《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 3

Collected Subtle Meanings of the Profound Sea of the Nanzhen Jing, Volume 4

Composed by Daoist Chu Boxiu of Wulin

Chapter 3: Discussion on Making All Things Equal (Qi Wu Lun)

Nie Que asked Wang Ni: “Do you know what all things regard as right?”

Wang Ni said: “How would I know?”

Nie Que asked again: “Do you know what you do not know?”

Wang Ni said: “How would I know?”

Nie Que asked: “Then, do all things lack awareness?”

Wang Ni said: “How would I know? Even so, let me try to say something: How can you be sure that what I call ‘knowing’ is not really not knowing? And how can you be sure that what I call ‘not knowing’ is not really knowing?

“Let me try asking you: When people sleep in damp places, their backs ache and they may even become half-paralyzed—would mudfish be like that? When people climb trees, they tremble with fear—would monkeys be like that? Among humans, mudfish, and monkeys, who knows what dwelling is truly suitable?

“Humans eat the flesh of livestock; elk eat grass; centipedes delight in eating snakes; owls and crows delight in eating mice. Among humans, elk, centipedes, and owls, who knows what taste is truly right?

“Monkeys take the bianju (a kind of ape) as mates; elk pair with deer; mudfish roam the water with fish. Mao Qiang and Li Ji are women people consider beautiful—yet when fish see them they dive to the bottom, when birds see them they fly high, and when elk see them they flee swiftly. Among these creatures, who knows what true beauty in the world is?

“In my view, the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness and the boundaries of right and wrong are tangled and confused—how could I sort them out?”

Nie Que said: “If you do not know benefit and harm, does the perfected person (zhi ren) also not know benefit and harm?”

Wang Ni said: “The perfected person is unfathomable in spirit. A great marsh ablaze cannot make him feel heat; the Yellow River and Han River frozen solid cannot make him feel cold; thunder splitting mountains and wind churning the sea cannot make him afraid. One such as this rides on cloud-qi, mounts sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas; the transformations of life and death cannot shake him—how much less the distinction between benefit and harm?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

What all things jointly take to be the case is not necessarily correct; views that differ from one another are not necessarily wrong on anyone’s side. When none can judge the other, there is no need to apply one’s own understanding as a standard to cut and decide. If one can know for oneself that one “does not know,” that already counts as a kind of “knowing”—yet one still cannot let each capacity play out on its own in a fitting, natural way. Therefore Nie Que asked three times, and Wang Ni answered three times with “How would I know?”

How can you be sure that what I call “knowing” is not “not knowing,” and that what I call “not knowing” is not “knowing”? Fish swim in water; for creatures of the water, water is the shared environment in which they live, and they all feel that this is suitable—yet from the bird’s perspective, what was called “suitable” before becomes “unsuitable.” Thus Zhuangzi cites humans, mudfish, and monkeys to show that what each finds suitable differs; then he cites humans, elk, centipedes, and crows to show that judgments of delicious and foul differ as well.

Apes, otters, elk, deer, mudfish, and fish; Maoqiang (a legendary beauty)—each delights in what is not the same. People under heaven do not all love the same things. If you reject others merely because they differ from you, how can you know what they might share? If you insist that only your own likes are right, you cannot tell one difference from another. Each thing finds its place; that is how it has always been. Nieque (a figure in ancient parables) had not yet grasped this subtlety; though he knew that he did not know, doubt still lingered in his mind. The perfected person (Zhiren, in Daoist usage) should understand: such unresolved doubt exists precisely because the mind of discrimination has not been cleared away. The spiritual realm of the perfected person cannot be measured. Body and mind are one with outer things; even through the greatest changes, he never feels that the myriad things are separate from himself.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing: Human understanding reaches its limit when one admits not knowing—then one can see that each thing has its place and takes that as what suits it. Knowing what things share is not the same as knowing nothing; it is only that the Dao itself cannot be grasped by ordinary knowing. The limit of knowing is precisely to acknowledge not knowing; from “not knowing” one apprehends “knowing,” and thus perceives the substance of the Dao.

People take bodily ease as the right dwelling, savory meat as authentic flavor, and pleasing colors as authentic beauty. Yet mudfish, apes, maggots, and crows prefer dwellings and foods that differ; fish, birds, and elk each keep their own company. If humans and all things alike treat their own judgment as the standard, then where in the world are fixed right dwellings, authentic flavors, or standard beauty? Since these standards are not fixed, what people affirm cannot count as absolutely correct. Thus from the human standpoint, benevolence, righteousness, right and wrong tangle in confusion—how can I judge their distinctions? To answer again and again “I do not know” is exactly because no one’s judgment can be fixed as the absolute standard. The spiritual realm of the perfected person cannot be measured; he blends with the myriad things without clinging to “self”—how could he be stirred by cold, heat, shock, or fear?

Commentary by Lin Yidu: Humans and birds and beasts follow their inclinations; likes and dislikes differ between them—who can decree what the true standard dwelling, flavor, and beauty under heaven are? The true dwelling under heaven is dwelling without a fixed dwelling; true flavor is flavor without a fixed taste; true color does not cling to any one hue. Still, taking “non-being” as the standard only sees “non-being”; so here the discussion is of how visible dwellings, flavors, and colors differ from one another—it does not erect “non-being” as the sole standard. From the human view, right and wrong, benevolence and righteousness cross and tangle—who can set a single standard for them? Therefore to say “I do not know how to distinguish” shows precisely that discrimination itself cannot be fixed.

Commentary by Chen Xiangdao: The Dao takes “not knowing” as its inner root and “knowing” as its outer expression, so true knowing includes not knowing, and not knowing can also lead to knowing. Yet if one admits not knowing on one hand and on the other treats “not knowing” itself as a settled piece of knowledge, one still…

One cannot help but know something, so one cannot definitively declare whether one truly “knows” or “does not know,” nor is there any need to insist that one “knows nothing at all.” Facing such matters as dwelling places, flavors, and colors, each person takes something to be fitting—and such judgments have always differed. These examples are raised not to lay down one uniform standard for them, but to dispel the trouble that comes from clinging to words and disputes.

When marshland burns, they do not feel the heat; when the Yellow River freezes, they do not feel the cold; when thunder crashes fiercely, they are not frightened—because their innate nature and spiritual integrity remain whole and have not slipped away. Riding cloud-qi and steering the sun and moon, they can arrive swiftly without walking and reach distant places without moving the body.

Chen Bixu annotates: Treat the different as the same, and there is no “wrong”; treat the same as different, and there is no “right.” The forms and kinds of the myriad things differ; they cannot understand one another. Even if all forgot their own knowing, each thing would still exist on its own. As for what I know, I can usually know only what I myself know—I cannot on that basis decide that others do not know what I know. As for what I do not know, I likewise cannot decide that others know it. The myriad things do not know one another.

What is called “knowing” refers to the principles of the myriad things; what is called “not knowing” refers to each thing’s own nature. Hence when Huizi, on the bridge over the Hao River, said he knew the minnow’s joy, how could Zhuangzi have believed him? The cicada sips dew and eats nothing else; the silkworm eats mulberry leaves and does not drink water—each likewise does not know why it is so. Kinds differ; the colors and flavors they experience differ; the dispositions each receives—how can these be forced into sameness? Standards of benevolence, righteousness, and of right and wrong are not something the sage should stubbornly argue over.

The Perfected Person—one of the highest cultivation in the Daoist sense, who transcends ordinary human constraints—transforms with spirit so subtly that it cannot be measured; even creation and transformation cannot alter him. His mind is empty and clear; he does not treat the body as something wholly at his own command. Therefore he can ride cloud-qi and steer the sun and moon; without relying on the senses of ear and eye, he can still move freely everywhere. Wherever the body is, it is at ease—as if all within the four seas could be traveled; death and life cannot change him, so what is there to fear from benefit or harm?

Zhao Xuzhai annotates: To say of oneself “I know” is not necessarily to know; to say “I do not know” is not necessarily not to know. Confucius said, “Do I have knowledge? I have no knowledge”—meaning that knowing truly begins when one no longer clings to the thought that one knows. Humans, birds, and beasts each have preferences suited to them in dwelling, flavor, and color; one cannot demand that all be the same. When Mencius said that “the nature of a dog is the same as that of an ox, and the nature of an ox is the same as that of a human,” he was speaking of just this sort of issue. To recognize what is fitting in dwelling, color, and flavor, one must first not be bound by those particular preferences—only then can one truly recognize. To recognize what is fitting in benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong, one must likewise first not be trapped by fixed views of benevolence, righteousness, and right and wrong—only then can one truly recognize. When Nie Que asked Wang Ni what the Perfected Person is, Wang Ni told the story of the divine person of Mount Guye; both sides of that dialogue use allegory to convey the point.

The Luzhai kouyi says: When Nie Que asked what “sameness” is and Wang Ni answered “I do not know,” that was knowing where to stop. To understand the boundary of what one does not know is not ignorance.

What is called “not-knowing” is roughly this: not thinking that one already knows is what counts as genuine knowing. Next comes “correctness”: flavors differ as sweet and sour, colors differ as red and white—these are images for how things and the self each have their differences. Benevolence, righteousness, right and wrong tangle and confuse one another, much as people’s feelings about flavor and color differ; how could debate settle on one absolute standard?

Wang Ni was a perfected person who had reached a marvelous realm. He could let each thing display its wonder without leaving traces of contrivance; he felt neither heat nor cold, and was not shaken by alarm—this is the state in which spirit roams in thetime before things had arisen. Even life and death could not move his heart; how much less could benefit, harm, right, and wrong?

Commentators on the Discussion on Making All Things Equal who explain Nie Que’s opening question—“In what way are all things the same?”—seem not to have fully clarified it. My own reading is that the text means: what humans share with all things is nature (xing); what sets them apart is conscious disposition (qing). When nature turns into disposition, each thing fixes on itself as right. People cling to partial views and argue over who is right and wrong; when views split, rifts open; when argument reaches an extreme, anger and conflict follow. Even those who would lay down their lives for one another can turn as hostile as Chu and Yue, and father and son can grow as distant as strangers. Calamity begins with the thought of “knowing”: people impose false distinctions, and strife arises.

Therefore Wang Ni answered three times, “How would I know?”—to turn Nie Que back toward what he does not yet know, to taste the nature shared by all things, and to align with the great Dao that runs through them; that is what draws one near to the Way. Fearing Nie Que might not yet grasp this inwardly, he went on: “Let me try to say something,” and gave examples of how humans, birds, and beasts each have different preferences, showing that feelings about flavor and color likewise vary and admit no absolute standard. Seen this way, is what we call “knowing” really true knowing? Is what we call “not knowing” really ignorance?

The Daodejing says: “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.” Yet words have already been spoken—what then? Set aside piled-up knowledge and seek what one does not know; follow what has been said and pursue the meaning the words were meant to convey. Then can one not see that taking oneself to know is not necessarily true knowing, and that having spoken is not necessarily failing to grasp the wordless Way?

Qu Quezi asked Changwuzi: “I heard from my teacher that the sage does not busy himself with worldly affairs, does not chase profit, and does not deliberately flee disaster; he is not glad because he gains something, and does not cling to one fixed doctrine. He wanders at ease beyond the dust of the world. My teacher called this talk wild, but I take it to be the practice of the profound Dao. What do you think, sir?”

Changwuzi said: “Even the Yellow Emperor would be perplexed by this—how could Kong Qiu understand it? Besides, you are too impatient: you see an egg and already expect a crowing cock; you see a sling and already expect roasted owl. Let me try to speak to you in loose, far-reaching words, and you…”

To treat life and death as the alternation of day and night is to “lean on sun and moon”; to treat all things as one body and to take the whole cosmos into oneself is to “embrace the universe.” In that way one aligns with nature and no longer lets turmoil disturb the mind.

Because people look down on certain others, distinctions of high and low arise; the multitude therefore bustle and toil. The sage, by contrast, seems plain and unlearned. He takes the transformations of ten thousand ages into his view and becomes one with change. The ten thousand ages may be tangled, yet they return to oneness; the myriad things differ, yet in this they are the same.

Since all things mutually contain one another, how can I know that clinging to life is not a delusion? And how can I know that loathing death is not like someone who left home as a child and later forgot where to return?

Li Ji was the daughter of the border officer of Ai. When Jin first took her, she wept until her tears soaked her collar. Once she was at the Jin ruler’s side, sharing his great couch and eating rich food, she regretted having wept. How can I know that the dead do not regret having once been desperate to live?

One who drinks wine in a dream may weep when morning comes; one who weeps in a dream may go hunting when morning comes. While dreaming, a person does not know he is dreaming; he may even divine his dream within the dream. Only after waking does he know it was a dream. It takes a “great awakening” to realize that everything now is itself a great dream. The foolish think they are awake and smugly believe they understand everything—who is ruler, who is herdsman. How stubborn their judgment is! Confucius and you are both dreaming. When I say you are dreaming, that saying too is spoken in a dream. Such talk is called “hanging paradox”—words that sound strange and seem to contradict each other. Ten thousand ages from now, if a great sage appears who grasps this truth, it will be as if you met him between morning and evening.

Guo Xiang comments: Follow how things naturally unfold and let them show themselves; accept reality and go straight ahead, neither deliberately avoiding nor courting anything—only then can one penetrate alone. What is meant here is discourse without a fixed standpoint: if the listener takes it as mysterious doctrine beyond the mundane world, he will hear it as obscure and unclear.

Now, as soon as Qüquezi heard reckless, unconstrained talk, he thought he had already mastered the practice of the subtle Way. That is like seeing a bird’s egg and demanding that it crow at once, or seeing a sling and expecting roast owl meat immediately. I will speak loosely for now, and you may listen loosely: to treat life and death as day and night is to “lean on sun and moon”; to treat all things as one and to take the cosmos into oneself is to “embrace the universe.” Because something is held cheap, high and low arise; turmoil swirls and no one can set it right. Better to let things be as they are, so that all things may fit together. The crowd hurries and labors; the sage remains plain and unknowing. He surveys the changes of ten thousand ages together—though they may be called tangled, he can merge with change and constantly roam in a realm that depends on nothing else. What the ten thousand ages accumulate returns to the same; what the myriad things accumulate is likewise so.

How can we know that loving life and hating death is not itself a kind of delusion? Someone like Lady Li, over the course of a single lifetime, undergoes so many shifts in feeling—how much more so the gap between life and death; how could we ever fully grasp one another across that divide?

Judging from the alternation of sleep and waking and from the variety of our emotions, what we wish for in life and in death is not the same. Yet though life and death differ, each state can obtain what it seeks in its own way. When we dream, we do not know we are dreaming; when we die, we may likewise not know we are dead. Only after a great awakening do we realize that our whole life has been nothing but a vast dream. The foolish, still inside the dream, fancy themselves awake: they secretly decide that what they like must mean being a ruler, and what they dislike must mean being a slave. That is already stubborn and shallow—and all the more so when, still dreaming, they try to divine the meaning of the dream.

Such talk is out of the ordinary and sounds strange when you first hear it; it may come once in a thousand years, yet feel as if it could appear any morning or evening. Those who truly speak of the sameness of life and death and the hidden unity of all things are exceedingly few.

Commentary by Lu Huiqing: The sage does not reckon in terms of benefit and harm, and so has no mind to draw near or turn away; he feels no lack, and therefore does not crave pursuit; he does not go against the Dao, and so does not cling to anything in particular. The Dao has what we “call” it only because it was never something to be put into words; and because it is beyond words, there is what we call it. Only one who is without deliberate intent is fit to touch this depth.

Qu Quezi once heard the Master speak in this vein and took it for mere wild talk; yet to treat it as nothing but “the mysterious Dao” would also miss the mark. The Dao is not something speech or silence can carry. When the Yellow Emperor heard the Dao he was still left in doubt—how then could the Master lightly claim to know?

The nightjar hatches from an egg, but the egg is not the nightjar; roast owl comes from the hunt with a pellet bow, but the pellet bow is not the roast owl. The mysterious Dao may show itself when one hears of it, but what is heard is not the mysterious Dao. People today who have “heard of the Dao” imagine they have already understood, not knowing they must day by day pare away until they reach the ground of Wuwei (non-action)—they are all of them like Qu Quezi.

The Dao cannot be handed on through words. When I speak to you and you listen to me, it is all empty talk; what matters is to forget the words and take it in with the heart. Understand why sun and moon can be sun and moon, and merge with their light—then you may reach it from the side; understand why the cosmos can be the cosmos, and grasp the pivot of its turning—then you may hold it. To be wholly in accord with the Dao in this way is to practice the mysterious Dao, not merely to have heard a few sayings.

To honor and serve those who are confused as if they were worthies is a practice that should be cast off, not taken up. The crowd bustles about yet sees no real outcome; the sage seems dull and unknowing, undivided within and not scattered without. Even after ten thousand years he can still gather all things into one, and so achieve pure oneness. All things are like this, each holding the others within itself; my body contains the ten thousand things, and the ten thousand things are my body.

This is what is meant: when one regards ten thousand years as a single whole, one can form a complete and pure understanding; seen in this light, a child who dies young may be said to outlive Pengzu. The same holds for all things: if one looks from the angle of mutual inclusion and interconnection, a single autumn hair may be greater than Mount Tai. Consider Lady Li’s experience—how can we know that the dead do not regret having once clung so hard to life? Given that, what grounds have we to insist that birth is necessarily welcome and death necessarily hateful?

Lin Yidu’s commentary: The sage responds to external things only when he cannot avoid doing so—how could he be someone who sets out deliberately to do this or that? He has no partiality in grasping or rejecting, so he neither forces himself to draw near nor deliberately turns away; his inner life is full and sufficient, so he does not seek outwardly. Because he is not pulled by things, he can be silent when silence is fitting and speak when speech is fitting, dwelling at ease beyond the dust and turmoil of the world.

Hearing values keenness, sight values clarity. The Yellow Emperor’s “intelligence” means that he could remain unconfused and unclouded; as for Kong Qiu (Confucius), how could he have understood this level? Where things accord with one another, he lets them merge in their course; where things are chaotic and obscure and hard to sort out, he sets them aside and lets each run its course to the end.

The subject serves the ruler, the servant serves the subject—such is the situation nature has shaped. The sage lets all things keep their differences yet does not thereby break the inner equality of his heart, so even the dull and ignorant are not treated as beneath regard. Across ten thousand years things change without cease, yet the whole still returns to purity.

Everyone delights in life, yet life cannot be extended; everyone loathes death, yet death cannot be escaped. While alive, one rests in being alive—Lady Li, before she was taken to Jin, lived thus in Ai. When dead, one rests in being dead—after Lady Li came to the Jin king’s side and her life settled, it was thus too. How do we know that the dead do not regret having once clung so hard to life?

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: The sage does not, because he is inwardly still, cut himself off from the myriad things; affairs that call for response he never forgets. Nor does he let external things burden him—he is not enslaved by tasks. Gain cannot add to him, so he does not insist on drawing near; harm cannot diminish him, so he does not deliberately resist. He supplies what the myriad things need without rejoicing over it; he is one with the Dao and is not dragged about by things.

The Dao can go a whole day without speaking, yet that is not to say it never speaks; it can speak all day long, yet that is not to be fixated on speech. Confucius held that “recklessness” (manglang—lightness and lack of steady measure) was unsuitable; Qu Quezi took it for “wondrous Dao” and went too far in the other direction—hence the remark: “You are thinking too soon.” To stand beneath sun and moon yet view sun and moon from beyond them; to be born within the cosmos yet stand transcendent beyond the cosmos—not one who is not enslaved by Yin-Yang and can master Heaven and Earth could do this.

What is called “accord” is doing what one can along with the situation; what is called “chaotic obscurity” is setting aside what one cannot do and not forcing it. Even when ruler and subject relate to one another as such…

This is merely how circumstances happen to fall. People bustle about in ignorance and folly, just as Laozi said: “All others seem clear; only I am dull and shallow.” If you take ten thousand years as a single instant, past and present have no separation; all things return to pure unity, and the many all arise from the one.

People all know the joy of living, yet do not know that living also brings suffering; they all know death is fearful, yet do not know that death may be rest. Therefore they only cling to life and dread death, unaware that such likes and dislikes are empty from the start—how much less can they truly see through birth and death? The ancients called the dead “those who return”; then those alive are “travelers.” Like a child who leaves home young and, grown, forgets the road back, they take going home for losing the way. Not knowing where death leads while alive—is that not the same kind of being lost? Birth and death cycle like waking and dreaming. Since one knows joy and sorrow in dreams are not to be taken as real, how can joy and sorrow while awake be certainly real?

Chen Bixu’s commentary: When people debate in confusion, they often miss the point. Some judge jade only by its outward luster and call what should be seen with the eyes something heard with the ears—is that not muddled? The Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) was a master of the Dao; observing and listening did not cling to ear and eye. To still fixate on words is like only “listening to clarity”—hearing the teaching without truly understanding. The rooster announces dawn, the owl seizes roasted food—each has its capacity; grasping the Dao requires the mind—that is the root. Today some rejoice at surface appearance alone; they are merely people who rush for results and are rash and restless.

“Walking beside sun and moon” means keeping pace with sun and moon, always shining upon things; “embracing heaven and earth” means holding the cosmos in one’s grasp. The sage accords with all things, making self and things join, acting without leaving traces; setting aside turmoil, forgetting the distinction between opposing and agreeing. Worldly people attach to others and mutually honor one another, busy all day; the sage seems plain and unknowing, inwardly clear and still, the body also untroubled by externals. To take ten thousand years as one glance is to penetrate past and present, as morning and evening meet; to fuse myriad changes into one is the realm of undifferentiated completion.

Clinging to life and taking ease in death still does not step outside the scope of yin-yang transformation—how then can one taste the realm of merging with the Dao? Li Rong (a famed beauty of old), happy to leave Aifeng, joyful to gain Jin, abandoned the one side and chose the other; but whatever one chooses, in the end there is no true support. Joy and sorrow alternate through a lifetime, yet one does not understand the juncture of birth and death—how can one speak of it lightly?

To drink or weep in a dream is stirred by shifting emotion, not a state the perfected person (zhiren) clings to. To see ten thousand generations as a single dawn is the great awakened one; to take birth and death as one road—where would dreams remain? The foolish are in a dream yet think themselves awake; they honor themselves as rulers and treat others as herdsmen—how shallow. The perfected person takes birth and death as one great dream; to transcend birth and death is great awakening. The multitude call the crossing and blurring of hun and po, the wavering of spirit, “dreaming,” and call the body’s waking “clarity”—upside down, deluded by birth and death. Therefore the person who has attained…

People comfort those who chase strange realms beyond death by saying, “They have discovered the words of truth in a dream.” Life and death are bound together. Though no ropes tie them, the bond is hard to undo. To live through ten thousand generations before meeting a great sage who can free one from life and death’s hold would be as rare as a chance encounter that lasts only from morning to evening.

Wang Pang’s Commentary: Confucians believe that Confucius never went beyond the realm of physical things, and so did not fully grasp the Great Dao. To “not know” is true knowledge. Whatever comes through speaking and hearing cannot exhaust what is real, and is therefore merely illusory. The sun and moon, and the cosmos, depend on one another. Only those who understand can grasp these principles; they cannot be explained to ordinary people. Those whose understanding fits together like matching tallies can go along with the world’s confusion and darkness, letting each thing fulfill its own potential without keeping these changes in mind.

Ministers and servants belong to the ruler, just as attendants belong to ministers. This is simply how things take shape naturally; there is no absolute hierarchy. Ordinary people are driven by the confusion of worldly affairs, while sages merge in spirit with the myriad things and cling to nothing. Over ten thousand years, the changes among things are intricate and intertwined. If one can draw on these changes and bring them together, all can merge into a single, undivided whole. This can only be understood in the heart; it cannot be passed on through words.

The text then turns to loving life and loathing death, using the story of Li Ji as a fitting illustration. The argument in “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” begins by dissolving distinctions between right and wrong, and ultimately arrives at the unity of life and death. Once life and death are one, what among the myriad things cannot be made equal?

A true great awakener has no fixed “awakening” to speak of. It is only in relation to those who have not realized the Dao that one is reluctantly called “awakened.” Such awakening is still named in relation to “unawakened.” Neither awakening nor lack of awakening should be clung to. Fools think themselves awake, but in truth they are still dreaming. Because they are trapped in such a dream, I have no choice but to tell them they are dreaming. Those who are truly awakened know that awakening and dreaming are originally no different.

The ancients spoke of these things only because they had no choice, seeking to make this ultimate principle clear. Their words accord with the ultimate principle, yet seem strange to ordinary people.

Zhao Xuzhai’s Commentary: Sages do not deliberately seek a realm beyond worldly dust and defilement. This is what Master Changwu used to tell Master Quque. Quque thought it was the subtle Great Dao, but Changwu considered the claim too hasty. Quque still had doubts, so Changwu told him again: “These few words are what the Yellow Emperor heard and saw; they are not something I could know for myself. You have not yet reached this state through personal experience, so to call it the wondrous Dao so quickly is surely to reach a conclusion too soon.” People in the world who cultivate life do not understand where the Great Dao exists; they regard only Heaven and Earth as its gateway.

Kan and Li (Water and Fire in the Bagua) are said to be the pivot of the body’s creation and transformation; as for how to align them with oneself, if that is truly hard to grasp, set the topic aside for now. If one takes the body’s hundred bones, nine openings, and six viscera in turn as lord and subject, how could they truly govern one another? It is like servants honoring one another in rank while not knowing that a real master exists at all.

The crowd hurries about, dazzled by benefit and harm; the sage seems dull and unknowing, yet understands the principle and does not expose it. Each thing in its own way embodies this same principle—now showing from here, now hiding from there—so who can say that death is surely less joyful than life?

The Liezi records that Lord Yin of Zhou amassed great wealth yet dreamed at night that he was another man’s servant; his servant dreamed at night that he was a king. Those who are kings or herd the people in dreams all feel that things simply ought to be that way. Now you and I question and answer—we are already speaking in a dream; telling you this is also speaking in a dream. Such talk is called “diaogui” (strange speech that overturns ordinary sense). The whole world dwells in dream and delusion without knowing it—a thing truly pitiable. Ten thousand generations hence, should a great sage appear who understands these views, it would be like meeting at dawn and dusk; grasping this truth may also take no more than a turning of the eyes.

Luzhai Kouyi explains: “Menglang” means words that float wide of reality; “tingying” means hearing yet understanding. “Taozaoqi” means that your words have only reached this point and you already firmly believe you have entered the subtle Way—that is, little seen yet much self-assured knowing. As for taking sun, moon, and cosmos into the breast, merging with utmost principle and becoming one, as well as talk of the world’s confusion and servants honoring one another, all that may be left aside for the moment.

Servants are servants by nature, yet imagine there is high and low; the crowd bustles while the sage is blankly unknowing—viewed across ten thousand years, it is one and the same principle, without the slightest split. Lady Li’s regret and tears break the delusion that clings to life and flees death. The shifts between drinking and weeping, life and death, dream and waking are so tangled; to discuss dream within dream already paints human feeling to the full. Seen thus, Wei Jie’s question and Le Guang’s answer are not truly deep and penetrating; only one of great awakening is thoroughly clear. The distinction between lord and herdsman, noble and base, was strange and absurd from the start. That I speak this way can indeed be called utterly odd—and yet within it there is a subtle principle. Ten thousand generations hence, should a great sage appear who grasps these views, it would be like meeting at dawn and dusk. A later age, if it had a Yang Ziyun (Yang Xiong, Western Han scholar), would surely understand my meaning.

The sage practices wuwei (non-action), letting each thing transform of itself; therefore benefit and harm cannot move him.

It is not that one deliberately shuns or clings to anything; one simply does not like to grasp and seize, and so the heart stays empty and clear. If one were not drawn by the Dao (the Way), even this clarity would be forgotten. Though one does not speak, one can still move others to follow; though one seems to do nothing, in fact one acts; and though one acts, one leaves no lingering trace. When one can be “youwei” (having purposeful action) yet leave no mark, as in wuwei (non-action), how can dust and grime cling to one?

This was what Qu Quezi had often heard from the Master. He took it for reckless talk, yet treated it as refined Daoist practice and went to Changwuzi to test it. Changwuzi said: “These words are indeed subtle; only the Yellow Emperor could truly grasp them. I fear the Master did not fully understand them either—and as for you, your cultivation is still insufficient; you merely admire and praise their beauty in vain. You are getting ahead of yourself, like seeing an egg and already expecting it to crow at dawn.”

Let me speak loosely, and you listen loosely—how does that sound? To stand level with sun and moon and hold the cosmos in one’s embrace is the realm of the spirit person (shenren); it is not merely to shine alongside sun and moon or to treat heaven and earth as something fixed and unchanging—such states are hard to put into words. If you can actually practice the sage’s way described earlier, you might advance to this level. The crux is this: carefully distinguish what accords with nature and do it; what drags one into worldly confusion and dullness, set aside.

Moving from the ordinary toward the subtle is also like rising step by step through the ranks: the petty officer serves the shi, the shi serves the grandee, the grandee serves the minister and lord, and on upward until one passes from sage into the realm of the spirit person. Ordinary people do not see this; they are driven by their own knowledge and opinions and cannot rest for an instant. The sage seems foolish because he does not make distinctions; thus through a thousand years and countless changes he can merge them into one, whole and undivided, without past or present, and forgetful of birth and death. The sage does not perfect this path only for himself; he lets all things share in the Dao, so that they nourish one another and gradually ripen—hence he lives together with heaven and earth and is one with the ten thousand things.

Ordinary people cannot reach this because they crave life and loathe death, and their spirit is thereby confused; joy, anger, grief, and delight also injure their original nature. What follows explains this further, to break through worldly delusion.

Consider the story of Lady Li: at first she wept; later she regretted having wept. Who can be sure that the dead do not regret having once clung so hard to life? Laughing when drunk and grieving when weeping—these moods have no solid ground; dream and waking keep shifting, and true and false are hard to tell. To dream that one is divining a dream is a metaphor for how far people can be lost. Only after a true great awakening does one know one has been living inside a great dream. The fool, still inside the dream, thinks himself awake; he even distinguishes ruler and subject, noble and base—how cramped and closed off! The whole world is dreaming; why must we keep drawing lines among ourselves?

What is meant by “self and other” and “right and wrong” is precisely that such language shows how the perspicacious delight in this kind of discourse, while the confused are startled because it seems strange. Such reasoning is rarely encountered across the ages, and those who grasp its meaning are as few as morning and evening are brief. The author therefore laments that people in the world who truly understand this principle are far too few. The point of this chapter is to open human understanding, and the key lies in the two words “great awakening” (da jue); the reader should reflect on them with care.

Qu Quezi and Chang Wuzi are fictional names set up for question and answer; the “Master” (fu zi) in the text refers to Confucius, and all of this is allegory. Suppose you and I dispute: you defeat me and I do not defeat you—are you then genuinely right and I genuinely wrong? Or the reverse—I defeat you and you do not defeat me—am I then genuinely right and you genuinely wrong? Or is one of us right and one wrong, or are we both right, or both wrong? You and I cannot understand each other, so others are bound to remain in obscurity—whom should I ask to decide?

If we ask someone who agrees with you to decide, since he already sides with you, how can he judge fairly? If we ask someone who agrees with me, since he already sides with me, how can he judge fairly? If we ask someone who disagrees with both of us, since he differs from us, how can he tell who is right and who is wrong? If we ask someone who agrees with both of us, since he agrees with us, how can he render a judgment? Seen this way, you, I, and others cannot understand one another—so whom can we wait for to decide?

What does it mean to harmonize right and wrong by following the natural boundary? It is to acknowledge that “is” and “is not,” “so” and “not so,” each have their way of being spoken. If something is indeed so, it differs from the way of calling it “not so,” and there is no need to argue further; if something is indeed “is,” it differs from “is not,” and again there is no need to argue. When various voices face each other and dispute, one can harmonize by following the natural boundary and unfold with change as it goes, and thus live out one’s years. Forget the span of life, forget worldly propriety, and let the mind expand in the boundless—this is settling the heart in the infinite.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: people first do not know, and then they seek; first they do not see clearly, and then they debate. Yet after debating they still cannot trust themselves, because they always stand over against things. Disputing right and wrong all day long only deepens obscurity, and no one can truly decide—better to let things return to what is fitting in themselves. What matches oneself is called “is,” what differs is called “is not,” but such judgments are not enough to rely on. If something is truly “is,” there will no longer be a side of “is not”; if something is truly “is not,” there will no longer be a side of “is.” Thus right and wrong arise from love of disputation and cease in “Heaven’s Equal” (tian jun)—the natural equilibrium. Let various sayings run in parallel without contending, so that things each return to the right. Relying on others is not enough to judge oneself, so under Heaven no one can finally decide for anyone else.

For each thing to align with its own nature is enough; there is no need to sort out right and wrong, this and that, self and other. Go by the natural differences among things, without using one party to judge another. Debate over right and wrong is only sound amid change, arising in mutual opposition; since neither side can truly decide the other, it is better not to depend on each other, to follow the natural boundaries (tianni), and let endless transformation unfold. Then the line between right and wrong dissolves on its own, and the way of life and nature (xingming) can show itself fully. Forget the count of years, and you can merge life and death in the subtle; forget distinctions of right and principle, and you can see through the quarrel over right and wrong. Level the turmoil and return to oneness—this is ultimate principle. Ultimate principle runs through the boundless, so those who dwell in it never reach an end.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: What the world calls right and wrong is always “I say thus, the other says so”: I say right, the other says wrong; I say wrong, the other says right; or both hold themselves right and the other wrong. These four patterns all rest on “I” and “the other.” Yet I and the other cannot truly know each other, so right and wrong can never be settled. People are already veiled in obscurity—who could judge? If someone else were to judge, and that person does not side with me, they side with the other; if they do not side with the other, they side with me. Whichever they side with, they remain within the split between me and the other and cannot truly decide right and wrong. Seen this way, I, the other, and any third person cannot fully know one another.

Therefore Zhuangzi asks whether one should rely on the other to judge—he is really saying that mutual reliance is unnecessary. Only the sage sees this, so even when shifting opinions clash in debate, they can be treated as not necessarily standing in opposition. Then “that” and “this” find no fixed counterpart, and one abides in natural equilibrium (tianjun)—a state of following nature without leaning to either side.

Why? Right and wrong in speech have no fixed substance; they are only sounds born of change. Whether I and others rely on each other or not is something the mind adds by calculation. I harmonize the various sayings by the natural boundary (tianni), without ranking them; then I follow how things connect and spread (manyan), and nothing becomes a burden on the mind. Living out one’s natural span, one can be with all things as if ten thousand years were one—this is called “purity” (chun). No longer sorting yes from no, right from wrong, is because one sees that all things issue from one body, each with its own natural principle. Living out one’s natural span, one forgets the years; without the split of right and wrong, one also forgets the bonds of moral principle. All things begin in the boundless and their end too is entrusted to the boundless.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Zhuangzi likely wanted people to forget contentious speech, hence this teaching. Suppose you and I argue: “Am I really wrong?”—this uses hypothesis to dissolve dispute…

If you prevail over the other party yet still cannot make them accept your judgment, who else can settle right and wrong? So the entrusted arbiter is handed over to yet another arbiter. But if someone who shares your and my view is chosen to judge, in the end they will be just like you and me—how can they truly adjudicate? Layer upon layer of delegated judgment continues until no one remains to delegate to; only then has the limit been reached.

Whatever is called “this is right” is not necessarily really right; whatever is called “this is so” is not necessarily really so. Thus among various doctrines of difference and sameness, there is no absolute standard. Saying “yes” and saying “it is so” oppose each other and likewise fall into dispute.

There is “transformation” (the changing of all things) and “hua-hua” (the root power that brings transformation about); there is “sound” and “sheng-sheng” (the root power that produces sound). If transformation had no sound, it could not appear; if sound had no transformation, it could not be made clear. Transformation is the substance of sound; sound is the function of transformation—this is the side on which transformation and sound depend on each other.

Yet sound arises from transformation, while transformation itself is not something sound can know; transformation encompasses sound, while sound cannot know transformation. This again is as if the two did not depend on each other. Relations of mutual dependence arise between two things that stand apart; if the transformations of all things were merged into one, no trace of mutual dependence could arise.

Sound by nature can sound; it need not wait for an external thing before there is sound—only the hearer needs an external thing to produce hearing. Transformation by nature goes on occurring; it need not wait for sound before there is transformation—only the observer needs sound to have cognition. This is why they seem mutually dependent yet also seem not to depend on each other.

As for “hua-hua,” ordinary transformation cannot transform it; as for “sheng-sheng,” ordinary sound cannot sound it. In that case, how can one still speak of dependence or non-dependence? Harmonizing all things by the root of nature and life (xingming), and going along with the inexhaustible momentum of endless change—then although the years of human life have an end, the root that constitutes “me” is not bound by past and present and has no limit.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: “Tian Ni” means the natural thread of nature and life; “manyan” means endless, inexhaustible change. Harmonizing all things by Tian Ni and following infinite change, person and things are not obscured by distinctions of right and wrong; each can fulfill what nature and life assign—this is what makes it possible to complete one’s natural span. Forget the count of years and birth and death become one; forget distinctions of right and wrong and “may” and “may not” run through as one. Birth and death and may/may-not originally have no fixed verdict. Those who know how to forget these distinctions—do they take them as things that really exist? They are only temporarily lodged in them for the moment.

Chen Bixu’s commentary: Where there is insight, there is no dispute; once there is dispute, insight is not yet complete. Disputing without end leads to obscurity—because each side clings to the other’s view and cannot trust itself. When water is clear, it can reflect beauty and ugliness; when the mind is empty and still, it can level different opinions. If there is no settled view in the heart…

If one must rely on external things to judge everything, one changes oneself along with those external things. Seen through Jizi (a worthy minister at the end of the Shang), Bigan (a loyal minister at the end of the Shang) seems blunt and obstinate; seen through Bigan, Jizi seems servile and cringing. Seen through Guan Zhong and Yan Ying, Boyi and Shuqi seem rigid and constrained; seen through Boyi and Shuqi, Guan Zhong and Yan Ying seem grasping and covetous. People’s choices differ, likes and dislikes oppose one another—then who is to decide who is right and who is wrong?

Birds roost in nests and beasts dwell in burrows; each rests content in its own place—who can say they are not alike? My feelings and those of others take shape only in mutual contrast; disputes over right and wrong also shift with changing words. If feelings did not depend on such comparison, where would “I” and “other” be? If argument had no fixed right and wrong, where would there be words that keep changing? Therefore one must empty the mind and embrace each other’s boundaries, using flexible responsiveness to dissolve fixation and obstruction, so as to fully live out one’s natural years without falling into quarrels over right and wrong. To fully live out one’s years is to forget the length of life; to be free of disputes over right and wrong is to forget worldly distinctions of duty and principle. Thus one can rouse oneself and go forward in boundlessness, entrusting oneself to inexhaustible things and to principle without limit.

Zhao Xuzhai’s commentary: Knowledge grasped on one’s own is hard to make clear to others; once one speaks, debate arises in succession—who can judge right and wrong? Confucius said, “No one understands me!” and also, “Those who understand me are perhaps only Heaven!” He meant the same thing. Words depend on one another and answer each other, like nestlings and the parent bird pecking the shell at the same time. One should follow the natural dividing line (tian ni), letting it unfold as it will; harmonize one’s own light and dwell amid the dust of the world. What is “so” and what is “not so,” what is “right” and what is “wrong,” cannot be settled by argument. If people in the world cannot understand one another, and speech cannot connect, that shows words have no shared ground. Since that is so, one need only rein in sharpness and go along with the world, enjoying one’s natural years—why insist on arguing? Forgetting the length of life and forgetting worldly duty and principle means handing this life and its patterns over to the realm where nothing is said. Creation is inexhaustible; I simply go along with it into that same inexhaustibility.

Yizhai’s oral exegesis: Victory and defeat are not enough to decide right and wrong, so when you and I argue, we still cannot understand each other. “Obscure darkness” means insight is unclear; if neither you nor I can see clearly, who is to arbitrate? If a view matches the other’s, that cannot settle the matter; if it matches mine, that cannot settle it either; if both differ, it still cannot be settled; if both agree, it still cannot be settled. Seen this way, none of these cases lets us truly understand each other—we can only wait for “that other” to decide. Here “that other” means Creation (zao hua), what is called tian ni. Tian ni is the dividing line formed by nature; what is called harmonizing is precisely moving along with it. “So” and “not so,” “right” and “not right,” should both be held together.

If you designate one side as “right,” another side will be judged “wrong”; once there is “right,” there is also “wrong.” The two sides then argue, using words to persuade and refute each other, and opposition takes shape.

Since both sides dispute over right and wrong with words and try to make the other submit, why not follow what the other takes as “right” and understand it that way, instead of clashing head-on? Not opposing each other yet still recognizing each other—this is harmonizing through the natural boundary (tian ni), moving freely within it until the years run out. Then even the years and the principles within them are forgotten together, vibrating and dancing in the realm where nothing is fixed. Here “vibrate” also carries the sense of carefree roaming. If one can truly do this, one can spend a whole life dwelling in that realm where nothing is fixed.

When right and wrong and victory and defeat each cling to one pole and cannot correct each other, then you and I, and you and others, cannot understand one another—how can we expect the other to yield? When all is said and done, it can only be entrusted to creation-and-transformation (zaohua).

On this passage, commentaries from various schools are already thorough. Still, the meaning of “transforming voices” (huasheng) is obscure, and the crux between “mutual dependence” and “non-dependence” cannot be exhausted in a few sentences. Only someone who penetrates change and grasps its principle can take it to heart and eventually see the point for themselves. Among the commentaries, discussions of “doubtful singularity” (yi du) are the most refined—an independent line of thought that illuminates the classic in return, not something mere philology can reach. “Yan Zhai” on “transforming voices” differs from common views and does not cling to one fixed formula; it is especially insightful.

In brief: the distinctions among life and death, waking and dreaming come from change; disputes over “this and that” and right and wrong come from vocal expression. Waking and dreaming depend on the body; right and wrong arise from emotion—they seem to depend on each other. Yet change happens on its own, and people do not know why; voices arise on their own, and people do not know why. Seen this way, they also seem not to depend on each other. In the end, the utmost of all things never leaves the natural operation of creation-and-transformation: all transformations enter and exit through it, and all things can thereby be seen as equal. Look closely—“transforming voices in mutual dependence” means the same as “form and shadow in mutual dependence” earlier; the two passages explain each other.

After Lü’s commentary there is a note: the section on “transforming voices in mutual dependence,” from “therefore to the end of the years” through “……,” should be placed before “What does it mean to harmonize them with the natural boundary?” Because slips were scattered and lost, the order was wrongly placed here; the sense of the text makes this clear.

“Why does it have no independent, unchanging constancy?” Jing (the shadow) said, “I am like this only because I depend on something. Yet what I depend on also depends on something else to be like this. Am I depending on the scales along a snake’s belly or on a cicada’s wings? How could I know why things change in this way—and how could I know why they do not change in this way?

“Long ago, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly: light and free, truly a butterfly. He felt entirely content and had no idea he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he awoke and was startled to find he was Zhuang Zhou. He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly was dreaming it was Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be a distinction. This is what is called wuhua (the mutual transformation of things).”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Wangliang (the faint shadow beside the shadow) appears by depending on the shadow; the shadow appears by depending on the physical form—and all these changes are simply how nature is. Whether they ultimately depend on something or stand alone in this way, who can say what the reason is? If you trace what they depend on and where they come from, you will find in the end that precisely because there is no fixed thing they depend on, things each transform on their own—and then this principle becomes clear.

If one says they depend on a snake’s belly scales or a cicada’s wings, it is not hard to explain why they lack independent constancy. The reason we cannot now give a clear account is that they are not like those cases in having something to depend on; they change on their own. Some say: “Wangliang depends on the shadow, the shadow on form, form on the Creator.” Then ask: does the Creator exist or not? If it does not exist, how could it create the myriad things? If it exists, it still cannot account for why each thing arises as itself. Clearly the myriad things each generate themselves and each complete themselves; there is no common thing they all depend on. That is the real situation of what we call creation.

Wangliang appears because of the shadow; one can also say they arise together, not that one depends on the other. So Wangliang is not ruled by the shadow, the shadow is not driven by the body, and the body is not produced by transforming out of nothingness. As for changing or not changing, being thus or not thus, whether caused by outer things or so of themselves—we how can we know the reasons?

When Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, he did not know he was Zhuang Zhou; suddenly waking, he was startled to find he was Zhuang Zhou. Here we only take Zhuang Zhou’s standpoint and call waking “awakening,” but that need not mean it is not another dream. Now Zhuang Zhou not knowing he is a butterfly is no different from the butterfly in the dream not knowing it is Zhuang Zhou; both simply follow the mind of that moment. So we cannot prove that the butterfly’s dream was not a dream of being Zhuang Zhou.

Some people dream in a light sleep and live a hundred years in the dream; then we also cannot prove that the hundred years we live now are not a dream in a brief light sleep. The distinction between waking and dreaming is no different from that between life and death. We feel content now only because our respective distinctions are temporarily fixed—not because there were never distinctions. Time does not pause for an instant; the present cannot stay forever. Yesterday’s dream, come to today, has already changed and gone. How is the shift of life and death any different? Why trouble the mind over it?

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: The dim shadow beside a shadow and the shadow itself belong to the same kind, yet the dim shadow does not know that the shadow exists independently of the body. In the same way, you and I, and you and other people, belong to the same kind, yet we do not know that we exist independently of others. Whether the shadow walks, stops, sits, or rises, it merely follows the body and has no conduct of its own. But since the shadow has no feelings or awareness to begin with, how could it know that it depends on something? If the shadow depends on the body, what, in turn, does the body depend on to be as it is?

The shadow’s dependence on the body is not like a snake’s dependence on its feet or a cicada’s on its wings, which it uses to move or fly. Who can know for certain how this works? Is it so, or is it not? If people can understand that the myriad things have no awareness of their own, then the snake’s feet and the cicada’s wings, too, are things on which they need not necessarily depend.

Thus, when Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, he was lighthearted and content, unaware that there was a Zhuang Zhou. When he awoke as Zhuang Zhou, he was startled and unsettled, unaware that there had been a butterfly. If someone cannot even know the changes within himself, how could the myriad things, changing and taking different forms, know one another? Since the myriad things do not know one another, each returns to its own source. Since they do not depend on one another, none has a fixed mate or counterpart. In this way, what among the myriad things is not equal?

Lin Yidu’s commentary: The shadow is produced by the body, so they seem to depend on each other, but in fact they do not. The dim shadow does not know that both body and shadow come from Creation—the natural force that brings the myriad things into being—and so it assumes that the shadow’s movements and stillness, sitting and rising, are all determined by the body. Yet without sunlight or firelight, how could a shadow appear, even if there were a body? This is what is meant by saying that they do not depend on one another.

The shadow says, “I depend on something,” while the body itself must also depend on something to be as it is. The shadow depends on the body, which is already much larger than the shadow; yet within Creation, the body appears still smaller. So the phrase “I depend on the snake’s feet and the cicada’s wings” refers to things that are exceedingly minute. The phrase “an insect’s arm and a mouse’s liver” in the Outer Chapters of the Zhuangzi—comparing parts of the human body to an insect’s arm and a mouse’s liver—expresses the same idea.

Zhuangzi uses the butterfly to convey the point that there is no clear dividing line between the self in dreams and the self while awake. Once we understand the meaning of Zhuang Zhou’s dream of the butterfly, the discussion of life and death is complete. In the dream, he became a butterfly and did not know there was a Zhuang Zhou; when he awoke as Zhuang Zhou, he did not know there had been a butterfly. Since the two cannot be united as one at the same time, there must be a time when they are separate. The transformations of the myriad things are the same.

Chen Xiangdao’s commentary: The dim shadow depends on the shadow to appear, the shadow depends on the body to be seen, and the body depends on Creation to come into being. Compared with Creation, the body is already illusory; how much more so the shadow? Compared with the body, the shadow is already on the outermost layer; how much more so the dim shadow? All these…

The appearance, movement, and stillness of a shadow all seem to depend on the physical form; yet the form can be seen only because of light. If we say the shadow depends on the form, without sunlight it cannot be seen; if we say it depends on sunlight, without a form there would be no shadow. So are form, shadow, and sunlight mutually dependent, or each independent? Who can say exactly how they come about?

The snake moves by the scales on its belly, the cicada flies by its wings—these describe their concrete functions. Those who grasp the Dao look to the true root of things and do not cling to surface appearances; those lost in the outward show of things see only outer form and not the root. The butterfly is a case that easily leads people to cling to appearances: Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly—that can mean someone who has grasped the Dao still dreams of the myriad things, or that someone who looks to the root still cannot avoid dreams of appearance. Only after waking does one not let imagination burden the spirit, nor take the dream for reality. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly are ultimately distinct. Only those who truly penetrate the principle of change in all things can understand this.

Chen Bixu comments: The shadow cannot be apart from the form, and the form cannot be apart from Yin-Yang transformation—unlike the shed skin of a snake or the cast shell of a cicada, which are merely tangible leftovers. The relation of form and shadow is the clearest example of mutual dependence among things; since even that is hard to fix as dependence, we cannot grasp that outer things must be so. Each thing is simply as it is; only by forgetting reliance and dependence and recognizing that the myriad things transform of themselves can we speak of transcending life and death and returning to undifferentiated obscurity. This is what is called “the Emperor’s hanging release”—a metaphor for loosening the bonds of birth and death.

The nature of Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly alike arises from Miaoyou, the primordial vital breath. Zhuang Zhou once dreamed he had become a butterfly; now he is Zhuang Zhou again—can we not also say the butterfly dreamed it had become Zhuang Zhou? Though their forms differ, both issue from the same Miaoyou qi. The mystery of zaohua—the generating and transforming of heaven, earth, and the myriad things—is exceedingly subtle and hard to fathom. Whoever understands this will not be led about by outer things. The root that creates things is not itself ruled by birth and death and change; the root that gives birth to things does not shift with the myriad things. Once something has become a concrete thing, how could it not undergo change? The alternation of death and life is the shifting of bodily kinds as change proceeds; the dream of Zhuang Zhou, the clerk of Lacquer Garden, has already said all there is to say on the matter.

Zhao Xuzhai comments: The shadow’s moving, stopping, sitting, and lying all attach to the form; and for those movements to occur at all, a form must already be there—the form is present within them. The snake crawls by the scales on its belly, the cicada flies by its wings; but what enables crawling and flying is not merely the scales or wings themselves.

The human body and its shadow (jing) each have movement and stillness, and both depend on something else. The shadow depends on the body to appear; yet what the body depends on in order to be a body is not another tangible thing. The body itself does not even know why it is as it is—how then could it question the shadow? Thus when Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly, thing and self transformed together: the butterfly in the dream fluttered at ease, and Zhuang Zhou upon waking was clear and aware, as if waking and dreaming were one and the same.

Yanzhai’s Kouyi says: every move of the shadow depends on my body; and the body in turn depends on zaohua (the creative transformation of nature). That the body is a body is like the ventral scales beneath a snake or the wings of a cicada. After snake and cicada shed their old shells, the scales and wings remain—can they move by themselves? I depend on the body, and the body again depends on something—how can we know why it is so? Otherwise, this is precisely the parable of “this depending on that.”

Zhuang Zhou once dreamed he had become a butterfly and did not know he was Zhuang Zhou; when he awoke as Zhuang Zhou, was that not also a dream of the butterfly? Yet waking and dreaming must in the end be distinguished. The text seems about to conclude yet does not say everything, and does not spell the doctrine out plainly—it is meant for careful reflection. This is called “the transformation of things” (wuhua), meaning the principle of change in the myriad things, and broadly it is no more than this.

Some hold that “snake’s ventral scales, cicada’s wings” (she fu die yi) is more apt than other phrasings, because the snake walks by the scales under its belly and the cicada flies by its wings. The parable means that the human body’s movements seem to have something they depend on; yet when pursued to the end there is nothing to depend on, and the doctrine of duhua (each thing generating and transforming on its own, without relying on externals) becomes clear. Hence the text argues back and forth and finally settles on wu dai (non-reliance)—that is, not depending on anything outside.

The human body—hearing, seeing, grasping with the hands, walking with the feet—all has dependencies; yet what drives the body to act seems to depend on zaohua while in truth depending on nothing. All things under heaven are born from you (being); you is born from wu (non-being). You brings benefit, and wu too has its function. Thus you and wu give birth to each other. If a person can turn inward and inquire, grasp the subtlety of wu, and return to where things first arise, they can understand how the myriad things come to be and how the body exercises its powers. Today people have a body that acts and a mind that thinks, yet still do not know what rules them; then how could the shadow, born from the body, be something the shadow itself could understand? That it is perplexed and asks questions is hardly strange.

In the “Fables” (Yuyan) chapter there is the passage “Wang Liang questions Jing,” which shows that many in the world are deluded, so the theme is developed again here. Some say “cicada’s wing, snake’s slough” (zi tiao jia ye, she tui ye) has the same sense as “ventral scales and wings” (fu yi) here. The classic once said that the ancient perfected persons (zhenren) did not dream in sleep, yet the Perfected Man of Nanhua, Zhuang Zhou, said he dreamed he became a butterfly—why is that? Presumably it is by way of ….

Zhuangzi uses “waking and dreaming” to show that life and death are essentially the same: while awake one does not know one is dreaming, just as while alive one does not know what death is like. Though the living and the dead cannot know each other, from the standpoint of fundamental principle they are one. Seen this way, why should the living fret over death, or why cling to life at the moment of dying?

The butterfly has none of the toil of building a nest or the worry of hunger and thirst; it drifts lightly through heaven and earth. People who see it flying freely feel it is at ease and do not harm it. Where the butterfly comes from cannot necessarily be explained by ordinary lines of descent: sometimes it changes from another kind of insect, and it is said that at times it arises from rotting wheat. The chapter “Perfect Joy” records that the root of a bird’s foot turns into a grub (the larva of a cicada), and a leaf turns into a butterfly. Such accounts treat the butterfly as something that may change out of plants; where it first appears is hard to trace, and where it finally goes cannot be known. The butterfly may be a kind of flying creature that has attained the Dao, which is why an authentic person (one who has realized the Great Dao) sometimes dreams of becoming a butterfly.

Humans and the myriad things differ in form and abound in kinds, yet all receive their being from spontaneity (ziran). Here “spontaneity” means the subtle working of the Dao—the root from which the myriad things are generated and transformed. Thus Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly, not knowing each other between dream and waking, ultimately both return to transformation; in that sense they are not different. From this we can see that animals, plants, and every shape, all the changes of birth and death, whether sentient or not, in the end all return to transformation.

“Transformation” is the beginning and end of form and fate, and the process by which the myriad things are born, die, emerge, and withdraw; all of this is propelled and arranged by the Creator (the power that generates and transforms things). Even the brave and strong cannot resist it. Things accept shaping, forms return to casting-like change, yet do not know the reason—they are simply so of themselves. Therefore the person who has attained the Way listens to transformation and goes along with it. Seen thus, waking and dreaming can merge into one, and life and death can be treated as a single whole.

Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly are after all distinct; that distinction belongs to the nature each thing has received. Though the myriad things each have their own nature, they share one root. If “distinction” is read as separation, then separations are endless—how could discourse on the things of the world ever arrive at equality (qi)? Students should still probe the subtlety of nature-and-life (xingming), so as to penetrate that the principles of the myriad things are fundamentally one. To transform together with the myriad things, while also possessing a root that does not vanish amid change; to treat life and death as waking and dreaming, and past and present as dawn and dusk—then what thing cannot be brought into equality? What remains to dispute? Yet since people already discuss the relations among Zhuang Zhou, the butterfly, dream, and waking, there must also be those who can understand the point.

Mencius said, “Things are not equal—that is their nature.” Zhuangzi, however, titles a chapter “Discourse on Equalizing Things” (Qi Wu Lun), so some suspect this conflicts with Confucian teaching and think it stresses inequality instead. In fact Mencius’s remark was aimed only at Xu Xing’s position.

This passage explores Zhuangzi's (the Nanhua True Man) profound insights on the concept of "heavenly resonance" (tianlai), the authentic state of natural spontaneity. While Mencius spoke of human emotions, Zhuangzi contemplated heavenly principle. Though the heavenly principle is unified, its manifestations are infinitely varied—hence the natural diversity of all things' expressions.

The opening of Zhuangzi's "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" employs a dialogue between Ziqi and Ziyou to meticulously distinguish between "human-made sounds" (renlai) and "earthly sounds" (dilai), ultimately revealing that "heavenly resonance" transcends artificial intervention. This heavenly principle neither requires human-imposed uniformity nor can it be forcibly achieved. Zhuangzi deliberately avoids direct definition, instead using abundant metaphors to guide readers toward personal realization.

All phenomena in their endless transformations—growth and decay, myriad forms—ultimately return to heavenly resonance. Though formless and soundless itself, heavenly resonance is the source of all forms and sounds, the manifestation of numinous transformation. Understanding the origins of human and earthly sounds leads to comprehension of heavenly resonance. As Guo Xiang's commentary notes: heavenly resonance isn't some separate entity, but the harmonious totality formed by all apertures and instruments together.

When addressing cognition, speech, dreams, and preconceptions, the complexity resembles countless apertures sounding simultaneously. Yet by grasping the Dao's central pivot (huanzhong) and responding to phenomena with empty stillness, all oppositions dissolve. Like wind blowing through hollows producing spontaneous sounds, true equality is achieved through apparent "unevenness." Though heaven-earth and the myriad things appear different, they're fundamentally united in the Dao.

The monkey-keeper distributing acorns (provoking joy and anger), or Zhaowen displaying his musical skill—these deliberate actions create distinctions, preventing true unity. Claims like "heaven-earth and I coexist, all things and I are one" may seem unifying, yet fixation on distinctions between "one" and "verbal expression" creates new divisions.

Only by reaching the state "before anything existed"—maintaining awareness amidst infinite transformation while perceiving ten thousand years as a single moment—can one truly encompass all things in perfect equality. The fable of the shadow questioning its shadow, or Zhuangzi dreaming he's a butterfly, all explore apparent divisions between self/other, life/death, waking/dreaming, ultimately pointing to the truth of universal transformation. What Zhuangzi calls "transformation" (hua) is precisely this transcendence of duality and return to the primordial source.

The “Shen” (spirit) spoken of in the Book of Changes lies concealed in what is vague and hard to pin down, yet it shows itself in the conduct of daily life—only people cannot recognize it directly. From this one may understand: all things share one body; the myriad forms all belong to a single transformation, and the myriad transformations in turn return to one marvelous Dao. If one can enter into this marvel and let the mind penetrate and follow change, then what is to be counted as outer things, and what as the self? This is called “Great Equalizing” (da qi)—the state in which the split between thing and self is dissolved and all things are seen as equal.