《南華真經口義》Vol. 22

Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi, Volume 22, Outer Chapter “Tian Zifang”—Plain-Language Reading

Main Meaning of the Passage

Tian Zifang was attending Duke Wen of Wei and repeatedly praised Xi Gong.

The duke asked: “Is Xi Gong your teacher?”

Tian Zifang said: “No. He is a man from our region of Wuzhe. I praise him because what he says is often right on the mark.”

The duke asked again: “Then you have no teacher?”

Tian Zifang said: “I do.”

“Who?”

“Dongguo Shunzi.”

The duke said: “Then why have you never spoken of him?”

Tian Zifang said: “This man: outwardly he looks like an ordinary person, yet inwardly he is empty and open like Heaven; he follows outer circumstances yet holds fast to what is genuine; his disposition is clear and spare, yet he can embrace all things. When others act contrary to the Dao, he does not scold them harshly—he only sets his bearing straight so they awaken of themselves, and the other person’s improper thoughts naturally dissolve. Someone as good as Xi Gong may still deserve to be praised in words; a stature like Dongguo Shunzi’s—how could that be something to ‘praise’?”

After Tian Zifang left, Duke Wen was dazed all day, said nothing, and summoned his close attendants:

“How far off I was! A gentleman of complete De. At first I thought the words of sage wisdom and the conduct of benevolence and righteousness were the summit. After hearing how Master Zifang lives, my body feels as if it has come apart and I do not want to move; my mouth feels as if it were clamped shut and I do not want to speak—what I had been learning was nothing but coarse clay and husks. This position as ruler of Wei has truly become my burden.”

Lin Xiuyi’s Oral Commentary (Phrase by Phrase)

“Repeatedly praised Xi Gong” means he commended Xi Gong because the doctrines he recited were apt in every line. “Genuine in bearing yet heavenly” means “genuine” points to simplicity and depth; “human in appearance yet heavenly” means the form is still that of an ordinary person, but within there is the virtue of natural Heaven. “Following circumstance yet preserving the genuine” means moving with the affairs of the world without the mind being stirred, and nurturing what is originally true. “Clear yet accommodating things” means keeping oneself pure without rejecting things, with breadth of spirit. “When things are without the Dao, he corrects his bearing to awaken them” means when others are not aligned with the Dao, he does not use abusive speech—he only with upright demeanor lets people understand for themselves. “Makes the other person’s intent dissolve” means the other’s unwholesome intent naturally disperses. “Xi Gong’s goodness may still be spoken of; Shunzi’s excellence cannot be spoken of” means Xi Gong can still be praised in language, whereas Shunzi’s height is not something “eulogy” can capture. “Gentleman of complete De” refers to people like Dongguo Shunzi. “Body dissolved” means Duke Wen felt his body and mind scattered and without a master. “Clay and husks” is a metaphor: what was studied was only the rough shell, not the essential meaning. “Taking possession of a state as a burden” means that as ruler he could not deeply enter the way of Wuwei and naturalness, hence he said Wei was a drag.

Closing Summary

This passage has Tian Zifang use “Xi Gong can be praised, Shunzi need not be praised” to show that true complete De is not in eloquence or reputation but in emptiness like Heaven, preserving the genuine, and awakening others by upright bearing. After hearing this, Duke Wen of Wei falls from confidence in “sage wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness,” feeling what he learned was like clay and husks and that the throne itself blocks him—the usual irony of Zhuangzi’s outer chapters: the highest human values look cramped before a “Shunzi”-style true person.

Plain Language Reading of the Oral Commentary on the Zhuangzi (Nánhua Zhēnjīng)

Wen Bōxuězi (Wen is the surname, Bó the given name, Xuězǐ the style name) returned from the state of Qi and stayed in Lu. Someone wanted to see him again. Wen Bōxuězi said, “The last time he saw me it was in Qi; this time he sees me again in Qi—this person surely intends to rouse me with the right Dao.” He went out to receive the guest, then went inside and sighed; the next day he saw the guest again and went inside sighing once more. His servant asked, “Every time you see this guest, you come back sighing—why?” He replied, “I told you before: people of the central lands know ritual and righteousness, but they are poor at reading the human heart. When that man saw me last time, his coming and going were as if measured by compass and square; his bearing was easy and unhurried, at one moment like a dragon, at another like a tiger. When he admonished me he was like a son; when he led me on he was like a father—so I sighed.”

Confucius met Wen Bōxuězi and said nothing. Zilu said, “You have long wished to see Wen Bōxuězi; now you have met him and do not speak—why?” Confucius said, “With someone like this, the moment our eyes meet the Dao is already there; it is hardly fitting to go on explaining with words.”

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “When you walk, I walk; when you walk quickly, I walk quickly; when you run, I run. When you are like one who flies and leaves the dust behind, I can only stare and fall back—what is this?” Confucius said, “What are you asking? When I walk and you walk, it means we both act by ritual. When I speak and you speak, it means we both answer in words. When I walk quickly and you walk quickly, it means we both argue and discuss. When I run and you run, it means we both talk about the Dao. As for my being like one who flies and leaves the dust behind while you stare and lag—that is: the teacher wins trust without scheming, reaches everywhere without clinging in intimacy, and the people follow ahead without his leaning on pomp and ceremony—yet they do not know why; it is simply thus.”

Confucius went on, “Can you not look closely? There is no grief greater than a dead heart; the death of the body is secondary. The sun rises in the east and sets at the western rim, and nothing among the myriad things fails to turn its gaze along with it.”

Scripture Portion

“Not comparing yet being complete” means one need not deliberately draw close or curry favor—affection and connection naturally become whole and rounded.

“One without the proper vessel cannot leave a trace of a name”: without a fitting vessel or role, one cannot establish a reputation. “The people tread upon it before them” is a metaphor for the multitude coming to follow of their own accord. These images are used to show how Confucius (the Master) leaves others unable to catch up.

“Not knowing how it comes to be so, and that is all” means that at this level one can no longer say exactly how things are.

“Galloping in flight” describes extreme speed; “leaving no dust behind” means moving so fast that even dust is invisible. “Chēng” is to stare with wide eyes. The horse imagery that follows illustrates how ordinary people cannot keep pace.

“How can one fail to examine this closely?” urges the reader to look even more carefully here.

“Death of the heart” is when the mind sees nothing and is moved by nothing; to live yet see nothing is sometimes worse than bodily death. Hence the saying: the greatest sorrow is the death of the heart; only after that comes the death of the person.

“Bǐfāng” (comparison and measure) means what can be counted and distinguished one by one. When the sun is bright, the length and size of all things can be seen—hence “none fail to be measured by comparison.” Rising in the east and setting in the west, from dawn to dusk: “having eyes, having toes” refers to living beings that move; they must wait for the sun to act—this is “dài shì,” waiting for daylight before things can be accomplished. When the sun rises, human affairs exist; when it sets, they cease. All things depend on the Great Dao (the Way) as human affairs depend on the sun—so birth and death both follow the Dao naturally, called “having something to wait upon in dying, having something to wait upon in living.” Once one receives form from the Dao, one holds to this Dao until the form is exhausted, moving with things day and night without knowing an end; suddenly one has form, knows fate yet cannot fix it in advance. For this reason Qiū (Confucius) said: “You and I are like people who miss each other in the passing of a single arm—how can we not grieve? Perhaps you are too attached! As for what I am attached to, you have already exhausted it in experience, yet still treat it as something real to pursue—as if seeking a horse in an empty market (Tángsì). I am clothed at Wèn; you forget what I wear; I forget even more thoroughly. Even so, what do you still worry about? Though the old self is forgotten, there is still what is not forgotten—that which does not perish remains.”

Kouyi (Commentary) Portion

Bù bǐ ér zhōu: Without intimate comparison or pulling together, feeling naturally extends everywhere.

Wú qì zhě bù kě yǐ jì míng: Without a vessel or role one cannot leave a name; “the people tread before them” suggests people coming to follow on their own—by this the Master’s unattainability is shown.

Bù zhī qí suǒ yǐ rán ér yǐ yǐ: At this point one no longer knows how things ultimately are.

Bēn yì, fēi chí, jué chén: Extreme speed, no dust seen. Chēng: gazing straight with the eyes. Those who walk or run in haste are all illustrated by the horse.

È kě bù chá: One should examine this point with even finer care.

Xīn sǐ: Seeing nothing; to live yet see nothing is worse than death—hence “no sorrow greater than the death of the heart; the death of the person comes next.”

Bǐ fāng: What can be divided and counted. Yǒu rì yǒu zhǐ: Waiting for the sun before success is possible; sun rises and affairs exist, sun sets and they vanish—an analogy for human affairs and all things depending on the Dao, “having something to wait upon in dying and in living”; receiving form without transforming until exhaustion, emulating things in motion without knowing the end; knowing fate yet unable to regulate it beforehand.

Qiū shì yǐ rì cú: Confucius says he and you pass like missing in the exchange of one arm. Zhù: clinging; the other has already exhausted it yet you seek it as if real, like seeking a horse at Tángsì. Fú Wèn: the metaphor of forgetting one’s clothes; though the old self is forgotten, what is not forgotten remains—pointing to the body of the Dao or the ever-abiding true constant.

Note: This text belongs to the commentary tradition on the Nanhua Zhenjing (Authentic Scripture of Southern Florescence), mixing Zhuangzi’s original words with the master’s explanations. The core themes are “having something to wait upon,” “death of the heart,” and “what is not forgotten remains”—familiar Zhuangzi topics. The vernacular rendering aims to stay close to the commentator’s voice; proper names (Qiū, the Master, Tángsì, etc.) are clarified briefly according to context.

Vernacular Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (True Scripture of Southern Florescence)

“In the body there is no shifting or change; one simply waits for the end—hence it is said, ‘not transforming in order to await exhaustion.’”

In the body there is no movement, no alteration; one only waits until the journey is complete. This is called not transforming—not that nothing changes, but that one does not use change as a makeshift; one waits until the allotted portion of this life is used up.

“Not transforming means there is no shifting or change within.”

Not transforming means the mind does not follow external things back and forth, does not keep revising itself to suit them.

“Fang means to imitate. Acting in imitation of how things move, without forcing the heart to hold a fixed ‘I’—hence it is said, ‘moving in response to things.’”

Fang means to emulate. One moves as things move, yet the heart does not insist on a seat for the “self”—hence moving in response to things: what moves is the thing; the heart is not locked in struggle.

“Things are the affairs of the world. Seamless means without gap or break.”

Things are the myriad affairs. Seamless means no crack, no interruption—one matter follows another, with no stubborn “I” wedged in between.

“Not knowing where it ends means there is no fixed ‘until when.’”

Not knowing the end means not setting a deadline for oneself—not using a time limit to measure or constrain oneself.

“This body as a whole is nothing but the principle of harmony—hence it is said, ‘gently forming into shape like vapor.’”

The whole person is one seamless whole, with no knot of disharmony in the body—hence gently forming into shape like vapor. Xun here means harmony, moistening, gradual formation: as qi slowly permeates, form grows naturally; it is not wrung out by force.

“Although one knows that nothing among affairs falls outside ming (fate/allotment), in daily use one does not take ming as a ruler to measure by—that is what is meant by ‘the sage does not speak of ming.’”

Though all affairs can be gathered under ming (each in its place, each fulfilling its number), in daily practice one does not wield “ming” as a yardstick—this is the common saying the sage does not speak of ming: not denial of ming, but not keeping ming on the lips as excuse or cage.

“Ri cu means day after day thus, going forward with the days; purity too never ceases.”

Ri cu is every day like this, moving on with the days; purity (sincerity, oneness) also never stops.

“Jiao yi bi means standing shoulder to shoulder. A lifetime of dealing with you, yet never attaining this Dao—hence it is said, ‘lost though we stood but an arm’s length apart.’”

Jiao yi bi is standing side by side. A whole life of meeting, speaking, walking together, yet never truly realizing this Dao—hence lost though we stood but an arm’s length apart: as close as can be, and still one may miss it.

“Zhuo means what clings to the visible. You only see what you can see of me, and do not know there is what cannot be seen—hence it is said, you are probably stuck on what I stick to.”

Zhuo is clinging, fixating. What is zhuo is the layer that can be seen. You only stare at the part of me you can see, and do not know there is a unseen layer—hence you are likely glued to my “what I glue to.”

“Jin here means nothingness. The Dao must reach nothingness before it is truly exhausted; you keep seeking with ‘something there,’ so you never see the end—hence ‘that side has already reached the end, yet you still seek it as if it were something.’”

Jin here must be read as nothingness. The Dao must reach nothingness before it truly ends. You keep seeking as if there were something to grasp, so you never see the limit. On that side (bi) it is already exhausted, yet you still treat it as if it were something.

“Si is a place for goods and horses; tang is a hall without walls. The Classic of Poetry says: ‘In the central hall are bricks.’ Tang, si—like today’s roadside rest pavilion. Goods and horses come and go; they do not stay. To seek the horse that has already left by searching only at the pavilion is the meaning of ‘marking the boat to seek the sword.’”

Si is a market or place to tether horses; tang is a great room without walls. The Classic of Poetry has “in the central tang, bricks”—tang, si, like a roadside relay pavilion today. Goods and horses pass through; they do not remain. To hunt for the horse that has already gone by searching only at the pavilion is marking the boat to seek the sword—the situation has changed, yet you cling to the old mark.

“Wang is what cannot be known. Pushing the unknowable to the limit is called utmost wang.”

Wang is not confusion; it is reaching the layer of the unknowable. To push the unknowable to the extreme is utmost wang.

“Fu here means to practice, to walk the path. What you and I practice must reach the utmost unknowable; what I and you practice must also reach the utmost unknowable. Hence: I follow you to utmost wang, and you follow me to utmost wang.”

Fu here is to practice, to embody. What I walk with you must go to the unknowable; what you walk with me must also go to the unknowable. Hence: I practice with you to utmost wang, and you practice with me to utmost wang—this cannot be nailed in words; one must reach wangyan (forgetting words—not fixing the teaching in characters) before it is complete.

“The meaning is: this matter I cannot fully tell you, nor can you fully tell me; only when we reach wangyan is it truly exhausted.”

The point: this cannot be fully spoken between us; only at wangyan is it truly complete.

“Even so, the text turns again: though you have not yet arrived here, what is there to fear?”

Even so, another turn: though you have not yet reached this stage, there is no need for alarm.

“For if you already know that one who ‘runs beyond the dust’ leaves you staring from behind, you at least know there is still one layer not yet resolved—and that in itself is not bad.”

If you already know that one who runs beyond the dust leaves you gaping behind, you at least know there remains a layer not yet penetrated—and that is already something.

“If at this point you can forget the old attachment (not clinging to past awakening or past forms), though how I appear then may differ from what you see today, what I do not forget—the root that does not change with appearances—remains as before. This is what Buddhism calls ‘after awakening, still the same’—not a new face after awakening, but forms change while the root does not move.”

If here one can forget old fixation (not clinging to prior realization or prior forms), though my manner then may differ from what you see today, what I do not forget—the root that does not shift with appearances—still stands. The Buddhist phrase after awakening, still the same means exactly this: not swapping faces after awakening, but appearances change while the root is unmoved.

“People of the time often took it to mean: realization is complete only when one sees ‘nowhere to rest, nothing to grasp.’”

Contemporaries often read it as: one must see “no place to settle, nothing to seize” before it is complete. The kouyi adds: completion lies not in “seeing a nowhere,” but in not dwelling anywhere, not seeking something.

Brief notes on terms

• Nanhua Zhenjing: The Zhuangzi, titled the True Scripture of Southern Florescence in Daoism.
• Kouyi: Commentary that explains line by line.
• Not transforming to await exhaustion / moving in response to things: Zhuangzi-related ideas, here explained as non-shifting and not forcing the heart.
• The sage does not speak of ming: A theme in Confucian and Daoist sources; here, not using ming in daily measure.
• Lost though we stood but an arm’s length apart: From Zhuangzi contexts; intimacy without realization.
• Marking the boat to seek the sword: Parable from the Lüshi Chunqiu; clinging to an old sign when things have moved on.

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

I. On “the former me” (gu wu) and “me” (wu)

“Old” here means “having been” or “what exists”—it concerns the relation between time and the Way (Dao). Hence the text says: even if one forgets “the former me,” there still remains a “me that is not forgotten.”

The two occurrences of “wu” (I/me) are explained in light of Yanzi (Yan Yuan)’s situation; they differ in usage from the “wu” in the earlier phrases “I follow you” and “you follow me.”

II. Confucius visits Laozi (Laodan)

Confucius went to see Laodan (Laozi). Laozi had just finished bathing and was letting his loose hair dry. He stood with a focused, settled bearing (zhiran)—not like an ordinary person. Confucius withdrew to one side and waited. After a while Laozi came out and said: Were your eyes playing tricks on you just now? A moment ago the Master’s body was withered like dead wood, as if casting off things and leaving humanity behind—setting aside outer things and rising above the crowd, standing alone (li yu du) apart from everything.

Laozi said: I had let my mind wander to the beginning of things (wu zhi chu)—the point before things had yet divided. Confucius asked: What does that mean? Laozi said: The mind is trapped within it and cannot be made clear; the mouth opens but cannot speak. Let me try to describe for you that approximate realm:

Utmost Yin (zhi yin) is solemn and chill; utmost Yang (zhi yang) is bright and majestic. The solemn chill issues from Heaven; the bright majesty issues from Earth. The two meet and interchange, forming harmonizing Qi (vital energy), and only then do the myriad things come to be. It is as though something holds and orders them, yet no form can be seen. Waning and waxing, empty and full, dark and bright in turn, day changing and month transforming—each day there is activity, yet no achievement can be seen. Life has a place where it sprouts; death has a place where it returns. Beginning and end oppose each other, yet without source or limit; people do not know where the ultimate lies. If it were not so, who could be the lord of the myriad things?

III. Summary of the oral gloss (kouyi)

• Spreading the hair to dry (bei fa er qian): the same idea as “drying the hair in the sun” in the Li Sao.
• Zhiran: the manner of concentrating the spirit and standing still.
• Not human (fei ren): not like a living person—almost like a wooden puppet.
• Ju: stiff and blank, standing motionless.
• Casting off things (yi wu): letting go of outer objects; leaving humanity (li ren): transcending the ordinary human state; standing alone (li yu du): stepping beyond this world and standing apart from all things.
• The beginning of things: the “beginning” before there were any things.
• Bi: to close. With nothing known in the mind and nothing utterable by the mouth, the text says “trapped” and “closed.”
• Jiang (approximate): nearly so. The profound realm is hard to put in words; one can only discuss what is close to it—hence “speak of what is approximate.” Earlier “fan” and “feng” appear; here “jiang” varies the wording.
• Solemn chill and bright majesty: a metaphor for what is called the Way (Dao) as one Yin-Yang pair. The next four lines: Yin and Yang harmonize, and then the myriad things are born; “interchange” means mutual coming and going and union—Yin alone does not generate, Yang alone does not complete—hence “interchange to form harmony.”
• Ji (to hold/order): to weave and master; as if something presides, yet its form cannot be seen.

Explanatory Section

Because it cannot be seen, it is called “creation and transformation” (zaohua). Creation and transformation means the alternation of day and night, the shift between dark and bright, the circulation of the qi of the four seasons, and the succession of sun and moon. Change happens every day—yet where does the efficacy of creation and transformation lie? It is hard to put into words. Things that seem opposite are in fact joined at the root and cannot be traced to an end. For example, when a sparrow turns into a clam: if you call it the sparrow’s end, then the clam is the beginning; if you call it the clam’s beginning, then the sparrow is the end. The same holds when emperors abdicate and dynasties change—how could anyone see it through to the limit? Hence it is said that beginning and end oppose each other, yet there is no thread to follow; who can know where it ends? Here the text is clearly speaking of the Creator, yet does not name it; it also says “it is not this”—then who is the master? That master is the Creator. “Origin” (zong) also means the Creator. If it were not speaking of this, who would be the master? Zhuangzi’s prose is vivid sentence by sentence precisely in such places.

Text Section

Confucius said: May I ask what “rambling” (you) means? Laozi said: To attain utmost beauty and utmost joy, and to roam within utmost joy—that is the Perfect Man (zhiren). Confucius said: I would like to hear the method. Laozi said: Grass-eating beasts feel no discomfort when they move to another pasture; water creatures feel no discomfort when they change to another stretch of water. Their comings and goings shift slightly, yet they do not lose their native nature. Joy, anger, grief, and delight do not enter the breast. The world is the place where the myriad things return to oneness; obtain that oneness and merge with it, and then the four limbs and hundred parts become dust and filth, birth and death, beginning and end, become day and night—and nothing can alter this. How much less the boundary between gain and loss, fortune and misfortune? To cast off office as one casts off mud—knowing that the person is more precious than rank, and that what is precious lies in oneself and is not lost through change. Moreover, the myriad transformations are endless; what could be enough to disturb the mind? One who has attained the Dao is at ease here.

Neither life nor death can disturb his state of mind, let alone trivial matters like gain and loss, fortune and misfortune. "Petty vexations" (芥蒂) refer to minor annoyances, while "servants" (隶仆) are like slaves. The coming and going of servants is as insignificant as discarding a clod of earth. If one considers oneself noble and external things lowly, yet truly understands that the preciousness of the Dao (道) lies within oneself, how can external changes ever rob me of the supreme beauty and joy within my heart?

The transformations between heaven and earth cycle endlessly, as they have since time immemorial—where could there be an end to them? Gain and loss, fortune and misfortune are all natural phenomena—how could they become anxieties in my heart? Thus it is said that all things fundamentally have no limits, so what could truly disturb the mind? Only ordinary people fail to comprehend this principle; one must reach the state where body and mind unite with the Dao to understand it. Confucius said that Laozi's Virtue (德) matched heaven and earth, yet he still relied on subtle words to cultivate his mind—could any ancient noble person surpass such a state?

Laozi refutes this: Just as rivers draw water (汋, interchangeable with 酌, "to dip") yet never run dry, it is because their nature follows effortless action (无为). The Virtue of one who attains the Dao is likewise—it requires no deliberate cultivation, and external things cannot influence it. Just as heaven is naturally high, earth naturally thick, and the sun and moon naturally bright, where is the need for artificial adornment? Confucius emerged and sighed to Yan Hui: My understanding of the Dao is like a vinegar gnat (醯鸡, a midge in vinegar) unaware of the vast world beyond its jar. Had Laozi not revealed my limitations, I would never have grasped the complete truth of heaven and earth.

Note: "Subtle words" (至言) refers to the refined speech mentioned earlier. Laozi considers it wrong to cultivate the mind through words, because water's essence is to flow naturally, and the Virtue of one who attains the Dao is likewise rooted in spontaneity—just as heaven, earth, sun and moon exist naturally without need for adornment. "Vinegar gnat" illustrates narrow perspective, like an insect trapped in a vinegar jar unable to see the world outside.

Plain-Language Reading of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Exegesis of the True Classic of Southern Florescence)

1. Zhuangzi Visits Duke Ai of Lu

Zhuangzi went to see Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, “In our state of Lu there are many Confucian scholars, yet few study your line of teaching, sir.” Zhuangzi replied, “In truth Lu has few Confucian scholars.” The duke said, “The whole country wears Confucian dress—how can you say they are few?”

Zhuangzi said, “I have heard that the Confucian who wears a round cap should understand the seasons and heaven; the one who wears square-toed shoes should understand terrain and geography; the one who slowly wears a jade ring pendant at the waist (a half-ring ornament the ancients wore to show one could decide matters firmly) should be resolute when things arise. A gentleman may have the Way in his heart without necessarily wearing that costume; one who wears the costume may not truly understand the Way. If you do not believe me, why not issue an order throughout the realm: anyone who wears Confucian dress without this learning shall be put to death?” The duke did so. After five days under the decree, no one in Lu dared wear Confucian dress anymore—except one man who still stood at the palace gate in Confucian garb. The duke summoned him and questioned him on state affairs; he answered through a thousand complications and changes without embarrassment. Zhuangzi said, “In Lu there is perhaps one man who counts as a true Confucian—can you say Confucian scholars are many?”

Note on the oral exegesis: “Fang” here means methods and learning—the point is that Lu’s Confucians studied a different path from the Master (Zhuangzi). “Slowly wearing the jade ring” describes unhurried bearing while also wearing the jade half-ring, taking the meaning of being able to decide. “One man” covertly alludes to Confucius. The passage means: many wear the robe; few truly know the Way.

2. Baili Xi and the House of Youyu

Baili Xi did not set his heart on rank and salary, so he could tend cattle yet fatten them well, until Duke Mu of Qin forgot his humble origins and entrusted him with government. The people of Youyu did not set their hearts on life and death, so they were enough to move others.

When he fed the cattle, how could he have had a mind greedy for rank and emolument? Precisely because he had no such craving inwardly, Duke Mu employed him. “Moving others” means being able to transform and teach them. When neither life nor death enters the heart, that is acting without contrivance (wuwei)—the mind is not tugged by outer things. The oral exegesis says: here again two lines are tossed in casually, using ordinary affairs to awaken one to the subtlety of “no-mind.”

3. Lord Yuan of Song and Painting

Lord Yuan of Song wished to have a painting made. All the painters arrived, bowed, and stood; half of them stayed outside grinding ink and mixing colors. One painter came last, easy and unhurried—too lazy even to bow and stand properly like the rest—and went straight into the studio. The lord sent someone to look: the man had loosened his clothes, sat cross-legged, and bared his upper body. The lord said, “Enough—this is a real painter.”

“Chanchan” describes a loose, leisurely, self-satisfied manner. “Received the bow but did not stand” means he had bowed with the others but did not wait outside in formal attendance. “Panbo” is sitting with legs spread; “luo” means naked. The sense is: one who does not fix the mind on pleasing or seeking employment is the one who truly knows how to paint.

This passage recounts King Wen of Zhou's discovery of the wise man Jiang Taigong (known as the Old Man of Zang). While traveling through Zang territory, King Wen observed an elderly man fishing—though holding a rod, his mind seemed detached from the act ("not truly fishing though holding a fishing rod"). This transcendent attitude convinced the king he had encountered a sage.

Wishing to employ him yet fearing ministerial opposition, King Wen couldn't bear the thought of leaving his people without proper guidance ("without heaven" meaning without a true ruler). He therefore claimed to have received a dream visitation from his deceased father (the previous king) instructing him to pass the throne to this elder from Zang. Recognizing this as a legitimate royal mandate, the ministers raised no objections.

Upon assuming governance, the Old Man of Zang made no legal reforms ("no changes to established laws") for three years and issued few new decrees ("scarcely any special edicts were proclaimed"). Remarkably, factionalism disappeared at court ("officials ceased forming cliques"), administrators stopped boasting of achievements ("superiors no longer flaunted their virtues"), and neighboring states dared not deceive them ("false measures ceased crossing our borders"). When King Wen finally sought his counsel on statecraft, the sage remained silent, fleeing that very night to vanish without trace.

Annotations:

1. "Constant fishing" describes holding a rod without desire for fish

2. "Partially red hooves" refers to horses with one crimson hoof

3. "No changes to laws" means preserving existing statutes

4. "Dissolving factions" metaphorically depicts ending partisanship

5. "Not flaunting virtue" indicates refusing to claim merit

Through Jiang Taigong's story, this narrative embodies the Daoist governing principle of Wuwei (non-action)—demonstrating how a true sage ruler achieves harmonious order through natural non-interference rather than forced measures.

Plain-Language Reading of Kouyi (Oral Exegesis) on the Nanhua Zhenjing (True Classic of Southern Florescence)

斔 (chǎng) is the same as 庾 (yǔ), a vessel for measuring grain. The 斔 and 斛 (hú) differed in size from state to state, yet none dared to alter its own standard at will. Once one entered another state’s territory, the regional lords knew whom they ought to acknowledge—hence the idea of “no second allegiance, obey the command.” 朝令 (zhāo lìng) refers to hearing the orders of King Wen of Zhou: even the weightiest affairs of the realm came under his scrutiny. Some fled on that account and were never spoken of again for the rest of their lives, much like the Shangshu (Book of Documents) line that they “were not illustrious to the end.”

The text also says “且属之大夫” (and assign it to the great officers). In older versions it reads “且属之夫.” Sima Biao’s commentary explains that 夫 (fū) should be read as a graphic loan for 大 (dà)—夫 here means “great,” a single sense of largeness. (He cites examples such as the Mount Tai stone, the First Emperor’s inscription, and the censor’s “夫夫,” showing that in seal script 夫 and 大 are close in form.)

Yan Yuan asked Confucius whether King Wen of Zhou had not yet brought the world fully under order, and framed the question as if it concerned a dream. Confucius said: Hold your tongue and say no more. King Wen had already done everything that could be done; what is there to fault? He merely adapted to the circumstances of the moment so that people would find it easy to follow.

循斯须 (xún sī xū) means to reckon only for the immediate instant, so that everyone is willing to listen—how can that be taken as grounds for ridicule?

Lie Yukou (Liezi) served as the archery target for Bo Hun Wuren (Master Bo Hun Who Has No Name). When he drew the bow to the full, he could balance a cup of water on his elbow; when he released, the arrow just loosed was still in flight while the next was already on the string—one after another, as fast as a string of beads. At that time he was as steady as a wooden puppet. Bo Hun Wuren said: This is “shooting in order to shoot,” not “not shooting in order to shoot.” I once took you up a high mountain, onto perilous rock, to stand beside a hundred-ren abyss—could you still shoot then? So Bo Hun Wuren really climbed the high peak, stepped on the dangerous stone, turned his back to the hundred-zhang chasm, hung his heels over the void, and left only two fen of his feet on the outer lip of the cliff, then told Lie Yukou to come forward. Lie Yukou prostrated himself on the ground, sweat running to his heels. Bo Hun Wuren said: The perfected person (zhiren) looks up at the azure heaven, probes the yellow spring below, and sweeps the eight directions without change in spirit and bearing; yet you are now panic-stricken, your gaze fixed and dull, your heart already in disorder. To shoot the bow in such a place is far too dangerous.

Notes for reading the main text:

• 引之盈贯: The bow is drawn to the full, the arrow nocked to the string.
• 前手直而肘平，可以置一杯水于其上: The forward hand straight and the elbow level—showing how still the posture is.
• 适矢复沓，方矢复寓: The previous arrow has barely left; the next is already on the string—describing extremely rapid successive shots.
• 象人: Like a wooden figure, motionless.
• 背逡巡，足二分垂在外: Facing away from the abyss, edging back until only a sliver of the foot remains on the cliff’s edge.

On Archery

“One foot on the shore and two feet hanging in empty space” is danger pushed to the limit. Bo Hunmiao could still hit the mark—this is what is called guarding pure qi (shǒu chún qì): essence and spirit unified and undistracted. Shooting with feet planted on solid ground is the ordinary way of archery, so it is said this is not “the archery of non-archery.” When mind and spirit can hold to oneness, then though one looks up into blue heaven or down through the yellow springs and sweeps to the eight directions’ farthest reaches, the inner heart does not waver. Danger and ease seem different realms, yet one still fears and the eyes are restless—if only this, one has not yet known the learning of the perfected person. With this way of shooting, even to seek the subtle meaning of hitting the target is hard. Hence it is said: when something is fixed in your heart, you are in danger. Chù: fear; xún mù: the eyes move, uneasy.

Jian Wu Questions Sun Shuao

Jian Wu asked Sun Shuao: “You were chief minister (líng yǐn, the highest executive of Chu) three times without feeling glory, and were dismissed three times without a troubled face. At first I doubted you; now I see your nostrils breathe xǔxǔ (calm, self-possessed)—how is your mind uniquely so?” Sun Shuao said: “What is there in me beyond others? What comes cannot be pushed away; what goes cannot be held. I take gain and loss as not residing in me, so I have no troubled face—that is all. What is there in me beyond others? And I do not know whether the honor of being chief minister lies over there or in me. If honor lies in that office, it has nothing to do with me; if honor lies in me, it has nothing to do with the office. Hence: if in that other, then absent in me; if in me, then absent in that other.” The whole force of these lines is: hesitating and looking about—gazing far in spirit between heaven and earth—who still has room to care about what people call high or low?

Confucius Hears of It

Confucius heard and said: The true person of old—wise speech could not exhaust him, beautiful form could not beguile him, robbers could not steal from him; Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor (ancient sage-kings) could not win him by alliance. Death and life are great, yet he did not change his self; how much less rank and stipend! Such a one: his spirit could bear Mount Tai without injury, enter deep springs without being soaked, dwell in low and small places without weariness, and fill heaven and earth. Having given to others, he himself had more.

Note: The oral meaning of this chapter largely corresponds to passages in Zhuangzi, “Tian Zifang”—Bo Hunmiao’s archery, Sun Shuao thrice as chief minister, and Confucius on the true person. The oral meaning stresses guarding oneness, “gain and loss are not in me,” and the true person’s “no entry,” “the more one gives the more one has.”

King Chu of Chu and Lord of Fan sat facing each other. After a while, someone attending the king said, “Lord of Fan has already withdrawn three times.” Lord of Fan replied, “Lord of Fan’s withdrawal is not enough to impair my being. Since Lord of Fan’s withdrawal is not enough to impair my being, then the existence of the state of Chu is also not enough to sustain my being. Seen in this light, Lord of Fan has never truly withdrawn, and the state of Chu has never truly existed.”

The point of this passage is that what one loses is not enough to make one humble oneself, and what one possesses is not enough to make one boast. Put another way, it teaches that the Dao is in oneself; one does not measure oneself by whether one has a state. Lord of Fan does not cease to be because he withdraws, and Chu does not endure because it exists—so gain and loss, fortune and misfortune in the world are all external things. Even so, the weight of the passage still rests on the line that “the existence of the state of Chu was not enough to sustain my being.” If what is lost is not enough to make one humble oneself, then what is gained is not enough to make one boast. To humble oneself is to feel shame; to boast is to put on a show. This line has a special savor—it is language from the path of study that one can apply directly to one’s own life.