《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 81

Seeing the old capital of one’s homeland always brings a sudden sense of openness and ease. Even when the hills are thick with grass and trees, and nine out of ten people who enter get lost, one still feels exhilarated. How much more so when one sees it with one’s own eyes and hears it with one’s own ears? A tower ten ren high stands above the crowd, yet everyone knows it well and feels at ease around it.

Ranxiang Shi, an ancient sage king, grasped the center of change in things and followed their natural unfolding. The myriad things have neither an end nor a beginning; there is no such thing as more or less, or as days and years. He changed along with the myriad things, yet also had an unchanging aspect. Why not try letting go of deliberate action?

Taking Heaven as one’s teacher without truly learning to follow the Dao of Heaven only results in being constrained along with Heaven and the myriad things. What can come of acting this way? The sage never takes Heaven, humanity, beginnings, or the myriad things as fixed starting points. Instead, the sage moves along with the world without pause, acting with thoroughness and meeting no obstruction. What does it take to reach this state of being in accord with the myriad things?

When King Tang of Shang took Menyin Dengheng, an official in charge of chariots, as his tutor, he studied under him without being bound by him. He followed the natural formation of things and assigned Menyin Dengheng to oversee names and distinctions. Names and standards are only traces left by things; the true work of governing does not belong to oneself. Confucius grasped the principle that two points of view can coexist, and Zhongni’s teacher devoted himself to thinking the matter through on his behalf. Rongcheng Shi said, “Remove the count of days, and there are no years; without an inside, there is no outside.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Even encountering things familiar from the past brings a sense of ease; how much more so understanding one’s own nature? Things one has seen and heard are already a source of delight; how much more so personally experiencing their substance and putting one’s nature to use? Even things that seem dangerous can feel safe when people are accustomed to them; how much more so for the sage, who faces no danger at all?

Ranxiang Shi was an ancient sage king. He was empty and still, practicing Wuwei (non-action), and followed the myriad things, which then unfolded naturally. He came and went, changing along with them; thus he was often without a private self, yet also had an unchanging aspect. Since you are acting, why not try letting go of your own actions? Only by not insisting on finding something to imitate can one truly take the Dao of Heaven as one’s model. Merely imitating Heaven still leaves one liable to constraint, so what is there to praise in that?

To reach a state in which Heaven and humanity, the myriad things and their beginnings, are no longer distinct is to merge obscurely with the myriad things. Thus King Tang entrusted affairs of state to his officials and did not personally interfere. He allowed the officials to come together naturally rather than confining them; he let them disperse naturally rather than deliberately breaking them apart. Officials such as the chariot master could follow the natural unfolding of things, and King Tang therefore employed them. The people bore the name, while the merit did not belong to him.

Names and standards are only traces of what has already taken shape; they are not the things themselves. In this sense, they add something. The person who governs without a private intention entrusts affairs to the officials, and the names and deeds then appear among them. The commentary explicitly quotes Confucius; the text that follows breaks off at the word “Heaven.”

What, then, is there left to think about? Thought has been completely exhausted. If even the slightest thought remains, how could one be still and unmoving, yet respond without limit, helping the myriad things follow their own nature? We speak of years and days because we still distinguish life from death. Without life and death, there would be no reckoning of years and days.

Lü’s Commentary: To catch sight of one’s homeland and feel at ease is only human. Even if the hills and trees of that homeland have changed, one may still feel at ease, for one has not forgotten one’s roots. How much more so when what I rely on for seeing and hearing has existed alongside Heaven and Earth, which have long been my homeland. Now I can see and hear everything between Heaven and Earth, as though standing atop a ten-ren terrace—about ten zhang high—and looking out over all around me. How could words convey such delight?

“All around” means a place without people. Heaven and Earth revolve within it without ceasing; the myriad things arise and change without anyone deliberately arranging them. Heaven and Earth therefore have no fixed beginning or end, and cannot be measured in specific days. “Ji” means to count. If people change along with the myriad things but cannot adapt to change, why cling to what they hold? The movement of the myriad things cannot be measured by a finite span of days, yet each thing has its own point of rest.

Those who wish to take Heaven’s Way as their teacher but cannot do so are driven along with the myriad things by external objects, and take these as the aims they pursue. The sage never separates “Heaven” from “humanity,” but moves together with the myriad things, without slackening or straying. This is what is meant by returning to one’s nature and moving in response to things. Only by doing this can one truly take Heaven’s Way as a teacher, and thereby accord with the myriad things.

Shang Tang acquired the title “Master of the Charioteers”; Men Yinzheng, the title “That Which One Enters”; and Deng Heng, the title “The Constant.” The cultivation these titles refer to all takes Heaven’s Way as its teacher. To govern and guide, the key is to keep the mind upright; what one enters is the Dao; and to endure is to embody the Dao’s permanence. One follows Heaven’s Way without being constrained by external things, and can also act in keeping with the changes of the myriad things.

These names were all established as things arose and changed. Titles such as “Master of the Charioteers” arose from the knowledge and experience we already possess; they do not point to some intentional ruler who arranged things. The Dao is the subtle foundation, while its patterns are the order that emerges from it. To see where names come from is also to understand how patterns take shape; this is what is meant by “seeing both ends.” Yet even if one sees, one has not reached the end unless one understands that, in the world, thought is not fixed and unchanging. Thus Zhongni (Confucius) made the exhaustion of thought the way he passed on; he was not teaching Shang Tang anything in particular. What is called “following what has taken shape” is the principle attained by Ran Xiangshi. From this we can see that titles such as “Master of the Charioteers” are allegories that convey meaning.

To dispense with counting days is to stop treating years as a fixed measure. To make no distinction between inner and outer is to stop clinging to the boundaries between “zhou” (time) and “yu” (space). Only those who have completely exhausted thought can reach this state.

As Doubtless Master explains, human nature chases after external things. Once lost, it cannot find its way back, like someone who has been away from their homeland for a long time and, on seeing the old capital, is suddenly overcome with joy. Even if nine-tenths of the old capital has changed, the heart still rejoices. How much greater, then, the joy of seeing what one has seen before and hearing what one has heard before.

One’s true nature is like the trees and grasses on a hill. Those who enter among them are like people about to return to their source. To understand the principle of nine-tenths is to have begun the return, but not yet truly arrived. Only when one can see what it sees and hear what it hears has one fully returned. The joy of seeing one’s true nature is like the joy of seeing the old capital. A high terrace stands in a dangerous place, yet once accustomed to it, one can climb with ease and composure. How much more so when one attains one’s true nature?

Ranxiang Shi, a legendary ruler of remote antiquity, and the wise sovereigns who came before the Three August Ones understood the principle of emptiness. They moved without limit, responding to the myriad things and fulfilling their own Way. They had no fixed beginning or end: when would they ever change along with external things? To change together with the myriad things is to be the unchanging foundation; the unchanging foundation can transform the myriad things. Why do people in the world who make things happen not set aside their own activity and return to nature? In this way, they can attain their true nature. But if one deliberately takes the Way of Heaven as a model to follow, one cannot attain one’s true nature. How much less can those who chase after external things and cannot return to their own nature?

Between Heaven and Earth, there is originally no such distinction as Heaven and humanity, yet Heaven and humanity each exist naturally. There is originally no such thing as a beginning, yet the myriad things each become what they are, and their beginning seems to arise from within themselves. In moving through the world, one can bend and stretch without growing weary; in completing a task, one remains humble and does not become complacent. How can one do this in harmony with the Way?

Siyu and Menyin are official titles; “Deng Heng” is a name. A man named Deng Heng understood the Dao and could serve as a teacher to others. The sage follows a teacher without being bound by him, simply allowing things to follow their natural course. If the teacher is like an infant, the disciple should also follow like an infant; that is how it should be. Shang Tang received the help of these three men. He followed them without being constrained, responded to things naturally, and fulfilled his own Way. Later, Shang Tang himself became the one who held authority in their name, and the traces of those three men no longer appeared in the world. Thus both name and method found expression in Shang Tang. Though Shang Tang was a sage who fully put the human way into practice, the institutions and laws of his time were not yet complete. By the time of Confucius, the changes of the world had reached their full extent, so Confucius considered them carefully and established a complete system of laws. In this sense, Confucius in turn became Shang Tang’s teacher.

As Master Bixu explains, someone who lost their homeland in childhood feels joy and relief on seeing it again. Even if it is desolate and ruined, with nine-tenths no longer as it once was, the heart still rejoices. How much more so when what one sees and hears remains as before, and the deep, clear, wondrous presence—the manifestation of the Dao’s essence—still endures. The Great Dao stands high and manifest; it does not hide itself. It is like a high terrace built in a scenic place, or bells and drums suspended in an open field, to awaken the people of the world.

The ears and eyes can make people understand the many sounds of the world. “Jian,” read with the falling tone, means the open wilderness; “the center of the ring” is a metaphor for what is empty and formless.

Thus, the sage can transform external things because he follows the changes particular to each thing, allowing them to come naturally to fulfillment. He is therefore not constrained by things’ beginnings and endings or by the limits of time in which they change. When the mind settles and understands the Way of “the center of the ring,” there is no barrier between it and the myriad things. Though all things change day by day, their root remains clear. Why, then, fix the mind on whether things change or remain unchanged? Because the sage never clings, he never deliberately casts anything aside. He takes the mind without intention as his teacher and follows the Way of Heaven; this is what it truly means to take the Way of Heaven as one’s teacher.

If one loathes the world and sinks into its dust, what can be done? Those who take the Way of Heaven as their teacher must forget human preconceptions. Those who follow external things single-mindedly will forget the subtle root. If one has never treated the Way of Heaven as something to pursue deliberately, worldly affairs will not thereby be abandoned. If one has never treated external things as absolutely real, the subtle root will not be harmed. Live among the myriad things without departing from what is true, and take part in worldly affairs without becoming mired in the common dust. If all one does is use elaborate arrangements to conceal what is false, what purpose does that serve?

In the past, a worthy minister of Tang, who managed affairs and assisted the ruler, was regarded by the ruler as a teacher. He therefore served the ruler without being confined by the ruler’s office or title. To be “unconfined” means not to take appointment to an extreme. In this way, Men Yin Deng Heng was able to bring about the effects of following the myriad things and allowing them to develop naturally, while also overseeing titles and laws. Titles and laws are difficult to forget when governing affairs. How much more so when titles must be properly assigned and laws revised, so that both are clearly set forth. The officials each carried out their duties and devoted their thought to assisting the ruler. Once they had given their thought to this, they need not cling to further deliberation, and so could serve as teachers. Not being limited by the days, months, and years, they were not constrained by the beginnings and endings of things. Making no distinction between inner and outer, they could follow the transformations of life and death. This is the principle of understanding the dense, tangled affairs of the world and comprehensively joining the myriad things as one.

Yanjie’s commentary: After traveling abroad for a long time and returning to one’s homeland, one’s heart must open with sudden clarity and surge with emotion. Entering one’s homeland and seeing plants and trees interwoven, one finds that nine out of ten things have changed since before, yet the heart still feels refreshed. How much more joyful, then, must a seeker of the Dao be when suddenly awakened and able to see what they had always seen and hear what they had always heard—things that were theirs all along?

A high terrace is the highest place. “Xian” means suspended; “setting out the music” means arranging the instruments and performing music. “Jian,” read with the falling tone, means that the sounds take turns. Listening from a high place as many kinds of music are played in alternation is enough to stir the ears and eyes of the worldly. How much higher must the sage’s realm be, when he follows the myriad things through the principle of emptiness and spontaneity, and takes joy in them? “The center of the ring” is a metaphor for the utmost emptiness, without beginning or end, and constant throughout. “How long” refers to the changes in the sequence of time from antiquity to the present. “Transforming along with things” means that I renew myself each day along with the myriad things, while what I understand is the unchanging element within them. Why do people of the world not cast aside their old habits and return to the utmost Dao? Because they themselves…

As a person’s nature is gradually influenced by what they see and hear in the outside world, they drift farther and farther from their own nature, as though they had left home and were wandering abroad. If they meet an enlightened teacher who offers guidance and helps them recognize their nature anew, it is like suddenly catching sight of home, and their heart is naturally filled with joy. Even if only a tenth of their original nature is restored, that alone is enough to delight them. How much more joyful it is to see again what their nature once saw, and hear what it once heard—as if standing on a high platform, able to see clearly everything among the people below.

The phrase “following a way without having a way” means that one acts according to certain principles but does not make those principles objects of deliberate pursuit. The term “natural” means no more than following the way things are. When one deliberately applies one’s mind to arranging affairs, one cannot help being constrained. People act; Heaven does not. Heaven shows no trace of deliberate action, and it has no notion of “non-action” either. Thus, in the beginning there was no such thing as Heaven, nor any sign of people or the myriad things. Before the myriad things appeared, there were no signs; and there is no need to cling to the notion of “absence of signs.” So, in the beginning, there was no such thing as a beginning, nor any such thing as the myriad things.

In dealing with the world, one is like ordinary people: no everyday task is abandoned, and every kind of action can be carried out, yet one does not cling to any single guiding principle. This accords with expressions such as “sticking fast” in the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal”: the point is not to become trapped in any particular view. When one is at one with the Dao, there is no need to seek union deliberately; union comes naturally. If one insists on seeking it, true union becomes impossible.

King Tang of Shang once took Yi Yin as his teacher, yet was not bound by Yi Yin’s reputation or doctrines. He grasped the principles by which the myriad things come into being, followed the course of things, and remained in a state of Wuwei (non-action), while leaving Yi Yin to take on the public duties of action and renown. King Tang was without action while Yi Yin acted; King Tang was without fame while Yi Yin was famous. Yet fame, once it remains in the world, becomes an unnecessary rule. When body and reputation are divided into two, their state of undivided unity is lost. Yi Yin’s duties were not, in themselves, extraordinary; Confucius admired him and devoted all his thought to serving the world, hoping to do what Yi Yin had done. This passage criticizes that approach.

Rongcheng Shi was a sage of antiquity. The three hundred and sixty days taken together are called a year; each day considered on its own can only be called a “day,” not a “year.” This is like Laozi’s saying, “Count the parts of a cart, and there is no cart”: when the parts are taken apart and counted, no independent “cart” exists. A name arises from what is within; without an inner substance, there is no outward name. This example is given to explain the principle of the natural.

Long ago, Ranxiang Shi understood the Way of emptiness and openness—a state of stillness and clarity, free from the constraints of fixed views. In governing things, he followed their natural course, allowing each to fulfill its own nature, without limiting them by distinctions between beginning and end. In this way, he forgot great changes. Even over a short span of time, he could forget small changes as well; great and small, long and short, enduring and brief all merged into one.

To regard all things as one is only to do so from the standpoint of what is before us. What is there to cling to? One flame is not the next. If there were something that never changed, then the person I am now would be the person I was in the past. When have I ever departed from myself?

If you want to take nature as your teacher but deliberately pursue things outside yourself, you are no longer acting naturally. How could such an approach succeed? The sage forgets both Heaven and humanity, and so can accord with the Way of Heaven and settle human affairs. The sage forgets the origins of things and the things themselves, and so can grasp their origins and accord with them. They move along with the course of the world without growing weary, simply following the myriad things without diminishing them. They arrange matters thoroughly, yet do not go too far; they extend everywhere among the myriad things, yet do not act recklessly. Their actions accord with the Dao. How can this be achieved?

When Tang of Shang gained the support of three ministers, they helped him understand rule through Wuwei (non-action), so that he would not be confined by techniques of government. Worthy ministers apply such techniques to govern the realm and nurture the people. The foundation for making the ruler honored and secure lies in the Dao, not in personal skill. Yet this also depends on how the ruler appoints or dismisses his ministers; in this, the key to order and disorder, blessing and calamity becomes visible.

Tang of Shang attained the principle of following things and allowing all things to come naturally to completion. His three ministers took charge of the practical work of governing. The three accomplished the deeds, while the reputation went to Tang. That reputation was merely an added title, not Tang’s true nature. Both ruler and ministers thus came into view: this means that ruler and ministers supported one another, together bringing the Way of government to completion and making its achievements known to the world.

Later, Confucius devoted himself to reflection and set out methods for bringing about an ordered age. Though he did not live at the same time as Tang of Shang, he too played a part in supporting the Way of government. Calendar makers accumulate days to form a year; rulers accumulate wisdom to become sages. Without the support of his three ministers, Tang could not have brought his Way of government to completion. And without Tang and his ministers opening the way before him, Confucius could not have established methods for bringing order to the world on his own in later generations. It is like inner and outer, each indispensable to the other. Once the Way of government is fulfilled, Virtue complete, and its beneficence spread without limit, the people live in peace and harmony, even forgetting the ruler’s accomplishments. Sagely wisdom, too, then changes and dissolves along with the myriad things. This is what is meant by “there are days, but no years”: the days continue to pass, yet one no longer clings to distinctions between the years. At that point, where could any distinction between inner and outer remain?

(Note: In the sentence “entering it is difficult, releasing it…,” the character “join” should perhaps be read together with the preceding text.)

Wei Ying, ruler of Wei, and Tian Hou Mou, ruler of Qi, agreed to an alliance, but Tian Hou Mou broke the agreement. Wei Ying was furious and planned to send someone to assassinate him. Xi Shou, an official title that also refers to the person Gongsun Yan, heard of this and thought the plan shameful. He said, “You are the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots, yet you intend to take private revenge like an ordinary man. Let me lead two hundred thousand armed troops on your behalf and capture him alive.”

These people were forced to drive oxen and horses for the ruler. As a result, he grew worried and agitated, and heat rose in his back. Once the troubles within his state had finally been eliminated, he fled. After he escaped, people whipped his back again and broke his spine.

When Ji Zi heard about this, he thought it was shameful and said, “Building a city wall ten ren high, only to tear it down once it reaches that height, is what those doing forced labor find most unbearable. Now there have been no wars for seven years. This is the foundation of the power of the three families. Yan is a man who stirs people’s minds; his words should not be heeded.”

When Hua Zi heard this, he thought Ji Zi’s words were also wrong. He said, “Those who say Qi should be attacked stir people’s minds. Those who say Qi should not be attacked do so just as much. Anyone who says ‘attack’ or ‘do not attack’ is stirring people’s minds—and the person who says this is stirring people’s minds too.”

The ruler asked, “Then what should I do?” Hua Zi replied, “The ruler need only seek a way that accords with the Dao.”

When Hui Zi heard about this, he introduced Dai Jinren to the ruler. Dai Jinren said, “Do you know of a creature called a snail?” The ruler said, “I do.” Dai Jinren said, “On the snail’s left horn is a state called Chu; on its right horn is another state called Man. The two states often go to war over territory. Corpses litter the battlefield, and the defeated side is pursued; only after fifteen days do the pursuers return.”

The ruler said, “Ah, surely this is just empty talk?” Dai Jinren said, “Let me put it in more concrete terms. Do you think the four directions above and below, as far as the mind can conceive, have an end?” The ruler said, “No, they do not.” Dai Jinren said, “Then, if you let your mind and spirit roam through the boundless and return to this place people call the four directions and crossroads, does this place seem so small that it is almost as though it exists and almost as though it does not?” The ruler said, “That is so.”

Dai Jinren continued, “Within this place of four directions and crossroads is the state of Wei; within Wei is Liang; within Liang is the ruler. What difference is there between the ruler and Man?” The ruler said, “None.” Dai Jinren left, and the ruler felt as if he had lost something. Hui Zi went into the palace to pay his respects. The ruler said, “That guest is truly extraordinary. Even the sages cannot compare with him.”

Hui Zi said, “When you blow a wind instrument, the sound may be somewhat hoarse; when you blow through the small hole in a sword hilt, it produces only a faint breath. Yao and Shun are sages praised by everyone. Yet to speak of Yao and Shun in front of Dai Jinren is like blowing through a hole in a sword: it produces only the faintest sound.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: The snail is exceedingly small, yet two states occupy its horns. If people truly understood how tiny the things they fight over are, there would be nothing in the world worth fighting over. The sphere in which people move is called “the four directions and crossroads,” meaning within the four seas. Even if we regard the four seas as a vast world, set within the boundless they amount to something that seems to exist and yet seems not to. The ruler and Man are both bounded beings; no matter how large or small, nothing bounded can compare with the boundless. Even Heaven and Earth, though they too exist within the boundless, appear insignificant. How much less, then, are the state of Liang within Wei and the ruler within Liang worth fighting over? The ruler felt as if he had lost something because he had begun to lament what he had been fighting over… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

It was only like the faint sound made when blowing through a sword ring—hardly worth listening to.

Commentary by Lü: Nothing disturbs the human mind more readily than seeing something as desirable. One person urged the King of Wei to attack Qi because he saw an advantage in doing so; another urged him not to attack because he saw an advantage in refraining. Whether one advocates attacking Qi or not, clinging to a particular view still disturbs the mind. Only by seeking the principle inherent in things can one avoid being trapped in a one-sided opinion—and only then can disputes perhaps subside.

If a person lets the mind and spirit roam in the boundless, then the four directions and the realms above and below, as well as the states of Wei and Liang, are all distinctions arising within the mind. It is not only the difference between the King of Wei and the Chu and Man clans on the two horns of a snail that is unworthy of dispute. The state of Tongda, Wei, Liang, and even the Chu and Man clans have no fundamental difference either. Understand this, and a fine autumn hair and a great mountain can both be regarded as small.

The King of Wei realized that the source of conflict had no fixed, substantial existence. He became dazed and lost in thought, as if nothing remained. The Divine Person, the Sage, and the Great Person are not ranked above or below one another; they simply speak from different perspectives. A pipe sounds loud when blown because it has space within to receive the breath. A sword ring sounds faint because there is nothing inside to receive it.

Commentary by Yidu: Dai Jinren was a man of the Way in the state of Liang. “The state of Tongda” means places reachable by carriage or boat. The image of the snail’s horns, with Chu and Man at war, mocks rulers of the time who were eager for war. The King of Wei thought Dai Jinren’s words were empty talk, so Dai used human affairs as an analogy to reveal their true meaning.

Are the four directions and the realms above and below truly boundless? If one understands that the mind and spirit can roam in the boundless, yet still confines discussion to “the state of Tongda,” one is discussing great and small within a limited place. Within Tongda is Wei; within Wei is Liang; within Liang is the King of Wei. The scope keeps narrowing. How, then, is the King of Wei himself any different from the Chu and Man clans on the two horns of a snail? Seen this way, all things in the world that have form are necessarily limited. How much more so are struggles over states and territory?

A pipe sounds loud when blown, while a sword ring sounds faint. Even a discussion of the Way of Yao and Shun would not be worth listening to in Dai Jinren’s presence.

Commentary by Bixu: When a ruler wages war, the standard should be to make the right Way clear. If plunder is made the aim, the enemy state will grow resentful and angry, eventually bringing disaster and the fall of the state; such conduct is not worthy of praise. Yan now wants to raise an army out of a moment’s anger and harass a neighboring state, which naturally disturbs the human mind. Ji Zi urged the King of Wei not to send out troops; even if this means letting a neighboring state grow arrogant, that too disturbs the human mind. Hua Zi claimed that his own shallow understanding was enough to mislead others because he wanted to recommend a man of the Way to come forward and offer counsel. To seek the principle is to cultivate De and refrain from contending with others. Hui Zi asked to be granted an audience.

The man from Jin, Chen Yu, used the story of “a snail’s horns” to show how tiny the territory over which two states fought really was. The states of Touchi and Manshi battled between the snail’s two horns, their whole arena no larger than a snail’s shell. Within fifteen days, even the breath of the conflict would fade away. Feelings of joy and anger always rise and fall in cycles. The heavens and earth dwell within the vastness of space like a small stone resting on Mount Tai. China, with its roads reaching in every direction, lies within the universe like a grain of rice in a great granary. The state of Wei, situated within this far-reaching region, is like a single hair on a horse. If so, are the differences between Wei and Liang, and between Liang and the king of Wei, not as insignificant as the states of Touchi and Manshi on a snail’s horns? What is there to argue about in the present conflict between Qi and Wei, compared with the war between Touchi and Manshi?

The great person, whose vision transcends worldly concerns, goes beyond the six directions and follows nature as it is. The sage, by contrast, remains within the worldly realm and observes its laws. Blow through a flute and the sound is loud; blow through a sword ring and the sound is so faint it can scarcely be heard. People praise the governance and teachings of Yao and Shun, yet from the standpoint of the Dao, even these are not worth listening to—how much less a campaign to attack another state and seize its people?

Yanzhai says in his Oral Commentary: The king of Wei had gone seven years without raising an army; this was an achievement worthy of praise. Shouxi (an official title held at the time by Gongsun Yan) urged him to wage war, which could instead destroy the cities already built and bring hardship to those forced into labor. The word “attack” appears plainly in Hua Zi’s words, so his intentions are hard to conceal. These three men were all unsettling the king of Wei. If they truly understood the Dao, they would not even have mentioned warfare.

The image of “a snail’s horns” begins as an imaginative conceit, but what follows develops it in layers, opening up endless meaning. Seen from the vast emptiness of the cosmos, China too is tiny; seen from China, the state of Wei is smaller still; seen from Wei, the capital of Liang is smaller again; and within the capital, the king of Wei himself is smaller yet. Looking down from the vastness of space at the king of Wei, how does he differ from Touchi and Manshi on a snail’s horns? After hearing this, the king of Wei seemed to lose himself in wonder and realized that what he had been arguing over was not worth the dispute.

Blowing through the holes of a flute produces sound; blowing into a sword ring produces none. This means that before a person who has the Dao, speaking of benevolence and righteousness is like blowing into a sword ring: there is scarcely any room for such talk to make a sound.

Shouxi was an official title for a military commander, held at the time by Gongsun Yan. He wanted to ask the king of Wei to send troops against Qi, seize its people, and capture its cities. Relying on one’s strength and underestimating the enemy is, in itself, a way of throwing the state into disorder.

Ji Zi believed that the king of Wei’s long abstention from war was the foundation of his attainment of hegemony. His aim was to settle the people and govern the state, so why say he was unsettling the king? Perhaps Hua Zi wanted to explain his position more fully, and so first stirred the king’s thoughts with these words; only when the king pressed him for the essential point did he tell him. When the king of Wei said, “How marvelous—you have found the Dao,” he was referring to what came before…

Xi Shou’s argument did not accord with what the situation called for. Ji Zi wanted to stop him but had no suitable way to do so. If one judges both sides to be wrong yet cannot offer a solution, one’s actions are bound to unsettle people. Hui Zi’s request to meet Dai Jinren was the right way to seek a resolution.

Dai Jinren used the tiny states on the two horns of a snail as an analogy, showing how small the things Qi and Wei were fighting over really were. Other commentaries explain this in detail, so I will not repeat it here. A wind instrument can produce sound; this serves as an analogy for people praising Yao and Shun. To discuss Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren was like trying to blow a silent sword: no matter how hard one tried, no sound would come. Discussing the conquest of other states with Hua Zi followed the same principle.