《庄子翼》Vol. 5

Once following one’s innate nature (xingshuai) becomes self-evident, people under heaven will rest in their proper places and will not feel they still “lack something” and must pile on more virtue.

Deliberately elevating virtue turns into forcing growth (yanking one’s nature upward); suppressing one’s nature breeds disgust at what one is born with. Such excess is usually for the sake of reputation; then everyone under heaven beats drums and gongs to honor practices that are “never enough, always need topping up”—Confucian models of benevolence along the lines of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu have overgrown “benevolence” in just this way.

The Dao is originally beyond words; if one relies on disputation, that is no longer the Dao. Like valuing tiles for their stacked courses and piling layer on layer, or valuing cord for straight segments and knotting them in series—some, to make sentences read smoothly and words fit, honor only the “empty” while wandering among “hard and white” and “same and different” (the sophistical categories of the School of Names associated with Gongsun Long); they also ruin conduct, mix praise and blame, stand on tiptoe to show off, and liken useless talk to stacking tiles and tying knots—followers of Yang Zhu and Mozi have raced side by side in disputation, saying more and more.

None of this is the most upright path under heaven. Most upright is not losing the disposition of life and nature (xingming zhi qing); then one is wuwei (non-action) and ziran (spontaneous nature)—neither adding what should not be added nor cutting what should not be cut.

Editor’s note (collation): In the received text, “stacked tiles” should read “stacked balls,” “thread the clause” should read “thread the body,” “tiptoe praise” should read “destroy and praise,” “upright upright” should read “most upright,” and “not be straddle-legged” should read “not be forked.” Read with these emendations, the sense runs clear without forced glosses; the errors are likely copyist mistakes.

Some people wonder: Can benevolence and righteousness really be at odds with human nature? Yet those who call themselves “humane” often seem burdened with endless worry. Those born with thumbs joined together (pianmu) cry out in pain when someone forcibly splits them; those with an extra finger (zhizhi) cry when it is bitten off—one is “too much” in number, one “too little,” yet in seeking needless suffering they are the same.

Today’s “humane” people wear worry in their eyes (haomu), fretting over the world’s calamities; the inhumane turn against the nature of life, greedily chasing (tao) wealth and rank. That only strengthens the suspicion that benevolence and righteousness may not be true human feeling after all.

Since the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, why has the world become so noisy and contentious (xiaoxiao)?

Using hooks, inked lines, compasses, and squares (gou sheng gui ju) to “correct” outward form is carving away innate nature; using cords and lacquer to “fix” relationships is injuring virtue (De). Bending limbs to fit ritual and music, putting on (xu yu) expressions to display benevolence and righteousness in order to soothe the hearts of all under Heaven—this already turns away from what is originally so.

The world has a “constant naturalness”: what should curve needs no hook, what should be straight needs no ink line, what should be round needs no compass, what should be square needs no rule; what should adhere needs no lacquer, what should be bound needs no inked cord. Thus people under Heaven bustle about yet live without needing to know “why they live”; each finds a place without needing to know “why it fits.” Past and present do not differ on this level; this share of original nature cannot be diminished.

So why must benevolence and righteousness be strung together without break like lacquer and inked cords, tangling back and forth between Dao and De, until they bewilder the world?

Small bewilderment only misleads one’s direction; great bewilderment changes one’s very nature. How do we see this? From the time Yu Shun (the legendary sage-king) elevated benevolence and righteousness and stirred up the world, no one has failed to race after ren and yi; right and wrong have been swapped in place of human nature through benevolence and righteousness.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (Vernacular)

Benevolence and righteousness were originally within human feeling; following and allowing them is enough. Those who worry all day that “benevolence and righteousness are not human feeling” are the ones who truly multiply sorrow.

Joined thumbs are treated as “deficient,” so when they are cut apart there is weeping—(the note pairs this with “extra finger” to show: when artificial standards cut into what is naturally so, suffering and grief necessarily follow.)

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (Plain-Language Reading)

Benevolence and righteousness are already present in human disposition; it is enough to follow that nature as it is. If one worries that benevolence and righteousness are not “human feeling” and grows anxious on that account, that is true “excess of care.”

When fingers are webbed together, people feel it is “not enough” and weep as they cut them apart; when an extra finger grows on the hand, people feel it is “superfluous” and weep as they bite it off. If one acted this way everywhere, among the myriad things there would be no place free of worry. Only when each settles into its inborn nature—neither cutting webbed fingers nor biting off extra fingers—does each take its proper form without harm; what then is there to worry about?

Once practices that can be held up for praise, such as “universal love,” become fashionable, the eyes of everyone under heaven are thrown into confusion. To issue commands by means of such praiseworthy “traces” instead invites disaster; to worry over that is like first putting people in peril and then rushing to rescue them—yet people today treat this very pattern as “benevolence.” The reason wealth and rank are greedily sought is precisely that there are such praiseworthy “traces” to chase. Without those traces to chase, people would keep to their stations and bear their allotted shares according to capacity; who would cut flesh from their own body to imitate others and grasp for what is not theirs?

Thus benevolence and righteousness belong to human disposition, yet after the Three Dynasties people clamored together, abandoned feeling for “traces,” as if they could never catch up—is this not also “excess of care”? The myriad things each have what is constantly so for them; let that be as it is without adding to it, and they blend into self-sufficiency without knowing it. Being one with things, one does not set oneself against them and remains whole. Sufficing oneself by following the Dao, one holds to simplicity and walks alone, merely borrowing things as occasion requires—there is no deliberate contrivance in that. But benevolence and righteousness piled layer upon layer are enough only to bewilder the myriad things and strip them of their true nature.

(East and west may exchange places without any loss to the body; yet clinging to “benevolence” and exalting “righteousness” turns away from what is constantly so and ends in a dead end—that is great delusion.) Not harming things with one another is not done in order to perform “benevolence,” yet the trace of benevolence shows forth from it; letting the ten thousand affairs each obtain their fit is not done in order to perform “righteousness,” yet the achievement of righteousness is visible in it. Therefore each holding its place without mutual harm is not an outcome that benevolence and righteousness “summoned”; yet people under heaven gallop in pursuit, abandon themselves to follow others, lose what is constantly so, and the world falls into disorder.

The heart does not arise because of “ugliness,” yet it often lingers over beauty; what disturbs the world does not spring from “evil,” yet it often acts under the banner of benevolence and righteousness—then benevolence and righteousness are precisely the instruments that stir up the world. Even if Yu Shun had no intention to alter human disposition, the inborn nature of all under heaven had already been changed.

Summary of Lü’s commentary:

When benevolence and righteousness are ranked among the five viscera, does that mean they are out of step with human feeling? Only because people carry them to excess and do not follow the rectitude of Dao and De do they seem at odds with human feeling. The saying that “humane persons” worry much means they push benevolence and righteousness too far. Supernumerary fingers and split toes are sometimes one too many or one too few on the hands and feet; yet the distress of wanting to cut them off is the same in mood. Humane persons in the world today strain their eyes worrying over affairs— that is the “one too many” sort; those who stake their lives on greed for rank and wealth are the “one too few” sort. Neither knows that this violates the condition of life-and-nature, yet they cling to it— hence they weep when cut and cry when bitten. Using compass and ink line to straighten things and glue and lacquer to fix them is whittling away original nature, encroaching on De, and losing what is naturally constant. What is naturally constant needs no reliance on compass, line, glue, or lacquer; it rights and holds itself. Not knowing how one lives or how one obtains it, ancient yet undecayed, present yet not worn new— this is what is called the natural, and also the rectitude of Dao and De. Given that, why must benevolence and righteousness be bound tight like glue, lacquer, rope, and cord, wandering inside them until the world is confused?

So one may try to argue thus:

From the Three Dynasties downward, no one under Heaven has failed to exchange their nature for things. Petty people xun (sacrifice the body) for profit; scholars xun for fame; great officers xun for the clan; sages xun for the world. These kinds differ in enterprise and in the names they bear, but in injuring nature and taking the body as martyr they are the same. The servant Zang and the maid Gu herded sheep together and both lost their sheep. Asked what Zang was doing, he said he was clutching bamboo slips and reading; asked what Gu was doing, she said she was playing chess and gambling. What occupied them differed, but losing the sheep was the same. Boyi died for name at Mount Shouyang; Robber Zhi died for gain at Dongling— the deaths differed, but in mutilating life and injuring nature they were alike. Why must Boyi be “right” and Robber Zhi “wrong”? Everyone under Heaven is xun (dying for something). Those who xun for benevolence and righteousness the vulgar call gentlemen; those who xun for goods and wealth the vulgar call petty men— only because what they xun for is the same do the labels gentleman and petty man arise; judged by mutilating life and harming nature, Robber Zhi and Boyi do not differ, so why split them into gentleman and petty man? (Note: xun means to follow something unto death; Zang, male servant; Gu, female servant; sai, gambling at board games.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Looking back from the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, history already bears traces of wuwei (non-action); yet once people take wuwei as something to parade and revere those traces, they lose original simplicity. Even sages sometimes have to trade innate disposition for things that harm the body (such as ancient customs of foot mutilation)—how much more so ordinary people? Quails nest wherever, fledglings peck for food, and birds walk without fixed rules—when did they ever give life for some “devotion”? Dwelling at ease with affairs and adapting to circumstances is the trace of going along with the world; meeting foot-cutting or shorn shins is the trace of injury to one’s nature. Yet even roaming in all directions without the spirit changing, though the body is maimed the one in this form is not disordered—why “devote” oneself? In truth there is no real devotion. Thus one does not devote what is devoted, yet traces still share the world’s devotion. What the world cherishes most is life; if devotion goes too far and everyone maims life, what is devoted to need not be debated. Why life is maimed and nature is altered both stem from still revering the traces of wuwei. If one sees that traces arise from wuwei, one should drop excessive reverence and return to obscure union, each resting in its own limit—Yao and Jie can be equal in self-fulfillment, and there is no need to split noble and petty.

Lü’s commentary: When spirit descends and becomes sage-kings, one already falls outside “sage”; from the Three Dynasties downward people only see the sage-kings’ footprints, and what made them divine grows dim. Yu’s hands and feet calloused, Tang and Wu’s campaigns—though from necessity, their traces still cannot escape the reproach of “devotion.”

Lü’s commentary (continued): Spirit descending to sage-kings, and below the Three Dynasties only sage-traces while the divine root is lost—the same point as above. Boyi died for reputation, like “clutching the fence and losing the sheep”; Robber Zhi died for profit, like “gambling and losing the sheep”—what they devoted themselves to differed, but maiming life and harming nature was the same. Hence cultivators value forgetting both (name and profit) and melting into one Way.

Detailed Explanation of the Dao

Boyi died for reputation, yet that did not make his integrity any weaker; Robber Zhi died for profit, yet that did not make his physical strength any greater. (This is explained from the negative side: neither fame nor gain can bind one’s true nature.)

Sheep, as animals, flock together without forming factions, and are deferential yet observe proper order. In the formation of characters, the character for “flock” (qun) contains the sheep radical; the character for “faction” (dang) also contains the sheep radical; the character for “ritual propriety” (li) contains the sheep radical; and in another character formed from sheep together with “speech,” the sheep component likewise carries this sense; the character for “beauty” (mei) combines sheep with “great,” which genuinely reflects the idea of taking the sheep’s virtues as a model. That is why Zhuangzi uses “lost sheep” as a metaphor for “having lost the Dao.”

Oral Exegesis (Kouyi)

“Under the arm, holding the scroll; in the hand, grasping the scroll” (xie fang zhi juan): carrying a book scroll under the arm and holding a scroll in the hand (fang here refers to items such as book scrolls).

Casting jade dice is called “bo” (gambling); playing another kind of game without casting is called “sai” (blocking)—much like dice games today.

(The middle passage, on “sheep combined with speech,” “sheep combined with great for beauty,” and Zhuangzi’s use of lost sheep as a metaphor for losing the Dao, agrees in meaning with the Detailed Explanation above and is omitted here.)

Casting jade dice is called bo; not casting but playing the other way is called sai—again, like today’s dice play.

Tying your innate nature to “benevolence and righteousness” (ren and yi)—even if you become as versed in them as Zeng Shen or Shi Qiang—still does not count as what I call “good.” Tying your nature to the five flavors—even if you discriminate tastes like Yu Er—does not count as good. Tying your nature to the five tones—even if you understand sound like Shi Kuang—does not count as what I call “keen of hearing.” Tying your nature to the five colors—even if you see as sharply as Li Zhu—does not count as what I call “clear-sighted.”

What I call “good” is not devotion to ren and yi; it is preserving your own inherent virtue (de). What I call “keen of hearing” is not listening to external things, but being able to hear yourself. What I call “clear-sighted” is not looking at external things, but being able to see yourself.

If you do not first see yourself yet go to observe others, if you do not obtain what belongs to you yet grasp what others have obtained, you have taken others’ gains and have no gain of your own; you suit what others suit, yet do not suit what suits you. If you only suit what others suit and never suit what suits you, Robber Zhi and Bo Yi are alike in straying from innate nature. I feel ashamed before the Way and virtue (dao and de), so above I dare not cling to conduct framed by ren and yi, and below I dare not walk paths of licentiousness and perversity.

On Yu Er in the commentary: Yu Er was an ancient master of discerning flavors (some say a man of the Yellow Emperor’s time, others a man of Qi; some texts write the name as Shen Er). Guo Xiang explains: using this nature to attach it to that thing is called “belonging”—handing your attributes over to ren and yi makes you someone who merely follows ren and yi, hence not truly good; only when nature flows outward in accord with itself is it good. If you do not entrust life and nature to yourself but to external things, then even someone as versed as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiang has already lost themselves. Each uses ear and eye as they should, without being bound to Li Zhu or Shi Kuang—that is true cleverness and clarity. One who is good at self-content forgets ren and yi yet ren remains; treating ren and yi as the standard of goodness harms the body and chases reputation, which is unkind to life and nature. If the person is unkind, how can they reach others? Only by following the truth of nature and life can one reach others without burdening oneself; when each rests in self-content, that is goodness. Cutting off Li Zhu and Kuang and trusting one’s own hearing and sight—then all the cleverness and clarity in the world is complete. Not seeing oneself first, not obtaining for oneself first, is abandoning oneself to imitate others; though one imitates others like them, oneself is gone. If we call loss of nature “licentiousness and perversity,” the paths of loss differ, but the loss is one. Ashamed before dao and de, one dare not act rashly; returning in silence leaves no trace, so one drops fixed conduct and forgets fame and profit, at ease like cooking over a slow fire, leaving self and forgetting the other—that is all.

Nature (xing) is the inherent belonging of each thing in itself; it is not something external objects can seize and possess. Zeng Shen and Shi Yu were classified under the name “benevolence” (ren); Yu Er was classified under the name “flavor”; Shi Kuang and Li Zhu were classified under the names “sound” and “color”—yet none of this is what Zhuangzi meant by zang (the good and wholeness truly stored within the person). That zang lies in one’s De (virtue/power): that is what zang is in substance. It does not mean that benevolence and righteousness can complete this zang for a person; it is enough to follow the true disposition of nature and life (xingming zhi qing). Once one opens the mouth to speak of benevolence and righteousness, names and distinctions are already in place beforehand; what ought to be zang then cannot be settled. If one only follows the disposition of nature and life, there is nothing to point at and nothing to label—that is what is truly called zang. Cleverness works the same way: not listening to outer things but listening to oneself; not looking at outer things but seeing for oneself—this is called “seeing what seeing sees and hearing what hearing hears.” If seeing and hearing all fix on external objects and not on oneself, one has gotten what others get and suited what others suit, and has not yet attained self-sufficiency in nature and life; if one only spins within that kind of “suiting,” what difference is there between Robber Zhi and Boyi? Above, not enslaved by benevolence and righteousness; below, not dragged by licentiousness and perversity—then mutual forgetting on both sides is the right principle.

Overview in Brief

The titles of the inner chapters were all chosen by Master Zhuang of Qi Garden (Zhuang Zhou) himself, each carrying deep meaning. The outer and miscellaneous chapters were edited by Guo Xiang; though he often took only the first character of a chapter as its title, the main ideas were largely preserved. Since the inner chapters treat the principles of nature and life and of virtue and the Way in detail, the outer chapters begin by speaking of what ought not to belong to virtue in the first place—like extra fingers or a wen on the body. The original intent follows lines in the Daodejing about “leftover food and redundant action,” showing that self-display and self-importance are far from the Way; here the theme is unfolded at length through “parallel branches.” Human virtue is originally like uncarved jade; once stained by “wood that gleams and mountains that shine,” or split open by cleverness and carved up by benevolence and righteousness, people only seek goodness outwardly and lose their own genuine simplicity. Hence the mention of Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Li Zhu, Shi Kuang, Yang Zhu, Mo Di—each clinging to one side and following a narrow path, forming a “Way of many parallel branches”—yet the world still rushes to imitate them, so the true feeling of nature and life is lost and the correctness of virtue and the Way departs, and the world falls into disorder. Only by forgetting differences and making things equal—like the duck’s short legs and the crane’s long ones, which need not be cut or lengthened but each keeps its natural state—is one close to the Way. Yet when all under heaven are confused, what can I do? So the parable of Zang and Gu who lost their sheep is set up: Boyi and Robber Zhi each take what they pursue as the mark of gentleman and petty man, but harming life and injuring nature is the same in both. If one can drop tracks, cut off esteem, let nature belong nowhere, return to the root and guard the extreme, and wander at the beginning of things, then parallel branches and wens are forgotten along with the body, gentleman and petty man alike rest in self-contentment; thus following the feeling of nature and life is supreme, and innate cleverness is not discarded either.

A horse’s hooves can tread frost and snow; its coat can ward off wind and cold. It eats grass, drinks water, and kicks up its hooves to leap on dry land—that is the horse’s inherent nature. Splendid terraces and comfortable sleeping quarters are of no use to it.

Then Bole (a legendary horse-tamer of antiquity) said, “I know how to manage horses”: searing with red-hot iron, clipping the coat, paring the hooves, fitting rings on the hooves, tying on halters and reins, binding with hemp rope, and shutting the animal in manger and stable. Of horses treated this way, two or three out of ten are bound to die. They are also kept hungry and thirsty, driven to run and gallop, and forced into formation; ahead come the torments of bit and ornamental harness, behind the threat of lash and whip. More than half perish under such treatment.

The potter says, “I know how to work clay: what is round fits the compass, what is square fits the carpenter’s square.” The carpenter says, “I know how to work wood: what is curved fits the hook-shaped gauge, what is straight fits the inked line.” Did clay and wood by nature ever mean to match compass, square, hook, and line? Yet age after age people praise them and say that Bole knows how to manage horses, the potter knows how to work clay, and the carpenter knows how to work wood—and this is the same kind of mistake made by those who set out to “govern all under Heaven.”

On Guo Xiang’s commentary: Inferior horses and fine horses each find sufficiency in following their own nature. A horse’s true state is not refusal of saddle and bridle or hatred of being ridden; it simply does not envy splendor and rank. Once one sets out deliberately to “govern,” governance goes wrong; when “governing” is taken as the good, what is not good follows. One who is skilled at driving horses intends only that each horse use its capacity—but “using its capacity” lies in letting the horse act on its own, while people instead whip it to gallop and hurry its steps, demanding uses beyond its native strength, so many horses die because their strength cannot bear the strain. If one merely lets slow horses and swift horses each exert their power and each suit its own pace, then even if hoofprints reach beyond the eight directions, the nature of the herd can still be preserved. Some hear “entrusting horses to their nature” and take it to mean turning them loose in the wild and never riding them; others hear talk of the Wuwei (non-action) style and say one might as well lie down and do nothing—how perverse! That strays far from Zhuangzi’s intent.

On Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Horses graze and drink without envy, like the common people farming and weaving to sustain themselves beneath the ritual platform and the road-side lodge of ancient rites—without longing for lofty towers and splendid chambers. Boyi branding and trimming horses, carving and training them, kills or maims two or three in ten—like forcing benevolence and righteousness on the world until suspicion and guard arise everywhere. Driven by hunger and thirst, more than half the horses die—like bending ritual and music to rule the world until it splits apart. The world has a constant natural order; one should follow each thing’s nature and act accordingly. Today the potter skillfully shapes square, round, curved, and straight, yet makes many things lose their constant nature—likewise, pushing benevolence and righteousness and bending ritual and music makes the world lose its constant nature. To lose that constant nature in order to govern the world is not to understand the way of Zaiyou (keeping things in their place with little interference), and is to govern excessively.

Returning to the Root

Master Zheng [Zheng Xuan] said: In ancient writings the character for “yi” (ceremony/form) often carries the sense of “yi” (propriety and norm). “Yitai” (ceremonial platform) is what the Jiao Te Sheng calls “taimen” (platform gate): earth is piled to form a platform, a hall is built upon it, and a gate is set in the center—thus it becomes the model for palace layout; people today still call it the “yimen” (ceremonial gate). In the heavens there is also the “Great Yi Court”; “lujin” (route chamber) denotes the main formal sleeping hall. Citing “yitai” and “lujin” speaks to palace institutions as a whole.

I hold that one who is skilled at ordering the world does not act in that way. The people have a constant nature: they weave cloth to clothe themselves and till fields to eat—this is called “tongde” (shared virtue / one and the same De); they form an undifferentiated whole without factional scheming—this is called “tianfang” (Heaven’s release: each finds his place by following nature). Therefore, in an age of supreme virtue…

(The text that follows includes a gloss from the Shi Clan Classic of Stars stating that “Bo Le” is a celestial star governing the heavenly horses, and that Sun Yang was skilled at managing horses and therefore took “Bo Le” as a name—such notes are not on the same level of meaning as the preceding discourse on governing the world; they are mostly marginal annotations wrongly absorbed into the main text.)

I believe that those who truly know how to govern the world do not act in that way. The common people have a constant nature: they weave cloth to wear and till fields to eat—this is called “shared virtue” (tongde): a seamless whole without faction, which is termed “heaven’s release” (tianfang)—following Heaven and letting things be. Thus in an age of utmost virtue, people walked with steady, unhurried steps and fixed their gaze without wandering. In those days there were no mountain paths or tunnels, no boats or bridges on lakes and marshes; all creatures lived together in connected groups, beasts ran in herds, and plants flourished. So beasts could be led on a rope for play, and one could climb up to peer into the magpies’ nests. In an age of utmost virtue, humans dwelt alongside beasts and stood among the myriad things—where would one draw the line between “gentleman” and “petty man”? All alike remained in a state of unknowing, so virtue did not scatter; all alike remained without desire, which is called “simple genuineness” (supu). When simple genuineness was unmarred, the people’s true nature was preserved intact.

Then came the sages. Tiptoeing to display “benevolence,” striding broadly to display “righteousness”—only then did the world begin to doubt. Taking dissolute pleasure as joy and elaborate ceremony as ritual—only then did the world begin to split apart. If simple genuineness were not battered, who would need the sacrificial wine vessel (xizun)? If white jade were not shattered, who would need the jade tablet and scepter (guizhang)? If the Way and virtue (daode) were not cast aside, who would need benevolence and righteousness? If true nature did not scatter, who would need ritual and music? If the five colors did not run riot, who would need ornament? If the five tones did not run riot, who would need conformity to the six pitch-pipes? To mutilate simple genuineness in order to make tools is the craftsman’s fault; to ruin virtue in order to erect benevolence and righteousness is the sage’s error.

Notes on terms (following the commentary): “Tiantian” means slow and weighty; “diandian” means single-minded and focused. “Bie xie” and “di qi” both describe affected displays of benevolence and righteousness. “Chanman” means dissolute indulgence; “zhai pi” means many knots and excessive detail (another reading: “zhai” as in “zhai zhi,” “pi” as in “bian pi”).

Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary: To govern by not governing is true good governance. The people’s virtue differs in small ways yet is largely the same; what their nature cannot do without is clothing and food, and what must not be neglected is farming and weaving—these are the common root of all under Heaven. Holding to this is the height of wuwei (non-action): release so that things naturally unite—not forming cliques—hence “heaven’s release.” Tiantian and diandian describe self-sufficiency without seeking outwardly; not grasping for undue gain, one is content to dwell in a tamed household; in vast simplicity one shares the age’s plainness—how could states and families diverge? Stopping when nature is satisfied, with no desire to swallow other peoples, things are preserved and one does no harm to them, so creatures are tame. Knowing departs from the Way toward “good”; desiring departs from nature toward adornment—those in simple genuineness need not be troubled by knowing and desiring. The sage is only the trace left when the common people obtain their nature—not someone one ought deliberately to imitate. When it says “then came the sage,” it is like saying “then came their traces.” Once the sage’s traces stand out, benevolence and righteousness are no longer genuine, ritual and music depart from nature, and only the outer form remains. Where there are sages, these ills appear—what can be done about it?

What follows—mutilating simple genuineness to make tools, ruining jade to make tablets and scepters—is turning the plain into the flashy and abandoning root for branch, already a crippling of heaven’s simplicity. Though the world may prize such things, it does not truly prize them. The craftsman has the rule of square and compass; the sage has a trace worth esteeming.

[Lü’s commentary] If the common people could restore their original nature and not depart from what is true, there would be nothing left to “see” in a so-called sage—everyone would be without desire and plain in simplicity, sharing the same De, never having raised suspicion or known division. Only when people turned away from their true selves did “sages” appear to practice benevolence and righteousness—not from natural spontaneity—and ritual and music—not from utmost rectitude. Then the world began to doubt and to split. Carving a whole block of plain wood into a wine vessel is a metaphor for trading away the Dao for benevolence and righteousness; ruining fine jade to fashion ritual implements is a metaphor for scattering one’s true disposition to obtain ritual and music—all of this is the approach of “many side branches grafted onto one trunk” (duō pián páng zhī): adding extra limbs to what was originally a single stem. Discard craft and return to plain simplicity, and the artisan’s fault can be cleared away; cast aside benevolence and righteousness and rely only on De, and the sage’s error can also be avoided.

[Following the original text] “Filled and solid, not hollow and flashy” means genuinely substantial, not showy; “mincing steps and straining to walk, hence likened to practicing benevolence” means walking on tiptoe with forced effort, a metaphor for forcing benevolence; “standing on tiptoe and straining onward, hence likened to practicing righteousness” means lifting the heels and pushing hard, a metaphor for forcing righteousness; dàn màn means overflowing or excessive spread; zhāi pì means to pick out and correct what is crooked or perverse.

[Notes and asides] The character xī in xī zūn (sacrificial wine vessel) should be read like xī (as in Fuxi), not like suō as the old commentator Zheng Sinong read it—that reading is wrong. When Zheng Xuan answered Zhang Yi, he thought the vessel was painted with phoenix tails or swaying (suō) ornament. Liu Shao of the Liang dynasty said such an explanation might not be reliable. In antiquity, ritual vessels such as zūn and yí were often carved from wood in the shapes of birds and beasts, with openings on the top or back for pouring and dispensing wine. In the Northern Wei, when vessels from the gift of Qi Ziwei’s daughter to Lu were obtained, among them was a xī zūn shaped like a sacrificial ox; in the Jin, Cao Yi excavated the tomb of Duke Jing of Qi in Qingzhou and found two zūn also in the form of oxen—all genuine old implements. From this one knows Zheng Sinong’s account was guesswork.

Plain-Language Commentary

Horses live on dry land, grazing and drinking. When pleased they nuzzle one another’s necks; when angry they wheel about and kick—by nature and instinct, that is roughly the limit of their lives. Yet when people fit them with crossbars and yokes and hang crescent-shaped brow ornaments on their foreheads, the horses learn to ram the bit, snap the reins, and chew through the bridle, until even horse-thieves can take them with ease. The fault is not in the horses but in those who “know horses” well enough to break them—the famous trainers.

Legend says that in the age of Hsu-hsu, ordinary people did not have to deliberate over what they ought to do or where they ought to go. With food in their mouths and contentment on their faces, they wandered at ease, patting full bellies—human life could have remained just so. Then the so-called sages appeared: they used ritual and music to straighten everyone’s conduct and held up benevolence and righteousness as the banner for soothing hearts. Only then did people begin to strut on tiptoe, relish cleverness, and scramble for profit without end—again, the sages’ “civilizing” had damaged what was natural.

(Guo Xiang’s reading, in brief: Follow each horse’s own awareness and let it be itself, and even a journey of ten thousand li can be made without each horse losing its character. Force uniformity and ask only whether it can be driven, and strength is spent and the body injured. “Mouth full, belly drumming” is what the people can genuinely live. When sages bend people with ritual and music and dangle benevolence and righteousness before them, the people turn clever and grasp for profit—the blame lies in admiring those visible “tracks.”)

(Lü Huiqing’s reading, in brief: Horses eating grass and drinking, rubbing and kicking yet knowing when to stop, parallels the people of Hsu-hsu—without deliberate knowledge, without forced action, mouths full and bellies content. Adding harness and brow ornaments parallels the sage bending the world with ritual and music and hanging up benevolence and righteousness to comfort it. Horses learning to fight the bit, bridle, and reins until they are stolen parallels the people strutting, loving knowledge, and competing for profit without halt. Jie refers to the gap around the bit; ni to sharp resistance and defiance; yin and e to the curved places of control and restraint. It is by exploiting these that horses grow fierce and cunning until they are stolen. If one wishes horses not to be stolen and hearts not to cling to cleverness, there is no other way than to return each to its own true nature.)

Following the Original Text (in sequence)

The text again uses “horses” as a comparison: a horse kicking backward is called di (striking back); two horses kicking with their backs to each other is fenbei xiang di (kicking back to back). E and yi are both gear that tightens around the horse’s neck. When a horse spits out the bit on its own, that is gui xian (slyly dropping the bit); when it secretly slips the bridle, that is qie pei (stealing free of the reins). Xian qi is like hanging something high so people must stand on tiptoe to reach it—a metaphor for trying to control with force and stratagem, which only stirs the horse’s resistance.

Overview of the Whole Chapter (main drift)

The chapter holds one thread throughout and falls into four parts.

The first part states the theme: governing the state by likening it to driving horses, as in the Book of Documents when ruling the people is compared to handling horses; from start to finish the horse’s nature, joy, and anger are painted vividly.

The second part uses pottery as its argument: deliberately acting to “govern” clashes with everyone’s natural disposition; better is Wuwei (non-action), letting the ten thousand things transform themselves.

The third part cites the “age of utmost virtue”: people without knowledge or desire; once later kings made laws, the world began to doubt and disorder—like Bo Le branding, carving, and shoeing, forcing the horse into a wind-chasing gait.

The fourth part invokes ancient folkways, simple and content, to show how the sage king governed through Wuwei; later ages sought order too harshly and ended with what could hardly be mended.

This passage discusses an ironic point: what people take to be “cleverness” and the way of the sages can sometimes amount to preparing the ground for great robbers.

Start with small matters. If you want to guard against thieves who pry open chests from the side, pick pockets, or break into cabinets, people will inevitably tie ropes tight, bolt doors, and reinforce locks—this is what the world calls “being wise.” Yet when a great robber comes, he carries off the whole chest or cabinet, ropes and locks included; he may even prefer that you tied and locked things all the more securely so he can take everything in one go. Seen this way, those whom ordinary life praises as “wise” are in effect stockpiling goods for the big thief.

Push the thought further: can any of the norms that sages are said to have established fail to serve as watchmen over a robber’s loot? How do we see this?

In ancient Qi, neighboring settlements were within sight of one another, and the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs could be heard across the land; wherever nets were cast or plows turned, for more than two thousand li within the borders, in every place where ancestral temples were built, altars to soil and grain erected, and cities, districts, townships, and hamlets ordered—was any of it not modeled on laws and methods laid down by sages? Yet Tian Chengzi (a powerful minister of Qi in the Spring and Autumn period, whose descendants later supplanted Qi) one day killed the ruler of Qi and seized the state. What he stole was not only territory and people; he also appropriated wholesale the “sage wisdom and legal order.” Thereafter he bore the name of robber yet lived as securely as in the age of Yao and Shun; small states did not dare denounce him, large ones did not dare attack, and his house held Qi for twelve generations—is this not stealing Qi and then using that very “sage wisdom and law” to preserve his identity as robber?

In the text, qiexie refers to prying open a chest from under the arm or the like; she jian suo and gu bi jue mean tying ropes, shutting doors, and applying locks. “Twelve generations holding Qi” commonly refers to the line from Tian Jingzhong to King Wei of Qi, twelve generations in all.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Saying that one “hoards wealth for the great thief and stands guard for the great thief” is meant to show that reliance on stratagem alone is untrustworthy. What the world calls emulating the sage is really only imitating the traces the sage left behind—traces are things that already happened in the past, not tools for meeting change as it comes; what is there to revere or cling to so tightly? If you only grasp fixed written vestiges to cope with endless new changes, when change arrives those vestiges become obstructive and useless. So what is called “guarding the state” is in fact letting others guard it for you; unless the great thief also steals the “sage’s institutions,” he cannot truly take that state. In other words, the sage’s institutions are merely things people put to use—they are not a fully adequate way to handle everything.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: This describes what worldly people take to be “utmost knowledge” and “utmost sagehood”; true utmost knowledge and utmost sagehood were never like this.

Kouyi (oral gloss): This chapter is meant to show that those who dominate in chaotic ages use worldly stratagem originally to guard against petty theft; when the great robber comes, he carries off the precautions together with the “sage’s law.” The Tian clan’s usurpation of Qi—exchanging private measures for public ones when paying tribute, and the like—can be understood from the Zuozhuan: they used the sage’s institutions to complete their robber’s design. The Warring States period was largely like this, which is why Zhuangzi reasons by such analogies.

Trial discussion: Among those the world calls the cleverest and most scheming, is there anyone who is not hoarding and guarding for the great thief? Among those called the most sage, is there anyone who is not plotting for the great thief? In the Warring States it was mostly so—which is why Zhuangzi uses such analogies to make his point.

This passage uses the question about the “great bandit” to turn back and doubt whether what the world calls “utmost wisdom” and “utmost sageliness” truly benefits all under heaven, or instead supplies tools for great bandits without meaning to.

Do those called “the wisest people” never stockpile goods for great bandits? Do those called “the most sagely people” never guard a bandit’s hoard? How can one say so? In the past Long Feng was killed, Bi Gan had his heart cut out, Chang Hong was dismembered, and Wu Zixu was minced to pulp (another account says he rotted in the river)—all four were worthy men, yet none escaped death. So Robber Zhi’s followers asked Zhi: “Is there a ‘Way’ even in thieving?” Robber Zhi said: “How could there not be a Way?” Guessing where valuables are hidden in a house is ‘sageliness’; rushing in first is ‘courage’; being last to leave is ‘righteousness’; judging whether the job can succeed is ‘knowing’; dividing the loot fairly is ‘benevolence.’ Without these five, no one could become a great bandit—there has never been such a case in the world. Seen this way, if good people are few and bad people many, then sages who benefit the world are few and those who harm the world are many. Hence it is said: when the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold; another saying runs that when Lu’s wine was weak (or when Lu’s wine was presented as tribute and Zhao’s wine became thin), Handan was besieged—the point is that small matters can pull the whole situation. When sages appear, great bandits rise together; only by cutting open the sages and letting the bandits run free would the world be at peace? When rivers dry up, valleys stand empty; when hills are leveled, the deep is filled in. If sages died and great bandits did not arise, the world would be calm and untroubled. As long as sages do not die, great bandits will not cease. If you try to govern the world by heaping up sages and using the sages’ Way, you are heaping up what benefits Robber Zhi. Establishing bushels and pecks to measure the world, the great bandit steals bushels and pecks along with everything else; establishing balances and weights, he steals the balances and weights; establishing seals and credentials, he steals the seals and credentials; using benevolence and righteousness to set things straight, he steals benevolence and righteousness. How do we know? One who steals a hook is executed; one who steals a state becomes a feudal lord—and in the lords’ gates stand benevolence and righteousness. Is that not stealing benevolence, sageliness, and wisdom as well? So those who chase great bandits, stir up feudal lords, and steal along with them the profit of benevolence, righteousness, bushels, weights, and seals cannot be turned back by high rank and rich salary, nor restrained by axe and halberd. That again strengthens what favors Robber Zhi and makes great bandits impossible to ban—really a fault of the sages. Thus it is said: fish should not be taken from the deep pool; the sharp tools of the state should not be shown to the people. Those sages are the “sharp tools” of the world—they were never meant to be held up to illuminate and expose the world for everyone to see.

(The closing section repeats the thought above about chasing great bandits and the sages’ fault: great bandits grow stronger because of the “tools” set up by institutions and sagely wisdom, so the blame lies in excessively revering the sages’ Way.)

Xiang Xiu’s commentary: If the sage does not die, the great thief will not cease—this means: the sage’s work renews day by day; what is new lives, what is old dies. Following the correctness of Heaven and Earth and steering the daily renewal of change, one gains the substance and sheds the name, returns to truth and forgets the path—then the great thief subsides. “Does not die” does not mean the body is immortal; it means clinging to the old, not renewing daily, bound to reputation without creating real substance. If the great thief does not stop, is that not only to be expected?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: A brutal ruler can also use the sovereign’s authority to kill worthy ministers while no one dares resist—all because “sage law” is in place. Without sage law, how could Jie and Zhou have held their thrones and spread their cruelty so that the world looked on in fear? The five—sagehood, courage, righteousness, knowledge, and benevolence—were meant to restrain theft, yet they became capital for the great thief. That sages benefit the world little and harm it much may be credible, yet one cannot for that reason abolish the sage—the world’s “knowledge” cannot be wholly removed, and the sage’s way is still needed to restrain it. If collective knowledge is not extinguished while sage-knowledge alone is discarded, the harm is greater than when sages exist. Though the harm of having sages is great, it still surpasses having no sages and losing governance; though it surpasses having no sages, it is still not as bad as the harm of not exalting and having no sages at all. Everyone in the world seeks profit, yet one cannot abolish all their “knowledge”—how confused, and how far from the original point!

Drying the lips need not be for chilling the teeth, yet the teeth are chilled thereby; Lu’s thin wine need not be for besieging Handan, yet Handan was besieged—likewise the sage’s living need not be for summoning the great thief, yet the great thief rises on that account: natural mutual generation, what momentum must produce. When the sage does not set up “exaltation” upon things, he cannot keep things from exalting; whether person is noble or base, affair true or false, once sage law is honored the world swallows its voice and submits in secret—this is exactly what Jie and Zhi relied on to become great thieves. If exaltation is cut off and simplicity kept, prohibitions abandoned, and few desires substituted, then strike the sage and my simplicity is whole; release the thief and his cunning ceases of itself. The ancients said: guard against evil and preserve sincerity—not in keen scrutiny; still lust and remove ornament—not in harsh punishment. That is the meaning.

Draining rivers need not be for emptying valleys, yet valleys become empty; filling mounds need not be for filling deep pools, yet pools become full; cutting off sages need not be for stopping thieves, yet thieves do not stop—so stopping theft lies in removing desire, not in displaying sage-knowledge. Wishing to use exalting the sage to govern the world—Jie, Zhi, and their kind also borrow that law as capital; what they borrow is weighty, so what they gain cannot be light. What the petty thief relies on is exactly what the great thief borrows and profits from. The weight of chariots and caps, axes and halberds, rewards and punishments was meant to restrain theft, yet the great thief pursues and steals them and turns them to his use; what he uses is weighty, so he becomes the great thief. The great thief must practice benevolence and righteousness, level scales and balances, trust tally and seal, encourage chariots and caps, and wield axes and halberds as awe—steal these “public instruments,” and then lords and princes can be seized. Thus benevolence, righteousness, rewards, and punishments suffice only to punish the petty thief who steals a hook. Zhi cannot be restrained because what he steals is too weighty; it is weighty because the sage does not treat it as cheap. So cutting off theft lies in despising goods, not in exalting the sage. Fish leave the deep and become prey for others; sharp tools displayed become capital for thieves—therefore they must not be shown to people. If the sage could truly cut off sages and abandon knowledge, and also guard against “things reaching their limit”—when each thing at its limit is guarded, his trace is the trace of benefiting things; tools are still traces. To display sharp tools to the world is to subsidize thieves.

What people call “knowing” and what they call “sagely” is mostly a matter of labels and norms: what counts as ultimate knowledge or ultimate sageliness still falls within names like sagely, brave, righteous, knowing, and benevolent—without asking where knowing gets its knowing, or sageliness its sageliness. So those called sages may fail to keep themselves safe, while figures like Robber Zhi turn “sagely knowledge” into capital for theft. The “sagely knowing” the world honors can end up stockpiling supplies for great robbers. The highest knowing is not leaning on that kind of “knowing”; the highest sageliness is not hanging those titles—yet worldly “sagely knowing” is often used to boost thieves, harming more than helping the realm. That is not empty talk.

Lips and teeth depending on each other illustrates mutual entanglement; thin Lu wine and the siege of Handan illustrates that not everything is “bound to depend” like lips and teeth, yet under certain conditions things pull on one another. Given that, to govern the realm, better to break the cult of “sages,” ease the hunt for “robbers,” and even let go of the opposition of good and evil.

When the heart is like a valley, it should be empty and able to hold; but once “sages” are stuffed in like a deep pool, the heart-valley is no longer empty, and a thief’s heart can grow there. Drain and dry the stream that blocks “sages,” and the heart-valley empties itself—then the robber’s heart is hard to rise. Or again: the heart’s abyss was not solid, and a thief’s heart could slip in because “sages” were piled into a hill and poured full. Level and reduce that “hill of sages,” and the heart’s abyss becomes solid—then the robber’s heart is hard to invade.

“The sage is already dead” means no longer letting a thief’s heart be born by borrowing “sagely”; when great robbers do not arise, the realm can be at peace. But if a thief’s heart rises, great robbers arise—and then trying to govern by heaping up “sages” is like heaping convenience on thieves. The language about “joint theft” below says exactly this.

A petty thief who steals a belt hook gets executed; one who steals a state can become a feudal lord—and no one can stop it. In a lord’s hall “benevolence and righteousness” still hang displayed—that is stealing the sage’s wisdom together with the names of righteous conduct and benevolent virtue for oneself. How much more those who boldly usurp a lord’s place? Even chariots, robes, and axe-symbols cannot restrain or dissuade them. All of this is the bitter fruit of “leaving the true and feigning sagehood”; yet people still use “the sage’s law” to proclaim it to the realm—like showing sharp tools to everyone, so great robbers can seize and use them.

Bicheng cites: thin Lu wine and the siege of Handan—likewise showing that after leaving the true and feigning sagehood, still displaying the sage’s law to the realm is showing people sharp tools, and great robbers can therefore seize them.

Bicheng (following Xu Shen’s commentary on the Huainanzi)

When the state of Chu summoned the feudal lords to a covenant, Lu presented wine to the king of Chu. Lu’s wine was weak; Zhao’s was strong. A minor official in charge of wine for Chu asked Zhao for wine; Zhao refused. The official bore a grudge and swapped Zhao’s good wine for Lu’s weak wine, then reported to the king of Chu. The king thought Zhao’s wine was too thin and sent troops to besiege Handan.

Guanjian (personal view)

In the line “the sage is the sharp instrument of the world,” “sage” (shengren) should read as “sage wisdom” or “sagely cleverness and teaching” (sheng zhi)—a copyist’s error.

Main gist of the passage

Therefore: only when “sages” and clever contrivance are removed do great robbers stop; only when jade is discarded and pearls smashed do petty thieves cease; only when tallies and seals are burned and broken do the people return to rough simplicity; only when bushels are smashed and scales snapped do the people stop competing; only when every “law of the sages” under heaven is destroyed can the people truly consult together on affairs; only when the six pitch-pipes are scrambled and panpipes melted; only when the ears of a Shi Kuang are stopped do the people under heaven each guard their own hearing and no longer be led by imposed “standards”; only when ornament is wiped away and the five colors scattered, and the eyes of a Li Zhu pasted shut, do the people each guard their own sight; only when hooks and plumb lines are destroyed, compass and square abandoned, and the fingers of a Gong Chui broken, do the people each guard their own skill. Hence it is said: the greatest skill looks like clumsiness.

Cut away moral exemplars such as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, clamp shut the mouths of Yang Zhu and Mozi, cast off benevolence and righteousness, and virtue under heaven merges again into one. When each person guards clarity, hearing, wisdom, and virtue for themselves, the world is no longer dazzled by glare, worn down by tone and measure, bewitched by pattern and color, or pulled off course by “correctness.” Figures like Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Yang Zhu, Mozi, Shi Kuang, Gong Chui, and Li Zhu all set up “virtue” and standards on the outside, using what is like firelight to disturb the world; from the standpoint of governing the world, such methods are of no use.

(Note: ti, same as “throw away”; li, tear apart; yue, burn away like fire, consume—here with a sense of guarding against or blocking.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Remove what people lean on as external standards, and you need not add new bans—disorder will stop by itself. Treat lightly what has been exalted, and you need not add punishments—rivalry will quiet by itself. Strip away the conditions that ornament and fraud rely on, and scheming and trickery have nothing to work with. What passes for small “fairness” is often exactly the lever that great unfairness uses.

When nothing outside demands deliberate conformity, the heart can keep its original simplicity (the untouched state before artificial carving) and will not be harmed by losing one’s true self. Sound, color, and skills like those of Music Master Kuang (Shi Kuang, the famous Spring and Autumn musician) are what those with ears and eyes prize; human life has its proper limit—if one is pulled by such prized things, the truth of life and nature is lost. Discard what ought not to be prized, let go of externals, and follow oneself, and hearing and sight each stay intact while one keeps authenticity.

Spiders weave and dung beetles roll balls without learning from the craftsman Gongshuang (Gong Chui, the legendary artisan)—each of the ten thousand things has its own capacity. Capacities differ; force them into one mold and forbid each to keep its place, and what looks clever is really clumsy. A good employer puts the square-capable on square tasks and the round-capable on round ones, each according to ability, so people can rest in true nature. Use what each can do by nature, and even compass and square may be set aside; one need not depend on the master’s fingers.

Remove the models that stir up the living masses, and people under Heaven can each return to simplicity and share in natural De (Virtue/Power). Figures such as Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, Yang Zhu, Mozi, Shi Kuang, and Gongshuang had many gifts, yet they made the world rush to imitate them—once they imitate, the original self is lost. Because the original self is lost through them, they become lords who disorder people.

What law applies: let seeing not go beyond what the eye can take in, and every eye sees clearly; let hearing not go beyond what the ear can take in, and every ear hears keenly; let work not go beyond what strength can reach, and every skill is apt; let knowing not go beyond what nature can know, and every nature fits its place; let De not go beyond what one’s allotment can bear, and every virtue sits right. Why set a standard beyond one’s nature that cannot be grasped, and drive the world to run without being able to return to itself?

Essential Points of Lü’s and Guo’s Commentaries on the Zhuangzi (Plain Language)

Lü’s commentary (on “abolish the sages and discard wisdom,” etc.)

When Zhuangzi speaks of “abolishing the sages and discarding wisdom,” he does not mean destroying the classics or abolishing government and teaching. He means not letting “sage” and “wisdom” take root in the mind. “Pluck out jade and smash pearls” does not mean throwing treasures out of the storehouse—it means no longer treating them as precious in the heart. “Burn tally strips and break seals” does not mean literally burning contracts and smashing seals—it means people dealing with one another in good faith, the common folk remaining plain and honest, so that tallies and seals are no longer relied upon. “Smash the bushel and break the steelyard” likewise does not mean actually destroying measures—it means trade settling itself, people not fighting over profit, so bushels and steelyards are no longer needed. Only then can the people return to the feelings of their innate nature and life, and only then is it worth discussing things with them.

“Stop up the ears of Music Master Kuang” means Kuang wanted to “listen inward”; if I listen inward, the world naturally contains its own clarity of hearing. “Gum up the eyes of Li Zhu” means Zhu wanted to “look inward”; if I look inward, the world naturally contains its own clarity of sight. “Break the fingers of Crafty Chui” is what first made the world have craft; “file away the conduct of Zeng and Shi, clamp shut the mouths of Yang and Mo”—only then could the world’s virtue become unified. The key point is all on my side: discard wisdom, abolish craft—simply not showing what is desirable. Those who parade virtue outward and disturb the world are not of the same path as “containing one’s intelligence and returning to the feelings of nature and life”; for the latter, law and institutions were never needed in the first place. If someone says Zhuangzi really wanted to strike down sages, indulge robbers, and ruin law and order, how could one discuss subtle meaning with him?

Do you not know the age of “ utmost virtue”? From the Rongcheng clan, the Dating clan, the Bohuang clan… down to the Shennong clan—then people kept records with knotted cords, ate sweet food, wore fine clothes, enjoyed their customs, and lived at ease; neighboring states could see one another, cocks and dogs could be heard across borders, yet people lived and died without traveling back and forth—that was the height of order. Now people stretch their necks and stand on tiptoe, saying “there is a worthy in such-and-such a place,” pack provisions and go—abandoning parents within and leaving their lords without, footsteps reaching the borders of feudal lords, wheel ruts linking across thousands of li—this is the fault of those above who “love wisdom.” If those above truly love wisdom without the Dao, the world will surely fall into great disorder.

How do we know? When knowledge of crossbows, nets, and crafty stratagems increases, birds are disturbed in the air; when knowledge of hooks, bait, and fishing gear increases, fish are disturbed in the water; when knowledge of snares and hunting nets increases, beasts are disturbed in the marshes; when disputations of fraud, “hard and white,” sameness and difference multiply, the common folk are confused by words. So the world often falls into great disorder, and the crime lies in loving wisdom. Everyone seeks what they do not know and none seeks what they already know; everyone rejects what they find bad and none rejects what they already call good—thus great disorder. Above, one obscures the brightness of sun and moon; below, one scorches the essence of mountains and rivers; in the middle, one ruins the gifts of the four seasons—so that even crawling insects and tiny creatures lose their nature. How greatly does loving wisdom disorder the world! From the Three Dynasties downward it has been so: abandoning the plain and honest folk and delighting in the toiling flatterers; letting go of calm wuwei and delighting in the loud, eager will to teach— that loud eagerness is already enough to disorder the world.

(Notes: ying, to wrap or carry on the back; bi, a hare net; xuege, gear for spreading nets; luo, ju, fu are types of nets; jiexie, crooked speech; jiegou, tortuous phrasing; zhuairuan, legless worms; xiaoqiao, flying insects; zhongzhong, plain and honest; yiyi, those who bustle for others.)

Guo’s commentary (main drift)

Knotted cords sufficed to record affairs; when things fit, food is naturally sweet and dress naturally fine. Not thinking of extravagance is self-sufficiency. Not traveling back and forth is the utmost of being without desire. Packing provisions to rush toward worthies, abandoning parents and leaving lords—even in an age of perfect order such ills can arise: when those above love wisdom, there is fault. The finer knowledge grows, the cleverer avoidance becomes; even birds and beasts cannot be plotted against—how much less human beings? One who governs the world must not rely on wisdom; if one relies on wisdom, there is no subtlety. Above are many, below are few; nature has little, yet chasing much leads to delusion. Not seeking what one knows but seeking what one does not know is abandoning oneself to imitate others; calling good what one already calls good gives rise to competitive esteem. fortune and misfortune, regret and satisfaction arise from movement—what wisdom can move can shake heaven and earth. Can one who rules others forget his wisdom? Tuntun means teaching others from oneself.

Lü’s commentary (continued)

When the sage governs the world, he always keeps the people without knowledge and without desire: without knowledge, knotted cords suffice for use; without desire, sweet food, fine dress, joy in custom, and peaceful dwelling—living and dying without traveling back and forth—that is the age of utmost virtue. When all under heaven know beauty as beauty, ugliness is born; when all know good as good, not-good is born; when all know to reject what they find bad but none know to reject what they already call good—if beauty and good come from “knowing,” they are no longer the feelings of nature and life. When people do not travel back and forth yet form their own communities, that is the zhongzhong folk; when they hear there is a worthy somewhere and pack provisions to hurry there, that is the toiling flatterer; when they teach me like a father and admonish me like a son, that is tuntun intent—all faults of honoring worthies and loving wisdom. Only after there is wisdom do sages appear; only after sages appear do great robbers appear; sage and robber both come from wisdom—so this chapter consistently takes discarding wisdom as its theme.

Detailed Explanation

Traditional commentary: When one takes on too many tasks, enmity follows; when one speaks too much, virtue is harmed. Those who bustle about and take on excessive affairs are called yiyi (toiling endlessly); those who chatter and talk incessantly are called tuntun (droning on).

Following the Original Wording

Reading upward by the same syntactic pattern, “zhi, zha, jian, du” should be understood as four related matters: zhi—using stratagem and wit to deceive one another; jian—when deception goes on long enough, it accumulates into harm and poison. Jianbai comes from the Gongsun Long school and means clinging rigidly to names and forms such as “hard” and “white” in disputation; tongyi is also Gongsun Long’s term for forcibly treating what is genuinely different as the same. Jie means vying to see who is higher; hua means slippery, elusive, hard to pin down. When the other party stubbornly upholds “white” in debate, the debater contends for superiority and keeps him arguing until nothing is settled. Jie means to undo or remove; gou means filth on the body. Jiegou and tongyi are like washing filth from the body, and also like unraveling the tangles of “same and different” disputation. The previous line speaks of zhi (knowing/scheming); the next two lines speak of bian (disputation). Chuan and ruan are tiny creatures; xiao and qiao are small plants—both image what is minute and slight (and connect to imagery later in the text).

Overview from a Narrow View

This chapter takes “Thief’s Trunk” (quqie) as its title. Qu means the side of the torso; quqie is breaking open a chest from the side to take what is inside—the thief’s method. If those who govern the realm cannot align the world’s feelings with Dao and De, ambitious schemers will steal power for private ends and people under heaven will suffer. Nanhua (Zhuangzi) advocated “abolish sages and discard knowledge” and “smash the grain measure and break the steelyard,” aiming to return to the high antiquity of rule through wuwei (non-action).

Yet to truly restore simplicity and plainness, two things are crucial: discern what is genuine knowing, so as to set the direction of pursuit aright; and preserve what is genuine goodness, so as to fulfill what one receives from Heaven. If every gentleman who governs the realm could apply his mind as Lacquer Garden (Zhuangzi) did, would one still fear that the age would not flourish or that pure custom would not return?

People have only heard of settling the world through zai and you—not of unifying the world through “governing” it.

What is meant by zai is fear that the world will excessively indulge its native disposition; what is meant by you is fear that the world will alter its inherent De (virtue/power). If the world neither indulges desire to disorder the nature nor changes to lose its De, why would there be any need to “govern the world”?

Long ago, when Yao ruled the world, he made people rejoice and each pursue their own pleasure—this was really making the heart-mind restless. When Jie ruled the world, he made people sick with suffering and take their nature as bitterness—this was really making the heart-mind displeased. When the heart-mind is neither still nor pleased, that is not true De. That anything without De could last—there is no such thing under heaven.

When a person is greatly joyful, yang qi is unduly favored; when greatly angry, yin qi is unduly favored. When yin and yang are both pushed to extremes, the four seasons do not come in order, cold and heat cannot harmonize, and instead they injure the person’s form and qi. Then joy and anger lose measure, dwelling has no fixed place, thoughts cannot rest at ease, the middle way cannot be achieved—and only then does the world begin to show affectation, rivalry, and perverse conduct. After that come the great evil of Robber Zhi and the deliberately virtuous conduct of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu.

(The text then repeats the emphasis:) This still injures form and qi: joy and anger out of place, dwelling without constancy, thinking without freedom, the middle way unachieved—only then does the world first produce the affectations of Qiao Jie and Zhuo Ju, and only then the extreme paths of Robber Zhi on one side and Zeng and Shi on the other. So even using the strength of the whole world to reward the good is not enough, and using the whole world to punish the evil is not sufficient. From the Three Dynasties downward, people have clamored endlessly, ultimately treating reward and punishment as the chief business—where was there room to settle each person’s xingming (nature-and-life) in its authentic condition?

Notes: Zai and you can be understood as letting the ten thousand things each keep their place and forbear rather than forcing intervention. Pi here means “to favor unduly” or “push to extremes.” Qiao Jie and Zhuo Ju refer to uneven attitudes, perverse conduct, and love of novelty for its own sake. Robber Zhi stands for great evil; Zeng and Shi stand for the deliberately virtuous figures Confucianism exalts.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: when “you” (forbearance and letting things be) turns into a deliberate project of “making people free,” you end up governing with control—and once you govern, disorder follows. People are born with a straightforward nature; if they are not stirred up too much from outside, their xingming (nature and life) can settle at ease. When desire and aversion stay moderate, those above can practice Wuwei (non-action). But as soon as those in power start acting, the people chase after them; then come enticement, envy, and craving, and human nature slides into excess and disorder.

What sages and true kings value is not skill at “governing the world,” but Wuwei—letting the ten thousand things act on their own. Without that imposed “governance,” innate nature is not pulled off course. Yao, though in name he “held the world in you” (letting it be), still left traces in his conduct that look like “governing.” Governance and disorder look different on the surface, yet the outcome for nature—sliding into excess—is the same. Later ages, if they use “tranquil contentment” to drive people to compete for rank and to fear shame, so that people cannot rest in themselves, the essence is the same. So praising Yao and condemning Jie is not as good as forgetting both Yao and Jie.

Only when one is tranquil and content, and at peace in oneself, can one last. Mood swings and no fixed way of living belong to the Yao-and-Jie pattern—using excessive joy and anger to stir the people, so that cold and heat are out of tune and the four seasons are wrong, norms grow confused, and the myriad undertakings die young. Admiring and rewarding the good: rewards never catch up. Fearing punishment and stopping: punishments never suffice. When reward and punishment are forgotten and nature is good on its own, xingming is truly full. Reward and punishment are what sage-kings use to distinguish merit from fault—not to keep people forever hooked on “seek good, fear evil.” When the Way reaches its utmost, one should forget reward and punishment and return to zhiyi (utmost oneness). Yet people from the Three Dynasties downward chase only their traces in deed—busy racing after those traces, treating outward seeking as the real business—who has leisure to settle the truth of xingming?

Commentary by Lü

“All under heaven” is the place where the myriad things return and unite as one; the constant nature and constant De are simply my nature and De. To speak of “having all under heaven” is, in the end, nothing but “having me.” “Being present (zai)” means preserving without loss, letting things be as they are without arbitrary addition; “indulgent release (you)” means letting go without lax indulgence—like keeping beasts within an enclosure in a park: there is a boundary, yet they do not overstep it. Do not corrupt or overturn; act only through wuwei (non-action). Wuwei then means no fixed “self”; with no self, all under heaven transforms of itself—who still needs to “govern the realm”? Hence one should doubly forget the rival claims of Yao and Jie.

Humans are born from qi; by nature they are still—what imposed joy or grief is there? Forcing people to rejoice or to grieve is to corrupt their nature; corrupt the nature, and De is inevitably overturned. The myriad things carry yin and embrace yang, taking chong qi—harmonizing, neutral breath—as their balance. Everyone has this harmonizing breath in common with heaven and earth. Yet Yao made the people rejoice in their nature until they were wildly glad and skewed toward yang; Jie made them grieve until they were furious and skewed toward yin. Thus chong qi was injured, the turning of the four seasons and the balance of cold and heat were disrupted, and bodily qi was harmed. When thought cannot rest secure and the middle way cannot be fulfilled, this is what is called “mutual wounding.” Only then do extraordinary ways appear in the world—qiao (lofty pretension), jie (exhaustive probing), zhuo (unreachable heights), chuo (standing apart from the crowd)—none of them plain and centered. Reward and punishment no longer reach where they should, and the truth of xing and ming (nature and life) finds no peace.

Commentary by Xuxi

“Being present” is merely lodging this body in all under heaven, so that people know there is a “me,” yet without falling into disorder. “Indulgent release” is following nature and letting go; even when the other party is crafty and deceitful, one seems to forget them—they lose their way on their own, while true joy is never absent: this is “not overturning.” Not splitting Yao from Jie, not splitting joy from grief—here is where Xuxi’s reading truly hits its mark.

Seeking the Root

When the heart is gladly elated yet cannot settle, it is because there is no zai (dwelling in what is naturally so, without arbitrary intervention). When body and mind are worn thin yet no ease is found, it is because there is no you (forbearance—lenient accommodation that follows along without harsh blame). Joy and anger here reinforce each other: joy belongs to yang, anger to yin. In the human person, when yin and yang are in harmony, illness does not arise; when joy goes too far, yang prevails; when anger goes too far, yin prevails. What follows uses the yin and yang of the four seasons as a likeness for the yin and yang of the human body. The phrase “the central way is not achieved” (zhongdao bu cheng): this chapter means that when action is carried only halfway, order breaks down and centered, balanced harmony cannot be reached.

Commentary

Following pleasure and pain, joy and anger are offered as illustrations. Momentary joy may delight the heart, yet it is not as good as having no joy; momentary anger may vent resentment, yet it is not as good as having no anger. Yao and Jie could govern the realm, yet it would be better not to govern at all. Nowadays people are made to let joy and anger lose their proper places, to dwell without stability, and to think without self-assurance—“the central way is not achieved” in all these cases because “governing” has been pushed too far. Only then do the people lose their constant native disposition, and under heaven one after another appear conduct like that of “Qiao, Jie, Zhuo, and Yan” alongside “Robber Zhi, Zeng, and Shi”: Qiao—over-refining the self until one is too lofty; Jie—blaming others until one is too exacting; Zhuo—standing apart until one becomes arrogant; Yan—striking fiercely until one turns violent—all four, and Robber Zhi and Zeng and Shi as well, partake of this; all disturb the heavenly norm and split apart harmonious qi—in short, they are people who lose the true and disorder their nature. If one says “good deeds are too many to reward and evil deeds too many to punish,” then taking the whole vast realm for reward and punishment would still not suffice. Those who govern the realm still busy themselves daily with rewards and punishments; the people have no time even to dodge and comply, so how could they have leisure to settle the dispositions of nature and life (xingming zhi qing)? To settle those dispositions, rewards and punishments must be set aside and zai and you put first—only then can the nature of all under heaven be gathered and held steady.

Those who take “pleasing” and “showing off cleverness” as the right way are in fact indulging in sights and sounds; those who take “sharp hearing” as the right way indulge in sound; those who take “benevolence” as the right way disturb the natural De (Virtue/Power); those who take “righteousness” as the right way go against inherent principle; those who take “ritual” as the right way turn life into a contest of tricks; those who take “music” as the right way turn life into mutual encouragement of excess; those who take “sageliness” as the right way turn life into mutual display of talent; those who take “knowledge” as the right way turn life into mutual fault-finding and nitpicking.

If everyone in the world could settle their inborn nature and allotted life-span, these eight things would matter little whether they existed or not—they could be kept or discarded alike.

If people cannot settle their inborn nature and life-span, then once these eight appear, people shrink and stiffen like limbs that will not stretch (“luan juan,” describing the body unable to extend), and scramble and grab like a chaotic rush (“cang nang,” describing frantic contention)—and so they throw the world into disorder; yet the world then begins to honor and cherish them. At that point, keeping them or losing them makes no real difference (the point again: presence or absence cannot fix the root). The more the world honors and cherishes them, the deeper the confusion—can this be corrected simply by “going too far” or fixed by throwing them away?

Then some speak of them only after fasting and purification, present them only kneeling and sitting formally, and spread them with drum, song, hand-clapping, and dance—if the whole world were like that, what could I do about it?

So when the gentleman has no choice but to govern the world, nothing is better than Wuwei (non-action). Only through Wuwei can people settle their inborn nature and life-span.

Therefore: only one who holds the self lighter than the world is fit to be entrusted with the world (“tuo tianxia”); only one who holds the self as weighty as the world is fit to have the world placed in his care (“ji tianxia”—a familiar Zhuangzi phrase stressing that the ruler must not harm the world for private ends).

If the gentleman does not open the five viscera (the five zang—heart, liver, spleen, lungs, kidneys—here meaning not letting desires and cunning churn within), and does not exalt the cleverness of ear and eye (“zhuo qi cong ming”: deliberately flaunting wit and clarity), outwardly he can be still as a corpse while inwardly a dragon appears; deep and silent as an abyss, yet when he speaks it is like thunder; spirit moves with Heaven, easy and Wuwei, and the ten thousand things rise and stir on their own like smoke and dust (“chui lei,” sometimes written “chui lei,” likening things to vapors and motes that lift without being pushed). Given that, how would I have leisure to “govern” the world?

Notes on terms in the original: “Luan” is sometimes read as “luan”; “luan juan” describes limbs that cannot stretch freely; “cang nang” is like “qiang rang,” frantic scrambling. “Chui” may be read as “chui”; “chui lei” suggests things lifting like dust and smoke on their own.

When one conforms to the Way yet still takes pride in doing so, one invites the calamity of reckless excess and disorder.

What is meant by “mutual support, with no fixed destiny for survival or extinction” is that life and death have no fixed abode. Only by peacefully accepting the portion one has been allotted can one’s nature and life (xingming) be at ease. If the mind must rigidly hold on to these eight fixations, one cannot truly follow nature (zongren ziran), and instead falls into the distress of being bundled like meat or hung empty like a sack—such talk of “mutual support” likewise stresses that survival and extinction are unfixed and that one should accept one’s allotted share so that nature and life may be calm; yet once one must preserve these eight, one cannot release oneself to nature, hence the affliction of being rolled up and emptied like a pouch.

Even the inability to “let go” is already delusion; to treat such things as supreme treasures on top of that is utterly confused. They are only lodgings, guests passing through—yet people cherish them as if they were everything.

Wuwei (non-action) is not folding one’s hands in silent sitting and pretending to be still; it is letting each thing act of itself so that nature and life find their own peace. “Acting under compulsion” (budeyi) is not yielding to the threat of punishment; it is embracing the Way and holding to simplicity, following what necessity reaches to its limit, so that the world settles of itself. If one lightly throws away one’s life for punishment or abandons oneself for things, one cannot even secure oneself—how then could one secure the world?

What cannot be untied must not be untied; what cannot be pulled free must not be pulled—forcing release only does harm. In taking office or withdrawing, in speaking or keeping silent, there is often no deliberate intent: one entrusts it to nature. Spirit (shen) moves with things; Heaven follows principle, like dust drifting in play—simply let it be as it naturally is.

Lü’s commentary holds that if the people of the world cannot rest in the authentic condition of their own nature and life, then the so-called eight things—cleverness and intelligence, benevolence and righteousness, rites and music, sagacity and knowledge—are not the true Dao (the Way); they only disrupt De (Virtue/Power) and violate ritual propriety and righteousness. Whether these eight exist or not, fundamentally they cannot be said to add to or subtract from the true nature; what truly throws the world into disorder is this: splitting nature and life so that they are no longer whole, rolling and binding them so they cannot unfurl, letting them stagnate and become blocked without being dredged, like a sack tied in a knot that is not untied. Yet the people of the world revere and cherish them, proclaim them through fasting and purification, promote them with song and dance, and believe that the highest truth in the world is right here; the people have been deluded for a long time—what can be done about it? If governing the world truly comes from being compelled to rely on Wuwei (non-action), why should I not value and cherish myself more than governing the world, and sacrifice myself for the world? Only one who can do this can have the world entrusted to him. Valuing oneself means not treating the body lightly; cherishing oneself means not endangering the body. “Entrusting” (tuo) is like entrusting one’s person, “consigning” (ji) is like consigning an object; therefore “valuing” is weightier than “cherishing,” and “entrusting” is weightier than “consigning.” If one does not dissect the feelings of the five viscera, one will not unconsciously sink into benevolence and righteousness; if one does not elevate cleverness and intelligence, one will not be dragged into sound and color. “Dwelling like a corpse but appearing like a dragon”—dwelling quietly like a corpse while De (Virtue/Power) appears like a dragon—its manifestation comes from Wuwei (non-action); “profoundly silent like an abyss yet thundering like thunder”—silent like an abyss yet its sound shakes like thunder—its voice comes from not speaking. When Shen (spirit) stirs, it responds only after being affected; when Heaven follows, it comes without being summoned. Thus, with composure and Wuwei, the ten thousand things naturally mature like accumulated steam. “Chuilei” means the ten thousand things blow upon one another with Qi (vital energy); lei is the accumulation of steam; the ten thousand things attach like dust accumulating by itself—what leisure would there be to govern the world?

The Xunben Commentary says: “The ten thousand things steam and accumulate” means that all things are enclosed within my natural birthing and nurturing, maturing like steam accumulating.

Cui Qu asked Lao Dan: “If one does not govern the world, how can one settle people’s minds?” Lao Dan said: “You must be careful; do not disturb people’s minds.” Here the key to governance is placed in “be careful not to disturb people’s minds” (ying means to disturb): the human mind must not be forcibly agitated; the ruler should first hold to non-disturbance. The commentary also uses “the ten thousand things steam and accumulate” to explain: all things are within natural birthing and nurturing, maturing like steam accumulating.

Cui Qu asked Laozi: “If one does not govern the world with politics, how can people’s hearts find peace?”

Laozi said: “You must not disturb people’s hearts. The heart naturally loves to stay below yet struggles to climb upward; when it is above, it wants to press down. Strife between high and low is like being caged or slaughtered. Sometimes it is soft enough to embrace what is hard; sometimes sharp as a blade or a carver’s chisel. At one moment it burns like fierce fire; at the next it freezes like solid ice. It changes so fast that in the time of a bow and a glance it can reach again beyond the four seas. When still, it is deep and quiet as an abyss; when it moves, it hangs high and far in emptiness. That proud, unruly thing that cannot be tied down is probably the human heart.”

Long ago, from the time of the Yellow Emperor, people began to disturb hearts with benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi). Yao and Shun wore their thighs thin and their shins bare to nourish the bodies of all under Heaven, tormented their own five viscera to spread ren and yi, and drained blood and breath to set up laws and standards—yet still they could not finish the task. Yao then exiled Huan Dou to Mount Chong, the San Miao to San Wei, and Gong Gong to You Du—and still the world was not settled. This way continued through the Xia, Shang, and Zhou; then all under Heaven was greatly alarmed. Below were Jie and Zhi; above were Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu; the Ru and Mo schools rose one after another. Then joy and anger bred mutual suspicion, the foolish and the clever deceived one another, good and evil condemned one another, the absurd and the sincere mocked one another—and the world fell into decay. Great virtue each clung to one side, and nature-and-life (xing and ming) were scattered and ruined. When the world loved clever tricks, the common people were exhausted by pursuit. Then saws, inked lines, mallets, and chisels were used to “straighten” the world; backs were crushed together and chaos reigned—the fault lay in disturbing the heart.

So the worthy hid beneath mountain cliffs, while lords of ten thousand chariots trembled with fear in their halls. Today is not like antiquity: the dead lie pillow to pillow, those in cangues push one another along, and those awaiting execution face one another in crowds—while Ru and Mo stand on tiptoe in the stocks and wave their arms in high debate. Alas—they feel no shame, no modesty; it is too much! I cannot be sure that “sage wisdom” (sheng and zhi) is not simply lengthening the pillory and adding leg irons, that ren and yi are not simply fetters and mortise-and-tenon constraints, or that Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu are not whistle-arrows (haoshi)—beacons of disaster—like Jie and Zhi. Therefore it is said: abandon the so-called sages and wise ones, and the world will be greatly ordered.

(Notes: “ying” here means to disturb or offend; “gui” means to wound; “xuan” (written “xian” in the text) means suspended, lofty; “shi” here means to extend or carry on; “sheng mo sha” refers to snapping inked cords and killing by rule; “jiji” describes people trampling one another; “xingyang” is neck-and-shin punishment gear, “jiege” is a kind of pillory; “liqi” is standing on tiptoe, “rangbi” is raising the arm to argue; “haoshi” is a whistling arrow, a metaphor for what invites calamity.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “If you press against it, you harm its own goodness; if you push it down, it sinks to the ankles”—kuai and jia are the cross-pieces on punitive gear; li qi is standing with the feet half lifted from the ground; rang bi is raising the arms; the talker is one whose hands and feet move together. Hao shi is the whistle when an arrow is released; the commentator on pu (simplicity) says hao means crying out loudly.

“If you press against it, you harm its own goodness; if you push it down it goes down, if you push it up it goes up”—this speaks of how easily the human heart is stirred and shaken. What is called “imprisoning and killing above and below” means that only when you do not forcefully push and press can there be stability. One who can keep to softness and simplicity will see the hard and strong turn soft. The heat of scorching fire and the cold of congealed ice both come from pent-up joy and anger; if there is neither carving nor polishing and each keeps to the uncarved block (pu), how could there be opposition like ice against fire? Bending and straightening, touching again and again—these are what custom tugs at; in stillness one can be like a deep pool, in motion one is tied to Heaven and leaps—changes of the heart know no limit: indulged in compliance it is still yet penetrating; grasped and bound it stands on tiptoe (qi) and bursts into arrogant defiance (fen jiao). Fen jiao is a momentum that cannot be forcibly stopped.

The Yellow Emperor did not parade ren and yi (benevolence and righteousness); he simply merged with things, and the traces of ren and yi appeared of themselves. Once a trace appears, the hearts of later people inevitably follow it—that too is a “trace” left by the Yellow Emperor, stirring the myriad things. The names Yao and Shun are nothing but traces. I lodge in traces, yet a trace is not “me.” Hence what frightens frightens itself; the more the age is frightened, the coarser the trace; coarseness and subtlety depend only on whether the road one travels is level or perilous. Does the traveler ever change his feet? Thus the sage is fundamentally one, yet there are distinctions among Yao, Shun, Tang, and Wu; those who see this distinction grasp only names of the age, not enough to fix the sage’s reality. Are Yao and Shun merely Yao and Shun? (Later passages repeat the theme: traces grow coarser, the sage is one while names differ, Yao and Shun are not confined to those names—the sense is as above.)

Though there are traces of ren and yi and a look of strained sorrow, what makes the trace possible is rooted in preservation. From mutual suspicion between joy and anger through mockery between the extravagant and the sincere, none can be leveled with “obtaining for oneself.” “Great de differs” means setting up small divergences and not stopping at one’s proper share. Knowing that there is no bound to knowing yet loving to know, one cannot satisfy the demand—hence chisels, saws, mallets, and borers, carving and polishing nature and life until it reaches this state. If one entrusts things to the natural and each keeps his place, the worthy and the foolish each guard their disposition, noble and base each tread their rank, ruler and subject above and below all reach their limit, and the realm is without trouble. Yet this “trace” stirs the heart of the world so that rushing cannot stop; hence below middling wisdom everyone outwardly adorns nature to dazzle the crowd: they hate the straight and revile the upright, cliques draw one another on; those who trust in genuineness lose their guard, those who exalt falsity steal authority, the ruler worries above and the people suffer below. From corrupt Confucians clinging to traces come these disasters; instead of thinking to discard traces and return to oneness, they again raise their arms and use traces to govern traces—one may call this utterly shameless and ignorant of disgrace.

Xing yang (pillory) uses kuai and jia as its bars; zhi and gu (shackles) use borers and tenons as their fittings—sagely wisdom and ren and yi were originally meant to keep far from the traces of crime; when traces of crime are distant the people incline to esteem them, and when they esteem them, pretense arises; when pretense arises, there has never been a time when tools to control treachery were not at hand. Therefore discard what is esteemed and pretense will not arise; pillories and shackles can be abolished—why need borers, tenons, kuai, and jia? Hao shi is the fierce momentum of an arrow; it likens how Zeng Shen and Shi Yu (ancient names of worth) were turned to use by Jie and Zhi (typical tyrant and bandit). “Cut off the sage and discard knowing” means removing the whole apparatus that stirs the human heart.

Xiang Dao: When the heart is pressed and driven it is imprisoned; when pushed forward it rages and kills. Making the modest sharp (lian er gui) wounds and leaves it incomplete; carving and polishing (diao er zhuo) adorn it and strip its substance, so the yin–yang qi turns perverse. Stiff, it rebels (fen); rising, it grows arrogant (jiao); grasped and bound it is closed and cannot expand, and unworthy hearts answer in chorus. Ren and yi within, hence grief injures the five viscera; law and measure without, hence one puffs up blood and qi. When ren and yi are practiced, treachery and falsity arise; when law and measure are displayed, violence and disorder break out—so even at Yao’s utmost governance the four criminals could not be spared execution, how much more under the Three Dynasties and after? “Shu” means to cut off; “lu” means to disgrace.

This passage explains that once the heart is pulled by “being pushed aside” and “being lifted up,” things turn upside down: what should stay tranquil and plain becomes a face of flattery and pretense.

When others press you down, the spirit easily loses aim and sinks; when others praise you, you want to climb and look far, and float upward. With no fixed standard, you rise and fall entirely according to how others treat you. A person becomes like a bound prisoner, or someone trembling before execution. The heart that was calm and simple is reshaped into clever, ingratiating behavior—leaning sideways to please those stronger, carving and polishing away a lifetime of integrity until almost nothing is left. Only someone who fears being squeezed out yet longs to climb will use the heart this way.

When the heart is agitated, it burns like fire; when it is afraid, it freezes like ice; when it moves quickly, in the bend between bowing and rising it seems to run twice to the ends of the four seas. Before it moves, it is still as an abyss; once it stirs, heaven and earth seem torn apart—cloud and sky, abyss and height cut off from each other. That is the state of a heart full of resentment and arrogance, hard to tame.

The toil of Yao and Shun and the campaigns of Tang and Wu were meant to move and correct the human heart through Ren (benevolence) and Yi (righteousness). Yet once that opening for “Ren and Yi” is made, those below who are labeled “not benevolent, not righteous” are cast as villains like Jie and Zhi; those above who take the names “acting with Ren and Yi” are praised as sages like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu. Then Ru (Confucian) and Mo (Mohist) schools all teach from this script: they rejoice in those who agree and rage at those who differ. Seeing only one side, they call it wisdom; not seeing the other, they call it folly. With “our side is good” they condemn “others as evil”; with “our side is sincere” they mock “others as deceitful.” “That side has its right and wrong; this side has its right and wrong”—and the De (virtue/power) that accords with the Dao weakens, and the true Qi of xing (nature) and ming (life/destiny) is lost. The people then exhaust heart and strength, unable to keep up—what is called “qiujie” (seeking until depletion): driving the heart-mind to exhaustion.

Chisels, saws, inked lines, mallets, and augers are tools of punishment and execution. When Ren and Yi are talked out and no longer work, punishments must be applied—that is how things tend to go. In the end, the worthy can only withdraw and live apart; the ruler of ten thousand chariots holds worry and stands alone; Ru and Mo disciples still want to clutch Ren, Yi, sageliness, and wisdom and step forward with raised arms to “save” the world—without seeing that the trouble often grows from Ren, Yi, sageliness, and wisdom themselves.

Mortise-and-tenon joints (jiaqi) are parts that frame the pillory (xingyang); round peg and square hole (yuanrui fangzao) are used to make shackles. Where there is xingyang, there must be jiaqi; to control people you need peg and hole—they depend on each other. The image is this: Ren and Yi invite guilt and strife; “sages” in the mold of Zeng and Shi inevitably pair with “villains” in the mold of Jie and Zhi. Without that teaching of names and those oppositions, there would be no such crimes and no such postures of saving the world.

Note on Xu Shizhang’s commentary: Jie and Zhi are like releasing the “haoshi” (signal arrow)—a way of saying that dissenting views are like another red banner, each side holding one end and facing the other.

In short: Do not let the heart be dragged by fear of being pushed aside and hope of advancement, or by “them versus us” right and wrong. Do not assume Ren, Yi, sageliness, and wisdom can by themselves “save” the world—they often appear together with punishments, polarization, and exhaustion of heart-mind. That aligns with the Zhuangzi’s tendency to downgrade Ren and Yi, value what is natural, and preserve true nature.

In the nineteenth year of his reign, the Yellow Emperor’s edicts were known throughout the realm. Hearing that Guangchengzi (a transcendent figure in Daoist lore) dwelt on Kongtong Mountain, he went to visit him and said: I have heard that you have penetrated the utmost Dao (zhidao); I wish to ask about the essence of that Dao. I also wish to gather the qi of Heaven and Earth to help the five grains grow and nourish the people, and to regulate yin-yang so that the myriad things each find their place—how should this be done?

Guangchengzi replied: What you ask about is the authentic root of the myriad things; what you wish to govern is their outer branches. Since you have ruled the realm, rain has fallen before the clouds had gathered, plants have withered before their leaves turned yellow, and the light of sun and moon has grown ever more disorderly. With crooked hearts and many fawning, crafty sorts (jianjian—sly and flattering in manner), how can one speak of the utmost Dao with them?

The Yellow Emperor withdrew, set aside governance, built a quiet chamber, spread white rushes, and lived alone for three months before going again to seek an audience. Guangchengzi lay with his head to the south; the Emperor came from downwind, advanced on his knees, bowed and knocked his head on the ground, and asked: I hear you have penetrated the utmost Dao—how should one cultivate the body to endure long?

Guangchengzi started up in surprise and said: Well asked! Come, I will tell you the utmost Dao: its essence is deep, hidden, and dim; its utmost reach is dusky, quiet, and silent. Let the eyes not look, the ears not listen; embrace and hold the spirit (Shen) and keep the inner mind still—the form will naturally straighten. Be utterly still, utterly clear; do not weary the body or stir the essential qi (jing)—then one may endure long. … (Repeated passages in the source may be read as one thread of teaching.) Guard the inner firmly and block outward grasping; much cleverness only harms. I hold to the “One” (yi—the undifferentiated root in Daoist usage) and dwell in harmony, and so in cultivating the body for twelve hundred years my form has never aged. (Note: some read “twelve hundred years” as a great cycle in the ledger of things; baichang refers to the hundred kinds of living beings.)

The Yellow Emperor bowed again: You are truly a “heaven-and-human” (tianren—a person who has realized the Dao). Guangchengzi continued: Come, I will tell you: things in themselves are inexhaustible, yet people treat them as if they had an end; things in themselves are unfathomable, yet people treat them as if they had a limit. Whoever obtains this Dao may be sovereign above or king below; whoever loses it may shine above but turns to dust below. Now the hundred things are born from earth and return to earth; I will leave you, enter the gate of the infinite, and wander the wilds of the limitless, sharing light with sun and moon and constancy with Heaven and Earth. When I am merged with the Dao and far from the dullness of people, the masses all die—yet I alone remain? (Min and hun describe a state of mindless union with the Dao and forgetting the vulgar world.)

The notes at the end explain that zhi means the authentic text, zu means gathering; “rain before gathering” means favor was too scant, “fall before yellowing” means killing force was too heavy; jueran is the manner of starting up in alarm. All of this clarifies Guangchengzi’s reproach to the Yellow Emperor for “governing the remnants of things” (zhi wu zhi can), and the meaning of guarding stillness, embracing the One, and becoming one with the Dao.

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

When asked whether the purity of the utmost Dao is simply plain simplicity, Guo Xiang says: the utmost Dao is naturally so; if you forcibly impose human control, it becomes “damaged”—split apart and untrue. Each person cultivates himself; there is no need to “govern the world,” and the world will be at peace of itself. What is called “good” lies in the dark depth and silent obscurity—both are states of wu (non-being). Laozi and Zhuangzi speak of wu again and again because what gives birth to the myriad things is not some particular thing, but that things each arise of themselves; self-arising is not someone deliberately “making life,” so why impose action on one’s own body? Forget using the eyes and the eyes see of themselves; forget using the ears and the ears hear of themselves—then spirit is not disturbed and form is not perverse. Without toiling the body or shaking essence, let things be natural, and you remain tranquil and do not die prematurely—all of this is moving in accord with nature, hence long life. “Be careful within, woman” means preserving the true self; “close without, woman” means keeping to one’s proper place. Knowing without boundary leads to ruin. Only by exhausting the root source of yin and yang can one ascend to the realm of great clarity and enter the gate of dark depth. “Heaven and earth have their offices, yin and yang have their storehouses”—this means one should only let things take their course; take as model the utmost of nurturing life and long life. When the body does not die young, one can extend to the myriad things. Endless and unfathomable—yet people take there to be an ultimate, seeing only one transformation within it. The titles emperor and king rise and fall with the age; grasping the way of change to respond to the endless is unity; lose this and you cling to one side—above and below cannot be equal, looking up and down hearts differ. Earth has no mind; born from no-mind, one should return to guard no-mind and go alone. Enter the endless, wander the boundless, move with transformation. Sun and moon share light, heaven and earth are constant—all by letting nature be. Mian (dim) obscurity is not noticing coming and going; alone remaining—when life and death are one, nowhere is not presence.

Lü Huìkēng’s commentary:

Above empty sameness there is nothing yet great penetration; the Dao in origin is nameless simplicity, hence “plain.” Yin and yang are the unfolding of the Dao, hence “damaged.” Cloud-vapor need not gather to become rain; grass and trees need not yellow to fall—if one does not take assisting nature as aim and something is lacking, signs of waste and ruin appear first in sun and moon; tested in the body, ears and eyes ail first. True person and flatterer are like grain and darnel: what is sown is grain—in poor soil darnel does not grow; what is sown is darnel—in good fields grain does not grow. Studying the Dao and asking about plainness—if the heart still holds the seed of flattery and falsity, how can the Dao arise? Three months in quiet dwelling, purification to the utmost, advancing with the downwind and seeking along the root—only the Dao can make the body long endure, hence the question about its “plainness.” Dark depth has no form; what speech and thought cannot exhaust—what is called “essence” and can be known and spoken is not the ultimate; one must reach silent obscurity for the Dao-body itself. Below this: no sight, no hearing—only then long life, matching entry into the Dao. Embracing spirit to correct it, form without expecting correction corrects itself; must be still, must be clear, cannot be stirred to turbidity; form without labor is whole, essence without shaking is restored—then long life. Spirit has no form yet adorns things; if it does not adorn things and returns to no seeing and no knowing, not guarding form—where will it rely? Careful within, block the openings; closed without, shut the door—this is the way to nurture spirit and preserve form; the opposite is much knowing and ruin. Before knowing the Dao, one is confined within yin and yang and has not reached the root; no seeing, no hearing, no knowing—then one follows great clarity and enters the gate of dark depth. Exhausting this, one knows heaven and earth have offices and yin and yang have storehouses—all in this careful guarding of the “female” body; things will strengthen themselves—why seek outside? The Yellow Emperor further clarifies what was said first about the Dao-body of no seeing and no hearing; as for its function—no seeing is self-seeing, no hearing is self-hearing, no knowing is self-knowing. The Dao is endless and unfathomable; if one stops at no seeing, no hearing, no knowing, one takes the endless as end and the unfathomable as extreme. Those who obtain the Dao may be emperor or king, rising through spirit and clarity; those who lose it see light as earth—form does not go beyond covering and carrying. The hundred flourishing things are born from earth and return to earth—form only. “I will leave you to enter the endless and wander the boundless”—whoever takes this as ultimate does not know me. Sharing light with sun and moon, clarity never ceases; being constant with heaven and earth, endurance has no end. When I am mian (dim), I do not know it as “now”; when far from me in obscurity, I do not know it as “far”; all people die yet I alone remain—seek in my body: what thing can reach this? Among the myriad spirits only the human is most noble; creation made humans—who knows how rarely—once in an age; human cleverness and thorough understanding that can match this—who knows how rarely—once in an age. Without diligent effort, those who take kindness as treasure surely do not tire of saying it again and again.

Su Dongpo’s note:

According to the Classic of Mountains and Seas, Guan Chengzi governed the Taiyi, Tun, and Meng hexagrams to move sun and moon—an ancient true person, teacher of the Yellow Emperor. Plainness and damage in things: the motive is desire to live long oneself while outwardly entrusting nurturing the people and completing the multitude; long life without death is the solid fact of things—nursing people and completing life is merely surplus of the Dao. Clouds need not gather to rain, grass and trees need not yellow to fall—even the essence of heaven and earth cannot supply the drain of a calculating heart; hence tokens of waste and ruin appear first in sun and moon; divined on the body, ears and eyes sicken first. True person and flatterer are like grain and darnel. Studying the Dao and asking—if the heart does not put things before self, it is the seed of flattery and falsity—how can the Dao arise? Three months’ quiet dwelling leaves no room for a heart that puts things before self, hence such a question. Dark depth and silent obscurity are methods to reach the Dao, not the Dao itself; students of the Dao fear dispersion and falsity, hence dark depth and obscurity to achieve unity, silent obscurity to complete truth. Below, another teaching in one stroke—all real words: no sight, no hearing; embrace spirit in stillness as wuwei (non-action); heart knowing nothing is no thought; must be still, must be clear; no toiling form, no shaking essence is no desire. When all three are present, form and spirit are one; form and spirit one, then long life; not careful within and closed without, form and spirit separate. Reaching the origin of utmost yang and utmost yin—like the function of sun, moon, fire, and water—used to refine and transform, firm qi and condense substance; with dark depth and silent obscurity establish the root of long life, with wuwei, no thought, and no desire remove harms to long life, and again with utmost yin and utmost yang firm and condense—my task is enough. Heaven and earth have offices—they govern for me; yin and yang have storehouses—they store for me—completion in me, completion in them. Things inherently have no end; exhaust their division and they form, exhaust their division and they perish; things never truly die—so long life is things’ natural state, not mine alone; I can guard the one and dwell in harmony, hence I do not see their forming, dividing, or perishing. All people die yet I alone remain—few who study the Dao can fully “die” the person and alone preserve the self. What can be seen, spoken, left, or taken is “person,” not “self”; what cannot be seen, spoken, left, or taken is the true self. Near this is clarity, far is foolishness, obtaining this is obtaining the Dao. All people die yet I alone remain—that is the meaning.

Yun Jiang, the spirit who governs clouds and mist, traveled east and passed by the branches of Fuyao—understood either as the wind or as a sacred tree of the eastern sea—where he happened upon Hong Meng, primordial chaos, here standing for the undifferentiated natural state before things were split apart. Hong Meng was slapping his thighs and hopping about like a sparrow at play. Yun Jiang stopped in astonishment, stood at attention, and asked, “Old sir, who are you? Why are you doing this?” Hong Meng kept slapping his thighs and hopping without pause. Yun Jiang said, “My name is Yun Jiang.” Hong Meng gave a brief acknowledgment. Yun Jiang said, “The qi of Heaven and Earth are out of harmony; the earth’s qi is blocked, the six qi—yin, yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light—are disordered, and the four seasons are wrong. I wish to gather the essence of the six qi to nourish the ten thousand things. What should I do?” Hong Meng slapped his thighs, shook his head, and said, “I do not know, I do not know.” Yun Jiang could get nothing from him.

Three years later Yun Jiang traveled east again. In the wilds of Song he met Hong Meng once more. Overjoyed, he hurried forward and cried repeatedly, “Has Heaven forgotten me? Has Heaven forgotten me?” He bowed and kowtowed, asking to hear a word from Hong Meng. Hong Meng said, “Drifting without knowing what to seek, roaming wildly without knowing where to go, the wanderer busy yet looking at what is not false—what could I know?” Yun Jiang said, “I thought myself wild and free, yet the people follow wherever I go, and I cannot help going along with them; now the people have lost their proper measure. I beg one word.” Hong Meng said, “To disturb Heaven’s constant pattern and go against things’ own nature makes Heaven’s De hard to complete; to scatter herds, make every bird cry at night, bring disaster on grass and trees, and harm the myriad creatures—all this comes from forcing human affairs.” Yun Jiang asked, “Then what should I do?” Hong Meng said, “Alas, your heart is too poisonous! Go back lightly as you came.” Yun Jiang said, “I meet a great difficulty from Heaven and beg one word.” Hong Meng said, “Then nourish the heart: rest in Wuwei (non-action), and things will transform on their own; cast off your bodily form, spit out your cleverness, forget rank among things, and merge with Xingming—the natural chaotic breath; Xing and Min also mean indistinguishable sameness; loosen the bonds on mind and spirit and be empty, without fixed soul. The ten thousand things teem; each returns to its root, each returns to its root without knowing—muddled and dim, never leaving it for life; if you think you “know the Dao,” that is already leaving it. Do not press for names, do not pry into inner truth; things grow of themselves.” Yun Jiang said, “Heaven bestows De upon me and shows me silence; I bowed body and mind to seek it, and only today have I received it.” He bowed again, rose, took leave, and went.

(Note: Tangran describes Yun Jiang losing his usual composed bearing; fangran means standing solemnly still; yangzhang suggests the busy, toiling appearance of someone caught up in affairs.)

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

There is no need to chase anything deliberately—what you seek will come of itself; no need to fix on a destination—the place you should reach will be reached on its own. One who is inwardly complete sees everything around already in its proper place; why should I meddle further? To act thus is enough. Moving with things as they are is not done to leave a trace of “doing,” yet a trace appears all the same; roaming free is not done to draw the people, yet they follow—so one is emulated by the multitude and cannot do otherwise. If one follows the nature of the ten thousand things and does not “govern,” feelings and intent will not turn against their course, the constant Way will not fall into disorder, accomplishment comes in stillness, and the natural is attained.

Drive off the herds and birds cry out at night—that is departure from the quiet that belonged to them; grass, trees, and insects suffer harm without cause. Thus, once there is a mark of “governing,” disorder arises from it. To say “governing” goes too far—that is indeed weighty speech.

“Xianxian” describes a restless, unsettled bearing; (the figure in the text) resented being unable to collapse into abandon and thorough release, and so sent someone back. When the heart is worn by use, then to cultivate the heart-mind, perhaps nothing but “not using the heart” will do. Neither principle nor things held in the mind, secretly entrusted to the natural—then wuwei and self-transformation.

Dwell with vast chaos, without boundary from outer things; dazed, without soul, sit and forget the body, alone letting fate run its course. Not knowing yet returning— that is true “return”; in muddled unknowing, letting nature return, one can never leave the root. To “return” after there is knowing—that diverges from true return. Questioning and peering lose self-arising. Alone entrusting to fate, not knowing yet returning—that is true return; muddled unknowing, letting oneself return, one can never leave the root. Returning through knowing opposes return; questioning and peering lose what arises of itself. Where there is knowing yet one cannot silently keep still, one will often lose what is genuinely so.

Summary of Lu’s commentary:

I do not know whether that counts as true “knowing.” Others all have something they seek and somewhere they go; I do not know what to seek or where to go—in short, I simply stay with “not-knowing.”

“Yangzhang” means busy, toiling labor; “juxi” means being bound and tied. Outwardly one seems at ease and roaming, yet in fact still seems bound. What I see as the “real” in the world is no more than this. When the ten thousand things rise together, I watch each return to itself (“fu”); when they can return, they do not act rashly—what more can I know? If one takes oneself for wild and free, then “wuwei” is already realized; when the people indulge, they still cannot truly be wuwei. Heaven is wuwei; things are without knowing. Once there is knowing and deliberate doing, the constant pattern of heaven is disturbed and the nature of things is reversed, and the Way of heaven cannot be fulfilled.

The year has a moment that is “ni yu tian” (turned against or aligned with heaven’s pivot)—the winter solstice is one; the month has such a moment—the last day of the month; the day has such a moment—midnight; and human beings have such a moment too. The ancients sought where “zhengqi” (orthodox vital breath) resides in order to preserve spirit and nurture the root—none failed to know this. This is not a teaching meant to be broadcast loudly. Precisely because people do not know to govern the world through wuwei, heaven’s completion fails and disaster reaches birds, beasts, and insects—all of this comes from the fault of “not knowing wuwei in governing.” “Du” (medicine) is used to treat illness; using medicine when there is no illness is like using “poisonous cure” when there is no disorder—Immortal, immortal, it is time to go home! Wishing to turn back to the root and seek it, no one lacks a “cheng xin” (fixed, pre-formed mind); they care only about nurturing themselves. Nurturing oneself, then nothing need be done, and things transform on their own.

Discard the bodily form, and one no longer knows there are the six bodily parts; spit out all cleverness, and one no longer knows there are ears and eyes—“lun” means principle within me, things outside me. Xingming is the emptiness of qi awaiting things; when I and things forget each other and merge with xingming, the heart is released and spirit freed, blankly without soul—this is abiding in the way of wuwei.

So it goes: when things are just rising, I do not know; when I make things return to the root, I also do not know that I know—then chaos spreads vast and becomes one, so that to the end of life one never separates from it. Without questioning, without peering, things arise on their own. When there is this not-knowing, and again not knowing that one does not know, if one asks “Is this called not-knowing?” that is already asking its name; if one says “Is this really not-knowing?” that is already peering into its inner state—just as when things need no peering yet arise on their own. When things are just being born, if you strip away the root and look, nothing that can live appears. The reason heaven creates things is nothing beyond this.

(Note: In the text, the graph read as “ tian” is understood from context as “ni yu tian” or a similar sense—turning against ordinary sequence yet matching heaven’s pivot.)

Worldly people all like others to be like themselves and dislike those who differ. They welcome what aligns with them and reject what does not. In their hearts they always want to “stand out,” yet those who make “being outstanding” their aim—when have they truly stood apart? They merely cling to the crowd for comfort; what they hear and know is no better than the crowd’s, and in essence they remain one of the multitude. Yet some wish to become rulers of a state—seeing only the benefits left by the Three Kings (Xia Yu, Shang Tang, and the Zhou kings Wen and Wu) while blind to the calamities within, treating another’s realm as a gamble. How many times can one gamble without losing the state? The chance of preserving someone else’s kingdom is less than one in ten thousand; once one fails, countless people suffer. That those who hold a realm fail to see this is truly lamentable.

Those who possess a realm hold the “great thing”—the weightiest authority and responsibility. A true “great thing” cannot be handled like an ordinary object or possessed; only by not treating it as something to dispose of at will can one follow and enable the myriad things, letting each thing be as it is. To understand that “letting things be as things are” does not mean making all things one’s private property—this lesson applies far beyond governing the realm alone.

One who can pass through the six directions, roam the nine provinces, and come and go alone is called “uniquely oneself.” Such a person is what is meant by “most precious.” The teaching of the great person is like form to shadow, sound to echo—when questioned, one responds; speaking fully from the heart, harmonizing with the Way of Heaven and Earth. Dwelling without fixed direction, moving without fixed track, carrying the stir of “returning to the root,” roaming in the realm without beginning, entering and leaving without boundary, walking with the sun in what has no start. Praising and discussing the bodily form, aligning with the “Great Unity”—in Great Unity there is no “me” and no “other”; how then can one cling to “having what one has”?

What has “being” and can be seen belonged to the gentlemen of old; one who sees “non-being” is a friend of Heaven and Earth.

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

The crowd and “singularity”

When people set their minds on leaving the crowd and standing out, everyone treats “getting ahead” the same way—hence “the crowd.” If you too want to stand out, you are no different from the crowd; neither side can rank above the other. The crowd all take comparing themselves and vying for prominence as their heart, while you do not deliberately pander yet naturally differ from the crowd—in the midst of the crowd you stand out all the more and become their guide. What one person can do falls short of what everyone’s skills add up to, so following each person’s strengths keeps things stable; if you do not rely on the crowd, then countless people could all become your opponents.

Governing the realm and the Three Kings

Whoever would govern the realm, if he does not follow how the multitude each govern themselves but tries to do everything alone, only sees the benefit the Three Kings brought by ordering things and not the harm of his own monopoly. The Three Kings benefited the realm not because they personally did the realm’s work for it, but because they let the realm act for itself. I and the realm respond to each other so each finds its place. To monopolize the realm with one’s own will blocks the realm; how can one’s own path stay open? If even one body cannot be formed, the myriad directions will suffer many losses. Unable to use outer things yet used by them is to become a “thing” oneself—how then use the myriad things? Unable to use the myriad things, one is not fit to “possess the great thing.” One who uses outer things is not used by them; not used by things, one is not a “thing”; not being a thing, one lets everything under heaven each find its place. Using the realm’s self-action, one drives the myriad things without exhaustion.

Supreme worth and “unique possession”

Everyone differs from everyone else, while you roam with the kinds as one—this is going alone. Keeping this “singularity” is what can be called “unique possession.” Being the same as the crowd is not seeking honor among the crowd; it is that the crowd cannot but honor you—this is “supreme worth.” If one trusts one’s own bias and takes novelty as one’s heart, though outwardly like the crowd one is still one of the vulgar things, not “unique possession.” Without unique possession yet greedy for high rank and seizing what is not one’s due—how would the crowd follow? Hence not supreme worth. The hearts of the common people are like form; sound is like echo to shadow. The great person’s (sage’s) teaching is like shadow following form, echo following sound. What heart does the great person have toward the realm? Nothing but shadow following form, echo following sound. Let the myriad things each hold what they hold, each exhaust their heart: the questioner is host, the answerer is match; without echo there is silence, waiting for things to come; no fixed corner, transforming with things. Naorao is self-so movement; lifting and leading the myriad things so they return to self-so nature is the utmost of wuwei (non-action)—moving with transformation hence no beginning, same as Dao hence no outward show, daily renewal hence no start.

Great unity and seeing being, seeing non-being

When body joins heaven and earth as one and form is not apart from heaven and earth, it is called “great unity”; where there is “me,” great unity cannot be. Hardest to lose under heaven is “me”; once “me” is gone, the multitude of beings need not be “had” any longer—one who sees “being” only beautifies the name; seeing “non-being” lets it alone subsist.

(Note: The original text seems to connect to another section after this; the above only clarifies the wording given.)

Plain-Language Interpretation

The Wuwei and naturalness of the Dao are not only for the ruler to grasp and practice; those who use the Dao to assist the ruler should also follow the people and keep the realm at peace, rather than meddling and taking on tasks in other states. What one person can hear and understand cannot match what many people, each with their own skills, can achieve together; if someone still tries to go it alone and govern for others, avoiding failure would mostly be luck.

In the Xia, Shang, and Zhou eras, rulers and ministers had also taken “following the multitude and Wuwei” as a benefit; in later decadent ages, many treated the same approach as a disaster. Those who wish to govern for others see only the “benefits” and not the hidden dangers.

When the Yellow Emperor sought instruction from Guangchengzi, and Yao visited the “Four Masters,” both regarded “grasping great affairs and great things in one’s own hands” as a calamity. To express what one has realized: beyond the Dao there is nothing else to rely on—hence it is called “being solely one” (only united with the Dao).

The teaching of the “great person” responds like form to sound, shadow to echo, without striving to be the world’s “forerunner”—that is what it means to accord with the Dao. Dwelling in a state “without echo,” one is still and silent; moving in a condition “without fixed direction,” one is never confined. Thus one can lead the world together toward “return”: though the world is in turmoil, there is no need to force it into stillness; this is “the ten thousand things arise together, yet I observe their return,” gathering the world within the world itself. Then one can roam at the beginning and end of the ten thousand things—direction cannot block one, time cannot bind one.

“Praise and discourse” is speech; speech arises from “non-speech.” The body is form; form takes its image from “formlessness.” Then there is great unity without end; without end, how can one speak of “being”? Warmth, kindness, and benevolence are called the mark of the gentleman—the aspect in which the sage is the same as ordinary people. Those who see only “being” count at best as gentlemen; those who see “non-being” are friends of Heaven and Earth—the level on which one is the same as the multitude is no longer enough to name them.

[Secondary Ink]

By relying on what everyone hears and sees to steady one’s own perception, one sees that in many arts one falls short of others—and such humility is all the more abundant. To treat “exalting benevolence and righteousness and taking sage wisdom as delight” as a view on a par with the vulgar is one thing; what is truly sought is qie nü shi—leading you, and leading all under heaven, together toward the Dao. What is meant by fu zhi naorao yi you wuduan: coming and going again and again, in a supple, yielding way, roaming in a realm without beginning or end; chu ru wu pang: going out and entering alone, without leaning on side conditions. Where there is no beginning, there is no “start”; where there is no start, there is no “end.” Hence it is said to be “without beginning” like sun and moon. At this point the bodily form is no longer adequate to obstruct one, and one merges with Great Unity (Datong)—what is called body and spirit both wondrous, united with the Dao in truth (xingshen jumiao, yu dao he zhen). Within Great Unity, if one tries again to grasp a fixed “self,” it cannot be obtained; since it cannot be obtained, how can one say there is a substantial “self”?

Those who du you (behold being) include the gentlemen of old and the ministers and rulers of the Three Dynasties, who governed through benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music—all belong in this category.

Those who du wu (behold non-being) are the friends of Heaven and Earth; it is not only those who cling to “being” who are fit to speak of these matters.

Some things appear base and lowly, yet one cannot fail to make use of them. The people stand in humble stations, yet one cannot fail to rely on them. Affairs must stay concealed and not be exposed, yet one cannot fail to see them through. Laws and standards may look coarse and loose, yet one cannot fail to lay them out. Righteousness (yi, the standard of moral duty) may seem remote, yet it cannot fail to have a place in the heart. Humaneness (ren) may seem limited to those near at hand, yet it cannot fail to reach further outward. Ritual (li, the norms of ceremony) calls for restraint, yet it cannot fail to be built up over time. Virtue (de, moral cultivation) calls for holding the middle way, yet it cannot fail to aim at what is lofty. The Dao (the Way, the fundamental pattern of the cosmos) may look like undifferentiated oneness, yet it cannot fail to shift in how it shows itself in concrete form. Heaven (the working of nature as sacred order) may look dark and unfathomable, yet one cannot fail to align with it and work in concert with it.

Therefore the sage observes Heaven’s way without presumptuously adding to it, completes virtue without being dragged down by external things, moves from the great Dao without scheming for expedients, joins with humaneness without self-congratulation, treats righteousness lightly without piling it up artificially, responds to ritual without evading it, meets affairs without refusing them, aligns with law without falling into disorder, leans on the people without looking down on them, and follows along with the ten thousand things without turning away.

The ten thousand things in themselves are not something one can lean on completely, yet one also cannot fail to act through them. Those who do not understand Heaven’s way cannot keep virtue pure. Those who do not penetrate the great Dao cannot keep themselves in the right place. Those who do not understand the Dao—how pitiable they are.

What is the Dao? There is the Dao of Heaven and there is the Dao of humankind. What is honored through non-action (wuwei) is the Dao of Heaven; what is burdened by purposeful action is the Dao of humankind. The ruler’s way belongs to the Dao of Heaven; the way of ministers and common people belongs to the Dao of humankind. The Dao of Heaven and the Dao of humankind are vastly far apart—one cannot fail to distinguish them carefully.

Adaptation and High and Low

Things often seem base because people fail to follow their own nature and instead force change. So: one who can employ the low appears high; one who can adapt to the low appears honored—this is a fixed pattern.

Principle lies within things themselves, so one must “keep each thing in its own place” and let each act according to its nature—what must be done is only to adapt and follow, not to impose.

The Pattern and Its Traces

“Pattern” (fa) is the trace left by subtle principle. How can one refuse to explain subtle principle just because the trace looks crude? Subtle principle needs “dwelling” to show itself; if you cling to one side you suffer, so “breadth” is true benevolence (ren).

Ritual and Wholeness

Ritual, propriety, and the like risk tying the heart to a single point. So each thing keeps its form, and only by gathering can there be fullness. What is “lower” in affairs, though it hits the middle, is still not supreme virtue; what is “hard” in affairs, though it unifies, is still not the utmost Dao—and all the more when it is not even “one”? Insisting on “non-action,” though it seems marvelous, is still not Heaven; and all the more when it is not marvelous? Look at Heaven: Heaven does not add extra help; it only adapts and lets the ten thousand things act for themselves. Virtue fully formed is not burdensome; naturally it meets what is “high.”

Emerging from the Dao and “Guarding” Benevolence

Coming from the Dao, one need not seek another plan; not scheming yet unified, hence ease. “Guarding” benevolence cannot be relied on; rely on it and benevolence cannot spread. Following nature is dwelling; it is far from piling up accumulations; responding to ritual naturally is not born of taboo-fear.

Meeting Affairs and Governing the Coarse

Affairs connect through principle; can each keep its allotted share? When movement is due, move—no need to decline. Using the subtle to govern the coarse, hence no disorder. Relying on the people to act for themselves, one does not lightly use their strength; adapting to things and completing them, entrusting without leaving their root.

Action and Cessation

Is “action” only because of “enough”? Holding to this action, hence it cannot stop. Not seeing the natural leads to deliberate action; deliberate action and virtue is impure. Unable to empty oneself and await things, every affair goes wrong—this is the pity of not knowing the Dao.

The Way of Heaven, the Way of Humans, Lord and Minister

The Way of Heaven is above, entrusting the ten thousand things to themselves. The way of humans takes deliberate action as a burden and cannot lead each to self-sufficiency.

The lord aligns with the Way of Heaven: like Heaven, entrusting things, he naturally sits above things. The minister aligns with the way of humans: each fills his assigned role.

The lord practices Wuwei (non-action) and delegates to the hundred officials; the hundred officials each have their charge while the lord does not meddle—both gain self-sufficiency through “non-doing”: the lord’s way is ease, the minister’s way is labor. Ease and labor cannot be spoken of in the same breath. Fail to distinguish this and the positions of lord and minister are confused.

Overview of Personal Opinion

A person of noble character does not take the throne and govern all under heaven unless there is no alternative; for governing the realm, nothing surpasses wuwei (non-action). With preserving the people and showing leniency toward the multitude at heart, one does not inwardly treat “governance” as something to be deliberately pursued. Thus the nature of all under heaven is not given free rein to excess, and virtue is not twisted out of shape. Those who stand as lords over the people keep joy and anger even, rewards and punishments moderate, because the realm can settle itself by its own nature without exhausting mind and body in “governing”—so the people follow easily and law is not trampled.

Later rulers who presided over the realm abandoned the essential aim of assisting the age and nurturing the myriad people, relying solely on rewards and punishments: above, the standards of right and wrong of the Ru and Mo schools and of figures such as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu; below, fetters, cangues, and similar penal constraints. Then those who governed the realm could not bear the burden of toil, and the people were at a loss what to do with hands and feet. They still believed that benevolence, righteousness, sageliness, and wisdom were enough to grasp the hearts of all under heaven—honoring and cherishing them, handing them down in family and state without awakening to the truth: these very things are instruments for disturbing the people, and therefore must be resolutely discarded.

If this is truly so, then what all under heaven relies upon and what thunder reveals lies here; statecraft does not become an empty shell, hearts are not eaten away like wormwood, and in easeful wuwei there is no spare room to “govern all under heaven.”

Next, Cui Qu’s question leads into Laozi’s discourse on precaution: to understand that the fault of governing the realm lies in agitating the human heart—this is precisely the origin of fetters and cangues, and what Jie and Zhi exploited for gain. Hence the Yellow Emperor questioned Kongtong (the legendary place of inquiry) and was told to embrace and guard the spirit, rectify form and qi, and through quiet clarity attain long life; take the body as root, family and state as secondary. (The text again sets up Cui Qu’s question and Laozi’s precaution—same meaning: the fault of rulers is in stirring the human heart.) There is no logic in a disordered state when the person is not first ordered. Rulers of the realm today, if they could earnestly practice the words of Guangchengzi (the immortal the Yellow Emperor met), restoring the governance of the Three Dynasties would not be difficult; embracing heaven and earth and harmonizing yin-yang—all lie within wuwei; this is the way of zaì yǒu (letting be / governing through non-interference).

What Hong Meng (an ancient sage in allegory) said—about letting the body fall away, dimming keen hearing, and guarding the root without straying—is the way of ordering the person. At the close the text runs through the rites of lord and minister, touching on almost everything; and on the distinction between the way of heaven and the way of humanity, between acting with purpose and wuwei—outwardly they may seem unlike, yet issuing from one mind and appearing in conduct they are one.

Heaven and Earth, Chapter Twelve

Heaven and earth, though vast, bestow their transforming and nurturing influence equally. The myriad things, though countless, are governed by one fundamental principle. People, though numerous, take the sovereign as their head. The sovereign’s standing is rooted in De (Virtue/Power) and completed through the Way of Heaven. Hence it is said: those who ruled all under heaven in antiquity did so through Wuwei (non-action), relying on nothing but Heaven’s virtue.

When speech is viewed through the Dao, the ruler’s proper path in the world is set straight. When titles and roles are viewed through the Dao, the great meaning of sovereign and minister is clarified. When talent is viewed through the Dao, offices throughout the realm each find their fit. When one surveys broadly through the Dao, how the myriad things respond to one another is fully accounted for. What unites with heaven and earth is De; what moves through the myriad things is the Dao; what governs people from above is affairs; what turns capacity into concrete practice is skill (technique).

Skill belongs to affairs; affairs belong to righteousness; righteousness belongs to De; De belongs to the Dao; the Dao belongs to Heaven. Thus it is said: those in antiquity who nourished and completed all under heaven kept their own desires few and the realm was naturally sufficient; they acted without contrivance and the myriad things transformed themselves; they remained still as a deep abyss and the people settled of themselves. The Record says: “Penetrate to the One, and the ten thousand undertakings reach completion; when the heart harbors no private gain, even ghosts and spirits will submit.” (Note: Some editions read “yuan yuan ben ye” and attribute this Record to Laozi.)

Heaven and earth likewise nurture the myriad things through “not forcing deliberate action”; the overarching principle of governing the myriad things is to let each one “obtain its own proper place.” Hearts in the world differ, so the ruler should be “without a selfish mind”—not deciding by private preference, but taking De as the root source. Nothing fails to receive what it ought to receive; what we call “obtaining” is in truth what one already has by nature, and having obtained it there is no one to thank—thus the Way of heaven and earth is complete. Wuwei means allowing the natural course itself to turn; taking nature as “sovereign” is not absurd. Each keeps their allotted role: above, Wuwei; below, each in their place; officials each keep their duty and bring their capacity to full use, and the realm is governed. When the ruler is Wuwei, the people of the world also respond with their own Wuwei.

What connects with heaven and earth is De: to say that the myriad things none fail to obtain their place is to say the Way of heaven and earth runs through. What moves among the myriad things is Dao: to say that Dao does not block their inherent paths is to say the myriad things each run in their own way. What governs people from above is making it possible for everyone to manage their own affairs; “skill” (ji) is only the use at the far end of the myriad things. Root and branch must work together, like arm and palm enfolding one another; when the whole body is harmonized, every joint is at ease; when the Way of heaven flows smoothly, root and branch are both open. Therefore, in one place the ruler is Wuwei, and every principle finds room to unfold.

Plain-Language Commentary

Heaven and earth are vast, and the myriad things change without end, yet there is never a fixed stopping point. Change itself is not “why change is change”; from the perspective of junqi (even parity), there is no distinction of large and small, beautiful and ugly, long and short—and that is what it means for change to be change.

“Dao generates One” (Dao sheng yi), and from there evolution runs on to the ten thousand things—how could one force governance starting from “One”? What “One” means is letting each thing return to its own root, while people do not notice—and that is true governance. Though people are many, they take the ruler as their pivot; if rooted in De (virtue/power), their transforming nurture connects with the evenness of heaven and earth; if completed in heaven, their governance returns to the oneness of the myriad things. These two aspects, the ancients alike called Xuan (profundity/mystery).

Those who in antiquity ruled all under heaven governed through wuwei (non-action); what they relied on was nothing but heaven’s De. To view speech through the Dao is in fact never to cling to speech; speech exists precisely so that one need not speak much yet can still govern. Though people are many, the ruler is primary; rooted in De, transformation opens to the evenness of heaven and earth; completed in heaven, governance returns to the oneness of the myriad things—these two are both named Xuan. The ancient rulers of all under heaven practiced wuwei—only heaven’s De; viewing speech through the Dao, they never really had speech—speech that is not speech—could any ruler of all under heaven fail to be upright?

Viewing roles and names through the Dao, the wuwei one is ruler and the youwei (active) one is minister—is the meaning of ruler and minister unclear? Viewing talent through the Dao, there is no ability and no inability—could the hundred offices of all under heaven fail to be well ordered? Viewing broadly through the Dao, nothing is not Dao—could the responses of the myriad things be incomplete?

Heaven and earth are heaven and earth because they grasp this point. If a person can grasp it too, De connects with heaven and earth, and the myriad things are none other than “me.” The Dao as existence is great in this way: what is above uses it to govern people—only to complete affairs; what has some excellence—only to complete a skill. Skill returns to affairs, affairs return to righteousness, righteousness returns to De, De returns to the Dao, the Dao returns to heaven. Returning to heaven, one nourishes all under heaven—how could that lie merely between skill and busy doing? Thus all under heaven is self-sufficient, all under heaven is transformed, the common people are settled; whatever is gained by opening through “One” all comes from no deliberate mind.

(Note: This passage belongs to Lu’s commentary in the Zhuangzi yi (Wings to the Zhuangzi); it develops such themes as jun (evenness), “One,” wuwei, and viewing through the Dao, in one line with the Zhuangzi and Laozi’s “Dao generates One.”)

(Personal view)

Heaven and earth are vast, and people are innumerable; governance and nurturing unfold on countless levels, yet the one who holds the pivot is the ruler. A ruler’s appearance in the world is no accident: rooted in De (Virtue/Power), nothing under heaven can turn away from him; completed by Heaven, people naturally orient themselves toward him. Dao (the Way) is too subtle to name; if we force a name upon it, we call it Xuan (the Mysterious).

Rulers of old who held all under heaven used Wuwei (non-action) so that their De matched nature itself; viewing speech through Dao, when speech accorded with Dao the ruler was never un upright; viewing roles and ranks through Dao, when roles accorded with Dao, righteousness was never unclear; viewing capacities through Dao, when capacities accorded with Dao, offices were never ungoverned; viewing things broadly through Dao, when things accorded with Dao, responses were never incomplete. From this we see that nothing in the world, if it departs from Dao, can stand on its own.

Those who penetrate heaven and earth do so because their De merges with heaven and earth; those who move among the ten thousand things do so because Dao runs through things. Whoever prides himself on governing people and indulges in punishments, rewards, and penalties is dealing only with affairs—branch matters and dead ends; how much farther from Dao and De are those who enter the realm of craft and skill through mere artistry.

Those who in antiquity truly “nurtured” all under heaven had no other secret: without desire, the world was itself sufficient; without deliberate action, the world transformed itself. The mind was still as deep pool water—stir it yet it did not grow turbid—so how could the people fail to settle? Penetrate the One, and the myriad undertakings are finished. This is what Laojun (Lord Lao), ascending westward, told Yin Xi (Keeper of the Pass): “without clinging to gains of the calculating heart,” ghosts and spirits submit—which is just what the Yijing means by “Heaven itself does not violate this; how much less people? How much less ghosts and spirits?”

The Master said:

Dao covers and carries the ten thousand things—how vast and grand! The noble person cannot fail to kōu xīn (hollow the heart, cut open the mind of attachment).

Acting yet in Wuwei—this is called Heaven; speaking yet in Wuwei—this is called De; loving people and benefiting things—this is called benevolence; differing yet harmonizing—this is called greatness; moving without yá yì (sharp edges and conspicuous oddity)—this is called breadth.