《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 58

Zhuangzi was walking in the mountains when he saw a large tree with lush branches and leaves. A woodcutter stopped beside it but did not cut it down. Zhuangzi asked why, and the woodcutter replied, “This tree is of no use.”

“Because it is of no use,” said Zhuangzi, “it can live out the natural span of its life.”

After leaving the mountains, Zhuangzi stayed at an old friend’s home. His friend was delighted and told a servant to kill and cook a goose. The servant asked, “There are two geese, one that can honk and one that cannot. Which should I kill?” The host replied, “Kill the one that cannot honk.”

The next day, a disciple asked Zhuangzi, “Yesterday, the tree in the mountains was spared its full lifespan because it was of no use. Today, the goose at our host’s home was killed because it was of no use. Master, where do you intend to place yourself?”

Zhuangzi smiled and said, “I will place myself between usefulness and uselessness. That may seem like a suitable position, but it is not truly suitable, so it still cannot keep one from trouble. It is different if one can roam freely in accord with the Dao and De. One neither seeks praise nor invites blame; at times one appears like a dragon, at times lies hidden like a snake, changing with the times and never clinging to a single way of acting. Whether advancing or withdrawing, one takes harmony as one’s guide. Roam freely at the source of all things, letting each thing be what it is while remaining free from the control of external things. How, then, could one be entangled in trouble? This is the way followed by Shennong and the Yellow Emperor.

“The ordinary ways of things and the customs of human society are different. Those who are close eventually part; what is accomplished eventually falls apart. The upright and forthright suffer setbacks, and high status invites criticism. Acting can bring loss; the able are schemed against, while the inept are deceived. How can anyone be sure of staying safe and free from trouble? Alas, my disciples, remember this: the only way out is to return to the realm of Dao and De.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When Zhuangzi says, “I will place myself between usefulness and uselessness,” he is only entertaining the idea for the moment. Since this position still cannot keep one from trouble, he does not ultimately choose to remain there. For Zhuangzi, roaming freely in accord with the Dao and De is the realm in which one can truly be at ease. The course of worldly affairs cannot be determined in advance, so one cannot respond to them in only one way. Only those who change with the times can pass through change and remain open and unhindered.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Sages are often rejected by worldly society because of the trouble that comes with being “useful.” That is why Zhuangzi returns to this subject again and again, deeply warning people not to be burdened by their talents and abilities. Yet the dull and inept are often killed for being unable to honk. Can uselessness really guarantee freedom from disaster? Thus, the mountain tree and the host’s goose meet fates that are equally disappointing. Zhuangzi therefore considers making his home between usefulness and uselessness, but this still seems like…

The Dao (the Way) is not simply one particular “way,” as people usually mean. The Dao takes itself as its own basis. It does not fall at either end of any opposition, nor does it settle in the middle. To remain between “having useful qualities” and “having no useful qualities” still does not prevent one from being entangled.

As for those who roam freely in accordance with Dao and De, they are neither praised nor blamed, and are not constrained by judgments of high and low status. They may appear like dragons or lie hidden like snakes; they are not fixedly classified as either sages or ordinary people. They change as circumstances wax and wane, sometimes rising and sometimes withdrawing, harmonizing with the myriad things without opposing them. How could this mean merely staying between “having useful qualities” and “having no useful qualities”? They simply roam freely in the “ancestor of the myriad things”—the root of all things. The “ancestor of the myriad things” is also called “the father of all fathers.” Thus, they can respond to the myriad things without being controlled by external things. How, then, could they be entangled by them?

The conditions of the myriad things and the ordinary patterns of human life inevitably involve gathering followed by separation, accomplishment followed by destruction. Upright conduct may meet with setbacks, and high status may invite criticism. Given this, how can one be sure that staying between “having useful qualities” and “having no useful qualities” will keep one free from entanglement? To escape entanglement, one must presumably return to the realm of Dao and De.

Commentary by Yidu: The principles of the world, once set in motion, are like a crossbow being fired: one can make use of their momentum, but cannot control them. The currents of the world, once they have passed, are like flying arrows: one can go along with them, but cannot hold on to them. Thus, yesterday a tree survived because its wood was useless; today a goose was killed because it could not cry out.

Therefore, the sage follows the currents of the times and acts in accordance with the principles of things, flowing along with the myriad things without clinging to external objects. The sage changes along with the affairs of the world and is not bound by worldly conventions. Sometimes appearing, sometimes lying hidden, the sage changes without any fixed pattern, leaving no grounds for either praise or blame. Following the changes of the times, the sage takes harmony as the guiding principle and roams within the root of the myriad things. Able to respond to the myriad things without being controlled by them, the sage meets change without end. This is the principle esteemed by the former kings.

As for the conditions of the myriad things and the ordinary patterns of human life, they ultimately cannot escape gathering and dispersal, accomplishment and destruction. How can one be sure that everything will accord with one’s wishes? To escape these entanglements, one must presumably return to the realm of Dao and De.

Commentary by Bixu: The goose could not preserve its life because it lacked the ability to cry out; the tree was cut down because its wood was strong. The Perfected One conceals their true nature and makes their outward appearance blend with worldly ways. Thus, they can move through the world without seeming eccentric, and their Dao and De are renewed day by day. “Floating and roaming” means moving without leaving a trace. Being neither praised nor blamed allows one to remain reserved and self-contained. Changing like a dragon or snake allows one to appear at times and lie hidden at others. Changing with the times allows one to adapt to worldly circumstances. Not clinging to any particular course of action allows one to advance or withdraw, rise or descend, taking harmony as the guiding principle. In acting, one follows the principles of things and roams within their root, without pursuing their branches. In this way, worldly entanglements cannot disturb the sage. This is the Way of high antiquity.

As for the conditions of the myriad things….

Whether one is useful or useless still leaves clear outward traces, and so one cannot avoid becoming entangled. Only when good and evil are no longer distinguished, and no name can define them, is one’s nature truly preserved.

To follow De (Virtue/Power) is to accord with nature. At times one may rise to prominence like a dragon; at others, lie low like a snake. This means deciding whether to enter public service or withdraw according to the times. With no fixed pursuit in the heart, one attracts neither praise nor blame. Once one pursues something single-mindedly, one has set one’s mind on it, and distinctions of rank and advance or retreat arise. Whether in a high or low position, one can take it as the starting point of one’s life. What matters is making accord with nature one’s guiding principle.

All things have their own particular dispositions, and people have their own private interests. The principles governing human relationships often come from what is passed down through generations and learned through repeated practice. The following remarks lay bare the ways of the world: events do not unfold under human control, so how can we be sure that everything must turn out a certain way? This laments the unpredictability of human affairs and warns people to watch for the dangers they contain. That is why the author urges his disciples to remember these lessons: only by following nature can one avoid becoming entangled.

No one becomes a sage without learning. Yet those who study the sages often cling to outward appearances and fall into error. Only by understanding the original mind and letting go of external forms can one avoid such failings. Trees are preserved because they are not useful; geese are killed because they are not useful. These are visible examples. But do they survive or die solely because they are useful or useless? Their respective circumstances also play a part.

Thus, even the True Person, when trying to stand between “useful” and “useless,” still feels entangled. Whether one can transcend these distinctions depends on the circumstances one encounters. Can those circumstances be determined by whether one is useful or useless? They are also connected to fate. Some say usefulness is a human matter, while fate is Heaven’s will, and that the two are entirely separate. In fact, usefulness has an element of inborn endowment, though becoming useful depends on human effort; fate is something people undergo, yet it is also connected to the timing of Heaven. Human action and the timing of Heaven affect one another, and in the end produce favorable or unfavorable outcomes.

To remain between usefulness and uselessness is still the realm of the worthy. To go beyond these three distinctions and no longer be entangled by them is to enter the realm of the sage. The sage roams at the source of all things, treating things as things without being ruled by external things. Usefulness and uselessness cannot command the sage, and fate cannot constrain him. Therefore, the sage does not prize talent and rarely speaks of fate.

The old editions do not indicate another pronunciation for the character “xiang” (乡). Here it is provisionally read with the falling tone, meaning the same as “xiang” (向), “to face” or “to turn toward.”

Shi Nan Yiliao (a personal name) went to see the Marquis of Lu. The marquis looked troubled. Master Shi Nan asked, “Why are you worried, my lord?” The marquis replied, “I have studied the Way of the former kings and cultivated the teachings of my predecessors…”

My lord, you honor spirits and respect the worthy. You draw close to virtuous people and follow their ways, unwilling to leave them even for a moment, yet you cannot escape misfortune. That is why I worry for you.

Shinan Zi said, “Your way of warding off misfortune is too shallow. Foxes with luxuriant fur and leopards with patterned coats live in mountain forests and hide in caves to find peace and quiet. They go out at night and rest by day to stay alert. Even when hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, they still seek food in secluded places along rivers and lakes so they can feel secure. Yet they cannot escape the danger of nets and traps. What have they done to deserve it? Their fur and coats have simply brought disaster upon them. Is the state of Lu not your fur and coat? I hope you will cast off the burdens of your outward form, rid yourself of desire, cleanse your heart, and wander freely in a place where no one lives.

“In the far south there is a place called the Land of Jiande, an ideal realm of simple, unspoiled people. Its people are sincere and guileless, with little self-interest and few desires. They know how to farm but not how to store up wealth. They give to others without expecting anything in return. They do not know where righteousness ought to lead, or how ritual propriety should be practiced. They follow their nature and so naturally accord with the Great Way. They rejoice in life, and when they die, they are properly laid to rest. I hope you will leave your state, cast off worldly concerns, and travel alongside the Dao.

“My lord said, ‘The road there is long and dangerous, with rivers and mountains in the way. I have no boat or carriage. What can I do?’

“Shinan Zi said, ‘Do not cling to your outward form, and do not settle in any fixed dwelling. Make them your carriage.’

“My lord said, ‘That place is remote and desolate, with no people. Who would accompany me? I have no provisions. What could I eat to get there?’

“Shinan Zi said, ‘Reduce your expenses and lessen your desires, and even without provisions you will feel you have enough. Cross the river and drift out onto the sea. You will see no boundary, and the farther you go, the less you will know where it ends. Those who see you off will turn back at the shore, and from there you will travel alone.

“‘To possess others becomes a burden; to be possessed by others brings anxiety. Yao neither claimed others as his own nor worried about being possessed by them. I hope to free you of this burden and anxiety, so that you may wander alone with the Dao through a vast and boundless realm.

“‘When two boats are moving side by side across a river, and an empty boat bumps into yours, even if you are narrow-minded, you will not grow angry. But if someone is aboard, you will shout at him to steer away. If he does not hear you the first time, you will shout again; if he still does not hear, you will go on to curse him. A moment ago you were not angry, but now you are: before, the boat was empty; now, someone is aboard. If a person can make the heart empty and free of attachment while moving through the world, who could harm him?’”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: When people have desires of their own, they cherish their bodies; when they possess a state, they become preoccupied with it at every turn. However many their worries, honoring the worthy and promoting benevolence and righteousness only deepen their anxieties and concerns. They should therefore forget both themselves and the state, and let all things change of their own accord. To entrust the state to others is like placing the state of Lu far away in southern Yue and no longer fretting over it.

If each person follows their own nature and takes the path suited to them, then every place will naturally be well governed. Wouldn’t that be good? To “leave the state and abandon the world” means to rid the heart of attachment to the ruler and the state. Here, “ruler” refers to the wish to have people truly travel to southern Yue. When the body grows rigid, it meets obstacles; when it stops moving forward, it becomes trapped. If the body can live on equal terms with external things and the mind can change naturally along with them, one can dwell among all things and move with the current.

If a ruler reduces expenditure and curbs desire, nothing will seem lacking. “Crossing rivers and floating over the sea, with no shore in sight” is a metaphor for distancing oneself from desire and passion. When the ruler has no private desires, people each return to their proper place, and the way can endure. To “stand apart, above all things” means not to be constrained by them.

“Having people” has two meanings: treating people as one’s private possessions, and being directed and put to work by others. Possessing all under Heaven while entrusting affairs to the officials does not mean claiming all under Heaven as one’s own. Following the people and letting all things fulfill their functions, without putting oneself to work, does not mean being subject to others. This is the way to let go completely of concern for the state. Even as worldly affairs change, the principle remains the same: remain open and unattached, and thereby avoid harm.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: Comparing the state of Lu to the skin means that trouble arises from being unable to forget one’s state. If one cannot escape the burdens imposed by the body, the state becomes a burden too. “Carving away the body” means removing those bodily burdens. “The heart is not clear” means that the mind is impure and easily stained by desire; “washing the heart” means cleansing it of desire. To leave behind the burdens of human society and enter a realm that follows nature is to wander in the “wilderness of no people.” This is how one establishes the “land of De” and sets the Great Dao in place.

The people there are simple and have few desires; they do not regard a lack of refinement as a deficiency. They do not know how to store up wealth: they take what they need when it comes, and do not give favors expecting repayment. They are not bound by rules of righteousness or preoccupied with social obligations. They do not know the formal rules of ritual; their conduct may seem casual, yet they tread the Dao. They accept life and death with equanimity, since neither can ever be escaped.

This is the ideal state meant by “establishing a state.” The only reason people cannot wander freely in it is that they are entangled in state affairs and worldly customs. Let go of attachment to the state and the world, and move in harmony with the Dao; then one will reach it without effort. The Dao is actually near and level, but people imagine it distant and perilous because their bodies are rigid, they refuse humility, and they stand still.

Someone like Ju does not settle in one place, yet neither does he outfit carts and provisions for a distant journey, because his expenditure is slight and his desires few; acting thus, how could he worry that he would not arrive? He cannot see the end of the road and may roam in a realm without limit or end. Those who see him off turn back at the border because they are bound by what lies before their eyes, fear the depth of what lies ahead, and none dares go farther. You stand alone here, unmatched in the world, and no one can follow. If you roam in such a realm, you will not treat yourself as having something to lean on, nor will you let others think you have something to lean on. That Yao became Yao amounted to no more than this. Where the greatest magnitude can no longer be “established,” that is precisely what the previous chapter called “ancestor of the ten thousand things” and “homeland of Dao and De.”

What follows is the “empty boat strikes a boat”: when an empty boat bumps another boat, people do not grow angry on that account. One who formerly rode Dao and De and drifted through the world treated affairs in just this way.

The commentary Yidu says: “Nanyue” is a realm of clarity; “Jian de” (Establishing Virtue) is the domain of the sage, where people are plain, thick, and simple, with few desires and skilled at nurturing spirit. “Acting yet not possessing, seeking no return”—that is great benevolence; not knowing where righteousness should be directed is true righteousness; not knowing where ritual ultimately should lead is true ritual. These three are obtained from within, so one may depart from convention and act as nature moves one, yet still tread the main road of the Great Dao: alive, one rests in life; dead, one rests in death.

“Hollowing the form and discarding the mind” means forgetting attachment to body and intellect; “roaming in the wilds where no one is” means entering a realm without worldly distinctions, letting spirit and virtue operate inwardly and merge with Heaven. “Leaving the state and casting off custom” means leaving ordinary life, letting Dao and the self support each other, entering the “land of Establishing Virtue,” and letting manifest Dao conduct appear and harmonize with the human world.

The Nanyue of which the Duke of Lu spoke was really worry over a road far and perilous. How could he know that the “land of Establishing Virtue” lies within the heart: nurture spirit, forget the burden of the body—even without the body setting out, one has already arrived. The Duke also feared the distance and lack of provisions; such anxieties all come from inability to forget things and fixation on words and outward circumstances. Shinanzi wanted him to seek what he needed from his own inborn nature: spend little to nurture spirit, reduce desire to settle the heart. Then even without grain, he could be self-sufficient.

Rivers and streams stand for De; the sea stands for Dao. Not seeing the sea’s edge is transcending the horizon of the moment; not knowing where the end is, one can follow change. When one reaches this, even those who escort you turn back at the border. That means one who can reach the realm of Dao has gone beyond what ordinary people can do.

Honor comes from favor others grant; being favored also means being valued by others. Yao did not rely on others to lift him up, so he could treat honor as something lodged outside himself; he did not take others’ esteem as his footing, so he could treat favor as something outside himself. Thus he had no entanglements and no worries. If people in the world could, like the Duke of Lu, drop entanglements and forget worries, they could roam with Dao in the “great never-never land.”

An empty boat provokes no anger because there is no one on the boat.

The metaphor of an empty boat colliding with another boat shows that someone who can meet things without a fixed intention is less likely to provoke resentment, anger, or harm. If there is someone aboard the boat, the other person will grow angry when the boats collide. If an empty boat drifts into it, the other person usually will not be angered. When we constantly keep external things in mind, they can easily sway us. But if we move through the world without a fixed intention, what could harm us?

Bixuzi’s commentary says: Removing outward embellishments is like stripping the skin and hair from the body; cleansing the heart removes its preferences and desires. To govern oneself well is to wander as though in a wilderness without people. To abandon this state and instead prize a reputation for worthiness and establish Virtue is like creating another “Land of Established Virtue.” This “Land of Established Virtue” refers to an ideal realm that is simple, free of selfishness and desire, and untouched by learned knowledge. People there know how principles of right conduct should be put into practice, so they keep their knowledge in reserve. They understand what rituals are for, so they respond only when needed and do not act on impulse.

In this realm, one can move freely beyond the bounds of the ordinary world, act without recklessness, and set foot on the Great Dao. One can welcome life and be laid to rest peacefully in death; through every beginning and ending, one remains settled there without departing. I hope you will remove the excess branches and let the pure and subtle principles support one another.

People worry about having no boat or cart because they have not yet attained complete release. They also worry about long roads and having no provisions because their attachments and concerns have not been severed. Reduce your expenditure and lessen your desires, and you will not worry about lacking food; like a quail that roosts or a fledgling that pecks for food, you will find enough wherever you are. To cross rivers and float over seas until no shore can be seen symbolizes escaping the burdens of the world and clinging to nothing. Turning back at the farthest limit means that those without sufficient strength cannot continue. You are still far from the Dao, so you cannot see or hear its realm.

Yao was not forgotten by others; he himself forgot his imperial position by the Fen River. Nor was he seen and praised by others; in his daily conduct, he conformed to the Dao without being aware of it. If you forget others, you have no attachments; if others forget you, you have no worries. Thus you can wander alone with the Dao in the “Land of Great Vastness.” The “Land of Great Vastness” refers to the realm of transformation. An empty boat colliding with another boat illustrates meeting external things without intention: before, there was no anger because nobody was aboard; now there is anger because someone is seen aboard. If people do not grow angry at an empty boat, external things will not easily harm them. From this, we can understand the principle of emptying the self and letting go of fixed intention.

Yanzhai says: To regard one’s skin and hair as burdens means that, in the world, a person who gains a reputation often invites calamity. The “wilderness without people” mentioned earlier refers to the primordial state before the myriad things appeared. The passage also speaks of the “Land of Established Virtue,” which should be understood in light of these words. The later practice of worshipping the Pure Land can be traced back to this way of thinking. At the time of the Warring States, Nanyue had not yet established ties with the Central Plains; the author uses it here simply to make his point, with no special implication.

In that realm, people farm for their own food and do not accumulate stores for themselves. The names of ritual and right conduct have not yet appeared, so there is no deliberate striving or advance planning. Whatever follows the heart also accords with the Great Dao. Those who aspire to the Dao should encourage one another and strive to reach this realm: free from the constraints of bodily form and social standing, without putting themselves first, and without longing to remain in one place or clinging to a particular land. Then they can continue onward, crossing rivers and floating over seas until they no longer know where the farthest limit lies.

“But when you hear the words ‘wander in the boundless,’ those who saw you off have already returned from the shore.” From this point on, you must travel far.

The saying means that once a person who studies the Dao has understood it, the things that helped bring about that understanding are like people who see someone off: they accompany the traveler to the seashore and then each returns home. For example, someone might watch sword dancing and learn cursive calligraphy. At first, the dance inspires them; once they have understood, the sword has served only to accompany them part of the way. Reading, too, is merely a means of helping someone enter the Dao.

“The land of Great Emptiness” is a deserted wilderness, also called the “land of Established Virtue.” The image of an empty boat colliding with another boat is apt: people usually do not get angry.

Foxes and leopards hide themselves, yet they cannot escape disaster; their own skins bring about their deaths. The position of the ruler of Lu may likewise become a source of danger, like the skins of foxes and leopards. If you cut away your attachment to outward form, the outer “skin” will naturally fall away. Purify your heart, and inward desires will also disappear. Then you will rise above and leave the worldly realm, as though you had reached a wilderness with no people in it.

At this point, fearing that the Marquis of Lu might find the way too distant and feel he had nothing to rely on, the speaker guides him with the phrase “land of Established Virtue.” Its people do not display cleverness, yet they are self-sufficient. They do not give in order to receive something in return, nor do they regard giving as an act of virtue. How, then, could they know where righteousness and ritual propriety should be put into practice? They follow their nature without departing from the Dao, and so can face life and death with ease. To leave the state and abandon worldly ways is to lay down one’s burdens; to accord with the Dao is to return to Wuwei (non-action). Only such a person can reach the land of Established Virtue.

The Marquis of Lu still has not understood. Worried that the journey is long and he has no boat or cart, he is told that if he does not pride himself on being a ruler and does not cling to his position as sovereign, he can use these very things as his vehicle to get there. He then worries that the road is dark and distant, that he has no companions or provisions, and that he will never reach his destination. Those who cling to concrete things and are confined by what exists all fear falling into nothingness; this is how anxiety and misfortune arise. So he is told: reduce your expenditure and lessen your desires, and you need not worry about running short of food. Simply sail upon the sea of De (Virtue/Power): it has no shores and no end.

“Those who saw you off” stand for rank, appetites, and all the familiar things that have accompanied you in daily life. If one day you leave them behind and wander in the boundless, all those former companions can go no farther than the shore. They remain there as you travel on, growing ever more distant from them.

Anyone whose heart is attached to people or things is bound to suffer worry and burden. Only someone like Yao, broad-minded and seeking no fame, may escape misfortune. I hope you will lay down your burdens and dispel your worries, and travel alone with the Dao through “the land of Great Emptiness.” “Emptiness” means “nothing”; setting out from a wilderness without people, you can reach the land of Established Virtue.

The realm of a great state extends without limit, and even De is forgotten. This is what the “Land of Nothing Whatsoever” in the Free and Easy Wandering refers to—the place where nothing exists. The parable of “an empty boat striking another boat” was explained in detail earlier.

“Never leaving for even a moment…” reads smoothly as it stands, yet one is still not free from misfortune. In the old editions, the character ju (“to dwell”) is attached to the preceding sentence, and many commentaries have followed this reading. Here, however, the sentence break is placed after li (“to leave”), with ju attached to the following sentence.

Collected Subtleties from the Sea of Meaning in the True Classic of Nanhua, Volume Sixty