《南華真經口義》Vol. 28

Oral Meaning of the Nanhua Zhenjing, Scroll 28: Opening of the “Fable” Chapter (Plain-Language Interpretation)

This chapter opens with Zhuangzi explaining that, broadly speaking, his book uses three kinds of discourse.

Fable (yuyan): putting one’s own meaning into someone else’s mouth. Such passages make up about nine-tenths of the book, hence the phrase “nineteen parts in ten are fable.” Chapters such as those involving Nie Que, Wang Ni, and Gengsang Chu are written in this way.

Authoritative repetition (zhongyan): borrowing the names of the ancients so one’s words carry more weight. Figures such as the Yellow Emperor, Shennong, and Confucius appear again and again. This kind of discourse accounts for about seven-tenths, hence “seventeen parts in ten are authoritative repetition.”

Goblet words (zhiyan): a “zhi” is a wine vessel—anyone may drink from it, and the drink still has flavor. When Zhuangzi says “goblet words issue day by day,” he means the book often takes this tone: using the pattern of Heaven to harmonize and settle people’s hearts, with words that rise like the daily sun and flow out naturally.

“Discussing by way of the outside” (jie wai lun zhi): the point is not to speak only from one’s own mouth, but to teach by outsiders and borrowed names. It is like this: if a father praises his own son, people may not believe him; when arranging a marriage, one often needs someone else to speak well of the party, so it seems credible. Zhuangzi uses this to show that if every truth sounds like “my own claim,” listeners easily grow suspicious; using fable and other voices is not the author’s deliberate deceit, but reflects how hearers are used to distrusting self-praise. If you insist “these words are purely mine,” others will sort you into agreement and disagreement, right and wrong—those who match you approve, those who differ oppose. That is the habit of the world, each clinging to one side; it is not entirely the speaker’s fault.

“Authoritative repetition is seventeen parts in ten, in order to settle what has already been said”: the role of authoritative repetition is to make meanings already stated more secure. By giving weight to those who are old and honored (qi ai), listeners dare not dismiss them lightly, and dispute can be reduced. In legend, ancient kings and sages were long-lived and of great virtue. But if one has only great age, without warp (jing) and woof (wei), root (ben) and branch (mo), and relies on years alone to command respect, that is not true seniority. Someone who cannot take the lead in the human way (rendao—the way of being human) and only occupies the empty title of “elder,” Zhuangzi calls a “stale person” (chen ren)—like an object on display, without fresh life.

“Already stopping” (yi zhi ye): goblet words and authoritative repetition also serve to stop contention. Once words have been spoken, further layering with authoritative repetition and fable is meant to bring the nit-picking of verbal debate to a halt.

(Note: This chapter belongs to the “Miscellaneous Chapters” of the Zhuangzi, in the “Fable” section. Lin Xiyi’s Kouyi is a Song-dynasty popular commentary and lecture-style exegesis of the Zhuangzi; the above follows that format in plain language. Proper names such as the Yellow Emperor, Shennong, Confucius, Nie Que, Wang Ni, and Gengsang Chu are retained as in the original text.)

This passage treats “knowing constancy, knowing change, knowing the beginning, and knowing the end,” and what it really means to be a “senior” or “elder,” then connects to what Zhuangzi calls zhiyan (goblet words)—speech that follows the natural divisions (tianni) so that one can go on year after year without twisting how things really are.

Terms like qinian and qiyi refer to living out the span of years that people commonly expect. Though one’s age may outpace others, if one’s learning shows nothing clearly achieved, and one is honored merely for longevity as a venerable elder (qisu) or senior (lao qianbei), that kind of “being ahead” is not true precedence—there is nothing in which one surpasses the ordinary person. If in every respect one cannot excel the common run, one has not fulfilled what being human requires; one is only a chenren—“stale person,” someone the world has long outgrown and can no longer put to use. The point is to show whom I respect and rely upon: those worthy qi’ai (worthy elders), not those elevated blindly merely because they rank or stand earlier in seniority.

The section on zhiyan says: what is spoken must harmonize with tianni (natural divisions); then, by manyan—easy, rambling unfolding that finds its own pleasure—words are rounded out, and so one can speak “to the end of one’s years” without wrenching things awry. “If one does not speak, there is equality (qi)”: without deliberately setting up doctrines, one returns to oneness; yet once that principle is fixed in words of mouth and tongue, and one uses mouth and tongue to debate that principle, a trace of prejudice and partiality remains in the heart, and true equality is impossible. Hence: equality and speech were never equal to begin with; speech and equality are not equal either. Only wuxin (no-mind) speech can be called equal. Wuxin speech is speech in which the heart does not cling to “I am preaching.” One may speak all one’s life yet seem never to have spoken—because one does not cling to words; one may never open one’s mouth yet seem never to have stopped speaking—because in not-speaking one can still awaken to the pattern, and that is not dead silence.

“Having a source” (you zi) means having origin and ground. What people call permissible (ke) and impermissible, “so” (ran) and “not so” (buran)—each kind of talk has its own pedigree; each side holds one corner and takes itself as right. Which side should I follow? Within the permissible there is its own reason for being permissible; within the impermissible there is its own reason for being impermissible; within the “so” there is its “so,” and within the “not so” there is its “not so.” From the side of “so,” what counts as so? From the side of “not so,” what counts as not so? The same questioning applies whether one starts from the permissible or the impermissible. All things inherently have their “this is how they are right” aspect and their “that is how they fit” aspect; nothing is absolutely “not so,” and nothing is absolutely “impermissible.”

Zhiyan also says: speech must accord with tianni—who can sustain it long? All things are handed on like seeds, only with different forms replacing one another, like a circle with no single starting point; this is called tianjun (Heavenly Equality). Tianjun is also tianni—the natural boundary and the natural balance.

Section 1 (On “following what is so” and “heaven’s leveling”)

What can be followed as “this way” means: whatever is originally “this way” and can be acknowledged as “this way” is followed and acknowledged as such; whatever is originally not “this way” and cannot be acknowledged as such is not followed and not acknowledged. All things naturally have their own “this is right” (each has what it takes as correct). Since each has its own “is,” each thing has its own standard of “rightness.” Hence it is said: there is nothing that is not “this way,” and nothing that is not “acceptable.” This idea is worked out most fully in the “Discourse on Making All Things Equal” (Qiwu lun).

What is meant here is not using “goblet words” (zhi yan—language that circles like a cup, without fixed right and wrong) to change one’s story every day and harmonize everyone’s opinions. If you join the world in fighting over right and wrong, how can you demand that your view stay unchanged forever? The point is: the way of nature cannot be overturned in ten thousand generations.

The kinds of things all issue from the same maker (one source); only their forms differ, and in heaven and earth they replace one another in turn. People call grass grass, trees trees, birds birds, and beasts beasts—they see only different shapes and do not know that all share one primordial Qi; in kind they are one. Things in heaven and earth come and go, begin and end, like a cycle; the order and subtle principle within it cannot be exhausted by human knowing, so it is said to be unknowable to the end—this is called heaven’s leveling (tian jun). “Jun” means “same”: the sameness of heavenly principle, hence tian jun.

Section 2 (Zhuangzi and Huizi on Confucius)

Zhuangzi said to Huizi: When Confucius reached sixty, his views kept changing for sixty years—what he first took as right he later took as wrong; who knows whether what he now calls “right” is not the “wrong” of the first fifty-nine years? Huizi said: Confucius worked hard at his calling and served learning and knowledge (broad study). Zhuangzi said: Confucius had already set those aside; he just did not say so plainly in daily life. Zhuangzi quoted Confucius as saying: A person receives talent and nature from the great root (fundament, primordial beginning), restores clarity and comes to life; when he opens his mouth it fits measure, when he speaks it fits law; profit and righteousness are set before you, while likes, dislikes, right and wrong are only matters of winning people’s mouths—that is not making people submit from the heart and dare not speak rashly, so as to fix the standard for all under heaven. Can one do that? Can one? I still fall short of him.

Section 3 (Commentary glosses: “serving knowledge,” etc.)

Serving knowledge (fu zhi): “Fu” means to engage in; “zhi” means seeing and knowing. Diligence in the mind and engagement in seeing and knowing refers to broad learning and wide hearing.

Xie (to set aside): To discard, to let go. The text means Confucius had already set aside broad learning and advanced toward the Dao, but had not spoken of it openly to others.

“Confucius said”: Zhuangzi cites words attributed to Confucius to show that Confucius had spoken in this vein.

Receiving talent from the great root: As if receiving one’s allotment of nature and endowment from the great root and primordial beginning.

Great root (da ben): Root and source; here it connects with ideas of primordial beginning and primordial Qi—the ultimate ground from which all things emerge.

The gist of the whole passage: Confucius did not rely merely on debating profit and righteousness and winning people’s mouths; he had already set aside broad learning, restored clarity and lived from it, and won people by the heart to fix all under heaven—Zhuangzi sighs that he himself still does not measure up to that.

This passage explains the principle of "restoring the spirit to give life" (fu ling yi sheng). "Creator" (zaowu) refers to the Dao, the cosmic principle that shapes all things, and so the root of the universe. "The innate nature of spiritual awareness" (ling zhi jue zhi xing) is the luminous, perceptive nature within a person. "Restoring" (fu) means returning to this original spiritual awareness, and only then can one fully walk the path of life, which is why the text says "restore the spirit to give life." The character ming (speech) is the same as yan (words). Lü means law or principle, and dang means that one's words all accord with reason.

If one sets benefit and harm, or duty and righteousness, before others, and then distinguishes right from wrong and liking from disliking, then self and others become opposed. Such an approach can only win people's mouths, not their hearts. Therefore one must abandon benefit and duty, forget right and wrong and likes and dislikes, so that people's hearts truly submit and no one dares to stand against oneself. Only then can the fixed principles of the world be established.

Wu (read as wu, meaning to oppose) means to go against. When two people stand face to face, the one who faces forward is the "following" party, and the other is the "opposing" one. The Rites of Zhou (Zhou Li), a text recording the official system of the Zhou dynasty, says "to receive the opposition of the feudal lords," using "opposition" for those who come to meet one head-on.

Zhuangzi praised the words of Confucius, and yet when speaking to his friend Huizi, a scholar of the School of Names, he sighed, "Enough, enough, how could I ever measure up to that Master Kong!" From this we can see that Zhuangzi did not fail to respect the sages.

Zengzi served in office twice, and his state of mind changed with each term. He said, "When I served my parents, my salary was only three fu (a unit of grain measure), and I was very happy. Later, when I held office and my salary was three thousand zhong, I could not provide for my parents, and I was very sad." The fu and zhong were both ancient units of measure, and one zhong was ten times the volume of one fu. A disciple asked Zhongni (Confucius, whose courtesy name this was): "Someone like Zeng Shen, can we say he is free of entanglement?" Confucius replied, "He is already entangled. If a person were truly unentangled, how could he feel grief? He regards three fu and three thousand zhong as no more significant than birds or gnats passing before his eyes."

"Bu ji" means "not reaching," referring to the failure to arrive in time to care for one's parents. Xian (the same as xi) means entanglement or constraint. The disciple was doubtful: since Zengzi's state of mind changed twice, bringing both sorrow and joy, could this be considered entanglement? Confucius's phrase "already entangled" means that the mere presence of such joy and sorrow is already a form of entanglement. If there were truly no entanglement, then the weight of external things would seem as trivial to him as flying birds and gnats, and he would have no reason to be saddened or delighted. Whenever joy or sorrow arises, it shows that attachment has taken hold of the mind.

Yancheng Ziyou told Dongguo Ziqi (a fictional figure in the Zhuangzi): "Since I received your instruction, in the first year I became simple and genuine; in the second year I could follow nature; in the third year my mind became unobstructed; in the fourth year I could accord with all things; in the fifth year all things came to me of their own accord; in the sixth year spirit illumination arrived in my heart; in the seventh year I became one with the Dao of Heaven; and in the eighth year I forgot everything and no longer had distinguishing knowledge."

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

First Section (Nine Years of Cultivation and “Great Wonder”)

“Dead yet not knowing life; after nine years, great wonder”—this is a metaphor for stages on the path of cultivation, not a literal nine-year calendar.

One year: The mind-nature is still wild, but one has begun to return to simplicity (fanpu)—to revert to plain, original authenticity.

Two years: One can yield to circumstances; one no longer stiffly resists or stubbornly rejects judgments of right and wrong, good and evil.

Three years: Great penetration—principle and affairs flow through as one.

Four years: Toward outer things the heart is like withered wood and dead ashes—unmoved and unconfused.

Five years: There is “return”—within quiescence and extinction, something is still not extinguished; in Chan this is “the great dead person comes alive again,” and that is the idea here.

Ghost enters (gui ru): The principle of creation and transformation is taken into the breast.

Heaven complete (tiancheng): United with the Way of Heaven.

Not knowing death, not knowing life: No fixation on “entering” or “leaving,” yet one is naturally at ease in oneself.

Great wonder (da miao): Wonder pushed to the utmost.

From “one year” through “nine years” is only speaking by stages; this realm cannot be measured by the passage of years.

Second Section (No Birth, No Death)

These lines expound the principle of no birth and no death.

“Birth has a ‘self’” (sheng you wei): If one treats birth as a “real, existent birth,” then death must follow; urging people to recognize death is saying that in death there seems to be a “self” (private motive, a self-arising root).

If death has a “self,” one must seek the root of birth at the first stirring—and at the first stirring of Yang there is originally no self; if the beginning is originally without birth, how can there be death?

“Yet in giving birth to Yang there is no self”: Seen from the side of Yang’s stirring and giving birth, there is likewise no fixed “self.”

Explained this way, are birth and death really so? Then what of “what fits” and “what does not fit” (the fitting and the unfitting)?

One must look to the limit: Where is “so,” where is “not so”? To say “there is” is wrong, to say “there is not” is wrong—hence the question: Is it really so? And where are the fitting and the unfitting?

Third Section (Calendar Numbers, Human Records, Fate, and Ghosts)

Heaven has calendar and number (lishu)—sun, moon, and stars come and go; there are calendars and degrees to reckon. Earth has human traces and records (ren ju)—where people have gone, there are maps and writings to consult—so where am I to seek an ultimate end?

If one does not know its end, how can one say “there is no fate” (ming)? If one does not know its beginning, how can one say “there is fate”?

If the two correspond (mutual resonance, mutual fit), how can one say “there is no ghost” (gui)? If there is no correspondence, how can one say “there is a ghost”?

(This uses what in heaven and earth can be checked against what cannot, and the unknowability of beginning and end, to shake fixed either-or views on “fate” and “ghosts”: one cannot simply say they are not, nor simply say they are.)

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

Scripture:

If one uses calendars, numbers, and human affairs to calculate, can one truly exhaust the principles of Heaven and Earth? So why should I seek only between Heaven and Earth? The sun and moon move on—who knows where they ultimately stop? All things turn and go forth; behind them there must be a master of creation—how can one say there is no “Ming” (fate/destiny)? Yet in the vast beginning there was originally not a single thing—how can one say there is Ming? Morning must have evening, cold must have heat; when the season arrives and Qi responds, not the slightest error—such mutual correspondence—how can one say there are no ghosts and spirits? Yet the humble are not necessarily blessed, the benevolent do not necessarily live long; the hidden and the manifest sometimes do not correspond—how can one say there are ghosts and spirits? These lines develop the theme that the depth of creation is something humans cannot fully know.

Wěi Liǎng (the penumbra, the dim double) asked the shadow: “Just now you bowed your head, now you lift it; just now you folded your arms, now you let your hair hang loose; just now you sat, now you stand; just now you walked, now you stop—why is this?” The shadow said: “Sousou (faintly, as if there and not there)—your question is too rough. I ‘am,’ yet I do not know why I am; I am like the empty shell left when the cicada has shed, the cast skin when the snake has sloughed—seeming to have substance, yet not the true body. Fire and the sun are where I gather and appear; shade and night are where I withdraw and vanish. Are they, then, what I depend upon? How much more so for things that from the outset have something to depend upon! When it moves, I move with it; when it stops, I stop with it; when it turns toward the yang and becomes active, I follow it in turning toward the yang and becoming active. That which turns toward the yang and becomes active—what is there to question?”

Kouyi (oral exegesis) notes:

“Sousou” means appearing and disappearing, barely discernible. “Shao” means slightly, in a coarse sense—why ask so rashly in this way? “Yu you er bu zhi qi suo yi ran” means: the shadow seems to “exist,” yet does not know why it exists.

The cicada has transformed and gone, but the empty shell remains; the snake has transformed and gone, but the cast skin remains. This uses the movement and stillness of bodily form to compare with the birth and death of snake and cicada, and uses the shadow to compare with the shed shell and sloughed skin. “Si zhi er fei” means such analogies are only approximate, not literally so.

Within sun and fire, the shadow exists—hence “tun” (gathering, massing). By day there may be shade but there is no night; when night comes and there is no fire, the shadow cannot be seen—this is “dai” (replacement, withdrawal). “Bi” refers to bodily form, “wu” to the shadow: what I depend upon—is it not bodily form? Yet when form moves, it in turn has something else it depends upon; hence “how much more for those that from the outset have something to depend upon.” “Qiang yang” means turning toward the yang and becoming active; since even this is only following along in motion, what is there to pursue in questioning?

When yang stirs into motion, the physical form moves because it depends on yang qi—the body’s comings and goings are powered by yang. It moves by yang, and I move along with it. As for what yang qi is, the physical form could never know it in the first place; why must you come and ask me? This passage matches Qiwu Lun in the Zhuangzi; it only adds talk of “strong yang,” fire, and the sun—again showing off literary craft, what Chan masters call “repeating the gāthā in heavy words.”

Yangzi Ju went south to Pei. Laozi (Lao Dan) was traveling west into Qin and invited him to meet outside the city. On the way they met at Liang. Laozi sighed toward heaven mid-journey and said, “At first I thought you could be taught; now it seems you cannot.” Yangzi Ju did not reply. When they reached where he was staying, he went into his room, washed his hands and rinsed his mouth, set out towel and comb, placed his shoes outside the door, knelt and stepped forward, saying, “A moment ago your disciple wished to ask the Master something, but you kept walking without stopping, so I dared not speak. Now there is leisure—please tell me what fault I have.” Laozi said, “Your gaze is fierce and your spirit is thrust outward—who could live at ease with you? Great whiteness seems stained; great virtue seems insufficient.” Yangzi Ju’s face changed at once. He said, “I respectfully receive your teaching.”

When he went again, the inn’s people received and sent him off with reverence; the host held the mat, the wife held towel and comb, guests yielded their seats, and the cook stepped away from the stove. When he returned from that trip, the lodgers actually quarreled with him over seats. Ask: where was his fault? Laozi said he was unteachable—where lay the fault? Sui sui xu xu describes a strained, ill-at-ease manner. “Who can dwell with you” means self and things are not forgotten, as if always sharing space with others. “Great whiteness seems stained” is brightness that dims itself. “Great virtue seems insufficient” is having virtue without claiming it. Ying jiang means receiving and escorting. Jia gong is the innkeeper. Holding the mat and holding towel and comb are acts of service. Yang zhe is the person tending the fire for cooking. Yielding the seat and stepping away from the stove show respect. Quarreling over seats means they no longer knew they should honor him. Before he heard Laozi’s words, he already had a mind of strained self-importance, so people treated him with deference. After Laozi’s awakening, he withdrew and hid his light, and people took him for an ordinary man. The writing in this chapter is likewise finely wrought.