《南華真經口義》Vol. 2

Discourse on Equalizing Things (Part One)

“Discourse on things” means how people talk about things—all the different opinions that circulate. “Equalizing” means bringing them into one, merging those opinions into a single view. In the Warring States period, schools of thought clashed and attacked one another; Zhuangzi held that it would be better to set aside right and wrong and return to what is natural and as-it-is—that is why the chapter is called “Equalizing Things.” What follows about the sounds of Heaven, Earth, and humanity uses “sound” as a metaphor to open the discussion.

Nanzi Qi leaned on his armrest, lifted his face to the sky, and breathed out slowly; with a soft “ta” sound, he seemed to have forgotten even “the one paired with him.” Yan Cheng Ziyou stood by in attendance and asked: How can your body be as still as withered wood and your mind like cold ashes? Sitting leaning on the armrest today is not the same as leaning on the armrest in the past. Ziqi said: Yan, you ask well. What I now call “losing the self”—do you understand it?

[Commentary] “Leaning hidden on the armrest” means resting against the low table. “Ta-ran” describes a mind without ripples. “Losing the paired one” refers to how people usually treat “me” and “things” as two; here it means forgetting that opposition. “Withered wood” is absence of vitality; “cold ashes” is a mind that does not stir with thoughts. Ziyou’s “today’s leaning on the armrest is not yesterday’s leaning on the armrest” means the Master’s sitting today is not like the ordinary way others lean on an armrest. Where there is “I,” there are external things; in losing the self, there is no “I”; without “I,” there are no things. “Do you know this?” asks whether you grasp the point. He does not say “I lose my self” but “I lose the self,” because as long as a trace of private mind remains on the person, “I” and “self” are still distinct. Chan Master Dongshan said, “That one is no longer me; I am exactly that one”—he was speaking to the same kind of turning point.

Ziqi went on: You have only heard the sounds of humanity, not the sounds of Earth; you have only heard the sounds of Earth, not the sounds of Heaven. Ziyou asked: May I ask what this means? Ziqi said: The great earth exhales—that is called wind. When it does not stir, all is quiet; when it stirs, countless hollows roar together—have you not heard that “xiu-xiu” sound? In mountain forests, in deep, winding, secluded places, there are trees a hundred arm-spans around, their trunks full of holes—some like noses, mouths, ears, beam ends, rings, vessel mouths, water pools, muddy pits; some like rushing water, flying arrows, shouts, gasps, some crying, some wailing, some deep, some biting…

Corresponding gist of the Zhuangzi passage: Someone leads with a drawn-out “yu,” and those behind answer with “yong”; when the breeze is light the chorus is soft, when the gale is strong the chorus is loud; once the fierce wind stops, every sound from the hollows goes still—yet you alone never seem to see how the trees sway and the leaves rustle.

Plain-language commentary:

Because Ziyou asked a question, Ziqi of Nanhua Guo knew he had the eye for the Dao and meant to awaken him with the “sounds of heaven” (tianlai), so he deliberately put the question this way.

He was about to speak of the Dao, so he first asked: what is really going on with this principle?

“Great clod” (dakuai) means heaven and earth. Why is there wind between heaven and earth? In truth it is like a person sighing or exhaling.

“Only if it did not stir” means: if it stayed still, that would be that; but once it moves, it is “myriad openings roaring in anger”—as soon as it stirs, this clamor fills the world.

“Myriad openings” are the holes in countless trees.

“Liuliu” is the sound of a long wind howling.

The two characters “weijia” are read as “wei” and “cui”; “weijia” describes how groves look when the wind moves them.

“Hundred arm-spans” means an enormous tree; the distance your arms can wrap around the trunk is one “arm-span” (wei).

Earlier the text says “myriad openings”; here it gives one huge tree as the example, and other trees follow by analogy—that is how the writing works.

The holes in a great tree differ in shape, each resembling something: “ji” like the squared end of a rafter, “zhu” like a pillar; what is slanted and deep above is like “gao,” like a cup or bowl; what is round is called “quan”; what is low, bent, and sunken downward—all of this depicts the outward form of the holes.

From “ji” through “yao,” the text names the various sounds that come from those holes.

The “yu” tone is light, the “yong” tone heavy: the wind passes first and the sound leads like chanting “yu”; what follows answers like “yong,” light and heavy answering each other.

Lingfeng is a light breeze—wind small, answer small; piaofeng is a strong wind—wind large, answer large.

Lifeng is a violent wind; “ji” means to stop. When the wind ceases, what had been sounding in the many holes can no longer be heard, hence “becomes empty.”

“Tiaotiao” and “diaodiao” both describe how trees look when the wind moves them.

Earlier it says “have you alone not heard”; later “have you alone not seen”—the pivot of this passage lies there.

“Yet you alone do not see…”—Zhuangzi’s prose has many strengths, and this passage is among the finest; in the whole book it can rank first; not only in the Zhuangzi—survey authors ancient and modern and you will not find writing that fully matches this passage.

Poetry is “painting with sound,” meaning it can put into words what is hard to depict.

Vernacular Reading of the Oracular Meaning of the Southern Florescence True Classic

On “sound,” earthly pipes, and heavenly pipes

In the passage on “shadow” (jing), who has ever truly drawn “sound”? Sound arises from excitation and reverberation—all the way to the biting clash of tones: the eight sounds of the eight trigrams. Then it speaks of “yu,” “yu,” and “yong”—sounds answering one another. Wind in heaven and earth is formless and without image: you can hear it but not see it; yet sound can be traced on the tip of the brush. Had it not been for the immortal of the Southern Florescence (Zhuangzi), who could wield such art? Each time I read it, I am moved to dance with my hands and feet and forget myself.

This passage is really about earthly pipes (the sounds of the myriad openings of the great earth), yet it opens toward heavenly pipes (what heaven blows—the encompassing voice of nature): that is how the essay’s momentum unfolds. Some say: natural sounds like earthly pipes count as heavenly pipes too—and that is fair enough; if wind were not the work of zaohua (creative Nature), whence would it come? But watch the essay’s thrust: when it treats earthly pipes, first give earthly pipes back their due—only then can you see the full text’s lineage and main thread.

Ziyou asks about heavenly pipes

Ziyou said: Earthly pipes are simply the myriad openings each giving voice; human pipes are the paired bamboo (sheng, reed pipes, and the like). So I venture to ask: what are heavenly pipes?

“Paired bamboo” means sheng, reeds, and such. Human pipes are not only paired bamboo—metal, stone, silk, and gourd (bells, chimes, zithers, lutes, pipes, and sheng among the eight kinds of tone) all count; here only one example is picked. Earlier the text spoke of earthly pipes; later it will speak of heavenly pipes—yet human pipes get only a single passing line. That too is a way of writing. Reading Zhuangzi, you must examine it this closely before you find the door in.

Ziqi answers: the ten thousand openings blown differently

Ziqi said: When the ten thousand openings are blown, none sounds the same, yet each is made to seem as if it sounds by itself; all take from themselves—then who is it that “rages”?

“Blowing the ten thousand” means everything in the world of things that can give sound. Where things have sound, it is creative Nature that blows; what blows is Nature, yet each is made to seem as if it sounds on its own. Both “blow” and “make” belong to Nature; “take from themselves” means taking from one’s own store. “All take from themselves” means every thing thinks it can sound by itself, unaware that one qi (vital energy) stirs—who ultimately is doing the making? Qi wells up within and becomes utterance; below, the word “rage” (nu) appears again—the same “rage” as in “raged and flew” earlier—and that too belongs to Nature.

Great knowing and petty knowing, great words and petty words

Great knowing is at ease; petty knowing is cramped. Great words blaze; petty words chatter on.

Great knowing: persons of the highest wisdom. At ease—unhurried and self-possessed.

Petty knowing: people of small calculation. Cramped—like clicking an abacus or casting stars, they must sort every matter fine.

Great words: speech of commanding scope. Blazing—lit with splendor and force. In Zhuangzi’s stroke, Yi Yin, the Duke of Zhou, Confucius, Mencius, and the like can all fall under this line.

Petty words: zhanzhan—minute, nagging, talking without end.

(By the tradition of kouyi [oral meaning], this segment turns from “who makes them rage” into a contrast of human knowing and speech: great knowing does not contend; petty knowing haggles over every grain; great words shine; petty words fray into trivia.)

“Those who speak” are people who talk too much and understand too little. “Those who hesitate” are people who look in every direction before acting and cannot make up their minds. The teachings of the hundred schools and the talk of the marketplace can all be summed up in these words. These four phrases describe two kinds of people in the world: those who understand how things work and know how to get things done, and those who love to discuss theories and argue.

“When they sleep, their souls mingle; when they wake, their bodies unfold; as they meet with things, they become entangled, and day by day their minds contend”: After the four phrases above, the text turns to explain the matter through the human body. When people sleep, their souls mingle—that is, at night their spirit gathers in the heart. When they wake, their bodies unfold—that is, by day their limbs are all in motion. These two phrases apply to everyone, from rulers to common people. “Entangled” means joining with what corresponds to them outside; “meeting” means responding to what they encounter. At night, people sleep in peace. After daybreak, they encounter things and respond to them, while inwardly they toil as if in battle. This happens day after day, which is why the text says they become entangled as they meet with things and their minds contend from day to day. This is what Mencius meant when he said, “What people do during the day can fetter and destroy their nature.” Mencius puts it plainly; Zhuangzi’s phrasing gives the idea far greater force and jolts the reader into attention. Much of the language used by later Chan Buddhists expresses ideas of this kind.

“Those who are slack, those who are scheming, and those who are secretive”: “Slack” means doing things carelessly and dragging them out. “Scheming” means speaking as if setting up mechanisms and traps. “Secretive” means thinking through every possibility and leaving no detail unconsidered. These are all people who put their minds to dealing with the world, yet none is at ease; each is beset by anxiety, suffering, and fear. This is what is meant by the saying that petty people are always anxious. Confucius said that petty people are anxious, while Zhuangzi says that Yao and Shun, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius were all anxious. When the matter is small, they tremble with fear; this is called “trembling with small fears.” When the matter is great, they are deeply troubled, as if they had lost something; this is called “overwhelmed by great fears.”

“Their words shoot out like a trigger, as they take charge of right and wrong”: Their speech is quick and sharp, like a trigger being released; they take it upon themselves to decide what is right and wrong. “They hold fast like a binding oath, as they cling to their views in order to win”: They adhere to their own opinions as firmly as if bound by an oath, holding to their arguments in order to prevail. “They wither like autumn and winter, showing how they diminish day by day”: Like autumn and winter, they gradually decline day by day. “What they are immersed in cannot be made to return”: Once they are absorbed in what they do, they cannot be brought back. “Their weariness is like a sealed container, showing how old and depleted they have become; a heart close to death cannot be made to regain its Yang vitality”: Their rejection of things is like a seal closing them off. This means they have grown old and exhausted; a heart near death cannot be made to recover its Yang energy. “Joy and anger”...

Sorrow, joy, worry, sighing, change, hesitation, stretching out, indulgence, opening up, and pretense—these moods and postures are like music arising from empty space or like dampness steaming up fungi: they are not things a person can truly command.

When people argue over right and wrong, each seems like an archer sighting on a separate target—hence the line that speech “issues like the release of a trigger”: once words leave the mouth, it is as if a mechanism has snapped; nothing is said in vain. “Taking charge” means the will to prevail lodged in the chest and refusing to dissolve, as though one had sworn a curse with another; “the mind worn by anxious labor,” eroded day by day and month by month, describes how one torments oneself inwardly. Things are born in spring and summer and die in autumn and winter; in the season of withering and decline, the metaphor of “daily dwindling” applies. The three sentences just given are images; what follows is direct discussion, and the sense sinks stage by stage—once it has gone, it cannot be recalled—so we read of being “drowned in what one does”: the particle shang is a grammatical helper; xia is to be read as “to go onward,” beyond recall; the character zhi there likewise means “to go.” A person submerged in desire is as if bound with cords; by old age rescue is nearly impossible—hence lao xu: xu is like plunging into a gully. Though the body still lives, the heart is already as dead—hence “close to death,” meaning there is no genuine knowing left in the breast. Yang here points to the spark of life: the heart is dead and cannot be revived. The foregoing sketches how the worldly mind works; the twelve words from “joy and anger” onward sketch the outward form: because the inside is thus, it shows outside—now pleased, now angry, now grieving, now glad, now anxious, now sighing, now shifting in manner; failing here, one longs to be there. Zhi is the look of worry and doubt turned rigid; yao is smug self-satisfaction; yi is reckless abandon; qi is openness without restraint; tai is putting on a show. Though they appear this way, none of it is free: like pleasure born from the void, like vapor condensing into mushrooms—so many human types, as if the maker of things had fashioned them thus.

Those who read Zhuangzi need to enter the text at this level of fine attention: it is not saying that everything is simply spontaneous nature, but that when people cannot abide in the Dao, they perform countless ugly and distorted acts, all as if driven by ghosts and spirits.

From morning to night, what a person receives is nothing other than “this”—that by which one subsists. Without “that” (the Creator), there would be no “me”; without “me,” there would be nothing to “take” or appropriate. Put this way, it seems very close to how things really are—yet one does not know what is making one act. It is as though there were a “True Master” (zhenzai), but one cannot grasp the root from which it stirs. The pattern of Heaven’s course can be followed and is already trustworthy, yet its form cannot be seen—it has feeling and reality, but no shape.

Oral explanation: From “day and night succeeding one another before us” onward, the text is saying that the Creator’s work is plainly before our eyes, yet people do not see it. The wording goes back and forth at length; it is pointed in expression and deep in intent—the aim is for the reader to turn inward here and examine oneself.

“Words do not show where it begins”—one cannot say clearly where it starts. “Enough, enough—as when people today say ‘that’s it, that’s it’”—meaning: though the place of emergence is unknowable, from morning to night one receives nothing but this. This “this” is the Creator.

The word “this” carries great weight and must not be used lightly. The “that” spoken of above points to this very “this”: if not for the Creator, I could not exist as I do; and what the Creator does must show itself through the human body, hence “without me there is nothing to take.” Stated thus, it seems close and as if one could almost see it—yet who is being driven by the Creator, one truly does not know; hence “this too is near, yet one does not know what makes one act.”

The True Master is the Creator. “As if there were one”—as if it existed, yet one dare not affirm it as a definite thing. “Zhen” (眹) means the sprout, the point of beginning; not finding its zhen means not knowing where the stirring starts. “Ke xing” refers to what is visible in Heaven’s course; “yi xin” means very certain indeed—the Creator’s activity is surely real, only one does not see its form, and thus does not know who or what is driving. “You qing” says there is reality (that is, it is trustworthy); “wu xing” means its form is not seen.

From “day and night succeeding one another” below, all passages say that what the Creator does is before us, yet people cannot see it. The sentences repeat and unfold deliberately—the point is for one to exert effort here and scrutinize oneself.

The hundred bones, the nine openings, and the six viscera bound together make one person. Which of them is closest to me? Are you (the parts) all content? Or does each favor itself? Are you all like servants? Are servants not enough to govern one another? Or do you take turns as lord and subject? Is there among you a “True Lord” (zhenjun)? Whether one seeks and finds or fails to find the truth of this—it neither helps nor harms the True Lord, does it?

Oral explanation: The hundred bones, nine openings, and six viscera are everything that makes up this body of a person. The text below (not included here) should continue to discuss the distinction between the True Lord and the various parts.

This passage develops the theme one step further on top of thehuman body, and states it with particular precision.

Since the human body is complete in every respect, all of these [functions and parts] are also embodied in it. So what is it that “I” alone hold close and treat as myself? The word “hold close” (qin) is used with great care. When the body is ill, pain in the hand makes the hand seem like the body’s enemy at the onset of illness; the six roots—eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind—likewise restrain one another in this way. Can you delight in them all equally? Or do you favor only some? Again, in their roles within the body, which are noble and which are low? When the head itches you scratch with the hand—the hand is the head’s servant; to see far you must walk—the foot is the eye’s servant. Here “servant” (yi) means a subject or concubine serving a ruler. Yet this alone is not enough to fix a stable order of who commands whom. Among the hundred bones, the nine orifices, and the six viscera, the titles of ruler and subject cannot be settled once and for all. So is the heart-mind the lord of the body? Yet the heart-mind cannot be its own master; what truly rules is the Creator (zaowuzhe), hence “there is its True Lord (zhenjun) dwelling therein”—the True Lord has in fact been there all along. Though I reason in this way and try to see the solid fact, whether or not I recognize that so-called “lord” neither adds nor subtracts from how things really are; thus it is said: whether you can or cannot find your own true situation, it neither benefits nor harms the “true.”

“Once one receives form and takes shape, one does not perish but waits until exhaustion”: once a person receives form and qi and becomes this bodily frame, one guards it without perishing until form and qi are spent and one disperses. Rubbing and wearing against outer things, hurrying forward like a traveler on the road, yet no one can stop it—is that not lamentable? A lifetime of toil without seeing any rounded achievement; worn out and at a loss, not knowing where one is bound—is that not pitiful? What use is it to say “one does not die”? When the bodily frame dissolves, the heart-mind dissolves with it and becomes the same as things—can that not be called great sorrow? Human life is originally thus vague and dim; is it only I who am confused and scattered, while others are not?

The Creator fashioned all things, yet they become ensnared by external phenomena. People either resist or yield to these phenomena, thus passing their lives like a fleeting white colt, never attaining even a moment of peace. Hence it is said that human life rushes onward like a galloping chariot that cannot be stopped—people harm yet depend on one another, ultimately drowning in this cycle. A lifetime of ceaseless toil is self-inflicted suffering; the absence of visible achievement reveals its futility. Just as the bee gathers nectar from countless flowers yet knows not for whom it labors, so too does this principle hold.

Exhausted by relentless striving, people remain ignorant of their true destination, unaware of when they might find rest. To live in such self-imposed hardship—what meaning is there in reaching a hundred years of age? Thus it is said: If one lives in muddled confusion, what use is immortality? The human form progresses from vigor to white-haired decline, from aging to decrepitude—this is the natural transformation. If years accumulate without corresponding growth in De (Virtue/Power), the body decays while the mind petrifies. When one lacks true insight and enslaves the heart-mind to the physical form, both body and spirit will collapse in exhaustion. Such a person’s consciousness becomes obscured, as if veiled in mist.

Those trapped in foolish perplexity should turn inward and reflect: Are human hearts inherently shrouded in haze at birth? Am I alone in my confusion while others remain clear? In truth, Heaven nurtures all people, endowing all things with their inherent patterns. The constant nature humans receive inherently yearns for De (Virtue/Power)—Heaven’s principle has never been obscured. It is only through the clouding of human desires that we reach this state. How could those who understand the Dao remain so benighted? This is like using a golden scalpel to scrape away the film over one’s eyes, compelling them to see the world clearly.

If everyone took their innate prejudices as their teacher, who would lack a teacher? Why must we exclusively venerate the ancient sages who understood transformation? Even fools possess their own convictions. To judge right and wrong without genuine understanding is like setting out for the state of Yue today while claiming to have arrived yesterday. Such delusions—treating the nonexistent as real—would baffle even the Great Yu were he alive today. What then could I possibly do?

The so-called "complete heart-mind" refers to the integral heavenly principle inherent in every person. This means you are born fully endowed with this principle—if you take it as your teacher, who lacks a teacher? This realization belongs not only to the wise but equally to fools. "Knowing transformation" is an honorific for ancient sages, denoting those who comprehend the patterns of cosmic change.

Oral Meaning of the Southern Florescence True Scripture (Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi) — Vernacular Commentary

(Continuing from before) The earlier remark that “the heart takes for itself” means the mind supposes it has already seen something. If the heart has not yet glimpsed that undivided, all-in-one pattern of the Way, yet one insists on setting up arguments of right and wrong—what one takes as right, one treats as if the Way were necessarily so—it is like setting out for the state of Yue today and claiming one arrived yesterday. Where in the world is such logic? This is forcing not-knowing to pass as knowing. Originally there was nothing seen, yet one insists there was; since there was nothing seen, one still believes one saw—if the ancient sages were reborn, they could not make this clear to you; what could anyone else do with you? “Divine Yu” (Shen Yu) is simply Yu; the epithet is borrowed to name the ancient sage.

“Words are not [mere] blowing…”

This chapter was written for the theme of right and wrong in the Discussion on Making All Things Equal (Qiwu Lun). Earlier the “three sounds” (san lai) were explained: every sound under heaven issues from the creative process; that was extended to the human body likewise being moved by creation, until the discussion closed on the “formed heart-mind” (cheng xin). What follows deals specifically with right and wrong.

Wind through hollows compares to the sound of bamboo pipes; “the ten thousand differences of blowing” are all nothing but sound. When sound is patterned into form, it is called “words”; words are not blowing. What we call words are each person’s respective intentions—hence “those who speak have words”—these four characters are precisely the dispute over right and wrong.

“What they say is especially unsettled”: though you have these words, are they truly yours, or words creation speaks through you? Hence “unsettled.” Are these words really your words? On your side, it is not that you necessarily wanted to say them; you were compelled by creation to utter them.

A fledgling (gou) just hatched chirps without understanding anything. You have words, yet you do not truly know either. If you think this differs from a fledgling’s chirp, in fact you cannot make it genuinely different—is there a difference from the fledgling’s cry, or not? In the end it is the same; the distinction cannot be drawn.

(Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi, scroll 2)