《南華真經》Vol. 10

During the reign of King Wen of Zhao, the ruler developed an extraordinary passion for swordsmanship. His palace gates were constantly crowded with swordsmen, with over three thousand practitioners gathered at his court. These swordsmen dueled day and night before the king, resulting in more than a hundred casualties each year. Yet King Wen's obsession remained undiminished. After three years of this indulgence, the state of Zhao began to decline, and neighboring feudal lords started eyeing its territory with ambition.

Crown Prince Kui, the king's son, grew deeply troubled by this situation. He summoned his advisors and declared, "Whoever can persuade His Majesty to end this swordsmanship craze will receive a thousand taels of gold." His attendants recommended, "Zhuangzi (the Daoist master Zhuang Zhou) could accomplish this." The prince immediately dispatched an envoy with the gold to invite Zhuangzi. However, Zhuangzi declined the payment and instead accompanied the envoy to meet the prince.

Upon arrival, Zhuangzi asked, "What instructions does Your Highness have for me? Why offer such a generous sum?" The prince replied, "I have heard of your wisdom and virtue, so I prepared this gold for your attendants' expenses. If you refuse it, how could I dare make my request?"

Zhuangzi responded, "I understand you wish me to dissuade the king from his obsession. But if my counsel angers His Majesty and fails Your Highness, I would face execution—what use would gold be then? If I succeed in persuading the king and fulfilling your wish, what in all of Zhao could I not obtain?"

The prince said, "Indeed. Yet my father sees nothing but swordsmen now." Zhuangzi replied, "Very well—I too am skilled in swordsmanship." The prince cautioned, "But the swordsmen my father admires wear disheveled hair, wild sideburns, slanted caps with thick cords, short robes, and speak with fierce stares and rough words. If you appear before him in scholarly attire, the matter may not go smoothly."

Zhuangzi said, "Then prepare me a swordsman's outfit." After three days of preparation, Zhuangzi donned the attire and accompanied the prince to meet the king. King Wen awaited him with drawn sword.

Entering the hall, Zhuangzi neither hurried with small steps nor bowed before the king. The king asked, "What guidance do you bring, Master? My son has already spoken of you." Zhuangzi replied, "I heard of Your Majesty's love for swordsmanship and have come bearing my blade." The king inquired, "What distinguishes your skill?" Zhuangzi answered, "My technique ensures a kill within ten paces and dominance across a thousand miles." Delighted, the king exclaimed, "Then you must be invincible in all the world!"

Zhuangzi, when discussing swordsmanship, said: The Dao of the sword lies in first presenting emptiness to the enemy, luring them to advance before launching an attack—striking later yet arriving first. Upon hearing this, King Wen of Zhao said, "Master, please rest first. Allow me to arrange a martial contest before inviting you again."

For seven days, the king selected swordsmen, resulting in over sixty casualties, until finally five or six masters were chosen to stand below the hall with their swords. When summoning Zhuangzi, the king said, "Today, I invite the master to instruct us in swordsmanship."

Zhuangzi replied, "I have long awaited this moment." The king asked, "What length of sword does the master use?" Zhuangzi answered, "Any length will do, but there are three types of swords for Your Majesty to choose from. Allow me to explain before demonstrating."

The king expressed his eagerness to hear. Zhuangzi said: "There are three kinds of swords—the sword of the Son of Heaven, the sword of feudal lords, and the sword of commoners. The sword of the Son of Heaven takes the valleys of Yan and the stone walls of its cities as its tip, Mount Tai in Qi as its edge, the lands of Jin and Wei as its spine, the territories of Zhou and Song as its hilt ring, and the domains of Han and Wei as its grip. This sword encompasses the four borders, follows the cycle of seasons, encircles like the Bohai Sea, and towers like Mount Heng. It adheres to the mutual generation and restraint of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), balances punishment with virtue, and harmonizes with the transformations of Yin-Yang. Wielding it requires aligning with the vitality of spring and summer, while its movements emulate the austerity of autumn and winter. Forward it meets no resistance, upward nothing can block it, downward nothing hinders it, and in motion it leaves no opening. Above, it can cleave floating clouds; below, it can sever the earth's veins. Once drawn, it rectifies the feudal lords and brings all under heaven to submission. This is the sword of the Son of Heaven."

The king listened in bewildered silence, then asked about the sword of feudal lords. Zhuangzi said: "The sword of feudal lords takes the wise and courageous as its tip, the incorruptible as its edge, the virtuous as its spine, the loyal and righteous as its hilt ring, and the heroic as its grip. This sword too is invincible wherever directed. Above, it follows the round heavens in accord with the sun, moon, and stars; below, it models the square earth in observance of the four seasons; at the center, it comprehends the people's condition to pacify the realm. Once drawn like rumbling thunder, none within its domain dare disobey its command. This is the sword of feudal lords."

The king then inquired about the sword of commoners. Zhuangzi said: "The sword of commoners belongs to those wild-haired warriors with unkempt temples, loose hat-strings, and short jackets, who glare and brawl, fighting in the streets—slashing at necks above and stabbing livers and lungs below. Such swordplay differs not from cockfighting, where lives are gambled yet nothing is gained for the world."

The Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing) contains two illuminating stories. First, let us examine the allegory of the "Sword of the Son of Heaven":

Zhuangzi said to King Wen of Zhao: "Your Majesty holds the authority to rule all under heaven, yet you indulge in the crude sport of commoners' swordplay—this seems beneath your station." Hearing this, the king immediately escorted Zhuangzi to his hall, summoned his chefs to prepare a feast, and personally circled the banquet table three times. Zhuangzi then remarked: "May Your Majesty sit quietly and regulate your breath—what I had to say about swordsmanship has already been conveyed." Thereafter, the king remained within his palace gates for three months, while his swordsmen, having lost their patron, all took their own lives in despair.

The second story recounts Confucius' famous encounter with the Fisherman:

While traveling with his disciples through the Black Canopy Forest, Confucius sat upon the Apricot Altar playing his zither and expounding teachings. Before he'd completed half the melody, an old fisherman with white hair appeared—his beard and eyebrows snowy white, hair unbound, sleeves billowing as he came ashore. Leaning on his left knee with right hand supporting his chin, the elder listened intently. When the music ended, he summoned Zilu and Zigong, pointing at Confucius to ask: "What does that man do?" Zilu replied: "A nobleman of Lu." When questioned about lineage, Zigong elaborated: "Master Kong possesses innate loyalty and trustworthiness, embodies humaneness and righteousness, cultivates ritual and music, and teaches human relationships. Above he serves rulers faithfully, below he educates commoners—his ambition being to benefit all under heaven."

The fisherman pressed: "Is he an enfeoffed lord?" "No," said Zigong. "A minister to feudal lords?" Again negative. Chuckling as he pushed his boat away, the old man remarked: "Humane indeed—yet unlikely to preserve himself. Toiling mind and spirit harms one's true nature—alas! How far from the Dao!" When Zigong reported this, Confucius immediately set aside his zither exclaiming: "This must be a sage!" and hurried to the shore.

The fisherman was already midstream when he turned to see Confucius following. Facing him directly, Confucius retreated two steps and bowed solemnly: "Your words were left unfinished earlier—my dull wits failed to grasp their depth. I've come seeking instruction, hoping to receive your wisdom." The fisherman sighed: "How studious you are!" Confucius bowed again: "From youth until now at sixty-nine, I've pursued learning ceaselessly."

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (The True Classic of Southern Florescence) primarily discusses the responsibilities and concerns of different social strata, as well as eight common faults and four pernicious tendencies in human conduct.

The text begins by observing that like attracts like—this being a natural principle. The author suggests we should set aside personal views to examine the human affairs that concern others. Society is divided into four classes: the Son of Heaven (emperor), feudal lords, ministers, and commoners. When each fulfills their proper role, the world achieves peace; when they neglect their duties, chaos ensues.

Specifically:

• Commoners worry about barren fields, dilapidated homes, inadequate food and clothing, unpaid taxes, family discord, and disordered seniority among family members.
• Officials fear incompetence, neglected governance, misconduct, lazy subordinates, lack of achievements, and losing their positions.
• Feudal lords are troubled by the absence of loyal ministers at court, state disorder, poor craftsmanship, substandard tributes, and improper court ceremonies.
• The Son of Heaven's concerns include disharmony between Yin and Yang, abnormal weather patterns, damage to all living things, violent rebellions among feudal lords, mutual warfare, suffering among the people, collapse of rites and music, financial difficulties, moral decay, and social chaos.

The text criticizes those who, lacking either imperial authority or ministerial office, presumptuously establish rites and music or define human relationships to "educate" the people—considering this an unnecessary interference.

It then identifies eight faults in human behavior:

1. Meddling in affairs that are none of one's business (zong - officiousness)

2. Offering unsolicited advice (ning - sycophancy)

3. Speaking to please others by guessing their preferences (tao - flattery)

4. Complimenting indiscriminately (yu - fawning)

5. Enjoying slander (chan - defamation)

6. Sowing discord (zei - treachery)

7. Falsely praising to harm others (ying - duplicity)

8. Appealing to both sides regardless of right or wrong for personal gain (xian - cunning)

These eight faults externally disturb others and internally harm oneself. A noble person (junzi) would not befriend such individuals, nor would an enlightened ruler employ them as ministers.

Finally, four pernicious tendencies are outlined:

1. Craving greatness and novelty to fish for fame (tao - avarice)

2. Arbitrary decision-making and obstinate self-assurance (tan - tyranny)

3. Refusing to correct mistakes and intensifying errors when admonished (hen - stubbornness)

4. Only approving those who share one's views

These teachings reflect the Daoist perspective on social order and personal cultivation, emphasizing the importance of each fulfilling their proper role and maintaining the way of Wuwei (non-action) in conduct.

This passage recounts a conversation between Confucius and a hermit, revealing profound truths about human conduct. The hermit points out four faults (arrogance, boasting, forcing one's views, and being contentious) and eight failings, asserting that only by overcoming these can one truly teach others.

Hearing this, Confucius grows solemn, reflecting on why he was expelled from Lu, rejected in Wei, humiliated by having a tree cut down in Song, and besieged in Chen and Cai. The hermit enlightens him with the metaphor of "fleeing from one's shadow": A man, hating his shadow, runs desperately to escape it, only to find that the faster he runs, the more closely it follows, until he collapses from exhaustion. Yet if he simply rests in the shade, the shadow vanishes; if he remains still, no new footprints appear.

The hermit observes that Confucius is too fixated on distinguishing benevolence and righteousness, differentiating similarities and differences, observing movement and stillness, weighing gains and losses, regulating likes and dislikes, and balancing joy and anger—all of which entangle him in difficulties. What he should truly do is cultivate himself, preserve his innate genuineness (referring to the natural purity of human nature), and engage with others in harmony with the natural order. Only then will he not be burdened by external things.

When Confucius presses further, asking what "genuineness" means, the hermit explains: Genuineness is the utmost sincerity. Insincere weeping may appear sorrowful but lacks true grief; feigned anger may seem stern but carries no authority; forced affection may smile but lacks warmth. True sorrow needs no sound to move others to grief; true anger need not erupt to inspire fear; true closeness requires no smile to convey warmth. This inner authenticity naturally manifests outwardly—this is the precious quality of "genuineness."

Applied to human relationships: Serving parents requires filial devotion, serving a ruler demands loyalty, drinking should bring joy, and mourning should express sorrow. Loyalty prioritizes achievement, drinking centers on joy, mourning is rooted in grief, and serving parents aims at their comfort.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (commonly known as the Zhuangzi), recounting the encounter between Confucius and a fisherman, which embodies profound Daoist philosophy.

True beauty leaves no trace of artificiality. Serving one's parents simply requires making them comfortable—there is no need to fuss over the method. Drinking wine should bring joy—there is no need to obsess over the vessel. Mourning should express grief—there is no need to rigidly adhere to rituals. These rituals were established by worldly people, whereas "zhen" (genuine nature) is bestowed by heaven and thus cannot be altered. Therefore, the sages emulate nature and cherish authenticity, unbound by worldly conventions. Foolish people do the opposite—they do not follow nature but fret over others' opinions, failing to value their true nature and instead conforming to worldly norms. Such behavior is truly lamentable.

Confucius bowed respectfully to the fisherman and said that meeting him was like a gift from heaven, requesting to follow him and learn the Dao. The fisherman replied: Only those who can comprehend should be taught the wondrous Dao, while those who cannot must be approached with caution—this way, one avoids error. With that, he pushed his boat away and disappeared into the reeds.

Confucius's disciple Zilu, perplexed, asked: "I have followed you for so long, yet I have never seen you show such reverence even to the lords of ten thousand chariots. Why are you so humble before a mere fisherman?" Confucius sighed and said: "You have been steeped in ritual propriety for too long, yet still harbor a crude heart. Failing to respect an elder is discourteous; failing to honor a sage is unkind. If that fisherman were not a true master of the Dao, how could he inspire such heartfelt admiration? Insincerity toward others ultimately harms oneself. Unkindness is the greatest misfortune—yet you persist in it."

Finally, the passage states that the Dao is the source of all things. Without it, all beings perish; with it, they flourish. Actions contrary to the Dao lead to failure, while those in harmony with it bring success. Thus, the sages all revere the presence of the Dao.

Through this dialogue between the fisherman and Confucius, the text elucidates the core Daoist principle of "emulating heaven and valuing authenticity," emphasizing the importance of returning to simplicity and following nature while critiquing Confucian rigidity in ritual and doctrine. The fisherman embodies the transcendent wisdom of one who has attained the Dao, while Confucius's humble willingness to learn demonstrates the true demeanor of a sage.

This passage comes from the 32nd chapter "Lie Yukou" in the Miscellaneous Chapters of the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), recounting a dialogue between Lie Yukou (Liezi) and Bohun Wuren, an accomplished Daoist master.

While traveling to the state of Qi, Liezi turned back midway and encountered Bohun Wuren, who asked why he had returned. Liezi replied, "I ate at ten congee shops, and five of them served me without being asked. This made me uneasy." Bohun Wuren responded, "These congee vendors merely engage in small trade with meager profits and negligible influence, yet they still flatter you this way. How much more would the ruler of a mighty state with ten thousand chariots do? Burdened with state affairs and preoccupied with governance, he would surely employ you for tasks and demand achievements. This is why I felt alarmed."

Bohun Wuren praised him, saying, "Excellent! You can reflect on yourself like this. Yet people will still seek you out." Sure enough, before long, the shoes of visitors piled up at Liezi's gate. Bohun Wuren stood leaning on his staff, left without a word, and Liezi ran barefoot to the door, calling, "Master, since you've come, why not prescribe me some remedy?" Bohun Wuren answered, "I told you long ago that people would seek you out. It's not that you make them come to you, but that you cannot prevent them from doing so. Why deliberately act differently? This only unsettles your true nature. Those who associate with you speak trivial words that poison the mind. The skillful exhaust themselves, the wise worry, but those without ability or desire eat their fill and wander freely, like an untethered boat drifting empty and at ease."

The passage continues with the story of Huan from Zheng: After studying Confucianism diligently for three years in the Qiu region, Huan brought prosperity to his family. Later, his younger brother became a Mohist, and when the brothers debated, their father sided with the younger son. Ten years later, Huan committed suicide, appearing to his father in a dream saying, "It was I who made your son a Mohist." (This seems to illustrate the tragedy of sectarian disputes.)

The text primarily expounds the Daoist concepts of wuwei (non-action) and "emptying the self," warning against pursuing worldly fame and dependence while advocating inner emptiness and spontaneous freedom.

The Creator (referring to nature or the Dao) does not reward the person, but rather rewards their innate nature (original essence). Every individual develops according to their inherent disposition, yet people often consider themselves exceptional and thus neglect their fundamental roots. It is like the people of Qi drawing water from the same well but fighting each other—this illustrates how people today invert what is primary and what is secondary.

Those who possess true De (Virtue) do not deliberately display it—how much more so for those who have attained the Dao? The ancients called actions that violate one’s innate nature "the punishment of fleeing from Heaven." Sages find peace in what is natural, not in what is artificially contrived, while ordinary people find peace in artificiality, not in what is natural. Zhuangzi said: "Understanding the principle is easy; not speaking of it is difficult. To know and remain silent is to accord with nature; to know and speak is to conform to worldly customs." The ancient ones who attained the Dao followed nature rather than pandering to the world.

Zhu Pingman studied the art of dragon-slaying under Zhi Liyi, exhausting his family’s fortune of a thousand gold pieces. After three years, he mastered the skill but had no opportunity to use it. The sage regards what is inevitable as not inevitable, and thus avoids contention; the ordinary person regards what is not inevitable as inevitable, and so contention arises. Those who rely on force to act will ultimately perish.

The wisdom of ordinary people is confined to trivial matters like gift-giving and social niceties. They exhaust their Shen (spirit) on shallow affairs yet presumptuously aspire to benefit the world and guide all things back to the Great Unity (the cosmic origin). Such people are deluded by the surface of the universe, fettered by physical form, and fundamentally ignorant of the source of the Dao. The true perfected person (one who has attained the Dao) returns their spirit to the origin beyond beginning or end, abiding peacefully in the realm of emptiness, flowing naturally like water, with their spirit reaching the clarity of the Great Purity.

How lamentable! People cling to petty cleverness while failing to comprehend the serenity of the Dao. There was a man of Song named Cao Shang who was sent by the King of Song as an envoy to Qin. He set out with only a few carriages but, by pleasing the King of Qin, received a hundred in return. Proudly, he boasted to Zhuangzi: "Living in a poor alley weaving sandals was my weakness, but winning the favor of a great ruler—that is my strength!" Zhuangzi retorted: "When the King of Qin summons physicians, those who treat boils receive one carriage, those who lick hemorrhoids receive five—the baser the treatment, the greater the reward. Did you perhaps lick his hemorrhoids? How else did you earn so many carriages?"

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He: "If I appoint Confucius as the pillar of the state, can the country be well-governed?" Yan He replied: "Perilous indeed! Confucius (who governs through benevolence and ritual) is like using twigs to prop up a great mansion."

The Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., Zhuangzi) explores human nature and governance through multiple perspectives.

First, it criticizes those who adorn themselves with flowery rhetoric and govern people against their innate nature, pointing out they fundamentally misunderstand true leadership. Making the populace abandon authenticity to learn artifice is not the way to govern—better to cease such practices altogether. True benevolence should not seek reward, or it ceases to be natural giving. Merchants (referring to utilitarian types), though outwardly prosperous, remain spiritually base.

Punishments are of two kinds: external penalties involve blades, saws, and clubs (metal and wood implements), while internal penalties stem from inner agitation and faults. Petty people suffer external punishments while their hearts are eroded by the conflict of Yin and Yang energies. Only those who have attained the Dao (the Way) avoid both forms of punishment. Confucius remarked that the human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to fathom than predicting the weather. Heaven follows the cycles of seasons and day-night, yet humans excel at concealing their true feelings. Some appear humble but harbor arrogance, seem strong yet are weak, pursue righteousness fervently but abandon it just as swiftly.

Nine methods test character: send them afar to observe loyalty, keep them close to assess respectfulness, assign heavy tasks to gauge capability, pose sudden questions to test wisdom, impose urgent deadlines to verify trustworthiness, entrust wealth to evaluate benevolence, disclose dangers to examine integrity, observe drunkenness to judge composure, and share living quarters to discern their innate nature. These nine trials expose the unworthy.

Zheng Kaofu (an ancestor of Confucius) grew more humble with each promotion, while others become arrogant upon gaining power. The greatest calamity is committing injustice under the guise of virtue. When one prides themselves on unique insight, they’ve already succumbed to subjective bias. Among the five vicious traits, "middling virtue" (self-righteousness) is the most dangerous—such individuals habitually fixate on others’ dissent.

Life’s adversities manifest in eight extremes; success requires three essential conditions; the body harbors six desires (referring to the senses and mind). Outward traits—fine beards, towering height, or fierce courage—are ultimately superficial.

This passage lays bare the complexity of human nature and the difficulty of governance, emphasizing sincerity and humility while opposing hypocrisy and affectation. It reflects the Daoist reverence for naturalness and rejection of artificiality.

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi) presents several allegorical stories that critique conventional values and advocate following the natural Dao (the Way).

The text begins by noting that eight exceptional talents often lead to hardship, while three seemingly inferior qualities—adaptability, humility, and caution—bring true success. Displaying intelligence invites resentment, and acts of humaneness (De/Virtue) paradoxically attract more criticism. Those who comprehend the essence of life transcend worldly concerns; those who grasp great principles remain open-minded, while those obsessed with petty cleverness encounter constant obstacles.

Next comes a parable: When the King of Song rewarded someone with ten chariots, a wise man warned using the tale of "stealing a pearl from under the Black Dragon's chin"—the treasure was taken only while the dragon slept, and awakening it would bring disaster. The king's favor, like the slumbering dragon, would lead to destruction once his mood changed.

When approached by messengers, Zhuangzi responded with the metaphor of a sacrificial ox: pampered with fine fodder, it meets inevitable slaughter when led to the temple. This mirrors how worldly glory conceals mortal danger.

On his deathbed, Zhuangzi refused an elaborate burial, declaring heaven and earth as his coffin, the sun and moon as his jade ornaments, and all creation as his funeral procession—no burial could be more complete. When disciples worried his corpse might be eaten by crows, he replied: "Being devoured by ants underground or by birds above makes no difference—why favor one over the other?"

The passage concludes: those who consider themselves clever become slaves to external things, while true wonder lies in the natural Dao (the Way). Foolish people stubbornly cling to opinions, exhausting themselves on worldly matters—a pitiable state.

Through these stories, the text demonstrates how artificial wisdom, forced humaneness (De), and material wealth violate nature's flow. True wisdom means harmonizing with heavenly principles and transcending the shackles of conventional values.

Where does the ancient concept of "Dao" (the Way) truly reside? In truth, it permeates all existence. From where do the divine spirits (referring to the numinous forces between heaven and earth) descend? From what source does wisdom arise? The birth of sages and the achievements of emperors all stem from this fundamental "One" (the primordial origin of Dao).

Those who truly attain Dao can be categorized into several levels: those who never deviate from the root are called "Celestial Humans" (those united with heavenly Dao); those who preserve their vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) are called "Spirit Humans" (those with transcendent consciousness); those who remain true to their original nature are called "Ultimate Humans" (the highest level of practitioners). Sages take heavenly Dao as their foundation, virtue (De) as their basis, and the Great Dao as their gateway, thereby gaining foresight into transformation.

The noble person (junzi) manifests through: extending benevolence to bestow kindness, using righteousness to establish principles, employing rituals to regulate conduct, utilizing music to harmonize temperament, and embodying gentleness and compassion as defining qualities. They apply laws to delineate responsibilities, use titles to establish norms, employ comparison to verify truths, and implement evaluation to determine right from wrong, creating a hierarchical system from the One to the Four. All officials follow this order, taking practical affairs as their daily concern, with food and clothing as fundamental needs, while also attending to reproduction and storage, caring for the elderly, weak, orphaned, and widowed—these all constitute the principles for nurturing the people.

How complete were the people of antiquity! They aligned with the divine spirits, modeled themselves on heaven and earth, nurtured all beings, harmonized the world, and showered blessings upon the populace. They comprehended both fundamental principles and concrete methods—whether dealing with matters great or small, refined or coarse, the patterns of their operation were omnipresent. These truths were clearly recorded in legal codes and historical texts, and in classics like the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, and Book of Music. Most scholars and officials in the regions of Zou and Lu could master them: the Book of Songs expressed aspirations, the Book of Documents recorded governance, the Rites regulated conduct, the Music harmonized temperament, the Book of Changes elucidated the transformations of yin and yang, and the Spring and Autumn Annals established proper designations.

These principles spread throughout the world and took institutional form in the Central Plains. The theories of various philosophical schools frequently referenced them. But now, with great disorder in the world, the Way of sages and worthies has become obscure, moral standards have fragmented, and most people seize upon fragmented glimpses while considering themselves correct.

The ears, eyes, nose, and mouth each have their distinct functions, yet none can substitute for another—just as the various schools of thought each possess their specialized knowledge, all serving particular purposes in their time. However, these doctrines often become one-sided and dogmatic, like those who master only a single skill. They fragment the holistic beauty of heaven and earth, dissect the complete principles of all things, and when examining the teachings of the ancients, they grasp only partial truths, rarely comprehending the grand beauty of the cosmos or the full manifestation of the divine.

Thus, the true essence of "inner sagehood and outer kingship" (neisheng waiwang)—cultivating sagely virtue within while achieving kingly governance without—becomes obscured and stifled. Everyone in the world chases after their own desires, clinging stubbornly to their limited views. Tragically, the Hundred Schools of Thought stray ever further from the path, unable to return to the Dao (the Way), making it inevitable that they fail to achieve synthesis. Later scholars are even more unfortunate, for they can no longer perceive the pristine nature of heaven and earth or the grand unity of ancient thought. In this way, the study of the Dao (daoshu) is fragmented.

True daoshu does not burden later generations with extravagance, does not waste the bounty of creation, and does not flaunt rituals and institutions. It disciplines itself with rules yet remains adaptable to worldly crises. Such daoshu existed in antiquity—Mo Di (Mozi) and Qin Guli (his disciple) admired this tradition but took it to extremes. They advocated "condemning music" (feiyue) and "frugality in expenditures" (jieyong), rejecting singing in life and mourning garments in death.

Mozi promoted "universal love" (jian'ai), "mutual benefit," and "condemning aggression" (feigong). His teachings emphasized avoiding anger, embracing broad learning, and refraining from novelty. Yet he rejected the ways of the ancient kings, discarding the rites and music of old. Consider this: The Yellow Emperor had the Xianchi music, Yao had the Dazhang, Shun had the Dashao, Yu had the Daxia, Tang had the Dahuo, King Wen had the Piyong music, and King Wu and the Duke of Zhou composed the Wu music. Ancient funeral rites distinguished noble from commoner, high from low: The Son of Heaven had seven layers of coffin and outer shell, feudal lords had five, ministers three, and scholars two.

Yet Mozi insisted that the living should not sing and the dead should not wear mourning garments, advocating only a three-inch-thick tong wood coffin without an outer shell as the standard. To teach this to others is hardly true love; to impose it on oneself is hardly self-respect.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi) and primarily critiques the doctrines and practices of the Mohist school.

The text first points out that while Mohist teachings may appear to align with the Dao (the Way), they actually contradict human nature. The Mohist advocacy of "toiling diligently in life and practicing frugal burials in death" is excessively harsh, causing people anxiety and sorrow. Such a demanding approach to cultivation is too difficult to practice and can hardly be considered the path of sages. This doctrine goes against the innate tendencies of ordinary people, making it unbearable for most. Though Mozi himself could adhere to these principles, they offer no benefit to the world at large and fall far short of true kingly governance.

The passage then recounts the Mohist admiration for the story of Yu the Great taming the floods: Yu dredged rivers, controlled the deluge, and labored personally with tools until the hair on his legs wore away, braving wind and rain to bring order to the nations. Later Mohists emulated Yu, wearing coarse clothing and wooden shoes, practicing asceticism day and night, believing that anything less would mean failing to uphold Yu’s legacy.

The text mentions how Mohism later split into various factions (such as the followers of Xiangli Qin, Wu Hou, Kuo Huo Yichi, and Deng Lingzi). Though all recited the Mojing (Mohist Canon), their interpretations differed, and they accused one another of deviating from orthodox Mohism. They engaged in logical debates over concepts like "hardness and whiteness" or "sameness and difference" to attack each other, while venerating their leaders, the "Juzi" (Great Masters), as sages. Each faction sought to claim the mantle of succession, leading to endless disputes.

The author acknowledges that Mo Di (Mozi) and Qin Guli’s original intentions were noble, but their methods were flawed, leading later Mohists to obsess over asceticism—even taking pride in having "hairless legs and calloused shins." Such teachings are a poor strategy in times of order and an even worse one in times of chaos. Yet, the text concedes that Mozi was genuinely concerned for the world, persisting in his ideals despite personal hardship—a rare talent indeed. Unburdened by worldly attachments, free from pretense, unyielding in his demands on others, and never opposing the masses, he simply sought peace for the world and survival for the people, asking only for their basic needs to be met. This philosophy finds echoes in ancient Daoist arts, and figures like Song Xing and Yin Wen admired it, donning the Huashan crown (symbolizing equality) to express their ideals. They advocated an open and inclusive attitude toward all things, emphasizing inner cultivation.

Here Zhuangzi presents a transcendent approach to life through the philosophies of several Daoist figures (Peng Meng, Tian Pian, Shen Dao). The core idea conveys: harmonizing human relationships with sincere hearts and reconciling worldly conflicts with peaceful attitudes. They advocated ceasing warfare and eliminating contention, traveling between states to admonish people with these principles—persisting in their teachings even when unheeded.

Shen Dao and his followers maintained that exemplary persons should neither nitpick nor enslave themselves to external things, believing it better to refrain from actions that bring no benefit to the world. Externally, they advocated ending wars; internally, they practiced restraining desires. Whether handling major or minor affairs, they acted with perfect measure—impartial without factionalism, approachable without selfishness. They adapted to the transformations of all things without stubborn opinions, avoiding forced calculations or deliberate choices, instead following nature's flow.

They proposed the concept of "equalizing all things" (qi wanwu): Heaven can cover all things yet cannot support them; Earth can support all things yet cannot cover them; the great Dao (Daode) embraces everything without discrimination. Since all things have their strengths and limitations, deliberate selection leads to partiality, and forced instruction results in incompleteness—only by following the Dao can nothing be omitted. Thus Shen Dao advocated abandoning cleverness and eliminating selfhood to act in accordance with natural patterns.

These figures mocked the worldly veneration of worthiness, floating freely like windblown objects. They moved forward when pushed and walked when pulled, swirling like whirlwinds or dancing feathers. Rejecting rigid distinctions of right and wrong, they sought only to avoid entanglement—neither relying on wisdom nor fixating on hierarchy—standing majestically independent in the world. This philosophy embodies the Daoist principles of "governing through non-action" (wuwei) and "turning harmoniously with all things."

The passage expounds the Daoist philosophy of worldly wisdom, centered on the principles of Wuwei (non-action) and "the soft overcoming the hard."

It begins with metaphorical comparisons: a feather rotating with the wind and a millstone turning along its groove—neither possesses self-awareness, thus never errs. This illustrates the benefits of being free from subjective preconceptions and deliberate striving. Scholars like Shen Dao, Tian Pian, and Peng Meng advocated emulating inanimate objects in conduct, earning mockery from heroes of their time, yet their teachings actually preserved the ancient wisdom of Daoist adepts.

Master Guan Yin (a Daoist figure) and Lao Dan (Laozi) developed this philosophical system further. They upheld the "Supreme Unity" (Taiji, the cosmic origin) as fundamental principle, maintaining outwardly soft and humble appearances while cultivating inner emptiness and receptivity. Master Guan Yin taught: "Abandon rigid self-opinion, let things manifest naturally; move like flowing water, remain still like a clear mirror, respond like an echo." Be indistinct as if barely present, serene like crystalline stillness.

Laozi further proposed: "Know strength yet dwell in softness, becoming the valley of the world; understand glory yet rest in humility, willing to be the world's lowland." While others rush ahead, I alone hold back; while others seek substance, I alone embrace emptiness. Seemingly possessing nothing, yet inexhaustible in application. Act with unhurried ease, engaging the world through Wuwei (non-action), thereby accomplishing great things effortlessly.

These teachings embody the core Daoist concept of "non-action yet nothing remains undone," emphasizing the wisdom of harmonizing with nature and avoiding forceful striving in human affairs.

The people of the world pursue cleverness and profit, while Daoists alone seek pliancy and wholeness, believing this may avert calamity. They take concealment as their foundation and simplicity as their guiding principle. What is too rigid breaks easily; what is too sharp becomes blunted. Embracing all things with tolerance and refraining from harsh judgment—this may be called the highest attainment. Guan Yin (a Daoist figure) and Laozi (Lao Dan) were truly the vast and profound realized ones of ancient times! Serene and formless, mysteriously transforming without fixed patterns, they equated life and death with heaven and earth, wandering freely with the divine spirits. Vast and indistinct, their destination unknowable; hazy and unfathomable, their path untraceable—they encompassed all things yet clung to no final abode.

Such was the ancient Daoist art, and Zhuangzi, hearing of this tradition, yearned for it. He employed seemingly absurd and far-reaching discourse, boundless words that at times flowed unrestrained yet never became one-sided. Believing the world drowned in turbidity and incapable of serious dialogue, he used spontaneous "goblet words" (zhiyan) to express ideas, authoritative "weighty words" (zhongyan) to affirm truth, and allegories to propagate understanding. Alone, he communed with the spirit of heaven and earth while never disparaging the myriad things. Untangled from right and wrong, he harmonized with worldly customs. Though his writings appear fantastical, they form an interconnected whole; though his phrases seem uneven, they brim with wondrous insight. His thought, rich and inexhaustible, roamed above with the Creator and befriended below those who transcend life and death, without beginning or end. His doctrine, fundamentally vast and open, profound yet fluid, may be said to perfectly trace the Dao's origins upward. Though his theories respond to change and explain all phenomena, their principles remain boundless—their origins and ends elusive, hazy as if hinting at the ineffable.

Hui Shi (a Logician school representative) possessed broad learning—his library filled five carts—yet his doctrines were muddled, his arguments often missing the mark. Analyzing the nature of things, he declared: "What is so vast it has no beyond is called the 'Great One' (Taiyi); what is so minute it has no within is called the 'Small One.' A plane without thickness cannot be stacked yet extends a thousand miles. Heaven is as low as earth; mountains level with marshes. The sun at zenith already begins to set; creatures at birth already move toward death. The difference between great similarity and small similarity is 'minor identity-difference'; when all things are utterly alike yet utterly distinct, this is 'major identity-difference.' The south stretches boundlessly yet has limits" (propositions on spatial relativity).

This passage comes from the "Tianxia" chapter of the Zhuangzi, discussing the philosophical views of Hui Shi (also called Huizi), a representative figure of the School of Names during the Warring States period. Hui Shi proposed a series of seemingly paradoxical propositions that actually explored the relativity of things and the limitations of human cognition.

"When setting out for the state of Yue today, one might claim to have arrived yesterday" — this speaks to the relativity of time, much like what we now call "time travel."

"Interlocking rings can be separated" — seemingly unsolvable problems actually have solutions, such as breaking the rings apart.

"I believe the center of the world lies both north of Yan (in the north) and south of Yue (in the south)" — space is relative, and any place can be considered the center.

"Universal love for all things, Heaven and Earth are fundamentally one" — this reflects the Daoist concept of "equalizing all things" (qi wu), where all things are interconnected in essence.

Hui Shi treated these ideas as fundamental views of the world, and many debaters of his time enjoyed discussing them with him. They proposed numerous seemingly absurd propositions:

"An egg has feathers" — because the chick that hatches will grow feathers

"A chicken has three legs" — counting the two physical legs plus the concept of "chicken legs" as a third

"The state of Chu (Ying) encompasses the world" — from a certain perspective, this is true

"A sheep can be a horse" — names are merely human conventions

"Fire is not hot" — heat is a human sensation, not inherent to fire itself

"Mountains have mouths" — referring to echoes in valleys that resemble speech

"A wheel does not touch the ground" — at each instant of rotation, it contacts a different point

"Eyes cannot see things" — requiring light, objects, and consciousness to work together

"A finger cannot point to anything" — there's always a minuscule distance remaining

"A turtle is longer than a snake" — depending on how you compare them

"A carpenter's square cannot draw perfect squares, nor a compass perfect circles" — tools always have imperfections

"A mortise cannot fully hold a tenon" — there's always some gap

"The shadow of a flying bird never moves" — it's a sequence of countless still images

"A flying arrow neither moves nor stops" — motion is a unity of contradictions

"A dog is not a canine" — different names for the same thing

"A yellow horse plus a black ox equals three" — depending on classification methods

"A white dog can be black" — when viewed from certain angles reflecting light

"A young fox has no mother" — possibly referring to adoptive mothers not being birth mothers

"A one-foot-long stick, halved daily, can never be exhausted" — the famous "one-foot stick" paradox

These debaters and Hui Shi echoed each other, engaging in endless arguments. Figures like Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long excelled at confusing people's minds and altering others' views. They could win debates through rhetoric but struggled to genuinely convince people — this was the limitation of debaters. Hui Shi spent his days using his wisdom to debate others, specializing in discussing these peculiar propositions with the world's finest debaters.

Hui Shi considered himself the wisest, often saying, "Isn't Heaven and Earth magnificent?" Yet he possessed only rhetorical skill without practical statecraft. In the south, there was a recluse named Huang Liao who once asked him why Heaven and Earth don't fall, how wind, rain, and thunder form, and other natural phenomena.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's critique of Hui Shi, a leading figure of the School of Names. Hui Shi delighted in debates, constantly expounding at length, finding ordinary principles insufficient and resorting to all manner of extraordinary arguments to overwhelm his opponents. In this competitive striving for supremacy, he had already strayed from the natural Dao.

From the perspective of heaven and earth's cyclical patterns, Hui Shi's talents were like the futile buzzing of a mosquito or gadfly—utterly inconsequential to the development of the myriad things. In truth, one need only hold fast to a single fundamental principle, yet Hui Shi insisted that "the more abstruse the principle, the better," completely failing to understand the wisdom of knowing when to stop.

What a pity! Despite his remarkable abilities, Hui Shi was like a runaway horse that could not be reined in, ceaselessly chasing after novel theories without returning to simplicity. This resembles trying to preserve sound with its echo or racing against one's own shadow—equally futile endeavors. Zhuangzi concludes with lament: How tragic is a life so consumed by contentious debate!

(Note: The phrase "駘蕩" depicts a horse galloping unbridled, symbolizing unchecked behavior; "穷响以声" refers to the futility of trying to retain sound through its echo, metaphorizing vain efforts.)