《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 21

Make no reputation your master; make no storehouse of schemes; do not take charge of affairs yourself; do not set yourself up as the master of wisdom.

Exhaust the inexhaustible transformations and roam where no trace can be found. Fulfill what is yours by nature without thinking you have gained anything. The state of mind is simply empty and still. The Perfected Person uses the mind like a mirror: it does not see the past off or welcome the future. Things come, and it responds; they pass, and it retains nothing. Thus it can respond to all things without being harmed by them.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: All things each accord with their own roles and make their own plans; all things each attend to their own affairs, while the ruler follows their wisdom. By following the natural activity of all things under Heaven, one can govern them without limit. Fulfill what is yours by nature and stop when it is enough; if you think you have gained something, you will not know when to stop. If the mind is not empty, the eyes cannot take in the many things that are truly there. To use the mind like a mirror is to see clearly without partiality: things come, and it responds; they depart, and it stops. Thus, even when all things under Heaven come to be reflected, they do not exhaust the spirit or burden the mind.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To make no reputation one’s master means that I seek no fame, so nothing in the world can bind me with a reputation. To make no storehouse of schemes means that I do not devise plans deliberately, and the world will naturally plan on my behalf. Not taking charge of affairs oneself means that I do not act recklessly, while those responsible for affairs each fulfill their duties. Not setting oneself up as the master of wisdom means that I do not worry, and the world will naturally consider things on my behalf. When the mind exhausts the inexhaustible, it reaches the utmost breadth; to roam where no trace can be found is to be unseen even by ghosts and spirits, let alone ordinary people. Such a person fulfills what is theirs by nature without thinking they have gained anything. This is what is meant by following nature and not adding burdens to life through one’s own effort. As for emptiness and stillness, must one first empty the mind before it can be empty? My mind is empty and still to begin with. The Perfected Person’s mind is like a mirror: it does not see the past off, so past events leave no trace; it does not welcome the future, so future events cannot be foreseen; it responds to what is before it, but does not keep it in the mind. In this way, by fulfilling what is yours by nature, you can respond to all things without being harmed.

Lin Xiyi’s commentary: The Perfected Person’s mind connects with external things when they touch it. Once an affair is settled, the mind returns to stillness, like a mirror. The mirror is bright and impartial; it reflects all things, and neither beauty nor ugliness can deceive it. This is called responding to all things without being harmed. The Perfected Person does not contend with others, so right and wrong cannot cloud his judgment. He follows the times and accords with the grain of things, and his spirit is not harmed as a result.

Xiangdao’s commentary: A mirror reflects things: when they come, it responds, yet its brightness does not remain with them; when they depart, it remains as it was. It neither welcomes things as they come nor sees them off… (The original text ends here.)

When things come one after another, my response is inexhaustible; yet my inner mind remains empty and unattached. Thus the heart can prevail over external things without being harmed. One who does not treat oneself as a slave to fame, a storehouse of schemes, the bearer of every affair, or the master of knowledge can keep inner stillness and emptiness—and in that way apprehend the Dao. The perfected person (zhiren, one who has reached the supreme realm in Daoist thought) has a heart that is empty and still; when responding to things, they do not hoard them in the mind. Precisely because they accord with the Dao’s emptiness and stillness can they function effectively.

Master Bixu explained: If you treat yourself as one who chases fame, the body grows weary; if you treat yourself as the hub of plotting, the spirit grows strained; if you treat yourself as the one who must carry every matter, talent is exhausted; if you treat knowledge as sovereign, insight grows confused. When body and mind are used without limit, one becomes constrained and leaves traces, and cannot roam freely. Fully exert the share heaven has given you and use it as nature intends; if you cling to “having seen” or “having gained,” you fall short of the profound. Do not cling to what is seen, do not cling to what is gained—maintain emptiness and stillness, and that is enough.

Using the mind is like using a mirror: when something arrives, the mirror reflects it; when it departs, nothing remains in the mirror—beauty and ugliness are all shown without concealment. When there is no thought in the heart of prevailing over things, things cannot harm you.

Master Yizhai said: “Not a slave to fame” means doing good without relying on it for reputation; “not a storehouse of schemes” means not calculating everything and not trusting in cleverness; “not the bearer of affairs” means that though things must be done, one does not treat tasks as a personal burden; “not the master of knowledge” means that though one cannot be wholly without knowledge, one does not let knowledge rule oneself. The four “nots” here all carry a sense of prohibition and warning, similar to the “four don’ts” in the Analects.

“Apprehending the Dao to the utmost without end” means pushing the apprehension of the Dao to the extreme, so the heart can roam in the source of things before they arise. Heaven bestows this principle upon me; I exert myself to embody it yet do not presume I have gained anything—once one thinks one has “gained,” a trace of attachment remains. The earlier passages build layer upon layer; here a single word “emptiness” gathers it all. “Using the mind like a mirror” and the lines that follow all explain this “emptiness.” The literary movement seems plain, yet within its rises and falls there is subtle craft.

Zhao Xuzhai combined this passage with the chapter on “the Lord of the Southern Sea” into one chapter, but his commentary is relatively brief and does not discuss this section. By the sense of the text, this passage continues from the earlier chapter on Ji Cheng and summarizes that chapter’s meaning. “Name corpse, storehouse of plans, bearer of affairs, master of knowledge” describes how Ji Cheng relied on clever schemes to observe things, thereby seeking fame and taking on affairs; “embodying the limitless” and what follows describes how Master Huzi’s Dao could not be measured. The “perfected person” here refers to Master Huzi. Master Huzi did not set out to prevail over external things, yet naturally could do so, until Ji Cheng lost his footing and fled. Precisely because he did not contend, he was adept at prevailing over things.

How could they harm it? Because: when one follows the Great Dao, one’s efficacy has no limit; when one relies on craft and technique, one’s capacity is finite.

The emperor of the Southern Sea was called Shu (Sudden), the emperor of the Northern Sea was called Hu (Abrupt), and the emperor of the Central Region was called Hundun (Chaos). Shu and Hu often met in Hundun’s domain, and Hundun treated them with great kindness. Shu and Hu discussed how to repay Hundun’s kindness and said: “Everyone has seven orifices for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing—only he does not. Let us try to bore seven orifices for him.” Each day they bored one orifice; on the seventh day Hundun died.

Guo Xiang commented: “Deliberate contrivance in fact spoils things.”

Lu Huiqing commented: The south belongs to Yang and can illustrate the suddenly appearing “Shu”; the north belongs to Yin and can illustrate the suddenly vanishing “Hu.” The center is neither being nor non-being, and so can bring the two together. Though Shu and Hu differed from Hundun, Hundun never set himself apart from them, hence his great kindness toward them. Shu and Hu knew Hundun was kind yet still plotted to repay him; as a result they bored one orifice each day, letting Hundun gradually connect with outer things through seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing. Thus his original simplicity could no longer be preserved.

Yidu commented: When the body of the Dao is whole it is Hundun; when it divides it becomes Shu and Hu. The subtle part of the Dao is within, the coarse part without; carving out the center as the south is the beginning of the Dao’s loss. Losing the Dao always starts from without—hence “they met in Hundun’s domain.” Hundun was compatible with all, hence “treated them with kindness.” Boring one orifice per day means that any injury at all damages the Dao. When the seven days were done Hundun died—showing that one need not wait until the number is exhausted for the Dao to be lost enough.

Xiangdao commented: Yin and Yang united are Hundun; Hundun dispersed is Yin-Yang. The whole formed by gathering is good; once scattered, efficacy has no fixed boundary. Conversely, forcibly boring into what is gathered easily ruins it. What Laozi calls “having image, having thing, having essence” refers to Hundun, Shu, and Hu. Intending to repay Hundun’s kindness ended in using human sentiment to extinguish the Dao; boring the seven orifices and killing Hundun ended in using human artifice to harm innate nature. “Seven days” means one need not wait until the count is complete for Hundun to die.

Bixu commented: The emperor of the Southern Sea symbolizes purposeful action; the emperor of the Northern Sea symbolizes Wuwei (non-action); the emperor of the Central Region symbolizes the undivided original nature. Before the three breaths (qi) had differentiated it was called “hun”; before the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) had appeared it was called “dun.” Being and non-being had not yet split apart, so Hundun is said to receive all well. The two emperors of north and south did not understand Hundun’s authenticity and rashly bored orifices, causing simplicity to scatter. Laozi…

Shu and Hu opened his orifices to help him accomplish this, yet in the end he never managed to fully probe the principle within.

Wu Chou’s note: Shu (sudden emergence, something faint yet taking form in the dim) is a body appearing in obscurity; Hu is what is minute yet already shows signs. The intact body of Chaos was thereby opened up. To call him “the Emperor of the Center” is only to name what happens in the blink between Shu and Hu. Seen this way, wherever Shu and Hu meet is none other than where Chaos is. Chaos treated them with great kindness; if they sought repayment for that favor, private motive and purpose entered in, and the intact body of the Dao was damaged. Before they could finish investigating the matter, Chaos had already split apart and scattered. That is the death of Chaos.

Zhao’s note: The first four sections of the “Fit for Emperors and Kings” chapter discuss how to govern the world; the sections that follow explain the earlier text further and attribute the achievement to the virtue of Chaos. The south belongs to Li, governing the eyes and sight; the north belongs to Kan, governing the ears and hearing. People rely on the cleverness of eyes and ears and strain to pursue what they do not naturally understand, and then true nature begins to slip away. Therefore the wise follow what is so of itself and do not rashly interfere—and they also dislike deliberate carving and boring.

Yan Zhai says: This passage means that cleverness can become a burden to oneself, so the story is used to portray the state of abandoning the body and casting off cleverness; reach that, and you become Chaos. The point is ordinary, yet it is cast as a tale of boring open one aperture a day—an idea wonderfully strange. Chaos is primordial Qi (the original vital breath before heaven and earth and the myriad things took form). Every human body has seven orifices; when an infant is first born, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth are all there, yet there is still no knowledge of discrimination—that is the intact state of Chaos. Once knowledge stirs, joy, anger, liking, and disliking follow, and the orifices of Chaos are bored open. The Mengzi says, “The great person does not lose the heart of the newborn child”—that is keeping Chaos without carving it. Zhuangzi states the same idea in reverse, and writes it with special strangeness. Conceptions like this are hard for later scholars to match.

The chapter above totals seventy-four characters. Guo Xiang cites a single line from the Daodejing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) to sum it up—brief, to the point, and as fitting as can be. After reflecting on it repeatedly, I happened upon a few shallow thoughts, which I append after the various commentators’ remarks:

What the Nanhua Jing (Zhuangzi) calls “Chaos” is like what the Daodejing calls “the blended whole” (hun cheng) and what the Chongxu Jing (Liezi) calls “blended profundity” (hun lun)—all images for the intact body of the Dao: originally complete in itself, not produced by cultivation or contrivance. Yet in the world there is flourishing and decline, and the Dao shifts with the age; Shu transforms into being, Hu transforms into non-being, and the body of the Dao is thereby riven. From one, three are generated—and that is still before the stage of boring open orifices…

When they met in the realm of chaos and touched one another, thoughts arose in turn—like adding fuel to fire; such is how things work. Chaos (the undivided state before distinctions) does not split things apart but lets all beings meet as they naturally are, already whole in itself. If Shu and Hu (the two legendary rulers in the tale) could not let go of feeling and set out to repay Chaos, then Chaos’s de (virtue/power) would not be the de that asks for nothing; in the end they could not escape the tangle where kindness and harm feed each other. Boring open one aperture each day—harm begins right there; on the seventh day Chaos died, the holes of desire opened, and the harmonizing qi (the vital energy of balance and ease) was lost. That outcome was inevitable.

In antiquity, those who aligned with the way of the sage-kings acted through wuwei (non-action) and things transformed on their own, were without craving and the world grew rich of itself, stayed deep and still and the people were at peace. Yao, Shun, and the three dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou had already put this into practice and seen its results. Later rulers who took them as models used it to hand on the art of rule and fix the standards of the realm—how can that be lumped together with those who rush to plot and scheme in order to govern? So the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Daoist honorific name for the Zhuangzi) opens with Nie Que questioning Wang Ni: the House of Youyu stands for anxious, busy thought; the House of Taishi stands for wuwei. Wuwei is enough to match the Dao of Heaven; that is the path for emperors and where heaven’s mandate rests and the lives of the myriad people are entrusted.

To fix rules and measures from one’s own opinions and try to teach the whole world that way is like stretching nets, smoking out burrows, and digging holes to catch birds and mice—you only make them fly higher and hide deeper. Where there is deliberate action, private interest appears; from private interest come schemes, and from schemes, deceit. Even the natural bond between father and son may not hold firm. How could ruler and people be like birds in the trees or deer in the field, forgetting each other without guile? So when Tian Gen asked how to rule the world, the answer was a light heart and quiet breath, following things without favoritism. When Ziju asked how an enlightened king rules, the answer was to forget one’s own merit, be generous in giving, and let each being find its own joy. All of this is accord with the sage-king’s way: to act by wuwei. Anyone who holds the realm and governs the state—why not look for the method here?

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit medium (a man said to read fortune and doom) named Jixian, who could reckon life and death. He stands for those clever at planning: they watch the times closely, enough to tell whether a state will rise or fall, to catch the first sign of events and see the finest shifts, as if nothing were hidden—worthy of being called the age’s “millet and tortoise” (the diviner’s tools of old). Yet the first time he saw Huzi (the cultivator in the story), he said Huzi was about to die; the second time, he was glad he seemed better; the third time, he found him impossible to fathom. Once he could no longer read Huzi, the art of judging only by face and color—at that point…

Between Heaven and Earth, the Dao’s manifestations and transformations are inexhaustible, yet human schemes, reckoning, and all manner of craft are ultimately bounded by one’s own capacity. They belong to deliberate artifice, and so they always reach a limit. A ruler who governs through wuwei (non-action) follows the Way of Heaven and lets the world run of itself; seated in one hall, his spirit reaches the four quarters, harmonizes with the changes of all things, and his horizon is vast without bound. The people cannot clearly see or imitate such a ruler—how then could they use stratagem to fathom him or numerology to probe him?

The text also uses the story of the emperors of the Southern Sea, Shu, and the Northern Sea, Hu, meeting the emperor of the Central Region, Hundun: the Dao disperses and becomes the myriad things; when things scatter apart they enter the realm of form and name. “Shu” and “Hu” mean swiftness and also suggest change at extreme speed. “Jiao” and “miao” illustrate the boundary where things appear and their abstruse subtlety. Shu and Hu wished to open seven apertures for Hundun—eyes, ears, mouth, and nose—and in the end Hundun died. The author holds that reuniting the myriad things into one may not be a bad aim in itself, yet once one fixates on that “one,” separation and artifice follow again. Therefore the best way to treat all things is to accord with change, without deliberate intent, letting each other be forgotten and blend in natural transformation. Just as water poured through an opening as fine as a needle can suffice to sink a great boat, it is no wonder that Hundun died after seven days.

In my view, the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi) writes with sweeping freedom, like rushing water and overlapping sounds, often striking out on its own until its force surpasses the hundred schools; on the surface it seems without fixed pattern, yet the inner chapters probe the subtlest principles, exhaust the ways of change, and thread Heaven and humanity together—with an inner rigor that can stand alongside the Yijing and Laozi. Beginners who have not yet grasped the essentials are easily dazzled by its brilliant, shifting language.

Examining the book’s intent and expression, one can see an inner order: it opens with “Xiaoyao You” (Free and Easy Wandering) and closes with “Ying Diwang Wang” (Fit for Emperors and Kings). The key to learning the Dao lies in turning back upon oneself; wherever one is, one can be at ease and joyful, then observe all things from without and understand that the principles of things have no inherent high or low—this is “seeing things as equal” (qi wu). Once things are seen as equal, one can forget the self; after forgetting the self, one can grasp the essentials of nurturing life.

Nurturing life is settling oneself aright; meeting the affairs of the world is letting each thing have its proper place—both depend on filling out one’s De (virtue/power). When De is full, the myriad things can align with the Dao; taking the Dao as root and all things as teacher, establishing the root of the Dao and becoming a model for the world, one can continue the lineage of sages and sages and clear the fog for later ages. Thus the foundation set by “Da Zongshi” (The Great and Venerable Teacher) is in place. Apply this principle to governing the world—what difficulty remains? Inwardly one can cultivate the realms of utmost sageliness and spirit; outwardly one can respond to the affairs of emperors and kings.

The Dao gathered in one person does not seem excessive; spread through the world it does not seem insufficient. An emperor governing the world is, to be sure, a matter beyond the sage’s main task, yet to restore the age to simplicity, keep the people tranquil, and accord with change to the highest degree—there is no greater achievement. Therefore the Nanhua Zhenjing ends its inner chapters with “Ying Diwang Wang,” precisely to make this aim clear.

Zhuangzi uses the image of Hundun, Chaos, being bored with seven holes and dying to show that although outward endeavors may succeed, the inner Way of the sage can thereby be harmed. Many people today bore these holes and bring about Hundun’s death. What means, then, can make him live again? Some say, “Block the openings, close the gates, and do not exert yourself too much when using them.” Is this truly the way to cultivate Hundun?

Look again carefully at the titles of the seven chapters of the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi. Each has its own central theme. At times, many examples are given and the material interweaves, making the meaning hard to discern. I have privately examined their intent and placed beneath the relevant chapters those figures of antiquity whose conduct accords with each chapter’s theme.

The theme of “Free and Easy Wandering” should be associated with Xu You and Song Rongzi. They explain how to free people from the bonds of external things and desire, so that each may preserve their inborn nature.

The theme of “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” should be associated with Ziqi and Wang Ni. They explain how to dispel confusion over self and other, right and wrong, and how to recognize what things share in common, thereby connecting with the Great Dao.

The theme of “The Essentials for Nurturing Life” should be associated with Lao Dan and Peng Zu. They correct the mistake of overindulging in the care of the body, pointing out that following the Way of life is the foremost principle of nourishing life.

The theme of “In the Human World” should be associated with Qu Boyu and Jie Yu. They clarify how to judge the proper measure in entering public service or withdrawing from it, advancing or yielding. One should not offend a ruler’s taboos and thereby invite calamity.

The theme of “The Sign of Virtue Complete” should be associated with Wang Tai and Shentu Jia. They show that those who are inwardly fulfilled do not depend on external conditions, and that those of deep De (Virtue/Power) naturally transform others.

The theme of “The Great and Venerable Teacher” should be associated with Confucius and Yan Hui. Though endowed with the De of sages, they did not occupy high office; instead, they spread the Great Dao and guided the people.

Only Shun and Yu are worthy of the theme of “Responding to Emperors and Kings.” The people sing their praises, and when disputes arise, everyone turns to them. They follow the will of Heaven and the hearts of the people, acting neither from self-interest nor from compulsion.

This is why the Perfected One of Nanhua, Zhuangzi, admired the sages of antiquity and included them in his writings as models for generations to come. As for the state the Perfected One attained: he read the seven Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi without clinging to their words, yet, leaving those words aside, he was wholly in accord with their intent. Outwardly, he lived among ordinary people without displaying his brilliance; inwardly, he preserved clear wisdom. He could remain among the ordinary and enter the realm of the sage, opening and closing the gates of transformation without being confined by fixed forms or doctrines. Those who are skilled in learning the Way of Nanhua need only seek it in the Inner Chapters to grasp most of its meaning.