---
title: "Zhuangzi 莊子 – Vol. 2 | Daozang"
url: "https://daozang.app/en/text/KR5c0126/juan/2/"
canonical: "https://daozang.app/en/text/KR5c0126/juan/2/"
lang: "en"
source: "Kanripo 漢籍リポジトリ（京都大学）"
license: "CC BY-SA 4.0"
---

# 《莊子》Vol. 2

Dongshen 洞神部 · Vol. 2 / 33 · 12,345 characters

## Vol. 2 / 33

齊物論第二南郭子綦隱几而坐，仰天而噓，嗒焉似喪其耦。顏成子游立侍乎前，曰：「何居乎？形固可使如槁木，而心固可使如死灰乎？今之隱几者，非昔之隱几者也。」子綦曰：「偃，不亦善乎，而問之也！今者吾喪我，汝知之乎？女聞人籟而未聞地籟，女聞地籟而未聞天籟夫！」

**Interpretation**

Nan Guo Ziqi, a Daoist hermit, leaned against a small table and slowly breathed out, his head tilted back. His expression was distant, as if he had lost awareness of himself. His student Yancheng Ziyou stood beside him and asked, “Master, what has happened to you? A person’s body may indeed lie still like a withered tree, but can the heart too become as unmoving as dead ashes? The you leaning against the table today seems like a different person from before.”

Ziqi replied, “Ziyou, that is a good question! At this moment, I have forgotten the ‘small self’—the consciousness that clings to a separate identity. Do you understand? You have heard the sounds made by people, but not yet the sounds of the Earth. Even if you have heard the sounds of the Earth, you have not yet grasped the sounds of Heaven!”

This exchange portrays the Daoist practice of “sitting in forgetfulness.” Through “I have lost myself,” Ziqi reaches a state in which self and things are no longer separate. The passage suggests that one must move beyond human ways of knowing to experience the ultimate Dao of Heaven and Earth. The idea of the “three sounds” unfolds in stages: the sounds made by people, such as musical instruments, are surpassed by the sounds of the Earth, such as the wind; these in turn are surpassed by the sounds of Heaven—the spontaneous, Wuwei (non-action) sounds of the myriad things. This is a key expression of Zhuangzi’s thought in “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

子游曰：「敢問其方。」子綦曰：「夫大塊噫氣，其名為風。是唯无作，作則萬竅怒呺。而獨不聞之翏翏乎？山林之畏佳，大木百圍之竅穴，似鼻，似口，似耳，似枅，似圈，似臼，似洼者，似污者；

**Interpretation**

Ziyou (a disciple of Confucius) asked: "May I inquire about the principle behind this?"

Ziqi (a Daoist recluse) replied: "When the great Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth exhales, it forms the wind. This wind is naturally quiescent, but when it stirs, countless hollows roar in response. Have you not heard the prolonged sound of the wind?"

He continued describing: "In the towering mountain forests, those giant trees that would take a hundred men to encircle contain hollows of every shape: some resemble noses, others mouths, still others ears; some are like square wine vessels, others like round containers, some like mortar stones for pounding rice; while others resemble sunken pools or shallow muddy ponds."

(This passage uses natural phenomena to illustrate the Daoist concept of Wuwei (non-action). Ziqi employs the metaphor of wind passing through various hollows to produce different sounds, demonstrating the natural manifestation of all things' inherent nature. The diverse hollows represent different people or objects, the wind's sound symbolizes the natural function of the Dao, emphasizing the importance of following nature's course.)

激者，謞者，叱者，吸者，叫者，譹者，宎者，咬者，前者唱于而隨者唱喁。泠風則小和，飄風則大和，厲風濟則眾竅為虛。而獨不見之調調，之刀刀乎？」子游曰：「地籟則眾竅是已，人籟則比竹是已。敢問天籟。」

**Interpretation**

This passage comes from the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” chapter of the *Zhuangzi*. It describes how the many sounds of the natural world resonate in harmony. Here is a modern explanation:

First, it describes different sounds: rushing water, arrows whistling through the air, scolding, breathing, shouting, wailing, echoes in caves, and birdsong. These sounds answer one another: when a sound of “yu” comes first, a response of “yong” follows.

Next comes the sound of the wind. A light breeze creates a small chorus; a fierce wind produces a grand ensemble. When the storm dies down, all the openings fall silent again. Have you not seen branches sway and tremble as the wind passes through them?

Finally, Ziyou, a disciple of Confucius, sums up: the “earthly pipes” are the sounds made by the many openings in the land; the “human pipes” are the sounds of flutes and other wind instruments. He then asks what the “Heavenly pipes”—the natural sounds of the Dao—are.

Through this metaphor of wind and echo, the passage suggests that all things answer one another and exist in natural harmony. Zhuangzi uses the sounds of the wind and its reverberations to vividly portray how the myriad things depend on one another, preparing the way for the deeper philosophical idea of the “Heavenly pipes.”

子綦曰：「夫吹萬不同，而使其自己也，咸其自取，怒者其誰邪！」大知閑閑，小知閒閒；大言炎炎，小言詹詹。其寐也魂交，其覺也形開，與接為構，日以心鬭。縵者，窖者，密者。小恐惴惴，大恐縵縵。其發若機栝，其司是非之謂也；其留如詛盟，

**Interpretation**

Nan Guo Ziqi, a Daoist recluse, said:

“The winds that sound across Heaven and Earth differ in countless ways, yet every sound is made by things themselves. Each arises naturally from the way things are. What ruler could be directing them from behind the scenes?”

He then described two kinds of understanding. Those of great wisdom are calm and openhearted; those of lesser cleverness fret over every detail. Far-reaching words blaze like a wildfire, while trivial talk goes on and on.

As people sleep, their spirits intermingle; when they wake, their bodies grow weary. All day they become entangled with the world around them, while within, they struggle and scheme without cease.

Some hesitate and cannot decide. Some hide their intentions deep within. Some tread with excessive caution.

A small fear leaves them trembling with anxiety, while a great fear makes them numb and dull. When they speak, their words strike sharply, like a crossbow trigger being released, as they pass judgment on right and wrong. When they fall silent, they are as unyielding as if bound by a solemn oath,

其守勝之謂也；其殺如秋冬，以言其日消也；其溺之所為之，不可使復之也；其厭也如緘，以言其老洫也；近死之心，莫使復陽也。喜、怒、哀、樂、慮、嘆、變、慹、姚、佚、啟、態；樂出虛，蒸成菌。日夜相代乎前，而莫知其所萌。已乎，已乎！旦暮得此，其所由以生乎！非彼無我，非我無所取。是亦近矣，而不知其所為使。若有真宰，而特不得其眹。可行己信，而不見其形，有情而無形。

**Interpretation**

This stubborn fixation on winning—that is, on competing to outdo others—is like the killing force of autumn and winter. It shows that life’s vitality is gradually fading. Once a person sinks into this state, they are like someone trapped in a mire, unable to escape. This closed state of mind is like being bound tightly with ropes; it describes a spirit as parched as a dried-up ditch. A mind nearing death can no longer regain its vitality.

Human emotions shift like the images in a revolving lantern: joy, anger, sorrow, delight, worry, sighing, wavering, dejection, frivolity, indulgence, affectation... They are like music suddenly sounding out of empty space, or mushrooms suddenly sprouting in a warm, damp place. They take turns appearing before us, day and night, yet no one knows where they come from. Enough, enough! If we could understand the source of these emotions, perhaps we could grasp the mystery of life in its original state.

Here, “the True Ruler” refers to the true inner master of a person. Without the outward display of emotions—the “other”—my existence would not become apparent; yet without me as the subject, those emotions could not appear. The two seem closely connected, but we do not know what governs them from behind the scenes. It is as though there were a true ruler, but we cannot find any trace of it. Its presence can be sensed through its actions, yet it has no visible form: it has real efficacy, but no tangible shape.

These passages reflect Zhuangzi’s central idea of letting go of attachment and returning to one’s original nature. The “True Ruler” introduced in the third passage is akin to what Daoist thought calls the “true self” or the “Original Spirit”—the deeper essence of life that transcends the surface fluctuations of emotion.

百骸，九竅，六藏，賅而存焉，吾誰與為親？汝皆說之乎？其有私焉？如是皆有為臣妾乎？其臣妾不足以相治乎？其遞相為君臣乎？其有真君存焉？如求得其情與不得，無益損乎其真。一受其成形，不亡以待盡。與物相刃相靡，其行盡如馳，而莫之能止，不亦悲乎！終身役役而不見其成功，苶然疲役而不知其所歸，可不哀邪！

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* explores the relationship between body and mind and the condition of human life.

The human body is made up of the hundred bones—all the bones in the body—the nine openings (the eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and the front and rear passages), and the six organs (the five viscera of the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys, together with the mingmen, or “Gate of Life”). All these organs are complete within the body, but which one is truly in command? Are they all equally important, or is one especially significant? Are they related as master and servant? If they stand to one another as ruler and ministers, where is the true ruler?

Zhuangzi then points out that whether or not we discover the truth does not change the nature of life. Once we acquire a physical form, we can only wait for life to run its course. We are constantly clashing and rubbing against things in the world; life rushes past like a galloping chariot, yet cannot be stopped. Is that not sorrowful? We bustle about all our lives without seeing any accomplishment, worn out and still unsure where we are headed. Is that not lamentable?

This passage reflects Zhuangzi’s inquiry into the nature of life. He suggests that clinging to external pursuits can lead us to lose our original nature. The idea of the “True Ruler” hints at the Daoist notion that the “true self,” or the Dao, is the real master of life.

人謂之不死，奚益！其形化，其心與之然，可不謂大哀乎？人之生也，固若是芒乎？其我獨芒，而人亦有不芒者乎？夫隨其成心而師之，誰獨且無師乎？奚必知代而心自取者有之？愚者與有焉。未成乎心而有是非，是今日適越而昔至也。是以無有為有。無有為有，

**Interpretation**

The two passages from the *Zhuangzi* address the perplexities of human life and the limits of our understanding.

The first asks: What meaning is there in living forever? The body grows old and changes, and the mind declines along with it. Is that not the greatest sorrow? Are people simply confused while they are alive, or am I the only one who is confused while everyone else sees clearly?

The second concerns the limits of understanding. If everyone clings to their own views and treats their assumptions as truth, then who does not have a “teacher” of their own—that is, a personal standard of judgment? Why wait until one understands things clearly before forming an opinion? Even foolish people have views of their own. To make right-and-wrong judgments before one’s understanding is complete is as absurd as setting out for Yue today and claiming to have arrived yesterday. This is to treat “nonbeing” as “being”—to regard what does not exist as real.

雖有神禹，且不能知，吾獨且柰何哉！夫言非吹也，言者有言，其所言者特未定也。果有言邪？其未嘗有言邪？其以為異於鷇音，亦有辯乎，其無辯乎？道惡乎隱而有真偽？言惡乎隱而有是非？道惡乎往而不存？言惡乎存而不可？道隱於小成，言隱於榮華。

**Interpretation**

These passages from the *Zhuangzi* offer a deep reflection on language and truth.

The first says: Even a sage as wise as the divine Yu, the great flood controller, could not fully understand the truths of the world. What hope, then, does an ordinary person like me have? The allusion to Yu suggests that even the cleverest person has limits to what they can know.

The second passage considers the nature of speech. Human words are not as simple as wind passing by. People are always offering opinions, yet none of these views is certain. Do spoken words really mean anything, or are they no different from the cries of newly hatched birds? Is there a difference between them, or not? Here, “nestling cries” (*kouyin*) serves as an image for sounds without meaning.

The third passage raises a series of philosophical questions: How does truth—the Dao—become obscured, giving rise to distinctions between true and false? How does speech become distorted, giving rise to disputes over right and wrong? How can truth disappear? And why can words fail to express things as they really are? These four successive questions convey bewilderment at the limits of human understanding.

The passage concludes that truth is often obscured by partial understanding (“small accomplishments”), while truthful words are often hidden beneath ornate language (“flourish”).

Together, these four passages build toward Zhuangzi’s reflection on the limits of language and the relativity of truth. He suggests that clinging to verbal disputes can take us further from the real Dao.

故有儒墨之是非，以是其所非而非其所是。欲是其所非而非其所是，則莫若以明。物無非彼，物無非是。自彼則不見，自喻則知之。故曰彼出於是，是亦因彼。彼是方生之說也，雖然，方生方死，方死方生；方可方不可，方不可方可；因是因非，因非因是。是以聖人不由，而照之于天，亦因是也。是亦彼也，彼亦是也。

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* is mainly about the relativity of things.

Confucians and Mohists reject each other’s views (“the rights and wrongs of Confucians and Mohists”), with each side believing itself to be right and the other wrong. Zhuangzi suggests that, instead of trying to prove the other side wrong and one’s own side right (“to affirm what they reject and reject what they affirm”), it is better to see things with a clear mind (“nothing is better than seeing with clarity”).

He then explains that nothing in the world is absolutely opposed to anything else (“there is nothing that is not ‘that’; nothing that is not ‘this’”). Looking from the other side can reveal the limits of one’s own perspective (“from ‘that’ one cannot see; through understanding oneself, one knows”). The two sides of an opposition depend on each other: “‘that’ arises from ‘this,’ and ‘this’ depends on ‘that.’” Concepts such as life and death, or what is possible and impossible, are relative as well (“as soon as something is born, it is dying; as soon as something is possible, it is impossible”).

Finally, Zhuangzi says that the sage—one who has attained the Dao—does not cling to judgments of right and wrong (“the sage does not follow these distinctions”), but responds in accord with the natural order (“illuminates them by Heaven”). In essence, right and wrong, “this” and “that,” continually turn into one another: “this is also that, and that is also this.”

彼亦一是非，此亦一是非。果且有彼是乎哉？果且無彼是乎哉？彼是莫得其偶，謂之道樞。樞始得其環中，以應無窮。是亦一無窮，非亦一無窮也。故曰莫若以明。以指喻指之非指，不若以非指喻指之非指也；以馬喻馬之非馬，不若以非馬喻馬之非馬也。天地一指也，萬物一馬也。

**Interpretation**

Each side has its own standards of right and wrong. Does an absolute “that side” and “this side” really exist, or is there no such opposition at all? When “that” and “this” can no longer be found as opposites, one reaches the state of the Pivot of the Dao, the central hinge of the Way. Holding to this pivot is like standing at the center of a circle, able to respond freely to endless change. There are endlessly many views of what is “right,” and just as many views of what is “wrong.” So it is better to regard all this with a clear and open mind.

In the debate over names and realities, explaining that “a finger is not truly a finger” by using the concept of “finger” is less effective than explaining it through “non-finger.” Likewise, it is less effective to use the concept of “horse” to show that “a horse is not truly a horse” than to explain it through “non-horse.” In truth, Heaven and Earth are like a single finger, and the myriad things are like a single horse: in their essence, they are one and the same.

道行之而成，物謂之而然。惡乎然？然於然。惡乎不然？不然於不然。物固有所然，物固有所可。無物不然，無物不可。可乎可，不可乎不可。不可乎不可，而可乎可。故為是舉莛與楹，厲與西施，恢恑憰怪，道通為一。其分也，成也；其成也，毀也。凡物無成與毀，復通為一。

**Interpretation**

Roads are made by people walking them, and things exist because people give them names. Why do we say that something “is” a certain way? Because it is so by nature. Why do we say that it “is not” that way? Because it is not so by nature. Everything has its own reason for being, and everything has its own rightful place. Nothing ought not to exist; nothing is without its reason. What is acceptable is acceptable, and what is not acceptable is not. Understand why something is unacceptable, and you will also understand why something is acceptable.

Take, for example, a slender grass stem and a massive roof pillar, a woman disfigured by a skin disease and the beautiful Xi Shi, and all manner of strange and unusual things. From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), they are all connected as one. When things break apart, new things take shape; when new things take shape, old things pass away. In truth, things have no fixed beginning or end: ultimately, they all return to the unity of the Dao.

Zhuangzi uses familiar things here to express the idea of “equalizing things”: from the perspective of the Dao, oppositions such as large and small, beautiful and ugly, and formation and destruction are relative, and all are ultimately unified in the Dao. “Grass stem” refers to a stalk, and “roof pillar” to a column. The woman disfigured by skin disease is contrasted with Xi Shi, famed for her beauty. “Strange and unusual things” refers broadly to all kinds of anomalies.

唯達者知通為一，為是不用而寓諸庸。庸也者，用也；用也者，通也；通也者，得也；適得而幾矣。因是已。已而不知其然，謂之道。勞神明為一而不知其同也，謂之朝三。何謂朝三？曰狙公賦芧，曰：「朝三而莫四。」眾狙皆怒。曰：「然則朝四而莫三。」眾狙皆悅。名實未虧而喜怒為用，

**Interpretation**

Only those who are truly clear-sighted can understand that, at their root, all things are connected. They do not cling to any one fixed use, but follow each thing’s natural function. “Yong” means allowing things to act according to their own nature.

To follow things’ natural function is itself a form of clarity. Clarity means truly grasping the nature of things; to grasp that nature just right is to draw close to the Dao.

Simply act in keeping with this principle. Once the work is done, there is no need to ask why. This is the Dao. Those who strain to make everything conform, without understanding that all things are one at their root, are like the monkeys in the story of “three in the morning and four at night.”

What does “three in the morning and four at night” mean?

A monkey keeper was handing out acorns and said, “Three in the morning and four at night.” The monkeys were angry. He changed his offer: “Then four in the morning and three at night.” The monkeys were pleased. The total had not changed; only the wording was different, yet it made them swing from anger to delight.

This passage uses the fable of “three in the morning and four at night” to show the folly of fixating on differences in appearances. Zhuangzi holds that a clear-sighted person should move beyond distinctions of names and forms and recognize the underlying oneness of all things. “Yong” is an important concept in Zhuangzi’s philosophy: it refers to a way of acting that follows nature.

亦因是也。是以聖人和之以是非而休乎天鈞，是之謂兩行。古之人，其知有所至矣。惡乎至？有以為未始有物者，至矣，盡矣，不可以加矣。其次以為有物矣，而未始有封也。其次以為有封焉，而未始有是非也。是非之彰也，道之所以虧也。道之所以虧，愛之所以成。果且有成與虧乎哉？果且無成與虧乎哉？有成與虧，故昭氏之鼓琴也；無成與虧，

**Interpretation**

In ancient times, those who attained the Dao (the Way) reached the highest level of understanding. What is this highest level? It is recognizing that, at the very beginning, there were no things in the world. This is the most thorough and complete understanding. The next level is knowing that things exist, without yet distinguishing among them. The level below that is distinguishing among things, without yet making judgments of right and wrong.

Once distinctions between right and wrong arise, one departs from the Dao’s original nature. When one departs from the Dao, personal preferences take hold. Is there really a difference between “achievement” and “loss”? In truth, neither achievement nor loss exists in itself. It is like the ancient musician Zhaowen playing the zither: while he played, there was “achievement”; when he stopped, there was “loss.” But if he had never played at all, there would have been neither achievement nor loss.

The sage—the person who has attained the Dao—does not cling to judgments of right and wrong. Instead, the sage follows the natural balance, the “Heavenly Equalizer,” and lets both sides proceed on their own. This is called “the two courses.”

故昭氏之不鼓琴也。昭文之鼓琴也，師曠之枝策也，惠子之據梧也，三子之知幾乎，皆其盛者也，故載之末年。唯其好之也，以異於彼，其好之也，欲以明之。彼非所明而明之，故以堅白之昧終。而其子又以文之綸終，終身無成。若是而可謂成乎？雖我亦成也。若是而不可謂成乎？物與我無成也。是故滑疑之耀，聖人之所圖也。為是不用而寓諸庸，此之謂以明。

**Interpretation**

This passage tells the story of three famous figures from antiquity to illustrate how clinging to one’s specialty can lead one away from the Great Dao.

Zhaowen, a renowned ancient zither player, excelled at playing the instrument; Shi Kuang, a celebrated musician, mastered musical theory; and Hui Shi, a leading figure of the School of Names, was skilled in debate. Each brought his art to its highest level and continued practicing it into old age. Because they were so attached to their particular talents, they sought to use them to set themselves apart. Yet they tried to distinguish themselves in misguided ways—for example, Hui Shi with the sophistry of the “hard and white” argument—and ended up confused. Hui Shi’s son followed in his father’s word games and achieved nothing.

Zhuangzi asks in response: if this counts as success, then anyone could count as successful; if it does not, then neither the myriad things nor I can be said to succeed. The sage, then, seeks a state that seems indistinct yet is inwardly clear—the “radiance of the blurred and doubtful.” The sage does not cling to any one perspective, but rests in what is ordinary and follows the natural course of things. This is what it means to be truly discerning.

The “hard and white” argument is a famous proposition of the School of Names, which asks whether a stone’s qualities of hardness and whiteness can be separated. “Resting in what is ordinary” is an important concept in Zhuangzi: it means being at ease with the everyday and following the natural course of things.

今且有言於此，不知其與是類乎？其與是不類乎？類與不類，相與為類，則與彼無以異矣。雖然，請嘗言之。有始也者，有未始有始也者，有未始有夫未始有始也者。有有也者，有無也者，有未始有無也者，有未始有夫未始有無也者。俄而有無矣，而未知有無之果孰有孰無也。今我則已有謂矣，而未知吾所謂之其果有謂乎，其果無謂乎？天下莫大於秋豪之末，而大山為小；莫壽乎殤子，

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* explores the relativity of language, existence, and knowledge.

Now that I have said these things, I do not know whether they belong with what is “right”—with a correct view—or are different from it. Yet “belonging together” and “being different” are themselves interdependent concepts. Seen this way, they are no more fundamentally distinct from the things being judged. Still, let me try to speak about them.

As for the idea of a “beginning,” there is a stage in which there is a beginning; a stage before any beginning has yet appeared; and an earlier stage in which even the idea of “before any beginning” has not yet appeared. Likewise, there is a state of existence, a state of nonexistence, a state in which nonexistence has not yet taken shape, and a deeper state in which even the idea of “nonexistence not yet taking shape” has not yet appeared.

Then, suddenly, the distinction between “being” and “nonbeing” appears. But we cannot determine which of these is truly “being” and which is truly “nonbeing.” I have now made these arguments, yet I do not know whether what I have said has substance or is entirely without meaning.

The passage closes with relativity: among all things under heaven, the tip of an autumn hair can count as the largest, while Mount Tai seems small. A child who dies young can count as the longest-lived… The original passage continues beyond this excerpt, using such extreme comparisons to express the relativity of all things.

The passage presents several central ideas in Zhuangzi’s philosophy: the relativity of language and concepts; the endless questioning of beginnings and existence; the dialectical relation between being and nonbeing; and the relativity of ideas such as size and longevity. Its reflections on “the beginning before beginnings” and “the nonbeing before nonbeing” express a Daoist way of thinking about the source of the cosmos. This way of reasoning through an infinite regress later became an important source for the Daoist concept of *Wuji* (Limitless).

而彭祖為夭。天地與我並生，而萬物與我為一。既已為一矣，且得有言乎？既已謂之一矣，且得無言乎？一與言為二，二與一為三。自此以往，巧歷不能得，而況其凡乎！故自無適有以至於三，而況自有適有乎！無適焉，因是已。夫道未始有封，言未始有常，為是而有畛也，請言其畛：有左，有右，，有論，有議，有分，有辯，有競，有爭，此之謂八德。

**Interpretation**

In the face of the eternal Dao (the Way), even Pengzu—a legendary figure said to have lived for eight hundred years—counts as short-lived. Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things exist alongside me, and all things are one with me. Once all things are one, is there still a need to speak? But as soon as we speak of the idea of “oneness,” how can we avoid speaking? The moment we say the word “one,” we create two concepts: “one” and “speaking.” Add the original “one” itself, and there are three.

Carry this reasoning further, and even the finest calculator could no longer keep count—let alone an ordinary person. If reasoning from “nothing” to “something” has already produced three, how much more would arise by reasoning onward from “something”? There is no need to carry it further. Let things follow their natural course.

The Dao has no boundaries, and words have no fixed standards. People draw boundaries in order to argue over right and wrong. These boundaries include left and right, opposing viewpoints; discourse and debate, different ways of discussing things; division and disputation, distinguishing and arguing; and competition and contention, rivalry and conflict. These are what are called the “Eight Virtues”—eight states of contention that arise in debate.

This passage expresses Zhuangzi’s idea of “equalizing things”: at their essence, all things are one. In Daoist thought, “one” represents the wholeness of the universe at its source. Zhuangzi points to the limits of language in describing the Dao: the more we use words to make distinctions, the farther we move from it. The “Eight Virtues” are not praised as virtues; they refer to the opposing states people fall into when they become caught up in debate.

六合之外，聖人存而不論；六合之內，聖人論而不議。《春秋》經世，先王之志，聖人議而不辯。故分也者，有不分也；辯也者，有不辯也。曰：何也？聖人懷之，眾人辯之以相示也。故曰：辯也者，有不見也。夫大道不稱，大辯不言，大仁不仁，大廉不嗛，大勇不忮。道昭而不道，言辯而不及，仁常而不周，廉清而不信，勇忮而不成。五者园而幾向方矣，故知止其所不知，

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* describes the sage’s way of engaging with the world and the limits of human understanding.

Concerning matters beyond the six directions of heaven and earth, the sage remains doubtful and does not speak recklessly. Concerning matters within them, the sage will discuss them but does not rush to conclusions. When it comes to records such as the *Spring and Autumn Annals*, which recount how the former kings governed, the sage offers judgments without becoming mired in argument.

The passage points out that every distinction (fen) contains something that cannot be distinguished, and every debate (bian) has something that cannot be settled by argument. Why is this so? The sage takes truth to heart and understands it inwardly, while ordinary people use debate to show off. Thus, those who argue have not truly seen the essence of things.

The most fundamental principle, the Great Dao, needs no praise; the highest form of debate needs no words; the broadest benevolence makes no show of kindness; the most upright person does not make a display of humility; and the bravest person does not act tough or seek fights. Deliberately displaying these qualities can cause them to lose their true nature. A Dao that is overly proclaimed is not the true Dao; an argument that twists words fails to express its point; benevolence bound by formalities cannot extend to all things; virtue that is too loudly advertised seems false; and bravery expressed through aggression is unlikely to accomplish anything great.

These five qualities—the Dao, debate, benevolence, integrity, and bravery—should be naturally whole, like a circle. But when they are pursued deliberately, they become rigid, like a shape with corners. True wisdom lies in understanding the limits of one’s own knowledge and not forcing oneself to comprehend what cannot be known.

至矣。孰知不言之辯，不道之道？若有能知，此之謂天府。注焉而不滿，酌焉而不竭，而不知其所由來，此之謂葆光。故昔者堯問於舜曰：「我欲伐宗、膾、胥敖，南面而不釋然。其故何也？」舜曰：「夫三子者，猶存乎蓬艾之間。若不釋然，何哉？昔者十日並出，萬物皆照，而況德之進乎日者乎！」齧缺問乎王倪曰：「子知物之所同是乎？」曰：「吾惡乎知之！」

**Interpretation**

How supreme is this realm! Who can understand eloquence that uses no words, or the highest Dao that offers no explanations? Whoever grasps this realm possesses a “Heavenly Treasury”—a natural storehouse of wisdom. Pour into it, and it never overflows; draw from it, and it is never exhausted. Yet no one knows its source. This is called “Guarding the Light”: an inward radiance, a wisdom kept deep within and out of sight.

Long ago, Emperor Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the three small states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. Though I sit on the throne, my heart is uneasy. Why is this?” Shun replied, “The rulers of those three small states are like insects living among mugwort and weeds. Why should you be troubled by them? In ancient times, ten suns appeared at once, shining upon all things. How much more should one whose De is brighter than the sun?”

Nie Que, a Daoist figure, asked Wang Ni, an awakened sage, “Do you know the standard that all things share?” Wang Ni replied, “How could I know?”

Through dialogue, this passage presents Zhuangzi’s idea of the “Equalizing of Things”: true wisdom goes beyond verbal disputes, and the highest Dao cannot be put into words. The exchange between Yao and Shun shows that a sage should embrace all things, while the image of ten suns shining together suggests the vastness of De. Wang Ni’s reply finally expresses the Daoist wisdom of “knowing that one does not know.”

「子知子之所不知邪？」曰：「吾惡乎知之！」「然則物無知邪？」曰：「吾惡乎知之！」雖然，嘗試言之。庸詎知吾所謂知之非不知邪？庸詎知吾所謂不知之非知邪？且吾嘗試問乎女：「民溼寢則腰疾偏死，鰌然乎哉？木處則惴慄恂懼，猨猴然乎哉？三者孰知正處？民食芻豢，麋鹿食薦，蝍且甘帶，鴟鴉耆鼠，四者孰知正味？猨猵狙以為雌，麋與鹿交，鰌與魚游。

**Interpretation**

This dialogue from the *Zhuangzi* explores the limits of knowledge. In modern language, it might be understood this way:

Someone asks, “Do you know what you don’t know?” The reply is, “How could I know?” The person asks again, “Then are all things ignorant?” The reply is still, “How could I know?”

The *Zhuangzi* continues: “Even so, let me try to say something. How do I know that what I call ‘knowing’ isn’t actually ‘not knowing’? And how do I know that what I call ‘not knowing’ isn’t actually ‘knowing’?”

Consider these questions. If people sleep in damp places, their backs may ache or they may even become paralyzed. Does the same happen to loaches? People who live in trees feel frightened and tremble. Do apes feel that way too? Of these three kinds of beings—people, loaches, and apes—which knows what place is truly suitable to live in?

Or consider what they eat. People eat livestock; elk eat grass; centipedes favor small snakes; owls and crows favor mice. Of these four kinds of beings—people, elk, centipedes, and owls—which knows what tastes truly good?

Finally, consider their mating preferences: female apes favor mating with bianju, a kind of ape; elk mate with deer; and loaches swim alongside fish.

These examples show that different species have their own natures and preferences, with no absolute standard for judging what is right or wrong, good or bad. Through vivid comparisons, the *Zhuangzi* reveals how knowledge is relative and limited.

毛嬙、麗姬，人之所美也；魚見之深入，鳥見之高飛，麋鹿見之決驟。四者孰知天下之正色哉？自我觀之，仁義之端，是非之塗，樊然殽亂，吾惡能知其辯！齧缺曰：「子不知利害，則至人固不知利害乎？」王倪曰：「至人神矣！大澤焚而不能熱，河漢沍而不能寒，疾雷破山、風振海而不能驚。若然者，乘雲氣，騎日月，而遊乎四海之外。死生无變於己，而況利害之端乎！」

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* uses vivid comparisons to reveal the relativity of human perception.

People praise Maoqiang and Xishi as peerless beauties. Yet when fish see them, they dive into the depths; birds fly high and far away; and elk flee in alarm. Which of these four kinds of beings knows what true beauty under Heaven is? By showing how differently various creatures respond to “beauty,” the passage suggests that standards of beauty are relative.

In my view, the standards of right and wrong associated with benevolence and righteousness, and the rules for judging what is correct or mistaken, are all tangled together in confusion. How could I tell their distinctions apart? Here, Zhuangzi questions whether conventional moral standards are absolute.

The dialogue between Nie Que and Wang Ni develops the idea further. Nie Que asks, “You do not understand what is beneficial or harmful. Does that mean a perfected person—the Zhiren—does not understand it either?” Wang Ni replies, “The perfected person has reached a wondrous state. Even if a great marsh were set ablaze, he would not feel the heat; even if rivers froze, he would not feel the cold. Thunder splitting mountains and violent winds churning the sea could not make him afraid. Such a person can ride the clouds and mists, travel with the sun and moon, and roam beyond the four seas. Even life and death cannot affect him, much less worldly gains and losses.” Through extravagant imagery, this passage portrays the Dao cultivator as transcending ordinary ways of knowing.

“Perfected person” (Zhiren) is Zhuangzi’s ideal of a person who has reached the highest spiritual state. Extreme natural forces represent this person’s freedom from being affected by external things. Through such hyperbole, Zhuangzi emphasizes the need to move beyond conventional judgments of value.

瞿鵲子問乎長梧子曰：「吾聞諸夫子，聖人不從事於務，不就利，不違害，不喜求，不緣道；无謂有謂，有謂无謂，而遊乎塵垢之外。夫子以為孟浪之言，而我以為妙道之行也。吾子以為奚若？」長梧子曰：「是黃帝之所聽熒也，而丘也何足以知之！且女亦大早計，見卵而求時夜，見彈而求鴞炙。予嘗為女妄言之，女以妄聽之，奚？旁日月，挾宇宙？為其脗合，置其滑涽，

**Interpretation**

Qu Quezi asked Master Changwu, “I once heard my teacher say that sages do not trouble themselves with worldly affairs, pursue no gain, and shun no calamity. They have no taste for forcing things and do not cling to the Dao. They call nothing something and something nothing, and transcend the dusty world. My teacher thought these words reckless, but I believe they express a profound way of cultivation. What do you think?”

Master Changwu replied, “Even the Yellow Emperor would be perplexed by such a state. How could Confucius (Qiu) fully understand it? You are far too eager—like seeing an egg and hoping to get a rooster that will crow at dawn, or seeing a slingshot and already thinking of roasted owl for dinner.”

“Let me speak offhand, and you listen offhand. How does that sound? Keep company with the sun and moon, and hold the cosmos in your embrace. Become one with all things, and leave confusion and turmoil behind.”

This exchange expresses the heart of Zhuangzi’s “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.” With the image of “seeing an egg and hoping for a rooster,” Master Changwu criticizes the urge to rush toward results in cultivation and suggests that realizing the Dao requires following things as they unfold naturally. The phrases “keep company with the sun and moon” and “hold the cosmos in your embrace” evoke the Daoist ideal of becoming one with Heaven, Earth, and all things.

以隸相尊。眾人役役，聖人愚芚，參萬歲而一成純。萬物盡然，而以是相蘊。予惡乎知說生之非惑邪！予惡乎知惡死之非弱喪而不知歸者邪！麗之姬，艾封人之子也。晉國之始得之也，涕泣沾襟；及其至於王所，與王同筐床，食芻豢，而後悔其泣也。予惡乎知夫死者不悔其始之蘄生乎！「夢飲酒者，旦而哭泣；夢哭泣者，旦而田獵。方其夢也，不知其夢也。夢之中又占其夢焉，

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* presents three main ideas.

The first part describes how ordinary people constantly compare their status with others, rushing about in pursuit of fame and gain. The sage—the person who has grasped the Dao—may seem dull, yet can bring past and present together and preserve an untroubled, genuine state of mind amid the confusion of worldly affairs. All things, too, are able to accommodate one another in this way.

The second part offers an example. When Li Ji, a beauty of the state of Jin, was first captured, she wept until her tears soaked her robes. Later, after enjoying wealth and comfort, she regretted having wept. Zhuangzi uses her story to ask: how can we know that the dead do not regret having clung to life and feared death? His point is that life and death, fortune and misfortune, are hard to predict.

The third part uses dreams as a metaphor. Someone dreams of drinking happily, then wakes in tears; someone else dreams of weeping, then wakes and goes hunting. While dreaming, people do not know they are dreaming, and may even interpret their dreams from within the dream. The comparison suggests that the joys and sorrows of human life are as insubstantial as dreams.

The central idea is to see through worldly gains and losses and, like the sage, maintain a detached state of mind. Through Li Ji’s story and the dream metaphor, Zhuangzi suggests that the things people cling to—such as life and death, joy and sorrow—are as illusory as dreams and need not weigh on us too heavily.

覺而後知其夢也。且有大覺而後知此其大夢也，而愚者自以為覺，竊竊然知之。君乎，牧乎，固哉！丘也與女，皆夢也；予謂女夢，亦夢也。是其言也，其名為弔詭。萬世之後而一遇大聖，知其解者，是旦暮遇之也。「既使我與若辯矣，若勝我，我不若勝，若果是也，我果非也邪？我勝若，若不吾勝，我果是也，而果非也邪？

**Interpretation**

A person knows that they were dreaming only after waking. Only someone who has truly awakened to the Great Dao can understand that what we call waking life is itself a great dream. Yet foolish people always think they are wide awake, arrogantly believing they understand everything. Their stubborn distinctions between ruler and subject are laughable.

Confucius and you—Huizi—are both in a dream. When I say that you are dreaming, I too am dreaming. This sounds paradoxical: it appears self-contradictory, yet holds a deeper meaning. Perhaps only after ten thousand generations, when we meet a true sage, will someone understand this. But to one who has awakened to the Dao, grasping this truth is as natural as meeting morning or evening.

The next passage reflects on debate. Suppose you and I argue, and you defeat me. Does that prove that you are right and I am wrong? If I defeat you, does that prove that I must be right and you wrong?

其或是也，其或非也邪？其俱是也，其俱非也邪？我與若不能相知也，則人固受其黮闇。吾誰使正之？使同乎若者正之？既與若同矣，惡能正之！使同乎我者正之？既同乎我矣，惡能正之！使異乎我與若者正之？既異乎我與若矣，惡能正之！使同乎我與若者正之？既同乎我與若矣，惡能正之！然則我與若與人俱不能相知也，而待彼也邪？

**Interpretation**

This passage explores the limitations of human cognition and judgment. Through a dialogic format, Zhuangzi points out that when we debate whether something is right or wrong, neither side can truly be certain. You say it's right, I say it's wrong—or we both agree it's right or wrong—yet neither truly understands the other's perspective. In such cases, people remain trapped in a fog of subjective perception.

So whom should we turn to for judgment? If you seek someone who shares your view, how can they judge fairly when they already agree with you? The same applies if we consult someone who agrees with me—their alignment with my position precludes impartiality. If we approach someone whose views differ from both of ours, how could they possibly arbitrate when their perspective fundamentally contradicts ours? Even finding someone who agrees with both of us would be futile, as complete alignment offers no basis for discernment.

The conclusion emerges: neither I, you, nor any third party can truly understand one another. Whom, then, can we rely on to determine right and wrong? This text reveals the subjectivity and relativity of human cognition, embodying Zhuangzi's philosophy of "Equalizing All Things" (Qiwulun)—that worldly judgments of right and wrong depend entirely on standpoint, with no absolute standards existing.

化聲之相待，若其不相待。和之以天倪，因之以曼衍，所以窮年也。何謂和之以天倪？曰：「是不是，然不然。是若果是也，則是之異乎不是也亦無辯；然若果然也，則然之異乎不然也亦無辯，所以窮年也。忘年忘義，振於無竟，故寓諸無竟。」罔兩問景曰：「曩子行，今子止；曩子坐，今子起；何其無特操與？」

**Interpretation**

This passage from the *Zhuangzi* explores the Daoist idea of “equalizing things.” Through two parables, it shows that things are fundamentally without distinction and that judgments of right and wrong have no fixed conclusion.

The first parable says that changes in sound may seem opposed, but in essence they are not. We should reconcile them through the natural pattern (*tian ni*) and follow the unfolding of natural change (*man yan*); this is how to pass through life in peace. What does it mean to reconcile things through the natural pattern? It means that what is called right may not truly be right, and what is called wrong may not truly be wrong. If “right” really is right, then there is no need to argue over how it differs from “wrong.” And if what is “certain” really is certain, there is likewise no need to argue over how it differs from what is “uncertain.” In this way, one can loosen the hold of time and forget the years (*wang nian*), rise beyond the limits of right and wrong (*wang yi*), and roam in a boundless realm (*wu jing*).

In the second parable, a faint, outer shadow (*wang liang*) asks the shadow: “A moment ago you were walking, and now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, and now you have stood up. Why are you so lacking in resolve?” Their exchange suggests that all things depend on one another and have no independent, unchanging nature. The shadow moves with the body, and the faint shadow in turn moves with the shadow; at root, both are expressions of natural change.

Here, *tian ni* means a natural boundary or pattern; *man yan* means the unfolding development of natural change; *wu jing* means a boundless, endless realm; *wang liang* is the faint shadow around the edge of a shadow, and *jing* means “shadow.”

景曰：「吾有待而然者邪？吾所待又有待而然者邪？吾待蛇蚹蜩翼邪？惡識所以然！惡識所以不然！」昔者莊周夢為胡蝶，栩栩然胡蝶也，自喻適志與！不知周也。俄然覺，則蘧蘧然周也。不知周之夢為胡蝶與，胡蝶之夢為周與？周與胡蝶，則必有分矣。此之謂物

**Interpretation**

This passage comes from the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” chapter of the *Zhuangzi* and contains two famous philosophical parables.

In the first story, the shadow (Jing) asks a series of questions: Do I exist because I depend on something else? And what does the thing I depend on rely upon? Do I depend on another in the way a snake depends on the scales on its belly, or a cicada on its wings? How can I know why things are as they are? And how can I know why they might not be? These questions express Zhuangzi’s reflections on the relations of dependence among things, suggesting that all things rely on one another and that their ultimate foundations are difficult to trace.

The second is the famous story of “Zhuang Zhou Dreaming of a Butterfly.” Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, fluttering freely and joyfully, with no memory of being Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke and realized that he was plainly Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or a butterfly had dreamed of becoming Zhuang Zhou. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly must be distinct in some way; this transformation is called “the transformation of things” (wuhua). The parable suggests that the boundary between dreams and reality is blurred, and that things can transform into one another.

Both stories express the central idea of Zhuangzi’s “making all things equal”: breaking down absolute boundaries between things and recognizing their fundamental kinship. “The transformation of things” is an important concept in Zhuangzi’s philosophy, referring to the natural transformation between different forms of existence.

化。

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原文底本：Kanripo 漢籍リポジトリ（京都大学），CC BY-SA 4.0。  
Source text: Kanripo Chinese Classics Repository (Kyoto University), CC BY-SA 4.0.  
HTML version: https://daozang.app/en/text/KR5c0126/juan/2/