《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 2

The "Discourse on the Equality of Things" (Qiwu Lun) begins this passage with the analogies of "using a finger to illustrate a finger" and "using a horse to illustrate a horse." To use one's own finger to show that another's finger is not a finger is not as good as using something that is not a finger to show that a finger is not a finger. To use a horse to show that another's horse is not a horse is not as good as using something that is not a horse to show that a horse is not a horse. In truth, Heaven and Earth are but a single finger, and the ten thousand things but a single horse. Seen in this way, everything becomes clear.

Is a thing "permissible" or "impermissible"? If one deems it permissible, it is permissible; if one deems it impermissible, it is impermissible. A road comes into being because people walk it, and a thing has its name because people call it so. Why do we say "it is so"? Because people have judged it to be so. Why do we say "it is not so"? Because people have judged it not to be so. Yet every thing has its own "so" and its own "permissible" from the start; there is nothing that is not so, and nothing that is not permissible. Therefore a tiny stalk and a great pillar, an ugly woman and Xi Shi, and all the strange, bizarre, and shifting things of the world are, from the standpoint of the Dao (the Way), connected and made one.

The dividing of a thing is the forming of something else, and its forming is the destruction of something else. Nothing in the world truly forms or is destroyed; all return to being connected as one. Only the person of broad understanding grasps this "connection into oneness." Such a person does not cling to personal views, and entrusts everything to the "ordinary function" (yong). This "ordinary function" is "usefulness," usefulness is "connection," and connection is "attainment." When one reaches the state of self-attainment, one is close to the Dao. To follow the "this" without knowing why one does so is what is called the Dao.

Those who wear out their minds trying to unify the ten thousand things, without realizing that these are already the same, are said to practice "Three in the Morning." What is "Three in the Morning"? A keeper of monkeys was distributing acorns and said, "You shall have three in the morning and four in the evening." The monkeys were all furious. He then said, "Then you shall have four in the morning and three in the evening." The monkeys were all delighted. Neither the name nor the substance was diminished, yet joy and anger were stirred, for the keeper simply followed each side's own "this." Thus the sage harmonizes things through "this" and "not this," and rests in the natural balance of Heaven. This is called "walking two roads at once" (liangxing), meaning that both sides, affirmation and negation, proceed side by side without conflict.

The editor cites the view of Chen Bixu: Regarding the analogy of the finger and the horse, commentators from Sima Biao, Xiang Xiu, and Guo Xiang to the eminent scholars of the Tang dynasty all took it to be a parable Zhuangzi invented himself, and so their interpretations differ. Chen Bixu read the six essays of Gongsun Long, including "On the White Horse" and "On Pointing at Things," which contain the statements "a white horse is not a horse" and "a pointing is not a pointing," and only then realized that these arguments of Zhuangzi have a source.

Guo Xiang's commentary says: To regard oneself as right and to reject others is the common disposition of people everywhere. If I use my "finger" to illustrate another's "finger," then the other's "finger" becomes a "non-finger" in relation to me; conversely, if the other uses their "finger" to illustrate mine, then mine becomes a "non-finger" in relation to them. Each considers themselves right and the other wrong, and each merely clings to a partial view. The sage knows that Heaven and Earth are one finger and the ten thousand things one horse, and so the sage's heart is vast, attached to nothing, and sees all things as one body.

When the world is at peace, each person rests in their own place and is content with what they have; people no longer wrangle over right and wrong. What fits you is called “acceptable”; what does not fit you is called “unacceptable.” The Dao gives form to the myriad things and also leaves each thing as it is: every kind of being affirms what it is and treats what it takes as workable.

For example, a thin bamboo slip lies horizontal while a pillar stands vertical; an ugly woman and Xishi each have her own appearance. Does “making uniform” mean forcing every shape to match one and the same rule? Thus even what is vast, strange, grotesque, and hard to fathom—the Dao can thread through and regard as one whole. For some things, one side says they are ruined while another says they are accomplished; I say accomplished and the other says ruined—these judgments all come from separate standpoints, seeing only oneself and not the other. Only one who has penetrated the matter does not get trapped in a single position but handles each thing according to its real use, without fabricating from nothing.

Not knowing why you accord yet naturally according—that is called “the Dao.” The Dao is “the One.” For one who has penetrated, faced with the One, why strain the mind? If you deliberately strain to seek unity, that effort is no different from stubbornly insisting on mutual difference; it is also like a troop of monkeys, each following its own whim and taking itself to be right. Therefore the sage does not fixate on any one side but lets the myriad things each find its own balance; he allows the world’s various rights and wrongs to run in parallel without mutual exclusion—and that is enough.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To use a finger to show that “a finger is not a finger” can distinguish name from thing, large from small, and the like—but these still do not step outside one whole; how can one say it is not a finger? To use a horse to show that “a horse is not a horse” can distinguish coat color, quality, and thoroughbred from common—but they still belong to one category; how can one say it is not a horse? Only by not following human-made right and wrong and viewing things from the pattern of nature, stepping beyond the limit of one whole and freeing oneself from division within one category, can one judge the world’s true right and wrong.

Though heaven and earth are vast, they are not more “other” than a single finger—for heaven and earth are born together with me and belong to one whole. Though things are many, they are not more “other” than one horse—for they connect with me and belong to one kind. Who finally decides what is acceptable and what is not? The Dao appears through how things move; the myriad things are also affirmed as such through what people say—they were not fixed that way from the start. The split between “counted as this” and “counted as workable” is just the root from which other judgments grow. Press the question of who made these splits and no definite master appears; from this we know that things never had one common standard that could line them all up the same. Why rush to pick and choose among these distinctions?

Large and small, beautiful and ugly, are often opposites; yet when the Dao is threaded through and seen as one, each thing’s own distinction is precisely the condition for its being what it is—and what is called accomplishment is also what stands as accomplishment when viewed from the angle of ruin. Thus the accomplishment and ruin of the myriad things are threaded through and become one again.

Only those who truly understand how things work know that all things connect and are fundamentally one. For that reason, I no longer look at the myriad things only from my own angle; I lodge myself within them. To “lodge oneself in things” is to see them according to how they are in themselves; then one can be at ease everywhere and find one’s proper place in each situation. Yet merely finding that ease is only drawing near to the Dao—it is not yet truly attaining it, because one still knows why one is at ease.

When one understands that the Dao has no fixed form and simply follows it until, in the end, one can no longer say why one acts as one does, only then can one be said to have attained the Dao. The reason the Dao can make all things one is that distinctions such as large and small, beautiful and ugly, each arise from their own causes. If one fails to see this and instead exhausts the mind judging and manipulating these distinctions, the myriad things cannot return to unity.

This is like the story of “morning three, evening four”: the keeper first said three acorns in the morning and four at night, and the monkeys were angry; when he changed it to four in the morning and three at night, they were pleased. Both arrangements total seven, yet the monkeys’ joy and anger differed. The troop was penned and managed by the keeper for no other reason than that he arranged things according to their partial preferences.

Lin Yi’s commentary says: “Yes” and “no” each have a standpoint, and views differ. If you measure another person’s finger against your own, you will think your finger is right and theirs wrong; reverse it, and take their finger as the standard for yours, and you will think theirs right and yours wrong. Comparing one horse to another works the same way. Going back and forth like this, each side thinks itself right and the other wrong. If yes and no can both return to the Dao, then however vast heaven and earth and however many the myriad things, seen up close a single finger can stand for one pole; seen from afar, one horse can serve as a comparison.

The most fundamental principle in the world is not to cling to “may” or “may not,” nor to insist on “so” or “not so.” When people say a certain way is feasible and act on it, it becomes a established practice; when they call something by a name, it is spoken of as such. If one decides it is so, one says it is so; if one decides it is not, one says it is not. Such judgments are all tethered to particular standpoints. Better to yield to the natural disposition of things: then however things change, differences such as beauty and ugliness can be joined again into one, the Dao is nowhere blocked, and each thing can stand on its own.

What we call the distinctions among things is their coming-into-form; what we call their coming-into-form is also accompanied by their decay. To say a thing has formed is to say the Dao has dispersed into a concrete thing; to say it decays is to say it has ended. Where there is a beginning, there is an ending. The Dao itself neither forms nor decays; formation and decay are only how particular things appear. Split wood to make utensils—when the utensil is finished, the original wood is gone; that has always been part of the transformative process of creation.

The person who has attained thorough understanding sets aside one-sided views, grasps the deep principle, and no longer holds to a private opinion, but lodges in everyday affairs. Seeing along with everyday affairs, one is at ease everywhere and finds one’s place—this draws near to the Dao. The Dao in itself was never about “being at ease” or “having attainment.”

All things in the world are cut off from one another and cannot communicate, and so we speak of “connecting” and “attaining.” Once this is understood, one should return to a state without distinctions. Even so, people still do not grasp the principle within it and, forcing a label upon it, call it the Dao.

The spirit and luminosity (shenming) of a person reside in oneself; one should follow nature as it is. If one strains on purpose to gather everything into “the one,” one in fact drifts far from the Dao. This is like the keeper of monkeys dividing chestnuts: saying four in the morning and three at night makes the monkeys angry; changing it to three in the morning and four at night makes them happy. The total number is the same in both arrangements—only the order of morning and evening differs—yet joy and anger follow. People who do not penetrate the highest principle are like those monkeys, moved by surface differences. Therefore the sage can harmonize and regard various rights and wrongs without clinging to dispute, and rest in the natural; allowing different sayings to run in parallel until they return to unity.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: Observing oneself up close can illustrate heaven and earth: heaven and earth are no more than a finger’s breadth; observing the myriad things from afar can illustrate those things: the myriad things are no more than a single horse. Though heaven and earth are vast, they never leave concrete form; though the myriad things are many, they never leave their respective functions. As long as one remains bound by form and function, heaven and earth in the open void are still only a finger, and the myriad things under heaven are still only one horse. As for the Dao, it has no fixed form yet through it the forms of all things are completed; it has no particular use yet it makes every function complete. It is nowhere absent and nothing fails to be accomplished—how could it be compared to a single finger or one horse?

Chen Bixu’s commentary: “Finger” (zhi) means to point out and judge right and wrong. Ordinary feelings always take pointing here as correct and pointing there as wrong. When the other side disagrees, each side turns and accuses the other; each clings to its own judgment and takes itself as right and others as wrong. If there were no mutual blame in the world, the myriad things would each keep their native state and would not be forced into rules imposed by people; “pointing” would remain mere pointing, without boasting of such arbitrary designation. Neither forcing rules on things nor boasting of arbitrary judgment, one can forget the pointing-at-things; forgetting such false pointing, one no longer clings to pointing. What originally had no sides and no right-and-wrong “pointing” is the pointing that accords with things as they are; the pointing that forcibly splits sides and right from wrong is arbitrary designation.

A horse originally has its own shape and color; setting color aside and calling it by the name “horse” is what is meant by horse. Whenever one says “horse,” all horses under heaven belong to that category—white, black, and other colors do not prevent it from being a horse. If one names and seeks horses solely by color, when seeking a white horse, yellow and black horses are excluded. Thus in pursuing color one loses the category “horse”; recognizing only by color, a white horse is no longer treated as a horse. If people of that time prized white, they would take white as correct and the name “horse” as wrong—this is taking wrong for right and right for wrong.

When the mind harbors notions of right and wrong, one cannot see all things as unified, because things are always split into “this” and “that.” If such distinctions are forgotten, then though heaven and earth differ, they are like a single finger. If all things are sorted into categories, they cannot be seen as one body; if grasping and rejecting are set aside, then though things are countless, they are like a single horse.

Viewed from what they share, can one say they are the same? Yes. Viewed from how they differ, can one say they are different? Also yes. If one does not act in accord with the Dao, affairs fail; since they can fail, who can insist that any one account must be right? What follows reason is called “so” (ran)—fitting the situation—and then nothing fails to fit; what goes against reason is “not so,” and then nothing fits. If one can fully align with what is fitting, nothing is wrong or impossible, and one can silently merge with the Dao.

Things take countless forms; only the Dao runs through them and gathers them into one. Craftsmen making utensils count only that the piece is finished and do not reckon how it might be ruined—that view is plain and direct. Speak only of completion and ruin is unseen; speak only of ruin and completion is unseen. For the Dao, completion and ruin are threaded back into one. Therefore the person who has attained the way follows the Dao’s plainness, does not let worldly utility rule them, and entrusts themselves to their own functioning. That functioning is realized by means of “non-use” (buyong). To know the work of non-use is to gain insight; yet if one rests content with what insight grasps, a trace still remains. One who truly knows the Dao only merges inwardly with the Dao and knows it in the body; after that knowing, one may not even know why it is so, and there is nothing to lean on or leave as a mark. To strain the mind forcing all things into one is like the monkey keeper (jugong) using clever tricks to drive his troop: the monkeys are moved by joy and anger, yet they too are acting along those same divisions.

Wang Bi comments: Using “finger” and “horse” as images speaks of “neither finger nor horse.” Yet going by that teaching still presupposes a split between finger and horse, so one must reach the state where “nothing has yet been singled out as a thing” before the point is truly taken.

Heaven and earth differ in form; things differ in function. Where there is form, however vast, it is still bounded as one existence; where there is function, however many the kinds, there is still a limit. To say nothing is excluded and nothing is left out—how could that be captured by “one finger” or “one horse” alone? In the flux of things there are indeed what may or may not be done, what is or is not fitting, but one need only let the inner self merge with the highest pattern of things and not be tugged by discursive thought. The Dao leaves nothing uncompleted; all things stand in their own right. May or may not, so or not so—all belong to that highest pattern. Once aligned with it, things whether broad or narrow, fair or foul, can all be seen as one. The Dao also disperses and becomes the myriad things: where there is an end there is a beginning. Completion and ruin are empty distinctions imposed on things; merge with the pattern of things, and there is no…

In the view of the Dao, “completion” and “ruin” are interconnected and ultimately return to one whole. That does not mean the rise and fall of things can be erased; it means going along with their natural changes without claiming them as one’s own. Then whatever one meets can be passed through; passing through brings insight, and one draws near to the Dao. If one strains the mind and deliberately treats all things as one lump, how can one truly see that they were the same to begin with?

Hence the story of the monkey keeper as a parable: he gave the monkeys three acorns in the morning and four in the evening, and they were displeased; when he switched to four in the morning and three in the evening, they were pleased. The total did not increase or decrease—only the order of distribution changed. Though affairs change in countless ways, the heart need not treat every shift as gain or loss. If one only follows worldly feelings of profit and loss and does not inquire into root principle, one is like the troop of monkeys, led by surface differences. The sage harmonizes yes and no, being and non-being, so that opposing views can each have their course.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary says: if one knows that beyond the finger there is something that moves it, one sees the finger does not exist on its own; if one knows that beyond the horse there is something that drives it to run, one sees the horse is not fully autonomous. Fingers and horses are things with form; what is called “not-finger” and “not-horse” points toward the formless side. Using formed things to show that form is not fundamental is weaker than using the formless to show that form is not fundamental. Extended further, heaven and earth turn and the myriad things grow as if something else were in charge; whether one can seek that beyond heaven and earth remains an open question.

Whether permissible or not, yes or no, vertical or horizontal, beautiful or ugly, and even strange and bizarre events, down to completion and ruin—all can be threaded into one. Then one does not cling to right and wrong; even when one judges something “right,” one need not hold that judgment fixed. Here “yong” means the ordinary, the constant way. The work of the constant way seems useless, yet precisely because it is not bound by fixed views, it can penetrate. Penetration brings insight, and one draws near to the Dao.

“Yin shi yi” means acting in accord with how things actually are. At that point, not only does the opposing side quiet down—the agreeing side quiets too. Yes and no are set aside, yet one still does not cling to one’s own reasons for doing so. If one has not truly understood this and takes “leaving the body and stopping deliberation” as zuowang (sitting and forgetting—the Daoist practice of releasing bodily fixation and discriminating thought), that is still forced effort and not true naturalness.

“Three in the morning, four in the evening” can equally be said as “four in the morning, three in the evening.” The monkeys were confused by morning-and-evening order and missed that the total was the same; the keeper changed the arrangement to suit their likes, likewise following the situation. Yizhai’s oral interpretation explains that “finger” means the finger: if I insist my finger is the right one, I will call others’ fingers wrong; they may in turn deny mine. Mutual opposition makes a fixed right and wrong hard to establish.

Here “horse” means the counting chips used in board games. The “Touhu” chapter of the Book of Rites notes that chips may be more or fewer when playing pitch-pot, and players argue over right and wrong because of that. Because there is you-and-me division, there is dispute over yes and no. Heaven and earth each have their office: heaven covers the myriad things, earth bears them—how could one divide them by mutual opposition? This passage shows that the myriad things admit different views; one should not take one’s own yes-and-no as the absolute standard.

Things are called “so” or “not so” according to their own situations: what can rightly be called “so” is called “so”; what cannot is called “cannot.” Principle shows itself in each thing’s natural state and thereby gives rise to distinctions among things. Things are named as they are because that is how they inherently are; what people call “so” is just this. What could absolutely insist that something must be thus or must not be thus? Each thing has its native condition, and each has an aspect that can be affirmed. Hence no thing is wholly unreasonable, and no thing is absolutely unacceptable. Crooked and straight each have their allotment; beauty and ugliness each preserve their own nature. When these distinctions are seen through and connected, one can return to the source that creates all things.

The ruin and completion of things always depend on each other: without ruin there is no completion; without completion, ruin has no meaning. For example, when timber is cut to build a house, once the house stands, the timber as timber is ruined. Understanding this, one need not cling to one’s own notion of “right” and reject the rest, but should lodge principle within everyday affairs; in applying it, follow how things actually are, and everywhere one can penetrate. Once penetrated, there is gain; with gain, understanding can fully unfold.

People strain mind and body because they confine thought to one formulation and do not know that principle was always interconnected. This is like the fable of “three in the morning, four in the evening”: the keeper of monkeys arranged the same number of acorns under different descriptions, and the monkeys were pleased or angry accordingly, though the total never changed. This analogy and the “just born, just dying” language in the “Discussion on Equalizing Things” use much the same kind of expression. The labels of right and wrong differ, but the principle behind them connects. Whoever can follow each thing’s own situation will find few disputes in the world, and “so” and “not so” can each stand without blocking the other.

Chu wrote in Guanjian: When feelings differ on each side, the pointing of right and wrong is mutually relative. What the east household calls west is what the west household calls east; say it is before heaven and earth, or say it is after Taiji (Supreme Ultimate)—views of things have never fully agreed through past and present. Zhuangzi uses the parables “the finger is not a finger” and “the horse is not a horse” to illustrate equalizing things—a fine way to develop the “Discussion on Equalizing Things.”

To compare finger with finger and say “this finger is not that finger” is the ordinary view; to compare “not-finger” with finger and say “a finger is not a fixed finger” is the view of the perfected person. The point of “horse is not horse” is the same. Profound insight is rare and common opinion abundant, so sayings like “heaven and earth are but one finger, the myriad things but one horse” may instead add confusion. One may explain it thus: people’s conditions differ everywhere, yet the world’s principle can connect. If one principle can run through ten thousand situations, then even “not-finger” can hold; if ten thousand situations cannot be gathered into one principle, then even “is a horse” may not hold.

Finger and horse belong to concrete form, and inevitably invite dispute over right and wrong; “not-finger” and “not-horse” go beyond form and number and beyond what speech and debate can fence in. Therefore, though heaven and earth are vast, they can be clarified by “one finger,” because heaven and earth exist together with me; though things are many, they can be compared by “one horse,” because I and the myriad things are originally one body. Whoever can grasp things’ real condition and make principle penetrate…

From a rational standpoint, although the myriad things are endlessly diverse, they can all be brought together and understood within oneself. When one takes this to heart, one can align with the ancients and also embrace many patterns of meaning; by grasping the “great thing” (the Great Dao or the totality of the myriad things), one can draw insight from it. This is exactly what the Supreme Lord (Taishang) meant by “obtain the One and all undertakings are complete”: once one has attained the Dao, every matter can be seen through. That is the level discussion of the equality of all things can reach—and yet it is still not the highest point words can reach, is it?

People in antiquity sometimes rose to understanding of extraordinary height. How high? Some held that at the beginning there were simply no myriad things at all—the highest, most thorough view, with nothing beyond it. Next came those who held that the myriad things exist, but at first there were no boundaries among them. Still next were those who held that boundaries exist among the myriad things, but at first there was no distinction of right and wrong. Once right and wrong stand out, the Dao is damaged by it; once the Dao is damaged, attachment takes shape and partiality follows. Is there truly formation and loss? Or is there truly no formation and loss?

If there is formation and loss, then when Zhao Wen played the zither, the tones came into being and passed away; if there is no formation and loss, then when Zhao Wen did not play, there was nothing to speak of as tones coming into being or passing away. Zhao Wen played the zither, Shi Kuang waved the bamboo tally (used by ancient masters to conduct or tune), and Huizi leaned against a parasol tree to think—the talents of all three counted as outstanding. So their skills and doctrines were written down and handed on into their later years.

Yet they only delighted in what differed from others and wanted to make it plain in words. What they faced was never really something language could settle, yet they insisted on explaining it; they spent their whole lives caught in the snare of the “hard and white” debate (the logicians’ puzzle over whether hardness and whiteness can be separated), and Zhao Wen’s son spent his whole life caught in carrying on his father’s zither art. Can that be called success? If it can, then I too have succeeded; if it cannot, then neither the myriad things nor I can be said to have succeeded.

Therefore the sage seeks to stay clear and penetrating amid tangle and doubt, without being led astray. The sage does not cling to artificial striving but lodges in the ordinary course of things. This is what is meant by “drawing on clarity” (yi ming—using discernment to meet the myriad things).

Guo Xiang’s commentary

When someone knows that at the beginning the myriad things did not yet exist, outwardly they will not fix on probing the cosmos, and inwardly they will not fix on the self; the mind opens wide, free of drag, and can respond to whatever comes.

Those who, next, hold that the myriad things exist but still lack boundaries have not yet fully forgotten the myriad things, yet they can still forget the split between self and other. Those who hold that boundaries exist but right and wrong do not have not yet forgotten self and other, yet they can still forget right and wrong between them. Where there is no right and wrong, the Dao stays whole; when the Dao is damaged, feeling leans one way, and partiality takes form.

Is there truly formation and loss? Sounds are beyond full numbering, so in blowing pipes or plucking strings, however intricate the playing, much will still be left out. Those who blow and pluck want the sound to show itself; the more they force it to show, the more they leave out; when they do not force it to show, the sound can in fact be whole… (the original text ends here)

Whatever has already taken form tends to come with loss or depletion as well. Zhaowen—the ancient master of the qin—playing his instrument is exactly such a case. Where nothing has yet taken form, there is nothing to speak of as loss; when Zhaowen ceased to play, that was the situation.

Zhaowen played the qin, Shi Kuang (the ancient musician) kept time by striking bamboo clappers, and Huizi (the Names school thinker) leaned against a parasol tree in deep thought. All three wanted to use what they understood to clarify what they had never really understood in the first place. So they wore out their minds and taxed their bodies: one struck clappers, another leaned on the parasol tree, even nodding off in a daze. Only because their vital energy was strong could they keep at it so long; otherwise they would have collapsed from exhaustion long before.

Each thought himself extraordinary and wanted others to share his passion, yet others never truly grasped it. Thus the learning and skill of each, in the end, still fell short of full clarity. Zhaowen’s son, too, never succeeded in inheriting his father’s art and likewise achieved nothing in the end.

If we say the three of them thereby “achieved” something, then what I call non-achievement can also count as achievement; if that still cannot count as achievement, then the myriad things and I ultimately have no achievement at all. The sage lets each thing follow what it is capable of, goes along with the twists and turns of events to complete them, and omits none.

Now these three wanted to enlighten others with what each loved—is that not delusion? The sage has no fixed self-view. For murky, confused lights and shadows that are hard to distinguish, he finds ways to mark out their scope; for what is vast, strange, uncanny, and bizarre, he opens passages so they connect and return to oneness. Then the various things can each rest in its own state, and the multitude does not lose what each deems fitting—that is enough. The sage need not act in person, yet the functions of the myriad things are all brought forth. Toward reckless change and odd marvels, he goes along with them so each finds its place. Though the workings of things differ in countless ways, they can all be clearly seen.

Lu Huiqing’s note: The Dao is nowhere absent, so no thing is not the Dao; since the myriad things all embody the Dao, there is nothing outside the Dao. This is what the ancients meant by “never yet were there things” (weishi you wu)—being able to discern the Dao in concrete things. To understand this is already to have reached the realm of the Dao.

Next, some hold that things exist but boundaries among them have not yet been drawn; they cannot yet discern the Dao directly in things, but they can thread the myriad things together with the Dao. Still others hold that boundaries exist but right and wrong have not yet been distinguished; they cannot yet use the Dao to thread all things together, but they can let go of attachment to things in order to align with the Dao. Though the insight of these two groups is still incomplete, they have not yet suffered loss on the path of the Dao.

Once right and wrong are marked out, the Dao is thereby diminished; when the Dao is impaired, emotion and clinging arise. Love and hate take shape in just this way. Yet from the vantage of one who has attained clarity, since there were never things apart from the Dao, what achievement or loss is there to speak of?

Zhaowen playing the qin, Shi Kuang striking bamboo clappers, and Huizi leaning on the parasol tree in thought—all were displaying the meaning between being and non-being, achievement and loss. Their awakening came close to the Dao. If this can be called achievement, then one who has no achievement also counts as having achieved; if it cannot be called achievement, then the myriad things and I ultimately have no achievement. Why must the spirit toil between being and non-being, gain and loss, insisting that some outcome counts as achievement?

Whatever splendor has not yet been fully spent…

Disturbing thoughts that make one doubt whether things ultimately exist or do not should also be cleared away, until the mind returns to lucidity—only then may one rest. How much more so when the heart still clings to particular things? Therefore the sage does not force outcomes but lets each thing fulfill itself through its own power. This is called “clarity” (ming).

Lin Yidu comments: Life and death are the weightiest matters among the myriad things. If one is not ruled by ideas of birth and death, the rest need not be deliberately erased; they dissolve on their own. Thus to hold that “there never were things at all” is the most thorough stance. Next, to admit that things exist while not yet dividing this from that; though one has not forgotten birth and death, one sees that things are present without yet drawing boundaries between them. Further on, boundaries exist but right and wrong have not yet been distinguished. Those who leave worldly learning to seek the Way already make distinctions; yet if they know that each side feels differently and may call the same matter right or wrong without fixing judgment, they may still be said not to cling to right and wrong.

The substance of the Dao is originally one and undivided; there were no “this” and “that,” no right and wrong. Once such divisions are set up, the ten thousand things each lodge in a corner, and the Dao is thereby diminished. Clinging to love (ai) breeds aversion, and with them come “this and that” and right and wrong. When the noble person (junzi) speaks of the Dao, the aim is to repair this diminishment; yet as soon as something is displayed, new divisions form. Hence Zhuangzi does not here decide whether loss and completion truly exist. Grasp the meaning and release the words—the flavor of the Dao is within.

When the ancient sages reached the utmost clarity, they were still and unmoved—like Zhao Shi not playing the zither. In the ordinary realm of walking the Dao, they could respond to things and penetrate change—like Zhao Shi playing the zither. Shi Kuang dancing with his staff, Hui Shi leaning on the parasol tree, and the three men’s talents all neared the Dao without fully arriving. Though their arts were supreme, the records say they never saw through to the end even in old age. Failing to exhaust one’s nature leads to disorder; failing to exhaust principle leads to doubt. “Yao” means the outward shining of light. What the sage removes is not awakening but deluded thought; they lodge in what everyone uses daily yet remain clear.

Chen Xiangdao comments: Great Simplicity (Taiyi) is when qi has not yet appeared; those who attune to this say “there never were things”—the most thorough formulation. Great Beginning (Taichu) is when qi first emerges; those who attune to this treat life as loss and death as return. Great Start (Taishi) is when form first appears; those who attune to this treat non-being and being as head and tail, life as the body, and death as the rump.

To treat birth and death as loss and return shows that one has already touched things but has not left the Dao—this is “boundaries not yet drawn.” Once boundaries exist, there is De (virtue/power). To treat non-being, being, life, and death as head, tail, body, and rump shows that one is already bound by limits but has not yet entered among concrete things, and so…

When there was still no distinction between right and wrong, the Dao was not harmed; once right and wrong became clear, the Dao was injured. The Dao had never truly “achieved” anything, yet because the Dao was harmed, all sorts of formed things appeared. The Dao is plain and undivided, while concrete things each have their own shapes; once vessels take form, the plain Dao seems somehow damaged.

The Dao is like a great river and lake, and fondness is like the foam fish blow. Fish live in rivers and lakes and do not need to moisten one another with foam; only when the waters dry up do they have to “moisten each other with spit.” The completion and loss of all things in the world follow one another in just this way. Zhuangzi did not nail these matters down as simply “being” or “non-being”; the reader must feel them out with the heart.

Joy that does not depend on external things is joy in accord with one’s nature; joy that needs external things is artificial joy. Zhao Wen playing the zither, Music Master Kuang discerning tones, and Master Hui debating—these pleasures all depend on externals. What they love differs from ordinary people, yet people often see only the part they think they understand, and the result is something that looks right but is not.

From a worldly view, nothing in the world fails to take shape, and nothing is truly and finally “settled.” If you judge Zhao Wen, Music Master Kuang, and Master Hui by worldly standards, it seems each must have achieved something, and so people marvel at them. But such marvelous skill is not true clarity; on the contrary, it confuses people’s hearts and disturbs the world.

Chen Bixu’s commentary:

“At first there was not yet any thing” means the person roams the mind in the moment when all things are first arising—like Zhuangzi’s “leaning on the armrest” (yǐ jǐ), the state in which one’s spirit is vague and drifting. Later, things have appeared but boundaries are not yet drawn between them—this is “suddenly forgetting one’s mate” (tǎrán sàng ǒu): the mind is calm, as if forgetting opposition to things outside. Still later, though boundaries exist, right and wrong are not yet distinguished—this is “I have lost myself” (wú sàng wǒ), forgetting the mind that clings to a separate self. When right and wrong appear, the Dao is harmed, emotional attachment arises, and things gain completion and loss.

So is there really completion and loss? Zhao Wen’s zither, Music Master Kuang’s ear, and Master Hui’s disputation each excel in its own way; if you try to make each use his strength to illuminate another’s weakness, even exhausting heart and strength you cannot have both. The point is only to understand and cultivate oneself. To use one’s skill to teach others is merely selling a craft—how can that count as true achievement? The sage holds that marvelously clever things easily disturb the constant Dao, so he keeps things within their proper bounds; when skill is turned back upon oneself, each person’s ability finds its own length.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary:

The Liezi says: what can give birth to things cannot be called “non-being.” From Wuji (the limitless) to Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate), once Taiji appears there is yin and yang—this is called “having boundaries.” Yin and yang divide; hard and soft each take form, and good and evil arise.

Before joy, anger, grief, and delight have stirred, one can say there are not yet concrete things; yet if we call this “the mean” (zhōng), that too shows it is not utterly empty. When joy, anger, grief, and delight show themselves, emotion has limits; whether they fit measure becomes the judgment of right and wrong. Once the inner mind moves, nature (xing) stirs and becomes feeling (qing). Love is the root of feeling; with movement and stillness, change brings completion and loss.

Zhao Wen’s art on the zither—without Music Master Kuang, no one could recognize it.

Zhao Wen, Shi Kuang, and Huizi each reached a subtle level of mastery in their own art, yet none of them understood "the playing that does not play, the hearing that does not hear, the debate that does not debate" (that is, the highest realm, which transcends any concrete form or trace). So Zhuangzi said that what set him apart from Huizi was what each of them understood. Huizi insisted on understanding what did not need to be understood. Even when he argued the "hard and white, sameness and difference" debate (a Warring States School of Names topic on the relation between hardness and whiteness, and between sameness and difference) with dazzling brilliance, he ended in obscurity. Zhao Wen's son was the same: he never grasped the mystery of the stringless zither and accomplished nothing all his life. Such an outcome can be called "success" or "failure", and neither depends on the true nature of things. Hence, light that shines through confusion and doubt is exactly what the sage prizes.

Yuzhai (Lin Xiyi of the Song dynasty, whose courtesy name was Yuzhai), in his Kouyi (Oral Commentary), explains that although this passage begins with the origin of heaven and earth, the principle can be grasped right before one's eyes. When a thought has not yet arisen, there is "not yet any thing" (a state in which nothing has yet appeared). Once a thought arises, there are things. From this thought come things and self, and so boundaries arise. From the division between things and self come liking and disliking, joy and anger, and so right and wrong arise. If one cannot turn back and consider how things were before the thought arose, and feels only tangled turmoil in the chest, this is "the Dao (the Way) is diminished and partiality is formed" (when the great Way is impaired, particular attachments take shape). But when the thought passes and all is calm again, one sees that there was never any completion or diminishment. To experience this personally is to receive a benefit that is truly one's own. Zhuangzi first discusses completion and diminishment, then uses the zither as an analogy, and then cites Shi Kuang and Huizi. All three were famed in their time for their skill and devoted their lives to it. Each believed himself different from everyone else and so made a show of explaining his art, but his listeners could not grasp it, and thus none of them truly achieved anything in the end. As for "hard and white", it was originally Gongsun Long's topic, and Zhuangzi held that Huizi was merely borrowing the name of that debate. "Confused and doubtful" describes something that seems clear yet is not, meaning that the sage's mind does not cling to forms and traces, so what it sees seems both present and absent. The character 圖 is glossed as "to desire", meaning this is what the sage wants. He therefore abandons rigid right and wrong, does not use them deliberately, and lodges himself in the ordinary. This is called "using clarity" (illuminating things with one's innate clear awareness).

The ancients valued true knowledge and discarded false views. They let go of attachment to "being" while preserving the mysterious "being". In this way they could keep their nature and life (xing and ming) intact and fulfill the Dao of spontaneity.

Hearts grow thinner day by day, and the ways of the world decline with them; then all sorts of things come to clog the emptiness, stillness, and clarity that the heart originally had. People draw lines and carve out territories between one another; things and self stand opposed, and right and wrong appear. Once right and wrong appear, the Dao is diminished and partiality takes shape.

Zhuangzi brings up this point again to urge reflection and to help readers grasp the original intent of the Equalizing Assessments of Things (Qiwu lun, a chapter of the Zhuangzi devoted to dissolving opposition between self and other and between “this” and “that”). Completion and loss are coarse, surface signs in affairs; if one could truly return to a state in which nothing is fixed as a “thing,” how could completion and loss remain?

Zhao Wen was a master of the zither, yet he never stepped outside form, sound, and the rules of pitch and rhythm, so he could not escape completion and loss. Music Master Kuang beat time with his staff; Hui Shi argued from his desk—these were the crafts at which each excelled. Each trusted his own knack, took pride in it, and kept at it into old age. They did not only love these arts themselves; they also tried to use them to “explain” others, without asking whether others could receive such teaching—they pressed their case until listeners were dazed and never woke up. Zhao Wen’s son, too, made the zither his lifelong business and ended with nothing to show for it.

Those three gained something in skill but lost something in the Way, yet each thought he had truly attained. The son neither carried on his father’s art nor understood the Way, and was just as sure of himself. What each takes as “this and that” and as right and wrong is skewed; completion and loss have no single, fixed measure.

“Slippery doubt’s radiance” means that these three arts stirred the world and bedazzled people’s ears and eyes. What the sage seeks, then, is not to be caught in such crafts but to rest them in the ordinary course of the Way and slowly turn back to the beginning. That is what it means to use brightness well—without letting the glare blind.

For the moment, let me put forward a saying. I do not know whether it belongs with the kind of sayings called “this,” or stands apart from them. If sameness and difference are both counted as one class, then it would not differ from those sayings either. Still, let me try to speak:

There was a beginning. There was a time before there had begun to be a beginning. There was a time before there had begun to be “not yet having begun to be a beginning.” There was “being,” there was “non-being”; there was a time before there had begun to be “non-being”; there was a time before there had begun to be “not yet having begun to be being and non-being.” Suddenly “being” and “non-being” showed up—yet it was still unclear which was truly being and which was truly non-being. I have now spoken these words, but I do not know whether my speaking counts as having said something or as having said nothing at all.

Nothing in the world is bigger than the tip of an autumn down, yet Mount Tai is treated as small; no one outlives an infant who dies young, yet Peng Zu is treated as short-lived. Heaven and Earth…

All things and I exist together; I and all things are merged into one. Once they have already merged into one, can there still be anything to say? Once it has already been called “one,” can one still refrain from saying so? “One” together with saying becomes “two”; “two” plus “one” becomes “three.” From there, if one keeps reckoning, even the most skilled calculator cannot work it out—how much less ordinary people? Therefore, from “non-being” to “being,” pushing the reckoning only to “three” is already so tangled; how much more so from “being” onward to further “being”? Thus it is better to follow what is right before one’s eyes and let each thing rest in its proper place.

Guo Xiang’s commentary on this passage says: Now one speaks of “there is no right and wrong,” yet one does not know whether this very statement and the claim that “there is right and wrong” are the same or different. If one says they are the same, then I take “non-being” as right and another takes “non-being” as wrong, and we differ from each other; yet even when views of right and wrong differ, one still cannot avoid talking about right and wrong, and so one is again the same as the other. In this way sameness and difference entangle each other until in the end there is no distinction at all.

If one wishes to be thoroughly different, nothing surpasses having no mind (wuxin). First remove the other’s error, then remove the thought of removing error; remove that step as well, and keep removing—then right and wrong vanish.

Still, let us try to speak: where there is a “beginning,” there must be an end; where there is “not yet begun yet already a beginning,” there is no clear start and finish, and birth and death are treated as one. Another formulation is “not yet that which has not yet begun.” To say all things are one is inferior to not deliberately calling them one and letting them equalize naturally; then even the idea of “one” is forgotten.

Where there is the notion of “being,” there will be beauty and ugliness, right and wrong. Where there is the notion of “non-being,” there is still the distinction between “being and non-being,” so one still does not know whether true non-being can be reached; right and wrong and likes and dislikes remain in the heart. If one can reach the state of “not yet being and non-being,” though one knows that “non-being” also does not exist, one has not yet shed the fact of “knowing.” Going further, reaching “not yet that which is not yet being and non-being,” suddenly there is being and non-being, yet one still does not know who has being and who has non-being.

At this point one forgets all discrimination and all knowing, and suddenly understands that everything is originally empty. After understanding that all is empty, heaven and earth, the myriad things, self and other, and right and wrong stand forth clear and definite. Yet then one no longer knows whether what one says is being or non-being; the breast becomes utterly open and vast, without the slightest trace of attachment.

If one compares by physical size, Mount Tai is of course larger than an autumn hair (the finest down on an animal). But if each settles according to its own nature, every thing reaches its own utmost: a large body is not considered surplus, a small one not considered lacking. Each content with its own nature, then an autumn hair is not small merely because it is small, nor is Mount Tai large merely because it is large. If taking nature as satisfied counts as “great,” then nothing in the world is “greater” than an autumn hair; if being satisfied in nature does not count as great, then even Mount Tai may be called small. If Mount Tai counts as small, then the world… *

Nothing is so vast that the tip of fine new hair on an autumn animal does not count as “not vast”; if you take something as vast, then nothing under heaven counts as small. Rest content in what is natural and in the limits of your allotted nature (xingfen), and heaven and earth are not necessarily longer-lived than you, yet they exist together with you; the ten thousand things are not necessarily utterly other than you, for they are one with you.

Each thing has its own form and rests in its own place—then the One was already the One. The Way itself needs no words, yet things sometimes cannot see this unity for themselves, so “the One” is used to clarify and set them right. But once “the One” is spoken, there is already speech; the One and speech become two. Originally there was only one One, and speech splits it into two; with one and two, does that not make three? Talk about the One with words, and in no time you have three. The names of things differ—who could count them all? Thus one who sees the ten thousand things as one body does not set oneself apart from things; one who forgets the One needs no words and is naturally one with things.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The reason people cannot do away with the distinction between self and other, forget right and wrong, and reach the state in which things have never arisen (weishi you wu) is that they do not know where the mind of self-and-other and right-and-wrong comes from. To penetrate this principle, one must observe from its starting point.

Hence it is said: “There is a beginning.” That beginning originally has no self-nature; once this beginning is fixed, there is again the question of where it comes from. It is also said: “There never was a beginning” (weishi you shi)—to release fixation on a starting point. If fixation is not released, one cannot avoid asking again where it comes from.

It is also said: “There never was that ‘there never was a beginning.’” This is to release fixation on the very act of releasing the starting point. When no starting point of things can be found and nothing more need be released, then where one’s own mind arises becomes suddenly clear. From this one knows that everything as it is now emerges from non-being (wu). Only when one understands this do existence and extinction find their place in one’s mind; it is enough that the mind no longer gives rise to the thought “make it not exist.” Hence it is also said: “Being and non-being.”

Yet to treat non-being as a thing still falls into “being.” So it is said: “There never was non-being” (weishi you wu)—to release fixation on non-being. And “there never was that ‘there never was non-being’” releases fixation on that way of releasing.

Tracing the starting point of things, one ultimately cannot find it; tracing that non-being, one likewise cannot grasp it. Then awakening is within a bow and a glance, and mind and Way naturally accord. Hence: “Suddenly there were being and non-being.” Yet people do not know which of being and non-being is being and which is non-being. Students should forget words and take in the meaning with the mind.

Even so, what I say now may not really be some thing. As for whether to call it “being” or “non-being,” how could I know? Students must also understand: words have never truly said anything. Only…

Wherever my thoughts arise, the tip of a hair, Mount Tai, a child who dies young, Peng Zu, and all things between Heaven and Earth arise from there too. Seen this way, what fixed and unchanging standard can there be for small and large, long and brief, or far and near?

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth. Understand this, and you will know that I too began with the nameless. With the arising of “I,” Heaven and Earth also come into view; thus Heaven and Earth and I come into being together. The named is the root of the myriad things. Understand this, and you will know that I too was born from the named. Without me, there would be no myriad things; therefore, the myriad things and I were originally one.

Lin Yidu’s commentary says: Only when people cease to cling to words can the Dao (the Way) reveal itself as independent and self-existent. Only when the Dao has revealed itself can they avoid seeing the myriad things as either the same as or different from one another. Now that we have begun to speak, we want to use words to dispel our attachment to “being”; but as soon as we speak, we create a new “being.” We try to dispel “being” and return to “nonbeing,” hoping not to be classed with the myriad things. Yet the act of dispelling “being” itself creates a distinction between sameness and difference. Thus “of the same kind” and “of a different kind” both fall into the realm of classification, and in that respect they are no different from one another.

Still, without speaking, we could not help the deluded people of the world understand the principle, so we can only try to say something. “There was a beginning” means that forms existed and could be seen: one saw the myriad things but not the Dao. “There was a time before there was a beginning” means that one saw the Dao but had not yet forgotten it. “There was a time before that time before there was a beginning” means that Qi (vital energy), form, and substance were all present but had not yet separated from one another. This is called hunlun, the undifferentiated state in which all things remain a single, undivided whole; it is the Dao in its ultimate state.

What is called “being” is not the mysterious “being,” and what is called “nonbeing” is not true “nonbeing.” As for which of being and nonbeing should count as being, and which as nonbeing, we cannot be sure. The interplay and transformation of Yin-Yang is called the Dao; the transformations of Yin-Yang, being beyond our ability to fathom, are called Shen (spirit). But as long as we have not forgotten words, we have no choice but to speak tentatively: Is there truly being, or is there indeed nonbeing?

When people speak of “small” and “large,” they mean the size of forms; when I speak of “small” and “large,” I mean how things appear from the perspective of the Dao. When people speak of “longevity” and “dying young,” they mean the length of life; when I speak of “longevity” and “dying young,” I mean how things appear from the perspective of nonbeing. A hair’s tip approaches the formless; compared with Mount Tai, it is small, and Mount Tai is large. But from the perspective of the Dao, which has not taken form and cannot be diminished, Mount Tai too appears small. A child who dies young approaches lifelessness; compared with Peng Zu, Peng Zu is long-lived. But from the perspective that transcends life and death, even Peng Zu’s life is brief. Because a child who dies young approaches lifelessness, the child can be born together with Heaven and Earth; because a hair’s tip approaches the formless, it can be one with the myriad things.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary says: The Dao exists throughout the world without end or beginning; it is neither being nor nonbeing. When it disperses and resides within the myriad things, they acquire their cycles of beginnings and endings, and being and nonbeing interact…

Viewed from the perspective of life, we speak of a beginning and of existence. Viewed from the subtle and profound perspective, we trace things back to what came before existence: there was no beginning, and there was not yet existence; indeed, even the state of having had no existence had never been. This is the ultimate point.

Laozi says, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” Here, “nonbeing” is the underlying reality, while “beginning” is its function. To speak first of “having a beginning,” and then of “being” and “nonbeing,” is simply to trace the underlying reality through its functions.

Although the Dao is said to be “nonbeing,” it is not empty space; although it is said to “be,” it is not a substantial entity. Call it nonbeing, and it is still everywhere; say it acts through Wuwei (non-action), and there is still nothing it does not do. For this reason, the ancients often spoke of the Dao in ways that seemed to affirm and deny at once. They did not cling to “being” or “nonbeing,” seeking to free themselves from the constraints of words and deliberate contrivance.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: “Having a beginning” means that the Dao gives rise to the One. “Having never had a beginning” refers to the vast, formless state of Great Nonbeing, before the undifferentiated chaos had divided. “Not yet having had a ‘beginning’” means that it can neither be seen nor heard: a state emptier than empty space. These expressions describe the Dao in sequence, before it had Qi or “being.”

“Being” means that the myriad things already have form and exist independently. “Being and nonbeing” means that the forms of the myriad things have not yet appeared, and all is in a state of emptiness and stillness. “Having never had being and nonbeing” means that before forms appeared, all was quiet, empty, and undivided: the state of “Supreme Nonbeing.” “Not yet having had what never had being and nonbeing” means that it is obscure, still, vast, boundless, and beyond reach: the state of “the nonbeing of nonbeing.” These expressions describe, in sequence, the Dao before it had form.

Suddenly, being and nonbeing appeared. The Dao is everywhere, and its creative transformations never cease. The myriad things each emerge, change independently, and come and go in cycles. Heaven and Earth move quietly, without anyone noticing. Who can discern whether there is being or nonbeing at work? To call it being or nonbeing is still to remain at the level of appearances. To go beyond both, perhaps one must simply forget words.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary: “Having a beginning” and “having existence” both belong to “being.” Trace things further back, until reaching the beginningless and the nonexistent. But if we call it nonbeing while there is still an “I” that knows this nonbeing, then it cannot be truly nonbeing. From where, then, do we know of “being” and “nonbeing”? Heaven, Earth, and I exist together, so there is no difference between long and short lifespans; the myriad things and I are one, so there is no distinction of size. The moment we speak of “one,” we have already entered the realm of “being.” Once there is “being,” distinctions arise, and numbers multiply without end. The movement from nonbeing to being brings endless change. Only by turning toward neither extreme, and no longer clinging even to what is called “following what is so,” can one leave all other distinctions behind.

Yanzhai’s oral explanation: “Having a beginning,” “having never had a beginning,” and “having never had what never had a beginning” are close in meaning to what the Liezi calls “Great Substance, Great Simplicity, and Great Beginning.” It also says: if Mount Tai is considered great, then Heaven and Earth are greater than Mount Tai; therefore…

Mount Tai may also be called short-lived; even if Peng Zu is counted among the long-lived, compared with heaven and earth he still seems to have died young. Heaven and earth and I are alike born within the Great Void; the myriad things and I are alike born within the world. Even grass, trees, and insects are one with me in undivided wholeness.

In the world, when one speaks of the greatest physical form, nothing surpasses Mount Tai; when one speaks of the longest life, nothing surpasses Peng Zu. But that is to speak from the appearance of form and lifespan—there is still a limit in the end. If one looks from the nature of empty non-being, Mount Tai is but something minute, and Peng Zu is like an infant. Though the tip of an autumn down is fine, at the very beginning of having form it equally possesses this root principle—how could it lack a place of utmost greatness? Though a child who dies young is small in years, from the very start of birth it equally partakes of this nature—how could it lack an aspect of longevity? Heaven and earth are only existences with larger form; the myriad things are only many in form; trace them to their source and originally they were never not one body.

Therefore the text alternates affirmation and reversal in order to break the fixed views of the world and open a path to investigate the root principle of things. From this one may further infer that sayings such as “a grain-sized pearl holds the vast” and “a mustard seed holds Mount Sumeru” may be extended by the same reasoning. If the student can truly grasp the emptiness of the “center of the ring” (like the still, non-clinging center of a circle) and rest in the even boundary of nature, then the tip of autumn down will seem vast and Mount Tai small, the one who dies young long-lived and Peng Zu short-lived.

This discourse is not merely correcting worldly prejudice and rescuing the heart that grasps at life; it truly reaches the utmost of principle. Alas, people’s eyes see only the myriad things in turmoil, each different from the other, and the clear heart slips away with them like water flowing downhill—one can no longer hope to return to the source. Hence the True Person repeatedly teaches people to turn back and investigate the original beginning of things, so that self and things become one, viewing the myriad things as kin and being seamless with them. All are kind, simple, peaceful, and joyful, sharing in stillness; such living is as if the age of Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor were renewed today. What sages and worthies secretly transmit is precisely this mind-method. Then what dispute remains over long and short life, self and other, large and small, ancient and modern?

The gist of “born together as one” is close to the earlier similes of “one finger” and “one horse.” Though the words seem to go against common sense, the principle within is exceedingly subtle and penetrating. This is what is called “straight words seem reversed”: the upright teaching sometimes sounds like its opposite, and only those who can grasp it are fit to discuss it.

The Dao originally has no boundary, and words originally have no fixed standard; because each person takes some doctrine as right, boundaries arise. Let us speak of these boundaries: there is left and right, order and principle, division and discrimination, rivalry and debate—this is called the “eight standards.” Beyond the six directions, the sage stores it away and does not discuss it…

Regarding matters within the four directions of Heaven and Earth, the sage offers an account but makes no judgments. The Spring and Autumn Annals records the affairs of well-ordered ages and embodies the intentions of the former kings. The sage makes distinctions, yet does not argue with others. What is called “distinguishing” also has an aspect that does not distinguish; what is called “debating” also has an aspect that does not debate. Why is this so? The sage keeps the principles in the heart, while ordinary people argue and display their views. Thus, debate too has an aspect that remains unseen.

The Great Dao is not made manifest by proclaiming it. The highest form of debate does not rely on words. The greatest benevolence does not deliberately display itself as benevolence. The truly upright do not pride themselves on being above reproach, and the truly courageous do not bully or fight. Once the Dao is deliberately made conspicuous, it no longer accords with the Dao. Verbal argument cannot attain benevolence. Deliberately holding to what is constant cannot bring fulfillment. If a person’s uprightness is doubted, it is difficult to win others’ trust. Bullying and fighting cannot achieve true courage. When these five virtues are deliberately pursued to completion, they are almost bound to turn into their opposites. So the highest wisdom is to know where to stop—in what one does not know. Who understands debate without words, or the Dao that is not deliberately displayed? Whoever understands this may be called a “Heavenly Treasury,” like a natural storehouse that contains all things: pour into it and it never fills; draw from it and it is never exhausted, yet no one knows its source. This is called “Concealed Radiance,” a light held within and not shown outwardly.

Long ago, Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the three states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. Though I occupy the throne, my heart is not at peace. Why is this?” Shun replied, “The people of those three states still live in remote places overgrown with mugwort and weeds. Why should this make you uneasy? In the past, ten suns appeared together, and everything was illuminated. What would happen if someone whose De surpassed that of the sun were to appear?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The Dao has never had boundaries; it is deep and far-reaching, yet present everywhere. Speech has never had a fixed standard, and right and wrong have no settled measure. Because the Dao has no boundaries, all things can each preserve their own limits. Seen from different directions, things each have their own advantages and their own reasons. People divide things into categories, then argue among themselves in an effort to determine right and wrong. “Beyond the six directions” refers to the realm beyond the inherent nature and limits of all things. Even if principles exist there, they have never stirred the sage, so the sage does not speak of them. Within the six directions, the sage makes clear the nature of all things, allowing each to rest within its own limits. The former kings’ intentions were to follow the order that things had already formed, so that all things could each find what suited them. If one makes distinctions according to one’s own perspective, one fails to see how things are inherently distinct from one another. The sage keeps non-contention in the heart, while ordinary people argue about what they know and display it to others. As a result, something remains unseen.

The Great Dao is not made manifest by proclamation; it lets things reveal themselves. The highest form of debate does not rely on words; things naturally differ from one another. The greatest benevolence does not deliberately bestow affection, yet it is present of itself. The truly upright do not allow themselves to boast of being beyond reproach. The truly courageous can go wherever they must while following the principles of the situation. To use the Dao to make others stand out causes both sides to lose something. To divide things with words also fails to let each thing fulfill its own nature. … If things are cherished with partiality, they are bound not to… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

Zhou and Lian spoke heatedly: “Then this is not clarity and integrity but perverse, rebellious courage—and the world will detest it.” All five of these expressions, because they are deliberate performances, injure one’s original nature. They cannot preserve an even temperament; instead they reach outward without end. It is like taking something round and trying to learn to be square, or like a fish envying birds. What one does not understand lies beyond what one’s nature can attain. Not forcing oneself to understand, but resting content in what one does not know—that is reaching the fitting place.

Not speaking, not lecturing—this is called the “Treasury of Heaven” (tiānfǔ: the vast depth of the Way, inexhaustible). Vast and self-sufficient, one lets all things be as they naturally are. The heart of the utmost person accords with outer things yet does not hoard them in the mind. Principle dwells within without leaving deliberate traces; one lets clarity show of itself, and so is luminous without being obscured.

Long ago, when Yao wished to attack three states, he asked Shun. Shun said: “Each thing rests in its own place; nothing is base in itself.” Mugwort and wormwood were precisely where those three men found their ease. If they could not be at ease, why would that be? When ten suns rose together, no place failed to be lit. Virtue that goes a step beyond the sun has even less that it cannot reach. Now, if one strips away wishes as humble as mugwort and wormwood, attacks them, and forces them to submit, then the greatness of the Dao has not yet been achieved—so they cannot be at ease. If one can grasp this in spirit and let each thing unfold its nature and settle in its own situation, then nothing in the world is out of place and I have no occasion for displeasure.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The Dao is nowhere absent; it has never had a fixed boundary. Given that, how could anything be fixedly present and unchangeable? The Dao also has never had a constant, unchanging form. Things pass from non-being to being, and boundaries appear; with boundaries come left and right, and from that arises contention. The reason one speaks to this point is that people cannot help taking themselves to have gained something—and only then arrive at this pass.

Therefore some matters are kept in the heart and not brought into speech; some are spoken of but not judged; some are judged but not argued. Observing how the Six Classics put things, one can see why the sage sometimes discusses what he does not discuss, judges what he does not judge, and argues what he does not argue. When principle reaches its utmost, distinction no longer needs distinction, and disputation no longer needs disputation. If one must decide every matter to the end, one finally falls into rivalry and strife. The sage knows that the Way cannot be exhausted by argument and only holds it in the heart; the crowd displays itself through disputation and thereby fails to see the Dao.

Thus the five expressions the Dao speaks of—benevolence, integrity, courage, and the rest—should all be rounded so that their edge does not cut too sharp; pare the sharpness and one draws near the Dao. When the heart turns outward in action, an edge shows; pare the edge and it will not disturb the spirit—then what room is left in the heart to cling to “knowing”? This is argument without words, the Way without speech.

“Treasury of Heaven” means it holds all things and is utterly abundant: pour into it and it is never full; draw from it and it never runs dry—yet one does not know where it comes from. This is being luminous without flaunting it. Yao wished to…

Once Daizong had tasted the flesh of Xu Ao, his mind still could not be at ease; those three men remained among the wild weeds and coarse grasses, which shows they had not yet been replaced. The matter had not yet been subjected to punitive action, yet in his heart he could not be at ease—this was not the practice of complying with outer things without hoarding them in the mind, but rather choosing first and only afterward letting it show. If De increases day by day, could there still be matters one cannot set at ease? What is meant here is that where daily insight does not reach, such talk still arises. As for Daizong’s minced flesh of Xu Ao, the histories record no such episode.

Lin Yidu annotates: Where there is distinction in the Dao, the ten thousand things each have their own distinctions; where there is no distinction in the Dao, it is that I have not gone to distinguish. In each affair there is what can be clarified; what is not clarified is that I have not gone to clarify. The ten thousand things originally each have their distinctions, hence one distinguishes without clinging to distinction; affairs originally each have what can be argued, hence one argues without clinging to argument. The sage keeps the Dao stored in the heart and does not proclaim it; the multitude display it through debate, and thereby miss it again. The Dao is everywhere and cannot be fixed by a name; argument that does not speak out is true argument.

The ten thousand things each rest in their own nature and allotted life—where could I apply benevolent action? The greatest integrity has no sharp corners, hence no place that can hold self-satisfaction; the greatest courage does not harm others. Spirit-like martial virtue is the capacity not to kill. Whenever a thing is obstructed, corners show; when passage is unobstructed, there is no fixed boundary.

The five cases share one problem: obstruction. The Dao is obstructed by making it conspicuous in speech; words are obstructed by debate; benevolence is obstructed by fixed routines; integrity is obstructed by taking oneself as pure; courage is obstructed by harming others. If one can grind away the corners and align oneself with the whole great Dao, one is close to the Dao.

“Tianfu” (Celestial Treasury) means a treasure formed of itself, the place where the ten thousand things gather. Pour water in and it does not fill; scoop it out and it does not run dry. It resembles the true face of nature and life, neither increasing nor decreasing; trace where it comes from and there is nothing to know—this is called “baoguang” (treasuring the light within, not displaying it outward). Its light is inside, neither shown nor flaunted. The sage’s mind is deep and still; each rests where it rests; whether near or far, deep or shallow, all is left to itself, each attaining its place. This is how the Tianfu naturally stores the ten thousand things, and the root from which baoguang naturally arises.

Chen Xiangdao annotates: The Dao has never had boundaries; in wild grain, broken tile, and rubble, nowhere is the Dao absent. The Dao also has no fixed sayings—there is no need to discuss or to argue. Later the Dao declined and became De, and then boundaries appeared: in form, left and right; in principle, ethical order and right and wrong; in speech, distinction and debate; in affairs, rivalry and struggle. How then could one expect the ten thousand things to be equalized?

“Dao made manifest is not Dao” speaks of people like Gongsun Xiu; speech and debate that do not reach the Dao speak of people like Gongsun Long.

Those who are benevolent and tolerant yet cling to routine and cannot adapt to change exemplify the school of Mozi; those who are pure and self-restraining yet do not know how to trust others exemplify the school of Yuling Zhongzi; those who are fierce and unyielding yet cannot restrain themselves exemplify the school of Beigong Ou. These five kinds of conduct all stand out like sharp corners; if those corners can be worn down and made round and supple, one approaches the Dao.

Pushing further upward from here, one reaches an unfathomable, spirit-like depth. This is what is meant by “genuine knowing is not deliberate seeking after knowledge.” When nothing in the mind cannot be embraced or received, it is like the Heavenly Treasury (a storehouse that seems to hold all things); not harming one’s authentic nature is “preserving inner light” (baoguang). This means that in one’s nature there is neither loss nor gain.

Without disputing in words, nothing fails to be explained; without deliberately upholding some particular Dao, nothing fails to be penetrated. This is the effect of following the Dao and fully unfolding one’s heaven-given nature.

Those who carry the great Dao in their hearts treat all things as one; they treat those near at hand generously and extend that kindness to those far away. If one keeps in mind the distinction between self and other and the quarrels of right and wrong, seeks to attack others among the crowd, and even when in high position will not set aside contention, then what is gained is little and what is lost is great. This is not what is called knowing and preserving inner light.

Chen Bixu comments: When being and non-being interpenetrate and things are demarcated from one another, what could truly obstruct? Genuine discourse has nothing inappropriate; as for a standard that is eternally fixed, where could it be anchored? Yet can anything that can be spoken of and discussed be entirely without rules and norms? Talk of direction, ethics, and duty belongs to drawing boundaries; talk of words involves dispute. Boundaries and words both have real grounding, and therefore are called De.

Matters beyond the six directions (heaven, earth, and the four quarters), the sage does not discuss, because when principle is established, attachment to concrete affairs can be released. Matters within the six directions, the sage does not argue over, because when affairs are handled well, words too can be forgotten. The rise and fall of successive emperors the sage discusses in detail, praising or blaming, to admonish later ages; this is not to display erudition and skill in debate.

Therefore, those who concentrate inward need not cling to the outward; where one has argued, one need not go elsewhere to argue again. The sage keeps these principles in the heart. Those who understand do not speak much; those who speak much and dispute are not necessarily those who understand.

The great Dao needs no special naming, for it is nowhere unsuitable. If the five conducts of benevolence, integrity, courage, and the rest can all be possessed and applied fittingly, they do not obstruct the Dao, and in principle they naturally harmonize. If one errs only in a single matter, it is like pressing a circle against a square—inevitably it clashes with things. Therefore do not overstep one’s place in forcing knowledge, lest the natural nature be harmed.

“Disputation without words” and “the Dao that is not preached as Dao” are both stored in the human heart—is this not the Heavenly Treasury? A visible vessel, once filled, will eventually be full; a stream with a visible source, once drawn from, will eventually run dry. Yet now it neither overflows nor runs dry, because its source is formless and its spring unfathomably deep; its form is vast, and its margin cannot be seen—hence it is called preserving inner light. Those three figures still…

Among mugwort and wormwood, the wren can make its home on a single branch. This is a metaphor: Yao’s virtue shines everywhere, reaching even the most hidden places. The Daodejing says: “A great state merely wishes to annex and nurture small states; a small state merely wishes to enter a great state and serve it. When each gets what it seeks, the great state ought to stand in the lower position.”

Zhao Xuzhai comments: The Dao has never had a fixed boundary; wherever you go, it is there. Saying it has no fixed constant form does not mean it does not exist. People draw boundaries in order to distinguish right from wrong in things; once a boundary is set, there are divisions such as left and right, near and far, and competition follows. Beyond the six directions lies the formless realm; within the six directions lies the formed realm. Formed things arise from the formless, so there must be formlessness as the root. Though formlessness exists, it cannot be discussed in words; once you discuss it in words, you are already speaking of it. When matters reach the point of dispute and debate, all kinds of strife appear in succession.

The Chunqiu is a book the sage compiled by cutting and selecting historical events, using praise and blame to embody judgments of right and wrong. That was largely unavoidable; as for the commentarial traditions of various schools, they may not have grasped the sage’s original intent—hence the saying “there are places one has not yet seen.” Zhuangzi uses this to explain his own purpose in writing.

“Great Dao is not named” means the Dao cannot be spoken of by name; “supreme great courage does not harm” means true great courage does not injure others. “The five are round and nearly tend toward square” means the five levels of attainment are originally complete and round, yet are already close to being square and fixed. Here “round” suggests breaking off angular edges to make something circular; “nearly tend toward square” means approaching the Dao. Once the Dao is made manifest, expressions such as supreme great courage and non-harming all become different names for the Dao; once names are fixed, the Dao is carved up. Wisdom stops where one does not know, and does not force names upon the Dao—this is the utmost of the Dao.

To speak without speaking is discourse that is not expressed in words; to say there is a Dao that can be told is already not the Dao itself. If a person can understand this, the mind becomes empty and still, and is therefore called the “Celestial Storehouse” (tianfu)—a place like heaven that can hold all things. The Celestial Storehouse is where all things emerge from. As for water poured into it that never fills, and drawn from it that never runs dry, this shows it has no traceable beginning and no known origin; even the thought “knowing it” is let go. “Preserving the light” (baoguang) means gathering in and concealing one’s own brilliance.

“Zongkuai” and “Xu’ao” are not recorded in the classics and histories. What the next chapter calls “correct dwelling, correct flavor, correct color” refers respectively to the mouth’s relation to taste, the eyes’ relation to color, and the four limbs’ relation to comfort and pleasure—these are all inherent in human nature. Yao wished to restrain and remove these desires; even in the highest position, he took no joy in them. Shun told Yao: if a ruler has genuine insight, he will let these three rest in their proper places—why must they be removed? Only the sage can practice and fulfill human nature. From this perspective, “Zongkuai” and “Xu’ao” seem to be figures Zhuangzi invented to carry his meaning.

The Commentary from the Yanzhai says: “Having limits and boundaries” means that a distinction arises between self and other. Once there is a distinction, each side takes up a position and assumes that it has something to assert.

The Way at its utmost and speech at its utmost originally make no distinction between self and other. Only when the human mind harbors private intentions does the word “right” arise, drawing many boundaries in its wake. The “eight virtues” mentioned here likewise refers to things standing in opposition to oneself. Once self and other are set against each other, people cling to their own positions when discussing principles and events, and argue without end.

Thus, regarding what lies beyond the four directions of Heaven and Earth, the sage allows it to exist but does not discuss it. The Buddhist saying that “the four quarters, above and below, cannot be fathomed” also refers to what lies beyond the reach of thought. As for what lies within the four directions of Heaven and Earth, there are many principles: surely the sage spoke of them. Yet the sages did not debate them in exhaustive detail or force everyone under Heaven to accept a particular view. The histories record the intentions of former kings in governing worldly affairs. How could the sages have said nothing about such matters? And yet, when did they ever argue to prevail, contending over right and wrong or superiority and inferiority?

The highest understanding of the principles of the world is to forget verbal disputes. Once one falls into distinctions and arguments, it shows that one has no genuine insight. Thus, some matters need not be distinguished, and some need not be disputed.

“The great Dao cannot be named” means that the great Dao cannot be defined by a name, because names create opposition. “The greatest debate does not speak” means that the finest discourse does not cling to words; this is speech at its utmost. “Great benevolence is not benevolent” means that true, great benevolence leaves no trace of deliberately practicing benevolence.

The place where gibbons store food is called qian, meaning “full.” If one takes pride in being incorruptible, that pride has entered the heart, and one can no longer be said to embody the highest incorruptibility. “Not showing aggression” means leaving no trace of one’s might; “round” means harmoniously smooth, without edges or corners. The five conditions described above are all like round things, originally whole and undivided. As soon as any trace becomes visible, they begin to resemble squares, with edges and corners.

True knowledge does not cling to what one believes oneself to know. Only then can one see where the principles of Heaven converge. One cannot add to it or take away from it, yet does not know where it comes from. To draw in one’s radiance without displaying it is called “preserving the light” (baoguang).

The story of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao is not clearly recorded in other classics and is probably only an allegory. Places overgrown with mugwort and weeds serve as a metaphor for the obscuration caused by external things and desires. The meaning is that those three men were clouded by external things and desires and could not accept instruction. If I were to feel displeasure toward them, self and other would once again stand in opposition. The sun shines on all things, leaving nothing untouched. How much more could the sage, whose De is greater than the sun’s, make room for these three men? The sage does not cling to distinctions between things and self, or between right and wrong, because the sage can view everything from the standpoint of the Way of Heaven. The phrase “ten suns” is a metaphor for “nothing is better than using illumination to observe.”

The passage “Yao wished to attack Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao” seems disconnected from what precedes it. But with “therefore, in ancient times” at its opening, it can be understood as a connected example supporting the preceding discussion; there should be no doubt about this. The episode is not recorded in other classics, however, so it cannot be investigated further. The Three Kingdoms…

This passage explains the parable in the Zhuangzi in which Yao attacks the “three states.” Scholars do not agree on the names and meaning of those three states; the original text lists several interpretations. According to one account attributed to Cui, Zong was one state, Kuai the second, and Xu’ao the third; another citation of Cui in the Yinyi glosses names Zong, Kuai, Congzhi, and Xu’ao as the three states. The chapter “In the World Among Men” in the Zhuangzi also speaks of “Yao attacking Congzhi and Xu’ao.” The author holds that readers should look into the point of the parable, not fixate on concrete historical events.

The author cautiously offers an interpretation for learned readers to consider: in light of the preceding language about “having boundaries, having constants, having demarcations,” the three states may metaphorically stand for the inner and outer reaches of the world and for the aims to which former kings clung. The three modes of speech—discourse, deliberation, and disputation—all seek to storm and remove such clinging, so that people leave behind quarrels over right and wrong and return to the profound stillness of Dao and De (Virtue).

Yet Yao himself had not yet achieved this, so he asked Shun for guidance. Shun replied that those three modes of speech still linger in the world like mugwort and coarse grass; better to let them settle on their own in a realm where no one attends to them. Then one no longer takes them seriously in one’s own mind; the other side has nothing to obstruct and nothing to bind, and what could fail to be released?

Shun went on with an example: long ago ten suns appeared together, and all yin forces withdrew; whatever has eyes or feet, aligning with that power, could accomplish its task. How much more so now, when the sovereign’s De surpasses the sun—the three modes of speech need not be forcibly uprooted; they will disperse of themselves. The parable thus shows that when discourse, deliberation, and disputation no longer arise, disputes over right and wrong naturally subside. This is one of the main themes of the “Discussion on Equalizing Things.”