《庄子集解》Vol. 9

On the Annotation of “Tianjun” (Heavenly Equalization)

To regard all things as equal in their own way, each resting in its proper place—this is “principle” (li). It is like a circle with neither beginning nor end: hard to pin down with a single linear doctrine. This state of undifferentiated equalization is called tianjun (Heavenly Equalization). Tianjun is also tianni (Heaven’s pivot, the natural boundary or spontaneous differentiation). Cheng Xuanying explains: jun means equalization; it is the principle of natural equality, and this way of equalization may also be called the inherent boundary that belongs to nature itself. The Adjustment of Contention (Qiwu lun) likewise says: the sage meets right and wrong with harmonizing, and rests in tianjun—this is called liang xing (walking both paths: affirming and denying may both stand without clinging to one side).

Dialogue between Zhuangzi and Huizi

Zhuangzi said to Huizi: “Confucius lived to sixty, and in those sixty years he changed sixty times: what he affirmed in youth, he denied in old age. Who can say that what he affirms as ‘right’ today is not the ‘wrong’ he once denied in one of those fifty-nine earlier turns?” (This parallels ideas such as Qu Boyu’s “at fifty I knew that the forty-nine were wrong” in the Ze Yang chapter.)

Huizi said: “Confucius was one who diligently applied his mind and pursued knowledge.”

Zhuangzi said: “Confucius had in fact already set that path aside; he simply did not ordinarily say so plainly.” He then paraphrases Confucius roughly as follows: Confucius said, “I, Kong Qiu, am not on the same path as what you take me to be.” (Zhuangzi uses this to show that Confucius was not simply “diligent in will and subservient to knowing,” but had turned toward following transformation without fixating on right and wrong.)

The gist of Cheng Xuanying’s commentary (marginal notes on the dialogue)

Huizi took Confucius still to be laboring in mind and chasing more knowledge, not yet “transformed”; Zhuangzi says Confucius had already left behind the traces of toilsome knowing and neared the Dao, only he did not often speak it openly—and through Confucius’s voice points out that his level is not that of those who cling to knowledge and to right versus wrong.

This passage cites Confucius’s refined saying (yayan): “Human beings receive their endowment of capacity from the Great Root (daben)—Heaven—and, by virtue of spiritual nature, return and are reborn into full humanity.” Here daben means Heaven. One receives one’s endowment from Heaven and restores the inherent spiritual nature; only then does one truly become human.

(The state Confucius describes is this:) One’s voice naturally accords with lü (pitch and musical norm), so that tone itself can serve as the measure for all under Heaven; speech naturally accords with fa (rule and standard), so that word and deed can become the pattern others follow. When benefit and righteousness are set before people, so that in likes and dislikes, right and wrong, they submit in word—that may look like mere lip service; yet it can move them to obey from the heart and not dare to rebel or talk back (wu, same sound as “awaken,” meaning to go against or resist), thereby stabilizing the great order of the realm. Commentators say: though the words only speak of “winning people’s mouths,” if one can truly win hearts so that none dare wu (defy) and set up rival doctrines, that is enough to establish and fix the “ding” (settlement) of all under Heaven. That is what Confucius meant.

(Zhuangzi goes on to exclaim:) “Enough, enough! In the end I still cannot match him!” Cheng Xuanying explains: this is Zhuangzi’s praise of Confucius.

Yao Nai and others further argue: “diligent in purpose and serving knowledge”—the teachings Confucius used for his disciples do not exhaust what makes Confucius Confucius; hence Zhuangzi’s tone of xie (stepping back, saying something on another level), as if Confucius had never spoken in this way in daily life, while what “counts as Confucius” is something else. Why? Because behind it stands a daben: receiving one’s endowment from the Great Root and restoring the good nature to return to the root and live—that is what makes Confucius Confucius; it is merely returning to daben. As for matching lü, matching fa, and clarifying right and wrong, those belong to a smaller stratum within the catalog of virtue; they cannot fully capture what Confucius is.

The text also mentions Zengzi taking office again while his mind turned once more (the same line of thought about “returning to the great ben” appears again). Yao’s reading can be accepted.

Zeng Shen took office again, and his inner state shifted once more. He said: “When my parents were alive and I held office, my salary was only three fu (one fu was about six dou and four sheng of grain), yet I felt very content; later when I held office again and my salary reached three thousand zhong (one zhong was about six hu and four dou), I could no longer compare it to supporting my parents—they were already gone—and I felt only grief.”

The disciples asked Confucius: “Can someone like Zeng Shen be said to have no fault of being ‘suspended’ on salary?”

Commentators explain that “suspended” (xuan) in “having nothing suspended” means the heart is tied and bound to salary and support.

Confucius said: “He is already suspended. Since the heart is already tied to salary and supporting parents, how can one say it is not tied? Those whose hearts truly have nothing suspended should originally have neither sorrow nor joy. Such a person sees three fu and three thousand zhong like gnats that flew past before—flitting by in an instant, without calculating which is more or less.”

Here “that person” refers to one whose heart truly does not hang on rank and salary. Cheng Xuanying says: A filial child serves parents by what is fitting and by nurturing their spirits in daily demeanor, regardless of whether salary is thick or thin; if the heart still has joy or grief born from more or less salary, one is still tied to salary and cannot count as “having nothing suspended.” Only one who is not tied deserves “no sorrow and no joy”; hence one would treat three fu and three thousand zhong as lightly as a gnat passing before the eyes. Huainan’s “Waiting for the Genuine” has “Praise and blame toward oneself are like a gnat’s single pass”—the sense is close.

In textual variants, some editions read “as if watching gnats pass one before another”; some add the character for “sparrow” or write “stork and gnat”; scholars hold that “watch” (guan) is correct, likening things to something small and fleeting—no need to discriminate between thick and thin salary.

Yan Chengzi You said to Dongguo Ziqi. Cheng Xuanying notes: one who lived east of the city wall was called “Dongguo”; he should be the same sort of figure as Nanguo Ziqi in the Qi Wu Lun chapter.

Yan Chengzi You said: Ever since I heard your teaching—

In the first year, a person becomes “wild”—that is, comparatively plain and unadorned. After only one year of hearing the Dao, the heart is not yet fully seasoned; one can merely begin to strip away showiness and return toward simplicity.

In the second year, one can “follow”—moving along with human affairs and social custom, no longer pushing against everything at every turn.

In the third year, one can “penetrate”—not tightly bound by outer circumstances, so that when things arise one is less stuck and obstructed.

In the fourth year, one can “be with things”—blending thoroughly with the ten thousand things, no longer hard‑separating oneself from the world outside.

In the fifth year, one can “draw others”—people willingly turn toward you and gather close.

In the sixth year, one can “have the ghost enter”—meaning that spirit and thought can merge into the inner pattern of things; this is not about ghosts or spirits possessing a person.

In the seventh year, one can “match heaven’s completion”—aligning with the accomplishment that heaven and nature already have.

In the eighth year, one already “does not know death, does not know life”—no longer firmly tied by the discriminations of life and death, gathering and scattering.

In the ninth year, one reaches “great subtlety”—“subtlety” (miao) means penetrating fineness and depth; at this point awareness is vast, hence it is called “great subtlety.”

The whole passage uses the ladder of “first year, second year … ninth year” to describe how, after hearing the Dao, heart‑nature and the scope of one’s realm change layer by layer.

Vernacular Explanation

“When life is full of deliberate action, that is death.”

Guo Xiang says: When a person lives yet is always “youwei” (deliberate contrivance, striving for merit and fame), they throw away their original life and thus move toward “death.”

“I urge you, sir: Xuan says these are words meant to exhort people, as in the two lines below.”

Cheng Xuanying, Lu Deming, and others hold that the next two lines are phrasing used to admonish people.

“Because there is death, there is a cause.”

Guo Xiang: Here “zi” means “from, reason.” Because of youwei, there is death; because life is treated as private property and lived only for oneself, there is youwei.

“Yet the yang of life has no cause.”

Cheng Xuanying: Death belongs to yin, life to yang. Guo Xiang: The vigorous, yang aspect of life arises because it is utterly without trace—wuwei and spontaneous—not because of some “origin” or human motive.

“Can you really do that? ‘Er’ means ‘you’: Can you truly practice wuwei?”

“Er” addresses you: Can you really achieve non-action?

“Where would you go that fits? Where would you go that does not fit? Cheng says: Everywhere is fitting.”

Where is right and where wrong? Cheng Xuanying: Every place can be at ease.

“Heaven has its cycles; the tally of qi has its fixity. Earth has people who occupy it; each holds their place.”

Heaven has seasons and numerical fate; qi’s count is set; people on earth each occupy a region and keep their station.

“Where would I go to seek? Cheng says: Where would I still seek beyond what is due?”

Where else would I hunt for more? Cheng Xuanying: At what point must one still grasp outward?

“Not knowing where it ends—how can you say there is no ming (fate)? Cheng says: Fortune comes and goes—if not ming, what is it? This means there is ming.”

Not knowing where (life or things) will end—how deny ming? Cheng Xuanying: Times turn; if that is not ming, what is? This argues for ming.

“Not knowing where it begins—how can you say there is ming? Cheng says: Death and rebirth, like spring, summer, autumn, winter—how is that personal ming? This means there is no ming.”

Not knowing the start—how claim ming? Cheng Xuanying: Dying and being born again, like the seasons—what personal ming is that? This argues against ming.

“When things truly correspond, how can you say there are no gui (spirits)? Guo says: Principle must respond, as if numinous powers brought it about.”

Things do correspond and resonate—how deny gui? Guo Xiang: Reason demands response, as though spirits effected the correspondence.

“When nothing corresponds, how can you say there are gui?”

Sometimes nothing responds at all—how affirm gui?

(Cheng’s note: The logic of correspondence does not always hold.)

The many penumbrae (the faint shadows and subtle shade around a shadow) asked the shadow: “A moment ago you were bowing your head, and now you raise it; a moment ago your hair was tied up, and now it hangs loose; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you stand; a moment ago you were walking, and now you stop. Why is this?” The shadow replied: “I am merely moving spontaneously, without intentional mind—why press me so urgently for an explanation? I have these appearances, but I do not know their cause. I am like the shell cast off by a cicada or the skin sloughed by a snake: they look like the creature, but they are not the creature itself. When I meet firelight or sunlight, I gather and appear; when I meet cloudy weather or night, I withdraw and rest. Is that bodily form something I rely on? How much more so the bodily form itself, which must depend on the Heavenly mechanism (the spontaneous activation of nature)! When the form comes, I come with it; when the form goes, I go with it; when the form moves vigorously, I move vigorously with it. That which moves vigorously—why should it ask me?”

The scripture then says: Yang Ziju (that is, Yang Zhu, courtesy name Ziju) traveled south to Pei, while Lao Dan (Laozi) journeyed west to Qin; the two agreed to meet in the outskirts. “Yao” here means “to arrange to meet.”

Continuing the previous passage:

What each person truly “has” is only the portion they themselves preserve. As for those who are aggressive and restless, how could they come to me with questions?

Yangzi Ju (Yang Zhu in the Liezi) traveled south to Pei. Laozi was heading west into the state of Qin; they arranged to meet in the outskirts, and encountered each other in Liang. On the road Laozi looked up to heaven and sighed: “At first I thought you could be taught—but now I see I was wrong.” Yangzi Ju did not reply.

When they reached the inn, Yangzi Ju offered water for washing, a towel, and a comb, placed his shoes outside the door, knelt and stepped forward, saying: “Just now your disciple wished to ask the Master something, but you were in haste on the road and I did not dare speak; now there is leisure—please point out your disciple’s faults.” Laozi said: “You carry yourself as if looking down on the four directions and ignoring everyone else; people will only fear you and keep away—who would want to keep company with you? (As the Daodejing says) ‘The greatest whiteness seems stained; the fullest virtue seems insufficient.’” Yangzi Ju at once changed countenance and said: “I respectfully accept your command.”

When he went again, the innkeeper welcomed him into the house; the host himself arranged the mat, the wife brought towel and comb; those who sat first yielded their seats, those tending the fire did not dare occupy the stove place—they were extremely deferential toward him. After he returned, those who shared the lodging already dared to vie with him for seats when sitting down.—This means that once he had cast off arrogance, others no longer treated him as an outsider to be honored on a pedestal, but associated with him as an ordinary person.

Yao wished to cede the realm to Xu You, but Xu You would not accept. Yao then tried to give it to Zizhou Zhifu. A note explains that Zhifu was his style name—that is, Zhibo. Zizhou Zhifu said: “Taking me as Son of Heaven might be tolerable enough. Yet I have a deep-seated affliction of inner gloom that I am just treating; I have no leisure to govern the realm.” The commentary says that “inner gloom” means an illness whose roots run deep. The realm is the weightiest of things; even if one does not take the position of Son of Heaven seriously, that much can still be said—but I have this deep-seated inner affliction and am busy healing myself, with no spare attention for the realm. The realm is supremely weighty; it ought not to be used to harm one’s own life, still less any other external possession. Only one who does not treat the realm as private property is truly fit to be entrusted with it.

Shun wished to cede the realm to Zizhou Zhibo. Zizhou Zhibo said: “I have an inner affliction I must treat; I have no leisure to govern the realm.” Hence it is said: the realm is a great vessel—one cannot exchange one’s life to obtain it. This is where those who possess the Dao and ordinary people part ways.

Shun wished to cede the realm to Shan Juan. Shan Juan said: “I live between Heaven and Earth: in winter I wear furs, in summer coarse hemp; in spring I plow so that my body is just sufficient for the work, in autumn I harvest so that my body is just sufficient for rest. At sunrise I labor, at sunset I settle; I wander freely within Heaven and Earth, and my heart is content. Why would I want the realm? How pitiable—you do not understand me!” He refused to accept, departed, and entered the deep mountains; afterward no one knew where he was.

Shun wished to yield the realm to his close friend, the Farmer of Shihouse. The Farmer of Shihouse replied: I am a man who toils with my hands and has not yet found leisure to govern the world; even by your virtue, Shun, I would still fall short. He then shouldered his wife, carried his children on his back, took his farming tools, and went off to the seashore—and never returned for the rest of his life.

Great King Danfu dwelt in Bin. When the Di people attacked, he offered furs and silks—they refused; he offered dogs and horses—they refused; he offered pearls and jade—they still refused, for what the Di wanted was the land. Great King Danfu said: To live as neighbors with another’s elder brother, yet slay that man’s younger brother; to live as neighbors with another’s father, yet slay that man’s son—I cannot bear it. Stay here as long as you can! What difference is there between being my subjects and being the Di’s subjects? Moreover, I have heard that one must not harm those one is meant to sustain, for the sake of things used to sustain them.

Vernacular interpretation

In the passage above, “nurturing” (yang) refers to the land, and “what is nurtured” (suo yang) refers to the people.

King Father Duan then leaned on his staff and left. The people followed him one after another—Sima Biao explains that “lian” here should be read as “nian,” meaning a throng pressing close in unbroken succession. They finally re-established their state at the foot of Mount Qi. King Father Duan may be said truly to have understood “respecting life”: he treated life itself as what mattered most. One who respects life will not, even in wealth and rank, harm the body through excessive indulgence in comfort, nor, even in poverty, drag down the person for profit’s sake. Those who have means to live on do not injure themselves through cravings of mouth and belly; those with no profit to chase do not wear out the body scrambling for gain.

Yet people today who hold high office and noble rank often value status more than life itself. Dreading its loss, at the first sight of profit they lightly stake their lives on it—is that not foolish?

In Yue, three generations in succession murdered their rulers. Prince Sou, troubled by this, fled and hid in the “Cinnabar Cave.” The commentary notes: Li Yi holds that “Sou” was the prince’s personal name; the Huainanzi has “Yi”; the Erya says the southern region beneath heaven is called the “Cinnabar Cave.”

Dan Cave (Danxue) was a cave in the Southern Mountains (Nanshan).

Yu Yue observed that the earlier reference to “three generations of regicide” appears in the Shiji “Yue shijia” commentary (Suoyin), which identifies Sou as Yi’s son Wuzhuan. According to the Zhushu jinian, Yi was murdered by his son; the people of Yue then killed that son and enthroned Wuyu, who was in turn murdered and succeeded by Wuzhuan. Thus the three rulers before Wuzhuan none died a natural death. Prince Sou (Wangzi Sou) and Wuzhuan are therefore almost certainly one person under two names—a point that can be taken as settled. The account in the Huainanzi is likely a garbled tradition and should be corrected in light of Suoyin.

Later, when Yue had no king, the people searched for Prince Sou but could not find him until they traced him to Dan Cave. He still refused to come out, so the Yue people smoked the cave with mugwort (ai) and had a royal carriage (wangyu) ready. Prince Sou took hold of the mounting cord (sui) on the carriage, climbed in, looked up to heaven, and cried, “My lord, my lord! Can you not leave me in peace?”

Prince Sou did not despise being king; he despised the disasters that kingship brought upon him. A man like Prince Sou may be said not to ruin himself by ruling the state—and that was precisely the sort of ruler the people of Yue wanted.

Han and Wei were seizing and encroaching on each other’s territory. Zihua Zi—an ancient teacher who emphasized “preserving life” (quansheng) and “valuing life” (guisheng)—went to see Zhao Xi Hou of Han and found him wearing a face full of worry.

Zihua Zi said: Suppose someone set a document before you that read, Do as stated below: use your left hand to grab, and your right hand will be ruined; use your right hand to grab, and your left hand will be ruined—yet whoever does as it says will surely gain the realm under heaven. Would you do it?

Zhao Xi Hou said: I would not.

Zihua Zi said: That is right. From this you can see that a single arm counts for more than “gaining the realm under heaven,” and the whole body counts for more still than both arms. Han, weighed against the realm under heaven, is vastly lighter; and the strip of land you are now fighting Wei over, weighed against all of Han, is far lighter still. Yet you fret until it harms your health and brood because you cannot obtain it—that is hardly worth it.

Zhao Xi Hou said: Well said! Many have instructed me, but I have never heard this. Zihua Zi truly knows what should be held light and what should be held heavy.

The ruler of Lu heard that Yan He was someone who had awakened to the Dao, and sent someone ahead with gifts to visit him. Yan He lived in a narrow alley, wore coarse hemp cloth, and fed his own ox. Commentator Li Yun says “ju” refers to hemp with seeds in it—that is, rough hemp cloth.

The envoy from Lu arrived and Yan He answered the door himself. The envoy asked, “Is this the home of Master Yan He?” Yan He replied, “This is He’s home.” The envoy presented the gifts. Yan He said, “I’m afraid the person who sent you got it wrong and that would get you punished—better verify first.” Commentator Yu Yue thinks there is an extra character “zhe” after “ting” in the text; the Lüshi Chunqiu chapter “Valuing Life” does not have that character.

The envoy went back, checked again, and came to seek him once more. Only then did Yan He reluctantly accept (or take up the appointment); soon after he slipped away and left. Someone like Yan He truly detests wealth and rank. So it is said: the root of the Dao lies in cultivating oneself; what overflows from that is used to govern the state; what remains as dregs (like manure and straw) is used to order all under Heaven. Sima Biao’s note says “tu ju” is like manure, earth, and fodder.

Seen this way, the great achievements of emperors and kings are merely the “leftover business” that sages finish off along the way—not what they use to preserve the body and nourish life. Today’s ordinary gentlemen often sacrifice their lives for external things—how sad! In every move, a sage first sees clearly where he is heading (the direction his De is applied) and how he treats external things (the manner of his conduct). Wang’s note says “suozhi zhi” means the place where De is applied; “suowei” means the way used to deal with external things.

Suppose someone used a Suihou pearl (a legendary gem of supreme value) to shoot a sparrow a thousand ren high—people would surely laugh at him. Why? Because what he spends is too precious and what he seeks is too slight. Is life not more precious than a Suihou pearl? (The “Valuing Life” chapter has the character “zhu” [pearl] after “Suihou”; the text is completed accordingly.)

Liezi Refuses the Grain

Liezi (Lie Yukou) lived in poverty: he was thin in face and showed the marks of hunger. A visitor said to Ziyang of Zheng, “Lie Yukou is surely a man of the Way; he dwells in your state yet is so poor—you perhaps do not value worthy men?” (Commentary: Ziyang was prime minister of Zheng.)

Ziyang of Zheng thereupon sent an official in charge of the granary to deliver grain. (Cheng Xuanying: the officer who managed the storehouses.)

When Liezi saw the messenger, he bowed twice and declined to accept. After the messenger left, Liezi went inside; his wife looked at him, beat her breast, and sighed, “I have heard that the wife and children of a man of the Way can live at ease and in joy; yet now your face shows hunger. The prime minister heard of our situation and specially sent this grain—he says he acted only after someone told him of our plight. If you refuse, are you not throwing your life away?”

Liezi smiled and said to her, “The prime minister does not know me himself. Because of another’s words he sent grain; if he punishes me later, it will also be because of another’s words. So I cannot accept.”

Later the people of Zheng indeed rose in revolt and killed Ziyang.

(Yu Yue notes: the affair of Ziyang appears in Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals, “Adaptation of Authority,” and Huainanzi, “General Discourse”; in Records of the Grand Historian, “Annals of Zheng,” however, it is recorded that in the twenty-fifth year of Duke Xu of Zheng, Duke Xu killed his minister Ziyang, and in the twenty-seventh year Ziyang’s faction together assassinated Duke Xu Biao— which does not match the other accounts.)

King Zhao of Chu and Tu Yangshuo (opening)

When King Zhao of Chu lost his kingdom, the butcher Tu Yangshuo declared he wished to follow him and went into exile with the king. The king later recovered his state.

When King Zhao of Chu lost his state, the butcher Tu Yangshuo went into exile with him. After the king returned and restored his rule, he wished to reward those who had followed him, Tu Yangshuo included.

Tu Yangshuo declined. He said: “When Your Majesty lost the state, I lost my trade as a butcher; when Your Majesty came home, I regained it. My ‘rank and stipend’ are already back to what they were—why speak of a reward?”

The king insisted: “You must accept!” and pressed him.

Tu Yangshuo replied again: “Your Majesty’s loss of the state was not my fault, so I would not accept blame or punishment; Your Majesty’s return was not my merit, so I dare not accept a reward.”

The king said: “Then at least come and see me once!”

Tu Yangshuo said: “Under the laws of Chu, one must have performed great service and received a weighty reward before one is qualified to have an audience with the ruler. My wisdom was not enough to preserve the state; my courage was not enough to die facing the enemy. When the forces of Wu took Ying, I fled from danger—I did not deliberately follow Your Majesty. If Your Majesty now breaks the law and goes back on the covenant to receive me, that covenant is the legal bond Your Majesty shares with the people. That is not something I would want people throughout the realm to hear of.”

The king said to Sima Ziqi: “Tu Yangshuo is low in station, yet what he states is very high in principle. Ziqi, go on my behalf to invite him and grant him the exalted rank of the ‘three banners’ (often understood as one of the three highest offices; some texts read ‘three jade tablets,’ the emblems of the three chief ministers of a feudal lord).”

Tu Yangshuo said again: “I know that the rank of the three banners is loftier than a butcher’s stall, and that a stipend of ten thousand zhong is richer than a butcher’s profit. But how could I, for the sake of enjoying rank and salary, let our ruler bear the name of handing out rewards at whim? I dare not accept; I wish only to return to my butcher’s shop.”

In the end he did not take the reward.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells of an encounter between Confucius’s disciple Yuan Xian and Zigong.

Yuan Xian lived in Lu in a small room with walls of packed earth on all sides, a roof of thatch, a gate of woven rushes that did not close properly, a mulberry branch for a hinge and a broken jar for a window. He and his wife each had a small room; they stuffed the gaps with coarse hemp cloth. Rain leaked in from above and the floor was damp below, yet he sat upright and played the zither and sang.

Zigong came to visit in a large carriage drawn by fine horses, wearing a dark blue inner robe and a plain outer one. The carriage was so wide it could not enter the narrow lane. Yuan Xian met him at the door wearing a hat of catalpa bark, shoes with no heels, and leaning on a staff of wild vine. Zigong said, “Alas! Sir, have you fallen ill?” Yuan Xian replied, “I have heard that having no money is called poverty, but learning the Way and not putting it into practice is called illness. I, Yuan Xian, am poor now—I am not ill.” Zigong drew back uneasily, shame on his face. Yuan Xian smiled and said, “Those who trim their conduct to please the world, who move in circles and form factions, who study the Way to be seen by others, who teach in order to elevate themselves, who borrow the name of benevolence and righteousness to do what is wicked, who chase after carriages and fine dress—such things I, Yuan Xian, will not do.”

The opening is a collation note: “pinglu” was originally mistaken for “chenggui” and is now corrected on the basis of the “Sima Xiangru Memoir” in the Hanshu and the “Shanglin Fu” in the Wenxuan; the main biography in the Shiji writes it as “huafanlu,” which is a case of interchangeable characters. The scriptural text says: Zengzi (Zeng Shen, a disciple of Confucius) lived in Wei, wore an old padded robe without an outer covering, and his face was swollen and haggard (one old commentary reads this as “bo cuo”; another says that “kuai” should be “gui,” meaning severe illness); his hands and feet were covered with calluses. For three days he did not light a fire to cook, and for ten years he did not add new clothes; when he straightened his cap, the cap string broke; when he tugged his lapel, his elbows showed; when he put on his shoes, the heels split open. Dragging his shoes (the character xi here is interchangeable with the graph for “slippers”), he sang the “Shang Song” (Hymns of Shang), and his singing filled heaven and earth, like the sound produced by metal and stone instruments. The Son of Heaven could not make him a subject, nor could the feudal lords associate with him. Therefore, one who cultivates the mind forgets bodily distress (Cheng Xuanying comments: worthy men and gentlemen do not let outward form frustrate their aspirations), one who nourishes the body forgets profit and salary (Cheng comments: those who nourish life do not harm life for the sake of profit), and one who devotes himself to the Dao forgets mental cleverness (Cheng comments: those who attain the Dao forget the arts of mental knowing). Confucius said to Yan Hui, “Hui, come here! Your family is poor and your station is low; why do you not go and take office?” Yan Hui answered immediately.

Yan Hui had no wish to take up office. Outside the city he had fifty mu of land, enough for his household to live on thin gruel from day to day. In the explanatory notes, “gruel” is also written as zhān, meaning millet porridge. Inside the city he had another ten mu, enough to grow hemp and make hemp thread for his own use. Playing the zither was enough to amuse him; the Dao he had learned from Confucius was enough to give him inner steadiness and joy. That is why Yan Hui did not want to become an official.

When Confucius heard this, his face changed and he spoke with solemn earnestness: “Hui, how fine this way of thinking is! I have heard it said: those who know contentment are not burdened by chasing profit; those who truly hold to something in their hearts are not afraid when they lose such profit; those who cultivate virtue within are not ashamed to be without an official post. I have kept these words in mind for many years, but only today do I see them realized in you, Hui—this is what I, Kongzi, have gained.”

Gongzi Mou of Zhongshan—a scion of the Wei royal house, enfeoffed at Zhongshan and named Mou—said to Zhanzi (a Daoist worthy; some editions read “Zhanzi” instead): “Though I dwell in seclusion by rivers, seas, mountains, and forests, my heart still clings to the Wei court gates”—that is, to rank and profit at court—“what am I to do?”

Zhanzi said: “Put respecting life and cherishing living beings first. When you truly honor life in this way, wealth, profit, and position lose their weight.”

Gongzi Mou said: “I understand the principle, but I cannot restrain myself.”

Zhanzi added: “If you cannot honor life, then follow where your heart leads—will your spirit (Shen) not hate you for it?” (Note: punctuation and reading are disputed. One reading takes the whole as “If you cannot overcome yourself, then follow—will the spirit not hate you?” Another holds that “follow” belongs with the previous clause, as in “If you cannot overcome yourself, then follow it,” which aligns with versions in Lüshi Chunqiu, Wenzi, Huainanzi, and related texts.)

If you cannot master yourself yet force yourself against your heart to suppress desire, this is called “double injury” (zaishang): wounding yourself again. Someone who repeatedly injures himself will find it hard to live long.

Gongzi Mou was the son of a great state that fielded ten thousand chariots; that he was willing to hide in cliffs and caves was already harder than what ordinary recluses do. Though he had not fully accorded with the Dao, in intention he already showed a turn toward the Way.

Confucius found himself in dire straits between the states of Chen and Cai. For seven days he had no fire to cook by; even his wild-vegetable soup had no grain in it. His face was haggard, yet he still played the zither and sang inside his dwelling. Yan Hui was outside gathering greens, while Zilu and Zigong talked together. They said, “Our teacher was twice driven out of Lu, had his activities blocked in Wei, suffered the humiliation of having a tree cut down around him in Song, could find no way forward in Shang and Zhou, and is now besieged in Chen and Cai. To kill him would not be a crime; to trample on him would not be forbidden. Yet he still plays and sings without cease—can a junzi be so shameless?” Yan Hui did not know how to reply and went in to tell Confucius. Confucius set down his zither, drew a long breath, and said, “Zhong You and Ci are men of narrow vision. Call them in; I will speak with them.” When Zilu and Zigong entered, Zilu said, “We have come to this pass—it can be called utter destitution.” Confucius said, “What kind of talk is that! For a junzi, to have the Way is to be at ease; to lose the Way is to be in straits. Now I uphold the Way of benevolence and righteousness and have merely met the calamities of a chaotic age—how can that count as destitution? Therefore I look inward and do not feel blocked on the Way; facing danger I do not abandon virtue. When cold arrives and frost and dew fall, then one understands the evergreen strength of pine and cypress. This hardship in Chen and Cai is, for Qiu, rather a piece of good fortune!” Confucius’s expression was calm; he took up his zither again and went on playing and singing. Zilu, stirred in spirit, took up a shield and danced. Zigong said, “I no longer understand how high Heaven is or how thick Earth is.”

People of old who obtained the Way were joyful in straits and joyful in success alike; what they rejoiced in was not straits or success as such.

Giran (Li Yun’s note): describes the look of dancing with spirited exhilaration.

Zigong said, “I do not know how high Heaven is or how low Earth is.” (This expresses how one feels the vastness of Heaven and Earth and one’s own smallness.)

In antiquity, those who attained the Dao were at ease whether in hardship or in success. What they delighted in was not poverty or prosperity as such; once the Dao was present, hardship and success were like cold, heat, wind, and rain—simply the natural sequence of change. Yu Yue held that “de” (virtue) should read as “de” (to obtain), and citing Lüshi Chunqiu, “Shenren,” suggested the text here may be corrupt or missing characters; Cheng Xuanying likewise said that those who obtain the Dao remain at ease amid hardship and success, and the manuscript he saw also read “de” (obtain).

Thus Xu You found joy for himself on the sunny bank of the Ying River, while Gong Bo roamed freely at the head of Gongshou Mountain. Sima Biao’s note: Gong Bo was named He; he cultivated virtue and loved the worthy, and the feudal lords all regarded him as a man of excellence. When the realm fell into chaos under King Li of Zhou and the Son of Heaven’s seat stood empty for long, the lords once invited him to become Son of Heaven, but he refused (Lushi says “fu huomian,” meaning he could not escape declining). Later he briefly held the throne; in the fourteenth year a great drought came and buildings burned. Divination indicated “King Li’s ghost” was at fault, and Duke Shao then enthroned King Xuan; Gong Bo returned to the ancestral temple and wandered content at the summit of Gong Mountain. Gongqiu Mountain lies west of Gong County in Henan today.

Shun wished to cede the realm to his friend Beiren Wuyi (the man from the north named Wuyi). Beiren Wuyi said, “Strange! This man Shun—he originally lived in the fields, yet went to walk in Yao’s gate. And not only that—his words were not merely that; he also wanted to use his way of humiliating people to defile me.” (Man means to stain or defile.) “I am ashamed to see him.” Thereupon he cast himself into the Qingling Abyss and died. Shiwen cites Shanhai jing as saying this abyss is in Jiangnan; another account places it at the foot of Mount E west of Nanyang commandery.

When King Tang was preparing to campaign against Jie of Xia, he first sought out the recluse Bian Sui for advice. Bian Sui said, “This is no business of mine.” Tang asked, “Then who would be fit to consult?” He replied, “I do not know.” Tang went next to Guang, who likewise said the matter did not concern him; asked who might be enlisted for planning, he again said he did not know. Tang asked, “What about Yi Yin?” Guang would only speak in vague terms of “using force while enduring shame,” suggesting that beyond that he either could not or would not say more.

Tang then plotted with Yi Yin to overthrow Jie and succeeded. He wished to yield the realm to Bian Sui. Bian Sui refused, saying: “When you first raised arms against Jie you drew me into your counsels; afterward you would surely take me for a traitor to my lord. Now that you have won and offer me the throne, you would surely take me for one greedy for power. I was born in a lawless age; the unprincipled have again and again defiled me with conduct I cannot bear to hear of.” He threw himself into the Choushui (also called Dongshui, in the Yingchuan region) and died.

Tang then tried to yield the throne to Guang, saying, “The wise lay plans, the strong finish the work, the benevolent hold the throne—such is the ancient rule. Why will you not accept?” Guang declined: “To remove one who sits above is not righteous; to slaughter the people to seize the realm is not benevolent; for others to suffer hardship while I take the profit is not honest. I have heard that the unrighteous do not accept reward, and in an age without the Way one does not even tread its soil—how much less accept honor from it! I cannot bear to remain long in the world.” He weighted himself with a stone and drowned in the Lushui (also called Lushui, in Liaodong or the Beiping region).

According to tradition, when the Zhou dynasty was about to rise, there were two worthy men in the state of Gu Zhu named Bo Yi and Shu Qi. The two discussed the matter and said, “We hear that in the west there is someone who seems to be a person who has attained the Dao; let us go and visit him to see.” They arrived at Qiyang. King Wu of Zhou, hearing of these two scholars, sent the Duke of Zhou (Shu Dan) to meet them and enter into an alliance with them, saying, “Your stipend shall be raised by two grades, and you shall be given a rank among the officials.” He also slaughtered a victim, took its blood, and buried the covenant text in the ground. Bo Yi and Shu Qi looked at each other and smiled, saying, “How strange! This is not what we call the Dao. In antiquity when Shennong ruled the world, he performed sacrifices at the proper seasons with utmost reverence, yet did not ask the spirits for blessings; toward people he was wholly loyal and trustworthy and governed with full effort, yet did not demand repayment from others. Music was used to harmonize with policy, and music to harmonize with governance. He did not establish himself by others’ ruin, did not elevate himself by others’ debasement, and did not seek private gain in chaotic times. Now the people of Zhou, seeing the house of Yin in disorder, hasten to seize power; above they use scheming and stratagem, below they use wealth and goods to win people’s hearts…”

Source note

This passage comes from Zhuangzi, Miscellaneous Chapters, “Robber Zhi” (Dao Zhi), section twenty-nine, together with textual notes and commentary. What follows is a plain-language reading of the main text.

Textual notes and parallels (brief)

Commentary holds that a certain character read as “xia” (below) was wrongly added and should be read in the same vein as “shang” (above) in the preceding line. Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals, “Sincerity and Integrity,” has “shang mou er xing huo” (relying on stratagem and goods in one’s conduct), which can be read alongside this passage.

Discussion in the Robber Zhi chapter (main sense)

Leaning on military force to hold onto prestige, slaughtering animals and smearing blood to seal covenants, parading virtue to win over the masses, and using campaigns to grab profit—this is swapping old tyranny for new turmoil.

I have heard that the ancient worthies: in ages of great peace they did not shirk duties they ought to bear; in chaotic ages they would not twist how they stood in the world just to stay alive.

Boyi and Shuqi (narrative in the text)

The realm was dark then, and the house of Zhou had lost its virtue. Boyi and Shuqi felt that to attach themselves to Zhou again would only stain their persons (note: “qi” here is like “yu qi”; “bing” means to lean on or attach; “tu” means to defile)—better to keep themselves pure and act by their own principles. The two went north and reached Mount Shouyang, where they starved to death.

Judgment on the two men’s integrity (main sense of text and notes)

Men like Boyi and Shuqi: when it came to wealth and rank, if they could do without it, they would never lean on others or scramble for it (“lai” means to depend on or seek). Their spirit was lofty and their conduct strict; they found joy in following their own aim and did not seek patronage in the world’s power and office. Such was the integrity of these two worthies.

Opening of Zhuangzi, “Theft Zhi” (Dao Zhi) (main text and commentary as recorded in the collected exegesis)

Confucius and Liu Xia Hui (in the text called “Liu Xia Ji,” the Liu Xia Hui famed in the Spring and Autumn period for his virtue) were friends. Liu Xia Hui’s younger brother was named Theft Zhi (Dao Zhi). Theft Zhi led nine thousand followers, rampaged across the realm, and violated and brutalized the feudal lords. The commentators say: Li Qi’s note on the Book of Han states that “Zhi was a great bandit of Qin”; Yu Yue, following the Shiji, “Biographies of Bo Yi and Shu Qi,” Correct Meaning, says that “Zhi is a generic name for great bandits of the Yellow Emperor’s age.” Which era Zhi belonged to was never settled. Confucius and Liu Xia Hui did not live at the same time, nor did Liu Xia Hui and Theft Zhi—the reader should not take the fable for history.

They pried doors and broke into houses (“burrowing into rooms and turning door pivots”; Sima Biao explains this as prying door pivots to enter and steal), drove off others’ cattle and horses, and seized women; insatiable in greed, they ignored parents and brothers and did not sacrifice to ancestors. Wherever they passed, large states bolted their defenses and small states fled into fortified hamlets (“bao”; Zheng Xuan’s note on the Book of Rites says a small town is called bao), and the people suffered deeply.

Confucius said to Liu Xia Hui: “A father ought to be able to admonish his son; an elder brother ought to be able to instruct his younger brother. If a father cannot admonish his son or an elder brother cannot instruct his younger brother, the bond of father, son, elder, and younger loses its dignity. You, sir, are a talent of the age, yet your younger brother is Theft Zhi, scourge of the realm, and you cannot restrain him—I, Kong Qiu, am ashamed for you, sir. Allow me to go and persuade him on your behalf.”

Liu Xia Hui said: “You just said that ‘a father must be able to admonish his son and an elder brother must be able to instruct his younger brother’—but if the son will not heed the father’s admonition or the younger brother will not accept the elder’s instruction, even with eloquence like yours, sir, what could you do with him?”

As for Robber Zhi, his mind surged without rest like a spring, and his thoughts drifted unpredictably like the wind. His strength was enough to hold off enemies, and his eloquence enough to argue in defense of wrongdoing. When things went his way he was pleased; when they did not, he flew into a rage. A single offhand remark could humiliate someone.

Someone urged Confucius: “Master, you must not go.” Confucius refused to listen. He had Yan Hui drive and Zigong take the place on the right, and they went to see Robber Zhi.

Robber Zhi had his followers resting on the southern slope of Mount Tai, slicing human livers fine for their midday meal. (The term bu for this meal, according to the Zilin, refers to the food eaten at shen hour—roughly three to four in the afternoon.) Confucius stepped down from the chariot and went forward. He said to the man who announced visitors: “I am Kong Qiu of Lu. Hearing of the general’s great righteousness, I have come to bow twice; please announce me.” The messenger went in to report. When Robber Zhi heard this, he was furious: his eyes shone like stars, and his hair bristled so that it lifted his cap. He said: “Is this not Kong Qiu of Lu, that glib deceiver? Go tell him for me: ‘You invent doctrines and falsely invoke the Way of King Wen and King Wu, claiming to follow Wen and Wu. On your head you wear a wooden cap hung with ornament like branching twigs; at your waist you bind a great belt of stiff cured ox-hide. Your talk is endless and absurd—you do not plow yet you eat, you do not weave yet you wear clothes. You wag your tongue and stir up right and wrong, bewildering the rulers under heaven and keeping scholars from returning to an authentic life. You prattle about filial piety and brotherly duty to gamble for rank, wealth, and honor. Your crime is grave and deserves execution.’” (Yu Yue notes that the word read ji here should be ji, meaning “to execute” or “to punish”; in ancient writing the two forms ji and ji were often used interchangeably.)

(Collation note: The explanatory notes to the “Hong Fan” and “Duo Shi” chapters of the Book of Documents, and to the Zuo Zhuan for the twenty-eighth year of Duke Xi and the seventh year of Duke Zhao, all say: “The graph ji (‘to put to death’) was originally written as ji (‘extreme’).”)

Robber Zhi told the messenger to relay: “Hurry back! Otherwise, I will add your liver as a dish to my daytime meal.” Confucius again asked to be announced: “I have the good fortune to be on friendly terms with Liuxia Ji (that is, Liuxia Hui, Robber Zhi’s elder brother), and I hope to be able to come under the tent and pay my respects.” (In Sima Biao’s edition, “tent curtain” is written as “qí”; his explanation says this means he dared not look up at Robber Zhi’s face and only dared to look as far as the fastenings of his shoes before withdrawing.) The messenger announced him again, and Robber Zhi said: “Let him come forward!” Confucius entered with quick steps, left his mat and stepped back, and bowed twice to Robber Zhi. Robber Zhi flew into a rage, stretched out his legs, gripped his sword, glared, and spoke in a voice like a tigress: “Come forward, Kong Qiu! If what you say agrees with my intent, you live; if it goes against my heart, you die.” Confucius said: “I have heard that in the world there are three kinds of De (Virtue/Power): to be tall and large by nature, incomparably beautiful, so that all who see one, whether young or old, noble or base, delight in one—this is the highest De; to have wisdom sufficient to order heaven and earth (‘knowing’ is to be read as ‘wisdom’), and to be able to distinguish the myriad things—this is the middle De; to be fierce, powerful, bold, and decisive, able to gather followers and command troops—this is the lowest De. If a person possesses even one of these De, he is sufficient to sit facing south and be called a ruler. Now the general possesses all three: he is eight chi two cun tall, his face is radiant, his lips are bright and red as cinnabar, his teeth are even as cowrie shells, and his voice matches the Huangzhong pitch (the first of the twelve pitches of ancient music). Yet he is named Robber Zhi. I privately feel shame on the general’s behalf and think he should not have taken this name. If the general is willing to listen to me, I beg to travel south to Wu and Yue, north to Qi and Lu, east to Song and Wei, and west to Jin and Chu to persuade them to have the states build for the general a great walled city of several hundred li, establish a fief of several hundred thousand households, honor the general as a feudal lord, and with all under heaven sweep away the old and make things new, cease arms and rest soldiers, take in and care for brothers, and provide for sacrifices to ancestors (‘to share’ is to be read as ‘to provide’). This is the conduct of sages and men of ability, and the wish of all under heaven.” Robber Zhi said in great anger: “Cease arms and rest soldiers, take in and care for brothers, and provide for sacrifices to ancestors.”

When people read the Daoist scriptures together, some read “gong” (offering) as “gong” (common)—meaning the way sages and worthies practice is also what everyone under heaven desires.

Robber Zhi flew into a rage and said: “Kong Qiu, step forward! Those who try to reform others with profit and admonish them with words are talking like foolish, shallow, ordinary folk. I am tall and handsome; people are pleased when they see me—that is what my parents gave me. Kong Qiu, if you do not praise me, do I not know it myself? Moreover I have heard: ‘Those who love to flatter you to your face also love to slander you behind your back.’ Now you urge me with a great city and many people—you want to bound me with profit and keep me like a common domestic animal. How could that last? No city is greater than all under heaven. Yao and Shun possessed the empire, yet their descendants had nowhere to stick an awl; Zhu and Jun (sons of Yao) did not inherit the throne. Cheng Xuanying explains that the descendants of Tang and Wu were likewise murdered and usurped—is that not because their ‘profit’ was too great? Moreover I have heard: in ancient times beasts were many and people few, so people built nests in trees to escape wild animals; by day they gathered acorns and chestnuts, at night they slept in the trees—hence they were called the people of Youchao (Nest-Builder). People of old did not know how to wear clothes; in summer they piled up firewood, in winter they burned fires to warm themselves—hence they were called the people who knew how to preserve life. In the age of Shennong, when they slept it was quiet and still—Guo Qingfan says “juju” means a tranquil manner; when they rose their hearts were broad and open—Guo Qingfan cites the Fangyan to say “yuyu” means vast and expansive…

In the end, Zilu tried to kill the ruler of Wei but failed; he was minced into paste and hung at the eastern gate of Wei—showing that your teaching had not truly reached him.

Yet you styled yourself a sage of both talent and virtue. In Lu you were twice driven out; in Wei you vanished from sight; in Qi you had nowhere to turn; between Chen and Cai you were besieged—hardly a place in the world would hold you. The disciple you trained, Zilu, ended dismembered and pickled; you could not establish yourself toward those above, nor properly instruct those below. Was your “Way” really so worthy of esteem?

What the world honors most is none other than the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi)—yet even he could not preserve his virtue whole and undivided, and fought on the plains of Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao was judged insufficient in kindness (legend says he did not pass the realm to his son Danzhu); Shun was judged lacking in filial piety (legend says his father Gusou mistreated him). Yu wore himself out controlling the floods until one side of his body was withered and lame. Tang of Shang banished his sovereign Jie of Xia; King Wu of Zhou attacked King Zhou of Shang; King Wen of Zhou was once imprisoned at Youli. These six are the figures the world looks up to—but weigh and examine them closely, and you find each blinded by “profit,” forcing their nature to fit their deeds; their conduct is in truth deeply shameful.

The so-called worthies of the world—Boyi and Shuqi resigned the throne of the state of Guzhu and starved to death on Mount Shouyang, their bones never properly buried. Bao Jiao, a Zhou-era recluse, deliberately played the lofty critic of the vulgar world and died embracing a tree. Someone (Zigong, it is said) once challenged him: “I have heard that one does not tread the soil of a corrupt polity, and does not take salary from a tainted ruler—yet you walk this ground and eat its acorns; can that be consistent?”

Jiao said: “I have heard that the incorruptible value advance and slight retreat, and that the worthy are easily shamed yet lightly go to death.” He then embraced a tree and stood there until he died.

Shentu Di remonstrated but was not heeded; he shouldered a stone and threw himself into a river and was eaten by fish and turtles. Cheng Xuanying notes: remonstrance not listened to; the source is unclear.

Jie Zitui was utterly loyal; he cut flesh from his thigh to feed Duke Wen of Jin. The duke later turned against him; Zitui left in anger, embraced a tree, and was burned to death.

Wei Sheng had an appointment with a woman under a bridge; she did not come, the water rose, and he still would not leave—he died holding the pillar.

These six men were no different from a dog cut to pieces, a pig adrift, or someone begging with a gourd (Cheng’s note: they did not die well, like pigs, dogs, or beggars drifting in ditches). All threw away fame lightly and life readily, not caring that the root lies in nurturing life and that lifespan is ordained by Heaven. Among loyal ministers in the world, none are more famous than Prince Bi Gan and Wu Zixu—Zixu was sunk in the river, Bi Gan had his heart cut out. Everyone says they were loyal ministers, yet in the end they became the world’s laughingstock (Cheng’s note: mocked by those who understand the Way). Looking from above down to Zixu and Bi Gan, the two gave their bodies for the state and ranked among the highest in the crowd—still not worth esteeming.

What Kong Qiu used to instruct me—if it concerns ghosts and spirits, I cannot know; if it concerns human affairs, it is nothing but this, all things I have heard before. Now I tell you about human feeling: the eyes want to see color, the ears to hear sound, the mouth to distinguish flavors, the will and qi to be full. Human upper lifespan is a hundred years, middle eighty, lower sixty; subtract illness and wasting, death and mourning, and worry and grief (Wang Niansun: “shou” should read “yu” for wasting illness—one category; death and mourning another; worry and grief another)—the days one actually enjoys are not many; I am not even up to the shortfall among them.

So what I seek is nothing but: high office, great rank, thick salary, heavy reward, fame and power—I can have all of these. Zixu and Bi Gan are called loyal by the world yet did not end well; that is exactly opposite to what I seek. So what Qiu said is of no use to me.

People who live to full longevity reach a hundred years; middling longevity, eighty; lesser longevity, sixty. After subtracting the days lost to illness, decline, death, bereavement, and worry, the times in a month when one can truly laugh out loud amount to no more than four or five days at most. Heaven and earth are boundless, yet human life has its term; placing a finite life in an infinite cosmos, one passes in a flash—no different from a swift horse glimpsed through a crack in the door. Those who cannot follow their own heart or nurture their allotted years have not grasped the Great Way.

What Kong Qiu (Confucius) preached is precisely what I discard. Go quickly—leave, and speak no more! Your doctrine is reckless, losing one’s true nature, and restless in pursuit—Cheng Xuanying explains: “reckless” means losing one’s innate nature; “restless” means the mind never feels it has enough. It is all deceit, artifice, and pretense; it cannot preserve genuine character—what is there worth saying?

Confucius dared not speak again. He bowed twice and hurried away, went out and mounted his carriage, and three times lost his grip on the reins. His eyes were vacant, seeing nothing; his face was like ashes. He leaned on the carriage yoke with head bowed, barely able to catch his breath. When he returned to the east gate of the capital of Lu, he ran into Liu Xiaji. Liu Xiaji said: “I haven’t seen you for days—your carriage and horses look hurried. Could you have gone to see Robber Zhi?” Cheng Xuanying notes that wei here means “could it be that.” Confucius looked up to heaven and sighed: “Yes.” Liu Xiaji said: “Surely Robber Zhi didn’t again go against your wishes?”—referring to what Liu Xiaji said at the opening of the chapter. Confucius said: “Exactly. This was what people call cauterizing yourself when you aren’t sick—running up to stroke a tiger’s head and pluck its whiskers. I almost failed to escape its jaws!”

Z Zhang asked Man Goude: “Why not practice conduct that fits the norms? Why not act according to yi (righteousness)? Without proper conduct you gain no trust; without trust you are not employed; without employment you have no benefit. So whether you look at reputation or at profit, yi is what really counts. If you do nothing at all, others will not believe you; if no one believes you, no one will use you; if no one uses you, you have no salary or rank. So from the angle of fame and of gain, only acting with yi is real.”

The passage above speaks for people who chase fame and profit. If you set aside fame and profit and return to the inner life, can a scholar’s self-cultivation go even one day without doing something?

Man Goude said: “Those who know no shame often grow rich; those who talk much and love to boast often rise high.” Cheng Xuanying’s commentary says that “duo xin” means talking a lot and being fond of empty boasting. When fame and profit reach their peak, it is often precisely because one has no shame yet still gets others to “believe” you. So from the angle of reputation and of profit, trust (xin) is what really counts. If you set aside fame and profit and return to the inner life, is it enough for a scholar’s cultivation simply to hold fast to the natural endowment one was born with?

Z Zhang said: “In the past Jie and Zhou were honored as Sons of Heaven and possessed the whole realm. Yet if you said to slaves, bandits, and the like (Sima Biao notes: zang ju refers to bond servants, robbers, and gangs of thieves), ‘You behave like Jie and Zhou,’ they would look ashamed and resent it inwardly—because that is what petty people despise.”

Zizhang said: “Men like Confucius and Mozi were merely ordinary commoners when poor; but today if one says to a prime minister, ‘Your conduct is like that of Confucius and Mozi,’ he will change expression and repeatedly protest that he does not deserve it. This shows that what is truly valuable in a scholar is virtue. Thus one who has power and becomes Son of Heaven is not necessarily noble; one who is poor and remains a commoner is not necessarily base. The dividing line between noble and base lies in whether conduct is good and beautiful or ugly and evil.”

Man Goude said: “Petty thieves are caught, but great thieves become feudal lords; and at the gates of feudal lords they even keep so-called righteous men. In former times Duke Huan of Qi, Xiaobai, killed his elder brother and took his sister-in-law as wife, yet Guan Zhong served as his minister. Tian Chengzi Chang—that is, Chen Heng—murdered his ruler and usurped the state, yet Confucius still accepted his ceremonial gifts. In discussion they belittle such men, but in action they place themselves beneath them. This is words and conduct conflicting and doing battle within the breast—is it not contrary to common sense? Therefore an ancient book says: ‘Who is wicked, who is good? The successful take the lead; the unsuccessful bring up the rear.’ This means that the world values success in affairs, not pretentious display.”

Zizhang said: “If you do not cultivate conduct, then close and distant relations will have no proper order, noble and base no standard, elder and younger no sequence. By what, then, will the Five Bonds and Six Positions be distinguished?” (The Five Bonds are the five human relationships; the Six Positions are the Six Bonds, referring to ethical relations such as father and son, brothers, clan members, maternal uncles, teachers, and friends.)

Man Goude then cited Yao’s killing of his eldest son (note: named Kao Jianming) and Shun’s exile of his younger brother by the same mother (note: the brother was Xiang; “exile” means banishment) as examples, and asked in return: where, then, are such bonds of closeness and distance and such ethical order?

Overview of the Passage’s Meaning

Shun sent his younger brother from the same mother (Xiang) into exile in a distant place. The commentary explains: “younger brother” refers to Xiang; “exile” means banishment. Mencius said this was enfeoffing him; others say it was expelling him.

(The text then asks:) Should there not be proper order among kin? When Tang exiled Jie and King Wu punished Zhou, was there not also a fitting boundary between high and low? Wang Ji was the eldest son by the principal wife, yet the Duke of Zhou killed his elder brother (Guan Shu)—does the order of elder and younger still hold? Confucians dress things up in fine words; Mohists preach universal love—can the five relationships and six positions still be kept distinct?

Again: you rectify names, I seek profit. If name and profit in fact do not accord with reason and cannot be made manifest in the Great Dao—Cheng Xuanying says: “jian (to observe) means to see clearly. The two paths of name and profit have turned away from ultimate principle—how can they be clearly seen in the profound Dao?”—then one may say: day after day I dispute with you at the level of “no covenant” (buyue, not bound by the contracts of names and laws). Cheng Xuanying says: “song (to contend) means to argue.” What follows is speech of no covenant:

“The petty person gives body and life for wealth; the gentleman gives body and life for reputation. The ways they alter disposition and change innate nature differ; yet both may abandon what they are by nature to die for what ought not to be died for—the petty person for wealth, the gentleman for reputation, with different ways of changing feeling and nature; yet both may abandon what they are by nature to chase what ought not to be chased—in that they are the same.”

Therefore it is said: do not be like the petty person who dies for things; turn back and follow Heaven. Do not be like the gentleman who dies for names; act from the principle of Heaven. Whether crooked or straight, take what you naturally already have as the ultimate standard—do not keep asking about crooked and straight; look only to the natural as your measure. Face the four directions and observe; rise and fall with the four seasons. Cheng Xuanying says: “Observe the four directions; message with the four seasons.” Toward right and wrong, hold to the round pivot—Cheng Xuanying says: “Round pivot, like the hub of a ring; grasp the way of the hub to respond to right and wrong.” Alone complete the meaning of self-transformation, and turn together with the Dao. Cheng Xuanying says: “Paihuai (to wander) means to turn and change; intention is applied to the mind of solitary transformation to complete its meaning, hence one can merge with empty, penetrating principle and turn without end.”

Do not travel only one fixed path; do not forcibly treat “righteousness” (yi) as an unchanging rule—or you will lose what is done from the innate. Wang Niansun says: “zhuan is read as zhuan (to specialize).”

This passage comes from the commentary in Zhuangzi Jijie on the chapter “Shanmu” (In the Mountains and Woods). The gist is as follows.

The line in “Shanmu” that reads “now a dragon, now a snake, transforming with the times, and unwilling to insist on any single course” is exactly what is meant here by “acting without fixation” (wu zhuan er xing): like dragon and snake, one shifts with circumstances and refuses to cling to one fixed way of doing things.

Continuing the thread above: one should follow the Way as times change, and cannot stubbornly hold only to benevolence and righteousness. If one treats a single kind of “rightness” as the only path and fixes “success” and “duty” in place, one can lose what ought to be done in the first place. “Shui” (Autumn Floods) says, “to go by a single fixed course is to fall out of step with the Way”—here “one” (yi) likewise means fixation. Acting without fixation is the same as going without a single fixed course.

Cheng Xuanying explains: “Do not rush after wealth and rank; do not give your body for the sake of success—that is to turn away from innate nature.”

Bi Gan had his heart cut out and Wu Zixu had his eyes gouged out—calamities brought on by loyalty. Zhigong (or Zhengfu) denounced his father and Weisheng died embracing a pillar in flood—troubles brought on by trustworthiness. Baozi (or Baojiao) died embracing a tree and Shenzi (or Shengzi) neglected self-care—harm brought on by integrity.

The Shiwen (Textual Notes) reads “Shengzi neglected self-care” and notes: “In another version it is ‘Shenzi neglected self-care.’ Some identify this as Shentu Di throwing himself into a river with a jar. Another version has ‘Shenzi did not neglect self-care,’ referring to Shensheng.” The commentary considers that Shensheng’s case should not be lumped under “harm from integrity” in a blanket way; “Shengzi neglected self-care” is the more fitting reading.

Confucius did not see his mother and Kuangzi (Kuang Zhang) did not see his father—deviations in the matter of duty. The Shiwen cites Li’s note: “Nothing is heard of this regarding Confucius.” Sima Biao says: “Kuangzi’s name was Zhang, a man of Qi; he remonstrated with his father, was driven out, and never saw his father again in his life.” The case appears in Mencius. Lu says: “I suspect the characters for father and mother should be transposed.” The commentary adds: Lu’s suggestion still may not fully explain “failure in duty.”

Continuation from the previous section: This is a saying handed down from antiquity and passed mouth to ear in later ages: that the scholar ought to speak uprightly and act always in accord with his words—yet the result is rather to invite disaster upon oneself, while still imagining one can keep calamity at a distance.

[Textual note: The line “As for great fame and profit, it almost lies in being shameless yet trusted” is supplied here following the Jishi edition.]

Footless (Wuzu) asked Zhihe: “People ultimately never fail to pursue reputation and run after profit. Once a person is wealthy, others will attach themselves to him; once they attach themselves, his position sits above them (that is, the multitude submits and treats him as superior); sitting below others yet being honored, he comes to appear exalted. Whether one is looked down on or looked up to, both are taken as paths to long life, bodily ease, and joy. Yet you alone seem to have no interest in this fame and profit—is it that you find profit not tempting enough? Or that you understand in your mind but lack the power to act on it? So on one side you seek the correct Way and cannot forget it, while on the other you still cannot let go of outward wealth and rank?”

Zhihe said: “People of this sort today, among those of the same era and the same village, treat lofty scholars who transcend the common world and surpass ordinary people as people who simply lack independent judgment and are not upright—they think such people’s talent can survey ancient and modern circumstances and distinguish right from wrong. These people (those obsessed with fame and profit), finding that in the same era and village there are still scholars who reject the vulgar and surpass the world, take those scholars to be devoted solely to Wuwei (non-action) and to take the correct Way as their master—enough to observe past and present and separate right from wrong—‘Why not learn from them?’ (Yet they themselves) blend with the vulgar and merge with the age. They cast away the weightiest life and abandon the most honored Dao, in exchange for what they call wealth and rank, and use that to talk about long life, bodily ease, and pleasure—is that not far too wide of the mark! Blending with the vulgar and merging with the age, they are even farther from scholars who reject the vulgar and surpass the world. For the sake of so-called wealth and rank they give up the most weighty life and discard the most supreme Way, and use this to discourse on the Way of long life—is that not still farther from the real situation! The ailment of grief and the pleasure of ease are not mirrored by whether the body is truly fit; when ill one grieves, when at ease one rejoices—whether the body is genuinely appropriate cannot be seen here either.”

Sudden fear and sudden joy often do not truly reach the depths of the heart. When afraid one trembles; when glad one feels light—the heart may not really be at ease, and that cannot be read off from these surface reactions alone.

To know only doing and not know why one acts in that way: hence some are honored as Son of Heaven and possess all under heaven, yet still cannot escape calamity.

Cheng Xuanying’s note: “Doing for doing’s sake” (wei wei) is deliberate, purposive action; “that by which one acts” (suoyi wei) is wuwei, the root in what is natural. If one understands only the doing of purposive action and not that it springs from wuwei, then even with wealth and rank one still cannot shake off worry and harm.

Wuzu said: “Doing for doing’s sake” is purposive action; “that by which one acts” is wuwei. To know only the doing of purposive action and not that it comes from wuwei is why, though rich and noble, one is not free of trouble.

Wuzu also said: Wealth is almost never unhelpful to people: it pushes display to the utmost and power to the limit (shi means influence and rank). A zhiren (perfect person) may not obtain it all; a worthy may not reach it all either. Here “worthy” (xian) also carries the sense of “going too far, exceeding.” To lean on others’ courage and strength without treating one’s own as awesome might (xia here means to rely on, borrow); to wield others’ schemes and call oneself sharp; to ride on others’ virtue and call oneself good—without truly ruling a state, yet acting with the sternness of a lord and father. Color, sound, taste, and power—people delight in them without being taught, and the body rests in them without imitating others. Liking and disliking, avoiding and pursuing—these need no teacher; they are human nature. Though all under heaven is not mine alone, who can refuse to want it?

“All under heaven shares my desires” — meaning people’s wants are the same as mine.

Zhi He said: The wise act only with the common people as their measure and do not violate their norms; the wise govern all under heaven by moving with the common people, and the people too do not violate the measure. Hence “enough and no contention”—knowing sufficiency, one does not contend; wuwei and no seeking—through wuwei, one does not seek outwardly. When not enough, one seeks and contends in every direction without thinking oneself greedy (si chu means the four directions). When more than enough, one declines and may abandon all under heaven without thinking oneself pure. This is the line between sage and vulgarity.

What people call integrity or greed is not something imposed from outside; it becomes clear when you turn inward and measure yourself against your own inner standard.

Even if one’s rank rises to that of Son of Heaven, one does not use that eminence to look down on others; even if one possesses the wealth of the empire, one does not use money to toy with people. Weighing the consequences that follow, and seeing that harm may rebound upon oneself—the Book of Poetry, Wei Feng, speaks of “thinking of the turn back” (si qi fan), and that is the idea—one judges that such things injure human nature, and therefore declines them rather than accepting them. That is not done to win a fine reputation.

When Yao and Shun ruled as emperors, the realm was at peace and the people lived in steady harmony. They did not act in order to “spread benevolence across the world”; they simply refused to damage life for the sake of enjoying fine things. To squeeze every pleasure and profit out of the world to nourish oneself alone is to harm one’s own life. Shan Juan and Xu You could have become emperors but did not accept the throne—not from false modesty or polite refusal, but because they would not let worldly affairs drag them down. Such people take what benefits them and avoid what harms them, which is why the world calls them worthy (xian). That title they can bear without strain; they are not striving to broadcast a reputation for worthiness.

Wuzú said: If one insists on clinging to fame, making the body suffer and rejecting what is sweet and pleasant, and uses harsh, ascetic ways of sustaining life to keep going, how is that different from someone long trapped in illness, barely alive yet unable to die? Put plainly, straining to preserve fame, tormenting the body and cutting off comfort, and regulating nourishment to prolong life—in the end it accomplishes nothing.

Zhihe said: Evenness and correctness are blessing (fu); surplus turns into harm, and nothing is exempt from this—wealth and goods especially so. Today the rich fill their ears with the sounds of bells, drums, pipes, and keys; their mouths savor coarse grain, cooked meat, and fine wine. When the senses are stirred, they forget their proper work—this is called disorder. Drowning in swollen, billowing qi (feng qi, the kind of inflated, restless spirit), like climbing upward while carrying a heavy load—this is called suffering. Only when food has passed the throat does the mouth call it qian (that feeling of ease and satisfaction).

This passage mainly explains that when greed is excessive, it blocks the mind and sinks one into “florid, replete qi” (Feng qi)—like climbing upward while carrying a heavy load, utterly exhausting.

The commentary notes that when food reaches the throat and one still cannot stop, that is called guai (greedy obstruction). Wang Niansun cites a Zuozhuan gloss: “Feng means full and replete.” Thus Feng qi is a state in which qi is swollen, full, and unable to flow. Once greed mounts, one is obstructed by guai, mired in replete qi, and labors as if bearing weight uphill—utterly bitter.

Greed for wealth seeks comfort; greed for power seeks satisfaction (Guo Qingfan cites Gao You on Huainanzi, “Miao cheng xun”: “Wei means illness; paired with ‘exhaustion,’ both denote sickness”). Even sitting quietly one may sink into indulgence; when the body is moist and sleek, qi becomes replete (Feng). Habitual drunken sinking in ordinary times, and irascible, replete qi when the body is sleek—these may all be called sickness.

Amassing goods for wealth and profit, piling possessions like a wall yet not knowing how to step back, and when qi is full still refusing to let go—this may be called disgrace. Wealth is heaped up yet cannot be used; inwardly one clings and will not release, the mind churning with worry and distress (Cheng Xuanying says qi jiao means vexation). One still wants more, cannot stop adding—this may be called anxiety. Inwardly one suspects robbers who come to extort; outwardly one fears harm from thieves. Inner rings of layered towers, outer layers of open lattice windows (Li Yun: layered towers within, open lattice without—referring to all sorts of defensive gear); outside, one dares not walk alone—this may be called fear.

These six (sickness, disgrace, anxiety, fear, and the rest named in the text) are the greatest harms under Heaven, yet people often forget them and do not notice; only when disaster arrives do they wish to exhaust their nature and drain their wealth—love of gain like an innate disposition, wealth almost becoming “nature” itself, hence “exhaust nature and drain wealth.” Guo Songtao says dan and chan were the same graph in antiquity; chan is glossed “only,” and dan likewise “only”—even for a single day’s lack of legitimate cause one cannot turn back; that too may be called fear. All six are supreme harms; people overlook them unawares; when trouble comes they exhaust nature and drain wealth; craving wealth like innate nature (wealth as nature, hence “exhaust nature and drain wealth”).

Therefore looking at its name, one does not see it; seeking its profit, one does not obtain it. To twist the mind and humble the body contending for this—is it not deluded? Liao means bent, crooked—meaning to bend intent and body competing for profit and fame is deeply confused.

In former times King Zhao of Zhao (the ruler of Zhao, King Huiwen) was passionately fond of swordsmanship. Swordsmen packed the palace gates; he had more than three thousand retainers who day and night fought and thrust before him in the forecourt. Each year more than a hundred were killed or wounded, yet he never tired of it. After three years of this, the state’s strength declined and the other feudal lords all plotted against Zhao. Prince Kui (son of King Huiwen, who was never enthroned as king) was troubled by this and gathered his attendants, saying: “Whoever can persuade the king to stop keeping these swordsmen shall receive a thousand in gold.” His attendants said: “Zhuangzi should be able to.” The prince sent someone to present a thousand in gold to Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi did not accept it but went with the envoy to see the prince and said: “What does the prince wish to have Zhuangzi taught, that he offers Zhuangzi a thousand in gold?” The prince said: “I have heard that the Master is sage and wise; I respectfully offer this thousand in gold as a gift for your followers. Since the Master will not accept it, what more can Kui say!” Zhuangzi said: “I hear that the prince would employ Zhuangzi in order to put an end to the king’s obsession. If I as minister above counsel the king against his sacred will, and below fail to satisfy the prince’s heart, I shall suffer punishment and die—what would Zhuangzi then have left to serve for this thousand in gold! Suppose I above pleased the king and below fulfilled the prince’s wish: what would Zhao still lack, and what would a thousand in gold matter!”

When Zhuang Zhou heard that the Crown Prince intended to employ him, he understood the aim was to break the King’s fondness for swordplay. “If in serving above I go against the King’s wish, and in serving below I fail the Crown Prince’s hope, I will be punished with death—how then could I still attend to this body worth a thousand gold?” he said. “If above I can persuade the King and below satisfy the Prince, what could the state of Zhao still be denied?” The Prince replied, “Quite so. Those my father keeps near him are swordsmen alone.” Zhuang Zhou said, “Good. I, Zhuang Zhou, am skilled at using the sword.” The Prince said, “Yet the swordsmen my father sees all have unkempt hair with temples bared, caps worn low and tilted—for fighting they wear the crown low and askew; their hat cords are coarse and plain; they wear coats cut short at the hem for ease of movement; they stare with bulging eyes and speak with difficulty—the warrior’s rage fills the chest and words will not flow smoothly. Only then does the King delight in them. If you, Sir, go before the King in scholar’s robes, the matter will surely go very wrong.” Zhuang Zhou said, “Allow me to prepare a swordsman’s attire.” After three days preparing a swordsman’s dress, he went to see the Prince. The Prince then brought him before the King; the King drew a bare blade and waited for him. Zhuang Zhou entered the hall gate without hurrying his steps, and when he saw the King he did not perform the bowing rites. The King said, “What do you intend to teach me, that the Crown Prince came first to relay your words?” Cheng Xuanying glosses this as: the Crown Prince had first spoken to me on his behalf. Zhuang Zhou said, “Your servant has heard that Your Majesty delights in swords; therefore I come before the King in the guise of a swordsman.” The King said, “How far can your sword go in mastering the enemy?” Zhuang Zhou said, “Your servant’s sword: within ten paces it slays one man; on a march of a thousand li the blade’s edge is not dulled.” Yu Yue explains: within ten paces one kills at each step; over a thousand li the slain would be many, yet the sword edge is not nicked and nothing it meets resists—this is speech at the utmost limit of the sword’s sharpness; here he speaks by the sword, not by the man. The King was greatly pleased and said, “Under heaven there is none to match you.”

Zhuangzi said: “The key to using a sword is first to deliberately expose an emptiness, use advantage to draw the opponent off, and then strike afterward yet land the blow first. I should like to try it.” Cheng Xuanying (a Tang dynasty Daoist and commentator on the Zhuangzi) explained that this means forgetting oneself, emptying the mind to respond to things, opening oneself up to benefit things, waiting for external things to stimulate and summon one and only then responding, and being able to perceive the incipient opportunity before events arise—this is Zhuangzi’s way of using the sword. The king said: “Sir, first return to the guest lodge to rest; wait until I have arranged the contest, and then I will invite you.” The king then tested the swordsmen for seven days; more than sixty were killed or wounded, and he selected five or six men, having them stand in attendance below the hall holding their swords, and then summoned Zhuangzi. The king said: “Today I will have the swordsmen compete in swordsmanship (‘dun’ has the meaning of ordering/regulating or comparing/contesting).” Zhuangzi said: “I have long hoped for this.” The king asked: “What are the length and dimensions of the sword you use, sir?” (“Yu” means to employ/use, and “zhang” means to hold.) Zhuangzi said: “Whatever I present for use will do. However, I have three swords; let the great king choose which to use. Please let me explain them first, and then I will try them.” The king said: “I wish to hear about the three swords.” Zhuangzi said: “There is the sword of the Son of Heaven, the sword of the feudal lords, and the sword of the common man.” The king asked: “What is the sword of the Son of Heaven like?” Zhuangzi said: “The sword of the Son of Heaven uses Yanxi and Shicheng as the sword point (Yanxi is a place name in Yan; Shicheng is the name of a mountain beyond the frontier, located in the north, and so it serves as the point), uses the state of Qi and Mount Dai as the blade edge (the term e refers to the blade edge or the ridge of the blade; Qi and Dai are in the east, so they serve as the blade edge), uses Jin and Wei as the sword spine, and uses Zhou and Song as the sword ring (tan is the sword ring; Jin and Wei are close to the territory of Zhao, so they serve as the spine).” Here he uses the geography of the world as a metaphor for the structure of the Son of Heaven’s sword.

Cheng Xuanying explains: “The four regions” means the four directions. When this sword is drawn, it is like thunder in wrath: within the four quarters of the world, none fail to submit and obey the ruler’s command. This is the sword of feudal lords.

King Wen asked: “What then is the sword of commoners?”

Zhuangzi said: The sword of commoners—hair unkempt, temples bristling, cap pulled low, tied with manhu (a coarse, stiff chin strap), wearing duanhou (short garments with abbreviated hems)—glares with angry eyes and speaks harshly. They hack at one another face to face, cleaving necks above and splitting liver and lungs below. Such a commoner’s sword is no different from cockfighting; once life is gone, it is of no use to the great affairs of state. Now Your Majesty sits in the seat of the Son of Heaven, yet delights in the sword of commoners—I privately feel sorrow for Your Majesty.

King Wen then led Zhuangzi up into the hall. The steward of provisions presented food, and the king walked three circuits around the offering table. Cheng Xuanying says: circling the food three times means he could not settle calmly into his seat. Zhuangzi said: “Your Majesty, please sit quietly and steady your breath—the matter of swords has already been reported in full.” Thereupon King Wen did not leave the palace for three months, and the swordsmen each killed themselves where they lived. Sima Biao says: they did so from anger at not being treated with honor. Cheng Xuanying offers another reading: the swordsmen all admitted guilt and took their own lives on the spot.

Textual note [1] The original reads “autumn”; following the sense of the main text, it is emended to “summer.”

Confucius was strolling in the Forest of Black Canopy (Sima Biao’s note: the name of a dark wood) and rested on the Apricot Altar (Sima Biao’s note: a high spot in a marsh). His disciples were reading; Confucius was playing the qin and se. Before the piece was finished, a fisherman stepped down from his boat: his beard and eyebrows were white, his hair hung loose and his sleeves were rolled up. He came up along the bank and stopped near the water’s edge, left hand on his knee and right hand under his cheek, listening to the music. When the tune ended, he called to Zigong and Zilu; the two went forward to speak with him. The fisherman pointed at Confucius and asked, “What does he do?” Zilu answered, “A gentleman of Lu.” He asked his surname; Zilu said, “Kong.” The fisherman asked, “What does Master Kong take as his way of governing? What arts does he practice?” Zilu did not reply; Zigong answered: “Master Kong’s nature is devoted to loyalty and trustworthiness; he personally acts with benevolence and righteousness, refines ritual and music, sets human relations in order, and distinguishes and selects among them. Toward those above he serves the ruler with loyalty; toward those below he guides the people as equals (Li Yun: qi means equal; Xu Shen: the people as equals)—he wishes to benefit all under Heaven. That is what Master Kong governs by.” He asked again, “Is he a ruler with a fief?” Zigong said, “No.” “An assistant to a feudal lord?” Zigong said, “No.” The fisherman then turned away with a smile and said, “Benevolent he is, but I fear he still cannot keep himself from harm—he toils his heart and wears his body and injures his true nature. Alas, how far from the Way and its truth! He is cut off from the Way!” (Cheng Xuanying: separated from the profound Way; Shiwen: also written jie; Sima Biao: jie means to be cut off or set apart.) Zigong went back and reported this to Confucius. Confucius set aside his qin and stood up, saying, “This must be a sage!” He then got down from his carriage to find him. When he reached the edge of the marsh, the fisherman was already leaning on his pole and pushing the boat (Sima Biao: na is the same as rao, pronounced yu).

The fisherman turned his head, saw Confucius, and then turned around and stood still. Confucius pushed aside his qin, rose, and said, “This man must be a sage!” So he went down to the bank to seek an audience with him. When he reached the edge of the marsh, the fisherman was just poling his boat with an oar. Turning his head and seeing Confucius, he again turned around and stood still. Confucius stepped back, bowed twice, and then came forward. The fisherman asked, “What do you seek?” Confucius said, “Just now, Master, you left some words unfinished and departed. I am not perceptive and did not understand what was said, so I privately waited downwind, hoping to hear your discourse and instruction, to help me complete what I have learned.” The fisherman laughed and said, “Ha! You are truly fond of learning!” Confucius bowed twice, rose, and said, “From youth I have cultivated learning, and now I am sixty-nine years old, yet I have not heard the highest teaching. How dare I not keep an open mind?” The fisherman said, “Those of the same kind follow one another; sounds of the same tone respond to one another—this is inherently the natural principle. Let me explain what I know, in order to sort out the matters in which you are engaged. What you are engaged in is human affairs. The Son of Heaven, the feudal lords, the grand officers, and the common people—when these four classes each rectify themselves and keep to their proper stations, that is the excellence of a well-ordered age; when these four depart from their proper stations, no disorder or calamity is greater than that. When officials attend to their duties and each person takes concern for his own affairs, they will not encroach upon or disrupt one another. Thus, fields lying uncultivated, dwellings dilapidated and leaky, clothing and food insufficient, taxes and levies unable to be kept up, wives and concubines not harmonious, and elders and juniors lacking proper order—these are the worries of the common people. When one’s ability is unequal to one’s office, public affairs are poorly managed, conduct is not clean and upright, subordinates are neglectful and lazy, there are no achievements or fine reputation, no merit toward the state, no praise among the people, and one cannot preserve one’s rank and stipend—these are the worries of the grand officers.

When there are no loyal ministers at court, the state grows slack and decayed; achievements and fine reputation cannot be preserved; one brings no benefit to the state and no credit among the people—and rank and emolument cannot be kept. This is what grand officers (dafu) should worry about.

When there are no loyal ministers at court, the state is confused and dark; craftsmen’s skills are not refined; tribute and official duties are poorly performed; the order of spring and autumn audiences (chaojian) is disrupted (the rules for visiting the Son of Heaven according to rank are also broken); and one refuses to obey the Son of Heaven. This is what feudal lords (zhuhou) should worry about.

When yin and yang are out of balance and cold and heat come at the wrong seasons, harming the ten thousand things; when feudal lords are violent and chaotic and attack one another on their own authority, harming the people; when ritual and music are unrestrained and wealth and supplies are exhausted; when human relations are not cultivated and the people are dissolute and disorderly—this is what the Son of Heaven and his officials should worry about.

Now you possess neither the power of those above—the ruler, the feudal lords, and the officials—nor the status below of minister or duty-bearing officer, yet you presume on your own to put ritual and music in order and arrange human relations in order to transform and instruct the people of Qi. Is this not far too much overstepping and meddling?

Moreover, people have eight kinds of fault and affairs have four kinds of disaster—one must not fail to examine them. Managing what is not one’s business is called zong (“overreach,” meddling in what is not one’s affair). Offering loyal counsel when the other party pays no attention is called ning (“obsequious cleverness”). Probing the superior’s intent and speaking to match it is called chan (“flattery”). Speaking without distinguishing right from wrong is called yu (“sycophancy”). Speaking ill of others exclusively is called chan (“slander”). Breaking friendships and splitting kin is called zei (“treacherous harm”). Using false praise or false blame to ruin someone is called te (“depravity,” jian te “villainous depravity”). Some annotations read instead: “Inverting right and wrong to destroy another’s virtue”—the warning is even sharper. Not choosing between good and evil but pleasing both sides, and secretly manipulating what one desires, is called xian (“deviousness”).

Note on the source

This passage comes from a Zhuangzi-related chapter (in the Yao commentary edition). It discusses the “eight defects” (ba ci), the “four hazards” (si huan), and a dialogue between Confucius and a “guest” (often read as Laozi or a recluse). Below is a plain-language rendering, sentence by sentence.

Yao’s commentary cites Zhang’s text: the character rendered as “bai” (to ruin) in some versions was originally “de” (virtue)—i.e., “inverting right and wrong to ruin people’s virtue”—which makes the warning sharper.

One form of “xian” (perilous cunning): failing to distinguish good from bad, smiling agreeably to everything and playing both sides (“liang rong jia shi”; “jia” may appear as “yan”), while secretly drawing out others’ hidden desires—this is xian. Guo Xiang’s gloss: secretly “pulling” what others desire in the heart and leading them into danger.

These eight kinds of fault disturb others outwardly and harm oneself inwardly, so a junzi (exemplary person) does not befriend such people, and a clear ruler does not employ them as ministers.

The so-called four hazards:

1. Dao (overreaching): loving grand projects and changing ordinary ways, only to attach one’s name to merit and chase reputation; relying on altered norms to gamble for fame is dao lan (presumptuous overreach).

2. Tan (greed): thinking oneself very wise, monopolizing affairs, encroaching on others and acting on one’s own.

3. Hen (obstinacy): knowing one is wrong yet not changing; hearing remonstrance and becoming all the more fierce.

4. Jin (partisan pride): if others match oneself, all is well; if they differ, even when they are actually fine, one says they will not do.

These four are the si huan (four hazards). Only when one can drop the eight defects and avoid the four hazards does it make sense to speak of being taught or learning.

Confucius’s face changed; he sighed deeply, bowed again, and stood up: “Twice I was driven out in Lu, my traces were erased in Wei, in Song they cut down my tree, and between Chen and Cai I was besieged. I do not know where I went wrong—why should I meet these four kinds of slander?”

The guest looked mournful, his expression altered, and said: “You are truly hard to awaken! Someone afraid of his shadow and disgusted by his footprints runs; the more he lifts his feet the more footprints, the faster he runs the more the shadow sticks; still finding it too slow, he runs desperately without stop until strength fails and he dies. He did not know that staying in shade lets the shadow rest and staying in stillness stops the tracks—folly to that degree! You probe the space between benevolence and righteousness, the edges of sameness and difference, watch change in movement and stillness, measure giving and taking, order likes and dislikes, harmonize the nodes of joy and anger—and you still barely escape harm. If in meeting the world outside you only measure things this way, you still hardly avoid disaster. One should carefully cultivate the person, guard the authentic self, return outer things to others, and then one is not dragged down; not contending with things outside or with people, one has no entanglements. Now you do not cultivate yourself yet seek outwardly. If in meeting the world you still only measure this way, you are still barely spared!”

Brief glossary

Carefully cultivate the self and guard your zhen (authenticity) with care; return external things to others—share them rather than hoard them—and you will not be weighed down. When you do not contend with others over possessions, calamity naturally stays away. Yet people today often refuse to cultivate themselves while still demanding from others. Is that not inverting root and branch and running outward?

Confucius’s expression changed. He asked: What is meant by “zhen”?

The Fisherman answered: Zhen is refined sincerity carried to its utmost. Without refinement and sincerity, you cannot truly move people. Someone who forces tears may make a sound without genuine grief. Someone who feigns anger may look harsh without real authority. Someone who pretends warmth may smile without true cordiality. Genuine grief often needs no loud weeping to stir sorrow in others. Genuine anger may not yet have burst forth yet already carries authority. Genuine warmth may not yet have smiled yet already feels congenial. When zhen dwells within, spirit naturally shows on the outside—hence the value placed on authenticity.

Applied to human relations, “li” (principle) here means the proper order of roles. Serve parents with kindness and filial devotion; serve a ruler with loyalty and integrity; when drinking, seek joy; in mourning, express sorrow. Loyalty and integrity aim at accomplishment; drinking aims at pleasure; mourning aims at grief; serving parents aims at what is fitting. The beauty of completed merit need not take the same outward form everywhere.

Success can appear in many ways, so deeds need not all look alike. In serving parents, seek what is fitting; do not fixate on which method is used. Method is simply how one acts. Eating coarse beans and drinking plain water can still fulfill filial duty and joy, so one need not ask what credentials justify it. When drinking for pleasure, one need not choose fine vessels or elaborate dishes. In mourning, express grief without being trapped in ritual detail. Only when one gives full sorrow at a funeral does the point of li (ritual) become clear.

Li is what society has conventionally settled; zhen is what heaven grants and cannot be changed by custom. Therefore the sage takes heaven as model, values authenticity, and is not bound by vulgar convention. The fool does the opposite: unable to model heaven, yet anxious about others’ opinions and absorbed in human affairs; not knowing to honor zhen, drifting lulu with the vulgar—turning with custom without a steady mind—so that sentiment reshapes them and they fall short. Commentators note that “lu” is sometimes written with another character read the same way; lulu describes following the vulgar without independent judgment.

Lie Yukou (Liezi) was on his way to Qi when he turned back halfway; on the road he met Bo Hunmou (an accomplished adept; this episode is close to what appears in the Liezi, “Huangdi” chapter). Bo Hunmou asked: “From which direction are you returning?” Li Yun glosses fang as the path or direction one is traveling. Liezi replied: “I was frightened, so I came back.” Bo Hunmou then asked: “Why were you frightened?”—what follows will unfold the strangeness Liezi saw and Bo Hunmou’s teaching.

Bo Hun Miao Ren asked: “What are you afraid of?”

Lie Yukou answered: “I once ate at a ‘ten-soup’ stall—that is, ten households together selling gruel or broth (jiang, a kind of porridge or soup). Five of them brought me food first.”

Bo Hun Miao Ren asked: “If so, others already respected and treated you first—why are you still frightening yourself?”

Lie Yukou answered: “Because inwardly I was not truly at ease (nei cheng bu jie: the heart had not really loosened or become self-sufficient); outwardly I put on deferential, clever manners, every move like a performance, even my face showing that ‘I am perfectly proper’ glow (xing die cheng guang: conduct too deliberate, as if spying and adapting). Using such outward bearing to overpower and intimidate others’ hearts, I ended up making people undervalue what should be honored—the veneration of elders—and also muddled what one should truly worry about (● suggests ‘stir up, confuse’; some read it as ‘ji/zhi,’ ‘bringing out what one fears,’ which also makes sense).”

Bo Hun Miao Ren continued: “Selling a bowl of soup for a little extra profit—gain is thin and leverage is light—yet people still use outward bearing to dominate others. How much more when one is lord of a state of ten thousand chariots? If the ruler personally wearies himself for state affairs and spends all his wisdom on concrete tasks (zhi jin yu shi: intelligence entirely spent on getting things done)—these two lines describe the state of Duke Qi—”

(Note: The received Huang Di chapter reads “jiang”; commentators take “ten ●” as “ten jiang (soup stalls)”; “five ● xian kui” means five households sent gifts or food first, showing Lie Yukou already received deference from below. Guo Xiang, Zhang Zhan, and others stress: though Lie Yukou was honored, inwardly he was still not self-sufficient, hence his fear; outward show with inner emptiness makes people “lightly regard honoring elders” and confuses what one should fear.)

Bo Hungao Ren stood facing north, propping his staff under his chin, and listened to Liezi speak. He stood there a long while without saying a word, then went out. The usher reported this to Liezi. Liezi took his shoes in hand, ran out barefoot, caught up at the gate, and said: “Since you came, Master, why did you leave no word of guidance?” Bo Hungao Ren said: “Enough! I already told you that people would come and attach themselves to you—and so they have. Have you not heard how a person of utmost attainment truly settles himself? You still do not understand. When someone whispers about you just outside your door, a crowd will follow. Those who bring wine and meat to flatter you are only borrowing your name to elevate themselves; what has that to do with learning the Way? If there were no elders left in your own clan, who would still come to echo you? If you display the virtue of the Yellow Emperor and Yao as a signboard while hiding your own authentic nature, unrelated people will flock to you in factions. If you try to fix your reputation and parade your real virtue, you will draw people like a market, passing water from jar to jar in rivalry, each refusing to fall behind—and your root of form and spirit will no longer hold. Those who attach to you are in fact feeding your bodily qi; they are not helping you cultivate virtue. Those you attach yourself to are likewise feeding your bodily qi, not helping you cultivate virtue.”

Bo Hungao Ren said: “You observe well! You can see how human affairs work.” He also said: “Settle in your own home, and people will come to attach themselves to you.” Before long, Liezi went again—and shoes of visitors already filled the space outside his door. Bo Hungao Ren stood facing north, staff upright, its head pressed under his chin. After a moment he said nothing and went out. The usher told Liezi; Liezi took his shoes, ran out barefoot, caught up at the gate, and said: “Since you came, Master, did you not leave even a little ‘medicine’?” (“Medicine” here means teaching that can cure the heart’s illness.) Bo Hungao Ren said: “Enough! I already told you that people would attach themselves to you—and they have.”

In plain terms: Bo Hungao Ren had earlier used the image of “selling ●” to show that Liezi would be employed by the lord of Qi because of his fame and would flee when burdened with achievements. This time shoes packed Liezi’s doorway, so “people will protect (attach to) you” had already come true. He stood with staff under chin and left in silence—no longer offering words as “medicine and stone,” so Liezi would see the danger for himself in a house thronged like a court. Liezi asked why he gave no “medicine,” still wanting one sentence of instruction; the answer “I already told you” treats the earlier warning as medicine already given—once attachment has arrived, seeking more teaching only deepens loss amid the bustle, so he said no more.

This passage says: stop using “fei” (abandonment, shelving) as an excuse—Zhang’s note takes “fei” as setting something aside or giving it up, as if one had never taken solid admonition as medicine for one’s faults.

Then comes the warning: “Enough! I told you long ago that ‘people will come to protect and guard you,’ and people have indeed done so. It is not that you can make them come—it is that you cannot make them stay away—so why still use the tack of stirring feeling first, fawning in advance, and deliberately making yourself stand out?”

(In the “Huangdi” chapter, the character after “zhi” has the extra words “gan ye,” and the character “yi” has no “ye”; Zhang read it as asking what art could move outer things that way—but given “er yan zhi zhi” in this text, the Huangdi chapter should read “why use this way of moving things,” and Zhang’s reading does not fit.)

“Gan yu chu yi” means winning people by favors and pre-emptive kindness and showing yourself as special—that already is “yi” (being odd or set apart). Once the mind keeps thinking about whom to move, one’s nature is shaken by outer things; and with notions like “there must be response,” it makes even less sense. (In the Huangdi chapter it reads “qie bi,” with “ye” after “gan,” and “cai” as “shen.”) “Ben cai” is one’s original endowment or native makeup—the same “cai” as in the Mencius line about it not being the fault of one’s endowment; one manuscript has “xing” (nature), with the same point. The meaning: if one insists on moving others through beneficence, the heart runs after externals and the original shape is shaken loose—what is there left to talk about?

Among those who deal with you, none truly speaks plainly—Guo Xiang says there is no earnest, thorough counsel. Their clever small talk is all poisonous. With no awakening and no looking back, who is there to examine things closely and see each other clearly? Guo Songtao cites the “Hanshu” account of Jia Yi, “day and night thinking of this to the point of examination,” with Yan Shigu glossing “shu” as “shen” (scrutiny)—if there is no awakening, how can there be careful scrutiny between people?

(What follows is material Zhuangzi added.) The clever toil, the wise worry, the incapable want nothing; bellies full, they drift like boats with no mooring—Cheng Xuanying says beings often come to grief through skill and cleverness, while only the sage drifts unattached, like an empty boat at ease in the flow. Note: from “qiao zhe” onward is Zhuangzi’s own addition.

A man from the state of Zheng named Huan went to study in the area of the Qi clan. While he studied, he chanted and recited aloud—here “moaning and intoning” means repeatedly chanting and reciting the classics, not groaning from illness. After about three years, Huan became a scholar of the Confucian tradition; his learning was said to spread like a river moistening both banks, reaching as far as “nine li” and extending its benefit to three lineages of kin. That is a metaphor: once learning is fully achieved, it reaches the people around you.

Huan then had his younger brother study the Mohist school. The brother’s name was Li (commentators supply this name). Again, after roughly three years, the brother too had completed his training—though the story’s emphasis is that Huan took the Confucian path while sending his brother down the Mohist path, so the two brothers followed different teachings.

This passage comes from the commentary tradition on related chapters of the Zhuangzi. It uses the contrast between Huan of Zheng and his brother—one Confucian, one Mohist—to discuss studying under different schools and competing for reputation and practical use. The notes explain place names such as “Qi clan,” words such as zhi (exactly, just, barely), and phrases such as “moisten the river for nine li, benefit three lineages” (metaphors for how scholarly achievement spreads to many people). They help readers grasp the parable’s figures of speech rather than describing real irrigation works or family genealogies.