《莊子》Vol. 23

A disciple of Lao Dan (Laozi), named Gengsang Chu, had especially grasped the heart of Laozi’s teaching on the Dao. He later withdrew to Mount Weilei in the north. Around him, the attendants who thought themselves clever all departed, and the maids who made a show of their benevolence and righteousness drew away. Only simple, honest people stayed by his side, while those who paid little attention to formalities took care of his affairs.

After three years, the area around Mount Weilei enjoyed a rich harvest. The local people said to one another, “When Master Gengsang first arrived, we thought his ways were strange. But now we see that while the effects may not be apparent at first, over time they bring abundant results. He must be a sage! Why don’t we honor him as a spirit, worshipping him as we do the local god of the land and the god of grain?”

When Gengsang Chu heard this, he sat facing south, the position of honor, and looked displeased. His disciples found this puzzling. Gengsang Chu then said… (The remainder is not provided.)

In the classical ritual phrase “serve him as the spirit receiving offerings, and honor him as the gods of the land and grain,” the “spirit receiving offerings” represents the deity being worshipped; the gods of the land and grain were traditionally invoked for protection and a good harvest. Mount Weilei is a fictional place name, suggesting a retreat far from worldly life. This passage illustrates the Daoist ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action): good results arise without deliberate striving.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the tension between the Way of nature and human judgments:

A disciple asked me, “How are you different from other people?” It is like the Yang energy rising in spring and the grasses growing naturally, then autumn arriving and all things ripening of their own accord. Do the seasons change because they intend to? No, this is the natural course of the Way of Heaven.

I have heard that a truly realized person, even when living in a humble earthen hut, will naturally draw the people to follow, though they do not know why. Now the people of this small place called Weilei secretly want to honor me as a worthy person. Wouldn’t that make me a target for their veneration? This reminds me of something Lao Dan, or Laozi, once said.

The disciple objected, “That is not so. In an ordinary ditch, a big fish cannot turn around, but it is a suitable place for loaches to live. Low hills cannot shelter huge beasts, but they are an ideal home for foxes.”

Besides, honoring the worthy, appointing the capable, praising good deeds, and offering benefits are all natural principles.

This passage presents the Zhuangzi school’s central idea of following nature. Through natural phenomena such as the changing seasons and animals’ habitats, it shows that each thing has its own nature and opposes human-made distinctions of rank and worth. “The truly realized person” refers to someone who has reached the highest level of cultivation. “Weilei” is a fictional place name. “Sacrificial vessels” refers to the vessels used to hold offerings in rituals; here, the phrase is a metaphor for being revered as a worthy person.

Gengsang Chu, a Daoist figure, said to his disciples, “Come and listen. Since ancient times, even sages like Yao and Shun had to follow nature. How much more so must ordinary people like us? The Master”—referring to Laozi—“understood this long ago!”

He went on to explain with examples: “Look at the great beasts that can swallow an entire carriage. Once they leave the shelter of the mountains and forests, they are bound to fall into a hunter’s nets. Great fish that can swallow boats, if they are swept ashore and left without water, can be bullied even by ants. So birds and beasts know to fly high for safety, while fish and turtles know to swim deep for security.”

“By the same principle, those who wish to preserve their lives and bodies should learn from them and keep themselves hidden. The deeper they remain out of sight, the better.”

At last, he criticized two debaters of his time, perhaps referring to figures such as Yang Zhu: “What is there to praise about these two? Their arguments are like digging holes in walls at random and planting weeds, or like counting each strand of hair while combing it and each grain of rice while cooking. How can such fussy, trivial ways of thinking truly address the great problems of the world?”

《Zhuangzi》 here discusses the roots of social disorder:

【23.1.10】

When people exalt the worthy, the people struggle against one another. When they prize cleverness, the people deceive one another. These methods of governing cannot make the people simple and honest. When people pursue profit too eagerly, sons kill their fathers and ministers kill their rulers; robberies take place in broad daylight, and people break through walls to steal at noon.

【23.1.11】

Let me tell you: the root of all disorder in the world was already hidden in the age of Yao and Shun, sage kings admired by the Confucians. Its bitter consequences will persist a thousand years later. In the world a thousand years from now, people may even eat one another.

【23.2.1】

Nan Rong Chu, a seeker of the Dao imagined by Zhuangzi, was startled. He straightened up and asked, “At my age, what should I study to understand these principles?”

This passage presents Zhuangzi’s criticism of the Confucian ideal of “exalting the worthy.” He argues that setting up human standards to admire can, in turn, disrupt the natural order. Nan Rong Chu’s question leads into the discussion that follows about Daoist practices of self-cultivation.

Gengsangzi (a Daoist recluse) said to Nanrong Chu: "You must preserve the wholeness of your body and guard the origin of your life, not allowing distracting thoughts and anxieties to disturb your Shen (spirit). If you can maintain this practice for three years, you will truly comprehend the Dao I speak of."

Nanrong Chu responded with perplexity: "The eyes and body are originally one - I see no distinction between them, yet the blind cannot see. The ears and body are also one, yet the deaf cannot hear. The mind and body are similarly inseparable, yet the mad cannot control themselves."

He continued pondering: "When all parts of the body are clearly interconnected, why do they sometimes seem separated by barriers? Why can't they communicate when they desire to? Now you tell me to preserve my form, guard my life, and eliminate distractions - these words reach my ears, but I cannot yet grasp their profound meaning!"

Gengsangzi, a Daoist recluse, said:

“I have said all I can. Let me give you an example. A small wild bee cannot turn a caterpillar into a bee. A young hen from Yue cannot hatch a swan’s egg, but a large hen from Lu can. Though both are chickens, their natures are much the same; their abilities differ because their natural endowments are unequal.

“My own abilities are limited, so I cannot guide you. Why not travel south and visit Laozi?”

Nanrong Chu, a seeker of the Dao, immediately packed provisions and traveled for seven days and nights to reach Laozi’s dwelling.

Laozi asked him, “You have come from the state of Chu, haven’t you?”

Nanrong Chu replied, “Yes.”

Through three animal comparisons, this passage suggests that guidance depends on the teacher’s level of cultivation, that teachers should adapt their instruction to each student’s capacities, and that Laozi was widely recognized as a great Daoist master. The exchange also illustrates the Daoist wisdom of knowing one’s limits: when his abilities fall short, Gengsangzi admits it openly and recommends someone better suited to help.

This passage from the Zhuangzi records a conversation between Laozi and Nanrong Chu, a Daoist figure.

Seeing Nanrong Chu arrive with a group of people, Laozi asked, “Why have you brought so many people with you?” Startled, Nanrong Chu quickly turned to look at those following behind him.

Laozi then asked, “Did you not understand what I just said?”

Ashamed, Nanrong Chu lowered his head. Then he looked up at the sky and sighed: “Now I have forgotten how to answer. I can’t even remember the question I came here to ask.”

Laozi pressed him: “What do you mean by that?”

The exchange illustrates the Daoist idea of grasping the meaning and then forgetting the words. Nanrong Chu had come seeking instruction with questions and attendants in tow. But Laozi’s simple question suddenly made him aware of the limits of clinging to questions and outward forms, leaving him in a deeper state of bewilderment. Through an apparently straightforward question, Laozi guides him beyond the constraints of language and form.

Nan Rongchu, a Daoist figure, said with confusion:

“Should I remain ignorant, or should I pursue knowledge? If I remain ignorant, people will call me foolish. If I pursue knowledge, I will only entangle myself in troubles. Failing to practice benevolence harms others, but practicing benevolence brings me sorrow. Failing to uphold righteousness harms others, but upholding righteousness leaves me troubled. How can I escape this dilemma? These three questions have troubled me for a long time. I hope you, Master Laozi, can answer them.”

Laozi replied:

“I understood your confusion as soon as I saw the expression on your face. Hearing you speak has only confirmed my judgment. You are like a child who has lost both parents, raising a bamboo pole to dredge the sea—a futile effort. You are truly lost, utterly at sea! You wish to return to your original nature, yet cannot find a way to begin. How pitiful!”

This exchange presents a central tension in Daoist Wuwei (non-action): becoming too fixated on what one ought to do can itself lead away from one’s natural nature. Through the images of losing one’s parents and trying to dredge the sea with a pole, Laozi criticizes Nan Rongchu’s attempt to pursue morality deliberately, which has trapped him in a cycle of thought.

Nan Rong Chu asked to stay at Laozi’s residence. Following Laozi’s instructions, he chose the forms of practice he liked and cast aside what he disliked. After practicing this way for ten days, his worries eased, and he went to visit Laozi again.

Laozi said to him, “You have already cleansed and purified yourself. Why do you still look so troubled? Yet your expression shows that aversion remains in your heart. Those bound by external things cannot keep their composure amid the clutter of the world; they should close off their senses and turn inward in practice. Those bound by desires within cannot find calm amid their tangled thoughts; they should open their minds and look outward. If someone is bound both inwardly and outwardly, they cannot even preserve their natural nature—how much less can those who go against the Dao (the Way)?”

Nan Rong Chu replied, “When someone in a village falls ill and a neighbor comes to ask after them, the sick person can describe their symptoms. That shows the illness has not yet become critical. But I am like someone who, after hearing of the Great Dao—the highest truth of Daoism—has taken the wrong medicine and made the illness worse.”

This exchange presents a central tension in Daoist practice: one must set aside disturbances from external things while also avoiding attachment to one’s own inner thoughts. Laozi uses “bonds within and without” as a metaphor for two common errors in practice, emphasizing the importance of maintaining the middle way. “Cleansing and purification” refers to purifying the mind; “troubled and gloomy” describes the frustration of practicing without finding the right way.

Laozi said in response to a question about the Way of nourishing life:

The true essentials of nourishing life are these: Can you unite body and mind? Can you keep your nature from straying? Can you foresee good and ill fortune without relying on divination? Can you know when enough is enough? Can you be content and withdraw? Can you turn inward and seek answers within yourself, without depending on others? Can you be free and at ease? Can you preserve your simplicity and natural innocence? Can you be natural like an infant?

He then used an infant as an example. An infant can cry all day without becoming hoarse; this is a sign of profound harmony. It can keep its fists clenched all day without cramping; this comes from following its nature. It can keep its eyes open without blinking, because its attention is not fixed on external things.

The true Way of nourishing life is to act without deliberately choosing a direction, to dwell without forcing action, and to follow the natural changes of things, like drifting with the current. These are the fundamental essentials of nourishing life.

Nanrong Chu asked the Dao: “So, is this the virtue of a Perfect Person—that is, someone whose moral cultivation has reached the highest level?”

The answer was: “No. This is only a shallow accomplishment, like ice melting and snow dissolving. How could it count as the realm of a Perfect Person? The true Perfect Person nourishes all things together with the earth and shares in nature’s joy with Heaven. They are not troubled by the gains and losses of human life.

“They do not join others in making a fuss, take part in worldly schemes and calculations, or get caught up in ordinary affairs. They come and go freely and act without restraint. This is what is called the fundamental way of nurturing life.”

Here, “the classic of nurturing life” refers to the basic principles for preserving life. The word “nurturing” in this context has a different meaning from its modern usage; it refers specifically to the fundamental Daoist methods of cultivating health and the Way.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes stages of Daoist cultivation. I’ll explain it in two parts.

The first part describes the “infant state”:

“Is this the highest state?”

“Not yet. I once asked you: ‘Can you become like an infant?’ An infant acts without purpose and moves without direction. Its body is as natural as a withered branch, and its mind is as still as cooled ashes. When you reach this state, calamity will not befall you, and you will not grasp after good fortune. Once you have gone beyond the ideas of calamity and good fortune, how could any human-made calamity arise?”

The second part describes the “state of stillness”:

When the mind is as settled as the cosmos, its innate light appears. As this light shines forth, a person can see their own nature clearly. By continuing to cultivate this state, one can attain enduring awakening. Those who attain enduring awakening draw others to them, and the forces of nature come to their aid.

Note: “infant” refers to the state of an infant, an ideal of returning to simplicity and naturalness in Daoism. “Heavenly light” refers to the innate spiritual nature within each person. “Enduring” refers to a stable state of awakening attained through continued cultivation.

Those whom people are willing to follow may be called the “people of Heaven”—those who accord with the Dao. Those who receive Heaven’s help may be called the “sons of Heaven”—those chosen by Heaven.

Learners should study what seems impossible to grasp; those who put things into practice should carry out what seems difficult to accomplish; and those who debate should examine principles that seem impossible to explain clearly. To understand where the limits of one’s own knowledge lie is the highest attainment. If someone fails to do this, the natural order will bring about their failure.

Prepare various things to nourish the body, keep the heart-mind calm to cultivate one’s nature, and approach all things with reverence. If disaster still befalls you after doing these things, it is due to Heaven’s will, not to human action. Such external disturbances are not enough to unsettle what has been achieved within, nor can they enter our “numinous terrace,” the dwelling place of the heart-mind. The numinous terrace has an inherent capacity to preserve itself, but this preservation happens without conscious effort and cannot be forced.

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses how to conduct oneself in the world. In modern terms, it can be understood as follows:

23.5.2

When someone acts without genuine sincerity, fails to find the right measure in what they do, and cannot let go when outside influences arise, they will keep making mistakes. Those who do wrong in broad daylight are punished by people; those who do wrong in secret are punished by ghosts and spirits. Only by understanding both the human world and the world of ghosts and spirits can one act with true independence.

23.5.3

Those who focus on inner cultivation do not seek empty fame. Those who pursue status and wealth are always looking for gain. A person who seeks no empty fame naturally has an inner radiance. Someone chasing reputation and profit is like a merchant: others may see them craning their neck to look around and mistake them for someone tall.

23.5.4

Those who are in harmony with all things are welcomed by all things. Those who set themselves against all things cannot even make room for themselves, so how could they make room for others? A person who cannot accept others will eventually be abandoned by both friends and family.

Note: Here, “within the bonds” means focusing on inner cultivation, and “beyond the bonds” means pursuing external fame and profit. “At one with things” means being in harmony with all things, while “in conflict with things” means setting oneself against all things. These are important concepts in Zhuangzi’s philosophy.

The passage from the Zhuangzi explores the relationship between the human mind and the patterns of nature.

The first part says that the sharpest weapon is not a sword but human will, and the most fearsome adversary is not another person but Yin-Yang: the patterns of nature. In the world between Heaven and Earth, we cannot escape the effects of Yin-Yang’s transformations. Yet Yin-Yang itself does not harm us; it is the human mind that creates the trouble.

The second part says that the Great Dao is continuous and all things arise from it. As things differentiate, distinct beings take shape; once formed, they eventually perish. Why fear differentiation? Because it is what makes things complete. And why fear completion? Because completion, too, requires preparation.

The third part says that when the spirit wanders outward and does not return, it takes on the appearance of ghosts. In pursuing things outside oneself and gaining something, what one actually gains is death. When the body perishes but something substantial remains, it becomes a ghost. To find stability, the visible body must take the formless Dao as its model.

Finally, the Great Dao has no source from which it appears and no path by which it returns. It manifests without form. Though it truly exists, it cannot be found anywhere.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the source of the cosmos and the changes through which all things are born and die.

Space and time

There is something that can extend without beginning or end—this refers to space, or “yu.” There is something that truly exists but has no specific location—this refers to time, or “zhou.” Here, “yu” stands for space without limit, and “zhou” for time without beginning or end.

The gate of life and death

All things are born and die; they appear and disappear. Yet the process of change between life and death has no visible form. This is the “Gate of Heaven,” the gateway of nature’s transformations. The Gate of Heaven itself is in a state of “nonbeing and being” (wuyou)—an absolute void that transcends both being and nonbeing. All things arise from this source. Nothing concrete can come into existence from nowhere; it must arise from “nonbeing and being,” the source in which nonbeing and being are united.

The wisdom of the ancients

Those who attained the Dao in ancient times understood truth deeply. The highest understanding recognizes that, in the beginning, nothing existed in the world: this refers to the undifferentiated state before the Dao took form. The next level of understanding acknowledges that all things exist, but sees birth as a loss of one’s original nature and death as a return to the source.

This passage presents Zhuangzi’s profound reflections on life and death, and on existence and nonexistence.

It begins by saying that the universe was originally in a state of “nonexistence” (at the beginning, there was nothing); only later did life arise, and life soon gave way to death. Zhuangzi compares nonexistence to the head, life to the body, and death to the buttocks, showing that the cycle of life and death is really one whole. Anyone who understands that “existence” and “nonexistence,” and “life” and “death,” are in fact one and the same is someone I would gladly call a friend.

Zhuangzi then offers an analogy: the noble lineages of the Gong, Zhao, Jing, Zhuodai, and Jia clans—all aristocratic surnames from the Warring States period in Chu—had different names but belonged, in essence, to the same kind of people. Likewise, existence and nonexistence, life and death, may seem different, but they share the same source.

Finally, life is as insignificant as a tiny black mole (the character yan refers to a small dark mole), yet people cling to disputes over right and wrong. Such arguments are ultimately pointless, because we cannot truly understand the hidden mystery at the heart of life.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores how people become trapped in opposing judgments of right and wrong by clinging to their own understanding. Sacrificial meat, such as the lungs and tripe, may seem fit to divide up as one pleases, yet in its essence it cannot be divided. It is like someone touring a palace: after walking through the main hall and side chambers, they still return to the place where they rest. People do the same when they impose their own understanding on things.

Consider this distortion in how we see the world. People take life as their foundation and their personal knowledge as their teacher, and from this they make judgments about what is right and wrong. When they cling to distinctions between names and realities, they make themselves the standard of judgment. They demand that others conform to their own rules, even willing to die to defend them.

Such people, you see, regard what is useful as wisdom and what is useless as stupidity; they take prominence as honor and hardship as disgrace. This distortion is a common failing among people today. Like cicadas and little doves, their vision is narrow, and they simply repeat what others say.

Here, Zhuangzi uses “shifting what counts as right” to describe the distortion of imposing subjective standards on the objective world. The insects and small birds that appear later stand for short-sightedness.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the highest way of dealing with others and the methods of cultivating oneself.

The first part says:

If you step on a stranger’s foot, you quickly apologize and say it was an accident.

If you step on your brother’s foot, a sign of concern is enough.

If you step on your parents’ foot, there is no need even to explain.

Thus:

The highest courtesy makes no distinction between self and others.

The highest sense of right and wrong makes no distinction between things and self.

The highest wisdom needs no schemes.

The highest benevolence makes no distinction between those close to us and those distant from us.

The highest trust needs no gold or jade as proof.

The second part describes four kinds of obstacles to remove in cultivating oneself:

Six things that disturb one’s aims: status, wealth, fame, power, reputation, and profit.

Six kinds of expression that confuse the mind: appearance, bearing, expression, speech, breath, and thought.

Six emotions that burden De (Virtue/Power): hatred, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure.

Six kinds of conduct that obstruct the Dao (the Way): avoidance, ingratiation, taking, giving, cleverness, and ability.

The passage concludes:

When these four groups of six entanglements no longer disturb the heart-mind, it can return to purity.

These passages from the Zhuangzi explain Daoist principles for cultivating the mind and nurturing one’s nature.

The first passage describes four stages of cultivating the mind: when thoughts are upright, the mind becomes calm; when the mind is calm, it becomes clear; when the mind is clear, it becomes open and receptive. In a state of emptiness and stillness, one may seem to do nothing, yet one can follow nature and leave nothing undone.

The second passage explains the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power). The Dao is the source and foundation of De. Life is the radiance of De, and one’s nature is the essential core of life. When one’s nature expresses itself naturally, that is true action; deliberate contrivance means losing one’s original nature.

The third passage concerns knowledge and conduct. Knowledge comes from contact with external things and from reflection within the mind. Yet even the wisest person has limits to what they can know, just as someone who looks askance will always have a blind spot. Doing what circumstances require accords with the De of Heaven. Conduct that does not violate one’s nature is self-governance. These ideas may seem contradictory, but inwardly they are unified.

The final passage makes its point through analogy. The archer Yi was skilled at hitting tiny targets, but not at preventing people from praising him. The sage was adept at following the Way of Heaven, but clumsy at handling human affairs. Only the “Complete Person” can both follow the Way of Heaven and move with ease among people. This is like an insect naturally doing what an insect does: it is simply following its nature completely.

“Complete Person” is an ideal figure proposed by Zhuangzi: one whose body and mind are in full harmony, and who has attained unity between Heaven and humanity.

Zhuangzi says, “Only insects can fully follow their nature. Why, then, would a perfect person reject nature? Why reject others for following their nature? And what of our own nature?”

This passage presents the Daoist ideal of following one’s natural nature. Zhuangzi suggests that if even insects can live entirely in accord with their nature, people should do so all the more. “Perfect person” refers to someone of complete moral virtue, and “nature” here means one’s innate disposition.

Zhuangzi tells a story: if a sparrow were to fly before Yi, the master archer, Yi could surely hit it through sheer skill. But if the whole world were made into a birdcage, the sparrow would have nowhere to escape. In this sense, King Tang of Shang “snared” Yi Yin by approaching him in the role of a cook, while Duke Mu of Qin “snared” Baili Xi with five goatskins. If you do not appeal to what someone values, you cannot win them over.

The story uses a metaphor to explain how rulers recruit capable officials. Yi Yin and Baili Xi were celebrated ministers of antiquity, each first drawn into a ruler’s service by an approach suited to him.

Zhuangzi says, “A man whose feet have been cut off does not care about dressing up, because he no longer cares about the judgments of the outside world. A prisoner can climb to a high place without fear, because he has come to take life and death lightly. One who does not concern himself with repayment from others and forgets social ties can reach the state of unity between Heaven and humanity. Thus, someone truly in harmony and unity with nature does not become pleased with himself when honored, nor angry when insulted.”

This passage describes a Daoist state of spiritual cultivation. “Men with bound feet” refers to people whose feet were severed as punishment, while “prisoners” refers to those in bondage; they serve as images of freedom from worldly concerns. “Heaven and humanity” refers to the realized person who has become one with nature.

This passage from the Zhuangzi speaks about the roots of emotion and action.

If, when angry, you can keep anger from showing, that anger arises from an inner calm. If, when acting, you can avoid forcing things, your action arises from a state of Wuwei (non-action), a central Daoist idea of following what is natural without insisting on your own will.

To quiet the mind, you must regulate your breathing; to open the spirit, you must follow your original nature. These both require deliberate cultivation. But truly fitting action often arises from “having no choice”—from responding to the limits imposed by circumstances. This way of living, which follows how things are and does not force them, is the way of the sage.

In brief, Zhuangzi teaches that the highest form of managing emotion and action does not come from deliberate suppression or exertion. It comes from returning to an original state of calm and acting in response to circumstances.