《莊子》Vol. 12

Though Heaven and Earth are vast and boundless, their movements and changes remain balanced and harmonious. Though the things of the world are many and varied, they follow a common pattern of growth. Though the people are numerous, they all need a ruler to lead them. A ruler’s authority rests on De (Virtue and inner cultivation), and ultimately must accord with the natural Dao (the Way and the order of the cosmos).

Thus it is said: “In ancient times, rulers governed the world without deliberate action; they simply followed the natural De.”

View words from the perspective of the Dao, and you will understand how rulers should set themselves right. Judge duties by the measure of the Dao, and the responsibilities of ruler and ministers will become clear. Assess abilities by the Dao’s standards, and officials throughout the realm will govern well. Observe all things through the Dao’s universal principles, and you will be prepared to meet every change.

This passage expresses Zhuangzi’s political idea of governing through Wuwei (non-action): rulers should model themselves on nature, refrain from needless interference, and take inner De as their foundation. Here, “Dao” refers to the source of the cosmos and its highest principle; “De” is the Dao as expressed in particular things.

What penetrates the celestial and terrestrial operations is De (Virtue/Power, the natural-aligned disposition); what circulates ceaselessly among all things is Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle). Governing the people belongs to administrative affairs, while mastering specialized abilities constitutes technical skills.

Technical skills must serve practical affairs; affairs should conform to righteous principles; righteousness must manifest cultivation of De; De must follow the patterns of Dao; and Dao ultimately returns to natural spontaneity. Thus it is said: The ancient rulers of the world, being free of selfish desires, saw the world naturally prosper; by refraining from forced interference, they witnessed all things evolve of their own accord; with minds as tranquil as deep abysses, the people remained naturally at peace.

The ancient text Records states: "One who comprehends Dao as the root can handle all affairs appropriately; one whose heart harbors no cunning calculations will find even spirits submitting willingly." This teaches that rulers should emulate nature, governing through serene Wuwei (non-action), achieving unity with Dao through self-cultivation rather than relying on coercive measures.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the nature of the Dao and the cultivation of the exemplary person:

The Dao (the Way) is the source that covers and supports Heaven and Earth and brings the myriad things into being. How vast and boundless it is! The exemplary person must thoroughly purify the heart-mind. What comes about naturally, without deliberate action, is called “Heaven”—the natural Way. What expresses itself naturally, without deliberate speech, is called De (Virtue/Power). Caring for all people and benefiting all things is called benevolence. Embracing differences and bringing them into unity is called greatness. Acting without seeking to be unusual is called breadth. Possessing things in all their variety is called abundance. Thus, holding fast to De is called establishing guiding principles; bringing De to fulfillment is called establishing oneself; following the Great Way is called completeness; and remaining undiminished in spirit by external things is called perfection.

When the exemplary person understands these ten principles, they can meet the affairs of the world with a broad heart-mind, moving with the changes of all things like a flowing river. One who reaches this state leaves gold in the mountains and pearls in the depths. They do not covet possessions or pursue wealth and status.

Here, “hollowing out the heart” means clearing away distracting thoughts completely. “What comes about without deliberate action is called Heaven” expresses the Daoist principle of governing through Wuwei (non-action). In Daoism, De is the natural quality that becomes evident when one has attained the Dao.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the Daoist attitude of rising above worldly concerns.

The first section says that those who have truly attained the Dao do not rejoice in a long life or grieve over a short one. They take no pride in rising to prominence and feel no shame at falling into poverty. They do not claim worldly gains as their own, nor do they regard ruling the realm as a lofty status. They understand that all things are one and that life and death are no different in essence.

The second section describes the nature of the Dao. It is still and deep, like an unfathomable pool, and pure, like a clear stream. A bell or stone chime makes no sound unless it is struck; likewise, all things follow the natural order. Who could forcefully alter its course?

The third section speaks of people whose De (Virtue/Power) is supreme. They preserve their unadorned nature and regard entanglement in worldly affairs as shameful. By grounding themselves in the fundamental Dao, their wisdom reaches the spirit realm. Their De extends throughout the myriad things, which respond naturally wherever their thoughts are directed.

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” (Qiwulun): it urges people to move beyond worldly judgments of value and return to their natural, original state. “A person of kingly De” refers to someone who has cultivated themselves to an exceptionally high level and attained the Dao.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the subtle relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power).

The first section says that without Dao, the body cannot exist; without De, life cannot fully unfold. To preserve the body and fulfill the course of life, to cultivate De and understand the Great Dao—is this not what it means to possess “Kingly De,” the highest virtue? Such a person is like a vast, surging current: appearing suddenly and rising with force, while all things follow of their own accord. This is the sage who embodies Kingly De.

The second section describes the sage’s state: seeming to observe in darkness and to listen for sounds that cannot be heard. Yet in the murky depths, the sage alone sees light; in utter silence, the sage alone hears the harmony of the sounds of Heaven. This portrays the mysterious state of one who has attained the Dao and gone beyond the limits of the senses.

The third section develops the idea further: the Dao is deep upon deep, yet it can bring forth the myriad things; it is wondrous beyond wonder, yet it can reveal what is most subtle. When Dao meets the myriad things, it may seem empty, yet it can meet every need; it may seem to change without limit, yet all things ultimately find their place. Great or small, long or short, far or near, each thing possesses its own nature in Dao. In this way, the passage uses paradox to show how what is “there” is contained within what is “not there.”

The Yellow Emperor was traveling along the north bank of the Red River. He climbed Mount Kunlun and looked south. On his way back, he lost a precious dark pearl, a symbol of the true essence of the Dao (the Way). He sent three capable people to look for it in turn.

First he sent “Knowledge,” representing cleverness and skill, but it could not find the pearl. Next he sent Li Zhu, a legendary figure with extraordinary eyesight, but he too failed. Then he sent Chigou, a skilled debater, with no better result.

At last the Yellow Emperor sent Xiangwang, whose name suggests a state free of thought and worry, in natural wholeness. Xiangwang found the pearl.

The Yellow Emperor marveled: “How strange! It seems that only in Xiangwang’s thoughtless state can one find the Great Dao!”

The passage then recounts the line of teachers who guided Emperor Yao: Yao’s teacher was Xu You, Xu You’s teacher was Nie Que, Nie Que’s teacher was Wang Ni, and Wang Ni’s teacher was Bei Yi. This chain of transmission suggests that cultivating the Dao requires guidance from a true teacher.

Emperor Yao asked Xu You, the legendary sage who lived in seclusion, “Do you think Nie Que is fit to govern the world? I have already asked Wang Ni, Nie Que’s teacher, to invite him.”

Xu You replied, “Oh, that would put the world in danger! Nie Que is certainly exceptionally clever and quick-witted, with talents far beyond those of ordinary people. But he is always trying to impose human standards on the workings of nature. He knows how to forbid wrongdoing, but not how wrongdoing arises in the first place.

“If you let him govern the world, he would rely on human contrivances and go against the natural Way. He would deliberately seek to set himself apart, prize cleverness, and rush after quick results.”

This exchange expresses Zhuangzi’s idea of Wuwei (non-action): forcibly governing the world by human standards can disrupt its natural harmony. Though Nie Que is clever, he relies too heavily on deliberate contrivance and does not follow the Daoist ideal of governing in accord with nature.

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses the relationship between rulers and the natural Way. The first part describes a state of restless busyness: handling petty affairs while also contending with external things, going from place to place to accommodate everyone, and being pulled along by outside forces without any steady principle. How could someone like this accord with the Way of Heaven?

The second part uses family relationships as a metaphor. A person may stand as a father to the people—that is, as their ruler—but cannot be a “father of fathers,” a higher sovereign. Deliberate governing becomes a source of disorder. It is like facing north, the direction associated in ancient times with a subject’s position, and inviting disaster; facing south, the ruler’s position, can instead make one a source of harm.

The final part tells a brief story. Emperor Yao was inspecting the region of Hua when its border official said, “Ah, a sage has arrived! Let me offer the sage a blessing: may the sage live a long life.” Through the border official’s blessing, the story suggests that people habitually judge sages by worldly values such as longevity, when true sages transcend such concerns.

Emperor Yao said, “I do not want it.”

Someone suggested, “Make the sage wealthy.”

Emperor Yao again said, “I do not want it.”

Someone else suggested, “Let the sage have many sons.”

Emperor Yao still replied, “I do not want it.”

An official who guarded the frontier asked, “Long life, wealth, and many children and grandchildren are things people dream of. Why are you the only one who does not want them?”

Emperor Yao explained, “Many sons can bring more worries; great wealth can invite trouble; and the longer one lives, the more humiliation one may suffer. None of these three things helps cultivate De (Virtue/Power), so I have refused them all.”

This exchange expresses the Daoist ideas of Wuwei (non-action) and having few desires. As an exemplary sage ruler, Emperor Yao sees outward wealth, descendants, and longevity as potential burdens on the spirit, at odds with cultivating the Dao and De. His view stands in marked contrast to ordinary worldly aspirations.

The official guarding the pass said:

“At first I thought you were a sage who had attained the Dao (the Way). Now I see that you are merely a gentleman. Heaven creates the people and must surely give each of them a role. If there are many sons, assign them work—what is there to worry about? If there is wealth, let people share it—what is there to fret over?

“A true sage makes a home wherever he finds himself, like a quail, and finds food naturally, like a nestling. Like a bird passing through the sky, he leaves no trace. When the world is at peace, he flourishes along with all things. When the world is in turmoil, he cultivates De (Virtue/Power) and withdraws from public life. After living a thousand years and tiring of the world, he transforms and ascends to immortality, riding the white clouds straight to the celestial realm where the Emperor of Heaven dwells.

“Then calamity cannot befall him, and his body is forever free of misfortune. What shame could there be in that?”

Note: This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s philosophy of Wuwei (non-action) and living in accordance with nature. The sage follows nature without striving, living freely like birds and beasts. “Dwelling like a quail and feeding like a nestling” is a metaphor for a simple, natural way of life. “Riding the white clouds to the Emperor’s realm” is a characteristic Daoist image of becoming immortal. “The three afflictions” usually refers to illness, old age, and death—the three hardships of human life.

This passage comes from the “Heaven and Earth” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells stories of recluses in the time of Yao, Shun, and Yu.

As the border official (fengren) was preparing to leave, Emperor Yao followed him and said respectfully, “Please wait. I have a question I’d like to ask you.”

The border official replied with just one sentence: “Go back!”

In another story, when Yao ruled the realm, Bocheng Zigao was appointed as a feudal lord. Later, Yao passed the throne to Shun, and Shun passed it to Yu. Bocheng Zigao, however, gave up his lordship and went to farm. When Yu the Great went to see him in person, he found him working in the fields.

Yu hurried to the leeward side of him—a gesture of humility—and stood respectfully to ask him a question… The original text breaks off here.

Both stories express Daoist esteem for reclusion. The border official and Bocheng Zigao each chose to give up power and live quietly in a state of Wuwei (non-action). This is the kind of freedom and ease, or xiaoyao, that the Zhuangzi praises.

This passage from the Zhuangzi has two parts: a dialogue about the abdication of ancient sage kings, followed by a philosophical account of the source of the cosmos.

The first part tells of a man who was appointed a feudal lord when Yao ruled the realm. Later, Yao passed the throne to Shun, and Shun passed it to Yu, but the man gave up his title and went to farm. Someone asked him why. He replied, “When Yao ruled the realm, people did good of their own accord without being rewarded, and felt reverence without being punished. Now rewards and punishments are used, yet the people have become less humane. From then on, De (Virtue/Power) declined and punishments were established. The disorder of later generations began there. Please leave, and don’t keep me from my farming!” With that, he turned back to his work without looking back.

The second part presents Zhuangzi’s reflections on the source of the cosmos. In the beginning, there was “nothingness”—the Daoist source without form or name. No particular things existed, and there were no names. From this arose “the One,” the initial state of the Dao (the Way). Though the One had come into being, it still had no definite form. All things receive life from this source; this is De, the nature that things receive from the Dao. Before they had definite forms, things were already distinct, yet remained undivided and without gaps. This state is called “ming,” or destiny: the pattern by which the Dao operates.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores how the cosmos comes into being and how people cultivate their nature.

The first part says that the energy flowing between Heaven and Earth gives rise to the myriad things. Once formed, each thing follows its own pattern of growth, and together these patterns shape its physical form. That form carries spirit (Shen), and each thing has its own distinctive way of functioning. This is its nature. By cultivating the mind and returning to one’s original De, one can ultimately reach a state of unity with the Dao.

The second part explains that unity with the Dao leads into emptiness, which can contain vastness. In this state, it is like a bird whose beak naturally closes and no longer calls out: one is completely joined with Heaven and Earth. This union is seamless and spontaneous. Though it may seem dull or confused, it is the highest, mysterious De, fully in accord with the natural course of things.

The third part presents Confucius asking Laozi for guidance. He describes people who cultivate the Dao but get it wrong, calling what is wrong right and what is not so true. He also mentions debaters who speak of “separating hardness and whiteness as though they were suspended in space”—a reference to the famous School of Names argument associated with Gongsun Long, which treats a stone’s hardness and whiteness as separable. Can such people be called sages? Through the exchange between Confucius and Laozi, the passage criticizes certain misleading approaches to cultivating the Dao and the sophistical arguments of the time.

Here, “mysterious De” refers to a profound and unfathomable virtue; “complete accord” means being wholly in harmony with the natural order; and “separating hardness and whiteness” is a famous proposition of the School of Names.

Laozi (Lao Dan) said:

“These are people bound by their skills, who wear out body and mind through toil. They are like hounds tethered by ropes, stripped of their freedom, or like the nimble apes of the mountain forests, captured by people all the same. Confucius, I will tell you something you cannot hear or put into words.”

(Laozi continued:)

Most people in the world have heads and feet, yet seem to lack understanding and ears—that is, they cannot comprehend the Great Dao. Things with form eventually perish; only the formless and shapeless Dao endures forever. Movement eventually comes to rest; death gives rise to new life, and decline contains the seeds of renewal. None of these changes can be controlled by human effort.

True governance lies in cultivating oneself. Forget external things, and forget the distinctions found in nature: this is called “forgetting oneself.” Those who reach this state of self-forgetting merge with the Way of Heaven.

(This passage reflects the Zhuangist practice of “sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang): letting go of worldly distinctions in order to unite with the Dao. “Forgetting oneself” is an important Daoist discipline, akin to the Buddhist ideal of “no-self.”)

When Jiang Lǚmiǎn, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period, visited Jì Chè, a Daoist recluse, he said, “The ruler of Lu told me, ‘Please advise me.’ I could not refuse, so I gave him some advice. But I do not know whether it was appropriate, and I would like you to hear what I said.”

Jiang Lǚmiǎn told Jì Chè, “I said to the ruler of Lu: ‘You must be respectful and frugal, and select upright, loyal people for office without favoring your personal connections. Then who among the people would dare not live in harmony?’”

On hearing this, Jì Chè burst out laughing. “Advice like yours, sir, falls far short of the virtue expected of a ruler. It is like a mantis angrily raising its forelegs to stop a wheel: it is bound to be powerless against it.”

Through the image of a mantis trying to stop a cart, this exchange shows that simple moral exhortations are not enough to govern a state. Jì Chè considers Jiang Lǚmiǎn’s advice to the ruler of Lu too shallow, like a mantis foolishly attempting to block a carriage. He suggests that governing requires a deeper wisdom of ruling through Wuwei (non-action).

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses the art of governing and guiding the people.

If a ruler presses his own views too eagerly, it is like building a viewing platform so high that it becomes dangerous. Everything will be affected, and many people will follow his example. Here, the viewing platform stands for a ruler’s policies: the image suggests that forcing everyone into agreement can bring danger.

Hearing this, Jiang Lü Mian was startled and said, “I am deeply puzzled by what you have said, sir. Still, I hope you will explain the reasoning in detail.”

Ji Che replied, “When a truly wise ruler governs the world, he allows the people’s hearts to unfold naturally and transforms customs through teaching. He removes the desire to harm others and lets each person develop their own distinctive aspirations. It is as natural as one’s inborn nature coming forth: the people do not even feel that anyone is guiding them.” This reflects the Daoist ideal of Wuwei (non-action), in which guidance works subtly and gradually.

Through the exchange between Jiang Lü Mian and Ji Che, the passage presents a Daoist ideal of government: instead of imposing a particular doctrine, the ruler allows the people to move naturally toward goodness, almost without realizing it.

How could such people regard the methods of Yao and Shun for civilizing the people as the supreme standard, while treating the primordial state of undifferentiated Wuwei (non-action) as secondary? They simply wish to harmonize with the natural De (Virtue/Power), keeping their minds empty and tranquil.

When Zigong traveled south to the state of Chu and was returning to Jin, he passed by the southern bank of the Han River. There he saw an old man working in his vegetable garden. The elder had dug a tunnel to reach the well and was carrying water in earthen jars to irrigate his crops, expending great effort with meager results.

Zigong said to him: "I know of a mechanical device that could irrigate a hundred plots in a single day—labor-saving and highly efficient. Wouldn't you like to try it, venerable sir?" (The "device" Zigong mentioned likely refers to advanced water-lifting tools of the time such as the counterbalanced well sweep, which applied lever principles to reduce effort.)

An old man tending his vegetable garden looked up at him and asked, “What is that?”

Zigong explained, “It’s a wooden device, heavy at the back and light at the front. You can draw water with it as quickly as if pumping, and the water keeps pouring out in a steady stream. This tool is called a counterweighted well sweep.”

When the gardener heard this, his face darkened. He gave a cold laugh and said, “I once heard my teacher say that people who use machines are bound to seek shortcuts, and those who seek shortcuts are bound to develop a clever, calculating mind. Once that sort of cleverness takes root in the heart, one’s original purity is no longer whole. When that purity is no longer whole, the spirit becomes restless.”

“A restless spirit cannot receive nourishment from the Dao (the Way). It’s not that I don’t know about this device. I simply think it shameful to use something so calculating, and so I choose not to.”

This conversation comes from the “Heaven and Earth” chapter of the Zhuangzi. Through the gardener’s words, it expresses Daoist opposition to contrivance and its esteem for naturalness. “Original purity” refers to the pristine state of a person’s true nature; “spirit” refers to spiritual activity; and the Dao is the highest concept in Daoist philosophy, referring to the source and patterns of the cosmos.

After hearing the old man’s words, Zigong, one of Confucius’ most accomplished disciples, looked ashamed. He lowered his head and said nothing.

After a while, the gardener asked him, “What do you do?”

“I am a disciple of Kong Qiu—that is, Confucius,” Zigong replied.

The gardener said, “Could you be one of those people who use broad learning to make themselves seem like sages, put on airs of superiority all day, and tell sorrowful stories to win fame throughout the world? All this does is make you lose your original nature and vital spirit.”

This exchange shows the Zhuangzi school’s criticism of Confucian pursuits of extensive learning and fame. It holds that chasing such outward goals can make people lose their natural nature. The gardener represents Daoist ideals of following nature and returning to simplicity.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells an intriguing story.

First, a Daoist practitioner says to Zigong, “Let go of the constraints of your physical form—that is, your outward appearance and worldly ideas—and you can draw near to the great Dao (the Way). If you cannot even bring your own body into balance, how could you have the strength to govern the world? Go now, and don’t interrupt my practice!”

Zigong is deeply shaken. His face changes, and he walks away dazed and at a loss. It takes him thirty li to gradually regain his composure. His disciples are puzzled: “Who was that person just now? Why did you look so startled when you saw him? You haven’t seemed yourself all day.”

Zigong explains, “I used to think Confucius was the only sage in the world. I never imagined there could be someone of such insight. I’ve heard my teacher, Confucius, say that one should act appropriately and seek results. To achieve the greatest effect with the least effort—that is the way of the sage.”

The passage presents the Daoist idea of Wuwei (non-action), in contrast with the Confucian approach of purposeful action. The practitioner criticizes Zigong for being too attached to outward achievements. Through this encounter, Zigong realizes that there may be a more skillful way to live.

People today, however, are not like this. Those who truly grasp the Great Dao have complete De. Those with complete De have sound bodies, and those with sound bodies are full of spirit. Such spiritual fullness is the realm of the sage.

People like this live among the common folk, yet no one knows where they are bound. How simple and complete they are! Fame, wealth, clever schemes, and calculation never take hold in their hearts. They do not pursue what goes against their aspirations, and they do not do what goes against their true nature.

Even if the whole world praises them and says they have acted rightly, they take no notice. Even if the whole world condemns them and says they have acted wrongly, they remain undisturbed. The world’s praise and blame have no effect on them: this is what it means to have complete De. By comparison, those of us swayed by others’ judgments are little more than duckweed bobbing on waves stirred by the wind.

(Note: This passage expresses Zhuangzi’s ideal of “complete De”: freedom from worldly judgment and independence of spirit. “People tossed about by wind and waves” refers to ordinary people easily shaken by others’ words, in sharp contrast to those of complete De.)

Zhuangzi tells this passage as a parable.

A man returned from the state of Lu and told Confucius what he had seen. Confucius said, “That man is only outwardly practicing the arts of Hundun, a legendary Daoist sage. He understands one side of things but not the rest. He attends to inner cultivation while neglecting its outward expression.”

Confucius went on: “One who truly understands the Great Dao keeps the heart pure as unbleached silk, follows nature back to simplicity, preserves their original nature, and safeguards the spirit. Why should you find such a person—living freely amid the world—so strange? As for the true teachings of Hundun’s art, how could you or I fully understand them?”

The passage then tells another story. Zhun Mang, a Daoist figure, was setting out eastward toward the sea when he happened to meet Yuan Feng, the spirit of the wind, on the shore of the Eastern Sea. Yuan Feng asked him, “Where are you going?”

Someone asked, “Where are you going?”

“To the Great Hollow, which stands for the sea—or perhaps for the Dao.”

“What will you do there?”

“The Great Hollow can be filled with water forever without ever becoming full, and water can be drawn from it forever without ever running dry. I am going there to roam freely.”

At this point, Yuan Feng—perhaps a fictional figure in the dialogue—asked, “Sir, do you have no concern for ordinary people? I would like to hear your thoughts on the sage’s rule.”

Through the image of the Great Hollow, the passage conveys a Daoist understanding of the Dao: like the Hollow, it is boundless and inexhaustible. It also opens a discussion of sage rule, reflecting Zhuangzi’s vision of going beyond worldly concerns and seeking a state of unity with the Dao.

Zhun Mang, a sage who has attained the Dao in Zhuangzi’s imagination, describes the way a sage governs:

What is the true way for a sage to govern a state? Officials carry out policies in keeping with the right time, and the selection of talent does not overlook anyone’s abilities. The ruler acts only after fully understanding the circumstances. Every word and deed arises naturally, yet transforms the people throughout the realm. With a gesture as effortless as a wave of the hand, people in all four directions willingly come to follow. This is the level of governance achieved by a sage.

When asked what a “person of De” (a person of virtue who has attained the Dao) is, Zhun Mang replied: A person of De rests without stray thoughts and acts without hesitation. Their heart holds no distinctions between right and wrong, beauty and ugliness. They delight in bringing shared benefit to the people within the four seas, and find peace of mind in ensuring that everyone is provided for.

This passage describes two stages in the cultivation of the Dao.

The first describes the state of the “person of De” (a person whose Virtue is complete). They are bewildered and adrift, like an infant who has lost its mother, and dazed and uncertain, like a traveler who has lost the road. Though they have abundant possessions, they do not know where these came from; though they have plenty to eat, they are unclear about its source. This freedom from attachment to external things, and willingness to follow things as they unfold naturally, is the bearing of a person of De.

The second passage speaks of a higher state: the “spirit person,” one who has transcended through spirit. Such people ride upon the light and ascend; their physical forms vanish along with their worldly existence. This is called “Illuminated Vastness,” an empty realm suffused with light. They fully release their innate nature, delight in unity with Heaven and Earth, and transcend the troubles of the world, allowing all things to return to their original nature. This state is called “Mingling Darkness,” the primordial condition before distinctions arose.

The passage thus presents a progression in Zhuangzi’s thought, from the person of De to the spirit person. The person of De still retains traces of worldly existence, while the spirit person reaches the highest state of forgetting the distinction between self and things.

This dialogue comes from the Zhuangzi. It recounts a discussion between two recluses, Men Wugui and Chizhang Manji, as they watch King Wu of Zhou’s army.

Chizhang Manji first exclaims, “He falls short of Emperor Shun of Youyu! That is why he has met with the turmoil and calamity of war.”

Men Wugui asks in reply, “If all under Heaven were already at peace, would there be any need for Emperor Shun to govern it? Was he needed because all under Heaven had fallen into disorder?”

Chizhang Manji answers, “Peace under Heaven is what people truly want. Why should it require Emperor Shun to govern? Shun’s governance of the world was like treating sores: when the hair has fallen out, one puts on a wig; when one is ill, one seeks a doctor. It is like a filial son carrying medicine to care for his sick father, his face full of worry. A sage—Shun, in this case—governing the world in this way is, in truth, something to be ashamed of.”

This dialogue reflects the political thought of the Zhuangzi school: in a truly peaceful age, things should follow their natural course through Wuwei (non-action), without a sage deliberately governing them. Although Emperor Shun was virtuous and wise, his rule was like treating illness and saving the sick: it showed that all under Heaven was already out of balance.

In the age when Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) were at their most complete, people did not exalt the worthy or make a show of their abilities. The ruler was like a branch high in the treetops, while the people were like deer roaming freely in the wild. People acted uprightly without thinking they were practicing righteousness; they cared for one another without calling it benevolence; they were dependable without calling it loyalty; and their words and actions were fitting without calling it trustworthiness. They helped one another naturally, without thinking they were doing anyone a favor. So their actions left no trace, and they did not make a point of passing their reputations on.

A truly filial child does not simply flatter their parents, and a truly loyal minister does not fawn on the ruler: this is the highest standard for a minister. If someone agrees with everything their parents say and praises everything they do, people in the world will call that person an unfilial child. If someone approves of everything the ruler says and praises everything the ruler does, people will call that person an unworthy minister. But do people really understand the necessity behind this?

People follow along when the world calls something right, and praise it when the world calls it good. Yet they do not admit that they are flatterers. Do they really think the world’s standards matter more than honoring one’s parents and respecting one’s ruler? If someone calls them sycophants, they fly into a rage; if someone says they curry favor, their faces darken. In truth, they spend their whole lives pleasing others and ingratiating themselves with them.

They pile up ornate phrases and dress their words with all kinds of comparisons, doing so only to win the crowd’s favor. It is like straightening one’s clothes, putting on powder and rouge, and making a show of oneself to please the world—while never admitting to flattery.

Such people mingle with the vulgar crowd and follow along as it judges right and wrong, yet refuse to admit that they belong to that crowd themselves. Their folly is extreme. Still, those who recognize their own foolishness are not the most foolish; those who notice their own confusion are not the most confused.

The greatest confusion cannot be resolved in a lifetime; the deepest ignorance cannot be awakened from in a lifetime.

If three people travel together and one is confused, they can still reach their destination, because the confused person is in the minority. If two are confused, their effort will come to nothing and they will fail to arrive, because confusion has gained the upper hand.

But now the whole world is lost in confusion. Though I wish to point the way, I am powerless to do so. Is this not tragic?

Refined music cannot reach the lanes and alleys of the marketplace. Yet popular tunes such as “Breaking the Willow” and “Yellow Flowers” can make people laugh with delight. In the same way, profound truths fail to move the public. The highest words go unheeded, while vulgar talk spreads everywhere.

It is like striking two clay jars as though they were bells—a confusion of right and wrong that leaves people unable even to tell where they are going. Now the whole world is lost in this kind of confusion. Though I wish to seek guidance from the spirits and point the way, I am powerless to do so.

This passage from the Zhuangzi uses vivid comparisons to show the trouble caused by forcing things and clinging to attachments.

The first part says that insisting on something when you know you cannot obtain it is foolish. It is better to let go of your attachment and stop forcing the matter; then you will not become caught up in distress. Consider an ugly man whose child is born in the middle of the night. He hurries to light a lamp and look, afraid the child will be as ugly as he is. Such excessive worry only creates trouble for himself.

The second part uses a tree as a comparison. A hundred-year-old tree is made into an ornate ritual wine vessel, a zun-shaped vessel (zun), painted with elaborate blue-green and yellow patterns. Its leftover scraps are thrown into a ditch. The vessel and the scraps may appear beautiful and ugly by comparison, but both have lost the tree’s original natural character. In the same way, the actions of Zhi the Bandit, a legendary thief, and those of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, revered figures of antiquity, may be judged good or bad, yet all depart from human beings’ natural character.

The passage then points to five things that cause people to lose their natural character. First, dazzling colors confuse the eyes and keep people from seeing clearly. Second, a jumble of sounds unsettles the ears and keeps people from hearing truly.

The original passage presumably continues with three more causes of this loss of natural character; this translation covers only the portion provided.

The third point concerns five odors—pungent, scorched, fragrant, fishy, and musty—that assail the nose and cloud the forehead, affecting a person’s mental clarity. The fourth concerns five flavors—sour, bitter, sweet, pungent, and salty—that foul the mouth and dull the sense of taste. The fifth is the way judgments of gain and loss disturb the mind and leave one’s nature restless.

Zhuangzi sees all five as injuries to life. Yet the thinkers Yang Zhu and Mo Di—“Yang and Mo” refers to the Yangist school and the Mohists—set themselves apart and believed they had grasped the truth. Zhuangzi says that what they call “attaining the Dao” is really being trapped in a predicament. How could that count as truly attaining the Dao? If it did, then caged doves and owls—images of people held in bondage—could also be said to have attained it.

Zhuangzi goes on to criticize people for piling sensual desires in their hearts like firewood, while outwardly restraining themselves with ritual attire: leather caps, feathered hats, jade tablets held by officials at court, and broad sashes. Within, they are hemmed in by desires; without, they are bound fast by the rules of ritual. Though plainly trapped, they imagine they have attained the Dao. This is like criminals with their hands tied behind their backs and their fingers clamped, or tigers and leopards shut in cages—images of those who have entirely lost their natural nature.

This, too, can be considered a kind of insight.

(Interpretation: This line comes from the Zhuangzi and expresses a broad-minded attitude. It means that although a particular understanding or state of awareness may not be the highest, from a certain perspective it can still count as insight and gain. It reflects the Daoist wisdom of not forcing things and letting them follow their natural course.)