《南華真經口義》Vol. 11

Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Meaning of the True Classic of Southern Florescence), Volume 11, Outer Chapter “Pian Mu” (Cleft Toe) — Plain-Language Reading

Yizhai Lin Xiyi

Text of the Scripture

“A cleft toe or an extra finger grows from one’s nature, yet it is excess compared to De; a hanging wen or tubercle grows from the form, yet it is excess compared to nature. Those who deploy elaborate schemes of benevolence and righteousness as if listing them among the five viscera are not aligned with the true norm of Dao and De.”

The “pian mu” (cleft big toe) beside the great toe, the “zhi zhi” (extra finger) beside a finger—are we to call these issued from xing (nature)? They are only more than what others have. Hanging wens and tubercles—are we to call them issued from the xing (form)? They too are surplus on top of nature. Benevolence and righteousness come in many elaborate forms; those who treat them like internal organs arranged in the chest and apply them outward are likewise not the natural right way of Dao and De.

Mu means the great toe; zhi means finger. Pian means joined or doubled; zhi (here) means growing to the side. What one is born with together is called xing (nature); what everyone equally receives is called De (Virtue/Power). Pian mu and zhi zhi are pathological: they belong to what nature produces, yet they are “more” than the portion everyone shares—hence chi (superfluity). Here the uses of “xing” and “De” differ slightly from ordinary sage books. Fu zhui and xuan you are also ailments: pian mu and zhi zhi are present from birth; wens and tubercles appear only after the body has formed—hence “issued from form yet excessive relative to nature.”

Duo fang means many schemes and many threads. Yong means applying outward. Lie yu wu zang means as if a special place among the five viscera were set aside for benevolence and righteousness. Fei dao de zhi zheng means not the original face of Dao and De. Gaozi said righteousness lies outside the heart-mind; Zhuangzi treats even benevolence as something external. Calling benevolence and righteousness crooked, and pairing them with “cleverness,” alike oppose cultivating only the inner life—so benevolence, righteousness, and cleverness all feel like meddling. Duo fang is much the same as duo shi (making trouble).

“Therefore one who is ‘cleft’ in clarity disorders the five colors and overdresses patterns—are not the blazing hues of azure, yellow, and brocade emblematic? That is Li Zhu. One who is ‘excess’ in hearing disorders the five tones and overdrives the six pitch standards—are not the sounds of metal, stone, silk, bamboo, the yellow bell and great tube emblematic? That is Music Master Kuang. One who branches in benevolence uproots De and blocks nature to harvest reputation, making the world drum and buzz after standards they cannot reach—is that not so? That is Zeng and Shi Qiu. One who is ‘cleft’ in disputation piles tiles and knots cords, hunts phrases, and lets the mind wander among ‘hard and white’ and ‘same and different’—are not shallow, useless words worn threadbare as treasure emblematic? That is Yang and Mo. Hence these are all ways of many clefts and side branches—not the utmost rectitude under heaven.”

Pian yu ming: an extra “brightness” on the eyes. Stirring the five colors and overusing ornament—azure, yellow, and patterned brocade dazzling the eyes—is that not the case? So it was with Li Zhu (legendary man of keen sight). Duo yu cong: an extra “acuity” on the ears. Stirring the five tones and overusing the six standards—metal, stone, silk, bamboo, yellow bell and great tube sounding without end—is that not the case? So it was with Music Master Kuang.

Zhi yu ren: a side branch on “benevolence.” Uprooting De and damming nature only to net fame, making everyone under heaven clang gongs and beat drums to follow norms they cannot attain—is that not so? So it was with Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (Confucian figures famed for ritual devotion). Pian yu bian: an extra lump on disputation. Heaping methods like “piled tiles” and “knotted cords” for record-keeping, picking at clauses, spending the heart-mind on “hard-white” and “same-different” (famous disputations of the Logicians), treasuring short, useless talk worn to rags—is that not so? So it was with Yang Zhu and Mozi (leading thinkers of the Warring States). Thus all these are paths of many clefts and lateral branches—not the great straightness of the world.

Five colors, patterns, azure-yellow brocade: ancients used them to nourish the eyes; Zhuangzi still criticizes men like Li Zhu for overstraining sight. Huang gu: drumming and buzzing—rallying the multitude with reed pipes and drums.

(This passage belongs to the Outer Chapter “Pian Mu” of the Zhuangzi: using pian mu, zhi zhi, and wen-tubercles as images, it says that when benevolence, righteousness, cleverness, and disputation become “an extra branch,” they disorder nature and block De—they are not the true norm of Dao and De.)

Those who hold this view believe that ritual and music disturb and indulge human nature, so they say that ritual and music are like extra branches that keep one from remaining natural. The idea here is close to what Laozi meant by “the five colors make the eyes blind.” Li Zhu is a figure of legend famed for exceptional sight: if someone thinks one should not overuse the eyes, Li Zhu would still treat keen seeing as a good thing. So the author says that even when sharp sight itself is criticized, Li Zhu would still take it to be right. The same logic applies to hearing.

Ritual and music are treated as external things; forcing the promotion of benevolence and righteousness is like plucking up the De (Virtue/Power) one already has and blocking one’s innate disposition. “Fa” here means ritual norms and law; “bu ji” refers to standards people cannot reach. Having the world use words to trumpet and enforce norms that are hard to meet is “huanggu yi feng bu ji zhi fa”—using speech to bewilder and stir people into following those standards.

Piling tiles layer upon layer and tying knots again and again in rope are vain, useless efforts. Debaters keep stringing arguments together and talking on without end; the material piles up but lacks meaning, like stacking tiles and tying knots. Hence, repeatedly revising phrasing to build a disputation is called “cuan ju” (patching together sentences). Expending effort on problems such as “hard and white” and “sameness and difference” is, in the author’s view, merely wasted toil. Disputants use words that do no good to win praise and think themselves clever; if someone thinks these practices are wrong, followers of Yang Zhu and Mozi would still take them to be right.

“Duo pian pang zhi” means extra branches and side shoots. The way of nature originally has no long list of complicated rules; these human additions are all superfluous and cannot count as the utmost correctness. Utmost correctness is things being as they inherently are.

One who truly accords with nature does not lose the genuine feeling-and-substance that life originally has. What fits together is not counted as excess; what branches off is not counted as deviation; what is long is not counted as surplus; what is short is not counted as lack. Thus, though a wild duck’s legs are short, if you forcibly lengthen them, it will grieve; though a crane’s legs are long, if you forcibly shorten them, it will sorrow. What nature made long should not be cut short; what nature made short should not be lengthened. Follow native endowment, and worry has nowhere to arise. Are benevolence and righteousness not also part of human feeling? Yet why do those who talk about benevolence and righteousness produce so much anxiety?

“Zheng zheng” means being so of itself. Being so of itself, one does not lose the true principle that life originally has. Whether fitting together, branching off, long or short, each accords with its own nature, without excess or deficiency. These lines carry deep meaning and echo what was said earlier: in the world there is nothing larger than the tip of an autumn hair, and nothing smaller than Mount Tai. Here “qi” (often written with a character read as qi) means to stick out or rise up; “you suo qi” means to have something one seeks or fixates upon.

If things are not level and snug, one cannot be at ease—and to see how he uses words, it is surely not casual. “Nature long, nature short” means that long and short arise from inherent nature; long and short are what nature is content with, and there is no affliction to dwell on. The duck-and-crane parable is the finest point: “意” (yì) is the same as “噫” (yī), a sigh. Taking the two extremes of duck and crane, the many branches of benevolence and righteousness (rén-yì) are no longer human feeling—hence the sigh: if benevolence and righteousness came from the natural, one would not be so full of worry. “Much worry” means the toil and anxiety undertaken for the sake of benevolence and righteousness.

In saying this, Zhuangzi places in the line of ridicule everyone from Confucius and Mencius on up to Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang. Consider how when the thumb is webbed to the hand, cutting it apart makes one weep; when the hand grows an extra finger, biting it off makes one cry—whether one has more than the proper number or less, the suffering is the same. In our age, the humane person gazes with half-shut, worried eyes at the world’s troubles; the inhumane person severs the truth of life-and-nature to greedily chase wealth and rank—so it is clear that benevolence and righteousness are not human feeling.

The webbed thumb and extra finger on hand and foot are both ailments, yet one cannot forcibly remove them; to remove them is to enter into affliction. The extra finger adds one digit, hence “more than the proper number”; the webbed thumb fuses two fingers so they cannot be separated, hence “less than the proper number.” “蒿目” (hāo mù) means half-closing the eyes—when one wishes to close them but cannot, the lashes grow thick and matted, hence the name. “蒿目” also carries the sense of sitting alone in grief and worry.

Where Zhuangzi speaks next of “worrying over the world’s troubles,” he means the benevolent person who wears himself out; grasping after wealth and rank while ruining the truth of one’s nature is the inhumane person. Both torment themselves, so he mentions them together. Again he sighs: are benevolence and righteousness not human feeling? Seen this way, benevolence, righteousness, and trustworthiness do not spring from what is inherently so. Noisy and clamorous—how noisy this doctrine has become since the Three Dynasties!

Moreover, to wait on the plumb line, compass, square, and rule to make things straight is to pare away one’s nature (xìng); to wait on cords, bindings, glue, and lacquer to make things hold is to encroach upon one’s virtue (dé). To bend and fold people with ritual and music (lǐ-yuè), to soothe and coax them with benevolence and righteousness in order to comfort the hearts of all under Heaven—this is to lose what is naturally constant.

Nature is originally spontaneous; virtue is attained from Heaven—neither is the work of human effort.

If you insist that what counts as "correct" must come from deliberate human cultivation and artifice, you are in effect harming yourself. Hooks, cords, glue, and lacquer are images for imposed rules and cosmetic refinement; "whittling away" and "injuring" mean damaging what is originally whole. To bend the body to fit ritual and music, to soften the voice to fit benevolence and righteousness, and to hope thereby to settle the hearts of all under heaven—all of that turns away from the constant pattern of things, which is why it is called losing one's constant nature. Xuyu here suggests soothing and comforting in a forced way.

Heaven and earth have a constant nature of their own: what is bent need not be straightened with a hook, what is straight need not be stretched with a cord; the round need not be shaped with a compass, the square need not be squared with a carpenter's square; clinging need not rely on glue and lacquer, and binding need not rely on ropes. Thus the myriad things of the world flourish in splendor, yet no one knows who gives them birth; they alike obtain their places, yet no one knows how they come by them. Past and present are one continuous thread—it is a single body that cannot be diminished. Why then should benevolence and righteousness have to shuttle back and forth between them like glue, lacquer, and cords, never ceasing? That only bewilders the people of the world.

From "constant nature" onward, the sense matches the passage that says "what is joined is not made artificially conjoined" and "what branches is not made to stand on tiptoe": whether curved or straight, round or square, whether adhering or separating, whether adding constraint—all should arise from the spontaneous, without human forcing; only that is the right principle. You (誘) is the same character as you (莠)—growing rank like weeds: who gives birth to them? What is it that all things share in common? It is nature itself; hence "not knowing who gives birth" and "not knowing how they obtain." Past and present do not differ—that is the One; it cannot be shortchanged—that is what is neither added to nor subtracted from, from antiquity to the present. Lianlian means unbroken continuity. Glue and lacquer are self-congealing mud; cords and ropes are self-binding fetters. To turn against one's nature to practice benevolence and righteousness, and to do so without pause, is to congeal and bind oneself—how can one wander freely through the gate of Dao and De? One only confuses the world. Zhuangzi and Mencius were contemporaries: Mencius spoke chiefly of benevolence and righteousness, Zhuangzi chiefly of Dao and De, so his book often disparages ren and yi and praises the natural—there is subtle insight there, but the rhetoric often goes too far. Broadly speaking, the ren and yi Zhuangzi discusses are not the same in meaning as Mencius's; readers must judge for themselves.

Small confusion misleads one's direction; great confusion misleads one's nature. How do we know? From the time Yu and Shun held up benevolence and righteousness and stirred the world, there was no one under heaven who did not rush to serve ren and yi—exchanging human nature for disputes over right and wrong and for ren and yi. So let us try to discuss it: from the Three Dynasties onward…

(On “Exchanging One’s Nature for Things” and “Dying for” [Xun])

From the time of Yu of Xia and Tang of Shang downward, people under heaven have almost all traded their innate nature for external things. Petty people stake their bodies on profit, gentlemen stake them on reputation, great officers stake them on their clans, and sages stake them on all under heaven. Thus these several kinds of people differ in what they do and what fame they chase, yet in harming the body and using the self to court external things they are the same.

“Confusion” means to be lost and disordered. “The four directions” means the four quarters. When the confusion is shallow, one cannot even tell east from west; when it is deep, one can no longer preserve the authentic nature that heaven and earth have bestowed. The author uses the previous line to set off this one. “To hoist” is like what people today call a “signboard”: raising the banner of benevolence and righteousness to throw the world into turmoil, so that everyone crowds toward benevolence and righteousness and exhausts themselves being driven and run about by it. Recognizing only benevolence and righteousness and not recognizing the Dao (the way of nature) is exchanging one’s innate nature for external things. In petty people this is dying for profit; in gentlemen it is dying for reputation; in ministers and great officers it is dying for their lineage; in rulers it is dying for the realm.

“Xun” means to follow along and to give up the body in devotion. In Zhuangzi’s sense, the realm, the state, fame, and profit are all external things; placing realm and state on a par with fame and profit is using the small to press down the large, the low to press down the high—a rhetorical habit found often in this book. “Those several types” refers to the sage, great officer, gentleman, and petty person mentioned above: their undertakings and reputations differ, yet in forgetting the body and harming nature they are alike—all are faults of dying for external things.

Zang and Gu Lose Their Sheep (Zhuangzi original text and oral exegesis)

Zang and Gu were herding sheep together, and the sheep were lost. Asked what Zang had been doing, he said he was holding counting rods and reading; asked what Gu had been doing, he said he was casting dice and gambling. What they did was not the same, but in losing the sheep they were the same.

Boyi died beneath Mount Shouyang (for reputation); Robber Zhi died on Mount Dongling (for profit). The manner of their deaths differed, yet in mutilating life and injuring innate nature they were the same. Why must one insist that Boyi was right and Robber Zhi wrong? People everywhere are “dying for” something: those who die for benevolence and righteousness the world calls gentlemen; those who die for goods and wealth the world calls petty people. Though what they die for divides gentlemen from petty people, when it comes to mutilating life and damaging innate nature, Robber Zhi and Boyi are not two—why must one still sort gentlemen from petty people between them?

Note: This piece belongs to the Song-dynasty Lin Xiyi’s “oral exegesis” (kouyi)—a written record of classroom commentary on the Zhuangzi. The upper section mostly explains word meanings and Zhuangzi’s rhetoric; the lower section is the famous parable from Zhuangzi, “Miscellaneous Chapters,” “Yielding the Throne” (Rangwang), which uses “lost sheep” to illustrate abandoning the root for the branches, and Boyi and Robber Zhi to show that striving for reputation and striving for profit equally harm nature.

Vernacular Explanation

I. Prefatory Note on Zhuangzi’s Analogies

Gambling makes the point easiest to grasp: “挟筴” means holding tallies or counters (the gambling tools) in hand; “投琼” means casting qiong pieces to gamble. “Qiong” is like dice today, also called “teeth” or “eyes.” “塞” and “赛” mean the same thing—betting and competing for win or loss.

When Zhuangzi compares Bo Yi and Robber Zhi, he is not failing to tell the worthy from the unworthy; he deliberately uses these two extremes to make the doctrine plain. These passages are places where Zhuangzi overstates on purpose and exaggerates: gentleman and petty man differ, yet they are the same in harming life and injuring innate nature. His main target is those gentlemen who parade benevolence and righteousness, so he uses the “petty man” as a foil—the whole passage employs the rhetorical move of pressing down the great with the small, the high with the low.

II. Main Sense of the Zhuangzi Passage

If you tie your nature entirely to benevolence and righteousness, then even mastery like Master Zeng’s or Shi Yu’s is not what I call “good.”

If you tie your nature entirely to the five flavors, then even mastery like Yu Er’s (keen discrimination of taste) is not what I call “good.”

If you tie your nature entirely to the five tones, then even mastery like Music Master Kuang’s is not what I call “sharp-eared.”

If you tie your nature entirely to the five colors, then even mastery like Li Zhu’s is not what I call “clear-sighted.”

What I call “good” is not benevolence and righteousness; goodness lies in preserving your own De (virtue/power) as enough.

What I call “good” is not that Confucian package; it is letting the genuine disposition of your own nature and life be enough.

What I call “sharp-eared” is not listening to others; hearing yourself clearly is enough.

What I call “clear-sighted” is not looking at others; seeing yourself clearly is enough.

Not seeing yourself yet looking at others, not having your own attainment yet chasing others’ attainments—that is gaining others’ gains without your own gain; following others’ ease without your own ease.

Only catering to others’ comfort and never finding your own—then Robber Zhi and Bo Yi alike are perverse.

I am ashamed before the Great Dao, so above I do not take benevolence and righteousness as my standard of conduct, and below I do not deliberately walk a depraved path.

III. What the Oral Commentary (kouyi) Is Saying

“Attaching the nature” (shǔ xìng) means fixing the mind entirely on some external standard—benevolence and righteousness, the five flavors, the five tones, the five colors, and the like.

Zeng is Master Zeng; Shi is Shi Yu (personal name Qiu). Placing Music Master Kuang and Li Zhu alongside Zeng and Shi is again Zhuangzi’s habit of using the lower example to press down the higher.

Zang (goodness): even if Zeng, Shi, Yu Er, Kuang, and Li Zhu were utterly “versed” in their arts, that is still not the goodness he affirms; goodness lies in following the virtue of one’s nature and releasing the disposition of nature-and-life—that is, going along with what is naturally so, not external doctrine or technical skill.

On the lines “sharp-earedness is not hearing the other but hearing oneself; clear-sightedness is not seeing the other but seeing oneself,” the commentator says: the gist of the entire Buddhist Great Canon is no more than this—everything turns on turning the light within and being sufficient in oneself, not chasing external things or others’ right and wrong, gain and loss.

The closing “I am ashamed before Dao and De”: feeling small before the Way, therefore neither brandishing the conduct of benevolence and righteousness nor deliberately acting in licentious perversity—walking a path that does not belong to externals but trusts what is originally so.

Overall meaning: Zhuangzi, through gambling and exaggerated comparisons such as Bo Yi and Robber Zhi, shows that fixing one’s nature on benevolence and righteousness, the five flavors, the five tones, or the five colors—even with supreme mastery—still injures nature. True goodness, sharp hearing, and clear sight mean releasing the disposition of nature-and-life, seeing and gaining for oneself, and finding ease in one’s own ease. The commentary notes the “lower presses higher” rhetoric and highlights how self-hearing and self-seeing can align with cultivation and with themes familiar from Buddhist scripture.

Statements of this kind are precisely where Zhuangzi is original and others find it hard to match him. The word “彼” (that/other) must not be used casually or at random. What Chan calls “a mad dog chasing clods” and “phantom flowers giving rise to phantom fruit” points to this same “彼”: each thing in its own place, each suited to itself—that is seeing for yourself and awakening for yourself. In broad terms, it is nothing more than distinguishing “the original mind” from “external things.” If you do not attain the original mind but only rush about seeking on external things, everything becomes heterodox and skewed.

“Self-hearing, self-seeing”—if you set this in Confucian texts, it is the Analects’ “silent memorizing and retaining,” the Book of Changes’ “accomplishing silently, trusting without words,” and Mencius’ “extended to the four limbs, the four limbs understanding without words”; Cheng Yi (Yichuan) in his Preface to the Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals says “leisurely soaking and swimming [in the text], silently knowing until the mind penetrates”—all the same layer of meaning, only stated more plainly.

Zhu Xi (Huian) was wary of the line of learning associated with Lu Xiangshan (Lu Jiuyuan). He said Jiangxi scholars raised eyebrows and blinked and called it enlightenment; he strongly disparaged and refuted them. So in his Collected Commentaries on the Analects he read 识 (shi) as 志 (zhi), glossing it as “silently remembering and retaining, that is all”; in Mencius, “understanding without words” he also explained as “not waiting for others to speak but explaining to oneself,” unwilling to speak of the level of sudden awakening. This came from caution, not from the original intent of the Analects and Mencius.

If you view it through Yichuan’s “silent knowing until the mind penetrates,” how could it be read only as 志?

Yet when students of the Way apply effort, if they constantly harbor a mind of “waiting for one burst of penetration,” that is especially to be avoided. What is called clinging to obstacles and sitting waiting for enlightenment puts you as far from truth as Mount Sumeru is wide. Sudden awakening and gradual cultivation are two kinds of expedient use; one cannot say that where there is gradual there is no sudden, nor must everyone rely on sudden awakening to succeed. Zhong Yong’s maintaining reverence is gradual; Yan Hui’s restraining the self and returning to ritual is sudden—otherwise how could it be said that “in one day restraining the self and returning to ritual, the empire returns to humaneness”? What is humaneness (ren)? Obtained in a day—is that not sudden awakening?

Look at these lines in the Analects: first “restraining the self and returning to ritual is humaneness,” then “in one day restraining the self and returning to ritual, the empire returns to humaneness,” then “humaneness is effected by oneself—does it come from others?”—the rise and fall of the wording is just like Chan question-and-answer. Savor it line by line and you taste its flavor.

Yan Hui had already grasped it at the words and asked, “May I ask for its specifics?”—that is the moment Chan calls “how do you preserve and carry it?” The “four don’ts” (do not look, listen, speak, or act contrary to ritual) are the place to start for “devoting the mind, knowing nature, knowing Heaven.”

What follows concerns preserving the mind and nurturing nature, serving Heaven and cultivating the self, and awaiting one’s allotted fate. The saying “to practice ren depends on oneself” is what Chan Buddhism means by “on this matter no one can do it for you.” The former teacher said that Buddhist texts are best for cross-checking our own classics—once cross-checked, they become easier to grasp. Not daring above to pursue the reputation of ren and righteousness is “in doing good, do not strive for a name”; not daring below to commit lewd, perverse, or wicked acts is “in doing evil, do not come near punishment.” Virtue and the Way rest on what is natural. I worry that I fail the Way and virtue: though I avoid evil that nears punishment, I also avoid good that nears a name—for nearing a name is already unnatural. Thus “I feel ashamed before the Way and virtue” means neither practicing the conduct of ren and righteousness above nor the lewd and perverse below. Read Zhuangzi’s words here: is he not also speaking of rectifying the mind and cultivating the person? His mockery of Yao, Shun, Confucius, Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, and Boyi is not meant as real denial; it is exhilaration at the tip of the brush.

Liu Shuping of Tangdong once wrote “On Zhuangzi and the Songs of Chu Sharing Craft yet Differing in Tune,” saying “Zhuang Zhou is a hero of indignant sorrow”—Master Lexuan greatly favored that line. It seems Zhuangzi too was indignant at the world and detested evil before he wrote this book; his insight was lofty and his style strange, hence there are places where he goes too far. Grand Historian Sima Qian said he excels at arranging writings and scattering phrases, pointing to things and grouping feelings, using stripping to wound Confucians and Mohists—even seasoned scholars of his age could not escape unscathed; his words surge and indulge himself to suit his mood—those few sentences truly strike to Zhuangzi’s core.

Outer Chapter: Horse’s Hooves

Hooves can tread frost and snow, hair can ward off cold, grazing grass and drinking water, hooves lifted standing on the ground—that is the horse’s true nature. Though there were lofty terraces and splendid houses, they would be of no use to the horse. Then came Bole saying “I am skilled at governing horses”: branding with fire, plucking hair, carving marks, fitting the halter, linking with reins, arranging with the manger. Two or three in ten horses died; then they starved them, thirsted them, galloped them, rushed them, made them uniform and standardized—trouble from the crossbar bit in front, the threat of the whip behind—and more than half the horses were dead.

This passage shows how external things can burden the body: hooves lifted on land means ordinary horses always raise their hooves somewhat when standing, setting up the contrast for “governing horses” below.

(Upper section: On taming horses and governing the world)

Dwelling in places such as the Terrace of Righteousness and the Road Chamber means the palaces where the Son of Heaven resides. Xi (羲) carries the sense of “nurturing”—the environment one lives in shapes one’s disposition, and the way one cultivates oneself shapes one’s bearing, which is why passages of the time speak of “nurturing” in this sense.

Shao (烧) means cauterizing the hooves; ti (剔) is paring or trimming, likewise trimming the hooves. Luo (络) is the halter and headstall fitted on the horse’s head; ji (羁) is restraint, binding the legs—the same idea as today’s front and rear hobbles. Lian (连) is lining up in file; lie (列) is arranging in order. Zao (皂) is the manger; zhan (栈) is also the stable yard, with the horses set out in rows between them, arrayed in neat ranks. Jue (橛) means to master and control. “Adorning the bit and tassels” (shi biao ying, 饰镳缨) is hanging ornament on the bit under the jaw—hence “the trouble of control and ornament in front”: the horse is ruled by others and cannot freely enjoy its own ease, so more horses die. This matches the earlier image of the sacred turtle that would rather drag its tail in the mud. Only in the middle do the numbers shift—from “two or three” to “more than half”—the prose is ornate and fine; countless later rhetorical devices sprout from here. To call the outer chapters crude is a misreading.

The potter said, “I am skilled at kneading clay: what is round fits the compass, what is square fits the carpenter’s square.” The carpenter said, “I am skilled at working wood: what is curved fits the arc, what is straight fits the inked line.”

Did clay and timber by nature want to match compass, square, arc, and line? Yet generation after generation praised it and said: Bo Le is skilled at taming horses; the potter and carpenter are skilled at working clay and wood—this is the same error committed by those said to be “skilled at ordering the world.”

The potter is the craftsman who kneads earth; the carpenter works wood. Clay and wood are both materials forced into artifacts—like horses whose hooves are burned, hair picked, hooves carved, headstall and hobbles put on, and who are driven and ruled. Is that not against the native character of earth and wood? Yet people all take Bo Le, the potter, and the carpenter as masters of ability—as if, after the age of Lord Tai (泰氏), “ordering the world” were taken as the great art. That is the same point as in the earlier passage: benevolence and righteousness are not the natural disposition of human beings. These few lines say no more than that, but the wording is tight and beautiful.

I hold that one who is truly skilled at ordering the world is not like this.

The common people have a settled nature: they weave cloth and wear it, plow fields and eat grain—this is called “shared De” (同德): the same virtue without siding with one faction; their allotment is called tianfang (天放), “release according to Heaven” (letting Heaven have its way). Thus in an age of utmost virtue, people walked with steady steps and looked with plain, undivided gaze. Then there were no mountain paths, no boats or bridges on the marshes; living things multiplied, hamlets touched one another, birds and beasts flocked together, and plants flourished. So birds and beasts could be led by the rein and played with; one could climb and peer into the magpie’s nest.

In the age of utmost virtue, people dwelt in the same tribes as birds and beasts… (This passage closes on the idea that in such a world humans and animals share dwelling—stressing a polity that does not forcibly reshape nature but follows Heaven and leaves things free, the ideal of rule in the age of utmost virtue.)

Living together with all things, who could still tell gentleman from petty person? Everyone alike was without deliberate knowing—not forcibly sorting noble from base, wise from foolish—and De stayed whole and undivided; everyone alike was without desire—not chasing fame and profit—and this was called supu (plain simplicity). Once supu prevailed, the common people’s innate nature was preserved.

“Shared De” (tongde) means that the nature received from Heaven was the same. People in the world each had their own way of life: some farmed, some wove cloth—all natural endowment, hence constant nature (changxing). Constant nature is what the earlier chapter called what is naturally so (changran).

Party (dang) means partisan bias; lean (yi) means to rely on or favor one side. Pure unity without bias or leaning, freely at ease within nature, is unified without partisanship (yi er bu dang). “Called heavenly release” (ming yue tian fang) means “termed tianfang.” Tianxing, tianjun, and tianyou in Discourse on Equalizing Things (Qiwu lun), like heavenly release here, are terms Zhuangzi coined to describe the joy of the natural.

The age of utmost De (zhi de zhi shi) speaks of high antiquity. Tiantian suggests contentment; diandian a straightforward, unguarded gaze—portraying rustic innocence without artifice. The lines that they slept at ease and woke unhurried (xuxu qi jue yuyu) adapt wording from The Normal Course for Rulers and Kings (Ying diwang).

Mountains had no paths or tunnels; marshes had no boats or bridges. Each person lived according to their own locality, and within each community elder and younger, superior and subordinate, were naturally linked. Birds and beasts lived in deep mountains, still far from humans, and none harmed them; plants and trees grew on their own, before the calamity of axe and hatchet.

Tying up wild animals for amusement or climbing to peer into a magpie’s nest—that came only later, before people and things had forgotten each other. Su Dongpo’s Miscellaneous Remarks (Zashuo) tells how in his youth, by his study, sparrows nested on low branches and tonghua feng birds came every four or five days—quite like this passage (see the note to the Yi Que poem in juan 28 of his collected poems). From this one infers that high antiquity must have been so: birds and beasts could dwell with humans, all things could gather with people, and there was no division of gentleman and petty person.

Clan (zu) means to dwell together; alike (bing) means the same. Without deliberate knowing (wuzhi) means not forcing distinctions or false labeling. Without desire (wuyu) means purely following Heaven’s principle. The whole world was like this, hence alike in being without desire (tong hu wuyu). Undivided (buli) means wholly preserved and intact. Plain simplicity (supu) means pure substance and naturalness. Then everyone obtained the joy of nature, hence with supu, the people’s nature was secured (supu er min xing de yi). The lines “their De did not depart” and “this is called supu” are cause and effect in sequence; the following line closes with only the two characters supu.

The word “Pu” (simplicity) picks up the rhetorical pattern of how the ancients wrote; few writers today still keep that kind of measure and craft.

When sages hobble along to practice Ren (humaneness) and stand on tiptoe to practice Yi (righteousness), people in the world begin to doubt. When they indulge wildly for pleasure and twist their bodies into postures for Li (ritual propriety), people in the world begin to split apart. So: if uncarved wood is not cut away, what would become the sacrificial xi vessel? If white jade is not carved, what would become the gui and zhang regalia? If natural De (virtue/power) is not cast aside, why reach for Ren and Yi? If one’s innate nature is not lost, why force Li and music? If the five colors are not confused, why add ornament? If the five tones are not confused, why need the six pitch standards? To ruin uncarved wood to make tools is the craftsman's fault; to ruin Dao-De to set up Ren and Yi is the sage's mistake.

(Commentary note)

The text above spoke of “when it came to Bole”; here it says “when it came to the sages,” and the following passage pairs with the previous one. Bie die means walking with forced, limping steps; di qi means standing unsteadily, ill at ease. Chan man is the same as han man—wandering, dissolute. Zhai pi is the look of fidgeting hands and feet; pi should be read as bai (擗). This again turns the earlier theme of bending the body to suit ritual and music and coaxing people with Ren and Yi; though it sounds outrageous, the brushwork is striking. Shi fen means the heart and outward conduct begin to divide; once divided, they are no longer whole. The use of “divide” (fen) here is excellent.

A zun is carved from wood, hence “if simplicity is not mutilated, who would make the sacrificial xi vessel?” Jade that is not worked cannot become an implement, hence “if white jade is not ruined, who would make the gui and zhang?” Dao-De here means what is naturally so; Zhuangzi treats Ren and Yi as something added on, hence “if Dao-De is not abandoned, why grasp at Ren and Yi?” Xing-qing means the nature people already have; Zhuangzi treats ritual and music as artificial, hence “if nature and disposition are not separated, why use ritual and music?” Mencius, by contrast, speaks of adorning those two and taking joy in them—the words of sage and worthy each have their emphasis; in this book Li, music, Ren, and Yi are not used with identical force and should all be read as external additions. “Ornament” (wen cai) scrambles the five colors; the “six standards” scramble the five tones—both are human contrivance, not the natural way. The closing “the craftsman's fault” and “the sage's mistake” tie off what came before.

Horses

On the ground they graze and drink; when pleased they rub necks together, when angry they kick with their backs turned—that is all horses once knew. Add the crossbar and cheek strap, trim them with the forehead ornament, and they learn jie ni, wei e, zhi man, gui xian, and qie pei—all the tricks of resistance and struggle—and the horse's nature is gone.

The reason horses know how to resist and steal is Bo Le’s fault. In the age of Hsü-shih, people stayed at home without knowing what they ought to do, walked the roads without knowing where they were going, held food in their mouths and lived at ease, and patted their bellies while at play—what the common people could manage stopped right there. Then the sage appeared, using ritual and music to straighten the forms of everyone under heaven and hanging benevolence and righteousness high to soothe their hearts. Only then did the people begin to crane their necks and stare about, delight in cleverness, and scramble for profit—something that could no longer be stopped. This too is the sage’s error.

This passage again reworks many of the earlier arguments into a few lines, with a few sentences added in between, making it all the stranger. When pleased, they rub necks; when angry, they kick with their backs turned—a picture of horses plain as day. Xiang mo means rubbing against each other; see how finely he deploys “rub necks” and “turn backs.” Heng and e are parts of a carriage; e is the yoke. Yue ti is what people today call the forehead mirror. Jie ni: jie means alone—standing apart and looking down with contempt, the look of anger. Yin e: neck bent in refusal, unwilling to accept the yoke and traces. Zhi means fierce. Man tu is refusing the bridle and butting against each other. Gui means scheming; qie means doing it in secret. Using tricks to make the horse take the bit and secretly slipping on the bridle—all because the horse’s nature is fierce and unwilling to submit, so fitting bit and bridle takes such calculation. What opposes humans is called theft. That horses know how to oppose humans is what Bo Le made them do. Without yoke, traces, bit, and reins, horses would simply be horses and humans simply humans—who would ever see them jie ni or yin e? Min neng yi ci means the people’s conduct stopped at just this.

Kuang means to correct. Using ritual and music to set human conduct right and benevolence and righteousness to comfort the heart are all things that appeared only after the sage made them; in high antiquity none of this existed. Xian qi means lifting high and drawing up. Di qi means unable to rest at ease. Delighting in cleverness and fighting for profit is like the horse’s gui xian and qie pei. The inner and outer chapters resemble the Zuozhuan and Guoyu in that they come from one hand: after the Zuozhuan came the Guoyu, yet the writing differs from the Zuozhuan. This chapter of Zhuangzi is just such a place where the branches grow thick and long—so some think it is not Zhuangzi’s own work, but that is not so.