《庄子通》

In the spring of the jǐwèi year, I fled the turmoil of war and took refuge in the mountains of Zha Lin. My lodging was cramped and humble, and all around me was utterly still, giving me the chance to sit quietly and reflect. I thought of how I carried a heart difficult to put into words, living in a world at odds with me, and of how I had spent five years adrift in such circumstances. I had truly had no choice. My way of dealing with worldly affairs bears some resemblance to Zhuangzi’s views. Should this not make me deeply ashamed? Yet I was never Zhuangzi’s follower. There are things I cannot accept and cannot reconcile; I could not help but come to this point. Perhaps I can draw on Zhuangzi’s thought to make sense of them without betraying my own heart. The conduct of Yan Yuan, Qu Boyu, and the Lord of Ye, and the appearances of Shushan Wuzhi and Aitai Tuo, can all help me make sense of what is within me. So long as this heart seeks benevolence, what could be wrong with that?

Some say that Zhuangzi spoke as he did because he lived in the age when the seven great states of the Warring States period fought one another. Even so, Zhuangzi need not necessarily have argued as he did. But for me, drawing on his thought to make sense of worldly affairs fits my circumstances especially well. Like the man with a great goiter, I am regarded as useless; like someone without formal robes, I am out of step with the times. I, too, find myself “between having talent and having none.” “Those who understand me say that sorrow fills my heart; those who do not understand me wonder what I am seeking.” Who truly understands me? If I say that I borrow Zhuangzi’s thought to stay beyond “Yi’s shooting range”—a metaphor for a place of danger—I cannot defend myself. As for the state that Huzǐ revealed between Heaven and Earth, I have not had the chance to witness it with my own eyes for a long time.

Most of Zhuangzi’s various sayings can be drawn on to make sense of the Way of the gentleman; that, broadly speaking, is the point. So I will not probe whether Zhuangzi himself could have reached this meaning. I present it simply as one way of speaking. Written by the Ginger Seller of Southern Mount Heng on a geng day during the summer dog days of this year.

Quantity and magnitude, length and shortness, weight and lightness, largeness and smallness are not fixed, mutually isolated opposites. Gather small parts together and they become many; join short parts and they become long; combine light parts and they become heavy; bring small things together and they become large. Thus the large contains the small, and the small can also become large. Yet I do not know where people’s boundaries between large and small come from. If so, why should the large be unable to become small, as though confined by largeness? Why should the small be unable to become large, as though confined by smallness? If there is no fixed boundary between large and small, how could either be so confined?

The large is not incapable of becoming small; it does not become small because circumstances keep it as it is. The small is not incapable of becoming large; it does not become large because of its own conditions. In Heaven and Earth there are forces at work: for instance, the great Peng rides the “whirling updraft” as it rises. There is such a force in my mind as well: the Peng spreads its “wings that hang from the sky,” vast enough to shroud the heavens. This force gains its weight through accumulation. The “whirling updraft” is formed from the gathered breath of all things; the “wings that hang from the sky” are likewise made of feather upon feather, each light on its own. So even when a mighty force has finally taken shape, it naturally contains the small within the large.

“Momentum” means being carried along by an external force. To be ruled by momentum is simply to have one’s attention seized by things that have already taken shape, while the mind clings to the forms already before it. In this way, one becomes trapped by what is “great”; compared with being trapped by what is “small,” the distress is doubled. Why? Because the mind clings to what has already taken shape in either case, whether it faces something great or something small. But someone caught up in small matters has no formed and imposing thing to seize the eyes.

Those driven by momentum refuse to stop unless they fly ninety thousand li into the sky. Their eyes are drawn to things already formed, and their minds cling to what they see before them; thus they are trapped by great things, and their misfortune is heavier than that of those caught up in small matters. Those pushed along by the prevailing force may once have flown beyond the “Fangyu” (a small tree), yet in doing so they lost the Fangyu. The “Fuyao” (whirlwind) that can lift the great Peng bird cannot be used to fly among the branches of the Fangyu; the gentle “Lingran” (mild breeze) that lets one glide with ease cannot be used to roam through one’s village. The beauty of a Zhangfu (an ancient ceremonial hat) may not suit the people of Yue. Being trapped by external momentum is more serious than being trapped by emotion: emotions can sometimes be clearly seen and understood, but momentum can easily make one lose one’s way. Is that not so?

Thus, one who “rides the correctness of Heaven and Earth”—that is, follows their natural patterns—is not shaken by the momentum of Heaven and Earth. One who “harnesses the transformations of the Six Energies”—Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness—does not chase after the force they generate. This follows of necessity. Without an attachment to what is “great,” one can be “without self” (not clinging to the self), “without achievement” (not attached to one’s accomplishments), and “without name” (not seeking fame). If one is not shaken by the momentum of Heaven and Earth, how could one be trapped by small matters?

Yet who can truly do this? Only those who understand how to include the few can avoid setting aside the few when faced with the many; those who understand how to include the short can avoid abandoning the short when faced with the long; those who understand how to include the light can avoid overlooking it when faced with the heavy; and those who understand how to include the small can avoid forgetting it when faced with the great. Only by not forgetting the small can one truly forget one’s attachment to it. When one is attached to neither the great nor the small, something that has not been forgotten still remains. By following the transformative workings that shape the myriad things, one can attain a state like that of Yao and Shun.

If people are compared to bamboo pipes, the kind used to make musical instruments, who is it that plays them? If people are only pipes, is Heaven the player? If Heaven is also a pipe, then who sets the mechanism suddenly in motion? Yet Heaven and Earth and the Four Seas are so vast, and the years stretch on for ten thousand years: the minute things are hard to perceive, while the sound of thunder shakes the four quarters. If people are pipes, who is it that plays Heaven? If Heaven too is a pipe, who sets the mechanism in motion? I want to know the myriad things through my ears and eyes alone, but I cannot; I want to know them through my mind alone, but I cannot either. What a predicament!

It would be enough to say nothing and let the Dao of Heaven illuminate the myriad things. But if I say nothing, some force makes me keep silent; if I illuminate the myriad things, some force makes me do so. Both are drawn along by causes and conditions. I want to escape being constrained by external things, yet I cannot free myself from their control. Even if I flee into emptiness, emptiness itself is still an external thing. Where, then, can I flee? What a predicament!

Those who do not understand this wander through their troubles, yet imagine they will never reach an end. Those who do understand it laugh at them. Those who understand this wander freely in the infinite, yet know that wherever they go, there is an end. Everywhere in Heaven and Earth is Qi; everywhere among the myriad things is a mechanism of change. The moment things touch, they part; the moment they part, they touch again. Since nothing can be done about it, one can only say that the myriad things are equal. But if I try to make their views equal, their views will in turn make mine equal. What can be done about that?

When wisdom reaches its limit, the Dao is lost with it. So one seeks another secure place to hide and says, “The sage hides it in the heart.” Can this not be called the most skillful way to choose a hiding place?

Even so, I must make a distinction. If you keep your intentions hidden in your heart, does that mean you can avoid contending with external things? If you try to avoid external things, you may still be struggling against them. Why? If you fear being overpowered by them, you try to escape; if you fear being drawn along by them, you try to escape; if you fear being set against them and unable to benefit one another, you try to escape as well. As long as these fears and aversions remain in your heart, you are already contending. Even if, in escaping, you are not overpowered or drawn along, are not set against external things, and tell yourself that you can thereby benefit one another, these actions still amount to contention. In contending with external things, the stratagems for winning that you harbor in your heart are more powerful than spoken debate. Even in silence, it is as though thunder roars within. “Debate without words” still distinguishes right from wrong, and “the Dao that is not spoken” may become a way to show off. In this way, you are not far from becoming someone who rises and falls with external things. How, then, can you be called a sage?

To keep one’s intentions hidden in the heart is to take part in the transformations of all ages while remaining wholly undivided. So there is no need to worry that saying what others have already said is mere conformity; no need to worry that saying what others have not yet said will get you suppressed; and no need to fear that saying what others cannot or dare not say is an attempt to outdo them. Why? What has already been said, what has not yet been said, what cannot be said, and what dare not be said have all existed within the transformations of all ages. One may speak, or one may remain silent: speaking is so, and silence is so too. To affirm Yao and Shun is not to deny Tang of Shang or Wu of Zhou; to affirm the branches and the deer is not to deny ritual and music. Benevolence and righteousness have no fixed starting point, and gain and loss have no fixed bounds. At ease, one looks in all directions, lets one’s inner reserves unfold fully, then draws oneself back and keeps to the root. How, then, can it be said that the sage has chosen a particular method? The sage has no fixed method.

The Essentials of Nurturing Life

“Put something without thickness into a space with gaps” means not treating one’s own mind and spirit as the master. Here, the metaphor of a cook carving up an ox illustrates the art of nurturing life: by following the spaces already present in things, one can reduce force and wear.

When one’s spirit holds the leading position, people throughout the world will gladly establish that person as their king. Once they are willing to do so, that person can become king of the world. In the past, when Tang of Shang put his spirit in the leading position, the rulers of Wei, Gu, Kunwu, and other states each claimed kingship for themselves. The same was true in the time of King Wen of Zhou, when Chong Houhu, Feilian, and E Lai each claimed kingship; and in the time of Mencius, when Yang Zhu and Mo Di each proclaimed their own Way. One’s spirit may hold the leading position here, while harm runs rampant elsewhere. When harm runs rampant elsewhere, the spirit cannot be at peace and must strive all the harder to gain the leading position. This is why the gentlemen of antiquity worried throughout their lives and gave no thought to their own safety.

What is thin and lacks substance can be borne in only one place; what is solid and substantial can be borne in many places. When there are many places able to bear it, its reach is no longer confined to a single corner. This is why the gentlemen of antiquity worried throughout their lives and gave no thought to their own safety.

What is thin and lacks substance can be borne in only one place; what is solid and substantial can be borne in many places. When there are many places able to bear it, its reach is no longer confined to a single corner. When people are at odds, those who had no part in the matter may instead take the place of those involved and set themselves against me, while those involved retreat to a place beyond the reach of a blade. Even a gentleman cannot help worrying about this, yet there is a way to deal with such a situation.

Human life has its limits, as do the range of the spirit’s attention and the matters one can take responsibility for. As for the rest, let things be without comment: follow their own course, neither governing nor punishing them. In this way, the range over which the spirit can hold sway is kept within bounds.

The transformations of the myriad things, the mutual influence of Yin and Yang, the winds blowing from the eight directions, the irregular movements of the sun, moon, and five planets, and the barriers formed by high mountains and great rivers—who could possibly stop all of these? Thus, when a king wages war, he does not treat everyone as an enemy; when a gentleman teaches, he does not pursue past wrongs. The thoughts of people throughout the world are without limit, yet they can be guided by one or two principles. A gentleman worries throughout his life, yet is not led by his worries; the reason is that he has a constant Way to serve as his measure.

What is called a Jing (classic) is a main line; a main line is the right Way; and the right Way means favoring no one and clinging to no single position. Returning to the right Way and competing with no one in the world over cleverness or tactics, who could say that a gentleman lets his spirit hold the leading position only to be trapped like a bird in a cage?

“Adjustment of Life” (Renjian Shi)

The ears and eyes receive things from the outside world, and the mind processes them. To follow what the ears and eyes perceive in order to observe what is within, while not letting inner preconceptions govern one’s understanding, is what it means not to take one’s own mind as one’s teacher. Taking the mind as one’s teacher is not as good as taking the ancients as one’s teacher; taking the ancients as one’s teacher is not as good as taking Heaven as one’s teacher; and taking Heaven as one’s teacher is not as good as taking the myriad things as one’s teacher. Why? To pass through the “human world”—the life of society—the mind is merely a tool for dealing with worldly affairs; it is not the road one must travel. The road the ancients traveled is not the same as the one I travel. Only Heaven can accord with the Way of Heaven; this is not something I can accomplish by my own power. Now, all I have before me are the myriad things. How could I not take them as my teacher? The tyranny of the Lord of Wei, the dealings between Chu and Qi, and Kuai Kui’s rebellion can all serve as lessons. What in the world, then, could not be learned from?

I have surveyed the world far and wide and sighed at how difficult human circumstances truly are. Ordinary people find tactful words easier to accept than plain speech; for those filled with resentment and rivalry, indirect remonstrance is more likely to bring danger than direct advice. Even a “useless tree”—one that seems good for nothing and cannot be made into an implement—is often cut down for no reason. And the “usefulness of uselessness,” the benefit of seeming useless and thereby preserving oneself, is still a kind of usefulness; once that usefulness becomes apparent, it too may bring danger.

The problem with taking one’s own mind as one’s teacher is that one engages with the world while carrying fixed preconceptions. Even if one takes the myriad things as one’s teacher, approaching the world with fixed views will make them into gateways that bind us, and those gateways may bring misfortune. Closing the gate and guarding the heart brings its own troubles; opening it and relying on the myriad things brings troubles as well.

Han Fei understood how difficult it was to persuade others, yet he was killed because he tried. Yang Xiong knew how hard it was to preserve his integrity, yet he died because he wrote the Taixuan. Their intentions differed, but they suffered the same kind of disaster. Why not investigate where such disasters come from? To live in a dangerous age and associate with people amid turmoil, to grieve over one’s misfortune yet refuse to see it as the result of one’s own lack of ability—is it reasonable to treat such experiences as a standard for judging good and bad fortune? There is a principle that is easy to explain and takes no effort to put into practice, yet few people throughout history have truly understood it. Thus, as Li Si faced execution, he lamented that he could no longer take his yellow dog hunting at the eastern gate; and before his execution, Lu Ji longed to hear the cranes of Huating. Long Pang and Bi Gan, by contrast, had no such regrets. The reason is simply whether their hearts were open and free of attachment.

Things in the world are not, in themselves, a real burden. Yet the thought that they are real fills the chamber of “born brightness”—the still and empty mind in which clarity arises—leaving people confused and benighted, unable to let “good fortune”—the way of ease and harmony—take up residence. So it is with life and death, misfortune and fortune, praise and blame, and every kind of dispute and contention. These eight attachments to what is real pile up in the heart; throughout history, people have revered them as standards and dared not go against them. See through these eight attachments, and there is nothing in the world that cannot be seen through; then all things can be roamed among freely. If one is always anxiously imagining that external things are frightening and trying to avoid them, one will find there are too many to escape. And if external things cannot all be avoided, how much less can one escape the changes of life and death between Heaven and Earth? How could one then have the leisure to cling to life and fear death? Long Pang and Bi Gan remain remembered to this day like trees beyond anyone’s control precisely because they were not burdened by external things.

The Sign of Virtue Fulfilled (De Chong Fu): If a person of De (Virtue/Power) boasts of the appearance of having De, that is merely an outward pose. If a person of De boasts of showing no outward signs of De, that too is simply making a pose of “showing nothing.”

If a person with De boasts of having the appearance of De, that person is merely concerned with outward show. If a person with De boasts that they do not care about outward appearances, they have simply made “not caring about appearances” their outward show. “The Dao gives people their appearance”: appearance itself is also Dao. “Heaven gives people their form”: form itself is also Heaven. Death and life are great matters, yet they cannot alter them. Thus life and death both arise from Dao and return to Dao; they both arise from Heaven and return to Heaven. Dao is everywhere, and every appearance is a manifestation of Dao; Heaven is everywhere, and every form is a manifestation of Heaven. Since this is so, we are born into form and die in form; born into appearance and die in appearance. One may cease to dwell on life and death, yet never leave Dao or Heaven.

To use Dao in pursuit of a particular appearance is merely to adorn one’s outward self. To value appearance more than life is to be enslaved by outward show. To deliberately seek Dao by forgetting appearance is to forget the true Dao. Even those whose feet have been cut off, who have no toes or lips, or who bear great tumors have not lost the completeness of De. How much less have those whose bodies are whole!

People know that it is absurd to forget what should not be forgotten while setting their minds on the body. If one can remain mindful of the Dao-heart that must not be forgotten, while letting body and appearance exist naturally, this is how Heaven brings all things to completion and allows them to flourish: the inner and outer become one, the subtle and the manifest flow into each other, and all gather in Dao and accord with Heaven, without losing the nature bestowed on them by Heaven. How could a sage fixate on such minor matters as outward appearance and find fault with them?

How lamentable that Duke Ling of Wei was so foolish: on seeing a man without lips, he stared at the necks of people whose bodies were whole, thinking their necks too thin and short. How lamentable that Duke Huan of Qi was so foolish: on seeing a man with a great tumor, he too stared at the necks of people whose bodies were whole, thinking their necks too thin and short. Suppose the two rulers favored only those who wore tall hats and broad belts, and held their heads high with raised brows; if these people harbored greed and concealed the treachery of daggers in their bellies, yet suited the rulers’ tastes, then the rulers would probably think that anyone in the world whose appearance was less than striking—even if they possessed De—might somehow stain them, and would likely avoid such people at all costs.

Thus, outward signs—forms and expressions that naturally reveal inner virtue—are the result of virtue becoming full. Without virtue, the inner life cannot be full; when the inner life is not full, the outward signs cannot be genuine. When the inner life is unfilled yet appears to accord with virtue, this is called “stealing the signs” (qie fu). When there is no virtue but one appears full, this is called “hollow fullness” (xiao chong), fullness in appearance alone. When virtue is not full, this is called “virtue’s decline” (ti de). When outward expression does not correspond to the inner life, this is called “mismatched fullness” (chan chong), a fullness out of proportion.

“The Dao gives a person their countenance,” so the countenance takes on a form that accords with the Dao. “Heaven gives a person their body,” so the body responds to its nature. If you are always caught up in reputation and repeatedly alter the nature of the form you were born with, why not preserve your nature within and keep it undisturbed from without? Then you could remain at ease, as if “within Yi’s bowshot” (Yi’s range with a drawn bow, a metaphor for being in danger), and not lose your nature.

Therefore, to have a countenance does not mean having one that caters to the world, and to have no countenance does not mean deliberately adopting an appearance at odds with convention. Test outward signs by virtue, and virtue will manifest everywhere as a sign; confirm virtue through signs, and every sign will embody virtue. Who can understand that all things under Heaven exist by relying on their own nature? Therefore, to have a countenance does not mean having one that caters to the world, and to have no countenance does not mean deliberately adopting an appearance at odds with convention. Test outward signs by virtue, and virtue will manifest everywhere as a sign; confirm virtue through signs, and every sign will embody virtue. If you know only to treat one’s appearance as something to trade and pursue, yet do not know that it is evidence of inner virtue, how could you understand virtue?

The Great Ancestor says: “‘Heel breathing’ (gen xi)—deep, profound breathing, as if the breath reached the heels—is an elementary teaching, yet it already contains the essential principles of the Dao cultivated by the realized person. ‘Making the heavens empty and one’ (liao tian yi) means not allowing external things to enter the heart-mind. From the heels upward, everywhere is nature and everywhere is undivided wholeness; yet the heart-mind is already empty and unobstructed.”

“Reversal in smallness,” “masculine achievement,” and “the plans of the scholar” are all merely sounds of breathing in the throat. “Delight in life,” “aversion to death,” “ease in breathing out,” and “resistance in breathing in” are likewise merely sounds of breathing in the throat. So too are “joy in connecting with things,” “affection,” “the seasons of Heaven,” as well as punishment, ritual, knowledge, De, and likes and dislikes.

Guide this breath down to the heels, and you will discover that even in smallness there is a tendency toward reversal, that achievement can be vigorous, and that scholars can make plans. Delight in life and aversion to death, the ease of breathing out and the resistance of breathing in, the joy of connecting with all things, affection, the changing seasons of Heaven, and even punishment, ritual, wisdom, De, and likes and dislikes—all have their own natural functions. Those who live and die in accordance with nature’s patterns do not rely only on breathing through the throat. In this way, the mind becomes empty and unobstructed, beyond measure and without end. Achievement cannot be measured by achievement, nor can reputation define reputation. Such a person joins with the ten thousand years and abides with all things, constrained neither by “Heaven” nor by “the One.” What power could surpass such a state?

People under Heaven delight in what is profound, yet they alone regard their own inborn nature as shallow. Thus punishment is excessive and ritual overelaborate; they profess admiration for De, yet constantly resort to cleverness. They also make likes, dislikes, joy, anger, and moral principles the basis of their relationships, with the result that their desires grow ever deeper. Below the throat, the body is occupied by desires; only the throat seems left to receive the breath of nature, but that breath is immediately breathed out again. This has been a failing from antiquity to the present, and even those who speak of the Dao find it difficult to escape.

Heaven is empty, and so can contain; Heaven is full, and so can transform, bring forth, and order the ten thousand things. If one only receives and cannot release, one is out of accord with nature and with “the One”—that is, the Dao in its undivided unity—like something lodged in the chest that can be relieved only by being spat out. If one lacks the capacity to transform and order things, one is out of accord with nature and with “the One”; one will change, replace, and produce something else instead. This, too, has been a failing from antiquity to the present, and even those who speak of the Dao find it difficult to escape.

The sky must be empty to receive; it must be full to act. If it receives something but cannot transform it outward, then unless it follows nature and returns to unity, it will feel like something lodged in the chest, something that must be brought up and expelled. If it acts yet still feels inadequate, then unless it follows nature and returns to unity, it will reorder ruler and minister, reverse inner and outer, and try every means to make up for what is lacking, all the while expecting a quick response and feeling not the slightest shame. Alas! From ancient times to the present, so few have truly understood the Dao of emptiness and fullness.

A person of this kind need not seek anything outside. They need only guide the breath of their ordinary breathing down to the heels, and the requirement is fulfilled. At this point, it is as though nothing is heard in the ears, and nothing is lacking. What makes people grow alarmed when they hear of “Fu Mo” (written records), grow dull as if drunk when they hear of “Luo Song” (repeated recitation), rush about as if in haste when they hear of “Zhan Ming” (clear discernment), feel as though they have eaten their fill when they hear of “Nie Xu” (listening closely and responding), feel as though bitten by mosquitoes when they hear of “Xu Yi” (waiting and standing by for orders), and surge with agitation like a gale rushing into a hollow when they hear of “Yu Ou” (singing and answering in song)?

One desire is used to satisfy another, yet it still seems insufficient; so people enlist the Dao to keep satisfying their desires. As a result, everyone in the world remains on the surface, while their inborn capacities are lost, and even the Dao of Heaven seems to grieve. They close the door, hoping someone will come in, but no one ever does, and their hearts become empty. Once sorrow enters the heart, everything seems sorrowful; they spend the whole day fearful and unsettled, and all their lives feel as if something were lodged in their throats, carrying their distress until death. When the heart is empty, everything one does seems empty as well. Facing the world with emptiness brings peace to no one. Thus people everywhere pursue what is profound, only to be burdened by profundity in the end; all of it, after all, remains superficial.

Guiding the breath down to the heels is the essential method of cultivation. Even upon reaching “Liao Tian Yi” (the clear, open state of unity with the Dao of Heaven), one must not abandon this point in search of liberation. To live a hundred years in human form, one must draw upon the Jing and Qi stored within oneself. Only then can one understand that the state in which the Dao of Heaven returns to unity is indeed clear, open, and boundless.

All things under heaven have never been separate from what we call the Source—their root and origin. Yet people are often unsettled by the countless forms things take. When events arise, they may feel joy, fear, confusion, or become attached to fixed judgments about them. They then imagine that the myriad things lie outside the Source. Some believe that by accommodating others they can avoid making mistakes, so they keep benevolence in their hearts to win other people’s approval. Others believe that having their own views enables them to govern the people, so they make rules according to their own opinions. Still others believe that they can master everything by personally understanding every matter. The result is that they exhaust their bodies and burden their minds with anxiety, trying to meet the demands of everyone under heaven. All these approaches admire the accomplishments of sages without understanding how sages achieve them.

All things under heaven have never been separate from the Source, yet people have never recognized this. If they understood that the myriad things never depart from the Source, they could become still and remain unshaken. The key to this state is to gather in De (Virtue/Power) and not display it outwardly. The key to a mind that is deep and undisturbed is to let its inner vitality arise naturally from the Source. The key to being settled and generous, restrained and reserved, is to be deep and expansive like an abyss. Only by never losing the Source, and by receiving all things under heaven with the understanding that nothing departs from it, can one flow with circumstances and change along with things. Everything is within the Dao (the Way); however many changes there may be, none can cause alarm.

Even so, whenever people discuss the “root of the lineage”—that is, the fundamental principle—there must be a root at the foundation. If we do not seek it outside ourselves, the root is probably to be found in the Way of Heaven. The Son of Heaven and I were both born of Heaven, so there is no essential difference between us. The Son of Heaven and the people of the world were likewise born of Heaven, so there is no essential difference between ruler and people.

The Dao belongs to the Dao, De to De, achievement to achievement, reputation to reputation, profit to profit, and desires to desires; each has its proper place. The Dao, De, achievement, reputation, profit, and desire connect with one another and follow one another in layers, yet in the end none departs from the root. The Dao does not go beyond our root: even the wise and perceptive cannot pass beyond it. Desire does not go beyond our root: even the treacherous and domineering cannot act against it. So long as we do not disturb the world, there is no need to worry that we stand alone and weak. Since I am not alone, there is nothing in the world that is especially abundant or separate from me. Perhaps this is what is called “the One.”

“Store the world within the world”: all things, too, are stored within the root we share. One may hold an honored position without being constrained by it; take part in planning without making oneself a storehouse of schemes; undertake affairs without seeing oneself as their master; and use knowledge without claiming knowledge as one’s own. Put another way, even if one serves as the person in charge, there is no need to cling to status; even if one devises plans, there is no need to make oneself their center; even if one undertakes affairs, there is no need to regard oneself as their master; and even if one possesses knowledge, there is no need to claim it as one’s own.

Even when governing the great floods or personally taking part in a major undertaking such as punishing a tyrant, one does not thereby regard oneself as the sovereign power. One plans without making oneself the center of the plans, carries out affairs without claiming mastery over them, and uses knowledge without laying claim to it. This is how an emperor comes to be; the emperor’s Way, too, has never departed from the root. Why, then, take pains to carve and polish, or to contrive deliberately?

“Webbed Toes” (the title of a chapter in the Zhuangzi, referring to toes that have grown together).

The foundation on which people rely is inherently without function; when it comes into play, it needs no support from external things. It comes into being without cause, yet people depend on it and preserve it. They rejoice when they gain it and grieve when they lose it. This attachment, which they cannot let go of, is like an extra branch or a superfluous growth.

People who are not like Zeng Shen or Shi Qiu try to present themselves as though they were. Those who are not rulers like the Youyu clan pretend to be; those who are not Bo Yi put on the appearance of Bo Yi. This is to display benevolence and righteousness outwardly, and to drive and force oneself deliberately. When benevolence and righteousness are treated as external things, and used to observe and listen to the world, one can no longer tell whether names match realities.

Only hearing something with one’s own ears keeps one from mistaking a sound; only seeing something with one’s own eyes keeps one from mistaking a form. If one is truly to judge whether benevolence and righteousness, the Youyu clan, and Bo Yi are genuine or false, can one decide and hold firm to that judgment merely because a hand has five fingers and there are two hands? What people dislike is not merely weeping and wailing themselves.

When one understands that benevolence is not far away and that righteousness lies within oneself, one follows one’s own nature in life rather than acting in pursuit of the names “benevolence” and “righteousness.” Bo Yi starved to death without resentment; what was there to lament? What people abhor is harm to life and injury to one’s nature, precisely because such harm is often accompanied by grief and tears.

Horses’ Hooves

If a horse is not fitted with a bit and bridle, what use can it be put to? If wood is not cut and shaped, what use can it be put to? If wood is not made into a ritual wine vessel, why preserve its original form? If jade is not carved into ritual objects such as a gui or zhang tablet, why use it? If benevolence and righteousness are not put to use, why speak of the Dao? The customs of “exhausting one’s ingenuity to show off cleverness and competing to pursue profit” are faults caused by the sages. The sages should take responsibility for them and not evade it.

If one understands that the sages put their way into practice, yet is willing to accept the faults this caused without evasion, how can one repay the sages’ kindness without failing them?

Rifling Chests

Sages cannot ultimately be eliminated, and great thieves cannot ultimately be stopped completely. Since great thieves cannot be stopped, sages cannot be eliminated either. Knowing that sages cannot be eliminated and great thieves cannot be stopped, one can only let things follow their natural course, remain at ease, and act in accordance with the Dao (the fundamental pattern by which nature operates). Otherwise, people will still stretch their necks and rise onto their toes to promote worthy and wise people as a pretext for seeking private gain, while hoping to use this method to stop thieves. It is rare for such efforts not to lead to great disorder.

When people understand that all things are fundamentally connected, and from this understanding derive principles that accord with the Dao, sages will gradually flourish and great thieves will gradually subside. At that point, who will hold up benevolence and righteousness as instruments for enticing people into disorder?

Letting Be

Some activities of the human mind can be understood; others cannot. What cannot be understood is the mind’s inborn nature. Those who govern the world often govern only what can be understood, while being unable to govern what cannot.

With regard to the parts of the mind that can be understood, rulers impose restraints only after thoughts have already arisen: they attach so-called “sage wisdom” to instruments of punishment, “benevolence and righteousness” to shackles, and the virtuous Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu to the tyrant Jie and the great thief Zhi. They do not bring the two sides into harmony; they merely make one side suppress the other. It would be hard to deny that this disturbs people’s minds. This happens because governing what can be known gives rulers labels to establish, laws to enforce, and achievements to display. Thus, even without the actual qualities of sage wisdom, benevolence and righteousness, or the virtue of people like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, they can still proclaim to the world, “I have brought good order.”

As for what cannot be understood, it has no concrete traces—so what labels could there be? It has no visible form—so what laws could there be? It admits no failure—so what achievements could there be? The traces of labels, laws, and achievements remain hidden and unseen, so those who boast of their success in governing will not pursue it.

Before a thought has arisen in the mind, it is not moved by external things. As for matters that cannot yet be known, gathering the spirit early and following what comes naturally is simply a way of cultivating oneself. If people are cautious about joy, they will not give themselves over to excess; if they are cautious about anger, they will not harm one another. When both joy and anger are governed by reason, people will not act recklessly.

The “source of utmost Yang” (the root of Yang energy) illuminates all things; the “source of utmost Yin” (the root of Yin energy) enfolds all things. To illuminate all things does not mean laying everything bare for all to see; to enfold all things does not mean hiding everything away. Each thing returns to its root, and its nature naturally becomes upright. Things grow of their own accord, and their dispositions naturally unfold. They do not deliberately seek self-knowledge; they simply remain still and put a stop to excessive indulgence and harmful conduct. This is the wisdom of the sage brought to full understanding, and the reason Zeng Can and Shi Qiu—Zengzi and Shi Yu, regarded in ancient times as men of upright character—were able to keep true to themselves. When one’s own person is settled, the world is settled as well.

Heaven and Earth are the foundation from which all things take their models and receive their forms. All things have their own measure of size, length, height, and distance. This is because people’s understanding stops at what has form: they take what they see before them to be the whole and remain content within those bounds.

Heaven and Earth are the foundation from which all things take their models and receive their forms. All things have their own measure of size, length, height, and distance. This is because people’s understanding stops at what has form, so they regard these things as fixed. They rejoice when they gain and grow angry when they lose, pursuing only forms that have already taken shape. They pay no heed to the way things in the world actually are, or to whether their own judgments accord with reality. This is the greatest failing of all, from ancient times to the present.

The formless does not mean that something truly has no shape; it is simply invisible to people themselves. Once we understand that form exists within the formless and shape within the shapeless, measures such as “large and small, long and short, high and low, near and far” can no longer be used to limit it—much less can they encompass the myriad things beneath Heaven. Formless things can also reveal themselves as bodies, and shapeless things can also take on form. Within stillness there is movement; when movement comes to rest and gathers, the myriad things arise. They come into being in an exceedingly short time, yet each has its cause before it takes shape. Once a certain force gathers, form emerges. Understanding this, will we not cease clinging to stillness and instead follow movement? When the mind is still and free of fixation, movement will not run dry. Then movement will be upright, gathering will give rise to form, and generation will unfold naturally. The principle by which Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things is the same as that by which the sage establishes his work.

The mind may be emptied as though hollowed out, but what must be emptied is the mind that insists on seeking definitive answers; something must still remain within it. It can discern affairs clearly, hear in harmony, bring Heaven and Earth into order, and contain the myriad things, yet others find it difficult to fathom. This does not mean that no one can understand it at all. Rather, people are accustomed to measuring things by size, length, height, and distance. They therefore cannot fathom what is formless yet reveals form, shapeless yet takes on shape, or how such things each follow their own measure and rightly fulfill their nature and life.

The Way of Heaven

When the mind is empty, there is nothing it cannot contain; when it is still, there is nothing it cannot respond to. To contain the myriad things and respond to change is for the Way of Heaven and the human way to accord with each other. “It moves on without storing up” speaks of emptiness: let the ages flow by, past and present, without accumulating their remnants in the mind. “Nothing among the myriad things is enough to disturb the spirit” speaks of stillness: follow the forms and names of things, and respond to the changes in joy and anger they bring about. To contain all things and respond to all things is for the Way of Heaven and the human way to accord with each other. “It moves on without storing up” speaks of emptiness; that the ages flow by without leaving accumulated remnants conveys the same idea. “Nothing among the myriad things is enough to disturb the spirit” speaks of stillness; following the forms and names of things and responding to changes in joy and anger conveys the same idea.

Emptiness and stillness describe the state in which Virtue (De) dwells in peace. They do not mean fleeing reality and seeking nothingness, nor suppressing activity and forcing oneself to be calm. The more one tries to escape into nothingness or stifle activity, the more distracting thoughts accumulate in the mind. One becomes troubled and restless all day, sunk in such gloom that one may even wish to escape through death. Yet death, too, can become a burden, leaving later generations only a damaged semblance of emptiness and stillness and continuing to trouble them. Thus the teachings of Huang-Lao—the line of thought associated with the Yellow Emperor and Laozi—later changed into the School of Names and Punishments, concerned with criminal law, status and governance, bringing endless entanglements. If, while alive, one must bustle about all day, contend amid the clamor, and fill one’s heart with pent-up frustration, why live this way?

In emptiness and stillness, Heaven and Earth move of themselves, and the myriad things communicate with one another; people thereby find boundless joy. Those who truly understand this do not loudly declare emptiness and stillness their goal, then exhaust themselves in pursuit of it. This is quite clear.

The Course of Heaven

The workings of change are exceedingly subtle, while its marvelous effects are vast. It is through these marvelous effects that Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, clouds and rain, wind and thunder ceaselessly move and bring forth life. The workings of change are so subtle that no one has ever been able to discover completely why change takes place. Viewed in its minute details, change seems to have no directing power. But if there is no director, how can things move in an orderly way? Viewed on a vast scale, change seems to have a director who controls it. But if such a director exists, there is no external standard on which it can rely, and change would have no means of taking effect.

When people in the world apply their minds and deal with things, they generally do so in one of two ways: one clings to fixed preconceptions, while the other changes its mind in response to external things. Both are constrained by relative distinctions such as large and small, long and short, near and far, and cannot break free. Yet neither way offers a reliable basis. To abandon them and seek another method would only lead to greater confusion.

Therefore, one should consider what is at ease within and without, attend to what is subtle, and at the same time allow the vast to unfold. Use the inner to regulate the outer, and external things will not disturb the spirit excessively. Receive external things with an empty and still mind, and they will not obstruct the mind. In governing the mind or dealing with things, seeking a method elsewhere will only lead to greater confusion.

Therefore, one must harmonize the inner and outer, quiet the mind, take what is subtle as the foundation, and use it to accomplish great things. Measure external things by an inner standard, and they will not exceed their proper bounds. Keep the mind empty and still, able to receive external things, and they will cause no obstruction. How could anyone who governs the mind and deals with external things fail to do this?

Deliberate Effort

All the ways of acting in the world arise from people’s likes and dislikes. Likes give rise to life, dislikes to death; sorrow, joy, delight, and anger arise from them as well. If you cling to what you like, then even when other things accord with the Dao, you will pay them no heed. When you cannot obtain what you like, you become distressed. Distress changes your mind, and a changed mind goes against the natural order. Once you have gone against it, you are bound to become attached to something and cling to it tightly. If you cannot sustain this entanglement for long, you will be provoked and turn to pursuing what you originally disliked. Such a person may not have failed to keep the Dao in mind at first, yet in the end abandons it, as though having forgotten it. This abandonment of the Dao is not confined to those who single-mindedly pursue their desires: they, too, lose the innate clarity of Heaven’s workings.

Even when external things are worthy of affection, one must understand that the Dao is present in them. Even when the Dao is worthy of affection, one must understand that it contains Jing (essence). The Dao nurtures Jing; Jing does not nurture the Dao. Everyone in the world values Jing. What is called Jing is what people consider precious; it is not necessarily what the Dao recognizes as precious.

Cultivating One’s Nature

Those who cling to established reputations and moral principles without understanding why they are as they are; who follow the fashions of the time without holding convictions of their own; and who try to correct excesses in external things and human affairs, only to push them further toward extremes—such people are called ordinary.

In governing the secular world, rites and music came into being. Their origins lie far earlier than Fuxi and Suiren. Fuxi and Suiren guided their essence, bringing it to light and spreading it among the myriad things. Thus it is clear that the spiritual roots of the Three Kings—the rulers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties—lay with the Yellow Emperor and Zhuanxu.

Nothing under Heaven is more mysterious than “Nonbeing.” Its mystery lies in the way Being arises from Nonbeing; through the use of Nonbeing, the transformations of the myriad things reveal their subtle workings. Benevolence and righteousness arise from human feelings; they are not natural laws. Rites and music accord with the Dao; they are not pursued for the sake of results. When rites and music are set in motion and brought into being, they create Being from Nonbeing. Nonbeing does not speak or seek results. It cleanses the secular world and returns people to their true nature. Without beating the drums of benevolence and righteousness, it is difficult to explore the mystery contained in Nonbeing: Being arises from Nonbeing, and through the use of Nonbeing, transformations reveal their subtle workings. Benevolence and righteousness arise from human feelings; they are not natural laws. Rites and music accord with the Dao; they are not pursued for the sake of results. When rites and music are set in motion and brought into being, they create Being from Nonbeing. Nonbeing does not speak or seek results; it cleanses the secular world and returns people to their true nature. There is no need to raise the banners and drums of benevolence and righteousness in pursuit of the wondrous realm of Nonbeing. One need only let things transform in silence.

A realm beyond the reach of the secular world is the original state in which all things are whole and self-sufficient, the place where radiance is conceived and grows. Yunjiang set out on a journey, Hongmeng traveled afar, and Liezi rode the wind. All followed nature’s harmonious Qi, “quietly nourishing one another together with the myriad things”; nothing could alter their joy. What, then, is there to say about grand carriages and high rank? This is what it means to understand the true spirit of rites and music.

Autumn Floods

The Sea Spirit relies on a broad measure, while the River Earl is confined by the circumstances before him. When things are viewed by a measure, whatever the measure can reach is taken into account, as though nothing else need be noticed; what it cannot reach can still be reflected as something that truly exists. Those who take pride in their immediate circumstances can go only as far as those circumstances allow; they cannot reach what lies beyond them.

“When the autumn floods arrive on schedule, the many streams flow into the Yellow River,” and the River Earl almost came to think that the ocean, too, was no more than a small expanse. Yet he could still reflect that the ocean truly existed. Those who take pride in their immediate circumstances can go only as far as those circumstances allow; they cannot reach what lies beyond them.

When the autumn floods arrive on schedule and the many streams flow into the Yellow River, the River Earl thinks he has come into possession of an abundance of water. But when winter comes and the waters recede, sandbanks and islets emerge, and even the Yellow River’s volume is greatly reduced. How much more so the ocean! If the Yellow River could retain its own measure without losing it when its volume changes, then whether in its riverbed or out in the ocean, it would still be the Yellow River. What would there be to worry about?

Yao and Shun ceded the realm; Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou seized it by force. All were acting by judging the times and weighing what was fitting. Even if one possesses the realm without taking part in it, what is there to lose? Zikui yielded his position to Zizhi, while Bai Gong Sheng launched a bid for power, each relying on the prevailing circumstances. Once those circumstances could no longer be sustained, they lost what they had originally possessed. Weighing what is fitting and relying on circumstances are the roots from which differences in status and scale arise.

“The Utmost Joy”

When people pursue joy, they pursue the turning point in the arising and passing away of the myriad things. When they contend for reputation, they contend over the turning point in people’s hearts.

Once sorrow and joy have settled, joy need not depend on anything external. Once reputation and substance have settled, contention need not depend on anything external. So people sometimes speak of gain and loss, sometimes of life and death, but none of these judgments is truly constant. People are always moving in and out of the turning points of change. If they search within themselves and still cannot understand, they will distinguish gain from loss, life from death, joy from its absence. This, too, is natural.

With constant joy and constant reputation, neither life nor death can intrude—how much less honor or disgrace?

Following the Way one alone understands, without relying on forceful bravado or self-display to win a name: the death of Wu Zixu, a minister of the state of Wu during the Spring and Autumn period, was no different from old bamboo transforming into qingning, the insect said in ancient times to emerge from bamboo. It was simply one of nature’s transformations. If even a man of noble purpose could believe that he died joyfully and make death a source of reputation, how could we expect those who turn with the changing circumstances to understand this?

“Understanding Life”

When it is said that “even wisdom is powerless,” this does not mean that things cannot be understood. It means that…

“To know where one’s knowledge cannot reach” does not mean that some things are wholly unknowable. It means that the range of what people can reach through their ears, eyes, and minds is limited. Since knowledge reaches only this far, can we push it beyond its limits? Even so, human knowledge has no end. Keep within the range you can know, judge by an appropriate measure, and count by an appropriate method. If you do this, you can pass through life in peace.

Things that are difficult to deal with are already hard to manage, and people are often powerless before them. Why, then, try to investigate matters that cannot be dealt with at all? It is like turning away from the realities of the human world and seeking counsel from ghosts and spirits. The realms of humans and spirits do not connect. To abandon what is near and pursue what is far puts both life and destiny in danger.

“Guarding pure Qi” means holding to what you can deal with. “Being made whole by Heaven” means preserving what you can deal with. “Opening life” means opening what you can deal with. “Applying one’s intention without distraction” means focusing on what you can deal with. “Valuing what is within and being awkward about what is outside” means valuing what you can deal with. “Seeing the one behind the sheep and then whipping it” means spurring yourself toward what you can deal with. “Maturing in one’s nature and fulfilling one’s destiny” means bringing to completion what you can deal with. “Seeing the bell stand before setting to work” means acting only when you are able to deal with the task. “Being unified without constraint” means being single-minded yet unbound. “Acting without relying on one’s achievements” means doing things without taking pride in oneself.

If you devote your whole life to what you can deal with, you will not be led astray by the world’s confused ideas; you may even surpass what you could imagine in a dream. Raise a bird in the way suited to raising a bird, and even Yuanju, the sea bird of ancient legend, can find its place. How much more so the human body and mind?

“Shanmu” (“Mountain Trees”)

Heaven’s Mandate is greater than a person’s inborn nature. A person’s nature belongs to the person; what belongs to Heaven falls under Heaven’s Mandate. Once you have been born as a human being, you can only do your best to follow your nature. You cannot control Heaven’s Mandate.

Human nature is certainly important, but the scope of Heaven’s mandate is greater. Human nature belongs to the human side; everything that pertains to Heaven falls within Heaven’s mandate. Once we have become human, we can bring human nature into play, but we cannot govern Heaven’s mandate. Conversely, within the natural world, human beings are all expressions of Heaven. As for the part we can control ourselves, that belongs to the human realm. Since we must act on our own, we can only make the effort that is ours to make; we cannot govern Heaven.

Those who truly master external things know that external things are merely external things, not part of human nature. Those who are not ruled by external things know that these things are not the self, and so do not let them dictate their fate. When hunger and thirst, heat and cold, hardship and confinement become almost unbearable, people can still endure them because they know these are all part of Heaven’s mandate. When they pursue the benefits brought by external things relentlessly, even when they ought not to yield to them, it is because they do not know that these, too, are arranged by fate.

If people do not know that external things belong to Heaven, and that what Heaven bestows is fate, yet still crave what they cannot obtain and treat it as though they already possess it, this is called “illusory thought”—a deluded state of mind. People cannot control Heaven, nor can they command external things. Even if they hope to accomplish great deeds by following the upright way, in the end they cannot. To pursue great deeds while knowing they are beyond one’s reach is like playing with fire using an empty sack. The world calls such people “illusory people,” those lost in delusion.

To act uprightly without relying on external conditions; not to seek a reputation for worthiness, nor bully those who are unworthy; not to probe in advance the limits of a situation, but simply to keep oneself in check and act in accord with what is at hand—this is one way of rectifying oneself. It is called “between talent and lack of talent.” This does not mean deliberately avoiding both talent and its absence in order not to bully the unworthy or probe the limits of a situation, while carefully adapting to what is at hand. Rather, it means that the way of rectifying oneself can be expressed through this kind of conduct.

Tian Zifang

To pursue only “the true” without adapting to the changes of things is not truly to preserve one’s nature. To seek only “purity” by cutting oneself off from external things is not truly to be pure. To know nothing of the human heart yet imagine oneself to understand ritual and righteousness is not to understand ritual and righteousness. Many people call themselves Confucians without truly being Confucians: they can only follow in the footsteps of others and cannot truly surpass those who came before. Those who wait for the sun and moon to light the way before they know where to step or what to look at are like people without feet or eyes.

Feet have what makes them feet, and eyes have what makes them eyes. Even when the human body and its functions are lost, something remains that does not perish along with them.

Let the spirit of the mind no longer be constrained by day and night. In the freedom of “loosening one’s robes and stretching out” (taking off one’s outer garment and letting the body relax), preserve the clarity of the spirit. Then people throughout the world need not see him with their own eyes to understand his radiance; they need not watch him walk to follow his conduct; they need not hear him speak for the doubts in their hearts to disperse. This account of the Dao of the noble person has appeared time and again. Zhuangzi was not the only one to speak this way.

“Knowledge Wanders North”

“To survey ten thousand years and arrive at pure unity” means to look across ten thousand years of change and see that all ultimately returns to purity and unity. What is precious is holding fast to the One. Ordinary people see only an instant; the perceptive know how to seize the moment; people of resolve can see a whole day; those who examine themselves can see a month; the far-sighted can see a year; the noble person can see a lifetime; and the sage can apprehend the Dao of pure unity. The longer a person’s view extends, the more readily they forget the petty gains and losses of the present.

How lamentable! They cannot make it from night to dawn or wait from morning until evening. As soon as they have a chance to put their abilities to use, they thrash their fins like fish in a current. They speak for fear of leaving something unsaid and act for fear of not doing everything to the utmost, calling this diligence, speed, and cleverness. “The morning mushroom knows nothing of month’s end or beginning; the cicada knows nothing of spring or autumn.” The morning mushroom, which lives only from dawn to dusk, knows nothing of the monthly cycle; the short-lived cold-weather cicada knows nothing of the turning of the seasons. To regard one’s years as too few and rush toward death is called “the death of the mind.”

“Gengsang Chu”

Settle the mind in what “cannot be grasped”: do not try to hold on with a grasping mind, but let the mind cling to nothing. In this way, “the inner realm becomes spacious and tranquil.” Settle the mind in the “numinous terrace,” the place where the spirit resides, and inner peace can become steady. Only when the mind becomes a numinous terrace can it give forth “Heaven’s light,” the clarity of one’s innate spiritual nature.

“Heavenly light” is the radiance of the Dao illuminating the lingtai (the place where the mind and spirit reside). People’s minds and spirits grow dim and confused, forcing things that have no fixed position to be said to have one, and things with no fixed beginning or end to be said to have a beginning and an end. This is like ice and frost. As a result, the mind becomes constricted rather than open and at ease, and “heavenly light” is hidden away. To dissolve these icy attachments, leave the mind unobstructed, and let “heavenly light” appear is to surpass ordinary people. This is what Buddhists call “wisdom arising from concentration.” Yet even this is only a stopping point.

When “heavenly light” shines on the lingtai, one’s own radiance recedes. In this way, “heavenly light” can illuminate others. When what has form joins with the formless Dao and is seen by “heavenly light,” it is like ice and snow melting away. When the formless Dao appears in a visible form, “heavenly light” is revealed and one’s personal radiance recedes. Things may be right before us, yet remain unknowable to one another; no one can truly know them. Hold fast to what cannot be held fast, and within it there is a place that can be grasped. “Using form to image the formless” does not mean using the formless to destroy form.

The formless is not nothingness. Settle the mind and seek it; look broadly and deeply, and there are indeed formless things between Heaven and Earth. When “heavenly light” shines, it conceals one’s personal radiance, and formless things appear either in form or as formless. They cannot be grasped, but this is not because there is some fixed “formlessness” that could be grasped. Form can be grasped; the formless cannot. But the fact that the formless cannot be grasped does not mean it does not exist. In that sense, it can also be said to be graspable.

The actions of Yao and Shun both revealed the form taken by the formless Dao. In spring, the vital energy stirs and the grasses sprout; by autumn, all things ripen. The formless Dao transforms and nurtures the myriad things, allowing each to grow and bear fruit. It has no fixed abode, and no original beginning can be found. Yet things naturally become full, and what grows naturally comes to maturity; nothing can stop this. Can this be explained solely by “Heaven’s radiance,” the light that manifests naturally? Clearly, the manifestation of “Heaven’s radiance” cannot be taken as the highest realization of the Dao.

Xu Wugui Que

Zeyang

If we entirely set aside human thought and then speculate about how the myriad things come into being, we might say “no agent acts” (mo wei). If we assume that some thought must lie behind the myriad things, we might infer that “something or someone makes them act” (huo shi). Those who speak of the Dao in the world generally carry their speculations no further than this. Yet to say that no agent acts is hard to believe, while to say that something or someone makes things act is difficult to explain. The existence of the myriad things is plain enough, and their movements do indeed proceed smoothly. Once we understand that they truly exist, there is no need to inquire into the principle behind their movement; once we understand that their movement proceeds smoothly, there is no need to insist on whether it comes from some ruler. A narrow view cannot even carry someone a thousand li; how much less can it be used to understand the greater Dao?

If we must know the reason, we can understand it by considering the saying that “the sage loves people.” Why does the sage’s love for people seem never to end? People might therefore suspect that something or someone is making the sage act. Yet “the sage loves people” is a praise bestowed by others. If no one told the sage, he might not know he was being praised in this way. People might then suspect that none of this has any ruler behind it. In truth, though no agent acts, things still happen naturally; though it may seem that something or someone makes them act, there is no particular agent doing so. The sage’s benevolence is the heart of Heaven and Earth. Like the Qi of Yin-Yang mingling and flowing, it continues without end, yet claims no credit, does not enlist fame in its service, and does not display its De. This is the manifestation of the Way of Heaven in the sage, and the expression of the sage’s unity with the Way of Heaven.

Even so, this does not mean that nothing rules over the myriad things, only that its traces cannot be seen. Nor does it mean that some force drives the myriad things and thereby enables them to maintain their natural order on their own. People call those who “do not know why things are as they are” sages. Sages may seem to be this way, but in truth they are not entirely without knowledge. Only by first understanding why things are as they are can one gradually reach the state of “no longer clinging to the question of why.”

When sages face the Way of Heaven, they cannot use personal feelings to speculate about it, but that does not mean the Way of Heaven is wholly beyond understanding. We cannot simply conclude that “we do not know why” before grasping the limits of the two claims that “the myriad things are naturally as they are” and “a force makes them so.” Heaven and Earth have an inner intention and benevolence; sages, too, have their own benevolence and original mind.

“External Things”

Things in the external world cannot be counted on to unfold as people wish. Insisting that they must do so means being held fast by rigid preconceptions. A person may be cast adrift or die, and may suffer anxiety or grief; yet loyalty and filial devotion are not determined by external things. Even when faced with exile, death, anxiety, or grief, inner peace is not burned away.

If you ask only that you yourself do your utmost while placing all responsibility on external things, then when adversity comes you will be thrown into alarm and confusion. Thunderous anger and gloomy frenzy are both the result of clashing with external things. If you can fulfill your loyalty and filial duty without harming your inner peace, how could the Dao ever be exhausted?

When a well is about to run dry, looking far away for water from the Western River is to place one’s hopes in external things on too grand a scale. Taking up a bamboo pole to guard a small fish is to be confined by things close at hand. “Carried along” and “priding oneself” mean taking external things as the measure of one’s right and wrong, honor and disgrace. “Knowing one’s limits” and “the spirit falling short” describe the mind and spirit being pulled along by external things and falling into dreamlike confusion.

If, in the name of loyalty and filial devotion, you contend with the world, your heart may have room to spare, yet you end up blocking your own path. Those who prize their reputation and integrity then grow resentful and unsettled, unable to rest in the Dao. Understand this, and the Dao can settle within you without relying on external things. Even when facing the punishments and dangers of knives, saws, water, and fire, you can remain composed. How could such things harm loyalty and filial devotion?

The two chapters “Allegories” and “Lie Yukou” are missing.

The four chapters of “Letting the King Be” are forgeries. Their contents are shallow and absurd, and they are difficult to make sense of.

Among the calamities of the world, none is greater than the pursuit of techniques for governing the state. Among the workings of the mind, none is more easily thrown into confusion than believing rumors as soon as one hears them. And nothing is more deeply harmful than the world’s disputatious people taking pleasure in arguing with one another.

The sage believes that since Heaven has brought him into being, acting according to his circumstances and living in accordance with his natural disposition are both matters of fate and inborn nature. Even over a whole lifetime, one cannot fully live up to one’s proper part. To speak of such things is already enough to invite shame. What leisure, then, is there to show off one’s learning, chase after pleasures, or claim exclusive mastery of techniques in order to distinguish oneself?

The Dao is spread throughout the world; it is everywhere. Even if one sought it out, there would not be time to choose it all; even if one followed it, there would not be time to travel its full course. One may spend a whole lifetime immersed in it and still not exhaust it. What leisure, then, is there to flaunt the flourishes of literary language?

The Poetry expresses intentions; the Documents records affairs of government; the Rites regulates conduct; Music harmonizes people’s hearts; the Changes explains the transformations of Yin and Yang; and the Spring and Autumn Annals clarifies distinctions of rank and name. What is called “the Dao” is guidance; what is called “guidance” is instruction. One should teach by drawing on what is already understood, without adding excessive words, so that people may draw for themselves from the great goblet, a vessel for all to share. The great goblet is a vessel belonging to everyone under Heaven. I have no desire to set myself up as a teacher, and my duty to act on Heaven’s behalf is already complete.

Thus, the Spring and Autumn Annals is a record of punishments and rewards: it judges facts without indulging in unfounded commentary. It does not reward directly, yet it encourages people to do good; it does not express anger directly, yet it establishes authority.

People such as Mo Di, Qin Guli, Song Xing, Yin Wen, Peng Meng, Tian Pian, Shen Dao, Guan Yin, Lao Dan, and Hui Shi did not administer punishments or bestow rewards, yet they argued without end. Their words were no more than sounds from the mountains and forests, or echoes from the hollows of great trees—like different notes blown through bamboo pipes. Since the Spring and Autumn Annals avoids empty argument, why insist on tuning all these sounds to the same pitch?

After reading the Spring and Autumn Annals, then, one can see that Zhuangzi had good reason not to go along with the crowd under Heaven.