《南華真經》Vol. 9

The "External Things" chapter of the Zhuangzi illustrates the impermanence of worldly affairs and the unpredictability of human hearts. External matters often cannot be forced—just as the loyal minister Long Feng was executed by the tyrant Jie of Xia, Bi Gan had his heart ripped out by King Zhou of Shang, and Ji Zi was forced to feign madness. The wicked minister E Lai enjoyed favor but ultimately perished along with King Zhou.

People expect loyalty from their ministers, yet loyalty does not always earn trust. Wu Zixu, who remonstrated loyally, was cast into the river, while Chang Hong died unjustly in Shu—his blood, after three years, transformed into jade. Parents wish for filial children, yet filial piety does not always win affection. Xiao Ji (son of King Wu Ding of Shang) died of sorrow due to his stepmother’s slander, and Zeng Shen (a disciple of Confucius) often grieved when his filial devotion only brought him parental rebuke.

When wood rubs against wood, it produces fire; when metal meets flame, it melts. When the forces of Yin and Yang become disordered, heaven and earth tremble violently, giving rise to thunder. Water and fire are incompatible, yet flames can burst forth even from water, strong enough to burn down a great locust tree. If a man is consumed by excessive worry, he becomes trapped in dilemmas, restless as an insect.

When the human heart remains suspended between heaven and earth, torn by gains and losses, drowning in anxiety, with conflicts of interest tangled within, it is like sparks that keep striking until they consume inner peace. The moonlight (symbolizing clarity of mind) ultimately cannot withstand the fires of the heart (representing desire and anxiety), leading to spiritual decay and the dissipation of the Dao.

Later, Zhuangzi uses a personal anecdote as a metaphor: Impoverished, Zhuangzi sought to borrow grain from the Marquis of Jianhe, who dismissively promised to lend him three hundred pieces of gold after collecting taxes from his fief. Zhuangzi immediately told a parable: "Yesterday, on the road, I heard a stranded minnow crying for help. It said it was an official of the Eastern Sea and begged for a ladle of water to survive. I replied that I would persuade the kings of Wu and Yue to divert the West River to save it. The minnow angrily retorted, 'All I need is a ladle of water to live—yet you spout empty words! Better to look for me at the dried-fish shop!'" This story mocks impractical promises, showing that timely aid matters far more than lofty but useless talk.

The story of Ren Gongzi fishing goes like this: He used an enormous hook with a thick black rope, baiting it with fifty oxen. Seated atop Mount Kuaiji, he cast his line eastward into the Eastern Sea. Day after day he fished this way, yet for a whole year caught nothing. Finally, a gigantic fish took the bait, dragging the massive hook into the ocean depths before leaping up in a frenzy, churning up mountainous white waves that shook the seas with a roar like howling ghosts, audible for a thousand li. When Ren Gongzi finally landed this fish, he cured its flesh as dried provisions that fed all people from east of the Zhe River to north of Mount Cangwu.

Later generations of shallow scholars who delight in hearsay spread this tale in wide-eyed amazement. Yet these same people wield tiny rods by narrow streams, spending their days waiting for minnows and shrimp—how could they ever hope to catch such leviathans? Similarly, those who seek lofty reputation through superficial learning remain forever distant from true understanding. Thus those unacquainted with Ren Gongzi's magnanimity will inevitably fail in great undertakings.

Another satirical tale follows: A group of Confucian scholars reciting ritual verses from the Book of Odes while grave-robbing. The senior scholar calls down: "Dawn approaches—how fares your work?" From below, a junior replies: "We've not yet removed the burial garments, but find a pearl in the corpse's mouth. Truly as the Odes say: 'Lush wheat sprouts grow on hills; in life you gave no alms, why clutch pearls in death?'" So they press the corpse's temples, wrench its jaw, and carefully extract the pearl with hammered bronze tools, taking care not to damage the jewel.

When Lao Laizi's disciple went gathering firewood and encountered Confucius, he reported: "There's a man up there with long torso and short legs, stooped back, ears flush to his head, eyes blazing like he'd manage all under heaven—who might that be?" Lao Laizi said: "That must be Kong Qiu." Summoning Confucius, he advised: "Ah, Kong Qiu! Shed your affected dignity and self-satisfied cleverness—only then might you become a true gentleman." Confucius bowed deeply but left unsettled, murmuring: "Can my cultivation still progress?"

Lao Laizi responded: "Your anguish at present woes has bequeathed greater calamity to posterity. Is this your natural shortsightedness or lack of wisdom? Courting favor through petty kindness invites lifelong disgrace—this is mere common conduct. Men attract each other with fame and bond through profit. Better to forget both Yao's praise and Jie's blame than perpetuate such judgments. All who violate their innate nature suffer harm; all forced action leads astray. The sage moves with deliberative care, thus succeeding in every endeavor."

(Note: "Ren Gongzi" is a fictional allegorical figure. "Mount Kuaiji" and "Mount Cangwu" are ancient geographic references. "Lao Laizi" represents a Daoist recluse, while "Zhongni" is Confucius. The "grave-robbing while reciting Odes" episode satirizes Confucian hypocrisy—performing rituals while violating their essence.)

Duke Yuan of Song dreamed at midnight of a disheveled man peering through a side gate, who said: "I am an envoy from the Abyss of Zailu (name of a water deity), sent by the Qing River deity to visit the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River), but was caught by the fisherman Yu Ju." Upon waking, the duke summoned a diviner who interpreted: "This is a spirit turtle appearing in your dream." The duke asked: "Is there a fisherman named Yu Ju?" His attendants confirmed this. The next day when Yu Ju came to court, the duke inquired about his catch. Yu Ju replied: "I netted a white turtle measuring five feet across." Ordered to present it, the duke received the turtle but hesitated—alternating between wanting to kill it and release it—before finally consulting the oracle. The divination indicated killing the turtle would bring good fortune, so it was slain. Its shell yielded seventy-two remarkably accurate divinations.

Confucius remarked: "This spirit turtle could appear in the duke's dream, yet couldn't escape Yu Ju's net; knew seventy-two divinations would prove true, but couldn't avoid being gutted. Thus even wisdom has limits, and spiritual power meets obstacles. The greatest intelligence cannot prevail against ten thousand minds plotting together. Fish fear cormorants more than nets—discarding petty cleverness brings great wisdom; abandoning forced virtue cultivates natural goodness."

Infants learn speech without erudite teachers simply by being among speakers. When the logician Huizi told Zhuangzi "Your words are useless," Zhuangzi retorted: "Only by understanding 'uselessness' can we discuss 'usefulness.' Though heaven and earth are vast, humans use just enough ground to stand on. But if we excavated everything beyond our footprints down to the Yellow Springs, would our standing spot remain useful?" Huizi conceded it wouldn't. "Thus," said Zhuangzi, "the utility of the useless is evident."

Zhuangzi observed: "Those who wander freely—would they choose not to wander? Those who cannot wander freely—how could they truly wander? Escapist fantasies and reclusive behaviors hardly suit the truly wise and virtuous. Plunging into abysses without turning back, charging into fire and water unflinchingly—such temporary master-servant relationships eventually breed mutual contempt when circumstances change. Therefore, those who attain the Dao (the Way) cling to no fixed views. Scholars habitually venerate antiquity while disparaging the present—judging today by the standards of ancient rulers like Xiwei, who could avoid being swept along? Only Dao-attainers wander worldly realms without bias, accommodate others without losing themselves. They neither blindly follow teachings nor artificially conform. Clear eyes constitute true vision; clear ears constitute true hearing."

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi) presents Daoist insights into natural laws and human affairs. Through allegory, Zhuangzi reveals how excessive attachment often backfires.

The text begins by exploring the word "che" (penetration) as permeating all things—it manifests in trembling lips, sweet flavors, the cognition of cognition, and the essence of De (Virtue). This illustrates the omnipresence of the Dao. When humans obstruct the natural flow (blockage), it leads to stagnation, which in turn breeds complications (boundaries), ultimately inviting calamities.

All sentient beings rely on breath for survival; if breathing is obstructed, the fault lies not with heaven. Just as heaven and earth operate spontaneously, with day and night in perpetual alternation, when people shut off their senses (ears, nose, etc.), their minds lose the capacity for "celestial wandering" (tianyou)—the state of communion with nature. Deprived of this resonance with the cosmos, desires clash chaotically (six disturbances contend).

The text contrasts natural harmony with forced actions: vast forests and hills bring comfort precisely because they make no deliberate display; excessive pursuit of reputation corrupts De (Virtue), and obsession with fame breeds scheming; wisdom arises from conflict, firewood from felling trees. Spring rains fall in due season, grasses and trees grow naturally, and only then do farming tools (hoes and plows) begin their work—yet when transplanted, over half the plants die mysteriously.

A series of parallelisms highlight differences among people of varying attainment: Sages stir the world, but divine beings pay no heed; worthies stir society, but Sages remain indifferent; gentlemen stir the state, yet worthies ignore them; petty men conform to trends, while gentlemen disregard them. Like the man of Yanmen who, praised for extreme mourning, inspired his townsfolk to mimic him—only for half to perish from grief. Yao offered the empire to Xu You, who fled; Tang ceded power to Wu Guang, who raged in refusal. Ji Ta, hearing of this, led disciples to seclusion by the Kuanshui River, where lords paid respects for three years—until Shentu Di drowned himself in protest.

The famous metaphor of "forgetting the trap once the fish is caught" concludes: fish traps (quan) exist to catch fish—once caught, the trap is forgotten; rabbit snares (ti) exist to catch rabbits—once caught, the snare is forgotten; words exist to convey meaning—once understood, words may be forgotten. Zhuangzi laments: "Where might I find one who has forgotten words, that I may speak with them?"

The passage closes by identifying its rhetorical modes: "allegory" (borrowing external analogies, 90%), "weighty words" (citing elders, 70%), and "goblet words" (spontaneous speech, ever-renewed like nature). Just as a father shouldn’t arrange his son’s marriage—for paternal praise lacks credibility—Zhuangzi notes: this is no fault of mine, but human nature itself.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·Miscellaneous Chapters, primarily discussing the relationship between language and truth, and how one should approach judgments of right and wrong. Here is the modern interpretation:

Zhuangzi observes that people tend to approve of views that align with their own and oppose those that differ. They consider agreement as correctness and disagreement as error. Quoting ancient sages (qí ài) for seventy percent of one’s argument serves to support one’s claims, but if these predecessors themselves lack fundamental principles, their words cannot serve as standards.

If a person cannot transcend ordinary people, they cannot be said to have truly attained the human Dao (Rendao); if they lose this Dao, they become nothing more than outdated relics (chén rén). "Goblet words" (zhī yán, spontaneous speech) arise naturally each day, harmonizing with the Dao of Heaven (Tiān Ní), and thus endure. In silence, the essence of all things is unified, but once expressed in words, distinctions arise—hence the saying, "Do not speak."

Those who speak all their lives may never articulate the truth, while those who remain silent may not necessarily fail to express it. Everything has its reason for existence: approval has its justification, and denial has its grounds. All things inherently possess inevitability—nothing exists without purpose. Without "goblet words" to accord with nature, how could anything endure?

All things are different manifestations of the Dao, transforming into one another in cycles without end—this is called the "Heavenly Balance" (Tiān Jūn), or the "Natural Division" (Tiān Ní).

Zhuangzi said to Huizi: Confucius, even at sixty, continued to revise his views—what he initially affirmed, he later denied. What he now considers correct, he might have deemed wrong at fifty-nine. Huizi remarked that Confucius diligently pursued knowledge, but Zhuangzi countered that Confucius had already transcended such attachment. Confucius said human talent stems from the Great Root (Dà Běn), reviving the spirit to live. Speech aligns with musical harmony, action follows measure, presenting profit and loss, right and wrong, before others—yet true teaching does not merely seek verbal agreement but heartfelt conviction.

Zengzi (Shēn) held two official posts with different mindsets: when supporting his parents, he was happy despite a meager salary (three fu), but later, with a higher salary (three thousand zhōng), he grieved over failing to honor them. A disciple asked Confucius: "Can someone like Zengzi be said to be unburdened by external things?"

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., Zhuangzi), which explores philosophical themes such as life and death, fate, and spiritual cultivation through several parables.

Regarding the question of guilt and sorrow, the text states: Only when a person is no longer bound by worldly values can they truly experience grief. Those who have attained the Dao (the Way) view official salaries ("three fu" refers to modest wages, "three thousand zhong" to high-ranking salaries) with the same indifference as passing sparrows or mosquitoes.

Yan Chengzi You recounts to Dongguo Ziqi the nine stages of his Daoist cultivation: In the first year, he returned to simplicity; in the second, he harmonized with nature; in the third, he comprehended the principles of things; in the fourth, he merged with all phenomena; in the fifth, he influenced external objects; in the sixth, he communicated with spirits and ghosts; in the seventh, he united with Heaven; in the eighth, he transcended the concepts of life and death; and in the ninth, he reached the profound and mysterious state. This illustrates that life and death are natural phenomena—life arises from the action of Yang Qi (vital energy), and death is a return to the origin—so there is no need for attachment.

The discussion on fate and spirits: The workings of Heaven and Earth follow their own laws ("li shu" refers to celestial patterns), yet humans cannot fully grasp the beginning and end of fate. If one claims there are no spirits, why do responses and omens occur? If one insists they exist, why do they sometimes fail to manifest? This reflects Zhuangzi's dialectical thinking on the question of fate.

The dialogue between the shadow and the penumbra (the shadow of a shadow) is particularly intriguing. The penumbra asks the shadow why it moves so unpredictably, and the shadow replies that its existence depends on light (fire and the sun)—it vanishes in darkness. It merely follows the movements of the body and cannot be said to act independently. This parable demonstrates the interdependence of all things.

Finally, the story of Yangzi Ju (Yang Zhu) visiting Laozi (Lao Dan): Initially, Laozi thought Yangzi Ju could be taught, but upon realizing his arrogance ("sui sui xu xu" describes a haughty demeanor), he sighed in disappointment. Yangzi Ju promptly humbled himself and asked for guidance on his faults. This passage illustrates that the first step in Daoist cultivation is to relinquish pride.

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of Nanhua) recounts ancient sage-kings abdicating their thrones, embodying the Daoist principle of "valuing life over material possessions."

The opening describes Yang Ziju (a Daoist figure) visiting an enlightened master. Initially greeted with reverence, the crowd soon scrambles for seats—revealing how true adepts command respect through inner attainment rather than external formalities.

A series of abdication narratives follows:

Yao first offers the empire to Xu You, who declines. He then approaches Zizhou Zhifu, who replies he is treating his "malady of hidden sorrows" (cultivating body and mind) and has no time for governance. This shows the enlightened prioritize life over worldly power.

When Shun offers the throne to Zizhou Zhibo, he receives the same response—illustrating how true adepts differ from ordinary people by never trading life for authority.

Shun next approaches Shan Juan, who declares his self-sufficient agrarian life brings perfect contentment. Lamenting Shun's misunderstanding, he retreats to deep mountains.

The throne is then offered to the Farmer of Stone Door, who deems Shun's virtue insufficient and sails away with his family, never to return.

Finally, the story of Great King Danfu (King Wen's grandfather) shows him relocating rather than fighting the Di invaders—demonstrating the Daoist ideal of "never harming life for possessions."

Collectively, these stories reveal: true adepts cherish life's essence, unburdened by external things; those who govern must first transcend the very empire they rule.

This passage recounts several Daoist stories about valuing life and not harming one's true nature for external things.

First is the story of Danfu, ancestor of the Zhou dynasty. As a vassal to the Di people, upon hearing the principle that "one should not harm the nourished people for the sake of land that nourishes," he left his fief leaning on his staff. The people followed him en masse, eventually establishing a new state at the foot of Mount Qi. Danfu truly understood respecting life—not harming his body for pleasure when wealthy and honored, nor burdening his physical form for gain when poor and humble. In contrast, those in high positions today constantly fear losing power and readily sacrifice their lives for profit—truly foolish.

Next is the story of Prince Sou of Yue. After three consecutive regicides in Yue, the prince fled to Danxue Cave fearing assassination. When the Yue people couldn't find a new ruler, they eventually discovered him there. They forced him out by smoking the cave with mugwort and welcomed him with a magnificent jade carriage. As Prince Sou grasped the carriage ropes to ascend, he cried to heaven: "O throne, why won't you leave me alone?" He didn't hate being ruler, but dreaded the disasters rulership brings. Such a man, unwilling to harm life for a throne, was precisely the wise ruler the Yue people sought.

Then comes Zihuazi's admonition to Marquis Zhaoxi of Han. When Han and Wei were disputing borderlands, Zihuazi found the troubled marquis and posed a hypothetical: If told "seizing with your left hand costs your right, seizing with your right costs your left, but what's seized grants the whole world," would you seize? The marquis said no. Zihuazi replied: Thus arms are more precious than the world, and the body more precious than arms. Compared to the world, Han is insignificant; the disputed land is even less than Han—hardly worth distressing over. The marquis had an epiphany, calling this unprecedented wisdom.

Finally, when the Duke of Lu heard the recluse Yan He was a Daoist adept, he sent envoys with rich gifts to invite him. But Yan He wore coarse cloth while feeding oxen, maintaining his simple way of life. These stories all illustrate: truly enlightened people understand life is more precious than rank or wealth, and never damage their natural essence for external things.

When the ruler of Lu sent an envoy to the gate of Yan He (a Daoist hermit), the messenger asked, "Is this the home of Yan He?" Yan He replied, "This is indeed my dwelling." When the envoy presented gifts, Yan He responded, "I fear you've mistaken your orders and come to the wrong person. You should return and verify this." Only after the messenger confirmed and returned did Yan He reluctantly accept. Such was the man who truly despised wealth and status.

Thus we see: The essential Dao (the Way) is for cultivating one's inner nature; what remains may be used to govern a state, and the coarsest remnants may serve to administer the empire. From this perspective, the affairs of emperors and kings are but the incidental concerns of sages, not the fundamental practice of preserving life and cultivating one's essential nature.

The so-called gentlemen of today's vulgar world often harm their bodies and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things—is this not lamentable? When sages act, they invariably examine both their intentions and their objectives.

Consider this analogy: If someone were to use the legendary Pearl of Marquis Sui to shoot at sparrows a thousand ren high, the world would surely laugh at them. Why? Because what they employ is too precious, while what they seek is too trivial. Is human life not far more valuable than the Pearl of Marquis Sui?

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) lived in poverty, his face showing signs of hunger. A visitor said to Ziyang, prime minister of Zheng: "Lie Yukou is a man who has attained the Dao (the Way), yet he lives in your state in such destitution. Does this not show your lack of regard for worthy men?" Ziyang immediately sent grain to Liezi. When the messenger arrived, Liezi bowed respectfully but declined the gift. After the messenger left, Liezi's wife beat her breast in complaint: "I've heard that the families of Daoist adepts live in comfort and joy, yet here we starve..."

A man with a sallow, emaciated face passed by, and when the ruler saw him, he offered him food. Yet the man refused to accept it. Was this not fate? Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) smiled and said to him: "You do not truly understand me. If you give me food because you listened to someone else's words, you may one day blame me for the same reason. That is why I cannot accept it." Later, the people of that region indeed rebelled and killed Ziyang, the official who had offered the food.

When King Zhao of Chu lost his kingdom, Butcher Yang (a humble mutton vendor and recluse) followed him into exile. After King Zhao regained his throne, he sought to reward those who had accompanied him, including Butcher Yang. Yet Butcher Yang said: "When the king lost his kingdom, I lost my mutton stall; now that the king has regained his throne, I have regained my stall. My livelihood has already been restored—I need no additional reward." King Zhao insisted on rewarding him, to which Butcher Yang replied: "The loss of your kingdom was not my fault, so I dare not accept punishment; nor was its restoration my merit, so I dare not accept reward."

The king said: "At least grant me an audience." Butcher Yang responded: "According to the laws of Chu, only those who have rendered great service may stand before the king. My wisdom was insufficient to preserve the kingdom, and my courage too weak to die fighting the enemy. When the Wu army invaded Ying, I fled in fear of the invaders—I did not follow you deliberately. Now if the king breaks the law to receive me, this is not the way I wish to be known in the world."

King Zhao said to his minister Sima Ziqi: "Butcher Yang is of lowly status, yet his principles are lofty. Offer him the position of Sanjing (a high-ranking office) on my behalf." Butcher Yang replied: "I know the Sanjing position is nobler than selling mutton, and its salary far more lucrative. But how could I, out of greed for rank and wealth, allow the king to bear the reputation of reckless generosity? I dare not accept—let me return to my mutton stall." In the end, he refused the post.

When Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) lived in the state of Lu, he dwelled in a dilapidated hut with crumbling earthen walls, a roof thatched with wild grass, and a door woven from reeds so flimsy it barely held together. The door pivoted on mulberry branches, and broken jars served as windows. The interior was divided into two rooms. Clad in coarse hemp cloth, with rain leaking through the roof and dampness seeping from the ground, he sat upright, playing the zither and delighting in his own contentment.

Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) arrived in a lavish carriage to visit Yuan Xian (another disciple of Confucius). Yuan Xian lived in a narrow alleyway, dressed in tattered clothes, and came to open the door leaning on a cane. Zigong exclaimed, "Alas! How has the master fallen into such hardship?" Yuan Xian replied, "I've heard that lacking wealth is called poverty, but studying the Dao yet failing to practice it is called hardship. I am merely poor, not in hardship." Hearing this, Zigong felt ashamed. Yuan Xian smiled and said, "Those who cater to worldly trends, form cliques for personal gain, use learning to show off, disguise themselves with benevolence and righteousness, and obsess over carriages and horses—such things I cannot bring myself to do."

When Zengzi (Zeng Shen) lived in the state of Wei, he wore a ragged padded coat, his face was swollen, and his hands and feet were covered with calluses. He often went three days without lighting a cooking fire and ten years without new clothes. His hat strings were broken, his sleeves so tattered they exposed his elbows, and his shoes worn through at the heels. Yet when he dragged his tattered shoes while singing the "Hymns of Shang," his voice rang out as clear as metal instruments. The Son of Heaven could not make him a subject, and feudal lords could not befriend him. Those who truly cultivate their inner nature forget their physical form; those who cultivate their form forget material gain; those who pursue the Dao (the Way) even let go of their thoughts.

Confucius said to Yan Hui, "Yan Hui, your family is so poor and your status so low—why don't you seek an official post?" Yan Hui replied, "I have no desire to be an official. Outside the city walls, I have fifty mu of land, enough for gruel to sustain me. Inside the city, I have ten mu for growing hemp to weave cloth. Playing the qin is enough for my amusement, and studying the master's Dao brings me joy. I do not wish to take office." Confucius, looking solemn, said, "Well spoken, Yan Hui! I've heard that those who know contentment are not burdened by profit; those who understand self-contentment do not fear loss; those with deep inner cultivation feel no shame without official rank. I've long recited these words, but today I see them truly embodied in you—this is my gain."

(Note: The "Hymns of Shang" refers to a section in the Classic of Poetry; "mu" is an ancient unit of land measurement, approximately 0.16 acres in modern terms.)

Prince Mou of Zhongshan (a nobleman of the Wei state during the Warring States period) once asked the Daoist recluse Zhanzi: "Though I dwell in seclusion by rivers and lakes, my mind remains preoccupied with courtly affairs. What should I do?" Zhanzi replied: "Value life itself. Those who truly cherish life will naturally regard fame and wealth lightly." Prince Mou admitted: "I understand this principle intellectually, yet cannot master my impulses." Zhanzi responded: "When self-control proves impossible, follow nature's course. Forced suppression causes double injury—such people rarely attain longevity."

This passage illustrates how Prince Mou, as a noble scion of a powerful state, found reclusion more challenging than commoners. Though not yet fully awakened to the Dao (the Way), he possessed genuine aspiration toward it. The text then draws a parallel with Confucius' experience when trapped between Chen and Cai states—seven days without cooked meals, surviving on herb broth without grain, his face gaunt yet still playing the zither and singing indoors. While Yanhui gathered vegetables, Zilu and Zigong privately complained: "Our master was exiled from Lu, rejected in Wei, persecuted in Song where they cut down his ceremonial tree, found no refuge in the Zhou domains, and now suffers this predicament. Yet his persecutors go unpunished, and those exploiting his teachings face no prohibition. How can he remain composed, playing music?"

Yanhui, uncertain how to respond, reported this to Confucius. Setting aside his zither, the sage sighed: "Zilu (You) and Zigong (Ci) are men of shallow vision. Summon them—I shall explain." When they entered, Zilu asked: "Can our present straits be called utter destitution?" Confucius countered: "What words are these! A nobleman finds true fulfillment in accordance with the Dao (the Way), and meets adversity only when straying from it. Holding fast to the path of benevolence and righteousness despite chaotic times—what destitution is this? To examine oneself without deviating from the Great Dao, to face danger without losing virtue—this resembles how pine and cypress reveal their vitality precisely when winter frost descends. My trials between Chen and Cai may well prove fortunate!" Having spoken thus, he calmly resumed playing his zither.

This passage recounts several stories of ancient sages who maintained their moral integrity when faced with the temptation of power.

When Zilu (a disciple of Confucius) heard the sound of the zither, he picked up his shield and began to dance, while Zigong sighed in admiration of the vastness of heaven and earth. The ancient Daoist adepts remained joyful whether in hardship or prosperity, for their true happiness did not depend on external circumstances but on inner cultivation. When one's moral cultivation reaches a certain level, the alternation between adversity and success becomes as natural as the changing of seasons.

The text then recounts several examples of rejecting power: Xu You found contentment by the northern banks of the Ying River. When Emperor Shun offered the empire to his friend Beiren Wuze, the latter felt Shun's actions had tainted him and, ashamed to meet again, drowned himself in the river.

When King Tang of Shang prepared to overthrow the tyrant Jie of Xia, he first consulted Bian Sui and Wu Guang, both of whom declined, saying, "This is not my affair." Tang eventually succeeded with Yi Yin's counsel and then offered the empire to Bian Sui, who refused, believing acceptance would make people mistakenly think him power-hungry—he then drowned himself. Tang next offered the throne to Wu Guang, who also declined, saying that deposing a ruler was unrighteous, killing people was inhumane, and he could not enjoy the fruits of such actions—ultimately tying himself to a stone and sinking into the river.

Finally, when the Zhou dynasty rose, Boyi and Shuqi of Guzhu heard of a virtuous ruler in the west (King Wen of Zhou) and traveled to Mount Qi to observe. These stories collectively illustrate how ancient sages valued moral integrity above political power.

This passage recounts two stories that both reflect the Daoist philosophy of following nature and practicing wuwei (non-action).

In the first story, two men witness the Zhou dynasty establishing authority through animal sacrifices and blood oaths, finding it utterly ridiculous. They remark: "This is not what we call the Dao." When the legendary Shennong ruled the world, sacrificial rituals were simply expressions of reverence without making demands, and the people were treated with sincere trust rather than coercion. True governance should follow nature's way - neither elevating oneself by belittling others nor profiting from others' misfortune. Now the Zhou dynasty, seeing the chaos of the Shang, rushes to seize power through bribery and military force, using oaths to feign integrity while essentially replacing one tyranny with another. These two men consequently choose to retreat to Shouyang Mountain, preferring to starve rather than compromise their principles, maintaining their integrity like the famous recluses Bo Yi and Shu Qi.

The second story features a dialogue between Confucius and Liu Xiaji. Liu's younger brother Zhi the Robber leads a band of nine thousand outlaws who pillage and murder across the land. Confucius reproaches Liu: "A father should discipline his son, an elder brother his younger brother. You're a renowned worthy of our time yet can't control your own brother - you should feel ashamed. Let me go admonish him." Liu Xiaji replies: "If children won't heed advice and brothers reject guidance, then what value remains in family bonds? My brother is so violent and arrogant he won't listen to reason - your attempt would only bring humiliation upon yourself."

Both stories demonstrate Daoist criticism of hypocritical rituals and laws. The first opposes seizing power through violence, while the second questions the Confucian overemphasis on ethical indoctrination. From the Daoist perspective, true virtue arises spontaneously from within, and forced moral education often produces the opposite effect.

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, recounting how Confucius attempted to admonish the notorious bandit Zhi only to be sternly rebuked.

Hearing that Robber Zhi was encamped with his troops at the southern foot of Mount Tai, where they were slicing human livers for distribution, Confucius nevertheless insisted on going to admonish him. He had Yan Hui drive his chariot and Zigong act as his guard, sending a messenger to request an audience. Upon hearing this, Zhi flew into a rage—his eyes blazing like morning stars, his hair standing erect enough to lift his cap—and roared: "Isn't this that glib-tongued hypocrite Kong Qiu from Lu? Tell that fellow: With your fabricated doctrines of Kings Wen and Wu, wearing that ridiculous tree-branch crown and dead-oxhide belt, wagging your tongue all day to deceive the world—making scholars forget their roots, using hypocritical filial piety to chase wealth and honors! Your crimes could fill the heavens! Get out now, or I'll add your liver to today's meal!"

When Confucius persisted through the messenger with flattering words, Zhi reluctantly allowed him forward, but sat straddle-legged, hand on sword, glaring like a tiger cub growling: "Approach, Kong Qiu! Speak words that please me and live; displease me and die!"

Confucius replied: "I've heard three virtues define exemplary men: supreme is natural beauty that delights all (higher De), middling is wisdom illuminating heaven and earth (middle De), basic is courage that rallies multitudes (lower De). General, you embody all three: standing eight feet two inches tall, with piercing eyes, vermilion lips, pearl-like teeth, and a voice resonant as the Yellow Bell pitch-pipe. Yet such a man bears the name 'Robber Zhi'—I grieve for your disgrace."

(Note: This dialogue exemplifies the Zhuangzi school's critique of Confucian moralizing. Robber Zhi symbolizes untamed nature, his rebuttal exposing the hypocrisy of contemporary "sage" teachings. The "Yellow Bell" reference denotes the foundational pitch in ancient Chinese twelve-tone theory, symbolizing majestic resonance.)

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, recounting how Confucius attempted to persuade Robber Zhi (a legendary bandit leader) to reform by offering fame and wealth, only to be thoroughly rebuked instead.

Robber Zhi's subordinate said: "If the general is willing to heed my advice, I can send people south to Wu and Yue, north to Qi and Lu, east to Song and Wei, and west to Jin and Chu, to build a city spanning hundreds of li for you, establish a fiefdom of several hundred thousand households, and honor you as a feudal lord. Let the world start anew, cease warfare, allow soldiers to rest, gather brothers together, and jointly worship our ancestors. This is the way of sage-kings and noble men, and the aspiration of all under heaven."

Upon hearing this, Robber Zhi flew into a rage and said: "Come here, Confucius! Those who can be tempted by profit or persuaded by words are all foolish and mediocre people. My majestic appearance delights people at first sight—this is the virtue (De) my parents bestowed upon me. Even if you don’t praise me, do I not know it myself? I’ve heard that those who love to flatter others to their face also love to slander them behind their backs. Now you tempt me with grand cities and masses of people, treating me like a common man to be tamed—how could this last? The greatest city is no greater than the entire world. Yao and Shun possessed all under heaven, yet their descendants had not even a place to stand; Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou were exalted as Sons of Heaven, yet their lines were extinguished. Was it not precisely because their gains were too great, inviting calamity?"

Then Robber Zhi painted an idyllic picture of ancient society: "In the earliest times, beasts were many and humans few. People lived in trees to avoid animals, gathering acorns by day and sleeping in trees by night—this was the age of the Nest-Builder. They knew nothing of clothing, storing firewood in summer and warming themselves in winter—these were the people who understood life. In the era of the Divine Farmer (Shennong), people lived peacefully and contentedly, knowing their mothers but not their fathers, dwelling alongside deer, farming for food and weaving for clothing, with no thought of harming one another. This was when virtue (De) flourished most abundantly."

Turning sharply, he criticized later ages: "The Yellow Emperor could not maintain this virtue, battling Chi You at Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao and Shun established ranks of officials; Tang of Shang exiled his sovereign; King Wu slew King Zhou. From then on, the strong bullied the weak, and the many oppressed the few. Since the time of Tang and Wu, all have been those who throw the world into chaos. Now you promote the ways of King Wen and King Wu, controlling the world’s discourse to instruct later generations, clad in broad robes and sashes, your words and deeds hypocritical, deluding the rulers of the world to seek wealth and status. There is no greater thief under heaven than you!"

Through Robber Zhi’s words, this passage delivers a scathing critique of the sage-kings revered by Confucianism, arguing that these so-called paragons of virtue were in fact the chief destroyers of the natural Dao (Way). It embodies Zhuangzi’s profound reflection on Confucian morality, exposing how the pursuit of artificial virtues disrupts the original harmony of existence.

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, where the legendary bandit chief Robber Zhi vehemently rebukes Confucius. The essence of his critique is as follows:

By what right do you call me the bandit leader Robber Zhi, when it is you, Kong Qiu, who are the true thief? With honeyed words, you persuaded Zilu (Confucius's disciple) to discard his warrior's cap, lay down his sword, and follow you. The world praises Confucius for stopping violence, but what was the result? Zilu attempted to assassinate the ruler of Wei, failed, and was minced into paste at the eastern gate of Wei—this is the failure of your teachings. You call yourself a sage, yet you were twice expelled from Lu, had your footprints erased in Wei, found no refuge in Qi, and were trapped with nowhere to turn between Chen and Cai. Zilu, whom you taught, met such an end—unable to preserve himself above or aid others below. What value does your doctrine hold?

Even the Yellow Emperor, revered by all, could not maintain his virtue, waging war at Zhuolu until blood flowed for miles. Yao was unkind, Shun unfilial, and Yu was paralyzed on one side. Tang of Shang exiled his ruler; King Wu of Zhou attacked King Zhou; King Wen was imprisoned in Youli—these six so-called sages, upon closer examination, were all deluded by profit, forcibly violating their true nature, their actions truly shameful.

The praised worthies Bo Yi and Shu Qi abandoned the throne of Guzhu and starved to death on Shouyang Mountain, their bones left unburied. Bao Jiao, feigning purity, starved himself while clinging to a tree. Shentu Di, his advice unheeded, drowned himself with a stone on his back to feed the fish and turtles. Jie Zitui, so loyal he cut flesh from his thigh to feed Duke Wen of Jin, was later betrayed and burned to death clinging to a tree. Wei Sheng waited under a bridge for a woman who never came; when the floodwaters rose, he refused to leave and drowned clinging to a pillar—how do these six differ from dogs slaughtered and left in the gutter, pigs drowned in the river, or beggars holding out their bowls?

(Through Robber Zhi's voice, this passage fiercely attacks the sages revered by Confucianism, exposing their hypocrisy, contradictions, or futile pursuit of empty fame, reflecting the Zhuangzi school's complete rejection of Confucian values. The historical figures and allusions mentioned were widely regarded as moral exemplars, but Zhuangzi reveals their absurdity from another perspective.)

This passage from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi presents a Daoist critique of conventional values through the dialogue between Confucius and the infamous bandit Zhi.

The text observes that so-called loyal ministers like Bi Gan (a Shang dynasty official who had his heart cut out for remonstrating with King Zhou) and Wu Zixu (a Spring and Autumn period minister who committed suicide by throwing himself into a river) ultimately became laughingstocks of the world. From a higher perspective, such celebrated acts of loyalty and righteousness are not worthy of admiration.

Robber Zhi tells Confucius: "Your talk of spirits and gods is beyond my comprehension, and your human principles are just stale platitudes. Let me tell you about true human nature: the eyes desire beautiful sights, the ears crave harmonious music, the mouth savors fine flavors, and the heart-mind seeks fulfillment. Human life is brief—the longest lifespan reaches a hundred years, middling eighty, the shortest sixty. Subtract the days of illness, mourning, and worry, and truly carefree laughter fills barely four or five days each month. Heaven and earth endure eternally while human existence is fleeting—to lodge our momentary lives within infinity is like a thoroughbred steed flashing past a crack in the wall. Those who cannot gladden their hearts and nourish their natural lifespans fail to comprehend the great Dao (the Way). These doctrines you preach are precisely what I reject."

Confucius, profoundly shaken, departs in dismay. Meeting Liu Xiaji (Liu Xiahui) on the road, he admits he acted like someone cauterizing healthy skin or tweaking a tiger's whiskers—bringing trouble upon himself and nearly being devoured.

Through Robber Zhi's voice, Zhuangzi negates Confucian values of loyalty and filial piety, advocating instead for following natural inclinations and opposing moral constraints on human nature. The passage reveals the emptiness of worldly values, emphasizing life's brevity and the importance of pursuing inner freedom and carefree wandering (xiaoyao).

Zizhang asked Man Goude: "Why not cultivate De (Virtue)? Without De, one gains no trust; without trust, one receives no appointment; without appointment, one obtains no benefits. Thus when considering fame and calculating profit, pursuing benevolence and righteousness is the proper path. If we discard fame and profit to return to our original heart, shouldn't a scholar's cultivation be practiced daily?"

Man Goude replied: "The shameless often become wealthy; those skilled at gaining trust often achieve prominence. Those who attain great fame and fortune nearly always rely on shamelessness and skillful persuasion. Therefore when considering fame and calculating profit, gaining others' trust is the proper path. If we discard fame and profit to return to our original heart, a scholar's cultivation should follow the natural disposition."

Zizhang said: "In ancient times, Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang held the exalted position of Son of Heaven, possessing the wealth of the realm. Yet if today you tell a servant 'Your conduct resembles Jie or Zhou,' they would feel ashamed and protest, for even petty men despise such behavior. Confucius and Mo Di were as poor as commoners, but if you tell a chancellor 'Your De resembles Confucius or Mo Di,' they would become solemn with respect, feeling inadequate. This shows what scholars truly value is De. Thus being Son of Heaven doesn't necessarily mean nobility, nor does poverty mean lowliness—the distinction between noble and base lies in the quality of one's De."

Man Goude countered: "Petty thieves get caught, while great thieves become feudal lords. Under these lords' roofs gather so-called righteous men. Duke Huan of Qi murdered his elder brother and took his sister-in-law, yet Guan Zhong became his minister. Tian Chengzi assassinated his ruler to usurp the state, yet Confucius accepted his gifts. These men verbally condemned wickedness while submitting to power in action—isn't this contradiction between words and deeds? Ancient texts say: 'What is wicked? What is beautiful? The successful become leaders; the failures become outcasts.'"

Zizhang pressed further: "If no one cultivates De, there will be no order between close and distant relations, no distinction between noble and base, no proper sequence between elder and younger—how then can we differentiate the Five Relationships and Six Positions (referring to Confucian social hierarchy)?"

Man Goude refuted with examples: "Yao killed his eldest son; Shun exiled his own brother—was this proper order between kin? Tang of Shang exiled Jie of Xia; King Wu executed Zhou of Shang—was this righteous distinction between noble and base? King Ji of Zhou established his youngest son as heir; the Duke of Zhou executed his elder brother—was this proper sequence between elder and younger? The hypocritical rhetoric of Confucians and Mohist empty talk of universal love—can these maintain the distinctions of Five Relationships and Six Positions?"

This dialogue reveals the philosophical clash between Confucian emphasis on moral cultivation and Daoist advocacy for following natural disposition. Through historical examples, it exposes contradictions in conventional values and questions the absoluteness of traditional moral standards.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi (also known as the Nanhua Zhenjing), which critiques the pursuit of fame and wealth while examining the consequences of different life attitudes.

People chase after reputation while I seek material gain, yet neither fame nor profit aligns with natural principles or the Dao. Daily arguments about such meaningless matters are futile: petty men exhaust themselves for wealth, while noble men sacrifice themselves for honor. Though their outward manifestations differ—some distort their innate nature while others pervert their true feelings—they share the same essence: abandoning their authentic selves to chase what shouldn't be pursued. Thus, true wisdom lies in wuwei (non-action), avoiding forced striving.

Petty men defy nature through coercion, while noble men follow heavenly principles. Whether bending or straightening, both should conform to natural law; observing the transformations of the four directions, they should flow with the tides of circumstance. By not fixating on right or wrong, they maintain flexible wisdom. Achieving self-realization alone, their minds commune with the Dao. Without forced action, there's neither success nor failure; without coveting wealth or status, they remain unenslaved by external things.

History shows the disasters brought by excessive virtue: Bi Gan had his heart ripped out, Wu Zixu his eyes gouged—calamities from loyalty; Wei Sheng drowned keeping a promise—a tragedy from integrity. Bao Shuya and Shen Sheng's insistence on purity led to their harm, while Confucius avoiding his mother and Kuang Zhang avoiding his father became regrets born of righteousness. These stories passed down through generations prove how so-called "scholars" inviting misfortune through upright conduct.

Wu Zu (Footless) asked Zhi He (Knowing Harmony): "All men pursue fame and gain. When one has wealth, others flock to him; their flattery brings honor. Isn't this feeling of reverence the path to longevity and happiness? Don't you desire this? Is it lack of wisdom or inability?"

Zhi He replied: "Some men today, though living in the same era and place as others, consider themselves transcendent beings. Lacking inner conviction, they judge past and present by worldly standards. Discarding life's most precious elements to chase what they deem important, they only distance themselves from true longevity and happiness. Pain and pleasure don't originate from the body; fear and joy don't arise from the mind. They know what to do but not why. Thus, even as emperors or the wealthiest men, they cannot escape calamity."

This passage is from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi's Miscellaneous Chapters, featuring a dialogue between "Zhihe" (Knowing Harmony) and "Wuzu" (No-Feet) discussing how power and wealth affect human nature. The core message is: Truly wise people do not chase external things but maintain the tranquility of their original nature.

Power, beauty, and delicious flavors—these are things people naturally desire without needing to learn. What to dislike and what to pursue require no teacher's instruction; this is human nature. However, those who have attained the Dao (zhiren, perfected persons) do not indulge in them, and even sages find it difficult to completely transcend them.

Some people borrow others' courage to flaunt their might, use others' wisdom to appear brilliant, and rely on others' virtue (De) to feign sageliness. Though they lack a ruler's status, they carry themselves with even greater authority. In truth, wealth and power are like bait that leads people astray from their true nature.

The truly wise act in accordance with the people's needs without violating natural principles, so their hearts are content and they do not contend with others. Because they desire nothing, they never feel lacking; because they feel no lack, they do not compete. Even if they decline rulership of the world, they do not consider themselves virtuous, nor do they see themselves as greedy when accepting gifts—for the essence of virtue or greed lies not in outward actions.

Consider those who have attained the Dao: When Yao and Shun ruled the world, the people lived in harmony not because they deliberately promoted benevolence and righteousness, but because they avoided harming their inherent nature with superficial adornments. Shan Juan and Xu You refused the throne not to feign humility but to avoid letting governance injure their true selves. They all understood how to pursue benefit and avoid harm, yet the world praised them as sages—this reputation was never their deliberate pursuit.

If one stubbornly clings to empty fame, living an ascetic life and rejecting all pleasures to sustain mere existence, it is like being chronically ill yet unable to die—utterly meaningless. Know that harmony is blessing, while excess brings calamity. All things follow this principle, and the harm caused by wealth is especially evident. The wealthy today fill their ears with bells, drums, and music, their mouths with fine wines and delicacies, indulging desires to absurd extremes—is this nurturing life? It is courting death!

The text describes the painful state of human beings bound by various desires and external attachments. In modern terms, it's like becoming intoxicated with the flavors of fine wine and delicacies, so deluded by these pleasures that one forgets their proper duties—this is called chaos (乱).

When people are controlled by the surging Qi and blood (Fengqi 冯气) within their bodies, it's like walking uphill while carrying a heavy burden—this is called suffering (苦). Seeking comfort through greed for wealth, exhausting one's energy in pursuit of power, indulging in pleasures during idle moments, and stirring up Qi and blood during activity—this is called sickness (疾). Chasing profit and wealth with insatiable desires, yet failing to avoid their dangers, clinging to them even when driven by greed—this is called disgrace (辱). Hoarding money without knowing how to use it, obsessively clinging to it in the heart, fretting all day while still craving more—this is called anxiety (忧). At home, fearing thieves may come to rob; outside, dreading bandits may cause harm—fortifying one's house with layers of defenses, yet not daring to walk alone—this is called fear (惧).

These six states—chaos, suffering, sickness, disgrace, anxiety, and fear—are life's greatest calamities. Yet people often overlook these dangers, only realizing them when disaster strikes. By then, even if they exhaust their entire fortune to buy back a single day of peace, it will be too late. At that point, neither empty fame can be obtained, nor material gain secured—body and mind remain shackled in struggle. Is this not truly pitiable?