《庄子翼》Vol. 15

Great Completeness and Not Seeking

When we speak of “great completeness” (dayuan juzu)—being fully endowed and self-sufficient—nothing surpasses Heaven and Earth in completeness; yet what do Heaven and Earth themselves seek? They are already the greatest completeness. All things are likewise complete within my body and mind; I need not chase outward or be enslaved by external things. Thus it is said: one who understands “great completeness” no longer seeks outwardly; in such self-sufficiency one does not stray from the Dao (the Way). How could one abandon oneself to pursue things? Thus it is said: without loss, without discard, not exchanging oneself for things—do not trade your original nature for external objects.

The Named, the Unnamed, and the Dao

Zhuangzi once said: what has name and substance is where the myriad things dwell—in essence it is essence, in function it is function; the myriad things arise from this. What is without name and without substance is the empty aspect of things—what is called neither heard nor seen, yet must return to emptiness. What can be spoken and intended grows more distant the more one speaks; what is without words and without intent is what the Dao draws near to.

Zhuangzi and the Ways of the Various Schools

The book of Zhuang Zhou carries the subtlety of the Dao. Its aim is to rescue the undispersed beginning of nature and life, to awaken the worldly—does this not take the Dao as its root? The Dao is like the sea; the sage is like the hundred streams. The Dao is like the year; the sage is like the four seasons. The hundred streams differ, yet what they share is the sea; the four seasons differ, yet what they share is the year. The ways of Confucius, Mencius, Laozi, and Zhuangzi, though adapted to their times and thus not identical, in their ultimate orientation—how could they depart from this? To read Zhuangzi, grasp its meaning and forget its words: such a reader may be called a good reader.

Text Information

Nine Discussions on Zhuangzi, by Li Shibiao (Yuan dynasty, courtesy name Zhuo); “Dream Butterfly” is one of its discussion topics.

All things share one root; right and wrong are originally one breath of qi—so why fix one thing as “Zhou” and another as “butterfly”? To insist that Zhou is not the butterfly is not yet to have forgotten the “I”; to insist that the butterfly is not Zhou is not yet to have forgotten things. Where self and things stand opposed, the ten thousand forms fall into disorder; to say they are unequal is all deluded attachment. Those who do not know that things have no fixed “thing-ness” in the first place—even the butterfly is not “I”; seen from “no-self,” even Zhou is illusory, so how could discrimination still hold? Vividly dreaming, one becomes a butterfly—the butterfly is Zhou; startled awake, one is Zhou—and in Zhou there is no butterfly left. That is what the enlightened standpoint alone sees, while in the nature of things they were always open to being equalized.

Clinging to the body alone and grasping for oneself, one tries to seize all things in hand; taking the body’s “opening” as waking for what is real, and the mingling of the soul in sleep as dream and emptiness, one does not know that a night’s waking and dreaming are nothing but the opening and closing of one form; that opening and closing of one form is the coming and going of one nature. Transformed into a thing, one is gloomily averse; restored to human form, one is gladly pleased—things are not worth hating, humans not worth rejoicing; that is only the endless transformation without end. Once caught in bodily form, one furtively grasps for oneself—it is still the coming and going of the same nature. … There must be great awakening to know the great dream; there must be the true person to have true knowing. In dream one does not know waking, so one does not take dream as delusion; in waking one does not know dream, so one does not take waking as real. Zhou does not know the butterfly, so he does not take the butterfly as wrong; the butterfly does not know Zhou, so it does not take Zhou as right. The spiritual source is deep, clear, and still; wherever touched, there is knowing; transformations rise and fall in succession, meeting each turn without choosing—and yet the heart has never known. Therefore this chapter sets up Ziqi of “forgetting the self” to open the theme of “equalizing things,” and again borrows Zhuang Zhou’s butterfly dream to complete the meaning of “equalizing things.”

Alas—the whole world sleeps; the world is one dream: the catalpa spirit tree warns people in a dream; the turtle of the Dark Lord seeks escape in a dream; Master Yin’s servant rejoices in a dream; the man of Zheng litigates over a deer gained in a dream; Huaxu wanders as emperor in a dream—when dreaming reaches this far, resting in whatever one meets, one knows it is illusion and not real; why should this alone (the Zhou–butterfly distinction) be different? Those who pursue the Way use openness to clear blockages, stillness to gather emptiness, sincerity to give birth to spirit, and silence to turn the light inward—they will see worldly gain and loss, right and wrong, noble and base, success and failure, life and death as truly like a dream; why doubt this only in the case of Zhou and the butterfly? The true persons of old did not dream in sleep and were untroubled awake. I have come to know from this: Zhou (Zhuang Zhou) is not merely allegory.

“Butchering an Ox” in Plain Language

Empty of things by nature; clinging to the solid leads to stagnation

Someone who truly rests in “no thing and thus self-emptying” can move through every change and still stay unobstructed. If you treat the myriad things as solid and hold onto them, you only grow more stuck the further you go. Things were never fixed “things” in the first place; their root has always been free of grasping. The Dao is nowhere blocked—why must there be “cutting” before it counts as cutting? “Butchering an ox” means the heart still sticks to outer objects and is hindered by them, and has not yet seen the ox as it truly is; one rides emptiness and follows pattern, but has not yet used the blade’s edge—cutting the ox is cutting on the level where there was never anything to cut.

Nineteen years, thousands of oxen

Speaking of the blade: nineteen years passing through yin and yang is not short. Speaking of the cutting: thousands of oxen matching worldly change is not few. By ordinary reckoning the knife should long be dull, yet the edge looks as if it had just left the whetstone—because clinging to traces, everything shifts in an instant; operating from the root, nothing changes from age to age. The wondrously still substance does not waver in motion; the empty-clear function does not stain when entering dust.

Blade, ox, agent and object

The point is: the body is already illusion—who is the blade that “plays” the cutting? The ten thousand things are all empty—what is the “ox” that can be cut? Having a blade is establishing yourself in “having”; having an ox is establishing yourself in “things.” When agent and self, object and thing merge, the blade moves through the great interstices (large gaps between bones) and the great hollows (spaces between joints) and things part naturally, without forced slicing; what is “same-natured” does not struggle yet holds firm; the fine channels and sinew and flesh (where meridians and flesh join) fit of themselves—how much more the great bones? Then the blade enters with a smooth, unforced sound without the wear of responding to things; the knife moves most subtly without a mind that competes with things; laying down the knife and looking back, there is no burden of lingering on things; raising the knife and standing, no chasing after what passes. When use is finished, one tends the blade and puts it away, returning to uselessness—so this blade is never harmed.

Supreme Dao in hands and feet

Supreme Dao is not fixed in one place—it is everywhere. Wondrous function is not deliberate response to affairs—it responds to affairs naturally. The hand meets what it should touch yet does not know the hand is there; the shoulder meets what it should lean on yet does not know the shoulder is there; the foot meets what it should tread yet does not know the foot is there; the knee meets what it should press yet does not know the knee is there—heaven’s mechanism opens by itself and each part does not know itself; great use chooses nothing and each part is just as it should be. That is why this blade has “ample room to move.”

The good cook, the clan cook, and nourishing life

Once there is a mind that “sees an ox,” there is the burden of “butchering an ox,” and the classic of nourishing life (cultivating life and preserving innate nature) is already injured. The good cook replaces the knife every year because of “carving”; the clan cook every month because of “breaking.” This blade is neither ancient nor modern—time cannot bind it; neither long nor short—number cannot limit it; neither new nor old—change cannot shift it; neither thick nor thin—substance cannot fix it. Inherent firmness needs no forging to be hard; deep-still function needs no quenching to be bright. Cook Ding uses it as if soil were thrown to the ground; the clan cook always finds it hard going. Viewed through the Dao: where cutting is no-cutting, unless there is obstruction even cutting would not know itself; where obstruction is non-obstruction, unless there is cutting obstruction would not stand either. Seeing the clan cook from Cook Ding’s view is cutting through their obstruction; seeing Cook Ding from the clan cook’s view is obstructing their cutting. Cut and obstruction both released—only emptiness remains.

Zhuang Zhou’s intent

Zhuang Zhou’s underlying aim: through Cook Ding he lodges a step about nourishing life—nourishing life comes after equality of things (qi wu, leveling all things) and carefree wandering (xiaoyao, free roaming of the heart). Why? When each thing is suited yet one is penned in by the burden of the body, one cannot wander freely; when each thing is one yet one still ranks big and small, one cannot equalize things. Then one dulls the blade in the sticky ground of entanglement with things, and life and freshness are easily harmed. Only inwardly without self can one wander freely in self-contentment; only outwardly without things can one equalize things in utmost oneness. Embody the Dao and roam among the ten thousand things—what obstruction remains? So Zhuang Zhou opens with the ox-butcher image, and Lord Wenhui (King Hui of Liang, Wenhui jun) reaches nourishing life through it.

Hiding the Boat

Seen from the side of “non-being” in the ten thousand things, true constancy is deep and still, and from antiquity to the present it has never departed. Seen from the side of “being,” the great transformation shifts in secret, and in the blink of an eye it is as if one had lost an arm. Whoever awakens to this dwells within flux, yet also grasps the root called “non-transference,” and so can follow it to nurture life.

“Hiding the boat” uses Zhuangzi’s image of “hiding a boat in a mountain gully and hiding a mountain in a marsh”: the gully and marsh stand for the work of empty clarity, describing creation without intent; the boat and mountain stand for the formed things of movement and stillness, describing bodies that have substance. The Dao is originally one; the one originally has no direction, yet gully and marsh acquire direction; the one originally has no form, yet boat and mountain acquire form. If one only follows movement and rest within fixed positions, and stays trapped in formed things within empty clarity, then the one (the Dao) is set up in opposition: where there is flourishing there is decline as its counterpart, where there is new there is old, where there is life there is death—pairing produces duality, so forms oppose and lean on each other, rising and perishing in turn. Hiding fire in fire is still one; hiding water in water is still one; hide it in earth and water is extinguished and buried. How much more so when one uses mountain and boat to hide? Mountain and boat already have body, gully and marsh already have place; to “take and hide them” adds deliberate mind on top. The creator originally never yet had things and originally had no mind, and therefore can in the middle of the night “carry them off while they sleep.” In truth, only what “does not thing” can “thing the things,” only what “does not transform” can “transform the transformations.” Change may be swift or slow; what passes in a day cannot be held even within a single breath, so transformation is without fixed rule. Understand this and you know: it is the creator toying with the throng of the animated, and those with mind wrongly taking birth and death as real—when mind is present, the image of things is there; when mind is gone, the image of things is gone too. When hiding in gully and marsh, the heart thinks it is secure, yet that slightest trace never truly stands firm; in an instant, in the middle of the night, it is lost again; one thinks it has gone, yet that slightest trace never truly moved. Only one who understands the “great settling” and holds to it can roam where things cannot escape, while everything still remains there. Where things cannot escape and all is preserved is precisely where the ten thousand things are tethered and the ten thousand transformations depend. The ancients said “hide the world within the world”—that is the principle: the world is the “one” of the ten thousand things, and the human being is again one among the ten thousand things. If one obtains the fullness of this one, one knows that the ten thousand transformations originally have no end—if in motion nothing is not “I,” then from first to last nature (tianlao) is always as one wishes, with nothing to loathe. This joy is not in the same league as the pleasure of “once one enters a human body one rejoices.” The ancients said: the ten thousand things are all complete in me; turn inward and find sincerity—no joy is greater. Such joy the muddled live in every day without knowing. You are an “old person of the morning inn,” wandering with things in the inn of creating-and-transforming—how can you use Zhuangzi’s “hide the world within the world” as your way of speaking?

Sitting in Forgetfulness (Zuowang)

Plain-language interpretation

What is called “sitting in forgetfulness” must begin with where mind and body come from.

Mind does not truly belong to you—it is only various causes, conditions, and habits temporarily gathered under the name “mind.” Body does not belong to you either—it is only the hundred bones and parts temporarily appearing together, like a phantom. If you see that “mind” is originally without mind, then heaven, earth, and the myriad things are all within this one mind—why still deliberately “discard cleverness”? If you see that “body” is originally without body, then the ten thousand images are all within this one body—why still deliberately “cast off the limbs”? How much less need one cast off ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness)? How much less li (ritual) and yue (music)?

If one can truly be thus, whether moving or still, speaking or silent, nowhere is not a subtle realm; going and coming in every direction, bending and stretching with circumstance, nothing is not wandering with Heaven. Who could say this is not “forgetfulness”?

Otherwise, one only dislikes turmoil and chases quiet, fears “being” and delights in “non-being,” and calls that forgetfulness—then even clods of earth and dust could be called “forgetfulness.” Yan Hui came close to the sage but did not fully arrive; he surpassed ordinary people yet had surplus: complying with transformation and returning to emptiness is the sage who awakens to “no thing”; turning with circumstances and bound by things is the ordinary person who clings to “having things.” Awakening to no thing, then nowhere is not forgetfulness; bound to having things, not a moment is forgetfulness. This is why Yan Hui could “sit in forgetfulness.”

Turn back from the realm where the myriad flows change; merge in silence with the root that does not shift in nature: withdraw outside the flux of the ten thousand transformations and merge with the original source that is neither born nor destroyed. Gazing quietly at the world, ren, yi, li, and yue are all empty names; illuminating the spiritual source, limbs and cleverness are all illusory knowing.

Forget things and there are no things—empty names disperse of themselves; forget self and there is no self—illusory knowing empties of itself. The names of ren, yi, li, and yue were never names; only those who grasp falsely treat them as names. The knowing of limbs and cleverness was never knowing; only those who take illusion for truth treat it as knowing. Knowing that body is rooted in non-being, the limbs naturally “drop away”—if one still expects them to drop, one has not left the view of body; knowing that mind is rooted in non-birth, cleverness naturally “fades”—if one still expects it to fade, one has not left the view of mind. When even limbs and cleverness are “without,” where would ren, yi, li, and yue go? Formerly one forged virtue in the liver and diaphragm so outer things all knew it—now there is no knowing; formerly one enslaved mind between the eyebrows so outer things all saw it—now there is no seeing. Is this “sitting in forgetfulness”?

Yet since it is named forgetfulness, Confucius need not ask and Yan Hui need not answer; one neither knows the slightest benefit nor the slightest harm; neither knows that forgetting ren, yi, li, and yue is not yet the ultimate, nor that dropping and fading limbs and cleverness is the utmost. From the subtle angle: one who falls from a cart forgets the cart, one submerged in water forgets the water, a person forgets craft as fish forget the rivers and lakes—all are forgetfulness. From the coarse angle: one who gains form forgets form, one who chases profit forgets truth, one who angrily blocks the wheel forgets the rut, one who snatches gold forgets the market crowd—these too are forgetfulness. If one takes that as true and this as false, the Dao originally has no right and wrong; if one takes that as real and this as sham, the Dao originally has no true and false. The son of the Yan clan merely turned from dust toward the subtle and reduced the solid to gather emptiness; that I know he forgot is still not forgetting. If one advances further on this path, not forgetting is also forgetfulness—hence Confucius said that at sixty his sixty years each transformed, so why must one especially prize the word “forget”?

Notes (correspondence to the original structure; substance already woven into the translation above)

• Zuowang (Sitting in Forgetfulness): The cultivation stage Yan Hui reports to Confucius in the Da zong shi (Great Master) chapter of the Zhuangzi; here it is elaboration in the Zhuangzi yi tradition on that passage.
• Yan Hui, Zhongni (Confucius): Yan Hui was a disciple of Confucius; the text uses the Zhuangist dialogue to discuss depths of “forgetting.”
• Duo (drop) and chu (fade): Zhuangist terms for releasing fixation on body and cleverness, not literal destruction of body or intelligence.
• At sixty his sixty years each transformed: Confucius’s own saying that he changed with each year and wandered with transformation—there is no need to fix on one rigid “forgetfulness.”

Zhuangzi Yi · Huzi (Modern Paraphrase)

I. Spirit and the Shaman

One who truly communes with shen (spirit) is wondrous above the myriad things, yet never displays that wondrousness; those touched by that wondrousness cannot say what “wondrous” really is—only then is it called shen.

The shaman (wu), by contrast, borrows the name of shen and tells people about life and death, survival and loss, fortune and misfortune, longevity and early demise. His hits sometimes stretch to a month, ten days, or a day—looking like “wondrousness,” but it is not wondrousness; it only resembles shen. Since he is already called a “spirit-shaman,” the text also names Jixian—using that name to show: the myriad things inherently have a wondrous aspect, and people can be moved by that wondrousness.

“Xian” here means gan (responsiveness, being affected). Where there is gan, there is mind. Jixian used his own mind to feel others’ minds, his own seeing to mirror others’ seeing—so the empty labels of life and death, survival and loss, fortune and misfortune, longevity and early demise arose. Once names are empty, seeing is empty too; the emptier the seeing, the emptier the words. People in the world who cling to appearances and cannot sweep away deluded views then rashly accept these names and forms and take them as real—so Liezi abandoned his teacher and left. Even Liezi, on one meeting, was spellbound—because he had not yet achieved “carving out the heart” (kuxin, emptying the heart so it is not moved by appearances); because the Way was not yet cultivated to Huzi’s level, he had not yet “cut off learning” (juexue), and so others could come and “read” you.

II. The Gourd-Body and Jixian

“Hu” (gourd, pot) takes emptiness that is never destroyed as its substance and depth and breadth beyond measure as its function. Huzi also had a side that emerged from the mother-Way and responded to the world, so he could lodge the formless within the formed.

Jixian was someone who felt with a fixed mind, so each time he entered he said he “saw” Huzi; Huzi responded without mind, so each time Jixian came he said he was “only showing (some state).”

One without mind moves the body in the realm of the formless—how could Jixian “physiognomize” that? Transcending what can be counted, before numbers apply—how could Jixian “know” that?

Jixian was still bound by form and number, never leaving the place of “seeing,” and truly believed life and death were fixed and inescapable. Hence:

• At first he was shown Diwen (Earth Pattern)—Jixian sighed that he looked near death;
• Next he was shown Tianrang (Heaven’s Soil)—then rejoiced that he seemed about to live.

He did not know: there is originally no death (if the mind does not move, there is no “death”); when the mind dies, there is death; when the mind lives, there is life—death and life in the body are really the arising and ceasing of mind; the arising and ceasing of mind is the presence or absence of “seeing.”

The perfected person is originally without mind: in stillness he shares the virtue of Yin; in movement he rides the wave of Yang.

• When sharing Yin’s virtue, Jixian also could not see him; Huzi had to show Diwen—“wen” is the mixed traces of the ten thousand things;
• When riding Yang’s wave, Jixian also could not see him; Huzi had to show Tianrang—“rang” is the atmosphere from which the ten thousand things are born.

When he showed Taichong (Great Surge), Jixian took it as buqi (not even, unstable).

• Diwen: Yin overcomes Yang;
• Tianrang: Yang overcomes Yin;
• Taichong: within Yin and Yang, neither overcomes—Heaven and Earth in balance.

The myriad laws are originally one, with no high or low; Jixian yet saw “unevenness.” These three Huzi all called “ji” (trigger, pivot)—the subtle point of movement, what sensitive people can “see beforehand” before things appear—so Jixian could “see.”

When he showed “not yet having left my root” (weishi chu wu zong)—meaning still not having departed from my original root, i.e. showing from nothing, with nothing high or low to distinguish. Jixian still saw “unevenness.” These three were still called “ji”—still subtle movement, seeing ahead—so he could still be seen.

When he showed “not yet having left my root” (a deeper layer)—already showing with nothing shown. The other came with solidity; he answered with emptiness; the other received with being; he answered with non-being. The other stirred mind and was enslaved to seeing, thinking there is an end; he left others and hid Heaven, thinking there is no end. Using the finite to physiognomize the infinite—that was almost the limit—hence Jixian fled at the sight of Huzi and, pursuing him, vanished.

III. Liezi and “I”

When Huzi told Liezi “this is seeing my blocked virtue-ji,” “you almost saw my good-ji,” “this is seeing my balanced qi-ji,” every line had “I” (wu)—the “self” was still there.

At “I with him emptied and yielded like a snake, not knowing who was who”, even “I” was forgotten (sang wo, losing self). Who was showing? Who was being read? So (Jixian) could only flee.

Huzi’s heart was greatly empty: in substance clear, bright, subtle, and deep, holding all things—adorned with glory yet not retaining, struck with weapons yet unharmed, soaked with water yet not wet, burned with fire yet not scorched—all because of this one principle.

IV. “Fit for Emperors and Kings” and Conclusion

Zhuang Zhou, in discussing responding as emperor and king (ying diwang), tells this story: the sage who responds to the world is only still and unmoving, and so can feel and penetrate; only retreats and hides in the secret, and so shares fortune and misfortune with the people. Once the root is exposed, the world becomes one’s worry—enslaved by the ten thousand things instead of mastering them—“Is it acceptable to let people come and physiognomize you?”

That is why the ancients who responded as emperors and kings were vast and nameless (dangdang hu wu neng ming).

Brief Glossary

Xiang Wang

North of the Red River, the source holds yang energy yet does not flow outward; on Mount Kunlun, the form stays still and is not disturbed—this shows that Nature (one’s true nature) is rooted in itself and is thus from the start.

Turn southward and one meets the outer world and all kinds of experience arise; turn back inward and one enters movement and cycles—this shows that Nature must return to its root.

Once the heaven of Nature opens, the dusty world rises with it; once human artifice sinks deep, the Great Dao seems far away. What may remain is perhaps only what Xiang Wang (“the image without form”—one who does not fix on appearances) stands for.

Nature cannot be known through another—who then is the one “making” it known? Nature cannot be grasped by deliberate seeking—who then is the one “searching” for it?

Those three seekers exhausted wisdom in what they wanted to know, exhausted sight in what they wanted to see, exhausted speech in what they wanted to say—and the Dao was never obtained. Why?

Wandering dust gathers into clumps, yet the subtle Way is present; tiles, gravel, chaff—all are close to utmost truth—near, not blocked by the space between the brows; far, not apart from xiangxian (before form arises). It flows from the square inch of the heart-mind and runs through daily life: chase it and dark mountains lie ahead and it grows more distant; ask after it and the great block of heaven and earth is not remote yet all is confusion—because “searching” for it never succeeds.

Moreover, Nature is originally without knowing; using knowing to know turns knowing into delusion. Nature is originally without seeing; using seeing to see turns seeing into obstruction. Nature is originally without words; using words to speak turns speech into bondage. What is called “xiang” (image) seems to be but is not; what is called “wang” (formlessness) seems not to be yet is not nothing.

Drop knowing, and what was “deluded” becomes clear; drop seeing, and what was “blocked” becomes penetrating; drop words, and what was “bound” is released—this is why Xiang Wang alone can attain.

When he probes the root of the Dao, as sage as the Yellow Emperor, he still has something left ungrasped; as foolish as Xiang Wang, without deliberate mind he obtains it. When he merges in silence with the source of the Great Dao, one Nature has no nature—in obtaining, one is not necessarily a sage; one truth has no truth—in losing, one is not necessarily ordinary.

Before, when the Yellow Emperor “lost” it, he lost not a hair’s breadth; now, when it is obtained through Xiang Wang, the gain is not a hair’s breadth either. Through all ages, only true constancy is laid bare; in great resonance and great spirit, all is awakened Nature.

Who would have thought that the three’s not obtaining was not wrong, and Xiang Wang’s obtaining was right? So even the Yellow Emperor, extraordinary among sages, still needed the one parable of Xiang Wang to clarify that without deliberate mind one obtains (wuxin nai de).

Brief notes on terms: Xiang Wang—figure in the Zhuangzi; when the Yellow Emperor sought the Dao, only “Xiang Wang” obtained it, meaning not clinging to images and not seeking with mind, sight, or speech. Xiangxian—before form has arisen. Dakuai—the great block: heaven, earth, and nature as a whole.

Classic: Zhuangzi Yi (Wings of Zhuangzi)

Passage: Hao Liang (Bridge over the Hao)

What all things share in common is “oneness”; what oneness shares in common is the Dao. Where the Dao reaches, there is no question of “where it came from.” Life generates itself, yet life originally has no such thing as “being born”; form takes shape by itself, yet form originally has no such thing as “having shape.” Whatever is spread through appearance, image, sound, and color—all of it fully embodies this Dao. What could I find to fault in things? The division of one nature is full and leaves nothing over; wandering in heavenly wandering is free and unburdened. Things and I both possess this—only one who accords with “knowing things and self” will here have someone who, without expecting it, knows; who in the dark aligns with its principle; who silently communes with its spirit—first received by this knowing, unable to escape; one who wanders ahead of it—this is why Zhuangzi, on the bridge over the Hao, could know the fish’s joy.

Coming out to drift and wander, wandering yet diving deep—no worry of drying from foam, no disaster of nets and snares, at ease in the water—should one take that alone as the fish’s joy? To call that joy… (the original repeats here in substance: the fish’s joy lies in the Dao, not in water.)

Qi Xie had already known it—why wait until after Hui Zhou to know? In sum, the fish’s joy is in the Dao, not in water; what Hui Zhou knew was in joy, not in fish. Only when fish forget water is their joy complete; only when Zhou forgets fish is his knowing one. Supreme joy is no joy—the fish do not know they joy in their joy; true knowing is no knowing—Zhou did not expect to know yet knew.

Yet Zhuangzi used this to accord with what lies beyond things—he would have been silent. Huizi was once Zhuangzi’s closest friend—he would have asked nothing. Zhuangzi here was not unable to be silent; Huizi here was not unable to awaken—they thought that without the question Zhou’s words would have nowhere to rest, without speech the wonder of the Dao would have nowhere to appear, and they wished straightaway to remove the delusion of later ages that split “I and things” into two. If one says things are simply things, then Zhou was never a fish—how could he know “I know the fish’s joy”? If one says I am simply I, then the fish were never Zhou—how could they know “I do not know the fish’s joy”? Knowing and not knowing are both fringe of the Dao—hence Zhou asked to “return to the root.” The root was never unknown—an earlier voice put it thus: the eye is like the ear, the ear like the nose, the nose like the mouth—none is different. In me it is thus: see death as life, see wealth as poverty, see Zhou as fish, see people as pigs, see myself as others. In things it is likewise. When it is thus, every thing is utmost wandering, everywhere is the subtle point—why only on the bridge over the Hao? When it is thus, every thing is true joy, everywhere is heavenly harmony—why only the joy of darting minnows?

I know Zhou and fish were never divided—yet when composing the “Autumn Floods” chapter, he begins with Hao Liang… (continuing the above: oneness of things, completeness of joy)… the River God and Lord of the Northern Sea vaunt themselves in the realm of large and small; next Kui, the worm, the snake, and wind pity one another in the terrain of having and not having—how could they know why things are one, why joy is complete? So Zhou entrusted the joy of darting fish to finish his meaning, and the discourse on “supreme joy” was thereby composed.

Those in antiquity who understood “supreme joy is none” often said in their words: what is joy, what is loathing?

Seeing by Clinging to Things, Taking Self as Real

When outer things are treated as objects one can “see,” the “cart” is taken to be truly there; when “I” is taken as something genuinely knowable, “falling” is taken to be a real event. Once knowing and seeing are fixed, a person rides on “falling”—with roles split that way, how could one not be hurt?

Wholeness of the Drunk

A drunk can keep body intact because wine dulls knowing and seeing and hides distinctions: he rides on “not knowing there is a cart,” and in the fall “not knowing there is ground”; the body does not know it is struck, and the blow does not know there is harm—everything holds together as one, without separation. Even when wholeness is temporarily entrusted to wine, one can still step outside birth and death and forget shock and fear; how much more when original nature and Heaven were never cut off from wholeness to begin with? The world is one cart; those who lodge themselves and ride on it, if inwardly they open the bustle of knowing-and-seeing and outwardly chase the stir of illusion, once they capsize on the ground of delusion—it is not only broken bones and shock entering the heart. Open that door and every shape rushes in, like a sober person watching a cart overturn: how could there be no injury?

Things and Self as One

Still, trace the start of form and Heaven and Earth and I are born together; trace the source of number and principle and the ten thousand things and I are one—what could be called “cart,” “person,” “fall,” or “injury”? When mind stands over against things, it opens toward Heaven; when mind and things merge in silent union, it leaves the human behind. Heaven. Strip away human artifice (ren wei ji qiao), and what is followed is Heaven’s principle; when ease and unease are fused into one, what is lived is natural equilibrium (tian jun). Action without trace is called roaming with Heaven; movement without limit is called Heaven’s mechanism (tian ji). Whatever is too slight to worry over is Heaven’s joy; whatever is too slight to boast of is Heaven’s harmony. With this one accords with Heaven without adding help; with this one serves Heaven without being used—this is called “wholeness with Heaven.”

The Point of “Attaining Life”

Gain and loss, joy and grief, life and death, blockage and flow—they view these like a drunk falling from a cart. Tracing Zhuang Zhou’s aim in the “Attaining Life” (Dadaosheng) chapter: where there is life there must be an end; where there is an end there must be life. Know that life from the start has no birth—then inwardly there is viewing without mind, outwardly viewing without body, broadly viewing without things—only then can nature be one without splitting, qi be nourished without drain, De be joined without parting, and one penetrate what things “make” without being enslaved by things. Where is that not Heaven?

Wholeness with Heaven Before Form and Sound Appear

Form is whole with Heaven, yet “form” never was; sound is whole with Heaven, yet “sound” never issued; the eye is whole with Heaven, yet “color” never showed; the mouth is whole with Heaven, yet “flavor” never appeared—this is wholeness with Heaven.

Revenge and the Jealous Heart

This piece first uses the drunk falling from a cart, then “one who seeks revenge does not break the mo ye sword,” then “one with a jealous heart (zhi xin) does not blame a drifting roof-tile”—why? Things were never things; what mind would cling to “being”? I was never I; what mind would cling to things? Self and things were never split, so the fallen are not hurt, the avenger does not break the blade, and no one resents the tile—only Heaven’s single emptiness.

Heaven’s One and the Hidden One

Because it faces the human, it is called “Heaven’s One” (tian yi); nature has no nature—how much less Heaven? Because it faces opening, it is called “Hidden One” (cang yi); Heaven has no Heaven—how much less “hidden”? Awaken to this, and one can meet the subtle intent of “Attaining Life.”

The Art of the Dao

Fangzhi (here possibly a chapter title or author’s name) asked someone who spoke of the Dao: Where exactly is the Dao? The reply was: To say it is there is as if it were not; yet if you insist on fixing it as “being,” is that right? The ancients already said: The Dao in antiquity is not exhausted by the name “antiquity” alone; the Dao today is not exhausted by the name “today” alone; the Dao in yin is not exhausted by “yin”; the Dao in yang is not exhausted by “yang.” At a distance it does not fail to reach the subtlety of life because it is far; up close it does not leave the space between eyebrow and eyelash. On high it stands first like the great image (the emblem of the great Dao); when gathered it flows forth and completes the myriad things; when dispersed it withdraws and returns to a single hair’s breadth. Is the Dao really only in “being”? If you insist on fixing it as “non-being,” is that right? The ancients also said: The Dao in heaven—heaven is heaven because of it; the Dao on earth—earth is earth because of it; in a valley it fills the valley, in a pit it fills the pit; the Dao is also in ants and in broken tiles. Is the Dao really only in “non-being”? “Non-being” is not absent—what we call “non-being” by name is not the hollow “nothing” of the label; “being” is not absent—what we call “being” by name is not the isolated “something” of the label. Between “being there” and “not being there,” neither being nor non-being can be pinned down by a single name.

In former times, those who understood the wonder of “being there” and penetrated all under heaven did not dare compare it with shapes and numbers (outward form and measure), did not dare to view it askance through boundaries and borders (limits and territorial lines). It runs through past and present as one body, enters every kind of difference and remains one—forced to name it, one might call it the great wholeness (the integrated Dao) that the ancients embodied. It is like one moon reflected in ten thousand streams; ten thousand openings roaring in anger—all one wind stirring them; the forest of forms—all one qi gathered; the tangle of things—all one Dao as source. Spirits descend and appear because of it; emperors are formed and accomplished because of it; heaven and humanity do not stray from the root (the fundamental) because of it. Spiritual persons obtain it and do not leave essence (jing); perfected persons obtain it and do not leave the true. Sages transform by means of it; gentlemen are humane and kind by means of it; standards of law, conduct, and measure become law by means of it; the texts of the classics, poetry, rites, and music stand by means of it. The ancients took this as the “art of the Dao”—not piled-up tricks in the mind, so it cannot be called “mind-craft”; not hollowed out in cleverness, so it cannot be called “clever-craft”; not contrivance, so it cannot be called “contrivance-craft”; not mere skill, so it cannot be called “technique.” That this “art” is called the Dao is because it covers everything and reaches everywhere.

Alas, after the great wholeness (the integrated Dao) was scattered and split by the Daode classic alone, the hundred schools and masters each clung to one corner of what they saw, thinking the art of the Dao lay only in their own house. Some sang neither in life nor wept in death—Mo Di and Qin Guli (figures associated with Mohism) were pleased by that wind, yet it was “too much for others, too little for oneself”; Song Xing and Yin Wenzi were pleased by that wind, yet they stuck to “sneering condescension” (light arrogance and lack of bearing). Others took humility outwardly and emptiness inwardly—Guan Yin and Laozi were pleased by that wind. These several houses, some stuck in the Dao through solitary rigidity and inability to bear the world, some through loud, unyielding clamor, some through doctrines of life and death, some through vast but empty domains. Counted up, their “arts” within the Dao are as small as an empty valley in a great marsh, as few as a grain of fine rice in the great granary, as slight as a pebble on Mount Tai or a tip of hair on a horse’s body. From what each saw, they differed; from the one Dao they jointly upheld, they did not know they differed. Why? One pebble with Mount Tai alike makes a “body”; one grain of fine rice with a full store alike makes a “number”; one hollow valley with a great marsh shares “emptiness”; one hair’s tip with a horse’s body shares “completeness.” Though the hundred schools split the Dao in many directions, on the whole they never truly left it.

Ah! Without the hundred schools one would not see the great wholeness; without the great wholeness the hundred schools could not stand—their root is one. Those who dwell all day in the great wholeness without knowing it are the common people; those who seek the great wholeness but have not yet reached it are the worthy; those who have reached it, efface their traces, and merge with the great wholeness are sages. Yao and Shun passed it on—that is what they passed; Yu and Tang succeeded—that is what they succeeded; the Duke of Zhou looked up and thought—that is what he thought; Confucius immersed his heart—that is what he immersed; Mencius nourished the vast flood-like qi (Haoran zhi qi)—that is what he nourished; Yi Yin awoke first—that is what he awoke to. Zhuang Zhou’s book ends in this chapter, deeply wrapping the root of the great Dao, forcefully clearing away the obscurations of the hundred schools, yet finally with “far-flung and unfathomable” discourse and words without shore or limit, placing himself last among these masters—deeply striking at the trace of his own writing to sanctify all under heaven and ages to come. Who still says Zhuang Zhou was obscured by heaven and was merely a one-sided master?

(The closing section in transmitted texts often repeats and corrupts; the gist remains: without the hundred schools one does not see the great wholeness, without the great wholeness the hundred schools do not stand—they share one origin; common people, the worthy, and sages, with Yao, Shun, Yu, Tang, the Duke of Zhou, Confucius, Mencius, and Yi Yin in one line, all return to this wholeness; Zhuangzi’s book concludes on “the art of the Dao,” weighing the schools by the integrated Dao, placing himself after the other masters while aiming to adjudicate the hundred schools fairly.)

Zhuangzi Yi (Wings of Zhuangzi) — Appendix

This is the appendix at the end of the book titled Zhuangzi Yi, in the context of editing and compiling Daoist and classical Daoist (Daojia) texts. In Zhuangzi Yi, yi means “wings” or “support”—a work that assists the original Zhuangzi by collecting, annotating, or explaining material beyond the core classic. Editions may differ in editor and date, but the title pattern is the same. An appendix comes after the main text and often holds collation notes, prefaces and postscripts, extra tables of contents, source citations, or editorial remarks—material the main text does not carry, to help readers see how the whole book is organized. What you gave is only a section label, not the appendix’s actual wording, so the appendix cannot be explained line by line. To put it in plain language, you would need the appendix’s real paragraphs.