《南華真經口義》Vol. 26

General Meaning of the “Zeyang” Chapter (Oral Explanation)

Zeyang traveled in the state of Chu. Yijie recommended him to the King of Chu, but the king did not receive him. When Yijie returned, Pengyang (that is, Zeyang) went to see the king on his own. The king indeed said: “Why didn’t you recommend me to His Majesty back then?” Pengyang replied: “I am not equal to Gongyuexiu.” The king asked: “What does Gongyuexiu do?” The answer: “In winter he catches turtles by the river; in summer he rests in a hut in the hills. When passersby ask who he is, he says: ‘This is my home.’”

(Oral explanation) Zeyang’s surname was Peng, given name Yang, courtesy name Zeyang. Yijie had once recommended Zeyang to the King of Chu; he was not employed, and Yijie came back. “This is my home” means he had no fixed dwelling and was at ease wherever he was.

If even Yijie could not succeed, how much less could I? I am even less capable than Yijie. As for the sort of person Yijie is: he lacks De (virtue) yet is full of cleverness; he will not stand on his own innate Shen (spirit/natural endowment), yet he forms ties in the dizzying realm of wealth and rank. That is not helping one another with De—it is helping one another to wear each other down. It is like someone who is freezing waiting until spring to borrow a coat, or someone overcome by heat who runs back into the winter’s cold wind. The King of Chu, as a man, is lofty in station and stern in bearing; in punishing wrong he shows no mercy—he is like a tiger. Unless one is the sort who upholds the right Way yet can bend without breaking, who could soften such a man?

Pengyang was bent on advancement; the recluse used these words to wake him: If Yijie could not do it, how could I hope to? I am even less than Yijie. Yijie is someone without De but with much shrewdness; he will not commit himself to the Shen he already has, yet he mingles confusedly in the world of the rich and noble. That is not mutual support through De—it is mutual drain through private designs. It is like the frozen waiting for spring to borrow clothes, or the heat-stricken running into the winter’s cold blast. The king’s rank is high and his dignity heavy; he does not pardon offenses—it is like facing a tiger. Unless one is someone who holds to the right De and can meet him with supple skill—not flattery, but upright adaptation—who could avoid being broken against him? (“佞人正德” means one who can move in the world on the basis of the right Way, yet is not someone who crookedly flatters.)

Therefore when the sage is in straits, he lets his household forget their poverty; when he prospers, he lets kings and dukes forget rank and salary and become humble in heart. Toward things, he finds joy with them without being led by them; toward people, he delights in how things connect and thereby preserves himself. So sometimes without speaking he “pours harmony into others” as if offering drink; standing shoulder to shoulder with others, he transforms them. The natural fit between father and son—something like that. He goes home and shuts his door; the distance between him and the hearts of those outside is as if a whole room lay between—yet his influence reaches that far into people’s minds. Hence it is said: one must wait for someone like Gongyuexiu (to meet the world without being harmed).

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

Putting on clothes brings warmth, just as a person in sweltering heat feels cool when a breeze blows; giving someone garments for cold weather is like warding off winter’s chill. The point is: when people live together, each should use what they have in surplus to fill what others lack.

Peng Yang’s single-minded wish to rise is precisely where he is “lacking.” What I teach you is the way of withdrawal—like carrying something scalding to the wash or handing over clothes against the cold—only that truly counts as benefiting you.

A grave, imposing bearing is leaning on power to press others down; refusing mercy even to the guilty and killing like a tiger is inhumanity. Bending the body to serve—if one is not a true ning ren (sycophant who advances by clever words), who would stoop to wait on others? The phrase “the upright virtue of the sycophant” (you ning ren zhi zheng de) means exactly this kind of genuine small-minded flatterer. (The four characters “却如此” in what follows are especially fine in the original.)

So when the sage is in straits… All of the above says: one who has the Dao withdraws and does not seek office. A king or duke holds a lofty rank yet can forget rank and stipend, humble himself before others, and turn high into low.

To exhaust the patterns of the myriad things and find joy therein is why it is said one “takes delight with them”; in the human world to follow the patterns of things without obstruction and take preserving one’s authentic nature as joy is why it is said one “rejoices in things’ continuity and keeps oneself intact.”

There is a teaching without words that can awaken others, like being nourished by the utmost harmonizing qi (vital energy)—the Buddhist phrase “as if drinking tihu” (the finest essence distilled from milk) means this. “The Dao is present at a meeting of the eyes” (muji er dao cun), and a composed countenance stills others’ restless minds; hence it is said that standing shoulder to shoulder with someone can transform them.

The Odes says, “That man of his”—this line must be read in reverse: if that gentleman returns home and dwells in peace, superior and inferior, elder and younger each find their place; that is father and son each fitting their role. What he extends to others all flows from ease and leisure, almost without effort; hence “and in one leisure, what he extends.” This describes how whether at home or in the community, he brings harmony everywhere.

The gap between his mind and ordinary people’s is so vast—like saying their capacities differ by just that much. Lord Yue Xiu’s heart is thus; Peng Yang’s heart is otherwise; they are far apart.

“I am still not equal to Yi Jie”—Yi Jie is a ning ren; he too seeks advancement, which is why he recommended you to the ruler. How could I imitate him? This is contempt for Yi Jie.

Note: In the original, “父子之宜，彼其乎归居” forms one continuous line with the preceding “彼其之子若归而居,” meaning that after returning home and dwelling in peace, father and son each attain what is fitting.

Brief glosses: Kouyi—line-by-line explication of a classic. Ning ren—flatterer who uses clever speech to advance. Tihu—finest essence refined from curds, metaphor for supreme teaching. Muji er dao cun—the Dao is grasped without words, through eye-to-eye contact; from the Zhuangzi.

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

“Fuming” (returning to the mandate), “yaozuo” (stirring and acting) with Heaven as teacher; people follow and bestow names

“Fuming” is movement and function, yet in the end one still returns to the heavenly mandate; “yaozuo” means fabrication and deliberate action. The sage acts with Nature (tian, Heaven) as his model and does not rely on private cleverness. People imitate his manner and attach titles and honorifics to him—this is “people follow and thereby name him.” In his own heart the sage does not seek fame; all names are imposed by others.

“Youhu zhi er suo xing heng wu ji, qi you zhi ye ruo zhi he”

“Youhu zhi”: leaning on one’s personal cleverness to guess and calculate, worrying endlessly, yet what one can actually accomplish is often very little (suo xing heng wu ji).

Sometimes fate says stop, says halt, and no matter how hard one pushes forward, one cannot—“qi you zhi ye ruo zhi he”: when it is time to stop, what can one do?

These two lines lay bare worldly truth: disaster often begins with thinking oneself “knowing.” If one knows what one does not know and holds to not-knowing, worry diminishes. Below, the metaphor of beauty and the mirror is used.

Choumu (interlacing), yiti (one body)

“Choumu”: the yin-yang creation and transformation, cause and effect in endless succession.

“Yiti”: fine and coarse, high and low united as one. The sage penetrates this principle of creation and transformation, pervades it to the limit, unites fine and coarse, and acts in accord with Nature without knowing why it is so—hence it is called xing (nature). Xing is simply being thus of itself.

Yaozuo with Heaven as teacher; people follow and name; youhu zhi

In movement and action one returns to the heavenly mandate and takes the natural as master—hence “with Heaven as teacher.” Titles and designations are what people call out after the sage; the sage has no such intent in his own mind.

To worry and calculate with private human cleverness leaves little that can be carried through; when I wish to act and to go forward, mandate blocks me and there is nothing to be done—sometimes there is stopping, and stopping is fate, stopping is obstruction (ni).

The metaphor of beauty and the mirror

One born beautiful—if others hold up a mirror and do not tell him, he himself does not know how he appears beautiful in others’ eyes.

Whether he knows or does not know, whether he hears or does not hear, the heart’s joy never reaches an end; people’s fondness for him also never reaches an end—this is called xing (the principle of nature).

How the sage loves people

The sage loves people; people give him names; if not told, he does not know that he is loving people.

Whether he knows or does not know, whether he hears or does not hear, his loving people never ceases; people’s resting in him also never ceases—again, xing.

Yan born from chou (beauty from ugliness)

Beauty (yan) stands opposite ugliness; if one is not told of ugliness, one also does not know one’s own beauty.

Once there is distinction between beautiful and ugly, good and bad, that is where worry comes from.

Hence not knowing, not hearing—joy never ends; since I have no distinction of beautiful and ugly, no mind set against things, people’s fondness for me also never ends—the principle of nature, hence called xing.

Main idea: The sage returns to the mandate and takes Heaven as teacher; fame comes from people. Private cleverness breeds much worry and little accomplishment; mandate has its time to stop. To penetrate choumu creation and unite fine and coarse as one body is xing. The metaphors of beauty and mirror and of loving people: if not told, one does not know oneself; without discrimination, liking has no end—all the nature of spontaneity.

When the text again speaks of the sage’s idea of “loving people,” the point is roughly this: to love people until there is even a label called “love” is already for the mind to stir with intent; once intent moves, one has left one’s authentic nature.

It is like someone who has been away a long time and, on coming home, catches sight of the old country and capital and cannot help feeling ease and closeness. Even if he enters the former realm and finds people and affairs utterly changed, hills and mounds overgrown and tangled, scarcely one part in ten as it once was—so long as anything still resembles the past, he will still be moved with open delight. How much more so for one who seeks the Dao and suddenly awakens: what he “sees as his seeing” and “hears as his hearing” are what he has always had by nature—how could he not rejoice? What Buddhism calls the “original face” and “the scenery of one’s native place” means just this.

A terrace ten ren high is the loftiest spot; hung there, it lets everyone below see and hear. To stand in that extreme height and listen to sheng pipes and yong bells answering one another can shake the ears and eyes of ordinary people. How much higher, then, was the place from which the ancient sages listened—those who took the principle of empty-centered Wuwei (non-action) and yielding to the natural course, and found joy along with all things?

“Ring at the center” (huanzhong) is a figure for empty space. “Without end yet without beginning” means end and beginning are one; “without near times and without far times” means not dividing past from present. “Ji” here means the shifting of seasons and epochs. “Daily transforming with things” is to renew day by day together with things—that is the one “untransforming” ground from which one acts. “She” is to leave behind; “he” is “how” or “why”: why do worldly people not set aside old habits and turn toward the utmost Dao? Ran Xiang was a sage of antiquity.

If one takes only “Heaven” as teacher yet fails to attain the real Heaven, and together with Heaven and with things exhausts oneself chasing names and things, making the outer world one’s whole task—what is gained? The sage never fixes on a single “Heaven,” never fixes on a single “person,” never fixes on a single “beginning,” never fixes on a single “thing”; he walks the same road as the world without altering what is constant in him, and what he practices is whole and unobstructed.

I. Not Clinging to “Unity with the Dao”

“Do not be stuck on the question of how to unite with the Dao” (bu xie qi he zhi ye ruo zhi he)—do not obsess over “how can I become one with the Dao?” “Xie” (洫) means to sink in, cling, or get stuck (the “old xie” in Zhuangzi’s “Discourse on Equalizing Things” is the same idea). When one is truly one with the Dao, unity comes without seeking; the more you chase “merging with the Dao,” the less you can merge. So what counts as unity?—the text below uses Tang and Yiyin as examples.

II. Tang and Yiyin: Learning from a Teacher Without Being Boxed In

Tang took Yiyin (Deng Heng) as teacher and minister to assist him. Zhuangzi deliberately twists the wording into odd names—“Siyu,” “Menyin Deng Heng”—to speak strangely on purpose.

Here “fu” means to assist: Yiyin assisted Tang. Though Tang took Yiyin as teacher, he was not imprisoned by the teacher’s doctrine—learning from a teacher without being confined (cong shi er bu you; you: shut inside a fence).

What Tang practiced was close to the wuwei (non-action) of Tian (Heaven): he saw how things come to be and let them rest in wuwei and spontaneity, while the assisting Yiyin bore the “purposeful” titles and roles—hence attaining follow-through in becoming, and assigning to him the name of master (de qi sui cheng, wei zhi si qi ming): the process of completion follows the natural course; the nominal office-holder is Yin; it is as if Tang were wuwei and Yin purposeful, Tang nameless and Yin named. “Si” means to preside and manage; “Menyin” is Yin at the gate—many “purposeful” labels fall on him.

III. Taking the Natural as Norm, Yet Having No Fixed “Norm”

It says “taking Heaven as teacher yet not having attained taking Heaven as teacher”: one speaks of emulating Heaven but has not truly emulated it.

What is called taking ziran (naturalness/spontaneity) as norm has no dead rulebook; the name ziran is simply going along with things.

If the mind keeps thinking “I must act,” that is already unnatural; as soon as a flicker of “I will do something” arises, it is no longer ziran.

Human beings act with purpose; Heaven is wuwei—not only leaving no trace of purposeful action, but also letting go of even the inner cling to “I am wuwei”—hence there has never been Heaven, there has never been the human (wei shi you tian, wei shi you ren): do not nail Heaven and the human into two fixed roles.

Where there are things there are traces; the beginning without things is without trace—not only no trace of things, but no thought of “no trace” either—so there has never been a beginning, there has never been things (wei shi you shi, wei shi you wu).

Living in the world, one inevitably does as others do, yet inwardly one does not discard ziran—walking with the world without being replaced (yu shi xie xing er bu ti; bu ti: not swapped out by the world, not abandoning the natural). Every mode of conduct may be fulfilled, yet one does not stick to any one—the completeness of what is practiced without sinking in (suo xing zhi bei er bu xie)—practice is complete, yet one is not drowned in it.

IV. Yingfa, Liangjian, Confucius, and Rongchengshi

(Continuing motifs from elsewhere) Yingfa obtained “Liangjian”; Confucius exhausted thought and planning to take him as teacher.

Rongchengshi said: count days, not years (chu ri wu sui)—live by the day, not tied to the big label of “year”; no inside, no outside (wu nei wu wai)—do not forcibly split inner and outer. This teaches not to be bound by divisions of time and space.

Brief glosses

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

On “Name” (ming)

Here ming means something extra, something burdensome. Reputation in human affairs is merely something stuck onto outer things—like changwu (superfluous possessions). Treating the body and fame as two separate things is “double seeing” (liang jian). If the mind chases reputation alone, it never attains that unified wholeness, the One; hence the text says one “gets the two kinds of seeing.”

The duties Yi Yin took on were not especially rare, yet Confucius admired him and strained every nerve to play a supporting minister in his own age—meaning Confucius too wanted to act like Yi Yin. The tone here carries mockery and a lowering of the sage’s stature.

Rongcheng Shi is a borrowed name for an ancient sage. Days are piled up until sixty days make one year; if you strip away day by day, you have only “days,” not a “year”—hence “remove the days and there is no year.” That line is excellent in itself. Laozi’s “count the parts of the carriage and there is no carriage” means the same: outer labels arise from within; without inner reality there is no outer show—hence “no inside, no outside.” Both examples illustrate ziran (naturalness, spontaneity).

King Hui of Wei and King Wei of Qi

Wei Ying is King Hui of Wei; Tian Houmou is King Wei of Qi. The two had sworn an agreement; King Wei broke it, and King Hui flew into a rage and wanted to send someone to assassinate him.

When Xishou heard this, he felt ashamed and said: You are lord of ten thousand chariots, yet you would take revenge for a common fellow. Yan (Gongsun Yan) asks leave to lead a hundred thousand armored troops for you against Qi—carry off its people, tether its cattle and horses, until the Qi ruler’s inner heat breaks out upon his back (utter anguish), and only then uproot the state. After Ji (Wei Wuji) flees, seize him from behind and break his spine.

When Jizi heard this, he too felt ashamed and said: To build a wall ten ren high and, once it stands, tear it down—that is the torment of xumi (convict laborers). For seven years you have not used arms; that is the great king’s foundation. Yan is a troublemaker; do not heed him.

When Huazi heard, he found it shameful and said: Those who urge attacking Qi are troublemakers; those who urge not attacking are also troublemakers; and whoever says both attackers and non-attackers are troublemakers is yet another troublemaker.

The king asked: Then what should I do?

The answer: Your majesty need only seek the Dao—that is enough.

（Opening commentary）

Names such as “Cheng,” “Yan,” and “Xishou” were designations of people of that time. Huazi’s point, in essence, is that as long as the mind still clings to the word “campaign” (争功攻伐), one has not yet shed calculation and self-conscious maneuvering; hence he treats all three as people who disturb the heart. Someone who truly understands the Dao does not mix talk of the Way with matters like warfare—hence the saying: for a ruler, seeking the Dao alone is enough.

Huizi and Dai Jianren (a Zhuangzi story)

When Huizi heard that Huazi cultivated the Dao, he introduced Dai Jianren to the King of Wei. Dai Jianren said to the king, “There is a tiny creature called the snail—does Your Majesty know it?” The king said, “I know it.”

“On the snail’s left horn there is a state called Chushi; on the right horn, a state called Manshi. The two states often fight over territory; corpses pile up in the tens of thousands, and pursuing a defeated army takes fifteen days before they return.”

The king said, “Come now—isn’t that empty talk?”

Dai Jianren said, “Allow me to speak to Your Majesty of what is real. Does Your Majesty think your own mind pervades the four directions and above and below, without limit?” The king said, “It has no limit.”

“Knowing how to let the mind roam in what is endless and boundless, yet falling back into this realm of human habitation that extends everywhere—is that like something that both is and is not?” The king said, “It is.”

“In this realm of universal reach there is the state of Wei; in Wei there is the capital Daliang; in Daliang there is the Great King—what is there for the Great King to contend over with Manshi on a snail’s horn?” The king said, “There is nothing to contend over.”

After the guest left, the King of Wei was desolate and unsettled, as if he had lost something. Huizi came to see him; the king said, “That guest is a great man—even a sage might not match him.”

Huizi said, “Blowing a pipe, one can still get a full ‘ho’ of sound; but if one only blows the little hole on a sword guard, one gets no more than a feeble ‘xue’ (a thin breath). Yao and Shun are sages praised by men; to hold Yao and Shun up for praise before Dai Jianren is like adding one more feeble ‘xue’ to the blow.”

（Commentary）

This passage is excellent. Huizi recommended Dai Jianren to the king only because Huazi had teachings on seeking the Dao; Dai Jianren was a person who possessed the Way. The parable of the snail’s two horns sounds at first like idle fancy, but as each layer is unfolded below, it becomes genuine insight—hence his words, “Allow me to speak to you of what is real.”

“Endless” refers to the Great Void; “the realm of universal reach” is the human world, the central lands. Looking down from the Great Void upon the central lands, down to the point where they seem barely to exist or not to exist—that is why he asks whether it is “as if present, as if absent.” Du Fu’s line, “Looking down I see but one breath—how can one tell imperial domains apart?” captures the same idea. Viewed from the central lands, Wei is smaller still; Daliang as Wei’s capital is smaller within Wei; within the capital, the Great King’s single person grows tinier still. Layer by layer from the Great Void downward, the Great King’s body and Manshi on a snail’s horn—what difference is there?

On “No Disputation” and “No Sound”

What difference is there between “touching” and “not touching”? Hence it is said that there is no need to argue—meaning that all things are fundamentally one. Only when a person is dazed, as if something were lost, does one realize that what is disputed is not worth disputing at all.

Bamboo has holes, like a flute or pipe: even without a tune, the player still makes a “hu-hu” rushing sound; if one blows on a sword hilt instead, it is only a single puff of breath, with no real sound at all. The point is roughly this: before someone who has attained the Dao, even if you wished to speak of benevolence, righteousness, the Way, or principle, there would be no place for your voice to land.

Confucius and “Sinking on Land”

When Confucius went to Chu, he lodged at an inn run by a family that sold pulp drinks near Yiqiu. In the next house, a husband and wife, servants and concubines, climbed onto the roof ridge to look out. Zilu asked, “What are all those people making such a noisy fuss about?”

Confucius said, “They are disciples of a sage. They bury themselves among the people and hide themselves in the lanes: their fame is extinguished, yet their purpose is boundless. Their mouths speak, but their hearts have never truly spoken. They go against the world on purpose and inwardly disdain flowing with it—that is what is called ‘sinking on land’: one who sinks while still on dry ground. Could they be people like Shinan Yiliang?”

Zilu went to summon them. Confucius said, “Let it be. He knows that I, Kong Qiu, have already noticed him, and he knows that I, Kong Qiu, am going to Chu; he will surely find a way to have the King of Chu summon him. He will take me for a habitual petitioner—a smooth talker. Someone like that is ashamed even to hear the words of such a person, let alone meet him face to face—how could he still stay?” Zilu went to look; the room was already empty.

Notes on Terms in the Commentary

Yiqiu is a place name; nearby lived a family that sold pulp drinks, and the Master lodged with them. Climbing the ridge means climbing onto the roof ridge to gaze afar. Zongzong describes a scene that is chaotic and bustling. Disciples of the sage means followers of a sage. Burying themselves among the people and hiding in the lanes means living hidden among the common folk, so that even neighbors did not know who they were. Their fame extinguished means their reputation had faded from view. Sinking on land (luchen) means “sinking” while not in water but on land—a figure for worthies who hide in the marketplace. Shinan Yiliang was a man of Chu who could hide himself in the southern market; here he is taken as a likely example of the same kind of recluse. Taking it as fixed on himself means he is sure that I, Kong Qiu, must recognize him (“fixed” here means to know clearly). Smooth talker (ningren) is one who talks much and flatters skillfully. Why would he still remain asks why such a person would stay once he feared being recommended to the king. The room was empty means the people had already left—likely because they feared the Master would urge the king to summon them, and so fled beforehand.

The Border Guard’s Farming Analogy (continuing from above)

The border guard—one who guards the frontier and understands farming—said: Do not treat the crops in a reckless or destructive way.

Long ago when I grew grain, if I plowed carelessly and roughly (lumang), the harvest repaid me in the same careless, rough way; if I weeded in a way that tore roots and harmed seedlings (mielie), the harvest repaid me with the same destructive outcome.

Later you changed your methods the next year: deep plowing, careful tending, and fine hoeing—then the grain grew lush and abundant, and I ate my fill all year round.

When Zhuangzi heard this, he said: Today most people who regulate the body and govern the heart-mind are much like what the border guard described—turning away from what Heaven endowed, leaving innate nature, suppressing genuine feeling, and losing spirit and clarity, taking “going with the crowd and fitting worldly custom” as the standard.

What is meant by “making one’s nature reckless” (lumang qi xing) is that desire and aversion knot together like demons and become the root that harms innate nature—like reeds and rushes sprouting everywhere as soon as they break the surface; they prop up our physical form while little by little pulling out our true nature.

Once nature is blocked, confused desires spread over the body like reeds just coming up.

Using material desire to support the body, seeing and hearing, speech and action, rising and resting, eating and drinking—all lose the pattern of the natural.

Hence “xunzhuo wu xing” (gradually pulling out our nature): xun means gradually; zhuo means to pull out.

At first true nature is only covered; in the severe case, true nature is pulled out bit by bit—Heaven’s principle is wholly lost.

Once genuine qi is disturbed, illness follows: some ulcerate (as with carbuncles, boils, and scabies); some leak and flare from no clear place (such as internal heat, wasting thirst, and dripping urine)—all of this is one kind of thing.

This passage warns the world: if one indulges emotion and desire without learning the Dao, in the end one will harm the body and shorten life.

Bo Ju Studies with Laozi

Bo Ju (a personal name) went to study with Laozi (Lao Dan) and said: Please let me travel and study everywhere under Heaven.

Laozi said: Never mind—everywhere under Heaven is the same.

He asked again, and Laozi said: Where do you plan to start?

He said: Starting with Qi.

When he reached Qi, he saw those who had undergone punishment (the guren, executed or mutilated offenders); he pushed through the crowd, forced his way forward, took off his court robe, and spread it over the corpse.

Notes on wording (woven into the sense above)

The border guard used farming to speak of governing; Zhuangzi used the same story to speak of learning. Su Shi’s Essay on Farming (Jia Shuo) follows this model in spirit.

“Changing Qi” means changing the former way of farming; yan tie means eating one’s fill; “taking the multitude as one’s model” means many people in the world are like this.

Here e (恶) is read as in hao wu (likes and dislikes). The harm of desire and aversion blocks our inherent nature like demons, and also like reeds choking the heart.

When nature is sealed off, confused desire grows like rushes at first sprouting—desire all over the body; using desire to aid the form, every gesture loses what is natural.

Bing kui names suppurating illnesses such as carbuncles, boils, and sores; lou fa names internal heat, dripping urine (wasting-thirst types), and the like.

(The preceding passage) describes crying out to heaven and saying: Oh you, oh you — great calamity hangs over the world, yet you are the one who suffer first.

(It continues:) Do not steal, do not kill. Once honor and disgrace are set up, one can see the sickness they cause; once wealth and goods are piled up, one can see the strife they provoke. Today people erect what others dread (rank and title) and amass what others fight over (wealth and profit), driving everyone into want, exhaustion, and unrest. How could they fail to end up in such a state?

“天下犹是” means that mostly the whole world is like this. “莫为盗、莫为杀人” asks: Were you convicted and imprisoned because of theft, or because of killing? “莫为” means: it may not really have been so. Honor and disgrace are fame; wealth and goods are profit — affliction and disaster all come from here. When those above value rank and title, these troubles appear below; when the state loves to hoard wealth, these struggles appear below. The point is that such things always start from above. Laozi’s “Do not exalt the worthy, and the people will not contend; do not value rare goods, and the people will not steal” means the same: using fame and profit to drive people makes them trap themselves without end — how could they not reach this pass? In sum, in utmost antiquity there was neither fame nor profit, so customs were simple and thick, and within the realm there was no need for penal law.

Ancient rulers of men placed “gain” with the people and “loss” with themselves, “rightness” with the people and “wrong” with themselves. If even one person’s bodily form and qi could not be sustained as they should, the ruler would step back and blame himself. Now it is otherwise: hoard goods yet blame others for “not knowing”; undertake great hardships yet punish others for “not daring”; impose heavy duties yet penalize others for “not succeeding”; set distant tasks yet execute others for “not arriving.” When the people know their strength is spent, they follow one another in pretense and say: So much falsity! How could gentlemen and commoners not be false? When strength falls short, there is pretense; when knowledge falls short, there is deceit; when wealth falls short, there is theft. As for acts of theft — whom should one blame, and whom can one blame?

The lines on loss and gain, right and wrong, mean that when the common people err, the fault rests on the ruler alone. When one person’s form cannot obtain what it needs to live, the ruler withdraws and takes the blame — like an ordinary man who has not yet received any favor yet is already thrown into a ditch. “如今不然” refers to later ages. Hiding goods (匿为物) means concealing what one has and saying nothing, yet treating those who do not know as foolish. Doing great difficulties (大为难) means taking on hard tasks yet making those who dare not do them guilty. Heavy burdens (重为任) means not gauging people’s strength. A distant road (远其涂) means the journey is too far. Punishment that does not reach (诛不至) means penalties cannot be enforced. When the people know their strength is exhausted, they follow with pretense — “so much falsity” — so how could gentlemen and commoners not be false? When strength is insufficient, there is pretense; when knowledge is insufficient, there is deceit; when wealth is insufficient, there is theft. As for theft — whom should one blame, and whom can one blame?

Classic: Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi (Oral Meaning of the True Classic of Nanhua)

Those in high office do not consider how far people can actually travel; they force others to do what they cannot do, then punish them for failing and execute them for not arriving. When government orders grow more hypocritical day by day, how can scholars and commoners avoid becoming hypocritical in turn? When strength falls short, people must answer with pretense; when wisdom falls short, they must answer with deceit. When those above are insatiable and seize by force, subordinates can only make up the shortfall by theft. Hypocrisy, deceit, and theft are all driven from above—whom else can we blame? These three lines form one unit: the sense must be tied to the “theft” in what follows; it is not only that the first line is easy to understand, but also a matter of how the prose is structured.

Qu Boyu lived to sixty, and in those sixty years he changed sixty times—never a year in which he did not at first affirm himself, only to end by rejecting what he had affirmed. Who knows whether what seems right this year will not become one of the fifty-nine wrongs by next year? “Sixty years, sixty transformations” means each year’s views are as if he were a different person for that year; yet who can guarantee that what counts as “right” at sixty is truly right? This passage is a separate reflection.

All things are born, yet we never see their root; they emerge, yet we never see their gate. Everyone honors what their knowledge already knows, and does not know that one must rely on what one’s knowledge does not yet know—only then is there real understanding. Is this not great confusion? Enough, enough—there is nowhere to escape. This is what is meant by: is what we call “so” really so? The closing phrase is a modal particle; it matches Zi Gong’s reply “so and not-so” in the Renjian shi (Human World) chapter of the Zhuangzi; “ran yu” is read like “yu” (remainder/surplus).

Confucius asked the grand historiographer Da Tan, Bo Changqian, and Xi Wei: “Duke Ling of Wei drowned himself in wine and pleasure, ignored the state’s affairs, hunted and shot birds, and did not respond to dealings with other lords—how could he still be called ‘Ling’ (numinous/spirit-like)?” Da Tan said: “It is precisely because of this.” Bo Changqian said: “Duke Ling had three wives who bathed together in one pool. When he received someone of low rank he put them behind; when he received someone of high rank, likewise; when he received a worthy, even the wife he had taken was present. When the duke spoke to his wife on a matter, the wife had already learned of it in secret. That he was regarded as ‘Ling’ was indeed for reasons such as these.” (Here “Ling” carries senses of uncanny efficacy, cleverness, and strangeness—not the usual meaning of wise or enlightened.)

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

(Continuing: Duke Ling and Shi Qian, etc.)

Shi Qian presented horse liver to Duke Ling. The duke had someone hold greeting gifts (ancient protocol for meetings) to support Shi Qian; Shi Qian remained as excessively slow as before—yet toward a worthy man he was this deferential. That is why Duke Ling was called “Duke Ling” (the “Spiritual” or “Clever” Duke).

Shawei said: After Duke Ling died, divination for burial in the old tomb was unfavorable; burial at Shaqiu was auspicious. They dug several ren deep and found a stone coffin. After cleaning it, there was an inscription: “Do not entrust to your son.” In the end Duke Ling took the site for his own burial. That Duke Ling was “Ling” had been so for a long time; those two men (Da Tao and Bo Changqian) were hardly enough to truly know him.

Notes on the kouyi (oral exegesis):

• Bi and yi: Bi and yi are both bird- and beast-catching gear; here they mean gaining advantage by such means.
• Rites of exchange among feudal lords: When lords visited one another, Shi Qian did not return Duke Ling’s courtesy—such was the man, yet his posthumous title was “Ling.” Why? The kouyi holds that saying he did not “fully deserve” the bad sense of the title is still not enough to explain the posthumous name.
• Da Tao: Held that the people were of one mind, and so gave this posthumous title. The character “shang” (上) here has the same sense as “ci” (此).
• Jin suo: Where one dwells.
• Feng yu: Like what today would be called “summoned for audience.”
• Bo bi: Holding the greeting gifts; the duke sent someone to “fu yi” (support the wings)—a show of ritual respect.
• Su: Reverent, deferential.
• Shaqiu: A traditional burial ground. The inscription “bu ping qi zi”: descendants cannot be entrusted; yet Duke Ling took it for burial. “Ping” means “to entrust.”
• This passage: The drift is that many affairs arise from nature and are not fully within human control; Da Tao and Bo Changqian were not adequate to grasp Duke Ling’s “Ling.”

Shaozhi asked Tai Gong Diao: “What is meant by ‘words of the hamlet’ (qiuli zhi yan)?”

Tai Gong Diao said: Qiuli is custom formed by joining the ten surnames and hundred clans. It joins difference into sameness and scatters sameness into difference—just as if you assembled the hundred parts of a horse you would not get a whole horse, yet with the horse tethered at the fore and the hundred parts set up, it can be called a horse. Thus low mounds piled become a height; rivers join waters and become great; the great person merges and becomes public (gong). Therefore what enters from outside has a master yet does not cling; what issues from within has correctness yet does not reject. The four seasons’ qi differ; Heaven does not favor one side, and so the year completes. The five officials’ duties differ; the ruler does not show private bias, and so the state is governed. Civil and martial great persons do not favor one side, and so virtue is complete. The myriad things’ patterns differ; the Dao does not show private bias, and so it is nameless. Nameless, therefore wuwei (non-action); wuwei is the root of “nothing left undone.” Times have beginning and end; generations change; fortune and misfortune come thick and fast.

Main points (for reading through):

• Words of the hamlet: Not the doctrine of one school, but the “public opinion” and custom formed from many surnames and clans.
• Joining ten surnames and hundred clans into custom: Pairs with later “the great person merges into gong”—from scattered difference, forming a workable “public” whole.
• Assembling the horse’s hundred parts and not getting a horse: A metaphor for grasping one end and missing the whole; contrast with “setting up its hundred parts and calling it horse” (taking the whole as horse).
• What enters from outside has a master without clinging; what issues from within has correctness without rejecting: There is a master and a standard, but without stubborn fixation or shutting out others.
• Nameless, wuwei: The Dao is not private to one name or one form, hence nameless; nameless, it does not force action—wuwei, and the myriad things transform of themselves.

Plain Interpretation

Chunchun means thick, sincere, and flowing in a natural way. “When knowledge reaches what seems to go against things, there is also what fits”: someone who understands the Way knows that what looks wrong or contrary can still be exactly right—like “the old man at the frontier lost his horse”: fortune and misfortune lean on each other; what goes smoothly and what does not have no fixed pattern.

“Each dies for his own face”: if people cling to private views and die for their own side, each has his own “face” and they cannot get along. “Where there is fixation on the correct, there is deviation”: if you insist on one “only right” standard and hold to it rigidly, you go off course—what people today call “when you force a fit, you miss.”

“Compared to a great marsh, a hundred kinds of timber each has its measure; look at a great mountain—wood and stone share one altar”: this illustrates the words of Qiuli.

“Gather wells into a hill-heap, gather hill-heaps into a li—hence Qiuli”: wells cluster into mounds, mounds cluster into a li (neighborhood), so it is called Qiuli. “Within one li there are ten surnames and a hundred names—people differ, yet custom can be the same”: within one li many families and individuals differ, but local custom can still align. This is the image of “gathering difference to make sameness.”

“Words of Qiuli are the shared words of one li”: Qiuli speech is how public principle shows up within a neighborhood. “Gather difference to make sameness”: all things share one common principle. “Scatter sameness to make difference”: break it apart and each thing has its own principle.

“Combine a hundred parts and call it horse—on one part alone there is no name ‘horse’”: that is scattering sameness to make difference. “Set up its hundred parts and then call it horse”: that is gathering difference to make sameness. “Pile up and it becomes a mountain; combine and it becomes water”—the same idea. “Merge and it becomes the public”: only when the differences of all things are gathered do you see the great impartial principle.

“There is a master within, yet no clinging”: the mind has a ruling center but does not fix on it. “Though what rules is within, nothing is clung to—cling and it is no longer natural”: the ruler is inside without grasping; once you grasp, you leave the natural.

“The correct is the principle of each thing”: what is “correct” is each being’s own principle. “What issues from the breast, if its principle is the same as that of all things, naturally accords and does not clash”: when what comes from within matches the principle of things, it flows with them and does not oppose. “Neither clinging nor rejecting—then you follow nature with no mind of forcing sameness or difference.”

“Heaven does not bestow; do not treat it as a personal gift”—as if to say things are not mutual bestowals between parties. “The five officials rank by office—only five; each does its duty—why should the lord privately weigh light and heavy?”

“The great person in civil and martial De: when the time is for culture, culture; when for force, force; use what can be used—not mutual gifting either”: in civil and martial virtue, the worthy ruler acts as the moment requires; that is not someone specially granting something to someone else. Hence complete, full virtue.

“Each thing has its own principle—hence different principles; with the great Dao they are joined into the public—hence no partiality.” “The nameless cannot be caught by naming”: the nameless is what no name can fully pin down.

Chunchun flows—that is nature. “When fortune and misfortune arrive, leaning and hiding have no constancy”: when good and ill luck come, blessing and trouble lean on each other; there is no fixed trace. “Sometimes what goes against you is instead what fits”—the sense of the frontier horse lost and regained. Funi means not as wished; yi means fitting, as it should be.

“When people have a mind that dies for private ends, they are like faces—none the same.” “To have what is ‘correct’ is to fix and stick to it”; “what is stuck to may be missed”: nail down one “right” and you get stuck—and often err. That is what people mean by “when you force a fit, you miss.” So: where there is fixation on the correct, there is deviation.

First passage

This uses an analogy to explain the principle. In a vast marsh, all kinds of resources each serve their purpose; large or small, everything can be put to use. “The same altar” means the same place. Wood and stone are both originally found on the same mountain, with no distinction between them at first—this is forcing different things to be called the same.

Second passage

Shaozhi asked, “Then is it enough simply to speak of the Dao?”

Taigong Diao replied, “No. The number of things far exceeds ten thousand, yet convention calls them ‘the myriad things’ because it uses a name suggesting a great number to refer to them all. Heaven and Earth are the greatest names for form; Yin-Yang are the greatest names for Qi; and ‘Dao’ is a name shared by them, borrowed from the idea of greatness. That is one way to put it. But once the name ‘Dao’ already exists, how can it be used to compare things with one another? To argue and make comparisons in this way is like trying to group dogs and horses together: they simply do not belong to the same kind.”

Note: Although things number far more than ten thousand, “the myriad things” is used as a rough collective name. Heaven and Earth, and Yin-Yang, are likewise general names for form and Qi; form and Qi extend beyond Heaven and Earth, and beyond Yin-Yang, but the greatest terms are used to refer to them. Calling the Dao something shared is also a way of invoking greatness. Though the name “Dao” exists, how can it be compared and discussed in this way? Hence the phrase, “It already exists—how could it then be compared?” Dogs and horses cannot be made into one kind. Forcing the Dao into such a comparison is like trying to merge animals of different kinds. “Not reaching, not resembling”: “far” means separated by a great distance.

Third passage

Shaozhi asked, “Within the four directions and the six realms, where does the arising of the myriad things begin?”

Taigong Diao replied, “Yin and Yang reflect one another, encompass one another, and constrain one another. The four seasons alternate, give rise to one another, and bring about one another’s end. Desire and aversion, withdrawal and approach, arise from this contention. The union of female and male comes about from this. Thus security and danger replace each other; fortune and misfortune give rise to each other; urgency and ease rub against each other; gathering and dispersal bring things into being together. Names and realities can be recorded, and subtle meanings can be remembered. Things are governed in sequence, and drive one another along in contention. When they reach their limit, they turn back; when they end, they begin again. These are what things possess, what words can exhaust, and what knowledge can reach—nothing beyond things themselves. Those who see the Dao do not pursue what people have cast aside, nor trace back the origins of the myriad things. Discussion should stop here.”

Note: The question “Where does the arising of the myriad things begin?” asks where it comes from. Yin and Yang reflect, cover, and govern one another; the four seasons replace, engender, and overcome one another. Desire and aversion, withdrawal and approach, then contend and arise. Female and male join, and things come into being. Security and danger replace each other; fortune and misfortune give rise to each other; urgency and ease rub against each other; gathering and dispersal bring things into being. Names and realities can be recorded, and subtle meanings can be remembered. Things are ordered in sequence and drive one another along in contention; when they reach their limit, they turn back, and when they end, they begin again. These are what things possess, what words can exhaust, and what knowledge can reach: nothing beyond things themselves. Those who see the Dao do not follow what has been cast aside or trace the origins of what has arisen. This is where discussion should stop.

Plain-Language Interpretation

Section 1 (On “yin” and naturalness)

“Yin” means mutual coordination and mutual support. “Mutual regulation” (xiangzhi) means waxing and waning, restraining and being restrained by one another. The four seasons turn—spring engenders, autumn kills—each differing with the season; all of this works the same way. Only after this do we get in human affairs such matters as desire and aversion, going and staying, male and female, joining and parting, safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, urgency and ease, gathering and scattering—that is to say, once there is heaven-and-earth and Yin-Yang, these human labels exist.

All of this is “difference within sameness”: suddenly arching up, suddenly splitting apart. “Gong” means to arch or rise; “pian” means to split apart, that is, to join and separate. “Yong you” means “there always is”; “yi cheng” means “mutually completing one another”—only the wording changes; the grammar is as it is. From “desire and aversion” through to “gathering and scattering,” names and realities can all be written down, subtleties can all be recorded—each item can be seen; it is not only speakable but also writable. Regulating one another according to the seasons is the mutual regulation of Yin-Yang. Suddenly arising, arising and then operating, mutually waxing and waning—hence it is said “mutually impelling” (xiangshi). When exhausted, the opposite becomes penetration; when ended, one begins again—these are patterns that all things necessarily have. Push speech to the limit, and it is no more than this; know and reach its utmost, and it is no more than this. Exhausting heart and strength, in the end it is only one word, “thing” (wu)—hence “exhausting things and nothing more” (ji wu er yi).

Only one who has attained the Dao, regarding what is abandoned and what is raised up, returns it all to nothingness, returns it all to spontaneity (ziran). The discourse stops here—having come this far, there is nothing more to say.

Section 2 (The debate of Jizhen and Jiezi, and Grand Master Diao)

Shaozhi said: Between Jizhen’s doctrine of “no deliberate acting” (mo wei) and Jiezi’s doctrine of “perhaps there is a master” (huo shi), which side’s discussion fits the facts better? Which is more one-sided in principle?

Grand Master Diao said: The crow of a cock and the bark of a dog are known to everyone. However great one’s wisdom, one cannot use words to fathom how they transform of themselves; a person cannot by intent decide what they will do next. Analyzed to the finest point, there is no order; spoken of as vast, it cannot be wrapped up. “Perhaps there is a master” and “no deliberate acting” both still do not leave the level of “things” (wu); in the end they still fall short.

Notes (for easier reading)

• Mo wei: In the dark there is no lord; everything is mere chance.
• Huo shi: As if there were a lord; affairs are all made to be so (as in “going may be his doing, stopping may be his holding back”).
• Jizhen and Jiezi: In the text they stand for two positions of the time; one need not insist they are historical persons.
• Grand Master Diao (Taigong Diao): A figure in the Zhuangzi who debates and harmonizes the two sides.
• Jiezi: Paired with “Jizhen” as the advocate of “huo shi”; in the plain language below, treated in the usual reading as Jiezi the person and his doctrine.

Vernacular Interpretation of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi

Section One

What should be affirmed and what should be denied are like the image of “a cock’s crow and a dog’s bark are not the same”: what people can know is not the same to begin with, so even someone of great wisdom cannot exhaust what can be said in words or fully express meaning in language.

“What transforms of itself” refers to the subtle point one sees with one’s own eyes. “To read” is like “to recite.” How can the subtle point one sees for oneself be known merely by memorizing a few lines someone else said? As for what one is about to do or intends to do, how can that intention be measured accurately by “guessing at another’s mind” alone? “This” (si) is just this principle.

If you analyze by this principle, you can speak of the large or the small, but words in the end cannot be exhausted—whether you press to the limit where there is no order among the small, or to the limit that cannot be enclosed among the large, both ways of speaking have still not escaped being dragged down by “things”; in sum, both sides have flaws and still carry excess, so they are said inevitably to suffer from such faults.

Section Two

If you say “perhaps there is a master,” that is treating what is obscure and hidden as if there were a substantial master; if you say “no one makes it so,” that is treating what is obscure and hidden as originally without a master—that is emptiness.

Once you fix on “there is substance,” you are bound together with “name,” and you are burdened by things. “To dwell” means “to be in”; it means falling inside things, hence “this is the dwelling of things.” If you say “there is not,” neither name nor substance exists, yet the “not” you utter in your mouth still has a “not” there; you cannot “un-not” together with “not” itself, and you are still burdened by things, hence “dwelling in the emptiness of things.”

Broadly speaking, whether you speak of being or of non-being, both can be conveyed in words and grasped in thought, but once they fall into language, you are farther from the Dao.

Section Three

What has not yet been born cannot be forcibly forbidden from being born; what has already died cannot be forcibly stopped from dying. The principle of death and life is right before the eyes and not far away; it is only that you wish to see it directly yet cannot see it, hence “the principle cannot be beheld.”

Section Four

To think of the world as “made so by something” or as “made so by no one” are both formulations borrowed from doubt. I contemplate its root: where it goes, there is no end; I pursue where it comes from: where it comes from, it does not stop.

To say “there is not” is, in principle, the same kind of thing-transforming talk as to say “there is”—neither escapes treating the Dao as something that can be pointed at.

Emotion—desire, clinging attachment—arises only by leaning on these borrowed names and borrowed appearances; how then could one speak of the untroubled ease of the original beginning?

When nothing has yet stirred, even if you stand in that moment “before stirring” and look, you already see that the past has no end; and when you speak of coming to an end, at the moment when movement has already occurred and then ceased—standing in that “already stilled” moment and looking—you already see that what is to come has no limit.

To contemplate in this way, one can only dissolve into wordlessness and thereby align with all things in a single principle. Hence it is said: the emptiness of what we call “speech” is of the same order as things themselves.

“Perhaps there is a master” and “perhaps there is no doing” (a paired formula Zhuangzi often uses: one side posits a governing agent, the other lets things run of themselves)—if you trace them only by literal roots, neither truly gets free of things. What you see is merely beginning and ending together with things—hence “ending together with things.” What cannot leave things is being (you). If one says “the Dao can be possessed,” then the Dao cannot be held as a possession; yet having said “there is,” how can that being be called nonexistent? Speech cannot shake free of this tangle, hence “what exists cannot be declared absent.” Seen from what is real, the word Dao is itself a borrowed name, used provisionally to move through the world—hence “Dao as a name is what we borrow in order to act.” Both ways of speaking still cling to things and lean to one corner; how could that be called the Great Way? “One note” is bias to one side; “the great square” is the Great Way. The passage above has already closed; here two lines begin anew—and they are wonderfully pointed.

If speech is sufficient—when I truly have insight, even calling it “speech” can exhaust the Way; speaking all day does no harm, hence “when speech is sufficient, a whole day’s speech can exhaust the Dao.” If speech is insufficient—when I have no insight, speech cannot exhaust the Way; however much one says, it never gets past mere likeness of form, hence “when speech is insufficient, a whole day’s speech only exhausts things.” The Dao is refined; things are coarse. Pushed to the limit of refined and coarse, neither speech nor silence can fully bear or exhaust it (“zai” here means to carry through to the end). What is meant by “not located here” is precisely what is neither speech nor silence—only there does discourse reach its utmost.

“Agreeing with this way of speaking”: if I truly have insight, though we call it speech, it can still exhaust the Dao, and speaking all day is unproblematic; if I have no insight, speech cannot exhaust the Dao, and no matter how much one says, one never leaves the likeness of form. Again, if you press to the extreme of refined and coarse, neither speech nor silence fully exhausts it—the point is to dwell where it is neither speech nor silence; only then does discussion find its limit.

This passage means that when speech truly hits home and reaches the summit, it is already “ultimate discourse” and “ultimate words.” What Buddhism often says—“As I point with my finger, the Sea Imprint radiates light; as soon as you raise a thought, dust and affliction arise first”—expresses the same idea: one press of the finger, and everything shines forth like the Sea Imprint; the moment you stir the mind, vexation is already there. Both sides are speaking of the same level of realization.

It then cites lines such as “I am the Dharma King, sovereign in the Dharma,” meaning roughly that for one who has truly entered the Way, to speak and not to speak are often the same thing—speaking is still within “not speaking,” and not speaking is still within “speaking”; realization is not measured by how many doctrines you can recite.

Conversely, for one who has not yet truly entered the Way, even fluent exposition may miss the mark when it sounds “right,” and may not be wrong when it sounds “wrong”—mostly one is still spinning in names and forms, on the tongue and in concepts.

The author therefore sighs: how is this outer chapter essentially different in aim from the inner chapters (the seven inner chapters of the Zhuangzi)? Both teach the same move—going beyond words and pointing straight at the original mind—only the outer chapter uses Buddhist phrases and scriptural lines to sharpen what Zhuangzi already said.