《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 61

The First Chapter: Tian Zifang

Tian Zifang was seated with Marquis Wen of Wei, the ruler of the state of Wei. Several times, he praised Xi Gong. Marquis Wen asked, “Is Xi Gong your teacher?” Tian Zifang replied, “No. He is a fellow townsman of mine, Zewu. What he says often accords with reason, so I praise him.” Marquis Wen asked, “Then you have no teacher?” Tian Zifang said, “I do.” Marquis Wen asked, “Who is your teacher?” Tian Zifang answered, “Dongguo Shunzi.”

Marquis Wen asked, “Then why have you never praised him, sir?” Tian Zifang replied, “He is utterly genuine. His appearance is like that of an ordinary person, yet inwardly he follows the principles of Heaven. He humbly responds to the myriad things while preserving his purity; he is clear and open, able to accommodate all things. When something does not accord with reason, he straightens his bearing, allowing others to understand the principle. The distracting thoughts in their hearts then disappear. How could I, Zewu, presume to praise him?”

After Tian Zifang left, Marquis Wen felt as though he had lost something and sat silent for the rest of the day. He summoned his ministers, stood before them, and said, “What a lofty state! This is what it means to be a gentleman complete in De (Virtue/Power). At first, I thought that the wisdom and talent of sages, and their words and deeds of benevolence and righteousness, were the highest attainment. After hearing Zifang speak about his teacher, I feel as though my body has come unbound and I do not want to move; my mouth feels sealed, and I do not want to speak. What I have learned until now is no more than a clay figurine. The throne of Wei may well have become a burden to me.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Dongguo Shunzi looked no different from ordinary people, but inwardly he alone followed nature, responding to the myriad things with empty stillness and thus preserving his true nature. Those who seek moral purity often worry that they are too fastidious; he was clear yet able to accommodate all things, and so was as empty and open as Heaven. He straightened himself, and what was crooked naturally disappeared. Thus Marquis Wen did not want to move or speak because he realized how shallow his own state was. A clay figurine is not a real thing. Marquis Wen understood that the most precious principle lay in regarding rank as a burden.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: To be “utterly genuine” means to appear human on the outside while inwardly following the principles of Heaven. The minds of ordinary people cannot leave external things for even a moment, while the genuine person responds to things with an empty mind and preserves their true nature. Ordinary people’s clarity can easily turn into fault-finding; the genuine person is clear yet able to accommodate all things. When things do not accord with reason, he straightens his bearing and helps others understand. His teaching does not rely on repeated instruction, yet the distracting thoughts in people’s hearts disappear. He transforms people without resorting to specific actions. Sagely wisdom and benevolence and righteousness are no more than words and deeds; what Zifang’s teacher embodies is Dao (the Way) and De. Seek Dao in bodily form and it cannot be found, so one feels the body come unbound and does not want to move. Seek Dao in words and it cannot be found, so one does not want to speak. Dao cannot be attained through study; hence one realizes that what one has learned is no more than a clay figurine.

An empty and open mind, when it simply goes along with external things, can easily lose its own integrity. But clinging to lofty purity and rejecting external things can easily make one intolerant. When something unreasonable appears in the world, one should compose one’s bearing and thereby prompt the other person to reflect. If people take me as their example, their crooked thoughts will naturally fade. This is what Mencius meant when he said, “Set yourself right, and things will also be set right.”

At first, Marquis Wen had not yet grasped the Great Dao. He thought that the pronouncements of sages and the conduct of benevolence and righteousness were the highest attainment. Later, he heard that Zifang’s teacher practiced Dao and De, and came to understand the principle. He no longer clung to outward form and speech. Only then did he realize that what he had studied before was no more significant than clods of earth and scraps of grass. Such things are merely coarse and worthless. If one who understands the Great Dao regards even himself as a burden, how much more so the state of Wei?

Bixu’s commentary says: “‘The seven apertures of the red dwelling’ refers to the human body. Not displaying likes and dislikes means following one’s inborn nature. ‘Empty and responsive, preserving the true’ means keeping the mind quiet and open, responding to the affairs of the world, and preserving one’s true nature amid worldly life. When the mind is clear and can accommodate all things, it accords with the Way of Heaven. To compose one’s bearing and prompt others is to set an example through oneself and guide them, letting their thoughts disperse and their minds return to quiet openness. The wisdom of sages, benevolence, and righteousness belong to the teachings of social convention; what Zifang’s teacher passed on was Dao and De. Marquis Wen realized that what he had learned before was merely ‘earth,’ and so distinguished the real from the illusory. His awareness that the state of Wei would become a burden to him shows how difficult it is truly to forget possession of such a great undertaking.”

Yanzhai says: “Though outwardly one has human form, inwardly one possesses the natural De of Heaven. To respond to all things with a quiet and open mind, while never allowing them to disturb the heart, is called ‘preserving the true.’ Loftiness can estrange one from external things, while the ability to accommodate them shows breadth of mind. When one encounters someone unreasonable, one composes one’s bearing and lets that person understand for themselves, so that unkind thoughts dissolve. There is no need to explain at length: it is as though the body relaxes and the tongue falls still, leaving the other person to awaken on their own. Marquis Wen regarded possession of a state as a burden, so he had not yet deeply explored the principles of Wuwei (non-action) and following nature.”

In his Guanjian, Master Chu says: “Reputation serves to make virtue known. Yet from the perspective of inner cultivation, learning itself can become a burden to one’s De. Thus, anyone who studies the Dao and is praised by the world still leaves visible traces; their virtue cannot be considered complete. Someone like Dongguo Shunzi was not praised even by his own disciples. How, then, could the world glimpse even a fraction of him? It is only because Marquis Wen asked that his character is discussed here in broad outline.

“‘Human in appearance, yet of Heaven’ means that outwardly one is like other people and can live among them, while inwardly one’s natural De of Heaven remains unharmed. ‘Empty and responsive’ means acting through Wuwei while mingling with the world and preserving one’s true nature. Lofty purity can oppose worldly ways, yet it can also broaden the heart and make it capable of embracing all things. Composing one’s bearing to prompt another is a way of accommodating that person; allowing their thoughts to disperse shows the breadth of one’s De.”

The transformation of one's appearance lies within oneself, yet the effect of the teaching occurs in the other person. This is hard for ordinary people to achieve, but Tian Zifang, a disciple of Dongguo Shunzi, achieved it. Such teaching need not wait for anyone's praise, and in truth there is no way to praise it. Sagely wisdom in speech and the practice of benevolence and righteousness are merely ornaments of the outer surface. Zifang's teacher had a De (Virtue) so profound that it could transform people from within. Marquis Wen of Wei was awakened on merely hearing of this demeanor, to the point that the body went slack and the mouth could not speak, so the transformation may be called swift. Realizing that all that had been learned was no more than clay figures and straw dummies, the Marquis understood that only by abandoning learning can one preserve one's genuine nature. Realizing that the state of Wei was a burden on the self, the Marquis understood that only by holding no position can one endure. This is clear proof of how a person's mind can be dissolved, and all the more so for those who receive the teaching in person. As for the character "true" (真) in the line "As a person, he was genuine" (其为人也真), it seems superfluous. The same word appears in the passage below, so it was probably added here by mistake, as a close reading of the meaning will show.

Wen Boxue Zi, a man of the Dao (the Way) from the state of Chu, traveled to Qi and stopped on the way in Lu. Some people of Lu asked to see him, but Wen Boxue Zi said: "That is not possible. I have heard that the gentlemen of the Central Plain understand ritual and righteousness but do not know how to see into the human heart. I do not wish to meet them." On his return from Qi he again lodged in Lu, and the same man once more asked for an audience. Wen Boxue Zi said: "Before, he sought to see me, and now he seeks me again. There must be something in him that can move me." So he went out to receive the guest, and on returning to his room he sighed. The next day he received the guest again, and again he sighed on returning. His attendant asked: "Every time you meet a guest from this place, you come back and sigh. Why is that?" Wen Boxue Zi said: "I told you long ago that the people of the Central Plain understand ritual and righteousness but do not know how to see into the human heart. The man who came to see me advanced and withdrew with perfect propriety, and his unhurried bearing was like that of a dragon and a tiger. He admonished me as a son would a father, and instructed me as a father would a son. That is why I sighed." When Zhongni (Confucius) met Wen Boxue Zi, he did not say a single word. Zilu, a disciple of Confucius, asked: "Master, you have wanted to see Wen Boxue Zi for a long time, yet when you met, you said nothing. Why is that?" Confucius said: "With a man like that, the moment eyes meet, the Dao is already present. There is no room left even for a sound."

Guo Xiang's commentary says: advancing and withdrawing with propriety, with the unhurried bearing of a dragon or tiger, the steps winding and circling, the movements slow and easy. Admonishing like a son and instructing like a father is the flaw of ritual and righteousness, and it is what produces such affectation. Confucius said nothing on meeting Wen Boxue Zi because he already knew the man's mind. A single glance conveyed the intention and left no room for words or sound.

Lü Huiqing's commentary says: if advancing and withdrawing are all in accord with propriety, then that solemn bearing is expressed in every gesture of turning and returning.

This passage continues from the preceding one and holds that composed bearing and conduct in accord with ritual propriety do not necessarily mean one understands the human heart.

One may carry oneself with ease, with the vivid dignity of a dragon or tiger, and yet the subtle turn of events arises in moments of leisure. If someone admonishes me as a son would, and instructs me as a father would, it shows that they have not read my heart in the space of a glance. This is what is meant by mastering ritual and propriety without understanding the human heart. Such is the flaw of the study of ritual, and it was especially severe among the people of Lu. Dongguo Shunzi (a Dao-realized figure in Zhuangzi's parables) needed only to straighten his countenance to make others awaken, and Wen Boxuezi (a Dao-realized man of Chu) manifested the Dao (the Way) the moment eyes met. The sages of antiquity dealt with one another in this subtle manner.

Yidu's commentary: Ritual and propriety originally arise from the human heart. Ordinary people know only their outward traces and not their root, so they do not understand the heart and see only the dignity of advancing and withdrawing. They admonish as if they were close kin and teach as if they were stern masters. When the flaw of elaborate ornament reaches such a point, it is no wonder that Wen Boxuezi sighed each time he met the people of Lu again. When Confucius saw him, the Dao was present at a glance, and no word needed to be spoken. This shows that those who labor only over speech and dignified manner are dealing with trivial matters.

Bixu's commentary: Ritual and propriety refer to the rules of advancing and withdrawing and to dignified deportment and courtesy. When the heart accords with the constant Dao, one grasps the subtlety at a glance, and what can be put into words amounts only to ritual, bearing, and voice.

Huzhai's explanation: Rules have their standards, and dragons and tigers have their patterned splendor. To admonish me as a son and instruct me as a father is to speak deeply on shallow acquaintance. "The Dao is present at a glance" means the same as straightening one's countenance so that others awaken.

A later passage says: Words exist to convey meaning, and once the meaning is grasped, words may be forgotten. Ritual exists to convey sincerity, and where sincerity is complete, ritual may be simplified. Thus the former sages taught people to seek substance in their cultivation and not to esteem ornament. Composed conduct and the gestures of exhortation are only the glow of outward traces, and the further they stray from the Dao, the more fitting it is to say that such people do not understand the heart. Long ago Wei Ding (an official of the Sui dynasty) called on Wenzhongzi (the Sui Confucian Wang Tong) three times, and each time Wenzhongzi said nothing, his manner reverent as though something were lacking. Wei Ding came out and told the disciples at the gate: "If the Master were to achieve his aims at court, he would have teaching without words and authority without killing." This too comes close to the meaning of "the Dao is present at a glance."

Yan Yuan said to Confucius: "When you walk slowly, Master, I walk slowly. When you walk quickly, I walk quickly. When you gallop, I gallop. But when you race off, leaving the dust behind, I can only stare wide-eyed, left behind."

Yan Hui said, “When the Master walks, I walk along with him; when the Master speaks, I speak along with him; when the Master strides, I stride along with him; when the Master debates, I debate along with him. When the Master runs, I run along with him; when the Master speaks of the Dao, I speak of the Dao too. But when the Master races off so swiftly that even the dust cannot catch up, I can only stare wide-eyed as I fall behind. The Master says nothing, yet inspires people’s trust; he forms no factions or private alliances, yet people naturally gather before him. I do not know why this is.”

Zhongni (Confucius) said, “How could you fail to examine this carefully? Nothing is more sorrowful than the death of the mind; the death of the body comes second. The sun rises in the east and sets at the farthest reaches of the west. Nothing among the myriad things takes shape without depending on conditions and fitting together with other things. Those with eyes and feet rely on them to see and walk. When the sun rises, the myriad things appear; when it sets, they disappear. The myriad things are like this too: they depend on something in order to die, and depend on something in order to live.

“Once I received a body, I was bound to undergo ceaseless change until that body was exhausted. I respond to things and act, without pause day or night, yet I do not know where I will ultimately end up. Unawares, my body took shape in this way. Understand the Mandate of Heaven, and you will not try to plan the future in advance. I, Kong Qiu, can only pass each day as it comes. You and I may be lifelong companions, yet even if we hold one another by the arm, we will still lose each other. Is that not sorrowful?

“You may be attached to what makes me who I am. But that thing has already vanished, and you are still searching for it, as though it were still there. This is like looking for a horse that used to be in an empty horse market. You regard yourself as too fixed, and you regard me as too fixed as well. Even so, why should you worry? Though you may forget the person I once was, something remains that cannot be forgotten.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary:

To regard the death of the mind as true death only hastens one’s own death. Death seems distant because people grieve and damage themselves; without grief, there would be no such concern. Since there is grief, the death of the mind is the greatest sorrow.

The myriad things depend on one another and each has its counterpart; this can all be seen. The eyes enable seeing, and the feet enable walking. When their functions are not visible, people think they have disappeared. Depending on concealment is called “death”; depending on appearance is called “life.” In truth, life and death are not fixed and unchanging.

Nothing can pass from “being” into absolute “nonbeing.” Once a body has taken shape, change continues, and no one can determine in advance when it will end. Action unfolds naturally, without deliberate effort; change is therefore continually renewed, and death should not be regarded as an absolute end. The body takes shape unawares—what is there to find astonishing in that?

Understand the Mandate of Heaven, and you will not be constrained by a future laid out in advance. Instead, you will move along with change, unable to hold it in place. Even if we hold one another by the arm, we cannot make time stop. If death is cause for grief, then our inability to keep one another is also cause for grief. But why do people never regard that as sorrowful? An “empty horse market” is not a place where horses are kept. The point is that what once existed can no longer be recovered, just as one cannot find an old horse in a market emptied of people.

Things pass through the world like galloping horses sweeping across a marketplace, never pausing for even a moment. New things follow old, changing without cease, day and night. You have probably already seen what I see: things renew themselves every day. What is old has vanished—how can you still treat it as something present and ready to hand? Longing for it and wanting to hold on to it is called “clinging”: attachment and dependence. Forgetting it is simply a matter of its having passed, of its vanishing so quickly. When you think of it, you often feel that it is already too late. Everything is like this.

Neither the worthy nor the sage can make things stand still. Not clinging to what is old, but letting new things follow after it—this is called “renewing oneself each day.” Even if the old me is forgotten and a new me has arrived, it is still me. So what is there to worry about? In this way, one can leave behind worldly burdens and become wholly at one with the myriad things.

Lü’s commentary says: “Walking, striding, and running can all still be caught up with. But when one reaches a state in which trust is won without words, responses extend everywhere without forming factions, and the people turn naturally toward one without the aid of implements, people no longer know why any of this happens.” This state is therefore like a galloping horse racing away and raising dust in its wake: all one can do is look back and feel that it has gone far beyond pursuit.

The mind has not truly died; people simply do not know that there is such a thing as its “death.” Only after the mind has died does the body die in turn. This is the greatest sorrow. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and the myriad things follow its course in their activity. Only bodily organs such as the eyes and feet depend on the sun’s light to function. When the sun rises, things appear; when it sets, they disappear. Yet the sun itself does not truly undergo birth and death. The myriad things are born and die in dependence on certain conditions, but the root on which they depend does not itself come and go with them. In the end, the reason we can win trust without words, respond everywhere without forming factions, and lead the people to turn toward us naturally without relying on implements is simply that we have understood this principle.

If I accept a fixed form and cease to change, I can only wait until I am used up. If I move in response to external things, without pause day or night, then, like the myriad things, I will be born in dependence on conditions. Could I then understand the root that does not change with life and death, and reach the state in which one “does not know why it is so”? If I pass away day by day while remaining confined to an unchanging form and waiting for my end, is that not cause for sorrow? This is the greatest sorrow.

You keep asking where my state of racing away and leaving the dust behind can be found, but you cannot find it. Perhaps you have seen only what I reveal, and not the root that remains hidden. The human mind is sometimes present and sometimes lost. What is there that remains fixed, visible, and graspable? The old me has already passed away, yet you still seek it as though it truly exists. How is that any different from searching for a horse in an empty marketplace? “Tang” means an open, empty place; “si” means a marketplace. The horse merely passes through the marketplace; it does not live there.

If you cling to me too deeply, you will treat “me” as something fixed and unchanging. But no such “me” exists. If you also take yourself too seriously, clinging to a fixed “you,” then no such “you” exists either. Since that is so, why worry about forgetting?

Although the self one once was has already been forgotten, something still remains unforgotten. From this we can understand what Confucius meant by “racing ahead and leaving the dust behind”—moving so swiftly that one far outstrips everything in the world.

The Commentary of Yidu says: Confucius raced ahead and left the dust behind. When Yan Hui looked back, he felt he had fallen far behind. This is precisely what is meant by “Look up to him, and he seems to be ahead; suddenly, and he seems to be behind.” Confucius did not need to speak for people to trust him; his sincerity could transform them. Without deliberately seeking closeness with others, he could still live harmoniously among them. He did not specially cultivate intimacy with anyone, yet people naturally trusted and admired him. He had no particular method for governing the people, yet they naturally gathered around him. They did not know why; it simply happened.

As for those who understand the mandate of Heaven, they know the principles by which day and night follow one another, and understand the patterns of change in life and death. Thus, even when the body has died, the mind and spirit may not have perished. The greatest sorrow is for the mind to die first. This does not mean that the mind and spirit survive after a person’s death; it means that while the body dies and changes, the mind remains stubbornly unchanging.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and all things depend on it as they move. Anything with form must await the joining of Yin and Yang before it can take shape. What becomes visible belongs to Yang, and is therefore called “existence”; what disappears belongs to Yin, and is therefore called “nonexistence.” All things are subject to conditions, and life and death are always part of this process of change. Only what is not governed by life and death has nothing on which it must depend. Once something receives a form, it retains that form until it reaches its end; when the end comes, there is nothing more on which it can depend. This is what Confucius meant by there being neither life nor death.

Day and night follow one another without cease, and Yin and Yang join as one. One acts in accord with all things, without personal concerns, and does not know where one will ultimately return. Do not regard death as true death, or life as fixed and unchanging: all things take form amid indistinguishable transformation. The sun moves ceaselessly, and people journey along with change. Two people pass each other, arm brushing arm, and in an instant they have lost contact. The Creator drives people through continual change; a hundred years amount to no more than a moment. People know to treat death as a cause for grief, but they do not know that failing to understand this principle is even more grievous.

“Zhu” means “to become visible.” “Tangsi” is a market where horses are sold, not a place where horses are kept. The point is that once something has been lost, one may search for it but never find it again. This is like hiding a boat or a mountain, only for someone to carry it away in the middle of the night. It illustrates that everything we see is renewed each day. As for what belongs to the past, it has long since vanished. How could it ever be recovered?

“I made you admire me, and in doing so forgot myself completely; I made you forget me. You made me admire you, and in doing so forgot yourself completely; you made me forget you.” Here, “admire” means to hold someone in esteem and be won over by them. Even so, something remains unforgotten and continues through the changes of day after day.

The Commentary of Bixu says: “Surpassing all and leaving the dust behind” is a metaphor for the wondrous principle standing out above all others and responding to change without limit. When a person’s movements are obstructed and the body changes, it may still shift and return. But if the mind cannot become empty, still, and open, then once it moves toward death there is no return; nothing could be more grievous. “The mind’s death” refers to clinging to a particular idea and refusing to change… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

Forgetting oneself is called “losing the self.” Qu Boyu, a senior official of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, lived to the age of sixty before realizing that everything he had judged right or wrong in the preceding fifty-nine years might need to be reconsidered. What is called “wrong” is simply the mind’s thoughts still moving and constantly changing.

The sun keeps rising and setting, and the growth and transformation of all things never cease. We cannot observe things by looking at only one day, nor can we travel by walking for only one day. When the eyes grasp the subtle principle of ceaseless renewal, they do not grow dim when looking at things; when the feet grasp it, they do not stumble as they walk. Only then can this be called achievement.

When the sun rises, all things appear; when it sets, all things grow dim. Everything has its seasons of rest and flourishing, and death and life each have their allotted course. Only those who transcend these allotted courses are not constrained by external things and need not depend on anything.

Zhongni (Confucius) knew that life and death have their allotted course. Thus, above, he did not resist the transformations of Nature; below, he did not speculate in advance about when life would end. He acted in accord with things, and when external things disturbed him, he responded by following their course. Day and night alternate without a gap, and thoughts likewise continue without interruption, yet he did not know where it would all ultimately lead. To decide in advance that there is an endpoint would itself create an interruption.

The Qi of Yin-Yang blends and harmonizes to form the myriad things. If we take the past as our standard and try to predict the future, we go against the order of Heaven. Therefore, the sage always remains in ceaseless renewal. When the moment comes, he goes along with its course. Besides, the instant you and I brushed past each other has already become the past. How could a person of aspiration not feel moved by this? What I have revealed is the principle that external things are constantly changing. You have probably come close to understanding it; as for that other side, it has reached its limit—what is there to discuss? There is one thing in me that does not change, which you cannot attain, so you can only watch me disappear into the distance.

People use the subtle principle of ceaseless renewal every day, yet do not know it exists, because it leaves no conspicuous trace. But you pursue it as though it were some definite thing. This is like looking for a horse in an empty marketplace: a marketplace is not, to begin with, a place where horses are kept. You and I understand each other’s minds and have already forgotten the relationship between teacher and student. This means that neither the teacher nor the one who transmits the teaching is treated as important or relied upon. When teacher and student have both been forgotten, why should we worry that you and I might forget each other? So my body does not belong to me; yet there is one thing that cannot be forgotten: the Dao, which is everywhere.

Yanzhai says: Here, “the mind is dead” is a metaphor for having no fixed views in the mind. To be alive yet unable to see anything is even worse than being dead, which is why it is said that nothing could be more pitiable. “Bi” means comparison or analogy and can be used to give an illustrative example.

“Sunrise and sunset” refers to the span from morning to evening. The eyes and feet depend on daylight for many activities to be carried out conveniently; people’s affairs, too, are tied to sunrise and sunset. All things depend on the Dao just as people’s affairs depend on the sun.

Once a person has a physical form, the Dao is within the body and does not move or change. One acts in accord with things without letting personal desires interfere; there is no retreat and no interruption. This means that every part of the human body embodies the principle of harmony, although… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

The existence and passing away of things depend on the arrangements of fate and the transformations of creation, but “fate” cannot serve as a fixed standard for judging everything. As the sun and moon move, people change and vanish along with all things. Our lives together are like two arms crossing for an instant, then losing one another. I have spent my whole life with you, yet you still have not understood this principle. You see only the form in which I appear, and do not know that there is also an unseen side.

The Dao reaches its limit only where there is no form or trace. You seek it through things that have form, so you cannot see where it ends. The ancients said, “Tang has no walled house,” meaning that the shops in the marketplace of Tang had no houses without walls. “Tang” also referred to the roadside pavilions of today. To “seek a horse in the marketplace of Tang” is like carving a mark on a boat to find a sword: the method is mistaken, so the search is bound to fail. This matter is profound and hard to understand. The paths you and I follow must both lead to what cannot be put into words, and neither your course nor mine can be fully described. To say all there is to say about it, in the end, one must forget words. Though you have not yet reached this point, you should still take heed.

You already understand that a person may sometimes speed ahead, leaving others far behind, but that is not enough. You must also be able to let go of old attachments. Even if my appearance then differed from what you see now, the principle of not clinging to outward form still holds. The claim that “one reaches the limit only by seeing where there is no form or trace” ultimately still speaks of how things with form change.

Confucius once said that he had sped ahead, leaving others far behind; when he looked back, they were already too distant to catch up. Yang Xiong’s phrase “Yan was troubled by Confucius’s excellence” means that Yan Hui was distressed by Confucius’s remarkable stature. The sage’s heart is clear and still, like motionless water. When something comes before it, the heart reflects it and responds naturally to what it encounters. This is “being spring with all things”: responding to the myriad things so that each can find its own vitality. The heart moves day and night without interruption. If it becomes utterly still and unresponsive, it will wither, cut off from the things around it, trapped in a stubborn emptiness and desolation from which vitality can never return. This is the greatest sorrow. When the heart has died and cannot live again, a person will also move toward death.

The sun and moon rise and set, illustrating how all things are born and die. A person has eyes, as well as a head and feet. The “Chapter on Heaven and Earth” says that those with heads and feet but no hearts or ears are the multitude of people. All who hold up the sky with their heads and tread the earth with their feet are beings produced by the transformations of creation. Their survival and passing away are governed by those changes; this is what it means to depend on something. As the sun and moon move, people vanish along with the transformations of creation. You and I have spent our lives together, yet we pass in an instant like arms crossing. Is that not sorrowful?

You have probably seen this for yourself: what you see of me is only my outward form. Once that form changes and disperses, you still take it to be something real and go looking for it again. That is like searching in the marketplace for a horse that is no longer there. Yanzhai considers this interpretation of “Tang” more fitting, though some have wondered whether “Tang” at the time meant a marketplace.

The terms mentioned here are probably like the names of the Horse Market or Fan Tower in the capital; there is no need to examine them too closely. I have already forgiven you. How could you be so forgetful? The things from your past have now all vanished with change. Your longing for me is just the same.

The sages and worthies of all ages, along with ordinary people, whether clever or dull, cannot escape this change through their own plans and strength. They need only follow along with it. It is enough to know that something exists which cannot be forgotten.

In my private view, the questions and answers in this chapter discuss the changes of life and death and the workings of creation and transformation. Earlier Confucians did not explain these principles, and the other disciples had no chance to hear them. Only Yan Hui had entered deeply into the realm of the sages, so Confucius shared these principles with him.

Reflect more closely on the phrase “they lost one another in the time it takes to clasp hands,” and you can see the depth of their moral bond: their affection was as close as kin, and their De (Virtue) and intentions nurtured one another. Sadly, the workings of change cannot be halted, and people cannot remain together forever. Yet if we know that something enduring exists which cannot be forgotten, then the constant Dao (the Way) remains, untouched by change. Whether it departs or arrives, appears or disappears, there is no separation. What was said earlier concerns only their dealings in the human world. How could that be enough to glimpse the sages’ inner meaning?

Collected Subtle Commentaries on the True Scripture of Nanhua, Volume 63