《庄子翼》Vol. 3

De (virtue, the state of alignment with the Way) must rest on xu (empty clarity, non-clinging) to count as true De. When a room is empty, light enters; when the heart is empty, the Dao (the fundamental principle of the cosmos) gathers. This is not deliberately chasing auspiciousness—yet auspiciousness becomes greatest of all.

When people are driven by human artifice, there is a “self,” so falsity comes easily; when driven by Heaven (nature, what is so of itself), there is no “self,” so falseness is hard. Wisdom does not rely on petty cleverness—just as walking needs no name for “stepping,” and flight needs no name for “wings”: Heaven is what walks, Heaven is what flies. This is what is called xu: when the room is empty, whiteness arises; when the heart is empty, the Dao gathers. One does not force auspiciousness, yet auspiciousness is beyond measure.

If people settle body and mind yet leave this layer of xu, they have nowhere to rest and the heart still will not stay still—is this not zuochi (the body sits while the mind races)? Zuochi is like luchen (drowning on dry land—the body is on land but the mind is submerged): the heart could stop of itself, yet one forcibly holds to “not stopping,” like a horse tied at the manger while thoughts gallop a thousand leagues away; even with folded hands sitting silently in mountains and forests, one only adds vexation.

When ear and eye turn inward, outward hearing and seeing grow less; when the heart guards zhi (aware knowing) without reckless thought, reckless action grows less. Only then can one speak of xu—ghosts and spirits will come and attach, how much more so people. Thus the sage can “command the transforming of the myriad things” without being transformed by things—this is the way the ancient sages followed all their lives.

Note: This passage belongs to Zhuangzi Yi’s exposition of xu, zuochi, and related themes; it aligns with passages such as “when the empty room produces whiteness” and “sitting in agitation” in Zhuangzi, “Human Affairs in the World.” The closing line appears to discuss the sage’s “self-transformation” rather than being “transformed by things,” close to formulations in the received Zhuangzi.

Plain-Language Commentary

Ye Gao, lord of Ye in Chu (personal name Zhuliang), was about to go on a mission to Qi and came to ask Confucius. He said: “The king of Chu has sent me as envoy, and the burden is heavy. Qi will probably treat the messenger with respect but will not hurry to get down to business. Ordinary people are hard enough to deal with—how much more a great feudal state? I am very afraid. You once said to Zhuliang: ‘In affairs great or small, few succeed without relying on human ties and mutual rapport; if the affair fails, there is sure to be trouble in human relations; if it succeeds, there may be further trouble from imbalance of yin and yang, weariness, and the like. Only a person of virtue can finish without being haunted by these afterward, whether the affair succeeds or fails.’ I eat only coarse food and do not seek fine flavors; I drink without seeking pure water. Yet today I received my orders in the morning and by evening I want iced water—I am agitated inside. Has my inner balance already slipped? Before I have even touched the real situation, I am already worried that success and failure both bring aftermath. If it fails, there is trouble in human relations; if it succeeds, there is trouble from yin and yang—that is two lines of worry. As minister and subject, one is already in a position where one cannot refuse; one can only follow the reason of the affair and forget one’s own safety—how can one still cling to fear of death? Sir, do you think one can act in this way?”

Confucius said: “Under heaven there are two great constraints: one is ming (one’s allotted lot, what must be so), one is yi (what one ought to do, proper bounds). Loving one’s parents is ming—you cannot undo or cast it off; serving one’s lord as subject is yi—there is nowhere that is not “lord,” and one cannot escape that name under heaven. These two are called the great constraints. Therefore to serve parents and be at peace in any circumstance is the height of filial piety; to serve one’s lord and be at peace in whatever task is the height of loyalty; to treat one’s own inner state so that joy and sorrow do not shift lightly with outer things, and to accept what cannot be helped with calm—as if following ming—is the height of virtue. As minister and as son, one is already in the unavoidable; to follow the reason of the affair and forget oneself—how can one still care to love life and hate death? If you go in this spirit, it will do. Allow me to complete what I have heard in answer to your question.”

“In all dealings, those close at hand tend to be bound by mutual trust; those far apart tend to rely on words to show loyalty. Once words are spoken, they are hard to keep from spreading. To relay words when both sides are pleased or when both are angry is the hardest thing under heaven. When both are pleased, the words often swell with excessive praise; when both are angry, they often swell with excessive blame. Words that swell are mostly empty; if empty words are taken as true, the one who passed them on comes to harm. Hence the old saying: pass only what is ordinary and reliable; do not pass inflated praise or blame—that is closest to keeping oneself whole. To relay words when both sides are pleased or both angry is the hardest thing under heaven. When both are pleased, there is sure to be much inflated praise; when both are angry, much inflated blame. Inflated words are mostly empty; if the empty is believed, the messenger invites disaster. Hence the old saying: pass only what is ordinary; do not pass inflated words—that is closest to preservation.”

The King of Chu sent Yan He as envoy and treated him with the utmost courtesy because he valued the messenger and had something to ask of the other side. Outward respect without pressing him was meant to keep the other party from returning only empty politeness and refusing to agree quickly.

Whether the matter was large or small, Yan He felt he had to speak up and see it through on almost every point before he could rest easy—this was what Confucius had warned him about. If the business failed, there was trouble in human relations; someone who treats “getting it done” as joy will grow angry when it fails, and the King of Chu was no exception. When it succeeded, there was still the “affliction of yin and yang”: the pressure of worldly affairs seemed to lift, yet joy and fear fought in the heart, as if ice and fire were knotted together in the five viscera. To leave success and failure to outer conditions and not let the heart be stirred—only one with De can do that. If one still clings to the idea of “no desire, pure stillness,” yet facing fire does not wish for coolness, it shows the hospitality was already spare; when food is meager and the heart still frets like drinking ice, that is genuine worry that the task may fail, not greed for the palate. Before completion, one fears failure; once it truly fails, dread coils within and punishment falls without. Neither case can be undone in the heart—it naturally knots into death and cannot be untied.

Between heaven and earth, nothing escapes this. When a thousand people gather, there cannot fail to be one who leads, or there is disorder or dispersal. Many worthies are not enough to establish several rulers; with no worthies, one still cannot say there should be no ruler—this is the way of heaven and human affairs, a necessary order. If the ruler could be evaded and kinship dissolved, it would not deserve to be called the “great admonition.” The great admonition is to know that what cannot be helped is fate (ming); accepting fate, there is neither sorrow nor joy—why impose further calculations of “how things ought to be”? Therefore, calmly taking what one meets as fate, not scheming wrongly amid it, uniting with ultimate appropriateness, the heart knows neither gladness nor grief; where ordinary affairs go smoothly without forcing, how much more when serving a lord or serving parents.

Events have what must arrive; principle has what always holds. As minister and as child, entrusting what falls to one’s role to principle—affairs can be completed, and there has never been a case where the person did not survive; why fix the mind only on “preserving the body”? If faith in the Way is not firm, if likes and dislikes remain in the heart and one cannot go together with ultimate appropriateness, yet one seeks life and fears death, one will not see affairs through. In close dealings, trust must make both sides submit: proximity allows contact, and trust tests and binds them in affection. At a distance, loyalty must be shown in words: separation can only convey intent through speech. If words of joy or anger exceed the facts, the go-between should keep both sides from losing the mean—not easy. For every excess of praise, reckless speech, suspicion, words not truly theirs, or flattery put forward by sycophants, doubt without cause. The messenger brings disaster: once words leave the mouth they spread; excessive speech seems absurd, the listener doubts, and the bearer unfairly carries the weight of guilt. Invoke “lawful speech” (fayan)—speech accord with reason and what can be verified: though one hears momentary excess, do not pass it on; only when one praises their usual disposition and demands their sincere intent does one approach completeness.

Note by Xuxi: Few would deny that joy and fulfillment come from aligning with the Dao; without that alignment, no one truly reaches a satisfying completion without regret. As for “nourishment”—keeping to plain food and guarding against desire, calling it labor and hardship—if one was never seeking the world in the first place, the same should hold toward one’s family: why torment oneself inwardly as if “drinking ice”? Only when one chases profit in outward things does worry cling, desire miss its mark, and anxiety cut deep.

Bicheng: What Duke Ye (Lord Gao of Ye) worried about was benefit and harm; harm at its extreme is nothing but death, so Confucius settled his doubt by speaking of life and death. Those who preach loyalty and filial piety can still find words; but “serving one’s own mind”—joy and grief not easily imposed on the person beforehand—is harder to put into language. For when one serves the mind, one forgets the body; when the body is forgotten, joy and grief have no foothold to go astray—how could they be laid on the person in advance? Hence the conclusion: follow the truth of the affair and forget oneself—where is there room to delight in life and hate death? To delight in life and hate death is precisely what is meant by joy and grief. To know what cannot be done and yet rest in fate as destiny—Xuxi calls this line open-handed and lucid, with force to spare in the argument; “what cannot be done” here is not collapse, but resolution of this kind.

(The passage cited is likely a wing-note to the Zhuangzi episode in which Duke Ye asks about Gao, and Zhongni discusses “serving the mind” and “joy and grief”; where characters are corrupt or missing, sense is restored by context.)

Those who rely on cunning and force often start out as if in broad daylight, open and aboveboard, yet in the end they frequently slide into dark, crooked paths; when things reach their peak, odd tricks and flashy moves multiply. Drinking by ritual rules begins with order and ends mostly in chaos; most things follow this pattern—at first people still keep faith and speak plainly, but at the finish they easily look down on one another. What starts simple often ends in uproar.

Words stir waves like wind on water; actions easily lose solid gain and one’s true aim. Once the waves rise, real loss is close behind, so anger often has no proper cause, and clever argument is mostly one-sided rhetoric. When a beast is about to die, it no longer picks its cry; breath fu (bursts out fiercely), and then a harsh, cutting heart arises together. When things reach tai zhi (extreme fullness, going too far), unworthy motives are sure to answer—and the person does not notice where they came from. Not knowing the “how,” who can know how far it will go?

Hence the old fa yan (sayings of the sages and classics): do not on your own change the command, do not force others to “make it succeed”—going too far is harm; changing orders and pushing success are both dangerous. Good outcomes need time to settle; bad “success” often cannot be undone in time—can one not be careful?

Moreover, let the mind wander with things as they come, entrust what cannot be avoided in order to yang zhong (nourish the inner center, keep harmony within)—that is very good. Why must one insist on “repayment”? Nothing fits better than wei ming (entrusting the outcome to fate and one’s proper lot)—and that is precisely what is hardest to do.

(Note: “fu” in the text means breath or qi bursting outward fiercely; “xin li ke he” means the heart turns fierce and harsh, cutting and unyielding; “fa yan” means the maxims of former kings and the classics; “yang zhong” is the Zhuangzi-family idea of guarding the center and nurturing harmony within.)

Plain-Language Interpretation

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

People who wrestle by skill start out playing together for a win; when things turn desperate they hurt each other in underhand ways, and fair dealing is gone. Those who drink by ritual keep rank in order and rounds of toasts in measure; once they sink into excess, disorder knows no bottom. Trouble often grows from “taking the easy way”; guard too hard and the trouble follows—that is a common drift. Speech is like wind and waves: really argue and the real point is lost; drop the waves and stop arguing, and the real point stays. When affairs fit the actual situation, danger can be settled and chaos stilled.

Where does anger come from? Usually there is no other cause: florid talk, exaggeration, one-sided unfairness. It is like a beast driven to a dead end—mind frantic, strength spent, harmony cannot come out, breath will not flow—then rage bursts and people only pick at each other’s flaws. Be broad and tolerant and things gather of themselves; demand too much in detail and a petty, stingy mind rises without your noticing. Without noticing, how can you see that fortune and misfortune share one outcome and each gets what fits? So the great person is open: they put the ten thousand things where each finds its own fit, unlike ordinary people who drain others’ pleasure—only then can ties under all heaven be kept whole.

“Do not shift the command” means not forcing someone else’s real responsibility onto them. “Do not urge completion” means letting completion happen on its own. Going too far is “adding”; adding is not following the actual situation. “Beautiful completion” must trust the time and circumstance to nurture and transform, as planting cannot succeed in a single morning. If you force through what the other hates, regret and ruin come quickly—hence the saying: a bad completion is worse than changing in time.

Ride things and let the heart roam; rely on what cannot be avoided to nourish the center—rest the mind on outer things, follow what principle makes necessary, and the seal of true equilibrium is whole. That is the height of meeting the world. Once you trust the reality that balance returns, why keep calculating between “even” and “uneven”? Better to reach straight to its allotted fate. That is the hardest part: speaking straight to fate is easiest in itself, yet joy and anger are applied to people’s hearts—so it becomes hard.

New Transmission

Without words, things cannot disturb you. With words, things answer back; one answer and quiet is gone—so it is said that the speaker is like wind. Why should the real point hang on fussing between even and uneven? Better to reach straight to its allotted fate. That is the hardest: speaking straight to fate is easiest in origin, yet joy and anger are applied to the heart—so it is hard.

Plain-Language Reading

Those who do not speak are not stirred by outer things; once they open their mouths they must answer outward, and answering unsettles the heart. Hence it is said that words are wind and waves. Those who do not walk can keep their footprints hidden; once they walk, footprints show—footprints exposed outside, true nature perishes within. Hence it is said that action is the loss of substance. When the heart is not quiet it tends toward reckless movement; when true nature is lost it is hard to dwell at ease. Hence wind and waves stir easily, and loss of substance easily falls into peril.

Plain-Language Reading

When relaying messages, whether both sides are pleased or angry, the speaker dares not exaggerate—for to end well one must be careful from the very start. Watch wrestlers: at first they are still yang-steadfast, at last yin-vicious; watch drinkers: at first still clear-headed, at last muddled—from this one sees that dealings between people at first still honor trust, at last sink into base things; matters in a person start small and end large—what must come will come. One sentence out of the mouth provokes another’s anger—is that not wind and waves? Once a person is provoked they must lash out—is that not loss of substance?

So the setup of anger has no other root: often it is clever, biased speech—words beyond the fact, not choosing right principle, like beasts fearing death and not choosing what sounds good; breath bursts out, listeners all grow harsh in heart, and anger is thus laid.

Ke (harsh blame) blames others too sharply; he (scrupulous checking) treats matters too severely—originally hoping for others’ good, the other may answer with an unworthy heart. Then one should know when to stop; if one does not see how things are, accumulated anger becomes harm—who knows how far it will go? That is the earlier “ending in baseness, ending in enormity.”

When the ruler’s order is relayed, generals casually alter intent; before the matter is ripe, one forces advice—that is speech of excessive praise or excessive blame; so going too far does harm, overflowing brings disaster on the messenger—can it not be dangerous?

“Completing others’ good” must complete through duration—one must mingle deeply and stay long before one can go deep. “Reforming evil” must complete without going too far—one angry word ruins the affair, harsh hearts arise together, and regret has no remedy.

People who love excessive praise always store something inside and cannot empty the heart. If the ear follows things in play and the heart is free, then self is forgotten; resting on what cannot be avoided, then things are forgotten—thus following fate and penetrating, I have no such heart; why must I act to repay?

The Master (Confucius) told Duke Ye; some thought it ranked below Yan Hui, yet it could not step outside emptiness.

Note: This section belongs to Zhuangzi Yi’s expansion on Human World lines such as “the speaker—wind and waves” and “the walker—loss of substance,” linked to Duke Ye, Yan Hui, relayed speech, and excessive praise and blame in Zhuangist/Confucian context; proper names are kept as in the text with brief explanation where needed.

Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei. He went to Qu Bo Yu for advice and said: “There is a man here whose nature is harsh and cruel—‘tian sha,’ as if Heaven had stinted him and given him no real virtue. If I go along with his temperament and teach him without fixed rules and standards, I fear I will harm the state; if I try to govern him with rules and ritual, I fear I will harm myself first. He is clever enough to pick out others’ faults, yet cannot see why people err. When I meet someone like this, what should I do?”

Qu Bo Yu said: “You ask well! Be on guard; be careful; first set yourself straight! Outwardly, it is best to seem yielding and close; inwardly, it is best to stay calm and even. Even so, there is still danger: if you seem too close on the outside, you may get pulled in; if you show too much on the inside, you may bring trouble on yourself. If your body presses in, you will follow him into overturning, ruin, collapse, and a fall; if your mind shows itself, you will become reputation, portent, and disaster. If he plays the infant, you play the infant with him; if he is without boundaries and in disorder, you are without boundaries with him; if he is unrestrained as if he had no cliff or limit, you are unrestrained with him. Only by ‘going along’ in this way can you enter a state without flaw and without inviting harm.

“Do you not know the mantis? In anger it raises its forelegs to block the wheel, not knowing it cannot block it at all—this is trusting in its little measure of ‘talent’ and a fine name. Be on guard; be careful. Those who heap up talent and virtue and display their excellence often offend the powerful this way; they are not far from disaster.

“Do you not know how tiger keepers act? They dare not feed live prey, lest it stir the beast’s killing nature; they dare not feed whole large animals, lest it stir the fury of tearing. They must grasp the rhythm of hunger and fullness and read the mind of anger and pleasure. The tiger is not the same as a human, yet it shows favor to those who go along with it; so those the tiger kills are usually those who go against it.

“Those who love horses use bamboo baskets for dung and shells for urine. When a gnat or fly lands on the horse, the keeper reaches to swat it—but if the timing is wrong, the horse may bite through the bit, smash its skull, or shatter its breastbone. When the heart has reached the pitch of ‘love,’ love itself is lost—can one fail to be careful?”

(Note: In older commentary, “tian sha” is often read as born harsh by nature; “infant” means without knowledge or clinging; “wu ting qi” is like having no field boundaries— not fussing over small rules or drawing hard lines; “wu ya” is like having no cliff or shore— no fixed measure or stopping point; “pu” here means the charioteer, not a servant “flying at” someone.)

In Guo Xiang’s reading here: the nature of petty people is such that if you constrain them with rules and measures, they come to hate themselves; if you let them run wild without limit, they bring chaos upon the state. Rulers do not know where the people’s faults come from—they only push blame onto the masses and refuse to correct themselves.

“Rectify the woman’s person” (zheng nü shen) means: reflect again and again, guard yourself, and thereby set your own person straight. Outwardly, it is best to adapt to circumstances (xing mo ruo jiu); inwardly, it is best to keep peace (xin mo ruo he). The outer form should not be perverse; harmony should not mean sameness in a petty sense. Do not deliberately “enter in” for the sake of adaptation—outward yielding is xing jiu, but “entering in” is sinking into the same mire as others. Do not deliberately “go outward” for the sake of harmony—he is helping others in the sense of principle, but “going outward” is showing off and fighting for credit. If you simply merge with everyone in sameness, it is like standing in danger with no one to steady you—you will eventually perish together with them. Therefore one should take the great pattern of Heaven and Earth as one’s model, not make a display of difference in small matters.

If you show yourself off within “harmony,” you earn the name of one who “bears filth” (han gou); if you compete for reputation while helping others, the other party will resent you as surpassing themselves and will recklessly stir up trouble. So be dim like a torch about to go out, mix with light and dust, so that people can neither draw close nor keep away, neither gain from you nor be harmed by you. The seven lines that follow, beginning with “let them be like an infant,” mean: do not stand on sharp corners in small things or go against the grain of others.

The mantis raising its arms is not lacking in beauty—it simply blocks the wheel rut when strength is unequal. Knowing it cannot prevail yet insisting on taking charge is like the mantis’s furious arms. Piling up and flaunting talent and beauty to offend others is a dangerous path. Hence the warning against “anger that kills” (wei sha zhi nu)—fear that storing a will to kill will break out as rage; and against “anger that forces a decision” (wei jue zhi nu)—if you force a tiger to bite off its own limb, your exertion will instead provoke its rage. One should follow its hunger and fullness, penetrate the heart of its anger, know why it is angry and accord with that. When principle is followed, even unlike kinds may come to love one another; when the node is violated, even the closest kin may take up arms against each other—this is why the tiger shows affection toward the one who tends it.

Excrement and urine are utterly base, yet if they are placed in precious vessels, that is love for the horse taken to an extreme; if you touch and soothe at the wrong moment, the bit will slip, the head be injured, the chest shattered—though you wished to remove a trouble, you did not anticipate startling the horse, and so brought on this disaster. Where intention reaches, love arrives; where intention reaches, love vanishes: with a single mind set on removing harm you touch rashly, and instead cause shattering and loss of what ought to be loved. Therefore in dealing with the world and meeting things, one cannot be careless at the turning points of accord and opposition.

Commentary (Lü)

The mistake in jiu (going along with the other party and matching them) is ru—entering too deeply, until you merge with them and lose your own measure. The mistake in he (harmonizing with them) is chu—coming out too hard, until you stand opposed and cannot blend. Those whose states fall, whose names and bodies are ruined, who become bywords for evil and perversity, often fail in this way: when they should be same as the other, they do not know how to support and correct in the dark; when they should be different, they do not know how to guide by following the trend and using what is at hand.

Hence Zhuangzi says: one may be with them soft as an infant, or with them penetrate until one enters wu ci—reaches a state without fault or sharp edges. Then even if one’s way of being with them has no fixed pattern, one need not harm the state; even if one has views and holds to them, one need not harm oneself. The key is to clear and guide along what is already in the other’s nature—this is the subtlety of adapting to time and circumstance, responding as things arise—like Mencius with King Xuan of Qi, who loved courage and goods: he did not preach emptily on benevolence and righteousness but led him toward the kingly way.

Commentary on Zhuangzi (first section)

The six lines beginning “they will yet be infants” match “the form conforms yet one does not wish to enter”—outwardly following, yet not lightly entering into them; “penetrating until one enters wu ci” matches “the heart harmonizes yet one does not wish to come out”—inwardly penetrating, yet not casually coming out to clash. Caring for horses and knowing horses’ nature is the same kind of adapting to the moment; King Xuan’s love of courage and goods, and Mencius guiding him by the kingly way, is the same principle.

Commentary on Zhuangzi (second section)

The six lines beginning “they will yet be infants” and the lines on “loving horses” say exactly what Zhuangzi means by “what is well formed takes long to complete; what is ill formed may be too late to change”—good practice must be slowly nurtured and long sustained; once evil has taken shape, it is often too late to mend. In dealing with people and in managing people and things, one must act early and with the right method—not wait until collapse to patch up.

Supplementary note

The passage “they will yet be infants” may be compared with the Lotus Sutra: “Where one should be saved by appearing as a bhikṣu, one appears as a bhikṣu and preaches the Dharma; where one should be saved by appearing as a woman, one appears as a woman and preaches the Dharma”—manifesting according to the occasion, leading each as appropriate—not always sameness, not always difference.

Zhi zhi bushi means loving a horse to excess: seeing a gnat or fly, one suddenly swats— the horse, wholly unprepared, startles and rages. The tiger is fiercest, yet if one goes with it, it can be tamed; the horse is naturally easy to tame, yet if startled it turns fierce. In dealing with vicious people and those hard to get along with, one cannot be incautious. If one does not read the moment or gauge strength, and only wants to use you fang (fixed patterns, hard methods) to rescue their wu fang (unpredictable disorder), it is like the mantis raising its arms against the wheel rut—dying in vain, achieving nothing.

There was a carpenter named Shi who was traveling to the state of Qi. When he reached Qu Yuan, he saw a huge oak tree that was honored as the tree of the earth god. It was so large that it could shade several oxen; measured with a rope, its girth was a hundred spans. Its crown rose toward the mountains; only ten ren (about seven feet per ren) above the ground did it branch, and there were ten or more branches thick enough to serve as boat timbers. The crowd watching was as dense as at a market. Carpenter Shi did not even glance at it; he walked straight on without stopping. His apprentice, having looked his fill, ran after him and said, “Since I took up the axe and followed you, sir, I have never seen timber this fine. There are ten or more branches thick enough for boats, and the onlookers are packed like at a market—yet you won’t look and keep walking. Why?”

Carpenter Shi said, “Enough—don’t speak of it. This is a ‘scattered tree’—useless wood that cannot be made into anything. Use it for a boat and it sinks; for a coffin and it rots quickly; for vessels and they break soon; for a door and it oozes sap and hidden resin; for a pillar and worms eat it. It is useless timber—good for nothing—so it has lived this long.”

After Carpenter Shi returned home, the sacred tree appeared to him in a dream and said, “What will you compare me to? Will you compare me to those ‘elegant trees’—fine-grained wood good for crafting? Fruit trees like hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo: when the fruit ripens they are stripped and picked; big branches are broken off and small ones torn down. Because they bear fruit they harm their own lives, so they cannot live out their natural span but die young—they bring worldly harm on themselves. Nothing under heaven is otherwise. And I have long pursued ‘being good for nothing’; I nearly died, and only now have I preserved myself. For me, is that great use or great harm? Moreover, you and I are both things—why must you ‘thingify’ each other like this? You, a ‘scattered man’ who almost loses your life over such matters—how could you understand a ‘scattered tree’ like me?”

When Carpenter Shi woke, he divined the dream. His apprentice asked, “That tree seeks uselessness, yet it is still honored as the sacred tree—why?” Carpenter Shi said, “Keep quiet. It merely lodges there, letting those who don’t understand revile and abuse it. If it were not the sacred tree, would it not almost certainly have been cut down? Besides, the way it preserves itself differs from others—yet to praise it with the logic of ‘usefulness’ is far too wide of the mark.”

(According to Sima Biao’s commentary: ye refers to tree sap; man refers to resin that seeps out in dark, clotted masses. Xiang Xiu’s commentary: zhen means to interpret a dream.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary

What does not count as “able to be put to use” is called sanmu (worthless timber: wood no one wants to cut); what can be put to use is called wenmu (useful timber). Most things in the world are like this—once something is useful, it often gets harmed first.

This tree almost died from being cut, and only up to now has it been kept safe, because long accumulation of “uselessness” turned into the great use of preserving life; had it been useful early on, it would have been felled long ago. The “sanren” (scattered, “useless” person) who nearly lost his life—how could he know that the sanmu tree was teasing Master Carpenter Shi?

The disciples still thought serving as a shemu (spirit tree of the altar) was the tree puffing itself up—Zhuangzi says: it is not striving to become a shemu, only not leaning toward the “useful” side.

Master Carpenter Shi said: the she (altar community) is where others come to deposit offerings and venerate—it is not the tree itself seeking to be a she. To take people who do not understand you as insulting and trampling you means: if the tree treated being a she as “what only those who do not know me would do,” that would be humiliation—where is the glory in that?

At bottom it takes “uselessness” as “use”: even if it never becomes a shemu, it still never drifts toward the harm of being trimmed and cut down.

What it preserves differs from ordinary people: it takes “not deliberately preserving” as preservation, while ordinary people take “forcing preservation” as preservation.

The original point of shemu is benefiting people, nurturing the ten thousand things, and restraining the people from wrongdoing—that belongs to a different line of reasoning.

Persons or things that are “useless” remain calm and do not push, while each kind of capacity unfolds in its own order—they do not depend on it to drive them. That is why “uselessness” can be whole.

If you praise it with “becoming a she,” that misses its real meaning (you cannot grasp “the use of uselessness” through the honor of the she).

Nanbo Zixi was wandering in Shangqiu when he saw a large tree of strange shape, its dense shade wide enough to shelter a thousand chariots. Zixi said, “What kind of tree is this? Its substance must be extraordinary.” Looking up at the fine branches, he found them twisted and useless for beams and rafters; looking down at the thick roots, he saw the grain spiraling and scattered (zhoujie)—unsuitable for coffins and outer cases. Tasting its leaves would make the mouth ulcerate and hurt; smelling its odor would leave a person as if drunk with hangover sickness (cheng), unable to sober up for three days. Zixi said, “This is indeed wood of no use—only because of that could it grow so large. Alas, the spirit person too preserves himself by this same ‘uselessness.’”

In the state of Song there was a family surnamed Jing whose land was good for planting catalpa, cypress, and mulberry. When a tree reached the girth of one arm-span, someone would cut it for a stake to tether hunting monkeys (yi); at three or four arm-spans, people would cut it for lofty gates, great halls, and ridgepoles; at seven or eight arm-spans, wealthy families would cut it for fine coffin wood. Thus before reaching its natural span of years, it was felled mid-course by axe and adze—this is the disaster of being “useful timber.”

Therefore at jiesai rites (ceremonies to dispel misfortune and seek blessing), an ox with a white forehead, a pig with an upturned snout, or a person afflicted with hemorrhoids was deemed unfit to be cast into the river (shihe, the ancient practice of river sacrifice, as in the affair of the River Lord taking a bride, which Ximen Bao overturned). Diviners and prayer masters understood this and treated such cases as inauspicious and would not use them. For the spirit person, however, it is precisely because of this “great inauspicious” uselessness that life can be fully nourished to the end—this is true great auspiciousness.

The gist of Guo Xiang’s commentary: shade vast enough to shelter a thousand chariots means the range covered by branch and leaf is immense. The Son of Heaven takes “uselessness” as his model and treats the hundred offices as the hundred offices, each keeping its place; the clear-sighted look, the sharp-eared listen, the wise plan, the brave defend, while the Son of Heaven need only remain silent and every kind of talent finds its proper use. What the world honors as “auspicious” is the complete nurturing of life. Diviners and prayer masters treat uselessness as inauspicious and discard white-foreheaded oxen and the like, yet it is uselessness that allows preservation; what they call inauspicious, the spirit person uses to preserve life entirely, which turns into great fortune. The spirit person has no fixed mind of his own but follows things as they are, so the great auspiciousness the world speaks of, the spirit person does not oppose.

Lexical notes: zhoujie means wood grain that spirals and scatters; cheng means sickness from wine, drunk without recovery; yi is the wooden stake for tethering hunting monkeys; li (also written li) refers to ridge beams of tall buildings; chan bang means the sound side of coffin timber; shihe is casting into the river as sacrifice; jieci is the spring rite of expiation and blessing for good fortune (see the “Treatise on Suburban Sacrifices” in the Book of Han).

First it discusses how a great tree enjoys its full span of years because it is “not timber”—useless as lumber—and then how catalpa and cypress in Jing are cut down because they can serve as material: being “material” is precisely the disaster. Therefore sages and divine persons are extra cautious about what is “useful,” and hide usefulness all the more deeply; passing through to great use by way of “non-use,” and becoming servants of timber through “not being timber,” they wander among people and share the people’s weal and woe, joy and grief—this point above all must not be unknown.

Zhi Li Shu (a man in Wei whose form was extremely strange): his chin tucked in near his navel, his shoulders higher than the crown of his head, his topknot pointing at the sky, the shu (acu-point) openings of the five viscera exposed on his upper body, and his two thighs like ribs. He made a living mending and washing clothes, and earned his food by winnowing grain with a sieve. When the state conscripted warriors, he waved his arms in the crowd for the fun of it; when the state had a great public works project, he was not assigned labor because of chronic illness; when the state distributed famine rations, he could still receive three zhong of grain and ten bundles of firewood. A man whose bodily form was so fragmented could still nourish himself and live out his years—how much more so one who “fragments his De,” who in spirit does not flaunt usefulness and does not contend with things for merit!

Guo Xiang’s supplement: Being able to wave his arms among warriors relied on his being “useless,” so he need not hide; not receiving merit on great corvée labor meant not bearing forced service. When the round of duties did not reach him, rewards still came as usual. One whose form was fragmented could still preserve himself like this; the divine person holds nothing as his own to use, yet the ten thousand things each attain their own use—merit and fame return to the group of “materials,” he responds to things in harmony without leaving traces, and so escapes harm among people and dwells in the constant beauty of reality—this is “fragmenting his De.”

Tracing the root, explaining characters: “Qi” (navel) is the same as qi (umbilicus); a hunchback cannot see his chin, which is tucked between the navel; shoulders above the crown means the head hangs low and the shoulders hunch; the hair gathered into a topknot is fang cuo (topknot bunched up)—ancient topknots sat near the nape; with a curved spine and lowered head, the topknot “points at heaven”; “five guan” means the five viscera’s shu openings are uppermost; two bi as ribs means the spine lies inside the thighs—using the two thighs to stand for the ribs; cuo zhen is mending clothes, zhi xie is washing clothes, gu fang bo jing is winnowing grain with a winnowing basket.

Confucius was on his way to the state of Chu. Jieyu, a wild recluse of Chu (in legend a hermit who feigned madness to withdraw from the world), wandered before his gate and sang: “Phoenix, phoenix—how your De has declined! What is to come cannot be relied on; what is past cannot be recovered. When the world is in order, the sage can accomplish great things; when the world is disordered, the sage can only barely preserve life. In times like these, escaping punishment is achievement enough. Good fortune is as light as a feather, yet no one will carry it on their back; misfortune is as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows to avoid it.”

He said again and again: “Turn back to yourself, turn back to yourself! Using De to transform others is perilous—so perilous! Rushing straight ahead as if following a line drawn on the ground—(Jieyu uses miyang, “dazzled by the sun,” for this plight: like insects that blunder about when the light confuses them—) do not block my path; I take winding ways, so do not trip up my feet.”

Jieyu also said: Trees on the mountain are cut down because they can be used to fortify the slopes; grease is burned up because it serves as fuel. Cinnamon is felled because its fruit is edible; lacquer trees are gashed because their sap is useful. Everyone knows the use of what is “useful,” but they do not understand the use of what is “useless.”

Note: The closing line on the “usefulness of the useless” is a familiar theme in the Zhuangzi: what seems useless can in fact preserve life and spare one from being cut down—consistent with Jieyu’s warning to Confucius not to impose De on others and to protect oneself by moving indirectly. Bracketed material in the source records textual variants (e.g. xi vs. xi in different editions) and does not change the main sense.

This passage is Guo Xiang’s commentary on the Zhuangzi, together with an “oral exegesis” (kouyi). The gist is as follows.

On “Phoenix, phoenix—how has your virtue declined?”

Guo Xiang says: these words mean one should accord with the present moment, press forward, and get the measure of “where to go through and where to stop” exactly right. The rise and fall of the age need not weigh on one excessively—hence the sigh of “what can be done.” What is past cannot be waited for again; what is to come cannot be chased down. What matters is handling the response required right now.

“When there is Dao, one completes; when there is no Dao, one preserves life”

The principles of completion and preservation of life are left to nature; pattern (li) generates itself. Generation is not something “I” deliberately manufacture—how could one swap integrity because of order or disorder? Order and disorder each seek their own completion, so forgetting “completion” means no defeat, and forgetting “preservation of life” means no death.

“In the world today, one barely escapes punishment”

The meaning is: do not look ahead and behind; only guard against what the present requires, unite with the times, and then subtle preservation and exemption from penal names become possible. In a chaotic age, escaping punishment is already good fortune—how could one dare hope for more?

“Fortune lighter than a feather, calamity heavier than earth” (wuwei and self-imposition)

Guo’s note: when you can walk, let the feet walk; when you can grasp, let the hands grasp; the ear hears what it hears, the eye sees what it sees; knowing stops at what cannot be known, capacity stops at what cannot be done—using what uses itself, doing what does itself, indulging within the allotment of nature (xingfen) without a speck of attachment to external affairs—this is the utmost of wuwei (non-action) and also the easiest thing. Of one who practices wuwei yet cannot preserve life and nature, we have never heard; of one who preserves life and nature yet has no good fortune, it makes no sense in principle. What is called fortune is the “wholeness” spoken of earlier—not something lodged in external things; how could there be weight resting on a goose feather? Moving in accord with one’s allotment, never overstepping it, is the easiest thing under Heaven; lifting and carrying oneself is the lightest thing under Heaven.

Yet people often harm their nature with boundless knowing and scatter their true nature with the mind of desire and aversion. They abandon this easiest wuwei and pursue the hardest deliberate action (youwei); they discard the lightest self-lifting and take on the heaviest burdens from others—this is what the world constantly suffers from.

Calamity is heavier than earth, yet they do not avoid it: shouldering what belongs to one’s allotment, one does not feel the weight of ten thousand catties; if external things are lodged on the body, nothing light can be borne—this is external calamity. Thus fortune is utmost lightness (within), calamity utmost heaviness (without). Calamity is heavy yet they do not know to avoid it—the great delusion of the world.

Drawing a line on the ground and the way of the Great Person

Drawing lines on the ground for people to walk along can never cover up the truth. Once there is a “self” that goes out to meet things, one is set against things. Therefore the Great Person (daren) does not use his clarity to shine on others but lets each be clear on their own; he does not use his virtue to lord it over people but leaves them to attain on their own. Then he can penetrate the myriad things, equalize self and other, become one with all under Heaven, and share fortune within and without.

“Dazzling sun,” que bends, and related phrases

“Dazzling sun” is like “lost yang”: losing the outward-flaring yang, letting each go its own way without scattering outward—then “my going” is complete. When all under Heaven each fully complete their nature, whoever says “I” is not incomplete. “Que bend does not harm my foot”: bending completes the going; each is already sufficient. Where there is use, merit is achieved with the other; where there is no use, one fully preserves one’s own life. Cutting flesh from one’s body for the world—the world all knows it; if one lets the people not lose their own wholeness, so self and other both fit, then in the space of a bowing and rising one does not notice that subtlety is in oneself.

Oral exegesis (summary)

When the world has Dao, the sage can accomplish merit; when there is no Dao, the sage only seeks to preserve life. The present is a chaotic age: escaping punishment and preserving life and nature is fortune as light as a feather, yet one does not know one could bear it oneself; the calamities of a chaotic age often reach killing the body—heavier than earth—yet one does not know to avoid them. Bringing calamity by lording virtue over people is not as good as drawing a ground-line and hurrying within it—a picture of self-confinement and self-torment, truly perilous. Trees, fire, cassia, lacquer—because they are “useful” they are cut down; none can hide themselves. Seeking fame in the world and inviting calamity is the patient’s metaphor.

The above is a plain-language sorting-out of this stretch of Guo’s commentary and the oral exegesis. Terms such as wuwei, Great Person (daren), and allotment of nature (xingfen) are kept in their original sense without extra elaboration.

Yidu (Doubting Solitude) is glossed roughly as follows: even when one uses virtue to influence and meet the world, one still cannot merge wholly with the Dao without leaving a trace; draw a line on the ground and run along it, and you still cannot erase the footprints already there. Miyang (Lost in Sunlight) speaks of hiding one’s own brightness—that is, “dimming one’s own clarity” (zihui qiming)—and following a path that does not harm life and keeps the body intact. Qiequ (Bending and Yielding) speaks of withdrawing and bending oneself to preserve wholeness, again stressing not injuring the two feet that can still walk—keeping oneself safe without crippling one’s ability to go on.

Bicheng (Brush Notes) adds that the line “I walk qiequ” should, in one recension, be read as continuing into what follows.

Later Bicheng also compares editions: it is better to follow the Bixu text as “Qiequ, qiequ—do not harm my feet,” which aligns better with the earlier “do not harm my feet” type of wording; the duplication was likely a copyist’s mistake of writing “I walk” twice. As for Miyang, Miandao explains that miyang means bracken (a kind of fern): where bracken grows thick, travelers easily lose their way on paths the sun strikes, hence “lost in sunlight.” That is using a concrete thing to open a lesson—the image is unusual, and it is recorded here as a variant gloss for reference.

Plain-Language Interpretation

“In the Human Realm” addresses how one establishes oneself in the world: the distinction between ruler and minister is a weighty matter and cannot be treated lightly, yet one must weigh what should and should not be done, guard the measure of advance and retreat, measure oneself against past and present without self-reproach, and transcend regret and stinginess to preserve oneself—only then can one be called capable. When Yan Hui was about to go to Wei, Confucius spelled out the many hazards of serving a ruler: fame and cleverness undermine each other; if the heart is not understood yet praise comes first, slander will follow in the end; ahead lie bow and banner summoning one on, behind lie blade and saw threatening one—such cases are not rare. How much more so if one clings to the obsession that one “must succeed,” hoping to transform a young, stubborn, willful lord—how can one be sure of no regret? Confucius strongly urged him to stop, so that the lord of Wei would know that the worthy do not enter lightly, would strengthen his respect for the Dao, and would be transformed of himself—why lightly throw away one’s life and feed arrogant, violent, corrupt intent? Yan Hui then proposed methods such as uprightness and emptiness, mind fasting (xinzhai), and sitting and forgetting (zuowang). Confucius said these could at most avoid disaster, not “transform others”—true transformation is wordless trust that dissolves the other’s hostility; how could that rely on harsh, intricate laws to provoke the multitude? Yan Hui could go no further and asked for the essential teaching; it was precisely when thought was already empty and innate truth could receive instruction that Confucius, seizing his awakening, taught “mind fasting”: do not listen with the ear, listen with the heart; do not listen with the heart, listen with qi. Yan Hui understood at once that “there had never been a Hui”—heart empty, form forgotten—and then transforming things was not difficult.

When Zi Gao (Gai Dan) was about to go to Qi, Confucius taught him to “act yet forget the self, observe wind and waves and guard against real loss”; when Yan He was to become tutor to the crown prince of Wei, Confucius taught him to “draw near without entering, harmonize without going out, understand the tiger’s rage and the horse’s mood”—all illustrating that worldly troubles are many and transcending attachment to things is hard; only one of lofty insight who can detect subtle signs and guard against what is not yet manifest, advancing and retreating in accord with righteousness, can succeed. As for the she tree at Qu Yuan that preserved itself through “uselessness,” and the great tree at Shangqiu that was “spiritual without being divine,” they further show that talent is a burden people do not notice: they constantly rely on talent to seek employment without gauging what fits their measure; when fame shows, jealousy and harm arise; when profit is great, disaster arrives—even if one wishes to swell and preserve oneself, one cannot. Thus the gist of this chapter: outwardly responding to worldly affairs, inwardly preserving true nature; when the Dao does not leave the person, things transform of themselves. Ancient sages, when they had no choice, still had worldly engagements—all secretly practiced this Dao. Hence the Q&A between Confucius and Yan Hui elucidates it. At the end the song of Jie Yu is cited, stripping away the trace of sages’ active engagement with the world and blocking the hearts of people who chase things without end; the warning about mountain trees, tallow fire, cassia and lacquer is especially sharp. Only by knowing how hard it is to enter the world can one live in the world without difficulty—as Laozi said, the sage still takes difficulty as his business, and therefore in the end has no difficulty.

Related Commentary on Zhuangzi Yi (Plain-Language Reading)

Supplementary Note

This chapter opens with dialogues between Confucius and Yan Hui, then turns to figures such as Zi Gao and Yan He, showing how to preserve oneself, act according to righteousness, respond to the world, and perceive subtle matters so as to conduct oneself in the “human world.” Later come the parables of the oak tree, the spirit of the earth altar, Shangqiu, and the mutilated man Zhi Li—meaning that in chaotic times many things simply cannot be handled well, and sometimes doing nothing at all is wiser than doing one’s best. The chapter closes with Jie Yu (the Madman of Chu) and his song, which carries the same point.

Bicheng (Editorial Note)

Shi Zhang said: Nourishing the Master of Life teaches the way of “leaving the world”; In the Human World teaches the way of “staying in the world.” Commentators hold that one must first understand “leaving the world” before one can dwell at ease in the world—just as Laozi said, “Hold fast to the Way of antiquity to govern what exists today” (grasp the root Dao to meet the present).

Chapter 5: De Chong Fu (Signs of Full Virtue)—Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Guo Xiang’s note in essence: when De (Virtue/Power) is full within, one responds to things outwardly; inner and outer accord makes sincerity like a tally matching fate, so that one can forget the bondage of the physical form.

Supplementary Note

“Fu” (sign/tally) here does not mean an external token or tally; it means that when De is full inside, it naturally shows on the outside—not something the body can add or subtract, nor something cleverness can hide or parade. Reading the stories in this chapter is enough to grasp the point.

In the state of Lu there lived a man with only one foot named Wang Tai. Almost as many people went to study with him as went to study with Confucius.

Chang Ji asked Confucius: “Wang Tai has only one foot, yet those who travel with him to learn in Lu nearly half the kingdom; he does not sit upright to lecture, nor rely on talk and debate—students seem empty when they go, yet full when they return. Can there really be a teaching without words and a transformation without visible form that still completes the heart? What kind of person is he?”

Confucius said: “That gentleman is a sage. I, Kong Qiu, have merely fallen behind and have not yet gone to ask instruction of him.” (Chang Ji asked the same question again, and Confucius answered again.)

Confucius also said: “Those who follow him in Lu nearly split the disciples with you and me; he neither teaches nor argues—empty in going, full in returning—this shows there is wordless teaching and formless transformation. I, Kong Qiu, mean to take him as my teacher; how much more should those who are not my equal! Why limit it to Lu? I, Kong Qiu, intend to lead everyone under heaven to study with him.”

Chang Ji said: “He is missing a foot, yet Master Wang differs from ordinary people by so much. If it is really like this, his use of mind must be very special—what is going on?”

Confucius said: “Life and death are a great matter, yet ordinary people cannot transform along with them; even if heaven and earth overturn and fall, he would not lose himself along with that. He sees clearly what is ‘without falsity’ (not depending on externals, not standing on borrowed names), so he does not turn with outer things; he follows the changes of the myriad things yet keeps to his own root.”

Chang Ji asked: “What does it mean to keep to the root?”

Confucius said: “From mutually different perspectives, liver and gall are as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue; from the perspective of sameness, the myriad things are originally one body. A person like Master Wang may not even fix what ear and eye should hear and see, yet the heart roams in the harmony of De (Virtue/Power). In viewing things he only sees what is shared, not what is lost; he treats losing one foot like dropping a clod of earth.”

Chang Ji said: “He keeps to himself (guards his root); with knowing he awakens to the heart, with the heart he awakens to the constant heart. How could outer things still become what matters most?”

Confucius said: “A person cannot see himself clearly in running water; only in still water can he see clearly—only ‘stopping’ can stop the many ‘stoppings.’ Receiving mandate from earth, only pine and cypress stay green in winter and summer; receiving mandate from heaven, only Shun could be upright. Fortunate to be born upright, he makes the multitude upright. The sign of preserving the beginning and the reality of fearlessness: a brave man alone entering the nine armies (the Son of Heaven’s six armies and the feudal lords’ three armies, together called the nine armies)—one who seeks fame and can hold to himself is still like this; how much more one who takes heaven and earth as his storehouse, the myriad things as on loan, lodges the six bodily parts, stands for ear and eye, and relies only on what the one knowing knows, whose heart has never died? He will still choose a day to ascend to the distant realm (“deng jia” is read near to “xia,” meaning to transcend coming and going and reach a far-off horizon, as the Liezi’s “King Mu” chapter can attest)—others can only follow; how would he be willing to spend himself entirely on things?”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

“Going forth in emptiness and returning in fullness—each obtains what is due and is already sufficient”: One goes forth with an empty mind and returns with genuine fulfillment; each receives what properly belongs to them, and that is enough.

“Formless, yet the heart is complete”: One marvels that though his body is maimed, his heart is all the more full. When the heart is complete, one forgets the bodily form and forgets the five viscera; suddenly one goes alone, and no one in the world can be separated from this. Why must one borrow the name of Lu? One is about to lead everyone under heaven to follow—this means that when spirit is whole and the heart is fully present, one shares the same body with things; sharing the same body with things, what the world cannot penetrate is not limited to a single state.

The change of life and death is the greatest of changes. He dwells together with change, so for him life and death do not change. Even if heaven and earth overturn and collapse, he still accords with it. One who understands “no borrowing” understands that nature and life ought to be thus; one does not shift with things but lets things shift by themselves; one takes transformation as fate, without conflict or deviation; one guards the root and does not leave the utmost point of rightness.

“Different, and liver and gall are like Chu and Yue”: The natures of ease and bitterness differ; feelings of beauty and ugliness oppose each other. “Same, and the myriad things are all one”: What is deemed beautiful differs, yet each has what it deems beautiful; when each beautifies what it beautifies, the myriad things share one beauty; when each affirms what it affirms, the world is one affirmation. If one differs because of what differs, then nothing under heaven is not different; with a vast comprehensive view, taking heaven and earth as one’s office and the myriad things as one’s treasury, one knows that difference is not worth differing over, so by what is the same one makes sameness, and then nothing under heaven is not all the same; and knowing that sameness is not worth holding to, one therefore accords with what is not and makes “not,” so right and wrong, beauty and ugliness are all “not.”

From “It is I who affirm this and deny that” down to insects—none is not so. This applies only to those who clarify the self but do not clarify the other. As for the person who penetrates and merges, through the world one clarifies the world: when the world does not say “I am wrong,” one has clarified that there is no “wrong”; when it does not say “that is right,” one has clarified that there is no “right.” No “wrong” and no “right” blend into one, and so one can ride change and trust transformation, meeting things without fear.

“Not knowing what ears and eyes are fit for, yet roaming the heart in the harmony of De”: Fitness arises from unfitness; with no beauty and no ugliness there is nothing unfit, so one forgets fitness; forgetting all fitness, nothing is unfit to take up; there has never been one who took up everything yet failed to obtain; nor has one heard of failing to harmonize when nothing is unobtainable. Therefore one releases the heart between heaven and earth, utterly without impropriety, vast without discomfort. Things look at what they share as one and do not see what they lose—having reached the wondrous heart of the utmost limit, one can differ from nothing yet not be identical with things; not being identical with things, then in the changes of life and death there is nowhere that is not “I.” Life is my time; death is my yielding; the time is my gathering; the yielding is my dispersing; though gathering and dispersing differ, all are my norm. Life is simply “I”—never a gain; death is also “I”—never a loss. Even the change of life and death is regarded as one; having viewed this oneness, one is vast and unbound, blending self and other.

Taking life and death as waking and sleeping, the bodily frame as an inn; leaving life is like slipping off shoes; losing a foot is like shedding soil—one has never seen anything sufficient to tie up the heart. Those who “preserve themselves by their knowing” fault Wang Tai for not yet being able to forget knowing and preserve himself; those who “obtain the heart by the heart” fault him for not yet being able to discard the heart and obtain himself. “Obtaining the constant heart”: what goes levelly forth; they fault him for not being able to go levelly forth and pass through the constant with things, so they make things come to him. The clarity of still water is not sought for the sake of stopping; Wang Tai gathers the multitude—the multitude returns of themselves; how could he pull things to follow himself? Only stillness can still the stillness of the multitude; if one moves and acts for it, one cannot abide where things stop. Only Shun is singled out: properly speaking, those who especially receive the upright qi of nature are extremely rare; below, only pine and cypress; above, only the sage— all who are not upright come to seek rectitude. If everything were green, pine and cypress would not be prized; if each person were upright in themselves, there would be no beauty in the great sage that people would rush toward. Fortunate is one who can correct life to correct the lives of beings—fortunate that one can correct oneself, not that one corrects others in order to correct them; those who seek a name and can impose on themselves are not those who can discard the name and leave nothing unfit to take up.

“Taking heaven and earth as office, the myriad things as treasury”: vast—nothing is not embodied. Directly lodging in the six limbs: what is called the inn. Symbolizing ears and eyes: people use ears and eyes, and also use ears and eyes—ears and eyes are not required as such. When knowing goes together with change, nowhere is not vast—this is one aspect of knowing; when the heart accords with life and death, there is no time that is not life—this heart has never died. “Choosing a day to ascend by borrowing”: to choose what does not lose vastness—such a person has no choosing, trusting heaven’s movement and acting in season; borrowed persons thereby take him as highest; his tranquility and indifference are why he is whole.

“How could he be willing to take things as his business?”: How could he be willing to treat external things as what matters?

Those who study the Dao should learn what they have not yet learned how to learn, and do what they have not yet learned how to do. That is why Zhuangzi uses Wang Tai—a man whose form was maimed yet whose Dao was whole among Confucius’s followers—to make this point.

People who traveled and studied with Confucius only knew how to follow “what can be done,” not how to follow “what cannot yet be done.” Even if everyone in the state of Lu studied with Wang Tai, those who studied with Confucius would still be half the people, and those who studied with Wang Tai would still be half. Those who can learn from the side of “what can be done” stand and teach, sit and debate: instruction cannot do without words, and accomplishment cannot do without visible traces. Those who can learn from the side of “what cannot yet be done” stand without teaching, sit without debating—they go out empty and return full. Confucius and Wang Tai are outer and inner, each completing the other.

If one does not use what one already can do to set oneself up as lord and teacher, then the “use of what is useless” and ordinary people stand even farther apart. Who gives life and death, and who changes together with them? Who capsizes and falls, and who drifts and scatters together with that? One must examine “no reliance on what is borrowed” (wu jia—not leaning on external things or pretending through them), and see clearly that what one attains is genuine: not turned by external things, then neither death nor life, neither capsizing nor falling, alters one’s constancy. One only follows the transformation of things while oneself is not transformed—holding to the root and not leaving it.

If a person cannot look from the angle of “sameness” (tong), the ears and eyes cannot open inward; if one can look from the angle of sameness, the ears and eyes no longer know which side to take as “fitting.” So with things, one sees only what they share, not what is lost. Chang Ji said to Wang Tai: the way of the inner sage is for oneself alone—use understanding to reach the heart, use the heart to reach the constant heart; why must things be exalted as “supreme” or pushed forward as lord and teacher? Only stopping (zhi) can stop where everyone else stops—so people follow him, seeking from him a mirror.

No tree fails to receive its mandate from the earth, yet only pine and cypress are fully so; no person fails to receive a mandate from Heaven, yet only Shun was complete. Did Shun not take “living uprightly” as his good fortune, and go on to “upright” the lives of the multitude? Today, scholars who make a name for themselves through courage can still charge into nine armies—how much more those who “take Heaven and Earth as office, the myriad things as storehouse,” with whom death and life cannot change together? They are not the sort who chase reputation and grasp at self-importance. He will choose a day to “ascend in borrowed form” (deng jia—rising beyond fixed form, borrowing the Way to go upward), coming and going with such ease—how could people not follow and exalt him as supreme?

Xuxi (Commentary)

This speaks of “standing apart from the world”: even if heaven and earth were to collapse, one could still face that overturn and stand alone—without leaning on things outside, without depending on anything else. One calmly watches the myriad transformations, yet keeps company only with what existed before heaven and earth—that is, what is called the Zong, the root that nurtures and gives birth to heaven and earth.

On “Dwelling in Solitude” (1)

To govern the formed by means of the formless is called “attending to Heaven” (guan tian); to hold the ten thousand things within “non-being” (wu) is called the “storehouse” (fu). To observe the changes of the myriad things in stillness, and to abide only with what preceded heaven and earth, is what is meant by the Zong—namely, that which nurtures heaven and earth.

On “Dwelling in Solitude” (2)

Toward the myriad things, to take the six bodily members as one’s model is merely to lodge in them, not to hoard them; toward the senses of eye and ear, to preserve their images without misusing them. To guard unified knowing so that it is not split into two by external things, and to keep the mind ever present without clinging to the bodily form. To master xing (inner nature) and ming (life) from within rather than from without—thus one can, on the chosen day, “mount the ephemeral” (deng jia) and ascend in far wandering and spirit-travel, as in the Zhuangzi.

General Meaning

That passage is spoken for oneself: learning is fundamentally not for pleasing others—so why do people instead honor him? Because zhi (knowing) can reach the heart—by turning inward one sees the “Heavenly Sovereign” (tianjun, the inner lord and natural ruler). It also says that through the “heart” one attains the “constant heart”: at first, by heaven’s De and innate knowing, when one sees this heart it is like a wanderer returning home; once home, one realizes it was always one’s own original inheritance. Here the point is only that it is for oneself—what has that to do with others?—yet people honor him so deeply; from this one can also glimpse the level Changji had reached.

Supplementary Note (Sub-commentary)

As Aligning Nature and Life puts it: to set life right is to set intrinsic nature right; to set intrinsic nature right is to hold fast to the fundamental root; to hold fast to the fundamental root is to preserve and entrust oneself to the “original beginning.”

The sign that one is preserving the original beginning is like training courage: the core is “fear nothing,” so the mind is not moved by outer things. That is why a scholar-warrior can charge alone through nine armies. How much more so for someone who holds to the root and rectifies nature—if they can preserve the original beginning that “has not yet begun,” their attainment is far beyond merely passing through birth and death or commanding the transformations of the ten thousand things. To call such a person Heaven and Earth’s “steward” and the ten thousand things’ “storehouse,” lodged in the bodily form and its six parts, with eyes and ears as their outward face, means: I share one root with Heaven, Earth, and the ten thousand things; scattered I am the myriad, gathered I am the one—only temporarily lodged in this shell, using eyes and ears as windows on the world.

If one clings only to appearances and loses the original mind, wrongly raising discriminating knowledge, the heart is “born from things and dies from things.” Now, when what you know is returned to oneness, the heart in truth has never died—how can birth and death still frighten you?

Long ago Liu Xue studied the Way, and a spirit-person told him: your mind-power is fierce and sharp; you will surely break through birth and death. Students of the Way know that birth and death are the great matter, so they rouse their spirit and strive to see through it—like a brave man who truly has the ground of “no fear,” and can move freely through birth and death without obstruction. The learning that steps free of birth and death is pointed to here by Zhuangzi. At that time scriptures from Western India had not yet arrived, yet Buddhist teaching was already circulating in China—who can say the Buddha’s way is merely one “barbarian” teaching?

Textual Notes on “Receiving Mandate from Earth” and Related Lines

Bicheng holds that the stretch from “receiving mandate from earth” through “only Shun alone” has uneven punctuation in the received text, as if words are missing. Zhang Junfang’s collated version reads: “Receiving mandate from earth—only pine and cypress alone, ever green in winter and summer; receiving mandate from heaven—only Yao and Shun alone, foremost among the ten thousand things.” He also supplied seven characters. Because Guo Xiang’s commentary has “only pine and cypress” in the lower line and “only the sage” in the upper, he restored the text in that way. Treating “only pine and cypress alone” and “only Shun alone” as separate sentences also reads smoothly and preserves a complete sense.

The “Shentu Jia” Passage in the Zhuangzi

Shentu Jia had only one foot, yet he studied under Bo Hun the Nameless together with Zichan of Zheng. Zichan said to Shentu Jia: “If I go out first, you do not leave; if you go out first, I do not leave.”

The next day they again sat in the same hall on the same mat for instruction. Zichan again said to Shentu Jia: “If I go out first, you do not leave; if you go out first, I do not leave. Today I wish to go out—can you not leave? Still you will not? Moreover, when you see one who holds office you do not yield—do you treat an officeholder as your equal?”

Shentu Jia said: “Under our teacher’s gate there have always been those who held office—it is indeed so! You think yourself lofty; only after becoming chief minister do you expect others to look up to you. I have heard: when a mirror is polished bright, dust cannot cling; when dust clings, the mirror is no longer bright. To keep company with the worthy for long is to be without fault. Now you set store by our teacher, yet speak in this way—is that not fault as well?”

Zichan said: “You are already as you are, and still you would measure whose De compares with Yao’s? Weigh it yourself—is your De not enough for you to examine?”

Shentu Jia said: “Those who confess their faults yet feel they should not lose face are many; those who do not confess yet feel they should not keep their place are few. To know what cannot be helped and to rest quietly in fate—only one with De can do that. At the very center of Hou Yi’s target—the place an arrow must strike—yet missing the shot, that is fate. Those who laugh at my incomplete foot with their whole feet are many. I was angry for a time; when I came to our teacher I was calm again—I do not know with what he washed my heart clean. I have kept company with the teacher for nineteen years and was never treated as ‘the one-footed man.’ Now you and I meet within the form, yet you demand of me from outside the form—is that not going too far?”

Zichan at once changed countenance and said: “Say no more.”

(Note: Guzhong denotes the center of Hou Yi’s target, where an arrow is bound to land, hence “middle ground.” Zi wu nai cheng means: I already grasp your meaning; there is no need to go on.)

When I went out, you blocked my path—because you were ashamed to walk beside someone mutilated and incomplete. The next day you came again, wanting to make sure you would never walk with people like that. When Zi Qi held office, you only said “Zi Qi holds office,” as if that alone proved he lacked humility. In fact, there have always been people in office among the Master’s disciples; here the discussion is about virtue (de), not a tally of official rank. Yet you use Zi Qi’s position to press him, mocking him for leaning on power and always trying to walk ahead of others. Someone who has long kept company with the worthy would not speak such errors. You clearly have an enlightened teacher, yet a petty, grasping heart remains—that is the real fault.

People shaped as you are, who do not turn inward and examine themselves but still look down on those in office who possess virtue, who measure themselves against Zi Zi’s conduct—none of that can undo the fault that comes with a damaged form. Many who confess their wrongs still feel they ought not to die; far fewer silently know they are wrong and accept that they deserve death.

Yi was a master archer of antiquity; the range covered by bow and arrow is called the “target zone” (gouzhong). When benefit and harm strike at each other, everyone under Heaven sits in Yi’s target. Those who cannot forget the self, cannot forget clever knowing, who ride the same waves as things—they too are in Yi’s target. Even if, like Zhang Yi, one leaves the place where Shan Bao stayed, one still cannot escape “being struck”—whether one is hit or not rests only with the mandate of fate (ming). Petty people each meet their own lot, yet fail to see that fate is just so. Avoid the harm of arrows and they pride themselves on skill and rejoice; once they cannot avoid it, they resent having been wrong, their will injured and spirit shamed—they still have not understood Heaven’s mandate.

That I live is not something “I” gave birth to. Through a hundred years—sitting and rising, walking and stopping, moving and resting, choosing and rejecting, temperament and knowing capacity, and everything possessed or not possessed, done or met with—none of it is “I.” Principle is originally like this, yet within it joy and grief are stirred up at will—which is again going against nature and losing the Way.

Those with whole feet who laugh at my incomplete feet do not know that it is fate that produces such laughter. To flare up in anger is to be angry because they do not know fate—while one still does not know fate oneself. To collapse and turn back is to see that the perfected person (zhiren) knows fate and forgets form, and so to drop the earlier anger and return to the ordinary. One does not know whether the Master washed one with the good Way, or whether one could turn inward on one’s own—this is forgetting one’s form and casting off a burden. “Nineteen years without knowing” is because the mutilated one forgets form: form lies outside the bones, virtue (de) within. Now you and I wander together in virtue, not mingling with my form while demanding my outward appearance—is that not going too far? “You need not say more”—you have already understood, and so are weary of many words.

Editorial Note (Guàjiàn)

Shentu Jia accepted his lot and forgot that he lacked a foot; with virtue filling him inwardly, he was not tugged about by outward things. Zichan leaned on rank and looked down on the footless man; his heart followed external affairs and he did not grasp the inner principle. Those who ought not to have lost yet lost are many; those who ought to have kept yet kept are few—here Shentu Jia is probably using the survival or loss of the foot as his theme.

Shentu Jia accepted his lot and forgot his missing foot; with inward virtue complete, he had no fretting toward the outside. Zichan prided himself on office and despised the footless; his heart went with circumstances and he did not see inner virtue. What should not have been lost was lost in most cases; what should have been preserved was preserved in few—this passage should be Shentu Jia’s discourse on whether the foot remains or perishes.

The note adds: few are those who, though maimed, know they are at fault and can still rest in that knowledge; good and ill fortune are both entrusted to fate. From this we know Shentu Jia’s missing foot was not from crime and punishment. When one roams in the archery ground of Yi the archer, every arrow’s reach is a “hit on the mark”; if one shot misses, that is a lucky escape from death. To live in the world is to stand always on ground of trouble; to avoid disaster is likewise luck. Others, because they are lucky, laugh at my misfortune—I would still grow angry and could not forget myself. Yet if one empties out and turns the light back, the self too is forgotten—whether the master washed me with good water or I awakened on my own, then other and self are both forgotten, thing and self both transformed; what anger or joy can stir, what bodily form can be grasped?

In Lu there was a footless man named Shushan Wuzhi, who came on his heels to see Zhongni (Confucius). Zhongni said: “You were not careful before and brought calamity on yourself; even if you come now, what good is it?” Wuzhi said: “I blame only my own failure to understand…” (same point: once all is transformed, anger and joy do not move one and the bodily form is not clung to.)

In the state of Lu there was a man who had lost his feet and walked on his heels; his name was Shushan Wuzhi. He went to see Confucius. Confucius said, “You were not careful enough in the past and brought this misfortune on yourself; even if you come now, what good is it?” Wuzhi replied, “It was precisely because I did not understand what should be valued and lightly wasted my body that I lost my feet. I come now because there is something more worth preserving than feet—the ‘honored foot’—and that is why I am determined to keep it intact. Heaven covers all; earth bears all. I took the Master to be like heaven and earth—who would have thought you would still be like this?” Confucius said, “I, Qiu, am too shallow. Master, why not come in? Please tell us what you have heard.” Wuzhi took his leave. Confucius said to his disciples, “You must exert yourselves! Wuzhi is a man with severed feet, yet he still seeks learning to make up for the faults of his earlier conduct—how much more should those whose virtue is whole!”

Wuzhi said to Laozi, “Is Kong Qiu far from the perfected person? Why does he so deferentially seek learning from you as a disciple? Does he still hope to rely on those extravagant, strange reputations to become famous? Does he not know that the perfected person would treat such things as fetters bound upon himself?” Laozi said, “Why not have him directly take life and death as one thread and yes and no as one strand, and thus loosen his fetters—would that do?” Wuzhi said, “This is punishment decreed by Heaven—how could it be undone?”

Brief note on Guo Xiang’s reading: “Walking on the heels” means repeatedly using the heels to walk—i.e., having no forefeet. To live in the world, one should follow the principle of self-generation from nature; if one accords with nature and respects one’s own body, one knows what truly matters. If one forgets this principle of “self-generation” and is merely cautious and self-important, that is lightly using the body and not knowing one’s proper task—hence Wuzhi’s “Heaven’s punishment—how could it be undone?” meaning this situation comes from the way of Heaven, not something that can be resolved merely by the conceptual “loosening of fetters” that Laozi proposes. Confucius’s self-deprecation “I, Qiu, am shallow” admits that before Wuzhi he still clung to vulgar views such as “coming too late is useless”; Wuzhi stresses that what is more worth preserving than the physical foot is that “the honored foot remains”—namely one’s original nature and complete virtue.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

“Zhong” (the heel, one’s footing): people live in the world with natural principle already present, arising of itself. It is best not to force artificial action—only follow what arises on its own; then one will value oneself and know what to hold to. If one forgets this “self-arising” and instead becomes stiff and self-important, that is to slight oneself and not know what to hold to. Hence the five viscera harm one another within, and hands and feet are injured without—like the Zhuangzi line “there is still one who honors the foot”: losing one foot does not enough to damage one’s De (Virtue/Power). To see the bodily form as merely an inn on the journey, drop pretension, and let things arise naturally—that is the way to preserve oneself.

Heaven does not cover in order to cover, and so it can keep covering; earth does not bear in order to bear, and so it can keep bearing. If heaven and earth deliberately covered and bore, they would sometimes have to stop. If a boat is made to sink and people force it to float, it will sometimes sink. When things are enslaved and treated as tools, they are not enough to last a lifetime. How do we know the Master (Kongzi / Confucius) was still like that—blaming Toeless for insufficient caution, yet falling short of heaven and earth’s “not enslaving things”?

Toeless came out, listened to what he heard, and went out again in order to preserve Wuwei (non-action). Why should he be deferential and study like a disciple? The point is wonder at why he still went to learn from Laozi. For the mindless, when others study they follow and study too—but the ancients studied to fill themselves; people today study to be seen by others. Once biased, one falls into “doing what others do.” Those who take others as models and gain for themselves mostly follow the constant; those who abandon themselves to imitate others and chase external things pursue extraordinary reputation. Extraordinary reputation is in fact born from constant principle. So scholars were not originally out to be odd; oddity must come from excessive study. Ritual was not originally for show; showiness must come from clinging to ritual text—that is necessary principle. The perfected person (zhiren) can do nothing about this—so why still take ritual and law as one’s own fetters?

Why not directly let those who “take life and death as one thread and yes-and-no as one continuity” slip the fetters? They want to use straight principle to guard against name and trace, hoping to leave no trace. Kongzi was not failing to guard—but he followed natural principle: when he walked, his shadow followed; when he spoke, his echo followed. Following things, name and trace arise; the one who follows things is not for the sake of name—not for name is to reach the utmost—yet in the end one cannot avoid having a name. Who can resolve this? So name is shadow and echo; influence is the fetter of form and sound. Understanding this, name and trace can be cast off and life and nature (xingming) can be preserved.

(The later passage repeats “not for name then to the utmost … life and nature preserved”—same meaning, not repeated here.)

Fumo (supplementary commentary)

Shu Shan the Toeless knew “there is one who honors the foot,” so he came seeking preservation. “The honored foot remains”—treating the discarded foot like a discarded ear. The Master (Kongzi) still blamed him and urged him to devote himself to learning to make up for past wrong—not knowing that such people never rise from distinctions of good and evil at all; that is not easy for those bound by ritual teaching to see. So Toeless said privately to Laozi: perhaps the Master has not yet reached the perfected person? Why be deferential and study with you like a disciple? He is eager for a good name in the world, not knowing that the perfected person treats such things as his own fetters. The perfected person has no fixed self; the sage has no name—hands and feet were never in fetters; what fetters is setting up a separate view and binding oneself. To slip the fetters one must turn back from that separate view and return to oneness: take life and death as one thread and yes-and-no as one continuity—only then can one act.

“Take life and death as one thread”: originally there was no birth—who names death? “Take yes-and-no as one continuity”: originally there was no “this”—what is “not”? Then good and evil are both illusory dharma; most distinctions are deceptive names. To unstick and unbind people for others, nothing surpasses this aim. But one under heaven’s punishment hangs there unable to slip free—“heaven’s punishment” means heaven punishes one into that state; the tone is extremely heavy.

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius: In the state of Wei there was a man of extremely ugly appearance named Ai Taita. When men kept company with him, they wanted to leave yet could not bring themselves to go; when women saw him, they would ask their parents, “Rather than marry someone else, we would rather be this gentleman’s concubines.” There were many such cases. No one ever heard him take the lead in speech—he only echoed others when the crowd spoke. He had no ruler’s power to rescue people from life-and-death crises, nor stipends to fill anyone’s belly, yet with that frighteningly ugly face he drew the whole realm toward him. He harmonized without leading, and his knowing did not overstep its proper bounds; men and women naturally followed before and behind him—such a person must differ from ordinary people. Duke Ai summoned him and looked: he was indeed shockingly ugly. After less than a few months together, the duke approved of his character; within a year he trusted him. When the state lacked a suitable chief minister, he entrusted him with government. Ai Taita responded dully, as if vaguely declining, yet in the end accepted; before long he left again. Duke Ai grieved as if he had lost something, and the whole country seemed to have lost its joy. What kind of person was this?

Confucius said: When I was on a mission in Chu, I once saw a child named Fang (some texts read “Shun”) still trying to suckle at his dead mother’s breast. When he grew a little older, everyone shunned him and ran away, and he could no longer get milk. Thus when people love their mother, they do not love her physical form—they love what “keeps the form alive.” The dead in battle are buried without ceremonial feather-fans; no one cherishes the shoes of a man whose feet were cut off—wherever love has no root, it comes to nothing. Even the emperor’s attendants do not trim nails or pierce ears for ornaments; when someone marries, those waiting outside stop being ordered about—if preserving the bodily form is valued to that degree, how much more one whose De is complete? Now Ai Taita: without speaking he is trusted, without merit he is drawn close; others hand him the state yet fear he will not accept—this must be “talent fully complete, while De takes no outward form.”

Duke Ai asked: What is “talent fully complete”? Confucius said: Life and death, survival and perishing, poverty and wealth, noble and base, praise and blame, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—all are shifts in affairs and the movement of Ming (destiny). Day and night they are set before you, and the mind cannot from the first plan them through to the end. Therefore they are not enough to disturb inner harmony, and such disturbance must not enter the lingfu—the dwelling of the spirit. One should keep the inner mind harmonious and unobstructed without losing its native delight, so that day and night have no rift, meeting all things like spring in succession, and in thought following the seasons as they arise—this is called talent fully complete. What is “De taking no form”? When water is still, it is most full and can serve as a model; the inner mind holds itself while the outer bearing does not waver. De is the cultivation of “accomplished harmony”; when De does not show as a fixed shape, outer things cannot leave him and cannot harm him.

Later Duke Ai told this to Minzi. Minzi said: Once when I faced south as ruler, governed the realm, held the scales of law, and worried over the people’s life and death, I thought I had penetrated to the utmost. Now, hearing the words of a person of complete attainment, I fear I had no real substance, that I rashly used my person and forgot the state. Confucius and I are not lord and minister—we are friends joined in De.

(Guo Xiang’s commentary, in essence: “Ugly” refers to physical appearance. People still gather though he has no rank or salary—showing it is not power or pay. “With ugliness he awes the realm” means it is not beauty that attracts. “Harmonizes without leading” means the crowd is not summoned by him. “Knowing does not leave its domain” means he does not wield intelligence beyond what is his. Men and women follow because one whose talent is complete does not obstruct things—people do not break from the flock, birds do not stray from their flight. “Responds dully” means unmoved by favor or disgrace. “Vaguely as if declining” means when others decline, he too declines. The child Fang suckling at a dead mother: milk is “ sustenance”; when talent and De depart, sustenance is lost and one goes. One thick in embodied De is like an infant—with sustenance, no harm. What “makes the form endure” is talent and De. Feather-fans are martial adornment; when dead in battle there is no martial display to wing. Love of shoes is rooted in the feet. Not trimming or piercing, the bridegroom stopping outside—all stress preserving the whole form; if the highest turn their hearts and chaste women keep their integrity, bodily wholeness still matters so much—how much more when De is whole? Life and death, poverty and wealth, and the rest are the movement of Ming and shifts in affairs—they cannot be escaped. One whose talent is complete accepts whatever is met and bears it; one does not plan the end from the start or cling to the old while rejecting the new. Even supreme knowing cannot chart what Ming must run. The lingfu is the spirit’s dwelling; cares cannot enough to slip harmony. When harmonizing nature is not slipped, passing through change one does not lose delight. Still water is supremely level—the realm takes it as standard. Inwardly guarding clarity, outwardly without partiality, one can fully carry the level law. When affairs succeed and things harmonize, that is De; De without form is why the realm gladly pushes such a person forward and never wearies.)

This passage develops the original meaning of the Book of Rites and uses the word “spring” to clarify how time relates to the mind.

The Book of Rites stipulates that those observing the three-year mourning period and those who are newly married are not dispatched for corvée or official duties within the first year—hence the saying that a man who has taken a wife stays at home and is no longer sent out on assignments. What is at stake is the leniency built into ritual for mourning and marriage: external service must not break the state in which one is “without gap between day and night.” Birth and death, wealth and poverty—such turns may succeed one another before the eyes day and night, yet the mind can remain continuous, without a crack through which outer things might enter.

Seen this way, everything should be regarded as one, blended with things, as if dwelling in spring together with the ten thousand beings. A year naturally has four seasons; to see only spring and not summer, autumn, and winter is not to deny the four seasons but to say that the “day” one meets in things and the sequence of time arise in the heart—hence the phrase “birth of time” below: time does not first arise from yin-yang qi; it arises from our mind.

Some readers take ci xiong (male and female) in the text as beasts, following a line in the Liezi about “male and female in front, tails touching in crowds.” Read against the surrounding passage, however—with talk of not leaving one’s husband when with him and willing to be a concubine when with a woman—ci xiong here still means husband and wife, matching the earlier husband and woman, and saying that many people attach themselves to them.

Those who die in battle are not sent off with a sha (funeral fan); Fan Wuyin follows the sha can be read in that light. A sha was originally a martial and ceremonial implement: wood shaped like a square fan, wrapped in white cloth and painted with cloud patterns, hung on both sides of a war chariot—part self-defense, part display of rank. The Liji (Tangong, Mingtang wei) says the Zhou set up *sha; the Son of Heaven had eight sha, all with jade disks and hanging feathers; feudal lords six, all with gui; great officers four; gentlemen two—all with tassels—so in ancient usage mourning rites also used *sha; they were not only martial gear.

In the spirit of this passage in the Nan Hua (Zhuangzi): the ancient sages made ritual so people could nourish life properly and leave death without regret; the Zhou used coffins and shrouds and, by rank, willow sha and the like to handle endings with care. If one dies in bitter fighting, that is not a proper allotted death; at burial one does not use sha, and the body is often not whole, so full ceremonial gear is out of the question—like someone whose foot was cut off has no reason to cherish that shoe: outward things no longer matter to them.

This chapter, from the metaphor of the cub eating at its dead mother above, closes with layer upon layer of comparison, all to show: when virtue is full within, one need not borrow outward display; when virtue is thin within, outward display does no good either.

Bi Cheng (editorial note)

“Wang” (fullness) is like the full moon on the fifteenth day of the lunar month: it means complete, ample, and replete.

Such a person is gentle and harmonizing, yet does not step forward to take charge—you cannot see in them the ability to preside over affairs. Their insight does not go beyond the ordinary—you cannot see in them penetration or strategy. Salary, rank, talent, and looks—they have none of these, yet men and women alike naturally gather around them. It is not that they preserve outer things; outer things preserve themselves through them. What kind of person is this? One wonders: where exactly lies the power to move people’s hearts?

The analogy in the Fangzi chapter (or related passage) says: the outer form itself is not what deserves love; what deserves love is the root that gives the form life and radiance. A mother’s love takes as its root “what makes the child take shape and live”; warfare takes martial force as its root; walking takes the feet as root. Why Aitaituo (a figure in Zhuangzi) was employed when near and missed when away is also because of such a root.

“Cai” (talent) is the same “cai” as in Mencius’s “jiang cai” (descending talent)—talent not yet fully mature. Those whose talent is incomplete often love to show off; when talent is complete, virtue is satisfied within, so why lean on outer appearance?

Life and death, survival and perishing, success and failure, poverty and wealth, worthiness and unworthiness, praise and blame, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—though they change in countless ways like this, if you ask “who is manipulating these changes,” no answer comes. That is what is called “ming” (fate/destiny). If one already knew the point that first set change in motion, how could one remain entirely unmoved? Yet though change replaces change day and night without pause, the original cause even the wise cannot find—that is what is called “wei shi you shi” (not yet having a beginning—there is no point that can serve as a starting point). Once you know “not yet having a beginning,” how could you let it disturb the great harmony (taihe) in your heart-mind?

“Dui” is like the “dui” in Laozi’s “sai qi dui” (block its openings)—the mouth, opening outward. Being agreeable, at ease, and penetrating without losing the measure of guarding the “dui,” dwelling with the myriad things like spring itself, day and night without gap—this is what is meant by “bu xing” (no fixed form—not clinging to a fixed appearance). Thus, though one faces ten thousand kinds of change every day, every move and every stillness still hits its season.

When water rests, it levels; the myriad things take it as their standard. When leveled, the inner can hold itself; when stilled, outer conditions do not run wild. The leveling of water is like the harmony of De (Virtue/Power). When this “harmony” is cultivated to fullness, it is called “cheng he zhi xiu” (cultivation of accomplished harmony), and outer things cannot leave it.

Here “bu xing” is explained again: unity without splitting, life-and-death and myriad changes while nature itself does not move—that is the meaning.

Meaning of the Scripture

There was a man named Zhang Qi who walked on only one foot and guarded the city gate in the state of Wei. Zhi Li and Wu Shen (literally “no heel”—without a proper foot root) went to see Duke Ling of Wei. The duke was very fond of them and felt they were more “complete” than people who were physically whole. Weng Pan, who had a large growth on his neck, went to see Duke Huan of Qi, and the duke liked him too, again finding him more “complete” than ordinary whole people.

So: De (Virtue/Power) has what it excels at, and physical form has what may be forgotten—if someone fails to forget what ought to be forgotten (the ugliness of form) yet forgets what must not be forgotten (De that accords with things), that is not true “forgetting.”

The sage roams at ease. He does not treat wisdom as a treasure, binding covenants as glue, De as capital for helping others, or craft and commerce as real skills. The sage does not scheme deliberately—why lean on wisdom? He does not cut against nature—why use glue? To forget what should be forgotten and not forget what should not be forgotten—this is called cheng wang (sincere, authentic forgetting).

Again: in roaming, the sage still does not rely on wisdom, covenants, De, craft, or commerce—

Without scheming, why use wisdom? Without severing the natural, why use glue?

Without loss (nothing lost, keeping the whole of nature)—why flaunt De?

Without trafficking (no exchanging goods, no trading)—why practice commerce?

These four all come from tian yu (what Heaven nurtures and bestows)—also called tian shi (what Heaven feeds and continues). Once received from Heaven, why add more through “human” effort?

Having the form of a person but not the qing (emotion/disposition) of a person: the outer shape of a human, without that “qing” that harms the body through likes and dislikes.

Because there is human form, one lives among others; because there is no human qing, right and wrong do not attach to oneself.

Petty in one sense, so one still counts as “human”; vast in another, so one can stand alone with Heaven (Tian).

Hui Shi asked Zhuangzi: “Can a person really be without qing (emotion)?”

Zhuangzi said: “Yes.”

Hui Shi said: “Without qing, how can one still be called a person?”

Zhuangzi said: “The Dao gives him his face, Heaven gives him his body—how can he not be called a person?”

Hui Shi said: “If he is called a person, how can he be without qing?”

Zhuangzi said: “Is the ‘qing’ you mean the same as the qing I mean? What I call wu qing (no qing) is this: the person does not harm himself through likes and dislikes, and constantly follows the natural course without ‘extra nurturing’ of life.”

Hui Shi said: “If you do not extra-nurture life, how can you keep this life and this body?”

Zhuangzi said: “The Dao gives the face, Heaven gives the body—there is no need to harm the body with likes and dislikes.

Now you let your Shen (spirit) run outward and your Jing (essence) wear out; you lean on trees to recite poetry when you walk and on withered wu trees to doze when you sit—

Heaven’s choice gave you this form, yet you use the ‘hard and white’ sophistry of names to show off and draw crowds!”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (in Vernacular)

Zhang Qi: someone who walks on tiptoe and guards the gate. Zhi Li: the look of an incomplete body. Wu Shen: no foot root, only tiptoe walking; some say no lips. Weng Pan: a large neck tumor, like a goiter.

The passages on Zhang Qi, Zhi Li, and Wu Shen mean: clinging to one mood or one standard, the ugly can seem better and the fine uglier.

“De has what it excels at and form has what may be forgotten”: when De lies in accord with things, one forgets ugliness; when it lies in going against things, one forgets what is good.

Favored while alive, discarded when dead—so De is what people cannot forget; form in principle need not be clung to.

Forgetting form is not true forgetting; not forgetting form yet forgetting De is cheng wang (sincere forgetting).

The sage’s roaming in self-contentment, reaching everywhere in release, is full talent and full De.

Wisdom becomes affliction, covenants become glue, De becomes almsgiving, craft becomes commerce—the four arise naturally from one another; the principle is already complete, so the sage need not “use” them again.

Tian yu, tian shi: endowed by nature. Once received from Heaven, reason is already sufficient; even deep thought to avoid disaster or clear warnings to guard the body are not “I” doing the thinking—whether thinking avoids harm or not, or not thinking avoids harm or not, none of it is what “I” can control, so why add more? Let it come of itself.

Having the form of a person: the outer look of a human. Not having the qing of a person: inwardly like a dry branch, not burdened by likes and dislikes. Among the crowd as one of them: natural gathering and parting. Right and wrong not landing on the body: without qing one is vast and unobstructed—this is what “having qing” cannot do, so though the face is human, one alone completes Heaven (Tian).

The Dao gives the face, Heaven gives the body: when a person is born, it is not “qing” that produces him; what one knows at birth is also not what “qing” can know.

Trying to use “qing” to achieve Li Kuang’s sharp sight—you cannot; yet Li Kuang is clear-sighted without qing.

Trying to use “qing” to become a sage—you cannot; sages too become sages without qing.

It is not only that sages are lofty and Li Kuang hard to imitate—even the dullest, the deaf and blind, dogs and chickens: if you tried to “do” it with qing, you still could not.

Near or far, miss by a hair and you never reach the space between Confucius and Yan Hui—all things return to the self: eyes and ears cannot swap roles, hands and feet cannot do each other’s work.

A newborn does not use its eyes to find milk, ears to seek light, feet to grab things, or hands to walk—is it that the hundred parts have no fixed office and form has no master, all run only by “qing”?

“If he is called a person, how can he be without qing”: not understanding that appearance is not the same as “qing.”

“That is not the qing I mean”: taking right and wrong as qing; with no right/wrong and no likes/dislikes, though there is a face, it is only the shell of “person”—where would “qing” lodge?

Wu qing: not harming the body with likes and dislikes, stopping where one should and yielding (ren).

“If you do not extra-nurture life, how do you have this body”: not seeing that life is already sufficient in reason within form—yield to it and the body endures; likes and dislikes are not what nurtures life, only enough to harm life’s share.

Life is already sufficient in reason within appearance—yield and the body remains—likes and dislikes cannot extra-nurture life, only harm life’s portion.

When Shen does not rest within the bounds of one’s nature, it runs outward; when Jing does not stop at the limit of self-generation, it toils—those with qing trap themselves: leaning on trees to chant, on wu to sleep.

“Heaven chose your form, yet you cry ‘hard and white’”: you exhaust Shen, toil Jing, lean and chant, sit and sleep—people call that “qing”; yet Heaven chose and gave form, and you use “hard and white” disputation to advertise yourself.

Whatever you do, the world calls it qing; Heaven’s choice already shows: qing is not born from qing—how much less everything else? All forms, all starts and stops, taking and leaving, arrive within wu qing—why need “qing” in between?

In the Zhuangzi there is someone who lived long despite a huge wen on his body, thanks to his De (Virtue), and was valued by two rulers—he had even forgotten his own appearance. People do not know that what must be preserved is Shen (spirit, what is genuinely oneself); instead they are led by eyes, ears, and discursive thought. What should be forgotten they do not forget; what should not be forgotten they forget—that is not true forgetting.

Sincere forgetting (genuinely letting go of the bodily form and fixations) is not forgetting only on the outside. When one reaches sincere forgetting, one enters the realm where the sage’s mind wanders freely: external things cannot be avoided, yet each can rest in its place and obtain what belongs to it. If such a person still treats zhi (cleverness, scheming) as what matters most, then cleverness is no longer in its proper role. Treating yue (binding, rules) as glue is for gathering what is scattered; treating De (virtue in harmony with the Dao) as continuity is for joining what differs and making it one; treating gong (skill, craft) as trade is not for the sake of making objects. The sage does not rely on planning—why use cleverness? Does not rely on cutting and carving—why use glue? Does not lose what is innate—why patch with De? Does not chase profit—why trade? Cleverness, binding, De, and craft—these four are tian yu (what Heaven bestows, what is naturally complete), so there is no need to seek them outside.

Someone has human form but not “human emotion” because what they roam in is the place of sincere forgetting. Mixed among people, they move within the right and wrong of the world; when right and wrong do not harm the self, they rest in tian jun (Heaven’s equality, alignment with the Dao). The small side belongs to the human; the large side belongs to Heaven. In outward bearing, movement and dignity all accord with the Dao; in the bodily form, the six limbs and nine openings are given by Heaven—being human is already enough; why doubt that a person can be “without emotion”?

Huizi bluntly said that being without emotion is like wood and stone—not counting as human. Zhuangzi said: What I mean by emotion is that right and wrong do not harm the self; what I mean by being without emotion is not letting likes and dislikes from within injure the body. If it is so, that is already enough to preserve this body—why still insist on extra “nourishing life”?

Huizi did not understand “moving yet still,” yet leaned on a parasol tree seeking stillness; precisely because he did not understand this, he could not find his place and instead used jian bai (Hui Shi’s “hard and white” disputation) to crow and show off.

The sage roams beyond the realm of “forgetting form and forgetting De”: though he still practices virtue in daily life, he does not boast or show off, so artificial, perverse things like “glue” and “perversity” never even begin to sprout. Without scheming for benefit or harm, why rely on clever “knowing”? Without carving and polishing one’s nature, why use “glue” to stick things together? Without losing oneself in outer things, why treat De as a tool to wield? Without hoarding goods, why practice the calculations of “commerce”? All four of these are ways of being nourished by following heaven-nature.

Dung beetles roll balls and spiders weave webs—that is “knowing” without scheming. Clouds follow dragons and wind follows tigers; pine and cypress cling to dodder—that is “glue” without carving. Beasts dwell in forests and marshes; fish and turtles swim in rivers and lakes—that is De without loss. Each thing takes what it needs and each supports its own life—that is “commerce” without hoarding. All of this is what heaven nourishes, hence it is called heavenly nourishment (tianshi)—there is form, yet no human emotional attachment.

(The following passage repeats the same drift: clouds, dragons, wind, and tigers; pine, cypress, and dodder are glue without carving; beasts in forest and marsh, fish and turtles in rivers and lakes are De without loss; each thing benefiting itself and each supporting its own life is commerce without hoarding—all heaven’s nurture, therefore heavenly nourishment, with form but no feeling.)

Seen from afar, one is almost like the wooden cock (in the Zhuangzi, the fighting cock that stays still and hides its edge).

The same square foot of face, yet features all differ—that is what Dao bestows. The same six-foot body, yet the inner openings and structure do not differ—that is what Heaven bestows. None of this falls under the private designs of human sentiment. Heaven simply lets you grow into this bodily frame—where is there any “human feeling” to speak of? It is only mute, obscure self-generation.

Now that you have human form, no different from the crowd, you still thrust the sophistries of hard-white and same-different (the Gongsun Long school of name-dialectics) before everyone, making noise to show off, and call yourself worthy—like metal leaping chaotically in a smelting furnace. How can people not find that strange?

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi (Wings on Zhuangzi)

Following the Root Text

“His neck was pinched and narrow, his nape like a jar”—this describes a long, thin neck as ugly. The point: there is no “fleshy” spectacle to gaze at in that kind of appeal; turn back to the “complete person,” and that person’s neck looks pinched, long, and ugly—not worth looking at. The Rites of Zhou, “Artificers’ Record,” says “count the neck and nape”; the gloss takes “long nape” as a long neck; “shoulder” here matches “nape” in meaning. “Withered paulownia” (gaowu) is what we now call dead paulownia. Paulownia has many varieties; only the withered kind suits zithers and lutes, so zithers and lutes are also called “withered paulownia.”

Supplementary Ink (Commentary)

Those three men, ugly in form, could make the rulers of Qi and Wei fond of them and feel the “complete person” fell short of them—because the rulers loved their de (virtue/power) and forgot their looks. From this we see: form has weak points, de has strong points. Weak points can make others “forget” you in the wrong way; if you fixate on flaws in form and undervalue yourself, you invite dislike and alarm. Strong points can make others unable to “forget” you; if you always dwell on strengths and boast, you fall into pride and showing off skill. To forget what should be forgotten and not forget what should be remembered—that is true “forgetting.”

(The following repeats “Because form has weak points… that is true forgetting”—same meaning.)

From the word “forgetting,” the commentary extends to one’s own learning and confirms it with the sage: Is the sage someone who forgets what must not be forgotten? No—more precisely, the sage forgets what should be forgotten and lets the heart roam. They treat cleverness like a surplus child and do not cling to it; treat covenants like glue and do not rely on them; treat kindness like social exchange and do not prize it; treat skills like merchandise and do not identify with them. Why? The sage does not scheme—what need for plots? Un carved, un hewn—what need for glue? Nothing originally lost—what lack of de? Deeply stored, not for sale—what need for trade? Perhaps in “using people” there are times of “using nothing”—then one roams with Heaven, hence “Heaven’s endowment” (tian yu). With Heaven’s endowment, the sage “feeds on Heaven”—what need for human contrivance? So though human in shape and small in form, without the pull of right-and-wrong, their “Heaven” is vast. The Dao gives appearance; Heaven gives form—from no-beginning of beginnings, shape and color are gifts of Dao and Heaven; “the Dao gives it” is “Heaven gives it.”

Huizi said: If you call someone “human,” how can they be without qing (emotion/disposition)? He wanted people to be like dead stumps and cold ashes to count as “without qing.” So Zhuangzi said: not the qing-lessness I mean—meaning not letting likes and dislikes wound the self from within, always following the inborn life without arbitrary adding—that is wuqing (non-emotional fixation). Laozi says “To boost life is called an ill omen”; the Zhuangzi text stops here. Huizi still did not understand and asked: Without boosting life, how is there a body? He did not see: life need not depend on “boosting”; Dao gives the face, Heaven gives the form—the physiology of life is already enough in what is given; failing to follow the natural within that sufficiency, instead raising likes and dislikes, chasing delusions, and losing the constant—not only no benefit but harm. Is your spirit not also what Dao and Heaven gave? Yet you spend spirit outward, weary mind and harm form, lean on a tree and on withered paulownia to chant and sleep—Heaven chose your form, originally without lack, yet you cannot follow along; instead you clamor under heaven with the “hard and white” debate, setting up right and wrong, sameness and difference—simply bound by qing. Looking at Huizi and Zhuangzi’s exchange, on the concrete issue they never fully agreed; one wonders why Zhuangzi still befriended him.

(The closing “Giving it to him yet outwardly exhausting spirit…” repeats the Huizi passage: outward spirit, leaning on withered paulownia, not following along, hard-and-white debate, bound by qing, debate unsettled yet still friends.)

This overview discusses the meaning of “de chong” (virtue fulfilled) in Zhuangzi, “De Chong Fu” (Signs of Full Virtue).

What is De?

Everything that lives and takes shape does so through de—the refined essence Heaven bestows. Only by honoring life and fulfilling one’s inborn nature can one truly grasp “nature and the Way of Heaven.” De originates in Heaven, yet must be realized in the person; hence one cannot fail to respect and cherish oneself.

Signs and Great Works

Small resonances between self and things are merely the finer points after de is full; the great achievement belongs to those who can assist Heaven and Earth in transformation and nurture. Wang Tai moved Confucius to reverence; if he could truly lead the world to follow him, his cultivation must far exceed the ordinary—almost without teaching or disputing, yet learners came empty and left fulfilled. That is hard to reach without heart meeting heart, unchanged through life and death, guarding the root and transforming things. Every place seen and every place left behind shows “one who has attained the Way forgets form”; “only stillness can still all stillness”—understanding that one comes from emptiness and uses emptiness to mirror the mundane—these are all paths of “fulfilling de.”

When De Is Full, Things Return

When de is full, the ten thousand things naturally turn toward you, like cypress and pine among trees, or Yao and Shun among the people. One does not merely count oneself lucky to “rectify one’s own person,” but is more fortunate in being able to rectify all living beings; one’s own life, death, fortune, and misfortune need not weigh on the mind. Thus one can choose a day to mount the ephemeral and depart or stay as one wills—who would waste mind on “things”? (The passage on Shen Tu Wu Qu overlaps the above: still taking rectifying life and rectifying all beings as fortune, not caring about personal life, death, fortune, or misfortune, choosing a day to mount the ephemeral, not making things one’s business.)

Shen Tu, Zichan, and Wuzhi

Shen Tu Wu Qu pushed “nothingness” (like lack, like stumpness) too far and ended up looking “stump-like”; yet he treated stumpness as wholeness—where there is lack, there is the whole. Zichan, proud in office, looked down on the “stump”; yet high rank was still low. Wuzhi (with feet cut off) was more honored still: what the feet “preserve” weighs more than the feet themselves. Though Heaven’s punishment cannot be undone, once one rests in fate, one is no different from a “whole person.”

Ai Tai Ito

His ugliness matched what came before, so Duke Ai forgot his repulsiveness and wished to cede the state—not loving his form, but loving the de that “gave him that form.” Great harmony within, blemishes dissolve without; de renews daily, the Way penetrates to spirit-transformation. When the work is done he claims no merit; wherever he goes, things return to him.

Forgetting Rank, Forgetting Form

Duke Ai took Zhongni as a “friend in de”—when de is honored, rank can be forgotten. Duke Ling saw Wuchan as a whole person—when de is honored, form can be forgotten. Where the sage wanders, there is no boundary with things; alone completing Heaven—how vast—to forget what others cannot forget, where pure beauty gathers, sometimes one must accept what comes.

Huizi and “Hard and White”

Huizi had talent but thin de, so he asked about the feelings of like and dislike; the answer in terms of “the truth of nature and life” was meant to recall him from his error. Having form without feeling often follows nature; at that point de is full and things accord, self and other both exhausted, right and wrong and likes and dislikes dissolve in forgetting words—why exhaust spirit outward or make a name with “hard and white”? Taking Shen Tu, Wuzhi, Ai Tai, and the ugly men as examples to establish the argument is fundamentally a warning to those who “prize the body and slight de.”

To understand how Heaven and human beings each operate is to see that everything is simply thus by nature: inwardly, release yourself; outwardly, do not guard against everything; like everyone else, let nature take its course—there is nothing that cannot be reached or done. “Heaven” here means nature itself. Those who deliberately “act” cannot truly act; it is only things acting on their own. Those who deliberately “know” cannot truly know; it is only knowing knowing itself. To know oneself is at the same time not to know; not to know, in turn, is also to know. Thus “knowing” arises from “not knowing”; “acting” arises from “non-action” (wuwei). Since acting comes from non-action, take non-action as the root; since knowing comes from not knowing, take not knowing as the aim.

Therefore the True Person (zhenren) discards deliberate knowing and thereby knows; refrains from deliberate doing and thereby accomplishes; follows nature in being born and finds fulfillment through sitting and forgetting (zuowang). So when Zhuangzi says knowing must be cut off and names must be dropped, he means exactly this.

Living in the world, the body is barely seven feet tall, yet the five constants—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and fidelity—cannot be omitted. This small frame is sustained and supported by the whole cosmos. Among all things in Heaven and earth that have life, not one day passes without mutual dependence; leave out any part and life cannot be maintained. What the body possesses, some is clear and some is not; what principle demands, some can be done and some cannot. Thus what people “know” is very little, while what the body depends on is very much; what they deliberately do is very little, while what principle encompasses is very broad. Those in high position cannot govern everything; they can only seek rough completeness.

People’s views need not be identical, but conduct must not run wild—when it does, pretense wins and authenticity is lost. Some love seeking knowledge tirelessly and ruin the whole body; what they cherish is but a branch or leaf of the body, yet root and trunk are spoiled together. This is using a little “knowing” to harm what is “not known.”

As for one whose knowing reaches its peak, he knows that what humans should do has limits, so he accords with nature and does not force; knows that what humans can know has boundaries, so he applies it without overflowing. Then knowing does not trap him through endless craving; within one body, “knowing” and “not knowing” secretly preserve each other and complete one another. This is using what is known to nurture what is not known.

The phrase “there is trouble” means: even when knowing is at its height, it is still better to forget knowing and follow nature—only then is there no calamity. The knower cannot achieve “nothing is unacceptable and nothing is unacceptable,” so he always depends on something and waits for something. If one is born by trusting Heaven, one meets things as they come and responds fittingly. Saying “what one waits for is unsettled” means that once there is waiting, one cannot settle. When Zhuangzi says “my life has bounds,” “Heaven” here carries the same sense. People always want to extend life—that is merely human talk; nothing is not Heaven, nothing is not nature. The knower still cannot achieve “nothing is unacceptable and nothing is unacceptable,” so there must be dependence. Born by trusting Heaven, one meets things as they should be met; if what one waits for is unsettled, there is no fixity. Wishing to prolong life is still human attachment; all things are natural.

Only after there were True Persons did people’s “knowing” each return to its authenticity and cease to run wild. One who does not oppose the few finds much to follow; one who does not claim merit does not lean on what is already done to push ahead; one who does not use schemes to recruit scholars goes straight ahead as the heart moves, and scholars gather on their own—not summoned by plot, but by self-completion and self-appropriateness, without fault, and not hanging gain and loss on the mind. Then principle is complete in itself; there is no need to fear death. So when a True Person travels on land, it is not to avoid damp; when he stays far from fire, it is not to flee heat; when he is without fault, it is not contrived arrangement. Thus though he does not treat “heat” as heat, he need not jump into fire; though he does not treat “damp” as damp, he need not tread water; though he does not treat “death” as death, he need not throw life away. Then—is living for the sake of “wanting to live”? Is accomplishing for the sake of “wanting to accomplish”? One who follows nature and reaches everywhere without obstruction—that is the True Person. How could he hold fixed views about what he meets?

Therefore it is said: from “knowing” up to the Dao (the Way), the distance is just this far.

This passage explains Zhuangzi’s ideas of “knowing Heaven and knowing the human,” and “the true person and true knowledge,” alongside Lü Huiqing’s commentary and elaborations in the “New Transmission.”

Knowing Heaven, knowing the human, and “nourishing life with knowledge”

One must discern what belongs to Heaven’s doing and what belongs to human doing. Heaven gives birth and the human assists; some things can be grasped through knowledge, but some things were never something knowledge could exhaust. Zhuangzi says to use what is already known to care for what cannot yet be fully known—this is to nourish life with knowledge, not to let life chase after knowledge—so one may fulfill one’s years and not die midway. Among people, what they call the height of knowing is nothing beyond this, yet even so there is still trouble: treating “knowing Heaven” and “knowing the human” as tasks that first require a separate, discriminating knowledge to accomplish means what one relies on is still not the root of the Dao but a knowledge that remains pending; if what one waits upon is unsettled, how can one know that what was formerly called “Heaven” was not really the human, or that what was called “human” was not really Heaven? Only the true person has true knowledge: to take “not-knowing” as knowing, and to depend on nothing.

Traces in the world and the true person’s substance

Right and wrong in the world are not one; if one only follows the crowd, one can hardly avoid clashing with the “few.” The way of earth has no fixed completion, yet generation after generation wants a “end”; being fierce and hard makes “heroic completion” hard to avoid. If everything is consulted and made unanimous, it easily turns into scheming for the “officers”—these are all traces the sage left in responding to the world, not his original authenticity. The true person keeps pure simplicity and has no “self,” so even if he errs he merely errs—what regret? Even if he hits the mark he merely does not hit it—what self-congratulation? Climbing high or treading fire and water—for him these are “what I do”; who trembles, who gets soaked? Knowledge itself is not the Dao, but the true person, through true knowledge, accords with the Dao, and so can “mount and borrow the Dao” (ascend by the Dao and lodge in the Dao).

What the New Transmission clarifies: the Dao pervades Heaven and human

Heaven and the human both reside in the Dao. One who fully realizes the Dao can know what Heaven and the human do; yet this “knowing” is knowing through “not-knowing”: with not-knowing to know Heaven, one reaches the subtlety of wuwei (non-action); with not-knowing to know the human, one exhausts the utmost of purposeful action—this is the purport of Laozi’s “in desirelessness observe the mystery; in desire observe the manifest.” Even here one may still speak of the height of knowing, yet there is still trouble: splitting Heaven and the human into two kinds of “knowing,” not seeing that originally they are one. The far-sighted see Heaven and the human as originally the same—whole and undifferentiated—what is called “same source, different names; together called the dark.” Hence the question: how do you know Heaven is not the human, or the human is not Heaven?

Only with the true person is there true knowledge; true knowledge is “not-knowing.” One can keep to yielding, await the few, keep to the feminine as if deficient; not scheming yet not failing to achieve, and officers gather of themselves—so one does not oppose the few, does not heroically complete, does not scheme for officers. If the true person errs, he does not move his heart with gain and loss; without mind toward things, he does not clash with things, and things do not harm him. It is not that the true person and ordinary people have two bodies, but that through true knowledge one enters the Dao—hence it is said that knowing “mounts and borrows the Dao.”

Guan jian (editor’s note)

“Guo” refers to times of want and restraint; “cheng” refers to times of fullness and grandeur. In want, one should go with the situation; to resist it by force brings harm. In prosperity, one should stay modest; to flaunt strength and compete brings disaster.

Scholars explain the classic this way: “Do not overthink, do not plan ahead” means not spinning schemes when things arise. If you do that, in dealing with people and affairs you do not cling to events in the heart—you simply follow conditions as they come. What regret could there be? With affairs too, you likewise follow conditions. What could you call your own? When a tile falls with the wind, or an empty boat drifts and bumps you, neither deliberately clashes with things, so things do not harm them either.

With such a stance, what fear in climbing high? With such a stance, what soaking or burning in entering water or fire? Rising from “knowing” up toward the Dao is already like this; how much more so for one who forgets knowing and awakens in an instant?

Scripture (Zhuangzi, “Great Master” and related themes)

The true person of old: in sleep, no dreams; awake, no worry; eating, no greed for flavor; breath deep and slow. The true person’s breath reaches the heel; ordinary people’s breath stops at the throat. Those who bow and attach themselves to things speak like vomiting; those whose desires run deep have shallow heavenly mechanism (tian ji).

The true person of old: did not delight in life, did not hate death; did not rejoice at going out, did not resist coming in; went off freely, came back freely—that was all. Did not forget where things began, did not chase where they end; received and welcomed, forgot and returned. This is called: not using the heart to betray the Dao, not using human effort to aid Heaven. This is called the true person.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

Sleep without dreams: no deliberate imaginings. Awake without worry: whatever comes, rest in it. Eating without savoring greed: eat as reason requires (not chasing taste). “Received and welcomed, forgot and returned”: accept with joy, forget and return again—namely, not using the heart to betray the Dao, not using human effort to aid Heaven; this is the true person.

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

To sleep without dreaming is because the mind does not deliberately scheme; to wake without worry is to meet whatever comes and rest in it. To eat without finding the food especially delicious is simply to eat when it is time. The breathing of the true person (Zhenren) runs so deep that it seems to rise from the heels—qi comes from the root, the body takes the foot as its “heel,” and breath takes the place where qi is born as its “heel”; all of this is spoken from the deepest layer. Go deeper still, and one almost ceases to feel breathing at all.

Ordinary people cannot hold to their station and yield outward; their speech is like choking, and their qi does not flow smoothly. Yet they still hope to seek “heel-breathing” (zhongxi) in order to obtain breath—how could they succeed? Those whose desires run deep have shallow inborn spirit; at the slightest touch from things outside, they react. When the true person takes the heel as breath, they keep distance from things and are not pulled by them.

Not knowing delight in life or loathing death is to be one with “transformation” (hua); neither guarding against nor rejecting is to leave things to nature. Coming and going in ease (xiaoran) means entrusting all comings and goings to ultimate principle, so that coming and going are not burdensome. Beginning, end, change, and transformation are altogether forgotten—not only “forgetting life by going against the grain,” but also no longer chasing after the meaning of death.

“Receiving with joy” means not asking what is received—whatever comes is fitting. “Forgetting and returning” means return does not rely on conceptual knowing, but reaches spontaneity itself. To be born and yet be still is the nature of Heaven; to be stirred by things and move is the desire of nature. Things stir people without end; people chase things without measure—and Heavenly principle is lost. The true person knows: to use the mind is to turn against the Dao (the Way); to “assist Heaven” is to harm life—so they do none of these.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary:

Without thought, sleep has no dreams; without craving, food has no special sweetness—only then does breathing grow deep, deep enough to take the heel as breath. The “heel” is the root of qi and where breath arises; the body takes the foot as heel, breath takes where it begins as heel—again from the lowest level; deeper and deeper, until there is almost no breath at all.

The crowd loses their hold and yields outward; their words choke like retching, yet they still want heel-breathing—can they achieve it? Their Heaven-endowed capacity is shallow; things touch them and they flare up at once. When the true person breathes from the heel, they stand far from things. To know life and rejoice, death and shrink—to go out is to bend, to enter is to resist, to play at the so-called “ease”—is really to cast the Dao from the heart, cling to life and seek life’s beginning, fear death and seek death’s end. Unable to receive with joy and forget in returning, blind to spontaneity (ziran) yet adding to life—this is using the human to assist Heaven (zhu tian).

Doubting Solitude

When the mind is free of distracting thoughts, hun and po (soul and corporeal soul) rest at ease and are not dragged about by outer things; hence one does not have chaotic dreams in sleep. When the body does not move recklessly, spirit rests at ease and is not enslaved by outer things; hence on waking there is no pointless sorrow. One who tastes without clinging to flavors is no longer bound by “flavor” as such; hence at meals one does not blindly crave sweetness alone.

Following the Root

When breathing is deep and sunken, it seems as if qi is stored in the soles of the feet; when breathing is shallow and floating, it seems as if qi reaches only the throat. In truth, the Sea of Qi (the region where qi gathers around the Dantian) is the root of breathing. Tianji (Heaven’s natural mechanism) is the innate rhythm of qi—simply inhale and exhale. The deeper one’s cravings and desires, the shallower the breath—like bending the body and leaning in to please the world, which is exactly the mark of deep craving. Speech that sounds like retching and breath that stops at the throat likewise show a shallow Tianji and floating breath.

Brush-Ride (Commentary)

“Emerging” from transformation means stepping out of creation and entering the world—the beginning of life, paired with “receiving.” “Entering” transformation means returning to creation and sinking into nature—the end of death, paired with “returning.” When you see that “beginning” has not yet got a fixed “beginning of beginning,” you will not cling rigidly to “where it began”; when you see that “ending” has not yet got a fixed “ending of ending,” you will not keep asking “where it ends.” Only then can you move freely in and out of creation and play between life and death—why would you need to deliberately rejoice in or loathe life and death?

Once the mind stirs over life and death or over grasping and letting go, that is juan dao—turning away from the Dao. The Dao itself has no life or death, yet people use two minds toward it—is that not forsaking the Dao? So-called “assisting Heaven” is, as Laozi said, to treat one’s dwelling as cramped and this life as wearisome, and to seek extra years beyond “having life”—a True Person (Zhenren) is not like that. From this you can know: fearing death and clinging to life, seeking only to get out, is still a secondary teaching and has not reached the True Person.

Such a person keeps a single focus of mind, a calm and settled bearing, and a broad, level forehead. At times his expression is as cool and clear as autumn; at other times as warm and gentle as spring. Joy and anger can move with the four seasons; in relating to the myriad things, each finds its proper place—yet others cannot fathom his depths.

That is why when the sage goes to war, he may destroy another state without losing the hearts of its people; his kindness can reach through ten thousand generations—not because he is especially “loving toward people” that he acts this way.

Thus: music and harmony (yuè) that runs through the myriad things does not by itself make one a sage; having kin does not by itself make one benevolent (rén); aligning with the season’s mandate does not by itself make one worthy; failing to think benefit and harm through to the end means one is no gentleman; chasing reputation and losing one’s true heart means one is no scholar-official (shì); staking body and life yet not holding to what is true means one is not someone who can truly command others.

As for figures such as Hu Buxie, Wuguang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Xuyu, Jita, and Shentu Di—noted in the sources as ancient recluses, martyrs for principle, or world-renouncers (Wuguang in the time of the Yellow Emperor; Shentu Di in the Xunzi, who weighted himself with stone and drowned)—they were “fulfilling others’ service and going where others would go,” not “going where they themselves would go.” That is, whether they died for name, for righteousness, or for integrity, in Zhuangzi’s view (and in the commentary tradition of this text) they still count as “serving others’ service and suiting others’ suit,” and need not have reached the realm of true carefree self-suitability.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

What is meant by zhi (intent) is to dwell where one belongs and to keep the heart at rest. One who is truly still may act, yet never damages stillness. The face is as plain as the da pu (great uncarved block)—the unworked, original state of authenticity. To seem stern as autumn in killing the myriad things is not to show power; to seem gentle as spring in giving life to the myriad things is not to perform ren (benevolence). That joy and anger “run with the four seasons” means that one who embodies the Dao and can change with things shares the warmth and severity of cold and heat, yet never holds a deliberate purpose in mind. Outwardly there is still the rhythm of warmth, severity, giving life and taking life, so the names “joy” and “anger” are used by way of figure. To be “suited to things” is not to discriminate among things or to seize what suits each thing from it; when nothing fails to obtain its proper place, no one can fathom the ultimate. In using force, one lets an old state perish by following the direction in which people’s hearts already tend toward its fall—thus one does not lose their hearts. The sun rises in heaven and shines through the six directions—not because it loves anyone in particular. The sage in the world is warm like spring that harmonizes of itself; those who receive the moistening need not thank him. He is clear and chill like autumn frost that descends of itself; those who wither need not resent him. The sage has no contrived joy—only unobstructed flow, and the myriad things connect of themselves; no partial favoritism—he acts as principle allows, and the myriad things preserve themselves. As for “heaven’s timing,” it is better to forget timing and accord naturally.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

Zhi in the heart is intent fixed on the Dao. “Bearing stillness” (rong ji) means spirit gathers and does not stir; brow and chin look like a return to simplicity. Chill as autumn—not from hatred; warm as spring—not from love. When joy and anger run with the four seasons, one is one with heaven’s harmony, and so is suited to things. To destroy a state yet not lose people’s hearts is to have no mind set on doing evil; to benefit myriad generations without acting as “love” is to have no mind set on displaying affection. Toward things, let them connect of themselves; toward ren, let all under heaven together forget it; toward timing, advance and withdraw rest with oneself. In hardship one still holds what one holds—the gentleman’s hold differs from the common people’s; this is what is called shi (the cultivated person): forgetting height and depth, leaving life and death behind, and so able to employ others without being employed by them. From sage and worthy down to one who employs others, high and low differ, yet each must have their zhen (authenticity) for name and reality to match. Figures such as Hu Buxie and Wu Guang are caught in the service of “employing others”; they cannot zi shi qi shi—adapt their own adapting for themselves. Only by wu suo wei er wei zhi—acting without deliberate acting—can one adapt one’s own adapting for oneself.

Biji Note

On the word zhi: in Zhao’s edition it is corrected to wang (forgetting), which fits “bearing stillness.” The argument of this passage seems best taken along Jigong’s reading. “Employing others” likely grows out of the line about xu mi climbing high without fear and leaving life and death behind—the point is very subtle; yet read against the later phrase “employed in the service of employing others,” Ziyou’s (or Ziyao’s) explanation feels especially to the core.

In ancient times, the so-called “True Person” (zhenren) was roughly like this in bearing and spirit:

In appearance and temperament: Each thing found its proper place alongside them, yet they formed no factions; inwardly they were empty and still, as if they had more than enough yet seemed insufficient, content to stay below and not reach upward to take. They moved with things, like a square vessel (gu) yet did not cling to one corner; their heart was open and quiet, not fond of display, free and unattached, while inwardly self-sufficient. Easy and unhurried, they seemed often to wear a gentle joy; in conduct they also looked as if circumstances pressed them, so that they had no choice—whether moving or still, advancing or stopping, all fell within natural spontaneity, without forcing.

In advance and retreat, and in the world: When full, they did not harm themselves for outer things; when at rest, virtue held firm and they pursued nothing. Outwardly they sometimes seemed stern, going along like people in the world; in truth the Perfect Person is not harsh by nature—they simply walk the same road as others, so they appear “severe”; yet they are also lofty and free, not to be constrained by effort; again deep and continuous, as if fond of closing the door and keeping to themselves, so outsiders could hardly find their way in; again as if they had forgotten words and did not speak much.

Four aspects of being in the world (root, wings, timeliness, following): They took “punishment” (xing—the natural measure, the bounds of one’s lot) as the root of personhood, hence they were generous yet could decide; they took ritual (li) as wings for moving in the human realm, hence they could walk among people; they used wisdom (zhi) to meet the moment, only when affairs left no alternative; they took virtue (de) as what they followed. As for the story that they would match pace with people who had feet and climb mountains together—ordinary people really took them for those who toiled on foot; in fact True Persons often blend with common people and do not show their difference.