《庄子集释》Vol. 2

Plain-Language Explanation

Fragment of the classic text

The final “ye” (also) is a common closing particle in classical Chinese. Here it stands alone, which usually means the surrounding lines are lost; we can only work from what the commentary discusses.

Notes on pronunciation and meaning: “jiao jiao” and “yan shu”

• Jiao (in jiao jiao, the wren): The note gives a fanqie-style reading close to the reverse of “zi yao” in “zi yao.”
• Jiao (second character): Read liao. Li Yun says the jiao jiao is a very small bird. Guo Pu also says jiao jiao is the peach sparrow, a tiny bird.
• Yan shu (“reclining rat”): “Yan” follows the usual reading of the character. Li Yun identifies it as the xi shu (small mouse). The Shuowen entry for bing notes a bing shu that labors in jade (or “jade labor”); it also mentions a creature called yan shu.

Lu Wenchao points out that older editions did not write the word “yin” (pronunciation) in the phonetic glosses. By this book’s usual practice, whenever a reading is supplied for a character not visible in the main text or notes, “yin” should be marked—so it is added here to match that convention.

Are yan shu and xi shu the same animal?

Li Zhen and others once took Li Yun’s equation “yan shu = xi shu” as authoritative. Checking the Shuowen:

• Bing: a burrowing ground mouse, said in legend to transform from the shrike; also called yan shu. “Yan” sometimes appears in variant graphs; in common usage it is often written with the “mole” radical. The Yupian treats yan as a large rat; the Guangya and related works link it with bing shu and ground-dwelling rats. Tao Hongjing’s commentary on materia medica likewise mentions popular names such as “hidden rat” and bing shu, animals that tunnel in farmland and surface when dug out.
• Xi: a small mouse. The Erya says xi is a stinging kind of rat. He Xiu’s commentary on the Gongyang calls the xi shu one of the smallest mice. The Bowuzhi says the xi shu is the smallest among rats, whose bite may not hurt at once—also called the “sweet mouse.”

On this evidence, yan shu (bing / ground-burrowing rat) and xi shu (tiny mouse) are two distinct kinds in classical sources; to treat Li Yun’s “yan shu = xi shu” as a straight identity is mistaken.

Rough sense of annotation [4]

All things (or all people) are equal in being “useless” in a certain sense; only Yao seems to “possess something uniquely.” The point is that someone broad-minded and free of fixed bias does not cling to one corner of the world—so people under Heaven gladly look to him without growing weary.

(This note, together with the earlier discussion of birds, rats, and lexical detail, uses concrete philology to set off Zhuangzi’s themes of “useful versus useless” and the sage’s way of ordering the world; the above states only what the annotation itself says.)

Commentary

“Yu” means “I.” Xu You had few desires and lived in integrity; he refused Yao’s offer to abdicate in his favor, so he told Yao: You should hurry back to the imperial residence (huangwu, the “yellow hall” where the ruler lives) and return to court (ziwei, here standing for the Son of Heaven’s throne). Say no more about abdication and transfer of rule. The glory of ruling All under Heaven is useless to me; what would I do with the “nine-five” majesty of the Son of Heaven?

Textual notes (pronunciation)

Gui xiu hu jun (“Return and rest, O Lord”) can be read as a quatrain, with a break after hu and jun starting a new line. In Huai huo, huo is read by the fanqie hu-huo. In Yue tui, yue is read luo. In Bu yan, yan is read yu-yan.

Annotation

The kitchen steward (paoren) and the impersonator of the dead at sacrifice who recites the invocation (shizhu) each keep to their own office; birds, beasts, and the myriad things each rest content with the portion they receive; Emperor Yao and Xu You each settle into the situation they meet—this is the most truthful state of the world. When each has its place, what more is there to do? Self-sufficiency is enough. Thus Yao offered the realm and Xu You declined; the outward acts differ, yet in xiaoyao (carefree wandering) they are the same.

Commentary

Paoren is one who manages the kitchen and prepares meals, comparable to later offices such as those of the grand provisioner who supplies the ruler’s table. Shi is the spirit tablet in the Grand Ancestral Temple that represents the deity receiving sacrifice; zhu corresponds to later Grand Harmony (Taichang) or Grand Invoker (Taizhu) roles—holding the prayer board and reciting the invocation before the spirit tablet—hence the compound shizhu. Zun is a vessel for wine; zu is a vessel for meat. Kitchen steward and shizhu each have distinct duties. If the cook shirked and refused to enter the kitchen, the shizhu would not overstep his role, abandon the invocation, and go slice and cook meat for someone else. Likewise, when Emperor Yao abdicated the realm and ceased governing, Xu You would not leave the mountains and forests to take the throne. Hence the annotation: Emperor Yao and Xu You each rest content in the situation they meet.

Textual notes (pronunciation)

In Paoren, pao is read by fanqie bao-jiao and xu-fu-jiao, denoting the cook. The Zhouli (Rites of Zhou) includes an office of paoren. (Qing Fan’s note: the Shuowen… this passage is collation material and is omitted here.)

Commentary (meaning and pronunciation)

Paoren (kitchen steward): Pronounced similarly to bào jiāo; the person in charge of the kitchen. The Zhouli (Rites of Zhou) includes an office called paoren.

Qing Fan’s note: The Shuowen says páo means the kitchen. The Liji, “Wangzhi” (Royal Regulations), has “three times serving as the ruler’s kitchen steward” (sān wéi chōng jūn zhī páo); the commentary explains páo as what we now call the kitchen. The Zhouli commentary on Paoren says the character páo carries the sense of wrapping: bundling meat is called bāo, what is laid underneath is called jǔ. (One version lacks the character rén [person] under páo—that is incorrect.)

Shizhu (shaman and invoker): Pronounced zhī liù fǎn; one who conveys words to spirits and ghosts is called zhù (invoker).

Zun (wine vessel): Pronounced zǐ cún fǎn; some manuscripts also write it as zūn (honor/respect graph). (Lu Wenchao says: by ordinary usage zūn is the correct character.)

Zu (sacrificial stand): Pronounced xú cè lǚ fǎn.

Collation notes (variant readings in different editions)

(1) Yu Yue says: the original text should read “Am I to be the substance?” (wú jiāng wéi shí hū), parallel to the line above “Am I to be the name?” (wú jiāng wéi míng hū). The graphs for shí (substance) and bīn (guest) are close in shape, and the line was miscopied under the influence of “guest of substance” (shí zhī bīn yě) in the preceding sentence.

(2) The two characters dāng tú (on the road / in office) are supplied from the Shide Tang edition.

(3) The two characters zhī xíng: in Zhao Jianyi’s edition they read zhī dì (land of); in the Shide Tang edition tiān dì (Heaven and Earth).

Main text of the passage

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu: “I heard something from Jie Yu (a Chu recluse who often spoke as if mad). The words were grand but would not settle into anything solid; once spoken they were like water spilled—you cannot take them back. I was alarmed by what he said—it was like the Milky Way, with no visible shore; it diverged so far from ordinary people’s reasoning that it hardly seemed human.”

[Jian Wu and Lian Shu were both ancient figures who devoted themselves to the Dao. Jie Yu, surname Lu and given name Tong, styled Jie Yu, was a reclusive sage of the state of Chu and a contemporary of Confucius. He feigned madness and refused office, making his living by farming himself. When King Zhuang of Chu learned of his talent and virtue, he sent a hundred yi of gold and a four-horse carriage to invite him, but Jie Yu would not accept; later he wandered among famous mountains and great rivers with his wife on his back and a child on his head, and no one knows where he finally went. Jian Wu felt that Jie Yu’s talk was too lofty and lacked solid footing, so he asked Lian Shu what it really meant. “I heard words from Jie Yu” means “I once heard Jie Yu speak.” Zhuangzi uses these three worthies to speak about the sage Yao; what Jie Yu actually said will be set out below.

What Jian Wu heard from Jie Yu was broad and expansive, yet without a clear place to land; it only laid out the general drift once, so one could not go over it line by line and match each point. Having overheard this in private, he was both startled and afraid, as when one looks up at the Milky Way—so high and far that to chase its source seems never to reach an end.

“Tingting” suggests going off course and speaking bluntly without regard for others. Jie Yu’s words did not suit worldly taste; they often seemed excessive or off-key and did not pander to human feelings, so those “big talk” could not enter ordinary people’s ears (li er).

Lian Shu asked: “What exactly did he (Jie Yu) mean by that?”

The commentary explains that Lian Shu was pressing for what Lu Tong (Jie Yu) was really getting at; the point is to double-check what Jian Wu had heard earlier and what it was supposed to refer to.

Someone answered: “On Mount Miaogu there lives a spirit person. Her skin is white as ice and snow; her bearing is light and plain, like that of an unmarried maiden. She eats no grain from the five cereals, but takes in the pure wind and drinks dew. She rides the clouds, drives flying dragons, and roams beyond the four seas. Her spirit is gathered and still; she can keep the myriad things from harm and make the five grains ripen in abundance. I therefore took his words for wild exaggeration and could not bring myself to believe them.”

On readings such as tingting: commentators say tingting means going too far or missing the mark—also speaking straight out without regard for worldly opinion. Jie Yu’s language did not fit common usage; it often had that “excess,” and did not cling to worldly feelings, so grand talk sounded like something people in the lanes could not accept.

Again, dayou is read like tai; jing and ting have other ancient readings; Sima Biao’s text writes jing (stem); Li Yi says tingting means language that is sharp and over the top. Qing Fan notes: Liu Xiaobiao’s commentary on the Bianming Lun in the Wenxuan, citing Sima Biao, says ji is a cliff—meaning breadth like the Milky Way without bound; tingting is language of sharp excess. The Shiwen is defective here.

The jin in bujin is read like jin in “nearby.”

Lian Shu asked again: “What did his words say, then?”

The sub-commentary: this is turning the question back—what exactly was the meaning Jian Wu had heard?

This passage consists of commentary and sub-commentary on the Zhuangzi allegory of “Mount Guye far away—there dwells a spirit person.”

The annotation first explains that such passages teach through stories. The “spirit person” (shenren) is what we today call the sage. Though the sage sits in the hall of government, inwardly he is no different from being in the mountains and forests—how could ordinary people recognize him? People only see yellow robes and the jade seal and assume his heart is bound by rank; they see him crossing mountains and rivers and handling public affairs and assume his spirit (Shen) is worn down by toil—how would they know that one who has reached the “most ultimate” (zhizhi) level is not damaged by any of this? Placing a person of kingly virtue on this mountain shows that the world cannot truly know the sage, so the author lodges him in the farthest distance, beyond where sight and hearing reach. “Chuzi” (maiden who has not left home) means someone whose inner mind is not injured by external things.

The sub-commentary adds that “miao” means distant. The Classic of Mountains and Seas places Mount Guye beyond the four seas and speaks of a sacred being who meets the world as circumstances demand—yielding like Yao and Shun when that is fitting, taking up arms like Tang and Wu when that is fitting. “Chuoyue” suggests a soft, yielding appearance; “chuzi” is an unmarried woman. The point is that the sage’s stillness and activity answer to each other, so emptiness and presence are illumined together: in court yet no different from the wilds, he “harmonizes his light and mixes with the dust” (heguang tongchen)—living amid defilement without being stained. Ice and snow stand for purity, chuoyue for gentleness, chuzi for freedom from harm by externals, and Guye for extreme remoteness. Thus Yao’s towering virtue is shown as deep and subtle, and is therefore placed far away, outside the range of perception. All of this is allegory (yuyan); there need not be a real Mount Guye—forget the literal wording and grasp the intent. Here Jian Wu is repeating what he once heard, answering Lian Shu.

In plain terms: the commentators are unpacking Zhuangzi’s line about the spirit person on remote Mount Guye. The note says the spirit person is the sage. In the palace his heart is still like that of someone in the hills; the world cannot see this. Yellow robes and the seal do not cage his heart; mountains, rivers, and civil business do not exhaust his spirit—one at the utmost peak is not diminished by them. Putting the kingly sage on that mountain means people cannot know him anyway, so the text sends him where eyes and ears cannot follow. “Chuzi” means one whose inner self is not hurt by the outside world.

The sub-commentary: “miao” is “far.” In the Classic of Mountains and Seas, Guye lies beyond the seas, with a holy person who acts as the moment requires—modest like Yao and Shun or martial like Tang and Wu. “Chuoyue” is a delicate, yielding look; “chuzi” is a maiden not yet married, a figure for one unharmed by things. The sage matches movement and rest, so void and form shine at once: in court yet like the forest, blending light with dust, in a tainted world yet unstained. Ice and snow image cleanness, chuoyue softness, chuzi invulnerability, Guye boundless distance—all to praise Yao’s hidden greatness, hence the far, unseen mountain. It is parable, not geography; drop the letter and take the meaning. Jian Wu is relaying old hearsay to reply to Lian Shu.

Zhuangzi’s “Mount Gūshè” (Gūshè shān) refers to the region north of the Fen River. According to the supplementary notes that Qin Enfu wrote for the Liezi in the Qing period, Gūshè at Linfen in Shanxi is the Jiukong Mountain west of Pingyang Prefecture (roughly today’s Linfen area in Shanxi). In the sources for that stretch of country, there is no separate “South Gūshè” and “North Gūshè” as later literature sometimes describes.

When we compare this with Yin Jingshun’s commentary on the Classic of Mountains and Seas, the entries for “North Gūshè” and “South Gūshè” in the “Classic of the Eastern Mountains” (Dongshan jing) originally belonged, in the old arrangement, under the “southwestern ring of mountains” section of the “Classic of the Northern Region Within the Seas” (Hainei beijing). The name “Gūshè” as a general label for the area probably arose because several peaks nearby were all called Gūshè. The Shanhaijing text Yin used was a Tang-dynasty version; the ancient layout was likely as he describes. At some point in transmission, a copyist dropped or misaligned lines and inserted the “Mount Gūshè” entry from the Dongshan jing where it did not belong, which is how most editions read today. Fortunately the Liezi commentary can be used as a control to correct errors in the Shanhaijing.

Zhuangzi mentions Gūshè in two settings: once in connection with the “Northern Sea” and once in the Linfen region. Those should not be collapsed into a single mountain. (When Bi Yuan annotated the Shanhaijing and cited Zhuangzi, he mistakenly treated the two as one.) Much of the narrative is allegory, but the place-names usually have traceable references in the texts, so it is still worth sorting out philology and geography.

Qing Fan’s note: In antiquity “ice” (bīng) was often written with the character for “congealed” (níng). “Flesh like ice or snow” (jīfū ruò bīngxuě) belongs to the same family of imagery as the Book of Odes line “skin like congealed fat” (fū rú níngzhī)—both praise skin that is fair and smooth. The Customs and Mores Comprehensive Meaning (Fengsu tongyi), when quoting the ode, likewise says “both white and sleek.” The Shuowen treats bīng as the standard graph and níng as the vulgar form. The Erya gloss “bīng, fat” appears in Sun Yan’s version as níng. “Congealed fat” (bīngzhī / níngzhī) stresses slick whiteness; “ice and snow” (bīngxuě) stresses a cool, clear fairness.

On the reading of nuó in nuóyuē: Guo Pu gives chānglüè and túxué; the Zilin gives zhàngzhuó. Su Lin’s pronunciation in the Han shu commentary is “smooth” (huá). “Yuē” is read as in ordinary usage. “Nuóyuē”: Li Yi explains it as a soft, yielding look; Sima Biao as a beautiful, refined look.

Plain-Language Reading of Zhuangzi Collected Explanations

1. Word and Phrase Notes

Chuzi: An unmarried woman (a maiden still in her parents’ home).

Huangwu: The carriage used by the Son of Heaven, with a yellow silk canopy; some say it also refers to the imperial crown being wrapped in yellow.

Yuxi: The imperial seal; xi is read xǐ.

Ying and fu: Lu Wenchao notes that in commentarial texts, “ying fu” in the notes should be understood as ying fu (a whisk for dusting), not simply as tassels and ribbons on the crown. Fu is a vulgar form; the correct character is fu (ceremonial knee covers).

Qiaocui: A haggard, worn-out look on the face and in the spirit.

Zhizhizhe: Some editions read “zhizuzhe” (one who is fully sufficient).

Wangde: Some editions read “zhi” (ultimate).

Jueyin: The farthest reaches, the edge of heaven; yin is sometimes written xian (limit) in other versions.

2. [Comment] Spirit Men and the Five Grains

Main idea: Since everyone else lives on the five grains, yet the “spirit man” is different, the spirit man does not depend on grain for sustenance but receives the subtle qi of nature.

3. [Subcommentary] Sacred Persons and the Five Grains

Five grains: broom millet, panic millet, hemp, beans, and wheat.

Main idea: Sacred persons descend to aid the world, their bodies endowed with pure, refined spiritual substance, receiving the fine qi of yin and yang. Though they still conform to the myriad things and borrow from outer things, they do not rely on the five grains as ordinary people do; they lean on wind and dew to stay clear and empty, and are not easily altered by the cold and heat of the four seasons.

4. [Subcommentary] Riding Cloud Qi, Driving the Flying Dragon

Main idea: Wisdom penetrates and illuminates things without obstruction, without clinging to private mind, conforming to the myriad things—hence “riding cloud qi.” Without running fast yet naturally swift, changing without fixed form—hence “driving the flying dragon.” Resting upon the myriad things while the spirit transcends the four quarters beyond heaven and earth—hence “wandering outside the four seas.”

5. Pronunciation Notes

Xi: Glossed “xu ji fan,” i.e. read xī (same sound as “to inhale”).

[Annotation]

One who has attained the Way and in whom “spirit” (shen) rests in numinous clarity, and who has fathomed the subtlest principle, may sit quietly in an empty hall while the heart is mysteriously one with what lies beyond the four seas. Thus one can ride the two modes (liangyi) and command the six qi, dwell among ordinary people yet drive and use the ten thousand things. If toward things one is never contrary, one can ride drifting clouds; if toward the formless one carries all without limit, one can mount the flying dragon. Casting off the body and finding oneself—though calmly without waiting on anything, sitting in forgetfulness, walking in forgetfulness, forgetting yet still going—therefore moving as if dragging dry wood, stopping as if heaped dead ashes: this is what is called “spiritual concentration” (shen ning). Once spirit is concentrated, what is not concentrated can also each obtain its place. The world relies on what it sees and judges rashly; who is willing to believe this principle!

[Commentary]

“Ning” means stillness; “ci li” means illness; “the five grains are ripe” means a bountiful year. The sage’s form is like dry wood, the heart like dead ashes—root and trace at one moment, movement and stillness both wondrous; concentrated illumination secretly pervades, empty-hearted benefit to things—so the four seasons keep order, the five grains abound, people suffer no calamities, and things meet no untimely end. The sage in the world has this efficacy, yet Jian Wu had not awakened to the ultimate saying and took it for madness and would not believe.

[Textual notes]

This section consists of various schools’ phonetic glosses and collations of variant readings, for distinguishing characters when reading the classic—not doctrinal main text; omitted here in brief.

Lian Shu said: “Exactly. The blind cannot appreciate patterns and colors, and the deaf cannot appreciate the sound of bells and drums—can only the body be deaf or blind? The mind can be that way too.” He went on to say that what Jian Wu had just said was the sort of insight one might expect from “Shi Nu” (you, this person): if someone’s De (Virtue/Power) were so lofty that they could embrace all things, who would still bustle about treating the empire as a personal prize to chase? Such people cannot be harmed by external things; floods rising to the sky could not drown them, nor could droughts that melt metal and stone and scorch hills burn them. The dust and grime that rubbed off their bodies would be enough to mold sages like Yao and Shun—who would still take petty human affairs seriously?

A man of Song bought a zhangfu (a kind of ceremonial cap) intending to go to Yue, but the people of Yue cut their hair short and tattoo their bodies, so such caps were of no use at all. Yao governed the people under heaven and settled affairs within the seas, yet he went to Mount Miaoguye and south of the Fen River to visit four accomplished persons; when he returned he was despondent and lost, as if he had forgotten the empire altogether.

(Note: Lian Shu uses blindness and deafness as a metaphor for failing to grasp the supreme word and wondrous Dao; the realm of the spirit-person that Jie Yu described sounds like wild talk to Jian Wu—precisely a deafness and blindness of the mind.)

Vernacular Interpretation

[Commentary]

The sage’s mind can reach the utmost union of heaven and earth as the two modes, and exhaust the subtle principles behind the myriad changes of things. Thus they can grasp nature, merge with transformation, and adapt to whatever arises; they embrace all things broadly, and nothing falls outside their scope. People in troubled times turn to the sage for help, yet the sage has no deliberate, scheming mind. Since there is no such fixed intent, why not simply align with how the world actually moves? Clearly, those who penetrate the deepest principle and exhaust its finest points can harmonize with the nature of all things, shape the world’s teaching and transformation, and win a reputation like that of Yao and Shun—precisely because they constantly use “wuwei” (non-coercive action) to accomplish real achievement. Who would wear themselves out in anxious thought, treating governance as a pile of separate tasks to finish one by one, and only then call that “getting things done”?

[Exegesis]

“Zhi” is a modal particle; it can also carry a tone of praise. “Pangbo” means to blend and include everything. “Qi” means to seek or request. “Shu” means “who.”

“Zhi ren” praises Yao as a sage; “zhi de” praises Yao’s great virtue. It says the sage’s virtue matches the two modes of heaven and earth, and their Dao stands level with all kinds of beings—they unify the ten thousand things and guide the hundred spirits. When the age is corrupt and people are scattered in chaos, everyone looks for a great sage-king to settle the realm. Yet the sage is like an empty boat or a mirror hung in space: they respond to things without a fixed, selfish heart. Who would still strain body and mind to manage the realm, treating “doing work” as task after task, and only then claim they “can handle affairs”? That is why Laozi says “act through wuwei” and “handle affairs through non-busyness,” and also “Those who take the realm under heaven usually do so in a state of non-busyness; once they turn to busy meddling, they are not fit to take the realm under heaven.”

Explanatory notes on the text

The two characters pang and bo (often written pang and bo in modern forms) were read differently in ancient commentaries, and the graph sometimes appears as bang, with the same sense. The binome pangbo is glossed by Sima Biao as “mixed into one, wholly unified”; Li Zhen cites Han-dynasty usage for the sense of broad bestowal and all-covering extension, in line with phrases like pangbo qun sheng (“spreading over the myriad beings”). Here it continues the preceding word De (Virtue/Power): this virtue is about to spread widely over the ten thousand things.

Yi wei yi shi qi hu luan: here luan is used in the sense of zhi (order, peace)—as in the Yushu (Documents of Yu) line luan er jing (“in order and with reverence”), where luan means the world’s hope for peace. In shi qi, qi is close in sound to qi (to pray, to long for), hence “to seek, to hope.”

bibi: busy, flustered activity (note of Emperor Jianwen); in Sima Biao’s text the form is bibi (same reading). bu ying means not answering, not responding. ku si means painful, strained thinking.

Note [4]

If a person can rest in the injury they receive, then injury cannot injure them; if injury cannot injure them, outer things cannot injure them either.

Note [5]

Where there is no going that is not at ease, every place reached is fitting; if life and death do not change for oneself, how much less mere scalding water or drowning? Thus the zhiren (perfect person) is not weighed down by disaster—not because they deliberately avoid it, but because they advance in accord with principle and naturally meet what is auspicious.

Commentary (shu)

ji has the sense of “reaching, attaining.” Penetrating life and death, the mind no longer clings to death or life; harmonizing with water and fire, one is neither drowned nor burned. Even when meeting great calamities such as yang jiu or liu jin, the zhiren still does not get caught in disaster—not by fleeing, but by reasoning straight ahead and naturally converging with the auspicious. This matches Laozi’s “I practice wuwei (non-action) and the people transform themselves”: holding the tally of De, the shenren (spirit person) achieves without deliberate effort and will not take exhausting the world as their track; while the age longs for order, the sage transforms it through wuwei—that is precisely what is meant here.

Yao did not treat “possessing all under heaven” as anything weighty—much as people in the state of Yue had no use for the formal ceremonial cap (zhangfu) of the Central Plains: in each situation, that whole apparatus simply had no place.

Yet those who can truly set the world aside are often honored in people’s hearts as models. All admire Yao, but in the deepest sense Yao never truly “possessed” the world; he quietly emptied himself of power and rank and let his mind wander in a realm extremely remote and cut off from ordinary feeling. Outwardly he still stood above the ten thousand things and was revered by the world; inwardly he was never not in carefree roaming (xiaoyao).

The “Four Masters” (si zi) are mostly figures Zhuangzi invented to show that Yao is not only the “Yao” of common reputation. Yao’s reality is deep, obscure, and beyond the vulgar; what people see is only his traces, his name and form. To guess at inner obscurity from outer signs—inner and outer belong to different levels, and that is unsurprising. People only say “Yao is Yao”; how could they grasp his intent of quiet freedom from burden? If one must go overseas to seek the Four Masters yet understands Yao only as the Yao before one’s eyes, and then calls “drifting with the waves of things” (yu wu tong bo) carefree roaming, one has lost what xiaoyao really means.

Often the farthest goal looks closer when one follows the flow; the highest resting place sometimes lies in what is most ordinary and low. To insist on solitary height and take harsh extremes as the summit while refusing to shake off worldly ties is the way of “hermits of the valleys,” not people truly without dependence (wudai)—how then speak of reaching the utmost and roaming the infinite? (This point is repeated in the source with the same meaning: one cannot seek loftiness only in outward traces and forget true xiaoyao in inner obscurity and in yielding to the low.)

Here, zhi (governance) means ordering and governing the realm; zheng (policy) means instructing and guiding custom. The author combines both senses in a single analogy.

The Fen River rises in the Taiyuan region and flows west into the Yellow River. The north bank is called yang (the sunny side)—today’s Pingyang county in Jinzhou, on the north bank of the Fen, traditionally held to be where Yao established his capital. Yaoran means deep, remote, and empty stillness; sang here does not mean “lost” but forgetting and letting go of attachment. The so-called “Four Masters” (si zi) are interpreted by commentators as four levels: first, the root (ben); second, the traces (ji); third, neither root nor traces; fourth, transcending even “neither root nor traces.” The point is that Yao turned inward to reflect on the source of mind, saw the realm of the Dao, and went beyond these four distinctions—hence the text says he “went to meet the Four Masters.”

The sage has no fixed, prejudiced mind; he responds as things stir, and so can govern the myriad states and settle the nine provinces. Outwardly he still sits upright with the Four Masters in Fenyang, face to face in deep concentration; at the same time he directs all affairs, and the realm under heaven seems to him yaoran and sang—not neglect, but no longer bound by the world. This is “root and traces at once, substance and function together”: emptiness and presence seen together, movement and stillness in one moment. Thus Mount Guye and Fenyang are not two places; the mountain forest and the emperor’s yellow-roofed palace are not different on the Way. People cling to their own views and rarely trust such a state.

Ma Biao identifies the Four Masters with Nie Que and others—he has not yet grasped the deeper point; Liu Zhang forcibly links the Fen River to Mount She and muddles what is near at hand. The reading in this chapter differs somewhat from those accounts. Guo Xiang’s commentary says the Four Masters are probably a figure of speech, showing that Yao is not fixed on “this one Yao”; people only see Yao’s actions (traces)—how would they recognize his true mechanism merged with the Dao?

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi jishi (Collected Explanations to the Zhuangzi). It mainly discusses how to read and understand names and places in Xiaoyaoyou (Free and Easy Wandering)—such as Yao questioning Xu You, the “Four Masters,” Mount Guye (Guye), and “north of the Fen River” (Fenshui zhi yang).

Who are the Four Masters?

Simao Biao and Li Yi say they are Wang Ni, Nie Que, Pi Yi, and Xu You—the lofty figures named together in the text. (In Zhuangzi they are mostly parable figures; there is no need to treat them as historical persons from the annals.)

Fen River or Pen River?

Commentators disagree on how to read fen in “Fen River.” The Fen rises in the Taiyuan region; here Zhuangzi is constructing an image. In the versions of Simao Biao and Cui Zhuan the graph reads pen (“basin”) for “Pen water”—ancient usage sometimes made fen sound close to pen, referring to the same watercourse, not a separate river (Qian Daxin’s Yangxin lu explains this).

Where is Mount Guye?

Li Zhen notes: whether the Guye in the Classic of Mountains and Seas, Dongshan jing, lies within Jizhou cannot be settled from that text alone. The Suishu treatise on geography links it to the Linfen area; later people may have named a local hill “Guye” from this chapter’s phrase “north of the Fen”—or perhaps not.

Earlier Zhuangzi places Guye far off in the “Northern Sea”; hence the word miao (“remote”). Fenyang is where Yao dwells; if Guye were truly nearby, why add miao?

Li Zhen’s reading: Yao inwardly had no fixed obsession with “ordering the realm”; his mind was like that of the spirit-person of Guye—body in the hall of state with draped robes, mind roaming freely as if beyond the seas. So the mountain seems infinitely far, yet no different from sitting in the imperial capital.

(The Four Masters were never real persons to begin with; forcing a one-to-one match with history would be strained.) The exegetes’ expansions are all quite fine. The annotator says he once argued that “mountain names must not be lumped together,” yet feared straying from Zhuangzi’s abstruse intent—hence this further discussion here.

Pronunciation and textual variants

Yaoran: Xu’s and Guo’s readings differ; Li Yi says yaoran is like changran (“distressed/absent”); Lu Wenchao thinks Guo Pu took a character as zhi (to set) and therefore gave that pronunciation.

Sang qi: same sound as in a certain note. Jueming: reading wang ding fan. Zhi jing: read jing; one manuscript has jing (border/realm); Lu Wenchao says modern notes use jing.

This passage is a textual note from Zhuangzi Jishi, not Zhuangzi’s main text. It discusses which character belongs in a given place and how that reading should be understood.

[Textual note] marks editorial opinions on the manuscript tradition. The first point states that one passage was wrongly cited with something missing; in an old manuscript from Fangying Guan on Tiantai Mountain, the character written as “blind” (mang) appears instead as “close the eyes” (ming), or alternatively as gu. The second and third points follow the Song edition in changing the character at “suo” and follow the commentary in changing the character at “ming.” The fourth says the character read as sai (from the “cave” radical, phonetic component) was emended according to the Baojing Tang edition, but the original carved edition still seems wrong.

In Shuowen, that graph means “to block or stop,” formed from the “cave” radical with a phonetic element. Xu Xuan’s pronunciation note is close to “dainian,” but its rhyme category and phonological class do not match wupian; it is probably not the word intended here. If one used “sai-ran” to describe “losing the world,” the sense would not run smoothly. The suspicion is that Guo Xiang’s version originally had ming (“dark/obscure”), and in the commentary two characters, “written as ming,” dropped out after “Guo.” In classical usage ming often interchange with ming (“close the eyes”) and mian (“sleep”). Lie Yukou has “and sweetly mian in the village of nowhere,” where the commentary gives an alternate graph ming, pronounced like mian. Yu Yue held that Huainan, chapter Zhuzhen, “sweetly ming in the muddy depths” draws on this line, and that “sweet ming” means “sweet sleep.” Shuowen: “ming, to close the eyelids,” from “eye” plus ming, with ming also as phonetic; Xu Xuan says the vulgar modern separate writing as mian is incorrect. Hanshu, Yang Xiong biography, “eyes ming and xuan with no sight”—ming xuan is the same compound as in Mencius, Teng Wen Gong, “ming xuan,” a reduplicated rhyme pair, also written xuan mian, xuan min, as in Shiji, Sima Xiangru biography, “gazing xuan mian with no sight” and “red, distant and dim, xuan min,” where the graphs are near in meaning and sound.

With “lu” emended to ming, the fanqie is wupian qie, matching ming wuyan qie and mian (or xuan min, etc.). In Hanshu, Yan Shigu notes ming as mo jian fan; in Sun Shi’s Mencius yinyi, ming modian qie; in Shiji suoyin citing Su Lin on min—the rhyme class is the same (archaic Chinese had no labiodentals; wu and mo are phonetically close), differing only in level versus oblique tone. Ming and yao are also close in meaning, hence frequent pairing, as in Xiaoyao you, “In the Northern yao there is a fish,” where the commentary cites Emperor Jianwen: “yao ming is boundless, hence called ming.” The two graphs are also similar in shape, so some modern texts read yao while Guo’s may read ming. Guo’s note here strings four ming characters in a row, all from the idea of “ming-ran,” which supports ming here. In the preceding clause, “therefore yao-ran losing it,” yao is suspected to have been ming originally, later altered to yao by readers who followed the modern main text.

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This passage is a textual note from Zhuangzi Jishi, not Zhuangzi’s main text. It discusses which character belongs in a given place and how that reading should be understood.

[Textual note] marks editorial opinions on the manuscript tradition. The first point states that one passage was wrongly cited with something missing; in an old manuscript from Fangying Guan on Tiantai Mountain, the character written as “blind” (mang) appears instead as “close the eyes” (ming), or alternatively as gu. The second and third points follow the Song edition in changing the character at suo and follow the commentary in changing the character at ming. The fourth says the character read as sai (from the “cave” radical, phonetic component) was emended according to the Baojing Tang edition, but the original carved edition still seems wrong.

In Shuowen, that graph means “to block or stop,” formed from the “cave” radical with a phonetic element. Xu Xuan’s pronunciation note is close to dainian, but its rhyme category and phonological class do not match wupian; it is probably not the word intended here. If one used sai-ran to describe “losing the world,” the sense would not run smoothly. The suspicion is that Guo Xiang’s version originally had ming (“dark/obscure”), and in the commentary two characters, “written as ming,” dropped out after “Guo.” In classical usage ming often interchange with ming (“close the eyes”) and mian (“sleep”). Lie Yukou has “and sweetly mian in the village of nowhere,” where the commentary gives an alternate graph ming, pronounced like mian. Yu Yue held that Huainan, chapter Zhuzhen, “sweetly ming in the muddy depths” draws on this line, and that “sweet ming” means “sweet sleep.” Shuowen: “ming, to close the eyelids,” from “eye” plus ming, with ming also as phonetic; Xu Xuan says the vulgar modern separate writing as mian is incorrect. Hanshu, Yang Xiong biography, “eyes ming and xuan with no sight”—ming xuan is the same compound as in Mencius, Teng Wen Gong, “ming xuan,” a reduplicated rhyme pair, also written xuan mian, xuan min, as in Shiji, Sima Xiangru biography, “gazing xuan mian with no sight” and “red, distant and dim, xuan min,” where the graphs are near in meaning and sound.

With “lu” emended to ming, the fanqie is wupian qie, matching ming wuyan qie and mian (or xuan min, etc.). In Hanshu, Yan Shigu notes ming as mo jian fan; in Sun Shi’s Mencius yinyi, ming modian qie; in Shiji suoyin citing Su Lin on min—the rhyme class is the same (archaic Chinese had no labiodentals; wu and mo are phonetically close), differing only in level versus oblique tone. Ming and yao are also close in meaning, hence frequent pairing, as in Xiaoyao you, “In the Northern yao there is a fish,” where the commentary cites Emperor Jianwen: “yao ming is boundless, hence called ming.” The two graphs are also similar in shape, so some modern texts read yao while Guo’s may read ming. Guo’s note here strings four ming characters in a row, all from the idea of “ming-ran,” which supports ming here. In the preceding clause, “therefore yao-ran losing it,” yao is suspected to have been ming originally, later altered to yao by readers who followed the modern main text.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “The King of Wei gave me the seed of a large gourd. I planted it, and the fruit that grew could hold five shi. When I tried to fill it with water, the shell was too brittle to lift; when I split it open to make a ladle, the gourd was so large and hollow in the middle that the ladle was too shallow to be of any use. It was not that it was not big enough—I decided it was useless and smashed it to pieces.”

Huizi was from Song and at the time served as prime minister in Wei (also called Liang). He used this oversized gourd as a metaphor to mock Zhuangzi’s writings as vast in scope yet out of touch with practical affairs, and with that remark he meant to provoke a debate.

Commentary on Pronunciation and Meaning

“Er shi wu shi” (And it could hold five dan of grain): Sima Biao said that the gourd could hold as much as five dan.

“Yi sheng” (To hold/contain): The character read as sheng is pronounced like cheng.

Third Exegesis (Explanation of Meaning)

Pou means to cut open or split apart; piao is a ladle for scooping water; hulu refers to a gourd that is flat and shallow; xiao (hou) ran describes something empty yet large, hollow and insubstantial; pou here means to smash or break apart.

Used to hold water, it fails because the shell is hollow and brittle—it cannot bear the weight once filled. Split open for use as a ladle, it is too shallow to hold much. Everyone agreed it was useless, so they smashed it and threw it away. This satirizes Zhuangzi’s teaching: unable to meet the most pressing practical needs of the time, it is like this great gourd—by rights it ought to be trimmed away and discarded.

Appendix: Brief Notes from Earlier Commentators

Qing Fan’s note: The Wen xuan commentary on Xie Lingyun’s “Poem on First Setting Out for the Prefecture” cites Sima Biao with more detail than this commentary—hu is bu hu (a type of gourd), luo means fallen or discarded; xiao ran means a large appearance, pou means to break open—likening Zhuangzi’s words to an oversized gourd with nowhere to be put to use.

Yu Yue’s note: In the Shuowen, a certain character denotes a cry of pain. Neither hou nor the variant cited appear in the Shuowen here; they are likely vulgar forms of xiao, which makes no sense in this passage. Li Shan’s Wen xuan note quotes this line as xiao, and that reading should be followed. The Erya, “Interpretation of Heaven,” glosses xuan xiao as “empty”; emptiness implies largeness, hence “xiao ran” as “great and hollow.” The commentary cites Li Yi: ran means the appearance of emptiness and size—a gloss based on the original sense of xiao.

(Commentary) In the passage Zhuangzi cites, the character read as xiao is better understood as yuan. The Erya, “Explaining Heaven,” says Xuanxiao is the Void constellation; xu (void) carries the sense of vastness, hence “xiao as greatly large.” The commentary text cites Li Xun: xiao describes a vast, empty appearance—interpreted in just that sense.

Zhuangzi said: “You really do not know how to use ‘the large.’ In Song there was a man who knew how to make a salve that kept hands from cracking. Generation after generation his family lived by rinsing and washing silk floss in water. A stranger heard of this and offered a hundred in gold for the recipe. The man called his kin to discuss it: ‘We have rinsed floss for generations and never gotten more than a few coins; now we can sell the art once for a hundred in gold—sell it to him.’ The stranger bought the formula and went to persuade the king of Wu. Yue was making trouble; the king of Wu put him in command of troops. In winter they fought the Yue on the water, routed them, and he was enfeoffed with a grant of land. The same non-cracking hands—someone was enfeoffed for it, others still rinsed floss. The difference lies in how it is used. You have a gourd of five dan capacity—why not tie it as a waist-boat and drift on rivers and lakes, yet worry that its hollow is too big and there is nowhere to put it? Clearly you still keep in your heart a view as narrow and unyielding as rushes!”

Appendix: Commentary highlights (for reading the main text)

• Rinsing and washing silk floss (píng pì kuàng): Rinsing, kneading, and washing floss on the water—the livelihood of that Song family.
• Non-cracking hands (bù jūn shǒu): The medicine keeps hands from chapping in cold water, so they could rinse floss year round.
• Five-dan gourd / large vessel (wǔ shí zhī hú / dà zūn): A large gourd can be cut into a container or lashed into a “waist-boat” as a simple float; Zhuangzi urges Huizi not to think only of using it as an ordinary vessel that “won’t hold anything.”
• Mind of rushes (péng zhī xīn): Like the hollow, insubstantial rush stem—narrow-mindedness, counting only in small sums, unable to “use the large.”

This passage is phonological and semantic commentary and exegesis that later scholars wrote for the “bu gui shou” (non-cracking hands) episode in the Zhuangzi—not Zhuangzi’s own words. The gist is as follows.

How to read “bu gui shou” and what it means

The notes give readings for gui and cite various views: Xiang Xiu took it as ju chi (contracture and splitting); Sima Biao as wen chi ru gui wen (cracked like tortoise-shell pattern), or ru gui luansuo (shrunk like a tortoise). Yu Yue held that Sima’s and Xiang’s glosses on gui were unsatisfactory; if one follows Xiang’s ju chi or Guo Pu’s “can keep the hands from ju chi,” then gui should be read like ju. In antiquity gui could be read near qiu, as in the Hou Han “Western Regions” account where qiu ci (Kucha) was read qiu ci; the old sound of qiu overlapped with qu, so it could also be read like ju. Ju means contracture; bu gui shou means the hands do not contract or chap from the cold. One need not insist on “like a tortoise,” but the sense of “shrinking” is correct. Li Zhen argued that gui shou is a phonetic loan for jun shou (chapped hands), citing Xuan Ying’s Zhong jing yin yi and similar sources: when hands and feet split from cold it is called jun; the scripture sometimes writes gui; bu gui shou means the hands do not chap.

“Ping pi,” kuang, and beating floss

Ping and pi are glossed for pronunciation; Lu Wenchao suspected that in the received text pi sheng refers to the sound of beating floss, and that ping pi originally formed a reduplicative also imitating that sound. Kuang is glossed; the Xiao erya says the finest floss is called kuang. Li said ping pi kuang means rinsing and beating floss (cotton wadding) on the water. There are also notes on neng ling, bu ju, chi, and emendations such as substituting characters for “cold feet, chapped feet,” and the like. Piao is beating floss in water to rinse it; the Shuowen writes pie; xu is cotton floss. Lu Wenchao also emended cases where pie was wrongly written bi in old texts, and where vulgar copies wrongly added the hand radical to chi, and so on.

Background of the Zhuangzi story

In the Zhuangzi, one family for generations made a living at ping pi kuang (rinsing and pounding fine floss on the water); their hands were often in cold water, yet they had bu gui shou; someone else took the same leftover liquid that prevented cracking, either only to protect their own hands or sold it to someone who used it to win a fief and great profit—the commentary explains that gui, jun, and ju all bear on whether the hands chap or contract from work and cold, and that ping pi kuang is the floss-beater’s trade, so readers can grasp the parable’s point: the same skill, different uses, different fates.

[2] Commentary

In antiquity, a cube of gold one cun on a side and weighing one jin was counted as “one jin of gold.” A traveler from another state happened to hear of this and asked to buy the secret formula for treating chapped hands, and paid a hundred jin of gold—a price so high that, as Li Yun notes, “a hundred jin” here means a hundred jin by weight.

Exegesis: On Bai jin (hundred jin): Li Yun says that a gold cube one cun square weighing one jin counts as one jin of gold, and a hundred jin is a hundred such weights.

[3] Commentary

Yu means “to sell.” The price was so high that the whole clan met to discuss it: generation after generation they had lived by ping pi kuang—rinsing and bleaching silk floss in water—with meager profit; to sell this art once would bring in an enormous sum. Everyone agreed to hand the secret over to him.

Exegesis: Entries such as Shu jin, Yu, and Ji give fanqie spellings; Sima Biao glosses yu as “to sell.” Some texts read ji (skill) as ji (craft/art).

[4] Commentary

Wu and Yue bordered each other, lay near rivers and the sea, and often went to war, so they needed warships. In the depth of winter, soldiers’ hands often froze, cracked, and split. That traveler had bold talent and a heaven-given quick mind; once he had the formula, he went to persuade the king of Wu. When Yue attacked, the king of Wu put him in command of the troops, and with this medicine the men’s hands were not disabled by chapping. As soon as the banners were raised, the Yue army fell into disorder and fled; he returned in triumph after a great victory, his merit was outstanding, and the king of Wu rewarded him with a fief of mao tu (enfeoffment lands).

Exegesis: Yi shuo, You nan, Zhi jiang, Da bai, and similar lines are pronunciation glosses.

[5] Commentary

Huo (or) marks something indefinite. The same formula is neither inherently “clever” nor “clumsy,” but whoever uses it gets a different outcome: the traveler used it to win a marquisate, while the people of Song only used it for ping pi kuang—that is the gap in how it was applied.

[Note] (Guo Xiang)

“Peng” (cogon grass) stands for a mind that cannot cut straight through or grasp a point in one go. This chapter’s point is that every thing has a use that suits it; once that fit is found, where could one not wander freely and at ease?

[Sub-commentary] (Cheng Xuanying)

Lü: to tie and fasten with rope. Zun: lacquered like a wine vessel, then bound with cord so it floats on rivers and lakes for crossing—people in the south call it a “waist boat.” Peng: a kind of grass, curled and not straight. Fu: an exclamation of regret.

The general meaning: a large gourd floating on rivers and lakes can serve as a boat and save someone from drowning; the highest teaching carried into the world can likewise ferry those who are lost. But Huizi had a “peng heart”—a mind as bent and blocked as cogon grass—so he could not reach the subtle principle directly. He therefore misused the image of “splitting it open and smashing it” to ridicule Zhuangzi’s text. The use was wrong and did not match what the thing was for—a failure that truly calls for a sigh.

Brief background (from “Free and Easy Wandering” in the Zhuangzi): Zhuangzi said a large gourd could be tied with cord and used as a waist boat to cross water; Huizi complained that it would not hold water and was fit only as a dipper, so he split the gourd open and smashed it. Commentators invoke “peng heart” to say Huizi’s thinking was narrow—he saw only small uses, not great ones. Guo Xiang stresses the chapter’s theme: each thing has what suits it; when that suit is honored, one wanders freely.

Brief note on textual collation

This passage mixes in editorial work from different editions: some old texts have an extra character after “fang”; gaps in the main text have been filled from other books with readings such as “gui” and “zhuo”; and there is discussion of whether two different words both written as “fu” (bind/restrain) were later confused—some hold that the “fu” meaning to tie or bind is not the same character originally intended. What follows reads the passage against the received Zhuangzi text and traditional commentaries.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: “I have a big tree that people call chu (a kind of tree often described as foul-smelling and useless for timber). The trunk is huge but covered in lumps and knots; inked cord and plumb line cannot mark out any long, straight stock to cut. The smaller branches twist and bend; compass and square cannot fit them. If you stand it beside the road, carpenters will not even glance at it. The things you say now are likewise big and useless, and people treat you the same—they will not pay you any mind.”

Main drift of the commentary: Chu belongs with trees like kao and lacquer types; it is said to smell very bad and counts as a “worthless” bad tree. Most names in the world are fixed by custom, and no one can absolutely prove a name right or wrong—hence “people call it chu.” Yongzhong means the trunk is tangled and full of knobby swellings; qujuan means the branches are not straight. Shengmo is the cord and ink carpenters use to lay out straight lines; gui ju are the tools for circles and squares. Tu here means the road. From root to twig this tree does not suit any tool; set up on the main path, craftsmen will not look at it twice. Huizi uses this to say: your teaching is vast and empty, like this unwanted chu tree—nobody wants it.

Note on “yongzhong” (swollen, knotted growth)

“Yongzhong” is read yong, zhong: it means the trunk bulges with many gnarled knots, like a person with a goiter. “Bu zhong” is read zhong and means not meeting the standard for usable timber. In some editions “qu juan” (twisted and curled) is written with a character homophonous with quan (fist), pronounced close to quan.

Commentary on the third passage

When a tree is swollen and useless as lumber, the carpenter will not even look at it. This is like certain doctrines that are broad, empty, and impractical—people will not heed them either. Here tree and doctrine are paired in one metaphor.

Qing Fan’s note

To say “great yet useless” is like saying remote and vague, of no help to affairs. In the Liji, the “yu” in the phrase about improving the ruler by one’s own conduct is glossed by Zheng Xuan as “yu,” meaning vast and far-reaching; thus “great” and “yu” can overlap in sense. Laozi’s line that “all under heaven say my Dao is great, as if it does not fit the usual mold” uses “great” in this same sense.

Zhuangzi’s text

Zhuangzi said: “Have you never seen a wild cat? It crouches low and waits for prey; it darts east and west, up and down, and never shies away—until it steps on a trigger and dies in a net. Or look at the yak: its body is vast as a cloud hanging from the sky—truly huge—yet it cannot catch a rat. You now have a great tree and worry it is useless. Why not plant it in the ‘wuhe you’ realm—that empty, boundless nowhere—on a wide plain with no end, and wander at ease beside it, lie at leisure beneath it? Then no axe will cut it down early, and nothing will harm it. Since in ordinary use it is ‘good for nothing,’ whence would those troubles come?”

Have you never seen how raccoon dogs and wild cats hunt rats? They crouch low and wait for the rats that swagger boldly by; they leap and dart, never avoiding high or low ground—and in the end they step on a trigger and die in the nets and snares. All of this happens because they are dazzled by the small gain in front of them and give no thought to the larger consequences.

The same applies to people who bow with folded hands, bend their knees, and curl their bodies, clinging to the outward traces left by the sages, putting on a show and twisting their inborn nature to win profit in the world: they may get what they want at first, but ruin is sure to follow. Shang Yang, Su Qin, and Zhang Yi—the famous Legalist and coalition diplomat of the Warring States—are examples of this kind. How is that different from the raccoon dogs and wild cats that die hunting rats, trapped in the nets and snares?

[II] Commentary

The li ox is the mao ox, produced in the lands of the southwestern Yi peoples. Its body is extremely large; viewed from afar in the mountains, it looks like a cloud on the horizon. It lives at ease in marshy grasslands, nourishing its nature, leaping and running—yet it cannot even match a wild cat. This too is like what Zhuangzi said: without catering to vulgar fashion, one can yet govern the state and cultivate the person, and endure for long.

[Exegesis of the Text]

Li Ox: Guo’s commentary; Lu’s phonetic gloss reads “lü zhi fan”; Xu and Li read it as “lai,” also read “li.” Sima’s commentary: mao ox.

[III] Commentary

“Land of Nothing-whatsoever” means the same as “nothing-at-all.” “Mo” (vast) means “without.” It denotes a broad, empty place where no one is present—where nothing of any kind exists at all—hence the name “land of nothing-whatsoever.”

[IV] Commentary

“Wandering to and fro” (panghuang) is a name for letting oneself go without constraint; “carefree roaming” (xiaoyao) is a title for finding joy in oneself. The expressions differ in form but agree in meaning—the wording merely alternates. A tree of useless timber has luxuriant branches and leaves, swaying into shade that blocks sun and wind, so travelers passing by linger and rest, leaning or pacing, sleeping beneath it. This too is like what Zhuangzi said: wuwei (non-action) and empty stillness can allow one to roam carefree and settle the nature, and likewise give shelter to all living beings.

[Exegesis of the Text]

Land of Nothing-whatsoever, Vast Mo Wilds: Refers to the realm of quiescent extinction and non-action. Emperor Jianwen’s gloss: “Mo” means “great.”

Pang: reading bo gang fan, also pronounced fang. Huang: pronounced huang. “Panghuang” means soaring freely. Cui’s edition writes “fangyang,” same as Emperor Jianwen’s text. Guangya: pangyang means moving to and fro (xiyi).

Five (Commentary continued)

When things large and small stray from their proper stations, benefit and harm get tangled together; when each keeps its place and fulfills its use, the ten thousand things can be at ease.

Commentary: When a trunk is swollen and unsuitable as timber, crooked and unusable, the carpenter does not look at it and the axe does not strike it—whence comes the disaster of an early end? Thus one can live out one’s full span and finish life in its course. Such “usefulness in being useless”—what hardship is there in it? It is also like what Zhuangzi said: not going along with the vulgar current yet meeting the great Dao, one can nourish the body and preserve one’s true nature; neither dying young on the path of the world, nor bringing suffering on oneself while still alive.

Textual note: (1) A faulty quotation reads “hardship” as “poverty and hardship.” (2) In the Shide Hall edition, the “world” in “worldly path” appears as a character meaning “fall/perish.”

Volume 1 · Inner Chapters · “Discourse on Making Things Equal” (Qi Wu Lun), Chapter Two

[One] (Title note)

Annotation: Each side affirms itself and denies the other, holding itself good and the other bad—there is nothing that is not like this. Yet for that very reason, although right and wrong differ, “the other” and “the self” are in fact on a par.

Nan Guo Ziqi (a younger brother of King Zhao of Chu and marshal to King Zhuang, known by his style) leaned on his armrest, breathed out toward heaven, and wore an empty, far-off look, as if he had lost his counterpart. His disciple Yan Cheng Ziyou stood before him and said: “What is this? Can the body be like withered wood and the heart like dead ashes? The person leaning on the armrest today is not the one who leaned on it yesterday.”

Annotation: Sharing one body with Heaven and the human, “self” and “other” made equal, there is outwardly nothing one must defer to; one responds and dissolves, as though the matching half were lost.

Commentary: Ziqi dwelt at Nan Guo and took the place-name as his designation. The ancients were plain and often used where they lived as a byname.

Commentary (explanation of the scripture)

Nan Guo Ziqi was a younger son of King Zhao of Chu and later served as marshal under King Zhuang; his courtesy name was Ziqi. People of antiquity lived simply and often took their dwelling as a byname: he lived south of the city, hence “Nan Guo” (South-of-the-Wall), in the same way as Yiliao of Shizinan or Shunzi of Dongguo were known from where they lived. He carried the Dao in his breast and De in his conduct, with an empty heart and quiet intent, so Zhuangzi admired his lofty character and placed him at the opening of the whole book to unfold the discussion.

“Yin” means to lean upon; “xu” means to sigh; “da yan” describes a loosened, scattered look, as if about to fall apart; “ou” means to pair or match—here, body matched with spirit, things matched with self.

Ziqi leaned on his armrest and sat, entering “sitting and forgetting”: he gathered spirit and thought far off, looked up to heaven and sighed, subtly awakening to nature; he left form and dropped cleverness, da yan as if falling—body and mind both released, things and self forgotten—so it was as if he had lost the former “pair” (body and spirit, thing and self).

This passage is a phonetic and lexical guide to the opening lines of Zhuangzi’s “Discourse on Making Things Equal” (Qiwu lun)—where Nan Guo Ziqi sits leaning on an armrest, looks up and exhales, and seems in his manner to have lost his “couple”—together with Guo Xiang’s elaboration on that scene.

Pronunciation and meaning

Nan Guo Ziqi: “Ziqi” is someone who lived in the Nan Guo quarter, so that place-name became his style-name. “Yin” here equals “ping,” to lean on. “Ji” in some editions is written as “ji” (a low table or armrest). “Er xu”: “xu” is to exhale; Xiang Xiu glosses it as “xi,” breath. “Da yan”: some texts read “da” (tap or click), picturing the shape of exhalation; commentaries also call it “jieti mao,” a slack, collapsed look—as if the body had come apart. Lu Wenchao notes that current editions often use “da.” Huilin’s Yiqiejing yinyi cites Sima Biao: “da yan” is like “losing what one belongs to,” hence like “losing one’s ou.” “Qi ou”: some texts have “ou” (mate, pair). Sima Biao: “ou” means “the body”; body and spirit form a pair. Yu Yue holds that “losing one’s ou” is the same idea as the later “I have lost myself”; Guo Xiang’s “as if losing one’s match” does not fit “losing myself.” Sima Biao’s taking “ou” as body is on the right track, but “body and spirit as a pair” is not. “Ou” should be read as “yu”: to lodge; spirit lodges in the body, so the body is called the lodging.

Guo Xiang’s note (2)

“Dead ashes” and “withered wood” pick up a state of mo ran (indifferent, blank)—without feeling or knowing. One who can follow nature and forget right and wrong, in essence simply follows innate genuineness and has nothing else to cling to. So at rest he seems a standing dead stump; in motion like a shaking dry branch; sitting like dead ashes, moving like drifting dust. The forms of movement and stillness cannot be fixed by one standard for others; as for being without mind yet self-so, others cannot split him into a “second” (a separate, calculating self).

Further background

“Discourse on Making Things Equal” depicts Nan Guo Ziqi leaning on an armrest, looking up and breathing out, his expression as if he had lost his “ou.” Exegetes have read this as losing a conversational partner or as “losing myself” (forgetting the self). The collected comments here follow Sima Biao, Yu Yue, and others in favor of reading “ou” as “yu,” stressing spirit lodged in the body and seeming to lose that lodging—echoing the later “I have lost myself.” Guo Xiang, with “dead ashes and withered wood,” shows that the true person’s movement and rest do not follow fixed traces but only innate genuineness.

Commentary

Yan, whose given name was Yan and style name Ziyou, is Yan Cheng Ziyou. He had risen to stand in attendance because he wished to question his teacher. He wanted to understand how one could abide in such a way—spirit and awareness gathered in stillness, utterly unlike before, the body like withered wood and the heart like dead ashes, yet not quite the same as ordinary death. Convinced that his teacher must possess a wondrous method, he asked him to explain how it came about.

Textual note (Li Yun)

Li Yun says that Yan Cheng Ziyou was a disciple of Ziqi. Seeing his teacher settled in abiding and his spirit and awareness quiet and still—radically different from the usual, form like withered wood and heart like dead ashes—he assumed there must be a subtle technique and asked for its basis.

Textual note (Li Yun, persons)

Yan Cheng Ziyou, disciple of Ziqi: surname Yan, given name Yan, posthumous title Cheng, style name Ziyou.

Textual note (pronunciation and the character for stillness)

He ju is read as the character itself, also pronounced ji; Sima Biao explains ju as “therefore” or “why.” Gaomu is read with the old fanqie, matching the commentary. The character in question is pronounced ji and was originally also written with the standard graph for “stillness” (ji). Lu Wenchao notes that older editions wrongly had jia; following the Da Zongshi passage “qi rong [ji]” and the shiwen, as well as Cui’s text, it should be ji. In dialect usage this graph means “quiet”; Han dynasty steles often use it—for example in the Lao Zi inscription “qing [ji]” and the Zhang Na stele “si jing [ji] mi”—all equivalent to ji (stillness). The commentary today reads jimomo (deep stillness and solitude). Mo was originally sometimes written with the graph for “desolate” (mo, as in vast emptiness).

Third commentary

Ziyou had previously seen people who leaned on a armrest and “hid” in repose to enter stillness, but he had never seen anyone as thorough as Ziqi.

Commentary

In earlier years Ziyou had encountered practices of the zuowang (sitting and forgetting) sort, but he had not yet penetrated the most recondite level. Now, meeting Ziqi’s yinji—reclining on the armrest until both spirit and form were utterly still—different from all he had seen before, he was struck by that still emptiness, as if ordinary human feelings were absent, and so voiced his startled question.

Nan Guo Ziqi said to his disciple Yan Chengzi You: “Yan, you have asked exactly the right question. A moment ago I had already ‘lost the self’ (sang wo)—I had let go of that fixed ‘I.’ Do you understand? You have only heard the renlai (human pipes: the sounds of people blowing bamboo tubes, each distinct from the others); you have not yet heard the dilai (earth pipes). Even if you have heard the earth pipes, you still have not truly heard the tianlai (heaven pipes).”

(Note) What is meant by “I lost the self” is that even the thought of “self” is released. Once self is forgotten, what in the world is still worth clutching as something solid and real? Therefore one must release both inner and outer, self and things, before one can step beyond things and find ease within and without.

(Commentary) Here “er” means “you.” “Sang” (lost) here means “forgotten.” Ziqi first affirms that Yan’s question was apt. Ziqi had already reached a state where realm and understanding are both forgotten and self and things are both extinguished; Yan did not yet grasp this, so he looked astonished. Ziqi then hinted at it through the image of “sitting hidden by a low table, form and spirit both still”: this kind of “losing the self”—have you tasted it?

Renlai, dilai, and tianlai (explained in more detail later): In brief, though there are many sounds from bamboo pipes, all are bound by fixed pitch and rhythm; when wind passes through countless hollows, each sound differs, yet all alike are issued by the “earth”; and beyond that there is the tianlai, not limited to any single hole or instrument—the commentary uses these three levels to show how sound moves from what is humanly made, to what nature makes, and then to something more fundamental—“the One” and “each taking itself.”

Commentary

The lai in renlai (human pipes) refers to the xiao (vertical flute). This flute is about one foot two inches long, with sixteen tubes, shaped like phoenix wings; tradition says it was made in the time of Shun. The tubes differ in length, and each receives just enough wind; all the more so when the myriad things receive wind—they all partake of natural principle. So the author uses the two worthies Nan Guo Ziqi and Yan Cheng Ziyou to explain the meaning of the “three lai” (heaven’s pipes, earth’s pipes, human pipes). The detailed explanation follows below.

Notes on pronunciation

In “nü wen” (have you heard), nü is read like ru (you); the same below; some texts write ru directly. The lai in renlai is read as a pipe-like instrument. The fu in lai fu is read fu. Can and cha are read chulin and chuyi respectively. Suo cuo is read qigu; jian yi is read xianbian.

Textual note

(1) The character ren (human) is deleted according to the commentary.

Dialogue from the scripture

Ziyou said: “May I ask about the principle (fang, the method and meaning of the teaching)?”

Commentary

Fang means the Way-teaching, the path of discourse. Although Ziyou had heard the names “three lai” and the like, he did not yet grasp their meaning, so he asks what each of the three lai is and how they should be understood.

Ziqi said: “When great heaven and earth, great nature, exhale a breath, people call that breath wind. Wind itself does not actively do anything, yet once it stirs, thousands upon thousands of hollows follow with roars and whistles. Have you never heard that rustling, sighing sound? In the deep recesses of mountain forests, on great trees whose trunks span a hundred arm-spans, countless large and small openings appear: some like nostrils, some like mouths, some like ears, some like cup handles, some like rings, some like mortars, some like low hollows, some like muddy pits. When the wind blows, they give forth every kind of sound—shrill, whistling, scolding, sucking, shouting, wailing, deep, gnawing; one opening leads with a ‘yu’ sound and those behind answer with ‘yong’ in chorus. When a light breeze comes, the chorus is soft; when a strong wind comes, the chorus is loud; when the fierce wind passes, the ten thousand hollows return to silence, as if all had been emptied by the blast. Have you not seen how those hollows bustle when the wind arrives and each falls still again when it stops?”

Plain-Language Explanation

On Pronunciation and Graphs

“Da Kuai” (the great clod): Commentaries give several different fanqie glosses. Some glosses write “da huai” (same as in Ban Gu), while the Huainanzi has “da mei.” Interpretations diverge: some take it as “nothing,” others as “primordial qi,” “undifferentiated fusion,” or “Heaven”—mostly misunderstandings. Yu Yue holds that “da kuai” means the earth: “kuai” is the vulgar form of a character for a clump of soil; its core sense is a pinch of earth, and piled earth spread wide is the great earth. The passage treats di lai (the music of the earth’s hollows); here “da kuai” should mean earth, not “the visage of the great uncarved block” or “no-thing.”

“Yi” (alas / ah): Pronunciation as in the note above.

“Wan qiao”: Myriad hollows and openings.

“Nu xiao”: The sound of roaring and whistling; pronunciation follows the fanqie in the commentary.

“Liu liu”: The sound of a long wind; some texts write “liu” instead, with similar sound and sense.

Commentary (Guo Xiang et al.)

Wind by nature need not stir; once it does stir, countless hollows seem driven and give every kind of sound.

Subcommentary

“Shi” (this) refers to the passage on wind. “Zuo” means to rise, to set in motion. When a great wind does not rise, nothing happens; once it rises, hollows of every kind roar and wail long.

“The sound of a long wind”—that is the sustained wind-sound described earlier by “liu liu.”

“What the great wind fans and stirs”—the great wind passes over and sets the myriad things’ hollows sounding.

Commentary

“Liu liu” is the sound of a long wind passing through mountains and forests; “wei jia” describes branches blown by the wind, rising and falling together. When a clear wind stirs and sways the hills and woods, the twigs and limbs seem to shrink timidly and flutter with the breeze. This is what everyone can see—are you alone unable to hear it? (This line leads into what follows.)

Textual notes (pronunciation and editions)

Commentators differ slightly on how to read “wei”; “jia” is sometimes written “zhui,” with varying readings among schools. Li Yi takes “wei zhui” as suggesting the look of a hill or mound. Lu Wenchao notes that older editions had “zhui” where present texts usually have “jia.” The rhyme dictionary’s citation of this passage may allow a “zhui” reading; the glosses given for “wei,” “sui,” and the like are close in tone to the usual sound of “jia,” so the text here follows the common “jia” reading.

Section five — gloss

This is only a brief sample of what the various tree hollows (qiao xue) resemble.

Commentary

“Qiao xue” means holes in the tree. “Bi” (written with the wood radical and “must”) is the cap timber on a pillar that bears a beam—the sort of bracket block known today as dougong. “Quan” is a pen for livestock. When a trunk is big enough to take a hundred-arm span, its cavities are extremely numerous: some like a human mouth or nose, some like a beast pen, some like a human ear hole, some like the bracket cap of a house, some swollen and lumpy, some sunken and uneven. Shapes vary without end; here only eight kinds are named. It is the same as the myriad things in the world, each kind different, fair or foul—all receiving their form from zaohua (creation/nature) just so.

This passage is a commentary and phonological gloss on Zhuangzi’s metaphor of wind passing through many openings.

On word meanings and readings (explanatory text)

“Zhi qiao” (the openings): in Cui’s annotated edition the graph is written as kuan (aperture, hole).

“Si bi, si kou” (like a nose, like a mouth): Sima Biao says this describes the sounds when wind enters the holes—sometimes like a human nose, sometimes like a human mouth.

“Si ji” (like a ji): read close to ji (chicken) or jian (shoulder); the Zilin lexicon takes it as the crossbeam above a pillar; in Emperor Jianwen’s note it is also glossed as types of bracket or corbel (bo, lu).

“Si quan” (like a quan): read close to quan (authority); meaning the rim of a cup; Xu Guang’s reading differs; Guo Pu says it is the kind of pen used for sheep and pigs.

“Si jiu” (like a mortar): read close to jiu (nine).

“Si wa zhe” (like a hollow): several readings exist—Li says close to hua, also close to guai; Guo Pu has wu wa; Sima Biao says it is like a low, winding depression.

“Wu zhe” (the “filthy” hollow): read wu; Sima Biao says it is like a low place that sinks downward.

Note

This only briefly lists how the sounds differ among the various openings (some editions read “zhong qiao,” the many openings).

Commentary (main idea)

Ji is like the sound of water rushing and striking; xiao like sound from the small hole in an arrowhead; chi is scolding; xi is breathing in and out; jiao is shouting; hao is wailing; yao is depth, like echo in a deep valley; yao (in the biting sense) is mournful and sharp, like gnashing teeth.

The gist: the holes in a tree alone can be distinguished into eight kinds, and wind through the wood can turn into eight kinds of sound. This is analogous to people receiving innate endowments that are not the same—manifestations differ in every way—yet each moves according to its own nature; there is no question of who is higher or lower, who is level or uneven. Even if lifespans differ in length or bodies in size, that is not enough to decide who surpasses whom.

The whole section uses the many sounds of wind and openings to explain Zhuangzi’s rejection of judging worth by outward size or longevity, and his stress that each follows its nature without mutual oppression.

This passage comes from commentary related to the Zhuangzi (works in the vein of Collected Explanations of the Zhuangzi). The first part collates pronunciation and meaning character by character; the second uses “wind and sound” to show that the ten thousand things each rest in their proper place.

On those “named” sounds in the text

Zhuangzi once strung together many words for the various noises made when wind passes through trees and objects. Commentators explain how each is read and what it roughly means—for example:

• Ji: like water struck and churned, the sound of rushing currents; some also relate it to an urgent call.
• He: a short, sharp sound, like an arrow leaving the bowstring.
• Chi: like scolding or shouting someone down.
• Xi: like drawing breath in or exhaling softly.
• Jiao and hao: like calling out or wailing.
• Miao (the tone described as deep and secluded): low and hidden, like a cry from far inside.
• Yao: a thin, plaintive, broken sound.

Editors also note that older copies sometimes omitted the particle zhe (“that which…”); it has been restored so the entries match the same pattern as the rest.

Comment (zhu): musical modes and “each in its allotted share”

The comment says: though tones may vary endlessly—gong, shang, and all the rest—and though call and response may be loud or soft, none fails to fit the portion it receives; each keeps to its own place, with nothing overstepping.

Subcommentary (shu): wind as a metaphor for things

The subcommentary develops the image of wind:

• Ling: a light breeze; piao: a violent gust.
• Yu, yong, and similar terms name the many sounds of wind in the trees, one after another.

So when the breeze is lingling—clear and gentle—the answering sound is small; when the gale is violent and sudden, the answering sound is large. Each kind of wind only gives the sound that matches it; there is no inherent ranking of high and low, better or worse. The parallel drawn is this: the ten thousand things receive their own allotments of qi and naturally complete their natures—just as wind may be great or small and sound shifts with it, each finds its station. There is no need to force a comparison of which is more “right” or more “good.”

On Pronunciation and Older Commentaries

Readings such as “chang yu” and “chang yong” are phonetic glosses from earlier commentators. Li Yi explained that “yu” and “yong” denote two kinds of sound answering each other. “Ling wind” is read like “ling” (zero) and means a very light breeze; “xiao he” is a faint, small harmony. “Piao wind” has several traditional readings: Sima Biao took it as sudden, rushing wind; the Erya says a wind that whirls back on itself is called “piao.” “Bu cheng” is read like “cheng” (to weigh) and means “not matching”; “qi fen” is read like “fen” (share, portion) and means each thing’s own boundary or allotment.

Comment on [Section Eight]

Here “ji” means “to stop” or “cease.” When a violent wind rises, every hollow fills with noise; when the wind stops, the hollows again become empty and still. Emptiness and fullness oppose each other, yet both are simply what each opening naturally shows in its own condition—in that respect they are the same.

Subcommentary (Further Explanation)

“Li” means a strong, violent wind; “ji” again means “stop.” When the great wind ceases, the myriad openings are empty; when the wind stirs, the myriad openings are full. Empty and full are not the same, yet both are cases of “each obtaining its place.” How much more so for the waxing and waning of the four seasons and the life-and-death transformations of yin and yang in Heaven and Earth—there is no deliberate mind to “nurture” or “poison,” and still less any fixed intent to “slaughter” or “destroy”!

Textual note: Sima Biao glossed “li wind” as great wind; Xiang Xiu and Guo Xiang glossed it as violent wind. “Ji” is pronounced zi xi fan; Xiang Xiu glossed it as “stop.”

Qing Fan’s note: The “ji” in “li wind ji” here is indeed “stop.” The Classic of Poetry, Yong ode “Zai chi,” “xuan ji”—the Mao commentary likewise says “ji means stop.” When the wind stops, the ten thousand sounds fall silent; hence “the myriad openings are empty.”

Comment on [Section Nine]

“Tiao tiao” (also written “dao dao”) describes a swaying, oscillating motion. The point is: the sounds things make are not the same, and the way bodies move with those sounds is not the same either. Yet though the motions differ, they are alike in “each attaining its own level and returning to the same unity”—it is not that only “tiao tiao” is correct and “dao dao” is wrong.

Plain-language reading of the commentary (shu)

Here, er means “you.”

Tiao tiao (some editions write dao dao) depicts things swaying back and forth, unsettled and in flux. The point is that although the forms of the myriad things differ and the ways they move are not the same, even when there is this kind of wavering and instability, in the end there is no fundamental split between “right” and “wrong.” How much more so for fullness and emptiness, gathering and scattering, birth and death, hardship and smooth passage: these all belong to the inherent patterns of things; they are naturally so and cannot be otherwise—so how could one still draw a line between right and wrong or judge gain and loss within them?

Meaning of the passage cited in the exegesis (shiwen)

(Cheng Xuanying and others explain it the same way:) Even though there is the kind of instability and difference suggested by tiao (dao), in the end there is no distinction of right and wrong; as for fullness and emptiness, gathering and scattering, birth and death, and hardship versus smooth passage, all of this is the natural course of physical reality and cannot be otherwise—so how could there be any question of right and wrong or praise and blame?

Ziyou said: “Earth sounds are what issue from the various hollows and openings; human sounds are what issue from bamboo tube instruments. Then may I ask—what are heaven sounds?”

[Subcommentary] Earth sounds come from things like holes and cavities; human sounds come from things like panpipes and flutes. Both can be seen with the eyes and heard with the ears, so they are easy to understand. Heaven sounds alone are profound and abstruse; they cannot be grasped in a moment, so Ziyou dares to raise the doubt in his heart and asks his teacher to settle it.

[Textual note] In “bì zhú” (joined bamboo), the reading of “bì” follows notes such as the fanqie pí-zhì.

Ziji said: “When wind blows through ten thousand openings, each place gives forth its own voice; none is the same, yet it is as if they sounded by themselves. Each hole, each cavity, likewise takes its own tone and makes its own resonance—so who, after all, is it that ‘rages’ like this thunderous roar?”

[Annotation] What is spoken of here is precisely heaven sounds. Where would heaven sounds be some further thing besides this? They are simply the many holes, bamboo tubes, and the like, attached to all living beings, gathering together to jointly compose one “Heaven.” Since “non-being” is non-being, it cannot give birth to “being”; when “being” has not yet arisen, it likewise cannot “give birth” to anything else. Then what is it that truly keeps generating without cease? Nothing more than being born block-like, of itself. To be born of oneself is not for “me” to beget it. Since I cannot beget things and things cannot beget me, we therefore say I am zìrán—“so of oneself.” To be so of oneself is called “Heaven-so” (tiānrán). Heaven-so is not deliberate doing by anyone, hence we call it “Heaven” (tiān). (We say “Heaven”) to show that it is naturally thus—not to mean the blue vault above. Some think heaven sounds are what commands the myriad things and makes the myriad things obey. If Heaven itself cannot “have” itself, how much less can it possess and command the myriad things? Thus “Heaven” is the collective name for the myriad things; no single being uniquely deserves to be called Heaven or to master and command the myriad things. Therefore each thing is born on its own; there is no “issuer” outside things—this is the Way of Heaven (tiāndào).

Plain-language explanation

The “Heaven” (Tian) spoken of here is not the blue sky above our heads, but a general name for the ten thousand things—another way of saying ziran, “Nature” or “what is so of itself.”

So is “the sounds of Heaven” (tianlai) some separate kind of thing? It is not. It is simply the holes in the bamboo pipes meeting and interacting with everything that lives, and the sounds that arise from that.

If we ask further: who is it that endlessly “gives birth” to the ten thousand things? In fact there is no something called “a thing” that is in charge. Thus, outwardly not depending on external objects, inwardly not relying on the “self” as a master, things stand as they are and transform each on their own—this is called duhua, “independent transformation.” What Guo Xiang’s commentary calls “being so from oneself” is the natural; using the word “Heaven-endowed” (tianran) is precisely to highlight this sense of ziran.

When we say the wind “blows” forth ten thousand different sounds: the wind is one, but the holes are endlessly varied. Holes large and small receive the force of the wind differently, yet each can keep to its place and know its own measure, without anything else acting as master for it—this is tianlai.

From this we can see: spring birth and summer growth, eyes that see and ears that hear—from nearby, in the human body; from afar, in the ten thousand things—we cannot fully say why it is so, nor clearly distinguish some “who” that makes it happen. Simply let each thing be “thus from itself,” each in its proper place and each obtaining what belongs to it, moving along with its own nature, not driven by contrivance or scheming in the heart—this is what is meant by “nurturing and completing” (ting zhi du zhi, raising and maturing the ten thousand things). That, in broad terms, is the meaning of tianlai.

Notes (to help with the original text)

“Self-taking” (zi qu) here can be read as “self-sufficiency” (zi de): wind and holes differ, and sounds differ, yet each is already complete in itself, with nothing further to seek. Cheng Xuanying’s “Subcommentary” stresses that it is not that someone is angry or giving orders, but that each thing “obtains itself”—again clarifying the sense of tianlai. On “blowing the ten thousand” (chui wan) (following Sima Biao and others): the qi of Heaven blows warm and nurtures the ten thousand things; form and qi each differ; “already” (yi) means each stops where it should and each obtains its nature.

Annotation

All things are each sufficient in themselves; there is no “master” who is angry or directing them to sound as they do—this once again clarifies the meaning of tianlai (the natural sounds of Heaven).

Commentary

“Self-taking” (ziqu) is “self-obtaining” (zide): when wind passes through different openings, the shapes and sounds differ, yet each obtains what it needs and is inherently not lacking. As for sounding forth in “anger,” who makes it do so? From this we know that the myriad beings in their confusion and the ten thousand forms in their unevenness all take what belongs to them within their own portion and are never insufficient; whether flying or running, it is not on anyone’s command—so things are “drummed” and “enraged,” yet no master in charge can be found. This is again an explanation of the meaning of tianlai.

Scripture (Zhuangzi)

Great wisdom is broad and at ease, small wisdom is restless and calculating; great speech is penetrating and far-reaching, small speech is trivial and nagging without end.

Paraphrase of the Original

Great wisdom appears broad, easy, and unhurried; petty cleverness is picky everywhere and counts every grain. Great speech is clear and penetrating; petty talk is repetitive and never ends. In sleep the hun and po tangle and churn; awake, the bodily form opens outward and chases things. Contact with the world becomes mutual entrapment, and day after day the heart wrestles inside. Some people are slow to respond, some hide their depth, some keep their mouths tight and their minds closed. In small fear one is restless; in great fear one goes numb and dull. A single outburst is like a crossbow trigger snapping—that is the part of us that picks fights over right and wrong; a stubborn hold is like swearing an oath in a wager—that is the drive that must win at all costs. Wearing others down is like the killing cold of autumn and winter—it means wasting away day by day. Drowning in what one is doing, one cannot be pulled back. Loathing the outer world like sealing the mouth in silence—that is the aged decline when the spirit runs dry. The heart is nearly dead and cannot be roused to life again. Joy, anger, grief, and delight, along with worry, brooding, sighing, going back and forth, shrinking back, and also frivolity, indulgence, loosening up, and posturing—all arise from emptiness (xu), like dampness steaming up mushrooms. These states replace one another before the eyes day and night, yet no one can say clearly where they first sprout. Enough, enough! Morning and night dragged along by these—where can human life truly begin to live from?

What the Commentaries Explain (Knowledge and Speech)

Commentators say: this passage treats the difference in zhi (knowing). “Xianxian” (leisurely, at ease) has two sides: on one one hand ease and not forcing issues; on the other, dividing and loving boundaries. Those whose wisdom is deep and wide follow their nature—empty, still, and free of attachment to right and wrong. Those whose wisdom is narrow have cramped hearts and always want to take and reject. Taking and rejecting breeds love of separation and ranking high and low; being without “this is right / this is wrong” is what looks leisurely and spacious.

Some exegesis also records: some read “da zhi xianxian” as the vast bearing of the wise, and “xiao zhi xianxian” as fond of prying and fond of idle distinctions—aligned with “fond of scrutinizing people and splitting self from other.”

What the Commentaries Explain (Speech)

This is the difference in yan (speech): great words are open and clear; small words tangle in side issues.

Other Entries

For the remaining lines (hun and po mingling and the form opening, heart-contention, “man” and “mi,” fear, trigger and notch, oath and pledge, daily wearing away, “cannot be restored,” aged exhaustion, the nearly dead heart, emotional postures, joy arising from the void, day and night replacing each other, and the like), commentaries mostly gloss word by word: states of body and mind in sleep and waking; entrapment and inner struggle in contact with others; layers of temperament and fear; contention and depletion; sinking and aging; and the image of emotions born from “emptiness,” rootless like mushrooms—all to show that people are constantly pulled by these inner and outer disturbances yet find it hard to trace them to their source.

Overall Point

The whole section uses contrasts of great and small, knowing and speaking, sleep, fear, dispute, and emotion to depict the turmoil of heart and words: petty cleverness, petty speech, petty fear— the finer the split, the more is lost. If one is enslaved morning and night by thoughts that never stop, it is hard to see where life in its own nature could truly arise. The commentaries spell out lexical meaning, readings (e.g., “da zhi” understood as “da zhi,” great wisdom), and the two ways to read “xianxian,” so readers can compare them closely with the source text.

Section One

“Yanyan” (blazing, overbearing) describes a forceful, aggressive manner; “xianxian” should be read in that same vein—it refers to people who love to pry into others’ affairs and peek into what is not their business. Some commentaries take “xianxian” as “keeping apart from others” or “having a separate way of life” (you suo xian bie); that reading is mistaken.

Section Two

(Cheng Xuanying’s commentary) This passage concerns differences in how people speak.

“Yanyan” is fierce and overbearing; “zhanzhan” is wordy and long-winded. Great speech that unfolds the great Way is like a fierce fire sweeping the wild, burning away weeds and clutter; the small talk of Confucian and Mohist schools, stuck in arguing right and wrong, only wastes breath and does not help to teach and transform.

Section Three

(Commentary) This concerns differences between sleep and waking.

(Commentary) Ordinary shallow people are restless and cannot let go of past situations. In sleep, the soul and consciousness randomly attach to things and mix with circumstances; when awake, body and spirit seem clear, but they are still tainted by outer objects.

Section Four

(Commentary) This concerns differences in how people meet the world.

(Commentary) “Gou” means to patch things together and cling; “jiao” means deep, like a pit storing grain; “mi” means hidden and obscure. Caught up in worldly business, they tie the heart to the six senses and the six sense-objects, with a heavy deluded mind, feeling that a day is never long enough, so they snatch every moment—the heart races with the sun and moon. As the heart turns with outer conditions, temperament and character split into countless forms; roughly speaking, these are the three kinds of difference described above.

Commentary on the Text and Expository Notes (in Plain Language)

Commentary on the Text

“Yu jie wei gou” (forming connections through contact)

Sima Biao explains that this refers to people meeting and interacting, and thereby forming bonds of affection and the like.

“Man zhe” (the “man” type)

Pronounced with the fanqie spelling “wei” (note: “wei” here is likely a slip for “mo”). Jian Wen glosses it as “ease of mind” (kuan xin).

“Jiao zhe” (the “jiao” type)

Pronounced with the fanqie spelling “gu xiao.” Sima Biao: “deep.” Li Yi: “cave, pit”; by extension, an underground pit where grain is stored is called a jiao. Jian Wen: “deep-heartedness” (shen xin).

[Five] [Annotation]

This passage distinguishes several modes of “fear” (kong) and “palpitation” (ji).

[Exposition]

Zhui zhui describes a wary, apprehensive bearing; man man describes dejection and dissipation.

When circumstances go smoothly or against one, the mind still keeps measuring outcomes and worrying that things will fail, so fear and sudden alarm rise together. Thus in lesser fear one is cautious and zhui zhui, on guard; in great fear one may instead slacken and collapse, showing the man man demeanor.

Commentary on the Text

Lesser fear (xiao kong): same fanqie reading as above.

Zhui zhui: fanqie “zhi rui.” Li Yi: the look of small-minded caution. Erya: “to fear.”

Man man: Li Yi: the appearance of treating life and death as the same.

Ji (palpitation): fanqie “qi ji.”

[Six] [Exposition]

Ji is the crossbow’s release trigger; kuo is the nock at the arrow’s end where the string catches; si means to preside or govern.

The meaning is: once the mind moves it chases circumstances, quick as an arrow seated on the string; when emotion is driven and resists harm, it is fierce as the crossbow’s jaw. Only “intention” (yi) decides right and wrong—there is no other account to give.

On “Jiguo” (Mechanism and Trigger)

“Jiguo” is a term as it appeared in older phonetic glosses. Here ji means the piece on a crossbow that catches the string—the crossbow tooth (nuya); guo means the place where the arrow rests—the arrow rest (jianguo). The ancients often compared a calamity that bursts forth suddenly to the crossbow mechanism: once the trigger is released, the arrow flies and the event cannot be undone. The commentary also distinguishes terms: shu is the door pivot, which governs turning; ji (or the door bar) is the bolt that holds the door shut—hence “shu and ji” are mentioned together to speak of opening and closing in due measure. “Jiguo,” however, refers specifically to the catch and release on the bow; it is not the same figure of speech as the door pivot.

Note [7]: The Difference Between Moving and Stopping

This note explains that action and rest are inherently different and must not be treated as the same thing.

Note [8]

Note: When things pass from flourishing to decline and wear away day by day, this is the sort of situation that arises.

Commentary (expanded explanation):

Zu refers to acts of prayer, blessing, or cursing; meng to swearing oaths and forming alliances. When people struggle over right and wrong, their intent is like constantly invoking blessings or curses; when the heart is pulled by outer circumstances, they become as earnest as if bound by a wager or a sworn oath. Jianshou quehu means the mind clings fixedly and will not let go, bent on overpowering external things and “winning” over every situation.

When autumn leaves fall and winter’s stern killing qi deepens, the scene changes from day to day—as swiftly as passing arms in a moment’s encounter (jiaobi), gone before you notice. Those who are obsessed rarely perceive this. They vie for victory only within hollow disputes over right and wrong, unaware that they too are renewed day by day yet diminished day by day (riri xin, riri sun)—that life and the very field of experience are wearing away all the while.

Commentary

When clear autumn comes, leaves fall; when deep winter arrives, all things are cut down. Outward scenes change in a flash, as quick as turning around. Those who are deluded—how can they notice? They wrangle only over illusory right and wrong, unaware that day by day they are sliding toward decline; human aging follows the same pattern.

Note [9]

Some people sink into outer conditions and simply rush ahead along habit—that is this case.

Commentary

Long held by circumstances, what they do often goes against the Great Dao and turns away from their true nature. They wish to restore their inherent nature and life and return to the true source, yet cannot find the way.

Note [10]

Some people sink into desire, sink deeper and deeper, and the older they grow the less they can pull back—that is this case.

Commentary

“Yanmo” means to sink and drown in craving. Those who are upside down and reckless spend their consciousness on desire; delusion binds them tighter, as if roped in. They indulge not only in their prime; in old age they overflow all the more and cannot free themselves (“xi” here is the same as “yi,” meaning to brim over without stopping).

Note [11]

Some treat disaster as benefit and slight calamity, secretly forming factions and clinging to their own views—that is this case.

Commentary

Here “mo” is read as “wu” (none), and “yang” means vital impulse, the path of life. A mind stuck in attachment has already neared the “dead ground”; to turn again toward the path of life, there is no road left to take.

“Near death”: Here near means close to, approaching.

“Return of yang”: Here yang refers to vital vitality and living breath—the idea of life restored and yang qi rising again.

Jia Shifu says: People wrestle inwardly every day in endlessly shifting ways. Those who judge right and wrong keep countless adaptive stratagems in mind; those who cling to “I’ve already won” often hold to a single fixed prejudice. Some, long exhausted, wish to turn back, yet the heart feels like autumn qi—constricted and stern; some never wake from obsession, sinking like drowning; others bury their schemes so deep that on the surface they no longer show any living person’s breath. Hearts probe and check one another, each eyeing the other’s hidden ji (intent and knack), testing how to draw it out.

[Commentary] Cheng Xuanying and other annotators take the passage above chiefly as a portrait of people whose temperaments differ.

[Sub-commentary] Cheng’s sub-commentary adds: ordinary deluded people fix on “those who agree with me” and “those who oppose me.” Agreement brings joy and pleasure; opposition brings grief and anger. Grief and joy tend to weigh heavily; joy and anger are relatively lighter. Thus: xi—the heart rejoices; yue—shown in dancing and lively movement. nu—immediate resentment; ai—the whole body wailing. lü—planning what is to come; tan—sighing over what is past. bian—changing old habits; zhi (read shè, “unmoving appearance”)—yielding, unable to straighten up. yao (read yáo)—light and restless; yi (read yì)—luxurious indulgence. qi—opening desire; tai—seductive, alluring manner.

The mind-consciousness of living beings shifts in these ways without end; in broad outline there are about twelve such types. Examined closely, the full spectrum of human feeling becomes clear.

Notes on pronunciation (from the original gloss)

• Ai and yue: In this context yue in “ai-yue” is read luò, not like everyday “happy yuè.”
• Zhi: Zhi she fan; Sima Biao glosses it as “appearance of not moving.”
• Yao: Guo Zhu notes the reading yáo; Xu and Li (or Li) also give Li chi diao fan.
• Yi: Read yì.
• Tai: Chi dai fan; Li’s note also gives nu zai fan.

[13] Commentary

This passage treats strange phenomena in the flux of things. The lines above broadly explain that heaven’s natural sounds (tianlai) have no fixed shape; the lines below make the point that precisely because they have no fixed shape, they accord with nature (ziran). Each thing comes to be in its own way, and there is no need to ask “why so”; outward forms differ in countless ways, yet in being “so of themselves” they are the same.

Exegesis

The inside of a panpipe is hollow, so it can produce refined music; damp heat steams upward, so morning mushrooms appear—fungi that live only from dawn and wither quickly. The myriad things of heaven and earth are the same: empty and insubstantial, they pass from nonbeing to being, like those mushrooms and like that music. If everything is no more than floating shadow and illusion, then to whom could joy and anger be directed?

[14] Commentary

Day and night alternate; through that alternation things are ever renewed. The myriad things of heaven and earth renew themselves day by day and shift with the flow of time. Nothing in particular “sprouts” them—they are simply so by nature.

Exegesis

Daylight and darkness cycle and turn, each giving way to the other in succession. Yet if you press to the root, you still cannot discern their ultimate form.

[15] Commentary

The point is that the myriad things generate and complete themselves; there is no separate lord over them.

Exegesis

“Stop” (yi) means to cease. Push inquiry into day and night, and before and after remain obscure; if the mind rises to guess, it is better to halt. Push further through dawn and dusk, observe dimness and brightness, and still you cannot fathom whence they come or where they begin. The intent is to show that the myriad dharmas of the world are empty and unreal: press birth and death, and their substance is originally still. What the Laozi calls “meeting it, you do not see its head; following it, you do not see its tail” follows the same principle.

This passage from Zhuangzi’s “Discourse on Equalizing Things” asks whether we have a “true master” within us, and how pitiable a life of constant busyness can be.

Plain-Language Reading

Without that “object,” there is no “I”; without “I,” there is no “taking” or “leaving.” That sounds close to the truth, yet we still do not know what truly drives us to act.

It seems as if there is a zhenzai (true master—the layer that really governs), but we cannot grasp its face. We can sense from our own conduct that it is there, yet we cannot see its form: there is qing (feeling/responsiveness), but no fixed xingxiang (shape or appearance). Baihai (the bones of the whole body), jiuqiao (the nine openings—eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and the rest), and liuzang (the six viscera—heart, liver, spleen, lungs, kidneys, and related organs) are all present together, yet which should we treat as closest? Do you all favor and side with one of them? Or does each pursue its own interest? Are they merely ministers and servants? Ministers and servants cannot truly rule one another—or do they take turns as ruler and subject? Is there perhaps a zhenjun (true lord) that always dwells among them? Even if we sorted out their closeness and distance, that would neither help nor harm the “real” itself.

Once we receive a bodily form and are born, we cling to that form until death. Rubbing against and wearing down outer things, we never stop—like wheels and horses racing—who can halt it? Is that not pitiful? A whole lifetime of toil with nothing that looks like success; exhausted and worn, laboring on without knowing where we are headed—can that fail to be sorrowful? What good does it do if others say “people do not die”? The body changes and the heart changes with it—is that not great sorrow?

Is human life inherently this confused and dim? Am I alone dim, or are there others who are not? If everyone takes their already-formed heart-and-mind as teacher and standard, who lacks a “teacher” of their own? Must we wait until the will is mature and we decide for ourselves before there is “right and wrong”? Even the dull have that. Before the heart is fully formed, “right and wrong” already appear—as absurd as saying “today we go to Yue, yet we already arrived yesterday.” Thus what is not is treated as what is. Treat what is not as what is, and even Shen Yu (Yu the Great, famed for clear discernment) could not sort it out—what can I do?