《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 13

To understand what nature does and what human effort can do is to be thoroughly penetrating. What nature does means that all things arise in accord with their innate nature; what human effort can do means drawing on what one already knows to nurture what one has not yet understood. To live out the lifespan heaven grants without perishing halfway is knowledge raised to the highest level.

Yet there remains a worry: must one rely on something in order to respond to things appropriately? Even when one finds something to rely on, one cannot be sure it will always hold. How do I know that what I call “Heaven” is not “human,” and what I call “human” is not “Heaven”? Only when there is first a true person (zhenren) can there be genuine understanding.

What is a true person? The true persons of antiquity did not go against their nature because they were few and weak, nor did they thrust themselves forward through boastful achievement; they did not take scheming and enterprise to heart. Such people did not regret what was past, nor congratulate themselves when things happened to suit them. People like this were not afraid on high places, were not soaked when they entered water, and did not feel burned when they entered fire—because their understanding could penetrate the great Dao.

Guo Xiang comments: everything nature does is simply following what is natural. Therefore, inwardly not clinging to the self and outwardly merging with the myriad things, they let nature take its course and nothing could not be penetrated. So-called “acting” is not deliberate doing but letting events unfold of themselves; so-called “knowing” is not striving to know but letting understanding appear naturally. The true person sets aside the mind that clings to knowledge yet truly understands; does not act with intent yet accomplishes in accord with nature. This is insight gained through “sitting and forgetting” (zuowang)—sitting in stillness and releasing fixation on self and things. Thus when understanding reaches its utmost, even the name “knowing” can be set aside.

Living between heaven and earth, the things of heaven and earth cannot be absent for a single day; yet in what a person knows, some is known and some is not; though the Dao is present, some can be followed and some cannot. What people know is very little, while what they embody is very much; what people can do is limited, while what the Dao encompasses is vast. People need not know the same things, but what they do should not violate innate nature; when nature is violated, pretense arises and authenticity is lost.

Each person’s conduct has its measure, so one should act according to one’s own conditions and not force matters; knowledge too has its bounds, so in using knowledge one should be restrained and not indulge. Within the one body, knowing and not knowing secretly harmonize with each other. Even when knowledge reaches a lofty level, if one still will not release attachment to knowing and submit to nature, one is still relying on something.

If one allows innate nature to live as it will, one can meet things with fitting response. Human life has an end—this is natural; to add extra years or force prolongation is human artifice. Nothing in human beings lies outside nature; order and chaos, success and failure each have their natural changes. Only when a true person appears can the understanding of all under heaven return to what is real. Not going against one’s nature because one is few and weak is to follow…

What Heaven governs, people may not fully know; yet they can use what they already understand to nurture the life Heaven gave them—a life they cannot wholly comprehend. “Nurturing life through knowledge” means relying on limited wisdom to care for oneself so that one may live out one’s natural span and not die before one’s time. The highest reach of what the world calls wisdom is no more than this.

Even so, this cannot remove all worry. People suppose they must first distinguish Heaven from the human before they can decide how to act; yet such decisions may not match the Dao as it truly is. If the basis for deciding is not yet settled, how can one know that what one called “Heaven” was not really “the human,” or that what one called “the human” was not really Heaven? Only the Authentic Person—one who embodies the Dao and has genuine insight—truly knows: he apprehends by not clinging to knowledge and does not lean on fixed judgments.

Right and wrong differ across the world; if one only follows the majority, one will clash with the minority. “The way of earth achieves nothing yet in turn brings things to completion” means the earth does not claim success for itself but receives all things and lets affairs finish; those who force victory on others cannot avoid boasting that they have won. “Consultation and discussion with unanimous agreement” means many people deliberate until they agree—but even then one cannot escape the look of plotting for a result. These are traces left when sages meet the world; they are not their inner truth.

The Authentic Person keeps to simplicity and does not make the self the center. If he errs, it is because he had no choice—why regret? If he succeeds, it is because he had no choice—why pride? Then climbing high is simply what I do—what is there to fear? Wading through water or meeting fire is what I do—what is there to be soaked or burned by? Knowledge was never the Dao itself; yet through true knowing the Authentic Person can penetrate the Dao and reach this state.

Lin Yidu holds that what Heaven does, people cannot know in full, but one can use one’s own knowledge to nurture the whole person. Inside the body are many things one cannot fully understand; outside, some things one can know. Eating, drinking, dwelling, moving, and resting all nurture a life one cannot fully know. Thinking is a visible activity; without thinking there is no trace. Using visible thought to touch the realm of no-thought shows how limited knowing nurtures a life that cannot be fully known. What knowledge can nurture is limited; what does not depend on knowledge is far greater.

One who does not turn away from the nurture one receives is therefore said to be “flourishing.” Yet if one acts only from knowledge, one still cannot escape worry, because such knowledge must rely on something else in order to be applied rightly; where there is reliance, there is still no fixed standard. If both knowing and not knowing are forgotten, how could there be anything to depend on? How do I know that what is called “Heaven” is not human, and that what is called “human” is not Heaven?

Such a person simply follows the multitude without going against the few; does not take what the multitude accomplishes as one’s own, nor boast of being first; does not scheme and arrange for the multitude, but lets them return to the natural course on their own. Whether things are carried too far or just fit, it is only that principle follows its own unfolding—what is there to regret or to grasp? One like this climbs high without fear, enters water without being soaked, and draws near fire without feeling heat. This is the most subtle principle; only the “true person” (one who embodies the Dao and is at one with nature) can understand it—this is knowledge reaching the realm where it merges with the Dao.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: To know that what Heaven enacts is “fate” (ming), and that what humans enact is “rightness” (yi). To know only Heaven and not the human is to use fate to abandon the duty that belongs to human righteousness; to know only the human and not Heaven is to cling to human affairs and neglect fate. Each is only one side of the Dao, not the complete Dao. Use what you already know to nourish what you have not yet known, and then life can follow its natural course.

Human action often must rely on later cultivation to be achieved; if knowledge is taken as the root of the Dao, one must depend on something in order to act appropriately. For one who knows Heaven’s action, what is relied upon is Heaven—even when in accord with Heaven, one may still not know that there is also the human. For one who knows human action, what is relied upon is the human—even when in accord with the human, one may still not know that there is also Heaven. In that case what is relied upon has no fixed standard, and what is known cannot avoid bias; therefore it is not true knowledge.

The true person does not subject knowledge to subjective guessing, and so does not go against the few; practices Wuwei (non-action), and so does not monopolize the achievements of the multitude; has nothing to depend on, and so does not scheme and arrange for the multitude. Such a person, even when governing worldly affairs and going too far, does not know why it is too far; when following principle and hitting the mark, does not know why it is fitting. Not knowing that it is a height, one climbs high without fear; not knowing that it is water or fire, one enters water without wetting and draws near fire without heat. This is knowledge reaching the realm where it merges with the Dao.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: What Heaven enacts is to send down refined, subtle Qi (vital energy) to cover and nurture all things; what the human enacts is to circulate spirit-and-Qi to nourish and guard the hundred parts of the body. If one can understand Heaven’s Wuwei without falling into emptiness, and also understand human purposeful action without being trapped by it, that counts as reaching the utmost. Refined subtle Qi is not known where it comes from—this is called “self-transformation”; self-transformation means arising naturally. What knowledge can know has a definite range…

To know what one does not know is knowledge without bounds; to pursue that with limited knowledge is to seek the infinite by means of the finite. To nourish boundless understanding with finite knowledge, without overstepping one’s proper station to force outcomes, is the height of wisdom in knowing. Even so, one may still worry that knowledge leans on something, aims at something. Better to let all of that drop away and follow what is natural. Oppositions among things were never necessarily fixed: who can say that what is natural and what is humanly contrived must differ, or that the contrived and the natural cannot meet? Once this is clear, the heart can accord with the empty, silent, far-reaching realm; though one’s steps remain amid the clamor of the dusty world, the spirit can rise into the Grand Void (taixu), merged and without limit.

Wang Bi’s commentary: Those who know something tend to deploy knowledge in ways that harm life. Only those who study the Dao know not to depart from the Dao. Knowing not to depart from the Dao means nourishing what one has not yet understood, so that one can enter deeply into the Great Way. “Dengjia” means to enter deeply, to arrive.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary: Heaven’s doing is spontaneous—what humans do not know; human doing is driven by intent—what humans know. Using known knowledge to nourish the unknown is to know heaven through knowing humanity, and then to accord with heaven through knowing heaven. Thus one can enjoy heaven’s allotted years without untimely death; yet people still fret that life and death cannot be foreseen. As long as something is still awaited, affairs have no fixed outcome. If one can “not know, not be aware, and follow the emperor’s norm”—not striving to know, but following the natural rule—then even hearing the Dao in the morning and dying at night, what remains to wait for? This is precisely what the “Exhausting the Mind” chapter of the Mencius expounds.

Yanzhai’s oral exegesis: When human affairs are carried to their limit, heavenly principle appears; hence one uses the known to nourish the unknown. Knowledge dwells within oneself, yet what is awaited lies outside; sometimes one gains without seeking, sometimes only by seeking—neither can be settled in advance. If one says the outcome is from heaven, one still often must seek to obtain it; if one says it is from the human, there are times when seeking fails. Who can insist heaven and the human must differ? Only the perfected person (zhenren) has true knowing—this speaks of one who has the Dao. When strength is insufficient, there is no need to strain; even if one follows heaven’s mandate and achieves something, one does not treat it as merit worth boasting of. The Book of Poetry, “Eastern Mountain,” says “do not serve as the man who carries the tally-sticks on campaign”—meaning no longer troubling over marching with gags in the mouth. Acting without deliberate mind, one does not scheme, does not regret failure, does not rejoice in success, and entrusts everything to nature. “Not fearful, not soaked, not fevered” means that whatever situation one enters, one can rest at ease. “Dengjia” is likewise entering deeply into the Great Way.

Chu’s broader view: From knowing oneself one comes to know others, and from knowing others one proceeds to… (the original text breaks off here; the remainder is missing).

To understand the Way of Heaven is to achieve genuine understanding. Heaven is originally wuwei (non-action); what is meant here by “the actions of Heaven” is how sun, moon, and stars move and how yin and yang, cold and heat, shift. Human action shows itself as good and evil, compliance and defiance, and how fortune and misfortune, gain and loss take shape.

Once you understand this, you should use what you already know to nourish what you do not yet know. What is “known” is what can be inferred from learning and deduced by ordinary reason in human affairs; what is “unknown” is what learning cannot measure and reason cannot calculate—such as what is dim and unfathomable, and matters of spirits, ghosts, and the Lord on High. Living out a full span of years without early death refers only to the limit of what understanding human affairs can reach, hence it is called “the greatness of knowing.” Yet this is still acting first on the basis of knowledge; what knowledge depends on is never fixed. How can one be sure that what I call “Heaven” is not “human,” and that “human” is not “Heaven”? When Heaven and human are one, that is true understanding. The “Discourse on Equalizing Things” in the Zhuangzi says: “Let knowing stop at what you do not know—that is enough.”

“Few” (gua) speaks of being in poverty and constraint; “full” (cheng) illustrates being in a time of abundance and splendor. In poverty and constraint, one should follow the pattern of things; if one constantly goes against it, harm will come. In abundance and splendor, one should be modest and not flaunt strength; if one relies on one’s power, disaster will follow. Strategists explain these points with concrete cases, and the meaning becomes fuller. This is exactly what the classic means by “not scheming, not planning ahead.”

If so, then in dealing with people and responding to things, when a matter turns out better than expected, it is only because it happened to be so—what is there to regret? When things happen to fit just right, it is likewise mere chance—what is there to boast about? It is like a tile shard flying through the air or an empty boat drifting on the water: they have no mind to offend anything outside them, so nothing outside hates them. With such a mind, what would make you tremble on a height? What would soak you in water? What would burn you in fire?

To reach the Dao (the fundamental principle and realm in Daoist teaching) step by step through knowledge can still be like this; how much more so for someone who forgets knowledge and suddenly enters the Great Dao?

The true persons of antiquity (in Daoist teaching, those who accord with the Great Dao and reach the state of authenticity) did not dream in sleep and had no worries awake; they did not crave flavor when eating and breathed deep and long. The true person’s breath seemed to come from the heels; ordinary people’s breath reached only the throat. Those bent by submission spoke as if retching; the deeper the desires, the shallower the innate spirit (shen).

The true persons of antiquity did not cling to life nor loathe death; they were not glad to be born nor resisted dying, but simply came and went at ease. They did not forget their root, nor did they chase the end of life; when they gained life they accepted it gladly, when they lost it they let it return. This is called “not taking …”.

The True Person (Zhenren) sets the mind at rest and does not use human intellect to meddle with the Way of Heaven (Tian Dao)—this is what is meant by “True Person.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When the True Person sleeps, he does not dream, because there are no vain thoughts in the heart; when he wakes, he has no anxiety and meets whatever happens with ease. When he eats, he seems to taste nothing—he eats only because it is fitting to eat. His breathing is deep, as if the breath sank all the way to the heels. Ordinary people breathe in short, hurried gasps; a choked, whimpering sound comes from the throat because the breath is not even and unobstructed. Only when the root is stilled and settled, reaching the utmost depth, can one return to unity. The True Person is without desire and merges with the transformations of the myriad things, calmly following change. Whether life or death comes and goes, he does not find it hard; he even forgets the beginning and end of life. The True Person does not deliberately resist life or probe death; he does not ask what he will meet—whatever comes, he adapts in peace. The causes by which outer things stir the person are endless; if one chases outer things without restraint, the principle of Heaven is lost. The True Person understands that deploying the mind and using human will to “help” the Way of Heaven in fact harms life—so he does not do it.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Without deliberation, one does not dream in sleep; without craving, eating seems to have no flavor. Then breathing becomes deep, as if sinking to the heels. “Heel” (zhong) is where the breath’s origin lies at the start: the heel is the lowest part of the body, and the root of the breath also lies deep within the body—hence both are described with “heel” to show depth. When breath reaches the utmost depth, it is as if there were no breathing at all. Ordinary people lose inner steadfastness and are pressed by outer things; their breath is hurried and a whimpering sound comes from the throat—how could such people let the breath sink to the heels? Their heavenly mechanism (tianji) is shallow; when outer things touch them, the mind rises at once. That the True Person’s breath sinks to the heels shows how far he stands from outer things. If one only clings to life and hates death, likes going out and resists returning, one abandons what is called “carefree ease” (xiaoran): the mind is bent on cherishing life yet forgets where life comes from; fearing death, one still asks where death leads. One cannot gladly accept transformation, cannot forget and return to nature, but instead loses one’s innate nature and strives artificially to preserve life. This is using human will to interfere with the Way of Heaven.

Yidu’s commentary: When the True Person sleeps at night and wakes in the morning, outwardly he is no different from ordinary people—but he does not dream and wakes without worry, and in this he differs. With no schemes in the heart, the soul (hun) is at ease and does not chase outer things, so sleep brings no dreams; with the body not rashly active, the spirit (shen) is at ease and is not enslaved by outer things, so waking brings no anxiety. When the True Person eats, he seems to taste nothing, as if he hardly ate at all. His breathing is deep; the breath is stored in what is dark and subtle. “Heel” means the lowest part of the body; the breath is stored so deeply it does not show outside. “Breath” (xi) is nasal breath; the movement of nasal breath is governed by the heart. “Bowed in submission” (qufu) means being suppressed by others…

When qi flow is obstructed, sounds from the throat come out unevenly, as if choked. The throat is also where food and drink enter the body.

Those with heavy cravings easily let their spirit (shen) run outward, and their mind grows dim. When they look for innate spiritual responsiveness, they only notice what lies above the liver and diaphragm and before the face—far from the root of life. Mencius said: “When desire is great, few can keep their original heart-mind.” He meant this situation.

They do not know how to cherish life, so when life arrives, what is there to rejoice in? They do not know how to loathe death, so when death arrives, what is there to resist? They let coming and going follow nature, and the inner spirit is not disturbed. They do not forget where life comes from and return to the root; they do not ask what life will finally become and leave everything to fate. When life comes, they do not probe what they really are—they accept it gladly; when life ends, they do not brood on where they will go—they return in forgetfulness. This is neither harming the Dao (the Way) with private intent nor boosting nature with deliberate effort.

The Xiangdao commentary says: Ancient True Persons, in sleep, did not let the soul (hun) mingle with outer things, so they had no dreams; awake, the body was not pulled by outer things, so they had no worry. They tasted food but did not cling to flavor, so they did not find it especially sweet; they simply nurtured life as nature allows, without wearing down the true essence (zhen), so their breath was deep and long. They did not crave life or hate death, so birth and death were left to nature; they did not rejoice at birth or resist death, so in coming and going they moved with all things. Those dragged by externals forget the root of life; those who chase profit alone always want to fix the outcome in advance—uneasy when receiving things, expectant when returning. Only the True Person does not forget the root of life and returns to the source; does not chase life’s end and leaves all to fate. Thus they gladly accept life and return in forgetfulness, without extra thought; they do not harm the Dao with private mind, nor act rashly; they do not use human force to inflate nature. This is called the conduct of the True Person.

The Bixu commentary says: When spirit is gathered, one does not dream; when the heart is empty and still, there is no worry; with no special addictions, food does not seem extraordinarily sweet. In the True Person, water and fire are in harmony, so breath flows everywhere; in ordinary people, water and fire contend, so they cannot be at peace. The deeper the craving, the shallower innate spiritual responsiveness; when inner true water is turbid, heaven’s light is dim. Those who cultivate the Dao have no partial like or dislike; those who follow nature neither rejoice nor resist. Not forgetting life’s beginning is guarding the root; not pursuing the outcome is not plotting ahead. Neither using private intent nor abandoning the Dao; not deliberately adding to life lest ill fortune follow. This is how the True Person acts.

The Xuzhai commentary says: No split between sleep and waking, no split between eating and breathing—that is the True Person. Breath going in and out through the throat is how ordinary people are; in deep sleep, a gurgling sound may come from the throat… (the original text ends here.)

What is meant by “yeyan” (words choked in the throat) is something like the wailing sound from the throat; delighting in life and loathing death, going out with joy and returning with resistance—these are exactly the signs of heavy desire and shallow, calculating mind. The true person (one who embodies the Dao and acts accordingly) has none of this clinging, and therefore comes and goes freely, does not lose innate nature, and can dwell with the myriad things without end.

When receiving life, one accepts it gladly and is not dragged down by life; forgetting life and returning to the root is returning to the source of life. Not letting private mind harm the Dao, the heart is one with the Dao; not using human effort to boost innate nature, the person is aligned with Heaven. The true person follows Heaven’s way and rests in what is natural—that is all.

Yan of Yu said: When the true person sleeps, there are no dreams, because spirit is settled; when awake, there is no worry, because though dealings with others create ties, there is no inner struggle; in eating, one does not chase flavors, because there is no thought of stuffing or filling; breathing is deep and long. These sayings are in fact the root of Daoist nourishing-life and cultivation. When spirit is settled, breath is deep, as if rising from the heels to mouth and nose; when spirit is not nourished, breath stays only in the throat. This difference between stillness and agitation can be seen in the body. Without genuine inner experience, words remain on the lips and are easily overpowered by others. Look at the question-and-answer in Chan practice and you will see this.

“Shiyu” means human desire; “tianji” means the natural mechanism given at birth; “shenqian” speaks of how deep or shallow these are in their waxing and waning. This passage runs through layer by layer; many statements in Daoist writings and Buddhist scriptures unfold from it. From “delighting in life” onward, what is discussed is birth and death. “Not forgetting the beginning, not seeking the end” means probing the source and grasping beginning and end. One receives bodily form from Heaven—how could one not accept it gladly? To return the form whole and cease clinging is just this. “Not letting the heart harm the Dao” is heart and Dao as one; “not using human effort to boost innate nature” means lifespan is arranged by Heaven’s mandate—human strength cannot add to it.

No dreams in sleep, because sleep and wake are both at ease; no worry when awake, because one is united with the Dao. Not chasing flavors in eating, one is plain and without demand; breathing deep and long, one does not leave the root of life. The true person breathes with the heels—this is the profound learning of the life-nourishing masters.

The Nanhuazhenjing (Nanhua True Classic, i.e. the Zhuangzi tradition) pities worldly people who chase outer things and lose true nature, so that spirit weakens and primordial Qi (qi) is drained; only then does it disclose these principles. Many find the word “heel” (zhong) hard to understand; in fact it stands by metaphor for the lowest part of the body. If you turn back to yourself and observe the state of deep, long breathing, you will understand what “heel breathing” means. Ordinary people know breath passes through the throat; what is called the root of breath is the “heel.” Shiyu…

Vaporous qi that has stagnated deep within blocks the passages and cannot flow freely; breath rises from the heels yet cannot settle again, moving back and forth in the throat. Thus, when one is even slightly pressed by external things, the breath bends and cannot pass, and the voice comes out like wailing. The Yijing says: “When one loses what one should hold to, words become twisted.” All these signs come from deep craving and desire, which confine a person and harm the natural endowment (tianji); they do not mean that tianji was shallow to begin with.

If you do not forget how things begin, you accept and cherish them; if you do not chase how things end, you release them and let them return to the natural course. Here, in “not letting the heart abandon the Dao” (bu yi xin juan dao), the character juan (捐) is suspect—it may have been yuanxun (缘徇), “to follow and pursue.” That would fit better with what follows, “not using the human to aid Heaven.” Discourse on Equalizing Things (Qiwu lun) says “do not seek because of liking” and “do not follow external things,” which supports this reading. It seems the original wording was miswritten for a near-homophone.

Such a person has a settled mind and a calm face, with a broad forehead; the spirit is cool and clear as autumn, yet also mild as spring. Joy and anger shift with the four seasons and suit all things, without knowing where that adaptability ends.

Therefore when the sage employs force, he may destroy a state yet not lose the people’s hearts; kindness and benefit may reach ten thousand generations without being aimed at particular persons. One who merely likes to make things flow is not yet a sage; one who favors some things is not yet humane; one who is tied to the seasons is not yet worthy; one who cannot see through benefit and harm is not yet a gentleman; one who chases fame and loses the self is not yet a true scholar; one who harms the body and loses authenticity can only be someone who is driven by others.

Hu Buxie, Wu Guang, Boyi, Shuqi, Jizi, Xuyu, Jita, Shentu Di, and the like—all were people who toiled for others and met others’ demands, and never let themselves rest in what was truly their own to rest in.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: To rest in one’s own place is to have a settled mind; though one acts, one does not harm inner stillness. The broad forehead shows plain, unadorned simplicity. One who grasps the great Dao and follows change is as warm or stern as cold and heat; with no partiality toward things, one does not obstruct each thing’s proper state. When nothing is improper, no one can see the limit of that change.

When the sage brings a state to ruin, he follows what the people already wished for; gentle as spring, he bestows favor without demanding return; cool as autumn, he lets things wither without resentment. The sage does not deliberately pursue joy, so things meet no obstruction and flow naturally; the sage does not favor any one thing but only follows how affairs are, so each thing can live in its own way.

One who is fixated on the times is not as good as forgetting the times and letting the self naturally align with them—that is the worthy person. If one cannot unify right and wrong in one path and still only chases benefit and avoids harm, one injures De and betrays one’s proper role. A person skilled in being a scholar abandons fame and finds truth in himself; when name and reality match, blessing rests on the person. If one loses one’s nature and forces oneself to suit externals, one suffers many masters; how could such a person master others? Hu Buxie, Wu Guang…

Lü Huiqing holds that the true sage devotes heart and mind to the Dao: when the inner state is quiet and still, spirit can gather and remain unmoved; the countenance is plain, without a performative air. Their bearing is cool and clear like autumn, yet not from loathing anything; mild and bright like spring, yet not from favoring anything. Joy and anger follow the turning of the four seasons and resonate with the harmonious qi of heaven and earth, so that the myriad things each find their proper place.

When the sage campaigns against a fallen state, they do not lose the people’s hearts, because they do not set out with a mind to do evil; when their grace reaches across ten thousand generations, it is not from partiality. Toward the myriad things, they go along with each thing’s own changes and let it reach its course; in practicing benevolence (ren), they can embrace all under heaven without clinging to near and far. In advancing, retreating, acting, or stopping, they likewise follow the times yet remain their own master. To keep what one upholds even in hardship—that is the junzi (exemplary person); what sets the junzi apart from ordinary people is the Dao they hold to. To forget high and low, deep and shallow, and not fix the mind on life and death—that is what it means to be a “master of others” (yiren, one who can master external things). From sage, benevolent person, worthy, and scholar down to the master of others, though rank and station differ, each must have genuine virtue to deserve the name. Figures such as Hufuxie and Wuguang were seen as lofty recluses, yet they were still driven by externals and could not settle themselves at ease. Only when one does not strive to seize and acts in accord with what is natural can one truly be at ease.

Lin Xiyi holds that “mind and intent forget the self,” “a calm, still countenance” forgets external things, and “the brow and face do not betray expression” forgets the body. Cool as autumn embodies the True Person’s (zhenren) sense of right; warm as spring embodies the True Person’s benevolence (ren). Joy and anger like the four seasons in motion let the people and birds and beasts each find their place; spirit does not wear thin and virtue is not lost, so there is naturally no end to it.

The sage takes up arms only when there is no other way. Because the other side has guilt, they go out to punish them—and so they can still win the people’s support, as the deeds of King Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou show. The grace the sage extends is vast and far-reaching, yet they never harbor a mind to win love by it, as the purpose of Yao and Shun makes clear. The sage lets the myriad things pass through according to their nature; they do not deliberately seek passage or take it as delight. Toward people they do not forcibly divide close from distant—that is what is called “supreme benevolence” (zhiren).

The worthy person’s actions naturally align with the season’s timing; they do not strain to “match heaven’s time.” To accord with the Dao, one must see benefit and harm on equal terms and let them communicate; the reverse is not worthy of being called junzi. If one chases reputation with a single mind, one loses the root of cultivating the self—and that too is not what is meant by shi (scholar-gentleman). The so-called master of others (yiren) should be one who can stand on their own footing and be fit to direct others; if one makes people lose their nature, forget themselves, and engage in hypocrisy, while oneself is ruled by others, that cannot count as a true master of others.

When the inner mind is not disturbed by external things, the heart’s intent will not be stirred; when nothing outside can shake one, one’s bearing is calm and solemn. This is not to display severity; in nurturing all things, it is not to perform benevolence. With a broad forehead and a settled expression, one can see that one will not be pulled by outer things.

When the sage employs force, he follows what people already wish to see perish and thereby brings it to ruin, so he does not lose the people’s hearts—this is righteousness carried to its limit. He follows what people hope will profit them and thereby confers benefit, so his grace does not spring from private affection—this is benevolence carried to its limit. In dealing with things, the sage knows all things by not clinging to “knowing all things”; in dealing with benevolence, he does not favor those near at hand out of private partiality.

If one is veiled by the shifts of Heaven and neglects human affairs, that cannot count as worthiness; if one does not discern benefit and harm, true and false feelings mingle in confusion—that cannot count as the conduct of a gentleman. To act for reputation and lose oneself is the way of someone like Boyi; to cast off life and lose one’s true nature is the way of someone like Shentu Di.

Bixu Commentary: The heart’s intent is unified and unmoved. A calm bearing is the expression of turning inward to observe the mind; a broad forehead and settled look are as plain and solid as uncarved wood. To understand the Way of Heaven is to understand the four seasons; to understand human dispositions is to be in accord with the myriad things. Forget outer advantage and you gain inner benefit; be wary of inner calamity and you keep far from outer harm. When body and name are both preserved, one may be called a good person. If for the sake of outer things one forgets oneself, one will be constrained by many affairs. People like Hu Buxie are all those who are enslaved by externals and harm themselves.

Zhao Commentary: In “his heart’s intent” (其心志), “intent” (志) should be read as “forget” (忘)—that is, forgetting fixed intent. A calm bearing; “顙頯然” (顙頯然) describes a broad forehead and a firm expression. “凄然” is anger, “煖然” is joy; adapting to the four seasons and harmonizing with the myriad things, yet no one knows the limit. Wherever one goes, nothing fails to fit the situation. Even in destroying a state, if one has not lost the people’s hearts, then at the time of killing there is no resentment; if grace extends for ten thousand generations yet does not arise from private love, then in conferring benefit one does not seek repayment. Merely knowing things outwardly and chasing profit is not enough to call one a sage; favoring those close from private affection is not enough to call one benevolent. Acting only as circumstances change is not enough to call one worthy; not knowing benefit and harm is not enough to call one a gentleman. Pursuing fame and losing oneself is not enough to call one a scholar; if one has something to chase to the point of losing oneself, one cannot master the welter of activity. People like Hu Buxie are all those who abandon the self and lose their true nature.

Yanzhai says: “Intent” (志) means the mind has a master and does not change; “頯然” (頯然) is the look of a broad forehead. “凄然” is anger, “煖然” is joy. The sage does not deliberately produce joy and anger, yet like spring and autumn in the four seasons he responds as events change, each disposition fitting its occasion, with no fixed place where he stays. This is what is meant by “when in contact with things, the mind transforms with the moment.” Employing troops harms the world; conferring grace benefits the world; if both are done in a mindless (wuwei) way, then in destroying a state…

Those who receive his virtuous influence do not resent him either; they even say, “What does the power of the ruler have to do with me?” From “taking joy in oneself and penetrating things” onward, this whole passage satirizes the sage and the worthy, using this to show that the Way of the true person is not something ordinary people can aspire to.

Regarding the character 志 (zhi, intention), interpretations by various scholars are often forced and inconsistent. Zhao suggests that it should here be 忘 (wang, forgetting), which accords with the meaning of 容寂 (containing stillness); this view is quite sound—the original text was probably thus, with only a slight copying error in transmission.

“His forehead rises prominently”—like Laodan just after washing his hair and coming forth. Starting from the description of the ancient true person’s appearance, this means the true person does not let life and death or benefit and harm shake the inner mind, and therefore the outward demeanor can be so settled.

Joy and anger follow the changes of the four seasons, thus aligning with the Way of Heaven; responding to the world and meeting things with perfect fitness aligns with human De (Virtue)—who could know the limits of such a person?

Using the military to bring a state to ruin yet not losing the people’s hearts—because the people forget the ruler’s accomplishments; beneficent influence extending through myriad generations yet not taking credit for it—because one forgets the objects of one’s grace.

The sage fully realizes one’s own heavenly nature and penetrates the heavenly nature of all things—this arises from spontaneity in the first place, not from deliberately using the mind to pursue “taking joy in penetrating all things.” The utmost benevolent person does not favor those close at hand yet can broadly cherish all people; the worthy person, in whatever situation, can accord with what is right. The noble person regards benefit and harm as a single whole, neither deliberately avoiding nor chasing them, and therefore calamity does not come without cause.

Action is the root of establishing a name, and the name serves to display the action. To lose one’s original mind is to lack genuine inner quality and not count as a true scholar; to abandon oneself and chase a hollow reputation is merely to be driven by others—how could such a one drive others? One who is not driven by others and can be at ease in self-sufficiency is, I suppose, none other than the true person.

Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, fascicle 14