《南華真經口義》Vol. 23

Passage from the Classic

“Zhi” traveled to the north bank of the Xuanshui and climbed the hill of Yin Fen (a mountain name; the reading may also be “fen”). He happened to meet “Wuwei Wei” (an allegorical figure symbolizing natural non-action). Zhi said to Wuwei Wei: I wish to ask you—how should one think in order to understand the Dao? Where should one dwell and what should one wear in order to rest in the Dao? By what road should one walk in order to attain the Dao?

He asked three times; Wuwei Wei never answered. It was not that he did not want to answer, but that he simply could not answer—Zhi ought not to have pressed such questions.

Zhi had no choice but to turn back. On the south bank of the Baishui he climbed Fox Que Mountain and met Kuang Qu. Zhi told him what had happened and asked what Kuang Qu thought. Kuang Qu sighed and said: Alas, I grasp what you are asking; I was just about to tell you, but the words reached my lips and I forgot what I had meant to say.

Still Zhi could get no answer. He returned once more to the Yellow Emperor’s palace and told the story. The Yellow Emperor said: Only when you do not overthink and over-worry can you begin to know the Dao; only when you do not cling to dwelling place and dress can you begin to rest in the Dao; only when you do not force a single “road to attaining the Dao” can you begin to attain the Dao.

Zhi asked the Yellow Emperor again: Wuwei Wei and I count as those who “know,” while Kuang Qu counts as one who does not know—who is right? The Yellow Emperor said: Wuwei Wei is the one who truly understands; Kuang Qu only somewhat resembles it; you and I, in the end, still do not come close to the Dao.

Oral Exegesis (Lin Xiyi’s commentary)

The personal names above are all allegory, but the three roles divide the labor differently:

• Zhi: a person full of schemes and calculation.
• Wuwei Wei: stands for nature and Wuwei (non-action).
• Kuang Qu: “kuang” means free and unrestrained; “qu” is like the stiff fork of a dead branch—akin to words such as “fuyou” (free rambling) in the Xiaoyao You, describing a wild yet wooden manner, as if “knowing nothing.”

The main point of this passage is the line from the Laozi: those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know. Hence the deliberate parade of question and answer that never arrives at an answer: it is like the saying “before the old monk, no kudzu hoe” (from Chan master Jia Shan)—before the true Dao, clever questions and clever replies all come to nothing. Kuang Qu wanted to speak but forgot: that shows the heart still holding the fixation that “there is a question that must be answered,” still on the side of “Zhi asking.” So it is said: Wuwei Wei is the one who truly understands; Kuang Qu only approximates; Zhi and the Yellow Emperor are still farther off.

The Text That Follows

Therefore it is also said: those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know. The sage carries out teaching without words.

The Dao cannot be obtained by chasing after it; De (Virtue/Power) cannot be reached by deliberate striving. Ren (humaneness) can be practiced—yet that still involves contrivance; Yi (rightness) can be weighed with shortfall and calculation; Li (ritual propriety) is largely outward form. Hence it is said: when the Dao is left behind, there is De; when De is left behind, there is Ren; when Ren is left behind, there is Yi; when Yi is left behind, there is Li. Li is the ornament of the Dao—and also the beginning of disorder.

Those who cultivate the Dao diminish day by day; they diminish and diminish again until they reach Wuwei (non-action); in Wuwei, nothing is left undone. Having already become bound to things (enslaved by outer objects), wanting again to return to the root (gui gen)—is that not hard? What is easy—perhaps only the “Great Person” can do it—Zhuangzi’s turn of phrase; another writer might say “only for the Great Person is it easy,” but he writes “what is easy, perhaps only the Great Person,” and the tone cuts sharper.

The one who knows does not speak—this speaks of the wordless teaching that came west with Bodhidharma: not establishing written words, pointing directly at the human mind, seeing nature and becoming Buddha—the same line as Vimalakīrti’s gate of non-duality. The Dao cannot be arrived at; it cannot be arrived at through words. De cannot be fully reached; it cannot be sought through traces. Benevolence, righteousness, and ritual all rest on having traces (visible form, something to imitate); once there are traces, the Dao is spoiled (yu dao hui le). Zhuangzi treats ritual as a technique for forcing the world (qiang shi) into order, so compared with benevolence and righteousness, ritual’s traces weigh heavier—hence the flower of the Dao, the head of disorder—“flower” means outward adornment without inner substance; outer show and falsity are exactly where deceit begins, hence the head of disorder.

Set aside cleverness, cast off limbs—this is the day-by-day diminishing of those who cultivate the Dao: diminish until there is nothing, and that is the moment the old self is forgotten; able to be Wuwei, one follows the natural order of Heaven’s principle, and there is nothing one cannot do. Things are traces; if seeking the Dao also falls into traces, then the self is still the same as things, and wanting to see the ground that is root from oneself—no wonder it is hard. Returning to the root means gathering inward and going back to the time before things. The Great Person is one who practices Wuwei; for the Great Person it is easy—the three words “what is easy” are Zhuangzi’s syntax.

The living are the companions of the dead; the dead are the beginning of life. Who knows their order? Human life is the gathering of Qi (vital energy); gathered, it is life; scattered, it is death. If death and life are companions, what have I to fear? Therefore all things are one. What people call marvelous they call divine and strange; what they call foul they call stench and rot; stench and rot turn again into the marvelous, the marvelous turns again into stench and rot—hence: throughout the world there is but one Qi. Therefore the sage values oneness.

“Dead as the beginning of life” is more convoluted than “living as companions of the dead”—like flowers and trees putting forth branches and leaves: that is life, yet what has already issued must in the end be exhausted, so what is alive is already dying. Master Yichuan said: the breath you breathe in is not the breath you just breathed out—Qi circulates through birth and death on the same principle.

On “ripe fruit not eaten” and related lines

Earlier commentators explained these lines well—exactly in this sense: “ripe fruit” means fruit fully mature; “not eaten by those who peel it” also carries the idea of “sprouting again from the husk”—when ripe fruit is no longer picked and eaten, it falls, rots, and the seed sprouts anew; that is how “the dead” are followed by “planting and rebirth.” So: is death not also the opening of life? Death and life turn and cycle; all things are so. Who truly presides over and drives this? It is the fundamental order (gangji) at work—the gathering and dispersing of qi that forms life and death. Ordinary people only know life and death as two cuts; if one awakens that life and death are originally one principle, why heap worry on a vain single death and single birth?

Life and death as one principle and “valuing oneness”

Life and death were always one principle; all things are alike, yet people split beauty and ugliness, liking and loathing: when flowers are in full bloom they seem marvelous; fallen to earth and rotting they seem foul. They do not know that leaves fall to dung and new growth rises from the roots—foul rot turns again into the marvelous; born and fallen, the marvelous turns again into foul rot. From antiquity to now, what comes and goes is only one qi. The sage knows this and does not treat death and life, poverty and attainment, fortune and misfortune as separate, hence the sage values oneness—“oneness” is non-distinction.

The Yellow Emperor questions Kuang Qu (the earlier meaning is quite clear)

The Yellow Emperor said: I asked about wuwei (non-action); wuwei did not answer me—not because it would not answer, but because it did not know how to answer; I asked Kuang Qu; Kuang Qu meant to answer in his heart but did not speak—not because he would not answer, but because he meant to answer and forgot. Now I ask you: if you know, why not speak plainly? The Yellow Emperor said: Kuang Qu is true (merged with the Dao) because he does not know (does not cling to discursive knowing); he seems (near the Dao) because he forgets (forgets words); you and I in the end cannot draw near, because we know (cling to knowing). When Kuang Qu heard this, he took the Yellow Emperor to be one who speaks to the point.

Great beauty in heaven and earth (following Zhuangzi’s original sense)

Heaven and earth hold great beauty yet do not speak; the four seasons have clear patterns yet do not debate; the myriad things have established principles yet do not declare. The sage traces back (yuan) the beauty of heaven and earth and penetrates the principles of the myriad things; hence the perfected person is wuwei and the great sage does not contrive—this is the meaning of observing heaven and earth. That spirit is utmost refined; it transforms and unites with the myriad things—death and life, square and round, none knows its root; pervading (bianran) the myriad things, it has been solidly present from antiquity; the six directions as vastness has not left its inside, the autumn down as smallness awaits it to complete form.

Vernacular Interpretation

All things under heaven rise and fall, come and go, and renew themselves day by day; Yin-Yang and the four seasons each run in their proper order. The Dao seems hazy, as if absent yet truly present; vitality wells up abundantly yet leaves no trace—things grow and are nourished within it without ever noticing. This is the root; from it one may contemplate the way of heaven.

Heaven and earth hold great beauty yet do not proclaim it—like the Qian hexagram in the*Book of Changes*, which benefits the world through beauty and goodness without stating what it benefits: how vast that is. Those who grasp the pattern know that cold and heat, waxing and waning, all follow a clear law—when has there ever been need for human deliberation? Hence “not discussed”: duck legs are short, crane legs long; wheat bows, millet lifts; things may be cold or hot, bitter or sweet—all are the reason of nature. As for why they are short or long, bitter or sweet, how could that be fully explained? Hence “there is a settled pattern, yet it is not spoken.” Not acting is Wuwei (non-action); Wuwei and not acting both mean following nature. That sages can follow nature is simply because they receive it from heaven and earth. That is what is meant by “observing heaven.”

“Spirit is utmost refinement” speaks of subtle principle. The “that” above refers to heaven; the “that” below refers to things. Whether things live or die, whether square or round when they live—all is the work of spirit at its utmost refinement. Once form is fixed, who can trace it to its ultimate root? Hence “things already live and die; square and round—none know their root.”

“Pian ran” means fluttering away—departing without cease, like “it passes on like this”: things transform and breed in endless succession, without end, while creation itself abides. Su Dongpo’s “it passes like this yet has never gone” is exactly this meaning. Without some insight, one could not speak to this point.

“Liuhe (the six directions) as vast—yet never outside it”: though heaven and earth are great, they do not exceed the scope of creation. “The tip of an autumn hair as small—wait until it is a body”: without that tiny body there would be no name “tip of autumn hair”—thus nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, and Mount Tai is small. Rising and falling is coming and going; “not old” means ever new. Things come and go without exhaustion, day after day—hence nothing under heaven fails to rise and fall, and in a lifetime never grows stale. Because it does not grow stale, the four seasons run and keep their order. Hunran is invisible; youran is teeming vitality.

Brief notes on terms:

• Liuhe: above, below, and the four directions—the cosmos.
• Tip of an autumn hair: the finest tip of an animal’s fur in autumn; Zhuangzi uses it to mean the extremely small.
• Wuwei and not acting: not forcing or meddling; aligning with nature.
• “It passes like this yet has never gone”: Su Shi’s twist on Confucius’s “it passes on like this”—change never stops, yet the body of the Dao endures.

Vernacular Interpretation

Form and Spirit, Life and Dao

“Seemingly gone yet still present”—as if absent yet still there; “the dead are kin to the living”—death belongs to the same family as life and walks the same path. Spirit does not depend on the shape of the body to exist, nor does it vanish along with life. What nourishes all things is the Dao, yet ordinary people do not know this—that is where creation and transformation fundamentally lie. To observe the heavenly Dao is nothing other than this principle; hence it is said that one may thereby observe Heaven.

Quechui Questions Bei Yi

Quechui put a question to Bei Yi. Bei Yi said: Straighten your form and unify your seeing and hearing—the harmony of Heaven (primordial Qi) will arrive; gather in your knowing and unify your measuring—spirit will come to dwell, De will moisten you, and the Dao will take up residence in you. Let your eyes be like those of a calf just born, looking straight ahead without asking “how do I see?” Before he had finished speaking, Quechui had fallen asleep. Bei Yi was greatly pleased, sang as he left, and said: The body is like withered wood, the heart like dead ashes; what is realized is genuine knowing, yet one does not cling to it with old, fixed views; dazed and dim, with no mind that can be fathomed—there is no way to deliberate with such a person. What kind of person is this!

Explanation in the Oral Commentary (with Buddhist Terms for Comparison)

This passage again depicts two people who “know the Dao” speaking to each other; in Buddhism there is the saying “the skilled hand displays the skilled hand, the red heart holds the red heart within the red heart”—it is the same idea.

“Straighten your form, unify your seeing and hearing”—forget the body and the functions of ear and eye. “Gather in your knowing, unify your measuring”—set aside deliberation and conscious intent (du here means surmise and mental direction). The harmony of Heaven is primordial Qi; when body, ear, and eye are forgotten, primordial Qi is preserved whole. Spirit—in Buddhism called the “master of the house”—comes and goes without fixed times and knows no homeland; then it is not a guest from outside but one who comes to “dwell.” “De will beautify you”—De nourishes the person; “the Dao will dwell in you”—dwelling in the broadest dwelling under Heaven. Tong means looking straight ahead without knowing—how; a newborn calf is not without sight, yet how could it ask “how do I see?” The infant at the breast is the same. This images mindlessness. “Before the words were finished, he was asleep”—the reply was not yet complete and he was already sleeping; meanings matched, so there was no need for many words—hence it is written this way.

“Genuine knowing that is real”—truly having seen this principle. “Not holding to the old”—things and events do not enter the heart, so one does not grasp them with past fixed views. “Dazed and dim”—hazy and indistinct, nothing showing forth. The other is without mind; on my side there is a fit that words cannot express—hence “mindless and not someone with whom one can plot.” Between Heaven and Earth there truly are such people—hence “what kind of person is that!”

Shun asked the Minister (an ancient sage official): "Can the Dao be possessed and mastered by me?" The Minister replied: "Even your own body does not belong to you—how could you possess the Dao?" Shun was astonished: "My body doesn't belong to me? Then to whom does it belong?"

The Minister explained: Your physical form is but a temporary convergence bestowed by Heaven and Earth (weixing refers to the provisional form granted by cosmic forces). Your life is not your possession, but the harmonious interplay of Yin and Yang energies (weihe denotes the balanced state of these primal forces). Your innate nature and destiny similarly don't belong to you—they merely manifest the operations of cosmic patterns (weishun signifies alignment with natural laws). Even your descendants are like a cicada's molted shell—mere traces of Heaven and Earth's transformative cycles (weitui metaphorizes life's renewal through shedding).

Therefore, in walking one need not cling to direction; in dwelling one need not fix to a place; in eating one need not crave flavors. For all these are propelled by the ceaseless vital energy (qiangyang qi means the ever-flowing primordial qi) circulating between Heaven and Earth—how could humans truly possess anything? As the Buddhist Scripture of Perfect Enlightenment states, "Where exactly is this place where you presently dwell?"—both teachings share the same profound truth. This discourse is remarkably subtle, for "not knowing what to grasp" precisely means relinquishing all attachments.

Later, Confucius also inquired about the most profound Dao from Laozi. Laozi said: "First you must purify your heart through fasting (shuyue means cleansing the mind), bathe your spirit (zaoxue symbolizes spiritual purification), and shatter your preconceptions (pouji signifies breaking attachments). The Dao is too profound for words—I can only outline its contours: All luminous, visible things emerge from obscure, invisible origins (mingming indicates the undifferentiated chaos), while concrete beings originate from formless Dao. Human spirit derives from the Dao, physical form from subtle essence (jing refers to the refined substance composing all things), and all creatures transform into one another through physical forms. Thus do nine-orificed womb-born creatures (like humans) and eight-orificed egg-born creatures (like birds) evolve accordingly."

Here Laozi employs cleansing, bathing, and shattering to describe the mind-cultivation process, emphasizing the Dao's simultaneous profundity and simplicity. The mutual transformation between visible/invisible and formed/formless constitutes Daoism's fundamental understanding of cosmic generation. By comparing womb-birth and egg-birth, he demonstrates how all beings—despite diverse forms—follow identical principles of creation.

The idea of restraining the physical body and pursuing the Dharma body, and the various forms of life in Buddhist scriptures—birth from womb, egg, moisture, and the rest—can all be read in light of this passage. The gist is that although humans are held above other creatures, the origin of life is the same; hence the call to leave the visible body behind and seek the Dharma body (the spiritual ground that transcends form). Zhuangzi’s meaning is close to this.

When the Dao arrives, it leaves no trace; when it departs, there is no edge. It has neither gate nor dwelling, yet in emptiness it reaches in all directions, vast and boundless. To seek and discern the Dao within this, one can only rely on a strong, healthy body and mind, clear thought, and sharp ears and eyes. The Dao employs the heart-mind without strain and meets things without a fixed pattern. Heaven is naturally lofty, earth naturally broad, sun and moon naturally move, and the ten thousand things naturally thrive—this is the Dao.

“Coming without a trace, going without a cliff” means that within creation and transformation, the coming and going of things cannot be pinned down anywhere. “Reaching everywhere in majesty” means that emptiness is vast without limit. Human dwellings have doors and side passages, but in emptiness there is only the image of boundless expanse—how could one see where things enter or leave? “Meeting it here” means seeking and contemplating this Dao. “The four limbs strong” refers to the body being light, settled, and vigorous, as in the Buddhist Complete Enlightenment scriptures’ “body and mind light and at ease”; “xun da” means penetrating and clear. “The heart-mind not toiling” is accord with nature without forced effort; “responding to things without a fixed direction” is meeting affairs without a set method. If heaven, earth, sun, moon, and the ten thousand things were not the Dao operating within them, who would make them so? These lines simply show that from above to below, nowhere is without the Dao.

Being broadly learned does not necessarily mean knowing everything; being skilled in debate is not necessarily wisdom—the sages long ago judged this. As for the fact that adding to it cannot make it more and taking from it cannot make it less, that is what the sage holds fast to. It is deep and wide as the sea, lofty without limit, turning in cycles, ending only to begin again. It moves and measures the ten thousand things yet is never exhausted. This is the Dao that the noble person keeps. The Dao is beyond the ten thousand things and yet moves together with them; all things receive nourishment from it, and it itself is never depleted. This is the Dao.

Among the people of China, some stand between heaven and earth, belonging neither to yin nor to yang—they are only provisionally counted as human. In the end they will still return to the root. From the root, life is simply an object formed by the gathering of breath. Even if there are differences between long life and short, how much can they amount to? It is but a moment—hardly enough to decide whether Yao or Jie was right or wrong.

One’s capacities do not all come from one’s own cleverness; cleverness itself is also something bestowed by zaohua—the creative work of heaven and earth. Therefore the sage takes only zaohua as the standard for judgment, and does not treat increase as real increase or decrease as real decrease. What must be guarded is the inner authenticity that external things cannot add to or take away—that is how the sage acts.

After an ending there is a beginning again; pure natural operation never ceases. Ordering and measuring the myriad things without exhaustion, responding to the myriad things without being used up—because there is application and measure, it is called “yunliang” (deploying and gauging). This still carries a trace of intentional mind; it speaks of the way of the junzi (noble person) and means that it still leaves a track: taking oneself as master in responding to things is “deploying and gauging the myriad things”; things come and one then responds—that is the myriad things all drawing support from oneself. This is first sensing, then responding; moved only when compelled by circumstance. If one can do this without being drained, it may be called the Dao. The Dao itself has no mind and leaves no trace.

In the central realm (zhongguo—the middle of heaven and earth) there are people called “zhiren” (the utmost person). Saying they are neither yin nor yang means they cannot be pinned down by naming any concrete thing. They have human form, yet the mind roams at “the beginning of things”—the source before the myriad things were divided. They only lodge the bodily frame between heaven and earth, hence “zhi” (upright/direct). Being human, they will in the end return to the zong—the zong is the primordial root of the myriad things.

Yin and yi (choking, blocked breath) are when the qi in the body does not flow freely, and so warts and excrescences grow. When the qi of zaohua gathers to form a person, that too is in a sense a kind of “blockage.” So to view from the source means to look as at the beginning of heaven and earth. This sense is one of belittling and stripping away the human body—much like the Buddhist saying “a sack of blood inside a skin.” Read closely, much in the Buddhist canon resonates with this.

The rights and wrongs of Yao and Jie concern human judgments of right and wrong; because we have this body, such talk arises. A lifespan of a hundred years, however long or short, is but a finger-snap compared with heaven and earth—these lines are also very fine.

Fruit and melons each have their principle; human relations are difficult, yet they mesh like teeth. The sage does not go against them when meeting them, does not cling when passing through; harmonizing in response is De; responding as occasion arises is the Dao. The rise of emperors and the emergence of true kings all spring from this.

Human life between heaven and earth is like a white colt flashing through a crack—gone in an instant. Suddenly this form, suddenly that—countless shapes appear; smoothly, freely, countless shapes dissolve and return within.

Fruits and Gourds

Fruits and gourds (guo and luo) are among the smallest categories in the myriad things. When they grow and what they are sown as—the kinds have not shifted from antiquity to the present—is that not the natural order? Start from something this small, and the larger pattern comes into view.

In human relations and worldly affairs, superiors and subordinates checking one another, strong pressing weak, long life and early death, joy and sorrow—all are hard to bear; yet all dwell together under heaven and earth, lined up like teeth in a row. Ruler and subject, father and son, the central lands and the four directions—all are likewise kinds of existence within creation. When the sage said that “things gather by kind and separate into groups,” without distinguishing refined from coarse or self from other, and called it all “meshing like teeth,” he too had pushed the point to its limit.

Meeting it without going against it: fortune has its favorable and adverse turns; go along with it and that is enough.

Passing through without holding on: what has passed transforms, blends, and coincides—responding as feeling arises, mutual harmony—this is the naturalness of Dao and De (Virtue/Power). The rise of emperors and kings also cannot step outside this principle.

“Suddenly” means in an instant. “Birth” is extending and coming; “death” is bending and going. “Pouring forth and bursting upward” is the look of surging and thrusting out; “oily-smooth and flowing freely” is moist vitality and full ripeness—what the Yijing calls fathoming the spirit and knowing transformation.

Transformation into Life and into Death

Already transformed into life, then transformed into death. Living things grieve; humans grieve all the more—the bow-case string is loosened, heaven and earth’s pouch is cast aside, tumbling and turning; when the soul-spirits must scatter, the body follows along—this is called the “great return,” back to the original true abode.

When things first arise, there is being from nonbeing; transformed again into death, nonbeing from being—the principle is the same, yet people wound and confuse themselves. Tao is the vessel that stores the bow; zhuo is the bag. Fools still wrap another layer in the mind and cannot see through; those who can know and awaken can release the cover and drop the pouch (let go and discard). Fen and wan mean turning and changing; soul-spirits are spirit (shen). When spirit must disperse, the bodily shell goes along—hence “great return.”

Form and Formlessness

“The form of the formless, the formlessness of form”—ordinary people can all say a few words about it, but it is not what one who is about to “reach” the utmost ought to fixate on; this is discourse common to the multitude. To truly arrive at the utmost does not rely on such talk; clinging to talk instead prevents arrival.

The “form” that has no form cannot be seen; within visible bodily form there hides a form that cannot be seen—much as in Buddhism they say that only the dharma body (fashen), eternally abiding and never extinguished, truly endures. Yet everyone knows this in a way and still fails to seek it apart from bodily form, so they never reach that level. When learning is about to reach its utmost, what one pursues goes beyond such matters; hence this is not what those who are on the verge of arrival should fix their effort on. People’s talk all runs along these lines, yet no one truly arrives—hence it is the common talk of the multitude.

The author goes on in the same vein: one who can truly arrive does not debate the matter; once there is such debate, one has not arrived. Hence: when one has arrived, there is no discussion; when there is discussion, one has not arrived. The “formless form” is in itself easy to grasp and needs no lengthy exposition; to take it as a topic for debate shows one has not yet entered the subtlest ground—this is again pushing the meaning one step higher.

To have clear sight and encounter is called “being present” (zhi)—that is seeing with traces. Dao cannot be seen through traces, so there is no “being present” in that sense; hence clear seeing has no worth of encounter. Debate is inferior to silence: once there is debate, one has already strayed; “silence” is not speaking. So-called Dao is not something heard from outside but realized within oneself; the moment one speaks of “hearing,” it is already not Dao. Hearing is inferior to not hearing—plugging the ears and hearing nothing at all; hence Dao cannot be heard, and hearing is inferior to stopping up. This is what is called “great attainment” (da de)—deep self-possession and genuine entry.

Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, “Where, then, is this thing called Dao?” Zhuangzi said, “It is nowhere not present.” Dongguozi said, “You must point to a definite place before I can accept it.” Zhuangzi said, “It is in the mole cricket and the ant.” Dongguozi said, “How can it be so low!” Zhuangzi said, “It is in the barnyard grass.” Dongguozi said, “How can it be lower still!” Zhuangzi said, “It is in the tiles and shards.” Dongguozi said, “How can it be more degraded!” Zhuangzi said, “It is in urine and dung.” Dongguozi made no reply. Zhuangzi said, “Your question, sir, from the start missed the real point. When Zheng Huo asked the market inspector Lü Shi, who judged pigs by treading on their legs, the truth became clearer the lower down he pressed.”

This passage is admirably composed. Though the words seem extreme, things have no inherent “refined” or “coarse”—all share one principle; that too is authentic speech. In Buddhism they speak of “the insentient preaching the Dharma”: tiles and pebbles blaze forth with constant teaching—just this meaning. “You must point to a definite place before I can accept it” narrows Dao by demanding a single location.

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

Section 1 (The market inspector and treading the pig as metaphors for “asking about the Way”)

“Ke” (可) here means first to fix where something stands—to settle its position—before one can press on to the root. Your question has not yet reached the root, so if I go on speaking I can only become more and more concrete.

“Jian bi” (监帀) is like the head man or the scale-keeper in a meat market today. “Lu shi” (履狶) is treading on a pig with the foot; one step and you know whether it is fat or lean, heavy or light. “Kuang” (况) means comparison or analogy. The petty clerk who runs the market ranks below the inspector. Zheng Huo held office and wanted to know whether a pig was fat or thin; if he asked someone still more lowly than himself, each comparison downward made things clearer—hence “the further down you go, the better you know” (mei xia yu kuang, 每下愈况). “Zheng” is the market chief (bi ling, 帀令); “si” (司) means to oversee; “Huo” (获) is a personal name. This is a metaphor for asking about the Dao (the Way): to seek the root, one cannot remain on the surface.

Section 2 (Mo bi, the utmost Dao, and the palace of “nothing whatsoever”)

You need only not cling to fixed opinions (mo bi, 莫必), and the patterns of the ten thousand things cannot slip away. The utmost Dao (Zhidao, 至道) is so; great discourse is the same. The three words “zhou” (周), “bian” (遍), and “xian” (咸) differ in name but share one meaning—they speak of a single reality.

Once we wandered together in the palace of “wu he you” (无何有)—the realm where there is nothing at all—and viewed it with one heart and one discourse: what limit could there be? Once we were together in wuwei (non-action, 无为)? Calm and still, vast and clear, harmonized and at ease. Emptiness and stillness were enough; my aspiration reached everywhere, yet I did not know where I had arrived; I went and came again, not knowing where I rested; I was already in that coming and going, yet did not know the end—I only felt myself adrift in the broad expanse, entering the domain of great knowing, yet not knowing where its utmost lay.

Notes on the oral meaning (the commentator’s intent)

“Mo bi” means do not insist on rigid certainty. Without fixation, the reason of the ten thousand things has nowhere to hide—why doubt what I say? Hence the utmost Dao is thus, and great speech likewise. “Zhou,” “bian,” and “xian” are glossed alike: different names, one substance—like the ten thousand things having no crude-versus-refined divide; the principle is one.

The “palace of wu he you” appeared earlier; here the point of freedom from stubborn fixation is raised again. “Tong he er lun” (同合而论) means that fine and coarse are not split: discussed together as one, there is no final exhaustion. Both “tiao” (调) and “jian” (间) convey ease and harmony; blandness, stillness, vastness, clarity, harmony, and ease all portray the subtlety of wuwei. “Yi” (已) is used like “yi” (矣): to grasp this unity in emptiness is enough for the aspiration—hence the four characters “liao yi wu zhi” (寥已吾志), brief yet forceful.

If there is nowhere fixed to go, how could there be any settled stopping place? Though there is going and coming, there is no ground on which to perch. The text already said that coming and going cannot be known; here it gathers the thread: I come and go yet do not know the end—I only see myself wandering in Feng hong (冯闳, vast openness), entering great knowing yet not knowing its limit.

“矣” (yǐ): A particle of explanation, equivalent to “that is to say” or “it means.”

“彷徨” (páng huáng) and “徜徉” (cháng yáng): The mind is free and unconfined, coming and going at ease.

“冯闳” (píng hóng) and “虚旷” (xū kuàng): The heart is open and vast, empty and far-reaching.

“大知” (dà zhì) and “至道” (zhì dào): Great wisdom and the utmost Dao—the highest awakening and the Great Way itself.

“物物” (wù wù): To accord with all things and move among them without being trapped by things.

“与物无际” (yǔ wù wú jì): With things there is no fixed dividing line.

Yet what people usually call the “boundary of things” is the sense that things seem separate from one another.

“不际之际，际之不际”: Where boundaries appear, one sees that there is no fixed boundary; within boundary, one also glimpses what goes beyond boundary.

“与物无边际”: Already transformed together with things, no longer clinging to a rigid opposition between “self” and “things.”

Only when one has transformed with things can one truly practice “物物”—what Zhuangzi means by: first achieve “not being thinged” (不被物牵着走, not being dragged about by things), then one can “物物” (respond freely with things).

If one has not yet transformed with things, the mind still has cliffs and shores, still divides self and other; where there are cliffs and limits, there is exhaustion—hence “what has a boundary among things is what is called the boundary of things.”

Pushed to the extreme until there is no extreme, exhausted until there is no exhaustion—that is not dying inside the limits of things, but seeing the real “boundary” within “no-boundary.”

“不形之形，形之不形；不际之际，际之不际”: Such phrasing is a hallmark of Zhuangzi’s writing—turning between formed and unformed, between boundary and no-boundary.

“衰” (shuāi): Decline in the cycle of flourishing and decline.

“杀” (shāi): The “kill” in rise and fall (隆杀)—from fullness to waning; one example implies the rest.

Fullness and emptiness, flourishing and decline, root and tip, gathering and scattering—all seem to leave traces, yet in truth cannot be exhausted; that is the meaning of “the boundary of no-boundary, the no-boundary of boundary.”

Ehegan studied with Laolong Ji together with Shennong (the Divine Farmer).

Shennong leaned on his desk, closed the door, and sat with eyes shut in stillness.

At noon Ehegan pushed (奓) the door open and said, “Laolong Ji is dead!”

Shennong still leaned on the desk; suddenly he rose leaning on his staff, the staff dropped with a sharp (嚗) sound, and he laughed: “Heaven knew I was narrow, shallow, negligent, and dull—so it abandoned me and let him die first. It’s over! The master will no longer speak wild truths to me; he is dead.”

Yan’ou Diao heard this and said: One who embodies the Dao is what the gentlemen of the world fix their hearts on and rely upon.

Laolong Ji, in the Dao, had not yet settled even one ten-thousandth of the tip of an autumn hair, yet already knew to hide his wild words and die—how much more so one who truly embodies the Dao!

The Dao: look and it has no form, listen and it has no sound; what ordinary talk names is only the obscure and unnamed (冥冥)—a likeness used to speak of the Dao, while the Dao itself is not that which is spoken.

Section 1 (On Old Longji and “hiding his grand words”)

Heaven knew I would call Old Longji “Heaven.”

Yan is the surname, Weng the given name. This man came to mourn Old Longji and heard what Shennong said. A “person who embodies the Dao” is one who merges with the Dao; everyone gathers around and honors such a person. Now Shennong had not yet attained genuine insight on the Way, yet he could still say that Old Longji’s death was “hiding his mad words”; how much more so those who embody the Dao as Old Longji did? “Mad words” means “grand words”: the point is that the Dao originally lies beyond speech—concealing words and departing is what accords with the Dao. Shennong had not reached that level yet could still speak thus; how much more those whose attainment surpasses Shennong’s?

The tip of an autumn down is tiny—less than one ten-thousandth of that, and then less again: you can imagine how small. Buddhist sutras use reckoning and similes in similar ways.

The Dao is originally without sound or form; it cannot be seen or heard. If one explains it to others and names it with “dark obscurity,” that is only a forced label, not the Dao itself. Hence “what is used to discuss the Dao is not the Dao”—the same idea as “those who speak do not know.” Form and sound are “being”; dark obscurity is “non-being.” To know that “being” is “non-being” is not as good as contemplating together with “non-non-being”—meaning Shennong’s speech still does not count as truly knowing the Dao.

Section 2 (Taiqing asks about knowing and the Dao)

Then Taiqing asked the Infinite, “Do you know the Dao?” The Infinite said, “I do not know.” He asked Non-action; Non-action said, “I know the Dao.” Taiqing asked, “You know the Dao—does it have patterns and numbers?” Non-action said, “Yes.” He asked again, “What are those numbers like?” Non-action said, “I know the Dao can make one honored, can make one base, can make one gather in, can make one scatter and roam—that is the pattern by which I know the Dao.”

Taiqing took these answers to Beginningless: “If so, is the Infinite’s ‘not knowing’ right and Non-action’s ‘knowing’ wrong, or the reverse?” Beginningless said, “Not knowing is depth; knowing is shallowness. Not knowing is inner; knowing is outer.”

Then Taiqing sighed midway: “Is not knowing what knowing is? Is knowing what not knowing is? Who can understand ‘knowing that does not know’?”

Beginningless said, “The Dao cannot be heard—if heard, it is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be seen—if seen, it is not the Dao. The Dao cannot be spoken—if spoken, it is not the Dao.”

Text

Someone says “that’s not right”—have you understood that “form within form is in fact formless”? The Dao should not be trapped inside names and appearances.

“Without beginning” says: whoever answers when asked about the Dao does not really know the Dao; even the one who asks has not truly heard the Dao. The Dao cannot be questioned, and questioning receives no answer. To insist on “asking without asking” is to push the question to its limit; to insist on “answering without answering” is that the heart has not yet attained realization within. Using an empty mind that has not yet realized inwardly to cope with a question pushed to the limit is like this: looking outward you cannot see through the cosmos, looking inward you do not recognize the primordial beginning (Tai Chu), so you cannot pass Kunlun or roam in the Great Void (Taixu).

Commentary

The opening of the speech rests on the two words “thereupon” (yushi), like “Thus I have heard at one time” or “thus it is” in Buddhist sutras. “The Dao that can be numbered” means that on some levels it can be set out item by item—high and low, gathering and scattering—all belong to the Dao that can be counted; yue is meeting and joining; nei is the realm realized in one’s own mind. When outer and Dao are split into two sides, one has not yet merged with the Dao. “Knowledge that does not know” is the ineffable subtlety. “Form of forms that is not form” is not clinging to the marks of things, so one can see all things as they are. “Dang” means facing or being relative. Once there is the name “Dao,” name and Dao stand opposite each other and leave the truth of what is so—hence it is said the Dao ought not be named. The Dao originally has no question; when you ask and I answer, both have already left the Dao; what the questioner hears is no longer the Dao either. “Question exhausted” means the level of what is seen has been questioned to the end—clinging to words to seek views, the question runs dry. “No within” means the heart has not yet realized this Dao; with true realization, one would not use words to respond. The cosmos is visible, so it is called “outer”; the primordial beginning is invisible, so it is called “inner.” Kunlun lies beyond the cosmos, and the Great Void lies beyond Kunlun; if you cannot even reach Kunlun, how can you roam in the Great Void?

Guangyao asked the Master of Non-Being (Wuyou): “Are you there, Master?” The Master of Non-Being did not answer. Guangyao could not get an answer, so he studied his form carefully—deep, remote, empty and still; all day looking yet not seeing, listening yet not hearing, reaching out yet not touching. Guangyao said: “I have arrived! Who can reach this realm? I can manage ‘being and non-being,’ but I have not yet managed ‘non-non-being.’ When one has become ‘non-being,’ how can one go further up from here?”

The lines about “whoever looks at his form and appearance” only describe that the Dao cannot be seen. “I can have being and non-being, but cannot yet non-non-being” is subtle beyond subtle: being able to “non-non-being” still means “I” remain inside the word “non,” still bound by “non”; only when that layer is released as well can one speak of roaming together with non-being.

How does one arrive at the realm of "deeply still and utterly empty"? Yuanjue says: "To speak of no awareness is likewise so." Awareness that reaches no-awareness is wonderfully ultimate; if one still treats no-awareness as incomplete, that is precisely the earlier meaning of "not yet able to be without no-ness" and having nothing at all. The earlier phrases "knowing that non-action is the Great Clarity" and "no beginning," and here names such as "Radiant Splendor has nothing"—the intent is very clear; this is not on a par with chapters like Wang Ni and Bei Yi.

Under the Grand Marshal (a high official in charge of military and civil affairs) there was an old man who forged hooks; he was eighty, and every hook he made matched the standard without the slightest error. The Grand Marshal asked: "Is it manual skill, or attaining the Dao?" The old man replied: "Your servant has something he holds to. From age twenty I loved forging hooks; I pay no heed to anything outside, and observe nothing that is not a hook—that is what was meant earlier by 'only the knowledge of a cicada's wing': the mind is wholly on the hook, and beyond the hook nothing is seen. 'Using' refers to craft; 'not using' refers to the Dao's naturalness; there is nothing that is not 'not used'—that is the Dao's non-action (Wuwei) whereby nothing is left undone. I apply the natural subtlety of 'not using' within craft, and can long keep it effective and be called master among the aged; how much more do all things in the world rely on the Dao's non-action that leaves nothing undone?

Ran Qiu asked Confucius: "Can one know what things were like before Heaven and Earth existed?" Confucius answered: "Yes. Ancient and present are one body." Ran Qiu withdrew, having missed the point. The next day he came again: "Yesterday I asked whether one can know before Heaven and Earth were born; you said yes, that ancient is like present; yesterday I understood, today I am confused—may I ask why?" Confucius answered: "Yesterday's clarity was because the spirit received it first; today's confusion—why seek again without the spirit? No ancient, no present; no beginning, no end. Can there be descendants when there are not yet descendants?" Ran Qiu did not answer. Confucius said: "Enough; no need to answer. Do not take life as the basis of death, do not take death as the basis of life—is life and death something that waits on conditions? Each is one with a single body. Is there anything born before Heaven and Earth? Do things face one another as opposites?"

That which cannot be called a “thing”—since it is not a concrete thing—cannot be said to exist before the myriad things; yet if one calls it a “thing,” one has already admitted that it is something that exists. The sage’s care for the world, with love that never runs dry, is also grasped from this same principle.

When the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) first stirred, Yin and Yang divided and formed Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth operate, Yin and Yang circulate in turn, and this never stops. It was so in the past and is so now. To answer the question of when Heaven and Earth arose by the same principle that holds for past and present is roughly the point; the matter is plain, clear, and open to view.

What is called Shen (spirit) is the inner awareness within a person; when awareness is veiled by Qi (vital energy), it appears dull and unclear. In antiquity people’s heart-and-mind was clear, and empty, subtle awareness remained, so they could take in these principles; today the heart-and-mind is clouded, empty subtle awareness does not show, and though one still seeks, one still fails to understand. There is no split between ancient and modern, nor between beginning and end—what is meant is that the principle of the Taiji in motion and rest is never absent; Zaohua (the process by which Heaven and Earth give birth to the myriad things) never ceases. It is like people having descendants: one need not wait until descendants appear to know that this line will continue. Where there are human beings, there is succession of offspring; where there is the cosmos, there is the running of Yin and Yang—and between the two there is never a moment’s break.

“Enough has been said; there is no need to answer further” means: when you have spoken this far, you need not put it into words again. Once the word “life” (sheng) is there, the word “death” (si) is there too; to speak of “life” is already to set up the idea of “death.” Conversely, once the word “death” is there, the idea of “life” is there as well, because the name “death” is defined in relation to life. Life and death stand over against each other yet are one body; “one body” means one source and one principle—the natural transformations of Zaohua.

As for “things upon things”: if a certain existence is not a concrete thing, then it would have to arise before Heaven and Earth—yet since it is not a concrete thing, how can it be called a thing at all? Therefore, if one calls it a thing, one cannot say it is prior to Heaven and Earth. To call it a thing is already to acknowledge that something exists—that is the sense of one line. Once there is “thing,” the mutual begetting and changing among the myriad things goes on without end. Hence it is said that the begetting and changing of things has no limit. In all these places the finesse of the wording shows itself; it is precisely here that the sage’s intent lies.

Vernacular Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (Oral Exegesis)

(On “loving people” and “things”)

To love people is to leave visible traces; traces chase one another and make demands on each other, all the way to the point where there is “no fixed moment when they stop.” The reason is roughly this: people only cling to “things that have form,” yet do not know that what “seems like a thing” is not the true “thing.”

(Yan Yuan asks Zhongni: “no going out to meet, no turning back to receive”)

Yan Yuan asked Confucius: “I have heard the Master say: ‘Do not go out to meet, and do not turn back to receive.’ May I ask how this is to be practiced?”

Confucius said: “The ancients followed transformation outwardly while keeping still within; people today are stirred up inside yet rigid outside. One who transforms together with things has, at one point, something that ‘does not transform’—whether transforming or not transforming, he is at ease; he rubs against things, yet he never contends with things for more. The park of Xihuai, the garden of the Yellow Emperor, the palace of Youyu, the chambers of Tang and Wu—even gentlemen like the masters of Ru and Mo still had to dispute over right and wrong; how much more so people today? The sage dwells among things without harming things; by not harming things, things also cannot harm him. Only one who harms nothing can truly go back and forth with people in meeting and sending off.”

(Oral exegesis: explaining from “no going out to meet” through “meeting and sending off with one another”)

“No going out to meet, no turning back to receive” means the heart does not beforehand store welcome or refusal, and does not hang things on the breast. Responding to things without being burdened by things is called outer transformation (waihua); responding because one is moved, while the heart does not waver, is called inner non-transformation (nei buhua) (the inner is not transformed). Hence it is said: the ancients transformed outwardly while not transforming inwardly.

If one fights in the heart and joins structures with people, that is inner transformation (the heart is pulled); grinding against things like blades cutting each other, the heart enslaved within, is outer non-transformation. Hence it is said: people today transform inwardly while not transforming outwardly.

By means of one’s “inner non-transformation,” one responds outwardly to things; whatever one passes through is all transformation, yet there is no going out to meet or turning back to receive—transforming, one does not know it; not transforming, one does not know it either. Thus it is said: one who transforms with things is one who at one point does not transform. “At ease with transformation” and “at ease with non-transformation”: this “non-transformation” is the heart of no-heart. “At ease (an)” is like “how could it be otherwise (qi).”

Rubbing against one another (xiangmo): grinding; mo is the same as chu (to hone). “How could it be with” / “how could it be with.” “Do not seek more (mo duo)”: do not demand excessively; excessive demand leads to mutual overcoming; if one does not seek more, one does not strive to overcome. Thus it is said: one must with things “not seek more”—the person of the utmost Dao surely dwells with things, yet does not use excessive seeking to overcome things.

Xihuai, the Yellow Emperor, Youyu, Tang and Wu, and the masters of Ru and Mo—all had not fully attained the way of “inner non-transformation,” so they came to contend (zheng) over right and wrong. This means they still had disputes of right and wrong. The five flavors contend and snatch from one another before they can become zheng (contention); thus it is said they contend with one another—comparing from Xihuai downward with Ru and Mo, it is still like this.

Brief notes on terms (those already in parentheses in the text are omitted)

• Outer transformation / inner non-transformation (waihua / nei buhua): outward form follows the situation; the inner heart does not turn with things.
• Xihuai: a legendary ancient ruler.
• Youyu: refers to Shun.
• Meeting and sending off with one another (xiangjiangying): going back and forth with people in welcome and farewell; the sage has no heart of welcome or refusal, and so can truly “meet and send off.”

Plain-Language Interpretation

Second passage

The earlier phrase “using the small to suppress the great” is like someone shutting themselves away in a garden or palace, treating such places as a fixed refuge, a “nest” they cannot leave for even a moment.

“Not being harmed by things” means changing along with the myriad things. Once you transform with them, external things can no longer harm you. This means having no burdens or attachments in your heart. Free of such burdens, you can meet and part with others, and move among them with ease. The earlier passage speaks of “neither welcoming nor sending off”; here it says “meeting and parting with others.” These express the same idea: “through Wuwei (non-action), nothing is left undone,” and “by not being a thing, one can deal with things.” Do not cling to things, and you can instead follow their course and find ease.

When people wander in the mountains, forests, and open country, they are often delighted at first. Before their joy has run its course, sorrow follows. We cannot stop sorrow and joy from arriving, nor keep them from departing. How sad that people treat their minds and bodies simply as inns for external things.

People know only what they encounter and see, not what they do not encounter or see; they know only what they can do, not what they cannot. Ignorance and inability are unavoidable for human beings. Is it not sad to devote oneself to escaping what no one can avoid? The highest words lie beyond words, so it is said, “The highest words leave words behind.” The highest action lies beyond action, so it is said, “The highest action leaves action behind.” To lump together everything people know and treat it all as true knowledge is to see only superficially.

Third passage

When ordinary people wander in the mountains, forests, and open country, they are always happy at first. Joy brings some feeling, and feeling is followed by sorrow. The Preface to the Orchid Pavilion Gathering uses this very idea: people rejoice because of things and grieve because of things. Since these comings and goings are not under their control, the heart becomes an inn for sorrow and joy. This means there is no permanent host; people are entirely pulled along by external things.

“Encounterable” refers to what can be encountered, while “unencounterable” refers to what cannot. The encounterable generally concerns human affairs; the unencounterable generally concerns the Way of Heaven.

“Being able to do what one is able to do” concerns human affairs; “what one cannot do” concerns the Way of Heaven. Everyone in the world has things they do not know or cannot do. Since this is unavoidable for everyone, it is said: “Ignorance and inability are things no one can avoid.”

Because people know human affairs but not Heaven, they constantly apply their minds and intelligence, trying to escape what cannot be escaped. Is this not sad?

The highest words contain no excess speech, so it is said, “The highest words leave words behind.” The highest action involves no deliberate action, so it is said, “The highest action leaves action behind.” Those who do not understand what cannot be fully known, but treat everything visible and expressible as “knowledge,” see only superficially. Hence the phrase “lump together what people know”: “lump together” means “all alike,” making various forms of shallow knowledge uniform without turning them into true knowledge.