《南華真經口義》Vol. 19

Does the world have perfect bliss? Is there a way that truly nourishes body and mind?

What should one do, rely on, avoid, stay in, turn to, leave behind? What counts as joy, what as loathing?

What people prize is wealth, rank, long life, and a good name; what they enjoy is bodily ease, rich food, fine clothes, handsome looks, and pleasing sights and sounds. What they despise is poverty, low status, short life, and a bad name; what torments them is when the body is not at ease, the mouth cannot taste delicacies, the form cannot wear fine dress, the eyes cannot see beauty, the ears cannot hear sweet sounds. When they fail to get these things, they grow greatly anxious and afraid—treating the body this way is deeply muddled.

The rich toil with body and mind and pile up money they can never fully use; nourishing the body like that is too outward-turned. The eminent ponder success and failure day and night; nourishing the body like that is too strained. From birth people are yoked to worry; the long-lived drift in a daze, fretting for years yet not dying—what bitterness is there in living? Nourishing the body like that is too remote. The martyr dies for righteousness for the world’s sake and is called good, yet that is not enough to keep oneself alive. I do not know whether this “good” is really good, or not good at all. If it is good, it still does not sustain the person; if it is not good, it is enough to destroy people. So it is said: when loyal counsel is not heeded, one should withdraw and not contend. Wu Zixu strove hard and harmed himself; yet not striving for fame also fails to win a name. Is there any true good at all?

As for what the world now does and enjoys, I do not know whether that joy is really joy or really not joy. What I see the world call joy—what the crowd rushes after—is noisy and restless as if under compulsion, yet all call it happiness. I neither take that as joy nor insist it must not be joy. Is there real joy? I take Wuwei (non-action) as true joy, and that is what the world finds hardest and most bitter. Hence: the highest bliss is no bliss; the highest honor is no honor. Right and wrong in the world truly cannot be settled once for all. Even so, Wuwei can settle right and wrong; perfect bliss can keep the person alive—perhaps only Wuwei comes close to true preservation.

(Lin Xiyi’s oral exegesis) This chapter develops and expands the passage in the previous chapter on “not letting things harm oneself.” The four questions from “what to do, what to rely on” onward ask how one ought to act; the rhetorical flow resembles Qu Yuan’s Divination. The four items “wealth, rank, long life, and good name” are what the world respects; “bodily ease, rich food, fine dress, beauty, and pleasing sound” are what it enjoys—their opposites are what it looks down on and what it suffers from. The whole chapter questions worldly joy and true joy layer by layer, and in the end returns to Wuwei.

People, good and evil, and reputation—this speaks of people rushing about for fame and profit; illness arises, one toils diligently, and worries—exhausting labor, bitter toil, and endless rumination; whether things go well or badly, one broods over official duties—good and bad alike hang on one’s post, and one spends the whole day fretting over public business; dull and muddled into old age without clarity—confused to the end without waking up; the martyr dies for reputation—the martyr (one who dies for a name) also acts for reputation. These four passages mean the same thing: all describe harm done by outer things. Earlier the text already treated nobility, wealth, and long life; here it adds the martyr in different words to make the point—shifting tone and letting the prose rise and fall, which is how the essay is written.

蹲循 means the same as 逡巡 (hesitation and lingering). When one contends, the body is harmed; if one does not contend, the name is not made—these two lines expose the point: people contend for reputation and injure the body; if they do not contend, they never win a name. That cannot be called “good.” What the vulgar do today and what follows is the wrap-up of the four passages above.

The whole crowd rushes together—everyone in the world surges along in a pack; eagerly they must seize it—minds set on grabbing it; they could stop but do not, hence it is said as if they could not help themselves—they could quit but cannot, so it is said to be as if they had no choice. I have not called it joy, nor called it not joy—the joy and sorrow the vulgar speak of, I cannot even say whether I partake of them; this is deep disdain for that way of life. I take Wuwei (non-action) as joy, while the vulgar take that for great suffering. The utmost joy lies in having no joy; the utmost fame lies in having no fame—the highest joy is not clinging to “joy”; the highest fame is not clinging to “fame.” Among worldly people, who can grasp “joy without joy” or “fame without fame”? So right and wrong in the world cannot be pinned down in one stroke. Even so, only Wuwei can settle right and wrong. These lines repay close reading of how the wording yields and surges. What barely preserves—only Wuwei comes close to guarding that true joy.

You might put it this way: Heaven is clear through Wuwei; Earth is tranquil through Wuwei. When Heaven and Earth unite in twofold Wuwei, all things are transformed and brought forth. Vague and dim (芒乎芴乎)—one cannot see where they emerge; dim and vague—one cannot see a fixed form. Each thing busily multiplies; all grow from within Wuwei, hence it is said that Heaven and Earth are obscure (deep and not displayed) yet never fail to act. Who among humans can truly attain Wuwei?

These lines close what came before: Only when two Wuwei unite can they transform and give birth to the myriad things—that is “Wuwei and yet nothing left undone.” No source to emerge from—one cannot see where it begins. 殖 means to grow; all things are born within the natural order, hence “all are propagated from Wuwei.”

From “there is in the world” through “utmost joy” and “utmost Wuwei,” this chapter runs in one breath, with rises and falls worth reading closely.

When Zhuangzi’s wife died, Huizi went to offer condolences. He found Zhuangzi sitting with legs spread apart, drumming on a pottery basin and singing. Huizi said, “You lived with her, she grew old and went first—you might not weep, but to drum on a basin and sing—isn’t that going too far?”

Zhuangzi replied, “Not at all. When she had just died, how could I not grieve? But when I traced it back, she originally had no life—not only no life, she originally had no bodily form; not only no form, she originally had no jing and qi. Adrift in vague, indistinct chaos, she changed and there was qi; qi changed and there was form; form changed and there was life. Now she has changed again and died. It is like passing through the cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter together with someone. She is peacefully asleep in the great house, while I wail and follow along—I would be taking myself to lack understanding of Heaven’s mandate, so I do not weep.”

“Form changes and then there is life” means that bodily form comes first, and only then does this active, turning life appear. In Buddhist terms, “turning movement returns to wind” is just this word sheng (life); saying that in the eyes there is seeing, in the ears hearing, in the hands grasping, in the feet running is also this sheng. “The four seasons proceed” is a metaphor for the fact that where there is life, there must be death.

This passage clarifies the continuity of life and death; the story of drumming on the basin is likewise a parable. Compare Yuan Rang (a disciple of Confucius), who climbed a tree and sang—when a close relative has just died, can one be entirely without an ordinary human heart? If one were entirely without it, one would be a wolf; would the Master still be willing to befriend such a person? Learning in the sage’s school stresses fulfilling filial duty and cherishing kin—does that mean not knowing the principle of life and death? Figures like Yuan Rang and the Zhuangzi school aim to pierce the world’s obsession with life and death, so they perform these excessive gestures. This is “the mind of the Dao is subtle”—it cannot be practiced alone in the world, hence the admonition to hold the middle (zhi zhong). Could the Zhuangzi and Liezi line not know this? They were correcting the age and weary of vulgar custom, and deliberately framed their doctrine this way. When the Song layman Li Hanlao, grieving over the death of his son, consulted Dahui (a Chan master), he worried that he could not forget his feelings and was not close enough to the Way. Dahui answered: “If you do not weep when your child dies, you are a wolf.” That reply shows rare insight. Other Buddhist adepts, faced with the same question, would mostly talk nonsense.

Zhilijie and Huajiejie were sightseeing at the Hill of the Dark Lord and the ruins of Kunlun—where the Yellow Emperor once rested. Suddenly a tumor grew on Zhilijie’s left elbow; he walked as if lame. Huajiejie asked, “Do you loathe it?” Zhilijie said, “Life, as I see it, is only borrowed. …”

(What follows continues the parable of viewing Kunlun and the tumor on the left elbow—part of the same development of the view of life and death.)

Huaji means “huaji” in the sense of the comic or the absurd. Names of this kind were mostly made up casually by the author. Tradition says the Yellow Emperor once rested in this place. “Liuyong” refers to ailments such as sores and boils on the body; putting “juejue” in an ancient personal name pictures a hobbling gait and sickness lodged in the person.

“Jiajie” (borrowing on loan) means the human body is only outward things temporarily pieced together. “Chen’ou” (dust and grime) means that within creation a person is utterly slight and not worth clinging to. The Buddhist idea of the body as a false joining of the four conditions and the deluded settling of the borrowed body really takes its sense from here. “Guanhua” is to observe how the myriad things change; “hua ji wo” means that I too will change along with the maker of things. The first part speaks of being sick and therefore hating life; the later line “what is there for me to hate?” looks like a contradiction, but hating sickness belongs to ordinary human feeling; once one thinks through life and death and knows their root, the mind of the Dao is in charge—and the two parts fit together.

Zhuangzi went to Chu and saw by the road a bare skull, still fairly whole in shape. He tapped it with his whip and asked: Sir, did you end like this from craving life and missing what is fitting? From your state’s ruin and death by axe and halberd? From bad conduct, ashamed before parents, wife, and children? From cold and hunger? Or simply because your years ran out?

When he had said this, Zhuangzi picked up the skull, laid it under his head, and slept. At midnight the skull came in a dream and said: What you say sounds like a debater’s talk—all the baggage of the living. In death none of that remains. Do you want to hear the teaching of death? Zhuangzi said he did. The skull said: In death there is no lord above and no subject below, no labor of the four seasons; at ease one takes heaven and earth as spring and autumn—even a king facing south could not match it. Zhuangzi did not believe this and said: I will ask Siming, who governs lifespan, to give back your form, flesh, bones, and skin, and send you to your parents, wife and children, and old friends—would you want that? The skull drew its brows together and knit its forehead tight.

Some say: How could I abandon the joy of ruling as a southern king and go back to the toils of human life?

(Continuing the earlier “skull” parable) “髐然” describes an empty yet solid appearance; “从然” is an easy, self-possessed bearing. What the various masters and ordinary people say in this passage is only about the meaning of life and death, yet the author wraps it in a story of “meeting a skull”—the style is very unusual. Readers should grasp the author’s intent; do not read the fable as a literal event, or you will miss the point.

Yan Yuan (Yan Hui) was about to go to Qi, and Confucius looked worried. Zi Gong came down from the hall and asked: Your disciple ventures to ask—Yan Hui is going east to Qi; why is the teacher troubled?

Confucius said: A good question. Long ago Guanzi said something I very much agree with: a small pouch cannot hold large things; a short rope cannot draw deep water. The point is that each person has his own endowment, fate has a limit to what it can accomplish, and form has suitable uses—one cannot add or subtract at will. I fear Yan Hui will lecture the Marquis of Qi at length on the ways of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, and pile on the teachings of Suiren and Shennong. The marquis will turn it over in his mind but never make it fit; in confusion he may harm others, or even harm himself. Have you not heard? Once a seabird alighted in the suburbs of Lu. The Duke of Lu received it with ritual, offered wine in the ancestral temple, played the “Jiushao” music, and set out the grandest sacrificial feast. The bird’s eyes were dazzled, it was sorrowful and afraid, it dared not eat a morsel of meat or drink a cup of wine, and in three days it was dead. This was raising a bird the way one raises a person, not raising a bird the way one raises a bird. If you truly raise a bird, let it roost in deep woods, wander sandy flats, float on rivers and lakes, eat small fish, stop with the flock, and rest as it pleases. It only fears noisy human voices—what need is there for grand pieces like “Xianchi” or “Jiushao”? If you staged such splendor on the open fields of Dongting, birds would fly away at the sound, beasts would flee, fish would dive to the bottom. People would finally crowd in to watch: fish live in water to survive; people live in water and die—their likes and dislikes differ, so their treatment should differ too. Therefore the ancient sages did not force one standard of talent on everyone, nor one method on every affair; names must match reality, and principles must be set so each finds its place—this is called clear order and a blessing that can be sustained.

Commentarial terms

• 禇 (chǔ): cloth bag.
• 綆 (gěng): rope for drawing from a well.

They metaphorically mean that small strength cannot bear great tasks.

Both “fate” (命) and “form” (形) are bestowed by Heaven, each with a fixed limit.

(Earlier oral gloss)

Measures must not be added or subtracted at will; if I took the ancient sages’ teaching to the Lord of Qi and failed to move or transform him, he would blame me. Here Zhuangzi uses Yan Yuan (Yan Hui) to mock those who went about persuading the feudal lords. Birds should eat what birds eat; people should not eat that food—feeding birds human fare goes against their nature. The point is simply: speaking when one should not is losing one’s words. What the Confucian school could say in one sentence Zhuangzi spreads into vast, roaming discourse.

“Yu” means to receive and wait upon someone; “shang” means to offer wine and urge drinking. “Tan” is read like “dan”; it matches “chan” in meaning—shoals and shallows in water—hence the name “Chanlu” (marshy flats).

“Not making one standard for ability”: people’s talents differ. “Not making one standard for tasks”: each person does what is his to do. Names follow what is actually there; rightness settles where the mind is at ease—hence “names stop at the real” and “rightness rests in what fits.” The gist is that everyone keeps his proper place.

“Tiaoda” means direct and effortless; “fu chi” means blessing that stays and can be held—not something I can force. Not overstepping avoids strain, keeps vitality, and lessens harm—oral gloss ends here.

(Zhuangzi main text: Liezi meets a skull)

Liezi was eating by the road when someone saw a hundred-year-old skull by the wayside. Propping himself on the rushes, he pointed at it and said: “Only you and I understand: there was never true death, never true birth. Are you really at peace? Am I really glad?”

Seeds are many kinds: those that meet water become duckweed; at the border of water and earth they become frog-lichen (a moss-like growth); on earthen mounds they are called lingxi; lingxi on rotten wood grows into bird-foot (a kind of fungus); under bird-foot are grubs, whose leaves turn into butterflies; the butterfly changes again and under the stove produces a shed-skin-like insect called quduo; after a thousand days quduo becomes a bird called ganyugu; foam from ganyugu becomes simi, simi becomes pickled meat (shiyi); yilu grows from shiyi, huangkuang from jiuyou (filth or sewage); maorui from rotten borers; yangxi compared with buqian—long bamboo yields qingning, qingning yields cheng, cheng yields horse, horse yields human. Humans again “enter the ji”—all things issue from ji (the engine of transformation, the seed-mechanism) and all return to ji.

(This passage chains metamorphoses and generations to show that death and life follow one another and forms are not fixed, echoing the skull’s “never died, never lived.” What Daoists call ji can be understood as the pivot of creation-and-transformation, the hub where species shift—one need not cling to a single human shape or a single life-and-death.)

Plain-Language Commentary on the Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi (Oral Exposition of the Nanhuazhenjing)

“He plucks a clump of cogon grass and points at it, saying: eating and drinking while alive is called ‘nourishing,’ while death and quiescent extinction is called ‘joy.’” Such writing is the author showing off on the page. Here “you and you lot” (ru yu ruo) refers to those skulls; the word “joy” (huan) means taking quiescent extinction as pleasure.

“Kinds of birth are many” (zhong you ji zhe)—among the myriad things in heaven and earth, modes and types of birth differ in countless ways. What follows takes the tiniest things as examples; it is not using the small to stand for the large, but saying that the greatest is no different from the smallest—that is the sense of “nothing too fine, nothing too grand, nothing too noble, nothing too base.” The idea is only that, yet the prose’s craft surpasses a thousand years: order within disorder, disorder within order, like watching drifting clouds, broken wild geese, lone peaks, and cut-off slopes—the more you read, the better it gets. Liezi here adds two more lines; that is actually inferior to Zhuangzi’s leaving those two out.

“Yellow garment” (huang yi)—when dust and grime first form on water and moss has not yet grown, there is still a sense of filaments winding together, yet as a thing it is extremely minute. “Garment of tortoises and turtles” is green moss; “the border of water and earth” is where water meets the shore. Along the shore it often grows thick and dense, hence “garment.” After these two lines on moss, the text turns to “mound and field” (ling tun)—high ground in the countryside.

“Mound plantain” (ling xi) is plantain; “rank growth on dung soil” (yu qi fen rang) means growing in manure earth. Plantain in dung soil transforms into “bird-foot grass”; the root of bird-foot becomes a grub (qicao); the leaf of bird-foot becomes a butterfly (grub is a scorpion-like insect; xu is another name for butterfly). Adding this line under “butterfly” is especially ingenious.

Below comes talk of transformation birth (huasheng): “stove-bottom creatures”—there is a kind born by transformation called “quduo,” soft and without skin or bone, hence “as if sloughing off,” like the citrus worms of today. Quduo can also turn into a bird: “Ganyu bone” is a bird’s name; “Simi” is an insect’s name, and the drool in its mouth again becomes insects; “shi huo” is “ximeng” (a tiny insect); ximeng becomes “yilu,” yilu becomes “jiuyou,” jiuyou becomes “huangkuang”; huangkuang transforms again into “fuxi,” fuxi again into “maorui.” Here the “born from” (sheng hu) pattern omits two lines—a matter of rhetorical economy. Huangkuang, jiuyou, fuxi, and maorui are all insect names. The main point is that the myriad things transform and generate without end, never exhausted.

“尽” means to reach an end—to run out, to come to a close. The preceding section has already said its fill; the author then closes with an ending so bizarre that it cuts the discussion dead on the spot—a classic Zhuangzi move meant to jolt readers out of their worldly habits. Do not treat this passage as a factual report.

Yangxi is the name of a plant; a grass that looks like bamboo but never puts out shoots is called busun (“no shoots”). Jiu is also the name of an insect, and Cheng is another insect name. Here ma (“horse”) is again a plant name, as in the modern terms machixian (purslane) and malancao (yard grass). Ren (“human”) is likewise a plant name, as with renshen (ginseng). Mian refers to “face” or a related plant or thing, and zi to a seed or another named item. The text plainly strings together plant names on purpose, yet slips in the characters for “horse” and “human” to forge uncanny labels. For ages, commentators called this passage “obscure” or “inauspicious”—when in truth generation after generation has been outplayed by Zhuangzi and still has not seen through the trick.

In the transformations of things, what wonder is lacking? Sparrows turn into clams, hawks into turtledoves, rotten grass into fireflies, rats into bats—what strangeness is not possible? “Entering the ji” means returning to exhaustion, to the limit; exiting the ji and entering the ji is passing out of death and back into life. It is also like the transmission of fire (one torch handing the flame to the next): no one knows where the line ends—“not knowing its exhaustion” names precisely this endless, unceasing turnover.