《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 72

If you step on a passerby’s foot, you say you were careless and let yourself go. If you step on your elder brother’s foot, you quickly bow and apologize. If you step on your parents’ feet, there is no need to say more. Thus, when ritual reaches its utmost, it no longer treats others as outsiders; when righteousness reaches its utmost, it no longer treats things as objects opposed to oneself; when wisdom reaches its utmost, it no longer schemes about everything; when benevolence reaches its utmost, it no longer deliberately draws close to anyone; when trustworthiness reaches its utmost, it no longer clings to tokens of trust.

One should dispel disturbances of the will, errors arising in the mind, burdens imposed on De (Virtue/Power), and obstructions to the Great Dao (the Way). These six—rank, wealth, distinction, authority, reputation, and profit—disturb the will. These six—appearance, movement, expression, complexion, breath, and thought—cause the mind to go astray. These six—love and aversion, desire, anger and joy, grief and pleasure—burden De. These six—departing and approaching, taking and giving, cleverness and ability—obstruct the Great Dao.

When none of these four groups of six stir within the heart, the heart can be made upright. Once upright, it becomes still; once still, it becomes clear; once clear, it becomes empty and quiet. Reaching this empty quiet, one can follow what is natural: through Wuwei (non-action), nothing remains unaccomplished.

The Dao is the root revered by De. Life is the radiance manifested by De; nature is the essence of life. When nature stirs into action, this is called “acting.” Artificial contrivance is called “falsehood,” and departing from one’s nature is called “loss.” “Knowing” means coming into contact with external things; “knowing” also means planning and deliberating. To use knowledge to grasp what it cannot know is like peering sideways with a squint. Action that arises from necessity is called De; action in which nothing is out of accord with oneself is called order. In name, these things stand opposed; in reality, they can accord with one another.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: If you step on a passerby’s foot, you say that you spoke in error and apologize to him; if you step on your elder brother’s foot, you bow and make amends; if you step on your parents’ feet, there is no need to say more. This shows that forgiving others and regarding them as oneself is the utmost of ritual. Righteousness means allowing all things to find what is fitting for them. If you regard all things as objects that must be arranged through your own planning, you have already left behind natural wisdom.

This is like the Five Constants of Confucianism—benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, and trustworthiness. They need not deliberately draw close to one another, yet benevolence has already reached its utmost. Tokens of trust such as gold and jade are merely proof of lesser trust; the great trust spoken of by the Great Dao needs no such proof. Nature stirs of itself, and so this is called “acting”; this genuine action is not artificial contrivance. The eyes do not first deliberate before seeing, and the mind does not first make a deliberate effort to know: this is what is natural. If one always waits until an action feels suitable before carrying it out, one acts under compulsion and thereby loses one’s nature. If one’s actions merely imitate others, they create disorder. The names “other” and “self” set things in opposition on the surface; yet when each finds its true nature, they accord with one another in reality.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: If a passerby draws a bow and shoots at me, I explain things to him with a smile, because we have no bond of kindness and I do not expect him to treat me with kindness. Therefore, even if I step on his foot, I must still apologize and say I was careless and let myself go. If my brother draws a bow and shoots at me, I explain things to him in tears, because we share a bond of kindness and I respond to him in kind. Therefore, even if I step on his foot, I cannot… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

If one worries that others may think one does not cherish one’s family, and so deliberately bends down to care for them, this is mere outward form, with no genuine principle behind it. For those closest to us, affection has already reached its utmost; there is no need to perform closeness. From this we can see that when ritual, righteousness, benevolence, and wisdom reach their highest point, they no longer depend on outward forms. Understand the true purpose of ritual, and you will not cling to worldly conventions in order to draw close to others. Ritual means not treating the rites between people as unchangeable. To act appropriately without seeking an external standard of what counts as “appropriate” is righteousness free from constraint by external things. To respond only when something arises, without making plans in advance, is wisdom free of deliberate calculation. To regard the people as straw dogs—straw figures used in sacrifice, a metaphor for impartiality and letting things follow their natural course—and let all under Heaven forget distinctions of closeness and distance, is impartial benevolence. To be truly trustworthy without seeking reputation or reward in advance is pure trust. If one can reach the state of the Dao, these five virtues will all be fulfilled.

“Intent” is what the mind inclines toward; “mind” is the harmonizing of De; and “De” is the Dao embodied within oneself. Thus, one must first bring one’s intent into accord before the mind can be freed; only by casting off burdens can one become unobstructed. In nurturing intent, softness and yielding are essential. If one regards wealth and honor as equal to poverty and lowliness and makes this one’s aim, that is not softness and yielding but a violation of nature. One must therefore bring one’s intent into accord. In nurturing the mind, emptiness and stillness are essential. If one regards all changes as the same, that is not emptiness and stillness but confusion. One must therefore loosen the bonds within the mind. De reaches its utmost when it accords with the original state; emotions such as love and aversion must therefore be cast off when they burden De. The Dao is unobstructed when it runs through all things as one. If distinctions and oppositions are treated as obstacles, the Dao will be blocked; one must therefore allow it to flow freely.

If these burdens cannot be removed from the heart, the Dao cannot gather there. Without reverence for the Dao, there can be no realization of it; hence the Dao is what De reveres. Without life, De cannot become manifest; hence life is the radiance of De. Nature is the essence of life. When nature stirs and acts deliberately, this becomes artificial contrivance, and one thereby loses one’s nature. At birth, people have no knowledge for planning and acting. Knowledge acquired later arises only after contact with external things; it is not inborn. Knowledge put to use after deliberation is calculating wisdom. The wise person’s not knowing something is the very source of their capacity to know; this is like the human eye, which cannot see itself and, for that very reason, can look outward.

Therefore, when action arises from necessity, one can follow one’s nature without falling into artificial contrivance; this is the Dao. When acting, if nothing is regarded as wholly opposed to oneself, all things become one with me. What, then, could disturb such action? If this is truly achieved, what the world calls “this and that” or “right and wrong” may be opposed in name, yet in substance they can still accord with one another, because in the realm of the Dao nothing stands in opposition to me.

The commentator Yidu explains: Kinship belongs to our nature, so there is no need to worry that one’s family will think one has shown them disrespect. Others, however, may misunderstand. Thus, if one steps on someone in the street, one should say it was unintentional and offer an apology; when facing one’s elder brother, one should bend down to show respect.

The moment Yi’s father opened his mouth to speak, he was no longer in a state of silence. From this we can see clearly that words are not reality itself.

The highest ritual follows the Dao and involves no human contrivance. The highest righteousness forgets the self and is not burdened by external things. The highest wisdom connects with all things, so it needs no deliberation. The highest benevolence cares for all things, so it makes no distinctions between those near and far. The highest trustworthiness never changes, so it needs no gold or jade as proof. When one goes against what is natural, one cannot move freely, so one must clear the way. When one falls into error, one cannot escape, so one must resolve it. When one is burdened, the mind grows unclear, so one must cast the burden off. When something is blocked, one cannot be empty and still, so one must open a passage. If these six things do not disturb the heart, the heart can return to purity and unity. Once it does, it will surely become quiet, clear, empty, still, and open.

The Dao that can be put into words is what makes De worthy of respect; the vital power that gives birth to all things is the radiance of De. When life is entrusted to me, it is called “nature”; nature is the essence of life. When nature stirs and acts, nothing it does is other than spontaneous. Human contrivance is falseness, and so it causes one to lose what is genuine. In dealing with external things and planning affairs through cleverness, one ultimately cannot avoid relying on a calculating mind. Even the wise have things they do not know, just as people who squint have things they cannot see. But one who reaches a spirit-like state knows and sees everything.

Nature arises from stillness. When it encounters external things, it responds only when it has no choice; this is its activity. If, in acting, it does not stray from the right path and allows all things to find their proper place, what in the world could remain poorly governed? To act only when there is no choice may seem to run counter to all things; yet enabling all things to find their proper place is, in truth, to follow their nature.

Bixu, the commentator, says: When you have wronged someone, if your relationship is distant, an apology may be unavoidable; if it is close, forgiveness is enough. The highest ritual is to forget oneself; insistence on governing others only creates disorder. The highest righteousness holds fast to integrity and preserves oneself; being entangled in external things brings loss. The highest wisdom understands naturally, without deliberation; too much planning only leads to confusion. The highest benevolence regards all things as straw dogs—ritual offerings made of straw and discarded after the ceremony—and treats them all alike, without distinguishing between those near and far. The highest trustworthiness never breaks its word; what need is there for gold or jade as proof?

To handle matters of status and wealth without being disturbed by opposition is to have an open and unobstructed mind. To respond to all kinds of bearing and action without being caught up in error is to have an empty and clear heart. To keep desires and aversions from becoming burdens is to have deep De. To move forward or back, and to choose or let go, without obstruction is to understand the Dao. When the various affairs of life do not disturb the mind, it becomes utterly clear, its spirit shining far and wide, and reaches an immense, boundless expanse. Why sink into the troubles brought by worldly deeds and contrivances?

Things with form and traces are hard to compare with what is formless. How could what is withered compare with what shines brightly? Without nature, where would life come from? And how could its essence be made upright? Seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing are all functions of nature. But if one clings to them as objects of pursuit, they are no longer true actions; one has lost the Dao.

Without coming into contact with external things or making plans in advance, how could one make use of what is called “knowledge”? Know what you ordinarily know; as for what you do not know, remain wholly unaware of it, like someone who sees out of the corner of the eye and cannot look straight at something clearly. Only after being pressed by external things should you act; then, in acting, you can truly come to understand. If you cultivate yourself in this way, what is there that cannot be set in order? The inner and the outer, things and self, may seem to point in opposite directions, yet neither can do without the other.

Yanzhai says in his Oral Commentary—that is, his spoken explanation of the classic—that when ritual, righteousness, knowledge, and benevolence are cultivated to their utmost, they depend on nothing external. The text’s image of stepping on someone’s foot is meant to explain the principle summed up in the phrase “four and six” below. “Four and six” means not letting external things disturb the heart-mind; this is the essential starting point in teaching people how to cultivate themselves.

“Reverence” means maintaining respect; “life” means the manifestation of De (Virtue/Power); “nature” means the inherent essence each person possesses. To follow one’s nature in acting is right; but if, after acting, one slips into pretense, one has lost one’s nature. Responding to external things and making plans and judgments are forms of knowledge inherent in one’s nature. To treat what one does not know as though one knew it is like an infant glancing sideways and seeing nothing clearly.

Every action is undertaken because circumstances leave no choice; this is called “De,” and it also means forgetting oneself. In forgetting oneself, there is nothing that is not oneself. This is the state in which, within bodily form, there is something not confined by bodily form, while within what is not confined by bodily form, bodily form still has its function. External things cannot disturb this state, which is why it is called “putting things in order.” “Having no choice” and “nothing is not myself” may sound opposed, but in fact they do not conflict. They express the same idea in different words.

The image of stepping on someone’s foot means that relations of closeness and distance give rise to respect or arrogance. Thus, what the world calls ritual is merely people responding to one another. The everyday respect shown to an elder brother, and the brief respect shown to a fellow villager, are only outward displays. Among people who are truly close, love and respect endure even when left unspoken. If one simply steps on someone’s foot and does not ask after the reason, then ritual, righteousness, knowledge, and benevolence, when brought to their utmost, depend on neither external things nor deliberate action; their highest state is reached naturally. This arises from the natural order of Heaven and cannot be attained through deliberate speculation. In acting, one naturally accords with what is right.

As for dispelling preconceptions, loosening knots in the mind, removing entanglements, and opening what is blocked, these require deliberate cultivation and are therefore a lower level. The phrase “four and six” that follows means keeping the heart-mind undisturbed; it explains the essentials of entering the Dao (the Way). Only when one is upright and calm can one respond to the changes of the world; only when one is clear and empty can one contain the world’s realities. In this way, one is no longer separated from the supreme ritual and righteousness described earlier, and ultimately all returns to the Dao.

De is revered by all things, and the Dao is revered by De; from this we can understand the Dao’s exalted status. Here, “life” should mean that “De is the radiance of life.” If a person has no…

Where does De (Virtue/Power) come from? That from which the myriad things are able to come into being is called De. Nature is the innate endowment of a life: the body guards the spirit, and each has its own pattern, which is what we call nature. When nature stirs into motion, this is called "doing." If one understands the principle of Wuwei (non-action), one knows that nature has never truly acted rashly. To lose one's original nature through contrived effort is called "loss," which shows that deliberate, calculating "doing" was never genuine. The self-styled clever people of the world entangle themselves with external things and scheme against one another. They fear only that their contacts are not wide enough and their knowledge not broad enough, and so they exhaust body and spirit in vain without ever awakening. Yet what a person can know depends on what they do not know, just as when one looks at something sidelong, what one sees depends on the part one does not look at directly. This is the same principle as the saying in the Zhuangzi that a traveler goes far only because of the ground they have not stepped on. Thus, in responding to things, one acts only when there is no alternative, and when action springs from the natural movement of one's nature, there is no fault. These teachings seem to run contrary to conventional notions, yet in substance they agree with them, just as Laozi said, "Straightforward words seem paradoxical." This is why those who embody the Dao differ from the common crowd, yet can live in the world without being harmed.

Yi was skilled at hitting the tiniest targets, but not at keeping others from praising him. The sage is skilled at following Heaven's natural course, but not at contrived human affairs. To be accomplished in what is of Heaven and yet accord with what is human is possible only for the "complete person" (one whose virtue is fully realized). A insect can only be an insect, and only an insect can follow its own nature; the complete person clings neither to "Heaven" nor to "the Heaven of humans," let alone to the Heaven and the human of which I speak. When a sparrow flies past, Yi will surely hit it, but this relies on force. If one takes the whole world as a cage, the sparrow has nowhere to flee. So Tang the Successful won over Yi Yin by approaching him as a cook, and Duke Mu of Qin won over Baili Xi with five sheepskins. There has never been anyone who won people's hearts without appealing to what they desire. A man whose feet were amputated as punishment pays no heed to appearances, because he has already set praise and blame aside; a prisoner climbs to a great height without fear, because he has already forgotten life and death. When one forgets the human, one unites with Heaven and becomes a "Heavenly person." Therefore, to feel no joy when honored and no anger when insulted is possible only for one who is in harmony with Heaven. When anger arises from non-anger, the anger itself comes from the absence of anger; when action arises from non-action, the action itself comes from Wuwei. If you wish to attain stillness, first harmonize your breath; if you wish to reach Shen (spirit), first make your intentions flow smoothly. If you wish your actions to be fitting, follow what cannot be avoided. This attitude of acting only when there is no alternative is the Dao of the sage. Guo Xiang's commentary says: Hitting the mark easily brings praise, which is the ordinary course of things; one need only follow along with what is natural.

The Dao of Heaven, too, follows its own patterns of movement. When people deliberately interfere with it through their clever techniques, they become clumsy in human affairs. The “complete person” is the sage. Insects can follow their own nature—that is, they accord with their inborn nature. They do not know why they act as they do; they simply do so naturally. To let things follow their own course: is this what it means to be adept at following the Dao of Heaven?

When force is used to capture the myriad things, they will surely flee. Each thing under Heaven has its own preferences and its own way of avoiding what it dislikes. Where, then, can force be applied? Painting is meant to enhance one’s appearance. A person who has undergone the punishment of amputation—having had the feet cut off—has a body already maimed and no longer dwells on beauty or ugliness. Such a person can therefore set aside adornment and stop following its conventions. A convict sentenced to hard labor has no attachment left to life, and so does not fear death. By becoming accustomed, through repeated practice, to giving nothing and offering no gifts, one forgets other people. When one no longer knows what people value, one is no longer constrained by human relationships, and naturally becomes someone who accords with one’s inborn nature. If those who serve hard labor and those whose bodies have been maimed can still accord with the harmony of nature, how much more so can Heaven’s harmony, which is natural from the start?

To feel anger without being ruled by it, and to act without contrivance: this expresses the principle that “nonbeing can give rise to being, but being cannot make nonbeing.” Wuwei (non-action) can bring about action by following the circumstances, but deliberate action cannot force non-action into existence. When the breath is calm, the mind becomes still. When the workings of things are understood and one follows one’s own heart, wondrous efficacy appears. When one acts in response to what circumstances make unavoidable, everything one does is fitting. The sage takes this as the Dao. Why would one need to seek Wuwei deliberately beyond the realm of the indistinct and mysterious?

Lü’s commentary says: The Zhuangzi speaks of the Heavenly Person, the Spirit Person, the Utmost Person, and the sage; here it also speaks of the “complete person.” The sage can transcend transformation. Though adept at following the Dao of Heaven, the sage appears clumsy in human affairs. The complete person goes a step further: adept both at following the Dao of Heaven and at handling human affairs. Creatures that walk on feet, breathe through mouths, and gather in groups can do what insects can do—that is, follow the nature of insects. They do not know why they act as they do; they simply do so naturally. What the complete person dislikes is taking human nature as the standard. Human nature is aware that it does not understand the reasons for its actions; the natural movement of the Dao of Heaven forgets even this “not understanding.” If people already dislike being in a state where they do not understand the reasons for their actions, how could they use human thought to speculate about and debate the Dao of Heaven?

If a sparrow happens to fly within range of Yi, the legendary archer, it will be caught by his force. If it does not fly there, his force cannot catch it. If the whole world were treated as a net, the myriad things would be caught within it, with nowhere to escape—how much more so a sparrow? Only those with far-reaching thought, who can understand the hearts of people throughout the world, can treat the world as a net. Thus even people such as Yi Yin and Baili Xi could not escape, because what caught them was their own aims and preferences.

Those who have undergone the punishment of amputation can set aside adornment and remain unmoved by praise or blame from the outside world. Even convicts sentenced to hard labor, though they may disregard life and death, can still be afraid when climbing to a high place. How much more, then, can someone who has forgotten other people naturally…

He neither gives gifts to others nor learns and practices any particular skill. Even after practicing over and over, he still cannot forget other people…

He ought to feel ashamed, for he has not yet forgotten other people, yet imagines that he has reached the state of the “Heavenly Person.” The Heavenly Person is not simply someone who has forgotten others; forgetting others is only one means of reaching this state. The true Heavenly Person accords with the Dao of Heaven. Those who understand this should respect him, yet he feels no joy at being respected and no anger at being slighted.

Anger often arises from a heart that was originally free of anger; purposeful action, too, often arises from what was originally Wuwei (non-action). To be free of anger and to act without forcing things is the state before anything has appeared, and the source from which all things come forth. Qi (vital energy) is empty and still, able to accommodate external things. People fail to let their Qi settle and instead disturb it, so it cannot be still. If they could truly let their Qi settle, nothing would be unsettled. The heart is where a person’s Shen (spirit) resides. People fail to follow their own hearts and instead disturb them, so their Shen cannot be clear. If they could truly follow their own hearts, nothing would be unclear.

When one acts purposefully in order to get things done, one should act sincerely. In acting, one should hesitate and take care, as if crossing a river in winter, and remain alert, as if threatened from all sides. These images all describe the principle of acting only when one has no choice.

The commentator Yidu says: Winning people through force brings few gains; treating them with sincerity brings many. Taking game with a bow relies on force; drawing people to oneself through what they love relies on virtue. Yi Yin loved preparing food in a cauldron, so he went to seek an audience with King Tang carrying a cauldron on his back. King Tang then brought him into his service as a cook. Baili Xi loved wearing clothes of five-colored sheepskin, so Duke Mu of Qin brought him into his service with five-colored sheepskin. Each man thus received what he loved, and in the end served his ruler.

“Armored men” refers to those wearing armor. Petty people care about their outward appearance. If someone has forgotten the body and is no longer moved by others’ praise or blame, and continues practicing until he attains his goal, yet feels no gratitude to the teacher who taught him his skill, then he has forgotten the human realm’s moral obligations. He takes the way of forgetting others to mean that he has entered the state of the Heavenly Person, yet remains deluded by a one-sided view. So long as he has not forgotten himself, he will be burdened: when others respect him, he rejoices; when they slight him, he grows angry. Only one who accords with the harmony of Heaven feels neither joy nor anger in response to respect or slight. Such joy and anger bear on the order or disorder of the world. For instance, King Wu’s anger brought peace to the world; this was anger that arose from what was originally free of anger. Since anger arose from the absence of anger, action likewise arose from Wuwei. Thus he did not disturb his Qi, and his nature remained still; he did not oppose his own heart, and his Shen remained whole. To handle things properly, one should follow the circumstances that leave no choice. This is how a sage responds to external things.

The commentator Bixu says: Those who skillfully grasp the middle way are not good at concealing their reputation; those who attain the mysterious realm of nature do not cling to contrived behavior. Only when the traces of both the Heavenly Person and ordinary people have disappeared can one be called a complete person. As for the later phrase “having already captured…” the original text seems to be missing something, and its meaning cannot be determined from the surviving words.

Insects and birds can all act by instinct. Some fly, some walk; neither can take the place of the other, and each makes use of its inborn abilities. This is following one’s nature. Yet those who truly preserve their nature do not proclaim themselves to have “attained Heaven,” nor do they regard Heaven and humanity as separate.

Yi, the legendary archer, could not prevent people throughout the world from praising him simply because he was skilled with a bow. The sage, too, cannot escape the world’s renown. One who understands the Way of Heaven and can also restrain their reputation and conceal their traces among people is a person of complete virtue.

When birds and beasts stray into Yi’s target, they are like scholars who fall into the nation’s trap. Yi captures the birds and beasts and appears mighty, while they lose their lives. A nation gains talented people and thereby flourishes, while the scholars may be made to toil for it. One side gains while the other loses: this is the natural course of things.

Yi Yin and Baili Xi had not yet freed their hearts of preferences, so Tang of Shang and Duke Mu of Qin drew them in and employed them through the things they favored. If their hearts had held no preferences, how could anyone have ensnared them?

Those who care about their appearance enjoy hearing praise; those who cling to life fear death. If someone repeatedly encounters and savors certain pleasures, then stops giving them to others, they are gradually forgetting the social ties of the human world. Habits slowly shape one’s temperament and come to seem inborn. This is like people whose feet have been cut off as punishment no longer caring about damage to their appearance, or laborers who set life and death aside. When they face execution and humiliation, how could they still concern themselves with joy or anger?

It is the same for those whose nature is in harmony with Heaven. If they feel anger but suppress it, the anger only accumulates and grows heavier. Letting it out can instead open the heart and bring relief, so that anger passes. If they want to act but force themselves not to, their desire is obstructed. Once they truly act, they can let go of their fixation and reach a state of making no demands. This is because our nature has no fixed anger or compulsion to act. When the heart and Qi are peaceful and one observes in stillness, there is nothing worth getting angry about. When the heart is settled and the spirit is calm, there is nothing that must be done. To act when there is no alternative, and to respond to circumstances appropriately: this is the Way of the sage.

The Supplement to the Commentary on the Meaning of the Yanzhai says: Yi could not prevent people from praising him, just as the sage could not escape the world’s renown. Insects and birds fly, walk, call, and leap, each following its own nature. This is their “capacity,” and it is how they follow their nature. Those who preserve their nature do not proclaim “following Heaven” as a personal achievement, because they are not attached to that label. If people deliberately distinguish Heaven from humanity and dislike the distinction, how much less should they set about making that distinction themselves?

Yi was skilled with a bow, so sparrows feared him. If the world were a vast net, the sparrows would have nowhere to escape even before he shot at them. Yi Yin and Baili Xi, too, were recruited by rulers through the things they favored. If they had held no attachments, they could have stood apart from external things; who, then, could have ensnared them? The fact that people whose feet were cut off as punishment abandon outward adornment shows that their hearts are no longer moved by praise or blame. Laborers no longer cherish their own bodies, so they are not afraid to climb high. When the heart clings to nothing, nothing can bind it.

This analogy is also like the repeated transformations described in the Yi. Here, “dao” is read as “xi,” as in daoxi, meaning “habit”; “kui” means “to give.” The point is that the Dao resides within oneself and is not something to sell. If one knows only how to seek gain for oneself, one will forget others; once others have been forgotten, one can enter the realm of nature.

The “Xu Wugui” chapter says, “I must sell it.” The man did indeed sell the thing. The meaning here can be understood from that: not giving things to others is because one accords with the Way of Heaven and becomes one with the Creator.

Anger naturally arises from “not being angry”: one acts in the world without fixing the mind on one’s actions. This is Wuwei (non-action), through which nothing is left undone. The transformations that follow occur because they cannot be avoided; one speaks in response to external things, while the mind remains free of attachment.

If Hou Yi had not been skilled at archery, how would people have praised him? If a sage were not skilled at governing the people, how would they come to follow him? Yet once the people have gathered around him, the sage need not keep this fact in mind. Seeking skill for its own sake leads one to lose one’s natural endowment; this is inevitable. To follow nature and appear clumsy in human affairs may be acceptable. But to be clever in human affairs while going against nature is to be wholly ruled by human desires. How could the troubles that follow ever be brought to an end? Thus, following the Way of Heaven while understanding human affairs is a complete and flawless state, one that also keeps hidden and visible calamities at bay.

Animals born from eggs or moisture, and creatures that fly or crawl, can each become what they are by nature. Crows show affection, wagtails are devoted to one another, spiders spin webs, and insects secrete silk into pellets: all these are instincts that follow nature. The same reasoning applies to people, who can fulfill their human responsibilities while also following the Way of Heaven. The “complete person” does not set Heaven and humanity apart as opposites. “Heaven” here means Heaven as nature. How could such a person deliberately divide himself into what belongs to Heaven and what belongs to humanity? He should merge human action into nature, blending the two as one. Only then can he preserve his De (Virtue/Power) and escape the entanglements of the world.

A sparrow flies by, and Hou Yi captures it through his might. Yet gaining one thing through force is ultimately inferior to gaining many things without intention. If the whole world were a cage, what could one catch in it but a single sparrow? Only those who desire something can be caught; if one is calm and free of desire, how could another bind him?

People like Jiewu are unwilling to adorn themselves; people like Xutu do not fear death. They have merely suffered punishments and are despised by the world. They did not deliberately seek to preserve their lives; they simply had no choice and accepted their circumstances for the time being. But if they grow accustomed to this condition over time, feel no shame or fear, and can forget what others find impossible to forget, they will thereby enter the realm of nature. This says that those who live amid hardship and accept it calmly will eventually be transformed by it. How much more, then, can we measure the realm of someone rooted in nature from the start, who follows the Way of Heaven and understands human affairs, transcending the common world and attaining insight on his own? How could the outward gestures of respect or contempt affect his vast and noble spirit? In harmony and accord with the Way of Heaven, even in his dealings with other people…

Those who follow the Way of Heaven do not give way to anger, even when they are angry. Wherever they go, people are naturally transformed by their influence. They follow the Dao of Wuwei (non-action), and things are accomplished without leaving traces of human contrivance.

The sage is not entirely without joy or anger, nor does he never act. But external things do not make him angry over trivial matters, and he does not act for personal gain. He devotes himself to nurturing Qi (vital energy) and follows the timing of things: he becomes angry only when anger is called for, and acts only when action is called for. He always makes the people’s wishes his own. Even when he urges people toward goodness or punishes wrongdoing, he follows what is natural and does not act recklessly. His breathing is calm and quiet, his mind at ease. He responds only after his spirit has sensed what is happening, and acts only when pressed to do so. How, then, could he act inappropriately?

The character “餽” in the “Scripture” is difficult to interpret. One version reads “不愧” (“without shame”), and that is the reading adopted here.

Gengsang Chu, a disciple of Laozi, shared Laozi’s fundamental nature and embodiment of the Dao, though on a smaller scale. Yet he had not reached the same heights and still held on to certain things in his heart. When he lived on Mount Weilei, the people praised his De (Virtue/Power). This was something sages often did as they brought benefit to all things. But when everyone became wholeheartedly devoted to him and wanted to appoint and honor him, the marks of affection and generosity began to show, and human relationships gave rise to emotional attachments. What Nanrong Chu witnessed was therefore much like what had happened on Mount Weilei.

Gengsang Chu worried that his De was not enough to transform Nanrong Chu, so he sent him to see his teacher, Laozi, in the hope that Laozi could change his thinking and open his mind. This was another way of guiding someone: first bring them to genuine conviction, free of doubt, so they can then take in profound teachings. So when Nanrong Chu entered, Laozi tested him with a blunt, jolting rebuke and gave no answers to his questions, leaving his usual understanding without anything to rely on. It was like taking someone to the edge of a cliff and leaving him to grasp the meaning for himself. How often does such an opportunity arise?

Sadly, Nanrong Chu did not grasp the lesson in the moment. Instead, he cited one example after another and elaborated at length, saying far too much. Laozi saw his failing and addressed it directly. Nanrong Chu returned home, troubled and alone. He then cleansed and renewed himself before coming back to seek instruction. He was clearly receptive to teaching and capable of correcting his ways.

When the two met again, Laozi seized the moment to guide him directly, stripping away his elaborate and trivial arguments. Nanrong Chu knew his capacity for receiving the Great Dao was limited, and hoped only to hear the essentials of nourishing life. He understood that although Laozi could teach him the principles and methods, it was up to him to deepen and expand them. Laozi taught him to hold fast to unity, turn inward and seek within himself, recover the state of an infant, and adapt to external things. These, in broad terms, are the essentials of nourishing life. Their exchange, pursued to its furthest point, returned to the question, “Can you be like an infant?” Words have their roots, and actions have their guiding principle.

Laozi then spoke of the “vast and tranquil expanse” of the mind, which shines with the light that issues from one’s inborn nature. When the “spirit terrace” (the mind) is unaware of holding on to anything, the chamber of the heart is empty, and light arises within it. This does not require deliberate effort or eager pursuit. The discussion of what lies “outside the tally” and “inside the tally,” as well as the image of a “will as sharp as the Moye sword,” is unfinished in the original passage.

This passage again aims to help learners understand the relative weight of things and make choices accordingly: one should not cling to life and death. In their proper order, all things are one. A bedroom, an ancestral temple, a burial ground, and a latrine differ in status, yet each has its proper use. The author hopes this will lead people to understand that life is simply as it is, and that imposing a fixed notion of “rightness” on all things is a mistaken view.

The text then discusses how wealth, status, and desire unsettle a person’s aims and confuse the mind. One’s aims should be steadfast, while the mind should remain empty and still. Anything that entangles us in external things and clouds inner clarity should be relinquished and kept at a distance. Only then can we preserve our inborn nature and return to the Dao.

Even when the offerings used at the La sacrifice are abundant, they are consumed and scattered, and cannot last. Yi, the legendary archer, though superbly skilled, was not good at concealing his abilities or keeping his reputation in check. These examples show that we should free ourselves from attachment and obstruction, and view things with an expansive, still, and mysterious sense of change. When we cease to distinguish between what is inborn and what is contrived, or between clumsiness and skill, we can transcend external things and the self, right and wrong. We can also forget blame and praise, respect and insult, and reach a state of acting without deliberate striving, and meeting events without anger.

By becoming still, one can steady the breath and nurture the vast vital energy; the key is to remain undisturbed. The spirit, meanwhile, follows its original nature, delighting in peace and disliking deceit. In this way, one can calmly dwell alone with the spirits, remain settled and focused, and at the same time respond to the ceaseless changes of the world.

This profound method of the mind was passed from Lao Dan to his disciple Gengsang Chu, much as Yan Hui received teachings from Confucius; some of its subtleties are difficult to put into words. A century later, the Perfected One of Nanhua (Zhuangzi) carried on this lost tradition, much as Mencius grasped the meaning of the Way after hearing it. Though they practiced it to its fullest extent, the states they attained were the same. For this reason, the compiler presents this passage as a standard for all under Heaven.

—Collected Subtle Commentaries on the True Classic of Nanhua, juan 74