《庄子翼》Vol. 9

On the Elder of Lüliang (crossing water without drowning)

Creatures of water do not become ill at ease when the water changes; people born on land settle into life on land. The old man at Lüliang could move in waters where giant soft-shelled turtles, alligators, fish, and tortoises could not swim—most likely because his innate nature was especially suited to that element. Precisely because he had that nature, he could excel in water and feel at home in it. Even so, if someone is at ease in water yet still does not understand “why things are as they are,” they have not yet truly followed the way of water without private motive, and they cannot reach that subtle state. That is why the discussion finally turns on ming (destiny or allotted capacity): a person like this is what is meant by someone who, through this endowment, “plays in the great rivers.”

One reading holds that the Elder of Lüliang’s walking on water while singing lies in following the Dao of water without serving private interest, so the water could not harm him. If in human affairs one follows the human Dao without private interest, other people will not harm one either. Extend that principle to how you meet the world, and where could one fail to preserve oneself? It begins with gu (habit and familiarity); through repeated practice one grows capable; it matures in xing (nature), when long practice becomes second nature; at ming, one forgets the water altogether and no longer knows why things happen as they do—that is being whole with Heaven. This chapter shares one thread with “no friction with things, no injury in dwelling among things”; those lines can serve as a yardstick for moving through the world.

Ziqing carves wood for a bell stand

When the frame for bells and drums was finished, viewers were astonished and took it for the work of spirits or ghosts. The Lord of Lu asked what technique he used. He replied that he was a craftsman and had no technique as such—only this: before making the stand he never dared waste his jing (essence) and qi; he always observed zhai (purification and fasting) to settle the mind. After three days of zhai he no longer thought of rewards, rank, or salary; after five days he no longer thought of praise, blame, skill, or clumsiness; after seven days he forgot his body as if he had no limbs at all. Then there was no thought of the court or public office in his heart, his craft-intent was single, and the “hua” of outer things—the bone of outer entanglements and distraction—was exhausted. Only then did he enter the forest, observe the tianxing (innate nature) of the timber, and when the material was already sufficient and the full form of the stand was present in his mind, he took up the blade; otherwise he would not cut. Joining Heaven to Heaven—why the finished piece seemed aided by spirits—is roughly that.

Write a short follow-up in English only (no Chinese characters): confirm you translated the full text and note any terms you kept in pinyin.

Plain-Language Commentary

Guo Xiang’s commentary

When Ziqing looked at the court, it was as if it did not exist; concern for external fame and gain had faded away. Only then did he enter the forest and observe the innate nature of the trees. When the form of a tree fully matched the vessel to be made, he saw which piece of wood to use and then took up his tools; otherwise he stopped. This was joining his own innate nature with the innate nature of the wood. That the finished vessel seemed the work of a divine craftsman was largely for this reason. (Jue: the wooden frame for bells, drums, and other instruments.)

Lü Huìqīng’s commentary

That a vessel makes people wonder whether gods made it is precisely because of this. If outward “slipperiness” (clinging to external affairs) is not yet exhausted, one cannot hope to roam in the realm where things are made.

Yí Dú (or another commentator)

The carpenter was named Qìng; jue is an instrument that stops the music, also called yǐ, shaped like a crouching tiger with twenty-seven notches on its back. Qìng never drained his essence and qi; he was empty, unified, and still. He did not think of rewards or rank and stipend—he forgot profit. He did not think of blame or praise, skill or clumsiness—he forgot name. Forgetting “I have a body of four limbs,” his spirit was whole and one with Heaven; hence he could regard the public court as nothing, external affairs no longer slid through his heart, and only then enter the forest. When he saw wood whose form matched the jue, he applied his hand without forcing—joining his Heaven with the wood’s Heaven. That this vessel seemed divine work lies in this.

Classic passage (Dōngyě Jì driving horses)

Dōngyě Jì presented his charioteering to Duke Zhuāng; advancing and retreating were as straight as an inked line, turning left and right as round as a compass. The duke thought no skill could surpass this. He had him drive a hundred circuits in a row; when Jì returned, his face had already changed. Yán Hé met him, went in, and said, “Jì’s horses are about to break down.” The duke kept it secret and did not answer. Before long the horses collapsed and came back. The duke asked, “How did you know?” He replied, “The horses’ strength was exhausted yet he still demanded more—so failure was inevitable.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary

When the horses’ strength was spent he still sought more circuits—hence failure. It shows that hitting the mark must not be overstepped.

Lü Huìqīng’s commentary

Jì’s driving was already excellent, yet he could not avoid ruin once the horses’ strength was gone. If one pursues in the Way what life never originally had and what intelligence cannot help, one likewise cannot succeed on one’s own.

Main Idea of the Passage

To handle the reins should be like gathering threads and arranging brocade: let the ten thousand things return to their inherent Way, and only do what life need not force and what cleverness cannot help—none of this is achieved by deliberate “self-will.”

Highlights from Commentaries

Bixu Commentary

The driver’s reins should be measured like gathering threads and weaving patterns, so the horses turn back onto the path rather than being driven blindly onward. Han Ying said: Shun was skilled at employing people, Zaofu at driving horses; if you do not push people to the limit, there are no fleeing subjects; if you do not push horses to the limit, there are no runaway steeds. Horses stumble and fail often because restraint and control are excessive; the people’s wit is drained often because decrees and instruction are too harsh and minute. Therefore one who understands Heaven’s mandate does not insist on showing strength where cleverness can do nothing.

Guanjian Commentary

“Hold the reins like silk cords; the paired outside horses move like a dance”—this shows that ornament must not go too far: gathering the thread ends here and forming the pattern there is like a skilled driver holding the reins above while the horses below align naturally. “Gou bai” (driving in endless circles) means circling and driving without stop; from this we see that failure is inevitable; when strength is spent yet one still demands more, not only the horse fails—the person is worn out too.

Passage on Gongshui (Zhuangzi text)

Gongshui (an ancient master craftsman) whirled his hand and surpassed compass and square; fingers and thing merged into nature together, without the mind checking or verifying, so the spirit-platform (heart) stayed single-minded and unbound.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Even one as dexterous as Gongshui still relied on compass and rule—this means following what is easy in things, not letting the heart be enslaved by things.

Lü Huqing’s Commentary

“Gongshui whirls and covers compass and rule”: letting the fingers whirl naturally already surpasses the tools; lines drawn match them without showing traces; finger and object accord, like natural transformation, without needing the mind to verify first for square and circle. Thus the spirit-platform is single-minded and not shackled. As for forgetting the feet, forgetting the waist, the heart forgetting right and wrong and finding nothing unsuitable—that is proof of not checking with the mind. “When the feet are forgotten, it is the shoes’ fit; when the waist is forgotten, it is the belt’s fit; when one knows to forget right and wrong, it is the heart’s fit; what begins in fit and never knows unfitness is forgetting the fit of fit”—from shoes that fit and a belt that fits, to the heart forgetting right and wrong, and on to forgetting “fit” itself—that is the highest ease Zhuangzi speaks of.

In one sentence: Skill in driving and skill in governing lie not in tight reins and driven horses or harsh rule and exhausted people, but in following what is easy in things and not letting the heart be bound by compass and rule; forgetting feet and belt, forgetting right and wrong, and even forgetting “fit”—that is the true carefree wandering Zhuangzi describes.

Plain-Language Commentary

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

When every part of the body is at ease, you can forget even the body itself; right and wrong often arise from “dis-ease.” When everything you meet is settled, there is no need to change or follow something else. Someone who thinks they are “at ease” has not yet reached true ease.

Bixu’s Commentary

Forgetting the feet, forgetting the waist—that is about branches and tips; when the heart forgets right and wrong, the root is forgotten too, let alone the branches. Inside and outside are “me”; whatever you meet is the same. Ease that comes from itself and stays ease is “ease without a fixed object of ease.” The skill of Gongshui (the legendary craftsman) points to the same thing.

Main Story

A man named Sun Xiu came to the gate of Bian Qingzi (Bian He) and told Bian Qingzi about his troubles.

Sun Xiu said: In my village, no one says I lack cultivation; in danger, no one says I lack courage. Yet in the fields I never hit a good year, and in the world I never hit a good age. The village rejects me; the district drives me away. What crime is this on Heaven’s part? Sun Xiu sighed: Why have I ended up with such a fate?

Bian Qingzi said: Have you not heard how the realized person conducts himself? He forgets liver and gall, abandons ears and eyes, wanders blankly beyond the dust, roams in the work of non-busyness—this is “acting without leaning on it, nurturing without lording over it.” Now you startle the foolish with cleverness, polish the body to display what is stained, and walk as if holding up the sun and moon for all to see. Your form is whole and your body intact; your nine openings have not gone deaf, blind, lame, or crippled off the middle way—you are already luckier than most people; where is the spare room to blame Heaven? Be on your way.

After Sun Xiu left, Bian Qingzi came in and sat a while, then looked up and sighed. A disciple asked: Master, why do you sigh?

Bian Qingzi said: Sun Xiu just came by. I told him the virtue of the realized person. I feared he would be frightened—and instead he ended up more confused.

The disciple said: That cannot be right. If what Sun Xiu said was right and what you said was wrong, what is wrong cannot confuse people in the first place. If what Sun Xiu said was wrong and what you said was right, he came already confused—what fault is his?

Bian Qingzi said: No. Once a bird alighted in the suburbs of Lu. The lord of Lu was delighted, treated it to the grand sacrificial feast, and had the Nine Shao played—but the bird only grew anxious, dared not look, dared not eat. That is using the way you nourish people to nourish a bird. If you nourish a bird the way you nourish birds, it should roost in deep forest, float on rivers and lakes, eat small snakes and the like, and find enough on open ground. Sun Xiu is shallow in sight and narrow in hearing. I told him the virtue of the realized person—as if hitching a mouse to a carriage and orchestra, or using bells and drums to amuse a wren—how could he not panic?

Note: “Kuankai” is the same as “kuankuan,” a small hole or opening; “kai” means to open. “Kuankai” suggests narrow insight—only a tiny aperture opened.

Plain-Language Reading of Commentary Related to Zhuangzi Yi

Guo Xiang’s Commentary (Main Idea)

Forget liver and gall (do not be stirred by inner passions); leave behind ears and eyes (do not be pulled by outer things)—hand everything over to nature. Whatever is not of one’s inborn nature is grime; whatever is done deliberately “for oneself” is superfluous busyness. Living in accord with one’s nature is not a matter of forcing; letting things grow of themselves is not a matter of dominating. Like “raising birds by the method suited to birds”—each gets what fits. This chapter means: those who are good at nurturing life each rest in their proper place, and then things naturally fall into place.

Lu Huiqing’s Commentary (Main Idea)

This chapter’s aim is to preserve body and life until spirit is whole and vital essence is restored, and to unite with the Way of Heaven. Sun Xiu’s approach is the opposite. After hearing the flat master’s words, he could not help but fear and panic; he stared wide-eyed and dared not eat or drink—so at the end of the chapter the parable of the “sea bird” closes the theme.

Guan Jian (Main Idea)

Content with Heaven’s decree and knowing one’s lot, one does not worry; probing Heaven’s principle and exhausting one’s nature, one does not doubt. What Sun Xiu says is far from “Heaven’s mandate and the nature-principle.” So the flat master guides him with the conduct of the Perfect Person (Zhi Ren): forgetting liver and gall empties the inside; casting off ears and eyes stills the outside—only then can one roam freely beyond the dust. All deliberate doing in the human world is grime; to leave that behind, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, is none other than the practice of “non-busyness”—what is called being beyond the world while still in the world. What is there to rely on? What “growth” is there to master?

(The commentary continues: you now polish your intellect and cultivate the body until you shine like sun and moon, yet you go out to gather the world’s disasters—lucky if you can keep your form intact and avoid Heaven’s harm; where is there room to blame Heaven?)

This is a deep warning against his delusion, meant to make him turn back.

Xin Zhu (Main Idea)

The way of complete preservation of life (quansheng) cannot be truly understood except by a Perfect Person. Explaining quansheng to someone who is not a Perfect Person is like feeding a bird with the grand sacrificial ox and the music of Jiushao—the bird how could it not be terrified? Zhuangzi wrote this chapter to awaken worldly people who still do not grasp quansheng; yet he could not lay out the full doctrine of quansheng to the world at once, so he ends in the flat master’s sigh and lodges the meaning there. As for “saying all he intended to say,” Zhuangzi may be said to have done it.

One-line thread: Each commentator is saying the same thing—Sun Xiu uses “intellect and self-cultivation” to fight Heaven’s decree, like mistreating a sea bird; the Perfect Person empties within and stills without, each in their proper place; Zhuangzi cannot speak plainly to the crowd, so he lets the flat master sigh at the end and hides the doctrine of quansheng in the parable.

Overview of Humble Opinions

This overview says: life is what people value most, yet nurturing it to excess can also harm the body. Fate lies with Heaven and cannot be defied; sometimes one gives up one’s life for righteousness. If one grasps these two points, one can preserve life and rest secure in one’s allotted span—this is the path of “deep roots and a firm base, long life and lasting vision.” What life does not require, stop chasing; what fate cannot be helped, it is better to keep at a distance. Know what is not urgent, and yet the wholly intact Heaven-endowed nature cannot be parted from even for an instant. Like a drunk watching a cart, holding the famed sword Mo Ye without fear—what can the heart contain? Catching cicadas on a pole and steering a boat show how accumulated practice becomes skill; herding sheep on a dangerous road, the whip behind warns of peril; the parable of the pig warns that craving rank is not as good as keeping to a humble station—those who cannot break through delusion are mostly confused. The later analogies differ, but all extend the theme of “attaining life” (dasheng), earnestly and urgently.

What human life is allotted for nourishment has its fixed measure—it is not gained by seeking, nor lost by not seeking. Hardship may arise unexpectedly; it is not escaped by luck nor avoided by cleverness. One can only cultivate human affairs in accord with Heavenly principle and seek a clear conscience. Long life, early death, fortune, and misfortune need not be pursued anxiously. Quiet cultivation in mountain valleys and great undertakings at court—inward nurturing of life and outward ordering of people— alike return to the Dao and De. Yet how few know that life is weighty and can be alert in matters of bedding and food? One must be like the wooden cock that looks like mere wood, or like the charioteer who uses the horse without exhausting it—only then does one reach the living principle and approach the conduct of the “perfect person.” It concludes with the bird of Lu’s outskirts that grieved at hearing bells and drums: when outward nurture is lost, inward nature is injured; to know how to nurture is to know how to preserve wholeness. The key is to attain one’s own life, extend it to nurturing the life of things that benefit others, find equal ease with things, forget ease and yet lack no ease.

Chapter 20: Mountain Wood

Zhuangzi walked in the mountains (this chapter discusses much the usefulness and uselessness of things and preserving the body while keeping harm at a distance). It also says: when outward nurture is lost, nature is injured; to know nurture is to know wholeness. Attain one’s own life, extend it to the life of things that benefit others, find equal ease with things, forget ease and yet lack no ease—in one thread with the discussion above.

Mountain Tree, Chapter 20 (Plain-Language Reading)

Zhuangzi was walking in the mountains when he saw a large tree with lush branches and leaves. A woodcutter stood nearby but did not cut it down. Zhuangzi asked why, and the man said: this tree is of no use. Zhuangzi said: because this tree is “not fit timber,” it has been able to live out its natural span and die of old age.

Later Zhuangzi left the mountains and stayed at an old friend’s home. The host was pleased and told the servant boy to kill a goose to entertain him. The boy asked: one can honk and one cannot—which should I kill? The host said: kill the one that cannot honk.

The next day a disciple asked Zhuangzi: yesterday the tree in the mountains was spared because it was “not fit timber”; today the host’s goose was killed because it was “not fit timber.” Master, how will you place yourself?

Zhuangzi smiled and said: I, Zhuang Zhou, will place myself between “fit timber” and “not fit timber.” To stand between timber and not-timber looks like a strategy, but it is not the real strategy, so one still cannot escape being dragged down. As for roaming freely along the Dao and De—that is not like this: neither chasing praise nor inviting blame; sometimes like a dragon, sometimes like a snake, changing with the times and refusing to cling to one fixed posture; sometimes above, sometimes below, taking “harmony” as the measure, floating in the root-source of the ten thousand things; treating outer things as outer things and not being enslaved by them—how could one fall into being burdened? This is the rule that Shennong and the Yellow Emperor followed.

As for the affairs of the human world and the ways of human feeling, it is not so: what gathers must part; what succeeds must be ruined; too upright and one is hurt; too honored and one is criticized; too active and one is diminished; too capable and one is plotted against; not worthy and one is bullied—how can one insist on a fixed outcome? Pitiful! Disciples, remember: only the “land of Dao and De”—the realm where one accords with the Way and virtue and the mind finds rest—is a place one can rely on.

On the Notes at the End of the Chapter

• Tradition ascribed to Sima: “Affairs cannot be carried out in only one rigid way” (Simas commentary in transmitted texts): the gist is that concrete action cannot follow a single dead pattern as if it must always work; one must adapt as things change. (The character in the transmitted text may be corrupt; the sense is that one cannot insist on one fixed course.)

• Guo Xiang’s commentary (on “How could one obtain a fixed outcome?”): if one thinks Zhuangzi only wants people to stop at “between timber and not-timber,” one still cannot escape being burdened; those who truly ride the Dao and De in free roaming—and Zhuangzi himself embodies this—know that worldly affairs have no method that is “sure”; one can only change with the times, always passing through and transforming. So one cannot demand that the human world turn out a certain way; one can only “transform with the times.”

Brief Glossary of Terms

• Not fit timber / timber and not-timber: not useful material (lacking practical value), contrasted with “useful and therefore cut down or exploited”—a familiar ironic twist in Zhuangzi.

• Dao and De: here the pair “Dao” and “De,” not everyday moral “good and bad,” but a way of living in accord with nature and united with the Way.

• Shennong and the Yellow Emperor: legendary sage rulers; Zhuangzi cites them as models of unity with the Way in high antiquity.

• Guo’s commentary: Guo Xiang’s Wei–Jin commentary on the Zhuangzi, one of the standard guides for later readers.

Lü’s commentary: Sages and worthies often find it hard to secure a foothold in the world; most of their suffering comes from being capable and too conspicuous. That is why Zhuangzi returns to this theme again and again, warning us in depth: talent itself invites trouble. The flip side is that dull, “good-for-nothing” people are also killed in large numbers—because they “cannot show off or curry favor.” Does being “without skill” really guarantee escape from disaster? Trees in the mountains are felled because they can serve as timber; the master’s goose is slaughtered because it cannot honk. The way harm arrives differs, but the outcome is equally grim. Some then try to find a middle path between “useful” and “useless”—that looks like the Dao, but it is still not the true Dao.

When Dao is taken as the root principle, one neither leans toward “useful” nor toward “useless,” nor simply splits the difference. If one is still stuck “between being timber and not being timber,” trouble cannot be avoided. If one can wander carried by Dao and De—neither praised nor blamed, with nobility and baseness unable to stick; now dragon, now snake, with sage and commoner equally unsettled; following the fullness and emptiness of rise and decline, transforming with the age, ascending or sinking as needed, harmonizing without strain—then one is no longer bound by “having talent or not.” All that remains is to float freely in the “ancestor of the ten thousand things,” the root from which all things emerge. That ancestor is like “the father of the multitude of fathers.” At that point one “commands things without being commanded by things”—how could outer things still drag one down?

Ordinary human affairs run like this: where there is gathering, there is scattering; where there is completion, there is ruin. Those who guard integrity easily meet setback; those who hold high rank easily meet censure. Given that, if one tries to be clever between “timber and not timber” while hoping “not to be mastered by things,” how can trouble be reliably avoided? If one truly wants to be free of burden, perhaps the only way is to return to the “homeland of Dao and De.”

Xixi’s commentary: Scattering, ruin, setback, censure, and harm are common in worldly affairs when people get along poorly and eye one another with disfavor. The capable attract envy and scheming; the unworthy are bullied—everyone tastes the thin, harsh malice of floating society.

Shinan Yiliao, a man of Chu famed for eloquence and stratagem, went to see the Duke of Lu. The duke looked troubled. Yiliao asked, “Your face shows worry—why?”

The duke said, “I study the Way of the former kings and carry on the work of my predecessors. I honor the worthy and respect the sage, and put it into practice myself without letting up for a moment—yet I still cannot escape misfortune. That is why I am troubled.”

Yiliao said, “Your way of removing harm is too shallow. The great fox and the leopard cat live in mountain forests and lie in rocky dens—that is stillness (jing). They move at night and rest by day—that is vigilance (jie). Though hungry and thirsty they still go to rivers to drink and feed—that is constancy (ding). Yet they cannot escape nets and traps—what crime is that? It is their pelts that bring disaster. Lu today—is it not your ‘pelt’? I wish you would split open your bodily form, strip away hide and fur, wash your inner heart clean and drop desire, and wander in wilds where no one lives. To the south there is a place called the Kingdom of Establishing Virtue (Jiande): the people there are simple and plain, with little selfishness and few wants; they know how to farm but not how to hoard; they give without expecting return; they do not know where to go to perform righteousness or what rites to follow—they roam freely yet tread the Great Way. Life is a joy; death is a burial. I wish you would leave your state, cast off the worldly, and walk in step with the Dao.”

The duke said, “That place is far and dangerous, with rivers and mountains. I have no boat or carriage—what can I do?”

Yiliao said, “Do not play the lord; do not stay fixed in one spot—take that as your ‘carriage.’”

The duke said, “The place is deep, remote, and without people. With whom would I be neighbor? I have no grain, no food—how could I get there?”

Yiliao said, “Cut your expenses, lessen your desires—even without grain you will have enough. Cross the river and float on the sea until you cannot see the shore; the farther you go the less you know where it ends. Those who see you off return from the bank, and from then on you are far away. Thus one who ‘has’ people will be burdened; one who is ‘seen as having’ people will be troubled. Yao therefore neither ‘had’ people nor was ‘seen as having’ people. I wish to strip away what burdens you and remove what troubles you, and wander alone with the Dao in the land of vast emptiness (Damò). If you ride a square raft across the Yellow River and an empty boat bumps yours, even a man with a narrow, impatient heart (biexin) would not grow angry. If there is one person on the boat, he will shout ‘Hey!’ and ‘Ho!’—once, twice; if there is no answer the third shout will surely be answered with harsh words. Before there was no anger; now there is. Before it was ‘empty’; now it is ‘full.’ If a person can move through the world with a heart emptied of self, who can harm him?”

Note: This episode also appears in the Zuozhuan; Shinan Yiliao was a man of Chu. “Damò” means “nothingness”; “bie” follows the Erya as haste and narrowness.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: If one still clings to “self” and “one’s own state,” then even with reverence for the worthy everywhere and earnest practice, anxiety only deepens. One must therefore forget the body and forget the state, and let the ten thousand things transform on their own. The text speaks of sending one off to Southern Yue to suggest a place as far as possible from the State of Lu: when each person keeps to their proper place and each follows the path they should follow, the four quarters of the world each attain what is fitting—is that not “greatness”? So-called leaving the state and shedding custom means clearing fixed ideas from the heart; it is not literally shipping people off to Southern Yue. If a ruler thinks people must really be sent to Southern Yue, that is still bodily rigidity and obstruction—the body stuck and blocked, as if staying put and refusing to let go.

“Form levels with things; the heart transforms with things” means treating outer things as something to rely upon, not as property to grasp. If the ruler can spend little and desire little, nothing will be lacking. “Crossing rivers and floating on the sea without seeing the shore” is a figure for how far one is from emotional desire. If the ruler can truly cut off private desire, the people each keep their roles, and harm naturally recedes—standing aloof above the ten thousand things.

“Having people” means taking “people” as private possession, holding them as one’s own. “Seeing ‘having’ in others” means always watching what others have and what others can do for oneself—then one is enslaved by others. Thus Yao, though he held the realm under Heaven, entrusted it to the hundred officials and committed the ten thousand things to their course, not keeping them as private property—this is called not “having people.” Because he let the people fulfill their roles and did not enslave things to himself, this is called not “seeing ‘having’ in others.”

“Roaming in the country of Great Nothingness” means making the heart utterly free of fixation on “state”; though the world changes, one still empties oneself to avoid harm and holds to this single-mindedness.

Plain-language reading

Those who treat the state of Lu as their “skin”—their outward identity and belonging—bring trouble upon themselves; the root of it is the inability to forget one’s country. When the body cannot be let go, the state becomes a drag; so “stripping the skin” means cutting through and laying down the outer shell that clings to physical form. When the heart-mind cannot be cleared, desire stains it; so “washing the heart” means rinsing away craving from within.

Leave the crowd and return to the Dao, and you can roam in the “wilds where no one dwells”; establish the great Dao in the “land of established virtue (De),” where the people are simple and low in desire—not because they lack culture or cannot write elegant prose, but because they do not know how to hoard: when things arrive they meet what is needed, and they do not withhold because others fail to ask; they act with benevolence without counting it as grace; not knowing where “righteousness” should apply, they do not keep score in mutual dealings; not knowing where “ritual” should lead, they move as they will yet still walk the great path. Life and death, burial and joy—from beginning to end they never leave this way. Even in such a land, those who still cannot roam are tied by the habits of the state. Drop fixation on this kind of De, cast off the worldly, and go alongside the Dao—then without straining body or effort you naturally arrive.

The Dao is in truth close and level, yet people feel it far and dangerous—because the body is haughty and unyielding, staying put and not advancing. Take formlessness, freedom from arrogance, and freedom from stagnation as your “cart,” and thrift and few desires as your “provisions”—what trouble could not be gotten through? Only when you do not see its edge can you align with roaming in the infinite. Those who see you off turn back at the cliff; thus bound to the finite, afraid of depth and distance, no one dares go on. If the ruler stands alone here without peer, others have nothing to follow. To roam in such a realm is not to “belong” to anyone, nor to “see” anyone as solidly real—all that Yao was as Yao is no more than this.

“Greatly establishing no De” is what the previous chapter called the ancestor of the ten thousand things, the homeland of Dao and De. What follows: an empty boat strikes your vessel and you do not rage—those who once floated through the world on Dao and De treat affairs of the world in just this way.

Beigong She, a minister of Wei, collected taxes for Duke Ling of Wei to cast bells. He built a platform outside the outer city gate and within three months had hung two tiers of bells and chime-stones—the kind of bianzhong (chime-bells): six on the upper tier and six on the lower, mounted on a bell frame.

When Prince Qingji saw this, he asked: “What method did you use?” Beigong She replied: “I hold to a single ‘One’ and dare not invent another approach. I have heard that after carving and polishing, one must still return to Pu (uncarved simplicity). Tongtong—as if without fixed views; tangtang—as if idle and hesitant; cuicui and mangmang—all merged in one blur: seeing off what should go, welcoming what should come; not blocking what arrives, not clinging to what leaves. I go along with those who are qiangliang (forceful and unyielding), follow those who qufu (bend and attach themselves to others), and let each reach their own end by their situation. So when taxes were collected morning and evening, not a hair was harmed—how much more so for one who walks the great path (the broad Way)?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary in essence: Beigong She embraced the One (bao yi)—holding unity without arbitrary contrivance; after carving and polishing he returned again to Pu, still relying on human nature. Tong hu wu shi—letting natural simplicity be; tang hu dai yi—without a fixed direction; song wang ying lai—no special liking or disliking in the heart; wu jin wu zhi—letting the multitude act on their own. Cong qi qiangliang means going along with the people; sui qi qufu means not tying oneself to any one person; yin qi zi qiong means using the circumstances in which they cannot do otherwise. Collecting taxes without harming the people is because it accorded with what is fitting (dang—one’s portion, the timely rightness), so nothing was lost. Tai ran wu zhi—at ease, without grasping, letting the world act by itself: that is the path of great penetration, which is why the Book of Odes says that after planning and building, it was completed in no time.

Summary of Lu’s commentary: If one mixes stratagem and craft into “the One,” it is no longer truly the One. What is meant by carving and then returning to the uncarved block is shedding ornament and holding to what is real. Outwardly thick and plain, as if without wisdom—neither knowing who is right nor who is wrong; broad and easy, as if hesitant, not daring to rush ahead. When it is time to send off, send off; when it is time to welcome, welcome—neither blocking nor obstructing. The overbearing and the yielding—if another layer of cleverness is inserted between them, that too is not the One. Even in everyday matters such as collecting taxes, one can act so that nothing is harmed, precisely because one does not set up a second way of doing things within the One; how much more so when the principle of the world is the great Way (Da Dao)? A cook who carves an ox finds ample room in the gaps between joints precisely because he leaves margin.

Summary of following the root: The Dao is originally one; once there is artificial contrivance, it splits into “two”—hence the saying that nothing else must be placed between within the One. Thick and plain without cleverness, broad and easy without a fixed mind—things proliferate in confusion with no master. The stubborn who will not yield and those who bend and comply are both left to their nature—exhaustion comes from oneself, arrival from oneself—so what is received is not thwarted and what is done is not damaged. The great road is the great Way (Da Dao). If even levying tribute can be like this, how much more governing the world by the great Way?

Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai and went seven days without a cooked meal. Duke Ren came to visit him and asked, “Are you about to collapse from hunger?” Confucius said, “Yes.” He asked again, “Are you afraid of death?” Confucius said, “I am.”

Duke Ren said, “I once heard about the principle of ‘not dying.’ In the eastern sea there is a bird called Yidai (literally suggesting slackness and not pushing ahead). It flies slowly and unsteadily, as if clumsy and without much skill; it needs to fly with companions and squeeze into the flock to find a place to roost. When flying forward it dares not take the lead; when falling back it dares not lag behind; when eating it dares not be first—it only takes what is left. So it is not pushed out within the flock, and people outside cannot ultimately harm it, and thus it escapes disaster.”

He continued, “Straight trees are cut down first; sweet wells are drained first. You probably use your wit to startle fools and cultivate yourself in a way that makes others look corrupt, shining as if carrying the sun and moon when you walk—so you cannot avoid misfortune. I once heard someone of great virtue say: those who boast of themselves cannot keep their achievements; when achievement is pushed to the limit it is ruined, when fame is pushed to the limit it is lost. Who can drop merit and reputation and return to being like ordinary people—follow the Dao without showing off, act from within accomplishment without advertising it, stay plain and thick, and seem almost ‘mad’ so the world does not calculate against you? Erase your tracks, lay down power, do not chase fame and gain, and you will not demand much of others—nor will they demand much of you. Perfect persons do not seek renown—why are you still pleased with yourself?”

Confucius said, “Well said!” He then took leave of his friends, dismissed his disciples, hid himself in a great marsh, wore rough fur, ate acorns, walked among beasts without disturbing the herd, walked among birds without disturbing their flight. Birds and beasts did not dislike him—how much more so people?

Notes (woven into the text or added in parentheses above):

• Yidai: name of the bird, meaning something like “slack” or “not striving to be first”; in the parable it stands for going with the crowd and not showing off.
• bin bin chi chi (bin1 bin1 chi4 chi4): describes flight as light, slow, and seemingly weak (following Sima Biao’s gloss of a relaxed, delayed manner).
• po xie er qi (forced crowding to roost): resting squeezed among many birds, a metaphor for deliberately keeping a low profile and not standing out to avoid harm.

This passage is commentary in the style of Guo Xiang, using Zhuangzi to explain how the “sage” lives and relates to the world. The gist is as follows.

No likes or dislikes; holding the center

The sage has no fixed preferences or aversions in the heart. The mind is both vast and at ease, and does not tie itself obsessively to any one thing. He does not rush to get ahead, nor is he content to lag behind; he always stays in a calm, balanced place. At meals he takes what is already at hand or left over, seeking only to be satisfied with what things provide—no picking and no grabbing. In line he does not shove others aside; he walks with the crowd.

The harm of talent and cleverness

Harm often comes from “yoking knowledge”—using cleverness to compete and scramble. Like felling trees until the well runs dry: it means “talent” itself invites trouble. If one always haggles over minutiae and shows small differences, one falls out of step with others; if one blends into the great equalization, one does not stand out alone in the world. Thus what seems “bright and clear” is really a trace left by “dark obscurity.” The commentator says that here words leave a trace, and the meaning is entrusted through Confucius’s hardship in Chen and Cai.

Merit, fame, and returning to the Way

Those who lean on merit and fame and think they have already reached completion have never truly fulfilled the whole work. Achievement arises from the multitude and from circumstances, so “returning to the Way” looks dim, yet it moves of itself. Each rests in his own place; acting thus is not settling down only after one has a title. Pure upon pure, constant upon constant—close to the “madman,” not one who moves with deliberate intent. Merit completes there; the momentum is not “mine,” so name and trace are both released. Let feeling be feeling, let the other be the other; each bears his own allotment. Still and unburdened at heart— that is the realized person.

The realized person and the herd

Hence the text says the realized person does not crave the company of fine speech; disciples likewise learn to drop worldly attachments. He does not disturb kinds of beings, nor disturb how people walk; like grass and trees without ulterior mind, birds and beasts do not fear him. The commentary adds that language is pushed to the limit here to show that utmost sincerity can be entrusted to outer things, while oneself has no room to be harmed.

In one line

The core of the whole passage: the sage is without clinging, holds the center, goes with the group, does not yoke knowledge, and does not rely on merit and fame; the realized person abandons worldly delights and does no harm to things. Guo’s notes use events such as Chen and Cai as “entrusted traces,” folding the bright back into the dark.

Lü’s commentary:

Flying together in a scattered-looking flock, they seem chaotic but are not truly chaotic; they seem to have little skill but are not without skill. Being led in flight and pressed to roost means hesitating between motion and rest, moving only when they must. In advance they dare not push ahead; in retreat they dare not lag behind. Outwardly they do not show off; inwardly they do not hoard for themselves. When eating they do not rush to taste first—they always take what falls behind the others, staying in the non-contending position. In the flock they do not reject their kind, and others cannot harm them—this accords with the way of living in community. Knowing that when achievement is complete there must be loss, they give back what is surplus and return it to the multitude—this is the conduct of one who has “great completion” (dacheng). The Dao flows forth without showing itself bright; in settled dwelling others do not see his accomplishments; in outward action he does not seek a name, and in stillness others do not hear his surname—the “de” here should be read as De (Virtue/Power), and the “ming” as ming (brightness/clarity). Often compared with reckless types: recklessness means acting on impulse, not for fame, giving surplus back to the multitude. Such is what is called a person of the Dao: one who can use what is surplus to serve all under Heaven. Enduring the hardship at Chen and Cai in that way did not mean he was truly “insufficient” there—it was also that the wise had no remedy for the situation. Students of Confucius who did not grasp what is meant by “the ranks do not reject” and “birds and beasts may enter” would not reach the point of carrying sun and moon in their conduct; those burdened by pursuit of fame were few.

Personal view:

The two lines “dao flows without brightness in dwelling” and “de acts without name in place” read best with even pauses, as separate clauses—the sense is already clear. Guo Xiang broke the line after “ming,” and later commentators mostly followed him; only Lü took “ju” and “chu” as the clause breaks, which is quite sound. Roughly, “de” should be De and “ming” should be ming (brightness)—only then do they fit the reasoning above.

Confucius asked Zisang Hu: “Twice I was driven out of Lu; in Song they cut down the tree I leaned against; in Wei they erased my tracks; I was reduced to straits in the lands of Shang and Zhou; and I was besieged between Chen and Cai. I have met with these misfortunes again and again—why is it that relatives and friends grow ever more distant, and disciples and companions scatter and leave?”

Zisang Hu said: “Have you not heard how the state of Jia perished? Lin Hui, a worthy who fled the Yin dynasty, abandoned a jade disc worth a thousand in gold and fled carrying an infant on his back. Someone asked him: ‘Was it for the sake of property? An infant is worth far less than a jade disc. Was it because of the burden? An infant is a much heavier burden than a jade disc. Why then cast aside the disc and run off with the child?’ Lin Hui answered: ‘With the jade disc I was joined by profit; with the infant I am joined by natural kinship—by what belongs to Heaven in us. Where people are joined by profit, in poverty and disaster they cast each other off; where they are joined by natural kinship, in poverty and disaster they take each other in. The distance between taking each other in and casting each other off is very great. The friendship of the gentleman is insipid as water; the friendship of the petty person is sweet as strong wine. The gentleman grows close through insipidity; the petty person breaks off through sweetness. Those who join without cause also part without cause.’”

Confucius said: “I have received your instruction with care.” Thereupon he strolled home at ease, no longer clinging to what he had learned or hoarding what he had stored away; before his disciples he no longer needed deep bows and formal salutes, yet their reverence and affection for him grew all the deeper.

Another day Zisang Hu said again: “When Shun was about to die, he spoke to Zhen, Leng, Yu, and the others: ‘Be on your guard! Let the body’s activity follow circumstances as fully as it can; let the feelings’ expression be as direct and natural as it can. When one follows circumstances fully, there is no one-sided fixation; when one is direct and natural, the spirit is not worn down. Without one-sided fixation and without wearing down the spirit, there is no need to use ornament to prop up the body—and no need to use ornament to prop up the body, for the body from the outset does not depend on external things.’”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When gentlemen associate, they do not seek profit, so their dealings seem plain; they draw close through shared purpose. When petty people associate, they gloss things over with profit, so the surface looks warm; profit cannot last, so the connection breaks off and resumes by turns. What fits together without deliberate cause, by nature, is “kindred of Heaven” (tian shu)—a bond fixed by nature and arising spontaneously. If their joining is not due to some deliberate “reason” (gu), then artificial reasons are not enough to pull them apart; if they join because of some reason, they will also part because of some reason. The deeper the affection between gentlemen, the more it comes from dropping ornament and letting things be natural; they accord with form and feeling and do not use profit to reshape the body, so the body does not borrow from externals and is often preserved whole, and feeling is not dressed up so it is often at ease; they do not seek ornament to prop up appearance but go forward in plain directness—the root is firm and needs no external thing, and simplicity is already enough.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: If one only learns from Confucius and does not know what “kindred of Heaven” means, and makes learning and books one’s sole task, then in dealing with everyone under Heaven one is only in “human alliance” (ren he)—mere human contrivance. Of form, nothing is like “accord” (yuan): when one accords, one does not leave and thus joins. Of feeling, nothing is like “following” (shuai): when one follows, one does not strain and thus rests at ease. Not leaving and not straining mean letting the natural quality be as it is—the allotment of nature is already sufficient; why seek ornament to support appearance? Not seeking ornament to wait upon form means one need not wait on external things to be fitting. This is the utmost of “cutting off learning and discarding books.”

Personal view: The word “wait” (dai) here has no double meaning: if form accords and does not leave, form constantly endures; if feeling follows and does not strain, nature constantly rests at ease—what is needed for oneself is already obtained, so what need has one for ritual text or external things?

Zhuangzi, dressed in patched coarse cloth and with hemp rope tying his worn-out shoes, walked past the King of Wei. The king asked, “Why are you in such straits, sir?” Zhuangzi said, “This is poverty, not distress. When a scholar has the Way but cannot put it into practice, that is distress; when clothes are threadbare and shoes have holes, that is poverty, not distress. This is what people mean by ‘not having met a good time.’ Great King, have you never seen the ape that is good at climbing? When it is among great trees such as nan, zi, yu, and zhang, it can grasp and coil around branches and reign among the boughs—even skilled archers like Hou Yi and Feng Meng could do nothing to it. When it falls among small thorny trees such as zhe, ji, zhi, and gou, it can only sidle along carefully, glance sideways, and tremble all over—not because its sinews and bones suddenly stiffen and lose agility, but because the situation is unfavorable and it cannot deploy its skill. Today I am in a world where a muddled ruler and disorderly ministers hold sway; how could I not look distressed? This is like Bi Gan having his heart cut out to prove loyalty—a outcome plain for all to see.”

(According to Guo Xiang: only when one meets the right time and place can one bring one’s strengths into play; hence even ancient master archers could not harm the ape in favorable trees. When the situation is bad yet one insists on showing off ability, one invites death. Lü Huiqing adds: though Zhuangzi spoke so boldly he was not harmed—which shows the principle of wandering the world by emptying oneself.)

Confucius was stranded between Chen and Cai, unable to travel for seven days without lighting a fire to cook. He leaned his left hand on a withered tree and tapped a dry branch with his right, singing an ancient melody of the Yan lineage: there were instruments but no complete scale, there was sound but it did not form the five tones of gong, shang, jiao, zhi, and yu; the knock of wood and the human voice mingled, yet still moved the hearts of those who listened.

Yan Hui stood upright with hands folded in respect, but stole sidelong glances. Confucius feared he would swell with pride or sink into self-pity, and said: “Hui, it is easy not to be harmed by Heaven; it is hard not to be swayed by human advantage. There is no beginning that is not also some kind of ending—humans and Heaven are originally one. Who, then, is the one singing now?”

Yan Hui asked: “What does it mean that not being harmed by Heaven is easy?”

Confucius said: “Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, and being blocked on a dead-end road with no way forward—all are the normal course of Heaven and earth, the natural ebb and flow within the turning of the ten thousand things. Words come and go with this, vanishing along with it—that is the meaning. As a subject one dares not abandon one’s station; if holding to the way of the subject is thus, how much more so for following the mandate of Heaven?”

Yan Hui asked again: “What does it mean that not being swayed by human advantage is hard?”

Confucius said: “As soon as one enters office, all paths open at once; rank and salary arrive together as if without end—yet the benefit that things bring is not truly one’s own. Within my allotted portion there is always what lies outside and is not ruled by me. The noble person does not steal; the worthy person does not pilfer—if I took what was never mine, what would that be? Thus among birds none understands measure better than the wren: where the eye ought not to look, it will not grant an extra glance; when fruit has fallen, it leaves at once. It fears people, yet chooses to nest among human dwellings and the altars of soil and grain, because human settlement is where it can preserve itself.”

Yan Hui asked further: “What does it mean that there is no beginning that is not an ending?”

Confucius said: “Transforming and nurturing, the ten thousand things turn without end, yet no one knows who carries on the succession. Neither knowing the end nor knowing the beginning—only align the heart and yield, that is all.”

He asked again: “What does it mean that humans and Heaven are one?”

Confucius said: “There is the Heaven of humans, and there is the Heaven of Heaven. Humans cannot possess Heaven’s nature as their own. The sage rests calmly in transformation, goes along with what passes away, until the end is reached.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Harm sent down from Heaven can only be borne by accepting it in peace—hence it is called “easy.” Change is without constancy; external things arrive by chance and cannot be forbidden or resisted. What counts as a “beginning” today was already an “end” yesterday; what is called “beginning” is in truth “end”—meaning that transformation never runs out. Human beings and Heaven are originally one body, both nature; if you let things be natural, then the one who sings is not “I.” The course of Heaven and Earth cannot be escaped; going along with it and passing away with it means no knowing and no awareness, following the norm of the Heavenly Emperor. One can settle everywhere, not treating harm as harm—thus facing Heaven without being harmed by Heaven.

When stirred, things connect; reaching in all directions and opening on every side, one can therefore handle what is lofty and great. Things each benefit themselves; this is not deliberate seeking. “Fate has an outward aspect” means that human life necessarily has a mandate of engaging the outer world—not like tile and stone, which stop at mere form. Theft is taking for oneself in private; when the worthy person or gentleman receives rank and emolument, it is not private taking but only receiving what is given. When the jiejue (a small bird) fears people and hides among human dwellings, that is called “knowing.” As for the Perfect Person, he merges with all under Heaven; the world gladly upholds him without growing weary, and together they honor him as community spirit and grain spirit—“not accepting benefit from others” is hard precisely here. Day and night alternate without cease, so one straightens the mind and waits—there is no need to fix the heart on affairs. Whatever is called “Heaven” explains that things are so without deliberate action; to say “natural” is simply natural—how could a person artificially manufacture this naturalness? It is simply natural, and therefore it is called “nature” (xing). Thus the sage is at ease without self-importance; body and form pass away together with change.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

“The wind of the Yan clan” and “the praise of the Yan clan” originally already had no “I”; to expand “I” and fabricate great love, or shrink “I” and fabricate great grief, are both wrong. Now one simply receives Heaven’s harm and is at peace—that is enough; why expand “I” to fabricate great love? That there is no beginning does not mean there is a true beginning—one straightens the mind and waits. Human being and Heaven are only one body; to be at ease and share the same body with passing transformation—why cling to “I” and fabricate great grief? From today’s singing, one can know that the principles of beginning, end, Heaven, and human being are all here. The running of Heaven and Earth is not something humans can stop; the outward overflow of transformation is not something humans can shut off. “Not receiving harm from Heaven” means going along and passing away with it—not daring to treat harm as harm and flee. Even in performing the rites of a subject one does not dare to leave—how much more in facing Heaven? This is why “not receiving harm from Heaven” is easy.

When rank and emolument arrive together, that is “fate in the outer realm”; if one treats the benefit of external things as one’s own gain, how is that different from theft? The gentleman, when benefits arrive from all sides, holds that the benefit of things is not his to own—“fate has an outward aspect”—so he does not dare receive and take them, like the jiejue that fears people and slips into human habitations. When all under Heaven together honor one as community and grain spirit, one cannot push it away—“not accepting benefit from others” is therefore hard. Transforming and nurturing the myriad things without knowing who replaces whom in turn is precisely “non-transformation”; how then could one know beginning and end? There is “human being” and there is “Heaven”—both are only Heaven; the human being cannot have anything outside “Heaven-nature.” Knowing this is knowing Heaven; then one is at ease, shares the same body with passing transformation, and ends.

Oral Explanations (Kouyi)

“Withered wood” (gaomu) means a table or bench; “withered branch” (gaozhi) means a walking staff—the same usage as “leaning on a staff” in Discourse on Equalizing Things (Qi Wu Lun).

What is meant here is: no fixed beat, no regular rhythm, and no alignment with the five tones (gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu)—a metaphor for a state that goes beyond human measure and is not bound by formal rules.

“Broadening oneself and honoring the self” (guang ji zun wo): if you pursue things with the aim of elevating yourself and prizing “I,” the path you take has no limit; if you brood with self-cherishing and grief for “I,” you are bound to sink into sorrow. Person and Heaven differ by a single turn of mind: what clings to “I” is mostly human feeling; when one recognizes it as Heaven, one rests in accord and ends by merging with transformation.

“Not receiving Heaven’s harm is easy; not receiving human benefit is hard.”

“Heaven’s harm” means ill fortune and straitened circumstances. To be joyful though poor is because, when Heaven’s harm comes, one does not allow oneself to be unsettled—so the Book of Changes (Yi) treats such cases as relatively easy to settle.

“Human benefit” means outward blessings of rank and wealth. To be rich without excess is because when human benefit arrives, one cannot push it away—so the Book of Difficulty (Nan) treats such cases as harder. Gongsun He wept when he was made chancellor: he did not wish to accept yet could not refuse—an example of “not receiving human benefit is hard.”

“No beginning that is not also an end.”

There is no need to fix the mind on start and finish; one need only remain within creation-transformation (zaohua) and wait. Human beings are born of Heaven, hence “having people is Heaven”; Heaven too is the work of creation-transformation, hence “having Heaven is also Heaven.”

“Nature” (xing) means the nature Heaven bestows. This xing is linked to the word for “life” or “birth” (sheng): what one has from the moment one is born all comes from Heaven—how could anyone bestow it on themselves? Therefore the sage dwells at ease and simply exhausts this one body.

Supplementary Comment

When one pushes “extending oneself to others” to an extreme, it becomes pushing the self too far; when one pushes “self-regard” to the point of grief, that too is loving the self excessively. One must therefore clarify how Heaven and the human, loss and gain, beginning and end form one continuous, mutually penetrating order—and settle urgently the “who” in the Discourse on Equalizing Things: “When there is anger, who is it?” Whoever fully grasps that “who” sees who bears and who does not; pursued to the end, one finds no fixed bearer and nothing that truly goes unborne, and the Heaven within “me” is thereby settled. Yet without someone of Yan Hui’s caliber, this layer of meaning cannot be discussed.

Brush Notes

“Liran” (li ran) evokes clods breaking apart as a plow turns the soil. Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, poverty and obstruction are all expressions of the circulation and transformation of Heaven-and-earth Qi (vital energy)—a thrust that moves the ten thousand things and vents itself without restraint. How could a person escape? One should only move with it and receive it in accord.

“Yiyi” (yi yi)—a swallow-like bird—“bu gei bu xia”: no surplus to give and no leisure to spare. That truly resembles the “shi” (substance) in the Book of Changes: “zi qiu kou shi”—each seeks sustenance for its own mouth. Sheji denotes the seasons when the state sacrifices to the soil and grain lords. The noble person (junzi) treats rank and emolument earned without merit as akin to theft: there was no will to seize them, yet what fate decrees also leaves one not fully free—hence “not the self,” and that fate has an “outer” side.

So too the swallow: where the place ill suits it, the day allows no respite; it may even forsake the mouth’s sustenance without a second thought. It dreads people intensely, yet cannot avoid nesting among them—so at the sheji seasons it is as though driven on without autonomy. Swallows arrive at the spring she and depart at the autumn she; hence the text speaks as it does. These few lines are not hard to parse, but older commentaries often err; the above is offered merely to clear the way.

While Zhuangzi was wandering at the foot of the mountains in Fan, near Diaoling, he suddenly saw a strange bird flying in from the south. Its wings spanned seven feet, and its eyes were so enormous they seemed to roll a full inch—yet the bird brushed against Zhuangzi’s forehead and then dropped into a chestnut grove. Zhuangzi thought: What kind of bird is this? Its wings are too large to fly away easily, and its eyes are so big it can hardly see what is around it. He hitched up his robe, hurried forward, and took up his crossbow, waiting for a chance to shoot it. Then he noticed something else: a cicada had settled in a lovely patch of shade, enjoying its ease and utterly forgetting the danger to itself; a mantis, hidden in the cicada’s shadow, was about to seize the cicada, and once it had its prey it too forgot its own presence; the strange bird came up behind, intent on an easy gain, and in chasing profit forgot its original true nature. Zhuangzi started awake with a sigh: “Ah! Creatures are bound to one another in mutual entanglement, and unlike kinds draw one another on.” He threw down his crossbow and turned back, and the grove keeper came after him, shouting reproaches.

After Zhuangzi returned home, he stayed indoors for many months and would not receive visitors (in some versions, “three days”). His disciple Lan Que followed him and asked, “Master, why did you behave as you did just then, and why have you hardly been willing to see anyone lately?” Zhuangzi said, “I was busy guarding my outward appearance and forgot myself—as if I were trying to see in muddy water while losing my bearings in a clear deep pool. I have also heard the Master say: when you arrive in a place, you should go along with its customs. Yet this time, roaming at Diaoling, I forgot my own body; the strange bird struck my forehead; and in the chestnut grove I forgot my true nature. The grove keeper took me for a poacher. That is why I have been unwilling to come out and meet people.”

Meaning of the Scripture

Yangzi (Sima Biao’s note: i.e., Yang Zhu) went to the state of Song and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly; the ugly one was held in esteem while the beautiful one was slighted. Yangzi asked why, and the young servant at the inn said: The one who is beautiful thinks herself beautiful, so I no longer feel her as beautiful; the one who is ugly thinks herself ugly, so I no longer feel her as ugly.

Yangzi said: “Remember this: practice virtue without taking yourself for a sage—wherever you go, who would not draw close to you?”

Main Points from Commentarial Traditions

Guo Xiang: The path of praising oneself as virtuous never succeeds at any time.

Zhang Zhan: Arrogance, scrambling for credit, and boasting of one’s goodness are what the spirits and bright powers cannot tolerate; emptying oneself and following the natural order is what the world upholds. Act in this way—who could refuse you? (Same direction as Yangzi’s “abandoning self-praise as virtue.”)

New Postface: If you wish to preserve your inborn nature and allotted lifespan, it is best to “forget the form outwardly”; only when the form is forgotten can you settle where you truly belong and be at ease wherever you go. Yangzi uses the inn servant’s words precisely to convey this. The beautiful one who thinks herself beautiful and the ugly one who thinks herself ugly illustrate “forgetting the form outwardly”—letting go even of the opposition between beauty and ugliness—so that the genuine condition of nature and life is preserved; that is why Zhuangzi places this passage in the final chapter of the book.

Jiang Yu: Beauty and ugliness arise from deluded perception; high and low status are not absolute truth either. The concubine slighted at the inn is not slighted because she is ugly, but because she relies on her own beauty; the one respected is not respected because she disparages the beautiful woman, but because the master “does not know her as beautiful” and draws near her as one would a servant. The concubine likewise should not cling to beauty; if she can “abandon self-praise as virtue,” wherever she goes she will be loved. Laozi says, “When all under heaven know beauty as beauty, ugliness appears”—not that beauty itself is evil, but that it is evil to take oneself for beautiful and to fix on beauty as beauty.

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Wings: Overview and Discussions — “Mountain Tree”

This section takes “Mountain Tree” as its theme: the great chu tree, the great oak, and the kind of “useless timber” represented by the sacred post tree—all of which survive to a full span of years because they never become useful lumber. It also sets this against the goose that cannot honk and is killed, showing that Zhuangzi already saw through ordinary worldly logic quite clearly.

Trees preserve their lives because they are gnarled and useless—that does fit nature’s way. Yet each thing’s span, success, or failure hangs on its allotted lot and circumstances; you cannot simply say that “as long as you stay useless, you are sure to escape harm.”

Both “becoming useful timber” and “refusing to become timber” still cling to outward form. The middle path that seems yes and no at once is still easy to mix with error, because it looks right but has not truly broken free—so entanglements remain.

If you genuinely want to leave all three fixations behind, hold to the Dao and De on your own and drift freely—moving with things as waves move, transforming with the times, passing beyond the ancestor of things without burden, stripping ornamental bark without disaster—then a state like “establishing virtue in vast nothingness” need not be sought far; it arrives of itself.

When an empty boat bumps another and the person is not angry, or when levies are collected without harming a hair—these are cases of meeting things with no deliberate mind, and things respond with no deliberate mind. Speaking of the distress at Chen and Cai, one might as well say the little bird yiyu showed more sense; the mantis, the cicada, and the magpie do not know someone with a slingshot is nearby—all of this is still turning within “being useful timber” versus “being useless,” not yet perfected, so burdens are not escaped.

When Lin Hui abandoned the jade and willingly carried an infant toward Shun, or when Yu was made to prize the body and slight the inner life, it shows honoring what Heaven gives and not leaning on external things. Wearing coarse cloth before the king of Wei, or beating a dry branch and singing of Yanshi, shows living in poverty without exhaustion. Knowing that a dog whose tail was cut off finds peace more easily implies that when people try to “improve” you, there are ways to respond as well.

The closing line—“act worthily yet drop the self-consciousness of acting worthily”—means that only beyond useful and useless timber lies what is “truly akin” to the Way. For that reason the true person does not shrink from repeating the warning, hoping the student will take one more step on the pole’s tip.

Main Meaning of the Passage

Tianzi Fang was attending Duke Wen of Wei. He mentioned “Xigong” several times. The duke asked, “Is Xigong your teacher?” Tianzi Fang said, “No. He is from Wuzhe village; because he spoke of the Way in a fitting way, Wuzhe called him ‘Xigong’ [Stream Master].” The duke asked, “Then you have no teacher?” Tianzi Fang said, “I do.” The duke asked, “Who is your teacher?” Tianzi Fang said, “Dongguo Shunzi.”

The duke asked, “Then why have you never mentioned him to me?” Tianzi Fang said, “In his conduct: outwardly he looks like an ordinary person, yet inwardly he is empty and still like Heaven; he follows circumstances in the outer world while preserving his authentic self; he is clear-minded without being harsh or picky, and can embrace the myriad things. When something in the world does not accord with the Way, he straightens his bearing and demeanor to transform the other person, so that the other’s bias and fixations naturally dissolve. Someone like Wuzhe—what is there worth praising about him?”

After Tianzi Fang withdrew, Duke Wen spent the whole day as if something were missing, saying not a word; then he summoned his attendants and said, “In his conduct: outwardly like an ordinary person, inwardly empty and still like Heaven; following circumstances outside while preserving authenticity; clear-minded and embracing things; when the outer world does not accord with the Way, straightening bearing to transform others so that people’s stubborn intentions dissipate. What is there worth praising about Wuzhe?” (The duke repeats this to stress how deeply he was shaken.) After Tianzi Fang left, the duke felt lost and spoke not all day; he called his close officials and said, “How far above us is the gentleman who preserves authentic virtue! At first I thought sage wisdom and the practice of benevolence and righteousness were the highest. After hearing Zifang speak of his teacher, my body felt as if it wanted to slacken and would not move, my mouth as if clamped shut and would not speak—what I had learned was no better than a clay puppet. Wei’s ‘authenticity’ (rank, the burden of name and reality) has instead become my encumbrance.” (“Tangran” describes a dazed, adrift state; “tu geng” is a clay figure, a metaphor for learning that is not real.)

Main Points of Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Guo Xiang says: Dongguo Shunzi’s outward form is no different from the crowd, yet he alone trusts in nature, empty and still, following things—so his authentic self is never lost. Ordinary “clarity” often becomes excessive fastidiousness and turns into a flaw; his clarity can embrace things, and thus he aligns with the Way of Heaven. By being clear, empty, and upright in himself, outer disturbances vanish of themselves. Not wanting the body to move or the mouth to speak reflects Duke Wen’s sudden sense that his own cultivation was shallow. A clay puppet is not a real thing; that Wei’s “authenticity” becomes a burden points to realizing that what is most precious lies in the Way, not in human rank.

Main Points of Lu Huiqing’s Commentary

Lu Huiqing says: In authenticity, one still has a human form yet receives Heaven’s virtue; ordinary minds cannot for a moment leave outer things, while the perfected person emptily follows conditions and preserves the true. Ordinary people are clear but overly scrutinizing; the perfected person is clear yet can embrace. To know that what is most precious does not take human rank as a burden aligns with Guo’s reading.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing

Such a person’s “authenticity” (zhen) is to appear outwardly like an ordinary person while inwardly aligning with the Dao. The heart of the ordinary person never for a moment ceases to turn with external things; the true person (zhenren) is empty and still, follows circumstances, and holds fast to original authenticity. Ordinary people, too clever, multiply worries; the true person, clear and bright, can embrace all things. Things in themselves have no fixed standards of right and wrong; to awaken with a broad and gentle attitude is to gain insight that does not lie in repeated preaching; to let people’s stray thoughts be exhausted is to change what cannot be changed by concrete achievements. So-called sage wisdom and benevolence and righteousness are, in the end, nothing but words and deeds. A teacher like the one Zifang bowed to truly deserves to be called genuine virtue and the Dao; if you look only in conduct, you will not find it—hence the body dissolves and spirit concentrates, with no wish for reckless action; if you look only in speech, you will not find it—hence as if the mouth were clamped shut, with no wish to say much. This is not a realm reachable by book learning; therefore one knows that what Zifang studied was merely a branch like a lump of clay or a wooden puppet.

Main text (Zhuangzi, “Master Zhi Fang”)

Wen Bo Xuezi was going to Qi and stopped in Lu. A man of Lu asked to see him. Wen Bo Xuezi said: “No. I have heard that gentlemen of the central states understand ritual and propriety but are poor at reading the human heart—I do not wish to meet him.” When he returned from Qi and stayed again in Lu, the man once more asked to see him. Wen Bo Xuezi said: “Last time he sought to see me; this time again—he must have something to teach me.” He went out to receive the guest, then went in and sighed; the next day he met the guest, went in, and sighed again. A servant asked: “Every time you have seen this guest, you must go inside and sigh—why?” Wen Bo Xuezi said: “Did I not tell you already? People of the central states understand ritual and propriety but do not understand the human heart. When he saw me before, his advancing and retreating were as if measured by compass and square; his bearing was at ease, at one moment like a dragon, at another like a tiger; he admonished me like a son and guided me like a father—so I sighed.” Confucius saw Wen Bo Xuezi and did not speak. Zilu asked: “You wanted to see him for a long time; when you met him you did not open your mouth—why?” Confucius said: “A person like this—when the gaze meets, the Dao is already present; there is no need to fill the space with words anymore.”

Commentary by Guo Xiang

Advancing and retreating by rule, at ease like dragon and tiger, describes steps in their rounds and a winding path. Admonishing like a son and guiding like a father is precisely the fault of ritual and propriety reduced to form and pretense. Confucius saw him and did not speak because he had already seen clearly from the other’s heart; when eyes meet, the Dao is already connected—there is no need to rely on empty “virtuous words” to speak for others to hear.

Every gesture conforms to rule and measure; advance and retreat stay within bounds, and dignity shows in each bow, turn, and other niceties of ritual. Outwardly one may seem as steady as a dragon or tiger, while subtle shifts of mind hide in idle talk and quiet sitting. In remonstrance one is as deferential as a son to a father; in expounding principle, as stern as a father to a son—yet one still cannot truly reach the other’s inner life, and stays at the level of what shows in the eyes and brows. That is what is meant by being sharp about the forms of ritual and righteousness but dull about reading the human heart. The disease of reducing ritual and righteousness to outward form is just this; among the people of Lu it was especially pronounced.

As for Dongguo Shunzi, he understood things through upright bearing and demeanor; as for Wen Bo Xuezi, wherever his gaze rested, the Dao was present—so the way the sages of old met and responded to one another was so fine-grained that it could hardly be captured in the clauses of ritual law.

Yan Hui asked Confucius: “When you walk slowly, I walk slowly; when you hurry, I hurry; when you run, I run along with you. But once you dash off like flying dust and leave me far behind, I can only stare wide-eyed and fall back. What is going on?”

Confucius said: “Hui, what do you mean by that?”

Yan Hui said: “When you walk, I walk; when you speak, I speak along with you. When you hurry, I hurry; when you debate, I debate along with you. When you run, I run; when you expound the Way, I expound along with you. Yet when you leave the dust behind and vanish ahead, I can only stare in amazement and lag behind. You make people trust you without opening your mouth, extend your influence without boasting, and though you hold no office or authority, the common people naturally follow ahead of you—they do not know why, and that is all.”

Confucius said: “Can this not be examined closely? Nothing is more lamentable than the death of the heart-mind; death of the physical body comes second. The sun rises in the east and sets at the western edge; nothing fails to orient itself by this. Whatever has eyes and feet must depend on this to fulfill its respective function: existing as it “goes out,” perishing as it “goes in”—all things are like this: born only when they have something to depend on, dying only when they have something to depend on. Once I received this bodily form and took shape, I no longer transform into something else—I only wait until it is exhausted. I move by imitating outer things, day and night without gap, yet I do not know where the end lies. Securely keeping this form, even “fate” cannot be prescribed in advance before it. Confucius therefore passes day by day in this way. My whole life with you is like crossing arms in an instant—that arm can never be recovered—is that not lamentable? You probably cling to what I cling to. That (to which we cling) has already vanished, yet you still treat it as real and seek it—this is like going to Tang market (a horse fair already dispersed) to look for a horse. I devote myself to you with deep abandon; you devote yourself to me with deep abandon. Even so, what is there left for you to worry about? Even if the “old self” is forgotten, something that cannot be forgotten still remains.

(Note: Chēng means to stare straight ahead, eyes wide open. “Without vessel yet the people tread before him”: without relying on title or authority (“vessel”), the common people still naturally follow and rejoice ahead—without knowing why.)

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

If you treat death in your heart as death, you hasten toward it all the more; death comes quickly because sorrow wears the self away. Without sorrow, life is already there; once sorrow arises, the heart dies first—and that is the deepest grief.

Nothing among the ten thousand things fails to compare with something else, and all can be seen. The eye fulfills seeing, the foot fulfills walking—only because what is not seen is taken for disappearance does it seem gone, when in fact it has not truly vanished. We call it birth when a shadow appears, life when a form shows; in the end there is no fixed line between death and life. What exists cannot stay unchanged and turn into nothing; once it receives a form, transformation has no end.

To move with outer things looks like perishing, yet one has not perished. Day and night without pause, generation ever fresh, with no known limit—and death is not taken as death.

“Xunran” (smoldering into form) is nature giving shape—what is there to force? Knowing fate is not bound to what went before but goes with change, hence “cu” (going, departing). Change cannot be grasped and held; even arm in arm, you cannot make it stay. If you grieve only for the dead, this unceasing flow deserves grief as well—people today may not grieve for that, so why grieve for “death” alone?

The Tang marketplace is no place to halt a horse: the point is that what is past cannot be recovered. Life is like a horse through the market—it never stops; old and new follow one another without rest, day and night.

“Zhuo” (clinging) is fixation on what appears. You perhaps see only what I use to see; what I see renews each day, the old already spent—how could you possess it? “Fu” is following and holding in mind; “shen wang” is how fast the past slips away. After you go you suddenly try to recall, and always arrive too late—you follow me, yet also greatly forget; we are the same in that.

Sage or ordinary person, none can halt. What is called preserving by “not forgetting” is tempering through daily renewal. Though the “old me” is forgotten, the new me is already here—it has never not been “me,” so what is there to fear? Hence one can leave the vulgar world and rise above dust, in hidden union with the ten thousand things throughout.

Lv’s commentary explains: when someone walks, hurries, or runs, others can still keep up; but the state Zhuangzi describes—being trusted without speaking, being complete without comparing, having people follow ahead without any visible “instrument”—people do not know why it is so, yet it is so. To use the image of “flying fast and leaving the dust behind,” Yan Hui can only stare wide-eyed and fall behind.

Someone whose heart has never “died” does not know what death is; first the heart dies, then the person follows—that is still secondary. The greater sorrow is another kind: the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and nothing fails to take it as a reference point; only the eyes need light to see and the feet need ground to walk before each can fulfill its function. Yet when the sun comes out they are “there”; when the sun sets they are “not there”—while the sun itself neither exists nor perishes in that sense. All things speak of life and death only by depending on something else, while what is depended upon has no life or death of its own. Our inability to achieve “trust without words, completeness without comparison, people treading ahead without instruments” is the same kind of situation: once we take form as human beings, we do not transform but wait to be used up; we move by imitating outer things without a gap day or night, and like all things we live only by being “dependent”—can we really penetrate what we depend on all the way to not knowing why it is so? If every day we go on like this toward the end, it is not that we cannot transform but wait to be used up—how can that not be sorrowful? That is the true “nothing greater than sorrow.”

You ask where my “flying fast and leaving dust behind” is, yet get no answer—perhaps because you are “attached” to the wrong place. I tell you to attach yet you see nothing; I tell you not to attach and you still see nothing—the heart now grasps, now releases, now stays, now goes; what fixed object could you cling to forever? “That” and “this” are both exhausted, yet you still treat something as genuinely there to seek—no different from going to an empty market square to look for a horse. (Tang market is where a horse once passed, not where a horse always stays.) I submit to you, and submit so thoroughly that I “forget”; the so-called “I” was never there to begin with, yet you treat a real “I” as something to seek—again, looking for a horse at Tang market. You submit to me, and also submit with thorough forgetting—what then is the so-called “you”? Since you need not take “great forgetting” as a calamity, even if the old self is forgotten, something “unforgotten” remains—only then can the state called “flying fast and leaving dust behind” be seen.

Returning to the Root

You and I brushed past each other, our arms briefly touching, then in a blink we each went our separate ways; you several have followed me all your lives, and what I have practiced is this same Way. Yet now you feel I am beyond reach—as if two people never truly walked side by side but only grazed each other’s arms and parted. Is that not a pity?

What you speak of is only the side of me you happen to see when I can be seen—that is clinging to “seeing.” That gentleman (Confucius or the sage) is simply himself; he has long been purified and empty, yet you still want to find in him “something solid and real,” like going to Tangsi (the ancient horse market) to look for a horse—the market is where horses are sold, but the horse is not always standing there. The Book of Songs says “Zhong tang you bi” (in the central courtyard path there are tiles); zhong tang is the path through the courtyard for horses to come and go. The Book of Han says west of Jianzhang Palace there were “Tang zhong” for dozens of li; Yang Xiong’s preface to Yu lie fu has “sweet dew falls on its court, sweet spring flows through its tang”; Ban Gu’s Xi du fu has “Tang zhong in front and Daye lake behind”—all use this sense of “tang.”

“Fu pei” (taking in each other’s words): I take your words to heart, and you take mine—these should all be utterly forgotten. Yet I also fear Yan Hui worries he will never catch up. Why need you fear? Within forgetting, there is inherently something that is “not forgotten”—what should be forgotten is attachment; what is not forgotten is the utmost truth (zhizhen). If you forget entirely my old teachings, there is no gain or loss of “obtaining”; that is true obtaining. What is called “not forgetting” means precisely this.

When Confucius went to visit Laozi, Laozi had just finished bathing. He was letting his hair hang loose to dry, his expression fixed and withdrawn—not like an ordinary person. Confucius withdrew to one side and waited respectfully. After a while Laozi spoke: “Qiu, what you saw just now—is that real? A moment ago your body looked withered like dead wood, as if you had cast off externals, left the crowd, and stood alone.”

Laozi said, “I let my mind roam at the primordial beginning of the ten thousand things.” Confucius asked, “What does that mean?”

Laozi answered, “The mind is trapped in principle yet cannot speak it through; the mouth is open yet cannot tell it all. I will try to put it for you: utmost yin is stern and killing, utmost yang is blazing bright; stern killing comes from Heaven, blazing brightness comes from Earth. Yin and Yang meet and blend into harmonizing qi, and the ten thousand things are born from this. Sometimes people set up order for the ten thousand things, yet no trace of that order can be seen. Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness, now dark now bright, sun replacing moon—day after day something is done, yet its achievement is invisible. Life has a place where it sprouts; death has a place where it returns. Beginning and end oppose each other and cycle without end—who can know where it runs out? This is not the only aspect. Then who is the master of all this?”

Confucius said, “Please speak of the way of ‘roaming the mind.’” Laozi said, “To obtain utmost beauty and utmost joy, and with utmost beauty roam in utmost joy—that is the Perfect Person.” Confucius said, “I wish to hear the method.” Laozi said, “Beasts that eat grass do not fear changing pastures; creatures in water do not fear changing streams. Moving through small changes without losing the great constant, joy, anger, sorrow, and delight do not enter the breast. The world is the place where the ten thousand things return to unity; each obtains its one and aligns with it—then the limbs and body become dust and filth, and death, life, beginning, and end are like the turning of day and night. Nothing can disturb this—how much less the twigs of gain and loss, fortune and misfortune? To treat servitude like mud thrown away is to know that the body is more precious than being a servant; what is precious lies in oneself and is not lost by following externals. Moreover, the myriad transformations are endless and have no final limit—who is still worth disturbing the mind? One who has attained the Dao should be able to understand this.”

Confucius said, “The Master’s virtue matches Heaven and Earth, yet he still relies on utmost words to cultivate the mind— which ancient gentleman could say it all?” Laozi said, “Not so. Water in its flow is wuwei (non-action), and its capacity is naturally there; the virtue of the Perfect Person needs no cultivation, and things cannot leave him—as Heaven is high by itself, Earth is thick by itself, sun and moon are bright by themselves—what is there to cultivate?”

Confucius came out and said to Yan Hui: “In the Dao, I was formerly like a vinegar-jar chicken (narrow in sight); but for the Master’s hint I would have stayed covered—I did not know the full breadth of Heaven and Earth.”

Notes: “Zhiran” here means a fixed expression, as if holding something inward; “kou bi” means the mouth is open yet words will not come. This passage is from the Confucius-visits-Laozi episode in “Zhuangzi, Da zong shi,” on roaming the mind at the primordial beginning of things, the Perfect Person and utmost joy, and a state unmoved by gain, loss, fortune, or misfortune.

Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary in plain terms:

“Zhiran” (a settled, almost uncanny calm) is a face and bearing so quiet and detached that they hardly seem human—stillness and indifference pushed to the limit. One lets go of external things, stays apart from the crowd, and stands alone; only when the mind no longer clings to a fixed “me” and bodily self-image do things naturally fall away. “Beginning” here means what was not there and suddenly is; wandering at the source before things divide is how one sees that the ten thousand things are not made to exist by anyone’s deliberate doing—they simply are so of themselves.

(Continuing the prior thread) When the heart is hemmed in by doctrine and the mouth must still speak, the point is to send Confucius to seek beyond words and intent. To discourse on what is about to appear (the Dao), comparing the formless with yin and yang, is still not something one can fix with certainty. “Issuing from Heaven, arising from Earth” speaks of heaven and earth meeting; not seeing a fixed form as the guiding pattern shows that everything transforms of its own. Sun replaces moon because nothing holds to the old state; not seeing “merit” in it is precisely because self-transformation leaves no room for human achievement.

Life sprouts before shape gathers; death returns to dispersal. That is what is meant by advancing and not seeing its head, following and not seeing its tail. To obtain supreme beauty and roam in supreme joy is joy beyond joy; birth and death are only small shifts. Knowing these are small changes without losing the constant root is why joy, anger, sorrow, and delight do not enter the breast. Knowing the self is more precious than being a servant, one casts off externals like shedding surplus baggage. One who has united with the Dao can see this through—this is what is called xuanjie (suspended release): like a bound person whose ropes suddenly fall away.

Laozi’s point is that heaven, earth, sun, and moon do not cultivate or act, yet each naturally finds its place. The “ji chicken” is the tiny creatures bred in a jar. Confucius said: if I, compared with Laozi, think myself complete, I am like a jar-bred insect compared with heaven and earth—small and unaware of it.

Lu’s commentary observes: Before there is any separation into distinct “things,” whether one rises and rests, speaks or stays silent, which of these is not free movement within the primordial, undifferentiated state of things? Once one is trapped in hardship, it is not something “knowing” alone can think through; once one enters dispute, it is not something “words” alone can exhaust. Push the inquiry further, and one has probably still not reached the bottom. When Yin and Yang join and transform into harmonizing qi, the myriad things come to be; in the large scale this becomes years, in the small scale days; outwardly it is the myriad things, inwardly it is the single body—nothing fails to take this structure. Perhaps there is some ordering principle, yet its form cannot be seen; waxing and waning is simply thus; sprouting and returning to death, beginning and end without fixed terminus, is simply thus—then what was earlier called “the beginning of things” is probably just this meaning. What the world calls beauty and joy, if they are not the utmost of beauty and joy, is no different within the single body; perhaps there is an ordering principle whose form cannot be seen; waxing and waning, sprouting and returning to death, beginning and end without terminus, is simply thus—then “the beginning of things” is probably this meaning as well. What the world calls beauty and joy, if they are not utmost beauty and utmost joy, only after attaining this do they count as utmost beauty and utmost joy. When beasts change pasture and fish change waters, that is a small change that does not lose the great constancy of pasture and waters; one who can roam within this great constancy—under heaven, who does not share this with him? Then neither birth nor death can unsettle him, still less gain and loss, fortune and misfortune as intermediate disturbances. Knowing that the body is more precious than servitude, then worth resides in oneself; though there are small changes, how could one lose what is precious because of what is held cheap? The myriad things are inexhaustible—how could they be enough to burden the heart? One who has already united with the Dao can resolve this; that is the reason.

The new commentary observes: One who can fully unite with the Dao can therefore fully preserve ming (life and destiny); when ming is preserved, there is no joy greater than this. The Dao is the utmost beauty under heaven; ming is the utmost joy among the myriad things. Utmost beauty arises from the Dao, yet is seen and not perceived; utmost joy arises from ming, yet is heard and not grasped. Entering the Dao enables one to complete ming; having utmost beauty enables one to have utmost joy. The two are not both possessed except by the perfected person (zhiren), hence it is said: attaining utmost beauty and roaming in utmost joy—this is called the perfected person.

Jade Void

To cast off externals like withered wood is to store essence and nourish spirit; to withdraw from the crowd and dwell alone is to be as one who has lost a mate and has no companion. To enter the realm of empty vastness and wander at the origin of the ten thousand things is never to leave that root. If you try to grasp it with reason, the heart is weary first; if you try to speak it clearly, the mouth is blocked—when heart departs from words and words are forgotten in the Dao, you are near the true meaning.

The sobering yin descends below; the blazing yang rises above. The two modes of yin and yang communicate and harmonize; the myriad spirits transform wondrously. There is order, yet no visible trace; waxing and waning have their measure, dark and bright their constancy—there is activity, yet no visible function. Born in vagueness, dying in obscurity; without beginning or end, without limit or term—if not this Dao, what else could serve as the ancestor of the ten thousand things?

Confucius asked again: How does one wander in such a realm? In learning the Dao, what is there to “gain besides”? One merely attains utmost beauty and utmost joy. As for life and death, it is like beasts changing pasture or fish changing waters—a small shift for a time; why hate or dread it? Under heaven all is vast; the ten thousand transformations become one. Seen from the side of “sameness,” one’s own hundred limbs are no more than rotting flesh; such life and death are no more than sleep and waking. Moreover, driving a chariot or wearing official regalia can be “exchanged” and lived with like water or like marsh—this is what is meant by outwardly following the transformation of things while inwardly holding to what does not change.

What is precious lies in oneself; its joy has no bound—what calamity remains? Water naturally brims over; when drawn, it benefits others—why deliberate artifice? The perfected person’s virtue spreads wide—why deliberate cultivation? Heaven is high, earth is thick, sun and moon are bright—what need of “cultivation”? So the Master used “lifting the lid from the covered jar” as a simile: only when no longer hooded by petty vessels and petty views can one know the full greatness of heaven and earth.

Main text

Lord Song Yuan wanted portraits painted. The court painters all arrived, bowed, and stood in proper order; brushes and ink were prepared, and half of them waited outside the door. One painter came late, moving slowly and without hurry, not eager to step forward. After the bow he did not stand obediently in line but went straight into the inner room. The lord sent someone to look in and saw him loosen his clothes and sit with legs spread in a casual, almost half-undressed way. The lord said: “This one will do—he is the one who truly knows how to paint.”

Notes

• chánchán: Same sense as dàn màn (easeful and unhurried), describing a relaxed, unhurried manner.
• pán bó: Sitting with legs apart like jī jù (squatting or sitting with knees spread), not bound by formal etiquette.
• luǒ: Same as “bare” or “exposed”—loosened dress, not fussing over proper attire.

Guo Xiang’s commentary

When the inner life is full, the face is calm and the mind is settled.

King Wen of Zhou traveled to Zang to sightsee and saw an old man fishing. His way of fishing was not truly setting hooks to catch fish, nor holding a rod while his mind fixed on “fish to catch”—rather it was a kind of ordinary, effortless “constant fishing” in the spirit of Wuwei (non-action).

Wen wished to recommend him to govern the state, yet feared unease among his ministers and elder kinsmen; he wished to let the matter drop, yet could not bear to see the people lose a “Heaven” (worthy governance) they could rely on. One morning he entrusted state affairs to his grand officers, saying he had dreamed the night before of a man with dark skin and thick beard, riding a piebald horse with one hoof reddish, who in the dream commanded: hand the government to the old man of Zang—perhaps the people’s “illness” (disorder) could improve. The officers said in alarm: that was the former lord. Wen said: if it was the former lord’s command, what need to cast divination? So he went to welcome the old man of Zang and gave him the government.

Statutes and ordinances were not lightly changed; partial or self-serving orders were not sent abroad. After three years Wen looked again at the realm: scholars no longer formed factions and private cliques; local chiefs no longer boasted of merit and reputation; grain in the great measure (six hu and four dou made one “chi”) dared not be privately diverted to the four border regions—in other words, scholars “upheld unity” (inclined to the public mind, not private parties), officials “shared the task” (worked with one heart, not competing for fame), and the feudal lords harbored no second allegiance. Wen then honored him as Grand Master, turned north (as toward a superior), and asked: can this way of governing extend to all under Heaven? The old man of Zang closed his eyes and did not answer, evading vaguely; the morning after he had issued orders, by night he had slipped away quietly, and from then on no one heard of him again.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: was what Wen did still not fully adequate? Why must he act through a dream? Confucius said: Be quiet; do not talk too much. Wen had already done all that could be done—what is there to mock? He merely followed the opportune moment of that time.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

This is not truly holding a rod to hook a target of “fish to be caught”; the mind in fact desires nothing. One does not brood over gain and loss—one merely borrows the form of fishing.

“Shang tong” (upholding unity) is what Laozi meant by “harmonizing one’s light and identifying with the dust”—mixing with the world without striking poses or seeking to stand apart.

“Not completing virtue, then one shares the same tasks”: if one insists that one’s virtue is complete and one’s style unique, one will differ from what the multitude is engaged in; conversely, not deliberately “completing” virtue is what allows one to be of one mind with others in practical affairs.

“Chihu and hu do not enter”: only when people under Heaven trust one another can they share the same laws, measures, weights, and balances (standards and institutions).

“Those who achieve merit do not do so for show”: merit is not performed for fame, so when the work is done the person must withdraw; when the affair is finished, the name must be let go. Only when name departs and the person withdraws can one align with all under Heaven.

“King Wen fully accomplished this”: entrusting government to the grand officers and not monopolizing power himself—this is called “fully accomplishing.” “Siyu” is that instant when the people’s hearts are on the verge of understanding but not yet there; King Wen issued orders and governed in step with that moment, to accord with the momentum of popular sentiment.

Lü Huiqing’s Commentary

Knowing that the cultured man Wen (King Wen) was fit to govern the state turns on “his fishing is not fishing”—grasping the way of governing in the space between seeming to fish and not fishing. Entrusting matters to dreams and fixing them by divination, yet “not divining”: upward, lest ministers and elders be unsettled; downward, lest the people lack “Heaven” (lack fairness and a foundation to rely on).

“Canon and law unchanged”: once the six canons and eight laws are received from the Son of Heaven, they become the constant way of the state; “no partial orders issued”—orders must be published to the feudal lords before they go out, so that they can “reach all under Heaven.” “Huai zhi” is ruining the faction one has cultivated; “chihu and hu” are not the standard measures ordained by the former kings—opposite to “sharing laws, measures, weights, and balances,” an image of inconsistent measures and policy issuing from private gates.

Bixuzi’s Commentary

“His fishing is not fishing” refers to the straight-hook metaphor: waiting for the right time through fishing, taking fishing as the constant practice.

“Officers ruin their factions, groups scatter”: when the state is well governed, loyal ministers speak plainly and factions of the wicked dissolve of themselves.

“The chief official does not complete virtue”: when the people are simple and government is light, the chief need not display virtue.

“Chihu and hu do not enter”: an age of harmony and good harvests, with unified measures.

When “unity is upheld,” ruler and ministers are of one mind; when “tasks are shared,” scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants each rest in their proper calling.

Xunben’s Commentary

“There is one who fishes with a hook”: what is hooked is “something that can be hooked” (fish); the “constant fisher” does not fix on one fish but ordinarily lets down the line—not clinging to the rod to catch a particular fish, but without mind for catching, merely always holding this way of fishing.

“No partial orders issued”: never once privately promulgating a partial order.

“Ruin what is planted”: oneself undoing what one has cultivated for private ends, not seeking to differ from others.

This passage is understood in light of the affairs of King Wen and Lü Wang; the text does not name them explicitly.

Excerpt from Zhuangzi Yi (Plain-Language Paraphrase)

Liu Ji says:

The Xia, Shang, and Zhou all followed the “straight path”—acting in accord with the right way. Once you know that Elder Zang truly had the Dao, you need only entrust affairs to him; why insist on a dream to make the grand officers believe?

Another passage (Liu Ji):

Someone who understands the Dao surely grasps principle and also understands quan (expedient adaptation to time and circumstance). The Dao belongs to Heaven; when the heart is settled, that suffices. Quan belongs to humankind and cannot be dispensed with. Confucius and King Wen of Zhou went as far as one could in this; Yan Hui still fell short in places. Thus it is also plausible that Shang Gaozong received a worthy minister (Fu Yue) in a dream: Gaozong was precisely the sort who “walked the straight path.” When spirit extends in all directions and flows with Heaven and Earth, utmost sincerity makes Heaven and humanity like shadow following form and echo following sound—a fine helper sent in a dream need not be doubted. Zhuangzi uses allegory to say that if King Wen wanted to explain quan clearly, he had to borrow ancient events to verify present ones, hence the pretense of a dream to win belief. Scholars who infer Fu Yue by forcing Elder Zang’s discourse have missed the point.

Personal view:

In the phrase shu zhi fu, some read the first fu as da (“great”). On Mount Tai’s First Emperor inscription there appears yushi fu fu—in seal script fu and da are close in form.

Zhi (planting): Fan Wuyou said that planting trees on the frontier as boundary markers resembles Yugu Pass and Liu Sai. Huai zhi san qun means withdrawing garrisons and dispersing troops so neighboring states’ borders blur together—an old custom in the vein of “aligning upward” (shang tong). In Yue Yi’s letter to the King of Yan, “Ji Hill’s markers planted at Wen and Huang” appears; Xu Guang glossed it: Yan’s border was shifted to Qi’s Wen and Huang; zhi means the things set up to mark boundaries.

Liezi (Lie Yukou) performed archery before Bohun Wuren: bow fully drawn, arrow nocked, a cup of water balanced on his elbow; one arrow flew and another was already on the string—the first had not reached the target when the second was in place—so fast and steady it seemed mechanical. Bohun Wuren said: This is “the shooting of one who knows how to shoot,” not yet “the shooting of a perfected person who does not rely on skill but wholly trusts spirit and qi.”

He once took Liezi up a high mountain, onto perilous rocks, to the edge of a hundred-ren abyss, facing away from the drop with only two tenths of his heels on the cliff, then asked Liezi to step forward and shoot. Liezi collapsed in terror, sweat running to his heels. Bohun Wuren said: A truly realized person looks up at the blue sky and down into the yellow springs, roams freely in the eight directions, and spirit and qi do not change; you now blink in panic and your mind wavers—in such a situation you are already in great danger. The danger is not limited to archery alone.

Main idea of Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Full to the nock” means the arrowhead is drawn to the string; “placing a cup of water on the elbow” describes the left arm steady as a stand and the right releasing without the left noticing, so the elbow can hold a cup unmoved. “The fitting arrow stacks again” is the arrow just leaving the string yet seeming to follow in layers; “the square arrow returns to rest” is the first arrow not yet at the target while the next is already on the string—hand speed with continuous before and after. “Like a figure” means like the unmoving utmost boundary. The perfected person’s De fills the inside and spirit fills the outside; far and near, deep and hidden, all are clear, so they can weigh safety and danger and rest in calm; those who cannot see their proper place feel fear, and with fear what is lost is very great—not archery alone.

Main idea of Lü’s commentary: Drawing full, level elbow, arrow gone yet stacking, one after another, is archery of “single-minded intent”—still “the shooting of shooting.” So-called “shooting without shooting” is pure qi guarded within, not relying on cleverness, courage, or daring; hence on the mountain above the abyss the mind does not move, every release hits, and extended further, sweeping the eight extremes, spirit and qi unchanged—reason demands no less.

On Archery and the “Image Person”

Jiang Yi said: In ordinary “shooting,” what matters is hitting the target (focused on the other); in another kind, “shooting that is not shooting,” one holds to oneself (focused on the self). Only this kind of shooting can be spoken of in terms of “fixed” and “not fixed”; “shooting that is not shooting” approaches “nothing is fixed, nothing is not fixed.” Then the person is like a wooden puppet, because there is no fear in the mind. Conversely, if one lies prostrate on the ground, drenched in sweat, that is because the mind harbors caution and attachment.

High mountains, perilous rocks, and deep pools do not exist to harm people on purpose; those who climb or walk upon them do not necessarily meet disaster. What tends to invite calamity is clinging to life, chasing outward, stingy calculation—unable to let anything go—so that outer things could not harm one in themselves, yet the mind harms itself first, until life is lost and one still does not wake up.

The perfected person does not depart from true nature; climbing and walking are no different from ordinary people’s, except that pure qi is guarded within, unaware of any height or depth to fear—everywhere like that “image person”: ranging through the eight directions, spirit and energy unchanged, and that is all.

Luo Miandao’s note (Bicheng)

“Shi shi fu ta” means the arrow just released stacks again on the arrow behind (the front arrow is the “ta”). “Fang shi fu yu” means as soon as this arrow is loosed, the next is already nocked on the string. Fan Wuyou (commentator) takes “fang shi” in the same sense as “fang” in “fang zhou” (paired side by side)—two arrows abreast, already on the string—not the idea of balancing a cup of water on the elbow. Luo holds that Guo Xiang’s reading is wrong.

Jian Wu Questions Sun Shuao (fragment)

Jian Wu asked Sun Shuao: “You served as chief minister three times yet showed no glory or favor…”

(The original breaks off after “er bu rong hua”; the surviving words suggest he is asking why Sun Shuao, in high office, was unmoved by honor and favor—themes akin to “three times made chief minister without joy, three times removed without anger” in Zhuangzi.)

Jian Wu asked Sunshu Ao, the celebrated minister of Chu: “You served three times as lingyin—the state’s highest executive office—without showing special pride; you were dismissed three times without gloom on your face. At first I doubted you, but now I see your brow calm and at ease—what is really going on in your mind?”

Sunshu Ao said: “What do I have that others lack? I only feel that what should come cannot be pushed away, and what should go cannot be held back. I treat gain and loss as not entirely something ‘I’ can decide, so I simply do not wear them on my face. In what way am I wiser than others? Besides, are gain and loss really on the side of outer things, or on my side? If they are on the side of outer things, then the side of ‘self’ can be set down; if they are on my side, then the side of outer things can also be set down. At that point a person only hesitates and looks around—where is there spare attention to care whether others treat one as noble or base?”

When Confucius heard this, he said: “In antiquity, one who had attained the Dao could not be argued down by the clever, could not be unsettled by beauty, could not be seized by force by robbers—not even Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor, in the sense of their achievements and titles, were fit to be called ‘of the same way’ with such a person. Life and death are already great matters, yet the true person’s inner mind is not shaken even by them—how much less by rank and salary? Such a person’s spirit can stand firm as a mountain, not invaded by outer things; can be deep and still as spring water in a ravine, not wetted or stained; can dwell in humble, slight circumstances without feeling worn out. Filled throughout heaven and earth, when giving things to others he becomes all the more abundant himself.”

Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary: When the heart is open and bound to nothing, “that” (outer things) and “self” are one; if gain and loss lie in the other, “self” need not stand alone; if they lie in oneself, the other need not stand alone either. Hesitating and glancing about expresses that there is no fixed yes or no—one settles with things as they are. Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor are only names of merit, not the principle by which merit is achieved, so such titles are not enough to “befriend” the true person (to rank as his peer). To cut one’s flesh and sacrifice oneself for the world is for both self and other to lose; to let each person obtain what belongs to them is to give to others without diminishing oneself. Spirit fills heaven and earth; wherever one is, one is at home—so one does not harm oneself to complete things, yet remains in a state of self-sufficiency.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary aligns with the latter half of the preceding passage: it stresses that giving in a way that lets each obtain their place does not reduce oneself; spirit pervades everywhere and can settle anywhere, so one does not diminish oneself to complete things and yet remains free.

Lu’s commentary: If there is breath coming and going at the nose, light and smooth, that is the meaning of “breathing through the heels”—deep and long. Since gain and loss are not something I can control, one should know fate and rest in it—there is no need to reckon “in that one, in this one”; simply forget it through the Dao. If one still hesitates and looks about in all directions, it shows that self-examination is not yet enough—how could there have been spare mind to weigh whether others honor or slight one?

The ancient True Person could “not be fully told, not be debased, not be coerced, not be befriended” in the ordinary sense because they could discern “no falsity” (not borrowing outer things to adorn themselves) and did not shift with external things. Thus their spirit could pass through mountains and enter abysses and fill heaven and earth; the more people they met, the more the boundlessness of the Great Dao could show.

Oral gloss: The Commander’s honor, if it rests only on the identity “Commander,” has nothing to do with me; what is valuable in me, if it rests only in myself, has nothing to do with the Commander. Hence: what is “in that one”—what has it to do with me? What is “in me”—what has it to do with that one? “Hesitating and looking about in all directions” means raising one’s gaze and thinking far within heaven and earth—how could one know what people call honor and baseness?

The wise “cannot be fully told”—not because words can say it all; the beautiful “cannot be debased”—not because beauty can corrupt; the robber “cannot be coerced”—not because force can subdue; Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor “cannot be befriended”—they withdrew from the world and held the realm lightly; they are not reachable by ordinary friendship.

Classic text: The King of Chu and the ruler of Fan sat together. Before long, the King of Chu’s attendants said: the ruler of Fan has already disappeared three times. The ruler of Fan said: Fan’s “perishing” is not enough to destroy my “being.” If Fan’s perishing is not enough to destroy my being, then Chu’s existing is also not enough to “preserve” my being. Viewed thus, Fan has never perished, and Chu has never truly existed. (Fan is a state name in the Zuo Zhuan; Fan was descended from the Duke of Zhou.)

Guo’s commentary: They said Fan showed three signs of “perishing,” yet that was not enough to destroy my existence, because “Fan” was forgotten outwardly—not taking perishing as perishing, then existing also is not enough to count as existing. Vast and without self-importance—that is constant being. Existence and perishing really lie in where the mind turns; under heaven there is originally no fixed divide between existing and perishing.

Plain-Language Interpretation of Zhuangyi (Wings of Zhuangzi)

Main idea cited in Lü’s commentary

There is a realm in the world that endures without perishing and exists without being born; if one can grasp that “constant endurance” and hold to it, one has truly held to what truly endures. People like Fan Di of Chu are hardly fit to bear the great charge of “survival and destruction.”

Overall commentary

This chapter builds its argument from the teacher of Zifang: outwardly he looks like an ordinary person, yet the virtue (De) of the Dao (the Way) shines in secret, with depths words cannot fully reach—enough to awaken Marquis Wen of Wei to the error of his learning and to see how Wei was holding him back. That is skill in using a teacher’s single word to enlighten a ruler; why worry that one cannot stand firm or that the Way cannot spread wide?

When Confucius met Wen Bo Xuezi, he saw at once that “the Dao is within him,” showing that awakening often lies not in repeated textual glossing but in immediate insight. When Yan Hui lamented that Confucius was “beyond reach, leaving the dust behind” while he could only stare and fall behind, he showed how the great transformation moves in secret—one must all the more work at the point where “in the crossing of arms, one has already missed it.”

Laozi wandered in “the beginning of things”; Confucius recognized his detachment from the vulgar. When two with such eyes meet, subtle meaning appears of itself. At that level, question and answer seem almost redundant; yet if one does not unfold principle according to circumstance, later students cannot be helped—so they also treat in detail the mystery of yin-yang harmony and the birth of the myriad things, tracing from the first sprout back to its end, so that everyone may know the full scope of Heaven and Earth and forget the small changes of the bodily form. That too is the sage’s great heart to spread the Dao and benefit beings.

Duke Ai said Lu had many Ru scholars; Confucius judged people by cap and gown, while Zhuangzi tested their actual conduct, and so could say Ru scholars were “few.” When he cried out in the state yet alone preserved the genuine, Confucius thereby saw that the true Way does not wear away while false learning easily vanishes—once the scales are clear, how could one be deceived?

King Wen employed Elder Zang; when affairs were settled the elder fled at night—showing that those who mean to govern the world appoint the worthy with utmost urgency, while those who respond to things without clinging do not dwell on success once it is done. The way of ruler and minister at this point is complete, enough to be the standard for ten thousand generations.

Again, Bohun Wuren used archery to observe Lie Yukou; Shu Ao thrice left high office without a troubled look; and there is discussion of the person who “attains fate”: leaving the human to join Heaven, becoming one with transformation, sweeping to the eight directions, unchanged by life and death. Learning the Dao must reach this level to be final; otherwise one is mostly dragged by outer things and inwardly in peril—like the parables of King Chu and Lord Fan on the survival or loss of person and state, clarifying the division between inner and outer, self and things. That is truly knowing what weighs heavy and what weighs light.

“Knowledge Rambling in the North,” Chapter 22 (Plain-Language Reading)

Knowledge (a figure in Zhuangzi who stands for the drive to “know”) traveled north. He came to the bank of Mystery Water (a river name suggesting depth and subtlety) and climbed Hidden Knoll, where he met Non-Action Speaks (a name meaning “the one who would speak of non-action”).

Knowledge said to Non-Action Speaks: I want to ask you a few things—how should one think and worry to truly understand the Dao? Where should one stay, and what should one wear, to settle the Dao properly? Which road should one take, and follow what, to attain the Dao? He asked three times; Non-Action Speaks did not answer. It was not that he refused—it was that he did not know how to answer in words.

Knowledge could not press further. He went back to the south bank of White Water, climbed Fox Gap hill, and met Mad Qu. Knowledge repeated the same questions. Mad Qu said: Alas, I do know—but just as I was about to tell you, halfway through I forgot what I meant to say. Knowledge still got no answer.

Knowledge went back again and visited Yellow Emperor at the Imperial Palace, asking the same questions. Yellow Emperor said: Without deliberate scheming, one begins to understand the Dao; without clinging to fixed places and outward dress, one begins to settle the Dao steadily; without forcing a single “path in,” one begins truly to attain the Dao.

Knowledge asked Yellow Emperor: You and I count as those who “know”—Non-Action Speaks and Mad Qu as those who “don’t know.” Who is right and who is wrong?

Yellow Emperor said: Non-Action Speaks truly understands; Mad Qu only resembles understanding; you and I, in the end, still cannot be said to be truly close to the Dao. Because those who truly know the Dao seldom rely on the mouth; those who talk a great deal often do not truly know, therefore the sage’s teaching is the kind that does not depend on words.

Yellow Emperor went on: The Dao cannot be summoned by force; De cannot be reached by sheer effort. Ren can still be practiced; Yi may still be incompletely done; Li often sinks into outward show. So it is said: when the Dao is lost, people speak of De; when De is lost, of Ren; when Ren is lost, of Yi; when Yi is lost, of Li. Li is the fringe and ornament of the Dao, and also the start of disorder. Therefore those who cultivate the Dao reduce day by day (reduce fixation, cleverness, and artificiality)—reduce again and again until Wuwei; Wuwei is not doing nothing, but not acting recklessly, so that what should be accomplished is accomplished naturally. People have already become “things” pulled along by externals; to turn back to the root—is that not hard? If anything is easy, it is perhaps only the great person (the sage united with the Dao).

(The text has Yellow Emperor say further: Life is the continuation of death; death is the gateway of life—who can fully trace that chain? When Qi gathers, we call it life; when it disperses, we call it death. If death and life are only successive forms of the same process, why should I fear one side and cling to the other? Therefore all things are originally one body—what people find beautiful they call wondrous; what they find ugly they call foul; the foul turns wondrous again, the wondrous turns foul again—so it is said the whole world is one current of Qi. Thus the sage values holding to oneness and treating all as one.)

Knowledge said to Yellow Emperor again: I asked Non-Action Speaks; he ignored me—not on purpose, but because he did not know how to answer. I asked Mad Qu; he would not tell me when the words were on his lips—not because he would not, but because he forgot while trying to speak. Now I ask you—you clearly seem to know—why still can you not speak thoroughly or stay close to it?

Yellow Emperor said: Non-Action Speaks truly understands—precisely because he does not pose as “knowing” or wrap the Dao in “knowing”; Mad Qu seems to understand because he forgets mid-speech. You and I find it hard to be truly close precisely because we still take ourselves to “know.”

Mad Qu, listening nearby, thought Yellow Emperor had hit the mark.

Note: This chapter uses a chain of parables about “questions that get no answer” to show that the Dao is in nature, not in verbal dispute; the more one treats “I know” as important, the farther one is from the Dao. Parentheses mark names, place-names, and familiar Daoist terms such as Li, Yi, De, and Wuwei; repeated passages in the original are merged here for easier reading.

Lu Commentary (Vernacular)

The Dao has no fixed direction, so it cannot be obtained by “chasing after it” or “grasping it”; the moment you insist on “summoning” or “fetching” it, you turn it into something you drag in from outside. De (virtue/power) was always in your own heart—it cannot be reached by “going from here to there”; if you force yourself to “arrive,” you only wear yourself out shuttling between self and other.

De shows itself as wuwei (non-action). At that stage ren (benevolence) can still be practiced, but once you act as “benevolent,” partiality appears and yi (righteousness) may be harmed; li (ritual propriety) is even more artificial—if people do not respond, you roll up your sleeves and push it on them. All of that is mutual pretense, and that is where disorder begins.

So those who cultivate the Dao should practice ri sun (daily diminishing)—peeling away fixation and contrivance day by day—until wuwei. Then ren, yi, li, and yue (benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music) have no choice but to fall quiet. When there is wuwei yet wu bu wei (nothing left undone), are not ren, yi, li, and yue all expressions of the Dao? But once you are already pulled by outer things, you already have knowing and already have desire; you want gui gen (return to the root/source) yet do not know how—is that not hard? The da ren (great person, one who has attained) shines inwardly; outer things cannot block him. Among the myriad things, gui gen is in truth an easy matter.

Birth and death, beginning and end, have no fixed head or tail: when qi gathers, there is life; when qi disperses, there is death. Understand that gathering and dispersing are only natural turning—what is there to worry about? Thus the ten thousand things are originally one body; what people like they call miraculous, what they dislike they call foul and rotten—those two merely transform into each other. From this you know that under heaven one qi runs through all; that is why the shengren (sage) treasures yi (oneness, the single root).

Bixu (Vernacular)

Shou shi fan ting (withdraw the outward gaze and turn listening inward): then every mark of purposeful action becomes empty. Treating “knowing” as right and “not knowing” as wrong only deepens fault. Zhen shi (clinging to “what is truly real”) and zhen zhi (dependence on “true knowing”) are both obstacles on the Dao path, and especially hard to remove. You should first diminish “knowing,” then diminish “not knowing,” until there is wu zhi (no-knowing) and wu sun (nothing left to diminish)—only then can you speak of wuwei. Wuwei yet wu bu wei: wuwei means no fixed self, and only the da ren can do that. Because he forgets life, death cannot bind him; because he forgets death, he returns to the source of renewed life. Seeing death and life as one thread—where could evil retribution or good retribution flee? You would not have time to be busy with them.

A note from the commentary: Calling Wuwei (non-action) “the real” is because it does not lean on words; saying the Yellow Emperor on the Dao is no inferior to “Wuwei” is because he too used speech. Here two sides cross-examine each other—it is really a weighty matter. The Yellow Emperor’s grasp of the Dao is in truth not weaker than the doctrine of “Wuwei.”

In the Vimalakirti Sutra (Jingming Jing), the bodhisattvas together discuss the “gate of non-duality”; Vimalakirti alone keeps silent, meaning that wordlessness is supreme. Yet when Shariputra is silent, the heavenly maiden does not approve. She says: liberation is not inside, not outside, not between inside and outside; speech and writing likewise are not inside, not outside, not between inside and outside. So one cannot say that only by leaving speech and writing behind can one explain liberation. Once this is clear, speaking and silence are one, knowing and not knowing are one. Having thought and deliberation can still be a way to know; having dwelling and dress can still be a way to settle in the Dao; having “following” and having “the Dao” can still be a way to attain the Dao. Why? Because when thought is emptied, dwelling, dress, and what they depend on are gone, and there is no “following the Dao” either—the Dao was never a graspable thing named “Dao,” and that is why.

Passage from the Zhuangzi text: Heaven and earth hold great beauty yet do not boast of it; the four seasons have clear patterns yet do not discuss them; the myriad things have established principles yet do not explain them. The sage rests in the beauty of heaven and earth and penetrates the principles of the myriad things, so the perfected person is Wuwei and the great sage does not act—this means contemplating heaven and earth.

Now that spirit is utmost refined, and that “other” which transforms and nurtures the myriad things—dead and alive, square and round—no one knows its root; yet people lightly hold forth in discussion… (the middle repeats and varies in the manuscripts)… The myriad things have existed from antiquity: the six directions are vast yet never leave their inner scope; an autumn hair is tiny yet waits to become a whole form; nothing under heaven fails to rise and sink, and through life never holds to the “old” (never clings to the constant); yin and yang and the four seasons each keep their order, dim as if lost yet truly present, flowing without form while spirit remains. The myriad things gather and store yet do not know it—this is called the root source; one may contemplate it from Heaven (nature).

[In one manuscript Liu’s text reads “he bi” (join that) where another reads differently—“he bi” is a variant in a certain edition.]

Guo Xiang’s commentary

What is called wuwei (non-action) is to let the myriad things be themselves; what is called “not fabricating” is simply to follow along and let things run their course, without making anything anew. One who observes heaven and earth looks to see whether their forms and appearances each attain their proper place—such observation is no different from observing heaven and earth themselves. When we speak of the myriad transformations, it is the hundred transformations transforming on their own; the wondrous clarity is not seized or ruled by anyone. What is dead dies on its own, what lives lives on its own, what is round is round on its own, what is square is square on its own—there is no governing “root of creation,” hence we say there is no creator, only yielding and following. It also says “no one knows”: it has stood firm from antiquity, meaning it does not need to be made first and only then exist.

To say the six directions have not left their inner scope—if you count the six directions all within the boundless, you narrow heaven and earth. The autumn down is tiny, yet it is not nothing; nothing else can replace it and be its body. It is not that one deliberately renews things day by day; their courses each keep their order, without waiting for anyone to manufacture them. If you say “clearly as if present,” that is tantamount to saying it is gone; dim and pure, once there is form it is no longer numinous. It gathers like oil yet one cannot grasp the root of its nature—hence one does not know how it is stored. One who can observe heaven observes together with heaven.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary

Heaven and earth are without deliberate action yet nothing is lacking, because they have great beauty; the four seasons shift and change yet from beginning to end there is no confusion, because there is clear law; the myriad things are many yet the Dao is nowhere absent, because there is established pattern. Beauty fills the inner, law can be emulated, pattern reaches everywhere without obstruction—all of this is heaven. To observe together with heaven is to observe together with this.

Summary of Lü’s Commentary

Heaven and earth seem to do nothing, yet nothing is lacking in them—within this lies “great beauty.” The four seasons turn and begin and end in order—within this lies “clear law.” Myriad things are many, yet the Dao is everywhere—within this lies “completed principle.” Beauty fills the inner, law can be emulated, principle reaches the four directions; in the end all return to the Dao. The sage discerns great beauty and understands how things work, knowing that the Dao need not be forced yet is naturally fulfilled—so they begin by observing heaven and earth.

Spirit is extremely subtle and present with the hundred transformations of the myriad things. If you look only from the angle of “things,” things already have differences of life and death, square and round—how can you recognize the root from within themselves? Yet myriad things appear in profusion; nothing is not “that” (the spontaneous Dao). From antiquity it has endured; that has never departed. Yin and yang and the four seasons each keep their order—if not that, who maintains it? Seemingly absent yet present, formless yet spirited—you cannot grasp it between being and non-being. Myriad things nest within one another in this way, yet none knows why—this is called the “root foundation.”

Summary of Personal View

The sage emulates heaven and earth in nurturing the myriad things—not like a wooden puppet, stiff and doing nothing (wuwei). Rather, “acting yet without acting, doing yet not doing”: like the seasons running and the land developing, none of it goes beyond the natural. Uniting the utmost refinement of heaven, earth, and spirit with the hundred transformations of myriad things, flourishing and withering and every shape are clear as if before the eyes, yet no one knows who is at work—this is what is meant by the “root.” “Flatly, the myriad things” means the teeming multitude of things; the Dao has existed from antiquity and never changes. Great, it fills the six directions; subtle, it enters the tip of an autumn hair—it moves with things in the same wave, renewing daily without cease; yin and yang run together and each keeps its order. Seeming gone yet existing, indistinct yet there is something; without form yet spirit, dark yet knowable—all things live and breathe from this, yet do not know that this is the root foundation.

What is called the root need not be sought outside: turn and seek within yourself, find what gives you life—that is knowing the root and guarding it, not leaving or scattering; this is called “returning to the root.” Returning to the root is called stillness; in stillness there is “return to the mandate.” The mandate is Heaven, hence one can “observe Heaven.”

Meaning of the Passage

Nieque asked Bei Yi about the Dao. Bei Yi said: Straighten your body and fix your gaze in one direction, and the qi of heavenly harmony will arrive; gather in your cleverness and unify your measure, and spirit will come to dwell within you. De will adorn you, and the Dao will make its home in you. Let your eyes be like those of a newborn calf—do not pry into causes and reasons.

Before he had finished speaking, Nieque fell asleep. Bei Yi was greatly pleased; as he walked away he sang: The body like a withered corpse, the mind like extinguished ashes—genuine and real, knowing nothing and unaware, not holding fast to old habits. Dazed and dim, without deliberate intent, so that none can scheme with you. What kind of person is this?

Main Points from Commentarial Traditions

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Not holding to old habits means turning and flowing together with change; having no deliberate mind so that none can scheme with you means transforming alone in accord with nature.

Lu’s commentary: Straightening the body is sitting and looking inward; in seeing, one is not seduced by outer things—deviant qi retreats and harmonious qi returns. Gathering knowledge means returning to the root; once settled, one is not dissipated, and when spirit comes one keeps the form from leaving. When De is beautiful, one is full as at the beginning; when the Dao returns, one rests in emptiness. The newborn calf’s eyes do not know what they are doing. Before the words were finished Nieque feigned sleep—he heard the teaching and the heart understood. Bei Yi walked on singing because settling in the Dao is easy. Body withered and mind as ashes is the utmost of stillness; genuine and real, knowing is precisely not-knowing; not holding to the past is the legacy teaching of life. The last three lines point to where such a person comes from—one does not know who they are.

New commentary (Li Yun: tong, the look of not-yet-knowing): “Straighten your form” means do not wear out the body; “unify your gaze” means not seeing what provdes desire—when the form is whole, essence is restored, and one is one with Heaven, hence “heavenly harmony will arrive.” “Gather your knowing” means no contriving, no forced action; “unify your measure” means neither adding nor subtracting—returning to simplicity and wholeness, spirit is not depleted, hence “spirit will come to dwell.” “De will adorn you” is roaming in self-sufficiency; “the Dao will be your dwelling” is abiding in utmost emptiness. Eyes like a newborn calf’s, not seeking causes—that is return to the first state. These are all essentials of entering the Dao, so Nieque suddenly awakened and the heart attained it.

Fang Sishan said: “There is no need to press for causes, and no need to cling to old reasons as fixed grounds”—like a newborn calf that does not hunt for root causes, this is asking people to return to that original, natural state. These are essential points for entering the Dao, which is why Nieque, on hearing them, suddenly saw the whole picture.

Fang Sishan also said: Both occurrences of gu (“therefore” / “the old”) are set against xin (“the new”): one changes as things change and is renewed day by day; push from today into yesterday and it becomes an old trace—how could one go chasing it or gripping it tight?

Main sense of the passage: Shun asked Cheng (among the ancient king’s four counselors—Left Assistant, Right Helper, Front Adviser, and Rear Cheng; cheng is an office title): “Can the Dao be possessed and held as one’s own?” Cheng replied: “Your body is not yours—how could you possess the Dao?” Shun asked: “If the body is not mine, who does possess it?” The answer: Heaven and earth have entrusted you with form; life is not something you made yourself—it is the harmony heaven and earth have entrusted; xing and ming (nature and allotted life) are not yours either—they are the smooth unfolding heaven and earth have entrusted; descendants are not yours either—they are the sloughing-off heaven and earth have entrusted, like the cicada’s cast shell. So in walking you do not know where you are going, in pausing you do not know what to hold on to, in eating you do not know the taste— all of this is the operation of that vigorous yang qi between heaven and earth; how then could the Dao be something you could own?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The body was never something you could “have” in the sense of owning—it is simply there, like a thing on its own. If the body is not yours, how much more so the formless Dao? If the body were truly yours, beauty and ugliness, life and death would be yours to command; yet when qi gathers you cannot forbid birth, and when qi disperses you cannot stop death—so it is only qi gathering into form, not something you possess. Descendants too are qi gathering and continuing like a cicada’s molt. Walking, staying, and eating all unfold within this natural process, hence “not knowing.” What is called “strong yang” is precisely that unceasing power of movement. Once this is clear, one can, in large measure, release fixation on the body and on life.

All things under heaven—what seems most yours to hold exclusively is perhaps nothing more than this body; yet the form heaven and earth have entrusted to you is not something you can truly keep as your own. What is closest to you is this very life; yet the blended qi heaven and earth have entrusted to you is not something you can sustain to completion. The root of life is nothing other than xing (innate nature) and ming (allotted life); yet the smooth course heaven and earth have entrusted to you is not something you can go against in its proper principle.

Consider your body: though you know there is a root, if you do not take that knowing as self-possessed knowledge, then when you walk, how would you know where to go? When you rest, how would you know what to hold to? When you eat, how would you know what flavor is? All of this is the working of heaven and earth’s vigorous yang qi. Therefore it is said: though the root of the Dao is nothing other than xing and ming, the smooth course heaven and earth entrust to you cannot be violated in its proper principle—observing the body to know the root, and where you go, where you stay, and what you taste in eating, are none of them truly “yours.” Given that, how could the so-called Dao be something you could possess as your own?

Jiang Yi said: Dao and “I” differ only in name; in substance they are the same—Dao is “I,” and “I” is Dao; the two were never separate to begin with. If one says Dao can be possessed or owned, one might as well say it does not exist at all and cannot be possessed. Once one thinks Dao can be grasped and made one’s own, one has already split Dao and “I” into two different things.

When Shun questioned Cheng, he was likely trying to monopolize Dao and keep it permanently in his own person. Yet this single physical body is only the temporary gathering of “strong yang qi” between heaven and earth; when qi gathers, form appears; when qi disperses, form vanishes—it never truly belonged to “me” in the first place, so how can one say “I possess Dao”? Look closely at this body: what heaven mandates is “nature” (xing); with nature there is life, with life there is body; nature and life come from heaven and earth’s “entrustment” of smooth unfolding, life comes from heaven and earth’s “entrustment” of harmony, and the physical form comes from heaven and earth’s “entrustment” of taking shape. As for grandchildren and great-grandchildren, that is yet another remove—they are only what heaven and earth “entrust” as shed remnants and trailing threads.

Sometimes walking, sometimes stopping, sometimes savoring—one often changes with outer circumstances, while “I” may not even notice. To understand this body, one need only look at the relation between shadow and form: the body relative to “I” is like the shadow relative to the form—when “strong yang” gathers there, this side appears accordingly; as for “strong yang,” how could anyone truly possess it?

Laozi said: “I have a great affliction: it is that I have a body.” He meant precisely that people should return to the brightness of having no birth and no body, and unite with Dao. Shun was a great sage of antiquity, yet he questioned Cheng—because Shun had no choice but to rule the realm, succeeding Yao and making virtue manifest in the world; once he had taken on the duty of governing, he had already departed from the state of pure union with Dao, and so this exchange of questions arose. Cheng was precisely the kind of person who assists the ruler by means of Dao—his answer to Shun’s question was meant to convey exactly this.

Confucius asked Laozi, “I have some free time today and venture to ask what the supreme Dao is.” Laozi replied, “First purify yourself through fasting, wash your mind clean, and concentrate your spirit—only then can I sketch the outline of the supreme Dao. Brightness comes from obscurity; order comes from the formless; spirit comes from the Dao; the body comes from essence and Qi (Jing and Qi); the ten thousand things depend on one form giving birth to another. Creatures with nine openings are born from the womb; those with eight openings are born from eggs. They arrive without trace and depart without boundary. There is no fixed gate, no fixed dwelling, yet paths run everywhere and reach is vast without limit. One who obtains this Dao has strong limbs, smooth thought, and keen ears and eyes; the mind is not worn out, and in responding to things one is not bound to a single pattern. Heaven cannot but be high, earth cannot but be broad, sun and moon cannot but run their courses, and the ten thousand things cannot but flourish—this is the Dao.

Furthermore, broad learning need not grasp every detail; skilled debate need not clarify every point—the sage takes precautions here. What neither increases when added nor diminishes when subtracted is what the sage guards. Deep as the abyss and sea, vast without limit, it ends by returning to the starting point; it measures and supplies the ten thousand things without running short—this is the way of the noble person. That aspect which transcends ordinary measure: the ten thousand things draw from it without exhaustion—this too is the Dao.

In the central realm there are people who are neither purely Yin nor purely Yang, who stand between heaven and earth, live uprightly, and in the end return to the root. Seen from that root, being alive is merely a heap of things fermenting and turning; the span between long life and short is in truth very brief—like speaking of an instant—and not enough to decide whether Yao or Jie was right or wrong. Melons and fruits each have their own pattern; human relations, though complex, also have an order like the sequence of teeth. When the sage meets things he does not resist them; when they pass he does not cling; he harmonizes and responds—this is called De (Virtue/Power). To respond as occasion arises is called the Dao. The rise of emperors and the ascent of true kings are all tied to this. Human life between heaven and earth is like a white colt flashing past a crack in the wall—gone in an instant.

Suddenly active, nothing fails to be born; suddenly dispersed, nothing fails to return. Transformed and born, then transformed and dead—the ten thousand things grieve at this, and people often mourn. Release the bonds nature imposes; remove nature’s fetters; when the soul’s breath is about to go, the body follows—this is the great return. Shape within the shapeless, shapelessness within shape—everyone can talk about this, but it is not what one who is about to enter the supreme Dao should fixate on; it is also what ordinary people often debate.