《南華真經》Vol. 8

Laozi (Lao Dan) had a disciple named Gengsang Chu, who truly grasped the essence of his master's teachings and later retreated to live in seclusion at Mount Weilü in the north. All his attendants who prided themselves on cleverness left him, and the maids who affected displays of humaneness grew distant. Only simple, unrefined people remained as his companions, with coarse-handed laborers doing the menial work.

After three years, the region around Mount Weilü experienced a bountiful harvest. The local villagers began saying, "When Master Gengsang first arrived, we thought him eccentric. But now we see that while his ways seem ordinary in the short term, they bring such great benefits over time. Could he be a sage? Why don't we honor him as a deity?" When Gengsang Chu heard this, he sat facing south with visible displeasure. His puzzled disciples asked why, to which he explained: "What surprises you? In spring, when Yang energy stirs, plants grow naturally; in autumn, all things ripen of their own accord. Does spring's growth or autumn's harvest come from human forcing? This is simply the Dao's natural movement."

"I've heard that when a true Dao-realized person dwells in a humble hut, the people live freely without constraint. Yet these villagers of Mount Weilü privately wish to enshrine me among their worthies—am I to become an object of their worship? This reminds me of Laozi's teaching that 'when the work is done, one withdraws,' hence my discomfort."

The disciples urged: "Small ditches cannot contain giant fish—only loaches can move there; low hills cannot conceal great beasts—only foxes find shelter there. Moreover, honoring the worthy and rewarding the good has been tradition since Yao and Shun's time, let alone among Mount Weilü's folk. Master, why not follow their natural inclination?"

Gengsang Chu shook his head: "Listen well, youths. A beast strong enough to pull carts, if it leaves the mountains, will fall into hunters' nets; a fish large enough to swallow boats, if stranded ashore, can be bullied by ants. Therefore birds and beasts always seek the heights, fish and turtles the depths. Those who preserve their life-nature must likewise conceal themselves in hidden places. Yao and Shun's practice of exalting worthiness is like haphazardly chiseling walls to plant weeds, or counting grains to cook rice—what's the use of such pettiness? Promoting the worthy only makes people vie with each other; employing the clever makes the common folk deceive one another."

[This passage, through Gengsang Chu's story, elucidates the Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). True sages don't deliberately display themselves, just as natural laws operate silently. Excessive veneration of worthiness damages innate simplicity and breeds social strife. Dao cultivators should emulate nature's way—remaining profoundly hidden, free from vain reputation.]

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), featuring a dialogue between Gengsang Chu and Nanrong Chu that exposes how excessive pursuit of profit leads to the collapse of human relationships, while also exploring principles of self-cultivation.

The opening depicts a society where morality has decayed: people stop at nothing for personal gain—children murder their fathers, ministers assassinate their rulers, and theft occurs openly in broad daylight. Gengsang Chu prophesies that the root of this chaos traces back to the era of Yao and Shun, predicting that after a thousand years, humanity will descend into cannibalism.

Nanrong Chu (a spiritual seeker) respectfully inquires: "For someone as advanced in years as myself, how should I practice to comprehend these truths?" Gengsang Chu offers three instructions: "Preserve your physical form, maintain your innate nature, and don't exhaust yourself with ceaseless thinking. Practice this for three years, and you'll attain understanding."

Yet Nanrong Chu expresses confusion through an analogy: "Eyes and ears are bodily organs, but the blind cannot see nor the deaf hear; the mind works similarly—the deranged cannot control themselves." His point is that while the principles appear simple, actual practice proves far more difficult.

Gengsang Chu responds with another metaphor: "Just as small wasps cannot hatch bean-moths, and Yue chickens cannot incubate swan eggs—though Lu's larger fowl can. This isn't due to differences in De (Virtue/Power), but to varying capacities." Admitting his own limited abilities, he advises Nanrong Chu to journey south and seek out Laozi (the Daoist patriarch).

Carrying provisions, Nanrong Chu travels seven days and nights to find Laozi. Immediately recognizing him as Gengsang Chu's disciple, Laozi perceptively notes the clutter still occupying his mind. Nanrong Chu's startled reaction—turning back in alarm—vividly reveals his spiritual state remains far from the clarity of true stillness.

Laozi observed Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) hanging his head in shame and sighing with upturned gaze, then remarked: "Now you've forgotten what to answer me, and also forgotten what to ask me." Nanrong Chu explained: "People call me dull-witted, yet displaying cleverness only brings me trouble. Failing to practice benevolence harms others, while practicing it brings me sorrow; neglecting righteousness injures people, yet upholding it entangles me in distress. How can I escape this predicament? These three matters are the source of my affliction."

Laozi responded: "Earlier, seeing the expression between your brows, I already understood your confusion. Now hearing these words confirms my judgment. You're like someone trying to dredge the ocean with a bamboo pole—utterly lost in direction. Pitiable indeed! You seek to return to your original nature yet find no gateway." He then had Nanrong Chu stay with him, instructing him to discard distracting thoughts and cultivate his heart-mind.

After ten days, Nanrong Chu remained visibly troubled. Laozi pointed out: "Though you've cleansed body and mind, internal knots persist, revealing unresolved attachments. External constraints cannot be overcome through forced control, nor can inner turmoil be dispelled by outward means. When beset by both internal and external conflicts, even Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) become difficult to maintain—how much more so when straying from the Great Dao?"

Nanrong Chu offered an analogy: "When villagers fall ill, those who can describe their symptoms aren't gravely afflicted. Yet when I hear you expound the Great Dao, it's like medicine worsening the disease. Now I only wish to learn the essentials of nurturing life."

Laozi then imparted the vital principles: "The art of nurturing life lies in these questions: Can you maintain undivided adherence to pure Dao? Can you avoid losing your innate nature? Can you discern fortune without divination? Can you know when to stop? Can you seek within rather than depend on others? Can you wander in carefree ease? Can you preserve pristine simplicity? Can you be like an infant who cries all day without growing hoarse? (This is because) perfect harmony has been attained."

This dialogue reveals through master-disciple exchange that cultivating Dao requires returning to original simplicity and maintaining inner harmony. Using an infant's natural state as metaphor for the highest realm of practice, Laozi identifies the essence of nurturing life as residing in mental purity and accord with nature.

Holding something all day without tiring comes from profound inner De (Virtue/Power). Gazing all day without blinking occurs when one's attention isn't fixed on external objects. Walking without knowing the destination, dwelling without conscious purpose—simply following the transformations of things and going with the flow—this is the essential method of nurturing life.

Nanrong Chu asked: "Is this then the De of the perfected person (one who has reached the highest state of cultivation)?" The reply came: "Not yet. This is merely like melting ice—a superficial state. The true perfected person shares sustenance with the earth and joy with heaven. Human affairs and their gains or losses don't disturb their heart-mind. They neither pursue strange phenomena nor engage in scheming or worldly affairs. Coming and going freely—this is the genuine essence of life cultivation."

Nanrong Chu pressed further: "Has one then reached the ultimate state?" The answer: "Not yet. I told you before: Can you become like an infant? An infant acts without knowing why, moves without knowing where. Their body resembles withered branches, their heart-mind like cold ashes. For such a person, calamity doesn't descend nor fortune arrive—having no concept of misfortune or blessing, how could human-made disasters occur?"

Those with tranquil heart-minds radiate natural luminosity. Those who manifest this radiance attract others to approach them. Those capable of sustained cultivation draw people to follow, and heaven lends them aid. People follow what we call "heaven's people" (those aligned with Dao), heaven assists what we term "heaven's child" (heaven's chosen).

Learners should study what's difficult to master, practitioners should do what's hard to accomplish, debaters should argue what's challenging to clarify. Knowing where unknowable boundaries lie—this is the ultimate attainment. Those who fail in this will find Dao's patterns working against them.

Using all things to nourish the form, maintaining inner stillness free from distracting thoughts, approaching all existence with reverential awareness—if misfortune still comes under these circumstances, it's heaven's doing, not human error. Such events won't disrupt inner attainment nor invade the spiritual terrace (the heart-mind). This heart-mind—it holds something yet knows not what, and cannot be deliberately held.

When the heart-mind lacks sincerity yet expresses freely, every expression misses the mark. Clinging to external things without release means every change brings loss. Commit evil in broad daylight, and humans will punish you; do wrong in darkness, and spirits will exact retribution. Understanding both human affairs and spiritual matters allows one to walk alone without hindrance.

Those devoted to inner cultivation don't act for reputation. Those focused on external display fix their heart-minds on merit and gain. The reputationless shine with natural radiance; the reward-seekers are merely merchants.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), presenting profound Daoist reflections on fundamental questions of life and death, being and non-being, and Yin-Yang. Let me explain it layer by layer:

Those obsessed with material gain (merchants) are like people standing on tiptoe to appear tall—they share the same limitations as all things. Those who excessively pursue external objects cannot even contain themselves, let alone others. Inability to embrace others leads to alienation and ultimately invites calamity, which is more dangerous than swords and blades.

The greatest law of the world lies in the transformations of Yin-Yang. Nothing escapes the cosmic principles of Yin and Yang. If not caused by Yin-Yang itself, misfortune stems from the human mind. The Dao permeates all things—entities divide and unite, come into being and perish. People detest separation, yet separation leads to wholeness; they disdain completeness yet chase after it.

When the spirit (Shen) wanders outward without returning, it manifests as ghostly apparitions. What is gained through external pursuit is actually a movement toward death. Death and existence share the same essence—all forms originate from the formless Dao. The emergence of things has no fixed source, nor does their disappearance have a set destination.

"Yu" (space) exists concretely yet has no fixed location; "Zhou" (time) persists continuously yet has no beginning or end. The transformations of life and death, coming and going, leave no visible traces—this is the "Gate of Heaven" (Tianmen), through which all things arise from "non-being" (Wu You). True being cannot be created through "having"—it must originate from "non-having."

The ancient Daoist sages who attained ultimate understanding believed that originally there were no things at all—this represents the highest realization. The next level acknowledges the existence of things, viewing birth as losing one's original truth and death as returning to the source. A lesser view holds that "being" emerges from "non-being," that life is fleeting, with "non-having" as the head, life as the torso, and death as the tailbone. Who can comprehend that being, non-being, life, and death are ultimately one? Such a person may be my companion.

Consider noble families like the Zhaos, Jings, and Jias—though sharing the same origin, they branched into separate lineages. Or take sacrificial meat that can be divided yet must remain united during rituals. When visiting a house, one observes it wholly. These metaphors illustrate that all things, despite apparent differences, share the same root and should be perceived as an integrated whole.

This passage comes from the "Gengsang Chu" chapter of the Zhuangzi, presenting profound Daoist insights on concepts of right/wrong, fame/wealth, and the nature of mind. Let me explain layer by layer:

Regarding judgments of right and wrong, Zhuangzi observes that people often take their own positions as standards, using clever arguments to debate correctness—only to become trapped in endless disputes. Contemporary people are no different from cicadas and turtledoves in their narrow perspectives. When stepping on a stranger's foot, one hurriedly apologizes; when stepping on a sibling's foot, a comforting gesture suffices; when stepping on a parent's foot, no explanation is needed. This illustrates that the truest ritual transcends distinctions, and the highest righteousness rises above external things.

The text then identifies twenty-four things that disturb the human mind: wealth and status, fame and profit (six factors that confuse one's will); appearance and emotions (six that fetter the spirit); love and hatred, joy and anger (six that burden one's De [Virtue]); choices and rejections, wisdom and cleverness (six that obstruct the Dao). Only by clearing all these from one's heart can one reach the state of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action).

On the relationship between Dao and De: Dao is the root of De, life is the manifestation of De, and innate nature is the essence of life. Forced action leads to distortion, like squinting with one's eyes and failing to see clearly. True De is action that follows nature, just as the divine archer Yi excelled at shooting yet couldn't stop people from praising him, or how sages understand heavenly principles but cannot escape human affairs.

Finally, a parable illustrates: even the swiftest sparrow cannot escape Yi's arrows, but if the whole world becomes a cage, there's nowhere to flee. King Tang of Shang won over Yi Yin through culinary arts, and Duke Mu of Qin recruited Baili Xi with five sheepskins—showing that winning hearts requires appealing to their inclinations. Just as an amputee cares not for adornments, those who transcend worldly concerns remain indifferent to praise or blame.

(Note: Yi was a legendary archer; Yi Yin and Baili Xi were renowned virtuous ministers.)

The "Xu Wugui" chapter from the Zapian (Miscellaneous Chapters) of the Nanhua Zhenjing (The True Scripture of Southern Florescence) recounts a dialogue between the recluse Xu Wugui and Marquis Wu of Wei, using the analogy of judging dogs and horses to expound Daoist philosophy.

A prisoner who climbs to great heights feels no fear because he has already transcended the concept of life and death. A person who has truly attained the Dao (the Way) forgets worldly sentiments without needing gifts from others—this forgetting allows one to merge with the heavenly Dao. Thus, those who embody the Dao are neither pleased by honor nor angered by insult; only those in harmony with nature can achieve this. What appears as anger is not truly anger, and what seems like action is actually non-action (Wuwei). To calm the mind, regulate the breath (Qi); to attain spiritual clarity, follow the innate heart. The way of the sage lies in aligning with nature, like being compelled by circumstances yet acting without forced intention.

Xu Wugui was introduced to Marquis Wu of Wei through the minister Nü Shang. The marquis greeted him, saying, "You have suffered in your seclusion in the mountains and forests, yet you have come to see me." But Xu Wugui replied, "It is you, my lord, who deserves sympathy. If you indulge your desires and nurture preferences, you harm your innate nature (Xing); if you suppress desires and reject preferences, you torment your senses. What need have I for your sympathy?" The marquis was left speechless.

After a pause, Xu Wugui spoke of judging dogs: the lowest kind stops eating when full, gluttonous as a wildcat; the middling kind gazes about restlessly; the finest kind is so focused it seems selfless. Judging horses is similar: those conforming to standards are merely fine horses of the state, but truly exceptional horses possess innate superiority. When they run, they flicker like shadows, so swift that even dust cannot keep up—their path becomes invisible. The marquis laughed heartily at this.

Later, Nü Shang asked in astonishment, "I have advised the marquis with the classics, rites, music, and military strategy, yet he never smiled. What did you say to delight him so?" Xu Wugui replied, "I merely spoke of judging dogs and horses." He then explained, "It is like an exile in Yue—after days away, seeing an acquaintance brings joy; after months, even a fellow villager stirs excitement. The marquis, long confined to his palace, finds greater joy in hearing the simple truths of the natural Dao."

This passage comes from the "Xu Wugui" chapter in the Miscellaneous Chapters of the Zhuangzi. Through the dialogue between Xu Wugui (a hermit) and Marquis Wu of Wei (a ruler of the Wei state during the Warring States period), it exposes the inherent contradictions behind a ruler's claims of "loving the people" and "halting warfare."

There is a story about a person who lived alone in the wilderness for so long that even the sight of a tree stump vaguely resembling a human figure would bring them joy—how much more so the sound of a loved one’s laughter? When Xu Wugui met Marquis Wu of Wei, the marquis asked, "Master, having secluded yourself in the mountains for years, living on acorns and wild leeks, have you come now because old age has made you crave wine and meat, or to seek blessings for my state?" Xu Wugui replied, "I was born in poverty and dare not covet your lordship’s food and drink. I have come to console you." Puzzled, the marquis asked, "Console me for what?" Xu Wugui answered, "To console your spirit and body."

He then cut to the heart of the matter: Heaven and Earth nurture all things without distinction of high or low. Yet you, as the ruler of a mighty state, make your people suffer to indulge your own senses—eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. The human spirit (Shen) is meant to be harmonious; what it fears most is distortion (what is called "perversion" here refers to a twisted state). Your ailment lies precisely in this. Marquis Wu defended himself: "I have long wished to meet you, Master. I desire to love my people and cease warfare—is this not feasible?" Xu Wugui pointed directly to the contradiction: "So-called 'loving the people' is precisely the beginning of harming them, and declaring 'halting warfare' is the root cause of creating war."

He warned: To act using benevolence and righteousness as tools is like crafting exquisite objects that ultimately become instruments of wrongdoing. Superficially promoting benevolence and righteousness will inevitably lead to hypocrisy, while forcibly altering the natural order will only stir chaos. Finally, he admonished: Never parade your armies on city walls like flocks of cranes for display, nor drive your people as if they were fine steeds (Qiji). This dialogue lays bare the fundamental contradiction of rulers who wield "benevolence and righteousness" as pretexts for control.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), recounting the Yellow Emperor's search for Dawei (a legendary Daoist sage). Through a conversation with a horse-tending boy, it reveals the principles of governing the world.

The Yellow Emperor, accompanied by six virtuous ministers, traveled to Mount Jucí to visit Dawei. While lost in the outskirts of Xiangcheng, he encountered a young horse herder. Not only did the boy know the location of Mount Jucí, but he was also aware of Dawei’s dwelling. Surprised that a child possessed such insight, the Yellow Emperor sought his advice on how to govern the world.

The boy responded with two analogies: First, governing the world should be as simple and natural as his own wanderings—there’s no need for deliberate action. Second, just as herding horses only requires removing the troublemakers, ruling a country merely entails eliminating what harms the people. Hearing this, the Yellow Emperor respectfully addressed the boy as "Celestial Master" (Tianshi).

The subsequent passage points out that all kinds of talented individuals are constrained by their own expertise: Strategists delight in scheming and adaptability, debaters thrive on arguing right and wrong, inspectors pursue meticulous discernment, warriors take pride in bravery, Legalists emphasize enforcing laws, Confucians uphold ritual norms, and moralists focus on interpersonal relationships. All of them are confined by their specialized fields.

The core idea is this: True governance should emulate nature—simply remove what is harmful, without forced intervention. Over-reliance on any particular skill narrows one’s vision, just as specialists become trapped by their own expertise.

If a farmer has no fields to till, he feels unsettled; if a merchant has no marketplace for trade, his mind finds no peace. Ordinary people become diligent when they have their daily occupations, and craftsmen work with enthusiasm when they master their tools. When wealth is insufficient, the greedy grow anxious; when power is lacking, the ostentatious become sorrowful. Those who chase external things always follow the crowd's flow, seizing opportunities for personal gain, unable to maintain a state of Wuwei (non-action).

Such people are driven by time and led by external objects. They indulge their bodies and minds, drowning among the ten thousand things, never turning back their whole lives—how pitiful indeed!

Zhuangzi offered an analogy: "If an archer hits the target without aiming, can he be called a divine marksman? If so, couldn't everyone in the world claim to be Houyi (the legendary archer)?" Huishi agreed it would be so. Zhuangzi continued: "If the world lacks common standards and everyone considers themselves right, couldn't all claim to be Emperor Yao (the ancient sage king)?" Again Huishi conceded the point.

Pressing further, Zhuangzi asked: "Then among the four schools of Confucianism, Mohism, Yang Zhu, and Gongsun Long—plus your own, making five—whose way is correct? Take Lu Ju: his disciples boasted of mastering his arts, claiming they could boil cauldrons in winter and make ice in summer. But Lu Ju said, 'This merely uses yang energy to summon yang, and yin to summon yin—not what I call the Dao.' He then demonstrated true art: placing two zithers in separate rooms, plucking the gong note on one made the other's gong string resonate; striking the jue note set its counterpart vibrating—this is tonal resonance. Yet if one string is tuned outside the pentatonic scale, plucking the other twenty-five still makes it vibrate. Not because it produces special tones, but because it governs the others as 'sovereign of sound.'"

Unconvinced, Huishi retorted: "The Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, and Gongsun Long's school all attack me with arguments, assail me with words, and intimidate me with rhetoric—yet they've never proven me wrong. What say you to that?"

Zhuangzi recounted another parable: "A man of Qi sent his son to be a gatekeeper in Song but deliberately crippled the boy's feet; when seeking a bell-stand he insisted on pre-bundled ones, yet wouldn't cross the city gate to buy his child sweets. A Chu man living abroad insulted the night watchman, picked fights with boatmen at midnight, and made enemies before leaving the mountain's shadow."

Finally, passing Huishi's grave during a funeral procession, Zhuangzi told his followers: "A Ying man had paint fleck his nose like a fly's wing. He asked Artisan Shi to slice it off. Swinging his axe with a whoosh, the craftsman cleanly removed the speck without scratching the nose."

This passage from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing, the True Scripture of Southern Florescence) contains several allegorical stories about the art of living.

The first story tells of Carpenter Shi and a man from Ying (the Chu capital). When the Ying man got white plaster on his nose tip, Carpenter Shi could swing his axe to remove it without harming the nose—a perfect demonstration of mutual trust and coordination. After the Ying man died, the carpenter could never find another partner with such perfect rapport. This illustrates how rare true understanding is, requiring perfect attunement between both parties.

The second story recounts how Guan Zhong, gravely ill, advised Duke Huan of Qi about choosing a successor. Though Bao Shuya was upright, Guan Zhong considered him too rigid for governance. Instead, he recommended Xi Peng, who practiced "forgetting superiors while overlooking subordinates' faults"—neither calculating gains with superiors nor being harsh with inferiors. Guan Zhong remarked: "Transforming people through De (Virtue) is sagehood; aiding them with wealth is worthiness. Dominating others through ability wins no hearts; humbly serving through ability wins all." He advised governing by focusing on essentials while tactfully overlooking minor matters—sometimes pretending not to hear, sometimes not to see.

The third story describes King Wu hunting on Monkey Mountain. One monkey, showing off its agility, was promptly shot down. The king warned his courtiers: "Don't be like this monkey, arrogant about your talents." Minister Yan Buyi took this to heart, studying under Dong Wu for three years until he eradicated all arrogance, eventually earning public acclaim.

Finally, the Daoist recluse Nabo Ziqi leans on his armrest sighing. His disciple asks: "Can human form become like withered wood, the mind like dead ashes?" Ziqi recounts his hermit experience: when practicing in mountain caves, the mere fact that the King of Qi visited him once made Qi's people celebrate thrice for their ruler encountering a sage. This implies true cultivation means returning to primal simplicity, leaving no traces of one's attainment.

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

First, it states that if I possess certain knowledge, others will know it; if I sell something, others will buy it. But if I possess nothing, how can others know? If I sell nothing, how can others buy? Here, the text laments how people often lose themselves, and those who grieve over others' self-loss are actually further from the Dao.

Next, it recounts a story of Confucius (Zhongni) in the state of Chu: During a banquet hosted by the King of Chu, Sunshu Ao stood holding a wine cup while Shinan Yiliao received it for the ritual offering, remarking that ancient sages would discuss the Great Dao on such occasions. Confucius responded that he had heard of "wordless words" (referring to the ineffable nature of the Dao), but here he would still speak.

Two examples illustrate the power of "wordlessness": Shinan Yiliao resolved a feud between two families simply by playing with marbles, while Sunshu Ao made the Chu people lay down their weapons just by sleeping peacefully with a feather fan. Confucius sighed that even with a mouth three feet long, one couldn't explain this "Dao that cannot be spoken of" (truth beyond ordinary reasoning) or "debate without words" (argument beyond language).

The core teaching follows: De (the manifestation of Dao) is governed by the wholeness of Dao, while words stop at the limits of what wisdom cannot comprehend. The wholeness of Dao cannot be equated with De, and what wisdom cannot grasp cannot be clarified through debate. Schools like Confucianism and Mohism, which cling to names and forms, only invite misfortune.

Using the ocean as a metaphor: The sea becomes great by never refusing waters flowing eastward. The true sage embraces heaven and earth, showers blessings upon all without seeking fame, lives without titles, dies without posthumous honors, neither hoards wealth nor builds reputation—this is the "Great Person" (one who has attained Dao). Just as a dog isn't excellent for barking well, nor a man wise for debating well—how much more so for pursuing the Great Dao!

Seeking "greatness" prevents achieving it; the same applies to seeking De. Heaven and earth are perfectly complete yet seek nothing. Those who know this completeness neither seek nor lose nor abandon, remain unchanged by external things, return to their original nature without exhaustion, and follow the ancient Dao without wearing it out.

Finally, the story of Ziqi illustrates the limitations of worldly values: Ziqi asked Jiufang Yin to read the fortunes of his eight sons. Jiufang Yin said Kun was most auspicious because he would dine with rulers all his life. Ziqi wept, asking why it had come to this. Jiufang Yin explained that dining with rulers would bless three generations, but Ziqi considered such worldly fortune the beginning of calamity.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), which explores philosophical questions of fortune and misfortune, benevolence and righteousness through several allegorical stories.

There was a man named Fu whose son was considered auspicious, yet the father himself was deemed inauspicious. Ziqi remarked, "How can you truly understand what auspiciousness is? What you call auspicious is merely the satisfaction of wine and meat to gratify your appetites—how could you know the true source of auspiciousness? I never raised sheep, yet lambs appeared in my house; I never hunted, yet quails appeared there. What is so strange about that?"

Ziqi continued, "My son and I wander freely between heaven and earth, sharing joy with the heavens and sustenance with the earth. We do not involve ourselves in worldly affairs, nor do we scheme or pursue strange and unnatural things. We follow the natural patterns of heaven and earth, undisturbed by external things, yielding to spontaneity without forcing anything. Yet now we must bear the retribution of the mundane world. Wherever strange omens appear, there must be strange behavior—this is surely not the fault of my son and me, but the arrangement of heaven!" Having said this, he wept.

Later, Fu’s son Kun was captured by bandits on his way to the state of Yan. The thieves found that selling a whole body was difficult, so they cut off his feet to make him easier to sell. He was then bought by Duke Qu of Qi to guard the marketplace. Though he could eat meat, he remained crippled for life.

Next is the dialogue between Nie Que and Xu You. Xu You said he wished to flee from Emperor Yao because Yao excessively promoted benevolence and righteousness, which might invite ridicule from the world and lead to future horrors like cannibalism. The common people are easily gathered: love them, and they draw near; offer them benefits, and they flock to you; praise them, and they are encouraged; scorn them, and they scatter. Both kindness and profit stem from benevolence and righteousness, yet few truly practice them, while many exploit them for gain. Acts of benevolence and righteousness are often hypocritical and insincere, like greedy beasts using tools for their own ends.

Finally, the passage points out that Yao only knew that the worthy could benefit the world, but failed to see how they could also harm it. Only those who transcend distinctions of worthiness and foolishness can understand this truth. The world has several types of people: the warm and complacent (content with a single teacher’s doctrine), the complacent idlers (seeking temporary ease), and the toil-worn (exhausted and haggard). The warm and complacent learn one master’s teachings and grow smug, believing themselves fulfilled, yet they have no grasp of the essence of the Dao.

Through allegory and dialogue, this text critiques shallow worldly understandings of fortune and misfortune, exposes the hypocrisy of superficial benevolence, and advocates an attitude of aligning with nature and transcending dualistic judgments of good and evil.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), using vivid analogies to reveal how different attitudes toward life lead to vastly different fates.

First, there are those who behave like lice on a pig (the "complacent ones"). They settle in the sparse bristles, treating the crevices between hooves, udders, and thighs as their grand palaces. Little do they know that when the butcher strikes, they perish in flames along with the pig. Such people thrive by circumstance and perish by circumstance.

Next is the story of Emperor Shun (the "toiling one"). Just as mutton doesn’t attract ants—it’s the smell that does—Shun’s virtuous conduct (De) drew the people’s devotion. Wherever he moved, cities sprang up; by the time he reached Deng, a hundred thousand households followed. Hearing of his wisdom, Yao entrusted him with barren lands to govern. Yet Shun labored without rest until old age, burdened by his own reputation.

The true Daoist sage (Zhenren, "authentic person") shuns public adoration, knowing crowds breed conflict. They maintain measured distance, embracing Virtue (De) and nurturing harmony (Yang He) in accordance with nature. Their engagement with the world is as simple as ants relinquishing excess knowledge, fish delighting in their element, or sheep shedding attachments.

Sensory metaphors illustrate the Zhenren’s state: eyes see only what they should, ears hear only what they must, and the mind returns to its original purity. They are straight as an inked line yet fluid in adapting to ancient ways. The sages of old followed nature’s Dao, never imposing human will upon it. Gain and loss, life and death, were but natural phases—like the herbs jin, jiegeng, jiyong, and shiling, each dominant (Di, "sovereign") in its season.

The conclusion cites King Goujian of Yue to expose cognitive limits: When retreating to Kuaiji with three thousand troops, only Wen Zhong knew how to avert disaster—yet even he couldn’t foresee his own downfall. Just as owls’ eyes suit night vision and cranes’ legs are meant to be long, forced alteration spells tragedy. Thus, wind erodes the river by passing over it; sunlight depletes it by shining upon it. All things must follow their natural course.

This passage comes from the "Zeyang" chapter of the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), exploring the dialectical relationship between the natural Dao and human cognition.

The text begins with natural metaphors: The wind and sun jointly guard the river, yet it's the river's abundant source that prevents its waters from drying up. Just as water adheres to the land and shadows follow human forms, all things naturally maintain their proper positions. When human faculties—eyes craving brightness, ears seeking sharpness—and the mind's obsessive pursuit of external things are overused, they bring harm instead. The excessive application of these capacities is like overfilling a warehouse with goods—this is how disasters accumulate.

The discussion then turns to the dialectics of cognition: Though our feet tread only small patches of ground, walking depends on the vast untrodden earth surrounding them. Human knowledge may be limited, but true understanding of the heavenly Dao comes precisely through acknowledging the unknown. One must comprehend the essential characteristics of Dao: its wholeness ("Great Unity"), its hidden aspect ("Great Yin"), its all-seeing nature ("Great Vision"), its perfect balance ("Great Equilibrium"), its boundlessness ("Great Expanse"), its constancy ("Great Faith"), and its stability ("Great Stillness"). Genuine understanding appears like not understanding; true knowing resembles not knowing—this "knowing through not-knowing" constitutes real wisdom.

The concluding dialogue illustrates proper conduct: Zeyang sought an audience with the King of Chu through Yijie's recommendation, but Yijie failed to arrange it. Wang Guo remarked that he himself couldn't match Gong Yuexiu (a recluse), describing Gong's lifestyle: spearing turtles by winter rivers and resting in mountain forests during summer, making nature his dwelling. Though Yijie was clever, he lacked De (Virtue/Power), and Wang Guo claimed to be inferior even to Yijie—implying that pursuing power pales beside following nature's course.

This passage elucidates the way of being for sages. When one refrains from deliberately displaying supernatural abilities, they achieve true harmony with the Dao (the Way); those obsessed with wealth, fame, and status lose their original heart-mind.

The cold yearn for spring's warmth, while the heat-stricken dread winter's chill (illustrating how people often pursue misguided desires). King Chu appeared majestic and showed no mercy to wrongdoers, fierce as a tiger. Who but a truly virtuous person could transform such a nature?

Thus, even in hardship, the sage makes his family forget their poverty; in prominence, he inspires nobles to shed pretenses and embrace humility. Toward all things, he maintains harmonious coexistence; toward others, he communicates joyfully while preserving his innate nature. At times, his wordless presence radiates peace; his interactions naturally transform others like the unspoken bond between father and child.

Seemingly inactive in repose, his influence runs profoundly deep. Hence we await sages like Gong Yuexiu (legendary exemplar). The sage comprehends all things with perfect fluidity, united with the Dao (the Way) without conscious effort—such is his inborn nature. Aligning with cosmic rhythms, people naturally follow.

On wisdom: Humans often fret over insufficient knowledge yet rarely sustain right action. Like the innately beautiful who need others to recognize their grace, the sage loves without self-awareness of his compassion. Unprompted by external praise, this love flows ceaselessly, offering eternal refuge to all.

The closing metaphor of homeland: The sight of one's native land brings joy—even when nine-tenths obscured by wilderness, the heart finds solace. How much more profound, then, is the bliss of directly witnessing and hearing truth's manifestations (symbolizing the joy of returning to one's original nature).

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), presenting obscure yet profound Daoist wisdom about following nature's course and transcending worldly dualities.

The text mentions "Ran Xiangshi," a legendary sage of antiquity who mastered the "center of the circle" (referring to the core of the Dao—the state of emptiness and wuwei). He could adapt to the transformations of all things without attachment. A true sage does not deliberately distinguish between heaven and humanity, beginning and end, or self and external objects, but rather harmonizes with the world without violating natural laws.

The subsequent historical anecdote illustrates this principle: After King Hui of Wei (Wei Ying) made a treaty with King Wei of Qi (Tian Hou Mou), the latter broke the agreement. King Hui wanted to send an assassin, but his minister Xi Shou argued assassination would demean a ruler's dignity and proposed mobilizing 200,000 troops instead. Minister Ji Zi countered that war would destroy years of peaceful foundations, while Hua Zi pointed out that both advocating war and opposing it represent attachments to duality—as absurd as building a hundred-foot tower only to tear it down with one's own hands.

Daoist philosophy teaches that true wisdom transcends binary oppositions like "to fight or not to fight." Like sages maintaining the empty stillness of the "center of the circle," one should neither forcibly pursue the heavenly Dao nor become entangled by external matters. When people relinquish attachments, they naturally accomplish great deeds—just as King Tang of Shang found his worthy minister Men Yin Dengheng to assist him.

This passage presents several philosophical parables. The first story tells of Hui Shi (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Warring States period) meeting the hermit Dai Jinren, who asked him: "Do you know about snails? On the left horn of a snail lives the kingdom of Chu, and on the right horn dwells the kingdom of Man. They wage wars over territory, leaving tens of thousands dead, pursuing defeated armies for fifteen days before returning." Doesn't this sound absurd? But Dai Jinren continued: "Do you believe heaven and earth have boundaries? The human mind can roam the infinite cosmos. Seen from this perspective, aren't these kingdoms' conflicts as insignificant as battles on a snail's horns?"

The second story describes Confucius traveling to Chu and staying near Ant Hill (a small mound). When his disciple Zilu noticed the neighboring family bustling about strangely, Confucius explained: "These are servants of sages. They live concealed among common folk, dwelling by fields—outwardly ordinary yet inwardly embracing the Dao (the Way). Though they speak, their minds remain unattached; though opposing worldly ways, they disdain to conform." When Zilu wished to invite them, Confucius said: "Unnecessary. They know my purpose and would consider me a sycophant currying favor with the King of Chu." By the time Zilu returned, the family had already moved away.

Finally, the border guard of Changwu (a place name) told Zilao (another disciple of Confucius): "Governing should never be careless, and managing people must avoid brutality." These stories collectively illustrate how true wisdom perceives the vanity of worldly strife and pursues transcendent spiritual realms. The sages maintain their lofty vision while living among ordinary people, embodying the Daoist ideal of harmonizing with the cosmos beyond petty human conflicts.

In my early days of farming, when I plowed carelessly and hastily, the harvest repaid me with equal roughness. When I weeded halfheartedly, the crops responded with sparse yields. The following year, I changed my approach—plowing deeply, tending meticulously, removing weeds diligently, and nurturing the soil. As a result, the crops grew lush and abundant, providing enough food for the entire year without worry.

When Zhuangzi heard this, he remarked: Many of the methods people use today to regulate their bodies and cultivate their minds are like that farmer's initial approach—defying the natural order, straying from their true nature, extinguishing genuine emotions, losing their spirit (Shen), and blindly following the crowd. Those who treat their inherent nature carelessly find their desires and aversions growing like rampant weeds. At first, these distracting thoughts may seem to nourish the physical form, but they soon erode one's true nature, like festering abscesses within the body. They erupt in various forms—boils, scabies, internal fever, and turbid urine.

Bai Ju sought advice from Laozi (Lao Dan), saying, "I wish to travel and observe the various states." Laozi replied, "Forget it. The world is the same everywhere." Bai Ju insisted repeatedly, so Laozi asked, "Where do you plan to begin?" Bai Ju answered, "Starting with Qi." Upon arriving in Qi, he saw the corpse of an executed criminal displayed as a warning. He laid the body flat, covered it with his own official robe, and wept to the heavens, crying: "You, oh you! When great calamity befalls the world, why must you suffer first? They say 'Do not steal,' 'Do not kill.'"

(Bai Ju continued:) Only after establishing concepts of honor and disgrace can we see what people worry about; only after wealth is accumulated can we discern what they fight over. Now, we set up standards that breed anxiety and hoard goods that provoke contention, exhausting people’s bodies and minds without respite. How can we expect chaos not to arise? The rulers of antiquity attributed achievements to the people and faults to themselves. They believed righteousness lay with the common folk.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), using several stories to explore the relativity of judgment standards and the limitations of human cognition.

The text begins by contrasting ancient and contemporary attitudes toward fault. In the past, people took responsibility for their mistakes, but now they hide the truth and blame others for failing to see through it. They set impossible tasks and punish those who cannot accomplish them, establish distant goals and reproach those who fall short. When ordinary people exhaust their strength, they resort to deception, leading to widespread hypocrisy in society. When strength is insufficient, people falsify; when wisdom is lacking, they deceive; when resources are inadequate, they steal—but who is truly to blame for these actions?

Next, the example of Qu Boyu (a virtuous minister of the State of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period) illustrates how understanding evolves with time. At sixty years old, he felt that all his actions in the previous fifty-nine years had been mistaken, demonstrating how standards of right and wrong shift over time. All things grow, yet we cannot see their roots. People value what they already know but fail to recognize the wisdom that comes from what remains unknown—this is the greatest confusion.

Finally, the story of Duke Ling of Wei highlights the complexity of evaluating a person. Three ministers held vastly different views of him: one claimed he indulged in wine and women while neglecting governance; another argued that despite his dissolute lifestyle, he treated the worthy with deep respect; while a third recounted that after his burial at Shaqiu, a stone coffin was unearthed bearing an inscription prophesying, "Do not rely on your son" (hinting at the origin of his posthumous title, "Ling" [Spirit]). This tale shows how different perspectives yield different judgments of the same individual.

This dialogue comes from the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), where Shao Zhi inquires from Tai Gong Diao about the meaning of "village discourse."

Tai Gong Diao explains that "village" refers to people of different surnames gathering together to form shared customs. It's like combining different things into a whole, then separating the whole into parts. For instance, looking at individual parts of a horse—you can't call any single part a horse; only when all parts combine do we have what we call a horse. Similarly, hills are formed by accumulation from low places, rivers become great by the confluence of small streams, and sages achieve impartiality by embracing all people.

Regarding knowledge that comes from external things entering the mind—hold it but don't become rigid; concerning judgments arising from within—keep them upright but not exclusionary. The four seasons have different climates, yet Heaven shows no partiality, thus completing the year. Officials have distinct duties, yet the ruler plays no favorites, thereby governing the state well. All things follow their own patterns, and the Dao shows no partiality—hence it cannot be named. Precisely because it is nameless, it can practice Wuwei (non-action) yet accomplish everything.

Time has its beginnings and endings, worldly affairs constantly change, and fortune and misfortune transform into each other. Just as diverse products all grow in vast marshes, and trees and rocks coexist on high mountains—this is the principle of "village discourse."

Shao Zhi then asks: Can this then be called the Dao? Tai Gong Diao replies it cannot. The number of things far exceeds "ten thousand"—we say "the ten thousand things" merely as a general term. Heaven and Earth represent the largest physical forms, Yin-Yang the greatest Qi (vital energy), while the Dao is the supreme common principle. Using "great" as a descriptor is permissible, but to truly compare them would be like comparing dogs to horses—the difference is too vast.

Finally, when Shao Zhi inquires about the origin of all things, Tai Gong Diao responds: Yin and Yang interact, the four seasons cycle in succession, and all things form through mutual generation and restriction. Safety and danger, fortune and misfortune transform into each other; gathering and separating, joining and parting follow their patterns—these are all knowable, concrete principles.

All things, when reaching their extremes in mutual influence, return to their origins—this cyclical movement is the inherent pattern of existence. What language can express and knowledge can attain is limited to the concrete manifestations of things themselves.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not cling to the endpoint of things' dissolution, nor do they trace back to the beginning of their origins, for these are merely the boundaries of discussion. Lesser Knowledge (a fictional figure) asked: "Ji Zhen (a Daoist scholar) advocates 'governing through Wuwei (non-action),' while Jiezi (another scholar) advocates 'acting with purpose.' Which of these views aligns more with reality? Which approaches truth more closely?"

Grand Duke Diao (a wise elder) replied: "Phenomena like cock-crows and dog-barks are known to all, yet even those with great wisdom cannot fully articulate the reasons for their transformations through words, nor can they predict their future behavior through thought. If forced to analyze, their subtlety can be reduced to formlessness, while their grandeur can expand to boundlessness. Advocating 'acting with purpose' appears too concrete, while advocating 'Wuwei (non-action)' appears too abstract. Having name and form characterizes concrete things, while being nameless and formless constitutes the essence of the Dao."

What can be described in words and contemplated in thought grows more distant from truth the more one speaks. The unborn cannot be prevented, the dead cannot be obstructed. Between life and death lies no great distance—only this process of transformation proves difficult to observe. Both "acting with purpose" and "Wuwei (non-action)" are hypotheses born from human doubt.

Observing the origins of things, I find their past extends without end; investigating their future, I see their development continues without limit. Since there is no exhaustion, verbal descriptions are ultimately futile. Both views are as limited as concrete things, while the great Dao can neither be called "being" nor "non-being." The term "Dao" is but a borrowed concept we employ.

"Acting with purpose" and "Wuwei (non-action)" each perceive only one aspect—how could they elucidate the complete picture of the Dao? If language were perfectly sufficient, one could discourse all day and fully express the Dao; if language remains insufficient, all-day discussion would merely exhaust concrete matters. The Dao is the ultimate truth of all things, which neither speech nor silence can fully convey. Neither words can clarify it, nor silence express it—discussion ultimately has its limits.

(This constitutes partial content from Scrolls 4 and 5 of the Nanhua Zhenjing [Zhuangzi])