《庄子翼》Vol. 8

On Wang Ni’s Answer to Nie Que’s Question

People do not pursue genuine knowledge yet chase after false knowledge; they do not preserve life yet strain to “add to life.” Length of life and death each have their allotted share—one need only rest in one’s place. Human beings cannot help being mortal or having knowledge, yet the text says “better not to know” and “better not to have been born.” The point is: if people will not seek true knowledge but pursue vain knowledge, will not keep wholeness of life but chase “adding to life,” use a limited body to pursue limitless desires, forget their proper share yet hope for luck, and cannot even see clearly what helps or harms themselves, how can they fix the boundary between what is large and small, coarse and fine? Hence “better not to know”—Wang Ni’s reply to Nie Que means just that; “better not to have been born”—the skull’s refusal to return to the toil of the human world means the same. Once one is born and knows, how does one free oneself from that burden? Answer: if one can take “non-birth” as birth and “not knowing” as knowing, then life carries no drag and knowledge no load.

He Bo and Beihai Ruo on “Refinement and Magnitude”

He Bo said: When people talk, they say “what is most refined has no form, what is greatest cannot be enclosed”—can that be trusted?

Beihai Ruo said: Viewing the large from the small, you do not see the whole; viewing the small from the large, you do not see it clearly. The refined is minute; the great is vast—so what is convenient differs; that comes from position and circumstance. Both refinement and coarseness concern things that have form. What has no form is what number (name and measure) cannot divide; what cannot be enclosed is what number cannot exhaust. What can be put into words is the coarse side of things; what can be grasped in mind is the refined side. What words cannot tell and mind cannot discern lies outside refinement and coarseness.

Therefore the conduct of the great person: what they do does not go beyond “not harming others”—not from deliberately piling on benevolence; action is not for private gain—not from therefore looking down on gatekeepers; they do not contend over goods—not from therefore overdoing refusal and yielding; they do not get things done by leaning on others—not from therefore feeding much on others’ strength; they do not despise corruption while acting unlike the vulgar—not from therefore making a show of being different; they follow the crowd—not from therefore despising flattery. Rank and salary in the world are not enough to move their heart; disgrace and punishment are not enough to wound their will, because they know right and wrong cannot be forced apart and large and small cannot be fixed at a boundary.

It is also said: the person of the Dao does not seek fame; supreme De does not seek to “have”; the great person has no grip on “self”—that is keeping to one’s share at the utmost limit.

Main Points of Guo Xiang’s Commentary

What the eye sees has a fixed range and cannot be infinite, so toward the large something is always left unseen and toward the small something stays unclear—simply what eyesight does not reach. Refinement and magnitude are not “nothing”; if they were formless and unenclosable, there would be no differing conveniences of large and small. Precisely because there is refinement and coarseness, one cannot say they are wholly without form—if they were utterly nothing, whence refinement and coarseness? Words and intention are “something,” but what words speak of and intention intends is “nothing” (not fixed), so one must go beyond words and intention into the realm of no words and no intention—that is arrival. The great person acts without deliberate intent and follows heaven’s course; wherever the foot falls is naturally auspicious ground—how would they walk a path that harms others? No harm, so benevolence is not piled on artificially. Moving in accord with principle, there is no harm in principle, so gatekeepers are not despised—each fulfills capacity and place suits share; it is not because the role is “low” that one is put there. Goods are not contested; each rests in their allotment; yielding stays moderate. Affairs are not done by borrowing others; each bears their duty; one does not overeat—enough strength is enough. Corruption is not despised because on principle there is no greed; acting unlike the vulgar is because nothing is mandatory or forbidden, so it differs from custom—not a deliberate pose. Following the crowd is following what the crowd does while remaining naturally upright. Rank and salary are insufficient inducement; disgrace and punishment insufficient insult—outer things do not tie the heart. Knowing that right and wrong and large and small cannot be split apart, one merges and equalizes. Entrusting things to themselves, each thing’s nature opens of itself; fame and merit belong to things. The person of the Dao does not seek reputation; what is “gotten” arises from “loss”—each thing without loss, names fall away, so supreme De does not seek to possess. The great person only entrusts things to themselves, hence no “self.” Keeping to share at the utmost is using “ultimate share” as restraint—that is also guard. Only by exhausting “formless and unenclosable” does one reach this.

Lü Commentary (Plain Language)

When you look at something large from the perspective of the small, the eye cannot take it all in—that is only not seeing it whole, not that a large thing cannot be enclosed. When you look at something small from the perspective of the large, like a tiny insect resting on an eyelash or a gnat on the lid, so fine that it cannot be seen—that is only not seeing it clearly, not that there is no form.

Fine and coarse both belong to what has form; what is formless cannot be divided by number or measure; a scope that cannot be enclosed cannot be exhausted by number or measure either. What can be put into words is the coarse side of things; what can be grasped in mind is the fine side. Dao, however, goes beyond speech and thought—it cannot be pinned down as “fine” or “coarse.”

So in how a great person acts, they neither deliberately harm people’s natural endowment nor pile up benevolence and perform many youwei (deliberate, contrived) acts. A gatekeeper who lives by profit does not quarrel through yielding; one who eats by strength does not borrow from others; the greedy and corrupt do the opposite; those who seek novelty take “being unlike ordinary people” as their skill; flatterers only follow lord and parents, not the crowd—these too all arise from nature. Rank, salary, and punishment in the world are not enough truly to encourage good or stop evil.

How could they understand that right and wrong are originally a human judgment, and small and large are originally a relative boundary?

Xiangdao Commentary (Plain Language)

If a person can reduce fixation on “division” to the utmost, until there is no such division left, then the Daoist need not “hear” anything in particular, supreme De (Virtue/Power) need not “obtain” anything in particular, and the great person therefore has no limit and no clinging to self—all follow the same pattern of reasoning.

Detailed Account of the Way

The “Great Man” governs all under heaven by letting the heart forget things and letting the Dao forget the heart; what he applies his mind to never strays from the single thought of not harming others. Some may suspect him of excessive kindness and grace, yet he does not pride himself on kindness; some may suspect him of not competing for goods and of excessive yielding, yet he does not treat yielding as a virtue to boast of; some may suspect him of refusing others’ food and hiding his strength as feigned poverty and feigned integrity, yet he does not take self-abasement or grasping as shameful; some may suspect his conduct of differing from the world as deliberate eccentricity, yet he does not treat being unconventional as something to pursue. He does not look down on himself because of a gatekeeper’s station, does not play the pure man because he is greedy, and does not play the upright man because he is fawning and sycophantic. Thus rank and stipend and disgrace and punishment cannot stir his inner mind; right and wrong, great and small, need not be sorted out toward the outside. Whatever fineness or coarseness falls within speech and meaning—why should it be lodged in the heart? Hearing what need not be heard, obtaining without really obtaining, until there is no self—“I have lost me”—where is there still an “object” to face? This is not reached by constraining oneself with names and categories; one who truly arrives is also not something categories can fully capture.

Limited View

Looking at the large from the small, one only sees “cannot see it all”—the large is not limited to that; looking at the small from the large, one only sees “cannot see it clearly”—it is not that the small has no form. Fineness is the extreme of the small; vastness (fou) is the fullness of the large. Though large and small differ, whatever has image and can be counted has arising and perishing. When fineness has no form and vastness cannot be enclosed, they are not fixed by form nor divided by number, so arising and perishing no longer apply. What is coarse in things can be spoken; what is fine can only be intuited; beyond fine and coarse, speech and meaning do not reach. Where speech and meaning do not reach and form and number cannot be split apart, perhaps only the Dao is like this. Therefore the Great Man puts benefiting things first and does not think himself especially kind; he is not moved by profit, yet does not despise those who chase profit; in describing the Great Man’s conduct as unlike the world, he does not even despise the fawning and sycophantic—gentleman and petty person each go their way; right and wrong and great and small need not be argued; rank and punishment are hardly worth using as encouragement or warning.

He Bo asked: When we look from outside things and from inside things, how should we distinguish what is noble from what is base, what is large from what is small? And where is the boundary?

Beihai Ruo replied: From the perspective of the Dao, the myriad things originally have no division into noble and base; from each thing’s own perspective, each takes itself as noble and others as base; from worldly standards, noble and base are not for oneself alone to decide; from the perspective of difference, if you follow the “large” side and enlarge it, nothing under heaven is not large; if you follow the “small” side and shrink it, nothing under heaven is not small. Once you know that heaven and earth are no more than a grain of millet, and the tip of a hair can be seen as a hill, the scale of difference becomes clear.

From the perspective of function and use: if you follow the side of “having,” then the myriad things all “have”; if you follow the side of “not having,” then the myriad things all “not have.” Knowing that east and west oppose each other yet neither can do without the other, function and designation are settled. From the perspective of inclination and orientation: if you follow the side of “so,” then the myriad things all are “so”; if you follow the side of “not so,” then the myriad things all are “not so.” Knowing that Yao and Jie each hold to what is “natural” to them yet mutually deny each other, the differences in inclination and conduct appear.

In antiquity Yao and Shun abdicated the throne and became emperors; King Kuai of Yan ceded the state to Zizhi (a high minister of Yan) and lost the kingdom; Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou went to war and became kings; Lord Bai (grandson of King Ping of Chu) raised troops to seize the throne and perished. Viewed from this, the ritual of contention versus yielding, the conduct of Yao versus Jie—noble and base, right and wrong all depend on circumstance and situation; they cannot be treated as fixed rules that never change.

In this passage Guo Xiang explains ideas akin to “things have no fixed high or low, noble or base” in the Qi Wu Lun (Discourse on Equalizing Things) chapter of the Zhuangzi: all things originally lack a fixed hierarchy of worth; each is already complete in following its own nature. When one elevates oneself and demeans other things, that is merely narrow discrimination. The Dao works through countless interwoven relations to “equalize” such differences into one whole.

What is meant by inversion is taking what should count as great or small and reversing it: what truly deserves esteem is that “each is sufficient in its nature”; what should be held lightly is the sense that “one still lacks something.” Thus, with respect to nature, a hair’s tip and a hill are not different in being called “great”; with respect to having nothing superfluous, heaven and earth and a tiyi (an extremely tiny grain of rice) are not different in being called “small.”

If one fixes only on how great or small differences are, and does not view them from this path of equalizing things, differences pile up layer upon layer; even the finest points oppose one another, and there is no end to examining them. In the world, there is no one who is not both “that” and “this”; each side wants “each to be what it is,” like east opposed to west. Yet between “that” and “this” there is also the relation of lips and teeth—lips and teeth need not “do things for each other,” but when the lips are gone the teeth grow cold, showing that the other’s being itself for itself just completes my achievement; the reverse cannot cancel each other. Therefore, if one insists only on “each acting for itself” and denies their mutual function, it seems as though nothing in the world has achievement; if one acknowledges that they “cannot do without each other” and sees their function, then nothing in the world lacks achievement.

If one goes further and forgets the natural achievement of each resting in its nature, yet reckons up “mutual favor and mutual help,” the more favor is pressed, the thinner things become; the world loses its steady occupations, and dispositions overflow into disorder. Hence the boundary between achievement and allotment has no fixed time or fixed standard.

All things follow nature, so there is nothing “not so”; all things also stand opposed to one another, so there is nothing “not otherwise.” Where there is nothing “not otherwise,” there is no “so”; where there is nothing “not so,” there is no “otherwise.” Neither “so” nor “otherwise” is the state embodied by Yao; both “so” and “otherwise” is the state embodied by Jie. Yet Yao and Jie each received tiansu (the plain nature given by Heaven) and cannot replace one another; judging the world’s aims and conduct by Yao and Jie shows that they cannot act in each other’s stead.

One who responds to Heaven and accords with people and receives the realm still shows, in outward form, differences of struggle and yielding; if one pursues only the traces, one loses what the traces depend on. Hence it is said that (clinging to traces leads to) extinction (of the original point).

Note: This passage is Guo Xiang’s exegesis on equalizing things, other-and-self, self-action as mutual completion, and the contrast between Yao and Jie; the source text contains slight repetition in places, which this interpretation has merged for clarity of meaning.

Viewed through the eyes of the Dao (the Way), the ten thousand things offer no basis for dividing noble from base. If each thing looks from its own angle, it will lift itself up and put others down. Yet the Dao is not a thing among things; seen with ordinary worldly eyes, noble and base do not stay fixed on any one side. Since the Dao is neither material nor worldly, there is nothing to call noble or base in the first place.

Follow what in things looks “large,” and you call it large; follow what looks “small,” and you call it small. Know this: set against the Great Void, heaven and earth can shrink to a grain of rice or a single hair; set against hills and mountains, what has no form can swell to the size of a mountain range. So-called “differences” show up plainly in such comparisons. The Dao does not rest in those differences, so there is no genuine large or small in it.

Speak from the side of “having,” and east implies west; speak from the side of “not having,” and without east there is no west. Once you see that east and west face each other and cannot stand alone, what people call gong—effect, boundary—has its line drawn. The Dao does not rest in that border between being and non-being, so there is no true being or non-being in it.

Affirm what you take as right; reject what you take as wrong. Knowing that Yao and Jie each act from their own “rightness” yet deny each other, what people call qu—orientation, stance—stands revealed. The Dao does not rest in those yes-and-no positions, so there is no true right or wrong in it.

If that is so, those who cultivate the Dao let both sides go and settle in tianjun, natural equilibrium—why bother sorting noble from base, large from small? Treat Yao and Shun’s yielding the throne as right, and Zizhi and Kuai look wrong; treat Tang and Wu’s armed rise as right, and men like Bai Gong Sheng look wrong. Striving and yielding, the ways of Yao and of Jie—what counts as noble or base shifts with time and place and cannot be frozen into one eternal rule.

A roof beam can ram a city wall, yet it cannot plug a small hole—each tool has its own use. A thousand-li steed can cover a thousand li in a day, yet for catching mice it is no match for a tabby cat—each creature’s skill differs. At night the owl can snatch fleas and see the finest hair; by day its eyes stare yet cannot make out hills and mountains—each nature is distinct. Therefore it is said: to learn only that “this one is right and nothing else is,” to learn only that “this one way governs and nothing else brings disorder,” is still not to have understood the principle of Heaven and Earth or the true condition of the ten thousand things.

At night the owl can snatch fleas and see the finest hair; by day its eyes stare yet cannot make out hills and mountains—each nature is distinct. Therefore it is said: to learn only that “this one is right and nothing else is,” to learn only that “this one way governs and nothing else brings disorder,” is still not to have understood the principle of Heaven and Earth or the true condition of the ten thousand things. This is like taking Heaven alone as one’s model and ignoring Earth, taking Yin alone as one’s model and ignoring Yang—obviously it will not work. Yet people keep preaching and will not stop—either they are confused or they are deceiving others. The way emperors passed on the throne differed (Yao and Shun abdicated; the Three Dynasties used hereditary succession). If a method did not fit the age or went against custom, it was condemned as usurpation; if it suited the time and accorded with custom, it was praised as the way of righteousness. Be silent, River Lord—how could you know through which gate “noble and base” enter, or in which house “great and small” dwell?

Notes on terms: Liangli means a roof ridge or beam; zhi means to block or stop up; zao means flea; chixiu is a nocturnal bird of prey, here contrasted with being unable to see hills and mountains by day.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (summary)

Employ each thing according to its difference, and nothing among the ten thousand things is unsuitable. In the principle of Heaven and Earth and the condition of the ten thousand things, what fits oneself is taken as right and what does not as wrong; what accords with nature is taken as order and what loses harmony as disorder—because natures differ, there is no single master of right and wrong. If one insists on imposing what one takes as right, the other side cannot simply “reject this”; one only knows oneself and does not see the other. Therefore, viewed through the Dao (the Way), right and wrong need not be fixed in one place; entrusted to Heaven’s balance and allowing both lines to stand, different regions can each find their place. Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang arise in mutual opposition; right and wrong, order and disorder likewise depend on each other—what could be cut away? What the vulgar honor is sometimes also despised; what things count as great the world sometimes treats as small. Thus following the traces of things inevitably involves differences—this is precisely why the Five Emperors and Three Kings acted differently.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary (summary)

A beam cannot plug a hole, a thoroughbred cannot catch mice, an owl cannot see by day—the three differ, yet to force them into one standard is still not to have understood Heaven’s principle and things’ conditions. The former reading (Guo’s) stresses the exclusive sense of “each gets what fits”; the latter, if it speaks only of “the many” without distinguishing implements, skills, and natures, is empty talk about plurality alone.

In my humble view: Different implements serve different purposes; different skills have different strengths; different natures suit different conditions—one cannot treat them all the same. If you take only “order” as your model and ignore “disorder,” or take only Yin as your model and ignore Yang, you have not grasped the principle of heaven, earth, and the myriad things. Abdication and succession, compliance and reversal—each follows its time; there is no need for long argument. Even if you argue, you only discuss surface traces. How then could you know the root of nobility and baseness, largeness and smallness? To know where nobility and baseness, largeness and smallness come from, you must seek them in the realm of “when things have not yet arisen.”

Hebo asked: If that is so, what should I do and what should I not do? What should I accept and what decline, what approach and what abandon? What am I to do?

Beihai Ruo answered:

Seen from the Dao, there is neither nobility nor baseness—this is turning against fixed norms and not clinging to conventional views (fan qi changgui). Let intention be as vast as the Dao; how can “less” and “more” be clearly stated? This is each employing its own capacity, not forcibly acting in another’s place (xie shi). To hold to one side alone is to fall out of step with the Dao.

Solemn as a lord of a state, not boasting of private virtue; easy as a sacrifice to the earth god, not seeking private blessing; vast as the boundless four directions, with no fixed boundary, embracing the myriad things, none able to bear or sustain them alone—this is having no fixed direction (wu fang). The myriad things are originally equal—who is long, who is short?

The Dao has no beginning or end; things have birth and death, not relying on any fixed form. Full and empty alternate; forms were never fixed. Years cannot be fully counted; time cannot be halted. Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness, ending and beginning again—these are the direction of “great meaning” and the place where the principle of the myriad things is discussed. The birth and death of things are like sudden flight and sudden change: nothing is still, nothing unchanged, nothing not in flux at every moment. Why still ask “what to do and what not to do”? Each will transform on its own.

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

On reversal and keeping to one’s lot. What is meant by “reversal” (fanfu) is that ranks such as noble and base turn and alternate in a cycle. If a person clings to fixed views and refuses to let go, they cannot rest in the Dao; one should follow each person’s proper share (fen), and then what is done has no fixed pattern. Those who are not in tune with the Dao and cannot shift with circumstances cannot be leveled with the Dao.

On selflessness and boundlessness. “Virtue without private ends” (wusi zhi de) is simply holding to fairness where it belongs; “blessing without private ends” is what all under heaven jointly seek. Where there are no borders or limits, one is like someone adrift—unconstrained and unanchored. The line “embracing all things in one’s care—who would bear them on wings?” (jian huai wanwu, qi shuo cheng yi) means governing the living with an inclusive heart so that each returns to their allotment and each keeps their place while moving steadily forward—not like spreading branches to prop someone up on purpose.

On having no fixed direction and on long and short. Precisely because there is no fixed quarter (wufang), one can take the myriad things as one’s directions; long and short each find their own sufficiency.

On life and death and on “completion.” Life and death are nothing but unending transformation—not a single line with a head and a tail. Do not treat “completion” (cheng) as a constant you can lean on; accomplishment has no permanent abode. “Not taking one’s stand in form” (bu wei hu xing) means not treating the bodily form as a seat to hold and never leave unchanged.

On the year and the season. “The year cannot be lifted up” (nian bu ke ju)—you cannot pick it up and move it aside; “the season cannot be halted” (shi bu ke zhi)—you cannot make it stop.

On fullness and emptiness, end and beginning. Full and empty, end and beginning—each day they renew; they never cling to the old.

On sudden rush and slow pace and spontaneous transformation. Whether swift or leisurely, one should respond as use demands and not fix a pattern and hold to it. To deliberate in acting or in not acting in the midst of this is to damage the process by which the myriad things transform of themselves (zihua).

Commentary by Lu: Practitioners of the Way usually keep their minds tied to concrete things. Once they hear that “the Way has no high or low,” at the crossroads of accepting or declining, pursuing or letting go, they often do not know which way to turn—this is only human. The “high and low” spoken of here are merely relative relations between things in “return” and “level” (cycle and balance); they are not the Way itself. Where there is “return,” there is “going forth”: return as high, going forth as low; where there is “level,” there is “depletion”: level as high, depletion as low. At such times one should release fixed intent and not cling; if intent is clenched, one strays from the Great Way and the path is hard and blocked. What is called “little” and “much” is only change between “decline” (withdrawal and yielding) and “bestowal” (giving and unfolding)—again, not the Way. In decline there is honor: decline as little, honor as much; in bestowal there is restraint: bestowal as much, restraint as little. One should walk both sides, not only one; if one holds to a single pole, one is not aligned with the Great Way and misses the center. De (virtue/power) without partiality does not lean solely on those one honors; intent without fixation is precisely this natural flow between decline and bestowal. Blessing without partiality does not seek blessing only from those one sacrifices to; not clinging to one side is exactly this. Without boundaries, one connects with the Way and avoids great obstruction—this too is the meaning. Who can bear and who can follow behind? This is “no fixed direction”: the ten thousand things are equalized, matching the Way without unevenness. If one relies only on what is already settled, one does not see that beginning and end were never fixed; if one values form and rank alone, one does not observe fullness and emptiness and does not know that names and roles have no permanence. Years cannot be listed one by one, so what is distant does not oppress; seasons cannot be forced to stay, so one gathers without straining on tiptoe. Message and silence, fullness and emptiness—when one ends, another begins; it is only the movement of Heaven’s Way. This is what is meant by speaking the direction of the Great Way and discussing the principle of the ten thousand things. Why bind the heart to the gates of declining or accepting, pursuing or abandoning? Like a galloping horse, now fast, now slow, change dense and shifting—why tie the mind to the gap between acting and not acting? Things naturally transform and arrange themselves; and transformation is what is called “going”—going of itself, no longer clinging.

Detailed exposition on the Way: “Level” is broad, flat ground; in reverse change, level can become a slope (a hollow). The boundary between level and slope was never fixed—are high and low, going forth and return, not the same kind of thing? “Bestowal” is the work of benevolence; decline (yielding and withdrawal) is giving without thinking one is bestowing benevolence—what need to count little and much? In return and level, forget high and low, unburdened by fame; in decline and bestowal, forget little and much, unburdened by profit. There is no one who, able to do this, does not return to the root.

On the Meaning in the “Bixu” Passage

Nobility and baseness have no fixed master; turning and flowing back is the constant way. The great Dao is broad and level; letting the heart-mind roam freely is what allows one to find one’s own passage. Endowment has its allotted measure—when one has little, to yield; when one has much, to give—is what fits. The world’s ways are uneven; in going and stopping, adapting to circumstances is what is right. If virtue is partial, it is hard to be strict and steadfast; if good fortune is partial, it is hard to keep for long. Where there are boundaries, one cannot broadly embrace; where there are fixed places, things support one another in turn—yet if one still tries to “support and shelter” everything at once, De is lost. Forget the self and there is no clinging to long or short; forget the heart-mind and there is no bondage of birth and death; forget rank and there is no burden of fullness or emptiness; forget years and one follows transformation; forget seasons and one follows change. When even the waxing and waning of news is not counted, who can still fix a beginning and end for anyone? Nothing is without a moment of not being born, nothing without a moment of not transforming; change is like a sudden rain, movement like a gallop. Yin-Yang alternate and the four seasons replace one another—they naturally bring forth and nurture on their own. Why should the heart-mind be hung between “acting” and “not acting”?

Hebo and Beihai Ruo on the Worth of the Dao

Hebo asked: If that is so, what is there in the Dao that deserves honor?

Beihai Ruo answered: One who understands the Dao is sure to penetrate principle; one who penetrates principle is sure to discern timely adaptation; one who discerns timely adaptation does not let outer things harm the self. One whose De reaches the utmost—fire does not burn, water does not drown, cold and heat do not afflict, birds and beasts do not injure—not because the body is made unusually thin, but because one sees safety and danger clearly, finds peace amid fortune and misfortune, and is careful in going and staying, so that nothing can harm one. Hence it is said: Heaven is on the inside, the human is on the outside; the root of De is in Heaven. To understand that the root of the way Heaven and the human operate lies in Heaven, and that each dwells in its proper place—whether advancing, retreating, bending, or stretching, all can return to the essential point—at the extreme of speech this comes down to: What is called Heaven? What is called the human?

Beihai Ruo also said: Oxen and horses are born with four feet—this is called “Heaven” (natural suchness). Putting a halter on a horse or a ring through an ox’s nose—this is called “the human” (artificial contrivance). Therefore do not use the human to extinguish Heaven, do not use cleverness to ruin allotted life, do not chase empty reputation with what you have gained. To hold carefully and not lose—that is called “returning to the true.”

(Where later text repeats the above, the sense is the same: the knower of the Dao understands principle; the one who understands principle knows timely weight; the one who knows timely weight is not harmed by things. One of utmost De is unharmed by fire, water, cold, heat, or beasts, by discerning safety and danger, settling fortune and misfortune, and being careful in going and staying—not by a special thinness of form. It again affirms Heaven within, the human without, De rooted in Heaven, and “do not use the human to extinguish Heaven, do not use the old to extinguish allotted life, do not follow name with gain”; to guard without losing is to return to the true.)

Why is the Dao esteemed? Because it lets people and the ten thousand things transform themselves. Whoever understands this sees that “I” was not made by anyone else—“no [external] maker” means no creator from outside; with no such creator, “I” begets myself. Limbs and trunk, the five viscera and spirit were not built by deliberate contrivance but formed of themselves; if that is so, why after arising should one still fret over “how to keep on being generated”?

Whoever fully grasps this principle can drop excessive cleverness and let go of the obsession with over-cultivating life, follow change and adapt as things come—so outer things do not wound the inner heart, desire does not harm the person, and wholeness is often preserved. Where the heart is settled, danger cannot reach it; where the will is at ease, hardship cannot break it. That is not treating safety and danger lightly; when the heart is calm one does not deliberately invite calamity. Seeing that safety and danger cannot be outrun, one rests fate in fortune and misfortune alike. Being careful in choosing and rejecting, weighing the rights and wrongs of going and staying, and not treating harm from outside as real harm—then nothing can truly harm you.

“Heaven” is inner, “human” is outer: what is natural stays within, while what nature accords with appears outward in human affairs. Hence The Great Master says that knowing what heaven and human each ought to do is the utmost. Distinguishing inner from outer, one sees that neither side is deliberate doing. De (Virtue/Power) belongs to heaven: indulging human effort and letting cleverness run wild makes one drift and lose the natural. Natural knowing acts on its own and does not step outside its place; so though one moves in outer affairs, one constantly roots in heaven and stands in attainment.

Advancing and retreating, bending and stretching—speech matching the moment—produce just such shifts.

Returning to the essential and speaking to the limit: though knowing ranges over heaven and earth and affairs touch the ten thousand things, one never loses the essential pole, and the way of heaven and human is complete.

Born into the world, can one avoid making oxen submit and horses be ridden? Oxen and horses are bridled and harnessed not because they “want” it but because fate assigns it so. When one aligns with fate, though life is entrusted to human affairs, the root still lies in heaven. Drive too hard, let pace slip from measure, and heavenly principle is snuffed out. One should not violate each thing’s self-acting and forcibly “act for” it—where then would “fate” remain?

What one receives has a constant allotment; dying for reputation beyond one’s share is excess.

To return to the true is to find the true within the bounds of one’s nature-allotment.

Commentary by Lü

“Let all things transform of themselves—this is the Dao.” River Lord He Bo did not grasp this; instead, he sought deliberate action beyond what things already accomplish by themselves—so where do fate and what is allotted stand? What is due has its fixed measure; giving one’s life for reputation is going too far. “Return to what is authentic”: authenticity lies within each being’s inborn portion.

Letting things transform of themselves is the Dao, yet River Lord still did not awaken—hence he asked what is so precious about the Dao. Sea Lord Ruò spoke of grasping principle, discerning expedience, and not letting outer things harm the self—this is the work of one who “knows the Dao,” not yet the utmost of “embodying the Dao.” As for fire and water not harming, cold and heat not injuring—that is the native sphere of one who embodies the Dao; it is not merely staying at the level of saying “discern safety and danger, be careful in advance and retreat, nothing can harm you.” To discern safety and danger, be careful in advance and retreat, and have nothing harm you—that is only knowing the Dao, grasping principle, and discerning expedience. Resting in fortune and misfortune, knowing what cannot be helped and accepting it—then “Heaven” is within; discerning advance and retreat, knowing what people must fear and not daring to fail to fear it—then “the human” is without. Entering virtue thus, though one has not yet reached “Heaven without the human,” virtue is already rooted in Heaven. Knowing that the conduct of Heaven and the human is rooted in Heaven and its place is in what is allotted—then from Heaven one moves in and out among humans, bending and stretching, halting and pacing, and in turning to the utmost in speech, one returns from the human back to Heaven. From “do not use the human to extinguish Heaven” through to “return to what is authentic,” one no longer merely “knows the Dao” regarding the Dao.

Personal View

From the opening of the chapter to here there are six rounds of question and answer, like wind driving distant waves—closer they come, the fiercer they surge; at this point the breakers foam like snow and one can hardly keep up; in a moment all is clear again, and ten thousand acres of water reflect the sky in one blue depth—where human artifice returns to authenticity and the inner pivot is empty and still, one may enter into this precisely here. The person of utmost virtue, through the human, clarifies Heaven; through expedience, grasps principle; discerns safety and danger and is careful in advance and retreat—outer things cannot harm. Yet such a one never relies on this to look down on things: Heaven within establishes the substance; the human without carries the function. When virtue rests in Heaven, one aligns with spirit and becomes unfathomable in direction and place. Embodying Heaven and dwelling in virtue, bending and stretching follow the world; when speech turns to the utmost, do not lose authenticity. Thus the meaning of how to situate oneself and how to situate others is complete, so River Lord understood in the heart and asked no more.

Fang (a legendary one-legged beast) pitied the xian (the thousand-foot worm), the xian pitied the snake, the snake pitied wind, wind pitied the eye, and the eye pitied the heart.

Fang said to the xian: “I hop on one foot and already find that hard enough; you have escaped that trouble—yet how do all those feet of yours move in step together?”

The xian replied: “Not so. Have you never seen someone spit? What flies out includes large drops like pearls and fine spray like mist; they fall in confusion and cannot be counted. I too move by tianji (Heaven’s spontaneous motion—not deliberate arrangement); I do not understand why it happens.”

The xian said to the snake: “I walk with many feet yet still cannot keep up with you who have none—why?”

The snake said: “What tianji sets in motion, who can change at will? What use would feet be to me?”

The snake said to wind: “I progress by writhing back and ribs, and one can still see I have a form; you roar from the northern sea and roar into the southern sea as if you were nothing at all—why?”

Wind said: “True—I roar from the northern sea and into the southern sea. Yet when others point at me, they point straight at me; when they chase me, they catch me. Even so, snapping great trees and tearing up huge houses—only I can do that. Thus: losing in many small contests yet winning the great total victory—only the sage (shengren) can achieve victory on that scale.”

Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary: Things are born not because they “know they should be born”; they act not because they “know they should walk.” So feet do not know what counts as walking, nor eyes what counts as seeing. Wind has no form; the eye has form—form stays here while function flows there; the heart (xin) is solid and subtle within, while shen (spirit) roams outward. In the text “Fang” is also written Kui (the one-legged beast).

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

All things come into being not because they “know how to live,” and the way life runs is not because they “know how to act.” The feet do not know what makes them walk; the eyes do not know what makes them see; the mind does not know what makes it know—yet a person is naturally at ease in rising and lying down. Whether one is quick or slow, sharp or dull, capable or not, none of it is ruled by that supposed “I.” Some people try to hold on tight to this body and show off what they can do, and so they go against the heavenly mechanism and harm their innate spirit. The perfected person knows that the heavenly mechanism cannot be forced, so they drop clever tricks and deliberate scheming, as if forgetting that they are “doing” anything, and simply let things be—then every move is free. Following each being’s own heavenly mechanism and not competing with things outside is what is called “small victory.” Yet the sage guides the myriad things and puts every talent to use, so each fulfills its role and each stays in its place, and under heaven nothing fails to be carefree—that is the “great victory” the sage speaks of.

Lu’s Commentary

In the parable, the one-legged creature finds a single foot convenient and pities the centipede for the trouble of so many feet; the centipede finds many feet convenient and pities the snake for having no feet; the snake pities the wind for moving ribs and flanks—while the wind sweeps from the northern sea into the southern sea. From this we see: what the eye is bound to is seeing this and that, but if the mind does not cling to the view of one moment and one place, every contact can be arrival. The one-legged creature thinks one foot is easier and pities the difficulty of many feet; the many-footed think many feet are easier and pity the difficulty of no feet. When the heavenly mechanism stirs, no one knows why it is so—how can ease or difficulty lie in whether feet are many, few, or absent? Thus we know that wind, eye, and mind are all simply natural. Someone who, like the River Lord (He Bo), fusses over rank and quantity cannot compare with this realm. The wind takes “small non-victory” as “great victory”; human eye and mind are far more subtle than wind, yet cannot reach that state of no seeing and no knowing while still seeing and knowing, governing the myriad things and achieving “great victory”—how then can that be called true understanding?

Detailed Treatment of the Way

If you take “feet” as the capital on which to settle body and mind, one leg is not as adequate as those of the millipede with its myriad feet—so the one-legged beast Kui envies the centipede. If you take “feet” as a burden, a thousand legs are not as free as having none—so the centipede envies the snake. The snake already “has” something (a body, bending and stretching), yet feels that “non-being” (like the formlessness of wind) is still not enough, and so envies the wind. The wind is unsettled and leaves no fixed trace; it feels that having direction and limit is less free, and so envies the eye. The eye attends to one thing at a time, while the heart-mind can embrace everything—hence the saying that, following this chain of envy, what one should ultimately envy is the “heart-mind.”

Confucius was traveling in Kuang when the people of Song surrounded him in many rings; he still played the zither and sang without stopping. Zilu went in and asked: Why is the Master so joyful? Confucius said: Come, I will tell you—I have long tried to avoid “being trapped in poverty,” yet cannot escape it; I have long pursued “being unobstructed and successful,” yet cannot attain it. Under Yao and Shun the world was not without people in poverty—it was not that they did not know what “attainment” meant. Under Jie and Zhou the world was not without people who were unobstructed—it was not that they did not know what “loss” meant. The times are simply like this. On water, not avoiding dragons and serpents when boating is the courage of a fisherman; on land, not avoiding rhinoceros and tiger when walking is the courage of a hunter; facing naked blades and treating death as home is the courage of a martyr; knowing that poverty and success follow fate and that unobstructed success has its season, yet not fearing when great hardship comes—that is the courage of the sage. I abide in this through the Way; my allotted span has its fixed measure. Before long, men in armor entered and apologized: We thought you were Yang Hu—that is why we surrounded you; now we know you are not—please allow us to withdraw and leave. (Per Sima Biao’s note: Song should read Wei; Kuang was in Wei.)

Guo Xiang’s reading (woven in): This passage uses Confucius’s experience of being besieged at Kuang while still seeking to “avoid poverty” and “gain unobstructed success” to show that times and fate are as they should be—there is no need to wear oneself out between poverty and success. The fisherman, hunter, and martyr each rest in their own disposition; the sage is at ease everywhere. Once one knows that fate is not something one alone can decide, there is no need for further scheming. Whoever rests in fate is free and at ease everywhere—so whether in Kuang, Chen, or Youli, it is no different from being at ease in the Purple Ultimate’s quiet hall.

Bixu’s reading (woven in): When the people of Song besieged Confucius, at first they took “every finger and every defense beating us” as a great victory; only when they knew their error and withdrew was that the so-called “great victory”—being able to retreat and to yield is what accords with the great Way.

Excerpt from Wings of Zhuangzi (Modern Paraphrase)

Azure Emptiness

When Confucius passed through Kuang, he was surrounded by men of Song. In that affair linked to Kuang, each side thought it had the upper hand; when they saw that course was wrong, they asked to lift the siege and withdraw—and that was the “great victory.”

Gong Sun Long asked Wei Mou: “In youth I studied under my teacher; in maturity I mastered the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I could debate sameness and difference, separate “hard” and “white,” and prevail on what is so or not so, possible or not—tying up the wit of the hundred schools and exhausting the arguments of many mouths. I thought I had reached the summit. Now, hearing one talk from Zhuangzi, I am dazed; it is utterly unlike before. I do not know whether my discourse falls short of his or my insight falls short of his. My mouth will not open. Dare I ask the reason?”

Wei Mou laughed up at the sky and said: “Have you never heard of the frog in the well? It said to the great turtle of the Eastern Sea: ‘I am happy! I hop on the well curb and rest on a broken ledge; I jump into the water and the water holds my chin; I step in the mud and it covers my feet. Compared with the little red worms, crabs, and tadpoles, none can match me. To have all the water of this pit and leap about in the well—my joy is complete. Sir, why not come often and look?’ The great turtle of the Eastern Sea had not yet fully put its left foot in before its right knee caught on the well mouth. It drew back and told of the sea: ‘A thousand li cannot measure its vastness; a thousand ren cannot fathom its depth. In Yu’s time there were nine floods in ten years, yet the sea did not grow; in Tang’s time there were seven droughts in eight years, yet the shore did not shrink. It does not change with the length of time, nor advance or retreat with the amount of water—this is the great joy of the Eastern Sea.’ The well frog heard this, stunned and at a loss.

“Moreover: not knowing the root of right and wrong, yet wanting to ‘observe’ Zhuangzi’s words—is like making a mosquito carry a mountain or a shangju (a tiny insect) race in the Yellow River; strength must fail. Those who know only immediate profit and loss but not the utmost subtle principle—are they not well frogs? And Zhuangzi’s Dao: below it treads the yellow springs; above it ascends the Great Sovereign; it opens to the four directions, sinks into the unfathomable—neither south nor north, neither east nor west. From the gate of mystery it sets out and returns to the Great Passage. Yet you would neatly seek it with scrutiny and hunt it with disputation—as if viewing heaven through a tube or pointing at earth with an awl—is that not too narrow? Be on your way.

“Have you never heard of the youth of Shouling? He went to Handan to learn how people walk there. He did not learn the Zhao gait and lost his own way of walking, and had to crawl home. If you do not leave now, you will forget your old work and lose your proper trade.”

Gong Sun Long’s mouth hung open and would not shut; his tongue lifted and would not come down. He fled.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

Being alone in a ditch and stepping happily at the rim of a shallow well is like a little bird content in a patch of weeds. When the great bird’s left foot has not yet landed and its right knee is already caught, that shows the large do not roam in small places—not because they prefer it. To envy the large from the small is to lose one’s proper place. Each thing has its own boundary; they cannot be forced to imitate one another. Starting from “youfang” (the point where limits begin) and returning to the great thoroughfare means that nothing is left unreached. Whoever can move in the boundless does not get there by disputation; whoever cannot bear that burden should simply leave. Using this to imitate that, both sides are lost.

Lü’s commentary

Disputes over right and wrong must be traced to where they begin. Grasp the place from which right and wrong arise, and you can see Yao and Jie as one body and place knowing and not-knowing in the same field of view—such a gaze is so vast that the mouth has nowhere to settle. From the Yellow Springs and the six extremes below up to the Grand Ultimate above, with no south or north, the four directions open wide; one sinks into what cannot be fathomed, forgetting bright and dark, direction and indirection, and enters the spirit. With no east or west, beginning at youfang and returning to the great thoroughfare, one merges with harmonious blending, goes beyond form and reaches clarity. In sum, what is called penetrating in six ways and opening in four directions, with form filling empty space, is just this; what mind cannot exhaust and words cannot discuss. If one fussily uses sharp sight and argumentative speech to pursue it, that is as narrow as viewing heaven through a tube or drawing the earth with an awl.

Kouyi (oral glosses)

Gongsun Long was a famous debater of the time. “Han” is the red worm in a well; “kanjing” is a shallow well—han, xie, and tadpoles all turn about in the well, hence “huan” (return/circle). Nine years of flood and seven of drought describe the alternation of wet and dry years; “ren chan jin” means the people have nothing left to live on. Zhuangzi writes “ten years nine floods, eight years seven droughts,” which differs from other versions. “Shi” here is the same as “yue” (joy). Shangqu is a small insect. “Chida” means to tread and walk. Dahuang refers to Heaven. Treading down to the Yellow Springs and ascending to Heaven means lofty aspiration and far-reaching vision. “Shiran” means at ease, released. “Sijie” is the four openings. “Lun yu bukece” refers to how deep one enters. “Shi yu youfang” means before the limitless; “fan yu datong” means returning to the utmost Dao. “Guo neng” means the steps one can take within the borders of Zhao.

Scripture (excerpt)

Zhuangzi was fishing in the Pu River when the King of Chu sent two grand officers ahead to state the king’s wish: he would entrust Zhuangzi with affairs within the realm. Zhuangzi held his fishing rod and, without turning his head, said: I have heard that in Chu there is a sacred tortoise that has been dead for three thousand years…

Zhuangzi was fishing on the bank of the Pu River (in the region of Chen). The king of Chu sent two grand officers ahead to state their purpose, saying they wished to entrust him with all affairs within the Chu domain. Zhuangzi still held his fishing rod and, without turning his head, said: “I have heard that in Chu there is a divine turtle that has been dead for three thousand years. The king wraps it in cloth and enshrines it in the high hall of the ancestral temple. For such a turtle, would it rather die and leave its bones to be honored and venerated, or rather live and wag its tail in the mud?” The two officers said: “It would rather live and wag its tail in the mud.” Zhuangzi said: “Go away—I too will wag my tail in the mud.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The parable of the divine turtle means that each nature has what suits it; one cannot force people into roles that do not fit.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Zhuangzi was not truly ignorant of life and death; he spoke this way to warn those of his time who chased profit and forgot how to live. Only men with the insight of these two officers were fit to hear what he meant.

Personal observation: Zhuangzi uses the divine turtle to decline office; this can be compared with Tao Hongjing’s reply to an imperial summons using the “two oxen” image—one yoked and confined in a pen by whip and rope, the other roaming freely among water and grass—the same point.

When Huizi was prime minister of Liang, Zhuangzi went to see him. Someone told Huizi: “Zhuangzi has come because he wants to take your place as minister.” Huizi was afraid and searched the state for three days and three nights. Zhuangzi went to see him and said: “In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu (a kind of divine bird akin to the phoenix)—do you know it? The yuanchu sets out from the southern sea and flies to the northern sea; it will not perch except on the parasol tree, will not eat except bamboo seeds (the fruit borne on bamboo), and will not drink except from a sweet spring. Just then an owl had gotten a rotten rat; as the yuanchu flew overhead, the owl looked up at it and gave an angry ‘sha!’ cry—do you mean to ‘sha!’ me with your state of Liang?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Search in the state” means mobilizing troops and conducting a thorough hunt throughout the land; the yuanchu parable means that tastes differ and each keeps to his proper place—there is no need to fight over what the other values.

Supplementary gloss: Yuanchu is the young phoenix; lianshi is bamboo seed; “sha” is the sound of anger and guarding food, afraid someone will snatch its rotten rat; “sha wo ye” means “Are you trying to scare me with the state of Liang?”

Supplementary Note (Fuyin)

The yuanchu (a divine bird akin to the phoenix) and lian shi (the fruit of bamboo) appear in a famous contrast: when the bird is angry it makes a threatening cry, afraid someone will steal its food. Reading how people interact in the world, one cannot help smiling here—Zhuangzi has been portraying for ages the small-minded person who clings to what they have; a single word for “bearing” or “appearance” brings the whole attitude to life—wonderfully done. The Cheng commentary collected in Guan jian takes sou as “searching within the state”; Guo Xiang’s note reads sou as huan (owl-like birds). The owl gets a rotten rat and then “scares” others—how could you discuss with it the taste of lian shi and sweet spring water, or the lofty perch of green phoenix trees?

Text

Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling on the bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi said, “The tiao fish swim at ease in the water—that is the fish’s happiness.” Huizi said, “You are not a fish—how do you know the fish are happy?” Zhuangzi said, “You are not me—how do you know I do not know the fish are happy?” Huizi said, “I am not you, so I do not know you; you are not a fish, so you do not know the fish are happy—that is settled.” Zhuangzi said, “Let us return to your original words. You asked ‘how do you know the fish are happy’—you already granted that I know; having granted that, you ask again—I tell you: I know from here on the bridge over the Hao.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Huizi said, “You do not know the fish are happy—that is settled.” Zhuangzi replied: follow the logic of your own words—you said “how do you know the fish are happy,” which already presupposes “I know”; since you admit I know, and still ask me, I answer: I know from the bridge over the Hao.

Huizi abandons the plain sense of what he said and uses sophistry to corner Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi follows the meaning of Huizi’s own question: must one be a fish to understand another? Yet you are not me, yet you ask “how do you know the fish are happy”—which amounts to admitting that even though you are not me, you can still know something about my knowing. If you can know my state regarding fish-happiness though you are not me, the same holds for mutual understanding in general: one need not become a fish to know whether fish are happy. So along the line of “how do you know,” you have already conceded “I know”—yet you ask again. I know precisely from standing on the Hao bridge; there is no need to go down into the water and become a fish.

Each thing rests in its own life and fits its own place; heaven and earth cannot move what belongs where, yin and yang cannot change what each must do. To judge the joy of water creatures from the standpoint of land creatures is already a poor fit; Zhuangzi is clarifying the mode of knowing and the context of speech (watching fish from the bridge), not telling you to become a fish.

Huizi said: You and the fish—one in the water, one on land—your situations differ; how do you know the fish are happy?

Zhuangzi turned Huizi’s own line back on him: You are not me—on what grounds do you insist that I do not know the fish are happy?

Huizi pressed the point again: I am not you, so of course I do not understand you; that is settled. But you and I are at least both human, the same kind, and even between us, with this barrier of “you” and “me,” we still cannot fully know each other—how much less can we know the happiness of fish, who are not our kind at all?

Huizi pushed one step further with the same reasoning: I am not you, so I do not understand you—that much is agreed. But you and I are still of the same kind, and even so we cannot know each other across the divide of self and other; fish are not the same kind—if we follow that logic, there is simply no possibility of mutual understanding between you and the fish.

At this point Zhuangzi stopped circling and answered straight on: Let us return to the root. What we have been debating back and forth are side issues, not the root. And following your opening move—you already granted that “I know the fish are happy,” yet you still asked me—you really wanted to hear how I know the fish are happy. The patterns of things and human feeling can be investigated in relation to each other. Standing freely and at ease on the Hao bridge, the scene beneath the Hao needs no long explanation to become clear. When people say Zhuangzi was skilled at penetrating human feeling and discerning the nature of things, they have this passage in mind.

Li Shibiao said: There is nothing among the ten thousand things that does not contain the Dao—what then could I pick and choose for myself? There is no nature that does not fulfill Heaven—what then could I lack? Though in this way one matches thing and self, within it there is an unexpected “knowing,” which only one whose subtle principle silently merges with spirit can receive; there are also those who cannot escape prior causes and conditions—this is why Zhuangzi could “know the joy of fish” above the Bridge of Hao.

Fish swim out, float, dive—without fear of nets and snares, without thought of moistening each other in distress, at ease among the waters—is that what counts as the joy of fish? Even if it were truly the joy of fish, why wait until Nanhua (Zhuangzi) spoke before one could “know” it? The joy of fish lies in the Dao, not in water; what Nanhua “knows” lies in joy, not in fish. Fish forget water, hence their joy is complete; people forget fish, hence their knowing is one. Zhuangzi here originally wished to say nothing; Huizi likewise should have asked nothing. Yet there are those who comment: if one does not ask, supreme words have nowhere to rest; if one does not speak, the subtlety of the Dao has no way to appear—precisely to remove the obstruction by which later ages split thing and self into two.

Things have their own thinghood—hence “You are not a fish; how do you know the joy of fish?” I have my own selfhood—hence “You are not me; how do you know that I do not know the joy of fish?” Knowing and not knowing are both the outer branches of the Dao; hence “please return to the root.”

If root and branch both fall on “not knowing,” the ancients said: eyes like ears, ears like nose, nose like mouth—thus it is in the self; seeing life as death, seeing oneself as fish, seeing a pig as a person, seeing a person as a pig—thus it is in things. If so, then everywhere is utmost wandering, nowhere is not the subtle point; every thing is true joy, nowhere is not heavenly harmony—why single out only the fleeting joy of fish above the Bridge of Hao? I know that Zhuangzi and fish were originally never divided; only one who understands that “utmost joy is joyless, true knowing is knowing nothing” can speak of this.

This chapter bears the title “The Floods of Autumn.” Through the question-and-answer exchange between the River God (He Bo) and the Sea God (Hai Ruo), it shows that things differ in fineness and coarseness, in largeness and smallness, while the Dao and the function and aim of each thing in the ten thousand beings all spring from what is natural: there is no inherent high or low; success and failure, gain and loss, are simply a matter of timely circumstance. After repeated argument, the lesson comes down to this: do not let human affairs override Heaven’s Way (tiandao), and do not let fixed opinions erase Heaven’s decree (tianming); seek only to be content within what your nature and allotted place allow—and that is what is meant by “returning to the genuine.”

Next comes the parable of Kui, the centipede, the snake, and the wind pitying one another: people often feel ashamed or envious because they compare their talents and shortcomings, yet fail to see that Heaven’s design assigns each its fixed share, which cannot be forcibly changed; sometimes what seems a “small inability” turns out to be a “great sufficiency.” Once this is understood, each thing rests in its own place, with nothing to envy and nothing to pity; when envy and pity cease, the mind of discrimination fades as well—and that is roughly the chapter’s main point.

It also treats how Confucius, in danger when passing through Kuang, was not afraid, knowing that fate lies with the Creator and is not something the men of Kuang can control; if one bends one’s will at the first blow of misfortune, how could one recognize the sage’s courage? The well frog and the sea turtle illustrate the same lesson as the River God and the Sea God: understanding principle and knowing what fits the moment, so that outer things cannot harm you. The world is murky and what people see is narrow; though they know sages stand before them, they still strain to imitate and catch up—like “the boy from Handan who forgot his old walk”: hoping from one’s weakness to reach another’s strength, overstepping one’s lot in vain pursuit, brings no benefit at all.

When it comes to the divine turtle that would rather drag its tail in the mud, or the phoenix chick that will not rest on a rotten rat, all express grief that the age is shallow and the Way cannot be practiced. The chapter ends with the debate between Zhuangzi and Huizi on the Hao Bridge: the nature of self and things is fundamentally the same; forms differ, so they cannot know each other’s inner state—but when one meets in terms of nature, their joy and your joy are not different; inferring the fish’s joy from what humans find satisfying is nothing strange. Those who only sharpen their tongues and forget the root of life and nature are what is truly strange—words aimed not only at Huizi, but also at people in the world who cling to one master’s sayings and smugly congratulate themselves, no different from the River God who thought nothing surpassed water. With that, the chapter’s theme is brought to a close.

Title and Background

This is the eighteenth chapter on Ultimate Joy (Zhì Lè) from volume five of Wings of Zhuangzi (Zhuāngzǐ Yì), a Ming-dynasty commentary by Jiāo Hóng on the Zhuangzi. At the end of the chapter, Jiāo notes that someone who gets drunk on his own eloquence after hearing a “master” speak about the Dao is like the River Earl (Hé Bó) who thought himself unmatched beside the water—both are arrogant self-deception. That passage closes the chapter’s main theme.

Main Themes of the Ultimate Joy Chapter

Is there such a thing as “ultimate joy” in the world? Is there a way truly to preserve life? What should one do, and on what should one rely? What should one avoid, and where should one stay? What should one draw near to, and what leave behind? What counts as joy, and what as suffering?

What people value are wealth, long life, and a good name; what they enjoy is bodily ease, rich food, fine clothes, and pleasures of appearance and sound. What they despise is poverty, low status, short life, and a bad name; what they suffer is when the body lacks ease, the mouth cannot taste fine food, the form cannot wear beautiful clothes, the eyes cannot see attractive sights, the ears cannot hear pleasing sounds—when they do not get these, they grow greatly anxious and afraid. To wear out the mind so much for this bodily shell is deeply foolish.

The rich toil hard and pile up wealth they never use up, enslaved by the body—yet that too is very outward. The noble worry day and night over success and failure, good and ill fortune, burdened by the body—that is also very remote from what matters. People are born together with worry; those who live long drift in dullness, enduring worry without dying for ages—what is there to celebrate? To be like this for the sake of the body is also very far from worth it.

The “martyr” (one who dies for name or duty) is praised by the world, yet may not preserve his own life; I do not know whether that “good” is really good, or in fact not good. If you treat a certain “good” as good, you may not be able to live; if you treat it as not good, sometimes you can keep alive. So it is said: when loyal remonstrance is not accepted, lower yourself and follow along—do not contend. Contending like Wǔ Zǐxū ends in self-destruction; not contending for fame, fame does not arise either. Is there truly any real “good”?

What people do today and call joy—I do not know whether that is really joy or really suffering. I see what the world calls joy: crowds rush together to one place, noisy as if they had no choice, yet all say they are joyful—I do not feel that it is joy, nor do I feel it must not be joy. Is there joy at all? I take wuwei (non-action) as sincere joy; yet the world bitterly rejects that. So it is said: ultimate joy is no joy; ultimate honor is no honor. Right and wrong in the world are hard to settle; even so, wuwei can settle right and wrong, and ultimate joy can preserve life—perhaps only wuwei comes close to this. Let me say a little:

Heaven is clear through wuwei; earth is at peace through wuwei. Heaven and earth, both wuwei, join and the myriad things are transformed—dim and indistinct, with no place to point to as their source; again dim and indistinct, with no fixed form. Each thing has its allotment and keeps its role; all multiply and flourish from wuwei. So it is said: heaven and earth are wuwei, yet nothing is left undone. Who can truly attain wuwei?

Common Readings in the Notes (for checking the original)

• Dūn xún: one reading is lowering the body, crouching, and following along (sometimes written qūn xún).
• Pīng pīng: the look of rushing and hurrying.
• Zhí zhí: each has its master, each keeps its share.
• Zhí (in the sense of increase): to multiply and propagate.

The chapter asks whether worldly joy, fame and profit, and the “good” of loyal contention can preserve life. Jiāo Hóng’s line of commentary is: take wuwei as sincere joy; heaven and earth are clear and at peace through wuwei and transform the myriad things; if one clings to the bodily shell and vulgar preferences, one runs opposite to “ultimate joy that preserves life.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary

First let go of clinging to “delight,” and only then is joy truly complete; when joy is complete, the body can be kept whole. Would you call that having joy? Yet supreme joy does not depend on delight at all. Would you call that having no joy? Yet the body stays intact, and the mind is free of care.

Guarding, fleeing, settling, leaving, rushing toward, liking, disliking, choosing—these eight attitudes none of them suffices to nourish and preserve life; only not choosing and meeting whatever comes can one preserve oneself.

As a rule, people who drown themselves in flavor, beauty, and sound do not harm the body when they lose such things, yet harm their nature when they gain them; to worry now because one cannot obtain them is folly indeed.

Those who turn inward and restrain the body need only know when to stop and be content; those who stay close to the body need only find sufficiency within themselves.

Release fixation on life, and then one can forget care; once care is forgotten, life can be called joyful; when life is joyful, the body is truly one’s own, wealth is one’s own, outer things count as precious, and honor rests with oneself.

The resolute person who sees righteousness and acts still may fail to preserve the body—for when “goodness” is pushed too far, it no longer reaches everywhere and cannot finish the work. Crouching low, yielding, not contending—only the virtue of the “mean” (zhongyong) fits with nature.

Whether there is goodness or not, one should always take “following the central line” (yuandu)—keeping to the middle and guarding what is vital—as the constant way.

The crowd raises a clamor; each rushes toward what he enjoys, until even death is not shunned.

I treat nothing as joy and nothing as not-joy—I simply hold nothing in the heart and let things arrive on their own. The joy of wuwei (non-action) is nothing but freedom from worry. The world prizes golden tones and jade resonance as beauty and praise of virtue as glory, yet right and wrong under heaven have no fixed measure. I practice wuwei and let the world’s right and wrong each return to its own place; when right and wrong each keep to their allotted share, the matter is settled. Supreme joy that preserves life lies only in wuwei. Those who nearly preserve wholeness—when the people are provided for, my body is close to being preserved. Heaven and earth are clear and still by nature; they do not depend on deliberate action (youwei) to be so. Without acting, yet naturally in accord, therefore the ten thousand things transform. If the mind dwells in deliberate action, it sometimes gets stuck. What is born from nothing is all self-born; nothing is brought forth because deliberate action makes it appear. What has no image is the image of nothingness—of non-action. What reproduces through wuwei all reproduces itself. When people attain wuwei, then without seeking joy, joy comes of itself.

In this view, people live in a world that is like an illusion: the joy they seek often eludes them, and the life they try to preserve is often not preserved. That is why this chapter opens by lamenting that supreme joy and preserving one’s life are not things one can demand with certainty. At the same time it teaches one to keep to one’s proper place and not to force coming or going; in such a state, what is there to especially welcome or especially reject?

What people under heaven take as joy is mostly wealth and rank, long life, a good name, fine food, beauty, music, and the like—yet what is pleasant and good cannot last, and what is sought is often not obtained. If one can let the heart roam in the state before things have arisen—the “beginning of things”—even the sense of “self” can fade, so how could the pull of outer things still weigh on the body?

Consider the rich, who toil the body until illness comes; the noble, who think and worry much; the long-lived, who fret for ages over “not dying”—all treat the outer form as too heavy and have already strayed far from the Dao. The martyr who dies to prove loyalty likewise may not truly “preserve life”; the principle is the same. Therefore the loyal minister remonstrates without contending, and gradually guides the ruler, so the ruler commits no fault and the minister fulfills his role—that is the better state of the minister–ruler relation.

Someone like Wu Zixu (a grandee of Wu in the Spring and Autumn period, who suffered bodily ruin for blunt remonstrance) was harmed because he contended in remonstrance, yet also left a name behind—is there real “good” in that or not? Look at what the world calls joy: is it really joy? I hold that taking wuwei (non-action) as joy is true joy, while the world takes it as great suffering; their orientations oppose each other, and that is plain. So one must first understand that “supreme joy is no joy” to see that worldly joy is not true joy; understand that “supreme fame is no fame” to see that the name the martyr fights for is not true fame. Only then, resting in wuwei, can one judge right and wrong under heaven. To seek supreme joy and to preserve life, nothing comes closer than wuwei. Heaven and earth are clear and still through wuwei, and so the ten thousand things each fulfill their transformation; if a person can be wuwei, how could outer things fail to transform along with that?

(The text also touches the episode from the Zhuangzi in which Zhuangzi’s wife dies and Huizi comes to mourn, but Zhuangzi “beats on a tub and sings”—to show that life and death are natural and one need not cling to the body with worldly grief and joy.) This continues the thread above: only by resting in wuwei can one settle right and wrong under heaven; to seek supreme joy and preserve life, nothing is nearer than wuwei. Heaven and earth are clear and still through wuwei, so all things transform; if a person can be wuwei, how could things fail to transform?

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Yi

1. Beating the Basin and Singing (After His Wife’s Death)

When Zhuangzi’s wife died, Huizi came to offer condolences. He found Zhuangzi sitting with legs spread, beating on a clay basin and singing.

Huizi said: “You lived with her, raised your children together, and grew old with her. Now that she’s gone, not weeping would be one thing—but beating a basin and singing? Isn’t that going too far?”

Zhuangzi said: “No. When she first died, how could I not grieve? But if you trace it back: at the beginning she had no life; not only no life, she had no bodily form; not only no form, she had no qi (vital energy). She was mixed in that dim, indeterminate state; then change produced qi, qi changed into form, form changed into life—and now change has brought death. That is like the turning of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. She is quietly resting in the great house, while I follow behind wailing and weeping—I would call that failing to understand Heaven’s command, so I stopped.”

Main idea of Guo Xiang’s commentary: Before one sees through it, the heart is in turmoil; once one is clear, the turmoil stops—this is a way of teaching those who are bound by feeling, so they push the reasoning to the limit and can lay the burden down.

Main idea of Lü Huiqing’s commentary (on this passage): What Zhuangzi truly esteems are figures like Confucius, Meng Sun Cai, and Yan Yuan; what he shows in outward conduct looks more like Zisang Hu, Fan Qin, and their kind—why? Because the human way had decayed and people were sunk in joy and grief, covering over the pattern of Heaven; so the method of saving the age sometimes had to use this seemingly “contrary” appearance.

2. Contemplating Transformation (A Willow on the Left Elbow)

Zhi Li Shu and Hua Jie Shu were wandering at the Hill of Dark Lord and the wilds of Kunlun—where the Yellow Emperor would rest. Suddenly a sore grew on Hua Jie’s left elbow; his mind was troubled and he hated it.

Zhi Li asked: “Do you hate it?”

Hua Jie said: “No. Why should I hate it? Life is on loan; only by borrowing it do we have this span of life, and life is no more than grime. Death and life are like day and night. I watch transformation together with you; when transformation happens to fall on me, why should I hate it?”

Main idea of Guo Xiang’s commentary: These stories first show a person with feeling and worry, then lead toward the ultimate principle to dissolve them. If one said flatly, “I never had feeling, so I have no worry,” those who do have feeling could not reach that vast openness—they would only stay trapped in joy and grief.

Brief notes on names and terms

• Jiju (sitting with legs spread): Sitting with legs apart; in antiquity this was considered lacking in decorum, which is why Huizi felt Zhuangzi was even more “without propriety.”
• Gairan: The heart is stirred, something sticks in the chest (Guo’s “wei ming er gai”—not yet clear, so the heart is blocked—means this).
• Hill of Dark Lord, wilds of Kunlun: Mythic places, linked to where the Yellow Emperor rests; the setting serves a worldview of “watching transformation,” not a realistic travel account.
• Liu: Here a growth on the body—a wart, boil, or similar (“sheng liu” on the left elbow).
• Jiajie (on loan): Life is not “one’s own” but “borrowed for a time”; this matches the later line that death and life are like day and night in the same view of life and death.

What Huang Di meant by “peaceful rest” is that the heart no longer stirs recklessly, and the body seems as if cast aside—like a clod of earth that no longer registers anything. It is as when a willow that grows easily suddenly sprouts on the soil and rises on the elbow, yet one does not find that strange or jarring.

Take what happened to Hua Jie—the figure in Zhuangzi who awakened to the Way when a “willow” appeared on his elbow: at first one cannot help but feel alarm and revulsion; once one understands that “life” is only a temporary lodging borrowed through form, no different from dust and grime, what is there to loathe? What the ancients called “viewing transformation”—watching the changes of all things without treating birth and death, fortune and misfortune as ultimately real—rests on roughly this principle.

Following the Original Text

“Mingbo” is a name for the dead, much like “Lord of the Dark Silence” (Mingmo Jun) or “Mound of Mingbo” in the Wenxuan—that is, the grave of the deceased. This tomb lies among the ruins of Mount Kunlun, where the Yellow Emperor once rested; the author takes this as occasion to reflect that this person could not rise like the Yellow Emperor and become an immortal, and in the end still had to die.

“Liu” here means the willow branches placed before the coffin to block or screen it. The Tangong records that when the Zhou people escorted a coffin they set up a “wall” beside the bier and hung “sha” (feather ornaments); the commentary explains “wall liu” as something like a willow covering draped over the coffin. Zhi Li Shu and Hua Jie Shu were wandering among desolate graves (likely an imagined scene) when suddenly a bier-screening willow branch sprouted from beside Zhi Li Shu’s left elbow—an ill omen, as if death were near—so he felt alarm and revulsion. Zhi Li Shu, already disgusted, asked Hua Jie Shu: “Are you disgusted too?” Jie Shu said: “I am not. Life is only a temporary lodging; what we call the four great elements (earth, water, fire, wind) are a provisional joining. Since we borrow a form to live, we are no more than dust piled together—why cling to it desperately? Birth and death are the ordinary way, like day and night taking turns; why be terrified?”

(Note: The text also cites Mencius’s “for those about to return to transformation, do not let the earth press close to the skin,” and the like—the gist remains that life is borrowing, death is returning, and one need not press the earth tight against the skin, meaning one need not be fixated on the physical body.)

Some read “liu” as the willow tree’s “willow” (yangliu), which fits the context poorly; most commentators therefore take it as the bier-screening willow branch.

Zhuangzi in Chu Sees an Empty Skull

When Zhuangzi traveled to Chu, he saw an empty skull with its forehead bone jutting hollow. He tapped it with his riding crop and asked: “Sir, did you come to this because you clung to life and went against what is fitting? Or because your state was destroyed and you suffered axe and halberd? Or because you did wrong and were ashamed before parents, wife, and children? Or because you died of cold and hunger? Or because your years simply ran out?”

Hardly had he finished when he used the skull as a pillow and lay down to sleep. At midnight the skull came to him in a dream and said: “What you said just now sounds like a debater’s line. The troubles of the living—all gone when one is dead. Would you like to hear what death is like?” Zhuangzi said: “Yes.”

The skull said: “In death, there is no ruler above and no subject below, no toil of the four seasons; one takes heaven and earth as spring and autumn at ease. Even the joy of ruling as king facing south cannot match it.”

Zhuangzi did not believe him and said: “I will ask the Director of Fates (Siming, the god who governs lifespan) to restore your life, give back flesh and bone and skin, return your parents, wife, and friends and neighbors—would you want that?”

The skull deeply furrowed its brow and knit its forehead and said: “How could I abandon the joy of ruling south and go back to human weariness again?”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

The older view held that Zhuangzi “delighted in death and loathed life”—that reading is mistaken. If it were so, how could one speak of “making equal” (qi)? What “making equal” means is being at peace with life while alive and at peace with death at the end. Once the feelings toward life and death are equalized, one simply lives when it is time to live and dies when it is time to die, without fretting over death while still alive—that is Zhuangzi’s real point.

Lu’s Commentary

Only by looking from the beginning to the end can one grasp the principle of life and death: originally they are one body. If they are one body, it is wrong for people to crave life and fear death; but likewise, how can “delighting in death and loathing life” count as unity with the Dao? Zhuangzi says these things because people’s sickness lies above all in craving life and fearing death—hence the story of the skull (dulou) that does not envy the joy of ruling as king facing south in the human world. It is not empty talk.

Bixu’s Commentary

Those who love life treat worldly affairs as pleasure; those who love death treat the human world as drudgery. Only one who transcends the opposition of life and death can speak of the great theme.

New Transmission

The living are a temporary gathering of qi; the dead are a temporary dispersal of qi. Life is not necessarily wuwei (non-action), and death is not necessarily youwei (deliberate action). Where there is not necessarily wuwei, supreme joy (zhile) is therefore incomplete; where there is not necessarily youwei, supreme joy can therefore be whole. That is why Zhuangzi has the skull say it would not wish to become human again and does not envy the joy of a king facing south.

The six limbs (liu hai) are only lodging in the body: in life qi briefly gathers, in death qi briefly scatters. Gathering and scattering are not owned by “me”—how can I “self-own” and take this body as “me”? If one clings to “self-owning” and posits a “me,” one has not forgotten form; not forgetting form means youwei; youwei rubs against things, and how can supreme joy be complete within? This is the same principle as the skull’s unwillingness to become human again and its not envying the joy of facing south as king.

Plain-Language Explanation

Yan Hui was about to go to Qi, and Confucius’s face showed worry. Zigong left his seat and asked, “Your disciple ventures to ask: Yan Hui is going to Qi—why does the Master look troubled?”

Confucius said, “Good question. In the past Guanzi said something I fully agree with: ‘A small bag cannot hold something large; a short rope cannot reach the water at the bottom of a deep well.’ Each person has their own allotted capacity, and each bodily form has what suits it—you cannot forcibly add or subtract. I worry that Yan Hui will lecture the ruler of Qi at length on the ways of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, and pile on top of that the teachings of Suiren and Shennong. The other party will try to find the answer in his own mind and fail; when he fails, he becomes confused, and when a person is confused, danger follows. Have you not heard? Once a sea bird landed in the outskirts of Lu. The Duke of Lu received it in a carriage, offered wine in the ancestral temple, had the music Jiushao performed, and set out a tailao feast. The bird stared blankly, grieved and distressed, dared not eat a bite of meat or drink a cup of wine, and died in three days. That was using the way you nourish people to nourish a bird—not using the way you nourish birds to nourish a bird. If you truly followed how birds should be kept, you would let it roost in deep forest, roam open plains, float on rivers and lakes, eat small fish, rest with the flock of birds, and be calm and at ease. It dislikes noisy human clamor—why impose grand music like Xianchi and Jiushao? If you staged that splendor in the wilds of Dongting, birds would fly away at the sound, beasts would flee, fish would dive to the bottom; only humans, hearing it suddenly, would crowd round to watch. Fish live in water; humans drown in water. Their inborn natures and likes and dislikes differ, so how they are treated should differ too. Therefore the ancient sages did not forcibly unify people’s capacities or forcibly unify their undertakings—names match reality, and principle fits what is appropriate—that is what it means to be unobstructed and to hold onto good fortune.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Heaven’s allotment cannot be added to or reduced; each can only be allowed to follow its own nature. Seeking within and not finding, yet going to seek outside—abandoning the inner for the outer—how could one not be confused? Not unifying capacities, not unifying undertakings; letting names stop at reality and setting principle according to what fits—that is being unobstructed while fortune can be sustained. (For “fu chi” [holding fortune], one reading is “chan water”; Sima Biao’s text has “sha chan,” meaning sandy ground at the water’s edge, pronounced dan.)

Guo Xiang’s reading is roughly this: how much one should have and what one should be cannot be added to or subtracted at will, so one ought to follow nature and let things be as they are. When nothing is found within, the mind turns outward; abandoning inner cultivation to chase what lies outside—is that not delusion? “Not forcing one single ability, not forcing one single kind of work” means that each person follows their native endowment and handles their own affairs; there is no need to impose uniformity. When names match reality and each thing has its proper place, the way stays open; when one’s allotment by nature always rests where it belongs, good fortune can be kept.

Lu Huiqing connects this to the parable of the sea bird: those who urge others to learn should think deeply and act cautiously. Assaulting a city and plugging a hole call for different tools; hunting a thousand li away and catching mice to protect oneself call for different skills; what serves in bright night and what serves in broad daylight differ in endowment—so the sages said that abilities and tasks cannot be forced into one mold. When names stop at what is real, names no longer exceed the thing; when right use follows what fits, principle is not pushed past its proper scope. “Unobstructed flow” means each length finds its own path without demanding one uniform thoroughfare; insisting on that uniformity is precisely what prevents thoroughfare. Good fortune can be held because shares differ in size and each rests in its share; going too far or falling short, and fortune cannot be kept.

Bixu adds: receiving one’s lot from nature, one cannot be urged into success—a small sack cannot hold a large object; endowment fixes one’s share, one cannot be forcibly moved—a short rope cannot reach the deep sea. The sea bird heard the Ninefold Music and was terrified, as Duke Qi was terrified before the imperial Way. People differ in worth and folly, so one cannot force everyone into the same task; ages differ in old and new, so one cannot force the same name on every time. When reality does not overstep its share, there is order without blockage; when principle is applied where it belongs, harm departs and danger does not arise.

On the road, Liezi stopped to eat. Along the way he saw a skeleton a hundred years dead. He pushed aside the tangled grass and pointed at it, saying: “Only you know, only I know—there has never truly been death, and never truly been birth. Are you really being nourished? Am I really rejoicing?”

He also said: The kinds of change among things are too many to count. A seed, meeting water, may become a zhì (a water bird or watery form); between water and earth it may become a frog; with more yin influence it may become lichen or moss; on hills and level ground it may become líng xì (a plant); líng xì in damp, closed places becomes wū zú; the root of wū zú turns into a white grub (qí cáo), its leaves into a butterfly. The butterfly changes again; under the stove arises a creature like something shed from a skin, called jū duó; after a thousand days jū duó becomes a bird called gān yú gǔ; the fluid of gān yú gǔ becomes sī mí; sī mí grows from the dregs of fermenting vinegar and gives rise to yí lù; yí lù gives rise to huáng kuàng; huáng kuàng grows from jiǔ yóu; jiǔ yóu from fǔ quán (decaying worms); yáng xī attaches to the root of bamboo that has not yet sprouted, and long bamboo in turn produces qīng níng; qīng níng produces chéng, chéng produces the horse, and the horse produces the human being. Humans at last return to jī—the pivot of creation, the root of the one qi. All things are born from jī and all sink back into jī.

Guo Xiang’s note: “Never dead, never born” means each thing rests in whatever it meets, taking what it meets as nourishment and as joy; nourishment and joy have no fixed, substantial reality. “The kinds are several” means the names of change cannot be exhausted; from meeting water and taking some form, all the way to humans returning to jī, it is one qi shaping into myriad forms—there is only change, not a fixed split between two blocks called life and death.

The wandering soul (the consciousness that has left the body, turning and flowing amid change) reaches wherever there is anywhere to reach. When a person lives to a hundred, only a skeleton remains—what can it still know? Only when you open the heart and cultivate until you reach the state of “knowing nothing” do you understand: in truth you were never truly “born,” never truly “died”—you are one with that wandering soul. Are you someone who nurtures the will to live yet fears death? Am I someone who delights and takes joy in life?

Only when you understand that the wandering soul reaches everywhere, and also understand that essential qi transforms and becomes things, will you ask: how many kinds can the various “seeds” (types of life, innate natures) actually be divided into?

Fang, pibiyi, and lingxi were originally one kind of thing; some obtained the border of water and soil, some obtained an earthen mound environment, and the forms they produced differed entirely. Wuzu, qicao, the butterfly, and the earthen mound were also one kind; some obtained a shaded dwelling, some relied on root or leaf, and their transformations likewise differed entirely.

Guduo, ganyugu, simi, shiyi, yilu, and xu were likewise one kind; some were under the stove, some came from long passage of time, some from foam and froth, and the situations in which they arose again differed. Huangli in relation to jiuyou, maorui in relation to fuxie, yangxi in relation to buweijiuzhu—one does not know from where the “seed” spontaneously arises; one only knows it is the seed itself. Some under the stove, some from long duration, some from accumulated foam—the situations still differ in each case.

Qingning and Cheng were also one kind. Horses and human beings, by contrast, are “self-generated.” Thus it can be seen: all things may beget one another without feeling, or with feeling; without feeling may produce what has feeling, or what has feeling may produce what lacks feeling—all are transformations of the wandering soul and essential qi.

What Liezi speaks of is mostly what he heard and saw in person and therefore knew for certain; what he did not hear or see in person—how could it be told completely?

Bixu said: If I claim “I have never died,” is being alive truly joy? If you claim “I have never been born,” is death truly rest? The point is to push the logic of “neither dead nor unborn” to its limit.

Liezi happened to see a frog by the road and used it to explain the mechanism of hua (transformation): under fire’s influence a frog can turn into a chun (quail); meeting water, things again interact and give rise to something else. According to the Shuowen, fan and fang are interchangeable; moss at the water’s edge, like a garment, is where tadpoles come from. When moss drifts onto a hill, it can become grass called lingxi—the medicinal plant commonly known as plantain (cheqian cao). That is the animate turning inanimate, as when earthworms in soil become baihe (lily). Yuqi grows in dung; wuzu cao grows by water—the folk name mocao, used in formulas for darkening the beard. Root and leaf of the same plant differ in form because qi has yin and yang aspects. In sum, the ten thousand things beget one another through mutual stimulation; no single rule covers all cases.

Under certain conditions the hudie (butterfly) becomes quduo; when it first emerges its body is clean, as if it had shed a skin; after a thousand days it can fly, and its foam in turn becomes the simi worm. This speaks of large and small forms transforming in endless mutual dependence. From simi through the “eating vinegar” stage, the text shows how animate things change as soon as they touch their environment: maorui is rotted grass; fuxie becomes ying (fireflies)—the inanimate becoming animate again, like hudie from moldy grain. Fuxie then produces yangxi, sheep’s hoof herb (yangti cai), and the animate returns to the inanimate. Yangxi pairs with old bamboo that no longer sprouts; two inanimate things interacting produce qingning, which looks like a hedgehog—folk say ruined bamboo groves have many hedgehogs. Master Shi said the Yue people called the leopard cheng; some say cheng is the mo (tapir-like beast). The Soushen ji records that in the time of Duke Xiao of Qin a horse once bore a human-shaped being. Broadly, these are cases where the Five Movements and Six Qi (wuyun liuqi) touch things and produce change—too many to exhaust in detail.

In Jiang Yu’s account, a skull has already lived through a hundred years; the wandering soul (youhun, the spirit that has left the body) goes wherever it goes, then is reborn as a human and again passes after another hundred years. If it transforms into something else, it dies and is born again, changing and changing again—beyond counting. Yet that empty shell of a skull still stands there in the world, seemingly with form intact.

Liezi (the Daoist sage traditionally regarded as Zhuangzi’s teacher) alone grasped the subtlety of a single body; the skull then met the turn of another hundred years. Liezi pointed at it and said: only it and I know—we have never died, never been born. From what he saw and heard he inferred the same of all similar cases, and put questions to the skull to clarify the transformations of the ten thousand things.

On how the ten thousand things come to be: some arise from qing (desire and emotional disposition), some exist through xiang (thought and imagination); what gathers through moisture is felt through union (he), what is formed through transformation responds through separation (li). Qing, xiang, he, and li interchange without end, now large, now small—all enter and leave through ji (the pivot where creation and destruction, birth and death, turn). Each holds the same ultimate principle; in essence they do not differ.

What, then, is this “ji”? And how do the ten thousand things enter and leave it?

The Suwen (Plain Questions, a classic of medicine and nurturing life) says: when entering and leaving cease, the shenji (vital pivot of life) is extinguished. Success and failure, rise and fall, life and death—all spring from movement (dong). When movement never stops, change arises. Without entering and leaving, there is nothing to say of birth, growth, vigor, and decline. Yet though entering and leaving differ in form, their ji is one; though entering and leaving are subtle, their ji is wondrous. Ji appears through entering and leaving; entering and leaving operate through ji—you cannot simply equate “entering and leaving” with “ji,” nor seek “ji” apart from entering and leaving. One exit, one entry—the shenji moves of itself.

The Yinfu Jing (Scripture of the Hidden Token) says: Heaven’s nature is in the human; the human heart is ji. Here, when the text discusses the ten thousand things leaving ji and entering ji, it especially says that humans “return into ji”—is this not because humans are the most spiritually endowed among the ten thousand things, so it singles out humans to stand for all?

In the tangle of wormwood Liezi saw a skull; he parted the grass and pointed, saying: Only you and I know it never truly died. Trace it to the primordial beginning—it never truly lived either. If it never lived, there is no deadline called “nourishing life”; if it never died, why treat “complete extinction” as something to welcome? Delight in birth and fear of death are both empty views. You and I are in the furnace of the great transformation (the forging of heaven and earth); things like fang, liver-worms, and the rest are only the shapes each has been given in that process.

On “transformation and birth,” the kinds are many. Take moist transformation (shihua): dust from the earth is lifted by breath (qi), floats on water, motes linking like thread or silk—this is called fang (water moss and the like). To grow in a river there must first be this trace or germ (yuan). Where water and earth meet, water taking earth’s qi forms a body called the “frog-and-clam garment” (wabing zhi yi), namely water xi (water shoe); in water it is water xi—the Classic of Poetry’s “they say they gather the yu.” Frogs and clams take it as a garment beneath them. On hills and dry land it is ling xi (hill shoe)—the Poetry’s “plantain” (fuzi)—one thing, differing by water or land.

When ling xi gets dung-rich soil (yuqi), it becomes wuzu (also a plant name); its root turns into qicao (grub), its leaves into butterflies; xuxiang (another insect name) turns again into worms. Grass becoming worms—their bodies are mostly soft and wriggling. Those under the field hand’s outdoor stove, taking fire qi, become worms without skin or shell, like shed skins, called quduo. Quduo lies in earth a thousand days and becomes the bird ganyu gu; foam from ganyu gu becomes simi, simi becomes shi ke (fond of sour, gathering at vinegar—hence “vinegar worm”); shi ke yields yilu, yilu jiuyou, jiuyou huangkang, huangkang fu can, fu can maorui—step by step, all worm kinds.

“Yang xi set beside bamboo that long fails to shoot, gives birth to qingning” is one reading: yang xi (grass, root like turnip) rooted on long-shootless bamboo produces qingning (bamboo-root worm). On the original account, someone long ago saw a worm five inches long; later a little over an inch remained—perhaps the root had not fully changed, or it was not qingning? Cheng is another name for the leopard; Brush Talk says people in Yanzhou still call tiger and leopard cheng. Qingning yields cheng, cheng horse, horse human—legends of this sort exist, as when histories say the Wuling people of Changsha came from dogs they kept, or Yuan imperial line from attachments in wolves, deer, and the like. Do not fence this in by eye and ear alone.

Ji is where qi moves: out of ji, life; into ji, death. What fills heaven and earth is yin-yang (Yin-Yang) dual qi turning without pause. To nurture or to rejoice—why strain the mind? Follow self-transformation.

Overview of “Supreme Joy” (Zhi Le)

This chapter opens with Supreme Joy and argues that once people are born, burdens multiply and worries and suffering take many forms. When it comes to avoiding disaster, securing one’s person, or choosing advance or retreat, they often do not know what to pick or what truly counts as “keeping the body alive.” Why? Because only when someone grows weary of worry and suffering in life and yet turns back with real courage does genuine joy arrive.

What the world calls “joy” is not necessarily true joy. Things in the world flourish to the limit then decline; at the extreme they must change. A minister who has lost favor and a son who has fallen into disgrace worry most urgently and fear disaster most deeply—from this we see that fortune and misfortune constantly lean on each other: poverty and grief can forge a person, while wealth and smooth going can hide calamity. So people everywhere are trapped in sorrow and pleasure and cannot get out. Can they rest in xingming zhi qing—the true condition of nature and life, aligning with innate disposition and what is naturally so?

The conclusion is therefore: no joy and no reputation—that alone is “supreme honor” and “supreme joy.” Stories follow of drumming on a tub and singing, and the skull answering questions—all taking as joy what ordinary people refuse to accept. That kind of joy is not something the worldly can share in.

The middle section speaks of “observing transformation until transformation reaches even the elbow”: when even the elbow changes with transformation and one does not find it hateful; while those who seek and fail, when they hear of joy, are instead alarmed and worried—showing that when one follows transformation, joy is the same for all, but when one goes against genuine feeling, even in luxury and ease there is no true joy.

The closing discusses how humans, plants, insects, and beasts arise and pass away without fixed pattern, and concludes: all emerge from ji and all enter into ji. How vast is ji! Who relaxes it and who tightens it? Whatever has form and appearance does not escape this; birth, death, and change cycle without end. To delight only in life and hate death, or to delight in death and weary of life, is to cling to one side and fall short of the utmost joy. One must reach “no joy and no non-joy, no birth and no non-birth”—then one is no longer driven by transformation or carried by ji, and attains the vast unfolding of empty unity and the subtlety of buyong (non-reliance on contrivance): boundless and indistinct, clear and still as if present—that is supreme joy.

Those who truly penetrate the feeling of life do not pursue what life never needed and cannot rely on—external things beyond what sustains life.

Those who truly penetrate the feeling of fate (ming) do not insist on understanding what wisdom was never able to master—fixed allotments such as lifespan, fortune, and misfortune.

To nourish the body one must first have external things (food, clothing, and the like) to depend on; yet many people have plenty of such things and still fail to keep the body well.

Once there is life, one should first keep form and spirit from parting; yet many remain in bodily form while already “dead in life”—spirit drained, body like dry wood.

Coming into life cannot be refused; leaving it cannot be stopped—how lamentable.

Ordinary people think nourishing the form is enough to preserve life; if in fact nourishing the form is not enough to preserve life, then what is worldly pursuit worth?

Though not worth doing, what cannot be avoided must still be done—being bound to the physical form, one can hardly escape convention entirely.

If one wishes to be less driven by the body, nothing surpasses “leaving the world”—not making worldly fame and gain the center of life.

Leaving the world brings no encumbrance; without encumbrance the mind is upright and level; upright and level, one daily renews together with the Other (“geng sheng”—renewal again), and then one is nearly there—close to preserving life and penetrating life.

What in affairs is worth clinging to? What in life (spirit, essential qi) is worth squandering?

Letting go of affairs, the form is not overworked; not abusing life, not scattering essential qi, jing is not depleted.

When form is whole and essential qi restored, one is one with Heaven.

Heaven and Earth are the mother and father of the ten thousand things—because they favor no particular thing, they can generate them all.

When combined they form a body; when dispersed they become a beginning again—gathering and scattering have no fixed rule; everywhere can become completion, everywhere can become a start.

When neither form nor essential qi is impaired, this is called “neng yi”—able to shift, to turn with transformation and migrate with it.

Refining essential qi again and again, one in turn assists and accords with Heaven’s nature.

Guo Xiang’s commentary (main sense)

“What life has no use for” means things beyond one’s share—not necessary for life. “What knowledge cannot help” means allotments of fate, surface events, and the like—wisdom cannot force a change. Knowing one’s limit and letting things serve their purpose is enough for life; surplus harms the body. Clinging too hard to the form leads to “death in life.” Once you know what is not under your control, you should practice wuwei (non-action); if the mind still hangs on those things, the more you nourish, the more you lose. The thicker the nurturing, the closer to the realm of death; better to release and let nature take its course. Each nature finds its place—all from ultimate principle—so what “cannot be avoided” is also inevitable. Those good at nurturing life accord and entrust; “geng sheng” is daily renewal—entrusting to daily renewal completes nature and life. Abandon affairs and the form is not tired; release life and jing is not wasted—through this “release and abandonment” form can be whole, jing restored, and one one with Heaven, neither side forced. As mother and father of the ten thousand things, Heaven and Earth nurture all because they are impartial. Combined into a body, dispersed into a beginning—wherever one is, there is completion; no fixed abode. “Neng yi” moves with transformation; “fan yi xiang tian” returns to assist naturalness.

Lü’s commentary (main sense)

“What life has no use for” is not what life depends on to exist; “what knowledge cannot help” is what knowing cannot know. Failure to nourish the form often comes from weighing “living on” too heavily—not always from lack of things; “death in life” often comes from acting into the realm of death—not always from the form falling apart. Hence nourishing the form truly is not enough to preserve life, and worldly affairs are not worth it; yet people still cannot avoid being enslaved by the form. To escape being driven by form: have the world but no burden; without burden the mind is upright and level, not making the form the business of affairs but renewing with the Other—“geng sheng” then nearly reaches preserving life. Affairs need not be clutched; not abandoning them burdens affairs and wearies the form. Life need not be grasped; not releasing it enslaves life and wastes jing. Form whole and jing restored—then virtue matches the beginning. The ten thousand things receive jing from Heaven and form from Earth: combined they form a body, as when Heaven and Earth mingle thickly and things ferment into richness; dispersed they become a beginning, as when yin and yang unite and the ten thousand things are born. In combination there is no loss; in dispersion there is shifting—no loss is fixing jing; shifting is refining jing again, using what was received from Heaven to assist Heaven. The subtlety of what is called preserving life lies here.

Liu Gai, a scholar who annotated the Zhuangzi, says: Life is what I possess, while fate is governed by Heaven. One who comprehends the utmost of life is sufficient to know Heaven; one who comprehends the utmost of fate does not discard human affairs. In life, when there is something about which nothing can be done, one simply stops at it; whatever one can stop and not do, one does not recklessly do. When intelligence can do nothing about something, one accepts it calmly; wherever one can be calm, one does not seek outward. Not seeking outward and not acting recklessly, one accords with the Dao (the Way). Nevertheless, a person’s bodily form is situated in the world, and the entanglements of the world constantly cling and do not let go. The bodily form is not the Dao, the world is not myself, and the entanglements actually lie in things. Viewed according to principle, with regard to the three—form, world, and things—entanglements are easy to dispel: if entanglements can be removed, what does the world still mean to me? If the world can be cast aside, what do I admire in the bodily form? Not taking the world as one’s own and not admiring the bodily form—this is the utmost of comprehending life and comprehending fate.

The Xunben commentary says: “Returning to match Heaven” means returning to be paired with Heaven; here “Heaven” corresponds to the earlier “geng” (change), referring to the ability to follow alterations and renew. People originally possess the Jing (essence) of life, yet amid the rush of worldly affairs they nearly lose it; now, being able to renew life, they again preserve this essence. What gives me life is Heaven; if I can preserve this life together with Heaven, this is “xiang tian” (assisting or matching Heaven).

Liezi (Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure) asked Guan Yin (Yin Xi, the Keeper of the Pass): The zhiren (perfected person, one of the highest cultivation) dives into water without suffocating, treads on fire without feeling heat, and walks above the ten thousand things without fear. May I ask how one attains such a state? Guan Yin said: This is the result of guarding the pure unified Qi (vital energy); it is not something that cleverness or bold courage can accomplish. Sit down, and I will tell you: whatever has appearance, form, sound, and color is a thing, and all are formed things generated by Heaven.

Liezi asked Guan Yin (Yin Xi): “When a person of utmost attainment goes under water, he does not drown; when he treads on fire, he does not feel burned; when he walks above the myriad things, he is not afraid—how can one reach such a state?”

Guan Yin said: “This comes from guarding pure Qi (vital energy); it is not the work of cleverness, craft, or bold daring. Listen: whatever has form, appearance, sound, or color is a ‘thing.’ Among things there is originally no near or far, so how could one reach the utmost by relying on those? They are only color and phase. One must pursue what has no form and rest where change no longer occurs—whoever gains this and exhausts it fully, how can outer things block him?”

“Such a person stays within measure that does not overstep, hides in the web of what has no beginning, and roams between the end and beginning of the myriad things; he unifies his nature, nourishes his Qi, harmonizes his De (Virtue/Power), and connects with the root from which the myriad things arise. For one like this, the guard of Tian (Heaven) is whole, Shen (spirit) has no crack, and how can outer things force their way in on their own?”

“A drunk falls from a cart; however fast the cart, he may not die—his bones are like others’, yet his injury is not like others’, because his Shen is whole: riding, he does not know he is riding; falling, he does not know he is falling. Fear of life and death does not enter his breast. So when he meets outer things, he is not broken. If he can stay whole even in wine, how much more when he stays whole in Tian?”

“The sage hides his person within Tian, so nothing can harm him. One who seeks revenge will not break a sword like Moye; one who harbors resentment will not blame a tile that flies at him. Therefore the world can be level, without the disorder of attack and war, without punishments of slaughter—all from this Dao (the Way).”

“Do not open the Tian of ‘human’; open the Tian of Tian: open the Tian of Tian and De is born; open the Tian of ‘human’ and the thief is born. Do not go against your own Tian, do not neglect the people, and you will nearly be able to guard what is true.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

When the inner mind is empty and still, it can respond to whatever comes; when one accords with circumstances, nothing is impossible. It is not that external things “go wherever they ought to go”—things ought not to be cut off from one another in the first place. Only one who is wuwei in the sense of “no deliberate mind” (wuxin) can remain uniquely distant from the Dao in the sense of not being burdened by things. Things that share the same form, appearance, and color cannot by that alone be ranked as higher or lower, earlier or later. One who constantly roams at the utmost limit is not controlled by externals. Dwelling within the measure of not going too far, one stops where one’s allotted share should stop; hiding within the principle that has no beginning or end, one merges darkly with change that renews itself without ceasing; roaming at the place where all things begin and end—that is the utmost realm of things.

If you unify your native nature and then add adornment on top, you have turned it into “two.” Nourish qi but do not drive it with the mind; unite de but do not scatter it because of external things. The ten thousand things each arise just as they naturally are—like a drunk falling from a cart: what he loses is sober knowing, not his original “mindlessness.” The sage “hides within Heaven,” not peering beyond the bounds of his allotted nature—hence it is called “hiding.” Ganjiang and Moye (legendary swords) could be used for revenge, yet those who seek revenge do not deliberately break them, because there is no such fixation in the heart.

When a tile falls and strikes someone, the person does not blame the tile—precisely because it is “without feeling” (wuqing). The way of wuqing is vastly significant. Knowing without deliberation is called “opening Heaven”; having sensation only after prior knowing is called “opening the human.” “Opening Heaven” is the natural activation of one’s allotted nature; “opening the human” is the contrived deployment of knowing. When nature activates, one meets things and stops at sufficiency—when enough, one forgets the rest—and de arises from this. When knowing deploys, one keeps seeking from sensation without end—and harm (the “thief”) arises from this. Acting according to native nature, human relations complete themselves; what people commonly suffer from lies in the use of knowing, not in the movement of nature.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

The operation of Heaven and Earth and the transformation of the ten thousand things—which of these is not the work of qi? If one can preserve pure, unified qi, there is no blockage, no overheating, no peril, and nothing to marvel at. Same intent as Guo’s note: what people suffer from lies mostly in the use of knowing, not in the movement of nature.

Heaven and earth turn, and the myriad things change—there is not one of these that is not the work of qi. If one can truly hold to pure qi, one will neither be blocked nor overheated nor caught in peril; in essence one is no different from ordinary people—the whole difference lies in arriving at utmost emptiness. How could one imagine that craftiness, boldness, and the like could stand comparison with this?

Take the dragon: when it gathers into a body, it reaches the sky above and coils in the deep abyss below—there is nowhere it does not go; when it scatters into pattern, it slips into non-being and cannot be seen in any form—it is nothing but qi. Whatever has a face, a shape, a sound, or a color is a “thing.” How far can thing from thing be from one another? How could that compare with what is “prior”? As for the prior, that is the realm before any thing exists; “form” and “color” belong to the time after things have already taken shape. Measured by these, one cannot adequately speak of guarding pure qi or roaming in utmost emptiness.

When a thing is made in the formless, it is not confined by appearance, image, sound, or color; therefore it rests where there is no further transformation and does not depart. One who attains this state and pursues it to the limit lives within the measure of “the hand does not overstep”—neither glaringly bright nor dimly obscure, matching the situation without going too far; hidden in the thread that has no beginning, one is always contrary to this [ordinary way] and cannot be exhausted on this side; roaming where the myriad things end and begin is what is meant by creating in the formless and resting where there is no transformation. Devote yourself to nature without duality, nourish qi with proper measure so you are neither glaring nor obscure, fit the situation without excess; stored in the thread without beginning, from first to last contrary to the usual, not to be exhausted here; roaming at the beginning and end of the myriad things—that is creating in the formless and resting where there is no transformation.

When nature is cultivated and one returns to De, one becomes of the same kind as the maker of things. If the hand does not overstep form, and one guards wholeness without retreat, how can outer things force their way in? One wholly sunk in wine does not let fear of life and death enter the breast—then one is hidden in Heaven (Tian). One who guards wholeness ought to be unharmed by outer things. There is always a “master of killing” who presides over killing; if people encounter him, it is no more than Ganjiang (the famed sword) striking a tile—that is why the world can be even and level, so that even when states are attacked there is none of the disorder of aggressive war.

“He who opens Heaven” is one in whom De arises and is merged with it, forgetting ignorance and wuwei (non-action); “he who opens the human” is one in whom thievery arises, because his De has a mind, and that mind in turn has eyes. If one does not weary of Heaven, one is only opening Heaven; if one does not slight others, one fears what others fear. If the people understood this principle, they would almost be able to keep their authenticity intact.

This passage explains the relationship among the Perfected Person (someone who has reached the realm of the True Person), guarding the true, and pure Qi.

The Perfected Person does not depart from the true: the true resides within, so outer things can hardly shake them—hence they enter water without getting wet, fire without being burned, and heights without trembling. Guan Yin (Master Guan, traditionally said to be a disciple of Laozi) said that at this stage it is guarding pure Qi—“pure” means not depleting one’s Shen (spirit, original spirit); only when Shen is not depleted can one be called “true.” Those who rely on cleverness and boldness, bent on conquering outer things, harbor suspicion within and bluster without; even a joint or patch of their body can hardly find room in heaven and earth—how could water and fire approach them? Only by inwardly guarding pure Qi, turning knowing and seeing inward, storing hearing and sight within, unaware of water and fire outside, already one with water and fire, can one go anywhere with perfect ease.

Appearance, image, sound, and color are all called “form”: things go from non-being to being, first flowing then showing color. When Supreme Simplicity (Tai Su, undifferentiated chaos-qi) is complete, form and substance appear; Supreme Simplicity still falls short of Supreme Beginning (Tai Shi, an earlier chaotic stage)—how could it reach what is “prior”? Whatever has shape belongs to creation and transformation; when creation reaches the formless, it stops at nothing left to transform. Whoever exhausts this Way leaves form, transcends transformation, reaches before things, and extinguishes right and wrong; though uniquely upright, that is still not enough to be called “destiny.”

What Laozi meant by “there was something confusedly complete” is just this. Whatever has shape belongs to creation and transformation; when creation reaches the formless, it stops at nothing left to transform. Whoever exhausts this Way leaves form, transcends transformation, reaches before things, and extinguishes right and wrong—though uniquely upright, that is still not enough to be called “destiny.”

“Very easy to know, very easy to practice”: do not go against the natural order of the ten thousand things; no need for deep probing. “Meet it and you do not see its head; follow it and you do not see its tail”: a thread without beginning (a pattern with no starting point). Moving among the ten thousand things while they wax and wane, full and empty, its limit cannot be exhausted—roaming at the beginning and end of all things. Unify your nature and you will not be divided; nourish your Qi and you will not be drained; hold your De and it will not scatter—then you roam on high with the maker of things and penetrate what things are made from; penetration is Heaven, Heaven is spirit; Heaven’s guard is complete, meaning Shen has no gap (no breach); when Shen has no gap, guarding pure Qi is firm, and how could things intrude?

Spirit generates form, form completes spirit: without spirit, form cannot live on its own; without form, spirit cannot complete itself. Spirit must not impair its wholeness—impairment often comes from having knowledge; form must not harm its integrity—harm often comes from going against things. Yet spirit generates form—if you only cherish form, spirit may not stay; embrace your spirit, and things cannot defy you.

A drunk in a cart falls and does not know it, because spirit is whole; when spirit is whole, shock of death and life cannot move what is within—even if thrown from the cart, only the body is hurt, not the spirit. That is what is meant by suffering harm differently from others, so though injured severely one may not die. That is borrowing wine to sink in stupor and blur knowing—not true non-knowing and forgetting feelings; when not drunk, knowing is sharp as ever, unforgettable in an instant, so though one does not die, there is still injury. If one were truly without knowing, without knowing, even water and fire could not scorch or drown—how much less a fall from a cart? Those complete in Heaven—nothing can harm them. The sage hides here; this is the way of long life and far sight.

Tongyi says: One whom fire cannot burn and water cannot drown—how much less would he be harmed by merely falling from a cart? Such a person is fully united with Tian (Heaven); outer things cannot injure him. The Shengren (Sage) places his life within this principle, and so can Changsheng jiushi (long life and enduring vision).

Tongyi also says: Being fashioned from the formless is wu shi (no beginning); resting where there is nothing further to transform is wu zhong (no end). How could outer things “hold” him still? This speaks of one who passes through transformation yet preserves spirit—outer things cannot fix or stall his Taixu (Great Void) as original nature.

Fangzi says: “De sheng” (virtue arising) means Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power) emerges and brings peace; “zei sheng” (thieves arising) means the six thieves contend with one another. Thus Heaven may be long preserved but must not be lightly surrendered; the person may be cautious but must not be negligent.

Zhongni (Confucius) went to Chu. Leaving the woods, he saw a goulou (hunchbacked) old man catching cicadas with a pole as if picking them up at will. Zhongni asked: “You are truly skillful—is this Dao?”

The old man replied: “I have Dao. After five or six months of practice, I can balance two pellets on the pole tip without their falling; when I catch cicadas I miss at most a zihu (hair’s breadth). With three pellets balanced, misses are about one in ten; with five, I almost never fail. I stand with body like an upright jue (stake) or withered stump, arm raised like a dead branch. Though heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things many, in my mind there is only the cicada’s wing. I do not turn my head or glance aside; I would not trade the whole realm for one cicada wing—how could I fail to catch them?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said: “Yong zhi bu fen, nai yi yu shen”—when intent is undivided, one approaches the wondrous in spirit; surely this describes the hunchbacked old man. (Juezhu ju: standing fixed like a stake or withered stump; some read “ning yu shen” and follow Su Shi in emending to “yi yu shen”.)

Guo Xiang annotates: Balancing two pellets without dropping shows the hand held steady; thus missing a cicada is at most within a zihu. With three and five pellets, misses grow fewer; when stillness and scrutiny reach the extreme, one almost never fails. Body like jue-stump fixation, arm like withered branch—this is the utmost of non-movement. “Wei he er bu de” means: release concern for other things, and this skill is attained.

Lü Huìqing annotates: To grasp the way of catching cicadas is what is called chun qi zhi shou (guarding pure Qi (vital energy)); their “intent undivided” is nothing beyond this.

Source note: This passage comes from Zhuangzi Yi (Wings of Zhuangzi), a commentary on the Zhuangzi. It quotes stories from “Perfecting Life” (Dacheng)—catching cicadas with a sticky pole, skilled swimming, and the “man who dives”—and the commentary retells the classic text in plain language.

Plain-language reading:

Jiang Yi asked the master of “stacked pills” to teach him chengtiao—catching cicadas by sticking them with a sticky tip on a pole, as easily as picking something up. “Stacked pills” means placing small balls one by one on the rod tip so they can roll and turn yet never fall—showing how steady he stood, how precise his arm, how single his intent. With that kind of concentration, catching cicadas became as easy as picking them off by hand. Cicada wings are light and sensitive; to stick them as casually as gathering objects already goes beyond ordinary cleverness, so he said, “I have the Dao.”

The commentary says: when he stood like a post and raised his arm like a dead branch, that was “inner forgetting”—forgetting himself. Not shaken by outer things, not treating the world as heavier than sticking a cicada, was “outer forgetting of things.” Forget both inner and outer, and it is not only about cicadas—so Confucius praised him: “His intent does not split,” almost as if his will met the divine. When intent scatters, spirit dissipates; when intent is one, spirit is whole—“guarding pure qi” is exactly this.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: I once crossed a deep gorge like “Shengshen”; the boatman handled the boat as if aided by a spirit. I asked: can boat-handling be learned? He answered: someone who can swim picks it up after a few tries; as for the “man who dives”—one who merges with water—even without ever seeing a boat he can handle one. I asked again, but he would not explain further—may I ask what principle this is?

Confucius said: one who can swim soon “forgets water”—is no longer bound by it. As for the diver, he treats the abyss as a small hill and capsizing as overturning a cart; capsizing, listing, all such turns face him yet do not enter his “abode of the mind”—wherever he is, he is at ease; why would he bother whether the stake is a tile, a hook, or gold? With tiles one is nimble, with hooks cautious, with gold afraid of loss—the skill is the same, but once pride enters, weight is tied to the outside. Whoever holds outer things too heavy must be clumsy within.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

Although all things have an innate nature, they still need instruction and repeated practice before habits can become “natural” as if they had always been so. When a deep pool feels as ordinary as a gentle slope, seeing a boat capsize in the abyss is like seeing a cart roll backward on an incline: capsizing and rolling back may happen again and again, yet the mind does not treat them as something to keep brooding over, because body and mind have grown used to the situation and mostly meet it with ease. If you “pour yourself into” things and fixate on them, the more weight you give what you value, the more arrogant and stiff the heart becomes. To nurture life and keep the inner self intact, perhaps the only way is not to be arrogant or heavy-handed toward anything.

Lu’s commentary

From “watching how one handles a boat” and what the old Jin commentary says: “form complete, essence restored” (xing quan jing fu) does not mean abandoning the world and throwing away life. Only when spirit and intent flow without blockage (shen wu xi) can one say one accords with this Way; otherwise one is not yet fit to take part in it.

Jiang Yu’s commentary

Water holds the boat up so it can float and move; people may imitate a ferryman’s boat-handling, yet not necessarily grasp its marrow—the point here aligns with Lu’s note: form complete and essence restored is not leaving the world; one must have unobstructed spirit (shen wu xi) for that insight to match the wisdom of mastering the boat.

Jiang Yu said: Water can hold up a boat; one may study the boatman’s craft, yet never acquire their kind of dexterity—for a person cannot fully learn another’s knack. Some who have lived in water since childhood and been steeped in swift currents can handle a boat almost like seasoned masters even without formal training in steering. Conversely, those unaccustomed to water stand trembling at the gunwale, dreading capsizing and drowning—how could they speak of steering a boat? So only those who feel at ease in the water can truly be taught; those who have already “forgotten” the water often learn at once. As for the “unseen ones” (those who move through water as if invisible), even without ever having seen a boat they can step aboard and steer—not only having forgotten the water, but forgotten the boat as well, and thus remain unhurried everywhere. If even wading still inspires fear of difficulty, governing the world resembles ferrying people by boat: to bring everyone to a place free of peril, only one who has the Dao can lightly set aside worldly cares, enter and leave amid endless change without being trapped, and then ease the world with composure. The more one prizes external things, the prouder the heart becomes; once pride rises, wisdom dulls and skill is lost. Skill lies within oneself; things lie outside—already skilled, yet pride turns one clumsy. Better to settle and clarify inner and outer: treat gold as roof tiles, and one is dexterous everywhere; what one seeks never strays from “self.” Yet this cannot be forced by practice; those who have the Dao are naturally so. Skill at the start, clumsiness at the end—skill that returns to clumsiness; if neither wisdom nor craft remain, one no longer sees the weight of what is sought, and when things arise one may still act with skill—does not what the world calls “skill” amount to great clumsiness? Hence it is said: the greatest skill looks like clumsiness.

Vernacular Explanation

Tian Kaizhi went to visit Duke Wei of Zhou. The duke said: “I have heard that Zhuren once studied with you, and that you also kept company with Zhuren. What did you hear from him?” Tian Kaizhi replied: “Kaizhi is only someone who holds a broom and waits in the courtyard—what could I possibly have heard from the master?” The duke said: “Mr. Tian, you need not be so modest; I would like to hear.” Tian Kaizhi said: “I heard the master say that those who are good at nurturing life are like shepherds tending a flock: they watch the sheep that lag behind and urge them on with the whip.”

The duke asked: “What does that mean?” Tian Kaizhi said: “In Lu there was a man named Shan Bao who lived among cliffs and drank from springs, never competing with the people for gain. He lived to seventy, yet his complexion was still like an infant’s. Unfortunately he met a starving tiger and was bitten to death and eaten. There was also a man named Zhang Yi who made a point of visiting great houses—there was no lintel-hung curtain he would not slip under. He lived to forty, then died of internal heat from his excesses. Shan Bao nurtured only the inner (spirit and vital energy) and was eaten from without by a tiger; Zhang Yi nurtured only the outer (social climbing and sensual indulgence) and was struck down by illness from within. Neither of these two ‘whipped the sheep that lagged behind’—they failed to shore up the weak spot that needed it.”

Confucius also said: “Do not always hide inward and seal yourself off; do not always thrust outward and show your edge; stand centered like withered wood.” When these three points are truly grasped, one reaches the right measure (name and reality aligned). On a dangerous road, one person in ten may be killed—fathers, sons, and brothers warn one another and will not set out without extra escorts; people at least fear that. Yet the harm people invite in bed, at table, and in daily habit often kills them outright, and no one guards against it as they do against murder on the road—that is the greater fault.

(In the text, “bahu” [holding the broom] is read like “fu,” meaning to sweep; “gaomen” means great households, “xianbo” is the curtain hung at the entrance, and “luyan” means humble homes. Guo Xiang’s note on “student”: what Zhuren studied emphasized holding to the center and ease, specializing in one direction, and often failed to guard against what exceeds ordinary reason for overall fitness. “Whipping those behind” means removing what falls short. Having turned inward to hide, yet hiding too much, is excess of “entering”; having turned outward to display, yet displaying too much, is excess of “leaving.” Like withered wood without deliberate intent yet standing in the middle way—that is “standing.” When the three names reach their limit, the reality is also correct.)

Lu’s commentary: “Single Bao” is the type Zhuangzi describes—his body still lived, yet the person was already dead. Zhang Yi had outward fame and profit to spare but could not sustain his own person. Bao leaned toward inner concealment, Yi toward outward display; both were deliberate, willful efforts. Chai Li was without such intent, standing in the middle—neither like the one nor like the other.

Xun’s commentary: When a flock of sheep moves forward, you need not whip the lead sheep; you whip those that lag behind. The image means: someone who has already truly nourished the inner need not keep grinding away at “inner” work and should turn to nourishing the outer; someone who has already truly nourished the outer need not keep grinding away at “outer” work and should turn to nourishing the inner. “Chai Li” stands like withered wood; “Chai Li in the central place” is a state of neither going out nor going in, neither leaning this way nor that.

Main narrative:

Zhu Zongren, an officer who presided over sacrificial rites, came to the pen carrying the ritual vessels and said to the pig about to be offered: “Are you afraid to die? I will fatten you for three months, keep ten days of abstinence, three days of purification bathing, spread white rushes under your shoulders and haunches, and set you on a carved sacrificial stand—would you want that?”

Thinking for the pig, one says: better to eat chaff and bran and be kept in the pen.

Thinking for oneself, one says: while alive one wants carriage, robes, and cap; when dead one wants to be lacquered on a decorated shield and laid in a rolled mat—then one is willing.

Thinking for the pig, one rejects that kind of death; thinking for oneself, one accepts it. Where is the real difference between human and pig?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Craving honor and glory often costs one’s very life—the principle is the same; human and beast do not differ in essence on this point.

Brief glosses:

• Zhūndùn (decorative shield): Luo’s reading takes it as a shield bearing painted designs; in contexts like Classic of Poetry, Xiaoya, “Cai Shu,” there is talk of pheasant-feather patterns painted on shields.
• Jùlǚ (gathered, bent mat): a thin, curved mat used to roll up and lay out sacrificial objects or a corpse.

Lü’s Commentary

If you plan for the pig, the pig would choose to get away—not to be slaughtered. If you plan for yourself, people instead go toward “taking”—accepting death or self-sacrifice. Can human beings value their bodies less than pigs do? Because they are dragged down by worldly affairs. Only by shedding the secular and giving up the greed to cling to life can one avoid being pulled along.

Yidu’s Explanation

If you plan for the pig, the pig would rather wag its tail in foul mud than have its bones treated as precious after death. If you plan for the pig, the pig would rather eat chaff and stay in the pen than have shoulder, back, rump, and legs laid on carved sacrificial stands. The point: to go against what life naturally is in order to enjoy wealth and rank is worse than following what life naturally is and being at ease in poverty and low station. Zhuangzi speaks as the pig and uses the pig to stand for people in the world—the meaning is plain.

Oral Exegesis

“Duanguan” means wearing cap and robes properly; “fang” is fodder for sacrificial livestock; “dun” is a curved vessel that can hold and gather things; “julou” names carrying baskets such as the ben and ju. In the Zuozhuan, when a cook’s stewed bear paws were underdone and he was put to death, his body was placed in a ju-type gathering basket—that is the sort of vessel meant.

Fang Sishan

On graphs such as zhuan and dun, Lu Deming’s Yinyi says zhuan should be read as yang (“to feed”); dun is still the gathering vessel; julou appears with variant wording in older transmitted texts. Further, in Liji, “Tan Gong”: when the Son of Heaven’s coffin rests in state, firewood is piled to cover the coffin and then plastered; the spirit carriage is the dragon-decorated long chun, with sha, lou, and the like (lou and liu are interchangeable, willow branches; zuan is piling wood over the coffin and plastering). The passage’s drift is roughly: offer a rich man’s death in exchange for the pig’s life—the pig still refuses. Are people really beneath the pig?

Scripture

Duke Huan of Qi went hunting in marshland, with Guan Zhong driving the chariot. The duke said he had seen a ghost on the road and, gripping Guan Zhong’s hand, asked, “Zhongfu, did you see anything?” Guan Zhong replied, “I saw nothing at all.” When the duke returned, he first laughed for a while, then fell ill and for several days did not go out.

A scholar of Qi named Huangzi Gaoyao said to the duke, “You frightened yourself—how could a ghost harm you? When vital energy (Qi) stagnates and cannot disperse, it becomes the condition of ‘insufficiency’; when Qi rises but cannot descend, a person grows irascible; when it descends but cannot rise, a person grows forgetful; when it neither rises nor falls but gathers in the chest, illness follows.”

The duke asked, “Then do ghosts really exist?”

Gaoyao said, “They do. There are the sunken ghost and the treading ghost; in the stove there is the Ji ghost; inside the door, the Fanrang; where thunder and rain settle; below the northeast, Pei’e; and creatures such as frogs and dragons.” (The duke asked whether there were other ghosts; the answer was much the same as above—the base text repeats here.)

The duke asked, “What does the Weiyi look like?”

Gaoyao said, “The Weiyi is as large as a wheel and as long as a chariot pole. It wears purple robes and a vermilion cap. It fears the sound of the thunder chariot; when it hears it, it covers its head and stands still. Whoever sees it is likely to be terrified into acting like a hegemon.”

The duke could not help laughing. “That is exactly what I saw!” He then straightened his robes and cap and sat facing Gaoyao with proper decorum. Before a day had passed, his illness lifted.

(Note: Long—one reading takes it as a large mottled red ant.)

Chapter intent (following Guo and Lu’s commentary)

This chapter means: when worry comes, it drags down life because the mind is unclear; when disaster passes and original nature returns, it is because one understands the Way. To doubt spirits and ghosts is really to hurt oneself; once doubt is cleared, even an illness still in the body may disperse on its own. When a person can preserve inborn disposition, outer things cannot enter—and then nothing can truly harm him.

A Humble View

Duke Huan fell ill from suspicion; Gao Ao used “delusion” to stop “delusion.” From this we know: whether ghosts exist or not arises with the arising and ceasing of mind’s thoughts; that likes and dislikes come from human delusion is already clear. When delusion is removed, likes and dislikes return to the original mind; when the original mind is clear, arising and ceasing are no longer controlled by external things (ghosts). People today chase delusion and lose their true nature—many illnesses come from “seeing ghosts.” Gao Ao said: if you harm yourself, how can ghosts harm you? That saying is like good medicine for illness born of doubt—like breaking a tile and the heart’s pain vanishing, or the bow’s shadow gone and suspicious illness cured. The ghost names recorded may seem bizarre, yet the Kongzi Jiayu also speaks of Kui and Wangxiang; the Zuozhuan has “the new ghost is large, the old ghost is small”; histories tell of Lord Haochi presenting a jade disk—so ghosts are not entirely absent. As long as yin and yang each keep their place and do not harm each other, that is enough. The scripture says: when the world has the Dao, its ghosts are not numinous.

Ji Huzi Raises Fighting Cocks for the King

Ji Huzi raised fighting cocks for the great king. After ten days the king asked whether the cocks were ready. He answered: not yet—they still “put on airs and rely on brimming qi.” Ten days later the king asked again; he answered: not yet—they still react to shadows and movement. Ten days later again; he answered: not yet—they still glare angrily with qi in full flood. Ten days later again; he answered: almost there. Though other cocks crow, this one is unaffected; seen from afar it looks like a wooden cock—its De is complete. Other cocks dare not fight and run away instead. Guo Xiang’s commentary: this chapter treats nurturing to “wholeness”; outwardly there is no match, how much more when the self is whole.

Zhang Zhan

Using cock-rearing as a metaphor for nurturing life: “empty guard and reliance on qi” is having no real De yet being self-important—like answering to a shadow, insight comes quickly; “glaring angrily with qi in full flood” is seeking an enemy and sure victory. Though hearing other cocks crow yet oneself unchanged—that is the other coming to fight while I do not respond, forgetting win and loss. As for looking like a wooden cock from afar so other cocks dare not respond—we know one whose De is complete not only has no mind of one’s own but can also keep external things from giving rise to mind—this is the utmost of nurturing.

Commentary by Jiang Yu: The chicken belongs to the nature of Wood among the five phases; when wood rubs against wood it can ignite, hence cocks are prone to fighting. If one only bluffs and postures, one appears arrogant; if one relies on brimming qi to throw weight around, one bullies others. Though the opponent has not yet appeared, one already seeks enemies everywhere—at best one may become fearless, but how can one guarantee victory? Therefore Confucius asked whether the fighting cock was ready; the trainer answered “Not yet”—it still reacts to shadows and sounds, showing it cannot yet do without that surge of “qi”; whichever way the shadow moves, it responds that way.

When the eyes glare and qi overflows outward, it no longer chases shadows blindly but responds with direction. If a rival comes, one need only hold a bold, steady bearing and wait. Yet glaring eyes unsettle the spirit; overflowing qi unbalances the heart. Though one does not fight outwardly, inwardly one is already stirred, spirit and qi already dampened—only holding back without releasing—hence “Not yet.” Going further, one approaches completion: afterward, though other cocks crow, it remains unchanged; to look at it is like a wooden cock—its De-nature is complete. This means inwardly forgetting one’s qi, outwardly forgetting one’s form; though other cocks startle and cry, it does not hear their sound—how is it different from dead wood? The virtue of non-contention has no greater fullness than this, hence “complete.” Cocks under heaven cannot match it; instead they retreat and submit—like Old Dan (Laozi) making the Hu people submit, or Confucius winning his disciples’ hearts. In humans the heart is the “Crimson Palace”; in birds it is the “Vermillion Bird.” The sage nourishes inwardly, so that (the heart) is sufficient without greed, full without contention—thus nothing under heaven can contend with him. Ordinary people nourish only outwardly, keeping the Vermillion Bird constantly hungry, soaring in all directions seeking profit alone; without greed the breast cannot be filled, without contention desire cannot be satisfied—until death stops them—how lamentable.

Personal view: “Has the cock…” should follow the Liezi reading “Is the cock fit to fight yet?”; the Zhuangzi passage here shows textual lacunae.

(Also recorded) Zhuangzi text: Confucius watched the water at Lüliang (a river name); the depth was thirty ren, foam flying forty li—turtles, crocodiles, fish, and turtles could not swim in it; (some) ended by dying there and stopping—how lamentable.

Confucius once watched the waters at Lüliang: a waterfall hung some thirty ren high, and spray and foam rushed down for forty li. Even turtles, crocodiles, fish, and soft-shelled turtles dared not swim there. Yet he saw a man swimming in the water. Confucius thought the man was in agony and meant to end his life, so he told his disciples to go downstream side by side to rescue him. Instead, after a few hundred paces the man surfaced, hair loose, singing as he swam. Confucius went up and asked: “At first I took you for a ghost; looking closer, I see you are human. Tell me—is there a method to treading water and swimming like this?”

The man said: “No. I have no special method. I began with habit (growing up in this kind of environment), developed along my nature (following my natural way of being with water), and it came to completion through ming (how things turn out is how they turn out—no forcing). When a whirlpool pulls me in, I go in with the whirlpool; when the water surges and pours out, I go out with the surge. I move with the water’s patterns, without clinging to fixed ideas or forcing my will, and so I can swim like this.”

Confucius asked: “What do you mean by beginning with habit, developing along nature, and completing through ming?”

The man answered: “Born among hills, I am at home on hills—that is gu (habit, what one is used to). Raised beside water, I am at home in water—that is xing (nature). As for why it cheng (comes off), I cannot say why; it simply does—that is ming (allotted course, destiny).”

(Note: In old commentaries, “qi” is read as “navel,” meaning where the current spirals inward; “mi” means water churning and rushing outward. Guo Xiang, Zhang Zhan, and others read this passage as saying that if one simply brings out what one already excels at and lets it run naturally, nothing in the world is hard; one need not chase “living and thriving” by force—follow xing and accept ming, and there is no place one cannot get through.)

Lü’s commentary: From the standpoint of the principle of xing (innate nature) and ming (life-destiny), to sink together with “Qi” and rise together with “Mi,” following the way of water without private intent—one may still act in accord with that flow. But where even water-adapted creatures such as the yuan (giant turtle) and e (Chinese alligator) cannot pass, if one can align one’s de (virtue/power) with that place and penetrate what all things arise from and become, one ought then to rely on nothing yet be at ease in every situation.

To be born among hills and feel at home on hills is habit hardening into a fixed pattern—not original xing, but something shaped by human artifice (wei). To grow up in water and feel at home in water—that is xing, the capacity in which one is naturally strong. Without that innate bent, and relying only on later habituation, even if de opens onto the root of things, one still cannot escape treading everywhere yet fitting nowhere.

(Note: Qi and Mi are Zhuangzi images tied to flowing water; yuan and e stand for creatures supremely skilled in water; wei gu denotes customary patterns formed by repeated conditioning; xing denotes innate endowment.)