《南華真經口義》Vol. 10

Nieque went to Wang Ni for instruction and asked four questions; Wang Ni answered all four with “I don’t know.” Nieque was so pleased that he ran to tell Puyizi.

Puyizi said, “Do you understand now? Youyushi could not match Taishi. Youyushi kept benevolence hidden in his heart and used it to win people over—he could gain their hearts, yet he had still not stepped beyond the realm of the ‘non-human’ (that is, Heaven). Taishi, when he slept, was easy and at ease; when he woke, he was free and unhurried. Sometimes he took himself for a horse, sometimes for an ox, and let people say what they would. His knowing was genuinely trustworthy, his virtue plain and natural—and he too had still not entered the realm of the ‘non-human.’”

(Note: Four questions and four “I don’t knows”—much like the Vimalakirti Sutra’s idea of taking silence as the gate of non-duality. Puyizi may be the same figure as “Piyi” (draped in robes); names in Zhuangzi are often invented and need not be pressed for historical identity. Nieque’s joy comes from grasping the point of “not speaking.” Youyushi used benevolence to bind hearts and could win people, but that is only “taking Heaven as one’s companion”—not yet “rising above the non-human”; the non-human is Heaven. Taishi lying down is leisurely, waking is easy; whether called horse or ox he accepts it; what he knows is real principle, his virtue utterly natural—at that point the word “Heaven” is no longer adequate; he is yielding to nature yet also above creation and transformation, hence “had not yet entered the non-human.” The earlier “rising above” and the later “entering” are Zhuangzi’s verbal craft. The way of emperors and kings is simply to yield to nature; that is the point of the chapter title “Responding to Emperors and Kings.”)

Plain-Language Reading

Jian Wu said: Jie Jieyu told me that if a ruler takes himself as the standard, sets up norms and rules of conduct, and uses them to transform the people, who would dare not obey or fail to be moved?

Jie Jieyu said: That is deceiving oneself about De; it is not genuine virtue. To govern the world in this way is as absurd as trying to cross the sea, dig a river, and have a mayfly carry a mountain on its back.

When a sage governs, if he only works on the “outer form”: first straightening names and titles and then acting, thinking he has done everything that ought to be done—that is all there is to it.

Birds fly high to escape nets and arrows; xi mice dig deep holes under sacred mounds to escape smoke and digging. Yet you (meaning that kind of ruler who “makes the body the law”) lack even the instinctive wisdom of those two small creatures—they at least know that where there are traces there is burden, while you cannot achieve transformation through Wuwei (non-action); instead you leave traces everywhere. That is the folly of not knowing; you are worse off than those insects.

(Commentary on the meaning)

Jian Wu first met Rizhong Shi, then met Jie Jieyu, so Jie Jieyu questions him using the “way of governing” that Jian Wu had relayed.

• Jing, shi, yi: Jing is constant law; shi is formal pattern; yi is what is fitting in handling affairs. “Jing, shi, and yi all come from oneself” means taking one’s own body and conduct as the model for the world.
• Du ren: to transform the people; using “body-as-law” to transform the world is why the text says “using norms, patterns, and fitting conduct that issue from oneself to measure/transform people.” The phrasing parallels expressions like “harmony and ease” elsewhere.
• Du: read like “to ferry across.” Who says the people will not listen or be transformed? The point is: on that account, everyone would obey and be moved—Jie Jieyu holds that this is wrong.
• Qi de (“deceiving De”): fooling oneself; not truly possessing virtue.
• She hai, zao he, wen fu shan: metaphors for how hard it is to govern the world by “legislating patterns” and “body-as-teaching.” Digging a river is like the great work of opening the nine rivers.
• Zhi wai: transforming in the heart leaves no trace; transforming in the body leaves traces. “Correct first, then act” means acting in accord with the principle of nature and life; “one who can complete the task” means finishing what is naturally to be done; que hu means resolute, settled decision—if a sage governs like this, he only acts with this kind of fixed resolve.

Zhuangzi champions Wuwei, so he speaks this way, in contrast to the Confucian approach.

The bird-and-mouse analogy: whatever has visible traces necessarily burdens itself. Unable to carry out wordless transformation yet falling into traces everywhere is folly—worse than those two creatures. The two creatures are the bird and the mouse. Shen qiu means a sacred mound or holy knoll.

Another passage: Tian Gen and the Nameless One

Tian Gen was traveling at Yin Yang and came to the banks of the Liao River, where he met the Nameless One and asked, “May I ask how to govern the world?”

The Nameless One said, “Away! You vulgar fellow—what an improper question! I am about to join the Maker of Things in creating people; when I grow weary of that, I will ride the vast obscure bird and fly beyond the six extremes, to wander in the Village of Nowhere…”

Again Tian Gen asked: Since you already dwell in the realm of “being” and abide in the vast, boundless wilds, why must you still set your mind on governing the world?

These words stirred my heart, and Tian Gen questioned me once more. The Nameless One said: Let the mind roam in simplicity and detachment; let Qi (vital energy) merge with the vast and formless; follow the natural course of all things and keep no private designs in the heart—the world will then settle of its own accord.

To ask “how to govern the world” is already not the path of Wuwei (non-action) by which things are accomplished, so it sounded like an ordinary person’s question and left me displeased—“buyu” means the heart is not at ease.

“Living with the Creator as a human being” means living in the world while conforming to the Creator’s natural order. The earlier “satisfied,” “content,” and “full” mean that once one is content and replete in human life, one should roam beyond the work of the Creator—that is the place where vast, remote, formless Qi (vital energy) gathers. “The village of nowhere” and “the boundless wild” both point to the utmost void and the limitless. “Hebo” (or written “hebo”) means “why” or “for what reason.”

Tian Gen’s question about governing the world stirred my heart, hence my displeasure; here “gan” means to touch or move one. The character “bo” in some editions (e.g. Cui’s) reads “wei,” also meaning “why.” “Dan” is simplicity and detachment; “mo” is the vast, formless realm. Here “qi” is close to “xing” (nature): when heart and nature alike accord with the natural, it is called roaming the heart in simplicity and merging qi in the vast. The earlier line “do not listen with the heart; listen with qi” can likewise be read with “qi” as “xing.” Follow the Creator’s nature and admit no private self, and the world is at peace—why insist on “acting for the world”? Once there is private intent, it is no longer natural. This is the Nameless One’s frank reply after Tian Gen’s second question. Since the name is “Nameless,” the personal names before and after are largely fictitious; hence the later talk of “yuyan” (allegory) and “zhongyan” (weighty words)—borrowing Huang Di, Kongzi, Yanzi, Kuang Jieyu, and the like to state one’s view is called zhongyan; figures such as the Nameless One, Tian Gen, and Puyizi are yuyan.

Yang Ju went to see Laozi and asked:

There is someone quick in response, strong in sinew and bone, penetrating in grasp of things, clear and open in mind, and tireless in studying the Dao—can such a person compare to an enlightened king?

Laozi said: For a sage, this is merely someone who trades on skill for a living, is tied by technique, wears out the body, and startles the spirit.

“In the eyes of a sage, it amounts to no more than this.” “Xu yi ji xi” means exchanging petty skills and being bound by them; “lao xing chu xin” means exhausting the form and disturbing the heart. What follows—“the patterned hide of tiger and leopard draws the hunt, the agility of ape and monkey leads to capture, the hunting dog’s prowess is led out on a leash”—is a metaphor: tiger and leopard suffer for their markings, monkeys for their cleverness, skilled hounds for their ability—having a “strong point” becomes the very reason for entanglement. The same holds for one who is quick, forceful, penetrating, and clear while studying the Dao without rest: admirable yet also at risk, hence no fit likeness to an “enlightened king.” (“Er ye” means “and that is all.”)

Someone asked: “Can a person like that be compared to an Illumined King?”

Yangzi Ju quickly pressed further: “May I ask how an Illumined King governs the world?”

Laozi said: “In the governance of an Illumined King, his achievements cover the world, yet it seems as though he himself is not doing the work; he transforms and nurtures the myriad people, yet the people do not depend on him or take credit for themselves; no one nominates or names him, and he lets all things delight in themselves; he stands in what cannot be fathomed and wanders in the realm of non-being.”

Commentary

This passage has Zhuangzi use Yangzi Ju’s question to Laozi about the realm of the “Illumined King’s governance.” Earlier, someone had boasted of mastering the Way and outstanding talent; Yangzi Ju seized the moment to ask what an Illumined King is like.

The “Illumined King” Laozi speaks of is not the sort of ruler whose merit towers above all and whom the people thank and praise, but rather one who:

• Achievements cover the world yet seem not to be his own—merit spreads everywhere, yet it is as if he is not the one doing it
• Transforms and nurtures the myriad people while they do not depend on him—he nurtures the people, yet they neither lean on him nor congratulate themselves
• No one nominates or names him—no one puts him forward or calls him by a title; the people do not even know what to call him
• Lets all things delight in themselves—allows each thing to find its own joy
• Stands in what cannot be fathomed and wanders in non-being—stands where nothing can be measured and roams in the domain of nothingness

This is the realm of “governing through wuwei (non-action),” set against the boast that one is “quick to learn and able to practice,” “penetrating in every matter with empty clarity”—such gifted, meritorious people are like tigers and leopards hunted for their pelts, or raccoon-dogs bound because they are good at hunting: ability inevitably draws trouble. What can truly be compared to an Illumined King is the state in which achievement is complete yet one does not dwell on it, and one transforms the people without seeking to be praised.

Plain-Language Reading of Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi (Oral Commentary on the Southern Flower Scripture)

I. General Remarks on the Chapter “He Who Would Be King”

Earlier it was said: “Though I have no merit by which to be named, things each find their own joy”—meaning that though one has no fame or achievement to speak of, the myriad things naturally each attain their delight. It is like what Han Yu meant by “each person finds ease beyond the rivers and lakes.”

“Unfathomable” means beyond measure and beyond guessing; it is the pair “non-being” and “being” standing in the unfathomable—roaming within non-being. Zhuangzi’s style is largely of this kind. The passages above all unfold the theme of this chapter, “He Who Would Be King.”

II. Liezi Meets the Spirit-Medium Jixian

In the state of Zheng there was a spirit-medium named Jixian, who could foretell a person’s death, life, survival, perishing, misfortune, blessing, longevity, early death, and the year, month, and day when the great limit would arrive—accurate as a spirit. When the people of Zheng saw him, they fled in fear.

Liezi (an important figure in the Daoist tradition, who often appears in Zhuangzi) met Jixian, was charmed and convinced, and on returning told his teacher Huzi (壶子): “At first I thought the Master’s Dao had reached the highest; now I know there is something still higher.”

Huzi said: “What I just showed you was only outward adornment; I had not yet shown you the inner substance. You fancy you have attained the Dao, but you have not truly attained it. You have only the female without the male—how can you hatch an egg? You take your Dao to contend with the world, and insist that others believe you; that is why someone could spy out your traces.”

Points for reading:

• “Only the pattern, not yet the substance” — seeing the surface, not the core.
• “Only the female among the flock, without the male” — only a yielding, yin aspect, no yang firmness; metaphor for having no fixed mind, hence no trace to find.
• “Taking the Dao to contend with the world” — believing one’s Dao surpasses others and demanding belief; that is where traces appear and where one has not yet reached the realm of transformation.

III. First Showing to Jixian: Du De Ji (Sealed Virtue’s Mechanism)

Huzi had Liezi bring Jixian again the next day to observe him. The next day Liezi and Jixian saw Huzi come out; Jixian said to Liezi: “Alas! Your teacher is dying; he cannot live—he will not last ten days or half a month. I see him in a strange state, like damp ash.”

Liezi went in, tears on his breast, and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now I showed him di wen (earth’s pattern—stillness and centered holding). Meng hu bu zhen bu zheng—barely stirring, neither upright nor awry. He probably saw my Du De Ji (the mechanism of virtue sealed shut—the look of hidden vitality).”

“Damp ash” — vitality nearly spent; like ash soaked wet, the fire about to die.

IV. Second Showing: Tian Rang (Between Heaven and Earth)

The next day Liezi brought Jixian again. When they left, Jixian said to Liezi: “Fortunate! The Master has a slight sign of recovery; he may live.”

Liezi reported this to Huzi. Huzi said: “Earlier I showed him tian rang (the space between heaven and earth—the image of yin and yang joining). Ming zai ru chu—the name lies in entering and exiting (vitality stirring, as from death into life); dao zai teng chuo—the Dao is in leaping and bounding (surging life). He likely saw my Shan Qi Ji (the pivot of wholesome Qi—the mechanism where living breath shows itself).”

V. Third Showing: Tai Chong (Great Vacuity)

The next day they met Huzi again. On leaving, Jixian said to Liezi: “Good! The Master has auspicious signs today! He sits without moving, yet changes without limit—I have gauged him.”

Liezi told Huzi. Huzi said: “Earlier I showed him Tai Chong (great vacuous harmony). Mo sheng mo ying—neither to be overcome nor to win; no image of opposition. He likely saw my Heng Qi Ji (balanced Qi mechanism—yin and yang in tune).”

VI. Fourth Showing: Wei Shi Chu Wu Zong (Not Yet Revealing My Root)

The next day they met Huzi again. Jixian stood with him, not yet settled, then lost himself and ran away. Huzi said: “After him!”

Liezi could not catch him and reported to Huzi. Huzi said: “Earlier I showed him wei shi chu wu zong (not yet revealing my root): I was empty with him as with non-being, weiyi (winding and changing) without knowing who one is, yin yi wei feng (following things like wind on objects). Ruo ran zhe (one who is thus)—wu he lei yu ming (how could outer things burden one’s nature and life)?”

“Not yet revealing my root” — the fundamental is still undisclosed: one shows vacuity and formlessness, change without fixed pattern; Jixian could not measure it, so he fled in confusion.

VII. Huzi on the Dao

Liezi thought he had attained the Dao, but had not seen the real thing. Huzi’s four showings to Jixian were, in order:

Core idea: One who has attained the Dao can display every sort of appearance yet has no fixed form; one who has not attained leaves traces, so the spirit-medium can read them. Huzi’s final showing—“not yet revealing my root”—is the root of vacuity and wuwei (non-action); Jixian could not fathom it, so he left.

This passage makes clear: the true Dao is formless; where there are traces, it is not the real. One in the realm of transformation can show death, life, and change while the heart is unburdened by things.

“Diwen” (Earth Pattern) is also a term used in Daoist inner observation: it describes something that seems about to sprout yet has not truly sprouted—meaning “almost budding but not yet budding.” “Buzhen” (not quaking) means not stirring; “buzheng” (not fixing) means you cannot nail things down with a single fixed verdict or cling to one definitive statement. This “not fixing” matches the “wu zheng” (do not fix) in Mencius’s “there must be effort, but do not fix on an outcome”: apply the mind and act, but do not stare at a “correct” result.

Because there seems to be a slight stirring yet no visible movement, the spirit-diviner Ji Ji took it for damp ash—live embers nearly gone out, fire still there but seeming to die. Du Deji (Closing the Virtue Mechanism) is likewise a name in inner observation: du means to seal and hold down, ji the living pivot where life stirs; when you shut the gate of that life-force and keep it from running wild, it looks as if there is still a trace of vitality and also as if it is about to go out. Ji Ji concluded that Liezi’s teacher Master Hu (Huzi) “no longer seemed like a living man.”

The next day they came again. After meeting Master Hu, Ji Ji said to Liezi: Your master has run into me this time—his ailment is improving; he looks fully alive. I saw him in Duquan (sealed authority).

Liezi went in and told Master Hu. Master Hu said: What I just showed him was “Tianrang” (Heaven’s Soil)—again a name in inner observation. Tianrang: soil of heaven—not the “soil” people plow on earth, but soil in the sense of what is naturally so. Later cultivators often liken the tip of the tongue to Tianjin (Heavenly Ford) and the crown to Niwan (Mud Pellet) and the like, as images of life stirring upward from below. “Mingshi bu ru” (name and reality do not enter) means neither the side of being nor of non-being sticks in the mind; “ji fa yu zhong” (the mechanism issues from the heel) means qi faintly activates from the heel end, too fine to see—hence ji (mechanism). “Shanzhe ji” (the adept’s mechanism) is that almost-moving, barely detectable pivot in one’s nature.

Another day passed; Liezi brought Ji Ji again. Ji Ji came out and told Liezi: Your master is “not aligned” this time—I cannot read him. When he has tuned body and mind into alignment, bring me back to divine him.

Liezi went in and reported. Master Hu said: What I just showed him was “Taichong Mo Sheng” (the Great Surge none can master)—still an observation name. Taichong is the great void, supreme emptiness; mo sheng is that nothing can grasp or pin it down. When it reaches “heng qi ji” (balanced qi mechanism)—level, halfway—the qi has moved only to the point of “half level, half still,” half motion and half quiet. What Ji Ji saw was the stir of qi within that “balanced level.”

The shaman thought things were not whole

The shaman took Liezi (or the state Huzi displayed) to be not whole—half in motion and half still, the mind unsettled, impossible to pin down.

“Ni Huan’s true guan is an abyss; still water’s true guan is an abyss; flowing water’s true guan is an abyss”; the abyss has nine names, and here are three

• Ni Huan (the shadow of a great fish), still water, and flowing water are all spoken of here as a kind of guan (observation, contemplative seeing), while the ancients used yuan (the deep abyss) as a metaphor.
• The abyss has nine names (nine modes of depth); only three are named here.
• Later Buddhist discourse often lists many kinds of guan; the ancients grouped them under yuan, much as people today speak of twelve kinds of contemplation in Guanyin.
• Shen here means truly, genuinely: Ni Huan truly is one guan, still water truly one guan, flowing water truly one guan.
• Only at this point does Huzi make it plain: what had overawed the shaman were these “abysses”; I have nine depths, and now show only three—meaning the subtlety is not yet fully told.
• Some read shen as pan (coiled) and argue from the Liezi that all nine abyss-names appear there, so Liezi surpasses Zhuangzi—that may miss the point. If all nine abysses were exhausted here, it would hardly count as marvelous writing; what could be said fully is left unsaid—that is Zhuangzi’s art; those steeped in it can feel it.
• This chapter originally had four sections; placing “the nine names of the abyss” here and linking to the fourth section is a deliberate expansion and contraction in the structure.

Another day the shaman came again; the next day Liezi brought him to Huzi once more. Huzi stood there, his bearing unsettled; the shaman lost his nerve and ran.

Huzi said, “Chase him!” Liezi could not catch up and reported back. Huzi said: It has already vanished, already dispersed—you cannot overtake him. What I just showed him was the aspect that ‘has not yet revealed my root’—I met him empty and without fixed form, yielding and bending with every change (xu er weiyi). He did not know what I was at all; he only felt as if thatch blown flat by the wind (maomi) or waves rushing onward (boliu)—so he fled.

• Already vanished, already lost: the trace cannot be seized.
• Not yet having brought out my zong (root teaching): still one label among the “guan.” Xu: empty, not clinging to appearance. Weiyi: to follow along, to bend and respond to things. Seeming to be nothing yet seeming to be something—hence not knowing who or what he is (bu zhi qi she he).
• Maomi: pulled down, overwhelmed. Boliu: vast, surging flow. The shaman said Huzi looked not whole; he saw only being dragged down and a roaring flood, and fled in terror.

Liezi then decided he had not truly entered the door. He went home and for three years did not go out; he fired the stove and cooked for his wife; he fed the pigs as reverently as if serving guests; in human affairs he strove to “neither join in nor meddle”; he stripped ornament and returned to plainness; he stood like a lump of earth, guarding only this bodily form; he sealed himself amid turmoil—and in that way he lived out his life.

(This is Liezi’s state after awakening: holding to simplicity and embracing the One—the outer form remains, but inwardly he has drawn apart from worldly business.)

The preceding passage (on how the “spirit person” or perfected person moves through the world)

When cooking for his wife, he busies himself at the cauldron and stove yet does not put himself “on display”: at meals he treats the pig as he would a person, and in speech he keeps his spirit turned inward, with no outward craftiness. He need not meddle in every affair personally—though he acts, it is as if he did not know it, as if it were not he who did it. Having carved and polished cleverness, he returns to plain simplicity (that is what is meant earlier by “sloughing off the limbs and smearing away cleverness”); he stands alone in his bodily form, lump-like, like a wooden puppet. Borderlands, corners, and complexity have all faded for him—the form is already like a puppet, so how could there remain so many boundaries and sharp edges? Living this way for a lifetime is what “taking this as the way to the end” means.

The following passage (Zhuangzi again expounds Wuwei and “using the mind like a mirror”)

Here Zhuangzi again exhausts the meaning of Wuwei (non-action):

As for “name as corpse”: corpse here means the one who presides and holds charge. Not letting fame be one’s master is what it means to be good at not clinging to reputation. As for “storehouse of schemes”: storehouse means where things are gathered and kept. The earlier line “do not covet affairs, do not scheme” is the same idea—not using cleverness to hoard plots; when the mind schemes, it gathers in one place; when scheming is possible one schemes, when there is nothing to apply the mind to, one does not—hence being the Wuwei storehouse of schemes. As for “entrustment in affairs”: affairs cannot be left undone, yet one does not take affairs upon oneself as personal burden—hence Wuwei entrustment in affairs. As for “master of knowing”: a person cannot be wholly without intelligence, yet one does not let knowing be the master—hence Wuwei master of knowing.

When the mind has something it takes as master, partiality arises. These four “non-” teachings are meant to stop grasping and holding; they share one spirit with the “four don’ts” in the Analects, and should be pondered carefully.

“Embodying what is inexhaustible, roaming where there is no beginning”: zhen means sign or beginning; “no beginning” means no starting point. Seeing the Dao to the point of fullness yet without end, the mind roams at the beginning where there is no thing.

“Fully exhausting what one receives from Heaven without seeing it as gain”: the principle Heaven gives me, I can fully live it out, yet I do not regard it as something obtained; if one sees gain, one falls into traces. The Buddhist scripture’s “speaking of awakening in light of illusion is also like this” means the same thing.

Having unfolded the teaching this far, he gathers it with the single word “empty”—this closing line carries great weight: emptiness is naturalness, without clinging anywhere.

“The perfected person’s use of mind is like a mirror”: neither offering nor rejecting in advance, responding yet not storing—therefore able to prevail over things without being harmed. The sage’s mind is like a mirror: not actively courting, not deliberately turning away; when something comes, one responds; when the response is past, nothing is kept—so one can master outer things without being injured by them.

This passage conveys two main ideas: first, it uses the metaphor of a mirror to illustrate the state of mind of a perfected person (zhiren), and second, it employs the fable of Hundun (Chaos) to expound the principle of returning to primordial simplicity.

The first part employs the mirror analogy: A mirror reflects all things without rejecting what comes or clinging to what goes, presenting reality exactly as it is without attachment. The mind of a perfected person—one who has attained the Dao—functions similarly, engaging with all phenomena without fixation, thereby transcending external things without being harmed by them. This exemplifies how the Dao of Heaven (natural law) prevails effortlessly without contention. Zhuangzi's mirror metaphor vividly explains the previously mentioned concept of "xu" (empty luminosity of mind)—while the phrasing appears simple, it contains profound subtlety.

The second part recounts the fable of Hundun's perforation: The ruler of the Southern Sea was named Shu (Swift), the ruler of the Northern Sea was named Hu (Sudden), and the ruler of the Center was named Hundun (Chaos). Shu and Hu often visited Hundun, who treated them generously. Wishing to repay his kindness, they observed that all humans possess seven apertures (eyes, ears, mouth, nostrils) for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing, while Hundun lacked them. They thus drilled one aperture each day for him, but on the seventh day, Hundun died.

This allegory employs hyperbole to show how intellectual cleverness can become a burden to the body. The admonition to "discard limbs and abolish cleverness" means returning to the state of primordial chaos. Just as infants possess sensory organs yet lack discriminating consciousness—maintaining complete chaotic wholeness—the moment knowledge and discrimination arise with their attendant emotions and preferences, it's as if apertures have been drilled into chaos. Mencius' statement that "the great person does not lose the heart of a newborn child" describes precisely this unperforated state of chaos. Zhuangzi expresses this through seemingly bizarre yet profoundly meaningful imagery.

Finally, the text notes the structure of the Zhuangzi text: comprising thirty-two chapters divided into inner and outer sections. The seven inner chapters all bear three-character titles (like "Free and Easy Wandering"), while outer chapters take their names from opening words (similar to the Analects' "Learning" or "Governing"). In truth, there's no substantive difference in philosophical depth between inner and outer chapters—this arrangement primarily serves to inspire later readers. However, as the outer chapters contain more digressive passages, some consider them less refined than the concise inner chapters.

Some readers arrange their study of the Zhuangzi according to the titles of the seven inner chapters, in sequence: one must first attain “free and easy wandering” (xiaoyaoyou), and only then can one discuss “equalizing things” (qiwulun); once things are equalized, one should cultivate the self—hence “nourishing life” (yangsheng zhu); when that theme is exhausted, one walks in the human world—hence “human affairs in the world” (renjian shi); walking the world, one draws others toward oneself—hence “signs of full virtue” (de chong fu), inner virtue fulfilled and outwardly attested; when people take one as teacher while one takes the Dao as teacher, one reaches “the great lineage master” (da zong shi); possessing this Dao, one can be teacher to kings—hence “responding to emperors and kings” (ying diwang).

This way of reading can be made to work, but such forced sequencing yields little real insight; moreover, it is not the same approach as the Zhouyi’s “sequence of hexagrams” (xugua), which explains prior and posterior order among the hexagrams. To read the Zhuangzi well is not mainly about this; one must attend to the character “you” (again, further)—the brush moves from inexhaustible sources, and the reading is exhilarating.

In reading any text, what matters most is where each piece lands. The seven chapters above each conclude differently: Free and Easy Wandering ends on “useful and useless”; Equalizing Things ends on “dreaming of the butterfly” and transformation of things; Nourishing Life ends on “passing on the fire” (fuel and flame handed on); Signs of Full Virtue ends on “hard and white sounding forth” (the dispute over hard and white and reputation); Human Affairs in the World ends on “Fate, indeed!”—from here, each chapter has its own distinct aim. When all seven are finished, he deliberately composes the tale of Shu, Hu, and Hundun as a summation, saying “on the seventh day Hundun died.” Consider such pivotal structure (jizhou)—is it not extraordinary?

The Doctrine of the Mean (Zhongyong) opens with the three lines beginning “what Heaven mandates is called nature” and closes above with “how vast is Heaven’s bearing—without sound or smell”—already the utmost; that too is the text’s pivot. Ordinary readers simply fail to see through it. Long ago, while attending my late teacher’s lectures on the Spring and Autumn Annals, when we reached “the qilin was captured at Xi,” the teacher said: “At its utmost, even the sage knows what he does not know.” So there he laid down his brush and wrote no more. That evening after class, walking in the west corridor, he suddenly asked: “How did you read today’s passage on ‘capturing the qilin’?” Xiyi answered: “I would resolve it with the Zhongyong line ‘what the sage does not know’—something no other commentator had proposed.” Yet the Spring and Autumn classic begins with “the king’s first month” and ends with “the qilin captured at Xi”; had one more line been added below, the Master would not have written it either. The teacher asked: “How so?” Xiyi said: “With such a concluding line, how could another be added?” The teacher gave no reply and left. Late at night I knocked on Uncle Qiu Boyi’s door: “How about it?” (The teacher) had said: with such a concluding line, how could another be added?

In a certain master’s lineage, someone remarked that Su Weng had an exceptional grasp of the Spring and Autumn Annals. Several of us friends had also studied the Spring and Autumn for many years, yet we had never reached such penetrating insight. The talk was so lively that we did not break up until midnight. Two days later, Elder Bo Yiqiu brought the matter up again in conversation with Xiyi.