《南華真經口義》Vol. 17

Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi, Scroll 17 (Xu 6)

By Yizhai Lin Xiyi

Outer Chapters: Ke Yi (Deliberate Purpose)

General sense of the canonical text (Zhuangzi passages)

Those who deliberately cultivate conduct and depart from custom, who talk loftily and resent the age and mock the world, are merely setting themselves above others—this is what valley hermits, world-weary people, and those who wither away and plunge into deep seclusion favor.

Those who speak of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trust, humility, and yielding, and think that cultivation is enough—this is what scholars of peaceful times, those who make a living by teaching, and those who study abroad favor.

Those who speak of great merit and great fame, who use ritual to regulate lord and minister and set high and low right, and think governing the state is enough—this is what court scholars, those who honor the ruler and strengthen the state, and those who strive for achievement and annexation favor.

Those who dwell in marshes, live in vast solitude, fish and idle at leisure, and take wuwei as joy—this is what scholars of rivers and lakes, world-fleeing people, and seekers of leisure favor.

Those who inhale and exhale, practice daoyin, and imitate the bear’s posture and the bird’s stretch, all for long life—this is what daoyin adepts, those who nourish the form, and seekers of longevity like Peng Zu favor.

As for those who are lofty without deliberate purpose, cultivate themselves without preaching benevolence and righteousness, govern themselves without seeking fame and merit, enjoy leisure without leaving the marketplace, and attain longevity without daoyin—there is no moment they forget, nothing they lack; calmly without clinging, and every excellence arrives together: this is the Way of Heaven and Earth and the de of the sage.

Lin Xiyi’s Kou Yi (commentary)

“Ke” means to carve and polish; “yi” means to apply the mind. Being skilled at painful intent and taking conduct as the standard is called keyi (deliberate purpose). “Kang” means arrogant. Resentment and ridicule are indignation at the age and rejection of evil; “feishi” means discussing right and wrong in worldly affairs. Withered and dry describes loneliness; “fuyuan” is throwing oneself into still depths—the sense of “fearing the grove is not thick enough, fearing the mountain is not deep enough” in seeking deep concealment. “Wei xiu” means loving purity and fine conduct. “Those who teach” are those who bring the teacher’s Way to the world. “Zhigong bingjian” is language Zhuangzi saw with his own eyes in his day (the Warring States drive for strength and annexation). “Bishi xianxia” are recluses who are also at leisure; fleeing the world and customs and rising above right and wrong, hence not the same path as “being arrogant” and “condemning the world.” Bear posture and bird stretch are the kind of daoyin later seen in Hua Tuo’s “Five Animal Frolics.” “Nothing forgotten, nothing lacking” is what Laozi calls “wuwei yet nothing left undone.” “Wuji” is having no fixed stopping point and no bias; “all beauties follow” is every excellence complete. The sage obtains the natural Way of Heaven and Earth, and so can reach this realm.

Canonical text continued

Therefore it is said: tranquility, solitude, emptiness, and wuwei are the inherent stillness of Heaven and Earth, and also the true character of Dao and de. Therefore it is said: when the sage is at ease, he is level; when level, he is tranquil; when tranquil, care and trouble cannot enter, perverse qi cannot assail—then de is whole and shen is whole.

The line “Therefore it is said: as for tranquility, solitude, emptiness, and wuwei…” sums up what precedes: not belonging to the five kinds of deliberate “having preferences,” but returning to the substance of Heaven and Earth, Dao, and de.

Note: This chapter belongs to the Zhuangzi outer chapter Ke Yi. It contrasts five life stances (the arrogant, the peaceful-age scholar, the court scholar, the rivers-and-lakes scholar, the daoyin adept) with the sage’s state of complete de without deliberate purpose. Lin Xiyi’s Kou Yi uses Song-dynasty vernacular to clarify each phrase line by line, and notes the link between “bear posture and bird stretch” and the tradition of nourishing life through daoyin.

When the mind is even and simple (yi), one becomes tranquil and at ease (tiandan)—here “yi” and “tiandan” are just another way of saying wuwei (non-action); “the spirit is not depleted” is the fullness of De (virtue/power). Adding these three words makes the meaning even clearer.

Thus it is said: The sage lives in the world and acts in accord with the pattern of Heaven (tianxing); when he dies, his body is like shed skin, and he merges with the myriad things in transformation with things (wuhua). In stillness he shares the virtue of Yin; in movement he rides the surge of Yang. He does not rush ahead for blessing or take the lead in inviting disaster; he responds only after being stirred, moves only when pressed, rises only when he has no choice—beyond fortune and misfortune, responding to things without deliberate intent.

He sets aside private cunning (zhi) and traces of contrived achievement (gu), and follows the pattern of Heaven; then there is no calamity from Heaven, no burden from things, no blame from people, no reckoning from ghosts. Life is like duckweed on water; death is like rest. No brooding, no advance plotting. He shines but does not dazzle (self-concealing); he is trustworthy but does not demand certainty from things. Because the Shen (spirit) is whole, he is pure and undivided; because the Hun (soul) is still, he is not worn out (“ba” here means the same as fatigue).

Thus it is said: Grief and joy are distortions of De; anger and delight are faults against the Dao; likes and dislikes are losses of De. When the heart is free of grief and joy, that is the utmost of De; holding to the One without change is the utmost of stillness; meeting nothing in opposition is the utmost of emptiness; not mingling with things is the utmost of plainness; nothing runs counter is the utmost of purity.

(Continuing the preceding classic text) When there is yi, there is tiandan; when there is evenness, ease, and tiandan, sorrow and trouble cannot enter, perverse influences cannot assail—hence De is complete and the spirit is not depleted.

The whole chapter reads as one breath; from here on many passages begin with “thus it is said,” and the end closes with everyday analogies—you need to watch how the rhetoric rises and falls. Is what is originally so in the substance of Dao and De to be called “substance”? Yi and tiandan are wuwei; an undiminished spirit is full De.

Notes (for reading this passage)

• Nanhua zhenjing: The Zhuangzi, titled in Daoism the “True Scripture of Nanhua.” Kouyi: commentary in the style of sentence-by-sentence explanation.
• Tianxing / wuhua / “respond only after being stirred”: Typical Zhuangzi-style portraits of the sage—not initiating, not forcing; dying by yielding to transformation; responding without clinging.
• Setting aside zhi and gu: Letting go of scheming mind and entanglement in deeds—not a blanket rejection of all knowledge.

When we speak of “supreme De (Virtue),” we mean that the heart is no longer tugged about by sorrow and joy—only then has one reached the highest virtue: single-minded and unchanging, that is, “holding to the One without leaning to one side,” fitting everywhere one goes. Having no point where one butts against the outer world is simply following nature. Here “butting against” (忤) and “going against” (逆) are close in meaning, but the former is stronger and the latter somewhat milder, hence two phrases. “Pure and without flaw” below carries the same idea.

It is also said: if the body is worn by labor and never rests, it will break down; if the spirit is used without cease, it grows weary, and weariness leads to exhaustion. Water’s nature is to be clear when nothing is mixed in, and level when it is not stirred; yet if it is blocked and cannot flow, it cannot stay clear either—this is how “Heavenly Virtue” (tiande) appears. So it is said: pure and unmixed, quiet and single-minded, plain and practicing Wuwei (non-action), yet in movement like the heavens turning of themselves—this is the method of nurturing the spirit (Shen).

“The form labors and then decays; essence expended brings fatigue” is very concrete language in the art of nurturing life, the same point as the earlier line that only by not shaking one’s Jing (essence) can one attain long life. Labor without stopping must end in depletion, hence “labor leads to exhaustion.” The comparison to water sounds ordinary, but when it says “blocked and not flowing, it cannot be clear,” that is no longer the dead stillness of withered wood and cold ashes: unmixed, then clear; unmoved, then level—that is one face of Wuwei; yet “not flowing, cannot be clear” shows there is still vitality within Wuwei. Chan Master Xiangyan once said: you cannot even call it idle sitting—blocked, not flowing, is just what the Chan school calls “sitting in a ghost’s cave,” the one-sided “silent illumination” Chan. The heavens turn in a day’s cycle—can that be called having no intent while still moving? So this is taken as the image of Heavenly Virtue. Nurturing spirit is nurturing life; to lift up the word Shen is intimate, the Daoist way. Buddhists often hesitate to speak plainly of Shen—for example they say birth and death from beginningless time are the deluded person, yet name it the “original body”; in fact they too are breaking through this fixation on “spirit.”

Those who own famed blades like Gan and Yue keep them in the case and dare not use them lightly—that is treasure at its height. When spirit flows in all four directions and reaches everywhere: above it touches Heaven, below it spreads over Earth, transforming and nurturing the myriad things, beyond naming—this is called “same as the Emperor” (tong di), one body with the Way of Heaven. Pure…

(Continuing the closing line of the scripture)—only when spirit is so full and circulating is it the supreme treasure; the name “same as the Emperor” means sharing the virtue of Heaven and Earth’s creation and transformation, not the title of a worldly ruler.

A Commentary on the True Classic of Nanhua

The key to the Way of Simplicity—valuing plainness and avoiding entanglement in fame and profit—is to guard the spirit alone: to keep the spirit and mind intact, without letting them scatter or slip away, until one gradually becomes one with the spirit. When this unity reaches full penetration, one accords with the heavenly order, the principles and patterns of Heaven’s Way.

It is like someone who cherishes a treasured sword and keeps it in a case. If a sword is treated with such care, how could one lightly squander the spirit? The earlier phrase, “use the essence and it grows weary,” likewise compares the spirit to something that becomes fatigued through overuse, warning against wasting it recklessly. The text also says that the spirit’s influence flows out in all directions, spreading below and reaching above. The same spirit brings all things to life, yet it leaves no visible trace; hence the phrase “cannot be made into an image.” “Equal to the Emperor” means that its workings are as wondrous as those of the Celestial Emperor. One who studies pure simplicity begins by guarding the spirit without losing it. With long practice, one becomes one with the spirit: this is the stage of “becoming great and transforming.” To guard the spirit without being transformed is still to remain separate from the Dao; only through transformation does one become one with the Dao. The heavenly order is the principle of Heaven. From unity, one reaches perfect penetration and thereby accords with Heaven—the level the sages called “spiritual and beyond prediction.” This chapter’s ideas accord closely with those found elsewhere in the book, but its language is stirring and varied, so it can easily be mistaken for heterodoxy.

A popular saying goes: ordinary people value profit, upright people value reputation, worthy people prize their aspirations, and sages esteem essence. Thus simplicity means that nothing else is mixed into the heart, while purity means that the spirit suffers no impairment. To embody pure simplicity is to become a True Person, one whose authentic simplicity accords with the Dao. “Popular saying” means the words of the lanes and villages. What the sage esteems is “essence,” which is the spirit. The first three phrases about profit, reputation, and aspiration serve as a contrast; the last phrase is the main point. Simplicity is a single, unadulterated quality, so it is said to contain nothing mixed in. Purity is whole and complete, so it is said not to impair the spirit. Pure simplicity is the “pure and essential” quality spoken of in the Book of Changes. The True Person and the Perfected Person are mentioned here after the preceding discussion of the sage’s virtue. As in the Inner Chapters, where the Perfected Person has no self and the Spirit Person has no name, these are simply different names for the sage—not claims that True Persons or Perfected Persons rank above sages.

The chapter “Conquering the Intention” discusses nurturing the spirit and includes reflections on the natural course of Heaven and the transformation of things. “Cultivating Nature” discusses preserving the self and speaks of the disorder that arises when one’s conduct runs counter to the times and one’s allotment. Dividing the discussions of nurturing the spirit and preserving the self into two chapters reflects a distinction in the practice of learning. Readers who fail to examine this closely will miss Zhuangzi’s profound meaning, preserved across a thousand years.

Outer Chapter: “Cultivating Nature”

Among worldly studies, people seek to cultivate their nature—to mend and regulate it—in the hope of restoring their original state. Amid worldly thoughts, they indulge their desires, hoping thereby to gain a reputation. Such people are called the deluded and obscured: those blinded by convention.

Vernacular Commentary on the Nan Hua Zhen Jing (True Scripture of Southern Florescence)

Shanxing means cultivating one’s innate nature. Here “shanxing” is used ironically against how Confucians, Mohists, and other schools of the time talked about “nature”: at birth people already possess a natural endowment; huagu means drowning and being scattered—swept apart in the world by fame, profit, and desire. Some try to use worldly learning to “govern nature” and recover the original mind, yet still roll in profit and desire while dreaming of reaching a state of empty clarity—that is utmost folly and ignorance. The deluded masses use such language to describe the foolish within vulgar learning. An opening line like this is hardest to write; the author rouses the reader in three sentences, then turns to “in antiquity those who cultivated the Dao”—the brushwork is excellent. Su Dongpo once said that only after reading Zhuangzi did he grasp how to write essays; one has to walk the path oneself to understand.

In antiquity, those who cultivated the Dao used tranquility to nourish wisdom; they lived without taking cleverness and scheming as their craft—this is also called using wisdom to nourish tranquility. Wisdom and tranquility nourish each other, and harmonious order emerges from one’s nature.

De (virtue/power) is harmony; Dao is pattern and principle. When De excludes nothing, that is benevolence (ren); when the Dao is nowhere unpatterned, that is rightness (yi). When rightness is clear within, one can be intimate with all things—that is loyalty (zhong) in the sense of giving one’s full self. When the center is pure and real and this returns upon genuine feeling, that is joy (le); when trust shows in conduct and bearing and accords with cultural form, that is ritual (li). If ritual and music are pushed one-sidedly, the world falls into disorder. They hold correctness without draping their own De over others; when De does not “intrude” (mao—does not offend or press down), things will not lose their nature.

Tranquility is stillness and settling; settling gives rise to insight, hence “using tranquility to nourish wisdom.” At the very beginning of life we are without stray thoughts—why take “knowing” as one’s skill? Only so can one be still and settled, hence “using wisdom to nourish tranquility.” The two mutually nourish each other, and only then does the order of natural nature appear. Stillness and settling yield the innate harmonious nature—called “harmonious order arising from nature.” Here “nature” means what is natural (ziran). The six characters “tranquility nourishes wisdom; wisdom nourishes tranquility” are the finest point. Buddhists often say precepts give rise to concentration and concentration gives rise to wisdom, but they do not say wisdom also gives rise to concentration—passages like this must be read closely. The Daodejing also speaks of harmony, hence “De is harmony; Dao is principle.” “Excludes nothing” is loving all; “nowhere unpatterned” is each thing getting its due. When rightness is luminous within, one can be close to things—that is “giving one’s full self is called loyalty.” Qing (feeling) is how inner state shows outwardly; when the center’s authenticity appears outside, that is joy; when trust operates in bearing and body and follows cultural pattern, that is ritual.

The text describes the ancient ideal society and the gradual decline of virtue (De) in later ages.

In the beginning, the ancients lived in a state of primal simplicity, unified with all things. At that time, Yin and Yang were in harmony, spirits and deities were tranquil, the four seasons followed their natural order, and no harm came to the myriad beings. Though people possessed wisdom, they had no need to use it. This was known as the state of "utmost unity" (至一), where everything operated spontaneously without human interference.

The phrase "within the midst of undifferentiated chaos" (混芒之中) refers to a state where things remained hidden and unmanifested, while "serene and indifferent" (澹漠) indicates that neither higher nor lower forces disturbed one another. The entire world was whole and complete, hence it was called "utmost unity." "Spirits and deities did not disturb" (鬼神不扰) means that mountain and river spirits were at peace, and "the four seasons kept their proper rhythm" (四时得节) signifies that the cycle of seasons proceeded in perfect order.

Later, virtue began to decline. By the time of Suiren and Fuxi’s rule over the world, people still followed natural patterns but were no longer fully unified. During the era of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, society was stable but no longer harmonious. By the reigns of Yao and Shun, the practice of moral instruction began, corrupting the original purity of human nature and leading people astray from the Dao of spontaneity.

At this point, people began using intellect to understand things, yet intellect alone could not bring stability to the world. Thus, elaborate rituals and embellishments were introduced, supplemented by broad learning. As a result, these artificial refinements obscured the true essence, and excessive knowledge drowned out the innate mind. The common people became confused and disordered, unable to return to their original nature and the primal state of natural harmony.

The text emphasizes that rather than conquering the world through good deeds, it is better to nourish the world with goodness. When virtue (De) is not hidden within but forcibly imposed upon others, things lose their true nature. Genuine virtue accumulates within oneself without ostentation, allowing external things to naturally align with what is right.

In the age of decline, people each came to esteem cleverness and knowledge. If one merely lived by that set of rules called “having reason,” the original wholeness of pure genuineness was already broken apart. Hence it is said “compliant yet not unified”—outwardly compliant, but each clinging to one side. When everyone treats their own doctrine as security, that amounts to admitting “my knowing” and “my grasping”; once there is “my knowing,” one is separated from the Dao. Hence it is said “at ease yet not compliant”—the mind is settled, but no longer in accord with nature. If one sets out to govern the world and spread teaching, that is not the way of Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness. Hence it is said that simplicity is lost and plain authenticity thins away. Once there is a reputation for “goodness,” one is far from the Dao; once De (Virtue/Power) is made into visible contrivance, virtue is no longer plain and natural. Hence it is said: leaving the Dao to seek goodness, and practicing virtue in a perilous, uneven way—not level, not natural. Abandoning innate nature and following the mind of purposeful action—hence it is said: abandoning nature and following the mind. I meet the other with a mind of intent, and the other responds to me with a mind of intent—hence it is said: mind and mind-knowing; knowing here means discernment and distinction. Where the text says “mind,” it mostly means this discriminating mind, the mind of knowing. Wen means cultural refinement and ornament; bo means profusion of names and things. Rites and music are complete, and every kind of administrative affair is in place; mere knowledge is not enough, so rites and music are added on—hence “knowing is insufficient to settle the world,” and wen is appended and bo is increased—when bo prevails, things multiply but the essential thread is missing. When mental effort is spent on these things, it is like sinking into a mire and unable to pull free.

Seen in this light, the age has lost the Dao, and the Dao has lost the age; age and Dao lose each other. How can those who cultivate the Dao revive this age? And how can the age let the Dao arise? The Dao cannot arise within the age, and the age cannot let the Dao arise. Even if the sage were not in deep mountains and forests, his De would still be hidden and not displayed; hidden—not because he deliberately hides himself.

“Dao and age lose each other in turn” means neither side can enter the other. Since they do not enter each other, how can those of the Dao raise up worldly sights and sounds? And how can worldly people thereby come to know? When the whole world does not know the Dao, even if the sage is before their eyes, people do not recognize him. It is not that the sage hides himself, but that people do not recognize or seek him; not sought, he is naturally hidden. Hence “hidden, yet not hiding himself”—the hiding is not the sage’s intent to hide; he is plainly present, yet people do not know him. These five characters also sit oddly and sharply in the flow of the text.

What ancients called the hidden person was not one who crouched the body out of sight, shut the mouth and did not speak, or hoarded knowledge and did not express it. Rather, it was that the times and fate were thus (greatly awry).

The previous section spoke of “concealment” (yin); here the hermit is brought in again: a hermit is not someone who wants to hide away, keep silent, or bury their intelligence—rather, they see that the age will not bear right conduct, and so they feign foolishness and hold to simplicity. “When fate and the times are greatly at odds” (shi ming da miu) means one’s situation is severely out of step with the season and with Heaven’s mandate (“miu” is perverse, out of joint).

“Returning to the One without leaving a trace” (fan yi wu ji) means: when the work is done, one does not claim the credit for oneself. Though the Dao may be put into practice, one hands everything back to “no-mind” (wuxin)—on one’s own side, one only seeks to hold to the One, hence “return to the One.” “Root and ultimate” means returning to the root; “ultimate” is cessation, settling in place. “Deep root” is like withdrawing into depth and concealment; “tranquil ultimate” is like resting in one’s proper station, dwelling upon it. Preserving oneself and awaiting the right moment—that is why it is said “with deep root and tranquil ultimate, one waits.” “Preserving the person” is “preserving the self.”

The ancients in establishing themselves and acting did not use eloquence and ornament to parade cleverness, did not use cleverness to overwhelm everyone under Heaven, and did not use cleverness to harm their own De (virtue/power). They rested securely in the position that belonged to them, turned back to their nature, and kept at this for long—what more was there to do? The Dao was never meant to be walked by petty cleverness and petty tricks; De was never meant to be upheld by petty opinions. Petty opinions injure De; petty tricks injure the Dao. So they only said: straighten yourself—that is enough. When one can do this and the inner person is whole and joyful, that is called “having attained one’s aim” (de zhi)—here “de zhi” follows the usage in the oral commentary: complete joy, full satisfaction.

What the ancients called “having attained one’s aim” did not mean prominent rank and emblems (xuan mian). It meant they had nothing left that could make them more satisfied—satisfaction was already complete, with nothing more sought outside. If one still seeks outside and is pleased by that, one has not attained one’s aim; those who have not attained their aim still need xuan mian and other external things to feel pleased. So “xuan mian” is not true satisfaction—it is only lodging, temporary resting-place. Lodging in xuan mian, one loses one’s nature; lodging in things, one loses the true self. Thus the ancients’ “attaining one’s aim” was having nothing to lose; today’s “attaining one’s aim” is having something to lose. Losing the root and lodging in externals—that is losing one’s aim.

“Loss” (sang) is losing; “sufficiency” (zu) is having nothing insufficient. No loss, then no insufficiency; no insufficiency, then no dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction comes from external things, not from “sufficiency.” Sufficiency and self-joy—from where would dissatisfaction come? Hence: “Those with nothing sufficient have lost.” Lost means having lost.

“Loss” leads to “releasing things” (yi wu): yi is losing; wu is external things. External things cannot be lost—what is lost is attachment to things. Confucius spoke of “no burden” (wu lei); Zengzi spoke of “releasing the light” (yi zhao)—both mean this. Releasing the light is forgetting one’s brightness; no burden is forgetting one’s merit. Forget brightness, then nothing is not bright; forget merit, then no merit is not merit. Merit and brightness both complete, yet one still returns to no trace—hence “ultimate release” (zhi yi).

“Ultimate release” brings in the “perfect person” (zhi ren): zhi is utmost; ren is the multitude. The multitude have something they release; the perfect person has nothing to release. Confucius hid benevolence in secrecy; Yan Hui hid brightness in silence; Zengzi hid merit in obscurity; Zisi hid things in nothingness—all are ultimate release. Ultimate release, then nothing is lost; nothing lost, then nothing is insufficient—so the perfect person “releases things” without losing things: not dropping objects, but not being dragged by them.

“Not losing things” leads to “not losing feeling” (qing): qing is emotion and desire. Not losing things is not being pulled by externals; not losing feeling is not being run by emotion and desire. Confucius “rested in the time and dwelt in what accords”—rest in the time, then no time is not rest; dwell in accord, then no accord is not dwelling. No time out of accord, then feeling has nothing to lose. Hence “resting in the time and dwelling in accord—joy and grief cannot enter”—not forcibly suppressing emotion, but feeling already sufficient, so joy and grief from the outer world cannot pierce the center.

This is what the ancients meant by “joy and grief cannot enter.” Enter means to invade, disturb. Cannot enter is not being without feeling—it is that feeling is already full, so joy and grief from circumstance cannot shake the center. So the perfect person “releases things without losing things,” “releases the light without losing brightness,” “has no burden without losing merit”—three phrases, one aim: not burdened outside, not dark inside, not proud of merit; each states one side.

“Releasing the light” is forgetting one’s brightness so that nothing is not illumined; “no burden” is forgetting one’s merit so that no merit fails to stand. Forgetting is not abolishing—it is not dwelling, not clinging. So the perfect person “abides where they belong and cannot be swept away,” “honors what they honor and cannot become arrogant.” Swept away is turning with circumstances; arrogant is pride and excess. Cannot be swept away, cannot be arrogant—that is the stance of “deep root and tranquil ultimate.”

“Deep root and tranquil ultimate” connects again to “return to the One”: deep root is not moving lightly; tranquil ultimate is not acting rashly. Return to the One is completing the work without claiming it; no trace is not setting up the appearance of fame and merit. The way of preserving the person lies here: when fate and the times are at odds, conceal; when they align, act without trace. Hence “with deep root and tranquil ultimate, one waits”—waiting for the season is not passivity; it is guarding the root until the moment when action is fitting.

The above strings together “concealment,” “preserving the person,” “walking in the world,” “attaining one’s aim,” “ultimate release,” and “perfect person” on one thread: concealment is not escape but knowing the time and not misusing oneself; attaining one’s aim is not xuan mian but self-sufficiency without loss; the perfect person is not without feeling but feeling full so joy and grief do not enter. If the reader only remembers one line: when the time is wrong, deep root and tranquil ultimate; when the time is right, return to the One without trace—straighten the self and rejoice in wholeness, that is attaining one’s aim.

What is meant by “having attained one’s aim” is taking official rank and regalia (the carriage and cap of high office) as one’s aim. When rank and regalia rest upon the person, they are not xing and ming (one’s innate nature and authentic life) themselves; when external things happen to arrive upon one, this is called “ji” (temporary lodging). When they come, one cannot block them; when they go, one cannot hold them back. Therefore one does not let the heart run wild because of rank and regalia, nor bend to the ways of the world because of poverty—at root the joy in that case is the same as the joy of wealth and honor, and so one is simply free of worry.

Nowadays, when what was temporarily lodged is gone, there is no joy. Seen from this angle, even if there is joy for a time, one has not failed to neglect the authentic self. Hence it is said: those who lose themselves in things and lose their nature in vulgar custom are called people who invert what matters (dao zhi zhi min—those who put the branch before the root).

Those whose hearts are self-sufficient do not seek from outside the body; hence “nothing adds to their joy”—this is “all things are complete in me; when I turn within and find sincerity, there is no greater joy.” Xing and ming are ranks bestowed by Heaven; rank and regalia are external things. Because they come by chance, they are called tanglai (what arrives haphazardly); because staying or leaving depends on things and not on me, they are called ji (lodging). These three words are used with extraordinary force: understanding that coming and going are not fixed, one is not unrestrained in prosperity, nor does one truckle to custom in want—hence “not letting rank and regalia run wild in the heart, not rushing after vulgar ways in poverty and constraint.” “Rushing after vulgar ways” means bending oneself to suit the times. The other (the cultivator of the Way) rejoices in the Dao; others rejoice in rank and regalia—at root it is the same “joy,” so it is said that their joy and this joy are alike. When joy is in oneself, there is no time for worry; when joy is in things, when things go, joy goes too. If joy has coming and going, it is not true joy—hence “though joyful, one has not failed to neglect the authentic self.” Those who invert are those who do not know root and branch: self and nature are root; things and vulgar custom are branch. To weight the branch and lose the root is why they are called people who invert what matters.

Note on reading: This section too forms a single continuous piece; the word “又” (again) in the text is most important—watch how it ties what precedes to what follows and lifts what comes next from what came before.

Note: The original is line-by-line exegesis from Nanhua zhenjing kouyi (Oral Exegesis of the Authentic Scripture of Southern Florescence) on related passages in the Zhuangzi; the first section expounds the meaning, the closing lines give reading instructions. Technical terms are glossed in parentheses at first occurrence where helpful.