《南華真經義海纂微》

Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuánwei, Volume Two, Section Two

Compiled and annotated by the Daoist priest Chu Boxiu of Wulin

Chapter One: “Discussion on Making All Things Equal”

Nanguo Ziqi was seated, leaning against a table. He tilted his head back and breathed out, his expression distant, as if he had lost his companion. Yancheng Ziyou stood before him in attendance and asked, “What is happening? Can the body really become like a withered tree, and the mind really become like dead ashes? The man leaning against the table now is no longer the man you were before.”

Ziqi said, “Yan, you ask well. Now I have forgotten myself. Do you understand what that means? You have heard the pipes of humanity, but not the pipes of Earth. You have heard the pipes of Earth, but not the pipes of Heaven.”

Ziyou said, “May I ask what this means?”

Ziqi said, “The breath exhaled by Earth is called wind. When the wind is still, that is one thing; once it blows, the myriad openings roar fiercely. Have you never heard the wind howling among the mountains and forests? The hollows in trees a hundred spans around may be like noses, mouths, or ears; like square openings, circles, stone mortars, deep pits, or shallow hollows. As the wind passes through them, some sounds are sharp and urgent, others low and rough; some seem to scold, gasp, cry out, howl, sob, or gnash. When the openings in front make a sound, those behind answer. A gentle breeze brings a soft response; a whirlwind brings a loud one. When the gale subsides, every opening falls silent. Have you never seen grasses and trees sway and tremble in the wind?”

Ziyou said, “The pipes of Earth are the sounds made by all those openings; the pipes of humanity are sounds made by bamboo instruments. May I ask what the pipes of Heaven are?”

Ziqi said, “The wind passes through the myriad openings, and each makes a different sound, yet each produces its own voice. They all sound according to their own conditions. So who is it that sets them in motion?”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: Heaven and humanity merge; each forgets the other and forgets itself. That is why Ziqi’s expression is distant, as if he had lost his companion. To say that the body is like a withered tree and the mind like dead ashes means that a person is still and free of feeling: at rest, like a withered tree; in motion, like drifting dust. I cannot fix a person’s manner of stillness and movement as a single thing. Yet when a person is without intention, this state arises naturally, and in that respect there can be no difference. Since I have already forgotten myself, what is there left to distinguish?

The sounds of flutes and other instruments differ, and their notes vary in pitch, so their sounds are many and diverse; yet they all follow the same standard. All things make sounds according to their own conditions, and through this the sounds of Heaven and Earth become apparent. To say that Earth exhales does not mean there is some particular thing exhaling. It means only that Heaven and Earth, as an undivided whole, naturally breathe forth Qi. The myriad openings roar; the hollows in different trees vary; the sounds differ. Each accords with the conditions it has received, and the grasses and trees are thereby set swaying.

When the wind is about to die down, there is still a trace of movement. The human larynx and the earth’s hollows have already been explained above.

Ziyou then asked Ziqi (a figure in Zhuangzi’s parable): “The sounds from every kind of opening differ, yet each becomes its own sound—is this Tian Lai (heavenly sound)? Does Tian Lai still mean something beyond that? In truth, human larynx, earth’s hollows, and every kind of living thing meet and join, and together they make up one Tian Lai.”

Life simply grows of itself; it is not that I create it. I cannot create the ten thousand things, and the ten thousand things cannot create me—they are all naturally thus. Is this “natural” only the vast sky above?

Commentary by Lü Huiqing: People have body and mind only because there is a “self.” Without a “self,” one is like dead ashes or dry wood—nothing to wonder at. Ziyou did not know where the “self” comes from; driven by body and mind, he could not settle, nor did he know how to reach such a state. Yet in a quiet, dim moment he noticed that leaning on the table now was not the same as before—his discernment was keen: leaning on the table before was when one responds to outer things; leaning on the table now is when one forgets outer things.

If one understands where the “self” comes from, then the arising and passing of the “self” are always in one’s own hands. Everyone has heard of bamboo tubes and knows they are hollow inside; the way the “self” becomes “self” is just the same. When many openings whistle under the wind, how is that unlike clinging to self and being driven by body and mind? When many openings are empty and silent, how is that unlike forgetting self and being like dead wood and cold ashes?

The text says, “Have you not heard, have you not seen?”—meaning the sounding and ceasing of the earth’s larynx are what you have heard and seen; the arising and vanishing of thoughts are what you have never heard or seen. From what you have heard and seen, infer what you have not, and you can know Tian Lai.

Commentary by Lin Yidu: Wind blows out of emptiness; seek its trail and there is nowhere to find it. It rises from stillness and returns to stillness—from nothing it comes, to nothing it goes. Only because each opening receives the wind differently do people hear different sounds. The way things are affected is similar: many openings sound under the wind; the ten thousand things are driven by change. When the wind no longer blows, the openings return to emptiness; when change no longer drives, the ten thousand things cease activity. As for what has no sound and no opening, wind cannot enter it—what the Liezi calls “doubtful singularity” (yi du) is this.

Commentary by Wang Fu: Much the same as Lin Yidu’s reading.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: Human piping (renlai, sounds produced by human agency) is emitted through human action; heavenly piping (tianlai, sounds that arise naturally) has a kind of spontaneous presence. Who is the master that makes them sound? Each sound takes shape on its own—it is simply the wind moving through them.

The sun moves along a fixed course, yet people who worry or rejoice watching it feel the shadow lengthen and shorten; the moon moves in a fixed direction, yet people coming and going watch it seem to dart east and west as if racing both ways. Wind passes through things and the sounds differ, yet each arises on its own. How is this different from what was said above? This is heavenly piping.

Wind enters openings because of emptiness; openings hold wind because they are hollow. The sound of piping is nothing but what issues from the empty. View all things from emptiness and nothing is not alike; view all things from what is solid and nothing is not distinct.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: Wind between heaven and earth is like primordial Qi (yuanqi, the fundamental breath that sustains life) in the human body. This is the state before wind-qi has acted—like a person entering zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness, a stillness in which body and distinctions drop away). When the myriad openings howl, it is like a person responding to affairs and putting capacity to work. The openings differ, so the sounds are endlessly varied; all of this is equally natural. Probe the natural pattern of the three pipings (human, earth, and heaven) and in the end they return to the deep realm reached in zuowang.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary: Of the sounds from many openings, who ultimately makes them ring? There seems to be a “sounder” hidden within that cannot be seen or heard. This is the heavenly piping within earthly piping. Human piping is the same—it cannot be exhausted by bamboo pipes and instruments alone. Hence the later analogy of “knowing words”: dream and waking, joy and anger, alternate day and night, yet people do not know where these shifts begin. Where they sprout is where life begins; from morning to evening people live by means of it—this is the heaven behind the sound of piping. What is called the “true master” (zhenzai) and “true lord” (zhenjun) means this as well.

Lin’s Kouyi says: In the Zhuangzi there is a passage that is marvel among marvels. The ancients said poetry is “painting with sound,” because verse can depict what words barely capture; yet one never sees a painting that can paint sound itself. From “self-stirring” through “to the bite,” eight words sketch eight kinds of sound; “yu yong” further shows sounds answering one another. Wind between heaven and earth—formless, shadowless, unseen yet heard—is brought forth through brush and ink; that is its wonder.

Chu’s Guanjian says: I examine the prior text: “The body can indeed be made like dead wood” is a straight statement; “Can the mind indeed be made like dead ashes?” is a rhetorical question. Ziqi said “now I have forgotten myself,” so he knows there is a “me”—the mind is not truly like dead ash. Here a real self still stands: its manifestations can vanish, its inner being does not. …

Ziyou asked Nan Guo Ziqi (a personal name): “May I ask what the principle behind this is?” Ziqi first used the sounds that the great earth emits to explain; only when Ziyou pressed again did he say: “Though the various sounds differ from one another, they all let each thing give forth according to its own nature.” Only at this point did Ziqi reveal the true subtlety of the “sound of Heaven” (tianlai).

Regrettably, Ziyou knew only that the body may wither while the heart must not truly die, and understood that this is the true self—yet he did not grasp that this is precisely what is meant by the “sound of Heaven.” The heart is the inner sovereign; human speech and conduct are the heart’s expressions. Whether seeking knowledge, investigating things, or responding to change and reacting, all such words and deeds may be called “pipes” (lai)—they need not take the form of sound alone.

The ruler may sit in stillness and practice Wuwei (non-action), yet cannot for a single day abandon the seat of rule; the heart may be silent and without thought, yet cannot vanish for even a moment. Though the heart makes no sound, the root of sound dwells within it—like suspended bells and drums that need not be struck to already hold the possibility of sounding. The benighted cling to the waxing and waning of bodily form, and so believe that sound is sometimes present, sometimes absent, and can be cut off.

Human pipes and earthly pipes both have movement and stillness; the sound of Heaven naturally transcends movement and stillness. Behind it stands the true sovereign—the true ruler who is the root of all sounding and hearing. When the text later says “it is not blown forth,” and again that “the one who speaks has his own speaking,” it is this very principle.

Ordinary people apply these truths daily in life without knowing it. They tangle with outer things, disturb the spirit and drain vital energy, and fret that the myriad things are not alike. This is like carrying kindling to put out a fire—only making the blaze fiercer. If students of the Way can turn back and seek the root, and understand where principle comes to rest, then whether examining inward or observing the myriad things outwardly, they will find that beginning and end of things all accord with the source, and great and small alike return to one root. How then could there be any real “not alike”?

As for the meaning of “great clod” (dakuai), Guo Xiang took it as “nature without human artifice”; Cheng Xuanying explained it as creation and transformation—that is, the natural order. Another view holds that it means Heaven. The Zhuangzi (Nan-hua Zhenjing) says “the great clod bore me with form”; the Liezi says the earth is piled from clods of soil—so reading “great clod” as the great earth has some warrant. Looking closely at the usage here, “great clod” seems to mean the natural creation and transformation between Heaven and Earth.

“Huffing breath” (yi qi) is the bellows-breath spoken of in the Daodejing (Dao De Jing). It is the pivot of opening and closing, the root of Yin-Yang’s movement; primordial Qi (vital energy) turns thereby, propelling the myriad things so they unfold, grow, and flourish. When its force is strong, it can topple houses, uproot trees, shake mountains, and raise sea waves; when the breath subsides and sound fades, all is silent again and returns to the formless. Where then has the force that earlier drove the myriad things gone?

To illustrate the arising and passing away of thoughts in the mind with this principle is indeed a penetrating account. As for why thoughts arise and why they cease, one ought to reflect carefully and search diligently.

Those of great wisdom are at ease and broad-minded; those of petty cleverness are cramped and fussy. Grand discourse blazes with force; trivial words chatter on without end. When one sleeps, hun and po (soul and corporeal spirit) intermingle; when one wakes, the body stretches out and begins to meet things outside, tangling with them. All day long the heart fights within: some intentions scatter, some lie buried deep, some hide beyond reckoning. Small anxieties make one uneasy; great terror leaves one dazed and lost.

When the mind stirs, it is like a crossbow trigger releasing; what it governs is judging right and wrong. When a thought lingers and will not leave, it is like swearing an oath—that is clinging and holding fast. When thought decays, it is like autumn and winter when all things wither—that is to say it diminishes day by day. When the spirit (shen) sinks into its own doing, it can no longer be restored; when the mind is suppressed, it is as if sealed shut—that is to say it grows old and dries up daily. Such a heart is not far from death and cannot be brought back to life.

Joy, anger, grief, and delight; pondering and sighing; change and startlement; frivolity and excess; and affected postures—as if music issued from emptiness, or as fungi formed from steaming damp—appear before the eyes in turn day and night, yet no one knows where they first sprout. Enough, enough! From dawn to dusk, is our life really run by these things alone? Without outer things there is no self; without self there is nowhere to receive outer things. This is already close to the truth, yet we still do not know what truly presides over it all.

As if there were a True Master (zhenzai), yet no sign of it can be found. One can act, and indeed does act, yet no acting body is seen; it has reality, yet no form. The hundred bones, the nine openings, and the six viscera are all in place—which part should we be closest to? Do you love them all equally? Or does the heart favor some? If so, can each part really act on its own, like ministers and concubines? Are they not each unfit to govern the others? Or do they take turns as ruler and subject? Or is there indeed a True Lord (zhenjun)? Whether or not one can grasp its reality, nothing is thereby added or taken away.

Each thing receives its allotted endowment and takes shape; it does not vanish—it only waits until the form is exhausted. Person and things clash and wear each other down; the course of life is swift as a galloping horse, and nothing can make it stop—is this not lamentable? One toils all one’s life yet sees nothing one has accomplished; labors wearily through life yet does not know where one is bound—is this not pitiful? People say they will not die—what good is that? When the body changes, the inner mind changes with it—is this not great sorrow?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Human wisdom and speech, as well as sleep and waking, each differ; dealings with others, fear and alarm, also show different states. Until decay and death, daily loss—when the spirit sinks and passes away with them; disposition and circumstance alternate day and night. As if there were a true master, yet no trace or sign can be found. This shows that all things are naturally so of themselves; nothing behind the scenes makes them thus. As for one who acts, one is sure one can act…

When emotions resonate with external things, people can no longer see the distinctions between one another; the hundred parts and nine openings of the body are all left to run their natural course, and nothing fails to exist in its own way. If one favors one part over another, partiality arises, they vie for superior and inferior positions, and none is willing to play the subordinate role. The roles of ruler and subject are like heaven high and earth low—they each have their proper place from the start. To settle these boundaries in their native stations is the true sovereign (zhenjun); to let things be so of themselves, without deliberate contrivance, is to follow nature.

Whoever preserves authentic nature and acts in accord with innate disposition—whether clear or confused—each rests at ease in their own way. The clear-minded hold to their clarity until life ends; the dull cling to their dullness until death. Favorable and adverse conditions alternate, yet people trust their biases, indulge their conduct, and cannot turn inward to examine themselves. Compared with what the crowd pities, these people are indeed pitiable; yet people never treat this as pitiable, because nature is originally thus and all things have their own nature—what is there to lament? Yet a lifetime of unceasing busyness, weariness and constraint: though alive, one is in effect no different from dead. This is the greater sorrow, and people never feel it as sorrow. If so, what people commonly lament is not worth lamenting after all.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The mind’s capacity may be broad and at ease or narrow and cramped; insight may be great or small; dream and waking alternate, and the spirit may be turbulent or deep in varying ways. Likes and dislikes hide within; when external things touch them, emotion bursts forth like the trigger of a crossbow; fame and integrity show outward; when things pull at them, one holds fast as if bound by oath. These are differing orientations of aspiration among people. Mood sometimes sinks low, as when autumn and winter arrive and seem to forbid yang from rising again; desire too runs shallow or deep. When joy, anger, grief, and delight swell to excited abandon and show on the face, each state looks different.

All of this is the myriad things each blowing, each transforming, making themselves what they are. Music issues from empty space; fungi grow from damp heat; day and night succeed each other, and no one knows what first set them in motion—this is the sound of Heaven (tianlai), the working of wuwei (non-action) that occurs of itself. Vessels differ in size, tastes and desires differ, directions differ, depth differs—is this not like mountain caves and holes differing in shape? The mind may be spacious or cramped; feelings may be joy, anger, grief, or delight, each showing differently—is this not like wind roaring, murmuring, and sounding in many ways? Music from emptiness, fungi from moisture—ask where they begin and there is no answer—is this not like wind passing through hollow openings and making every kind of noise, while no one knows where it finally goes?

Seen this way, where exactly is this “I that makes me me”? How can the body be other than withered wood, the mind other than dead ashes? The principle of tianlai is truly hard to fathom…

The True Lord (inner sovereign) is hard to see. Only when the mind is empty and still and self is forgotten can one use the heart to align with it. From morning to night people depend on it to live, yet they do not know where life begins; only by attending with the heart can one grasp this.

If you cannot see its shadow or its form, you cannot discover what it actually does. Even if you search everywhere inside the human body, you will not find the one who gives orders; from this one knows it is not located in any part of the body. In a person, there is no part unworthy of care: the hundred bones and the nine orifices (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other openings)—which should one favor? If none deserves special favor, then all are like ministers and attendants, and none can be master. Subordinates cannot govern one another, so they take turns as lord and subject; but this relation of ruler and ruled is not the true sovereign. When no order-giver can be found within the body, one may know that the True Lord truly exists. Everyone has a True Lord, yet one cannot clarify its reality by deliberate seeking, nor change it by adding or subtracting anything. Why? Because it is not something that mindless things can approach, nor something that intentional striving can find.

Lin Yidu’s commentary says: Using an extremely simplified mind to contend with countless things ends only in exhaustion and collapse. A scattered mind is obscured by shallow things; narrow insight is obscured more deeply; a secretive, calculating mind is obscured most deeply. “Crossbow trigger” means that once the arrow is released it cannot be recalled; “covenant oath” means that once the vow is made it is hard to alter. Dragged by disputes over right and wrong and clinging to victory, vital essence (Jing) is spent like plants withering in autumn and winter; sunk in profit and desire, one cannot return to the good path.

From the earlier passages on “blazing,” “at ease,” through “Yaoyi in various postures,” all speak of how people cannot see the unique True Lord and so are ruled by Yin-Yang changes, showing many different attitudes. “Music from emptiness” means sound arises from where there is no sound; “steam forming mushrooms” means form arises from where there is no form. The alternation of day and night changes before our eyes, yet people do not know when all things begin to emerge. From morning to night people live by depending on this, yet they do not know the reason.

Without the True Lord, I could not be born; without “me,” the name True Lord could not be established. The True Lord issues commands without acting in person; the steward (zai, who receives mandate and governs things) receives the True Lord’s command and directs affairs. The True Lord belongs neither to Yin nor Yang, nor to any fixed place inside or outside; it can only be grasped with the heart, not discovered by hunting for a visible form. The most genuine state of life’s nature runs only when the True Lord is at work, yet the True Lord’s form cannot be seen.

The hundred bones and nine orifices of a person ought to follow nature as it is. If one cannot forget the body and insists on cherishing one part, partiality toward it arises…

When the mind takes a liking to something, it lets that play the “lord”; when it takes a dislike, it lets that play the “minister” or “concubine.” Yet these feelings are not enough to govern body and mind on their own, so there must be a “True Lord” who rules over them.

The True Lord is the one who, through wuwei (non-action), dwells in the empty center of body and mind as master. The hundred parts of the body and the nine openings are all directed by it and act on its behalf, without knowing that they do so. Whether you question and discover its true state, or fail to discover it, that neither adds to nor subtracts from its authentic reality. Laozi’s “when learning ceases, there is no worry” means to stop vain striving; gaining or not gaining does not add anything extra.

All things rest within creation and transformation, changing without end, while authentic reality itself is never destroyed. People, having by chance become human, gradually fix on a sense of “self,” unaware that they also possess an undying authentic reality. They clash with outer things and wear each other down, exhausting the body in service to them, and the heart follows things as they change—at that point, all is lost. Is this not deep tragedy?

Chen Xiangdao comments: The mind responds to the world with cleverness, while strife and anxiety invade the inner life; a single stirring of thought tangles one in right and wrong. When the heart clings, competitiveness and stubbornness cloud it. Virtue is drained until nothing suffices; the inner heart is blocked until it no longer shines clear. Joy, anger, sorrow, and delight are then only pulled by external things—where is there room for carefree ease?

Joy arises from emptiness and stillness, as damp heat condenses into fungi; yin-yang shifts and day and night turn in endless cycles within the boundless. We see only form and sound, not the root that makes form appear and sound ring out, nor where they first arise. Person and self seem right before us, yet we do not know what makes them so. Thus it is as though there were a “true master” (真宰), though we cannot see it face to face. The true master is the way Dao (the Way) works in all things.

The eyes see, the ears hear, the hands grasp, the feet walk—I simply let these acts happen; who favors one organ and deliberately drives it? Ministers and concubines serve another; among themselves they cannot truly command one another. If each part took turns as lord and servant, wuwei could never hold. Because the True Lord is present, the movements of body and mind need not be forced by any single part. When it is time to see, the eyes seem like the lord of seeing, yet behind them is the master that empowers the eyes; when it is time to walk, the feet seem like the lord of walking, and likewise there is the master that empowers the feet. Everyone has this already. Finding or not finding the True Lord’s true state does not change its authentic reality.

People only briefly hold a body with a fixed span of life, lodging in endless transformation—what is there to cling to in the body? Yet some weigh life too heavily, forget that authentic reality does not die, and spin with things through right and wrong until the body fails and the heart changes with it. That is the greatest sorrow. “No grief is greater than a dead heart” speaks to this.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary says: Human speech, dreams, sleep, waking, mutual contention, and responses in depth and secrecy are all like wind blowing through various holes and openings, giving rise to countless different sounds.

“Emerging” means the moment something is first set in motion, when signs are already present within it; “lingering” means holding fast after it has emerged; “abundant” means things turning from fullness to decline; “long-lasting” means gradually fading away; “entering without exiting, closing without opening”—until exhaustion and extinction, which is the end. When fierce wind stops, the many openings return to stillness. This is what is meant by letting them be as they are on their own.

Once joy, anger, and other emotions show themselves, they appear in posture, voice, and facial expression. What makes them so? Music issues from emptiness; fungi grow from damp heat. These analogies show that the twelve kinds of disposition each arise from their own causes and conditions. Feelings meet external things, pull one another, rise and fall in succession, yet people do not know where they first come from. All things are born from “nothing”; within this “nothing,” there seems to be a master at work. From morning to night people live by means of it—this is the “sound of Heaven” (tianlai: what nature itself sounds and does), not something else standing outside.

Without “I,” there is nothing from which to take up external things. The Doctrine of the Mean says: “Without sincerity, there are no things.” Yet without things, sincerity cannot be shown either. Hence it is said that without “I,” nothing can be used. These words already come close to the Dao. Still, one does not know who exactly makes things so. It is as though inwardly there were a true lord, yet one cannot find its beginning or its traces. What can be trusted is that people act along with their nature; emotion is the state in which nature shows forth once it has appeared. Nature itself has no visible form.

The human body is made of many joints and openings that cannot be fully alike; then whom should we be close to? To speak of private partiality within means that inwardly there must be a “True Lord” (zhenjun: the real master) to hold the whole body together. The humane person sees humanity in it, which shows he has grasped the reality within; ordinary people use it in daily life without knowing, which shows they have not grasped that reality. Understanding and not understanding neither add to nor take away from its authentic truth. Once a person receives it and takes on bodily form, the body will in the end perish, but nature does not vanish with it. People of the world drown in right and wrong and profit and loss, not knowing where to stop, willing to rot like grass and trees—truly pitiable.

Yan’s Recorded Lectures on the Meaning says: Those of great wisdom are easy and at ease; those of petty cleverness are calculating and fussy. Grand discourse is imposing in spirit and radiant; petty discourse is endless chatter and looking back and forth. The teachings of the hundred schools and street talk can all be sorted into these two kinds of speech. When “soul intertwines,” spirit gathers in the heart; when “form opens,” the four limbs and the hundred parts of the body all stir. These two lines cover the case from emperors down to common people: they describe people sleeping peacefully at night, waking in the morning, and in daily meetings and exchanges among one another.

When people keep responding to external things in this way, the spirit-mind stays tense as if at war. This is precisely what Mencius meant by saying that what one does in the daytime binds the original heart and gradually erodes it.

“Man” (縵) means slack and not quite urgent; “jiao” (窖) means hiding craft in the heart, scheming deeply without leaving a trace. The point here is that when ordinary people deal with things outside them, they always exhaust their wits—worry, pain, and fear—and cannot be at ease. This is what Confucius meant by “the petty person is long in anxiety” (小人长戚戚). Confucius spoke that way about petty people, but Zhuangzi’s implication is that even Yao, Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius could not escape anxiety.

Some people, when they discuss affairs, must argue right and wrong, as when shooting they fix their mind on hitting the bull’s-eye, with a competitive heart; they also stubbornly cling to their own view and refuse to change, as if they had sworn an oath with others. Worry and toil wear out the mind day by day; once they sink into a certain thought, they go all the way in and can never turn back. Such people’s bodies may still be alive, but the heart can no longer be revived.

The foregoing uses the twelve words from “joy and anger” onward to portray how worldly people use the mind; it also depicts their condition through many shifting forms. Music issuing from emptiness and steam giving rise to fungi are both brought about by what generates things—the force that gives rise to the myriad beings—this is “the ten thousand differences blown from one breath” (吹万不同). Day and night succeeding each other means that what generates things keeps operating and changing, yet one cannot see where the change begins. In the span from dawn to dusk, a person merely receives this force and thereby lives. What is spoken of here is what generates things: without it, I could not live; its working must necessarily show itself through the human person.

Put this way, what generates things seems right before the eyes and can be seen; yet people do not really know what makes it appear. The “True Lord” (真宰)—the power that governs the myriad things—is what generates things, but one dare not assert that it truly exists; not seeing its manifestation, one does not know where it springs from. The operation of what generates things is indeed real, only its form cannot be seen, so one does not know what exactly is in command. From “day and night succeeding each other” onward, the text means that though the working of what generates things is close at hand, people cannot see it—the text asks us to attend carefully to this.

The hundred parts of the body, the nine openings, and the six viscera are all complete on the person—why should I favor any one part? When the head itches, the hand scratches; the hand becomes the head’s servant. Where the eyes look, the feet go; the feet become the eyes’ servants. What commands others is like the ruler; what is commanded is like the minister. Hand, foot, ear, eye, nose, and mouth coordinate and act on one another; the commanded are ministers, and what commands is the ruler. Since the ruler–minister relation among the body’s parts cannot be fixed, the heart as master of the whole person would seem to count as ruler—yet the heart also…

If what cannot act on its own behalf yet rules over itself is said to be the Creator—the power that creates and governs all things—then the Creator is the true ruler. We pursue the matter in hopes of finding what is real. Yet whether or not we can find the so-called True Lord, the inner, genuine ruler, what does it add to or take away from the person himself?

Once a person receives a body, the Creator accompanies that body until it perishes. If a person cannot follow this process and lets external things disturb him, he will spend his life to exhaustion, like a foal flashing past a gap in the gate: hurrying, rushing about, worn out. Is this not sorrowful? The body changes: first it grows old and the hair turns white, then old age advances from the whitening of the hair. The body weakens and the mind grows weary; the mind changes along with the body. Is this not a great sorrow? More lamentable still, this condition can no longer be reversed.

The foregoing explanation in the Collected Explanations is already very detailed, so I will not repeat it here. The eight characters “lü, tan, bian, zhi, yao, yi, qi, tai” appear in one continuous passage in the “Perfected Person” chapter, but are not found in other books and have rarely been discussed over the years. In his commentary, Master Cheng says: “Lü” means planning ahead for the future; “tan” means sighing over the past; “bian” means altering what has already happened; and “zhi” means cowering, unable to stretch out. This account works well for “lü” and “tan,” but it does not clarify “bian” and “zhi.” I would explain them this way: “Bian” means being restless and always wanting to take action; “zhi” means being afraid and not daring to act.

The commentary also says: “Yao” means frivolous; “yi” means extravagant and unrestrained; “qi” means opening oneself to desire; and “tai” means behaving in a coquettish, lewd, and alluring manner. These explanations, too, do not seem to fit the passage above. I would explain them this way: “Yao” means coveting beautiful things to satisfy oneself; “yi” means indulging in pleasure and forgetting to turn back; “qi” means letting desire open wide and allowing external things to enter the heart; “tai” means pride and self-importance that feed arrogance. The passage describes people pursuing external things and forgetting themselves, so that different states arise within the same body and mind: calculating gains and losses, worrying about what may be lost; one moment the heart burns like fire, the next it is frozen like ice. The body and mind are thus depleted day by day, gradually drawing near to death.

But are these things part of human nature? They arise because people sink into material desires, their feelings and awareness become disordered, and they forget what ought not to be forgotten while failing to remember what ought to be forgotten. It is like music arising from emptiness, or fungi springing from steaming, transforming vapors. So too with apparitions, dust, bubbles, and shadows: they appear suddenly and vanish just as suddenly. Why should such changes disturb the vast, all-embracing heart? One should know that a clear and tranquil existence has endured since time immemorial. The turmoil before us is merely a changing condition of that existence, the chance entanglements of the mortal world. Once we see through them, we know they are empty illusions. Looking back to their source, we find that I and external things alike originally came from “nonbeing.” We merely reside in the world for a time, settling the karmic ties inherited from past lives. We should consider how to escape, from deep within the earth, the source of birth through the womb, and return to the Mother of Qi, the origin of the Qi of all things.

To dwell in the primordial realm—that state before worldly distinctions and artificial contrivances take hold—is neither to welcome nor to send away; if the inner mind stays clear and still, then even while walking a noisy thoroughfare the spirit can rise above the sage’s domain, and what worldly entanglements could touch such a person?

To live in the world is already like wandering in confusion. Is it only I who am confused, and others not? People habitually follow the mind-set they have already formed and treat it as their standard; who, acting thus, lacks a standard of their own? Why wait until one sees that things constantly change before the heart makes its judgments? Even fools do that.

When the mind has not yet settled into a fixed view but right and wrong are already being decided, it is like setting out for Yue today and claiming one arrived yesterday. Treating what is not as what is, saying of what is absent that it is present—even the divine Yu could not sort that out; what could I do?

Words are not like wind, utterly empty of content; the speaker truly has something to express, only what is said need not be fixed. Is there really something expressed, or never anything expressed? How does that differ from the cry of a chick breaking its shell? Can one say there is distinction in it, or no distinction?

What obscures the Dao that there should be true and false? What obscures words that there should be right and wrong? The Dao is nowhere absent; how could words fail to reach somewhere? When the Dao is veiled by partial views and words by florid phrasing, Confucians and Mohists argue over right and wrong. Each affirms what it praises and denies what it rejects; to try to settle who is right and who is wrong, it is better to survey things from the whole.

Things have no absolute “that” and no absolute “this”: from the standpoint of “that,” one does not see “this”; from one’s own standpoint, one can know oneself. Thus “that” appears through “this,” and “this” also depends on “that” to be established; they arise relative to each other. Yet things change at every moment: just as they are born, they are already moving toward death; just as they die, they may turn and be born again. What seemed feasible may become infeasible; what seemed infeasible may become feasible. Right and wrong depend on each other; wrong and right likewise depend on each other.

Therefore the sage does not cling to judgments from one side but contemplates the myriad things from the perspective of nature as a whole—which is only to follow how things relate to one another. This can be that, and that can be this; on one side there is a right and wrong, on the other side there is also a right and wrong. Then is there a fixed that and this after all, or no such fixed that and this? When neither that nor this can be pinned to a fixed opposition, this is called the “pivot of the Dao” (daoshu). The pivot sits at the center of the circle, and so can respond to endless change. “Right” is one kind of infinity, “wrong” is another kind of infinity; thus it is better to illuminate matters with clear insight.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Those who have knowledge do not know by what they come to know, yet knowledge arises naturally; living beings do not know by what they live, yet they live naturally. Hence in the world there is no one who is not in some measure adrift in confusion. The thought in the human heart strong enough to govern the body’s actions is called the “formed mind” (chengxin); each person takes his own formed mind as standard, and so each has his own teacher and judgments.

People in every age have been unable to fix a single standard of right and wrong. That does not mean anyone had foreknowledge; each simply acts according to what they take to be true in their own mind. Thus even the foolish treat what they have settled on as their criterion.

Once fixed preconceptions take shape, people measure things by the shortcomings and strengths they have decided on, discarding what they regard as weak and taking what they regard as strong. If the mind has not yet formed such preconceptions but one already begins to judge right and wrong, it is like setting out for Yue today and claiming one arrived yesterday.

Understanding this, one sees that judgments of right and wrong are something no one can escape. The person of complete realization can follow the twofold pattern in things without clinging to fixed right and wrong; the confused treat right and wrong as settled conclusions. Precisely because what has no fixed boundary is taken as something definite, delusion arises. Once preconceptions are formed in the mind, even a sage cannot remove them for another.

Those who speak each have their own way of expressing themselves; their words differ like different tones from a flute. Some think they are right and others wrong and suppose that in this they are truly “making statements.” That still does not establish anything. If one says there is no speech, then what are these words before us? Whether speech and the chirping of nestlings differ at all is also hard to decide. People’s situations in the world may not be the same, yet what is said cannot on that account be utterly unlike.

The Dao is everywhere—how could it be hidden by words? How could absolute truth and falsity or right and wrong arise from that? Failing to see that the Dao pervades all things and that all things may be reached through it, partial attainment is like glory and splendor obscuring the great Dao. Yet the Dao itself cannot be obscured: people’s disputes over truth and falsity and right and wrong circulate only among flashy preconceptions; judgment that truly fits should return to things themselves. Partial views show themselves but are dissolved by the complete Dao.

Confucians and Mohists criticize each other, each fixated on its own view. If one wishes to endorse what Confucians reject and reject what they endorse, it is better to set the two sides’ views against each other and explain them back and forth. Then one finds that what they call right may not really be right and what they call wrong may not really be wrong. Things look right from their own standpoint, so nothing can be absolutely wrong; things are also relative to one another, so there is no fixed “that” and “this.” With no absolute “that” and no absolute “this,” one can merge with all things as one.

Not everyone knows what another sees, yet everyone knows what they themselves know; each convinced they are right takes the other as wrong. The living, for example, take life as life; the dead may take life as death. Calling something permissible or impermissible works the same way.

Therefore I cannot simply agree with every judgment in Confucian–Mohist debate; yet if each school rests in its own place, I cannot say any of them is necessarily wrong. Examining right and wrong along the lines already present in the world, one can see why each kind of judgment has its appropriateness. This “right” may from another stance appear as that “wrong”; I take it as “that,” while the other takes what they see as “right.” Who is right and who is wrong cannot be settled yet. Right and wrong chase each other without end, like a cycle. If one can grasp the empty center of the cycle, one does not cling to fixed right and wrong and thus can respond to every dispute. Right and wrong have no end; response has no end.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: “When I stand over against external things, both body and mind shift with those things, yet I myself do not know it.”

Nothing is more benighted than the human heart. The still heart of the perfected person is like a mirror—not because he waits for conditions to be right, but because he preserves the heart he originally has. I have not preserved that original heart, so I alone am benighted; the perfected person was never benighted in the first place. If people could truly follow their own original heart and take it as their teacher, who would lack a teacher? Why must one first understand how things change and decay before one can shed old habits and let the heart be master? Even fools have moments when they are not benighted and can serve as teachers—it is only that they do not know how to seek such moments.

“Chengxin” (formed heart) is the original heart I receive from Heaven, without loss or damage; therefore it is enough to distinguish true right from true wrong. When the original heart is harmed by external things, so-called right and wrong can no longer be settled. Right and wrong have no fixed boundary in themselves, yet people treat them as real; even someone as wise as Yu the Great could not fix a standard for them—what then can I do?

Speech is not merely sound blown by the wind. The speaker has something he wishes to express, yet what he says is also shaped by external things and is not entirely under his own control. Hence, before the meaning his words convey is settled, the difference between having spoken and not having spoken is like the peeping of a fledgling—hard to tell apart.

The Dao is everywhere; then not a single word falls outside the Dao. Yet where is the Dao hidden, that there should be truth and falsity? Nothing among the myriad things falls outside the Dao; then speech too belongs to the Dao. Yet where is speech hidden, that there should be right and wrong? If one knows that “everywhere” is so, how could the Dao be absent? If one knows that no speech fails to belong to the Dao, what words could not stand?

Yet in the world there truly are ways of speaking that will not work and cannot stand. This is because people are obscured by partial fixed views and do not understand the complete Great Dao; speech is further obscured by florid rhetoric, so people forget the root. Only then do Confucians and Mohists dispute over right and wrong. Rather than forcibly calling what the other side deems wrong right and what they deem right wrong, better to illuminate matters with “ming” (clarity). Here “ming” is the manifestation of returning to one’s nature and recognizing the constant Dao.

When Confucians and Mohists argue over right and wrong, they never depart from clever discrimination, yet they do not employ this “ming”; therefore such dispute is unfit to serve as a criterion for right and wrong. If one sets aside discriminating cleverness, gathers the spirit back, and contemplates with a clear, still heart, do “that” and “this” as people speak of them really have fixed, unchanging boundaries? With no fixed boundary, there is no absolute “that” and no absolute “this.” Viewed from the other’s standpoint, one cannot see where one stands, so one calls the other “that”; from one’s own standpoint, one takes oneself as “this.” The same holds when one views from the other’s position: “that” and “this” originally have no fixed boundary. Yet people treat them as real, like a newborn who takes birth as birth, or one about to die who takes death as birth—taking what never had fixed substantial reality for something real.

From the standpoint of the Dao, while the myriad things are in the process of coming to be, if one tries to probe into its…

At birth a person is dim and unknowing, yet this does not mean there is no clear original nature—only that outer things obscure it and one does not notice. When death is near, people again ask: where did life come from, and where will death go? If one understands that life and death are fundamentally one, then to be being born is already to be moving toward death, and to be dying is already to be moving toward new life. The same holds for “this” and “that.”

These distinctions are all produced by our heart-mind. When one exhausts the heart in inquiry and penetrates the subtle principle, returning to the state where there is no self, one finds that the substance of all things is not different. People affirm because of “this” and deny because of “that”; they may also affirm because of “that” and deny because of “this.” Such opposing judgments are merely mutual deployment. The sage does not follow the path of this-and-that to make distinctions, but accords with nature in contemplation—this is called “illumination” (ming).

Annotation by Lin Yidu: In dimness, a person is not without clear true nature; it is only covered by outer things and unknown to oneself. The sage does not travel the road of this-and-that to divide, but forgets fixed views, stills thought, and contemplates in accord with nature. The sage’s contemplation uses the ready-made right and wrong of the world to illuminate all things—hence it is said “also thereby this.”

To treat this side as “this” is to treat that side as “not-this”; yet that side also takes itself as right. Each has its own set of right and wrong. Zhuangzi wished to show that “that” and “this” have no fixed, unchanging boundary, and that one need not cling to why they are so; he expressed this through sayings such as “whether there ultimately is or is not.” When both the distinction between them and the source of the distinction are forgotten, “that” and “this” no longer stand opposed to “me.” This is called the “pivot of the Dao” (dao shu). “Pivot” is the door hinge—it turns to open and close; “ring” is the circular ring—empty yet not separate from form. The pivot’s form is round; in motion its changes are subtle, called “subtle being” (miaoyou). The ring’s form is also round; at rest it shows real emptiness, called “true emptiness” (zhenkong). Subtle being and true emptiness depend on each other and work together, and so can respond to endless change. Unless one is the most discerning person in the world, who can grasp this?

Annotation by Chen Xiangdao: The human heart-mind is originally clear; only because one chases outer things and changes along with the bodily form does one gradually become dim and unknowing—because clarity is obscured. Dimness belongs to the side of human affairs; clarity belongs to the side of innate nature. One who is good at nourishing the heart does not let human affairs veil innate nature; one need only preserve that clarity.

When a person is born, Heaven gives the bodily form and the Dao gives the heart-mind. If one always follows already-formed thoughts in the heart and takes them as standards, one may in obscurity accord with the Dao. Why must one necessarily understand “succession” (dai)? Here “dai” means the successive alternation of yin and yang; to understand this change and let the original heart choose accordingly is what counts as wisdom. Each person has already-formed thoughts in the heart—is it enough to act only by those? The original text continues here: “Before there was a formed heart there was right and wrong, thereby taking non-being as being, adorning one’s words though they have…” The present section ends at this point.

Even Shen Yu could not fully comprehend it—how much less those who are not Shen Yu? If one holds the Dao in highest regard in the heart, one may take the Dao as teacher; if one seeks to understand principle through the Dao, one may likewise take the Dao as teacher. If the heart harbors judgments of right and wrong and one takes that heart as teacher, one can distinguish right from wrong and thereby preserve wisdom; if the heart harbors such judgments yet allows them to rule oneself, one will mistake wrong for right and right for wrong, and in the end fall into folly.

The ancients at first took their own hearts as teachers, yet in the end forgot those hearts. Taking the heart as teacher is how right and wrong came to be made clear; forgetting the heart of fixed views is how right and wrong came to be dissolved.

What we call speech is not merely making sound as when one blows air. Blowing air arises from spontaneity, without pause or break; speech arises from discrimination and easily leaves gaps and faults. A fledgling’s cry is not taught by anyone to begin, yet it still has distinction. Speech begins from something said and ends in not speaking—hence it differs from blowing air; debate begins from something debated and ends in not debating—hence it differs from a fledgling’s cry.

Where would the Dao not be present? The Dao is originally without concealment, yet it is confined within narrow fixed views. Where would speech not hold? Speech is originally without concealment, yet it is veiled by florid ornament. Clinging to narrow fixed views, one cannot connect with the Great Dao, and truth and falsity arise from this; chasing florid ornament, one cannot grasp what is real, and right and wrong appear thereby.

If one now wishes to declare that what the Confucians and Mohists reject is correct, or that what they approve is wrong, only the sage does not cling to one side but illumines all things from the perspective of Heaven’s Dao. The sage simply acts in accord with how things are in themselves.

The door pivot can turn in the center of the ring, revolving around empty space, and so can respond flexibly. Master the principle of pivot and ring, and one can move all things; each thing likewise relies on its own hub to meet change. For this reason the sage can let both sides in a dispute of right and wrong proceed in parallel, without holding to one extreme, and his responses are inexhaustible.

Chen Bixu’s commentary says: While people live, desire and aversion often disturb their true nature; views of right and wrong mix with innate character and leave the person dim and unclear. The perfected person transcends life and death; subtle principle stands clear—how could there still be obscurity?

One who neither takes the Dao as teacher nor models the ancients, yet stubbornly holds to personal opinion, is called “cheng xin” (a solidified subjective mind). If one follows such a fixed mind and takes it as teacher, who lacks a teacher of his own? Everyone has his own teacher, so there is no need for the worthy to stand in for the unworthy. If one makes choices by that fixed mind and still thinks one has gained something, then the company of fools will be very large. Thus those who accord with the Dao unite with the Dao; those who lose the Dao unite with loss.

Before the mind has even taken shape, judgments of right and wrong already exist; before affairs have arrived, one already claims they have arrived. Principle originally does not exist, yet one insists it does; once “existence” is affirmed in this way, that “existence” has no end. Even a spirit-person of the highest virtue…

People do not know why sound is produced when it is blown, yet sound still rings out; therefore sound and speech are not the same. Speech is often used to contend for victory, so there is no fixed, unchanging discourse. The function of speech is to express the mind; sound blown forth has no settled meaning.

Whether words are acceptable depends on the meaning they convey. If one judges speech without reference to meaning, how is it any different from the chirping of nestlings? The Great Dao (the fundamental principle that all things follow) has never been hidden; it is only that learners are genuine or false. The utmost speech (discourse that accords with the Dao) has never been obscure; it is only that those who speak each have their own right and wrong. One who has attained the Dao is not confined; wherever one goes, speech can be applied; in teaching and transforming all things, one penetrates everywhere without obstruction.

Only after the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness appear—treating partial achievement as the Dao itself. Only after cleverness arose did great falsity appear—treating surface splendor as the Dao itself. Confucians revere the Duke of Zhou and Confucius; Mohists revere Yu of Xia. What Confucians hold correct, Mohists reject; what Mohists approve, Confucians oppose. If one wishes today to judge whether what Confucians reject is right or what Mohists endorse is wrong, it is better to set the two sides’ claims against each other repeatedly and let each other’s right and wrong come to light.

Things in themselves originally have no “that”; only because there is a relative other does “that” take shape. Things in themselves originally have no “this”; only because each side contends for victory does “this” arise. Viewed from the standpoint of “that,” one does not see how one became “that”—for example, Huan becomes a Confucian yet does not see how Zhai became a Mohist. Viewed from one’s own standpoint, one can understand this: Zhai holds to Mohist doctrine out of self-assertion; Huan takes Confucianism as right because there is Zhai as the opposing party.

The distinction between other-and-this and right-and-wrong is also like people’s different moods facing birth and death: those about to be born value life; those about to die rest in death. Therefore the sage contemplates from the principle of nature and does not judge from the human standpoint; yet one cannot say that right and wrong are wholly without ground. “That” and “this” each become right in their own way and each become wrong in their own way. Pursued to the end, one finds they have no fixed resting place. Reaching the utmost where speech is forgotten, there is no longer an opposing side—this is called the “pivot of the Dao” (daoshu, the hub of the Great Way). The pivot can turn because the center is empty and unblocked. The function of a door hinge lies in the empty revolving of the axle, so it can respond to endless change. As for the pivot of the Great Dao, it can transform all things according to circumstance; though heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are many, nothing can match the subtlety of the Dao-pivot.

Xuzhai’s commentary says: “Mang” means bustling to and fro; if one is busy yet does not know where to return, one will not be lost. “Chengxin” (formed mind) is what Zisi meant by “the sincere completes itself”: this is the nature human beings already possess. When one fully brings forth this nature, no principle cannot be penetrated. Everyone has this mind—why seek a teacher elsewhere?

“Dai” refers to the alternation of day and night, life and death. If one takes one’s innate mind as teacher, these principles become clear of themselves; why be like Zilu, pressing questions about ghosts and death, insisting on clarifying the matter of life’s succession? Confucius answered that he must first serve the living well and know life—the point is to let him realize it from within. When the principle is not yet understood, yet one first…

To treat what was never there as if it were, and on that basis argue right and wrong, is the way of the confused; even a sage cannot help such a person see clearly.

The voice in the heart, the sound of wind, the sound from bamboo tubes, and the cry of a fledgling (a chick not yet hatched)—these are all unlike one another. Yet though the sounds differ, the principle by which sound is produced does not differ. What is called “speech” (yan) is that moment when one wishes to speak but has not yet spoken aloud. At that point one cannot be sure: is there already speech, or is there not yet speech? If one says there is already speech, the words have not left the mouth; if one says there is not yet speech, the words are about to leave the mouth. At this threshold one cannot tell them apart, like a fledgling about to cry.

The Dao is everywhere, yet people dispute what is true and what is false; words can be used in countless ways, yet people still divide what is right from what is wrong. Confucians and Mohists criticize each other—without someone of insight, who can sort it out? Nothing in the world is absolutely “that,” and nothing is absolutely “this.” “This” arises from nature; “that” comes from how people view things. To pursue things only from the human angle is to fail to see; to know oneself is to have understanding; to know one’s own nature is to know the Dao of Heaven.

“That” appears through “this”; what has form is born from what has no form. “This” also depends on “that”: the formless relies on the formed to show itself. That and this, being and non-being, movement and stillness—all arise in dependence on one another. People lose themselves in disputes over right and wrong, and no one can clarify them; the sage sees through the principle of right and wrong and simply goes along with what people take as “this,” acknowledging it as such.

That and this depend on each other; being and non-being give rise to each other, and neither can be cut off from the other. If one can stand beyond the split between this and that, being and non-being, and abide in independence, that is the “pivot of the Dao” (daoshu). The pivot is the axle at the center that turns all outer things; it answers the myriad changes of the world like a ring that cycles without end. Only the wise understand this.

The Yuzhai Kouyi says: “mangmangran” means lacking insight, blurred and unclear. Heaven and earth nourish the people; each thing has its own principle. The principle of Heaven was always clear; it only grew dim because human desire veiled it. Would one who understands the Dao be so muddled?

“Chengxin” is the complete, all-sufficient principle of Heaven. If one takes it as teacher, who would lack this endowment? “Zhidai” is a title for ancient worthies. “Dai” means change; here it means understanding the principle of change. “Ziqu” means holding one’s own view. If one has not yet seen this complete principle yet forces a debate over right and wrong, it is like setting out for Yue today yet claiming one arrived yesterday; having never seen something yet insisting one has seen it. Even a sage cannot make such a person understand.

Wind blows across things and the sounds it makes are not the same, but they are all only sounds. When sound takes on pattern, it is called “speech” (yan)…

The four words “fei” (non-), “chui” (blow), “bi” (compare), and “yan” (speak) show precisely that each kind of utterance expresses its own meaning.

Debates over right and wrong arise from this: when people speak, does what they say come from their own mind, or from the Creator—the force that gives birth to all things? So it is said that things have no fixed way of being described. The chirping of nestlings cannot yet be called knowing anything; the same principle applies.

The Dao originally has no distinction between true and false—so why do people insist on making it obscure and then split it into true and false? Speech originally has no distinction between right and wrong—so why do people insist on arguing endlessly and manufacturing right and wrong? The Dao, whether great or small, coarse or fine, can embrace all; speech often divides things into “this is right” and “that is wrong.” People of shallow insight and narrow views often praise themselves to win reputation. Once their one-sided claims prevail, words that accord with the great Dao are hidden. The mutual criticism between Confucians and Mohists arises from this as well.

To judge right and wrong, one should illumine things by the principle of nature. Only after person and thing, self and other are set against each other do distinctions of right and wrong appear. Hence it is said: “That side appears because of this side; this side is established because of that side.” It is like life necessarily having death, and death presupposing life—the two cannot be separated. The sage does not cling to prejudice on either side but illumines all things with heavenly principle, dissolving opposition between them so they return to oneness. This is the key to attaining the Dao. If one can stand in the empty center of a circle, one can follow things as they are and respond to endless change. Though right and wrong are inexhaustible, one need only illumine them with heavenly principle.

Looking at commentaries from various schools, many treat “chengxin” (the formed mind—a mind already fixed in preconceptions) as good, or as bad. But the line below—“before the mind is fully formed, there is already right and wrong”—shows that chengxin is where the split into right and wrong first stirs; it cannot simply be called good. I once heard Master Fan the Hermit lecture in western Shu, and in private heard the teacher say: Before chengxin forms, human authenticity is one with the Great Void; once chengxin forms, one has already left native nature and good and evil appear. Living in the world and dealing with others, one inevitably forms chengxin; at such times one should trace back to the state before chengxin had formed. Then good and evil have not yet arisen, right and wrong have nothing to reflect, and what thing cannot be made equal? This view is precise and enough to clear up earlier doubts. I add a personal note: to pause a thought for a moment is not hard; the hard part is not letting it continue. If from the very moment chengxin begins to form one turns back and seeks the state before chengxin existed, thoughts will not chain on one another and native nature can be restored. Therefore, when facing outer things, the mind…

When you forget how external things disturb the nature of the heart-mind, inner nature will show itself. The heart-mind is where nature acts, and it is the root of all methods.

The heart-mind is what governs the whole person—it cannot be said not to exist. Yet if you treat the heart-mind as something fixed and unchanging, you fall into subjective guesswork. Its activity has no fixed schedule; coming and going are hard to pin down. Whatever thoughts arise within that small space are never without being stirred by external things.

The heart-mind belongs to the Li trigram; Li is associated with fire. Fire cannot show a shape by itself—it must cling to something before it can be seen. The heart-mind is the same: clinging to external things, it displays all sorts of activity; if it were the same as the Great Void, it would have nothing to cling to. Even when the heart-mind clings to things and does good, that is still inferior to wuwei (non-action) without deliberate mind; how much more so when it clings to things and does harm?

Master Guan said: “When something external comes to me, it is like a stone thrown into water; I respond with my nature, and the external thing is like a shadow floating on the surface.” This describes the essential method of forgetting external things, transcending worldly ties, and letting nature return to itself. If students can go back and ponder this carefully, they will have teacher enough.

The character 知 was traditionally read with falling tone; some read it in its plain pronunciation. In light of the next line, “the foolish and those with proof,” reading it as 智 (wisdom/intelligence) fits better; 与 should be read as 预 (yù). Bixuzi explained 党与 as “of the same kind,” which differs from other commentators. Explanations of 知代 vary. On close reading of the scripture, 知代而心自取 refers precisely to those who use their own intelligence in place of natural process, act on their own initiative, and take that subjective mind as a fixed view.