《庄子集解》Vol. 6

This commentary mainly examines the pronunciation and referent of the graph ● in the phrase “obtaining water it becomes ●.” The commentators say that this character is read ji (“to continue”); Sima Biao’s annotated edition has ji, while other editions have duan (“to break”) or xuduan (teasel). Lu Wenchao holds that ji is correct here; Cheng Xuanying explains ji as the moistening qi of Heaven and Earth that nourishes the myriad things, bringing them from nonexistence into existence and continuing them one after another. The author further cites the Erya, “Explaining Plants”: “Xu is ox-lip,” and Guo Pu’s commentary, quoting the Mao Commentary, says that “water xi” resembles xuduan, has joints at every inch, and can grow again after being pulled up; the Shuowen also says that xu is water xi. Hao Yixing, on the basis of actual observation, says that the “horse xi” flower in water resembles plantain but is larger, and after being pulled up it regenerates joint by joint. The author therefore concludes that what Zhuangzi calls ● is precisely this water plant: it regenerates joint by joint, and that is how it got its name. Some editions write it as duan or xuduan because they mistook ● for duan, and later people erroneously added the character xu. Although this xu resembles xuduan, it is not the same as the xuduan that grows in valleys; it regenerates joint by joint and has no root fixed in the soil, and so it is called “water xi,” which exactly fits the sense of “obtaining water it becomes ●.”

The commentary also mentions that the Tianrui chapter contains the sentence “like a frog becoming a quail,” whose interpretation remains unclear. It then explains “at the boundary of water and soil it becomes the garment of frogs and toads” (wa pin zhi yi): Sima Biao says that the roots of this kind of thing are at the junction of water and soil, spread through the water, and cannot be seen from the surface; they can be obtained only by pressing and feeling with the hand, like silk floss laid out in water, which the people of Chu call “the garment of frogs and toads.” Cheng Xuanying says that it is green moss, which in water looks like spread-out silk floss and is popularly called “toad’s garment.” The author concludes that this is something generated from the interaction of water and soil, not something on the surface of the water; the citation of “Explaining Plants” is also meant to clarify the names and identities of this kind of water plant.

This passage is philological commentary from an annotation on the Zhuangzi, discussing the identification of plant names. The gist is as follows.

Fìwèi, mǎxì, and chēqián (plantain / “coach-wheel grass”)

Guo Pu says these refer to what is now called cheqián (plantain): large leaves and long spikes, often growing beside roads; people in Jiangdong call it “xiāmáyī” (“toad garment”). So “xiāmáyī” is neither moss nor what Sima Xiangru meant by that name.

Zéxiè and shuǐxì

The Erya “Explanation of Plants” has “yù, xù”; Guo Pu glosses it as “today’s zéxù,” i.e. zéxiè (alisma). In materia medica it is also called “shuǐxì” (also written mùxì). Tao Hongjing’s note says: narrow, long leaves, growing in clusters in shallow water. Su Song’s Illustrated Classic says: leaves like ox-tongue grass, single leaves and long, white flowers in clusters in autumn, like gǔjīngcǎo; the root is dug in late autumn and dried. The plant often grows where water meets land, hence a harvestable root.

Interchange of names

A Wenxuan commentary cites Hanshi zhangju: “Fìwèi is zéxì.” Lu Ji’s Mao shi shu says mǎxì in Youzhou is also called ox-tongue grass. Because the leaves are similar and names such as shuǐxì, zéxì, and fìwèi are used interchangeably, the name “xiāmáyī” was also applied to língxì growing by roads—a usage people took for granted without examining closely.

Língxì and chēqián

What grows on mounds and raised ground is called língxì. Sima Biao says: the idea is that a thing formed by water appears on dry land—what grows on língtún becomes chēqián, hence also língxì; also called zéxì, changing with wet or dry conditions. (This too illustrates interchangeable naming.)

Zhang Zhan’s note on the Liezi: “Língtún: a lofty, clean place.” In general it means land without standing water.

Lu Ji, cited in the Shi (Fìwèi) gloss: ox-tongue is also called “dāngdào” (“in the middle of the road”). The Hanshi says: what grows in the middle of the main road is chēqián; what grows beside the road is fìwèi—distinguishing “straight road” from “roadside.” The straight road is dāngdào; both align with “growing on língtún.”

Yùqī and wūzú

If língxì meets yùqī, it becomes wūzú. Sima Biao: yùqī is the name of an insect; wūzú is a plant name, growing near water—yùqī in língxì, and língxì turns into wūzú.

Li Yi says: yùqī is manure soil; língxì in manure becomes wūzú. Note: yùqī means manure soil, not an insect name; see below for detail.

Root of wūzú and qícáo

The root of wūzú is qícáo. Sima’s text writes “cǎoqí,” calling it xiē (a kind of insect). Note: qícáo and cǎoqí are two different things. The Erya “Explanation of Insects” has “féi qí cǎo”; Guo Pu glosses “in manure soil.” It also has “qiúqí, xiē,” glossed “in wood; though both are loosely called xiē, the habitat differs.” The Odes “neck like qiúqí” and Cai Yong’s Qingyi fu have “neck like cǎoqí”—showing mixed usage in the sources as well.

This passage is exegesis from the Collected Commentaries on Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi jijie) on names of things in the text, word meanings, and legends of transformation. The gist is as follows.

“Qiu” and “cao” are the same character. The Shuowen jiezi says: “Qiu is qiu● (a kind of insect name)”; it also says “xie is qiu●.” It further records entries such as “●, ●●” and “●, ●●.” From this we know that the manuscript Sima Biao used wrongly merged the two characters into one. Only the Shuowen has no character “fei”; “fei” is mostly a graphic variant of “fen” (dung/manure) due to sound change. What Wuzu (the “crow foot”) is tied to gestates in dung-rich soil; with its root in that soil, what grows out is the qicang (white grub)—which makes the point clearer. The Bencao gangmu records: feiqi (dung grubs) grow in the He River’s level marshes and in heaps of dung and straw at people’s homes; those that can crawl upside down are considered good. Tao Hongjing’s note: “qi” is also written “qi” (alternate graph). The Fangyan says “qi cao” is also called “fei.” “Qi” and “qi” are alliterative (double initial).

Its leaves turn into butterflies. The qicang is as big as a thumb; it moves with arm-like parts and is faster than walking on feet. From summer to autumn it becomes a cicada. The Lunheng, “On Formlessness,” says “the qicang becomes fuyu, and fuyu again becomes a cicada”—that is the idea here.

The hudie (butterfly) is also called “xu.” Commentators say “xu ye” should be read together with the following “transforms into an insect,” in parallel with later “quduo after a thousand days becomes a bird.” A thousand days to become a bird means a long time; “xu ye transforms into an insect” means a quick change. The note to the Tian Rui chapter (Liezi) says: “Xu means ‘few’ or ‘little,’ referring to a short span.” That reading is correct.

Born under the stove, shaped like shed skin, its name is quduo. “Tuo” and “tui” (shedding/sloughing) are interchangeable. Quduo lives a thousand days (Zhang Zhan’s note: it dies at a thousand days), then becomes a bird called ganyugu. In the Tian Rui chapter, before “wei” there are also the two characters “hua er” (“transforms and”).

Ganyugu’s mouth foam becomes simi, and simi again becomes shi’ai (a fermented sour condiment, in the vinegar family). Li Yi says “mo” is juice from the mouth; Gu Cheng says simi is the finished shi’ai.

The miemeng—tiny gnats that appear in vinegar jars—are what people call “xiji” (small creatures that seem to arise on their own in vinegar or fermenting matter). Some accounts say huangpi come from eating sour, vinegar-like things; other lines speak of things “arising from jiuyou,” meaning maorui arise from jiuyou (a kind of medium or environment in the text); still higher in the chain there is “arising from fuxie”—commentaries disagree on fuxie, reading it as fireflies, or as the tiny worms in melons, or as grain-moth larvae, with varying pronunciations and glosses.

There are also sentences such as “yangxi compares with Bu●, and jiuzhu gives birth to qingning”: one line of interpretation takes yangxi as a plant name resembling turnip root, which combines with something unlike it (such as jiuzhu) and thereby transforms and generates; qingning is the name of an insect. Punctuation is disputed too—whether jiuzhu belongs with the preceding clause or the following one differs among Cheng Xuanying, Zhang Zhan, and Lu Deming, and collected commentaries do not settle which is correct. Zhang Zhan also notes that before this passage in the Tianyun (Heavenly Revolutions) chapter, there is another series of more than twenty lines—from the liver of a sheep becoming dijiao down to “xiji arise from wine”—which Zhuangzi omits when he quotes the material here.

In the chain Zhuangzi retains, qingning gives birth to Cheng (commentators sometimes gloss Cheng as the name of a red worm), Cheng gives birth to the horse, the horse gives birth to the human, and the human in turn sinks back into Ji. The ten thousand things are all born from Ji, and all return again to Ji.

In texts of this kind, Ji usually denotes that invisible layer of root-cause and pivot that drives the birth and transformation of the myriad forms—not the modern mechanical “machine,” but the inner mechanism by which Zaohua (the transforming work of nature) generates itself and cycles without end. The whole passage uses a string of legends of generation, from the minute to the vast and from the human back to the source, to show that forms and species need not stay within fixed “like begets like” categories, and that in the end all alike return to the same Ji of Zaohua.

Those who truly understand the reality of life do not attempt what life was never meant to do or what one ought not expect from it (the commentary notes: pursuits that do not truly nourish life—such vain “support” for the body—belong to what “life has no use for”).

Those who truly understand the reality of fate (tianming) do not force what wisdom cannot accomplish (the commentary notes: what heaven’s decree does not allow one to grasp is precisely what intellect cannot reach).

Preserving the body must first rely on external things (the commentary: wealth, food, and clothing); yet some have ample goods and still fail to keep the body well (the commentary: in the end, external things alone are not enough truly to nourish the form).

To live one must first not be separated from the bodily form; yet some never leave the form behind while life is already gone (the commentary: in the end, the form alone is not enough to hold life).

When life arrives it cannot be pushed away; when it departs it cannot be held back. How lamentable! People think nourishing the form is enough to preserve life, but if nourishing the form truly cannot save life, what is worldly striving worth? Even if much of it is not worth doing, there is one kind of thing one cannot avoid by refusing to do it: what falls within one’s proper share of duty (the commentary: what lies outside one’s portion need not be forced; what lies within it cannot be left undone).

To be less burdened by the body, it is best to “renounce the world” (qishi)—to release attachment to worldly fame and gain. Renouncing the world, the heart is not weighed down; unburdened, the heart is upright and level (the commentary: as if walking on level ground). Upright and level, one cycles and renews together with transformation (zaohua)—and so one is close to the Way (the commentary: ji, nearing the Dao).

What in affairs is worth casting away, what in life is worth forgetting? (The commentary: the human world is empty at root—no need to “donate” it on purpose; life’s course is illusory at root—no need to “forget” it on purpose.) If we speak of “abandoning affairs,” the form is not toiled; if we speak of “releasing life,” the essence (jing) is not depleted.

When the form is whole and the essence restored, one is one with Heaven (the commentary: aligned with nature’s own transforming). Heaven and Earth are the parents of the ten thousand things: when they gather, a body forms; when they scatter, a beginning takes shape elsewhere (the commentary: what disperses here begins anew there). Neither form nor essence is impaired—this is called neng yi (“capacity to shift”)—to shift and share in the work of transformation. Essence refined upon essence, in turn one can xiang tian—assist and second Heaven and Earth in their nurturing (the commentary: when essence is cultivated to the utmost, transforming and nurturing depend on this).

Note: Inline glosses marked “Xuan says” and “Cheng says” in the source refer to traditional notes in the Zhuangzi Jijie; their sense is woven into the plain-language reading above. Terms such as qishi, neng yi, and xiang tian are briefly explained in parentheses where the text requires it.

Liezi asked Guan Yin for instruction. Guan Yin was Yin Xi, keeper of Hangu Pass (a disciple of Laozi, known as the Perfected Lord Keeper of the Pass). Liezi questioned him because he embodied the Way and held fast to virtue.

Liezi asked: When a perfected person walks in darkness, nothing blocks the way; when stepping on fire, they feel no burn; when walking atop the myriad things, they are not afraid. How can one reach such a state?

Guan Yin replied: This comes from guarding pure, authentic qi—not from cleverness, cunning, boldness, or resolve. Sit properly; I will tell you. Whatever has outward appearance, image, sound, or color is a “thing.” How can one thing differ from another? (Guo Xiang: Only one without a fixed mind can alone go far.) What could let you take the lead? They are merely of the kind that has form and color. (Guo Xiang: Things alike in form and color cannot establish who comes first.) What gives birth to things lies in what has no form; what they rest in lies in what undergoes no change. (Zhang Zhan’s note: If what exists has no beginning, what it creates is formless; if form has no end, what it stops in is without transformation.) Whoever can penetrate this to the limit—how could things obstruct them?

(Cheng Xuanying’s explanation of the first half: Dwelling hidden in the world yet not blocked by outer conditions; cold and heat cannot harm, height and depth cannot frighten—hence fire cannot injure and the mind knows no fear. Elsewhere Liezi uses “not empty,” with a similar meaning.)

Cheng Xuanying says: This does not mean being ruled by external things.

Textual note: The word wu (things) does not appear in the original text of the Yellow Emperor chapter; er zhi (and stop) is likely a corruption of zheng yue (correctly stated).

“He will abide in the measure of not overstepping”

He settles within a boundary of proper share and never going too far.

Guo Xiang says: He stops at the portion that is rightfully his.

Textual note: In the Yellow Emperor chapter, yin (excess) is mistakenly written as shen (deep).

“And conceal himself in a principle that has no fixed beginning”

He also hides within a pattern that has no fixed starting point and that shifts without end.

Guo Xiang says: Like something dark and indeterminate, he exists together with change that renews day by day.

“And roam where all things reach their beginning and end”

He also moves freely at the limits of the cycle in which the myriad things arise and perish.

Guo Xiang says: “Beginning and end” means the extreme of transformation in things.

“Make his nature one”

He keeps his original nature unified, not split apart.

Guo Xiang says: Once one deliberately adorns and fabricates, the nature is cut in two.

“Nourish his qi”

He tends the qi within.

Guo Xiang says: He does not use the mind to force or drive it.

“Harmonize with his de”

He aligns with the power of de.

Guo Xiang says: He does not leave his nature because of external things.

Textual note: The Yellow Emperor chapter has han qi de (embrace his de); he (harmonize) is likely a corruption of han (embrace).

“So as to penetrate what the myriad things are made from”

Thus he reaches through to the root from which the myriad things come forth.

Cheng Xuanying says: What the myriad things are made from is spontaneity (ziran). When nature is one and de is aligned, one can respond to the myriad things; therefore one can arrive at the origin of the utmost Dao and penetrate the foundation of the natural.

A person like this keeps heaven’s wholeness intact and leaves no crack in the spirit—how could external things intrude on their own? Outside trouble cannot get in.

“A drunk who falls from a cart, though hurt badly, may not die”: When someone drunk falls from a carriage, even a severe fall may not kill him. His joints are the same as other people’s, yet the harm he suffers differs from theirs, because his spirit remains whole—while in the cart he is not self-conscious, and when he falls he is not self-conscious; life, death, shock, and fear do not enter his breast, so when he collides with things he is not afraid.

Notes on the text: Wu is pronounced wù; the Erya says wu means to clash or go against. Guo Xiang glosses wu as to offend or violate; she means fear. Lu Wenchao notes: Some editions wrongly write a plant radical for the heart radical (i.e. a character like chu for alarm).

If even in wine he can preserve heavenly nature to this degree, how much more one who fully receives the Dao of heaven and spontaneity!

“The sage hides his person in heaven”—therefore nothing can harm him.

The quotation from Liezi ends here.

Those who seek revenge do not break famous swords such as Moye and Ganjiang (legendary paired blades); even when resentment fills the heart, they do not blame a tile that fell from the roof. Thus the world can be roughly fair: there is no turmoil from warfare and no punishment from reckless killing—all of this comes from following this Dao.

Do not open the path of “human contrivance”; open the path of “the Way of Heaven.” Guo Xiang says: knowing without deliberate thought is “opening Heaven”; relying on thought first and then being moved by contact is “opening the human.” Seen this way, opening Heaven is the native nature acting; opening the human is cleverness at work.

When Heaven is opened, De grows—Guo Xiang: when native nature acts, one meets things and responds aptly, and when satisfied lets the rest go—thus De arises. When the human is opened, harm grows—Guo Xiang: once cleverness is used, one chases after sensation and does not stop when weary—thus harm arises.

Do not go against one’s own inborn nature, and do not slight others: steadfastly keeping the De of the Way of Heaven means not rejecting inborn nature; wisdom that illumines outer things means not neglecting others. The common people will then be close to each keeping their true authenticity. “Ji” means “close to.” Cheng Xuanying says: when all under Heaven return to the true, the living masses are no longer hypocritical.

Zhongni went to the state of Chu… (The original text here seems to have missing or corrupt characters; it usually continues the episode in Zhuangzi of Confucius in Chu. If linked with “opening the human then thieves arise,” the gist is still: not relying on human cleverness but following the Way of Heaven, so the people draw near to the true and the age has less disorder.)

Confucius went to Chu and passed through a grove, where he saw a hunchbacked old man using a long pole to catch cicadas; his technique was so practiced that it was like casually picking something up. The commentator Cheng Xuanying says that goulou describes the old man’s bent, hunchbacked form; cheng tiao means taking cicadas with a pole; and duo means to pick up. Guo Qingfan holds that cheng should be read as zheng, meaning to draw in or take down. The Shuowen gives a different character for it; in the “Huangdi” chapter of the Liezi there is the phrase “shi dizi bing liu er cheng zhi,” and the Jingdian Shiwen notes that “cheng is pronounced zheng.” He also says that in the “Huangdi” chapter lü is written as lou, a loan character. Confucius asked, “Your skill is truly ingenious—is there some technique of the Dao in it?” The old man replied, “I have a technique of the Dao.” The phrase “wu liu yue lei wan” means that he spent five or six months practicing stacking pellets on the tip of the pole without letting them fall, and by this trained a steady, motionless skill; the old commentator Sima Biao also offered an explanation of this.

Source and context

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi story of “The Hunchback Who Catches Cicadas,” together with collation notes in the style of the Zhuangzi jijie (Collected Explanations on the Zhuangzi)—for example, comparison with variant readings in the “Huangdi” chapter of the Liezi.

The fifth and sixth months and training the pole

The fifth and sixth months are the best season for catching cicadas with a sticky pole. “Stacking pellets” (lei wan) means placing small balls (or clay pellets) on the pole tip to train steady hands: if only two are stacked and none fall, misses are rare; with three stacked, roughly one or two times in ten there may be a miss; when five stay on without falling, holding the pole is as steady as picking something up at random.

Description of body and arm

The hunchback said: I plant my body as if it were a stake or tree stump fixed in the ground, unmoving; when I raise my arm it is like a withered branch, without reckless movement (Guo Xiang’s note: this is the utmost of “not moving”). Though heaven and earth are vast and things are many, in my mind I see only cicada wings. I do not glance left or right, nor let outer things scatter my focus on those wings—so I can stick the cicadas.

Confucius’s comment

Confucius turned to his disciples and said: When the will is undivided and not scattered, spirit (shen) gathers in one place—this is “using the will without division, thus concentrating in spirit” (yong zhi bu fen, nai ning yu shen). (Collation scholars note: in the Liezi, “Huangdi” chapter, the character here may read yi [doubt] rather than ning [concentrate], with the same sense; later passages such as “the ferryman handles the boat like a spirit” and “onlookers are startled as if by ghosts and spirits” follow the same line of thought as this “doubting in spirit”—spirit so focused it seems one with the divine.) Therefore Confucius praised: This must be the hunchback’s secret.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: “Once when I was crossing the Shangyuan River in Song, the man who poled the boat handled it as if aided by a spirit. I asked him: ‘Can the art of steering a boat be learned?’ He said: ‘It can. Someone who can swim will get it after a few tries; someone good at floating on water can learn it after a bit more practice.’ The Huangdi chapter also has lines like ‘those who can swim can be taught.’ As for those who dive underwater—expert divers—even if they have never seen a boat before, they can take the helm as soon as they board. When I asked him about that, he would not explain in detail. May I ask what this really means?”

Confucius said: “Someone who can swim picks it up in a few tries because in his mind he does not treat water as something to fear—that is, he ‘forgets the water.’ Before this line, the Huangdi chapter also says that ‘those who can swim can be taught’ means they do not feel water as heavy or oppressive. As for divers who can handle a boat they have never seen, it is because they see deep gulfs as level ground and are not afraid of capsizing; if the boat overturns, to them it is as ordinary as a cart rolling backward down a slope.” (Commentators explain: however much overturning and listing may be before their eyes, it does not enter that place of inner calm; when the spirit is settled, one is at ease everywhere.)

“Someone who bets with pottery shards is skillful with his hands because shards are worthless and he has nothing to lose; someone who bets with hooked metal objects grows fearful because they are somewhat valuable; someone who bets with gold grows confused and muddled in mind—or his spirit sinks—because the heavier the stake, the more his heart clings and tightens. The skill itself is the same; once one clings, one is pulled by external things, and whoever values external things becomes clumsy inside.”

Tian Kaizhi went to call on Duke Wei of Zhou. The duke said, “I have heard that Zhu Shen studies the way of nurturing life. You often associate with Zhu Shen—have you heard anything from him?” Tian Kaizhi replied, “Kaizhi is only someone who sweeps with a broom beside the gate; what could he possibly hear from his teacher?” The duke said, “Master Tian, please do not demur—I would like to hear.” Only then did Tian Kaizhi speak: “My teacher once said, ‘Someone who is good at nurturing life is like a shepherd who keeps his eye on the sheep that fall behind and whips them.’” The duke asked, “What does that mean?”

(Note: Guo Songtao explains that when you “whip the ones that lag behind,” the sheep in front will move forward smoothly. The point is to put your effort into the link in the practice that is easy to neglect or to drop behind—especially to guard the closing phase and hold fast to the end—rather than only watching the parts up front that already go well.)

Duke Wei asked Tian Kaizhi: What does it mean to say, “Whip from behind, and those in front will go along freely and easily”?

Tian Kaizhi replied: In essence, it means that in whatever you do you must stay careful through to the end and finish what you start well (“whipping from behind” is a metaphor for pressing from the rear and doing the closing work properly).

Duke Wei asked: “What does that refer to in concrete terms?”

Tian Kaizhi gave examples:

In Lu there was a man named Shan Bao who lived in the mountains and drank from springs, did not compete with the people for gain, and at seventy his complexion was still as rosy as an infant’s. Then he unexpectedly met a starving tiger and was bitten to death and eaten. Su Yu’s commentary says this illustrates failing to guard against dangers on the road—he cultivated only the inner and overlooked outer calamity.

There was also Zhang Yi, who whether passing a great house or a humble one (xuanbo: ordinary homes that hung curtains at the door to keep off wind and dust) always hurried forward with quick steps and showed respect. Texts such as Lüshi Chunqiu, “Biji,” say he “loved courtesy”; at gateways, door curtains, and wherever people gathered he never failed to hurry; Huainanzi, “Renjian xun,” adds that he treated even grooms and gatekeepers with ritual propriety, yet did not live out his natural span—in his forties he died of internal heat (a condition of excess yang heat in the body). Yu Yue thought the word “walk” here should be “hurry” (a textual error), and that the original Zhuangzi text is damaged, which is why later readers find it hard to understand.

Tian Kaizhi concluded: Toil the body without benefit. Shan Bao nourished the inner, but the tiger destroyed his outer; Zhang Yi nourished the outer, but illness attacked his inner—both men failed to whip themselves “from behind” and could not hold fast to the end.

(“Whipping from behind” and “not whipping those who lag behind” both draw on driving a cart or driving horses: you only care that the front goes well and do not press from the rear, and in the end things often go wrong—matching the idea of being careful to the finish.)

Confucius said: Do not hide away entirely within, and do not thrust yourself entirely outward; be like withered wood, free of idle thoughts, and rest calmly between stillness and activity. When you have realized all three, you may be called a zhiren (supreme person).

Think of a perilous road where one traveler in ten dies. Fathers, sons, and brothers warn one another and will not set out unless they have gathered a large party—that is knowing what to fear. Yet what people ought to fear most lies in the bedchamber, at the table, and in the relations of men and women; there they often fail to take care, and that is the gravest error.

Vernacular interpretation

The zhù officiant (the officer in charge of sacrificial zhù prayers), wearing xuán duān ritual robes, came to the edge of the pigsty and addressed the pig. Cheng Xuanying explains: zhù is the prayer-scribe; xuán duān is the vestments used in sacrifice; cè is the pig enclosure. Before the formal offering, he went to the sty and spoke to the pig—the passage below is that speech.

“Why must you fear death? I intend to fatten you for three months, then observe ten days of abstinence and three days of fasting, lay down white máo straw, and set your shoulder and haunch on a carved zǔ (the ritual vessel for sacrificial meat)—would you want that?” In the annotated text, “●” is read as huàn; Sima Biao says it means “to raise [and fatten].”

The pig, planning for itself, said: “Better give me bran and lees and let me stay in the pen.” Cuò here means to place or settle—this is the arrangement the pig would choose for itself.

When a person plans for himself, he wants rank and emblems like xuán miǎn while alive, and when dead wants to lie in the zhàn carriage (the vehicle that carries the coffin). Sima Biao says zhuàn resembles zhuàn (seal/script sense) and refers to the coffin carriage; dùn resembles àn, also a coffin-bearer. Wang Niansun says: zhuàn should be read as quán, the coffin carriage; Liji Zaji says “carried on the quán carriage,” and Zheng Xuan notes “quán is read quán”; Shi sang li commentary likewise says “coffin carriage.” In Zhouli it is called the shèn carriage; in Zaji the tún carriage—also written quán, fú—near in sound; here zhuàn is the same in meaning and pronunciation. Dùn should be read as chūn, also a coffin carriage; chūn and dùn are interchangeable in old writing, as Zaji commentary “carrying the coffin on dùn” shows.

He also wants jù lǚ (ornament on the coffin carriage)—one view takes lǚ as lóu, meaning lying in roadside grass and shà canopy covers. Wang Niansun says: jù lǚ is decoration on the coffin carriage; when many ornaments are gathered together it is jù (gather); the shape is high in the middle and low on four sides, hence lǚ (bent). Shiming says: “The carriage that bears the coffin—its cover is called liǔ. Liǔ means ‘gathering’: many ornaments gathered, and the form is lǚ.” Tangong has “set lóu shà”; Xunzi Lilun writes lǚ shà; Lüshi chunqiu Jiesang writes lǚ shà. Liǔ, lǒu, lǚ, lǚ—different graphs, same sense.

When people plan for themselves, they accept all this and ignore the disaster that follows. When planning for the pig, they reject that way of dying; when planning for themselves, they accept it—so where is the difference between a person and a pig?

Plain-language commentary

Duke Huan of Qi went hunting in marsh country with Guan Zhong driving the chariot. On the way the duke said he had seen a ghost and, gripping Guan Zhong’s hand, asked, “Zhongfu, what did you see?” Guan Zhong replied, “Your servant saw nothing.”

After the duke returned to the palace, his mind was unsettled, as if his spirit had left him; he fell ill and for several days did not leave his quarters. (Note: In old texts, eiyi often refers to fright that unsettles the spirit and disturbs the mind.)

A man named Huangzi Ga’ao came forward and said, “You have frightened your own body—how could a ghost truly harm you?” (Note: “Sima” in older commentaries is an explanatory label for this Huangzi.)

He went on: When anger and pent-up distress build in the heart and the qi that has dispersed cannot be gathered back, this shows up as buzu—a depletion of spirit and vital strength.

“Fen” is Qi (vital energy) fullness; “Chu” is Qi binding and accumulation. When the spirit is in rebellious disorder, Yin-Yang Qi accumulates within, while the hun and po souls scatter and drift outward; hence it is called “insufficiency.” Qi that only rises and does not descend makes people prone to anger; Qi that only descends and does not rise makes people prone to forgetfulness; Qi that neither rises nor descends but stops in the middle of the body, directly opposite the heart, will cause illness. Commentators explain: when Yang Qi disperses and Yin Qi congeals, there is anger; when Yin Qi disperses and Yang Qi lies hidden, there is forgetfulness; when above and below are not in harmony, Yin-Yang contend and attack the heart. The heart is the master of the spirit; hence illness arises.

Duke Huan of Qi asked, “Then do ghosts exist?” The reply was: “They do. In muddy water there is Lü (variant: Lou; a spirit name); in the stove there is Ji (the stove god, dressed in red and shaped like a beautiful woman); in the heap of dung and earth inside the gate dwells Leiting (a ghost name); in low places to the northeast, Bei’e and Guilong (Bei’e is a spirit name; Guilong is shaped like a child, one chi and four cun tall, wearing black clothes and a red turban, with a large cap, bearing a sword and holding a halberd) leap about; in low places to the northwest, Yiyang (a spirit name, leopard-headed and horse-tailed; one version says dog-headed) has its dwelling; in water there is Wangxiang (variant: Wushang; a water spirit, shaped like a child, reddish-black, with red claws, large ears, and long arms); on hills and mounds there is Xin (variant: Shen; shaped like a dog, horned, with five-colored patterns on its body); in mountains there is Kui (shaped like a drum, with one foot); in open country there is Panghuang (variant: Fanghuang; shaped like a two-headed snake, with five-colored patterns); in marshes there is Weishe.” Duke Huan asked, “What is the shape of Weishe?” Huangzi Gao’ao then prepared to explain the appearance of Weishe.

Weiyou: In legend, a kind of monstrous creature, as large around as a hub and as long as a chariot shaft; it wore purple robes and a vermilion crown (some say “Yu-style crown,” i.e., a crown in the style of the state of Yu, shaped like a spiral shell). By nature it was fierce and cruel. At the slightest sound like thunder or a rumbling chariot, it would raise its head and stand bolt upright. Those who saw it were often overawed by its presence, almost as if “subdued by it.”

Duke Huan (Duke Huan of Qi) then smiled broadly and said, “That is exactly what I saw with my own eyes.”

He then straightened his robes and cap and sat with his visitor as an equal; before a full day had passed, he had recovered without noticing how it happened. Guo Xiang’s commentary says this passage shows that when fear and worry arise, they drag life down—that is “not understanding”; when trouble has gone and original nature is restored, that is “grasping principle”—understanding how things work and no longer being bound by illusions and fear.

Ji Shenzi trained fighting cocks for the king (in the “Huangdi” chapter of Liezi, the king is King Xuan of Zhou). Some commentators write the name as “Xiao Shen.” After ten days of training, the king came and asked, “Is the cock ready?” (In Huangdi, more text follows this line; the passage quoted here ends at “Is the cock ready?”)

On the text: Before “yi wu bian yi” (already no change) in the original, the collator believes the two characters “ke dou” (can fight) were omitted; the reading here follows the commonly accepted understanding.

This passage is about training a fighting cock: someone learns from a master and comes every ten days to ask whether the cock is ready; each time the master says “not yet” and explains why.

First time (around the tenth day):

“Not yet. It still bluffs and relies entirely on fierce, hostile energy to hold itself up.”

(Zhang’s note in essence: it has no real skill yet but is arrogant and tries to intimidate with sheer presence.)

Ten days later:

“Not yet. It still calls back when it hears another cock, and moves when it sees a shadow.”

(Li Yun: responding to sound and following sight show the mind is not yet settled.)

Ten days later:

“Not yet. It still glares, puffs up, and puts on a belligerent air.”

(Zhang’s note: always looking for a rival and insisting on winning—the mind of competition is still there.)

Ten days later:

“Almost there. Even if other cocks crow beside it, it no longer stirs; it looks like a wooden cock, and its De (virtue/spirit) is complete.” (Xuan Yun: spirit gathered and still.) Other cocks dare not fight it; some dare not even answer and turn and flee.

Guo Xiang says: When the cock is brought to completeness, it is unmatched under heaven; how much more so when a person cultivates themselves to completeness and need not depend on external things.

Textual note: In the Huangdi chapter, the particle at the end of the parallel sentence is “er” rather than “yi”.

Main idea: Training a fighting cock moves from relying on bravado, echoing others, and loving to fight all the way to unmoved outside, no contention within—like a wooden cock, spirit gathered and centered—so opponents withdraw on their own. Zhuangzi often uses this story to illustrate dropping the will to win and nurturing full spirit, not to teach people actually to fight cocks.

Confucius was at Lüliang watching the force of the water. Sima Biao says that where the river strikes rock it forms dangerous, sheer places; today, west of Lishi County in Xihe, there is just such a spot, known in the world as Huangliang. The Huainanzi says: “In ancient times Longmen had not yet been opened, and the Yellow River issued above Mengmen.” Cheng Xuanying says: “Some place Longmen two hundred li from Puzhou, where the Yellow River runs through and drops as a waterfall—also called Lüliang; others identify Lüliang with the place near Pengcheng in the state of Song.”

The pool there was thirty ren deep, and the froth from the churning current ran forty li; giant soft-shelled turtles, crocodilians, fish, and ordinary turtles could not swim in it. Confucius saw a man swimming in the water and thought he was in distress and seeking death, or that sorrow had driven him to drown himself; he sent his disciples downstream with the current to save him. After several hundred paces the man surfaced, hair loose, singing as he walked along the bank. In the “Huangdi” chapter, “under the bank” (tang xia) is written tang xing.

Confucius went after him and asked: “At first I took you for a ghost; looking closely, I see you are a man. Tell me—is there a special way to swim and keep afloat in such water?”

The man replied: “No. I have no special way. At first I went by habit; over time I yielded to what is inborn in me; in the end I completed what Heaven allots. I entered with the swirling water and came out with the water that bursts forth. I follow the water’s tendency and do not dare to oppose it with my own force. That is what I call the Dao.”

Plain-Language Explanation

(Earlier passage: Confucius and the water-walker)

Confucius asked, “What does it mean to come from long habit, grow along with one’s inborn nature, and be completed by Heaven’s decree?” The other replied, “Born among hills, I am at home in hills—that is habit; growing up in water, I am at home in water—that is inborn nature; not knowing why it is so yet it is so—that is Heaven’s decree.” Guo Xiang said: Each person has a partial excellence; when one can fully undertake what one is fit to undertake, nothing under Heaven is difficult. Take that “nothing difficult” and wade the path of life-generation and transformation—where would it not go through?

(Ziqing the carpenter carves a bell stand)

Ziqing (a master craftsman of Lu: zi is the office title, Qing the personal name) carved wood into a ju (the base from which bells and chime-stones are hung). When the stand was finished, viewers were astonished and took it for the work of spirits or ghosts. The Duke of Lu asked, “By what art did you achieve this?” He answered, “Your servant is a mere artisan—what art could there be? Yet there is one thing: when making the stand, I dared not waste my vital energy (qi); I had to fast and purify to settle the mind. After three days of fasting, my heart held no thought of rewards, rank, salary, or enfeoffment; after five days, no thought of praise or blame, skill, or ornate carving; after seven days, I forgot even my four limbs and my ears and eyes without being aware of it, and the mind was wholly single. After the fast I entered the mountains and observed the natural form; I saw the shape of the stand already present in the timber, and only then took up the tools. I did not keep a complete image in my breast—I only matched what was natural. That is why I too am amazed that it seems the work of spirits or ghosts.”

Notes

• Ju: The base of a frame for bells and chime-stones.
• Wasting vital energy (qi): Dissipating refined qi.
• Rewards, rank, salary, enfeoffment: Calculating over honors and office.
• Praise or blame, skill, ornate carving: Calculating over reputation and clever technique.
• Matching what is natural: Aligning with the timber’s nature and its innate form—not forcing the work.

In the fourth year of Duke Xiang in the Zuozhuan, the figure called Jiang Qing is this very person. Sima Biao says: “The jué is a kind of musical instrument, shaped somewhat like the jiazhong bell.” Lu Deming notes the pronunciation: “ju” is read as ju (same character as “to rely on”).

Once the jué was finished, everyone who saw it marveled, as if it were the work of spirits or ghosts. The lord of Lu asked him: “By what method did you make this?” He replied: “Your servant is only a craftsman—what magic could I have! Yet there is one thing: when I am about to make a jué, I never dare waste my vital energy in idleness.” (Li Yi says: when qi is depleted the heart-moves, and when the heart moves one cannot be single-minded.) One must first fast and still the mind. After three days of fasting, the heart no longer dwells on rewards, rank, or salary. (Guo Xiang: forgetting profit.) After five days, it no longer dwells on praise or blame, skill or clumsiness. (Guo Xiang: forgetting reputation.) After seven days, one is calmly self-forgotten, even forgetting the four limbs and the bodily form. (Commentary: “zheran” means the appearance of not moving. Guo Xiang: forgetting the self.) At that point the heart holds no lord or court in mind. (Guo Xiang: forgetting power and status.) Unless one is shaping wood for the state, one is wholly absorbed in craft, and external distractions are entirely cleared away. (Commentary: “gu” also written as “hua.” Cheng Xuanying: hua means disorder. Guo Xiang: all matters that slip the heart outward are fully dissolved.) Then one enters the mountains and forest and observes the nature of the timber—where form matches use and the wood’s quality fits extremely well, it is as if the whole jué were already before the eyes; only then does one take up tools. Otherwise one lets it go. In this way, joining one’s own Heaven-nature to the wood’s Heaven-nature, the reason artifacts come close to being wondrous is roughly this.

Note: This passage means that when one follows innate nature, craft becomes godlike; when one goes against innate nature, the heart toils and work turns clumsy.

Vernacular interpretation

Dongye Ji was summoned by Duke Zhuang of Lu because of his skill at driving a chariot. (In Xunzi’s “Ai Gong” chapter he is written as Dongye Bi, and the duke as Duke Ding.) When he drove, going forward and back was as straight as a inked line, and turning left and right as round as a compass-drawn circle. The duke felt that even the fine patterns of woven silk could not surpass the finesse of his handling. Sima Biao explained: what is meant by “the pattern does not surpass” is the kind of rein control described in the Book of Odes—“holding the reins like a woven band”—extremely even and fine. The duke had him drive the horses in circles a hundred times and then return. Cheng Xuanying said: letting the horses wheel at will, the track curved like a hook; after a hundred circuits and the turn back, every lap fell on the same ruts.

Yan He (in Xunzi’s “Ai Gong” he appears as Yan Yuan; if one follows the account with Duke Ding, he would belong to the time of Duke Ding of Lu) came in from outside and said to the duke, “Dongye Ji’s horses are about to break down.” The duke said nothing. Before long the horses indeed collapsed from exhaustion. The duke asked, “How did you know beforehand?” Yan He said, “Their strength was already spent, yet people still forced them to run—so I said they would fail.” When depletion goes too far, collapse follows; it is so for all things.

Side note (basis for this rendering)

Phrases such as “using Heaven to meet Heaven—one’s own Heaven meeting the tree’s Heaven” summarize what commentators take as the gist: the driver follows the horse’s nature and accords with the natural order, then skill seems almost divine; force against nature makes the mind weary and the hands clumsy. Dongye Ji looked perfectly correct on the surface; Yan He saw strength nearly gone while the horses were still driven, hence “about to fail.” Zhuangzi and Xunzi record the same story with differing names (Dongye Ji / Dongye Bi, Yan He / Yan Yuan, Duke Zhuang / Duke Ding), which does not change the point that excess leads to failure.

Legend has it that the master craftsman Gongchui, with a casual turn of the hand, could make things more accurate than if they had been laid out with compass and square—not because he meant to break the rules, but because his hands had already joined with the material and his mind no longer clung to measurements; his spirit stayed single-minded without feeling tied down.

The foot does not notice the shoe because the shoe fits the foot; the waist does not notice the belt because the belt fits the waist; the heart does not churn over right and wrong because the heart is in a fitting state. Inwardly one does not change one’s resolve; outwardly one is not tossed about by things—when something comes up, one can meet it just right. Someone who from the first has always been in the fitting state and never been out of it even forgets that there is such a thing as “fitting”—that is finding suitability in oneself, not waiting for outer things to be right before one is suited, and letting go of the very idea of “suiting” as well.

There was a man named Sun Xiu (said to be from the state of Lu) who came to Bian Qingzi’s door and cried out in amazement, pouring out his grievances: in the village no one says I have moral cultivation; in hard times no one says I have courage…

There was a man named Sun Xiu (the commentary identifies him as a native of Lu). He came to visit Bian Qingzi and, in astonishment, poured out his grievances: in his village he was not lacking in moral cultivation, and when faced with danger he was not lacking in courage—yet his farming never met with good harvests, and in serving his lord he never met with a favorable age. In the village he was kept at a distance and pushed aside; in the district he was likewise rejected and cast out (“guest” and “rejected” here mean the same thing: being cold-shouldered and driven away). Could this be Heaven’s fault? Sun Xiu could not understand why he had fallen into such a fate.

Bian Qingzi said: Have you never heard how the Perfected Person conducts himself? He forgets liver and gall (a metaphor for laying aside profit-and-loss and emotional turmoil), abandons ears and eyes (not acting rashly on what the senses report), treats the body as something that may be cast aside, and lets cleverness go unused. Vague and unmoored, he drifts beyond the dust and entanglements of the world, at ease in the work of “doing nothing”—this is what Laozi meant by “acting yet not leaning on achievement, nurturing the ten thousand things yet not lording it over them” (following one’s nature without showing off ability or hoarding credit). But you now use cleverness to startle the foolish, use self-cultivation to advertise yourself and thereby make others look sullied, shining as if you were carrying the sun and moon in plain view (flaunting how you differ from others). These three points appear again in the “Mountain Tree” chapter of the Zhuangzi. Since you have kept your bodily form intact, with all nine orifices in place (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and the rest—the openings of the body), and have not died midway deaf, blind, lame, or crippled, you already count as much as any ordinary person—that is already a piece of luck. What leisure do you have to blame Heaven? Be on your way!

Sun Xiu left. Bian Qingzi came in and sat down; after a while he looked up to Heaven and sighed. A disciple asked: Master, why do you sigh? Bian Qingzi said: Sun Xiu was here just now; I spoke to him of the virtue of the Perfected Person. I fear that instead of being settled, he will be startled and become all the more confused. The disciple said: That may not be so. If what Sun Xiu said was right and what the Master said was wrong, then what is wrong cannot make what is right muddled; if what Sun Xiu said was wrong and what the Master said was right, he came already confused—what is there to reproach him for? Bian Qingzi said: No.

Long ago a bird alighted in the outskirts of Lu. The Lord of Lu was delighted and entertained it with the grandest ta lai feast (the highest sacrificial offering of ox, sheep, and pig), and had the elegant Jiushao music performed to please it. The bird only grew anxious and dizzy; it dared neither eat nor drink. This is what it means to nurture a bird the way you nurture yourself.

If you truly nurture a bird according to the bird’s nature, you should let it roost in deep forest, drift on rivers and lakes, feed it small fish and other food suited to it, and on open ground let it move with its flock—winding here and resting there—and that is enough. (Note: commentators disagree on what weiyi refers to as food—some say large serpents, some mud-dwelling worms; Yu Yue, comparing a parallel passage in the “Perfect Joy” chapter, thinks the text here may have been corrupted or abbreviated in transmission; the gist is: give the bird suitable food and habitat, not human pomp and ceremony.)

Now, Xiu, when you preach to people of narrow vision, and I try to tell you the virtue of the perfected person, it is like hitching a carriage to a mouse or using bells and drums to amuse a quail—how could they not be terrified?

(Guo Xiang says: this chapter means that those who are good at nurturing life each rest in what their lot requires, and in that way naturally attain completion.)

Chapter: Outer Chapter “Mountain Tree,” section 20. Su Yu holds that this too was recorded by later followers of Zhuangzi; its theme is close to “The Human World”—how to avoid harm and preserve oneself in a troubled age.

Zhuangzi was walking in the mountains when he saw a large tree whose branches and leaves were exceptionally lush. A woodcutter paused nearby yet did not fell it. Zhuangzi asked the reason, and the man answered, “This tree is good for nothing.” Zhuangzi remarked, “It is precisely because this tree is not fit to be timber and serves no obvious use that it has been able to live out its full span of years.”

(Note: Here “fuzi” refers to Zhuangzi himself.)

After he left the mountains, Zhuangzi lodged at an old friend’s house. The friend was delighted and told a servant boy to slaughter a goose to entertain him. (Note: In some ancient versions the word appears as heng, meaning to lay on a feast; in modern editions it is often peng, “to cook” or “boil.” Yan here means goose.) The boy asked, “One can honk and one cannot—which should I kill?” The host said, “Kill the one that cannot honk.”

The next day a disciple asked Zhuangzi, “Yesterday the tree in the mountains lived out its years because it was useless; today the host’s goose was killed because it was useless. Master, on which side do you mean to place yourself?”

Zhuangzi smiled and said, “…”

About to stand between “useful timber” and “useless timber”

Standing between useful and useless still looks plausible on the surface, yet is not truly so—therefore one still cannot escape being dragged down.

If one drifts and wanders in accord with Dao and De, it is not like that

When the heart rests in Dao and De, there is no need to argue over useful or useless timber; one neither court praise nor suffer slander; at times one appears like a dragon, at times one hides like a serpent; one shifts with the times and refuses to cling to a single fixed form; rising or falling, one takes harmony (he) as one’s measure, drifting in the realm before the myriad things have yet to divide—treating outer things as one among the myriad things, without letting outer things treat you as something to manipulate—how then could there be exhaustion? This is the method of Huangdi (Yellow Emperor) and Shennong (Divine Farmer).

As for the real state of the myriad things and the transmission of human relations, it is not so

Where there is union there is separation; where there is completion there is ruin; where there are sharp edges one gets chipped; where one is high in rank one is talked about and undermined; where one acts there is loss; where one is capable one is plotted against; where one is unworthy one is bullied—the world is like this; how can one be sure of holding firm? Therefore exhaustion cannot be avoided. How lamentable! Disciples, remember: perhaps only the “home of Dao and De” (daode zhi xiang) can achieve this.

[Textual note] Some editions reverse the order, reading "Shennong, Huangdi" instead of "Huangdi, Shennong."

Shinan Yiliao came to see the Duke of Lu. The duke looked troubled. Shinan Yiliao asked, "Your face shows worry—why?" The duke said, "I study the Way of the former kings, inherit the legacy of my predecessors, revere spirits and honor the worthy, and put these into practice myself without a moment's rest—yet I still cannot escape misfortune. That is why I am troubled."

Shinan Yiliao said, "Your way of removing trouble is too shallow. The great fox and the leopard cat live in mountain forests and hide in rocky dens—this is for quiet; they move at night and stay hidden by day—this is for caution; even when hungry and thirsty they keep to deep seclusion, yet they must still go to the river's edge to find food—this is because they have no choice."

This annotation first clarifies the wording: the word dan in this sentence should be qie, since when foxes and leopards seek food, why must they wait for dawn? The explanation of Master Su, a commentator, is correct. Cheng Xuanying, a Tang-dynasty Daoist, interpreted dan as daybreak, which shows that the error in this word has long been current. Xuan Ying, a Qing scholar, says that shu means "far": although wild beasts hide, they must still go far to unpeopled places among rivers and lakes to seek food; this is their fixed habitat. Even so, they still cannot avoid the calamity of nets, snares, and mechanical traps; this is not because they have committed any crime, but because their hide and fur invite disaster. Today, is the state of Lu not precisely the ruler's "hide and fur"? I hope you will scrape away outward traces, strip off the surface appearance, wash the inner heart clean, remove desires, and wander in the unpeopled wilderness. In Southern Yue, the Yue region of the south, there is a city named the State of Jiande, an ideal state invented by Zhuangzi. There the people are simple and unadorned, with few private interests and few desires; they know only to work and not to hoard, to give and not seek return; they do not know where righteousness points, nor where ritual leads people. Cheng Xuanying says that changkuang means "no-mind" and wangxing means "mingling traces"; walking thus with no-mind and mingled traces, they instead set foot on the great Dao. They can rejoice while alive and be buried when dead; Guo Xiang, a Western Jin commentator, says this is a place where one may rest securely for a lifetime. I hope you will leave the capital, abandon the mundane world, and walk in company with the Dao. The ruler of Lu said: That road is distant and dangerous, and rivers and mountains block it; I have no boat or carriage, so what should I do? Shinanzi, a recluse who remonstrated with the Marquis of Lu, said: Do not be arrogant in appearance, do not settle fixedly in a dwelling; take your own person as boat and carriage. Sima Biao, a Western Jin commentator, explains this as not making the appearance arrogant and not settling fixedly in a dwelling. The ruler of Lu again said: That road is remote and unpeopled; with whom shall I be neighbors? I have no grain and no food, and therefore I worry that the journey will be difficult to make.

Shinanzi said: Spend less, dampen your desires, and even without stored grain you can feel content in heart. Guo Xiang explains: this is what is meant by “when you know enough, nothing is lacking.”

Cross the river and go out to sea until you cannot see the shore; the farther you go, the less you know where the journey ends. Cheng Xuanying says: going alone and going deep into the Way is this kind of state. Those who see you off to the bank each turn back from the cliff—meaning your paths no longer coincide. From then on you truly travel far. Guo Xiang says: you stand transcendent above the ten thousand things.

Therefore, “having people” (dominating or possessing others) is a burden—Guo Xiang says: treating “having” as private property. Being treated as someone’s “possession,” being subject to others, brings worry. Yao did not “possess the realm”; Cheng Xuanying says: he had the realm without claiming it as his own. Nor did he appear in others’ eyes as vastly powerful—Cheng Xuanying says: forgetting whence “imperial power” comes, as if it were not there. I wish to remove for you the anxiety of being subject to others, and to remove your burdens and cares, so you may wander alone with the Dao in vast emptiness. “Great Mo” means vast emptiness.

The parable of the empty boat: Paddling a small skiff across a river, if an empty boat bumps into you, even the hottest temper will not flare. If someone is in the boat, you will shout at him and scold him. Shout once and get no response, shout again and still none—a third time and he will answer with abuse. Before you were not angry; now you are. Before it was “empty” (taken as an empty boat); now it is “real” (taken as a person deliberately opposing you)—the difference lies here. If a person can move through the world with a heart that “empties the self,” who can harm him?

The exegesis adds: in the Erya, “bian” means “urgent,” describing someone of quick temper.

Plain-Language Commentary

Beigong She raised funds for Duke Ling of Wei to cast bells. Beigong She was a grand officer of Wei; “levying contributions” here is less about forced taxation than about soliciting donations and pooling money. Outside the capital gate he built a platform and altar—Guo Xiang’s reading is that he climbed the platform and cast the bells right there. In about three months he had finished casting the full set of suspended chime bells in upper and lower tiers. Sima Biao explains: with all eight tones complete and the set hung, every pitch in the scale was in place. Guo Xiang adds that the time was not long, yet the money raised was considerable.

Wangzi Qingji (likely someone who had been a prince in Zhou and later served Wei, in the same vein as Wangsun Jia) saw this and asked him: “What method did you use?” Beigong She replied: “On this one matter of the bell, I dared not resort to other tricks; my mind stayed on this single bell, and I dared not set up any other schemes.” He also said he had heard: “Once you have carved and polished, you must return to simplicity.” The point is: in a decadent age people love cleverness, but casting bells should instead return to plainness—only sincerity can move people and get the job done.

The commentary goes on to describe his state of mind: simple and unguarded, as if without any calculating mind (“tong” means unknowing, without cunning)—meaning he thought of nothing else and only wanted the bell finished; also open and at ease, without slackness or fear (if the text continues in the same vein, it still describes a mind that does not wander). The whole passage says that Beigong She did not rely on stratagem or sharp practice, but completed the casting and fund-raising through single-minded focus and honest simplicity.

“Dong” means a state of simple, unselfconscious unknowing. Here “it”—whether the one who governs the world or the Dao itself—does not rely on schemes or clever tricks; it only wants things to succeed in their own way.

People may seem slack or hesitant, as if they had no clear aim, half idle and half doubtful. The ruler need not be harsh about that; the concern is only that they lack genuine sincerity. The crowd gathers and scatters in confusion, coming and going in an endless stream—“cui” is gathering; “mang” is not distinguishing clearly, a blur. Sending off the departing and welcoming the arriving describes how many they are and how much they shift and change.

Those who come are not blocked; those who leave are not chased—everything follows each person’s own choice. Toward the stubborn and defiant, one lets them go their way (here “cong” is read as “zong,” to indulge or release); toward those who will not cooperate, one likewise leaves them free. Toward those who bend themselves to follow, one goes along with them; toward those who strain to do their utmost, one guides them by what they can actually do. Guo Songtao said: this is like the Zuo Zhuan line about “levying one drum of iron from Jin to cast the penal tripod”—in name it was a tax, but in fact people were asked to give voluntarily, hence “yin qi zi qiong,” working with whatever limit they could reach on their own.

So even when there is levying morning and evening, it is as if not a hair on anyone else were harmed; how much more so for those who stand on the great thoroughfare of universal openness (“da tu” is the great road, the Great Way)—there it is the realm of Wuwei (non-action) in governing, letting things transform by themselves.

Confucius was stranded between the states of Chen and Cai and for seven days could not get a fire going to cook food. Taigong Ren came to offer condolences. Someone asked: Is “Taigong” an honorific for a grand officer, and “Ren” a personal name? Yu Yue said: According to the Guangyun, under the character gong, the Shiben records “Taigong Yingshu,” which shows that Taigong is a compound surname and is not necessarily a title meaning “grand officer.”

Taigong Ren asked Confucius: “You nearly died, didn’t you?” Confucius said: “Yes.” He asked again: “Are you afraid of death?” He answered: “I am.”

Taigong Ren said: “Let me try to explain how one can avoid dying from bringing disaster on oneself.” (Commentators say: here chang means “to try”; the point is not to go down the path that invites trouble and costs one’s life.)

In the eastern sea there is a bird called “Yi Dai” (listless intent). This bird flies slowly and low, as if quite useless; when it flies it keeps company with other birds, and when it roosts it presses into the flock, taking only enough room for its body—this is to avoid harm as much as possible. It does not dare push to the front when moving ahead, nor lag behind when falling back; when eating it does not dare taste first, but only takes what is left. So in the flock it is not pushed aside, and people outside cannot harm it either, and thus it escapes trouble.

Straight trees are cut down first; sweet wells are drained first (Guo Xiang says: this is the disaster that “talent” brings on). If you deliberately use cleverness to startle the foolish, or cultivate body and mind to expose others’ filth, shining brightly as if carrying the sun and moon when you walk—such ideas already appear in the “Dasheng” chapter—then you cannot avoid inviting disaster.

Long ago I heard the “person of great accomplishment” speak (Cheng Xuanying says: this refers to Laozi): “One who boasts cannot establish merit.”

Source note: The passage comes from Zhuangzi-related chapters, with commentary from Guo Xiang, Cheng Xuanying, Lu Deming (Shiwen), and other commentators. Below, the main text and notes are rendered in plain language.

On merit and fame

“When achievement is complete, a person may instead fall; when reputation is complete, it may instead be harmed.” Guo Xiang explains: those who rely on merit and fame and think they have already reached fulfillment have never truly preserved themselves. Who can shed merit and fame and return to the same condition as ordinary people? Cheng Xuanying says: this is what is meant by “turning back to be the same as the multitude.”

On Dao and De

Dao circulates in the world but does not put itself in a conspicuous place—Dao spreads through all under Heaven yet does not openly claim to be master. What is called “obtaining” is De: having virtue without using rank and title to advertise or settle oneself.

With the heart unified and conduct ordinary (commentators say: purify the heart to singleness, keep actions plain), in others’ eyes one sometimes seems like a madman—Cheng Xuanying says: by not putting on airs, one seems all the more like a “madman.” Erase one’s tracks and lay aside power; do not run after merit and fame. Then one does not demand much of others, and others do not demand much of one.

“The perfected person does not seek renown” (this phrase appears in chapters such as “Autumn Floods”; in some commentaries it reads “the man of Dao is not heard of”). The other party asks: “Why are you so pleased?”

Confucius and Zi Sang Hu

Confucius said: “Well said!” He then took leave of friends, dismissed his disciples, and withdrew to the great marshes: wearing coarse hide and rough cloth, eating acorns and chestnuts, not pursuing fine dress or delicacies. Entering a herd of beasts he did not disturb the herd; entering a flock of birds he did not disturb their flight—birds and beasts did not dislike him; how much more so people?

Confucius questioned Zi Sang Hu (the character hu is read hu; it is also written yu, read yu; scholars such as Yu Yue have discussed this).

Someone once remarked that this was probably Zisan Hu from “Great Master” (Dazongshi).

(Continuing from above) Zisan Hu said: “Twice I was driven out of Lu; in Song I suffered the penalty of having my footprints cut away; in Wei my tracks were erased; in the lands of Shang and Zhou I had nowhere to turn; and between Chen and Cai I was besieged. Misfortune piled on misfortune, kin and friends drew farther away, disciples and companions scattered—and whom should I blame for that?”

Zisan Huu said: “Have you never heard how the state of Jia perished? When it fell, Lin Hui—one who fled the disaster—left behind a jade disk worth a thousand in gold and ran off carrying an infant. Someone asked him: ‘Was it for the goods? An infant cannot carry much cloth or wealth. Was it because of the burden? A baby is an even heavier drag. Why abandon the disk and flee with the child?’ Lin replied: ‘The disk was something people gathered around for profit; this child is flesh and bone joined by nature.’ What is joined by profit, when poverty and disaster strike, casts one another off; what is joined by innate kinship, when poverty and disaster strike, draws one another in. To gather in and to cast off—how far apart they are! Moreover, the friendship of the noble person is thin as water; that of the petty person is sweet as fermented wine. The noble person grows close through thinness; the petty person ends by breaking off through sweetness. Those who come together without real cause will also part without real cause.” (Note: “coming together without cause” here means not kin by nature but only united for gain.)

Confucius said: “I have received your instruction with care.” Then he strolled home at ease, no longer striving after learning or discarding books as a show—before his disciples there was little left that could be lectured from fixed texts—yet the genuine feeling between them grew deeper: hearts meeting plainly, responding to one another naturally.

Another day Sang Huu spoke again: “When Shun was dying, he charged Yu (one reading takes “Zhen Ling Yu” as “nai ming Yu,” i.e., on his deathbed he commanded Yu): ‘Be on guard! In how the body meets the world, nothing fits better than going with things as they are; in how feeling expresses itself, nothing fits better than being utterly genuine.’ Going with things does not depart from the world of things; being genuine does not strain after artificial arrangement. Without departing, without straining, one need not adorn the surface with ritual form; without ritual adornment on the surface, one was never dependent on external things in the first place.” (Another reading: natural genuineness—why rely on ritual to dress up the person? If so, why look to outward things for support?)

Note: This passage belongs to the Zhuangzi material associated with “Great Master” (Dazongshi). Through the parable of Lin Hui abandoning the disk and carrying the child, it distinguishes union “for profit” from union “by natural kinship,” and brings in the contrast “thin as water / sweet as wine.” In the second half, Shun’s charge to Yu stresses the body’s accord with things and feeling’s truth to the center; this pairs with the later themes of “cutting off learning and discarding books” and disciples whose “affection only increases”—the point being meetings in genuine simplicity, without leaning on external things or empty form.

Zhuangzi went before King Hui of Wei dressed in coarse, patched old clothes, with his shoes tied on with hemp cord.

On “zheng chuan xi lu” (straightening the cord and tying the shoes): Some commentators take chuan as a belt; other scholars argue that calling a belt chuan lacks supporting evidence, and if the line meant simply straightening the belt to tie the shoes, it would not match the sense of bei (worn out, distressed). According to the Shuowen, xie is one end of hemp twine, interchangeable with chuan in this context. The point is that he straightened one end of the twine to bind and secure his broken shoes. With no shoe loops (ju) to thread, he could only lash them with hemp, which is why he looked so bedraggled—hence bei.

The king asked, “Sir, why are you in such a state?”

Zhuangzi replied, “This is poverty, not distress (bei). When a scholar has virtue yet cannot put it into practice, that is bei. Torn clothes and holey shoes are poverty, not bei—that is not meeting the right time (fei zao shi, i.e., bu feng qi shi).”

“Has Your Majesty never seen leaping gibbons? On great trees such as nan, zi, yu, and zhang, they can swing from branches and lord it in the woods; even archers like Yi or Peng Meng could not hit or harm them. But once they drop into thorny thickets of zhe, ji, zhi, and gou, they must sidle and tread carefully, trembling all over—not because their sinews and bones suddenly stiffen or weaken, but because the situation is unfavorable and their abilities cannot be deployed.”

“Today, under a benighted ruler and corrupt ministers, how could one avoid looking bei? It is as plain as Bi Gan having his heart cut out—a lesson written in blood.”

Editorial note: In chaotic times, if one does not accept bei (constraint, failure to realize one’s way), one often invites death; Bi Gan’s disemboweling is the classic instance.

Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai for seven days without lighting a fire to cook. He leaned his left hand on a withered tree and tapped a dry branch with his right, singing tunes in the style of the ancient Yanshi melodies (Yanshi, also written as Biaoshi, was already discussed in the chapter “Heaven’s Revolutions” [Tianyun]).

(Lu Deming’s note:) There was something to strike for rhythm, yet no fixed beat—Xuan Ying said: there was a branch to tap, but no rhythm could be drawn from it. There was sound, but no pitch in the scale of gong, jue, and the other notes—Xuan Ying said: there was song, but it did not match the tonal system. The knocking of wood and the human voice nevertheless fit together as naturally as clods breaking loose when a plow turns the soil—Xuan Ying said: “liran” is like “shiran” (a release or ease); it is like a farmer knocking wood while plowing: though there is no meter, it aligns with what the heart accepts.

Yan Hui stood straight with hands folded in greeting and stole a sidelong glance at his teacher. Confucius feared that Yan Hui would swell with pride on his account, or sink into excessive grief from pitying him—“zao” means “to reach”: boasting until one becomes arrogant, or pitying until one harms oneself—neither is how one should behave in dire straits. Confucius said: “Hui, it is easy to bear the harm that Heaven sends (Guo Xiang: because one can rest in it, it is easy); it is hard to bear the benefit that others give (Cheng Xuanying: a windfall from others is hard to refuse). Where there is no beginning, there is no end (Guo Xiang: what is a beginning for today was an end for yesterday; to speak of a beginning is already to speak of an ending—meaning change is endless). Human and Heaven are one (Guo Xiang: both are nature). Who is it that is singing now (Guo Xiang: leave it to nature; the singer is not ‘I’)?”

Yan Hui said: “May I ask what you mean by bearing Heaven’s harm easily?” Confucius said: “Hunger, thirst, cold and heat, being bound in poverty and unable to move—these are the workings of Heaven and earth, what appears when the ten thousand things stir in motion (Sima Biao: xie means to issue forth, to show). To vanish along with them is called following transformation (Xuan Ying: only by following change and passing away with it). As a subject, one dare not turn away from these (Xuan Ying: a subject receives orders from his lord; by principle he dare not flee).”

“If even the measure that a subject ought to keep is like this, how much more so the attitude with which one receives the mandate of Heaven!”

To follow Heaven’s mandate and accept it in peace—no matter how much external things are diminished, they cannot diminish what is truly yours. That is why (Confucius) said this is the easier course.

“What does it mean that ‘not accepting benefit from others’ is in fact hard?” Zhongni said: “As soon as one enters office, one is connected everywhere and gains advantage on every side.”

(Note: “Beginning to serve” means just entering official life and being first appointed; from the first step one is unobstructed on all sides and meets with success wherever one turns.)

Rank and salary come flooding in together, as if without end—(Note: the benefits others give you often take just this form.)

Yet the good that such external things bring was never part of what your proper station entitles you to. (Note: this “profit” has nothing to do with your innate nature or your due role.)

It is the part of fate and circumstance that happens to connect with the outside world—(Note: fortune and encounter that by chance reach you from without, not something that permanently belongs to “me.”)

The noble person does not act like a robber; the worthy person does not act like a thief. If I seize rank and salary that are not mine, how is that different from theft? (Note: enjoying rank and salary without right is no different from stealing. Noble and worthy people alike refuse this; if I alone go and take it, on what grounds?)

Hence it is also said: No bird is more “clever” than the swallow (yiyu).

(“Know” here is read as wisdom; some identify yiyu with the common swallow.)

Where the eyes ought not to look, it does not even glance—when it sees what is unsuitable, it at once stops looking and at once flies away, without circling in hesitation.

When fruit has fallen to the ground, it will not pick up what has dropped; it leaves it and goes on.

It is afraid of people, yet it still chooses to build its nest among them—(Cheng Xuanying’s note: though it fears humans, it still lodges in human midst.)

(The whole passage uses the swallow as a metaphor: what should be abandoned it does not take; what should be avoided it does not cling to—while people are often held fast by the profit of rank and salary. Hence “not accepting benefit from others” is harder than “ dwelling in accord with Heaven.”)

“Xi (to enter by stealth)” means to enter. Commentators hold that though birds fear humans, this one still flew into a human dwelling to roost. “Because the altars of soil and grain are here” means that it stays only because what it relies on is present—like a state that has its altars of soil and grain (sheji), something one cannot leave behind. A gentleman living in another state should likewise bear in mind that “the altars are here” and devote himself fully to what he has taken on. As for benefits such as rank and stipend, they do not add to one’s true nature; one should remember “do not enter a perilous state, do not dwell in a chaotic one”—yet few truly grasp this, hence the text says it is “difficult.”

“What is meant by ‘no beginning, yet not ending’?” Confucius said: What transforms and nurtures the myriad things without anyone knowing who succeeds and carries on—that is Tian (Heaven). Tian nurtures the myriad things, renewing them day by day without pause, yet no one knows who is passing the task from hand to hand (who is replacing whom in the succession). How then can we know its end? How can we know its beginning? Hence “no beginning, yet not ending.” One need only hold to the correct Way and wait for it to unfold on its own.

“What is meant by Tian and the human being are one and the same?” Confucius said: “The human being” is what Tian completes; “Tian” is also what Tian manifests. (Xuan Ying gloss: human being and Tian are both fashioned by Tian; Tian is principle.) Sometimes a person cannot fully preserve their heaven-given nature because endowment and social role add or subtract from it. The sage calmly accords with the Tian-Way that “passes away day by day” and completes a whole lifetime. (Xuan Ying gloss: Tian passes away without rest day by day; the sage calmly follows this bodily “daily passing” to the end of life—where is there still self set against Tian? This is Tian and the human being as one.)

Zhuangzi was wandering in a fenced garden grove near Diaoling. Diaoling is a place name; fan means the fence around such a garden.

He saw a strange bird fly in from the south. Its wings spanned seven chi, and its eyes were about an inch across—in classical usage, width is called guang and length yun, so mu da yun cun means the eyes were large and round. The bird struck Zhuangzi on the forehead, then dropped into a chestnut wood.

Zhuangzi thought: What bird is this? Wings so wide yet it does not fly off; eyes so large yet it seems not to see what lies ahead—and it even bumped into someone’s forehead.

He hitched up his robe, stepped forward quickly, and took his slingshot, ready to shoot it when he got a chance. Then he noticed: a cicada rested in cool shade, so at ease that it forgot it was in peril; a mantis raised its forelegs and hid behind a leaf to snatch the cicada—it got the cicada but forgot to hide itself; the strange magpie saw this, followed along to grab an easy gain, and for the sake of profit forgot its own true nature (benxing). Having lost that nature, it neither flew away nor, for all its huge eyes, seemed to see clearly.

Zhuangzi started and sighed: Ah! Things in the world naturally tangle with one another—each seeking advantage from the other, they often drag one another into trouble. That is how two kinds of thing call each other in: the cicada drew the mantis, the mantis drew the magpie—each brought harm on itself.

He threw down the slingshot and ran. The grove keeper (yuren) chased him and questioned him, suspecting he had stolen chestnuts. When Zhuangzi got home, he stayed indoors and did not go out for some time—some manuscripts read “three months,” others “three days”; since the text soon speaks of “a little while,” some readers think “three days” fits the context better.

Plain-Language Commentary on the Zhuangzi Jijie (Collected Explanations on Zhuangzi)

On the gloss for “san ri” (three days)

Wang Niansun says: Later passages use wording like “qing jian” (in a brief moment), so here the text should read “san ri” (three days). If one follows Sima Biao and takes it as “ri” (day), Sima Biao explains: not going out—sitting in the courtyard for three full months.

How to read “shen bu ting”

Wang Niansun adds: If what follows speaks of “qing jian,” then “san ri” fits. If one follows Sima’s reading, one must supply “chu” (go out) before “ting shang” (in the courtyard) for the sense to hold. As for “shen bu ting” below, to gloss it as “hardly ever leaving the gate and courtyard” sounds especially wrong. “Ting” should be read as “cheng” (to give free rein, to indulge). “Bu cheng” means not at ease or not pleased; “shen bu cheng” means very displeased. In old pronunciation “cheng” was close to “cheng” (to present, to show), whose sound is near “ting,” so the graph “ting” was used by near homophony.

Lin Qie questions Zhuangzi

Lin Qie came along and asked (Sima Biao: Lin Qie was Zhuangzi’s disciple): “Master, why have you been so unhappy lately?”

Zhuangzi said: “I kept to outward form and forgot the body—clinging to the outer shape while losing the self; I looked at muddy water and got lost in a clear deep pool—seeing in turbid water, yet straying in clear, deep depths. I knew only that creatures chase advantage, but did not see that I myself should avoid suspicion. And I heard the Master (Laozi) say: ‘Enter their village, follow their ways.’ Cheng Xuanying explains: where custom has taboos and bans, one acts with the custom. Now I wandered at Diaoling and forgot my body, becoming kin to the cicada; a strange magpie brushed my forehead; I sported in the chestnut grove and forgot my true nature, again kin to the magpie. The warden of the chestnut grove treated me as disgraced—so I am unhappy.”

Yangzi in Song

Yangzi (Yang Zhu) went to Song and stayed at a travel lodge. The house had two concubines, one fair and one plain; the plain one was favored, the fair one slighted. Yangzi asked why. The lodge boy answered: “The fair one thinks herself fair and is proud and overbearing—I do not see her as fair; the plain one thinks herself plain and keeps humble—I do not see her as plain.”

Yangzi said: “Disciples, remember this: act as the worthy do, but drop the conduct of self-admiring worthiness—having virtue without parading it as virtue—wherever you go, will you not be welcomed?”

In the opening of “Tian Zifang,” the twenty-first chapter of the Outer Chapters of the Zhuangzi, Tian Zifang is in attendance on King Wen of Wei and repeatedly praises a man named Xigong. Wen asks, “Is Xigong your teacher?” Tian Zifang replies, “No. He is a man of our village of Wuxuanze. When he speaks of the Dao, he often hits the mark.”

Zhuangzi opens the chapter in this way: Tian Zifang keeps company with Wei Wenhou and again and again commends Xigong. Wenhou asks whether Xigong is Tian’s teacher. Tian Zifang answers that he is not—that Xigong is simply someone from Wuxuanze, their home place—and adds that when Xigong discusses the Dao, his words usually strike true.

Wenhou’s question—“Is he your teacher?”—is not casual small talk. In the Warring States world, “teacher” meant lineage, reputation, and political ties. To call someone your teacher was to bind yourself to a school and a network of influence. Wenhou is probing whether Tian Zifang’s praise rests on factional loyalty or on something else.

Tian Zifang’s “no” is deliberate. He refuses to cast Xigong in the role of formal master, yet he still praises him highly. That split is the crux: in Zhuangzi’s usage, “teacher” often marks institutional authority—the one who transmits doctrine and holds title—whereas Xigong is presented as an ordinary neighbor who happens to speak the Dao well. Tian Zifang is separating true alignment with the Dao from social labels.

“Wuxuanze” is a place-name: the village or hamlet where Tian Zifang and Xigong both belong. Zhuangzi does not dress Xigong in the robes of a famous sage or court advisor; he is “one of us,” from the same locale. That grounding matters for the chapter’s tone: insight is not the monopoly of capital or court.

That Wenhou has never heard of Wuxuanze is itself telling. The king’s horizon is filled with names that carry weight in politics and letters; a small village does not register. Tian Zifang’s reply quietly rebukes that scale of value: what counts is not whether the king knows the place, but whether the speech accords with the Dao.

“When he talks about the Dao, he often hits the mark” is the chapter’s first explicit standard of judgment. “Hitting the mark” (zhong) here means that what is said fits reality and the Way—not that it matches a fixed canon or a teacher’s formula. Zhuangzi repeatedly treats “getting it right” as responsiveness and clarity, not as conformity to textbook phrases.

Read philosophically, the opening already states a theme: the person who truly embodies the Dao may be a villager with no title, while the ruler who sits in power may never have met him. Worth is not indexed to rank, fame, or whether Wenhou’s map of the world includes Wuxuanze.

In method, Zhuangzi often begins with a concrete scene—a conversation, a praise, a question—and only then unfolds theory. Here the concrete scene is “attending on the ruler while praising a humble townsman.” The rest of the chapter will orbit figures who forget bodily form, ritual stiffness, and the hunger for recognition; the opening prepares that movement by showing Tian Zifang willing to speak well of Xigong before the king without needing Xigong to be “his teacher” in the official sense.

Compared with Confucian stress on named teachers, ritual hierarchy, and rectification of names, or with Mohist emphasis on merit and utility, this passage softens the edges of institution: the Dao can sound through someone who has no school and no post. That aligns with Zhuangzi’s recurring motifs—forgetting the self, distrust of fixed roles, and the sage who looks useless by worldly measures yet is “in accord” with heaven and earth.

For the chapter as a whole, the opening does more than introduce characters. It sets Tian Zifang as someone who can praise another in the ruler’s presence without claiming discipleship or profit, and who judges speech by whether it “hits the mark” on the Dao. Later episodes will push further—artists who forget technique, spirits who forget form—but the first lines already say that the measure of a person is not title or village fame on a king’s lips, but whether their words and bearing align with the Way. That is why Zhuangzi starts here: before the long teaching stories, he gives a quiet picture of how a genuine disciple of the Dao might speak in court—honest about who Xigong is, unwilling to inflate him into “my teacher,” and clear that the only praise that matters is truth about the Dao.

Zifang often spoke about the Way (Dao), and what he said was mostly on target—so Wuzze praised him.

When Duke Wen asked, “Then you have no teacher?” Zifang replied, “I do.” “Who is your teacher?” “Dongguo Shunzi.” The duke asked, “Why have you never mentioned him?”

Zifang said: “He is utterly genuine—outwardly he looks like an ordinary person, yet inwardly his heart-mind is empty and clear.” (Here xu refers to the heart: as the Huainanzi puts it, “when the room is empty, whiteness is born”—only when the heart is empty can clarity arise.) He follows his nature to preserve true simplicity; he is lucid yet able to embrace things, clear and gentle without harshness. When something outside does not accord with the Way, he need only straighten his own bearing and influence the other, and the other’s crooked intent dissolves—open and empty in clarity, he simply sets himself right, and the skew in outer things naturally fades. As for someone like Wuzze, how could he be worth praising in that way?

After Zifang left, Duke Wen spent the whole day dazed and silent—as if he had lost himself (tangran means absent-minded, self-forgotten). He called forward the officials who had stood by and heard the conversation and said: “A gentleman of full virtue (De)—how far above us he is!” (meaning Shunzi.) “I used to think the words of sage wisdom and the conduct of benevolence and righteousness were the highest; after hearing how Master Zifang’s teacher lives, my body feels as if it might come apart—I do not want to move; my mouth feels as if it were clamped—I do not want to speak. What I have learned is no better than clay puppets and wooden figures”—tu geng are figures molded from earth that crumble in the rain, standing for what is crude and unreal; apart from genuine Heaven-given simplicity, all of that is such clay effigy stuff. “This name and rank of the state of Wei is truly a burden to me.” (Guo Xiang’s comment: one who knows the place of utmost worth treats human titles and stipends as a load.)

Wen Bo Xue Zi (a recluse in Chu who sought the Dao—surname Wen, personal name Bo, style Xue Zi) was traveling to Qi and stopped to rest in Lu. Someone in Lu wished to call on him. Wen Bo Xue Zi said, “No. I have heard that the gentlemen of the central states know the letter of ritual and propriety very well, yet are poor at reading people’s true feelings—they are skilled at outward rules but blind to what is in the heart. I do not want to meet that kind of person.”

After he had been to Qi and was on his way back, he stayed again in Lu, and the man once more asked for an audience. Wen Bo Xue Zi said, “He wanted to see me before, and he wants to see me again—he must have something to say that can wake me up and help me improve.”

So he went out to receive the visitor. When he returned, he sighed. The next day he saw the man again and sighed once more on coming back. His servant asked, “Every time you have seen this guest, you always sigh when you return. Why?”

Wen Bo Xue Zi said, “Did I not tell you already? The people of the central states understand ritual and propriety but do not understand the human heart. The one who came to see me earlier—coming forward and stepping back, every move exact, as if drawn with a compass or squared with a ruler; his expression and bearing deliberately grand, now unfolding like a dragon, now fierce like a tiger—”

Someone received another with extraordinarily deferential ritual: hands clasped and bowed, kneeling, yielding in advance and retreat with measured steps—every movement square or round in just proportion, winding like a dragon and coiling like a tiger. Cheng Xuanying’s commentary explains: he remonstrated with me as a son serves a father, and guided me as a father instructs a son; distinctions of near and far, high and low, already have their fitting bounds by nature—why such strained courtesy? From this one can see that the defect left by the formal traces the sages handed down gives rise to this kind of affectation; that is why Confucius sighed over it.

When Confucius met the man, he did not speak. Zilu asked: “You have long wished to meet Wen Bo Xuezi; now that you have met him, you do not converse—why?” Confucius said: “With a person like this, as soon as our eyes meet, the Dao is already manifest there—not even room for one more word.” Xuan Ying’s note says: the moment the eyes connect, one knows the Dao is embodied in that person; there is no need to leave room for superfluous speech.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: “When you walk, I walk; when you quicken your step, I quicken mine…” (the quoted lines here do not fully connect with what follows) …“The Dao is already present; it can no longer be conveyed by words.” Xuan Ying again glosses: what the eye touches is enough to know the Dao is in that person—one need not accommodate any extra verbal explanation.

Yuan Yuan asked Confucius, “When you walk, I walk; when you hurry, I hurry; when you run, I run. But when you dash off like flying and leave the dust behind, I can only stare straight ahead and lag far behind.” (“Staring straight ahead” describes standing there wide-eyed, left behind and at a loss.)

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

Yuan Yuan said, “When you walk, I walk; when you speak, I speak along with you. When you hurry, I hurry; when you argue, I argue along with you. When you run, I run; when you expound the Dao, I expound the Dao along with you. Only when you sprint away and leave the dust behind, while I stand there dazed and fall behind—then you need not open your mouth, yet everyone still trusts you; you need not deliberately draw people close, yet your intention naturally reaches everywhere; you have no ruler’s rank or emblems of authority, yet the people gather before you like a tide. They themselves do not know why—it simply happens of itself.” (As Cheng’s commentary puts it: trust without speaking is exactly this; “without the vessel” means having none of a ruler’s power, yet people still assemble on their own.)

Confucius said, “Ah! Should these things not be pondered carefully? The greatest grief is nothing other than the death of the mind; the death of the body comes only after that.” (Xuan’s commentary: “death of the mind” means clinging to outward traces and failing to become one with creation and transformation—a loss more lamentable than the death of the person.)

The sun rises in the east and sets at the western edge (Xuan’s commentary: the sun’s course stands for the master of creation and transformation), and among the myriad things none fail to take one another as measure and each settle in its place…

Take the sun’s course as your guide: those with eyes and feet wait for daylight before they act and accomplish things; when the sun rises, the ten thousand things seem to “be,” and when it sets, they seem to “vanish.” Only with sunrise do worldly affairs arise; at sunset it is as if there is nothing to do. The ten thousand things are the same—they live according to conditions and die according to conditions. (Note: here the comings and goings at sunrise are used to illustrate the comings and goings of birth and death within creation and transformation.)

Once I have received form and taken shape, I do not transform on my own initiative; I simply wait until my allotted span is exhausted. I move as outer things move—when things move, I move too, as if imitating them. Day and night follow one another without a gap, yet I do not know where the end lies. I take shape as naturally as if dyed by influence, knowing all the while that fate cannot be fixed in advance (even the most skilled in fate cannot calculate it beforehand). Confucius (Qiu) lived day after day in just this way, feeling only that time flowed on.

All my life I have been with you, yet it is as if we missed each other even at arm’s length—though we spent a lifetime together, it was like passing in the street, gone in an instant. Is that not lamentable? You probably fix your gaze only on what I fix mine on—what you see is merely the bit I display outwardly. Those things are already past, leaving only old traces; yet you still treat them as real and pursue them keenly. That is like going to the market stalls (si) beside the great road (Tang) to look for a horse—how would a horse be waiting there for you to find it? (Note: “Tang si” is a metaphor for seeking in the wrong place what is no longer there.)

What I keep in mind (fu) about you is quickly forgotten, and what you keep in mind about me is quickly forgotten too. (Note: here “fu” means to hold something in the heart, to attend to it; “shen wang” means it passes too fast to hold.) Even so, why need you worry? Even if the “old me” is all forgotten, there is still something that “does not forget”—the old me goes, the new me comes, without a moment’s stop or rest, so at every moment that which does not forget is present. However fast you run, why worry as if someone were staring hard and chasing after you?

Confucius went to see Laozi. Laozi had just washed his hair and was letting it dry with his hair hanging loose; his bearing was quiet and plain, not like an ordinary person. In the commentaries, the character zhi is read like die; some read it as ding li. Sima Biao took it as unmoving, a fixed stillness; Guo Xiang as utterly calm and still to the extreme.

Confucius stepped aside and waited. After a while Laozi noticed him. Confucius said, “Was it my eyes playing tricks, or is it really so? A moment ago your body was like withered wood, as if you had cast off the ten thousand things and stood there alone.”

Laozi said, “I let my mind roam in the time before the ten thousand things had yet appeared.” (Guo Xiang: At the beginning of the ten thousand things is when there is not yet anything; when the mind roams where there is no thing, it meets the root-image of the Dao.)

Confucius asked, “What does that mean?”

Laozi said, “My heart is so blocked I cannot truly understand; my mouth wants to open but cannot say it whole—I will try to give you the general drift. Utmost yin is killing and cold; utmost yang is blazing bright. The qi of killing and cold comes from Heaven; the majesty of blazing brightness rises from Earth. Yin and yang are each other’s root; the two meet and blend into harmonizing qi, and the ten thousand things are thereby born. Perhaps someone sets the warp and woof for all this, yet its form cannot be seen. Who after all maintains and gathers it in? Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness, dark and bright, day changing and month turning—each day it is at work, yet its achievement cannot be seen.” Cheng Xuanying: Yin wanes and yang rests, summer fills and winter empties, night dark and day bright, sun shifts and moon changes, constantly renewing—hence “each day it has its doing.”

“Life has a place where it sprouts; death has a place where it returns. Beginning and end oppose each other yet complete each other in an endless cycle, and no one knows where it ends.” Guo Xiang: This is what is meant by going forward and not seeing a head, following behind and not seeing a tail. Su Yu: The two lines on “beginning and end” mean “just as life arises, so death arises; just as death arises, so life arises.” “Is that not so? Then who after all is taken as the ancestor!”

Someone asked Cheng (in the course of explaining the Way of empty penetration and life-giving transformation): “If it were not that great Way of empty penetration and giving birth to things, who could serve as the root and origin of the myriad things?”

Kongzi said: “May I ask what it means to ‘travel in this’ (you shi)—to abide in this Way?”

Cheng said: “May I ask how one actually ‘roams the heart-mind in the Way’—what does that look like in practice? One must first ‘travel in this’; what real cultivation does that involve?”

Laodan said: “To attain this is utmost beauty and utmost joy. To roam in utmost joy within utmost beauty—such a person is called the Perfect Person (zhiren).”

Kongzi said: “I would hear the method.”

Laodan said: “Grass-eating beasts do not fear moving to another meadow; water-dwelling creatures do not fear changing to another pool—only their setting shifts slightly, yet they never lose the great constant (da chang). The commentary explains: ji is affliction, yi is change; where there is grass or water, the great constant is not lost; moving east or west is merely a small change. Human beings likewise dwell within the great Dao, following change and yielding to transformation; the root self has never not been ‘I’—they equally do not lose the great constant. The shifts of birth and death are also nothing but small changes.”

Joy, anger, grief, and delight do not enter the breast (ci refers to the inner heart). The commentary explains: because one knows that small changes do not make one lose the great constant, one can be like this.

“All under Heaven” is the one to which the myriad things jointly return—the true lord, the single original substance. When one merges with this unity, the four limbs and the hundred parts of the body may all be regarded as dust and filth; beginning and end of life and death may all be regarded as day and night—nothing can disturb this. How much less the margins of gain and loss, fortune and misfortune?

Casting off subordinate status is like shaking mud from the road—because one understands that one’s own dignity far outweighs serving as someone else’s subordinate official. (“Li” here means subordination or holding a subordinate post.)

That dignity lies in oneself and is not lost because of external change—one does not discard this inherent dignity when the world shifts.

Moreover, the transformations of the ten thousand things have no end; change is endless, and I too dwell in that same boundlessness. What could there be to disturb the heart? (Cheng Xuanying says: this is the realm of Xiaoyaoyou—Free and Easy Wandering.)

One who has attained the Dao can understand this principle.

Confucius said: “The Master’s virtue matches Heaven and Earth, yet he still relies on supreme words to cultivate the heart-and-mind; which ancient gentleman could escape this?”

Cheng Xuanying says: “If so, which ancient gentleman could cast aside words and avoid deliberate cultivation?”

Laozi said: “Not so.

Water gushing naturally from a well is wuwei (non-action); its capacity is entirely innate. For the zhiren (perfected person), virtue need not be forced; outer things cannot abandon him—not because he refuses to cultivate, but because his de (virtue/power) naturally embraces the ten thousand things without omission. Like Heaven’s height, Earth’s thickness, and sun and moon’s brightness—what need is there for deliberate cultivation?”

Confucius went out and told Yan Hui: “My understanding of the Dao is probably as tiny as a gnat in a jar! Had the Master not lifted the veil for me, I would not have grasped the fullness of Heaven and Earth—that the ten thousand things are originally one.”

Plain-language commentary

Zhuangzi goes to see Duke Ai of Lu. Cheng Xuanying notes that Zhuangzi lived roughly in the same period as King Hui of Wei and King Wei of Qi—about 120 years after Duke Ai of Lu—so the scene of “meeting Duke Ai” is probably a fable and need not be taken as historical fact.

Duke Ai says: “Lu has many Ru scholars, but few who practice your kind of fangshu—the way of wuwei.” Cheng glosses fang as fangshu, learning or method. The point is that Confucian learning dominates in Lu, while something like Zhuangzi’s teaching of non-action is not in fashion.

Zhuangzi replies: “Lu actually has very few Ru scholars.”

The duke asks: “Look at the whole state—people in Ru robes are everywhere. How can you say few?”

Zhuangzi says: “I have heard that Ru wear round caps to show they understand heaven’s seasons; square-toed shoes to show they know the lay of the land; and sash with jade girdle-pendant to show they can decide matters. Cheng notes: the sash is a five-colored cord; the jue ornament hangs on the girdle; jue carries the sense of ‘decision,’ symbolizing resolve. A gentleman may have the Way without wearing that dress; someone in that dress may not truly know the Way. If Your Grace does not believe this, why not issue an order in the state: ‘Whoever wears Ru dress without this learning—execute’?”

The duke then proclaimed this for five days, and no one in Lu dared wear Ru robes. One man still stood at the palace gate in Ru dress. The duke summoned him and questioned him on state affairs; he answered in endlessly shifting ways, never running out of replies. Zhuangzi said: “In all Lu, the one who counts as a Ru is this man alone—how can you call that many?”

Baili Xi did not set his heart on rank and salary, so while tending cattle the beasts grew fat and strong—and Duke Mu of Qin forgot his low birth and entrusted him with government. You Yu did not set his heart on life and death; filling granaries and dredging wells was enough to move others. Xuan Ying says this passage means: when the heart is not burdened by outer things, its de naturally moves people.

Song Yuan Jun wished to have paintings made. The painting attendants arrived in succession: some took the commission, bowed, and stood by while licking their brushes and grinding ink, while half the group waited outside. The commentary states that these people, in truth, could not paint.

Another attendant came late, walking at an easy pace and in no haste. When the others bowed he accepted the task but would not stand in the prescribed formal way; half the group imitated his manner. The commentary again says that these people too could not paint.

A third also arrived late, equally relaxed and unhurried. When the others bowed he accepted as well, yet still refused to stand properly; the rest followed him to his quarters to see what he would do. The ruler sent someone to look in and found him loosening his robe and sitting with legs spread like a winnowing basket, bare-chested and half-undressed—on the verge of putting brush to work. The ruler said, “This will do; this is someone who truly knows how to paint.” Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that when the inner self is full, one’s bearing is tranquil and one’s mind is settled.

Vernacular Explanation

King Wen of Zhou went sightseeing in Zang—a place name near the Wei River. He saw a man fishing in a way that clearly was not about catching fish: he did not set his mind on bait, and his attention was not on the fish. He was not treating “holding the rod” as the goal, nor fishing as a serious task—on the surface he fished, but he was after something else; this kind of “fishing” was his normal state, not a pose he put on now and then.

Wen wanted to promote him to run the state, but feared that ministers and elder kinsmen would feel uneasy; he thought of dropping the idea, yet could not bear to leave the people without good governance for long. So one morning he said to the grand officers: “Last night I dreamed”—in classical usage “xi” is often read as “xi” (evening), so “xizhe” means “last night”; texts also write this as “xizhe,” “yezhe,” “zhouzhe,” and similar forms—“I dreamed of a good man with a dark face and a beard, riding a piebald horse with one hoof red, who issued orders saying: ‘Entrust government to the old man of Zang—perhaps the people’s hardships will ease quite a bit!’”

The grand officers were suddenly alarmed and said: “This is the former ruler”—meaning Jili—“…” (Following Yu Yue’s view, the original text here probably dropped the word ming (command); later there is “the former ruler’s command to the king” for comparison.)

This passage tells how King Wen of Zhou wanted to invite a reclusive “Elder Zang” to take charge of government.

The king said, “Then let us cast a divination.” The grand officers replied, “When the former king passed the throne to you, he gave no other charge—you need not doubt further; why cast divination at all?” So the king went to welcome Elder Zang and entrusted him with power.

“Those who manage ritual washing and similar routine duties continue unchanged”—they are not shuffled about because the dynasty has turned over. “No partial orders go out”—no commands born of private whim or one-man decree; policy proceeds from shared, upright intent.

After three years the king toured the realm and found: knights no longer clustered in factions with their own chiefs (the text says they “broke their planted stakes and scattered their groups”—the old party lines dissolved); local magistrates no longer each trumpeted personal virtue but moved together toward the good; measuring vessels from elsewhere did not dare enter the borders—meaning weights and measures were unified and the feudal lords had no second heart. Knights not forming cliques meant one standard was honored; magistrates not each cultivating a private reputation meant hearts worked as one; outside measures not coming in meant the domain held itself and the lords turned toward the center. The king then appointed Elder Zang Grand Master, turned north in the posture of a subject, and asked, “Can governance of this kind be extended to the whole world?” Elder Zang answered in a daze, evaded with vague words, was there in the morning and by night had fled—after that no one heard of him again.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “Was King Wen still lacking something? Otherwise why need a dream to point the way? And why still resort to dream-divination?” Confucius said, “Say no more! The king had already reached the utmost—handing affairs to the grand officers and not acting alone was fulfillment enough. What is there to criticize? He simply went along with the opportune moment of that time.”

What This Passage in the Zhuangzi Jijie Is About

Cheng Xuanying explains that xún means to follow or accord with something, and sīxū is like a very brief moment. Guo Xiang says sīxū is the instant when the people are about to understand but have not yet fully understood; King Wen therefore accords with that moment to expound the Way so that it matches what is in everyone’s hearts.

Lie Yukou performs archery for Bo Hun Wuren (in the Liezi, “Wuren” appears as “Mao” in the Huangdi chapter). He draws the bow to the full—Sima Biao says guàn refers to the arrowhead; Zhang Zhan glosses it as the string drawn to the limit with the head at the nock. He balances a cup of water on his elbow; Guo Xiang says the left hand is like bracing a stone and the right like hanging from a branch, so that when the right releases the arrow the left is almost without sensation, which is why the cup can stay steady on the elbow. When one arrow flies, the head of the next is already on the string (Cheng Xuanying: tà means to pile or layer; shì in the Huangdi chapter is written dǐ, the arrowhead). One arrow is loosed and the cup remains on the elbow. At that point he stands like a wooden puppet, fixed and unmoving.

Bo Hun Wuren says: “This is the way of shooting with deliberate effort (youwei); it is not yet the shooting that forgets shooting and is one with the Dao.” Zhang Zhan notes: even when skill is perfected, one may still be proud and attached to things; bu she zhi she (the shooting that is no-shooting) is forgetting whether one can shoot—outwardly not shooting, yet unified with true shooting.

He adds: “Let me take you to try: climb a high mountain, stand on perilous rock, face a hundred-ren abyss—can you still shoot? Can you shoot in the manner of not-shooting?”

So Bo Hun Wuren actually climbs the mountain, steps onto dangerous rock, and stands at the edge of the chasm, turning his back to the abyss and stepping backward until half of each foot hangs empty (Cheng: still backing toward the chasm, each foot two tenths empty beyond the edge). He bows and invites Lie Yukou forward. Lie Yukou prostrates himself; sweat runs to his heels. Bo Hun Wuren says: “The Perfect Person (Zhenren) looks up to measure the blue sky and down to fathom the yellow springs (Guo Qingfan: qián contrasts with kuī and should be read as ‘measure’; the Erya: qián, to measure); he roams freely to the utmost of the eight directions (Guo: huī chì is to roam freely). His spirit and bearing do not change. You, by contrast, are startled and show xún mù—the Shiwen cites the Erya: xún, fearful; Li’s text has shuàn, pronounced xún. Zhang Zhan cites He Chengtian: Wu people call blinking xún (or shuàn) mù—eyes confused by inner fear. In archery you have fallen into danger!” Guo Xiang: “Once fear arises, how much is lost!”

Jian Wu asked Sun Shuao: “You served three times as chief minister of Chu and showed no sign of glory; you were dismissed three times and wore no look of grief. At first I doubted you, but now I see your brows relaxed and your mood quite cheerful—what is really going on in your mind?”

Sun Shuao said: “In what way am I better than others? When office came, I could not push it away; when it left, I could not hold it. I treat gain and loss as not depending on me, so I simply do not wear a worried face. What do I have that others lack? Besides, what is truly worth cherishing—the post of chief minister, or the person I am? If it is in the post, it has nothing to do with me; if it is in me, it has nothing to do with the post. I am free to wander and look about (like the cook Ding after butchering the ox in Nourishing Life, satisfied and at ease)—where would I find time to fuss over whether others honor or slight me?”

When Confucius heard this, he said: “The true person of old could not be out-argued by the clever, seduced by the beautiful, robbed by bandits, or treated by someone like Fuxi or the Yellow Emperor as merely a friend. Life and death are great matters, yet they could not change him—how much less rank and salary! Such a one’s spirit could thread through great mountains without obstruction, dive into deep springs without being soaked, and live in humble, petty circumstances without weariness (poverty and low status could not trap him). His numinous clarity filled heaven and earth, all of it used to help others, while he himself became only more full.” (His numinous clarity pervaded heaven and earth, entirely devoted to helping others, yet he himself grew richer still.)

The king of Chu and the ruler of Fan sat facing each other. Before long, attendants on either side three times reported to the king of Chu that “the state of Fan has already perished.” (Note: “Fan” is the name of a state. According to Sima Biao, it lay in the region of Gong County in Jijun, in present-day Henan; the Zuozhuan shows that Fan was founded by descendants of the Duke of Zhou—the Fan Bo still appears in the seventh year of Duke Yin of Lu. In Chen Xuanying’s commentary, this king of Chu is identified as King Wen of Chu…)

The earlier passage also says: “When poverty and low station cannot obtain what one seeks, illness and distress arise.” It also says: “(Dao or De) fills heaven and earth; the more one takes from it to help others, the more full one becomes oneself.” The meaning is that spirit and the power of the Dao pervade heaven and earth; when one uses it entirely to relieve the multitude, the one who practices it becomes all the more abundant. This aligns with sayings in the Laozi such as “Having given to others, I have more.”