill and roam,” meaning not tied to merit and fame, empty and wandering the world like an unmoored boat.)

Sages wear coarse hemp and keep fine jade hidden in their robes so they may preserve the bodily form and cultivate the way of “concealing the self” (cang shen)—they do not disdain depth and obscurity. If inner sincerity cannot be held firm and slackens, and the light of heart-and-nature and outward bearing is seen and known by others, that is no longer true “concealment.”

“As one eats at ten taverns in a row, half the hosts will offer something first” (the episode in the Zhuangzi in which Nanrong Chu goes to see Laozi): that is using outward favors to subdue people’s hearts, so they slight elders of virtue and esteem themselves instead—misfortune is invited by one’s own doing. Something of the same kind is this: responding only after being stirred, though one speaks of embodying one’s nature and embracing the spirit (shen) to wander in the world so as not to cling deathly to outer things—yet once strange signs show, the hidden use is no longer tight; when others anticipate and move one first, the heart wavers and native nature is harmed. In preserving and nourishing the heart-nature, embracing unity (bao yi) and guarding the spirit, the greatest calamity is uttering petty words when one ought to be silent—like poison that harms others while one does not notice. Those who neither awaken nor reflect cannot be said to illumine and complete one another.

Students of learning add something day by day—more craft and more names and forms; cultivators of the Way subtract day by day—stripping away cleverness until they return to the plainness of “not knowing.” Hence they are like a boat with no mooring line, empty and at ease upon the water.

Jiang Yi said: Human nature is like water—when it congeals it becomes ice, when it melts it turns back into water; when congealed its form does not change, when melted its efficacy is inexhaustible. The heart of the zhi ren (person who has attained the Dao) is like ice about to melt when it disperses, then returns to clarity—what is there to seek beyond that brightness?

Again like water: congealed as ice, released as water—the substance unchanged, the use boundless. The heart of the zhi ren, when scattered, is as if ice were about to melt and returns to clarity; how could one seek anything extra outside that radiance?

Zhen (true nature, what is genuinely oneself)—as for those who inwardly hold themselves in check, fancy themselves wise yet cannot untangle themselves, once external things gather they become glib and sharp, and everyone can secretly read them; like the schemer in the jiang ren (vendor of fermented drinks) story who prizes cunning and profit over rank, who also slight gui lao (honoring the aged) and guard only against the calamity they fear—guarding against disorder. The point is that calamity comes from the multitude: offering the “five drinks” first as a gift is in fact being startled; this belongs to one skilled at looking inward.

“Chu ji” (keeping to oneself) is not abandoning the body; “bei mian er li” (standing facing north) is distinguishing right and wrong before external things; “dun zhang cu zhi hu yi” ( leaning on a staff, wrinkling up to the chin) is forgetting the self; “bu yan er chu” (going out without speaking) is forgetting words. When Liezi ran out barefoot holding his shoes, it showed he had not yet silently grasped the bu yan zhi jiao (teaching without words).

One can fail to lose De (Virtue/Power) yet still not reach the upper De of “bu De” (non-virtue that is true virtue); one can know the Dao (the Way) has traces yet not enter the constant Dao of no-mind—such a person still cannot keep others from coming to “bao ru” (protect and draw near to you). Taking “being unable to keep people from protecting you” as a fault differs after all from those who “make people protect you.”

“Gan Yu” (being moved beforehand) means acting first. Liezi originally did not use strange events to move things externally, so if others came to protect him it must have been because he was moved without knowing it. Once there is being moved, spirit is taxed and Jing (essence) is shaken; day after day arguing with the man at the door who changes shoes—is there really anything worth saying? Hence: shaking and scattering one’s native capacity is again pointless.

Those who associate with you have all fallen into the calamities of the human way, so they do not know whom to tell; that petty zhan zhan (chatter) of small talk—how can it become zhi yan (words of ultimate truth) like medicine? Can one be in tune with such people?

Hence: shaking and scattering one’s native capacity is again pointless. Those who associate with you have all fallen into the calamities of the human way and do not know whom to address; the zhan zhan of small words—how can it issue as zhi yan that dispenses medicine? Can one harmonize with such people?

On a lost path, things and self have no fixed completion, so it is said: neither awaken nor enlighten—he xiang shu ye (who awakens, who enlightens, who is who and who is not).

Following the root meaning

If the inner mind is not sincerely open and penetrating, one cannot hold to emptiness in the center and guard vacuity. Outwardly, if one deliberately shows off brilliance and lets others see one’s tracks, one cannot truly vanish without trace—when the surface can be spied on and polished to shine, one is seen all the more. Here “fang” (warding off) suggests layering concealment and guard like pickling or fermenting; what is feared is abandoning one’s natural nature and only performing reverence on the outside—that is the disaster. “Bao ru” (preserving you) means someone clings to you and uses you to preserve themselves, much like Xiao He and Cao Can in the Han shu, fearing they had overstepped the city wall in going to protect the High Ancestor. “Dun” is read like “dun” (to settle or press down)—again a sense of guarding. “Cu zhi hu yi” (wrinkling it up to the chin) is leaning on a staff under the chin until the flesh creases, picturing old age or affected posture. “Yu” is before the thing has happened; or read as “xing” (nature)—a response already there before the event. So the “yan” (sign) that sets one apart from the crowd must come from prior feeling that then shakes one’s original nature. Do not think no one will speak plainly—even those who are often with you may not tell you. So-called “xiao yan” (petty words) are fine, ear‑worm talk; once such petty words appear, they harm again. “Shu,” “shui,” and “he” were originally words for asking each other; if no one can wake up, why treat them as real questions?

The man Huan of Zheng

In the state of Zheng there was a man named Huan who, at the Zhi (branch) place in the Qiu clan’s domain, painfully studied chanting and recitation; in three years he became a Ru (Confucian) scholar, his influence spreading like river water moistening nine li and reaching three kindreds. He had his younger brother study Mo (Mohism); Ru and Mo argued, and the father sided with the Mo side; ten years later Huan killed himself. The father dreamed that (Huan or a spirit) said: Make your son a Moist … (commentators sometimes read “Zhi” in contrast with “Mo”). It also says: Why not look at his grave mound—it was already the fruit of the autumn cypress. The Creator’s retribution does not fall on the person’s body alone; it falls on that person’s “tian” (heavenly portion, innate allotment). Hence it made him thus. People take “I” as real and set themselves apart from the crowd, and so they slight kin. Qi folk at the well drink water yet still tug and compete with each other—so it is said that the world today is all “Huan”: they think themselves virtuous when in fact they take “not knowing” as virtue—and how much more those who call themselves possessors of the Dao! The ancients called this “dun tian zhi xing” (the penalty of turning away from Heaven). Note: “liang” (or read “lang,” with the sound lang) refers to Huan’s tomb; why not try looking at Huan’s grave—it has already become the fruit of the autumn cypress—meaning the person dies and the name fades; the schools they fought over are empty.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Moaning and chanting in verse” means using the voice of recitation to settle and tune the heart-and-mind (xingqing). Zhai Huan had a younger brother also named Huan; he resented his father for favoring his brother in study, flew into rage, and killed himself. After death he appeared in a dream, claiming he could not only transform himself into a Ru scholar but also transform his brother into a Mohist—the brother was “transformed” by him yet could not submit to this elder brother; though the elder was a good teacher, the younger still died in resentment. Only when sincerity and spirit reached the utmost did such marvels as “transforming into the fruit of the autumn cypress” appear.

From “Now as for the Creator” onward is Zhuangzi’s own discussion: accomplishments built up through long habit are a “response” (bao) to each person’s endowed nature, not a response to some artificial contrivance. Thus what learning achieves is simply completing what is inherently one’s nature—how could it be something extra that was “made”? Each person has their own nature, so they are assigned to practice one path, yet they cannot comply with that person’s true heart.

(Zhuangzi also says:) One who has merit yet lightly despises external things does not shrink even from kin; one who holds no fixation on “self” and keeps to nature as the standard does not lose the proper place of noble and base. Digging a well is for reaching the spring; chanting is for reaching nature. Without a spring there is no need to dig; without nature there is no need to chant. People often forget the spontaneity of spring and nature, recognize only the secondary skills of digging and chanting, and still want to boast by them—is that not empty?

Seen in light of Huan’s error, one can grasp this: learning from the father and following what is so of itself (ziran) is how one understands “what is inherently so” (gu) and Wuwei (non-action). If, in the midst of this, one treats capacities that still belong to natural endowment as one’s own achievement, that is turning away from the Way of Heaven—hence punishments such as execution and mutilation as retribution.

Huan made himself a Confucian while letting his younger brother become a Mohist; they argued with each other, their father sided with the Mohist, and Huan eventually killed himself—all of this followed each person’s own temperament and disposition. If we ask why Huan became a Confucian and Zhai a Mohist, that was each one’s inborn endowment; if we speak of their shared human nature, it was originally one and the same. What the father saw in his dream was Huan’s allotted fate from Heaven; Huan’s allotted fate was also his younger brother’s allotted fate, yet Huan himself would not acknowledge his own. To say the younger brother took the Mohist path is to say Heaven’s mandate set him on that road; when we speak of human nature, there is really only one nature. What the father dreamed was Huan’s Heaven-given lot; Huan’s Heaven-given lot was his younger brother’s Heaven-given lot, yet Huan did not live according to his own Heaven-given lot. To say the younger brother became a Mohist is to say Heaven’s mandate made him so; what is called “good” (liang) is what one receives from innate disposition—it is not something learned—and that too is Heaven’s mandate. If Huan claimed his own Heaven-given lot as uniquely “good,” he forgot that father, son, and brothers are one body in relationship: studying Confucianism and becoming Confucian, studying Mohism and becoming Mohist, is the same kind of thing as Huan’s going to serve as a Bo (Confucian role)—all are the retribution of Heaven’s mandate, while people do not understand what is driving them. Those who help and those who are helped have never had two different Heavens; yet people treat “I” as private and different from others, even despising close kin, as Huan did—how can that not be tragic? This is no different from people of Qi treating a well as their own and fighting until they wrestle each other. In the world, those who do not know their Heaven-given mandate and who belittle others while elevating themselves are all of Huan’s kind. Tracing it to the root, losing one’s true nature as they do happens because there is “knowing” (zhi)—discriminating intelligence; the person of De uses “not-knowing” to preserve the Heaven-given mandate. How much more so for the person of the Dao! With knowing, one goes against the Heaven-given mandate; going against the Heaven-given mandate and turning away from genuine feeling, one cannot escape “return” (fu)—repetition and retribution—so the ancients called this “the penalty of turning away from Heaven” (dun tian zhi xing): the punishment incurred for violating one’s natural mandate from Heaven.

Brief notes on terms:

• Huan and Zhai: Brothers in a Zhuangzi parable; Huan studies Confucianism, Zhai Mohism.
• Bo: A byname or office for Confucians; here, the Confucian path Huan chose.
• Penalty of turning away from Heaven (dun tian zhi xing): Zhuangzi’s phrase for the trouble or punishment that comes from going against one’s natural Heaven-given lot.

Main text

The sage settles only where settling is appropriate, and does not force ease where ease is out of place; ordinary people do the opposite—they often seek comfort where they should not, and cannot stay steady where they should.

Zhuangzi says: Knowing the Way is not hard; what is hard is not speaking of it. To know and not speak is to follow Heaven (nature, one’s proper place); to know and still speak is to fall into the human (affairs, cleverness). The ancients who possessed De took Heaven as their root and did not let human affairs rule them.

Zhu Liang studied the art of “dragon-slaughtering” under Zhi Liyi. He exhausted his family’s wealth of a thousand in gold, trained for three years, and mastered the skill—yet had nowhere to use it, for there were no dragons in the world to kill.

The sage does not treat what is necessary as something that must be clutched at all costs, so he does not rely on force to dominate others. Ordinary people treat what is not necessarily fixed as if it were absolutely fixed, so they easily resort to arms. Once one follows the impulse to use force, one becomes dependent on military power everywhere; when one leans on armed might, defeat and ruin become likely.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (gist)

Phrases such as “settling where settling is appropriate” and “not settling where settling is inappropriate” mean that the sage has no fixed notion of what “should” or “should not” be settled in; he simply follows each person’s own heart. What the multitude settles on differs from the sage, which is why they are called “the multitude.”

“Knowing yet not speaking” / “knowing and then speaking”: though wisdom penetrates Heaven and Earth, the sage does not open his mouth to drag external things along; he only responds to his allotted role and lets each keep its place.

The dragon-slaughtering story shows that what matters is whether a skill fits real use; there is no need to boast of distant feats.

“Necessary yet not necessarily clinging” / “not necessary yet treating as necessary”: though the Way has its necessary aspect, one need not turn it into a doctrine that must be held tight—that is utmost compliance. When military force is placed where it belongs, even if one must use arms in the end, taking “plain simplicity” (diandan) as supreme, one will not perish because of them.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary (gist)

“What is settled” refers to following Heaven; “what is unsettled” refers to being pulled about by human affairs.

Dragon-slaughtering perfected yet useless is like emptying the household; when clever arts have no outlet, there is no need to cling further to practices such as “utterly abandoning” skill—this is the side of “Heaven’s wholeness.”

The sage: when he should stand firm he stands, when he should act he acts; in affairs it may seem that things “can be made certain,” yet in the end he does not treat them as a fixed outcome humans can control, and still attributes all to Heaven—hence “necessary yet not necessarily clinging,” and because he is not wounded by unfulfilled ambition, “no reliance on arms.” The multitude is the reverse, hence “much reliance on arms”; following arms leads to wanting and depending on them, and then ruin is possible.

Xunben commentary (gist)

These lines slightly relax and supplement the preceding thought: the side that “does not settle appropriately” is precisely the state opposite to the sage.

Plain-Language Commentary

New Commentary

When one acts in accord with the Dao, affairs may seem almost sure to succeed, yet nothing in the world is absolutely fixed; in the end everything returns to Heaven. The sage therefore does not insist that things “must” turn out a certain way, and is not wounded when they do not—so inwardly there is no bing (contention, the clash of restless conflict). Ordinary people are the opposite, so bing is abundant: acting from a contentious heart, they seek outwardly and lean on force; those who lean on it are prone to ruin.

New Commentary (continued)

The Dao is the original simplicity of wuwei (non-action); bing is the tool of deliberate, forced action. The sage keeps to the Dao and wuwei, moving with the way things are, and so has no bing. Hence it is said: the sage takes “not necessarily” as the norm, and is without bing. The multitude loses the Dao and acts with purpose, going against the natural disposition of things, so bing is many. Hence: the multitude treats “not necessarily” as “must,” and abounds in bing. When bing multiplies, one chases the outer world along the path of contention—so to follow bing is to be full of demands everywhere. Yet bing is what the sage uses only when there is no choice—how could one delight in relying on it? Once one relies on it, endurance is hard—hence: bing, rely on it and you perish.

Bicheng (Supplementary Notes)

The bing spoken of here is not only spears and halberds: joy and anger at war in the breast is bing. Gengsangzi said that before resentment has even broken out, one is already using bing—how much more the cruelty of blade and spear. The petty person’s wit cannot do without gift-giving (baoju) and bamboo-slip letters of inquiry (gandu), spending shen (spirit) on shallow matters yet hoping to benefit all under Heaven. The form of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) is originally empty; if one is dazzled by the appearances of the cosmos and burdened by the bodily frame, one does not know the Grand Beginning. The perfected person returns shen to without-beginning, gladly abides in the land of nowhere-at-all, like water flowing without fixed shape, releasing into the Great Clarity. Pitiful: your understanding reaches only a hair’s breadth, and you do not know the Great Peace.

Guo’s Commentary

Baoju means exchanging gifts; gandu means writing on bamboo slips to send messages and inquiries.

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

Using gifts to bribe and documents to make inquiries are exactly what petty cleverness chases. Drowning in trivial affairs, one gains only shallow things yet hopes to benefit all under heaven and guide the ten thousand things; ambition is vast while ability is hollow, and instead one is burdened by the physical form, thus becoming confused and losing the state of “zhi” (reaching one’s true nature). Therefore the perfected person is plain and wuwei (non-action), following and trusting nature; what petty cleverness obtains is too fine-grained, while the perfected person rests in great ease and reaches the ultimate.

Lü’s commentary:

Petty knowledge cannot leave the sphere of giving gifts and sending written inquiries—it is like spending spirit on what is shallow and obstructive, yet hoping to benefit and guide the ten thousand things. “Taiyi xingxu” (the unity of form and void at the utmost One) is not something such a person can bear, and so they wander lost in the cosmos, burdened by the body, ignorant of the primordial beginning (Tai Chu), and unable to attain Taiyi xingxu. Only the sage returns spirit to what has no beginning and sleeps soundly in the “land of nowhere”; when they act, they flow like water in formlessness and diffuse in the supreme clarity (Tai Qing)—only thus can they benefit and guide the ten thousand things and realize Taiyi xingxu. The heart-mind as one thing—one does not know its home, and in truth it is vast; yet its knowing cannot leave the interval between bundled gifts and bamboo tallies. Knowing stops at the finest hair’s breadth and does not know great peace (da ning)—how lamentable.

Xunben:

Here “Taiyi xingxu” differs from the usual talk of Taiyi and Tai Chu. In the phrasing, “jianji” (benefiting all) pairs with “Taiyi,” and “daowu” (guiding things) with “xingxu”: benefiting all in Dao and things, Taiyi in form and void—meaning to reach extreme evenness.

“Xing lei bu zhi Tai Chu”: burdened by the body, not knowing there is a primordial beginning.

“Gan ming” is sound sleep.

“Shui liu hu wuxing, fafie hu Tai Qing”: the perfected person is like water, moving without deliberate intent.

“Zhi zai haomao” refers to petty cleverness.

Story from the text (Cao Shang of Song):

In Song there was Cao Shang, sent by the king of Song on a mission to Qin. When he left he had only a few chariots; the king of Qin was pleased and gave him a hundred more. Back in Song he went to see Zhuangzi and said: living in narrow lanes and alleys, trapped among the finest hairs—that is petty knowledge…

(This episode contrasts Cao Shang’s pride in his chariots and contempt for poor dwelling with Zhuangzi’s “petty knowledge”: using wit for gifts, inquiries, profit, and fame, gaining only the shallowest things yet imagining one has escaped the “narrow lane”—exactly what Guo and Lü criticize as “knowing at the hair’s breadth and not knowing great peace.”)

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi

1. Cao Shang Boasts

In Song there was a man named Cao Shang. The king of Song sent him on a mission to Qin; he went with only a few chariots. The king of Qin was pleased and gave him a hundred more. Back in Song he went to see Zhuangzi and said: “Living in a remote alley, poor enough to weave sandals, with a scrawny neck and sallow, withered ears—that was my shortcoming. Waking one morning to find myself escort to a ruler who commands ten thousand chariots, and returning with a hundred chariots—that is my strength.”

Zhuangzi said: “When the king of Qin is ill he summons doctors. Whoever lances an abscess or drains pus gets one chariot; whoever licks hemorrhoids gets five. The lower the part treated, the more chariots he gets. Did you perhaps go to treat his hemorrhoids? How else would you get so many? Be on your way.”

[Guo Xiang’s note] Serving inferiors makes one’s merit look great; great merit brings heavy reward. So those whose aims are lofty and whose temperament is calm leave glory behind.

[Xunben note] Gaoxiang means a neck so thin there is almost no flesh; huangguo means yellow ears and a haggard, wasted face, as if one had suffered ear mutilation. Cuo is also a kind of boil or sore.

2. Yan He Warns Duke Ai of Lu Not to Employ Confucius

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He: “If I treat Zhong Ni as the main beam of the state, will our fortune improve?”

Yan He said: “Dangerous—you will ruin things! Zhong Ni intends to adorn himself with feathers and gloss himself with fine words, take branches for the root, suppress true nature to ‘transform’ the people, yet does not know how to win trust—only letting the heart be master and the spirit be sovereign. How could such a person be a model for the people? Someone like that is fit only to sit and eat with you, Duke; to mislead the world under heaven, he is just the man. Now to make the people turn from what is real and learn pretense is not the way to govern the people; it is storing up trouble for later generations. Doing favors and never forgetting them is not the way of Heaven’s De spreading wide; merchants are despised for it, and even approaching as a ‘scholar,’ the spirits would not approve.

Those who suffer external punishment face metal and wooden instruments; those who suffer internal punishment are perverse in conduct and heavy with fault. Petty men who suffer external punishment are examined with metal and wood; those who suffer internal punishment are ‘devoured’ by the two qi of yin and yang (by nature itself). Only the true person can escape both inner and outer punishment.”

[Xunben note] In zhengan, zhen is the same as zhen (main beam), as in the Book of Odes: “the main beam of Zhou”—meaning the pillar of the state.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

“Ji” means precarious and endangered. For the person of complete attainment, the common people’s peace and quiet counts as great peace; yet if someone insists on being a “zheng gan”—an upright pillar and public model, in the sense of the Book of Odes line “the mainstay of Zhou”—that instead tempts later ages to compete in ornamenting themselves with benevolence and righteousness and to carve speech and conduct into outward show. Once the people are endangered, even the person of complete attainment cannot truly be at ease. Whenever Zhuangzi says “fang qie” (“about to”), he means that later generations merely polish the surface and do not let things follow their own course. Ornate phrasing and fussy, branch-and-leaf precautions are meant to make later “practitioners” hollow inside while stray imaginings burst forth. Later rulers will admire Confucius’s distant standard, restrain their nature and feign virtue to rule the people; above and below learn the habit together until they no longer notice it. Taking the “exemplary common people” as the pattern, later common people not only copy the outward form but also take it in with heart-and-mind and live by it, and can no longer recover self-consistency from their own bodily being. Here “bi” refers to the common people and “nü” to Duke Ai; each side has what suits it, and when they imitate one another they lose what is genuine—that was already the situation then. Confucius’s point that imitating the other is not how to nurture oneself is something one can say only when it is wrong; when it is right, it cannot be said. That is planning for later generations, not only for that moment. Where there is “governing,” there is falsification, so the sage does not govern. Proclaiming and making things known to all is not treating the ten thousand things like straw dogs. Even merchants would not reckon such a person worth counting—how much less the gentleman? If one is to extend benefit, in affairs one cannot avoid dealing with such people; that is not the proper way to nurture oneself. What is wrong may be discussed; what is right may not—again out of concern for later generations. Because of “not forgetting,” heart-and-mind becomes light and careless; that is the great disposition of the common people. Instruments of punishment: metal means blades, saws, axes, and halberds; wood means beating, cangue, and stocks. When one is still and hits the mean, there is no punishment inward or outward. Those who do not walk the bright, open path are called “xiao ren” (night people). When movement goes to excess, one’s nature-breath is harmed within and metal and wood are applied without; only the true person can stop at what is allotted to him.

The Book of Changes treats zhēn (uprightness and single-minded devotion) as the guiding principle for handling affairs under Heaven. All movement and change in the world ultimately rest on single-mindedness. Only through wangxin—putting down selfish distractions and not being tugged by outer things—can one reach that single-mindedness; single-mindedness is what makes zhēn the backbone of how affairs are done.

Those who govern the realm, if they miss this and rely only on shèngzhì (sage-style cleverness) to rule, will suffer the kind of harm the classic describes. The Dao (the Way) follows nature: a swan need not bathe every day to stay naturally white. Treating sage cleverness as a burden is like tinting feathers and then painting over them—feathers are naturally as they are, while painting is artificial ornament. It is like using flowery words to shrink great matters, so names and facts fall out of step. When things are not handled according to nature, one forces oneself to “govern” the people against one’s own nature, and the people do not truly trust such a ruler. Someone who cannot forget the heart and is driven by it, who cannot know shen (spirit) and master it, can only be one of the common people—how could they stand above the masses as a leader?

The Dao is not easily passed on because without a true master in the heart, one is not upright. Is Confucius “fitting you” (yí rǔ), or are you nourishing yourself on your own? Only juéxué (abandoning learned cleverness) and nourishing the heart is the path to single-mindedness. To treat the sage merely as a “zhēn trunk” to lean on is a misunderstanding, not true uprightness. Cutting loose from real conditions and learning hollow tricks is no way to govern the people.

If kindness is given like clouds passing and rain falling, why insist on “never forgetting”? In ancient ritual, merchants did not rank with scholars; seniority followed occupation (shì)—that was ritual adapting. In the original sense of shen, people should not be sorted by seniority at all—human nature naturally honors righteousness and looks down on profit; ritual in truth grows from human nature. To love profit and forget righteousness is to lose the original heart.

The “punishments” of metal and wood harm the body; “movement” and “going too far” harm the heart. The heart at rest and unmoved is what is upright. As soon as one contrives and tries to be “just right,” it is mostly from having no choice—otherwise it is excess. Yang Xiong said: by day people’s faults are few, by night people’s faults are many—“xiāo” means night. If cultivation of the Dao has not yet reached full brightness, one still cannot escape inner and outer afflictions and remains a “night person.” Only the zhenren (true person) stays still; action comes only when there is no alternative, and neither inner nor outer afflictions can weigh on them.

The “other” here means the common people; “you” (nü) means Duke Ai of Lu. Yan He is speaking about himself: that kind of “ordering people about with a tilt of the chin or a flick of the finger”—even when the command is wrong or misdirected—the people ought to forget such things between themselves and not brood over them. You and I need only use gestures and signs; why insist on government orders and written regulations? Even when policies occasionally go astray, they still cannot truly crush or ruin everyone in the end.

Another layer follows: merchants were never meant to stand on the same footing as scholar-officials; even if, in some special circumstance, they are placed together, people will not be happy at heart, and their words will show they do not wish to be treated as equals. Yan He’s attitude toward Zhongni (Confucius) is roughly this kind of inner mismatch. “Xiao people” (xiaoren) means petty, small-minded people—in ancient usage “xiao” and “xiao” in the sense of “night” could be linked, as in the Book of Han: “Do not keep petty people close.” Yan He’s speech is saying that the path of the True Person (Zhenren) and the way of Zhongni are really two different roads, far apart.

A New Account Concerning the Sage

The sage shares virtue with Heaven and Earth and shares in the work of yin and yang: without thrusting his spirit outward, he still enables people to harmonize with one another; without deliberately displaying his conduct, he returns things to the transformations of nature. Deep, still, and governing through wuwei (non-action), he ultimately returns to simplicity. How is this the kind of “assisting the times” that people imagine? Subtlety and emptiness are the sage’s way; obscurity and silence are the sage’s trace. The Dao cannot be treated as an object to “know”; the trace cannot be treated as a form to “see.” If one were employed in Lu and practiced assisting governance, it would mean the Dao could be known and the trace could be seen—and everyone under Heaven would adorn appearances, prize rhetoric, and imitate that model. Then the sage would have no choice but to act, and the world would have no choice but to lose its original simplicity—this is not the right path for ordering the world. Hence it is said: one is about to trim feathers and paint patterns, using flashy words to treat side issues as the main point; and again: such a state is hard to govern. Yan He could therefore understand the sage’s “usefulness of the useless.”

Confucius on Knowing People

Confucius said: The human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to fathom than Heaven. Heaven at least has the cycles of spring, autumn, winter, and summer, and the rhythm of morning and evening; people may look thick on the outside while their inner feelings run deep. Therefore: outward humility may hide inner inflation; seeming elderliness may hide inner lack of worth; outward deference and caution may hide inner penetration coupled with narrowness; outward steadfastness may hide inner laxity; outward ease may hide inner harshness and impatience. Therefore the noble person should: send someone on distant business and observe whether they are loyal; keep them close and observe whether they are respectful; send them on repeated missions and observe whether they have ability; question them suddenly and observe whether they truly understand; set urgent deadlines and observe whether they keep faith; entrust them with money and observe whether they are generous and fair; inform them of danger and observe whether they hold to integrity; test them with wine and observe whether they lose composure; mix with them in varied company and observe whether their expression stays consistent. When all nine kinds of scrutiny are applied, unworthy people reveal themselves.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: What is more perilous than mountains and rivers is treating departure from the Way and duty as something too hot to touch—in human affairs, inner motive and outward show often pull apart, and this is exactly such a case. A junzi (exemplary person) is easy to recognize; an unworthy person is hard to see through; yet by noting what someone leans on, where they come from, and what they settle into, and by following that thread, one can still tell them apart.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: Narrow, petty standing (“yuan”) counts for little and stands opposite to benefit (“yi”); what contrasts with “unworthy” is “superior” (“zhang”); “compliant” and “narrow” stand opposite to “penetrating clarity” (“da”)—those who penetrate are plain-spoken and devoted to righteousness, and so are not of the compliant-and-narrow kind. “Hard” opposes “slack,” “slow” opposes “fierce”—each pair is a contrast, so one cannot judge people by a single fixed standard alone.

Scripture: Zheng Kaofu—with one commission he bowed at the waist; with two he bent his back; with three he bowed low and walked hugging the wall—who would dare be disrespectful? Ordinary people, by contrast: one commission and they grow arrogant; two and they dance on their carriage; three and they order their uncles and elders about—who resembles Yao or Xu You? There is no greater thief than “de” (Virtue/Power) misused; to have intention while the heart also harbors partiality—once partiality appears one turns inward to peep, and inward peeping leads to ruin. Among the five inauspicious forms of de, “central de” (zhong-de) ranks first. What is zhong-de? It is self-favoritism—cherishing what one prefers and rejecting what one refuses to do oneself.

There are eight extremes of being trapped, three modes of penetrating clarity, and six repositories of form: beauty, beardedness, tall stature, imposing build, and courage—these eight all exceed the norm, and for that very reason they end in straits. Following the course, leaning easy, shrinking in awe, and not matching others—these three all lead to penetration. When wisdom shows outward, one gets through; when courage moves rashly, grievances multiply; when benevolence and righteousness are pushed too far, blame piles up. One who penetrates the truth of life appears large-spirited; one who penetrates knowing appears small and sharp; one who penetrates the great mandate goes along with it; one who penetrates the small mandate meets what befalls him.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Who would dare be disrespectful” means no one would treat him with ritual impropriety. “Ordinary people” (fu fu) means the common run; “Tang” is Yao, “Xu” is Xu You—the question is which side, Zheng Kaofu or the ordinary folk, comes closer to the conduct of Yao and Xu You. “You zhe” means “unworthy” (xiao). One who penetrates the great mandate follows along; one who penetrates the small mandate encounters what comes his way.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Who would dare to be irregular?” means not daring to use improper conduct to slight others. The figures mentioned here—Erfu, Tang (Tang Yao), Xu (Xu You), and You—are debating who between Erfu and Kaofu comes closer to the stature of Tang Yao and Xu You.

To set out deliberately to “do” De is not genuine De. True De is suddenly there by nature, so that one does not even know how one came to have it. To act from the heart-mind in accord with De is still tolerable; but when the heart-mind is driven to work between the eyebrows and eyelashes (constant calculation, watching others and oneself), hypocrisy is already extreme. To probe hidden matters and make “depth” one’s business corrupts both heart-mind and affairs alike. Censure and fault-finding work the same way: taking oneself as right and others as wrong means those who attack you will not be only one—thus one becomes a “chief of calamity.” If the heart-mind harbors no attachment to self-approval or self-admiration, and lets each thing be what it is and keep its own place without losing itself, everyone under heaven will wish to serve you.

“Exhaustion” here means exhaustion from being subjected and used—the world is not exhausted in what it lacks, yet it often traps itself through what it excels at. Yuanxun (following along) is acting while leaning on external things; yanyang is inability to bend and submit, clinging rigidly; kunwei is timidity and shrinking back. These three kinds of people are hard to entrust with great matters, so they mostly serve as assistants—which is why the commentary says “therefore one must attain thorough penetration” (you must see this at the level of comprehensive understanding). Wisdom is not exhausted in what it lacks either; it likewise often traps itself through what it excels at—relying on things, unable to bend and hold on, timid and weak—the same pattern.

When wisdom only opens outward and speech only goes outward, the boundless outside injures what is within. Boldness with restless activity breeds much resentment; an outward show of timidity and quiet, by contrast, can deeply nourish the person. Ren and Yi are what the world looks to for love; where there is love, there is incompleteness, so blame is frequent. Kuiran is delight written on the face, excessive in expression; wu is the look of great awakening and release; xiao is dissolving and loosening. Sui is merging indistinguishably with transformation; zao is stopping again and again at joints and limits—only then does awakening come.

This commentary by Lü is saying that people of Zheng Kao Fu’s kind stand in such contrast to figures like Tang Yao and Xu You, whose words “accord with the Way of Heaven,” that the difference in breadth of character can be that great: truly “without knowing, without recognizing”—simply following the rule of the Lord of Heaven. Once selfishness is mixed into De, once the mind has an “eye” (capable of discriminating and scheming), and knowledge is complete, the original norm is spoiled; there is no “thief” greater than this: look inward, and the thief is precisely this self-serving cleverness. When the five senses stir, one is lost and does not return; nothing is not perilous.

“Zhong de” (virtue that carries the heart) means: if De is accompanied by the heart, the heart that has a heart has a “self,” setting self against other; then one loves only what one identifies with and belittles what one does not—and if in these eight respects (the commentary’s list of surpassing others, self-congratulation, and the like) one exceeds ordinary people, the person swells with self-importance and therefore ends in a dead end; if in three respects one is inferior to others yet insists on forcing strength, one appears open and wise on the outside—outward openness draws things in, courage with much activity breeds much resentment, and preaching benevolence and righteousness multiplies blame toward others. This explains that what the world praises is not necessarily truly good, and what it detests is not necessarily truly bad; what matters is “strong practice”—the resolve to forget the bodily form, nothing more.

If while still alive one can reach the Dao, one is what is called “born of Heaven,” with no need to seek knowledge through craft and cunning. To be natural like a puppet is already enough. Between knowing and reaching, one must understand: what I know originally arises from not-knowing, yet people cannot truly not-know—they can only approximate (xiao) it. Fate is what the Creator assigns; Creator and created are alike as persons, so one who reaches the “great mandate” goes along with it and does not resist departure; knowing that success and failure lie with Heaven and not with oneself, one who reaches the “small mandate” meets what comes and does not refuse it.

Following the Original Text

Zheng Kaofu was Confucius’s tenth-generation ancestor; his story appears in the Spring and Autumn commentaries. What is meant here is ordinary people: dancing in their chariots, riding high and dancing proudly, and calling their elders by personal names—addressing seniors by given name instead of title. In the age of Taotang there was Xuyou, who declined the realm and would not accept it; how could he puff himself up over rank and title? Who can match him?

The desires of the five—ears, eyes, mouth, nose, and mind—are all xiongde (virtue turned partial and perverse), and mind sits among them; the mind’s desires are the foremost of these xiongde. Whoever is pleased with his own conduct and blames others for not matching him, who does not measure others by what he himself does—that is xiongde.

Fine beard and tall stature count as one kind (taking appearance and build as excellence); splendid form and bravery count as another (taking martial bearing as excellence). Zhi Xiangzi took fine beard and tall stature as excellence, and archery, charioteering, and physical strength as excellence—yet these are two different things. Together with the six fu (six capacities or six objects of fondness) they make eight; using these eight kinds of ability to surpass others illustrates “exhaustion has eight poles”—contending and pushing to the limit in those eight powers.

Yuanxun means following what is natural; yayang means ease in bowing and rising; kunwei, bu ruo ren means placing oneself below others. These three do not seek penetration yet penetrate by themselves—this restates “there are three necessities for penetration” (penetration need not be sought outside; these three suffice).

The text then picks up the word “penetration” again: those who extend wisdom outward stir often and invite resentment; those of benevolence and duty act much and invite blame. Only those who penetrate the natural feelings of life can stand imposing and self-sufficient (kuiwei er zi zu); those who penetrate in knowing may fall short of that, yet still practice the form (“xiao” means to embody the pattern, as in “exact likeness”). Those who penetrate the greatness of Heaven’s mandate move in step with Heaven; those who penetrate the smallness of Heaven’s mandate may not reach that, yet can still rest in whatever befalls them. So-called penetration is not effort spent on matters outside the person.

Main Meaning as Explained by Fang Sishan

When we speak of “exhaustion” (qiong), there are eight situations in which one reaches an end; these eight are the various limits of a dead end. When we speak of “penetrating attainment” (da), there are three necessary paths; these three are the conditions that must be present when one is truly penetrating. When we speak of “form” (xing), there is the “six storehouses” (liu fu)—“form” means what shows outwardly, and “storehouse” (fu) means what is kept within. The six mentioned here all dwell in the heart-mind, yet they cannot help appearing in words and conduct; they are wisdom (zhi), insight (hui), courage (yong), activity (dong), benevolence (ren), and righteousness (yi)—together called the “six storehouses.” Therefore, only one who is truly penetrating is not dragged down by them.

One who is penetrating in regard to life (sheng) does not fix the heart-mind on birth and death; one who is penetrating in regard to knowing (zhi) is no longer trapped by cleverness; one who is penetrating in regard to fate (ming) does not deliberately calculate or scheming over auspice and inauspice, good and bad—instead one roams at ease together with the Way of Heaven (tiandao).

Editorial Note by Bi Cheng (in Plain Language)

The Wenzi says: When the Dao is grasped by “knowing,” De becomes disordered; when the heart-mind has something it holds to, one easily enters danger; when the heart-mind, like an “eye,” is always seeking, one cannot be at peace. Students of the Way often fear “not seeing,” yet they do not know that “seeing” itself can also corrupt De. Buddhism speaks of five kinds of eyes—the divine eye, the flesh eye, the dharma eye, the wisdom eye, and the buddha eye—of which the flesh eye is on the face, while the rest are in the “heart-mind.” When that “mind’s eye” is used to awaken to the Way, it is the fulfillment of De; when it is used to cling to outer appearances, it is the corruption of De. To see clearly where corruption lies is to see clearly where fulfillment lies—the principle is one.

Then, does one who is penetrating in knowing not also rely on an “eye”? Why is it said to be “unworthy” (bu xiao)? Did Laozi not say: The Dao is vast, as though it has no definite form; if it appears too “like” something definite, in time it tends to become petty and fragmented.

Someone went to pay court to the King of Song, and the king rewarded him with ten chariots. Relying on those ten vehicles, he became arrogant and overbearing, treating others—even those who were like children—with contempt.

Zhuangzi said: There was a poor household by the river that made a living weaving reed mats. The son dove into a deep pool and brought up a pearl worth a thousand pieces of gold. The father said to his son: Take a stone and smash it. A pearl worth a thousand in gold must lie beneath the jaws of a black dragon in the depths of a ninefold abyss; whoever can obtain such a pearl usually does so only when the dragon is asleep. If the black dragon wakes, what will be left of you?

Today the power of the state of Song is deeper than a ninefold abyss; the fierceness of the King of Song is not limited to a single black dragon. That you obtained chariots probably means the ruler was still “asleep.” If the King of Song wakes, you will be ground to powder for ornament—(Note: wei and xiao refer to weaving reed mats; duan means smashing with a hammer; lilong is the black dragon.)

Main idea of Guo Xiang’s commentary: Seeking wealth and rank must accord with the people’s hearts; if one relies on strange talk and odd doctrines and uses the Way of Heaven to flatter the ruler, a clear-sighted lord will not accept it. So if someone is praised, he must first have been tested among the common people; what does not go against what “everyone says is good” is the straight path of the Three Dynasties.

Main idea of Lü Huiqing’s commentary: In the world, those who take risks, scurry for favor, and seek patronage without meeting disaster are all as dangerous as groping in the dark for a pearl from a dragon; even the perfected person (zhiren) is wary and pities such conduct—how absurd to use such a path to lord it over others!

Main idea of the oral exegesis: “Jiao zhi” means arrogant and treating people like children. Wei xiao is weaving reed mats. Obtaining the pearl while the dragon sleeps is a metaphor: gaining wealth and rank is already a perilous road. “Xi wei zhi you” means not even a scrap would remain.

Continuation: Someone came to invite Zhuangzi to take office. Zhuangzi said to the messenger: Have you seen the ox used in temple sacrifice? (A common continuation runs: fed on fodder and beans, clothed in patterned brocade, led to the Grand Temple to be slaughtered—wealth and rank are like the sacrificial ox: outward glory, a deadly end.) Here the received text seems to repeat or misarrange phrases such as “jiao zhi” with the preceding passage; the gist remains the same warning as “seeking wealth and rank is like reaching for a pearl while the dragon sleeps.”

Someone wanted Zhuangzi to take office. Zhuangzi said to the envoy: Have you seen the sacrificial ox used in temple rites? Draped in embroidered silks and fed fine fodder—when it is led into the grand temple to be slaughtered, could it then wish to be a calf living freely in the wild?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Those who take life as joy fear becoming sacrificial victims and decline appointments; when a skull hears of “life” it frowns—so life and death each have their own feeling, and each rests in its allotted place.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Zhuangzi had already entered the state of “neither death nor life,” and even treated death as the joy of facing south as king—the sacrificial ox of the grand temple was not what he feared. Ordinary people endanger body and life for profit, so their conduct turns out as it does.

Zhuangzi was about to die, and his disciples wanted to give him an elaborate burial. Zhuangzi said: I take heaven and earth as my coffin, the sun and moon as paired jade disks, the stars as pearls, and the ten thousand things as accompanying burial goods—is not the funeral outfit complete enough? Why add anything more?

The disciples said: We fear crows and eagles will eat our master’s body.

Zhuangzi said: Fed to crows and eagles above, fed to mole-crickets and ants below—snatching from this side to give to that, how obvious the partiality! Using “unfairness” to seek “fairness” is still unfairness; using unverified means to “verify” is still unverified. Those who are clear about affairs are merely put to use; only the spirit truly verifies. Clarity in affairs cannot surpass the spirit—this has long been so, yet fools rely on what the eye sees to scheming in the human world, with all achievement placed on external things—is that not pitiful?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Trying to “level” the ten thousand things with one fixed standard is inferior to letting each thing return to its own balance. What is called zhengying (natural responsiveness) means responding in accord with each thing’s spontaneous reply; if you respond with what you see instead of with what they have by nature, you inevitably miss the mark. When many people cling to their own views and are driven by others, how can they truly command external things? Only when you entrust mastery to Shen (the inner, spontaneous spiritual faculty) can you reach zhishun (complete accord with what is). At zhishun, nothing goes forth without a fitting response. What ordinary sight reaches is no more than the surface of form; at zhishun, near and far, shallow and deep, each finds its place—so the action arises there, while the achievement stays hidden in the things themselves. If you trust only what the eyes see and hold fast to private opinion, even when you try to influence others you are merely working on the outside.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary: Taking the “One” in which heaven, earth, and the ten thousand things share as the substance, then in life things are gathered to complete one’s form, and in death one is likewise sent off by things—this is no empty saying. If you worry only about being eaten by crows, kites, ants, or mole crickets, you cannot avoid leaning to one side in yuduo (giving and taking); only when the mind is without deliberate intent is there no yuduo. Using “leveling” to seek leveling and “responding” to seek responding—once this mind is present, there is always picking and choosing, and the constant mind is lost. This is zhibuzheng, zhibuping (utmost non-responding, utmost non-leveling): trying to level by a method of leveling, you fail to level; trying to respond by a method of responding, you fail to respond. It is like water: without being stirred, it levels itself. The great craftsman takes his model from this kind of leveling, so with leveling he levels and with responding he responds. People today know yuduo mostly through ming (discriminating intellect and distinction); what they do not know is what Shen does. Ming is only something Shen employs; Shen is what can truly respond—so ming cannot overcome Shen. The foolish do not know what Shen is; they rely only on what they see and impose it on others, with achievement outside the body—how can they return to the root of xingming (nature and life)?

General overview: The chapter begins with stories like “feeding the gruel” to warn against using bizarre talk to win people over. When someone lacks proper guard, seekers crowd the door, yet that still does not truly teach how to “preserve wholeness.” It also treats Huan and Zhai contending, dying of rage, and turning into an autumn cypress: when people turn away from nature, they drift toward punishment; what the maker of things preserves is a person’s tian—innate nature and allotted portion of life. To know the Dao and not speak is to move like Heaven in silence; to know and then expose it is shallow cleverness. Hence the art of “dragon-slaying,” once mastered, has nowhere to be used; relying on petty cleverness is not enough to succeed at something as vast as “dragon-slaying.”

Next, analogies such as “the one who cured hemorrhoids with sweet medicine got more carts the more he cured” show that no amount of reward can truly honor a skill limited to curing hemorrhoids. All of this warns those who study the Way and needles the faults of the age. As for shoring up the state with steadfast talent, it is not as good as being like “Xiu,” who understood that excess motion invites punishment and knew inward caution. Through “Nine Signs,” “Three Fates,” “the eight extremes and three certainties not staying fixed,” and “one pearl, nine deaths and only one gain,” it likens the tangle of dealing with the world: chasing fame and profit invites disaster. If one can turn back from the burden of the formed and guard against the layer where “nothing has yet begun to be,” the entanglements of the human world may lighten; giving up the sacrificial ox to become a lone calf still depends on whether one can believe deeply and practice steadfastly.

The end uses Zhuangzi’s death: phantom form is not worth clinging to; all things must end. Disciples fearing crows and kites will peck the body still see with worldly eyes; the perfected person forgets form and follows transformation, without partiality of “giving” or “taking,” embodying spirit in use and clarifying verification—nothing mistaken in that. From there one leaves the human and enters Heaven, and may dengjia—ascend by borrowing—in the Dao.

Many people who study the arts and techniques of cultivation today believe their own learning is already complete and admits no further improvement. Where, then, lies what the ancients called the way and its arts? Some say: everywhere. Others ask: Whence comes the spirit? Whence clarity? Where are sages born? When is the royal way fulfilled? In truth all stem from the same One. Whoever does not depart from this root is called a person of heaven-and-human unity. Whoever does not depart from pure refined qi is called a spirit person. Whoever does not depart from authenticity is called a perfected person. One who takes heaven as ancestor, virtue as foundation, and the Dao as gate, and can foresee change, is called a sage. One who takes benevolence as grace, righteousness as principle, ritual as conduct, and music as harmony, and is gentle and kindly, is called a noble person in the classical sense. One who takes law as division, names as outward form, verification as proof, and examination as judgment—whose categories run one, two, three, four while officials array themselves in order, who treats affairs as constant practice and food and clothing as root, who stores and multiplies and cares for the aged, weak, orphaned, and alone—all this embodies the way of nourishing the people. The ancients were thorough in this: they matched the spirits, refined heaven and earth, nourished the ten thousand things, harmonized the empire, and extended grace to the people. They understood the numbers of the root yet were tied to the forms of the branches; their operation reached the four directions, the great and small, the fine and coarse—nothing was left out.

Those who understood only methods, numbers, and rules—old statutes, clerks’ records, and the like—were once plentiful. What fell under the Odes, Documents, Ritual, and Music: scholars of Zou and Lu and gentry masters could mostly explain it—the Odes to express intent, the Documents to record affairs, Ritual to regulate conduct, Music to harmonize, the Changes to penetrate yin and yang, the Spring and Autumn to fix names. Such learning was scattered through the empire yet concentrated in the central lands; the hundred schools also spoke of it often. After the empire fell into great disorder, worthies and sages no longer shone forth and the Dao was no longer one. Each person clung to one corner and took it for the whole, like ear, eye, nose, and mouth each with its function yet unable to substitute for one another. The hundred schools and many skills each had strong points and timely uses yet could not cover everything—they were merely “masters of one tune.” They split apart the wholeness of heaven and earth and analyzed the patterns of the ten thousand things, yet could hardly grasp the full scope of ancient learning; fewer still could unite the beauty of heaven and earth and speak for the face of spirit and clarity. Thus the way of “inner sagehood, outer kingship” hid and did not appear, blocked and did not unfold, while people under heaven each followed their own art as a separate system. Alas! The hundred schools each went their road and did not turn back—they could not merge with the great Dao. Later students unhappily never saw the pure oneness of heaven and earth as it naturally is, nor the great body of ancient learning; the way and its arts were thus carved up under heaven.

This is Guo Xiang’s commentary on the Zhuangzi, in substance as follows.

Authentic action and holding to the One

When a person does only what ought to be done, that is “authentic action” (zhen wei). If one pursues the form of authentic action without falsity, there is no need to advertise it further. The numinous (shenming) arrives and shows itself in response to concrete affairs and stimulations, so that the myriad things each return to their root and hold to the One without scattering—without ornament on the surface. This is how the sage king (one who governs the realm by the Dao) “generates” the myriad things and nurtures the world.

The four names as one body

The four appellations—“Heaven,” “Spirit,” “Utmost,” and “Sage”—refer to the same person under different descriptions in different contexts. “Benevolence,” “righteousness,” “ritual,” and “music” are names coarser and more outward than those four: visible norms (ji) that worthies and gentlemen follow. Below that, cross-checking by names and laws is the logic of governing the common people. Once the people’s logic is settled thus, sages and worthies do not go against the ancients. The four names mentioned above have their root (benshu) clarified, so the branch traces (moji) do not fall away. The crux is not in the “traces” but in the intent of “what it is for” (suoyi wei)—why things are provided.

Traces and measure

What can be spelled out in names, numbers, and standards, though plentiful, already belongs to what is “spread outward” (shu wai)—what floats on the surface. The gentry of Zou and Lu can explain these traces, but the traces themselves are not the whole of the Dao. Once the Six Classics were scattered and lost, the teachings of the hundred schools all became traces left by the ancients; even these traces could not be consistently kept, the realm fell into disorder, and people merely inherited the traces without anything to unify them—that is why. If sages did not clarify the traces, the Dao would be hard to articulate; if virtue and the Dao could not be unified, the hundred schools would each force-fit their doctrines. People under Heaven each grasp one corner, each trust their partial view, and cannot take in the whole.

The sage and unification

The sage takes in the great feelings of the people and on that basis establishes ritual and law, so the people lodge their feelings in the order that is taken in and forget their private likes and dislikes; thus they live with the age in apparent indifference (without contention). In chaotic ages it is the opposite: people indulge near-at-hand desires, and every household has its own rule—so states differ in policy and customs differ. Each excels in its own specialty and cannot serve as a constant standard for all; what should apply is not universal, so none suffices to bear the realm alone. Each uses one partial principle and splits the reasoning of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things; the whole person (quan ren) is rarely met, so the broad outline of the way of the sage king is often dim. Each relies on one classic and one law, hence unlike policies in different states and unlike customs in different families; specialties differ, nothing can be used everywhere, what ought to be is not comprehensive—insufficient to be fully entrusted with the realm. Each deploys one narrow doctrine, hence dissecting the principles of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things; the whole person is hard to find, hence obscurity about the great pattern of the sage king’s way. When each returns to the root and holds to the One, that is the purity of Heaven and Earth.

“Splitting” and the decay of Daoist arts

“Splitting” (lie) means separation. After the Daoist arts decay, each side pushes its own method: some make “mastering things” (dominating externals) their task, then things leave their nature to serve superiors—and life and native endowment are lost.

All schools of thought under heaven believe that applying their own cultivated methods through deliberate action already represents the highest achievement; since their methods differ from one another, where is the “Way and its methods” that the ancients spoke of? The answer: it is not that it does not exist—only that no one has grasped it in its entirety. Without grasping the whole, how could the numinous descend? When the numinous descends, there are sages; when clarity appears, there are true kings. The so-called Heavenly Person, Spirit Person, Utmost Person, Sage, and Gentleman share the same basic substance in the large; they differ only in the angle from which names are applied. To discuss the Way one must first “clarify” Heaven—Heaven is what is revered. When clarity appears, the way of the true king can be fulfilled. What is called “the One” is what the numinous presides over; Heavenly Person, Spirit Person, Utmost Person, Sage, and Gentleman are largely the same in nature, differing only in how they are described. To discuss the Way one must first clarify Heaven; Heaven is what is honored. Therefore one who does not depart from the “root” is called a Heavenly Person. When essentials are applied to enter the numinous, without genuineness one does not arrive; the Sage is one with Heaven in the full, the utmost of the numinous—thus gathering De (Virtue/Power) and Dao (the Way) and foreshadowing transformation: this is the numinous descending to become sagehood. When it is embodied in benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music—warm, generous, and kindly—one is called a Gentleman: clarity emerging to become kingship. From the Sage upward one is the same as Heaven; from the Sage downward one is the same with humanity.

Taking law as division so it cannot be violated, name as designation so it cannot be confused, conduct as proof so it cannot be deceived, and verification as decision so it cannot be mistaken—these all have “measures” (numbers, standards) residing in them: those with many measures hold high rank and their effect is great; those with few measures stay below and manage small affairs; the hundred officials are arrayed by rank in sequence, and that is all there is to it. Above are what sages are born from; below are what true kings accomplish—nothing is lacking—so they can match the numinous, blend with Heaven and Earth, nurture the ten thousand things, and harmonize all under heaven; they clarify root-measures without doubt and tie end-standards without losing the Way, are not bound by the six directions, and their operation is nowhere absent. The Way and its methods of antiquity were broadly like this. What is called “the numinous” is what measures cannot fully gauge; what the true king accomplishes is complete in every respect—so he can match the numinous… (the thread of meaning continues from the preceding) measures cannot fully gauge it, and it cannot be exhaustively set forth in writing. What is clear within measures and standards: the relevant offices issue laws, and the state historians record their traces; what lies in the Odes, Documents, Rites, and Music—scholars of Zou and Lu can often explain them clearly. From using the Odes to convey intent through using the Spring and Autumn Annals to convey names and ranks—all are parts of the ancient Way and its methods that are “clear and within measures”; former kings applied these “measures” in governing and spread them under heaven, so the hundred schools often invoked them, still not stepping outside the old Way and its methods.

When there is the Way under heaven, sages and worthies are clear and Dao and De are one; scholars can see the whole and are not obscured by strange methods and odd arts. When it falls into disorder, most people under heaven grasp one tip or inspect one face and fancy themselves—though each has strong points, they ought not to be incomplete; they are merely “masters of one crooked slice.” Heaven and Earth have great beauty, yet (the hundred schools) split and divide it; the ten thousand things have settled patterns, yet (the hundred schools) analyze and separate them. Measured against the ancients’ wholeness, those hundred schools rarely supply descriptions worthy of Heaven and Earth’s great beauty or depictions of the numinous countenance. Therefore the way of the sage-kings grows dim and is not bright; each person does as he pleases, and the Way and its methods are split apart.

Following the root: Taking Heaven as the ancestor, virtue as the foundation, and the Dao as the gate—this is how the treatise speaks of such realms as the Heavenly Person, the Spirit Person, and the Utmost Person.

The Sage is described in another register: taking benevolence as grace, righteousness as principle, ritual as conduct, and music as harmony—using these four virtues to sum up the way of the Sage.

The items above can be explained one by one and layer by layer in the order one, two, three, four, like teeth meshing in a row: each in its place, none mixed up.

Those who take affairs as the norm: each keeps their allotted role, sees their tasks through, and governs their own duties.

Those who put food and clothing first: they take farming and sericulture as the root, strive for production, nurturing, and increase, so that food and clothing are sufficient and the people can rest in peace.