《南華真經口義》Vol. 16

Kouyi, fascicle 16, outer chapters: “Tianyun” (Heavenly Circulation) — vernacular interpretation

This section is Lin Xiyi (style name Yanzhai)’s line-by-line commentary on the opening string of questions in Zhuangzi’s “Tianyun.”

What the original text is asking

Zhuangzi fires off questions in rapid succession, roughly as follows:

Is heaven turning of its own accord? Is earth forever fixed and unmoving? Are sun and moon vying for their respective places? Who presides over all this, who holds the guiding lines? And who stays utterly at ease yet, with one push, sets heaven and earth in motion?

Is there something behind it all, like a bolt or latch that is sprung so things must move—or once they start turning, they simply cannot stop?

Do clouds turn into rain, or does rain turn into clouds? Who makes cloud and rain rise and fall (like tightening and slackening)? And who, with nothing to do, indulges in playful excess and urges things on, stirring up this whole show of cloud and rain?

Wind rises from the north, now west, now east, now up, now down, wandering without fixed direction—who is breathing in and out? And who, with no task at hand, gently sways and stirs the myriad things?

Lin Xiyi says: every line here is supremely sharp; five successive “乎” questions pile up in a style that is wonderfully strange—unprecedented before and hard for anyone after to match.

How the kouyi unpacks these questions

• “Does heaven move?” Heaven completes one circuit in a day—is that heaven turning by itself, or is something else pushing it?
• “Does earth stay put?” Earth has above, below, and the four directions—can it really be nailed forever in one spot without moving?
• “Do sun and moon contend for their stations?” Sun’s going and moon’s coming are simply natural; to insist sun and moon fight over position is deliberately to speak in a human, competitive voice so as to turn the question back on the reader.

“Who presides?” “Who holds the guiding lines?” “Preside” and “hold the lines” both mean exerting force to pull things together and keep order—not naming some particular immortal on duty.

“Bolt and latch,” “cannot but,” “turning and unable to stop by itself”: either like a mechanism tripped so one has to move, or once rotation begins it cannot halt—even the wording itself is not something a person carefully composed; it pours out along with these abstruse questions.

Cloud and rain: when heavenly qi descends and earthly qi rises, clouds and rain form. Yet Zhuangzi deliberately asks: do clouds become rain, or rain become clouds? “Rise” (隆) means ascent; “rest” (施) means ceasing—like tension and release, the question is who rises and who stops.

“Indulge in excess and urge on”: “indulge” is letting go; “乐” here is play and spectacle; “urge” is to encourage. The question is: who, idle yet unrestrained in playful show, helps cloud and rain make even more noise?

Wind: wind comes from all directions; here only north wind is singled out, to follow the ancient idea that “heaven tilts to the northwest and leans on the north”—heaven rests toward the north, so wind often comes from there, then splits west and east, or up and down. “Hesitate and wander” is roaming back and forth; Zhuangzi says “up” but not “down” as abbreviated phrasing. “Brush and stir” is a light blowing that sways things.

Preview: the passage that follows on “Wu Xian”

Zhuangzi asks: dare we ask what all of this is ultimately for?

Wu Xian (an ancient spirit-diviner) divined and said: come, I will tell you—heaven has the six extremities (that is, the six qi: Yin-Yang, cold and heat, dry and damp, and the like), and the five constants (that is, the Five Phases: metal, wood, water, fire, earth and their cycles). When emperors follow this heavenly pattern, there is order; when they go against it, misfortune. There is also what the “nine Luo” traditions relate: when governing achievement is complete and virtue is fully in place, one can illumine the land below and the world gives allegiance—this is what is called supreme sovereignty (the highest rule).

The kouyi makes clear: six extremities are the six qi; five constants are the Five Phases—all are patterns of nature, not whatever humans happen to want.

In one sentence: Zhuangzi’s chain of counter-questions turns sun, moon, heaven, earth, cloud, rain, wind, and cloud into “who pushes, who stops, who helps”; Lin Xiyi praises the unprecedented force of the questioning and explains that these questions force one to see that the workings of creation may not have a master sitting idle in charge, but rather the natural flow of qi and number—after which Wu Xian brings in the idea that rulers should align with the six qi and the Five Phases.

The Nine Luo and the Nine Provinces: The Nine Luo refers to the layout of the nine provinces symbolized by the Luoshu (River Chart); “Luo” suggests gathering and convergence. In old texts “Luo” and “luo” (to fall) could be used interchangeably. The passage above says that when a ruler governs the nine provinces in accord with this natural pattern, his achievements are complete and his virtue full; he shines over the realm and the people support him—such a person is an “upper sovereign” (shanghuang) like the Three Sovereigns.

The Grand Steward of Shang asks Zhuangzi about Ren (benevolence)

The Grand Steward of Shang, Yang, asked Zhuangzi what Ren is. Zhuangzi said: Tigers and wolves have Ren too. Yang asked: How so? Zhuangzi said: Father and son cherish each other—how can that not be Ren? Yang asked: Then what is “ultimate Ren” (zhi ren)? Zhuangzi said: Ultimate Ren has no partiality of closeness and distance. Yang said: I have heard that without kinship there is no love, and without love there is no filial piety—can ultimate Ren be unfilial?

Zhuangzi said: That is not so. Ultimate Ren is a higher realm; the single word “filial piety” (xiao) is not enough to exhaust it—not because filial piety is “excessive,” but because filial piety does not yet “reach” ultimate Ren. What the Grand Steward asked about was filial piety that has not yet touched the boundary of ultimate Ren; ultimate Ren is the level above and beyond filial piety. If you have not taken Ren to its limit, you will seem “insufficient” in filial piety; when you truly arrive at ultimate Ren, filial piety need not be talked about much, because it is already contained within.

(Comment: Using tigers and wolves to illustrate Ren, like “even robbers have their Way” elsewhere in theZhuangzi, lowers the Confucian ritual distinctions between names and roles; the remark is sharp, yet there is a point—in the saying “even a vicious tiger does not eat its young,” is that not Ren at the level of tigers and wolves? “Ultimate Ren has no partiality” means: the heart of Ren is mutual cherishing, but if you stop at “who counts as my kin,” you have not yet grasped the principle behind cherishing, and you are still short of ultimate Ren. Ultimate Ren does not discard filial piety; rather, filial piety is already embraced by a more encompassing unity of feeling.)

Walking south yet not seeing Mount Ming

Someone travels south as far as the Chu capital Ying, yet faces north—of course he cannot see Mount Ming, because his direction is wrong and he is far from the goal. From this Zhuangzi unfolds layer upon layer what is “difficult”:

• To practice filial piety with mere respect (jing) is still relatively easy; to practice it with genuine love (ai) is harder.
• Loving filial piety is still relatively easy; loving to the point of “forgetting kin” (wang qin)—not clinging to the label of “relative”—is harder still.
• Forgetting kin is still relatively easy; letting both parents also “forget me” (not clinging to the role of “child”) is harder.
• Letting parents forget me is still relatively easy; forgetting together with the whole world (jian wang) is harder.
• Forgetting together with the world is still relatively easy; letting everyone in the world also “forget together with me” (jian wang wo) is hardest.

“Forgetting” here is not abandoning family; it is not being trapped by names, roles, and profit and loss—the mind can equalize things (qi wu).

Virtue surpassing Yao and Shun without self-awareness

One who truly has great virtue has a realm that already surpasses Yao and Shun (sage kings of antiquity) without pride; his grace may extend through ten thousand generations, and the multitude may not even know it was he—need one still sigh and fuss only over Ren and filial piety?

Filial piety, brotherly respect, Ren, righteousness, loyalty, faithfulness, integrity, and purity are all labels people use to urge and discipline their own character; they are not worth piling up for display.

Therefore:

• Supreme nobility: ranks within the state, compared with it, can be merged and count for nothing;
• Supreme wealth: goods within the state, compared with it, can be merged and count for nothing;
• Supreme desire (in the sense of what one truly aspires to): worldly fame, compared with it, can be merged and count for nothing.

(That is: supreme nobility, wealth, and aspiration in alignment with the Dao are not finally bounded by court titles, treasury wealth, or empty reputation.)

The Dao does not waver

Therefore Dao (here, the ultimate state of unity with heaven and earth and nature) is firm and unwavering—it does not take rank, wealth, or fame as the final end.

Dark Mountain lies in the north; traveling south from there to the capital at Ying, you can no longer see the northern peaks—this is being truly far away, not “too late to look back.” These small analogies mean that “excessive filial piety” is worse than “not quite filial enough”; the style is also distinctive: respectful filial piety still leaves traces, while filial piety rooted in love lets parent and child forget each other. From here the text rises to forgetting one’s parents, forgetting the world, and the world forgetting oneself—each step higher than the last. This book often writes this way: a trace is inferior to no trace; having a mind is inferior to having no mind. “To disdain” means to look down on: to disdain Yao and Shun is not enough to count as De (Virtue/Power); to benefit ten thousand generations is not enough to count as Ren (humaneness)—how then could one boast of Ren and filial piety? “Deep sighing” is lament; “self-praise” is blowing one’s own horn. The eight—filial piety, fraternal duty, Ren, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and constancy—people take as beautiful virtues, but they are really only mutual urging and self-chosen hardship; hence “exhorting oneself in order to enslave one’s De”—not worth much praise. “Enslave” means to wear out and burden; “not worth much” means not worth esteeming. When I am supremely noble, why would I take a state rank? When I am supremely wealthy, why would I take state wealth? When my wish is supreme, why would I take reputation? “All” means to set aside and discard. Supreme nobility, supreme wealth, and the supreme wish are the way of Wuwei (non-action). “State wealth” means wealth on the scale of a state; “unchanging” means never shifting—that is what is called the constant nature. The eight belong to youwei (purposeful action) that enslaves itself; I abide in constant Wuwei.

North Gate Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor: “Your Majesty, when you performed the music of the Pond of Total Harmony in the wilds by Dongting, I was afraid at first hearing, slack at the second, and confused at the last; my spirit scattered, my mouth sealed—I could hardly keep myself together.”

Here the author uses music as a long exposition—again a peculiar kind of writing. “Afraid at first, slack next, confused at the end” describes how this music transforms in three stages; “scattered” means the spirit disperses, “silent” means the mouth will not open, “could not keep myself together” means inner unrest—all startled and overwhelmed by the sound.

The Yellow Emperor said: “You are probably just like that. I had people play it, had Heaven harmonize it, had ritual and righteousness carry it out, had the Great Clarity reach through it; the four seasons rise in turn, the myriad things are born in sequence—one flourishing, one declining; civil and martial each have their warp and weft; one clear, one turbid—Yin and Yang in tune; the sound like flowing light. When dormant insects first stir, I startle them with thunder; in the end, no tail…”

At the outset it has no “head”; birth and death, anger and exertion—the changes it follows are endless, and that “one” (the single place of return) can never be held in wait. That is why you feel afraid.

You may truly be like this: what speaks of my joy, you go to listen—no wonder there are these three transformations. “Zou” means to perform; “hui” is like the hui (marked positions for pressing the strings on the qin); “xing” and “jian” are movement and rising up; “ren” refers to human affairs, “tian” to the principle of Heaven; the voice of ritual and righteousness is orderly in its lines; “Taiqing” (Great Clarity) accords with zaohua (creation and transformation). What is described is the sound first brought forth—level and correct, just like this.

From “the four seasons arise in succession” onward, the text again treats the moment when it exerts its effect: transformations are startling, at once delightful and astonishing; it plays and yet pauses, and still no destination is in view. “Fasheng” is the wen (cultured, gentle) side; “susha” is the wu (martial, stern) side; “lunjing” is sequence and order. The four seasons generate and slay the myriad things, growing in due order, flourishing and then declining—like music that holds both wen and wu, order and gradation. The qin has wen and wu strings; that is this kind of distinction. Hence “wen wu lun jing” (culture and martial order in sequence). “Liuguang” is flowing brilliance: tuning the clear and turbid tones of yin-yang into such flowing brilliance.

It is like the time when dormant creatures are about to stir and thunder has just sounded: press forward and you cannot see its head; follow behind and you cannot see its tail. Thus “in the end it has no tail, in the beginning it has no head”—head and tail are beginning and end. “Birth and death surge in succession; what is constant is without end”: now acting, now stopping—there is a thread of constancy, yet it is always changing, so that constancy too is inexhaustible. You seek the place where all returns to one and cannot find it; hence “the one cannot be awaited”—that is why you were afraid when you first heard it.

I perform again with the harmony of yin and yang and illuminate with the brightness of sun and moon. This sound can be short or long, soft or hard; its transformations are unified yet it does not stay in one place—so in a valley it fills the valley, in a hollow it fills the hollow. At dangerous, narrow passes it guards the spirit and takes things as its measure; its voice is far-reaching; its name is bright and lofty. Therefore ghosts and spirits keep to their hidden realm, and sun, moon, and stars move within their allotted degrees. I bring it to rest where there is limit, and also pour it into what has no limit. You want to grasp it with the mind—you cannot understand; you want to see it with the eye—you cannot see; you want to pursue it—you cannot catch up. Dazed, you stand on the way of the four voids, leaning on a withered paulownia and chanting. The eye knows that what it wished to see has reached its limit; strength gives way before what it wished to pursue—you can no longer keep up. Form and emptiness merge, even to weiyi (easy, winding compliance). You weiyi—and so you slacken.

(The passage above explains the dialogue in the Zhuangzi in which “Confucius” learns “heavenly music” from “Da Xian”: the music’s three transformations, the listener’s passage from fear to slackness, and how the music of the Dao cannot be fixed to a single point or pursued to the end.)

Vernacular Interpretation of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Meaning of the True Classic of Southern Florescence)

Harmonizing Yin and Yang and the radiance of sun and moon mean simply harmony and clarity. Long and short, soft and hard all belong to change; they cannot be pinned down to fixed referents. Hence “change levels all things and does not take the old as constant”—qiyi means “the same”; gu means “old”; “does not take the old as constant” means one does not always cling to former patterns; the discourse grows ever new.

“Filling pits and valleys” describes how things fill heaven and earth. Tu xi means blocking the ears and eyes (tu and xi both mean sealing gaps); qi qiao are the seven openings on the face (eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and the like). The sense is to shut off cleverness and only keep to Shen (spirit), following the myriad things as their measure—I make music without artifice and only follow nature.

Its sound stirs broadly and at ease, worthy of the name “lofty and bright”; ghosts and spirits keep to the hidden, so demons do not haunt and souls do not weary. Sun, moon, and stars keep their courses, coming and going naturally. It seems to stop yet also seems never to stop—hence “stopping at what has limit, flowing without ceasing.” “Worrying without knowing, desiring without seeing, chasing without catching”—all depict something that seems to be there yet is not really a thing.

“Four voids” means the Great Void. At that time I stood in the Great Void, leaning on the low table and chanting; I wished to see it but could not exhaust it, wished to pursue it but could not reach it. The form though full, I forgot my own body, as if empty, even to winding ease and release—how much more so for you? You are slack precisely because you are so released. Tangran means without deliberate mind, free and loose.

I then played music of unceasing ease, tuned to the mandate of nature (the principle of the natural). So it was like mingling and chasing through thick woods—joy without visible form, spreading and waving without dragging, dim and silent without sound, moving without fixed direction, dwelling in the deep dark. Some call it death, some life, some substance, some glory; it flows, scatters, and wanders, not holding to a fixed tone. The world doubts it and turns to the sage. “Sage” means one who penetrates feeling and follows ming (fate/mandate); the heavenly mechanism is not displayed yet the five senses are all complete—this is called the Music of Heaven (Tianle). Without words, the heart is pleased.

Hence the clan of Yan has a hymn: Listen—you do not hear its sound; look—you do not see its form. It fills heaven and earth and wraps the six extremities. You wish to listen but cannot connect with it—therefore you are confused. (“Unceasing without end” means sustained and never slack; “no connection” means nothing to grasp or touch.)

Note: This chapter is a kouyi-style commentary on Zhuangzi’s music allegory (such as the “Music of Heaven” passage), explaining sound as nature, no clever contrivance, guarding Shen to reach Tianle; terms like “blocking the seven openings (tu xi qi qiao)”, weiyi, tangran, and “the heavenly mechanism not displayed” align with Zhuangzi’s original and with Daoist themes of guarding spirit and following mandate.

Mixed and chasing in profusion: Like myriad things springing up together—mixed, tangled, and chasing one another.

Forest joy, forest upon forest: Describes the woods alive with delight; everything teems with joy, yet no fixed form can be seen.

Scattered and swaying: Spread and swinging about—raw force cannot hold them still.

Dim and obscure: Dark and murky; one cannot hear clearly.

Change without fixed place: Shifting without end, with no settled abode.

Where it dwells: In the deep dark and the unfathomable—endless, beyond scrutiny.

Neither birth nor death, neither flourish nor solidity: Not simply life and death, nor mere showiness or solid “reality.”

Flowing, drifting, migrating—words never settle: Moving and shifting; speech cannot pin it down.

Not holding to a constant tone: Not clinging to one unchanging sound or old formula.

When people reach this point and cannot make sense of it, they turn to the sage for guidance—that is what “asking” is for.

Penetrating true feeling: Seeing through to what is genuinely so.

Arriving at fate: Following fate until one reaches the utmost of the natural.

The five senses of the body are complete, yet the Heavenly Mechanism (Tianji) does not stir—ears, eyes, hands, and feet are there, but seeing, hearing, and acting are not ruled by a “self”; thus one attains natural joy, called Heavenly Joy (Tianle). What the Śūraṅgama Sūtra calls “turning the flow back to complete unity, the six functions cease” means the Heavenly Mechanism is not deployed; the five senses are present but not driven by self-will.

Wordless yet the heart rejoices: Joy too deep for words. You try to “receive” it with the ear and cannot—so confusion deepens.

Here another verse is composed—a finesse of layered wording: “Filling heaven and earth, wrapping the six directions” is the same idea as pervading heaven and earth. The four lines carry no separate meaning; add one turn and the rhythm appears—that too is the craft of writing.

Joy: From first to last cautious and wary (juju), hence next slack and weary (daidai), wishing to withdraw; finally bewilderment; bewilderment becomes foolishness; and foolishness is what can approach the Dao—the Dao can be carried, traveled with together.

The earlier fear, slackness, and confusion lead only at the close to this point: the fool can enter the Dao—that turn is especially fine. Seeking the Dao often must pass through such states before there is progress.

Reverent awe (also written as “startled”): A solemn, respectful dread.

Weary yet unable to escape: Wanting to quit but unable to.

Bewildered into foolishness: Conscious intent fades; the six functions cease—akin to stages on the Chan path.

Though “joy” is discussed in three sections, the difference is slight; mainly they rouse the vigor of the text.

Confucius traveled west to the state of Wei. Yan Hui asked Shi Jin: “Given the way our teacher conducts himself, what do you think will come of it?” Shi Jin said: “What a pity—your teacher will probably find himself with nowhere to turn.” Yan Hui asked: “Why?”

Shi Jin said: A straw dog, before it is placed on the altar, sits in a bamboo basket with an embroidered cloth over it; the officiant fasts, purifies the mind, and holds it with reverence. Once the rite is finished and it has served its purpose, passersby step on its head and back, and wood-gatherers take it for fuel—who would put it back in the basket, cover it again with embroidered cloth, treasure it as a keepsake, and sleep on it as a pillow? If you sleep on it, you will not only fail to have good dreams; dust will keep getting in your eyes.

Your teacher today is like someone still carrying around the “straw dog” from the age of the ancient kings—already used in sacrifice long ago—while leading his disciples to live, travel, and sleep around it. That is why in Song they cut down the tree (under which he lectured), in Wei they erased his tracks (he was not accepted), and in the lands of Shang and Zhou he fell into hardship—isn’t that like “dreaming”? And when he was trapped between Chen and Cai and went seven days without a hot meal, with life and death pressed together—isn’t that like “dust in the eyes”?

Background: This passage discusses how, in Zhuangzi’s view, the way “sages” live already had precedents in Confucius’s time—figures such as the old man with the bamboo basket on his back, the madman of Chu Jieyu, and Chang Ju and Jie Ni all belong to the same broad approach. A chugou (刍狗) is a straw dog shaped as a talisman for warding off evil: used in sacrifice, then discarded. “Basket” (qie) means a bamboo container; yan here refers to a small bamboo case; su means to gather grass; mi means dust getting in the eyes. The gist is that what Confucian learning often preserves is a set of “old words” already spoken and used by the ancients—hard to transplant unchanged into the present.

Shi Jin continued: On water, the best way to travel is by boat; on land, by cart. A boat is made for water—if you insist on pushing it onto dry land to use it, you will not get anywhere in a lifetime. The difference between water and land, antiquity and the present, is like that between water and land; the difference between Zhou and Lu is like that between boat and cart. If your teacher now tries to impose Zhou-era practice on Lu, it is like forcing a boat onto land: exhausting effort, no result, and harm to himself. He does not yet understand that kind of “transmission without a fixed pattern”—responding to things as they arise—so one can meet endless change without being drained.

The analogy of rivers, land, boats, and carts: Times and settings differ; methods cannot stay frozen. “Transmission without a fixed pattern” (wufang zhi chuan) means the ancient way that does not cling to one dogma; what has been handed down from antiquity has always included wisdom that adapts and does not insist on a single face—so it can answer the world without running dry.

“Besides, have you never seen the well sweep?” (a lever-style device for drawing water). Pull it down and it dips; let go and it rises. A person operates it—it does not operate the person. So whether it bows low or lifts up, it offends no one.”

Bowing and rising with others, without stubbornness in the heart: Another image of “not fixed on one side, changing with things”—like the sweep that follows the puller and does not resist.

The ritual and law of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors: What matters is not that they were all “exactly the same,” but that each fit its own situation. To copy only one ancient institution is like pushing a boat onto land; to understand guiding affairs like the well sweep is to avoid banging into walls everywhere in real life. The ordeal of Confucius and his followers between Chen and Cai is seen here (in Zhuangzi and the commentators) as the result of treating an “already used straw dog” as a treasure and not knowing how to adapt.

Plain-Language Explanation

On ritual, righteousness, and law

Governing the world is like the ritual and law of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors: it is like zha pear, orange, and pomelo—the flavors are not the same, yet each can be eaten. So ritual, righteousness, and law change with the times.

Everyone finds zha pear, orange, and pomelo pleasant to eat, but the tastes differ; that is a metaphor for the Three Kings having different rituals and the Five Emperors different music. The zha fruit resembles a pear but is sour.

Dressing a monkey in the Duke of Zhou’s robes

Put a monkey in the Duke of Zhou’s garments and it will surely bite through them, tear them, and rip them off before it feels at ease. Looking at the gap between past and present is like the difference between a monkey and someone wearing the Duke of Zhou’s robes.

Forcing people today to practice the ritual and music of antiquity is like forcing a monkey into human clothes. The text says “the Duke of Zhou’s robes” rather than “human clothes” to mock the sages and worthies—hence this way of writing. The Duke of Zhou established ritual, including caps and robes, so they are called the Duke of Zhou’s robes.

Dong Shi imitating Xi Shi’s frown

Xi Shi had a pain in her heart and frowned at her neighbor pin (knitting her brow); an ugly woman next door saw it, thought it beautiful, went home and clasped her heart and frowned too. The rich saw her and shut their doors; the poor saw her and fled with wives and children. They only knew that frowning looked good—they did not know why it looked good. Alas, Master, you have nowhere left to turn!

Pin means knitting the brow. People today who imitate the ancients are like the neighbor woman imitating Xi Shi’s frown. For the frown to be beautiful, there must first be a Xi Shi; for the Way to be practiced, one must first see the ancients clearly. Yet the Master says, “You are the Master.” These six metaphors in this passage are each excellent. The hardest thing in writing is metaphor. Wang Xuan of the Song once said: In my life I wanted to invent a metaphor of my own and could not; as soon as I thought of one, I found the ancients had already used it. Zhuangzi’s book is full of metaphors, each one strange and fresh.

Confucius at fifty goes south to see Laozi

Confucius at fifty-one still had not heard the Way and went south to Pei to see Laozi. Laozi said: You have come? I hear you are a worthy man of the north—have you attained the Way? Confucius said: Not yet. Laozi said: Where did you seek it? Confucius said: I sought it in numbers and measures for five years and did not get it. Laozi said: And where else did you seek it? Confucius said: I sought it in yin and yang for ten years and still have not got it.

After two years he still had not awakened. Laozi said: Correct. If the Way could be presented to a ruler, everyone would present the Way to their ruler; if the Way could be offered in filial devotion to parents, everyone would offer the Way to their parents; if the Way could be told to brothers, everyone would tell it to their brothers; if the Way could be passed to sons and grandsons, everyone would pass it to their descendants.

The measures, rites and music, and the principles of yin-yang and the myriad things—the five years and twelve years of cultivation that Confucius described to Yan Hui in the Zhuangzi originally did not spell out these doctrines; they only spoke of probing back and forth between the subtle and the coarse, and for a long time still not awakening. From “if the Way could be presented to a ruler” through the four parallel clauses, the exposition is excellent—precisely because the Way cannot be transmitted, one must speak in this way.

Yet the reason the Way cannot be transmitted has no other cause: without an inner master, it cannot be held; without outer confirmation, it cannot take root. What arises from within—if those outside cannot receive it, the sage does not force it outward (the sage will not cram the Way into people). What enters from without—if within there is no master, the sage does not treat you as one who has truly internalized the Way (the sage conceals nothing).

“Without an inner master, it cannot be held”: this does not mean merely seeing for oneself or realizing for oneself. It means that although the student of the Way hears much from outside, inwardly they have no master of their own—not true self-possession—and even if they wish to hold it, they cannot. “Without outer confirmation”: there is no one to question and verify against. This is what Chan Buddhists today call yingzheng (confirmation)—having gained something oneself, one then seeks verification from someone who has the Way; only after receiving confirmation can one practice with confidence. If one has gained nothing at all, what is there to ask others to confirm? Though these two phrases distinguish inner and outer, their core is the same: one must truly awaken for oneself.

“What arises from within, and those outside cannot receive it”—this concerns the teacher: my words may flow from the heart, yet you cannot receive them. If, like Yan Hui, you spend a whole day in discussion without going against me and can accept instruction, you are one who can receive; if you cannot, the sage will not force the Way upon you—hence “the sage does not force it outward.”

“What enters from without, and inwardly there is no master”—this concerns the student: my words may enter your ears from outside, yet you have no insight and no inward master; though you hear the words, you gain nothing. This is what Chan says: what enters through the door is not the treasure of one’s own house. Since you have no genuine awakening, you only take the sage to be hiding something; the sage in fact hides nothing. “Do you think I conceal? I conceal nothing from you”—that is the meaning. These four sentences are extremely subtle and call for careful inquiry—the root of why the Way cannot be transmitted lies in these four lines.

…It is only a saying. That is why the passage begins, “However, this is not permissible”; there is no other reason.

Names are common instruments of the world and should not be greedily claimed in excess. Benevolence and righteousness are like the humble shelters left behind by the former kings: one may lodge in them for a night, but one cannot make them a permanent home. Once their traces are exposed and others see them, they invite many criticisms. The perfected people of antiquity walked by way of benevolence and paused for a time within righteousness. They wandered freely in a state of ease, ate from the fields of simple, makeshift living, and stood in gardens where there was no need to borrow and no debt to repay. Wandering freely means Wuwei (non-action); simple, makeshift nourishment means accepting circumstances as they come without clinging to appearances. “No borrowing” is like what people today call “not taking a loss”: it means not wearing yourself out or putting yourself at a disadvantage. A journey gathering what is true means taking up and holding fast to the principle of truth.

Those who regard wealth as what is right cannot give up their stipends; those who regard advancement as what is right cannot give up their reputations; those who draw close to power cannot hand it over to someone else. While they hold on to power, they fear losing it; when they let it go, they remain attached to it. These three kinds of people have not the slightest inner clarity. They merely keep watching for things they will never willingly relinquish. They are people punished by Heaven.

This refers to the wealthy sacrificing themselves for profit, the martyrs sacrificing themselves for fame, and the boastful sacrificing themselves for power. Those who hold on to power fear losing it and so tremble; those who give it up remain attached to it and so grieve. All three are alike: they have no inner clarity and do nothing but keep watch. What they cannot “rest from” is their delusion, from which they do not know how to turn back. Without inner clarity, they cannot look back and see their own delusion; Heaven has taken their spirit from them. “People punished by Heaven” means that Heaven punishes them with this suffering.

Resentment, kindness, taking, giving, remonstrance, instruction, life, and death: these eight are the proper instruments for governing the world. Only those who follow the great transformation and remain unobstructed can use them properly. Thus, what is “proper” is what sets things right. If the mind judges something improper, Heaven’s Gate will not open to it.

Remonstrance is used between ruler and minister; instruction is used between teacher and friend. Wherever human society exists, these eight instruments are in use. Using them where they belong is what is meant by “proper.” If the mind does not accept this, Heaven’s Gate—the passage that connects one with the Dao—will not open.

Only those who have reached the state of wuxin (no-mind, non-deliberate intent) can put this wisdom to use: they go along with the great transformations of the cosmic process and comply with creation and transformation, neither drowned by external things nor stirred up by vulgar passions. If one can do this, the master within one’s heart truly takes its stand; only then is one fit to set external things right. If one has not yet attained wuxin yet feels that the patterns of nature are wrong and insists on imposing another scheme, then the “Heaven” in one’s breast is already blocked and sealed—hence the saying “the Heavenly Gate does not open.” The line in the Book of Poetry, “Heaven opens a window for the people,” speaks precisely in this sense of the “Heavenly Gate”: Heaven illuminates the common people as if opening a window upon them.

Confucius went to see Laozi and discussed benevolence and righteousness (ren-yi). Laozi said: Scatter chaff and bran into the eyes, and heaven, earth, and the four directions all seem out of place; when mosquitoes and gadflies bite the skin, one cannot sleep peacefully all night. Preach ren-yi with such urgent vehemence, and they pierce my heart and disorder my nature—there is no greater disorder than this. If you truly wish the people under heaven not to lose their original genuineness, you should move with the releasing wind and stand firm while holding to your root virtue—why act like someone who proudly carries a great drum on his back to hunt for a lost child, loftily exalting himself and shouting everywhere?

“Biting the skin” and “getting chaff in the eyes” are images for violating one’s true heart. “Xi” (昔) here means “evening”; the Zuo Commentary has “at rest, prepare the guard for one night.” “Canran” means venomously urgent—it refers to tormenting oneself; “it rankles my heart” means it goes against my heart, and “no greater disorder” means disordering one’s own nature. “Fangfeng” (放风) is to act in accord with transformation, hence “move with the releasing wind”; “zongde er li” (總德而立) is to grasp and uphold root virtue and stand upon it. If one could keep everyone under heaven from losing their natural simplicity, so that all comply with transformation and keep virtue, what need would there be for added teaching and transformation? The drum Wang Jian set up at the sleeping gate was the drum he installed; summoning all under heaven to be taught is like carrying a great drum on one’s back to search for a lost child—mere empty clamor. “Jieran” (傑然) is the air of loftily esteeming oneself.

Swans do not grow white by washing every day, nor crows black by dyeing every day—black and white are matters of innate quality, not something to argue superiority over; parading fame and fine reputation before the world is not enough to make the heart truly broad. When the spring dries up, fish crowd on dry land, moistening one another with foam and spittle—far worse than each returning to rivers and lakes and forgetting one another in the outer world.

The whiteness of the swan and the blackness of the crow come about naturally; they need no bathing or dyeing to become so—this analogy is especially apt. “Qian” (黔) means to dye black. The “simplicity” (pu) of black and white means that each color has its natural quality, without inherent beauty or ugliness, not worth disputing over; once one displays oneself to the world for the sake of reputation, there are rights and wrongs, praise and blame, and the heart is no longer expansive. This section uses black and white and right and wrong as metaphors.

What follows is Confucius’s meeting with Laozi on ren-yi: scattering chaff to blind the eyes and mosquitoes biting the skin illustrate how talk of ren-yi goes against the heart and disturbs the nature; Laozi urges him to “move with the releasing wind and stand while holding to virtue,” and not to be “proudly like one carrying a war drum seeking a lost child.” The closing passage, on the white swan and black crow and fish on dry land when the spring fails, shows that keeping simplicity, forgetting fame, and forgetting one another in the rivers and lakes surpass empty reputation and forced mutual succor.

Fish and the “Age of Utmost Dao”

When fish are packed in water about to dry up, they moisten one another with foam—how long can that last? Put them in a great river or lake, and in the water they “forget” one another; they no longer need that desperate mutual succor. In what is called the age of utmost Dao, each person lives by nature alone. No one wrangles over right and wrong; above and below simply forget and constrain one another no more.

Confucius Meets Old Dan (Laozi)

After Confucius had seen Old Dan, he did not speak for three days. His disciples asked: When you saw Old Dan, what did you plan to admonish him about?

Confucius said: I have only now truly seen a dragon. Gathered, it is one body, utterly undivided; scattered, its patterns shine clear. It rides cloud and mist and nourishes itself by the way of Yin-Yang. My mouth hangs open and will not close—what could I use to admonish Old Dan?

(“Admonish” here means to counsel or remonstrate. “Gathered into one body” is complete unity; “scattered into patterns” is clear, distinct splendor. A dragon in heaven and earth seems seen yet unseen, hence the image of gathering and scattering. Riding cloud and mist means dwelling above creation; nourishing Yin-Yang is taking joy in the way of heaven and earth. “Xiē” means to shut. The mouth that will not close means there is nothing to say—ordinary words will not fit.)

Zigong Asks to Visit

Zigong said: Then is there someone who in daily life is still as a corpse yet, when he appears, is marvelous as a dragon; whose outside rumbles like thunder yet whose inside is silent as a deep pool; whose every move accords with heaven and earth? May I go and see him? So he went in Confucius’s name to visit Old Dan.

Old Dan was leaning on his armrest, and answered softly: I am old—what will you use to warn me?

Zigong said: The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors ruled the world. Their methods differed, yet each left a name behind. Only you, Master, say they were not sages—why?

Old Dan said: My boy, come closer. You say they differ—where?

Zigong replied: Yao passed the throne to Shun, Shun to Yu. Yu relied on force to tame the floods; Tang used arms against Jie. King Wen served King Zhou and dared not rebel; King Wu attacked Zhou and would not submit. So they say the ways differ.

Old Dan on the Yellow Emperor Through Yu

Old Dan said: Boy, come still closer—I will tell you how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors ruled the world.

The Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) ruled so that people’s hearts returned to oneness—chaotic unity without near or far. If someone’s kin died and they did not weep, others did not think it wrong.

Yao ruled so that people’s hearts held distinctions of kinship. Someone might kill an enemy for a relative’s sake, and others did not think it wrong.

Shun ruled so that people’s hearts began to compete and calculate. A woman bore a child after ten months; at five months the child could speak; before true childhood they could recognize people—hearts began to carve out “heaven” (natural order, roles, and names).

Yu ruled so that people’s hearts changed again. Each had private aims, and so armies marched to war.

Someone went to see Laozi (老子) riding on Confucius’s fame. Confucius stood attending in the hall with an arrogant air, as if he occupied the seat of honor; when Laozi answered, his voice was low and restrained. The talk turned to whether the rule of the Yellow Emperor accorded with Heaven, to mourning ritual and funeral dress graded lighter or heavier according to the closeness of kin (“for one’s kin, diminish the degree of killing”), and to ancient tales—some saying a child was born at fourteen months and spoke only after two years, others that birth came at ten months and speech at five months—all exaggerations of “born early, speaking early.” The claim that before the age of infancy one already knew enough to ask “who is this?” pushes the fable that the human heart has changed since antiquity to an extreme. It was also said that everyone has private aims, that warfare is waged in the name of “compliance,” that thieves should be executed when they should be, that laws and prohibitions are already exhaustive, and that each person honors their own parents and cherishes their own children—people merely share one realm under Heaven, hence “and that is all there is to the world.” At first the ordering of ranks still had some coherence; now disorder in the family reaches the point of taking a daughter as wife—what is there left to say? The rhetoric runs very hot; the drift is close to the “Great Dao” passage in the Book of Rites, only Zhuangzi’s brush is fiercer.

Laozi went on: Let me tell you—when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world, they called it “order,” yet nothing was more chaotic than that. The wisdom of the Three Sovereigns, above, turned against the brightness of sun and moon; below, it put asunder the essences of mountains and rivers; in between, it wrecked the dispensing of the four seasons. That wisdom was more cruel than the sting of a vicious scorpion or the ways of the xian beast that startles at its own shadow, so that the myriad things could not rest in the disposition of their nature and fate (xingming), while they still styled themselves sages—is such shamelessness not itself shameful? When Zi Gong heard this, he fidgeted and could hardly stand steady.

I. The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, and “Small Poison, Small Cunning”

Earlier the text spoke of the “Three Sovereigns”; here it drags down the “Five Emperors” as well. Yan chai (a kind of wasp) has a sting with venom, but the dose is xian shao (very slight). Gui qiu (scheming and calculation), like foxes and similar small beasts, aims only at petty gain. The point is: the harm of those who fancy themselves clever in power plays and scheming is no worse than these small insects and beasts—their “poison” is limited. The whole passage is mockery, contempt, and belittling. Can du: suffering, agonizing harm. Cu cu ran: cramped, uneasy.

II. Confucius Meets Laozi: The Six Classics Are “Traces,” Not the Dao

Confucius said to La Dan (Laozi): I have studied the Six Classics—the Odes, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn—for a long time and thought I had solid ground; who could know how they connect to the gu (root cause, the “why” of things)? I used them to persuade seventy-two rulers, speaking of the way of the ancient kings and the achievements of the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao, yet not one ruler truly adopted and employed them. How hard people are to persuade! How hard the Dao is to make manifest!

Laozi said: You were lucky—you did not meet a ruler who “loves to govern the age.” The Six Classics are chen ji (old footprints, old records) left by the ancient kings; how could they be the Dao itself? What you speak of now is still only “traces.” Traces are what shoes leave on the ground—but are traces the shoes?

According to the Book of Rites and similar sources, Laozi sometimes addressed sages by personal name; here the idea is that Confucius once asked La Dan about ritual and took him as teacher. Shu zhi qi gu: who can know how these relate to gu (origin, the reason things are so). Gou yong: to hook out and use (i.e., a ruler willing to adopt). When Laozi says “lucky not to have met,” he means: had you met an even more ancient kind of sage, they would have laughed at you all the more. Where there are shoes there are traces; clutching only traces and missing the shoes is like eating the dregs and discarding the true flavor.

III. Wind-Transformation, Nature and Fate, and “Joining the Process of Transformation”

This passage is extraordinarily bold and strange.

Bai yi (a kind of white harrier) male and female need not mate to produce young: when their mouzi (eyeballs) meet in mutual gaze, feng hua (conception through the influence of wind/qi) completes the act. Many things in the world arise from wind-qi—the character feng (wind) contains chong (insect/creature), so it already carries the sense of living beings; hence feng hua. The teaching: xing (nature) cannot be swapped, ming (fate/life-destiny) cannot be altered, shi (season/timing) cannot be halted, and the Dao cannot be yong (blocked or dammed up). If one truly attains the Dao, nothing is “kept only by partial cleverness,” and nothing is “lost only because of partial cleverness”—all depends on whether one aligns with the Dao.

Before three months had passed, Confucius came again to see Laozi and said: Qiu has attained the Dao! Raven chicks, fish exchanging foam, xi yao (the slender-waisted wasp) and its transformations, an elder brother crying though he has a younger brother… such things have been jiu yi (long established, always so). If Qiu does not yu hua wei ren (become one with transformation along with all beings), how can he hua ren (transform and guide others)?

Laozi said: Good—you may say Qiu has attained it.

In essence: one who truly awakens to the Dao does not preach from outside the myriad things but first walks with hua (transformation)—following nature and fate, seasons and wind-qi, without forcing or damming; only then is one fit to speak of guiding others.

Vernacular Explanation of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Explications of the Nanhua Perfect Scripture)

When the young calls above and the wind answers below, the point is the mutual responsiveness between what is “above” and what is “below.”

The Yellow Emperor traveled in the direction the wind was blowing; the principle is the same. The word “wind” here and the “wind” in fenghua (wind-transformation) belong to another sort of category: taking male and female as a class means that within the myriad things male and female form a class of their own, and therefore things can happen in this way.

Fenghua (wind-transformation): the larva of the rice stem borer and the potter wasp (guǒluǒ) are not originally of the same kind, yet transformation occurs through “incantation”; what is meant here is transformation through “mutual gazing.”

Nature and life (xingming), timeliness, and the Dao (the Way) are all speaking of the principle of nature—nothing may be violated.

The magpie’s “ruru” is mating; the fish’s “passing foam” is reproducing by moistening each other with foam.

The slender-waisted wasp (guǒluǒ): “transformation” gives birth to “transformation”—born from transformation and again transforming.

“Having a younger brother while the elder brother is still nursing”: brothers share one mother; the next child must wait until the first is weaned. While the elder is not weaned there will be no younger brother, hence “the elder brother is crying.” This line is especially striking and ingenious; Buddhist scriptures contain many passages of this kind. To exhaust the wonders of literary art, such things must all be understood.

“Not becoming human together with transformation”: knowing only the human and not Heaven—unable to unite with the transforming work of creation (zàohuà).

This chapter uses the principle of endless generation in creation to illustrate the natural Dao. It says that what Confucian scholars study is mostly the work of purposeful action, not the work of Wuwei (non-action). The work of Wuwei shares the same achievement as creation.

The pleasures spoken of in the Buddhist account of womb-birth, egg-birth, moisture-birth, and transformation-birth must surely arise here; yet its aim is to make people know that this body comes from nothing and is the same as all things, so as to break the worldly heart of selfish attachment and self-love—which is again not the same as the point here.