《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 55

Zhuangzi was in the state of Chu when he saw an empty skull, dried and shriveled. He tapped it with his horsewhip and asked, “Sir, did you come to this because you clung to life and went against what is natural? Or because your state fell and you were executed with axe and halberd? Or because you did something wicked and were ashamed to face your parents, wife, and children? Or because you suffered from cold and hunger? Or because your allotted years had run their course?”

After asking, Zhuangzi picked up the skull, used it as a pillow, and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, the skull appeared to him in a dream and said, “You speak like a skilled debater. All the things you just mentioned are burdens that the living have to endure. After death, none of them remain. Would you like to hear what it is like after death?”

Zhuangzi said, “I would.”

The skull said, “After death, above there is no ruler, below there are no subjects, and there are no affairs brought by the turning of the four seasons. One is free and at ease, with Heaven and Earth as one’s lifespan. Even the joy of facing south as a king cannot compare with this freedom.”

Zhuangzi did not believe it. “If I had the God in charge of life restore you, grow your flesh and skin back over your bones, and return you to your parents, wife and children, neighbors, and friends, would you be willing?”

The skull knitted its brow and replied, “How could I give up the joy of facing south as a king and return to the human world to endure its toil?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Earlier accounts held that Zhuangzi loved death and hated life. If that were truly so, how could he be said to teach that life and death are one? To regard them as one means to be at ease with life while alive and at ease with death when dead. Since one’s attitude toward life and death is equal, one does not worry about death when one ought to be living. This is Zhuangzi’s central teaching.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Only by investigating the beginning and end of things can one understand the principle of life and death. Life and death are originally one, so it is wrong for people to cling to life and hate death. But how could loving death and hating life count as regarding life and death as one? Zhuangzi says the skull takes joy in “facing south as a king” because what people find hardest to let go of is their attachment to life and fear of death. His words were not without purpose.

Yidu’s commentary says: Through the skull’s exchange with Zhuangzi, he explains that life and death are one. When people are at ease with life while alive and at ease with death when dead, they are not driven by the transformations of Yin-Yang. They do not worry about death when there is no reason to, and they do not cling to life when it is time to die.

Bixu’s commentary says: The original text continues by discussing “those who delight in life take worldly affairs as their pleasure, while the dead take people…”.

When Yan Yuan was about to go to the state of Qi, Confucius looked troubled. Zigong rose from his seat and asked, “Your disciple ventures to ask: Yan Hui is going to Qi. Why are you worried, Master?”

Confucius said, “That is a good question. Guan Zhong once said something I greatly agree with: a small vessel cannot hold a large thing, and a short rope cannot draw water from a deep well. Each person’s abilities have their limits, just as each body has conditions suited to it. Neither can easily be changed. I worry that when Yan Hui meets the Marquis of Qi, he will speak of the Way of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, and add the teachings of Suiren and Shennong. The Marquis may then try to find these principles within himself, but fail. If he cannot find them, he will be bewildered; bewilderment may bring danger.”

“Have you not heard? Once, a sea bird alighted in the outskirts of Lu. The Marquis of Lu went out in person to welcome it and invited it into the ancestral temple, where he hosted a feast for it. He had the ancient music ‘Nine Shao’ played and served it a grand sacrificial offering of ox, sheep, and pig. But the sea bird was dazzled and frightened. It dared not eat even a small piece of meat or drink even a cup of wine. Three days later, it died. This was raising a bird by the methods used to raise a person.”

This passage uses a sea bird unable to adapt to a human feast as a metaphor: we should treat others in ways suited to their actual circumstances and what they can bear.

Birds cannot be raised in the same way as people. Those who keep birds should let them roost in deep forests, play on sandbanks, and drift over rivers and lakes. They should feed them loaches and small fish, let them move and rest with flocks of birds, and live at ease. Birds dislike the sound of human voices; why make them listen to the clamor of a crowd?

Play “Xianchi” (said to be music composed by the Yellow Emperor) and “Jiushao” (said to be music from the time of Shun) for them in the wilds of Dongting. Hearing it, the birds fly away, the beasts flee, and the fish dive to the bottom of the water. Only people gather to watch. Fish live in water, but people would die if they lived there. Fish and people naturally have different preferences. The sages of antiquity did not regard all abilities as the same, nor make all things do the same work. Names and roles should match reality, and principles should accord with what is appropriate to each thing. This is called following each thing’s proper course, moving freely without obstruction, and preserving one’s share of good fortune.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When one seeks within and cannot find what one seeks, one turns outward. If inner and outer seeking are confused with each other, how could one avoid bewilderment? Things can move freely and without obstruction only when they match reality and each finds what suits it. When each nature can rest in its usual state, one’s share of good fortune can be preserved.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: If one does not understand the boundaries between right and wrong, and between perception and knowledge, hearing Zhuangzi’s words will inevitably leave one dazzled, confused, anxious, and sorrowful. That is why Zhuangzi tells the story of the sea bird again and again: he wants learners to think deeply and act with care. Breaking open a city gate and blocking a cave require different tools; catching mice a thousand li away requires a different skill. Being bright at night and dim during the day, too, belongs to a different nature. This is precisely why the sages of antiquity did not regard abilities as all the same or make things do the same work.

When names and roles match reality, there are no designations that go beyond what is real. When principles accord with what is appropriate, there are no principles put into practice to excess. “Moving freely” means arranging things according to their natural strengths and limitations, without demanding that everything be unobstructed everywhere. If one insists on making everything move freely, one will instead find oneself unable to proceed. “Preserving one’s share of good fortune” means acting in accordance with the measure allotted to each, without giving too much; give too much, and it cannot be preserved for long.

Yidu’s commentary: Yan Hui was preparing to go to Qi. He intended to instruct the Marquis of Qi in the ways of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, but he did not understand that the Marquis’s nature was already set. If he forced his teaching upon him, he would surely invite humiliation. This was what Confucius worried about, and why Zigong questioned him. A chu is a sack for holding things, and a geng is a well rope: a small sack cannot hold a large load, and a short rope cannot draw water from a deep well. A person’s nature comes from Heaven’s mandate; it cannot be arbitrarily increased or diminished, but can only be followed as it is. If one seeks within and finds nothing, then turns outward to seek, bewilderment arises in the heart. Even if one wants to preserve one’s life, it will be difficult to do so.

Some people in antiquity lost their lives by speaking frankly to remonstrate, and this is why. It is like entertaining a sea bird in the ancestral temple with music such as “Jiushao” and a banquet featuring the tailao sacrifice (a full offering of an ox, a sheep, and a pig)…

People do not realize that each person’s preferences are different by nature. The sage therefore follows the inherent nature of all things and does not regard their abilities as equal. Each thing makes use of its own strengths, and so each does something different.

The sage does not set names in advance, but names things according to the circumstances. Nor does the sage establish principles in advance, but determines them in response to change and need. When names serve only to designate actual things, they do not become empty reputations. When principles are established to meet actual needs, they do not stray from the right way. Once affairs are understood and made clear, nothing remains beyond one’s reach; by keeping one’s blessings intact, one can be at ease in any situation.

Bixu’s Commentary: What is endowed by Heaven’s mandate and follows its natural course cannot be brought about by force. How could a small sack hold something large? Once one’s endowment and proper place are set, they cannot be changed at will or forced to accommodate something else. How could a short rope draw water from the depths of the sea? A seabird, startled, would be alarmed even by the sound of the Jiushao—an ancient piece of music said to date from antiquity. This is like the Marquis of Qi being bewildered by the way of the former kings. People differ in wisdom and folly, so one cannot expect them all to do the same thing. Affairs differ between past and present, so they cannot all be judged by a single standard. When names and realities do not overstep one another, affairs proceed in good order and without obstruction. When principles suit practical needs, calamities can be dispelled and people kept from danger.

Yanzhai’s Explanation: Both Heaven’s mandate and one’s bodily form come from Heaven, and each has fixed limits that cannot be arbitrarily increased or diminished. If I try to persuade the Marquis of Qi with the teachings of the ancients, and they fail to move him or change his mind, he may instead blame me. Here, Yan Hui is used as a comparison to satirize the persuaders of the present age: they feed birds as people eat, and in doing so make the birds lose their nature. The point is that some principles cannot be spoken to certain people; insisting on speaking them is to say the wrong thing. Zhuangzi develops this idea at greater length in another passage.

The character “tan” is read as “chan.” It refers to a sandbank in the water and also to the region of Chan. People differ in their abilities, just as affairs differ from one another. Names should be determined according to actual circumstances, and affairs should be judged according to the course suited to them. “Proceeding in good order” means handling matters directly and clearly, without needless complication. “Keeping blessings intact” means preserving one’s blessings over time.

“The small sack cannot hold something large” is a metaphor for the fact that a person’s allotted portion has its limits and cannot be changed at will. “A short rope cannot draw water from deep below” means that each person’s bodily form and abilities have their proper range and cannot be forced beyond it. One’s allotted portion and bodily form are both bestowed by nature; there is no need for people to alter them at will, either by adding to or subtracting from them. If one now goes to the Marquis of Qi and speaks of the way of the former kings, but it does not accord with his innermost nature, he will be left confused and at a loss, and may instead harm his body and mind. The text therefore goes on to compare him to a seabird.

The seabird dared not partake of the lavish sacrificial offerings, and hearing the music of the Shao only made it more sorrowful and distressed. This is feeding a bird in the human way, against its nature; in the end, the bird dies without eating or drinking. The text goes on to explain further the principle of “nourishing a bird according to its nature,” so that people may understand that they should… (The original text ends here.)

When each thing follows the conditions of its surroundings and accords with its own nature, both all things and I can be nurtured.

Therefore, the sage does not regard each thing’s abilities as having only one form, but follows the natural character of all things. Nor does the sage set a single standard for handling affairs, but judges what is feasible according to the circumstances. Names need only fit the facts; they should not be empty or embellished. Principles need only be appropriate; they should not be taken too far. This is why affairs can proceed smoothly and well-being can be sustained.

As Liezi was walking along a road, he saw a century-old skeleton. He brushed aside the weeds, pointed to it, and said, “Only you and I know that we have never truly died and never truly been born. Did you really once cherish life and fear death? Did I really once rejoice in living and cling to it?”

The kinds and transformations of things are many. When one kind of thing gets water, it changes into “ji”; when it grows where water and earth meet, it becomes “frog-spittle”; when it grows on a mound of high ground, it becomes “hill sorrel.” Hill sorrel, when it gets rotting grain, becomes “crow’s-foot.” Crow’s-foot roots become grubs, and its leaves become butterflies. The butterflies transform again into a kind of worm that lives beneath the stove, looks like something that has fallen off, and is called “quduo.” After a thousand days, quduo becomes a bird called “dry leftover bone.” The saliva of the dry leftover bone becomes “simi,” and simi becomes tiny creatures in vinegar. “Yilu” arises from the creatures in vinegar; “huangkuang” arises from “jiuyou”; and “maorui” arises from the rotten “qu.” “Yangxi” is associated with bamboo that has not yet sprouted. Old bamboo produces “qingning”; qingning produces “cheng”; cheng produces horses; and horses produce human beings. In the end, human beings return once more to the pivot of transformation. All things arise from this pivot and all return to it.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Each thing takes pleasure in the circumstances it encounters; what is called joy and nurture has no fixed place. The kinds of transformation among things are beyond counting. Beginning with “getting water and becoming ji” and ending with “all return to the pivot of transformation,” this passage says that all things arise in their various forms from the transformation of a single Qi. Their forms change, yet there is no absolute birth or death.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Wandering souls can transform and go anywhere, so what could a century-old skeleton know? If one can empty the mind and reach a state of not-knowing, one can understand that one is like the skeleton: neither truly born nor truly dead. Do you really regard preserving life as important and fear death? Do I really regard living as a joy and delight in survival? Only when one understands that wandering souls can go anywhere and that Jing and Qi can form all things can one know how many transformations of species there are.

“Ji,” “frog-spittle,” and “hill sorrel” are originally of the same kind, but take different forms because some are found where water and earth meet while others grow on mounds of high ground. “Crow’s-foot,” grubs, and butterflies also come from the same kind as “hill sorrel,” yet some transform after getting rotting grain, while others arise from its roots or leaves… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

Each of them is different: quduo, qian yugu, simi, shixi, yilu, and xu are all creatures of the same kind. Some arise through the transformation of things beneath the cooking stove, some through the passage of time, and some from the transformation of water foam. Each comes into being in its own way. Huangkuang arises from jiuyou; maorui arises from decaying grass; and yangxi arises from bu sun—the shoots of bamboo that have not yet become bamboo. Yet none of them knows its own origin. Bamboo can transform into qingning and cheng; cheng can then transform into a horse. Horses and humans, too, each have their own sources of origin.

Some things arise from nonliving things, while others arise from living things. Some nonliving things give rise to living things, while some living things give rise to nonliving things. These transformations are brought about by wandering souls and vital essences. What Liezi says is what he has heard of, seen, and come to know. How could he possibly tell everything he has never heard of or seen?

The commentary by Yidu says: When Liezi speaks of life, he is at ease with life; when the skull speaks of death, it is at ease with death. Each accords with the circumstances it encounters. From this we can know that there may be no absolute life, nor any absolute death; those who cultivate life may not truly attain its preservation, and those who rejoice may not truly be joyful. The character ji (㡭) is an ancient form of ji (继), meaning to continue anew after an interruption. When something obtains water, it becomes ji; this means that the generation and transformation of the myriad things begin from there.

The discussion that follows, from the transformations of frogs and binzhi yi to cheng, horses, and humans, concerns things that come into being and change. Some repeatedly change their forms; some become other things as their forms change; some die and are born again, while others are born and then die. Here one thing perishes as another comes into being, each depending on the other, and transformation has no end. Yet the root that enables forms to arise has never been interrupted, even for an instant. Thus the sage knows that life does not remain unchanged forever, and death does not remain unchanged forever either: they are different states reached through the transformation of the One Qi. Forms are countless and transformations unending, yet within them is a root that does not vanish with change. All things ultimately return to what does not change, and this is therefore called the “pivot.” The pivot is the root that governs movement and stillness: it emerges from nonbeing and enters into form; it disperses from form and returns to formlessness. Everything comes from it.

The commentary by Bixu says: Since you have never experienced death, can you be sure that your life is truly joyful? Since you have never experienced birth, can you be sure that death is truly a state of rest? This passage seeks to investigate the principle of neither birth nor death. At the time, Liezi happened to be passing by the roadside when he saw a frog, and used it to explain the mechanism of transformation. Under the influence of fire energy, a frog can transform into a quail; when it receives water, it reproduces in succession. The Shuowen Jiezi says that fan 𢇍 means ji (㡭). The moss left along the water’s edge resembles clothing and is a descendant of tadpoles. When it remains on a hillside, it transforms into a kind of plant called lingxi, also known as cheqian, or plantain. This is the transformation of a living thing into a nonliving thing, just as…

Field earthworms transform into lilies, while yuxi, a plant, grows in dung. By the water’s edge grows crowfoot grass, known among the people as inkweed and also used in medicinal prescriptions. These plants differ in their roots and leaves because Qi undergoes Yin-Yang transformations. In the world, some things give rise to one another and transform into one another; they cannot all be explained by a single rule.

When butterflies encounter heat, they transform into ququeduo, a kind of bird. When it first appears, its body is white; after a thousand days, it can fly. Its foam, in turn, transforms into simi, a kind of insect. This shows how transformations between the small and the large follow one another without end. Simi then transforms into shixi, another kind of insect. The maorui mentioned next is a firefly that emerges from rotting grass. Here, something without life becomes something living, just as decayed wheat can turn into a butterfly. The fuguan insect then gives rise to yangxi, a plant also known as sheep’s-tongue dock. Here, something living becomes something without life again. Yangxi, together with old bamboo that produces no shoots, gives rise to qingning, an insect shaped like a hedgehog. People say that hedgehogs are often found in ruined bamboo gardens; this is what they mean.

The Shizi says that the Yue people call a leopard “Cheng”; another account says “Cheng” refers to a tapir. The In Search of the Supernatural records that, in the time of Duke Xiao of Qin, a horse gave birth to a human. These accounts all describe how the Five Circulations and Six Qi—the ancient theory used to explain changes in the weather and the workings of Heaven and Earth—reach all things, which respond and transform. Such transformations are impossible to investigate to their end.

Yanzhai says, “Eating and drinking while alive is called nurturing; after death, in stillness and extinction, it is called joy.” Here, however, the statement is reversed: the author deliberately makes it strange. “Kinds have their subtleties” means that the kinds of things in the world are all different. The passage begins with the tiniest things, but larger things are no different in principle. The beauty of the writing lies in the varied forms holding an order of their own, like watching drifting clouds and a lone goose in flight: the longer one looks, the more wondrous they seem.

Jie is an insect name for the thin moss newly appearing on the water’s surface. It has not yet formed a floating layer of moss and algae, but moss has already attached itself to the soil and spread to the bank. “Mound,” “rise,” “high ground in the fields,” as well as lingxi, or plantain, yuxi, dung, soil, and crowfoot, are plant names listed earlier. The root of crowfoot turns into a grub—the larva of a chafer—while its leaves turn into another name for a butterfly. The passage then discusses insects that arise through transformation: ququeduo, qianyugu, maorui, and fuguan are all insect names, and together they illustrate the transformations and ceaseless generation of all things.

Finally, the passage closes with the strangest examples, to astonish the reader. Yangxi is a plant; a kind of bamboo that looks like bamboo but produces no shoots is called “unshooting.” Old bamboo can give rise to the qingning insect. Cheng is also an insect name. Horse names can belong to plants, as in horse’s-teeth and horse orchid; human names can too, as in ginseng and the Malay apple. The author deliberately lists many things that seem unlike one another to show that among the myriad things, with their different names and forms, transformations are beyond exhaustion.

The plant name “Que” was oddly formed from the words “horse” and “person,” which is why these strange names appear. Commentators from earlier and later times all consider this passage difficult to explain in detail. For countless generations, people have been bewildered by it and have never seen through it.

Consider the transformations of things: sparrows turn into clams, hawks into turtledoves, rotting grass into fireflies, and mice into bats. Such transformations are everywhere. These creatures come into being through the workings of transformation and then enter into them again. This is birth and death: like the passing of a flame from one piece of firewood to another, with no knowing when it will end. The passage moves from “seeds have their subtle beginnings” to “a horse gives birth to a person”; see the details in the Liezi. The Nanhua Zhenjing (that is, the Zhuangzi) quotes the passage with some differences.

This speaks only of the principles by which animals and plants grow and change, processes that human eyes and ears cannot fully observe. Without the insight to investigate things, even a worthy person would find it hard to understand them completely. The text stresses that the transformations of all kinds of things have no fixed pattern in order to show that the changes of birth and death in human life are nothing to marvel at. It is enough simply to know that something exists which does not vanish amid change.

On examining the scripture, its contents still cannot be fully explained. For now, following the sense of the text, the punctuation should be divided as follows: “Erxi” forms one sentence; “Jiuyou” through “fuyuan” forms another; and “yangxi” through “qingning” forms a third. The sounds and meanings of the characters also support this division. In his commentary, Master Cheng Xuanying joins “ze, lu, huangkuang, mourui, and jiuzhu” into one passage; this likely does not accord with the scripture’s original meaning.

The edition collated by Zhang Junfang, as transcribed by Chen Bixu, reads: “Simi is born from shiyi; shiyi is born from yilu; yilu is born from huangkuang; huangkuang is born from jiuyou; jiuyou is born from mourui; mourui is born from fuyuan; fuyuan is born from yangxi. Yangxi is akin to bushun; jiuzhu gives rise to qingning…” This division is orderly, but it adds too many words and phrases. The prose is also overly elaborate and repetitive, unlike the style of the Nanhua Zhenjing. Further, the commentary to the Liezi cites the Erya as saying that bears and tigers are paired with their young, while the Shanhaijing says that the Southern Mountains have many tapirs and leopards. Guo Pu’s commentary says that a white leopard is called a “mo.” “Cheng” is another name for “mo,” and “mo” is also an alternate name for “leopard.”

This chapter is titled “Ultimate Joy.” It opens by discussing the burdens and many sufferings that come with life itself, then describes people evading, withdrawing, departing, and drawing near, yet not knowing what to choose or how to preserve their lives. Why is this? The author’s meaning is perhaps that if a person can develop a wish to leave suffering behind and strive resolutely for liberation, then joy will follow. Whether the joy spoken of in the common world is truly joy remains uncertain. Things in the world flourish and then decline; when they reach their height, they must change. The descendants of isolated ministers and disgraced officials are often especially cautious and attentive as a result…

When people find themselves in danger, they worry about calamity. Only those who have truly attained understanding can see clearly through such conditions as poverty, low status, worry, and sorrow … (The opening sentence of the original seems incomplete, and the term “Jade Maiden” is difficult to reconcile with the passage here.)

When things reach an extreme, signs of misfortune and good fortune often depend on one another and turn into each other. Thus, people are all caught in states of sorrow and joy, unable to free themselves. How can they calmly follow their own nature and the realities of their lives? In the end, to reach a state in which there is neither joy nor praise is to attain true praise and joy.

The text then tells the stories of Zhuangzi singing as he beats a clay basin, and of a skull answering Zhuangzi. In both stories, things that people consider unhappy become sources of joy. How could such joy be discussed with those who live by worldly standards?

A passage in the middle describes observing change and adapting to it: Zhuangzi’s elbow turns into a wheel, and he does not resent it; someone seeks help from him but receives none, then hears music and is startled and distressed. The point is that by adapting to change, the joys of all things can be shared. Going against one’s natural disposition brings no guarantee of happiness, even when one lives in comfort and luxury.

The text concludes by describing the constant transformations of human life and the lives of plants, trees, insects, and animals. It sums up: everything arises from the “pivot”—the hinge of change in things—and everything returns to it. How mysterious this pivot of change is! Who makes it open, close, and transform? Nothing that has form exists without arising from it. The transformations of life and death recur without end. To cling to life and hate death, or to delight in death and reject life, is to be attached to one side; neither is the highest joy. The true state is to cling neither to joy nor to reject it, and to cling neither to life nor to reject it. Then one is no longer driven by change or ruled by its pivot, and enters the wondrous realm of “great extension, emptiness, and unity”—where stillness and openness contain all change and return everything to oneness. It is a boundless wholeness, clear and profound, seeming to exist yet leaving no trace. Perhaps this is true joy.