《庄子翼》Vol. 7

This passage teaches that when a person has genuine inner attainment and real virtue, they do not treat others’ slander and praise as the measure that rules their mood.

If you take all such words to heart, both reputation and the facts of the matter become a burden, and you often suffer misfortune again (zai shou qi yang). Here “fu” means bearing and demeanor: not tormenting yourself over praise and blame, so you can keep your natural countenance—remain as you truly are. If you use deliberate, “youwei” contrivance to perform and pose, you cannot sustain that bearing for long; the act does not last.

Below, several wrong kinds of posture are contrasted:

• Yiran: a cramped, uneasy look when moving forward; chong: rash, charging ahead.
• Kyran (or the text’s “forehead-bared” type): forehead showing, hair and beard trimmed to look fine.
• Kanran: a fierce face, might on display.
• Righteous posturing, tiptoeing and craning the neck: acting very “righteous,” standing on tiptoe and stretching the neck—self-conscious and putting on airs.
• Like tethering a horse yet unable to stop: outwardly halted but the heart still wants to run; moving while always tense: every motion is held tight, never relaxed.
• Springing like a trigger, quick in approach and retreat: once activated, like a mechanism—choices and comings and goings are too hurried.
• Seeing and judging too finely: looking too closely, distinguishing too sharply—right and wrong carved too hard.
• “Tai” (ease) that exceeds one’s true nature: so-called composure is really too much artifice piled on innate character; skill at looking at ease makes one clumsy at embracing simplicity (baopu)—holding to the plain and one.

The author gathers these ten patterns and says: whoever does not trust Destiny and Life (xingming—the endowment and mandate of nature), and lets the heart drift because of praise and blame, is not on the path of cultivating the person.

The closing line: even people on the frontier can tell your conduct is not straight—meaning you may think you hide it well, but in borderlands and before clear-eyed observers, crooked bearing still shows.

This Lü commentary mainly argues that Laozi advocated “abolishing learning and returning to simplicity,” bringing people back to their original authenticity; if one still tries to fit people with labels of benevolence and righteousness, those labels often do not stick, and one never reaches the heart of the zhiren (perfect person).

Using concrete cases to show that “benevolence” and “righteousness” cannot be applied blindly

Earth piled up from a mouse hole could be used to relieve Jinü’s hunger; but if one abandons one’s younger sister in doing so, that cannot be called benevolence. Cooked and raw food need not fill the table before one gives; if one still hoards without limit, that cannot be called righteousness.

Laozi wanted people to strip away hollow learning and return to simplicity, showing them what is genuine. Shicheng Qi went to seek answers in benevolence and righteousness; the perfect person responded with indifference—precisely to dissolve his scheming mind and let the heart withdraw. Thinking that cleverness, wonder, and sageliness had already lifted one above the ordinary, in the state where learning is abolished and simplicity restored, “originally nothing is fixed,” there is no pre-set rule that “this act is un-benevolent, that act is un-righteous.” If you insist this is un-benevolent and that un-righteous, it is like someone calls you an ox and you accept being an ox, calls you a horse and you accept being a horse—the name comes before the reality. If there were truly such a reality, you need not take up others’ names; indifference is precisely refusing empty labels.

“Serving the Dao” and Shicheng Qi’s misreading

“Wú fú yě” (I am always attuned): I constantly align with the Dao; my heart has never strayed from the Way. I do not rely on outward “having the appearance of practice” so others truly believe I am diligent on the path. Shicheng Qi, though he “knew,” was not equal to grasping the perfect person’s heart, because what he already held in his mind (fixed views, self-attachment) was too much.

A chain of descriptions: still bound to things, not yet returned to simplicity

• Róng yá: as if mingling with things, not yet severed from them.
• Mù chōng: the eyes rush outward after objects.
• Sǎng kǎn: prominent brow ridges, as if great simplicity were already lost (a showy countenance).
• Kǒu kǎn: the mouth always open, words always leaking out.
• Zhuàng yì: outwardly resembling righteousness, inwardly unclear.
• Xīn ruò xì mǎ ér zhǐ: the heart tethered like a horse tied up, unable to stop itself.
• Dòng ér chí: not that one cannot move or act, but being dragged by “jī” (clever contrivance, fixation), unable to master it.
• Shěn ér chá: fine scrutiny and much discrimination—not xí míng (following clarity while keeping simplicity).
• Zhì qiǎo ér dǔ yú tài: displaying cleverness and loving grandeur—not plain simplicity and holding to restraint.

The annotator says of all this: it all keeps one from trusting what is genuine and what is plain—still turning within names and forms and private interest.

The closing line

“Biānjìng” (borderlands): not roaming within the Dao; “qiè” (stealing): taking what is not one’s own—in line with “hoarding without cliff” and “un-righteous” above, pointing out that overstepping bounds and greedy taking oppose returning to simplicity.

Brief notes on terms: Jué xué fǎn pǔ (Laozi’s phrase: discard flashy learning, return to simplicity); Shicheng Qi (recluse in the Zhuangzi who asks whether “our master is not a sage”); xí míng, shǒu yuē (holding to the Dao’s clarity and restraint).

Bicheng notes: The old interpretation that takes “abandoning the younger sister” (qimei) to mean “not yet fully accomplished in learning” is quite far-fetched. The original meaning should be: the Mei clan was cast off at Fangrang. Laozi valued thrift, so he censured the kind of waste that squanders things at will—while food cooked in one’s lifetime is still unfinished, new dishes are already piled before one, yet one still hoards without limit. That is thrift (or stinginess) pushed to an extreme.

While notions of cleverness and sageliness still occupy the heart, there must be something at odds with the Dao. Now one can unfasten and cast off these; then others may call it benevolence (ren) or call it non-benevolence (bu ren)—even call it ox or horse, and that too is acceptable. Why? Because one understands that benevolence and non-benevolence are not real fixed labels. If one has already seen what is real yet still refuses to accept it, there was originally the misfortune of “non-benevolence”; now to accept those empty names again only adds to one’s guilt.

The “fu” in “fu fu” means to comply and obey. My complying with others is how I am day in and day out—not deliberately “showing compliance” for display. Hence it is said: my compliance is constant compliance, not compliance “for the sake of appearing compliant.”

“Wild geese in line sidestep their shadows”: like geese marching in formation, bodies angled as if avoiding shadows. “Treading the path, heel following heel, advancing”: moving forward along the track, step pressed to step. “Ya ya”: a strange, affected bearing. “Clashing gazes, staring head-on”: eyes meeting hard, refusing easy mutual regard. “Kui sang”: a forehead broad in the middle and pointed at the sides. “Kan”: the look of a mouth opened wide. This describes people who make a show of pure cultivation and strict discipline—outwardly they often look like this.

“Stirring yet holding back the outburst”: like a horse tied fast while the mind still longs to run; like the urge that is about to break out but is forcibly suppressed.

“Probing the trigger and examining closely”: able to peep at and scrutinize mechanisms and loopholes. “Knowing tricks and displaying arrogance in full view”: trusting in cleverness and artifice, with haughty manner plain to see. The sharper the mind, the more it carves and digs; the simplicity of primal chaos is dead—so the classic says “not trusting.” It is not disbelief in others’ words, but inability to rest in the natural disposition of life and nature.

As borderlands each have their guards, the cunning often spy for gaps and slip through to claim merit; the rival state then treats them as “thieves.” Those who do not trust heavily adorn themselves, wanting to exalt themselves and hide things from others—that too is theft, like the “burglar who breaks through walls” in Mencius.

【Essence of the Passage】

The Master said: The Dao in its vastness shows no end; in its minuteness it leaves nothing out—so the myriad things can be complete. Nothing fails to fit within its breadth; its depth cannot be fathomed—this is why the Dao is close to Shen (spirit). Form, De (virtue/power), benevolence, and righteousness are all downstream branches of Shen; only a True Person can settle this point with clarity.

In the world, the True Person’s responsibilities are not small, yet they do not weigh him down; when all under heaven scramble for power, he does not join the fray. He examines himself without artifice or pretense and does not shift his original heart for gain; he probes the nature of the myriad things and holds to the root. Thus he can stand outside heaven and earth and forget the myriad things, while his spirit is never trapped. Aligning with the Dao and harmonizing with De, he puts benevolence and righteousness second and treats ritual and music as honored guests rather than masters—in this way the True Person’s heart finds its footing.

【Guo Xiang’s Commentary】

The True Person still engages the world, so he is not burdened by how vast affairs may be. “Not going along with it” means resting in stillness and yielding to what is. “Not shifting for profit” means following what is genuine and going straight ahead. Stepping back from benevolence and righteousness is actually advancing in Dao and De; receiving ritual and music as guests means taking one’s inborn nature as the foundation. Where the true heart is settled is settled in Wuwei (non-action).

【Lü Huiqing’s Commentary】

“In the great, no end”—then heaven and earth are not left outside the inner; “in the small, nothing omitted”—then even the finest hair completes its form: what under heaven is not complete? The Dao is broad and excludes nothing; it is unfathomable—hence it is Shen. Flowing into form, slipping from De, falling away into benevolence and righteousness—all are the far ends of Shen. Who but the True Person can fix this? Having the world yet not being burdened is the ability to let go of the world; all under heaven striving for power while one does not join is forgetting the world. Forgetting the world, one does not shift for profit; one can abandon the world and can hold the root—Shen is often trapped precisely because this is not understood. Unblocked in the Dao, unmixed in De, stepping back from benevolence and righteousness without clinging, honoring ritual and music as guests without making them master—then the heart has a fixed place.

【Detailed Exposition of the Dao】

If the great must always seek an end and the small are always cast aside, then Dao and the great and small never leave “having a fixed form”; what has no form does not measure the Dao by large and small. Rejoicing without taking the role of master—then the heart can be settled.

On the Dao in detail: large things often have a clear limit, while small things frequently seem incomplete. When one truly accords with the Dao, the “large” need not count as complete only at an endpoint, and the “small” is not cast aside; whether large or small, none departs from the side of having form. As for the Dao that has no form, it should not be bounded by large and small in the first place; if one insists on discussing the Dao in terms of size, that is only like quan (bamboo fish traps) and ti (horse hobbles)—expedient tools of speech, not the Dao itself.

Shen (spirit) responds to outer things: only when one releases the outer realm and no longer grasps it can spiritual awareness be whole; the heart-mind holds what is inward—only when inner fixation is also released can the inner state be quiet. The myriad things of heaven and earth all lie “outside,” so one first lets go of outer entanglements before shen is not trapped; ren, yi, li, yue (benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music) belong to inward cultivation, so they are placed in the guest’s seat rather than made master—then the heart-mind has a dependable stillness to rely on.

What people usually treat as the “Dao” often ends up on the page. Books are only language; what language is worth cherishing is intention (yiyi); behind intention lies something deeper—and that something cannot be put clearly into words. Yet people insist on treating language as treasure and on transmitting the Way through books. Even when everyone highly values these things, they still have not truly grasped what matters, because what they prize is not the layer that ought to be prized most.

So what the eyes can see is nothing but form and color; what the ears can hear is nothing but name and sound. How pitiful: people think that through form, color, name, and sound they can fathom how things really are. If form, color, name, and sound truly are not enough to get at the real situation, then one would understand the point that “those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know”—yet how could ordinary people recognize that layer?

Duke Huan of Qi was reading in the hall while Lun Bian (the wheelwright Lun Bian) was shaping a wheel below. Lun Bian set down mallet and chisel, came up, and asked: “May I ask what words Your Majesty is reading?”

The duke said: “The words of a sage.”

Lun Bian asked: “Is the sage still alive?”

The duke said: “He is already dead.”

Lun Bian said: “Then what Your Majesty is reading is nothing but the dregs (zhao po) left over from what the ancients chewed.”

The duke said: “I am the one who reads—how dare a wheelwright like you comment on this?”

Lun Bian said: “If what your servant says holds up, I live; if it does not, I die. From your servant’s experience in this trade: when shaping a wheel, too slow and the rim is smooth but not firm enough; too fast and it is exhausting yet the fit will not go in. Neither too slow nor too fast—hands in the right measure, heart keeping pace—within that there is a knack (shu), yet it cannot be spoken. Your servant cannot teach this knack to his son, and the son cannot take over his father’s skill. So your servant is still shaping wheels at seventy. The ancients, together with what could not be put into words, have already passed away. Then what Your Majesty is reading is the ancients’ dregs.”

Notes

• Lun Bian: A craftsman who shaped wheels; his personal name was Bian.
• Dregs / lees / sediment (zhao po): Here, the text left behind after a sage has died—like leftover pulp after eating, not the living “Dao” itself.
• Sweet / bitter (gan / ku): Sweet means slow and smooth; bitter means fast and rough—two extremes of force when shaping a wheel.
• There is a knack dwelling in between (you shu cun yan yu qi jian): In the craft there is a set of measures and proportions that cannot be said clearly—only grasped in the mind, hard to transmit in words.

In Guo Xiang’s reading, “nobility” is not the kind of rank the world usually honors; true dignity often lies beyond what words can capture. To grasp another person’s real meaning, one must “forget words”—not freeze the teaching in letters, and not cling even to books. That is also a call to let go of “cutting off learning” and “dropping esteem” (no longer parading scholarship or empty fame). Wheelwright Bian could not fully pass his craft to his son, which shows that each thing has its own nature and forced “teaching” often fails. What was ancient belongs to its time and passes with it; even when writing survives, the “ancient” cannot be transplanted unchanged into the “present.” The past is not the present, and affairs have changed, so one should cease clinging to book-learning, follow one’s innate disposition, and adapt with circumstances—only then can one align with the Dao.

In Lü Huiqing’s reading, Zhuangzi says this so that students forget verbal formulas and set books aside, and do not hunt for the Dao only in form, color, names, and sounds. Shaping wheels is coarse work, yet the rhythm of fast and slow, the sweet and bitter of the touch, the layer where hand and heart respond—between father and son that cannot be fully told. The Dao is even harder to put into words. If one only reads books and does not awaken inwardly, the metaphor of “dregs” is no empty figure of speech.

In the Xiangdao section: relative to “meaning,” written words are like form, color, name, and sound relative to real “feeling”—feeling cannot be extracted straight from outward shape or reputation, and meaning cannot be completely delivered by what books say; that is simply how things are. One who reads the Changes well gets the meaning and forgets the images, gets the images and forgets the words. One who reads the Odes well gets the intent and forgets the phrasing, gets the phrasing and forgets the text. This is like finishing the rite and throwing away the straw dog (the grass bundle used in sacrifice, discarded once the ritual is done)—once the essential point is grasped, the dregs should be left behind. Duke Huan of Qi understood from Wheelwright Bian that “reading books is not the Dao”; Wang Shou was stirred by Xu Feng (a legendary figure who urged burning books) to the dance of burning books—same intent throughout.

In the overall Guanjian view: this chapter takes “The Way of Heaven” as its title and especially highlights the opening—the way of the sovereign, the way of the sage, and the “plain king” enterprise that takes De (Virtue/Power) as its root and wuwei (non-action) as its constant: the path of riding heaven and earth, steering the myriad things, and ordering the lives of the people. In the middle it also shows how De, teaching, ritual, music, benevolence, and righteousness rise and fall like a dance—displaying their uses while hinting they must not be grasped as a single fixed pole.

This essay, titled “Heavenly Dao,” first lifts up the way of emperors and kings, the way of sages, and the achievements of rulers who govern in plain simplicity—taking Dao and De as root and Wuwei (non-action) as the constant path. That is the pattern for aligning with Heaven and Earth, guiding the myriad things, and ordering the multitude of people.

In the middle it treats De, teaching, ritual, music, benevolence, righteousness, and the instruments of governance such as division of duties, matching names to realities, rewards and punishments—nothing is left out, yet none of it strays from the human way as it normally is. Why so? Those who speak well of Heavenly Dao must take the human way as foundation; only those who fully fulfill the human way can match themselves to Heavenly Dao. Heaven and humanity communicate; root and branch are one: vast enough to hold all, so deep it cannot be fathomed—who can say Heaven is not human, or humans are not Heaven?

When it speaks of five kinds of change so that forms and names can be set forth, and nine kinds of change so that rewards and punishments can be made clear, that is a principle that does not change through the ages—used to establish the utmost of human relations and to praise Heavenly Dao. As for Heaven’s De flowing forth of itself, sun and moon shining while the four seasons run their course, like clouds moving and rain falling, day and night holding steady—Heaven from the first gives rise and transforms alone in full clarity; how could the way of Earth and the way of humanity not follow in turn?

Using the tools of ordering to clarify the way of governing is a theme common to antiquity and the present; yet the same tools can bring order or bring chaos, because people do not see the order of root and branch, first and last, or the difference between what monarch and minister should treat in detail versus what they should treat in essentials. Many think that Nanhua (Zhuangzi) in his teaching favors Wuwei and slights the instruments of governing the world; yet in this chapter ritual, music, government, and teaching are laid out with utmost fineness—something no other school can match—and all of it still flows from the natural pattern of Heavenly principle, carried out through human affairs.

If one understands the pattern of the natural, one can pass from governing instruments to the way of governing, so that ruler and minister, father and son, birds and beasts, grass and trees each find their place; the realm beats the clods and sings, unaware of the emperor’s power—calling that Wuwei is apt.

As for Confucius wishing to store books and overturn the classics to preach, or Cheng Qi asking about self-cultivation while his bearing stood stiff and aloof—these are cases of being caught up in people and forgetting Heaven, so Laodan (Laozi) would not approve. Only the perfected person knows benevolence and righteousness are the lower reaches of the Dao, ritual and music are guests at the Dao’s side; able to be Heaven, able to be human, holding to the true and embracing the root so spirit is never trapped—though worldly affairs exist, they are not enough to burden such a one.

It ends with “leave the book and grasp the meaning”: the dregs and husks of words are lodged in the story of Wheelwright Bian—lest students cling to traces and lose the heart, abandon root and chase branch, and drift ever farther from the Dao. But one should pursue what the sage “has that is not forgotten and remains”—the learner should cut off learning and enter silence; the one who receives teaching should gain the transmission that has no transmission—then the heart of Heaven and Earth and the sage can be seen. Why must one be bound to the dregs and husks of the ancients?

Heaven's Revolutions, Chapter Fourteen

Does Heaven revolve? Does Earth remain still? Do the sun and moon vie with each other for their positions? Who is it that presides over all this? Who holds the guiding thread and directs the myriad details? And who sits idle yet sets the ten thousand things in motion?

Perhaps there is some mechanism and constraint that compels Heaven and Earth to be thus? Or perhaps, once the revolution begins, it can no longer stop of its own accord?

Does cloud become rain, or does rain turn back into cloud? Who gathers and bestows these? And who, idle and seemingly indulging in pleasure, secretly brings it all about?

Wind rises from the north—now blowing west, now east, now drifting upward without fixed direction—who exhales and inhales, who blows it? And who, doing nothing at all, gently stirs and scatters the ten thousand things? I venture to ask: what is the reason for all this?

Wu Xian (a renowned shaman and wise minister of the Shang dynasty) said: "Come, let me tell you: Heaven has six extremities (the fundamental principles of the Way of Heaven, such as above and below, the four directions), and five constants (the Five Phases or the order of the constant Way); if a ruler can follow the Way of Heaven, the realm will be at peace; if he goes against it, disaster will follow. As for the affairs of the Nine Lo (the nine regions or the governing principles of the world), when governance is perfected and virtue complete, shining down upon the earth below, the whole realm will support him—this is called the 'Supreme Emperor' (the highest sage-king of antiquity)."

In Guo Xiang’s reading, heaven is not pushed along by anyone—it moves of itself; earth is not held down by anyone—it stays of itself; sun and moon are not scrambling for place—they take turns and wax and wane on their own. So who is the master, and who is casting the “net” that holds everything together? In every case the answer is ziran: each thing is just as it is, inherently so. If you appeal to wu (nothingness), you cannot derive anything from it; if you appeal to you (being), each thing has its own proper share of work. Then who, in the midst of “non-doing,” sets it all in motion? Nothing more than each thing going its own way. Precisely because it is ziran, it cannot be traced to an end. Cloud and rain likewise cannot push each other—they too are each ziran. One might ask: why ziran? At close range you can sometimes give a reason, but when you pursue things to the ultimate root, there is no reason—only ziran. Ziran should be followed: follow it and there is order; go against it and there is misfortune. Some matters can be changed by learning, but innate nature cannot be forced. When order is complete and virtue fully formed, shining over the lower realm so that all under heaven look up—that too is because one follows ziran.

In Lu’s reading, we do not truly know how heaven “really” moves or earth “really” rests; we do not truly know how sun and moon “really” contend for position. If you insist on finding a lord who “holds the guiding net” or someone who “pushes and makes things go,” you will not find one. Water rises and becomes cloud; cloud disperses and becomes rain—yet you cannot find who “generously bestows” or who “urges on with overflowing delight.” Wind blows now east, now west, coming and going without fixed pattern—yet you cannot find who “inhales and exhales, fans and brushes.” This shows that the Dao is unfathomable and its working is close to shen (spirit): once you understand what spirit does, then “holding sway,” “guiding net,” “generous bestowal,” and “fanning and brushing” are all nothing more than that. The “Five Constants” are the five blessings; employ the five blessings in their proper direction and the six extremes in their awe-inspiring aspect—follow this and it is auspicious; oppose it and it is inauspicious. The “Nine Luo” are the nine categories of the Luo River diagram; when the use of the nine categories reaches the utmost of blessing, order is complete and virtue fully formed, overseeing the lower realm so that all under heaven crown and uphold it—hence there is said to be a “Supreme Sovereign” (shanghuang). The Supreme Sovereign holds heaven and earth, drives sun and moon, generously sends cloud and rain, breathes and stirs the winds—yet always dwells in the place of non-doing. Such a state need not be sought only in the primordial age of vast simplicity.

In fuller exposition: the movement and rest of heaven and earth, the coming and going of sun and moon; cloud rising from earth yet rooted in heaven, rain falling from heaven yet rooted in earth; the Supreme Sovereign holding heaven and earth and driving sun and moon, generously sending cloud and rain and breathing the winds, while constantly remaining in non-doing—all of this likewise need not be sought exclusively in the age of primordial vastness.

Detailed Explanation (Elaborating the Meaning)

How heaven and earth turn and each hold their place, how sun and moon come and go—clouds rise from the earth, yet their root lies in heaven’s creative work; rain falls from heaven, yet its root lies in the earth’s bearing. Wind blows eastward, yet arises in the north. Heaven covers and earth supports, sun and moon shine down, rain and dew nourish—is there some external force driving all this? In fact everything rides on the Dao’s natural course; there is no need to posit a separate “ruler.”

Wild horses gallop and cloud-vapor drifts; seen from a deeper level, one can also say they do not move. Whirlwinds can overturn mountains, yet the principle of constant stillness remains; rivers race in their channels, yet the body-and-function of “not flowing” is also there; sun and moon traverse the sky, yet the meaning of “not revolving” is there too. So when we speak of heaven and earth as “turning” and “resting,” it is precisely because in essence they neither turn nor rest; when we speak of sun and moon as “going” and “coming,” it is precisely because in essence they neither go nor come. Ultimately who initiates and who sustains? And who can clearly say whether there is “as if there were a true ruler (Zhenzai)”—a real master?

Following the Original (Notes Along the Text’s Thread)

Sun and moon both lie on the yellow path (ecliptic), hence the text says they “contend for what they share.” Jijian (literally “mechanism and cord”—as if bound by rope and unable to stop on their own) means as if something were tied to them so they cannot stop by themselves; if there were no such binding, wind would rise in the north, then turn west and east, and also rise upward and linger—“arising in the north” means from north toward south, so one need not separately say “south”; saying “upward” means from below upward, so one need not separately say “downward.”

Grand Steward Dang Asks Zhuangzi about Ren

The Grand Steward of Song, named Dang, asked Zhuangzi what Ren (humaneness) is. Zhuangzi said: Tigers and wolves are also Ren. Dang asked: What do you mean? Zhuangzi said: Father and son cherish each other—why is that not Ren? Dang asked again: Please tell me what Zhiren (supreme humaneness) is. Zhuangzi said: Supreme humaneness has no partiality (wu qin). The Grand Steward said: I have heard that without partiality there is no love, without love there is no filial piety; since supreme humaneness stands above ordinary “Ren,” one need not force it back down into the categories of “love” and “filial piety.”

Note: This passage mainly expounds how “the way of nature” makes “the true ruler” hard to pin down, and uses “supreme humaneness has no partiality” to break ordinary attachment to “love” and “filial piety.” For comparison with other chapters of the Zhuangzi, read the surrounding dialogue in context; here the commentary stays within the text given.

The passage tells of Dang, Grand Minister of Shang, who asked Zhuangzi what Ren (benevolence) is. Zhuangzi said, “Tigers and wolves also have Ren.” The minister asked, “What do you mean by that?” Zhuangzi said, “When father and son are close to each other, how can you say there is no Ren?” The minister asked again, “Then what is supreme Ren (zhì rén)?” Zhuangzi said, “Supreme Ren is not partial and does not fix affection on one side alone.” The minister said, “I have heard that without partiality there is no love, and without love there is no filial piety—can supreme Ren then be unfilial?”

Zhuangzi said, “That is not so. The realm of supreme Ren is higher than filial piety; to speak of it in terms of filial piety already misses the point—not because filial piety is overstated, but because filial piety does not reach it. It is like someone who has gone south as far as Ying, capital of Chu, yet looks north and cannot see Mount Fang in the northern sea—why? Because it is too far away. So it is said: to practice filial piety through reverence is still relatively easy; to practice it through genuine love is hard. Filial piety through love is still relatively easy; to forget one’s parents and not cling to kin is hard. Forgetting one’s parents is still relatively easy; to have one’s parents forget you is hard. Having one’s parents forget you is still relatively easy; to forget the whole world together is hard. Forgetting the whole world is still relatively easy; to have everyone in the world forget you is hard.”

He also said, “When De (Virtue/Power) reaches its utmost, one does not even take Yao and Shun as models; when grace extends through ten thousand generations, there is no need for anyone to know it. How could that amount to sighing and empty talk about Ren and filial piety? Filial piety, brotherly respect, Ren, righteousness, loyalty, faithfulness, integrity, and purity—these are all labels people use to exhort themselves and press their De into service; they are not worth dwelling on. Therefore it is said: the most honored can let go even of a sovereign’s rank; the most wealthy can let go even of a state’s goods; the most satisfied can let go even of reputation. Thus the Dao is not altered by such things.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary runs roughly as follows.

“No partiality” (wu qin) does not mean treating people with cold indifference. Take the human body: there is no reason to favor one part over another—the head naturally sits above, the feet below, the viscera inward, the skin outward; inner and outer, high and low, noble and base each hold its place in the frame, without any part being specially “close” or “distant” to another. Yet that arrangement already is supreme benevolence (zhiren). So too in the world: the five relations, the six kin, the wise and the foolish, the near and the far each keep their station—this is the way of nature. Why must we still speak in terms of “having partiality”? Merely to talk of filial piety is not enough; one must speak of forgetting benevolence and forgetting filial piety before the point is truly made. Whatever has a name usually does so because the reality has not yet been reached; therefore one must pass beyond the labels of benevolence and filial piety and enter the nameless, and only then has one arrived.

Mount Fang lies at the northern extreme; if you head south hoping to see it, you only move farther away. Supreme benevolence dwells in “no partiality,” yet to express it through loving-kindness is like Ying—though it stands before your eyes, the more you talk about it the farther it seems. Once benevolence and filial piety are proclaimed and displayed, they stray all the more from the ultimate pattern. The supremely benevolent person is one whose every joint and limb each finds its proper place, who goes through the whole day without being aware of himself. The sage who presides above does not act with deliberate intent; he simply lets each thing obtain its own place. When each obtains its place, the myriad affairs suit themselves, living beings are self-sufficient—how could the world not each forget itself? When all have forgotten themselves, where is the “lord”? This is what is called “forgetting together” (jian wang).

In virtue, one must release the fixation on Yao and Shun; only then is the virtue of Yao and Shun complete. If it is clutched in the heart, that is not self-attainment. The people of the world do not know that state of quiet, constant suitability. Sighing and lecturing about benevolence and filial piety is like drowning in a great river yet fretting over the foam at the corner of one’s mouth.

“Together” (bing) means to discard and let go. What is most to be prized is the body; if even the body can be forgotten, how much more titles and state emoluments? That is nobility at its height. Supreme wealth is nothing but self-sufficiency; therefore one must also let go of the wealth of the world. Supreme wish lies in “suitability”; once one is suited, the names of benevolence and filial piety fall away. The Dao is unmoved; strip ornament and take the real—that is the principle.

People often mistake “love” for benevolence (ren). Yet tiger and wolf cherish their young—is that benevolence in them? True supreme benevolence (zhiren) is like Heaven and Earth, or like the sage: united with the Dao, accomplishing things through Wuwei (non-action), without deliberately reckoning “whom to love, whom to hold dear.” Hence “supreme benevolence has no partial kinship”—not cold indifference, but kinship without favoritism. If “no kinship” is read as “no love,” and that is stretched to “no love means unfilial,” one is still speaking beneath filial piety (xiao). The “no kinship” of supreme benevolence actually stands above filial piety—like someone heading south who no longer sees Mount Fang, because they have already gone too far; in the realm of supreme benevolence, filial piety alone no longer suffices as a description—it means one has also “gone too far beyond filial piety.”

Reverence (jing) belongs to the norms of ritual; love belongs to human feeling. Forgetting kinship is the state that accords with the Dao. Forgetting kinship first means that in one’s own mind one no longer clings to “near and far”; going further, it means letting kin also forget that opposed “me”; going further still, it means mutual forgetting together with all under Heaven. To practice benevolence this way is to reach a virtue so high that even the fame of Yao and Shun can be set aside—without needing deliberately to bless ten thousand generations while people remain unaware. That is merging with the Dao and transforming through non-action. What point remains in sighing over benevolence and filial piety alone?

From the perspective of supreme benevolence, filial piety, sibling duty, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and purity are mostly things by which people constrain themselves and use to press their virtue into service—not things worth boasting about. Hence “most honored” embraces noble rank of the realm together; “most wealthy” embraces the realm’s wealth together—that is holding the honor and wealth of governing all under Heaven without being ruled by rank and riches. As for the reputation one most desires, when one has cultivated supreme benevolence, even if one sets aside the labels of filial piety and sibling duty, reputation is already fused within and is not sought separately. The Dao is eternally unchanging in the sense that it is nowhere absent; it neither increases nor decreases because you do or do not hang the names “filial piety” or “benevolence” upon it.

Beimen Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor: When you performed the music of Xianchi in the wilds of Dongting, the first time I listened I was afraid in my heart; listening again, I felt weary and detached; listening to the end, I was confused and bewildered—my whole person seemed dazed and silent, as if I could not hold myself together.

The Yellow Emperor said: You are probably just like that. At first I responded with renshi (human affairs), guided with tianli (Heaven’s patterns), carried forward with liyi (ritual and propriety), and built the whole piece upon Taiqing (the utmost clear and bright realm). So-called supreme music must first accord with human affairs, follow Heaven’s patterns, act through the Five Virtues, and respond to nature—only then can one regulate the four seasons and bring great harmony to the ten thousand things. The four seasons rise in turn; the ten thousand things are born according to principle—now flourishing, now declining; wen and wu (culture and martial force) each keep their order; now clear, now turbid; Yin-Yang in harmony. The sound was like flowing light; dormant things in hiding began to stir. I used thunderbolt-like force to startle them—the sound’s tail seemed absent, its beginning seemed absent; one death, one life; one fall, one rise; change without end, yet not clinging to one fixed form—so you were afraid.

Next I performed with the harmony of Yin-Yang, illumined by the brightness of sun and moon. This sound could be short or long, soft or hard; change was uniform without stubborn fixation on a single note, so it could abide in Heaven and earth: in a valley it filled the valley; in a hollow it filled the hollow. Like guarding the spirit through tu qie (crevices and gaps), taking things as measure; the sound poured forth freely, its name lofty and bright. Therefore the spirit kept to the hidden; sun, moon, and stars each followed their courses. I stopped it where there was an end, yet let it flow toward the boundless—you wanted to grasp it with thought but could not understand; wanted to see it but could not see; wanted to pursue it but could not catch up. You suddenly stood on the way of the four voids, leaning on a withered parasol tree to chant; what the eyes sought was exhausted, what strength could chase was spent—and I had already left pursuit behind…

Form filled with emptiness, even to weiyi (yielding and winding). You weiyi, so you grew weary. Again I performed with the sound of wu dai (non-sluggishness), harmonized with the mandate of ziran (spontaneous nature), so it was like waves of undifferentiated completion, chasing through clustered groves—music without fixed trace, spreading and stirring without being dragged, dark and silent, moving without fixed direction, dwelling in the deep hidden hall. Some called it death, some life; some substance, some glory; flowing and scattering without anchoring in constant tone, so people of the world were puzzled. This called for asking the sage. The sage is one who penetrates feeling and reality and follows Heaven’s mandate; the tianji (Heaven’s mechanism) need not be displayed, yet the uses of the five senses are already complete—this is called Tianle (Heavenly music). Without words the heart rejoices on its own—so the Yan clan once composed a hymn saying: Listen—you do not hear its sound; look—you do not see its form; it fills Heaven and earth and wraps the six extremities. You wanted to listen but had no way to receive it—so you were bewildered.

Music begins with fear—fear, so the spirit doubts. Next comes weariness—weariness, so one drifts away. It ends in confusion—confusion, so foolishness; foolishness, so one draws near the Dao. The Dao can be carried, and one can go along with it together.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: What is not the spontaneous, settled sitting in a state of “forgetting” is what is called sitting in forgetfulness (zuowang). So-called perfect joy (zhile) does not mean pleasant sound. One must first follow heavenly principle and accord with human affairs, let the mind find its ease and nature find its fit—only then does it issue as sound and become melody. Thus music like Xianchi could become perfect joy only after the Yellow Emperor’s transforming work was complete—then, within nature, pitch and mode filled heaven and earth. Where one follows and does not forcibly seize, perfect joy is complete.

Therefore one follows each thing’s own inherent activity and moves in the way each thing moves: without head or tail, turning in the boundless, taking change as the constant—and what is constant is the inexhaustible. At first, hearing inexhaustible change, one cannot meet it with a single fixed stance, so one listens in awe and trembling. Making music takes yin-yang as beat and sun and moon as mirror—this is employing the way of heaven. Aligning with change and not playing master, one is always full as a valley, full as a hollow; perfect joy is all-pervading.

Tu Que guards the spirit and blocks the openings, taking things as measure; the great regulation does not cut apart—the whole is not split. Its sound flows freely—this is what is called expounding harmony: when name and reality match, reality too is lofty and bright. Spirit does not leave its place; sun and stars do not miss their measure; it rests at the finite, yet always stands at the utmost height. It flows without stop, going wherever change leads. Thought cannot catch up, pursuit cannot overtake—so one is dimly adrift in transformation; openly one stands in the four voids (boundless openness on every side), chanting on withered parasol trees, no longer piling on artifice. Things each have their knowing and their strength, each its proper limit; when form fills empty space there is no body, and with no body one can wind and comply (weiyi), following nature until awe and fear slacken. When intent has slackened, it is also not slackened—this is the utmost. What life allots is not deliberate doing; it is simply natural. Blended without attachment, arising along with the cluster. Perfect joy is simply fitting; fitting is in the body itself, so there is no other form—spread and sway without dragging, self-spreading. Dark silence without sound is what is called perfect joy; moving without fixed direction, dwelling in the deep hidden, is what is called utmost tranquility (ningji).

Life and death in fact travel with glory and decay; turning, guarding, shifting—no clinging to fixed tone, changing with things. The world doubts this and questions the sage; yet the sage’s response to the age is not preaching in chorus. Penetrating feeling and fulfilling mandate—whatever has feeling and mandate depends on this. Forgetting joy yet joy is full is not display before completion; delight of heart lies in fitting, not in words. There is the Song of the Yan clan—joy without joy, the utmost of joy. Listening in awe and trembling is how it is honored; the great harmony is not yet complete. Next comes slackening, so traces recede a little; bewilderment is why there is foolishness, foolishness is why there is the Dao—taking non-knowing as foolishness, foolishness reaches the extreme.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Music is the Dao. On a boundless plain like Dongting, people seem to play, yet the beauty comes from the principle of Heaven; music is born from emptiness. When conduct follows ritual and righteousness and music is grounded in Taiqing (the clear, original source of the Dao), it rests in Taishi (the primordial state before things were divided). The four seasons and the ten thousand things are all music. Prosperity and decline, culture and force, order and disorder cannot upset it; when clarity and turbidity and Yin-Yang are in harmony, sound does not go against that harmony. Sound and light fill heaven and earth—yet without receptivity they do not arise.

If you chase it from root to branch, there is neither beginning nor end; birth and death rise and fall without limit, and the so-called “One” cannot be held or waited for—so fear comes first. There is no other reason: I present it in a human way, and it is received in a human way; if one tries to enter Heaven by human methods alone, the myriad changes never match, so how could the One be awaited? Fear is inevitable.

Play again through Yin-Yang, illumined by sun and moon, and it is purely Heaven. Length and shortness have no fixed rule; valleys and pits are filled alike. Spirit is guarded at paths and openings; things are taken as the measure—only then does it become sound. Movement is free, not tied to the cosmos; loftiness is why it is Heaven. Spirit stays in the hidden; sun and stars keep their courses. Rest has an end, flow has no stop—it is only what is shown. Wishing and thinking without knowing, pursuit that never catches up, eyes spent and strength spent, winding on and on—hence weariness. Again there is no other reason: I present it as Heaven, and it is received as Heaven.

Then I tune it with tireless ease and blend it with natural spontaneity (ziran); pursuit sprouts everywhere, the ten thousand things teem. Forest music has no fixed shape; each returns to its root. Spreading and swaying without dragging, movement without a fixed direction; deep silence without noise, dwelling in the hidden and guarding. Life and death are real splendor; guarding and shifting are never fixed—so it is not locked into one form. What the whole world doubts, the sage still lives in rising, sitting, and every moment, never leaving it. What we call a sage is nothing else: penetrating feeling and following ming (fate/life mandate); what the ear hears and the eye sees is all this—nothing but the mechanism of Heaven. That is Heaven’s music: no words, yet the heart is glad.

So it is when one raises the hymn of the Youyan clan and the subtlety of Xianchi (the legendary sacred music). You want to listen—no wonder that without contact the ear cannot be used, and confusion follows. There is no other reason: forget the human, forget Heaven—that is all. First fear, so it seems uncanny; then weariness, so it slips away; finally confusion, so one seems foolish. The body cannot carry the Dao because knowledge is sharp and bright. Only by dropping knowledge and becoming simple can one carry the Dao and go with it.

Following the Root Text

“Vast and unsettled, the spirit is not fixed; silent and mute, the mouth cannot speak—not at ease, the heart is not at peace”—this describes a scattered spirit, speechlessness, lack of ease, and inner unrest.

“The four seasons and the ten thousand things speak of accord with the natural working of creation”—the seasons and all things align with how creation naturally unfolds.

“Flourishing and decline, civil and martial, clear and turbid, yin and yang—the rhythm and flow between them in sound; the voice flows smoothly and shines”—prosperity and decay, wen and wu, clarity and murk, yin and yang refer to rhythm and movement in musical tone; the sound is smooth and bright.

“This line carries the rhyme above—it is the meaning of ‘chun ru’ (pure and whole)”—this sentence continues the prior rhyme and expresses “pure as one.”

“When dormant insects first stir, I startle them with thunder; in the end there is no tail, at the start no head”—as hibernating creatures awaken, thunder shocks them; they rise and cease unpredictably, headless and tailless, like thunder itself.

“One death, one birth; one collapse, one rise—what is constant is endless, yet that ‘one’ cannot be waited on”—read as one chain: when one dies, another is born; when one fails, another rises—no pause; do not hesitate and wait in vain.

“North Gate Cheng heard the music to this point, and so felt fear”—hearing the performance thus far, North Gate Cheng was afraid.

“I played again with the harmony of yin and yang, illumined by the brightness of sun and moon—harmonious yet distinct; this is what is meant by ‘jiao ru’ (clear and distinct)”—the music was tuned to yin-yang harmony and lit by sun and moon; unity with distinction is “jiao ru.”

“The sound could be short or long, soft or hard; change was uniform and did not cling to fixed patterns—all in the sense of ‘jiao ru’”—tone varied in length and hardness yet stayed coherent, not bound to a single rule—all “jiao ru.”

“In a valley it fills the valley; in a pit it fills the pit—the sound fully pervades”—wherever it goes, the sound fills the space.

“Tu qie means plugging the ears and blocking the eyes”—tu qie is sealing ears and covering sight.

“In my playing I do not rely on cleverness; I only guard the spirit and follow things, taking what is due in measure for the scale of the sound”—performance eschews artifice; one keeps the shen (spirit) and moves with things, sizing the sound to what is fitting.

“The music’s voice spreads wide and ample; its name is lofty and plain”—the tone is expansive; its designation is grand and evident.

“The spirit keeps to the hidden; sun, moon, and stars follow their courses—each without disorder”—spirit dwells in depth; celestial bodies keep their order.

“I stop where there is an end and flow where there is no end—sometimes stopping, sometimes flowing, without fixity”—now halting at a limit, now streaming without limit—constant change.

“Though you wish to think you cannot know, to look you cannot see, to chase you cannot catch—you lose yourself suddenly, stand on a road empty on all four sides, lean on withered paulownia and intone, until eyes and strength fail: ‘though you wish to follow, there is no way’”—knowing, seeing, and pursuing all fail; one stands lost on a void path, chanting by dead wood, exhausted—wanting to follow yet having no path.

“Once unreachable, one only sees images filling empty space; then the mind drifts and slackens”—when pursuit fails, only forms fill the void and the heart wanders and grows lax.

“I played again with sound of ‘no slackening’—‘no slackening’ means tuning by the natural mandate of Heaven (tianming), arising from nature like the flowing of destiny”—the “bu dai” (unwearying) performance is tuned to natural Heaven’s decree, as spontaneous as fate’s movement.

“So the sound seems to mingle in pursuit, to burst forth together, to rejoice in a grove as one—without fixed form; this is ‘yi ru’ (continuous and flowing)”—tones chase and blend, surge together, celebrate like a forest in concert, without visible shape—“yi ru.”

“When it spreads and acts, it exhausts and leaves nothing; when drawn into deep silence, it is still and soundless”—release spends itself fully; in abyssal quiet there is only silence.

“In motion it has no fixed place; at rest it is deep and dark—beyond measure”—movement has no direction; dwelling is unfathomable obscurity.

“Some call it death, some life; some substance, some glory—one only sees flow and shift, not a constant tone”—labels vary; what appears is ceaseless change, not one enduring sound.

“Then doubt led to examining the doctrine, and reference to the sage—thinking the sage reaches human feeling through to Heaven’s mandate; such music only the sage can make”—questioning led to the sage: one who joins human sentiment to tianming; this music is the sage’s alone.

“This ‘ming’ (decree) matches the earlier ‘natural mandate’”—the word links to “natural tianming” above.

“Tianji (the celestial mechanism) is not deployed—the mechanical pipes are not set up”—the cosmic trigger is not forced open; no artificial bellows.

“The five senses are all complete—the offices of the five tones are fully present”—faculties and the governance of the five notes are whole.

“Tianle (heavenly music) is precisely natural mandate”—heavenly music is natural decree itself.

“Joy of heart without words cannot be put in language—the heart understands and is glad on its own”—wordless delight cannot be described; the heart awakens to joy.

“A hymn of the Yanshi is cited to show wonder beyond the sound”—Yanshi’s praise illustrates what lies outside mere tone.

“You wish to listen, but the subtlety cannot be grasped—hence bewilderment”—wanting to hear, yet the finest point cannot be received—thus doubt.

“Fear makes the spirit crisp and alert, as if ghosts and spirits were present—hence ‘chong’ (uncanny)””—terror sharpens the spirit uncannily.

“Slackness exhausts heart and strength, wanting to cast it off—hence ‘dun’ (withdrawal)””—weariness drains one who would flee.

“Bewilderment clouds knowing—hence ‘yu’ (dullness)””—confusion dims understanding.

“Once dull, one may enter the Dao; entering the Dao, one may ride together with it”—in dullness lies access to the Way; in the Way, shared carriage.

“From discussing music one arrives at the Dao”—the discourse on music leads to the Way.

“This extended figurative passage is like spreading music in the wilds of Dongting—no head, no tail, hard to read at a stroke; yet drawn out fine, it has its order. From Confucius speaking to the Grand Music Master on music, Zhuangzi does not repeat stale words—on the marvel of music, it naturally takes this form”—the text is like music on Dongting’s plain—headless, tailless, yet structured under close reading; from the Confucian dialogue on music, Zhuangzi’s account of musical wonder unfolds in its own way.

Confucius traveled west to the state of Wei. Yan Hui asked Master Jin of Lu, the music master who oversaw ritual and music: “What do you think will come of our teacher’s way of acting?”

Master Jin said: “Alas—your teacher will likely find himself with nowhere to turn.”

Yan Hui asked: “Why?”

Master Jin said: Before the straw dog is set on the altar, it is put in a box, covered with an embroidered cloth, and the officiating shaman and invoker, after fasting and purification, solemnly bring it out. Once the rite is over and it has served its turn, passersby trample its head and back; gatherers of firewood pick it up and burn it. If you were to put it back in the box, cover it again with embroidered cloth, and have people live and sleep beside it, even in dreams that thing would be uneasy—how much more so when it is tossed about again and again? Your teacher now is also picking up the straw dogs that the former kings used in their day—things already “used” in the rite—and leading his disciples to wander, live, and sleep under them. That is why in Song they cut down his tree (when the people of Song felled the tree under which he spoke of Huan Tui), in Wei his traces were erased (he was not received), and in the lands of Shang and Zhou he was hard pressed—is this not like a nightmare? Then he was besieged between Chen and Cai, seven days without a cooked meal, life and death pressed together—is this not like confusion and blindness?

For travel on water, nothing suits better than a boat; for travel on land, nothing suits better than a cart. A boat can move on water, but if you insist on pushing it over land, you will not get far in a lifetime. The difference between times and between past and present is like that between water and land; the difference between Zhou and Lu is like that between boat and cart. To impose the ways of Zhou on Lu today is like pushing a boat over land—fruitless toil, and harm to oneself. He still does not understand that teaching which is not tied to one fixed form, which can follow things and respond, and never runs out.

Have you never seen the well sweep? Pull it and it goes down; release it and it rises. It is pulled by people—it is not that people are pulled by it—so whether it bows or lifts, it offends no one. Thus the ritual, righteousness, law, and measure of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were not the same in outward form; what mattered was whether they could govern the world well. It is like crabapple, pear, orange, and pomelo—flavors differ, yet all go down the throat. So ritual, righteousness, law, and measure should change with the age.

If you dressed a monkey in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou—the emblem of Zhou ritual—it would bite and tear until it was satisfied with ripping them apart. The gap between past and present is like the gap between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou. When Xishi had a pain in her heart, she knit her brows; an ugly woman in the same lane thought it looked beautiful, went home, and pressed her hand to her heart and knit her brows too. The rich in the lane shut their doors and would not come out; the poor saw her and fled with their wives and children. That ugly woman knew only that knitting the brows looked good—she did not know why Xishi’s knitted brows looked good. Alas—your teacher will likely find himself with nowhere to turn.

Commentary by Guo Xiang

What has been cast aside as useless in its own time not only fails to serve any purpose—it may even draw other strange and harmful things. Talk of dreams within dreams or haziness in the clouds all express the idea of “banishing sages and discarding wisdom”: not clinging to fixed views about anything. The rites and institutions of former kings were established to meet the needs of their age. When the age has passed and old rites are not laid aside, they turn into folk superstitions among the people, and a fashion of pretense and imitation arises. Thus as times change and human affairs differ, ritual must change with them; only by following the transformation of things without being bound to one fixed code can great achievement come without forced effort. The ritual, righteousness, law, and measure of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were meant to fit the season and the needs of governance. What one place takes as beautiful another may take as ugly; therefore one must adapt to the time, and then all will fit. When ritual and righteousness are used in their proper season, they are as fitting as Xishi; if they are not discarded when out of season, in the eyes of people today they become as the ugly.

Detailed Exposition on the Way

The songs of Qi, Chu, Yan, and Wei differ in melody, yet all delight the ear; the mourning cries of the Nine Yi and Eight Man differ in form, yet all express grief. Therefore the sage who governs all under Heaven rides the momentum of the time to set institutions and shapes law according to the people’s customs: as long as it benefits the state, there is no need to insist on identical laws; as long as affairs are handled smoothly, there is no need to insist on identical rites. Fuxi and Shennong relied chiefly on teaching and did not kill recklessly; Huangdi, Yao, and Shun used punishments but did not apply them in anger. The Xia valued substance over ornament; the Zhou valued ornament over substance. Can ancient legal systems be applied unchanged to the present? Can present legal systems be forced onto antiquity? When Confucius “looked to antiquity to govern the present,” he did not mean to freeze ancient institutions onto the current age; he wanted to follow the traces the ancients left and return to the meaning from which those traces arose. Master Jin feared that people would sink into the fault of “following traces alone,” so he first used the straw dog and boat-and-cart as similes, then the shadoof and orange and pomelo, and finally the ape and macaque, beauty and ugliness—just as past and present cannot be one rule and Zhou and Lu cannot share one single system, ritual and law must vary with time and place.

Confucius at Fifty-One

At fifty-one Confucius had still not heard the Great Dao, so he traveled south to Pei to visit Laozi. What Laozi (or what commentators attribute to “Lao”) worried about was the same as Master Jin: that people under Heaven would drown in the harm of imitating only surface traces. Hence the parables of the straw dog, boat and cart, shadoof, orange and pomelo, ape and macaque, beauty and ugliness—to show that past and present require different measures, Zhou and Lu cannot be held to one pattern, one must adapt to the time and cannot play the lute with pegs glued in place.

Confucius had not yet awakened to the Dao by the age of fifty-one, so he traveled south to Pei to visit Old Dan (Laozi). Laozi said: “You have come? I hear you are a learned man of the north—have you attained the Dao?” Confucius replied: “Not yet.”

Laozi asked: “How did you seek it?” Confucius said: “I sought it through ritual and measures; after five years I had not obtained it.” Laozi asked again: “How did you seek afterward?” Confucius said: “I sought it through yin and yang; after twelve years I still had not obtained it.”

Laozi said: “If the Dao could be offered like a gift to a ruler, everyone would offer it to their lord; if it could be used to honor parents, everyone would offer it to father and mother; if it could be told to brothers, everyone would tell their brothers; if it could be passed to sons and grandchildren, everyone would pass it to descendants—yet in fact this cannot be done. There is no other reason: without an inner master, the Dao cannot be kept; without a correct path outward, one cannot walk it. What issues from the inner self (true Dao)—when there is no one outside who can receive it, the sage does not push it outward; what is poured in from outside (mere learning)—when there is no root within, the sage does not lightly make a name.”

“Name is a public vessel shared by the world—it cannot be hoarded. Benevolence and righteousness are roadside shelters the former kings left for people to rest in; one may lodge there for a night, not for long. Stay too long and mutual blame arises. The ancient perfect person borrowed the path of benevolence and righteousness for a stretch and paused briefly within them, in order to roam in the open space of carefree wandering, to eat in the plain fields, and to stand in the garden of not borrowing from without. Carefree wandering is wuwei (non-action); plainness makes self-sufficiency easy; not borrowing means no longer taking from outside. The ancients called this the journey of gathering the real—those who treat wealth as right cannot bear to yield profit and salary; those who treat fame as right cannot bear to yield rank; those who treat power as right cannot bear to hand the handle of authority to others. Grasp the handle and they tremble; let go and they grieve—yet they see nothing clearly, eyes fixed only on pursuit that never stops: such people are those heaven marks for punishment.”

“Resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, teaching, giving life, and taking life—these eight are tools for rectifying people; only one who follows great transformation and is not blocked by bias can use them well. Hence it is said: rectification is rectification. When the heart does not assent, the Gate of Heaven closes.”

Main idea of Guo Xiang’s commentary (for understanding)

This passage uses the dialogue between Confucius and Laozi to explain cutting off conventional learning and true Dao residing within: without inner ground to receive the Dao, hearing it passes away; without outward self-correction, affairs cannot succeed. The sage’s way issues from the heart and is spoken only when someone can receive it; what is learned from outside must have a root within before it can be kept hidden. Name, benevolence, and righteousness, if treated as fixed dogma and dwelt in long, breed hypocrisy and increased blame; the perfect person borrows them for use, then wanders in carefree ease, simple nourishment, and not borrowing— that is gathering the real. Those greedy for salary, fame, or power tremble when holding authority and grieve when letting go, not knowing where to stop until they lose their lives—they become “those heaven slays”; the eight instruments of rectification must be applied flexibly; clinging to one’s own view closes the Gate of Heaven.

The Dao gives birth to One, One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three—yet the Dao itself is not these numbers “one, two, three.” If you seek only within numerology, you never step outside the realm of number; hence some people seek for five years and still do not attain the Dao.

When it divides into Yin and Yang, the Dao is not Yin-Yang dual qi itself; if you seek only within Yin-Yang and heaven and earth, you still cannot exceed the vastness of heaven and earth—so some seek for twelve years and still do not attain the Dao.

The reason the Dao cannot be handed to one’s parents or told to brothers and descendants is that there is no master within the heart, and without there is no uprightness (no reliable standard, no target to aim at).

No master within: I wish to transmit it, but the other cannot receive or hold it steady; no uprightness without: the other wishes to receive, but I cannot get it in or make it work.

Each thing has its own master—that is how things are; the Dao in one’s own body is likewise only what each person originally has—it cannot be forced on others. That is “no master within” and “cannot be stopped [from slipping away].” In archery there must be an upright target (zhengu) before the arrow can enter; the Dao for a person lies in whether they can truly receive it; to force it on one who does not receive is “no uprightness without” and it will not work.

What arises from within need not rely on force from without—the sage does not leave the gate, because he does not depend on that external “uprightness”; what is poured in from without when within there is no master—the sage does not receive, because he cannot hold or stabilize it. Not receiving, one cannot extend and take it in—that is the meaning.

Thus the Dao cannot be sought through number or through Yin-Yang; one can only seek it in one’s own body. Do not grasp at many names—too many names and De scatters; do not dwell long in benevolence and righteousness—long dwelling presses against others and brings much blame.

Carefree ease (xiaoyao) suits everywhere; plain simplicity (goujian) makes what one seeks easy to satisfy; not borrowing (budai) means not trading with things—in this way, what one takes is nothing but authentic nature. Unable to give away salary, one knows only wealth; unable to give away reputation, one knows only prominence; unable to give authority to others, one knows only power—those close to power, torn in choosing and rejecting, harm their nature all the more.

Resentment, favor, utmost arrival, birth, killing—these eight are tools of “uprightness,” not the Way of uprightness itself; only following the great transformation without obstruction is the way to wield these tools. Using the Dao to use instruments—that is why “uprightness” is upright—lies in this.

Heaven’s Gate is where one who follows the great transformation without being drowned enters and exits; without seeing it this way, Heaven’s Gate cannot open—from this one may know.

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi

[New Transmission]

The Dao gathers in “emptiness” (xu), and emptiness is broad enough to hold the Dao. When empty, the mind is unified; in action, nothing is blocked. Without emptiness, the Dao does not gather—hence the saying without an inner master, the heart never settles. Without unity, nothing flows—hence without outer correctness, affairs cannot succeed.

What gathers within must manifest without—this is what is meant by coming forth from the center. Coming from the center—is that receiving from outside? This is the principle the sage holds fast to; hence what comes from within is not received from without—the sage does not go out (does not seek outwardly).

What moves without arises because it has already been gathered within—this is entering from without. Entering from without—can one gather without emptiness? This is what the sage must practice; hence what enters from without has no master within—the sage does not refuse (does not shut the inner gate).

This is the thread of Laozi’s teaching on entering the Dao and putting it to use, from start to finish.

[Xuxi]

“Gou er duo ze yan”—whoever encounters this passage often expects me to deliver and presses me with questions; if a single phrase misses the mark, everything said before is lost.

Seeing nothing to reflect on: having no glimpse of truth, only peering at where others’ desires never rest—such a person is called one of the enslaved (lu min, someone driven and without self-rule).

[Secondary Commentary]

Resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, instruction, giving life, taking life—these eight are tools for straightening others.

Change (responding to shifting circumstances) touches matters of life and death; where one must decide on the spot, cut clean in one stroke, without dragging things out.

Using such a person and then such instruments—employing someone who can decide decisively, then applying these eight methods of correcting others, one can not be turned by circumstances and roam in the realm of carefree wandering (xiaoyao).

If the heart does not truly assent inwardly, that is having outer views but no inner master—the Gate of Heaven does not open. The Gate of Heaven is the spiritual storehouse (ling fu, the heart’s portal), in the spirit of Laozi’s language about the Gate of Heaven opening and closing.

Confucius visited Laozi and spoke of benevolence and righteousness—(what follows in Zhuangzi continues the same line as the closing note of the Secondary Commentary: if one clings to outer norms without emptying within, one cannot attain xiaoyao.)

Note: In the source text, the stretch beginning “Confucius visited Laozi and spoke of benevolence… to such a person…” repeats the end of the Secondary Commentary; the plain reading merges the sense once rather than translating it twice.

Confucius Visits Laozi and Discusses Ren and Yi

Confucius went to see Laozi (Laozi, i.e., Laozi the elder) and spoke with him about Ren and Yi (benevolence and righteousness). Laozi said: Scatter a handful of chaff and it blinds the eyes—the four directions of heaven and earth seem to shift out of place; mosquitoes and gadflies (small biting insects) sting the body until you cannot sleep all night. Ren and Yi, when pushed hard upon people, stir the heart into disorder; there is no greater disorder than this. You ought to let people under heaven not lose their innate simplicity (pu—the undecorated, unforced original state); you ought also to move with the wind of wuwei (non-action), take your stand by gathering De (Virtue/Power) to yourself—and why act like someone beating a great drum while searching for a lost child, both conspicuous and futile?

The swan does not turn white by bathing every day, nor the crow black by dyeing every day—the natural black and white were never meant to serve as standards of distinction; reputation and fine names are not enough as a method for spreading influence across the world. When the spring dries up, fish crowd on dry land and moisten one another with damp breath and spittle—far better that each returns to rivers and lakes and forgets the other in mutual forgetfulness.

When Confucius came back from seeing Laozi, he did not speak for three days. His disciples asked: When you saw Laozi, what did you plan to admonish him about, and what did you plan to say? Confucius said: Only today have I truly seen a dragon—gathered it forms a body, scattered it forms patterns; it rides cloud and breath and nourishes yin and yang. My mouth hangs open yet not one word comes out (here “xiao” means the difficulty of speaking with mouth agape)—how could I talk of admonishing Laozi?

Two points added from the commentary: “Xu” can mean moistening one another with the mouth, or biting and nipping to get moisture; Sima Biao explains “moving by releasing the wind” as acting in accord with the wind of wuwei, not forcing the world by Ren, Yi, and the teaching of names.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When something external is imposed on a person, however slight, the injury to innate nature is already great. When benevolence and righteousness are displayed and honored, it is like adding another layer on top of one’s original nature—hence disorder. Only when one has not lost one’s plain, unadorned nature and has preserved the genuine can benevolence and righteousness appear naturally. Wind stirs of itself; virtue establishes and holds itself—this is the Way that is easy to keep and easy to practice. If one shouldered benevolence and righteousness to hurry toward the “homeland of Dao and Virtue,” it would be like beating a drum to chase someone who has fled—you would never catch up. The swan is white and the crow black because that is simply how things are, with no partial preference; one who has reached sufficiency forgets reputation, and only when reputation is forgotten does the heart grow spacious. When the spring dries up, fish keep each other moist with spit—that shows the empty fame of benevolence and righteousness all stems from insufficiency; when fish forget each other in the great rivers and lakes, that is forgetting benevolence and yet being benevolent. “Seeing the dragon” means that Old Long could transform and ride the cloud-breath—that is, he was inexhaustible in his responsiveness and naturally complete. Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The heart of the consummate person is like a mirror, yet benevolence and righteousness clamor and disturb people—is that not like winnowing chaff that gets in the eyes, or mosquitoes and gadflies biting the skin? Under heaven there is nothing without the uncarved block in namelessness; if one can keep it from being lost, then wind moves of itself and virtue gathers and stands. Self-arising and self-standing—why act like beating a drum to find a lost child? When the world has already lost its uncarved block, using benevolence and righteousness to save it is no better than beating a drum to look for someone. Seeking by way of reputation is the same. Moreover, the swan’s whiteness and the crow’s blackness are the natural state of the uncarved block—what need for adornment? The perspective of reputation that embellishes human nature is likewise. Fish on dry land keep each other alive with wet foam—better to forget each other in the rivers and lakes; when the world loses the uncarved block and uses the wet foam of benevolence and righteousness to rescue it, better to forget each other in the rivers and lakes of Daoist practice. The dragon joins as a body and scatters as patterns, never encumbering its own body. When Old Long treated benevolence and righteousness like winnowed chaff in the eyes and mosquitoes on the skin, one can see that he did not burden his own body.

Zigong said: Is there someone who in daily life is still as a corpse, yet when he appears is like a dragon, whose voice is like thunder yet who is deep and silent, and whose movement is like heaven and earth? Can I meet him? He then went to see Old Long in Confucius’s name. Old Long, leaning on his armrest, replied briefly: I am old; what do you intend to use to admonish me? Zigong said: The three sage-kings and five emperors governed the world; their methods differed, yet their lineages and reputations were the same. You alone hold that they were not sages—why? Old Long said: Young man, step forward. What do you mean by “differ”? Zigong answered: Yao passed the throne to Shun, Shun to Yu. Yu relied on exertion; Tang used arms. King Wen complied with Zhou but did not dare to oppose him; King Wu opposed Zhou but would not comply—hence they differ. Old Long said: Young man, step forward. I will tell you how the three sage-kings and five emperors governed the world. The Yellow Emperor’s age made the people’s hearts single-minded; when someone lost a relative they did not weep, and the people did not fault them. Yao’s age made the people attach to kin; people killed for the sake of kin (the prohibition was reversed), and the people did not fault them. Shun’s age made the people contend with one another; a woman pregnant ten months would bear a child who at five months could speak, and before reaching childhood could distinguish self and other—then early death began. Yu’s age changed the people’s hearts: people had scheming minds, weapons had “legitimate” killing, robbery-killing was not [ordinary] killing, and each person “planted his own kind” (followed in others’ footsteps); the world became like this, and all under heaven was greatly alarmed—Confucians and Mohists arose together. At first there were norms and constants; now even women can say anything? I tell you: the three sage-kings and five emperors governing the world was called “governance,” yet there is no disorder greater than this. The wisdom of the three kings, above, violated the brightness of sun and moon; below, cut off the essences of mountains and rivers; in between, destroyed the dispensing of the four seasons. Their wisdom was more cruel than the sting of a scorpion’s tail or the “bright-pattern” beast, so that the ten thousand things could not rest in the disposition of their inborn nature-and-fate—yet they still considered themselves sages and were not ashamed of their shamelessness?

Zigong was cramped and ill at ease, unable to stand steady. (Li Shan notes: xiangu means a bright appearance; some say a small beast.)

Guo Xiang’s note [Creatures penned in cages cannot live out their natural dispositions in peace, yet some still take themselves for sages—is such shamelessness not itself shameful?]

Beasts shut in cages cannot live at ease according to their own nature, yet there are people who still fancy themselves “sages”—is such lack of shame not itself something to be ashamed of?

[Zigong stood there restlessly, unable to stay steady. Note: “Cucu ran” describes the alert, uneasy look of a penned little animal; some say it means the appearance of a small beast.]

Zigong was ill at ease and could not stand firm. (Note: “Cucu ran” suggests the wary, unsettled manner of a caged young animal.)

[When someone does not weep at a parent’s death and the people do not blame them, to blame them would be to force false mourning. On “sha jiang”: where killing is due, kill—meaning mourning dress varies in severity by closeness of kin. That a child speaks at five months means teaching was pushed too fast. “Who” refers to treating others as insiders or outsiders. Choosing teachers before the child is weaned means competing to teach and to get quick results. If one cannot see “other” and “self” as one, the heart keeps weighing near and far in kinship, and one will not live out a full natural span.]

When a person does not weep at a parent’s death and the people do not fault them, to fault them would be to impose fake grief. On “sha jiang”: where execution is warranted, execute—this speaks of mourning garments graded lighter or heavier by degree of relationship. A child who speaks at five months means instruction was hurried. “Who” points to the habit of classifying others as “us” or “them.” Picking teachers before the infant is weaned means vying to teach and to achieve speed. Unable to unify “other” and “self,” the mind stays caught in closeness and distance among kin, so one fails to complete one’s allotted years.

[Armies have a “shun” (accord)—meaning the world already lacks accord. Thieves deserve death; killing them is accord, not arbitrary slaughter.]

To say “using arms must accord” is because the world has already fallen out of accord. Thieves ought to die; killing them is in accord with order, not random killing.

[Thus it is not that refraining from killing can fully equalize the ten thousand things; each person marks off self and other, each becomes a separate “kind.”]

So it is not that “not killing” alone can fully level the ten thousand things; everyone divides self from other, each becomes a separate type, each a separate seed.

[Inheriting the drift of a hundred generations and trying to guard against today’s changes—when the harm reaches this point, it cannot all be blamed on Yu alone; hence one speaks of “the world” as a whole. The traces of sage wisdom were not necessarily meant to disorder the world, yet the world will necessarily produce such disorder. The rise of Confucian and Mohist schools is precisely the flaw of a hundred generations. That women and superiors and inferiors now violate ritual is not because there was no reason at the beginning, but because when the “ultimate principle” is pushed to the limit it turns into harm and arrives at this—what more is there to say?]

Taking on the current of a hundred generations and trying to prevent today’s mutations—when decay reaches this extent, it cannot be laid entirely on Yu; one must speak of the condition of “all under heaven” as a whole. The traces left by sage wisdom need not have been intended to disorder the world, yet the world will inevitably produce such disorder. Confucian and Mohist teachings both arise—this is the accumulated flaw of a hundred generations. That today even women and the order between high and low run counter to ritual is not because there was no rationale at the start, but because when the ultimate principle is carried to an extreme it becomes a flaw and ends here—what further comment is needed?

[Even the governance of the Three Kings and Five Emperors over the world could not escape flaws.]

Even when the Three Kings and Five Emperors ruled all under heaven, they could not avoid having flaws.

[Zigong had originally thought Laozi alone rejected the Three Kings, so he wanted to align the Three Kings with the Five Emperors in discussion; now he sees Laozi broadly condemning the Five Emperors and reaching up to the Three Sovereigns, so the basis for the conversation is lost and it can no longer proceed on those terms.]

Zigong had first taken Laozi to reject only the Three Kings, so he wanted to compare the Three Kings with the Five Emperors on equal footing; now he finds Laozi condemning the Five Emperors as well and reaching back to the Three Sovereigns, so the ground for the exchange is wrong and the talk cannot continue in the original way.

Laozi treated “benevolence and righteousness” as things that stir up the human heart—like chaff blown into the eyes or gnats biting the skin: simply irritating. By that measure, calling the Five Emperors and Three Kings non-sages is defensible.

Zigong kept hunting for principle in outward conduct—yielding versus contending, compliance versus opposition. What he relied on was already the coarsest, most external layer of “traces.” Judged only by outward acts, governing the world that way would only stiffen and harden people’s hearts; it would be worse than cherishing kin and worse than holding to “the One”—the undivided whole. Either way, one cannot escape the level of “wanting to govern the world yet making the people more cunning”; what is named “governance” often begins the disorder of the world from right there. Once clever contrivance is deployed, it is not only the Five Emperors and Three Kings—even the “wisdom” of the Three Sovereigns would violate sun and moon above and part from mountains and rivers below; their cleverness would sting like a scorpion’s tail.

Wild beasts crouch in mountain forests, coming out at night and hiding by day; even when hunger and thirst reach an extreme, on rivers and lakes they still keep mutual spying to a minimum—mutual wariness is already more than enough.

When Zigong heard that someone rejected the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors but could not grasp on what grounds they were rejected, his mind grew unsettled and he could neither sit nor stand at ease.

[Sub-commentary]

When the Yellow Emperor ruled the world, he made people’s hearts single-minded and plain; under Yao, the people drew close (the nine clans lived in harmony). People killed only to avenge kin, and others did not think it wrong—because human feeling and ritual law thickened toward kin and thinned toward everyone else, yet the people did not feel this was harsh. Under Shun, hearts contended (Emperor Yu honored worthies, so the people competed; contention broke harmony and cleverness appeared early). Then pregnant women bore at ten months, children spoke at five months, and before they were toddlers they could tell near from far—early death was only to be expected. Under Yu, hearts changed (they departed from ancient ways): each person had his own heart and his own schemes; war was done in the name of “accord,” killers were put to death but killing robbers was not a crime, hence the saying “killing a robber is not killing a person”; each hoarded for himself and all were on guard against one another throughout the world, hence “each sows for himself and that is the whole world.” Husband and wife are the great beginning of human relations; in antiquity the order was set: men married at thirty, women at twenty; young girls were not held to adult human norms, but today it is not so—sharp minds and thin custom need not be spelled out, hence “what more is there to say?” On the whole this closely resembles the “Great Way was shared by all” passage in the Liji.

Confucius said to Laozi: I have studied the six classics—the Shi, Shu, Li, Yue, Yi, and Chunqiu—and long thought I knew them thoroughly; I presented them to seventy-two rulers, expounding the ways of former kings and clarifying the tracks of the Duke of Zhou and Duke Shao, yet not one ruler could be hooked and employed. Alas—is it that people are hard to persuade, or that the Dao is hard to make clear?

Laozi said: Fortunate that you did not meet a ruler of a well-ordered age. The six classics are the old tracks of former kings—how could they be the root from which those tracks were made? What you speak of now is still tracks. Tracks are what the foot treads out—are tracks the foot itself? White yi birds (in the San Cang text, cang yi—water birds) face each other, eyes unmoving, yet wind (qi) transforms them; insects: the male calls above, wind answers below and transforms—the beast lei (in Shanhai jing, on Mount Danyuan, a creature like a raccoon-dog with a mane, named lei, both male and female in one body; Guo Pu’s note cites this passage) is male and female in itself. Thus wind transformation: nature cannot be swapped, fate cannot be altered, the season cannot be halted, the Dao cannot be blocked; if one truly obtains the Dao, nothing done from oneself cannot be lost; nothing not from oneself can succeed…

Confucius came again within three months and said: Qiu has got it! Crows and magpies (ru: young born from brooding), fish (fu mo: without pairing, offspring from the foam they spit upward), fine-waisted ones (yao—bees) transform, the younger brother has long been crying while the elder brother has not! Qiu did not transform along with transformation into a person; not transforming along with transformation into a person, how could he transform others?

Laozi said: Good—Qiu has got it.

[Notes on key terms]

• Gou: to take up, to hook and employ.
• Feng hua: to be born and transformed by transmitted wind/qi (Sima Biao’s gloss).
• Wu que ru, yu fu mo, xi yao zhe hua: magpie young from the father’s transformation, fish from upward foam, bees self-transform—all natural transformation, not something human force can impose.
• You di er xiong ti: the order of brothers is naturally elder first, younger second; Confucius realized one must transform along with transformation into a person (follow natural transformation) before one can transform others.

In this passage Guo Xiang explains the relation between “trace” (ji) and authentic nature (zhen xing): what we call “trace” is in fact the outward showing of authentic nature. When people live according to each thing’s own genuineness, the norms that appear are like the Six Classics; yet people today often get it backwards—they treat spontaneity (ziran) as something to tread on casually like shoes, while treating the Six Classics as a “trace” they must deliberately follow.

The horned owl knows its mate by a glance; tiny insects respond to one another by chirping. They need not mate and join bodies to reproduce—this is what is meant by “wind-education” (feng hua). Male and female within a kind each have their way of mutual response; the forms of response are too many to count. Once the right counterpart is found, change is not difficult—hence the saying that beings far apart can still respond to one another: this is “feng hua.”

Life-and-nature, seasonal timing, and the great Dao—the perfected person (zhi ren) can follow and penetrate them all. One who has attained the Dao has nothing that cannot be made clear; one who can transform and nurture has no fixed method yet can act everywhere. One who has lost the Dao cannot make anything clear and cannot get anywhere.

The crow feeds small fish with spittle from its mouth; the slender-waisted insect continues its line through self-transformation—this says that the ten thousand things each rely on nature, and their native dispositions are not the same. There is also the saying that when a younger brother is born, the older brother weeps first—meaning human nature often undervalues the elder and favors the young, so the elder brother cries. What “becoming human together with transformation” (yu hua wei ren) means is to let each be transformed by its own nature—do not force or twist. If you turn the Six Classics upside down and preach them as dogma, you obstruct authentic nature instead.

The Six Classics are the methods by which the sage-kings of old governed the realm. They appear in institutions, ritual, and written texts, yet those books were never the root means by which those rulers truly transformed the people. What can genuinely guide and transform beings is spiritual illumination (the inner spirit and the subtle workings of creation), not marks left on paper. Footprints are made by walking, but the prints are not the feet themselves. Likewise, if one thinks that transforming the world depends on displaying those old traces, one has misapplied one’s effort.

When orioles face each other, their eyes barely move, yet they conceive through wind transformation (the mutual influence of Yin-Yang qi). Many insects also mate through Shen (intangible resonance), not through cries. The male chirps upwind, the female answers downwind—they respond through sound, not by bodies touching. Storks distinguish male and female on their own, so they can reproduce through wind transformation. Such cases generally arise because original nature differs in each kind and cannot be forced; ming (fate) is already fixed and cannot be altered; shi (the right moment) arrives of itself and cannot be blocked; the Dao flows freely and cannot be dammed. Therefore one cannot rely on talk, debate, or guessing with the mind alone to understand this: transforming the world is not to be found in those old traces, but in seeking the Dao itself.

Since the Dao is unobstructed and cannot be choked off, it likewise cannot be grasped through words, deliberation, or conjecture. To know how to transform the world, one should not keep circling among old footprints, but aim straight at the Dao. Confucius purified his heart and disciplined his form; before three months had passed, he gained insight in that state of gathered mind and body in submission. He realized that crows, magpies, fish, and bees all live, yet the way they live is never the same. From this he knew that some truths lie beyond what knowing can reach—they must be left to hua (natural transformation).

When a younger brother is born, the elder brother weeps—that comes from qing (emotion). Had it been hua, such feeling could in principle arise equally in everyone, yet by qing alone even brothers cannot be made uniform. To bring human beings to that level of “hua” is extremely hard; the difficulty has lasted a long time. If Qiu (Confucius referring to himself) did not align with transformation and treat all under heaven as “becoming human together with hua,” but only clung to the headings of the Dao, he would not reach the state of “being human together with the Creator of things”—how then could he transform others? Those in the world who study Confucius often miss the root of how he transformed the realm; the fault usually lies here: they chase traces (outward words and books) and not the Dao whereby transformation happens.

A personal view runs as follows:

The four lines—“the crow and magpie suckle,” “when there is a younger brother the elder weeps”—seem at first glance incoherent, yet on careful reflection they carry a very broad teaching about hua (transformation and nurturing). Womb birth, egg birth, moisture birth, and transformation birth—the four modes of birth (si sheng)—can be seen throughout the ten thousand things; it is only that ordinary people rarely notice them.

Heaven and earth have fullness and emptiness, waxing and waning; creation has flourishing and decline, advance and retreat. Though all this moves in the formless and the silent, it is displayed through the “four births.” Among the four births, humans are the most ling (spiritually responsive); among countless living beings, the sage is again the chief among humans.

The sage “yu hua wei ren”—becomes one with the Way of nurturing and transformation—only then can he transform and guide others; only one who can transform and guide others truly understands the Way of Heaven. Hence this chapter closes by discussing hua. Unless one, like Heaven and Earth, presides over the ten thousand things and alone carries creation beyond tingdu (nurturing and ripening), how could one transform and guide the multitude?

The Taishang (Supreme One, Laozi) said: “I practice wuwei (non-action), and the people transform themselves.” Watch how certain insects transform by borrowing the wind, how crows and magpies sincerely brood their eggs, how fish foam to protect their young, how bees “zhu” (pray-like ritual) to raise their brood—all from innate nature, through single-minded, sustained effort. This touches that and responds; it cannot be pursued with ordinary reason, so it is called hua.

Humans are the most spiritually responsive; their nurturing and transformation are subtler still, yet they never depart from the principle of nature and single-minded, sustained effort.

Brief glossary of terms:

• Si sheng: the four modes of birth—womb, egg, moisture, and transformation.
• Tingdu: nurturing, ripening, and bringing things to maturity (as in the spirit of Kun in the Yijing: “embracing and holding the great and bright, all things attain success”).
• Yu hua wei ren: becoming one with the Way of transformation so as to transform and guide others (a Zhuangzi phrase).
• Zhuzi: the way bees raise their young, which the ancients likened to a kind of blessing or prayer ritual.

Overall Views on My Limited Understanding

This essay opens with “celestial motion” and “position on earth,” asking why sun, moon, wind, and clouds move as they do. The answer points to the six extremes and five constants and the rule of the Three Sovereigns: embodying heavenly motion in moral teaching, they transformed through Wuwei (non-action), and the people lived in natural ease. It goes on to treat utmost benevolence as having no partiality and supreme worth as setting aside rank, acting without contrivance—again in the spirit of celestial motion. When it discusses Zhang Yue’s music at Dongting, it clarifies how profound the Great Dao is: performance follows Yin-Yang, conduct follows ritual and righteousness; heaven and humanity depend on each other—that is the root of establishing the pole. Regulating the four seasons and harmonizing all things, cold and heat in proper sequence—that is the source of generation and transformation. Movement without fixed direction yet dwelling in depth; when the hidden mechanism of heaven is settled and the five senses are complete, one hides with things and manifests wherever touched—cannot be bound by form. When sound is exhausted, wherever the heavenly wanderer arrives is utmost harmony; what is held in “rarefied sound” is utmost joy. As for the way of governing, it is like straw dogs already laid out; law and measure are like reversed pear trees. Apes and macaques tear Zhou Gong’s robe; an ugly woman imitates Xi Shi’s beauty—this shows that politics must suit the time, and cooking fish demands not stirring. If those above can truly embody the Dao and follow heaven, move with transformation, regulate with encouragement, and time their generous rain, nurturing until ripe—how could anything fail to transform? When Confucius met Laozi and sighed that he was like a dragon, it was humanity aligning with heaven, not yet full union with transformation. When he heard the mystery of the abyss and thunder, he set aside the stale traces of the Six Classics and pursued what those traces were for. Within three months he became one with transformation as a person—then the traces matched humanity while the substance accorded with heaven. The Yijing says “Heaven’s motion is vigorous”—that is its motion; “Essence and qi become things, the wandering soul transforms”—that is its transformation.

Chapter Fifteen: Deliberate Purpose

Single-mindedly exalting conduct, leaving the world to mark oneself as novel, talking loftily, blaming the age and rejecting the times—nothing but striving for a “lofty” name: that is what recluses in mountain valleys, world-renouncers, and those who wither their bodies and plunge into depths prefer.

Taking benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, faith, reverence, thrift, deference, and yielding as cultivation—nothing more than that.

Vernacular Explanation

Main idea of the text

Some people make a show of virtue, live apart from others, talk loftily, and resent the world—calling this “integrity.” That is what recluses who dwell deep in valleys, ignore worldly affairs, practice harsh austerities, or even throw themselves into rivers to prove their devotion tend to favor.

Some people fill their mouths with benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trust, and with respect, frugality, deference, and yielding—calling this self-cultivation. That is what scholars in peaceful times, those who take teaching and transformation as their task, and wandering students tend to favor.

Some people chase great merit and fame, insist on the rites between ruler and minister and the order between superior and inferior—calling this the way to govern the state. That is what court officials, those who honor the ruler and strengthen the state, and those who seek conquest and annexation tend to favor.

Some people live in marshes and wilds, idle in open country, fish for pleasure, and dwell in Wuwei (non-action)—calling this the good life. That is what hermits on rivers and lakes and people who withdraw from the world tend to favor.

Some people practice blowing and inhaling, exhaling the old and drawing in the new, climbing trees like a bear to pull in Qi (vital energy), or stretching the neck like a bird— all to extend life. That is what those who do guiding-and-breathing, nourish the body, and hope for long life like Peng Zu tend to favor.

As for being lofty without forcing it, cultivating oneself without preaching benevolence and righteousness, ordering oneself without chasing merit and fame, staying at ease without leaving rivers and seas, and living long without practicing guiding-and-breathing—with neither “never forgetting” nor “always possessing,” remaining tranquil without limit so that every kind of excellence naturally gathers—that is the Way of Heaven and Earth and the De (Virtue/Power) of the sage.

Therefore: tranquility, stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action) are the inherent evenness of Heaven and Earth, and also the native texture of De (Virtue/Power).

Excerpt from Sima Biao’s commentary

“Ke yi” (deliberate effort) means carving and trimming one’s intentions to make them look right. “Resentment and blame toward the world” means resenting that the Way does not prevail in the world and resenting that one is not employed. “Xiong jing” is drawing Qi like a bear climbing a tree; “niao shen” is moving the limbs like a bird stretching its neck and calling. “Dao yin” means harmonizing Qi through the Dao and softening the body through guiding exercises.

Excerpt from Guo Xiang’s commentary

These kinds of people prefer different things and each hold to one corner; each can be free in its own way, but they only secure their own place and cannot reach everywhere. If you want the ten thousand things each to keep its allotment without losing itself, you should leave it to non-clinging action.

“Not being deliberate” is what is called spontaneous nature. “Neither never forgetting nor never possessing”: because one can forget, one can possess; if one clings to “possessing,” one cannot remedy “forgetting.” The “possessing” here is not deliberate grasping but possessing only after forgetting.

If one takes “ toughening oneself” as the standard, one cannot reach the unlimited, and instead many evils arise. Not acting for the ten thousand things yet the ten thousand things arise on their own—that is Heaven and Earth; not acting for the hundred practices yet the hundred practices complete themselves—that is the sage.

This evenness of Heaven and Earth and texture of De (Virtue/Power) is not a separate label called empty stillness and Wuwei; if one misreads it as hollow inaction, one will lose that evenness and forfeit that texture.

Those who hide in mountain valleys, scholars who flourish in peaceful times, and people in powerful states who withdraw from the world to nurture the body—all of this, in the end, comes down to one thing: there is still a “self” in the heart. Where there is a self, there is private bias; where there is private bias, one inevitably gets tied to a single way of life and holds to one extreme. Those who delight in dwelling in forests and marshes, once they have gone, find it hard to return to human society; those who serve at court, once they have entered office, find it hard to pull back; those who love to preach and teach cannot fully unfold their true nature when it is cramped; those who devote themselves to nurturing the body and preserving form live on yet cannot let go of attachment to the physical form. None of this is the natural outpouring of original nature; it is intent bent out of shape that becomes such conduct. How could such people be the same as a sage?

The sage has no self. Without self, there is no such private bias; without private bias, one is not led about by external things, and so one can forget the form and penetrate all affairs. One enters the vast unity of Heaven and Earth by way of the supreme Dao—not by deliberate artifice to seem lofty; one harmonizes the myriad things and spreads benefit through the world—not by forcing virtue in from outside, and not by cultivating benevolence and righteousness in order to perform them; one is grand and open because one lets the world rest in its own course, not in order to build reputation and merit; one is deep, still, and hidden, at ease in one’s own domain—not in order to hide from rivers and lakes; one’s qi is gentle and compliant and the form is not decayed—not because one is obsessed with Daoyin (guiding and pulling exercises) to seek long life. To be present yet not clinging to presence, to be empty yet not fixed in emptiness, so that no one knows where it ends, and the supreme Dao gathers of itself—all of this is the utmost subtlety of Wuwei (non-action), and only the sage truly attains it.

Therefore it is said: how at ease the sage is! Gentle in qi, upright in bearing, the form undecayed—not by chasing longevity through Daoyin; present without holding to presence, empty without abiding in emptiness, with an end no one can fathom, the supreme Dao assembling on its own—all the highest marvel of Wuwei, which the sage alone receives. Those who have a self—loving the wilds, serving the court, fond of teaching, addicted to nurturing form—each is blinded by one narrow path. The sage, without self and without a biased heart, forgets the form and is unobstructed, mounts upon the supreme Dao and enters the vast unity of Heaven and Earth—not lofty through effort, not pouring in benevolence and righteousness from outside, letting the world rest in its own course rather than for fame and achievement, deep and still in self-sufficient ease rather than to dwell apart from the world, qi soft and the form whole rather than making a business of Daoyin. Present yet not clinging, empty yet not fixed— the supreme Dao gathers, Wuwei at its utmost; the sage alone attains this. Thus: how at ease the sage is!

Thus the sage, at ease and free, keeps a plain heart-mind; once plain, calm and lightly detached. Plain, calm, and lightly detached—cares cannot enter the body, pathogenic qi cannot invade, so De stays whole and Shen is not drained.

Thus: while the sage lives in the world, he moves as Heaven moves; when he leaves the world, he transforms along with the myriad things. In stillness he shares yin qi’s quiet De; in movement he shares yang qi’s surge. He does not rush ahead for blessing or lead the way into trouble. He responds only after something stirs him, acts only when pressed, rises only when he must. Stripping away cleverness and fixed views, he follows Heaven’s pattern—so there are no disasters from nature, no bondage from things outside, no quarrels of human right and wrong, and no reproach from ghosts or spirits.

Alive, he is like floating on water; dead, like lying down to sleep. He does not scheme with the mind or reckon ahead. He has light but does not flaunt it; he keeps faith but does not nail it to a date. He dreams no dreams in sleep and wakes without anxiety; spirit is pure, hun and po unwearied—empty and still—fitting Heaven’s De.

Thus sorrow and joy skew De; anger and elation overstep the Dao; likes and dislikes squander De. Therefore a heart neither worried nor merry is De at its height; single-mindedness without shift is stillness at its height; not going against outer things is emptiness at its height; not tying up with outer things is plainness at its height; nothing turned against is purity at its height.

Rest in tranquil calm and dwell in emptiness and Wuwei (non-action). Even when you pass through danger and upheaval, the inner mind stays level and does not treat things as hardship. Care and trouble often arise from “doing”; “doing” in turn breeds care and trouble—ease and tranquil calm complete each other. Care cannot enter the person, and perverse qi cannot harm the body, because one has merged with the right principle and moves with it as one.

When De (Virtue/Power) is full, Shen (spirit) is not depleted. If one cannot be at ease and cannot be tranquil, what is injured is not only the physical form—Shen and De are lost inwardly as well.

Heaven’s movement and things’ transformation: heaven’s movement means acting as nature does; things’ transformation means changing freely without being tied down. In movement and stillness there is no deliberate mind—one entrusts it to Yin-Yang; one responds only after being touched, without forcing. One moves only when pressed, acts only when the moment arrives, rises only when there is no choice—acting as principle requires is “I act only because I must”; heaven’s principle is spontaneous, and knowing this, one remains Wuwei within it. Disaster comes from going against heaven; burden comes from going against things.

Being the same as others and not clinging to life and death: those who are the same as others are many—they must be so; so no one is unlike others, yet each rests in self-contentment. Do not fix on the lightness of life or the rest of death; drift without clinging. Do not brood—entrust to heaven’s principle; do not plan ahead—when principle arrives, respond.

Light and trust, and dreamless sleep: “bright yet not dazzling”—use the world’s own brightness, not self-display; “trustworthy yet not expecting”—use the world’s own trustworthiness, not self-expectation. With no desire at all, sleep brings no dreams and waking brings no worry; Shen is pure, the hun-soul is not worn, and one joins with heaven and earth—this is the De of tranquil calm. Supreme De is always fitting, so feeling has nothing to grasp; what is still and one cannot change; the heart opens clear to the end, with not a hair’s breadth of deviation—the utmost of emptiness.

Things come of themselves; the most tranquil have no mixed feeling toward things. If one mingles with turbid desire, things no longer go smoothly.

The sage dwells in ease, never wearing out mind and spirit over what to take up or let go. When level and upright, there is no skew; when smooth and plain, nothing is hard to grasp. Serene, unknowing, and unentangled with outer things—what is called silent solitude and wuwei (non-action) is no more than this. Calamity and perverse qi find gaps to slip through because one uses discriminating intellect to know external things; where self and things meet, a crack opens between them. Birth is simply heaven’s ongoing process; the sage does not fix on “life,” so when life emerges he is not glad. Death is simply the transformation of the myriad things; the sage does not fix on “death,” so when death comes he does not resist. In stillness he shares in yin’s virtue yet does not notice that it is stillness; in movement he rides yang’s pulse yet does not notice that it is movement. He does not court blessing—when blessing arrives, he is not aware of it; he does not open the door to harm—harm does not come. If one makes oneself the forerunner of blessing and the starter of harm, that is not true “stimulus and response” but being pushed to move and rising because one must—then one is using cleverness, no different from ordinary people. Following the naturalness of heaven’s principle, heaven cannot afflict him and things cannot weigh him down; there is no one to blame, and that is how it ought to be. Thus life is like drifting, death like resting; without stirring yet still, when things arrive he responds; what shines forth is heaven’s light, not a deliberate brightness, and what holds within is trust, not forced constraint. No dreams, no worries—waking and sleeping are one. What is pure is unmixed and unwearied; without purposeful doing he accords with heaven’s De (Virtue/Power), and in this way the sage holds sway over the realm.

Why are “resistance” (wu) and “opposition” (ni) both named? Reflect on the words “empty” (xu) and “pure” (cui): to meet affairs and respond to things without any friction requires emptiness opened to the utmost; when the center is utterly pure and unmixed, one naturally embraces the myriad forms and holds the myriad things, with nothing to reject or resist.

Therefore, when the body is worn with labor and never given rest, it becomes exhausted; when essential qi (Jing and Qi) is expended without cease, it is strained—and strain leads to depletion. Water’s nature is to stay clear when unmixed and calm when unstirred; yet if it is blocked and cannot flow, it likewise cannot remain clear—this is a symbol of Heavenly Virtue (tiande). Hence it is said: to be pure without admixture, tranquil and single-minded without restlessness, simple and unpretentious without forced action, and in movement to follow the way of Heaven—this is the method of nourishing spirit (Shen).

Legend tells of someone who owned a famous sword forged at Ganyue, who kept it in a case and treasured it, daring not use it lightly, for it was the most precious of things. Human spirit can likewise reach in all directions and flow together without obstruction, pervading everywhere: above it connects with Heaven, below it spreads over Earth, transforming and nurturing the ten thousand things—beyond capture in any fixed form; its realm may be called sharing one body with the Dao of Heaven. The way of pure simplicity lies in guarding only the spirit, holding it fast so it does not scatter, and becoming one with Shen; in that unity spirit penetrates everywhere and aligns with the principle of Heaven.

A folk saying has it: ordinary people value profit, men of integrity value reputation, the worthy honor aspiration, and sages take refined essence (Jing) as precious. “Simple” (su) means the inner mind is free of taint; “pure” (chun) means not injuring spirit. Whoever can embody this way of pure simplicity is called a True Person (Zhenren).

(Note: Gan and Yue were famed for fine swords; Wu had a stream called Ganxi, traditionally said to be the famous sword-making stream.)

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Without pause one grows worn out; without pause one grows weary, and weariness leads to depletion—each thing has its proper measure, which must not be violated. The nature of water symbolizes Heavenly Virtue (tiande): meeting things without deliberate intent, naturally and spontaneously. Pure and unmixed, whatever it does is nothing but what is most fitting. Resting in quiet unity without change, it constantly occupies the highest place; plain and without contrivance (wuwei), it simply pairs flourishing with guarding against harm. If one moves with external things, that is human action. One who loves a sword still sheathes it and treasures it in a case—how much more should one dare lightly to deploy spirit (shen)? Spirit reaches through the four directions, ascending to the sky and coiling beneath the earth—taking the body to join the utmost of Heaven and Earth and responding to the numbers of the myriad things as spirit, hence such attainment. If in this way there is the achievement of “settling Heaven and Earth,” that is acting as Heaven does, not lightly using spirit. Nurturing and transforming the myriad things is called “sharing the Emperor’s work”—what is spoken of is nurturing without fixed direction, like the Celestial Emperor’s non-action (wuwei) in transformation. Do not lose purity and simplicity; become one with spirit. Constantly hold to purity and simplicity in utmost stillness, and do not be tossed about in outer conditions—“number” here means taking spirit as one’s anchor, hence this; if there is the achievement of settling Heaven and Earth, it is still acting as Heaven, not lightly using spirit. Nurturing and transforming the myriad things is called sharing the Emperor’s work: nurturing without fixed direction, the same as the Celestial Emperor’s wuwei. Do not lose purity and simplicity; be one with spirit; constantly hold purity and simplicity in utmost stillness and do not be stirred outward—then guarding against harm stays inward. Jing (essence) is things’ true substance; being one with spirit is not guarding some separate “spirit”; not straying from one’s jing is not treating “jing” as something to display—yet from how it appears, one must still cherish and hold it. If “pure” meant only not being depleted, then even when a hundred practices arise together and myriad changes interweave, one could be utterly pure; if “simple” meant only not being mixed, then even with dragon patterns and phoenix grace, standing out with extraordinary appearance, one could be utterly simple. If one cannot preserve natural quality and mixes in outer adornment, then even sheep’s hide on a dog (a mere outward show)—how could that be called pure and simple?

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Consider the sage’s mind: empty, still, and tranquil—as described above—then even though one uses it all day in affairs, spirit does not grow tired. The ancients’ “discard the mind and use the form” and “seeing and hearing do not rely on eyes and ears” mean this. People today fix attention on eyes, ears, sound, and color and enslave the mind to choosing and rejecting; the form labors without rest and jing is used without stopping, until exhaustion and depletion—naturally so. Water’s nature is clear and level—that is simply natural; straight and unmixed, merely not being stirred—knowing this yet taking “blocked and not flowing” as “not being stirred” cannot be clear. What is called Heavenly Virtue is also imaged in water’s clarity and levelness. Thus pure and unmixed is the image of clear water; quiet unity without change is the image of level water; moving and acting as Heaven does is the image of water’s not taking blocked non-flow as “not being stirred.” Yet under heaven, arts that fix on emptiness and stillness but do not know how to observe return amid the simultaneous rise of myriad activities, or to return to the root amid teeming multiplicity, fail to understand this way of nurturing spirit. People think nourishing the body suffices to preserve life—yet that does not even compare with “sheathing the sword in its case,” because the latter’s use has clear benefit. Spirit reaches heaven and coils through earth—its use is surely more than a sharp sword of Gan or Yue? Its name is “sharing the Emperor’s work”—its worth surely surpasses treasuring a fine sword? Yet they do not know to hone it with purity, sheath it in quiet unity, store it in wuwei, and deploy it by acting as Heaven—thus they miss the distinction between noble and base. One need only guard spirit—and guard it with purity and simplicity. When guarding is timely, there is what we call “the one who guards”; guard without losing, and guard and what is guarded become one. Lun means principle; when a person accords with Heaven’s principle, the person is also Heaven. This is why the sage values jing. Simple means unmixed; refined means undepleted—only the perfected person (zhenren) can do both.

A General Discussion on Deliberate Intent (Ke Yi)

This essay takes Ke Yi (deliberate, carved intent) as its theme: what is meant by ke yi is sharpening the mind until it is angular and hard-edged, going against custom, putting on airs, taking on what ordinary people cannot bear alone, and yet expecting others to follow—like piercing an ox’s nose or putting a halter on a horse, it damages what is naturally so. When cleverness increases, de (virtue/power) is worn away, and the people become hard to govern.

The Nanhua (Zhuangzi) runs through how the ancients’ aims differed: Yi and Qi prized lofty purity; Kong and Meng stressed self-cultivation; Yi Yin and Fu Yue governed the world; Chaofu and Xuyou withdrew; Laodan and Pengzu sought long life—from outward signs each seemed one-sided; yet they could still be called sage or worthy because they acted (youwei) without being burdened by action, and practiced wuwei (non-action) without drowning in inaction—they simply adapted to whether the times allowed it and used what served the person. What matters, then, is emptiness and wuwei, plainness and calm: let Heaven move you, follow the transformation of things, share virtue and the same wave with things, do not let cleverness stick, and when you move, align with Heaven’s principle—then disaster and blame have nowhere to attach, and worry about life and death need not lose measure.

If one can be like this—still, empty, pure, and at ease with things—one returns at last to the work of nurturing spirit (yangshen). The discussion also uses keeping the Gan-Yue sword in its case as a image: for the body, what is heavy or light has its own place, yet people remain so confused—hence the argument first breaks the habit of ke yi and showy conduct, and ends by taking whoever can embody purity and simplicity as the True Person (zhenren); then carving and showy conduct are clearly seen as mere ornament. Nourishing life takes purity and simplicity as root; purity and simplicity take guarding spirit as foremost; as for becoming one with spirit, the great root of the Dao is already set—why haggle over twigs and leaves and make ke yi and showy conduct the business?

Repairing Nature (Chapter Sixteen)

In worldly learning one “repairs” one’s nature, hoping thereby to recover the original state; in worldly thought one slides after desire, hoping thereby to reach clarity—such people are called the deluded folk. (What follows links to the discussion above: guarding spirit comes first; becoming one with spirit already establishes the root of the great Dao, so one need not again treat ke yi and showy conduct as a minor obsession.)

Using secular learning to “cultivate one’s nature” while trying to recover one’s original human condition—and at the same time indulging desires with secular thoughts in the hope of becoming “clear” or enlightened—defines a person who is deluded and obscured.

The ancients cultivated the Great Dao by nourishing wisdom through tranquility: they lived without treating clever scheming as their foundation, which is to nourish tranquility through wisdom. Wisdom and tranquility feed each other, and harmony and principle then flow naturally from inherent nature.

De (Virtue/Power) shows itself as harmony; Dao (the Way) shows itself as order and pattern. When De can embrace all things, that is benevolence (ren). When Dao can put the myriad things in their proper order, that is righteousness (yi). When principle is clear and self and things are at home with each other, that is fidelity (zhong). When the inner mind is pure and sincere and returns to genuine feeling, that is joy (le). When one keeps faith in action and conduct conforms to proper norms, that is ritual (li).

But if li and le are pushed one-sidedly and only in part, the world falls into disorder. What was originally upright is covered over by custom; De no longer “overflows” outward by force—and when it does overflow, the ten thousand things inevitably lose their own true nature.

Guo Xiang’s commentary ( gist ): Once nature has already been “adjusted” by secular methods, trying to restore the root of nature and life (xingming) through secular learning only leads further astray the harder one tries. De does not overflow; if it overflows, things necessarily lose their nature. (In the received text, “secular learning” [suxue] had an extra “secular” in older versions; the reading here follows Zhang Junfang’s edition.)

Someone has already “adjusted” temperament within the secular world, yet still tries to use worldly learning to restore the root of nature and life (xingming)—what is sought in this way only moves further from the correct path (Dao). The heart is already stirred by mundane affairs; to strain after “understanding” with more and more thought is to err the finer one thinks.

True awakening begins with leaving the secular and shedding desire; only then is there the slightest opening. When the mind can settle, one knows not to drift wildly; knowing without wild drifting, original nature can be kept. “Knowing” need not be forced as a task—let clarity arise on its own. Even if one knows all things round about, one can remain tranquil and complete. To know yet not act rashly does not harm quiet ease; in quiet ease, not to act disorderly does not harm that knowing. Knowledge and tranquility nourish each other—where else could the boundary of harmony and principle lie?

Through harmony, nothing fails to be attained; through Dao (the Way), nothing fails to accord with principle. Where all accords with principle, benevolence (ren) is not performed on purpose, yet its traces show of themselves; where all accords with principle, righteousness (yi) is not performed on purpose, yet merit stands out of itself. If righteousness is clear but not rooted in loyalty (zhong), people and things grow only more estranged. When benevolence and righteousness issue from within and return to the original heart, intent (zhi) is truly settled. When intent is settled, what appears outwardly is joy; when trust, bearing, and bodily deportment follow natural propriety, what appears outwardly is ritual (li).

To spread under heaven only “what one body practices” or “what one intent delights in” is for one region to gain and the myriad regions to lose. For each to set right their own nature and life and each to keep their own natural propriety—that is ritual (li). To press one pattern down upon another—how could each not lose its own nature?

In worldly habits, the flaw in “repairing one’s original nature” is often this: one keeps “benefiting life” (adding branches and leaves to nourish life and desire) and thereby loses original simplicity; or one tries to “seek restoration” of that original state through secular learning, which only drives one further from it.

In worldly life, the flaw in “indulging desire” is often this: one abandons guarding the middle way and muddies clarity; then one tries to “seek” clarity back through thinking, which only makes one more confused.

“Tranquility” (tian) is settling at ease—even not knowing why one is at ease. Using this state to nourish “knowing” (zhi) is not a matter of seeking sharp discernment through calculation. To live without using knowing as a tool and without relying on cleverness differs from tranquility: tranquility is ease without knowing why; nourishing tranquility in this way is likewise not restoring the original through vulgar learning.

The “spiritual clarity” (shenming) of the Yijing, the “dim indistinctness” (huanghu) of the Laozi, and the “tranquil knowing” (tianzhi) of the Zhuangzi are essentially one thing. Those who cultivated the Dao in antiquity all nourished tranquility and knowing mutually, and only thus could they arrive. If tranquility is like darkness, it cannot issue forth broad illumination; if knowing is one-sidedly bright (jiao), one cannot return to undifferentiated completion (huncheng). Guard against failure in both; nourish them in turn so that harmony and principle arise from one’s nature—not something forcibly added from outside.

What connects with Heaven and Earth is De (Virtue/Power); De is harmony. What moves among the ten thousand things is Dao (the Way); Dao is principle. The substance of De is “harmony”; in function it excludes nothing, appearing as “benevolence” (ren). The substance of Dao is “principle”; in function nothing is unreasonable, appearing as “righteousness” (yi). When righteousness is clear, things cannot fail to draw near one another—this is “loyalty” (zhong). When the inner mind is pure and real, not hollow show, joy arises from this. When “trust” (xin) is stored within and takes form without, that is “culture” (wen) and “ritual” (li).

Yet “ritual” is often the form left when loyalty and trust have grown thin; it is also the beginning of disorder. The ten thousand things each rectify their nature-and-life (xingming) and naturally receive the cover of their own De—what need is there to “impose” (mao) it on outer things? If ritual and music are pushed one-sidedly, Dao and De recede further; one cannot but “impose”; once one imposes, things necessarily lose their nature, and under Heaven falls into great disorder.

In worldly learning one tries to “repair” innate nature; in worldly thinking one indulges desire—most old commentaries get these two lines wrong. True nature is not something you restore by “learning,” and the learning of the mundane world cannot restore genuine nature. Clear awakening is not something you reach by “thinking,” and mundane thinking cannot attain true clarity. Here “mundane” (su) is set against “true” (zhen): the moment the mind moves in thought it has already strayed—how much more when one deliberately “repairs” (shan) and manages things? The moment the mind forms an intention it is off course—how much more when a path like that attributed to Zisi not only fails to lift the veil but layers the cover ever thicker?

Using tranquility to nourish knowing is the key to restoring nature and attaining clarity. “Knowing” (zhi) is human awakened awareness; awakened awareness is nature (xing). It can be nurtured by tranquility (tian)—quiet, wuwei naturalness—but not patched up by “learning” or stirred up by “thinking.” Tranquility is wuwei and naturalness. To speak of “nourishing knowing” sounds as if the mind still clings to “knowing”; in fact the body of knowing is empty and luminous, without fixed attachment—there is knowing, yet the goal is truly non-knowing. Hence it is also said using knowing to nourish tranquility. Tranquility corresponds to what Chan calls “non-knowing”; knowing corresponds to what Chan calls “knowing of non-knowing” (zhi wu). In the state of tranquility, knowing rests within tranquility; in the state of knowing, tranquility rests within knowing—thus knowing and tranquility nourish each other.

Then virtue (de), humaneness (ren), righteousness (yi), loyalty (zhong), ritual (li), and music (yue) do not split apart; like one tree with roots and branches, fruit and flowers flourishing together, they form a single natural whole—not a one-sided path. If one does not start from nature (xing) but seeks ritual and music only outwardly, that is chasing the branches and forgetting the root, stuck in the fragmentation of mundane learning—and the world falls into disorder. Why? When knowing and tranquility nourish each other, humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music flow back into the Way and virtue (dao and de); when knowing and tranquility lose each other, the Way and virtue are carved into separate branches—humaneness, righteousness, ritual, music each on its own. That is how “true” and “mundane” divide in learning.

In antiquity, in the age of primal chaos and simplicity… (what follows is the same point: mundane learning disorders the world; when knowing and tranquility cross-nourish, humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music return to the Way and virtue; when they cross-lose, the Way and virtue splinter into humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music.)

In ancient times, people lived in a state before chaos had fully divided; together with their age they remained plain and still. Yin and Yang were in harmony, spirit was undisturbed, the four seasons followed their proper course, nothing in the ten thousand things was harmed, and no living being died before its time. Though people had intelligence, they had no need to put it to use—this is what is called “supreme unity” (zhiyi): the highest oneness and purely natural living.

When virtue (de) began to decline, Suiren and Fuxi first took charge of the world, so there was only “accord” with the times, not the preservation of “one virtue.” As de fell further, Shennong and the Yellow Emperor first ruled the world, so there was only “peace,” not the preservation of “accord with virtue.” When de declined again, Tang Yao and Yu Shun first ruled the world; then instruction and transformation were raised up, customs grew thin and shallow, simplicity was lost, people left the great Way (da) to parade “goodness,” left their root virtue to push “conduct,” and then abandoned their inborn nature to follow the heart-mind. Heart contended with heart, each rushing to outwit the other, and intelligence was no longer enough to settle the world. Layer upon layer of ornament was added, until ornament destroyed plain substance and drowned the original heart—then the people grew confused and disordered, unable to return to their true disposition or recover their first condition.

(As for the phrase “heart and heart, knowing and recognizing,” Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that it should not be read as a break between “heart and heart” and “knowing.”)

Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Having knowledge yet not using it” means simply letting things be natural; when the ten thousand things are all natural, supreme unity can be reached. The reason virtue declines is that sages cannot sit at the top generation after generation; those above cannot practice non-action (wuwei), yet they envy the reputation of wuwei, and that produces this situation—“naturalness” is just this. Again: when all things are natural, there is supreme unity. De declines because those in authority cannot be wuwei but envy the traces of wuwei, and that invites these ills. “Accord but not one” means the age has already lost one virtue; confusion cannot be untied, so one only explains without pushing deeper and speaks along with the text. “Peace but not accord” means settling people only where they can be settled. The sage has no fixed heart; he lets the world complete itself—whether what is achieved is thick or thin is not something the sage deliberately makes. If the sage can let the world each attain its place, how could that mean the whole world becomes sages? So the traces of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors change with the times, while the way of the sage has never been incomplete. “Goodness” is a name for going beyond mere adequacy; once the name “good” appears, the Way is no longer whole. “Conduct” is what goes against inborn nature to perform; once conduct is established, virtue is no longer level. “Abandoning nature to follow the heart” is using the heart to drive oneself—then nature is left behind. “Heart and heart, knowing” is hearts contending to recognize and outdo each other, so they no longer follow nature. “Knowledge not enough to settle the world” means only by forgetting cleverness and following true feeling can the world be settled. “Culture and ornament” is adornment of heart and substance; at first this referred to the root of nature and life (xingming).

What is meant by dwelling in primordial chaos and attaining tranquil Wuwei (non-action) is the excellence of the age of “supreme unity” (zhiyi)—pure oneness without distinction—in the time of Suiren, Fuxi, and the Yellow Emperor. The sages who are praised are only the coarser, visible traces within that chaos and stillness. From the subtle side, governing the world with Dao and keeping the people unknowing and without desire is called “supreme unity,” and that is how things ought to be. From the coarse side, even when one is still “for the world,” virtue inevitably declines and no longer reaches “supreme unity.” Hence those who cultivate Dao often “reject sages and discard wisdom” and return to unknowing and no desire—again called “supreme unity”; yet from the coarse side, still acting for the world, virtue again cannot avoid declining and again falls short of “supreme unity.” Therefore cultivators often “reject sages and discard wisdom” and return to the realm where nothing is fixed. People who study the sages’ words and imitate their deeds, if they do not know that in ourselves there is that layer which “stirs the ten thousand things yet does not share the sages’ worries,” will startle and laugh when they hear this—and that is not surprising.

From Suiren and Fuxi down to Tang Yao and Yu Shun, governance went from dense to thin, from simplicity to dispersion; ages differed in depth, and the way of responding to the world differed too—this is what is meant by “when the great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness appear; when cleverness emerges, great hypocrisy follows.” Dao in itself is never not good; once a separate standard of “good” is set up, it no longer accords with Dao. De in itself does not cling to any particular “conduct”; once a certain conduct is emphasized, things are no longer level. Benevolence is the chief of goodness; righteousness is the basis of conduct. Dao and De speak of nature (xing); benevolence and righteousness are nature issuing from the heart-mind (xin). To leave Dao and harm De is to abandon nature and follow the heart-mind. Once teaching arises and desire is about to stir, one ought to settle it with the “nameless uncarved block” (wuming zhi pu); yet now the heart-mind is used to settle the heart-minds of the world—heart facing heart— and knowing is not enough to settle the world, so people attach ornament and bury simplicity, and drown the original heart in breadth of learning. Ornament is ritual and music; breadth is learning; simplicity is nature. When ritual and music are spread through the world, disorder follows; yet one still hopes to return to the beginning and reach clarity—how can that be?

From this angle, the world has already lost the Dao, and the Dao has lost a world in which it can actually be lived. World and Dao pull each other down and decline together. How could those who cultivate the Dao truly rise in the world? How could the world make the Dao rise again? When the Dao cannot flourish in the world, the world cannot flourish the Dao either. Even when sages do not live in mountains and forests, their De stays inward and self-restrained, so they do not style themselves “recluses.” The recluses of old were not people who hid their bodies from sight, sealed their mouths in silence, or buried their wisdom unused. Rather, the times and one’s allotted lot often fell badly out of step. When times and fate matched, and one could spread the Dao widely under heaven, one returned to the “One” and left no trace. When times and fate did not match, and one met obstruction everywhere under heaven, one took deep root, held quietly to the ultimate, and waited—that was the way to preserve oneself and keep the great Dao alive.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The Dao can endure in the world because it does not treat itself as something lofty. Yet once it is preserved in the world, people honor it again; as soon as the Dao is honored, the Dao is lost. The Dao cannot command the world not to honor it, and the world cannot help honoring the Dao within the world—so world and Dao lose each other. Only when it is not honored can they flourish together. The reason people today cannot “hide” is that desire stirs from within. How does that flourishing happen? Through not being treated as lofty. Those who do not call themselves recluses, if they can withdraw and accord with the nature of the ten thousand things, the way of the world and the great Dao can rise together—then what would “hiding” even mean? Not knowing to return to the “One” to stop chasing traces, yet chasing traces while trying to grasp the One—the more trace one gains, the more one loses the One: that is a grave mistake. Even if one stands forth, speaks openly, and shows one’s talent, how could world and Dao rise together? They would only lose each other. When times and fate run smoothly, that is a time of quiet clarity (tranquil Wuwei). “Return to the One without trace” means to accord with the nature of the ten thousand things; their natures of themselves return to the One, hence no trace. When times and fate are utterly blocked, that is when one cannot be quietly clear. Even in a world crowded with affairs and stir, the sage is never without that quiet clarity, and so takes deep root, rests at the ultimate, and waits for things to transform themselves—that is why the Dao is not extinguished. There is no case of preserving the person while the world fails to flourish.

Lu Commentary: When the age and the Dao mutually foster each other and rise together, sages appear and the myriad things can behold the right Way; when the age and the Dao mutually harm each other and decline together, sages hide among ordinary people and go unrecognized—this is simply how things are. Why must one shut oneself away in mountains and forests? “Returning to oneness without leaving a trace,” “the dream of Huaxu,” and “journeys to Mount Guye” all speak of such a realm; roots planted deep and held firm, as if they cannot be pulled up, mean the same thing. Dragons and serpents lying dormant to preserve the body amount to no more than this. Reading Zhuangzi here, one almost senses him lamenting that he was born in the wrong era—when the age and the Dao decline together, that alone is cause for sighing.

Classic Text: In antiquity, those who preserved themselves did not use clever rhetoric to adorn or display their wit; did not use wit to exhaust or overpower the world; nor did they use wit to harm their own De. They rested securely in the place that was theirs and returned to their original nature—that was enough; what more was there to do? The Dao was never meant to be spread by petty skills and cleverness, and De was never meant to be dressed up with sophistry. Small cleverness injures De; petty tricks injure the Dao. Hence it is said: straighten yourself and that suffices. When mind and will are complete and in accord with the Dao, that is called “attaining one’s aim.” What the ancients meant by attaining one’s aim was not holding high office and rank, but that nothing could add to their true joy. What people today mean by attaining one’s aim is having carriage and cap—the emblems of high station. Carriage and cap are merely external things lodged in the person, not life and nature itself; when things come by chance they merely lodge—they arrive and cannot be blocked, depart and cannot be retained. Therefore one does not let the mind run wild because of carriage and cap, nor cling to the vulgar because of poverty and hardship; that kind of joy and this kind of joy are the same in essence, hence there is no worry. Nowadays, when external things leave, there is no joy; viewed thus, even when there is joy, it is never free of disorder. Hence it is said: those who lose themselves through being dragged by external things and lose their nature in the world are called “inverted people.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

One does not use rhetoric and ornament to parade cleverness, but lets genuine spontaneous knowing do its work; one does not use craft and cunning to pry into and disturb the world—this is the disposition of tranquility (qingjing guayu: quiet clarity, few desires, not chasing externals). One does not use craft and cunning to pry into and harm De, but keeps to what one originally possesses in self-sufficiency—that is the bearing of standing alone upright (weiran duzheng: independent, not leaning; correct, not crooked).

Dao is not practiced in petty corners; it is to roam freely on the open road. De is not known in petty corners; it is to be as vast as the great clod, finding one’s aim in self-sufficiency. Alone, one levels the heart so there is no joy or grief—this is completeness of joy. Nothing can add to this joy: inwardly full and complete, what comes cannot be blocked and what goes cannot be detained—all lie in external things; gain and loss do not belong to me. Composed and at ease, one is unaware of being lodged in this bodily form, vast and self-sufficient, unaware that success or failure depends on oneself. “Each other” refers to regalia and honor (xuannian: rank and glory) and poverty and constraint (qiongyue: hardship and low station). “Without worry” means there is no glad exultation either. If one is unhappy when lodging is lost and disordered when lodging is gained, that is using the outer to replace the inner; outer fullness and inner emptiness—that is inversion.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

Preserving the body requires only stillness; acting in the world requires not only stillness but also adapting without harming stillness. Forgetting words yet knowing, discarding knowing yet having De complete in every way—standing firm (weiran) in one’s place, not necessarily avoiding the world or leaving things behind, yet worldly things cannot burden one: this is the way of conducting oneself. “Dao is not practiced in petty corners, De is not known in petty corners” means not slightly injuring oneself to court worldly favor—this is what rectifying oneself (zhengji) means. One whose joy is complete has nothing with which to increase that joy; aiming at Dao and finding it in that pursuit—this is what is called “attaining one’s aim.” Dao and life-nature (xingming): regalia and honor are only lodging for things; if because lodging comes and goes one exchanges that joy which nothing can increase, one has lost self and nature—this is called inversion.

Overview

The theme of this chapter: if one lacks a view that transcends the dust of the world, one should aim at Dao and find it in that pursuit—this is what is called attaining one’s aim. Dao and life-nature: regalia and honor are only external lodging; if because lodging departs and returns one exchanges that joy which nothing can increase, one has lost self and nature—this is inversion.

This essay explains that without a vision that transcends worldly concerns and directly sees one’s original mind, a person who simply follows worldly causes and conditions will gradually lose their innate true nature; what they “nurture” in mundane affairs is habit, and what they slide toward is desire. This may not count as great wickedness, yet it obstructs cultivation severely. If one then piles on external learning and stirs the inner mind with idle imaginings and stray thoughts, yet hopes to return to the original brightness, it is like setting out for Ying in Chu while driving north—the direction is entirely wrong.

Zhuangzi also feared that students would dread “emptiness,” “nothingness,” and “vagueness” with no place to begin, so he spoke of mutual nurturing between tranquility (tian) and knowledge (zhi), making entry easier. In the world one must respond to endless change, and it is hard never to use knowledge at all; yet once knowledge is overused, tranquility is harmed. The key is to suit each matter and handle it with the Dao: when something arises, discern and respond as needed; when it passes, return to stillness. Over time, through seasoned tuning, both knowledge and tranquility can dissolve into one another; spirit, soul, and vital faculties merge into great harmony; nature and life align with the undifferentiated primordial state before division, returning to the root of Dao and De (Virtue/Power). From there one fills out and unfolds further—living among people without needing to contend, gaining simplicity amid confusion: though there is knowledge, nothing is clung to or wielded, and the work of transforming and nurturing becomes all the more vast.

Sadly, the temper of the age often loses its depth and sincerity; shallow trends grow daily; people depart from the Way and take risks, impairing substance and drowning the heart—until the world mutually corrupts and is hard to restore. Then there appear sages who dwell deep in mountains and forests: roots planted deep, mind kept quiet, only hoping morning and evening to resonate with the Dao; preserving the body is for preserving the Way; coming and going are lodging places, not tying joy and sorrow to them—why must one make a business of argumentative knowledge? Thus one delights in wholeness and attains one’s aim, with a stature beyond the honors of rank and emblems. What people lack is often simply not knowing they ought to seek in this way.

This is the way of sages who hide their light and preserve themselves whole.

When the autumn waters rose on schedule and every stream poured into the Yellow River, the river swelled until between its banks and along the sandbars one could hardly tell an ox from a horse. The River God He Bo was pleased with himself, thinking that all the grandeur under heaven was his. He went downstream toward the east until he reached the Northern Sea; he looked east and could not see where the water ended. Then He Bo turned his face toward Bei Hai Ruo, the god of the Northern Sea, and sighed as he looked up: “There is a saying—‘Hear a little doctrine and think no one compares to you’—and that is me. I once heard that someone belittled Zhongni’s (Confucius’s) learning and looked down on Boyi’s integrity; at first I did not believe it. Now that I see how vast you are and cannot fathom your limits, if I had not come to you I would have been in danger—I would have been laughed at for a long time by those who know the great Dao (the Way).”

Bei Hai Ruo said: “You cannot talk to a frog in a well about the great sea, because it is cramped in the little space it lives in. You cannot talk to a summer insect about ice, because it is bound to its season. You cannot talk to a narrow-minded scholar about the great Dao, because he is shackled by what he has learned. Now you have come out from the riverbank and seen the sea, and only then know your own shallowness—only then can one discuss the great principle with you.

“Of all the waters under heaven, none is greater than the sea: ten thousand rivers flow into it and never know when to stop, yet the sea is not full; the weilu (tail gate) drains outward and never know when to stop, yet the sea is not empty. Spring and autumn do not change it; flood and drought do not touch it—the sea does not grow or shrink because of them. The rivers’ flow cannot be measured, yet I have never for that reason thought myself grand. I compare myself to heaven and earth and receive the breath of yin and yang; I stand between heaven and earth like a small stone or a little tree on a great mountain—I ought to see my own smallness; on what basis could I boast? Count the four seas against heaven and earth—they are like a pebble in a vast marsh. Count the central lands against the seas—they are like one grain in a great granary. The myriad things are called ‘myriad’; humankind is only one place among them. People fill the nine provinces, eat the five grains, ride boats and chariots—again, only one place. Compared with the myriad things, is humankind not like the tip of a hair on a horse’s body? What the Five Emperors handed down, what the Three Kings fought over, what the humane worry about, what the responsible toil at—all of that is here. Boyi won a fine name by yielding; Zhongni seemed broad through his words—their boasting, is it not like your boasting in the water just now?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that failing to tell an ox from a horse describes an outlook of extraordinary breadth. For a long time I have been ridiculed by those who have penetrated the Dao, because I know only my own smallness yet cannot rest in the station of the “large.” When principle and name each hold their proper place, the habit of straining upward to compare and prize size finds no footing between them. Things from birth each obtain their own ease; inclinations each have their boundary. Only when one grasps these allotments can one speak of principle with them.

To exhaust the water of every stream and hang it on the Yellow River, hang the Yellow River on the great sea, and hang the great sea between heaven and earth—is to show that large and small each has its measure. In wording it seems to use the “large” to make the “small” clear, but the intent is not that. What people suffer from is inability to level things; those who fix on the large lightly treat the small as inexhaustible, and those who fix on the small stubbornly treat the large as fully complete—exaggerated rivalry between above and below, looking up and down without measure, which is what deludes the common people. For the deluded to seek what is right, nothing suits better than first pushing the difference of large and small to the limit, then following each side’s “so-called”: the so-called “large” is self-sufficiency, so the tip of an autumn hair no longer burdens heaven and earth; the so-called “small” is having no surplus, so heaven and earth do not exceed an autumn hair. Then delusion has a way back; each knows its limit, things rest in their stations, and the person who wanders freely keeps the pace of what is so, roaming in the field of self-sufficiency—this is what Zhuangzi intends in voicing his message of De.

As for seeing the large and being discontent with the small, seeing the few and taking oneself to have more—racing in the arena of victory and defeat and feeding the common people’s boastfulness—how could that grasp Zhuangzi’s intent in setting his guard? The discrimination of large and small has its levels and must not be compared across them. Thus what the Five Emperors, the Three Kings, humane persons, and duty-bound knights do does not go outside a fixed range; things have their domain, and even the utmost wisdom cannot overstep it. Therefore raising the distinction of large and small is meant to show that the ultimate principle is without division.

When the autumn waters rise, hundreds of tributaries pour into the Yellow River. If one’s learning only piles up from the outside and has not yet truly opened to the Great Dao, it is like that moment when the river is in flood and one can no longer tell a cow from a horse between the banks: one feels enormous, yet still stays inside the “river’s” horizon and has not reached the vantage from which “everything can be seen.”

Drifting downstream until one reaches the Northern Sea means seeking in accord with reason until one finds a true resting place. Turning back to gaze at the boundless sea and sighing at one’s smallness before Hai Ruo (the god of the sea) is the turn toward the Dao and entry into an endless journey. Clinging to one corner, one is hemmed in by large and small; clinging to one moment, one is bound by short and long; trapped in a single school’s doctrine, one is ruled by craft and technique. That people cannot wander freely is largely for these reasons. Only after stepping outside the river’s bounds to behold the ocean can one shake off such confinement and join a contemplation that has no fixed direction—only then is it fitting to speak of the great teaching.

The myriad streams return to the sea, yet the sea never seems full; however much is added, it never seems “more.” Legend says that at Weiluo (the place where the sea is said to drain away) water leaks out without cease, yet the sea never seems empty; however much is lost, it never seems “less.” This is not something one time or one place can frame, nor something size alone can limit—water, in this respect, comes close to the Dao.

Consider the proportions: the four seas sit within heaven and earth; China lies within the four seas; and human beings dwell within China—among the ten thousand things they are almost as if absent, vanishingly small. Yet what the Five Emperors, the Three Sage Kings, the benevolent, and the ren shi (those who take worldly responsibility upon themselves) have worried over is scarcely more than this. Some refuse rank and honor; others make their speech vast and elaborate—from the angle of “the Great Dao has no fixed direction,” that can mean undervaluing what is truly great and treating one’s own seeing and hearing too lightly. Can that be empty talk?

Commentary adds: here “jing” means muddy water, not the “Jing” of the Jing and Wei rivers; “yang” refers to the open sea; “Ruo” is the name of the sea god. “Ju xu” means being confined to a narrow horizon; “du shi” is like the short-lived cicada that knows only one season. Weiluo appears in the Classic of Mountains and Seas in connection with Wojiao; “lei” means a tiny opening. To place the human among the ten thousand things is to count a person as one tally among things—to discuss the person together with the vast void as a whole. Within the Nine Provinces, a person is again only one item alongside grass, trees, birds, and beasts—stressing how small the world is and how small the human is within it. What follows touches on yielding the throne, the names of benevolence, and the like; ren shi means those who take up affairs and carry out responsibilities.

He Bo asked: If that is so, may I treat heaven and earth as very great and the tip of a fine hair as very small?

Bei Hai Ruo answered: You may not. As for the measure (liang—the scale of size and extent) of things, it is inexhaustible; as for time (shi—time and the alternation of birth and death), it has no stopping point; as for allotment (fen—gain and loss, one’s lot in circumstance), nothing is fixed; as for beginning and end (zhongshi—the turnover of old and new), there is no old form to hold on to—so each day is anew. Therefore, one of great wisdom, in looking at what is far and near: though a thing is small, he does not think it too little; though a thing is large, he does not think it too much—because he knows that measure is inherently without limit. He tests past against present, so he is not depressed by what lasts long and does not stand on tiptoe to peer at what is brief—because he knows that time is inherently without end. He observes fullness and emptiness in turn, so in gaining he is not pleased and in losing he is not worried—because he knows that allotment is inherently changeable. He sees clearly that this is the broad path (the straight way of coming and going in life and death), so in living he is not delighted and in dying he is not afraid—because he knows that beginning and end cannot be clung to and preserved. When you reckon it up, what people know does not match what they do not know, and the years they live do not match the time before they were born; to use the very small to fathom the realm of the very great is to be lost and unable to settle the mind. Seen from this angle, how can one know that the tip of a hair is enough to decide the standard of “utmost fineness”? And how can one know that heaven and earth are enough to exhaust the realm of “utmost greatness”?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Things’ measure is inexhaustible” means each thing has its own measure. “Time has no stop” means both birth and death are phases in the flow of time. “Allotment is inconstant” means both gaining and losing are boundaries of allotment. “Beginning and end have no fixed ‘old’” means renewal never ceases. “Neither scant nor excessive” means each thing is sufficient unto itself, with nothing left over. One who knows measure is boundless takes things in at a glance and sees that things far, near, large, and small each have their measure. Xiang means to clarify; jin gu is like past and present. Yao means long; duo means short. One who knows time has no end verifies past and present and knows change does not stop at birth and death, so he is not depressed by the long nor does he stand on tiptoe for the short. When he examines alternation between fullness and emptiness, he knows allotment does not permanently stay with “having,” so he can forget worry and joy. “Seeing clearly the broad path”—life and death are the straight way of daily renewal; when one sees that beginning and end renew each day, one knows the “old” cannot be grasped and kept; passing through the new without alarm, letting go of the old without shock, the transformation of life and death is one. What each knows is limited, and each lifespan has its allotted years—better to rest in the portion one receives. To seek the great by the small, reason never reaches the goal; when each rests in its portion, then small and great are both complete. If the tip of an autumn hair did not demand the work of heaven and earth, then all the surplus of the body would be discarded matter; if heaven and earth did not appear greater than an autumn hair, then attending only to their visible form would be self-sufficient—how then would one know the fixed fineness of the fine or the fixed greatness of the great?

Commentary by Lü

The Dao does not divide into large and small; it has no fixed form. Heaven and earth seem vast beyond measure, yet when you look at the tip of an autumn hair, its shape alone is already complete—on what basis can anyone insist that what is fine must truly be fine, or that what is great must truly be great?

The Dao does not divide into large and small and has no fixed form. Heaven and earth I take to be greatest; speaking of an autumn hair, once you see its image as whole, that is enough—how can you fix “fine” as fine and “great” as great?

Again: the Dao does not divide into large and small… (continuing the above) I think something is greatest, yet what I know is limited; what we call great or small may not truly be great or small. Small is not necessarily less, great is not necessarily more, because the span of measure is boundless. What we call “past” and “present”—before the words are finished, the “present” has already become “past.” Past and present have no stopping point. When you realize that past and present are both “old,” then the long does not feel oppressive and the brief does not make you strain upward—you know that time has no end.

How can one brood and wait only for a lifespan of a hundred years? To find the long span stifling is to treat distance (yao) as suffering. Peng Zu became famous for living long; the crowd compares themselves to him, and in brief lives they want to stretch on tiptoe—that is to treat haste (duo) as something to chase.

When the sun is at noon it already inclines west; when the moon is full it wanes. Seeing fullness and emptiness clearly, gain brings no joy and loss brings no grief—you know that allotted place is never fixed. Where there is a beginning there must be an end; where there is an end there must be a beginning. From origin to outcome, as clear as a level road, birth brings no joy and death brings no grief—you know that beginning and end cannot be grasped as a single fixed point. What that thing calls time, part, end, and beginning—where is the true knowing? If what you call knowing is not true knowing, what you know is inferior to what you do not know. In life there is knowing; before birth there is no knowing—in life you are actually worse off than before birth. Knowing is the utmost small; the boundless is the utmost great. Using the utmost small to exhaust the utmost great, you only wander and cannot rest in yourself.

Personal View

If people can see that the measure of things and the divisions of time are not fixed, why insist on hard verdicts about end and beginning, large and small, many and few? When you see clearly that present and past never stop turning, this principle shows itself.

Yao: duration stretched long. Duo: the speed of shifting. Not oppressive (bu men): not weary of life because one lives long. Not straining on tiptoe (bu qi): not greedy for extended life because one lives briefly. Length of life has a fixed allotment; resting in your allotment is enough.

Humans cannot avoid being born and cannot avoid knowing; when the classic says “better not to know” and “better not to have been born,” it means worldly people do not seek true knowing but spin in shallow knowing.