《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 9

Collected Subtle Commentaries on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, Volume Nineteen

Compiled by Chu Boxiu, a Daoist priest of Wulin

The Human World, Chapter Four

Confucius arrived in the state of Chu. The madman Jieyu of Chu passed by his gate, singing: “Phoenix, oh phoenix, how has your virtue declined to such a state? The world to come cannot be looked forward to, and the world that has passed cannot be brought back. When the world follows the Dao, a sage can accomplish things; when the world has lost the Dao, a sage can only preserve his life. In this age, it is already a great achievement simply to escape punishment. Good fortune is as light as a feather, yet people do not know how to bear it; calamity is as heavy as the earth, yet people do not know how to avoid it. Enough, enough! To teach others through your virtue is truly dangerous!

“Dangerous, dangerous! Draw a path on the ground, then insist on running along it. Thorny growth, thorny growth—do not obstruct my way! As I make my winding way, do not wound my feet! Trees on the mountain are felled because they are useful. Lamp oil is burned away because it can give light. The cinnamon tree can be eaten, so it is cut down; the lacquer tree can be tapped, so it is wounded. Everyone knows the use of what is useful, but no one knows the use of what is useless.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

Follow the times and go straight ahead, acting appropriately and moving freely. There is no need to make a deliberate effort to notice whether the age is flourishing or declining. Let things follow their own course, and their principles will emerge of themselves. How could one change one’s integrity just because the world is well governed or in disorder? When the world is at peace, the sage does not make achievement his aim, and so does not bring ruin upon himself by striving for success. When the world is in chaos, the sage does not dwell on preserving his life, and so does not lose it through clinging to survival.

Fully accord with the circumstances of the present and blend wholly with the world around you. Only then can you preserve yourself and avoid the entanglements of punishment and reputation. Know where the things you do not know end, and where the things you cannot do reach their limit. Let your nature unfold and act according to your own allotted place, with not the slightest attachment to anything beyond it: this is the highest form of Wuwei (non-action). There has never been a case in which Wuwei failed to preserve one’s nature and life; nor does it make sense to say that preserving one’s nature and life is not good fortune. Good fortune means precisely what was described above: preserving oneself. It does not come from relying on external things, so why would it need to be borne like a feather?

To act in accordance with one’s nature, without going beyond one’s proper place, is the easiest thing in the world. To lift and carry oneself is the lightest burden in the world. To abandon Wuwei, the easiest course, and pursue deliberate action, the hardest course; to give up carrying oneself, the lightest burden, and instead take on the weight imposed by external things—this is the common affliction of the world. How could it be called good fortune? Good fortune, then, is naturally very light, while calamity brought from outside is very heavy. For calamity to be so heavy and yet go unavoided is the greatest delusion in the world.

To draw a path on the ground and follow it leaves traces that cannot be concealed. To harbor a sense of self within and then teach others through one’s virtue makes it impossible to blend with other things. Do not flaunt yourself or show off…

Let whatever is outside manifest in its own way; do not measure others by your own standard, but let each attain their own ease. Then you can merge without discrimination with all things under heaven, and inner and outer alike receive blessing. Facing a confused age, you should forget attachment to external things as you would forget outward yang vigor—hold fast to an independent nature and be unmoved by the world. Yielding and bending with how things unfold, each being can rest in its proper place.

Commentary (Lu): When the sage accomplishes something, they accomplish themselves and also accomplish the myriad things; when the sage preserves life, they preserve their own life alone. Nothing in the world surpasses the Dao, so no blessing is greater than aligning with the Dao. The working of the Dao cannot be grasped by the senses of sight and hearing; it is light as a feather, yet no one can bear it up. Nothing in the world is worse than turning away from the Dao, so no calamity is greater than that. The harm of turning from the Dao can take shape from the formless and weigh like the great earth—yet people often cannot avoid it.

To demand and control others by De (Virtue/Power) is to draw a boundary and make people walk a fixed path, which inevitably leads into danger. Those lost in external things do not know where to go; only by yielding and bending can they preserve themselves. Trees on the mountains, and cassia and lacquer trees, are cut down because each has its use. This shows that people know only the good of being useful, and do not know that being useless also has its own good. In the world one meets peace or turmoil; to yield and preserve oneself amid chaotic times is to stand well in the world.

Commentary (Yidu): When the Dao prevails in the world, the sage establishes ritual and music and accomplishes merit in the age; when the Dao does not prevail, the sage preserves the person and keeps clear of harm to hold life intact. The sage is not fixated on staying alive for themselves alone—they wish to preserve life and leave the pattern for later generations; this too may be called “accomplishment.” The Duke of Zhou assisted the Zhou house—this is the sage’s accomplishment; Confucius in the state of Lu—this is the sage’s preserving life.

Blessing does not go beyond one’s proper share, yet few seek only that; calamity often arises from grasping beyond one’s share, yet people will not stop. What lies within one’s share can be lifted and carried and acted upon—how could it be as hard to bear as a feather? What lies outside one’s share, when laid on the self, weighs like the great earth; the lost drown in it and cannot escape, because they do not see the root of blessing and calamity.

The root spoken of here is this: precepts, concentration, and wisdom (jie, ding, hui) are blessing within nature; greed, anger, and delusion are calamity beyond one’s proper share. To rule others by De is not yet to be merged with the Dao; to set boundaries and walk a fixed road is not yet to hide one’s tracks. Lost in external things, one obscures innate clarity and injures the conduct that preserves life; emptying fixations in the heart and yielding with all things, each can rest in nature and in its proper share.

The calamities that come to mountain trees, cassia, and lacquer trees are meant to show that one cannot…

To dodge harm on one hand and yet chase worldly appointment on the other is to wound oneself.

A commentator on the Way explains: What would make a sage’s heart bustle about taking governance of the world as his proper task? He only reads the times and follows how things are, and responds accordingly. People who “know” Confucius see only how he showed up in the affairs of the day; they do not see the side of him that does nothing extra and lets things be. So the chapter first recounts Confucius’s traces in the world, and at the end quotes Jie Yu’s song to make the point: when outward tracks fade, what is inward can appear. “The sage accomplishes” means the sage yields himself to the Dao and thereby brings things to completion; “the sage is born / lives on” means he lets the Dao align with him and thereby keeps his life.

“Enough, enough! Someone draws a line on the ground and you hurry along it”—that is how people who enter politics behave now. “Dazzling sun, dazzling sun—don’t scorch my feet”—that is how people who awaken to the Way behave now.

Bixu comments: When the world has the Way, one may accomplish; when the world lacks the Way, one should preserve life. Those who can bear a blessing as light as a feather are practitioners of Wuwei (non-action); those who will not step aside from calamity as heavy as a load are people scrambling for power and gain. Flaunting one’s virtue and looking down on others shows self-consciousness run amok; making others trudge after your footprints only makes the road more perilous. “Dazzling sun” means light that blinds; know how to hide your edge, and your conduct can be whole. “Bending back” means withdrawing, yielding, and resting in your own place. The images of wood, fire, cassia, and lacquer all say the same thing: they are good for meeting others’ needs, not for their own ease.

Zhao comments: Jie Yu’s song grieves that Confucius was born out of season—it is not mockery of Confucius. “When the world lacks the Way, the sage lives on” means the phoenix hatches in the wrong age; in such a world, escaping punishment and execution is already enough. A thin blessing cannot outweigh a deep disaster, yet people who do not know how to avoid harm wander as lost as everyone else. Holding virtue over others makes them resent that very virtue; drawing a line on the ground invites people to follow your track. “Enough, enough” means you cannot keep going; “danger, danger” means disaster is hard to fend off. “Dazzling sun, dazzling sun—don’t scorch my feet” means conceal your sharpness so your steps stay sound. The “usefulness of the useless” in the “Mountain Tree” chapter is how Zhuangzi ties off the chapters before it.

Yan Zhai says: When the world has the Way, the sage can accomplish; when it does not, the sage can only preserve life. In chaotic times, to escape punishment is already luck—who dares ask for more? To be spared punishment and keep one’s life in a fallen age is a blessing only as light as a feather; yet you do not see that the calamities of such times often end in killing.

This matter is of great consequence, yet you do not know to step aside; using virtue to transform others instead invites calamity.

Rather than this, it is better to stop acting. Drawing a line on the ground and walking along it means being bound by rules and adding hardship to oneself—truly dangerous. “Lost in the yang” means losing the brightness of one’s true nature; how can one walk the world relying on that? “Quequ” (going by detours and yielding) means winding, retreating, and protecting oneself from harm; otherwise one will eventually hurt one’s own feet—showing that this path cannot be taken.

Commentaries from various schools are already thorough; there is no need to repeat them here. Consider the passage in the Master’s “History of Delusion”: “When the Way prevails in the world, the sage hides; when the Way does not prevail, the sage makes himself known.” The phrasing is similar, but the meaning is exactly opposite—each expresses a different main point. I have long held that since the Qin and Han, when the various masters set forth their doctrines, they often borrowed wording and ideas from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi); yet in that classic, metaphors and analogies never simply copy earlier models—they grow stranger and more striking. This is what is meant by “once writing becomes fixed writing, it is no longer constant writing.”

The line “I walk by quequ, so as not to hurt my feet” appears the same in all versions. Some read que as xi (gap); only Master Bixu reads the character as written and on that basis emends the text to quequ. That may fit the preceding passage better. The original was probably just that; only in transmission was “I walk” mistakenly duplicated. Those with insight can tell the difference.

Living among people, the relation of ruler and minister is the weightiest duty and cannot be shirked. Still, one must weigh whether things can be done and carefully gauge advance and retreat; to face past and present with a clear conscience, rising above regret and fear while preserving oneself—that is what counts as proper and complete.

Therefore, when Yan Hui (Yanzi) was about to go to Wei, Confucius explained in detail the many perils of serving a ruler: fame and wisdom may clash, and inner resolve may not match the ruler’s; praise at first may end in slander. Some even see the banner summoning worthies one moment and face swords and saws the next. Moreover, Yanzi was the sort of minister who did not oppose the ruler’s will and seemed dull—yet he suddenly wanted to transform a young, arbitrary sovereign. How could he be sure he would not regret it? So Confucius strongly dissuaded him, so that the ruler of Wei would know that the worthy do not lightly take office and would strengthen his respect for the Way; perhaps he would change on his own. Why go lightly and feed his arrogance or provoke his violence?

Yanzi then suggested that perhaps he could rectify his mind and apply himself single-mindedly—inwardly upright yet outwardly yielding—to preserve himself. Confucius replied that this would only barely escape harm; how could it amount to transforming the ruler? True transformation wins trust without many words and dissolves hostility in the heart; could it rely on a flood of policies and instead stir the other’s resistance? When Yanzi had no further answer, he asked for concrete guidance. That was precisely the moment when selfish desire was about to fade and heavenly principle was about to appear. Confucius then seized that opening…

To help someone attain awakening, Confucius taught him the method of “heart-mind fasting” (xinzhai): let the heart-mind grow empty and still, and receive instruction; do not listen only with the ears, but listen with the heart-mind; and do not stop at listening with the heart-mind—go further and take in the teaching through Qi (vital energy). In this way, as soon as the words were spoken, he understood.

At first Yan Hui had not truly turned his heart-mind around; once his inner state grew empty and still and he seemed even to forget his own body, he could follow the changes of things in the world. For him, such change was no longer difficult.

When Zigao was about to go on a mission to Qi, Confucius taught him how to handle the affair: set aside concern for personal gain and loss, watch the shifting currents of the situation, and guard against real harm. When Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Wei, Confucius taught him how to get the prince to accept guidance: be able to go along with the other party without making the relationship rigid, yet also hold the line and not show yourself too readily; see both the tiger’s anger and the horse’s temperament. These examples all show that misfortune in the world takes many forms and external things are hard to foresee. Only someone of great insight can detect the finest signs and decide when to advance or withdraw according to what is right.

As for the oak at Quyuan and the great tree at Shangqiu, they did not use “usefulness” to preserve themselves and so were preserved in the end. Trees that differ from ordinary timber seem to lack anything marvelous, yet for that very reason display a special kind of efficacy. The text also explains again and again that talent can become a burden, yet people do not grasp this; they often rely on their abilities to seek appointment without weighing their proper place and what fits. When fame grows bright, envy and injury follow; when profit gathers, calamity arrives. Even if one wished to be like an unshapely, useless great tree—swollen, misshapen, and self-preserving—it might still be impossible.

Thus the main theme of this chapter is: outwardly follow the affairs of the world, inwardly preserve the authentic Dao (the Way); when the self does not cling to external things, those things naturally change on their own. Whenever the ancient sages had no choice but to deal with worldly matters, they were careful to follow this principle without exception. The text uses the dialogues between Confucius and Yan Hui to make this clear. At the end it cites Jieyu’s song, warning people not to fixate on all the ways sages govern the world, and not to let the hearts of the multitude—forever chasing external things and never satisfied—keep growing. Finally it uses metaphors of fat, fire, cassia, and lacquer to caution the world: some things, because of their uses, draw waste or disaster upon themselves. It is precisely because one understands how hard it is to engage the world that one can live in it without being trapped by its difficulties.

The Daodejing says: “Even the sage regards this as difficult.” For that very reason, in the end nothing is difficult.

Nan Hua Zhen Jing Yi Hai Zuan Wei (Essential Ocean Collected Subtleties of the True Scripture of Southern Florescence), Scroll 10