《莊子》Vol. 32

At the beginning of the “Lie Yukou” chapter of the Zhuangzi, the dialogue goes like this:

Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure from the Warring States period, set out for the state of Qi but turned back halfway. On the road, he met Bohun Wuren, a Daoist recluse. Bohun Wuren asked, “Why did you turn back before reaching your destination?”

Lie Yukou replied, “I was frightened.”

Bohun Wuren pressed him: “What frightened you?”

Lie Yukou explained, “I once ate at ten shops that sold a kind of ancient drink. At five of them, the owners brought me a drink before I even asked.”

(Note: The exchange seems simple, but it carries a deeper meaning. Lie Yukou is startled by the special treatment he receives, suggesting the Daoist idea of being “without dependence”: true freedom should not rely on external things or on other people’s favors. The passage that follows explores the worldly motives hidden behind such excessive warmth.)

Bo Hun Maoren, a Daoist sage in the writings of Zhuangzi, asked, “If that is so, why are you still alarmed?”

The other person replied, “Because the confusion within me remains unresolved, while outwardly I put on a polished appearance. Using this false show to intimidate others has led people to look down on the way of honoring the elderly and the truly worthy. It has only deepened my real troubles.

“It is like a vendor selling fermented drink. He is only trying to earn a little money from selling food and drink; his profits are small and his influence slight, yet even he puts on this kind of act. How much more so a ruler of a great state, commanding ten thousand chariots! His body is burdened with the affairs of the state, and his mind is worn down by government. The ruler will surely make me serve him with heavy responsibilities and judge me by my achievements and results. It is the thought of all this that alarms me.”

This dialogue expresses Zhuangzi’s criticism of worldly fame and achievement: pursuing outward success can cost a person inner peace. “A ruler of ten thousand chariots” means the ruler of a great state. The phrase “looking down on honoring the worthy and elderly” hints at the Daoist wisdom of valuing gentleness and keeping to the receptive way.

This story from the Zhuangzi tells of an encounter between Liezi, a leading Daoist figure of the Warring States period, and Bohun Wuren, a Daoist recluse.

Seeing the state of Liezi’s practice, Bohun Wuren praised him: “Wonderful! If you keep cultivating yourself this way, people will naturally come and follow you.”

Before long, Bohun Wuren visited Liezi again and found shoes filling the space outside his door, a sign that many people had come to see him. He stood facing north—a humble posture, since in ancient times honored guests faced south—and rested his chin on his staff. He stood silently for a while, then left without saying a word.

A disciple responsible for receiving guests told Liezi what had happened. Liezi hurried after him, carrying his shoes and running barefoot to the gate. He called out, “Since you’ve come, sir, won’t you give me a remedy?” Here, “remedy” means guidance to set him back on the right path.

The story illustrates the Daoist teaching without words. Through silence, Bohun Wuren suggests that Liezi has become burdened by worldly fame and strayed from the Daoist ideal of stillness and emptiness.

Zhuangzi’s passage describes how people should relate to one another:

“Let it go. I told you long ago that people would follow you. And now they have, just as I said. It isn’t that you can make others follow you; it’s that you can’t stop them from following you. So why deliberately set yourself apart to attract attention? That will only disturb your natural character, and it serves no purpose.

“Those who spend time with you won’t remind you of these principles. Their petty talk is really poison to the mind. If you cannot awaken to this yourself, how could anyone else help you?

“The nimble are always worn out, and the clever are always anxious. Only those who seem incapable are free of desire and want. Once they have eaten their fill, they roam at ease, like a boat with no mooring, drifting with the current. With a clear, unburdened heart, they wander through Heaven and Earth.”

The story that follows tells of Huan, a man from the state of Zheng. He studied the books and poems of the Confucians in a place called Qiu. In just three years, he became a Confucian.

This passage comes from the “Lie Yukou” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells of a tragedy sparked by a dispute between two schools of thought.

A man’s kindness could bring benefit across nine li, and his good fortune could extend to three generations of his family. Yet he had his younger brother study the Mohist teachings. When Confucians and Mohists argued with one another, their father took the side of Zhai of the Mohist school—that is, Mozi. Ten years later, the younger brother, named Huan, took his own life. After his death, he appeared to his father in a dream and said, “I was the one who made your son a follower of the Mohists. Why don’t you look at my grave? Autumn cypress fruit has already grown on it.”

The Creator’s response to a person is not to reward that person as an individual, but to respond to the person’s natural disposition. The younger brother was that way by nature, and so he became what he became. Some people, however, imagine themselves exceptional and therefore look down on their own kin. They are like the people of Qi who shared water from a single well yet ended up grabbing and fighting with one another.

So people in the world today are all like Huan, convinced of their own rightness. Even those known for their virtue do not understand this principle—how much less those who pursue the Great Dao (the Way)! The ancients called this kind of conduct “fleeing the punishment of Heaven.”

Note: “Mo” refers to the Mohist school, and “Zhai” is Mozi. “Autumn cypress fruit” symbolizes death. “Fleeing the punishment of Heaven” refers to the punishment that follows when one goes against the natural order. Through this story, Zhuangzi criticizes people who become attached to disputes between schools of thought and thereby go against their own natural dispositions.

These passages from the Zhuangzi contrast different attitudes toward life and offer wisdom about how to conduct oneself.

The first passage says that a sage who has attained the Dao (the Way)—someone who has understood the workings of nature—finds peace in what is truly worthy of peace. They do not try to find security in things that cannot provide it. Ordinary people do the opposite: they cling to what is not worth clinging to and overlook what could truly settle the heart and mind.

In the second passage, Zhuangzi says: understanding the Great Dao (the fundamental pattern of the universe) is not difficult; the difficulty lies in keeping silent and not giving it away. To know without speaking is to follow the Way of Heaven; to know and insist on speaking is to cater to human expectations. Those who attained the Dao in ancient times chose to follow nature rather than make a show of themselves.

The third passage tells a parable. A man named Zhu Pingman spent his entire thousand-gold family fortune studying the art of slaying dragons under Zhi Liyi. After three years, he mastered this extraordinary skill—only to discover that there were no dragons in the world to slay. The story mocks people who pursue impressive but useless abilities. Like spending a great deal of money today to learn skills with no practical use, it is a futile undertaking.

This passage offers a plain-language interpretation of a text from the Zhuangzi.

The first section contrasts how sages and ordinary people view what is inevitable. Sages treat what seems inevitable as not inevitable, without clinging to their own views, and so avoid conflict. Ordinary people, by contrast, treat what is not inevitable as inevitable, clinging to their own views and keeping disputes alive. Once they become accustomed to conflict, their actions fill with greed. Those who rely on force will eventually bring about their own ruin.

The second section criticizes the shallow wisdom of commonplace people. Their understanding is caught up all day in trivial matters such as gifts and social obligations: baoju (gifts) and gandu (the exchange of letters). They spend their energy on superficial concerns, yet imagine they can benefit the whole world and guide all living beings toward the empty state of Taiyi (the Supreme One), the Daoist highest realm. In truth, such people are bewildered by the material world. Their bodies are burdened, and they do not understand the truth of Taichu, the Great Beginning and source of the cosmos.

The third section describes the highest state of the “Perfected Person.” Those who have realized the Dao return their spirit to Wushi, the Beginningless state before anything came into being, and sleep in the ethereal “Land of Nowhere,” the realm of the Dao. They flow naturally like water, without fixed form, while their spirit spreads through the pure expanse of the Great Void. How sad that you concern yourselves only with trifles as fine as a hair, yet cannot experience true Daning, the Great Peace of ultimate tranquility!

Note: Taiyi, Taichu, and the “Land of Nowhere” are concepts specific to the Zhuangzi. They refer respectively to the highest realm of the Dao, the source of the cosmos, and the Dao’s realm of emptiness.

There was a man in the state of Song named Cao Shang, who went as an envoy to Qin on behalf of the king of Song. When he set out, he was given only a few carriages. Later, the king of Qin took a liking to him and increased his reward to more than a hundred carriages.

When Cao Shang returned to Song, he went to see Zhuangzi and boasted: “Living in a shabby lane, so poor that you must earn your living by making straw sandals, and so hungry that your face grows gaunt and your neck thin—that is something I, Cao Shang, could never do. But winning the favor of a ruler who commands ten thousand chariots, and having a retinue of a hundred carriages—that is what I, Cao Shang, am good at.”

Zhuangzi replied: “I have heard that when the king of Qin was ill, he summoned doctors. Whoever helped squeeze pus from his boils was rewarded with one carriage; whoever licked his hemorrhoids was rewarded with five. The more degrading the place treated, the more carriages one received. Surely you licked the king of Qin’s hemorrhoids? Otherwise, how did you get so many carriages? You’d better leave at once!”

This exchange uses an exaggerated comparison to mock Cao Shang for winning rewards through flattery and ingratiation, and it reflects Zhuangzi’s contempt for sycophants. “A ruler of ten thousand chariots” refers to the ruler of a great state with ten thousand war chariots; “chariot” was an ancient unit for counting military vehicles.

Duke Ai of Lu, ruler of the state of Lu, asked Yan He, a worthy scholar: “If I appoint Confucius as a pillar of the state, can he bring good order to the country?”

Yan He replied: “That would be dangerous. Confucius is like someone painting patterns onto decorated feathers—a pursuit of surface appearances. He devotes himself to elaborate words and mistakes the branches for the roots. He suppresses people’s natural dispositions in order to instruct the people, yet does not realize that this makes them lose their integrity. These practices go against their original nature and harm their spirit. How could he lead the people?

“Is he suited to you? Or would it be better to have me assist you instead? Even setting aside the question of choosing the wrong person, he is now leading the people to abandon simplicity and learn pretence. That is no proper way to teach them. For the sake of generations to come, it would be better to stop this.”

This exchange reflects the Zhuangzi school’s criticism of Confucian methods of moral instruction. It argues that placing too much emphasis on instruction through ritual and music can cause people to lose their natural dispositions. “Painting patterns onto decorated feathers” is a characteristic Daoist metaphor: it criticizes Confucian ritual as decoration applied to naturally beautiful feathers, spoiling their beauty.

This passage from the Zhuangzi explores how difficult it is to fathom the human heart and explains the pains of external and internal punishment.

The first part says that helping others while constantly thinking about the reward is not a natural, selfless act of giving. Even merchants look down on such behavior. They may go along with it outwardly, but inwardly they feel contempt.

The second part explains punishment. External punishment involves metal instruments such as knives and saws, and wooden instruments such as cangues and stocks. Internal punishment is the suffering brought on by reckless actions and wrongdoing. When petty people suffer external punishment, they are tortured with instruments; when they suffer internal punishment, disorder in Yin-Yang (yin and yang) gradually wears them down, throwing the body and mind out of balance. Only the perfected “True Person” who has attained the Dao can escape the suffering of both kinds of punishment.

The third part speaks in Confucius’s voice: the human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, and harder to predict than the heavens. The heavens at least follow patterns, with the seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—and the alternation of day and night. People, by contrast, are skilled at hiding their true feelings, so their outward appearance often does not match what is within.

Here, “True Person” refers to someone who has reached the highest level of Daoist cultivation. Yin-Yang refers to the two opposing yet unified vital forces within the human body; when they fall out of balance, illness can result.

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses how to recognize a person’s character. In modern terms, it can be understood this way:

The first part describes the gap between outward appearance and inner character. Some people seem honest and gentle (maoyuan) but are actually arrogant and unruly. Some appear virtuous and respected (chang), though they do not live up to their reputation. Some seem compliant (shun) but are inwardly impatient, even as they manage to get things done. Some appear steadfast (jian) but are actually lax. Others seem unhurried (huan) but are in fact extreme in their views. They are like people who pursue righteousness with the urgency of the thirsty, yet abandon it just as quickly, as though fleeing the heat.

The second part sets out the “Nine Tests,” nine ways to assess someone. Send a person far away on an assignment and observe whether they remain loyal. Keep them close and see whether they are respectful. Give them complicated tasks and assess their ability. Ask questions without warning to test the depth of their understanding. Set a tight deadline and see whether they keep their word. Put them in charge of money and see whether they are honest and free from greed. Tell them they are in danger and observe their courage and integrity.

The third part adds the final two tests: get someone drunk and see whether they lose their sense of proper conduct; place them among others and observe how they treat people.

Zhuangzi concludes that if all nine methods are used, a person of poor character will have nowhere to hide.

This passage describes two very different attitudes toward life.

First, there is Zheng Kaofu, a minister of the state of Song during the Spring and Autumn period. When he was appointed to office for the first time, he bowed humbly. On his second promotion, he bowed even lower. By his third appointment, he was bent over and made his way along the foot of the wall, a picture of extreme humility. Who would dare break the rules in the presence of someone so humble?

Then there is another kind of person. After receiving his first minor post, he strutted about like Lü Ju, an ancient weapon whose name here suggests arrogance. When promoted a second time, he waved his arms and danced about in his carriage. On his third promotion, he addressed his elders by their given names, showing that success had gone to his head. How could such a person compare with the ancient sages Tang Yao and Xu You?

The passage then states its central lesson: nothing is more harmful than “having intention in De” and “having an eye in the mind”—that is, deliberately pursuing moral virtue and judging it through self-interest. Once we look at De in this calculating way, we become caught up in scrutinizing ourselves, and end up damaging our own virtue.

There are five dangerous forms of virtue—ways of acting that depart from one’s natural nature—and “centered virtue” is the most dangerous. What is “centered virtue”? It is insisting that one’s own standard is the right one, then belittling others for not behaving as one thinks they should.

This passage from the Zhuangzi concerns life’s circumstances and the wisdom of how to conduct oneself.

The first section describes eight extreme traits that can lead to hardship, and three conditions that can bring a person through to success. It also mentions six key parts of the body. For example, being exceptionally handsome, having a fine beard, a tall stature, a powerful build, striking features, or extraordinary courage: when all eight qualities exceed the ordinary, they may instead invite adversity. By contrast, those who adapt to their circumstances, remain at ease with their situation, and accept that they may fall short of others can find a way forward.

The second section warns that showing off cleverness invites trouble, acting with reckless courage breeds resentment, and proclaiming one’s own benevolence and righteousness brings greater criticism. Those who truly understand life appear unassuming, while those who pursue cleverness seem small-minded. A person who grasps the larger course of life can follow nature; one fixated on minor gains and losses only wears themselves out trying to keep up.

The third section tells of someone who received ten chariots from the King of Song and then showed them off to Zhuangzi. The story mocks those who become carried away by small achievements. Zhuangzi’s point is that genuine wisdom lies in taking external praise and disgrace, gain and loss, lightly.

Zhuangzi tells this story:

A poor man lived by the river, making reed mats for a living. His son dived into a deep pool and brought up a pearl worth a thousand pieces of gold. The father said to him, “Quick, get a stone and smash it! A pearl worth a thousand pieces of gold must be hidden beneath the black dragon’s jaw, deep in the ninth abyss. You could only have taken it because the dragon was asleep. If it had been awake, not a scrap of your bones would be left!”

Zhuangzi continues: “The waters of Song today are deeper than the ninth abyss, and the ruler of Song is more ruthless than that black dragon. You obtained a carriage—that is, an official position—only because he was muddled. If the ruler of Song comes to his senses, you’ll be ground to powder!”

Later, someone came to invite Zhuangzi to serve as an official. Zhuangzi replied to the envoy… This parable suggests that gaining an advantage by luck under a tyrannical ruler is like snatching food from a fire. “Weaving reeds” refers to making reed mats; the “black dragon” is a mythical creature, and “ground to powder” describes being crushed to pieces.

Have you seen the ox prepared for sacrifice? It is dressed in embroidered finery and fed the finest fodder. But when it is led into the Ancestral Temple to be slaughtered, is it still in time for it to wish it were an untended calf?

When Zhuangzi was near death, his disciples wanted to give him an elaborate burial. He said, “I shall take Heaven and Earth for my coffin, the sun and moon for my paired jade discs, the stars for my jewels, and all things for my funeral gifts. Are my burial articles not complete enough? What could be more grand?”

His disciples said, “We are afraid that crows and eagles will peck at your body.”

Zhuangzi replied, “If it is placed above, birds will eat it; if below, ants will eat it. To snatch it from the birds and give it to the ants—why are you so partial?”

This passage conveys Zhuangzi’s vision of transcending life and death and seeing all things as equal. The sacrificial ox stands for people bound by worldly rites and conventions. In refusing an elaborate burial, Zhuangzi expresses the Daoist view of life and death as returning to the natural cycle in harmony with the Dao, without the need for human intervention.

This passage describes how pursuing balance and proof by the wrong means leads to neither genuine balance nor meaningful proof.

To seek balance through imbalance is to arrive at a “balance” that is not truly balanced. To judge things by standards that have themselves not been tested is to make judgments without meaning.

Those who think themselves clever are driven by appearances. Only those who truly perceive the workings of Shen (spirit) can see into the heart of things. Since ancient times, petty cleverness has never matched great wisdom. Yet the foolish remain stubbornly attached to their own views, devoting all their energy to outward appearances. Is that not a cause for sorrow?

Here, “those who think themselves clever” refers to people who mistake themselves for the wise, while “those who truly perceive the workings of Shen” refers to people who have genuinely grasped the Dao (the Way). Zhuangzi criticizes those who pursue truth by mistaken means and then imagine they have attained the Dao.