《南華真經》Vol. 7

Those who comprehend the true meaning of life do not pursue useless things beyond life's essence; those who understand the nature of destiny do not force what lies beyond their cognitive grasp. To nurture the body, material conditions are necessary first, yet there are cases where material abundance fails to preserve health. Life cannot exist without form, yet there are instances where the form remains intact while life is lost. When life comes, it cannot be refused; when it departs, it cannot be detained. How lamentable! Ordinary people believe that preserving the body means preserving life, but since maintaining the body is truly insufficient to retain life, what meaning do all worldly efforts hold? Though these efforts ultimately prove futile, they cannot be avoided—this is the inescapable fate.

To transcend the constraints of physical form, the best method is to relinquish worldly attachments. Without worldly burdens, there is no heaviness; without heaviness, the mind becomes tranquil and harmonious; with tranquility, one renews alongside nature. Reaching this state brings one closer to the Dao. Why let go of mundane affairs? Why view life and death with detachment? By relinquishing worldly concerns, the body is spared exhaustion; by detaching from life and death, the spirit (Shen) avoids depletion. When the body is whole and the spirit vibrant, one merges with nature as a single unity. Heaven and Earth are the parents of all things—when the dual energies of Yin-Yang combine, life is formed; when they disperse, all returns to the source. Those who can preserve both form and spirit without damage gradually ascend in attainment, ultimately reaching a state of refined purity that in turn aids the transformations of nature.

Liezi (a Daoist master) asked Guan Yin (disciple of Laozi): "Those who have attained the Dao can submerge in water without drowning, tread fire without burning, and walk upon all things without fear. How is this achieved?" Guan Yin replied: "This comes from guarding the pure, authentic Qi—it cannot be reached through cleverness or brute strength. Let me explain: All that has form, sound, or color belongs to the realm of concrete things. What significant difference can exist between such things? How could they possibly lead to the highest state? The true Dao arises from formlessness and halts where there is no change. Only by grasping this root..."

Those who obsessively pursue external things will never attain true stillness. Those who have attained the Dao abide in harmonious moderation, dwell in the endlessness of eternity, and wander through the source where all things arise and perish. They preserve the purity of their innate nature, nurture their vital Qi, and align with the De (Virtue/Power) of nature, thereby penetrating the origin of creation. Such people can preserve their heavenly nature with spirit intact—how could external things disturb them?

Consider a drunkard who falls from a carriage: though injured, he doesn't die. His bones are no different from others', yet his injuries differ precisely because his Shen (spirit) remains whole. When riding, he's unaware of riding; when falling, unaware of falling. With no thoughts of life, death, or fear in his heart, he meets accidents without terror. If mere drunkenness can preserve one's spirit, how much more so aligning with the heavenly Dao? The sage dwells within nature's Dao—thus no external thing can harm him.

One seeking vengeance won't break his enemy's sword; one harboring resentment won't blame a tile that accidentally falls. If all under heaven maintained such equanimity, there would be no wars, chaos, or executions. Don't cling to artificial cleverness—instead awaken your heavenly nature. Following nature generates De (Virtue/Power), while forcing things breeds calamity. By neither opposing nature's Dao nor disregarding people's needs, you approach true nature.

When Confucius traveled to Chu, he saw a hunchback catching cicadas with a bamboo pole as easily as picking them up. Confucius asked: "Such skill—what's your secret?" The old man replied: "I have a method. After five or six months of practice, I could balance two pellets atop my pole without dropping them—then I rarely missed cicadas. With three pellets steady, I'd fail only once in ten attempts. When five pellets stayed balanced, it became like simply gathering them. I stand as steady as a tree stump, hold my pole as still as dead wood. Though heaven and earth are vast with countless things, I focus solely on cicada wings—never glancing aside, never distracted. How could I not succeed?" Confucius told his disciples: "Concentrated willpower can achieve divine skill."

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·Mastering Life chapter, conveying wisdom about mental focus and the Dao of nurturing life.

A hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a bamboo pole moved with such precision it seemed as simple as picking things up. When Yan Hui asked Confucius about the secret, Confucius illustrated with three examples: skilled swimmers learn to row boats quickly because they understand water's nature; divers can handle boats without prior experience because they perceive deep waters as level ground. When betting with pottery shards, one's movements are deft; with silver hooks comes nervousness; with golden stakes, the mind grows muddled—the skill remains the same, but the more one values external objects, the clumsier the inner self becomes.

When Tian Kaizhi met Duke Wei of Zhou, he relayed his teacher's analogy about nurturing life: it's like shepherding sheep where you whip the lagging ones. Shan Bao of Lu lived reclusively by mountain streams drinking spring water—at seventy his complexion remained childlike, yet he was devoured by a starving tiger. Zhang Yi bustled about currying favor with the powerful, only to die at forty from internal fever disorders. Both men were like shepherds who failed to whip the stragglers, each stubbornly clinging to one extreme.

Confucius distilled the essence of nurturing life: neither withdraw excessively nor display too conspicuously—stand centered like withered wood. People know to travel together on dangerous paths, yet remain unaware that the true perils lie in bedchamber excesses and dietary indulgences—these are life's genuine hazards.

This passage from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing, the True Classic of Southern Florescence) contains two parables that embody the Daoist philosophy of following nature's course.

The first story features a ritual officer addressing a sacrificial pig in ceremonial robes. The officer asks if the pig fears death, promising three months of fine feeding followed by ten days of purification (zhaijiao), three days of ritual bathing, placement upon sacred white reeds, and final offering on carved vessels. Yet from the pig's perspective, it would prefer eating simple fodder in its pen. Zhuangzi contrasts this with human behavior—people chase high carriages and official caps in life, then elaborate coffins and lavish funerals in death. This reveals humanity's hypocritical double standards in judging others versus ourselves.

The second anecdote tells of Duke Huan of Qi encountering a ghost during a hunt. After claiming to see a specter in the marshes, the duke falls ill with fright. The sage Huangzi Gao explains: while ghosts exist, true harm comes from stagnant Qi (vital energy). When Qi congests in the body's center (Dantian), illness follows. Huangzi describes various spirits, particularly the "Coiling Serpent" ghost that hates thunder chariots—seeing it foretells rulership. Upon recognizing this as the apparition he encountered, the duke laughs heartily and instantly recovers, illustrating how many ailments stem from psychological causes.

The third narrative follows Ji Shengzi training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After forty days, when a rooster remains unmoved by others' challenges—standing like a "wooden fowl" in perfect calm—Ji declares its training complete. Indeed, other roosters flee without confrontation. This exemplifies the Daoist ideal of "great wisdom appearing foolish"—true strength needs no bluster, embodying the principle of Wuwei (non-action) through supreme self-possession.

Confucius was observing the waterfalls at Lüliang when he saw a cascade plunging thirty ren (about 45 meters), its torrents churning for forty li—so violent that even turtles and crocodiles couldn't navigate it. Suddenly, he spotted a man swimming in the rapids. Thinking the man was in distress and seeking death, Confucius instructed his disciples to follow the current and rescue him. Yet the man emerged several hundred paces downstream, his hair loose, singing as he strolled leisurely along the riverbank.

Confucius approached and asked, "At first, I took you for a ghost, but on closer look, you're human. May I ask if you have a special method for swimming?" The man replied, "No method at all. I began by adapting to the water's nature, grew by following my own innate tendencies, and ultimately achieved complete harmony with the flow. I dive with the whirlpools and rise with the surges, wholly obeying the water's way without imposing my own will—that is my swimming."

Confucius pressed further, "What do you mean by 'beginning with adaptation, growing through innate tendencies, and perfecting through natural harmony'?" The man explained, "Born among hills, I became at ease with land—that's adaptation. Raised by water, I grew accustomed to its flow—that's innate tendency. Without realizing it, I swam this well—that's natural harmony."

Next came the story of Zi Qing, a craftsman from Lu who made exquisite chimes (ancient musical instruments). His work was so flawless that people suspected divine intervention. When the Marquis of Lu asked his secret, Zi Qing replied, "What secret could a mere craftsman have? But there is this: Before crafting, I fast and still my mind. After three days, I forget rewards and rank; after five, I disregard praise or blame; after seven, I lose all awareness of my body. By then, even the court fades from mind. With single-minded focus, I enter the forest to select wood, working only when I find material perfectly suited by nature. Thus, when a natural mind meets natural material, the result seems divinely aided."

Then there was Dongye Ji, a master charioteer who performed for Duke Zhuang of Lu. His chariot moved straight as an inked line, turned as precisely as a compass. The duke thought even Zaofu (legendary charioteer) couldn't surpass him and ordered him to complete a hundred laps. Yan He, a wise man, predicted, "Dongye Ji's horses will collapse." The duke remained silent, and soon the horses indeed fell exhausted. Asked how he knew, Yan He replied, "Their strength spent, yet driven further—collapse was inevitable."

Lastly, the legendary craftsman Gong Chui could draw freehand circles surpassing compass precision, his fingers adapting without thought, his mind unified and unconstrained. These stories all illustrate: aligning with nature's patterns, focusing the spirit without force, leads to transcendent mastery.

This passage discusses the realm and attitude of the Daoist "Perfect Man" (zhiren), one who has attained the highest level of cultivation. A man named Sun Xiu came complaining about the unfairness of fate, and Bian Qingzi used the Perfect Man's state to enlighten him.

The Perfect Man can forget the existence of his physical form—he doesn't even notice whether his shoes fit or his belt feels comfortable. Transcending distinctions of right and wrong, his mind remains naturally tranquil and at ease. Neither driven by internal desires nor burdened by external things, he perpetually abides in a state of spontaneous ease. This realm—where one forgets even the very notion of "comfort"—represents true freedom.

Bian Qingzi told Sun Xiu: "You constantly parade your intelligence and virtue through the villages, flaunting them as conspicuously as carrying the sun and moon through the marketplace. Yet simply having intact limbs and features is already great fortune—what right have you to complain about fate?"

After Sun Xiu departed, Bian Qingzi explained to his disciples: "Speaking to him about the Perfect Man's state was like transporting a tiny mouse in a grand carriage or entertaining small birds with bells and drums—it only frightened him. It recalls how someone once tried to entertain a seabird with the grandest sacrificial offerings of the Tailao ceremony and the refined music of the 'Nine Shao,' only to terrify the creature. To properly nurture a bird, one should let it perch in forests, roam rivers and lakes, and eat its accustomed foods."

Through these contrasts, the text illustrates how true cultivation means following one's natural disposition rather than deliberate posturing. The Perfect Man attains the highest state precisely through "forgetting the self"—by not forcibly pursuing anything, he gains genuine freedom. Ordinary people who strain to achieve the Perfect Man's realm will only produce the opposite effect.

Zhuangzi was walking through the mountains when he came upon a luxuriant tree. Woodcutters had stopped beside it but left it uncut. When asked why, they replied the tree was useless. Zhuangzi sighed: "This tree survives to fulfill its natural lifespan precisely because of its worthlessness."

Later, visiting an old friend's home, the host joyfully ordered a servant to kill a goose for dinner. The servant asked: "One goose can honk, the other cannot—which should we kill?" The master said: "Kill the silent one." The next day, a puzzled disciple asked: "The mountain tree was spared for being useless, yet the goose died for the same reason—how should you position yourself, Master?"

Zhuangzi smiled: "I'd dwell between usefulness and uselessness. Yet this compromise still has limitations. If one wanders in harmony with the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue), such dilemmas vanish—neither chasing praise nor fearing slander, soaring like a dragon one moment, hiding like a snake the next, adapting without fixation. Harmonizing all extremes, roaming freely in the source of all things. Mastering objects without being enslaved by them—how could burdens arise? This was the way of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor."

He then lamented life's patterns: unions end in separation, success in ruin, integrity invites suppression, nobility attracts slander, action begets loss, wisdom draws schemes, while incompetence suffers abuse. Why cling to these? Zhuangzi urged disciples to remember: only returning to the realm of Dao and De is true home.

In another story, Shi Nan Yiliao noticed the Duke of Lu looking troubled. The Duke said: "I study the ways of ancient kings, continue ancestral traditions, revere spirits, honor sages—never slackening—yet calamities persist." Shi Nanzi observed: "Your method to dispel worries is superficial. Like magnificent foxes and leopards hiding by day, hunting cautiously at night, starving yet avoiding humans—still they fall to traps. Their beautiful fur becomes their doom. Isn't Lu your 'fur' now? I advise shedding form, abandoning desires, wandering the people-less wilderness."

(Note: "Dao and De" refer to the core Taoist concepts of the fundamental principle and its manifest virtue; the "people-less wilderness" symbolizes transcendent spiritual freedom beyond worldly attachments.)

In the south lies a land called Jiande, where people are simple and guileless, with few selfish thoughts and minimal desires. They know how to labor but not how to hoard; they delight in giving without seeking repayment. Unaware of rigid moral codes or elaborate rituals, they live freely yet align effortlessly with the Dao (the Way). In life they are joyful and unburdened; in death they are peacefully laid to rest.

I wish you would cast aside your royal status, abandon worldly entanglements, and journey with the Great Dao. Yet you protest: "That path is too distant and perilous, blocked by mountains and rivers—how can I go without chariot or boat?" The Sage of the South replies: "Simply relinquish your noble airs and cease clinging to possessions—this is your finest vehicle." You fret further: "That road is desolate—who will accompany me? Without provisions, how shall I survive?" The sage answers: "Reduce expenditures, temper desires, and even without stores, you will have enough."

When you sail across the ocean, those seeing you off will turn back once your vessel disappears into the horizon, while you voyage ever onward. Thus, to govern others is a burden; to be served by others is a sorrow. The greatness of Emperor Yao lay precisely in neither governing others nor being served by them.

I seek to relieve you of these burdens so you may wander alone with the Dao through vast wilderness. When two boats cross a river side by side, if an empty vessel drifts into yours, even the most hot-tempered man won’t rage. But if he sees someone aboard, he’ll shout reprimands. Why anger at the latter but not the former? Because emptiness is insubstantial, while presence is concrete. If one can move through the world with such unimpeded openness, who could harm him?

When Beigong She raised funds for Duke Ling of Wei to cast ceremonial bells, he built a platform outside the city gates and completed the tiered chime sets in three months. Prince Qingji asked what extraordinary method he’d employed. Beigong replied: "I used no technique at all." He had heard it said: "All carved artifacts must return to simplicity." Abiding in primordial chaos—neither knowing nor not knowing—he gathered all in hazy unity, receiving and sending forth until the work fulfilled itself.

This passage from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing, the True Classic of Southern Florescence) employs dialogues between Confucius and various characters to expound the Daoist wisdom of "non-action" (Wuwei) and "non-contention."

When Confucius was besieged between Chen and Cai without warm food for seven days, Taigong Ren came to console him. Taigong Ren shared a fable: In the Eastern Sea lives a bird called Yidai that flies clumsily and slowly, never rushing ahead. It waits for other birds to eat first and thus never faces rejection from its kind, nor harm from predators. This mirrors how straight trees are felled first and sweet well water is drawn dry. You, Confucius, dazzle others with your brilliance to intimidate the ignorant and cultivate yourself to highlight others' flaws, shining as conspicuously as the sun and moon—inevitably inviting misfortune.

The ancients who attained the Dao (Dao) said: "Those who boast achieve no true merit; fame and success invite downfall." Who can relinquish reputation and return to simplicity? Those who embody the Dao act without leaving traces, appearing dull yet harboring great wisdom. They seek no fame or merit, thus facing no worldly blame or opposition.

Deeply moved, Confucius resolved to withdraw from society, retreat to the mountains, wear coarse cloth, and eat wild fruits. Living harmoniously with birds and beasts, he would naturally avoid human resentment. Later, he asked Zisang Hu why he repeatedly faced adversity. Zisang Hu recounted the story of Lin Hui abandoning jade to save a child: "Relationships based on profit dissolve in hardship, while bonds rooted in innate nature grow stronger in crisis." This implied Confucius's ties were utilitarian and thus fragile.

Through these parables, the text illustrates how flaunting wisdom and chasing fame invite disaster, while apparent foolishness and non-contention preserve one's being. True connections stem from innate nature, not gain. This embodies the Daoist ideals of "non-action" (Wuwei) and "blending with the dusty world."

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), which illustrates the art of living through several stories.

When calamity strikes, even blood relatives may abandon each other, while those whose natures resonate will aid one another. The friendship between noble persons is as clear as water—plain yet enduring, whereas the bond between petty people resembles sweet wine—intense but easily broken. Those who unite without reason will likewise separate without cause. After hearing this wisdom, Confucius bowed respectfully in understanding, slowly walked home, and from then on ceased his preaching. Paradoxically, his disciples came to revere him even more.

On another occasion, the recluse Sanghu said: "On his deathbed, Emperor Shun admonished Yu: 'In navigating life, follow the natural course (yuan); let your form adapt to circumstances, and let your emotions remain genuine and unreserved (shuai).'" By following the natural course, one never strays from inherent nature; by being genuine, one avoids exhausting the mind. When Zhuangzi, dressed in patched coarse cloth, visited the King of Wei, the king asked why he appeared so destitute. Zhuangzi distinguished between "poverty" and "distress": a scholar's inability to practice his virtues is called "distress," whereas wearing tattered clothes is merely "poverty." Just as a gibbon leaps freely among nanmu trees but trembles in thorny thickets—not because its sinews stiffen, but because the environment is unfavorable—so too in an era of foolish rulers and corrupt ministers, how could one avoid hardship? This mirrors the fate of Bi Gan, who had his heart cut out.

When Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai without cooked meals for seven days, he still tapped dried wood with his left hand and struck withered branches with his right, singing songs from the age of Shennong. Though the rhythm was irregular, the sounds of wood and voice merged effortlessly. As Yan Hui watched reverently, Confucius worried that his disciple's excessive admiration might lead to profound sorrow. He said: "Yan Hui, enduring the damages of heaven is easy, but refusing the artificial enhancements of man is hard. All things share the same origin and end—humanity and nature are fundamentally one. Who is the singer now? Merely one yielding to the natural course." When Yan Hui asked why "heaven's damages are easily endured," Confucius explained: Natural adversities like hunger, thirst, and weather are decreed by fate—simply accept them. But human-made gains and losses disturb the original mind—even sages struggle to resist them.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·Shanmu chapter, using vivid parables to explore humanity's relationship with nature and the tension between worldly gain and authentic nature.

The text first discusses natural hardships like hunger, thirst, cold, and heat—inevitable aspects of the Dao (the Way) of heaven and earth. Just as subjects dare not disobey their ruler’s commands, humans should align themselves with the Dao of heaven. Confucius remarks: When he first entered public service, promotions and emoluments came effortlessly, yet these external rewards were never truly his own. A nobleman does not steal, nor does a virtuous man act as a thief—so what does it mean to forcibly seize such worldly possessions?

Next comes the metaphor of the small bird (鷾鴯): it refuses to linger where its eyes find no comfort, and even if carrying food in its beak, it will drop it and flee—for though it fears humans, it must still live among them. This mirrors the impermanent nature of states and altars, which appear eternal yet are ever-changing.

Confucius explains the principle of "no beginning, no end": all things are in constant transformation. We neither know how they shift nor where they ultimately lead. The relationship between humans and heaven follows the same pattern—humans are subject to heaven, while heaven itself follows natural laws. The sage peacefully aligns with this flux until life’s end.

Zhuangzi then recounts a personal experience at Diao Ridge: spotting an extraordinary magpie with wings spanning seven feet and eyes an inch wide, it brushed past his forehead. As he raised his slingshot to shoot it, he witnessed a chain of tragedies—a cicada chirping obliviously in the shade, a mantis seizing the cicada, and the magpie poised to snatch the mantis. Suddenly awakened, Zhuangzi realized: "This is how all things entangle and lure one another!" Fleeing after discarding his slingshot, he was even chased by a forest warden who mistook him for a poacher.

For three months afterward, he remained despondent at home. When his disciples asked why, Zhuangzi replied: "I was so fixated on observing external things that I forgot my own safety—like peering into murky water while failing to see the clear depths. My teacher once said, 'When entering a village, follow its customs,' yet in the chestnut grove, I pursued the magpie so blindly that even the warden sought to punish me. How could I not feel ashamed?"

These stories collectively illustrate how chasing external things leads one astray from their true nature. Only by harmonizing with the natural order and maintaining vigilance can one avoid the pitfalls of desire and mutual harm.

Yangzi was traveling to the state of Song and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines: one was beautiful, the other ugly. Strangely, the innkeeper favored the ugly one and neglected the beautiful one. Yangzi asked why, and a young attendant at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so I no longer find her beautiful. The ugly one knows she is ugly, so I no longer find her ugly.” Hearing this, Yangzi exclaimed, “My disciples, remember this: if a truly virtuous person can set aside the belief that he is virtuous, where could he go without being admired?”

When Tian Zifang sat beside Marquis Wen of Wei, he repeatedly praised Xigong. The marquis asked, “Is Xigong your teacher?” Tian Zifang replied, “No, he is just from my hometown. His reasoning is always apt, so I often mention him.” The marquis pressed him: “Then do you have no teacher?” Tian Zifang said, “I do. My teacher is Dongguo Shunzi.” The marquis was surprised. “Then why have I never heard you praise him?” Tian Zifang explained, “My teacher is utterly natural in character. His appearance is ordinary, but his nature is empty and still, and within himself he preserves what is genuine. He is clear and pure, yet able to embrace all things. When he encounters something contrary to what is right, he simply composes his bearing and transforms the other person, so that their wrongful thoughts dissolve of their own accord. How could I be worthy of judging such a state?”

After Tian Zifang left, Marquis Wen felt lost for the rest of the day. He said to the ministers around him, “How profound! A true person who has attained the Dao. I once thought that the words of sage wisdom and the practice of benevolence and righteousness were the highest attainments. Now, hearing of my teacher’s state, my body feels as though it has fallen apart, and I do not want to move; my mouth feels as though it has been clamped shut, and I do not want to speak. Only now do I understand that everything I learned before was lifeless doctrine, like clay figures and wooden puppets. Even my position as ruler of Wei has become a burden.”

When Wen Boxuezi was traveling to the state of Qi, he stopped in Lu. A man from Lu asked to meet him, but he refused, saying, “I have heard that the gentlemen of the Central States are well versed in ritual and righteousness, but do not understand the human heart. I do not wish to meet them.” On his way back from Qi, he passed through Lu again, and the same man came to ask for a meeting. After each visit, Wen Boxuezi would see him off and sigh. His servant asked why, and he replied, “I told you before: although people of the Central States understand ritual and righteousness, they are clumsy at understanding the human heart.”

This passage comes from the "Tian Zifang" chapter of the Zhuangzi, where a dialogue between Confucius and his disciples elucidates the Daoist understanding of the Dao and the state of cultivation.

After meeting Wenbo Xuezi, Confucius remained silent, puzzling his disciple Zilu. Confucius explained that with someone like Wenbo Xuezi, one glimpse reveals the embodiment of Dao (the Way) in his person—no words are necessary. This shows that those who truly attain the Dao manifest it through their very being.

Yan Hui confessed his frustration to Confucius about imitating his teacher's words and actions yet failing to keep pace. He described how he meticulously followed Confucius in walking, speaking, and debating, but when the master reached the realm of "soaring beyond the dust," he could only stare blankly while left behind. Confucius pointed out that true attainment isn't about external imitation but achieving states like "being trusted without speaking," "embracing all without partiality," and "having people follow spontaneously without authority"—all manifestations of Wuwei (non-action).

Confucius further expounded: The greatest sorrow in life is the death of one's spirit, with physical death being secondary. Just as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, all things follow natural patterns. Once humans acquire physical form, they act according to external changes, moving ceaselessly day and night without knowing their ultimate destination. Life is like vapor taking form—even knowing one's fate can't predict what comes next. Confucius lamented: "Though I've associated with you my whole life, we've passed each other like strangers—isn't this tragic? You've probably only seen my outward appearance."

This passage reveals the core of Daoist cultivation: True Dao isn't attained through external imitation but through inner realization of unity with nature. Using the sun's movement and the growth of all things as metaphors, Confucius illustrates the Wuwei nature of Dao, emphasizing the importance of transcending form and returning to original authenticity.

Here Zhuangzi uses a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan) to reveal the Daoist pursuit of spiritual transcendence.

Laozi had just washed his hair and was letting it dry, his expression trance-like, resembling a wooden figurine. Noticing this, Confucius inquired about the reason. Laozi explained that his spirit was wandering in the primordial chaos of creation—a state difficult to describe in words: the killing chill of Yin Qi emanates from the heavens, while the blazing vitality of Yang Qi arises from the earth. The two energies intertwine, forming the patterns by which all things operate, yet their forms remain invisible. The cycle of life and death is like the alternation of day and night, with no discernible beginning or end.

When Confucius asked how to attain such a state, Laozi responded with a metaphor: beasts that graze on grass do not fret over changing pastures, and water-dwelling insects do not fear shifting waters, because they grasp the fundamental laws of existence. Those who attain the Dao are like this—neither joy nor anger, sorrow nor pleasure disturb their inner peace, for they understand the essential unity of all things under heaven. One who reaches this level of realization regards even their own limbs and body as mere dust, sees the cycle of life and death as natural as the turning of day and night, and remains indifferent to gain and loss, fortune and misfortune.

In the end, Laozi makes a crucial point: only those who understand how to discard external attachments (referred to as "隶," or "subordinate things") as easily as casting away dirt truly grasp that the body is more precious than worldly possessions. Here, "隶" symbolizes the fetters of secular pursuits—fame, wealth, and status—from which the Daoist cultivator must free themselves to return to the original purity of life.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), using several stories to illustrate that the true Dao resides not in external forms but in internal realization.

The first section discusses the path of cultivation: What is truly valuable is maintaining one's original nature without being affected by external changes. The myriad things undergo endless transformations, but those who have attained the Dao remain undisturbed in their hearts. Confucius says that the virtue of ancient noblemen matched heaven and earth, yet they still cultivated their minds through profound teachings. Lao Dan (Laozi) counters this: Water naturally flows without deliberate effort, just as the virtue of Dao attainers manifests spontaneously—like heaven's natural height, earth's natural thickness, and the sun and moon's natural brightness. Why force cultivation? Hearing this, Confucius sighs to Yan Hui: My understanding of the Dao is as shallow as insects in a vinegar jar.

The second part uses the "Confucian robes" story to satirize formalism: Duke Ai of Lu boasts many Confucian scholars, but Zhuangzi claims true Confucians are rare. He explains that genuine Confucians must understand celestial patterns (wearing round hats), earthly principles (wearing square shoes), and decisive judgment (wearing jade pendants)—yet robe-wearers may lack this knowledge. When the Duke decrees death for "those wearing Confucian robes without understanding the Dao," only one true scholar dares keep wearing them after five days—a master of statecraft. Zhuangzi thus reveals: Only this man was Lu's real Confucian.

The third section presents three exemplars of Dao attainment: Baili Xi cared for oxen without concern for rank, yet Duke Mu of Qin elevated him; Emperor Shun's indifference to life and death moved others profoundly; when Song Yuanjun sought painters, the sole unhurried artist—stretching freely without competition—was recognized as the true master. These stories collectively demonstrate: Genuine cultivation is the natural expression of inner attainment, never forced performance.

King Wen of Zhou was inspecting the Zang region when he encountered an elderly man fishing. The old man appeared to be angling, yet not truly fishing—his hands held the rod absentmindedly, as if merely maintaining the posture out of habit.

Wishing to employ this sage for governance, King Wen feared opposition from ministers and nobility. Yet abandoning the idea meant depriving the people of a wise leader. At dawn court the next day, he announced: "Last night I dreamt of a dark-faced sage astride a dappled horse with half-red hooves, who told me 'Entrust governance to the elder of Zang' to bring peace to our people." The ministers exclaimed: "This is our late king's message!" When King Wen proposed divination, they replied: "Since our ancestors command it, why consult shells?" Thus the old man was invited to govern.

During his administration, the elder neither amended existing laws nor issued new decrees. After three years, King Wen's inspection revealed: scholars disbanded factions ("lie shi" ceased forming cliques), officials refrained from self-promotion ("zhang guan zhe" no longer sought personal fame), and neighboring states dared not use false measures ("hu" referred to fraudulent grain vessels). This demonstrated national unity that deterred external ambitions.

King Wen then honored him as Grand Tutor, inquiring respectfully: "Can your way of governance extend throughout the realm?" The elder remained silent and vanished the next dawn, never to reappear.

Later, Yan Hui asked Confucius: "Wasn't King Wen virtuous enough? Why feign divine dreams?" Confucius replied: "Speak no more. King Wen achieved perfection—he simply responded to circumstance."

The subsequent anecdote describes Lie Yukou (Liezi) demonstrating archery before Bohun Wuren: drawing his bow with a cup balanced on his elbow, he fired successive arrows with mechanical precision. Bohun remarked: "This is shooting for technique's sake. Dare you shoot from mountain cliffs?" He then led Liezi to a precipice, standing backward over the abyss with two-thirds of his feet suspended, challenging him to shoot from this position.

(These paired parables illustrate Daoist concepts of "governing through wuwei (non-action)" and "the perfected person's selflessness." The Zang elder's apparent inaction achieved perfect order, while Liezi's archery allegory shows true mastery transcends form, reaching unity of self and action.)

The Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of Nanhua) presents several stories illustrating Daoist cultivation:

The first passage describes Lie Yukou (Liezi) paying respects to Bohun Wuren (a Daoist master). Liezi was so nervous that sweat poured down his back. Bohun Wuren remarked: "A true master of the Dao can observe the heavens above and penetrate the earth below, with spirit reaching the eight directions while maintaining unaltered composure. Your unsettled mind reveals your cultivation remains incomplete."

The second episode features a dialogue between Jianwu and Sunshu Ao. Jianwu asked why Sunshu Ao felt neither pride after becoming prime minister of Chu three times, nor sorrow after three dismissals. Sunshu Ao replied: "I understand official positions are beyond my control, thus they don't occupy my mind. Gain and loss are external matters—why distinguish whether they belong to others or myself?" When Confucius heard this, he praised: "This is a true ancient master of the Dao (zhenren), whom even life and death cannot shake, let alone official posts and salaries. Such a person's spirit can pass through mountains unhindered and dive into deep waters without getting wet."

The third narrative records an exchange between the King of Chu and the ruler of Fan. The king's attendant remarked that Fan had been destroyed three times, to which the Fan ruler responded: "Fan's destruction cannot truly annihilate me. If Fan's fall cannot eliminate me, then Chu's existence doesn't constitute true existence either." This demonstrates the relativity of existence and destruction.

The final story follows Zhi (a person's name) traveling northward seeking the Dao. By the Dark River he met Wuweiwei (Master of Non-Action), asking three questions about attaining the Dao, but received no reply. Later encountering Kuangqu, the latter began to answer but forgot what to say. This illustrates the ineffable nature of the true Dao.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), where the dialogue between the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and figures like Wuweiwei ("Non-Action Say-Nothing") and Kuangqu ("Madly Bent") illustrates the Daoist understanding of the Dao (the Way).

The Yellow Emperor said: To know the Dao, one must relinquish thought and calculation; to abide in the Dao, one must free oneself from external attachments; to attain the Dao, one must not pursue it deliberately. Those who truly understand the Dao do not speak of it boastfully, while those who talk about it all day do not truly grasp it. Thus, the sage teaches through wordless instruction.

The Dao cannot be grasped by force, nor can De (Virtue/Power) be achieved through contrivance. Humaneness can be practiced deliberately, righteousness may fall short, and ritual easily becomes superficial artifice. When the Dao is lost, people seek De; when De is lost, they turn to humaneness; when humaneness is lost, they pursue righteousness; and when righteousness is lost, they rely on ritual. Ritual is merely the outer form of the Dao—yet it becomes the beginning of disorder.

The path of cultivation lies in continuously reducing artificial effort until one reaches the state of Wuwei (non-action). Once Wuwei is attained, one can accomplish all things effortlessly. But once a person becomes entangled in material pursuits, returning to the original source becomes exceedingly difficult.

Life and death are inherently interconnected—life is the continuation of death, and death is the beginning of life. Human life is the gathering of Qi (vital energy); when Qi gathers, there is life, and when it scatters, there is death. All things in the world are fundamentally one. What people deem beautiful is called miraculous, while what they loathe is labeled foul. Yet the foul can transform into the miraculous, and the miraculous can decay into the foul. Thus, the entire world is but the shifting of a single Qi.

In the end, the Yellow Emperor concluded: Wuweiwei is the one who has truly attained the Dao, precisely because he knows nothing (and does not strive for it); Kuangqu is close to the Dao because he has forgotten (and does not cling); while I and you, knowing too much, are actually farther from the Dao.

This scripture, through dialogues between the Yellow Emperor and several sages, expounds the Daoist understanding of the operating principles governing heaven, earth, and all things.

The Yellow Emperor realized: Heaven and earth contain magnificent beauty yet never speak of it; the four seasons follow clear laws yet require no discussion; all beings possess their own growth patterns yet need no explanation. True sages (those who have attained the Dao) can perceive the beauty of heaven and earth and comprehend the principles of all things. Therefore, those who awaken to the Dao do not act deliberately, and the highest sages never interfere arbitrarily - this is precisely the revelation gained from observing heaven and earth.

The marvelous power of the divine workings (natural creation) causes the myriad things to transform endlessly - life and death cycle through countless forms, yet none can fathom their fundamental source. All things have existed naturally since ancient times; whether the vast cosmos or the tip of an autumn hair (the finest animal fur), all are contained within natural laws. Everything fluctuates and changes according to the movements of yin-yang and the four seasons, appearing chaotic yet possessing inherent order, formless yet containing divine mystery. All things grow spontaneously within nature without self-awareness - this is the "root foundation" (fundamental principle).

In another dialogue, Nie Que sought advice from Bei Yi on methods for pursuing the Dao. Bei Yi told him: "Straighten your posture, focus your gaze, and natural harmony will descend upon you; restrain your cleverness, unify your thoughts, and the spirit (shen) will take residence. Maintain purity like a newborn calf, completely free from preconceptions." Before Bei Yi finished speaking, Nie Que had already fallen into tranquil sleep. Observing this, Bei Yi departed joyfully singing, praising how Nie Que's body resembled withered wood and his mind like dead ashes (describing complete relinquishment of attachments), possessing true knowledge yet not clinging to it, being muddled yet without cunning - truly beyond ordinary comprehension.

The sage-king Shun asked the wise Cheng whether one could possess the "Dao." Cheng replied: "Even your body does not belong to you - how could you possess the Dao? Your physical form is entrusted by heaven and earth; your life is the harmonious qi (vital energy) bestowed by heaven and earth; your nature and destiny follow heaven and earth's natural transformations; your descendants represent the metamorphic workings of heaven and earth." This reveals that everything manifests the natural Dao, and humans should not cling to notions of possession.

This passage comes from Zhuangzi·Knowledge Wanders North, presenting a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan) that explores the "Ultimate Dao" (supreme truth). Laozi tells Confucius: To comprehend the Great Dao, one must first purify the mind through fasting (fasting and cleansing), wash away mental distractions (refining the spirit), and shatter preconceived knowledge (smashing conventional understanding). Because the Dao is profound and ineffable, only a general outline can be described.

The principle of all things' generation is this: brightness is born from darkness (the clear emerges from the obscure), the formed arises from the formless. Spirit (Shen) originates from the Dao, physical form is rooted in vital essence (Jing), and all things give rise to one another through their forms—such as the viviparous creatures with nine orifices and the oviparous creatures with eight. The Dao comes and goes without trace; it has no fixed gate yet penetrates all directions. Those who align with the Dao develop strong limbs, clear thinking, sharp senses, and effortless composure in life.

All things between heaven and earth follow the Dao's law: heaven cannot but be high, earth cannot but be vast, the sun and moon cannot but move, and all things cannot but flourish. True wisdom does not lie in vast learning or eloquence. The sage understands that some things neither increase when added to nor diminish when taken from (such as the Dao itself)—this is the root that must be preserved. The Dao is as deep as the ocean, as lofty as mountains, cycling endlessly without exhaustion, nourishing all things without depletion.

Human life exists between heaven and earth, neither purely Yin nor Yang, ultimately returning to its source. Viewed from the root, life is but a brief gathering of Qi (a fleeting condensation), where the difference between longevity and premature death is merely a moment in eternity. Fruits and melons each have their patterns (even gourds follow principles), and though human relations are complex (human affairs may be intricate), they all follow a natural order. The sage follows the Dao without resistance—harmonizing with circumstances is De (Virtue), responding naturally is the Dao, and this is the foundation of imperial governance.

Life is like sunlight flashing through a crack (a white steed glimpsed through a crevice), vanishing in an instant. All things flourish into being and fade quietly away, constantly transforming from birth to death. Creatures grieve over this, and humans lament it, but one should loosen the bonds of nature (heaven's sheath) and cast off the fetters of fate (heaven's satchel), yielding to the natural flow of change.

This passage comes from “Knowledge Wanders North” in the Zhuangzi. Through a dialogue between Dongguozi and Zhuangzi, it vividly explains how the Dao is everywhere. Here is a plain-language interpretation:

Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, “Where exactly is the Dao you speak of?” Zhuangzi replied, “It is everywhere.” When Dongguozi insisted that he point to a specific place, Zhuangzi said, “It is in the ants.” “How can it be in something so lowly?” “In the weeds.” “How can it be in something even lower?” “In tiles and bricks.” “Why does it get lower and lower?” At last, Zhuangzi said, “In shit and piss.” Dongguozi was left speechless.

Zhuangzi explained, “The way you ask the question is itself flawed. It is like a market inspector checking whether a pig is fat: the lower he presses—on the pig’s legs, for instance—the more clearly he sees what it is really like. You need not fixate on particular things, because the Dao exists in all things. The words ‘all-embracing,’ ‘pervading,’ and ‘all-pervasive’ have different names, but they all mean that the Dao is everywhere.”

The passage then describes a state of transcendence: roaming in a palace of emptiness, merging with the Great Dao, with no end in sight. One remains detached and tranquil, calm and at ease, with a clear and open mind. The heart and mind cling to nothing; one comes and goes freely, without knowing where one is headed, wandering through the vastness of Heaven and Earth. True great wisdom merges into this state, yet no boundary can be found.

The Dao that governs the myriad things has no boundary separating it from them, while particular things do have boundaries between one another. What is called a boundary is, in fact, a boundary without boundaries. The Dao governs fullness and emptiness, decline and destruction, root and branch, gathering and dispersal, yet it is not itself any of these opposing phenomena.

The passage ends with a parable. Ehegan and Shennong went together to study the Dao under Laolong Ji. Shennong was dozing at his desk in the daytime when, at noon, Ehegan pushed open the door and said, “Laolong Ji has died!” Shennong rose, leaning on his cane, then suddenly threw it down and laughed: “Heaven knows that I am ignorant and unruly, so it let the Master die with his profound teaching.”

Through dialogue and parable, the passage shows that the Dao exists in things both exalted and lowly, emphasizing its universality and transcendence. The parable of Laolong Ji’s death also suggests that the most profound truths are often beyond words.

Yan Gang Diao (an ancient recluse) once said: Those who truly comprehend the Great Dao are revered by all noble persons in the world. Yet people today understand less than the tip of an autumn animal's hair about the Dao, yet presume to conceal their arrogant words and live out their days in this ignorance - how much further are they from those who truly embody the Dao!

The Great Dao appears formless to the eye and soundless to the ear. What people discuss as profound and mysterious principles are merely superficial aspects of the Dao, not the Dao itself.

Thereupon Taiqing (the truth-seeker) first asked Wuqiong (symbolizing infinite existence): "Do you understand the Dao?" Wuqiong replied: "I do not know." He then asked Wuwei (symbolizing natural non-action), who said: "I understand the Dao." Taiqing pressed further: "Does the Dao you understand have specific characteristics?" Wuwei answered: "It does. The Dao can be noble or humble, can condense or disperse - this is what I know of the Dao."

Taking these answers, Taiqing consulted Wushi (symbolizing the origin of all things): "Wuqiong claims ignorance while Wuwei claims knowledge - who is correct?" Wushi replied: "He who claims ignorance understands profoundly, while he who claims knowledge understands superficially. Not-knowing is internal realization, while knowing is merely external description." Taiqing sighed: "So not-knowing is true knowledge, while knowing is actually ignorance!"

Wushi further explained: The Dao cannot be heard with ears - what is heard is not the true Dao; cannot be seen with eyes - what is seen is not the true Dao; cannot be spoken with words - what is spoken is not the true Dao. Know that all formed things originate from the formless. The Dao should not be named. One who answers when asked about the Dao does not truly understand it. The questioner likewise doesn't truly comprehend the Dao. The Dao neither requires questioning nor answering. To insist on questioning is to split hairs; to insist on answering reveals inner emptiness. Using an empty mind to address hair-splitting questions means such a person can neither perceive the external universe clearly nor penetrate internal origins deeply, thus unable to transcend the Kunlun paradise or roam the realm of supreme void.

Later, Guangyao (symbolizing light) asked Wuyou (symbolizing nothingness): "Do you, sir, exist or not exist?" Receiving no answer, Guangyao carefully observed Wuyou's appearance: profoundly empty, looking all day yet seeing nothing, listening yet hearing nothing, reaching out yet touching nothing. Guangyao sighed: "The supreme state! Who can attain this? I can achieve 'being' and 'non-being,' but not 'the non-being of non-being.' Only when even the concept of 'nothingness' is relinquished can one truly reach this realm."

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), which expounds Daoist philosophy through several conversational anecdotes.

A grand marshal of Chu encountered an eighty-year-old craftsman who could still forge hooks with perfect precision and asked if he possessed any special technique. The old artisan replied: "Since I was twenty, I've devoted myself solely to hook-making, with undivided attention—my eyes see nothing but hooks." This illustrates how when fully focused on a task, what seems "unused" (referring to unrelated senses) actually supports the "used" aspect (the focused work). If even these "unused" capacities can be properly utilized, what in the world cannot be made to serve one's purpose?

Ran Qiu (a disciple of Confucius) asked his master: "Can we know what existed before Heaven and Earth formed?" Confucius answered: "Yes, for past and present share the same essence." The next day, Ran Qiu returned perplexed: "Yesterday I understood this truth, yet today I'm confused again." Confucius explained: "Yesterday's understanding came through your spirit (Shen) directly perceiving it, while today's confusion arises because you're trying to grasp it with unspiritual thinking. In truth, there's no fundamental distinction between ancient and modern, beginning and end—just as we cannot say whether descendants or ancestors came first. The same applies to life and death: don't use concepts of life to understand death, nor death to understand life, for they are fundamentally one."

Yan Hui (another Confucian disciple) inquired: "You once said 'neither deliberately send anything away nor deliberately welcome anything'—what does this mean?" Confucius responded: "The ancients changed outwardly while remaining constant inwardly (external transformation with internal non-transformation), whereas modern people change internally while clinging to external forms (internal transformation with external non-transformation). Those who have attained the Dao (the Way) transform along with all things while preserving inner constancy. Whether experiencing the joy brought by mountains and wilderness or the sorrow that follows, sages accept all without being swayed. They neither harm the myriad things nor are harmed by them—this is the true meaning of 'neither welcoming nor sending away.'"

These dialogues collectively demonstrate the core Daoist principle of "following natural spontaneity": maintaining inner constancy while neither resisting nor forcing external changes, thereby achieving harmonious coexistence with all phenomena.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), discussing the limitations of human cognition and the pursuit of transcendence.

People often cannot control the departure of things, and it is lamentable that worldly individuals are like temporary sojourners dwelling in the material realm. They only know what they have encountered, unaware of what they have not; they only understand what they can do, ignorant of what lies beyond their capabilities. These inherent limitations in cognition and ability are fundamentally unavoidable for humans.

If one insists on forcibly overcoming these innate limitations, is that not even more pitiable? The highest form of speech is to abstain from speaking (zhiyan quyan), and the most perfect action is non-action (zhiwei quwei). To rigidly seek uniform understanding of all knowledge reflects a shallow level of comprehension.

Here, the Daoist concept of wuwei (non-action) is introduced, suggesting that striving for perfection in cognition and ability actually contradicts the natural Dao. True wisdom lies in recognizing human limitations and following nature without forced effort.