《莊子》Vol. 22

In Chapter Twenty-Two of the Zhuangzi, “Knowledge Roams North”:

A man named Knowledge traveled in the north, reaching the Dark River, a deep and shadowy stream. He climbed a hill called Hidden Ridge and happened to meet Wuweiwei, a realized person who embodied natural Wuwei (non-action). Knowledge asked him three questions: “How can I understand the Dao through thought? What should I do to abide by the Dao? By what means can I attain the Dao?” He asked three times, but Wuweiwei did not answer. It was not that he was deliberately withholding a reply; he simply did not know how to answer.

Having received no answer, Knowledge returned south of the White River. He climbed a hill called Fox Mound and met Kuangqu, a Daoist cultivator who symbolized uninhibited sincerity. Knowledge asked him the same questions.

Kuang Qu sighed, “Ah! I understood this principle and was just about to tell you.” But when the words reached his lips, he suddenly forgot what he had meant to say.

Later, Zhi, unable to get an answer, returned to the Heavenly Palace to consult the Yellow Emperor. The Yellow Emperor told him, “Only by setting aside thoughts and calculations can you truly understand the Dao. Only by not clinging to a particular way of cultivation can you truly abide in the Dao. Only by not deliberately pursuing methods and paths can you truly attain the Dao.”

Zhi then asked the Yellow Emperor, “You and I seem to understand this principle, but the others do not. So who is right, and who is wrong?”

This conversation reveals the mysterious character of the Dao in Zhuangzi’s thought: truly awakening to the Dao requires going beyond rational thought, attachment to forms, and deliberate striving. The Yellow Emperor’s answer expresses the Daoist ideal of Wuwei (non-action), while Zhi’s final question hints at the relativity of understanding.

The Yellow Emperor said, “Wuweiwei, who expresses nothing in words and follows nature, truly understands the Dao. Kuangqu, another seeker of the Dao, seems close to understanding it as well. You and I have not yet come close to them. Those who understand the Dao do not speak much; those who speak much do not truly understand it. That is why the sages teach without words.

The Dao cannot be obtained through deliberate striving, and De cannot be attained through deliberate practice. Benevolence can be put into practice through effort, but righteousness may fall short, while ritual often degenerates into pretense.

Thus, only after losing the Dao do people speak of De; only after losing De do they speak of benevolence; only after losing benevolence do they speak of righteousness; and only after losing righteousness do they speak of ritual. Ritual is merely the outward brilliance of the Dao, yet it is also the beginning of disorder.

So those who cultivate the Dao must lessen something each day. They lessen and lessen until they reach Wuwei (non-action). Through Wuwei, by following nature, there is nothing they cannot accomplish.

Now that human beings have taken on physical form, they wish to return to their source.”

Zhuangzi’s passage explains the cycle of life and death and the unity of all things.

The living are already moving toward death, while death marks the beginning of new life. Who can truly understand the pattern behind this? Human life is simply a gathering of Qi (vital energy): when Qi comes together, life takes shape; when it disperses, death follows. Since life and death are transformations of one another, why be troubled by them?

All things in the world are the same in their essence. People call what they like wondrous and what they dislike rotten. Yet what is rotten can become wondrous again, and what is wondrous can once more become rotten. As the saying goes, “The whole world is nothing more than a single current of Qi in motion.” That is why sages prize the unity of all things.

(Reflecting on the time when the Yellow Emperor sought guidance from the realm of Wuwei (non-action), the Dao’s original state, he realized:) When I asked the realm of Wuwei, it did not answer. This was not because it was unwilling to reply, but because it did not know how to answer—the Great Dao transcends expression in words.

I went to ask Kuangqu, a reclusive adept who had attained the Dao. He meant to tell me the answer, but in the end he did not speak. It was not that he was unwilling to tell me. Just as he was about to begin, he forgot what he had wanted to say.

Now I ask you in turn, Ruo: since you know the answer, why don’t you tell me so that I can understand?

After hearing this, the Yellow Emperor, an ancient sage ruler, said, “Kuangqu was truly one who had attained the Dao. He was in a state of ‘not knowing.’ He seemed about to answer, then forgot. This accords with the realm of the great Dao. You and I, by contrast, have never truly drawn near to the Dao, precisely because we believe that we ‘know.’”

When Kuangqu heard the Yellow Emperor’s words, he judged that the Yellow Emperor truly understood the essence of the Dao.

This dialogue contrasts “knowing” with “not knowing” to express the Daoist principle that “those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.” Kuangqu’s state of “forgetting words” embodies the unity of one who has attained the Dao with the Dao itself. Deliberately pursuing knowledge, by contrast, draws one away from the Dao’s natural state of Wuwei (non-action).

The world between Heaven and Earth holds the highest beauty, yet it never speaks. The seasons change according to their own patterns, without needing discussion. All things grow according to their own principles, yet never explain them.

Sages who have attained the Dao (the Way)—wise people who have realized the way of nature—explore the beauty of Heaven and Earth and understand the patterns of all things. Thus, those who reach the highest level do not act with deliberate intent, and great sages do not impose their own designs. This wisdom comes from observing how Heaven and Earth move.

Nature’s subtle transformations take place alongside the changing of all things. Things are born and die, take shape as square or round, yet no one knows their source. In this way, all things have endured naturally since ancient times. The whole universe seems vast and boundless, yet it remains within the scope of these transformations. Even a hair as fine as the new down on an animal in autumn, though tiny, takes the power of transformation to form.

All things in the world rise and fall with the Dao of nature, never remaining still or unchanged. The two Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang and the changing seasons each follow their own patterns. The Great Dao seems indistinct, almost unreal, yet truly exists. It flows naturally without any fixed form, yet holds a wondrous power.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes a Daoist state of mind cultivation.

The first section says:

All things grow naturally, yet do not know why. This is the most fundamental principle, the root of things. Understand this principle, and you can grasp the mysteries of how the Dao of Heaven operates.

The second section tells a story:

Nie Que, a Daoist figure, asks Bei Yi, a practitioner of the Way, how to seek the Dao. Bei Yi replies: “Straighten your body and focus your gaze; the harmony of nature’s Qi (vital energy) will come to you. Quiet your mind and gather your thoughts into one; Shen (spirit) will come to dwell within you. De (Virtue/Power) will become your virtue, and the Great Dao will become your home. Be as pure and guileless as a newborn calf, and do not ask why!”

Before he can finish speaking, Nie Que falls asleep. Bei Yi is delighted. He leaves, singing as he goes: “A body like dried bones, a mind like cooled ashes—this is true wisdom: it does not cling to old knowledge. Dazed and untroubled, without schemes, one cannot plot with such a person. What a lofty state this is!”

Through this exchange between teacher and student, the passage portrays the Daoist ideal of natural Wuwei (non-action) and a return to unadorned simplicity. Seeing his student fall at once into sleep, free of thought and worry, Bei Yi knows he has grasped the truth of the Dao.

Shun asked Cheng, an official in charge of astronomy in ancient times:

“Can a person obtain and possess the Dao—the fundamental pattern of the universe?”

Cheng replied:

“Your own body does not truly belong to you. How, then, could you possess the Dao?”

Shun pressed him:

“If my body does not belong to me, then whose is it?”

Cheng explained:

“Your physical form is a shape Heaven and Earth have entrusted to you for a time. Your life, too, does not belong to you; it is the harmonious Qi bestowed by Heaven and Earth, the Qi that brings Yin and Yang into balance. Even the essential nature of your life is only entrusted to you temporarily by Heaven and Earth.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses the relationship between people and the natural world.

The first part says:

Your life is a harmonious existence granted by Heaven and Earth, part of the natural order. Your descendants do not truly belong to you either; they are simply a continuation of Heaven and Earth’s cycle of renewal and transformation. So when you walk, you need not deliberately seek a direction; when you settle down, you need not cling to a fixed place; and when you eat, you need not pursue flavor excessively. These things arise from the Yang Qi (vital energy) that flows through Heaven and Earth. How could anyone forcefully claim them as their own?

The second part is a conversation in which Confucius asks Laozi (Lao Dan) about the Dao. Taking advantage of a moment when Laozi is at leisure, Confucius asks, “May I ask what the highest Dao is?”

Laozi replies:

“First, you must purify your body and mind through fasting; clear away and wash out the distractions in your heart; cleanse your spirit until it is pure as ice and snow; and break through the limits of your habitual understanding. The Dao is too profound to put into words. I can only give you a rough outline.”

Here, “clear away and wash out” refers to purification, “cleanse your spirit until it is pure as ice and snow” is a metaphor for spiritual refinement, and “break through the limits of your habitual understanding” means letting go of fixed ways of knowing. These are important Daoist methods for cultivating the mind: through purification and breakthrough, one comes to realize the Great Dao.

Visible, bright things arise from murky darkness; things with form and appearance are born from what has neither form nor appearance. Human awareness has its source in the Great Dao, the origin of the cosmos, while the body comes from Jing and Qi, the vital energies of life. All beings reproduce through their bodies: creatures with nine orifices—such as the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—are born from the womb, while those with eight orifices hatch from eggs.

The Dao comes and goes without a trace. It has neither gates nor a dwelling, yet reaches in every direction and is present everywhere. Those who follow the Dao have strong bodies and clear minds; their hearing and sight are keen. They apply their minds without exhausting their spirit, and respond to all things without clinging to fixed ways.

Just as the sky is naturally high, the earth naturally vast, the sun and moon move of themselves, and all things flourish in their own way, so too does the Dao act naturally.

Here, “nine orifices” refers to mammals, and “eight orifices” to egg-laying creatures such as birds. This reflects an ancient way of classifying living things.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the state of the sage and the nature of the Great Dao (the Way).

The first section says that extensive knowledge does not necessarily mean true understanding, and skill in argument does not necessarily mean wisdom. Sages have long seen through this. The true Dao—the underlying principle—does not grow when something is added to it, nor shrink when something is taken away. This is the truth the sage holds fast to.

The second section uses the sea as a metaphor. The Dao is as vast as the deep ocean and as enduring as the cycle of the mountains. It sustains and sets all things in motion, yet is never exhausted. The superficial principles pursued by worldly gentlemen fall far short of this fundamental Dao. All things draw nourishment from it without ever depleting it: this is the true Dao.

The third section speaks of extraordinary people in the Central Plains—those who have attained the Dao. They transcend the opposition of Yin and Yang, living between Heaven and Earth. Though they temporarily appear in human form, they ultimately return to the source of life, where “source” means the origin of the Dao. This describes the Dao cultivator’s state of moving beyond duality and returning to unadorned simplicity.

Here, Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang) are a central Daoist concept: the two fundamental forces of the universe, which oppose and complement each other. In the phrase “return to the source,” “source” refers to ultimate truth in Daoism, the root of all things.

At root, life is as fleeting as a fermenting thing (yin yi wu). Some lives are long and others short, but how great can the difference be? It is only a matter of moments. How could so small a difference be enough to judge the right and wrong of Yao, the sage ruler, and Jie, the tyrant?

Fruits and vegetables (guo luo) each follow their own patterns of growth. Human relationships may be complex, yet all things follow an order of mutual generation and restraint. When the sage encounters events, they do not resist them; once they have passed, the sage does not cling to them. To harmonize and follow things is De (Virtue/Power); to adapt as circumstances arise is the Dao (the Way). This is why the foundations of imperial rule could be established.

Human life between Heaven and Earth is like a white horse flashing past an opening in a wall: gone in an instant. All things surge into life and quietly fade away. We are born through change, and we die through change.

All things grieve at the passing of life, and human beings grieve even more deeply. Yet death is a release from the restraints imposed by nature (the “heavenly harness,” meaning the natural body) and a laying down of the burden we are born with (the “heavenly bundle,” meaning life’s burdens). The spirit drifts away, and the body dissolves with it. This is the true return to the source.

The passage from form to formlessness, and from formlessness to form, is a natural pattern of life and death that everyone understands. But those who have truly realized the Dao (the Way) do not cling to arguments about these appearances. Those who lose themselves in debate only move further from the Dao. Looking with the eyes can keep us from seeing the truth; silence is better than contention.

The Great Dao cannot be heard with the ears. Rather than fruitlessly seeking sounds outside ourselves, we should close the senses and turn inward. This is what it means to truly grasp the Dao’s essence. Here, “closing” refers to shutting the sensory channels, a practice of inward contemplation advocated in Daoism.

Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, “Where exactly is the Dao (the Way) you speak of?”

Zhuangzi replied, “The Dao exists in all things. There is nowhere it is absent.”

Dongguozi pressed him: “You must point to somewhere specific.”

Zhuangzi said, “The Dao is right there in tiny creatures such as ants.”

This dialogue comes from the Zhuangzi and expresses the Daoist idea that the Dao (the Way) is everywhere.

Someone asked, “Where is the Dao? Why is it in such a lowly place?”

The reply was, “The Dao is in weeds growing in the fields.”

The person asked again, “Why is it in an even lower place?”

The reply was, “The Dao is in broken bricks and roof tiles.”

By progressively naming humbler things, the dialogue shows that the supreme Dao exists not only in lofty places but also in the most ordinary things. Weeds and fragments of brick, though they may seem worthless, likewise embody the presence of the Great Dao. This reflects the Daoist view that all things are equal.

This passage comes from the “Knowledge Roams North” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It records the famous discussion between Dongguozi and Zhuangzi about where the Dao is found.

Dongguozi asked, “How can the Dao be sinking to ever lower places?” He was referring to Zhuangzi’s earlier remark that the Dao could be found in lowly things such as ants and weeds.

Zhuangzi replied, “It is in shit and piss.”

Dongguozi was left speechless.

Zhuangzi explained, “Your question itself misses the point. It is like a market inspector checking how fat a pig is by pressing down on it: the lower he presses, the more accurately he can judge its condition. Don’t try to confine the Dao to one place. Nothing lies beyond its expression.”

Zhuangzi concluded, “The highest Dao is like this: it is everywhere. The greatest truth is like this too: it does not shun what is lowly.”

This exchange presents Zhuangzi’s central idea that the Dao is present in all things. By pointing to ordinary things—even filth—he shows that the great Dao is everywhere and challenges the idea that it must be confined to what is exalted.

This passage from Zhuangzi describes the Daoist understanding of the Dao (the Way):

Although “Zhou,” “Bian,” and “Xian” are different names, they all refer to the same thing: the Dao. In essence, they are one and the same.

We once wandered together through the ethereal “Palace of Nowhere” (the realm of the Dao), merging into one as we discussed things without end. We once entered the state of Wuwei (non-action), our minds detached and tranquil, empty yet clear, harmonious and at ease. My mind has entered a realm of emptiness and stillness; it comes and goes freely, not knowing where it is bound, and circles back and forth, not knowing where it might rest.

I come and go freely in this way, without knowing where the journey ends. I roam at ease in a vast, boundless realm, where even great wisdom cannot find its limits. The Dao that brings all things into being has no boundary separating it from them. The boundaries among things are simply the boundaries between one thing and another. What is called “a boundary without boundaries” is the relationship between the Dao and things: they are both distinct and indistinct. As for phenomena such as fullness, emptiness, decline, and extinction...

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and tells the stories of several Daoist practitioners, revealing the Daoist understanding of the Dao (the Way).

The first section uses four pairs of opposites to show that the true Dao transcends ordinary ideas of fullness and emptiness, flourishing and decline, root and branch, and gathering and dispersal. The Dao is an absolute reality that goes beyond dualities.

The passage then tells a story. E He Gan and Shennong, the legendary forefather of medicine, studied together under Lao Long Ji, an accomplished practitioner of the Dao. One day at noon, Shennong was resting with the doors closed, leaning against a table, when E He Gan suddenly pushed the door open and announced, “Lao Long Ji has died!”

On hearing this, Shennong rose with the support of his cane. Then he suddenly dropped it and laughed, saying, “Heaven knows how little I understand and how arrogant I am, so it has made my teacher leave me. It is over!”

Later, when Yan Gang Diao heard about this, he remarked, “Those who have truly realized the Great Dao are followed by the gentlemen of the world. Yet what these people understand of the Dao today is not even one ten-thousandth of the tip of an autumn hair.” This suggests that the path of cultivation has no end, and that the true Dao far exceeds ordinary people’s imagination.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the state of realizing the Dao (the Way):

Even people who speak recklessly know to set aside their arrogance when death is near. How much more so for someone who has truly realized the Dao!

The Dao has no visible form and makes no sound. When people speak of it, they call it “the obscure”—a state of profound mystery. Yet these words only describe the Dao; they are not the Dao itself.

So Taiqing, a fictional seeker of the Dao, asked Wu Qiong, a figure representing the infinite: “Do you understand the Dao?” Wu Qiong replied, “I don’t know.”

Taiqing then went to ask Wuwei, a figure representing natural non-action. Wuwei began to answer, but the original text breaks off here.

This dialogue presents Zhuangzi’s understanding of the Dao: it lies beyond what the senses can know, and language cannot truly describe it. Even the truly wise meet it with the humility of “not knowing.” Through fictional characters, the passage also suggests different levels of realization.

This passage from Zhuangzi is a dialogue about understanding the Dao (the Way):

Someone asked, “You understand the Dao—the fundamental pattern of the universe. Are there any principles that govern it?”

“There are,” came the reply.

“What are they?”

Wuwei (the fictional adept) said, “I understand that the Dao can be exalted or humble, gathered or dispersed. This is what I know of its workings.”

The accompanying explanation says that the contrast between exaltation and humility, gathering and dispersal, shows how the Dao is ever-changing and embraces all things. This reflects the Daoist principle that the Dao follows its own nature.

Taiqing, a Daoist figure, asked Wushi, a name symbolizing the source of the cosmos: “If that is so, then which is right and which is wrong: not knowing the ‘infinite,’ or knowing Wuwei (non-action)?”

Wushi replied: “Not deliberately seeking knowledge is profound understanding; deliberately pursuing knowledge is shallow. Not forcing oneself to understand is inward insight; clinging to knowing is merely an outward display.”

Hearing this, Taiqing suddenly understood and exclaimed: “So not deliberately trying to understand is true knowing! The pursuit of knowledge can lead people astray. Who can grasp the wisdom of ‘not deliberately seeking to know’?”

Through the exchange between Taiqing and Wushi, this passage explains the core Daoist idea of governing through Wuwei. Wushi holds that true wisdom lies not in deliberately pursuing knowledge, but in responding to nature and gaining insight without forcing one’s actions. This reflects Daoism’s dialectical thinking about knowing and not knowing: the highest understanding is precisely a natural state that goes beyond the deliberate pursuit of knowledge.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the essential nature of the Dao (the Way):

Wushi, a fictional Daoist sage, said: “The true Dao cannot be heard with the ears. Whatever can be heard is not the true Dao. The Dao cannot be seen with the eyes. Whatever can be seen is not the true Dao. Nor can the Dao be described in words. Whatever can be spoken is not the true Dao. Understand this: what gives form to things—the Dao itself—has no form. The Dao cannot be defined by any name.”

Wushi continued: “If someone asks about the Dao and you answer, that shows you do not understand it. Those who ask about the Dao have never truly known it. The true Dao does not need to be questioned, and questions about it should not be answered. To insist on asking when there is nothing to ask is a dead end. To insist on answering when no answer is called for shows that the heart has not understood the Dao.”

“Those who use an uncomprehending heart to respond to empty questions cannot observe the mysteries of the universe outwardly or recognize the source of all things—the Great Beginning—within. Their understanding can neither reach the heights of Mount Kunlun, a sacred Daoist mountain, nor wander freely through the Great Void, the realm of the Dao.”

The passage emphasizes the Dao’s transcendence: it lies beyond sensory knowledge, since it cannot be heard or seen, and beyond language, since it cannot be spoken. It is the ultimate reality without form or name. Those who have truly realized the Dao understand that it cannot be approached through ordinary questions and answers.

This Zhuangzi parable tells of a conversation between Guangyao, who symbolizes brightness and wisdom, and “Nonbeing,” which represents absolute emptiness.

Guangyao asked Nonbeing, “Sir, do you actually exist, or do you not exist?”

Nonbeing gave no reply at all. Unable to press the question further, Guangyao carefully observed what Nonbeing was like: profound and hollow. He watched all day but could see no shape; he listened but could hear no sound; he reached out but could grasp nothing.

At last, Guangyao sighed, “This state is far too lofty! Who could ever attain it? I can reach the states of ‘being’ and ‘nonbeing,’ but not the level of ‘non-nonbeing’—where even emptiness does not exist. And when one becomes ‘Nonbeing,’ neither being nor nonbeing, how could one possibly reach this state?”

Here Zhuangzi uses a dialogue between personified figures to explore the Daoist idea that being arises from nonbeing. “Nonbeing” represents the empty nature of the Dao itself, beyond the opposition between being and nonbeing. Guangyao’s confusion points to the limits of human understanding and suggests that the true Dao is an absolute state beyond words and concepts.

Zhuangzi: A Modern Interpretation

The Grand Marshal of Chu had an elderly craftsman who made hooked swords, an ancient weapon. Even at eighty, the craftsman made them with unfailing precision. The Grand Marshal asked him, “Is this the result of exceptional skill, or have you mastered some special technique?”

The craftsman replied, “I have always followed one guiding principle. Since I was twenty, I have devoted myself to making hooked swords, until I could see nothing else. I never examine anything closely unless it is a hooked sword. By concentrating on my work and attending to nothing else, I have kept my skill intact over the years. How much more so for the natural Way, which requires no deliberate effort at all! What among the myriad things does not exist through this same principle?”

Ran Qiu, a disciple of Confucius, asked him, “Can we know what things were like before Heaven and Earth took shape?”

The story of the craftsman illustrates the cultivation of undivided attention. Zhuangzi uses an everyday skill to evoke the practice of the Dao: a state of focus in which one forgets oneself can open onto the Great Way. “As if making no effort” refers to a higher form of cultivation that appears effortless, though it has been attained through practice.

This dialogue takes place between Confucius and his student Ran Qiu. One day, Ran Qiu asked Confucius, “Can we know what things were like before Heaven and Earth took shape?” Confucius replied, “We can, because ancient times and the present are the same in essence.”

The next day, Ran Qiu came to see Confucius again, puzzled. “Yesterday I asked you whether we can know what came before Heaven and Earth took shape. You said we can, because ancient times and the present are the same in essence. At the time, I thought I understood. But today I’m confused again. Why is that?”

Confucius explained, “Yesterday you understood because your spirit (Shen) grasped it first. Today you are confused because you have returned to thinking it through with ordinary thought, without that spiritual insight. In truth, there is no distinction between ancient and present, and no beginning or end. Before descendants are born, can we say that they already exist?”

Here, “spirit” refers to an intuitive capacity for understanding that goes beyond everyday thought, while “ordinary thought” refers to ordinary logical reasoning. Through this dialogue, Zhuangzi suggests that knowing ultimate truth requires intuitive insight that transcends the concepts of time and space.

Ran Qiu, a student of Confucius, did not answer at once. Confucius said, “Enough; there is no need to answer. Do not cling to life simply because you are alive, and do not fear death simply because you must die. Are life and death really opposites? In truth, they are one.”

(The discussion then turns to the source of the cosmos.) Was there something that came into being before Heaven and Earth? The source that gives rise to all things is itself not a concrete thing. Nothing can exist before this source, just as all things depend on their maker. Because this source exists, all things can continue to come into being without end. The sage’s unceasing care for the world follows this Way of ceaseless creation.

Yan Hui (Yan Yuan) asked Confucius, “I once heard you say, ‘Do not deliberately send anything away, and do not deliberately welcome anything.’ May I ask what deep meaning lies in this?”

Confucius said, “People of antiquity adapted outwardly to the customs of the world while keeping their inner nature true. People today are unsettled within, yet cling rigidly to outward forms. Those who can truly live in harmony with all things must hold fast to the nature within them that does not change. They are at ease with both change and constancy, and live naturally alongside external things without trying to force them. That is how they maintain a proper balance.”

The passage then names the dwellings of four ancient sages: the gardens of the Xiwei clan, the orchards of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of the Youyu clan, and the halls of Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou. Even the gentlemen of those times—including leading Confucians and Mohists—attacked one another by appealing to their own standards of right and wrong. How much more so is this true of people today!

The passage concludes with the sage’s way of living: “The sage lives among all things without harming them. Those who do not harm things are not harmed by them. Only someone who does no harm to anything can truly live in harmony with other people.” It ends with an exclamation: “Whether in the mountain forests or on the waterside plains, I find heartfelt joy!”

“Xiwei clan” refers to a legendary ruler of high antiquity; “Youyu clan” refers to Emperor Shun; and “Tang and Wu” refers to Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou.

Zhuangzi’s words reflect on the uncertainty of human life and the limits of human understanding.

The preceding passage means that grief follows before joy has even run its course. We cannot stop happiness or sorrow from arriving, nor can we hold them back when they depart. How sad! People in the world are like an inn, able only to receive these emotions passively as they come and go.

The following passage concerns the limits of understanding. People know only what they have encountered; they do not know what they have never experienced. They know only what they can do; they do not understand what they cannot do. What we do not know and cannot do are unavoidable limits of being human. How sad, then, to insist on escaping limits that cannot be escaped. The highest words are unspoken, allowing things to follow their own course; the highest action is Wuwei (non-action), free of deliberate striving. To force all knowledge into a single, uniform understanding is shallow indeed.