《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 64

Zhi traveled in the north and climbed Hidden Summit Hill on the bank of the Dark River, where he happened to meet Wuweiwei. Zhi asked him, “I would like to ask your advice. What should I think about and reflect on to understand the Dao? Where should I be, and what should I do, to feel at ease in the Dao? What should I follow, and what path should I take, to attain the Dao?” Zhi asked three times, but Wuweiwei did not answer. It was not that he refused to answer, or that he did not know how; Zhi received no answer, so he returned to the south bank of the White River and climbed Fox Gate Hill, where he met Kuangqu.

Zhi told Kuangqu what he had just asked and put the questions to him again. Kuangqu said, “Ah, I know, but just as I was about to tell you, I forgot what I wanted to say.” Still without an answer, Zhi returned to the Imperial Palace and met the Yellow Emperor, to whom he put his questions. The Yellow Emperor said, “Do not think or deliberate, and you will begin to understand the Dao. Do not deliberately place yourself somewhere or set yourself to doing something, and you will begin to feel at ease in the Dao. Do not deliberately follow anything or take any particular path, and you will begin to attain the Dao.”

Zhi asked the Yellow Emperor, “You and I understand these things, but Wuweiwei and Kuangqu do not. Who, then, is right?” The Yellow Emperor said, “Wuweiwei was truly right; Kuangqu came close. You and I have never yet come near the Dao. Those who know the Dao do not speak of it; those who speak of it do not truly know it. That is why the sage teaches through silence. The Dao cannot be obtained by deliberate seeking, and De cannot be compelled. Benevolence can be practiced deliberately, righteousness can be undermined, and ritual often lapses into pretense. Thus, when the Dao was lost, people spoke of De; when De was lost, they spoke of benevolence; when benevolence was lost, they spoke of righteousness; when righteousness was lost, they spoke of ritual. Ritual is the outward display of the Dao, and the beginning of disorder.”

So it is said that those who cultivate the Dao must lessen things day by day. They lessen and lessen until they reach Wuwei (non-action). With Wuwei, nothing fails to come about naturally. Now that people have become particular, formed things, is it not difficult to return to the root? Perhaps only a great person can do so with ease.

Life is akin to death, and death is the beginning of life. Who can know the pattern that connects them? Human life comes about through the gathering of Qi (vital energy): when Qi gathers, life begins; when it disperses, death follows. Since life and death succeed one another, what have I to worry about? All things, then, are one. People regard what they love as wonderful and what they dislike as foul. Yet foul things can change into wonderful things, and wonderful things can change again into foul things. Thus it is said that, viewed across the world, all things are no more than the same Qi. What the sage values is precisely this truth: that all things are one.

Zhi said to the Yellow Emperor, “I once asked Wuweiwei, and Wuweiwei…” (The original text ends here unfinished.)

Crazy Qu (a person’s name) did not answer me, not because he was unwilling to answer, but because he did not realize that he was answering me. When I questioned Crazy Qu, he wanted to tell me something, but did not. This was not because he refused to tell me; he wanted to speak, but forgot. Now I ask you: do you understand this? If you do, why have you still not drawn near to the Dao spoken of by the Yellow Emperor?

The Yellow Emperor said, “Crazy Qu truly understands the Dao, because he does not know it. You seem to understand the Dao because you have already forgotten it. In the end, neither you nor I can draw near to the Dao, because we know it.”

When Crazy Qu heard these words, he thought the Yellow Emperor had spoken very reasonably.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Letting all things run their course naturally is the “teaching without words”: teaching without relying on speech. The Dao exists within nature and cannot be attained through words. Only one who does not lose their original nature can be called virtuous. If one deliberately makes a show of virtue, one fails to attain true virtue.

Once ritual forms become fixed rules, they give rise to affectation and imitation. Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao should gradually shed ostentation and falseness, remove embellishment, and preserve simplicity. Even when they act, they should not act with insistence. Once things have lost their original state, is it not difficult to restore them to their roots by means of human desires? Only those who have comprehended the Great Dao can bring body and mind into accord with change, responding to the transformations of all things without difficulty.

Those who understand the way of change do not regard life and death as two wholly separate things, but as a process in which each succeeds the other and becomes the beginning of the other. They do not know which is death and which is life; they see only things gathering and dispersing. What is there to worry about? People each regard what they love as marvelous and what they detest as foul. Yet what I consider beautiful may be what someone else detests, and what someone else loves may be what I detest. If one can comprehend this, one will understand that the marvelous and the foul, life and death, others and oneself, are not fundamentally distinct.

When the Yellow Emperor says, “Not knowing is truly understanding,” and also says, “Knowing it prevents you from drawing near to it,” he is explaining that the Dao of nature cannot be attained through words or knowledge. Thus, the central idea of “not speaking” is introduced first, then explained through the Yellow Emperor’s words, making the principle of merging with nature and all things broadly apparent.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: This chapter of the Zhuangzi, “Knowledge Wanders North,” returns to the root to seek what all things have in common. The most profound principle is hidden and unseen, neither bright nor dark. With Wuwei (non-action), there are no contrived affairs; without speech, there are no words. The question is asked but not answered because there is non-action and no speech.

The text says that the people returned to the south of White Water and then searched toward the light. They reached Fox-Mound Hill, or perhaps the place called Not-Full. Crazy Qu did not know where to go; “Qu” also suggests being unable to stretch out. The Yellow Emperor’s palace symbolizes the place toward which the mind is directed. The Dao cannot be known through knowledge. “No-Action-Speech” did not know, yet truly knew; Crazy Qu wanted to speak but forgot, and so was not ignorant. In this he resembled the Dao. You and I know this, and so in the end cannot draw near to the Dao. The Dao has no fixed location and cannot be summoned; if one tries to summon it, it becomes an object. De, by contrast, resides within oneself, so… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

The Dao cannot be attained through deliberate pursuit. Once we make it a goal to pursue, it becomes a journey from here to there. De is Wuwei by nature, while benevolence can be practiced through human effort. But when benevolence is deliberately promoted, it tends to favor some people over others, and righteousness may suffer as a result. Ritual is even more a set of rules established by human effort. If one performs a ritual and receives no response, then rolls up one’s sleeves and forces others to follow suit, this is merely mutual deception—the very beginning of disorder.

Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao diminish a little of their contrived effort each day, until they reach Wuwei. In the state of Wuwei, there is no need to deliberately reject benevolence, righteousness, ritual, or music; when one is in Wuwei and yet nothing is left undone, which of these is not the Dao?

Human beings have now become one thing among the myriad things, with awareness and desire of their own. They wish to return to the root, but do not know how; this is indeed difficult. The great person, whose understanding is luminous and far-reaching, cannot be obscured by the myriad things. For such a person, returning to the root amid the profusion of things is easy. Life and death, beginning and end, have no fixed boundaries or order: when Qi gathers, there is life; when Qi disperses, there is death. Once we understand that the gathering and dispersal of Qi are simply transformations, what is there to worry about? All things are originally one. People merely call what they like miraculous and what they dislike putrid. The two are only transformations of one another. From this we can see that all things under Heaven arise from a single Qi. This is why the sage prizes “the One.”

The Yidu Commentary, a commentary on the Zhuangzi, says: The north and water both belong to the realm that human knowledge can comprehend. They are hidden and obscure, yet also manifest; this is used as a metaphor for Yin-Yang. Within Yin-Yang, that which is Wuwei and wordless is the Dao. The text asks three questions in succession without answering them, intending readers to grasp the Dao through silence. One wishes to speak, yet forgets what one meant to say; perhaps the Dao is simply impossible to explain in words.

Later, he returned to the imperial palace and questioned the Yellow Emperor again. The Yellow Emperor used the “middle way” as a metaphor in his reply: the Dao does not rely on thought, settle into any fixed form, or follow any path that can be put into words. Hence such expressions as “knowing the Dao,” “being at ease in the Dao,” and “attaining the Dao.” Those who understand words have not yet forgotten them, so he went on to say: “You and I know it; Wuweiwei and Kuangqu do not. Who, then, is right?” The Yellow Emperor could embody the Dao of Wuwei and use it to deal with matters that involve action, so answering with silence was the true answer. Those who wish to answer but forget what they meant to say seem close to the Dao; those who cling to words are ultimately far from it.

The commentary also cites Laozi to explain the saying, “Those who know do not speak much.” Wuwei and wordlessness are true knowledge. The profound Dao cannot be attained through pursuit, and De, renewed without ceasing, cannot be reached through deliberate effort. Benevolence can be practiced through human effort; “highest benevolence” means acting without a deliberate aim. Righteousness, too, may suffer; “highest righteousness” means acting while knowing why one acts. Ritual, by contrast, involves artifice. It comes after the Dao, De, benevolence, and righteousness, showing that loyalty and trust have already grown weak—and that disorder is beginning to arise.

First, reduce what you think you know; only then can you draw near to the Dao (the Way). Even so, there is still purposeful action. Reduce further, until you reach Wuwei (non-action). With Wuwei, you can follow the changes of all things. People today are already pulled along by desires for external things. How difficult it must be to return to the root! Only a great person—one of deep De (Virtue/Power) who can follow the Great Dao—can do so easily.

Death is the beginning of life, so one may also say that life is the end of death. The Book of Changes says, “When Jing and Qi gather, they form the myriad things; when the wandering soul-Qi disperses and changes, transformation takes place.” When Qi gathers, there is life; when Qi disperses, there is death. If life and death are seen as one, what is there to worry about? People love wondrous things and loathe foul-smelling ones, yet both come from the same Qi, cycling and changing without end. The sage values “the unity of the Dao” to show the natural course of the Dao. This cannot be grasped through words and knowledge alone; it can be attained only through silent understanding of the principle that lies beyond words.

Bixu, the commentator, says: In the Zhuangzi, Zhi traveled to the upper reaches of the Dark Waters, hoping to hide his knowledge in a deep and still place. But Zhi could not remain silent forever: what is hidden will also appear. His knowledge would not cease, so he asked the Mysterious Deep, a remote and profound realm, for guidance, hoping to find peace. “Wuwei” means not answering with words, and treating the absence of an answer as an answer. Its meaning is profoundly subtle.

The White Waters point toward brightness and approach the realm of the palace of the emperor and the numinous mansion. The Yellow Emperor is the True Lord, a Daoist title for one who has attained the Dao. Draw in the gaze and still the hearing, and you can understand that all things are empty. To insist that “knowing” is right and “not knowing” is wrong only deepens the error. The “teaching without words” is wondrous Being, a subtle existence beyond the distinction between being and nonbeing.

Moreover, “true rightness” and “true knowledge” can both become obstacles in seeking the Dao, and they are especially difficult to remove. The Great Dao has no form, so it cannot be reached through form. One of high De does not cling to De and therefore has no need to pursue it deliberately. The humane person cares for all, but this can lead to favoritism and purposeful action. The righteous person makes judgments, but this can lead to rivalry, contention, and harm to others. Ritual honors ceremony and decorum, but this can lead to contrivance, vanity, and falsehood. These failings all arise from clinging to knowledge and ultimately bring disorder. One should first reduce what one knows, then reduce one’s attachment to “not knowing,” until reaching ignorance. When there is no attachment even to the act of reducing, one reaches Wuwei. With Wuwei, nothing is left undone.

Wuwei without a self—is this perhaps something only a great person can attain? Having forgotten life, one cannot be bound by death; having forgotten death, one can return to the source of life. Know the order of Qi, and you will understand that it first gathers and later returns to dispersion. If life and death are seen as a single thread, why be in a hurry to choose where to go? What is wondrous is the nature; what is foul is the bodily form. All things regard the existence of nature as good and its extinction as decay. Nature changes into bodily form, and bodily form returns to nature: both come from the same Qi. Attain “the unity of the Dao,” and all things have their root. Who would fail to value it? As for the function of being and nonbeing, and the relation between the coarse and the subtle…

All things depend on one another. So first, “Wuweiwei” appears and gives no answer, showing how profound and subtle the highest truth is. Next comes “Kuangqu,” who wants to explain the Dao but forgets how to speak. Finally, through the wisdom of the Yellow Emperor, we learn that words are merely tools for explaining the Dao. When we are trapped by knowledge, the Dao seems shallow; when we can go beyond words, the Dao reveals its subtlety.

Yan Zhai says: The opening passage has three parts, all of which lead to the central idea that “those who know do not speak, and those who speak do not know.” It goes on to say that the Dao cannot be attained through words, and De cannot be attained through outward conduct. Benevolence, righteousness, and ritual each have concrete forms of expression. If one clings to these forms, the Dao is impaired—and ritual has the strongest such effect.

“Let the body fall away and dismiss the clever ear” means loosening the burdens of the body and senses and casting aside cleverness and artifice. This is the practice of gradual reduction in cultivating the Dao. Reduce and reduce again, until the original self is forgotten. Once one reaches Wuwei (non-action), one can accord with the natural order of Heaven, and nothing remains undone. If the pursuit of the Dao still bears traces of deliberate effort, and one still desires things as external objects do, it is difficult to see the root. To “return to the root” is to go back to the state before the myriad things took form. A great person can practice Wuwei, and so can more readily accomplish this.

Life is the companion of death, and death is the beginning of life. Flowers and trees blossom and grow, but in the end they wither; in this sense, life already contains death. As Yichuan said, “The breath that returns inward is not the breath that has already been exhaled.” This conveys the same idea. Amid the comings and goings of life and death, who can know what governs them at their root? It is Qi (vital energy). If we understand that life and death are originally one principle, what is there to worry about? To “be companions and become one” means that all things return to a single whole.

The life and death of all things follow the same principle, yet people make their own distinctions between what they like and dislike, what is beautiful and ugly. When flowers and grasses flourish, people find them wondrously beautiful; when they wither, people find them foul. But they fail to see that fallen leaves become fertile soil, from which life begins anew. The rotten and the marvelous transform into each other; from ancient times to the present, this has been nothing more than the movement of one Qi. The sage understands this and therefore does not treat life and death, fortune and misfortune, as entirely separate. “One” means making no distinctions.

Chu Shi’s Guanjian says: “‘Zhi travels north to the Dark Waters’ is a metaphor for a broadly learned person seeking the source. ‘The Mound of Hidden Fen’ refers to someone who cannot yet fully conceal his knowledge and still wants to display it to others. ‘Wuweiwei’ no longer relies on knowledge to make pronouncements, so when others ask him, he gives no answer. After this, the story returns to the south of the White Waters, turning once more toward the light in search of the Dao. ‘Huqie’ means that doubt has been dispelled. Though Kuangqu is considered wild and unrestrained, he can bend and preserve himself; he wants to speak, yet forgets how. Finally, the story returns to the imperial palace, that is, it turns inward in search of the Dao. The Yellow Emperor lived in…”

Someone who has an inner guiding principle cannot help but answer when questioned, and so tells the other person what they know of the Dao (the Way). The essence of the Dao lies only in having no thoughts, no fixed place, and no point of departure.

Truth means grasping the substance of things; resemblance is only secondary. If something does not even come close to resembling the truth, it is farther still from the Dao. Words and principles can be so much at odds; no wonder Confucius, when dealing with others, both listened to what they said and observed what they did. He did not teach through words, but set an example through his own conduct, without waiting for words to explain it.

When the Dao descends and becomes De (Virtue), benevolence, righteousness, and propriety, the process is like a person gaining awareness after birth. Awareness brings ability, and ability then drives the person. Once controlled by external things, one becomes their servant. It is difficult to return to the root from there. Only a great person can put the myriad things to use without being used by them, and so can easily return to the root.

Death and life are merely the gathering and dispersal of the same Qi (vital energy). The wondrous and the foul, too, transform into one another. These claims speak only from the standpoint of what people like and dislike. The sage values “the One”—that is, an undivided whole. Since all things belong to one body, why distinguish the wondrous from the foul? Only someone who understands that death and life are phases of transformation can speak of these principles.

From the character “know” onward, the Yellow Emperor’s words repeat the meaning of the earlier passage and need no further explanation.

Heaven and Earth possess immense beauty but do not speak of it. The four seasons follow clear patterns but do not discuss them. The myriad things each take shape according to their own principles, but do not explain them. The sage investigates the beauty of Heaven and Earth and understands the principles of the myriad things. Thus the Perfect Person practices Wuwei (non-action), and the Great Sage does not contrive. This is what it means to observe the workings of Heaven and Earth.

Now, that subtle, numinous nature connects with the myriad transformations of all things. We do not know the source of their life and death, or of their roundness and squareness. It is broad and boundless, and all things have existed within it since ancient times. The Six Directions—the space formed by above, below, and the four cardinal directions—are vast, yet do not extend beyond it. Even a hair at autumn’s end, though tiny, depends on Heaven and Earth to take bodily form. All things in the world rise and fall in transformation; not one remains unchanged throughout its life. Yin-Yang and the four seasons each move along their own courses, each in its proper order. It is indistinct and elusive, seeming not to exist, yet truly existing; it flows slowly, leaving no trace, yet manifesting the wondrous. It nurtures all things, though they do not know it is there. This is called the root, through which one may observe the Way of Heaven.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: The Perfect Person practices Wuwei simply by responding to the myriad things and letting each follow its own nature. By observing the forms of things and following their particular conditions, one becomes no different from Heaven and Earth. Thus the myriad things transform of themselves, and the numinous does not rob them of their nature. The dead die of themselves, and the living grow of themselves; the round naturally becomes round, and the square naturally becomes square. No one contrives their source, so we do not know why they have existed since ancient times. Could any of this require someone to make it so?

If the Six Directions are said to lie within boundless space, then vast as they are, they remain small beside the boundless. Though the hair at autumn’s end is tiny, it does exist, and therefore has the conditions needed to contain its form. The four seasons proceed without waiting…

If Spirit is deliberately brought into view and made to seem clearly present in some place, it has already disappeared. If it is grasped and revealed in a concrete form, it is no longer mysterious.

Though all things are nourished by it, they cannot attain it as the source of their nature, nor do they know why they are able to receive its nourishment.

Lü’s Commentary: Heaven and Earth act without action, yet nothing is incomplete; this is why they possess great beauty. The seasons cycle and change, always in an orderly way; this is why they have clear laws. Though the myriad things are many, the Dao is everywhere, and each thing has its own way of coming to fulfillment. Beauty fills Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things; laws can be followed as models; and the principles of things reach everywhere. Ultimately, all come from the Dao.

The sage investigates the great beauty of Heaven and Earth and comprehends the principles of the myriad things. The sage knows that Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things are not deliberately fashioned, but arise naturally. Observing the cycles and changes of Heaven and Earth, the sage thereby grasps their principles. Spirit is the most subtle force between Heaven and Earth. It changes along with the myriad things, yet is not constrained by them. If we look only at particular things, what we see before us are merely changes in form, such as life and death, roundness and squareness. How could we learn from these the source of the myriad things?

Even so, the myriad things coexist in profusion, and none is without connection to the others. They have existed from ancient times to the present, and the Dao has never left them. Yin-Yang and the four seasons each follow their own order. If this is not the Dao directing them, what is it? The Dao seems not to exist, yet it is actually present; it has no fixed form, yet it reveals its mystery. Thus, we cannot treat it as some tangible thing, nor can we seek it only between “existence” and “nonexistence.” The myriad things nourish one another through the Dao, yet do not know how this comes about. This is called the root.

Yidu’s Commentary: “Great beauty” refers to the wondrous workings of Yin-Yang; “clear laws” refers to the principles of generation and change; “each fulfills its own principle” refers to the principle of nature and life belonging to each thing. The sage takes as a foundation the wondrous workings of Heaven, Earth, and Yin-Yang, and comprehends the principles of the nature and life of the myriad things. Through inner cultivation, one becomes a Perfected Person, whose cultivation has reached a high level; by appearing in the world, one becomes a sage. Even when acting, one does so without deliberate contrivance.

The sage observes the conjunctions and cycles of Heaven and Earth and, following them, establishes the appropriate institutions and rites. Spirit is the most subtle force of Heaven and Earth. The myriad things change of themselves, and Spirit accords with these changes without taking anything away. Thus, people do not know where the life and death, roundness and squareness of the myriad things come from. The myriad things coexist in profusion, as they have from ancient times: the four directions of Heaven and Earth have never been apart from the Dao, and even things as tiny as a hair’s tip depend on the Dao for their generation. Nothing in the world fails to rise and fall and change in accordance with the Dao. The Dao is constantly renewed and never grows old; therefore, Yin-Yang and the seasons each follow their proper order through the Dao. The Dao seems not to exist, yet its effects continue; it has no fixed form, yet it reveals its mystery. The myriad things are nourished by the Dao, yet do not know how this comes about. This is called the root: the source that enables the myriad things to manifest their wondrous functions. From this, one can observe the Way of Heaven.

Bixu’s Commentary: “Great beauty” refers to the De of Heaven and Earth, which covers and sustains the myriad things; “clear laws” refers to the patterns of generation and extinction; “each fulfills its own principle” means that the myriad things each belong to their own kind and follow their own principles.

The moment the meaning of beauty is put into words, it begins to stray; once rules are debated, they may give rise to flaws; once principles are explained, they may become confused. Only those who practice Wuwei (non-action) can quietly follow the seasons, share in the nature of Heaven and Earth, and allow the transformations of the myriad things to continue without end. This may be called subtle and clear-sighted.

The myriad things follow their own nature, and so no one knows their source. It exists independently and is not changed by anything external. The vastness of Heaven and Earth could not contain it without spiritual power; even the finest down newly grown by birds and beasts in autumn could not come into being without utmost subtlety. The sage models himself on the workings of Heaven and Earth. The myriad things receive his beneficence without knowing it. This is called the root.

Yanzhai says: “Great beauty” means what the Book of Changes calls “using beauty and benefit to benefit all under Heaven.” “Law” means fixed patterns, like the coming and going of cold and heat; “principle” means why things are as they are, such as their size and length. To speak of Wuwei is to act without deliberate effort; to speak of not making things is to refrain from imposing contrivances. Everything follows its own nature. The sage can follow nature because he has grasped its principle from Heaven and Earth. “Spiritual power” and “utmost subtlety” refer to wondrous principles. The life and death, roundness and squareness of the myriad things are brought about by spiritual power and utmost subtlety. Who could ever fully investigate their source? “Flitting” describes the ceaseless transformations of the myriad things, while the power of creation remains ever present. Su Dongpo said, “What passes is like this river, yet has never truly gone.” Those who have not truly realized the truth could not speak this way. The myriad things rise and fall, come and go; they do not remain fixed, but are constantly renewed. They are obscure and hard to see, yet life’s vitality springs forth without cease. They seem not to exist, yet do exist. Death is a continuation of life; though the body is no longer visible, the spirit exists independently of it.

This passage presents the Nanhua True Classic’s own view and carries forward the previous chapter’s themes of Wuwei and wordlessness. The first three statements express the idea, “Does Heaven speak? The four seasons proceed, and the hundred things grow.” The sage models himself on Heaven and Earth to nurture the myriad things. Is this merely the stillness of a wooden puppet, motionless and inactive? His actions arise from Wuwei; at their root, his way of carrying them out involves no contrived effort. Like the seasons moving in Heaven and the fertile ground nourishing things on Earth, they never go beyond the bounds of nature.

The spiritual power and subtlety of Heaven and Earth accord with the myriad forms of change among the things, with their flourishing and decline. These phenomena are plain to see, yet no one knows what makes them so. This is what is called the “root.” The myriad things transform in a flitting, drifting way, as in the saying “the myriad things flourish and grow.” They have existed since ancient times, and the Dao has never changed. Thus the Dao is boundless and vast, filling the space between Heaven and Earth; it is also so minute that it penetrates the finest down. It changes along with the myriad things, yet renews itself day after day. Yin and Yang move together, each in its own order. The Dao seems not to exist, yet in a blur it seems like something; its form cannot be seen, but its wondrous workings are profound and unfathomable. All things are nourished by it without knowing it. This is called the root.

Where does one need to seek the “root”? There is no need to look elsewhere. One should seek within oneself, find the foundation that makes one’s existence possible, and abide in it.

To know this foundation is to understand the source from which I came into being. To hold fast to it without departing is called “returning to the root.” Returning to the root is “stillness”; stillness is “returning to one’s mandate,” that is, returning to the original state of life. Only when one has reached this point in learning the Dao can one take another step into realms of deeper mystery. Hence the saying: “One may then contemplate the Dao of Heaven.”

Of the explanations offered, that of Liu Deyi, the Scattered Adept of Illuminating Stillness, Chen Bixu, is more fitting in principle when considered alongside the preceding passage.

Collected Subtleties on the Meaning of the True Classic of the Southern Florescence, Volume 66