《南華真經義海纂微》Vol. 98

Zhuangzi said, “It is easy to understand the Way, but difficult to explain it aloud. Understanding without speaking accords with Heaven; understanding and then speaking accords with human affairs. The ancients accorded with Heaven and did not cling to human affairs.”

Zhu Pingman studied the art of slaying dragons under Zhi Liyi. He spent his entire thousand-gold fortune and took three years to master the skill, yet found nowhere to put it to use. The sage regards what may not be so as something that may not be so, and so there is no war. The common people, however, take what may not be so as certainly so, and therefore wars are frequent. To act in accordance with the momentum of war is to pursue something; to rely on war is, in the end, to invite ruin.

Those of shallow understanding keep their thoughts fixed on gifts and letters (“baoju” and “gandu,” meaning presents and correspondence). They exhaust their spirit on trivial, superficial matters, yet hope to encompass all things and guide the people. They confine body and mind within the limits of their physical form, unaware of the Great Beginning, the primal state before Heaven and Earth were divided. The Perfected Person gathers the spirit into the realm before beginnings, and rests at ease in the land of nothing-at-all, a realm of emptiness that depends on nothing. Like water, they flow through the formless and open out in the clear emptiness. How pitiful that your wisdom is limited to minute concerns, while you do not know what constitutes the greatest peace.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Even if wisdom extends to Heaven and Earth, there is no need to proclaim it aloud. It is enough to accord with each thing’s own proper nature and respond to its needs. What matters in action is getting things right, not seeking distant results. Even when something seems inevitable, not insisting that it must be so is what it means to accord with things. What possible reason is there for war? Even when something may not be so, insisting that it must be so, with each side clinging to its own view, violates the nature of things. When the myriad things each accord with their own nature, they find fulfillment; once fulfilled, they have nothing to pursue. When force must be used, only those who take calm detachment as the highest course can escape ruin.

Gifts and letters are what petty cleverness pursues. To be absorbed in trivial matters is to gain little, yet to hope to encompass all things and guide the people is like crossing empty space and journeying far: the ambition is great, but it wears down and burdens the body, until one loses one’s way and fails to arrive. The Perfected Person is therefore calm and free of action, letting innate nature run its course. If wisdom is applied to minor details, what is gained is limited; to follow one’s nature and attain the greatest peace is true understanding.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: “Accord with Heaven” and “accord with human affairs” are distinct. What is called Wuwei here is precisely what the passage means by “that by which one goes to Heaven.” Kuangqu seems to understand this, but his understanding is ultimately far from the Yellow Emperor’s. The dragon is a creature of many transformations, seemingly endowed with sage-like wisdom. To “slay the dragon” means to cut off and abandon these qualities. Zhu Pingman spent his entire thousand-gold fortune learning the skill, but once he had mastered it, he had nowhere to use it. Since there was no use for it, there was no need to trouble himself with cutting off or abandoning anything. This is the way to follow one’s innate nature and preserve what is genuine. As for war, nothing is more grievous than it…

To aspire to a state like that of a sage, one should follow the Dao: what can stand firm, let it stand firm; what can be carried through, persist in carrying it through. Yet even when something is bound to happen, do not attribute the outcome to your own ability to force it, but to the Mandate of Heaven. Then, when faced with things that cannot necessarily be accomplished, you will not force them, and so will not be hurt by frustrated ambition. In this way, no spirit of contention arises in your heart.

Most people do the opposite, and are therefore often caught up in contention. They act on their contentious impulses, seeking something in every matter and relying on something at every turn. As a result, they often bring defeat and ruin upon themselves.

People of limited understanding keep their thoughts occupied with trifles such as gifts, social calls, and correspondence. They spend their energy on narrow and superficial concerns, yet still hope to benefit everyone and guide all things. This is more than they can undertake. Such people are burdened by the forms of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things. They do not understand the Great Beginning, the primordial state before things had divided, and so cannot attain the Great One, the state of undivided unity, or the condition in which the body is empty and still.

Only the sage returns the spirit to the Beginningless, the source without a starting point, and rests at ease in the Land of Nothing-at-All, a state free of attachment and reliance. When he acts, he is like flowing water, taking no fixed form; his spirit spreads and circulates through a clear and boundless realm. For this reason, he can benefit everyone and guide all things, attaining the Great One and the condition in which the body is empty and still.

No one knows where the mind ultimately tends; its vastness is beyond measure. Yet ordinary people’s understanding remains caught up in gifts, social exchanges, and polite correspondence. Their knowledge stops at minute, trivial matters; they do not understand the vast and tranquil realm. This is truly lamentable.

The Commentary of Yidu says: The sage does not speak by deliberate choice; he responds to external things only when compelled to. Confucius and Mencius shared the same intention, though their words differed, and this is why. Yang Zhu lived at a time when he could have remained silent, yet took pleasure in speaking; what he held in his heart was no different from what Confucius and Mencius held. The three differed only in whether they spoke or kept silent. Thus it is easy to understand the Dao, but difficult to refrain from speaking. Only when the Dao prevails over external things can one remain silent. Here, speaking and silence are used to distinguish the Way of Heaven from human affairs, though the two have never been separate. The desires of worldly people burn fiercely, so these words are offered to correct them.

Slaying dragons is a refined skill for a scholar, but there is nowhere to put it to use. The learning of Zhuangzi seeks to exhaust the principles of things and fully reveal one’s nature, until one understands the Mandate of Heaven; it does not devote itself to useless exertions. One must therefore be discerning about what skills one puts to use.

Acceptance is the proper attitude toward the Mandate of Heaven; holding that something must be so comes from principle. When the sage faces something that seems, in principle, necessary to do, he still responds with acceptance, for he knows that the outcome rests with Heaven. Thus no spirit of contention arises in his heart. Ordinary people, when faced with matters of principle, are not certain that they must act, yet they do not understand the Mandate of Heaven and still insist on forcing things. That is why they contend so much. Mencius said, “One need not be faithful in every word, nor succeed in every undertaking.” This means that when faced with something that may not be achievable, one should not force it. An old saying goes, “One’s words must always be kept, and one’s deeds must always succeed.” This rigid, stubborn attitude is characteristic of petty people. It treats what is not inevitable as though it were inevitable.

“Arms” are not only external. The impulse to compete and contend in the human heart is also a weapon.

Conflict and resentment in the heart describe this very situation. Yet joy and anger are emotions people can hardly avoid. Acting in accordance with reason and circumstance may sometimes bring what one hopes for; acting recklessly on emotion, however, may cause one to lose what one has gained. Joy and anger must therefore be kept in check.

Making offerings of fragrant herbs and other gifts in sacrificial rites, and writing on bamboo or wooden tablets to express one’s intentions, are practices of ordinary people. If one attends only to such outward forms, one wastes one’s spirit and gains little of lasting value. This can neither embrace the many and guide the myriad things, nor accord with the Supreme One (Taiyi), the fundamental Dao that gathers all things into unity; nor does it accord with the principle of stillness and emptiness in body and spirit.

Such people lose themselves among the myriad things of the cosmos and become burdened by their bodies, failing to understand the distinction between the Great Beginning and the Supreme One. The Supreme One is the beginning of number; the Great Beginning is the beginning of Qi. When speaking of the body’s emptiness and stillness, one speaks of the Supreme One; when speaking of the body’s burden, one speaks of the Great Beginning. This is because emptiness and stillness cannot be without number, while a burdened body is easily taken to be nonempty. “Without beginning” means before there was any beginning; “the realm of Nothingness” means a state of vast emptiness, without a thing in it.

Water corresponds to the kidneys among the Five Viscera, and the kidneys govern the storing of Jing. Ordinary people expend their spirit on external things, their minds racing after desires. The perfected person stores the spirit in the realm before any beginning, resting in stillness in the country of “Nothingness.” The vital energies of ordinary people flow toward things with form and are therefore easily depleted. The vital energies of the perfected person move calmly and are not confined by form, so they have no end. They disperse through the Great Clarity, the realm of pure emptiness and formlessness, and reach everywhere. It is truly lamentable that shallow-minded people do not understand the great Dao of quietude and stillness.

Bixu’s commentary says: To hold judgments of right and wrong in the heart yet remain silent and reveal nothing is to follow one’s nature. To feel compassion in the heart and express it outwardly is a human emotion. If one follows Heaven without being burdened by human feelings, one can preserve inner clarity at all times. Who, then, could deceive oneself?

To forget the turmoil and let the mind wander freely is to have learning that is shallow yet broad; to possess unusual and affected skills is to gain something fragmented. The dragon is a creature of unfathomable transformations: when it gathers, it forms a whole; when it disperses, it takes on different shapes. Its fixed form cannot be seen—so how could one kill or dismember it? This is merely deliberate exaggeration. As for mastering a skill yet having nowhere to display one’s ingenuity, there is a deeper meaning in these words: external things cannot be forced. Thus the perfected person accepts what comes with composure, allowing things to follow their nature and avoiding resentment and conflict. If one insists that everything go as one wishes, one may invite calamities such as gouging out eyes and hiding the blood. How could one fail to be cautious?

Duo Sangzi says: To harbor resentment and anger before they have erupted is like having weapons already at the ready. The danger lies not only in the carnage wrought by blades and arrows; it also consumes the spirit. A narrow-minded person, preoccupied with petty matters, may lose what matters more. To lose oneself among the myriad things of the cosmos and fail to understand the Great Beginning is like having eyes keen enough to see the finest autumn down, yet unable to see Mount Tai; like hearing the sounds of silk and bamboo clearly, yet failing to hear thunder.

To gather the spirit back into the realm before any beginning is to conceal one’s outward display of cleverness and rest in stillness in the country of “Nothingness.”

A person can maintain an open, quiet, and empty heart, and so experience a profound and secluded realm and act from within stillness. Yet you now chase after superficial details and lose sight of the root. How lamentable.

Yan Zhai says: “Do not merely say that forgetting words is difficult. The real difficulty is to know the Dao and then even forget what has been said about it. In this way, one can leave behind worldly relationships and conduct and keep company with the Way of Heaven.” A man once spent his entire fortune learning how to slay dragons. After mastering the skill, he had no opportunity to use it. Zhuangzi uses this story to describe himself: his ideas were vast, but he had not yet had the chance to put them into practice.

The sage approaches things through “what must not be taken as certain”: he knows which matters cannot be settled definitively. Ordinary people, by contrast, treat what cannot be known for certain as inevitable, and so they often come into conflict. The greatest conflict of all is warfare. If people act on the desire to prevail, everyone in the world will be driven by the wish to win and oppose others; in the end, they will lose themselves through self-important contention.

Gifts, exchanges of letters, and questions and answers are all matters of little consequence. How could such things enable one to benefit the whole world and guide the myriad things, bringing them into accord with the beginning of the Great Oneness—the root from which all things remain undifferentiated—and its wondrous, formless principle? People are bewildered and burdened by the traces of things in the universe, unaware of the natural principle that precedes the beginning. The Perfected Person returns the spirit to the beginning before things take form, dwells in Wuwei (non-action), and rests contentedly in quiet sleep. This is a metaphor for abiding in a state as natural as flowing water: people see that water has form, yet do not know that it in fact originates in the formless. Once its flow disperses, it returns to clear emptiness and formlessness. Ordinary people do not understand the beginnings and endings of things, just as they do not understand water. They see only traces as tiny as a hair, and so their vision is narrow. How could they know that the natural principle of Wuwei encompasses everything?

To know the Dao and speak of it is the work of the “knower”; to know the Dao and be able to forget words is the work of the sage. Upon reaching the sage’s state, one accords with the Way of Heaven. The knower’s discussion of the Dao can still spread teaching and enlighten others, and is no great fault. But some people in the world have shallow learning and unreliable knowledge, yet boast and congratulate themselves. Even if they say nothing, their expressions and conduct give them away. How could they understand the subtlety of the ancients’ accord with the principle of Heaven?

Most interpretations of the “dragon-slaying” story disparage its central meaning and do not accord with the original text; only Lü’s commentary comes close. Bixu’s title for this chapter, “Uselessness,” is also inappropriate. I think it could be retitled “The Chapter on Forgetting the Subtle,” with my own interpretation appended: following a teacher to seek the Dao is like going into the sea in search of a dragon. Few ever truly see one, and how many who do can then slay it? This illustrates that learning the Dao is difficult to begin with, while seeing the Dao and then being able to forget what one has gained is harder still.

Difficulty begins with the pursuit of the art of slaying dragons. Only after encountering a dragon can one know whether one’s body and mind possess the ability to do it. By continuing to investigate transformation, until one truly sees a dragon and can slay it, one comes to understand whether one’s Dao exists at all.

That formless, utterly wondrous dragon can be seen only when body and mind are still; it must be sought in a hazy, profound place. “Slaying the dragon” does not mean cutting it down with a blade, so it goes beyond the “swish” and the gaps between sinews and bones described in Cook Ding’s account of carving an ox. How could a dance in the Mulberry Grove depict a realm that probes the wondrous and plumbs the most subtle?

Even a household with a thousand pieces of gold must set aside every external support. After a thousand days of cultivation, when the practice is complete, technique is no longer needed; one acts entirely through wondrous responsiveness. The dragon and the dragon slayer are both forgotten, and one no longer knows what the dragon is or who the slayer is. A saying in Chan Buddhism goes, “In the Dragon Tooth Mountains, when a dragon appears, the mind’s thoughts cease.” It describes the practice at the initial stage.

Look closely at these four lines about “slaying the dragon”: their language is unusual and concise, and their meaning is profound enough to stand alongside the long passage about Cook Ding carving an ox. At the end of Cook Ding’s story, a dimension of practical function remains. Here, however, the underlying reality is obscure and unfathomable, and even its function is forgotten. This is a higher state.

The sage regards as nonexistent even things that, in principle, need not exist. Ordinary people, by contrast, insist on making real things that need not be fixed as real. The “war” spoken of here refers to desires battling within the heart. Whether things exist or not ultimately depends on oneself. Those who act from inner conflict are always pursuing and grasping, unaware that relying on such desires may ultimately lead to ruin. Petty cleverness attends only to immediate affairs, neglects the search for their source, and drains the spirit; this too is waging war within oneself. How could such people hold to an aspiration to benefit all under Heaven and guide the myriad things to follow their own principles?

Only by investigating the Great One—the source of all things before they were divided—can one reveal the empty, original state of all under Heaven. The Great One is the beginning of number. From it, the myriad things leave nonexistence and enter existence, take on form, and interact and give rise to one another in an unceasing cycle of generation and transformation. People are bewildered by the cosmos, confined by the forms before their eyes, and do not know that in the beginning there was no form. The Perfected One lets the spirit return to the beginningless, returning to the primordial state in which nothing exists.

Water is foremost among the Five Phases. It can be seen, but not grasped; it has form, yet seems formless. When physical form descends, water flows out to nourish all things; when breath rises, it disperses into the lofty, clear emptiness. It moves with Yin-Yang and brings the work of creation to completion. Yet people exhaust their minds on petty details, unaware of the “Great Peace”—the Way that accords with the workings of Heaven and continues without end. “Great Peace” is the state in which one’s original nature has not yet stirred and thoughts have not yet arisen; when external things come into contact with it…

“Responding” means that Water is born from Heaven and spreads outward, flowing through the Great Clarity.

Cao Shang of Song went on a diplomatic mission to Qin on behalf of the king of Song. When he set out, he was given several chariots. The king of Qin took a liking to him and rewarded him with another hundred chariots. When Cao Shang returned to Song, he met Zhuangzi and said, “Living in a narrow lane, sunk in poverty, making a living by weaving straw sandals, with a scrawny neck and a haggard face—that is what I am not good at. Making a ruler with ten thousand war chariots happy, and having a hundred chariots and horses follow me—that is what I am good at.”

Zhuangzi said, “The king of Qin was ill and summoned doctors. Those who lanced his boils and treated his sores received one chariot. Those who licked his hemorrhoids received five. The more degrading the ailment they treated, the more chariots they received. Did you perhaps treat the king of Qin’s hemorrhoids? Why else would you have received so many chariots? Be off!”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “The lower the deed, the greater its apparent merit; the greater the merit, the richer the reward. Thus those with lofty aims, who are content and seek nothing, cast aside wealth and honor.”

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: “Anyone who lowers himself to curry favor is like one who licks another’s hemorrhoids.”

Yidu’s commentary says: “Cao Shang flaunted his chariots to Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi used the doctors who treated hemorrhoids as a comparison to condemn him in the strongest terms.”

Bixuzi’s commentary says: “The more degrading the ailment treated, the greater the reward received. This shows that those who hold fast to the Dao cast aside wealth and honor, while those who covet profit pay no heed to humiliation.”

Yanzhai says: “Boils are a kind of sore. The more degrading the ailment treated, the richer the reward. Zhuangzi uses this to condemn such a shameful act, judging it unworthy of esteem.”

Cao Shang boasted of his chariots and horses; Zhuangzi held the Dao in high regard. Boasting of chariots and horses brings brief glory but leaves a lasting stain on one’s reputation. Honoring the Dao, by contrast, can be passed down through countless generations, with one’s name enduring. How can people be careless about the direction they choose to pursue?

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He, “I want Zhongni (Confucius) to serve as the pillar of state government. Might the state improve?”

Yan He replied, “That would be dangerous—disastrous, even. Zhongni is busy polishing appearances and attending to ceremony, and he takes elegant words as his guiding rule. He restrains his own nature and uses this to assess the people, yet does not know whether they truly accept him. How could such a person rule over the people? Do you agree with him, or do I? I fear this would lead you astray; it is really not suitable. To make the people abandon what is genuine and learn what is false is no good way to govern them. If you are thinking of future generations, better to stop this. A state is difficult to govern because people bestow favors on others yet do not forget their own kindness. This is not giving in accord with the Way of Heaven.

“Merchants may be counted among the ranks of the shi, but the spirits will not approve of them. Punishments imposed on the body are things such as knives and saws; punishments imposed on the heart are reckless actions and missteps. When petty people suffer external punishment, they are tried and disciplined by knives and saws. When they suffer internal punishment, they endure the changes of Yin and Yang and the hardship of hunger. Only True Persons—those who embody the Way and are not bound by worldly constraints—can escape both inner and outer punishment.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: The Perfected Person—one who has attained the Dao (the Way)—takes the people’s peace and quiet as his own peace, and makes preserving the Dao’s undivided purity his foundation, yet leaves no trace of deliberate rule. Later generations, however, embellish benevolence and righteousness and compete to proclaim them, as though painting colors onto feathers. The people are thereby brought into danger, and the Perfected Person can no longer remain at ease. Deliberate embellishment and painting do not follow one’s innate nature. They leave later rulers with nothing but outward appearances, while their thoughts and desires grow tangled with extraneous concerns.

People in later generations admired the lofty example left by Zhongni (Confucius). They restrained their nature and forced themselves to conform, then used this approach to govern the people. Those above and below imitated one another, without realizing what they were doing. When those in high positions treat the people this way, later generations do not merely imitate them in outward conduct: their minds and spirits absorb the example and follow it too. They can no longer find ease naturally within their own nature. The people and Duke Ai each had a nature suited to themselves; imitating one another meant losing their innate nature. This is evidence that can be seen before our eyes. Imitating others does not nurture oneself, and so it is wrong. This is a warning on behalf of later generations, not a claim that governing in that manner was insincere at the time. The sage, therefore, does not teach the people in the name of governing. Once he deliberately proclaims a way and gives people something to grasp, he no longer lets things follow their natural course, as with the straw dogs used in ritual.

Even merchants calculate what to take and what to give up; how much more so scholars and gentlemen? The point is that when extending benefits and carrying out affairs, one cannot avoid weighing things up. But if the mind cannot let these matters go, the spirit is pulled along by them. This is a common condition among the people.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says: “Constancy” is the foundation for handling affairs. The workings of all things under Heaven take the Dao’s undivided purity as their foundation. Only by forgetting fixed ideas can one attain purity; by preserving purity, one can establish a foundation. If those who govern the world and the state do not understand this, and seek to rule by relying on the sage’s knowledge, the resulting ills will inevitably reach the point described above.

The Dao follows what is natural, just as a swan’s feathers remain naturally white without its needing to bathe every day. When sage wisdom intervenes, it becomes like adorning feathers and painting colors. Feathers are what nature gives; painting them is artificial embellishment. This is like using ornate language to deliberately magnify small matters and confuse names with realities. Every practice that goes against what is natural forces things and suppresses innate nature, then presents itself as an example for the people. Such a person cannot forget fixed ideas, cannot let the spirit receive what is natural, and cannot understand or direct the spirit. How, then, could such a person be fit to govern the people?

The reason the Dao cannot be entrusted to others is that the human mind has no master…

If what you do is not right, can Confucius really meet your expectations? Or is the right way to cultivate my own mind and nature? Only by setting aside external learning and cultivating oneself inwardly can one attain undivided focus.

If you merely want to take a sage as a model for governing the state, then even calling this the “right way” is mistaken; it is not the true right way. To leave genuine learning behind and pursue what is false is no way to transform the people. If you can bestow things naturally, as clouds move and rain falls, what is there to keep deliberately in mind?

In ancient ritual, merchants were not ranked alongside scholars; later, people were ranked according to their ability to handle affairs, as a flexible adaptation of the ritual system. The spirits do not concern themselves with people’s social rank; this accords with human nature. To value righteousness and despise wealth is fundamental to ritual, and also arises from human nature. Those who pursue private gain and forget righteousness have lost their original nature.

Metal and wooden staffs can injure the body, and excessive activity can injure the mind. For the mind to be still and not act recklessly is its proper way; once it acts, it may depart from that way. If action is unavoidable and one hopes to act appropriately, then it is fitting; otherwise, it is all error.

Yangzi said that people make few mistakes by day and many by night. “Xiao” means night. Those who have not yet attained the bright and expansive state of the Dao, and remain constrained both inwardly and outwardly, are like people in the dark of night. Only the True Person—the one who has attained the Dao—can be still and practice Wuwei (non-action), acting only when compelled by necessity. How could inward and outward constraints bind such a person?

The Commentary on the Doubtful and the Solitary explains: Duke Ai knew that Confucius’s learning remained superficial, yet wanted to employ him as a model for governing the state, as though many branches were attached to a central trunk. Yan He believed that having Confucius govern the state would not bring it peace but instead put it in danger. If Confucius polished his appearance, prized ornamentation, and devoted himself to splendid rhetoric, he would neglect what was practical. Taking the branches for the roots would mean losing one’s human nature.

If someone has a desire but forcibly suppresses it, that shows that what they do does not arise from their true nature. To use this method to transform the people is to fail to understand that they will not be persuaded. If later rulers of the world merely imitate his outward practices, they will use their cleverness to control the people. They will be unable to transcend the constraints of the body and follow their natural nature and the patterns of life—so how could they be fit to rule the people?

Besides, the people and Duke Ai each have a nature and patterns of life suited to them. Must they imitate someone else? If you want to imitate him, I do not consider that cultivation. To say that one wants to take Confucius as a model for governing the state is acceptable if it is only said casually; it is not acceptable if presented as a correct doctrine. To leave what is genuine and study what is false is no way to transform the people. I fear that later generations will follow only outward forms and fall into bad habits. Better to let things follow their natural course, allowing benefits to spread like spring water, with their extent adjusted according to need. To give to the people without deliberately keeping it in mind is human giving; to give in accord with nature is Heaven’s giving.

Those who bestow kindness do not keep what they have given in mind, and those who receive it do not feel that they have been favored. If someone gives with an eye to repayment, even merchants look down on such conduct. Even when circumstances bring someone into their company, those who cultivate the Dao do not act this way, for it runs counter to the Dao.

Metal and wooden instruments of punishment injure the limbs; unrestrained conduct and wrongdoing damage the five internal organs. The ignorant and benighted are petty people: they cannot escape punishment from within or without. Calamity begins when Yin-Yang falls out of balance, when one acts carelessly and fails to return to the right path; then metal and wooden instruments of punishment also inflict harm. Only the Real Person, one who has attained the Dao, can escape these calamities.

Bixu’s Commentary: To paint feathers in bright colors as decoration and embellish writing with elaborate, ornate language is to let branches and tendrils proliferate, caring only for appearances and not understanding the root. When people deliberately disguise themselves and occupy positions from which they govern the people, customs are easily corrupted by hypocrisy. They exhaust their minds by taking on affairs, and direct all things while putting their spirit to work. Having fallen ill themselves first, what strength could they have left to govern the people?

In the phrase “Would you nourish him?” the word yu is close in sound and meaning to the yu in “party and companions,” and refers to associates or allies; yi may be understood as nurturing. The point is that if one considers Zhongni virtuous, one should have the people draw near to him and put him forward to nurture them. But whether this would work has not yet been put to the test. It is better to do nothing than to abandon genuine learning in pursuit of ornament. To issue directives while hoping that the people will never forget one’s kindness shows that one’s heart still seeks something. Even people who carry goods to market and trade may give without expecting repayment—how much more so should this be true of scholars and gentlemen?

Repaying kindness is praised by worldly social conventions; giving and receiving no favors is what the principle of the spirits values. To give kindness and then demand repayment invites punishment and injury. External punishment comes from metal and wooden instruments; internal punishment comes from going too far in one’s conduct and committing wrongdoing. In the open or in the hidden, no one can escape punishment. Thus, when those who make the laws are divided against themselves, those who break the laws will suffer the axe and halberd from without. If those above and below have both lost harmony, how can peace throughout the world be expected?

Yanzhai’s Commentary: “Firm timber” is like a worthy and capable minister: steadfast in character and able to shoulder responsibility. First painting something in color and then adding feathers describes excessive ornamentation. “Branches” refers to the offshoots; the point is a failure to understand the root. Deliberately suppressing and disguising one’s nature, then setting oneself above the people as an example, is to fail to recognize that one’s conduct is inauthentic. Once the mind accepts an idea, it becomes attached to it and lets the mind and spirit take it as their master. How could one govern the people for long this way?

“Yi” may carry the sense of increasing or nurturing. If you regard someone as a worthy person and appoint him to nurture the people, this will bring you no benefit and may instead lead you astray. It is better to stop. The people need not be deliberately governed; if one sets out to govern them well, they become harder to govern. To issue directives while keeping in mind the credit one deserves for governing shows that one still intends to impose order. Just as merchants do, scholars should not demean themselves by placing themselves alongside them.

When people happen to come together because of some circumstance, their spirits do not thereby feel any joy. As for those who deliberately resort to deception, a person of the Dao has no interest in associating with them.

Here, “interrogation” means questioning and investigating, while “eating” is used figuratively to mean harm. Any action or movement that goes astray may bring punishment, as though one had suffered penal torture or execution. Only a True Person can escape punishment both within and without.

Duke Ai of Lu wanted Confucius to assist him, hoping to improve the affairs of state. This was like a sick person longing to recover and urgently searching for a doctor. The more urgently people seek help, the higher their expectations tend to be. So Duke Ai consulted Yan He, hoping to confirm his own ideas.

Yan He then pointed out, one by one, the failings of the reputed worthies of the time. He said that promoting them would bring no benefit: it would only encourage people to pursue appearances and breed deceit, making the people harder to govern. Confucius was the most famous worthy of the time, and Yan He used him to illustrate the problem. To adorn one’s ideas with ornate words is like painting feathers: the speech may look beautiful, but it is fragmented and superficial, unable to get to the root of things. And if one puts on a show of moral character for the people without realizing they do not believe it, they will respond with deceit of their own.

When external things arrive, people use their minds to receive them. Once the mind has taken them in, the spirit comes under their sway. When the inner mind is no longer clear and open, the outside world becomes confused and agitated. Such a person is then no different from the people. What grounds are there for standing above them?

Yan He then challenged Duke Ai: Could Confucius really help you? Can you take good care of the people yourself? If these words have awakened you to anything, you should begin your reflection here. The practices described above all lead people away from genuine learning and toward the study of falsehood. They are no way to guide the people. Better to do nothing.

The people are difficult to govern because they know too much; in fact, it is those in positions of authority who have encouraged this tendency. People who act this way are like merchants, who should not be placed on the same footing as scholars, yet are brought together with them because of some temporary occasion, such as a community sacrifice or a village feast. Even when seated together, their interests differ, and the distinction between the worthy and the unworthy becomes clear.

Petty people who imitate deceitful conduct cannot, in the end, escape punishment within and without. “People of the night” refers to those who act in secret and lack clear understanding; even in broad daylight, they live as though it were deep night. “Movement” refers to a thought as it first begins to go astray; “transgression” is that deviation expressed in action. Once it has become visible, it cannot be concealed. Such people are therefore subjected to questioning with metal and wooden instruments of punishment, and harmed by the forces of Yin and Yang. Here, “eating” is like the violation inflicted by a thief or bandit.

A True Person preserves simplicity and follows Wuwei (non-action). How could punishment, within or without, harm such a person?