《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 18

Yiruzi went to see Xu You. Xu You asked, "What did Yao say to you?" Yiruzi replied, "Yao told me that one must personally practice benevolence and righteousness, and clearly distinguish right from wrong."

Xu You said, "Why have you come here? Yao has tattooed the characters of benevolence and righteousness on your face, and cut off your nose with the blade of right and wrong. How can you still wander freely and walk along that broad, unfettered path where one follows the transformations of things?"

Yiruzi said, "Even so, I still hope to linger at the edges of that realm."

Xu You said, "That will not do. A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of eyebrows and facial features, nor can a person with sightless eyes see the colorful, patterned splendor of green and yellow."

Yiruzi said, "Wu Zhuang lost her beauty, Ju Liang lost his strength, and Huang Di lost his intelligence—all these things occurred during the process of smelting and forging. How do we know that the Creator will not continue to transform me, removing the tattoos from my face, repairing my cut-off nose, so that I may ride the path of transformation that completes all things and follow you, Sir?"

Xu You said, "Alas, that is hard to say. Let me give you a general idea: The 'Teacher' whom I take as my master harmonizes all things without claiming to have exercised Righteousness (Yi); he brings blessings to all generations without claiming to have exercised Benevolence (Ren); he exists before ancient times without claiming to be old; he covers and supports heaven and earth, sculpting the forms of all things, without claiming to be skillful. The realm I wander in is precisely this."

Guo Xiang commented: What is meant by "tattooing with benevolence and righteousness" and "cutting the nose with right and wrong" is that Yiruzi was influenced by artificial human cultivation, which instead injured his original nature, thus preventing him from living freely. He dared not hope to enter this realm, wishing only to linger at its edges. Xu You rejected him and used the stories of Wu Zhuang, Ju Liang, and Huang Di to explain: not all things in the world are naturally born; some also need to go through smelting and forging to become useful vessels. These stories are used to illustrate that people, too, can remove the various shackles brought by artificial human action.

Acting directly in accordance with one's nature is natural; acting in a way that injures one's nature, and then being able to change afterward, is likewise natural. Who can be certain that the Creator will not continue to remove the "tattoos" for me, repair the "cut nose," so that I may follow the Master according to the principle that completes all things?

"Harmonizing all things" and "blessing all things" both happen spontaneously; there is neither preference nor dislike within them, so there is no need to label them as Benevolence and Righteousness. All things renew themselves daily, yet this is not due to deliberate skill. The realm to be wandered in is one of non-action (Wuwei); the Way to be taken as a teacher is the natural Way that requires no external teacher.

Lü’s commentary: The vast reach and unobstructed flow of the Dao is precisely the realm in which one may roam at will, come and go freely, and pass from state to state without hindrance.

Wuzhuang was dragged down by beauty because he prized beauty; Jie Liang was dragged down by strength because he relied on strength.

The Yellow Emperor once practiced fasting and gathered his mind inward until he returned to a state without deliberate knowing and without grasping desire. That shows that even he could not, at first, do entirely without the exercise of intellect. The furnace is for smelting; the hammer is for tempering. The fates of all three were bound up with what each was chained to—and those chains are not innate by nature; they too were formed in the process of smelting and tempering. Given that, how can we know that the Creator—the power that shapes and nurtures all things—will not stop the wound of the “tattoo” penalty for me, repair the injury of the “nose-cutting” penalty, and let me ride upon the heart-and-mind already formed within me, following the way of wuwei (non-action) that the Master speaks of?

The Creator shatters things into multiplicity, moistens them, and transforms and nurtures the myriad beings; it grows from deepest antiquity and carves out every form. That is what I roam within and take as my teacher. If you wish to halt the penal marks on your body and make up what is missing, you need only take it as your teacher.

Lin’s commentary: Personally practicing benevolence and righteousness is for fully realizing one’s nature; discerning right and wrong is for exhausting the principles of things. Yao’s governing of the world belonged to the way of ordinary human society—hence what he said to Xu You took that shape. Xu You held that Yao had already inflicted the “tattoo” of benevolence and righteousness upon you and the “nose-cutting” of right and wrong—so why have you come here?

Your long journey and free coming and going were originally meant for ease of heart; later you realized you were bound by benevolence, righteousness, and the pair of right and wrong, unable to slip free. Now you want to roam inside the boundary of the Dao, so Xu You used the situation of the blind and sightless as a likeness. Your inner will was ready to receive instruction, and only then did he bring up the three men: they were burdened by beauty, strength, and cleverness—each like something formed in the furnace and forged under the hammer. To arrive at the Dao, a person still cannot do without learning. Yet who knows whether the Creator will not stop my “tattoo” and “nose-cutting” wounds for me, let me follow the Dao already formed within, and go along with the Master?

Xu You said: The myriad things arise and change within nature; neither I nor they can fully know it. It is enough to align with this unfathomably deep Dao. “What I take as my teacher” means the Dao. It breaks and transforms the myriad things yet does not claim that as righteousness—a sense close to “the state may perish yet the people’s hearts are not lost.” Because all things come to be spontaneously, to what could a label like benevolence and righteousness still cling? Saying it grows from deepest antiquity means its existence is immensely remote; saying it covers and bears heaven and earth means it is the substance of the Dao; saying it carves out every form means the functioning of the Dao. Whatever I roam within is Dao of this kind.

Xiangdao’s commentary: When the ancients spoke of the Dao, it took two stages of change before they came to benevolence and righteousness; eight stages of change before they came to right and wrong. Benevolence and righteousness are the Dao spread out and displayed; right and wrong are what split off further from benevolence and righteousness.

Shallow benevolence and righteousness can harm you, as if characters were tattooed on your face; the harm that comes from notions of right and wrong can cut off your nose. Even wisdom may be lost—and that loss is more serious than losing beauty or physical strength.

Xu You said: Having your eyes clouded by benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong does not mean you can thereby see the Great Dao. As for beauty, strength, and wisdom, if you could remove them through discipline and reshaping, you might perhaps enter the realm of the Dao. Then what was lost earlier could still be made up and restored; what was achieved later could also be gained through teaching. Thus when all things are shattered, it is not that anyone intends to harm them; when favor extends through ten thousand generations, it is not from partiality. The Dao endures—it has never aged since antiquity—because its transformations renew themselves day by day; it gives rise to every form without relying on artifice, because its working lies hidden and does not show. Unless one transcends benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong, who could accomplish this?

Bi Xu commented: If you treat the traces left by sages as punishments, where then can you roam freely? Roaming means being at ease in a state of free unfolding, without ties or constraints. Wisdom, strength, and beauty are all things people receive from their inborn endowment and are hard to cast off; only after hearing the Dao does one lose attachment to them. This passage says that even the temperament of sages and worthies must be tempered before it is formed—how much more so for people of ordinary capacity? Even if you are now injured by the traces of the sage, how do you know the Creator will not restore and make up for you? The empty, luminous nature you are born with is not damaged by tattooing or cutting off the nose. Since you now have your nature whole, you ought to follow the master in cultivating the Dao—why suspect and reject him? The teacher of the Dao has never claimed the name of benevolence and righteousness for himself, yet you call the stigma you draw upon him tattooing and cutting off the nose—is that not strange? Only when every outward trace is forgotten can one roam in the domain of the Dao.

Zhao commented: Xu You meant that Yao harmed you with benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong, so you no longer have the pleasure of wandering at ease. You wished to roam in the realm of the Great Dao; Xu You used blindness to awaken you. You then understood that keeping benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong in the heart truly obstructs the Great Dao. He then compared beauty, strength, and wisdom: once a person has been tempered by the Great Smith (the smelter who works metal, also a figure for the power of creation), he can grasp things with calm delight; how then do you know my injury cannot be healed or my loss made up?

“My teacher” means the Dao I revere. The benevolence and righteousness spoken of by the Dao are not the benevolence and righteousness you understand: when yin qi is stern and all things wither, it is not from lack of righteousness; when yang qi unfolds and all things grow, it is not from benevolence. The Great Dao runs through past and present without aging; it nurtures all things and completes every form, yet it is not deliberate craft. My Dao is like this—you should roam freely within it.

Yan Zhai said: “Remote wandering” (yaodang) means letting go into freedom without constraint; it also includes moving at will back and forth and shifting and changing.

The metaphor of “blindness” means that one lacks the capacity to hear the Great Dao. Yi replied: I am willing to leave old habits behind, grasp things for myself amid change, and hope to follow the natural order and study under you. The master sighed: “That is hard to say—you may not truly be able to do it.”

Only from “My teacher!” onward does the chapter state its theme—the “Great Venerable Teacher” (the sovereign of the Great Dao, the root to which all things look). The Dao is wuwei (non-action) and yet leaves nothing undone; it accords with nature and simply is so. Because nothing in it is contrived, it cannot be pinned down with labels like benevolence and righteousness. The Book of Changes says, “It stirs the myriad things yet does not worry along with the sage”—the same point. The three lines beginning with “long before highest antiquity” all describe the way of nature. When the spirit-mind wanders in what is natural, one sees Heaven and Earth growing with oneself and the myriad things as one with oneself; the realm one wanders in is no more than this.

Xu You clung only to wuwei and even forgot the realm; Yao could not avoid acting and wanted both to embrace and to save the world. Forget the realm, and you are at ease while the world settles of itself; embrace and save the world, and you toil while the world is at ease. The sage sometimes serves and sometimes withdraws—different outward paths—hence the split between “within the square” and “outside the square”: the traces differ; the heart is the same.

To practice benevolence and righteousness in person and to preach right and wrong clearly is the learning of those within the square. To be easy and free, follow change, and wander is the way of those outside the square. Yi took himself for one within the square; under ritual teaching he was as if tattooed, nose cut off, feet maimed. Hearing the master, he understood inwardly and wished to drop learning within the square and wander outside it—a worthy aim. The master did not consent; he cited three men of exceptional endowment who still had to hear the Dao before they could transform. My coming now is likewise only a time of being taught and tempered.

Studying the Dao is to recover the beginning and keep the self whole, unharmed. Already marked and maimed, yet hoping the Maker will stay his hand and make you whole again—is that not hard? Truly see that all things arise naturally, and you will know that seeming punishment is also within change: it will stop or mend by itself. Why should the Maker step in on purpose? Yi thought: if the tattooing could stop and the nose be restored, I could be whole again; in that wholeness I could follow the master and go on seeking the Dao—not too late.

What is most precious is to err yet know to change, to be lost yet turn back. That Yi saw the past as wrong and the present as right shows someone who can recover the beginning. What one should take as teacher is the Dao; “My teacher!” means the Dao. The four lines that follow go further: the way of the Great Venerable Teacher transcends …

Benevolence and righteousness run through past and present; they arise, one might say, from wuwei (non-action) that yet accomplishes what needs to be done. A transformation that is not hemmed in by external things—how could worldly craft ever reach it? What is meant by “wandering” (you) is roaming freely within it: wherever one is, one is at ease; hence the classic does not pin it down in a single formula.

Yan Hui said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten benevolence and righteousness.” Confucius said, “That will do, but it is not enough yet.” Some time later Yan Hui came again and said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” Yan Hui replied, “I have forgotten ritual and music.” Confucius said, “That will do, but it is not enough yet.” Again, after a while, Yan Hui came once more and said, “I have made progress.” Confucius asked, “In what way?” Yan Hui replied, “I sit in forgetfulness.” Confucius’s expression changed as he asked, “What is sitting in forgetfulness?” Yan Hui said, “I drop the sense of the body, dismiss cleverness and knowing, leave the form behind and cast off knowledge, and merge with the Great Dao—this is called sitting in forgetfulness.” Confucius said, “To be the same as all things is to have no partiality; to follow transformation is to have no fixed stance. Have you truly arrived? I, Kong Qiu, would be glad to study after you.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Yan Hui treated reduction as progress. Confucius held that benevolence shows itself in the trace of loving all alike, and righteousness in the efficacy of completing things. Loving people is not yet benevolence; benevolence appears through the trace of that love. Completing things is not yet righteousness; righteousness appears through the efficacy of completion. To cling to benevolence and righteousness without seeing that the root of loving and completing lies in mindlessness is why forgetting benevolence and righteousness is permissible. Yet to forget only efficacy and trace still falls short of penetrating the subtle and the far. Ritual is the deployment of the bodily form; music is the instrument for delighting life. To forget these instruments is still not as good as forgetting the source that produces them as well.

“Sitting in forgetfulness” means forgetting not only the outward traces of things but also the source that gives rise to those traces. Within, one no longer perceives a self; without, one no longer is aware of heaven and earth—then one opens up and becomes one with transformation, and nothing cannot be the same. Without barrier from the myriad things, one is at ease wherever one is; communicating with transformation, one lets transformation lead, and so there is no fixed state.

Lu’s commentary: That humans have been human has been so for a long time. Though one may awaken in a single hearing of a word, returning to a realm without things and without self is not piled up in a single day. When Yan Hui heard of xinzhai (heart-mind fasting—the practice of clearing distracting thoughts and making the heart-mind empty and still), he had already reached self-forgetting; one can say he awakened upon one phrase. But his later path—from forgetting benevolence and righteousness and ritual and music down to sitting in forgetfulness—was not the work of one day’s accumulation. To be the same as all things is to see the myriad things as one whole, hence no partiality. Transformation has no ultimate limit, hence no fixed stance. To communicate with the Great Dao is simply to be the same as transformation.

Lin’s commentary: After forgetting benevolence and righteousness, he went further and forgot ritual and music—but he had still not left behind…

What is meant by “realm” (yu) is that concrete things still exist; going a step further to “no thing,” the limbs are no longer a burden, and cleverness and intelligence cease to function. Shedding the body and casting aside knowing, fully merging with the Great Dao (Da)—this is the utmost that cultivation can reach.

The “letting fall” (zhui) and “dismissal” (chu) spoken of here still carry a sense of forced restraint; “leaving” and “casting off” are letting go naturally. Fully merging with the Great Dao is merging with all things as one. Liking and disliking arise from mutual distinction; once there is no distinction, there is no liking or disliking. Allowing each thing to transform on its own is called “transformation”; within transformation there is nothing that stays permanently unchanged. Confucius said Yan Hui could merge with all things and follow transformation, and that he himself wished to learn in his footsteps—this is probably Confucius speaking modestly.

The Xiang Dao commentary says: Comparing branch streams to the ocean is like seeing only individual rivers and not the sea; when a hundred streams pour into the sea, you see only the sea and no longer each river. The Great Dao is like the ocean; benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are like the hundred streams. After Yan Hui attained the Dao, he forgot benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music—as if seeing the ocean and forgetting the rivers; but at that point he had not yet forgotten the Great Dao. Only when he released attachment to the body, forgot outer things, discarded knowing, and forgot inner distinctions, resting without concern, would one still need to ask where the Great Dao is? The Great Dao and self were forgotten together. Yan Hui’s worth lies precisely here.

Righteousness (yi) is close to ritual (li), and benevolence (ren) is close to music (yue); therefore one first forgets righteousness and only afterward forgets ritual; one first forgets benevolence and only afterward forgets music. What Yan Hui forgot still included things not yet forgotten; he kept reducing until even “what was not yet forgotten” was no longer clung to, returning to sincerity. Layer by layer he stripped away until nothing more could be removed; without grasping the subtlety of “sitting in forgetfulness” (zuowang)—forgetting in still sitting the body, knowing, and distinctions—how could one reach this state?

The Bixu commentary says Yan Hui’s progress consisted in lessening outer entanglements and deepening inner cultivation. Caring for all things is called benevolence; benefiting all things is called righteousness. Love and benefit belong to outer manifestation; forgetting them can be done, but that is still not attaining the Dao. Ritual is the bearing and conduct the body displays; music is inner peace and openness. Body and mind belong to the inner; forgetting them is still not attaining the Dao.

What is called sitting in forgetfulness is being able to release attachment at every moment. “Letting the limbs fall” means forgetting attachment to the body when responding to things; “dismissing cleverness and intelligence” means forgetting attachment to clever knowing when illuminating things. Forgetting the body when responding to things is “leaving form and abandoning knowing”; forgetting knowing when illuminating things is “fully merging with the Great Dao.” Body becomes the same as empty space, mind the same as creation-and-transformation; then there is no liking or disliking, and no fixing on change or clinging to permanence.

The Zhao commentary says benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are what the gentleman cannot abandon for a day, but once Yan Hui’s mind was one with principle, the names of these four no longer held, and he no longer clung to them. “Letting the limbs fall” is releasing attachment to the body; “dismissing cleverness and intelligence” is casting aside knowing. Merging with the Great Dao will…

The Dao was originally one and undivided. The gist of Confucius’s remark is this: if you can set aside likes and dislikes so that constancy and change no longer stand opposed to each other, that is “sameness”—that is “transformation.” If you can truly do this, I would be willing to take you as my teacher. Confucius said this presumably without really believing that Yan Hui had already fully achieved it. When Yan Hui spoke of “sloughing off the limbs” and “dismissing clear-sighted intelligence,” he meant no longer clinging to the body and sensory perception; yet that still sounds like something done on purpose, and may not yet count as genuine “forgetting.”

The commentator Yan Zhai says that “sitting and forgetting” (zuowang) is Zhuangzi’s device of putting words in Yan Hui’s mouth to depict the sublime realm of realizing the great Dao. “Sitting and forgetting” is not something pursued as a gain; one first forgets benevolence and righteousness, then forgets ritual and music. It is like first putting the world outside oneself, then putting all things outside oneself. At the level of sitting and forgetting, being and non-being are both released; the four limbs and the ears and eyes seem no longer noticed by oneself, and person and the great thoroughfare of the Dao merge into one. United with the Dao, one can move along with transformation and no longer fix on any single place to stand.

Benevolence and righteousness root in the original mind; when the mind reaches emptiness and stillness, forgetting benevolence and righteousness is relatively easier. Ritual and music come from later conditioning; once habits are deep, forgetting them is harder. Yan Hui had forgotten both—something others find hard to do. Yet Confucius still said he had not arrived, perhaps to guide him further so he could reach the ultimate of the Dao. From this we see that Confucius deliberately shaped and completed Yan Hui. Others, at this point, would shrink back before a steep cliff; Yan Hui went on probing the subtlety of sitting and forgetting. Confucius, hearing him, questioned him in astonishment because he had not expected such swift understanding.

Yan Hui answered that casting off the body’s bonds, removing the mind’s discriminations, and blending oneself with the “great thoroughfare” requires first forgetting oneself, and only then forgetting external things—this is what is called sitting and forgetting. Not fixating on “how to be the same,” one is naturally the same as all things; that is what the Dao calls the “great thoroughfare.” If one deliberately seeks sameness, it is not true great thoroughfare.

This is like the great transformation of heaven and earth, which never rests for a moment. A person within it moves along with it: childhood is dim, adulthood is sharp, prime years are toil, old age is ease; serving or withdrawing, acting or resting, rising or declining—all lie within change; there is no state that stays forever unchanged. People do not change because they strive to change; the transformations of things are naturally so, in antiquity as today. Only one who has attained the Dao understands that one too will ultimately change, and therefore does not cling to it.

The commentator holds that these two sentences in the chapter corroborate the principle of sitting and forgetting: within difference, perceive connection; treat change as the constant norm. Settle the form in forgetting, return the mind to emptiness and stillness, and one can align with the Dao. So long as later conditioning does not disturb the clarity and stillness of the authentic root, sitting and forgetting is cultivation within the learner’s reach. Confucius called Yan Hui worthy to encourage and complete him and to lead the disciples to further refinement.

Ziyu and Zisang were friends. It had rained for many days—already ten in a row. Ziyu thought, “Zisang is probably ill,” wrapped some food, and went to bring him a meal. When he reached Zisang’s door, he heard him singing as if in song and weeping as if in grief, strumming a zither and chanting: “Is it Father? Is it Mother? Is it Heaven? Is it a human being?” His voice was so weak he could barely go on; he could only force out the lines of the verse.

Ziyu went in and asked, “Why is the poem you’re singing so sorrowful?”

Zisang said, “I’ve been wondering what has reduced me to this plight, and I simply cannot figure it out. Would my parents deliberately want me to be poor? Heaven spreads over all things and earth bears all things—would Heaven and earth deliberately single me out for poverty? I try to find the lord who causes all this, but I cannot find one. Since that is so, my falling into this plight is probably destiny (ming).”

Guo Xiang’s commentary (Guo Zhu): These two were friends, yet they did not deliberately perform acts of mutual favor. When Ziyu now brought food to visit Zisang, he only followed heaven’s principle and acted naturally; he did not first plan to do a kindness and then go on purpose. Zisang strummed and wailed, asking who caused his plight and finding no answer—that means all things arise spontaneously, and there is no person who deliberately rules them.

Lu Huiqing’s commentary (Lu Zhu): The Zhuangzi discusses the “Great Ancestor” (the Dao as what can be fundamentally relied upon), and at the end speaks of Meng Sun Cai and Yan Hui, holding that people like Confucius who can discern native endowment, nurture spirit (shen), and live at ease in the world have reached a high level. Zhuangzi feared readers would think figures like Zisang were inferior to Meng Sun Cai and Ziyu inferior to Zisang, so he treats them together. What the text finally says is all about resting in destiny. The traces the various figures show differ, but in taking the Dao as fundamental reliance and ultimately resting in destiny, they agree.

Lin Xiyi’s commentary (Lin Zhu): Zisang forgot the body and looked lightly on life, so when ill he did not treat sickness as something especially worth worrying about and attributed everything to destiny. His voice was weak because in illness his strength failed, so the lines he sang were barely forced out. Parents are closest kin; heaven and earth are fair and impartial—would they deliberately make me poor? Since he could not find who caused it all, he could only attribute it to destiny. The changes of the myriad things finally return to ming—this is the utmost of the Dao.

Bixu zi’s commentary (Bixu Zhu): When a friend is cold, one gives clothing; when hungry, food—like fish in a drying pool moistening each other with spittle, it is spontaneous affection, not deliberate display. Zisang’s voice could hardly continue because he was utterly exhausted; he barely got the lines out and could not finish a full tune. That is exactly the look of poverty and disease at their extreme. He asks who caused it all, finds no answer, and finally settles on ming. Rest in destiny, and nothing fails to go through.

Zhao’s commentary (Zhao Zhu): Zisang rests in hardship and rests in destiny—this parallels Confucius when trapped between Chen and Cai…

The string never breaks, and Yan Hui lived in a mean alley yet never lost his joy—the sense is the same here.

Yan Zhai (the commentator) says that “not letting the voice carry” means the sound is faint and lacks strength, and that “hastening to recite one’s verse” means the feeling is narrow and the words cramped. “Could my parents have wished me poor? Could Heaven and Earth have singled me out for poverty?”—that remark is extremely fine. When one traces the force that produced this situation, no concrete master can be found, so it is ascribed to ming (fate or mandate). Ming here broadly denotes the natural principle above Heaven and Earth; ming is natural principle, that is, what is called the “Great Ancestral Teacher” (one who may be honored as the fundamental teacher to follow). Seen in this light, the insight of the “Dazongshi” (Great Ancestral Teacher) chapter in the Zhuangzi surpasses that of the “Li Ming” (Effort and Fate) chapter in the Liezi.

Friends in antiquity were people who upheld one another through the Way, jointly perfected character and undertakings, aided each other in hardship, and did not alter their bond between life and death. Judging how Ziyu treated Zisang, he truly did not fall short of the way of friendship. After days of heavy rain, Ziyu feared Zisang might fall ill; knowing Zisang was poor, he took food to visit him, and knowing he was starving, he entered to bring him a meal. When he went in and heard Zisang singing, he was startled and pressed for the reason—he was afraid that, crushed by distress, Zisang might resent Heaven and blame others and lose his integrity.

Zisang said, “Could my parents have wished me poor? Could Heaven and Earth have singled me out for poverty?” That speech is the lofty view of one who has attained clarity; poverty and constraint cannot overwhelm it. The author of the commentary, however, holds that even in this extremity Zisang had not yet fully released his attachment to circumstances. Later, when he attributed his lot to ming, he could use reason to master emotion and face things calmly according to principle—and for that reason Ziyu had nothing left to say.

The Nanhua zhenjing (Authentic Scripture of Southern Florescence) uses this story to bring the main theme of the Dazongshi chapter to a close. This is close to what the Ximing (Western Inscription) says: “Poverty, low station, worry, and grief may jade and complete you in achievement”—that is, hardship is Heaven’s way of tempering and perfecting a person. Without long cultivation and full inner nurture, one can hardly bear great responsibility. Students of the Way should ponder this deeply.

The people and the myriad things are many and require a ruler to govern them; students are many and require a teacher to instruct them. Heaven and Earth produce sages and set them up as rulers and teachers in order to establish good order in governance and extend the root of teaching, so that people know virtue is to be honored and understand that the principles of xing (nature) and ming (life-destiny) should be investigated; so that ruler and minister, father and son each keep their proper roles, and the world and the state are brought to good order. Yet the root of rectifying the mind and making the will sincere, and the subtle points in transmitting the Way and imparting learning, cannot be borne without a teacher. What is called zongshi (ancestral teacher) is the fundamental teacher whom learners revere; adding the character “great” (da) elevates him as the shared ancestral teacher of the multitude.

The chapter opens by discussing knowing Heaven and knowing humanity, and distinguishing righteousness from ming, thereby establishing the root; it then discusses using what is already known to nourish what is not yet known, and thereby bringing human understanding into accord with the Way of Heaven. Knowing comes from…

“Not knowing” is the highest reach of understanding. Next comes the discussion of the zhenren (True Person, one who has attained the Dao): when they sleep they have no fearful dreams; when they wake they have no vexation. Going out they do not rejoice in success; returning they do not resent failure. They are empty and still, not showy; they forget words in calm detachment, as if doing nothing at all. Rites, punishments, knowledge, and virtue are tools for ordering the world, yet they also quietly assist, so that people can taste and reach the way of “inner sagehood, outer kinghood”—cultivating sagely virtue within and practicing humane rule without.

People love their fathers and are loyal to their lords; even so, they sometimes die for them. How much more those who stand apart and reach the utmost truth? What makes the True Person precious is that the Dao they honor can rank above the commands of lord and father. Yet ordinary people do not understand this; they only cling to one another for comfort—which is not as good as fish in the great rivers and lakes forgetting each other in the water and living each in their own ease.

Heaven and earth (the “Great Clod,” dakuai, that gives form to the myriad things) grant humans a body so they may enjoy a full span and meet death in peace; that is the kindly arrangement of the Creator. People often dread death, so Zhuangzi uses the image of “hiding a boat in a ravine, hiding a mountain in a marsh” to dispel that delusion: whatever has form and life cannot escape transformation. Even hidden in deep valleys or great marshes, it is bound to shift at any moment. This shows that though the Creator has no form, it has the power to drive change in all things. With a limited body, how can you stash it in an infinite cosmos and guarantee it will not change? Only when you “hide the world within the world” do you not lose it.

This is the realm in which the sage wanders at ease: following the transformations of things, not confined by any fixed state. After heaven and earth arose, the myriad things change without end; why secretly rejoice just because you happen to have a human form? The True Person can transcend the limits of age and not feel old though they live from remotest antiquity; they can ascend the cloudy sky and dwell in the mysterious realm. These are the wondrous capacities of the zhenren. The Great and Venerable Teacher (Dazongshi) takes this as the root; the people, the myriad things, and those who seek the Dao rely on it to live.

Nü’ou (a figure in the text) mingles with others without being bound by past and present, and so is not tied by life and death. Si and Lai (two figures named in the text) befriend each other without opposing each other, and so are not cut off by the split between self and things. They take a cock as companion on the left and a crossbow on the right; they make a marvelous horse their carriage and their buttocks their wheels, letting the Creator’s transformations run their course and resting content in whatever they meet. This is what the ancients called xuanjie (suspended release—loosening every bond). Why fret over whether you will become a bug’s arm or a rat’s liver, or worry that your form will be smelted like metal in a furnace?

Zifan and Qin Zhang played music and sang at Sang Hu’s mourning. They held that being entangled in the world is toil, while returning to the genuine is fortune. Such people, who step outside ordinary views, are about to transform together with the Creator: since they treat transformation as sharing in the Creator’s making of persons, neither length of life nor rise and fall can exhaust change; neither heaven and earth nor cold and heat can bind body or mind.

Meng Sun Shi’s body was startled by transformation, yet his inner mind was not harmed. Like one who dreams of becoming fish or bird, he could fly in heaven or dive in the deep, calmly accepting whatever change came—where…

Can feelings differ merely because bodies differ? Long ago, Nanhua Zhenren (Zhuangzi) dreamed he had become a butterfly—exactly this point. What we call waking and dreaming is truly understood only by someone who has gone beyond both waking and dreaming.

Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius) forgot his body and set aside cleverness, reaching the state of zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness—in still meditation, letting go of the body and of discriminating thought). He entered the depths of the Way’s subtlety, received and handed on the secret heart-methods of the sages’ school, and carried on their line. Indigo dye taken from the indigo plant can be bluer than the plant itself—that image speaks of how well a teacher can shape a student.

As for Zisang (a figure in the Zhuangzi), when he played the zither he sometimes seemed to sing and sometimes to weep. Press for a single explanation, and you cannot finally reduce it all to fate alone. He had the Way of the Great Master (Dazongshi), yet could not enact it in his own time. So this chapter closes with Zisang’s resting in fate.

One who is a true person (zhenren), having attained the Dao, can step outside fate’s constraints and not be dragged down by the world. The Great Master takes as his charge to spread the great Dao and rouse people from sleep. Still, fate has its lean times and its bright times: sometimes a person can act fully, sometimes must hold back—that turns on the times, and it neither adds to nor takes from the great Dao. What is called “true knowing” is thorough insight into the way of Heaven and human affairs, and clarity about the principles of nature and life without leftover doubt.

To exhaust things through principle, to know one’s nature completely, and then to understand fate—that is spoken from the side of settling oneself. To preside over the changes of the ten thousand things while keeping to the root—that is spoken from the side of ordering the ten thousand things. Zisang was one who settled his own fate; the one who could master the fate of the ten thousand things was, it seems, none other than the Great Master.