《南華真經口義》Vol. 21

Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi, Scroll Twenty-One (Outer Chapters: “Mountain Trees”)

Yizhai Lin Xiyi

Zhuangzi was walking in the mountains when he saw a large tree with lush foliage. A woodcutter stood beside it but would not cut it down. Zhuangzi asked why. The woodcutter said, “This tree is good for nothing.” Zhuangzi said, “This tree survives its full span of years precisely because it is useless timber.”

When Zhuangzi left the mountains he stayed at an old friend’s home. The friend was delighted and told his boy to kill a goose for a meal. The boy asked, “One goose can honk and one cannot—which should I kill?” The host said, “Kill the one that cannot honk.”

The next day a disciple asked Zhuangzi, “Yesterday the tree in the mountains lived out its years because it was useless timber; today the host’s goose was killed because it was useless. Master, how will you place yourself in the world?”

Zhuangzi smiled and said, “I will place myself between being useful timber and being useless timber. That ‘between’ looks like having it both ways, but it is still not right, so one still cannot escape being burdened. If you drift and float by riding Dao and De (the Way and its power), it is not like that: no praise and no blame; now a dragon, now a snake, changing with the time, unwilling to cling to one fixed stance; now rising, now falling, taking harmony as your measure and your rule, floating in the ancestral source of the myriad things. Treat the myriad things as outer objects and do not be enslaved by the myriad things—how then could you be dragged down? This is the method of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor.

As for the constant patterns of the myriad things and the usual order of human relations, it is not like that: what gathers disperses; what succeeds is destroyed; the scrupulous are thwarted; the honored are criticized; acting with purpose is diminished; the capable are plotted against; the unworthy are cheated—how can one be sure of preserving oneself intact? Pitiful! Disciple, remember: only the homeland of Dao and De is the place of return.”

(Kouyi) That useless timber can enjoy its full years has been said many times already in the text. Here the goose killed for being “useless” adds another layer: both being useful timber and being useless timber still leave traces of form, so one still cannot escape self-burdening. Only when good and bad are both extinguished and nothing can be named is the full span of heaven’s years truly complete. “Riding Dao and De” means complying with nature. “Now a dragon, now a snake” is like what Dongfang Shuo said: when employed, be a tiger; when not employed, be a rat—use and withdrawal follow the moment; the heart admits nothing fixed, hence neither ruin nor praise. “Purposeful acting” is having a mind; “unwilling to act with fixed purpose” is having no mind. In rising and falling, advancing and retreating, take harmony as principle and as boundary—whether up or down is all right. “Ancestral source of the myriad things” means the root source of the myriad things. “Treat things as things but do not be treated as a thing by things” means regard outer things as outer things and do not let outer things lead you by the nose.

As for the constant dispositions of the myriad things and what circulates in human relations: united, then parted; accomplished, then broken; scrupulous, then thwarted; honored, then debated; purposeful, then depleted; worthy, then schemed against; unworthy, then deceived—how can one be sure of full preservation? Pitiful! The disciple should remember: the only refuge is the homeland of Dao and De.

(Earlier passage: on the lines about the “homeland of Dao and De”)

“Zu” (祖) means to take something as one’s root or starting point; here it refers to the beginning of all things. What Shennong and the Yellow Emperor could follow is therefore called the law of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor.

In “the disposition of all things” (万物之情), qing means private feeling or selfish partiality. “Transmission and practice” (传习) means the handing down of human roles and the worldly habits of human life.

The following lines lay human affairs bare: where there is gathering, there is parting—as the saying goes, no feast on earth lasts forever; where something is completed, ruin follows—words are not discarded because they are old, so on what basis does a ruler rise?

Those who show their sharp edge will in the end break themselves; those who stand above others will inevitably be talked about. If one is bent on leaving a name in deeds, one’s reputation is easily harmed.

Many people resent others’ success and rejoice at their failure. The worthy, in such a world, will plan for preserving themselves, and so there must be schemes and calculation—hence “when worthy, then scheming” (贤则谋). Petty people, anxious over gain and loss, use every trick, which is nothing but deceit—hence “when unworthy, then fraud” (不肖则欺).

Living in the world, affairs cannot all be forced by human will; how then can everything go as one wishes?

“Alas!” (悲夫) laments a poor age, the flux of human affairs, and dangers to be feared. Because this strikes at one’s person, the teacher tells disciples to remember: only by following nature can one escape harm—hence “is it not only in the homeland of Dao and De?” (其唯道德之乡乎).

(Shinan Yiliao visits the Duke of Lu)

Shinan Yiliao went to see the Duke of Lu; the duke looked troubled. Shinan asked: Why is the lord worried?

The duke said: I study the Way of the former kings, carry on the work of former lords, revere spirits and honor the worthy, and practice this myself without leaving it for a moment—yet I still cannot escape calamity, and so I worry.

Shinan said: My lord’s way of removing calamity is too shallow.

The abundant fox and the patterned leopard dwell in mountain forests and hide in rocky caves—that is stillness (静); they travel by night and lie low by day—that is vigilance (戒); though hungry and thirsty they endure in restraint, they still must go to the river’s edge to feed—that is settled purpose (定). Even so, they cannot escape snares and traps—what crime is theirs? It is their pelts that bring disaster.

Is not Lu today precisely my lord’s “hide”? I wish my lord would strip away form and hide, wash the heart and drop desire, and roam in trackless wilds.

Kouyi commentary (on the duke’s being “at ease thus,” etc.)

“At ease thus” (居然) means to rest peacefully in just this way. Here it carries the sense that “whether one uses things or not, calamity still comes”—one thinks there ought to be no worry, yet worry remains.

“Endure in restraint” (隐约) means to bear hunger and thirst with difficulty.

“Settled” (定) means the beasts go to a fixed place to seek food.

The parable of the abundant fox and patterned leopard: stillness, vigilance, and settled purpose are all in place, yet disaster still comes from a “hide” others can exploit—for the Duke of Lu, that is holding the state, guarding reputation, and practicing the former kings’ Way without shedding form and desire. Hence Shinan urges abandoning the form of rulership and desires of the heart, in one line with the earlier “homeland of Dao and De” and “following nature.”

Secluded dwelling: Living in a deep, remote place. Even when hungry or thirsty, you go out to the rivers and lakes to find food, yet still keep your distance from people.

Mutual regard (xuxiang): Treating one another in a certain way. This is what Zhuangzi meant by “bowing the head to peck, then lifting it to look around”—staying withdrawn and rarely going out. To be “burdened by one’s skin” is to have name and rank on one’s back; in the world that often brings trouble. That hits the heart; only those who have really lived in society grasp it.

In the far south there was a place called the Land of Establishing Virtue (Jiande zhi guo). Its people were dull and plain, with little selfishness and few desires. They farmed but did not hoard; they gave to others without expecting return. They did not know “where duty should lead” or “how ritual should be carried out.” They followed their nature in action, yet walked on the Great Way (dafang)—the great norm, the utmost principle. They were happy in life and buried the dead with care. I wish the lord would leave his state and cast off convention, and go in step with the Dao.

The “wilderness without people” spoken of earlier is the same idea as “the beginning where there is no thing”; here that idea is given the name “Land of Establishing Virtue.” People today who long for a pure land are drawing on this source. In the Warring States era the far south had not yet been tied to the Central Plains, so the text borrows that place-name; it does not point to some other real territory.

“Knowing how to work but not how to hoard”: they ate from their own fields and did not pile up private stores. At that time the names of ritual and duty did not yet exist, hence “not knowing where duty should lead, not knowing how ritual should be walked.” Jiang here means to go or to put into practice. Changkuang wangxing (“reckless, willful going”): acting from the heart, yet all of it accorded with the Dao—hence “treading the Great Way (dafang).” “Going in step with the Dao (yu dao xiang fu er xing)”: encouraging one another with hearts set on the Dao, aiming to reach that kind of realm.

The lord said: The road is long and dangerous, and rivers and mountains lie between—what if I have no boat or cart?

Shi Nanzi said: Lord, do not stand on form and hold yourself aloof (wuxing ju), do not cling to your seat and stay put (wuliu ju)—take that as your “vehicle.”

The lord said: The road is dim and empty of people—whom shall I have as neighbors? I have no grain, nothing to eat—how can I get there?

Shi Nanzi said: Spend less, cut your desires—even without grain, it is enough. You cross rivers and float on the sea; looking out you see no shore, and the farther you go the less you know where it ends. Those who escort you turn back at the cliff’s edge, and from there the lord goes on alone.

Wuxing ju: Not taking this body and this social role as something to stand on.

Wuliu ju: Not treating the state and one’s position as a home one must die defending.

Only with a heart that can do this may one set out—hence “take it as your lord’s vehicle.”

When what one seeks is fulfilled, nothing remains wanting; hence the teaching to keep wants few and needs light—even without grain one can be content. To ford rivers and drift on the sea, seeing no shore and going ever farther without knowing an end: here the three words “wandering in the boundless” are unfolded in just this way.

“Those who saw you off have all turned back from the cliff; from here you go on alone”—this line is the deepest and most subtle. Once someone who studies the Dao has awakened, whatever formerly helped him awaken is like people who escort him to the boat: when he reaches the cliff by the sea, they have all gone back. Awakening at a blow on bamboo, awakening at raising the blind—all are such escorts. Seeing sword-dance and becoming skilled at cursive script is an example: at first the sword is what awakens him; once awakened, the sword is only what “saw him off.” Reading books is likewise a means of escort.

Therefore “having a person” is a burden, and “seeing that there is a person in others” is a worry. That is why Yao neither “has a person” nor “sees that there is a person in others.” “I wish to lift your burdens from you and clear away your worries, and wander alone with the Dao in the land of Great Nothingness.” The land of Great Nothingness is a region of vacant vastness and supreme emptiness—the same as the trackless wilds where no one dwells and the country where virtue is established—and with this the previous chapter is brought to a close. When the meaning is complete, a parable follows.

Fangzhou means two boats lashed side by side. My boat is moving when an empty boat bumps it. The boat is empty and has no one aboard, so even though it strikes mine, I do not grow angry. But if suddenly there is someone on that empty boat, I will call to him to push apart or draw back—zhang means to push open; she means to draw back. If he does not hear the first call or the second, then on the third I will surely answer with curses. No person is emptiness; a person is fullness. Before there was no person, so I was not angry; now there is a person, so I am angry. If one can empty oneself and wander in the world, who can harm him?

“Having a person” means using oneself to dominate things; “seeing that there is a person in others” means being dominated by things—neither is the natural Way. Yao does not use himself to dominate things, nor is he dominated by things; hence it is said that Yao neither “has a person” nor “sees that there is a person in others.” “I wish to lift your burdens and clear your worries, and wander alone with the Dao in the land of Great Nothingness.” That land is the vacant, vast void—the same as the trackless wilds and the country where virtue is established—and this rounds off the prior chapter. The sense being complete, the parable continues.

When my boat is underway and an empty boat collides with it, the boat is empty and unmanned, so though it strikes mine I do not rage. Yet if someone is suddenly on that empty boat, I must call him to zhang and she—zhang is to push open, she to pull back. One call unheard, a second unheard, and by the third I will certainly follow with harsh words. Without a person is emptiness; with a person is solidity. Before, without a person I did not anger; now with a person I anger. One who can empty himself and wander the world—who can injure him?

“Having a person” is when I use myself to command things; “seeing a person in others” is when I am commanded by things. Both stray from the natural Way. Yao neither commands things with himself nor is commanded by things, so it is said he neither “has a person” nor “sees that there is a person in others.” The land of Great Nothingness is the vacant, boundless void—that is, the wilds without people and the state where virtue is built—and thus the earlier chapter is concluded. Once the argument is sufficient, the parable is added. Fangzhou: two boats tied together. My boat is going when a void boat touches it; the boat is void and without anyone, so though it touches me I am not angry. If there is suddenly a person on the void boat, I must call that person to zhang and she. Zhang is to push open; she is to draw back. If he does not hear one call or two, then on the third I will surely answer with abuse. No person is void; a person is real. Before there was no person and I did not anger; now there is a person and I anger. If a person can empty himself and wander the world, who can harm him?

I duplicated content in my draft. Let me produce one clean final version without repetition.

When what one seeks is fulfilled, nothing remains wanting; hence the teaching to keep wants few and needs light—even without grain one can be content. To ford rivers and drift on the sea, seeing no shore and going ever farther without knowing an end: here the three words “wandering in the boundless” are unfolded in just this way.

“Those who saw you off have all turned back from the cliff; from here you go on alone”—this line is the deepest and most subtle. Once someone who studies the Dao has awakened, whatever formerly helped him awaken is like people who escort him to the boat: when he reaches the cliff by the sea, they have all gone back. Awakening at a blow on bamboo, awakening at raising the blind—all are such escorts. Seeing sword-dance and becoming skilled at cursive script is an example: at first the sword is what awakens him; once awakened, the sword is only what “saw him off.” Reading books is likewise a means of escort.

Therefore “having a person” is a burden, and “seeing that there is a person in others” is a worry. That is why Yao neither “has a person” nor “sees that there is a person in others.” “I wish to lift your burdens from you and clear away your worries, and wander alone with the Dao in the land of Great Nothingness.” The land of Great Nothingness is a region of vacant vastness and supreme emptiness—the same as the trackless wilds where no one dwells and the country where virtue is established—and with this the previous chapter is brought to a close. When the meaning is complete, a parable follows.

Fangzhou means two boats lashed side by side. My boat is moving when an empty boat bumps it. The boat is empty and has no one aboard, so even though it strikes mine, I do not grow angry. But if suddenly there is someone on that empty boat, I will call to him to push apart or draw back—zhang means to push open; she means to draw back. If he does not hear the first call or the second, then on the third I will surely answer with curses. No person is emptiness; a person is fullness. Before there was no person, so I was not angry; now there is a person, so I am angry. If one can empty oneself and wander in the world, who can harm him?

“Having a person” means using oneself to dominate things; “seeing that there is a person in others” means being dominated by things—neither is the natural Way. Yao does not use himself to dominate things, nor is he dominated by things; hence it is said that Yao neither “has a person” nor “sees that there is a person in others.”

Vernacular Explanation of Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi (The True Classic of Southern Florescence, Oral Meaning)

Some people cannot help but feel anger—that is simply human nature. This analogy is excellent.

The main idea is: if I have no deliberate mind, I do not clash with things outside me and can move freely in the world; if the heart is empty and still, why worry about harm? A long passage has already been explained above; here a parable ties the beginning and end together—this is the rhetorical pattern of “opening and closing with metaphor.”

A passage in Liezi is close to this:

Bei Gong She was in charge of levying taxes for Duke Ling of Wei to cast bells. He set up an altar outside the city gate, and in three months the work was done, including the frames from which the bells were hung—upper and lower tiers of suspension. Qing Ji saw this and asked: What method did you use? She replied: Within this single-minded unity I dared not let anything else intrude. I have heard that after carving and polishing, one must return to simplicity; dull and vague, as if lazy, as if hesitant; in a muddy haze, letting what comes go unblocked and what goes proceed unhindered—what arrives need not be stopped, what departs need not be held. The hard and forceful may go their way; what bends and clings to me, I also follow. Because extremity exhausts itself, morning and evening the levy was collected yet not a hair of the people was harmed—how much more so when walking the great path!

Notes on the commentary (as in the Kou Yi):

• Levying taxes to cast bells, setting up an altar outside the city gate: Gathering the people’s wealth to cast bells required first raising an altar and then casting—hence “building an altar outside the Guo gate”; the bells were finished in three months, with suspension frames; upper and lower tiers are called “upper and lower xian” (suspended sets)—here, a set of chime bells.
• What method did you set up?: What technique made it so fast? The answer is yi (一)—pure unity, following nature, never divided; nothing else could be inserted in between—called “within the One, daring to set up nothing else.”
• Having carved and polished, returning to simplicity: Removing sharp edges and returning to what is natural.
• Dull, free and easy, clustered, in a haze: Unknowing; seeming idle or doubtful; chaotic, without definite form.
• What comes, do not forbid; what goes, do not stop: Following nature, neither welcoming nor sending off.
• Qiangliang (强梁): what is unyielding and goes off by force; qu fu (曲附): what bends and attaches to me—all is accepted and allowed.
• Zi qiong (自窮): reaching its own limit; arriving without striving.
• Not a hair harmed (毫毛不挫): collecting taxes without injuring the people in the slightest; da tu (大涂/途): the broad, level way of going along with affairs in openness—the great path.

Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai and had gone seven days without lighting a fire to cook. Taigong Ren came to offer condolences and said, “You are close to starving to death, aren’t you?” Confucius replied, “Yes.” Taigong Ren then asked, “Do you abhor death?” Confucius replied, “Yes.”

Taigong Ren said, “I once heard of a way to escape death. In the Eastern Sea there is a bird called Yidai, ‘the Indolent.’ It flies with a wavering, faltering motion, as if it had little ability. When it flies in a flock and is pressed by danger, it takes shelter under the eaves of people’s houses. It does not dare to compete to be first when advancing, or to fall behind when retreating. It does not dare to snatch food, but always eats what others leave behind. Its flock is therefore not very large, and outsiders do not harm it, so it escapes calamity. Straight trees are the first to be cut down; sweet wells are the first to be drained. You seem intent on polishing your intelligence to startle the foolish and cultivating yourself to expose the corrupt. You shine so brightly, as if walking with the sun and moon in your hands, and so you cannot avoid calamity. I once heard a Great Accomplished One say: Those who boast of themselves achieve nothing; those who accomplish something are ruined; those who make a name for themselves are diminished. Who can cast off achievement and reputation and return to being like everyone else? The Dao flows naturally like water without making itself known. It dwells at ease and acts without leaving a name. It remains simple and ordinary, seeming almost wild. It erases its traces, gives up power, and does not seek fame or merit. Thus the world makes no demands of it, and it makes no demands of the world. The Perfected One is unknown to the world. What is there for you to be pleased about?”

Confucius said, “Well said!” He then changed his way of relating to others, left his disciples, and fled to a great marsh. He wore coarse clothes and ate chestnuts. When he entered a herd of animals, he did not disrupt it; when he entered a flock of birds, he did not disturb their formation. The birds and beasts did not shun him—how much less would people?

“Do you abhor death?” means: In this peril, with death so near, do you feel aversion to dying? “A way to escape death” means being content with oneself and free from calamity. Yidai is what we now call a swallow. “Wavering, faltering” describes the way it flies. “Flying in a flock” means flying together. “Pressed by danger and taking shelter” means nesting close to the eaves of people’s houses. “It does not compete to be first when advancing or to fall behind when retreating” means that it does not compete as it comes and goes. “What others leave behind” means discarded scraps: it eats insects and feeds on what people have thrown away. “Not very large” means few in number. Though the birds form a flock, they are not as numerous as geese; they settle near people, and outsiders do not harm them. “Straight trees” and “sweet wells” are metaphors for making oneself conspicuous through one’s reputation. “Great Accomplished One” means one who has attained the Great Dao. Those who pride themselves on their achievements cannot succeed; those who delight in their fame and merit ultimately bring about their own ruin. This is all because they boast of themselves.

(Continuing from above)

What is called “diminishment” (sun) is also a retreat into the midst of the multitude, becoming the same as everyone else. Following the Great Dao, one dims oneself and does not show off—hence “the Dao flows” (daoliu): the Way moves, yet does not put itself on display. In such an age, though one can act according to one’s own intent, one does not use reputation to elevate oneself—hence “dwelling in effective action without naming it.” “Dwelling in what is not dwelt in” and “not possessing” both mean letting go of the fixation that “I am present” or “I own.” Pure and unassuming, like having no deliberate mind; cutting away traces and laying down power, not treating merit and fame as one’s aim—this is “transforming without leaving traces.” I do not elevate others, and others do not take me seriously either—this is the perfected person (zhiren). The perfected person never wished to be known by the world; why should you rejoice over “having a name”? The closing lines repeat the same idea as the passage about “eating pork as one eats people,” putting the point again through Confucius’s mouth—a case of “repeated speech” (chongyan) for emphasis.

Story in the classic text

Confucius asked Zisang Yu (Zisang Hu, a figure in Daoist stories): Twice I was driven from Lu, in Song I suffered the humiliation of having a tree cut down (to shame me), in Wei my traces were erased (I could not settle), in Shang and Zhou I was in straits, and between Chen and Cai I was besieged. As these misfortunes piled up, relatives and friends drew farther away, and disciples and companions scattered—why?

Zisang Yu said: Have you not heard what happened in “Borrowed State”? Lin Hui gave up a jade disk worth a thousand in gold and fled carrying an infant. Someone asked him: Was it for that bit of cloth (the infant’s rags)? But what the infant offers is so little. Was it for the burden? But the infant’s burden is so heavy. Abandoning a thousand-gold jade disk and running with a child—what were you after?

Lin Hui said: With the side of the jade disk, the bond was joined by profit; with the child, the bond is what nature assigns (tianshu). Those joined by profit, when poverty, disaster, or harm comes, cast each other off; those joined by what nature assigns, when poverty and disaster come, take each other in. Taking each other in versus casting each other off—how far apart they are! Moreover: the friendship of the gentleman is bland as water; the friendship of the petty person is sweet as strong wine—the gentleman’s dealings are plain yet long and close; the petty person’s are cloying yet easily broken. Those who gather without real cause will also part without real cause.

Confucius said: I respectfully receive your teaching. Then he walked away slowly and at ease, cut off learning and cast aside books (no longer making a livelihood of lecturing and texts); before his disciples he no longer needed bowing and stiff ceremony, and their reverence for him grew deeper.

Commentary by the author of the oral exegesis (kouyi)

Zisang Yu is the same person as “Hu” (variant spelling). Abandoning the disk and carrying the child is one of the book’s finest analogies: those who match by nature will surely keep gathering; those who match by profit will surely abandon each other in hardship. The gentleman’s bond bland yet lasting, the petty person’s sweet yet easily severed—human relations laid bare. The same lines would hold in the Analects or Mencius. “Joining without cause, parting without cause” echoes similar ideas in the Classic of Poetry poem “Mang.”

Brief summary (for cross-reference)

Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Plain-Language Reading)

Scripture Text

Original:

可見也此一句又是一箇好條貫無挹於

Plain-language reading:

From this one can see that this line is again a very good thread of argument. “Wu yi” (无挹) means not being fixated on…

Original:

前者不拘目前挹拜之禮而其相愛之意愈加進也

Plain-language reading:

Not clinging to the bowing and ritual of the moment, while the mutual affection between them grows all the deeper.

Original:

異日桑雩又曰舜之將死眞泠禹曰汝戒之哉形莫若縁情莫若率縁則不離率則不勞不離不勞則不求文以待形不求文以待形固下待物

Plain-language reading:

Another day, Sang Yu again said: When Shun was about to die, he sincerely admonished Yu: “You must be on guard! For the body, nothing surpasses following the natural course (yuan); for feeling, nothing surpasses being true to one’s nature (shuai). When you follow the natural course, you are not separated; when you are true to your nature, you are not worn out. Neither separated nor worn out, you do not seek ornament (wen) by which to “host” the body. Not seeking ornament to host the body means, in the end, not depending on things.”

(Note: Ling 泠 is pronounced like ling 零 and means to instruct or make clear. He used the true Way to warn Yu, hence “sincere admonition” (zhen ling). Yuan is adapting to the natural; shuai is abiding in one’s innate nature. “Not separated” means being one with the Dao. Xing is the self; wen is what lies outside the self. Not using what is outside to adorn the self is called “not seeking ornament to host the body.” When people today entertain guests they say “to host” (dai ke); dai here carries the sense of relying on something. Not taking external things as ornament means having nothing external to rely on—hence “not depending on things.” The word dai 待 also means not using or not relying. The three occurrences of dai each have two layers of meaning.)

Original:

莊子衣大布而補之正緳(苦絃/反)係履而過魏王魏王曰何先生之憊邪莊子曰貧也非憊也士有道德不能行憊也衣弊履穿貧也非憊也此所謂非遭時也王獨不見夫騰猿乎其得柟梓豫章也攬蔓其枝而王長其間雖羿逄蒙不能睥睨也及其得柘棘枳枸之間也危行側視振動悼慄此筯骨非有加急而不柔也處勢不便未足以逞其能也今處昏上亂相之間而欲無憊奚可得邪此比干之見剖心徵也夫

Plain-language reading:

Zhuangzi wore coarse cloth with patches, tied his belt with a proper knot, bound his broken shoes with cord, and went to see the King of Wei. The king said, “Why is the Master so worn and weary?” Zhuangzi said, “This is poverty, not weariness. When a scholar has the Dao and De but cannot put them into practice, that is weariness. Tattered clothes and shoes with holes—that is poverty, not weariness. This is what is meant by not meeting the right time. Has Your Majesty never seen the leaping gibbons? When they get nanmu, zimu, or yuzhang—fine trees—they grasp and twine the branches and reign like kings in theforest; even archers like Yi and Peng Meng cannot so much as glance sideways at them. But when they end up among thorn trees—zhe, ji, zhi, gou—they walk cautiously, look askance, and tremble with fear. It is not that their sinews and bones have suddenly become stiff and unyielding; the situation is unfavorable and does not allow their abilities to unfold. Now, living among benighted rulers and disorderly ministers, how can one hope not to be weary? This is the omen of Bi Gan’s heart being cut open.”

(Note: Da bu is coarse cloth. Jiang is the belt, tied with a knot in the middle. Xi lü means shoes broken and laced with cord. Bei means worn down, in straits. Lan is to seize; man is to twine—the two words depict the gibbon free and at ease in the trees. Wang chang means it struts as lord in its domain. Zhe, ji, zhi, and gou are all thorny trees.)

（On “urgency” in the earlier passage）

“Also vibrating in fear, yet not yielding”—adding the two characters “urgent” (jiaji) at the top makes the sense right. What medical texts call “stiffness of the head and nape” means the neck is rigid and not supple enough. Compare it with what Bi Gan did, and the contrast is clear. Those three characters are written cleverly too.

Main text (the “distress in Chen and Cai” passage from the Zhuangzi)

Confucius was trapped between the states of Chen and Cai and went seven days without a hot meal. He rested his left hand on a withered wooden armrest and tapped with a dry branch in his right hand, singing the “Wind of the Yan clan” (an ancient song of the Yan people). There were implements but no beat; there was sound but no gong, shang, or other scale degrees—the knock of wood and the human voice have no fixed standard in the heart.

Yan Hui stood upright with hands folded, stealing sidelong glances. Confucius feared he would inflate himself and push his attainment too far, and also feared he would cherish himself too much and sink into grief. He said: “Hui, not being harmed by others is easy; not being swayed by others’ favors is hard. Nothing fails to go from a beginning to an end; human and Heaven are originally one. Who is it, then, who is singing now?”

（Oral exegesis）

The withered wood is the table; the dry branch is the staff (what the Discourse on Equalizing Things calls “staff for leaning”). He knocks withered wood with a dry branch, hence “there are implements”; he knocks but there is no measure, hence “no numbers.” No gong or shang means it does not fit the five tones. The wooden sound is from knocking; the human sound is from singing.

“Duan gong” means standing properly with hands joined. Confucius feared Yan Hui would “broaden himself”—raise himself too high; pushing with the mind that exalts the self, there is no limit, hence “fearing he would broaden himself and forge something vast.” He also feared “cherishing himself”—being too attached to the self; thinking with the mind that pities the self, one falls into sorrow, hence “cherishing himself and forging grief.” “Forge” (zao) is read like “frustrate” (cuo).

“Human and Heaven are one” means: what is in me is all Heavenly principle. The one singing now is not the selfish “I,” hence the question “who is it?”

Yan Hui said: “May I ask what you mean by ‘not suffering Heaven’s harm’ being easy?”

Confucius said: “Hunger, thirst, cold, heat, and blocked roads are ordinary events in the movement of Heaven and earth and the waxing and waning of things—this is called drifting along with outer things. As someone who serves a lord, one dare not flee; holding to the way of the subject is already like this—how much more when facing Heaven’s mandate? What do you mean by ‘not receiving human benefit’ being hard?”

Yan Hui asked again.

Confucius said: “From the start, all ways are open; rank and salary arrive together without end—that is profit brought by outer things, not what belongs to oneself. Part of my fate lies outside. A gentleman does not act as a robber; a worthy man does not act as a thief—if I went and took such things, what would I be? So it is said: among birds, none compares to the sea eagle (yuan, a fierce bird—far sight and firm hold).”

Note: This chapter is from Lin Xiyi’s Oral Exegesis of the Zhuangzi (Nanhua zhenjing kouyi) of the Song dynasty. He explains Zhuangzi in a Confucian voice and often reads “Heaven’s harm” and “human benefit” in terms of worldly conduct and official reward—which diverges from strictly Zhuangist readings. The translation above follows the tone of the original oral exegesis; proper names are briefly introduced at first mention.

This passage discusses the nature of swallows (鷾鴯). When they encounter places unsuitable for dwelling, they don't even glance twice, abandoning them even if food is available. Though wary of humans, they naturally build nests among human dwellings, just as the state (社稷) exists naturally within the human world.

Confucius said: All things transform without knowing what drives them—how can we know their end? How can we know their beginning? Simply maintain an upright mind and await the changes. What does "unity of human and heaven" mean? Confucius explained: Humans belong to nature, and nature belongs to the Dao of Heaven. Humans cannot defy their natural disposition—the sage peacefully follows natural transformations until life's end.

The text contrasts two situations: when nature brings harm (天损), such as poverty, one should find contentment in simplicity; when human effort brings benefit (人益), such as wealth and status, one should avoid arrogance and indulgence. Most think accepting wealth is easy and poverty hard, but Zhuangzi reverses this: facing natural adversity, we have no choice but acceptance, making it paradoxically easier; while confronting human-bestowed riches and fame, resisting temptation proves far harder, as pride and extravagance creep in unnoticed. Thus, "non-acceptance is the greater challenge."

Fate is like an immovable obstacle (穷桎) or the unstoppable flow of qi (运物运气). We must align with heaven's cyclical changes, moving in harmony with them. Just as ministers cannot defy their ruler's orders, how can humans defy heaven's mandate?

"Fourfold penetration" (四达) refers to unobstructed mental clarity, while "initial efficacy" (始用) means affairs naturally accomplish themselves when intention first arises. Without chasing gain, benefit comes unbidden—this isn't by personal will. Rank and stipend arrive externally through temporal fortune, hence "my fate rests beyond me." For nobles, unearned rewards feel like theft, yet sometimes refusal proves impossible—like when Gongsun He wept upon being appointed chancellor, recognizing how much harder it is to properly handle human-conferred favors.

(Note: 鷾鴯 refers to swallows, also called "indolent birds"; "不给视" means not worth looking at; "社稷" originally denoted earth and grain deities, later symbolizing the state; "运物运气" describes the cyclical patterns of qi transformation.)

Vernacular Interpretation of the Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi (Oral Meaning of the True Classic of Nanhua)

(On the wren and how to live in the world)

That was not where it ought to stay either. Though its eyes could see, it found nothing worth looking at and moved on. When fruit dropped, it would startle and fly away for fear of being hurt—hence the phrase “abandon it and go.” In its heart it wanted to avoid people yet lived close to them—hence “mingling among humankind”: xi here means pressing close, blending into human society.

The altars of soil and grain are places of sacrifice: nothing there to fear, nothing to take—people preserve them out of reverence. Like swallows nesting in human dwellings: neither benefit nor harm, yet people tolerate them. The point is that those who stand in wealth and rank, if they could be as useless and harmless as the wren, would draw no one’s scorn. But once one is called wealthy and honored, how can one be wholly without benefit or harm? Hence “difficult.”

“No beginning that is not an end”: one does not know the beginning, does not know the end. Things change and replace one another in ceaseless turnover—who knows the end, who knows the start? One can only hold the center and wait. “True center” means standing within the work of transformation itself.

“Are human being and Heaven one?”: the human is born of Heaven—hence “where there is the human, there is Heaven”; Heaven too is the product of transformation—hence “where there is Heaven, there is also Heaven.”

“Nature” (xing): the nature Heaven decrees. This word xing stands alongside sheng (life)—what is human nature, what one is born with, all comes from Heaven; how could a person arrange it in advance? The sage knows only what lies beyond human power and rests in it, exhausting this one body and no more. Mencius said, “That is nature, yet there is fate in it—the noble person does not call it mere nature”: he means what is beyond human power and springs from Heaven’s endowment. Yanran is “at ease”: accepting the season and dwelling in what fits, finishing one’s years—hence “embodying passing away and coming to an end.”

Zhuang Zhou visits the park at Diaoling

Zhuang Zhou was wandering in the park at Diaoling when he saw a strange magpie fly in from the south—wings seven feet across, eyes an inch wide. It brushed his forehead and settled in a chestnut grove.

Zhuang Zhou said: What bird is this? Wings so large yet it does not fly away; eyes so large yet it seems not to see? He hitched up his robe, trotted forward, and took his slingshot, intending to bring it down.

Then he saw: a cicada had just found a fine shady spot and forgot itself; a mantis in the shadow raised its forelegs to snatch the cicada, got the cicada and forgot its own form; the strange magpie followed and gained the advantage, got the gain and forgot its own truth.

Zhuang Zhou started in alarm and said: Alas! Things entangle things; two kinds call each other forth! He threw away the slingshot and ran back; the keeper of the park chased him and scolded him.

When Yangzi arrived in the state of Song, he lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly; the ugly one held the higher standing, while the beautiful one held the lower. Yangzi asked how this had come about, and the inn’s servant answered: “The beautiful one thought herself beautiful, so I did not see her as beautiful; the ugly one thought herself ugly, so I did not see her as ugly.” Yangzi said: “Students, take this to heart: whoever has De (virtue) yet does not take himself to have De will be held in affection wherever he goes.”

For the beautiful to take themselves as beautiful is self-praise; for the ugly to take themselves as ugly is to judge oneself unworthy. To have De yet not take oneself to have De is to bear the conduct of the worthy without the habit of boasting—then, wherever one goes, one will be held in affection.

The passage on “乐” (music and joy) in the Oral Explanations of the True Scripture of Nanhua (Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi) is another stretch of text that repays close reading and sits close to everyday feeling; if you read these sections carefully, that is the impression they leave.

Some scholars maintain that the outer chapters of the Zhuangzi were not composed by Zhuangzi himself—is that really the case?

(From Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi, scroll 21.)

Note: “Nanhuazhenjing” is the Zhuangzi as honored in the Daoist tradition; the “outer chapters” are the fifteen outer chapters of the Zhuangzi, long debated as to whether Zhuangzi wrote them himself; “kouyi” denotes expository commentary in a spoken, explanatory style—such as the Song-dynasty commentaries by Lin Xiyi and others that unpack the classic line by line.