《南華真經口義》Vol. 15

Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi, fascicle 15, outer chapter “Heavenly Dao” (Tiandao) (vernacular interpretation)

Yan Qi, Lin Xiyi

Outer Chapter: Heavenly Dao

Scripture text:

The Heavenly Dao operates without hoarding anything in the heart, so all things can come to completion; the way of the emperor operates without hoarding, so the world turns toward the sage; the way of the sage operates without hoarding, and those who understand can align with the Heavenly Dao and unite with sagely virtue. One whose imperial virtue penetrates in all directions and opens on every side does so naturally; in that dim unity nothing fails to be still. The sage’s stillness is not pursued as a goal called “stillness”—because the heart is originally good, stillness comes of itself. Nothing in the outer world is enough to disturb the heart, and so there is stillness. When water is still it is bright and can mirror beard and eyebrows; when level it is like a plumb line, and the great craftsman takes it as his standard. If still water is this clear, how much more so the human spirit? The sage’s heart is still; it is the mirror of Heaven and Earth, and the mirror of the ten thousand things.

Oral gloss (kouyi):

The way of the emperor and the way of the sage are in truth hard to split apart; Zhuangzi here roughly pairs “emperor” with the Three Sovereigns and “sage” with the Five Emperors. “Operates without hoarding” is what the Yijing calls “pure and unceasing”; the two words “no accumulation” make the sense clearer. The thrust of this passage really lands on stillness (jing). Within utmost stillness, to operate without hoarding is no dead wood or ashes—only readers often fail to see through it. “Six penetrations and four openings” means east, west, south, north, above, and below—no obstruction anywhere. “Dimly unified” (meiran) means obscure and merged as one. “The sage’s stillness is not that he sets out to be still”—this line shows the spirit best: the sage does not make love of stillness a hobby and force stillness; outer things are not enough to stir his heart, so without seeking stillness he is still. “鐃” is the same as “disturb” (nao). Comparing stillness to water and to a mirror uses images right before the eyes, but the further layer marked by “moreover” is especially sharp.

Scripture text:

Emptiness, stillness, calm, plainness, solitude, and Wuwei (non-action) are the level ground of Heaven and Earth and the utmost of virtue (de); therefore emperors and sages dwell in them. Dwelling in them brings emptiness; emptiness brings fullness; fullness accords with constant principle. Emptiness brings stillness; stillness allows movement; movement gains what is sought. In stillness there is Wuwei; Wuwei hands the work of acting to whoever should bear it; Wuwei brings ease and breadth, ease and breadth keep affliction from the body, and years lengthen. Emptiness, stillness, calm, plainness, solitude, and Wuwei are the root of the ten thousand things. Understand this and to the south one can rule like Yao; understand this and to the north one can serve like Shun; with it one serves the Lord on High and becomes king, emperor, and Son of Heaven.

Oral gloss (kouyi):

(This section stresses that emptiness and still Wuwei are not passivity but the ground where emperors and sages dwell; from it one can be lord or minister, king or emperor.)

Note: This piece is Lin Xiyi’s (Song dynasty) section-by-section oral gloss on Zhuangzi “Heavenly Dao”: scripture excerpts above, exegesis below; the vernacular follows the original order; proper names such as the Three Sovereigns, Five Emperors, Yao, and Shun are kept as in the source.

Virtue can reach such a height only because one lives by this teaching. The hidden sage and the “plain king” in a lowly place also take it as the Way. Those who withdraw and wander freely among rivers, seas, and mountain forests use it to cultivate themselves. Those who enter public life and work to settle the world use it to govern, and so achieve great deeds, clear fame, and the unification of all under heaven.

“Empty, still, calm, and wuwei (non-action)”: when you unpack the single word “still” (jing), it is these eight characters—and only then is the meaning clear. “Ping” means to pacify; “zhi” means to reach the utmost. What is described here is the fixed principle of heaven and earth, and also the highest reach of moral cultivation. “Xiu” means to come to rest: the hearts of emperors and sages find their rest here; one might also call it “resting in supreme goodness.” “Xiu” can also be read as “empty”: as in the idea that “only when there is emptiness and stillness can the Dao gather.” Emptiness and stillness bring good fortune; when the heart rests here, that is true stability.

Yet the text goes on to say that within emptiness there is fullness, and that this “fullness” has its own order. The point is sharpened: fullness within emptiness, much like the Buddhist sequence from “true emptiness” to “real existence.” “Lun” means pattern or order—the real principle already has structure; within undifferentiated wholeness there is still clear distinction. The line above speaks of fullness inside emptiness; the line below speaks of how emptiness can settle a person, and how stillness can give rise to movement. It is like movement and stillness as each other’s root: when one acts and everything is fitting, that is “when you move, you attain it.”

“Those who take on affairs bear responsibility” means that each person takes up his own tasks and fulfills his own charge. That is wuwei and yet nothing is left undone. “Yuyu” suggests ease and quiet joy. “Calamities cannot lodge” means calamity cannot get into the heart; “chu” here carries the sense of being drawn in or stuck. When calamity cannot enter, that is the humane person who does not worry; when life is long, that is the still person who enjoys longevity.

These four sayings are woven together through the ideas of emptiness, stillness, and wuwei—the kind of composition Zhuangzi often uses. At this point the eight characters “empty, still, calm, and wuwei” are raised again and declared the root of the ten thousand things. “Root” means beginning: the teaching appears before the ten thousand things have come to be.

“Occupying the upper place” means holding the ruler’s position and governing the world while facing south; “occupying the lower place” means not holding office. “Hidden sage” and “plain king” refer to someone who has a sage’s virtue but not a sage’s title or rank. “Withdrawing to wander at leisure” describes the recluse; “entering office, taking up affairs, and settling the world” describes those who come forth when the times require it. From this it is clear that the author does not reject the hope that sages will govern the world; he does not treat movement and stillness as opposites.

In stillness one is a sage; in action one is a king. Though one practices wuwei, one is still honored. Keep to simplicity, and nothing under heaven can rival you in worth. To truly grasp the virtue of heaven and earth is to understand this.

Meaning of the Scripture

Great Root, Great Ancestor (Da Ben, Da Zong) names a state of being at one with Heaven. Only from there can one balance and harmonize all under Heaven and live in accord with people. Accord with people is called human joy (ren le); accord with Heaven is called heavenly joy (tian le).

In stillness one is inwardly sagely; in movement outwardly kingly—the familiar inner sage and outer king (nei sheng wai wang). One is honored through Wuwei (non-action). Among ways in the world, nothing is held dearer than Wuwei. Plain simplicity (pusu) is not studied ornament: it looks spare, yet no beauty under Heaven surpasses it, so in that plainness none under Heaven can vie for splendor. Clarity (mingbai) means seeing the teaching without blur: grasp the virtue of Heaven and Earth in this sense and you can befriend Heaven—hence “accord with Heaven.” On harmony: Great Root, Great Ancestor praise nature’s root virtue, close to “rooted from oneself”; balancing all under Heaven harmonizes with people, as when Yao in the Zhuangzi says, “You are at one with Heaven; I am at one with people.” The text names heavenly harmony and human harmony, then heavenly joy and human joy—the rhetoric keeps lifting in layers.

Zhuangzi said: My teacher, my teacher! He wears down the myriad things yet is not called violent; his bounty reaches ten thousand generations yet is not called kind; he endures from high antiquity yet is not called long-lived; he shelters and bears Heaven and Earth and carves and shapes the myriad forms yet is not called crafty—this is called heavenly joy.

These lines match the “Great Ancestor” chapter, but here they are prefaced with “Zhuangzi said.” Earlier they were Xu You’s words; here they are Zhuangzi’s own—showing that the chapter’s episodes are parable (yuyan), not all to be read as literal record.

Thus: whoever knows heavenly joy, in life follows Heaven’s course (living by Heaven’s principle), in death transforms with things (going with the myriad things in change). In stillness he shares virtue with Yin; in movement he rides the same surge as Yang—tong bo means sharing that flow. So the knower of heavenly joy has no resentment against Heaven, no reproach from people, no burden from things, no blame from ghosts. Hence: moving like Heaven, still like Earth; with mind settled he could rule all under Heaven—ghosts and spirits do not trouble him, hun and po do not weary; with mind settled the myriad things yield. Stretching emptiness and stillness through Heaven and Earth and through the myriad things—this is heavenly joy. Heavenly joy is how the sage’s heart nourishes all under Heaven.

The remarks about “ghost” and “soul” go further in explaining “spirit” (shen): when a ghost shows itself to people, they call it a “haunting” (sui)—something that manifests and harms; saying “its ghost does not haunt” means the spirit’s intent stays hidden and does not show itself lightly; saying “its soul does not weary” means the spirit does not grow exhausted. What are called ghost and soul are both ways of speaking about spirit. When the heart is settled, spirit naturally settles, and the myriad things will of themselves submit. Acting among heaven, earth, and the myriad things according to the principle of emptiness and stillness is why it is said to “extend through heaven and earth and penetrate the myriad things”; “nourishing the world” is likewise nourishing people with goodness so that the world is won over.

The virtue of a true king takes heaven and earth as his model, takes Dao and De as his master, and takes wuwei (non-action) as his constant. With wuwei, he deploys the world and has capacity to spare; with deliberate action (youwei), he is used up by the world and falls short. Hence the ancients prized wuwei. If those below are without deliberate action and those above are also without it, then below and above share the same virtue (de); when below and above share the same virtue, the one below cannot truly function as minister. If those below act with purpose and those above also act with purpose, then above and below follow the same way (dao); when above and below follow the same way, the one above cannot truly function as lord. The lord must practice wuwei and “use the world”; the minister must practice youwei and “be used by the world”—this is the unchanging pattern.

Heaven and earth, Dao and De—none of this is anything but the principle of wuwei. This passage again sets wuwei and youwei in contrast: wuwei as the way of the lord, youwei as the way of the minister. “If below and above share the same virtue, there is no minister” means the minister should exhaust his strength in labor; “if above and below follow the same way, there is no lord” means the lord should rest in ease. “Using the world” belongs to the lord; “being used by the world” belongs to the minister—stated this way, lord and minister take on yet another layer of meaning, and one must not simply equate this with the “way of heaven, way of humankind” scheme in the “Letting Be, Having Sovereignty” (Zaiyou) chapter. To read the text this rigidly is to miss Zhuangzi altogether.

Earlier it also says, “With this clarity, facing north, Shun served as minister,” and “Advancing in this way to govern the age, then merit is great and fame shines”—if that were the whole story, the minister’s path would seem to allow wuwei as well, which would look like self-contradiction. It is precisely because one must not be rigid that the text says: if the doctrine is read into such a dead letter, one cannot read Zhuangzi at all.

Therefore the ancient rulers of the world: though their wisdom reached heaven and earth, they did not scheme for themselves; though their discernment could carve the myriad things, they did not flatter themselves; though their ability exhausted what lay within the seas, they did not decide alone. Heaven does not nurture yet the myriad things transform of themselves; earth does not rear yet the myriad things rear themselves; the true king does not… (the sense continues here; the original note breaks off unfinished).

The Virtue of Heaven, Earth, and the Sovereign

When one acts and the world completes its work of its own accord, it is said: nothing is more wondrous than Heaven, nothing is more abundant than Earth, and nothing is greater than the sovereign. Thus the sovereign’s virtue matches Heaven and Earth. This is the way to command Heaven and Earth, drive the myriad things, and employ the people.

“Enveloping Heaven and Earth” means covering and holding them. “Carving the myriad things” means shaping them and displaying their refinement. The myriad things grow by themselves—they are not “born of” Heaven; they mature by themselves—they are not “raised by” Earth. Hence it is said that Heaven does not give birth and Earth does not nurture. The sovereign, through Wuwei (non-action), accomplishes the work of the realm, likewise in accord with Heaven and Earth. “Riding Heaven and Earth” is like saying “riding the six dragons to steer Heaven.” “Galloping through the myriad things” means setting the mass of living beings in motion. This passage simply praises the sovereign’s way of Wuwei.

Root and Branch

The root lies with the ruler; the branches lie with the ministers. The pivot lies with the ruler; the detail lies with the ministers.

The deployment of the three armies and the five weapons is the outer fringe of rule by De (Virtue/Power). Rewards and punishments, benefit and harm, and the institution of the five punishments are the outer fringe of education and transformation. Ritual, law, gradations, penal names, and comparative statutes are the outer fringe of governance. The sound of bells and drums and the display of feather banners and yak tails are the outer fringe of ritual and music. Weeping, hemp mourning garments, and graded funeral dress are the outer fringe of mourning rites.

These five kinds of “outer fringe” all require the movement of spirit and the stirring of inner strategy before they can be put into practice. Learning focused on such outer fringes existed in antiquity too, but it was never what ought to stand first.

The Relation Between Purposeful Action and Non-Action

From here on the text again speaks of purposeful action (youwei)—roughly, taking Wuwei as the root and youwei as the branches. The pivot is the ruler; the ruler’s way is Wuwei. The detail is the ministers; the ministers’ way is youwei.

Martial might and civil virtue serve as aids. Hence it is said that deploying the three armies and five weapons is the outer fringe of rule by De. The five weapons are the bow, the staff, the spear, the dagger-axe, and the halberd. Clarifying punishments assists education and transformation; hence rewards and punishments, benefit and harm, and the five punishments are called the outer fringe of teaching. “Gradations” means ranks and distinctions; “penal names” means names and categories of things; “comparative statutes” means rules of classification and comparison. Ritual and law with their gradations, bells and drums with their banners—these are not the root of ritual and music, much like the idea behind “Are jade and silk, bells and drums, what ritual is about?” The outer fringe of mourning is what “Better spare in grief than elaborate in form” points to. These sentences are notably even and measured.

“Spirit must move and inner strategy must stir before they can be carried out” means all of this arises from within and is not imposed from outside. “Learning of the outer fringe existed in antiquity too, but was not what ought to stand first”—this line especially repays close reading: it shows that Zhuangzi never meant to abolish arms, punishments, ritual, and music altogether.

Meaning of the Scripture

The ruler walks ahead and ministers follow behind; the father walks ahead and the son follows behind; the elder brother walks ahead and the younger brother follows behind; the senior walks ahead and the junior follows behind; the man walks ahead and the woman follows behind; the husband walks ahead and the wife follows behind—superior and inferior, first and last, are from the outset the order by which heaven and earth operate. Therefore the sage takes this as a model and emulates nature. Thus it is said: the precedence of superior and inferior and of first and last is the pattern of heaven and earth’s movement, and the sage takes his image from it. Here heaven and earth and the four seasons serve as analogies: the birth and transformation of things, their sprouting, the differentiation of forms, the alternation of flourishing and decline, and the flow of change all proceed in sequence; they do not all flourish or all decline at the same moment. From this one speaks of superior and inferior—superior and inferior are also a kind of precedence. “In affairs, esteem the worthy” means that in office and administration, the capable take priority. In the ancestral temple, kinship near and far (zhao-mu succession) is honored; at court, rank is honored; in the village, age is honored; in appointment to duties, worth is honored—all are the natural order of the world, which is also the order of the Great Dao (Da Dao). If one speaks of the Dao yet does not keep this order, one is not really speaking of the Dao; and if what is spoken is not the Dao, from where could one obtain the Dao?

Because of the words “first” and “follow” above, many analogies are laid out

The gist is: what should come first comes first, what should come last comes last—both are the way of heaven and earth, and the sage takes this as his model. Hence it is said that the precedence of superior and inferior and of first and last is the movement of heaven and earth, and the sage takes his image from it—heaven, earth, and the four seasons are all analogies. “Transformation into being” means birth and transformation (as in the Book of Odes, “the ferns also sprout”); meng is sprouting, qu is differentiation, referring to how things at first birth take diverse forms and, with the seasons, flourish or decline—again to show the gradation of before and after. Flourishing is not all-at-once fullness, nor is decline all-at-once collapse; each has its before and after, hence the “gradation” (sha) of flourishing and decline. From before-and-after one comes to superior-and-inferior; superior and inferior are likewise a form of precedence. “In affairs, esteem the worthy” means entrusting office to the capable. Age, rank, kinship, and worth are all the natural order of the world, hence they are called the order of the Great Dao. “How could one obtain the Dao?” means: if one does not know this order, how could one gain the Dao? “In the ancestral temple, kinship is honored” refers to the order of kinship near and far, zhao-mu, and generational succession.

Therefore, among the ancients who illumined the Great Dao…

Therefore, among those in antiquity who thoroughly understood the Great Dao, the sequence of understanding was this: first clarify “Heaven” and virtue (De); when virtue is clear, then discuss benevolence and righteousness; when benevolence and righteousness are clear, then discuss titles and duties; when titles and duties are clear, then discuss form and designation (xingming); when form and designation are clear, then discuss assigning people according to capacity (yinren); when assignment according to capacity is clear, then discuss tracing back and examining (yuanxing); when tracing and examining are clear, then distinguish right and wrong; when right and wrong are clear, then fix reward and punishment; only when reward and punishment are clear does one speak of “simplicity” (yu)—the governance of great simplicity that seems foolish. This is an unfolding from root to branch, from the way of Heaven to human affairs, in one continuous line with the earlier theme of “first and last, superior and inferior in order”—all reasoning by which the sage models himself on heaven and earth and does not go against the natural sequence in governing the state and cultivating the person.

Understanding the fundamental principles of affairs is what enables one to arrange rank, office, and conduct so that the humane, the worthy, and even the unkind and unworthy each keep their proper place. Assigning duties according to each person’s capacity must also follow names in handling business: with this principle one serves superiors, manages subordinates, governs the myriad things, and cultivates oneself. If one can employ strategy without a heart bent on craft, and in the end return to the natural, that is called the highest reach of governing in great peace.

This passage explains the order of governing the state in nine levels: take Heaven’s Way as first, virtue and power (De) as second, benevolence and righteousness as third, each holding to assigned duties as fourth, form and name (matching titles to performance) as fifth, entrusting tasks according to office as sixth, reviewing and trimming (removing the unfit from post and cutting redundant affairs) as seventh, right and wrong as eighth, reward and punishment as ninth. Reward and punishment include penalizing faults and honoring merit with chariots, garments, and other marks of distinction.

Zhuangzi’s ordering of governance fails to see that Heaven itself punishes the guilty and employs the virtuous—that already includes reward and punishment—so why speak of reward and punishment only at the end? Reasoning thus stands far from the way of sages. Still, his sequence—first clarify Heaven’s Way, then speak of De, and only then take up the methods below—is not simply abandoning the plain for the subtle.

“Knowing suitable placement” means knowing who should hold which office suited to them; “occupying position” is likewise each in his place; “resting in” (xi) means settling and being at ease in that role. When people each rest in their actual condition, gentleman and petty person alike have fitting stations. “Must accord with the name” means verifying conduct against the title. “Knowing that stratagem need not be used, one must return to Heaven” means that though affairs are arranged, there is no heart of craft, and in the end one follows the natural. Such an age is called great peace.

The ancients said that form and name have existed from old, yet they are not the root of governance. Those who discussed the great Way in antiquity passed through five levels before they could rightly apply form and name; through nine before they could rightly apply reward and punishment. To speak hastily of form and name is not to know its root; to speak hastily of reward and punishment is not to know its origin. To argue against the great Way and explain in opposition to it is precisely the sort of method people use to govern the people—how then can they truly govern people well? Hasty talk of form, name, reward, and punishment only grasps the tools of governance, not the principle of governance. To use these tools to govern all under Heaven without truly knowing how to govern all under Heaven—such a person is called a disputer, one who knows only one corner of the matter.

This passage discusses the proper relationship between rulers and ministers, emphasizing the principle of governing through natural non-action (Wuwei). Ancient rulers established legal systems and official positions to administer the state, yet these represent the ministers' way of serving their sovereign rather than the fundamental method of ruling the world.

Though classical texts record various rules and institutions, they never abandon the root to pursue trivial details. Those who fail to distinguish primary from secondary matters will lose the essential when acting rashly. Reversing root and branch, violating the natural Dao (the Way), makes one a tool used by the world rather than one who employs the world.

Using rewards and punishments as governing tools, or relying on duty divisions and moral virtues like benevolence and righteousness as methods of rule—these are not inherently wrong. However, discussing them in excessive detail leads to bias. Governing subjects is the ruler's way (the Dao of the sovereign), while serving the ruler is the minister's way (the Dao of the subject).

The text then illustrates this principle through a dialogue between the sage-kings Yao and Shun. Yao states that he devoted his heart to caring for the orphaned and destitute, aiding the poor, pitying the dead, and showing compassion to children and widows. Shun praises this but remarks that it lacks grandeur. He argues that governance should operate like the Virtue (De) of Heaven—following natural patterns, as orderly as the alternation of sun and moon or the succession of seasons, as effortless as clouds moving and rain falling, embodying non-action (Wuwei). Hearing this, Yao sighs in realization, admitting that his efforts remained at the level of human striving, not yet harmonized with the Dao of Heaven.

Finally, the passage concludes that Heaven and Earth are the greatest entities since antiquity, revered even by the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun. Ancient rulers who governed the world did so by emulating the natural Dao of Heaven and Earth. The phrase "胶胶扰扰" vividly depicts the chaos caused by artificial interference, contrasting sharply with the serenity of natural non-action.

This is the commentator’s reading of a passage in the Zhuangzi, in substance as follows.

On Yao’s sigh

Yao is lamenting his own situation. What people in antiquity praised and discussed most was Heaven and Earth; from ancient times to the present, nothing has been a greater principle or order than Heaven and Earth. “Shared beauty” (gongmei) means that everyone praises and longs for the same thing together. There is no other secret to ruling the world as king: one need only take Heaven and Earth as one’s model. The account of Yao and Shun earlier in the text has its rises and falls in tone; here it aligns with what is said about the Yellow Emperor, yet there is really no ranking of higher and lower. If one clings to the literal names of persons, the passage will not read coherently.

Confucius goes west to the Zhou repository and meets Laozi

“Going west into the Zhou repository” means Confucius traveled west to the Zhou region, intending to view the books kept in the royal storehouse. Zilu offered advice: I have heard that among the Zhou historiographers who guard secret archives there is one called Old Dan (Laozi), who has already left office and returned home to spend his old age. If the Master wishes to see the stored books, he might go and ask this man for help.

Confucius agreed and went to see Laozi; at first Laozi would not consent. Confucius then went on at length explaining the content of the Twelve Classics to instruct him. Laozi listened partway through and felt the talk was too expansive and diffuse, and said: This is too wordy—I only want to know the essentials. Confucius said: The essentials lie in benevolence and righteousness. Laozi asked: May I ask whether benevolence and righteousness are human nature? Confucius said: They are. A gentleman cannot establish himself without benevolence, nor accomplish things without righteousness; benevolence and righteousness are human authenticity—what else need be added? Laozi asked again: Then what are benevolence and righteousness? Confucius said: Inner harmony and joy toward all things, universal love without selfishness—that is the feeling of benevolence and righteousness. Laozi said: That sounds like shallow talk. Is not universal love forced and crooked? To proclaim selflessness is already to set up a private intention called “selflessness.” If you wish the world not to lose its order of nurture, Heaven and Earth have their constant Dao (the Way), sun and moon their brightness, stars their array, birds and beasts their kinds, and trees their proper places. The Master should also release his De (Virtue/Power) and act, follow the Dao and go forward—then one arrives naturally. Why must you trumpet benevolence and righteousness, like beating drums to chase a runaway child? The Master is disturbing human nature.

Notes on the commentator’s wording

“Fan” means turning something over and over, explaining repeatedly. “Half persuaded” means Laozi was only convinced in part. “Too sprawling” means too diffuse and rambling. “Joy in things” means taking delight in things and merging with them. “Later words” means shallow, surface-level speech. “Nearly” here is close to “almost improper or risky.” Things are not uniform by nature—how can one forcibly practice universal love? That is a crooked, hard path. When the mind first takes “selflessness” as a label, the breast already holds another kind of “self”; hanging up the two characters “selflessness” is already deliberate artifice, not true spontaneity.

Thus it is said: what looks like “selflessness” can still be another kind of “self-interest”—the heart of pasturing and nurturing (raising and preserving). The aim is that nothing under heaven should lose the nourishment it ought to receive; between heaven and earth, each thing has its own ziran zaohua (spontaneous, self-so arising and transformation)—how could human force twist that? One should only follow the virtue of nature and practice the Way of nature; to reach that is already the end. Hence “yi zhi le” (it is enough—it has arrived).

“Wangzi tao ye”—like a lost child running wildly in all directions. “Jigu er qiu yan”—beating drums and gongs to summon the crowd is both exhausting and disruptive to ordinary life. That disturbs human nature, so the author sighs and says: the meaning is lament. He also says “fuzi you wuzi ye”—the master is still like us juniors, jiejie (diligent to the point of strain), toiling away.

Shicheng Qi went to see Laozi and said: I heard you are a sage; I did not fear the distance, and though my heels were thick with calluses from a hundred stops along the road (chong zhan), I dared not rest, coming to pay my respects. Yet I see you are not a sage: leftover vegetables are tossed even into a mouse hole, cast into mei (the same as “dark and filthy corners”)—that is not loving things, not humane. Raw and cooked food piles before your eyes beyond what you can eat, yet you still jilian wuya (hoard without limit). Laozi answered with indifference. The next day Shicheng Qi came again and said: yesterday I spoke sharply against you (ci); today my heart is upright and I have xi (withdrawn, corrected)—why? Laozi said: I long ago shed learning that relies on qiaozhi shensheng (cleverness, scheming, and self-styled sacredness). Yesterday if you called me an ox, I would be an ox; if you called me a horse, I would be a horse. If things are truly so, and you refuse the name others give, you will only suffer harm again. I wear ordinary clothes, always thus; I do not dress merely to “look like someone who dresses.”

Note: This passage comes from oral commentary (yiyi) on related chapters of the Zhuangzi, using the debate between Laozi and Shicheng Qi to explain “accepting names and facts, not clinging to the image of a sage,” in the same vein as the earlier themes of “selflessness” and “nourishing by nature.”

“If you refuse to accept it, you suffer the calamity twice over” is the purest reading of this line: if I really have done such a thing and others mock me, yet I refuse to accept it, that is a double fault. It is another turn of the meaning in “ashamed of a fault, yet doing wrong again” (恥過作非)—being ashamed of error but then acting wrongly all the same. “To practice and carry it out” (服行) means: what I do is often like this—not because I think “I ought to,” but because I do not know I am doing it and simply act so. Hence “What I practice, I practice constantly”—I am not practicing in order to “practice”; if there is a thought of “practicing,” that is not true practice. “To say ‘stillness’ is good”—the sense of “stillness” should be understood in this way. The four occurrences of “practice” (服) below are all the author’s striking, unusual strokes.

Shi Chengqi (士成绮) sidled forward as if dodging his own shadow, following step by step, and asked Laozi how to cultivate the person. Laozi said: Your bearing is lofty and stiff (岸然), your gaze bold and thrusting (冲冲然), your brow bulging (頯頯然), your mouth gaping (阚然), your manner rigid and righteous-looking (义然)—like a hobbled horse that wants to run but cannot. When you move, you are reserved and affected (矜持); when you speak, you are sharp and mechanical (机敏); you are keen-sighted and finely discriminating (明察而又精審)—seeing everything clearly and judging everything minutely—yet you take your cleverness for granted and arrogance and complacency (骄泰) show on your face. All of this comes from lack of sincerity (不诚). So it is said: all such traits are lack of genuineness (不信—not honest, not real). If one can see the truth as it is, these faults will not arise.

In a border town, if there is such a person, people will point at him and call him “thief” (窃)—meaning his scheming runs too deep, he does not go along with the natural way of things, and he easily brings disaster on himself.

The Master (夫子, Laozi) also said: The Dao (the Way), in its greatness, is nowhere absent; in its smallness, nothing escapes it—so all things are complete. How vast—nothing it cannot hold; how deep—beyond measure. Form, De (Virtue/Power), benevolence, and righteousness are all trailing twigs of Shen (spirit—the subtle functioning of the Dao), not something a Perfected Person (至人, one who has attained the Dao) can fix as standards.

The Way of Master Laozi, when taken as vast, has no outer limit—so it is called “great” yet never comes to an end; when taken as minute, nothing is left out—so it is called “small” yet nothing is left behind. This is what is meant by “so great that nothing can carry it, so small that nothing can pierce it”: no thing can stand apart from this Way, hence it is said that “all things are fully present in it.” How vast—how endlessly vast; how deep—how unfathomably deep. De (Virtue/Power), benevolence, righteousness, and the like are all outward traces left after this Way’s subtle functioning.

“Form” is what can be seen; “spirit” (Shen) is subtle efficacy. To judge root and branch aright—who but the perfected person could do that?

Though the perfected person may have the realm under Heaven, it is not enough to weigh down the heart; though not holding the reins of power over the world, the heart does not go along with that either—the heart does not stir rashly. They examine where nothing is feigned and do not shift with gain or loss; they exhaust the real pattern in things and so can keep to their native stillness. Then they set heaven and earth outside themselves and release the myriad things, yet Shen is never caught or cramped. Clear in the Dao and aligned with De, they put benevolence and righteousness behind them and treat ritual and music as guests—in this way the heart of the perfected person comes to rest.

What people in the world value is the Dao, yet the Dao shows up in books; books are only words, and words matter because meaning is what is valued. Meaning has what it aims at, but what meaning aims at cannot be told in words. People still honor words and pass books along; they honor them, yet what they honor is not truly worthy, because what they honor is not the real treasure. So what the eye meets is form and color; what the ear catches is name and sound. Pitiful: people think form, color, name, and sound are enough to get at the real situation. When form, color, name, and sound truly are not enough to get at it, then “those who know do not speak, those who speak do not know”—how could people in the world recognize that?

Books can preserve the Dao, and for that reason people prize books; but what truly deserves esteem is the Dao, not the book. From the perspective of the Dao, words are indeed precious—but what is precious is the intention (yi), not the wording. Wording is only the shadow that follows intention. Where intention points, words cannot reach; then neither words nor books are worth treasuring. So what people call “precious” is, in truth, not truly precious. Laozi’s “because what they prize is not the real prize” means exactly this.

Name (ming) is reputation; speech (yan) is celebrated sayings. Form and color can be seen; name and sound can be heard—how could the Dao have form, color, name, or sound? Yet people try to grasp the substance of the Dao with what can be seen and heard—how pitiful. Qing here means the real meaning; to judge decisively by sight and hearing is sure to miss it. Hence those who truly understand the Dao need not talk much; those whose talk is polished often do not truly understand the Dao. People today rarely see this far, and that is why it is lamentable.

Duke Huan was reading in the hall while Wheelwright Pian was carving a wheel below. Pian set down mallet and chisel and asked, “May I ask what words Your Lordship is reading?” The duke said, “The words of a sage.” “Is the sage still alive?” “He is dead.” Pian said, “Then what you are reading is only the dregs (zaokang) left by the ancients.” The duke said, “I read books, and a wheelwright dares to comment?” Pian replied, “If I have reason, I speak; if not, I die.”

Pian said, “I judge by my own craft of wheels: if I carve too slowly (xu), the rim is smooth (gan) but not firm (bu gu); if too hurriedly (ji), it is rough (ku) and will not seat (bu ru). It must be neither slow nor fast—then the measure is right in the hand and answered in the heart, yet the mouth cannot say it—that fine adjustment (shu) lives only in the skill. I cannot teach it to my son, and my son cannot take it from me. So at seventy I am still carving wheels. What the ancients could not pass on died with them; what Your Lordship reads is the dregs the ancients left behind.”

This passage simply retells the earlier idea that the Dao cannot be conveyed in words, using this story again—the metaphor is superb.

Gan: smooth; ku: rough. Xu: loose, slow; ji: tight, fast. Too loose and it is smooth—easy to work but not solid; too tight and it is rough—hard to fit. Neither fast nor slow, and the measure comes of itself—that is what cannot be spoken; father cannot transmit it to son.

Books carry the Dao—what is prized is meaning, not wording; the wheelwright’s shu (measure) is the same lesson.

What the ancients said was, in the end, only “words.” Once those people were gone, how could such words truly be handed down intact? It is like someone who receives only the lees left from brewing—how could they taste the wine’s original flavor? The Dao (the Way) can be put into words and presented to a ruler; people everywhere offer “the Way” to their kings and pass it to their sons, yet what gets passed along is usually the husk, not what was lived from within.

As a rule, when someone writes a book and sets out a doctrine, what the book discusses is never a single isolated matter. Yet the Zhuangzi turns the same point over and again: in substance it circles one teaching—ziran (spontaneity, what is so of itself)—while unfolding it in countless forms, growing stranger and richer as it goes, as if there were hardly a second theme. Read this way, one sees more clearly how high Zhuangzi stands, not easily matched by others. Readers of Buddhist sutras can have a similar experience.

Note for context (not part of the translation body): This passage comes from Lin Xiyi’s Nanhua zhenjing kouyi (Song dynasty), commenting on Zhuangzi’s discussion of “words” and “persons,” lees versus the taste of wine, and how the whole Zhuangzi elaborates one meaning of ziran. The “lees” image echoes Zhuangzi, “Heaven and Earth” (Tiandao): the ruler reading the ancients’ books—words on the page are like lees; the true flavor lies in the one who practices, not on paper.