《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 53

Zhuangzi was fishing by the Pu River. The king of Chu sent two senior officials to visit him first. They said, “We hope to entrust you with the affairs of state in Chu.”

Holding his fishing rod and not turning his head, Zhuangzi said, “I have heard that Chu has a sacred tortoise that died three thousand years ago. The king wrapped it in cloth, placed it in a box, and treasured it in the ancestral temple. Would this tortoise rather have died and left behind bones that people prize, or would it rather be alive, dragging its tail through the mud?” The two officials replied, “It would rather be alive, dragging its tail through the mud.” Zhuangzi said, “Then please go back. I, too, would rather live, dragging my tail through the mud.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: To be alive and dragging one’s tail through the mud is preferable because every creature has its own choice of what brings it ease.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Zhuangzi knew perfectly well what death was, yet he asked this question in order to save the people of his time. They pursued profit single-mindedly until they forgot to preserve their lives. The two officials were perceptive enough to understand his point.

The Yidu commentary says: Zhuangzi used the story of the sacred tortoise to decline the king of Chu’s invitation to serve. Perhaps he did not want wealth and status to damage his life.

The Bixu commentary says: From this we can see that official rank and splendor are merely things external to oneself; they are not what the nature of life requires.

Yanzhai says: The comparison between leaving bones behind after death and living with one’s tail dragging through the mud is truly ingenious. Zhuangzi’s use of the sacred tortoise to decline the summons is entirely apt. The state does need worthy people to avert disasters and plan its governance. But after their work is done, they may also invite trouble and even find themselves unable to protect their own lives. This is like the sacred tortoise: though endowed with spiritual power, it can still be captured. In the past, Tao Hongjing led two oxen by their halters in daylight as he answered an imperial summons: one ox was constrained, driven by whip and bridle; the other lived freely among the water and grass. His point was the same.

When Huizi was prime minister in the state of Liang, Zhuangzi went to visit him. Someone told Huizi, “Zhuangzi has come because he wants to take your place as prime minister.” Huizi was alarmed and searched throughout the state for three days and three nights. Zhuangzi went to see him and said, “In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu, a mythical bird. Do you know it? The yuanchu sets out from the South Sea and flies to the North Sea. It will not alight on anything but a parasol tree; it will eat nothing but bamboo fruit; it will drink nothing but sweet spring water. At that moment, an owl was clutching a rotten rat in its beak. The yuanchu flew past, and the owl raised its head, glared at it, and cried, ‘Hah!’ Now, are you trying to frighten me with the position of prime minister in Liang?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Searched throughout the state” means mobilizing troops and putting the ranks in order. “Are you trying to frighten me with Liang?” means that different things have different preferences, and each has a way of life suited to it.

Master Lü comments: What Zhuangzi did, as Wei Mou said, did not go against common sense in any way. He compared himself to the sacred tortoise and the yuanchu, a legendary bird of the phoenix kind; Huizi to the chi, a bird that feeds on carrion; and the state of Liang to a rotten rat. Is it not reasonable to put it this way?

Master Yidu comments: The yuanchu is a bird of the phoenix kind. When it flies and settles, it always chooses a tree; when it eats, it always chooses fruit; when it drinks, it always chooses clear water. It is a noble bird. The chi is a filthy bird. “He” is the sound it makes when driving other birds away.

Master Bixu comments: Huizi feared that Zhuangzi would come to Liang, so he searched the whole state for him. This shows that those who hold power cannot entrust their authority to others. How is vaunting oneself on the strength of wealth and status any different from a chi guarding a rotten rat and crying “He!” at a yuanchu?

Yanzhai says: Zhuangzi and Huizi were closest of friends. This may never really have happened; perhaps the two were only joking and teasing each other. “Lianshi” means bamboo fruit.

The character “sou” should be written “sou”; Guo Xiang’s commentary can serve as proof. Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary explains it as searching throughout the state for Zhuangzi. Yidu follows this interpretation, which is fairly straightforward and likely arose from a scribal error in the character’s form. When a chi gets a rotten rat, it squawks at a yuanchu. How could it be fit to discuss the taste of bamboo fruit, the sweetness of sweet spring water, or the life of roosting in a lofty parasol tree?

Zhuangzi and Huizi were walking on the bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi said, “How freely the tiao fish swim! That is the happiness of fish.” Huizi said, “You are not a fish. How do you know what makes fish happy?” Zhuangzi replied, “You are not me. How do you know that I don’t know what makes fish happy?” Huizi said, “I am not you, so of course I don’t know you. And since you are not a fish, it is entirely certain that you don’t know what makes fish happy.” Zhuangzi said, “Let us return to what we were saying. When you asked, ‘How do you know what makes fish happy?’ you had already granted that I knew it, and only then asked me how. I know it here, on the bridge over the Hao River.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Zhuangzi’s point is that if you think “you are not me” is enough to know that I am not a fish, then my not being a fish is also enough for me to know that fish are happy. Huizi abandoned his original argument and turned instead to a verbal challenge. At first, Huizi had said only, “You are not a fish, so you cannot know one another.” But now, though you are not me, you ask, “How do you know what makes fish happy?” This amounts to granting that beings unlike one another can still understand one another; one need not first become a fish to know what fish feel. Zhuangzi says that, following the wording “How do you know?”, you have already admitted that I know, yet you turn around and ask me how. I know it here, on the bridge over the Hao River. Must I wait until I have jumped into the water? All things grow in their own ways and rest content within their own natures…

The earth cannot change its position, and the two Qi energies of Yin and Yang cannot change their respective patterns of movement. That is why people live on land.

People know that they live securely on land and prefer it, but that does not necessarily mean they truly understand its subtle wonder.

Lü’s commentary says: Consider the matter by following it back to its root. Hui Shi asked Zhuangzi, “You are not a fish, so how do you know that fish are happy?” Zhuangzi replied, “You are not me, so how do you know that I don’t know that fish are happy?” Hui Shi then said, “Since I am not you, I naturally don’t know you. But since you are not a fish, you don’t know what makes fish happy either.” Zhuangzi pointed out that Hui Shi must already have known whether or not he understood the matter, or he would not have come to ask him. As for Zhuangzi, he knew that the fish were happy while standing on the Hao River bridge; he did not have to become a fish first to know it.

Yidu’s commentary says: Fish hide in deep places, at ease and content. A classic says, “In fish, one finds the knack,” meaning that one deeply understands the habits of fish and uses that understanding to make sense of them. People live on land and are at ease on land; fish live in water and are at ease in water. Only by fully understanding one’s own nature can one go on to experience the nature of all things. This is how Zhuangzi could know that the fish were happy. Hui Shi did not understand this, and so clung to arguments about right and wrong, self and other. When Zhuangzi said, “Let us follow the matter back to its root,” he hoped Hui Shi would consider it by extending his own experience to others. His final words, “I knew it here, above the Hao,” mean that he extended the ease he felt above the Hao River to the fish, and so knew their happiness.

Xiangdao’s commentary says: In outward form, the shapes of things differ from mine; in inner principle, their nature is no different from mine. Hui Shi judged by differences in form, and so said, “You are not a fish, so how do you know that fish are happy?” Zhuangzi, by contrast, experienced one nature through another. Though he was not a fish, he could still understand what fish were like. If one can set aside distinctions of size and rank, one will feel that Heaven and Earth exist together with oneself, and that all things are one with oneself. Then, while here, one can experience the pleasures of being there; while in the open, one can understand the happiness of those concealed from view.

Bixu’s commentary says: Zhuangzi was himself free and at ease, and so saw the fish moving leisurely and untroubled. Hui Shi treated humans and fish as entirely separate, and thus raised his objection in a way that departed from the aim of “making all things equal”—dissolving the distinctions that set things against one another. It is understandable that Hui Shi did not grasp Zhuangzi’s intent; but it is not necessarily right to say that Zhuangzi did not understand the nature of fish. Hui Shi’s question, “How do you know that fish are happy?” in fact shows that he did not understand the fish and was asking Zhuangzi about them. The fish swam through the water, leisurely and at ease; only Zhuangzi, standing on the Hao River bridge, saw their happiness. The happiness of fish may differ from that of humans, but both express freedom and ease.

Yanzhai says: “Follow the matter back to its root” means returning to the original question: at the start, you asked me, “You are not a fish…”

“‘How do you know that fish are happy?’ Your question already shows that you know what I am asking. Since you have understood me in this way, I, standing on the Hao River bridge, understand the fish in just the same way.”

This passage can be read alongside the exchange in the Records of the Transmission of the Lamp about the National Teacher Zhong and the teaching of the “insentient.” The Chan master Dahui once said that Zhuangzi and Huizi, trading words back and forth, seem like two people stubbornly clinging to the point of argument, neither willing to let go. Zhuangzi’s debate here shows his sharp wit and forceful presence.

Li Shibiao says that nothing in the world is without the Dao, so why should people draw such a sharp distinction between themselves and other things? The nature of all things is received from Heaven, so what can people claim as theirs alone? Zhuangzi could dissolve the boundary between things and self because he grasped their subtle principle naturally, without deliberate investigation. This understanding came through a quiet attunement of mind and spirit; it was not something human effort could arrange in advance. That is how Zhuangzi could know the fish were happy on the Hao River bridge.

The fish rise to the surface and swim freely, without the danger of nets or the worry of getting wet with splashing water, living at ease in the stream. Is that all their happiness consists of? Even so, why wait for Zhuangzi to tell us before we can know that fish are happy? The fish’s happiness lies in its accord with the Dao, not merely in being in water. What Zhuangzi understood was happiness itself, not simply a guess about how the fish felt. The fish forget the water, and so their happiness is complete; people forget the fish, and so their understanding is whole.

Zhuangzi could have said nothing here, and Huizi could have asked nothing. Yet without the question, there would be nowhere to express the profound principle; without words, the subtlety of the Dao could not come to light. Zhuangzi discusses the matter this way to dispel the later prejudice that sharply separates external things from the self.

If we start from external things, Zhuangzi is certainly not a fish: how can he know that fish are happy? If we start from the self, Huizi is certainly not Zhuangzi: how can he know that Zhuangzi does not know that fish are happy? Whether one says “know” or “do not know,” both are merely offshoots of the Dao. So Zhuangzi says, “Let us return to the root of the matter.” As for root and offshoot, neither need be clung to.

The ancients once said that the eyes are like the ears, the ears like the nose, and the nose like the mouth: from the standpoint of the self, all things can be understood as connected in this way. To regard life and death as life and death, oneself as a fish, a pig as a person, and a person as a pig: from the standpoint of external things, they too can be understood as connected. With such understanding, wherever one is, one can wander freely, and every place becomes a realm of subtlety. All things are truly delightful, and everywhere there is a natural harmony and joy. Why should happiness belong only to the fish on the Hao River bridge?

“Fish are truly happy!” From this we can see that Zhuangzi and the fish were never truly separated by any barrier. Only when we understand that “ultimate joy” is not happiness in the ordinary sense, and that true knowing is not knowledge in the ordinary sense, can we speak of what is happening here.

Those who understand their own nature can understand all things. Those who do not understand their own nature cannot understand others, and so, when observing things, they are often confined to appearances. Zhuangzi understood the fish’s joy because his nature resonated with theirs. Huizi did not understand Zhuangzi, and questioned him by relying on outward appearances. At first reading, people often admire Huizi’s eloquence, thinking that a few words are enough to demolish the argument of the Nanhua Zhenjing (True Classic of the Southern Florescence). But once they hear the words “follow the root,” they see that even Huizi’s vast learning has nothing to add—and they understand where his question went wrong.

The Jing (classic) often goes to great lengths to correct Huizi’s misjudgment, yet no two words strike so directly at its heart as “follow the root.” This means seeking and grasping the nature of things. When a person understands the principle of nature shared by all things, there is no barrier between self and other. Whether in the movement of emotion or in stillness and Wuwei (non-action), all accords with the ultimate principle. Why, then, must one enter the water before knowing that the fish are happy?

Look more closely at the Jing: in the phrase “Huizi does not know the fish’s joy,” the word quan means “certainly”—that is, “Huizi certainly does not know that the fish are happy.” Bixuzi’s choice of “Lequan” (“Joy in Certainty”) as the chapter title seems to stray from the original meaning. I propose changing it to “Following the Root Chapter,” which may better reflect the Jing’s intent.

This chapter is titled “Autumn Floods.” Through the dialogue between Hebo and Hairuo, it uses the contrast between the small and the vast, the subtle and the coarse, to explain the different functions and qualities of the Dao and the myriad things. All things exist in accordance with their own nature; none is absolutely noble or base. Success and failure, gain and loss, likewise shift with the times. The chapter’s repeated debates ultimately lead to this conclusion: do not let human intervention damage innate nature, and do not let human contrivance damage the mandate of Heaven. It is enough to seek within the bounds of one’s own nature. This is what it means to return to one’s original authenticity—a state that cannot be fully reached through debate, thought, or observation.

The chapter then offers the story of the Kui, the centipede, the snake, and the wind, each envying the others, as an analogy. People often feel ashamed of, or boast about, differences in ability and understanding, without realizing that the workings of Heaven cannot be changed. Being inferior to others in one respect may mean surpassing them in another. Once this is truly understood, one sees that each thing is content with its own place. What is there left to envy? When envy ceases, so does the impulse to compare; as that impulse settles, the mind’s distinctions dissolve. This may be the heart of the matter.

When Confucius traveled through Kuang and faced danger, he was not afraid because he knew that fate was arranged by the Creator, not controlled by the people of Kuang. If one falters and submits whenever confronted with violence, how could one show the courage of a sage? The story of the frog in the well and the turtle in the sea continues the meaning of the earlier exchange between Hebo and Hairuo, and ultimately concludes with…

Those who understand how things work and know how to adapt cannot be harmed by external things. Ordinary people have shallow understanding. Although they know that sages lie ahead, they force themselves to admire and follow them; in the end, like someone trying to learn another person’s way of walking, they lose their own natural stride. To pursue another’s strengths while relying on one’s own weaknesses, and to demand what lies beyond one’s proper place, brings no benefit and instead causes harm.

As for the truth of the matter, the sacred tortoise would rather drag its tail through the mud than be enshrined in a temple. And how could the young phoenix, the fabled divine bird, cherish a rotten dead rat? These images lament the decline of the age and grieve that the Great Dao can no longer be put into practice.

The passage concludes by invoking the debate between Zhuangzi and Huizi on the bridge over the Hao River: the nature of all things and of human beings is originally connected; only because their forms differ can they not directly understand one another. If we grasp things through their nature, the joy of fish and the joy of people are no different. A person who is at ease in their own circumstances can understand the fish’s joy; there is nothing strange in that. What is truly strange is that people argue over minor points and forget the roots of nature and life.

These words do not merely strike at the heart of Huizi’s position; they also serve as a warning to those in the world who seek learning. Some hear the words of a single teacher and then imagine themselves satisfied, becoming intoxicated by them. They are no different from the Earl of the River, who saw the waters of the Yellow River and boasted of its vastness. For this reason, the passage brings the central theme of this chapter to a close.

Collected Subtle Commentaries on the True Classic of Nanhua, juan 55