《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 67

Guangyao asked “Nonbeing” and “Being”: “Sir, do you exist, or do you not exist?”

He received no answer, so he studied the figure closely. It was profound and still, empty and silent. He watched him all day but could not see him; listened but could not hear him; tried to touch him but could not reach him. Guangyao sighed: “How utterly beyond! Who could attain such a state? I can let being and nonbeing coexist, but I still cannot stop clinging even to ‘nonbeing.’ Since I remain within being and nonbeing, how could I attain this state?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: This passage conveys the idea of going beyond learning. In relation to the Great Dao, learning must be transcended once it reaches its utmost point. One who truly excels at learning is probably someone who no longer clings to learning.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Guangyao means the light shining across the vast expanse of heaven and earth. He can perceive “Nonbeing” and “Being”; in other words, his light has reached even “nonbeing.” Yet he still does not understand whether “Nonbeing” and “Being” ultimately exist or do not exist, so his question receives no answer. “Profound and still, empty and silent” means that it cannot be grasped by sight, hearing, or touch. Guangyao remains Guangyao precisely because he is still within being and nonbeing. He cannot yet let go even of “nonbeing,” and so cannot reach the state of “Nonbeing” and “Being.” In that state, there is nowhere one could arrive; how, then, could one speak of attaining it?

Yidu’s commentary: Guangyao means clear perception; “Nonbeing” and “Being” refer to the state of one who has realized the Great Dao. The Dao cannot be sought through sounds, forms, or names. Yet distinctions such as being and nonbeing ultimately merge into one: the Dao’s essential nature is everywhere, and there is nowhere that differs from it. Thus, when Guangyao asks, “Who could attain such a state?” he means that nothing can surpass it.

Bixu’s commentary: Guangyao is a metaphor for inner awareness, while “Nonbeing” and “Being” are a metaphor for the mysterious root. One who realizes this root has body and mind in accord with it. If you say it exists, it is nevertheless profound and still, empty and silent. If you say it does not exist, it still contains both being and nonbeing, and has not yet reached the point of clinging even to “nonbeing.” Besides, arguing about whether something exists or does not exist can go on without end. How could debating only being and nonbeing lead to realization of the subtle root? Guangyao’s question brings out the central theme of the “Journey to the North” chapter.

Yanzhai said: “I can have being and nonbeing, but I still cannot have nonbeing without ‘nonbeing’”—this is an exceptionally subtle statement. To say, “I still cannot have nonbeing without ‘nonbeing,’” means that I remain bound by the concept of “nonbeing,” still caught within it. How, then, could I reach that profound, still, empty, and silent state? The Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment says that those who claim to have awakened to “nonbeing” face the same problem: even if they call “no awakening” mysterious, as long as they cling to “no awakening,” they have not gone all the way. This is the same meaning as the passage here.

A belt-hook maker in the service of the Grand Marshal was already eighty years old, yet his work was still flawless down to the last hair's breadth. The Grand Marshal (the highest military officer in charge of military administration in the state of Chu) asked him, "Is it your skillful hands, or do you have some technique of the Dao (the Way)?" He replied, "What I have is something I hold to. At twenty I came to love forging belt hooks. I looked at nothing else, and unless it was a belt hook, I paid it no attention. By devoting my mind to one thing, I set aside everything else and left it unused, and so I was able to preserve the working of this craft for so long. How much more so with the Dao, which is used in everything! Is there anything among the myriad things that does not depend on it?"

Guo Xiang's commentary says: The craftsman could weigh the heft of the hooks he hammered and never be off by a hair, because his mind held no stray thought or attachment, and so whenever an external thing came before him, he could respond to it with complete ease.

Lü Huiqing's commentary says: To be at once "of no use" and "of no non-use" is something only the Dao can accomplish.

Yidu's commentary says: "Dama" here means the Grand Marshal of Chu. He suspected that the craftsman's exquisite skill must come from some technique of the Dao, but the craftsman answered that he had none, only an inner hold so firm that outside things could not disturb it. From his youth he loved this craft, was blind to everything else, and gave no heed to anything that was not a belt hook, and this is why his work reached such refinement. When the mind is spent on one place, it is not spent on another, and that one place grows ever more practiced. The saying "those who use something borrow from what is left unused" means that it is by leaving other things unused that one can keep the function of this one thing for so long. "Of no non-use" refers to the Dao. If a skilled craftsman's discernment in a single craft can reach such precision, how much more so can one's discernment of the Dao?

Bixuzi's commentary says: The key to the Dao lies in having something to hold to. If one pays attention to nothing and holds to nothing, then one has no use for anything. Whoever applies the mind here must necessarily not apply it there, and so it is said, "Those who use something borrow from what is left unused": by relying on non-use, one accomplishes use, and so can preserve that use for a long time. One who governs the myriad things well leaves nothing unused, and so all things receive benefit from such a person.

Yuzhai (Lin Xiyi) says: "Nothing but the hook did I examine" is the same concentration as that described earlier, "attending only to the cicada's wings." "Use" refers to skill. "Non-use" is the naturalness of the Dao. "Of no non-use" is the Dao's Wuwei (non-action), by which nothing is left undone. The meaning is this: if I apply the subtlety of "non-use" to a craft and can still preserve its function for so long, then how much more so with the Dao's non-action that leaves nothing undone, upon which no one under heaven does not depend?

The parable of Guangyao is meant to illustrate one who has gained insight in learning the Dao. At the moment when the light within first breaks forth and everything opens into clarity, such a person stands in the realm of "non-being." Having reduced and diminished again and again until reaching Wuwei, there is nothing left to ask. Such a person feels only profound depth and stillness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and grasping nothing. Only then does Guangyao begin to awaken, marveling at the Dao's supremacy and not knowing how to cultivate oneself so as to arrive at such a state, like the River Earl who, on seeing the Sea God Ruo, gazed over the boundless ocean and sighed in admiration.

Do not imagine that, because you know all things are empty, you alone understand this principle. Yet you still remain within the realm of “nothing” and have not entered the domain of “Profound Duality”—the Daoist mystery that transcends the distinction between being and nonbeing. Now that you have reached “neither being nor nonbeing,” where could you go from here? This is another expression of wonder and admiration for a state of realization that is beyond reach.

The craftsman who hammers a hook does not watch his eyes, and his hands never stop. This is what the world calls “acting with ease without setting the mind to it.” But this does not mean the hook is not worth looking at. His skill is perfected, and the key to its use lies within himself. This is called “seeing nonbeing within being.” If one reaches the point where nothing is left unused, perhaps one can then speak of “nonbeing within nonbeing.”

All things under Heaven are born from “being,” and “being” is born from “nonbeing.” Being and nonbeing reveal one another; what among the myriad things does not come from this? As a state of realization, “nonbeing” is profound and still, and exceedingly difficult to describe. The subtle principle of the Dao is established through it, and its wondrous workings are indeed rooted in it. People cling to “being” and do not know that all things arise from “nonbeing” and, in the end, return to “nonbeing.” Thus the True Person often uses this principle to make a case, dispelling people’s fixed views and explaining the transformations of all things from beginning to end. If a person can truly seek in stillness, forget preconceived notions, and accord with the Dao, they will understand that all existence is empty and only true nature is revealed. Only then will they know that acting through what seems to be non-action can bring lasting effect. This is no empty claim.

The phrase “Now you have reached ‘neither being nor nonbeing’” appears in all versions. On close examination of the passage, it should read “nonbeing within nonbeing”; the preceding text can serve as a reference.

Ran Qiu asked Confucius, “Before Heaven and Earth had taken shape, could one know what things were like then?” Confucius said, “Yes. Antiquity was like today.” Ran Qiu felt that he had asked poorly and withdrew. The next day he came to see Confucius again and said, “Yesterday I asked whether one could know what things were like before Heaven and Earth took shape. You said yes, and that antiquity was like today. After hearing this yesterday, I thought I understood, but today I am confused again. What does this mean?”

Confucius said, “Yesterday you thought you understood because you first accepted the revelation of the spirits. Today you feel confused because you have gone on to inquire into matters beyond what the spirits can understand. There is no distinction between past and present, no beginning and no end. There are no descendants, and yet there are grandchildren—is this coherent?” Ran Qiu did not answer. Confucius said, “Enough. You have not yet responded. Do not regard life as life, and do not regard death as death. Is there perhaps some other basis between life and death? Each of the myriad things has a unified source. What existed before Heaven and Earth: was it some particular thing? That which can generate the myriad things cannot itself be a particular thing; otherwise, the myriad things could not have appeared before it. Yet even if we say it is not a particular thing, it still seems to be something that exists. If we inquire further, there is no end. The sages love others, and their love ultimately has no limit; this, too, takes its model from that principle.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Confucius held that Heaven and Earth have always existed, and therefore there was no time when Heaven and Earth did not exist. ‘Emptiness’…” (The original text ends here.)

When the mind harbors the thought of waiting for Heaven’s decree, the spirit is held back. Once one deliberately thinks and seeks, one sinks ever deeper into confusion and ultimately cannot understand. Nonbeing cannot become being, and being cannot become nonbeing. Since being is something that truly exists, however it may transform in countless ways, it cannot become absolute nothingness. Thus, from ancient times to the present, even before there was what we call “being,” there has always been some form of existence. “Children and grandchildren” means that generations continue without end.

The dead simply undergo their own transformation and die; it is not the living who make them die. The living, too, are born through their own transformation. Birth and death depend on nothing else: each is sufficient in its own transformation, each taking shape on its own. Who can say that something came before all things? I take Yin-Yang (the two fundamental forces that form Heaven, Earth, and all things) as the origin preceding all things, but Yin-Yang itself is also what we call a “thing.” And what came before Yin-Yang? I take nature (the way things are of themselves) as the origin of all things, but nature is no more than things being as they are. I then take the Supreme Dao (the highest Dao) as the origin of all things. Since the Dao is the ultimate nonbeing, how can it be said to precede all things if it is already nothing?

Then what, in truth, came before all things? The fact that all things continue without end shows that they are as they are of themselves; no one makes them so. The sage cares for others without pause, likewise following this natural inclination. In this way, his benevolence is passed down for a hundred generations and beyond.

Lü’s commentary says: Who gave Heaven and Earth their names? Understand why Heaven and Earth received their names, and you will understand why they came into being. Understand why they came into being, and you will see that “before Heaven and Earth existed” is not fundamentally different from the present. The spirit naturally receives things; it does not obtain them through thought and striving. As for wanting to understand what is not mysterious, one must first ask why it is not mysterious. Past and present, beginning and end, exist in relation to one another; without this mutual relation, neither would exist. Understand this, and you can grasp what is meant by “before Heaven and Earth existed”: even before Heaven and Earth had taken shape, they could be known, just as one can speak of descendants before there are children and grandchildren.

To keep someone from responding, the key is to seek without bringing fixed ideas to the task. Only after the mind has decided that something lives can it make that thing die; only after it has decided that something is dead can it make that thing live. This is the fault of seeking with fixed ideas. Do death and life really depend on one another? The physical form depends on nothing. Dependence and independence are simply distinctions drawn from within a single whole. If one understands that death and life are one, how could anything have been born before Heaven and Earth? If something did precede Heaven and Earth, it would be the creator of all things. But if the creator were not some kind of “thing,” all things could not have come from it. Thus, the saying “There is a thing, whole and undivided, born before Heaven and Earth” merely means that it is still some kind of “thing,” still some kind of “nonbeing.” That is, it never had a definite “thing” in the first place…

Loving others without end also takes its model from this. This is precisely the principle by which Qianyuan (the fundamental power through which the Way of Heaven brings forth all things) governs the Way of Heaven. The noble person follows its example in nurturing the people in the same way.

The Commentary of Yidu says: Can we really know what things were like before Heaven and Earth appeared? We can find out by reasoning from what happened after their appearance. Xunzi said, “The way of the hundred kings is the way of the later kings,” meaning that we should understand the way of ancient kings’ governance by looking at that of later kings. We can likewise infer events from a thousand years ago from what we see today. That is why Confucius replied to Ran Qiu, “Ancient times and today are the same.”

At first, Ran Qiu asked sincerely, keeping his mind empty and clear; wisdom arose, and he understood plainly. Later, he failed to grasp Confucius’s words because preconceived ideas obstructed his mind, preventing his spirit from becoming clear. Confused, he could not understand. Confucius then told him that there is no distinction between ancient and present, nor between beginning and end. He was speaking from the perspective of a spirit that flows through all things. Before there are descendants, one should wait for them to take shape naturally as things change. To yearn impatiently for descendants is futile.

Originally, there was no such thing as death; death came about only when life appeared. Originally, there was no such thing as life; life came about only when death appeared. Life and death each have their own form and do not depend on one another. In the Great Beginning (the state before Heaven and Earth were divided, when Qi had not yet become manifest), there was no Qi. There was neither form nor Qi, yet it could transform and bring forth all things. Since it could bring forth all things, it was not any one thing among them. Although it preceded the appearance of all things, it cannot be said to be earlier than them, because it still existed in some way. And where something exists, change is boundless and endless. The sage treats all things without confining love to any one of them. Thus love can endure without end, perhaps because the sage takes this as a model.

The Commentary of Bixu says: The question about what things were like before Heaven and Earth appeared is meant to clarify the state before all things. Confucius’s reply, “Ancient times and today are the same,” means that we should observe all things from within ourselves. Here, “clear” refers to the quick understanding and intelligence of childhood; “confused” refers to the dullness that sets in by middle age. The mind and spirit are received from Heaven. When they are focused, harmonious, gentle, and simple, they can fully receive the Dao. But later, as one pursues cravings and desires that are never satisfied, one’s simple nature becomes dull.

If old age and childhood are the same, there is no distinction between ancient and present. If life and death are connected, there is no distinction between beginning and end. A son comes before a grandson: this is the principle by which things follow one another. Understand that the existence of ancient and present has a natural basis, and you can see that all things disperse from being and return from being to nonbeing, accumulating and coming to fulfillment without cease. Being does not stand apart from creation and transformation (the natural process by which things come into being and change).

It is not that this life causes death to occur, nor that death causes life to appear. This means that life has its own life, and death its own death: one does not die because one has lived, nor live because one has died. It shows that life and death are each independent from the outset and do not depend on one another. Each thing has its own form, and the paths of being and nonbeing are not the same. Heaven and Earth are the greatest beings, transforming and bringing things forth on their own. If one supposes that something existed before Heaven and Earth and was earlier than them… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

All things have their own sequence; one cannot say that “the thing born before Heaven and Earth” is all things. Yet all things and Heaven and Earth belong to a single whole. Although they are all things, each kind of thing comes into being in its own way. What appears first is not what appears later, just as generations of descendants follow one another, each distinct from the last. Thus every thing has its own Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the root it has received. If one thing is said to come after another, and that other can in turn be traced back to something earlier, then all things follow one another in layers, without end.

The sage treats the people as he treats straw dogs—straw figures used in sacrifice and discarded afterward—yet the people cherish the sage for a long time. This is because the sage does not place himself above all things.

Yanzhai says: What is called “spirit” is my own awareness; what is called “without spirit” is awareness whose clarity has been obscured by Qi. In the past, that bright, empty, numinous awareness was present, and so it could receive all things. Now that dim, empty, numinous awareness is absent, and so there is seeking. This passage does not discuss past and present, beginning and end; it speaks only of the principles of creation and transformation. All things come into being without ceasing, like a person having descendants. One need not wait until the descendants appear to know that the line will continue.

The final response says: There is no need to say more. As soon as the word “life” appears, so does the word “death,” because once life is mentioned, death follows in speech. As soon as the word “death” appears, the word “life” appears too; the principle is the same. Life and death rest on a single ground, and “ground” here means principle. As for “all things,” if we ask what all things are in themselves, they are not any particular thing. But if we say they are not things, then they must have been born before Heaven and Earth, and so cannot be called a “thing.” Once we call them a “thing,” we cannot say they came before Heaven and Earth. They have then already become “something.” Therefore, all things cannot have come before all things. The point is that once something exists, an endless succession of things follows.

If the sage cares for the people while leaving visible traces of his actions, people will pursue one another by those outward signs without end. This is because they focus only on things before them and do not know that the root from which all things arise is not itself a concrete thing.

Ran Qiu’s question came with great force, like a sudden thunderbolt splitting a mountain. Confucius answered casually, causing him to forget his original question and withdraw. This shows the difference in attainment between sage and disciple. Although Ran Qiu had entered Confucius’s inner hall, what he had learned was only worldly knowledge, so his understanding did not reach beyond what his eyes and ears could perceive. How could he have known in advance what happened before Heaven and Earth took shape? It was only natural that he found this strange and asked about it.

The human body takes Heaven as its model and follows the pattern of Earth. Before Heaven and Earth took shape, our own original nature was already so. To know our original nature is also to know Heaven… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

The state of things before Heaven and Earth can also be inferred from what exists after their formation. When sages grasp the principles of antiquity and use them to guide the present, they can infer the present state of affairs. And when they use the present to understand antiquity, how could they know only what happened a hundred generations ago?

In the vast emptiness, Heaven and Earth are no more than tiny things, yet among all things they are the greatest. Things with form arise from the formless, and in the end must move toward destruction. Human life is simply too short for us to see this process, just as summer insects do not know what ice is.

What is called “spirit” (Shen) exists before human understanding. If you seek to know it and pursue it as “spirit,” you will instead ask how what is “not spirit” can become spirit. In the past, those whose minds were clear sought what is called spirit through knowledge. Today, those whose minds are clouded hear the Great Dao and then forget knowledge; thus spirit exists within what seems “not spirit.” Why pursue it any further? Simply turn back and contemplate the source within, reaching a state in which nothing is gained. Neither obscure nor radiant, it makes no distinction between past and present, and life and death can no longer bind a person. One does not take life as a reason to keep pursuing life, nor death as a reason to pursue death. This is what is meant by the independent transformation of each thing: things arise without depending on anything else. Just as one breath is not the next breath, and one flame is not the next flame.

A question follows: “Is there anything that existed before Heaven and Earth?” The answer is: only the Dao is before Heaven and Earth; no concrete thing can exist before them. The Dao gives rise to Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things, so it cannot be called any particular thing. Once something appears and enters the realm of form and substance, it can no longer be considered prior to the myriad things, for it is already a particular “thing.”

Once concrete things exist, the myriad things arise from the One and appear before us in an endless, varied succession. Few can stand apart and remain undeluded by them. The number of beings is infinite because the transformations of Creation are infinite; the sages’ compassion for all things is likewise without limit. Yet all things are bound to pass from simplicity to superficiality, and the age of ancient simplicity, governed through Wuwei (non-action), can no longer be restored. Perhaps only those skilled at seeking their own innate nature can bring back the ancient rule of Wuwei.

“The character ‘犹’ in the text is probably a mistaken form of ‘由.’”

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “I once heard you say, ‘Do not insist on sending anything away, and do not deliberately welcome anything.’ May I respectfully ask how one should cultivate such a state of mind?” Confucius said, “People in ancient times changed outwardly along with things, while their inner selves did not change. People today change inwardly along with things, while outwardly they do not change. To change together with all things…”

When all things outside us change, there is an inner “One” that does not change with them. How should we adapt to change? How should we hold fast to what does not change? It is enough to respond to all things in just the right measure; there is no need to do more.

In ancient times, the pleasure grounds of Xiwei, the gardens of the Yellow Emperor, the palaces of Youyu, and the residences of Kings Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou were all held up as models by gentlemen and scholars of the Confucian and Mohist schools. They argued over right and wrong on the basis of these examples and fell into discord. How much more so do people today?

The sage treats all things without harming them. When he harms nothing, nothing can harm him. Only one who is not harmed can live naturally among others, without deliberately welcoming or seeing them off. Whether in mountain forests or on plains and wetlands, I can find joy. Yet before one joy has run its course, sorrow follows. When sorrow and joy arise, I cannot resist them; when they depart, I cannot hold them back. How sad that people are merely like inns, offering all things a temporary place to stay.

People know only what they have encountered, not what they have never encountered; they know only what they can do, not what they cannot. We cannot avoid not knowing some things and being unable to do some things. Is it not pitiable to struggle to escape a limitation that no one can avoid? The most profound words go beyond words; the deepest action is without deliberate action. If we confine our understanding to what we already know, our insight remains shallow.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When the mind follows the body, the body changes naturally. When the mind tries to direct the body, things outside us instead become fixed and unchanging. Only when the inner mind remains constant without changing along with things can it change together with all things. What is called constancy and change should both follow their natural course, without contrivance, allowing all things to change of themselves. One should neither deliberately accommodate nor deliberately resist; stop when the right measure has been reached. To follow change without a calculating mind is precisely the state in which the sage dwells at ease. The character 𩐎 means “to harmonize.” The teachings of the Confucian and Mohist schools make it difficult for the world to live in harmony. If even those without a calculating mind can bring about harmony, how much more so can ordinary people?

The key to treating all things without harming them is to follow nature oneself. With no calculating mind, one can follow nature; following nature, one does not deliberately welcome or see things off. This is more in accord with the Dao than deliberate welcoming and seeing off. Mountain forests and plains and wetlands may not, in themselves, suit me, yet I can enjoy them all with ease. This is joy without any particular cause. Since joy can arise without a cause, so can sorrow; therefore, there is no need to cling to what brings joy or to what brings sorrow. People cannot calmly forget themselves and take pleasure in their own ease. Instead, they lodge themselves amid sorrow and joy, like travelers staying for a time at an inn.

People know what they have encountered, not what they have not; they know what they cannot do, and cannot force themselves to do it. From this we can see that what is not up to us can only be left to follow its natural course. Understanding gained through knowledge depends on learning, and so remains shallow.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: In ancient times, people adapted outwardly to change and moved forward with it; inwardly, they held fast to what did not change, then… [The original text ends here.]

As long as something in the heart is not forgotten, it will be preserved. People today: if the heart changes along with external things, it will accommodate itself to them. But if the body does not change along with external things, the rules before one’s eyes become restraints, preventing one from advancing day by day. If someone changes together with external things, how can they truly be said to change with them if one part remains unchanged? If there is both change and what does not change, then it is impossible to say clearly what is truly unchanging. How could such a person rub shoulders with external things, making their actions gallop ahead so that no one can stop them?

To go along with external things without competing with them for more means neither deliberately pursuing nor deliberately rejecting them. One simply responds to them without keeping them in the heart. The terms “enclosure” (a fenced hunting ground), “garden” (a plot for growing vegetables), “palace” (a dwelling), and “room” refer to a world in decline, where fewer and fewer people can roam freely, and the places in which they can find shelter grow ever narrower. Even teachers of the Confucian and Mohist schools injure one another through disputes over right and wrong. How much harder it is for people today to avoid friction with external things.

The sage lives among the myriad things without harming them. He lets right and wrong run their course, finally coming to rest in the “Heavenly Balance”—the state of following nature and bringing all things into equality. How, then, could external things harm him? So although the sage, like others, meets and farewells people, he alone roams freely in a realm beyond meeting and farewell.

People are driven by external things, and both sorrow and joy can enter the heart. Even among mountains, forests, rivers, and marshes, just as one feels delight, before that delight has run its course sorrow follows close behind. Sorrow and joy come and go in turn, never stopping. When they arrive, they cannot be resisted; when they depart, they cannot be held back. The human body is therefore little more than a temporary lodging for external things, like an inn. This is because people know the things they encounter, but not the things they have never encountered: when they meet them, they unite with external things; when they do not, they are separate from them. People know what they can do, but not what they cannot do. Knowing what they can do, they are made servants of external things; knowing what they cannot do, they can instead make external things serve them.

Lack of knowledge and ability is unavoidable for human beings. Since this is part of the human condition, everyone can learn to accept it calmly. Yet to devote oneself to escaping what no one can avoid is to depart far from one’s nature—is this not lamentable? The highest kind of speech goes beyond speech; the highest kind of action goes beyond action. If one tries to make all that one knows equal, while fixating on escaping what no one can avoid, then even what one understands remains shallow.

According to the commentary by Yidu, “the body changes with external things while the heart does not” means that the body moves along with them while the heart retains its inner master. “The heart changes with external things while the body does not” means that the heart shifts with them while the body has not forgotten itself. When the body changes together with external things but the heart does not, this is what is meant by “only one part remains unchanged.” Whether external things change or remain unchanged, let them follow their natural course and be as they are. Live with them calmly, letting each thing follow its own nature, with nothing added or taken away and nothing lacking. An enclosure is a hunting ground; a garden is a plot for growing vegetables. A garden is smaller than an enclosure, and a palace smaller than a garden.

Human nature and life are originally vast, as spacious as a palace. When the world declined, people failed to restore their original simplicity; instead, they made this spacious dwelling narrow. This was caused by the age. Does that mean the sages themselves differ in rank or worth?

The Confucians and Mohists each held to their own doctrine, believing themselves right and others wrong. Their views were especially difficult to reconcile and bring into unity. To “bring into unity” means to harmonize what differs and make it one. The sage faces the myriad things without harming them, and so the myriad things cannot harm him. The rhinoceros has nowhere to use its horn, and the tiger nowhere to strike with its claws: this is what the saying describes. Such a person has perfected De (Virtue/Power). He need only be able to live among people and respond to the give and take of their company. To “respond to the give and take” means simply to dwell with others.

People generally welcome what is new and tire of what is old. Nothing in the world can remain new forever. Since we use things that must eventually grow old to satisfy a heart that is quick to tire, it is hardly surprising that there is no lasting joy in the world. The wealthy and powerful take pleasure in influence and profit; those who withdraw to quiet places take pleasure in mountains and forests. Both depend on external things for their happiness. What can remain forever new, grow old, and still never weary us? Once we tire of what has grown old, sorrow follows close behind.

Sorrow and joy lodge within us like travelers staying for a time at an inn. Only someone who has learned and attained the Dao—the fundamental principle and natural order spoken of by Daoism—does not dwell amid wealth and power, yet has the means to direct and make use of things. Without withdrawing to the mountains and forests, this person can still see the transformations of the myriad things. The resources on which they rely never run short, and the transformations they encounter have no end. Their joy, then, is renewed day after day; it does not grow old. How could weariness and sorrow arise?

Bixu, a Daoist scholar and commentator, says: “To follow external things is to hand the mind and spirit over to changes outside oneself; to preserve one’s nature is to remain inwardly unchanged. To let one’s nature go freely is to move inwardly with change; to hold one’s ground against external things is to remain outwardly unmoved by change. To change along with the myriad things is to appear outwardly like them; to remain inwardly unchanged is for one’s original nature never to have changed. Whether one changes or remains unchanged, let it follow its own course. This is not only letting things follow their natural course; it also means being at ease and acting without strain.”

One who lives among people without stain or attachment is like a sage: walking and resting in gardens and palaces, why deliberately accommodate or reject external things? Even the gentlemen of the Confucians and Mohists cannot do without judging right and wrong; how much less can those beneath them? To face things without harming them is to be at one with the myriad things. The myriad things cannot harm such a person because they hold no fixed opinions about one thing in relation to another. Only someone who cannot be harmed can respond to the give and take of life with others. Yet to be free of any intention to accommodate and thus naturally not accommodate is easy; to respond to the give and take while never going against external things is much harder.

Mountains and forests have no feelings toward people, yet people often love them because their quiet accords with human nature. To feel sorrow when things change, however, is a matter of emotion.

People in the world are all pulled along by sorrow and joy. When something happens, they rush to meet it, and so they often encounter disaster. When nothing happens, their blessings can instead be preserved. Those who are capable are put to work by others; those who are not capable end up putting others to work. The sages value ignorance and lack of ability, yet people insist on showing off their strength, seeking knowledge, and proving their competence. In this way, they harm themselves through their dealings with external things. This is a grave affliction. If one can cast aside false words and the deluded pursuit of knowledge, and enter the state of “not knowing how one knows,” then the Way reaches deep and far.

Yanzhai says: “To respond to external things without being burdened by them is outward conformity; to respond to them without being moved within is inner constancy. Contact with external things creates entanglement: this is the mind changing along with things. To rub against external things without being affected by them is outward constancy. Using my inner constancy to respond to external things, I can follow their changes wherever they lead. I neither anticipate them nor follow after them. Then, whether things change or remain unchanged, I do not cling to awareness of them. What is called ‘constancy’ is a mind without a mind, settled and at ease. ‘Qi’ means to rub: must we really rub against external things and contend with them for superiority?”

Xiwei, the Yellow Emperor, Youyu, Tang of Shang, King Wu of Zhou, and the teachers of the Confucians and Mohists had not yet fully understood the principle of inner constancy. They therefore became caught up in disputes over right and wrong. “Fenfen” describes different flavors competing with one another; “gardens, orchards, palaces, and houses” describes how they treated particular doctrines as fixed territories and habitual niches. So long as one does not harm external things, one can change along with them; and because one can change along with them, one can also respond to other people.

When ordinary people visit mountains and forests, they are bound to feel joy. Joy brings a response, and that response must in turn bring sorrow. The “Account of the Orchid Pavilion” uses precisely this idea: people rejoice because of external things and grieve because of them. Since joy and sorrow come and go beyond one’s control, the mind is no more than an inn where they stay for a time. “Encounter” means what one can see; “not encounter” means what one cannot see. What one can see belongs to human effort; what one cannot see belongs to Heaven’s decree. Doing what lies within one’s power is a matter of human effort; what one cannot do is a matter of Heaven’s decree. Everyone in the world has things they do not know and cannot do. Yet people understand human effort but not Heaven’s decree, and so they keep trying to avoid what cannot be avoided. Is this not lamentable? Thus the highest speech is speechless, and the highest action is action without deliberate effort. To avoid clinging to what one cannot know, while treating everything one can know as genuine knowledge—this is a truly shallow understanding.

Those who conform outwardly are gentle, yielding, accommodating, and open. Those who remain inwardly constant hold fast to their integrity and establish De (Virtue/Power). Those whose minds change along with things let their thoughts be moved by external things. Those who remain outwardly constant are self-important and deliberately set themselves apart from ordinary ways. People fail to change where change is called for, yet change where it is not. This is why the customs of different ages may be either wholesome or debased, and why gentlemen and petty people differ.

This is why things come to be distinguished from one another. The sage uses what the world regards as insignificant to govern all under Heaven, and changes along with the myriad things. Yet by cultivating himself through the true Dao, he preserves his original nature and is not altered by external things. If one can truly cultivate oneself through the Dao, extending this way to all under Heaven is merely a natural consequence. In this way, there is no real distinction between inner and outer, and both change and constancy belong to change. One then follows the myriad things at ease and moves in harmony with them, naturally avoiding excess.

Gardens and palaces were places where sages could dwell in peace. But in later ages, fewer and fewer people came to enjoy such places, and the world people inhabited grew ever narrower. Even the Confucian and Mohist teachers whom people esteem could not avoid disputing right and wrong and injuring one another. How much less can people today live among the myriad things without being harmed, while also associating and getting along with others? It is no wonder, then, that people have abandoned the pleasures of gardens, palaces, and communal life, choosing instead mountains, forests, and open country, where they cultivate themselves alone.

The nature of things is that movement, when carried to its extreme, gives way to stillness. Human feeling is the same: joy, when carried to its extreme, turns to sorrow. Those who live amid the bustle of the marketplace envy the quiet of the mountains and forests; yet no one who lives in the mountains can remain forever free of weariness with that life. Perhaps human nature shifts quietly and unconsciously, moving along with the transformations of all things, while people fail to notice that their bodies are merely temporary lodgings for sorrow and joy. The “External Things” chapter says, “The great forests, hills, and mountains are beneficial to people in ways beyond what spirit can exhaust.” This means that the benefits people gain from forests, hills, and wilderness are beyond measure. It is the same point made here.

When something does not come before us, we forget it; even when we part from someone, seeing them again can be like not seeing them at all. “Ability” means doing things appropriately. “Inability” is like the simple, unknowing state of a fool, who abandons learning and does nothing. People always treat the coming and going of external things as the cause of sorrow and joy, without understanding that their own bodies, too, are only temporary lodgings. And the things they encounter, along with the abilities they possess, are also lodged within this temporary dwelling.

Only when one does not cling to knowledge is there true knowing; only when one does not cling to ability is there true ability. These things are inherent in people, yet people find it difficult to free themselves from attachment to them. Now people abandon what they already possess and instead pursue ever more knowledge and skill, exhausting their minds and bodies, rushing about until they die. This is what is truly lamentable about human beings.

People cannot entirely refrain from speaking and acting. But if the mind does not become entangled in words and deeds, the burdens they bring will naturally fall away. This is the highest speech and the highest action. If one confines what one knows to the limits of what one can understand, one’s insight will be shallow and far from the Dao. As for the phrase “the gentleman is a person of antiquity,” it becomes clear when read closely in light of what follows.

This chapter takes “knowing” as its subject. Knowing is the source of action and speech. The “Journey to the North” chapter, by contrast, searches for the root and aims to return to the source. The “Mysterious Waters” chapter speaks of the Dao at its most subtle.

If the mind holds the intention to benefit all things, or deliberately sets out to make oneself a person who “practices the Dao,” then this is not true Wuwei (non-action). Only when one does nothing and says nothing does one merge with the Dao. That is why the Yellow Emperor was questioned three times and could not answer. His inability to answer was true knowledge. The clearer his answers became, the farther they showed him to be from the Dao.

Thus, sages cast aside the body and cleverness, release their attachment to the body, and put aside the acuity of ear and eye. Acting through Wuwei, they allow all things to come naturally to completion; without teaching through words, they allow the world to transform of itself. Understand that the Dao cannot be possessed, and the body cannot be claimed as one’s own. The existence of all things arises from nonbeing. All things under Heaven are joined as a single current of Qi (vital energy). The wondrous and the decayed transform into each other; Yin-Yang Qi mingles, and all things grow of themselves. They flourish into being and then quietly disappear. These are experiences shared by everyone.

People and all things change together, yet sages alone do not cling to change. They let life and death follow their course, as naturally as loosening bonds and laying down the body. Amid change, they go along with it: they neither seek change deliberately nor resist it. Forgetting change and letting it proceed as it will, how could they be troubled by it?

“The lower you go, the more clearly you see that the Dao is present.” (This means the Dao is everywhere.) The Dao is therefore present even in tiles and bricks. The ancients made use of things for what they could do, without clinging to the things themselves. A skilled maker of belt hooks could grasp, from what lay before him, the principles of the Dao that existed before Heaven and Earth were opened. One who does not cling to one’s present circumstances has nowhere to depart from. With no distinction in the mind between welcoming and sending off, one can understand the transformations of things within and without. Living among all things, one remains unharmed.

From this we can understand that those who do not depend on their surroundings to remain calm are calm everywhere; those who do not depend on external things for happiness are happy at all times. Such people are not driven by change or burdened by external things. For them, a day may be like a hundred years, and a hundred years like a single day. How can we know that the place where we dwell today is not a world within a gourd? (The “world within a gourd” evokes Daoist legends in which another world exists inside a gourd.)

When we quietly observe how people treat external things, we often see them harm their lives and injure their nature because of the circumstances they encounter and the limits of their abilities. This is like placing aloeswood or sandalwood in a censer: its fragrance has barely risen before its form is burned away. Better not to pursue circumstances beyond one’s control, and so preserve one’s original nature.

The Taishang says, “The teaching that needs no words and the benefit of Wuwei are things few in the world can achieve.” Therefore, the Nanhua Zhenjing uses “ultimate words” to dispel speech and “ultimate action” to dispel action. This is the central theme of the Outer Chapters.