《莊子》Vol. 7

A plain-language reading of “The Respondent to Emperors and Kings,” a chapter of the Zhuangzi:

Nie Que, a Daoist recluse, asked Wang Ni, a sage who had attained the Dao, four questions. Wang Ni answered “I don’t know” to each one. Nie Que was delighted. He leapt up and ran to tell Pu Yizi, another sage. Pu Yizi said, “Do you understand now? The state of Youyu (Emperor Shun) still fell short of the state of Taishi (Fuxi).”

The passage then explains: Although Emperor Shun used benevolence and virtue to win people’s hearts, and was indeed welcomed by the people, his approach still involved deliberate human effort. Fuxi, by contrast, was at ease and carefree whether asleep or awake. It made no difference to him whether others treated him as a horse or an ox. His wisdom was genuine and trustworthy, and his virtue was pure and natural; he never fell into artificial conduct.

The passage then turns to Jian Wu, a cultivator of the Dao, who meets Kuang Jieyu, an eccentric from the state of Chu. Kuang Jieyu asks him, “What did Rizhongshi—perhaps an invented figure—say to you?” Jian Wu then recounts Rizhongshi’s views on governing the world.

This passage contrasts Emperor Shun with Fuxi to illustrate the Daoist ideal of natural Wuwei (non-action). Shun represents the “benevolent rule” esteemed by Confucianism, while Fuxi symbolizes the Daoist vision of ruling through Wuwei.

In this dialogue from the Zhuangzi, “Responding to Emperors and Kings,” Tian Gen asks the Nameless Man how to govern the world. The Nameless Man immediately rebukes him: “Go away! You crude fellow—why ask such a question?” Through this imagined exchange, Zhuangzi criticizes rule by force.

Jieyu’s metaphor earlier in the passage makes the point clearly: rulers like to set rules according to their own standards—prescriptions, models, duties, and measures—believing this will make people submit to their teaching. But that goes against the natural Dao. It is as absurd as trying to cross the sea on foot and dig a canal, or making a mosquito carry a mountain.

How could a true sage govern by imposing such external restraints? They need only put themselves in order, allowing the people to develop their abilities naturally. Birds know to fly high to escape arrows; mice know to dig deep burrows to avoid smoke. Even small animals understand how to follow their nature—how much more so should people?

Note: zengyi are arrows attached to cords; shenqiu refers to the altar of the soil deity. The passage uses animals’ instincts to illustrate Daoist Wuwei (non-action), and to oppose the Confucian system of ritual and law.

This passage contains two parable-like dialogues from the Zhuangzi. Here is a plain-language interpretation:

In the first story, the Nameless Man, an imagined sage who has attained the Dao, says to the man asking about government: “Why do you have to come and disturb me? I am preparing to roam with the Creator, who stands for the Great Dao. When I tire, I ride a misty, elusive bird—a metaphor for a spirit that has transcended the ordinary—and fly beyond the six directions of Heaven and Earth. I wander through a realm where nothing exists and rest in boundless wilderness. How could I have time to let matters like governing the world unsettle my mind?”

The Nameless Man continues: “Let your mind roam in calm simplicity, let your breath merge with stillness and emptiness, and follow the natural course of all things without letting personal motives intrude. Then the world will be at peace of its own accord.” This expresses the Daoist political ideal of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The second story tells of Yang Ziju, an imagined figure, visiting Laozi (Lao Dan) and asking: “Suppose there is someone who responds quickly and acts decisively, sees through things and has clear insight, and pursues the Dao with tireless devotion. Could such a person measure up to an enlightened ruler?” This hints at the limits of judging an “enlightened ruler” by worldly standards.

Laozi (that is, Lao Dan) said:

“A sage like this—one who pursues outward achievements—is no more than an official clerk bound by his skills, wearing out his body and unsettling his spirit.

Look at the tiger and leopard: their beautiful coats bring hunters after them. The agile monkey and the hunting dog, prized for their abilities, are caught and tethered. How could a sage like this compare with a truly enlightened ruler?”

Yang Ziju’s expression changed. He respectfully asked, “May I ask how an enlightened ruler governs the world?”

Laozi replied:

“When a truly enlightened ruler governs the world, his achievements extend everywhere, yet seem to have nothing to do with him. He teaches and transforms all things, yet the people feel no dependence on him. He has merit and Virtue (De), yet claims no credit for them. He allows all things to rejoice naturally, while dwelling in a depth beyond measure and roaming in emptiness and stillness.”

The images of the tiger, leopard, monkey, and hunting dog show how pursuing outward abilities can bring misfortune. Laozi praises Wuwei (non-action) as a way of governing: the ruler should be like the Dao (the Way), invisible and leaving no trace, yet nourishing all things.

In the state of Zheng there was a highly gifted diviner named Jixian. He could foresee whether people would live or die, meet with good or bad fortune, enjoy long lives or die young. His predictions were accurate down to the year, month, and day, and seemed almost divine. Whenever the people of Zheng saw him, they were so frightened that they fled to hide.

Liezi, a leading Daoist, met Jixian and greatly admired him. When he returned, he told his teacher, Huzi, “I used to think your Daoist arts had reached their highest point. I never imagined there could be someone more accomplished.”

Huzi said, “What I have taught you is only superficial skill. I have not yet passed on what is essential, yet you already think you have attained the Dao? It is like having a hen but no rooster: how could any chicks be hatched? With just this little bit of superficial skill, you want to show yourself off to the world. People will surely see through you. Bring him to meet me tomorrow.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet Huzi. After examining Huzi, Jixian came out and said to Liezi…

This passage comes from the “Responding to Emperors and Kings” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells the story of Liezi, a representative Daoist figure, and his teacher Huzi, an accomplished master, encountering the spiritual medium Jixian. Here is a plain-language interpretation:

In the first scene, Jixian cried out, “Oh no! Your teacher is going to die! He won’t survive! He has less than ten days. I can see death in him, like damp ashes without a spark of life.”

After Liezi went inside, he wept as he told Huzi what Jixian had said. Huzi replied, “Just now, I showed him ‘Earthly Pattern’—a state of meditation in which the breath stirs faintly but seems still. He must have seen that I had closed off the signs of life. Let him come back another day.”

The next day, Jixian came to see Huzi again. When he came out, he said to Liezi, “How fortunate! Your teacher met me, and now he can be saved! His vitality has fully returned. I saw the signs of life, which had been closed off, begin to stir.” Liezi went inside and relayed this to Huzi.

Huzi said, “Just now, I showed him ‘Heaven and Earth in Union’—a state in which fame and profit do not enter the heart, and vitality rises naturally from the soles of the feet.”

In the background to this passage, Huzi demonstrates Daoist states of cultivation by adjusting his own condition of life and showing the medium different levels of attainment. “Earthly Pattern” refers to stillness in meditation, like the earth; “Heaven and Earth in Union” refers to a state of communion with Heaven and Earth; and “closing the mechanism of De” refers to a state in which vitality is sealed off. The story expresses the Daoist idea of responding to things through change: one who has attained the Dao can freely regulate the conditions of life and is not deceived by appearances.

This passage comes from the “Responding to Emperors and Kings” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It tells how Liezi (Lie Yukou) brought a physiognomist to meet his teacher, Huzi (Hu Qiuzilin). Here is a modern paraphrase:

[After their first meeting]

The physiognomist came out and said to Liezi, “Your teacher’s complexion keeps changing. I can’t read his fate at all. I’ll come back to examine him once his breath has settled.”

[After Liezi reported this]

Huzi said, “What I showed him just now was ‘the supreme balance that nothing can overcome’—a state in which Yin and Yang are balanced to the utmost. He probably saw only the balance of my breath. It is like a deep pool formed where a great fish makes its home, where still water gathers, or where flowing water swirls. There are nine ways a deep pool can form; this time I showed him only three. Have him come again another day.”

[At their third meeting]

The next day, the physiognomist returned with Liezi to see Huzi. Before he had even found his footing, he panicked and fled.

Background:

Zhuangzi uses this parable to express the idea that “the perfected person has no fixed appearance.” Someone who has attained the Dao (the Way) transcends outward forms, leaving even a physiognomist unable to read him.

“Supreme balance that nothing can overcome” is a Daoist term for the highest state of complete balance between Yin and Yang.

The three images of “deep pools” suggest that Huzi revealed different levels of life, each only a partial manifestation of the Dao.

The Master of the Pot said, “Go after him!”

Liezi went in pursuit, but could not catch up. He returned and reported to the Master of the Pot, “That man has disappeared. I couldn’t catch him.”

The Master of the Pot explained, “Just now, I showed him the state of ‘never having departed from my source’—the fundamental origin of Daoism. I met him with emptiness and stillness, following what came naturally, so that even he did not know what was happening. At times I seemed as yielding as thatch; at others, as changeable as rippling water. That is why he fled.”

After this, Liezi realized that he had not yet truly understood the Dao. He went home and shut himself away to practice for three years. During that time, he personally cooked for his wife, and when feeding the pigs, he treated them with the same respect he would show people. He stopped clinging to worldly affairs, cast off refinement and returned to simplicity, living alone like a clod of earth and preserving his natural state. Though the world around him remained in turmoil, he held steadily to this way of practice until the end of his life.

This passage presents the Daoist practice of “blending one’s light with the dust.” Liezi came to embody the Dao through everyday work, reaching a state in which self and things were no longer separate. “Feeding pigs as though feeding people” expresses the idea that all things are equal; “casting off refinement and returning to simplicity” suggests a return to the uncarved natural state. The shifting states shown by the Master of the Pot embody the Dao’s formlessness and absence of fixed appearance.

Do not make yourself a slave to fame or a storehouse of schemes. Do not let affairs lead you by the nose, and do not imagine yourself the master of wisdom. Let body and mind merge completely with the boundless Dao (the Way), free and unrestrained like someone wandering among the clouds.

Follow fully the nature bestowed by the natural world. Do not keep thinking about what you might gain; simply keep the heart-mind clear and empty. The heart-mind of one who has attained the Dao is like a mirror: it seeks nothing deliberately and rejects nothing, but reflects all things as they are without retaining a trace. This is why such people can respond to all things without being harmed.

(The following uses three mythic figures—the Lord of the Southern Sea, Shu; the Lord of the Northern Sea, Hu; and the Lord of the Center, Hundun—as a metaphor.) The ruler of the Southern Sea was called Shu, meaning “swift”; the ruler of the Northern Sea was called Hu, meaning “sudden.” The ruler of the Center was called Hundun, meaning “undifferentiated wholeness.” Shu and Hu often met in Hundun’s domain, and Hundun always welcomed them warmly.

The Zhuangzi tells a parable about two spirits named Shu (Swift) and Hu (Hasty). They decide to repay Hundun (Chaos), a being who embodies the original, undivided state, for his kindness. They think, “Everyone has seven openings—the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose—to see, hear, eat, drink, and breathe. Hundun alone has none. Let’s try making some for him.” So each day they bore one opening. By the seventh day, all seven are complete, but Hundun dies.

This parable uses personification to explain Daoist Wuwei (non-action). Hundun represents the natural state of the world before it was divided. Forcing change through human intervention destroys what is genuine. The “seven openings” stand for human sensory awareness: an excessive pursuit of outward perception can cause us to lose our inner, natural nature.