《南華真經口義》Vol. 13

Kou Yi on the Nanhua Zhenjing, Fascicle 13 (Outer Chapters: “Keeping the World Within Bounds”) — Vernacular Interpretation

Commentary by Xi Yi of Yizhai (Lin Xiyi)

Keeping the World Within Bounds—Not “Governing” the World

We have only heard of settling the world through zai you (letting people rest in their places and forbearing harsh control); we have never heard of settling the world by “governing” it.

Zai means moving at ease in accord with nature, so that each person keeps his proper place. You means treating people with generous tolerance and without harsh constraint, so that human nature is not thrown into disorder.

“Zai” is used because one fears that people under heaven will indulge themselves and disturb their innate nature; “you” is used because one fears that people will be dragged about by external things and lose their original mind. If the nature of those under heaven is not thrown into chaos and De (Virtue/Power) is not shifted by outward things, what need is there to set up a special project of “governing the world”?

In antiquity, when Yao ruled the world, he made everyone under heaven elated; each person “delighted” in his own nature—and that was already a failure to be tranquil (tian). When Jie ruled the world, he wore everyone out; each person seemed as if his nature had been wounded—and that was a failure to be content (yu). Neither tranquillity nor contentment counts as true De. There has never been a world that could long endure without De.

In the Kou Yi: this chapter opens with another kind of thesis, and the format shifts again. Yao is set against Jie; the brushwork resembles the contrast between Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, and Robber Zhi— the reasoning is not always airtight, but the prose is hard to match. Pairing “not tranquil” with “not content” makes the weight uneven—this is Lin Xiyi’s note on Zhuangzi’s rhetoric.

Excess of Joy and Anger, Yin-Yang Out of Balance

When a person is greatly pleased, Yang swells excessively; when he is greatly angry, Yin swells excessively. Pi means lopsided fullness, having a surplus (what medical books call “disease of excess”). When both Yin and Yang are pushed past their measure, the four seasons lose their order, cold and heat no longer harmonize, and in turn the bodily form is harmed.

Then joy and anger have no fixed pattern, one’s dwelling has no stability, and reflection is no longer under one’s own command—the middle way (zhongdao) cannot be brought to completion. Only then do qiaojie and zhuozhi types appear (perverse, fierce characters), and only afterward do extreme figures such as Robber Zhi, Zeng, and Shi arise.

Use all the rewards in the world—you still cannot finish rewarding so-called “good people.” Use all the punishments in the world—you still cannot finish punishing so-called “bad people.” Thus from the Three Dynasties downward, the world has been noisy and restless; in the end reward and punishment were treated as the great affair, and who still had leisure to guard the truth of nature and life (xingming zhi qing)—one’s given life and authentic disposition?

Note: This chapter argues for little interference and generous forbearance as enough in themselves, criticizes Yao- and Jie-style “governance” as still disturbing people’s nature, and traces from joy and anger harming Yin-Yang to later ages’ reliance on reward and punishment and failure to find peace. Specialized terms are glossed at first occurrence where helpful.

Some say: How lamentable — that people have been reduced to this state is because Yao and Jie ruled on high and drove the world into such a shape.

When joy and anger lose their measure and dwelling has no fixed norm, that is reckless action and reckless doing. When the mind is unsettled and comes and goes, and companions turn with your thoughts, that is thought that cannot govern itself. Having pattern and order is still tolerable; if there is “no pattern,” the middle way is lost. Qiao means lofty to excess; jie means questioning, debate, and mutual cross-examination; zhuo means isolated; zhi means fierce and cutting. These four words all describe disharmony. Robber Zhi and Zeng and Shi are only swapping the labels of worthy and unworthy; once the mind is already disharmonous, both worthy and unworthy are wrong.

Those who govern the world reward the worthy and punish the unworthy. Yet “worthy” is not necessarily truly worthy — it often comes from pretense; when the whole world is like this, rewards never suffice and what must be given still falls short. The point is satirical: the so-called worthy are often set against evildoers in order to press down heavily on “worthiness.” When everyone pursues reward and shuns punishment and deals with one another through artifice, how can each person’s innate disposition be settled?

Moreover: to take clarity as delight is perverse — clinging to form and color; to take keen hearing as delight is perverse — clinging to sound; to take benevolence (ren) as delight is perverse — disturbing virtue (de); to take righteousness (yi) as delight is perverse — going against Heaven’s principle; to take ritual (li) as delight is perverse — competing with one another in technical skill; to take music (yue) as delight is perverse — egging one another on in dissipation; to take sageliness (sheng) as delight is perverse — vying in fabrication; to take knowledge (zhi) as delight is perverse — picking at one another’s faults.

If the world could still settle the disposition of life and fate, these eight might exist or perish and it would be bearable; but if the world cannot settle the disposition of life and fate because of these eight, people roll up their sleeves and tuck their purses (as if eager to spring into action) and throw the world into disorder — and the world instead honors and cherishes them. The confusion of the age has come to this! It is not merely passing by and leaving; one must fast before speaking, kneel and sit before presenting, beat drums and dance to proclaim them. If I were like that, what could I do?

Seeking clarity through love of the five colors and keen hearing through love of the five sounds both disturb the genuine root — hence they are called “dissipation” (yin). Virtue and Heaven’s principle are naturally so; benevolence and righteousness harbor intentional mind, hence they are said to disturb virtue and go against principle. Ji is skill; yin is indulgent delight. They treat ritual and music as external things, hence “mutually aiding in skill” and “mutually aiding in dissipation” — xiang means to aid and to grow, each aiding until it grows worse. Yi is craft and cleverness; ci is flaw and blemish.

First Section: On the Character “Sheng” (圣) and the “Eight” Qualities

“Because skill makes one toil on one’s own, illness makes one suffer on one’s own”—to preen oneself under the name of “sagely wisdom” (sheng zhi) only increases toil and bitterness. Hence the text speaks of “being paired with one’s craft” and “being paired with one’s flaws.”

Here the character sheng (圣) is close in sense to neng (能, “ability”), much like sheng in today’s expression caosheng (“sage of the brush,” a master calligrapher). In the Zhuangzi, when discussing thieves it also says, “To presume upon the goods stored in the room—this is sheng”—again meaning “to be adept at something.” These usages differ from one another; readers should distinguish them for themselves and not lump them together with the meanings in the Analects and Mencius.

The “eight” are: clarity (ming), keen hearing (cong), benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi), ritual and music (li and yue), sagacity (sheng), and knowledge (zhi). If one can rest in naturalness (ziran), then even when these eight qualities are present, they need not weigh one down—hence “they may be kept, or they may be let go.” If one does not rest in naturalness, these eight become a source of harm.

“Luanjuan” (臠卷) describes a cramped, unrelaxed posture; “changnang” (傖囊) describes being busy-bodied and vexed by many affairs. “How could one merely pass through and leave it?”—this is not saying one only skims the surface and then stops. “Fast and speak with solemn ritual” means making a grand, exaggerated show of words; “kneel and sit to present it” means transmitting the teaching before the rites are complete; “beat drums and sing while dancing it out” means that when words fall short, one resorts to hand-waving and capering. All of this satirizes the scholars of the time. “What am I to do with you?”—this is not Zhuangzi speaking of himself, but of others, just as in the Classic of Poetry “Let me for now pour from that golden goblet” is a wife addressing her husband, and in the Documents “I have drowned myself in wine” is Weizi speaking of King Zhou—an antique pattern of expression.

Second Section: On Governance Through Wuwei (Non-Action) and Naturalness

Therefore, when the gentleman has no choice but to govern the world, it is still better to practice wuwei. Only after wuwei can one settle into the disposition of one’s inborn nature and allotted life (xingming zhi qing).

“To honor one’s person as more precious than the affairs of the world”—only when one values one’s own life above the business of ruling all under Heaven can the world be entrusted to such a person; “to cherish one’s person as dearer than the affairs of the world”—only when one loves one’s own life more than the work of ruling all under Heaven can the world be placed in such a person’s care. The wording is striking, but the principle is upright.

In reading the Zhuangzi, the three words “having no choice” (budeyi) already carry the flavor of “possessing the realm yet not claiming it as one’s own.”

“If one can avoid unbinding the five viscera”—that is, not stirring up reckless thought—and “not plucking out and displaying one’s cleverness”—not flaunting one’s wit; “to lie still like a corpse yet let the dragon appear, to be deep and silent like an abyss yet let thunder roll”—stillness that nonetheless manifests majesty; “the spirit moves and Heaven follows, at ease in wuwei while the myriad things rise like smoke from a cooking fire”—then where would I find leisure to govern the world?

This passage states directly the doctrine of governing through wuwei and naturalness.

This passage needs to be read and savored carefully. The Liji (Book of Rites) speaks of “the binding of sinews and bones”; if one loosens the binding of the five viscera, that is truly unbound. “Zhuó” means to pluck or draw out; “excessive use of one’s cleverness” means overtaxing the cleverness of eyes and ears. “Shi ju” means dwelling like the corpse posture—the upright, solemn seated posture in sacrifice, as the Qu Li says, “sit like a corpse”: though still and without deliberate action, one’s bearing is naturally imposing, hence has pattern and brilliance—thus “dwelling like a corpse, the dragon appears.” “Yuan” is depth, “mo” is silence; thunder can move people—though one does not speak, De can move others, as Buddhism puts it, “though one does not speak, the sound is like thunder”—thus “deep silence like thunder.” “Shen” refers to spirit, “tian” to the principle of Heaven; every movement and every bow and rise conforms to that principle—thus “when spirit moves, Heaven follows.” How could one call Zhuangzi a heterodox book on account of these three lines? The Dao is stated plainly yet strangely, and so he surpasses the other masters.

“Chui lei” evokes wild horses as dust, living things blown by each other’s breath: “chui” is movement, “lei” is minute things accumulating in multitude. In an empty room, where light leaks through an opening as small as an egg, looking at fine dust in the sunbeam one sees how peculiarly these two characters are used—seeming to move yet not moving, seeming many yet the multitude invisible—thus “chui lei.” The meaning is: if I above practice Wuwei (non-action), the people under Heaven rise with the sun and rest at sunset, each finding joy on their own, like the chui lei of all things—why must I set my mind to governing them?

Cui Qu asked Laodan: “If one does not govern all under Heaven, how can the human heart be settled?” Laodan said: “You must never disturb the human heart. The heart rejects staying below yet struggles upward; above and below all seem like prisoners awaiting execution. Soft mud can bind what is hard; sharp edges need carving and grinding; its heat is like scorching fire, its cold like congealed ice; in the time of a bow or a look it can reach again beyond the four seas. At rest it is deep and still; when aroused it hangs aloft like Heaven; proud, irate, and impossible to tie down—perhaps that is the human heart.”

(Continuing the discussion of “the human heart”)

“Graceful and yielding” describes a gentle, beautiful softness. Even the strong can sometimes be softened by such weakness—Xiang Yu weeping before Yuji is an example.

“Sharp and cutting” means having sharp edges, as if carved, polished, and honed. A folk saying has it: “You enter university a water chestnut, you leave a rooster’s comb”—young people start out bristling with edges; after enough hardship and worldly experience, those edges get worn smooth. So “sharp and cutting” is what gets carved away.

When the inner heat flares, it is like a raging fire; when cold severity sets in, it is like ice congealing—both depict the mind in anger or fear. Between bowing down and looking up, thoughts race back and forth, as if in a blink one must traverse the world beyond the four seas—that is how fast it moves.

“Fondling and overseeing” is a casual brush, a passing touch. In repose, deep and still—that is when the heart does not stir; once it moves, it is as if suspended in the sky—a single thought arises and hangs there like something hung from heaven. “Furious” (憤) means arrogant, overbearing, and violent; “cannot be tied” means it cannot be controlled or tethered. In Buddhist scripture one asks, “How does one subdue the heart?”—look at the two characters “subdue” and you can grasp this arrogant fury that cannot be bound. This passage’s portrait of the human heart is among the finest; without a pen like Zhuangzi’s, it would be hard to write.

Huang Di stirred the heart with benevolence and righteousness, and the decline of the world

Long ago Huang Di began to stir the human heart with benevolence and righteousness. Yao and Shun wore their thighs down to almost no flesh and rubbed the hair off their shins, nurturing the people’s bodies; they strained their five viscera to practice benevolence and righteousness and drained their blood and breath to establish laws and standards—and still they could not truly bring the world under control.

So Yao exiled Huan Dou to Mount Chong, cast the San Miao into Sanwei, and banished Gong Gong to Youdu—examples of how even “governing the world with benevolence and righteousness” did not prevail. Once benevolence, righteousness, and clever knowing were applied to the world, those below were greatly alarmed; below were violent men like Jie and Zhi, above were hypocrites like Zeng and Shi, and the Ru and Mo schools rose together—then joy and anger bred mutual suspicion, the foolish and the clever deceived each other, good and evil attacked each other, empty boasting and sincerity mocked each other, and the world fell into decay. Great virtue could not be unified; the truth of nature and life scattered and ran wild; the world delighted in clever tricks, and the common people were squeezed dry.

Notes on names mentioned in the text

• Xiang Yu and Yuji: A tale from the end of the Qin, when the great general Xiang Yu wept before his consort Yuji on the eve of defeat—used here to illustrate how the strong can be softened by the gentle.
• Huan Dou, San Miao, Gong Gong: Legendary chiefs or divine figures of the Yao–Shun era, exiled or subdued in early texts.
• Zeng and Shi: Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, models of ritual propriety honored in Confucianism; Zhuangzi often cites them to criticize the hypocrisy of “name and teaching.”
• Jie and Zhi: Jie of Xia and Robber Zhi, often paired in Zhuangzi as tyrant and bandit, standing for the two poles of a chaotic age.

This passage says that when toil and hardship still leave one helpless, punishments such as exile arise.

“Unable to master the world” means being unable to cope with or govern the world. The story that the four criminals were punished and all under heaven submitted originally belongs to Shun; Zhuangzi attributes it to Yao, which is why commentators such as Cheng Xuanying say the wording is uneven yet marvelously cunning—as in the“All Under Heaven” chapter. That unevenness is the point: Zhuangzi really strips Yao and Shun down to their foundations; and once that is done, the Three Sage Kings look even more shocking.

“Spread” (shi) means to extend or implicate. Since the sage kings were already like this, petty men below took Jie and Zhi as models, while gentlemen above coveted the names of Zeng and Shi; thus the strife between Confucianism and Mohism began. Each side took itself as right and others as wrong, itself as wise and others as foolish, itself as good and others as evil, itself as sincere and others as deceitful—and because everyone did this, mutual suspicion, deception, denial, and ridicule followed, which is what the “Discourse on Making All Things Equal” means by “that too has its ‘this’ and ‘not-this’; this too has its ‘this’ and ‘not-this.’” The two characters “in utter disarray” (lanman) are well chosen: the principles of nature and life are trampled here. “Seeking to exhaust” means that further down there is nothing left to answer and argument runs dry.

Then saws, inked cords, and chisels all came into use—sawing, measuring with cord and ink, boring and chiseling—and all under heaven fell into great disorder, and the crime lay in stirring up people’s hearts. Worthies hid in mountain caves, while rulers of ten thousand chariots trembled with fear in their halls. Today the dead lie piled on the roads, the fettered shove one another along, and those awaiting punishment stand in endless lines—yet Confucians and Mohists still strut and gesture within the stocks, competing for superiority, in a manner far too extreme. They feel no shame and no remorse. I truly do not know whether “sagely wisdom” is the yoke and cangue, whether “humaneness and righteousness” are the fetters and pegs, or whether Zeng and Shi are not the signal arrows of Jie and Zhi. Hence the saying: reject sageness and abandon wisdom, and the world will be greatly ordered.

This section explains that once one is “unable to master the world,” matters proceed to the use of punishments. Saw, cord and ink, and mallet and chisel are instruments of punishment: cord for binding, ink for facial tattooing. Jiji (restless turmoil) is like jiji (chaotic and pressing). The crime of stirring up hearts is traced back to the time of the Yellow Emperor. Worthies withdraw and do not emerge, while rulers exhaust themselves; many under heaven bear guilt and the scene is as described—yet Confucians and Mohists still compete for victory between the fetters. The above is the gist of Zhuangzi’s original text.

Brief notes on terms

• The four criminals and all under heaven submitting: Shun banished Gonggong and Huan Dou, executed the people of Sanmiao and exiled Gun—and all under heaven submitted. This story originally belongs to Shun.

• Signal arrow (haoshi): An arrow that whistles when released so the rest fly after it—here, Confucians and Mohists hold up Zeng and Shi as models yet become the very heralds of strife.

• Yoke and cangue (xingyang): Neck yoke and restraining devices.

• Zeng and Shi: Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, exemplary “worthies” revered in the Confucian tradition.

At this point, Confucianism and Mohism still held themselves aloft above the rest of the wrongdoers in the world. Hence the text says they would “begin to stretch their legs and raise their arms, struggling among the instruments of punishment.” “Líqǐ” (离跂) describes something disjointed or thrust upward; “rǎngbì” (攘臂) means to fling up the arms, picturing how they congratulated themselves and set themselves on a pedestal. “Nǎi” (乃) carries a tone of exclamation. “Shènyǐzāi” (甚矣哉) means their conduct had gone much too far; in this matter Confucians and Mohists were, one might say, utterly shameless. The two occurrences of “shèn” (甚) in the passage differ in sense—an unusual stroke of the author’s craft.

“Héngyáng” (桁杨) denotes cangues and similar restraints. “Xiāngtuī” (相推) means that words and deeds press against one another and drag each other into guilt. Cangues, fetters, and shackles arise from “sagely wisdom” (圣智); chisels and mortises (the male and female parts of a joint) arise from “benevolence and righteousness” (仁义). Jie and Robber Zhi stand for villains like King Jie and Robber Zhi; they borrow the reputations of Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu to varnish themselves and plead their case, so the teachings of Zeng and Shi become the opening shot for Zhi’s crimes. “Jiēsè” (椄槢) refers to the crosspiece in today’s cangue—the wedge; “hāoshǐ” (嚆矢) is a whistling arrow, used metaphorically for what sounds the first note of an affair.

The Yellow Emperor had ruled as Son of Heaven for nineteen years, and his orders ran throughout the realm. Hearing that Guangshengzi dwelt on Mount Kongtong, he went to call on him and said: “I have heard that you have penetrated the utmost Dao (至道); I venture to ask for its essential purport. I wish to draw the refined Qi (精气) of Heaven and Earth to help the five grains grow and to nourish the people, and also to take charge of the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang (阴阳) so that all living things may thrive—how should this be done?”

Guangshengzi said: “What you ask about is the inner nature of outward things; what you propose to govern is precisely what injures those things. Under your rule, rain falls before the clouds have gathered, plants wither before their leaves turn yellow, and the light of sun and moon daily weakens—and how could a heart so fond of clever talk and petty calculation be fit to discuss the utmost Dao?”

“Drawing Heaven and Earth’s refined Qi to help the five grains” means harmonizing vital Qi to spur the growth of things; “taking charge of Yin and Yang so that the multitude of beings goes smoothly” means harmonizing yin and yang so each creature finds its proper place. “Guān” (官) is each thing fulfilling its allotted role. When yin and yang do not clash but each keeps its office, that is “guān”; the way things are in themselves is called “zhì” (质)—what was spoken of earlier as the utmost Dao. “Wù zhī cán” (物之残) means ways of harming things. The yin and yang of Heaven and Earth follow natural principle; the five grains and all kinds of life also grow and develop on their own—if one sets out to control them, one becomes instead a scourge to the myriad beings. “Ér” (而) here means “you,” referring to the Yellow Emperor; “zú” (族) means to gather. Rain before the clouds have gathered implies rain here and none there; plants falling before they yellow means the seasons are wrong. “Huāng” (荒) refers to the dimming of the sun and moon’s radiance.

Meaning of the preceding passage

“Bo” means to weaken; “shi” means to wear away; “fei” means to abandon. When “light” is weakened and “wilderness” is discarded, it is like “jianjian”—shallow and incomplete.

The Yellow Emperor resigned the throne, built a thatched hut in the wilderness, spread grass for a mat, and lived alone for three months; then he went again to visit Guang Chengzi. Guang Chengzi lay with his head to the south. The Yellow Emperor approached from downwind, crawled forward on his knees, bowed and knocked his head on the ground, and asked: “I have heard that you understand the utmost Dao—may I ask how to cultivate the self so as to endure long?” Guang Chengzi immediately rose and said: “Well asked! Come, I will tell you: the essence of the utmost Dao is deep and dark; the utmost reach of the Dao is chaotic and still. Do not look, do not listen—embrace and guard the spirit in stillness, and the body will naturally be upright. You must be still, you must be clear; do not weary the body, do not shake the vital essence—only then can you live long. With the eyes not seeing, the ears not hearing, the mind not scheming, the spirit will guard the form, and the form will then live long.”

Oral gloss

Here he does not ask about “governing the world” but about “governing the body,” hence it is called a good question. “Yaoyao mingming” is so deep it cannot be exhausted; “hunhun momo” is so subtle it cannot be seen. “Wu shi wu ting” means forgetting both eyes and ears; when spirit is kept in the heart it is called “embracing”; in stillness without acting, the form naturally straightens. Spirit must be pure and still, the form must not be toiled, qi must not be shaken—only then can one live long. Later cultivation teachings all stem from this; immortals and buddhas have existed from antiquity—it is not that Zhuangzi alone said this. The “wu” in “wu lao” and “wu yao” is the same as “do not,” with the sense of prohibition. “The eyes see nothing, the ears hear nothing, the mind knows nothing” can also be read as an expansion of “do not look, do not listen; embrace the spirit in stillness”: when spirit guards the form, one can live long. This word “spirit” (shen) is what present-day cultivators call the “infant” (the innate spirit).

“Be careful with your inner self; block your outer gates—much knowing is instead defeat. I will ascend with you to the bright clarity above (the realm of utmost yang), and enter with you the dark gate of the deep (the realm of utmost yin). Heaven and earth each have their lord; yin and yang each have their storehouses. Carefully guard the body, and the myriad things will naturally flourish. I guard the One and dwell in harmony—therefore I have cultivated the body for twelve hundred years, and the form has never decayed.”

Oral gloss

“Shen ru nei” means not moving the heart; “bi ru wai” means not letting outer things shake the heart. Talent and wide knowledge are instead a burden, hence “not knowing, not aware.” (What follows continues Guang Chengzi’s self-account—guarding the One, dwelling in harmony, twelve hundred years without decline—in one thread with the preceding “utmost Dao” and “embracing the spirit.”)

Scripture:

Only after virtue is complete does one speak of “much knowledge leads to failure.” At the beginning of utmost yang is great brightness; at the beginning of utmost yin is deep obscurity—the primordial state. Above great brightness is the realm above the Great Void; the gate of obscurity is the start of the Limitless. The Yi says “one yin and one yang is called the Dao”—the same kind of idea, only the Yi states it indirectly; Zhuangzi wanted to say it plainly, hence such wording. “For you” means to teach you; “then follow” means to go along with it; “still go” means to proceed; “enter the exhausted” means to reach the place of utmost limit—the sense is to teach you to this level. “Offices and storehouses” means that the human body has its own heaven-and-earth yin and yang: the heaven and earth within me each keep their place; the yin and yang within me each rest in their station—then this body can be carefully maintained, and the myriad things (the constituents within the body) will naturally grow firm. “Things” are what the body possesses, hence “things will strengthen themselves.” What is guarded is oneness without mixture; what is dwelt in is complete harmony—so though the form passes twelve hundred years, it does not decay. “Dwelling” is how one handles affairs and things—the side of responding when stimulated; heaven and earth are the firm (yang) and yielding (yin) within my body.

The Yellow Emperor bowed again with forehead to the ground and said: Master Guangcheng’s words accord with Heaven. Guangchengzi said: Come, I will tell you—those things are originally without end, yet people think they have a conclusion; those things are originally beyond measure, yet people think they have a limit. One who obtains my Dao may above be sovereign, below be king; one who loses my Dao may above see light, below be only a scholar. Now the hundred kinds of things are born from earth and return to earth—therefore I leave you, enter the gate of the infinite, wander in the field of the limitless. I share light with sun and moon, I share constancy with heaven and earth. Do people take me for obscure? For remote? All die, and I alone remain?

Commentary (oral meaning):

“Guangchengzi’s words accord with Heaven” means his speech can unite with Heaven. How can things have an end? Yet people must seek their conclusion; how can things be fully measured? Yet people must seek their limit—therefore they chase the boundless with what is bounded. These two lines carry great weight; in plain terms, it is like “forging iron for a door-sill—the ghost claps and laughs”—the same idea. The Yi does not end at Jiji (Already Fulfilled) but at Weiji (Not Yet Fulfilled); from this one knows things are without end and beyond full measure. “The Master on the river” sighing is the same thought. Guangchengzi says things have no end and no full measure—to teach people not to follow the boundless with what is bounded.

Continuation of later commentary:

“One who obtains my Dao may above be sovereign, below be king; one who loses my Dao may above see light, below be only a scholar”—the one who obtains the Dao occupies the highest place; the one who loses it may see light, but below remains only a scholar. “The hundred flourishing things are born from earth and return to earth”—all things emerge from earth and go back to earth; therefore Guangchengzi will depart, enter the infinite, wander in the limitless, share light with sun and moon, share constancy with heaven and earth. “Do they take me for obscure? For remote from people?”—Do people think me dim and deep? “All die, and I alone remain?”—Everyone perishes; I alone endure—this is how one who has obtained the Dao speaks of transcending life and death, in one line with Zhuangzi’s “alone communing with the spirit of heaven and earth.”

Plain-Language Commentary

Yunjiang, the spirit who governs cloud qi, was about to travel east. As he passed the branches of Fuyao (the whirlwind), he happened upon Hongmeng, the primordial being of the time when chaos first opened. Hongmeng was slapping his thighs and hopping about like a sparrow at play. When Yunjiang saw him, he stopped abruptly, stood respectfully, and said: “Old sir, who are you? Why do you keep slapping your thighs and hopping like this?” Hongmeng went on slapping his thighs and hopping, without turning his head, and said: “I do not know, I do not know.” Yunjiang said: “I wish to ask you something.” Hongmeng looked up at Yunjiang and said: “Hmm?” Yunjiang said: “Heaven and earth are out of harmony, the qi of the earth is blocked, the six qi (wind, rain, cold, heat, dryness, dampness) are disordered, and the four seasons are wrong. I want to gather the essence of the six qi to nourish all living things—what should I do?” Hongmeng slapped his thighs, hopped, shook his head, and said: “I do not know, I do not know.” Yunjiang could get no answer from him.

Three years later, Yunjiang traveled east again and, crossing the wilds of You Song, met Hongmeng once more. Yunjiang was overjoyed, hurried forward, and said: “Has Heaven forgotten me? Has Heaven forgotten me?” He bowed twice and knocked his head on the ground, wanting to seek instruction from Hongmeng. Hongmeng said: “Drift at will, not knowing what to seek; roam freely, not knowing where to go. The wanderer busies himself with worldly affairs in order to behold wuwang (natural authenticity, freedom from artifice)—what could I know of that?” Yunjiang said: “I thought of myself as letting go, yet the people follow wherever I lead; I had no choice but to go along with the people. Now as for…”

(This section is unfinished; what follows is Yunjiang’s further account of his predicament.)

Note: This passage comes from “In Regulation of Kings” (Zai You) in the Zhuangzi. It contrasts Yunjiang (active effort, ordering the world) with Hongmeng (Wuwei, primordial simplicity), and satirizes the idea of deliberately “joining the essence of the six qi to nourish the myriad beings.” Hongmeng’s replies—slapping his thighs, hopping like a bird, and saying “I do not know”—embody Daoist themes of “abandoning sageliness and discarding wisdom” and returning to the uncarved block: true nurturing is not human manipulation but following nature and resting in wuwang.

The common people all take you as their model and long to hear a word from you. Hong Meng said: To disrupt the constant patterns of the Dao and go against the innate nature of things—then the mysterious, empty Heaven cannot complete the transformation of natural spontaneity. Beasts scatter each to their own kind; birds cry all night; disaster reaches the plants and harm spreads to insects—alas, all this comes from using deliberate heart-mind and clever governance upon people.

The branches of “Fuyao” are those of the fusang—the place where the sun rises. Slapping one’s thighs and the leaping of sparrows depict joyful abandon and self-contentment. “Tangran” means dazed, as if something were lost; “ziran” means standing upright and unmoving. “Sou” refers to Hong Meng. In Chan there is the story of Zhaozhou visiting Touzi on his return from buying oil: the master said, “Long have I heard of Touzi; today I meet the oil peddler,” and Touzi replied, “Oil, oil”—the Chan school uses this to make a point. Here “you” (wandering) is the free, inspired state in Zhuangzi, not the homophone for oil. “Buchuo er dui” should read as “you” (roaming); looking up and saying “xu”—in broad daylight, from Miaoyu’s nurturing of all beings, one question, and it belongs with Huangdi’s question earlier. “Diaotou” is shaking the head. “Tian wang zhen ye”—zhen is “I”; calling Hong Meng Heaven, saying we met before—does he still remember, or has he forgotten me? “Fuyou” is roaming everywhere; “kuangkuang” is reckless abandon. “Bu zhi suo qiu” is having nothing to seek; “bu zhi suo wang” is having nowhere to go. “Yangzhang” means affairs piling up in busy confusion. “Wuwang” is the genuine—amid the world’s bustle, one observes one’s own authenticity. “Buyi yu min” means wanting to decline but being unable to refuse; the people take me as their model. “The warp of Heaven and the disposition of things” were originally nothing but naturalness; now, with deliberate fabrication, one reverses nature—how can natural transformation be achieved? Hence “the mysterious Heaven does not complete”—xuan is emptiness, as in “prior to Heaven.” If beasts gathered without strife, there would be no “other kind” or “same kind”; now each breaks its herd and leaves, and there is you-and-me, same-and-different. Birds crying at night comes from being startled and disturbed. Failing to assist all things in their spontaneous course and instead making them lose their nature brings harm to plants and insects alike. All because one uses deliberate heart-mind to govern people—as before, the fault lies in stirring people’s heart-mind.

Yun Jiang said: If that is so, what should I do? Hong Meng said: Alas—dangerous! Drift back home. Yun Jiang said: I have met heaven-sent calamity and wish to hear one word. Hong Meng said: Alas…

Plain-Language Reading of the Oral Meaning of the True Classic of Nanhua

“Then what am I to do?”

The sense is: since things have already come to this pass, what is there left to do?

“How poisonous!”

Like the Stone Monk’s “How bitter, how bitter!”—you are making trouble for yourself.

“Off with you, off with you!”

The manner of someone urging you to leave quickly. It means you are already tormenting yourself; go back at once and need not ask me again. This fabricated question-and-answer has the sharp, playful edge of the dialogues in the Record of the Transmission of the Lamp.

“Nourishing the mind” (xin yang)

This is not the usual phrase “cultivating the heart-mind,” but xin yang—letting this heart-mind nourish and hold itself. A single change in word order shifts the meaning; read it with care. Tu here means “only”: you need only abide in wuwei (non-action), and outer things will transform on their own. Things transform themselves—coming and going without ceasing, arising and perishing by themselves, with no need for you to push.

“Spit out your cleverness and brightness”

Cast off all former craft and cleverness; leave not a trace.

“Sink with things and forget them”

Lun is the same as lun (to sink, to be submerged): to be drowned and forgotten together with the myriad things, and in that way to merge in great sameness with xīngmíng—the earliest, formless, chaotic oneness before shape and qi (vital energy) had appeared.

“Unbind the heart-mind and release the spirit”

“Unbind the heart-mind” is to loosen the heart that “has a mind”; “release the spirit” is to relax the spirit that “knows.”

Mòrán is to settle in ease. Without the hun-soul is to be without knowing or feeling—jing (essence) corresponds to the po-soul and shen (spirit) to the hun-soul; “without hun” is like the earlier “standing block-like with only the body,” nothing but the bodily form remaining.

Here “heart-mind” and “spirit” are not the same as the heart in “nourishing the mind” or the spirit in “embrace the spirit and keep still”; when reading the commentary, weigh each word against its context.

“The myriad things abound; each returns to its root”

Yunyun means “in multitudes.” Where there is birth there must be death; after death comes birth again—hence “each returns to its root.”

Though caught in birth and death, it is as if they “do not know”—húnhúndùndùn, dull and without awareness. Stay in that dullness and you never leave the Dao for a lifetime.

Once knowing and feeling arise, you and the Dao become two—hence: if they know in that way, they are already leaving it. This line is exceedingly fine; stare at it—wherever there is a discriminating mind, there is departure from the Dao.

“Do not ask their names; do not pry into their inward truth; things simply generate themselves”

There is no need to chase after names or spy on inner motives; the myriad things are born of themselves all along.

“Yunjiang said: Heaven has bestowed De (Virtue/Power) upon me, shown me silence; I sought it in person, and only now have I attained it.”

Yunjiang means: Heaven has given me De, instructed me through silence; I went after it with my own body, and today I have finally gained something. (He bowed again and again, rose, and took his leave.)

Brief wrap-up

This passage of the oral meaning teaches: do not use the clever heart-mind to “manage” the myriad things. Abide in wuwei, unbind heart and release spirit, forget yourself together with things—then each can return to its root without leaving the Dao. The moment there is “knowing,” that is leaving the Dao. Yunjiang’s lines are the commentator’s use of dialogue to hold up a negative lesson: “self-poisoning” and “leave in haste.”

Distinguishing things is called “naming”; having likes and dislikes is called “emotion.” “Peering” means seeing something, watching for something.

One may ask: Without peering and distinguishing, there is no difference between self and other, and no likes or dislikes—that is precisely wuwei and ziran (non-action and spontaneity). If I can be wuwei and ziran, the myriad things each grow according to their own nature; that is how it ought to be. Hence it is said: things grow of themselves; “gu” (固) means they were always so from the start.

“Jiang” (降) is like saying “bestow upon me”; “mo” (默) means not using words. He bestows natural De upon me and shows me that there is no need for many words. Turn back and seek within one’s own person, and one has already personally attained this Dao. “Zi” (自) means to seek from oneself—only then does one truly receive what is one’s own. Then one bows in thanks and departs.

Ordinary people all like others to be like themselves and dislike others for being different. They want others to agree with them yet refuse to let others differ from them—this is taking “rising above the crowd” as one’s intention. But those who take rising above the crowd as their intention—when have they truly risen above the crowd? Using the crowd to settle what one has heard is still inferior to the crowd’s many skills; yet they wish to govern another’s state—this is chasing only the profit of the Three Kings (the sage kings of the three ancient dynasties) while blind to disaster. Staking another’s state on a gamble—how many times can one gamble without losing that state? To preserve a state is hard beyond measure; to ruin a state, one failed move and ten thousand threads unravel. Pitiful—learned people do not see this.

From here to the end of the chapter is a passage of discussion that Zhuangzi himself unfolds.

Wanting everyone to be like oneself and forbidding anyone to differ from oneself, one then imagines oneself superior everywhere. What one understands, one must have the whole crowd turn toward oneself before one feels at ease—then how is one different from the crowd? Though one wishes to stand out, how can one stand out? If one claims unique true knowledge, everyone else would have to be ignorant; yet one also wants everyone to be like oneself—that is already being less capable than the crowd. Laozi said, “Those who know me are few; thus he who is like me is honored”; Zhuangzi here turns the point once more. In Han Yu’s discursive writing, the idea of “there is still something to be said” is the same. With such a mind yet wishing to govern a state is to grasp the benefits of the Three Kings without knowing one must invite calamity. Using this intent to scheme for another’s state is gambling on luck; how many rounds of luck before one fails to destroy that state?

If the heart sees only what is lost, how can it see what is achieved? A ruler who merely “has strategists” may still fail to recognize genuine talent and be led astray by wandering persuaders. Here “having strategists” means having advisers and retainers; “having a state” refers to the feudal lords of the time. The passage plainly satirizes those strategists who roamed from court to court and lived by eloquence and self-interest.

One who truly holds strategists in the right sense holds the “great thing.” Whoever grasps the great thing cannot treat the myriad things with the ordinary attitude toward objects; he must “not-thing” (buwu)—neither cling nor manipulate—before he can accord with and truly encompass all things. To see clearly that the way of “treating things as things” is itself not fixation on things: this is not limited to governing the people. Hence one can enter and leave the six directions, roam the nine provinces, come and go alone—this is called “sole possession” (duyou). A person of such attainment is supremely noble.

“Thing-ing things” (wuwu) is deliberate action with mind and trace; “not-thinging” is wuwei (non-action) and spontaneity. In wuwei, nothing is left undone; therefore only by not clinging to things can one genuinely master the myriad things. Once one understands the emptiness of “thing-ing” things, this is not merely ordering the world under Heaven. Thus “entering and leaving the six directions, roaming the nine provinces” means that the Dao transcends the surface show of things, works in the opening and closing of creation, and is one with the Heavenly Dao—not something humans can split in two. Hence coming and going alone is called sole possession; in that state one is supremely noble.

The teaching of the great person is like form to shadow and sound to echo—utterly natural. When questioned, he answers with his whole heart; thereby he matches the great affairs of Heaven and Earth and bears the world on a single person. He dwells where there is no echo, walks where there is no fixed direction, lifts you back into that restless stirring that never ceases, roams in the beginningless, enters and leaves without partiality, and with the sun has no beginning. He celebrates and discusses the bodily form and merges with the Great Unity (datong). In the Great Unity there is no self; without self, how can there be “having being”? The gentleman of old who beheld nothingness was the friend of Heaven and Earth.

“Great person” (daren) is the perfected person—the “solely possessed” one spoken of above. Form necessarily casts shadow; sound necessarily has echo—that is nature. When I am asked, I answer with all I hold in mind; thereby I match the world, and one person alone shoulders the world’s great charge. I am host, matching is guest; no echo, no sound, no odor; no direction, no trace. “Restless stirring” (raorao) is the look of the multitude in endless motion. “To go” is departure; “to lift” (qie) is to raise up; “you” (ru) means all people under Heaven; “return” means bringing them back—lifting all under Heaven into that restless stirring. The point is that though one transcends the world, one does not leave the world: transcendence that remains within the world, not a twofold split.

Thread of the main idea: The text mocks lords who trust wandering persuaders; one who truly holds the “great thing” must “not-thing” in order to encompass things, moving alone between Heaven and Earth as supremely noble. The great person’s teaching is as natural as shadow and echo; he answers fully to match the world, lifts people into turmoil yet roams the beginningless, and merges with the Great Unity without self. Shadow and echo, host and guest, matching and position—all clarify how the solely possessed person transcends the world without leaving it.

(On “No Beginning” and the “Great Unity”)

The Dao can be spoken of in two ways: it has neither source nor beginning, with no edge on any side—in every direction it is boundless.

Human beings come and go, wandering within it, like the sun’s daily circuit: you never see where it ends, so how could you know where it begins? Hence the saying that it is “like the sun—without a beginning.” Taken in terms of form, this is praise: the person is in tune with Heaven and Earth, and the myriad things share one body with this self—that is what is meant by “conforming to the Great Unity (Datong).”

Once this body is already the same as the myriad things, one can no longer cling to private possession—that is “no self” (wuji). With no self, what is there left to call “having”? This is exactly what Layman Pang (Pang Jushi) meant: empty everything that counts as “having,” and do not treat everything that counts as “nothing” as something real.

The gentleman of antiquity had first to perceive those who were “friends with Heaven and Earth” as “having,” and only then could he go on to perceive their “nothing.” The “gentlemen of antiquity” meant here—from Yao and Shun downward—all fall within this sense.

(High and Low, Fine and Coarse—None May Be Cast Aside)

Base, yet it must still be put to use: things.

Lowly, yet one must still rely on them: the people.

Hidden, yet it must still be done: affairs.

Coarse, yet it must still be laid out: law (fa).

Distant, yet one must still abide in it: righteousness (yi).

Near, yet it must still be extended: benevolence (ren).

Restrained, yet it must still be accumulated: ritual propriety (li).

Centered and upright, yet it must still be elevated: De (virtue/power).

All-of-a-piece, yet it must still be held and transformed: the Dao.

Wondrous and unfathomable, yet one must still go to complete it: Heaven.

(Commentary: Zhuangzi Is Not Only Talking Emptiness)

Read in this light, Zhuangzi is still someone who works through concrete human affairs—not someone who only drifts in talk of voidness. Yichuan (Cheng Yi) said that Buddhism “reaches upward but lacks lower learning”—a sharp remark. Yet in just these lines there is also something that approaches “lower learning,” and the idea that the refined and the coarse cannot be torn apart.

When the Dao is prized, things look cheap—but can a person simply cast off the myriad things? Hence: cheap, yet things must still be employed.

When the Dao is honored, the person seems humble—but can the Dao stand apart from people and still hold? Hence: humble, yet the people must still be relied upon.

The Dao is luminous; affairs, compared with the Dao, look obscure—but can one abandon worldly affairs altogether? Hence: obscure, yet affairs must still be done.

The Dao is fine; law is coarse—but can law be wholly discarded? Hence: coarse, yet law must still be set forth.

Once one speaks of righteousness (yi), one is already somewhat removed from the Dao—but can righteousness be dropped? Hence: distant, yet righteousness must still be dwelt in.

The same pattern runs through benevolence (ren), ritual propriety (li), De, the Dao, and Heaven: honoring the Dao does not cancel the standing of things, the people, affairs, law, righteousness, benevolence, ritual, De, and Heaven. The refined and the coarse, the high and the low, must be cared for together.

Plain-language commentary

Dao (the cosmic origin) knows no favoritism in closeness or distance; ren (benevolent care) does show partiality. Though ren is not the ultimate Way, how could one cast it aside? It must be extended and broadened—hence the saying that what is “intimate yet must not fail to be broad” is ren.

Li (ritual propriety) has its forms and limits; it can feel like pressing people against their grain, yet it cannot be neglected—hence what is “measured yet must not fail to be accumulated” is li. Three hundred major rites and three thousand minor observances—could one person accomplish them in a single day? Thus what must be “accumulated” is li.

De (virtue) is something everyone may attain in common; though one harmonizes with the world, there is a place where one must stand on one’s own—how could one be utterly identical with others? Hence what is “centered yet must not fail to be elevated” is de. Centrality and harmony count as unity; what is wholly one with nature is Dao. Yet there are points where change is required—how could one cling to one fixed form? Hence what is “one yet must not fail to change” is Dao.

What cannot be known is called shen (spirit—the unfathomable in theHeaven’s Way). All that Heaven does is unknowable, yet human affairs cannot be left undone—how could one hand everything over to the unknowable? Hence what is “numinous yet must not fail to be acted upon” is Heaven.

Therefore the sage contemplates Heaven without zhu (forcing or “helping along”), completes de without lei (piling up to seem lofty), issues from Dao without scheming, gathers in ren without shi (taking credit as if owed gratitude), stays close to righteousness without ji (hardening what should stay fluid), meets li without taboo, engages affairs without yielding, aligns with law without disorder, relies on the people without lightness, follows things without abandoning them. Things are never worth making a fuss over, yet one cannot fail to act regarding them. Those unclear about Heaven cannot be pure in de; those who do not penetrate Dao have no footing from which to succeed; those who do not understand Dao—how lamentable.

On “bu zhu” (不助): Not allowing forced effort. In what concerns human beings one cannot refuse to act; yet seen with the eye of Dao, even when acting one does not permit strained effort—hence “contemplates Heaven without helping.” This zhu is the same as in “helping [a plant] grow” by pulling it up.

On “bu lei” (不累): Not amassing height. To heap up in order to seem lofty is to harbor a contrived mind and lose naturalness (lei read like “fortress/mound”).

On “bu mou” (不谋): No heart of calculation and plotting.

On “bu shi” (不恃): Not treating one’s action as a favor others should thank one for. Hui (会) means to gather. Ji (积) means not transforming; without accumulation, there is transformation.

On “bo” (薄): Pressing close, drawing near—one’s conduct may approach righteousness closely yet without imagining one “possesses” righteousness; it is said that amassing righteousness in a rigid way prevents transformation.

On “bu hui” (不讳): Not being bound by taboo and avoidance. Ying (应) is to respond and meet others; if one is cramped by the letter of ritual, one shrinks from what ritual seems to forbid.

To walk is simply to walk: respond to each situation as it comes. Hence the saying, “Respond to affairs with propriety.” To avoid and yield means to withdraw and hold back. When meeting affairs, one follows one’s feelings directly and acts without hesitation, holding nothing back. Hence the saying, “Engage with affairs without yielding.” To bring things into alignment through the law means that even amid confusion, there remains a sense of simplicity. Hence the saying, “Do not become confused.” “Though the people may be relied upon, do not take them lightly” means that what one leans on may be trusted, but one should not treat oneself lightly. “Though one may draw upon what is at hand, do not abandon the root to pursue the branches” means that although one may take advantage of circumstances, one must not forsake the root in pursuit of details. The preceding statements end here, yet the text raises the word “things” once more: “There is nothing among things that one need do, yet there are things one cannot leave undone.” Here, “things” encompasses everything: in its finest aspect, it is the Dao; in its coarsest, it is material things. From the standpoint of the mind of the Dao, none of it need be done; yet there are matters that cannot be left undone—this is the aspect of the human mind. This sentence shows that Zhuangzi understood the principle by which the fine and the coarse are one.

The text then says, “If one does not understand Heaven, one’s De is not whole.” Although worldly affairs cannot all be left undone, one must understand the natural principles at work. If one does not understand the natural course of Heaven, one’s De will not be pure and whole. “Not being attuned to the Dao” means not understanding Heaven. “There is nowhere one can go without being obstructed” means that wherever one goes, one encounters impediments. The earlier phrases, “not understanding Heaven” and “not being attuned to the Dao,” are brought together at the end in the statement, “If one does not understand the Dao, one cannot understand Heaven.” “Not being attuned to the Dao” means the same as those two phrases.

What is the Dao? There is the Dao of Heaven and the dao of human beings. “The honored one who acts without action” is the Dao of Heaven; “the burdened one who acts” is the dao of human beings. The master is the Dao of Heaven; the minister is the dao of human beings. The Dao of Heaven and the dao of human beings are far apart, and this distinction must be carefully understood.

These two lines are exceptionally subtle and directly relevant to the study of the Dao. Readers who do not investigate them deeply may pass over them too quickly. “Acting without action and being honored” describes the natural course of the Dao of Heaven. “Acting and being burdened” describes the aspect of human life in which one has no choice but to act. The first phrase belongs to the mind of the Dao; the second belongs to the human mind. The word “burdened” here is close in meaning to “perilous.” “The master is the Dao of Heaven” means that the mind of the Dao is in command; “the minister is the dao of human beings” means that the human mind follows its orders. “Master” and “minister” here do not refer to a ruler and ministers at court. Readers throughout the ages have understood them only in that political sense, and have missed the point.

This passage from the Discussion on the Equality of Things (Qiwu Lun) explains that the roles of ruler and minister within the body can shift and interchange, and that a “true ruler” (zhenjun) is present—one should understand it in this way.

Zhuangzi as a whole tends to praise wuwei (non-action) and belittle deliberate action (youwei). Earlier sections already said that some things cannot be left undone; yet the author also feared readers would lump youwei and wuwei together, so here he stresses again that the Way of Heaven and the human way are very far apart and must be distinguished with care. The whole chapter opens and closes, rises and falls, echoing itself from beginning to end; read thoroughly, it feels vivid and alive. But the sentences cross and twist in many ways, and some readers cannot digest it. Phrases such as “distant yet one cannot fail to dwell in it” and “intimate yet one cannot fail to extend it broadly” as ren (benevolence) do not follow the steady thread of the sages’ teaching and can easily slide toward heterodox readings—so do not read this as you would read the Analects or Mencius.

From “lowly yet one cannot fail to employ it” through “one cannot fail to examine it,” this is the great outline of the entire Zhuangzi, in the same vein as the “Tianxia” (All under Heaven) chapter. Dongpo (Su Shi) held that Zhuangzi did not truly mock Confucius; that point is stated most clearly in the “Tianxia” chapter. One can also say Zhuangzi was not ignorant that fine and coarse, root and branch are ultimately one body—that is fully shown in this chapter.

There is another layer: the words of the sages do not change for ten thousand generations; yet the various masters also have moments that hit home. For example, the Book of Changes says that what is above form is the Dao, what is below form is the vessel; shaping and trimming is change, extending and applying is penetration; lifting it and setting it among the people is enterprise. It also says that seeing is image, form is vessel, fashioning and using it is law, drawing on it in going out and coming in so the people all use it is shen (spirit)—when did it speak only of the fine, only of the coarse? Stated roundly, there is naturally no flaw. Yuexuan once said: when Confucians awaken to the Way the mind grows finer; when Chan Buddhists awaken to the Way the mind grows coarser—that cuts to the marrow of Confucianism and Buddhism; few before him put it so plainly. Zhuangzi in this passage treats many worldly affairs as base and coarse, then strings together a series of “one cannot fail to…”—the method is cruder still, and lacks the bearing of “only the refined, only the one, holding fast the center.” Once you can tell that kind of fineness and coarseness apart, you see that Yuexuan spoke only after he had awakened.

Those with true insight and perspicacity understand that when outsiders criticize Buddhism, they often only scratch the surface and never reach its depth.

Buddhism has long been called a teaching of transcending the world—a path that rises above secular affairs and seeks liberation. Critics often attack it from another angle, claiming that it severs human bonds and casts aside conventional ethics—rejecting family and worldly duties such as those between ruler and subject, father and son. To refute Buddhism with such partial, shallow arguments can hardly win genuine assent.

Note: This passage comes from the Kouyi (Oral Exegesis) on the Zhuangzi—known in Daoism as the Nanhua Zhenjing (Authentic Scripture of Southern Florescence)—by the Song-dynasty Daoist master Lin Xiyi. It discusses how Confucian and Daoist circles of the time criticized Buddhism; it is not Zhuangzi’s original text but the commentator’s remarks.