《庄子集解》Vol. 7

(This passage cites) a conversation between the ruler of Fan and Lord Xi when they sat together; the source is unclear. Guo Xiang’s commentary says it concerns “three signs of ruin.” Yu Yue held that Guo’s reading was wrong: three men at the king of Chu’s side were saying “Fan is about to perish.”

The ruler of Fan said: “Even if the state of Fan perishes, that is not enough to harm the preservation and cultivation of my essential self (the true ‘I’ whose spirit and original nature are not extinguished by the rise or fall of one state). Since ‘Fan’s perishing cannot harm my self-preservation,’ then even if Chu still stands, that is not enough to secure the deeper layer of ‘existence’ (the original, inherent existence). Seen this way, Fan has never truly perished, and Chu has never truly ‘existed.’”

(The text below repeats and completes the same point:) The ruler of Fan also said: “When Fan perishes, that is not enough to harm my self-preservation; when Chu remains, that is not enough to secure that ‘existence upon existence’ (the repeatedly emphasized, original existence). From this perspective, Fan has never truly been destroyed, and Chu has never truly existed.”

Brief background (Zhuangzi-style disputation): This is typical relativistic and qi wu (equalizing things) reasoning in the outer chapters of the Zhuangzi—the survival or fall of borders is worldly affair; the speaker places the preservation and cultivation of “self” (spirit and Dao-nature) above the fate of states. Chu’s standing and Fan’s falling are relative names and forms; they cannot decide the original “existence.” This fits the context of the “Knowledge Wandered North” (Zhi Beiyou) chapter, where Dao and knowledge are discussed.

Zhi (a character in the allegory representing the pursuit of knowledge) traveled north until he reached the dark waters of Xuan Shui and climbed the hill of Yin Nie (Yin Nie, sounding like "fen," refers to a landform that rises subtly like a mound). There he happened to meet someone named Wuwei Wei. Cheng Xuanying explains that the names in this chapter are all fictitious, used to teach through allegory.

Zhi said to Wuwei Wei: "I wish to ask you: how must one think and reflect in order to know the Dao? Where must one dwell and how must one dress in order to rest in the Dao? By what road and what path must one go in order to obtain the Dao?" (Here "Dao" carries both the sense of "road/path" and "the Great Dao.") He asked three times, and Wuwei Wei never answered—not because he refused to answer, but because he did not know how to answer. Guo Xiang says: from the start there are no fixed words that can be spoken.

When Zhi could get no answer, he returned to the south bank of Bai Shui (another river name), climbed the hill of Hu Que, and met Kuang Qu. Zhi put the same questions to Kuang Qu. Kuang Qu said: "Ah! I know, and was just about to tell you—but halfway through I forgot what I wanted to say." Still unable to get an answer, Zhi went back to the palace of the Yellow Emperor and repeated his questions to the Yellow Emperor.

The Yellow Emperor said: "Only when you do not overthink and over-reflect can you begin to know the Dao; only when you are not attached to where you dwell or what you wear can you begin to rest in the Dao; only when you do not deliberately follow any particular path can you begin to obtain the Dao." Guo Xiang says: all of this means aligning with what is natural and thereby harmonizing with the Dao.

Zhi asked the Yellow Emperor again: "You and I think we know, while they (Wuwei Wei and Kuang Qu) do not know—who is right?" The Yellow Emperor said: "Wuwei Wei alone is truly right; Kuang Qu is somewhat close; you and I never measure up. Those who truly understand do not speak much; those who speak much do not necessarily understand—hence the sage teaches through wordless instruction." (Here the text echoes Laozi's "Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know" and "teaches through wordless instruction.")

Dao cannot be obtained through deliberate striving—Guo Xiang says: Dao is originally within nature itself; it cannot be “summoned” by words or contrived effort. De likewise cannot be “reached” by clinging—Guo Xiang says: not losing one’s De is what counts as De; once De is made into something to chase, one in fact never arrives.

Ren (benevolence) can still be practiced, yet yi (righteousness) may fall short: acting with benevolence is fine, but if one harms benevolence in order to perform righteousness, that too can be defended in argument. Li (ritual propriety), by contrast, often sinks into outward artifice—Li is ornamentation and easily turns into hypocrisy. Hence the saying: when Dao is lost, people talk of De; when De is lost, they talk of Ren; when Ren is lost, they talk of yi; when yi is lost, they talk of Li. Li is the trailing fringe of Dao and the starting point of confusion. It is also said: those who cultivate Dao daily reduce and pare away—Guo Xiang says: what is reduced is flashiness and pretense; reduce again and again until Wuwei (non-action); in Wuwei, nothing is left undone—Guo Xiang says: when ornament is gone and simplicity is preserved, though one acts, it is not forced contrivance. Cheng Xuanying says: this cites Laozi to clarify the point further.

People today have already become “things” (concrete existents)—Guo Xiang says: when primal simplicity disperses, things take form as objects; if one wishes to return to the root—Guo Xiang says: to go back to Dao—would that not be exceedingly hard! If there is said to be an easier path, it is probably only for the “great person.”

Life is kin to death, and death is the threshold of life—who can grasp this thread! Guo Xiang says: the cycle of death and life is endless. When a person lives, it is because qi has gathered into form; when qi disperses, there is death. If death and life are originally one turn of the same qi—Guo Xiang says: death and life are one qi—why should I fear only one side! Thus all things are one at this point—Guo Xiang says: the death and life of the myriad things all return to one qi. People call what they like “marvelous” and what they loathe “foul decay”—Guo Xiang says: they beautify life as marvelous and abhor death as foul decay; yet foul decay turns again into the marvelous, and the marvelous turns again into foul decay. Hence the text says… (the passage continues with the sense of “throughout the world it is one qi,” and so on; this section chiefly expounds paring ornament to return to simplicity and death-and-life as one qi).

The scripture says: “The whole world is but one circulating Qi.” Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that in this “single Qi,” what essential difference is there between life and death, or between others and oneself? Therefore what the sage values most is unity with the Dao and holding to the One.

Cheng Xuanying’s commentary adds that everything above is speaking of the Dao.

Next, Zhi (the figure who stands for “seeking knowledge and inquiry”) asks the Yellow Emperor:

“I first asked Wuwweiwu; Wuwweiwu did not answer me—not because he refused, but because he truly did not know how to answer. I then asked Kuang Qu; Kuang Qu meant to tell me but did not put it into words—not because he did not want to speak, but because the words were on his lips and then forgotten. Now I ask you: since you know, why do you still not speak the Dao plainly or draw close in your teaching?”

The Yellow Emperor said:

“Wuwweiwu is the one who truly accords with the Dao—because he does not treat the Dao as something that can be grasped as an object of knowledge. Kuang Qu is the one who seems to come near—because he forgot what should be said and no longer clings to words. You and I in the end still cannot draw close to the Dao—because we are still trying to reach it through ‘knowing’ and ‘being able to explain.’”

Cheng Xuanying notes: the Dao from the outset cannot be stuffed full with names and discursive talk.

Kuang Qu took this to mean the Yellow Emperor truly knew how to speak of the Dao. Wuwweiwu, from beginning to end, never opened his mouth—and that too is a kind of “knowing how to speak.”

Context (to help read this passage): In the Zhuangzi, personal names often carry meaning: Wuwweiwu suggests “non-action to which no name can be affixed”; Kuang Qu suggests “wild and winding, words not exhausting meaning”; Zhi suggests clinging to inquiry and learning. The passage aims to show that the true Dao is not “drawn near” by question-and-answer or piles of knowledge; it is approached rather in “not answering, forgetting words, and not-knowing.” Both Guo Xiang and Cheng Xuanying read “one Qi, valuing the One, and forgetting words” together with a view of cultivation and the Dao.

Heaven and earth possess great beauty yet never boast of it; as commentators note, they benefit the ten thousand things without claiming to have benefited anything. The four seasons follow clear patterns without relying on human debate; commentators say climate has its own boundaries and need not be endlessly argued over. Each of the ten thousand things has its own way of coming into being, and likewise need not be explained at length; commentators say each keeps its nature and does not depend on words.

What is called the sage takes the beauty of heaven and earth as foundation and penetrates the principles of the ten thousand things. Commentators explain that “yuan” (origin) means root: the sage’s heart is one of covering and embracing, and that root is the same as heaven and earth’s; each thing again has its own principle of generation, and the sage thereby penetrates them. Thus the Perfect Person practices wuwei (non-action) and the Great Sage does not contrive—they take heaven and earth as their standard and observe accordingly.

Commentators also cite another reading: spirit and clarity reach utmost refinement and dwell together with the hundred transformations—above they relate to heaven and earth, below to the ten thousand things. (In some versions “jin” is read as “she”; emended per Liu Deyi’s manuscript.) Things undergo change in life and death, square and round, yet their root cause is hard to know; things transform on their own, and the origin is hard to exhaust. From antiquity the ten thousand things seem to flutter into existence; commentators say it has always been so, firm and enduring.

The six directions may be vast, yet still lie within this; an autumn hair may be tiny, yet still counts as part of it. Commentators say: the large has nothing outside it, the small has no gap within it. Nothing under heaven fails to rise and sink, float and submerge—in one lifetime it is always changing and never stays as it was. Commentators say: rising, sinking, floating, and submerging succeed one another in endless renewal. Yin and yang and the four seasons run each in its place; Guo Xiang says there is no need for human contrivance. Things seem dim as if lost yet are really there; Cheng Xuanying says: like dimness, as if present. They surge forth without visible trace, and transformation moves like spirit. The ten thousand things are nourished and kept alive without knowing it.

This is called the root; penetrating the root, one can observe natural heaven.

Nieque asked Bei Yi about the Dao. (“Bei” is read like pi; the name is also written Pi.)

Bei Yi said: “First straighten your body and unify your seeing and hearing; the harmonious qi within Heaven will come to you.” (Cheng Xuanying’s note: When the body is still and the spirit is gathered, the natural qi returns on its own.) “Restrain your cleverness and correct your bodily bearing, and the spirit will come to dwell in you.” (Yu Yue said: Both Huainanzi, “Responses of the Way” chapter, and Wenzi, “Origin of the Way” chapter, have “correct your du” (zheng ru du); here “unify” (yi) should read “correct” (zheng). Du means the form of the body.) Comment: When the heart is withdrawn and the form is upright, the spirit naturally returns. “De will show itself as beautiful in you, and the Dao will settle and dwell in you”—De and the Dao are then naturally present in your person. “Let your gaze be like that of a newborn calf, not inquiring into causes from the past!” (Cheng’s note: Tong yan means looking straight ahead without knowing. A newborn calf is naturally unified in its nature, hence the simile.)

Before he had finished speaking, Nieque had already fallen asleep. (Xiang’s note: Having heard this, he feared to go on using seeing and hearing, so he slept. Attaining the Way quickly, Bei Yi was therefore pleased.) Bei Yi was very happy; as he walked away he sang:

“Form like the withered corpse,

Heart like extinguished ashes.”

(Cheng’s note: Form like the withered corpse. Xu Wugui chapter also has “withered corpse” (gao hai); Equalizing Things has “withered tree” (gao mu); Geng Sang Chu has “branch of a withered tree” (gao mu zhi zhi). The hundred parts of the human body are like the many branches of a tree, so “withered corpse” is “withered branch.”)

“In the genuine hides the real; in the real hides knowing—

Do not cling obstinately to old habits.” (Guo’s note: Transform along with change.)

“Dim and dark, murky and faint—

No fixed scheming; others cannot consult with him.” (Xuan’s note: He has no heart-mind; I ought not say more.)

“What kind of person is this!” (Guo’s note: One who alone keeps company with transformation and moves of himself with change.)

Shun put a question to someone named Cheng—on one reading, Cheng was Shun’s teacher Hua; on another, Cheng was one of the ancient “Four Assistants” (the sequence ran: Front Doubt, Rear Cheng, and the other two aides). Shun asked: “Can the Dao be grasped in the hand and treated as one’s own possession?”

The other replied: “Your body is not even yours—how could you possess the Dao?”

Shun asked: “If the body is not mine, then to whom does it belong?”

The answer: “It is the bodily frame Heaven and Earth have entrusted to you. Life is not yours—it is the yin–yang harmony Heaven and Earth have entrusted. Xing and ming (your nature-portion and life-portion) are not yours—they are the natural order Heaven and Earth have entrusted. Descendants are not yours—they are the succession of form after form, like the cicada’s slough, that Heaven and Earth have entrusted.”

So for a person living through a lifetime: in walking there seems to be a destination, yet examined closely one cannot say where one is truly going; in dwelling there seems to be something to rely on, yet examined closely one cannot say what one truly relies upon; in eating there seems to be flavor discerned, yet examined closely one cannot say what that flavor really is. As for the vigor and surge of qi, between Heaven and Earth there is an abundance of firm, yang force—everything is this circulation. How then could the Dao be “possessed”?

(According to textual notes on the base edition: one place originally read “de” (Virtue) by mistake and was corrected from the Huainanzi; one character originally read wei and was changed to wei (fear/reverence) following Lu Deming’s Explanatory Notes.)

When Confucius was at leisure, he consulted Laozi: “Having some free time today, I venture to ask about the highest Dao.” Laozi said: First observe fasting and cleanse your inner heart, making your spirit pure and clear, and break down the sagely wisdom and clever contrivance that prides itself on being clever. The Dao is profound, dark, and difficult to speak of; I can only describe its rough outlines for you. Bright and manifest things arise from the dark and obscure; ordered and patterned things arise from the formless. Spirit arises from the Dao; the root of physical form arises from Jing (essence); and the myriad things, relying on form, generate and continue one another. Therefore humans and beasts, which have nine orifices, are born from the womb, while birds and fish, which have eight orifices, are born from eggs. The Dao comes without trace and departs without limit; it has no fixed gate and no fixed dwelling, yet it extends in all directions and is vast and boundless. Cheng Xuanying, a Tang-dynasty Daoist scholar, notes that “yao” here refers to the Dao; Yu Yue, a Qing scholar, points out that “yao” was anciently interchangeable with “jiao,” meaning to follow and comply, so “yao yu ci zhe” means one who follows this Dao. From this it can be seen that one must first purify the spirit and break through clever contrivance before one can accord with the vast and unobstructed Great Dao.

Fruits and gourds have their patterns: Fruit on trees and melons and gourds among the grass stay in distinct kinds without mixing; each kind keeps its own order (“luo” refers to gourd-type fruit).

Human relations and “ranking like teeth”: Names, roles, and ranks among people are hard to make fully equal, yet among the living a natural order still forms—before and after, elder and younger, higher and lower—like teeth that do not line up evenly but each holds its place.

The sage’s stance (the text repeats the same point): When change comes the sage does not meet it head-on or fight the moment; when it is past he does not cling. He shifts along with transformation. Meeting things by harmonizing is called superior De (shang de); meeting them by chance, without intent or contrivance, aligns with the Dao. Guo Xiang’s commentary adds that the rise of emperors and the start of the kingly way are no more than this—not going against, not holding on, shifting with transformation.

How brief life is: A person between Heaven and Earth is like a white horse flashing through a crack in the door—gone in an instant; the span is extremely short.

Birth and death: Sudden surge, sudden flourishing—all life comes from this; like streams pouring in, like dispersing and sinking—all flows back into the empty. Other “living beings” grieve for the dead, and humans grieve all the more (commentators distinguish generic “living beings” from “humankind” when people are named alongside the dead).

Death and the loosening of form: Heaven’s “bow-case” (tian tao) that bound the body is unstrung; heaven’s “sack” (tian nang, often read as the image of the body tied up) is dropped—meaning that at death the bonds that held the physical form are released.

Hun, po, and the final return: Amid turmoil and turning, hun and po are about to depart; the body goes with them—this is the great return (da gui), going back to the great root, to where death belongs.

How this ties to the “emperors and kings” passage: Earlier, harmonizing response was called De and chance response the Dao, and that was said to be the root of imperial rise and the kingly way; what follows moves from life’s brevity under Heaven and Earth to the birth and death of myriad transformation, the loosening at death, and the departure of soul and return of body—so the sage’s “not going against, not holding, shifting along” is seen within the great transformation of life and death: the affairs of emperors and kings and those of ordinary people alike unfold and close within this flash of arising and perishing, “like a white horse through a crack.”

The formless form: the layer that has no fixed shape is precisely the root from which all formed things arise. The formed within the formless: formed shapes, in turn, only become what they are within that which has no form. These points are things ordinary people can more or less talk about, yet they are not what those who truly aim to “reach the Dao” should take as their practice; nor are they what those who single-mindedly seek the utmost Dao should make their exclusive concern. On the contrary, they are exactly the sort of topic the vulgar crowd most loves to argue over.

Those who have truly “arrived” no longer rely on verbal disputation; once one is still disputing, it shows one has not yet “arrived.” Cheng Xuanying explains: the sage who has awakened to principle forgets words, and therefore no longer discourses; if one still must discourse, one has not yet reached the Dao. Even when the eyes see with utmost clarity, “clear seeing” cannot grasp solid meaning (there is nothing to meet or hold onto); being eloquent in speech is still inferior to keeping silent. The Dao was never something to be grasped by listening with the ears; to insist on listening is still inferior to blocking the ears—rather than seeking outward by hearing, better to stop the ears and guard inward.

To understand and put this into practice is called “great attainment”: to grasp this meaning is to have deeply aligned with the principle of the great Dao.

Xuan (the commentator) says: When the heart roams in empty vastness, one can see the Dao as wholly unified and without end.

(Zhuangzi asks:) Can we together rest in wuwei (non-action)? Be plain and still? Vast and clear? Guo Qingfan says that “mo” here also means clear: the Erya glossary glosses “mo” and “cha” as “clear,” and Fan Guang notes the “mo ran” appearance of clarity.

(Again:) Harmonious, tuned, and at leisure?

“Vast, empty, and silent”—that is my aim. At first there is no place one must go, yet one does not know how far one will reach; one goes and returns without knowing where to halt; one has come and gone again and again without knowing where the end is.

(I) linger in Feng Hong (Guo Xiang: Feng Hong means the boundless, empty expanse). Great wisdom enters it and finds no limit. The great sage and the great knower enter it and move with change as they please.

“Wu wu zhe” (what gives things their thinghood) is the Dao: wherever things are, the Dao is there, so it shares no outer limit with things. “Things have limits” means each thing has its own dividing line—that is called “wu ji” (the limit of a thing). Cheng Xuanying says: Each thing has its own side and border, which alone is called wu ji; that cannot be used to describe the Dao.

“The limit of no-limit”: the Dao has no limit by nature, yet it shows within the limits of things; that limit is still no-limit—when you see a thing’s limit, you still see no-limit.

(Zhuangzi adds:) What people call fullness and emptiness, decline and killing—the (Dao) is spoken of as fullness and emptiness yet is not fullness and emptiness, as decline and killing yet is not decline and killing. Cheng Xuanying says: Wealth and rank are fullness (ying), poverty and low standing are emptiness (xu); old age and sickness are decline and killing (shuai sha). The (Dao) is spoken of as root and branch yet is not root and branch, as gathering and scattering yet is not gathering and scattering. Cheng Xuanying says: End and beginning are root and branch (ben mo); birth is gathering (ji), death is scattering (san).

Ehe Gan (a person’s name) and Shennong (a legendary emperor) together sought instruction from Lao Long Ji (their teacher). Shennong was leaning on a low table, with the door shut, dozing in the daytime. At noon Ehe Gan pushed open the door, entered, and said, “Lao Long is dead!” Supporting himself on the table and leaning on his staff, Shennong rose; then with a “smack” he put down the staff and laughed, saying: “Heaven—here meaning Lao Long Ji; commentators say he possessed the virtue of spontaneity, and so they call him Heaven—knew that I am shallow and slack, and therefore abandoned me and died. It is over! Before the Master could enlighten me with ultimate words (the original calls them ‘wild words,’ meaning the highest truth, which people in the world find hard to understand), he died!”

Yan Gang Diao (a man who embodied the Dao, named Diao), hearing of this, said: “One who embodies the Dao is the master to whom the noble men of the world turn for refuge. Now Shennong, with respect to the Dao, has not obtained even the tip of an autumn hair or one ten-thousandth of it, and yet he knows that Lao Long died having hidden away the ultimate words—how much more so one who truly embodies the Dao! The Dao: when looked at, it has no form; when listened to, it has no sound; in people’s discussions, one can only call it dark and indistinct. And the words used to discuss the Dao are themselves not the Dao.” Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Dark and indistinct” is still not the Dao; this precisely shows that the Dao has no name that can be spoken.

Then Taiqing asked Wuji (the Infinite): “Do you know the Dao?” Wuji said, “I do not know.” He went and asked Wuwei (Non-action). Wuwei said, “I know the Dao.” Taiqing asked, “If you know the Dao, is there something you could call it, some way to count or describe it?” Wuwei said, “There is.” He asked again, “What is that way of counting?” Wuwei said, “I know that the Dao can appear noble and can appear base; it can gather and constrain, and it can scatter and disperse. That is what I mean by the ‘number’ or measure of knowing the Dao.” Cheng Xuanying’s commentary says: when noble it is like a lord; when base it is like a servant; when gathered it becomes life, when dispersed it returns to death—such “measures” in truth have no fixed limit.

Taiqing took this answer and asked Wushi (No-beginning) the same question again. Wushi said, “If that is so, when Wuji says he does not know and Wuwei says he knows, who is right and who is wrong?” Wushi added, “Not knowing is then deep; knowing is then shallow. Not knowing is then inward; knowing is then outward.” Then Taiqing looked up and sighed long (in one textual tradition the word for “center” is read as “raise the head”): “Is not knowing really knowing? Is knowing really not knowing? Who can grasp that ‘knowing which is not-knowing’?”

Wushi said, “The Dao cannot be grasped by hearing—what is heard is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be grasped by the eyes—what is seen is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be grasped in words—what is spoken is not the Dao. Understand this: does form appear from ‘what has no shape’? The Dao from the outset should not be fixed by a name.” The text above speaks of “the shape of no-shape, the no-shape within shape”—whoever realizes that form comes forth from no-shape knows that the Dao cannot be defined by naming. Wushi also said, “When someone asks, someone answers, but the one who answers does not really know; though they question the Dao, they have not truly heard the Dao. The answerer was wrong to begin with, and the questioner was wrong too. The Dao needs no question, and a question needs no answer.” Guo Xiang says: this means to cut off learning and leave off teaching, returning to what is natural. “There is nothing to ask, yet one insists on asking—that is exhausting the question. There is nothing to answer, yet one insists on answering—that is having no inner realization and merely chasing outer things.” To meet a question driven to its limit with no inner realization—if one lives like that, outwardly one cannot survey the vastness of the cosmos, inwardly one cannot attune to the origin of the Great Beginning, one does not know how human affairs stand within the four quarters of heaven and earth, and one does not know that the root of the Dao is in oneself. Therefore one cannot pass beyond Kunlun and roam in the Great Void (Taixu)—how then could one pass Kunlun and roam in the Great Void?

Guangyao asked Non-Being (Wu-you): “Do you count as existing, or as not existing?” He could not get an answer. Yu Yue held that in the Huainanzi, “Responses of the Dao” (Daoying xun), five characters—“Non-being does not fail to respond” (wu-you fu ying ye)—originally stood before this line and ought to be restored here; without those words the sense is incomplete.

Guangyao then studied Non-Being’s appearance closely: deep and dim, empty and vast—gazing all day yet seeing nothing, listening yet hearing nothing, reaching out yet touching nothing.

Guangyao sighed: “This is the utmost! Who can cultivate to this degree! I can reach the level of ‘being’ and ‘non-being,’ yet I still cannot reach ‘non-non-being’ (wu-wu).” (Xuan Ying explains: here “being” and “non-being” mean having form and substance; to enter the stage of “being/non-being” is still inferior to fully returning to “non-being”; when one has even transformed oneself into “non-being,” if the mind still cannot shed the thought of “being,” how can one enter the realm of “non-non-being”?)

The Grand Marshal (dà sīmǎ) of the state of Chu employed a man who specialized in forging belt hooks. Cheng Xuanying explains that “Grand Marshal” (dà mǎ) means Chu’s Grand Marshal; “to forge” (chuí) means hammering metal; and “hook” (gōu) is the hook on a belt. By the time this man was eighty, the weight and proportion of every hook he made still never missed by the slightest measure. Sima Biao and Guo Xiang say he judged the hook’s weight and the force of each blow so precisely that not even the finest detail went wrong.

The Grand Marshal asked him: “Is your craft merely clever, or have you grasped the Dao (the Way)?”

The old man answered: “Your servant has shou.” Wang Niansun notes that shou here is the word Dao. In the “Dàshēng” (Perfected Life) chapter, Confucius asks, “Are you skillful? Do you have the Dao?” and the reply is, “I have the Dao.” That shows that in archaic pronunciation Dao sounded close to shou, so the two could interchange; in the rhyming passages of the Nine Classics, the Chuci, and texts of Laozi and Zhuangzi, Dao is read like shou. In the Shuowen, Dao is written with the “walk” radical and shou as phonetic; the received text omits the phonetic because the two Xu scholars did not understand old pronunciation and removed it.

The old man went on: From twenty I loved forging hooks and ignored everything else—not because I could see only hooks, but because my mind held this one thing alone. Su Yu says this matches “not trading the cicada’s wing for the ten thousand things”: not letting outer things scatter the spirit. Lasting skill works because “using” in fact depends on “not using”: by not applying the mind to other objects, one instead perfects hook-making through long practice. How much more, then, for someone who lets go even of “not using” and has no layer left beyond “non-being”—what is called “non-non-being” (wú wú)? What among the ten thousand things would not gain from that? So it is said: all things rely on this “non-use that is never applied,” and each finds its own proper function.

Ran Qiu asked Confucius (here the base text runs into the previous passage; usually the question is whether mind-nature can be cultivated before Heaven and Earth existed). Read in continuity with the passage above, the point is that when even “not using” is released and one reaches “non-non-being,” the ten thousand things can each borrow that and fulfill themselves.

Ran Qiu asked Confucius, “When Heaven and Earth had not yet come to be, could one know what that was like?” Confucius said, “One could know. Antiquity and the present are the same.” (Guo Xiang’s note: this means Heaven and Earth have always existed; there was never an age of “before Heaven and Earth.”) Ran Qiu did not grasp the point of the question and withdrew. (Cheng Xuanying’s note: he missed the deeper meaning in Confucius’s reply.)

The next day he came again and said, “Yesterday I asked whether one could know when Heaven and Earth did not yet exist, and you said, ‘One can; antiquity is like the present.’ Yesterday I thought I understood; today I am confused again. May I ask what this means?”

Confucius said, “Yesterday you thought you understood because your mind-heart had already taken in the meaning of the words.” (Guo’s note: only by listening with an empty mind and awaiting what the Dao assigns can the mind-heart receive it.) “Today you are confused again—are you once more seeking an answer in what the mind-heart cannot directly receive? What the mind-heart does not directly receive is only signs and labels. Once a person gets stuck on signs, he has to rely on reasoning to seek enlightenment. In truth there is no antiquity and no present, no beginning and no end; all is transformation of a single qi. There are not yet descendants and yet there already are descendants—is that admissible?” (Guo Xiang’s note: descendants can come from nonbeing to being; cannot Heaven and Earth come from nonbeing to being as well?)

Before Ran Qiu could answer, Confucius said again, “Enough—no need to reply further!” (Cheng’s note: in the moment before Ran Qiu could speak, Confucius told him not to respond.) “Do not use ‘life’ to give birth to ‘death,’ and do not use ‘death’ to give birth to ‘life.’ Death is the dying of itself; its living is not in order to produce this ‘dead one.’ Life is the living of itself; its dying is not in order to kill this ‘living one.’” (Cheng’s note as above.) Life and death do not wait on each other or generate each other; each completes its own form.

“Is there some ‘thing’ (wu) that was born before Heaven and Earth?” Here the word wu is to be read as zhi yu (“that which …”). What “makes a thing a thing” is itself not a thing—that refers to the Dao, which cannot be called a thing in the ordinary sense. When the myriad things surge forth together, no thing can exist before things; it is as if things were already there—yet in fact the myriad things have always been there, and one can push this back without end until there is “no stopping” (wu yi), precisely because there is a “thinger of things” (wuwuzhe)—that which makes things be things. The sage loves all people, and his loving heart never reaches a limit; he too takes this as his model.” (The sage takes boundless love for people as his heart, likewise emulating the way of Heaven and Earth.)

Yan Hui asked Confucius, saying, “I once heard the Master say: ‘Do not deliberately send off or welcome anything.’” (Cheng Xuanying’s note: Jiang means to send off; the sage is like a mirror—neither deliberately sending anything away nor deliberately welcoming anything.) Yan Hui then asked: Where should the mind “wander”? (Xuan Ying’s note: The question is where the mind roams.)

Confucius said, “The ancients changed with things outwardly, yet inwardly were not changed.” (Xuan Ying’s note: They flowed with external things, but the inner master did not move.) “People today let the inner mind be stirred by things, yet outwardly they cannot change with things.” The spirit wavers and is tied down by things. To say “the ancients were outwardly transformed but inwardly not transformed” means exactly this; to say “people today are inwardly transformed but outwardly not transformed” means the same in reverse.

One who can transform with things does so because there is one place that is never transformed. (Guo Xiang’s note: By constantly preserving wuxin [no-mind], that one place is not transformed; only when that one place is not transformed can one truly transform together with things.) “At ease with transformation and at ease with non-transformation”— (Cheng Xuanying’s note: An means to leave to; the sage has no mind and flows with things; whether transforming or not, all is left to nature.) “letting oneself accord with things”— (Cheng’s note: Mi means to accord; following fate and according with things.) “yet each still keeps to its own portion and does not harm the other.” (Cheng’s note: Though according with things, each stops at its own boundary, without mutual injury.)

The park of Xīwéi, the garden of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of Yú of Shùn, the hall of Tāng and Wǔ— (Note: The lower the age, the narrower the dwelling; the sage rests in accord with the times.) Custom declines generation by generation, and the space people inhabit grows narrower generation by generation. Men of the junzi type—even exemplars of the Ru and Mo schools—still harmonize over right and wrong. (Textual note: ●, zǐ xī fan, meaning “harmonize.” Guo Xiang: Teachers of Ru and Mo are among the hardest in the world to harmonize; those without mind can still harmonize with them—how much more ordinary people!) How much more so the common people of today! (General sense: The junzi toward people of the age can also transform in accord with conditions.) The sage in dealing with things does not harm things. (Xuan Ying: No mind fixed on right and wrong.)

Those who do not harm external things cannot be harmed by them either. Only those who truly never harm things can truly walk alongside others and meet them in mutual welcome. One need not deliberately go to welcome or send off others, and that is fine; going to welcome or send off is also fine. Whether in mountains and forests or on the open plain—all of it fills me with glad delight! Yet before delight has fully run its course, sorrow follows close behind. Cheng Xuanying says: Feelings shift with circumstances, and joy and sorrow shift accordingly—showing that the world’s joy and sorrow are not worth taking as real. When joy and sorrow arrive, I cannot block them; when they leave, I cannot hold them back. How lamentable! People in the world are scarcely better than inns opened for external things. Guo Xiang says: Those who cannot rest in sitting in forgetfulness and find joy in themselves have no choice but to be tugged along by joy and sorrow. On this reading, people become passing guests of external things, temporary lodging for what comes from outside.

They know only “encountering” and do not know “not encountering”; encountering has its limit, and knowing has its limit too. Knowing treats only what “can” as able, and does not treat what “cannot” as able. Ignorance and inability are what people cannot escape in the first place. Xuan Ying says: Knowing and ability have no ceiling; there are always things unknown and things one cannot do—that is human nature. Yet one tries to dodge what people cannot dodge anyway—and still wears oneself out guessing, hoping to know and do everything—is that not even more lamentable? Cheng Xuanying says: This is folly and confusion at its extreme.

Words of ultimate principle need not rely on speech; the highest conduct need not rely on forced effort. Cheng Xuanying says: The most penetrating truth is not something spoken with the mouth; the most fitting action is not something wrung out by strain. If one insists on using “what knowing knows” to level everything alike, that is far too shallow. Xuan Ying says: If you must make everyone align with whatever “knowing” deems ought to be known, so that none is unknown—is there any room left to speak of how one who has awakened to the Dao should act?

Among the followers of Laozi—those who studied the Dao under him—was one named Gengsang Chu. Commentators identify him with Kangcangzi in the Liezi (the names “Gengsang” and “Kangcang” being phonetically related), or note a Gengsang clan in the Wu region, counted among the seven clans. Gengsang Chu took only a portion of Laozi’s Dao, yet from that portion he gained real insight, and he went north to live on Mount Weilei (a place name; some locate it in Lu, others in Liangzhou).

Among his subordinates, those who seemed especially sharp and fond of parading clever insight, he sent away; among his wives and concubines, those who seemed especially “benevolent” and fond of labeling themselves “humane ones” (renzhe), he also kept at a distance. The local people revered Gengsang Chu and were willing to serve him as retainers or maids—but if among them there were those who loved to pry and display “wisdom” (zhi), or those who loved to elevate themselves and advertise “humaneness” (ren), Gengsang Chu likewise kept them at arm’s length and did not employ them. He lived only with people of plain, ungainly appearance (what Sima’s commentary calls yongzhong, “lumpish” form) and kept only those who toiled all day and handled affairs with their own hands (yangzhang—servants who run about on hard duty) to wait on him.

After three years in this way, the region around Weilei enjoyed a great harvest (darang—a year of abundant ripening).

Plain-language explanation

In some editions the character read as rang (“soil”) is written as rang in the sense of “abundant”; the Guangya lexicon says rang means “plentiful.” Lu Wenchao notes that the Liezi, “Heaven’s Gifts” chapter, also uses rang in this “abundant harvest” sense.

The people of Weilei gathered and said: “When Gengsang Chu first arrived, we were astonished and puzzled by him. Count day by day and income does not cover expenses; count year by year and there is grain to spare. Is he perhaps a sage? Why should we not together honor him as lord the way one sacrifices to the shi (corpse-spirit), and revere him as one does the community altar and the grain-god?” Here shi means “representative” or “stand-in”—they wanted to install him as ruler.

When Gengsang Chu heard this, he sat facing south (the posture of a ruler) but was inwardly displeased. Similar language appears in “Discourse on Equalizing Things.” His disciples were puzzled. Gengsang Chu said: “Why do you think I am different from others? When spring qi stirs, the hundred grasses grow; when autumn comes, the various fruits ripen. Yu Yue thought the word de (“obtain”) in the text might be a mistaken addition prompted by what follows. The Yijing, “Explanation of the Trigrams”: “Dui (Lake)—right autumn, when the ten thousand things are ‘spoken of’ as complete.” The commentary says “in right autumn all things are spoken of as accomplished,” which draws on this passage. To say simply “in right autumn the myriad treasures are complete” is already enough in meaning; there is no need to add de. Spring and autumn—do they happen for no reason? The Way of Heaven is already at work.” (The exegesis text has da “great” rather than tian “Heaven.”) Seasonal order and the great Dao both turn; accomplishment comes about while people may not notice it themselves.

“I have heard that the utmost person dwells quietly like the shi spirit in a ring of walls—a small room, hidden and unassuming—while the people wander freely in wild abandon, not knowing where they ought to go, like heaven and earth forgetting each other. Yet now these petty folk of Weilei whisper in corners and want to set me up as a sacrificial offering among the worthy. Am I the dipper-handle, the measuring ladle grasped and manipulated by others?” Guo Xiang says: he did not wish to become the target everyone points at. So he could not set aside what Master Lao said. Cheng Xuanying explains: Laozi teaches “when the work is done, do not dwell on it; preside long but do not dominate”; Gengsang Chu devoutly followed his teacher’s instruction, while the people of Weilei acted in the opposite way—hence he could not be at ease.

A disciple said: “That is not so. In an ordinary ditch, a large fish cannot turn around, yet minnows and loach can lord it there; …” (the passage continues the small-versus-great analogy.)

Measurement and exegesis

Eight chi make one xun; two xun make one chang. “Ni” denotes a small fish. Old commentaries explain zhi as zhe—that is, the small fish’s body can bend and fold; zhi and zhe are also often used interchangeably in early texts.

The small mound, the fox, and the great beast

A mound one bu wide and one ren high cannot hide a large animal’s body, yet a fox treats it as a fine place. The glosses: six chi equal one bu, seven chi one ren; Cui takes xiang as shan (“good”), meaning the fox regards the mound as a good refuge.

Honoring the worthy and Yao and Shun

To honor the worthy, employ the capable, and first grant benefits and emoluments to the good—this has been so since Yao and Shun (here yi and yi are the same in meaning). How much more so for the people of Weilei? So please, sir, listen as well!

Gengsang Chu’s analogy

Gengsang Chu said: Come here! A fierce beast that could fill a large cart—if it leaves the deep mountains alone, it cannot escape the net’s disaster. A fish big enough to swallow a boat, when floodwaters recede and it is stranded from the water, even ants can torment it. Therefore birds and beasts do not disdain height; fish and turtles do not disdain depth. Guo Xiang says: only by keeping far from benefit and harm can one preserve the whole body; one who preserves body and spirit must hide without disdaining depth, like the myriad things. As for those two, Yao and Shun—how are they worth lavish praise? They merely exerted themselves in bian (disputation)—Xuan Ying says: not worth much praise shows that relying on disputation is wrong.

Nanrong Chu and “three years”

Nanrong Chu sat upright and asked: How can I keep the body from being trapped and the spirit from being drained, without cultivating myself through cleverness, benevolence, and righteousness, and yet attain long life? Gengsang Chu said: You have hit the vital point. To preserve form and nourish spirit as you do, even a thousand years would not be long. If you cannot, a year, a month, or a day is too long. Someone came to Nanrong Chu’s house and asked: Is there someone called Minzi? Is there someone called Minzi? Nanrong Chu said: There is. The host said: If Minzi were not here, who could live with him? Everyone said: Only Nanrong Chu. Gengsang Chu said: Nanrong Chu, sit properly and speak clearly. With these several people you bring, can you still be self-sufficient through me? Nanrong Chu lowered his head, dazed; then he looked up, sighed, and said: I have forgotten how to answer—what would count as being self-sufficient through you? Gengsang Chu said: Guard your form, embrace the One and keep the spirit—three years will do. Nanrong Chu said: I am crude—can it work? Gengsang Chu said: Do all that human effort can, and listen to Heaven’s spontaneity—three years will do. Nanrong Chu said: What I call “clear”—does it count as clarity? Gengsang Chu said: Without cleverness and benevolence-righteousness—three years will do. Nanrong Chu said: What I call “dull”—does it count as dullness? Gengsang Chu said: Let the ten thousand things each rest in its place and follow its nature—three years will do. Nanrong Chu said: Where does calamity come from? Gengsang Chu said: From mutual grasping and demanding—three years will do. Nanrong Chu said: Where does illness come from? Gengsang Chu said: From exhausting the spirit and harming the nature—three years will do. Nanrong Chu said: My illness is so severe—how long can I live? Gengsang Chu said: Preserve the form and guard the spirit—three years will do.

Nanrong Chu’s three years (visit to Laozi)

Nanrong Chu took his books and went to Laozi, saying: My illness is very grave—I venture to ask how to preserve the body. Laozi said: You ask about preserving the body—you have already lost the genuine; you ask about nurturing life—you have already lost the genuine. If the genuine were present, what would you ask? If the genuine were absent, what would you ask? You have come; there is something to meet you—not according to the words of your question. Nanrong Chu said: If I cannot hear it, I fear the illness will deepen; please tell me the essentials. Laozi said: To question well is hard; to see well is hard. Nanrong Chu said: My illness is deep; if I cannot hear the essentials, I fear I cannot live. Laozi said: The way to preserve the body leaves no trace. Using cleverness multiplies affairs; using benevolence multiplies blame; using righteousness multiplies expectations; using ritual multiplies pretense. Discard cleverness and you are upright; discard benevolence and you are trustworthy; discard righteousness and you are close; discard ritual and you are plain. When all four are removed, you merge with plain simplicity. Plain simplicity accords with the heart; accord with the heart and you are near the Dao. You have come, and you bring people—can you still listen? Nanrong Chu said: If I still cannot listen, I will not live long. Laozi said: Guan Yin said: One hits the mark in shooting because there is no opposition to the target; one obtains the prey because there is no opposition to the game. Thus disorder arises from using cleverness; greed and fraud arise from using benevolence; one-sidedness arises from using righteousness; hollow falsity arises from using ritual. These four are tools for ordering the world, not tools for ordering the person. Those who can shoot and obtain do not treat that as a skill—therefore they can hit and obtain. If they treat it as a skill, they must be trapped by things. Therefore fondness for cleverness brings disorder; fondness for benevolence brings greed; fondness for righteousness brings bias; fondness for ritual brings pretense. To set the world right, these four must be set right; to set the self right, one must not rely on these four. Toiling the cleverness exhausts the spirit; fondness for benevolence multiplies tasks; fondness for righteousness blames others; fondness for ritual breeds hypocrisy. When all four are removed, one merges with plain simplicity. Plain simplicity accords with the heart; accord with the heart and one is near the Dao.

(The narrative continues with Nanrong Chu’s plea that his illness is deep and Laozi’s repetition of Guan Yin on shooting and obtaining without opposition, and the theme that cleverness, benevolence, righteousness, and ritual are for governing the realm, not the body. Where the source also speaks of Nanrong Chu practicing for about three years until body and spirit gradually settle, that is the gist: he follows the teaching for roughly three years and finds increasing ease in form and spirit.)

In general, to sort things into categories and distinguish high from low—honoring the worthy, delegating authority to the capable, and first using good reputation and profit to guide people—is like indiscriminately boring through walls to plant weeds. Guo Xiang’s commentary says that this lets later generations recklessly pierce and bore, breeding filth and confusion. Combing by picking out individual hairs and cooking by counting grains of rice both describe fussy, petty methods; being so petty, how could one save the world? Promoting the worthy makes the people contend with one another; employing cleverness makes the people deceive one another (Xuan Ying says that “dao” here means deceit). None of these methods can make the people simple and honest. The people eagerly pursue profit, to the point that sons kill fathers and ministers kill rulers (the Shiwen says “sha” is read as “shi,” i.e., to murder a superior); they rob in broad daylight and at high noon dig through walls without fear (the “●” refers to a wall). I tell you: the root of great disorder must arise between Yao and Shun (the ancient sage kings), and its harmful aftereffects will continue for a thousand generations; after a thousand generations, there will surely be people eating people. This passage also appears in the “Xu Wugui” chapter. Nan Rongchu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) sat respectfully upright and said that he was already old, asking where he should entrust himself and what he should study in order to reach the state described in these words. Gengsangzi said: Preserve your physical form and protect your life (Yu Yue says “embrace” is interchangeable with “preserve”), and do not let your thoughts churn busily; after three years, you will be able to reach these words. Nan Rongchu then spoke again to ask for instruction.

The eyes and the body may look no different from each other, yet a blind person cannot see himself; the ears and the body likewise show no obvious distinction, yet a deaf person cannot hear himself; the heart and the body are the same in this respect, yet someone in mental turmoil cannot keep himself steady and at peace. The outward form is the same, but the way it is used is not.

It is easy to compare one person’s body with another’s (here “pi” means to draw a parallel or analogy), but external things or desires often stand in between, so that people who wish to reach one another cannot—and they frequently find they “cannot make themselves understood to each other.” That is why people suspect that something is blocking them apart.

Geng Sangzi said to Nanrong Chu: “Preserve your body, hold fast to your ming (life) and xing (nature), and do not let your thoughts churn and scatter in restless busyness.” Nanrong Chu only took it in with difficulty; the teaching reached his ears but had not yet penetrated his heart (as the commentaries of Cui and Xiang put it: it reached the ears but did not go fully into the heart).

Geng Sangzi said: “What I can say, I have already said to the end.” He also quoted an old saying: “The potter wasp (the slender-waisted wasp) cannot turn the large green caterpillar in the bean and mallow into its own offspring; the small hen of Yue cannot hatch the egg of a swan (or, in some readings, a crane), but the large hen of Lu can.” Hens of Yue and Lu are both chickens; their de (virtue, capacity) need not differ in kind—only that one can do what the other cannot shows that native endowment has its larger and smaller measures. Now my talent is small and not enough to transform and guide you. Why do you not go south to see Laozi?”

Nanrong Chu took provisions on his back and walked seven days and seven nights until he reached Laozi’s place (“ying liang” means to carry grain and travel on foot; regional dictionaries and similar works explain this usage).

This passage comes from the “Gengsang Chu” chapter of the Zhuangzi, and recounts part of the conversation when Nanrong Chu went to see Laozi.

Dialect note (as cited in the book): “Ying” is the same as “Dan” (a place name); in the regions of Qi, Chu, Chen, and Song, people called that place “Ying.”

Laozi asked, “Did you come from the Chu side?” Nanrong Chu replied, “Yes.” Laozi asked again, “How did you arrive together with so many people?” Nanrong Chu was startled and quickly looked behind him—(Note: “juran” describes alarm and turning to look back, much like “juran” in the sense of sudden fright.)

Laozi said, “Do you not grasp the meaning of my words?” Nanrong Chu bowed his head in shame, then looked up and sighed, “A moment ago I forgot how to answer you, and I also lost hold of what you had asked me.” Laozi asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Nanrong Chu said, “(You ask whether I do not understand?) Those around me all call me ‘zhu yu.’” (Note: In antiquity, people sometimes used “zhu ru” for someone extremely short in stature; here “zhu yu” chiefly means being regarded as deficient in wit and stratagem—seen as dull and shallow.)

Plain-language reading: Laozi was not literally counting how many people followed at Nanrong Chu’s back; he was pointing at something in the mind. When the heart is burdened with worldly regard and others’ judgments, it is as if a whole crowd trailed behind—and so, the moment one is questioned, one flusters. Nanrong Chu did not catch the point at first; he answered beside the question and only showed his tightness more plainly. He then confessed frankly that people always mocked him as slow-witted—that very knot was what had brought him to Laozi to seek release.

Note on the commentary: The annotators take zhu (vermilion) and zhuan (solemn/dull) as alliterative and near-synonymous, both suggesting dullness or obtuseness.

“Do you understand?” (Zhi hu?)—Laozi asks whether Chu grasps his point.

“Benevolence only weighs on my body” (Fan chou wo qu)—Narang Chu says that practicing ren (benevolence) actually burdens him. Not being benevolent harms others, yet benevolence turns back and torments him; not being righteous (yi) injures the other party, yet righteousness turns back and torments him. How can he escape this dilemma? These three sentences state exactly what Chu worries about; he hopes to use Chu’s situation as a pretext to come and learn from Laozi.

Laozi says: Just now I read it in the space between your eyebrows and already understood you; I have also taken hold of your heart-mind. Now that you speak again, I still trust you—I know my words have hit home. Yet you fuss and fidget as if you had lost your parents (gui gui suggests something cramped and petty), like measuring the ocean with a short pole—using something small to fathom something vast.

“You are like someone who has lost their way!” (Nü wang ren zai!)

“Dazed, you want to return to your true feelings and nature yet find no way in—how pitiable!” (Wang wang hu ru yu fan ru qing xing er wu you ru, ke lian zai!) Commentary: he has lost what he should rely upon.

Narang Chu asks to stay and live with him, calling in what he loves and casting off what he hates (commentary: summon clarity and emptiness, discard attachment to things). After ten days he still feels troubled (commentary: he has not yet succeeded, so worry remains). He goes to see Laozi again.

Laozi says: You ought to sweep, wash, and thoroughly practice cultivation yourself. Why is stagnant qi still packed inside you? (Commentary: like the steam of overcooked food pent up within.) Yet within that, foul thoughts still linger stickily. (Commentary: what he hates has not been fully removed.)

On huo and jian: Outward huo means the ears and eyes are bound by outer things; one must not, because of outer clamor, forcefully grab and block—or the heart will be shut in inwardly. Inward huo means the mind is bound by desires; one must not, because of inner confusion, forcefully grab and block—or the ears and eyes will be shut out outwardly. (Exegesis: huo is pronounced like huo, meaning to bind; jian means to close.)

Outward huo is the ears and eyes enslaved by things: do not try to seize and clamp down because of disturbance—you will inevitably close the heart within to quiet the ears and eyes. Inward huo is the mind enslaved by desire: do not try to seize and clamp down because of wild disorder—you will inevitably close the ears and eyes without to cut off the mind’s clinging.

Outward and inward huo: Someone bound this way by outer things and inner craving cannot hold fast even to Dao and De (Virtue/Power)—how much less those who follow the Way yet let outer and inner entanglement with things run free! (Xiang Xiu: fang means to follow and go along with.)

Narang Chu says: Someone in the same neighborhood falls ill; neighbors come to ask. The sick person can say where it hurts, but the one who asks may not truly understand the illness; often the questioner is “sick” in the same way. I, Chu, listen to the Great Dao (Da Dao) as if medicine that only makes the illness worse. I only wish to hear the “classic of guarding life”—the constant method of preserving life and nurturing the self. (“Classic” here means fixed principle or norm.)

Laozi says: (What follows connects to the “classic of guarding life” and related material; this segment ends here.)

The Scripture of Nourishing Life (the constant way of preserving life and nurturing body and mind)—can one hold to the One (maintain “one,” undivided and at one with the Dao)? Someone also asked whether Zhao had heard great doctrine—like taking the wrong medicine when ill and making things worse; Zhao said he only wanted to hear the scripture of nourishing life. Laozi then continued.

Commentators say: “Jing” means chang (the constant)—the rule to be kept always. Cheng Xuanying explains: what Zhao sought was only wholeness in self-nurturing—how to fully preserve and care for oneself.

Laozi asks: Can you hold to the One? Cheng Xuanying: keep the true without duality, mind undivided. Can you not lose it? Cheng: return to your own sufficiency—come back to what you already are, not losing your original nature. Can you know fortune and misfortune without divination? Wang Niansun notes: the original should read “misfortune and fortune” to rhyme with one, lose, and fortune; the Guanzi Techniques of the Mind has “can you know misfortune and fortune without divination?” which supports this. Cheng and others continue: Can you stop? Not chasing what is not yours to pursue. Can you let go? Not brooding over what is past. Can you set aside others and seek within yourself? Drop imitation of others and work only on yourself. Can you be free and easy? Coming and going without constraint, mind unattached. Can you be simple and empty? Guo Xiang (Xuan) says: without knowing, empty clarity without discrimination. Can you be like an infant? Xuan: yuanqi in its natural state, like a newborn. The infant cries all day yet its throat is not hoarse—this is the utmost of he (harmony of yin and yang, smooth flow of qi). Shiwen: hao is the same as crying aloud; Sima Biao: ai is the throat; sha (you) means extreme loss of voice, a Chu expression. Yu Yue also examined sound and meaning.

The whole passage has Laozi use a chain of “can you” questions to teach the scripture of nourishing life: hold the One, not lose it, know without divining, know when to stop, let go, seek in oneself, be free and easy, be simple and empty, be like an infant—the core is guarding oneness, self-sufficiency, not seeking outward, with he (harmony) as the height of nurturing life.

Note on wording

In the Zuo Commentary (Year Wen the Second), the line “Our lord wishes to seek blessing from the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Lu” uses a sense close to “seeking food” and “seeking pleasure” here. The character later written as yao (to seek or invite) appears in that older form; jiao (to join or associate) is used here as a loan character.

In the Classic of Poetry, “Sang Hu,” we read “neither presumptuous nor arrogant”; the Treatise on the Five Phases in the History of the Han has the same line with the earlier graph for “presumptuous” in place of “join”—the same kind of variant usage.

Main sense of the passage

Do not let external things or other people stir up your sense of gain and loss (ying means to disturb or unsettle).

Do not band together to show off novelty; do not band together to plot, calculate, or force agreement; do not band together in action or make light, rash friendships.

Coming and going are natural and without deliberate intent: only then is this called “the constant way of preserving the body” (weisheng zhi jing).

Someone asks: “Is that already the height of it? Already the utmost?”

The answer: “Not yet. Did I not say: ‘Can you be like an infant?’

When an infant moves, it does not know what it is doing; when it walks, it does not know where it is going. The body is like a withered tree branch; the mind is like dead ashes.

(Such language also appears in Discourse on Making Things Equal, and in Master Xu Wugui and Master Zhi Beiyou; in one place the word for ‘tree’ is written as ‘bones’ instead.)

When you reach this, misfortune does not specially seek you out, and good fortune does not specially seek you out—when both fortune and misfortune are no longer at issue, how could there still be ‘disaster brought on by human contrivance’?”

(Here wu is read as wū, meaning “how” or “could it be that.” Guo Xiang says: fortune and misfortune arise from weighing gain and loss; human-made disaster arises from clinging to love and hate.)

Cheng Xuanying’s commentary takes the answer “not yet” as meant to break the thought that “this is enough.” The utmost Dao lies in what was said above; if in your mind you fix on “this is the ultimate,” you have already strayed from the Dao—hence Laozi and Zhuangzi repeatedly “withdraw” or unsettle that kind of fixation.

When the inner heart is calm, settled, and secure, what shines forth is tianguang (Heaven’s light)—the natural, innate clarity of awareness, not the cleverness people show off on purpose. Guo Xiang says: when De (Virtue/Power) is broad and the heart is calm and steady, what emerges is Heaven’s light, not self-display and bluster.

Someone who lives from Heaven’s light looks, to others, like an ordinary person. Cheng Xuanying says: from the ordinary person’s point of view, he is simply human.

Only someone who is cultivated and whose mind can stay settled has hengchang (constancy)—a heart that does not scatter and a will that does not waver. Cheng Xuanying says: “xiu” (cultivation) means being calm and fixed; “heng” means pure, unchanging constancy.

Those with constancy find that people want to rely on them and Heaven assists them. People take them as a refuge; Heaven protects them.

Those whom people rely on yet may also leave behind—who still keep their place and do not lose themselves—are called tianmin (people of Heaven), who follow Heaven’s way though they hold no royal title yet are still honored.

Those whom Heaven supports are called tianzi (Son of Heaven), the one who receives Heaven’s mandate.

What is called “learning” means insisting on learning what cannot be learned; what is called “practice” means insisting on doing what cannot be done; what is called “disputation” means insisting on arguing what cannot be settled. Lu Deming cites commentary that all three are buzhi (not knowing when to stop).

To zhizhi (know when to stop) at what cannot be known—not forcing understanding where understanding fails—that is the limit of learning. Cheng Xuanying says: what cannot be known, do not force yourself to know; that is the utmost of study.

If someone rejects this kind of knowing when to stop, Tianjun (Heaven’s balance, innate nature as equilibrium) is spoiled. Cheng Xuanying says: if one does not treat what should be kept within one’s proper place as the right principle, natural innate nature is corrupted.

Prepare external things to nourish the bodily form, gather every kind of principle to meet what the body needs. Do not lodge the heart in worry; withdraw it into a realm where needless anxiety has no place, so that the heart may live and turn freely—the commentators say this means retreating and hiding where one does not calculate and scheme, in order to keep the original heart alive.

Inwardly uphold reverence and centeredness; with inner wisdom be cautious and respectful—only then can one reach outward. Even with such cultivation, if one still meets ten thousand kinds of calamity, the commentators say this refers to disasters, such as King Wen of Zhou imprisoned at Youli or Confucius besieged at Kuang.

These all come from the mandate of Heaven (tianming); they are not what human effort can bring on—the commentators say they are not summoned by “me” myself. Therefore they are not enough to shake the great achievement I have already completed, not enough to disturb the “great completion” (dacheng) within me. External things must not invade the Spirit Platform (lingtai—the heart-mind, as Guo Xiang notes); nor may others from outside disturb my heart.

Though the Spirit Platform seems to have something to “hold,” one need not and should not pin down exactly what is being held, still less deliberately cling to it. The heart must not be stirred into disorder by external things; what is valuable is being able to hold—but one should hold naturally and spontaneously, not grasp with deliberate intent and forced effort.

If one speaks and acts without first seeing the sincerity of one’s own heart, then with the first utterance one is already wrong; if one moves rashly without seeing the unity of body and mind in sincerity, then even action is bound to be wrong. External affairs (ye, “karma” here meaning events) flood the heart and will not leave; the more one tries to change course, the more one misses the mark—Cheng Xuanying says: when outer affairs disturb the heart and will not go away, though one wishes to change, one still loses what is right. Yao’s commentary likewise says: not seeing sincerity, all is deluded mind; to act from this is never right; if affairs enter the heart and one cannot long keep to what is right, one more easily falls into fault—this is the case where knowledge and ability reach far but benevolence (ren) cannot hold firm.

All of the above explains that only by guarding the Spirit Platform inwardly, holding the heart naturally, and acting only after sincerity is present can one avoid having great completion overturned by natural disasters, human troubles, and outer affairs.

If you do wrong in broad daylight before everyone, once you are found out you will be punished; if you do it in hidden, dark places, there is still the layer of “ghosts”—in the unseen realm you will be held to account just the same. Only when you see clearly the line between before others and behind their backs, and your conduct stands up on both sides, can you truly walk alone without fear (Guo Xiang: in seclusion or in the open you never wrong your heart, so even going alone you are not afraid).

One whose alignment is “inward” walks the path of the nameless—qi is accord; accord with the inner heart and with the Dao, and though you act you do not seek to leave a name or trace (Cheng Xuanying: the nameless points to the Dao; acting according to the Dao, there is action without track).

One whose alignment is “outward” sets the mind on qifei—Yu Yue says: qi in the Xunzi often means “extreme”; qifei is ji fei, fei meaning wealth and expenditure. The outward-aligned person is one whose aim is to push material use to the limit, to struggle desperately over outer things.

Walking in the nameless is only a little light in ordinary life; bent on qifei, how is that any different from a merchant?

When others see him tiptoeing to grab height and straining extra hard (qi), they take him for a figure who weighs heavy on the market stall (kuiran)—yet that is only outward seeking and posturing, not true inner accord.

“Those who exhaust themselves with things—things come to them.”

Guo Xiang glosses qiong (exhaustion/to the limit) as beginning and end. Cheng Xuanying says: when person and outer things go through beginning and end together, things also approach you and meet you in mutual accord.

“Those who are half-hearted (qie) with things—their own person cannot be settled; how can they make room for others!”

Yu Yue says qie means perfunctory, make-do accommodation. In Book of Songs, “Dongmen zhi fen,” the line “gu dan yu cha”—the Hanshi writes dan as qie and glosses it as shoddy compromise. Doubled it is “shoddy compromise”; alone it is qie. The “beginning and end” above means going to the limit, to the end—opposite of qie. With things only in a perfunctory way, one cannot even settle oneself; how can one make room for others?

“Those who cannot make room for others have no true closeness; with no closeness, one treats everyone as outsider.”

Guo Xiang: jin means treating all others as strangers, with no real intimacy.

“No weapon is more injurious than the will (zhi); Moye and the like rank below. No venom is more bitter than what is in the heart; weapons come second.”

Shuowen: can means poison and harm (some editions use a different character). What harms most is the “bitter venom” in the mind—worse than arms; legendary blades such as Moye rank lower. Poisonous intent comes first in the heart; blades follow.

“No bandit is greater than the will” (or a clause parallel to the “weapons” line—wording in base texts varies slightly among schools.)

“No bandit is greater than yin-yang; there is no escaping it between Heaven and Earth.”

Cheng Xuanying: kou means enemy. It is not yin and yang themselves that harm people, but the heart driving qi, which makes one unable to escape this “bandit” between Heaven and Earth. Guo Xiang: the heart stirs qi into disorder; yin-yang imbalance then knots in the five viscera (showing up as various bodily and mental ills).

Dao is all-pervasive and unobstructed. When we speak of “division,” Xuan Ying explains: every kind of division has its own boundary; Dao has no boundary, so it can penetrate and connect within every division.

Where there is accomplishment, there is destruction—where one place succeeds, another fails. Thus Dao itself does not rest in a fixed opposition between accomplishment and destruction.

People dislike “division” because once things are divided, each part must be made “complete” (bei—whole and thorough); divide again and again, and every piece must be complete, so they dislike division. They dislike “completeness” because having completeness still demands more completeness—you can never finish filling the gaps—so they dislike completeness.

Therefore when the mind runs outward and does not turn back, what it sees is only “ghost”—awareness chases outward and does not return within; the eye sees only ghosts, not the true self.

Running outward and thinking one has gained something is called “obtaining death”: chasing outside and feeling one has grasped something is in fact a drift toward death, without knowing it.

When true nature is extinguished and only the physical form remains, yet one still thinks oneself alive—in my view, that too is a kind of ghost.

One should use the visible body to apprehend and dwell in the invisible Dao, so that the mind as ruler can settle in great stability and tranquility.

The Dao expands outward, yet you cannot find its root; it gathers inward, yet you cannot find a crevice to enter. It truly exists, yet you cannot see a fixed place where it stays—this refers to space (yu): though it has substance, it pervades the four directions above and below, with no single location. It stretches on and on, yet you cannot see beginning or end—this refers to time (zhou): though it has sequence, it runs as one from antiquity to the present, so you cannot tell which end is “root” and which is “tip.”

There is birth and death, emergence and return—human affairs have life and death, yin and yang have going out and coming in. Between going out and coming in you see no trace; this is called Tianmen (the great gate through which all things pass, also readable as the “gate of all wonders”). Tianmen is “non-being” (wu you): all things come forth from “non-being.” You cannot pin “being” down with “being”; before “being” has yet arisen, “being” cannot stand on its own—it must arise from “non-being.” And “non-being” itself is not some further thing called “non-being”—when even the words “non-being” drop away, that is where all wonders lie, so the sage settles the heart there.

The ancients differed in depth of awakening. The most thorough held that there never was a separate layer called “things”—at that point nothing can be added. The next level already admits that things exist (this differs again from what Discourse on the Equalization of Things says); they treat living as a kind of loss and death as return—ordinary people take life as gain and death as loss; here it is reversed: life is loss (because of clinging to form), death is return (return to empty stillness). Though not every subtle point is exhausted, they can at least equalize life and death. A step below says: at first there was non-being, then there was birth, and soon after, death; non-being is the head, birth is the body, death is the tail. Whoever can see non-being and being, life and death, as one whole and hold it without doubt—I will befriend that person.

These three kinds of person differ—some say “being” is really not there, some say “being” must be equalized, some say after distinguishing you still equalize—but each can keep from clinging to right and wrong in the breast. In Chu, members of the ruling house who had not yet received a surname, and nobles like Zhao and Jing who wore caps and hats, however high their rank, still differed from these three ways of insight when measured against birth, death, being, and non-being.

This passage in the commentary explains two ancient ways of adopting a shi (clan or house name), along with a brief note on textual emendation.

In substance:

There are two kinds of lineage practice (two ways of taking a shi). One is to name the shi after the ancestor they honor and “carry” as their head. The notes also mention readings such as “Jia shi” and “zhuo feng”; the graph read as jia is held by some scholars to be a mistake for zhong (Wang Xianqian and others adopt that reading). On another reading, that house takes its shi from the fief it was granted—so it is not a single fixed pattern. These two practices, like the three ways of taking a shi described earlier, rest on the same underlying rules.

Context: In pre-Qin usage, xing (surname) and shi were distinct; a shi often derived from a fief, an office title, or an ancestor’s name or epithet. The passage is sorting out types such as “shi from the honored ancestor” versus “shi from the enfeoffment,” and noting that jia versus zhong in the commentary may reflect a corrupt character in the received text.

Plain-Language Reading

1. Distinctions Arising from the Dark

All life comes out of a deep, dim chaos—like the black at the bottom of a cauldron, undivided, with no split yet between “this” and “that.”

Then suddenly day breaks, people wake up, and someone points at you and says: “You ought to switch sides and treat this side as right.” Right and wrong, yes and no, are born just there—from “me” and “my” standpoint.

2. What “Moving What Counts as ‘This’” Means

Zhuangzi says: people often talk about “moving what is ‘this’”—try saying what it is. In truth there is nothing fixed to say; even so, the point is hard to grasp with ordinary habits—and most people never notice that.

3. “May Be Scattered” and “May Not Be Scattered” at the Great La Sacrifice

At the great La sacrifice, offerings are laid out in full: from the four limbs to the inner organs, even the omasum (pí) and prepared hoof meat (hǎi)—all are displayed.

While the rite is not finished, those animal parts cannot be broken up and distributed—“scattering” is not allowed then. Once the rite is over, the offerings are divided and cleared away—then “scattering” is allowed. The same act is “permitted” or “not permitted” according to place and moment; there is no single fixed rule.

4. Touring the Rooms, the Sleeping Hall, and the Temple

Someone inspecting a house walks through the sleeping quarters and the ancestral shrine; he also passes the side alcoves and the privy area (what ancients called yǎn, huì—quiet corners and screened-off spots).

5. From This Back to “Moving What Is ‘This’”

Because of all this—when sacrificial meat may be scattered, which rooms deserve the same attention when one tours the house—we see that what counts as “right” or as “this” shifts with the situation. That is why Zhuangzi takes up “moving what is ‘this’” again and asks you to try it: what we usually cling to as “this is right” is often only “right” from one position at one moment, not a truth that holds everywhere forever.

This passage comes from collected commentaries on related chapters of the Zhuangzi. It explains how people tie “right and wrong” and “name and reality” to themselves, and uses “shifting the shi” (yi shi) to describe people today. In plain terms:

To speak of yi shi—casually moving what counts as “right” or what ought to be upheld, applying one standard here and another there—we should first say what it means. Ordinary people take being alive as their root and mind and cleverness as their teacher: survival becomes the highest aim, and one’s own views become the measure of everything. When they clash, endless disputes over right and wrong arise. Once the fight is over whether names match reality, they make themselves the standard (“zhi” means what is master and root) and expect others to follow the “integrity” they set—and even pay for it with death. Guo Xiang’s note says: “Zhi is the master.” The collected commentary adds: when name and reality are at stake, they take the self as the criterion, make others take the self as their standard of integrity, and everyone “holds fast unto death”—that is what is meant by “dying to win a name.”

If so, being employed counts as cleverness, not being employed as stupidity; success and prominence as honor, hardship and failure as shame. Then not only life and death are not in one’s hands—so are wisdom and folly, honor and disgrace: once promoted, I am the worthy, the wise; once cast aside, I am the mediocre, the fool; rising to success, I have glory; fallen into want, I am shame.

This yi shi is exactly people today: they shift what is right and what must be upheld only by power and authority (“wei yi quanli yi”—solely by might to move [the standard]). That is the same ignorance as the cicada and the dove laughing at the great Peng in Xiaoyao You (Free and Easy Wandering)—the two small creatures alike fail to see the great Way. If people today do the same, are they not as laughable as those two insects?

Note: Yi shi is a Zhuangzi term for casually shifting or swapping what counts as “this” or “right,” fixing right and wrong by one’s own whim. The cicada and the fledgling dove (xue jiu) who mock the Peng appear in Zhuangzi, Xiaoyao You, as a image of narrow vision judging the vast. The collected commentary repeats one stretch of the original (“Not only life and death…” through “clear through and rising up”); the translation above merges that into a single layer of meaning.

If you accidentally step on a stranger’s foot in the marketplace, you will apologize again and again and call yourself too bold and reckless (“zhan” means to tread or step on). If you step on an elder brother’s foot, you need not make such a formal apology; you mostly soothe and comfort him with gentle words, as an old woman might coax a child (“yu” here means to cherish and comfort). If it is your father or a very close elder, you often need not say even that much—each side understands in the heart, and the matter is left at that. This shows that among people who are truly close, what matters is natural mutual ease, not layer upon layer of polite formality.

So Zhuangzi says: The highest li (ritual propriety) does not treat the other person as an outsider (“bu ren”: not treating people as outsiders, seeing others as oneself); the highest yi (righteousness) does not treat outer things as outer (when what is fitting is found, self and things are one); the highest zhi (knowing) does not use crafty scheming (clarity that follows nature, without calculation); the highest ren (benevolence) does not cling to near and far in kinship (Guo Xiang’s note: opening the private stores of the five viscera—you need not first sort by kinship; ren is already there); the highest xin (trustworthiness) does not rely on metal tally-contracts (you need not cast metal as a token of faith to keep faith).

It goes on to say: When ambition is destroyed, there is disorder (“che zhi zhi bo”: when intent is ruined, the heart is disturbed), when the heart is dissolved and scattered, there is confusion (when the heart is split apart and dispersed, things go wrong)—this is stated from the negative side to show that what the utmost Dao values is guarding ambition and gathering the heart, not these forms: ritual text, attachment to things, plotting, sorting kin from non-kin, and metal tokens of trust.

Plain-Language Commentary

The commentary explains: “Miu” means to bind or tether. In cultivation one must shed what drags down De and open the blockages that stop up the Great Dao. Here “da” means unobstructed flow and thorough penetration.

The four sets of “six” below are all disturbances of the human heart:

• The six wealth, rank, prominence, severity, fame, and profit stir ambition and roil the mind (bo zhi).
• The six countenance, movement, complexion, reasoned speech, breath, and inner intent—looks, bearing, facial color, words and reasoning, breathing, and what the heart aims at—bind the heart (miu xin).
• The six hatred, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure weigh on and drain De (lei de).
• The six leaving and approaching, taking and giving, and wisdom and capability—distance and closeness, grasping and bestowing, and cleverness and skill (here “zhi” means wisdom and artful knowing) block the Dao (sai dao).

When these four groups of six no longer churn within the breast (Guo Xiang: “dang” means to shake and disturb), the heart is upright; upright then still, still then clear, clear then empty, empty then wuwei (non-action) yet nothing left undone—following nature without forced contrivance, yet accomplishing what should be accomplished.

“The Dao is the reverence of De”: The Dao itself cannot be seen; when people see De naturally showing in a person, they jointly revere him as one who has the Dao—hence the Dao is the side of De that others look up to and honor.

“Life is the radiance of De”: Heaven and Earth’s greatest De is generating (“Heaven and Earth’s greatest De is called generating”); begetting and transforming the myriad things is the brightest glory of supreme De.

“Nature (xing) is the substance of life”: Xing is life’s root and inherent texture—nature as it is in itself, the foundation received with life.

“The movement of nature is called acting”: Only when innate nature moves on its own is it called “wei” (Guo Xiang: this is true “wei,” not deliberate “youwei”).

“Artificial wei is called loss”: Being pulled by outer things into desire, putting on feelings, and “youwei” beyond one’s place is losing the true and abandoning the Dao (Cheng Xuanying: feigned feeling and youwei outside one’s portion—called losing the Dao).

Plain-Language Commentary

I. On “Knowing” (zhi)

“Knowing” begins as contact and reception—encountering things in the world and grasping something from that encounter; only then is it called “knowing.”

Here “knowing” is also tied to “mo” (plotting and scheming): when we see affairs we reflect and plan, so people often treat “good at scheming” as “being wise.” But knowing in the scheming mode has limits: even the wise have what they do not know, as when the eyes look askance and see only one side, not the whole. Knowing through clever intellect often fixes on one corner; it is less complete than empty, still inner gazing that illuminates the whole (“still illumination,” jizhao).

II. On De and “Order” (zhi)

De (Virtue/Power): action that arises from having no alternative—not forcing, not reckless acting, but moving only when circumstances require and it is right to do so; that is how great De shows itself.

Order (zhi): action that does not turn away from “self” (here “self” can mean the true self, the original mind, or the standard one holds). Abandon what is truly one’s own and chase outer things, and disorder follows; reverse that—hold to oneself and do not chase things—and that is order.

III. Name and Reality

On the surface, names and labels often oppose and contend (rivalry for reputation), yet the real situation and the real principle could originally align.

Chase reputation alone, and one easily drifts into hypocrisy and chaos, until name and reality stand completely opposed; seek the real, and things are genuine and can be ordered, and in the end can accord with principle.

Note: In the base text, the passage from “acting only when pressed… until name and reality oppose” appears twice in the latter half; for commentary it may be treated as a single passage.

This passage works on several levels.

On skill and “being nameless”

Hou Yi was adept at hitting the tiniest targets, yet he was not adept at keeping people from praising him for fame—once he hit the mark, people would praise him, so “skill” and “clumsiness” often pull each other along. Only the great Dao can truly achieve “having no name.” The sage follows Heaven (nature) and is clumsy at deliberate human contrivance. Guo Xiang says: letting nature take its course is “Heaven”; keeping the mind bent on fabrication is “the human.” Only the “complete person” can both follow Heaven and still move well in the world without harming human feeling. “Liang” (read like “liang,” meaning good or skilled) refers to excellence; the complete person is the spirit-person (shenren). The “sage” here roughly means figures like Yao and Shun; the “complete person” means someone on the level of Fuxi and above—one who is united with the Dao.

Insects and “Heaven”

Only insects can each keep to what belongs to an insect; only insects can each follow their own Heaven (innate nature). Cheng Xuanying says: birds flying and beasts running are “capable as insects,” spinning webs and rolling dung balls are “capable as Heaven”—all are gifts of creation, not something you can do by imitation. On commentators’ reading, insects’ abilities were never equal to begin with. What the complete person “hates” is hating that “human Heaven”—treating human disguise as Heaven—and how much more wrong it is to impose “my Heaven” on the world as everyone’s “human Heaven”? Some say the complete person hates Heaven; that is not hatred of real Heaven but of the fake “Heaven” of people—pretense instead of following one’s nature. If you simply treat “the human” as “Heaven” and still want the world to follow you, that is even worse.

Yi, the sparrow, and “taking the world as a cage”

When a sparrow ran into Yi (Hou Yi), he was sure to hit it with a shot—that relied on coercive power. Cheng’s note: few are hit, many escape; governing the world by intimidation is much the same. If you take the world as a cage, the sparrow has nowhere to flee. The great Dao is vast; nothing lies outside it, so with the world as cage the sparrow cannot escape—which shows that seizing things by force goes against great creation (nature).

King Tang, Duke Mu of Qin, and “caging” people

So King Tang used the role of “kitchen hand” to “cage” Yi Yin; Duke Mu of Qin used five sheets of goatskin to “cage” Baili Xi. Yi Yin once approached Tang through work as a cook; Baili Xi sold himself in Qin and served as a slave to the livestock keeper, using five goatskins and tending cattle to get near Duke Mu. Mencius criticized both episodes. Hence: unless you “cage” someone by what they desire, you cannot obtain them—there is no exception.

Plain-language explanation

Someone whose feet have been cut off as punishment acts without being bound by ritual propriety, and does not take to heart praise or blame from the outside world. Guo Xiang says: “Jie means yue zu (having the feet cut off as punishment).” Cui says: “Pi hua means not being constrained by law and ritual.” Yu Yue, citing the Hanshu and other sources, says that pi has the same sense as ta in the sense of self-indulgent laxity; “hua wo” in the Guliang Zhuan appears as “hua wo,” with He Xiu glossing “conduct that oversteps ritual is called hua”—hua and hua (transformation/violation) are close in meaning. Once a person has suffered the punishment of yue zu, they often no longer cherish themselves; neither slander nor praise is counted, so conduct need not follow ordinary rules.

Xu mi (a person serving penal labor) can climb high without fear because life and death are set aside. Xu mi refers to someone subject to penal servitude; Fu Yue once served as xu mi.

As for being repeatedly subdued and cowed by others’ words yet not returning thanks, not accepting the favor, even to the point of forgetting how “others” treat one—commentators disagree here. Guo Songtao, following the Shuowen: “zhe is speech that loses qi; xi is speech of alarm and fear.” So-called “fu xi” means others use words to press you down and make you cower; kui originally means giving something to someone—using speech to “feed” someone can also be called kui; “bu kui” means not returning courtesy in speech, not taking the bait. If one only reaches “outwardly not chasing praise or blame, leaving life and death behind,” one has forgotten oneself; if one can also “when pressed and cowed, not feed back,” one goes further and forgets other people. Many commentators’ readings here do not fit the original text; Guo’s is relatively close, and connects with the next level—“being respected without joy” and the like; this passage may have lost characters, so one should not force a reading.

One who can forget others can be called a “person of Heaven (tian ren)”—because one is already close to what is naturally so. Therefore being respected without joy and being insulted without anger—only someone in tune with “Heaven’s harmony (tian he)” can do this. Cheng Xuanying says: forgetting the distinction between favorable and adverse turns.

Sometimes one is angry, yet not from a mind addicted to anger—that anger still arises from “non-anger.” The occasion is the sort of thing people usually get angry about, yet one does not follow custom in anger; when anger is appropriate, one is angry—the root still lies in non-anger. This is like what Mencius says about “King Wen’s one burst of anger” and “King Wu’s one burst of anger”: when anger is called for, be angry, yet still hold the middle way.

Sometimes one acts, yet not from selfish contrivance—that action still arises from wuwei (non-action). The situation is one where the crowd must act, yet one does not act rashly; when action is timely, one acts—the root still lies in wuwei. This resembles the Zhongyong’s “accomplishment through wuwei” and Confucius’s “governing through wuwei.”

If you wish to be still, regulate and level the breath; if you wish for spirit to be bright, follow and accord with the native heart. Guo Xiang says: when qi is level, the principle of stillness is sufficient of itself; when the heart is accorded, divine efficacy arrives of itself. This still belongs to the effort of “you wei” (deliberate action).

If you wish to hit what is fitting, act according to “bu de yi” (what cannot be otherwise / what one has no choice but to do). Guo Xiang says: only when one works from the circumstance that cannot be otherwise does one match what is right.

Plain-Language Commentary

(Through the recommendation of Nü Shang,) Xu Wugui went to see Marquis Wen of Wei. The marquis comforted him, saying: “You have endured hardship! You toiled in the mountains and forests, and so you were willing to come see me.” Xu Wugui said: “It is I who must toil for you—what is there for you to toil for on my account? If you indulge your desires and feed your likes and dislikes, the true state of your nature and life falls ill; if you suppress your desires and restrain your likes and dislikes, your ears and eyes fall ill. It is I who must toil for you—what is there for you to toil for on my account?” The marquis was downcast and did not reply. After a while Xu Wugui said: “I once told you that I can judge dogs. Those of the lowest quality stop when they are full—that is the virtue of a cat.” (What follows is the usual text on grading dogs as upper, middle, and lower, and discussions of “having talent” and “lacking talent.”)

Plain language on the earlier line about “acting from necessity”

(Cheng Xuanying says:) What one does when compelled by necessity is always fitting. (Guo Xiang says:) Situations of “necessity” are precisely the way of the sage. (Guo also says:) The sage takes this as the Dao—how could that mean seeking non-action (wuwei) somewhere beyond vagueness and indeterminacy?

Textual note

[1] “xiè zhé” in the original was wrongly written “zhé xiè”; corrected according to the Yi manuscript of the Shuowen.

Title of the chapter and persons

Miscellaneous Chapter 24, “Xu Wugui.”

Xu Wugui, through Nü Shang, visited Marquis Wen of Wei. The commentary explains: Xu Wugui was a recluse of Wei; Sima’s text has “Xu Wugui of the Minshan region.” Cheng Xuanying: Nü is the surname, Shang the given name—a minister of Wei. Marquis Wen’s name was Ji.

The passage on judging dogs (following “cat-like virtue,” with the gist filled in from the standard text)

Those of middle quality seem able to “remember” the state and “remember” the district; those of the highest seem able to “remember” all under heaven. They view the world as one views one’s descendants: things are not alike, yet in looking at them they all seem of one kind—this is a dog that “has talent.” The lowest look at bone as one looks at foam on water; the highest look at all under heaven as one looks at something cast away. I also judge people: at a glance I see who is good and who is bad, who will find fortune and who will meet disaster—this is a person who “has talent.” I see the state as I see a clod of earth; I see the district as I see a clod; I see a person as I see a lump of earth—this is a person who “lacks talent.” I see the state as I see a clod; I see the district as I see a clod; I see a person as I see a clod—this is a person who “l lacks talent.” (The manuscript repeats the last sentence; the sense is unchanged.)

Source note: The preceding discussion of “acting from necessity” belongs to the way the sage acts. Guo Xiang says: The sage takes this as the Dao—does that mean seeking wuwei outside vagueness and indeterminacy?

Miscellaneous Chapter 24, “Xu Wugui”

Xu Wugui, through Nü Shang (a Wei minister; surname Nü, given name Shang), went to see Marquis Wen of Wei (named Ji). The marquis comforted him: “You have endured hardship! You were worn out in the mountains and forests, and so you were willing to come see me.” Xu Wugui said: “It is I who must toil for you—what is there for you to toil for on my account? If you indulge appetites and feed likes and dislikes, the truth of your nature and life grows sick; if you repress appetites and tighten likes and dislikes, ears and eyes grow sick. It is I who must toil for you—what is there for you to toil for on my account?” The marquis was downcast and silent. After a moment Xu Wugui said: “I once told you I can judge dogs. The lowest material stops when full—that is cat-like virtue (only wanting fullness, not excellence). The middle rank reaches the level of catching hares; the highest seem to forget themselves and lose the very “shape” of being a dog, and accord with the spirit of heaven and earth—the finest dog still falls short of the finest person.”

This passage explains word meaning: li is cat. In the Zhuangzi, “Bowel of Water” chapter, there is the line: “Qiji and hualiu [fine steeds] are not as good as li and sheng at catching mice”—even the swiftest horses are worse at mice than li and sheng (cat-like small beasts). The book uses li to confirm that it means cat. The Taiping Imperial Overview quotes the Shizi: “Sending an ox to catch mice is not as quick as mao and sheng.” Zhuangzi has li sheng, the Shizi has mao sheng—the same idea.

It also says: a dog stops working once it is full, like a cat; hence (in some passage) “this is the de [character] of li (the cat).”

On describing zhi (bearing, mien): “The middle zhi, as if viewing the sun”—Xuan Ying glosses this as gazing upward with fixed attention. “The upper zhi, as if one part were missing”—Lu Deming’s Commentary on the Classics (Shiwen) gives an explanation (the citation here is abbreviated).

This passage has Xu Wugui use assessing dogs and assessing horses as metaphors for recognizing talent and spiritual cultivation.

He says: what is called “oneness” is the unity of body and mind. The spirit is gathered and still, as if one no longer had this bodily frame.

Xu Wugui said, “When I assess dogs, I am still not as good as when I assess horses. When I assess a horse: one whose back is straight enough to line up with an inked cord, whose neck bends as if it could take a carriage yoke, whose head is square as if it could fit a carpenter’s square, whose eyes are round as if they could fit a compass—that is a ‘state horse,’ the kind a ruler picks as a top-grade steed. But that still falls short of a ‘horse of the realm under Heaven.’ A horse of the realm under Heaven is born with talent and virtue already complete; it needs no further training. At times it seems fearful, at times as if it might bolt, at times as if it had lost something indispensable; its expression is so intent that it forgets itself. Such a horse transcends the dust of the world; when it runs, even the dust cannot keep up, and no one can say where it will stop.”

Marquis Wu was greatly pleased and laughed. After Xu Wugui left, Nü Shang asked, “With what alone does the master please our lord?” “I please the lord,” he replied; “from afar, with poetry, documents, ritual, and music; from up close, with the Golden Board and the Six Bowcases”—ancient book titles, sometimes said to mean secret military texts. Marquis Wu favored the martial and not the literary, so Nü Shang usually drew him near with military strategy and moved him from afar with the Six Classics; Xu Wugui used none of these, but the metaphor of assessing horses—hence Nü Shang’s curiosity.

This passage describes how Xu Wugui persuaded King Wu of Wei and the string of analogies he used.

Someone (Nü Shang) said: Those who serve the ruler and have achieved great merit are too many to count, yet our lord has never spoken to any of them with the kind of delight he showed just now. What did you use, sir, to move our lord and make him so happy? Xu Wugui replied, “I merely spoke plainly about what I know—judging dogs and appraising horses.” Nü Shang said, “Is that all your skill?” (Cheng Xuanying notes: she thought his Daoist art too shallow.) Xu Wugui then said, “Have you not heard the stories that circulated among people from Yue who were stranded far from home? (This was a saying passed around in Yue at the time.) After only a few days away from their state, they were glad to see anyone they still recognized; after ten days or a month, they were glad to see anyone they had commonly seen back home; after a full year, they were glad to see anyone who looked human—they treated such a person like a fellow townsman. The longer people are away from their native soil, is their longing not the deeper?”

He continued, “Those who fled to ruined, empty places—(Sima Biao: old graveyards and the like, cleared and abandoned)—where only weasel and ferret paths run, and wormwood and shangli stand thick as pillars, showing how utterly desolate the spot is. Staggering to a foothold in that emptiness, they are overjoyed at the mere sound of footsteps qiangqiang on the path; how much more when brothers and kin are beside them laughing and talking (Li Yi: qingxi stands for banter and laughter)!” (Note: this compares King Wu of Wei’s love of dogs and horses—hearing blunt truth suddenly delights him, as exiles rejoice at a countryman or refugees at a relative’s voice.) “For a long time no one has spoken to him in the plain words of a genuine person!”

(After “Do not use the words of a genuine person” in the text there seems to be a lacuna; a common continuation is along the lines: do not use fine empty speech, but treat him with sincere words.)

Someone once said: “Do not let the words of a person of attainment (zhenren) be whispered as remonstrance into our ruler’s ear!” Thus the speech of an upright person ought not to be delivered to the ruler’s side.

Xu Wugui went to visit Duke Wu of Wei. The duke said: “You, sir, have long lived in mountain forests, eating acorns (the fruit of oak and similar trees) and having your fill of wild scallions and leeks, yet you have kept this ruler of mine at a distance—for a long time! Now that you are old, is it that you wish to taste wine and meat? Or is it that the altars and soil of our state of Wei should share a little of your good fortune?” (Guo’s commentary: “gan” means to seek; asking about the altars’ blessing means whether good words and sound plans can benefit the state.)

Xu Wugui said: “Wugui was born poor and lowly and has never dared to consume the ruler’s wine and meat without cause; this time I come to comfort the ruler.”

The duke asked: “What is this about? Why comfort me?”

Xu Wugui said: “To comfort your spirit (shen) and body.” (Cheng Xuanying: when the body is weary and the spirit tired, therefore I come to comfort you.)

The duke asked again: “What do you mean by that?”

Xu Wugui said: “Heaven and Earth nourish people and show no partiality.” (Xuan Ying: the multitude born from Heaven and Earth are originally the same.) “Standing on high ground cannot lengthen the body, and dwelling in low places cannot shorten it”—height and lowness, nobility and baseness, cannot in the first place be altered by status. Only the ruler, as lord of ten thousand chariots, makes the people of a whole state suffer in order to supply his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth; yet the heart-mind (xin) does not find its own joy in such a way. (Xuan Ying: under such conduct the heart-mind must have a place where it cannot be at peace.) The heart-mind delights in harmony (he) and hates selfish partiality. (Xuan Ying: “he” is being in accord with things; “jian” here means selfishness.) Selfish partiality is illness, and therefore I come to comfort you. This illness is summoned by the ruler himself—how can that be? (Xuan Ying: why must you fall into this illness yourself?)

Marquis Wu said: “I have long wished to meet you, Master. I want to cherish the people, practice benevolence and righteousness, and halt warfare and weapons—is that feasible?”

Xu Wugui replied: “No. What people call ‘cherishing the people’ is often the very start of harming them. One claims to cherish them while in fact driving and exploiting them; that sort of ‘love’ is the beginning of injury. What people call ‘laying down arms for the sake of righteousness’ is precisely the root from which armies arise. Outwardly one announces disarmament while neighboring states watch and wait in secret; that ‘laying down arms’ is the foundation of rearming. If a ruler begins from such empty labels, affairs are unlikely to succeed—from a hollow name to actual policy, one is often not far from failure.”

“Whenever one seeks to win a fine reputation, the name itself is like something that invites resentment; those who chase renown also fear being bound by titles and rules. Even if a ruler acts benevolently, it verges on performance. If he truly aims at benevolence and righteousness, will he not also be caught in reputation and form, and thus seem insincere?”

“The body constantly gives rise to new shapes; only formless ‘form’ can unfold into the ten thousand images. Once achievement is fixed, self-praise often follows; when a name is established, the highly meritorious easily glorify themselves. Change by nature draws trouble from outside; when things shift, one is in daily conflict with the world.”

“Pray, Lord, do not array ‘crane formations’ of troops between the towers and galleries of Li Qiao, nor mass infantry and cavalry in the palace of Zitan—Li Qiao is a tower, Zitan a hall; neither is a place to drill soldiers and horses. This is a metaphor: do not indulge the spirit of war within. Do not hide your greed under ‘rightful gain’—what accords with reason may be taken, but do not seize what is unjust and call the unjust ‘what you deserve.’ Do not overcome others by craft, by scheming, or by force—these three are ways of burying what is wrong inside ‘what one has gained.’”

“Wars fought to feed private desire and one’s own body and life—killing officers and people, seizing land—on which side is there any real ‘good’? In truth there is no genuine goodness.”

Where is the harm in “victory”? In truth there is nothing that truly deserves to be called victory. If a ruler refuses to stop, he will keep inflicting endless calamities upon the people.

One should nurture sincerity within the heart and align with the natural disposition of heaven and earth, without violating or disturbing it. As for myself, I merely cultivate inner sincerity and live at peace with heaven and earth, without rashly stirring or provoking them.

When the people have already been freed from the pressure of death, what need is there for the ruler to “lay down arms” (cease warfare, withdraw troops, stop the fighting)? If things have truly reached that point—the people already released from death—why speak of laying down arms at all?

The Yellow Emperor was preparing to go to Mount Juzi (east of present-day Mi County in Xingyang, Henan; also called Mount Taiwei) to visit the deity Dawei. Fang Ming drove the carriage, Chang Yu rode as attendant, Zhang Ruo and Xi Peng led the way before the horses, and Kun Hun and Hua Ji followed behind the carriage. When they reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng (south of Mount Juzi), the Yellow Emperor and these six companions—together called the “Seven Sages”—all lost their way, and there was nowhere to ask for directions. By chance they met a boy tending horses, so they asked him the way, saying, “Do you know Mount Juzi?” The boy answered, “I do.” They asked again, “Do you know where the deity Dawei is?” The boy answered, “I do.” The Yellow Emperor exclaimed in admiration, “This child is truly extraordinary! He knows not only Mount Juzi but also where the deity Dawei is. May I ask how one should govern the world?” The boy said, “Governing the world is no different from this—just like my playing in the countryside of Xiangcheng. Why bother adding more affairs? There is no need to think about adding further complications. When I was young, I roamed freely within the four quarters of heaven and earth, and just then I contracted a mao illness (a malady of dizziness and blurred vision; the Explanations notes that “mao” is pronounced mo-dou-fan).”

Some say the Yellow Emperor looked faint and dizzy. An elder told him: “You may ride the chariot of the sun and roam the outskirts of Xiang city.” (Note: Sima Biao says “taking the sun as chariot,” i.e., using the sun as one’s vehicle; Guo Xiang says “go out when the sun rises and rest when it sets,” wandering and resting with the sun’s ascent and descent.)

The Yellow Emperor said: “Now that my illness has eased a little, I am about to roam beyond the four corners of heaven and earth. Governing the world is no more than this—why should I trouble myself over it?” The point is that affairs of the world are not something he must handle in person.

The Yellow Emperor also said: “Governing the world is indeed not your concern. Even so, I still wish to ask how to govern the world.” The young boy declined. When the Yellow Emperor asked again, the boy said: “Governing the world—how is it different from tending horses? It is simply removing whatever harms the herd.” Remove what would ruin the herd and let each horse follow its own nature. The Yellow Emperor bowed twice, touching his forehead to the ground, honored him as Celestial Master (Tianshi), and then took his leave. This is the account of the Yellow Emperor’s meeting with Da Wei (also written Da Wei).

This passage says that whenever people are boxed in by external things, they seek pleasure only within their own little corner of life and remain stuck there for a lifetime.

Those with strategic minds are unhappy unless their thinking keeps shifting and fresh ideas keep coming; those who love disputation are unhappy unless talk unfolds in an orderly back-and-forth; those who are sharp, probing, and hyper-critical (in the commentarial tradition, “sharp” also carries a harsh, severe tone) are unhappy unless they can dominate others in cross-examination and refutation.

All of the above are bent on showing off one narrow talent and end up trapped by concrete tasks and fixed social roles.

Some devote themselves to drawing people together, sharing the burdens of the age, and reviving the court. Others are middling in ability and content merely to hold salary and office, taking “honor and visibility in rank” as enough. Men of physical strength take pride in enduring hardship when it appears. The bold and fierce rush toward trouble the moment they see it. Those long in military service take warfare as their joy. Recluses who seem withered like trees in the hills still cling fiercely to reputation. Students of law aim to spread penal names and administrative technique. Students of ritual stay bound by ceremony, polishing deportment and outward deference. Practitioners of benevolence and righteousness value contact with others and making a name through social exchange.

Farmers are discontent without clearing wasteland and weeding; merchants are discontent without market trade in the town square (in antiquity markets often clustered around wells, hence “market well”). Common folk, when morning and evening bring shared labor, urge one another on in competition; artisans, when they hold clever tools in hand, feel their own vigor and confidence swell.

When wealth never piles up high enough, the greedy grow anxious; when power cannot stand out above the crowd, the vain grow sorrowful (“standing out” means differing from others; “vainglory” is arrogant display). Those who live by power and by stirring events rejoice in change—they are useful only when the times demand action and cannot practice Wuwei (non-action). They cannot rest quiet; they especially welcome disorder when it opens a gap they can exploit.

In sum, all of these people chase one another year by year and season by season without a moment’s pause. Each is locked to one thing or one pursuit and cannot swap places or see the world from another’s ground. Body and nature are driven together, sunk among the ten thousand things, and to the end of life they never know how to turn back—a lamentable outcome.

Zhuangzi says: An archer who hits the target without first aiming at it is called a divine archer. Cheng Xuanying explains that “qi” means the mark one aims at; shooting at random with no fixed target and happening to hit something is taken as good shooting.

Does that mean everyone under heaven could be called Hou Yi? Huizi says: Yes.

Zhuangzi adds: If there is no single standard everyone under heaven accepts, and each person holds only their own view as right, could everyone under heaven be called Yao? Cheng Xuanying says: Each clings to their own opinion, so there is no shared principle. Guo Xiang’s point is similar: if a lucky shot counts as Hou Yi, then stubborn self-righteousness could also crown oneself as Yao—Zhuangzi uses this to show that a chance hit is not the real Yi, and self-assurance is not the real Yao.

Huizi again says: Yes. Guo Xiang notes that Huizi himself is one of those who “take themselves as right,” so the argument seems plausible to him.

Zhuangzi continues: If that is so, among the Confucian Zheng Huan, the Mohist Mozi, Yang Zhu, Gongsun Long (courtesy name Bing), plus your teacher Hui Shi—five schools in all—who is truly right? Cheng Xuanying says: The five attack one another; if everyone under heaven were Yao and all were correct, why would they still deny each other? Or perhaps there was someone named Lu Ju? Li Yi says Lu Ju’s surname was Lu and his given name Ju, a man of early Zhou; what follows tells his story.

A disciple of Lu Ju said: I have learned my teacher’s Dao—I can cook with fire in winter and make ice in summer.

Cheng Xuanying explains the method: In winter, wrap fire in ashes from wood that has been dry for a thousand years, and in a moment fire can be drawn out to cook rice; in midsummer, boil water in a clay jar in hot water, then hang the jar in a well, and in a moment it freezes into ice.

Lu Ju said: That is merely using yang things to summon yang and yin things to summon yin (thousand-year ash and fire belong to yang; the well and water belong to yin)—it is not the Dao I speak of. Let me show you my Dao. He tuned two zithers, removed one string from the zither in the hall and one from the zither in the inner room; when he plucked the gong note on one, the gong string on the other vibrated in response; when he plucked jue, the jue string moved—the pitches matched.

Guo Xiang comments: Lu Ju used “resonance of matching pitch” to display the Dao, closer than his disciple’s petty arts to the “sameness” Zhuangzi discusses.

Lu Qu’s disciple spoke of how Qi (vital energy) and Qi mutually summon one another, so Lu Qu demonstrated it to him by means of sounds vibrating one another: he used the gong and jue notes to encompass the five notes, placing one se in the hall and another in an inner room. Though the two places were separated, when the gong note was struck on the hall se, the gong string in the inner room vibrated; when the jue note was struck, the jue string there also vibrated, because the pitches were the same. The commentators say that fei means zhi, “to place”; on this basis Lu Qu believed he had already grasped the Dao.

Zhuangzi goes further: if one string is retuned so that it no longer fits the position of the five notes in the original mode, when it is plucked all twenty-five strings move in response. This is not because there is some different sound outside the five notes; rather, this altered string becomes the “ruler of the notes” (the gong of the changed mode, like a ruler), and the remaining strings naturally follow. Xuan Ying (a commentator cited in the Zhuangzi jijie) explains that Zhuangzi is rebutting Lu Qu and holds that this is nothing remarkable: taking a single se by itself, once the original mode is established, each of the five notes has its fixed string; if one string is changed to a different mode, then in relation to the five notes of the original mode it has shifted and does not match, and by principle it seems it should not resonate. Yet when it is plucked, all twenty-five strings change along with it, and none fails to resonate. This is because the five notes can “rotate to become gong” (xuan xiang wei gong); the changed string is the gong of the changed mode, like a ruler, and the remaining strings naturally move with it. If even the changed mode of a single se resonates in this way, then the resonance of gong and jue between two se is all the more a matter of course—how could it be worth Lu Qu boasting about to his disciple? Lu Qu thought he had grasped the subtle Dao, but he did not know that the mutual movement of the five notes and the mutual summoning of two Qi are fundamentally no different. People often take what others see as wrong and what they themselves see as right, yet when traced to the bottom, they are actually the same as one another. Therefore “Could it be like this?” is a rhetorical question: could Huizi and the four schools also be like Lu Qu, each holding fast to its own rightness? Xuan Ying says that Huizi and the four—the Confucians, the Mohists, Yang, and Bing—each regard themselves as right, with no common standard; are they not also like Lu Qu? Huizi says: Now the Confucians, the Mohists, Yang Zhu, and Bing (a personal name) are debating with me; the five schools contend with one another.

Various scholars use rhetoric to refute one another and reputation to overpower one another, yet they never truly admit that they are wrong—if things really stand that way, what would it prove? (Xuan Ying: the point is that Hui Shi and the other three schools do not treat Zhuangzi as mistaken; so what does that show?) Guo Xiang: what is meant by “never admitting that one is wrong” is in fact each side insisting that only they are right; Hui Shi wanted to treat this “self-righteousness” as the highest attainment.

Zhuangzi said: There was a man of Qi who crippled his son’s foot and sent him to the state of Song to serve as a gatekeeper—because the gatekeeper’s post does not require a whole, healthy body. (Xuan Ying: di and zhi are the same character used for the foot; the man of Qi maimed his son’s foot so the boy would walk with a limp in Song and be appointed gatekeeper there, since gatekeeping does not call for a fully able person. Guo Xiang: this man of Qi was unkind, yet he still took his own conduct to be correct, and so he did it.) He went to buy a small bell-shaped vessel called a xing, yet insisted on tying it up with rope to carry it home (Shiwen citing Zilin: a xing resembles a small bell with a long neck, or a large jar; Guo Xiang: he reversed priorities, treating anxious care for the vessel as the right thing and binding it to keep it from breaking. Yao Nai: the word “sought” before xing is a spurious addition). He searched for a lost son but never stepped outside his own doorway—he had even lost track of his own kind! (Guo Xiang: tang means “lost”; the son was lost yet he would not go far to look; even kinship was abandoned, and still he never admitted he was wrong—human “self-righteousness” has errors of just this sort. Yu Yue: the particle fu should be read with the preceding clause; the syntax parallels Zuozhuan, Duke Xiang, year 24, “what virtue!” and “what reputation!”)

A man of Chu lived as a guest in another place, yet went to angrily rebuke the gatekeeper (Yu Yue: di here should be read as zhe “to reprove”; the Fangyan uses zhe for anger, and the Guangya for rebuke)…

(The common text continues beyond this point; here only the given passage is explained.) The gist is that people often cling stubbornly to what they do and believe, while at a more basic level—mutilating their own child, not searching when a son is lost, overstepping bounds to blame a gatekeeper—they expose absurdity. That is the same kind of bias as when Hui Shi and the others “mutually suppress one another with words and fame yet never admit they are wrong.”

On “a man of Chu lodging with others yet rebuking the gatekeeper”

Older commentaries mostly take the phrase at face value: a man from the region of Chu is staying in someone else’s house, yet he grows angry and scolds the master’s gatekeeper.

Commentary

Expositors have long glossed only this stretch of wording and have also read it as one continuous episode with what follows; on any such reading the account still will not hang together. The graph here rendered di (to stamp, trample) is a mistaken repetition of di already occurring in the line above; following Yu Yue’s proposal, the punctuation should be broken at this point.

After the break, the passage should read

In the middle of the night, when no one else is about, he quarrels with the boatman; before the man has even left the bank or waterside (cen, a shoreside locale), that alone is already enough to bring great trouble and harm upon himself.