《南華真經口義》Vol. 18

Vernacular Reading of the Scripture

When autumn floods came, the hundred streams poured into the Yellow River. The current ran so broad and muddy that between the two banks and the sandbars in midstream one could not tell ox from horse.

At that the River God He Bo was pleased with himself, thinking that all beauty in the world was his alone.

He went downstream eastward until he reached the Northern Sea. Looking east, he could not see where the water ended.

Then He Bo turned his face around, gazed toward the sea god Ruoshén, and sighed…

“As the folk saying goes: ‘Having heard a hundred paths and thinking none can match you’—that is me.”

“Besides, I once heard of people who slighted Confucius’s learning and looked down on Boyi’s integrity; at first I did not believe it. Now that I see how hard you are to fathom, I know that if I had not come to your gate I would have been in danger of forever being laughed at by those at home in the great Dao.”

The Northern Sea’s Ruoshén said: “A frog in a well cannot be spoken to about the sea, for it is trapped in a hollow. A summer insect cannot be spoken to about ice, for it is bound to its season. A narrow-minded scholar cannot be spoken to about the Dao, for he is tied down by what he has been taught.”

“Now you have come out from your banks and seen the great sea—you know your own limits. I can speak with you about the great principle.”

“Of all waters under heaven none is greater than the sea. The ten thousand streams flow into it, yet it never fills and never knows when to stop; it drains from the weilü (tail-gate, the legendary outlet at the sea’s bottom), yet it never empties and never knows when it is spent. Spring and autumn do not alter it; flood and drought do not touch it. Its surpassing of river and stream cannot be measured or counted.”

“Yet I have never taken pride in this. I take myself as shaped together with heaven and earth and receiving qi from yin and yang. Between heaven and earth I am like a small stone or a small tree on a great mountain.”

Vernacular Notes on the Oral Meaning (Lin Xiyiyi’s Commentary)

Jing (turbid flow): Turbid. When the Yellow River’s water surges and turns muddy, it fills both banks—hence “the great jing current.”

Two banks (liang si): This is not the “Jing” of the Jing and Wei rivers; it means both banks.

Midstream islets (zhu ya): Sandbars and islets in the river. The two characters “zhu ya” carry roughly equal weight. If “ya” were glossed only as “margin” or “edge,” the following word “between” would sit awkwardly with “unable to tell ox from horse”—the point is distance: things are too far off to see clearly.

Cannot see the water’s end: One does not know where the water comes from (extends to).

Yang: The sea. Ruo: The name of the sea god.

Principles in the world are endlessly varied; one hears a hundred of them and thinks oneself widely learned. The phrase “having heard a hundred paths” is likely an old saying; here it is borrowed in the parable of river and sea, with Confucius and Boyi in mind.

Dafang (great house): The great Dao.

(Continuing from above)

To treat mountains as “small” is to see only one corner; to treat the sea as “great” is likewise to stay within what is visible.

“Confined to the hollow” means trapped in the vantage of where one dwells; “steadfast in one season” means knowledge that stops at the understanding of a single time—as when the short-lived cicada knows neither spring nor autumn.

“Knowing one’s ugliness” means knowing one’s lack and feeling shame.

“Weiwei” (尾闾) is the legendary outlet where the sea drains (from the Classic of Mountains and Seas): the sea flows there and is swallowed as fast as it is poured in. Compared with heaven and earth, if one only sees how small the sea is, one may fail to grasp how vast it really is. What Chan Buddhists call “bearing the great” must rise from the earth, layer upon layer, with heaven still above—that is the idea.

Main sense of the passage

Measure the four seas against heaven and earth: are they not like a tiny hole in a great marsh?

Measure China within the inner seas: is it not like one grain of rice in a vast granary?

The myriad things are counted as “ten thousand”; a human being is but one among them. Humans gather in the Nine Provinces—the lands where the five grains grow and boats and carts may pass—and among those, each person is again but one.

Compared with the myriad things, is a person not like the tip of a hair on a horse’s hide?

What the Five Emperors handed down, what the Three Kings fought over, what the humane worry about, and what men of affairs toil at—all of it is contained in this.

Boyi refused office for reputation’s sake; Confucius spoke for breadth of learning—they thought themselves abundant, just as you a moment ago thought yourself abundant beside the water.

Explanation of terms

“Lěi kōng” (礨空) is a small cavity, like a honeycomb cell.

“Rén zú” (人卒) means the mass of people. Among the myriad things, a person is only one of ten thousand (speaking of everything in the great void that can be named); within the Nine Provinces, one is again only a single item (speaking of plants, birds, beasts, and the like). These two lines are developed very well.

Master Yuexuan said: Though heaven and earth are vast, the human body is no larger than a fist-sized stone, yet in the void it makes a triumphant journey—that is the point. The world is thus small; what the Five Emperors, Three Kings, and sages of every age knew and could do never exceeds this scope. The language is indeed far-reaching, and the point is sound.

“Boyi refused for the sake of name; Zhongni spoke for the sake of breadth”—who in the past could have said such things?

“Rèn shì” (任士) means those who take on the affairs of the world, namely statesmen who order society.

Dialogue between River Earl and Lord of the Northern Sea

River Earl said: Then may I honor heaven and earth and belittle tip and hair?

Lord of the Northern Sea said: You may not. The measure of things has no end; time does not stop; positions are not fixed; beginning and end have no fixed mark. Therefore great wisdom looks far and near alike: seeing the small without taking it for too little, seeing the large without hoarding it as “more” (not piling up greatness upon oneself).

Note

This passage belongs to the “viewing large and small” debate in Zhuangzi’s “Autumn Floods”; the oral gloss uses honeycomb, granary, and hair-tip images to show how small humans are among heaven, earth, and the myriad things, and criticizes the self-importance of figures like Boyi and Confucius, leading into Lord of the Northern Sea’s reply that “the measure of things has no end.”

Paraphrase of the Original Passage

Those who know much can understand that “measure” has no limit; by examining present and past, what is far does not weary them, and what is near at hand does not make them crane their necks to look. They know that “time” has no stopping point; by observing fullness and emptiness, they are not glad when they gain and not sorrowful when they lose, and they understand that “allotment” has no fixed rule. They understand the level path (the right Way), so they are not especially happy to live and do not treat death as disaster, knowing that end and beginning are not fixed and unchanging. To take what a person knows and compare it to what he does not know, and to take the time after he is already alive and compare it to before he was born—to use such extremely limited things to pursue exhaustion of that vast and boundless realm is to be confused and unable to find peace in oneself. Seen this way, how can one know that the tip of a hair is enough to fix the standard of “utterly fine”? How can one know that heaven and earth are enough to exhaust the realm of “utterly great”?

Oral Commentary (Explanation)

This turn of argument comes after the discussion of “great”; here it says again “no small, no great”—the sense of “nothing in the world is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, yet Mount Tai is small.”

• The measure of things is inexhaustible: The size and number of things cannot be fully measured by any fixed standard.
• Time has no stopping point: Cold and heat, day and night, succeed one another without ever coming to an end.
• Allotment has no constancy: Having and lacking, gain and loss, each person’s lot—earlier or later—has no fixed rule in the first place.
• End and beginning have no fixed cause: There is no absolute end or absolute beginning, and no fixed “new” or fixed “old.”

“Therefore the greatly knowing” refers to those of great wisdom; what follows sets out four kinds of “knowing.”

• Viewing the far as if near: They do not treat far and near as utterly separate, nor calculate by size or number, and thus know that measure is inexhaustible.
• “证乡” should read “证今” (“乡” and “今” are near in sound and were confused); 考明 means to examine and clarify. Present and past (故) are originally one body, so what has not yet arrived, though far, is not worried over, and what is within reach, though near, is not restless—when this is understood, one knows that time has no fixed stopping place.
• 盈 is gaining, 虚 is losing; waxing and waning of fullness and emptiness move with time, without joy or anger on that account, and thus one knows that allotment has no constant rule.
• 明乎坦涂: 坦涂 is a level road; here it stands for the right Way (正道). Following the right Way, one lets life and death be as they may, like the idea of “cultivating the person and awaiting” (修养以俟—refining oneself and waiting on Heaven’s decree). Understanding this, one knows that “end” and “beginning” are alike, and cannot treat “end” as something fixed and unchanging. This is also what is meant by tracing origin to grasp outcome (原始要终—from the root to see how things conclude).

What people know is the “human” side; what they do not know is the “Heaven” side. For example, only after I am born do I know; before birth, how could I know? If one uses such minuscule and extremely limited things to seek to exhaust the utterly great and boundless domain, one becomes confused and cannot be at peace. From here, again: on what basis say that a hair’s tip is enough to fix “utterly fine”? On what basis say that heaven and earth are enough to exhaust “utterly great”?

The Chan school often speaks of the meditation topic “before your parents gave birth to you”: the extremely small is the self, the extremely large is heaven. To use the extremely small self to exhaust the extremely large heaven is bound to bring confusion and no peace. In Chan these lines would be a major public case; Zhuangzi states them as if it were nothing. So from “Therefore great knowledge” onward, the text is unpacking what came before; the prose expands and contracts, even and uneven—that is exactly this style of writing. “Ni” means the thread or starting point; “yu” means region or locus. Saying the small has no beginning and the great has no boundary, the text asks: how can you fix the thread of the utmost small? How can you exhaust the domain of heaven’s greatness?

He Bo said: When people discuss things, they all say the utmost refinement has no form and the utmost greatness cannot be enclosed—is that credible?

Bei Hai Ruo said: Looking at the great from the small, you cannot see it all (like viewing heaven through a tube); looking at the small from the great, you cannot see it clearly (like the peng bird looking down and seeing only dust and horses). “Jing” speaks of subtle smallness; “fu” speaks of vast abundance—each has its fit, as situation demands. Jing and cu originally refer to things with form; what has no form cannot be divided by number; what cannot be enclosed cannot be exhausted by number. What can be spoken of is the coarse side of things; what can be intuited is the refined side. What speech cannot discuss and thought cannot discern should not be weighed in terms of refined versus coarse.

Kou Yi says: This turn is again excellent. “The utmost refinement has no form” speaks of the subtle, not “the utmost small”—that is where the writing stays lively. “Xin qing” means whether one takes these words as true. “From the small viewing the great, not exhaustive” is like viewing heaven through a tube; “from the great viewing the small, not clear” is like the peng looking down and seeing dust and horses. “Jing” means small upon small; “fu” means great upon great; “yin” means abundant. “Yi bian” means different fitness—from small and great these two lines are born again. Subtlety so extreme it has no form—number cannot divide it; even a hair’s tip or the tip of a autumn hair cannot be fixed. Greatness that cannot be enclosed—number cannot exhaust it; even a grain of rice or a ten-thousandth cannot bound it. Things, whether refined or coarse, are all confined to form, so they can be spoken of and intuited; if both large and small were formless, then speech could not discuss them and thought could not reach them—once you say “formless,” they are no longer within the distinction of refined and coarse.

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

At this point, the discussion can proceed in terms of the subtle and the coarse. Hence it is said again: do not imagine that by distinguishing subtle from coarse you can thereby see clearly where things arrive—what they ultimately come to. What must be examined is the uttermost limit: where things finally settle and where they stop.

The Great Person’s way of acting is like this:

He does not display himself as benevolent by “not harming others”; in his conduct he simply does not harm others as a matter of course.

He does not parade loftiness by “not pursuing profit,” and therefore he does not look down on those who, like gatekeepers or servants, demean themselves to stay alive and chase gain.

He does not compete for reputation by “not contending over goods and yielding often.” Not contending over goods is one thing; it is also not a matter of deliberately yielding in speech everywhere and making a show of yielding—that would already be close to seeking a name.

He does everything himself and does not rely on others, yet he is also not someone who exhausts all his strength while living off others’ labor. The point is that he has surplus capacity and need not use it all up, not that he “eats by making others do most of the work.”

Toward greedy, base, and tainted people, he does not despise them; each lives their own life: “You be you, I be I.”

His tracks truly differ from those of ordinary people, yet he is not deliberately novel or aloof, setting himself on a cliff-edge to show purity (both “carving out difference” and “cliff-like difference” mean striking off on another path and standing apart from others).

He follows custom and mingles with the crowd, harmonizing light and blending with dust, yet he does not therefore despise those who fawn and curry favor. He stays open with the multitude, and others cannot stain his heart. Here “does not despise” means does not detest or look down on, not that he holds a separate arrogance.

Such a person does not rigidly divide right and wrong and identifies small with great—he does not cling dead-fast in disputes over right and wrong, nor does he force hard boundaries between minute and vast. The old saying runs: “The person of the Dao does not seek to be heard” (the one who cultivates the Way does not chase external renown), “the utmost De does not grasp for attainment” (the highest Virtue does not treat gain and loss as something to clutch), “the Great Person has no fixed self” (the Great Person is not centered on private self-interest).

The utmost refinement of one’s portion means understanding one’s allotment and its boundaries in the simplest, cleanest contraction, and carrying one’s share of what must be done to the end—the same idea as the ancients’ “fulfill oneself.” Where the scripture says “contract the portion,” the sense is the same.

The closing “I have heard it said” means: I once heard such words from those who came before.

Dialogue from the Text

Hebo asked: Whether we look from outside things or from within things, where exactly do the boundaries of noble and base, large and small, fall?

Beihai Ruo replied: From the perspective of the Dao, things in themselves have no fixed noble or base; from each thing’s own standpoint, each takes itself as noble and the other as base; from conventional opinion, noble and base are not decided by oneself alone; when we consider differences of scale, if we follow what is large in a thing and call it large, then nothing is not large; if we follow what is small in it and call it small, then nothing is not small—once we see that the breadth of heaven and earth is no more than a grain of rice, and the fineness of the tip of a hair can be set against a hill, the orders of magnitude between large and small become obvious. When we consider boundaries of function, if we follow what “has” being in a thing we admit it has, then nothing lacks being; if we follow what “lacks” being we admit it lacks, then nothing lacks lack—once we see that east and west oppose each other yet neither can do without the other, each person’s limit of function is settled. When we consider orientation of aim and conduct, if we follow what is “so” in a thing we take it as so, then nothing is not so; if we follow what is “not so” we take it as not so, then nothing is not not-so—once we see that Yao and Jie each follow their own nature yet mutually condemn each other, the differences in people’s aims and integrity stand clear.

Commentary

The earlier passage said not to despise the gatekeeper or the greedy and base—its point is exactly here; here the text turns again and puts noble-base and fine-large on the same line of reasoning. “Outside things, inside things” means considering both inner and outer sides together; “至” means pushing to the utmost. “恶至” asks: where do the signs of noble-base and fine-large finally exhaust their rationale?

“Viewing from things, each esteems itself and deems the other base”—chicken roosts and pigsties, dogtail grass (jiyong, juling), in that time and place might even be honored like a lord; on oneself one does not see it, on others one sees it clearly. The hundred bones and nine openings may be dazed yet still coexist; they take turns as lord and minister—that is the same idea. This line hits hardest: “noble and base are not in oneself”—that is exactly the sense of high office and splendid robes as a traveler’s brief loan on the body.

“差” means graded difference. Heaven and earth are only a grain of rice, yet the tip of a hair can match Mount Tai—then the number of steps in that graded difference hardly needs much argument; the principle is plain. “功分” is merit and allotted share: each keeps one duty as merit, hence merit and share. Farmer, merchant, craftsman, trader each stay in their place and exert their strength; the world cannot do without any one line of work, just as east, west, south, and north oppose one another yet cannot cancel each other. “趣操” is bent of aim and moral resolve: to take Yao as right and Jie as wrong is ordinary feeling; but one must also see that Yao and Jie each follow their nature yet mutually condemn each other—differences in 趣操 show themselves from there.

I. Observation and Equalizing Things

There are rises and falls, establishments and replacements—on what basis does a ruler decide whom to elevate and whom to remove? If one judges only by personal likes and dislikes in “observing” affairs, people’s aspirations and conduct cannot be settled on a firm standard; that much is already plain. Zhuangzi is here developing the idea of “following what is” (yin shi) from the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal”: distinguish uses according to each thing’s scale, suitableness according to presence or absence, and place each thing according to its inherent nature—not by forcing a single absolute standard of “sameness.”

II. Yielding and Struggle: The Debate over Yao and Jie

In antiquity Yao and Shun obtained the realm through abdication in favor of others, while in the Warring States period King Yan of Yan (Zhi Kui) also imitated abdication and the state was destroyed. Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou won kingship through campaign and conquest, while in the Spring and Autumn period Bai Gong Sheng also raised troops to seize power and died in defeat. Seen this way, which of “yielding” and “contending” counts as ritual and which as virtue shifts with the times like the noble and base, right and wrong of acts such as those of Yao and Jie—saintly and tyrannical—one cannot treat any single practice as an eternally fixed constant way (chang dao).

Pairing Yao and Shun with Yan Kui, and Tang and Wu with Bai Gong Sheng, is fierce argument within indignant speech; Zhuangzi’s text has much of this, and when reading one should follow the rhetorical flow rather than taking every line as a final historical verdict.

III. Different Vessels, Skills, and Natures

A massive ridgepole can ram a city wall yet cannot plug a small hole—because the uses of things differ. Qiji and Hualiu can run a thousand li in a day yet are worse than wildcats and weasels at catching mice—because skills each have their strength. Owls and horned owls can catch fleas at night and see fine hairs, yet by day stare without seeing hills and mountains—because innate natures differ.

Hence: to take only “this is right” as one’s model and reject all “this is wrong,” or to take only “order” as one’s model and reject all “disorder,” is not yet to penetrate the pattern of Heaven and Earth and the disposition of the myriad things. It is like taking only Heaven as model and rejecting Earth, or only Yin and rejecting Yang—clearly unworkable. Yet to go on insisting after this is said is either muddle or self-deception. The ways imperial lines pass the throne differ (whether by abdication or not), and the three dynasties differ in how succession works; what goes against the age and custom is denounced as usurpation, what fits the time and custom is called righteous. River Lord, think quietly: through which gate do nobility and baseness enter, what “household goods” do large and small each possess—where is anything fixed and unchanging?

IV. River Lord Asks, Lord of Northern Sea Answers

River Lord said: If so, what should I do and not do, accept and reject? What am I finally to do?

Lord of Northern Sea said: From the standpoint of the Dao, what is noble and what is base is called “mutual derivation from opposites” (fan yan)—opposites turn into each other in cycle; one need not be bound by a fixed set of standards. Do not let the mind lodge in one corner; be as open as the great Dao—why cling to “few” versus “many”? … (What follows continues the original lines such as “why few, why many,” still dismantling attachment to noble and base, large and small.)

Note: This piece comes from oral exegesis (kouyi) on the “Autumn Floods” chapter of the Zhuangzi. It uses historical cases such as Yan Kui and Bai Gong Sheng to show the weight of “timeliness” and “custom,” and compares ridgepoles, Qiji and Hualiu, wildcats and weasels, and owls to show that the myriad things each have their use. It criticizes one-sided stances such as “take the right as model and reject the wrong” or “take Heaven as model and ignore Earth,” guiding River Lord to view noble and base from the Dao—not to fight over superiority from human prejudice.

Vernacular Interpretation

Text Commentary

What is called “xie shi” (relinquishing private giving) means acting without fixed rules yet in disharmony with the Dao. Solemn and grave, as when a state has its ruler, yet without seeking private virtue; dignified and reverent, as when sacrifice has its community god, yet without seeking private blessing. Broad and vast, as the four directions without limit, without partial favoritism. Embracing all things together yet without partial cherishing—this is called “wufang” (without fixed direction). All things are alike; what is long or short? The Dao has no beginning or end; things have birth and death; one does not rely on one’s own accomplishments. Full and empty alternate; they do not stay fixed in form. Years cannot be lifted up; the season’s movement cannot be halted—like a trickling stream, fullness and emptiness shift, and when there is an end there is again a beginning. This is the principle of discussing the great meaning of the Dao and expounding the reason of the myriad things.

The growth of the myriad things is like a sudden gallop—nothing is unmoved, no moment unchanged. Why this way? Why that way? They will naturally transform and nurture themselves as they always have.

Oral Commentary (Annotation)

This question continues: if there is neither noble nor base, neither right nor wrong, then in accepting or rejecting what I say, what should one follow?

“Fan yan” means ample breadth—turning back and seeking within oneself. Viewed from the Dao, with no noble or base, one turns back to oneself and is naturally ample; hence “fan yan.” If one binds oneself with noble and base, right and wrong, one is at odds with the Dao; hence “do not constrain your intent—the Dao is greatly obstructed” (jian means hindrance or obstruction).

“Shi” (giving) has more and less; when one thanks away or relinquishes giving, there is neither more nor less—hence “xie shi.” If one acts by holding to one fixed way and clings to the more or less of giving, one diverges from the Dao—hence “acting with a single fixed course, one is uneven with the Dao.”

That the state has a ruler and sacrifice has a community god both mean: take this mind with the Dao as master, and do not use private intent—hence “no private virtue, no private blessing.” When this mind is vast, like the boundlessness beyond the four directions, there is no boundary of private love—hence “no delimited realm.”

The three lines each use “qi” (its) with a distinct sense. “All things are complete in me” is “jian huai” (embracing together). With no private cherishing, it is said “who then would receive winged support?” “Cheng yi” means to arch and support—those two words depict private affection. “Wufang” is mind without fixation.

When I have no fixed mind, then for things there is neither long nor short, neither birth nor death. “Bu shi qi cheng” (not relying on one’s accomplishment) is what was said earlier as “not vaunting one’s success.” Fullness and emptiness follow the moment and cannot be fixed—hence “one empty, one full, not stationed in their forms.”

There is no fixed time, and without distinction between past and present, years cannot be reckoned; without coming and going, time cannot be halted. The Great Dao refers to this principle. The birth and death of all things are as swift as a gallop—just as it is said that “what passes is like this,” change and shift are never absent. What counts as deliberate action (youwei) and what as non-action (wuwei) are all left to the self-transformation of creation (zaohua); hence it is said that all things will ultimately transform and nurture themselves on their own.

The River God asked: If that is so, what is valuable about the Dao? Beihai Ruo replied: One who realizes the Dao must penetrate how things work; one who penetrates how things work must be clear about strategic flexibility (quan); one who is clear about quan does not let external things harm the self. A person of supreme De (Virtue/Power) is neither burned by fire nor drowned by water; cold and heat cannot afflict them, and birds and beasts cannot injure them—not because they despise these things, but because they can discern safety and danger, settle fortune and misfortune, and be careful in advancing and retreating, so nothing can harm them. Therefore it is said: Heaven is within, the human is without; De resides in Heaven. To know that the conduct of Heaven and humanity is rooted in Heaven, and that one’s position lies in attainment—is like the bending and stretching of a horse’s hoof: return to the root and speak of the utmost.

This question is excellent: if one simply leaves everything to what creation does, why must people still study the Dao? In Zhu Xi’s Wenda shu (Book of Questions and Answers), Liao Deming also asked this; Master Zhu did not answer—presumably because it was hard to put into words. Here Zhuangzi’s use of the word “quan” is truly masterful, and the line “does not let things harm the self” makes the point even clearer. Zhuangzi’s realization of the Dao is sincere, yet readers always feel he has not fully broken through the entirety of the Dao. “Li” means that each thing has its own principle; “quan” means application lies in oneself—only when one has the fullness of the Dao does this great function arise. One who is clear about quan does not let things harm the self because one knows what is heavy and what is light. The four clauses about fire, water, birds and beasts, and robbers each use “cannot,” yet they are gathered up by the single closing line “it is not that”—the rhetorical force is extremely strong. “Bo” means to press close. A person of supreme De certainly knows that everything has its measure—how could they be harmed by things? Yet one also does not mean that relying on this one may treat outer things lightly and think they cannot harm one. For example, dying in fire or water may be called fate—but may one throw oneself into fire or water? The meaning of “be careful in advancing and retreating” below becomes even clearer—like Mencius’s “one who knows fate does not stand beneath a collapsing wall.” To discern safety and danger, settle fortune and misfortune, and be careful in advancing and retreating—that is the Dao; it is having the Dao in one’s heart.

Human hearts do not always willingly submit to what is natural; when Zhuangzi writes at this point, he is not speaking at random but with calm assurance. What is meant by “heaven within and the human outside” is what the earlier chapter said: the ruler’s way is the way of heaven (tiandao), and the people’s way is the way of humanity (rendao). “De resides in heaven” refers to the de (virtue/power) of the natural; yet when one must speak of “knowing the conduct of heaven and humanity,” that character zhi (knowing) arises from the human heart-mind.

“Rooted in heaven, positioned in attainment”—rooted in the natural and at ease with what one has received; hence “rooted in heaven, positioned in attainment.” This line again falls on the side of the heart-mind of the Dao: guarding one’s place and resting where one belongs. “Diti” (stamping steps) are the movements of advance and retreat; bending, stretching, advancing, and withdrawing each follow their proper pattern—this line again falls on the side of the human heart-mind. At this point we reach the crux of the Dao and the limit of principle, hence it is called “returning to the essential and speaking to the ultimate,” like what Mencius said: in the end one must gather it back and pierce through with brief words.

Someone asked: What is heaven? What is the human? Beihai Ruo said: Oxen and horses are born with four feet—that is heaven; putting a halter on a horse and a nose ring on an ox—that is the human. Therefore do not use the human to extinguish the natural, do not use deliberate contrivance to extinguish heaven’s mandate, do not trade greed for empty reputation; carefully hold fast and do not lose it—this is called “returning to genuineness.”

These lines draw the distinction between human heart-mind and heart-mind of the Dao ever more clearly: oxen and horses having four feet comes from heaven and is natural; yet if they were not haltered and pierced, they would be of little use to people—here human heart-mind already enters the picture. When one uses the human to extinguish heaven, the habitual to extinguish mandate, or greed to chase fame, the human heart-mind easily slides into danger. The three “do not use” (wuyi) are prohibitions, akin to the Confucian “four abstentions.” Once one knows both heaven and the human and here holds fast without loss, heavenly principle is complete; hence “this is called returning to genuineness.” Here ming (mandate) means heavenly principle, gu means human affairs, and de means “gaining” in the sense of profit and loss.

Kui (a legendary one-legged beast) pitied the centipede; the centipede pitied the snake; the snake pitied the wind; the wind pitied the eye; the eye pitied the heart. Kui said to the centipede: I get by hopping on one foot and already have no choice; you have so many feet yet walk on your own—how is that? The centipede said: Not so—you have never seen a person spit? What flies out large is like pearls, small like mist, falling in confusion beyond counting. What I deploy is inborn function; I myself do not know why it can be so.

The centipede said to the snake: I walk with so many feet yet still cannot match you without feet—why? The snake said: What heaven’s mechanism impels, how could it be changed? Why would I need feet at all?

Wind and a Debate on “Form and Formlessness”

Someone said to the wind: You stir my ribs and my sides; when I walk, it seems as though you are there. Yet now you rise from the Northern Sea with a roaring rush and plunge into the Southern Sea as if there were nothing at all—why is that?

The wind said: Indeed, that is how I rise from the Northern Sea and enter the Southern Sea. But if you point at me, I count as winning; if you kick at me, I still count as winning. Even so, only I can snap great trees and tear roofs off houses. So to take many small defeats and call them one great victory—this kind of “great win” only a sage can accomplish.

(Note: The passage moves from Kui, who has one foot, to the centipede with a hundred feet and the snake with none—all speaking of movement that follows the spontaneous workings of Heaven (tianji); it is among the strangest writing in the world. In the middle, human spittle is used to liken the centipede’s feet; at the end it returns to “wind,” and mentions the heart-mind (xin) and another matter without naming it outright—all shifts of language, strange upon strange.)

Kui, the Centipede, and the Snake

Kui has no horns and only one foot; it hops along. (See the Classic of Mountains and Seas.) The centipede has a hundred feet; the snake has none. From one foot to none, the theme is natural impetus.

Chanchuo: the look of hopping on a single foot.

“Wu ru le”: there is none like me. “He ke yi ye”: how could it be otherwise? “You si”: there is a visible shape. “Pengpeng ran”: the sound of wind. “Zhi wo”: to point at the wind. “Meng wo”: to tread on the wind with the foot.

In the wind’s discourse, adding “small defeats yet a great victory” makes it stranger still—meaning the many can overcome Heaven, yet Heaven’s decree in turn overcomes people. Though one may not win in small matters, in the great victory nothing in the ten thousand things can step outside the work of creation. Things proceed of themselves; the ten thousand things cannot go against this.

Confucius Besieged in Kuang

Confucius was traveling in Kuang (a place name) when the people of Song surrounded him for several rounds; he still played his zither and sang without stopping. Zilu went in and asked: Why are you so joyful?

Confucius said: Come, I will tell you—I have long tried to escape poverty and still cannot avoid it; this is ming (fate). I have long sought success and still cannot attain it; this is shi (the times). In the age of Yao and Shun there were no “poor” people in the world—not because everyone knew how to gain. In the age of Jie and Zhou there were no “successful” people in the world—not because everyone knew how to lose. The times are simply like this.

To sail on water and not fear dragons and serpents is the courage of a fisherman; to walk on land and not fear rhinoceroses and tigers is the courage of a hunter; to face naked blades before you and see death as going home is the courage of a martyr. To know that poverty has ming and success has shi, and in the face of great peril not to fear, is the courage of a sage.

(Note: Confucius at ease in hardship parallels the “great victory” above—in unchangeable ming and shi, one keeps one’s place and is at peace in the heart.)

On Courage and the Mandate of Fate

Those who are unafraid possess the courage of the sage—because they have already settled into the place where they belong. When life and fate already have their allotted span, what is there to fear?

Before long, armored soldiers entered to report: “We thought you were Yang Hu, so we surrounded this place. Now we see you are not; please allow us to withdraw and stand down.”

This passage only shows that timing and fate unfold of themselves, beyond what human effort can foresee. For one who has awakened to the Dao, why should there be fear? In the middle, the fisherman, the hunter, and the man who dies for principle are used to illustrate the sage—each in its own way. “You are already there” (由处矣) means: let it rest; there is no need for more words.

Gongsun Long Questions Wei Mou

Gongsun Long asked Wei Mou: “In youth I studied the way of the former kings; in maturity I mastered the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I could distinguish sameness and difference, separate hard from white, argue what is so and what is not, what may be done and what may not—until the wisdom of the hundred schools was cornered and the disputations of many mouths exhausted. I thought I had reached the utmost. Now, having heard Zhuangzi’s words, I am dazed and adrift, unsure whether my discourse falls short of his or my talent is less than his. My mouth opens and no words come. I venture to ask what lies at the heart of this.”

Prince Mou leaned on his armrest, sighed, and laughed toward heaven: “Have you never heard of the frog in the well? It said to the turtle from the Eastern Sea: ‘I delight in leaping on the well curb and resting on the broken brick at the cliff’s edge; when I jump into the water I cup it under my arms and cradle my chin; when I tread the mud it covers my feet to the instep. I look back on shrimp, crabs, and tadpoles as my companions—none can match me. Moreover I alone possess this hollow of water and take my joy in straddling the well—surely this is the height of fulfillment. Why do you not often come in and look around?’

The turtle from the Eastern Sea had not yet fully put in its left foot when its right knee was caught. So it drew back in hesitation and told the frog: ‘A distance of a thousand li is not enough to speak of breadth; a height of a thousand ren is not enough to measure depth. In the time of Yu the Great there were nine floods in ten years, yet the water did not grow more; in the time of Cheng Tang there were seven droughts in eight years, yet the shore did not shrink. Neither length of years nor amount of water makes it advance or retreat—this is the great joy of the Eastern Sea.’

When the frog in the well heard this, it was startled and dismayed, and lost all its former assurance.

As for you—your understanding cannot even map the border between right and wrong, yet you wish to take in Zhuangzi’s words. That is like asking a gnat to carry a mountain on its back or an inchworm to cross a river: it surely cannot be done. Moreover, understanding that cannot reach words of utmost subtlety yet settles for momentary advantage—is that not the frog in the well? And as for him, he holds his head high with such assurance…”

(Continuation of the scripture passage) …able to descend to the Yellow Spring and ascend to the realm of the Great Sovereign—north and south undivided, suddenly open on all four sides, sinking into depths that cannot be fathomed; east and west indistinguishable, beginning in the dark abyss (Xuanming) and returning to the Great Thoroughfare (Datong). Yet you cling narrowly to sharp scrutiny in pursuit and to disputation in inquiry—is this not like peering at heaven through a bamboo tube or pointing at the earth with an awl? How cramped! Be on your way. And have you not heard: a youth from Shouling studied how the people of Handan walk; before he had mastered the Handan gait he had lost his own way of walking and had to crawl home. If you do not leave now, I fear you will forget your original form and forfeit your original accomplishment. Gongsun Long stood gaping, his tongue lifted but unable to come down again, and so he turned and fled.

(Commentary: kouyi)

Gongsun Long was a celebrated debater of the day; naming him here is precisely to refute that line of thought. The parables of the well frog and the “sea rat” are inventions of the author—one wonders how Laozi’s breast could hold so many such “inferior images.” Heng is the red worm in a well; xie is the crab. In a pit well, worms, crabs, and tadpoles all wheel about within it—hence “huan” (to move round and round). The saying that worms and crabs share tadpoles’ “nine years of water and seven years of drought” is on everyone’s lips; flood and drought could hardly last so long—were it truly so, humankind would long have perished. Zhuangzi adds only the phrases “nine floods in ten years, seven droughts in eight,” and the flavor is altogether different. Even in such ordinary turns one can see the force of his brush.

“Shishi” is the same as “xixi” (trembling unease). Shangfu is a tiny insect. “Chidao” means to trample. Dahuang denotes Heaven. The lines below—“treading the Yellow Spring, ascending the Great Sovereign”—speak of how far and high one’s vision reaches. Shiran means to be fully released. Sijie is the same as sida (open on all sides). “Sinking into what cannot be measured” describes how deep one enters. “Beginning in the dark abyss” means prior to the limitless; “returning to the Great Thoroughfare” is returning to the utmost Dao (Way). To try to exhaust the plain, unadorned Dao with piercing clarity and the art of rhetoric—is that not far too small a measure? The parable of losing one’s step at Handan is especially fine. “Guo neng” is the knack of walking as practiced in the state of Handan; having failed to learn it, he lost his old gait as well, and so could only crawl home. The Wei Mou and Gongsun Long of the Liezi are not the same figures as those here.

Zhuangzi was angling in the Pu River when the King of Chu sent two grandees ahead to state his wish: he would entrust the governance of his realm to you. Zhuangzi held his rod and did not turn his head. He said: I have heard that in Chu there is a sacred turtle that has been dead for three thousand years. The king keeps it wrapped in a cloth casket and offers it in the ancestral temple.

The divine turtle in the passage above—would it rather die and leave its shell to be honored in a high place, or live on dragging its tail in the mud? The two ministers said: rather live dragging its tail in the mud. Zhuangzi said: Go away; I will drag my tail alive in the mud.

“Going” means setting out first to visit the King of Chu. To say the state of Chu weighed on him, and to use the likeness of “dead bones honored” versus “living tail in mud,” is wonderfully strange and apt.

When Huizi (Hui Shi) was prime minister of Liang, Zhuangzi went to see him. Someone told Huizi: Zhuangzi has come; he wants to take your place as minister. Huizi was afraid and searched the state for three days and three nights. Zhuangzi went to see him and said: In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu (a divine bird akin to the phoenix)—do you know it? The yuanchu rises from the Southern Sea and heads for the Northern Sea; it will not perch except on the parasol tree, will not eat except bamboo seeds (the fruit of bamboo, called “lian shi”), will not drink except from sweet springs. Just then an owl had caught a rotten rat. As the yuanchu flew past, the owl looked up, fixed on it, and cried: Ha!—Are you now trying to scare me with your ministership in Liang?

“Ha” is the owl’s threatening cry, afraid someone will snatch its food. Using an owl with a rotten rat to scare the phoenix compares to Huizi clutching the post of state minister to intimidate me. One wonders where this Zhuangzi found so many fine analogies; later writers who craft clever figures are mostly pilfering his wit. Huizi and Zhuangzi were closest friends; this episode may never have happened and is more likely playful mutual teasing. Lian shi means the fruit of bamboo.

Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling on the bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi said: The shuyu (a small fish) come out swimming, easy and free—that is the fish being happy. Huizi said: You are not a fish; how do you know the fish are happy? Zhuangzi said: You are not me; how do you know I do not know the fish are happy? Huizi said: I am not you, so I indeed do not know you; you are not a fish to begin with—you do not know the fish are happy. That settles it. Zhuangzi said: Let us return to the root of the words. When you asked “how do you know the fish are happy,” you had already shown you knew that I knew, and that is why you asked me; I tell you: I knew it from up on the Hao bridge.

This exchange is strange again. “Returning to the root” means: go back to your first question—you asked “you are not a fish, how can you know the fish are happy,” which already admitted I could grasp the fish’s joy, and only then put the question; since you “knew me” in that way, my knowing the fish’s joy is knowing it from atop the Hao bridge.

When Zhuangzi watched the fish at Hao Bridge, he and Huizi were attuned to each other in just this way; their exchange at the time must have been well worth witnessing.

The back-and-forth between the River God and the Sea God in this chapter reads especially well alongside the dialogue in the Transmission of the Lamp (Chuandeng Lu) in which National Teacher Zhong discusses “insentient beings preaching the Dharma” and “attaining Buddhahood without mind.” Chan master Dahui said: This Laozi [Zhuangzi] is nimble and slippery; meeting this monk, he slippery stuck to him once more. The phrases “the household task is great,” “the gate is great,” “the waves are broad,” and “the root of life is severed”—Zhuangzi used them to the point. (On Dahui’s Recorded Sayings, see the section on public sermons [pu shuo].)