《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 52

Kui, a legendary one-legged beast, envied the many-legged centipede. The centipede envied the snake, the snake envied the wind, the wind envied the eyes, and the eyes envied the mind.

Kui said to the centipede, “I hop along on one leg, and even that feels difficult. You have thousands of legs. How can you possibly manage them all?”

The centipede replied, “It isn’t like that. Haven’t you seen someone spit? The drops that fly out are large as pearls or small as mist, all mixed together as they fall, too many to count. When I move, I simply follow my own natural workings. I don’t know why I can do it.”

The centipede said to the snake, “I walk with all these legs, yet I can’t keep up with you, who have none. Why is that?”

The snake replied, “How could anything driven by natural workings be changed? What would I need legs for?”

The snake said to the wind, “I move forward using my back and sides, so I still leave some trace of myself. But you roar up from the North Sea and roar onward into the South Sea, seeming to be nothing at all. Why is that?”

The wind replied, “That is indeed how it is. I roar up from the North Sea and blow into the South Sea. Yet if someone points a finger at me, they can outdo me; if someone steps on me, they can outdo me too. Even so, only I can break great trees and lift roofs from houses. So what many small things together cannot overcome counts as a great victory. Only a sage can achieve this kind of great victory.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Things grow not because they understand how to grow; they simply grow. They act not because they understand how to act; they simply act. The feet do not know why they can walk, the eyes do not know why they can see, and the mind does not know why it can understand. They simply function naturally. Movements may be fast or slow, and the senses may be keen or dull; each has what it can do and what it cannot. None of this is deliberately controlled by an ‘I.’ Yet some people try to claim the body and its abilities as their own, boasting of their talents. This goes against natural workings and harms the spirit. The Perfected Person understands that natural workings cannot be changed. They therefore set aside cleverness, skill, and deliberation, remain at ease in Wuwei (non-action), and let all things operate naturally. Thus no action hinders their carefree wandering. They follow their own natural workings and do not compete with the myriad things for victory: this is the principle that small victories cannot prevail. They direct the myriad things and put all kinds of abilities to use, allowing those with particular talents to make full use of them and all things to grow and function on their own. Then there is nothing in the world that cannot wander freely. This is the great victory that only a sage can achieve.”

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: “Kui envied the centipede because he had only one leg, while the centipede had many. The centipede envied the snake because he had many legs, while the snake had none. The snake moved by means of his back and sides, and so envied the way the wind roared as it blew…”

Yet the wind rises from the North Sea and enters the South Sea. From this we can see that when the eyes perceive things before them, the heart feels pity for what it lacks. The heart’s thoughts are endless; it seems able to imagine anything.

Kui, the legendary one-legged creature, thought that having only one leg made movement easy, and so pitied the many-legged xian, whose movement was difficult. The xian thought many legs were useful, and so pitied the snake for having none. The snake, in turn, pitied the wind: formless and legless, yet able to move and change swiftly. People do not know why things propelled by the workings of Heaven—the natural processes and instincts—are as they are. It is clear, then, that what we call difficult and easy does not truly depend on having more or fewer, or on having something or lacking it. We can therefore understand that the activity of the wind, the eyes, and the heart all arise from nature. How could the rigid calculations of worth and baseness, of more and less, made by the Earl of the River compare with this natural process?

The wind may seem weak, yet its force can surpass that of powerful things. The workings of human eyes and hearts are subtler still, yet they cannot reach the state of “seeing nothing and knowing nothing, yet seeing all and knowing all.” They therefore cannot master the myriad things or secure the greatest advantage. Can this truly be called knowledge?

Commentary by Yidu: Kui has only one leg and moves unsteadily; the xian has many legs and moves steadily; the snake has no legs yet moves swiftly; the wind has no body yet can set the myriad things in motion and change them. The eyes cling to external forms and colors, while the heart becomes caught up in what the senses encounter. Because Kui has only one leg, he pities the xian for having many: this is the few pitying the many. The slow-moving xian pities the swift-moving snake: this is the many pitying the few. The snake considers a body a burden and pities the wind, which can set change in motion. The wind cannot be seen, so it pities the eyes, which can see. The eyes are held fast by external things, so they pity the heart, which dwells within and takes no action.

“Stumbling”—the unsteady way of walking—is like spittle being sprayed: who can predict whether it will resemble pearls or mist? These phenomena all arise naturally from the workings of Heaven. The many-legged xian’s slow movement, the legless snake’s swift movement, and whether steady movement depends on having legs are all simply the way nature is. The wind rises from the North Sea and enters the South Sea, coming from a place of Yin and returning to a place of Yang. People try to direct and restrain it, but cannot overcome it. Yet when it breaks trees and blows houses away, its great power becomes clear. This serves as a metaphor for the learning of the sage: once one reaches a state like the wind’s, nothing can surpass it.

The discussion begins with Kui pitying the xian because he himself has only one leg, and continues through the wind. Perhaps pity arises only when there are first a heart and eyes: the eyes see external things, the heart is moved within, and one longs without end for what one has while lacking something else. In the state of having neither heart nor eyes, like the wind in its dealings with the myriad things, there is nothing left to pity. Who but the sage could reach such a state?

Commentary by Xiangdao: If legs are regarded in terms of their use, then one leg is less useful than many, and so Kui pities the xian. If legs are regarded as a burden, then many legs are less advantageous than having none… (The original text ends here.)

Kui, the mythical one-legged creature, envies the many-legged centipede, Xian. Xian envies the snake, which can move without legs. The snake envies the wind, which comes and goes swiftly. The wind rushes and blows everywhere, yet envies the eye, which can look in a fixed direction. The eye does no more than see things, while the mind can govern everything, so the eye in turn envies the mind.

Bixu says: Some things can prevail through having little, or through having nothing; this is all due to the workings of Heaven—the natural order—and the turn of one’s allotted fate. Strength cannot change what is fundamentally true, and people can hardly probe its mysteries to the end. Perhaps this is what the mutual envy of Kui, Xian, the snake, and the wind is about. Nothing is better than the eye for seeing things, and nothing is better than the mind for understanding them. When the eye sees but does not discriminate, it keeps its discernment within. When the mind understands but does not speak, it keeps its wisdom concealed. This is how one may fail to prevail in small matters yet prevail in great ones.

Yanzhai says: The passage moves from one leg to no legs, describing the natural workings of Heaven. It is truly marvelous. In the middle, it compares human saliva to Xian’s many legs, then brings the discussion around to the wind. When it turns to the mind and the eye, its writing shifts in yet another direction, adding another layer of wonder. It then moves from the wind to the idea that “one may fail to prevail in small matters yet achieve a great victory.” From this we can see that what thing lies beyond the bounds of creation?

After the exchange between the River Earl and the Sea Spirit, the True Man of Nanhua, Zhuangzi, presents his own argument and extends the earlier meaning. Kui, Xian, and the snake envy one another over whether they have legs, and how many; this is attachment to form. The mind and the eye envy one another over what is inward or outward, and what is effortful or effortless; this is attachment to function. These are all unreal feelings that things harbor. The wind alone has form yet is not constrained by form; though it has no fixed form, it can generate immense force. When it acts, it sets the transformation of the myriad things in motion; when its action is not apparent, it still rushes into the sea. This is simply the breath and movement of creation, returning in the end to creation itself.

This serves as a metaphor for how the sage can bend and extend in response to the world, combining the strengths of form and function. The sage handles every advance and retreat, every act and withdrawal, with care, never losing the Dao. People see the wind fail to prevail in small matters and so dismiss it. But once it gathers into great force, what it accomplishes is far more than uprooting trees and tearing roofs away. Does the wind deliberately set out to surpass the myriad things? The workings of Heaven have simply stirred, and this is what happens naturally.

Consider the River Earl and Sea Spirit’s discussion of worth and baseness, few and many, great and small, coarse and fine. It is like different kinds of things envying one another out of unreal feelings, without understanding that each thing embodies the natural order, and that there is no need for them to feel hatred or preference toward one another. Forms and numbers may be many or few, and movements slow or swift; so long as each rests in its own nature, all are …

Being within the Great Dao is why the sage can remain at ease wherever he goes.

Some readers may wonder: the passage that follows explains mutual care in detail, but only mentions the wind. It does not discuss the meaning of “care for the eyes” or “care for the heart,” and seems to conclude merely by saying that there are a heart and eyes. In fact, the heart and eyes must come first; only then can there be care for them. This explanation makes sense.

When Confucius was traveling in Kuang, men from the state of Song surrounded him on all sides. Yet he continued playing the zither and singing without stopping. Zilu went in to see him and asked, “Master, why are you still so happy?” Confucius said, “Come, I will tell you. For a long time I have wanted to escape hardship, yet I still cannot avoid it. That is fate. For a long time I have wanted to attain success, yet I have never been able to do so. That is the times. When Yao and Shun governed, there were no destitute people under Heaven. This was not because people were better at seeking success. When Jie and Zhou governed, there were no successful people under Heaven. This was not because people did not know how to avoid hardship. It was the times that made it so. To sail on water without avoiding dragons is the fisherman’s courage. To walk on land without avoiding rhinoceroses and tigers is the hunter’s courage. To face swords and spears and regard death as no different from life is the warrior’s courage. To understand that hardship is a matter of fate and success a matter of the times, and to face great danger without fear—that is the sage’s courage. You, Zilu, put your mind at rest. My fate has its own arrangement.”

Before long, the commander of the armored soldiers stepped forward and apologized. “We thought you were Yang Hu, which is why we surrounded you. Now we know you are not. Please allow us to withdraw.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says that Confucius’s words were meant to show that the times and fate are simply as they are, and that there is no need to trouble oneself over hardship or success. Fishermen, hunters, and warriors each have circumstances they can face with composure; the sage can accept any circumstance with composure. Once one understands that fate is beyond one’s control, one stops worrying about it. Those who are at peace with fate can roam freely wherever they go.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says that although Confucius was trapped in Kuang, he faced life and death calmly and without fear. The people of Kuang later asked to withdraw. This shows that those who cannot let go of distinctions and cling to gain and loss worry over life and death to no purpose; their worries bring no benefit and only burden the heart.

Yidu’s commentary says that hardship and success concern one’s own circumstances, while the times and fate are determined by Heaven. It is easier to cope with seeking success and failing to attain it; wanting to avoid hardship but being unable to do so is harder. This is like the old saying: “Be rich without becoming arrogant; be poor without resentment.” The ancients never let hardship or success burden them; they simply made peace with the times in which they found themselves. The fisherman who does not avoid dragons, the hunter who does not avoid rhinoceroses and tigers, and the warrior who does not avoid swords and spears each show a limited, lesser courage. To face great danger without fear is the sage’s great courage.

Having all three qualities together is perhaps comparable to what Mencius called “courage in the cause of righteousness.”

Confucius said, “You should calmly accept the course of my fate and let the Creator—the power that governs the generation and transformation of all things—deal with me as he will. What can the people of Kuang do to me?” Before long, the armed men realized they had made a mistake and took their leave. From this we can see that one who truly understands fate is not troubled by life and death. Confucius carried this to its fullest expression.

Bixu, the commentator, says: When Confucius traveled to Kuang, people from Song surrounded him. The phrase “pointing and pressing” means that they accused and harried Confucius, each believing he had the upper hand. When they realized they had mistaken him for someone else, they asked to leave. This is what is meant by “a great victory.”

Yanzhai, the commentator, says: This passage concerns the way that fortune and destiny have their own arrangements, beyond human control or foreknowledge. What has a person who understands the Great Dao to fear? The text compares the sage to a fisherman, a hunter, and a man of valor, and each comparison has its own logic. There is no need to say more about the episode in which they later stop to rest.

This chapter makes clear that life and death are governed by fate, while hardship and success each come in their own time. Therefore, the gentleman does not stand beneath a wall that may collapse, nor does he sacrifice benevolence and righteousness merely to stay alive; even in the face of great danger, he does not fear. Knowing that fate has its own governing force, he does all he can in ordinary circumstances and, when the moment comes, calmly accepts Heaven’s decree. Once he has truly gained what is most precious and substantial within himself, hardship and success, gain and loss in the external world cannot unsettle him. In the end, the armed men realize their mistake and ask to leave. This shows that human beings cannot prevail over Heaven’s decree, and also reveals the principle that the soft and yielding can overcome the forceful. Without a sage’s insight into how things work and deep understanding of his own situation, how could this have been possible?

(The notes on pronunciation and meaning in Lu Deming’s Shiyi of the Classics cite an old commentary by Sima Biao, which says that “Song” should read “Wei.” Kuang was a town in the state of Wei, and most surviving editions mistakenly write “Song.”)

Gongsun Long, a famous debater of the Warring States period, asked Wei Mou, a prince of Wei: “When I was young, I studied the Way of the former kings. As I grew older, I mastered the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I became skilled at discussing how things are alike and different, distinguishing hardness from whiteness, and arguing what is right and wrong, what is permitted and what is not. I confounded the wisdom of the various schools and refuted the arguments of the crowd. I thought I had reached the utmost understanding. Now I have heard Zhuangzi’s words, and I am bewildered and astonished. I do not know whether my arguments cannot match his, or whether my understanding falls short of his. I do not now understand where the problem lies, and I venture to ask you to explain.”

Prince Mou leaned on his table, sighed deeply, and, looking up at the sky with a laugh, said: “Have you never heard of the frog at the bottom of a well? It said to the great turtle from the Eastern Sea, ‘How happy I am here! I can leap about on the well’s edge, or rest beside the broken bricks. When I jump into the water, it supports me beneath the arms and under my chin; when I step into the mud, it buries my feet. Look at the red worms, crabs, and tadpoles around me: none of them can compare with me…’”

(The frog at the bottom of the well said to the turtle from the Eastern Sea,) “To possess the water of a single ravine is enough to make me content and happy in my well. I am quite satisfied with that. Why don’t you come visit the well from time to time?”

The turtle from the Eastern Sea had not yet set its left foot inside the well when its right knee was already caught on the rim. So it backed away a few steps, turned, and left. It told the frog, “A thousand li are not enough to describe the breadth of the sea; a thousand ren are not enough to measure its depth. When Yu the Great controlled the floods, there were nine floods in ten years, yet the sea did not grow larger. In the time of Tang, there were seven droughts in eight years, yet the coastline did not recede. Whether time passes quickly or slowly, the sea does not grow or shrink with the amount of water, nor change with the advance or retreat of the tides. This is the great joy of the Eastern Sea.”

On hearing this, the frog at the bottom of the well was stunned and bewildered, at a loss for what to do.

Furthermore, if you have not yet truly understood where right and wrong begin and end, but wish to hear Zhuangzi’s teachings, it is like asking a mosquito to carry a mountain or the tiny insect known as shangju to race across a river: they could never manage it. If you have not yet understood the most subtle teachings, but are content with the immediate advantages before you, are you not just like the frog at the bottom of the well?

As for the state that transcends all boundaries, reaches into the unseen, and rises to the highest realm: there is no north or south; body and mind open wide, dissolving into what cannot be fathomed. There is no east or west; one emerges from the mysterious and returns to the all-pervading Dao. Yet you still painstakingly pursue close examination and seek distinctions through argument. That is just like looking at the sky through a bamboo tube or measuring the earth with an awl. Is that not far too narrow? Go on your way! Have you never heard the story of the young man from Shouling who went to Handan to learn how to walk? He failed to learn the Handan gait and forgot how he had walked before, so he could only crawl home. If you do not leave now, you too may forget your former abilities and lose what you have learned.”

Gongsun Long, a scholar of the School of Names, stood with his mouth agape, unable to close it, and his tongue raised, unable to lower it. Then he fled.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: To possess the water of a single ravine and be content with the joy of living in a well is like a small bird being satisfied among the mugwort. The fact that the turtle’s left foot had not entered the well before its right knee was caught on the rim shows that the great cannot roam freely within the small—not because the great itself wishes to be confined. Fixating on the small while longing for the great only leaves one bewildered. All things have their own endowments; none can force themselves to imitate another. “One emerges from the mysterious and returns to the all-pervading Dao” means reaching everywhere. One cannot attain free roaming without limit through argument and examination. If something is not suited to what you can undertake, it is enough to leave it aside. To measure yourself against others and imitate them causes both sides to lose what suits them.

Lü’s commentary says that “where right and wrong begin and end” refers to the point at which things each begin and how they fall into distinctions between right and wrong.

By seeing clearly where all things arise from, one regards Yao and Jie as equal and understands that no fixed boundary can be drawn between “knowing” and “not knowing.” Those who reach this state are left at a loss, with nowhere to turn; they feel no need even to speak their minds.

Whether beneath the Yellow Springs (the underworld) and the Six Directions (above, below, and the four cardinal points), or above the Great Sovereign and the Supreme Ultimate, there is no distinction between north and south. The mind and spirit open wide, extending in every direction and sinking into the unfathomable, forgetting the difference between darkness and light. In this way, one enters a wondrous realm. Without distinctions between east and west, one begins in the Mysterious Darkness (a profound and remote realm) and returns to the Great Communion (the state in which all things are interconnected), joining with the Qi of harmonious balance. The spirit then manifests and ultimately reaches clear understanding.

In brief, this is what is meant by “the six passages open and the four directions spread; the body fills the empty expanse”: the spirit moves freely without obstruction, and the body fills the void. This meaning cannot be exhausted by thought or explained in words. To persist in trying to verify it through close observation and investigate it through debate is like peering at the sky through a bamboo tube or measuring the earth with an awl.

Commentary by Yidu: Gongsun Long used his debating skill to confound the various schools, overcoming everyone through his knowledge and eloquence. Now, hearing Zhuangzi’s words, he is bewildered and inwardly finds them hard to accept. Gongzi Mou therefore advises him with the parable of the frog in the well and the turtle in the sea. Hearing it, Gongsun Long is greatly shaken and recognizes the limits of his understanding.

His wisdom is not enough to grasp the realm that lies beyond judgments of right and wrong, and he cannot understand the most subtle teachings. He is like the frog in the well. The realm Zhuangzi describes reaches above the heavens and deep beneath the earth: it opens into complete understanding and reveals benevolence; it sinks into the unfathomable and contains wondrous workings. To begin in the Mysterious Darkness is to be still and unmoving; to return to the Great Communion is to respond to all things and move freely without obstruction. How could such subtlety be grasped through close observation and debate?

Shouling was a town in the state of Yan, and Handan was the capital of Zhao. A young man from Shouling heard that the people of Zhao were skilled at walking, so he traveled a thousand miles to Handan. He abandoned the way of walking he already knew and strained to imitate the people of Zhao. In the end, he learned nothing from them and even forgot how to walk as he had before. Gongsun Long, presuming too much in trying to learn from Zhuangzi, is just like that man from Shouling: he will not learn Zhuangzi’s Dao and will ultimately lose the abilities he already has.

Commentary by Bixu: A countryman, having enjoyed the warmth of the sun, wanted to offer that experience to his ruler. This is like the frog in the well offering advice to the turtle in the sea. The ocean is vast; neither drought nor flood can change its volume. Those who have attained the Great Dao are likewise unaffected: how could favor or disgrace make them joyful or sorrowful?

The parable aims to clarify right and wrong. If we set aside the distinction between right and wrong, how can we understand the relative weight of what the parable expresses? People often treat immediate gain as their highest aim, yet those who boast of such gain have never heard of a long-term plan. Moreover, Zhuangzi has already gone beyond those absorbed in worldly affairs, stepped outside the realm of visible things, and withdrawn…

The spirit sinks into a deep, formless realm and forgets the distinction between east and west. From the silent void, it returns to the source of things. To measure the Great Dao by limited standards and rules, or to investigate it through close scrutiny and argument, is as narrow as looking at the sky through a bamboo tube. One who tries to learn another’s way of walking but loses their own can only crawl home. One who studies cleverness and disputation but forgets their original nature becomes confused and loses the Dao.

Yanzhai says: “Nine years of floods and seven years of drought”—that is indeed how it was; at the time, humanity was nearly wiped out. Zhuangzi recast the story as ten years with nine floods and eight years with seven droughts. He also says that people could tread below on the Yellow Springs and climb above to the heavens, showing the breadth and height of their understanding. “Shì” means open and clear. “Lún” means sinking into an unfathomable depth: the deeper one enters this realm, the more obscure and formless it appears at first. It lies before the Limitless and ultimately returns to “Great Pervasion,” the ultimate Dao. To pursue the Great Dao only through close scrutiny and verbal debate—is that not far too narrow? The story of “learning to walk in Handan” is especially apt.

Gongsun Long was a debater from the state of Zhao. He excelled at discussing sameness and difference together and distinguishing hardness from whiteness. He could confound the Hundred Schools and leave others speechless. Yet after hearing Zhuangzi’s words, he became confused and lost. This is what often happens to those who chase external learning while forgetting their inner nature.

So Wei Mou used the story of the frog in the well and the turtle in the sea to guide him: people’s understanding naturally differs according to where they live. In this way, one can see where right and wrong arise and grasp the meaning of profound discourse. Only upon reaching this state can one climb to the heavens and descend to the springs, with a mind open and clear. At first, one must enter a deep, formless realm, unite with emptiness, and accord with nonbeing. In the end, one returns to “Great Pervasion” and becomes one with the Dao. To try to exhaust Zhuangzi’s teachings now with a little verbal skill is like the young man from Shouling who went to Handan to learn how to walk, forgot his original way of walking, and could only crawl home. “Yuzi” means a young man.