《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 25

Nanhuajing Zhengyi Yihai Zuanwei, Scroll 26

Compiled by the Wulin Daoist priest Chu Boxiu

“Horse’s Hooves,” Part One

A horse’s hooves can tread frost and snow; its coat can ward off wind and cold. It eats grass, drinks water, and lifts its hooves to leap—that is the horse’s nature. Even if there were lofty terraces and splendid palaces, they would be of no use to it.

Bo Le (the legendary master of judging and training horses) said, “I am skilled at managing horses.” So he branded them, clipped them, filed them, and seared them; he bound them with halters and bridles and stabled them in rows. In this way, two or three out of ten horses died.

Next he starved and thirsted them, drove them to run and gallop, and drilled them into formation; in front, the bit and trappings constrained them; from behind, the whip and bamboo goad threatened them. By then, more than half the horses were dead.

The potter said, “I am skilled at working clay.” What he made round matched the compass; what he made square matched the square. The carpenter said, “I am skilled at working wood.” Bent timber fit the curve; straight timber fit the line. Yet was it the nature of clay and wood to want to match compass, square, curve, and line? Even so, generation after generation people praised them, saying, “Bo Le is skilled at managing horses; the potter and carpenter are skilled at clay and wood.” This too is the mistake made by those who govern the world.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Inferior and fine horses each follow their nature, and that is enough for them to function. They do not refuse the saddle or hate being ridden; they simply do not envy glory. If one deliberately forces training on them, one ruins them instead. Treating such forcing as a good deed is not true goodness.

One who is skilled at driving horses originally wants horses to give full play to their capacity; but exhausting their strength makes them unable to bear the burden, and many horses die. If one follows inferior and fine horses in their respective strengths and adapts to their different paces, even when hoofprints reach the farthest lands, the nature of the herd can be preserved.

Some hear that one should follow the horse’s nature and think horses should be turned loose and never ridden; some hear the spirit of wuwei (non-action) and say it is better to lie still than to act. How reckless, and how unwilling to turn back! The world takes following nature and not applying artifice as inept governance; yet they call it skilled governance only when rules and measures correct and suppress nature until the horses are dead. Is that not precisely the error?

Lu’s Commentary

The horse eats grass and drinks water and does not envy lofty terraces and palaces. Here the horse is a metaphor: if the people can farm and weave and provide for themselves, they will not envy tall, splendid dwellings.

Bo Le trained horses with branding, clipping, filing, and searing, and two or three out of ten died. This is like forcibly imposing benevolence and righteousness so that the people begin to doubt. Then he starved and thirsted them and made them run and gallop, and more than half died—this is like bending human nature and imposing ritual and music so that the world begins to split apart.

All things under heaven have their inherent natural state; one should handle each according to its own nature. When potters shape clay into square, round, bent, or straight vessels, those forms are not clay’s original condition. Governing the world so that all things lose their innate state is precisely the error of insisting on imposed governance without understanding zaiyou—letting things remain as they are and nurturing them with tolerance.

Yidu’s note: Horses once lived freely on the open range and did not envy the king’s ceremonial platform or inner chamber. When Bole began to train them with branding, clipping, and carving, two or three out of ten died; add hunger, thirst, and forced running, and more than half perished. All of this came from human methods obstructing the horse’s nature. The potter works wood and clay to fit compass, square, curve, and line—would wood and clay choose that of themselves? The sage governs the world with benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music in much the same way. Yet people praise Bole for skill with horses, the potter for skill with vessels, and the sage for skill in governing. The great Dao has been scattered; people no longer see heaven and earth in their originally whole unity and treat artificial governance as what deserves praise. This is exactly what Zhuangzi attacks so fiercely.

Xiangdao’s note: Earth has form but no life; wood has life but no awareness; the horse has awareness but no understanding of ritual and righteousness. Though the three differ, whoever governs them well follows each nature without violating what is natural and acts according to each thing’s inherent pattern without forcing it. Then the horse can give its full capacity, and clay and wood can serve their proper uses. Should governing the world be any different?

Bixu’s note: A horse’s instinct is only to graze, drink, and leap; it has no need of ceremonial platforms or inner chambers, just as a marsh pheasant does not wish to be kept in a cage. Once Bole sets hand to training, the horse’s native disposition is already harmed; if ability falls short of what training demands, many horses die. Clay already tends toward square or round; the potter uses compass and square to fix a shape. Wood already tends toward straight or bent; the carpenter uses curve and ink line. Horses differ in quality; Bole uses whip and crop. People differ in worth and folly; the sage establishes law. In origin this was adapting measures to circumstances. When later generations mishandle horses, the fault is not Bole’s art; when governing people goes wrong, the fault is not the sage’s way. To blame Bole and the sage instead shows failure to understand true good governance. That is why Master Zhuang of Qi (Zhuangzi) sighs over the matter.

Yanzhai says: The ceremonial platform and inner chamber are where the ruler dwells. Another reading takes “ceremonial platform” as a place of support and maintenance. “Dwelling changes one’s qi; nurture changes one’s body” means where you live alters your temperament, and how you are sustained alters your physical being. Branding, clipping, and carving are all ways of breaking in horses.

The luo (head collar) means putting a halter on the horse’s head; the zha (restraints) means binding the hooves. Lian and lie mean arranging in order; jue and xian are types of horse gear, along with ornamental bits, reins, and the like. When horses are controlled by people and cannot act according to their own nature, more of them are injured and killed. The potter shapes things from earth and wood just as horses are fired, carved, and trimmed—always at someone else’s command. Yet people take Bole and the potter to be highly skilled, much as those after the time of [the sage] Tai took governing the world to be a kind of expertise.

Every thing has its constant nature; common people too each have their constant de (virtue/character). When people’s de does not depart from their nature, they have attained what is genuinely theirs. Why over-demanding nurture that instead harms de and injures nature?

The True Person (zhenren)—one who has embodied the great Dao—sees worldly fashions growing shallow. People use artificial contrivances to suppress innate disposition, fail to keep to their proper place, and chase knowledge beyond what is theirs. Superiors manage inferiors and inferiors serve superiors; almost inevitably they use schemes and tactics to control one another. When stratagem is exhausted, treacherous intent arises; even if punishments are harsh and laws severe, that may still not hold it back.

Tracing matters to the root: those above excessively favor cleverness, which opens the way for people to pursue excessive knowing, then they try to fix the damage with more cleverness. Is that not both exhausting and busywork? The author wants to set the root right and clarify the source, thoroughly cutting off the harm, so he uses the horse as a metaphor for the error in how things are governed, hoping those who hold the way of rule will take the point.

From the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou) onward, the nature of the common people had already been harmed. Punishment, administrative orders, rewards, and penalties—these four—are like the gear used in governing the world to bind, adorn, whip, and drive horses; the sprouts of scheming and fraud in fact grow from them. The later remark that “even sagely wisdom is used to commit theft” means exactly this.

So what should those who govern the world today do? Take de (virtue/power) as the main thing and use punishment, orders, rewards, and penalties only as supplements—that is the way. If you abandon de and rely solely on punitive government, it is like Bole managing horses: the ability of a thousand-li steed may show itself, but many horses are wounded. If you neither govern by de nor use these four supplementary measures, one household cannot even put itself in order—how then govern the world?

The potter’s metaphor means the same as before. The trouble is that the governor thinks himself good at governing and acts with a deliberate, “fixing” mind—how can that let the people recover their nature and preserve their constant de? So this is the fault of those who would govern the world.

In my view, those who are good at governing the world are not like that. The people have a constant nature: they weave for clothing and farm for food—this is called sharing the same de, single-minded purpose without faction; living in accord with Heaven’s mandate is called “Heaven’s release” (tianfang). Therefore, to truly attain…

In the age when the Great Dao was simple and pure, people moved with steady composure and their gaze was level and calm. In those days the hills had no footpaths or cart tracks, and the marshes had no boats or bridges. Every kind of creature lived in mutual dependence: birds and beasts moved in flocks and herds, and plants flourished in abundance. Beasts could be led on a cord for play, and one could climb up to peer into a bird’s nest. In that age of thick moral virtue, people dwelt alongside birds and beasts and kept company with the myriad things—who could tell the gentleman from the petty man? Likewise they had no crafty, calculating knowledge, and De did not stray from innate nature; likewise they had no greedy desires. This is what is meant by simplicity (su). When simplicity is preserved, the innate disposition of the common people finds its proper rest.

Later, the sages strained to promote benevolence (ren) and stood on tiptoe to enforce righteousness (yi), and only then did the world begin to be doubtful. They indulged in lavish music and fussed over ritual propriety (li), and only then did the world begin to split apart. Thus: if the block of plain wood had not been carved, who would have fashioned the sacrificial wine vessel? If white jade had not been shattered, who would have made the ritual jade regalia? If De had not been cast aside, who would have needed to hoist up ren and yi? If human disposition had not been scattered and torn loose, who would have needed ritual and music to regulate it? If the five colors had not been jumbled together, where would “pattern and ornament” have come from? If the five tones had not been thrown into disorder, why would anyone have needed the six pitch standards to tune them? To shave plain wood into utensils is the craftsman’s fault; to wreck De and manufacture ren and yi is the sage’s error.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: governance that does not rely on deliberate human administration is the better kind of governance. Although people’s De differs in small ways, at root they are largely the same. Human nature cannot be discarded, and daily affairs such as food and clothing cannot be abolished either—plowing and weaving are the shared foundation on which everyone under Heaven lives. Whoever holds to this Dao reaches the state of Wuwei (non-action): he lets the myriad things develop on their own, and they return to oneness. This is not favoring one side over another; it is called “release by Heaven” (tianfang)—letting go in accord with nature.

“Tian tian” and “dian dian” describe people at ease in their own place, with a peaceful bearing, not reaching outward for what is excessive. They do not crave unearned gain; content with what one household needs, they stand in the same plain, desire-free state as the rest of the world—not as if each state or each family were cut off from the others. What satisfies innate nature is enough; there is no wish to swallow up or seize what belongs to others, and so they can coexist with the myriad things without harming them. When De does not leave innate nature and the people remain in their plain simplicity, they are not thrown off by crafty knowledge and restless desire.

The sage is the natural outcome of each person obtaining his own nature—not a model people must deliberately chase. When the text says “later the sage appeared,” it means that once the sage’s name and deeds became conspicuous, ren and yi no longer sprang from true nature but hardened into forms; ritual and music parted from innate disposition and survived only as outward show. Since the renown of the sage can bring such drawbacks, what is to be done? Shaving plain wood into tools, shattering jade to make regalia, refining natural colors into ornament, and forcing natural sounds into regulated pitch—all of this turns simplicity into display, abandons the root and exalts the branches, and thus injures or discards innate nature. Even if the world prizes these things, that may not be the worth they truly deserve—just as when plain wood is carved into utensils, the fault lies with the craftsman.

The sage established norms and thereby left behind deeds worthy of esteem.

Lu’s commentary says: When the common people return to their constant nature and do not depart from their original authenticity, that is what is called a sage. Such a person cannot be deliberately sought or glimpsed; they have no private desires, are plain and natural, and have never given rise to doubt. Everyone alike possesses original De (Virtue), none are separated from one another, and so there is no division.

Later, when people left their original authenticity, what came to be called “sages” appeared. They came forward to advocate benevolence and righteousness, yet no longer followed nature; they instituted ritual and music, yet no longer accorded with the utmost rectitude of the Way. Then the world began to doubt and to split apart. Carving plain wood into wine vessels is a metaphor for abandoning De and holding up benevolence and righteousness; shaping jade into ritual tablets is a metaphor for leaving one’s true feelings and innate nature and instead debating ritual and music. Such practices are all like growing many side branches beside the great Dao (the Way). Discard craftiness and return to plainness, and the artisan is without fault; set aside the labels of benevolence and righteousness and let De flow of itself, and the sage is free from error.

Yidu’s commentary says: The ancient divine person (one who attained the Dao and transcended ordinary sentiment) treated the world with breadth and did not govern by design; they simply followed the constant nature of the people, so that each person returned to their proper destiny. The people wove cloth and wore it, plowed fields and ate grain; they shared in De and were close to one another, without forming factions or partiality. “Heaven’s release” means following what is natural, not arising from human contrivance. “Tian” (填) here means inner fullness; “dian” (颠) means original authenticity showing outward. People let their feet walk as they will, without deliberately choosing bypaths; they trusted what the eyes saw and did not fall into perversity. Birds and beasts, grass and trees, could all fulfill their natures without untimely death or harm. Beasts could be tethered and bird nests inspected—showing that when people had no scheming calculation, the myriad things did not fear them. People gathered into clans and lived together, each at ease—how would they know who was “gentleman” or “petty man”?

What is meant by “alike in unknowing” is not the absence of innate knowing; what is meant by “alike in desirelessness” is not the absence of things worth pursuing. From beginning to end, people’s De never left original authenticity; they remained plain, and the constant nature of the common people was preserved. “Biejue” and “dizhi” describe forced, strained exertion. When benevolence and righteousness do not accord with the principle of nature-and-life (xingming), the world begins to doubt; when music is spread out and diffuse and ritual is minute and biased, these are outcomes after benevolence and righteousness have arisen. Once ritual and music appear, disposition separates from original authenticity, and the world thereby produces distinctions.

Benevolence and righteousness originally issued from De; ritual and music originally issued from disposition. In high antiquity customs were plain and the people’s hearts sincere; benevolence and righteousness were one with De, and ritual and music did not depart from disposition. Later ages discarded De and spoke only of benevolence and righteousness, left disposition and debated ritual and music—hence there arose a benevolence and righteousness like that of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, no longer the benevolence and righteousness of Yao and Shun.

Popular rites and music in theworld are not the rites and music of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties. Laozi therefore advocated using forceful means to smash and abolish them; Zhuangzi also did not approve of that approach. When unworked timber is fashioned into utensils, the craftsman cannot avoid fault; when the sage remedies abuses with expedients, fault cannot be avoided either.

Xiangdao commentary: In an age of utmost virtue, people nourished life without being ruled by cravings, moved with ease and were content, and looked straight and plain. What they sought did not go beyond their proper lot; in the mountains there were no paths, on the waters no boats or bridges. Thus they saw others as themselves and themselves as they saw outer things—forgetting self and things, with no barrier within or without—so entering a herd of beasts would not startle the herd, walking among birds would not scatter the flock. How then could they distinguish gentleman from petty man?

When the mind holds fixed views, it chooses and rejects; when the mind has no preconceptions, it can embrace all things. Where will aims at something, action follows; when body and mind are without desire, one can stand firm in peace. The sage governs the world by making those with fixed views still and empty in heart, and those without fixed views full and complete—so the people are not ruled by preconceptions; by reining in those with desires and strengthening those without, so the people have few desires. Without preconceptions, virtue does not scatter; without desires, the people keep their plain authenticity.

“Su” (plainness) is the essence of innate nature—pure white, unstained, untouched by outer things; “pu” (uncarved simplicity) is the wholeness of innate nature—undivided, not carved into separate utensils. Laozi said, “See plainness, embrace uncarved simplicity, lessen selfishness and few desires.” When the text says “plain and simple, and none in the world contends or envies them,” it is because the people’s innate nature is fully preserved.

Bixu commentary: The people keep their constant innate nature: they weave for clothing and farm for food, equal to one another without forming factions, living at ease within nature. Trade had not yet arisen; people had little contact with one another; customs were frugal while things flourished. Within, no craftiness; without, no worry—this is plain simplicity with innate nature preserved.

Those who do not understand the way of governance strain to promote benevolence and parade righteousness; such measures turn away from the great Dao and make hearts doubtful and no longer trusting. Forcing constraint to make rites, indulging pleasure to make music—both harm virtue and break harmony. The sacrificial ox-vessel and the six pitch-pipes were measures of governing ages; used to excess, they bring disorder. Saying the craftsman is at fault and the sage errs is seeing the harm these measures later caused and tracing responsibility to their source—a view common through the ages.

Yanzhai commentary: “Same virtue” means people alike keep their endowed nature—what was called above “constant so.” They are pure and without partiality, without faction, at ease within nature. “Tian tian” describes contentment and peace; “dian dian” describes a straight, plain gaze—both depict the look of uncarved simplicity.

The state of having no private selfishness is this: there are no paths in the mountains, no bridges or ferries on the waters, and travel and exchange have not yet been opened up. All kinds of living beings form one continuous whole, each dwelling in its own place; birds and beasts mingle without harming one another. Grass and trees grow as nature intends, and have not yet suffered the harm of axe and hatchet. Tethered beasts can still move freely, and one can climb a nest and look inside—people and the myriad things forget one another. In such a world, how could there be any distinction between “gentleman” and “petty man”? People harbor no crafty schemes or desires and fully comply with the natural order.

Later, sages forced benevolence and righteousness upon the world and spread rites and music widely; only then did distinctions of mind and outward conduct arise, and the original unity was lost. Dao and De were originally spontaneous and natural. Zhuangzi treated benevolence and righteousness as something tacked on from outside, hence he said: “When Dao and De are not abandoned, what need is there for benevolence and righteousness?” Human nature was already present; Zhuangzi regarded rites and music as forcibly imposed on people, hence: “When native disposition is not lost, what use are rites and music?” Ornament confuses the eyes, the six pitch standards confuse the ears—these are examples of relying on human artifice and turning away from nature. Here blame is laid on the craftsman and the sage in order to sum up the meaning of what went before.

The earlier discussion of the defects of governing pointed toward removing those defects; hence it says that one who governs well does not act in this way. Above, the age of utmost virtue is described: the people are sincere and simple by nature, without striving or envy; food and clothing suffice, and they do not seek excess. No paths in the mountains and no bridges or ferries on the waters mean that people seldom visit one another and have no need of carts or boats. Living beings connect and thrive, vegetation is lush; beasts can be tethered and bird nests climbed to peer within—showing that people have no crafty hearts and can live naturally alongside the ten thousand things.

Seen in this light, the phoenix roosting on a tower and the qilin wandering in an enclosure are images of utmost harmony responding to such a world—something that makes sense in principle. In such an age, those above have no greed and the people have no crafty minds; Dao and De are not lost and custom stays plain—how could there be gentleman and petty man?

Later sages governed the world through deliberate action (youwei), striving to promote benevolence and righteousness and forcibly instituting rites and music; then the people began to doubt and the world began to split apart. Therefore Zhuangzi treats damaging simplicity and ruining the uncarved block as the craftsman’s fault, and abandoning the Great Dao in favor of benevolence and righteousness as the sage’s error. Yet if the uncarved block is not carved, how are vessels made? If benevolence and righteousness are not upheld, by what is the age judged? The text raises this question: the world’s native simplicity has been scattered for so long that one need not worry about lacking vessels; the sage’s Great Dao has also been scattered for so long—the first change became benevolence and righteousness, the second became rites and music, the third change…

Preserving such reputations will only make later generations grieve for their predecessors once again.