《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 69

Nanrong Chu carried provisions with him and traveled for seven days and seven nights until he reached Laozi’s dwelling. Laozi asked, “Did you come from the state of Chu?” Nanrong Chu replied, “I did.” Laozi then asked, “Why have you come with so many people?” Startled, Nanrong Chu looked back over his shoulder. Laozi said, “You don’t understand what I mean?”

Nanrong Chu lowered his head in shame, then looked up and sighed. “Just now I forgot how I ought to answer, and then I forgot what I wanted to ask.” Laozi asked, “What do you mean?” Nanrong Chu replied, “If I don’t understand the Way, people call me foolish. If I understand a little of it, I worry about my own well-being. If I show no benevolence, I harm others; if I show benevolence, I end up worrying about myself. If I ignore what is right, I harm others; if I follow what is right, I end up worrying about myself. How can I escape these troubles? These three things have been weighing on me constantly. I wanted to ask your advice by way of the affairs of Chu.”

Laozi said, “A moment ago, I understood you already from the look in your eyes and the expression on your face. Now that I have heard you speak, I’m even more certain. You are cramped and unsettled, at a loss, like someone who has lost their parents and is searching for something in the sea with a bamboo pole. You are truly lost! You are bewildered and want to return to your original nature, yet cannot find the way in. How pitiful.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Laozi asked Nanrong Chu why he seemed to have come with so many people because he had brought those three perplexities with him to seek instruction.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Nanrong Chu wanted his mind to settle into emptiness and stillness, but could not keep it focused. Instead, he brought three perplexities with him, so Laozi said he seemed to have come with many people. He set the Way against the ways of the world, and his mind could not find peace. That is why Laozi understood his situation just by looking at his eyes and expression. The Way is the source from which all things arise; only by focusing the mind can one grasp it. Yet Nanrong Chu sought answers amid the endless variety of things with a wavering mind that kept making distinctions and choices. He was like someone who, after losing their parents, searched the sea with a bamboo pole: bewildered and at a loss. Wanting to return to his original nature but unable to find the way in is precisely what the Perfect Person pities.

Yidu’s commentary: Nanrong Chu set out carrying a vessel filled with provisions. “Seven days and seven nights” means that he admired the Way and traveled without stopping, day or night. Laozi knew he had come from Chu and had brought three perplexities to seek instruction, so he asked why he seemed to have come with so many people. Nanrong Chu was then so startled that he could no longer distinguish host from guest. He went on to raise his three perplexities, hoping to find answers. This is because… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

Benevolence, righteousness, and wisdom are the source of people’s doubts; that is why the exchange of questions and answers took place earlier. Laozi said to Erchui, “A moment ago, I saw your eyes and expression at a glance. Now that you have spoken, I can confirm my judgment even more. Practitioners in the world—those who judge people by their speech and appearance—use this same method. But unless their learning and cultivation are sound, they are bound to make rash judgments.”

Erchui has lost the true nature of the Dao. He is like a child who has lost a parent and tries to measure the sea with a bamboo pole. That is simply impossible. You truly are someone who has lost your roots! By saying that you are ‘lost,’ you mean that you have lost the fundamental principles of being human.

Bixuzi’s commentary says: Laozi asked, “Why have you come with so many people?” on the basis of Erchui’s unsettled expression and divided attention. He looked back in alarm, his mind grew confused, and his expression changed. Laozi was not speaking of what Erchui had said or what he looked like. He meant that, startled, Erchui forgot to answer, and, ashamed, forgot to ask his question. “Zhuyu” means dull and ignorant. Benevolence, wisdom, and righteousness can all become burdens, whether for oneself or for others. Once you have seen with your own eyes that the Dao has manifested, why would you still need to explain it in words?

The sea is no place to put a lost parent, and a bamboo pole is no instrument for probing the depths. When you lose your roots and have nowhere to return, you are left bewildered and helpless. To want to return to your original nature and disposition, yet find no way in—that is what makes this pitiable.

The Yanzhai Commentary says: Erchui thought he had come alone, but Laozi said he had come with a crowd. The Buddhist saying, “Your mind is in turmoil right now,” describes the same situation. “Zhuyu” means benighted and ignorant. The three phrases about benevolence, wisdom, and righteousness mean this: to be without intention will not do; to act with intention will not do either; and to be doubtful and unable to decide is worse still. “Guigui” describes a stiff, narrow-minded manner. “Raising a pole to seek the sea” means trying to seek the formless Dao through things that have form. “A person who has lost” means someone who has lost their original mind. They want to see the natural Dao, but cannot.

The question, “Why have you come with so many people?” is a forceful act of discernment. This is how Laozi of Chu met people with such directness. Few people can avoid becoming doubtful when they lack genuine insight within. Old Chan monks often used such verbal surprises to awaken others. When Erchui heard Laozi’s words, he forgot to answer and forgot to ask his question, so Laozi guided him further with a second layer of words. Once Erchui’s alarm had subsided and his shame had eased, he offered three reasons, hoping to escape entanglement in worldly affairs. Laozi told him: You are like a child who has lost a parent and raises a bamboo pole to measure the sea. Your true nature is what is closest to you, yet you failed to preserve it and instead lost it. Now you want to recover it by practicing benevolence and righteousness amid the boundless affairs of the world; the more you search, the farther away it gets. Though your body is still alive, you are no different from the dead. This bewilderment, this having nowhere to turn, is what it means to want to return to your original nature and disposition but find no way in.

Though he has lost his way, he still hopes to restore his original nature. The sage does not abandon him for this reason, but takes pity on him and guides him further. If he can truly go beyond these three teachings of benevolence, wisdom, and righteousness and cease to be burdened by them, that is what it means to…

“Could this be a principle that goes against one’s nature?” Zhu Yu found the sentence difficult to understand. Bi Xu said, “An old Jiangnan manuscript reads ‘Stump Fool,’ referring to the shape of a tree stump or wooden peg.”

Nanrong Chu (a personal name) asked to go inside and rest. He gathered those he liked and sent away those he disliked. Ten days later, he grew troubled again and went to see Laozi once more.

Laozi said, “You think you have already cleansed yourself, yet your heart is still knotted and unsettled, and you still feel aversion. When external things bind the ears and eyes, no amount of elaborate effort can force them under control. When the heart is constrained, no method of tying and binding can subdue it. When both inner and outer are constrained, even De cannot be maintained—how much less can those who act against the Dao?”

Nanrong Chu said, “There is someone in my village who falls ill. When others ask him about it, he can describe his symptoms. But the illness he describes still isn’t the patient’s true illness. Like me, someone who has heard of the Great Dao only seems to grow sicker after taking medicine. I only wish to hear the essentials of nourishing life.”

Laozi said, “The essentials of nourishing life are these: Can you hold fast to unity and not lose your original nature? Can you know good and ill fortune without resorting to divination? Can you remain within your proper bounds and stop pursuing things? Can you stop demanding completeness from others and seek it within yourself? Can you be at ease and free from restraint? Can you be simple and unformed? Can you be like an infant?

“An infant cries all day without making its throat hoarse because its harmonious Qi is abundant. It keeps its fists clenched all day without its hands cramping because its De is harmonious. It gazes all day without blinking because its spirit does not turn toward external things. When walking, it is not fixated on where it is going; when sitting quietly, it is not fixated on what it must do. It changes naturally along with external things and rises and falls together with the myriad things. This is the essence of nourishing life.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: To preserve the body and nourish life, it is best to forget one’s preconceptions and clever schemes, and to let go of the ears and eyes’ fixation on external things. When external things such as sounds and colors bind the ears and eyes, the heart becomes obstructed; when desires and aversions bind the heart, the ears and eyes become obstructed. So one must be free of both gain and loss in order to be unimpeded. Being constrained in just one way is already a problem; how much more so when both inner and outer are constrained? The ears and eyes are confused by external things, while the spirit churns and wanders within. No matter how hard one tries to control and hold on tightly, one cannot bring it to rest.

To hold fast to unity is to remain true to one’s original nature; only by abandoning deliberate pursuit can one be at ease in oneself. Staying within one’s proper bounds brings good fortune; going beyond them brings ill fortune, so there is no need for divination. “Stop” means to remain within one’s own proper bounds; “cease” means to stop pursuing the tracks of the past. Give up seeking from others and turn instead to what is within oneself; preserve yourself rather than imitating others. Leave no trace of fixation and set up no obstacles. Let sounds arise naturally, without being governed by joy or anger; let the hands close naturally, without deliberate force; let the eyes see naturally, without being…

(The Guo Xiang commentary provided here breaks off at this point.)

A person’s physical form and outward expressions do indeed follow their own natural temperament and conduct, unfolding of themselves. When they encounter external things, they are like water flowing with the waves.

This is following nature.

Lü’s commentary says: People know that making distinctions and choosing between things can disturb the mind. They dislike this state and want to wash away distracting thoughts and return to emptiness and stillness. This is called drawing near what one likes and pushing away what one dislikes. But they cannot yet do so, and thus become worried and stifled, with the Qi of the heart continually showing itself outward. “Binding” means being stuck to and restrained by external things, unable to break free.

If one dislikes the ears and eyes being bound by sounds and sights, and tries to solve this by controlling external things one by one, one will only scramble to seize them. It is better to close the gates within: when the heart does not rush outward, external things cannot hold it in check. This is like what the Laozi says: “Block the openings of desire and shut the gates of the heart.”

If one’s thoughts are held fast by all kinds of affairs, yet one tries to stop this by dealing with each affair in turn, one will only become more entangled. It is better to close the gates without: when external things are not allowed to enter, the heart within will not be bound by them. This is like what the Laozi says: “Open the gates and untangle the knots.”

Thus, when the heart is still and unmoving, the myriad things cannot disturb it. If one cannot achieve this, even a person of moral cultivation may not be able to maintain control—how much less someone who merely imitates such conduct? Those who hear the Great Dao know that the myriad things have no fixed, unchanging substance, and so there is no need to insist on acting.

Zhili Shu (called “Chu” in the text) knew that the Great Dao’s remedies were not enough to cure his illness. He only hoped to hear the essentials of nurturing life. Nurturing life takes Wuwei (non-action) as its foundation. “The One” is the source from which the Dao gives rise to things, and the place where good fortune resides. Why would there be any need for divination? This is because people can quiet their thoughts and cease acting, then seek within themselves.

The mind is at ease, with neither cares nor obstructions, like that of an infant. If an infant cries from sorrow or anger, unable to remain calm, will its voice not grow hoarse? Moreover, it grasps things without knowing that it is grasping them, and looks at things without knowing that it is looking. Every movement arises without conscious intent, changing naturally with external things, like water flowing with the waves. This is the key to preserving life.

Yi Du’s commentary says: When likes and dislikes reside in the heart, worry follows; wanting to wash away what one dislikes is itself a form of action. Yet the Qi of distress still shows itself outwardly. “Binding” means fettering and restraint; “bar” means shutting a door. When the ears and eyes are drawn by sounds and sights, this is external restraint. One should not respond by scrambling to seize external things and then shutting them inside the heart. When the body and intentions are drawn by what the senses encounter, this is internal restraint. One should not respond by scrambling to seize things and then placing them outside and shutting them away. As for things that enter the heart from the outside, if the heart has something that governs it…

People are always trying to decide from the outside what they should pursue and what they should abandon. In the end, their likes and dislikes lead them around, and the harder they strive, the more unsettled they become. It is like a family with an unruly son who does wrong outside the home: they seize him and lock him inside. But if he causes trouble at home, they seize him and lock him outside. A person’s cravings and desires harm the self just as an unruly son harms his family, so one must be careful in guarding and restraining them.

Nanbo Zikui—called “Chu” here for short—uses the example of “a person in the village falling ill” to explain that someone who worries about being ill, while regarding himself as a sick person, is not yet truly ill. This is like what the Liezi says: “Wanting life to continue without end, one fails to understand the Way of life.” Chu wants to hear of the Great Dao, but has not yet grasped how to approach it. To seek the Dao in this way is like taking medicine when ill and making the illness worse. He says that all he wants is to hear the ordinary principles of nourishing life.

The reply is: Hold fast to the One—the undivided original mind—and do not lose it; then there is no need to consult divination to know what is auspicious or inauspicious. When you see danger, you can stop in time, and once you have stopped, you do not press on. Be content with what is within yourself and do not rely on external things; then you can be free and unadorned, preserving the heart of an infant. Concentrate your vital energy and soften your nature, and your abiding De will not disperse. Such a person could enter among birds and beasts without disturbing them, or encounter a tiger or rhinoceros without being harmed. Their breathing, gaze, and movements all arise without conscious intent. They let their steps fall naturally and their bodies act of themselves. They flow along with all things without departing from the Dao.

Bixu’s commentary says: Someone who knows he is ill and can turn inward to examine himself is not yet truly gravely ill. Hearing of the Great Dao and becoming more confused means that it is difficult to grasp the Dao’s source. Thus, those who know how vast and unfathomable the Dao is step back and seek only to hear about more immediate methods of cultivation. “Hold fast to the One and do not lose it” means to focus inward and keep the mind and spirit clear. The ability to know what is auspicious or inauspicious comes from an inner sincerity and clarity; being able to stop in time means one will not be controlled by external things; seeking within makes it possible to trust oneself. Only by being free and unadorned, without entanglement, can one be like an infant and preserve one’s uninjured original nature. An infant’s simple, generous De has not yet been diminished, so its voice is whole and its grip firm. Its mind clings to nothing, its spirit is at ease; it follows nature and does not resist external things. Though it flows along with all things, it is not disturbed by them. These are the ordinary methods of nourishing life.

Yanzhai’s Oral Commentary says that when people insist on pursuing what they believe to be right and rush to distance themselves from what they believe to be wrong, they have not escaped their likes and dislikes, and so bring themselves sorrow. In the text, “huo” refers to binding something with leather, while “jian” is the bar that secures a door; both serve as metaphors for restraint. When dealing with external things, trying to restrain oneself at every turn from the outside means there are too many things to manage and they are hard to control. Turning inward to seek restraint, one finds the mind’s thoughts tangled and confused, just as difficult to control; so one then tries to look outside for a way in. The point is that if learning the Dao means repeatedly trying to impose restraints from within and without, one still has not grasped the essentials.

People of this kind can find no starting point for self-cultivation, either within themselves or in the world around them. They cannot even hold fast to the principles of settling themselves and establishing De, so how could they act in accord with the patterns of nature? Chen Chu is deeply confused: he wants to hear the Great Dao but does not know what ails him. Even when he accepts instruction, he only grows more bewildered, like someone whose illness worsens after taking medicine.

Now I dare no longer seek to hear the Great Dao. I only hope to hear about the art of nourishing life. “Embracing the One” means preserving one’s true nature and not letting it be lost. What is received from nature is inherently free from loss. There is no need to consult divination to judge good or ill fortune: with a mind wholly sincere, one can foresee how things will change. To become still is to settle oneself; once settled, one can rest fully. Give up seeking outwardly and turn to work on yourself, without relentlessly pursuing external things.

When an infant cries, its voice does not grow hoarse. Its mind is free of clever schemes, so it does not damage its inner harmony. When an infant makes a fist, its fingers curl and are not easily straightened; yet holding the fist for a long time does not harm the body. This is because the infant moves in accord with its nature. To be “the same as its De” means to be in harmony with one’s original nature. If people could all be like this, they would look at things without fixing their gaze or making distinctions and calculations. Unaware of where they are or what they are doing, they would respond naturally to the changes in things around them. This is the constant way of nourishing life.

Chen Chu asked to enter the room and stay to study as a disciple. Zhuangzi pointed out that although he wanted to abandon evil and follow good, he was still unable to free himself from his attachment to the distinction between good and evil. Nor was he necessarily clear about whether the good he recognized was truly good, or the evil he despised truly evil. Commentators interpret the phrase “zi chou” in different ways; some also read it as “zi xi” or “chou xi,” though none makes the passage’s meaning entirely clear. In context, it seems to mean blaming and correcting oneself, as in the phrase “reproach and reform oneself” from the Book of Documents.

Chen Chu withdrew for ten days to reflect. He reproached himself for having studied without sufficient effort and for having understood the Dao too poorly. Now, though he had met a sage teacher, he found it hard to be transformed by the teaching at once. He resolved to cleanse his heart and reveal his original nature anew, which may be called a resolve to renew himself. Laozi said, “How thoroughly you have washed yourself!” In the ancient sense, “shu” meant “mature” or “deep.” Chen Chu was eager to advance, and his bearing seemed full and vigorous; yet deep within, traces of habits he had not fully cast off could still be seen. He therefore needed to make one further effort to fulfill his resolve to renew himself.

“Inner fettering” refers to the six faculties—the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—being bound by attachments within. “Outer fettering” refers to the contamination that comes from the six objects of perception: forms, sounds, odors, tastes, touch, and mental objects. “Jian” means to close off or guard against something: to keep firm boundaries and prevent inner and outer forces from pulling at the spirit. Interpretations differ: some read the relevant characters as “grasp,” and the punctuation also varies. Here, the passage is understood in terms of two kinds of fettering, inner and outer. Such constraints are afflictions everyone encounters. If one can establish an inner sovereign and guard it well, desires will not run rampant, one’s nature may return, and the spirit will remain undisturbed. In this way, one can gradually advance in the Dao.

Nanrong Chu still did not understand. “It is like someone in the village who falls ill. Though he knows he is sick, he cannot cure himself. I worry that this is still not enough to cultivate the Great Dao. Please tell me the essentials of nourishing life.”

The reply came: “If you can hold fast to the One—concentrating your attention without letting your mind and spirit scatter—your mind will have no second thought. If you do not crave gain, you will have nothing to lose. Then there will be no need to divine good or ill fortune in advance. Once the mind’s dust is cleared away, its mirror will naturally become bright. When you recognize the Great Dao, you will also know when to stop. Forget contrivance and artifice, and you will cease acting recklessly. Give up seeking outside yourself and turn inward to seek within; when you are inwardly full, you will not depend on external things. To be like an infant is the closest comparison. It tells us that everyone can seek within and return to their original nature. An infant cries, clenches its fists, and looks at things differently from an adult because it contains an inner breath of harmony, yet has no deliberate intent toward external things. What could surpass this as the essential way to nourish life?”

Nanrong Chu said, “Then is this the Virtue of the Perfected Person, one who has reached the highest state?”

The reply came: “Not yet. This is merely what is called ice melting and frost thawing. The Perfected Person takes sustenance from the earth together with all things and shares in the joy of Heaven and Earth. He does not let relations of benefit and harm between people and things disturb one another, nor do they proclaim their strangeness, scheme, calculate, or act with deliberate intent. He goes freely and returns in utter simplicity. This is what is called the essential way to nourish life.”

Nanrong Chu said, “Then has one reached the highest state?”

The reply came: “Not yet. I told you before that you must be like an infant. When an infant moves, it does not know what it is doing; when it walks, it does not know where it is going. Its body is like a withered branch, its mind like ashes that have burned out completely. In such a state, calamity does not descend, and blessings do not arrive by design. When neither misfortune nor good fortune can arise, where could disaster come from?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: If someone hears these words and then tries to remake himself into this state, believing that he already possesses the Virtue of the Perfected Person, that is like ice melting and frost thawing: it shows that this state has not been reached naturally. The Perfected Person has no deliberate mind and lives together with all things, without letting relations of benefit and harm disturb one another. Does Nanrong Chu think that, merely by believing he has understood these words, he can reach this state? The answer is no. It is not that these words are not lofty enough; rather, merely hearing and learning them cannot bring one to the state naturally. Without truly reaching it oneself, even if one hears the highest truth, one can only treat it as a rule for cultivation. How can one claim to have reached the highest state? Thus, the learner has not yet arrived; one who has truly arrived no longer relies on learning to attain it. Good and ill fortune arise from gain and loss, and people’s troubles arise from love and hatred. When the body is like withered wood and the mind like dead ashes, there are no feelings; where, then, could worry, loss, or gain arise?

Lü’s commentary: The human mind should be clear and still. When blocked by knowledge and fixed views, it cannot remain empty and tranquil, just as water cannot when it freezes. To understand the essential way to nourish life is to be like ice melting and frost thawing…

The Perfected Person, one who has reached the highest state of the Dao, keeps a heart as calm as water. They do not deliberately embellish their De, and external things do not leave them.

They eat and rejoice alongside other people, yet do not let gains and losses disturb their heart. They do not regard things as strange or scheme with others to compete. Thus they neither vie with ordinary people to be extraordinary nor form factions with them to pursue their plans. Their heart has no attachments or obstructions. They hold to the Dao without losing it, while remaining free, unobstructed, and simple in their wholeness. The Perfected Person is at ease and self-sufficient in this way. What more is there to ask? This is the ordinary way in which the Perfected Person nourishes life. Yet it is not the highest state. The highest state means no longer clinging to what one does not know. Like an infant, one does not know where one is going and makes no deliberate effort to accomplish anything. The body is like a withered tree, and the heart like dead ashes: this is the state in question. Calamity and good fortune arise from the human body and its desires, and are also governed by Heaven and Earth, and by spirits and gods. If a person’s body is like a withered tree and the heart within is like dead ashes, how could calamity or good fortune entangle them?

Commentary by Yidu: Chu heard the teaching on nourishing life and assumed that the Perfected Person’s De amounted to no more than this. The melting of snow and ice, and the thawing of frozen earth, are metaphors for a person blinded by material desires who suddenly becomes clear upon hearing the Dao. The Perfected Person is benevolent enough to dwell peacefully in the world, so they are not choosy about the food Earth provides. Their wisdom is sufficient to follow the course of Heaven, so they refuse nothing Heaven gives and accept it calmly. They do not set themselves against others or let external things subdue them, so gains and losses cannot disturb their heart. They do not prize the unusual, and so keep their De within the ordinary. They do not rely on schemes to display their cleverness, and so preserve their benevolence. They are not eager to act, and so steady themselves through stillness. Free and simple, they come and go without entanglement. This is the De of the Perfected Person.

Chu asked again, “Then is this the highest state?” Laozi once more brought up what he had said earlier: if a person’s body can be like a withered tree and the heart within still, how could calamity or good fortune affect them?

Commentary by Bixu: Chu took these qualities to be the Perfected Person’s highest De, like seeing a slingshot and rushing to look for roast meat. Treating illness with needles and medicines, or dispelling confusion through verbal instruction, still falls short of the highest state. The Perfected Person cultivates De to harmonize Yin-Yang; ordinary people, meanwhile, devote themselves to farming. Eating together nourishes the body, and rejoicing together harmonizes the heart and nature. Each person and thing finds its proper place, the heart is free of contention and disturbance, gains and losses are both forgotten, and one follows the ordinary course without treating the unusual as strange. With no attachment to either being or nonbeing, one can roam freely and at ease. These are only the ordinary ways of nourishing life. At a higher state, even words can be forgotten.

To reach the highest state, one must first return to simplicity. Simplicity like that of an infant is a shortcut to the Dao. To treat verbal explanations as the highest state is like chewing wine dregs in search of the flavor of fine wine.

In the Kouyi commentary by Yanzhai, Nanrong Chu (a personal name) asks about the art of nourishing life and seeks an account of a lesser degree. He has heard that the teachings Laozi expounds are profound and mysterious, and that Laozi has also spoken of the “Perfected Person”—someone who has cultivated to an exceptionally high level—so he asks Laozi for guidance. Laozi replies, “No.” Fearing that Nanrong Chu will become attached to such lofty teachings, he uses the image of “ice melting and frost thawing” to explain: when attachment dissolves, the mind becomes free and open, and one can come to understanding for oneself.

“By joining with the earth and taking its food, one becomes like the people of the earth; by joining with Heaven and taking delight, one becomes like Heaven. One does not come into conflict with external things, treat the strange as extraordinary, scheme and calculate, or leave traces of human contrivance behind—this is the art of nourishing life.” The earlier passage speaks of the Perfected Person; this one speaks of nourishing life. The art of nourishing life is simply the way the Perfected Person acts. From this, we can see that when Laozi says “No,” he is not truly denying the teaching Nanrong Chu has asked about.

Nanrong Chu asks again, “Then is this the highest state?” Laozi replies, “Not yet.” One might expect Laozi to offer a different teaching at this point. Instead, he repeats what he has already said, perhaps because he does not want to explain everything outright and hopes Nanrong Chu will understand for himself.

The Liezi records that when Minister Chen went as an envoy to Lu, he said, “In our state there is a man named Kangcangzi who has attained the Dao of Lao Dan.” The ruler of Lu then sent a high minister, bearing generous gifts, to invite him. From this we can see that Gengsangzi’s Dao is no different from Laozi’s. Thus Gengsangzi puts benevolence into practice, cares for all things, and is skilled at guiding and nurturing others, always fearing that his efforts may fall short.

At the beginning of this chapter, Gengsangzi speaks four times; Nanrong Chu asks three questions; later, when Nanrong Chu goes to see Laozi, Laozi speaks eight times to instruct him. His repeated, earnest guidance shows how unwilling he is to let anyone remain trapped in a state of having lost the Dao.

A person’s true nature is like water: empty and still, clear and pure. It cannot be said to exist, nor can it be said not to exist. Later, obscured and congealed by material desires, it becomes like water turning to ice. Water is clear by nature, but once frozen it is no longer clear. The spirit is originally numinous and bright, but after congealing into bodily form it is no longer so. To hear the teachings and understand the Dao within them is like ice melting and snow thawing; one’s clear, luminous nature has not been harmed. What should concern people is their unwillingness to turn back and seek their original nature.

To join with the earth and take its food means to cultivate and reclaim the land and provide for oneself. To join with Heaven and take one’s food means to share in the harmonious Qi of Heaven and Earth. If one can live this way, how could there be conflicts of interest between people and other things? Why make a fuss over strange behavior or spend one’s energy scheming? How could one’s actions and dealings fail to be free and at ease? How could the art of nourishing life be obstructed? To study the Dao and reach this state is already a great achievement, yet Laozi still says, “Not yet.” When Nanrong Chu presses him about the highest state, Laozi answers by quoting a child’s words. This is how a teacher guides a student: he shifts the direction of the conversation to offer a fresh perspective, then places the key in the student’s hands, to see whether the student can take it up and understand.

Human nature is originally gentle, but through daily contact with external things, outside habits enter wherever they find an opening. People and things clash and wear one another down, until everything becomes our adversary.

If one can truly focus on cultivating Qi (vital energy), become gentle, and go further by returning to simplicity and purity, recovering a state like that of an infant, then what misfortune or good fortune could affect them? The repeated debate has now exhausted its words and fully explained its reasoning; there is nothing more to be done. Sadly, the Dao that Ruan Chu conveyed was not profound enough, and in the end he failed to grasp even a single phrase of it.