《莊子》Vol. 24

In “Xu Wugui,” a chapter of the Zhuangzi, Xu Wugui was introduced by Nü Shang to meet Marquis Wu of Wei. Marquis Wu greeted him, saying, “You must have suffered, sir. Life in the mountains and forests is so hard; that must be why you were willing to come and see me.”

Xu Wugui replied, “I should be the one to express concern for you. What reason do you have to be concerned for me? If you indulge your desires and feed your likes and dislikes, you will damage the life within you. If you suppress your desires and force yourself to endure your likes and dislikes, you will wear out your senses. So I should be the one to express concern for you. What reason do you have to be concerned for me?” Hearing this, Marquis Wu felt at a loss and could not answer.

After a while, Xu Wugui continued, “Let me tell you about my skill at judging dogs—that is, observing their qualities. The lowest sort of dog is content once it has eaten its fill. Its nature is much like that of a wildcat.”

This passage from the Zhuangzi speaks of the art of judging horses and the way of governing a state.

A horse of middling ability looks proper and well proportioned, like someone gazing straight at the sun. A horse of the highest ability, however, seems somehow to have lost something and is hard to fathom. My skill at judging dogs is not as good as my skill at judging horses. When I judge horses, the straight parts should be as straight as an ink line, the curves as smooth as a hook, the square parts should fit a carpenter’s square, and the round parts should fit a compass. A horse like this may be counted among the finest in the state, yet it still falls short of the best horse under Heaven.

The best horse under Heaven is born with extraordinary qualities. It looks as though it has lost something, as though something were missing. When it gallops, even dust cannot catch up with it; no one can make out where it has gone.

Marquis Wu of Wei heard this and laughed with delight. Xu Wugui then took his leave. Nü Shang asked, “What, exactly, did you do to make our ruler so happy? When I advise him, I do little more than use the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, the Book of Rites, and the Book of Music to guide him…”

Through the art of judging horses, this exchange hints at the way of governing and choosing people for office. Zhuangzi suggests that people of true ability often do not conform to conventional standards, just as the best horse seems “as though something were missing” while in fact it is exceptional. Traditional instruction through poetry, history, ritual, and music has value, but a vivid analogy like this may move a ruler more deeply.

This passage from “Xu Wugui” in the Zhuangzi tells how the recluse Xu Wugui used an unusual approach to offer counsel to Marquis Wu of Wei.

Nü Shang, one of Marquis Wu’s ministers, asked Xu Wugui, “In the past, people who came to advise our ruler quoted classics such as the Golden Tablets and the Six Secret Teachings, ancient military texts. Countless people who served the state and achieved great merit have done the same, yet our ruler has never once smiled. What did you say to make him so happy?”

Xu Wugui replied, “I simply shared what I know about judging dogs and horses—the qualities that make one better than another.”

Nü Shang was surprised. “That’s all?”

Xu Wugui continued, “Have you never heard of the people exiled from Yue?” The allusion is to exiles longing for their homeland: even a simple idea can deeply move someone’s heart.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes how a person’s feelings change with their circumstances. Three scenes illustrate the idea that the longer one is separated from others, the more deeply one longs for them.

A few days after leaving home, you are delighted to see someone you know. After a month or so, you are glad to see something you once saw in your hometown. After a year, even the sight of a human-shaped shadow fills you with joy. Doesn’t this show that the longer you are away from people, the more deeply you miss them?

The text then offers a more vivid image. People who have fled to remote wilderness live among overgrown weeds, where weasels roam. They are overjoyed just to hear human footsteps. How much more joyful would they be to have their own brothers beside them, talking and laughing? It has been far too long since words of true insight were heard in the ruler’s presence.

The next passage recounts a conversation between Xu Wugui and Marquis Wu of Wei.

Marquis Wu said, “You have lived in seclusion in the mountains, eating acorns and wild fruit, chewing on wild onions and chives, and keeping away from me for so long! Are you old now? Do you want to taste wine and meat? Or do you think that I, as ruler, might bring some benefit to the state?”

Xu Wugui is a fictional hermit. The exchange reveals the ruler’s mixed attitude toward hermits: he looks down on them, yet also hopes to make use of them.

Xu Wugui said:

“I come from a poor and humble family, and have never dared to enjoy the wine and meat bestowed by a ruler. I have come this time to offer you comfort.”

Marquis Wu of Wei, a ruler of the state of Wei during the Warring States period, asked:

“What do you mean? Why have you come to comfort me?”

Xu Wugui replied:

“I have come to comfort your spirit and body”—that is, the ruler has become weary in mind and body from attending to affairs of state.

Marquis Wu pressed him:

“How so?”

Xu Wugui, a Daoist recluse, said to Marquis Wu of Wei:

“Heaven and Earth nurture all things equally. Standing high does not make a person greater, and being low does not make a person smaller. You are a lord of ten thousand chariots, yet you make the people of the whole state suffer just to gratify your eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.

One who has attained the Dao does not boast. Such a person delights in harmony and dislikes wrongdoing. Wrongdoing is itself a sickness, so it takes care to put right. But what sickness is it that troubles you?”

Marquis Wu of Wei replied:

“I have long wanted to ask your advice. I want to care for the people and put an end to warfare in the name of humaneness and righteousness. Is that the right thing to do?”

This exchange presents the Daoist idea that all things are equal and criticizes rulers who burden the people and waste resources to satisfy their private desires. Xu Wugui suggests that the true way to govern is to follow the natural course of things rather than impose humaneness and righteousness. Marquis Wu’s reply shows that he has not yet grasped the deeper meaning of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

Xu Wugui, a Daoist recluse, said:

“This will not do. What appears to be care for the people is, in fact, the beginning of bringing them harm. To proclaim benevolence and righteousness while halting warfare may instead become the root from which war springs. If a ruler acts this way, he will likely fail.

“Those who deliberately pursue a reputation for goodness turn it into a tool for wrongdoing. Though rulers promote benevolence and righteousness, these are almost always false! Deliberately cultivating a particular image inevitably produces more false images; accomplishing a particular feat inevitably gives rise to rivalry; forcibly changing the existing order inevitably invites conflict from outside.

“A ruler should never display neatly arrayed troops atop splendid towers, or line up warhorses and chariots at places of sacrifice. Do not acquire things out of greed. Do not use cleverness to defeat others, schemes to subdue them, or warfare to conquer them.

“What good can come of wars waged by those who kill the people of other states and seize their lands to satisfy their private desires and so-called spiritual aspirations? What meaning does victory have?”

If you can let go of attachments, cultivate inner sincerity, and follow the natural order of heaven and earth without forcing interference, the people will already be free from the threat of death. Why then must you deliberately pursue so-called "ending war"?

The Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) set out to visit the recluse Dawei at Mount Jucí. Fangming served as the charioteer, while Changyu rode alongside. Zhang Ruo and Xipeng led the way in front, with Kunhun and Huaji following behind. When the group reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng, all seven sages—including the Yellow Emperor—lost their way and could no longer find their direction.

At that moment, they encountered a young boy herding horses. The Yellow Emperor asked him, "Do you know where Mount Jucí is?" The boy replied, "I do."

This dialogue comes from the “Xu Wugui” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells how the Yellow Emperor asked a young horse herder for advice on the Dao of governing:

The Yellow Emperor asked, “Do you know where Great Kui lives? He is said to be an immortal who presides over the Great Dao.”

The boy replied, “I do.”

The Yellow Emperor exclaimed, “This child is remarkable! He knows not only Mount Juzi, where I am said to have sought the Dao, but also where Great Kui lives. Please tell me how to govern all under Heaven.”

The boy replied, “Governing all under Heaven is as simple as herding horses. Why make such a fuss over it? When I was young, I roamed freely between Heaven and Earth. Later, I developed an eye ailment—a metaphor for being clouded by worldly concerns. An elder taught me, ‘You can ride the sun chariot, a metaphor for following the natural Dao, and wander across the fields of Xiangcheng.’ Now my eye ailment has eased a little...”

This passage from the Zhuangzi recounts the Yellow Emperor asking a young boy about the principles of governing the world.

The boy first says, “I’m going to wander beyond the six directions—that is, beyond heaven and earth in all directions. Governing the world is much the same. Why should I spend my time on it?”

The Yellow Emperor replies, “Governing the world is indeed not something you need to concern yourself with. Still, please tell me how it should be done.”

The boy declines to answer, but the Yellow Emperor asks repeatedly. At last, the boy offers an analogy: “How is governing the world any different from tending horses? You simply remove the horse that harms the herd.”

The exchange expresses the Zhuangzi school’s idea of Wuwei (non-action). By comparing governance to tending horses, it suggests that one need only remove what disrupts the natural order, without excessive human interference.

The Yellow Emperor, the legendary ancestor of Chinese civilization, respectfully knelt and bowed, addressing the other as “Celestial Master” (Tianshi), a teacher of the Dao. He then withdrew.

A wise person is unhappy without the pleasure of reflecting on change.

An eloquent person is unhappy without the chance to discuss and reason.

A perceptive person is unhappy without matters to analyze and judge.

Each is confined by things outside themselves.

Those who want to distinguish themselves seek advancement at court. Ordinary people take pride in holding office. The strong boast of overcoming difficulties. The fearless rise to meet calamities. Warriors delight in battle. Hermits pursue a reputation. Law enforcers devote themselves to promoting the rule of law. Those who value ritual propriety attend to their appearance. Those who advocate benevolence and righteousness place importance on human relationships.

By listing the characteristic pursuits of different kinds of people, this passage shows how each is bound by their own ambitions, reflecting Zhuangzi’s idea that “all things depend on something.” The story of the Yellow Emperor paying homage to a master suggests that one who has attained the Dao can transcend these limitations.

If farmers had no land to cultivate, they would grow restless. If merchants had no marketplace to trade in, they would feel uneasy. Ordinary people become diligent when they have a livelihood to attend to; craftspeople throw themselves into their work when they have tools and skills at hand. Those who are greedy fret when they have not amassed enough wealth, while those who love to show off are distressed when their power is too small.

People who chase power and wealth delight in schemes. When an opportunity comes along, they seize it for their own advantage. They cannot remain still and at ease. Like migratory birds that move with the seasons, they are led by things outside themselves. They wear down body and mind, sink into the desires stirred by the myriad things, and spend their whole lives unable to turn back. How pitiful!

Zhuangzi offers this comparison: “If an archer could hit the mark without aiming, and we called him a master archer, then everyone under Heaven could call themselves Hou Yi, the legendary divine archer. Would that make sense?”

This passage is about people bound by external fame, profit, and power, losing their natural nature. Through the image of archery, Zhuangzi suggests that actions that do not follow the natural order are illusory.

This passage presents a debate between Zhuangzi and Huishi (Master Hui) about standards of truth.

Huishi first gives a brief reply: “Yes.”

Zhuangzi then asks: “There is no universally accepted, absolute truth under Heaven, and everyone thinks they are right. If so, could everyone under Heaven claim to be as perfect as Yao, the sage king of antiquity?”

Huishi again answers briefly: “Yes.”

Zhuangzi presses on: “Then among the teachings of the Confucians, the Mohists, the Yang Zhu school—which advocates ‘each for himself’—and Gongsun Long, courtesy name Bing, a leading figure in the School of Names, together with your own teaching, making five schools in all, which one is right?”

This exchange shows Zhuangzi reflecting on relativism: when everyone insists on their own view, standards of truth fall into confusion. By comparing this to everyone claiming to be Yao or Shun, he reveals how absolute relativism may lead to a collapse of values. He ends by pointing to disagreements among the schools to question whether truth is subjective.

This Zhuangzi parable discusses the Dao (the Way).

A man named Lu Ju had a disciple who boasted, “I have mastered my teacher’s arts. I can make a cauldron boil rice in winter and create ice in summer.” Lu Ju replied, “That is simply using Yang Qi to attract Yang Qi and Yin Qi to attract Yin Qi—applying the principle that Yin and Yang give rise to one another. It is not yet the Dao I speak of.”

To show what the true Dao is, Lu Ju conducted an experiment. He placed two se zithers, ancient stringed instruments, one in the hall and the other in a room. When he plucked the gong note on one zither, the gong string on the other resonated as well. When he plucked the jue note, its corresponding string vibrated too. This happened because the notes were tuned alike.

But suppose one string was adjusted so that it matched none of the Five Tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu. When it was plucked, all twenty-five strings would vibrate together. This seemed to defy musical harmony, yet it had the effect of bringing all the notes under its influence—a metaphor for the Dao’s encompassing power.

Huizi, a leading figure of the School of Names, then remarked: “The Confucians, Mohists, followers of Yang Zhu, and Gongsun Long now all debate with me. They trade arguments and try to overpower one another, yet they have never truly refuted me. Aren’t they much like the zithers in this parable?”

Through the resonance of musical instruments, the parable suggests that the true Dao is more than a simple technique or a matter of argument. It is the fundamental principle that transcends oppositions and encompasses all things. The schools argue without end, like strings that seem out of tune yet hold a deeper unity.

Zhuangzi tells a story:

A man from the state of Qi sent his son to the state of Song to work as a gatekeeper, but had him do the job with a disabled body. He wanted a bell, yet tied it up so tightly with rope that it could not ring. He wanted to get his son back, yet never even went beyond the city gate. Acting this way was bound to leave regrets!

He also tells of a man from Chu who lodged in someone else’s home and worked as a gatekeeper. In the middle of the night, when no one was around, the man got into a fight with a boatman. Before he had even left the foot of the mountain, he had already made an enemy.

(These two cautionary examples show that using the wrong methods leads to bad consequences.)

In another passage, Zhuangzi is passing Hui Shi’s grave in a funeral procession. He says to his attendants:

Long ago, there was a man from Ying with a speck of white plaster on the tip of his nose, as thin as a fly’s wing. He asked Carpenter Shi, a renowned craftsman, to scrape it off. Carpenter Shi swung his axe, making the air whistle, and with a casual stroke removed all the plaster without so much as nicking the man’s nose. The man from Ying stood there, his expression unchanged.

(This story illustrates that great skill depends on perfect coordination.)

Later, when Lord Yuan of Song heard about this… (to be continued).

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells two stories.

In the first, a ruler asks Carpenter Shi to demonstrate his skill. Carpenter Shi replies, “I used to be able to do that kind of carving. But the partner who could work with me—the ideal subject for my craft—has been dead for a long time. Since that gentleman died, I have not found a suitable subject again, nor anyone who truly understands my art.”

The second story concerns Guan Zhong’s illness. Duke Huan of Qi visits him and says, “My father minister, your illness is grave, so I must speak plainly. If you are near death, to whom should I entrust the state?” Guan Zhong asks, “Whom do you have in mind?” Duke Huan replies, “Bao Shuya.”

Both stories reflect the Zhuangzi’s thoughts on how rare it is to find someone who truly understands you, and on choosing people to govern. Carpenter Shi needs a partner who understands his craft, just as an enlightened ruler needs a worthy minister who truly understands the Dao of governing. The text typically goes on to recount Duke Huan and Guan Zhong’s discussion of the standards for choosing officials.

Guan Zhong replied, “That will not do. Although this man is honest and upright, he has a flaw: he does not associate with people he considers beneath him. And when he hears of someone’s wrongdoing, he remembers it for the rest of his life. If he were put in charge of the state, he would be demanding toward the ruler above him and would go against the people below him. Before long, he would offend the ruler.”

Duke Huan of Qi asked, “Then who would be suitable?”

Guan Zhong replied, “If we truly must choose someone, Xi Peng would do. He is not demanding toward the ruler above him, nor does he turn against the people below him. He feels humbled by the thought that he falls short of the Yellow Emperor, the sage ruler of antiquity, and he can sympathize with those who fall short of him.”

This exchange expresses a Daoist wisdom about how to conduct oneself: an ideal ruler is tolerant toward others and strict with himself, neither unduly harsh toward people nor proud and complacent.

One who transforms others through De (Virtue/Power) may be called a sage; one who gives material goods to others may be called a worthy person. But when a worthy person treats others condescendingly, they fail to win people’s hearts. When they approach others with humility, there is no one whose heart they will not win. Such a person, when governing a state, does not deliberately seek to make a name for themselves; when managing a family, they do not deliberately draw attention to themselves. If one must name an example, Xi Peng, the worthy minister of the state of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period, was just such a model.

King Wu of Wu traveled by boat on the Yangtze River and went ashore at a mountain where monkeys lived. Seeing people arrive, the monkeys panicked and scattered, hiding among the dense thickets. Only one monkey remained. Calm and composed, it leapt about, showing off its agility in front of the king. The king shot an arrow at it, but the monkey nimbly caught the arrow in midair. The king ordered his attendants to shoot together, and the monkey was eventually killed.

King Wu turned to his friend Yan Buyi and said, “That monkey flaunted its skill and, relying on its agility, looked down on me. In the end, it brought death upon itself. Take this as a warning! Ah, do not treat others with arrogance!” Here, Zhuangzi uses a parable to show the dangers of relying on one’s talents and looking down on others.

A modern interpretation of two stories from the Zhuangzi:

The first story is about Yan Buyi:

(The passage just before this mentions someone who brought disaster upon himself through arrogance.) Take this as a warning! Alas, do not treat others with conceit. After Yan Buyi returned, he became Dong Wu’s student, changed his arrogant manner, gave up his pleasures, and resigned from his high position. Three years later, people throughout the land praised him.

The second story is a conversation between Nanbo Ziqi and Yancheng Ziyou:

Nanbo Ziqi sat leaning against a table, tilted his head toward the sky, and slowly breathed out. Yancheng Ziyou entered, saw him, and said, “Master, you seem truly beyond the ordinary! Can the body really be still like dead wood, and the mind and spirit truly be quiet like cold ashes?”

Nanbo Ziqi replied:

“When I lived by the entrance to a mountain cave, Tian He, the ruler of Qi, saw me, and the people of Qi repeatedly congratulated him on finding a worthy man. I must have revealed something first for him to recognize me; I must have displayed something for him to proclaim my worth. If I had not made myself conspicuous, how could he have known of me?”

(Background: Both stories express the Daoist ideal of letting go of arrogance and cultivating stillness. The first shows the importance of removing conceit through Yan Buyi’s transformation. The second presents Nanbo Ziqi’s meditative stillness and his account of it, evoking the self-forgetting state of “a body like dead wood, a mind like cold ashes,” as well as an approach to life that does not advertise itself.)

First paragraph:

If I do not willingly sell the Dao (the Way), how could anyone buy it from me? How sad! I grieve for those who have lost themselves; I grieve for those who grieve for others; and I even grieve for those who grieve for the people who grieve for others. With each turn of this cycle, we move farther and farther from the essence of the Dao.

Second paragraph:

When Confucius, whose courtesy name was Zhongni, came to the state of Chu, the king hosted a banquet in his honor. Sun Shuao, Chu’s renowned minister, stood nearby holding a wine vessel. As Nanyi Liao, a hermit from the southern market, received the wine cup and made an offering, he said, “O sage of antiquity, please partake here.”

Third paragraph:

Confucius continued, “I, Kong Qiu, have heard of truths that cannot be expressed in words, but I have never truly spoken of them. Today, let me speak of them here. Nanyi Liao resolved the feud between two families through the game of playing with pellets—that is, by giving a juggling performance that settled a conflict between two great Chu clans. Sun Shuao, by lying at ease and holding a fan, caused the soldiers of Ying, Chu’s capital, to lay down their weapons—that is, through governance by Wuwei (non-action), he brought the fighting to an end. I only wish I had a three-foot-long tongue”—a metaphor for eloquence.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the highest state of the Dao and the character of a true sage.

The first section says:

That state may be called “the Dao that cannot be spoken,” and this kind of debate may be called “debate without words.” True De (inner cultivation) belongs wholly to the unified whole of the Dao. Speech comes to an end where understanding can reach no further; this is the highest state. The Dao is a unified whole, yet De cannot be made fully identical with it. What understanding cannot grasp, debate cannot make clear. Those who cling to distinctions of name and concept, as the Confucians and Mohists did, only invite trouble.

The second section uses the sea as a metaphor:

The sea never turns away the rivers that flow eastward into it. This is the height of greatness. The sage embraces all things under Heaven and Earth, and his beneficence reaches throughout the world, yet no one knows who he is. He holds no rank in life and receives no posthumous title in death. He gathers no wealth and makes no name for himself. This is what it means to be a true “great person”—someone of the highest spiritual stature.

The third section uses a dog as an example:

A dog is not a good dog just because it barks well, and a person is not wise just because they speak elegantly. How much more so when it comes to accomplishing great things! The highest state does not lie in outward display.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores the ideas of “greatness” and De (Virtue/Power).

The first part says that deliberately pursuing greatness prevents one from attaining true greatness—so how much less can one attain De by pursuing it? Heaven and Earth are naturally complete in their greatness, yet they never strive after anything. Someone who truly understands greatness does not seek things outside themselves, worry over what they may gain or lose, or cast anything aside. Nor do they alter their nature for the sake of external things.

The second part says that continually examining oneself without falling into confusion, and following the ancient Way without being worn down by it, express the true nature of a “great person”—someone whose De is complete.

The third part tells a story. A man named Ziqi called his eight sons before him and asked the physiognomist Jiufang Yin, a famous judge of faces in ancient times, which son was most blessed. Jiufang Yin pointed to a boy named Kun and said, “This child has the most auspicious appearance.”

The passage reflects Zhuangzi’s thought of Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness: true greatness exists naturally, like Heaven and Earth, and needs no deliberate pursuit. The story of physiognomy that follows suggests that good fortune shows itself on its own; it cannot be forced.

Ziqi (a Daoist figure) suddenly brightened and asked, “Well?”

Jiu Fangyin, a physiognomist, replied, “Kun, your son, will dine with the ruler. It will be so throughout his life.”

On hearing this, Ziqi suddenly wept and said, “How could my son have fallen so low?”

Jiu Fangyin explained, “To share a meal with the ruler is a blessing that can benefit three clans—the father’s, the mother’s, and the wife’s. How much more, then, should it benefit his parents? Yet when you hear this news, you weep instead. You are turning away a blessing. The son is fortunate, while the father is unfortunate.”

This exchange reveals the Daoist view of worldly wealth and status. Ziqi sees dining with the ruler as a loss of one’s original nature, while the physiognomist regards it as a worldly blessing. Their responses reflect a clash between two systems of values.

Ziqi, a Daoist figure, said:

“Alas, how could you truly understand these things? You cannot even read the auspicious signs shown by kun, a method of divination. You only know how to stuff your mouth with wine and meat. How could you understand where these things come from?”

“I have never kept sheep, yet a ewe appeared in the corner of my room. I have never hunted, yet a quail appeared on a roof beam. Do you find this strange? Why do you think it happened?”

“My disciples and I roam between Heaven and Earth. We share Heaven’s joy and Earth’s food. We take no part in worldly affairs, harbor no greed, and do nothing bizarre.”

“We follow the natural patterns of Heaven and Earth, undisturbed by external things. We go along with nature’s changes and do not force our actions to meet worldly standards. Yet now we must bear the consequences imposed by the world!”

The passage reflects the Zhuangzi school’s emphasis on following nature. Ziqi points to unusual events in everyday life to suggest that all things have their own natural patterns, which need not be forced into an explanation. In the end, he laments that even those who have transcended worldly concerns cannot escape the world’s influence.

The passage from the Zhuangzi tells several parable-like stories.

The first says that whenever strange signs appear, strange events are bound to follow. This is probably no fault of mine or my students; it is fate ordained by Heaven. That is why I weep.

This expresses the Daoist idea of following Heaven’s mandate: unusual events have Heaven’s will behind them.

The second is a satirical story. Before long, Pang Kun (a personal name) was sent to the state of Yan, but on the way he was captured by bandits. The bandits realized that selling a man whole would be difficult, so they decided he would be easier to sell if they cut off his feet. They did so and sold him in the state of Qi. By chance, Qu Gong, a nobleman of Qi, bought him to guard the marketplace. As a result, Pang Kun ended up with meat to eat for the rest of his life.

With this absurd tale, Zhuangzi illustrates how misfortune and good fortune depend on one another: what seems like a calamity may unexpectedly bring a blessing.

The third is a conversation between Nie Que, a Daoist recluse, and Xu You, a worthy man from the time of Emperor Yao. Nie Que asked, “Where are you going?” Xu You replied, “I am going to escape Yao’s summons.”

The story reflects the Daoist impulse to withdraw from the world and avoid involvement in worldly politics.

Someone asked, “What does this mean?”

Zhuangzi replied, “Look at Emperor Yao, an ancient sage ruler. He spent all his time promoting benevolence and righteousness. I worry that his approach will only make people under Heaven laugh at him. If things continue this way, later generations may even see the terrible tragedy of people eating one another!”

He went on to explain:

Ordinary people are easy to gather. Show them care, and they will draw near; offer them benefits, and they will come to you; praise them, and they will strive to do their best. But make them resent you, and they will scatter.

Both benevolence and material gain are pursued in the name of benevolence and righteousness. Yet few are truly willing to give themselves to these ideals; many more use them to seek private advantage.

Acts of benevolence and righteousness often lack sincerity and instead become tools for the greedy. Letting someone rule all under Heaven through benevolence and righteousness is like trying to butcher the whole world with a small knife.

Zhuangzi’s final point is sharp: Yao knew that worthy people could benefit the world, but did not know that they could also bring it harm. Only those who have gone beyond the very idea of the “worthy” can truly understand this.

Note: This passage reflects the Daoist idea of “abandoning benevolence and discarding righteousness.” It suggests that deliberately making a show of benevolence and righteousness leads to hypocrisy, and advocates governing through Wuwei (non-action), in accord with nature.

The Zhuangzi describes three limited ways of being:

The first is the “self-satisfied person.” Having learned only a little from a teacher, this person quietly congratulates themselves and thinks they have become quite accomplished. In truth, they have not yet encountered the heart of genuine learning. This is what is meant by the “self-satisfied person.”

The second is the “person like a louse on a pig.” Zhuangzi uses pig lice as a metaphor for this kind of person. The lice settle among the pig’s sparse bristles and imagine they live in a vast palace garden. They roam the folds of its hooves, between its teats, or at the roots of its thighs, convinced they have found a safe and comfortable home.

Here Zhuangzi uses the lice’s point of view to mock people with narrow horizons who imagine they know it all. Like lice, they take a tiny patch of the pig’s body for the whole world, entirely unaware of the wider realm beyond it.

This passage tells two parables.

The first story says that people who crave comfort are like pigs. They do not realize that the butcher may set fire to the thatch at any moment, until they and the pigs are left scorched together. Whatever their comings and goings, such people remain confined to their own small circle. This is what is meant by “those who seek ease” (people who settle for temporary comfort).

The second story tells of Emperor Shun, a virtuous ruler of ancient times. Just as lamb attracts ants, Shun’s noble virtue drew the people to follow him. Each of the three times he moved, a capital city arose. By the time he reached the ruins of Deng, a hundred thousand households had followed him. When Emperor Yao heard of Shun’s ability and virtue, he sent him to the barren land of Tongtu, hoping he would bring it prosperity. But Shun remained there until he was old and frail, his abilities diminished, and still had no respite. This is what is meant by “those bent with toil” (people who labor without rest throughout their lives).

Note: “Those who seek ease” refers to people who crave immediate comfort. “Those bent with toil” describes a life of ceaseless labor without rest. “The land of Tongtu” means barren, uncultivated land. “The ruins of Deng” refers to the ruins in Deng; the precise location is unknown.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the state and way of life of the Daoist “True Person,” someone who has attained the Dao.

Those who have truly attained the Dao do not welcome crowds gathering around them. When many people come together, they are likely to compare themselves with one another, and comparison can lead to disputes over gain. So the True Person neither favors anyone in particular nor deliberately keeps people at a distance. They remain peaceful and follow the natural course of things.

They respond to things in different ways: with ants, they set aside clever contrivance and do not interfere; with fish, they let them live freely without forcing them; with flocks of sheep, they allow things to proceed naturally instead of trying to change them.

A true cultivator uses their eyes to see what should be seen, their ears to hear what should be heard, and their heart-mind to return to its original nature. Their inner state is calm and straight as a carpenter’s line, and they meet change by following the patterns of nature. The True Persons of ancient times used the Way of Heaven to guide human affairs; they did not use human artifice to disrupt the Way of Heaven.

For them, what appears to be gaining may be a new beginning, while what appears to be losing may be death—and the reverse may also be true: an apparent gain may bring death, while an apparent loss may open onto new life. Gain and loss, life and death, are relative.

The passage ends by naming several medicinal plants: violet, balloon flower, and corydalis. Their ordinariness suggests that the Dao is present in everyday things, and that the Great Way is simple.

This passage from the Zhuangzi uses vivid metaphors to reflect on the principles of life.

The first passage says that the poria plant, a medicinal herb, can play a ruler-like role in the right season, showing that every thing has its own distinctive value. When King Goujian of Yue retreated to Mount Kuaiji with three thousand soldiers, his minister Wen Zhong knew how to turn danger into safety, yet did not understand why he himself had fallen into sorrow. Zhuangzi concludes that an owl’s eyes are suited to seeing at night, while a crane’s legs are naturally long. Forcibly changing either would only cause pain.

The second passage draws on natural events as metaphors. Wind blowing over a river carries away moisture, and sunlight also causes water to evaporate. Yet if wind and sun watched over a river all day, the river would feel no loss, because fresh water from its source continually replenishes it. Just as water depends on land in order to exist, and a shadow needs a body in order to appear, all things follow the natural laws of mutual dependence.

The passage concludes that eyes can be harmed by seeking too much brightness, and ears injured by striving for excessive sharpness. Zhuangzi’s reminder is that deliberate striving can backfire; following one’s natural nature is the proper way.

When the human mind is constantly driven by desire to pursue external things, it is in danger. It is like a government office—which here represents the human body—that falls into danger when it makes excessive use of its functions. Once this danger takes hold, it is too late to correct. Calamity often gathers quickly as it grows. Turning it around takes effort, and seeing results takes a long time. Yet people treasure these desires. Is that not tragic? This is why states keep falling and ordinary people keep suffering: people do not know how to reflect on this principle.

A foot rests on the ground over only a small patch, yet it is the ground beyond that patch that makes it possible to walk freely. Human knowledge is limited too. We know little, but by recognizing what we do not know, we can truly understand the meaning of the Heavenly Dao (the laws of nature).

To grasp these fundamental principles, one must understand the Great One (Taiyi), comprehend the hidden laws of the Great Yin (Taiyin), discern the fundamental order of the Great Pattern, master the overall balance of the Great Equalization, understand the boundless dimensions of the Great Form, trust in the absolute truth of the Great Faith, and attain the ultimate stillness of the Great Stability. Only then has one reached the highest realm. The Great One can permeate all things.

This passage from the Zhuangzi describes the Daoist way of understanding the world.

The deepest wisdom, the “Great Yin,” can transform the myriad things. The clearest vision, the “Great Eye,” can see their essence. The most impartial perspective, the “Great Equalization,” can connect all things. The broadest heart, the “Great Scope,” can understand the myriad things. The truest faith, the “Great Trust,” can confirm the truth. The steadiest state of mind, the “Great Stability,” can grasp what is fundamental.

Here it reveals the patterns by which the universe operates: all things possess their own natural nature; by following their patterns, the truth comes to light; within the murk there is a pivotal point; and the outcome is already contained in the beginning.

True understanding may seem like a lack of understanding, and true knowledge may seem like not knowing. Only by setting aside fixed ideas can we truly understand. When seeking the truth, we should neither set boundaries nor wander without limit.

The myriad things may be tangled and changing, yet they have substance. Past and present may shift, yet the fundamental remains. The Great Dao endures and cannot be diminished. Is this not a great truth?

Why not pursue the question from here? Why remain confused? Let a mind free of confusion dispel confusion and return to its original clarity. This is the highest awakening: Great Freedom from Confusion.