《庄子集解》Vol. 1

This passage is not part of the Zhuangzi itself. It is the title and full table of contents of Zhuangzi Jijie (Collected Explanations on the Zhuangzi), compiled by the Qing scholar Guo Qingfan—listing volumes and chapter titles. In plain language:

Title

Zhuangzi Jijie: Besides the text of the Zhuangzi, it gathers commentaries from past ages and adds the editor’s own explanations, so readers can read straight through and compare schools of interpretation.

Overall structure (eight volumes)

The Zhuangzi is traditionally divided into Inner Chapters, Outer Chapters, and Miscellaneous Chapters. The seven Inner Chapters are usually taken as the core of Zhuangzi’s thought; the Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters were likely added by disciples or later writers and are more varied in style and theme.

Volume 1 (Inner Chapters)

1. Xiaoyaoyou (Free and Easy Wandering), Chapter 1—On shaking off worldly ties and roaming freely in spirit between heaven and earth.

2. Qiwu lun (Discourse on Making Things Equal), Chapter 2—On the equality of all things and the relativity of right and wrong; breaking fixed judgments.

3. Yangsheng zhu (Nurturing Life), Chapter 3—Through stories such as Cook Ding carving an ox, on following nature to nurture body and mind.

4. Renjian shi (The Human World), Chapter 4—Hardship and wisdom in troubled times, serving rulers, and living in the world.

Volume 2 (Inner Chapters)

5. De chong fu (Signs of Full Virtue), Chapter 5—Virtue filling the person; how those physically incomplete can still be spiritually whole.

6. Da zongshi (The Great Ancestral Teacher), Chapter 6—The Dao and the ideal person (the “great ancestral teacher”); views on life and death.

7. Ying diwang (Responsive Kingship), Chapter 7—How to respond to and govern the realm; the ideal of the “kingly” ruler.

Volume 3 (Outer Chapters)

8. Pianmu (Webbed Toes), Chapter 8—Critique of “extra” ritual and benevolence–righteousness that go against nature.

9. Matou (Horse’s Hoofs), Chapter 9—Horse nature as a metaphor; opposition to artificial refinement.

10. Quqie (Opening Trunks), Chapter 10—“Opening trunks”: great thieves and how the way of sages is exploited.

11. Zaiyou (Letting Be), Chapter 11—Advocating zaiyou (letting things be themselves) and minimal heavy-handed rule.

12. Tiandi (Heaven and Earth), Chapter 12—The movement of heaven and earth and the way of the sage.

Volume 4 (Outer Chapters)

13. Tiandao (The Way of Heaven), Chapter 13—Wuwei (non-action) as the way of heaven and human governance.

14. Tianyun (Revolutions of Heaven), Chapter 14—Heaven’s cycles change; no need to cling to fixed ritual.

15. Keyi (Constrained Will), Chapter 15—Critique of those who deliberately cultivate qi and pursue technical arts.

16. Shanxing (Repairing Nature), Chapter 16—Preserving one’s original nature; opposing harm to nature through benevolence and righteousness.

17. Qiushui (Autumn Floods), Chapter 17—Fables such as the autumn flood arriving; relativity of large and small, noble and base.

Volume 5 (Outer Chapters)

18. Zhile (Perfect Joy), Chapter 18—What is perfect joy, often tied to views on life and death.

19. Dasheng (Great Understanding of Life), Chapter 19—Penetrating life; craft and the way of “no entry” (effortless mastery).

20. Shanmu (Mountain Tree), Chapter 20—Fables of trees and stones in the mountains; fortune and misfortune turning on each other.

21. Tian Zifang, Chapter 21—Accounts of Tian Zifang and others; ritual versus authenticity.

(In the table of contents, “Tian Qiushui Chapter 17” looks like a misprint or duplicate of Qiushui above.)

Volume 5 continued (Outer Chapters)

22. Tian Zifang, Chapter 21 (same chapter as above; listed again in the contents).

Volume 6 (Outer and Miscellaneous Chapters)

23. Zhi beiyou (Knowledge Wandered North), Chapter 22—“Knowledge” travels north; asking the way of heaven and earth.

24. Gengsang Chu, Chapter 23—Miscellaneous; records Gengsang Chu; on “keeping your form whole and preserving your life.”

25. Xu Wugui, Chapter 24—Miscellaneous stories and discourse.

Volume 7 (Miscellaneous Chapters)

26. Zeyang, Chapter 25—Miscellaneous; worldly affairs and the human heart.

27. Waiwu (External Things), Chapter 26—External things cannot be relied on; gain and loss are unsettled.

28. Yuyan (Allegories), Chapter 27—The author’s account of this book’s literary form and indirect speech.

Volume 8 (Miscellaneous Chapters)

29. Rangwang (Declining Kingship), Chapter 28—Fables of yielding the realm and treating kingship lightly.

30. Dao Zhi (Robber Zhi), Chapter 29—Dialogue between Robber Zhi and Confucius (a much-debated chapter).

31. Shuo jian (Discourse on Swords), Chapter 30—On swords; often unlike Zhuangzi’s style; sometimes doubted as his work.

32. Yufu (The Old Fisherman), Chapter 31—The fisherman instructs Confucius.

33. Lie Yuke, Chapter 32—Stories involving Liezi and Yuke.

34. Tianxia (Under Heaven), Chapter 33—Survey of pre-Qin masters; high value as intellectual history.

Where the main text of Volume 1 begins

After the table of contents, the main text starts with Volume 1, Inner Chapters, Xiaoyaoyou, Chapter 1—that is, Zhuangzi Jijie’s full text of Xiaoyaoyou plus collected commentary. To read specific fables (such as Kun and Peng, or the debate over large and small), open that chapter’s body text, not the contents alone.

Opening of Zhuangzi’s “Free and Easy Wandering,” with notes from various commentators (vernacular interpretation)

In the northern sea there is a fish. In ancient commentaries, ming (also written ming for “dark”) refers to the North Sea. The fish is called Kun. Some notes say kun originally meant fish roe or fish eggs; the Ming–Qing scholar Fang Yizhi said that kun originally denoted a small fish, and Zhuangzi here borrows the word as the name of a great fish. No one can say exactly how large this Kun is—at the very least, several thousand li.

Later it transforms into a bird named Peng. How wide Peng’s back is likewise cannot be stated—it is also on the order of several thousand li. When it rouses itself and spreads its wings to fly, its wings are like clouds hanging down from the sky.

When this bird migrates toward the southern sea, it moves with the haiyun—the flowing, turning motion of the great sea. The Yupian lexicon says yun means “to go”; commentators hold that traveling on the great sea is why it is called haiyun (“sea-transport”); the line below, “striking the water for three thousand li,” refers to the same idea. The southern sea is the Heavenly Pool (tianchi)—Cheng Xuanying explains: great seas and great rivers are formed by creation and transformation, not made by human hands, hence “Heavenly Pool.” The gist is that the greatest things wander in accord with the Way of Heaven, not by human effort.

Qi Xie is a book that records marvels and anomalies (others say it is an author’s name). It says: when Peng migrates to the southern sea, its wings beat the water and raise waves for three thousand li (Cui Zuan says: as it is about to rise and lift its wings, it strikes the water as it goes, and the water churns); then riding the fuyao—in the Erya, fuyao is called biao; Guo Pu glosses it as a violent wind blowing upward from below—it spirals upward to ninety thousand li; then it departs and only after six months comes to rest—Cheng Xuanying says the sixth month is half a year; it rests when it reaches the Heavenly Pool. Zhuangzi cites this passage from Qi Xie as corroboration.

There is also the “wild horses” (yema): Sima Biao said they are the stirring qi in marshlands in spring; Cheng Xuanying said: in spring yang qi rises and spreads; seen from afar, the steaming qi over marshes looks like galloping horses, hence “wild horses.” This depicts the great transformation circulating through heaven and earth and qi in turbulent motion, echoing the image of Peng riding the wind to fly high.

On “dust and fine dust” (chen’ai)

The commentary explains: earth thrown up is called chen (dust); what is finer still is called ai (fine dust).

“Living things are blown against one another by their breath (xi)”

Cheng Xuanying glosses: between Heaven and Earth, the myriad beings rely on breath and qi to blow upon and respond to one another. According to the Han shu commentary on the biography of Yang Xiong, xi means the qi of exhalation and inhalation. The point is that even the most minute things drift and roam with Heaven. From this we know that whether large or small, all follow Heaven in their movement. The text below focuses on the Peng; here it first states this general idea.

“The sky is so vast and blue—is that its true color, or is it because it is so far that there is no visible end?”

Is the sky so blue because that is its real color, or because we are so distant that we cannot see where it ends?

“When it looks down, it is much the same—that is all”

Here qi refers to the great Peng; shi refers to how people look up at the sky. From ninety thousand li up, the bird can only see downward in roughly this way, hence “that is all”—not that it stops there. By comparing how people gaze at the sky, the text likens how the Peng looks down, stressing the height of its ascent.

“Moreover, if water does not gather deeply enough, it has no strength to bear a large boat”

If water is not piled deep enough, it cannot support a great vessel.

“If you pour a cup of water into a hollow on the hall floor, a mustard seed can serve as a boat; set a cup there and it sticks—it will not float. The water is too shallow and the vessel too large”

Zhi Dun: this means a depression on the hall floor. Pour a cup of water into such a hollow and a mustard seed can be the boat; place a cup there and it adheres and will not move—Cui’s note says “touching the ground.” When the water is too shallow and the boat too large, this is what happens.

“If wind does not accumulate thickly enough, it has no strength to bear great wings”

If wind is not gathered thick enough, it cannot support huge wings.

“Therefore it must reach ninety thousand li, so that the wind is beneath it; only then can it ride the wind”

So one must fly to ninety thousand li before the wind lies below the Peng; only then can it “pei the wind.” Wang Niansun: pei is interchangeable with feng (to ride). The Zhou li note on the Feng xiang office says feng means to ride. The Peng is above the wind, hence “riding the wind.” Pei and feng are close in sound and exchangeable in meaning. In the Han shu, the enfeoffment of the Marquis of Kuai reads pei in one form; the Chu-Han chunqiu has “Marquis of Feng city.”

This passage comes from Zhuangzi, “Xiaoyao You” (Free and Easy Wandering). It contrasts the great peng with the cicada and the little dove, and uses the insects’ “laughter” to mirror people like Huishi (Hui Shi). The interlinear notes and comments by Sima Biao, Yu Yue, Wang Niansun, and others explain the wording and intent line by line.

The peng passage (water as metaphor for wind)

Sima Biao says: “Tian” means to break or snap; “e” means to block or obstruct. The line “bearing the blue sky on its back, nothing can break or obstruct it” means the peng rests against the sky—nothing can snap or stop it so that it cannot rise; “and only then does it now plan to journey south” means it is at last about to fly toward the south. Zhuangzi here uses water as a metaphor for wind: only when wind is thick and strong enough can it carry so huge a bird on a long journey. It shows that the ten thousand things do not all roam at will merely because breath blows one another—small things need a light breeze; something this large needs a great wind.

The cicada and the little dove’s laughter

The tiao (cicada) and xue jiu (the “learning dove”—Sima Biao glosses xue jiu as a small dove; some texts write xue or yue, still meaning a small bird) mock the peng:

“I jue qi (spring up suddenly and swiftly) and fly, qiang (here read as ji, alight) among yu and fang (names of trees; fang may denote a sandalwood-like tree). Shi ze bu zhi (Wang Niansun: ze here should be read as huo, ‘sometimes’) I still do not arrive and kong yu di (Sima: kong means to cast oneself down, to fall—to the ground). That is all—why must one go ninety thousand li south?” Commentators say this laughter by cicada and dove portraits the short-sighted, disputatious type exemplified by Huishi (Master Hui).

“Suited” to near and far

Shi mang cang zhe (one who goes to the nearby wilds—mang cang suggests the color of open country): san can er fan (returns within three meals—still fu you guo ran, the belly comfortably full).

Shi bai li zhe (one who travels a hundred li): must su chong liang (grind rice the night before for provisions).

Shi qian li zhe: needs san yue ju liang (three months to gather food).

“What do they know?”

“These two creatures” (zhi er chong) are the cicada and the little dove. You he zhi (what do they understand)! Commentators say Zhuangzi uses the insects’ ignorance as a parable for human readers—those whose horizon reaches only to yu and fang trees and three meals’ travel, yet laugh at ninety thousand li and a peng that “plans south.”

Small wisdom cannot compare to great wisdom, and a short lifespan cannot compare to a long one. How do we know this is so?

The morning mushroom—a fungus that sprouts at dawn and dies by dusk—knows neither night nor dawn; the short-lived cicada—which lives from spring to summer or summer to autumn—knows neither spring nor autumn. That is what is meant by a “small year.”

South of Chu there is a tree called Mingling, which takes five hundred years for one spring and five hundred years for one autumn. In high antiquity there was also a tree called Great Chun, which took eight thousand years for one spring and eight thousand years for one autumn.

As for Peng Zu—said in tradition to have lived seven hundred years and to have been famed from the time of Yao through the Shang—people still cite him as the classic example of long life; when ordinary people compare their own span to his, they almost always mention Peng Zu when they speak of longevity. Is that not pitiful? (Measured against the scale of Great Chun and Mingling, even Peng Zu counts as a “small year.”)

From here the discussion continues in the sense of “small year,” including King Tang questioning Xia Ji (in one account, a minister of Tang), and a passage from Liezi, “Tang’s Questions”:

In the Land of Baldness far to the north—a place in legend where hair does not grow—lies a dark sea called the Heavenly Pool. There lives a fish so wide it spans thousands of li, with a length no one can measure; it is called Kun. There is also a bird called Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging to the horizon.

There is a bird called Peng, whose back is as broad as Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging down to the horizon. In the Tang wen (Questions of Tang) chapter it is said again: north of the far north lies a sea called Ming, the heavenly pool. In that sea lives a fish thousands of li across, with a length to match, named Kun. There is also a bird named Peng, with wings like sky-spanning clouds and a body to match. Note: Liezi speaks only of Peng, not of Kun turning into Peng; from here through “and where is it going?” Liezi has none of this, yet the sense reads as one thread. When the Master of Lacquer Garden (Zhuang Zhou) cites old lore, he often moves between the formed and the formless—what is meant by “expansively indulging oneself to suit one’s own bent” is writing of this kind.

Peng rides the whirlwind, spiraling upward like a ram’s horn for ninety thousand li, pierces the cloud-vapor, carries the blue sky on its back, and only then sets its mind on flying south to the southern Ming (the dark sea). (The text again cites Tang wen to corroborate.)

Chi yan (the marsh wren) mocks. Sim Biao says chi means a small marsh and yan is the wren; the name in the text uses an archaic spelling homophonous with the word for a foot-rule—a common case of one graph serving related words in old and new usage. Xia Houzhan’s Di yi says “the foot-span wren cannot climb mulberry and elm,” and a note on the Wen xuan’s Qi qi says the wren flies no more than a foot’s height, pointing to its smallness. Comment: how could a sparrow fly only a foot? The next lines clearly say “several ren.”

The marsh wren says: “Where is it going? I leap and cannot pass a few ren before I drop, soaring among mugwort and artemisia—that too is flying to the limit; where else would it go?” The laugh of chi yan again sketches Hui Shi, the lover of disputation. This is the contrast of great and small. The point is made plain.

Therefore, those whose talent suffices to run one office, whose De (virtue) fits one village, whose character matches one lord and can govern a state—(Guo’s note: bi means to fit, to match.)

Therefore, those whose talents fit a single office, whose conduct matches that of one village, and whose virtue wins the trust of one ruler in one state—all view themselves in the same way (thinking themselves quite remarkable). This is what is meant by the scornful finch (chixuan—a small bird standing for those of narrow vision and inflated self-regard). When the text above speaks of “people,” it covertly has in mind people like Huizi. Yet Song Rongzi (Song Xing, a worthy of Song) still laughed at them. Moreover, when the whole world praised him, he did not strive all the harder because of it; when the whole world blamed him, he did not grow despondent because of it (Guo Xiang’s note: he could examine whether he had truly gained anything). He distinguished the boundary between inner and outer (self and external things), and clarified the realm of honor versus disgrace (honoring oneself versus shaming others)—and stopped there (Cheng Xuanying’s note: Rongzi’s wisdom and virtue went no further). Toward worldly affairs he did not constantly show himself in this way—meaning he did not often parade this attitude in speech or conduct. Even so, he still had something not yet established (Sima’s note: supreme virtue was not yet established). Comment: this means Song Rongzi was still not worth envying.

As for Liezi (Lie Yukou of Zheng, contemporary with Duke Xu of Zheng), he traveled on the wind (the Liezi, “Huangdi” chapter, records that Liezi studied the Dao with Master Shang and Master Gao, fully obtained their teaching, and returned riding the wind)—light and graceful, a fine sight—and took ten and a half days before he came back. He paid no mind to seeking blessings. Though he could ride the wind, he still had something to depend on (he relied on wind)—if one relied on nothing, what would that be like?

Hence it is said: the Perfect Person (Zhiren) has no fixed self, the Spirit Person (Shenren) has no merit to claim, the Sage (Shengren) has no name to pursue.

Yao offered the empire to Xu You (Xu You: a recluse of Yangcheng in Yingchuan revered in Daoist tradition). Xu You said: “The sun and moon have already risen—yet you still light a small torch; compared with their brightness, is that not redundant? The timely rains have already fallen—yet you still carry water to irrigate the fields; compared with what already moistens the earth, is that not wasted effort? The moment you took the throne, the realm was at peace. If I still occupied the position, I would see myself as lacking in De—please give the empire to me.” Xu You also said: “You govern the realm, and it is already well governed. If you still want me to stand in for you, is it for the sake of a name? A name is the appendage of reality—would I want to be such an appendage? The wren builds its nest deep in the forest yet claims only one branch; the field mouse drinks from the river yet fills only its belly. Go back and rest—the empire is of no use to me. When the cook does not enter the kitchen, the one who tends the sacrifice does not step over the vessels to wield the ladle in his place.”

This passage describes Xu You’s refusal to accept the empire; Zhuangzi has Xu You speak on his own behalf: only in this way can one preserve one’s natural endowment.

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu (an ancient figure who embodied the Way): “I heard from Jie Yu (Mad Jie Yu of Chu, a famous eccentric) that Jie Yu said: governing the body, rectifying the mind, and hanging words of benevolence and righteousness and ritual propriety on one’s lips so as to win the trust of the multitude—is that the conduct of a true person?” Lian Shu said: “That is the work of the shaman-physician Ji Xian (one who read faces and divined fortune and misfortune), not of a true person. The true person is one with Heaven: people’s praise does not add to his joy, people’s blame does not lessen his sorrow; he takes the qi of nature and moves in unique communion with the animating spirit of Heaven and Earth. Ji Xian could know a person’s death and life, survival and perishing, fortune and calamity, length and shortness, largeness and smallness—as if he were a spirit. In the state of Zheng there was Master Hu (a practitioner of the Way); Liezi (Lie Yukou) studied under him. At first Liezi told Master Hu: “I studied the Way for three years—my heart dared not decide right and wrong, my mouth dared not speak what is good—and only then did I receive your transmission.” Master Hu said: “You are still like what shows above ground; you have not entered the inner.” Liezi studied three more years: his heart decided right and wrong, his mouth spoke of benevolence and righteousness. Master Hu said: “Like having a door lintel—you have not yet entered the hall.” Three more years: his heart followed whims in right and wrong, his mouth followed whims in good and evil. Master Hu said: “Like sitting with me side by side.” Nine more years: without fixing heart or mouth, he simply followed nature. Master Hu said: “You are already one with me; neither knows whether I am you or you are Master Hu.” Only then did Liezi understand; he felt he had not yet attained the Way, went home, and for three years did not go out his door—he cooked for his wife, fed the pigs, and treated people without distinction. When Ji Xian saw Master Hu, he fled. Liezi said: “Only now do I grasp how deep your Way is.”

Jie Yu also said: the rootless tree (a huge tree unfit for timber) is large yet useless, so the carpenter pays it no heed; the civet-cat (a small cat-like beast) is agile—it darts through woods and over walls—but is caught in nets; the draft ox (a great ox) is strong enough to pull carts yet cannot catch mice. Jie Yu cites the rootless tree, the civet-cat, and the draft ox to show that useful and useless cannot be judged by ordinary rules alone.

Zhuangzi (here identified with Huizi (Hui Shi), a rhetorician of the School of Names and Zhuangzi’s friend) had a huge gourd whose fruit was so large it could not be held; split open to hold water it would not sit steady, split open to use as a dipper it was too shallow. Huizi thought it big yet useless and smashed it. Zhuangzi said: “Your mind is too cramped—you do not know how to adapt. Something this large—why not tie it with a rope and wear it at the waist as a boat, floating and roaming on rivers and lakes? You can only think of using it as a dipper—that is a heart closed like wild grass.”

There is also the great chu tree (the same rootless chu tree): its branches and leaves are swollen and tangled, and the carpenter pays it no heed. Zhuangzi said: This tree is vast; one may lie beneath it and roam in carefree ease. Huizi added: Trees that are “useful” constantly meet axe and adze; being large yet useless is how they live out their natural span. This is taking uselessness as great usefulness—not competing for merit in worldly uses, and thereby preserving oneself.

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu—among the ancients, one who single-mindedly pursued the Way—about what Jie Yu had said. Jian Wu said that Jie Yu’s words were grand yet without solid footing—“dang” means bottom or purchase; the sense is vast and lofty but cannot be grounded in anything concrete; they go out and do not return, spoken once they cannot be taken back or examined with others. When he heard them he was both startled and afraid, as if facing a river with no end—he felt they were so high and far one could not reach them; they also differed greatly from the customs and worldly wisdom people ordinarily live by—the commentary compares this with “the path is outside the gate, the courtyard is outside the hall,” meaning the approach is far from ordinary people’s ways.

Lian Shu asked: What exactly did he say? Jian Wu replied: On Mount Miaogushe in the distant north—“miao” means far, and “gushe” is the name of a mountain in the northern sea—there dwells a divine being: skin like ice and snow, cold and pure; body light and graceful, like an unmarried maiden; she eats no grain, only inhales clear wind and drinks dew; riding cloud and mist, commanding flying dragons, she roams beyond the four seas. (The three phrases “riding cloud and mist” and so on appear again in “Discourse on Equalizing Things,” where the wording is “riding sun and moon.”) “Her spirit is concentrated”—those three characters matter most: one whose mind wanders outside things and whose spirit is scattered cannot fix the spirit in one place; only when the divine being reaches this state do the myriad things avoid disaster and the five grains ripen in abundance. Sima’s commentary glosses “ci” as ruin and “li” as pronounced like lai, meaning malignant disease.

Liezi, “The Yellow Emperor” chapter, also describes: Mount Gushe stands in the sea; on the mountain is a divine being who inhales wind and drinks dew, eats no grain; mind like a deep spring, form like a virgin; she bestows no favor and shows no kindness yet things are naturally full; she gathers nothing and extorts nothing yet she herself is without fault.

I therefore took those words as wild talk—not something to be believed.

Kuang (wild talk): Li also reads it as if it were kuang (deception), meaning speech treated as trickery or empty boasting; Jie Yu is seen as misleading people.

Lian Shu said: “True. Someone blind cannot take part in appreciating patterns and ornament; someone deaf cannot take part in appreciating the sound of bells and drums. Is it only the body that can be deaf or blind? There is deafness and blindness in zhi (knowing, judgment) as well. Jie Yu’s remarks are still like those of a maiden who has not left her room—shi nü means ‘such a maiden,’ someone whose experience of the world has not yet opened; it stresses how narrow that outlook still is. A person of such character and such de (virtue/power), about to extend through the ten thousand things and seek order (luan here means zhi—governance, peace—for the whole realm, would hardly bustle about as if running the world! Pangbo (also written pangbo, pangpo) means spreading everywhere, filling all things; when Laozi says ‘I practice wuwei (non-action) and the people transform themselves,’ he describes the same atmosphere of transformation without strain. Bibi means toiling and scheming in busy management.

Such a person cannot be harmed by outer things: if great floods rise to the crown of the head, he does not drown; if severe drought melts metal and stone and scorches hills of earth, he does not feel the burn. Even the dust and chaff on his body— the most trivial, worthless bits— seem extraordinary in others’ eyes.

This passage explains what Zhuangzi means by not letting things become one’s business and by the spirit person’s self-completion, weaving in commentaries from various traditions.

In the midst of tedious affairs, one simply treats what lies outside the self like dust and grime; who would still take governing the world and emulating Yao and Shun as a proper calling? The text also cites spirit persons who do not take the world as their task, to show how one preserves oneself. It then uses the story of a man of Song selling zhangfu (the ritual cap of the Yin/Shang era, carried as merchandise) in the land of Yue: commentators gloss zhu as yu (“in/at”). The people of Yue cropped their hair short and tattooed their bodies, so they had no use for such headgear—a metaphor for the world’s being of no use to you.

It further says that Yao, though he cared for the people and settled the realm, went to Mount Miaoguye to visit the “Four Masters” (in notes they are often taken as Wang Ni, Nie Que, Bei Yi, Xu You and the like; some scholars hold the four names are not historical persons but borrowed for argument). When Yao reached the south bank of the Fen River (traditionally associated with the region of his capital), his inner state became deep and empty, and even the thought of “possessing the realm” thinned—as if he had set aside the dignity of the emperor. The commentary adds: if even Yao could lose his sense of eminence, there is less need to dwell on those who scramble for or administer the realm.

In collated editions, the line on zhangfu often adds an extra er; at one point “short hair” appears where another recension has “cut hair” (duanfa).

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: The King of Wei gave me the seed of a huge gourd. I planted it, and the fruit it bore could hold five shi. I tried to use it to hold water, but the shell was too brittle to lift; I split it open to make a dipper, but it was too shallow to hold anything. It was not that the gourd was not big—I smashed it because I could not find any use for it.

Zhuangzi said: You really do not know how to use what is large. In the state of Song there was someone who knew how to make a salve that kept hands from cracking and chapping (what the ancients called guishou referred to frostbite and fissures on the hands and feet, not anything to do with turtles). His family for generations had lived by rinsing silk floss on the water and could earn only a little money. A man from elsewhere heard of this and offered a hundred in gold to buy the recipe. The whole family discussed it: “We have rinsed floss for generations and never made more than a few in gold; now one sale brings a hundred in gold—sell it to him.” The buyer took the recipe and went to persuade the King of Wu. Just then Yue invaded, and the king put him in command of troops. In winter they fought the Yue on the water, routed them, and he was rewarded with a fief. The same “non-cracking” salve: one man won a domain with it, another spent a lifetime rinsing floss—the difference lay in how it was used.

Now you have a gourd that holds five shi. Why not lash it together and use it as a great waist-boat to drift on rivers and lakes? (Commentators explain dazun as something like a wine vessel tied to the body as a float—the so-called waist-boat.) Yet you fret that it is too shallow to hold things—in that case, your mind still has the narrow, blocked outlook of a “peng heart” (pengxin: someone whose vision is short and whose thinking does not open up).

Huizi saw only fixed labels of “useful” and “useless,” so he thought a large gourd could serve only as a container. Zhuangzi uses the same story to show that whether something is “large” or “small” is not fixed in its physical shape, but in whether one can change how one uses it according to time and place.

Huizi said: “I have a large tree that people call a chu—a fast-growing tree with loose, soft wood, not well suited for making tools. Its trunk is so knotted and swollen that you cannot measure or saw it with ink line and carpenter’s square; its smaller branches twist and bend so they do not fit compass or straightedge. If you stand it by the road, carpenters do not even glance at it. The words you speak now are likewise big and useless, and everyone follows suit in rejecting and refusing them.” (Note: “tong qu” means to cast aside and not take up.)

Zhuangzi said: “Have you never seen a wild cat? It crouches low, waiting for chickens, mice, and other small creatures that wander out; it dashes east and west, leaps up and down, heedless of height or depth—until it runs into jibi (traps and snares for catching birds and beasts) and dies in a net. Now look at the yak (some read this as an enormous ox): as large as a cloud hanging from the sky—surely that counts as great—yet it cannot catch mice. Today you have this great tree and worry that it is useless; why not plant it in the Country of Nothing-to-Depend-On (Wuhe you zhi xiang) or the Vast Wilds of Nowhere (Guangmo zhi ye)—both are Zhuangzi’s imagined expanses, wide and empty, without limit or constraint? Wander and soar freely beside it, lie down and rest at ease beneath it. (“Panghuang” suggests soaring to and fro; “xiaoyao,” in the sense of the Shuowen, means swaying at ease, body and mind harmoniously pleased.) Then it will not meet an early end from the axe, and nothing will harm it—since it is “nowhere usable,” nothing can do anything to it; how could there be any distress?”

Another layer of meaning: wild cats do not die well, and yaks though huge cannot catch mice—contrasted with the chu tree’s gift for preserving itself—to instruct Huizi. Huizi throws himself into the world and seeks usefulness; Zhuangzi withdraws from the world and preserves himself. Huizi thinks Zhuangzi’s words are big and useless, yet does not understand that Zhuangzi roams in the infinite—this is precisely the gap between great knowing and small knowing. (Renjian shi says “this is useless timber, nowhere employable”; Shanmu also has “nowhere usable,” in the same vein as here.)

[1] A textual note: in some editions, before “Hui Shi said,” there is additional wording such as “Hui Shi said to Zhuangzi.”

Inner Chapters · On the Equality of Things (Chapter 2)

All the various opinions in the world about things can be viewed from the perspective of “making things equal”—there is no need to fight over right and wrong or high and low; it is enough to hold fast to the Great Dao. Su Yu said: Nothing in the world is more tangled and complicated than the various schools’ talk about “things.” Drawing the line too sharply between right and wrong is enough to burden the spirit. That is why Zhuangzi proposed treating everyone’s words like the sound of the wind in nature—now roaring, now falling silent; or like the instinctive chirping of nestlings—entirely natural, and nothing to do with me. Only after that can one forget “that” and “this,” “right” and “wrong,” blend success and failure into one, look equally on honor and lowliness, see things and self on the same level, transcend the bodily form, set aside birth and death, and seek the true master within—using one’s innate clarity to illumine, letting the mind roam in the boundless. All of this is the finest thread of Zhuangzi’s thought. Yet his book is full of debate and strong feeling; could he really have forgotten right and wrong entirely? He only suspended this teaching in empty words.

Nan Guo Ziqi leaned on his low table at leisure. Sima Biao notes: he lived in the outer wall south of the city, hence the style “Nan Guo.” Shiwen: “yin” (to lean) is interchangeable with “ping” (to rely on); in Li Yi’s text “ji” (trigger/mechanism) is written as “ji” (low table). Note: the same episode appears in the “Xu Wugui” chapter, where “Guo” is written “Bo” and “Ziqi” as “Ziqi”—wording differs slightly across editions.

Cheng Xuanying explains: “Fang means method—the path one takes.”

Ziqi said: “This great clod of earth exhales and gives voice—what you hear is the difeng, the earthly piping that the land sends through ten thousand holes, but you have not yet heard the tianlai, the heavenly piping: heaven itself, without holes or openings, sounding of its own accord and falling silent of its own accord!” Guo Xiang’s note: “Lai means a wind instrument such as the xiao.”

Ziyou asked: “May I ask what lies behind this?”

Ziqi said: “When the earth exhales, Yu Yue notes that ‘block’ (kuai) is sometimes written as ‘body’ (ti), meaning the earth as a whole; Cheng Xuanying says it breathes out with a ‘yi.’ That breath is called wind. Wind stays utterly still and silent only in wuwei, non-action; once it stirs, every hole and opening roars and howls. Have you never, all alone, heard that long ‘liuliu’ rush of wind? (Here ‘zhi’ means ‘its’; the same below. Lu Deming’s Shiwen glosses ‘liuliu’ as the sound of long wind; Li’s edition reads ‘liu’ instead.) In the steep, towering depths of mountain forests, on trees many arm-spans around, the hollows are shaped like noses, mouths, ears, like bracket-arm ends (ji), like pens (quan), like mortars, like depressions, like muddy pools—three kinds modeled on the human body, three on tools and vessels, two on the lay of the land—all describing the varied forms of holes in the wood.”

The sounds of the wind differ: some like surging water, some like arrows in flight (xiao), some barked out harshly, some drawn in thinly, some shouted loud, some wailed low, some lingering deep in the cavity (yao), some bright and sharp like a bite or cry—Cheng Xuanying says these lines all depict the noises inside the openings. Lu Deming’s Shiwen: “Xiao, read xiao. Sima Biao: ‘Hao is the sound of wailing.’” Note: the Odes line “The yellow bird cries jiaojiao”—in the Three Schools’ text it appears as “yaoyao.”

Holes in front give a “yu” sound; holes behind answer with “yong.” Li Yi says “yu” and “yong” are answering tones; Cheng Xuanying says they are all reverberations as wind shakes the trees and front and back call to one another.

When the breeze is light, each opening gives a faint response in harmony; when the wind is strong, the responses merge into a grand chorus. Commentators explain that ling refers to a gentle breeze; the Erya defines a returning wind as piao (swift gust). Here, “harmony” (he) means sounds following one another in succession.

Once the fierce wind subsides, the countless openings fall silent. Yet can you not still see the diaodiao sway of treetops and the diaodiao trembling of leaves and branches?

Ziyou said: The earthly sound (dilai) is the myriad openings each sounding on its own; the human sound (renlai) is blowing through aligned bamboo pipes (bixiao). I ask: what is the heavenly sound (tianlai)?

Ziqi said: When wind blows through the myriad openings, no two sounds are alike—yet in truth each opening sounds by itself, each taking what it is fit to take. That uproar like rage—who is it that makes them rage?

(A collected commentary notes:) This passage opens with “blowing.” What the wind touches differs in every opening, yet what makes them sound is still each opening stopping and sounding on its own; each opening completes one note, and the one that sounds is still what each takes for itself. So when the myriad openings rage, there seems to be something that makes them rage—but who is the rager? Once you awaken to “who it is,” you see that none of the voices can avoid depending on conditions to take shape, and the meaning of gain and loss becomes clearer. The single line “who is the rager?” is meant for immediate realization; what the text below calls the “true lord” (jun) is connected to this.

〔Textual note〕The character zi is supplied following Lu Deming’s Jingdian Shiwen; hu was wrongly written ming in the original and is corrected per the Shiwen.

The Difference Between Great and Small Knowing

Great knowing is broad and open; small knowing loves to pry and size others up. That is the difference between zhi (wisdom) and shi (mere recognition or shallow knowing).

The Difference Between Great and Small Speech

Great speech has weight and presence when spoken; small speech is wordy and wasteful. That is the difference in how people argue and debate.

The Difference Between Sleep and Wakefulness

In sleep, hun and po (soul and corporeal spirit) meet and mingle; on waking, the body stretches and unfolds. That is the difference between mei (slumber) and jue (awakening).

The Difference in Meeting and Dealing with Others

When people meet, they entangle and close ranks with one another, day after day scheming and competing in the mind. Three postures appear: man (loose, diffuse), jiao (buried, hidden), and mi (careful, tight)—in short, these are the ways people differ when they connect.

The Difference Between Small and Great Fear

In small fear one is cautious and careful; in great fear one sinks into dullness and scatter, as if the spirit has left. That is the difference between kong (dread) and ji (palpitation or panic).

The Difference Between Opening the Mouth and Keeping It Shut

Once the mouth opens, it is like a crossbow’s trigger releasing the bolt—swift, and at once master of right and wrong; as soon as words go out, honor and disgrace hang on them. Keeping the mouth shut is like swearing an oath to hold silence, relying on guarding oneself to prevail over others—that is the difference between yu (speech) and mo (silence).

Consumption and Sinking

(Hurtful) words wound like the killing cold of autumn and winter—the point is that people are worn down day by day. Drowning in what one does, one can no longer return to the original state. Rejecting outer things is like sealing the mouth shut—the meaning is that the older one gets, the deeper one sinks. The heart draws near to death; the original yang qi, the vital spark, can no longer be called back.

Note: References in the text to “Shiwen,” “Cheng yun,” “Guo yun,” “Li yun,” “Yu yun,” and the like are explanations of word meanings by commentators through the ages; the plain-language reading above follows common interpretations (including those associated with Cheng Xuanying, the Guo Xiang line, Yu Yue, and others), woven into one continuous reading without labeling each school separately.

Joy, anger, grief, pleasure, as well as worry, sighing, capricious change, and fear, are all familiar modes of the human heart. The commentators say: worry mostly arises from excessive thinking; sighing often goes with sorrow; change shows up as going back and forth; fear tends to bring dread. The talk of “sound” and “clinging” here is a way of describing how, when emotion is stirred, it has a voice and the mind holds on to something.

There are also the notions of “yao” (the same as tiao, frivolous and restless), “yi” (indulgent pleasure and letting go), “qi” (desire opening and spreading), and “tai” (seductive, coquettish bearing): lightness and agitation, lavish self-indulgence, desire flaunting itself, and alluring charm—all belong to human emotional modes. The commentators hold that a person’s moving and resting, dealing with others, temperament and looks, are all what Heaven has given. The foregoing is about the human.

Music comes out of an empty instrument: at first there is no sound, then suddenly there is sound. Damp vapors rise and fungi grow: at first there is no form, then suddenly there is form—both are like the working of qi (vital energy). The foregoing is about things.

Day and night take turns before our eyes, yet no one can say where they first arise. (This point appears in other chapters as well.) Enough, enough! What we receive from morning to night—is that not the root from which life springs? Since we cannot push the inquiry to the end, we might as well stop here; yet in the lift and bow of the head, in dawn and dusk, one can still awaken to the meaning within.

“This” is the root of life. The commentators say: “That” (bi) is the “this” (ci) spoken of above. Without that “other,” there would be no “me”; without “me,” there would be nothing to receive or to be endowed with. I and nature rely on each other—the principle is not far off; yet we still do not know who is “driving” all this—who, in the end, is in charge?

The commentators take the view that there must be a Zhenzai (True Lord, the real master), only its omens and traces cannot be seen. We can trust in it from its effects, yet not see its body; we can believe it impels me, yet not see the form that impels me. It is bound to me by affection and connection, yet has no visible appearance—what links it to me is qing (feeling, affective tie), not the visible xing (form).

The hundred bones (all the joints of the body), the nine orifices (the seven of eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, plus the two lower openings—together called the nine orifices), and the six viscera (Li Zhen cites Difficult Issues 39 of the Classic of Difficult Issues: the five viscera are heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys; some speak of six viscera, because the left kidney and the right Mingmen (Gate of Life—the seat where spirit and mind lodge; its Qi connects with the kidney, hence “six viscera”)—all of these are fully present and preserved in us.

Then: who is closest to me? (Cheng Xuanying: could there be near and far?) Do you delight in these parts equally, without favor, or do you favor some over others? Do you cherish them all alike, or love only one place in the body? If you say “all of them,” are they ministers and concubines? (Cheng: minister and concubine are lowly roles among men and women; here they stand for what is driven and used.) If they are ministers and concubines, they are not fit to govern one another; if they take turns as lord and subject, is there one true lord among them?—this is the true ruler spoken of above; this line unlocks the whole passage. Whether you can or cannot grasp its reality, that “true” neither gains nor loses.

Once a person receives form and Qi and becomes a body, the body does not perish yet only waits to be used up; grinding against things in resistance and compliance (Cheng: the blade is resistance, wear is compliance), life races to its end like a gallop, and no one can stop it—is that not lamentable?

Plain-Language Explanation

Once we have this bodily form, we cling to it hoping not to die, yet we merely sit and wait until our breath is used up. All day we are tangled up with external things while the years race past like a galloping horse—no one can hold them back. Is that not pitiful? (The editor notes that the line “having received this form once, not perishing while waiting for exhaustion” also appears in the “Tian Zifang” chapter, where the word rendered here as “not perishing” (wang) appears instead as “transform” (hua).)

A whole lifetime of toil, yet nothing that can truly be called accomplishment; dazed and worn out, rushing on without knowing where we are headed—is that not lamentable? (The note explains: because everything possessed is taken as unreal, there is no such thing as real success; driven by outer things until utterly spent, one still does not know where home is. Lu Wenchao held that a damaged character in the text should read as “nie” (listless); Sima Biao read “er” (weary); Jian Wen said “pi” describes exhaustion.)

People say human beings “do not die”—but what use is that? When the bodily form dissolves, the heart-mind dissolves along with it—is that not the greatest grief? (Guo Xiang: even if one goes on living, what good is it? Once form transforms, mind transforms with it, and that spark of clarity is utterly scattered.)

Is human life just this dim and muddled? Or am I alone in the dark, while among others there is no one who is not in the dark? (Cheng Xuanying: “mang” means obscure and not clear.)

Whatever set of views has already formed in the heart is taken as a “teacher” to follow—who is entirely without such a “teacher”? Must one first understand the principle of the ceaseless replacement of things and be able to take oneself as teacher before we say one has it? Fools have it too. (What the heart inclines toward is at once treated as right; taking the heart as teacher, everyone has this—it is not necessary to wait until one “understands transformation” to count.)

Before the heart has settled and become “one,” one rashly raises right and wrong, taking this for Dao and that for not-Dao—it is like boasting that one reached Yue yesterday before one has even set out. Fools do the same.

Note: This passage belongs to the strand of equalizing things (qi wu) in the Zhuangzi: bodily qi nearing its end, the heart-mind transforming with the form, and the error of clinging to right and wrong before the heart has become one. Commentators often read “true lord” (zhen jun) as the ruler within the body or the inherent master; read against “clinging to the body hoping not to die while sitting until qi is exhausted,” it stresses that seeking benefit or harm from outside is useless—the real lament is that when form transforms, the heart-mind transforms with it.

Plain-Language Explanation

Before the mind has settled, right and wrong already show up—like someone saying “I’m leaving for Yue today, but I got there yesterday”: it doesn’t hold together. The mind has not yet gathered and become single-minded, yet it rashly starts dividing things, calling one path the right Dao and another the wrong Dao; before truly being on the way, it already boasts of having arrived. The “right and wrong” here is not the same “right and wrong” discussed later in the text. In the “Tianxia” chapter, “going to Yue today yet having come yesterday” is the sort of thing debaters like Hui Shi say; here it is borrowed as a simile.

Treating what is not as if it were—even with wisdom like that of Yu, no one could make it clear; deceiving and praising oneself, others cannot do anything about it either. This passage keeps waking the world up to that point.

Speech is not empty noise like wind (picking up the earlier image of “blowing”). The speaker really is speaking, but what is said in fact has no fixed standard. Are those “sayings” really there? Or are they not there at all? If “not” is spoken as “is,” even the divine Yu could not tell; what can I do?

Note: In the text, “bi” may read as “ruo”; “ye” may read as “hu”; “kun mao” in the commentary is glossed as the appearance of being ill and exhausted.

Speech is not something hollow blown out like the wind (continuing the earlier discussion of “blowing”). Though speakers open their mouths, what they say often has no fixed standard. Are those words really there, or are they not there at all? Do we think they differ from the peeping of newly hatched chicks, or are they in fact no different? Even what is weighty or light in speech has not been settled.

How could the Dao, because it is obscured, split into true and false? How could words, because they are obscured, split into right and wrong? “Obscured” means blocked and not penetrating. Why is the Dao obscured so that true Dao and false Dao appear? Why are words obscured so that right and wrong appear? How could the Dao cease to exist when it reaches some place? How could words, once fixed in place, become immovable? (Guo Xiang’s gist: the Dao is everywhere; it need not rely on speech. A single utterance can be the Dao; it need not rely on disputation.)

The Dao is obscured because each party holds to what it has already achieved, taking a partial gain for the great Dao, unaware of the Dao’s vastness (Cheng Xuanying: those who cling to biased views obscure the great Dao and keep it from shining forth; he cites the Laozi, “When the great Dao declines, benevolence and righteousness appear”). Speech is obscured because people sink into florid rhetoric and empty debate, chasing ornate language (Cheng Xuanying: only by stagnating in splendid disputation is supreme speech obscured; the Laozi says, “Sincere words are not beautiful; beautiful words are not sincere”). Hence the Confucian–Mohist dispute over right and wrong—also obscured within this “flowery” rhetoric. Confucians take Yao and Shun as models, emulate Wen and Wu, practice benevolence and righteousness, and debate rank and humble—hence they are called Ru (Confucians). Huan of Zheng studied three years under Qiushi, completed his training, and turned into a Confucian; his younger brother Di, influenced by Huan, became accomplished in Mohism. Mohists emulate the way of Yu.

Each side takes what it rejects as right and what it affirms as wrong—so right and wrong grow more tangled the more they argue.

On Mohism and the Confucian–Mohist Dispute

The Mohists advocated honoring the worthy and valuing ritual, while also preaching frugality and “impartial care” (jian ai)—even to the point of wearing the scalp bare and the heels raw in order to save the people of the world. That is what is meant by the Mohist school. Huan and Di were brothers by blood, yet each clung to a different teaching and denounced the other as wrong. Huan, resenting his younger brother, died in bitterness. Yet the oppositions of “that” and “this,” of who is right and who is wrong, are of long standing; the fiercest contention often begins with such worthies. That is why Zhuangzi pointed to the worthies of Confucianism and Mohism as ringleaders in stirring up public debate—from which one can see that when the Great Dao declines and true words are hidden, people fixate on wrangling over right and wrong.

(The Confucian–Mohist quarrel is recounted in the “Lie Yukou” chapter of the Zhuangzi.) If one only wants to affirm what one has rejected and reject what one has affirmed, it is better to break through with “clarity” (ming). Guo Songtao said: “That” and “this” are mutually opposing forms; once both sides of right and wrong are fixed, the right and wrong you insist on are no longer genuine right and wrong—views of “that” and “this” still occupy the mind.”—“Rather use clarity” (mo ru yi ming) means: better to illuminate with the clarity that belongs to things as they originally are.

How “That” and “This” Arise Together

Nothing lacks a “that” aspect, and nothing lacks a “this” aspect; where there is opposition, there is mutual reference. Seen from the side of “that,” things stay unclear; known by returning to oneself, they can be known. Observing others easily leads astray; turning back to oneself brings clarity. Hence it is said: “That” emerges from “this,” and “this” also depends on “that”—“that” and “this” are ways of speaking at the very moment they arise. First there is “this,” and then there is “that”; because of “that” there is again “this”—that is how mutual reference is described at the beginning.

Even so, “just as they live they die, just as they die they live”—such talk arises and perishes with each moment, drifting without fixed point. (Guo Xiang used this to explain change in life and death; commentators hold that view unsatisfactory.) “Just as they are square they are not square, just as they are not square they are square”—say “acceptable,” and someone will take it as unacceptable; say “unacceptable,” and someone will take it as acceptable. Acceptable and unacceptable are right and wrong. Thus where there is affirmation, there is also denial because of it; where there is denial, there is also affirmation because of it.

Where there is “because of this, therefore deny,” there is also “because of this, therefore affirm.” Once self and other are split apart, right and wrong keep arising without end. So the sage does not take the road of quarreling over right and wrong (Chengxuan Ying: he does not follow the path of right and wrong), but instead illumines Heaven—Chengxuan Ying takes Heaven as ziran, naturalness. “Illumine” here means to see clearly: see only in the Heaven of the natural, without fussing over right and wrong.

The text also speaks of “following the this”—“this” means “here” or “this side.” Because right and wrong never run out, one does not fix on them. Su Yu glosses it as something like “and so it is thus.” This is also that, and that is also this (Guo Xiang: what is “this” will be treated as “that” by the other side, and the other side will set up its own right and wrong). That side has one yes and one no; this side also has one yes and one no (Chengxuan Ying: this side thinks itself right and that side thinks itself right; this side thinks itself not-that and that side thinks itself not-this—so each side has its yes and its no).

In the end, are there that and this, or are there no that and no this? Taken apart, there is self and other; taken together, there is no self and other. That and this cannot be pinned down in a fixed opposition. That is called the pivot of the Dao (daoshu) (Chengxuan Ying: “pair” is mutual opposition, “pivot” is the hinge; only when one sees that self and other are both empty and yes and no are both illusory, gathers the spirit in solitary clarity, and stands unmatched under Heaven can one merge with the deepest mystery and hold the pivot of the Dao). That pivot must rest in the center of the circle (huanzhong) before one can meet what is inexhaustible (Guo Songtao: when both sides of right and wrong are cleared away, the Dao alone remains—hence “pivot of the Dao”; grasp that pivot and move in the empty center of the ring; right and wrong wheel back without end, like a cycle).

Vernacular Explanation

When a person wanders in the “center of the ring”—the empty, boundless spot at the middle of a circle—they are not driven by right and wrong; only then can they respond to endless change. Tang dynasty Shizhanran, in Zhiguan Fuxing Zhuanhong Jue, cites an old commentary on Zhuangzi: the middle of the ring is empty and has no edge, hence “center of the ring.” Ze Yang also says Ran Xiangshi attained the “center of the ring” and followed things as they formed. Thus “yes” has one endless path and “no” has another. Guo Xiang’s note: everyone in the world takes themselves as right and each other as wrong, so one “yes” and one “no” both lead to infinity. Hence “sui cheng” (following formation).

Again: “yes” is one infinity, “no” is one infinity. Guo Xiang: everyone insists they are right and others wrong, so both lines run without end. Zhuangzi therefore says “mo ru yi ming”—better rely on clarity (ming). Only ming—clear seeing—can align with infinity. The point: once “this” and “that” appear, right and wrong arise; without ming, the Dao cannot be seen.

Using “finger” to say “a finger is not a finger” is inferior to using “not-finger” to say “a finger is not a finger”; using “horse” to say “a horse is not a horse” is inferior to using “not-horse” to say “a horse is not a horse.” Heaven and earth are really one “finger” (one name, one concept); the ten thousand things are really one “horse” (one general name). This sets up the later discussion of “using clarity” and related themes.

Vernacular Explanation

“Things are called such and thus are ‘such’” means that things only appear to “be this way” because people call them so. Close at hand, in the human body, “fingers” are fingers; farther out among external things, “horses” are horses. If someone says “a finger is not a finger, a horse is not a horse,” ordinary people will not believe it, and using fingers and horses as examples does not make the point clear. But if one uses expressions like “not-finger” and “not-horse” as analogies, one can grasp that “finger is not finger, horse is not horse” concerns the relation between names and things themselves—not arbitrary renaming for no reason.

So though heaven and earth are vast, they are still taken into one way of speaking, like a single “finger”; though the myriad things are diverse, they are still taken into one scheme of classification, like a single “horse.”

“Acceptable—then acceptable; unacceptable—then unacceptable”: Guo Xiang explains that what seems acceptable to oneself, one calls acceptable; what seems unacceptable to oneself, one calls unacceptable.

“Paths take shape through being traveled”: here dao means “path.” A path is formed by walking— the same idea as Mencius’s “use it and it becomes a path.” The path analogy below has nothing to do with the profound teaching’s “Dao.”

“Things are called such and thus are ‘such’”: all things receive their names only after people call and name them; there is no fixed name waiting there beforehand. So a finger can be called a not-finger, a horse a not-horse; conversely, a not-finger or not-horse can also be called finger or horse by people.

“Why is it ‘such’? Because of the aspect that is ‘such,’ people follow along and say ‘it is such.’ Why is it ‘not such’? Because of the aspect that is ‘not such,’ people follow along and say ‘it is not such.’” This shifts with people’s judgments of right and wrong.

“Things inherently have what makes them ‘such’; things inherently have what makes them ‘acceptable.’ There is nothing that is not ‘such’; there is nothing that is not ‘acceptable.’” Speaking from things’ original state, they already have sides that “are such” and “can be accepted”—for example, a finger is a finger, a horse is a horse. Speaking from later confusion of names and reality, incorrect names multiply; if names are swapped at will, then nothing cannot be called “such” and nothing cannot be called “acceptable”—for example, calling a finger a not-finger or a horse a not-horse, and letting people name things however they please.

Several lines from “Why is it ‘such’?” onward also appear in the “Allegories” chapter of the Zhuangzi. Here right/wrong and acceptable/unacceptable are discussed together. Compared with “Allegories,” after “not such because of the not-such aspect,” there seem originally to have been four more lines—“Why acceptable? Acceptable because acceptable. Why not acceptable? Not acceptable because not acceptable”—which may be lost in some editions today.

“Therefore one sets up examples: a miscanthus tip and a pillar, a leper and Xishi, the vast, the deceptive, the tranquil, the strange—showing that the Dao penetrates through to oneness” (great and small, beautiful and ugly, odd and normal, at the level of the Dao can communicate as one).

This passage applies the “equalizing things” (qi wu) outlook from the Zhuangzi to show how many things that seem opposed can be “penetrated and made one.”

It first sets up several pairs of contrasts. Ting is the fine stem of grass; the Hanshu biography of Dongfang Shuo has “using a ting to strike a bell”—using something extremely thin against a great bell is obviously a mismatch. Ying is a house pillar—thick and hard. Ting and ying illustrate a contrast in size. Li refers to someone afflicted with a skin disease; Xishi is a celebrated beauty—that is a contrast in beauty and ugliness. Commentators such as Cheng Xuanying say these examples are meant to support the idea below: there is no need to treat such pairs as absolutely separate. Yu Yue cites the Shuowen definition “ting: stem,” and holds that ting/ying concern size while li/Xishi concern beauty—both are the same kind of rhetorical move.

Hui suggests breadth and magnanimity; jue suggests strangeness and shifting stratagem—some also read jue as deceit and guai as the uncanny or demonic. Yet from the perspective of one who has awakened to the Dao, all of these can be threaded into one, without clinging to one side alone.

Next come completion and destruction: splitting one thing into many is “division”; giving rise to many distinct things is also called “completion.” But where one side “completes,” the other side is often “destruction”—for example, scattering hair may “complete” one state of affairs, while felling a tree to build a house is “destruction” for the tree. So whether completion or destruction, both can again be penetrated and made one; there is no need to recognize only one pole.

Only the person who has attained thorough understanding knows that all can be one; precisely because of that, they need not stubbornly insist on a private view, and can entrust the point to ordinary daily use. Yong (the “ordinary”) here means use (as Guo Xiang and others say, the “use of non-use”); use lies in being able to see how things connect; connection allows self-so contentment; when one is content as things naturally are, one draws near to the Dao. It goes on: yin is yielding and letting things be as they are; yielding to the way of heaven is yin shi (“following what is so”). When one already unites with the Dao yet does not feel oneself forcing it, that is called Dao—what is meant by “almost attaining it,” nearly being the Dao itself.

Read this way, the earlier lines say: unless one first equalizes right and wrong and equalizes opposites, it is hard to speak of the Dao; what follows will then turn the discussion around and add another layer.

If one taxes heart and spirit trying to force everything into a single lump, yet does not understand that it was the same all along, that is zhao san—“three in the morning”—like the story of feeding the monkeys: the labels change while the substance does not, yet one wears oneself out over surface questions of one versus many.

If you exhaust your mind and wear yourself out chasing an abstract “One,” yet fail to see that the root of all things is fundamentally interconnected, you are no different from trapping yourself in a tiny corner of the present—much like the fable of “three in the morning, four at evening.”

What is “three in the morning, four at evening”? A keeper dividing chestnuts among monkeys first says: “Three in the morning and four at evening.” The monkeys are furious. He changes his wording: “Then make it four in the morning and three at evening.” They are all delighted. The names and the total amount never changed; only joy and anger were pulled along by how things were phrased—the moral lies there.

Liezi, “Huangdi” chapter, goes into finer detail: In Song there was a man who loved monkeys and kept them in large troops (later called the “monkey keeper”), who could grasp what the monkeys meant and whom the monkeys obeyed. He cut his household’s food to satisfy the monkeys’ appetites. Before long the family could not afford it; he planned to ration feed but feared the troop would not submit. He first deceived them: “I give you chestnuts—three in the morning and four at evening—is that enough?” The monkeys rose up in anger. A little later he said: “Four in the morning and three at evening—is that enough?” The monkeys crouched down in joy. Using stratagem to win over the foolish and using strength to win over the crude mostly works like this. The sage uses stratagem to win over the mass of the foolish, just as the monkey keeper used stratagem to win over the monkeys. Name and reality were not diminished; only joy and anger were made to serve someone’s purpose.

Master Zhu of Qi Garden (Zhuangzi) cites this episode to say that neither side of name nor reality was shortchanged; joy and anger were simply arranged reactions, each following its own nature—this is the sense of yinren (yielding to and going along with what is so).

Therefore the sage uses he (harmony) to dissolve the opposition of right and wrong, and rests in the even measure of Heaven (Tianjun—Heaven’s natural balance). This is called liang xing (“walking two paths”): viewing both sides of right and wrong in parallel, without clinging to one pole.

This passage treats three anecdotes—about Zhaowen, Shi Kuang, and Huizi—and uses commentary to spell out what they mean.

Zhaowen (an ancient master of the qin) illustrates a paradox of deliberate art: when he tried hard to hit the shang pitch, the jue pitch went wrong; when he clung to the gong pitch, the zhi pitch failed. Better to leave the instrument alone and not force the strings—then the five tones could round out on their own. The parallel is moral and spiritual: if the mind locks onto fixed views and moods, it drifts from the Dao; only by letting go of cleverness and cunning can one line up with the true Way.

Zhaowen at the qin, Shi Kuang (music master to Duke Ping of Jin, expert in pitch and rhythm) leaning on his staff, and Hui Shi (Huizi, a leading figure of the School of Names) reclining against a wutong tree—are often grouped in the same breath. Commentators on zhi ce (zhi is to lean or prop oneself; ce is a staff for beating time or marking the beat) note that some read Shi Kuang as merely resting on the staff without striking it. For Huizi’s ju wu (“reclining on wutong”), some take wu as the qin; Cheng Xuanying, searching the classics, finds no claim that Huizi was a qin player. The likelier sense is that he leaned against a wutong tree or a low table while lecturing. In “Dechongfu,” Zhuangzi tells Huizi that he spends his spirit outward, taxing essence and injuring vital energy—chanting while leaning on a tree, eyes shut against a dead wutong. So even masters of disputation sometimes do not dispute, and the one with the staff sometimes does not beat—just as Zhaowen above “does not strum the qin.”

All three approached something like “almost perfect” skill; each stood in the fullness of life, so their stories were set down in later years and handed on. Cui Zhu glosses “written in the present” as putting their lives into books. Because each had a strong bent, differed from the common run, and still wanted to explain his insight to others—feeling unlike the crowd and hoping to instruct them—“they” (bi) means ordinary people. The closing four lines that begin “only because of their fondness” tie back specifically to the thread about “those skilled in disputation.”

Things that ought not to be argued into clarity are argued into clarity anyway, so a school like Gongsun Long’s debates over jian-bai (hardness and whiteness) and baima (the white horse) can only end in muddle. Problems that are not things everyone must finally master are still pressed on everyone to “debate clear,” like wrangling over name-forms such as “hard stone” and “white horse,” hoping every mouth will agree—yet hearts do not follow, hence the line that such talk “ends in the obscurity of jian-bai.” (The jian-bai theme appears elsewhere in the Zhuangzi, in chapters such as “De chong fu,” “Tianxia,” “Tiandi,” and “Qiushui.”) Cheng Xuanying says Gongsun Long was a man of Zhao, lived in the Warring States period, and disciples such as Kong Chuan clung to this doctrine and carried it across the realm: it could win people’s lips but not their minds.

Zhaowen’s son lived out his life along the same thread of “culture” (wen) his father had spun, and never truly achieved anything. Guo Xiang says the son leaned on his father’s legacy, lived out his natural span, and in the end accomplished nothing. “Following the thread of wen” (zhong wen zhi xu) is like “carrying on the thread of work” of King Tai, Wang Ji, and King Wen in the Zhongyong—“xu” means continuing a predecessor’s line. The “no achievement” here is like mastering a craft while drifting ever farther from the Dao—still called no achievement.

If that counts as achievement, then I too have achieved. Cheng Xuanying says “I” means ordinary people; if one thinks Huishi, Gongsun Long, and Zhaowen’s son differ from the crowd and therefore take themselves to have achieved, while the crowd differs from those three, the crowd can also be said to have achieved.

If that still cannot count as achievement, then outer things and I have nothing that counts as “achievement.” If you say it cannot count, the world holds far too many who would not count as having achieved. Understand this: using “me” to chase outer things and wrangle over names and forms is all non-achievement.

Therefore that dazzling glare of hua-yi (slippery, doubtful confusion)—what stirs the heart and dazzles the eyes—is exactly what the sage tries to strip away, because it harms the Dao. The method is not to cling to one’s own clever disputation, but to set the mind on everyday use and ordinary principle; this is called clarifying by the inherent brightness—yi ming (using clarity). Sima Biao says hua-yi means bewildering, doubtful, dazzling glare. Though it looks like it deranges the Way, it is enough to delude the world, hence “the dazzling glare of hua-yi.”

Vernacular Explanation

What came before says: in seeking the Dao one must not fix on any concrete thing; if you only grasp one side of things and call that the Dao, you cannot be said to have truly attained it.

Now suppose someone here speaks—do we know whether what he says belongs with “this kind” of view, or with “that kind” and not this one? If you force “same kind” and “not same kind” into one category, you are no different from the other side. It is like everyone clinging to the split between “this” and “that”; now someone speaks like this—do we know whether it matches my way of speaking or not? If you insist on outdoing the other and drag even what is “not the same kind” into “the same kind,” how is that different from what the other side holds as “not the same kind”? (Cheng Xuanying’s note: “this side” means my side of the argument.)

Even so, let us try to set the point out clearly. (Cheng’s note: “try” means to speak tentatively.) There is a “beginning,” and there is a beginning that “has not yet begun”; (Cheng’s note: “not yet begun” means it has not yet happened—the thread of the matter has not yet shown.) and there is a beginning of “what has not yet had that not-yet-beginning”—where there is not even a thread of the matter, only the principle itself. There is “being,” there is “non-being”—that speaks of being and non-being; there is “what has not yet been being or non-being,” which means the words are not yet spoken; and there is “what has not yet had that not-yet being/non-being”—where even the impulse to speak has not arisen. Suddenly there are “being” and “non-being,” yet one does not know which of “being” and “non-being” counts as being and which as non-being. Suddenly there are those who speak and those who do not; some may have exhausted their meaning, some may not have finished. Then “being” turns into “non-being,” “non-being” into “being”—hence it is said, “one still does not know whether being and non-being are ultimately which is being and which is non-being.”

By now I have said these words—the words are already out; yet I do not know whether what I have said counts as “there is speech” or in fact “there is no speech”; I do not know whether my words count as “having language” or as “no language.” Only what accords with the Dao is true “speech”; what does not accord makes “having language” and “no language” almost the same.

In the world nothing is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, yet Mount Tai seems small; nothing lives longer than a child who dies young, yet Peng Zu (the legendary figure said to have lived eight hundred years) seems short-lived. Heaven and earth were generated together with me; the ten thousand things and I are one undivided whole.

Sima’s commentary says: “Rabbit fur only fully grows in autumn” (qiuhao refers to the finest tips of hair on animals in autumn). Cheng Xuanying explains that in autumn beasts grow their coats, and the tips of the hairs are extremely fine—hence the phrase “the tip of autumn down.” A child who dies in infancy is called a shangzi (one who dies young). When things are born, form and qi differ: some are small, some large; some die early, some live long. If you take each one’s allotment from its own nature, none fails to be complete in itself. Therefore, taking self-sufficiency from one’s nature as “great,” nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of autumn down, and nothing is smaller than Mount Tai—if Mount Tai counts as small, then under heaven there is nothing large; if the tip of autumn down counts as large, then under heaven there is nothing small. Once large and small are seen this way, early death and long life follow the same pattern.

So though heaven and earth as the two poles are vast, only when each is satisfied in its own nature is there true balance; though the myriad things are many, only when each keeps its proper place is there one consistent principle.

Note: This is what Zhuangzi means by “making Peng Zu and the child who dies young equal.” If you take it literally the way some earlier readers did, it really does become absurd nonsense. The real intent is: Mount Tai and the tip of autumn down are both things in the world; since there are things a thousand or ten thousand times larger than Mount Tai, Mount Tai is as small as the tip of autumn down—hence “nothing is greater than the tip of autumn down, while Mount Tai is small.” Peng Zu and the child who dies young are both people in the world; Peng Zu lives seven or eight hundred years and then dies, so Peng Zu is as short-lived as the child who dies young—hence “nothing lives longer than the child who dies young, while Peng Zu is one who died early.” When I can share heaven and earth’s boundlessness, heaven and earth and I arise together; when I need not compete with the myriad things, the myriad things and I are one.

Zhuangzi’s way is subtle and fine; he uses it to rouse the world from clinging fixation—he wants people to turn straight to what is first and each preserve true nature. Ordinary people hunt for the Way only on the surface of words and only grow more deluded. Once it is already one body, how can speech still make it clear?

Where can words still be placed? Once something is already called “one,” can one refrain from speaking? To say “one” is already to speak. Then “one” and “speech” become two; those two together with the original “one” make “three.” Push further, and even someone skilled at reckoning cannot exhaust the count—how much less an ordinary person? Cheng Xuanying explains: to use speech to express “one” is not to say that “one” itself is speech; since “one” is already “one,” and speech is layered on top, there is “one” and there is “speech,” and two designations arise. Set the later “two” against the earlier “one”—with “one” and “two,” how could it not become “three”? From “three” onward, even those adept at calendar calculation cannot exhaust the names and categories, how much less the common run of people?

From wu (non-being) to you (being), one can talk all the way to “three”; how much more when you (being) is already there and speech again speaks you—names and appearances only proliferate. Cheng Xuanying says: zi means “from” and shi means “to go toward.” The ultimate principle is wordless at the start; once the mouth opens, names and appearances arise. From the wordless to the spoken, a few sentences already reach “three”; if one goes from “already spoken” to “spoken again,” branches split off—where would the end be?

Without that “going toward,” without that oppositional stance, there would only be responding by following each thing’s inherent nature (yin shi / yin ren—complying with circumstances and deferring to what is so). This passage treats the sizes of things and the span of human life as equal—precisely the subtle point of yin ren.

Dao has never been parcelled into bordered domains (feng); Cheng Xuanying says: Dao is nowhere absent—what domain or boundary could there be? Speech has never stood fixed and unchanging; Guo Xiang says: each party speaks from its own side, so shi and fei (this and not-this) have no settled standard. Because one clings to shi (being “right”), boundaries (zhenyu) appear; because speech is inconstant, boundaries are marked out. Those boundaries can be put this way: there is left and there is right—each leaning to one side and forming its own camp.

You lun, you yi (having order, having rightness): Guo Xiang’s commentary says that each thing has its own principle and each affair its proper course. The Shiwen (Textual Notes) records that Cui Hao’s version reads “you lun, you yi” (having discussion, having deliberation). Yu Yue holds that Cui’s reading should be followed—below we find “cun er bu lun” (preserved but not discussed) and “lun er bu yi” (discussed but not deliberated), and also “therefore in division there is non-division; in debate there is non-debate,” where “fen” and “bian” correspond to “you fen, you bian” here; likewise “lun” and “yi” there correspond to “you lun, you yi” here. Note: the passage above speaks of “you zhen” (having boundaries); “lun” and “yi” are not the same as “zhen,” so Yu’s view is preferable.

You fen, you bian (having division, having debate): “Fen” means taking different standpoints; “bian” means analyzing and distinguishing.

You jing, you zheng (having rivalry, having contention): “Jing” is one-on-one striving for superiority; “zheng” is contending in groups. Together these are called the eight de. Here “de” means each side holding its own place and its own angle, from which speech then arises—eight kinds in all.

Outside the six directions, the sage preserves but does not discuss: Cheng Xuanying says the six directions are heaven, earth, and the four quarters. Subtle principle is hard to fathom and lies beyond the six directions, so the sage keeps it in mind but does not argue about it.

Within the six directions, the sage discusses but does not deliberate: Cheng Xuanying says that within the six directions refers to the inborn nature and allotted role that beings receive. The sage responds according to circumstances and occasion, stating and answering; having already met things from emptiness, there is no need to scrutinize and judge further.

The Spring and Autumn ordering the age, the intent of the former kings—the sage deliberates but does not debate: Cheng Xuanying says “Spring and Autumn” means the era; “former kings” means the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors; “zhi” (intent) means record. Following in the footsteps of the Yellow Emperor and Zhuanxu, taking Yao and Shun as models, recording worldly affairs with the age as warp and events as weft, as canonical guidance. The sage deliberates for the benefit of the time and in the end does not cling to debate over right and wrong or get stuck on old traces. Note: “Spring and Autumn ordering the age” means taking years as warp and worldly affairs as woof—it does not refer specifically to the Spring and Autumn Annals compiled by Confucius.

Therefore in division there is non-division; in debate there is non-debate: So within “division” there is also what need not be divided further; within “debate” there is also what need not be debated further.

People of that time would not ultimately cling only to disputes over “right” and “wrong,” nor remain fixed on traces of the past. On this view, what is meant by “the Spring and Autumn as a chronicle of the age” is using years and seasons to thread events together—it need not refer specifically to the Spring and Autumn attributed to Confucius. Thus within “distinction” there is inherently “non-distinction”; within “debate” there is inherently “non-debate.” To treat non-distinction as distinction and non-debate as debate—why is that? Because the sage keeps it hidden in the heart and stored in the breast, while ordinary people must rely on disputation to show off and display themselves to one another. Hence it is said: in what is called “debate,” there is also an aspect that “cannot be seen”—when the vastness of the Great Dao (Da Dao) is not seen, contentious argument arises.

The Great Dao (Da Dao) need not be proclaimed by a name (Xuan commentary: “nothing by which to name it”); great disputation need not win by words (Xuan commentary: “not using speech to subdue others, but letting them awaken on their own”); great benevolence need not wear the appearance of benevolence (Cheng commentary: nurturing the myriad things, universal love without deliberate intent, like spring—it is not acting as benevolence on purpose); great integrity need not defer (Shiwen reads qian “modest”; Cheng commentary: knowing the ten thousand realms are illusory and nothing is worth grasping, self and things both empty—why need humility?); great courage need not flaunt strength to harm others (Xuan commentary: no pretense, no intent to injure).

Yet one who displays the Dao for show is not the true Dao (“the Dao made manifest is not the Dao”); one who argues with words yet never reaches the real is not there (“speech in debate that does not arrive,” Xuan commentary: “debate that cannot prevail”); one whose love follows fixed rules cannot become great benevolence (Guo commentary: “where love has a fixed pattern, it cannot be all-embracing”); one outwardly pure yet not trusted inwardly (Xuan commentary: “white outside, unfathomable within”); one brave yet fond of fighting cannot become great courage (Cheng commentary: …).

To abandon compassion and act with reckless courage, to go against human feeling—everyone will resent it, and success will surely elude you.

On the line “the five [virtues], and one almost turns toward the square [corner]”:

The commentary glosses: “Ji” (almost/near)—Cui’s note gives the reading yuan (round); Sima Biao explains it as “round.” Cheng Xuanying says ji means “to approach.” Guo Xiang (Xuan) says: Originally the five kinds of virtue were one undivided whole, round and unobstructed; now, clinging to outer traces and approaching “xiangfang” (fixing on one corner, holding to one side), that path will not work.

Therefore, to know how to stop at what one does not know—this is the utmost. Cheng Xuanying says: Where wisdom cannot reach, do not force knowing. To know and stop within one’s proper limit is the height of learning.

Who understands wordless disputation, the Way that is not spoken as “the Way”? “Bu dao” here means the same as “not naming [it as the Way]” in the passage above.

If one can know this, it is called the Storehouse of Heaven. Guo Xiang (Xuan) says: Within the undifferentiated whole, nothing is not stored.

Pour into it and it is never full; draw from it and it is never exhausted—and yet one does not know whence it comes. Guo Pu says: When ultimate principle arrives, naturally there is no trace.

This is called “treasuring the light.” Cheng Xuanying says: Bao means to conceal; to hide one’s light and yet the light shines all the brighter. The text repeats itself in order to show: what is displayed through words is not the Dao.

Plain-Language Interpretation

In antiquity, Yao once asked Shun: “I wish to attack the states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao.” (Cheng’s note: one state called Zong, one Kuai, one Xu’ao.) The “Man in the World” (Renjian shi) chapter, however, says that “Yao attacked Congzhi and Xu’ao, until the realm was emptied and ruined”—so he had not yet done as Shun advised. Yao sat facing south, yet still felt uneasy and could not let go. Cheng Xuanying explains that “shiran” means relaxed and pleased, the same sense as “yi”; the same wording appears in the “Gengsang Chu” chapter. Yao asked: “Why is that?”

Shun said: “Those three rulers (Cheng’s note: the lords of the three states) are still alive in humble backwaters of mugwort and wormwood—‘cun’ means they still exist, not yet destroyed; Cheng’s note takes ‘peng ai’ as lowly weeds, standing for mean, out-of-the-way places. If your heart is still not at ease, why should that be? Formerly it was said that ten suns rose together (the Huainanzi: in Yao’s time ten suns appeared at once, and Hou Yi was sent to shoot down nine of them)—that story is invoked here as a comparison. If even the sun can shine on all things, how much more so one whose De (Virtue/Power) rises a step beyond the sun’s radiance!” (Cheng’s note: De ascending and surpassing the breadth of sunlight.)

The point of the passage is that Shun dissuades Yao from relying on force to wipe out small states. Those rulers may be weak, yet they still “live” like people in the wild grass; if Yao’s heart remains troubled because of the campaign, the affair has not gone with the Dao (the Way). The “ten suns at once” image stands for calamity and disorder; “everything illuminated” stands for the fullest De—urging one to transform through virtue rather than settle things by arms.

Jin means going too far or overdoing it. To try by force to strip people of the wilds and meadows of their proper place, then to campaign against them and compel them to follow you—how could that count as vast or great for the supreme Dao? This passage is a kind of corroboration of the ways of Yao and Shun.

Nieque put a question to Wang Ni. (Commentarial note: Ni—Xu Wujie’s reading; Li Yinyi and the Gaoshishuo identify Wang Ni as a worthy man of Yao’s time; in the “Heaven and Earth” chapter he is called Nieque’s teacher.)

He asked: “Do you know the standard that all things jointly affirm?”

The answer: “How could I know!”

Guo Xiang says: What is agreed upon is not necessarily true; what differs is not necessarily all wrong. When parties cannot correct one another, there is no need to rely on cleverness to rank high and low.

He asked again: “Do you know what you yourself do not know?”

Cheng Xuanying says: Since you do not know the sameness of things, do you at least know a little that you are ignorant?

The answer: “How could I know!”

Guo Xiang says: If you take yourself to know what you do not know, you treat yourself as having knowledge; once there is “knowing,” you cannot leave each talent to its own place.

He asked again: “Then do all things lack knowledge?”—You claim ignorance for yourself; are all things likewise without knowledge?

The answer: “How could I know!”

Cheng Xuanying says: It is not only that you do not know yourself—you do not know things either; when both person and things are forgotten, there is nowhere to lodge that “knowing.”

Even so, one may still try to put it in words: How could one be sure that what I call “knowing” is not really not knowing? How could one be sure that what I call “not knowing” is not really knowing? Li Yun says: Yong is “use,” ju is “how.” Note: Small knowing does not amount to genuine knowing, so “not knowing” is not necessarily mistaken; and I put this question to you: if people sleep in damp places, they get lumbago and hemiplegia (Sima says: hemiplegia)—would that always be so? The point is: when you judge things, you cannot simply assert that… (this segment uses the example of damp sleeping leading to partial paralysis to show that knowing and not knowing, self and things, cannot be settled in a crude either-or way.)

Let me put a question to you: people say that sleeping on damp ground causes lumbago and hemiplegia—is that really so? It depends on what kind of creature you are. A human who sleeps in mud may suffer that way, but someone who stays in the trees becomes tense, fearful, and on edge—whereas apes and monkeys are perfectly at home in the treetops. Among humans, worms in the soil, and apes in the trees, who can say which “dwelling” is the right one?

Humans eat wild greens and the flesh of grain-fed livestock; elk and deer graze on coarse wild grasses; centipedes find snakes delicious, while owls and crows relish mice. Among humans, beasts, insects, and birds, who can say which “taste” is the true flavor?

Apes take the bianju as mates; elk pair with deer and also swim alongside fish. Maoqiang and Liji are beauties in human eyes—yet when fish see them they dive to the depths, when birds see them they soar away, and when elk and deer see them they bolt in panic. Among humans, fish, birds, and deer, who can say who truly knows the “correct beauty” of the world?

As I see it, the starting points of benevolence and righteousness and the dividing lines of right and wrong are tangled and confused—how could I clearly sort out their distinctions?

Nieque (a figure in the Zhuangzi chapters) says—Cheng Xuanying explains: practicing benevolence and righteousness, gain and loss, benefit and harm differ from person to person; what helps me may harm another; what counts as right for others may count as wrong for me. How can benefit and harm be marked off with perfect clarity?

Nieque asks again: If you cannot spell out benefit and harm, can the ultimate person (one whose cultivation has reached the furthest point) also fail to grasp benefit and harm?

Wang Ni answers: The ultimate person has reached the realm of Shen (spirit). Cheng Xuanying says: “Ultimate” (zhi) names the substance refined to the utmost; “spirit” (shen) names efficacy too subtle to measure.

When the great marshes burn, it does not scorch him; when the Yellow River and Han freeze, it does not chill him; when thunder splits mountains and violent winds churn the sea, it does not startle him. Guo Xiang says: He moves by borrowing outer things yet is not pulled about by them; there is change between day and night, but no split between life and death.

Such a person rides cloud-qi, mounts sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas—these three lines echo the “Xiaoyao You” (Free and Easy Wandering); in some versions “mounting sun and moon” reads “riding the flying dragon.” Life and death do not alter his constancy; Guo Xiang says: He is one with transformation, so life and death are like a single body. How much more so for the side branches of benefit and harm!

This is a conversation between Nieque and Wang Ni. It uses the ultimate person’s transcendence of benefit and harm and unmovedness amid outer conditions to show that ordinary people can hardly draw one fixed standard within “benevolence, righteousness, benefit, and harm.”

Qu Que asked Chang Wuzi: “I heard from my teacher—”

(Note: Li Yun said Chang Wuzi was so named because he lived under a large parasol tree (changwu); Cui Shi said his personal name was “Qiu.” Yu Yue held that Qu Que must have been among the junior followers of Confucius’s seventy-odd disciples, and that “the Master” (fu zi) here means Confucius; the “Qiu” in the line below, “How could Qiu know enough to speak of this?” is Confucius. Qu Que is relaying Confucius’s words, and Chang Wuzi is about to rebut them. Yu Yue rejected Cui Shi’s view: in the line “Qiu and you are both dreaming, and I say you who dream are also dreaming,” “I” (yu) is Chang Wuzi speaking of himself; since he says both “Qiu and you are dreaming” and “I too am dreaming,” “Qiu” cannot be taken as the personal name of “Chang Wu.”)

(The gist of what Qu Que relays is roughly this:) The sage does not deliberately manage affairs—Guo Xiang said: affairs come of themselves and principle responds on its own; one does not bustle after them. He does not chase profit, nor flee from harm—Cheng Xuanying said “wei” (avoid) means to shun. He is not ardent in pursuit, nor does he treat the Dao as something to climb toward—Guo Xiang said: he arrives alone. It seems there is no doctrine, yet there is doctrine—when someone asks and one does not answer, that very non-answer is an answer. It seems there is doctrine, yet the aim is to return to wordlessness. And one roams beyond the dusty world.

(Qu Que says:) My teacher called such talk “menglang zhi yan”—Xiang Xiu read menglang like manlan, meaning no fixed taking or leaving, no shore or bound; Lu Deming said it meant jiaolüe or dalüe (rough, summary); Cheng Xuanying said shuailüe (cursory). Note: shuailüe is the same as jiaolüe—speaking only in broad outline. I, however, take it to embody the subtle Dao. What do you think?

Chang Wuzi said: “This is talk that even the Yellow Emperor would find muddled and unable to grasp.” (The original character was “Huang”; Lu Deming’s Shiwen notes that some manuscripts read “Huang” as “Huang” [Yellow]; Lu Wenchao said huang and huang were used interchangeably, and most editions now read “Huang” [Yellow]. Cheng’s commentary says tingying is the look of doubt and lack of clarity.)

Earlier it was said that Qiu (Confucius) listened in a dazed, confused way. In the Yuan-dynasty edition, the character written as huang in the received text appears as the homophone used for “emperor”; commentaries note that the original could also be read as the “yellow” huang. Lu Wenchao held that these two graphs were used interchangeably; the standard text today reads “huang” in the yellow sense. Cheng Xuanying explains ting ying as a look of doubt and blurred vision—so how could Confucius truly grasp what was being said?

Moreover, “you reckon too soon”: here da is read as tai (“too”). Cheng Xuanying says that as soon as one hears these few sentences one treats them as the subtle Dao, taking them to mean the same thing as the lines that follow.

“Seeing an egg, one already wants a cock that will crow at night” (shi ye means si ye, the night-watcher cock). “Seeing a pellet, one already wants roasted xiao meat” (xiao refers to a small hawk or dove-like bird fit for roasting; the Mao Shi commentary on plants and trees says it is about the size of a spotted dove, greenish, with fine-tasting flesh). Cheng Xuanying identifies this with the fu bird in Jia Yi’s rhapsody. Both lines also appear in the “Renjian shi” chapter.

“I once spoke to you in an offhand way—listen in an offhand way; how would that be?” Cheng Xuanying glosses he ru as “how about it?”

“Pang ri yue” (leaning on sun and moon): pang is read in the bo-zang fan cut; Sima Biao takes it as leaning or relying on; Guo Xiang uses life and death to stand for day and night. “Xie yu zhou” (embracing cosmos): according to Shizi, the four directions of heaven and earth are called yu, and past and future are called zhou; the Shuowen says what boats and carts reach and what a covering extends over is zhou. Cheng Xuanying says xie means to hold in the breast or encompass; Guo Xiang uses the image of the myriad things fused into one body.

“Wei qi wen he”: wen means to join; Sima Biao compares it to two lips meeting; Xiang Xiu’s reading uses chun (lip), again two lips joining; Cheng Xuanying describes a state with no separation. “Zhi qi hua min”: Cheng Xuanying says zhi is to leave as is, hua is confusion (in Xiang Xiu’s text written mi), min is dimness. “Yi li xiang zun”: Cheng Xuanying says li is a term for someone below, like a clerk or servant. The point here is to treat high and low as equally worthy of respect.

“Zhong ren yi yi, sheng ren yu tun”: tun is read tu-ben fan; Sima Biao glosses it as muddled, without distinguishing or scrutinizing finely.

The passage above blends the Zhuangzi original with commentaries from various masters, strung together in plain language to convey the main ideas.

Cheng Xuanying explains: “Forget knowledge and do not use sharp scrutiny; rest in peace as if dull and simple.” To fold together myriad years and myriad differences into one blend, not keeping them in mind, and to hold to the One until it becomes pure refinement—that is the idea.

The ten thousand things are all like this: they merely use this single “One” to gather and store one another. How can I know that taking birth as joy is not delusion? How can I know that hating death is not like losing one’s home in youth and not knowing the way back? (“Losing” means to lose; in tender years one loses the old dwelling and settles into a strange land.)

Li Ji was the daughter of a border warden of Ai. When Jin had just obtained her, tears soaked her collar; once she had entered the palace of Duke Xian of Jin, sharing the ruler’s mat and eating beef and mutton, she regretted her earlier weeping. This too may serve as a parable. How can I know that the dead do not regret having clung to life? (Guo Xiang: “qi” means to seek.)

Someone who dreams of drinking wakes at dawn and weeps; someone who dreams of weeping wakes at dawn and goes hunting. While still in the dream, one does not know it is a dream; in the dream one even interprets dreams; only after waking does one know it was a dream. Waking and dreaming are not the same. There must be a “great awakening” before one knows that human life is this “great dream”; death is the great awakening, and then life is the great dream. Yet the foolish think they are already awake and secretly fancy they understand a great deal. “My lord!” “Shepherd boy!”—how stubborn! Who is truly the honored lord? Who is truly the lowly herdsman? One may call this obstinate and narrow-minded.

Who, then, is truly in the humble position of a cowherd or groom? To insist on that is merely stubborn and shallow. Confucius and I are both dreaming; when I say you are dreaming, that too is a dream. Such talk may be called “utterly paradoxical”—language pushed to an extreme that sounds wildly strange.

Ten thousand years from now, if a great sage appears who can grasp this meaning, it will be as though morning and evening were bound to meet. Those who can understand it are exceedingly rare—once in ten thousand years—yet it feels as if they might appear at any moment.

Since you and I have already argued: if you defeat me and I am not your equal, does that necessarily mean you are right and I am wrong? If I defeat you and you are not my equal, does that necessarily mean I am right and you are wrong? Perhaps one is right and one wrong, or perhaps both are right or both wrong? We cannot truly settle this between us, and others will be left in the same obscurity—unable to see clearly.

Who could I call on to judge fairly? Someone who agrees with you already shares your view—how could they judge impartially? Someone who agrees with me already shares my view—how could they judge impartially? Someone who disagrees with both of us is unlike both—how could they judge impartially? Someone who agrees with both of us is like both—how could they judge impartially? Thus you, I, and any third party cannot truly know one another; how can we still expect someone else to decide right and wrong? If we do not trust those who side with you, and those who side with me will not accept their verdict, and if we set up yet another standard of right and wrong that both sides doubt, then whoever speaks for or against has no final authority—we cannot understand each other, so what are we waiting for? This drives home the point: disputation is useless.

The various “voices” that arise in change stand opposed to one another, yet also seem not to be opposed at all.

Guo Songtao says: when speech shifts with whatever is at hand, that is called huasheng (transformed voice). Ruo here means the same as yu (along with, in accord with). Whether something counts as shi (is/so) or fei (is not/not-so), and as ran (so/it is so) or buran (not so), all depends on how people look at things. When others say “is,” one follows and says “is”; when they say “so,” one follows and says “so”—and that, compared with not waiting on others but naturally taking something as is or as so in one’s own mind, makes no real difference at heart; the text below will take that up.

“Harmonize with the tianni (divisions of Heaven/natural boundary), follow the manyan (endless proliferations), and thereby live out one’s years.”

Cheng Xuanying says: Tian means what is so of itself; ni means boundary and distinction. Manyan is change without end. Yin means to go along with and let things run their course. Qiong means to reach the end, to the limit. Harmonize by the divisions that belong to Heaven itself, follow boundless transformation, and in that way pass through a full lifetime and complete one’s natural span of years.

Editor’s note: These twenty-five characters originally stood after “and there is no disputation either”; they are moved here following the Xuan Ying edition. The chapter on yuyan (imputed words) has the same line: “Imputed words issue day by day; harmonize them with tianni, follow manyan, and thereby live out one’s years.”

What does “harmonize with tianni” mean?

Answer: Is and is-not, so and not-so.

If what is taken as “is” really is, then “is” and “is-not” were never the same to begin with—yet there is still no need to argue. If what is taken as “so” really is so, then “so” and “not-so” were never the same to begin with—and there is likewise no need to argue.

Cheng Xuanying says: Shi and fei, ran and buran, mostly arise from deluded feeling; pursued with reason, the whole lot is empty. What you call “is” is just “is-not”; what you call “so” is just “not-so.” How do we know? Here someone says “is,” there someone says “is-not”; what they call “so,” others take as “not-so”—so we can see that shi, fei, ran, and buran are not really different in principle; it is only when people stand them against each other and split them apart that disputation seems necessary, when in truth there is no disputation.

This passage mainly develops Zhuangzi’s qiwu (equalizing things) line of thought: not clinging to one side, going along with the natural boundary (tianni), and seeing shi/fei and ran/buran as relative so that one need not wrangle with others. Guo Songtao and Cheng Xuanying are commentators on the Zhuangzi from past generations; “Editor’s note” marks the editor’s remark.

Plain-Language Reading

Forgetting age and forgetting right-and-wrong (Cheng Xuanying’s note): “Age” (nian) means the span of time allotted to life; since it belongs to the same kind of change as birth and death, one need no longer weigh who is older or younger. “Righteousness” or “rightness” (yi) means the standard used to judge right and wrong; since at a higher level right and wrong are originally one, one need no longer cling to opposition between self and other.

“Flourishing in what has no limit, therefore lodging in what has no limit” (Cheng’s note): “Flourish” (zhen) means to flow freely and expand; “limit” (jing) means exhaustion and boundary; “lodge” (yu) means to place and settle. The point is: the Way can only run clear where there is no end, so the mind also lodges in the boundless and need not rely on disputation or explanation to make things clear. (Editorial note) Since the Way flows freely in the infinite, intention rests in the infinite and need not depend on argument. The three rounds of question and answer between Qu Quezi and Changwuzi earlier express the same idea.

Wangliang questions the shadow (Guo Xiang’s note): Wangliang is the fainter trace beyond the shadow; jing is the shadow (some editions write ying).

Wangliang asked the shadow: “Just now you were walking, and now you stop; just now you were moving, and now you are still; just now you were sitting, and now you stand up. What exactly makes you change like this?”

The shadow replied: “Do I really decide for myself? I follow whatever changes the body undergoes. And can the body decide for itself? I follow whatever the mind (xinzhi) directs. Can the mind decide for itself? I follow whatever sense and circumstance trigger. Can sense and circumstance decide for themselves? I follow whatever natural qi and conditions such as yin-yang, cold, and heat bring about. Does that natural qi really have a fixed ‘true self’ in charge? If there is one, it is nothing but ‘things depending on one another and responding to each other.’ When I sleep, you (wangliang) sleep along with me; when I wake, you wake along with me; when I come and go, you come and go along with me. We are tied together, following one after another—how can we say there is a single lord who alone commands?”

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and records a dialogue between Wangliang and the shadow, with annotations by Guo Xiang, Cheng Xuanying, and others.

Main dialogue

Wangliang asked the shadow. Guo Xiang explains that “Wangliang” is the fainter shade outside the shadow itself; some editions write “jing” as “ying” (shadow).

Wangliang said: A moment ago you were walking, and now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you stand up again—why do you have no independent will or constancy of your own?

The shadow replied: Is it because I depend on something that I am like this? And what I depend on also depends on something else—is that not so? A shadow cannot stand on its own; it must rely on the body. The body, too, cannot act entirely of its own accord; it still relies on the “true lord” (the root that governs life, the Dao of Heaven, or one’s original nature). Do you think I am waiting the way the scales under a snake’s belly or the wings a cicada has just shed do? That is to say: my “waiting” or dependence is like those things.

Cheng Xuanying’s explanation

Cheng Xuanying says: If one insisted that one must wait for wings before flying or for feet before walking, there are countless beasts—why single out a snake’s cast skin and a cicada’s shed shell as the comparison? Here “fu” refers to the snake’s sloughed old skin, and “yi” to the cicada’s freshly emerged shell. Why they are as they are, no one can fully explain; it is as if they were produced alone, seemingly without relying on anything else. From this we can see that the relation of body and shadow is not essentially different from phenomena like a snake’s slough or a cicada’s shell.

Collected commentary note

The note asks: When the shadow speaks of “what I depend on,” does it mean the snake’s slough or the cicada’s wings? Both have fixed forms, so as metaphors they are still not perfectly apt. The content parallels a nearby passage in the “Fables” (Yuyan) chapter, differing only in detail.

The shadow added: How do we know why it is so? And how do we know why it is not so?

Cheng Xuanying further explains: “Having something to depend on” versus “needing nothing to depend on,” and “so” versus “not so,” are all the spontaneous working of Heaven’s mechanism; no one can say who the hidden lord behind them is.

The whole piece advances through four layers of question and answer between Wangliang and the shadow, probing dependence, autonomy, and why things are as they are in ziran (spontaneous nature).

Once, Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi’s personal name was Zhou) dreamed that he had become a butterfly, fluttering about—truly a carefree and joyful butterfly. He felt delighted and at ease, so much so that he forgot he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke and was startled to realize that he was unmistakably Zhuang Zhou. Then he did not know whether it was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or a butterfly who was dreaming of becoming Zhuang Zhou. Of course there is a distinction between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly, but at the moment of dreaming and waking the boundary between self and things melts away, so it may be said either that Zhuang Zhou is the butterfly or that the butterfly is Zhuang Zhou. This is called the “transformation of things” (wuhua)—the changes of all things and the transformation between things and the self. Here Zhuangzi uses his own case to make the point, illustrating the ultimate state of the Qiwu Lun (On the Equalization of Things), in which all things are equalized.

The central purpose of the third chapter, “Yangsheng Zhu” (The Master of Nourishing Life), is this: to follow the principles of things without being obstructed by external things, and to efface emotional consciousness so as not to disturb one’s innate nature—this is the foundation of Zhuangzi’s nourishing of life. Human life is limited, but knowledge has no boundary; to pursue the limitless with what is limited will lead to exhaustion and danger. Having already pursued knowledge, if after the matter has passed one still clings to thoughts and retains them, the danger becomes even greater; to make external things one’s priority brings no benefit to nature and life. In doing good, do not covet reputation; in doing evil, do not violate the penal law. The saying “to follow the du and make it the constant” (yuan: to follow; du: the center; jing: the constant) means to follow the central way and take it as the constant method of nourishing life. In the human body, the Du meridian (dumai) runs along the spine and occupies the central position; this is why du is glossed as “center.”

On “Following the Governor Vessel”

The channel that runs straight down the middle of the back is called the Governor Vessel (dumai). What is meant by following the Governor Vessel (yuandu) is using clear, subtle Qi (vital energy) to circulate in empty space, moving naturally and in just the right measure.

This is the master thread of practice that begins with “correct intention”; what follows uses five analogies to explain it. Among these it says: one can preserve the body and keep life whole—upholding the principle of living beings; one can nourish one’s parents—returning the life received from them and caring for them in turn, which is the utmost of filial devotion; one can live out one’s allotted years—letting the lifespan heaven gives run its natural course without dying prematurely, so that within what is limited there is what is without limit.

[1] In some editions the phrase rendered “exhaustion and distress” is written as “what is meant by fatigue and distress.”

Butcher Ding Carves an Ox for Lord Wen-hui

Butcher Ding (a cook by name). Cui’s and Sima’s notes: Lord Wen-hui is King Hui of Liang. Cheng’s note: jie here means to slaughter and cut up.

Where the hand touches, where the shoulder leans, where the foot steps, where the knee presses—Su’s note: in the Shuowen, qi means “one foot”; when the knee lifts, only one foot bears weight, hence qi.

With a huà sound it responds; the knife plays with a huò sound—Sima’s note: huà is the sound of skin and bone parting; Cui’s note: huà is pronounced like huà, huò near huò, louder than huà. Cheng’s note: with a huà sound it responds; advancing, the elegant knife plays and with a huò sound the joint comes apart.

Not a single place fails to match the beat. Note: zhòng (to hit/mark), read in the departing tone, same below.

It aligns with the dance of Sanglin—Sima’s note: Sanglin, a music piece of Tang; Cui’s note: a dance name of Song.

The Zuo Zhuan’s phrase “the Dance Master marked them with the Xia banner” refers precisely to this kind of music and dance; Cook Ding’s movements matched the rhythm of the Jingshou movement. Xiang Xiu and Sima Biao say that Jingshou is the Xianchi movement, the music of Yao’s time; Xuan Ying says that “hui” means rhythm. Lord Wen Hui exclaimed: “Xi (a sigh)! Excellent! How can skill reach such a level?” Cook Ding put down his knife and replied: “What I love is the Dao (the Way), and it has already surpassed technique. Cheng Xuanying says that ‘jin’ means ‘to surpass.’ At first, when I dismembered an ox, what I saw was nothing but a whole ox; after three years, I no longer saw a complete ox. Cheng Xuanying explains: after handling the knife for a long time, one sees the gaps in the sinews and textures; only when seeing an ox does one already know its empty spaces—just as, after cultivating the Dao for a long time, the illumination of wisdom gradually becomes clear, and everything perceived in the dusty world is nothing but illusion. Now I meet it with Shen (spirit)—Xiang Xiu says this is a secret accord with principle—not looking with the eyes; sensory perception stops and spirit-intent proceeds. Cheng Xuanying says that ‘guan’ means the governing faculty; here, following the preceding context, it refers specifically to the eyes. No sooner do the eyes see a trace than the spirit has already dissected its form. I follow the natural interstices, strike open the great crevices, and guide [the blade] along the great hollows (kuan refers to the hollows in the joints), according to what is inherently so. Branching vessels and meridians, and kenqing (where sinew and bone join), have never been tried with the blade, much less the great gu (knotted bone). A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts; ordinary cooks (zu pao) change theirs once a month because they hack and break bones (Yu Yue says ‘zhe’ means breaking bones, not that the knife breaks). My knife is now nineteen years old; it has dismembered thousands of oxen, yet its edge is like newly sharpened (xing, a whetstone). The joints have gaps, and the blade has no thickness; by inserting no-thickness into a gap, there is ample spaciousness, and the moving blade must have room to spare—that is why after nineteen years it is like newly sharpened. Even so, whenever I encounter places where sinew and bone are knotted and intertwined, I still must deal with them cautiously.”