《南華真經》Vol. 5

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of Nanhua) expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." Those who have truly attained the Dao will not incur Heaven's resentment, others' criticism, worldly burdens, or reproach from spirits. In motion, they emulate Heaven's natural course; in stillness, they mirror Earth's steadfast solidity. When inner tranquility reaches its zenith, one can govern all under heaven—even spirits dare not cause disturbances, and the Shen (spirit) remains unweary.

Such serenity naturally draws all things into harmony. This state of emptiness and stillness extends throughout the cosmos, embodying what is called "Heavenly Joy"—the supreme bliss of aligning with nature. Sages nurture the world with this mindset. Rulers should take Heaven and Earth as their foundation, De (Virtue) as their guiding principle, and Wuwei as their constant practice. Governing through non-action makes ruling effortless; deliberate striving, by contrast, leads to exhaustion.

The ancient sage-kings understood this truth: though their wisdom encompassed the cosmos, they never flaunted it; though their eloquence could refine all things, they never boasted; though their abilities reached across the four seas, they never acted arbitrarily. Just as Heaven produces without intent and Earth nurtures without effort, rulers who practice Wuwei bring peace to the world naturally. Thus, nothing is more divine than Heaven, more abundant than Earth, or more majestic than the sovereign. When a ruler's De aligns with Heaven and Earth, they master the fundamental Dao—commanding the cosmos, directing all beings, and guiding the people.

The root of governance lies with the ruler; its branches belong to ministers. The use of arms and weapons is but the periphery of De; rewards and punishments are mere extensions of education; rites, laws, and bureaucratic evaluations are only the surface of statecraft; music, dance, and ceremonial banners are the outer trappings of ritual; mourning garments and weeping are but the external forms of grief. These five peripheral practices all demand mental exertion and strain the Shen. Though the ancients employed them, they never mistook them for the root.

Hierarchy in human society follows the natural order of Heaven and Earth: the ruler precedes the subject, the father precedes the child, the elder brother precedes the younger, the senior precedes the junior, the man precedes the woman, the husband precedes the wife. This sequence reflects the Dao of nature itself.

Heaven and Earth operate according to their inherent patterns, thus the sages emulate nature to establish human order. The Celestial Worthy (Tianzun, the highest Daoist deity) resides above while Earth remains below—this reflects the divine arrangement of positions. Spring and summer precede autumn and winter—this is the natural sequence of seasons. All things grow and transform, from sprouting to flourishing to decline, following the cyclical rhythm of waxing and waning. If even the supreme Heaven and Earth observe hierarchy and sequence, how much more should human society maintain proper order?

In ancestral temples, kinship distinctions are observed; at court, ranks of nobility are maintained; in villages, seniority is respected; in affairs, the virtuous are honored—these all reflect the natural order of the Dao. Those who discuss the Dao while violating this order fundamentally misunderstand its true meaning; those who superficially speak of the Dao while contradicting its essence can never truly comprehend it.

The ancient masters who truly understood the Dao first aligned themselves with celestial patterns before discussing virtue (De). After comprehending virtue, they addressed humaneness and righteousness. With these established, they defined roles and responsibilities. With clear responsibilities came systems of punishment and nomenclature. Once these were instituted, they considered appropriate appointments. With proper appointments came evaluation, and through evaluation came discernment of right and wrong. Only with this discernment could rewards and punishments be properly administered.

When the system of rewards and punishments is perfected, the foolish and wise each find their proper place, the noble and humble remain in their appropriate stations, and both the virtuous and ordinary can function according to their innate natures. Each person's abilities are fully utilized, with names matching reality. Applying these principles to serving rulers, governing people, handling affairs, and self-cultivation eliminates the need for cunning schemes—everything returns to natural simplicity. This represents the pinnacle of Great Peace (Taiping).

Ancient texts state: "There exists a system of punishments and nomenclature." While the ancients had such institutions, they never prioritized them. Those who expounded the Dao in antiquity would progress through five levels of discourse before mentioning penal systems, and through nine layers of explanation before addressing rewards and punishments. To begin directly with punishments and nomenclature is to miss the root; to start with rewards and punishments is to misunderstand the origin. Those who invert the fundamental order of the Dao can only be governed by others—how could they govern others? To abruptly discuss punishments and rewards is to grasp the tools of governance while missing its essence.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), exploring the essence of the Dao (the Way) and principles of governance through several dialogues.

It first points out that those who only know how to use the Dao to govern the world, yet fail to understand the natural laws of the universe, are merely skilled debaters—people with narrow perspectives. Ancient times indeed had specific governance tools like rituals, laws, and punishments, but these were merely methods for ministers to serve rulers, not the fundamental way for rulers to nurture the people.

The text then recounts a dialogue between Yao and Shun: Shun asks Yao how he governs the world, and Yao replies that he treats the lonely and suffering with kindness, pities the poor, mourns the dead, and cares for children and women. Shun responds that while this is good, it lacks grandeur. True governance should be as serene as the movement of heavenly virtue (natural law), as natural as the alternation of sun and moon or the cycling of the four seasons. Hearing this, Yao sighs in admiration, recognizing this as the state of harmony with the Dao of heaven.

Next, the passage shifts to a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan). Confucius wishes to store his books in the Zhou dynasty’s imperial library, and Zilu suggests seeking help from the retired archivist Laozi. Laozi disapproves of Confucius’s approach of using twelve classic texts to preach, considering it overly verbose. When Confucius emphasizes that "benevolence and righteousness" are the core, Laozi counters: Are benevolence and righteousness truly human nature? Confucius explains that benevolence and righteousness mean inner peace and impartial love. Laozi, however, points out: Advocating "impartial love" is itself pedantic, and emphasizing "selflessness" is still a form of selfishness. He argues that all things follow a natural order—heaven, earth, sun, moon, stars, animals, and trees all exist according to their inherent nature, with no need to impose artificial notions of benevolence and righteousness.

These dialogues embody the Daoist philosophy of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)," advocating alignment with natural laws rather than deliberate intervention. They suggest that artificial moral codes disrupt inherent harmony.

Simply follow your natural disposition and walk the path of the Dao (the Way), and you will have already reached the highest state. Why bother deliberately flaunting benevolence and righteousness, like beating a drum to search for a lost child—such futile effort? Doing so only disrupts people's innate nature.

Shicheng Qi (a Daoist figure) traveled a long distance to visit Laozi, saying: "I heard you were a sage, so I made this arduous journey without sparing any effort. My feet developed calluses, yet I dared not rest. But now I see you are no sage. Your granary has leftover grain, yet you neglect your younger sister—this shows lack of benevolence. Cooked and raw food pile up like mountains, yet you endlessly amass wealth."

Laozi remained silent. The next day, Shicheng Qi returned and said: "Yesterday I offended you, yet today I feel at ease in my heart. Why is that?" Laozi replied: "As for those so-called wise and divine titles, I long ago transcended such empty reputations. If yesterday you called me an ox, I would answer as an ox; if you called me a horse, I would answer as a horse. If the label fits the reality, refusing it would only invite misfortune. I abide by my natural disposition—never acting for the sake of appearances."

Hearing this, Shicheng Qi stepped aside deferentially and humbly asked about self-cultivation. Laozi said: "Your face feigns solemnity, your gaze is overbearing, your forehead held high, your mouth agape—posing with sanctimonious airs, like reining in a galloping horse to force a halt. Your movements affect restraint, your words scheme with calculation, your observations overly shrewd, everywhere flaunting extraordinary intellect—none of this is genuine. At the borders, there are people called 'thieves' (referring to hypocrites)."

Laozi concluded: "The Dao embraces all things—nothing so vast can exhaust it, nothing so small escapes it. Thus, all things find completion within it. How boundless and vast it is!"

Zhuangzi here illustrates the principle that "the great Dao cannot be conveyed through words" with two parables. First, he describes the state of the "perfect person" (one who has attained the Dao): though living in the mundane world, genuine Dao-realized individuals remain unburdened by worldly pursuits of fame and profit. They perceive the essence of all things, their spirit transcending the confines of heaven and earth, moving with unimpeded freedom. Such persons have already merged with the great Dao, rising above conventional moral constructs like benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety.

Zhuangzi then critiques society's excessive reverence for written texts. He observes that books merely record words, and while words are valuable for conveying ideas, the ultimate "Dao" that ideas pursue cannot be transmitted through language. Yet people mistakenly prioritize the superficial, treasuring word-containers over the wordless truth. Just as we perceive forms and colors or hear names and titles, these surface phenomena cannot reflect the true nature of things. Those who truly understand don't engage in empty talk, while those who chatter volubly lack genuine comprehension.

The parable of "Wheelwright Bian" vividly concludes the lesson: As Duke Huan of Qi reads sage texts in his hall, the elderly wheelwright Bian declares them mere dregs left by ancients. Using his craft as metaphor, he explains that when carving wheels, working too slowly makes them loose while rushing makes them tight—only the perfect rhythm yields mastery. This exquisite tactile understanding resides in the heart but defies verbal expression, being untransmittable even to his own son. Thus, the ancients' truly precious knowledge exists beyond words; what gets written down remains merely superficial.

This story reveals that the great Dao, like consummate craftsmanship, requires personal practice and realization—it cannot be learned through book knowledge alone.

Does the sky revolve by itself? Is the earth motionless? The sun and moon alternate their appearances—who governs their movements? Who upholds the celestial order? And who, though seemingly inactive, propels the operation of all things?

Perhaps there exists some hidden mechanism between heaven and earth that compels this motion? Or is it that once this movement begins, it cannot stop on its own? Clouds transform into rain, rain condenses back into clouds—who controls this cycle? Who, in serene leisure, facilitates these transformations? The wind blows from the north, then suddenly shifts west and east, swirling through the air—who is breathing in and out? Who, without deliberate action, stirs these gentle breezes?

The ancient shaman Wu Xian replied: Let me tell you, heaven follows the six directions (up, down, and the four cardinal points) and the five constants (the laws of the Five Phases). When rulers align with these principles, the world enjoys peace; when they violate them, disaster follows. When the affairs of the nine provinces are properly governed and De (Virtue) is perfected, one gains clear insight into the world below. All people will support such a ruler—this was the realm of the sage-kings of antiquity.

The Grand Steward Dang of Song asked Zhuangzi about the meaning of ren (humaneness). Zhuangzi said: "Even tigers and wolves possess ren." The Grand Steward asked: "How so?" Zhuangzi explained: "Tigers and wolves show affection between father and child—how can this not be called ren?" The Grand Steward pressed further: "Then what is the highest form of ren?" Zhuangzi replied: "The highest ren recognizes no distinctions between close and distant."

The Grand Steward objected: "I've heard that without such distinctions, there can be no love; without love, there can be no filial piety. To say the highest De (Virtue) rejects filial piety—is this reasonable?" Zhuangzi answered: "Not so. The highest De exists on a completely different level—filial piety isn't even adequate to describe it. This isn't to disparage filial duty, but to say it doesn't reach that height."

It's like a traveler heading south to Ying (capital of Chu)—when he arrives, he can no longer see the distant Dark Mountain in the north. Thus we say: It's easy to practice filial piety through ritual respect, but harder through genuine love; easy through love, but harder by forgetting familial ties; easy to forget familial ties, but harder to make relatives forget me; easy to make relatives forget me, but harder to simultaneously forget the world; easy to forget the world, but hardest of all to make the world forget me.

True De (Virtue) surpasses even the accomplishments of Yao and Shun without claiming merit; its blessings flow through ten thousand generations yet none recognize their source. Why then should we constantly debate about ren and filial piety? Filial devotion, brotherly duty, humaneness, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, chastity, and integrity—these are all virtues people force upon themselves to restrain their true nature, not worthy of excessive praise. Therefore: The most honored ducal title may be discarded, the richest national treasures abandoned, the most coveted fame relinquished—only then does Dao remain unchanging.

Beimen Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor: "When you performed the music of Xianchi in the wilderness of Dongting..." (subsequent content not provided)

(When interpreting this passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing describing the relationship between music and celestial principles, one must note its profound symbolism of natural laws through musical imagery)

At first hearing this music, I felt terror; upon second hearing, I grew lax; in the end, I became utterly bewildered. This vast, soundless rhythm made me lose all self-mastery. The Yellow Emperor (an ancient sovereign revered in Daoism) said: "Your reaction is natural. I perform with human affairs, harmonize with the Dao of Heaven, operate through ritual propriety, and root all in the Great Purity (cosmic origin)."

Like the turning seasons where all things grow—with flourishing and decay alternating like civil and martial virtues, clarity and turbidity balancing as yin and yang merge—the tones flow like shifting light. When hibernating insects stir, I startle them with thunderous notes. This music has neither beginning nor end, just as life and death rise and fall endlessly. You cannot anticipate its transformations, hence your terror.

Then I played tones harmonizing yin and yang, illuminating them with solar and lunar radiance. These sounds could stretch long or short, yield soft or firm, containing unity within change, never clinging to old melodies. They filled mountain valleys and depressions, occupying every void while guarding the primordial Shen (spirit), using the ten thousand things as their measure. The music expanded gloriously, its name lofty and bright, making ghosts and deities abide in darkness while sun, moon and stars followed their courses.

I let the music pause in finitude, yet flow toward infinity. You strain to comprehend but cannot grasp it; seek to observe but cannot catch it; chase after it but never overtake. Left standing dazed at the crossroads of emptiness, leaning against a withered wutong tree, you sigh: "Eyes exhaust themselves seeing, strength spends itself pursuing—since neither reaches the mark, let the body empty out and enter a state of surrender." Precisely because you surrendered, you grew lax.

Finally, I played inexhaustible music, attuned to nature's patterns. Like dense woods where growth tangles joyfully without trace; like scattering blossoms neither hurried nor lingering; dark and obscure yet soundless—it moves in immeasurable spaces, dwells in unfathomable depths. Some call this death, others life; some say fruit, others flower—this music flows and spreads, never fixed, clinging to no constant form. Hearing such music, people naturally become perplexed.

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of Southern Florescence) explores two core Daoist concepts:

The first section discusses the state of "Heavenly Joy" (Tianle) - the natural harmony of the Dao. True sages understand human affairs yet follow celestial destiny. Like the hidden mechanisms of nature's operation, this state manifests through our fully functioning senses though its principles remain invisible. This soundless, formless "Heavenly Joy" permeates all space between heaven and earth, encompassing the six directions (up, down, and four cardinal points). When one attempts to grasp it intellectually, confusion arises. Initially daunting, this joy first inspires awe, then leads to relaxed acceptance, and ultimately returns one to simple, unadorned genuineness. Paradoxically, this "foolish" simplicity brings one closest to union with the Dao.

The second part employs Confucius's travels as a parable: When Yan Yuan asked Shijin's opinion of Confucius's mission, the sage responded with the metaphor of "straw dogs" (grass effigies used in rituals). During ceremonies, these were reverently displayed in lacquered boxes draped with embroidered cloths, receiving ceremonial offerings. Yet afterward, they were trampled underfoot or burned as kindling. To enshrine used straw dogs would invite nightmares. Shijin suggests Confucius was similarly trying to revive obsolete rituals of ancient kings - explaining why he suffered humiliation in Song (where they felled his teaching tree), expulsion from Wei, confinement between Shang and Zhou territories, and near-starvation for seven days between Chen and Cai.

The concluding analogy contrasts boats and carts: Water demands boats; land requires carts. Pushing boats across dry land never succeeds. The Zhou dynasty's institutions were like boats, while Lu state represented dry land - making Confucius's attempt to implement Zhou rituals in Lu as futile as landborne boats. This illustrates the Daoist principle of adapting to time and circumstance, warning against mechanically applying outdated systems.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of following nature and avoiding rigid formalism.

It begins with the metaphor of a well sweep (an ancient water-drawing device): when pulled by the rope it lowers, when released it rises—it merely responds passively to external force without actively offending anyone. Similarly, the ritual systems of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors are like pears, oranges, and pomelos—different in flavor yet all delicious. Social institutions should adapt to the changes of their times.

Two vivid examples then illustrate the absurdity of blind imitation: dressing a monkey in the splendid robes of the Duke of Zhou (Zhougong) will only make it tear them to shreds; while the beautiful Xishi's pained frown enhanced her charm, when an ugly village girl copied the same expression, she frightened away the neighbors. This demonstrates the folly of grasping superficial forms without understanding their essence.

The latter part recounts how Confucius, at fifty-one, still hadn't attained the Dao. He spent five years seeking it through "rules and measurements" (regulations and rituals), then twelve years through "Yin-Yang theories," yet failed both times. Laozi points out: if the Dao could be presented as tribute, people would have offered it to rulers long ago; if it could be taught, they would have passed it down to descendants. The true reason is—without an inner foundation for realization, the Dao cannot take root; without outer circumstances that resonate, the Dao cannot be implemented. The Dao realized from within needs no external validation; the Dao forced from without cannot be truly internalized. Fame is like public property—it cannot be seized by force.

Laozi concludes: the sage neither deliberately promotes the Dao (for it cannot be forced) nor rejects those who genuinely realize it (for the Dao is inherently natural).

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi chapter "The Movement of Heaven," featuring a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan) that critiques the Confucian overemphasis on benevolence and righteousness. Laozi argues that deliberately pursuing these virtues is like letting chaff blow into one's eyes—it obscures the true nature of heaven and earth. It's also akin to being bitten by mosquitoes, keeping one restless all night. The true perfected person (zhiren, one who has attained the Dao) treats benevolence and righteousness merely as an inn for temporary lodging, never lingering there permanently.

In ancient times, those who attained the Dao used the names of benevolence and righteousness to wander freely in the realm of carefree joy, living in simple fields and standing firm in a state of non-seeking. To be carefree is to follow the natural course; to be simple is to live without difficulty; to seek nothing is to lose nothing. Those who obsess over wealth, fame, and power live in constant fear of losing what they gain, and when they do lose it, they suffer in grief and pain. Such people are pitiable souls punished by heaven.

Resentment and gratitude, taking and giving, admonishment and instruction, life and death—these eight are tools for governing the world. Only those who follow the natural transformations without obstruction can truly wield them well. If one's heart does not accept this truth, the gates of the heavenly Dao will never open for them.

Laozi employs a metaphor: "Swans do not need to bathe daily to stay white; crows do not need to be dyed to stay black. Their colors are innate—no need to scrutinize them." Just as when a spring dries up, fish spit moisture to keep each other wet, it would be far better for them to forget each other in the vast rivers and lakes. After hearing this, Confucius remained silent for three days. When his disciples asked why he did not comment on Laozi, Confucius sighed and said he had met a true dragon—one that gathers into a complete form and scatters into radiant patterns, riding the clouds and wandering freely between Yin and Yang. He was so awestruck that his jaw hung open—how could he dare to offer any judgment?

Zigong (Duanmu Ci) asked in wonder: "Can there truly be someone who appears still as a corpse yet moves like a divine dragon, silent as an abyss yet thundering when he speaks, shifting between movement and stillness as naturally as heaven and earth revolve?" He then sought an audience with Laozi in Confucius' name. At the time, Laozi was sitting casually in his hall, responding with brief words that revealed profound truths.

Laozi (Lao Dan) said to Zigong: "You are no longer young—what counsel do you intend to offer me?" Zigong replied: "Though the methods of the Three Sage Kings and Five Emperors in governing the world differed, all left behind good reputations. Why do you alone, Master, consider them unworthy of being called sages?"

Laozi motioned him closer and asked about their specific differences. Zigong cited examples: "Yao abdicated to Shun, Shun abdicated to Yu. Yu gained the realm through laborious flood control, Tang of Shang used military force to overthrow Jie of Xia, King Wen of Zhou appeared submissive to King Zhou of Shang while not daring to resist, while King Wu of Zhou took up arms in direct rebellion. Thus their approaches were entirely distinct."

Laozi drew him nearer still and began expounding an older way of governance: "When the Yellow Emperor ruled the world, he kept the people's hearts singularly pure—no one wept when relatives died, and none found this improper. Under Yao's rule, people cherished their families; when someone avenged a relative by killing, none condemned it. Shun's governance made people compete—infants spoke at five months, recognized faces before weaning, and premature deaths began appearing. By Yu's time, human hearts had changed—selfishness emerged, armed suppression of bandits wasn't considered killing, and fragmented rule plunged the world into chaos, giving rise to Confucianism, Mohism and other schools."

Laozi continued: "What the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors called governance was in name order but in reality greater disorder. Their wisdom violated the radiance of sun and moon above, contradicted the essence of mountains and rivers below, and disrupted the four seasons between. Their cunning was more venomous than a scorpion's sting—even young beasts couldn't preserve their innate nature. Yet they presumed themselves sages—is this not shameful?" Zigong sat in visible discomfort.

After this dialogue, Confucius told Laozi: "I have studied the classics—the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, and Book of Rites..." (incomplete subsequent content)

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi). Through a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi, along with descriptions of people pursuing different levels of spiritual attainment, it reveals the essence of the Dao (the Way).

Initially, Confucius believed himself well-versed in the Six Classics (Shi, Shu, Li, Yue, Yi, and Chunqiu) and capable of expounding on the ancient kings' methods of governance. Yet he found no ruler willing to adopt his teachings. Laozi told him: the Six Classics are merely the old footprints left by the ancient kings—just as footprints are made by shoes, they are not the shoes themselves. He then used the example of how white ibises conceive simply by gazing at each other, and how insects mate through the resonance of their calls, to illustrate that the true Dao operates through natural resonance. One’s inherent nature cannot be altered, destiny cannot be defied, the right moment cannot be forced, and the Dao cannot be obstructed. Those who attain the Dao can accomplish anything, while those who lose it meet obstacles everywhere. Three months later, Confucius realized: one must follow nature like a fledgling bird waiting to be fed or a fish gently releasing bubbles, and transform with things like the slender-waisted wasp that mysteriously nurtures others.

The latter part describes five types of people pursuing different ideals:

The first are recluses who deliberately flaunt their purity, isolate themselves from society, and scorn the world;

The second are moralists who preach benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trust, humility, frugality, and ritual propriety;

The third are court officials who seek merit and fame, upholding the rites and laws of ruler and subject;

The fourth are those who retreat to rivers and lakes, fishing and living in leisure, embracing wuwei (non-action) and carefree wandering;

The fifth are those who practice breathing exercises and mimic the movements of bears and birds in pursuit of longevity.

Zhuangzi points out that all these pursuits remain fixated on external forms. The true Dao lies in following one’s natural disposition without forced striving. Just as footprints are not the shoes themselves, outward manifestations are not the essence of the Dao.

This passage expounds the supreme state of "non-action and naturalness" (Wuwei Ziran) revered in Daoism. The core teaching is that truly accomplished individuals need not deliberately pursue anything, yet naturally attain sublime realization.

Without consciously advocating benevolence and righteousness, they naturally embody cultivation. Without chasing fame and achievement, they effortlessly accomplish governance. Without retreating to rivers and seas, they maintain transcendence. Without practicing daoyin (ancient health exercises), they enjoy longevity. This state appears to involve no deliberate action, yet everything is naturally fulfilled. When the mind reaches utmost serenity, all virtuous qualities follow spontaneously—this reflects the operation of Heaven and Earth and the virtue of sages.

Thus, the state of tranquil non-action (Wuwei) and empty stillness is the natural rhythm of cosmic operation and the essence of Dao and De (Virtue). Sages abide in this state, preserving harmony. Harmony leads easily to serenity; serene harmony wards off external worries and pathogenic Qi (vital energy), keeping the spirit (Shen) intact and undiminished.

A sage's life moves like the natural course of Heaven—living in accord with the Dao, dissolving into all things after death. In stillness, they unite with the virtue of Yin; in movement, they synchronize with Yang's momentum. They neither actively seek blessings nor invite calamities, responding only when stimulated, acting only when impelled, arising only when compelled. Discarding cleverness and contrivance, they follow natural principles, thus avoiding heavenly disasters, worldly entanglements, human censure, or ghostly reproach.

A sage's life floats naturally like duckweed; their death rests peacefully like sleep. No scheming or deliberation is needed—illuminating without glaring, trustworthy without insistence. Dreamless in sleep, carefree when awake, their spirit remains pure and unwearied. This state of empty stillness perfectly aligns with the Dao's intrinsic nature.

Grief and joy represent deviations from De; anger and delight are faults against the Dao; preferences and aversions mark deficiencies in virtue. Thus, the pinnacle of De is a heart free from sorrow or joy; the zenith of stillness is unwavering constancy; the height of emptiness is non-conflict with external things; the acme of serenity is non-entanglement with phenomena; the purity of purity is complete non-resistance.

When the body labors excessively, it declines; when the spirit is overused, it wearies. Like water's nature—clear when unmixed, calm when unstirred—if stagnated and blocked from flowing, it cannot maintain clarity. This embodies Heaven's virtue (Tian De). Therefore: unadulterated purity, undisturbed stillness, effortless serenity, and action following nature—this is the way to nurture the spirit. Like a treasured sword too precious for casual use, this is what is most valued.

When spirit permeates all directions—reaching Heaven above and Earth below, nurturing all things without trace—this state may be called "sharing virtue with the Celestial Emperor." The Dao of pristine simplicity lies in guarding the spirit, preserving it without loss.

This passage comes from the "Mending Nature" chapter of the Outer Chapters in the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), which primarily explores the relationship between human nature in its original purity and the influence of social cultivation.

True Dao practitioners seek the unity of spirit (Shen) with the heavenly Dao (Dao). It is often said in the world: ordinary people value profit, the noble-minded emphasize reputation, the virtuous uphold ambition, while sages treasure the purity of spirit above all. What is called "simplicity" (su) means preserving one's innate nature without contamination; what is called "purity" (chun) means maintaining the wholeness of spirit. Only those who attain this state of perfect purity can be called "true persons" (zhenren).

The text criticizes those who attempt to restore their original nature through worldly learning or seek wisdom through conventional thinking, considering this a fundamental inversion of priorities. Ancient Dao cultivators nurtured wisdom through serene detachment and naturalness, inherently understanding that deliberate striving was unnecessary—this is called "using wisdom to nourish serenity" (yi zhi yang tian). When wisdom and serenity mutually sustain each other, the principle of harmony spontaneously manifests.

Virtue (De) is harmony, and the Dao is the natural order of heaven. When virtue embraces all things, it is benevolence; when the Dao penetrates all, it is righteousness. Where righteousness is clearly distinguished, all beings are in accord; an inwardly genuine heart is loyalty, returning to one's original nature is joy, and actions that are sincere and aligned with ritual propriety constitute true rites. But when rites and music are misused, the world falls into chaos.

The people of high antiquity dwelled in a state of primal simplicity, where Yin and Yang were in balance, spirits caused no disturbances, the four seasons followed their course, and all things were at peace. Though people possessed wisdom, they had no use for it—this was the state of "utmost unity" (zhi yi). Later, the Dao and virtue gradually declined: under Suiren and Fuxi, governance still followed nature, though not purely; by the time of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, stability was maintained but no longer in harmony with nature; when Yao and Shun arose, they began promoting extensive cultivation, disrupting the original simplicity of human nature.

People turned away from the great Dao in pursuit of good deeds, harmed their virtue (De) through forced action, and ultimately lost their innate nature while chasing after clever schemes. When minds began contending against one another, wisdom alone proved insufficient to bring peace to the world. Thus, ornamentation was further added—vast knowledge obscured the essence, and intricate theories confused the heart. People became bewildered and disordered, unable to return to their true nature. From this, we see: the world lost the guidance of the great Dao, and the Dao lost a world that could embody it—the two became estranged from each other.

How can a truly enlightened person flourish in the mundane world? And how can the great Dao (the Way) flourish in this world? The great Dao cannot flourish in the mundane world, nor can the mundane world make the great Dao flourish. Even if a sage does not retreat to the mountains and forests, his De (Virtue/Power) will naturally remain hidden. This concealment is not deliberate but a spontaneous state of being.

The so-called recluses of ancient times did not hide their bodies from others, nor did they seal their lips in silence, nor did they suppress their wisdom. They withdrew from the world because the times and fate were at odds with the Dao. If they encountered an era of favorable circumstances, they would act in harmony with the Dao, returning to their original nature without leaving a trace. If the times were unfavorable, they would remain still like deeply rooted trees, biding their time. This is the true path to preserving life.

Those who cultivated themselves in ancient times did not use clever arguments to embellish their wisdom, nor did they rely on intellect to impose demands on the world, nor did they let cleverness harm their De. They dwelled peacefully in their rightful place, returning to their natural essence. What more was there to do? The Dao does not lie in trivial actions, nor does De reside in minor displays. Excessive attention to details harms De, and rigid adherence to small matters damages the Dao. Thus, it is enough to rectify oneself—preserving one’s innate nature is true fulfillment.

What the ancients called "fulfillment" did not refer to high rank and wealth (carriages and official hats) but to a state of inner joy that could not be increased. Today, however, people equate fulfillment solely with obtaining titles and wealth. These external things are not the essence of life but merely temporary possessions that come by chance. When they arrive, they cannot be resisted; when they depart, they cannot be retained. Therefore, those who have attained the Dao do not indulge their hearts in high rank and wealth, nor do they drift aimlessly in poverty and hardship. Whether in wealth or poverty, their joy remains the same—hence, they are free from sorrow.

Today, when people lose these external things, they become unhappy. From this, it is clear that their so-called joy is accompanied by spiritual emptiness. Thus, such individuals have already lost their true nature.