《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 5

Laozi (Laozi) died in Qin. Qin Shi went to offer condolences, wept three times, and left. A disciple asked, “Was he not the master’s friend?” Qin Shi said, “Yes.” The disciple asked again, “If he was a friend, is it acceptable to mourn him in that way?” Qin Shi replied, “It is. At first I took him for someone who understood the Way; now I see that is not so. When I went in to mourn, I found the old weeping for him as for a son, and the young weeping as for a mother. That they gathered there must mean some spoke though they did not wish to speak, and wept though they did not wish to weep. That is to flee what is natural, go against one’s true nature, and forget the endowment one has received from Heaven. The ancients called such conduct ‘the penalty for fleeing Heaven.’

“To be born when the time is ripe—the master yielded to the times; to die when the time is ripe—the master likewise yielded to the times. To rest at ease in whatever season comes and follow along with change—then joy and grief cannot enter the heart. The ancients called this ‘the Sovereign’s suspended release’ (dijie xuanshi): undoing the bonds by which one is hung on external things. When the fingers are worn out, the firewood can still be handed on and the fire still keeps burning; one need not know when it will burn out.”

Guo Xiang comments: Qin Shi saw others mourning and mourned with them; saw others wailing and wailed with them. The disciple wondered why he did not simply lean on the door and watch the shifts of life and death, yet still wept three times. In truth, the perfected person has no fixed feelings—he merely wept along with the crowd.

The old weeping like a father for a son and the young like children for a mother—the problem is that they pour deep attachment onto the dead without resting in what is fitting. Each nature has its proper allotment: it cannot be fled, nor should one insist on adding to it. To be stirred excessively by things is not only to miss one’s place but also to flee the natural; to let oneself race after sorrow and delight—even before punishment arrives, the disposition is already worn down. Is that not a kind of penalty?

To come when the moment arrives is birth; to go when the moment arrives is, by the pattern of things, death. To be at peace in every season and to follow every change, merging undivided with creation and transformation—then joy and grief have no way in. One who is entangled is as if hung by a rope; without entanglement, there is release.

“Passing fire with firewood” is like this: when one stick is burned through, the flame passes to the next. The transmission of fire does not for that reason stop; if the inner life is nourished to the right degree, life too can continue. The point is that nurturing life (yangsheng) is the root by which life is sustained. The moment does not return, and the present instant does not linger. In human life, each breath is a fresh receiving: the breath before is not this breath—so by nurturing life, life goes on. The earlier stick is not the later stick—so after the wood is gone, fire can still be handed on. Whether fire is passed on or life extended depends on nourishment reaching its proper measure. Ordinary people do not know that after life ends there can still be new vitality.

Lu’s commentary: The etiquette of a condolence visit is to weep for the dead and to offer sympathy to the living. Qin Shi wept three times and thus wept for the dead; he left without speaking, which was his way of condoling the living—yet it seemed insufficient. So the disciples doubted that he was Laozi’s friend.

If that were really so, it would indeed be contrary to reason. I had first assumed that everyone who followed Laozi had grasped his Dao; now, seeing them all, young and old, cherish Laozi and weep for him, unable to rest in the times and yield to change, I know they had not grasped Laozi’s Dao. There are surely moments when one does not wish to speak yet speaks, does not wish to weep yet weeps; when inner mind and outward bearing answer each other, that is where Qin Shi and the crowd truly meet.

The life-and-feeling that people receive from Heaven originally has nothing that must produce grief or joy. To go against nature and turn one’s back on one’s inborn disposition is to forget what one has received. Nothing can depart from the Way of Heaven, yet one insists on fleeing it—one cannot in the end escape distress. When one understands that life comes exactly when its time arrives, one accepts it in peace; when life goes exactly when its time departs, one goes along with it. The ancients called this the “release of the Heavenly suspension”—meaning the loosening of bonds imposed by Heaven’s decree; for in the root sense, a person has never truly perished.

What fire relies on is fuel, yet fire is not fuel. When one stick is burned through, the fire passes to another; when it will end, no one knows. Why? Fire on this stick is just as fire on that stick; passed along in this way, how could there be an end? Fire stands for life, fuel for the body. Who understands this knows that what makes life life contains no real death—how then could one be swayed by grief and joy?

Yidu’s commentary: The “perfected person” is one who has reached the utmost level and is originally not dragged about by worldly feeling. After Laozi died, Qin Shi came to mourn and wailed; it is like when Yao died and the people grieved as if they had lost their parents. Unless one were emotionless wood or stone, how could one make the whole world forget sorrow? Still, whether Laozi truly had feeling could not be settled from the start.

The Book of Rites says: “Those who know the living go to offer condolence; those who know the dead go to mourn.” Qin Shi came to offer condolence—that was condolence for the living; he wept three times and left—that was mourning for the dead. The disciples wondered at his weeping only three times and doubted he was Laozi’s friend. He replied that three cries were enough. At first I thought he really was Laozi’s old friend, so when others condoled, he condoled; when others wailed, he wailed. Now I see that to go against nature, turn from one’s inborn disposition, and forget the feeling one has received is not fitting.

The human body is like a superfluous growth; birth and death are like night and dawn—how can one fix it that the living are not ghosts or the dead not the living? Why still clutch birth, death, grief, and joy in the heart?

Like a clump of earth, something exhales essential qi and stirs into form; thus the myriad things come to be, yet no one knows where they truly come from. Even Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang cannot rightly be called the parents of the myriad things. Foolish people in the world cling to the affection between children and parents and wail aloud; how much more so when others mourn the dead as if mourning their own parents and children?

When people meet and bond with one another, this deep grief arises. Therefore, words are spoken when there was no need to speak, and tears are shed when there was no need to weep—all of this belongs to the ways of worldly human sentiment. Qin Shi held that such mourning is a flight from the way of nature; it only deepens sorrow and forgets that one’s life was granted by the transformative process of creation in the first place. What is called “heaven’s punishment” (tianxing) is life itself; to flee the arrangements that life bestows is to be dragged along by them, and worry and calamity arise from this.

To regard the arrival of life as following the timely trend, and the departure of life likewise as following the timely trend—then joy and grief cannot enter the heart. The ancients called this “the Lord’s release from hanging” (di zhi xian jie): to have life is like being suspended and bound; to be without life is to be freed from that bondage. When one comprehends the way of life to its utmost, one knows that even if one were born in high antiquity, one would not grow old. It is like a torch passing along splinters of wood as fuel—the fire keeps being transmitted, and no one knows when it will be exhausted.

Liu Kai’s commentary says: The metaphor of “fuel and fire” illustrates that spirit (shen) lodges in the physical form and continually shifts as the form is replaced. The sages of old could nurture spirit and treat the body as a temporary lodging precisely for this reason. How could such a person cling to the physical form and thereby lose sight of the root of life?

Zhao’s commentary says: Qin Shi wept over Laozi’s corpse, yet did not grieve Laozi’s death, so his disciples were puzzled. Qin Shi then explained his view. Some interpreters think Qin Shi was displeased with Laozi for letting people mourn him so intensely; that reading misses the point. Laozi ordinarily did not contend with the world; he harmonized his light and mingled with the dust (heguang tongchen), not clashing with outer things—so people naturally cherished him. Hence those who need not speak spoke, and those who need not weep wept.

Qin Shi held that excessive mourning means fleeing creation (zaohua), violating ordinary human reason, and forgetting the life one received from Heaven. At that point Heaven too is helpless—hence “fleeing heaven’s punishment.” Not taking the coming of life as joy, nor the going of life as sorrow: this is what is meant by “dwelling in ease according to the times and following what is natural” (anshi chunshun). “Hanging” (xuan) means bearing great affliction and being burdened by the physical form; “release” (jie) means that one now knows one can cast off this bondage. “The Lord’s release from hanging” means the Creator makes one toil because one lives and lets one rest because one dies. The image of “the fingers burned through, the wood becoming fuel for fire” means that when the wood is consumed the fire goes out, yet the source of life that the fire represents continues—hence “the fire is transmitted, and none knows its end.”

Luzhai says: Qin Shi was Laozi’s friend. He wailed three times beside Laozi’s corpse, then spoke.

The phrase “not being bound by emotion” left the disciples puzzled, so someone asked: “I used to think Laozi was no ordinary man. Now I see his disciples weeping for him—young and old alike grieving so deeply. Surely Laozi had not yet freed himself from the burden of the physical form, so their hearts resonated with his; they did not mean to do this, yet sorrow arose of itself.

“Human nature as received from Heaven was originally without clinging. If people still mourn one another through emotion, they forget the nature first received from Heaven and turn away from the principle of Heaven and betray what is truly so. Such things are like being punished for going against Heaven’s intent. Hence it is said that this is ‘fleeing the penalty imposed by Heaven’s mandate.’ To live is simply to arrive in the world at the right moment; to die is simply to leave the world at the right moment. One should follow the season of fate and need neither grieve nor rejoice over it. Whoever understands this will not be bound by Heaven through birth and death.”

“Di’s xianjie” (di: the Way of Heaven or the governing principle; xianjie: release from the torment of hanging upside down) means liberation from the fetters of life and death. The text uses firewood and fire as a metaphor: fire burns on the wood until the wood is consumed, yet the fire in the world has never been extinguished from ancient times to the present. At this point the author closes with three sentences of analogy—a truly ingenious stroke.

Note: Earlier commentators often took zhi (指) as “finger,” holding that the preceding passage already covered the meaning of fingers. On close reading of the classic, zhi here should be the same as zhi (旨)—the point, the meaning. The whole teaching lies in the “as firewood” analogy, hence “the transmission of fire”: the wood is used up, but the fire is passed on—the sense is perfectly clear. In the “Knowledge Wandered North” chapter, the three words Zhou, Bian, and Xian differ in name but share one substance, pointing to the same principle; that passage can serve as collateral evidence.

One household’s firewood may be exhausted, but the fire in the world is not cut off; one who skillfully gathers fuel and passes on the fire can keep it alive. One person’s body may perish, yet the Shen (spirit) within the body is not thereby extinguished; one who skillfully nurtures life can preserve what endures in spirit. Fire lodges in that bundle of wood as it lodges in this bundle, yet each flame is not the same; Shen lodges in a later body as it lodges in the present body, yet each moment’s breath is not the same. Because flames differ, there is kindling and extinction; because breaths differ, there is birth and death. Yet the fire under Heaven is not fully spent, and Shen is not utterly annihilated, because someone receives and sustains them.

Mirrors reflecting the sun, striking stone, drilling wood, and rubbing bamboo and wood can all produce fire. The nature of fire pervades heaven and earth, but it must rely on such conditions to appear. The transformations of Shen work the same way: without wood, fire has nothing to cling to; without the physical form, where can Shen lodge? From this we know that the transmission of fire requires wood as its support, and the lodging of Shen likewise requires the body as its support.

This is precisely the principle by which perfected persons (至人)—those who have attained the Way—deploy their subtle efficacy, align with Heaven and Earth, and bring their work to full completion. The Nanhuá Zhēnjīng (the Daoist honorific title for Zhuāngzǐ) cites these examples to sum up the thrust of the chapter “Nourishing Life” (Yǎngshēng Zhǔ); the meaning runs deep.

Those who know how to tend the physical form do not injure the body; those who know how to tend the spirit and the Way can follow nature without forcing anything. The body is where life lodges; spirit is life’s true master. The path of emptiness and stillness (xūjìng) is precisely the method for nourishing spirit. Ordinary people only know how to “preserve life” and do not know how to nourish life’s master; the more deliberately they try to preserve it, the more easily they lose life’s authenticity. Hence the perfected person (zhēnrén) warns us not to spend a finite life chasing what has no end—only then do we come close to the real aim of nourishing life.

One who holds the Way in the heart does not fixate on good and evil; one who meets the outer world with a vacant, still mind—how could fame or punishment entangle him? To act from the constant Way within without losing one’s original nature—that is where the teaching lies on preserving the body and living out one’s full span of years.

Cook Ding carving the ox stands for how we engage with things; the cleaver stands for life itself. Though the cleaver has seen nineteen years of use, its edge is still like fresh steel from the grindstone. So it is: however many tangled affairs one has handled, my spirit remains clear and unspent for long stretches. That spirit is life’s master and ought to be tended well. Because it is tended in daily life, one can respond freely when the moment comes; by not squandering spirit, one achieves greater effect.

When Cook Ding wipes the cleaver clean and puts it away, that images what happens after dealing with affairs: in idle moments, reining in cleverness and sheathing one’s edge. Let each thing find its place, let affairs accord with reason, and one’s capacity is never worn down. True recluses of old sometimes lived in busy markets and mixed with people, yet could respond to events while the inner mind stayed still—precisely because they understood this.

Thus the key to cultivation puts emptiness and stillness first: without emptiness, one cannot preserve the heavenly spirit (tiānshén); without stillness, one cannot recover the mandate of life (tiānmìng). When nature is kept whole and the mandate of life is restored, the work of nourishing life is complete. Mind is like a bright mirror on a stand: it reflects all things yet leaves no trace—how could outer things truly affect it?

Most people, in chasing externals, lose their authenticity; tangled in affairs, they go against the natural order. Gain and loss, worry and care weave through the heart; sorrow and vexation never cease—how could life not be drained? Hence the marsh pheasant (zé zhì) refuses the cage—a point developed further below.

Lǎo Dān (Lǎozǐ) was a great sage and teacher within the Nanhuá tradition. Even so, the text says that death only teaches us to settle into the times, follow change, and end in constancy. As for the subtleties of shedding the body and transforming in flight, ordinary people cannot fathom them. When a sage dies, it is called “spirit” (shén)—that is the sense intended.

When Qín Shī went to offer condolences, three cries were already more than worldly ritual required. Yet the disciples still did not understand, so he told them: birth and death are both natural transformations; one should accept them calmly and not resist. This is what it means to loosen the bonds the Creator has placed upon us…

The bodily form of life must come to an end, yet spirit (Shen) can be kept whole and unlost—like firewood burned to ash while the flame is passed on without end. That is the respective teaching of nourishing the form and nourishing the spirit.

Since we have a body, we cannot avoid using this fleeting, insubstantial form to cultivate true nature; form and true nature rely on each other and support each other. Still, nourishing the form need not mean imitating Zhang Yi, who turned bodily care into an obsession. What matters is to keep both body and spirit intact and, in the end, to return to the Great Dao (the Way) as things naturally are. When the body can return whole, spirit is not lost; whether appearing in the visible or merging into the invisible, wherever one goes accords with the right path.

Fuxi received this Dao and inherited the root of Qi (vital energy). The Yellow Emperor received it and rose into the heavens. Fu Yue received it and rode between the Bow and Tail stars, taking his place among the constellations. The Daodejing says: “One who dies yet does not perish may be called long-lived.”