《庄子集释》

Title and Compiler

Zhuangzi Ji Shi (Collected Explanations on the Zhuangzi) was compiled in the Qing dynasty by Guo Qingfan. The introductory preface (xulu) reproduces material from Lu Deming’s Jingdian Shiwen Xulu (Preface to the Explanatory Text on the Classics) of the Tang dynasty.

Zhuangzi the Person

Zhuangzi’s surname was Zhuang and his given name Zhou (Grand Historian Sima Qian says his style was Zixiu). He was a native of Meng in the state of Liang (in the region of present-day Shangqiu, Henan). He lived during the Warring States period and served as a minor official at the lacquer garden. He was roughly contemporary with King Hui of Wei, King Xuan of Qi, and King Wei of Chu (Li Yi says he was contemporary with King Min of Qi). Qi and Chu both invited him to serve as chief minister, but he declined. While many of his contemporaries favored persuasion and the arts of vertical and horizontal alliance, Zhuangzi kept to a lofty, detached stance. Following Laozi’s thought, he wrote more than one hundred thousand words. His main themes are free and easy wandering (xiaoyao), naturalness, wuwei (non-action), and the equalization of things (qiwu). He mostly used allegories and brought everything back to principle; his meaning cannot be pinned down by a literal, line-by-line reading.

Textual Transmission and Guo’s Commentary

Zhuangzi’s talent towered over his age and his prose is deep and splendid; what reads as straightforward often turns out to be inverted, so it is hard to fully convey his grand intent. Later additions gradually distorted the text. Guo Xiang (style Zixuan) said that some one-sided talents tampered with odd doctrines—for example the openings of “Yan Yi” and “Yi Xiu,” and pieces such as “Wei Yan,” “You Fu,” and “Zi Xu”—and that such patchwork made up roughly three-tenths of the work, which made it even harder to express Zhuangzi’s original aim. Later people added more, and the text departed further from its original form. For this reason Guo’s commentary especially captures Zhuangzi’s intent and has been highly valued. Xu Xianmin and Li Hongfan both produced phonological and semantic notes based on Guo’s edition. The present Ji Shi takes Guo Xiang’s commentary as its base text.

Commentaries Recorded by Lu Deming

• Cui Yan: ten juan, twenty-seven pian; a native of Qinghe, Jin dynasty yilang (gentleman consultant); seven “inner” chapters and twenty “outer.”
• Xiang Xiu: twenty juan, twenty-six pian (some say twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with no “miscellaneous” chapters); also three juan of phonological notes.
• Sima Biao: twenty-one juan, five pian; style Shaotong, a native of Henei, Jin mishu jian (Director of the Imperial Library); seven inner, twenty-eight outer, fourteen miscellaneous, plus three pian of exegesis; three juan of phonology. The “Fifty-two pian of Zhuangzi” in the Hanshu Yiwen zhi (Bibliographic Treatise of the Book of Han) is the edition commented on by Sima Biao and the Meng clan. The book contains much fantastic language—sometimes resembling the Shanhai jing (Classic of Mountains and Seas), sometimes dream-divination books—and commentators each kept or dropped passages according to their own judgment. The inner chapters are largely the same across schools; among the rest, some editions have “outer” but no “miscellaneous” sections.
• Guo Xiang: thirty-three juan, thirty-three pian; style Zixuan, a native of Henei, Jin taifu zhupu (chief clerk to the Grand Tutor); seven inner, fifteen outer, eleven miscellaneous; three juan of phonology.
• Li Yi: collected commentary, thirty juan, thirty pian; style Jingzhen, a native of Xiangcheng in Yingchuan, Jin chengxiang canjun (adjutant to the chief minister), who styled himself Xuan Daozi (some say thirty-five pian); one juan of phonology.
• Meng clan: eighteen juan, fifty-two pian; commentator unknown.
• Wang Shuzhi: yishu (subcommentary) in three juan; style Mu□, a native of Langya, Song dynasty recluse (also said to have written a commentary).
• Li Gui: one juan of phonology.
• Xu Miao: three juan of phonology.

Plain-Language Reading of the Preface to the Zhuangzi

Author: Cheng Xuanying, Western Huá (Xīhuá) Master of the Tang dynasty

What the book Zhuangzi is for

Zhuangzi unfolds the deep roots of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), explains the subtle aim of “Chongxuan” (Twofold Mystery), develops the quiet ease of Wuwei (non-action), and clarifies the hidden reach of “dúhuà” (self-transformation); it gathers the Nine Schools and embraces the Hundred Schools of thought—one may call it the most essential teaching under heaven, and speech beyond fixed images.

Who Zhuangzi was

His surname was Zhuang, given name Zhou, style Zǐxiū; he was born in Meng County, Suīyáng, in the state of Song (roughly present-day Henan). He studied under Master Chángsāng; later generations honor him as the Immortal of Nanhua (Southern Florescence). He lived in the early Warring States period, in the waning days of the Zhou royal house. Grieving that the people’s livelihood was hard and morals had decayed, he wrote in passionate protest—this book, Zhuangzi. The writing is vast and the meaning far-reaching; it is not something ordinary people can simply hear and grasp, nor something shallow views can exhaust.

The word “zǐ” and the book’s title

“Zǐ” is an honorific for someone of virtue; the ancients called a teacher “zǐ.” “Zǐ” is also the book’s title—it does not refer only to the collective name of the three inner chapters, but is the usual designation for all the chapters.

How inner and outer chapters are divided

Inner chapters: The name contrasts with “outer”; “piān” (chapter) means strips of bamboo bound together. In antiquity, green bamboo was cured into slips and tied with leather thongs; binding slips made a “piān,” much as sheets are joined into a scroll today. Yuán Kǎi said: “Great affairs were written on cè (bound tablets); small matters used jiǎn and dú (slips).” The inner chapters treat the root of doctrine; the outer chapters mostly record events. Events may be plain, yet without doctrine they do not cohere; doctrine may be subtle, yet without examples it does not show. Because subtle doctrine must come first, the inner chapters are placed ahead. Inner-chapter doctrine runs deep, so titles are often set apart from the main text; Guo Xiàng annotated directly under each title, as in “Xiaoyao” (Free and Easy Wandering) and “Qíwù” (Equalizing Things).

From the outer chapters onward, the first two characters of each chapter supply the title, as in “Piánmǔ” and “Mǎtí.”

Xiaoyaoyou (Free and Easy Wandering) has been explained in different ways by commentators ancient and modern. Here we first sketch the main points and briefly distinguish three kinds of material (referring to how the Inner Chapters, Outer Chapters, and Miscellaneous Chapters are arranged). In the Outer Chapters and below, titles often take the first two characters of the chapter name, as in “Pianmu” and “Mati.”

As for Xiaoyao (carefree ease), past and present do not agree on what it means. Below is a broad summary, in three main readings:

First, Gu Tongbai said: “Xiao means to dissolve and release; yao means to reach far. One dissolves the burdens of purposeful action and sees clearly the principle of wuwei (non-action). Wandering in this way is called xiaoyao.”

Second, Zhi Daolin said: “External things do not turn around and control me, so I am xiao—at ease—without waiting on conditions; profound awakening is not hurried yet is swift, so I am yao—far-reaching—without being blocked from anything. Wandering through the world on this basis is called Xiaoyaoyou.”

Third, Mu Ye said: “Xiaoyao is the name for open, self-sufficient ease. Ultimate virtue fills the inner life, so every moment is fitting; one forgets self-concern and responds to things, so nothing encountered fails to connect. Wandering through the world on this basis is called Xiaoyaoyou.”

The Inner Chapters chiefly expound the root of the Way; the Outer Chapters mostly relate concrete events; the Miscellaneous Chapters mix principle and story together. Though the Inner Chapters center on principle, they still contain events; though the Outer Chapters center on events, they often hold subtle doctrine—only in teaching and dividing chapters do the emphases differ.

Placing “Xiaoyaoyou” first among the Inner Chapters means that one who has penetrated the great Dao has clear wisdom and virtue, finds every place suitable, and can wander freely in encountering things—hence the chapter title “Xiaoyao.” The sage who needs no external support reflects the occasion like a mirror and already understands the subtle principle; yet in dividing chapters for teaching, we still follow the scheme above.

Placing “Xiaoyaoyou” first among the Inner Chapters means that one who has penetrated the great Dao has clear wisdom and virtue, finds every place suitable, and can wander freely in encountering things—hence the chapter title “Xiaoyao.” The sage who needs no external support reflects the occasion like a mirror and already understands the subtle principle; yet in dividing chapters for teaching, we still follow the scheme above.

The work therefore opens with “Carefree Wandering” (Xiaoyaoyou): it speaks of those who have penetrated the Great Dao (Dao), whose wisdom and virtue (De) are lucid and keen, whose conduct accords with the Way in all they do, and who can move through encounters with free ease—hence this chapter takes “carefree wandering” as its title. The sage who depends on nothing external sees opportune moments as in a bright mirror; having both expedient and ultimate wisdom, he can equalize all realms of experience—hence next comes “Discourse on the Equality of Things” (Qiwu lun). Once horse hooves and finger metaphors have been used to blend heaven and earth and unify the ten thousand things, the mind settles in clarity and simplicity so body and spirit can be nourished—hence next comes “Nurturing Life” (Yang sheng zhu). When good and evil are both forgotten and realm and wisdom are equally subtle, one follows transformation and trusts fate, and can move through the human world—hence next comes “The Human World” (Ren jian shi). When inner virtue (De) is complete, one can “split” virtue outward to meet things, then rise and fall with things until inner and outer are fused in silence—hence next comes “Sign of Complete Virtue” (De chong fu). Still water like a mirror, meeting things without deliberate mind, forgetting virtue and form—the utmost of matching outer with inner—can bring the myriad things to fulfillment; hence next comes “The Great and Venerable Teacher” (Da zong shi). The true sages of antiquity knew heaven and knew humanity, worked with creation itself, were still yet responsive, and in the end could guide all kinds of beings—hence next comes “Responsive Ruler” (Ying di wang). The chapters from “Webbed Toes” (Pian mu) onward are all titled by the first two characters of the text, with no further hidden meaning; they need not be listed one by one here.

From antiquity, lofty scholars and the recluses of Jin and Han all read Zhuangzi and wrote exegeses on him. Though little in those commentaries invites cavil, their language is often elegant, and all probe the hidden sense. Cheng Xuanying—a Tang dynasty Daoist and Zhuangzi commentator—did not measure his shallow talent; from youth he pursued this learning and for thirty years has studied it deeply. Following Guo Xiang’s (styled Zixuan) commentary on the thirty chapters, he has added explication in thirty fascicles. Though the wording is sparse and plain, it can still point to the trace of the heart’s intent; he dares not mislead those who come after, and offers this only to record what he himself might forget.

Textual note: In one reprinted Song edition an extra character (ti, “hoof”) appears; following the meaning of “Heaven and Earth are one finger, the myriad things are one horse” in Discourse on Making Things Equal, it should be deleted.

Plain-language commentary

Zhuangzi may be said to be someone who grasped the root. That is why he never hid his “wild words”—though his speech need not match others’ tune, it could respond on its own. If one only answers to the moment without aligning with the root, even correct words are of no use; if words do not land on concrete affairs, even lofty insight cannot be carried out. This differs from those who stay still and only move when they must—one may say he understood that “the heart is originally Wuwei (non-action).”

When the heart is Wuwei, it responds as things touch it; response comes in its season, and speech stays cautious. Thus he merged with “transformation,” flowing through ten thousand generations and blending with things in silence—not posing as opposed or wandering outside the world in empty talk. For that very reason his book breaks usual forms yet stands at the head of the Masters.

Zhuangzi himself may not have fully embodied the realization, yet his language reached the summit: threading the lineage of Heaven and Earth, sorting the nature of the myriad things, penetrating the changes of life and death, and clarifying the way of the inner sage and outer king—knowing above that the maker is not a single thing, and below that each thing completes its own form. His words are vast, his aim subtle; the utmost Dao is fine and its purport upright, at ease in release, released without dissipation.

Therefore it is said: not knowing where “rightness” should fall, one may yet walk boldly and tread the great square; suckling at the breast and thriving in plain simplicity, belly full and roaming in primordial chaos. The perfected person reaches the extreme of no partial kinship; filial piety and kindness ultimately return to mutual forgetting; ritual and music revert to the capacity of nature itself; loyalty and trust issue from Heaven’s light. Using clarity without losing simplicity, the divine vessel alone transforms in dark mystery, and source and flow run deep and long.

Thus Zhuangzi’s thought rolls on like a long wave and blows like a lofty wind, so that the myriad things each find their place and accord with what the human heart seeks. It can broaden a narrow mind and loosen the knot tied in the breast; even before one deliberately cultivates that carefree, unburdened ease, the habit of arrogant self-importance already slackens somewhat.

Therefore, when people read his book, they feel naturally at ease and self-sufficient, as if they had already arrived where they belong—traveling Kunlun, crossing the Great Void, roaming in dim, far-off obscurity. Even the greedy and the rashly ambitious, if they briefly gather the lingering fragrance of his pages and taste the overflow of his literary thought, faintly catching his tone and shadow, will find their hearts opened wide enough to forget outward form and know a kind of self-sufficiency; how much more so those who probe deeply into his remote meaning and savor his enduring purport! Then the spirit is drawn toward clarity and distance, leaving the dust of the world to return to the dark ultimate.

This is a description of the table of contents and structure of Collected Explanations on Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi Jishi), compiled by Guo Qingfan in the Qing dynasty—not the main text of any single chapter.

Preface and Prefaces from Various Commentators

The book opens with a “Preface,” followed in order by prefaces to Zhuangzi from several historical commentators: Wang Xianqian’s “Preface to Collected Explanations on Zhuangzi” (Qing); Guo Xiang’s “Preface to Zhuangzi” (Wei–Jin); the Xulu (Preface and Catalog) related to Zhuangzi in Lu Deming’s Classic Explanations of Meaning (Southern Dynasties); Cheng Xuanying’s “Preface to Zhuangzi” (Tang); and explanatory material by the compiler Guo Qingfan on Collected Explanations on Zhuangzi.

Division into Volumes and Chapter Titles

The main text follows the traditional threefold division into Inner Chapters, Outer Chapters, and Miscellaneous Chapters, further split into volumes:

• Volume 1, Part 1: Inner Chapter 1, “Free and Easy Wandering” (Xiaoyao You) (the volume head again lists Guo Xiang’s preface, Lu Deming’s Xulu, Cheng Xuanying’s preface, and Guo Qingfan’s collected-explanation notes).
• Volume 1, Part 2: Inner Chapter 2, “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” (Qiwu Lun).
• Volume 2, Part 1: Inner Chapter 3, “Nurturing Life” (Yangsheng Zhu).
• Volume 2, Part 2: Inner Chapter 4, “The Human World” (Renjian Shi).
• Volume 2, Part 3: Inner Chapter 5, “Sign of Complete Virtue” (De Chong Fu).
• Volume 3, Part 1: Inner Chapter 6, “The Great Ancestral Teacher” (Da Zong Shi).
• Volume 3, Part 2: Inner Chapter 7, “Responsive Ruler” (Ying Di Wang).
• Volume 4, Part 1: Outer Chapter 8, “Webbed Toes” (Pian Mu).
• Volume 4, Part 2: Outer Chapter 9, “Horse’s Hooves” (Ma Ti); Outer Chapter 10, “Opening Trunks” (Qu Qie).
• Volume 4, Part 3: Outer Chapter 11, “Letting Be, and Exercising Governance” (Zai You).
• Volume 5, Part 1: Outer Chapter 12, “Heaven and Earth” (Tian Di).
• Volume 5, Part 2: Outer Chapter 13, “The Way of Heaven” (Tian Dao).
• Volume 5, Part 3: Outer Chapter 14, “Revolution of Heaven” (Tian Yun).
• Volume 6, Part 1: Outer Chapter 15, “Constrained Will” (Ke Yi); Outer Chapter 16, “Repairing Nature” (Shan Xing).
• Volume 6, Part 2: Outer Chapter 17, “Autumn Floods” (Qiu Shui); Outer Chapter 18, “Perfect Joy” (Zhi Le).
• Volume 7, Part 1: Outer Chapter 19, “The Full Understanding of Life” (Da Sheng); Outer Chapter 20, “Mountain Tree” (Shan Mu).
• Volume 7, Part 2: Outer Chapter 21, “Master Tian Fang” (Tian Zi Fang); Outer Chapter 22, “Knowledge Rambling North” (Zhi Bei You).
• Volume 8, Part 1: Miscellaneous Chapter 23, “Gengsang Chu” (Gengsang Chu) (in one place the table of contents mistakenly gives “Miscellaneous Joy, Chapter 18,” inconsistent with other Miscellaneous Chapter numbers in the same volume; “Gengsang Chu,” Chapter 23, should be taken as correct).
• Volume 8, Part 2: Miscellaneous Chapter 24, “Master Xu Wugui” (Xu Wugui).
• Volume 8, Part 3: Miscellaneous Chapter 25, “Ze Yang” (Ze Yang).
• Volume 9, Part 1: Miscellaneous Chapter 26, “External Things” (Wai Wu); Miscellaneous Chapter 27, “Allegories” (Yuyan).
• Volume 9, Part 2: Miscellaneous Chapter 28, “Yielding the Throne” (Rang Wang); Miscellaneous Chapter 29, “Robber Zhi” (Dao Zhi).
• Volume 10, Part 1: Miscellaneous Chapter 30, “Explaining Swords” (Shuo Jian); Miscellaneous Chapter 31, “The Old Fisherman” (Yu Fu); Miscellaneous Chapter 32, “Lie Yukou” (Lie Yuke).
• Volume 10, Part 2: Miscellaneous Chapter 33, “Under Heaven” (Tian Xia).

Collected Explanations on Zhuangzi is an important Qing commentary that gathers notes and explanations from Guo Xiang, Cheng Xuanying, Wang Xianqian, and others onto the framework of Guo Xiang’s thirty-three-chapter Zhuangzi. The entries above are the book’s arrangement from prefaces through each volume and chapter.

Zhuangzi Collected Explanations, vol. 1, Inner Chapters, “Free and Easy Wandering” (opening and Guo’s commentary)

On the chapter title

Inner Chapters (Neipian): The name stands in contrast to the “outer” chapters.

Pian (chapter): The Shuowen explains the character as meaning “writing”; the form derives from “bamboo.” When the side element is written with the cao (grass) radical, that is a later mistake treating it as a plant name—not the original sense.

Guo Xiang’s commentary ([2])

Great and small may differ, yet as long as each rests in its proper place within the realm of “self-sufficiency,” the myriad things follow their inborn nature, affairs fulfill their capacity, and each keeps its station—xiaoyao (free and easy wandering) is one and the same. How could one rank winners and losers among them?

Ren Zhiqing’s note: Liu Yiqing’s Shishuo Xinyu, “Literary Learning,” records that Zhuangzi’s “Xiaoyao” chapter was notoriously hard to read; eminent scholars could ponder it deeply yet could not break out of the framework of Guo Xiang’s commentary. Zhi Daolin once discussed xiaoyao with Feng Taichang at White Horse Temple. Zhi Daolin marked out a new meaning beyond the two earlier schools, establishing doctrine apart from the crowd of worthies—points the famous scholars had never worked out. Later people adopted the Zhi school’s reading.

Liu Xiao’s annotation cites Xiang Xiu and Guo Xiang on the meaning of xiaoyao: the great peng flies ninety thousand li; the quail rises from the elm and sand pear—the scale differs, yet each accords with its nature; if each fits its allotted portion, xiaoyao is one. Still, the myriad things are tangled and alike in needing something to depend on; only when one obtains what one depends on can one be xiaoyao. Only the sage merges with things and follows the great transformation, and thus can be without reliance and ever unobstructed. And not merely self-unobstructed: he also keeps those who still depend from losing what they depend on—without losing, they align with the great passage.

Zhi’s treatise on xiaoyao says: Xiaoyao manifests the heart of the utmost person. Zhuangzi speaks the great Dao, using peng and quail as figures. The peng, because the path of sustaining life is too far, misses what suits it in the outer body; the quail, because it is near, mocks the distant and harbors inner self-conceit. The utmost person rides heaven’s correctness and rejoices, roaming the boundless in release. Outward toward things yet not enslaved by things, then distantly there is no barrier of “self”; mysteriously responsive and wuwei (non-action), swift without haste—then freely there is no unsuitability. This is xiaoyao. If one merely has desire and is content with what suffices, content in sufficiency, pleased as if naturally genuine—like the hungry once fed, the thirsty once filled—does that forget the sacrificial dry provisions and cut off from fine wine? If one is not utterly sufficient, how can it count as xiaoyao?

Where the Xiang and Guo commentaries did not exhaust the matter, the Zhi treatise explains in greater detail.

This passage is an ancient commentator’s annotation on the title of the Zhuangzi chapter “Xiaoyaoyou” (Free and Easy Wandering) and on the opening exegesis, chiefly discussing the forms of the characters xiao and yao, their textual attestation, and their meaning.

On the forms of “xiao” and “yao”

Xiao is read like xiao (as in “to melt away”); it is also written with the “water” radical as xiao. Yao follows the usual reading, and is also written yao (with the “hand” radical, as in “to sway”). Qingfan notes: The Shuowen jiezi does not include the compound xiaoyao; one should take xiaoyao as the standard form. For example, the Liji, Tan gong has “xiaoyao at the gate”; the Hanshu, biography of Sima Xiangru has “xiaoyao in Xiangyang”; the Taixuan, Xi shou has “though one would xiaoyao, Heaven does not grant it”; an inscription on the Han Kai mu stone que has “patterns shining in xiaoyao”; the Wenxuan, Song Yu’s “Jiu bian” has “for a while xiaoyao and xiangyang (wandering)”; the Hou Hanshu, biography of the Prince of Dongping, Xian Wang Cang has “xiaoyao xiangyang”—in these places xiao and yao appear either as xiao from the water radical or as yao from the hand radical. Tang-dynasty Zhanran’s Zhiguan fuxing zhuan hong jue cites Wang Muye: xiaoyao means harmoniously smooth, at ease, and joyful.

The meaning of xiaoyao

When ultimate principle is fully present within, there is no moment that is not fitting; when the mind rests yet responds to things, there is no place that cannot be reached. Wandering the world in such a state is therefore called xiaoyao. It is also said: the Way has no hidden recess; it clears and fits each situation; form may be large or small, yet sways and penetrates everywhere—hence xiaoyao. This gloss of xiaoyao fits the Ruists’ usage better than theirs.

The chapter title “Xiaoyaoyou”

You is read in the usual way and is also written you (to roam). “Xiaoyaoyou” is the chapter title, meaning carefree release and contented self-sufficiency.

Qingfan adds: My grand-uncle the Vice Minister said that in the “Tianxia” chapter Zhuangzi himself says his Way is so full it cannot be stopped—above, he roams with the Maker of Things; the first chapter is titled “Xiaoyaoyou,” Zhuangzi’s self-image in boundless language. Commentators who say “though large and small differ, xiaoyao is one” seem not to grasp Zhuangzi’s intent.

He also notes: The Wenxuan, commentary on Pan Yue’s “Qiu xing fu,” cites Sima Biao: what is called xiaoyao wuwei is the ability to roam in the Great Way.

Phonetic notes

For fu in “fu xiao da” (whether small or great), fu is read fu. For chang in “zhi chang,” zhi is read zhi liang fan. For cheng in “shi cheng,” cheng is read chi zheng fan. For dang in “ge dang,” dang is read ding lang fan. For fen in “qi fen,” fen is read fu wen fan.

Textual collation (1): Following the Tongzhitang edition, the corresponding words and phrases have been supplied from the Jingdian Shiwen (Classic and Character Explanations). (2): In the text, ge zi (“each character”) appears as ming (“name”) in Song dynasty Zhao Jianyi’s manuscript.

In the northern sea there is a fish called Kun (in Zhuangzi, a name for something immeasurably vast). Kun is so huge that “several thousand li” cannot measure it. It transforms into a bird called Peng (paired with Kun, symbolizing the shift from a sea giant to a sky-spanning bird). Peng’s back is likewise too broad to measure; when it spreads its wings and rises, they are like clouds hanging to the horizon. When this bird meets the great wind on the sea (haiyun, the gale and swell that drive it), it migrates toward the southern Dark Sea. Nanming (the southern Dark Sea) is also called Tianchi (Heaven’s Pool—a natural great basin or sea, here the southern abyss paired with Beiming).

Commentary in brief: Ming here can be read as sea, taking the sense of depth without bound, a vast dim expanse. Texts such as the Shizhou Ji and Xuanzhong Ji also tell of giant fish in the east: a traveler needs a day to pass the head and seven days the tail; when it bears young the sea turns red for three days—exaggerated tales showing that especially large beings arise in especially large settings—not only the northern Dark Sea. Zhuangzi opens with this to foreground that each thing follows its nature and fits its own scale of dwelling.

Plain-language notes on “Bei Ming” and “Kun”

The term Bei Ming (“Northern Dark Sea”) often appears in old texts with the character for ming (deep, dark water) written in a graphically similar form to the one used for “sea” in other compounds—both read ming, from fanqie spellings in the “mi-jing” type range. Here it means the northern sea. Ji Kang glosses it as the idea of water and sky stretching out with no visible limit. Emperor Jianwen of the Liang says: deep, dim, and without end—hence “ming” (dark/obscure). In Dong Fangshuo’s Records of the Ten Continents, waters whose color is black are called the Ming Sea; even without wind, swells there can reach a hundred zhang in height. Qing Fan notes: Huilin’s Pronunciation and Meaning of All the Scriptures, juan 31, citing Mahayana Entry into Lanka, juan 2, also cites Sima Biao: ming names the far extremes at the north and south poles, far from sun and moon—hence “ming.” The commentary at this point in the text is damaged or missing.

Kun is given by Xu Miao as kun (like “kun”), with fanqie in the Li Xun / Hou Wen line (again a kun-type reading). The basic sense is the name of a large fish. Cui Zhuan says kun should be jing (whale)—the same as Emperor Jianwen of Liang. Qing Fan follows Fang Yizhi: kun was originally the name of a small fish; Zhuangzi borrowed it for a huge fish—that view is correct. Erya, “Fish”: kun is fish roe (fish eggs). Any fish’s young in egg form can be called kun. Qing Fan again cites Fang Yizhi. Discourses of the States, “Lu”: there are rules against catching kun and er (tiny fry); Wei Zhao glosses kun as fish roe. In Zhang Heng’s Rhapsody on the Western Capital (some manuscripts read Eastern Capital here—texts disagree), “seizing kun and er,” Xue Zong glosses kun again as fish roe. Xu Shen’s Shuowen has no seal form for kun. Duan Yucai says: roe not yet hatched is kun; kun is the word for “egg”; Xu Shen writes a graph for “egg” in an alternate form, ancient reading like guan, also like kun. Record of Rites, “Inner Rules,” “soft roe sauce for fish”—Zheng Xuan reads “egg” like kun. Whatever has not left the shell is an egg; what has hatched is “young.” Kun is fish roe, which is why Xu Shen used the “egg” graph to cover it. When Zhuangzi names an enormous fish Kun, that is Qi Wu Lun-style allegory—vast and free writing to express the author’s point, not a literal natural-history label. The commentary citing Li Yi that kun is a large fish’s name, and Cui Zhuan and Jianwen saying kun means whale—Qing Fan treats those as off the mark.

Qi in qi ji (“how vast”): the syllable ji is read ju-qi fan (near ji); the same below.

[Annotation]

Whether Kun and Peng ever existed as real creatures is not something this commentary investigates in detail. Zhuangzi’s aim in this chapter is to show carefree wandering (xiaoyao)—ease, wuwei (non-action), and natural self-sufficiency—so he sets the vastly large against the vastly small to clarify the range within which each thing’s own “allotted nature” (xingfen) should live. A person who truly understands should hold to the work’s overall direction, release fixation on literal images, and not strain to allegorize every line. So long as such points do not distort Zhuangzi’s main message, they may be left aside.

[Sub-commentary]

The four seasons rush like a gale; sun and moon sweep past like lightning. Hence one “shoulders mountains” and leaves the old ground, “raises a boat in the ravine” and heads for new reaches. Turning the fish into a bird is meant to display the great pattern of transformation.

[Textual notes]

(This section records pronunciations, graph variants, and collation—e.g. how the character for peng is read, its relation to graphs for “companion” (peng) and feng (phoenix), and variant readings in the tradition. It belongs to the philological apparatus of the edition rather than to the philosophical exposition, and is omitted here in brief.)

[Commentary]

Describing how vast the kun fish is shows that its extent from head to tail cannot be measured; describing how broad the peng bird’s back is shows the same about its body length. That is why the text goes on to say that no one knows how long it really is. It beats its wings and shakes out its feathers, ready to ride the wind and rise by striking the water; then it breaks through the clouds, the blue sky on its back, wings spread in flight up to the heights; its hanging shadow and cast silhouette are like clouds descending along the edge of heaven.

[Explanation of the phrase “the cloud at the edge of heaven” (chui tian zhi yun)]

Sima Biao said it is as if a cloud hangs beside heaven. Cui Yan said that chui means “edge” or “margin,” and refers to something as immense as a whole flank of heaven’s clouds.

[Note]

Were it not the Dark Sea, it could not hold its body; were the flight not ninety thousand li, its wings could not be supported. Is this mere wonder-seeking? Great beings necessarily arise in great settings, and great settings necessarily produce such beings—the pattern is simply natural. There is no call to fear that something has gone wrong, so why add needless worry in the middle?

Plain-Language Commentary

“Movement” here means turning, shifting, and change; “must” carries a sense of pointing and emphasis. The peng is a bird of enormous size: if it does not rely on the power of water in the great sea to set itself in motion, it cannot rise to such a height—this is something it has no choice about, not something it gladly chooses for itself.

Moreover, once the bodily form changes, the mind changes with it. Before, it was a fish swimming in the Northern Sea; now it has become a bird flying over the Southern Deep. Though ascent and descent and habits differ, the essence of “carefree wandering” (xiaoyao) is the same. This is also like birth and death, gathering and parting: whatever one meets, one adapts; through endless change, one never truly leaves the layer of “self.”

Turning the fish into a bird and flying from north to south is intentional symbolism: the bird can soar in the sky, and the south stands for dawn and brightness; the fish sinks in water, and the north stands for the dark netherworld and gloom. The contrast of south and north, bird and fish, is meant to illustrate the path of cultivation: turn toward light, turn away from darkness, shed obstruction, and seek upward transcendence.

As for the great sea and rivers, they belong to what creation has made—not what human effort has built—so they are called the “Celestial Pool” (tianchi).

Annotation

When the wings are too large, the bird cannot lift off all at once; it must ride the whirlwind and spiral upward until it reaches ninety thousand li, and only then can it hold steady by its own strength. With wings of such size, how could it “whoosh” up, fly a few zhang, and drop again? All of this is unavoidable—it is not something the creature would choose for pleasure.

Commentary

“Qíxié” is a person’s name; it also refers to a book title—a work from the state of Qi that records witty and marvelous tales (in the phu-harmonistic style) is likewise called Qíxié. Zhì means to record; jī means to beat or flap. Tuán means to circle and rise on the wind; fúyáo is a whirlwind. The book attributed to Qíxié mostly records strange events; Zhuangzi cites it to show that his account is not empty talk.

When the great Peng sets out for the Southern Sea, it cannot spring straight from the water’s surface; it must first beat both wings until the water churns for three thousand (li or zhang, according to commentators), then stagger forward before it can leave the surface. Next it twists its wings, flaps them furiously, and hovers, borne by the wind, swaying upward all the way. The journey takes ninety thousand li and half a year; only when it is fully at ease and satisfied does it speak of resting. It merely reaches its destination—how could it spare thought for other feelings?

(The latter section repeats the former in meaning: after leaving the water, it must twist, turn, rage in flight, and hover, lifted by the wind in a fúyáo whirl; over ninety thousand li and half a year, it rests only when its will is fully content; enough to arrive—that is all, with no room for emotional indulgence.)

This passage is commentary and textual collation written when ancient scholars read Zhuangzi’s “Xiao Yao You” (Free and Easy Wandering). It mainly clarifies how certain characters were read, what several phrases mean, and how different commentators understood them.

On “Qi Xie” (Qi Harmonious)

Some commentators, including Sima Biao and Cui Zuan, took this as a person’s name. Emperor Jianwen of Jin said it was a book title. Yu Yue argued that the following line, with phrasing like “Xie’s words say…,” fits better if someone named Xie is meant; if it were truly a book title, one would not normally refer to it by the single character xie alone.

“Zhi guai” (recording the strange)

Zhi means to record; guai means strange or uncanny events. Together the phrase denotes works that record marvels and anomalies—the sort of writing associated with zhiguai (tales of the strange).

“Shui ji” (striking the water)

Cui Zuan explained that for the great bird to take flight, its wings first strike the surface of the water, splashing and staggering slightly before rising into the air. The characters liang and qiang in the text serve as phonetic glosses.

How to read tuan and what it means

The usual reading follows tu duan fan (roughly like tuan, “to gather”). Sima Biao: the wings gather strength and fly upward. Another reading is bo, interchangeable with bo (“to beat”); Cui Zuan: beating the wings, circling as it ascends. Lu Wenchao and Liu Qingfan also cited usages in other books: ji can mean to move; tuan carries senses of round, gather, concentrate. Linked with “fuyao er shang” (up on the whirlwind), the line means concentrating force and riding the wind to great height. Commentators’ quotations differ slightly from one another and from the Shiwen (Sounds and Meanings) text printed here.

Liu Qingfan, following the Shuowen, noted that tuan originally meant to make something round with the hands; in older texts it is often used for zhuan (“to focus, devote”). Thus “tuan fuyao er shang” can be read: focus on and gather the wind, then soar upward.

“Fuyao” (whirlwind, updraft)

Xu Miao’s gloss sounds like yao; it names a kind of wind. Sima Biao: wind that blows upward from below is called fuyao. The Erya says fuyao is also called biao; Guo Pu: a violent gale rushing up from below. Lu Wenchao, following the Erya commentary, adjusted the order of “from below” and “upward” to align with Guo’s explanation.

Other phonetic glosses

Er shang: read with shi zhang fan, as in a note elsewhere. Zi sheng: sheng is read sheng (“to ascend”); the same below. Jue ran: jue with xi que fan, likewise below. Shu ren: ren with se zhu fan, likewise below. Fei yue: yue read yue; another reading near xiao.

In brief: this whole stretch is not expounding Zhuangzi’s philosophical theme. It helps readers recognize characters, fix pronunciation, decide whether Qi Xie is a person or a book, and explain the literal sense of “shui ji,” “tuan,” “fuyao,” and similar phrases in light of older notes—typical collective commentary and collation of the kind common before the Qing period.

[2] (Commentary)

The great bird (Peng) needs half a year for one flight before it reaches the Celestial Pool and rests; the small bird flies half a day and stops when it hits the elm or fang tree. The point is: each has its own measure of power and range, yet living in accord with one’s nature amounts to the same principle.

[Exegesis on the Commentary]

“Qiang” is read qi yang fan (near the sound “qiang”); “fang” is read fang.

A commentator in the tradition says: Peng “departs and rests only after six months’ breath”—like riding a long wind on a distant journey; below, the cicada and the xue dove “sometimes cannot reach [the goal] and perch on the fang and stop”—a deliberate contrast. Again it is a comparison: capacities each have their limits, and in shixing (each settling into its own nature) there is no difference. Zhuangzi’s text should not be pinned to the surface alone; read the whole piece through. (5)

[3] (Commentary)

These are all things Peng relies on to fly. What is called the “wild horse” is moving qi—qi that drifts and stirs in the air.

[Sub-commentary]

The Erya says: outside the city wall is the suburb; beyond the suburb is the pasture; beyond the pasture is the wild. When spring yang stirs, from afar the marsh looks like galloping horses—that drifting qi is called the “wild horse.” Whirled-up earth is dust; finer still is haze. Between Heaven and Earth, the breathing of living things blows one upon another and lifts Peng up. The four kinds of birth are manifold and the ten thousand things are not uniform; form and nature differ, and what they depend on is not the same. Peng spreads wings that shade the sky and, borrowing wind and qi, wanders freely; the cicada and the turtle dove flap wings and “burst upward,” finding joy among elm and fang. All act as nature moves them and receive the work of creation—they do not set out to compete over distance, nor do they mean to be proud. Grasp this and what is there to boast of or envy?

[4] (Commentary)

“Xiao” is read xiao (small); “yao” is read yao (distant). “Miao” is read miao (minute); “lan” is read lan (blue). “Cang” is read cang (dark blue). “Mang” is read mang (vast). “Tang” is read tang (vast). “Hao” is read hao (vast). “Cang” is read cang (dark blue). “Mang” is read mang (vast). “Tang” is read tang (vast). “Hao” is read hao (vast). “Cang” is read cang (dark blue). “Mang” is read mang (vast). “Tang” is read tang (vast). “Hao” is read hao## [2] (Commentary)

The great bird (Peng) needs half a year for one flight before it reaches the Celestial Pool and can rest; the small bird flies for half a day and stops when it hits the elm or fang tree. The point is: each has its own capacity and range, but living in accord with one’s nature is the same in principle.

[Explanatory Text]

“Qiang” is read qi yang fan (near the sound “qiang”); “fang” is read fang.

Jia Shifu said: Peng “leaves on the six-month breath”—like riding a long wind on a long journey; below, the cicada and the wren “sometimes cannot reach it and perch on the fang and stop”—a deliberate contrast. Again it is a comparison of how abilities each have limits; in “fitting one’s nature” (each settling in its own nature) there is no difference. Zhuangzi’s text should not be read by words alone; one must read the whole piece. (5)

[3] (Commentary)

These are all things Peng relies on to fly. What is called “wild horses” is moving qi (qi drifting in the air).

[Sub-commentary]

Erya: outside the city wall is the suburb; outside the suburb is the pasture; outside the pasture is the wild. When spring yang stirs, looking from afar at marshy ground where drifting qi looks like galloping horses—that is called “wild horses.” Raised earth is dust; finer still is fine dust. Between heaven and earth living things have breath going in and out; they blow on one another and lift Peng up. The four kinds of birth are numerous and the ten thousand things are not uniform; form and nature differ, and what they rely on is not the same. Peng spreads wings like a canopy in the sky and, borrowing wind, roams freely; the cicada and the turtle-dove flap wings and “burst upward,” finding joy among elm and fang. All act from their nature and receive from creation-transforming—they do not deliberately compete over near and far, nor do they mean to be proud. Grasp this meaning: what is there to boast about or envy?

“Wild Horses” (yě mǎ)

Sima Biao says: the drifting vapors that stir in marshes in spring.

Cui Yan says: the qi between Heaven and Earth, like wild horses at full gallop.

“Dust” (chén āi)

“Āi” is read as written. Cui Yan says: the thick qi between Heaven and Earth, like dust thrown up into the air.

“Blowing upon one another” (xiāng chuī)

Read as written. In Cui Yan’s version the graph is written as chuī (cook/blow) in the “cook” sense—here the comment tradition treats chuī and chuī (blow) as the same word in old usage. Lu Wenchao notes: the graphs for “blow” and “cook/bubble up” were interchangeable in antiquity. The Jiyun defines the “cook” graph as continuous motion that rises. In Xunzi’s “Zhongni” chapter, “it could be cooked and…”; in this book’s “In the World” chapter, “at ease in wuwei, and the ten thousand things pile up like steam (chuī lěi)”—both glosses say chuī equals chuī (blow).

Further: Zhuangzi has already said that the peng’s flight and rest each suit its own nature; he then adds that “wild horses” and “dust” are cases of “living beings using breath to blow on one another”—likely a figure meaning that the peng, wholly trusting nature, also rises through accumulation and motion like wild horses and dust, without a fixed agenda. Guo Xiang’s idea that the peng “relies on something” to fly is probably mistaken.

“That on which it leans” (suǒ píng)

“Píng” (Feng) is read pí bīng (fanqie). Some editions write píng (lean/rely).

[4] [Commentary]

When we look up at the vast azure sky, do we really know that this is Heaven’s true color—or is it only because Heaven is so far that we cannot see where it ends, and it merely appears so? When the peng looks down on the ground from on high, it is like a person on the ground looking up at the sky. Then, once its strength is enough, it stops and “charts its course toward the south.” That is to say, the peng does not reckon distance in miles; as long as its power is enough to “ overcome itself,” it goes.

[Sub-commentary]

Looking up at the round Heaven, it is immensely remote; the blue void is lofty and without limit, countless and boundless—can that hazy expanse really be Heaven’s true color? Yet the peng is in mid-heaven and people are below on earth; the peng’s downward gaze is no different from people’s upward gaze. If people cannot tell Heaven’s true color, how can the peng know whether the earth is near or far? “Overcoming itself” is sufficient: it reaches only the Southern Sea—that is where the peng’s intention stops.

Brief Exegesis and Textual Notes

“Se xie” (is it so?): The old gloss gives the pronunciation as “yu jie fan,” a traditional fanqie spelling of the reading; similar pronunciation notes below are omitted for brevity. Lu Wenchao, following the Jingdian Shiwen, reads “ye jie fan” instead.

Textual variants: In the Wen Ruhai edition, “ze” appears as “er”; in Zhao’s edition, “zu” appears as “zi zu”; “zhi” (packed earth) follows the Kaogongji; a passage of about thirty-eight characters was wrongly placed under the previous comment and is restored here; “di” (ground) follows the Xugu yicongshu edition; Zhao’s text lacks the final “yi” (particle).

Main Sense of the Zhuangzi Passage

If water does not gather deep enough, it cannot float a large boat. Pour a cup of water into a hollow on the hall floor and a mustard seed can float on it like a little boat; set a cup there and it sits on the bottom and will not move—when the water is too shallow and the vessel (the cup) is too large relative to it, that is the principle.

If wind does not gather thick enough, it cannot bear enormous wings. Therefore the bird must rise to ninety thousand li so that the wind lies beneath its wings; only then can it ride the wind upward. With its back against the clear sky and nothing blocking it, it then plans to fly south.

Commentators’ gist: This shows that the peng can fly so high because its wings are vast. Small things need not rely on much; large things cannot do with little. Each principle has its proper measure; each thing has its limit; each is sufficient for its use, and the effect is the same. If one forgets the master of “life” and makes a living in the wrong place—tasks not matched to one’s strength, movement not aligned with feeling—even wings that shade the sky will not reach the journey’s end; as soon as it lifts off, it is trapped.

Commentary (explanation of meaning)

“Qie” here is an introductory particle—it lightly opens what follows. “Fu” at the head of a sentence pulls the reader into the lines that come next.

“Ji” means to gather or pile up; in context it suggests abundance or depth (“thick” accumulation). “Hou” is deep. “Bei” is a small cup or vessel. “Ao” is a hollow or dip—the kind of slight depression you might find in a hall floor or courtyard. “Jie” is a blade of grass or small plant. “Jiao” means to stick or cling. The passage uses these images to set up a comparison.

Imagine pouring a single cup of water into that shallow dip in the hall: if you use a grass leaf as a tiny boat, it can still float; if you try to use the cup itself as the boat, it will not work—the water is too shallow and the “boat” too large, so it sits on the bottom and sticks, unable to move. A large vessel truly needs deep water; a small blade of grass does not need towering waves. When scale and setting fit each other, each thing can be “xiaoyao”—at ease in its own way, doing what suits it.

Commentary (phonology and textual notes)

This block is mainly about pronunciation and variant readings: for example, some texts write the cup character as an alternate form (often noted as “bei” vs. a homograph used in older editions); “aotang” (the hall hollow) is read with more than one pronunciation, and commentators disagree on whether “ao” means a level patch or a small raised rim around a dip; fanqie spellings are given for “jie,” “jiao,” and related words; and notes appear on readings at “chengshi,” “qiji,” “zhidang,” and a variant “qi” for “ji.” This is standard philological work—it does not change the main point of the metaphor above.

Second passage, commentary (bringing the comparisons together)

Here the earlier images are tied into one lesson: if the water is not deep enough, a large ship cannot be borne or float; if the wind is not high or strong enough, a great bird cannot rise to the clouds. A small bird can “jueqi”—burst upward—in half a day. That is the same line of thought as Zhuangzi’s idea that small and large each have what fits them. The conditions (how deep the water, how high the wind) and one’s own size must match. There is no need to insist that a grass leaf ride a great ship, or that a small cup carry a large boat. When things are proportioned to their situation, each finds its place—and that mutual fitting is what “xiaoyao” is about.

This passage is an extended analogy. If the water is not deep enough, a large vessel cannot float; if the wind is not strong enough, the great Peng cannot soar to the heights. A small bird can, in half a day’s time, shoot up from the tips of the elm or the sandalwood tree with a sudden burst; the Peng, to travel ninety thousand li, must have a violent wind holding up its wings from below.

When it is only now preparing to fly south, that is not because it loves height or loves to go far, but because accumulated wind is still insufficient—the way through the high air cannot be cleared, and it can proceed only in this manner. That is the sort of carefree wandering (xiaoyao) proper to the Peng.

“Pei” means to pile up, to amass, to become thick enough. “Yao” means to break or snap; “e” means to block or obstruct. At first it must rely on a whirlwind to lift off; only when the wind has been layered and piled up layer by layer can it truly fly far. Once it is aloft, it bears the blue sky on its back and rides the ridge of the wind beneath, surging in one rush into the clouds, and does not come to rest until the sixth month. Nets cannot reach it, and hunters cannot bring it down—whence would the misfortune of being caught or broken come? Precisely because what it depends on is fitting, it itself arrives at the place it ought to occupy; to wander in carefree ease at the Southern Sea—is that not entirely as it should be?

In the phonetic glosses: for “er hou nai jin pei,” the character read pei is pronounced like “Pei,” with the sense “heavy, to accumulate.” Xu Miao also gives the readings fu bei fan and fu zai fan; all three explanations stand together.

The cicada and the wren (a small dove-like bird) mocked the great peng, saying: “When we take flight, we flutter among the tips of elm and sand pear branches; sometimes we cannot even reach the treetops before we drop to the ground—and that is enough for us. Why must you fly ninety thousand li into the sky and then head south?”

(Textual note: certain characters in the base text have been emended in line with commentaries and editions such as the Shide Tang version; details are omitted here.)

For a trip to a nearby meadow, three meals suffice for a same-day round trip with a full belly. To go a hundred li, you must pound grain the night before and take it along. To travel a thousand li, you must stock up three months ahead for food on the road. What do the cicada and the wren—such tiny creatures—really understand?

Background and meaning (following common commentarial readings)

Zhuangzi uses the contrast of scale: the small insects know only short flights between elm and sand pear and take “stopping when you hit the ground” to be the whole of flight; they do not know that long journeys require provisions and borrowing the great wind. The point is not simply to mock the insects as ignorant, but to say that each nature has its place and each use its limit—small and large can both be “carefree wandering” (xiaoyao) in their own way. If you measure the vast by narrow knowledge, you become like the two insects laughing at the peng, treating your own limits as the measure of the world. The peng’s ninety-thousand-li flight south and the insects’ scramble for elm and sand pear can, in the sense of “sufficient to one’s nature,” belong to the same kind of xiaoyao; there is no need for mutual envy or mutual ridicule.

Tiao is the cicada, born in the seventh and eighth months, purple-green in color, also called diaolang. Yijiu is hujiu, the turtle dove known today as the spotted dove. Jue describes swift motion; qiang means to gather and perch, or to spring up suddenly. Fang refers to sandalwood. Kong can mean to throw, to pull, or to reach an end. Xi means “why”; zhi means to go or to arrive.

The cicada and the dove heard that the great peng bird was vast in body and soared far on wind and water, and they mocked it for having a huge form yet toiling so hard, while boasting that though their own bodies were small, they lived at ease and in pleasure. They leap no more than a few ren high, darting and resting among elm and sandalwood; sometimes they cannot even reach the woods ahead and must land to rest before flying again. In such free and easy spontaneity they find their own joy—why spend six months and travel ninety thousand li in weary flight south? People who belittle the great with the small, congratulate themselves on being enough, and never seek true ease and wandering are not rare in the world.

(Guo Xiang’s commentary) The farther the destination, the more provisions must be laid in beforehand; by the same logic, the larger the wings, the thicker the qi that must be stored up. The text pairs “a long road—more grain” with “great wings—thick qi” to show that the Peng does not simply take wing at random: its bulk and the length of its journey dictate how much preparation it needs.

(Cheng Xuanying’s commentary) Shi means to go or head toward. Mangcang is the hazy, boundless look of open country, where distant edges blur. Here it is a very short outing in the outskirts, a distance you can take in at a glance. Guoran means having eaten one’s fill: for such a near trip to the suburbs, three meals on the round trip suffice—the way is not far, and you can still eat well.

For a journey of a hundred li, somewhat farther, you husk rice and carry dry food for a night on the road. For a thousand li, the way is long and hard; you must first store up three months’ grain before the round trip is covered.

So Guo Xiang: the farther you go, the more grain you gather; the bigger the wings, the thicker the qi—small trips and small scale, and great trips and great scale, are not the same when it asks “how much must you prepare?”

(On the “two creatures” and the drift of xiaoyao) The “two creatures” in the notes mean the contrast of the Peng with the cicade (chan) and like small insects: one huge, one tiny, so their bent differs. That difference in qu (orientation) is not because they “know each other’s difference and choose to differ on purpose,” but because each does not know why it is so and simply is so by nature. Being so by nature is also being without forced contrivance. That is what Xiaoyoyou (Free and Easy Wandering) is after: not judging everything by one rule—“three meals are enough”—but each in its place, each doing its part.

(Shiwen yinyi, briefly) For mang, cang, “three meals” (san can), guoran, pu, liang, and the like, older notes differ a little on reading and sense (mangcang sometimes as the tint of near-outskirts grassland; guoran often as full, satisfied). Comparing phonetic and gloss helps when reading the classic; it does not change the point above: near means three meals, far means stored grain; large and small differ in bent yet each rests in what is natural.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that “the two creatures” (er chong) refer to the great peng bird and the cicada. This contrast between large and small shows that each has its own inclinations. The great peng rides the wind to ninety thousand li above; the little bird flits from the elm and fang trees—though distance and height differ, each lives according to its own nature. Neither counts how far it goes; each is content with what suffices and what it can manage; the workings of Heaven unfold naturally, without deliberate striving. With no ranking in the mind, how could one favor one over the other? The state of xiaoyao (free and unfettered roaming), it seems, lies precisely in this.

Calling the great peng a “creature” (chong) has textual support. The Da Dai Li says: in the east, among scaly creatures (lin chong) there are three hundred and sixty kinds, with the responsive dragon (yinglong) the longest; in the south, among feathered creatures (yu chong) three hundred and sixty kinds, with the phoenix the longest; in the west, among hairy creatures (mao chong) three hundred and sixty kinds, with the qilin the longest; in the north, among armored creatures (jia chong) three hundred and sixty kinds, with the spirit turtle (ling gui) the longest; in the center, among naked creatures (luo chong) three hundred and sixty kinds, with the sage the longest. Collectively they may all be called chong, so the great peng may also be called a chong.

Yu Yue held that “the two creatures” continues from the earlier passage where the cicada and turtledove mock the great peng—the point being that cicada and turtledove are too small to grasp the peng’s vast scale. In Guo Xiang’s note, taking “the two creatures” as the great peng and the cicada is a misreading.

(Collation notes: 1. The character qiang follows the Shiwen original; same below. 2. In the defective citation text and the old Jiangnan edition, after fang appear the two characters er zhi. 3. In the defective citation text, guo reads ke. 4. In the defective citation text, above and below this sentence appear the two characters bi ye.)

Small knowledge cannot match great knowledge, and a short life cannot match a long one—why say so? Creatures like morning mushrooms that die by evening do not know that a month has new moon and full moon days; summer cicadas do not know there are spring and autumn seasons either. These are examples of a “small year”—a narrow span of experience. South of Chu there is a tree called Mingling (a legendary tree of extreme longevity) that treats five hundred years as one spring and five hundred years as one autumn; in antiquity there was also the great tree Da Chun, which treated eight thousand years as one spring and eight thousand years as one autumn. As for Peng Zu (famous in tradition for long life), he is noted only because he lived long; when people compare themselves to him and envy him, is that not sad?

【Note】This means: all things have their own nature, and lifespans have their limits, just as knowledge has its greater and lesser and years have their longer and shorter spans—none of this can be caught up with by standing on tiptoe or forced comparison. From here until the passage about Liezi, examples are piled up layer by layer of “small year,” “small knowledge” versus “great year,” “great knowledge,” each holding to one side, yet none can truly prevail over the other. What finally gathers the whole view is the person who is “without dependence”: letting go of attachment to self and other, merging in quiet union with the myriad things, at ease in every place without seeking fame or gain. Thus what can equalize large and small is a heart that fixes on no fixed large or small; if one still clings to large and small, then whether it is the great peng and the little quail or high office and those who ride the wind, all remain dragged by outer things. What can equalize life and death is awakening that there was never a difference between life and death; if one still clings to life and death, then Da Chun and the short-lived cicada, Peng Zu and the morning mushroom, are alike in the sense of “cut short.” To wander where there is neither small nor great is the inexhaustible; to merge in what is neither death nor birth is the boundless. If even carefree wandering is tied to techniques and name-and-teaching, then however freely one roams, there is still a limit, because one has not yet truly reached “without dependence.”

Commentary: The vital energy (qi) that all things receive differs, and the endowment each receives at birth is not the same: some are bright, some dull; lifespans may be short or long. Examples such as the morning fungus, the long-lived tree spirit, the district official, and Rongzi each stay within the scope of their own “years and what they know”; they cannot be matched by longing or rivalry. From this we see that things have distinct natures and cannot be forced to imitate one another.

Textual note: This passage gives phonetic glosses: in “small wisdom” (xiaozhi), zhi is read like zhi (wisdom), as in the later “great wisdom” (dazhi) and “wisdom of years” (nianzhi); Qishang, Leiwu, and similar strings are fanqie spellings for personal or chapter names, as elsewhere in the note.

Commentary (2): Xi means “how” or “why”; ran means “thus.” Why should “years and what one knows” differ as sharply as the image in the following analogy? The question is posed first so the answer below can follow.

Commentary (3): This section answers the earlier question. The morning fungus (chaojun) is the kind that steams up from dung heaps in hot, rainy weather; it thrives in damp shade and dies in sunlight. It is also called the great zhi fungus: it lives from morning to evening, hence the name morning fungus. The last day of the month is hui; the first is shuo. Even in stretch of rain it withers in a few days and never lasts a full month, so it never knows hui or shuo. The huigu is the summer cicada, born on wheat stalks and also called the wheat-joint cicada; it lives from summer into autumn and dies, so it never knows spring or autumn. The fungus is born at dawn and dead by dusk; the cicada grows in summer and perishes in autumn—both are extremely short-lived, hence “small years.”

This commentary explains how the Zhuangzi term zhao jun (“morning fungus”) is pronounced and how various commentators have understood it.

Pronunciation: In zhao jun, the character jun (fungus) is read like yun (to fall); the fanqie gloss gives xu qi yun fan.

Sima Biao says: Zhao jun is a large type of lingzhi (ganoderma). It grows on dung in overcast weather and withers as soon as the sun appears; it is also called ri ji (“reaches the sun”), hence it cannot know the alternation of hui (the last day of the lunar month) and shuo (the first day).

Cui Dan says: Lingzhi that grows on dung is born in the morning and dies by evening; insects of hui cannot survive until shuo, and those of shuo cannot survive until hui (both images mean life is too brief to experience the full cycle of lunar phases).

Zhi Dun says: It is also called Shun Ying—born in the morning and gone by evening.

Pan Yue (Pan Ni) says: It is the hibiscus (mujin), which opens in the morning and falls at dusk.

Emperor Jianwen says: It is hu sheng zhi zhi (“lingzhi that springs up suddenly”); the character hu (suddenly) is glossed with the fanqie kuang wu fan.

Lu Wenchao notes: Jun belongs to the lingzhi family and is written with the grass radical; identifying zhao jun with hibiscus follows Zhi Dun and Pan Ni and does not match the graph or older glosses.

Guo Qingfan adds: Huilin’s Yiqie jing yinyi (General Sound-Meaning of All Scriptures), citing Gujin foda lunheng, and Taiping yulan citing Sima Biao, agree in substance with this commentary; Taiping yulan also records that in Jiangdong it was called tu jun (“earth fungus”), also known as dao chu (“Way’s kitchen”).

Wang Yinzhi notes: The Huainanzi, “Responses of the Way” chapter, quotes this line as zhao xiu (the received Huainanzi has zhao jun, altered by later hands to match Zhuangzi). Li Shan’s note to the Wen xuan, “Discourse on Fate,” and Taiping yulan citing the Huainanzi also have zhao xiu. Gao You glosses: “Zhao xiu is a worm that lives only from morning to evening; it lives on water, looks like a silkworm moth, and is also called zi mu.” On this reading, zhao xiu is an insect name, like huigu; zhao jun and zhao xiu are merely phonetic variants—not lingzhi and not hibiscus. The line above, “what do those two creatures know,” speaks of the cicada and the dove (xue jiu); here “not knowing hui and shuo” should likewise refer to such a small creature as zhao jun / zhao xiu, not to plants.

This passage comes from the collated notes and exegesis in the Zhuangzi Jishi (Collected Explanations on the Zhuangzi), clarifying what the Zhuangzi means by “morning mushroom,” “huigu” cicada, and “dark of night / new moon” (hui/shuo). Below is a plain-language account of each layer of meaning.

On “chong” (insects/creatures) and knowing vs. not knowing

Commentators hold that the “chong” here are beings with a little awareness, which is why Zhuangzi can speak of them as “knowing and yet still speaking of not knowing”; for plants and the like, which have no awareness at all, there is no need to stress “not knowing.” On Wang Xianqian and others’ reading, this makes sense. The Guangya lexicon writes the morning fungus with a “chong” radical, because it refers to fungus-like things treated as tiny worm-like life, hence the character from “chong.”

“Hui” and “shuo”

“Hui” means nightfall and dusk; “shuo” means dawn and the day’s beginning. Some textual critics argue that if one only compares morning and evening within a single day, it is clearer to use “beginning and end of a month” as the analogy: what is born in the morning does not live until evening, yet it has still been through morning; what is born at night does not live until morning, yet it has still been through night. So “hui” and “shuo” here should not be reduced to calendar “last day of the month / first day of the month” counted by the day alone.

“Hui” and “huigu”

One manuscript also writes “hui” as “hui” (same meaning, different graph).

“Gu” is read like “gu.” Sima Biao says: hui gu is the cold cicada, also called ti lao, born in spring and dying in summer, or born in summer and dying in autumn. Cui Yan says: it is diao lao, or some say mountain cicada. Autumn singers cannot reach spring, spring singers cannot reach autumn. The Guangya says huigu is diao lao, the same as the “han jiang” (cold cicada type) in the Chu Ci.

(Pronunciation notes: ti as in ti, lao as lao or liao, diao as in diao, jiang as in jiang.)

Difference from what the Yulan cites

Per Guo Qingfan’s note: Taiping Yulan juan 949 cites Sima Biao as “hui gu, also named ti lao, spring birth summer death, summer birth autumn death, hence not knowing that the year has spring and autumn”—slightly different from the Sima text in the Shiwen (Sound and Meaning).

Summary of the main idea

This commentary helps readers with passages such as those in Xiaoyao You (Free and Easy Wandering): very short-lived small creatures (morning fungus, huigu cicada, and the like) cannot live through a full cycle of day and night, seasons, or years, so they “do not know hui and shuo” or “do not know spring and autumn.” Commentators cross-check graphs (chong vs. fungus, hui vs. huigu), debate whether hui/shuo means one day or a longer span, and cite old books and pronunciations to show that Zhuangzi uses these images to speak about the limits of knowing and the length of life—not to compile a dictionary entry for its own sake.

Commentary: Mínglíng and Dàchūn are both names of trees. These trees take the sprouting of leaves as spring and the falling of leaves as autumn. Mínglíng grows south of the state of Chu and counts two thousand years as one year. The “high antiquity” mentioned here refers to the era of Fuxi. Dàchūn had already grown very old in high antiquity and takes thirty-two thousand years as one year. Mínglíng blooms only at five hundred years, and Dàchūn sheds its leaves only at eight thousand years; both stretch the seasons of spring and autumn to an extreme length, hence they are called “great years.”

Textual notes: In some editions Míng is written as Mǐng, with the same pronunciation. Li Yi on Líng: Mínglíng is the name of a tree produced in Jiangnan; it takes leaf-sprouting as spring and leaf-fall as autumn; this tree counts two thousand years as one year. Lu Wenchao notes: Checking the Shuowen, it says five hundred years for spring and five hundred for autumn; since spring and autumn are mentioned, winter and summer are included, so it should say one thousand years counts as one year. Below, for Dàchūn it should likewise say this tree counts sixteen thousand years as one year, not thirty-two thousand. Qing Fan notes: In the Qimin Yaoshu, Líng is written as Líng (cold), citing Sima’s comment: the tree grows in Jiangnan, one thousand years as one year (omitted in the interpretive text). Dàchūn: reading chūn with the chǒu lún fanqie. Sima says: Chūn is a tree name, namely hibiscus (mùjǐn). Cui’s gloss gives the reading huá, the same. Li says: it grows in Jiangnan; another view says it grows south of the Northern Gate. This tree counts thirty-two thousand years as one year. Qing Fan notes: The Qimin Yaoshu cites Sima: it is hibiscus, counting sixteen thousand years as one year, also called shùn chūn—slightly different from what the interpretive text quotes.

[Commentary]

When a person’s age and wisdom differ as greatly as described in the text, that gap is worth grieving over compared with what ordinary people feel as sorrow. Yet the multitude never grieve over this because each person’s inherent nature has its own limit. Once one understands that limit, not even the slightest comparison with others is warranted—what in the world would there be left to grieve? Things never envy the small because they are large; it is always the small that envy the large. Thus the distinction between large and small has its allotted place and cannot be altered by envy or desire. When envy and craving reach their end, that layer of burden can be cut off. Sorrow arises from burden; when burden is exhausted, sorrow disappears. There has never been anyone whose xingming (nature and life) remained unsettled after sorrow had vanished.

[Subcommentary]

Peng Zu, surname Xie, personal name Keng, was a great-grandson of Emperor Zhuanxu. Skilled at nurturing life, he could regulate the cauldron; he once presented pheasant broth to Yao, who enfeoffed him at Pengcheng. His Way could be taken as a model for others, hence he is called Peng Zu. He passed through Xia and Yin down to Zhou and lived to eight hundred years. “Du” (te) means “alone” or “only”: because his years were extremely long, his fame alone was transmitted in the world. When people compare themselves to Peng Zu, it is truly saddening; those who do not grieve do so because Peng Zu received a nature of long life, not the same kind as themselves—they set him outside their speech and dare not sigh in grief for him. From this one knows that “life has its boundary”: it is not only Peng Zu—even one who differs from you by a hair’s breadth cannot be reached; then the great tree (chun) and the morning mushroom (jun) may be regarded equally, Peng Zu and the short-lived (shangzi) may be discussed on the same footing; each keeps its allotted place, and xingming is at peace.

Peng Zu

Commentators from various schools say that Peng Zu’s given name was Keng, that he was a minister of Yao, enfeoffed at Pengcheng, and that he lived from the eras of Yu and Xia down into the Shang—seven hundred years—so that he was famed for long life and breadth of experience.

The Shiben records that his surname was Jian (read jian), his given name Keng; under the Shang he served as Keeper of the Archival Collections (shoucang shi), under the Zhou as Historiographer beneath the Pillar (zhuxia shi), and lived eight hundred years. Another tradition holds that Peng Zu was Laozi. Cui Zuan says he was a minister of Yao, held office under the Shang, and lived seven hundred years.

Wang Yi’s commentary on Chuci, “Heavenly Questions,” says: Peng Keng is Peng Zu, who served Emperor Yao; even at seven hundred years he still lamented that he had not lived long enough—there are sayings such as “regretting that the pillow is high while the spit falls far” (a figure for feeling that, despite great age, one’s time is still too short).

Lu Wenshao notes: in the Yupian, the surname Jian is given the fanqie zijian qie, which fits the old reading; to follow the Guangyun and read it as jian (the homophone used for “commentary slip”) would be incorrect.

Guo Qingfan adds: the Shenxian zhuan (Biographies of Immortals) calls Peng Zu Keng a great-great-grandson of Emperor Zhuanxu; by the end of the Yin dynasty he was already seven hundred sixty-seven years old and still unimpaired, and afterward went west to the region of Liusha—he did not die of old age. According to the genealogical table in Shiji, “Hereditary House of Chu”: Zhuanxu begot Cheng, Cheng begot Juanzhang, Juanzhang begot Chongli; Chongli was put to death by Diku, his younger brother Wuhui succeeded as Director of Fire (huozheng), Wuhui begot Luzhong, and Luzhong begot Peng Zu. On this reckoning Peng Zu should be the son of Luzhong, who was the great-great-grandson of Zhuanxu—in ritual kinship terms a “descendant from a remote ancestor” (laisun). Cheng Xuanying’s commentary is mistaken because the Shenxian zhuan has “great-great-grandson of Zhuanxu.” The Shiwen cites Wang Yi’s Chuci zhangju as reading “great-great-grandson of Diku,” which is also wrong: Diku was in fact Zhuanxu’s nephew; Peng Zu was the great-great-grandson of Cheng, son of Zhuanxu—by generation, Diku’s grand-nephew’s great-great-grandson.

Separately: “te wen” follows the characters as written; “Cui’s text” has “dai wen”; “zhi xuan” is read xuan; “hao fen” is given the fanqie fu wen fan, and also fang yun fan.

Plain-Language Commentary

Tang (King Cheng Tang) questioned Ji—a sage said to excel at divination and distinguishing things—and Zhuangzi held that what was asked comes down to this very point: every thing has its own limit and proper place; go along with that and things flow smoothly, without forcing comparisons.

In the far north, where not even a hair can grow, lies a dark sea called the “Heavenly Pool.” In it lives a fish whose body spans thousands of li; no one can say how long it is—its name is Kun. There is also a bird called Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging from the sky. Riding the whirling fuyao (cyclone), it rises ninety thousand li, pierces the mist, bears the blue sky on its back, and only then plans to fly south to the southern Ming Sea (again, the Heavenly Pool / great sea).

The chixiao (a small bird) mocks it: “Where is it even going? I leap with all my might, get no higher than a few ren, then drop back down, flitting among wormwood and brush—that’s flying enough for me. Where else does it need to go?” That is the gap between small and large: the small take their little range of movement for “flight”; the large aim at distance and a higher horizon—they cannot be measured by the same yardstick.

This commentary explains the background of Tang (also called Cheng Tang), founding ruler of the Shang, and the setting for his discussion of the Way with the worthy Jī (in the Liezi the name appears as Xià Gé; jí and gé sound alike, so the text may be a transmission error).

Tang was a descendant of the ancient emperor Kù and of Qì, surnamed Zǐ, personal name Lǚ, style name Tiānyǐ. His mother was Fúdū; legend says she conceived him after seeing white vapor pierce the moon. Records describe him as broad below and full above, nine feet tall; under the Xia he held a fief, won people by sage virtue, and many lords submitted. The Xia ruler Jié was without the Way and once imprisoned Tang at Xiàtái; after Tang escaped, he allied with the lords at Jǐngbó, faced Jié at the ruins of Kūnwú, and fought at the wilds of Míngtiáo; Jié was defeated and fled to Náncháo. After Tang overthrew Jié, he offered the realm to Wùguāng, who refused; Tang then took the throne, made Bó his capital, and the state later took the name Shāng—the founding lord of the Yin-Shang dynasty.

Jī was a worthy man of Tang’s time, also called Tang’s “Erudite”; in the Zhuangzi and related tradition he appears as Xià Gé (jí and gé are near in sound, and annotators treat this as a possible slip). As a worthy, Tang treated him as a teacher and asked him about the utmost Way. The gist of the passage is that the nature of things differs and each has its allotted place; one should go straight along that nature and entrust oneself to what is natural. Yin Tang asked Jī for further instruction on a very deep point; Zhuangzi approves the question, hence “shì yǐ” (“just so” / “the question hits the mark”).

This expository note supplies historical and biographical background for the Zhuangzi passage in which Yin Tang questions Jī, and it traces the doctrinal thread that “each thing has its portion; follow and entrust to the natural.”

This passage is not a story but the kind of philological and explanatory work classical commentators did when annotating the Zhuangzi: how to read personal and place names such as “Tang” and “Ji,” and what the “Sub-commentary” (Shu) section is saying.

On who “Ji” is

Li Yi says: Ji was a worthy man in the time of King Tang of Shang; others say he was Ji Zi. Cui Zhuan says he belonged to the circle of Qi Xie, the one who knew about the “Dark Spirit” and the great chun tree. One abbreviated version takes Tang as “vast” and Ji as “small,” treating them as allegorical names.

Yu Yue holds that Li’s view—that Ji was a worthy of Tang’s era—is correct, and that reading Tang and Ji as symbols of “large” and “small” is likely the work of people who had not read the Liezi carefully.

Guo Qingfan, following the Liezi “Questions of Tang” chapter, records that Tang of Shang questioned Xia Ge; Zhang Zhan’s note identifies Xia Ge with Xia Ji, styled Zi Ji, a worthy grandee of Tang’s time. In ancient texts ge and ji were homophones and often used interchangeably. For example, Jizi Cheng in the Analects appears as Gezi Cheng in the Han shu “Tables of Ancient and Modern Persons”; the Odes line “not ji in his desire” is cited in the Record of Rites, Fang ji, as “not ge in his intent”; and Marquis Ge of Zhuzao in the Han shu is read as ji in the Shiji “Hidden Commentary” (Suoyin). These cases mutually support the identification.

Meaning of the Shu (Sub-commentary) section

Xiu here means long. Ancient writers likened grass on the earth to the earth’s “hair.” The far north is bitterly cold and plants barely grow, hence qiong fa (“bald region”)—what people commonly call barren land. The kun fish is so vast that it stretches for thousands of li; no one can measure how long it is; the point is to stress its immensity. The Dark Sea and the kun-peng were already introduced earlier; they are repeated here because the text had cited Qi Xie as authority; bringing in the Liezi now is to show the account is not invention. The repetition is deliberate and solemn, to establish that there really are such great beings and such distant places.

On “Qiongfa” (Exegesis)

“Qiongfa”: Li Yi says that fa means hair or fur. Sima Biao says it refers to the region beneath the North Pole where no hair (i.e., no plants) grows. Cui Yan says it is land in the north where there is no vegetation—“hair” here can also mean grass. Geographical texts say that mountains take grass and trees as their fa (their “growth” or covering).

Qingfan’s note: “North of qiongfa” appears in the Liezi as “north of the north of qiongfa.” The History of the Northern Dynasties, “Biography of the Rouran,” states that the Rouran were descendants of the Xiongnu whose origins cannot be traced; they were cut down in the wilds of qiongfa and driven to lands where no one dwells. Qiongfa denotes the most remote, bitterly cold regions.

“Its breadth” and “several thousand”: phonetic glosses (gukang fan, sezhu fan, etc.); the same applies below.

Commentary (Section 3)

The great peng’s back is vast; in shape it is like Mount Song or Mount Hua. The whirlwind twists and bends like a ram’s horn. Then it soars past the blue sky and pierces the clouds, beating its wings in fierce flight, intent on crossing to the southern sea. Thus the Liezi, “Questions of Tang,” says: How would ordinary people know that such things exist? When Yu the Great traveled, he once saw it; Bo Yi knew it and gave it a name; Yi Jian heard of it and recorded it—what they spoke of was precisely this bird.

On “Yangjiao” (Exegesis)

Sima Biao says: when wind bends upward in curves, its shape is like a ram’s horn.

“And upward”: phonetic gloss (shizhang fan); the same applies below.

Comment (Section 4)

Each creature takes the nature it has received as its ultimate state and its own capacity as its limit. Xiang Xiu says: the two small insects have different wings, so the places they reach differ—one may soar at the Heavenly Pool, another may stop at the elm and sand pear; each is sufficient for its own body and does not understand why it is so. Now, when we discuss the distinction between large and small, each has its own natural endowment; neither can be reached by standing on tiptoe in envy, and each rests in its innate nature without grieving that it differs from others. Hence this point is stated again.

Commentary (Section 3, overlapping with the above)

The great peng’s back is huge as Song and Hua; the whirlwind twists like a ram’s horn. Then it mounts the azure heavens and cuts through the clouds—describing how it beats its wings and shoots upward with momentum that fills the sky (read together with the preceding passage: from its form and the wind’s shape to its rush southward).

Vernacular Explanation

Here, qie means “about to” or serves as a modal particle. Chi refers to a small patch of marsh; yan is a kind of small bird (the yanque, or finch-like bird). Eight chi make one ren (an ancient unit of length). Aoxiang means to sport, soar, and flutter about for pleasure.

A bird as small as the yanque need only hop and fly freely in a little marsh or chi marsh, and find contentment among wild grasses and thickets—it may then mock the Peng for “flying ninety thousand li” on such a long journey, and take pride in flying only within a few ren nearby. This is precisely about distinguishing how the natures of “great” and “small” differ: each is already sufficient in its own setting, and need not measure itself against the other—what is small has its own adequacy, what is great has its own, and each keeps to its place.

(The commentary adds: in older texts chi is sometimes written for chi; chi yan and chi yan alike refer to a small-bodied bird that cannot fly far; tengyue and aoxiang are phonetic reading notes; penghao means wild grassy thickets.)

Therefore, those whose talent suffices for an office, whose conduct can serve as a model in one district, whose virtue matches a lord, and who in a whole state could be summoned to serve—they view their achievements much like the self-satisfaction in the “distinction between small and great” described above.

Song Rongzi (a Warring States thinker who held that one should “feel no shame inwardly and no embarrassment before others outwardly”) still only smiled at this. Even if the whole world praised him, he would not try harder on that account; even if the whole world condemned him, he would not be cast down. He could draw the line between “inner” and “outer,” and distinguish the bounds of honor and disgrace—and he stopped there. In the world he did not anxiously chase fame, profit, and rivalry with others. Even so, his level still did not count as “complete”; there remained ground on which he had not fully “stood.”

Liezi (a figure in tradition who attained the Way) could ride the wind, light and free, and return only after fifteen days. He likewise did not hotly pursue blessings and profit. Thus, though he need not walk on his feet, he still had to rely on “wind”—he depended on something and was not wholly at ease.

As for one who accords with the inherent “correctness” of Heaven and Earth, who mounts the changes of yin and yang and of wind, rain, dark, and light—the “six qi”—and wanders in a realm without end, what would such a person still depend on? Hence Zhuangzi says: the Perfect Person (Zhiren) has no fixed “self”; the Divine Person (Shenren) shows no recognizable “merit”; the Sage (Shengren) has no “reputation” to display.

Commentary

This passage still follows the preceding text, describing how people, once born into the world, each settle into their proper place. “State” (guo) refers to the domains of the five ranks of feudal lords; “district” (xiang) denotes the administrative unit of twelve thousand five hundred households. Some have intelligence and ability enough to hold an office; some enjoy such repute among peers in their district that they stand out; some possess virtue broad enough to face south as ruler, governing a state and bringing peace to the people. These three kinds of people receive different allotments of endowment, and their high and low stations differ—but each, within the scope of what they can actually bear, is not inherently “less than” anyone else. One looks at what one can accomplish, much as a bird finds its joy within its own stretch of sky.

Textual notes (pronunciation and glosses)

In Zhi xiao, zhi is read with the zhi (wisdom) pronunciation; xiao is read with the fanqie hu jiao. Xing is read with the fanqie meng. Bi is read with the fanqie pi zhi, or in Xu’s reading fu zhi. Li Yun: bi means to match or align with others. Er zheng is read as the characters indicate. Sima Biao says zheng means trustworthiness; Cui and Xiang say zheng means accomplishment.

Qing Fan notes: In the textual notes and Guo Xiang’s commentary, “er zheng a state” is not glossed separately; the Cheng commentary wrongly treats er as a adversative particle. Here er should be read as neng (ability, to be able)—in antiquity er and neng were phonetically close and often interchangeable. Opposed to “office, district, ruler, state” is the set “wisdom, benevolence, virtue, ability”; then er is clearly not a rhetorical turn-marker. Huainanzi, Yuandao, and other works also show er and neng used interchangeably; the pairing of office/district/ruler/state with wisdom/benevolence/virtue/ability supports reading er as neng on grounds of parallel structure in the text.

[2]

Commentary: “Zi” is an honorific for someone of virtue; Master Rong (Song Rongzi) had the surname Rong and was from the state of Song. “Youran” means “still” or “even so.” Although Master Rong could forget “having” (gain, loss, reputation), he had not yet fully released attachment to “non‑having,” so he could still be laughed at. Officials cling to rank and stipend; those who seem detached may still scorn others in their hearts. Seeing this shows they had not truly equalized things. Earlier, small laughter toward great shows that one of great virtue need not boast; here, great laughter toward small shows that those in low station need not climb after high rank—yet to say that nature and life still cannot rest easy at that point is hard to square with the reasoning.

Textual notes: Song Rongzi: Sima Biao and Li Yi say he was from Song; Cui Zhuan says he was a worthy. Youran xiao zhi: Cui and Li gloss it as the manner of laughing; another reading takes you as “still finding it laughable.”

[3]

Commentary: “Ju” means all, entirely; “quan” encouragement or reward; “ju” (in jia ju) resentment or dejection. Master Rong followed his nature and held to the Dao, standing aloof above the common world: if all under heaven praised him, he would not be extra encouraged; if the whole realm blamed and slandered him, he would not be further cast down—because he truly knew what he had gained and where he could rest.

Textual notes: Yu zhi: “Yu” read like yu. Jia ju: “Ju” pronounced ci lü fan, meaning to ruin or to dishearten.

[4]

Commentary: Master Rong understood: inwardly one does not fix on a stubborn “self,” outwardly one does not treat things as solidly real; letting go on both sides, forgetting both things and self, he therefore held the inner–outer distinction steady and did not drift off center.

Commentary (short note): Gather “self” inward and treat outer things lightly.

[5]

Commentary (short note): Elevating oneself and belittling others.

Commentary: (This note is brief; the gist is to criticize a mindset opposite to Master Rong’s “releasing both inner and outer”—taking oneself as honorable and others as shameful.)

Commentary: Forget the urge to be encouraged or discouraged by praise and blame; treat poverty and prosperity, honor and disgrace as the same. Then one can turn the light inward and clarify the mind, use the abstruse mirror to reflect things without fixating on outer conditions, and no longer put “self” on the inside and “things” on the outside, or take oneself as honorable and others as shameful.

Textual note: In “zhī jìng,” “jìng” is read with the fanqie jū-lǐng. “Jìng” and “jìng” (boundary/realm) were often used interchangeably in ancient writing (Qing Fan: the received gloss has “jìng”; in old books “jìng” and “jìng” commonly interchange).

[6] Annotation: One cannot go beyond this level any further.

Commentary: “Sī” means “this”; “yǐ” means to stop or reach an end. Song Rongzi’s wisdom and virtue roughly stop here.

Textual note: In “néng fù,” “fù” is read with the fanqie fú-yòu.

[7] Annotation: Self-sufficient in one’s own person, therefore one appears at ease in the world.

Commentary: “Shuòshuò” is like “jíjí,” the sense of eager, pressing pursuit. Song Rongzi followed his nature in plain simplicity and went straight ahead by straightforward principle; he never used cleverness to hunt for gain or enslaved his mind to “being on the Way.” Dwelling outside things, he was not jíjí.

Textual note: “Shuòshuò”: pronunciation shuò (same below); Xu Miao reads suò-lù; another reading sāng-lǚ; Sima Biao: like jíjí; Cui: urgent, pressing; Emperor Jianwen read suò-yù, meaning “to count.” “Gù xián”: read xián; some texts write “xián” (leisure).

[8] Annotation: He could only hold fast to his own correctness; he had not yet reached the point of being all-accommodating toward everything.

Commentary: “Shù” means to establish, to stand. Although Rongzi had a side of awakening, he was stuck in one-sided fixation: the heart of wúdài (non-reliance on externals for free wandering) was not yet established, the savor of carefree wandering was not yet attained, and wisdom and virtue were still incomplete.

Textual note: “Wèi shù”: Sima Biao says shù is lì, to stand; “ultimate virtue” was not yet established.

[9] Annotation: “Língrán” describes a light, subtle appearance.

【Commentary (yishu)】

Lie is the surname and Yukou the given name; he was a man of Zheng. He lived in the same era as Duke Mu of Zheng (Duke Xu), studied under Master Lin of Huqiu, and wrote a work in eight scrolls. He attained the way of the wind immortal (fengxian): he could travel by riding the wind, his body light as if soaring in cool clarity—hence he was called one who excels at riding the wind.

【Textual notes (shiwen)】

Lu Deming’s notes on the Liezi: a man of Zheng named Yukou who attained fengxian and traveled by riding the wind, contemporary with Duke Mu of Zheng. “Ling” is read ling.

(Qing Fan’s note: Chuxue ji, Taiping yulan, and others cite Sima Biao as saying Lie Yukou of Zheng—lingran describes a cool, light, refreshed appearance; the Wenxuan commentary cites the same. The shiwen entry is incomplete.)

【10】【Annotation】

If one still depends on something, then even if one can ride the wind, one cannot in a single span of time traverse the whole world.

【Commentary】

“Xun” means ten days. Lie Yukou, having attained fengxian, wandered the world yet had to return home every fifteen days; he still could not “ride everything” and be fully at ease—so one cannot say that in one span of time he covered the whole world.

【11】【Annotation】

Naturally he rode the wind—that is all; it was not that he repeatedly and deliberately sought to ride the wind.

【Commentary】

“Zhi” here means to obtain. Lie Yukou’s attainment of the blessing of fengxian was probably because he was indifferent to cold and heat, honor and disgrace—empty-minded and yielding to what comes—not because he drove his feelings to choose and reject or anxiously pursued it. The point is that the key to the Dao lies in forgetting the heart-mind; if one deploys cleverness and enlists discursive thought, one is far from the Dao.

(Jia Shifu said: “Wei shushu ran” is like Liji’s “under heaven there is only one person”; zhifu means fully attaining natural well-being; riding the wind still waits for heaven’s mechanism to stir. Guo Xiang said “naturally riding the wind to travel, not repeatedly seeking it”—Jia Shifu held this was mistaken.)

【12】【Annotation】

Without wind one cannot travel—that necessarily depends on something external; only “riding everything” is without dependence.

【Commentary】

(This note repeats the above: without wind one cannot travel—there must be dependence; only one who rides everything is without dependence.)

Commentary: Rising lightly on the wind—though one need not walk, without wind one cannot fly; one still depends on something external. From the passage about serving as a local official down through Song Rongzi, Lie Yukou, and the others, each is compared in rank of virtue and ability; none has reached the state of utterly forgetting the self. In the end, all still “depend on something.”

Only by conforming to the nature of all things, roaming at ease amid change and flux, not forcing action yet letting everything come about naturally, can one truly grasp the marvelous realm of carefree roaming (xiaoyao you).

[1.3] Commentary: Heaven and earth are where the myriad things return; if the myriad things have not awakened to this, they still belong to the “dependent.” The same point is stressed: only by roaming in transformation according to one’s nature, without clinging or straining to make things succeed, can one fully realize the wonder of carefree roaming.

Note: Heaven and Earth are the collective name for the ten thousand things. Heaven and Earth take the ten thousand things as their substance, and the ten thousand things must take naturalness (ziran) as their proper standard. What is called naturalness is being so without deliberate action—not becoming so only through forced contrivance. That the great peng can soar high, the marsh quail can fly low, the chun tree can live long, and the morning mushroom lives but a day—all such are capacities endowed by naturalness, not something human effort can wrench into being. Because they arise without acting and thus of themselves, this is the right principle. Therefore, “riding the correctness of Heaven and Earth” means following each thing’s own nature; “steering the transmutations of the six qi” means roaming at ease along the way of change. Go on like this—where would any limit be? Wherever you meet, you ride along—why need anything else to depend on? This is the carefree wandering (xiaoyaoyou) in which the person of supreme virtue is mystically one with things and self. If one still depends on something, then even someone as light and subtle as Liezi cannot move without wind; one must first have something to rely on before one can wander freely—how much more so the great peng! Only one who is darkly united with things and follows the great transformation can be without reliance and always penetrate—and that is not merely one’s own penetration. Moreover, one does not strip those who still depend on things of what they depend on; as long as what they depend on is not lost, they are the same as the great penetration. Thus I cannot forcibly level those who depend and those who do not; as for each settling in its own nature, the heavenly mechanism opening of itself, receiving yet not knowing—I cannot sort these out by making distinctions. If even the un-reliant cannot be fully separated from the reliant, how much less can one draw clear lines among the reliant, who still differ in greater and lesser dependence!

Commentary: Heaven and Earth are the general name of the ten thousand things; the ten thousand things are another name for naturalness. As for the six qi, Li Yi says: the rosy clouds of dawn, the full yang of midday, the flying spring at sunset, the massive torrent at midnight, together with the two qi of Heaven and Earth, make six qi in all. How much more so among those who depend on things—there are still distinctions of greater and lesser!

This passage collects and compares how earlier commentators explained the term liu qi (six qi) in the Zhuangzi.

Sima Biao held that the six qi are the six kinds of natural atmospheric influence: yin and yang, wind, rain, hui (dimness or obscurity), and ming (brightness).

Li Yi held that the six qi are zhaoxia (morning glow at daybreak), zhengyang (direct yang at midday), feiquan (the “flying spring” phase at sunset), hangxie (the deep-night qi), plus tianxuan (the deep black of sky) and dihuang (the yellow of earth)—six in all.

Wang Yi, commenting on the Chuci, cites the Lingyang Ziming jing: in spring one takes zhaoxia (yellow qi before sunrise); in autumn lunyin (red-yellow qi after sunset); in winter hangxie (qi of the northern deep night); in summer zhengyang (qi of the southern midday); together with qi of tianxuan and dihuang, called the six qi. (In the text, the first character of hangxie is glossed by the fanqie hu-dong, the second by xia-jie.)

Zhi Dun likewise took the qi of heaven, earth, and the four seasons as the six qi.

Guo Qingfan observed that these schools do not agree on what “six qi” means. Sima’s yin-yang, wind, rain, hui, and ming is the oldest line of interpretation. Li’s daybreak, midday, sunset, deep night, plus tianxuan and dihuang is more forced. Wang Yi and Zhi Dun treat heaven-earth-four-seasons qi as six qi; heaven-and-earth qi is vast beyond measure, and the four seasons all receive qi from heaven and earth, so it seems awkward to set the four seasons alongside heaven and earth to make up “six.”

Wang Yinglin said the six qi are shaoyin jun huo, taiyin shi tu, shaoyang xiang huo, yangming zao jin, taiyang han shui, and jueyin feng mu—with fire counted twice. Heaven takes six as its measure, so qi completes one full cycle in six phases. The Zuozhuan quotes Yi He: heaven has six qi (note: yin, yang, wind, rain, hui, ming), which give rise to the five flavors—matching what the Suwen calls the numbers five and six. (Quan Zuwang: “Heaven five, earth six” appears in the Yijing; “Heaven six, earth five” appears in the Guoyu passage on hui and ming, giving rise to the five flavors.)

This passage comes from a commentary and mainly discusses different accounts of the six qi.

On the “numbers five and six” in the Suwen

This touches on the issue of the numbers “five” and “six” in the Suwen.

Quan Zuwang’s view

Quan Zuwang said: “Heaven five, earth six” appears in the Zhouyi; “heaven six, earth five” appears in the Guoyu. Hence the Hanshu “Treatise on Pitch Pipes and the Calendar” says “five and six—the central pairing of heaven and earth.” But the account in the Zuozhuan does not match the Suwen.

Shen Kuo’s Mengxi Bitan on matching the six qi to the six spirits

Shen Kuo wrote in the Bitan: practitioners match the six qi to the six spirits. So-called Azure Dragon is the Jueyin qi of the east; the other correspondences are similar. Only the north has two: Black Tortoise is the qi of Taiyang cold water; Soaring Serpent is the qi of Shaoyang minister fire. In the human body this corresponds to the kidneys—the kidneys also have two sides: the left belongs to Taiyang cold water, the right to Shaoyang minister fire; this is where Kan and Li intersect. Central Greater Yin damp earth is matched to Gouchen, corresponding to the spleen.

Two ways of understanding the six qi

Dispute over the six qi is extensive and unsettled. I think one can distinguish two lines of explanation:

First: the six kinds from the Hongfan—rain, clear weather, warmth, cold, wind, and season—that is, the six qi. Rain belongs to wood, clear weather to metal, warmth to fire, cold to water, wind to earth—these are the five qi; when the five qi each obtain their season, that is the harmonious qi of the Five Phases, and taken together they are called the six qi. Qi may be harmonious or perverse; when perverse it transforms, so there must be means to regulate it—hence “riding the transformations of the six qi.”

Second: the six qi are the six emotions. In the Hanshu, biography of Yi Feng, Yi Feng cites his teacher on the six emotions: the emotion of the north is fondness; fondness acts as Greedy Wolf, governed by shen and zi; the east is anger; anger acts as Yin Thief (the text may read “hunger”), governed by hai and mao; the south is aversion; aversion acts as Upright Chastity, governed by yin and wu; the west is joy; joy acts as Generosity, governed by ji and you; above is pleasure; pleasure acts as Wicked Deviation, governed by chen and wei; below is grief; grief acts as Fair Justice, governed by xu and chou.

Textual Notes on “zhi bian” and Related Readings

Earlier scholars offered two lines of interpretation worth keeping in mind. In the phrase “zhi bian,” the character traditionally written as “bian” (debate/distinction) should, by sense, be read as “bian” (change/transformation)—same graph, different reading in this context. Cui’s edition has “he” (harmony) here instead. Qingfan argued that “bian” in this passage stands in paired contrast with “zheng” (the upright/the correct) in what follows, so “bian” should be read as “change.” The Guangya lexicon likewise glosses this graph as “change.” In the Commentary on the Judgment attached to the Kun hexagram in the Book of Changes, the line “it is as if one had not changed early enough” appears in some Xun manuscripts with “change” where other texts have the debate graph—showing that in antiquity the readings “debate/distinction” and “change” often overlapped. Cui’s gloss as “harmony” is less convincing. For “wu hu” (“how/from where”), the first syllable is pronounced like “wu” (as in the note).

Note [14]

Only when one does not cling to a fixed “self” can one follow along with outer things; following outer things is how one reaches the utmost realm (zhi).

(Pronunciation notes in the source: “self” in “no-self” like “ji”; “wang”/“zhi” in “king”/“utmost” like “kuang,” with some editions reading “utmost” throughout.)

Note [15]

The ten thousand things are born from spontaneity (ziran); they never “thanked” spontaneity, yet they still cannot do without needle-and-stone medicine to restore balance. Thus when the principle is pushed to its limit, deliberate human contrivance vanishes from view. Here one merely follows along without adding extra “help,” merging with the highest principle—so it appears as “no merit” (wu gong).

(Pronunciation notes: the word for “needle” in “upon needle” may be read with one or another traditional fanqie spelling in commentaries.)

Note [16]

The title “Sage” (shengren) only means that each thing obtains its place and fully preserves its nature—it is not yet enough to name the deeper principle of how they each obtain their place.

Sub-commentary (shu)

Because one merges with the utmost (zhi) as a single whole, what shows outwardly is “no merit” (wu gong).

On “Words of the Utmost,” “Words of the Spirit,” and “Words of the Sage”

“Utmost” (zhi) speaks of essence; “spirit” (shen) speaks of function; “sage” (sheng) speaks of designation. Thus: as essence it is called “utmost”; as function it is called “spirit”; as designation it is called “sage”—in reality they are one. Reaching the utmost of subtlety is why it is called “utmost”; yin-yang transformation is hard to fathom, which is why it is called “spirit”; rectifying names and clarifying things is why it is called “sage.”

The same person can embody all three. To highlight differences in function and designation, the text splits them into “Perfect Person (zhiren), Spirit Person (shenren), and Sage (shengren).” These three are the kind of person described earlier as one who “rides the correctness of Heaven and Earth and drives the transformations of the six qi”—someone who aligns with the upright qi of heaven and earth and masters the changes of the six qi. Here the text sums up the virtue of such a person’s “non-dependence” (wu dai—not relying on externals), making clear essence and function, hence the concluding “therefore it is said.”

(Textual note) Various commentaries and manuscript copies differ slightly on characters such as jing/jing (border/end), yin/zei, zhi/wang, and zhen (poison), as typical of version variants; the overall meaning is unaffected.

Yao Offers the Empire to Xu You

Yao wanted to cede the empire to Xu You and said: “The sun and moon have already risen, yet the torch is not put out—isn’t competing with them in brightness utterly in vain! The timely rains have already fallen, yet you still ladle water to irrigate—isn’t that wasted effort compared with their moistening! When you stand up, the realm is at peace; I still occupy the throne, and even I see that as lacking virtue. Please take the empire.”

Brief context

This is a famous passage from “Free and Easy Wandering” (Xiaoyaoyou) in the Zhuangzi: Yao thinks Xu You is more virtuous and wishes to abdicate; Xu You later refuses, saying “fame is the guest of reality” and that he does not want the realm. The discussion of utmost/spirit/sage above prepares the concepts of the non-dependent Perfect Person, Spirit Person, and Sage; Yao and Xu You belong to the same theme of free wandering and non-dependence (wu dai).

Commentary: Yao was the son of Emperor Ku, surnamed Yiqi and named Fangxun. His mother Qingdu (legend says Emperor Ku conceived him after being moved by a red dragon) gave birth to him. He stood ten chi tall, with a broad forehead and full lower face, eight-colored markings between his brows, and feet planted in the position of the Wings star; he possessed sage virtue. At fifteen he was enfeoffed as Marquis of Tang; at twenty-one he succeeded his elder brother and took the throne, making his capital at Pingyang, and was styled Taotang Yao. He reigned seventy-two years, then abdicated in favor of Shun; he died at one hundred twenty-eight and was buried at Yangcheng, with the posthumous title Yao. By the standards of posthumous naming, “spreading goodness and transmitting sageness” yields the name Yao—referring to his merit in handing the realm to Shun.

Xu You was a recluse, surnamed Xu, given name You, courtesy name Zhongwu, a native of Yangcheng in Yingchuan. He hid on Mount Ji, took Nieque as his teacher, ate from the hills and drank by the river. When Yao learned of his worth, he wished to yield the throne to him. After Xu You heard this, he went to the river to wash his ears. Chaofu came to water his ox, led the beast aside, and said, “Don’t foul my water.” After Xu You died, Yao honored his tomb and gave him the posthumous title Duke of Ji—effectively Yao’s teacher.

Gloss on the text: “Yao” means Emperor Tang Yao. “Xu You” is the recluse who lived in seclusion on Mount Ji. Sima Biao says: a man of Yangcheng in Yingchuan. Jianwen says: of Huaili in Yangcheng. Li Yi says: courtesy name Zhongwu.

Commentary on passage two: “Blaze” (juehuo) means a torch or small fire. In the age of Shennong, rain fell every fifteen days—called timely rain. When sun and moon already shine, why borrow the light of a torch? When timely rain already pours, why rely on manual watering? Yao spoke in humble self-restraint, stepping back to advance another—hence these words, strongly honoring Xu You.

Passage one: (Continuing the sense of the classic) Yao said: My own eyes see my inadequacy; please give the realm to Xu You.

[Explanatory note]

In the phrase tianxia zhi (“the realm is well governed”), the character read zhi is pronounced according to the old fanqie spelling zhili fan (the traditional fanqie reading for zhi). The same sense and usage apply to zhi in the following phrases: yi zhi, zhu tianxia zhi, er zhi zhe ye, ji zhi, er zhi shi, er zhi zhe, and de yi zhi zhe.

[Textual note]

(1) The characters fu and de are emended to match the original Shuowen text.

Xuyou said: “You govern the realm, and the realm is already well governed. Must I still stand in for you as ruler—is it for the sake of ming (name/reputation)? Ming is the hanger-on of shi (the real substance); would I want to be that hanger-on? The jiaoliao (wren) builds its nest in deep woods and needs only one tree; the yanshu (mole, written yanshu in the text) goes to the river to drink and fills its belly—that is enough. Go back and rest, O ruler; I am of no use to the realm!” He also said: “Even if the cook does not prepare the meal, the shizhu (the officiant who recites the sacrificial invocations) will not step over the zunzu (the ritual vessels on the altar) to cook in his place.”

[Guo Xiang, note 1]

What can bring great order to the realm is the sort of person who “does not personally govern the realm.” Thus Yao brought the realm to great order through bu zhi (not governing in the intrusive sense), not by “governing every detail” until order appeared. Now Xuyou sees that the realm is already well governed, so there is no need for him to replace Yao as ruler. In fact the realm was brought to order by Yao—hence phrases like “you govern the realm.” The discussion could stop there; one need only follow the context. Yet some say: Yao ordered the realm by “going and governing,” while Xuyou, by “not governing,” made it possible for Yao’s ordering to succeed—that misses by a wide margin. The root of order in the realm lies in bu zhi; youwei (deliberate action) arises from wuwei (non-action). Taking one’s lesson from Yao is enough; there is no need to borrow Xuyou for support. If one thinks one must bow with folded hands and hide silent in the mountains and forests to count as wuwei, that is the language of the Zhuang–Laozi line, not what those in power of the age would accept. [Dangtu] refers to people stuck on the path of youwei who will not turn back—the flaw lies right there.

Commentary

“Govern” means to rule the realm; “already” means “by that time.” The point is: Yao had governed the realm for a long while; the realm was at peace and secure, and the four seas and eight directions were quiet and still—so why trouble yourself to yield the realm to me? That would be redundant and a waste of words.

Yet when you read the Zhuangzi original, it seems to belittle Yao and praise Xu You; when you read Guo Xiang’s commentary, it seems to give Xu You only limited approval and to esteem Yao more highly—why? Because the aim is to show that Fangxun (Yao) was a great sage, while Xu You and recluses of his kind were great worthies—and the paths of worthiness and sagehood are far apart. So Yao held court facing south at Fenyang and, in a certain sense, “lost” the realm; Xu You did not change with custom but dwelt alone on a high mountain—the difference between complete illumination and one-sided attachment can be seen clearly from this. Hence Zhuangzi, when invoking the theme of abdication, has remarks such as “the sun and moon have already risen, yet the torch still burns”; Guo Xiang, probing the mind of “non-reliance,” in turn advances the idea of “non-governance.” One may say this searches out the subtle and fits the sense of the text; understand it in this spirit and need not raise too many doubts.

Phonetic note

The two characters read neng ling are pronounced according to the fanqie li cheng fan (an old fanqie notation).

Section two — annotation

“Self-assertion” means standing over against things and taking oneself as the standard; “following things” means not opposing things but going along with the myriad beings. Thus Yao had “no counterpart” toward the realm (he did not treat himself as a ruler set over against the realm), whereas Xu You could be compared with Ji and Qi—why say so? (Guo’s note below should continue by explaining the difference between Yao and Xu You regarding “opposing things” versus “no opposition.”)

[Comment 2]

Those who assert themselves and set themselves against things are always struggling with the outer world; those who follow the natural course of things have no such opposition. Thus Yao had no “rival” under heaven, while Xu You belonged in the same category as Ju and Qi. Why? One who merges with the ten thousand things is what those things cannot leave behind. Therefore responding to things in a wondrous way without deliberate intent—transforming only as circumstances touch one, drifting like a boat with no mooring line: east or west is never a direction “I” must stubbornly hold—then in going forth one never fails to walk with the people, and wherever one arrives one never fails to take upon oneself the role of ruler of all under heaven. To govern as lord in this way is like heaven naturally suspended on high; that is the virtue of a true ruler. If one stands alone in proud aloofness atop a high mountain peak, unless someone deliberately clings to self and holds to one narrow school, how can one monopolize that lofty detachment? That is merely a person of the vulgar world—an “outer minister” apart from Yao. To put an outer minister in place of the inner sovereign is to have the name of ruler without the reality of true rulership.

[Sub-commentary]

Xu You hid on Mount Ji, free and at ease beside the Ying River; he found glory and profit as foul as mutton stench, and fame and reputation as filth. Yao earnestly invited him and was even willing to yield the throne. Had Xu You taken the position of the supreme ruler, he would have borne the name “lord of ten thousand chariots.” But names arise from reality: reality is inner, is master; name is outer, is guest. To abandon the master for the guest and discard the inner for the outer is not what recluses esteem—hence he said, “I would rather be the guest.”

[Notes on pronunciation]

“Ju and Qi”: Ju (Hou Ji, Zhou ancestor, named Qi) and Qi (Shang ancestor) were both ministers under Yao and Shun. The remainder consists of fanqie spelling notes and glosses on readings such as “ying of yingdui,” “fanhu,” “feifu/mingfu,” etc., omitted here.

Shu (Commentary): A Plain-Language Reading

Shu is expository commentary that explains the original text sentence by sentence. What follows concerns two images used in stories from the Zhuangzi.

The wren (jiaoliao)—also called the “clever wife bird,” artisan sparrow, female craftswoman bird, or peach worm—likes to build its tiny nest with deft skill in deep woods.

The tapir-mouse (yan shu) is as large as an ox, with reddish-black fur, feet like a river deer with three claws on each foot, ears like an elephant’s, and a white tail tip; it often goes to the river to drink.

For a bird to nest, one branch is enough—it need not lean on an entire luxuriant forest. For a beast to drink, being full is enough—it need not run all the way to a distant great river. Xu You (the legendary recluse to whom Yao wished to yield the realm but who steadfastly refused) was content with a humble thatched gate and woven-bamboo doorway; what he did not prize was the palace’s gilded gates and jade portals. He took coarse, simple fare as joy—why would he need rare delicacies and jade-like viands?