《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 8

Those who strive to win through craft and cunning often begin in an open, forceful, “yang” manner and end in something covert and sinister; when the situation is pushed to an extreme, all sorts of strange and underhanded methods appear. People who drink according to ritual often begin in good order and end in disorder; when things are pushed to an extreme, all sorts of indulgent and reckless behavior appears. In most affairs it is the same: at first there is still honesty and trust, and in the end there is often shallowness and baseness. What at the outset looks simple, as it nears its conclusion, often becomes tangled and vast.

Words are like wind and waves—they easily stir the heart; conduct that strays from the real situation easily invites danger. Anger often arises from groundless clever talk and from partial, unfair speech. It is like a beast driven to a dead end: in urgency it no longer cares whether its cry is normal; breath is disordered and violent rage flares up. People likewise breed resentment and pick at one another in blame. When scrutiny becomes harsh to the utmost, a stingy, mean-spirited mind is bound to appear, yet one does not see why. If one does not even know the cause, how can one know where things will finally go?

Hence the old teaching: “Do not on your own alter orders, and do not hurry matters to force them done.” To alter orders arbitrarily and to press for completion are both dangerous. A good outcome should be allowed to take shape through time; once a bad outcome has formed, it is often too late to turn back—how could one not be cautious?

To adapt to outer things and settle the mind, to lodge oneself in what cannot be otherwise, and thereby nourish the inner life—that is the height of cultivation. Why must one deliberately perform and answer the outer world? Better to accept whatever fate brings; that is not easy to achieve.

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: that affairs begin in open force and later turn sinister is because the passion to win, carried to an extreme, secretly breeds the intent to harm others and no longer follows ordinary principle. That drinking begins in order and later turns chaotic is because people gradually sink into indulgence and will do anything. Complexity often grows from what was simple; calamity often rises from what was slight—this is the constant pattern of how things develop.

Words are like wind and waves; conduct that departs from the real situation invites danger—even when a matter could have been settled, it may be thrown into turmoil. Anger often comes from overly ornate speech and improper, biased claims. When a person is driven to urgency, emotion is exhausted and breath is unsettled; rage bursts forth and the two sides blame each other. Excessive harsh scrutiny breeds a stingy heart without one noticing—then how can one know whether fortune or misfortune lies ahead?

To alter orders on one’s own and to press for completion are both dangerous. A good result should follow the changing moment, like planting grain—you cannot demand that it be full-grown in a single morning; if you force someone to do what he detests, regret comes quickly. To lodge the mind in outer things and yield to what the situation necessarily brings is the way of the mean (zhongdao) and the best way to meet things. Yield to the outcome things actually give—why deliberately arrange and urge?

The key to handling these matters lies here: simply obeying orders is the easiest thing to do; not letting joy and anger disturb your inner balance is the hardest.

Commentary (Lü): The human heart-mind is like a deep pool. When it is still, speech is like wind ripples on the surface and easily stirs it. Action is like something solid: when you settle in what is real, the mind is easily steadied; when you lose that steadiness, danger easily follows. Therefore, at times when the heart is easily shaken and easily endangered, you cannot afford to be careless.

When serving a ruler, you should forget yourself. Do not let the anxieties brought by the interplay of Yin and Yang disturb you, and do not be troubled because the ruler changes his orders or presses you to finish the task quickly. Then you will not meet with misfortune in human affairs. When the heart moves, settle the spirit by following how things unfold—this is called roaming the inner landscape by riding the transformations of the myriad things. When you must act, also follow what the situation makes unavoidable, and lodge your inner cultivation in what cannot be avoided.

Now, on a mission to Qi, the best course is to obey your charge and do your duty. Obeying your charge and doing your duty keeps life and death, fortune and misfortune from swaying your heart, and you can then handle the real situation properly. Why deliberately do something to seek a reward? Only obeying orders and fulfilling your role to the utmost is the hardest thing to achieve.

Commentary (Yidu): Those who contend with tricks at first still feel pleasure, but in the end they often finish in anger. Those who drink according to ritual at first keep good order, but in the end things often turn chaotic. What is called “clever artifice” means fraud and pretense; what is called “strange delight” means pleasure that goes beyond the ordinary. At first people deal in sincerity, but in the end they may become coarse and unrestrained; at first they value simplicity, but in the end affairs often grow extravagant. This too is a common pattern in human affairs.

Here the heart is compared to water, and speech to wind ripples. De (Virtue/Power) is the inner substance; action is the outer manifestation. If you do not act rashly, inner De is not harmed; if you do not chase showy display, the substance is not lost. Once joy has already arisen in the heart, it is easy to be moved by outer things; once inner De has already been lost, danger easily follows.

Anger often comes from hearing clever words, empty words, one-sided speech, or words that violate reason. It is like driving a beast into a corner: it will roar without caring whether the sound is fitting; breath becomes blocked and illness arises together. This shows that one who serves a ruler should keep the heart in a place of wuwei (non-action) and stability. If you lead the heart into anxiety, it is no different from cornering a beast.

“Ke” means blaming others too harshly; “he” means pressing others too urgently. A person of poor character may react in confusion without even noticing it himself. For an envoy to alter the ruler’s orders on his own, or to urge and push matters to be finished quickly, are dangerous courses. A fine outcome needs long accumulation; benevolence and De also need full nourishment before they ripen. If you force through what the other side detests, regret will come soon—how can you not be careful?

Follow the myriad things to settle the spirit, and rely on ultimate principle to nourish the inner self. Whatever ought to be done should follow what the situation makes unavoidable. “Taking the central line as your constant method” (yuan du wei jing)—following the middle way as your standard—means exactly to follow the unavoidable and nourish the inner heart. That is already enough; why force yourself to act for show? …

The best way to repay a ruler’s grace is to accept a charge, carry out the sovereign’s command, and not bring disgrace upon oneself—but that is hard to achieve.

Bixu’s note: When words are artful and shifting, quarrels are sure to follow; when joy goes too far, disorder follows. Speech stirs people like wind on water; conduct that loses its true nature cannot stay steady. Drive a beast to the edge and it will snarl; press someone too hard and harmony vanishes. These patterns are always so, yet people often do not see why. Who follows the law must not alter orders on their own; when things ripen in their own time, there is no need to hurry. What is fine is achieved only through long accumulation—this is what is meant by “great vessels are completed late.” If something was never meant to succeed and you force it, the result will not last. Sometimes, to take, you must first give. Let the mind follow outer things and rest at ease; let affairs unfold naturally; when there is no other way, receive them with an empty heart. If you act deliberately to repay the ruler, you only show falseness. Forget the self, and action becomes easy. Why is accepting a command hard? It is neither hard nor easy—only one who has the Dao can do it.

Zhao’s note: What begins in splendor ends in decline; what begins in stability ends in disorder—this is the constant pattern. Water meets wind and waves rise; a beast about to die will roar—such is the pressure of circumstance. One sentence spoken in anger is like raising a storm; once the other is provoked, the outburst of rage is like losing one’s true nature. Changing orders at will or rushing success is already going too far; push further and danger is certain. A good outcome comes from following joy until it naturally forms—the key is duration. If you never intended to achieve something yet force it, it will not endure. Rest the mind on outer things and dwell only where you must; then the mind is not shaken—there is no better way to nurture the inner self. Why decide in advance that success is difficult and then act with calculation to repay favor? Better to accept the command and give your utmost to the task—the difficulty lies there.

Yanzhai’s note: Yang is joy, yin is aversion. Play beyond measure leads to error; those who love clever tricks invite drinking parties. A feast begins in order and ends in noisy quarrel—too much wine, joy beyond the norm, and sometimes dispute follows. “Faith” is sincerity; “deceit” is fraud. In human dealings, words back and forth easily raise storms; once conduct leaves a trace and a name, true nature may be lost. Anger often springs from clever speech and biased argument, like a dying beast that does not choose its cry—fury and fierceness show together. This is harsh demanding; the other answers with ill will, and one does not know why. Here the text takes up the earlier theme of bearing a mission: do not alter the sovereign’s order—only convey it as it is; do not insist that success must come—let it…

People should accord with nature; as soon as they give rise to thoughts of going too far or seeking extra benefit, they may steer matters toward danger. Relations of beauty and goodness take long association to form. For people to reach mutual perfection is not something that can be done in a day. When something does not go as one wishes, if one can turn things around and yield a step, a relationship that might have improved may instead turn bad—because one failed to correct things in time.

If one settles the mind according to the reason of things, and when meeting what cannot be avoided uses that to nurture inner centeredness, that is already the best course. Why must one only after taking conspicuous action count as answering the ruler’s charge? As long as one honestly and with full effort carries out the mission the ruler has entrusted, one need not worry excessively over whether the affair will finally succeed.

The principle of transcending the world lies within the world: to dwell in the world without being dragged down by worldly affairs is transcendence. The essay first treats the hardship of receiving orders to go abroad and convey the ruler’s command, then turns to a general discussion of worldly life: human responsiveness is pushed by circumstances; affairs often become inevitable under momentum while people do not know the reasons within—all one can do is seek out their principle. The line about wind and waves truly bringing loss hits the mark with painful accuracy.

In “cutting the kernel too deep,” commentators seldom explain the character for “kernel” in detail; only one exegete, Yidu, separates the two characters. Here we follow the basic sense of “kernel”: the part of a woody fruit where vital generative force is stored, in which the heart of benevolence (ren) also dwells. The ancients used the fruit kernel as a metaphor for ren. Injure the kernel and you harm the ren within and cut off life; pare away a person’s conduct and you wound moral principle and sever the way people relate.

Thus one who harbors an unbenevolent heart draws conduct that matches that mind. “Xiao” means likeness: the heart of ren extends oneself to others and loves all equally. Without ren in the heart, one no longer treats others with benevolence in mind, and every evil becomes possible. Such evils seem to happen by chance, but they are summoned by oneself—hence the need for caution at the very arising of intention. The Wenzhongzi, “Duke of Zhou” chapter, says: “Curiosity for the strange and delight in the bizarre, indulgence without limit—surely an unworthy heart will come to meet you.” The sense is the same.

“Beauty accomplished” and “evil accomplished” are opposed. Good and beautiful outcomes are hard to achieve; they require long accumulation before they gradually take shape. Grave wrong forms easily; even when one wishes to change, it may already be too late. The former line warns against lightly altering the state’s commands; the latter warns against feeding the Duke of Qi’s arrogant heart.

“Riding on things to roam the heart” means acting along the reason of things without fixing beforehand on success or failure. “Lodging what cannot be avoided to nurture the center” means facing what must be faced, stopping according to principle, and keeping the inner mind from straying from the middle way. That is enough—why must one take conspicuous action to repay the ruler’s charge?

Serving as an aide to such a ruler, the best course is to follow Heaven’s mandate and speak frankly, while letting life, death, fortune, and misfortune unfold of themselves. With such an approach, what difficulty could there be? Confucius at first admonishes people with “fate” and “rightness,” yet in the end he still returns to this same meaning. Read in this light, Zhuangzi (the “Southern Florescence” sage) has dissected human feelings and worldly affairs with rare clarity—who could say the man was aloof above the mundane and ignorant of how things work among people?

Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, so he asked Qu Boyu for advice: “There is a man whose nature seems bent from birth on harming others. If I simply go along with him with no way to restrain him, the state will be in danger; if I try to correct him with rules and standards, I myself will be in danger. He is clever enough to spot everyone else’s faults, but cannot see why others err. Faced with someone like this, what should I do?”

Qu Boyu said, “Well asked! Be alert and cautious, and set your own person upright. In dealing with him, it is best outwardly to go along with him, and inwardly to keep harmony. Yet each of these approaches also has its pitfalls: in going along with his outward behavior, do not plunge into deep compliance; in keeping inner harmony, do not let it show on the surface. If you comply too deeply, you may be overturned, ruined, shattered, and brought down; if you display inner harmony, you may win reputation—or invite uncanny portents and disaster.

“If he acts like an infant, you respond with an infant’s manner; if he ignores boundaries, you for the time being do not insist on boundaries; if he has no limits, you meet him in that same open way. Only thus can you penetrate affairs without falling into error.

“Have you not seen the mantis? It raises its forelegs to block the chariot wheel, unaware that its strength is utterly unequal to the task. It takes its own skill to be splendid—and so courts danger. Be alert and cautious! To lean on what you are good at, boast of it, and then thrust it against the other person is perilous indeed.

“Have you not seen those who keep tigers? They dare not feed live prey, for that stirs the tiger’s lust to kill; they dare not feed whole carcasses, for tearing flesh stirs the same ferocity. They watch the moments when the tiger is hungry or full, and guide its anger. Tiger and human are different kinds, yet the tiger grows close to the one who feeds it because that person goes along with its nature; when it mauls someone, it is because someone has gone against it.

“Those who love horses use bamboo baskets for dung and clam shells for urine. Once a gnat lands on the horse and, eager to brush it away, they strike at the wrong moment—the horse snaps the bit, bangs its head, and smashes its chest. The care was wholehearted, yet the horse was lost to it. Can one fail to be cautious?”

Guo Xiang comments: The temperament of petty men, if forced by rules, breeds resentment; if indulged without limit, the state falls into chaos. They cannot see that the root of the people’s wrongdoing lies in themselves—they only blame the people and refuse to examine their own conduct. When one meets this situation, what is to be done? All the responses described above, in the end, serve to set oneself upright. Outward bearing should not clash with the other party; inwardly one keeps harmony without abandoning one’s principles. “Going along” means conforming in outward form; “plunging into compliance” means following so far that one loses oneself.

Only by aligning with others can one truly help them; if one constantly shows oneself off and criticizes others, one becomes different from the crowd and invites danger. If you do not support them, you yourself will fall with them. Flaunting yourself while forcing harmony also draws talk of “enduring filth.” The other party may resent you more than they resent themselves and rashly stir up trouble. Therefore one should practice “mysterious unity with light and dust”—hiding one’s edge and blending with the world—so that no split arises between near and far, gain and loss. In dealing with people, be supple like an infant and show no sharp corners, lest you hit what they cannot bear. Today, when one clearly knows something cannot be done yet still takes the burden on by force, it is like a mantis raising its forelegs to stop a wheel; relying on talent to dominate others only leads down a perilous path. Thus, acting with the grain of things, even unlike people may come to care for one another; going against the situation, even kin may turn to battle. In how we meet the world, between yielding and resisting, nothing may be treated lightly.

Commentary (Lu): If someone is born with a violent character, others cannot make him good. In associating with him, if there is no measure and he is indulged, the state is endangered; if he is bound by rules, one’s own person is endangered—as if no course were right. Knowing another’s fault without knowing why he errs makes coexistence harder still. Closeness fails when one sinks too deep; sinking too deep means flowing with him. Harmony with him fails when one shows too much; showing too much means seeming unlike him. Hence ruin, or calamity to one’s name, comes from dwelling with him without knowing how to support him, or differing from him without knowing how to yield. In his company, be soft as an infant until you can be with him without being cramped. Then, even without clinging to rules, you need not harm the state; even while keeping rules, you need not harm yourself. The point is to follow his nature and guide him toward the right Way. When King Xuan of Qi loved valor and wealth, Mencius guided him along the kingly Way by riding that bent. Later mentions of the mantis and the beloved horse are parables—the sense is already clear, so they need not be unpacked line by line.

Commentary (Yidu): “Heaven’s slaying” means a cruel disposition comes from innate nature and is hard to change. “Square” means rule or standard. In dealing with him, to go beyond the square and let desire run free corrupts law and endangers the state; to keep him inside the square, suppress desire and go against his disposition, endangers oneself. Knowing another’s fault but not why he errs—what then? The answer: first rectify yourself. Outward conduct should match the multitude, so it is better to draw near them; inward stance should differ from the multitude, so it is better to yield to them. In drawing near, do not go too deep, lest mutual contempt arise; in yielding, do not stand out too boldly, lest they hate your self-display.

If one simply complies and becomes too close to such a person, both will head toward ruin together; if one shows oneself openly and displays one’s edge, one invites disaster to one’s reputation. Therefore, in serving such a person, one should act with caution—like an infant, showing no sharp corners, drawing no hard lines, and not revealing one’s own stance. Follow what the other does without opposing it, then guide him so that he gradually walks a path without fault.

The Xiangdao commentary says: It is not easy for a minister to assist a ruler; guiding an ordinary person is already hard, and guiding the heir apparent is harder still. The heir’s rank is high and his power great, so he is hard to teach in the first place—and all the more when his nature inclines toward killing. Outwardly, be close to him without merging with him; this is outward tact. Inwardly, keep peace without betraying the right way; this is inner uprightness. Outward tact keeps one from losing the relationship; inner uprightness keeps one from losing oneself. If one only stays close and complies to the end, one will share his wrongdoing and endanger the state; if one keeps inner peace and withdraws at the right moment, one may endanger oneself by showing one’s integrity. So one should be like an infant—no sharp edge, no fixed boundary—and lead him step by step onto a path without fault. The ancients said: when the ruler is dissolute, his ministers follow; when the ruler is extravagant, they follow too—the point is just this. The rest of the commentary largely agrees with what was said before.

The Bixu commentary says: If you do wrong together with him, the state falls into disorder; if you guide him with principle, you may harm yourself. Only someone skilled at advance and retreat can tutor such a person. If he can reflect on his own faults, vicious conduct will not take shape. Straightening oneself is teaching without words; outwardly, it is best to be close without showing an edge; inwardly, one should be at peace and guide in a way that fits reason. If one stays close and complies to the end, one will do evil together and meet ruin, endangering the state; if one withdraws in peace yet advertises oneself, one invites disaster to one’s name and endangers oneself. So from “like an infant, showing no edge” down to “drawing no boundary,” it is all about the logic of gathering in and letting go, giving and taking.

The mantis raising its forelegs to stop the wheel is strength and talent falling short yet forcing a show of power—how could it not fail? The images of training a tiger and keeping a horse mean that mastering things depends on method, and employing people requires expedient judgment. Lose method and flexibility yet still try to control things, and you only hurt yourself.

Zhao’s commentary says: Outward closeness keeps the other from distancing you; inner peace lets you make up for what he lacks. “Harmony” is like seasoning a stew—it does not mean making everything identical. Even so, danger may not be avoidable: close compliance flatters the ruler’s faults; peaceful withdrawal may expose them. The first path sinks and destroys you together; the second brings calamity through chasing reputation.

To avoid drawing trouble by a conspicuous reputation, one must dull one’s edge and live among ordinary people without giving them grounds to fault you. Only then does one reach the highest level. The three images—the mantis blocking the cart, raising a tiger, and tending a horse—describe different situations, but the principle is the same.

Lü Zhai says: “His virtue seems worn down as if by Heaven’s will; his conduct has no measure or fixed rule.” The meaning is: even if you let the other party ruin standards and law, the state will eventually be endangered; if you step in to correct it, disaster is sure to fall on you—what then? “Teach by rectifying your own person” means first straightening yourself, then holding others to your own standard. The method here is outward compliance with the other, while inwardly keeping harmony. “Jiu” (就) means to draw near and follow; “he” (和) means to harmonize. Outwardly following the other while the heart stays calm can still spare one from harm. If one goes further and merges with the other entirely, that is “entering through compliance” (就而入); if one harmonizes yet still shows a little of one’s own edge, that is “emerging through harmony” (和而出). The latter can still invite ruin—at best one preserves oneself as when dealing with a harmful spirit.

“Infant,” “no demarcations” (无町畦), and “no cliff-edge” (无崖) all depict someone who does not know bounds and acts as he pleases. Since he is like that, one temporarily goes along with him; when a chance to awaken him appears, one offers a pointer so he may suddenly see—and perhaps be led into a state without fault. The mantis raising its forelegs is a metaphor for small strength that takes itself for great and rashly undertakes a large task; few who do so avoid failure. The point of raising a tiger and tending a horse is equally plain.

Consider Qu Boyu’s words to Yan He: they stand a step lower than Confucius’s words to Zigao. Zigao still knew to respect the King of Chu and went on his mission with anxiety in his heart, so Confucius told him to understand mission and duty, and closed with “ride things and let the mind wander, entrust yourself to what cannot be avoided”: even when one must accept an unwelcome commission, one should follow the situation and keep the spirit free, not forgetting one’s root, so as not to follow others blindly and lose oneself.

Yan He is different. He knew Kuai Kui was unfit to be tutored yet still went to tutor him; he was doubtful in his own mind yet wanted the other to trust him—in principle he was already somewhat off. So Qu Boyu warned him to rectify himself first and establish the root before handling branches. “Form conforms, heart harmonizes” (形就心和) means seeing that the present situation cannot be corrected by force and taking for the moment a way to preserve oneself; this is not the proper path of guiding another. How much more so when one must comply with him and merge with him? To make oneself like an infant, without boundaries and without edge, is compliance pushed to the end. Though it includes the tactic of seizing the moment to transform the other, can a teacher’s dignity find no better way to guide than this? Even if by such means one finally avoids fault, one can only keep oneself spotless—how can one transform another? “The mantis raises its arms” is precisely the image for what Yan He is about to do.

The preceding passage, with its metaphors of "raising tigers" and "loving horses," restates an earlier teaching and warns people to be especially careful, lest they inevitably come to harm.

The text then tells a story. Carpenter Shi (a carpenter named Shi) traveled to the state of Qi, and when he reached a place called Quyuan, he saw an oak tree venerated as the altar tree of the earth god. It was large enough to shade several thousand oxen. Its trunk measured a hundred arm-spans around, and it towered over the hills. Only above ten ren (an ancient unit of length, roughly ten to twenty-odd meters) did it put out branches, and a good ten of those were thick enough to be made into boats. Onlookers crowded around it like a market day, yet Carpenter Shi did not so much as glance at it and walked straight on.

His apprentice, who had gazed at the tree in rapt wonder, caught up with him and said, "Since I took up my axe and followed you, Master, I have never seen timber this fine. Yet you will not even look at it and keep walking. Why is that?" Carpenter Shi replied, "Enough, say no more! That is worthless, useless wood. Make a boat from it and it sinks; make a coffin and it rots quickly; make utensils and they break down soon; make doors and they weep sap; make pillars and they are eaten by worms. It is a tree that cannot be made into anything, with no use whatsoever, and that is precisely why it has lived so long."

After Carpenter Shi returned home, the oak of the altar appeared to him in a dream and said: "What are you comparing me to? To those useful trees? The hawthorn, pear, orange, and pomelo, all those fruit-bearing trees, are plucked as soon as their fruit ripens, and being plucked brings them humiliation: their large branches are snapped off and their small ones torn away. Because they are useful, they make their own lives bitter, and so they cannot live out their allotted years but die young along the way. They bring the blows of the world upon themselves, and it is so with all things. Moreover, I have sought to be useless for a very long time. I nearly died for it, and only now have I achieved it, and this is of great use to me. Had I been useful, could I have grown so large? Besides, you and I are both mere things, so why should one thing sit in judgment of another? You, a useless man close to death, what could you know of a useless tree?"

When Carpenter Shi woke, he told his apprentice about the dream. The apprentice asked, "If the tree single-mindedly seeks uselessness, why then does it serve as an altar tree?" Carpenter Shi said, "Hush! Say no more! It is only lodging in the altar for a time, to avoid those who do not understand it and who insult and harm it. Even if it were not an altar tree, would it be in any danger of being cut down? Moreover, the way it preserves itself differs from the common run, and to praise it with conventional notions of righteousness would miss the mark by far, would it not?"

Guo Xiang's commentary points out that a tree not counted among usable materials is called "scattered wood" (sanmu), while usable material is called "patterned wood" (wenmu). All things harm themselves through their usefulness, and so people constantly eye them covetously. Only Carpenter Shi understood that uselessness is precisely the great usefulness that preserves life. The apprentice, however, still faulted the tree for glorifying itself by serving as an altar tree, and did not grasp that one should move toward uselessness. Carpenter Shi countered that it was the altar that gave the tree a place to lodge, not that the tree deliberately sought to become an altar tree, and that the apprentice's belief that the tree acted so because it was misunderstood was far too shallow a view.

To be felled—how could that count as glory? To take uselessness as a kind of usefulness: even if one is not chosen for the altar of the local earth god, one will in the end never come near the axe. Because it “preserves nothing,” it is preserved; the crowd, meanwhile, treats “having something to preserve” as preservation. What is useless rests in wuwei (non-action) and is left alone, while many logs, each thought good timber, are taken up by others. To praise it by calling it a sacred tree—is that not far from what it truly is?

Commentary (Lü): The great oak-like tree, useless as lumber, was made a spirit tree. Its crown was broad enough to shade an ox; its roots must have been deep and firm. It lived long because it was “scattered wood,” wood unfit to be worked into vessels—so the onlookers who called it beautiful did not understand it. That is also how Carpenter Shi sizes timber up and decides what to take.

Make wood into a boat and the boat may sink; make it into a pillar and the pillar may worm—because the wood is not suited to those roles. The oak is useless by the nature of its wood. Cherry, pear, orange, and pomelo look splendid because they bear fruit, yet they suffer for it: people break branches, strip bark, and cut them down for the fruit; outward show injures the inner substance.

The carpenter came first with his axe and looked it over, then gave it up and walked away. It nearly died from cutting; only then was it fully preserved. That is its great usefulness—it could serve as boat or coffin; what use could be greater? Only when nothing is fixed as a single “thing” can the myriad things each find their place. If things cling to one another’s uses, how can they truly know one another?

What is useless does not know that it is useless. If someone is eager to seize it for use, then even those who set the tree up as a sacred tree may not understand it, while claiming they are seeking “what has no use.” Those who once took their own material as something fine did not understand themselves; that is self-inflicted shame. The oak merely dwells in uselessness. How would it know it is useless, or hurry to chase after that uselessness?

It was not felled because it was not good timber; even if it were not the sacred tree, would it necessarily be cut? So being the sacred tree is not what it relies on to stay intact. The crowd takes “having something to rely on” as safety; what it relies on is not what they rely on—it cannot be weighed by worldly norms and praise. Students should set aside such moral scoring and taste the point in the text.

Commentary (Yidu): Scattered wood is not ruled by compass, square, ink, or line; the “scattered person” is not ruled by benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music. Only one who accords with Heaven’s mandate reaches that state. Cherry, pear, orange, and pomelo harm themselves by bearing fruit; creatures harm themselves by being useful—mostly it is so.

“I have long sought what has no use. Carpenters often give me a sidelong look; I nearly lost my life for it. Now Master Carpenter Shi declares me unfit timber—this use of uselessness is in truth the greatest use. If I were useful, how could I still…?”

“You and I alike receive our mandate from the Creator (the power that fashions all things); we are each no more than one thing among the myriad beings—so why should we judge and measure each other?”

Carpenter Shi’s disciple said to the oak tree: “Since you are bent on being ‘useless,’ why not simply be a tree with no use at all, instead of becoming a shrine tree (the tree beside the altar of the local earth god)?” Carpenter Shi replied: “The oak does not seek to be a shrine tree; it merely happens to stand there and is treated as one. If you speak of it that way, it will think you do not understand it and will scold you. It preserves its life through uselessness; even if it were not a shrine tree, would it necessarily be cut down? It keeps itself safe by wanting nothing, while ordinary people keep themselves safe by relying on something they can use—that is the difference between the two.”

Bixu’s commentary says: The great oak beside the shrine was a huge tree that people all despised; had Carpenter Shi not had a unique eye, it would almost have been felled by the man with the axe. By keeping itself whole and not displaying its talent, it achieved great usefulness. When the disciple reproached it for still wanting to be a shrine tree, he seemed to fault Carpenter Shi for making distinctions. The disciple still treated it as fine timber, thinking it sheltered itself by lodging at the altar; Carpenter Shi said it merely happened to stand there and that the tree did not actively seek to be a shrine tree. The oak regarded the people of Quyuan as people who did not understand it, believing they insulted it with the identity of a shrine tree—hence the remark that it would scold them. The perfected person (zhiren) preserves life through uselessness, while worldly people discard it because it is not good lumber. A shrine tree is unlike useful fine wood; only Carpenter Shi saw this clearly. If even a tree cannot be praised or blamed by the standards of moral principle, how much less can the Way of the perfected person?

Zhao’s commentary says that this chapter of Carpenter Shi clarifies the great tree’s principle of “usefulness through uselessness,” in the same spirit as the “Free and Easy Wandering” (Xiaoyao You) chapter. The oral exegesis of Yanzhai and Lü’s “Doubts and Uniqueness” are largely in agreement. But if “bent on uselessness” is read as this tree deliberately pursuing uselessness, then—as the original intent says—since it aims at uselessness, why become a shrine tree at all? The closing passage on judging praise and blame by moral principle means: you would use doctrine to decide whether it deserves destruction or praise; such thinking is far from the tree itself.

The previous chapter detailed how hard it is to live in the world and deal with outward things; this chapter again uses the shrine oak’s failure to become useful timber to show how it preserves itself through uselessness, and thereby reveals the usefulness of uselessness. The author further clarifies the point through the exchange between Carpenter Shi and his disciple. The tree was nearly dead and only now is preserved—that is its great use. “Why still measure and judge me?” means: you and I alike inherit bodily form and become one thing among the myriad beings, yet you still want to put me to some use? “The nearly dead drifter” (one whose talent nearly costs his life through being pressed into service) means: because you have ability you are driven on and nearly lose your life. I rest content in uselessness—how could you understand that? The disciple asked again: since the oak already pursues uselessness, why still be a shrine tree? Carpenter Shi told him not to go on…

That tree merely happened to grow beside the community shrine; it did not set out to become the shrine tree on purpose. People who do not understand it curse and blame it; yet since it already stands there in peace, why cut it down? Even if it were not the shrine tree, how would it escape being felled? What it preserves is precisely its own uselessness—hence it differs from other trees. You praise it with the meaning of a shrine tree; that is far from its real point. This illustrates plain, unadorned people: they preserve themselves in the world and do not want praise or reward from others. Even if they are praised by chance in the village, it is only accidental—how could they take that as glory? Because they cannot profit from it, they are not harmed by it either.

Nanbo Ziqi was traveling in the hills of Shang when he saw a great tree whose branches and leaves were so lush they could shade a thousand four-horse chariots. Ziqi said, “What tree is this? It must have some special quality.” He looked up at the fine branches—they were twisted and knotted, unfit for beams; he looked down at the thick roots—the wood was loose and split, unfit for coffins. He tasted a leaf and his mouth was ulcerated and hurt; he smelled it and people became drunk and deranged for three days without recovering. Ziqi said, “This is indeed a tree of no use, and that is why it could grow so large. Alas, the spirit-like person (one who has reached a lofty realm) preserves the self in just this way—through being ‘no use.’”

In the region of Jing in Song, it was suitable to plant catalpa, cypress, and mulberry. When those trees grew to the thickness of an arm or two, people cut them for pegs to tether monkeys; at three or four spans around, they were cut for tall gateposts; at seven or eight spans, wealthy and noble households wanting coffin wood cut them down too. Thus they could not live out their natural span and died halfway under axe and saw. This is the disaster that comes from being useful timber.

Therefore the white-browed ox and the upturned-snout pig offered in sacrifice, and people afflicted with hemorrhoids, are not sent to the river rite. The invoker-diviners (zhu and wu who lead sacrifice and divination) have long known these as inauspicious. Yet in the eyes of the spirit-like person, these are the greatest good fortune.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: If the ruler does not present himself as the able one among the officials, each official keeps to his role. The sharp-eyed observe, the sharp-eared listen, the clever plan, the brave guard. Why should the ruler do these things himself? He need only remain mysteriously still and practice Wuwei (non-action). When every kind of talent finds its place, the seemingly useless person is precisely the root on which the multitude can accomplish things.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: Earlier it speaks of the great tree living out its years because it is useless timber; here it speaks of catalpa, cypress, and the like dying under axe and saw because they are useful timber. From this one can see that the sage and the spirit-like person…

People often pursue “usefulness” to excess; they also hide things away with excessive secrecy. Therefore, it is fitting to let genuine usefulness be fulfilled through uselessness, and to let what is useless play its role. In this way, even if one has little talent, one can avoid being enslaved by others and live freely in the world, sharing fortune and misfortune with ordinary people. These points above all must not be left ununderstood.

Yidu commentary: “High name” means illustrious reputation; “tall house” means a lofty, conspicuous dwelling. “Draping beside the coffin” is the same sort of idea (the original wording here is unclear). This passage means that trees are cut down because they are useful and die before their time. Sacrificial rites of petition and thanksgiving are offerings to spirits to seek blessings or fulfill vows. Oxen with white foreheads, pigs with upturned snouts, and people afflicted with hemorrhoids cannot be used in sacrifices to the river god. Wu and Zhu (ritual specialists) regard these three cases as inauspicious; the spirit-person values usefulness-through-uselessness and takes that to be great good fortune.

Xiangdao commentary: The Laozi says: “Only by bending can one be whole; only by yielding can one be straight.” Because the turtle has numinous power, people catch it for divination—how inferior that is to dragging its tail freely in the mud! Because the gibbon is agile, people prize it—how inferior that is to keeping the body whole and hiding deep among thick grass and trees. Seen this way, being without talent and without use is precisely how the spirit-person preserves the self; what is deemed inauspicious is, in the spirit-person’s eyes, great good fortune.

Bixu commentary: If the seven apertures of a person are busily exercised without rest, they grow confused and blocked; if the hundred parts of the body labor without cease, they grow weary and exhausted. Only when the nameless numinous thing governs the whole body does its light not run dry, filling the vast void (the boundless expanse of the great void). Thus the host of spirits can shelter all things. Wu and Zhu despise livestock that are diseased or unfit for sacrifice because they are not usable; the spirit-person, by contrast, honors sinking into the realm of uselessness.

Zhao commentary: The great tree of Shangqiu is the same idea as the oak that is the village tutelary tree spoken of earlier. The region of Jing suits catalpa, cypress, and mulberry; because these trees are useful, they cannot live out their natural span. Far better are the ox with a white forehead, the pig with an upturned snout, and the person with hemorrhoids—they are preserved because they are not fit for use.

Yanzhai explanation: The great tree of Shangqiu is close in meaning to the previous chapter: the spirit-person can preserve life precisely because he is not treated as useful timber. Jing suits planting catalpa, cypress, and mulberry; “beam for a lofty house” means the ridgepole of a tall dwelling, and “high name” means illustrious reputation. What is meant here is precisely those prominent, noble households—only the pronunciation is the same and the written form differs. Ancient documents of Wu and Zhu record that oxen with white foreheads and pigs with upturned snouts cannot be used to sacrifice to the river god. In antiquity people sometimes sacrificed human beings as well—for example, what Lord Ximen of Ye encountered when he governed Ye—so “hemorrhoids” is added here. Wu and Zhu regard these three cases as inauspicious; and precisely because they are inauspicious, they escape slaughter. In the spirit-person’s view, that is great good fortune.

The various schools’ commentaries have already made the main idea clear; still, a few lexical points remain unexplained.

The appendix that follows explains that the character “yin” (隐, concealment) should be read together with the preceding clause, meaning to hide or shield; if “yin” is attached to the following sentence, the sense breaks down. The passage must be speaking of the special quality of the wood’s material. It is wrong to place the sentence break after “fu” (夫) at the opening of the next passage.

“Zhou” (轴) describes grain that spirals and spreads; “yi” (杙) is a small stake where macaques perch. “Chan” (襌) refers to the intact side panel beside the coffin wood; in “gao ming zhi li” (高名之丽), some explain “li” as “house,” but it should be read as “li” (欐), meaning a roof beam. Liezi says lingering tones wrap around the beam—“li” indeed carries the sense of a rafter—so “gao ming” here undoubtedly means loftiness and clarity. The commentator Qi’s reading is apt.

The meaning of this chapter matches the previous one: later it adds the case of a disabled man who thereby escapes the calamity of river sacrifice; it closes with the divine person (shenren) to show why such a one counts as great good fortune. The scripture’s sense is already clear, so it need not be repeated here.

Zhi Li Shu (a man bent and incomplete in body) tucked his chin below his navel; his shoulders rose above his head, and his hair knot pointed at the sky. The acupuncture points (xue) of his five viscera all faced upward, and his two thighs bent like ribs. He made a living mending clothes and washing laundry, and also by divination and winnowing grain—enough to support ten people. When the authorities conscripted warriors, Zhi Li Shu waved his arms among them; when the court mobilized great labor projects, he was excused because of chronic illness. The government ration for the sick gave him three zhong of grain, plus ten bundles of firewood. Though his body was broken, he could still support himself and live out his years—how much more so for someone whose virtue does not fit the world and who transcends ordinary norms?

Guo Xiang comments: The divine person does not impose himself on the myriad things; each thing plays its own part. He leaves fame to the multitude of talents and blends with things without leaving a trace, and so escapes harm in human affairs. Those who can securely enjoy a good life are precisely people whose virtue seems out of step with convention.

Lü Huiqing comments: “Zhi li” means limbs not whole; “shu” means scattered, not gathered. Scattered and incomplete, he yet stays unobstructed, and does not invite disaster through bodily wholeness. Thus one with a crippled body is hard for conscription to reach; one whose virtue exceeds convention is not dragged down by worldly affairs.

Yidu comments: Bodily “zhi li” is forgetting the body and dwelling by heavenly principle; virtue “zhi li” is forgetting virtue and complying with fate. Forgetting the body is what Zhuangzi calls “duo ti chu cong” (casting off the body, silencing the senses); forgetting virtue is “shang de bu de” (the highest virtue does not parade as virtue). One who forgets form preserves himself and completes his years—only keeping clear of human misfortune. As for one who forgets virtue, wisdom penetrates all things yet returns to plain dullness; brilliance can match sun and moon yet sinks back into hidden non-distinction. How can that be compared with someone who merely forgets form?

Bi Xu’s commentary says: “Settle the self in place and seek no worldly use, and the body may seem incomplete; yet hold the Great Dao in the heart as though dull and unknowing.”

Zhao’s commentary explains that ordinary people know only that De is something fine, but they do not see that once De is clung to as something to boast of, it becomes a burden. Hence Zhuangzi uses “Zhi Li Shu” (Limp-and-Scattered Shu) as a parable.

Yan Zhai says that “hui cuo” refers to the hair knot at the crown, and “liang bi” to the two thighs. Zhi Li Shu made a living by mending clothes, washing laundry, and sifting rice. “Gu ce” means shaking a small winnowing basket to sift rice—winnowing away the bran and keeping the clean grain. Because his body was deformed and disabled, he was not conscripted for labor, yet he still received grain and firewood. This shows that though he seemed useless, he thereby preserved himself. The De of the perfected person is the same: not displaying oneself, not clinging to De; precisely because one seems useless, a greater efficacy is achieved.

The pronunciation and meaning of “hui cuo” are interpreted differently in ancient books. Sima Biao took “hui cuo” as the knot of hair at the nape; when the ancients wore their hair in a knot at the back of the neck and the body was bent and the head lowered, that knot would face the sky. Xiang Xiu took it as shoulders hunched and the crown protruding. Today the reading “knot of hair at the crown” is most often adopted. A similar line appears in the “Da Zong Shi” (Great Ancestral Master) chapter; the wording differs but the sense is the same. From the chin drawn into the chest to the two thighs pressed against the ribs—all describe the appearance of a crippled body.

“Gu ce” is sifting rice and winnowing bran. Sima Biao held that “ce” is the same as “ce” (策), a small winnowing basket; the Cui commentary took it as shaking the yarrow stalks and laying out the hexagrams for divination. Here Sima Biao’s reading is mostly followed. Mending clothes and sifting rice are ordinary skills for making a living, so the text says Zhi Li Shu relied on these two crafts to support ten people. This is hyperbole to show that though his body was incomplete, he had more than enough to sustain himself and his household.

If someone as physically incomplete as Zhi Li Shu could fare so well, how much more so “zhi li qi de”—scattering and freeing De? The point of this passage is that when De is clung to and displayed, it is no longer true De. “Zhi li” here means letting De spread freely, neither clinging nor showing forth; this is what “the highest De is not De” (shang de bu de) means. One whose body is incomplete is spared corvée and may still receive grain and firewood; one whose De is not displayed can also avoid harm from the world and receive the blessings that come by nature.