《南華真經》Vol. 4

This passage comes from the "Webbed Toes" chapter in the outer chapters of the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), primarily discussing how artificial constructs violate natural human nature.

Webbed toes or forked fingers may appear innate, yet they actually deviate from natural endowment; tumors and warts may seem part of the body, yet they exceed normal form. Similarly, excessive promotion of benevolence and righteousness, though touted as moral standards, does not align with the true Dao of nature.

Just as webbed toes are merely useless excess flesh and extra fingers are superfluous appendages, forcibly imposing benevolence and righteousness upon human nature is like adding unnecessary elements to the five viscera—it only disrupts one's inherent nature. Overpursuit of visual acuity leads to obsession with gaudy ornamentation (like the ancient Li Zhu, famed for extraordinary eyesight), while excessive pursuit of auditory sharpness results in indulgence in complex music (like the ancient musician Shi Kuang).

Those who flaunt virtue elevate morality and suppress innate nature to seek fame, making people blindly follow impractical norms (like virtuous exemplars Zeng Shen and Shi Yu). Skilled debaters pile up rhetoric and play with concepts, obsessing over abstract propositions like "hardness and whiteness" or "sameness and difference" (like thinkers Yang Zhu and Mozi). None of these represent the purest principles of the world.

Things truly in harmony with the Dao of nature never lose their authentic state: what should be merged does not appear excessive, what should branch does not seem abrupt, the long does not feel too long, and the short does not feel too short. A duck's legs may be short, but lengthening them would cause pain; a crane's legs may be long, but shortening them would bring sorrow. What is inherently long should not be cut short, and what is inherently short should not be extended—only then is there no distress. Isn't benevolence and righteousness contrary to human nature? Why are the benevolent always so anxious?

Just as splitting webbed toes causes pain and biting an extra finger elicits cries, whether in excess or deficiency, the suffering is the same. Today's so-called benevolent people spend their days frowning with worldly worries, while the unbenevolent indulge their nature in greed for wealth and status. Does benevolence and righteousness truly align with human nature? Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), why has the world been in such clamorous disorder?

Through abundant metaphors, this passage critiques Confucian-promoted benevolence and righteousness for distorting natural human nature, advocating a return to one's authentic state. The mentioned "hardness and whiteness" and "sameness and difference" were philosophical propositions favored by the School of Names (Mingjia), while "Li Zhu," "Shi Kuang," "Zeng-Shen and Shi-Yu," and "Yang-Mo" represent exemplars of vision, hearing, virtue, and rhetoric, respectively.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), which primarily critiques the practice of forcibly constraining natural dispositions with external norms.

It first points out that using tools like compasses and carpenter's squares to correct objects actually damages their innate nature, while binding things with ropes and glue destroys their natural state. Similarly, using rituals, music, and doctrines of humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi) to pacify the human mind violates the inherent natural order of things.

All things in heaven and earth follow their own natural patterns: what is bent does not need hooks to straighten it, what is straight does not require a marking line, circles do not need compasses, and squares do not need rulers. All things grow naturally without knowing why they grow, and each finds its place without understanding how it got there. This principle has remained unchanged since ancient times—why must we forcibly impose humaneness and righteousness like glue and ropes upon the natural Dao? Doing so only confuses the world. Minor confusion leads people astray, while major confusion alters their very nature.

Ever since Emperor Shun promoted humaneness and righteousness and threw the world into disorder, people have exhausted themselves chasing after these ideals. Has this not used humaneness and righteousness to alter human nature? Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), everyone under heaven has been using external things to change their innate nature: commoners sacrifice their lives for profit, scholars for fame, officials for their families, and sages for the world. Though their goals differ, they are alike in damaging their nature and sacrificing their lives.

Take the example of two shepherds, Zang and Gu, who both lost their sheep—Zang because he was reading books, Gu because he was playing games. Though their activities differed, the result was the same: the sheep were lost. Boyi died for fame on Shouyang Mountain, while the robber Zhi died for profit on Dongling Hill. Though their reasons for death differed, they were alike in destroying life and harming their nature. Why must we insist that Boyi was right and Zhi was wrong?

Everyone in the world sacrifices their life for something: those who die for humaneness and righteousness are called noble men (junzi), while those who die for wealth are called petty men (xiaoren). But in terms of destroying life and damaging nature, there is no difference between Zhi and Boyi—so why distinguish between noble and petty men among them?

This passage comes from the "Horse's Hoof" chapter in the outer chapters of the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), with its core idea critiquing how artificial norms corrupt natural spontaneity. In modern terms:

Zhuangzi argues that those who deliberately pursue humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi), even if as accomplished as Zeng Shen or Shi Yu (renowned ancient sages), have not achieved true perfection. Those chasing gustatory pleasures, even if as skilled as Yu'er (legendary gourmet), miss true flavor. Music enthusiasts, even as masterful as Shi Kuang (celebrated musician), lack true hearing. Those obsessed with visual delights, even with vision as sharp as Li Zhu (mythical figure with exceptional eyesight), fail to attain true clarity. Authentic perfection lies in following one's inherent nature, not external moral standards.

True wisdom means listening not to external sounds but to one's inner self; genuine clarity involves observing not outward phenomena but one's original mind. Those who examine neither themselves nor seek inner fulfillment while chasing external objects are pursuing success in others' eyes rather than true self-realization. Whether the notorious robber Zhi or the virtuous Boyi, such behavior equally deviates from innate nature.

The horse analogy illustrates this: Horses naturally tread snowy terrain, withstand wind and cold with their coats, graze on grass, drink water, and gallop freely—this is their true nature. Yet the horse-tamer Bole "domesticates" them by branding, shearing, shoeing, and bridling, causing many horses to perish. Potters reshape clay with compasses; carpenters straighten wood with ink lines—all violate natural spontaneity.

The passage concludes: When people praise Bole's horsemanship, potters' craftsmanship, or carpenters' skill, they commit the same error as rulers governing the world—all impose artificial standards that distort innate nature. Zhuangzi advocates returning to the Dao and De (natural principles), neither forcing righteousness nor indulging desires, but harmonizing with life's authentic state of being.

I believe those who excel at governing the world would not act thus. The people possess their natural dispositions: weaving clothes for warmth, tilling fields for food—this is called shared nature. All exist in undifferentiated unity without partiality—this is called spontaneous freedom. Thus in the era of perfect Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue), people walked with steady gait and gazed without distraction.

In those days, no mountain paths had been cut, no bridges spanned the marshes. All things grew together, each in its proper place. Beasts moved in herds, plants flourished freely. One could lead animals by tethers and peer into magpies' nests. Humans dwelt alongside creatures and coexisted with all beings—where was there distinction between noble and base? All preserved a state of uncontrived simplicity—this was called pristine purity. Maintaining this purity, human nature remained whole.

When sages appeared, exhausting themselves to promote humaneness and straining on tiptoe to exalt righteousness, the world began to know doubt. Indulgent pursuit of pleasure and contrived emphasis on ritual fractured the world's unity. If raw timber went unworked, how could ritual vessels be made? If uncarved jade remained whole, how could ceremonial gui and zhang tablets exist? Were Dao and De not abandoned, what need would there be for humaneness and righteousness? Were innate nature undivided, what use for rites and music? Were the five colors not disordered, how would patterned ornamentation arise? Were the five notes not confused, how would the six musical pitches emerge?

Carving raw wood into implements—this is the craftsman's crime. Destroying Dao and De to promote humaneness and righteousness—this is the sage's transgression. Horses in their natural state graze and drink; when pleased, they nuzzle necks; when angered, they kick backward—such is equine nature. But when fitted with bridles and yokes, adorned with forehead ornaments, they learn to eye humans askance, twist their necks, bite through reins, and shake off harnesses. That horses become so cunning—this is Bo Le's (legendary horse trainer) fault.

In the age of Emperor Hexu (mythical ancient ruler), people dwelled peacefully without knowing what to do, wandered without knowing where to go. Mouths full, they played; bellies satisfied, they roamed—such were human capacities. When sages used elaborate rites and music to "rectify" behavior and exalted humaneness and righteousness to "comfort" hearts, people began exhausting their minds in relentless competition for profit. This too is the sage's transgression.

(Outer Chapters • Chapter 10: "Opening Trunks")

To guard against trunk-breakers, bag-slashers, and chest-robbers, one must tighten cords and reinforce locks—what the world calls wisdom. Yet when grand thieves arrive, they simply shoulder the chests, haul away the trunks, and carry off the bags, worrying only that cords and locks might prove insufficient! Thus viewed, were not the so-called wise men merely stockpiling goods for great robbers?

This passage comes from the "Qūqiè" chapter of the Zhuangzi, illustrating how seemingly noble wisdom and morality can ironically be exploited by great thieves.

When thieves come to steal, they carry away chests, pry open cabinets, and hastily escape with sacks over their shoulders, all while worrying that the locks aren’t secure enough. Doesn’t this mean the wisdom people once revered is precisely the tool that helps robbers amass wealth? Aren’t the so-called wise merely stockpiling riches for thieves? And aren’t the so-called sages just guarding those riches on behalf of bandits?

The former state of Qi serves as proof: neighbors lived within sight of one another, the sounds of chickens and dogs carried between homes, and the lands for fishing, hunting, and farming spanned thousands of miles. The entire country modeled itself on the sages’ methods of governance, establishing ancestral temples and altars of state, and administering cities and villages. Yet when Tian Chengzi (a powerful minister of Qi) murdered the ruler and seized power, what he stole was not just the state—he also took the rites and institutions established by the sages. Thus, though Tian Chengzi bore the name of a thief, he ruled as securely as Yao and Shun. Minor states dared not criticize him; major states dared not attack him. His descendants ruled Qi for twelve generations. Isn’t this precisely a case of stealing both the state and the sages’ way of governance to protect a thief?

Moreover, those revered as the wisest—who among them isn’t actually accumulating for great thieves? Those hailed as the most sagely—who among them isn’t guarding for robbers? In history, Guan Longfeng was beheaded, Bi Gan had his heart cut out, Chang Hong was torn apart by chariots, and Wu Zixu was drowned in the river. These four worthies all met tragic ends. A disciple of the bandit Zhi once asked him, "Do thieves also have a Dao?" Zhi replied, "Where is there no Dao? To divine where treasure is hidden—that is ‘sagehood.’ To lead the way in—that is ‘courage.’ To be the last out—that is ‘righteousness.’ To judge the opportune moment—that is ‘wisdom.’ To divide the spoils fairly—that is ‘benevolence.’ Without these five virtues, one cannot become a great thief."

From this, we see: Without understanding the sages’ Dao, good people cannot establish themselves—but without understanding the sages’ Dao, even a thief like Zhi cannot succeed in his crimes. Yet in the world, good people are few while the wicked are many. Thus, the sages’ Dao brings little benefit to the world but much harm. It’s like how teeth grow cold when the lips are gone, or how the weak wine of Lu led to the siege of Handan (an allusion). The appearance of sages only gives rise to great thieves. Only by discarding the ways of the sages and letting go of thieves can the world find peace.

Here, Zhuangzi employs irony to make his point: the sagely wisdom and rites championed by Confucians can instead be co-opted by those who steal entire states. He advocates abandoning artificial norms and returning to a state of natural wuwei (non-action).

This passage comes from the "Qūqiè" chapter of the Zhuangzi, which critiques how human-made moral codes become the very source of chaos. The author employs a series of analogies: when rivers dry up, valleys become empty; when hills are leveled, abysses are filled. Similarly, when the so-called "sages" (rulers who establish rituals and laws) vanish, great thieves will no longer arise.

The text sharply observes: in today's society, a petty thief who steals a belt buckle faces execution, while those who steal entire states become feudal lords. These lords loudly proclaim benevolence and righteousness (renyi), yet even these moral standards have been hijacked by them. No matter how high the rewards of rank or how severe the threats of punishment, such grand theft cannot be stopped.

The author argues that the very systems established by the sages—weights and measures, contracts and seals, benevolence and righteousness—have instead provided tools for great thieves. For example:

• Create measuring vessels for rice, and thieves will steal the vessels themselves.
• Establish scales for weighing, and thieves will appropriate the scales.
• Carve seals as proof of authority, and thieves will seize the seals.
• Promote benevolence and righteousness to correct customs, yet even these virtues are co-opted.

The solution proposed is radical: only by completely discarding these artificial constructs can we return to authenticity. For instance:

• Destroy jade and treasures, and petty thieves will have nothing to steal.
• Burn contracts and seals, and the people will regain their simplicity.
• Smash measuring vessels and scales, and disputes will cease.
• Abolish the sages' laws, and the people will freely debate.
• Scramble musical tones and break instruments, and people will recover their natural hearing.
• Eliminate ornate decorations, and people will regain their true vision.
• Discard craftsmen's rules, and people will reveal their innate ingenuity.

The conclusion: true wisdom appears clumsy ("great skill seems awkward"). Only by rejecting the conduct of Confucian paragons like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, silencing the eloquence of Yang Zhu and Mo Di, and abandoning moralistic preaching can the Virtue (De) of all under heaven return to its natural state.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), contrasting the ideal society of antiquity with the chaotic present age, criticizing how the excessive pursuit of cleverness has led to widespread disorder.

In the era of sage-kings like Rongchengshi and Datingshi, people lived in simplicity and purity: they recorded events with knotted ropes, found their food delicious, their clothing comfortable, and their customs joyful, dwelling in contentment. Though neighboring states were within sight and the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs could be heard, people lived and died without ever visiting one another. That was truly an age of great peace.

But what of the present? People crane their necks and stand on tiptoe, and upon hearing of a worthy man somewhere, they pack their provisions and rush to him, abandoning their families at home and forsaking their rulers abroad. Their footprints cover the feudal states, and their carriage tracks extend for thousands of miles. All this is the fault of rulers who prize cleverness!

When rulers single-mindedly pursue cleverness instead of following the Dao (the Way), the world falls into chaos. Why is this so? Consider:

• When bird traps are too ingenious, the birds in the sky grow restless;
• When fishing devices are too numerous, the fish in the waters become disturbed;
• When animal snares are too intricate, the beasts in the marshes panic;
• When sophistry and clever theories flourish, the common people are bewildered by glib words.

Thus, the world is often in great disorder, and the crime lies in the excessive pursuit of cleverness. People all know to seek what they do not possess, yet fail to cherish what they already have; they all know to criticize what they dislike, yet cannot affirm what is already good. In this way, above they obscure the light of sun and moon, below they deplete the essence of mountains and rivers, and in between they disrupt the movement of the four seasons. Even the tiniest insects and plants lose their true nature. The harm that excessive cleverness inflicts upon the world is truly immense!

Since the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, rulers have abandoned the simple and honest people, favoring instead flattering and deceitful sycophants. They have forsaken the natural Dao of tranquility and Wuwei (non-action), becoming obsessed with verbose preaching. This endless moralizing has thrown the world into chaos.

The chapter "Let Be and Exercise Forbearance" states: "We have only heard of letting the world be at ease and at large, but never of governing the world." "Let be" means worrying that people might lose their innate nature, while "forbearance" means fearing they might abandon their true De (Virtue). If people's natures remain undisturbed and their Virtue unchanged, what need is there for governance?

In ancient times, when Yao governed the world, he made the people jubilant, but this caused them to lose their inner peace. When Jie ruled, he made the people suffer, causing them to lose the joy of life. Whether losing tranquility or joy, neither represents true Dao and De. Things that violate Dao and De cannot endure long in this world.

Excessive joy harms Yang Qi, while excessive anger harms Yin Qi. When both Yin and Yang energies are impaired, the harmony of the four seasons and the balance between cold and heat are disrupted, ultimately harming the human body. When people's emotions fluctuate unpredictably, their dwellings become unsettled, their thoughts confused, and they deviate from the Middle Way, the world begins to produce all manner of extreme behaviors—giving rise to tyrants like Robber Zhi and hypocrites like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu.

Thus, all the rewards in the world cannot sufficiently encourage good deeds, nor can all the punishments adequately deter wickedness. The rulers since the Three Dynasties have been so preoccupied with rewards and punishments that the people have had no opportunity to nurture their innate nature.

Moreover, the pursuit of visual pleasure leads to obsession with beauty, the pursuit of auditory pleasure to addiction to music. Seeking benevolence disrupts one's nature, while pursuing righteousness violates heavenly principles. The quest for ritual propriety results in artificial skillfulness, the pursuit of music fosters licentiousness, the aspiration to sagehood breeds affectation, and the chase after knowledge produces maladies.

If people could remain content with their authentic nature, these eight pursuits (clarity of vision, acuity of hearing, benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music, sageliness, and knowledge) would matter little whether present or absent. But when unable to abide in their true nature, these eight become like ropes that bind people's hearts and disturb the world. How lamentable that people instead revere and cherish these things—what profound delusion grips the world! Such mistaken notions cannot be easily eradicated.

This passage expounds the Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." It begins by stating that the finest way for a ruler to govern is to follow natural patterns without deliberate interference. Only by refraining from forceful intervention can the people live in peace and prosperity.

A truly wise ruler neither depletes their vital essence (Jing), energy (Qi), and spirit (Shen) stored in the five viscera, nor deliberately displays cleverness. Outwardly still as a corpse, they contain dragon-like vitality; seemingly silent as deep waters, they possess thunderous resonance. When one's spirit merges with the celestial Dao, effortless non-action allows all things to flourish spontaneously. Such governance requires no forced management.

When Cui Qu asked Laozi (Lao Dan): "How can hearts be settled without governance?" the sage replied: "Never disturb people's minds. The human heart is complex: suppressed, it sinks; encouraged, it soars. At times yielding as water, at others hard as iron—blazing like fire one moment, freezing like ice the next—it can traverse the four seas in an instant. When still, it's profound as an abyss; when stirred, it surges beyond the clouds. Nothing in this world is harder to control."

Historical examples illustrate this: The Yellow Emperor first attempted to mold hearts with benevolence and righteousness. Emperors Yao and Shun toiled until their thighs grew thin and calves hairless, exhausting themselves to establish laws, yet failed to maintain order—Yao ultimately banished rebels like Gonggong. By the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, chaos intensified with tyrants like Jie and bandits like Zhi. Though sages like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu emerged alongside Confucian and Mohist schools, mutual suspicion, deceit, and conflict proliferated, accelerating societal decline.

Forced moral standards disrupt human nature. When rulers prize cleverness, subjects devise endless schemes. Thus saws and axes punish, compasses and squares constrain, penalties and laws restrict—yet disorder worsens. The root fault lies in disturbing hearts. Therefore, sages retreat to mountain forests while rulers fret upon their thrones.

(Note: The "five viscera" refer to organs storing vital energies in Daoist physiology. "Corpse-like stillness with dragon manifestations" describes adepts whose quiescence contains immense power. "Rising like cooking smoke" illustrates nature's spontaneous unfolding.)

In this world today, the corpses of executed prisoners pile up in heaps, the roads are crowded with men in cangues, and everywhere one sees people suffering punishment and execution. Yet Confucian and Mohist scholars (the two major schools of thought in pre-Qin times) continue to debate loudly and wave their arms in protest even while wearing these shackles—this is truly excessive! Their shamelessness and lack of conscience have reached the extreme.

I truly cannot comprehend—isn't what we call "sage wisdom" nothing more than the crossbar of these shackles? Isn't what we call "benevolence and righteousness" merely the mortise and tenon of these fetters? How can we be sure that moral exemplars like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu (virtuous men revered by Confucians) won't become the vanguard for tyrants like Jie of Xia or the robber Zhi (a notorious villain)? Therefore, only by discarding "sage wisdom" can the world be properly governed.

In the nineteenth year of the Yellow Emperor's reign (the legendary sage ruler of antiquity), hearing that Guangchengzi (an immortal who attained the Dao) was living in seclusion on Mount Kongtong, he went to visit him. The Yellow Emperor said: "I have heard that you, Master, comprehend the supreme Dao. May I ask what constitutes its essence? I wish to draw upon the essence of Heaven and Earth to nourish the five grains and sustain the people. I also desire to harmonize Yin and Yang to ensure the smooth growth of all things—how should this be done?"

Guangchengzi replied: "What you ask about pertains only to the superficial aspects of things, and what you seek to govern are merely their dregs. Since you began ruling the world, rain falls before clouds have gathered, plants wither before turning yellow, and the radiance of the sun and moon grows increasingly dim. A petty-minded vulgarian like you is hardly worthy to discuss the supreme Dao!" The Yellow Emperor withdrew, set aside affairs of state, built a quiet chamber with white rushes for flooring, and after three months of solitary retreat, sought another audience.

This time, the Yellow Emperor approached from downwind on his knees, kowtowed respectfully, and asked: "I have heard you comprehend the supreme Dao—how may one cultivate the body to attain longevity?" Guangchengzi suddenly rose and said: "An excellent question! Come, I shall tell you: The essence of the Dao is profoundly mysterious, dark and silent at its utmost depths. See nothing, hear nothing, maintain mental stillness, and your physical form will naturally become upright. You must be tranquil and practice wuwei (non-action)—do not exhaust your body, do not agitate your jing (essence), only then can you attain long life. When your eyes perceive no external objects, your ears hear no sounds, and your mind entertains no distracting thoughts, your shen (spirit) will guard your form, and your body will endure. Guard carefully what is within and reject all external disturbances."

This scripture records the dialogues between the Yellow Emperor seeking the Dao from Guangchengzi, and the encounter between General Cloud (Yun Jiang) and Primordial Chaos (Hongmeng). Guangchengzi tells the Yellow Emperor that excessive external knowledge damages one's innate nature. He guides the emperor to comprehend the realm of the great Dao—one that reaches the source of supreme Yang and plumbs the depths of ultimate Yin. Heaven and Earth each have their appointed roles, Yin and Yang their proper places; the key lies in preserving one's authentic self, whereby all things flourish naturally. Guangchengzi reveals he has maintained the unity of body and mind, harmonized Yin-Yang, and after twelve hundred years of cultivation, his form shows no signs of aging.

Upon hearing this, the Yellow Emperor bows reverently, declaring Guangchengzi has united with heavenly Dao. The sage further expounds: the great Dao is boundless, yet ordinary people assume it has limits; the Dao is unfathomably profound, yet common folk believe it can be fully grasped. Those who attain the Dao may become enlightened sovereigns, while those who lose it return to dust after death. He prophesies his own entry into the gate of eternity, wandering the infinite realms, shining with the sun and moon, enduring as heaven and earth.

The latter section recounts General Cloud's meeting with Primordial Chaos. Hongmeng (symbolizing the undifferentiated primordial Qi) is seen slapping his thighs and leaping about in play. When General Cloud asks how to harmonize the six energies of heaven and earth to nurture all beings, Hongmeng repeatedly answers "I don't know," continuing his joyful hopping. Three years later, they meet again, and the general urgently presses his question. Hongmeng explains he wanders freely without purpose, comprehending reality through expansive observation. Hearing this, General Cloud sighs in admiration, wishing to emulate such unconstrained freedom.

Through the figures of Guangchengzi and Hongmeng, these dialogues illustrate the Daoist cultivation state of "Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness"—not deliberately pursuing knowledge, preserving childlike innocence, aligning with Yin-Yang transformations, and ultimately attaining the carefree state of lasting as long as heaven and earth.

This passage describes a dialogue between Yun Jiang (the Cloud General) and Hong Meng (personification of primordial Qi). When Yun Jiang seeks advice on governing the people, Hong Meng offers a radically different perspective.

Hong Meng declares: "To disrupt the natural order and violate the inherent nature of all things is something even Heaven cannot accomplish. It's like scattering herds of animals and making them howl through the night—such disturbances extend to plants and insects alike. These are all the faults of human governance!"

When Yun Jiang presses for solutions, Hong Meng responds: "Alas, your very thinking is harmful! Why not emulate the transcendence of immortals? Maintain inner emptiness and stillness, follow nature's way of wuwei (non-action), and all things will transform spontaneously. Cast off your physical form, abandon your cleverness, and merge completely with the myriad beings. Free your shen (spirit) to reach a state beyond thought and worry, and all things will naturally return to their source. This return happens unconsciously, through heavenly spontaneity—any forced attempt would only lead to loss."

Hong Meng continues: "Worldly people crave agreement and detest dissent. This desire to stand out actually reveals their conformity. Seeking peace through popular approval is inferior to mastering multiple arts. Those who wish to govern states only see the benefits of the Three Sage-Kings' rule (Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and Wen of Zhou), while remaining blind to their hidden calamities."

Finally, Hong Meng laments: "The chance of successfully governing this way is less than one in ten thousand, while failure is overwhelmingly likely. How pitiable are those who possess territories and rule over them!"

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of Nanhua) primarily elucidates the relationship between "things" (物) and the Dao (道), as well as the distinction between heavenly Dao (天道) and human Dao (人道).

Those who possess land may own many material objects, but those who truly comprehend the great Dao remain unbound by external things. Only those who can master objects without being controlled by them may become sovereigns of all things. Those who understand this principle can not only govern the people of the world but also move freely between heaven and earth, coming and going as they please. Such individuals are called "solitary possessors" (独有之人) and are considered the most noble.

The teachings of sages are as natural as shadows following forms or echoes responding to sounds. They accord with all things without deliberate action (无为), act without fixed patterns, and wander freely in boundless realms. Such individuals become one with heaven, earth, and all things, attaining the state of "great unity" (大同) where self is forgotten.

The text enumerates various principles to be observed: Though lowly, material objects cannot be left unused; though humble, the people cannot be left unsupported; though hidden, affairs cannot be left unattended; though rough, laws cannot be left unstated; though distant, righteousness cannot be left unmaintained; though intimate, benevolence cannot be left unpracticed; though restrained, rites cannot be left unaccumulated; though moderate, virtue (德) cannot be left unhonored; though unified, the Dao cannot be left unchanged; though mysterious, heavenly Dao cannot be left unfollowed.

True sages observe heavenly Dao without forced interference, accomplish virtue without becoming constrained, follow the great Dao without deliberate scheming, practice benevolence without dependence, approach righteousness without accumulation, conform to rites without avoidance, handle affairs without refusal, abide by laws without confusion, rely on the people without contempt, and accord with all things without abandonment. Those who do not understand heavenly Dao cannot attain pure virtue; those who do not comprehend the great Dao will accomplish nothing successfully.

Finally, the distinction between heavenly Dao and human Dao is clarified: What is noble through non-action (无为) is heavenly Dao; what is laborious through deliberate action is human Dao. Heavenly Dao is like the ruler, human Dao like the minister—the difference between them is vast and must be clearly discerned.

This passage comes from the "Heaven and Earth" chapter of the Nanhua Zhenjing's outer chapters, expounding the core Daoist ideas of "accordance with nature" and "governance through non-action."

All beings, though diverse in kind, follow a single principle of operation; the multitudes of people, though numerous, should be governed by their ruler. The foundation of rulership lies in Virtue (De), and the attainment of Virtue stems from the Dao (the Way). Thus, the ancient rulers who governed the world did so simply by aligning with the natural Virtue of Wuwei (non-action).

When viewed through the lens of the Dao, the status of rulers throughout the world becomes properly aligned. When duties are distinguished according to the Dao's standards, the obligations between ruler and subject become clear. When talents are examined through the Dao's principles, officials across the land can fulfill their respective roles. When observed broadly from the Dao's perspective, all things find their proper place.

What connects Heaven and Earth is Virtue; what operates through all things is the Great Dao. For those in high positions, governing the people is their duty, while specialized skills constitute particular arts. Skills should serve duties, duties should accord with righteousness, righteousness should be rooted in Virtue, Virtue should follow the Dao, and the Dao should conform to nature.

Therefore, those in ancient times who excelled at nurturing the world were free from selfish desires, yet the world naturally prospered; they practiced Wuwei, yet all things naturally transformed; they remained as tranquil as deep pools, yet the people naturally settled into peace. As the ancient texts say: "When one comprehends the fundamental Dao, all affairs are accomplished; when the heart seeks nothing, even spirits and deities submit."

Zhuangzi said: The Dao carries all things—how vast and boundless it is! The noble-minded cannot but purify their hearts. Achieving without deliberate action—this is the Way of Heaven; transforming without deliberate teaching—this is Virtue. To cherish the people and benefit all beings is humaneness; to embrace differences while attaining unity is greatness; to not reject what is alien is tolerance; to contain the diversity of all things is abundance. To uphold Virtue is discipline; to accomplish Virtue is self-cultivation; to follow the Dao is completeness; to remain unshaken by external things is perfection.

When noble-minded individuals understand these ten principles, they can embrace all affairs with magnanimity and interact with all things as naturally as rivers flow to the sea. Such people leave gold in the mountains and pearls in the deep, neither coveting wealth nor pursuing riches. They take no joy in longevity nor sorrow in premature death, neither glorying in prominence nor lamenting obscurity.

This passage comes from the "Heaven and Earth" chapter of the Zhuangzi, discussing the distinction between those who have attained the Dao and ordinary people.

Those who possess true "royal virtue" (wang de, the highest De) never claim worldly benefits for themselves nor regard ruling the world as personal property. Though occupying prominent positions, they maintain clarity and purity, viewing all things as one and making no distinction between life and death. The Dao is like a deep pool—serene and crystal clear. Just as bells and chimes don't sound without being struck, all things follow their natural course. Those who have attained the Dao possess innate purity and disdain worldly affairs. Rooted in fundamentals and connected to the divine, their virtue is vast and boundless. All things exist because of the Dao and become illuminated through De. Forms rely on the Dao for existence; life manifests through De. Those lacking "royal virtue" behave recklessly and without restraint.

Those who have attained the Dao can perceive light within chaos and hear harmony in silence. The deeper they penetrate the realm of the Dao, the more they grasp the essence of all things. When interacting with the world, they appear empty yet fulfill all needs; seemingly indifferent yet perfectly attuned to outcomes. Whether dealing with great or small matters, near or far, they respond with effortless mastery.

The passage then recounts the allegory of the Yellow Emperor losing his "Mysterious Pearl" (symbolizing the great Dao). While wandering Kunlun Mountain, the Yellow Emperor lost this pearl and dispatched "Knowledge" (zhi, representing wisdom), "Li Zhu" (li zhu, representing keen perception), and "Chigou" (chi gou, representing clever rhetoric) to retrieve it—all failed. Only when he sent "Formless" (xiang wang, representing no-mind) was the pearl recovered. This illustrates that the great Dao can only be attained through no-mind.

The text continues with a dialogue between Emperor Yao and Xu You. Yao asked Xu You: "Can Nie Que be entrusted with governing the world?" Xu You replied: "How perilous! Though Nie Que surpasses others in intelligence, he alters nature through human effort. He knows only how to prohibit faults without understanding their root causes. Governing this way, he would rely on human artifice to oppose nature, pursue knowledge for quick results, become entangled in trivialities, constrained by external things, constantly reacting to circumstances—until ultimately being assimilated by external things and losing his true nature."

The Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., Zhuangzi) presents a dialogue between Emperor Yao and a recluse that explores the principles of governing the world. The border-guarding hermit (Fengren) initially believed Yao to be a sage, only to realize later that he was merely a noble man.

The hermit said: Heaven gives birth to the myriad people and naturally assigns them their respective duties. When children and grandchildren multiply, duties are distributed—what is there to worry about? When wealth is shared among all, what trouble could arise? A true sage is like a quail that makes its home wherever it finds itself (Chunju), lives as simply as a fledgling bird waiting to be fed (Koushi), and moves like a flying bird leaving no trace. When the world is at peace, they flourish together with all things; when chaos reigns, they cultivate their virtue (De) and retreat into seclusion. After living a thousand years, they depart to become immortals (Shangxian), riding white clouds to the homeland of the Celestial Emperor, free from calamity and disgrace.

Later, Yao passed the throne to Shun, who in turn passed it to Yu. Yet Bo Chenggao (Zigao), a feudal lord during Yao’s reign, resigned to till the land. When Yu visited him, Zigao was working in the fields. Yu stood respectfully downwind and asked: "In the era of Yao and Shun, you served as a feudal lord—why now do you till the land?" Zigao replied: "Under Yao’s rule, the people were diligent without rewards and reverent without punishments. But now, with your system of rewards and punishments, the people have grown unkind. Virtue (De) has since declined, punishments have been established, and the chaos of future generations has begun. You should leave now and not disturb my plowing."

Finally, the text touches upon the primordial state of the universe, Taichu (the Great Beginning): In the beginning, there was only "non-being" (Wu), no "being" (You), and no names. The "One" (Yi) emerged from this state. This speaks to the Daoist cosmological view that all things originate from the undifferentiated Dao, embodying the principle of "generation from non-being" (Wu zhong sheng you).

This scripture elucidates core Daoist concepts of De (Virtue/Power), ming (destiny), xing (form), and xing (nature), while discussing principles of governance.

It begins by explaining cosmogony: Before all things take form, the fundamental generative force is called De (the manifestation of Dao). Even in pre-formative states, there exists natural differentiation—this spontaneous interconnection is termed ming (cosmic patterning). When movement settles, concrete entities emerge, and the inherent order within formed things constitutes xing (physical form). These forms house shen (spirit), each following its own operational principles—this is xing (essential nature). The process of self-cultivation to return to one's original nature constitutes reverting to De, ultimately achieving unity with the primordial state of the universe—a vast, empty clarity of supreme stillness.

The text employs birdsong as metaphor: When human speech and action become as spontaneous as birdsong, one merges with heaven and earth. This fusion, seemingly simple and unrefined, embodies the profoundest xuande (mysterious virtue)—perfect alignment with natural law.

A dialogue between Confucius and Laozi follows: When asked whether logicians who distinguish "permissible" from "impermissible" (like Gongsun Long's "separation of hardness and whiteness" paradox) qualify as sages, Laozi responds that such people are merely ordinary minds constrained by craft—like leashed hunting dogs or captured mountain apes.

Laozi instructs Confucius: True Dao cannot be heard with ears nor expressed in words. Most people possess heads and feet yet lack true spiritual perception. All phenomena—whether formed or formless—exist spontaneously; their movements, stillness, lifecycles and transformations operate beyond human control. Genuine governance makes people forget external things, forget heaven-earth, even forget themselves. Only through this "self-forgetting" can one unite with nature.

The final dialogue features Jiang Lümian and Ji Che. When Jiang advises the Duke of Lu to govern through reverence, frugality and loyalty, Ji laughs, comparing this to "a mantis trying to stop a chariot." True sage-kings govern by letting people's hearts transform naturally, eliminating harmful intentions while allowing each person to fulfill their unique aspirations—as instinctive as nature's unfolding, with citizens unaware of any guidance.

Throughout, the text advocates wuwei (non-action) and returning to primordial simplicity, rejecting artificial governance and clever debates. Its ultimate ideal is achieving Dao-union through self-transcendence.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing, the True Classic of Southern Florescence), recounting a story where Confucius’ disciple Zigong encounters an elderly vegetable farmer in the state of Chu. Through their dialogue, it illustrates the Daoist critique of artificial cleverness and contrivance.

While traveling through the Han River valley in Chu, Zigong came upon an old man working in his garden. The man had dug a tunnel to a well and was laboriously carrying water in earthen jars to irrigate his crops—an exhausting and inefficient method. Zigong suggested using a mechanical device called a gao (a counterweighted well-sweep similar to a shadoof), explaining that it could water a hundred plots in a single day with far less effort.

Hearing this, the old man laughed scornfully and said, "I have heard from my teacher that where there are machines, there are sure to be mechanical affairs; where there are mechanical affairs, there are sure to be scheming minds. Once a scheming mind takes root in the breast, one’s pure and unblemished nature is no longer whole, and the spirit can find no rest. Such a person is incapable of bearing the Dao. It’s not that I don’t know about such devices—I am ashamed to use them!"

Zigong hung his head in silence, abashed. The old man continued, "You must be a disciple of Confucius, aren’t you? You and your kind—so learned and widely read, posturing as sages, striving for novelty, singing mournful songs to win fame—can’t even preserve your own vital energy (Qi), physical form, and spirit (Shen). How could you possibly have the capacity to govern the world? Be on your way now—don’t waste my time."

Stunned, Zigong wandered off in a daze and only regained his composure after walking thirty li. He later confided to his disciples: "I once believed our master Confucius was the only true sage in the world. But now I see there are others of such profound understanding. We Confucians advocate efficiency—achieving the greatest results with the least effort. Yet this old man holds the opposite view: what he seeks is the preservation of his innate nature. Those who preserve the Dao (De) keep their bodies whole; those with whole bodies have complete spirits (Shen). This is the way of the sage. They live among the common people without striving for anything, embodying perfect simplicity and purity, utterly indifferent to profit and clever schemes. Such people are the true masters of the Dao!"

Through the words of the old gardener, this dialogue conveys the Daoist rejection of artificial ingenuity and the advocacy of returning to an unspoiled, natural state. It suggests that preserving one’s innate purity is far more important than pursuing utilitarian efficiency.

This passage comes from the "Heaven and Earth" chapter of the Zhuangzi, presenting dialogues between Daoist figures discussing the ideal state of human perfection. Let me explain section by section:

The description of the "person of complete De (Virtue)": Such individuals neither rejoice in others' praise nor fret over criticism. When the world commends them, they don't become conceited; when the world condemns them, they remain indifferent. External praise or blame cannot affect them—this is the true mark of one whose Virtue is whole. Ordinary people are like ripples on water, constantly disturbed by worldly opinions.

Confucius comments that such people practice the "Chaos Clan" method (referring to cultivation that returns to original simplicity). They focus solely on inner refinement, disregarding external disturbances. Their minds remain pure, preserving natural authenticity with concentrated spirit, able to wander freely through worldly affairs. Confucius laments that neither he nor his disciples have attained understanding of this state.

Next is the dialogue between Chun Mang and Yuan Feng. Chun Mang prepares to journey to the great abyss of the Eastern Sea (symbolizing the realm of Dao). When Yuan Feng asks his purpose, Chun Mang explains the abyss is like Dao itself—no amount of water can fill it, no amount drawn can exhaust it—and he goes there to wander freely. Yuan Feng inquires about "sagely governance" (ideal statecraft), to which Chun Mang replies: When officials perform their duties properly, appointments are made fittingly, all actions follow actual circumstances, and the ruler need only give slight indications for the people to follow naturally—this is sagely governance.

Yuan Feng then asks about the "person of De (Virtue)." Chun Mang responds: Such individuals dwell without idle thoughts, act without anxious calculations, and harbor no distinctions between right/wrong or beautiful/ugly in their hearts. They find joy in sharing benefits with all and peace in providing for others' needs. When lost, they're like infants separated from mothers; when confused, like travelers who've lost their way. Though wealth abounds, they don't inquire its source; though food is plentiful, they don't question its origin—such is the manner of the person of De.

Regarding the "divine person" (a higher realized being): The highest divine persons wander with light, their physical forms seeming to disappear. Their spirit illuminates emptiness, fully expressing innate nature, rejoicing with heaven and earth while transcending worldly trivialities. When all things return to their authentic state, this is called "primordial darkness" (the mysterious state of undifferentiated chaos).

Finally, Men Wugui and Chi Zhang Manji observe King Wu of Zhou's army and discuss governance. Chi Zhang thinks Yu Shun's era was superior, while Men Wugui questions: Did the world need Yu Shun's governance because it was already peaceful, or because it had fallen into chaos? This dialogue provokes reflection on "governing through wuwei (non-action)."

Chi Zhang Manji (an ancient recluse) said: "All under heaven desire peace and order, but why must we imitate the methods of Emperor Shun? His governance was like putting a wig on a bald man or prescribing medicine for the sick. While a filial son anxiously holds the medicine bowl for his ailing father with furrowed brow, the sage considers this approach unenlightened."

In the most ideal society, people neither exalt the worthy nor deliberately employ the talented. Rulers grow like branches at the treetop, while commoners roam free like wild deer. People act rightly without conscious righteousness, love each other without calling it benevolence, keep faith without proclaiming loyalty, and act appropriately without pursuing credit. Mutual aid flows naturally without thought of favors bestowed. Thus such society leaves no traces of action and its deeds go unsung.

The truly filial don't flatter parents, nor do loyal ministers fawn upon rulers. Yet conventional wisdom says: "Children who always agree with parents aren't truly good, nor are ministers who constantly echo their sovereign." But people don't realize this is the proper attitude!

When you echo popular opinions as right and good, isn't this flattery? Yet society demands parental reverence and royal respect. If accused of leading others, you rage; if called sycophantic, you flush with anger. Yet throughout life, people do precisely these two things—either leading or flattering.

Those who gather followers with honeyed words constantly contradict themselves. Bedecked in finery and cosmetics, posturing to please the crowd, they deny their sycophancy. Drifting with vulgar currents yet refusing to admit mediocrity—this marks true stupidity. Those aware of their foolishness aren't truly foolish; those conscious of confusion aren't truly confused. The genuinely confused never awaken; the truly stupid never gain understanding.

Three travelers with one confused member may reach their destination—the minority's confusion matters little. But with two confused, the journey fails—the majority's confusion prevails. Now all under heaven are confused. Though I wish to guide, I'm powerless—is this not tragic? The masses can't appreciate sublime music, yet roar with laughter at vulgar tunes. Thus profound truth finds no entry into common hearts; supreme wisdom spreads not, while platitudes flourish everywhere.

(The final fragment "以二垂踵惑而所适" appears incomplete, likely textual corruption. Context suggests continuation of the theme about majority confusion leading society astray.)

This passage comes from the "Heavenly Dao" chapter in the outer chapters of the Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., Zhuangzi), explaining how people become deluded by external things and lose their original nature.

Nowadays, the whole world deludes me. Though I may have aspirations and longings, how can they be realized? To forcibly pursue what one knows is unattainable is yet another form of delusion. It would be better to let go and cease probing. Without probing, these worries would not arise.

Take the example of the man with sores on his face. When his wife gave birth at midnight, he hurriedly brought a lamp to examine the baby, fearing it might resemble his own ugliness. A hundred-year-old tree is cut down and carved into an exquisite sacrificial wine vessel (xizun), adorned with green and yellow patterns, while the discarded scraps are thrown into a ditch. Though the wine vessel and the scraps differ in beauty and ugliness, both have lost the tree's original natural essence. Similarly, the notorious robber Zhi and the ancient sages Zeng Shen and Shi Yu differ in moral righteousness, yet all have equally lost their innate nature.

There are five ways in which one loses their original nature: First, the five colors (blue, yellow, red, white, black) dazzle the eyes, impairing vision. Second, the five tones (gong, shang, jiao, zhi, yu) confuse the ears, dulling hearing. Third, the five odors (rancid, scorched, fragrant, fishy, rotten) assail the nose, clogging the nasal passages. Fourth, the five flavors (sour, bitter, sweet, pungent, salty) corrupt the palate, ruining taste. Fifth, the struggle for gain and loss agitates the mind, making one's nature restless. These five are all calamities to life.

Yet thinkers like Yang Zhu and Mo Di pride themselves on having attained something—but this is not true attainment. If being trapped counts as attainment, then the caged turtledove and owl have also "attained." Those obsessed with sensory pleasures and worldly gains have hearts stuffed with firewood, while outwardly they adorn themselves with fur caps, official headdresses (yuguan), ceremonial tablets (hu), and scholar's sashes to constrain their appearance. With hearts choked by kindling and bodies bound by layers of restraint, they still consider themselves accomplished. Is this any different from criminals with bound hands and clamped fingers, or tigers and leopards locked in cages? Can this truly be called "attainment"?

The Dao of Heaven (Tiandao, natural law) operates without pause, thus all things are born. The Dao of emperors (the way of sage-kings) operates without pause, thus the world submits.

This passage elucidates the Daoist ideal of "emptiness, stillness, and non-action (Wuwei)." The fundamental principle governing the movement of heaven, earth, and all things is natural spontaneity. The sages who comprehend this truth can attain a state of inner emptiness and stillness.

When water becomes still, it clearly reflects even eyebrows and whiskers, serving as a carpenter's level. When human spirit achieves the clarity of still water, it becomes a mirror reflecting heaven and earth. Emptiness, stillness, tranquility, and non-action represent the balanced axis of cosmic operation and the highest realm of Dao and Virtue (De). Emperors and sages who understand this principle find true fulfillment within emptiness and stillness.

Maintaining this state of non-action brings ease and contentment (Yu Yu), keeping worries at bay and prolonging life. This principle of emptiness and non-action is the fundamental law of all existence: Emperor Yao facing south understood it, as did Minister Shun facing north. Whether in high position or lowly station, all may practice accordingly. In retreat, one convinces reclusive scholars; in public service, one pacifies the world and achieves merit.

In stillness one becomes a sage, in movement a true king. Non-action brings the highest nobility, and unadorned simplicity surpasses all worldly beauty. Those who comprehend heaven and earth's true nature grasp the root principle, harmonizing with celestial rhythms. Those who harmonize with humanity achieve "human joy"; those who harmonize with heaven attain "celestial joy."

Zhuangzi exclaims: "O my master! You blend all things without violence, bless ten thousand generations without claiming kindness, precede antiquity without seeking longevity, bear heaven and earth while shaping all things without displaying skill—this is celestial joy!" Those who understand celestial joy live following heaven's movements, and after death transform with all things. In stillness, they share Virtue with yin; in motion, they ride yang's waves.