《南華真經口義》Vol. 24

Vernacular Interpretation of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi, Scroll 24: Miscellaneous Chapters — “Gengsang Chu”

Among Laozi’s disciples was one named Gengsang Chu, who alone grasped Laozi’s Dao and went north to dwell on Mount Weilei.

Of his servants, those who seemed sharp and calculating left; among his concubines, those who seemed overly meek and fond of petty favors kept their distance. He kept only the dull and clumsy to live with him, and only those busy with menial chores to attend him.

After three years, the region around Weilei had a great harvest. The local people gathered and said: “When Gengsangzi first came, we felt he was unlike ordinary people; now if we count by days it still seems insufficient, but counting by years there is surplus—he must be a sage, mustn’t he? Why not honor him together as one would a spirit, and offer sacrifice to him as at the altars of the soil and grain?”

When Gengsang Chu heard this, he sat facing south but was gloomy and discontent. His disciples found it strange. Gengsang Chu said: “Why do you think I am strange? When spring qi stirs, the hundred grasses grow; when autumn comes, all things bear fruit—spring and autumn each have their reasons for being so; how could it be accidental? The great Dao runs just like this. I have heard that the perfected person dwells in a room bounded by four walls, while the common people go their own wild ways and do not know where they are headed. Yet now these petty folk of Weilei whisper among themselves and want to set out ritual vessels and sacrificial stands for me among the worthy—as if I were a god to be fed with offerings. Am I someone to be ladled out and pushed around at others’ pleasure? That is why I cannot set aside what Laozi said.”

Notes on the Kouyi (explained along the text):

• 役 (yi): disciples or followers.
• 偏得 (piande): to grasp or awaken to the teaching alone, by oneself.
• 臣 (chen): servants.
• 晝然 (zhouran): clearly, visibly clever in appearance.
• 絜然 (jieran): gentle and obliging in a flattering way.
• 擁腫 (yongzhong): dull, clumsy, unpolished.
• 鞅掌 (yangzhang): hands full with chores; like “zhili” (scattered limbs)—one who does rough work.
• 洒然异之 (saran yizhi): seeing him free and untrammeled, unlike ordinary people.
• 歳計有餘 (sui ji you yu): over time, the benefit becomes fully apparent.
• 尸祝、社稷 (shizhu, sheji): terms for reverent sacrifice; the two phrases differ in weight—one of Zhuangzi’s shifts in tone.
• 南面 (nanmian): to sit facing south; in antiquity the south was the seat of honor.
• 不釋然 (bu shiran): unsettled in mind, not at ease.
• 春秋岂无得而然 (chunqiu qi wu de er ran): spring and autumn each fulfill their season because heaven makes it so—“how could it be without reason?”—leading to “the great Dao already moves,” meaning the Dao is inherently natural.
• 尸居环堵之室 (shi ju huandu zhi shi): the perfected one quietly stays in a small room; 百姓猖狂不知所如往 (baixing kuangchang bu zhi suo ru wang): the people go freely as they please and do not know where they are going—mingling with the world as one, without knowing their ultimate aim. “如” may also be read as “往” (to go).

The above unites the scripture with Lin Xi Yi’s Kouyi in one vernacular reading, so those unfamiliar with classical Chinese can follow the opening of “Gengsang Chu” and the passage on “facing south without ease”: rejecting being divinized and served with ritual stands, and holding to the Dao of natural Wuwei (non-action).

On “Forgetting” and the Sacrificial Stands and Ladles

Here “forgetting” refers to how the sacrificial stands and cups are placed; the shao is a small pouring vessel. The point is that “I” is too shallow and too visible, so others can see through it. As Buddhists say: my practice lacks strength, and spirits and ghosts peer through me—that is the idea. Those who cannot accept Laozi’s words fear they are failing their teacher and feel uneasy.

The disciple said:

Not so. In an ordinary ditch, a large fish cannot turn around, yet it is the realm of small fish like the ni and jiang; on a hill several ren high, a huge beast cannot hide its body, yet it is where wild cats and foxes thrive. Moreover, honoring the worthy and appointing the able, and putting kindness and benefit first—Yao and Shun did this from antiquity; how much more the people of Weilei? Sir, you ought to hear what they say.

Gengsang Zi said:

Boy, come here. A beast large enough to swallow a carriage, if it leaves the mountains alone, cannot escape the net’s disaster; a fish large enough to swallow a boat, if washed from the water, can be bullied even by ants. Thus birds and beasts do not disdain high places; fish and turtles do not disdain deep water. One who preserves body and preserves life does not disdain hiding deep—only he must hide himself well. As for those two men (meaning figures like Yao and Shun), what is there to praise? Their kind of disputation is like recklessly chiseling walls to plant wormwood, cutting hair to comb it, or counting grains before cooking—furtive and sneaky; how can it save the world? Promote the worthy and the people oppress one another; employ cleverness and the people steal from one another—such ways are not enough to enrich the people. When people are too eager for profit, fathers are killed and rulers are killed, and the official histories record them as “robbers.” At high noon I tell you: the root of great disorder must arise in the age of Yao and Shun, and its harm will last a thousand generations—after a thousand generations, people will devour one another.

Oral commentary

Though ni and jiang are small, they can dominate an ordinary ditch; though cunning foxes are small, they can dominate a hill several ren high—meaning no place is too small to have what it honors. “Putting kindness and benefit first” means that once a name appears, profit follows. In Yao and Shun’s time, the same held for worth and ability: when someone had the goodness of talent and ability, people necessarily respected him. Now Weilei is small, but the heart that honors the worthy is the same as in old times—the sense is that the master should heed them.

Han also means to swallow; jie means alone; dang means to wash and drift. This illustrates that once a name is exposed, danger follows.

Note: This passage comes from oral exegesis related to “Gengsang Chu” in the Zhuangzi. Gengsang Zi criticizes promoting the worthy, employing cleverness, and putting kindness and benefit first, holding that the seeds of great disorder were already sown in the age of Yao and Shun. Weilei is a place name; ni and jiang are small fish; zu and dou are sacrificial vessels; shao is a wine ladle.

This oral commentary explains that if people wish to preserve themselves in the world, they must preserve the body and seek long life with enduring vision. What is called “concealing oneself” means not despising deep and hidden places—intending to withdraw from the world and not chase empty fame. The “two men” here are Yao and Shun: taking Yao and Shun as objects of debate is like trying to plant grass on top of a wall—there is no such logic; it means the citation is inappropriate.

“Combing sparse hair and counting grains to cook rice” depicts a mind petty and fussy, calculating over every trifle. When worthies are promoted, the people compete; when cleverness is made the standard of appointment, the people grow more deceitful—these are what is meant by “enumerating things.” It also says the people toil greatly for profit, suffering for their livelihood. Ting means wall; “digging into the wall in broad daylight” means stealing by tunneling through a wall in daytime. “A thousand years hence people will surely eat one another”—the troubles of the world begin with Yao and Shun (this is the sharp tone of the oral commentary toward “sage-kings governing the age”).

Nanrong Chu stopped abruptly, sat down, and said: Someone as old as Chu—where can he entrust his pursuit of learning so as to live up to these words? Gengsang Zi said: Now preserve your bodily form, embrace your life whole, and do not let anxious thoughts swarm and bustle; only after three years of this may you speak of these matters. Nanrong Chu said: As for eye and bodily form, I do not know how they differ, yet the blind cannot see themselves; as for ear and bodily form, I do not know how they differ, yet the deaf cannot hear themselves; as for mind and bodily form, I do not know how they differ, yet the deranged cannot be at peace with themselves. Bodily form and bodily form are originally open and unobstructed (bi, disclosed and penetrating), yet are sometimes cut off by external things? They wish to reach one another yet cannot. To tell me now “preserve your form, embrace your life, do not let anxious thoughts swarm and bustle”—Chu has only barely heard the Way. Gengsang Zi said: My words are exhausted. He added: A racing bee cannot transform the huozhuo (a kind of small caterpillar); a Yue hen cannot brood a partridge egg, but a Lu hen can—the virtue of fowl is not different in kind, yet there is ability and inability; native endowment inherently differs in scale. Now my talent is small and insufficient to transform you; why do you not go south to see Laozi?

“Entrusting one’s pursuit” means receiving instruction and committing oneself to learning; “living up to these words” means aspiring to the level Gengsang Zi teaches. Having the form of a person, heart and ear are fundamentally the same as others’, hence “I do not know how they differ.” Everyone has this mind; the deranged cannot be at peace with themselves, like the blind and deaf who have no sight or hearing. Bi means to open. My form and others’ forms are all bright and unobstructed, yet I am separated by things.

After “my words are exhausted,” he again uses the racing bee, the Yue hen, and the Lu hen as analogies: talent has its measure; small talent cannot transform a great vessel, so he urges Nanrong Chu to go south to see Laozi.

Plain-Language Reading of Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi (Oral Meaning of the True Classic of Nanhua)

One

When the mind is cut off by worldly desires, and you then try to “use the mind to find the mind,” you only lose it all the more. Hence it is said: desires chase one another and nothing is grasped; as soon as we set out to seek the mind, it is already beyond reach. Yet the Master still tells us not to scheme and bustle in thought—if one merely strains at practice like this in hope of hearing the Dao, perhaps that still counts as drawing near? When Chu spoke thus, he had not yet truly shaken off fixation. Gengsangzi still wished to instruct him further; his words had not gone to the end, and he meant to point out a path: go see Laozi—so he said “the words are exhausted.” That was modesty, not that there was truly nothing left to say.

Two

“Ben feng” is the small bee; “huo zhu” is the large grub in the bean pod; “yue ji” is the small chicken, and “gu” is also a large bird. A small bee cannot subdue a large grub; a small chicken cannot hatch a large egg—an image of how his strength is still slight and he cannot yet awaken you. So he was sent to see Laozi.

Three

Nanrong Chu shouldered provisions and walked seven days and seven nights until he reached Laozi’s place. Laozi said: You have come from the land of Chu (from Gengsang Chu’s lineage), have you not? Nanrong Chu said: Yes. Laozi said: How is it that you came together with a crowd? Nanrong Chu, afraid, looked back behind him. Laozi said: Do you not understand what I mean? Nanrong Chu bowed his head in shame, lifted it and sighed: A moment ago I forgot how to answer you, and I also lost the question you were going to ask me. Laozi said: What do you mean? Nanrong Chu said: Not understanding human affairs, others call me dull; understanding them instead harms my own person. Without benevolence (ren) I harm others; with benevolence (ren) I in turn burden my whole body with worry. Without righteousness (yi) I injure others; with righteousness (yi) I in turn burden myself with care. How can these three paths be avoided? These three sentences are the root of Chu’s affliction. I hope, in the name of Chu (Gengsangzi), to receive instruction from you.

Four

Laozi said: Just now, seeing the space between your brows and lashes, I already saw you through. Now you speak again with full sincerity, like one who has properly mourned parents or raised a pole to fish in the sea. You have lost the “true person”! Dazed and confused, you wish to gather your nature-and-feeling back in, yet there is no door to enter—pitiable!

Five

“Chu” came alone, yet Laozi said he arrived with the multitude—this is just what Buddhism calls “your breast is in uproar.” “Forgot the answer, lost the question” means the mind is blank and adrift, unable to sustain question or reply. Strip away cleverness yet without genuine understanding, and others take one for a fool. The “zhu” in “zhu yu” means single-minded; “zhu yu” is like zhuan meng (obtuse simplicity). If one harbors intent and deploys intellect, that instead becomes a burden on one’s person—that is the sense of this layer.

Note: This chapter belongs to the Song-dynasty oral exegesis of Zhuangzi’s “Gengsang Chu” by Lin Xiyi and others. Nanrong Chu, Gengsangzi, and Laozi are figures in that Zhuangzi chapter. “Ren” and “yi” here are spoken from the angle of benefit and harm and the load on body-and-mind, not as a flat rejection of Confucian teaching names; they are tied to the cultivation context of “forgetting knowledge” and “returning to nature-and-feeling.”

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

Section 1

This means: one must neither cling to “having a mind” nor to “having no mind”—like the Buddhist line, “neither this way nor that will do.”

Their talk about benevolence and righteousness also suffers from the flaw of “three kinds of speech”; the doubt is really the same issue.

“Ku ru ye” (pity you!): from your brows and eyes one could tell long ago that you had not awakened; now that I hear you speak, it is indeed so.

Hence he says again: the more I listen to you, the more I am sure you have not awakened. “Guigui” means cramped and shallow; “jie gan er qiu zhu hai” (holding a pole and seeking things in the sea) is like using a bamboo pole to scoop from the ocean—an image of seeking “nothing” while still inside “something,” lost with nowhere to rest.

“Wang ren” (one who has lost the root heart) is someone who is dazed and anxious, not at ease, who wants to return to original nature but finds no entry, who wants to see the way of spontaneity (ziran) but cannot—truly pitiable.

Section 2

Nangrong Chu asked to live in his house, summoned what he liked and cast off what he hated; for ten days he worried by himself, then went to see Laozi again.

Laozi said: How long have you been sweeping and cultivating yourself? In your heart you are still depressed and uneasy; inside there is still “evil” (attachment) not removed.

Dui wai zhan zhe bu ke fan er zhuo, jiang nei qian: toward outer turmoil, you cannot cope by grabbing and controlling more and more—so you turn to tightening inward.

Nei huo zhe bu ke miu er zhuo, jiang wai qian: toward inner entanglement, you cannot cope by binding it ever more finely—so you turn outward again.

“Huo” is tying things with leather thongs; “qian” is the bolt that shuts a door. Both are images of forced grasping and forced binding.

In dealing outwardly, if you try to discipline yourself, the threads are too many and you cannot hold them; when the outer is unsettled, you turn within. When the mind is chaotic and you try to discipline yourself, you wind and unwind without end and still cannot hold it; when the inner is unsettled, you turn outward again.

This is saying that on the Daoist path one misses the main point: whether you control the outside or control the inside, you never get a grip. Such a person cannot even keep virtue (de) in the body—how much less “fang dao er xing,” living in accord with the natural Dao?

Section 3: Summoning what one likes and removing what one hates

To summon what one likes is to pursue “rightness”; to remove what one hates is to flee “wrong.” Where likes and dislikes remain, the heart is self-confused—hence “ten days of self-worry.”

“Shu zai” is the same as “shu” (how long): effort has already lasted a long time. “Yuyu hu” means still not at peace. “Cai you suo e” means the heart still holds something; hence “jinjin hu you you e”—disgust is not pure, and it still shows in one’s bearing.

Brief glosses

（Continuing from above） To act according to this principle and move with nature is the way of the perfected person (one who has attained the Dao).

Nanrong Chu said: When someone in the village falls ill, others go to ask how they are. If the sick person can still say how they became ill, the illness is not yet serious; when it is serious, they can no longer say. I now want to hear the Great Dao, but it is as if medicine has made my illness worse—the more I listen, the more confused I become. I only ask to hear the “Classic on Nourishing Life.”

Laozi said: The Classic on Nourishing Life—can you embrace the One (hold to undivided unity)? Can you keep from losing it? Can you know good and ill fortune without divination? Can you stop? Can you truly let go? Can you seek not from others but within yourself? Can you wander free and at ease? Can you be plain and unknowing like an infant?

An infant cries all day yet its throat does not go hoarse—that is harmony at its height. It keeps its fists clenched all day yet its hands do not stiffen—that is inborn nature. It looks all day yet its eyes do not glaze—the spirit does not run outward. Walking, it does not know where it is going; staying, it does not know what it is doing; it yields to things in gentle turns and moves with their flow—that is the Classic on Nourishing Life.

（Commentary）

“The sick person” means someone who is about to hear the Dao. If, when asked, they can still say what is wrong, the illness is not yet grave; when it is grave, they cannot. I now want to hear the Great Dao but do not know where my own sickness lies—I am deeply confused. Teaching only adds to the disorder, hence the simile of medicine worsening the disease. I no longer dare ask for the great teaching and only request instruction in nourishing life.

“Embracing the One” means preserving undivided unity; “not losing” means not losing what nature gives; “knowing fortune and misfortune without divination” means that utmost sincerity can foreknow; “can stop” and “can cease” are what Buddhist teaching calls the great rest; “leaving others and seeking within oneself” means not working on the outside but on the inside.

“Free and unfettered” (xiaoran) is the look of having no burden; “simple and blank” (tongran) is the look of unknowing; “can you be like a child?” means keeping the heart of the newborn. “Cry” (hao), “throat” (ai), and “hoarse/dry” (sa) refer to the voice. The newborn cries but the voice does not dry—there is no calculating mind, so harmony is not harmed.

“Clenched so it cannot stretch” (ni)—if an adult holds the fist long, opening it brings stiffness; the child is not like that; it is natural endowment. “Share its virtue” (gong qi de): “gong” means together, alike. “Looks all day yet the eyes do not glaze”—seeing without strain, the spirit not turned outward.

“Walking without knowing where, dwelling without knowing what to do, yielding to things in serpentine ease and sharing their wave”—that is the Classic on Nourishing Life.

Plain-language interpretation:

Nanrong Chu asked: “Is this, then, the virtue of the perfected person?”

Laozi said: “No. This is still only a state like ice melting and thaw releasing its hold. The perfected person eats on earth together with others, and in heaven rejoices together with nature. They are not stirred by gain or harm from external things, do not treat each other as strange, do not scheme together, do not act on each other’s behalf, and come and go without constraint—this is what is called the constant way of preserving life.”

Nanrong Chu asked again: “Is this the highest level?”

Laozi said: “Not yet. I have already told you: can you be like an infant? An infant acts without knowing what it is doing, walks without knowing where it is, the body like the branch of a withered tree, the mind like cooled ashes. For such a person, disaster does not come, fortune does not come; there is no fortune or misfortune—only the calamity that people bring on themselves.”

Background note:

This exchange is from “Gengsang Chu” in the Zhuangzi. It distinguishes “preserving life” (weisheng) from the perfected person (zhiren) who has attained the Way. Laozi teaches Nanrong Chu in stages: genuine cultivation is not striving for a fixed state, but being as natural and unselfconscious as an infant, undisturbed by fortune and misfortune—that is the true art of nurturing life.

“Ye” (也) does not literally mean something exists or does not; “fortune and misfortune have no presence” (祸福无有) means the person has already stepped beyond theopposition of fortune and misfortune. “Human calamity” (人灾) refers to harm brought by worldly human affairs. Once one is beyond fortune and misfortune, one is far from the secular world—how could those ordinary worldly harms still remain? Answering “it is not so” (非也) and “not yet” (未也) is deliberately leaving the words unfinished, so the other party may awaken on their own. Chan (Zen) Buddhism often borrows this way of speaking.

From here on, Zhuangzi broadly discusses the ultimate principle. “When the cosmic frame is vast and settled” (宇泰定): when the breast is at ease and settled, the heavenly light (tianguang) then appears from within; when heavenly light appears, that is being sincere and illumined (cheng er ming). Hence it says, “One whose cosmic frame is vast and settled gives forth the heavenly light.” Once heavenly light has issued, though others still see him as human, he himself is already one with Heaven. “One who has cultivation” (人有修者) means a person who practices cultivation (xiuzhen); when such a person reaches the appearance of heavenly light, there is “constancy” (heng)—lasting constancy, namely utmost sincerity (zhicheng) that endures. When utmost sincerity reaches endurance, Heaven assists it and people return to it. “She” (舍) means to stop or return; “the people of Heaven” (tianmin) are the celestial person (tianren), not ordinary humans. “Son of Heaven” (tianzi) is one whom Heaven loves as a son. Learning, conduct, and disputation all leave traces that can be followed; “what cannot be learned, cannot be conducted, cannot be disputed” refers to what is naturally so of itself, not deliberately manufactured. What humans can know, when it stops at what cannot be known—that is the utmost of attainment, hence “it has reached the limit” (至矣). “Heaven’s balance” (tianjun) is creation and transformation (zaohua); “there is what does not accord” (有不即是者)—not according means the opposite of “according”; the opposite violates the principle of creation’s spontaneity, and “defeat” (败) means loss.

“Prepare things to support the form” (备物以将形): ready external things to settle the bodily form; “store up the unexpected without anxiety” (藏不虞以生): lodge unforeseen troubles in the heart without worry; “with reverence in the heart, hold the center to reach the other shore” (心敬中以达彼): inwardly revere and guard the center and harmony (zhonghe) to penetrate that realm. If one is thus and myriad evils still arrive, all belong to Heaven’s mandate (tianming), not human power; they are insufficient to disturb the completed nature, and one must not inwardly disturb the spirit platform (lingtai). The spirit platform has something it holds to, yet one does not know what that something is—nor may one cling and fix upon it. Chan Buddhism often uses this kind of explanation.

Preparing things means having ready the principles of all things; those principles are in fact already complete within my heart.

Giving form to the body means letting life take shape along its native nature: no anxiety, no scheming, no deliberate thinking. Withdraw the heart into the state of “no thinking”; the heart answers things, and answers as things arise in their time—what Buddhism calls “the mind that arises with no dwelling.” What is kept within is jing (reverence); what responds outward is all-pervasive—what the Book of Changes means by “with reverence straightening the inner, with righteousness squaring the outer.” Da is penetration; bi refers to what lies outside. Ten thousand harms means unwelcome events. If my cultivation has already reached this point and ten thousand harms still arrive, that is heaven’s doing, not a failure of human effort—how could it be enough to unsettle the integrated virtue in my breast? Hence: all is heaven, not human; it is not enough to hua (unsettle) cheng (virtue already formed). The spirit terrace means the heart. “Not admitted to the spirit terrace” means outer things do not enter the heart; because they do not enter the heart, they do not disturb virtue already formed.

Having something to hold means the mind has a master; “not knowing what is held” means that though there is a master, one does not know what it is—having arrived at the realm of great transformation. Cannot be held means that if one still grasps and holds, one has not yet transformed. The three occurrences of chi (hold) in this one sentence are the most subtle point in the passage; they should not be read in haste.

The lines that follow speak again of those who are not good: they have not yet realized the self and yet emit action. Every emission misses the mark; the ye (affair, karmic entanglement) has entered and they cannot let go—people who feel shame yet still do wrong. To change and replace: knowing shame yet doing wrong, they change course again and again, and each change only adds error—hence “each change is a further loss.” Ye is also glossed as “affair”; in modern usage, “the ye is already set” or “the trade is already thus” uses this same ye. In the open and bright versus in the hidden and secluded: when one’s conduct is not good, if people do not punish, ghosts will hold to account; between the hidden and the manifest there is no escape. Only when one is clear about what people punish and what ghosts hold to account can one then walk alone.

Cautious Solitude and Walking Alone

Only when one understands human affairs and also understands the principles concerning spirits and ghosts can one walk alone—this is what the Doctrine of the Mean means by “nothing is more visible than in what is hidden, nothing more manifest than in what is subtle”; therefore the noble person is cautious in solitude. Walking alone is precisely this cautious solitude. These lines fit the classic just as well when read in that light.

Within the Tally and Outside the Tally

Those within the tally act in namelessness; those outside the tally set their hearts on anticipated costs and gains. Those who act in namelessness have radiance only when they are full within; those who set their hearts on anticipated costs and gains are no more than merchants. People see them standing high on their toes and take them for figures of imposing dignity, not knowing that they run with material desires to the bitter end—their whole person is swallowed by things—hence the text speaks of being exhausted with things and of things entering into one. They also grasp at things in a slapdash way, even to the point of ruining themselves without regret—hence being “with things” in that reckless sense: when the body cannot even hold itself, how could it hold others? Those who cannot hold others have no close ties; without close ties the human way is utterly cut off—hence “those without kin exhaust humanity.”

Within the tally means what one seeks lies within one’s own allotment—the inward seeking of which Mencius said, “seek it and you will get it.” Namelessness means that fame and profit are not something others can impose on you from outside. Outside the tally means seeking outside oneself; those who serve what is external only look forward to expenses, wealth, and gain—they seek for their own advantage. “Only when full is there radiance” means being substantively filled and thereby shining; yong is what is constant, guang is enduring brightness. To abandon oneself and chase the outside, with one’s aim fixed on profit, is the mind of a merchant—hence “only merchants.” Qi describes standing on tiptoes; people see outward wealth or rank and think someone lofty and worthy of respect, not seeing that from beginning to end they are bound to material desire until exhausted—the whole body is drowned in things—hence “exhausted with things” and “things enter in.” Qie (且) suggests a careless, clinging pursuit of things, even unto death without turning back—hence “with things” in that sense: when the body cannot contain itself, how can it contain others? Those who cannot contain others are abandoned even by kin and flesh-and-blood ties—hence “those who cannot contain others have no kin”; when a person has no kin, the human way is cut off—hence “those without kin exhaust humanity.” Read in this way, one sees how little Zhuangzi troubles himself with conventional worldly norms.

Weapons and Robbers

No weapon is more cruel than the mind in arms; even fine blades such as Moye rank below that. No robber is greater than Yin-Yang; between Heaven and Earth there is nowhere to flee. Unless Yin-Yang harms the heart, it is outer things that make it so.

(The sense: what injures people most is the soldiering of the will; sharp metal comes second. The greatest bandit is Yin-Yang—the play of passion and of the turning of creation—and under heaven and earth there is no escape. If it is not Yin-Yang that steals and wounds the heart, then something in the world of things has driven it to this.)

One: Zhi (Intent/Fixation) and Yin-Yang

“Zhi” means the mind clings to something and cannot let go. Once the mind fixates, it turns back and harms oneself; among the ways people harm themselves, nothing is worse than fixation—zhi is sharper than Mo Ye among weapons, hence “no weapon cuts deeper than zhi,” with Mo Ye coming second. Both Yin and Yang qi can injure a person, like external marauders. But if this heart is calm and even, how can Yin and Yang harm you? Hence “it is not that Yin and Yang are thieves”—the crux is “the heart.” When the heart is disturbed, it is as the classic says: “its heat blazes like fire, its cold congeals like ice.” These two lines fit the practical work of heart-mind cultivation most closely.

Two: The Dao Penetrates the Division, and “Bei” (Completeness)

Success and ruin are two things people treat as separate; seen through the Dao, they are really one matter, hence “the Dao penetrates the division.” Once the human heart splits self and other, partiality arises; partiality always wants to be “fully equipped,” to possess everything, hence “in its division, there is bei.” All things can originally be returned to non-being, yet those who are selfish and only seek “complete possession” only seek “having”; those who clarify the Dao detest this attitude, hence “what is detested about bei is using what one has in order to be complete.”

Three: Going Out Without Returning, and “Obtaining Death”

To respond to affairs outwardly and yet gather oneself inward is what we call having De (Virtue/Power); with De one can attain spirit and align with Heaven. Chasing the outer world without knowing how to turn back falls into the ghostly track, hence “going out without returning—one meets one’s ghost.” Buddhism says “doing one’s work inside a ghost’s den”—the same idea. When the heart holds neither “is” nor “is not,” this heart lives on; clinging to right and wrong without release, this heart is as if dead. “Going out and taking that as right” means being driven by outer things yet imagining one has gained what is “right,” what is correct. Discourse on the Equality of Things says “a heart near death cannot be warmed back to life”—the same layer of meaning.

Four: Annihilating Yet Holding the Real, and Ghosts

“Shi” (the real) is the genuine principle within Heaven and Earth. Without self-centered mind there is emptiness; in emptiness one accords with the real. If private mind “annihilates” principle yet treats what has form and appearance as the real, that person is much like a ghost, hence “annihilating yet possessing the real—one with ghosts.” Falling into the ghostly track and sinking out of sight mostly comes from private mind annihilating principle and greedily grasping all that exists, not knowing that true emptiness also embraces real being. If a person can, amid the formed, regard it as nearly formless, seeing principle is settled. “Xiang” means resemblance and taking images. Buddhism says “one may only empty what is already fixed upon”—the same thread.

Five: The Dao Penetrates the Division (continued) and Bei (continued)

“Fen” (division) is splitting the one body into parts to view it; “bei” is selfish mind wanting to own every part. Success and ruin are originally two faces of one body; only after dividing self and other does one demand “bei.” Those who know detest precisely this mindset of “using what one has in order to be complete.”

The line “what cannot be made solid in what is not” means just this.

“Emerging from no root, entering no aperture; having reality yet no fixed place”—the birth of the myriad things is the opening of all that is; it is not that there is truly no root, only that the root cannot be grasped or known, hence it is called “no root.” Death is the end of all that is; though we know there is an end, we do not see where it “enters,” hence “no aperture.” Real principle truly “is,” yet there is no fixed position in which to seek it, hence “no fixed place.”

“Having duration yet no beginning or end”—principle runs through past and present, always thus, so we speak of “having duration”; yet its beginning and end are not seen, so we speak of “no beginning or end” (本 is start, 剽 is end). “What emerges yet has no aperture that can be flattened has reality”—Laozi says, “empty yet not exhausted, in motion it ever pours forth”: though it pours forth without limit, its “aperture” cannot be crushed flat; emptiness is precisely why reality is real, so what emerges without an aperture is “having reality.” Entering and emerging are originally one matter; here the explanation of “entering” speaks of “emerging,” which shows where the emphasis lies.

“Having reality yet no fixed place—that is Yu (space).” Yu means the four directions and above and below; the Dao has no fixed abode, and above, below, and the four quarters are all within it, hence it is called Yu (as when the kite flies in heaven and the fish leaps in the deep—above and below are both clear). “Having duration yet no beginning or end—that is Zhou (time).” Past and present together are called Zhou; the Dao’s coming and going through millions of years remains as it is—that is Zhou. “There is birth, there is death, there is emergence, there is entering; entering and emerging without any visible form—this is called the Gate of Heaven.” From here downward is commentary on the three lines above. Birth, death, emergence, and entering each have their source, yet no form can be seen—this is the subtlety of creation and transformation. The Gate of Heaven is creation and transformation, nature itself; because the text above spoke of entering and emerging, what follows uses the word “gate.”

“The Gate of Heaven is non-being (wu-you).” The myriad things emerge from non-being; “being” cannot take “being” as the source of being—it must come forth from non-being, and that non-being is again a further layer of non-being (namely, non-being that is non-being). The Zhuangzi line in “Discourse on Equalizing Things”: “Non-being and being—there is that which has never begun to be non-being and being,” is this meaning. “The sage stores himself in this”—the sage withdraws and hides in the secret, guarding this gate of non-being.

The mind of the sage dwells in wuyou (non-being, the undifferentiated), which is why the text says to “hide the spirit in this” (cang hu shi)—to keep one’s inner life anchored in that level of realization.

The ancients’ insight comes in layers. At the highest, one holds that there never was a beginning to “things” at all: having seen through being and non-being, life and death, one reaches a limit beyond which nothing further can be added.

The next layer down admits that “there are things,” and then treats life as a temporary lodging and death as going home and returning to the root. This is what Qi Wu Lun (Discussion on Making All Things Equal) means by “weakly lost in exile and not knowing the way back”—like someone cast out who no longer knows how to return. To take life as sojourn and death as return is already to stand within “there are things”; once life and death are distinguished, one has fallen into that level, hence the line “and so division is already there” (yi shi fen yi).

Still lower is the view that “at first there was not, then there came to be; once there is life, soon there is death,” treating wuyou as the head, birth as the body, and death as the tail. Whoever can hold that being and non-being, death and life, are fundamentally one—I would gladly call such a person a friend. These three levels differ in height, yet they are like branches from one clan: one ducal line splitting into the Zhao, Jing, and Dai lines (made prominent by office) and the Jia line (made prominent by a fief)—different surnames in name, but all of the Chu ducal house. The earlier passage said the three are “though different” yet alike as one clan; here “not one” (fei yi ye) closes the argument: names and forms may split apart, but the source is the same. This is the commentarial move often described as “giving birth above while cutting off below without really cutting off.”

Where there is birth, there is also yan—the blockage that comes when qi (vital energy) gathers into form, like the black crust at the bottom of a cauldron, and also a figure for the illness of congealed primordial qi. Earlier expositors said “the living person groans and sighs with qi” (yin yi qi); the point is the same: when heaven-and-earth qi condenses into a human being and the primordial qi does not flow freely, this is the kind of affliction that appears.

“Suddenly declaring, ‘shift the shi’” (pi ran yue yi shi) is a line from Qi Wu Lun on yi shi—shifting “this” and “that,” right and wrong, back and forth. It is put into words, yet what is truly subtle cannot be known by clinging to those words.

Mo means dim obscurity; yan means murky darkness and can also name a festering skin sore, here a metaphor for qi that congeals and will not disperse. At the first moment of human birth, it is the same condensation of this mass of qi—in direct continuity with the earlier talk of yin-yi.

The text discusses the concept of "shifting standards" (移是), illustrating how people's judgments of what is "right" constantly change without fixed principles. Just as a sacrificial ox appears whole when viewed as a single entity but becomes separate parts when butchered, or how a single house contains distinct spaces like bedrooms, ancestral shrines, and resting areas—though unified under one roof, each serves a different purpose.

The example of year-end sacrifices (腊祭) clarifies this: after the ritual ox is slaughtered, its organs and limbs are displayed separately on ceremonial vessels. To say it is "separable" acknowledges its physical division, while calling it "inseparable" recognizes its underlying unity as one animal. This mirrors how people’s standards of right and wrong appear logical yet remain fundamentally unstable.

The housing analogy continues: a single structure contains functionally distinct areas—sleeping quarters, temples, and lounges—each with unique names and purposes. Similarly, so-called "fixed standards" (移是) prove impossible to anchor.

The text critiques contemporaries who treat life as disposable lumber and knowledge as dogma to blindly follow, using such flawed measures to judge right and wrong. This leads to warped values: cunning is mistaken for wisdom, detachment for foolishness; social prominence is glorified, while hardship is shamed. Such perspectives resemble the limited vision of cicadas and sparrows, drifting aimlessly with the currents.

Ultimately, the author emphasizes that this phenomenon of "shifting standards" resembles rehashing the same debate—it merely reflects stubborn personal biases. Everyone insists on their own correctness, yet the criteria for "right" keep changing, leaving truth and falsehood indistinguishable.

Vernacular Interpretation of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence)

On “indeed there are name and reality” and “shifting the this”

Once an argument is built on “this”—on taking oneself to be right—people tend to treat staying alive and protecting themselves as the root, trust only their own limited view, and treat it as their teacher. From that come entangled rights and wrongs, each side pressing harder against the other. Which part is mere name and label, and which is real principle? Hence the text says “indeed there are name and reality,” and also “indeed there are”—meaning: those may not truly exist, and may not truly be so.

“Substance as root” means: one first makes oneself the standard, then insists everyone else live by one’s rules. That is “taking it as one’s own substance” (treating one’s own set of rules as the “reality” everyone should accept).

One makes others submit to one’s own measure; because of that selfishness, people will argue over right and wrong even to the point of staking their lives on it—hence “paying with death for one’s measure.” The “measure” in the next line continues the “measure” (节度) above.

Because of this, in appointing and dismissing, in poverty and success, distinctions of wise and foolish, honor and disgrace, arise. Most people today are busy “shifting the this”—moving “this” over to whatever serves self-interest and self-protection. So it says, “shifting the this—that is people nowadays.”

“Thorough” means penetrating and clear. Cicadas, orioles, and turtledoves alike mock the great peng bird; that is like those who “shift the this” failing to recognize the utmost Daoist adept and instead ridiculing them—their insight is not far from that of cicadas and doves. Cicadas and doves are alike in that way; people are alike with cicadas and doves—hence “the same in sameness.” This is elaboration in an exhorting, rousing style.

On “utmost ritual” and the metaphor of stepping on the foot

In the market, if you step on a stranger’s foot, you apologize and blame yourself, afraid they will be angry. If an elder brother steps on a younger brother’s foot, coaxing and a few comforting words are enough; no formal apology is needed, because brothers are close and need not be separated by ritual propriety.

“Great kinship” means parents. If parents step on a child’s foot, even coaxing may be unnecessary; affection at its utmost means the two sides naturally harmonize.

Therefore it is said: utmost ritual has no “other person”—when ritual reaches its height, you no longer cling to you versus me, and the outward forms of bowing and yielding fade.

Utmost rightness has no [dependence on] things—when rightness reaches its height, one need not weigh appropriateness by external objects.

Utmost knowledge does not scheme—when knowledge reaches its height, there is no room for constant calculation.

Utmost benevolence has no partial kinship—when benevolence reaches its height, no trace of favoritism toward the near appears.

Utmost trust dispenses with gold—when trust reaches its height, one need not use gold and jade as pledge. “Dispense” (辟) means to set aside or remove.

This sequence of stepping-on-the-foot images prepares the ground for the discussion of ritual, rightness, knowledge, benevolence, and trust—the five.

Four Groups of “Six Harms” and the Stages of Cultivation

The text says that one must withdraw disorder from aspiration, unravel what binds the heart, remove what drags on De (Virtue/Power), and open what blocks the Dao (the Way).

Nobility, wealth, prominence, splendor, fame, and profit—these six can upset and disorder aspiration (bo zhi). Bearing, movement, complexion, principle, Qi (vital energy), and intention—these six can entangle the inner mind (miu xin). Hatred, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—these six can burden authentic De (lei de). Leaving, approaching, taking, giving, knowing, and ability—these six can block the great Dao (sai dao).

Across these four sets of six, if one does not let them surge and churn in the chest, the heart can be upright; upright, it can be still; still, it can be clear; clear, it can be empty; and in emptiness one can practice wuwei (non-action) yet leave nothing undone.

The oral exegesis (kouyi) notes that “che” means to withdraw or remove; “xian” is outward brilliance, “yan” is stern dignity. Bo zhi means the six disrupt aspiration; miu xin means the six tie the heart like fine cords; lei de means when emotions prevail they weigh down the truth one could naturally rest in; knowing and ability, together with taking and giving, block the Dao by obstructing the great Way. Dang means disorder. Strip away these four kinds of harm—twenty-four items in all—and the chest is no longer stirred. That is where the teaching points for getting to work in practice.

Dao, De, Life, Nature, and “Knowing”

Dao is the guarding and reverent holding of De; life (sheng) is De in active expression—when it acts, there is radiance; nature (xing), as what is “in me,” is the inherent stuff of life. When nature stirs, that is deliberate doing (youwei); when deliberate doing slides into artificial contrivance, that is loss—straying from original nature.

Knowing (zhi) has two sides: responding in encounter and deliberate scheming. Knowing that wells from nature, when applied to what one does not know yet treats as known, is like an infant’s sidelong glance—the eyes see, but without a fixed object of attention. That is the sense of “the wise person conducts affairs as if doing nothing.”

Whatever one must deploy, if it is done only when there is no other choice, that nears De—a kind of forgetting the self; and within that forgetting, when nothing is not the self, that is settled ease (zhi). The labels seem opposite; the reality aligns, like form and formlessness, formlessness and form, in a single quiet harmony.

This chapter is oral exegesis on the Zhuangzi (Nanhua zhenjing kouyi), clarifying word meanings in related passages. The four groups of “six” and the ladder upright → still → clear → empty → wuwei summarize a path of cultivation in the commentary and are best read against the Zhuangzi original.

"What can disorder it is called governing," "called De," "called governing," "called having no choice," "called nothing that is not"—such sayings use names that seem opposed, yet in truth they are often not truly opposed; this is yet another layer of rhetorical craft.

Yi excelled at hitting the bull's-eye with supreme finesse, called zhongwei (hitting the subtle); yet he was clumsy at keeping others from proclaiming his fame. The sage excels at acting in accord with Tian (Heaven's way), yet is clumsy at evading the world's renown. One who excels at Heaven's way yet can remain low-key and self-effacing among people—only the quanren (person of complete virtue) can do this.

"Only a creature can be a creature; only a creature can be Heaven"—chong is the general term for birds, beasts, and all living things. Though each thing is small, each has its endowment: to fly, walk, cry, bite, chirp, or leap—all can follow its nature, hence "can be a creature, can be Heaven." One who counts as quanren does not use "Heaven" to advertise himself; where there is a name of Heaven there is a name of human, so the quanren says "I detest Heaven"—detesting not joy in having that name. In the human realm there is the split between Heaven and human; I already loathe this way of dividing, how much more if I myself still divide Heaven and human? So it is said to detest people's "Heaven," how much more if I split Heaven and human myself? Those eight characters "only a creature can be a creature; only a creature can be Heaven" are wonderfully apt.

When a sparrow flies before Yi, he will surely hit it—relying on imposing force. If one takes all under Heaven as a cage, the sparrow has nowhere to flee. Thus Tang used the post of cook to cage Yi Yin, and Duke Mu of Qin used five sheets of goatskin to cage Baili Xi—if you do not cage with what the other cherishes, you cannot hold them. This means: once a person has likes and dislikes, they must be constrained by what they like.

The jiezhe (unyielding person) painted on the hall outside does not seek praise. Xumi who climb high without fear have forgotten life and death. When Yi sees a sparrow he always gets it, and the sparrow fears him; when an ape sees Yang Youji, it clings to a tree and wails—the same principle. With all under Heaven as the cage, the sparrow is already inside; there is no need to shoot. Here the point is not on Yi but only to lead into what follows; the main idea is that people have likes and dislikes and must be caged by what they like.

Note: This piece belongs to the kouyi (oral exegesis) style of the Nanhuazhenjing (Zhuangzi), repeatedly unfolding how "names reverse yet reality aligns," how "the sage detests fame," how "the quanren does not split Heaven and human," and how "the myriad things each fulfill their nature," with Yi, Tang, and Duke Mu as illustrations of "caging people through what they cherish." Proper names are glossed in parentheses at first mention where helpful.

Led Astray by Likes and Dislikes

Once people are led by their own likes and dislikes, others can take hold of them. Worthy ministers such as Yi Yin and Baili Xi were likewise caught—each by what he cherished—through name, office, and ideals. If the heart truly has no bent toward this or that, it hangs beyond all things; who could then shut it in a cage of benefit and harm?

Jie and Praise and Blame

“Jie” means lame, unable to walk with ease. Some still swagger by day in fine dress, but Jie Shi stripped off such adornments and threw them away. With feet already impaired, heaping on brocade was no real beauty. What counts is that in his mind he had already cast praise and blame outside himself—so the classic says: what is external is neither praise nor condemnation.

Names like Xu Mi and the chengdan referred to convicts at forced labor. They did not spare their bodies; they did not fear falling from a height. The image is this: when the heart clings to nothing, nothing holds it fast.

Fu, Xi, Bu Kui, and the “Heaven-Person”

“Fu” is return and repetition, as in the Changes’ “the way moves back and forth.” “Xi” is the same as habituation: practiced until pure skill. “Bu kui” means not treating the Dao as something you can hand out or toss to someone else.

The sense is: the Dao is in you; it is not merchandise. A mind that cultivates for itself alone and does not seek on others’ account will “forget others”—no longer pulled by their praise or blame. After forgetting others, what stays with me is only what Heaven has given—hence the title “Heaven-person” (tian ren).

In the “Xu Wugui” chapter we read, “I must sell it, so he peddles it”—the other can sell only because you want to buy. Read beside that, “bu kui” is not meanness but refusing to make practice a favor shown to others or a claim on their gratitude.

Unmoved by Respect or Insult, and “Heaven’s Harmony”

Thus, when some honor me I do not rejoice for that reason, and when some slight me I do not flare up—only one in union with “Heaven’s harmony” (tian he) can do this. It is what we mean by: though the whole world praises him, he is not urged on further; though the whole world condemns him, he is not cast down. Heaven’s harmony is the one breath of creation; to share it is to keep step with Heaven and Earth’s transforming work.

Anger may show outwardly, yet it is not a grudge banked inside: it is anger that in origin was without anger, arising because the occasion calls for it—not anger nursed on purpose. Take that line into the next: the perfected person moves in the world without scheming in the heart; though there is action, the heart does not act. What acts issues from original non-action (wuwei)—that is “wuwei and yet nothing is left undone” (wuwei er wu bu wei). The text then changes its wording and opens the theme further.

If you want stillness, first settle the qi; if qi is unsettled, stillness will not hold. If you want the spirit to flow clear, align the heart; yet if you still insist that every matter land exactly right, you can only follow events in “having no other way”—and this “having no other way” is exactly the place where the sage walks the Dao.

To preserve spiritual vitality, one must follow the original mind and not let what goes against one’s nature in the outer world stir up trouble; the moment the mind moves in delusion, spirit is no longer whole.

Whenever one acts and also wants to act just right, one must go with how things are and only step in when one truly cannot but respond. What “cannot but” (budeyi) means is responding to the moment without deliberate scheming or selfish clutter in the heart. To meet affairs in this way—responding yet not fixating on them in thought—is the Way of the sage. So when texts speak of “cannot but” and the like, they are speaking of the Way of the sage as well.

How does the wording of this chapter differ from the inner chapters? Some say the outer chapters are rough in style and the inner ones refined—that is a mistake.