《南華真經》Vol. 6

This passage comes from the "Autumn Floods" chapter of the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), where a profound lesson about the limitations of human understanding unfolds through a dialogue between the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) and Ruo of the Northern Sea (deity of the North Sea).

When autumn floods swelled the Yellow River, its waters grew so wide that cattle on the opposite bank became indistinguishable. The River Earl swelled with pride, believing all the world's wonders were concentrated in his domain. But when he followed the current eastward to the Northern Sea, he discovered its boundless expanse and realized his own insignificance. Ashamed, he confessed to Ruo: "I've often heard the saying, 'Those who learn a little think no one surpasses them'—this describes me perfectly! I used to doubt how anyone could belittle Confucius's (Zhongni's) wisdom or scorn Boyi's integrity. But now, seeing your infinite vastness, had I not come here, I might have remained forever a laughingstock among true masters of the Dao."

Ruo of the Northern Sea replied: "Don't discuss oceans with well frogs—they're confined to narrow spaces. Don't speak of ice to summer insects—they're bound by brief lifespans. Don't talk of the Dao with narrow-minded scholars—they're shackled by worldly conventions. Now that you've left your riverbanks to witness the sea and recognized your limitations, we can finally discuss great principles."

Ruo then illustrated his point through vivid analogies: No waters surpass the sea's magnitude—countless rivers flow into it yet never fill it, while its ceaseless drainage never depletes it. Yet even this immeasurable sea claims no pride, for Ruo understands his true scale against heaven and earth's Yin-Yang interplay—like a tiny pebble on a great mountain. The four seas occupy space between heaven and earth no larger than an anthill in a vast marsh. The Central Plains within these seas resemble a single millet grain in a great granary. Humans constitute but one among myriad creatures, and individuals among multitudes are as insignificant as a single hair on a horse's body.

This dialogue reveals the constraints of human perception, urging humility by recognizing our minuscule place in the cosmos. Metaphors like "Don't discuss oceans with well frogs" and "Don't speak of ice to summer insects" later became enduring Chinese idioms.

What the Five Emperors (legendary sage rulers of antiquity) transmitted, what the Three Kings (founders of the Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties) contended for, what benevolent scholars worried about, and what capable worthies toiled over—all ultimately revolved around these matters of fame and gain. Bo Yi (the recluse of late Shang) sought reputation by declining the throne, while Confucius (Zhongni) displayed erudition through teaching. Their self-promotion—wasn't it just like your earlier self-satisfaction while gazing at the river?

The River Spirit (He Bo) asked: "Then may I regard heaven and earth as the largest and the tip of a hair's end as the smallest?" The North Sea Spirit (Bei Hai Ruo) replied: "No. For the sizes of all things are boundless, time is endless, gains and losses indeterminate, and the transformations of life and death inconstant. Thus the truly wise see both far and near—they don't consider small things insufficient nor large things excessive, understanding that size is relative."

"They comprehend time's eternal flow, so they neither worry about distant matters nor hurry immediate ones; they perceive the waxing and waning of all things, so they neither rejoice excessively in gain nor grieve over loss; they understand life and death as natural patterns, thus they neither particularly delight in living nor consider death calamitous—for they know all is impermanent."

"What humans can calculate will never match what remains unknown; the span of human life is far shorter than the eternity before birth. To pursue infinite knowledge with finite life inevitably leads one astray. Viewed this way, how can we call the hair's tip the smallest limit? How can we declare heaven and earth the ultimate boundary?"

The River Spirit asked further: "People say the most refined things have no form, and the largest things cannot be measured—is this true?" The North Sea Spirit replied: "Viewed from small perspectives, large things appear incomplete; viewed from large perspectives, small things appear indistinct. The extremely refined becomes minute; the extremely vast becomes immense—all is relative. What language can describe belongs to coarse matters; what can only be intuited pertains to subtle principles. As for what neither speech nor intuition can reach—this transcends distinctions between refinement and coarseness."

"Thus the actions of those who truly attain the Dao: They neither harm others nor deliberately bestow favors; they aren't driven by profit nor despise servants; they neither contend for possessions nor feign humility; they act without depending on others and eat without extravagance; their conduct differs from the crowd yet they don't strive for novelty, blending with the multitude without flattering the powerful."

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), where the dialogue between the River Earl (He Bo) and the North Sea Ruo illustrates the Daoist perspective on the relativity of things.

The North Sea Ruo explains to the River Earl: From the perspective of the Dao, all things are inherently without distinction between noble and base. Yet from the limited view of individual things, each considers itself superior while looking down upon others. Conventional standards of nobility and baseness typically depend on external judgments. When observing through comparative distinctions, the size of things becomes relative—if emphasizing their grand aspects, all things can be called large; if focusing on their minute aspects, all can be deemed small. Understanding that heaven and earth may be as tiny as a grain of rice while a hair's breadth can loom like a mountain reveals the relativity of differences.

From the standpoint of function, all things possess their inherent value (you) and limitations (wu). Just as east and west are opposite yet mutually indispensable, the functional roles of things are thereby established. Regarding preferences, if recognizing the merits of one thing, then all have their commendable qualities; if condemning the flaws of another, then all have their shortcomings. Like the sage-king Yao and the tyrant Jie—each considering himself right while denouncing the other—divergent value systems thus become apparent.

Historically, Yao and Shun abdicated their thrones through peaceful succession, yet when King Kuai of Yan imitated this, it led to his kingdom's downfall. Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou gained kingship through contention, yet when Lord Bai contended, it brought his ruin. This shows that both contention and abdication, like standards of nobility, must adapt to their times. A massive beam can breach city gates yet can't stop up a mouse hole; a thousand-li steed excels at galloping but cannot catch mice; an owl can spot fleas at night yet misses entire hills—all demonstrate how things differ in their inherent natures.

The passage concludes: To exclusively emulate "rightness" while rejecting "wrongness," or pursue only "order" while denying "chaos," reveals a failure to comprehend the natural patterns of heaven, earth, and the myriad things. It's like following heaven while discarding earth, or honoring yin while denying yang—such one-sidedness clearly cannot succeed.

This dialogue comes from the "Autumn Floods" chapter of the Zhuangzi, featuring a conversation between the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) and Ruo of the Northern Sea (deity of the North Sea) about the Dao. Through a series of metaphors, Ruo explains core Daoist principles to the River Earl.

Ruo of the Northern Sea declares: Those who stubbornly cling to their views without letting go are either foolish or self-deceiving. The abdication rituals of ancient sage-kings differed across dynasties, just as the succession systems of Xia, Shang, and Zhou varied—all were responses to changing times. Those who resist the current of their era are called usurpers, while those who flow with circumstance are deemed righteous.

The perplexed River Earl asks: Then how should I act? What should I accept or reject? Ruo replies: From the perspective of the Dao, nobility and baseness constantly transform into each other (fanyan)—don't constrain your mind with fixed notions. The Dao is vast and impartial, making no distinction between much and little (xieshi). Clinging to extremes creates deviation from the Dao.

Three metaphors then illustrate the Dao's nature: It governs like an impartial ruler showing no favoritism; blesses like earth-god sacrifices that don't play favorites; extends limitlessly like the boundless four directions. All things fundamentally share one substance—how can there be long or short? The Dao has no beginning or end, though all creatures experience birth and death—don't fixate on temporary forms. Years cannot be detained, time never pauses, yin-yang phases alternate continuously—this constitutes the operating principle of all existence.

The River Earl presses: Then what makes the Dao valuable? Ruo explains: Those who understand the Dao comprehend patterns and adapt flexibly, never letting external things harm themselves. Truly virtuous people remain unharmed by flood or flame, unperturbed by cold or heat—not because they resist these forces, but because they discern proper timing and avoid danger. Thus "the Heavenly Dao operates within, human effort manifests without"—De (Virtue) lies in accordance with nature.

Finally, the example of oxen and horses: Their four-legged form is nature's gift (tian), while bridling horses or piercing ox-noses represents human interference. Therefore, never let artifice damage what's natural, never force what won't come easily, never sacrifice innate nature for reputation. Guarding these principles means returning to one's authentic being (fan qi zhen).

This allegory from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi) reveals the core Daoist principle of "following nature's course" through a series of dialogues between creatures and natural phenomena.

The one-legged beast Kui (a mythical creature) envies the millipede Xian for its numerous legs, to which Xian responds: "These legs move by nature's operation—I don't even know how they coordinate." Xian then admires the footless snake for moving faster, but the snake replies: "This is driven by my innate nature—why would I need legs?" The snake in turn envies the wind's freedom to come and go, yet the wind says: "You can point to my movements, seeming to surpass me. But only my seemingly 'non-confrontational' force can topple giant trees and overturn houses." This illustrates how true "great victory" often appears non-contentious—precisely the realm of sages.

Later, when Confucius is besieged in Song yet continues playing his zither and singing, he explains to Zilu: "I long understood adversity follows destiny (natural law), while success requires timing. The peace of Yao and Shun's era didn't stem from wisdom, nor did the suffering under Jie and Zhou arise from folly—both were shaped by circumstance." Just as fishermen don't avoid flood dragons nor hunters fear tigers, the sage's true courage lies in understanding destiny's timing and remaining composed amid great trials.

Through layered metaphors, this passage demonstrates how all beings possess their natural dispositions, and forced comparisons violate the Dao (the Way). The highest state isn't outward dominance, but rather the wind's seeming gentleness harboring immense power, or the sage's wisdom in accepting circumstances with equanimity.

This passage illustrates the limitations of human perception through two parables.

The first story tells of a man mistaken for Yang Hu (a powerful minister of Lu during the Spring and Autumn period) who was besieged until the error was discovered. It then recounts how Gongsun Long (a representative of the School of Names) sought counsel from Prince Mou of Wei. Gongsun Long boasted of mastering the ancient kings' Dao in youth, comprehending benevolence and righteousness in maturity, and excelling at debating famous paradoxes like "uniting similarities and differences" and "separating hardness and whiteness." Though he could resolve every logical conundrum and believed he'd reached the pinnacle of wisdom, Zhuangzi's teachings left him utterly bewildered. Unsure whether his debate skills or intellect were inadequate, he'd become afraid to speak and sought enlightenment.

Prince Mou sighed deeply and told the fable of the frog in the well: The frog boasted to a giant sea turtle about his perfect life—leaping on the well curb, resting on broken bricks, floating with water supporting his chin when swimming, and sinking into mud just covering his feet. Comparing himself to tadpoles and crabs in the well, he claimed unrivaled happiness. Proudly monopolizing his puddle and ruling his tiny domain, he invited the turtle to witness his paradise. But when the turtle tried to enter, its left foot got stuck before even crossing the rim. Withdrawing, it described the Eastern Sea: "A thousand miles can't span its breadth, a thousand fathoms can't measure its depth. When Yu the Great ruled, floods raged nine years out of ten without increasing it; when Tang of Shang reigned, droughts struck seven years out of eight without diminishing it. Unchanged by time or water volume—this is the sea's joy." Hearing this, the frog gaped in stunned silence.

Prince Mou continued: "Your wisdom can't even distinguish right from wrong, yet you presume to grasp Zhuangzi's teachings? It's like asking a mosquito to carry mountains or a millipede to ford rivers—utterly impossible. Those who chase trivial victories in debate while ignorant of supreme truth are exactly like this well-frog. Zhuangzi's thought descends to the Yellow Springs below and ascends to the celestial void above, unimpeded by north or south. It plumbs unfathomable depths without distinction of east or west, beginning in profound mystery and returning to the spontaneous Dao. Yet you probe it with petty analysis and debate—isn't this absurd?"

To peer at the sky through a bamboo tube or measure the earth with an awl—isn't this far too narrow a perspective? You'd best be on your way. Haven't you heard the story of the young man from Shouling who went to Handan to learn their way of walking? Not only did he fail to master the elegant gait of Zhao, but he even forgot how to walk as he originally had, ending up crawling back home. If you don't leave now, you too will forget your original abilities and lose your very foundation.

When Gongsun Long heard this, his jaw dropped in astonishment, his tongue stuck out and wouldn't retract, and in the end, he slunk away in defeat.

Zhuangzi was fishing by the Pu River when the King of Chu sent two high officials to invite him: "Our lord wishes to entrust you with the affairs of state." Without turning his head, Zhuangzi continued fishing and said, "I’ve heard that in Chu there was a sacred tortoise, dead for three thousand years, which the king keeps wrapped in silk and enshrined in his ancestral temple. Tell me, would that tortoise rather be dead with its shell venerated or alive and dragging its tail through the mud?" The two officials replied, "It would surely prefer to be alive, dragging its tail through the mud." Zhuangzi said, "Then go back—I too will keep dragging my tail through the mud."

When Hui Shi served as prime minister of Liang, Zhuangzi went to visit him. Someone warned Hui Shi, "Zhuangzi has come to replace you as prime minister." Fearful, Hui Shi had the capital searched for three days and nights. Zhuangzi then went to see him and said, "In the south, there’s a bird called the yuanchu (a phoenix)—do you know of it? It flies from the Southern Sea to the Northern Sea, resting only on the paulownia tree, eating only bamboo fruit, and drinking only from sweet springs. Once, an owl that had gotten hold of a dead rat looked up as the yuanchu passed by and screeched in alarm. Now, are you trying to scare me off with your prime ministership of Liang?"

Zhuangzi and Hui Shi were strolling on the bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi said, "The minnows dart about so freely—this is the joy of fish." Hui Shi replied, "You’re not a fish—how do you know the fish are joyful?" Zhuangzi said, "You’re not me—how do you know I don’t know the fish are joyful?" Hui Shi said, "I’m not you, so of course I don’t know what you know. And you’re not a fish, so you can’t know their joy either—that’s perfectly clear." Zhuangzi said, "Let’s return to the root of the question. When you asked, 'How do you know the fish are joyful?' you already acknowledged that I knew it—otherwise, why would you ask? I knew it here, standing over the Hao River."

(From the chapter "Perfect Joy")

Does the world truly possess the highest joy? Is there a way to nourish life? What should people do now? What should they rely on? What should they avoid? What should they accept? What should they pursue? What should they discard? What should they love? What should they hate?

The world generally values wealth, status, longevity, and good reputation, while people delight in bodily comfort, fine food, beautiful clothing, sensual pleasures, and music. What they despise are poverty, lowly status, short life, and ill repute. What causes them suffering is being deprived of these enjoyments—when the body finds no ease, the mouth tastes no delicacies, one cannot wear fine garments, behold beauty, or hear music. Failing to obtain these, people sink into deep anxiety and fear. Such excessive preoccupation with the body is truly foolish.

The wealthy exhaust themselves amassing riches they cannot possibly use up—in doing so, they alienate themselves from their true nature. Those of high status scheme day and night over gains and losses—this too distances them from their bodily essence. Human life is born entangled with sorrow; so-called longevity only brings muddled dread of death, pushing one further from the essence of life. Martyrs who sacrifice themselves for the world may be praised for virtuous deeds, yet they cannot preserve their own lives. I truly cannot discern whether this constitutes genuine goodness or not—if called good, it fails to save oneself; if called not good, it saves others. Thus, when loyal admonitions go unheeded, one should withdraw rather than persist in contention. Consider Wu Zixu, who suffered mutilation for forceful remonstrance—had he not contended for reputation, he might have preserved himself. Does absolute goodness truly exist in this world?

As for the pleasures pursued by worldly people, I cannot say whether they are genuinely joyful. Observing the crowds rushing headlong after so-called delights, frantic and unable to pause, all claiming happiness—yet I feel no joy in it, nor do I find it particularly joyless. Does true joy even exist? I maintain that Wuwei (non-action, or following nature's course) constitutes real joy, yet this is precisely what the world finds most painful. Thus, the highest joy is found in not deliberately seeking joy; the greatest honor lies in disregarding honor. The world's distinctions between right and wrong have no fixed standard—only through Wuwei can one truly discern them. The supreme joy of preserving life can only be approached through Wuwei.

Let me elaborate: Heaven, through Wuwei, remains clear and luminous; Earth, through Wuwei, stays tranquil and stable. When Heaven and Earth unite in Wuwei, the myriad things spontaneously flourish. Vaguely, imperceptibly, they emerge from nowhere; dimly, without discernible form, they take shape. All thriving life springs from this nourishing Wuwei. Thus, though Heaven and Earth appear to do nothing, in reality they accomplish everything. Ah, but who among humans can truly attain the state of Wuwei?

When Zhuangzi's wife passed away, Huizi (Hui Shi, Zhuangzi's friend) came to offer condolences and found Zhuangzi sitting cross-legged on the ground, beating a clay pot and singing. Huizi said, "You lived together as husband and wife for so many years. She bore your children and grew old with you. Now that she's gone, if you don't weep, that's one thing—but to actually drum on a pot and sing? Isn't this going too far?"

Zhuangzi replied, "Not so. When she first died, how could I not grieve? But upon reflection, I realized she originally had no life. Not only no life—she originally had no form. Not only no form—she originally had no Qi (vital energy) that constitutes life. In the chaotic, indistinct state of transformation, Qi emerged; Qi transformed to create form, and form transformed to produce life. Now she has transformed again in death, as naturally as the progression of the four seasons. She now rests peacefully in the great chamber of heaven and earth, yet were I to weep and wail—wouldn't that show I fail to comprehend the Mandate of Heaven? So I stopped weeping."

Zhilishu and Guijieshu were traveling together through the hills of Mingbo (a legendary fairyland near Mount Kunlun) and the place where the Yellow Emperor once rested. Suddenly, a tumor grew on Guijieshu's left elbow, which visibly disturbed him. Zhilishu asked, "Do you dislike it?" Guijieshu replied, "No, why should I? Life is but a borrowed thing—this borrowed existence is like dust. Birth and death are as ordinary as day and night. You and I are observing the transformations of all things—now the transformation has come upon me. Why should I dislike it?"

While traveling in the state of Chu, Zhuangzi came across an empty skull. Tapping it with his horsewhip, he asked, "Did you die because you clung to life and defied the natural order? Or were you executed in the calamity of a fallen kingdom? Did you perish from shame over misdeeds toward your parents, wife and children? Did you die of cold and hunger? Or was it simply your time?" Having said this, he used the skull as a pillow and fell asleep. At midnight, the skull appeared to him in a dream and said, "Your words just now sounded like those of a clever debater. But what you described are the troubles of the living—the dead know none of these. Would you like to hear about death?" Zhuangzi said, "Indeed." The skull replied, "In death, there are no rulers above, no subjects below, and no toil of the four seasons."

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), which illustrates the core Daoist concept of "following nature's course" through several allegorical stories.

The first story describes Zhuangzi dreaming of a skull that claims death brings liberation from worldly toils, making it happier than being a king. This conveys death as a return to natural freedom, opposing excessive attachment to life.

The second story shows Confucius worrying about Yan Yuan going to Qi. Quoting Guanzi's saying "small bags can't hold large objects, short ropes can't draw from deep wells," he analogizes human limitations. Confucius fears Yan Yuan teaching the ways of Yao and Shun to Qi's ruler would backfire, just as raising birds by human methods kills them. The Duke of Lu entertained a seabird with wine and music, causing its death in three days—demonstrating the need to treat things according to their nature.

The third story observes fish thrive in water while humans drown, showing different beings require different environments. Thus ancient sages never demanded uniform talents or affairs, emphasizing adapting to individual differences.

Finally, Liezi encounters a century-old skull that claims only they understand the truth of "never having truly died," echoing the opening skull story. This suggests life and death are merely transformations of form, both manifestations of the Dao (the Way).

These stories collectively demonstrate: all things possess their own nature, and forced uniformity brings harm; governance and education must adapt to individuals; life and death are natural transitions not to be excessively feared or clung to. They embody the Daoist philosophical view of "the Dao follows what is natural" (daofa ziran).

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), expounding the profound principle of mutual transformation among all things. It presents a series of marvelous metamorphoses of life forms:

When seeds encounter water, they transform into thread-like algae (jiè); at the boundary of water and soil, they become moss (the "garment of frogs and clams"). The same seeds growing on hillsides turn into plantain grass (lingxi). Nourished by fertile soil, the plantain transforms into crowfoot grass, whose roots become scarab larvae (qicao) while its leaves turn into butterflies. Soon, the butterfly changes again into a small insect called quduo (a type of hearth-dwelling insect resembling a freshly molted larva). After a thousand days, the quduo transforms into a bird named ganyugu. The saliva of this bird gives rise to simi insects, which then become vinegar midges (shixi yilu) found in fermented beverages. From these vinegar insects emerge huangkuang insects, while jiuyou insects produce mourui insects, and rotting flesh generates fireflies (fuquan). When the sheep's-foot fern combines with old bamboo that no longer sprouts, it produces qingning insects. The qingning gives birth to leopards (cheng), leopards give birth to horses, horses give birth to humans, and humans ultimately return to the cosmic mechanism (referring to the primordial source of creation).

All things arise from this cosmic mechanism and eventually return to it. Though seemingly fantastical, this passage conveys Zhuangzi's core philosophy: all beings share the same origin and undergo perpetual metamorphosis. Life forms exist in eternal flux without absolute boundaries—much like the modern scientific principle of the conservation of matter through changing forms. Notably, humans appear as mere links in this chain of transformation, emphasizing our fundamental kinship with other creatures. The concluding focus on the "mechanism" (the pivot of creation) as both origin and destination reflects the Daoist worldview of "the Dao giving birth to the myriad things."