《南華真經口義》

Orally Explained Meaning of the Nanhua Perfect Classic, Volume 1

Yizhai Lin Xiyi

Inner Chapters: Free and Easy Wandering (Xiaoyaoyou)

“Free and Easy Wandering” (xiaoyaoyou) is the title of this chapter. Among the seven inner chapters, each title has three characters. “Wandering” (you) means the mind’s heavenly roaming; “free and easy” (xiaoyao) means ease and unconstraint. When disciples described Confucius in the Analects, they used only the word “joy” (le); when the Book of Poetry portrays a person—as in “the southern lands have drooping trees,” “on the southern hill stands a terrace,” “how joyful is the gentleman”—it too uses only “joy.” What is called “free and easy wandering” here is that same “joy” spoken of in the Poetry and the Analects. The whole book opens with “joy”; one must grasp from here what realm fills Zhuangzi’s breast. If you can taste even a little of it from this point, you can read “Gathering Plantain.” That poem expresses joy in the breast without ever saying the word “joy”—that is the subtlety of poetic craft, like adding yet another tier atop a seven-story pagoda.

In the Northern Dark Sea there is a fish named Kun; Kun is so huge that no one knows how many thousand li it measures. When it transforms, it becomes a bird named Peng; Peng’s back is so vast that no one knows how many thousand li it spans. When it rouses itself to fly, its wings are like clouds hanging from the sky. This bird, when the sea tides surge, migrates to the Southern Dark Sea. The Southern Dark Sea is the Pool of Heaven. Qi Xie is the man who records marvels and strange tales. Qi Xie said: When Peng migrates to the Southern Dark Sea, the water is struck for three thousand li; riding the whirlwind it ascends ninety thousand li, and only after six months does it rest from the journey. Wild vapors and dust, too, are things set in motion by the breathing of creatures upon one another. The sky looks deep blue—is that its true color? Or is it because distance is so great that the end cannot be seen? When Peng looks down from on high, it is no different.

Again: if water does not gather deep enough, it cannot bear a great ship. Pour a cup of water in a hollow by the hall; a stalk of grass can serve as a boat, but set a cup there and it sticks fast—because the water is shallow and the vessel is large. If wind does not accumulate thick enough, it cannot support great wings. Therefore Peng must fly ninety thousand li so that the wind lies beneath it; only then can it ride the wind upward, bear the blue sky on its back, meet nothing to block it, and then plan to fly south. The cicada and the little dove laugh at it, saying: “We spring up and fly, reach the elm or the sandalwood and stop; sometimes we don’t get that far and simply come down to the ground—why must you go ninety thousand li south?”

Vernacular Interpretation of Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi (Oral Exegesis of the True Classic of Southern Florescence)

“Taking it ninety thousand li southward” (continuing from the preceding passage: the great Peng spreads its wings and flies south for ninety thousand li)

The point of this passage is to evoke the joy of an open heart and carefree ease (xiaoyao), but Zhuangzi tells it through a parable.

The idea is this: only when one’s horizon is narrow does one scramble over worldly trifles. If you knew that beyond heaven and earth there is a world this vast, and then looked back at yourself, even comparing yourself to “a single grain of rice in the great granary” would still be too large. Dai Kui of the Jin dynasty said people “fight over territory on a snail’s horn”—the same idea.

Beiming (the Northern Dark Sea) is simply the northern sea; the names Kun and Peng are also part of the parable and need not be taken as real creatures. Explanations that force yin-yang theory onto them are strained readings.

A bird must fly by riding the air. The word nu (“roused,” “surging upward”) is used in a striking way.

Haiyun (“sea transport” or “the sea in motion”) means the sea stirring. Folk songs along the coast still speak of “the sea moving in the sixth month.” When the sea moves, there must be a great wind; the water surges up from the seabed, and the sound can be heard for several li. The meaning is: only with a wind like this can the great Peng fly south.

Nanming (the Southern Dark Sea) is also a sea; Zhuangzi further explains it as the Tianchi (Heavenly Pool).

Qi Xie is the title of a book; it records mostly strange and marvelous tales, rather like today’s Classic of Mountains and Seas. But that book may never have existed—Zhuangzi first writes this account, then cites the book to corroborate himself; this is again his habit of “staging a play” and joking.

Tuan means to wheel in flight; fuyao is the force of the wind. Ninety thousand li expresses how high and far it goes. “Departing, it rests on the sixth month’s breath” means the bird goes back and forth only after half a year of rest before it can move again.

The three lines on “wild horses” and “dust” are among the strangest in Zhuangzi’s prose; read forward and back, they often feel disconnected.

Wild horses are drifting filaments—that is, water vapor; what Du Fu meant by “falling flowers and wandering silk in a quiet daytime” is the same image. Where do wild horses and dust come from? All living things in the world blow upon one another with their qi (vital breath), and so these things appear in empty space. These three lines were originally meant to set up the next sentence, yet he places them here first.

When a person looks up at the sky and sees its deep blue, is that the sky’s true color? It is only that vision has its limit and cannot see the end, so one sees nothing but vast haze. When the Peng has risen to the sky and looks down on the human realm, it does not know how many tens of thousands of li separate them; in its eyes, the breath that blows wild horses and dust must likewise be such boundless mist.

When people below look up at the sky, these lines are only describing how high the Kun Peng flies—how much wonder can be read into that. If we still follow the old reading and treat the Kun Peng as “big” and the wild horses and dust as “small,” the passage neither connects with what came before nor with what follows; how then can we see the author’s power of expression?

“Water must gather to a depth before it can bear a great boat” is a comparison made for the next line about wind. A hollow in the hall is a low spot on the floor. When there is very little water, it can only float a mustard seed; if you put a cup or similar object on it, it sticks and does not move (“胶,” pronounced jiao, means to stick). The Kun Peng is in the sky, and below it is a distance of ninety thousand li; wind rises from valleys and streams and then spreads in vast waves across the four seas. The Kun Peng is above, the wind below—layer upon layer it is “built up” (培) to thickness. Wind must be ninety thousand li thick to count as thick; only when wind is thick to that degree can it support the Kun Peng’s wings. “Bearing the blue sky on its back” means flying extremely high. “Nothing obstructs or cuts short its flight” (莫之夭阏) means there is no hindrance. “Planning to go south” (图南) means intending to migrate from the northern sea toward the south. “图” means to plan or scheme. 蜩 is the cicada; 学鸠 is a young dove sparrow learning to fly. 鸒 (sometimes written 鷽, pronounced yu) is also a small bird—the two characters can be used interchangeably. 决起 means to spread the wings and fly with sudden effort; 抢 means to rush or dash. In its eager flight it tries to reach the tops of elm and sandalwood trees—no more than a zhang or a chi in height—and sometimes it does not even get there, then falls back to the ground. 控 means to drop or fall: “What I can fly is only this much, and sometimes I cannot even reach it; yet the other side would borrow a wind of ninety thousand li to migrate south to the Celestial Pool—what is the use?” (奚以 means “what for,” “why”). The point is: those of shallow insight have narrow minds and do not know how vast heaven, earth, and the world are.

“Those who go to the green wilds take enough food for three meals and return, still full.” “Those who go a hundred li must grind grain overnight.” “Those who go a thousand li must gather provisions for three months.” What can those two small creatures understand? Small understanding cannot match great understanding; a short life cannot match a long life—on what basis do we know this is so? The morning mushroom does not know the dark and light of the month (晦朔); the short-lived cicada does not know spring and autumn—this is “a short year.” South of Chu there is the Dark Spirit (冥灵), for whom five hundred years count as spring and five hundred as autumn. In high antiquity there was the great camphor (大椿), for whom eight thousand years count as spring and eight thousand as autumn. Peng Zu (a figure famed for longevity) is still known today for his long life; when everyone compares themselves to him, is that not pitiable?

The passage contrasts scales of distance, time, and understanding: the Kun Peng needs accumulated wind; small birds need only a meal or a night’s grinding; the morning mushroom and summer cicada live in a “small year”; the Dark Spirit and great camphor live in spans of centuries and millennia. The commentary’s point is that judging the Kun Peng by the standards of the cicada and the dove sparrow misses the text’s argument about different measures of “great” and “small,” near and far, short and long.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Mangcang is open country you can see across at a glance—vast and dim. “I want to go there”: a round trip with only three meals and you’re still hungry—here guo means fruit or fullness; the food hasn’t even been digested yet, which shows how short the journey is.

To go a hundred li away, you must pound grain the night before and set out—you can’t rely on just three meals. To travel a thousand li, you need provisions for three months. These three lines match how far people go with how much they eat: insight can be small or great, and aims near or far. They continue the contrast between Peng and the cicada and dove—how could those small creatures understand Peng? So: small wisdom cannot reach great wisdom; a short life cannot grasp a long life. These lines turn the argument: xiao zhi / da zhi (small knowing / great knowing) closes the Peng-and-birds passage, while xiao nian / da nian (small year / great year) leads into the next set of images.

Chaojun is “great fungus,” also called riji—it grows on dung, sprouts in the morning and dies in sunlight, so it only knows morning and evening, not the month’s cycle from new moon to full. Huiguo is the winter cicada: born in spring and dead in summer, or born in summer and dead in autumn—it never sees all four seasons, hence xiao nian (a small year). Mingling and dachun are tree names in the parable (no need to take them literally): Mingling counts a year only after a thousand years; Dachun only after sixteen thousand years. Pengzu lived eight hundred years and is still famous for longevity—people envy him but cannot match him—another case of seeing only the “small” and not the “great.” Pi here means to envy or try to imitate.

Tang’s question to Ji is the same kind of story (the same tale as “Tang asked Ji”). In the northern qionfa (hairless) land is the minghai, the tianchi (Heavenly Pool). There is a fish thousands of li wide—no one knows how long—called Kun; a bird called Peng, whose back is like Mount Tai and whose wings are like clouds hanging from the sky, tuan xuanfeng yangjiao—rides the whirlwind upward ninety thousand li, pierces the clouds, bears the blue sky, then charts a course south to the Southern Sea.

Chixue (a tiny quail) laughs at it: “Where is it flying? I hop up a few ren and skim the wormwood—that’s the height of flight for me. Where else does it need to go?”

Vernacular Interpretation

On the Distinction Between Great and Small

This passage merely restates what came before and adds another illustration. King Tang once questioned Jie (Xia Jie) about exactly this matter. Jie is a personal name; “是已” means “already is” or “that is so.” Judging from this line, it ought to connect with what follows below, taking the closing remark as the opening of the next thread—this is a subtle device in Zhuangzi’s writing.

“穷发不毛” refers to the far north, where plants do not grow. “扶摇” describes the force of wind; “羊角” likewise names the twisting, spiraling motion of wind. “摶” means to soar in flight. “绝云气” means that nine thousand li up there is no cloud-vapor left. People say that on the summit of Mount Tai the clouds lie below you and thunder sounds like a baby crying. Modern people also say clouds hang only halfway up the sky—that is the idea. “图南” means to plan a journey south, to scheme first how to migrate south and then to go to the southern sea.

“斥” is a small marsh; “斥泽之鷃” is the little bird of such a marsh. “飞之至者” means: I soar only among mugwort and artemisia—that alone is my utmost joy; why must I go anywhere else? The point matches the previous section.

Therefore, those whose knowledge suffices for one office, whose conduct matches one village, whose virtue fits one ruler and who could be summoned to serve one state

Therefore those whose talent is enough for one post, whose conduct can set an example for one village, whose virtue aligns with one lord and who might be recruited to aid one state—they see themselves much like that marsh quail. Yet Song Rongzi still laughed at them.

Song Rongzi (Song Xing) was a Warring States Daoist thinker who advocated “no stirring within the heart, no showing of form outwardly.”

Moreover, though the whole world praised him, he would not be further encouraged; though the whole world condemned him, he would not be further disheartened

Though all the world praised him, he would not be spurred on further; though all the world blamed him, he would not be cast down further. He could fix the boundary between inner and outer and clarify the realm of honor and disgrace—and that was all. Toward the world he was not urgently grasping. Even so, there was still something he had not planted and established.

As for Liezi, who rode the wind

As for Liezi (Lie Yukou, a Daoist recluse), he could ride the wind—light and skillful, excellent indeed—and return only after five days. Toward those who sought blessings he was not urgently grasping. Though this freed him from walking, he still depended on something.

But one who rides the norm of Heaven and Earth and harnesses the transformations of the six qi

But one who rides the norm of Heaven and Earth and harnesses the transformations of the six qi, roaming in the boundless—what would he still depend on? Hence it is said: the perfected person (zhiren) has no fixed self; the spirit person (shenren) accomplishes nothing by design; the sage (shengren) claims no fame.

This is the highest reach of Zhuangzi’s carefree wandering (xiaoyao you): transcending every dependency and arriving at absolute freedom.

Song Rongzi (a Warring States Daoist recluse who valued inner life over honor and disgrace) was already counted among those who “saw things broadly,” yet he still showed a smile. Song Rongzi’s way was this: even if the whole world slandered or praised him, he did not thereby urge himself on or sink into dejection—meaning he did not take others’ praise and blame as real. In his eyes, those in one village or one state scrambling for fame and gain were simply laughable.

Song Rongzi could be like this because he took the heart-mind as “inner” and outer things as “outer”—hence the need to fix the boundary between inner and outer: what lies outside is honor and disgrace; inside the heart there is no honor or disgrace. Once inner and outer are clear, you see that honor and disgrace are all outer circumstances.

“This is enough” (si yi le)—the point is just this: since the heart-mind matters and outer things are light, you do not hustle after worldly affairs. “Shushu” means hurried, fussy calculation over small gains.

Still, even though Song Rongzi could act thus, he had not yet reached the great level of someone who truly “established a school” in the full sense.

As for Liezi (in Daoist lore a immortal who could ride the wind), he could use his body to command the wind and travel in empty space for half a month before returning. When riding the wind he was lingran—cool and lifted—a kind of graceful lightness. Able to go with the wind, he also looked down on those who cultivated body and sought blessing yet still feared falling short—“not shushu” means he would not bustle like ordinary people. People walk on the ground; Liezi walked in the wind. Though he was spared walking, without wind he could not go, so this is still “having something to wait on” (you suo dai)—still depending on a condition.

If a person can ride the correctness of Heaven and Earth, harness Yin-Yang and the six qi of wind, rain, dark and bright, and roam from the beginning where there is no thing without end, then there is nothing to wait on. This is the difference between having traces and having no traces: at the level of no traces, one is called a Perfect Person, a Spirit Person, a Sage. No self, no achievement, no name all mean there is nothing to grab hold of; the three phrases below are praise, and then praise once more.

Yao (an ancient sage king) wanted to yield the realm to Xu You (a recluse) and said: The sun and moon are already out, yet you still do not put out the torch—is it not ugly to compete in brightness with sun and moon? The seasonal rains have already fallen, yet you still water the fields with buckets—is it not wasted effort compared with the rain’s moistening? With you standing, the realm would be settled; I still occupy the throne and feel myself lacking in De—please take the realm.

Xu You said: You govern Heaven (the natural order); I govern myself. Name and reality must match before one can use them; the name is the guest of the reality—you already hold the name “Son of Heaven,” and you still want me in the guest seat? The wren nesting in the forest needs only one branch; the mole drinking needs only enough to fill its belly. Go back—the realm is of no use to me.

When I go to the market and see people painting door gods, that is to ward off evil; you offering me the realm—is that treating me as a door god?

Yao said: Since the world is already well governed, what need is there for me to keep you here? Do you think I am chasing reputation? Reputation is only the follower of what is real—I would not play that follower role. The wren builds its nest in the deep forest yet needs no more than one branch; the mouse that lives in the riverbank comes to drink and fills no more than its belly. Go back and rest; there is no need for the ruler to visit me again. The world is of no use to me—just as in the kitchen one person tends the sacrificial wine (shizhu) and another does the butchering (paoren), each keeping his place; the shizhu does not step over the wine jar and offering stand to wield the cleaver for the cook, so I cannot abandon the way by which I secure my own life in order to govern the world for you.

(In oral exegesis, torch, “when sun and moon already shine one need not hold up a fire,” and “when seasonal rain has fallen one need not carry a jar to water the fields” illustrate that Yao felt the realm was already ordered and summoning Xu You would be redundant. “Shi” is the chief sacrificer; “entrusting the world” means handing the realm over to you. Reputation is not something I sought for myself but something others confer—it lies outside, not in me. Name stands to reality as guest to host; I refuse the guest role because I will not lose my own body-and-life for external things. The wren and the hidden mouse are Xu You’s self-image: sufficiency alone. “Yanshu” is the mouse that lurks in water.)

Jian Wu asked Lian Shu: “I heard something from Jieyu—the Chu recluse who often feigned madness—vast yet without boundary, forward without turning back. I was both afraid and baffled, as if facing the endless Milky Way. His words stray far from ordinary human feeling.” Lian Shu said: “What did he say?” Jian Wu replied: “On Mount Miaoguye—the legendary sacred peak—there lives a spirit being whose skin is chill as ice and snow and whose bearing is light as a maiden’s; he eats no grain, sips wind and dew, rides the clouds and dragons, and roams beyond the four seas. With spirit gathered in unity, he can keep the myriad things from harm and bring the five grains to ripeness. When I heard this I felt almost mad—I could not believe it.” Lian Shu said: “Indeed. The blind cannot join in appreciating patterned splendor; the deaf cannot join in hearing bells and drums—can only the physical form be blind or deaf? Perception and insight have their blindness and deafness too. For people of the age, Jieyu’s words are like explaining the great principle to a woman; with the De of such a person, he would transform and nurture the myriad things and move with heaven and earth—‘such words are still like addressing the woman of the times’—spoken to those who do not understand, they naturally seem as boundless as the river of stars.”

(“Such words are still like addressing the woman of the times”: oral exegesis takes “shi nü” as people of the age or the uncomprehending, meaning such speech is hard for ordinary hearers to enter; “the De of such a person” refers to the spirit being’s virtue of transforming together with the Dao.)

General Meaning of the Scripture (Allegorical Passage)

Some people in the world are so consumed by great affairs of state that they are overwhelmed and exhausted, as though the whole world rested on their shoulders.

Nothing can harm the divine being in the tale. Even when floodwaters rise to the sky, they cannot drown him. Even in a drought so severe that metal and stone melt and earthen hills scorch, he feels no heat. The dust and chaff on his body, it seems, could even be used to fashion sage kings like Yao and Shun. Who would still be willing to make governing the world and ordering its affairs their proper business?

Explanatory Commentary

Shoulder-Wu and Lian-Shu may not have been historical people at all; they are characters in an allegory, so there is no need to force a philosophical meaning out of their names. Although one or two lines in the passage can be explained, not every line makes sense in every detail. “Without a basis” means “with no specific referent, and not to be taken literally.” “It goes forward and does not return” means that such grand claims move only forward, without turning back to address reality.

“Heaven’s River” refers to the Milky Way. “The Milky Way has no limit” means that, in the sky, it seems to have no discernible beginning or end. “A vast gulf” means that two realms are far apart and have nothing in common. “Abundantly so” means “very much so.” “His words are far removed from ordinary human understanding” means that they are not the sort of thing people commonly say.

Mount Miao-guye is a mountain name; “ice and snow” describes purity and radiance. What she cultivates is pure Yang Qi, held in stillness and hidden away, so that she is as composed as ice and snow. Even among Daoist practitioners who cultivate by ingesting Qi today, some can attain a similar state. “Graceful” means gentle and lovely; “maiden” means a virgin. The four lines that follow, beginning “She does not eat…,” describe her miraculous spirit: her Shen is perfectly settled; where she dwells, all things are free from disease, and the crops ripen of themselves. This is probably what Jieyu meant.

“Mad” and “deceive” share the same sense here. Shoulder-Wu thinks these words are deceitful and cannot be trusted. The reply “Yes” means: “You may put it that way, but you were already doubtful and unwilling to believe.”

“Fine patterns can be seen; bells and drums can be heard”: ordinary people can see fine patterns and hear bells and drums, while the blind and deaf have no access to them. This is not only a matter of bodily impairment; the mind, too, can be impaired. Someone with no insight is like a deaf or blind person. They cannot understand these words and take them for nonsense.

Earlier commentators often interpreted “at that time, the maiden” as “the virgin,” but that reading is strained and makes little sense. Here, “maiden” is used for “you”: the question means, “How could people like you understand such words?” Those who preserve their De and let their minds roam beyond the myriad things bring peace to the world of their own accord. Why would they bustle about and make governing the world their personal undertaking?

(The lines “her spirit is whole, she does not eat…” are punctuated differently in some transmitted versions. The explanation above follows the common reading: “her spirit is whole; she does not eat the five grains; where she dwells, there is no disease; the crops ripen of themselves.”)

An Oral Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

1. Wuwei and “seeking order”

The text says that he practices Wuwei (non-action), yet there is nothing he cannot accomplish. The character qi 蘄 has the same meaning as qi 祈, “to seek.” The phrase “those in disorder are brought to order” means that people in the world seek peace for themselves. I need only practice Wuwei; the world will naturally settle itself. Why should I wear myself out? Bi 弊 means wearing oneself out through one’s own efforts.

“Nothing can harm him” means that external things cannot unsettle his inner nature. Even if water rose high enough to flood the sky, he would not drown. Even if a drought were so severe that metal and stone melted and earthen hills were scorched, he would not feel the heat. This describes someone who is at ease everywhere, finding nothing he cannot accept.

Dust, chaff, and scraps are metaphors: if this person were willing to apply even a little of his surplus ability, he could accomplish deeds like those of Yao and Shun. But he is unwilling to spend his attention on worldly affairs. “Things” refers to external things and affairs of the world; “engaging in affairs” means taking them up and managing them. “Molding and casting” means shaping something into form.

Taken on its own, this sentence is precisely what Guo Xiang (Guo Zixuan) called “unorthodox.” But Zhuangzi’s purpose in writing was to look down on worldly Confucian scholars, so at times he put things too strongly. We cannot reject the whole book on the basis of this one sentence. Li Bai expresses a similar idea when he writes, “The deeds of Yao and Shun are nothing to marvel at; do not compare them with the purity of Boyi and Shuqi.”

2. A man from Song selling ceremonial caps in Yue

A man from the state of Song took ceremonial caps called zhangfu to the state of Yue to sell. The people of Yue cut their hair and tattooed their bodies, and had no use for caps or robes, so no one wanted the zhangfu.

Zhuangzi’s point is that the great principles he speaks of are of little use in his own time, when people’s understanding is shallow. There is no point in speaking of them to the people of the world; they are not worth discussing these things with.

3. Yao meets the four sages and “forgets the world”

Yao had brought peace to the people under heaven, and his decrees were carried out throughout the realm. Yet when he went south of the Fen River to visit the “four sages” at Mount Miaoguye, he was bewildered, as though he had forgotten the whole world.

This chapter also shows that once one has seen more widely, one recognizes one’s own limitations. From ancient times to the present, Yao’s governance of the world has often been regarded as the finest. Yet when he met the four sages south of the Fen River, at Mount Miaoguye, he was still left in a daze, as though he had lost himself. How much more so for ordinary people? “Forgetting the world” means forgetting and letting go of one’s attachment to it. Yaoran means bewildered, empty, and distant.

The four sages are unnamed. Some say they were Xu You, Nie Que, Wang Ni, and Bei Yi. Others note that the Classic of Mountains and Seas places Mount Miaoguye overseas, while Fenyang was Yao’s capital. The account of Yao encountering the spirits of Mount Gushe within his own capital is, in fact, a depiction of Yao’s state of mind.

Note: The original is Lin Xiyi’s Song dynasty oral commentary on the Zhuangzi, recorded in the form of notes from spoken lectures. This modern interpretation aims to stay close to its explanations of words and layers of argument. If you would like to compare it with a particular chapter of the original, such as “Free and Easy Wandering,” the chapter title can be specified for a line-by-line comparison.

Oral Meaning (Commentary)

Splitting doctrine into categories such as “one root, two traces, three neither root nor trace, four neither the neither,” and pushing the argument step by step, only makes it more convoluted and stranger the further you go. What is missed is that this is precisely where Zhuangzi is playful and speaks in paradox—he means the reader to weigh the text back and forth for themselves. Earlier commentators often walked straight into the trap he set, which is not enough to really read Zhuangzi. In fact most of it is allegory: people cling to their own views without knowing where they are lost; only someone with great insight can break through that fixation.

Scripture: “Free and Easy Wandering”—Huizi and the Great Gourd

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: The King of Wei gave me a seed for a great gourd (大瓠). I planted it, and the fruit could hold five piculs of water. The shell was so tough that when I filled it with water I could not lift it; when I split it to make a dipper, the huluo—the shallow, wide scoop you get when a gourd is cut open—could not hold much. It was not that it was not big; I thought it useless and smashed it.

Zhuangzi said: Sir, you really do not know how to use “greatness.” In the state of Song there was a man skilled at making bu guishou medicine—ointment that keeps the hands from cracking in winter. His family for generations lived by ping pi xian—washing and bleaching raw silk in water. A traveler heard of this and offered a hundred in gold for the recipe. The household discussed it: “We wash silk generation after generation and earn only a few in gold; sell the secret once and we get a hundred—sell it to him.” The traveler got the formula, went to persuade the King of Wu. When Yue invaded, the king put him in command of the army; in winter they fought the Yue on the water and routed them, and he was rewarded with a fief. The same “hands that do not crack” medicine—one man became a lord, another washed silk all his life. The difference was how it was used.

Now you have a great gourd that holds five piculs—why not think of making a da zun, a large floating vessel tied at the waist to drift on rivers and lakes? (There is a saying: “midstream, a lost boat—a single flask worth a thousand in gold.”) Yet you worry that the huluo is shallow and useless—clearly, sir, your heart still has peng in it—the narrowness of a grass stem.

Note: The oral meaning already glosses characters such as 瓠, 瓢, 掊, and 洴澼絖; in plain language the terms are marked in parentheses. Huizi prizes “usefulness” and destroys the great gourd; Zhuangzi counters with the same medicine used to different ends and the great gourd as a floating vessel, mocking him for clumsiness with the large and a mind trapped in utility.

Plain-Language Reading of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Meaning of the True Scripture of Southern Florescence)

I. Oral Meaning on the Passage about the “Great Gourd”

Someone says: With a gourd this large, why not think of making it into a float for crossing a river? “Why not consider it?” (he bu lu) means: How did your mind fail to reach that layer of meaning?

“Thatched heart” (peng xin) is like mugwort clogging the heart’s aperture—it means a mind that is blocked and not broad. The point of this passage, again, is the same: you see only small uses and do not know how to use what is great.

II. Huizi and Zhuangzi Debate the “Great Tree”

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: I have a great tree that people call chū (a foul tree like the stinking toon). Its main trunk is gnarled and swollen; inked cord and carpenter’s line cannot straighten it; its small branches twist and curl—compass and square cannot fit them. It stands by the roadside, and carpenters do not even glance at it. Nowadays your words are likewise big and useless; people will reject you just as they reject that tree.

Zhuangzi said: Have you never seen the civet cat and the wildcat? They crouch low and lie in wait for roaming prey; they dash east and west, never avoiding high or low, and end up caught in a trigger device or dead in a net. Now look at the máo ox (great ox): as large as a cloud hanging from the sky—truly huge—yet it cannot catch a rat. Today you have a great tree and fear it is useless. Why not plant it in the “Land of Nothing-Whatever” and the “Vast Wilds of Emptiness”—that broad, open place that seems to have nothing at all? Wander beside that realm of non-action (wuwei); lie down in that ground of carefree wandering (xiaoyao). With no axe coming to chop it early, and with nothing among the myriad things that harms people, then there is no need to fuss over “useful” and “useless”—how could you still be worn down by hardship?

III. Glosses and Point of the Oral Meaning

• Chū: name of a foul, worthless tree.
• Great trunk (da ben): the tree’s main stem.
• Swollen and gnarled (yong zhong): tangled, like goiters or lumps.
• Does not meet cord and line, square and compass: it cannot serve as proper lumber.
• Plant it on the road (li zhi tu): set it by the path. Tu here equals “road.” Huizi is using the great tree as a figure for Zhuangzi’s words: big talk that does not fit practical use.

• Civet and wildcat (li, sheng): fox-like creatures. Roaming ones (ao zhe): things wandering about for food. They watch and pounce; when they leap they do not avoid high or low—small and crafty types that, once they meet triggers or nets, lose their lives. Bi: pattern or norm; ji bi means triggers and mechanisms.

• Lí ox (li niu): the máo ox, enormous, yet unable to catch mice like a civet or cat. The meaning: in the world large and small differ; you cannot treat everything large as useless.

• Land of Nothing-Whatever, Vast Wilds of Emptiness: within the creative transformation of nature and the utmost Way, there is naturally a place to settle the body and find joy. If you rush about in the human world, fortune often trails disaster; if you soar high and far and take joy in the Way, though “useless” in worldly terms, harm cannot be added—this is what those who withdraw (into reclusion) say: the saw and axe cannot touch you, and order and chaos cannot drag you in.

Closing thread: The oral meaning reads the gourd passage and the tree passage together. Both train the same eye: Huizi and the craftsmen of the age recognize only “use” within cord, line, square, and compass; Zhuangzi wants people to see beyond useful and useless there is another margin called “nothing-whatever”—only there can one speak of carefree wandering (xiaoyao) and of not being trapped.

Huizi (惠施 Huishi, a debater contemporary with Zhuangzi) and Zhuangzi (the Daoist thinker) exchange questions and answers much like the riddles and enigmatic sayings people use today—hinting at meaning without spelling everything out.

One can put it this way: what is never struck by axe or adze—what has no “use” for the myriad things and draws no harm upon itself—how could it suffer on that account?

Later readers seized on this strand of thought and spun it out in essay after essay, yet the whole point was already there in those few lines.