《庄子集解》Vol. 3

This passage comes from commentary related to the Zhuangzi and describes how several ancient deities or sage-kings, having attained the Dao, each occupy a particular realm or station.

The Spirit of Mount Tai

The figure mentioned earlier becomes the spirit of Mount Tai.

The Yellow Emperor (Huangdi)

After attaining the Dao, the Yellow Emperor ascended to the heavens. Cui’s commentary states that Huangdi cultivated the Dao to completion and ultimately rose to the sky.

Zhuanxu

Zhuanxu (Lord Gaoyang), having attained the Dao, dwells in the Dark Palace (Xuangong). The Dark Palace is the palace of the north; the Monthly Ordinances (Yueling) says “Its emperor is Zhuanxu, its spirit is Xuanyming,” so commentators hold that Zhuanxu attained the Dao and became the emperor of the north; black (xuan) is the color of the north, hence he resides in the Dark Palace.

Yuqiang

Yuqiang, having attained the Dao, stands at the North Pole. The Classic of Regions Beyond the Seas (Haiwai jing) records: Yuqiang of the north, black in body, with hands and feet, riding two dragons. Guo Pu regarded him as a water god, human-faced and bird-bodied; the Jianwen calls him the god of the northern sea, named Yujing, a grandson of the Yellow Emperor.

Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu)

The Queen Mother of the West, having attained the Dao, sits at ease in Shaoguang (Shaoguang is a remote western place-name); she has existed from time immemorial, and no one knows when she began or when she will end.

On the Queen Mother of the West, Peng Zu, Fu Yue, and Related Figures

The Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu) has a human form but a tail like a dog’s; her hair is disheveled, and she wears a head ornament called sheng. She is skilled at long howling and dwells on the shore of the sea. (Han Wudi Neizhuan describes her differently: when she and the Lady of Upper Primordial descend to Emperor Wu’s presence, they are beautiful and divine.)

Cui’s commentary states that “Shaoguang” is a mountain name; others take it as a name for the empty realm of the west.

Peng Zu obtained this [teaching or place] and was regarded as an immortal from the time of Emperor Shun down through the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period. Cui’s note: “Peng Zu lived seven hundred years, or was considered an immortal who did not die.” Cheng’s note: “From Emperor Shun at the earliest to the Yin and Zhou at the latest, about eight hundred years in all.”

Fu Yue obtained it and assisted King Wuding, holding sway over the realm; after death his spirit rode the eastern pivot and the Winnowing Basket and Tail, taking his place among the arrayed stars. Sima’s note: “The eastern pivot lies between the Winnowing Basket and Dipper, where the eastern edge of the River of Heaven is anchored.” The Xingjing says: “The star Fu Yue sits above the Tail mansion.” Cui’s note: “After Fu Yue died, his spirit rode the eastern pivot and rested on the dragon’s tail, becoming one of the fixed stars.” The Shiwen’s citation of Cui’s text adds here: “He was born without parents; in death he ascended in transformation; in three years his form vanished—meaning that spirit cannot be pinned down by ordinary names.” Note: the seven examples below are meant to illustrate this point.

Nanbo Zikui Questions Nüyu

Nanbo Zikui asked Nüyu: “You are already very old, yet your complexion is like a child’s—why is that?”

(Phrases such as “meaning spirit cannot be named by ordinary words,” mixed into the commentary, are leftover gloss from the Fu Yue entry and are not directly tied to this exchange; Nüyu’s reply should follow in the original text, which breaks off here.)

Plain-Language Commentary

Nanbo Zikui asked Nüyu, “You are very old, yet your complexion is like a child’s—why is that?” Nüyu said, “I have attained the Dao (the Way).” Nanbo Zikui asked again, “Can the Dao be learned?” Nüyu said, “No! How could it be! You are not the right person. Buliang Yi has a sage’s talent but not a sage’s Dao; I have a sage’s Dao but not a sage’s talent. I wanted to hand the teaching of the Dao to him, so that perhaps he could truly become a sage. Otherwise, to tell someone who has a sage’s talent about a sage’s Dao would in itself be easy. Even so, I still had to guard the Dao and teach him gradually—stay with him without leaving, repeat the instructions again and again, and explain it over and over.”

“After three days of teaching, he could finally ‘forget the world’ (his mind was no longer caught by the vast realm outside himself). Once he could be outside ‘all under Heaven,’ I stayed with him and taught further; after seven days, he could ‘forget things’ (even daily needs like food and clothing no longer clung obsessively to his heart). Once he could be outside things, I stayed with him and taught again; after nine days, he could ‘forget life’ (even concern for his own body, life, and death faded).”

(Note: In the text, “Zi Kui” is usually read as “Zi Qi” [Zikui]; “Yu” in old commentaries is sometimes read as “Yu,” and some say it refers to a female practitioner. Commentators often compare Buliang Yi to Zigong in cleverness and Nüyu to Yan Hui in “forgetting cleverness”—meaning that talent and Dao do not necessarily rest in the same person, and transmitting the teaching requires choosing the right person and relying on long-term “guarding and instructing,” step by step from forgetting the world, to forgetting things, to forgetting life.)

Ying means coercion and disturbance. When the heart is not coerced by thoughts such as the opposition of self and things or the discrimination between life and death, and when the outer world is not pulled along by every turn of events—acquiescence and refusal, completion and ruin—while the heart remains unmoved, that is called yingning (serenity amid disturbance). To dwell in a welter of change and mutual conflict yet keep the heart at peace is already close to “completion”; hence the saying “after ying comes completion.”

Nanbo Zikui asked: “Where alone did you hear this?”

The answer was: “I heard it from Fumo's Son.” (Note: Writing relies on ink and brush, yet the written word is not the Dao itself—only an aid to the Way—hence “fumo,” deputy ink; relative to the first inscription, later copies are like its offshoot, hence “Fumo's Son.”)

Fumo's Son heard it from Luosong's Grandson. (Note: “Luosong” means threading the text together in recitation, reading it again and again; relative to ancient oral transmission and reciters, later readers are like a later generation—hence “Luosong's Grandson.” In antiquity texts were given mouth to mouth before they were written on bamboo and silk, hence this lineage.)

Luosong's Grandson heard it from Zhanming (penetrating clarity of insight).

Zhanming heard it from Nie Xu (like murmuring or speaking in a low voice).

Nie Xu heard it from Xu Yi (“Xu” as in must; “yi” as practice—one who must practice without slackening).

Xu Yi heard it from Yu Ou (“Yu” read like “wu”; “ou” is song—chanting and singing, lodging deep meaning in verse).

Yu Ou heard it from Xuanming (Xuanming: a realm deep and still).

Xuanming heard it from Can Liao (contemplating and embodying emptiness and silence).

Can Liao heard it from Yi Shi (only when there is no thread of origin left to point to does one hear the Way; “yishi” seems to have a beginning yet never truly has one.)

Collation note: According to the Jishi edition, a character qi (“its”) should be supplied at this point.

Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai were talking together. Cui’s commentary notes that in the Huainanzi the name appears as “Ziyong,” who at fifty-four was bent with kyphosis; Gu Qianli argues that the Huainanzi, Spirit Training chapter’s “Ziqiu” is mistaken, since qiu and yong are often confused in transmitted texts, and the Baopuzi, Broad Similes speaks of “Ziyong sighing at the greatness of human relations.” On this reading, the names Si and Yu in what follows may need to be swapped.

The four said: Who can take wu (non-being) as the head, sheng (life) as the spine, and si (death) as the rump, and who can treat life, death, preservation, and loss as one whole—I will befriend that person. Cheng Xuanying explains: Human beings arise from emptiness, hence wu as head; from nothing something comes to be, so life comes next as spine; death comes last, hence as rump. Life and death differ in form yet share one body; whoever grasps this finds every situation fitting and neither rejoices nor loathes according to survival or extinction—whoever understands this, I befriend.

The four looked at one another and smiled, their hearts in accord, and became friends.

Before long Ziyu fell ill. Zisi went to see him. Ziyu said: “The Maker is really going to make me into this hunched-up shape!” (Cheng’s note: Ziyu laments himself. Sima’s note: juju, limbs contracted and stiff.) His waist bent, his back humped, his spine exposed, the passages of the five viscera all turned upward; his chin tucked to his navel, his shoulders higher than his crown, and the ju zhui—the lump at the back of the neck like an excrescence, pointing up toward heaven.

Yin and yang qi were out of balance and clashed with each other (“li,” as Guo Xiang glosses it, means disorder and perversity, the same sense as “li” in the word for perversity). In his mind, however, Ziyu remained at ease; nothing disturbed him (Cheng Xuanying: he did not let illness upset his spirit). Supporting his sick body, he struggled to the well and looked at his reflection in the water (“pian” describes walking with difficulty while ill; the commentary says that though gravely ill he still forced himself to go and look at himself in the well).

He sighed: “Ah! The Creator is going to make me stiff and cramped like this again!” and heaved a deeper sigh.

Zishi asked: “Do you hate being like this?”

He said: “No—what is there to hate? If my left arm slowly turned into a rooster, I would use it to announce the dawn; if my right arm slowly turned into a slingshot, I would use it to shoot owls for roast meat; if my buttocks slowly turned into a wheel and my spirit became the horse, I would ride along—what need would I have for any other carriage?” (Guo Xiang: there is no change that is not a yin [cause/occasion], and no yin that is not acceptable.)

Moreover, receiving life is a matter of timeliness; losing life is a matter of compliance. Settling into timeliness and abiding in what fits—grief and joy cannot enter the heart. This is what the ancients called “suspended liberation” (the commentary: gaining refers to birth, losing to death). Nurturing Life also says: “What comes is timeliness; what goes is compliance.”

Note: The line about seeing an egg and wanting a night-crower, or seeing a pellet and wanting roast owl, appears in Discourse on Equalizing Things in a similar sense; here, if the left arm becomes a “rooster,” some readers suspect “rooster” should read “egg,” since the chicken comes from the egg—only with an egg does one speak of the dawn-crowing “night-crower,” which pairs more neatly with the right arm as slingshot and roast owl. That is a textual-critical point in reading the tradition; it does not change the main idea: Zhuangzi is saying that however the body changes, one can turn the change to use and need not cling to the original form.

Settle with the times and stay in accord with the natural course, and joy and grief cannot enter you. The ancients called this the “di zhi xuan jie”—the hanging cord that the Sovereign (Di) releases, so the heart is no longer strung up on birth and death.

This matches what the passage is saying. When a person cannot free themselves, outer things bind them up together. Guo Xiang put it this way: when one cannot self-liberate, the myriad things all knot one tight.

Besides, things have never been able to outlast Heaven for long—so why should I resent them?

Before long Zi Lai fell ill, his breath came in gasps, and he was near death. His wife and children gathered around him weeping. Zi Li came to visit and said, “Hey! Stand back!” He told the family to withdraw. “Do not startle someone who is in the midst of transforming.” (The character read da here means to startle or alarm.)

He leaned in the doorway and spoke to Zi Lai: “How great the Maker is! What is it going to turn you into next? Where is it sending you? Will it make you a rat’s liver? An insect’s arm?” (Wang Bi’s commentary: the most humble, insignificant things are chosen as images.)

Zi Lai said: “When parents tell a child to go east, west, south, or north, the child has only to obey. Yin-Yang and the transforming process are even more pressing upon us than parents. If it presses me toward death and I refuse, that is my own defiance—what fault is there in Yin-Yang?” (“Bi” refers to Yin-Yang; “han” means not submitting. Guo’s note: “jin” means pressing close.)

“The great clod—Heaven and Earth—bears my form. Birth makes me toil, age lets me rest, death gives me repose. So what is good at giving me life is also good at giving me death.” (These six lines also appear in “The Great Master” (Da Zong Shi).)

Like a master founder casting bronze and iron in a furnace: if one piece of metal leaps and shouts, “I must become a blade like Mo Ye or Gan Jiang!” the smith will surely take it for ill omened stock—too arrogant, too sure of itself.

So it is with people. Once chance has shaped you into human form, you preen and inflate your own importance, always muttering “I am human, I am human”—and Zaohua (the creative force) will treat you as an ill-omened person too, because you cling so hard to this one body and this one identity.

You can think of heaven and earth as one great furnace and Zaohua as the skilled founder. If that is so, what form the soul takes and where it is cast—what could be impossible? (“Mo Ye” names an ancient famous sword; here sword-making stands for not being fixed on a single shape.)

In Nanzi of Master Qu’s story there are “rat liver” and “insect arm”—what harm if you become those? There is no need to brood over it in the mind.

You fall peacefully asleep and suddenly wake: becoming human by chance is like falling asleep; suddenly leaving life is like waking. When the great furnace is ready to recast you, what destination would not receive you?

Zisanhu, Meng Zifan, and Ziqin Zhang became friends and said: “Who can be friends with one another in a way that does not deliberately ‘make friends,’ and support one another in a way that does not deliberately ‘act’? Just as the hundred parts of the body each have their office and serve one another, without the heart set on ‘making friends’ or the mind intent on ‘doing for’ one another, yet the work of mutual aid is naturally accomplished. So too in ‘without deliberate pairing’ they mingle as friends, in ‘non-action’ they are friends to one another—their meaning is just this. Who can ascend to Heaven, wander in mist, roam and turn freely in the boundless, forget one another in life and death, and know no end?”

The three looked at one another and smiled, their hearts in accord, and thus became friends.

Before long Zisanhu died, and the burial had not yet taken place. Confucius heard of it and sent Zigong to attend to the funeral rites. Some were weaving mats for silkworms, some were playing zithers; they sang in harmony: “Ah, Sanghu! Ah, Sanghu! You have already returned to the True, while we are still among men!”

Zigong stepped forward and asked: “May I ask—is it in accord with ritual to sing facing the corpse?”

The two looked at each other and smiled. “How would you understand the true meaning of ritual!”

Zigong went back and told Confucius. Confucius said: “They are wanderers in the realm outside the square, while I am a wanderer within the square. Inner and outer do not meet—yet I sent you to offer condolences. I was shallow. They are now paired with the Creator.”

Continuing from above: “Above, befriending spirits and deities; below, roaming with creation and transformation”—Zizhou of Zizhou is the plainest example. Again, roaming within the single Qi of Heaven and Earth: treating birth as qi gathering into form, like a wart on the body—not something to rejoice in; treating death as qi scattering to the end, like a festering sore breaking open—not something to mourn. People like this do not haggle over life and death, or over which comes first and which last and where each belongs. It is only the cycling of one qi. They briefly lodge in different bodily forms, resting in a body made of that same qi (what Buddhism calls the body as the union of the four great elements—earth, water, fire, and wind—so that birth is seen as sheer accident). They forget liver and gall, discard ears and eyes—the body beyond the body, death likewise as accident. They move between beginning and end without knowing where the threads start; they pass between life and death without knowing the border. Vague and adrift outside the dusty world, they wander at ease in the way of wuwei (non-action). Why would they clutter themselves with worldly ceremony for the crowd to gape at?

Zigong asked: “Then which path does the Master follow?”

Confucius said: “Qiu is one Heaven has marked for punishment. One cannot speak of these things to people of the square within; if one did, they would rush about like madmen, sing and wail like mourners—so why put on a show for them in the courts of Song and Zheng?”

This passage discusses the difference between “within the fang” (fangnei) and “outside the fang” (fangwai) in the Zhuangzi, and what is meant by a qiren (literally one who does not pair with the common—an “eccentric” or outsider to convention).

The conduct and ritual of the sage are, in fact, fetters on human form and xing (nature). Confucius belongs to the fangnei—the world of ritual and order—so from the perspective of natural principle (tian’s reason), he is like someone bound by punishment and censure. The Dechong chapter says, “Heaven punishes him—how could that be undone?” (tian xing zhi, an ke jie hu)—that is the point. Even so, my form and xing are the same as yours. Because Confucius is within the fang, from the perspective of natural principle he is one bound by punishment, which is why Dechong says heaven punishes him and it cannot be undone. Nevertheless, you and I are the same on this point. Guo Xiang’s commentary: what one has attained, one does not wish to hide away.

Zigong asked: “May I ask what the fang (method, principle) is?”

Confucius said: Fish depend on one another in water; people depend on one another on the Dao. Zao means to arrive at or accord with something. Only when fish reach water do they find their joy; only when people reach the Dao do they find their joy. Depending on one another in water means digging pools and storing water to sustain one another; depending on one another on the Dao means being without affairs while xing settles. Some say the character for “pool” (chi) was originally “earth/ground” (di)—both readings work. When fish get water, sustenance is sufficient; when people obtain the Dao, the “life” (sheng) and xing of the body at rest can be read interchangeably here. Hence it is said: fish forget one another in rivers and lakes; people forget one another in Dao and skill (daoshu). Guo Xiang: the larger the scope, the more fitting—this is not merely sustenance and settled xing.

Zigong asked: “May I ask what a qiren is?”

Sima Biao: qi means not pairing with the vulgar, not matching the usual. Guo Xiang: asking where those “outside the fang” who do not pair with the vulgar—the ones mentioned earlier—are.

Answer: A qiren is one who does not fit the human world but accords with Heaven. Sima Biao: mou means equal. Cheng Xuanying: following one’s own nature, the same as natural principle. Hence: in Heaven’s view a petty person (xiaoren), in the world’s view a junzi (gentleman)—clinging to ritual and not knowing the truth of ming (fate) and xing, yet called ritually proper. A petty person in Heaven’s eyes, a junzi in people’s eyes; a junzi in people’s eyes, a petty person in Heaven’s eyes. (Note: the wording is identical across versions; the repetition seems unnecessary, or one line should read “Heaven’s junzi, people’s petty person.” Cheng Xuanying: Zi Fan and Qin Zhang did not pair with the vulgar and were called qiren; in reality they were Heaven’s junzi. Not pairing with the vulgar means not following ritual law; most people do not accept this, hence “Heaven’s junzi, people’s petty person”—the sense is clear. Su Yu: if “people’s petty person” were the criterion for qiren, then Qin Zhang, Meng Sun, and the like would not qualify—is Zhuangzi really someone who does not understand ritual!)

Overall, the point is: the “junzi” who clings to ritual is, before natural principle, a “petty person”; the qiren who does not pair with custom is, in Heaven’s eyes, the true junzi. The fish-and-water and human-Dao analogies show that those outside the fang rely on mutual forgetting through the Dao, not on being nourished in pools by ritual like those within the fang.

Yan Hui asked Confucius: “Meng Sun Cai’s mother died. When he wept he shed no tears; inwardly he did not seem grief-stricken; during the mourning period he did not show sorrow. He lacked all three, yet because he was skilled at managing the funeral he became famous throughout Lu. Can there really be people who win a fine reputation without genuine feeling? Yan Hui found this very puzzling.”

(In some editions—Guo Xiang, Lu Deming, Cheng Ben, and others—the sentence breaks after “mourning.” Li Zhen held that the sense was incomplete: the three characters “throughout Lu” belong with the preceding clause, comparable to “his merit covered the world” in “The Emperor Who Would Be King”; Yue says yan means “cover,” and Shiming says gai means “to add on top”—both suggest rising above others. Here it means Cai’s name for skill in mourning overshadowed everyone in Lu.)

Confucius said: “Meng Sun has already taken the way of mourning to its limit; he has gone beyond ordinary understanding.”

“Advance” (jin) here means “to surpass or excel.” Commentators say that Mengsheng’s grasp of the Dao already surpassed those who knew only the outward forms of mourning rites.

“Simplicity” (jian) means stripping things down and leaving aside elaborate ritual. Yet custom binds people in society, so one person cannot simplify everything alone; Mengsheng still had weeping, mourning attendance, and other outward acts. In inner feeling, however, he no longer shed tears, felt no grief, and did not wail—he had already simplified on the level of the heart.

Su Yu took the two lines “only simplicity is not attained” and “he had already attained some simplicity” as general remarks, not as applying solely to Mengsheng. Yao Nai argued: ordinary people are trapped by feelings about life and death and think they must mourn; they want simplicity but cannot achieve it. Mengsheng could awaken to the truth of nature and life (xingming zhi zhen), so “he had already attained some simplicity”—a reading richer than treating the passage as mere doctrine.

Mengsheng “did not know how one comes to live, did not know how one comes to die”—not from confusion, but because he did not treat life and death as objects to question or control; he let them be, and that is what counts as a further step in understanding. He “did not know how to go forward first, did not know how to follow after”: “first” means birth, “after” means death. Since he was one with life and death, there was no clinging to life and no rushing toward death, neither leaving nor arriving.

If one transforms into another kind of being, one simply follows the transformation at hand and waits for the next transformation that cannot yet be known—that is all. Note: dying and becoming a ghost or another thing is also a kind of “transformation (hua).” The rat’s liver and insect’s arm in the Zhuangzi show that people cannot know in advance what they will turn into. If transformation is coming, how can we know it will not transform? If non-transformation is coming, how can we know it has already transformed? These four lines show precisely that “transformation” is unknowable and not something we can interfere with. Cheng Xuanying said: you and I are probably still people who have not woken from a dream—we have not yet reached Mengsheng’s step forward in understanding. He also said: the other party was only startled in the body; “knowing” was not harmed—linked here with “already transformed,” meaning that the changes of life and death do not injure inherent knowing; the lines about “transformation” likewise stress that it lies beyond human power.

This passage discusses Meng Sunshi’s attitude toward the death of kin in the Zhuangzi stories, and the reflections on “dream and awakening” and “true self versus false self” that follow.

Meng Sunshi: the form changes, the heart is not harmed

Although Meng Sunshi’s body was shaken by the change (hai xing—a shock to the physical form), he did not let the event drag down or damage his inner mind. The ancients said “you have daily renewal of the dwelling but no real death of qing”—“dan” means renewing day by day, “zhai” is where spirit dwells. The meaning: the physical form renews and shifts with the days; only the shell is exchanged—there is no truly “substantial dead thing” that carries the heart away. Yao’s commentary explains that “qing” here means “substance”: from the start there is nothing that substantially died.

Meng Sunshi was especially clear-headed: when others wept, he wept too—following the situation of the moment naturally, not because grief truly crushed his heart. Su Yu says “Meng Sunshi te jue” should be punctuated here—everyone else is dreaming; only Meng Sunshi is awake. When people cry he cries too, simply echoing their mourning; he does not install real sorrow in himself.

Who exactly is “I” (wu)?

Further: people often see that “I” temporarily has a body and call one another “wu” (I/me). But how do you know the “wu” we speak of is certainly “wu” and not “not-wu” (fei wu)?

You dream you are a bird and soar high; you dream you are a fish and dive into the deep. Then is the person speaking now awake or still in a dream?

One cannot tell whether fish and bird belong to awakening or to dream—and cannot tell whether the fish and bird in people’s mouths now belong to awakening or to dream.

Comfort, laughter, and “arrangement”

“Zao shi bu ji xiao”—people think only laughter is comfort (shi), but when one suddenly enters a state of comfort, the heart has already understood before there is time to laugh. When laughter bursts out, that too is spontaneous tianji (Heaven’s mechanism); there is no time to “reason out” or arrange it with the intellect—so comfort and laughter are not things one deliberately sets up.

“An pai er qu hua”—from this perspective, nothing can be fixed in advance by oneself; in the dark there is arrangement of its own. Now one should rest in that arrangement, forget grief over death and dissolution, and only then enter the vast emptiness and unity with “Heaven.” Xuan Ying says: awakening here leads one into “liao tian yi”—the One that is one body with the Great Dao.

Yi Erzi went to visit Xu You. Xu You asked: “What did Yao give you as teaching?” (Yi Er was an ancient worthy; “zi” here means to supply or provide.) Yi Erzi said: “Yao told me: ‘You must personally practice benevolence and righteousness, and speak clearly about right and wrong.’” (You must act on them yourself and also explain them plainly to others.) Xu You said: “Then why have you come here?” (“Er” means you; “zhi” is the same as zhi, “only.”) Xu You added: “Yao has already branded your face with benevolence and righteousness and cut off your nose with right and wrong.” (As if you had been punished by branding and mutilation.) “How can you still walk the broad road of carefree wandering and free, spontaneous change?” (Zisui means to indulge and let go; zhuanxi means change and flow—the point is that once bound by Yao’s framework, how can you still live in the free and easy realm Zhuangzi describes?) Yi Erzi said: “Even so, I would like at least to step over the threshold of that realm.” (If I cannot truly travel the whole way, I still want to touch its edge.) Xu You said: “It will not do. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of brows and eyes and complexion; someone without sight cannot admire the splendor of blue, yellow, and patterned colors.” Yi Erzi said: “In the past the beauty Wuzhuang, because she sought the Dao, stopped adorning herself and forgot her own loveliness; the strong man Judang, because he sought the Dao by holding to softness, lost his brute strength; the Yellow Emperor, though he had sage wisdom, upon hearing the Dao could forget that cleverness—all of them were perfected in the space between furnace and hammer.” (The furnace is the smelting hearth, the hammer is forging; the three, because they aligned with the Dao, were like objects that only become useful after smelting and forging.) Yi Erzi added: “How do we know the Creator will not stop the branding on my face and restore my cut-off nose, so that I may follow the Master with this completed body?” (Chengcheng means bearing the body as already complete; with branding and mutilation the body is incomplete, but ceasing the branding and repairing the mutilation makes it whole again; meeting the Master may be Heaven’s intent that I follow with a restored body.) Xu You said: “Ah, perhaps not even that is certain. Let me first give you the general drift. My Master! My Master! He shatters the myriad things yet does not call it righteousness; he benefits the world for ten thousand generations yet does not call it benevolence.” (“●” stands for zhou, with senses such as breaking and bestowing; here the Great Dao does not take the names of benevolence and righteousness.)

When autumn frost descends and things wither and break apart, heaven and earth are not deliberately “severing” in order to act righteously. When spring warmth returns and the ten thousand things are born and grow, heaven and earth are not acting out of affection in order to practice benevolence.

“(The Dao) has endured since high antiquity, yet need not be called ‘old.’” Cheng Xuanying notes: Before any of the myriad phenomena appeared, this Dao was already there; it renews itself day by day and never runs out. (This line also appeared earlier in the text.)

“(It) covers heaven and bears earth, carves and shapes the myriad forms, yet does not claim to be ‘skillful.’” Cheng’s note: Heaven covers and earth bears—all rooted in the Dao; the myriad forms are “carved” into shape through creation itself, each receiving the same natural endowment, so the label “skillful” simply vanishes.

“This is where (the sage or perfected person) roams.” Guo Xiang: This echoes the earlier “wandering at the beginning of things.”

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That will do, but it is not enough yet.”

Another day Yan Hui came to see him and said, “I have made progress again.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten rites and music.” Confucius said, “That will do, but it is not enough yet.”

On a third occasion Yan Hui came and said, “I have made progress again.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” Yan Hui replied, “I have entered the state of zuo wang (sitting and forgetting).” (Zuo wang means sitting at ease while the heart merges with nature, to the point that even the “self” is forgotten.)

Confucius’s expression changed, and he asked, “What do you mean by zuo wang?”

Yan Hui said, “Forget the limbs, discard cleverness, cast off body and wit, and become one with the Great Dao—that is zuo wang.”

Confucius said, “To be one with the Dao is to be without partiality; to follow transformation is to have no fixed form. You are truly a worthy man! I too would like to follow behind you and learn this.” (Confucius praises Yan Hui in the strongest terms; with “please let me follow behind,” he expresses willingness to take the disciple’s place and learn zuo wang from him.)

Ziyu and Zisang were friends. It had rained for ten days in a row—when rain goes on for more than three days, it is called “ling rain” (prolonged downpour). Ziyu said, “Zisang must be very ill!” He wrapped up some food and went to visit and bring him a meal.

When he reached Zisang’s door, he heard from inside something between singing and weeping, with a zither playing. The words went: “Is it Father? Is it Mother? Is it Heaven? Is it a person?” The voice could not hold out; he hurried through the rest of the song. (Cui’s note: “could not hold out” means his strength was failing; Cheng’s note: “hurried through” means he rushed to finish reciting the poem.)

Ziyu went in and asked, “You sang this poem—why like this?” (Cheng’s note: the poem seemed to carry resentment, so he was startled and asked why.)

Zisang said, “I thought it over again and again: who brought me to this state, and I could not find who. Would my parents have wanted me to be this poor? Heaven spreads over all things without favoritism; earth bears all things without favoritism—would Heaven and earth have singled me out to be poor? I traced ‘who did this’ and could not trace it to anyone. Yet here I am in this situation—that is fate (ming).” (Cheng’s note: once you see that fate is so, it is best to go along with it.)

Marginal note on the chapter title (Guo Xiang): Only someone who is without deliberate intent and fully yields to natural transformation is fit to be a true ruler. This gloss states the theme of the chapter “Dealing with Emperors and Kings” (Ying diwang), and belongs to the same inner-chapter context as the story of Zisang accepting fate above.

Source: Passages related to Discourse on Making All Things Equal (Qiwu lun) and various commentators, from Collected Explanations on the Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi jijie).

Summary in Plain Language

Nieque asked Wang Ni four questions in a row, and Wang Ni four times answered, “I do not know.” (The episode appears in Discourse on Making All Things Equal.) Nieque was so delighted that he jumped for joy and ran to tell Pu Yizi.

Commentators cite Master Shi (Shizi): when Pu Yi was eight years old, Shun once offered him the empire. Cui’s commentary identifies Pu Yi with Bei Yi, who was Wang Ni’s teacher. Huainanzi also records that Nieque questioned Bei Yi on the Way.

Pu Yizi said, “Do you understand at last? Youyu (Shun) still fell short of the Tai clan.” Cheng Xuanying glosses the Tai clan as Grand Emperor Fuxi. Youyu kept “benevolence” hidden in his heart to win people over and demand things of them; he could win people, yet he had not truly risen above external things. Cui’s note: he harbored a benevolent heart to draw people to him. Xuan’s note: “not-human” means external things; to want people and to want the empire is still to fix on things—you cannot yet stand above them.

As for the Tai clan: in sleep they were at ease; awake they were calm and unhurried (Sima Biao: xuxu is the look of ease; yuyu is the bearing of holding to nothing, knowing nothing). If others treated them as a horse, they were a horse; as an ox, they were an ox (Cheng: horse or ox—whatever people called them). What they upheld was genuine knowing and sincerity (Cheng: relying on their true knowing, with no false intent). Their virtue was utterly real (Guo: following nature, hence no hypocrisy). They never sank into external things (Xuan: merged with the natural, not burdened by things, never trapped among them).

Jian Wu went to see Mad Jieyu. Mad Jieyu asked, “What did Ri Zhongshi tell you today?”

Jian Wu went to see Mad Jieyu. Mad Jieyu asked, “What did Rizhong Shi just say to you?”

Jian Wu replied, “He told me that when one acts as lord, if you use the laws and standards you yourself have set to demand compliance from all under heaven, who would dare not obey or fail to follow them?”

Mad Jieyu said, “That is using sham virtue to coerce people. Imposing one’s own measure on the ten thousand things only makes them lose their true nature. That is called deceiving De (Virtue/Power)—it is not the genuine Dao (the Way). To govern all under heaven in this way is as absurd as trying to cross the sea by digging a river, or ordering a little hillock to carry a great mountain on its back. When the sage governs all under heaven, does he govern from the outside? To rule by laws and standards is to govern what is external. One should first set one’s own nature right, and only then teach and transform others. It is enough to let those who are up to the task each use their own capacity—without forcing people beyond their limits or pushing them to do what their nature cannot do. Birds fly high to escape nets and arrows; moles dig deep under the altar mound to escape smoke and digging. Even such small creatures know how to preserve themselves—are human beings really less wise than these two little animals?”

Tian Gen was traveling in the region of Yinyang and came to the banks of the Liaoshui River, where he happened to meet the Nameless One. Tian Gen asked him, “May I ask how to govern the world?”

The Nameless One said, “Go away! You are shallow in understanding—asking such a thing is truly annoying!” (“Yu” here means “to weary of”; the Nameless One found Tian Gen’s questions excessive, as if to say: How can you be so tiresome?) “I am about to join the Creator in nurturing the ten thousand things”—here “ren” (person) refers to spontaneous natural formation; see The Great and Venerable Teacher—“and when I grow weary, I will ride the bird of the vast void and fly beyond the Six Directions to the Land of Nowhere (see Free and Easy Wandering) and dwell in the vast open wilds. Why must you disturb my mind with ‘governing the world’?”

Tian Gen asked again. The Nameless One said, “Set your mind in simplicity, unite your qi with indifference, follow things as they are spontaneously, and do not inject private designs—then the world will naturally be at peace.”

Yang Ziju went to see Laozi and said, “There is someone here…”

Yangzi Chu came to see Laozi and said: There is someone who moves swiftly, whose will is firm and decisive, who sees things clearly and keeps a lucid mind, and who never slackens in learning the Dao (the Way)—can such a person be compared with the “Ming Wang” (enlightened king)?

Laozi said: That is merely learning from the sages at the level of outward form—like corvée laborers driven to their tasks, or like those who excel in a single skill and are bound to their office, unable to change their work or shift their role. It only wears out the body and agitates the spirit. (Note: “xu” and “tu” refer to people who serve in corvée and menial duties; “yi” means to govern or manage; “ji xi” means that because one has a particular skill, one is fixed in a post and cannot change one’s task or office.) Moreover, tigers and leopards are hunted because of the beauty of their pelts; apes and monkeys because of their agility; and dogs skilled at hunting are leashed because of their ability—their very gifts bring harm upon them. (This saying also appears in the chapter “Heaven and Earth.”) Can such a person be compared with the Ming Wang?

Yangzi Chu suddenly felt constrained and ill at ease, and said: Then may I ask how the Ming Wang governs the world?

Laozi said: The Ming Wang governs the world so that his achievements fill the whole realm, yet it seems as though they do not come from himself—the sage completes his work without claiming it, as if he were not the one doing it. He nurtures and bestows upon the ten thousand things, yet the people do not feel that they depend on him (“dai” means to give or bestow; the people do not feel that they rely entirely on the ruler for their lives). There seems to be something there, yet it cannot be named. He lets the ten thousand things each find ease and joy in their own way. He takes his stand in what cannot be fathomed—what he preserves is the subtle and numinous, not visible traces. He roams in the realm of “non-being and non-possession” (wu you); in conduct he appears to practice Wuwei (non-action), yet in fact he completes transformation through nature itself.

In the state of Zheng there was a man known as a spirit-shaman who came from Qi and settled in Zheng; his name was Ji Xian. The Liezi, “Yellow Emperor” chapter, records: “A spirit-shaman came from Qi to Zheng and lived there; his name was Ji Xian.” He could foretell a person’s life and death, survival and ruin, fortune and misfortune, longevity and early death, reckoning by year, month, ten-day period, or day with godlike accuracy; whether he fixed a span by year, month, ten-day block, or day, nothing failed. When the people of Zheng saw him, they fled in fear. Guo Xiang comments: they were afraid he would speak ill fortune. When Liezi met Ji Xian, he was utterly won over (the note on xiang says he was captivated by Ji’s arts). He went back and told Huzi—the Liezi gives the name as Huqiuzi; Sima Biao says his given name was Lin, a man of Zheng and Liezi’s teacher. Liezi said, “I used to think your Dao had reached its limit, but I never expected there was something greater still.” Guo Xiang: he means Ji Xian’s level surpassed the Master’s.

Huzi said, “What I taught you only exhausted the surface wording; the inner meaning I had not yet spoken—yet you thought you had attained the Dao?” Cheng Xuanying explains: yu is to transmit, ji is to exhaust. Toward you I had only exhausted words; the subtle principle had not reached solid ground at all—yet you clung to the text and thought that beyond the words you had already got the Dao. The Liezi reads “without its wording”; Zhang Zhan’s note cites Xiang Xiu: reality is displayed through wording, the Dao is shown through events; having the Dao without events is like having the female without the male. Now you and I differ in depth and shallowness, but if wording does not call and answer, the full reality of my Dao is not yet shown. This means the sage leads first in harmony; there must be someone who responds before harmony is complete.

With only the female and no male, how can an egg be hatched! Guo Xiang: a metaphor that Liezi had not yet conceived the Dao within himself.

Yet you take a still shallow Dao and contend with the world, insisting on stretching it out before anyone will harmonize with you—xin is read as shen (to stretch): your Dao is still shallow, yet you stand opposed to the world and will not harmonize until you have asserted yourself.

Liezi’s teacher Huzi had previously criticized Liezi: you are still shallow in the Way, yet you use your own dao to compete with the world and insist on having it prevail—here “xin” should be read as “shen,” meaning to stretch out or assert yourself. That is why others could easily see through you and read your face. In the Liezi, the character written as “kang” in other texts appears as “kang” (resist/contend), with a similar sense. Huzi said, “Try bringing him to see me.”

The next day Liezi brought Jixian to Huzi. When Jixian came out, he said to Liezi, “Alas! Your teacher is failing; he will not live much longer—he cannot last ten days! I see an ominous look, like wet ashes.” Guo Xiang’s commentary says this describes someone with no vital breath, no flame of life. Liezi went in and tearfully reported this to Huzi. Huzi said, “Just now I showed him ‘Di Wen’ (Earth Pattern)—fixed like a clod of earth.” Xiang Xiu’s note quotes: “block-like as earth.” On the line “meng hu bu zhen bu zheng,” Yu Yue argued it should follow the Liezi and read “zui hu bu zhen bu zhi”: “zui” is interchangeable with a graph meaning mountain form; “zhen” is a variant of “zhen” (quake); “bu zhen bu zhi” means neither moving nor stepping—like a mountain in its weight and stillness. The received text wrongly has “meng” and “zheng,” so the meaning breaks down. According to Lu Deming’s Shiwen, Cui’s annotated edition also had “bu zhen bu zhi,” matching the Liezi, and the text can be corrected on that basis. Xiang Xiu further notes: neither moving nor stopping on one’s own— the same state as withered wood that does not bloom and dead ashes cold and silent: the condition of the perfected person when nothing passes through him. Huzi went on, “He probably saw my ‘Du De Ji’—the mechanism of De (Virtue/Power) sealed and not yet released.” Cheng Xuanying explains: “Du means blocked.” In the Liezi the word “ji” is written as “ji” (incipient sign); the commentary cites Xiang Xiu: “De’s incipient sign does not issue, hence called Du.” Huzi added, “Bring him again to test me once more.”

Another day passed, and Liezi again brought Jixian to Huzi. When Jixian came out, he said to Liezi, “Great fortune! Your teacher met with me. There is improvement; already…”—here the scripture and commentary break off at the character for “whole/complete.” The preceding passage describes Jixian’s first visit, when Huzi only displayed Di Wen and Du De Ji and was judged as dying; on the second meeting Huzi revealed another level of attainment, and Jixian said the condition was improving and tending toward wholeness.

“Chang” means to try looking, to test by observation.

The next day, Jixian again went with Liezi to see Master Hu. When he came out he said to Liezi: “Your teacher’s luck held when he met me this time. The illness has improved; he is already fully like someone with living qi.” (Some Liezi versions read “hui ran”—ashen, lifeless like ashes.) “I saw that he du quan.”

Du quan: closing and guarding the center and root, while still responding flexibly on the inside—not rigid holding, not reckless movement.

Liezi went in and told Master Hu. Master Hu said: “Just now what I showed him was tian rang.” Xiang Xiu’s commentary: between Heaven and Earth, the work of covering, carrying, and transforming appears; if one only compares it to “the pattern of earth,” is one not still on the outer layer? (Guo Xiang’s note has errors in “di zhi,” “wai,” and similar phrases; it may not be a straight lift from Xiang—on such points the situation may be close to what Xiang said.) Name and reality could not enter the gate—Xiang: letting nature cover and carry, name and reality become ornaments one may discard. Yet living qi rose from the heels—Xuan Ying: a stretch of vital breath lifting from the zhong (heels). He probably saw my “shan zhe ji”—shan means living intent, vital animation. He was told to come again.

Another day, they brought him to Master Hu again. When he came out he said to Liezi: “Your teacher is bu qi.” (Shiwen: side-reading; some texts read zhai [fasting].) “I cannot read his face. Try having him fast and purify, and I will look again.”

Liezi went in and relayed this. Master Hu said: “Just now what I showed him was tai chong mo sheng.” (Liezi reads mo zhen; that reading should be followed.) Xiang: standing at the extreme of Great Thoroughfare (tai chong), broad and empty in mind, mysteriously one with the ten thousand directions, no trace visible. (Guo: hence neither victory nor defeat could wedge into that space.)

(Huzi said to Liezi:) This time he probably saw only my state of “balanced qi mechanism” (heng qi ji). Xiang Xiu explained: “Heng means level, equilibrium.” Others say: however one looks, all is treated the same—merged as one. Commentators hold that this matches Guo Xiang’s reading.

“Where the great salamander coils, there a deep pool (yuan) forms; where water stands still, there a deep pool forms; where water runs, there a deep pool forms”—in the classics, deep pools (yuan) have many names; here only three are given. In the Liezi the wording is “where the salamander spirals, the eddy (pan)”—Zhang Zhan’s note takes pan as pan (coiling), meaning water swirling and flowing back. The gist: where a large ni (salamander-like fish) coils and lingers, the water eddies into a pool; when water is still, it can also form a pool; when water rushes and strikes, it likewise forms a pool. The Liezi also lists nine kinds of “yuan”: besides those tied to coiling, still water, and running water, there are lan water (water gushing up), wo water (pouring down from above), gui water (flowing out from the side), yong water (river water breaking out then returning), qian water (water in motion), fei water (many sources joining)—nine abysses in all. Cheng Xuanying said: water by nature has no mind; movement and stillness both follow outer things—sometimes like a whale or ni coiling, sometimes like still water deep and clear, sometimes like swift rapids—forms are many, yet in being darkly silent and without mind they are the same.

(Liezi) again brought (the shaman) to see Huzi. The next day Liezi led the man to Huzi again. Before the man had even stood firm, his spirit fled and he ran off on his own. Huzi said: “…” (The text continues with Huzi’s explanation to Liezi of why the shaman fled.)

Liezi ran after him but still could not catch up. He went back and told Huzi, “He’s gone—I’ve lost him. I can’t keep up.”

Huzi said, “A moment ago I showed him what it’s like when one has not yet emerged from the root source: roots sunk deep, utterly still and silent, nothing showing outward—and still he saw my root source. I met him with empty compliance and winding deferral…”

(Note: Cheng Xuanying glosses weiyi as a yielding, going-along-with quality; Guo Xiang says “without mind, following the transformation of things.” In the Liezi this passage reads yiyi, with a similar sense of empty yielding and not clinging to fixed form.)

Following things without deliberate intent

There is no forced effort of mind; one simply turns and changes along with how outer things shift, in a natural way.

On “weiyi” and “yiyi”

The Liezi writes weiyi; the Shiwen also gives yiyi—the sense is the same: a manner of yielding, bending, and not stiffly clinging to fixed forms.

“Not knowing who or what it is”

Xiang Xiu says: like drifting on the surface—attached to no particular person or thing. Guo Xiang’s note agrees.

“Therefore taking this as dimi”

“Di” is read like tui (decline/sag). Dimi means inexhaustible, without a fixed appearance.

Lu Wenchao notes: the Zhengzitong wrote “di” as a variant glyph, and later dictionaries followed, but ancient texts did not use that form. The Leipian under di gives another reading, tu hui fan, glossed as dimi, “the aspect of never being exhausted”—which matches this passage. The Liezi has maomi instead.

“Therefore taking this as wave-flow”

Cui’s commentary text has bo sui (“wave-following”), meaning constantly going along with circumstances.

Wang Niansun holds Cui’s reading is correct: she, he, mi, and sui could rhyme in old pronunciation—“she” old reading tu he fan, mi close to mo, sui also close to tu he fan.

“Therefore he fled”—Cheng Xuanying

Huzi responded to each prior situation and never stuck or blocked; transformations were myriad—nothing a face-reader could grasp, so Ji Xian ran away.

Liezi, Xiang’s note (as cited in Cheng’s commentary)

When the perfected person moves, it is like heaven’s motion; when still, like earth’s rest; walking like water flowing, depth like a silent abyss. Abyss-silence and water-flow, heaven’s motion and earth’s rest are the same in this: not doing on purpose, yet naturally so.

Ji Xian saw him sit like a corpse, forgetting form, and said he was nearly dead; saw spirit stir and move with heaven and said life had returned.

If one cannot see the whole set—“water-flow” and “abyss-silence,” “heaven’s motion” and “earth’s rest”—together, one will be like Ji Xian: seize one side, judge, and in the end have no choice but to flee.

If one can respond to the ten thousand things without deliberate intent, rising and falling with change and taking worldly affairs as one’s measure, then one qualifies as master of external things, following the seasons without limit—how could someone who reads faces perceive any of this?

Liezi then felt he had not yet entered the gate and went home. Cheng Xuanying says: only then did he realize Huzi’s cultivation ran deep and that he himself had not yet truly studied the Way. For three years after that he did not cross his threshold; he cooked for his wife and fed the pigs as if they were guests (Guo Xiang: forgetting high and low). He felt no partial attachment in affairs and did not meddle in secular business. He stripped ornament and returned to simplicity (Cheng: removing all showy conduct and recovering plainness). Solitary, he stood on nothing but the body; alone, without a pair. In disarray yet sealed—Cui’s note: “fen’er” is the look of disorder; “zai” in Cui’s text is written as “rong,” glossed as feng rong meaning scattered and messy. Li Zhen: Cui’s text has “shi”; Liezi has “kuairan’er feng rong.” The lines rhyme internally: ren, qin, pu, li, rong, zhong. Thus he ended. Xuan Ying: the Way cannot be added to. The story of Jixian and Huzi shows that the sage-king should empty the self and practice wuwei (non-action), standing in what cannot be measured, and must not let the world glimpse his openings and stir cunning—meaning subtle beyond comparison. The five episodes above serve as proof.

Note [1]: In some editions “ye” is written as “yi.”

“Wuwei ming shi” (non-action as the corpse of name): Cheng—The king should empty the self and practice wuwei, standing in what cannot be measured, and must not let the world read his end and open cleverness; meaning subtle beyond comparison. The five episodes above serve as proof.

Note [1]: In some editions “ye” is written as “yi.”

Passages on “wuwei” (non-action) (Cheng Xuanying’s commentary)

“Wuwei ming shi” (non-action as master of name)—do not act as the master of reputation; do not let empty fame lead you around.

“Wuwei mou fu” (non-action as storehouse of schemes)—do not treat the mind as a warehouse devoted to calculation and plotting.

“Wuwei shi ren” (non-action as burden of affairs)—Guo Xiang says: hand affairs over to each thing to do for itself; do not take every task onto yourself.

“Wuwei zhi zhu” (non-action as master of knowledge)—do not use clever stratagems to dominate outer things; Cheng Xuanying says: do not deploy intelligence to control the myriad beings.

One should apprehend the true source and merge with the boundless, roaming in what has no form and no trace. Cui Yuan says “zhen” means sign or omen; Cheng Xuanying says: hiding one’s tracks and dimming one’s light, therefore there is no “zhen” (sign) to seize.

Fully receiving what Heaven assigns yet not showing that one has “obtained” something—that too is simply “xu” (emptiness). Guo Xiang says: without emptiness, one cannot bear the inherent nature of each thing in the multitude.

The perfected person uses the mind like a mirror: Guo Xiang says it reflects things without affection. It does not escort or welcome; it responds when there is stimulus but does not hoard outcomes in the heart—Cheng Xuanying says “jiang” means to escort or send off; when things come, one responds; when responding, one does not use private intent; since there is neither escorting nor welcoming, how could one hide feelings or conceal intentions? Therefore one can overcome things without harming them. Cheng Xuanying says: the mind is not worn out by labor, hence there is no damage. The above is the meaning of this stretch of main text.

The parable of Hundun (Chaos)

The emperor of the Southern Sea was called Shu (Sudden), the emperor of the Northern Sea was called Hu (Hasty), and the emperor of the Central Region was called Hundun (Chaos). Jian Wen says: Shu and Hu take swiftness as their names; Hundun takes harmonious blending as his aspect—swiftness is like youwei ( purposive action), harmonious blending is like wuwei (non-action). Cui Yuan says Hundun is without openings or holes.

Shu and Hu often visited Hundun, and Hundun treated them very well. The two wished to repay Hundun and said: people all have seven openings for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing, but he alone lacks them—let us try to bore them open for him. Each day they bored one opening; on the seventh day Hundun died. Guo Xiang says: “The one who acts ruins it”—forcing action instead spoils things. This episode uses a story to speak a lesson.

(Textual note: where the text reads “shensu” ( divine swiftness), the original had “shuhu”; revised per the Shiwen.)

Su Yu observed that Pianmu and the three outer chapters that follow it largely develop the thought of Laozi. Although Zhuangzi also held Laozi in high regard, he had an extremely lofty view of himself—something clear from the “All under Heaven” chapter. These four chapters add nothing of real substance beyond the line of Shen Buhai and Laozi; they were probably written by people studying Zhuangzi who followed Laozi’s path. Moreover, the prose runs on in one steady vein, with little that is genuinely new, and unlike the inner chapters it lacks that vast, free, strange, and shifting quality. Wang Fuzi and Yao Nai both doubted that the outer chapters were by Zhuangzi himself—a judgment that hits the mark.

Take this chapter: at the start it speaks of “going astray in the practice of benevolence and righteousness,” yet at the end it treats “going astray” and “benevolence and righteousness” as parallel ideas—a plain contradiction. It also says, “I feel ashamed before Dao and De (Virtue/Power)”—language of modest self-reproach that Zhuangzi would never use.

Webbed Toes and Extra Fingers

Webbed toes (when the big toe and the second toe are joined) and extra fingers (an additional digit on the hand) are indeed inborn, yet measured against human De (one’s natural, inherent endowment), they count as excess and surplus.

Wen-like growths and hanging warts (extra lumps on the body) appear only after the form is already complete, so they are said to “come from the body”—yet they too overstep what belongs to innate nature.

Those who promote benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi) with many contrivances seem to install ren and yi in the five viscera and match them to the Five Phases—but that is not the proper path of Dao and De.

Therefore: webbed toes on the feet are merely useless flesh joined together; extra fingers on the hands are merely useless digits added on.

Likewise, piling “webbed and extra” additions onto what the five viscera already are in truth, straying into odd extremes in the practice of ren and yi, and multiplying artifice in the use of cleverness, all belong to the same kind of surplus.

So those who go too far in “brightness” (ming, clear sight) disturb the five colors, overdoing patterned ornament—azure, yellow, crimson, white, and black, with designs such as fu and fu patterns dazzling and confusing the eyes—is it not so? This began with people like Lizhu (Li Zhu), famed for extraordinary eyesight.

(Note: Fu is an axe-shaped motif; fu is a pattern of two figures back to back; the five colors are azure, yellow, crimson, white, and black; azure and crimson count as “pattern,” crimson and white as “emblem.”)

When green and red are combined into patterns and red and white into designs, the colors blaze so brightly that they easily dazzle the eyes. Sima Biao explains that Lì Zhū was a man of the age of the Yellow Emperor who could see the tip of an autumn hair at a distance of a hundred paces; another account says he could make out something as fine as the point of a needle a thousand li away. (In the Mencius he is written as Lí Lóu.)

Those whose hearing is excessively sharp disturb the five tones and ruin the six pitch standards, tormenting themselves with metal and stone, silk and bamboo instruments, and with the pitch pipes known as huangzhong and dalü—is this not what Shi Kuang did? The Shiwen commentary says Shi Kuang was a grand officer of Jin, skilled in pitch and mode, and was even said to summon ghosts and spirits. The Shiji records that he was a native of Nanhe in Jizhou and was born without eyes. Guo Xiang says that people born with ears and eyes are often trapped in envying the “superhuman” abilities of figures like Lì Zhū and Shi Kuang; though Lì Zhū and Shi Kuang were clever, they became the very models of what confuses ear and eye.

Those who overexert themselves in “benevolence” (ren) inflate virtue and suppress their inborn nature to win reputation, making the world rush after standards no one can actually meet, as if beating gongs and drums—is this not the path of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu? “Branching out in benevolence” (zhi yu ren) is like an extra limb sprouting on the body, forcibly wearing benevolence and righteousness as a badge; Zeng Shen and Shi Yu stood out in benevolence and righteousness more than ordinary people, so those whose natures fell short of theirs scrambled to imitate them, and the world grew noisy, like the reeds of a mouth organ and the boom of drums, all to honor rules nobody could fulfill. “Zeng and Shi” refers to Zeng Shen and Shi Yu.

Wang Niansun held that “sai” (block/obstruct) and “zhuo” (pull out) do not balance each other in meaning, and that “sai” should read as “qian” (pull out, draw forth)—a slip from similar character forms. Both “zhuo” and “qian” mean to pull out or extract. The Guangya says “qian means to take, to pull out”; the Fangyan has “chuan,” also meaning to take, as used in southern Chu; the Shuowen writes it as a graph glossed as pulling out. The “Recapturing the Genuine” (Chuzhen) chapter of the Huainanzi says: the learning of the world pulls out virtue and draws forth the inborn nature, afflicting the five viscera within and wearing out ear and eye without, only then to chase after minutiae and shake and erode benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, roaming the world with violent conduct and crafty cleverness to hunt fame and praise; it also says: when the myriad things arrive, they pull out my nature and draw forth my feelings and intent—all of which confirms the usage of qian/chuan.

Does benevolence and righteousness really match what human beings are by nature? And why do those who preach “benevolence” carry so much worry?

Su Yu says that “the benevolent person” here should originally read “benevolence and righteousness.” Guo Xiang comments: “Those who fret that benevolence and righteousness do not accord with human feeling and therefore worry about it—such people are truly full of cares.” The wording in his edition also has “benevolence and righteousness.” The passage means that benevolence and righteousness tie people down and make them lose their original, constant nature, so their troubles multiply. The line in the “Letting Be, Having Sovereignty” chapter about “troubling the five viscera and treating that as benevolence and righteousness” expresses the same idea. Later, because the phrase “benevolent person” appears in the text, it was written that way by mistake.

Again: when the big toe grows an extra segment fused to it, forcing it cut apart makes a person weep; when the hand grows an extra finger, biting it off makes a person cry out. In one case the count is too high, in the other too low, yet the pain is the same. A fused digit is a shortfall in number (by ordinary reckoning there should be five); an extra finger is a surplus in number.

Today, those who preach benevolence look across the whole world and brood over its disasters; those who reject benevolence ruin the true disposition of life and lust after wealth and rank. So the question is repeated: do benevolence and righteousness really match human nature?

From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou onward, why has the world been so loud and contentious? (Cheng Xuanying: “noisy and clamorous” means hubbub and racket.)

Moreover, what can be made “correct” only with the help of the curved hook, the inked cord, the compass, and the carpenter’s square is something achieved by cutting away original nature. (Cheng Xuanying: taking the hook for curvature, the cord for straightness, the compass for roundness, and the square for squareness—all of this injures innate nature.)

Using rope and lacquer to force things into place injures their innate natural De (Virtue/Power). Cheng Xuanying explains: “Yue means to bind and constrain; it damages one’s De.”

Employing ritual and music for roundabout maneuvering, and using benevolence and righteousness to warm and soothe people so that all under Heaven feel reassured in their hearts—this actually turns away from the changran (constant natural state) that the myriad things already possess. The to-and-fro maneuvering of ritual and music is a kind of artificial bending and twisting; xuyu (gentle warming and drawing-out, like breathing life into something) is akin to cherishing and coddling—it is a borrowed show of benevolence and righteousness.

All under Heaven has its changran: what should be curved needs no hook; what should be straight needs no plumb line; what should be round needs no compass; what should be square needs no carpenter’s square; joining needs no lacquer; restraint needs no rope (mo means cord or rope). Thus the myriad things of all under Heaven each grow of themselves in spontaneity, yet do not know why they can grow; each likewise obtains its proper place, yet does not know how it obtains it. The principle from antiquity to the present is one and the same; it cannot be whittled down by human contrivance. Given this, why should benevolence and righteousness have to link up unceasingly like lacquer and rope—shuttling and fabricating between De and Dao—only to bewilder all under Heaven? “Lianlian” describes an appearance of continuous, unbroken connection. Here De and Dao are honored, while benevolence and righteousness are rejected.

Small bewilderment mistakes the direction and loses sight of where one ought to go; great bewilderment loses one’s true nature and abandons one’s original natural character. How do we know this is so? From the time Yu Shun raised up and promoted benevolence and righteousness to disturb all under Heaven (Yu Yue notes: “Zhao means to raise up and advocate”) … (the commentary gloss: nao means to disturb).

“Zhao” means to raise or lift. The commentary says: “Nao” means to disturb or disrupt.

No one under heaven fails to strain and rush to follow humaneness and righteousness (ren and yi)—is that not using ren and yi to replace human nature? Guo Xiang says: Even if Yu Shun himself never meant to alter human nature, the nature of people under heaven was already altered in fact.

So consider this: from the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou downward, everyone under heaven has used external things to replace their nature. Petty men trade their lives for profit; scholars trade their lives for fame—both exchange their nature for fame and profit. Great officers trade their lives for one family’s enterprise; sages trade their lives for the realm—both exchange their nature for family and empire. These types differ in undertaking and in name and title, yet in harming their nature and offering their bodies like sacrificial victims they are the same.

Zang and Gu herded sheep together and both lost the flock. (Note: Zang, per Zhang Yi, was a son born to a concubine; Cui’s edition writes Gu with a variant graph, calling him a small child.) Asked what Zang was doing, he said he was still reading while holding a whip (ce—the bamboo rod for driving sheep, not the slips used for study). Asked what Gu was doing, he said he was throwing dice and gambling. Their activities differed; losing the sheep was the same.

Boyi died for righteousness at the foot of Mount Shouyang; Robber Zhi died for profit at Dongling (one tradition identifies it with Mount Tai in Qi territory). Where they died and what they sought differed; staking their lives on what each wanted was the same.

Although the two men died in different ways, they were the same in harming life and injuring one’s true nature—why must one insist that Boyi was right and Robber Zhi was wrong? Everyone in the world is “dying for” something—staking their lives on it. Those who die for benevolence and righteousness the world calls gentlemen; those who die for wealth and goods the world calls petty men. The objects they die for differ, so there are gentlemen and petty men; but if it is a matter of mutilating life and damaging one’s nature, Robber Zhi and Boyi are the same—Zhi and Yi alike. Why must one still divide them into gentlemen and petty men? (Summary of Guo Xiang’s commentary: why insist on ranking names as high and low?)

To tie one’s nature to benevolence and righteousness—even if one were as accomplished as Zeng Shen or Shi Yu, that is not what I call “good.” To tie one’s nature to distinguishing the five flavors—even if one were as expert as Yu’er, that is not what I call “good.” (Yu’er: an ancient master of distinguishing flavors, said to be a man of the Yellow Emperor’s time, or confused with Yiya and Diya, “tasters” of Duke Huan of Qi’s era; the Shizi, Huainanzi, and other works mention him.)

To tie one’s nature to distinguishing the five tones—even if one were as skilled as Music Master Kuang, that is not what I call “sharp-eared.” To tie one’s nature to distinguishing the five colors—even if one’s eyes were as keen as Li Zhu’s, that is not what I call “clear-sighted.”

What I call “good” is not the sort of name attached to benevolence and righteousness, but goodness in obtaining one’s own virtue for oneself. What I call “good” is not the worldly talk of benevolence and righteousness, but letting one’s own life and nature follow their true condition. What I call “sharp-eared” is not hearing external things clearly, but hearing oneself clearly. What I call “clear-sighted” is not seeing external things clearly, but seeing oneself clearly.

What I call “clarity” (ming) is not the worldly talk of benevolence and righteousness, but simply following the inherent condition of one’s own nature and life (xingming). What I call “keen hearing” (cong) is not listening to what others say, but hearing oneself clearly. What I call “clear seeing” (ming) is not watching how others act, but seeing oneself clearly. Cheng Xuanying explains: when the spirit-mind races outward and the ears and eyes are drained by external things, that is actually dullness—how can it be called intelligence? If one listens only with what the ears should hear and sees only with what the eyes should see, keeps to one’s proper place, trusts in what is genuine, and is not disturbed by outer things, then in the relation between self and things one is truly intelligent.

If one does not see for oneself but only looks at others, does not attain for oneself but only takes what others have gained, one has what others have gained, not self-attainment; one goes along with what suits others, not what suits oneself. Guo Xiang says: this is abandoning oneself to imitate others; even if one learns to resemble them, one has already lost oneself. To suit only others’ suitability and not suit what suits oneself—even if one were Robber Zhi and the other Boyi—they would be equally deviant in the same respect: losing their inherent nature. Guo Xiang adds: if taking loss of nature as deviance, the paths of loss may differ, but the essence of the loss is the same.

The case note cites Da Zong Shi: Hu Buxie, Wuguang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Bigan, Jita, Shentu Di, and the like were serving others and fitting others’ fit, unable to fit what fit themselves. Zhuangzi takes preserving life as supreme, so he is sharply critical of figures like Boyi; but the deeds of Wuguang, Shentu Di, and others are not fully known, and at the time there may have been other ways to avoid death. As for Yi, Qi, and Jizi, the fate of the state weighed heavily on them and cannot be judged by one rule—that is where this view differs from the sage’s.

I fall short before Dao and De (daode), so above I dare not parade the conduct of benevolence and righteousness, and below I dare not commit deviant acts. Cheng Xuanying takes “I am ashamed before daode” as modest language; he also says Zhuangzi treats benevolence and deviance alike, with no real distinction of high and low—the “above” and “below” here are the author’s self-deprecating wording.

This passage is a later reader’s annotation on the Zhuangzi, in two parts.

On “upper,” “lower,” and the split between benevolence and righteousness

The comment first notes that the words “upper” and “lower” in the text are used in the ordinary, everyday sense.

Then the “annotation” (an, the editor’s note) observes that from the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties onward, people greatly valued Dao and De, but rarely treated ren (benevolence) and yi (righteousness) as separate topics. Han Feizi folded yi into discussions of ren; here the Zhuangzi also groups “ren and yi” with the category of “humane persons.” Apart from the line of Confucius and Mencius, few works spell out what ren and yi each mean on their own. Zhuangzi (Qi Garden—Zhuang Zhou) in fact had deeper intent, but later Confucian scholars mostly did not pursue it.

Han Yu’s Yuan Dao opens by distinguishing the four terms ren, yi, Dao, and De, clarifying for students what each refers to; thus he could raise the horizon of Tang worthies and connect with how the ancient sages spoke.

Outer chapter “Horse’s Hooves,” section nine

Su Yu says: Laozi teaches that through wuwei (non-action) there is transformation, and through quiet purity there is self-alignment; the whole of “Horse’s Hooves” develops this idea, and from start to finish it uses the horse as its metaphor—a device not found in the inner chapters of the Zhuangzi.

A horse uses its hooves to tread through frost and snow, its coat to ward off wind and cold; it eats grass and drinks water, and with a lift of its leg it can leap and run on land—that is the horse’s original nature. Even if you built for it a lofty platform or a splendid chamber like those used in ritual, it would be of no use to the horse; however refined the dwelling, it would not suit the horse’s nature.

Then Bo Le came forward and said, “I am skilled at taming horses.” He branded them with fire, clipped their hair, carved marks and stamped brands, then restrained them with reins and hobbled all four legs, shut them in stables and tied them beside mangers—and horses killed in this way already amounted to two or three in ten. He also made them go hungry and thirsty, drove them to gallop hard, and demanded that their steps be perfectly uniform; in front they suffered from bit and bridle, behind they faced the threat of whip and lash—and more than half the horses were dead.

(Note: Bo Le, said to be surnamed Sun and named Yang, was a famous horse appraiser and trainer in antiquity.)

The potter too said, “I am skilled at working clay.” Round what he shaped matched the compass, square what he shaped matched the carpenter’s square—people always want to “work” things into uniform order by their own standards. This is the same sort of approach as Bo Le’s “taming horses”: using human cunning and norms to twist what is originally so by nature.

Plain-language commentary

“Pottery” means making pottery. Cui’s gloss says that zhi means soil or clay. The craftsman says: “I am skilled with wood—what is bent can be made to fit a hook-shaped template, what is straight can be made to fit a straightedge and ink line.” But do earth and wood by nature want to match compasses, squares, hooks, and ink lines? Yet age after age people praise: “Bole is good at training horses; potters and carpenters are good at working clay and wood.” The same mistake is made by those who claim to “govern the world”; it is the same kind of error as training horses, making pottery, and shaping wood. I hold that someone truly skilled at governing the world does not act like this.

The common people have a steady nature: they weave to clothe themselves and farm to eat. This is called tongde (“same De”—each person’s needs met, each in their place, thus aligned with the De of nature). Being one whole without taking sides is called tianfang (“Heaven’s release”—trusting nature, without partiality). Cheng Xuanying explains: dang means partiality; ming means naming; tian means what is natural. Guo Xiang says: unified and unbiased, letting Heaven be free. Su Yu’s reading—“one with Heaven, dissolving the factions of good and evil”—amounts to the same idea.

So in the age of utmost De (zhide), people walked steadily and unhurriedly; their gaze was steady and not restless. Mountains had no carved paths or tunnels; marshes had no boats or bridges—people did not cut roads through hills or span water with bridges; each stayed where they belonged. The ten thousand things lived together, each community keeping to its own connected territory; birds and beasts moved in herds; grass and trees grew according to their kind. Guo’s note: when one’s nature is enough, one stops—no wish to seize what belongs to others—so each thing keeps itself intact.

Then birds and beasts could be led on a rope yet still roam at ease; one could climb up and look into a magpie’s nest—because people and things did not harm one another, creatures were unafraid. In the age of utmost De, people shared the land with birds and beasts and gathered with the myriad things—who would still split the world into “noble person” and “petty person”? Equally unaware of schemes and rank, their De never left nature; equally free of extra desires—this is called supu (plain, uncarved simplicity). When there is supu, the people’s nature is preserved.

Guo Xiang said: Once cleverness and craft appear, people leave the Great Dao to perform “good deeds” in the world; they herd with beasts and dwell among the myriad things—“clan” here means to gather together. How could one still distinguish the noble person from the petty one? When all alike remain in a state of unknowing, De is not lost; when all alike remain without desire, this is called supreme simplicity (subu—the plain, authentic state). Preserve supreme simplicity, and the common people’s inborn nature can be kept intact.

Guo Xiang also said: Using cleverness and craft makes one leave the Great Dao to do good; using desire makes one leave one’s inborn nature to adorn and embellish.

Only when the so-called “sage” appeared did people take the biezhi posture (deliberately contrived gait) as benevolence (ren), and the dizhi posture (straining on tiptoe, affected) as righteousness (yi)—then the world first began to doubt. Li’s commentary: biezhi and dizhi are both postures in which one consciously puts on the appearance of benevolence and righteousness.

They took dissolute indulgence as pleasure and picking apart and analyzing as ritual—then the world first began to split apart. Guo Songtao said: “zhaipi” should read “zhaibo”; Wang’s note on the Chu ci: “bo means to analyze.” Zhai is to pick and pluck; bo is to analyze—referring to finicky minutiae.

Therefore: if plain simplicity is not harmed, who would carve it into a sacrificial ox-vessel (an altar wine vessel shaped with an ox head)! If white jade is not shattered, who would fashion it into gui and zhang (the gui is a pointed tablet; half a gui is a zhang)! Cheng’s commentary: “plain simplicity not mutilated” means whole timber still uncarved; the sacrificial vessel is the wine vessel for ancestral temple rites; gui and zhang belong to jade ritual regalia.

If the Great Dao and De are not cast aside, why grasp at benevolence and righteousness! Laozi said: “When the Great Dao is abandoned, then there is benevolence and righteousness.” If inner disposition is not torn apart, why need ritual and music! Cheng’s commentary: ritual restrains conduct; music harmonizes the heart—if disposition is not scattered, why harmonize? If nature is not estranged, why restrain?

If the five colors are not confused, why pursue ornate pattern! If the five tones are not disordered, why respond to the six pitch standards! Guo’s note: all of these turn plain simplicity into flashy display, abandon the root and exalt the branch, and damage natural supreme simplicity.

To injure plain simplicity in making utensils is the artisan’s fault; to ruin De in establishing benevolence and righteousness is the sage’s error. Cheng’s commentary: using the traces of benevolence and righteousness destroys the way of wuwei (non-action).

When horses were the genuine creatures of the world, they grazed and drank together with heads aligned; when content they rubbed necks and nuzzled; when angry they turned and kicked and bit each other. On land they ate grass and drank water; when pleased their necks pressed together in mutual rubbing, when enraged they turned away and kicked. That was all horses naturally knew. Then people put crossbars on them, fitted bridles, added forehead ornaments—and horses learned to glare sideways, arch their necks in refusal, bolt and thrust; they would spit out the bit and throw off the harness. What little wit they had was pushed until it worked like a thief’s cunning: that is Bo Le’s fault.

In the age of He-xu, people did not know where to live or what to work at; walking, they did not know where they were going. They held food in their mouths and played, patting their bellies as they wandered—human beings could simply live that way. Then came those called sages, who used ritual and music to straighten the world’s outward tracks, hung up benevolence and righteousness for everyone to stretch on tiptoe toward and envy together—and people began to prize their cleverness, scramble for profit without end, and could not stop. That too is the sage’s fault.

Here Zhuangzi uses an analogy: to guard against thieves who pry open trunks from the side, reach into bags, or break open chests, people tie things tight with cord and reinforce bolts and lock hasps—what the world calls being “clever.” (“Prying open trunks” [qieqie], “reaching into bags” [tan nang], and “breaking open chests” [fa gui]: jian and sheng are binding cords; jiong is a door bolt; jue is the hasp on a lock.)

Yet when a great thief arrives, he may hoist away the whole trunk, the whole cabinet, or the whole travel pack—and only worries that the cords and locks are not secure enough, because taking box and lock together is easiest. Then is the world’s notion of “knowing” (cleverness) anything but stocking up for the great thief?

Push the same logic further: how many people the world calls clever are not hoarding for thieves? How much of what is called sagehood and the teaching of sages is not standing guard over that hoard for thieves? Why say so?

Once, in the state of Qi, neighboring hamlets were within sight of one another and cockcrow and dog bark were within earshot; fishing nets were cast everywhere, and plow and hoe worked fields for more than two thousand li square. (Lei is the plow, nou the hoe.) Within its borders, wherever ancestral temples were built, wherever altars of soil and grain (symbols of the realm and its authority) were established, and wherever cities, houses, districts, wards, townships, and neighborhoods (successive layers of settlement and administration, large to small) were laid out—was any of it not modeled on rules the sages had fixed?

There is another passage that says: five households form one bi, five bi form one lü, five lü form one zu, five zu form one dang, five dang form one zhou, and five zhou form one xiang. Zheng Xuan (a Han-dynasty classicist) explained: twenty-five households make one lü, two thousand five hundred make one zhou, and twelve thousand five hundred make one xiang. This was the ancient practice of registering households and organizing the common people into basic administrative units.

Yet Tian Chengzi (the powerful Qi minister of the Spring and Autumn period, Chen Heng, also called Tian Chang) once killed the ruler of Qi and usurped the state. What he stole was not merely that kingdom: he took along with it the very system of law and stratagem known as “sage wisdom.” Thus Tian Chengzi, though bearing the name of thief, enjoyed the stable position that belonged only to sage-kings like Yao and Shun: small states did not dare criticize him, large states did not dare attack him, and his descendants held Qi for twelve generations. Commentators say: counting from when Chen Heng assassinated Duke Jian of Qi until Zhuangzi wrote, the Tian house had ruled Qi for twelve generations. Yao’s school adds: from Tian Chang to King Jian of Qi is ten generations; if one includes Huanzi Wuyu and Lizi Qi above them, that makes twelve. The Tian clan began to grow powerful from Huanzi onward, hence the total of twelve generations. Is this not a case of stealing not only Qi but also the “methods of sage wisdom,” using them to preserve the thief’s own person?

Consider this argument: among those the world calls most clever, is there any who does not amass wealth and devise means for the “great thief”? Among those it calls most sagely, is there any who does not guard power and consolidate a usurped state for the “great thief”? How do we know? Long ago Longfeng (worthy minister of Jie of Xia) was beheaded, Bi Gan (uncle of King Zhou of Shang) had his heart cut out, Chang Hong (a Zhou minister) was torn apart (Cui’s note: zhi is read like tuo, or written shi, meaning to rend; the Huainanzi says Chang Hong “died with his flesh split by a blade”), and Wu Zixu (minister of Wu) rotted in the river (Cui’s note: mi, rotted in the Jiang). These four were all worthy men, yet none escaped being killed.

So the problem is not Tian Chengzi alone: when the methods of “utmost wisdom” and “utmost sageliness” can be seized by usurpers to preserve the thief’s person, then what is called wisdom and sageliness often serves to accumulate for the great thief and to guard for the great thief; worthies such as Longfeng, Bi Gan, Chang Hong, and Zixu were destroyed instead—precisely the other face of this same absurdity.

Guo Qingfan’s note: The point is that a tyrannical ruler can rely on the authority of kingship to kill worthy people while no one dares resist—often precisely because “sage law” (sheng fa) backs him up. Su Yu says: sage law shows up in punishments and rewards; Jie and Zhou used statutes to kill the worthy.

So Robber Zhi’s followers asked Zhi: “Is there a Dao to being a robber too?” Zhi said: “Where would you go that has no Dao?” (Cheng Xuanying: Dao is everywhere.)

“Being able to guess out of thin air whether someone’s house has hidden goods” (Cheng Xuanying: raising false thoughts, weighing and scheming, guessing presence or absence and always hitting the mark)—that is called “sageliness” (sheng). Charging in first is called “courage.” Covering the retreat is called “righteousness.” Judging whether the job can succeed is called “knowledge.” Dividing the loot fairly is called “benevolence.” Without any one of these five, you cannot pull off a big robbery—there has never been such a case in the world.

Seen this way: good people cannot stand firm without the sage’s Dao, and Zhi cannot achieve great deeds without the sage’s Dao either. Good people in the world are few and bad people many, so the benefit the sage brings the world is small and the harm is great. Hence the line: “When the lips are gone the teeth feel cold…” (Yu Yue holds that “jie” here should be read as in “jie qi wei”; under the “shi” (pig) entry in Shuowen Jiezi it says…)

Commentator Yu Yue on chun jie ze chi han (“when the lips are turned up, the teeth feel cold”) said that jie should be read as in jie qi wei (“turn up the tail”). The Shuowen entry on the pig (shi) mentions jie qi wei; here chun jie means curling the lips upward so they show, and once the lips are turned up, the teeth are exposed to the cold—a small image that leads into the later argument that causes and effects chain together.

Lu jiu bo er Handan wei (“Lu’s thin wine and the siege of Handan”): Following Xu Shen’s note on the Huainanzi, Chu summoned the feudal lords to a covenant; both Lu and Zhao presented wine to the King of Chu. Lu’s wine was weak, Zhao’s strong. The Chu official in charge of wine asked Zhao for some; Zhao refused; the official, in anger, swapped Zhao’s strong wine for Lu’s weak wine and reported to the king. The king took it that Zhao had offered thin wine as a slight and sent troops to besiege Handan in Zhao. The point is that a trifle or a small stake in interest can draw after it a great disaster.

Sheng ren sheng er da dao qi: When the sage appears, the great thief rises too.

Pou ji sheng ren, zong she dao zei, er tian xia shi zhi yi: Strike down and remove the cult of the “sage,” and neither chase nor harshly punish thieves, and only then does the world begin to be truly ordered.

Fu chuan jie er gu xu, qiu yi er yuan shi: When the river runs dry, the valley is empty; when the hill is leveled, the deep pool is filled—an image of things tied together, one side waning as the other waxes.

Sheng ren yi si, ze da dao bu qi, tian xia ping er wu gu yi: If there were no sages, great thieves would not arise; the world would be at peace, without those troubles that the “Way of the sages” invites.

Sheng ren bu si, da dao bu zhi: As long as sages live and are honored, great thieves will not cease.

Sui zhong sheng ren er zhi tian xia, ze shi zhong li Daozhi ye: Even if you double your reverence for sages to govern the world, you only double the profit for Daozhi (the legendary great robber)—because the titles and standards the “sage” establishes are precisely what the great thief wants to steal.

Wei zhi dou hu yi liang zhi, ze bing yu dou hu er qie zhi: Make pecks and bushels to measure the world, and the thief steals the pecks and bushels along with the goods.

Wei zhi quanheng yi cheng zhi, ze bing yu quanheng er qie zhi: Make balances and weights to weigh goods, and the thief steals the balances and weights as well.

Wei zhi fu xi yi xin zhi, ze bing yu fu xi er qie zhi: Make seals and chops as tokens of trust, and the thief steals the seals and chops too.

Wei zhi ren yi yi jiao zhi, ze bing yu ren yi er qie zhi: Use ren and yi (benevolence and righteousness) to straighten people’s hearts, and the thief steals “benevolence and righteousness” along with everything else.

He yi zhi qi ran ye? On what grounds do we know it is so?

Bi qie gou zhe zhu: The one who steals a belt hook is put to death (Cheng Xuanying: gou means the hook on a belt).

Qie guo zhe wei zhuhou: The one who steals a whole state becomes a feudal lord.

Zhuhou zhi men, er ren yi cun yan: Wang Yinzhi thought the text should read ren yi yan cun—“benevolence and righteousness dwell there”—meaning that ren and yi lodge in the gates of the feudal lords: whoever holds the lord’s seat holds the name of “benevolence and righteousness.”

Ze shi fei qie ren yi sheng zhi ye? Is this not stealing benevolence, righteousness, sageliness, and wisdom as well?

Therefore those who follow great bandits and vie to become feudal lords steal the label of ren and yi (benevolence and righteousness) and seize the emblems of power and gain—measuring vessels, scales, and seals. Even rich ranks and salaries cannot persuade them toward the good; punishments of axe and halberd cannot restrain them. That men like the bandit Zhi value these things more than mere profit yet cannot be stopped is precisely the mistake of the “sages”—those who push ren, yi, ritual, law, and stratagem.

Hence the saying: “Fish cannot be taken from the deep pool; the state’s sharp tools must not be shown to the people.” Those sages are in truth the sharpest tools under Heaven; they ought not to be put on display for the world.

So: abolish the title of “sage” and discard clever governance, and great bandits will cease; cast away jade and pearls so that petty thieves no longer rise; burn the seals and smash the credentials, and the people return to plain simplicity; break the measuring vessels and snap the scales, and the people no longer wrangle over petty calculations; tear to pieces the “sage laws” of the empire, and the people can truly consult together on how things should be; confuse the six pitch standards and burn pipes and zithers, stop up the ears of a Shi Kuang (so that no one monopolizes “correct” hearing), and everyone under Heaven keeps his own hearing; wipe out flowery writing and scatter the five colors, seal the eyes of a Li Zhu (so that no one monopolizes “clear” sight), and everyone keeps his own eyes; destroy plumb lines and hooks, throw away compass and square, break the fingers of a Gong Chui (so that no one monopolizes standard craft), and everyone keeps his own skill—hence the greatest skill seems clumsy.

Strip away the moral benchmarks of a Zeng Shen or a Shi Qiu, silence the tongues of Yang Zhu and Mo Di, drop the preaching of ren and yi, and the world’s de (virtue/power) can return to an undivided wholeness, no longer split into factions.

Cheng Xuanying says: The myriad things do not lose their original genuineness; each person obtains what is due to them; by following their nature they preserve the principle of Heaven—thus they merge as one with the subtle Dao.

Cui Dan says: If people inwardly conceal their brilliance, the world will not be worn away. Cheng Xuanying says: “Worn away” means destroyed. Cui Dan says: If people inwardly conceal their keen hearing, the world will not be burdened by worry. Cheng Xuanying says: “Burdened” means afflicted with anxiety. Cui Dan says: If people inwardly conceal their wisdom, the world will not be confused; if people inwardly conceal their virtue (de), the world will not turn perverse.

People such as Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Yang Zhu, Mozi, Shi Kuang, Gong Chui, and Li Zhu all displayed virtue outwardly and flaunted what they had gained—yet by that very flaunting they disturbed the world. The Shiwen (commentary) cites the San Cang lexicon: yao refers to a flame’s light being spent and gone. Guo Xiang says: From the standpoint of correct teaching, all of these ought to be discarded.

Do you not know the “Age of Perfect Virtue”? In antiquity there were Rongcheng, Datin, Bohuang, Zhongyang, Lilu, Lichu, Xuanyuan, Hexu, Zunlu, Zhurong, Fuxi, and Shennong—Sima Biao says these twelve names are rulers of high antiquity. In that age the people kept records with knotted cords; they ate with relish, dressed comfortably, customs were harmonious, and they dwelt in contentment; neighboring states were within sight of one another, the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs could be heard across borders, and people lived out their lives without traveling back and forth to one another. Were it truly so, that would be great order under Heaven. Nowadays it has come to the point that the common people stretch their necks and stand on tiptoe, saying “In such-and-such a place there is a worthy man,” and they run off bearing provisions to join him—Cui Dan says: ying means to wrap or bundle (as when carrying grain). Cheng Xuanying says: Inwardly they cast off kin, like Wu Qi; outwardly they leave their lord’s affairs, like Yu Qing. Their footprints cover the lands of the feudal lords, and the ruts of their chariots link up a thousand li away. Gui is the trace left by a wheel rut.

(Note: This passage comes from “Horse’s Hooves” in the Zhuangzi, on the Age of Perfect Virtue and the harm of “exalting the worthy” in later ages; original text and various commentaries are interwoven.)

Plain interpretation

“Jie” (entanglement) means things tying one another up and dragging one another down. That shows people in high places have gone too far in loving clever tricks. When those above truly love cleverness but do not restrain it with the Dao, use it to disturb the ten thousand things, and do not settle the realm with the Dao, the realm falls into disorder. How do we know?

The more bows, crossbows, hand-nets, bird arrows with cords, and trigger mechanisms there are, the more birds scatter and flee in the sky. The more hooks, bait, nets, seines, and fish traps there are, the more fish dart about in the water. The more trimmed stakes for blocking, rope snares, bird nets, and beast nets there are, the more animals run wild in marshes and thickets.

The more verbal arts there are—deceit, slow poison, slippery quibbling, “hard and white,” splitting filth, sameness and difference—the more the world is spun around and confused by debate from the mouth.

Guo Qingfan says: In Xunzi’s “Against the Twelve Masters” there is “knowing yet treacherous”; in “Discussion of Military Affairs” there is “this is the gradual [corruption]”; in “Correcting Theories” there is “when those above are violent and dangerous, those below become gradually deceitful.” The four words zhi (knowing), zha (deceit), jian (gradual/slippery), and du (poisonous) are close in meaning—all point to fraud and trickery. The Shiwen commentary explains: “jié huá” means improper speech; “jiě gòu” means twisted, distorted words.

Commentary: “jié” is a loan character for “xiá” (cunning and sly).

Hence the world is often in great disorder. Li Yun says: “měi měi” is like “hūn hūn”—confusion and lack of clarity.

The root of the calamity lies in fondness for cleverness and strife over knowledge. Everyone in the world busies themselves seeking what they do not yet know, yet refuses to turn back and apply what they already know; everyone busies themselves blaming others for what is wrong, yet does not examine whether what they themselves do well is still appropriate—in this way the world falls into chaos.

Then above, they violate the brightness of sun and moon; below, they drain the essential qi of mountains and rivers; in between, they disrupt the normal course of the four seasons. Cheng Xuanying says: “shuò” means erosion; “duò” means ruin.

Soft-bodied creatures that crawl without feet—the Shiwen says “zhuì ruǎn” refers to legless worms; light, leaping insects—Li Yun says these are small flying creatures—both have lost their inherent nature.

To delight in cleverness, to treat “knowing” as a treasure, and to throw the world into disorder—this is truly excessive! From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou downward, it has been thus.

They cast aside plain, honest, and thick-spirited people, yet favor busy, fawning, crafty sycophants. Li Yun says: “zhǒng zhǒng” is the bearing of cautious sincerity and honesty; “yì yì” is the bearing of ghostly cunning and artifice.

They abandon tranquil indifference and non-action (wuwei), yet delight in the “tūn tūn” attitude of loving to play teacher—“tūn tūn” itself already disturbs the world. Guo Xiang says: “tūn tūn” means using one’s own set of views to lecture others.

This passage in the Zhuangzi says that one has only heard of settling the world through zaiyou (“letting be” or “reigning through forbearance”), not of running the world through “governing the world.” In his commentary on Xie Lingyun’s poetry in the Wen xuan, Sima Biao glosses zai as “discerning clearly” and you as “lenient indulgence.” Su Yu disagrees: zai should not mean discerning clearly—once there is clear discernment, one has already moved toward governance. Zai should mean “to preserve and hold”—keeping judgments of right and wrong and likes and dislikes hidden in the heart without exposing them, so that the people can live together in a primordial, undifferentiated state. That matches the sense of han (“containing” or “holding back”) in the Quqie (“Opening Trunks”) chapter.

“Zai” reflects fear that people will over-indulge their natures; “you” reflects fear that they will alter or abandon their innate virtue (de). If people neither corrupt their nature nor shift their virtue, why would one need a special project of “governing the world”? Cheng Xuanying adds: why would one need yet another system of rule on top of that?

In antiquity, when Yao ruled the world, he made people flourish and each delight in their own nature—but that was really a way of keeping them from quiet ease (tian, stillness). When Jie ruled, he wore people out and made each suffer in their nature—but that was really a way of keeping them from joyful ease (yu, pleasure). Where there is neither stillness nor joy, there is no de. That de could endure without such conditions—nothing of the sort exists under heaven.

When a person is wildly joyful, they lean entirely toward yang; when wildly angry, toward yin. Yu Yue notes that joy belongs to yang and anger to yin; piyang and piyin (“clinging to yang” and “clinging to yin”) mean damaging the harmony of yin and yang—the same idea as in the Huainanzi, Yuandao chapter: “When a person is greatly angry, yin is broken; when greatly joyful, yang collapses.” When yin and yang are both pushed to extremes, the four seasons fail to follow their course, cold and heat fall out of balance, and the person’s body is harmed. Cheng Xuanying asks: when people are full of illness, is that not precisely a reversal that injures the physical form?

Rulers also make joy and anger lose proper measure, make dwelling places unstable, and make thought unable to govern itself, so that people cannot complete the constant way halfway through life. Then under heaven appear qiaojie (resentment and grievance in the heart) and zhuozhi (harsh, unruly conduct)—as Cui’s commentary puts it—and only then do violent acts like those of Robber Zhi appear, along with conduct praised as “good names,” such as that of Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (Shi Yu).

Therefore, even if one exhausted the strength of the whole world to reward so-called good people, it would still not be enough; people's minds would remain unsettled, and the central way could not shine forth. Thus in the world there first arose perverse trends of resentment and extreme conduct; only afterward did there appear contrasting models of “good” and “evil” in the mold of Robber Zhi (the great bandit) on one side and Confucian paragons such as Zeng Shen and Shiyu on the other.

So rewarding the good with all the power in the world still cannot meet demand, and punishing the wicked with all the power in the world still cannot exhaust the supply—Guo Xiang explains: people perform goodness to win rewards, so rewards naturally fall short; they refrain from evil out of fear of punishment, so punishment can never catch up. Clearly, the world as a whole was never sufficient to pin human hearts down through reward and punishment alone. From the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou downward, people have clamored endlessly, yet in the end they have treated reward and punishment as the main business of governing—where was there room to settle each person's innate nature and authentic life (xingming zhi qing)?

Moreover, to pursue “sharp discernment”—is that not immersion in forms and colors? To pursue “keen hearing”—is that not immersion in sounds? To preach “benevolence” (ren)—is that not disruption of natural De (Virtue/Power)? To preach “righteousness” (yi)—is that not violation of heavenly principle? To preach “ritual” (li)—is that not encouragement of superficial clever arts? To preach “music” (yue)—is that not encouragement of decadent, sensual sounds (“xiang” here means to assist and amplify)? To preach “sages”—is that not encouragement of artificial stratagems and contrived skills? To preach “clever schemes”—is that not encouragement of fault-finding and quarrels over right and wrong (Wang Fuzhi: to walk alongside them and lose oneself in the process is what is called “xiang”)?

If people throughout the world could still settle their xingming zhi qing, these eight ways of speaking might exist or not—it would make little difference; if people throughout the world could not settle their xingming zhi qing, these eight ways would make them curl up and stiffen, limbs unable to stretch freely (“luanjuan” describes the body unable to unfold), like a pouch drawn tight and sealed (“cangnang,” or read as “qiangnang”—being bound and constrained), thereby throwing the world into disorder.

In this passage, the text criticizes how people elevate what ought not to be honored, and explains how the junzi (noble person) “only when compelled governs all under Heaven.”

The scripture says: In Cui’s edition, “cang” is written as “qiang,” and “qiang nang” is glossed like “qiang rang”—turmoil and scrambling for gain. Yet people under Heaven instead honor and cherish it; how deluded they are! Is it enough merely to “discard what is wrong”? (Xuan’s note: Is it only that when something is past its time you let it go?) People still observe purification before they dare speak of it, kneel and sit to present it, beat drums and sing and dance around it (Xuan’s note: generation after generation they delight in it and cannot stop). If things are truly like this, what can I do?

Therefore it is said: The junzi only when compelled comes forward to face all under Heaven, and nothing is more fitting than wuwei (non-action). Having achieved wuwei, one can then settle one’s xingming zhi qing—the authentic disposition of one’s nature-and-life. Hence Laozi says: One who values the person more than all under Heaven may be entrusted with all under Heaven; one who cherishes the person more than all under Heaven may be given charge of all under Heaven. (Xuan’s note: In the matter of “acting for all under Heaven,” to value and cherish the person within while treating the outer lightly is why, in wuwei toward the world, one can become ruler of all under Heaven.) Su Yu holds that the two “yu” characters after “shen” (body/person) may be interpolations; these four lines originally appear in the Laozi.)

Therefore, if the junzi does not scatter and disorder the five viscera (Shi Wen: jie means to scatter; as in Pian Mu’s “arrayed among the five viscera,” often set against excessive reliance on ren and yi), does not pull up and display his cleverness (zhuo, to pull up—boasting of intelligence), outwardly is still as a corpse while spirit appears like a dragon, deep and silent as an abyss while his voice is like thunder, unmoving yet seeming spirit-like, not speaking yet fame spreads of itself (the last two lines also appear in “Heaven’s Revolving”). When spirit moves, the tianji (heavenly mechanism) follows of itself; easy and wuwei, the myriad things rise and accumulate like smoke from cooking and drifting dust (Sima: chui lei is like moving upward; Xiang and Guo also offer readings).