《莊子》Vol. 21

The opening passage of the “Tian Zifang” chapter in the Zhuangzi goes as follows:

Tian Zifang, a worthy man of the state of Wei, was seated beside Marquis Wen of Wei. He praised a man named Xigong several times. Marquis Wen asked, “Is Xigong your teacher?”

Tian Zifang replied, “No. He is simply from my hometown. I praise him because his reasoning always gets to the heart of the matter.”

Marquis Wen then asked, “So you have no teacher?”

This exchange reflects the Zhuangzi school’s idea that the Dao follows what is natural. It suggests that true wisdom does not require deliberately taking a teacher: it can be found everywhere in daily life. Tian Zifang’s praise of Xigong also expresses the Daoist ideal of teaching without words.

This exchange comes from the Zhuangzi. It recounts a question and answer between Marquis Wen of Wei and Tian Zifang, whose courtesy name was Zifang.

Tian Zifang replied, “I have a teacher.”

Marquis Wen of Wei then asked, “Who is your teacher?”

Tian Zifang replied, “Dongguo Shunzi, a reclusive master.”

The marquis was surprised. “If you have such an accomplished teacher, why have you never praised him?”

The exchange reflects the Zhuangzi school’s esteem for teaching without words. Dongguo Shunzi, as a master who had attained the Dao, taught through subtle influence rather than self-promotion. Tian Zifang’s silence about his teacher’s name expresses the Daoist wisdom captured in the saying, “Great music is scarcely heard.”

This passage comes from the “Tian Zifang” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells how Marquis Wen of Wei was deeply moved by the virtue of Tian Zifang, whose courtesy name was Zifang:

Tian Zifang was a man of genuine and unalloyed character. Though he had the appearance of an ordinary person, he had the realm of a celestial being—that is, he stood beyond the ordinary world. His mind was empty and still, and he preserved his original nature. Pure and free from action, he could embrace all things. When he encountered something contrary to the Dao, he simply composed himself and, through his bearing, influenced the other person until their harmful intentions faded of their own accord. Such a state is far beyond anything I, Tian Zifang, deserve to praise!

After Tian Zifang left, Marquis Wen of Wei spent the whole day in a daze, unable to speak. At last, he called his attendants and exclaimed, “How exalted! This is what it means to be a gentleman whose virtue is complete!”

Marquis Wen continued: “I used to think that the wise words of sages and their acts of benevolence and righteousness were the highest achievement. But after hearing the bearing of Master Tian Zifang, my body felt as though it had come apart, and I had no wish to move; my mouth felt as though it were clamped shut, and I had no wish to speak. Everything I had learned before seems like an idol molded from clay—false and without substance. Even my position as ruler of Wei has become a burden!”

Here, “the body coming apart” means relaxing as though the body had dissolved. An idol made of clay is a metaphor for something false and insubstantial.

This story from the Zhuangzi recounts an anecdote about Wen Boxuezi, a Daoist recluse.

When Wen Boxuezi traveled to the state of Qi, he stopped in the state of Lu. A man from Lu wanted to meet him, but Wen said, “I will not see him. I have heard that the gentlemen of the Central States, though well versed in rites and rules of conduct, do not understand people’s true feelings. I do not wish to meet such a person.”

Later, on his return from Qi, he stopped in Lu again. The same man came to ask for an audience.

So Wen went out to meet the visitor. After returning to his room, he sighed. The next day, he met the visitor again, and returned sighing once more. His attendant asked, “Each time you meet this visitor, you return to your room and sigh. Why?”

This passage presents the Daoist critique of Confucians’ excessive focus on rites and rules of conduct. It suggests that true wisdom should go beyond outward forms and discern what lies in people’s hearts. Wen Boxuezi’s initial refusal and his later change of attitude hint that he may have found a deeper insight in this visitor, who was “well versed in ritual and propriety.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells the story of Confucius (Zhongni) and his disciple Zilu discussing Wen Bo Xuezi:

“I told you long ago: ‘The gentlemen of the Central Lands understand the rules of ritual and righteousness, but they do not know how to discern the human heart.’ Those who came to see me in the past followed formal rules stiffly in all they did, and deliberately imitated the majesty of dragons and tigers in their gestures and bearing. When they admonished me, they were as deferential as sons to their fathers; when they instructed me, they assumed a father’s authority. That is why I sighed.”

Later, Confucius met Wen Bo Xuezi and said nothing. Zilu asked in puzzlement, “Master, haven’t you always wanted to meet Wen Bo Xuezi? Why did you say nothing when you finally met him?”

Confucius explained, “With someone like him, a single meeting of the eyes is enough to sense the presence of the Dao (the Way). There is no need for any further exchange of words.”

Here, “Dao” refers to the ultimate truth that governs the workings of all things in Daoist thought. Wen Bo Xuezi is a fictional image in the Zhuangzi of a person who has attained the Dao. Through this exchange, the text suggests that those who have truly awakened transcend worldly ritual and convention, and value a meeting of minds.

Yan Hui, a student of Confucius, asked him, “When you walk slowly, I walk slowly with you; when you walk quickly, I follow at a quick pace; when you run, I run after you. But when you race ahead so fast that even the dust cannot catch up, I can only stare in astonishment as I fall behind!”

Confucius asked, “Yan Hui, what do you mean by that?”

Yan Hui explained, “When I say I walk slowly with you, I mean that I learn from your everyday speech. When I say I keep pace with you, I mean that I imitate the way you debate with others. And when I say I run after you, I mean that I understand your ideas about transmitting the Dao (the Way).”

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the depth of the Dao through a dialogue between Confucius and his disciple Yan Hui.

Yan Hui said, “When you run, Master, I run after you; when you discuss the Dao, I follow along. But when you suddenly quicken your pace and vanish into the distance, I can only stare helplessly as I fall behind. You can inspire trust without speaking, care for all things without deliberately drawing near to them, and have people naturally gather around you without holding authority. I truly cannot understand the principle behind this.”

Confucius replied, “Alas! How could you fail to think this through carefully? The greatest sorrow in the world is for the mind to die—that is, for the spirit to become numb. The death of the body comes second. It is like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west: all things follow this pattern.”

He then offered an image: “Every living creature with eyes and feet depends on the sun to move about and work. When the sun rises, life begins; when it sets, all things rest. Everything is like this: it can live only by relying on something, and when that support is lost, it perishes.” Here, the sun serves as an image of the Dao’s natural order.

Through this exchange between teacher and disciple, the passage shows that the Dao is the natural way things unfold. Someone who has truly attained the Dao need not act deliberately to influence others, just as the sun does not need to command the myriad things for them to follow its course.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the profound themes of life’s transformations and self-understanding.

The first part says that once we receive a physical form, we keep that form until life ends. Though we act in response to things around us and move ceaselessly, day and night, we do not know where we are ultimately headed. Life takes shape of its own accord. Even someone capable of foreseeing fate cannot plan the future in advance, so I, Zhuangzi, move forward each day with these changes.

The second part expresses deep regret: although you and I—perhaps a disciple or friend—were once close, we ultimately missed the chance to truly understand one another. Is that not sorrowful? You remain attached to what I was attached to, things that stand for worldly ideas, though they have long since passed away. You still pursue them as if they were real, like searching for a horse in an empty marketplace. I have long forgotten what I once expected of you, and you should let go of what you expected from me as well.

The final part offers consolation. Why worry about this? Though you may forget the person I once was, something that cannot disappear remains forever: the truth of the Dao (the Way). Zhuangzi is saying that outward forms and ideas change, while the essence of the Dao endures.

Confucius went to visit Laozi, also known as Lao Dan. He happened to find Laozi just after he had washed his hair. With his hair hanging loose to dry, Laozi stood there motionless, like a wooden figure. Confucius waited nearby. After a while, Laozi came to himself, and Confucius said, “A moment ago, I saw you standing there without moving, your body stiff as a withered tree. You seemed to have risen above all things and left the human world behind, alone in the company of the Dao.”

Laozi replied, “Just now, I was roaming in the original state from which all things arise”—that is, entering a state of oneness with the Dao.

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by that?”

This passage means:

When your mind is confused, you often cannot truly understand. Your mouth hangs open, yet no words come out. Let me try to explain the principle at work.

The coldest Qi (vital energy) is bitterly piercing, while the most Yang Qi is scorching hot. This piercing Yin Qi in fact comes from Heaven, while the fiery Yang Qi arises from Earth. When Yin and Yang Qi mingle and harmonize, all things are born. Yet the “guiding order”—the pattern that sets everything in motion—has no visible form.

All things wax and wane, fill and empty, grow dim and bright. The sun makes its daily course and the moon changes each month. They seem to be at work every day, yet leave no trace of their labor. Life has its beginning, and death has its destination. Beginning and end transform into one another, cycling endlessly, and no one knows where the cycle ends. If not for the Dao (the Way), the pattern governing the cosmos, what else could be the source of all things?

In this passage, Zhuangzi uses the interaction of Yin and Yang Qi to express the Daoist idea that the Dao follows what is natural. Yin and Yang meet and give rise to all things, while the Dao behind them remains formless, mysterious, and unfathomable. This reflection on the source of the cosmos shows Daoism’s deep understanding of the patterns of nature.

Confucius asked Laozi: "May I inquire what constitutes the state of 'wandering the heart-mind in the Dao'?"

Laozi replied: "To attain this state is to experience the most sublime joy. One who can perceive ultimate beauty while freely roaming in purest delight may be called a 'perfected person' (zhiren - one who has reached the highest state of Daoist cultivation)."

Confucius pressed further: "I would like to hear the practical method for achieving this."

Laozi explained: "Consider how grass-eating beasts don't worry when moving to new pastures, nor do aquatic insects distress over changing waters. This is because while experiencing minor environmental shifts, they never lose their fundamental way of existence."

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes a state of mind that transcends worldly concerns.

People should keep emotions such as joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure from taking hold in the heart. In essence, all things under Heaven are one. Once you understand this and reach a state of unity with all things, the body and its limbs seem as insignificant as dust, while the cycles of life and death feel as natural as the alternation of day and night. Nothing can disturb your mind—least of all such minor matters as gain and loss, good fortune and misfortune.

Treat external attachments, such as fame and wealth, as lightly as discarded mud, for you understand that your own nature is more precious than these things. True value lies in preserving your original mind, untouched by changes in the world around you. Besides, the myriad things in the world are constantly changing. What is there to worry about? Those who have truly attained the Dao have long seen through this.

Confucius then praises him: “The Master’s De (Virtue/Power) accords with Heaven and Earth, yet he still relies on words of the highest truth to cultivate his heart and mind. Among the gentlemen of ancient times, who was ever completely free of worldly entanglements?”

Here, “De accords with Heaven and Earth” means that one’s moral cultivation is in harmony with the natural world. “Words of the highest truth” refers to the most profound principles. Cultivating the heart and mind is an important Daoist practice: by nurturing the heart and Shen (spirit), one reaches a state of transcendence.

Laozi, also known as Lao Dan, said:

“That is not so. Look at the spring water as it surges: it needs no deliberate effort to remain true to its nature. The De of a person who has attained the Dao is the same; there is no need for deliberate cultivation, and all things naturally draw near. Heaven is naturally vast, Earth naturally deep, and the sun and moon naturally bright. Why would they need deliberate adornment?”

After Confucius left, he said to Yan Hui:

“My understanding of the Great Dao is as shallow as a tiny fly in a vinegar jar! If the Master—Laozi—had not helped dispel my confusion, I would never have grasped the full truth of Heaven and Earth.”

When Zhuangzi went to see Duke Ai of Lu, the duke said:

“There are many Confucian scholars in Lu, but few study the Daoist teachings and methods you have mastered.”

The term “vinegar-jar fly” was an ancient name for a tiny fly found in a vinegar jar, and served as a metaphor for narrow understanding. Here, “methods” refers to Daoist practices and teachings. These passages express the core idea of Daoist natural Wuwei: true De does not need to be pursued deliberately.

Zhuangzi said to Duke Ai of Lu, “There are very few true Confucians in your state of Lu.”

Duke Ai replied, “Everyone in all of Lu wears Confucian dress. How can you say they are few?”

Zhuangzi explained, “I have heard that a true Confucian wears a round-topped cap, symbolizing knowledge of the workings of Heaven; square-toed shoes, symbolizing knowledge of the earth; and a jade pendant, symbolizing the ability to make a firm decision when faced with a choice.

“But even a true gentleman, though he understands these principles, need not necessarily wear these things.”

Through the relationship between clothing and inner character, this exchange reveals Zhuangzi’s view that substance matters more than form. The round cap, square shoes, and jade pendant were articles of Confucian ritual dress. Zhuangzi uses them to mock the people of Lu for caring only about the outward appearance of Confucianism while lacking the cultivation of true Confucians.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells the story of Duke Ai of Lu and the Confucians.

Duke Ai believed that people who wore Confucian robes did not necessarily understand Confucian teachings. He therefore issued an order: “Anyone who wears Confucian robes without understanding Confucian teachings will be put to death!” Five days after the order was announced, no one in the state of Lu dared to wear such robes. Only one man continued to wear them and stood outside the palace gate. Duke Ai summoned him and asked him about affairs of state. The man answered fluently and showed deep insight.

Zhuangzi commented: “In the whole state of Lu, only this one man truly deserves to be called a Confucian. Is that many?”

The passage then gives two more examples. Baili Xi, a renowned minister of Qin during the Spring and Autumn period, cared little for rank or salary. He focused on raising cattle and made them strong and healthy. Duke Mu of Qin, impressed by his ability, overlooked his humble origins and entrusted him with governing the state. Emperor Shun, of the Youyu clan, regarded life and death lightly, and so was able to move people’s hearts deeply.

These examples show that true cultivation lies in inner substance rather than outward form, and that the truly worthy are often free from worldly concerns about fame and profit.

The ruler of Song wanted to commission a wall painting, and many painters came to apply. After bowing respectfully, they stood to one side. Some moistened their brushes and mixed their ink, while half were still waiting outside the gate.

One painter arrived late. He took his time and did not hurry forward. After bowing, he did not wait with the others but went straight back to his lodging. The ruler of Song sent someone to see what he was doing and found him sitting cross-legged with his upper body bare, stretching out his limbs at ease. When the ruler heard this, he said, “That’s the one—the true painter.”

When King Wen of Zhou was traveling through Zang, he saw an old man fishing. His way of fishing was unusual: he held no rod with the deliberate aim of catching fish. Instead, he remained detached, seeming to fish and yet not to fish. Fishing here serves as an image of the Daoist state of Wuwei (non-action): acting naturally, without deliberate effort.

King Wen of Zhou wanted to appoint a worthy man, Zang Zhangren, to govern the court. But he worried that his ministers and noble relatives would be unsettled. Giving up the idea, though, felt unbearable, because it would deprive the people of wise government. So one morning he summoned his ministers and said, “Some days ago, I dreamed of a worthy man with a dark complexion and a long beard, riding a piebald horse with one half of each hoof red. In the dream, he told me, ‘Entrust the affairs of state to Zang Zhangren, and the people will be saved!’”

The ministers listened with solemn respect and replied, “This is the former king—your late father—guiding Your Majesty through a dream.”

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi (Classic of the Dao; Zhuangzi), “Tian Zifang,” tells the story of King Wen of Zhou and his ministers discussing the appointment of Zhang Zhangren, a fictional worthy.

King Wen said, “In that case, let us consult the oracle and ask Heaven what it intends.”

His ministers urged him not to: “Our late king—your father—left instructions to appoint a worthy man. Your Majesty need not reconsider the matter. Why consult the oracle?”

King Wen then went to welcome Zhang Zhangren and entrusted him with governing the state. Once in office, Zhang Zhangren did not alter the existing institutions or issue orders that favored particular interests.

Three years later, King Wen toured the state and saw that scholars had stopped forming factions for private gain; officials no longer advertised their own merits; and measures from neighboring states—yuhu and hu, ancient units of capacity—were no longer brought across the border. This last detail suggests that the people had come to accept their own standards and no longer needed outside ones.

Through Zhang Zhangren’s Wuwei (non-action) governance, the passage expresses the Daoist political ideal of “teaching without words”: by avoiding excessive interference, a ruler can achieve better results.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells of King Wen of Zhou meeting the recluse Zang Zhangren.

When those in society who boast of their integrity stop forming cliques, the people will naturally value unity. When officials stop pursuing personal achievements, people can truly work together in harmony. And if even measures for grain are not allowed to cross the borders between states, the feudal lords will have no divided loyalties.

King Wen therefore appointed Zang Zhangren as Grand Preceptor, the highest official rank, and respectfully faced north to ask him: “Can this way of governing be put into practice throughout the world?” Zang Zhangren remained silent. The next day, he drifted away and was never seen again.

Later, Yan Hui asked Confucius: “Was King Wen, a sage, not already complete? Why did he still seek the way to govern through a dream?” The question suggests that the true Dao follows its own nature and needs no deliberate pursuit.

Here, Zang Zhangren embodies the Daoist ideal of the recluse, who advocates Wuwei (non-action). Facing north to ask a question was an ancient gesture of the highest respect, showing King Wen’s devotion to the Dao.

Confucius said, “Be quiet. Don’t say anything more! King Wen of Zhou had already carried things to their utmost. What need is there for you to add further comment? He merely followed the circumstances of his time.”

Lie Yukou, an ancient master archer, gave Bohun Wuren a demonstration of archery. He drew his bow to the limit and balanced a cup of water on his elbow. As each arrow flew, the next followed close behind, one after another. He stood as steady as a wooden puppet, utterly unmoving.

Bohun Wuren watched and said, “This is only archery performed with conscious effort. It is not the natural shooting that comes without intention. If you climbed a high mountain, stood on a crumbling rock, and faced a sheer drop a hundred fathoms deep, could you still shoot like this?”

This archery metaphor explores the Daoist ideal of Wuwei (non-action). Bohun Wuren holds that true skill reaches a state in which the distinction between self and things falls away, and action arises naturally, rather than from a deliberate pursuit of technical perfection.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells two stories, both about the state of those who have attained the Dao.

In the first story, Bohun Wuren, a Daoist adept, takes Lie Yukou, also known as Liezi, up a high mountain. They stand at the edge on a precarious rock above a bottomless chasm. Bohun Wuren backs toward the edge until his heels hang over the cliff, then calls Lie Yukou to come closer. Lie Yukou is so frightened that he lies face down, his cold sweat running all the way to his heels.

Bohun Wuren says, “One who has truly attained the Dao can see through the blue heavens above and perceive the Yellow Springs below—that is, all things between heaven and earth. Their spirit reaches in every direction, yet their expression does not change. You, however, are so frightened that your eyes stare blankly. You are still far from attaining the Dao!”

In the second story, Jianwu, a cultivator, asks Sun Shuao, a worthy minister of Chu: “You served as prime minister three times without feeling proud, and were dismissed three times without feeling distressed. I used to suspect you were putting on an act, but now I see that your breathing is calm and at ease. How have you cultivated your mind?”

Both stories illustrate the state of the Daoist “Perfected Person.” One who has attained the Dao is not swayed by external things: they do not grow arrogant when raised to high office, or anxious when they lose their position. Even at the brink between life and death, they can remain composed. Reaching this state takes long practice, through methods such as “fasting of the mind” and “sitting in forgetfulness.”

Sun Shu’ao, a worthy chief minister of the state of Chu during the Spring and Autumn period, said:

“How am I better than other people? I simply understand that what is meant to come cannot be stopped, and what is meant to leave cannot be held back. I believe that neither gain nor loss is within my control, so I can remain carefree. What is so exceptional about me?

“Besides, it is impossible to tell whether these gains and losses are caused by external things or by myself. If they are caused by external things, they have nothing to do with me; if they are caused by me, then they have nothing to do with the world outside. I am busy pondering these questions and observing and learning from all around me. How could I have time to worry about people’s rank and status?”

When Confucius heard these words, he exclaimed: “Here is a true person of ancient times, one who has attained the Dao! The clever cannot persuade him, beauty cannot seduce him, and bandits cannot intimidate him. Even sage rulers such as Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor might not have been able to befriend him.”

Life and death are the greatest matters in human life. Yet for one who has attained the Dao, even life and death cannot alter their nature. How much less, then, can fame, wealth, and rank—things external to oneself?

The spirit of such a person can pass through Mount Tai without hindrance and descend into the abyss without being soaked. They can live in humble circumstances without feeling constrained. Their spirit fills the space between Heaven and Earth, yet does not seem crowded. The more they give to others, the more abundant they become.

What follows is a story about the king of Chu and the ruler of Fan. The two were sitting together in conversation when, before long, the king of Chu’s attendants repeatedly reminded him, “Fan has been destroyed.”

The ruler of Fan replied, “The destruction of Fan cannot make my true existence perish. Since the destruction of Fan is not enough to make me perish, the existence of Chu is not enough to prove that true existence is real. Seen this way, Fan was never truly destroyed, and Chu was never truly real.”

These two stories illustrate the realm of one who has attained the Dao and transcended worldly things. The first describes a spirit untouched by life, death, or external possessions. The second, through the words of the ruler of Fan, shows that worldly loss and gain are relative, and that true existence transcends appearances.