《莊子》Vol. 13

The laws of nature (the Dao, or Way) operate without ceasing, allowing all things to grow. The way of an emperor’s rule likewise operates without ceasing, bringing all under Heaven into accord. The way of the sage operates without ceasing, winning the allegiance of all within the four seas.

Those who understand the laws of nature, know the way of the sage, and extend the emperor’s Virtue (De) in all directions naturally act with deep stillness and calm. Sages remain calm not because they consider calmness a virtue to be cultivated, but because nothing in the world can disturb their minds. Their calmness arises naturally.

Still water clearly reflects a person’s beard and eyebrows; when its surface is level, it can serve as a measuring standard, and craftspeople use it as a guide. If still water can be so clear, how much more so the human spirit! How serene is the sage’s mind: like a mirror that reflects Heaven and Earth, reflecting all things.

Here, the stillness and clarity of water serve as an image of the sage’s inner state. The passage emphasizes that emptiness and stillness are the basis for perceiving all things. Daoist thought holds that when the mind is undisturbed, like a still water surface, it can reflect the world as it truly is.

The central teaching here is the Daoist ideal of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action):

Emptiness, stillness, serenity, solitude, and non-action are points of balance in the workings of Heaven and Earth, and the highest state of moral cultivation. The sage kings of antiquity followed this principle. When you remain in this state, your heart-mind becomes empty. In that emptiness, you can discover a genuine fullness; and from that fullness, you can understand the patterns by which all things unfold.

Emptiness gives rise to stillness, and action naturally emerges from stillness. Such action is well suited to the moment. In stillness, maintain non-action; through non-action, those who carry out affairs can each fulfill their responsibilities. With non-action comes ease and contentment. This ease keeps a person free from worry, and so life can naturally be long.

Emptiness, stillness, and non-action are the foundation of all things. One who understands this principle and sits facing south—that is, occupies the ruler’s position—can become a wise ruler like Yao. One who understands it and stands facing north—that is, serves as a subject—can become a worthy minister like Shun. For those in high position, following this principle is the virtue of emperors and sovereigns. For those in low position, it is the way of those who possess the virtue of sages but hold no royal office.

Note: “Mysterious Sage and Plain King” (Xuansheng Suwang) refers to someone with the virtue of a sage but without a ruler’s position. Confucius, for example, was honored by later generations as the “Plain King” (Suwang).

The passage from the Zhuangzi describes the Daoist ideal of how to conduct oneself and the state of fulfillment to which it aspires.

When one withdraws from the world with this attitude of Wuwei (non-action), one can roam freely among rivers, lakes, and mountains, earning even the admiration of those who dwell as recluses in the hills. When one engages with the world in this way, one can bring peace to the people, accomplish great deeds, and unite all under Heaven. By remaining empty and still, one can attain the state of a sage; by acting in accord with the times, one can become a ruler. Appearing to do nothing, one receives the highest respect. By preserving simplicity and one’s original nature, one reaches a state that nothing under Heaven can surpass.

Those who truly understand the nature of Heaven and Earth have grasped the fundamental Dao and can live in harmony with nature. Governing the world in this way, they can live in harmony with the people. Harmony with other people is called “human joy”; harmony with nature is called “Heavenly joy.”

Zhuangzi exclaims: “This is my teacher! My teacher! (He means the Dao.) It harmonizes the myriad things without being harsh; it benefits all generations without claiming benevolence. It is older than antiquity, yet does not boast of its longevity.” Here Zhuangzi personifies the Dao and praises its qualities: it nurtures and transforms the myriad things without claiming credit, bestows its benefits without seeking repayment, and exists eternally without pride.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes “Heavenly Joy,” the spiritual delight that comes from the natural Dao (the Way).

To create what sustains Heaven and Earth and gives all things their forms, without boasting of one’s skill: this is Heavenly Joy. Those who understand it follow the natural course of things while alive, and after death become one with all things. In stillness, their inner qualities accord with Yin; in movement, their outward expression accords with Yang.

Those who understand Heavenly Joy do not blame Heaven, invite criticism from others, become burdened by external things, or incur the reproach of spirits. In movement, they are as natural as Heaven; in stillness, as settled as Earth. With a tranquil heart, they can bring order to the world. Even spirits do not cause trouble for them, and their spirit never grows weary. When the mind is settled, all things naturally gather around them.

This means understanding the patterns of Heaven and Earth with an empty, tranquil mind and communicating with all things. That is what is called Heavenly Joy. Zhuangzi suggests that reaching this state requires letting go of artificial effort and fully following the natural Dao.

Zhuangzi teaches that people should take nature as their model and put aside artificial effort. The “Heavenly Joy” described here is the highest spiritual state attained by those who cultivate the Dao: complete harmony and unity with Heaven, Earth, and all things.

“Heavenly joy”—the happiness that accords with the Dao (the Way)—describes the state of mind of sages, who use it to nurture all the myriad things under Heaven.

A ruler’s proper virtue takes Heaven and Earth as its fundamental standard, the Dao and De (Virtue/Power) as its central principles, and Wuwei (non-action)—following what is natural without forcing things—as its usual way. With Wuwei, governing the realm is effortless. Deliberate action, by contrast, leaves the ruler exhausted and burdened by affairs of state. For this reason, the ancients especially esteemed the way of governing through Wuwei.

If a ruler governs through Wuwei and the ministers and people imitate him, then those above and below pursue the same virtue, and ministers will no longer keep to their proper roles. If ministers take active measures and the ruler follows suit, then those above and below govern in the same way, and the ruler loses the authority to direct affairs. (The ideal order described here is one in which the ruler practices Wuwei while ministers act: each fulfills their own role, preserving order.)

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the Daoist ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action). Those in high positions—the rulers—should govern the realm without forcing their own will upon it. Those in lower positions—the subjects and ministers—should take action in service of the realm. This is an enduring principle.

The rulers of antiquity, even when their wisdom encompassed Heaven and Earth, did not trouble themselves with plotting. Even when their eloquence could embellish all things, they did not boast. Even when their abilities surpassed all others within the four seas, they did not show off.

Heaven does not deliberately produce things, yet all things transform of themselves. Earth does not deliberately nurture them, yet all things grow of themselves. If an emperor practices Wuwei, the realm can accomplish its work naturally. Thus, nothing is more wondrous than Heaven, nothing more abundant than Earth, and nothing greater than an emperor who governs through Wuwei.

Here, Wuwei does not mean doing nothing. It means governing in accord with the natural order, without imposing forceful interference.

This passage from Zhuangzi discusses the root and lesser details of the art of governing.

A ruler’s De (Virtue/Power) should accord with the natural order of Heaven and Earth. This is the fundamental way to work with the patterns of Heaven and Earth, bring the activity of all things into harmony, and govern the people.

The most important principles belong at the top, meaning in the ruler’s own cultivation; practical details are carried out below. Decisions rest with the ruler, while implementation rests with ministers. For example:

• Resorting to armies and weapons (the three armies and five kinds of weapons) already shows that governance through De has failed.
• Ruling through systems of reward and punishment, harsh penalties, and severe laws (the five punishments) shows that moral instruction has failed.
• Setting out elaborate rules of ritual and demanding strict audits of names and actualities is an inferior way to govern.
• Seeking grandeur in bells and drums, or splendor in ceremonial displays, is only the outward form of ritual and music.
• Expressing grief through weeping and tears, and through ranks of mourning clothes (coarse mourning garments and hempen headbands), is the most diminished form of genuine feeling.

These five lesser measures all require expending one’s spirit and using artifice to put them into effect. They are far less accomplished than the fundamental Way of following nature. For Zhuangzi, true governance should take Heaven and Earth as its model, rather than depend on coercive measures devised by people.

This passage from the Zhuangzi concerns social hierarchy in ancient society and the patterns of nature.

Hierarchical order did exist in ancient times, but it was not the most fundamental principle. In human relationships, the ruler takes the lead and the minister follows; the father leads and the children follow; the elder brother leads and the younger brother follows; the older person leads and the younger follows; the man leads and the woman follows; the husband leads and the wife follows.

These relationships of precedence and rank follow the natural patterns of Heaven and Earth. Heaven is above and honored, while Earth is below and humble: this is the order set by the spirits. Spring and summer come first, followed by autumn and winter: this is the sequence of the seasons.

All things grow and change according to patterns, from their first sprouting to their full form. Their waxing and waning, flourishing and decline, trace the course of natural change. If even Heaven and Earth, the highest of all, have an order of precedence and rank, how much more so must human relationships?

Additional note: Zhuangzi is not simply advocating a system of hierarchy here. He is explaining the Daoist idea that the Dao follows what is natural: human order should take its pattern from nature. Later passages typically go on to discuss how to move beyond this surface order and reach the state of “equalizing all things” (qiwu).

In ancestral temple rites, the greatest weight is given to closeness of kinship; in court deliberations, to rank and status; in village life, to seniority by age; and in assigning work and appointing people, to differences in ability. This is the natural order of the Great Dao. If someone speaks of the Great Dao while going against this order, what they say is not the true Dao. And if they are not speaking of the true Dao to begin with, how could they grasp the Dao itself?

Those who truly understood the Great Dao in ancient times first recognized the workings of the Way of Heaven—that is, the laws of nature—and only then spoke of cultivating De. Once they understood the cultivation of De, they spoke of the standards of benevolence and righteousness. Once those standards were clear, they spoke of how duties should be divided. When the division of duties was settled, they considered the relationship between names and realities—that is, whether people’s roles matched their actual conduct. Once that relationship was in order, they discussed assigning people according to their abilities. After the principles for appointments were established, they turned to inspection and oversight. When inspection and oversight were in place, they judged right and wrong. Only after standards of right and wrong had been established did they impose rewards and punishments.

This passage presents Daoist “following what is natural” as a hierarchy: from the laws of nature to human relationships, and from inner cultivation to external rules. It is a gradual progression from root to branch. Zhuangzi holds that social governance must follow this natural sequence rather than put the branches before the root.

When the system of rewards and punishments is clear and fair, the dull and the clever alike can each find their proper place. The noble and the lowly can each remain within their station; the worthy and the unworthy can each act according to their nature. Everyone’s abilities are recognized, and each person’s role is respected.

Serve the ruler by these principles—that is, by following the natural Dao. Govern the people in this way, handle affairs in this way, and cultivate yourself in this way. There is no need to play clever tricks; everything follows its natural nature. This is called an age of great peace, the highest attainment in governance.

That is why the ancient Book of Documents says, “All things have their forms and names.” The theory of form and name—the outward shape of things and the concepts by which they are named—was known in antiquity, but it is not the foundation. Those who spoke of the Great Dao, the fundamental pattern of the cosmos, passed through five stages of reasoning before reaching the question of forms and names, and through nine before speaking of rewards and punishments.

This passage expresses the Daoist ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action): social order should follow nature, without excessive reliance on human cleverness or rules, so that all things can find their proper place. Form and name is a central Legalist idea; here, Zhuangzi presents it as only a surface expression of the Great Dao.

Zhuangzi’s words here concern the fundamental principles of governing a state.

To turn suddenly to xingming (forms and names—the outward shapes of things and the names assigned to them) is to show that one does not understand the essence of governing. To turn suddenly to systems of rewards and punishments is to show that one has not grasped the source of good governance. Those who go against the Great Dao (the Great Way) and merely talk about principles can only be governed by others. How could they truly govern a state well?

Those who know only how to discuss forms and names, rewards and punishments, understand at most some of the tools of governance, but not the Dao of governing. Such methods may be useful on a small scale, but they are not enough to govern all under Heaven. People like this are merely skilled debaters, with partial understanding and narrow vision.

As for systems of ritual and law, statutes of punishment, and evaluations of whether names match realities, these did indeed exist in antiquity. But they were only tools used by those below to serve those above, not the fundamental way for rulers above to nurture the people.

Zhuangzi is criticizing the Legalist ideas popular in his time. He sees an excessive focus on forms and names, rewards and punishments as mistaking secondary matters for what is fundamental. He holds that rulers should follow the natural way of Wuwei (non-action), rather than govern the people through a maze of regulations.

Long ago, Shun, a wise ruler of antiquity, asked Yao, his predecessor: “As Son of Heaven, what is in your mind as you govern the world?”

Yao replied: “This is how I treat the people: I do not look down on the lonely and helpless, who have nowhere to turn with their grievances. I do not abandon those in poverty. I grieve for the dead, care for children, and show compassion to women. This is what I keep in mind as I govern the world.”

After hearing this, Shun said: “What you do is indeed good, but it does not yet reach a very great realm.”

Yao then asked: “What should I do to make it better?”

This exchange reflects the Daoist political ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action). Yao’s way of ruling is benevolent, but it still involves consciously bestowing favors. Daoism esteems a higher state of natural non-action: allowing all things to find their proper place without deliberate intervention.

Emperor Shun said:

“When the Way of Heaven—the natural order—runs its course, it brings peace. This is as natural as the sun and moon shining and the seasons changing. Day gives way to night in a regular cycle, and after clouds pass, rain naturally falls.”

Emperor Yao sighed:

“How confused and unsettled people are! You, Shun, can accord with the Way of Heaven, while I can only accord with the human way—the norms of society.”

The Way of Heaven and Earth has been supreme since ancient times. Even sages such as the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all praised it. So what did the ancient kings who governed the world need to do? They merely followed the natural Way of Heaven and Earth.

This dialogue expresses the Daoist ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action). It contrasts two levels of understanding: Shun has reached a state of natural non-action, in accord with Heaven, while Yao remains at the level of humanly devised governance, in accord with society. The passage concludes that the ancient sage kings governed by modeling their rule on the natural workings of Heaven and Earth.

Confucius wanted to store his books in the library of the Zhou royal court. His student Zilu (given name You) suggested, “I’ve heard that Lao Dan—the archivist in charge of the Zhou dynasty’s classical texts, also known as Laozi—has retired and returned home. If you want to store your books, Master, perhaps you could seek his help.”

Confucius replied, “Good idea.”

So Confucius went to visit Laozi, but Laozi declined his request. Confucius then opened the Twelve Classics—referring to the Six Classics and Six Supplements, important ancient texts—and explained his views to Laozi.

After listening to his arguments, Laozi interrupted him and said….

This exchange presents a discussion between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan) about the nature of benevolence and righteousness.

Someone asked, “Your explanation is too broad. I would like to hear its central point.”

Confucius replied, “The key lies in benevolence and righteousness.”

Laozi asked in turn, “May I ask whether benevolence and righteousness belong to human nature?” Here, “nature” means the innate, natural character of a person.

Confucius affirmed, “Yes. Without benevolence, a noble person cannot cultivate virtue; without righteousness, they cannot establish themselves in the world. Benevolence and righteousness are the nature of the True Person. What else could one seek?”

This exchange reflects a difference between Confucian and Daoist thought. Confucius emphasizes, from an ethical perspective, that benevolence and righteousness are essential qualities of a noble person. Laozi, approaching the question from the Daoist principle that the Dao follows what is natural, asks whether benevolence and righteousness truly belong to human beings’ innate nature. “True Person” is a Daoist term for someone who has realized the Dao; here Confucius borrows the term to reinforce his point.

This dialogue contrasts the different understandings of “benevolence and righteousness” held by Confucius, a leading Confucian, and Lao Dan (Laozi), a leading Daoist.

Confucius maintains that genuine benevolence and righteousness arise from inner joy and involve caring for everyone without favoritism. This, he says, is their true essence.

Laozi replies, “Alas, your words are shallow! What is this talk of caring for everyone? Isn’t that rather rigid and old-fashioned? To proclaim that you are selfless is itself a kind of self-interest. Sir, are you trying to make everyone under Heaven follow your standards?”

He then uses the patterns of nature as an example: “Heaven and Earth have their own ways of operating; the sun and moon shine of their own accord; the stars naturally fall into ordered patterns; birds and beasts live in groups by nature; trees grow as they will. Sir, you need only let De (Virtue/Power) unfold and act in accordance with it, following the Dao (the Way). Why beat a drum and search frantically for a lost child by proclaiming benevolence and righteousness? Alas, you are disturbing people’s natural nature!”

Here, “letting De unfold and acting in accordance with it” means following one’s natural De, while “following the Dao” means proceeding in accord with the patterns of the Way. The passage expresses the Daoist principle that the Dao follows what is natural: it advocates following one’s innate nature rather than imposing moral standards devised by human beings.

Shi Chengqi, a seeker of the Dao (the Way), went to visit Laozi. As soon as they met, he said, “I heard that you were a sage, so I traveled a great distance to see you. The soles of my feet grew thick with calluses, but I didn’t dare stop along the way. Yet now that I see you, you don’t look like a sage at all!”

He went on to reproach him: “Look, even in a rat hole there’s leftover grain, yet you’ve abandoned your younger sister and left her without care. That’s so unkind! You can’t even finish the food in front of you, yet you keep hoarding possessions. You’re insatiable!”

After hearing these accusations, Laozi simply sat in silence, his face expressionless.

This exchange illustrates the Daoist state of Wuwei (non-action). Shi Chengqi judges Laozi by conventional moral standards, while Laozi offers no defense, embodying the Daoist attitude of not contending. The accusations, such as “there’s leftover grain in a rat hole,” may be metaphorical, hinting at Laozi’s condition: seemingly passive, yet inwardly rich in wisdom.

The next day, Shicheng Qi came to see Laozi again and said, “Yesterday I offended you, and now I feel deeply uneasy. Why is that?”

Laozi replied, “I have long moved beyond the attitude of those who consider themselves wise and holy. Before, you called me an ox, and I agreed that I was an ox; you called me a horse, and I agreed that I was a horse. (Here, Laozi accepts the names others give him without arguing.) If someone truly has a certain quality but refuses the name others give it, that only brings more trouble. I have always accepted things in this natural way. I am not deliberately trying to appear compliant.”

After hearing this, Shicheng Qi turned sideways to avoid Laozi’s shadow, like a wild goose (a gesture of respect). Then he approached with measured steps and asked, “How should one cultivate body and mind?”

This exchange illustrates Daoist ideas of Wuwei (non-action) and following the natural course of things. Through an everyday example, Laozi shows that genuine cultivation does not lie in arguing over right and wrong, but in receiving what comes from the outside with gentleness, like water. Shicheng Qi’s change in manner also shows the subtle power of teaching without words.

Laozi says:

“Some people make an outward show of solemn dignity, yet their eyes dart about. They hold their foreheads high and gape with their mouths wide open, putting on an air of righteous resolve. They are like horses held back by a tether, forced to stand still unnaturally. In their movements they feign restraint; in their actions they scheme at every turn.

“They seem to examine everything with keen discernment and pride themselves on their cleverness, yet their arrogance shows through. These are signs that they cannot be trusted. In the borderlands, people call such a person a ‘thief’—meaning someone false and affected.”

Laozi continues:

“The Great Dao (the fundamental pattern of the universe) cannot be exhausted by anything vast, nor does it leave anything tiny out; it encompasses all things. Boundless and all-embracing, it is fathomless and profound. Form, De (Virtue), benevolence, and righteousness are only minor branches of the spirit. Unless one has cultivated to the highest level, who can grasp their true meaning?”

This passage contrasts the mannerisms of the false and affected with the simplicity of the Great Dao. It conveys the Daoist esteem for naturalness and rejection of pretence. A “Perfected Person” is a sage who has reached the highest level of Daoist cultivation.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the state and way of life of the “Perfect Person”—someone whose moral cultivation has reached its highest level.

Although the Perfect Person lives among ordinary people, worldly concerns cannot entangle him. While everyone else struggles for power and profit, he remains detached. He sees things as they are and is neither misled by appearances nor tempted by gain, because he understands the fundamental patterns that govern all things.

Thus, the Perfect Person is free from the constraints of Heaven, Earth, and all things, and his spirit remains forever at ease. He is attuned to the Dao (the Way) and in harmony with De (Virtue/Power). He rises above conventional ideas of benevolence and righteousness, and regards institutions of ritual and music as secondary. His heart remains calm and settled.

People often place great value on books that record the Dao. But writing is only a record of speech, and speech is valuable because it conveys meaning. Beyond the meaning we can grasp lies a deeper significance that words cannot convey.

This reflects Zhuangzi’s idea of “grasping the meaning and forgetting the words”: the true Dao cannot be fully expressed in language or writing, but must be realized through the heart-mind.

People today place great value on what is written in books, treating the words recorded there as precious. Yet although people esteem them, those writings are not truly worthy of such esteem, because what people value is not what deserves to be valued.

People can see only the shapes and colors of things, and hear only their names and sounds. How lamentable that people think they can understand the nature of things through outward appearance and reputation! In truth, outward appearances cannot reveal what is real within. Those who truly understand do not say much, while those who talk at length often do not really understand. How could people grasp this?

Here is a story. Duke Huan of Qi was reading a book in his hall. Below, a wheelwright named Pian was at work. He set down his tools, went up into the hall, and asked the duke, “May I ask what book Your Highness is reading?”

This dialogue comes from the Zhuangzi. It recounts an exchange between Duke Huan of Qi and a wheelwright:

Duke Huan said, “I am reading the words of a sage.”

The wheelwright asked, “Is this sage still alive?”

Duke Huan replied, “He has already passed away.”

The wheelwright said, “Then what you are reading is no more than the dregs left behind by the ancients!”

This dialogue reflects Zhuangzi’s criticism of clinging rigidly to book knowledge. The wheelwright uses “dregs” as a metaphor for dogma detached from its time and context, emphasizing that true wisdom comes through practice and direct understanding rather than being handed down in words. The word originally refers to the residue left after brewing wine; here it suggests an empty shell that has lost its essence.

This dialogue comes from the “Way of Heaven” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells of a conversation between Duke Huan of Qi and Bian the Wheelwright, an old craftsman who made wheels.

Duke Huan said, “I’m reading the books of the sages. What gives a wheelwright like you the right to comment on them? If you can make a reasoned argument, I’ll let it go. If you can’t, I’ll have you put to death.”

Bian the Wheelwright replied, “I judge this by what I’ve learned from making wheels. When I carve a wheel, if I work too slowly, it feels easy but the wheel won’t be firm. If I work too quickly, it takes too much effort and the parts won’t fit together. Only when I find the right pace, and my hands work in harmony with what I feel in my mind, can I make a good wheel.

“This subtle skill can’t be put into words. It has a mystery of its own. I couldn’t teach it to my son, and my son couldn’t inherit it from me, so here I am, seventy years old and still making wheels. The finest insights of the ancient sages, and the truths they could not pass on in words, died with them. So the books you’re reading now are merely the dregs left behind by the ancients!”

Through Bian’s experience as a wheelwright, the dialogue shows that the finest skills and truths are often hard to express in words; they can only be understood through practice. Zhuangzi uses this story to criticize people of his time for reading ancient books by rote instead of seeking genuine understanding.