《南華真經口義》Vol. 20

Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi, Volume 20, Outer Chapter “Da Sheng” (The Full Realization of Life)

Gist of the scripture (Zhuangzi, Da Sheng)

Those who truly grasp sheng (life) do not chase what life never needed in the first place; those who truly grasp ming (fate, the allotted span) do not force what wisdom cannot change. To nourish the body you must rely on external things—yet some people have more than enough of those things and still cannot keep the body well. Once there is life, people usually say you must first keep the bodily form from falling apart—yet some still have the form while life is already gone. Life arrives whether you push it away or not; it leaves whether you hold it back or not, and the world grieves over that. People assume that if you only “nurture the form” you can live long; if nurturing the form really cannot preserve life, then what is worldly form-nurturing worth? Even if nurturing the form is not worth making the center of life, you cannot do nothing at all—once you step in, weariness is hard to avoid. If you want to be less dragged down by the body, there is no way except “abandoning the world” (qishi): not running off to remote mountains, but not treating worldly affairs as the stake your life depends on. Abandon the world and burdens lighten; with lighter burdens the heart becomes upright and level (zheng ping); when it is upright and level, you can “renew together” with the myriad things—and that is when you come close to the Dao (the Way). You need not clutch at affairs, and life need not be your only goal; let go of fixation on things and the form is less easily worn; follow the Dao and jing (essence) is less easily drained. Only when form is whole and essence restored can you be one with Heaven. Heaven and Earth are the parents of the myriad things; united they make a body, scattered each returns to its beginning. When form and essence are not wasted, this is called “being able to shift/transform” (neng yi); refining essence further, you turn and assist the Way of Heaven.

Lin Xiyi’s oral commentary (vernacular explanation)

“What life has no use for” (sheng zhi suo yi wu yi wei): things beyond life—not what you need to stay alive. Like using only a few ounces of wooden clogs and a few rice ladles in a lifetime—more does not help.

“What wisdom cannot do anything about” (zhi zhi suo wu ke nai he): what human strength and intellect cannot reach; being clever does not change it.

“Nurturing form must use things” and “having life you must first keep the form whole”: ordinary thinking—to live well, first eat and dress adequately and protect the body.

“Things in surplus yet the form is not nurtured” and “the form has not left yet life is gone”: wealth and comfort yet early illness and decline; or the person is not “dead” in the usual sense—the corpse is still there—but life is already gone (form remains, spirit has scattered). So having things does not guarantee nurturing the form; having the form does not guarantee keeping life.

“Though not worth doing, yet cannot not be done… one’s doing cannot be escaped”: continuing the earlier “nothing is fully worth doing, yet you cannot not do it”—between doing and not doing, if you live only for the form and for possessions, you cannot avoid entangling yourself.

“To escape burdening yourself, abandoning the world is indispensable”: to suffer less from self-imposed strain, you need qishi.

“Abandoning the world is not avoiding the world”: not hiding where no one is, but responding to things with no fixed mind while still in the world: feel, then respond; be pressed, then move; rise only when you must—you are still you, affairs are still affairs, but you do not treat them as a battlefield you must win.

“Upright and level” (zheng ping): no high-and-low in the heart, no picking favorites, no clutching gain and loss—rather like the Buddhist idea that “this dharma is equal”: not thick here and thin there, not led around by circumstances.

Overall, Da Sheng admits on one side that nurturing the form needs external support and you cannot utterly ignore the body; on the other it shows that taking “nurturing the form” as the root of long life fails. The way out is qishi (no-mind response to the world), less wear on the form from busyness, guarding jing and uniting with Heaven—that is what nears “realizing life and realizing fate.”

(Continuing the discussion of “renewal with the other”)

“Renewal with the other” means keeping pace with the power that shapes things, dwelling in renewal without end. “The other” here is that shaping power itself; human beings change together with it, fresh day by day—hence “renewal with the other.” At this level the account is virtually complete. Whoever truly grasps it finds that miscellaneous affairs outside the self and whatever would drag one down need not be deliberately cast off—they fall away on their own.

“Essence restored” (jing fu) means spirit (shen) no longer leaks outward in waste. Only when essence gathers into form is there a body—the so-called union of the four greats that temporarily composes a person; once it disperses, one returns to the beginning. That beginning is the point before anything has taken shape. “Form and essence” (xing jing) means body and spirit; neither form nor spirit may be depleted if change is to occur—hence “able to shift,” where shift means transformation. In embodying the Dao (ti dao) at this depth, one becomes refined and pure enough to take part in and assist the creation and transformation of Heaven and Earth. “Assist” (zan) is to help; “assist Heaven” (xiang tian) is to aid Heaven’s work. The two occurrences of jing (essence) here differ from jing in “form and essence” earlier; fan (return) is like huan (give back)—the sense of handing affairs back or restoring them.

Liezi asked Guan Yin: “The utmost person” (zhiren) can dive underwater without choking, tread fire without burning, and walk among all things without fear—how can one reach such a state?

Guan Yin said: This is holding fast to pure Qi (chunqi), not cleverness, stratagem, or raw daring. As for dwelling (ju), I will tell you: whatever has appearance, image, sound, or color counts as a “thing.” Things differ from one another—so by what special route does one alone attain that level? First there is color, then the formless, and finally one rests in “no transformation to transform”—whoever exhausts principle at this point cannot be blocked by outer things. Such a person keeps to measure without overstepping, hides within boundless, beginningless pattern, and roams between the start and finish of all things; single-minded in nature, nurturing Qi, harmonizing De (virtue/power), they communicate with the creating-and-transforming source of the myriad things. A person like this keeps Heaven’s integrity whole, does not drain spirit, and outer things cannot enter.

A drunk falls from a cart: though the fall is swift, he often does not die. His bones are like anyone else’s, yet in danger he is not like others—because his spirit (shen) is whole. He neither knows he is in the cart nor knows he has fallen; life, death, and terror do not enter his breast, so when he strikes something he is not afraid. If wine can still preserve him, how much more preservation in Heaven (tian)! The sage (shengren) hides in Heaven, so no one can harm him. One who would retaliate will not break a Ganjiang (fine sword); though vicious at heart, one will not resent a flying tile—when the world is leveled in this way, there are no disasters of attack and war, no punishments of slaughter, and all of this follows from this Way: do not pry open what is Heaven in the person, but open what is Heaven in Heaven.

“Heaven Opens” and “Human Opens”:

When “heaven opens,” virtue and nature flourish; when “human opens,” vital force is harmed. Not weary of the Way of heaven, not neglectful of the people—this is close to treating others with one’s true self.

Moving in concealment without obstruction:

Operating in the hidden without being blocked—circulation unobstructed.

Walking above all things without fear:

Moving among all things without dread, as if riding the wind. This is “guarding the pure qi”—holding to primordial qi, unified and unmixed.

Skill in knowing, capacity of heart, boldness, capacity of force:

Cleverness lies in the heart’s capacity; boldness lies in the capacity for force. Yet this is not accomplished merely by capacity of heart or capacity of force. The words seem roundabout, but they have their point; one can see this in Daoists today who practice fuqi (breath retention and nourishing qi).

Appearance, image, color, sound:

All refer to what has form and trace. All things are bound to form; if I have traces, I am the same as things—how then can I reach “before there were things”? People are confined in one body and cannot see the beginning of all things, all because they burden themselves with traces. Hence “it is only color”—color is trace. Appearance, image, color, and sound are four terms; here only one is named, which is a literary device.

The fashioner of things and creation-transformation:

The fashioner of things has no form, hence “things are fashioned in the formless.” Without end or beginning, one and not two—hence “stopping where there is nothing to transform.” “Transform” means change; it means there is nothing to change. Grasping this and exhausting its subtlety is the principle of zaohua (creation-transformation). Having this principle of creation-transformation and exhausting its subtlety, one is far from “things that are things”—hence “how can things be twofold?”

The measure that does not stray, the principle without beginning:

“Stray” means disorder, instability. “The measure that does not stray” is fixed norm. “The principle without beginning” is the state before things; “principle” here means reason or pattern. The end and beginning of all things is precisely creation-transformation. Unifying one’s nature (pure and unmixed), joining one’s De (virtue/power) (whole and undivided), becoming one with the fashioner of things—hence “penetrating what things are fashioned by.” To call it Heaven, to call it Spirit, is this same principle as it is in oneself.

Without gap, without interval:

Within, being whole and without interval—how can outer things enter? Touching things without fear: though moved and touched by things, the spirit does not stir, hence no fear.

The parable of the drunk falling from a cart:

Extremely apt. Stored in Heaven, hence nothing can harm him—this is the passage from the earlier chapter on “not letting things harm oneself,” what is called wuwei (non-action).

A Moye blade wounding someone, a tile blown by wind striking someone:

A Moye blade (an ancient famed sword) wounds someone, a tile blown by wind strikes someone—and the person does not rage. (This parable shares the point with the drunk in the cart: not clinging to traces, one is not harmed.)

On the Metaphor of “No-Mind”

These lines use “no-mind” as a metaphor, and the point is made with great clarity. “Evenness throughout the world” means acting and speaking among people without private likes and dislikes. Once strife arises, attack, killing, and the like follow. If I am already without deliberate mind and no longer contend with others, how could such things occur? Human nature still retains “mind,” whereas the nature of Heaven is “without mind.” “Open brightness” means that De (virtue/power) arises of itself. To open the heavenly mind in a person: as long as mind has not yet dissolved, the six faculties—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and intention—become the “six thieves,” to say nothing of external things. “Do not weary of one’s Heaven” means do not cast off one’s inborn nature and heavenly principle. “Do not neglect others” means one does not ignore what human affairs require; one simply acts without private motive and without clinging in the heart. Then one is close to what is genuinely real—already not far from it.

Confucius Meets the Hunchback Cicada Catcher

When Confucius went to the state of Chu, he left a grove and saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a pole; his skill was as effortless as picking something up by hand. Confucius asked, “You are truly dexterous—do you have a secret method?”

The old man said, “I have a way. In the fifth and sixth months, if I can pile two cicada shells on the rod tip without their falling, I miss only about one catch in a thousand; with three shells, about one in ten; with five, I almost never fail. I stand firm as a tree stump and hold the rod with an arm like a dead branch. Though heaven and earth are vast and creatures many, in my heart there is only the cicada’s wing—I do not turn my head or glance aside, and I do not let the myriad things divide my attention. How could catching cicadas then fail?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When purpose is undivided and undistracted, spirit can gather and focus. What the hunchback said is just that principle, is it not?”

Notes on Terms

• 痀僂 (jūlóu): a person with a hunched back.
• 承蜩 (chéngchán): catching cicadas with a pole and sticky adhesive.
• 累九二而不墜: stacking two cicada shells on the rod tip without their dropping off, as training for a steady hand.
• 橛株拘: fixed and unmoving like a wooden stake.
• 用志不分，乃凝于神: when intention is not split, spirit concentrates and settles.

This passage uses three stories to show that mastery of a craft comes from a concentrated mind and spirit, not from being swayed by external things.

The Way Lies Within the Craft

The author observes that principles of this kind exist today as well, but people treat them merely as a technique and do not realize that the Dao (Dao) is entrusted to it. The text then mentions a hunchbacked man, whose story illustrates this principle.

Yan Yuan Asks Zhongni

Yan Yuan (Yan Yuan), a disciple of Confucius, once crossed the abyss of Shangshen (Shangshen, the name of the abyss). The ferryman who steered the boat seemed to possess a divine skill, so Yan Yuan asked, "Can steering a boat be learned too?" The ferryman replied, "It can. Someone who is good at swimming can master it through practice. As for a diver, even if they have never seen a boat, they can handle one at once." Yan Yuan asked again, but the ferryman would not explain clearly, so Yan Yuan asked Confucius (Zhongni) for instruction.

Confucius explained that one who swims well, having trained to the utmost, forgets that water exists. The diver is the same: having never seen a boat, they can steer one immediately. In the eyes of such a person, a deep abyss is like level ground. The many ways a boat can capsize are all laid out before them, yet they cannot disturb their inner mind, so whatever happens, they remain composed and at ease.

Confucius then used gambling as an analogy. A person who wagers with clay tiles performs at their best, because there is no gain or loss in their heart. A person who wagers with a belt hook becomes fearful. A person who wagers with gold becomes confused in spirit and loses their skill. The technique is the same. Only because they have something to lose do they set value on external things, and one who values external things grows clumsy within.

The commentary explains that Shangshen is the name of the abyss, that you (you) means to float, and that "submerged person" refers to one who dives into the water. Zhu (zhu) means to shoot or to place a bet. The heart is regarded as the "dwelling of spirit and luminosity" (shenming zhi she). If external things are not allowed to take up residence there, one can remain at ease. The commentary also cites the word zhu in Wang Qinruo's phrase "treating Your Majesty as a lone wager," to show that the lighter the stake, the less the heart is attached to anything.

Tian Kaizhi Visits Lord Wei of Zhou

Tian Kaizhi (Tian Kaizhi) went to see Lord Wei of Zhou (Zhou Weigong). The lord said, "I have heard that Zhushen (Zhushen, a person said to be skilled in nurturing life) is cultivating life, and since you associate with Zhushen, you must have heard something." Tian Kaizhi replied modestly, "I am no more than someone who holds a broom and serves at the gate of the courtyard. How could I have heard any teachings of the Master?" The lord insisted that Tian Kaizhi not decline and expressed the wish to hear it. Tian Kaizhi then relayed Confucius's words on "being good at nurturing life."

Exegesis of the Scripture

Duke Wei asks what “whipping those who lag behind” means

Tian Kaishuo said: In the state of Lu there was a man named Dan Bao who lived among cliffs and drank from springs, never competing with common people for gain; at seventy his complexion was still like an infant’s. Unexpectedly he met a starving tiger and was bitten to death and eaten. There was also Zhang Yi, who made a point of visiting every great house and powerful family—there was not one he did not cultivate. At forty he died of internal heat disorder. Dan Bao cultivated only the inner (spirit and bodily purity) yet the tiger consumed his outer form; Zhang Yi cultivated only the outer (climbing to wealth, social display) yet disease struck from within. Both belong to those who failed to “whip what lags behind”—who did not keep watch on the neglected, trailing part of their own lives.

The metaphors of “pulling up the broom” and “sweeping with the broom”

“Pulling up the broom” means taking up a large broom; “holding the broom to pull up” is holding the broom to sweep—the chores of sweeping the courtyard for disciples to dust and clean. Herding sheep ought to mean letting the flock move as it will; if someone falls behind and does not keep with the herd, he must be whipped. The point is: even when one follows Heaven’s principle, human effort is still required; one cannot push everything onto “the natural.”

Dan Bao was a recluse yet died by tiger; Zhang Yi shuttled among houses of wealth—though no tiger harmed him, frenzy in his breast ended in death from internal heat. Both show that people still have unfinished business and cannot leave it all to Heaven. For those who study the Way, this passage cuts most sharply between the “upper” (self-cultivation) and the “ultimate” (the root); extended in this way, one sees that Zhuangzi’s discussions of the Way of Heaven and the Way of humanity before and after are first set up as images, then anchored by these two cases—the structure is quite striking.

Confucius said: Enter not to hide within; emerge not to blaze outward; stand like firewood at the center—if these three gain their true names, one must reach the utmost.

• Enter not to hide within: not clinging blindly to “holding still” and retreating inward.
• Emerge not to blaze outward: not merely displaying oneself and dwelling only in movement.
• Stand like firewood at the center: “firewood” suggests dry wood standing without mind, form like withered timber; movement and stillness have no fixed rule, neither leaning to one side—hence “standing at the center.”

“The three” refer to the three lines above. Only when these three are fully realized can one be named a perfected person; therefore it is said: if the three gain their true names, one must reach the utmost—the extreme, the limit.

The parable of the dangerous road

People who fear a perilous road, when they hear “one man in ten is killed,” fathers, sons, and brothers warn one another and will not travel except in large groups—that is not unwise. Yet what people ought to fear lies on the couch and at the table (in bed, at feasts, in sensual indulgence), and they do not know to guard against it—that is the real fault.

Using the “perilous road” to stand for the “couch and pillow” is the same idea as “eyebrows like axes that chop away one’s nature”: people dread robbery on the road but do not ward off the harm of nearby desire and the mouth’s appetites.

A Warning to Restrain Desire

Even sages who heard these words of Zhuangzi would surely nod in agreement. How could this count as some heterodox doctrine?

The ritual master Xuan Duan came to the pigpen and addressed the pig…

The ritual master Xuan Duan came to the pigpen and said to the pig: Are you afraid of death? I plan to feed you for three months, then give you ten days of abstinence from certain foods and three days of ritual fasting, spread white cattail grass under your shoulders and rump, and place you on a carved sacrificial stand—would you want that?

When planning for the pig, the pig would say: Better to eat chaff and stay in the pen.

When people plan for themselves, they say: While alive they want carriage and cap, rank and glory; when dead they still want to die between carved stands, toothed trays, and woven bamboo containers—and they are willing.

One way of planning for the pig, another for oneself. Where is the difference between humans and pigs?

Notes

Xuan Duan is the name of the ritual master; lian means feeding with fodder; kao refers to the pig’s rump. Zhuan shu is a notched stand for holding things; ben ju and the like are woven bamboo vessels (the “woven matting” in an earlier passage is the same sort of thing). Zuozhuan, Duke Xuan, year 2—“the cook Mian’s bear paws were not done; he was killed and put in a ben”—refers to such implements.

People want the honor of carriage and cap while alive; even if they die by punishment and their bodies land on kneeling-cushions and in ben ju, they accept it—this is what [Han] Yu meant by dwelling in filth without shame and meeting execution and slaughter. They plan for the pig one way and for themselves another; the analogy is apt.

Duke Huan was hunting in the marsh; Guan Zhong drove the carriage and said he saw a ghost…

Duke Huan was hunting in the marsh. Guan Zhong drove the carriage and said he saw a ghost. The duke took Guan Zhong’s hand and asked: Father Guan, what did you see? Guan Zhong said: Your servant saw nothing. After the duke returned he fell into doubtful illness and for several days did not go out. A man of Qi named Huangzi Gao’ao said: You frightened yourself sick; how could a ghost harm you?

When angry, pent-up qi scatters and does not return, the legs and feet lose strength. When it gathers above and does not descend, a person becomes prone to rage; when it gathers below and does not rise, a person becomes forgetful; when it neither rises nor falls but sits right in the heart’s center, that becomes illness.

The duke asked: Then do ghosts really exist?

The answer: Yes. Chen (water ghosts), you (road ghosts), li (hearth ghosts), zao (stove spirits), ji (dust spirits indoors); indoor annoyance and mold, places where thunder dwells; below the east, bei’a and gui long; below the west, yi yang; in water, wang xiang; on mounds, feng; in mountains, kui; in the wilds, fang huang; in marshes, wei she.

The duke asked: Tell me about wei she.

(The following passage on wei she is not continued in the quoted text; the oral explanation stops at this question.)

What Duke Huan Saw

The prince said: That creature is called Weituo (委蛇). Its body twists like a snake; it is as thick as a chariot hub and as long as a chariot shaft. It wears purple robes and a red cap. It hates the roar of thunder chariots—when it hears them it holds its head and stands upright. Whoever sees it may perhaps become a hegemon? Duke Huan smiled gravely: “That is exactly what I saw with my own eyes!” He then straightened his robes and cap and sat with it; before a full day had passed, his illness had quietly lifted.

This passage is rather like the tale of “the bow in the cup mistaken for a snake’s shadow,” but here it is stranger still.

“Eyi” (誒詒) is like the retching and reversed-breath sounds people make today when qi is blocked; “fenu” (忿滀) means pent-up stagnation. When the ailment sits in the body yet faces the heart directly, it is what people today call being “struck by evil” or “struck in the vital centers,” and the like.

“Shen” (沈) is a mire; “lu” (履) and “ji” (髻) are names of ghosts; “fanrang” (煩壤) is dung and soil; “leiting” (雷霆) is also a ghost’s name; “bei’a” (倍阿) and “guilong” (鮭蠪) are ghosts of the tail, in the northeast; “yiyang” (泆陽) is the ghost of the house, in the northwest—the above are names of ghostly things often mentioned in people’s homes.

“Wangxiang” (罔象) is the spirit of the waters; “shen” (峷) is the spirit of small mounds and heaps of earth; “kui” (夔) is the mountain spirit; “panghuang” (徬徨) is the spirit of the wilds; “weituo” (委蛇) is the great spirit of the marshes. What Duke Huan saw was in a great marsh, so they asked only about Weituo’s form. At first the duke suspected something demonic, so he feared it and fell ill; now, hearing that those who see it may become hegemon, he rejoiced, and the illness naturally dispersed. “Zhēnrán” (辴然) means a solemn smile. The moral of the story is again not the same as “seeing a pig smeared with mud, a cartload of ghosts”; yet since the sages put such language into the line statements of the Yijing, it is not strange that there really is such a “cart” in the world.

Ji Xiaozi Raises Fighting Cocks for the King

Ji Xiaozi raised fighting cocks for the great king. After ten days the king asked: Is the cock ready? He answered: Not yet—it is still hollow, arrogant, and relies on its bold qi. Ten days later the king asked again: Still not—it still moves at every sound and every shadow. Ten days later he asked again: Still not—it still glares fiercely and swaggers with overweening spirit. Ten days later he asked once more: It is about right. Though other cocks come to crow and provoke it, it barely reacts; to look at it is like a wooden cock. Its virtue is complete; strange cocks dare not meet it and run away instead.

Moving with every sound and changing with every shadow shows the heart is still pulled by outer things.

“Glaring fiercely with overweening spirit” means its shen-spirit and qi are already strong, yet it glares without restless motion.

At first it was “hollow and arrogant, relying on qi”—qi still blazed outward; later, to look at it was like wood—virtue whole and guarded within, so outer things could no longer disturb it.

On “Glaring in Anger, Gathering Qi”

“Glaring fiercely and gathering Qi” means that Qi has already gathered within the body. Here “fierce” carries the sense of anger: the person stares straight ahead with wide eyes. But this differs from an ordinary person’s outward show of force, gripping a sword and glaring in anger. Seen from a distance, the person stands motionless like a wooden fighting cock, with both spirit and Qi drawn inward. This passage describes the practice of guarding and nourishing Qi, using fighting cocks and wooden cocks as metaphors.

Confucius Watches the Water at Lüliang

Confucius watched the water at Lüliang, where the current was treacherous. The water was thirty ren deep, and its churning foam and spray carried for forty li. Even turtles, alligators, and crocodiles could not swim through it. Yet he saw a man swimming in the water. Thinking the man had met with disaster and wanted to die, Confucius told his disciples to hurry downstream and search for him. After swimming several hundred paces, the man climbed ashore with his hair loose and walked along below the embankment, singing. Confucius followed and asked, “At first I thought you were a ghost, but looking closely, I see you are a man. Tell me, is there some way to cross the water?”

The man replied, “No. I have no special method. I began by following what was natural to me, grew accustomed to my nature, and in the end fulfilled what was destined. I am swept in with the whirlpool and surge out with the current. I follow the water’s pattern without imposing my own will. That is how I can swim in it.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by beginning by following what was natural, growing accustomed to your nature, and fulfilling what was destined?”

The man replied, “I was born in the hills, so I am at ease in the hills. I grew up in the water, so I am at ease in the water. That is nature. To do this without knowing how—that is destiny.”

This passage carries the same meaning as the earlier story about steering a boat. “Along with the current” means moving in parallel with the flow. “What was natural” means one’s original, inherent state. Mencius said, “To speak of nature is simply to speak of what is inherent.” Nature and destiny are both principles of the natural order. “Whirlpool” refers to places where the water turns and churns; “surge” refers to places where it rushes swiftly. The swimmer rises and falls with the water as he moves in and out of these currents. To “follow the water’s way without acting from self-interest” is to go with its flow and not resist it. Being born in the hills and at ease in the hills, or growing up in the water and at ease in the water, means following what is natural without knowing how it came about. The original text does not require us to draw a firm distinction between “nature” and “destiny”; they appear this way simply as part of the wording. It would be a mistake to force “being born” and “growing up” into two separate doctrines.

Qing the Carpenter Carves Wood into a Bell Stand

Qing, a carpenter, carved wood to make a bell stand, the wooden frame from which bells and chime stones are hung. When it was finished, those who saw it were astonished, as if it had been made by spirits. The ruler of Lu saw it and asked, “What is your technique?”

Qing replied, “I am only a craftsman. What technique could I have? There is just one thing: whenever I am about to make a bell stand, I never dare to exhaust my mind and Qi. I first fast and purify myself to quiet my mind. After three days of fasting, I no longer think about rewards, rank, or salary. After five days, I no longer think about criticism or praise, skill or clumsiness. After seven days, I suddenly forget that I have limbs and a body. By then, thoughts of the ruler and the court have vanished; my skill is wholly focused and my spirit is gathered. Then I enter the forest…”

(The passage goes on to describe selecting the wood and making the object. The text here has already described the seven days of stilling the mind.)

Key idea: By gradually letting go of practical gain, praise and blame, and even awareness of the bodily self, the craftsperson reaches a state in which skill is wholly focused and spirit is gathered. This is a classic Daoist account of craft and self-cultivation becoming one. Like the story of swimming at Lüliang, it emphasizes acting without self-interest and following nature rather than human desires.

Plain-Language Reading of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi

On Carving Wood and “Using Heaven to Join with Heaven”

Let outward distractions be spent first; only then enter the mountains and woods and observe the innate character of things. When the timber’s shape and grain are fully present in the mind, you may take it in hand and work it—otherwise, leave it. This is joining your own naturalness to the material’s own naturalness, which is why it is called “using heaven to join with heaven.”

What allows a crafted thing to hold the spirit in focus is probably just this kind of attainment.

On “Juè” (鐻)

The graph juè is close in form to jiá zhōng; most commentators follow that reading. Yet bells are cast metal—how could they be made by carving wood? I follow the Great Master (Dazongshi) chapter: “Juè is the mount or striker-frame for bells and drums”—the sort of stand used to suspend bells and drums, in the same family as sǔn jù (wooden frames for hanging bells and drums). Such frames are often carved as birds and beasts, with woodwork of extreme refinement, as the Records of the Examination of Craftsmen (Kaogongji) shows. “Startling as if spirits and ghosts had done it” means the skill exceeds what human effort alone could achieve.

“Depleting qi” (hào qì) means qi sinking downward and the strength of the legs wearing away. First settle the mind through qi (alignment and fasting of the heart)—not craving rank, not fearing blame, forgetting the four limbs: pure qi is kept within and outer things do not enter. “No audience at court” (wú gōng cháo) means no longer being tied to the glory or shame of the court. Then the crafty mind is single; everything that could disturb the heart is released and does not remain. Entering the woods to observe innate nature is observing the nature of the wood; each piece of timber already has its completed image, as if the finished object were before your eyes—then you take it and “apply the hand,” that is, begin to shape it. Matching your naturalness to the thing’s naturalness is what is meant by using heaven to join with heaven.

Dongye Ji Driving

Dongye Ji presented his charioteering to Duke Zhuang: advance and retreat like snapped ink lines, left and right turns all fitting the compass—Duke Zhuang thought no art could surpass it. He had him drive in a hunting ring (gōu), circling a hundred times and returning. Yan He met him, went in, and said, “Ji’s horses are about to break down.” The duke kept silent. Before long the horses indeed collapsed on the way back. The duke asked, “How did you know?” He answered, “The horses’ strength was already gone, yet the driver still demanded flourishes—defeat was inevitable.”

“Six reins like cords” means the reins are woven with pattern; driving skill as fine as weaving—hence “pattern unsurpassed.” Gōu is driving in circles for the hunt; “a hundred gōu and return” means a hundred circuits. When the horses are spent and still driven on, however clever the charioteer, he must fail. If one uses one’s own shen (spirit), how can one overtax it? This analogy is especially apt and upright.

Gong Chui and the Compass and Square

Gong Chui (the legendary craftsman, associated with Gong Gong) turned compass and square in use; fingers and material became one, without calculating in the mind—so the lingtai (spirit terrace, the heart) stayed unified and unbound.

(Here the oral commentary adds a few scattered sentences.)

In the deepest places, it is like the water in a heavenly pool: when full it spills sideways; when fuller still it spreads in every direction, at times surging like breaking waves.

Among northerners, people often compete through words and set the bar of debate very high; among southerners, the style tends to be reserved and far-reaching, and they often prevail in ways that catch others off guard—speaking of realms that are subtle and hard to fathom.

Those who devote themselves to the technical arts (fangji) can push learning to depths that are arduous, lasting, nimble, and penetrating. Northern learning is rigorous and weighty, yet it easily becomes repetitive and hollow, and it often falls short on wuli—the principles of things and how they actually work. Southern learning gives more ground to literary polish and eloquent discourse, and likewise it is difficult to attain a genuine grasp of wuli.

Among the Jurchen (Nüzhen) there were also clever people who could craft ingenious devices, though many could not read. The brothers Tao Mengjing and Jingyan did not attend to making a living; once their names spread, their household wealth was gradually exhausted. There was also Bai Zhongwen of the Yan region, who took pleasure in entertaining guests with music, wine, and food until his assets were likewise used up.

Someone said: You serve your lord yet never catch the right moment; in your village you are kept at a distance; in the district and commandery you are driven away—can you blame Heaven for that? Xiu lamented that fate had dealt with him so harshly.

Zhuangzi said: Have you never heard how the perfected person—the sage who has reached the highest level of cultivation in the Daoist sense—lives? They forget liver and gall, cast off ears and eyes, drift in a haze beyond the grime of the dusty world, and wander freely in the domain of Wuwei (non-action). That is what is meant by “acting yet not leaning on it, fostering growth yet not lording over it.”

Now you polish your cleverness to startle the foolish, cultivate body and mind to show you are not of the muddy crowd—you shine as if carrying the sun and moon down the road. That you still have your whole body and all nine openings, that you have not died young or gone deaf, blind, or lame, already puts you among ordinary folk by good luck alone; what room is left to grumble at Heaven? Go.

After Xiu left, Zhuangzi came in and sat down; presently he sighed toward the sky. His disciple asked: Master, why sigh?

Zhuangzi said: Xiu was just here. I told him about the virtue of the perfected person. I am afraid that instead of waking him up, I only added to his confusion.

The disciple said: Can that be right? If Xiu was right and you were wrong, he was never going to be enlightened by you anyway. If Xiu was wrong and you were right, he arrived already confused—it was not you who confused him.

Zhuangzi said: No. Once a bird landed in the outskirts of Lu. The lord of Lu was pleased and received it with the taibao, the grandest sacrificial feast, and had the Jiushao, the ancient court music, performed for it. The bird only grew anxious and sad, its eyes dazzled; it dared not eat or drink. That is “feeding a bird the way you feed yourself.” To feed a bird as birds should be fed, let it perch in deep woods, drift on rivers and lakes, eat small fish, and be content to stroll on open ground.

Xiu is narrow-minded and little learned—kuanqi, oligowen: a heart as tight as a small opening, hearsay thin. To preach the virtue of the perfected person to him is like hitching a mouse to a carriage or entertaining a quail with bells and drums. How could he not be frightened?

Notes on key phrases (sense of the commentary)

• 賔于乡里: Shunned or held at arm’s length in one’s own village.
• 明汙: Marking oneself off from the dirty world—self-display as pure.
• 飾知驚愚、修身明汙: Using wit to shock the simple and refining oneself to look clean, all to stand apart and win a name.
• 若揭日月: Reputation blazing like holding up the sun and moon for everyone to see.
• 彼固惑而来: He was already lost before he came; the Master did not create that confusion.
• 款啓、寡聞: Small-minded and poorly informed—when the teaching offered is far above what he can take in, he naturally cannot bear it.

The gist of this passage can be understood as follows.

“Wouldn’t that just make you startled and afraid, and confuse yourself?” At this level the author is satirizing the scholars of his day: their horizon is too narrow—they fix on their own little observations and still have not truly grasped the Great Dao.

What follows uses Zhuangzi’s example of feeding a bird:

“To feed it in a weiyi (easy, unforced) way” means letting the bird eat in peace, in a natural manner. Weiyi here is the idea of going along with nature and finding ease and joy in oneself.

“Taking bird-keeping as the analogy”—Zhuangzi already treated this in the chapter ‘Perfect Happiness’ (Zhile); here it is not spelled out again.

A bit of background: Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Explication of the True Scripture of Nanhua) is Lin Xiyi’s line-by-line teaching on the Zhuangzi from the Southern Song. Weiyi comes from the Human World (Renjian Shi) passage: “When you keep birds, you should keep them as birds do—do not keep them the way you keep yourself.” Good care follows the bird’s nature, not human habit. Lin Xiyi uses this to say that studying the Dao cannot be forced with worldly cleverness; otherwise one is like those scholars who see small techniques but not the Great Way, and end up alarmed, doubtful, and tangled in their own minds.