《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 90

Zengzi held office twice, but his state of mind changed. He said, “The first time I became an official, my salary was only three fu (an ancient measure of capacity, also used to mean a salary), yet I was very happy because it could support my parents. Later, when I held office, my salary was three thousand zhong (an ancient unit of capacity, also used to mean a generous salary), but my parents had already died and could no longer enjoy it. This made me sad.”

A disciple asked Confucius, “Can someone like Zeng Shen be said to have no attachments and no faults of mind?” Confucius replied, “Since he already had an attachment, how could he be free of sorrow? Someone who is truly without attachments would see salaries of three fu or three thousand zhong as no more than sparrows and gnats flying past before his eyes.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Zeng Shen held office to support his parents, and so he was attached to his salary. This attachment arose from his wish to provide for them. What matters in supporting one’s parents is doing so appropriately; there is no need to concern oneself with the size of the salary. If he had been without attachment, the rise or fall of his salary would not have affected his state of mind, and he could have fulfilled his wish to care for his parents with calm and ease. Someone without attachments sees wealth and high office as no more than sparrows and gnats flying past before his eyes: they are gone in an instant. How could this bring either sorrow or joy?

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: When one accepts the circumstances of the moment and adapts to change, neither sorrow nor joy can disturb the heart. The ancients called this “the Emperor’s release from bondage.” Since someone without attachments has no attachments, naturally there should be no sorrow. Life and death are momentous matters. If neither sorrow nor joy can enter the heart, then the difference between three fu and three thousand zhong is like sparrows and gnats flying past before one’s eyes; one pays no mind to differences in their number or size.

Yidu’s commentary: Zengzi took office because his family was poor. At first, his salary was just enough to support his parents, and although it amounted to only three fu, he was happy. Later, his salary rose to three thousand zhong, but his parents had died, so he could no longer use it to support them. This made him sad. That is why his state of mind changed twice. The disciple believed that Zengzi loved his parents but did not regard his salary as a burden, and so he asked Confucius for guidance. Confucius said that Zeng Shen truly loved his parents and was indeed a filial son. But since he could not yet forget them, sorrow and joy arose in his heart. How could he be said to have no attachments? Only someone without attachments feels no sorrow. Such a person regards salary as lightly as sparrows and gnats. The point is that Zengzi had not yet reached this state.

Bixu’s commentary: Feeling happy and feeling sad show that his state of mind changed twice. Filial devotion should not depend on whether one is rich or poor. Why should caring for one’s parents depend on the size of one’s salary? Zengzi’s words show that an attachment in his heart remained unresolved. Since Zeng Shen was called supremely filial, he should have had no fault of being attached to his salary. How, then, could he have felt sorrow? If one can regard salary as lightly as a gnat, this attachment can be released.

Lüzhai’s oral commentary: The disciple asks whether Zengzi said these things because he was inwardly burdened by an attachment and therefore had a fault…

He wondered why Zengzi felt sorrow and joy when his circumstances differed on two separate occasions. Since we have come to this point…

These feelings of sorrow and joy show that the heart is attached to something. If the heart had no attachments at all, things passing before one’s eyes would be no more than mosquitoes flying by. Why feel sorrow or joy over them?

In ancient times, those who had completed their studies and entered office aimed to benefit the people. Their stipend was simply income in place of farming, and it need only be enough to support their parents and raise their children. How unlike officials of the degenerate age, who looked only to amass wealth beyond their stipends to satisfy their appetites and pleasures of the senses! Some never even went home to visit their parents.

As an official, Zengzi received a stipend of only three fu. He was happy that it enabled him to support his parents. Later, his stipend rose to three thousand zhong, but his parents had already died, and so he grieved. His sorrow and joy were bound up with whether his parents were alive, not with the size of his stipend. Yet his heart could not help changing with his circumstances, which is why his disciples questioned Confucius. Confucius said that, caught between these two circumstances, Zeng Shen could hardly have been free of attachment: it was indeed impossible not to care whether his parents were alive, but the size of his stipend was not something he needed to take to heart. If he had been entirely without attachment, how could he have grieved? To such a person, a stipend of three thousand zhong or three fu would be like a mosquito, not worth a thought.

Zengzi’s filial conduct has been remembered for ten thousand generations; but we have never heard of his receiving a stipend of three thousand zhong as an official. The parable in the Nanhua Zhenjing also carries a rebuke of the worthy, meant to encourage people to value filial conduct and care little for stipends. Whether one’s parents are alive and whether one’s stipend arrives are both left to what fate ordains. What is there to worry about?

Yan Cheng Ziyou said to Dongguo Ziqi, a figure in the Zhuangzi: “After I heard your words, in one year I became plain and unadorned; in two years I could follow what was natural; in three years I understood things fully; in four years I could see all things as one; in five years my thoughts returned to their source; in six years the spirits entered me; in seven years my nature was complete; in eight years I no longer knew what it meant to die or to live; in nine years I entered the mysterious realm.”

Life is a coming forth into activity; I urge you to regard death as a return to where one belongs. Life belongs to Yang, while death has no fixed destination. Is that really so? Where does a person go after death, and where does one not go? Heaven has its cycles, and the earth has places occupied by people. Where, then, should I look for an answer?

If we do not know where life ultimately returns, how can we say it is not ordained by fate? If we do not know where life begins, how can we say that it is ordained by fate? Things respond to one another; how can we say there are no spirits? If there is no response between them, how can we say there are spirits?

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “‘Wild’ means no longer being governed by power and profit; ‘following’ means no longer making decisions on one’s own; ‘understanding’ means being able to see how things connect…” The original text breaks off here.

One who comes into the world together with all things can naturally find joy in life. When spirits and ghosts enter human form, this happens naturally; it is not brought about by human effort. Whatever one does, one does without deliberate contrivance, and one makes no distinction between life and death. Then everything one encounters can be accepted with ease. At the wondrous level, good and evil no longer stand opposed. Wherever one may be, one can merge with the Dao.

This means that after a person has practiced for a long time, heard the Great Dao, and understood that the sounds and workings of nature are simply as they are, they will gradually forget human contrivance. The grime and burdens in the heart recede day by day until they are completely cleared away. To be born and devote oneself entirely to striving harms life: contrivance is what leads toward death, and pursuing private gain is also a root of deliberate action. People are now urged to uphold impartiality because selfishness leads them toward death.

Life comes forth by following its natural course and eventually returns to disappearance. Its coming and going leave no trace of human agency; they are simply natural, without any particular cause. Yet life does indeed unfold this way, so wherever one goes and whatever one encounters, one can adapt with ease. To be at ease wherever one goes is to be at ease with everything.

Heaven, Earth, and all things are complete in themselves and proceed toward their ends according to their own principles. Human understanding does not arrange this. If one asks why everything happens as it does but cannot give a reason, this is called “Destiny.” The word “Destiny” sounds as though some will has arranged things, so one must also relinquish attachment to it and explain that all things arise naturally. Only by understanding this can one truly understand the principles of Destiny. Things must have some corresponding relation; it may seem as though a spirit has arranged it all. In fact, principles correspond to one another naturally, without deliberate design. To describe this correspondence as intentional or spiritual is to lose sight of its natural character.

Commentary on Lü’s Notes: The Dao originally has no concrete form. Once the myriad things have taken shape, returning to emptiness requires a long practice of making the mind empty and keeping it still; this cannot be accomplished in a single day. Here, “the wild” means forgetting human conventions such as benevolence and righteousness, guest etiquette, and music and ritual. “The heart does not oppose” means that the heart is in accord with things; “the heart penetrates things” means that the heart can understand them. In this way, all things can move freely, and one can observe them with composure. When things arrive, the Dao gathers within them. “The spirits enter” means that spirits and ghosts arrive and dwell in bodily form. “Formed by Heaven” means formed naturally. The original commentary says that the character “six” is missing in all editions.

Not knowing life and death means understanding where one’s knowledge ends. To reach the “Great Wondrous” is to be called numinous; only by experiencing the subtlety of all things can one truly know the numinous. If one lives without deliberate action, one will not become attached to life or death. If one lives with deliberate action at every turn, one will be troubled by the fear of death. People are urged to uphold impartiality and cast off desire so that they will no longer cling to death. Human contrivance is the root from which death arises. Therefore, the sage places himself beyond concern for himself and thereby preserves himself; because he is selfless, he fulfills himself. This is why people are urged to be impartial and forget private interests.

By tracing the beginning of all things and examining their end, one can understand the principle of life and death: beginning and end join like a ring. Life is simply the process by which Yang Qi comes forth; what fixed source could it have? One may also understand the idea that human contrivance is the source of life by considering the nature of all things. Life does indeed unfold this way, so one who embodies the Dao and is attuned to the numinous does not cling to life or death. What, then, could there be…

When someone wonders what is suitable or unsuitable for them and tries to discover why, they may calculate the celestial signs or judge by the features of the land, yet the grounds they rely on never agree. Where, then, can they turn to ask? Should they seek an answer in the relation between fortune and misfortune and human affairs?

If everything is thought to be arranged by fate, it seems that some power must ultimately be in control. If fate is denied, however, there is no way to trace the beginnings of things. If ghosts and spirits are said not to exist, there are still events that correspond with one another; if they are said to exist, there is no way to prove that they correspond to events. So, as for what one does not know, let it rest there. Do not fix the mind on it. In this way, one understands the principle involved.

The commentator Yidu says: “‘Wild’ means simple and natural; ‘follow’ means not to go against things; ‘open’ means to be clear and unobstructed; ‘things’ means to forget oneself and merge with the myriad things. When the myriad things come before you, do not reject them. When ghosts and spirits enter the body and mind, clarity is restored. Respond to nature and come to fulfillment, joining your De with Heaven’s. To cling neither to life nor death is sagehood; to reach the subtle realm is spirit-like. To arrive at this numinous state is the highest attainment.

“These are the stages by which a student of the Dao enters the realm of the Dao. A person who lives but entangles themselves in all kinds of deliberate action is heading toward death. To claim life as one’s own springs from selfishness. That is why people are urged to hold to a public-minded heart: the root of the path toward death lies in selfishness. As for life’s allotted course, it is one with all things. With public-mindedness and no selfishness, there is no distinction between life and death. Life belongs to Yang and death to Yin. Once you understand that life and death are one with Yin and Yang, there is no fixed self. If you truly understand this, there is no need to rejoice in being alive or grieve at dying. Why, then, weigh what is suitable against what is unsuitable?

“‘Calculating the celestial signs’ means reckoning the movements of Heaven; ‘observing the human realm’ means attending to things on Earth. Human beings stand between Heaven and Earth, yet the Dao of Heaven and Earth must ultimately be sought within oneself. ‘Fate’ is spoken of from the perspective of the Dao of Heaven, while ‘ghosts’ are spoken of from the perspective of the human realm. In speaking of beginnings and endings, one speaks from the perspective of Heaven; in speaking of events that correspond with one another, one speaks from the human perspective. Heaven and humanity are connected, and the principles of Yin-Yang and nature and life are thus complete. To reflect on these matters in terms of being and nonbeing is the mark of one who deeply understands the principle.”

The commentator Bixu says: “‘Wild’ means simple and natural in the beginning; ‘follow’ means not to go against the feelings and circumstances of others; ‘open’ means to understand things thoroughly and without obstruction; ‘things’ means that the myriad things all arise from an undivided whole. That the myriad things come to him means that living beings submit to his De. ‘Ghosts enter’ means penetrating the obscure and mysterious realm; ‘Heaven brings to fulfillment’ means achieving things naturally through Wuwei (non-action).

“To cling neither to life nor death is to regard being and nonbeing as one. To attain the ‘great mystery of nine years’ is to reach the end of the stages of cultivation and bring pure Yang to completion. To attain the state of spiritual transformation is to become capable of transformations that cannot be measured. To live while acting willfully and against nature is to drive oneself toward death. Deliberate action arises from selfishness, so people are urged to follow a public-minded heart. Those who turn away from it must, through selfishness, head toward death. Surely this has a cause. Life is vigorous Yang energy, but Yang energy has no fixed source. Can you truly attain the great mystery? The great mystery means that there is no distinction between public and private, life and death, or what is suitable and unsuitable.”

This may be said to have reached the utmost: the patterns of the stars formed in the heavens can be calculated from the calendar, and people can also understand the things that take shape on earth. But if I can be without intention and practice Wuwei (non-action), who could fathom me?

Some things have a beginning but no end; others have an end but no beginning. All this is determined by Heaven’s mandate. Those who study the Dao may receive responses or signs from spirits and gods—sometimes these prove true, sometimes they do not. It depends on the depth of their practice and on whether their spiritual perception comes slowly or swiftly. Although the study of the Dao has stages that come in order, the key is to understand that all things transform and arise of themselves. In terms of stages of practice, one may awaken after nine years; but this does not mean one must wait nine years. Understanding may come in a single day or night.

The Yanzhai Kouyi says: “Wild” means returning to simplicity; “following” means adapting to the way things are; “permeation” means penetrating understanding. A person should be still and unmoving like a withered tree or dead ashes, yet understand that something indestructible remains within stillness. “Spirits” refers to a person’s heart and mind making room for the transformations of creation; “formed by Heaven” means becoming one with Heaven. No longer clinging to life and death, one is at ease wherever one may be. This is an exceptionally mysterious state.

The numbers from one to nine merely stand for stages of practice; this cannot be measured by years and months alone. People take life to be real because they cling to “life,” out of personal bias and self-interest. They should be guided by the principle of impartiality, so they understand that nothing in the world lives forever. If people die, where did life first come from? If life had no definite beginning, how can we say it must have an end? “Yang” is the beginning of movement. It is unclear whether this account of the principles of life and death is in fact correct.

“Suitable” and “unsuitable” are like “yes” and “no”; when we trace things back to their roots, neither “yes” nor “no” alone is enough to settle the matter. Can people’s calendar calculations really exhaust the principles of Heaven and Earth? Everything in the world is constantly changing. How can the Creator’s arrangements be said to have no appointed course? Yet at the beginning, in the vast chaos, there was nothing at all. How can we say that an appointed course already existed then? Day and night, cold and heat arrive in their seasons, and the climate changes accordingly. How can we say there are no spirits and gods? The humble do not always receive blessings, and the benevolent do not always live long. How, then, can we say that spirits and gods are surely in control? These words show that the workings of creation are difficult to fathom.

People follow worldly habits and gradually wither, losing their original nature day by day. Those who study the Dao must keep reducing and reducing, in order to recover their original state. “Wild” means gradually setting aside outward ornament and returning to simplicity; “following” means adapting to others without losing oneself; “permeation” means penetrating the nature of things; “things” means forgetting oneself. “Coming” means that the multitude gathers around; “spirits” means entering a realm that is elusive and hard to fathom; “formed by Heaven” means becoming one with nature. Once one no longer clings to life and death, there is no question of departing or arriving. To reach the “great mystery of nine years” means that one’s practice has reached its utmost point and penetrated the hidden depths, bringing about transformations so subtle and wondrous they cannot be fathomed. If Wuwei can be made the foundation of practice, then one can…

Is it only in this way that one can reach a state of union with the Great Dao (the Way)? Yet ordinary people are immersed in contrived action and move closer to death with each passing day. They are urged toward impartiality because the root of their death lies in selfishness.

The Biancheng Zhang Junfang collated edition holds that a character for "selfishness" follows the words "because of," and that the sentence should be broken at that point. "Selfishness" here means clinging to one's own life and nourishing it to excess. One sets out to benefit oneself, yet nothing does more harm, so one should put selfishness aside and return to impartiality. "Death" arises because life is taken to be substantially real, while "self-generation" means beginning from nothingness and coming into being. One who can live naturally and harbor no selfish concern is not bound by death: Heaven cannot kill such a person, nor Earth bury them. Can you truly achieve this? From this we can see that someone who does not make the pursuit of life their aim is wiser than someone who deliberately cherishes life, so why argue further over whether their conduct is fitting?

Heaven has regular patterns of movement, from which the rise and decline of the world can be inferred. The human realm too has observable signs by which order and disorder in government can be judged, so why seek answers elsewhere? Since Heaven and Earth separated, through tens of thousands of years, the myriad things have gone on arising without end, yet no one knows how it will all finally turn out. If fate were not at work within it, what else could explain it? From when did the naturally formed things (here "chan" is probably taken to mean things that arise of themselves) begin, and where was fate first established? The signs of calendrical cycles and human affairs suggest that fortune and misfortune answer one another, so is there not some spiritual power presiding over them? The Way of Heaven is at times hard to know with certainty, and human affairs at times lack fixed standards, so people wonder whether spirits and ghosts really exist. What is meant here is that the process of creative transformation (the power by which Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things) is so subtle and intricate that it cannot be glimpsed, and it is precisely because it cannot be glimpsed that it deserves to be called creative transformation. People should simply do their utmost in what they ought to do, and then await the outcome.

The profound learning of cultivating the Dao directs people to turn back and investigate themselves: how Heaven and Earth begin and end, and how this single marvelous being, one's own body, appears and withdraws. One exhausts one's nature to penetrate the principles of destiny, and discerns the affairs of ghosts to probe the mystery of spirit. If one only strives in practice and understands within one's own heart, one's cultivation can reach the highest level, so why must one wait nine years?

The many penumbrae (the faint shadows around a shadow) asked the shadow: "A moment ago you were bowing, and now you look up. A moment ago your hair was bound, and now it hangs loose. A moment ago you sat, and now you stand. A moment ago you walked, and now you stop. Why is this?"

The shadow replied: "Venerable sirs, why ask in such detail? I depend on something, yet I do not know why I am as I am. I am like the shell a cicada sheds or the skin a snake sloughs off, which resemble the creature but are not the creature itself. I move with fire and sunlight, and I change with darkness and night. Can the things I depend on even act as their own masters? How much less so the things that depend on me! When that one comes, I come with it. When that one goes, I go with it. When that one moves with vigor, I move with vigor too. Since everything changes in accordance with the conditions it depends on, what is there to ask?"

When a shadow rises and falls, moves, or comes to a stop along with a person, the faint shadow beside it changes as well. Guo Xiang believed that the movement and transformation of all things occur naturally: they follow one another and continue without end, without any intention behind them. So there is no way to ask them, “Why are they like this?” Taken to its furthest point, this principle means that things that seem to depend on external objects can ultimately be understood through the principle of “self-transformation” (duhua): all things change naturally, each on its own, without depending on anything else.

Lü Huiqing explained that beside a shadow there is an even fainter shadow, which rises and falls, moves and stops along with the person’s shadow, without knowing why. A shadow is like a cicada’s cast-off shell or a snake’s shed skin: though connected to its source, it is not the source itself. When sunlight or lamplight falls on it, the shadow appears; in a dark place without light, it disappears. Though a shadow seems to depend on light, it has no awareness and does not know that it depends on anything, much less ask why. Since the shadow’s source—the human body—also depends on the transformations of Nature to exist, why should a person insist on asking? When the body comes, the shadow comes with it; when the body goes, the shadow goes with it; when the body moves, the shadow moves too. None of this is within the shadow’s own control.

Yidu believed that “shoushou” refers to the many faint shadows, and “asking a little” means questioning. All things born through the transformations of Nature depend on something, yet do not know the reasons behind it. A cicada’s cast-off shell, a snake’s shed skin, and a shadow may seem connected to their sources, but they are not the cicada, the snake, or the human body itself. In bright sunlight or lamplight, shadows gather and appear; in darkness without light, they hide. This shows that shadows depend on something, while the human body depends on the transformations of Nature even more. The shadow changes as the body comes and goes or moves. All this arises through “self-transformation,” and there is no need to keep asking why.

Bixuzi added that one lamp casts one shadow, while ten lamps cast many shadows; the more shadows there are, the more faint shadows appear beside them. Whether these shadows rise and fall, move and stop because the body makes them do so, or because they do so naturally, can never ultimately be known. Shadows and faint shadows have form, yet do not obstruct one another. A cicada’s cast-off shell and a snake’s shed skin have physical substance, yet no consciousness of life.

Before snakes and cicadas undergo transformation, each has its own form. After they transform, their shells and cast-off skins still remain. This shows that form and shadow do not bring one another into being. Do cicadas and snakes ever turn back to look fondly upon the shells they left behind?

People say that form produces shadow, and shadow in turn produces a fainter, more obscure shadow. Yet a shadow appears and gathers only when it meets sunlight or firelight; in the darkness of night, it vanishes. What necessary connection does it have with form? In a bright place, a shadow appears alongside form, seeming to depend on it. In a dark place, the shadow disappears, seeming to depend on nothing. Though a shadow’s coming and going are brought about by external things, those things have no awareness when they respond to it. Where the shadow appears depends only on the conditions. Why insist on asking where, exactly, it comes from?

The Yanzhai Kouyi explains: “Sou-sou” (pronounced like “xiao”) describes something that appears and disappears indistinctly; “shao” means roughly or slightly. The point here is that you may not know why something you possess is the way it is. The cicada has transformed, yet its old shell remains; the snake has shed its skin, yet that skin remains too. If we compare living forms to cicadas and snakes, and shadows to the shells and skins they leave behind, the analogy seems plausible, but it is not entirely apt.

When an object meets sunlight or firelight, its shadow appears; in darkness, the shadow vanishes. “That” refers to form and shadow. Their appearing in relation to each other does not mean that the shadow must depend on form. Yet the movement of form itself depends on something. How much more, then, must things that depend on something else be so? Form moves by relying on vigorous Yang Qi, and I move along with it. Why Yang Qi can set form in motion is something form itself does not know. Why, then, ask me? This passage expresses the same idea as the Qiwulun, but adds an explanation involving sunlight, firelight, and vigorous Yang Qi.

All things in the world have form, and where there is form, there is shadow. Everyone knows this. Beyond shadow there is also a faint, obscure shadow called “wangliang”—the dim, flickering shadow around a shadow—which many people have not noticed. Because the shadow is indistinct, wangliang clings around it, seeming to layer upon layer. Hence the term “many wangliang.”

Wangliang clings to form just as the seven emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, dislike, and desire—cling to the mind. If the mind cannot remain settled and lets the seven emotions run unchecked, it becomes constrained by them. If a shadow is unclear and wangliang appear in layers, the shadow is in turn challenged by them. Yet how could wangliang understand the conditions on which a shadow depends? And how could the seven emotions establish the deep, obscure principles within the mind?

This passage discusses how things come into being in relation to one another. Some phenomena appear to depend on each other, and so come and go; yet they cannot simply be called mutually causal, nor can they be said to have no connection at all. The same way of thinking can be applied to how form first arises and how thought first comes into being. The idea is remarkably subtle. A shadow appears through form, and without sunlight or firelight it cannot be seen, so form and shadow seem to depend on each other. Yet even bright sunlight or firelight produces no shadow in the absence of form. This shows, in turn, that things each undergo their own transformations, not all of which are governed by external things.

The shadow follows the movements of the body: when the body moves, it moves; when the body stops, it stops. Nothing is closer to a person than this. A person’s movements and stillness, presence and absence, must have a master that governs them. People experience all this in their daily lives, yet do not understand its principle. It is no wonder, then, that Wangliang, the faint shadow, raises a question. The Discussion on Making All Things Equal says, “If there is indeed a true master, its traces cannot be found.” This is precisely what it means to explain.

The “true master” is what governs the generation and transformation of all things, each arising and changing on its own. All things and every kind of form depend on it for their birth and movement; being and nonbeing also come from it. If one can turn back and seek it, one will gain some understanding amid the dim and indistinct, and hear a harmonious sound. Then the principle of spontaneous transformation will become clear, and Wangliang’s doubt will dissolve.

“Strong vitality” refers to the Qi received from the transformative powers of creation, which enables a person to move the body and direct external things. When this Qi gathers, the body exists; when it disperses, the body perishes. A person merely dwells here for a time. If one understands the master of spontaneous transformation, one will know that the true self endures. There will be no need to ask about the body’s gathering and dispersal—much less about the faint shadow beyond the shadow itself.

Yang Juzhu traveled south to Pei, while Lao Dan went west to Qin. Invited while outside the city, Lao Dan set out and reached Liang, where he met Yang Juzhu. Lao Dan looked up and sighed. “At first, I thought you could be taught. Now I see that you cannot.” Yang Juzhu did not reply.

When they reached their lodging, Yang Juzhu brought water and a towel to wash, then combed his hair. He left his shoes outside the door, knelt, and moved forward on his knees. “A moment ago, your disciple wanted to ask you something, but it was inconvenient to speak while we were on the road, so I did not dare. Now that it is convenient, may I ask what fault I have committed?” Laozi said, “With that proud, self-satisfied air of yours, who would want to be around you? What is purest white can look stained; the person of the greatest De can seem to lack something.”

Yang Juzhu looked alarmed and his expression changed. “I respectfully accept your instruction,” he said.

Earlier, when Yang Juzhu went to stay at an inn, the people there came forward to welcome and serve him. The innkeeper arranged his seat himself, and his wife attended him with a towel and comb. The other guests gave up their seats, and even the person tending the fire moved away from the hearth to make room. When Yang Juzhu returned, however, the people at the inn began competing with him for a seat.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: “Staring proudly and looking around” describes an overbearing manner. People feared and disliked him, and kept their distance; his show of respect made him stand out, so even the person tending the fire moved aside. Later, when he shed his self-importance and boastfulness, the people at the inn dared to compete with him for a seat.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: “Staring proudly and looking around” means deliberately making oneself appear exceptional. This is what led the people at the inn to come forward and serve him. Laozi sighed at Yang Juzhu because he displayed an air of believing himself extraordinary, like shoes piled up outside the door, drawing a crowd around him. Bohun’s attempt to turn Lie Yukou away follows the same principle.

Yidu’s commentary: Juzhu was Yang Zhu’s courtesy name. Yang Juzhu’s washing and combing with water and a towel signify keeping himself pure; leaving his shoes outside and moving forward on his knees signify humility. “Staring proudly and looking around,” by contrast, describes an air of self-importance.

“People see your proud and haughty manner. Who would want to spend time with you?” So Laozi told him, “The sage knows what is pure and white, yet keeps to what is dark and obscure. True purity appears as though it has suffered disgrace. A person of great De (Virtue/Power) is never self-satisfied; they seem to have something lacking.”

After hearing this, Ziju began to understand. In the past, when he stayed at an inn, the host came out to welcome him, and the person in charge of arranging the seats and the host’s wife treated him with respect. He would refuse his seat and step away from the cooking area, which astonished the others. When he returned to the inn, however, the host and everyone else competed for seats and no longer showed him special respect. He had stopped displaying a proud, self-important manner, so people no longer expressed their respect through outward courtesies.

Bixu’s commentary says: “‘Suirui’ means a proud, self-satisfied manner. On Ziju’s first visit, his bearing was imposing and his presence extraordinary, inspiring awe. When he came back, he looked no different from an ordinary person, and people no longer thought of him as being above them.”

The Yanzhai commentary says: “‘Suirui’ means holding oneself apart as exceptional. This shows that he had not yet forgotten the distinction between himself and the things around him. When he stayed at the inn, the host arranged his seat and the host’s wife brought him a towel and comb. His refusal of the seat and his stepping away from the cooking area were signs of the respect people showed him. Later, everyone competed for seats because he no longer carried himself in a way that seemed to merit special respect. After Laozi’s instruction, he became modest and restrained, and people treated him as an ordinary person.”

If you consider yourself refined and superior, others naturally will not want your company. People of pure character are often accused of being corrupt, so they should restrain their brilliance and accept appearing disgraced. Those of deep De often fear being harmed by others, so they cultivate their inner qualities in secret and do not appear self-satisfied. This is a way to preserve oneself. Ziju acted in the opposite way, which is why Laozi thought he would be hard to teach.

After hearing the advice, Ziju’s expression suddenly turned uneasy and his face changed. This shows that he had already repented inwardly. So when he went to the inn again, the host welcomed him inside, and the household treated him with their usual respect. When he returned, everyone competed for seats. This shows that he had cast off affectation and returned to what was real. People no longer used outward courtesies to express an excessive degree of respect. The ancients could enter among herds of animals without disturbing them, or among flocks of birds without disrupting their formation, precisely because they did not set themselves apart from the myriad things.

This chapter takes a fable as its subject. The Old Immortal of Nanhua, Zhuangzi, uses “crossing water without getting one’s feet wet” to express the ability to move through the world skillfully and remain at ease, detached from its turmoil. He considered that, because he had said so much, later readers might follow only the surface form of his words and fall into rigid views. So as he set forth his teachings, he also kept dissolving the traces he left behind. Fables and “quoted words” are both necessary ways of relying on external speech to convey thought. “Goblet words,” by contrast, are like water held in a wine cup: the cup gives the water a boundary but does not prevent it from flowing naturally. Speech arises spontaneously from within, so it does not grow tiresome even when repeated day after day; sameness and difference, right and wrong, each have their proper place. Words come from wordlessness, just as water flows according to the shape of its vessel.

“‘Not speaking’ is simply the result of things having different circumstances and principles, each with their own choices and exclusions. If we understand that this is inevitable from the start, can we still stubbornly insist that things must be this way? In the end, then, everything must return to not speaking, and all things become one.

Alas, as the age declined and the Dao and moral principles fell into decay, people no longer trusted themselves. Their aspirations could not be put into practice in their own times, yet they still hoped to leave teachings for later generations. Fearing that those generations might not understand, they entrusted the Dao to things they valued, hoping thereby to win people’s trust. To guide people to begin with these things, investigate what is true within them, and proceed from the subtle to the profound leads, in fact, to the same result.

Consider Confucius’s conduct: it changed with the passing years, and what he held to be right at one time differed from what he held later. What a person judges right in the present cannot remain unchanged forever. In that case, how can anyone be sure that later generations will believe them? Zengzi took office twice and resigned twice, yet still felt attachment within himself, so his grief and joy showed outwardly. Whether he acted to support his parents or for the salary need not be examined too closely. As for those who grasp something upon hearing it, such as Ziyou, after a year he could turn a rustic place into a virtuous community. As one reaches the subtle depths of the Great Dao, the mind grows emptier and quieter with each passing day, while the Dao grows fuller. Entrusting the Dao to things one values, and “goblet words”—words that arise in response to things without holding a fixed position—both belong to the realm in which teaching circulates and people transform naturally.

The discussion then turns to whether fate and ghosts exist, and to how a body and its shadow depend on one another. All this shows that the mysteries of creation cannot be pursued to their end through words. If people can fully realize the nature bestowed on them by creation, without obstruction or premature death, then the unfathomable spiritual wonder within us is likewise beyond measure.

The chapter ends with a picture of people glaring arrogantly and swelling with pride: who would want to associate with such a person? One who heard the decree of Heaven and turned away later went on to compete with others for a seat. This shows that hearing with the ears and understanding in the heart can sometimes happen in an instant, in just a few words. Who can say that among the writings that bear the Dao and pass it down to later generations, there are none who understand “getting the fish and forgetting the trap”?

I once read Su Shi’s (Su Dongpo’s) “Record of the Zhuangzi Shrine.” He argued that the end of the “Parables” chapter should follow the beginning of “Lie Yukou,” and that it should not include the four chapters “Letting Kingship Go,” “Robber Zhi,” “Discoursing on Swords,” and “The Old Fisherman.” Even if the two chapters are read together, their meaning may still make sense; but to reject all four chapters outright seems unduly severe. He likely thought that “Letting Kingship Go” lists too many examples and repeats its principles, that “Robber Zhi” attacks Confucius too fiercely, that “Discoursing on Swords” resembles the rhetoric of political persuaders, and that “The Old Fisherman” nearly amounts to slandering the sages. That is why Su Shi excluded these chapters. Yet in his “Record of the Zhuangzi Shrine,” Su Shi also said that Zhuangzi’s words seem on the surface to oppose Confucius, but in reality secretly defend him. This shows that Su Shi too recognized Zhuangzi’s true purpose in writing: to remedy the ills of his time. If so, why reject the work because its surface wording is rough? I have privately examined “Letting Kingship Go” and the other three chapters. Compared with …” The original text ends here.

Whether or not there are differences between the Inner Chapters and the Outer Chapters, their aims have not strayed from the fundamental teaching.

Those who write and expound inevitably differ in the depth and subtlety of their content, and each places emphasis on different aspects in expression. Some passages may also have been added or completed by disciples, and may not have fully preserved the original’s purity. This may be why they were placed at the end of the Miscellaneous Chapters. These points can be understood without further discussion, lest later readers be led into confusion.

Collected Subtle Commentaries on the Meaning of the True Classic of Southern Florescence, juan 92