《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 16

Nán Bó Zǐkuí asked Nǚ'ǒu, “You are already very old, yet your face is like a child’s—why is that?”

Nǚ'ǒu replied, “I have heard the Dao.”

Nán Bó Zǐkuí asked, “Can the Dao be learned?”

Nǚ'ǒu said, “How could just anyone learn it? Bǔ Liáng Yǐ had the endowment to become a sage but did not have the way of sagehood; I had the way of sagehood but did not have the endowment to become a sage. I wished to transmit the teaching to him—perhaps he could truly become a sage. To tell the way of sagehood to someone who already has the endowment of a sage would indeed be easy. I still held fast to the Dao and taught him. After three days he could forget the world; once he had forgotten the world, I again held fast to the teaching for seven days, and he could forget external things. Once he had forgotten external things, I again held fast to the teaching for nine days, and he could forget his own life. After that he reached “zhaochè” (a mind suddenly clear and open); next he could “jiàn dú” (perceive the undivided, self-sufficient Dao); after that he was no longer bound by past and present. Once he had transcended past and present, he entered the realm where there is neither death nor life.

“What kills life does not itself die; what gives rise to life does not itself be born. Toward the myriad things, there is nothing it does not send off, nothing it does not welcome; nothing it does not destroy, nothing it does not complete. This state is called yingning (tranquility amid being stirred and pulled by things). Yingning means that after being stirred and pulled, one can still achieve completion.”

Nán Bó Zǐkuí asked, “From whom did you hear this?”

Nǚ'ǒu answered, “I heard it from Fùmò’s son; Fùmò’s son from Luòsòng’s grandson; Luòsòng’s grandson from Zhānmíng; Zhānmíng from Nièxǔ; Nièxǔ from Xūyì; Xūyì from Yú’ōu; Yú’ōu from Xuánmíng; Xuánmíng from Cānlíao; Cānlíao from Yíshǐ.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “‘External’ means to forget. What are called ‘things’ are what daily life constantly needs and what is hard to forget. To forget one’s own life is to forget all of this. When even life is forgotten, whatever one meets one rests in; the mind is suddenly open and unobstructed—this is ‘zhaochè.’ To forget before and after is ‘jiàn dú’; to merge with the undivided, self-sufficient Dao is to be unbound by past and present. Because one is attached to life, there is death; because one loathes death, there is the urge to live. Without attachment and without loathing, there is no so-called death and life. Letting things come and go, therefore there is nothing not sent off and not welcomed; letting things be destroyed or completed, therefore there is nothing not destroyed and not completed. One who is merged with the myriad things—when things stir him, he stirs with them, yet never becomes unsettled; being stirred and yielding to it, among the myriad things there is not one that….” The original text breaks off here.

This commentary explains that qucheng (accomplishing things through gradual, indirect means) begins with hearing the fumo (secondary traces of the Dao recorded in writing) and step by step reaches xuanming (the dark, profound realm that ordinary understanding cannot grasp). What is called xuanming is named by borrowing “wu” (non-being), yet it does not flatly assert that nothing exists at all; when it goes further to canliao (utter emptiness without trace), that is the realm of “mystery upon mystery.”

The pattern of nature sometimes only appears after long accumulation. Practitioners must advance layer by layer: only after seven layers does one speak of the name of wu, and only after nine layers does one begin to question wu; even where it begins cannot be fixed.

Lü’s commentary says that if a person hears and embodies the Dao, worry and harm cannot disturb them, so though they grow old, their countenance still looks youthful. The way of the sage is to grasp the root and essentials; the talent of the sage is to extend the Dao through the world and the state. Bu Liangyi had the talent of a sage but not the Dao of a sage, so his teacher upheld the Dao to guide him. The practitioner moves from the coarse to the refined: first forgetting the world, then forgetting external things; after forgetting things, forgetting one’s own life; then reaching zhaoche (sudden clarity like dawn light breaking). This means that one is immersed in the bodily self, and through reflection finally breaks through in understanding.

“Seeing the unique” (jian du) means discerning the Dao that stands alone without a counterpart; it has no division of past and present and runs through ten thousand years as one. Reaching the state unbound by life and death is like: death is made to happen by me, yet I myself have not died; life is made to happen by me, yet I myself have not been born. Whether receiving or sending away, completing or destroying—though every change touches the self, one is not thereby endangered, and this is called yingning (steadfast amid turmoil). The point is: through contact with things, one thereby achieves peace.

Only when the Dao takes itself as substance is it the root; what writing discusses is only a copy of the Dao. “Luosong” (chanting in succession) means threading the meaning of the Dao and reciting it repeatedly; “descendants” means what the Dao generates and hands down. “Zhanming” is seeing clear principle; “niexu” is practicing what one has grasped; “xuyi” is employing things so each finds its use; “ouge” is expressing joy in song. From fumo to zhanming is learning and gaining insight; from niexu to ouge is practice and the joy that follows. Yet these still do not fully state the substance of the Dao. At xuanming there is nothing visible or knowable; at canliao even “wu” no longer holds. To question its beginning without knowing where it begins—that is precisely how it is as beginning.

Lin’s commentary says the Dao is the root support of life and is the capacity of nature. Having the talent of a sage is nature fully expressed; having the Dao of a sage is reaching destiny. The sage’s talent is not without Dao, but when going forth to aid the world, talent is primary; the sage’s Dao is not without talent, but when withdrawing in wuwei (non-action), Dao is primary. Here the Dao of the sage is used to guide the talent of the sage, turning him from outward action toward inward embodiment of the Dao.

To reach the realm of Wuwei (non-action) seems not difficult at all. Someone who still holds to the way of Wuwei can be taught for three days; after that, he can set the world aside. After seven more days, he can set external things aside; after nine more days, he can set life itself aside.

The world and external things are easy to forget; life is what people find hardest to let go of. Once life is forgotten, one no longer clings to birth and death, and instead can let the myriad things ceaselessly generate and transform—this is the utmost of the Dao. The clear Qi of the night is preserved; by morning it still runs through without break, and then one can perceive “aloneness” (the Dao that transcends opposition and has nothing to match it). This “seeing” is not what the eyes see. The Dao has no ancient or modern, is not pushed about by the changes of the world; without death and without birth, one penetrates the root of life.

To be able to master the myriad things yet not be mastered by them is to bring life to an end; to be able to employ the myriad things yet not be employed by them is to let life go on generating without end. What is called “becoming the myriad things” is only a forced way of putting it. Whether the myriad things come and go, succeed or perish, the Dao is not moved by them. When the myriad things are moved by external things, they become restless and unstable; only the Dao, after being stirred, can instead complete the myriad things.

“Fumo” (副墨) refers to written records; “hanmo” (翰墨) also means written words. “Er” (贰) means a duplicate copy. “Luo” (洛) is the legendary place where books were issued. “Song” (诵) means to recite and study by heart. “Zhanming” (瞻明) is to see clearly once there is perception; “niexu” (聂许) is to speak into each other’s ears and mutually acknowledge. “Xuyi” (需役) is to wait and then act; “ou” (謳) means to sing, and “jian yu ou” (见于謳) is to express oneself through song. “Xuan” (玄) is the body of mystery; “ming” (冥) is depth that holds light within. “Can” (参) indicates merging into one, used to cut off attachment to “being”; “er” (贰) indicates dividing into two, used to cut off fixation on “non-being.” “Liao” (寥) is the name for empty stillness. “Er hou yi wu shi shi ye” (而后疑无是始也) means: at this point one first begins to wonder what “non-being” really is. These nine names are raised to show that hearing the great Dao and grasping it must proceed step by step.

The Xiangdao commentary says: External things are a burden on the body, so one must first forget external things before one can forget life; life is also a burden on the Dao, so only after forgetting life can one reach “zhaoche” (the clear, penetrating state at dawn). The clear Qi of the night is not lost, and therefore in the morning one can be fully penetrated. The Dao has nothing opposite to it, so what is seen is “aloneness.” Merging ancient and modern into one time and threading death and life into one body, one no longer clings to sending off and welcoming, succeeding and perishing. Pure unified Qi is not depleted within, and the myriad things outside cannot move him, so he seems like an infant—there is nothing strange in that.

Those who cling only to life are in fact harming life; those who harm life do not thereby die. Those who only kill and destroy are in fact letting the myriad things live on; those who let the myriad things live on do not thereby gain eternal life for themselves. What is called “becoming the myriad things” means: nothing of the past fails to be sent off, nothing of the future fails to be welcomed; what succeeds is never without perishing, what perishes is never without succeeding again. This is the situation of being moved by the myriad things and thereby completing the myriad things.

The Bixu commentary says: To have the talent of a sage, one must rely on the subtle functioning of a sage; to embody the subtle functioning of a sage, one must also possess the talent of a sage. If one wishes to guard simplicity…

Only someone who cannot be changed by external things can be said to have complete De (virtue). To guard this point and teach it to others is what counts as a teaching that may be transmitted.

When you treat the world as something outside yourself, you see that land is no more than soil and chaff—something you can let go. When you treat external things as external, you see that worldly affairs are only traces left over from the Dao (the Way), not worth clinging to. When you treat life itself as external, you grasp that human sensory perception is illusory. Only one who has reached “zhaoche” (inner clarity like dawn) can see this truth alone. “Jiandu” (seeing the One in solitude) means that what is seen has no rival; it is not bound by past and present and runs through all ages; it neither is born nor dies, and returns to the root of all things. Remove the thief that fixates on life and death, and life is no longer ruled by birth and death. Treat the principle of life and death as something to grasp, and you cannot truly experience it. Cut off the delusion of craving life, and the body may still remain and even gain from it; obsess over the fantasy of clinging to life, and decline speeds up.

When people are dragged by things, they can only rest for a while in how things change—they cannot force them to topple or alter. “Fumo” is the teaching written in characters; “luosong” is learning through repeated recitation; “zhanming” is seeing the principle; “niexu” is hearing instruction; “xuyi” is waiting on orders and serving as assigned; “yuou” is singing. “Xuanming” means deep stillness; “canliao” means seeking the highest reach; “yishi” is asking whether all things have a first beginning.

Zhao’s note says: “waiving the world,” “waiving things,” and “waiving life” share one meaning, only moving from coarse to fine and from outside to inside. To transcend attachment to life is to penetrate and illuminate everything—this is “zhaoche.” Reaching zhaoche, what is seen stands out clearly; when it stands out clearly, one understands that the Dao runs through past and present. Once past and present are one, how can there still be birth and death? Liezi said that what gives rise to things is not itself given rise to by something else, and what transforms things does not itself transform—he meant exactly this.

Things welcome themselves and send themselves off, ruin themselves and complete themselves; one need only let them be. Thus one may still meet things, yet not be tied by them. “Yingning” means that at first one is caught up in these words, then suddenly understands, and the various points all connect—that is, one is stirred first, and only then can one be fulfilled. Zi Kui asked where these words were heard; the answer was: learned from written teaching, heard in recitation, seen in observation, grasped in listening, felt in waiting on orders and in song; one may also silently awaken in deep stillness, seek in the far distance, or ask whether things have a beginning. All these expressions are allegories.

Yan Zhai said that those with complete Dao and talent, apart from the Five Emperors and Three Kings, were probably only Yi Yin, Duke of Zhou, and Confucius. The three, seven, and nine days in the text need not be forced into a scheme; they only show stages of cultivation deepening. “Zhaoche” is the chest opening and brightening, like clear morning air; “jiandu” is oneself experiencing the Dao while others may not see it. The Dao is not limited by past and present, so there is no split between birth and death. “Killing life does not die; giving life does not live” means: break fixation on life and death, and you are not ruled by them; cling to pursuing life itself, and you cannot grasp the principle of neither birth nor death.

They say that even if you kill it, that does not count as making it die; even if you give it life, that does not count as making it live. Whether you welcome or send off, whether you complete or destroy—all of this simply happens of itself. Even amid clamor and disorder, inner stillness is always there. It is precisely within disturbance that this stillness can be realized.

When speech is recorded on bamboo strips, it becomes a written copy. String the characters together and read or recite by the text, like descendants multiplying generation after generation. What follows says the same thing as what came before: people think the Dao is something obtained only after reading books, so they invent many names; yet when you trace it to the root, the Dao is spoken of as “the Creator,” “Profound Darkness,” “the beginning when there was qi,” “Vast Emptiness,” “the beginning without name,” “the beginning of doubt,” and even “the beginning before any beginning.” These names come from writing, but the Dao they point to is what human nature already holds within.

The Dao is what sets the root standard and awakens the heart; talent (cai) is the capacity to know things, carry out affairs, and plan undertakings. The sage takes all under Heaven as his charge and bears the weight of teaching, so neither Dao nor talent can be neglected. Weighing which matters more, one may rather abide in the Dao with something to spare than let ability outweigh the Dao and stray from the root. When Nüyu told Buliang Yi these things, she feared that cleverness would become an obstacle and make entry into the Dao hard, and so warned him to hold fast to the root.

“Setting the world outside” (wai tianxia) means putting the affairs of the world outside oneself and discarding what is crude in them; “setting things outside” (wai wu) means letting go of outer things; “setting life outside” (wai sheng) means putting one’s own life outside oneself as well. When even the self can be released, nothing remains that cannot be forgotten. “Morning clarity” (zhao che) is the clarity of dawn, illuminating what was previously unclear; “seeing the solitary” (jian du) is seeing the Dao that stands apart from the myriad things, perceiving the root that ordinary sight misses. With no division of past and present, one is not bound by time; without fixating on the difference between death and life, the body cannot confine you. If you treat death as cruelty, you cannot truly transcend death; if you treat life as a gift, you cannot transcend attachment to life.

Only because one does not deliberately welcome or send off, and does not cling to completion or destruction, can one welcome everything, complete everything, and likewise send off everything and destroy everything. This state is called “ying ning”: at peace within disturbance. Guo Xiang comments that “ying” is cognate with “entangled” (ying), and “ning” should be read in its basic sense of peace. Living in the world, one meets all kinds of things every day, and few are undisturbed. Ordinary people are disturbed and their hearts are chaotic; the sage remains at peace even while responding to disturbance. Disturbing the heart causes the Dao to be lost; keeping peace amid disturbance is how the Dao is fulfilled. This is close in meaning to “responding constantly yet remaining constantly still,” though the wording here is rather distinctive. The explanation from “written copy” (fu mo) through “the beginning of doubt” (yi shi) has already been treated in detail by earlier commentators, and need not be repeated here.

Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai once gathered and said: “Whoever can take ‘nonbeing’ (wu) as the head, life as the backbone, and death as the buttocks, and who understands that death, life, existence, and extinction are fundamentally one body—such a person we will befriend.”

The four looked at one another and laughed; their hearts were in accord, and they became friends. Before long, Ziyu fell ill. Zisi went to visit him. Ziyu said: “How great is the Creator (zaowuzhe)! It is about to make me into this curled and contracted shape: my back is bent, my five viscera are squeezed upward, my chin hides in my navel, my shoulders rise above my head, and the wen on the back of my neck points straight at the sky. The yin-yang qi has gone awry, yet in my heart I am still at ease. I hobble to the well to look at my reflection and sigh: ‘Ah—the Creator is going to make me into this curled and contracted shape again!’”

Zisi asked: “Do you hate this form?”

Ziyu replied: “No. What is there for me to hate? Suppose transformation gradually turns my left arm into a rooster—I will use it to announce dawn; turns my right arm into a sling—I will use it to shoot roasted owls; turns my buttocks into wheels and my spirit into a horse—I will ride them on my journeys. Why need a separate carriage? To receive life is the work of the times; to lose life is likewise to follow transformation. To rest in the times and follow transformation—sorrow and joy cannot enter the heart. This is what the ancients called ‘suspended release’ (xuanjie): casting off bondage and attaining liberation. One who cannot release himself is entangled by outer things. Outer things cannot overcome the Way of Heaven (tiandao)—that has been so for long; what have I to detest?”

Guo Xiang commented: To observe transformation and comply with it is to go along with whatever comes. Meeting a fitting moment, people call it “gaining”; following transformation and leaving the world, people call it “losing.” To rest in the times and follow transformation is “suspended release.” If one cannot release himself, he is caught by all sorts of outer things; if one can release, there is nothing that cannot be let go. The Way of Heaven has always had the alternation of day and night—how could I demand of myself that I have no birth and death, and why should I hate death?

Lü Huiqing commented: From “back bent” through “wen pointing at the sky” describes the ugly, contracted sick body—yet that is only yin-yang qi out of balance. Ziyu’s heart remained at ease, so even hobbling he did not mind going to the well to look at his shadow. Looking at the reflection in the well symbolizes turning back to observe one’s own nature. When he says the Creator is again making him this way, it seems like loathing life, but in fact he is answering Zisi’s question. The phrase “transformation gradually occurs” lists three changes, yet what Ziyu realizes remains one throughout—this is the meaning that the myriad things change without end. When he also says “what have I to hate?” he is taking formless nonbeing as the root and regarding life as one segment within it.

To treat death as the pivot of the body is to let the physical form change along with it. So I take my buttocks for wheels and my spirit for a horse, and ride with the flow as things are—why insist on harnessing a carriage?

When life arrives, I cannot know it in advance, so gaining life is simply coming at the right time. When life departs, I cannot hold it back, so losing life is simply yielding to nature. At ease with the times and compliant with change, neither sorrow nor joy can disturb the inner mind. This is what is called “suspended liberation.” If one ignores the moment and forces things, going against what should be followed, it is like being bound by something one cannot untie by oneself. When life comes, it cannot be refused; when it goes, it cannot be kept. Clearly nothing in the ten thousand things can prevail over the Way of Heaven—so why should I resent it?

Lin’s commentary: Ziyu and his three companions all understood the Dao. They saw that life and death and being and non-being could be regarded as one, and so became friends. From the account of Ziyu’s bent back and fingers pointing skyward, we see how he looked after his illness. Humans are born from the blending of yin and yang; this sickness was a calamity of yin-yang imbalance. Though the body was ill, his mind remained at peace. Staggering to look at his reflection in the well, he attributed his transformation to the work of creation. The author uses this sigh to clarify the principle of change in things.

The body belongs to creation-and-transformation, so with yin-yang shifts it gradually transforms: an arm might become a cock, or a crossbow; then one would use it to crow at dawn or to shoot birds. The buttocks might become wheels, the spirit a horse—and I would mount and ride without refusing. This is settling calmly into change; what is there to resist? Where there is life and death, there is gain and loss. So-called “gain” is not under my command; it is only meeting the right season. So-called “loss” is not something I can steer; it is only following how things are. This is “suspended liberation”: while one has life, the heart is tied to birth and death; when one does not cling to life, that tie is released. Ziyu said that what made him like this was the Way of Heaven; nothing can overcome the Way of Heaven—so why should he resent it?

Xiangdao’s commentary: Head, back, and buttocks differ in height, yet all are equally illusory, changing forms. Being and non-being, life and death, coming and going differ, yet all are equally affairs within change. This is what it means to see life, death, survival, and perishing as one. The left arm belongs to yang and governs generation, hence it may become a cock; the right arm belongs to yin and governs killing, hence it may become a crossbow. When something is gained—even if it is welcome—one accepts it calmly and is not pulled by joy. When something is lost—even if it is grievous—one rests in it calmly and is not swayed by sorrow. Where there is sorrow and joy, the mind is bound; where sorrow and joy do not pull at it, that is “suspended liberation.”

Water by nature is not solid; when it freezes into ice, it loses its former flowing state. Earth by nature is not upright; when it is built into a wall, it loses its former settled state.

Human nature being bound by external things follows the same principle: the key is to undo that binding and return to the root.

Bi Xu’s commentary: A person’s seven-foot frame is originally like empty space. Life and death, being and perishing are one continuous whole. When hearts accord, people can be friends; when they clash, they are not friends.

Suppose my left arm turned into a rooster—I would use it to crow at dawn; my right arm into a sling—I would use it to shoot birds and roast an owl. Suppose my buttocks grew supple enough to serve as wheels and my spirit strong enough to serve as a horse—I would ride them on my travels and need no carriage. When even birth and death can be treated as external, how much more so grief and joy? Those who understand how to follow change move with the times; those who do not still accept change peacefully and wait for it. Such people are clear and penetrating. Those who cannot free themselves remain bound by the transformations of life and death.

Zhao’s commentary: Ziyu’s images of the body becoming a rooster, a sling, wheels, and a horse—to crow, to hunt and roast birds, to ride on a journey—are of course not literal. He only means that even if one gradually turns into something else, one simply acts according to that thing’s nature; why cling in the mind? To be bound is to be dragged by the bodily form; to be released is to know that from then on one is free of that drag.

Yan Zhai’s commentary: Head, back, and buttocks are only metaphors for beginning, middle, and end. Humans first arise from non-being; only after there is a body do life and death appear. From “How great…” onward describes the state of being bound: what makes me so stiff? The Creator. “Suppose the Creator gradually turns my body into something else” means that even when the body changes, one uses it in accord with change, without likes and dislikes in the mind. Though this is allegory, it has its point. “Suspended release” means the heart has no entanglement; failure to release oneself is being tied by something. How could things outrun the principle of nature?

Editor’s note: The four figures here take “non-being” as the head, “life” as the back, and “death” as the buttocks. Only those who see death, life, being, and perishing as one body can be their friends. This matches the Gengsang Chu passage on arising from non-being into life and then dying, and on “non-being as head, life as the body, death as the buttocks.” Punctuation and phonetic readings in the passage below differ among commentators.

“Having nothing to do” (wushi) can also be read together with what follows, and that reading makes good sense. Human beings are limited by bodily form, placed between heaven and earth, already constrained by the creative process (zaohua); to fall ill with limbs drawn up is yet another bondage of the body. Even when Yin-Yang qi is out of harmony on the outside, if the mind is calm and untroubled, someone crippled and hobbling who looks at himself in a well and laments being bound by form still has not wholly let go of attachment. Yet if one can rest content with whatever heaven assigns, what is there to hate?

Suppose the creative process turned my arm into a cock’s spur—a small piece fit for the sling—I would follow that and look for the spur’s use. Suppose it turned your rump into a wheel and your spirit into a horse—I would follow that and look for cart and horse. Once one has entered transformation, one should go along with whatever one meets; how could one refuse? To gain is a matter of timing; to lose is to follow the natural course. “When it came, that was the Master’s hour; when it went, that was the Master’s compliance”—that is the point: coming into the world is complying with the moment; leaving it is complying with nature. This is what is called suspended liberation (xuanjie): while bound, the creative process has tied the person; once freed, it can tie him no more. People who cannot free themselves are entangled by outward things. Only by following natural principle—neither rejoicing in gain nor resisting loss—can that bond be undone. Thus outward things cannot prevail over the Way of heaven.

Before long Zilai was so ill he could barely breathe and seemed near death. His wife and children stood around weeping. Zili came to visit and scolded them: “Step back—do not startle him out of complying with change.” Leaning on the door, he said to Zilai: “How vast is creation-and-transformation! What will it make you into next? Where will it take you? Will it turn you into a rat’s liver or a bug’s arm?”

Zilai said: “When parents tell a child to go east, west, south, or north, the child has only to obey. Yin and Yang toward a person are more binding than parents toward a child. They are about to make me die; if I refused, I would be defying them—how could they be wrong? The great earth gave me a body, set me to toil for a living, let me ease off in old age, and lets me rest in death. So to honor my life is to honor my death.

“When a master smith is smelting metal, if the metal jumps up and cries, ‘I must become a Moye blade!’ the smith will surely take it for ill-fated metal. Now that I have chanced on human form, if I insist, ‘I only want to be human,’ the creative process will surely take me for an ill-fated person. If heaven and earth are the great furnace and creation-and-transformation the great smith, what destination could I not accept?”

He fell asleep peacefully and woke as if from a sudden start.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Death and life are like sleep and waking. When reason says it is time to sleep, one should not, merely because one dislikes it, let others jolt one awake. From antiquity to the present, there are times when one goes against one’s parents’ wishes…

No one can defy the law of yin-yang transformation in human life; when the time comes to die, it is not something human effort can stop. If one stubbornly resists and refuses to yield to change, one only becomes more forceful and perverse and hastens one’s own death. That is not the fault of death itself. Thus to treat life well is to treat death well; the two are one principle.

A human being is a human being and wishes only to remain human, just as metal wishes only to keep the form of metal. When metal leaps from the furnace, the world takes it as an ill omen; yet metal does not do this on purpose—it follows the situation of the moment. To see this as deliberate self-assertion or clinging to form is itself a delusion. People know that binding metal to a fixed shape is inauspicious; when they see that they are no different from metal, the mind that clings to the body can loosen. Then whether asleep or awake, one can be at ease and not let birth and death burden the heart.

Commentary (Lu): Rat’s liver and insect’s arm are things people despise most. When qi and form scatter and transform, one may become rat’s liver or insect’s arm. Zhuangzi asks Zilai (a figure in the Zhuangzi) whether he can rest in such change, to test whether he truly understands that yin and yang toward a person are like parents. If one yields to change, knows that the great earth (the dakuai, the cosmic block) gives birth and also brings death, and accepts this peacefully, why ask “what will you turn me into and where will you send me”?

When people see metal leap from the furnace they call it ill omen; that people wish only to remain human is the same idea. If heaven-and-earth’s making and transforming are likened to a furnace, then becoming rat’s liver or insect’s arm and resting where one lands is enough—why resist on purpose? To fall asleep peacefully and wake peacefully, facing birth and death as one faces sleep and waking, unshaken by change.

Commentary (Lin): Rat’s liver and insect’s arm are tiny things; the sense is close to “snake’s scales” and “cicada’s wing” in the Discourse on Equalizing Things—creation’s changes have no end and are not what humans can foresee. Children obey the father’s command and dare not resist; humans receive their mandate from yin and yang—should they not do the same? Birth, death, and change should also be left to nature. Whether one becomes rat’s liver or insect’s arm, one should abide where one meets fate. When creation brings a person near death, how dare one resist? If one insists on resisting, the fault is one’s own; what fault is there in creation?

Commentary (Xiangdao): Rat’s liver means resistance within the heart; insect’s arm means that resistance showing outward. Born between heaven and earth, to want to defy yin and yang’s command and refuse to obey is like rat’s liver and insect’s arm. Yin and yang toward a person are like parents and cannot be disobeyed. To liken the human body to a furnace…

Metal cannot leap and turn on its own; cast in that way, it becomes the sharp blade known as the Moye sword—an ancient famous weapon. This is only meant to show that people ought not to cling to joy, anger, or attachment in the face of life, death, and change.

Bixu said: Dao is present even in excrement and urine—how much more so in such slight forms as a mouse’s liver or an insect’s limb? In the world, one who defies a parent’s command is called unfilial; how then can resisting the way all things change count as following the Great Dao? When Creation (the force that generates and transforms the myriad things) is about to make me die, if I refuse to heed it and resist instead, I go against my own inborn nature. What fault lies in transformation itself? It is like when a master smelter casts metal: metal cannot defy that change on its own—how much less can one turn around and resist it? When a person sinks peacefully into sleep, soul and body seem to join; waking suddenly, the body stretches and spreads. The forms of sleeping and waking differ, yet the same still nature abides.

Zhao’s commentary: “Why must you become this or that? Why must you go here or there?” The meaning is: do not fixate on what you will become or where you will go. Perhaps you will become something as small as a mouse’s liver or an insect’s limb—none of this can be foretold. When metal is forged into a sword, it is the master smelter’s doing; when a person is born as a human, it is Creation’s decree. Whether the outcome is mouse’s liver or insect’s limb, how could I know? Chengran depicts falling peacefully asleep and signifies life returning whole to stillness; jueran depicts sudden waking and signifies rousing to awareness.

Yanzhai said: “Mouse’s liver, insect’s limb” refer to bodies reduced to the utmost minuteness. Zhaozhou once said, “After the fire has passed, one becomes a single reed.” One should submit to the turns of fate; to refuse and brace against them is what earlier passages call “things cannot overcome Heaven.” The analogy of casting metal is likewise apt. Jia Yi compared Yin-Yang to furnace and charcoal and the myriad things to bronze—all arise through this transformation. “Peacefully asleep, suddenly awake” treats birth as falling asleep and death as waking. These six characters close the discussion above—a conception genuinely striking.

What the ancients called a true friend was one with whom mind met daily, without barrier or distance. Thus when Zilai neared his end, his wife and children crowded round weeping, and he chided them to stand back and not disturb his transformation—a response unlike ordinary people. He also told them: humans are but one kind among the things of the world, and as for “human beings,” no one knows how many myriads there are—why insist on clinging to you alone? This too was to dissolve their fixation and open their minds to breadth.

Mouse’s liver, insect’s limb mean that life may shrink to something utterly slight and negligible. Even if Creation should appoint a person to become thus, one need only accept it in peace—how could one resist? From this it is clear that those who truly grasp the principle of life, death, and change find joy everywhere, and no moment passes without ease.

Zhuangzi here discusses perspectives on life and death, suggesting that those who constantly worry about mortality become even more tightly bound by it. The perfected person (zhiren) who has attained the Dao regards heaven and earth as a furnace and natural transformation (zaohua) as the smelting process, merging completely with endless change.

He illustrates this with several metaphors: Like metal jumping into the furnace (yueye zhi jin) that desperately wants to become the legendary Moye sword, excessive striving leads to frustration. Humans cling to their identity as "human" and worry endlessly, but what then of mice, insects, livers or arms - should these lesser existences be even more anxious?

The ancients viewed life and death like sleeping and waking: life resembles sleep, while death represents awakening. If death is awakening, when are we ever not awakening? Therefore, excessive concern about mortality is unnecessary - harmonizing with natural transformation is fundamental.

(Note: This passage reflects Zhuangzi's philosophy of equalizing all things (qiwulun), advocating transcendence of distinctions between life/death and self/other to unite with the Dao. "Great Clod" (dakuai) refers to earth or nature, while "ten thousand kalpas" (wanjie), a Buddhist term for immense time spans, is borrowed here to illustrate the prolonged bondage caused by attachments.)