《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 43

When the Yellow Emperor performed the music “Xianchi” in the fields of Dongting, Beimen Cheng asked him, “At first, when I heard it, I was frightened. Hearing it again, I felt weary. By the end, I was bewildered and confused, empty inside and unable to speak. I could not even steady myself.”

The Yellow Emperor replied, “That is probably just how you felt. In my performance, I began with human feelings, followed the workings of the Way of Heaven, established order through ritual and right conduct, and carried the whole piece through a state of clarity. The highest music first responds to human affairs, then follows the workings of Heaven’s principles. It resonates with the Five Virtues and takes nature as its foundation. It then harmonizes the four seasons, so that all things flourish in harmony. The seasons arise and turn in succession, and all things grow in their proper time. There is flourishing and decline; firmness and gentleness balance each other; Yin and Yang come into harmony; high and low tones intermingle and flow without end.

“When the dormant insects begin to stir, I startle them with sounds like thunder. The music has no fixed ending and no definite beginning: sometimes it fades away, sometimes it rises; sometimes it collapses, sometimes it flourishes. Its changes are endless, so one cannot simply wait for a particular sound to appear. That is why you felt frightened.

“Next, I played sounds that harmonize Yin and Yang, and illuminated them with the radiance of the sun and moon. The music was sometimes short, sometimes long, sometimes gentle, sometimes forceful. Its changes blended together, yet followed no fixed pattern. The sounds filled both valleys and hollows. They cleared away distractions and held fast to the spirit, allowing all things to appear according to their own measure. The music unfolded on a vast scale, and so it is called ‘lofty and luminous.’ Spirits dwell in shadowy places; the sun, moon, and stars each follow their courses. I make the music pause within limits, then let it flow into what has no end. You may try to grasp it with thought, but you cannot know it; try to see it, and you cannot; try to catch up with it, and you cannot.

“Stand bewildered in the wide-open space of the four directions, lean against a paulownia zither and sing, and you will understand: what you wish to see can never be seen in its entirety; what you wish to pursue will always exceed your strength. I cannot do it myself, either! The form fills the emptiness, then stretches and bends in response to the moment. You stretch and bend with it, and so you feel weary.

“Finally, I played sounds that do not make people weary, and harmonized them with the rhythms of nature. The music seemed to mingle and flow, as all things grew thickly together. It was like music in a forest, yet had no fixed form. It spread far and wide, unbound by anything; it was dark and still, with no sound that could be distinguished. It arose where there was no fixed direction and dwelt in a realm deep and subtle. Some call it death, others life; some call it fullness, others abundance. It moves and flows without following any fixed pattern. That is why people are perplexed by this sound and go to the sages for guidance.

“A sage is one who understands human feelings and follows the allotment of Heaven.”

This passage elucidates the Daoist concept of "Heavenly Music" (Tianle) — not auditory melodies, but a state of supreme natural harmony. As praised by the ancient Emperor Youyan (legendary ruler of high antiquity), this realm transcends sound and form yet permeates heaven and earth, embracing all cosmic phenomena. When one seeks to grasp it, no tangible approach exists, hence the profound sense of bewilderment it evokes.

Authentic Heavenly Music unfolds through three transformative phases: initial awe (ju), followed by serene relaxation (dai), culminating in the undifferentiated chaos (huo) where self and object dissolve. Within this primordial confusion, complete unity with the Dao is realized. As Guo Xiang's commentary clarifies, this state emerges through "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang, a meditative state of self-forgetting) — not through external music, but by aligning with nature's flow and human essence, spontaneously arising from within.

Consider the legendary Xianchi musical movement from the Yellow Emperor's era, which became the paradigm of Heavenly Music precisely because it perfectly mirrored natural rhythms. The cosmos inherently resonates with spontaneous harmonies; by relinquishing artificial interference, one apprehends this consummate joy. Initially, the infinite variations may evoke trepidation, but gradually one harmonizes with Yin-Yang transformations as effortlessly as the sun and moon traverse the sky. Those attaining this state embody spiritual fullness while appearing formless, following nature's course without coercion.

This ultimate joy operates soundlessly and shapelessly within profound mystery. The sage engages with the world likewise — neither promoting doctrines nor resisting change, but flowing with the ten thousand things' transformations. True happiness resides not in verbal expression, but in the mind's uncontrived ease. Youyan's ode precisely captures this transcendent state beyond sensory perception, where complete fusion with the Dao occurs.

The highest form of joy needs no external sound. When people hear music like this, they listen in reverent awe, holding their breath. If they have not yet reached great harmony, their minds gradually grow slack, and the traces of the music fade away. If their minds become confused, they grow dull.

Thus the Dao regards freedom from attachment to knowledge as foolishness, and this “foolishness” is precisely the highest state.

Lü’s commentary says: Here, “music” means the Dao. The vast, open fields of Dongting are where this music is performed. Though played by people, the music follows the patterns of Heaven; its wondrous sounds arise from nothingness. People act according to ritual and righteousness, while ritual and music come from Great Clarity—the realm of pure emptiness—and are rooted in the Great Beginning, the primordial state before the myriad things had divided.

The four seasons turn and the myriad things grow; there is nothing that does not contain music. Change and decline, flourishing and decay, and the interweaving ways of civil and martial rule all move together without disorder. The clear and turbid, Yin and Yang, harmonize without ever opposing one another. Music flows between Heaven and Earth, yet sounds only when something sets it in motion. If we trace it to its source and its end, it has neither beginning nor conclusion. Life and death, and all manner of change, arise without end, yet return to unity. This state cannot be obtained by waiting for it, and so listeners feel reverent awe. There is no other reason: I present it from the human perspective, and the other person receives it from the human perspective. That is all. When we enter the Way of Heaven by human means, the myriad transformations naturally differ from one another. How, then, could what is called “unity” be obtained by waiting? It is only natural that listeners feel reverent awe.

Now let Yin and Yang perform, and the sun and moon shine: this is simply following the Way of Heaven. The music’s phrases have no set length. At times they fill valleys and hollows; at others they seem to pass through cracks. The spirit is kept steady, while external things serve as its measure. Such are its tones, beyond words. It unfolds and flows freely, constrained by nothing between Heaven and Earth. It rises high and shines brightly, like a celestial being; it is deep and hidden, as though spirits guard the shadowy places. The sun and moon each follow their own paths. When they pause, they seem to reach an end; when they move on, their course has no limit. Everything depends on the form they take as they appear.

Try to understand it by thinking, and you cannot; chase after it, and you cannot catch up. When your eyesight is spent and your strength exhausted, you can only go along with its movement, and your mind grows slack. There is no other reason: I present it from the perspective of the Way of Heaven, and the other person receives it from that perspective. That is all. I then perform it in a state without slackening, harmonizing it with nature, so that all things mingle and follow one another, and the many forms of life arise together in abundant profusion. The music of the Forest has no fixed form; each thing returns to its root. It spreads out freely, without restraint, and moves without a fixed direction. It is dark and soundless, dwelling in the deep stillness of the distant and obscure. Life and death, reality and flourishing, dissolve and shift into one another without any fixed constancy; therefore, they are not confined to any single state.

This is a realm that confounds ordinary people, yet sages embody it in daily life and in hurried responses, never departing from it. Sages have no special quality beyond this: they understand the true condition of things and follow what Heaven has ordained. What the ears hear and the eyes see is all like this. These are simply natural capacities bestowed at birth; why make a display of them?

This is the music of Heaven: it needs no words, and the heart rejoices of its own accord. That is why the subtle beauty of the Youyan clan’s song in praise of “The Pool of Salty Waters,” an ancient piece of music, is given as an example of this state. If you wish to hear it, there will naturally be no external sound to receive—and you will not even need your ears.

There is no other reason for becoming bewildered: one has simply forgotten human affairs and the Dao of Heaven. At first, hearing it inspires fear; then one comes to esteem it; later, one gradually grows weary; and finally one flees from it in bewilderment. People are foolish because they cannot bear the Great Dao. This is because their minds are filled with discernment and clear understanding, scrutinizing everything. Only by setting aside discriminating knowledge and returning to simplicity can one bear the Great Dao and become one with it.

Yi Du, a commentator, says: When the ancients spoke of “supreme joy,” did they mean only the outward things of bells and drums, pipes and strings, melody and rhythm? Its principle reaches beyond Heaven and Earth; its spirit flows through the mysteries of Yin-Yang transformation. It has no form to see and no sound to hear. The Book of Rites says that “music resides in the Great Beginning,” and Laozi says that “great sound is scarcely heard.” Both speak of this state.

The first music performed is the music of the human world, because people have not yet transcended the human realm. Next comes the music of Yin-Yang, which belongs to the Dao of Heaven. Finally, one reaches a wondrous state in which the transformations of life and death cannot be fathomed; it is therefore harmonized through nature’s endowment and patterns. The human way operates through ritual and righteousness, while the Dao of Heaven is illuminated by the sun and moon. What never grows weary and changes beyond prediction is the wondrous Dao. It commands Yin-Yang, governs the sun and moon, and also encompasses ritual and righteousness. The Book of Changes says that “the transformations of Yin-Yang cannot be fathomed”; this is what it means. When the Great Dao reaches a state without form or substance, people become perplexed by it. Perplexity leads to confusion, and confusion to simplicity. Only by returning to simplicity can one accord with the Great Dao. That is the meaning.

Xiang Dao, a commentator, says: At first, the music of the human world is performed: ritual and righteousness set it in motion, the patterns of the Dao of Heaven regulate it, and the Great Clarity—the clear, lofty realm of the Dao of Heaven—grounds it. Its subtlety lies in endless transformation, so hearing it inspires fear. Within that fear, its wondrous nature appears. In the middle section, the harmonious music of Yin-Yang is performed, illuminated by the radiance of the sun and moon. Its movement and stillness are unpredictable, so hearing it brings weariness. Once weary, one relaxes the body and casts aside sharp hearing and clear sight.

Finally comes music that never grows weary, harmonized through nature’s endowment and patterns. It ultimately points toward a profound, obscure state without form or sound, so hearing it brings perplexity. In that perplexity, one lets go of discriminating knowledge and seems benumbed and unaware. To be simple means to act freely according to one’s nature while keeping to the Great Dao’s proper course; it means not deliberately seeking knowledge, but following the principles of the Dao of Heaven. This is called returning to simplicity, and it is also called becoming one with the Great Dao.

Bi Xu, a commentator, says: Refined and majestic music is plain and unadorned, and does not please worldly listeners. At first, hearing it inspires fear because it is not what ordinary tastes favor. Listening closely, one gradually grows weary; hearing it through to the end brings perplexity. At that point, the mind and spirit settle into stillness, silent and speechless, unable to understand the reason for it.

“Performing the music of the human world” means bringing all things into harmony and ease. “Regulating it by the Dao of Heaven” means bringing the different sounds into harmony with nature. Setting it in motion through ritual and righteousness means keeping the order between those above and below from becoming confused. Grounding it in the Great Clarity means making the space between Heaven and Earth clear and open. The four seasons turn and follow one another in succession, while also joining in harmony…

All things grow continuously according to their own patterns, without going against them. Both civil governance and military achievement should follow what is natural, while the Qi of Yin and Yang should flow freely and remain in harmony. Music flows and changes, and the Qi of primal harmony responds everywhere: it seems empty, yet is never exhausted; once set in motion, it becomes ever more abundant. How could it ever come to an end?

When Yin and Yang are in harmony, ruler and ministers can share one heart and one De. When the sun and moon shine brightly, treacherous and flattering people find it hard to advance. Thus the way of governance renews itself each day, and instruction proceeds without obstruction. Even ghosts and spirits respond to the music, and laws are carried out without error. If something is known only through thought, it is not truly mysterious; if it can be seen only by watching, it is not truly subtle; if one must chase after it to keep up, it is not truly profound. Only the Dao, standing apart, arising naturally, and leaving no place for escape, is truly endless and inexhaustible.

Between Heaven and Earth, all is vast and gathered together. The myriad things follow their own nature, never tiring or stopping. To reach harmony is to be free of weariness; to reach the height of joy is for it to flow forth naturally. The sounds made by forests, shrubs, and slender bamboo can all be called “the sounds of Heaven”—the sounds of the natural world. So what is it that makes them sound?

The nature of the myriad things is still and quiet; they spread out and unfold without being constrained. The true breath of nature is plain and deep, without sound or trace. The blended Qi of Yin and Yang combines in harmony, and so can move in directions that have no fixed orientation. The great image has no fixed form, and so exists in places too deep and hidden to see. People see that things sometimes move and sometimes rest, gather and disperse, change, multiply, and thrive; they call this life and death. In truth, it is the process by which all things flourish. Things change with the waxing and waning of Qi and the turning of the seasons, and people wonder why they cannot remain constant. They then examine the methods of the sages, understand the workings of ghosts and spirits, and bring each thing’s life to fulfillment.

If one is as still as ashes after the fire has burned out, one’s capacities will cease to function. When the Five Phases—five forces that make up the myriad things and interact in cycles—each operate in turn, the body’s faculties are all brought into being. “The Hymn of the Yan Clan” is the name of an ancient musical composition. It makes forms vanish from sight and sounds faint beyond hearing. When there is nothing to see or hear, what is there to doubt? Fear in the heart invites misfortune; when the spirit grows lax, it scatters; when the mind is confused, it becomes foolish. At the height of foolishness, one comes close to the Great Dao.

Yanzhai says: In performance, music accords with human action; in its tuning, it follows the principles of Heaven. Ritual and right conduct each have their proper order, while the realm of Great Clarity accords with the transformations of creation. From this point on, the text describes music’s many changes: it can startle people, bringing joy at one moment and alarm the next. It flows brightly, with no discernible beginning or end. It is constant yet changing; one may try to find where it finally comes to rest, but it cannot be found, and this inspires awe. Yin and Yang, the sun and moon, likewise carry a sense of harmony and brightness. Change has no fixed pattern; the more it unfolds, the more wondrous it becomes.

Let the ears and eyes remain free from obstruction by external things, and let the spirit keep to itself, viewing all things as equal amid their changes. Ghosts and spirits abide in darkness; the sun, moon, and stars follow their appointed paths. All this shows that one need not rely on cleverness or calculation, but should follow what is natural. From “stopping at what has an end” to “being impossible to catch up with,” the text describes something that seems to have form yet is not any concrete thing: one may try to look at it, but can never see it all; one may try to chase it, but cannot catch it. Its form seems to fill Heaven and Earth, yet people forget themselves in its presence.

When one can remain empty and still while following change, and let things unfold naturally, one will become slack and idle. When one can avoid idleness and never stop, one can follow Heaven’s mandate. Here, “mandate” can be understood as the natural course by which things operate. All things blend together and follow one another, like grasses growing in dense clumps and trees flourishing in a forest: each grows in its own way and finds its own joy.

Qi disperses, flows, and changes without being pulled by any external force. It is subtle and obscure, impossible to hear, and its transformations have no fixed direction. Life and death, flourishing and decline, dispersal and movement follow no constant pattern; this is what confounds ordinary people. The sage, however, can use this to examine all things, understand their underlying principles, follow Heaven’s mandate, and let everything return to its natural state.

Though the ears, eyes, hands, and feet are all intact, one cannot consciously direct one’s hearing, seeing, or movements. This is called “Heavenly joy”—the joy of following nature. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says, “Turn the flow back and return wholly to unity; the six faculties cease to function.” It speaks of this same state. At such a time, even if you wish to hear, there is no sound for you to encounter; this is why you become perplexed.

Yan’s four-line verse expresses precisely what has been said above. He then adds a turn that gives the prose its rhythm; this is a subtlety of literary composition. Earlier, fear, slackness, and perplexity were mentioned, but their meaning was left unclear. Only at the conclusion does the text speak of “foolishness” and how it can lead one into the Dao. A person must pass through such states to make progress: slackness is when the mind wants to act but cannot; perplexity that makes one seem foolish is when consciousness and discriminating thought have both been forgotten.

When the Nanhua Jing discusses the Dao, it describes the Yellow Emperor performing music in the wilds of Dongting. The greatest power for transforming the myriad things is, perhaps, none other than the Dao; the deepest power for moving the human heart is none other than music. Yet to seek the highest sound within emptiness and stillness is possible only for those who delight in the Dao.

When ordinary people first hear of the Dao, their hearts are at war with themselves; this is “fear.” After a while, as one side of this inner struggle gains a little ground, they seem to grow slack. Only when feelings and consciousness gradually dissolve, and both fear and slackness disappear, can they attain harmony and return to a state without distinctions. This is the sequence by which one enters the Dao.

I have examined the meaning of the “three performances” in this chapter and find that it can be read alongside the “three sounds” in the Qiwulun: the sounds of Heaven, Earth, and humanity. The first performance takes human beings as its foundation and uses ritual and righteousness to regulate them, beginning with deliberate human effort. It then takes the Way of Heaven as its standard and uses Supreme Clarity—the realm of pure emptiness—to harmonize the music, gradually approaching the natural. The seasons turn in succession, the myriad things grow in order, Yin and Yang come into balance, and radiance flows and shifts. The music rises with them, yet remains within the many changes of patterned and martial styles, fullness and decline, clarity and turbidity. This first performance accords with the “sound of humanity.” The second performance takes the harmonious Qi of Yin and Yang as its foundation, illuminated by the light of the sun and moon. Its music may be short or long, gentle or forceful; it fills valleys and hollows, changing in accordance with the conditions of the myriad things. This is what is called the “sound of Earth.” The final performance uses a sound that never ceases, and plays it with…

The principles of natural life fill the universe and embrace the six directions. They follow the movement of Heaven’s Dao, vigorous and ceaseless, never coming to a halt. Those who understand the patterns of things and follow the nature of life no longer depend on their ears and eyes to see and hear. Even without a visible form or audible sound, they can apprehend what lies behind form and sound. This is the wonder of “Heavenly Music”—the sounds and subtle principles that arise naturally from Heaven and Earth.

It is as though the myriad things spring forth in confusion, and countless openings whistle all at once. The sounds among the trees have no fixed shape, yet they make the openings ring. Search for the source of those sounds, and it cannot be found. The wind passes through without dragging or battering anything. When it subsides, all is dim and still, without a sound. The openings are empty; moved by the wind, which has no fixed course, they enter a depth beyond understanding. This is the wondrous realm that cannot be measured. The arising and passing of life, its flourishing and decline, its gathering and dispersal, are therefore never fixed or constant. This is a principle that confounds ordinary people but that sages can examine and understand.

“To let the workings of Heaven lie unstirred” means not deliberately employing the cleverness with which one was born. “To let the body fall away and dismiss acuity” means to release one’s attachment to bodily senses and intellectual brilliance. Though all five senses are intact, one is not led about by them. If the heart can be joyful without relying on words, is that not the music of Heaven? An ancient ritual text says, “The greatest music is in harmony with Heaven and Earth.” The Dao-nature within every person—the nature of life that connects with the Dao—reveals itself through harmony and joy. When music reaches harmony, Heaven and Earth respond; yet it is for human beings to bring this about.

This chapter therefore uses music as a metaphor for the Dao, showing those who study the Dao that when form and breath harmonize, the highest sound flows forth deep within the heart. This wordless harmony does not begin in the elaborate performances of bells and stone chimes, strings and bamboo flutes. At the end, the chapter cites a hymn of the Youyan clan, a legendary ancient people, to show that the highest Dao and the highest sound cannot be grasped by sight or hearing. A person may be bewildered by them, seeming dull—“dull” in the sense described by Yan Hui, when all that one has learned through sight and hearing momentarily falls away. At this point, the Dao can sustain life, and one can follow its course.

This music cannot be played on ordinary instruments. It is the innate music of perfect joy and harmony, filling Heaven and Earth. Strings and bamboo cannot portray it, yet it is always present, day and night. It can make Shi Xiang, the ancient musician, tremble with fear, and Shi Kuang, the musician of the Spring and Autumn period, recoil in astonishment; it can even make clay figures sing and wooden figures dance. Is the true wonder of Xianchi, the legendary ancient music, really only a matter of pitch, melody, and instrumental sound? One who listens well does not listen with the ears, but with the heart; and not only with the heart, but with Qi. Joining with it in emptiness and stillness, one listens in silence. What one delights in is the music of Heaven’s Dao, and then joy is complete.

The Dao De Jing says, “Music and fine food make a passerby stop.” Even things that lie dormant and hidden must have their moment when they hear thunder and leap to life. I would speak of music with someone like this: when the Qi of perfect harmony arrives, the mind becomes dazed and distant, as if it had forgotten itself.

“Zuo Biao,” pronounced “biyao,” was the title of an ancient emperor who practiced Wuwei (non-action).

When Confucius traveled west to the state of Wei, Yan Yuan asked Shijin, “What do you think of our Master’s journey?”

Shijin said, “How unfortunate. I fear our Master is about to fall into difficulty.”

Yan Yuan asked, “Why?”

Shijin said, “A straw dog used in sacrifice is kept in a bamboo case and wrapped in patterned cloth before it is placed on the altar. After the officiant has fasted, he reverently presents it. Once the rite is over, it is left on the ground: passersby tread on its head and back, and woodcutters take it to kindle their fires. If someone still tried to put it back in its case, wrap it in embroidered cloth, and sit or lie beneath it, surely that person would have nightmares or keep seeing things swim before their eyes.

“Now our Master has taken up the straw dogs already used by the former kings and has his disciples sit and rest beneath them. That is why he was trapped when trees were cut down in Song, driven out of Wei, and brought to hardship in the old lands of Shang and Zhou. Is this not like having nightmares? Then, between Chen and Cai, he was surrounded and went seven days without food, with life and death hanging by a thread. Is this not like seeing spots and swooning?

“On water, nothing serves better than a boat; on land, nothing serves better than a cart. A boat can travel on water, but try pushing it across dry land and it will not get far in a lifetime. The past and the present are like water and land, each different from the other. Are the lands of Zhou and Lu not like a boat and a cart, each suited to its own terrain? To impose the ways of Zhou on Lu is like pushing a boat across dry land: it takes great effort and achieves nothing, while bringing harm upon oneself. Our Master does not understand that those who are adept and have no fixed method can adapt to all things and thus find a way through everywhere.

“Have you never seen a well sweep, the lever used to draw water? Pull it down and it lowers; let it go and it rises. People move it, but it does not pull them in return. Its rising and falling therefore follow people’s wishes.

“The rites and laws of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors need not be forced into agreement; what matters is whether they can bring good order to the age. They are like crab apples, pears, oranges, and pomelos: each tastes different, yet all are pleasing to the palate. Rites and laws, too, change with the times to meet the needs of each age.

“Take a monkey and dress it in Duke of Zhou’s clothes, and it will surely bite, tug, and tear at them until it has stripped them all off. The difference between ancient times and today is like the difference between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou.

“Xi Shi, the beauty of the Spring and Autumn period, suffered pain in her chest and walked through the village with a furrowed brow. An ugly woman in the village saw her and thought she looked beautiful. So she went home and, clutching her chest and furrowing her brow, walked through the village too. When the wealthy villagers saw her, they shut their gates tight and refused to come out; when the poor saw her, they pulled their wives and children…”

If we keep outdated rites and rules and copy them unchanged, it is like knowing only that Xi Shi looked beautiful when she furrowed her brow (pin, “to furrow the brow”), without knowing why her furrowed brow was beautiful. How regrettable that Confucius, too, fell into difficulty for this reason.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: When something has been discarded and is no longer useful in its own time, forcibly keeping it can bring trouble instead. The former kings established ritual practices to meet the needs of their age. When that age has passed, refusing to discard its old rites sets later generations on the path to correcting the troubles of the present. So when times change, rites should change with them. Responding to things without being bound by old rules makes it possible to achieve results without effort. The aim is simply to fit the time and meet the needs of good governance. What some people consider beautiful, others may consider ugly. Rites and right conduct, when practiced at the proper time, are as beautiful as Xi Shi; when kept after their time has passed, they are like an ugly person furrowing their brow.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: The rites and laws of the sages were practices handed down to meet the demands of worldly affairs. When they are suited to the age, they should be carefully prepared and earnestly observed, like the grass dogs used in sacrifice (chugou, straw figures offered as ritual gifts): before they are set out, people fast and respectfully prepare for the ceremony. Once they have served their purpose, they should be cast aside. After the straw dogs have been set out, even passersby tread on them. If someone picks up a used straw dog and uses it as a pillow, becoming attached to it, they will have nightmares and may even wake in fright.

If Confucius had clung to the old practices the former kings had used to meet the needs of their age, continually teaching and passing them on, he would have treated old things as treasures. As a result, he suffered the calamities of having trees felled and his traces erased, endured hardship between the Shang and Zhou domains, and was besieged in Chen and Cai. These ordeals were like nightmares, the result of clinging to old methods. Only someone unwilling to let old methods pass, and who remains attached to them, will fall into such difficulties. If we understand that practices must change with time and place, we will see that governing people need not be as mechanical as a well sweep, rising and falling until it brings trouble. Nor must we respond to change by sticking to a particular flavor or method; whatever accords with the situation will do.

It is like dressing an ape in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou: one may know that furrowing the brow looks beautiful, yet not understand what makes it beautiful. If Confucius established teachings and transmitted the Dao without being inwardly attached to them, how could he be constrained by drawing on the old practices the former kings had used to meet the needs of their age? To him, having trees felled, his traces erased, and enduring hardship in the Shang and Zhou domains and in Chen and Cai would have been no more than a stork, a mosquito, or a gadfly passing before his eyes. Confucius knew that the Dao could not be put into practice. Why, then, insist on putting it into practice everywhere, or require that the old systems of Zhou and Lu be adopted? If one does not understand that the Dao changes in response to things and has no fixed form, one will bring trouble upon oneself at every turn, and will fail to understand that rites and laws must change with the times—or why Xi Shi’s furrowed brow was beautiful. Perhaps the common failing of those who study Confucius without understanding why he acted as he did lies here. That is why Zhuangzi returns to this point again and again.

The “Six Classics” record the old practices left behind by the former kings. When they suit the needs of the present, adopt them; when they are no longer timely, set them aside. They are like straw dogs used in sacrifices: before they are placed on the altar, they are kept carefully in a box; after the rites are over, they are trampled and burned. If someone used one as a pillow after the sacrifice, they might have nightmares—or have dust irritate their eyes. After all, it is merely what remains once the spirits have been offered their rites, and it may even invite strange occurrences.

Master Jin used this example to advise Yan Yuan: “Your teacher Confucius is now enamored of the old teachings and traces left by the ancients, and wants to use them to govern the present age. He has his disciples live by benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music, as though he expects everyone to settle down beneath these old rules. So it is hardly surprising that he meets with troubles in the world. It is like pushing a boat along on dry land or putting a cart into the water.

“Those who can respond to the affairs of the world without limit adapt to the times and change with circumstances; they do not cling to the past or present. This is the kind of teaching that has no fixed method. Master Jin also compared this to a water-lifting lever: it can be raised and lowered because people pull it; it does not drag people along. Confucius, however, insists on putting benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music into practice and expects the world to follow him. He does not act like the lever, which people put to use as they need.

“The institutions of the former kings are like the flavors of different fruits: each is distinct, yet all can suit people’s tastes. They should change with the times so that each is fitting to its circumstances. The comparison between the Duke of Zhou and a monkey shows that conditions in the past and present are not the same. Rituals, laws, and institutions may be alike, yet suit different ages—just as Xishi and a village woman may both frown, but the same gesture looks beautiful on one and ugly on the other.

“The songs of Qi, Chu, Yan, and Wei differ, yet they can all bring people joy. The cries of the Nine Yi and Eight Man—ancient names for peoples beyond the Central Plains—also differ, yet each expresses grief. So when sages govern the world, they adapt to the times to devise suitable measures and establish institutions in keeping with the people’s circumstances. If a method benefits the state, it need not be the same as another; if it makes matters easier to manage, its rites need not match those of another.

“Fuxi and Shennong taught the people without imposing punishments or executions. The Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun, by contrast, used punishments, yet did not do so in anger. The Xia dynasty favored simplicity and little ornament; the Zhou dynasty valued ornament and did not make simplicity its guiding principle. Can the institutions of antiquity really be applied unchanged today? And how could the institutions of today be rigidly imposed on antiquity?

“Confucius draws on ancient principles to govern the present, but he is not bound by ancient institutions. He wants only to follow the ancients’ example and trace it back to the underlying reasons for their actions. Master Jin feared that people throughout the world would become absorbed in the mistake of merely following old traces. So he began with straw dogs and boats and carts, continued with the water-lifting lever and oranges and pomelos, and ended with monkeys and beauty and ugliness, to show that circumstances in the past and present, and in Zhou and Lu, cannot all be treated as the same.

“As the saying goes: ‘Those who learn to drive by following a book do not understand a horse’s nature; those who govern the present by ancient institutions do not understand how the world changes.’”

Master Bixuzi’s commentary says: Master Jin lamented that Confucius had talent but could not understand the demands of his time. He was like a straw dog used in sacrifice: honored during the ritual, then discarded when it was over. If it were kept and used afterward, misfortune would follow. Good governance depends on renewing methods as times change; clinging to old ways brings problems. Could the road system of the Zhou dynasty be put into practice in Lu? That would be like sailing a boat on dry land: how could one expect it to help cross water? Better to set aside established methods, follow nature, accord with the principles of Heaven, and adapt as all things change.

Thus, the rites, moral principles, and laws of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were not valued because they were identical, but because they governed well. When governance succeeds, its methods can serve as standards. It is like taste: those who prefer sweetness think sweet things are best; those who prefer pungency think pungent things are best. One must adapt to the time. It is easy to train a monkey when one works with its nature; imitating Xi Shi’s furrowed brow—Xi Shi was a legendary beauty—only makes one look uglier.

Yanzhai says: Master Jin, the old man carrying bamboo baskets, and Jieyu of Chu were all figures who used their words and conduct to mock the Confucians. They believed that Confucian learning consisted largely of stale sayings from the ancients and could not meet the needs of the present. The image of “water and land, boats and carts” means that different times call for different methods. “Transmission without a fixed method” means that the teaching of the Way must not be confined to a single, unchanging form. It must adapt to the times to meet the demands of the world without exhausting its possibilities. To bend and rise with others, without clinging inwardly, means responding to things without fixed methods.

Hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo each taste different. They represent the different rites of the Three Kings and the different music of the Five Emperors. Forcing people today to follow the rites and music of antiquity is like forcing a monkey to wear the clothes of the Duke of Zhou. For people today to imitate the ancients deliberately is like a village woman copying Xi Shi’s furrowed brow. This passage uses six metaphors in all, each more surprising than the last.

A straw dog used in sacrifice expresses reverence; keeping it after the ritual is over brings trouble. Laws and methods are established to suit the times. Once those times have passed, clinging to the old ways brings problems in its wake.

Master Jin was using this point to mock Confucius and urge him to awaken from his fixation on the old systems of the Shang and Zhou. He was also explaining why Confucius had become trapped between Chen and Cai, unable to find a way out. Yet Confucius still busied himself with hoping that the ancient systems could be restored in his own day, and that the rites of Zhou could be put into practice in Lu. This was no different from sailing a boat on dry land while expecting it to cross water smoothly. As a result, he repeatedly failed when dealing with the affairs of the world, until his life and death seemed to hang in the balance.

If one could bend and rise with circumstances, like a well sweep lifting and lowering its arm without attachment, and let oranges and pomelos keep their natural flavors, each properly sweet or sour, why force a monkey to wear the clothes of the Duke of Zhou, or praise a village woman for imitating Xi Shi’s beauty? “Transmission without a fixed method” means that the Way handed down by the ancients has no set pattern. Those who govern should assess the times and enact policies that suit the people. As the Book of Changes says: “When things reach an impasse, they change.”

“Once things ‘change,’ they can pass through freely”—surely this refers to what Master Jin said? “Taking disciples is gathering disciples…”

Here, “mi” (pronounced mì) refers to a foreign object entering the eye and causing an eye disease. If we explain this passage according to that meaning of the character, the text will not make sense. The Lu shi yinyi records that Sima Biao took “mi” to mean “oppression,” pronounced like “yan” in the yan sound. The Cheng fashi shu writes the character directly as “nightmare,” referring to strange occurrences in dreams. This interpretation is more fitting.

Collected Subtle Meanings from the Sea of Meaning of the True Classic of Nanhua, fascicle 45.