《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 104

Chapter Four of “All Under Heaven”

Silent and solitary, without form, it changes without constancy. Death and life accompany one another, existing alongside Heaven and Earth. It clearly perceives where the myriad things are headed, yet seems bewildered, as though going nowhere; then, all at once, it appears to have somewhere to return. It encompasses all things, and nothing can serve as their refuge. Among the ancient arts of the Dao, some held this view. Zhuang Zhou heard of this teaching and came to cherish it. He expressed it in far-reaching, obscure phrases, unrestrained and outlandish statements, and words without limit. At times his writing gives free rein to its exuberance, yet does not cling to one side; it does not regard things through strange, narrow opinions.

Zhuang Zhou believed that the world was stagnant and muddled, and that solemn, serious words could not be used to speak with it. So he used “goblet words”—speech that fills like a wine vessel and flows forth in response to circumstances—to let the Way circulate and extend. He used “weighted words”—words lent authority by the ancients or elders—to make his ideas seem credible. And he used “lodged words”—ideas entrusted to stories—to spread them widely. Alone, he moved in communion with the spirit of Heaven and Earth. He did not look down on the myriad things or condemn right and wrong, but lived among ordinary people.

Though his writings are strange and changeable, winding and tangled, they do not obscure his purpose. His words are uneven, yet their depth and strangeness are worth appreciating. His inner substance is abundant and inexhaustible. Above, he roams with the Creator; below, he befriends those who transcend death and have neither beginning nor end. What he investigates at the root is vast and unfolding, deep and far-reaching. The guiding principle he honors may be described as harmony and ease, open and elevated. Even so, his responsiveness to change and his understanding of the principles of all things are inexhaustible. His thought comes and goes without constraint, obscure and elusive, not yet fully revealed.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Without form” and “without constancy” mean that the Dao changes along with the myriad things. Death and life accompany one another: this means allowing change to take its course. The myriad things have no fixed destination and nowhere they can take refuge, so let them follow their own nature without imposing limits. Zhuang Zhou uses words without bounds and at times lets them unfold freely. This is not carelessness; he wants people to see his purpose without being entangled in forms or names. People take solemn speech for madness and do not believe it, so he does not use that kind of speech.

“Goblet words” and “lodged words” can both reach the highest truth, and they accord with the nature and life of each thing. Zhuang Zhou himself held no fixed view of right and wrong, so he let all things follow their own course. He lived among other people and could therefore be at ease with the ways of the world. His writings are strange and changeable, yet do not obscure his purpose, because what he discusses is so abundant. Zhuangzi speaks of himself and others with an even, peaceful mind, making no distinction between them. Judging by his words, his meaning is clear, vast, and profound. Even Yu’s grand pronouncements are like this—so why object to Zhuangzi’s way of speaking?

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The Dao has no form, so it cannot be seen; it changes without constancy, so it cannot be fathomed. If we call it “death,” then it has never truly been “life”; if we call it “life,” then it has never truly been “death.”

He believed that Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things have no absolute division between past and present, and that the divine workings—the wondrous operations of Heaven and Earth—have no absolute distinctions between one thing and another, or between right and wrong. Heaven and Earth are still and unmoving, yet encompass all things. Each thing follows its own nature, and none is unable to rest in what it is. This is perhaps the wondrous operation of the divine.

Zhuangzi’s words may seem absurd and far-reaching, beyond any final understanding. At times he speaks boldly and directly, but he does not speak carelessly. Everything has a relative aspect; if we do not cling to one side, then even words that run against common sense and seem, at first glance, to lack evidence may still be credible. What are called “Zhuangzi’s words” are words that accord with reason, following only the Great Dao. “Goblet words” are like a wine cup that tilts and responds as things are poured into it; they illustrate the endless workings of the Dao in everyday life. “Weighty words” borrow the voices of the ancients to make an argument more persuasive. “Parable words” convey principles through stories and respond to the needs of the times. People do not trust their own words, so they borrow the words of the ancients to give them greater weight. When the ancients’ words still cannot make the meaning clear, they turn to parables.

The state Zhuangzi understood was one in which the spirit roamed freely with Heaven and Earth, without looking down on the myriad things in arrogance. His writing has this same character. “Detached regard” means keeping one’s distance and not becoming intimate. He did not condemn disputes over right and wrong, and so could live among ordinary people. Though Zhuangzi’s writing is strange and splendid, its transformations flowing on without end, this causes no difficulty. “Continuous” means without gaps; “fixed in form” means having a settled shape. Although these writings cannot be grasped by ordinary means, they are not valued by the world. Their unusual language is no reason for the world to look down on them. His thought was full within him, abundant and impossible to contain: upward, he roamed with the Creator; downward, he befriended those who transcend life and death, beginning and end. In this way, he entered the wondrous realm.

The foundation of Zhuangzi’s thought is vast. Taking the Way of Heaven as its guiding principle, it may be said to harmonize and flow with things, advancing without end while never departing from its roots. Thus, when responding to change, its reasoning is never exhausted; when understanding things, its movements back and forth are not constrained by physical form. The phrase “form need not be shed before it is released” means that one need not wait for the body to fall away in order to understand the principle of transformation. Its subtlety is inexhaustible, and therein lies its wondrous quality; for this reason, it cannot be fully fathomed.

The Commentary on the Solitary Doubts says: The perfected person—one whose cultivation has reached the highest level—lets the mind and spirit roam in stillness and the breath return to deep quiet. Though they have a body, they seem unconfined by it. They continually cast off old habits and renew themselves, never clinging to a fixed state. Heaven and Earth are the form of the divine; the divine is the activity of Heaven and Earth. Form is constant, while activity is governed by change. Those who can transcend external things can transcend life and death; those who can embody the Great Dao can yield to change. Even when all things are encompassed within it, nothing lies beyond the Great Dao. The key to how the sages of antiquity made their Dao a model for all generations was that it encompassed and reached everything.

Zhuangzi set forth his teachings to correct the failings of his time; he himself knew…

Zhuangzi’s statements can hardly avoid seeming impractical, strange, or even absurd. Thus, though he was counted among the various thinkers, he wrote in the manner inherited from those who came before him. He gave free rein to his views, favored no one side, and surveyed all things in the world without being constrained by partial opinions. Since people in the world could not be reached through solemn, direct language, he also used parables to express his ideas.

Zhuangzi moved in spirit alongside Heaven and Earth, yet did not look down arrogantly on the myriad things. He understood how things work and followed their own circumstances. Right and wrong have no fixed standard, so there is no need to labor at rejecting one particular view. If someone clings to words, words can also be used to loosen that attachment. Because he regarded right and wrong as blended and indeterminate, he lived among people without coming into conflict with them. His words were strange and winding, his uneven phrases shifting in curious and striking ways. Their substance filled his inner being and naturally appeared in his speech, as though it could not be restrained.

Zhuangzi roamed with the Creator, the power that brings the myriad things into being and nurtures them, unconstrained by life and death or by beginnings and endings. His foundations were therefore vast, and his purpose calm and fitting. In responding to change and transforming things, he followed their underlying patterns without running dry, adapting to the times without becoming rigid. His realm was unfathomably deep, with no known limit; though it had no beginning or end, it never departed from its source.

Bixu’s commentary says: Stillness without form is the substance of the Dao; ceaseless change is its function; life and death are its transformations; Heaven and Earth are its enduring manifestations; and the spirits are its traces. The Dao is vast and unfathomable, with nowhere ultimately to return—this is precisely what makes it mysterious. “Not looking down arrogantly” means not being conceited; “not holding to a partial view” means not clinging to one-sided opinions; and “without partiality” means favoring neither side. “Solemn speech” refers to upright, dignified statements.

The Nanhua Jing—that is, the Zhuangzi—takes what is centered and balanced as its foundation, yet unfolds into endless change. It has profound De as its substance, genuine and free of pretense, and uses allusive meaning as a means to teach and guide people widely. Zhuangzi moved in spirit alongside Heaven and Earth without looking down on the myriad things, and so followed the Dao of Heaven while also attending to human affairs. As he lived and acted in the human world, his language was strange and winding, its shifting patterns both changeable and captivating. His Dao was full and profound, with inexhaustible subtle workings; thus he could respond to change without deliberate intent, be at once vast and penetrating to the source, follow the patterns of the myriad things, and thereby understand the origin of creation and transformation.

The Dao can be discussed in words, but if we try to fathom its ultimate reaches, how could its subtlety, unified and whole, be fully expressed in shallow language? The Dao can also be considered in thought, but if we try to comprehend it completely, how could the deep and still realm of creation and transformation be so readily grasped? For this reason, from ancient times onward, sages have continued to write and set forth their teachings without pause.

Yanzhai says: From “still and without form” to “suddenly, where would it go?” the passage speaks of the Dao’s supreme mystery: it moves together with creation and transformation without leaving a trace. Thus, although all things appear before us, …

It is difficult to know where these writings should ultimately be placed, because Zhuangzi favors no side and does not view things from just one angle. He focuses on the principles he has seen, using grave and grounded language to move among the spirits of Heaven and Earth and draw close to the transformations of nature.

His writing is free of resentment and constraint, expansive and unhurried. It harmonizes with the myriad things without harming them. It neither mocks and reproaches nor makes everything conform to a single pattern. Instead, its rhythms rise and fall, shifting unpredictably, and it seems strange and witty. These descriptions all explain Zhuangzi’s purpose in writing: what filled his mind was not something he meant to force into a book as his own opinions and principles, yet the world could not do without such a book. His words reach up to the principles of Heaven, so they can be used to guide people and explain the principles of things. They do not depart from the Great Dao, yet remain profound and subtle. The state Zhuangzi understood in his heart could never be fully expressed in words.

After the general preface, this section divides into five parts. Zhuangzi places himself at the end, following Laozi, to show that his teachings have a source. In each of the first three passages, he uses “although” to judge the merits and faults of various schools. Only when he speaks of Laozi does he omit it. Now he writes “although” again to say that Zhuangzi’s teachings are not wholly useless to the world. The author considers this passage’s transitions and connections to display the finest skill.

“Formless and unfixed” means that the Dao has no fixed shape, yet can transform in marvelous ways. Phrases such as “death and arrival” and “going and coming” mean that people should follow change without being trapped by limits. “Misty, reaching the utmost, and returning” means forgetting distinctions and returning in peace. “There is nowhere one goes that is not a fitting place” means that wherever one finds oneself, one can be at ease.

Zhuangzi uses language that is broad and free-ranging, yet not reckless, like the saying “roam wildly and tread the great square”—seemingly unrestrained, but in fact still in accord with the Great Dao. He does not let external things see him as different from others; that is, he blends in with ordinary life without losing the Dao. People in the world find solemn, earnest truths hard to accept, so he uses “goblet words”—speech that shifts flexibly, like liquid poured from a cup according to its tilt—and parables to express his intent.

“To move freely only among the spirits of Heaven and Earth” means breaking free of worldly constraints, connecting with Heaven and Earth, and letting the mind and spirit roam in all directions. It means neither treating the myriad things with arrogance nor demanding that people conform to one’s judgments of right and wrong. Thus, in his dealings with people, he can live in harmony with them; in responding to things, he does not come into conflict with them. His words may be strange and splendid, yet they still accord with the ways of the world and do not harm others. The varied, shifting form of his writing is what is meant by “wildly absurd” and “strange and playful”; its quality that invites reflection is what is meant by “marvelously strange and magnificent.” His mind was full, and these qualities therefore emerged naturally in his writing.

“To roam with the Creator” and “to befriend what has neither beginning nor end” mean much the same as “to move freely among the spirits of Heaven and Earth”: they describe a realm in Zhuangzi’s thought that is mysterious and hard to put into words. Its foundation is broad and profound, as in “taking depth as one’s root”; its guiding purpose is harmonious and free-flowing, as in “rising and reaching through.”

Heaven is the root of all things. To follow change is called birth; for the body to disperse is called death. This passage says that people exist amid creation and transformation—the natural changes of the world—and are driven by the pivot of change. The principles of creation and transformation cannot be exhausted. If we trace them back to their origin, we cannot leave this dark, boundless realm; this is precisely what makes creation and transformation what they are. If, within this darkness, we can quiet the mind and spirit and grasp the fundamental principle that drives change, we can commune with the spirit of Heaven and Earth. Then we will have proved worthy of receiving spiritual nature and being human.

This passage from the True Classic of the Southern Flower (another name for the Zhuangzi) begins by discussing change, then recounts Zhuangzi’s own words and conduct, and finally returns to the theme of change. It shows that he could fathom what is wondrous and understand transformation, and that whatever position he argued from, his words never departed from the Great Dao.

Hui Shi, a leading figure of the School of Names during the Warring States period, had many doctrines and enough writings to fill five carts. His reasoning was tangled, and his arguments missed the point. In examining all things, he proposed that what is greatest has no boundary and is called the “Great One,” while what is smallest has no interior and is called the “Small One.” Something without thickness cannot be accumulated. Heaven and Earth are a thousand li apart. Heaven is lower than Earth. Mountains and marshes are level with one another. The sun begins to decline as soon as it reaches its highest point. All things are both growing and dying. Things are broadly alike, yet differ in small ways; this is called “small sameness and difference.” All things are entirely alike and entirely different; this is called “great sameness and difference.” The south is both infinitely far away and has an end. To set out for Yue today is the same as having arrived yesterday. A linked ring can be taken apart. I know where the center of the world is: it lies north of Yan and south of Yue.

Hui Shi broadly embraced all things, believing that Heaven, Earth, and everything in them formed one body. He used these views to observe the world and also inspired those skilled in debate. Debaters everywhere enjoyed arguing with him and put forward all kinds of claims: eggs have hair; chickens have three feet; the capital of Chu, Ying, contains all under Heaven; a dog can be called a sheep; horses lay eggs; tadpoles have tails; fire is not hot; mountains make sounds; wheels do not press upon the ground; the eye cannot see a finger; at the extreme, nothing is cut off; a tortoise is longer than a snake; a right angle is not square, and a shape drawn with a compass does not count as round; a hole does not fit its tenon; the shadow of a flying bird never moves; an arrowhead can fly very fast, yet at times neither stops nor advances; a dog is not a hound; a yellow horse and a black ox; a dog has three kinds of whiteness; a fox cub has never had a mother; and if a one-foot staff is cut in half every day, it can never be used up, even after ten thousand generations.

The debaters used these claims to argue with one another and with Hui Shi, and could argue for their whole lives without reaching an end. The school of debaters represented by Huan Tuan, Gongsun Long, and others relied on polished words to confuse people’s minds and change their ideas. They could win verbally, but could not convince others inwardly. This was the narrow domain in which the debaters were trapped. Every day, Hui Shi used his cleverness to argue with others, especially with Heaven…

Those who excel at debate take strange claims as their starting point. Hui Shi was especially skilled at talking and considered himself supremely wise. He said, “How vast Heaven and Earth truly are!” Hui Shi only strove to outdo others; he had no genuine method.

In the south there was a man named Huang Liao who asked Hui Shi why Heaven and Earth did not fall or sink, and how wind, rain, thunder, and lightning came about. Hui Shi did not refuse or pause to think; he answered at once. He explained each and every thing without stopping. His words seemed endless, yet he still felt he had not said enough. So he added more strange claims, presented views contrary to ordinary understanding as facts, and made a name for himself by surpassing others. In this way, he naturally became estranged from everyone. His De was weak, while he sought to assert himself through external things; the path he followed had already become remote and winding.

Viewed from the Way of Heaven and Earth, Hui Shi’s ability was like a mosquito or gadfly busily struggling in vain. What use were all his arguments about things? A person who can devote themselves to one field of learning may already be considered worthy of praise. If they go further and cherish the Great Way, they come closer still to the right path. Hui Shi, however, could not find his bearings through the Great Way. Instead, he was absorbed in debating the myriad things, never satisfied, and in the end became famous for his eloquence. It is a pity that Hui Shi’s talent ran wild and unchecked, and that he could not follow the myriad things back to the Great Way. It was like chasing an echo and trying to drown one sound with another, or like forms racing after their own shadows. How sad.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Before I had read the Zhuangzi, I once heard people arguing over the meaning of such debating topics as the “one-foot measuring rod” and the “linked rings.” Everyone said that the Zhuangzi belonged to the school of the debaters. When I read this chapter’s comparisons and assessments of various schools of thought, and especially its criticism of Hui Shi in this passage—“his reasoning is confused and impure, and his words do not strike at the heart of the matter”—I understood that trusting hearsay harms the truth. I, too, once thought these arguments were empty talk, lacking the institutions and principles needed to govern a state. Yet even the children of wealthy families, though they may treat debate as a pastime, sometimes grow tired of discussions of books and ideas. If they can express their feelings and give shape to their thoughts by analyzing names and principles, and pass these down to later generations, so that human nature does not become distorted and unruly, would that not be better than becoming absorbed in games of chance? For this reason, I have kept these arguments without passing judgment, leaving them for those who take an interest in them.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Laozi said, “Many words lead often to exhaustion,” and also, “Few words accord with nature.” This means that speaking at length often leads to difficulty, while speaking little accords with nature. Thus, those who speak sometimes do so because they have no choice. Hui Shi, however, was absorbed in verbal debate and considered himself wise. He did not understand the vast emptiness of Heaven and Earth, but clung to himself and could not maintain softness and humility. No wonder he called Heaven and Earth vast: he knew only how to assert himself, and had no genuine method. The sages take silence as their speech and thereby bring De to completion. Hui Shi relied on his debating skill, treating the refutation of others as fact and victory over others as fame. This shows that he did not understand the principle of silence…

Once speech comes under its control, people can no longer restrain themselves. Their De (Virtue/Power) weakens, and they resort to words to overpower others.

Hui Shi, a debater of the Warring States period, sought to surpass all things through disputes over names and arguments. His path was badly skewed; it could not be called the Way of the Six Penetrations and Four Openings, the Way of unimpeded understanding. The Way of Heaven and Earth is vast because it follows its natural course and does nothing. Hui Shi was skilled in argument, but could not avoid acting from a sense of self. From the perspective of the Way of Heaven and Earth, however broad and ingenious his debates may have been, they were no more than the futile busyness of mosquitoes. What use were they to the myriad things?

“One” and “many” both belong to the Dao (the Way). “One” is the root; “many” are the branches and leaves. Although Hui Shi did not fully explain either “many” or “one,” he may still be said to have had a slight advantage over those who forget the root and pursue only its branches. His understanding of the Dao was also relatively close. Yet he did not know how to return to the root and settle himself. Instead, he scattered his attention among the myriad things, taking endless pleasure in it. In the end, he became famous for his debating skill, pursuing external things without returning to the root.

Without sound, an echo disappears; in darkness, a shadow disappears. If one has no desire to win an argument, then no one in the world can contend with them. Hui Shi had talent and intelligence, but did not know to begin here. He argued with the myriad things only over the branches of language. How was this any different from chasing after an echo by making sounds, or running after a shadow? In doing so, he truly lost his original nature, and the author feels deep regret and sorrow.

The commentary by Yidu says: “‘Great’ and ‘small’ can both be explained in terms of what lies beyond and within. If there is still something greater beyond it, it is called ‘great’; only when there is nothing beyond it is it truly ‘great.’ If there is still something smaller within it, it is called ‘small’; only when there is nothing within it is it truly ‘small.’”

Hui Shi’s arguments could change other people’s thoughts and views. At times he disputed numbers with people throughout the world, saying, for example, “A chicken has three feet.” At times he disputed names, saying, “A dog is not a quan.” At times he disputed shapes, saying, “A rectangle is not a square.” At times he disputed colors, saying, “A white dog is black.” At times he disputed relative height, saying, “The sky is lower than the earth.” At times he disputed length, saying, “A tortoise is longer than a snake.” In broad terms, his arguments held that the myriad things have no distinctions of height, length, shape, name, roundness, squareness, or the colors blue-green, yellow, black, and white. His guiding principle was to treat all things as equal: the Great Way disperses and transforms into things with form and name, while these distinctions are merely drawn by people according to their private judgments.

Hui Shi used these views to debate people throughout the world, and in the end became famous for his skill in argument. Yet viewed in light of Heaven and Earth’s power to generate the myriad things, Hui Shi’s debates were as insignificant as the busywork of mosquitoes. This was something the ancients were unwilling to do and scholars should not pursue. Thus, when the text turns to Hui Shi, it does not…

Some ancient Daoist arts are expressed in these discussions. Zhuangzi lamented that although Huishi was talented and intelligent, he ultimately pursued external things and lost his original nature.

Commentary by Bixu: Beyond the Great Void—the boundless expanse of emptiness—there is nothing else, yet there is no separation between things. Within a hair’s breadth, though exceedingly small, there is still a world unto itself. If things can accumulate into something massive, how much more can they extend over a thousand miles? From the perspective of the Great Void, Heaven and Earth seem low and small; viewed from the vast earth, mountains, rivers, lakes, and marshes all seem level.

When people brush past one another, they have already missed the chance to meet; when the sun stands at its zenith, it begins to decline westward in the next instant. Between one bow and one lift of the head, what is before us has already become a trace of the past. All things are growing even as they move toward death. Things are broadly alike in their forms, sounds, and colors, yet they fall into separate groups according to their kinds and differ in subtle ways. Since they all arise through the transformation of the same primordial Qi, they are fundamentally alike; since their forms and kinds vary, they differ on the surface.

Once a direction is assigned to something, it has a limit. The mind can range ahead when speaking of “now,” “past,” and “future.” The body can be divided, while the spirit can roam freely. Even a linked ring can be found a way to undo. These are matters of disputation over names, not the fundamental principle of things. Yan lies in the north and Yue in the south, so of course they are distinct. But from the perspective of empty stillness and oneness, they have never truly been separated. Huishi spread these arguments throughout the world, and those skilled in debate were eager to respond, like voices answering one another.

An egg has no feathers, but after it hatches, the chick has feathers. A chicken originally has two feet; add the number one to the number two, and the result is three. Ying is the capital of Chu, yet one can also say that it contains the whole world. Names such as “dog” and “sheep” were all imposed on things by the ancients. Calling a fetus an “egg” is simply a regional expression. The people of Chu call tadpoles “dingzi,” and tadpoles with tails “kedou.” Fire creatures in the sea and mountains do not feel hot simply because they live in fire. A protruding part of a mountain is called a “mouth,” just as a stream’s mouth or a road’s junction is called a “mouth.” The track left by a cart wheel is called a rut, but that does not mean the ground itself is a rut.

The eye cannot see itself; what sees is the spirit. Whatever is pointed to lies somewhere that has not yet been reached. Once it has been reached, the thing indicated and the place meet and connect, leaving no gap between them. To say that a tortoise outlives a snake compares their lifespans, not their shapes. The compass and square are tools for measuring circles and squares; they are not themselves circular or square things. Tenons and mortises fit together through contact, but one cannot say that their principles are the same. It is like bodies and shadows, each changing independently. A flying bird moves, but its shadow does not necessarily move with it. Once an arrow is shot, it flies without stopping; once it lands, it stops flying. These two states cannot be confused.

A dog has dewclaws—small claws beside its toes—so if someone calls it a “quan,” then the animal ordinarily called a “dog” would no longer count as a “quan.” A yellow horse and a black ox are distinct things, yet their names group them together under shared categories. A phrase like “hard white stone” likewise discusses hardness and whiteness separately. If a dog has a white body but is blind, people call it a “blind dog,” not a “white dog.” If its legs are lame, then even if its whole body is snow-white, people overlook its whiteness and call it a “lame dog.” Once a young horse has a mother, it is no longer called an “orphan.” As for a square inch of space and the span between morning and evening… (The original text ends here, unfinished.)

Even if it were applied through an infinite number of kalpas (vast stretches of time), the principle that “a measuring rod never runs out” could never be exhausted. When discussing the Dao, one should address the principle itself, rather than become entangled only in particular things. Hui Shi (Master Hui) competed with the disputants of the world to outdo them in ingenuity; this was the foundation of his thought.

The movement of Heaven is vigorous, and Earth is vast and solid: this is true strength. Hui Shi relied on eloquence to contend with others, yet did not understand how to maintain gentleness and stillness, or nurture the harmony of nature. He had only the urge to assert his strength, without a fitting method. He also relied on others and borrowed the sayings of the ancients to construct his arguments, rather than establishing a school of his own. That is why he asked about the origins of Heaven and Earth, wind and thunder. Hui Shi set out these questions one by one, saying much that was strange and unusual. He prevailed through self-confidence and cleverness, and surpassed others through broad argument and novelty. All this was merely a show of strength in relation to external things. Seen from the perspective of the great Dao of Heaven and Earth, Hui Shi’s abilities were no more than those of a mosquito. What was there to praise? People esteem the Dao because writings about it have been handed down. If Hui Shi’s writings could be developed into a coherent school of their own, that would be quite enough. As for arguments such as “a chicken has three feet” and those that follow, they do not address problems the world urgently needs to solve. He did not understand that “the great debater seems inarticulate.” Instead, he picked over dregs and details, wearing down his spirit on such matters. That is why Zhuangzi, the official of the Lacquer Garden, sighed with deep regret.

The Yanzhai Kouyi says: Mo Di, Song Xing, Yin Wen, Peng Meng, and Shen Dao, among others, had each glimpsed the Dao from a partial angle. Hui Shi, by contrast, devoted himself entirely to clever and paradoxical argument. For this reason, he is not counted among those who had heard of the arts of the Dao; he is mentioned only at the end of the chapter.

The chapter “Explaining the Myriad Things” examines its arguments in great detail. “The greatest has nothing outside it” refers to the Great Void, boundless space; “the smallest has nothing within it” refers to things as minute as a hair’s tip. These eight characters express the same idea as the Zhuangzi, but changing the terms to “Great One” and “Small One” sparked a dispute: “one” is originally neither great nor small, yet the argument introduces distinctions, giving rise to sameness within difference and difference within sameness.

“Without thickness” means so thin as to have no thickness. Accumulated, it can become thick, even extending for a thousand li. When the qi of Heaven descends, it meets the ground; when the qi of the mountains reaches the marshes, it becomes level with them. At noon, when a sundial’s shadow falls straight, viewed from the side it appears off-center. When a thing first begins to grow, its seed must come from something that had already died the day before. Things differ in size. Grouping small things together is “minor sameness and difference”; considering the sameness and difference of all things together is “major sameness and difference.” Great things are formed by accumulating small things, and small things joined together can become great. From this perspective, sameness and difference cannot be sharply divided.

In the south, the great sea is regarded as boundless and called a “region,” yet every region must have a boundary. Heaven tilts toward the northwest, while the sea lies to the south, farther away than it is in the other three directions. “Setting out now and arriving in the past” means that even before reaching a place, one has already heard its name, and only afterward travels there. As for the linked rings, each…

Each thing forms a complete whole in itself, unconnected to the others. This can also be understood this way: Yan lies in the north and Yue in the south, each in its own place from the beginning.

There is no naturally central place under Heaven. The people of every state take the center of their own state to be the center of the world. Heaven and Earth are only one kind of thing among the myriad things, just as the body is only one part of the whole.

Feathers cannot be seen while they are inside an egg, yet a duck is born a duck and a chicken a chicken, and the feathers each grows are different. So feathers are already present in the egg. A chicken has two feet by nature; add what enables it to move, and one can say there are three things.

The state of Chu established its capital at Ying and called its ruler king. This is the same kind of claim as saying one rules all under Heaven.

People gave things names such as “dog” and “sheep.” If people had called dogs “sheep” from the start, they would be called sheep today. Though animals born from the womb and animals hatched from eggs are different, their names likewise come from human distinctions. There is nothing wrong with saying that horses hatch from eggs. Tadpoles grow into frogs and initially have tails. Water is cold and fire is hot—these, too, are names people give to things. If there were a kind of mouse that lived in fire, then fire would not be hot to it.

Someone shouts in an empty valley, and an echo answers. Does that mean the mountain has grown a mouth? A wheel can turn while moving along the ground, but cannot turn when it rests there. So one could also say that it cannot turn when it is not rolling along the ground. Only after the eye has seen can the finger point toward its target; if the eye cannot see, the finger cannot point to it either. Since this is so, the targets reached by the eye and the finger cannot be sharply separated.

If a tortoise grew as long as a snake, it could no longer be called a tortoise. Since it is called a tortoise, its shape should be that of a tortoise. Something called a “carpenter’s square,” a tool for drawing right angles, cannot also be called a “square shape”; the same applies to the “compass,” a tool for drawing circles.

When a tenon fits into a mortise, the mortise cannot fully restrain it as the tenon turns, nor can it enclose it completely. A bird’s shadow moves as the bird flies, but one can only say that the bird is flying, not that the shadow is moving.

An arrow set on a bowstring counts as being still; when shot toward a target, it counts as moving. During the time after it leaves the bowstring but before it reaches the target, one can say that it is neither moving nor still.

A dog and a “hound” are the same kind of animal; call it a dog, and it is not called a hound. Oxen and horses are two kinds of bodies, while yellow-black coloring is one color. Put two animals and one color together, and there are three things. If one considers the yellow-black color as attached to the bodies of oxen and horses, one can also say there are three things.

Names such as “black” and “white” are not present in things from the moment they first come into being. So it is possible to call white “black.” Calling a foal “motherless” does not mean it has no mother; one can also say that it once had a mother.

If a one-foot-long wooden staff is split into two parts, using one part today and the other tomorrow, it will never be used up, even after generations. Later scholars developed and extended these claims to echo Huizi (Hui Shi), engaging in endless disputation. At their root, these claims amount to no more than this. They rely on eloquence to show off their strength, as though they existed alongside Heaven and Earth.

Huizi prided himself on being superior to others, though in fact he had little learning or ability. He relied only on his unusual views to set himself apart. The changes of wind and thunder between Heaven and Earth are all wondrous manifestations of the creative transformations of Nature. How could words ever express them fully? Huizi refused to yield modestly and insisted on putting forward his own theories, treating his difference from others as a talent. As a result, he was at odds with the world. He gained nothing true within himself, which is why his De was said to be weak. He merely tried to assert himself through argument, placing himself in a dark and narrow place.

Viewed from the perspective of the great Dao of Heaven and Earth, what use was Huizi’s ability? It was like that of a mosquito. If he had simply been content with his own small insight and taken pleasure in it, that might have been acceptable. But to think it surpassed the precious great Dao was dangerous. Huizi never understood the Dao; he gained a reputation through argument alone. He may be called talented, but he was unrestrained and did not know how to turn back. This is truly a pity.

Sound becomes apparent through its echo, but sound is the source of the echo, while the echo is only its offshoot. To pursue the echo without understanding sound as its source is to mistake the root for the branch. The body and its shadow chasing one another follow the same principle.

The Zhuangzi closes its final chapter with Huizi. Though Huizi was not counted among those who had heard the Dao, his remarks were unusual, so Zhuangzi preserved them rather than cutting them out. Writing a book is different from ordinary composition; it has its own conventions. An opening and a conclusion often reveal the author’s intention. The Spring and Autumn Annals, for example, ends with “the capture of the qilin,” while the Doctrine of the Mean concludes with “the workings of Heaven.” The story of Hundun having its orifices bored in the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi likewise reflects the way the whole book is arranged as an integrated work.

Those who interpret the classics and discuss literary composition do not always reason soundly; those skilled in matters of principle, in turn, often neglect the craft of writing. Few can explain both well. Only Master Aixuan, Lord Lin Wengjie, combined profound moral cultivation with exceptional literary skill. His interpretations of the Six Classics therefore surpassed those of scholars both ancient and modern. Sadly, after Lord Lin of Wangshan and Lord Chen of Lexuan, their learning was not passed down. Today, no one knows it.

Master Aixuan of Putian was Lord Lin Wengjie, an Assistant Minister of Works. His given name was Guangchao, and his courtesy name was Qianzhi. His learning was passed on to Lord Lin of Wangshan, whose given name was Yizhi and courtesy name Xueke, and then to Lord Chen of Leshan, whose given name was Zao and courtesy name Yuanjie. The collected writings of all three have been handed down. Lord Lin of Zhuxi, also known as Master Yanzhai, was a direct disciple of Master Lexuan.

At the end of Lu Deming’s Phonetic Glosses, it is recorded that, taken as a whole, Zixuan’s commentary may be said to have grasped the central aim of the Zhuangzi. In his early years, Master Guo lamented how people born into wealth and rank distorted Zhuangzi’s thought. In my old age, too, I have seen aristocratic youths speak recklessly about Zhuangzi. The same tendency appears in different ages; there is really nothing more to say.

Someone said, “Zhuangzi and Huizi once debated above the Hao River…”

Hui Shi, a Warring States thinker skilled in disputation, based his argument on the model of the craftsman of Ying, yet claimed that Zhuangzi’s reasoning was confused and impure, and that his words missed the point. Why would he say this? Did Hui Shi, like the craftsman of Ying, treat ideas that fit together as if they opposed one another, and argue so fiercely over them?

The answer is this: if one wishes to explain one’s teaching fully and reveal the deeper meaning of one’s words, how could one avoid attending to style and carrying a metaphor through to its conclusion? In the seven chapters of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi, Zhuangzi presents wondrous ideas and leaves these writings to the world. He repeatedly uses “borrowed words”—expressing his views through the voices of the ancients or others—and lays out paths leading to the mysterious realm. He also employs various kinds of language to develop arguments in a clear order. Though he speaks of not valuing debate, he is not merely repeating doctrines without substance. His writing is easy to read, but its meaning is difficult to see through. To keep readers from grasping something in their minds without truly understanding it, and then mistakenly thinking his claims defy reason, he explains the misunderstandings these writings might cause by focusing on the example of Hui Shi’s eloquence.

Liu Gai offers this comprehensive account: The substance of the Dao is boundless and embraces all things. The forms and numbers of things begin with “One,” from which odd and even arise in turn. From that point onward, even the most skilled calculator cannot reach their limit. The ancients followed the order of the Great Dao and responded to the patterns of the divine. Thus emerged the principles of cultivating sagely De inwardly and practicing the kingly way outwardly. When it comes to specific institutions and laws, the details are so varied that it is difficult to cover everything. Yet the roots and branches of all things, and the order of what comes before and after, remain connected, even though they divide from “One” into countless forms.

Thus, sages sometimes entered public life and sometimes withdrew; sometimes they remained still and sometimes they acted. At times they adopted brief and simple measures, and at other times they used far-reaching and carefully considered ones. They responded to the imbalances of the world and adapted flexibly to its many variations. Fuxi was not without laws and standards, but it was only in the time of Yao that they came to fruition. The emperors Yao and Shun were not without policies and decrees, but these were not brought to completion until the Zhou dynasty. Sages do not rush ahead of the times in pursuit of novelty, nor do they lag behind, clinging to old ways and neglecting their duties. For this reason, even a sage who occupies the highest position cannot arrange everything in advance.

Yi Yin made taking on great responsibility his guiding principle, while Boyi upheld lofty purity to correct the customs of the age. But lofty purity can easily become narrow, so Liuxia Hui offered moderation to balance it. He did not oppose the ways of the world, yet held fast to his principles; nor did he flatter worldly customs to win a reputation. It follows that even a sage in a low position cannot embody every virtue.

It was only with Confucius that the principles reached their full development: he gathered the strengths of the various schools and achieved a synthesis for his age. A figure like this appears only once every several hundred or thousand years. Sages before Confucius had to adapt to the times and accept what they could not avoid; after Confucius, the various schools each held firmly to their own doctrines. By the time Zhuangzi lived, the age of the sages was already long past. The teachings of the Dao, De, benevolence, and righteousness had been torn apart by Yang Zhu and Mo Di, while the teachings of Wuwei and stillness had declined under Tian Pian and Peng Meng. Figures such as Song Xing and Yin Wen were swept along by the prevailing climate and let their words run unchecked. Zhuangzi wished to restore the Dao of Confucius, but did not approve of the age in which Confucius had lived. He therefore spoke at length about the highest Dao, correcting the shallow ideas of the people of the world and hoping to revive the way of Wuwei…

Use simplicity to dispel the world’s ostentation; use clarity, stillness, and emptiness to rescue the world from turmoil. Some believe that concise words are not enough to remedy the ills of the age, and so Zhuangzi elaborated freely, without restraint. They believe that solemn, serious words are not enough for ordinary people to understand, and so he wrote in a bizarre, unrestrained, boundless style.

Zhuangzi wrote thirty-three chapters, ending with “All Under Heaven,” in which he discusses the world’s arts of the Dao. The chapter considers the teachings of various schools and esteems Lao Dan (Laozi), yet when it turns to the learning of the Hundred Schools, it does not include Confucius. It begins with Mo Di (Mozi), Qin Guli, and others, then discusses Lao Dan and Guan Yin, followed by Zhuangzi’s own teachings, and concludes with the many positions of Hui Shi. This probably means that before the arts of the Dao had been brought together and made complete, even a broad-minded and far-reaching True Person could not help grasping only one part. Lao Dan’s writings grasp the root of the Dao, and so can reconcile and connect its teachings, moving toward the Great Dao. Hui Shi’s writings grasp only the minor details of the Dao, and so ultimately cannot avoid leaning toward one side. Alas, among the writings of the various schools, whose works do not honor Confucius? Yet perhaps no one understood more clearly than Zhuangzi why he honored Confucius. Readers should seek his meaning beyond the words.

The Nanhua Perfect Classic, the Daoist honorific title for the Zhuangzi, is divided into Inner and Outer Chapters. It sets out the main principles of Dao and De, nature and life, ritual and music, and punishment and government, encompassing both the path of inner cultivation toward sagehood and the ideal of governing the world outwardly. Its arguments are exceptional and surpass those of the other schools. For this reason, it is difficult to find a step-by-step path to understanding it, and people often call it strange and fantastical. Yet its ideas, profound as thunder and precious as a luminous pearl, do not disappear on that account.

The Miscellaneous Chapters record all kinds of worldly affairs, drawing on a wide range of sources and using winding analogies, until they seem to encompass nearly everything. Even after Guo Xiang edited and arranged them, the surviving text and narratives largely retain their original form. The final chapter, “All Under Heaven,” recounts the arts of the Dao throughout the world and points out that each school inevitably acts upon things and favors certain views; each may lean toward one side, and in time this brings about defects. On a first reading, the chapter may seem disordered, its main point hard to discern. But on closer examination, its divisions are orderly and each has its rationale: the first section discusses Confucianism and Daoism, the second Mohism, the third the School of Names, the fourth Legalism, the fifth praises Laozi, and the sixth recounts Zhuangzi’s teachings. In this way, the arts of the Dao throughout the world, past and present, are discussed in broad outline and brought to completion.

Zhuangzi then presents his own teachings, showing that they derive from Lao Dan. He advances many arguments, yet worries that readers will cling to the words and misunderstand his meaning. So he concludes by commenting on Hui Shi: he records Hui Shi’s skill in debate while also pointing out his errors and eclecticism, so that later generations will know what to accept and what to reject.

When I first read this classic, I reached the many positions of Hui Shi at the very end and found them boundless and bewildering, impossible to get a hold of. They closely resemble the story in the Liezi about Gongsun Long deceiving the King of Wei, leaving one unable to think through the matter or interject a word; the frustration remained pent up in my heart for many years. Chun…

In the Bingwu year, I was fortunate to meet Master Fan Wuyin, who had come to the capital from western Shu on his travels. For nearly two years, I was able to sit in on his lectures. As the teaching drew to a close, I said privately to my fellow students, “This scripture has many difficult passages. This one is the final obstacle. I still do not know how our teacher will explain it; surely his insight will go beyond ordinary knowledge and experience.”

When I cited the passage, everyone listened intently. The teacher then asked, “What do you think these words mean?” We replied humbly, “Our learning is shallow and our abilities limited. We ask you, teacher, to clear away the mists and show us the way.”

The teacher said, “The scripture contains these words: ‘All manner of extravagant and outlandish claims, viewed from the Dao, can be brought together as one. Let them rest there, without passing judgment.’” Everyone was astonished and again asked him to explain plainly. He remained silent for a long time before saying, “Have you still not understood? These are not the words of the True Scripture of Nanhua—the Daoist honorific for the Zhuangzi—but the absurd and improper claims it criticizes. What is there to explain?”

From “the greatest thing has nothing beyond it” to “Heaven and Earth and I are one,” these were Huishi’s words. From “a chicken has three feet” to “ten thousand generations could not exhaust the argument,” these were exchanges among debaters. In those days, people were accustomed to clever argument and made a show of one another’s strange claims. Their talk ran wild without restraint, reaching such extremes. Some failed to see this and mistakenly took these words for Zhuangzi’s own, giving rise to ever more confusion and dispute. This all came from failing to trace the claims to their source. Guo Xiang, the Jin-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi, knew this, but did not say so outright, leaving readers to understand it for themselves.

Some people in the world who delight in strange tales were taken in by these outlandish claims. They racked their brains and devised all kinds of novel interpretations, hoping to make their own ideas fit. No matter how hard they tried, what good could it do? On hearing this, everyone felt their minds suddenly clear, as though layer upon layer of covering had been lifted and they could at last see daylight.

I privately believe that the sages left their teachings to enlighten those who came after them. The meaning of the scriptures is as vast as the sea, and explanations should vary according to each person’s capacity to understand. Students of commentaries differ in the depth of their insight; only when they meet a teacher who can personally guide them and share his understanding can they avoid losing their way. Otherwise, they become trapped in Huishi’s words and cannot reach the deeper meaning of the True Scripture of Nanhua. However widely Huishi may have read, and however vast his learning, in the end he was merely a skilled debater. An old saying goes, “Devoting yourself to learning is not as good as devoting yourself to seeking a teacher.” A teacher’s kindness is truly as boundless as the vast sky, and impossible to repay.

For this reason, I compiled the commentaries of various scholars, a task that took seven years to complete. With reverence, I lit a stick of incense and performed nine prostrations facing west, as though Lecturer Wuyin stood solemnly before me, and as though the Old Immortal of Nanhua were clearly watching from above.

Sadly, those who studied alongside me in those years later scattered north and south. Some of what I heard the teacher explain may have slipped from memory, and now I can no longer ask him to confirm it. I can only sigh in vain. The teacher’s personal name was Ying…

Yuan, whose courtesy name was Shanfu, was from Shunqing in Shu. His learning encompassed both inner and outer studies, and he had a deep understanding of the Way of Heaven and the affairs of humankind. He was quiet and composed in temperament, upright and principled; in all his conduct, he observed proper ritual and law. The scripture’s words, “Without speaking, he can bring peace to people’s hearts; simply standing among them, he can transform them,” describe just such a person.

The elders of deep virtue and standing throughout the rivers and lakes have long known his character, so I will say no more about it here. I record only, at the end of this volume, the circumstances in which master and disciple met, so that later scholars may know the origins of this learning. Written respectfully by his student, Chu Boxiu of Wulin, in the spring of the Gengwu year of the Xianchun era.

Collected Subtle Interpretations of the Meaning of the Perfect Scripture of the Southern Flower, Volume 106 (end)