《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 20

Yangzi Ju went to see Laozi and said, “There is a kind of person who acts with swift decisiveness, has a forceful temperament, sees through things, and is accomplished in everything. If someone studies the Dao with such tireless diligence, can that count as being an enlightened king?”

Laozi said, “In the eyes of a sage, such a person is merely someone who uses skill to seek advantage and is bound by craft—wearing out the body and troubling the mind. Moreover, tigers and leopards are hunted because of their markings; monkeys are caught because of their agility; hunting dogs are used because they are good at the chase. Can people like that be called enlightened kings?”

Yangzi Ju looked uneasy and asked, “May I ask how an enlightened king governs the world?”

Laozi said, “When an enlightened king governs the world, his achievements reach everywhere, yet it seems as if they do not come from him. He nurtures and transforms the myriad things, yet the people do not depend on him. Though he accomplishes much, he does not hold up his merit to display his fame; he lets the myriad things each rejoice and find their own place. He stands in what cannot be fathomed and roams in the emptiness of non-attachment.”

Guo Xiang commented: “‘Using skill to seek advantage and being bound by craft, wearing out the body and troubling the mind’ means such people cannot even secure their own footing, much less be compared to a sage-king. They are dragged down by ornament and ability and do not transcend the mundane or cultivate themselves in an unbounded way. If there were no enlightened king in the world, the myriad things could not each rest in their own state; yet the enlightened king’s achievement lies in wuwei (non-action), and in returning the world to the world so that people each bear their part and obtain what suits them. Therefore it looks as if it were not the enlightened king’s merit, and the people do not know that they rely on him. Even when his achievements fill the world, he does not use them to advertise himself; all things think what they gain comes from themselves, and so they are glad. He abides in the flow of change, renewing day by day without fixed pattern, merging with the myriad things; what he roams in is emptiness. If he could not merge with the myriad things, how would he have leisure to roam in emptiness?”

Lü Huiqing commented: “‘Acts with swift decisiveness’ means being urgent in affairs; ‘forceful temperament’ means not overcoming things through softness; ‘accomplished in everything’ still does not mean penetrating principle without knowledge. Such a person may study the Dao diligently, but has not yet reached the point of daily diminishing attachment and embodying the Dao thereby. Where there is a specialty, the body is worn out; where the mind is attached, the inner self is troubled. This is like artisans of every kind trading on their respective strengths, lacks, and possessions—it is not how a sage employs the world. Tigers, leopards, monkeys, and hunting dogs invite capture and use because each has something others want. Those who wear out the body and trouble the mind while being put to use by the world are likewise bringing it on themselves through forcefulness and cleverness. ‘Jiè’ (to borrow, to rely on) means being used by others through borrowed clever strength. Having power yet not keeping it for oneself, nurturing the myriad things yet not taking credit—then whatever is accomplished need not be held up as one’s own fame and merit…”

They take fame as a means to drive and command the myriad things, and feel pleased with themselves for it—that is all. The reason is that the sage stands in a realm beyond what can be fathomed and roams in the open space between heaven and earth where nothing is possessed. Seen in this light, comparing them earlier to the Illustrious King (the wise sovereign)—is that not far off the mark?

Lin Commentary says: “Illustrious” (ming) means the manifestation of spirit; “king” (wang) means the aspect of the sage who acts and responds to worldly affairs. The chapter “Fit for Emperors and Kings” describes the sage going forth to govern the world, hence questions and answers framed in terms of “advancing, being strong, penetrating, and perceiving clearly.” If these were taken as the standard for an Illustrious King, then menials who prefer easy tasks, whose skills entangle one another, who weary the body and disturb the mind, could also be expected to count as sages; tigers and leopards, prized for their striped hides and taken on the hunt; apes and hunting dogs, summoned for their agility; men who snare prey with ropes—all of these could be held up as likenesses of the Illustrious King?

Ziju asked in astonishment how the Illustrious King governs, and received the answer: “His achievement covers the world, yet he does not claim it as his own; his transforming influence reaches the myriad things, yet he does not take credit for his merit.” This means that the ancient Illustrious King had no deliberate intent to rule the world, yet the people of the world attached themselves to him. He employed spirit (shen) so that the virtue of heaven and earth could circulate; he employed mind to respond to the changes of things. The root of all this begins here. Therefore, although he had achievement, he did not hold up merit to glorify himself; although he transformed the myriad things, he did not rejoice in it for that reason. Thus the world attributed achievement to him, while the myriad things each found their own delight. The sage stands in a realm beyond what can be fathomed—Yin-Yang cannot master him; he roams in a place of nothingness—the myriad things cannot encumber him.

Detailed Dao Commentary says: To pursue outwardly in one fixed way and force strength upon things is unlike the soft, infant-like state; to insist on penetrating and knowing all things and to prize cleverness is unlike “the Dao that is bright seems dim” (ming dao ruo mei). To study the Dao without weariness is unlike “abandon learning and there is no worry” (jue xue wu you). The Illustrious King is the sage. The sage practices wuwei (non-action), and the world is naturally transformed. Yet now one busies oneself endlessly over these three matters, entangling oneself in external things—like someone who trades on skill and barter for profit. This not only wearies the body and alarms the mind; outer troubles will also follow. When the Illustrious King has merit yet does not occupy merit, then what achievement can “I” claim over the people? When he transforms the myriad things yet does not rely on it, then what have the people truly received from “I”? Therefore the sage does not broadcast fame, and his deeds do not show forth; he does not amass solid gain, so calamity has nothing by which to harm him. He takes emptiness as the root of the many things that have substance, and takes non-being to supply what the myriad things need.

Jade Void Commentary says: To pursue outwardly in one way is to dislike slowness and softness; to want to understand and see everything clearly is to esteem cleverness. If such human cleverness is substituted for accord with the natural course, people will be pulled about by every kind of skill—the body labors and the inner mind is startled.

People often rely on their own intelligence, talent, quickness, and physical strength in what they do. Those very capacities can draw misfortune, as if calamity were something they brought on themselves. One forgets the self and does not assume that the people depend on you; forgets merit and does not let others promote or praise your name; and then roams freely in “non-being” (wu you)—the state of non-attachment and nothing to lean on—even forgetting that roaming. A clear-sighted king governs the realm in roughly this way.

Zhao’s commentary explains that “xiang ji” means responding swiftly, and “qiang liang” means being firm, decisive, and bold in action. “When things come, one sees them clearly; one acts tirelessly without weariness” means that when external affairs arise one discerns the situation and keeps striving without fatigue. Can that count as a clear-sighted king? The answer is: rule should honor softness, obscurity, and wuwei (non-action). To insist on acting in this way is to go against the Dao and to be dragged down by one’s own abilities. The outcome is not only bodily exhaustion and inner anxiety but also invited harm. It is like tigers and leopards hunted for their patterned hides, or gibbons and monkeys caught because of their agility. Such skills are not enough to govern the realm.

Zi Ju asked again. The reply, in essence: Laozi rests in wuwei, so he illustrates with “when the work is done, it seems not to come from oneself”—the task is finished, yet one does not claim the credit; the myriad things change, yet he does not treat change as his own achievement. Each thing settles in its place, while people cannot name his merit. This is close to what Confucius said in praise of Yao’s age: the people did not know how to praise him, yet his achievement was truly lofty.

Yu Zhai holds that although terms like “xiang ji” and “qiang liang” name no one, they still target figures such as Confucius, who act through talent and technique. The commentary compares this to convicts at forced labor: people are used because of clever skill and are also bound by their own abilities. It is a sharp critique of study and conduct that exhaust both body and mind. Tigers and leopards invite the hunt through their pelts; gibbons and monkeys invite the snare through their agility—talent can indeed invite disaster.

After Zi Ju’s further question, Laozi finally answers with “merit covers the realm, yet seems not from oneself”: accomplishment spreads everywhere, yet appears not to have been made by oneself, and the myriad things rejoice in their state. The point is accomplishment without claiming it—as the old saying has it, the people do not feel the sovereign’s force upon them. “Standing in the immeasurable” means dwelling where nothing can be measured or relied upon—that is, “roaming in non-being” (you yu wu you). These passages all clarify the chapter’s theme.

Exegesis of “xiang ji” has long been divided. The Yinyi records that Emperor Jianwen of Liang read xiang as “sound,” as in the Pao Ding (Butcher Ding) chapter’s “huoran xiangran”; here xiang can also be read as sound. Given the chapter’s thrust, however, Li Huiqing, Lin Xiyi, Bixu, and others take the character in its usual sense, which fits better. “Xiang ji” can be read as quick response to things; “qiang liang” as refusing to stay soft and yielding. Penetrating affairs and seeing clearly is still not the way of hiding one’s light. The path values wuwei, yet to treat unceasing effort as achievement is like people trading skills and enslaving one another—one still ends with a weary body and a troubled heart.

What you are pursuing is not the Dao. Laozi (Lao Dan) is turning the question back: if, as the earlier argument suggests, fierceness and strength are taken as marks of an enlightened king, then tigers and leopards, with their striking pelts, draw hunters; apes and monkeys, with their agility, are caught; and dogs, because they chase leopard cats, end up leashed—can any of that count as enlightened kingship?

Only then does Ziju begin to understand. Troubled, he asks how an enlightened king should govern the realm. Laozi tells him: forget your achievements and do not demand repayment; be good at giving yet do not claim the merit; shun reputation and conceal your form—only then can one speak of the enlightened king’s way of governing. What Ziju talked about was outward conduct; what Laozi talked about was the inner heart. The distinction between heart and traces has been there for a very long time.

As for the phrase “chasing 斄 (lái),” it does not read smoothly: 斄 can be read as lí (“to leave”) or lái (“to come”). A lái is an enormous ox—how could a dog catch one? In Li’s edition the character is 狸 (a leopard cat), which is probably correct.

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit-medium named Ji Cheng who could foretell a person’s death or survival, ruin or preservation, fortune or misfortune, and the length of life—even pinning down the year, month, and day when things would come true. When the people of Zheng saw him, they fled in fear. Liezi met Ji Cheng and was deeply impressed. He went home and told Huzi (Liezi’s Daoist master): “At first I thought my teacher’s Dao had reached the highest point; I never expected there was something still beyond it.”

Huzi said, “I only let you see the surface of the Dao’s arts; I had not yet let you see their substance, and already you thought you had truly attained the Dao? If there were only hens and no rooster, how could there be eggs? You wanted to pit Dao arts against the world, so of course someone could see through you. Bring Ji Cheng to read my face.”

The next day Liezi brought Ji Cheng to see Huzi. When Ji Cheng came out he said to Liezi, “Alas—your master is about to die; he will not last many days. I saw him like damp ashes, without any breath of life.”

Liezi went in, wept until his collar was wet with tears, and told Huzi what had been said. Huzi said, “Just now what I showed him was the pattern of the earth: life-force stirring but not shaking, not displaying an upright form. He probably saw my state of hidden De (virtue/power). Bring him again.”

The next day Ji Cheng saw Huzi again. Coming out he said, “Luckily your master met me—his condition has improved and his life-force has returned. I saw vitality fully unfolded.”

Liezi went in and told Huzi. Huzi said, “Just now what I showed him was the blended state of Heaven and Earth: name and reality could not enter it, while life-force issued from the heels. He probably saw my side that knows how to stir life-force. Bring him again.”

On the third day Ji Cheng saw Huzi again. When he came out he said, “Your master’s qi (vital energy) shifts without settling—I cannot make it out…”

Physiognomist Jixian, who was skilled at reading people’s complexions and judging their fortunes and misfortunes, came again to seek an audience with Huzǐ. Liezi went in and told Huzǐ about it. Huzǐ said, “Earlier, I let him see the Great Impulse—a state of utter stillness and openness, without any inclination to one side. He could not grasp it. Perhaps he saw how my Qi (vital energy) moves while remaining balanced.”

“The deep pool of Nihuán is a deep pool; still water is a deep pool; flowing water is a deep pool. There are nine names for deep pools, and three have been mentioned here. Make an appointment with him again, and have him come to see me tomorrow.”

The next day, Jixian came to see Huzǐ again. Huzǐ had barely settled into a standing posture when Jixian fled in panic. Huzǐ said, “Go after him and see what happened.” Liezi went in pursuit, but could not catch him. He returned and reported, “He is gone—he has run far away. I couldn’t catch up.”

Huzǐ said, “Just now, I let him see that I have never departed from the fundamental Dao, the source of all things. I met him in open response, shifting without fixed form and revealing nothing of who or what I am. So I seemed to him like grass bending with the wind, or water drifting with the current. That is why he fled.”

Liezi then realized that he had not yet truly learned the Dao, so he went home. For three years he did not go out. He cooked for his wife and tended the pigs with the same care he would give to guests. He no longer favored some things over others or some people over others. He cast off ornament and artifice, returning to simplicity. Standing whole and self-contained, he preserved his original nature. Though faced with the turmoil of the world, he remained unconstrained and undisturbed, following this principle throughout his life.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Before someone has the Dao within them, their mind clings to something and holds fast to one side; they want the world to believe in them, so others can still discern their intentions. But once their thoughts no longer stir and they make no effort to set themselves right, they become still and lifeless, like damp ashes. This is the state of the Perfected Person when nothing external has moved them.

When the Perfected Person acts, they follow the order of Heaven; when still, they are settled like the earth. In motion, they are like flowing water; at rest, they are deep as an abyss. Though movement and stillness, flowing and stopping, differ, all happen without deliberate effort and arise naturally; at their root, they are one. When Jixian saw Huzǐ sitting as if dead, having forgotten himself, he thought Huzǐ was near death. When he saw his spirit move in accord with the Way of Heaven, he thought Huzǐ had come to life. The Perfected Person responds to things without imposing the mind’s calculations on them, joins with the mysterious Dao, rises and falls with change, and takes all things in the world as their measure. Only then can they bear all things without being read by a physiognomist. This is the general meaning of the chapter “Responding to Emperors and Kings.”

When the power and movement of De (Virtue/Power) remain hidden, this is called “concealing the pivot”; “pivot” also means a point of movement. The way Heaven and Earth cover and support all things is plain to see. Compared with the patterns of the earth, does it not still belong to the realm of outward appearances? This is what response looks like. If one abides in the natural Way and covers and supports all things, then the workings of Heaven respond subtly to all things. Any reputation or gain used to adorn oneself can be regarded as something to relinquish.

The pivot of movement begins at the heels, though in truth it always starts at the highest point. Once it moves, the other person senses it first, and only then does it become visible. If one rests at the utmost point of the Great Impulse, vast and free of intention, in mysterious accord with all things in the four directions, then distinctions between victory and defeat have no place to enter. All things…

All things differ from one another and cannot be lumped together as one. Like someone peering through a bamboo tube who cannot see the margins of things, they therefore seem unequal or unlike one another. “Yuan” (the deep, quiet state) refers to silence and stillness. Whether it is running water, still water, a deep pool where fish circle, or an abyss where dragons leap, all remain profoundly self-possessed and never lose that stillness.

The perfected person may differ in advance and retreat, taking and leaving, yet the subtle stillness within is one and the same. Here three different situations are briefly cited to explain: even when the world shifts like waves in nine transformations and order and chaos tangle together, one who stands in the root realm remains calmly wuwei (non-action)—roots deep and settled, empty and still, able to follow change. He has no fixed view; he accords with all things and does not press the question of what they really are. In the world he drifts without being tied down, letting affairs rise and fall as they will; whatever he meets, he responds according to circumstance. Treating pork like human flesh is forgetting high and low; not clinging especially to affairs, he only responds to what he encounters. Stripping away ornament and keeping what is real, though he acts, his true nature is not scattered; he always holds to this one point and lets each thing run its own course.

Lü’s commentary says: the text may not yet have exhausted the meaning. Its substance lies in the state of “not knowing, not being aware.” The Dao has never had a fixed form; empty and without appearance, nothing can match it—like having only the female and no male. I do not deliberately respond to things, yet naturally lodge the Dao in the breast, as if there were eggs though there were no male. Therefore the Dao, resisting the vulgar world, must show trustworthiness before people can perceive it.

“Earth” shares virtue with yin and is hard to display; by means of “diwen” (the patterns the earth reveals), people can finally see it. If earth does not quake, it will not stir; if it is not upright, it cannot be still. “Ji” (the subtle sign of things stirring) is the beginning of movement. At first one sees damp ash and thinks it is dead, not knowing it has only paused for a time; when life returns, one understands that what was seen before was a sign of temporary hiding, not its original state.

“Heaven” runs with yang and is likewise hard to display; by means of “tianhuai” (the source from which all things are generated), people can finally see it. When name and fact do not enter the heart, one can be wuwei; the subtle trigger of movement rises from the heel, and so it is shown thereby. “Huai” is the source from which all things are generated; “zhong” (heel) is the starting point from which breath arises. Thus to know that all things have life and to take that as good hinges on “ji.”

Diwen means yin predominates; tianhuai means yang predominates; taichong (the supreme blending before yin and yang have tipped either way) means neither side predominates and neither extreme is favored. Therefore people doubt whether things are really unequal; in fact, when no side predominates, balance is reached—hence it is called “heng qi ji” (the pivot of balanced qi).

The meaning of the “three yuan” is a metaphor for depth of mind. One who is good at preserving depth, whether facing running water, still water, or a deep pool where fish circle, does not lose that depth. Taichong with nothing prevailing is the same principle. When the mind never leaves our root, it is hidden within the way of heaven; even if it were to show itself, it would show itself as not showing, and onlookers therefore cannot detect it. Thus it naturally…

After losing his sense of self, Jixian—the adept at physiognomy—could no longer use his own mind to probe another’s mind; if I have no fixed intention, then the methods he uses for reading people cannot stand on their own. Thus the signs he observed vanished, with nothing left to grasp.

When the mind is empty and still and one adapts to circumstances, not knowing what one truly is—this is wuxin (no-mind) and wuwei (non-action). At rest, one follows circumstance like grass bending down, yet others cannot see that it is bending; in movement, one follows circumstance like waves flowing, yet others cannot see that it is flowing. Whether they seek me in stillness or in motion, they cannot find me—this is why Jixian fled. Treating a pig as equal to a human is forgetting the self to the utmost; in handling affairs, not favoring those close to you is emptiness and stillness to the utmost. Shed ornament and return to simplicity, standing whole and alone; amid complexity, still holding to one’s nature. Taking this as one’s constant measure, even when the myriad things are in turmoil, the nature one upholds remains unchanged, and in the end nothing can alter it.

Lin Xiyi’s commentary: After Liezi met Jixian, he doubted that his teacher Huzi (Liezi’s master) was not as accomplished as Jixian. Huzi told him: A person’s inner nature shows in outer appearance, and the Dao also manifests in concrete things. What you and I have shown are only outer signs; the inner substance has not fully appeared—how can one attain the Dao from that? It is like a flock of hens without a rooster—how could they lay eggs? You have not yet grasped the substance of my Dao, while Jixian’s Dao still contends with the mundane world and is eager to make others believe—so he can read your face.

“Wet ash” metaphorically means the signs of approaching death; Huzi displayed such signs for Jixian to see. “Earth’s pattern” (diwen) refers to the texture of the earth: when it does not appear, one cannot see the pattern; when it is not shaken, it is utterly still. “Upright” means holding fast; holding to oneness, the body is settled and quiet. Without uprightness one cannot be single-minded, hence the display as the earth’s pattern. Though De has the momentum to stir, it is closed and not revealed, so others have no way to see it.

“Heaven and earth” speaks of the function of covering and bearing the myriad things already extending to all things—as when the engine of De stirs from the root, yet name and trace have not appeared. “Heel” means the lowest part of the body; “good” means what people find pleasing. What others see are only signs of stirring; Huzi himself calls this “quan” (expedient manifestation); quan is a coarse showing, while “ji” (trigger/mechanism) is what is deeply hidden and subtle.

At first, Huzi in utmost stillness concealed the stirring mechanism, and Jixian thought he was dying; next, Huzi at the deepest level revealed the stirring mechanism, and Jixian thought he had come back to life. Later Huzi was neither still nor moving, neither like death nor like life—change was tangled and complex, and Jixian had no way to read him. “Great flood” (taichong) means a state of utmost emptiness and centrality, with nothing surpassing it; what Liezi calls “no trace” (mo zhen) is exactly this. “Balance” (heng) means equilibrium. In responding to things, appearances differ; qi stays empty and still to await things, like….

Huzi—the Daoist adept whom Liezi took as his teacher—left behind outward tricks of responsiveness and hid his spirit in a realm of utmost emptiness and stillness, without any outward sign; his movement and stillness shifted in response to whatever state Yin and Yang happened to be in, like a balance scale that levels as soon as it meets a weight. That is why Jijian could not read his face.

Liezi used three kinds of abyss as analogies for Huzi’s different states: a pool where a great fish rests in peace is called the abyss of “Earthly Pattern” (diwen), standing for a yin-soft, settled condition; a pool where water surges and rushes is called the abyss of “Heaven’s Soil” (tianrang), standing for the world’s nurturing and the emergence of living vitality; a pool where a great fish wheels and swims, with water clear and deep and its current now swift, now slow, is called the abyss of “Grand Surge” (taichong), standing for a state before Yin and Yang have split and before any sign has appeared. The Liezi speaks of nine abysses; here only three are named, to illustrate Huzi’s attainment.

“Grand Surge” still had not left behind the movement of qi; when he reached the level of “not yet having shown my root” (wei shi chu wu zong)—not yet manifesting from the fundament of the Dao—he was one with the Way of Heaven. That is why Jijian panicked and ran away. Huzi had no partial mind; he simply followed things as they were, so he was empty and yielding and did not show his true face. Others could not tell who he was or what state he was in, and could only let him be as he was and go along with him; when the other changed like waves, he answered like waves. This means Huzi’s transformations were in his own hands.

When Liezi had seen Huzi’s Dao, he finally understood and felt as if he had never really studied the Way before. Back home, he tended the fire for his wife and cooked as ordinary people do, and fed the pigs the same way; he no longer ranked people as high or low, nor clung to a split between things and self. He was not driven by affairs, shed ornament and returned to simplicity, and stood at ease on his own. Even when business piled up, he kept his place and was not turned by outer things.

The detailed commentary on the Way says: When you wander with the Dao, there is no partial heart; omens of death, life, fortune, and harm dissolve inward and cannot be seen. When you mix with the world, you are easily pulled along; those omens show outside and can be seen. So Jijian’s skill at reading faces for the crowd was marvelous, yet before Huzi he had nothing to use.

“Earthly Pattern” means a yin-soft, settled form. Because it is settled, its response to things looks still; hence it is called “blocked virtue’s mechanism” (du de ji)—a life-force that closes and holds back—like an abyss of still water. “Heaven’s Soil” means the work of covering and nurturing all things becoming visible; in responding to things, living beauty flows; hence it is called “the good one’s mechanism” (shan zhe ji)—a generative impetus—like an abyss of running water. “Grand Surge” means the harmonizing qi between Heaven and Earth. It does not show dominance; it is neither moving nor still, seems dead and seems alive, neither above nor below, and stays in the center, like a balance scale; so it is called “balance qi’s mechanism” (heng qi ji)—a centered, balancing qi—like the abyss where the great fish wheels.

Water sometimes stills, sometimes flows, sometimes seems like a great fish circling, yet the abyss is one. Huzi’s qi was the same: sometimes closed in, sometimes openly issuing, sometimes in the state of Grand Surge.

The Dao is originally one undivided whole. Those skilled at observing water look into its depths; those skilled at observing people need only examine their Dao.

Liezi came to see through Huzi how little he himself really understood. Once, while cooking for his wife, he tended the fire and forgot even himself; another time he saw pigs no differently from people, forgetting the gap between things and self. Forget the self, and inner and outer are no longer split; forget things, and high and low no longer matter. The mind is like ashes grown cold; the body like dead wood—amid restless change it stays settled and still. Hold to that always, and outer things cannot reshape you.

Bixu commentary: Principle is like inner substance; how things show themselves is like outward ornament. When Huzi said, “Between you and me those outward signs have not yet appeared,” he meant Liezi had not yet grasped the substance of the Dao, yet stubbornly took himself for one who had attained it. It is like having only the female with no male—how could there be transformation?

Now Jixian, the skilled physiognomist, displayed his art—and that was just the chance for Huzi’s substance to come to light. Treat the Dao as something that can stand up to outer things, and physiognomy will read you through. Huzi presented himself in unmoving stillness, so Jixian saw roots sunk deep, settled to the utmost—neither shaken nor showing motion or rest. That is storing the Dao within, letting mind-intent go quiet and De (Virtue/Power) stay without a cutting edge.

“Turning from the norm is called quan (expedient adaptation)” means: for a time to step aside from the ordinary is quan; fold quan away and you return to the ordinary. The Way of Heaven takes giving life to the myriad beings as the norm, yet Jixian took Huzi’s spirit shining outward as decline. The True Person breathes deep, as if breath rose from the heels; when Qi stirs, harmonious breath fills the whole body from the root—how could it live only in brow and eye? Liezi’s teacher Huzi did not present one fixed bearing; Liezi saw only the bodily shape.

“Great emptiness admits no victor” means: in vast void there is no winning or losing—but if you only see Qi in balance, you still do not see why it is so. The heavy and light in Qi balance each other; you cannot judge that by motion or stillness alone. Waves may run without end on the surface while the deep pool lies mirror-still—both can reflect things. The True Person’s mind is the same: open and bright, seeing through the myriad things, so the art of reading faces has nothing to catch.

If Huzi put into words that he “never left the source,” the moment he spoke, he had already shown traces beyond the source. Liezi was like one carried on the wave—others could not take his measure; he saw pigs as people, the other as self, standing alone beyond compare. Outward turmoil may shift and change; inwardly the mind stays clear and still—and stays that way.

Zhao commentary: Liezi thought Jixian’s marvelous divination outdid his teacher Huzi. Huzi told him that what he had been shown before was only outward display—the substance had not truly appeared—yet Liezi clung to the idea that he had already attained the Dao. “Only the female, no male—how could there be eggs?” means that what has visible form belongs to yin; there must always be something formless as root…

You have not yet truly mastered the inner sovereign within you, yet you imagine that by relying on the Dao you can stand against the world, bent on making others believe in you.

This is not acting in accord with the heart-mind without contrivance, so others can still glimpse your intentions; you display your inner state as if laying out patterns on the ground for all to see.

(Through cultivation) you remain still and unmoving, not even letting a sprout show, unshaken by external things—thus you can rectify yourself. Only after rectification do you act. This is called “du de ji”—blocking the mechanism by which De (virtue/power) is activated. Laozi’s “block the openings, shut the doors” means exactly this. “Heaven’s pattern” and “earth’s pattern” are paired: the way of Kun is stillness, the way of Qian is movement.

Fame and profit cannot enter the heart; yet vital stirrings rise from the soles of the feet. Treating all things like straw dogs used in sacrifice (woven grass figures discarded after the rite)—seemingly without feeling, yet life force bursts forth vigorously—this is called “shan zhe ji,” the mechanism of skillful vital activation. Laozi’s “empty, it is never exhausted; in movement it overflows all the more” describes this state.

At first it looks as if there were no life; look again and life seems present; look once more and it seems dead. Birth and death shift in ways that cannot be fathomed, so they are judged not to be uniform. “Tai chong mo sheng”—in the Liezi version “mo zhen”—means there is no visible sign.

The inner is shown as boundless space, so empty that no sign appears, yet within it lies the pivot of change and activation. Laozi’s “profound! obscure! within it there is essence” refers to this.

A great fish circles and swims; it seems a deep pool at rest, yet motion is within—this is “heng qi ji,” qi harmonized and in motion. Still water forming an abyss is “du de ji”; flowing water forming an abyss is “shan zhe ji.” Showing the state of “never having left my root” means that however one responds to myriad changes, the original root is always preserved.

“Di mi” (Liezi has “mao mi”) describes grass bending with the wind and flowing with it—following change, meeting things with an empty heart without stubbornness. Liezi regretted that his learning had not reached this level, so he cast off ornament and returned to simplicity, his body like withered wood. Even amid turmoil, what he held to did not change, and he remained so to the end.

The Zhuangzi discusses these matters in the chapter “Answer to the Emperor and Kings,” likely with further layers of meaning. In governing a state, people usually speak of benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music; when none of these signs can be seen, observers think the state will decline. When decrees are issued and everywhere accord with people’s hearts, they think the state will flourish. When martial prowess is folded into civil virtue, and ranks and rewards are granted beyond mere punishment, then those who watch the state cannot penetrate the subtlety within. This is the sage’s art of ordering the world; Zhuangzi embeds it in the story of the spirit-medium who reads faces.

Yan Hui said: “Wen” (pattern/text) stands for outward appearance, “shi” for the inner. You have not truly seen the inner substance—how can you claim you have attained the Dao? Without a rooster, how could there be an egg? The point is: neither heart-mind nor outward trace. This passage is metaphorical: his heart-mind has not yet transformed, so it can still be read from outer form.

If someone stands aloof and lofty yet demands that others simply believe in him, he leaves traces that others can inspect and second-guess. “Damp ash” means he seems as though his vital spark is almost gone. “Earth’s texture” (diwen) is a name used in cultivation observation: it looks as if there were signs of life, yet nothing stirs and nothing appears upright or clear. One cannot call this “upright” or “not upright”—just as Mencius said, “There must be engagement in the matter, yet do not fix on an outcome” (you must hold to inner commitment without presetting results).

“Mechanism of De” (de ji) refers to the subtle pivot of life’s activity—the place where the living impulse begins. When its pivot is stored and still, it looks as though vitality is about to vanish, so people take it for lifelessness. In fact, within that storage, the sign of activation has already shown itself; therefore people suppose it is “having life.”

“Heaven and earth” (tianrang) is also a name in observation practice, pointing to minute shifts in nature’s operation. Just as cultivators today call the area under the tongue the “Celestial Ford” (Tianjin, where saliva gathers), such labels need not match fixed physical things. What cultivation aims at is not clinging to names and realities, nor clinging to being and non-being.

“Mechanism issuing from the heels” means qi is aroused at the heels and rises from below. The “mechanism” in “mechanism of the adept” can be understood as the place where the activities of nature (xing) and life (ming) first stir. “Supreme Emptiness” (Taichong) is the great void—vast, still, unruled by anything, hard to pin down. “Balance” (heng) means equilibrium and centrality. When qi runs to that balanced, central position it pauses, becoming half in motion and half at rest; thus there is still partiality and stagnation, not yet full unity.

Still water (ni huan) and flowing water were both used in Buddhist contemplative practice as names for what to observe. Only here does Huzi say that what he had shown Ji Cheng before were all abyss-like states. The “nine abysses” comprise nine levels; he had displayed only three of them earlier. Phrases such as “Supreme Emptiness cannot be surpassed” and “I have not yet stepped outside my root-tradition” are likewise names in observation practice.

The body collapses in exhaustion, as if tossed and adrift on waves, and so he loses self-possession and flees. What follows about “cooking for his wife” and the like all express “letting the body fall away and silencing ears and wits” (duo ti chu cong)—dropping fixation on bodily form and clearing the discriminations of ear, eye, and mind. That need not be spelled out further.

Li Shibiao comments: Ji Cheng used his own heart to resonate with others’ hearts and his own views with others’ views, and so produced empty labels of fortune and misfortune, longevity and early death. Those labels were empty to begin with, yet he spoke them aloud. People cling to outer appearance, cannot see through the empty, and lightly trust such talk as real—so Huzi abandoned him and left.

The perfected person (zhiren) practices the Way beyond form, transcending number and measure—how could he be read by physiognomy? Huzi first displayed “earth’s texture,” so Ji Cheng thought he would die; then he displayed “heaven and earth,” and Ji Cheng thought life had returned. Ji Cheng did not understand that the body’s life and death answer to the arising and ceasing of mind, and mind’s arising and ceasing depend on distinguishing being from non-being. Huzi never had a fixed mind: in stillness he shared the character of yin; in movement he shared the flow of yang; in the “Supreme Emptiness” between yin and yang he was not ruled by the myriad things of heaven and earth.

Equality means that all phenomena are originally one, with no distinction of high or low; only when people hold different views do they think things cannot be made uniform. The three signs Huzi displayed are all called ji—subtle indications of change—because even though those changes are slight, they can still be seen. As for the time when his fundamental purpose had not yet been revealed to me, he showed me by means of what cannot be shown.

When Jixian used something substantial to sense me, I appeared empty; when he relied on “being” to probe me, I appeared as “non-being.” When he applied his mind and used the art of reading appearances, he always hit a limit; I left the mundane world and entered the Way of Heaven, and had no limit. He lost himself because of this and turned and fled. Huzi said that after Jixian saw the three signs I displayed, I was still standing there, going along with change—yet he did not know who I really was. In that way, I too forgot myself. Who is it that displays these signs? Who is it that sees them?

Zhuangzi discusses this in “Fit for Emperors and Kings” (Ying Diwang): an emperor or king who meets the world must keep the inner mind utterly still before he can respond to things and resonate with all affairs; only by hiding the self deep within can he treat fortune and misfortune alike. If he sets his heart on displaying his root and wears himself out governing the world, people can see through him and size him up. The reason ancient emperors and kings seemed vast and boundless, beyond what the people could put into words, lies here.

Wang Dan explains: when ancient emperors and kings governed the world, they necessarily had an immeasurable effect, so that people could not see through them or judge them. Confucius said that the gentleman has three different aspects: seen from afar he is grave and dignified; approached, he seems mild; when he speaks, he appears stern and correct. How could one judge him by a single appearance? The same was true of Yao: draw near and he felt like the sun; look from afar and he seemed like clouds. His benevolence was like Heaven, his wisdom like a spirit—his manifestations were many. From this we see that when the sage appears to govern the world and people cannot see through him, that is precisely how he gains and wields the realm.

Jixian used his own thoughts to sense others and read their minds. If he contended with the mundane world, crafty calculation was hard to avoid; once crafty calculation arose, traces were left and openings could be seen. The first time Jixian met Huzi and thought he was about to die, it was because the perfected person’s heart was like ashes that had gone cold, so Jixian’s art of sensing had nothing to work on. The body of earth does not tremble, yet the transformations of the Kun way never cease. The sprouting sign Huzi showed could be seen; “du” means sealed and hidden, so that nothing could be peered into, while “ji” means a subtle change that can still be detected. These are how the perfected person conceals virtue within and stores power inside—not something a technician can measure. The second time Jixian met Huzi and saw that he had vital breath, he said he had seen the expedient shift of “du”…

"Ying" (manifestation) is the showing forth of "ji" (the subtle mechanism). At first Huzi wanted to keep it concealed; now he let it show slightly, and so Jixian could see that there was living vitality within.

Heaven and earth are the root by which nature generates and transforms the myriad things. Fame and gain cannot enter the heart, and the heart is not moved by external things; only when one reaches the utmost stillness does living vitality stir from within. This is where the life-intention in my body begins. Nourish it, and it becomes the vast qi (vital energy); expand it, and it becomes benevolence that extends to all things. This is carrying on one's nature and making life manifest, unceasing generation after generation.

When Liezi saw Huzi again, he was puzzled that Huzi's movement and stillness changed each time and could not be fathomed or compared. This shows that the subtle use of the perfected person goes beyond what numerology and technique can infer.

"Tai Chong" (Great Transparency) is the most empty and still state, so no one can glimpse its signs. When the balance beam stays level, it weighs correctly; when the breath is empty and still, it enters smoothly. Neither fixes the mind on external things, so they need not wait to be touched before responding—they respond to things naturally of themselves. Still, to call it "ji" is to speak from the side of its showing forth and becoming perceptible.

"The Three Abysses" likens the first three mechanisms, each with its own depth. Huzi had only shown three of the nine abysses, and Jixian's skill was already exhausted. The perfected person does not deliberately display wonders to overpower others; he only lets Jixian see that he has never left the root of the Dao. What is called "showing without showing" and "ancestry without ancestry" is simply emptiness—how could room remain for mountains and rivers in form? The closer what Huzi displayed was to the Dao, the further what Jixian saw was from the Dao; no wonder he lost his way and fled.

Since Jixian vanished without a trace, Huzi no longer manifested. What could Liezi do then? From this he understood: what he had learned before were merely coarse outer branches; now he recognized the true Dao. His scattered thoughts found a fixed point; he always took this as his standard, peacefully returning to the Dao—this is what is meant by "the Dao exhausted" (dao jin).

This chapter in effect carries the subtle message of "The True King Who Governs" (Ying Diwang), using the story of Jixian's physiognomy to reveal Huzi's Dao, so that those later lost in techniques might awaken a little.

In "I approve, you approve" (wu yu yu yu), "yu" means to approve or assent, as when Confucius said "I approve of Dian" (wu yu Dian ye). On certain phrases, transmitted texts vary: in one version "ji" (既) is written "wu" (无); "tian qu xi bei wei wu ce, jia xiao bu wei wu" is a note on character forms and the text here may be corrupt; "bu zheng dang" should be read as "not only / uneven"; in "mo sheng," "zhen" (朕) should be beyond doubt; for "san yuan," Liezi's text has "pan" (潘), pronounced pan, meaning water swirling back. The Benjing Yinyi says Sima's text has "pan" (蟠), meaning to gather—the sense may be close. "Di mi" in old texts matches "Wang"; the sense of "tui" (颓) is unclear.

According to the versions that survive today, the main text here follows the wording quoted in the Liezi, reading maomi (茅靡)—plants and grass bending with the wind—as the received line. Only with that reading does the passage align with the image of boliu (flowing like waves) in what follows.