《南華真經口義》Vol. 3

Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Explanations of the True Classic of Southern Florescence), Scroll 3, Part 3

Yizhai Lin Xiyi

Inner Chapters: “Discourse on Making Things Equal” (Part 2)

Classic Text

How does the Dao hide so that there is true and false? How does speech hide so that there is right and wrong? Where does the Dao go that it does not exist? How does speech exist yet fail to be valid? The Dao is hidden by petty completion; speech is hidden by flowery glory. Hence the right and wrong of Confucian and Mohist; each takes what the other rejects as wrong and what the other affirms as right, and tries to affirm what the other rejects and reject what the other affirms—then nothing works as well as clarity. Nothing is not “that”; nothing is not “this.” From “that” you do not see; know it from yourself and you know it. Therefore it is said: “that” emerges from “this,” and “this” also depends on “that.”

Plain-Language Explanation

How could the Dao (the Way—the natural order by which the cosmos runs) become “true” or “false” just because it seems obscured? How could supreme speech (words that embody the great Dao) become “right” or “wrong” just because it seems obscured?

Lin Xiyi explains: The Dao has no twin poles of true and false to begin with; people only invent “true Way” and “false Way” because they do not understand why it appears hidden. Supreme speech has no fixed opposition of right and wrong to begin with; people only spin out debates of right and wrong because they do not understand why it appears hidden.

“Where does the Dao go that it does not exist?”—whether coarse or fine, large or small, the Dao is nowhere absent. “How does speech exist yet fail to be valid?”—looked at another way, those “rights” and “wrongs” can each be made to hold.

Petty completion (grasping one slice and taking it for the whole) is narrow insight—a view through a single peephole. Because people cling to bias, the Dao looks dark and unclear. Flowery glory (ornate wording and showy debate) is mutual praise to win reputation; when partisan words flash against each other, supreme speech is buried. Only then do Confucian and Mohist schools wrangle over right and wrong: what others call wrong, I insist is right; what others call right, I insist is wrong—how could there be one fixed standard? If you force a verdict on right and wrong, the only coherent move is to hand judgment back to natural principle (the full clarity heaven gives)—that is what “using clarity” means. This “clarity” is the principle of heaven. So Zhuangzi says: better use clarity.

“Nothing is not ‘that’”: stand only on your own side, and you treat the other side uniformly as “not-this.” “Nothing is not ‘this’”: fix yourself as “this,” and others take you as “not-this.” From the other’s position you will not enter their reasoning; if you rely on your own clear awareness, you should know yourself and not cling to one corner. If self and things were not opposed, there would be no right and wrong; opposition between thing and self is what creates right and wrong. Hence: “that” (the other) is carved out of “this” (the self), and “this” also stands only because of “that.”

That is how “that” and “this” arise together. Even so, what is living is dying, what is dying is living; what is “can” is “cannot,” what is “cannot” is “can”; because of “is” there is “is not,” because of “is not” there is “is” (every paired stance turns into its opposite—no dead absolute). So the sage (one united with the Dao, not stuck on one side) does not follow the vulgar path; he only reflects all things in heaven (sees with the whole of the heavenly Dao, without privately owning one side)—again following this logic of “because of ‘is’”: not fighting others for one corner of “right,” but returning to heaven’s light.

Note: This piece is Lin Xiyi’s kouyi (lecture notes in writing) on Zhuangzi’s “Discourse on Making Things Equal.” The plain-language section keeps Zhuangzi’s usual notions—Dao, supreme speech, petty completion, flowery glory, “better use clarity,” “reflect in heaven”—while staying close to the original commentary’s line of exegesis, for reading alongside the classic text.

Section One (On “mutual arising” and going along with “yes” and “no”)

Here the phrase “mutual arising” is used as a metaphor: where there is birth there must be death, and the two cannot be separated; if you speak only of birth and not of death, you see only one side. Even so, even when you see only one side, in principle birth and death, “acceptable” and “unacceptable,” were never separable in the first place—where there is birth there is death, where there is death there is birth; where there is one “acceptable,” there is one “unacceptable”; where there is one “unacceptable,” there will be another “acceptable.” How could they be split apart? Since we know these ways of speaking cannot be torn apart, it is better to go along with those who call something “yes” and treat that as “yes,” and go along with those who call something “no” and treat that as “no.” The sages of old did not cling to one-sided views; they used the natural principle to illuminate things—that is, they simply went along with each school’s “yes.” The text spoke earlier of “going along with yes” and “going along with no”; here it only writes “going along with yes,” which is a shorthand in the wording.

Section Two (That and this, the pivot of the Way, and the center of the circle)

If you argue from yes-and-no, his account is one set of yes-and-no, and mine is another set—how am I different from him? You may separate self and other, but you cannot separate them cleanly, so the text asks: in the end, are there that and this, self and other, yes and no—or are there no that-and-this at all? “That and this do not obtain their paired opposites”: “paired” means opposed, matched counterparts. If you do not set that against this in sharp opposition, but blend the many into one humanity and fuse them into a single body, that is the pivot (the hinge) of the Way. The center of a ring must be empty; only when you grasp the pivot of the Way do you seem to stand in the true middle of the circle—without end or beginning, responding to the endless. “‘Yes’ is also one endlessness, ‘no’ is also one endlessness” means: let things turn of themselves; do not grip one side to death. That is the natural principle, which is why it also says “better still to use clarity”—to illuminate with natural clarity is preferable to forcing a fight over yes and no. This line wraps up the whole passage before it.

Section Three (Finger, horse, and the oneness of all things)

Using “finger” to mean “a finger is not a finger” is not as good as using “not finger” to mean “a finger is not a finger”; using “horse” to mean “a horse is not a horse” is not as good as using “not horse” to mean “a horse is not a horse.” (Zhuangzi uses this to show the limits of debates over names and things.) Heaven and earth can be gathered into the sameness of “one finger”; the myriad things can be gathered into the sameness of “one horse”—both say that behind opposing names and forms, one can see the wholeness and oneness of the whole.

On “finger” and “not-finger”

To speak of “finger” (指), one may take what I affirm as “finger” and what another affirms as “not-finger”; yet the person who insists on “not-finger” will in turn treat my “finger” as mistaken.

If one only negates the other from one’s own side and never considers things from the other’s side—and the other is not “me”—once “me” and “other” are set against each other, right and wrong can never be settled.

The metaphor of horse, wager, and tally-sticks

“Horse” has more and less, “wager” (博) has win and loss, and “tally-sticks” (塞, used in pitch-pot) also have right and wrong—the principle is the same. Apply this reasoning: heaven covering and earth bearing can likewise each cling to one side and negate the other.

Things in the world are not the same to begin with: what flies, what walks, what moves, what grows—like tallies and horses they differ, and each can take one partial view and negate the other.

The gist is: in the world there is no fixed right and wrong from the outset; only when “other and self” oppose each other do right and wrong arise. Heaven and earth cannot be divided by “other and self,” can they? All of this illustrates that the “theory of things” cannot be viewed without equalizing (不可不齐)—without standing in the standpoint of making all things equal.

“May it be so? May it not be so?”

When the Dao (the Way of nature) is carried out, it succeeds; for whatever is called “thus,” one asks: why “thus”?—Within “thus,” it is thus. Why “not thus”?—Within “not thus,” it is not thus.

All things inherently have their “thus” aspect and inherently have their “may be so” aspect; therefore there is nothing that is not “thus,” nothing that is not “may be so.”

Commentarial meaning:

What is “may be so” (可), follow its being so; what is “may not be so,” follow its not being so. Hence: may it be so? It may. May it not be so? It may not. The Dao does not distinguish coarse from fine; once put into practice it holds—everything is naturally thus.

“Called and thereby it is so”—in the end it comes to this: on what grounds do I insist it “must be so”? Follow what is already so in it and let it be so. On what grounds do I insist it “must not be so”? Follow what is already not so in it and let it not be so. Things by nature already have their own “so” and their own “may be so”; since each has its so and its may-be-so, every thing is thus—hence the saying that nothing is not so and nothing is not may-be-so.

“Therefore the Dao penetrates and is one”: vast and cramped, strange and monstrous—the Dao penetrates and is one

Therefore (the Discussion on Making All Things Equal) says: roof beam (莛) and pillar, ugly Xi Shi and beautiful Xi Shi, broad (恢) and narrow (恑), the bizarre and the routine, deceit and straightforwardness, the monstrous and the auspicious—these all differ—seen from the Dao, the horizontal and the vertical each suit their use, the ugly and the beautiful each fulfill their nature; the Dao penetrates and is one.

(A beam lying horizontal and a pillar standing straight, ugly and beautiful, vast and cramped, the uncanny and the ordinary, fraud and uprightness, the weird and the blessed—in ordinary eyes they are opposites; from the Dao’s view they are only different functions and different faces, not absolute right and wrong—hence “the Dao penetrates and is one.”)

In essence, all of these can be seen as one continuous whole; what is being said is that everything returns to the principle of the Creator—that is, the way of natural creation and transformation.

Between division and completion, completion and destruction, nothing in the world has a fixed, unchanging “completion” or “destruction”; in the end, everything connects again as one.

Completion and destruction are two opposed sides of things, yet without destruction there is no completion, and without completion there is no destruction. Wood in the mountains, once felled and used, is “destruction” for the tree; used to build a house, it is “completion” for the timber. Or take medicine: chewing, crushing, and separating is “division”; only when ingredients are blended does the medicine become whole. Bowstring and horn fitted together make a bow—“completion” for the bow, “destruction” for the sinew and horn. Had the Qin not fallen, the Han would not have risen; the Han’s “completion” was the Qin’s “destruction.” From such examples, at the outset there is no absolute completion and no absolute destruction—hence the saying that in the end all connects again as one.

Only the person who truly understands knows the meaning of “all connects as one,” and therefore does not cling stubbornly to one view, resting wisdom in yong—the ordinary and the everyday.

Yong is daily use: in use there is connection, in connection there is self-sufficiency. The phrase “attaining what fits and thereby reaching fulfillment” means that ji here is fullness and completion. There is no other mystery: it is simply following things as they are, without wrangling over right and wrong. As for not even asking “why it is so,” but only going along with nature—that is called the Dao. (Note: the character “yi” here links to “yi” in the previous sentence—a stylistic wordplay in the original.)

To weary the spirit striving from one fixed angle, not knowing that the sides are originally the same—this is what is called “morning three, evening four.” What is “morning three, evening four”?

Someone kept monkeys and fed them chestnuts. He said, “Three in the morning and four in the evening,” and the monkeys were angry. He changed it to “Four in the morning and three in the evening,” and the monkeys were pleased. The name and the fact—the total number—did not change; joy and anger were manipulated anyway. This too is clinging to one side of “this is right.” Therefore the sage harmonizes right and wrong and rests in the natural balance of Heaven’s Dao—this is called “two courses” (liang xing): both sides walk together without leaning to either extreme.

Here “spirit” (shenming) means the human mind and spirit. To labor the spirit, each hugging a one-sided view and insisting on sorting right from wrong, without knowing that the principle is originally one—such confusion is called “morning three, evening four.” The phrasing matches the earlier passage on “just born, just dying”: two characters open the line, then a parable carries the teaching.

Plain-Language Meaning of the Scripture

The acorn analogy (continuing from above)

“芧” refers to mountain chestnuts, also called acorns. Phrases such as “call it three or four” and “in fact it tallies with the number seven” illustrate how names and numbers can be switched at will and changed morning and evening, while people follow them with joy or anger—an image of how labels for right and wrong may differ, yet the underlying point is the same. If one could live in accord with this “rightness,” strife in the world would naturally lessen. Commentator Hong Yechu says: in such parables Liezi sometimes seems to surpass Zhuangzi; the two books are close in meaning—compare them by adding or trimming words and you will still find Liezi cannot quite match Zhuangzi. Zhuangzi’s later “harmonizing right and wrong” means reconciling opposed rights and wrongs and returning to unity; “Heaven’s equalization” (tian jun) is balance without mutual distinction; “walking both paths” means going along with each school’s right and wrong, letting two ways of speaking run in parallel without forcing a verdict.

Main Text of Zhuangzi and Oral Exegesis

People of old differed in how deeply they knew. The highest reached the insight that there never was “thing” in the first place—that is the limit; nothing further can be added.

Next were those who granted “things” but had not yet drawn boundaries or divisions (feng).

Below that came boundaries, but not yet the split of right and wrong.

Once right and wrong are aired, the Dao is harmed; when the Dao is harmed, partiality and clinging take shape as consequences.

So—is there truly “completion” and “loss”? Or is there truly no “completion” and “loss”?

Oral exegesis

“Never yet any thing” views matters from before Taiji (Supreme Ultimate)—the formless, imageless state before heaven and earth were divided (Taiji: the chaotic ground of being before heaven and earth parted). “People of old” means those ancients who truly understood the Dao; starting from “no thing,” the principle of the world is complete.

“Next, there were things” corresponds to from Wuji (limitless) to Taiji.

“Having feng (boundaries)” is Taiji dividing into two modes (liang yi)—paired images such as Yin-Yang, heaven and earth. Though the two modes separate, heaven covers and earth bears, each keeping its role and each following its principle; there was originally none of the right-and-wrong of the human heart.

Right and wrong arise when the selfish heart shows itself. Once selfishness appears, the Dao of nature is diminished; when the Dao is diminished, likes and dislikes follow—what one favors one “loves,” what one dislikes in things one rejects; the Buddhist image of the river of craving (drowning in attachment) runs the same course. Diminishing the Dao and drowning in love are both selfishness; seen from the whole of creation, was there ever real completion or loss? Hence the further question: after all, is there completion and loss? After all, is there no completion and loss?

Though this passage starts from the beginning of heaven and earth, one who grasps the principle finds the present moment before one’s eyes is the place to see it. Worldly quarrels over right and wrong, in the end, all return to emptiness; that is the point the oral exegesis stresses.

When a single thought has not yet arisen, that is the moment of “things not yet begun”; once that thought arises, there are things. Because of this one thought, things come to be, and I then acquire “sealing”—the boundary between self and the world outside. Once thing and self stand in opposition, likes and dislikes, joy, anger, grief, and delight appear; that is having right and wrong. If one cannot turn back and taste the time before the thought has arisen, and only sees turmoil in the chest, that is “the Dao is impaired and partial love takes shape.” When that thought has passed and all is quiet again, one sees that gain and loss were never truly there. Zhuangzi’s words may seem remote; understood in this way, they become practical guidance for one’s own life.

Because there is gain and loss, there was Zhao Wen’s playing the zither; because there is no gain and loss, there was Zhao Wen’s not playing the zither. Zhao Wen played the zither, Shi Kuang held the ce and struck the instruments, and Hui Shi leaned on the parasol tree (using the phoenix tree as a stand to rest against). The skill of these three could be called the height of excellence, which is why they are remembered in their later years. They simply loved these pursuits, unlike ordinary people; loving them, they wished to clarify what others could not—so Hui Shi ended in the obscurity of “hard and white,” and his son in turn pursued “the warp of Wen,” achieving nothing all their lives. Can that still be called achievement? In a sense, I too would call it achievement. Can it not be called achievement? Thing and self alike have no achievement—hence the “light of slippery doubt” that the sage charts; for this he does not insist on a fixed use but lodges it in the ordinary—this is what is meant by “using clarity.”

(Expository note) Having set out the principle of gain and loss, the text illustrates it with playing the zither, which is especially apt. Suppose a zither lies here: play it, and one piece has its beginning and end; that beginning and end exist only after the playing. If you do not play, how could there be beginning and end? Likewise, if a person’s thought never arises, there is no sameness or difference between thing and self.

Zhao is the surname and Wen the given name—an ancient master of the zither. Shi Kuang was a music master. Ce was an instrument for beating time; the word ce also denotes a horsewhip—as when Rao Chao in the Zuo Zhuan gave one as a gift, or Yang Tan struck the gate of Xizhou with a ce. Zhi means to hold; to hold and strike is called zhi—an old usage. “Shi Kuang zhi ce” simply means Shi Kuang striking the instruments. Juwu means leaning on the parasol tree as on a desk, hence “leaning on the parasol.” Because the passage above mentions the zither, it brings in the other two figures. It speaks of the three men’s arts…

“All had exhausted their utmost refinement” (皆精幾盡): It means they pushed their ability and intent to the limit—in that craft, both cleverness and effort reached their end.

“Their skill was consummate and they enjoyed great fame in the world; hence the text says they were each at their peak” (技精而有盛名於世，故曰皆其盛者也): When technique is perfected and one’s name is great in the world, the classic calls that “each at the height of his own achievement.” Here “peak” (盛) means the finest work they could show.

“Pursued the matter” and “in their later years” (載事、末年): “Pursued” (載) means to practice the art for a lifetime; “later years” (末年) is old age. They kept at their calling until the end of their lives.

“The three men’s devotion—they took it to be unlike everyone else in the world; hence ‘only because he truly loved it was he different from others’” (三子之好，自以爲異於天下之人，故曰唯其好之也以異於彼): Shi Kuang, Wen Shi, and Hui Shi each felt their obsession with music, painting, or disputation was unlike ordinary people; that is why Zhuangzi writes that “only because he genuinely loved it was he different from the rest.”

“Having loved it themselves, they also wanted to proclaim and explain it to others; hence ‘he loved it because he wanted to make it clear’” (三子既自好之，又欲誇說於人，故曰其好之也欲以明之): They were not only absorbed themselves; they also wanted to boast and explain to others—hence “he loved it in order to clarify it and teach others.”

“Though I boast and explain like this, those who listen already have their own discernment; yet I insist on enlightening them with this—hence ‘what was not for them to clarify, he still tried to clarify’” (我雖如此誇說，而所聽之人本自分曉，乃強欲以此曉之，故曰彼非所明而明之): In fact listeners may not need such forced instruction; each already has his own measure, yet they insist on “enlightening” others with their own scheme—that is “clarifying what ought not to have been clarified.”

“Like Hui Shi’s forced disputation—he fooled himself, yet to the end of his life he clung to ‘hard and white’” (如惠子之強辯，自愚也，而以終其身堅白): Like Hui Shi’s love of aggressive argument: he obscured his own mind and spent his whole life trapped in debates such as “hard and white.”

On “hard and white” (坚白): Commentators often link this to Gongsun Long’s (公孙龙) puzzles of “hard stone” and “white horse.” Zhuangzi, borrowing Hui Shi’s name, points to the sort of verbal splitting that rigidly separates “hard” and “white.” One reading: what is hard is stone—you need not isolate “hard”; what is white is horse—you need not isolate “horse,” akin to “a yellow horse and a black ox make three.” Sima Qian’s commentary on the Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian), Su Qin biography, offers another: Longquan water tempers blades so swords are both hard and sharp, hence talk of hard and white—yellow standing for hardness, white for sharpness; Qi debaters said white means not hard, yellow means not sharp. The two traditions differ; both belong to the disputants’ favorite quarrels.

“Obscure (昩)—self-befuddlement” (昩，自愚也): “Obscure” (昩) means dim-wittedness, confusing oneself. After discussing the three men, the text closes with Hui Shi’s forced debate as a stylistic seal.

Zhaowen’s son (昭文之子): “Zhaowen played the zither all his life; Zhaowen’s son inherited the thread of that art and also spent his whole life at it” (昭文既以鼓琴终其身，而昭文之子又传文之绪业，亦终其身). “Thread of the inherited craft” (纶绪业) is the line of transmission, the family trade.

“Those who achieved nothing in a lifetime” (終身無成者): The tone shifts: “achieved nothing in a lifetime” means only they could do it—they could not teach others—hence “no accomplishment.” This is Zhuangzi’s usual irony: however fine the skill, if others cannot grasp it, it is not fulfillment in the sense of the Dao.

“In all affairs under heaven, if one takes what one can do as enough to be called settled, then what I can do right now may also be called settled” (凡天下之事，若只據其所能而可以爲了當，則我之現前所能者，謂之了當亦可也): In worldly matters, if “what I can manage now” counts as fully done, then this present ability may also count as “settled” (了当—finished, adequate).

“If what is before us is not yet settled, then no person under heaven and I either can be called settled” (若據此現前者未爲了當，則凡天下之人與我皆不得謂之了當): If even this present skill is not truly settled, then no one and nothing under heaven can be called genuinely “accomplished.” Here “accomplishment” (成) still means thorough completion, full adequacy.

The closing two sentences: On the surface they wrap up the parable of Shi Kuang, Wen Shi, Hui Shi (and the Zhaowen line). The scope is wider: their mastery illustrates how, in the “discourse on things” (物论) of the Qi Wu Lun (Discourse on the Equality of Things), each side clings to one corner. If one only guards one’s own “success” and demands others accept it, that is like “clarifying what was not to be clarified”—and in the end that is not the “accomplishment” found on the great Dao.

What is meant here by “this” (shi) and “not-this” (fei) is not merely a critique of the Confucian, Mohist, and School of Names traditions. Slippery, doubtful speech is speech that cannot be sorted out or made clear. What the sage’s mind holds to never nails a doctrine to the literal wording; hence the realm he manifests seems as if it exists and as if it does not. Tu (intention) means that what the sage pursues is precisely such a realm. Therefore one sets aside the forced use of “illumination” (ming) and lodges it in ordinary daily life—this is called “yi ming” (using illumination): letting each thing show itself from itself (rather than shining a single standard upon all things). From “in things there is nothing that is not ‘that’” through to “not-one is endless,” the text is unfolding this meaning. Having already explained the two characters “yi ming,” it goes from “using a finger to point to a finger” to “when you hit upon it, you are almost there,” then explains the two characters “yin shi” (following the “this”), and finally ties it off with “this is what is called yi ming.” The prose rises and falls, moves sideways and lengthwise, yet the main thread is quite clear. I have said before that the whole of the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” (Qiwu lun) from start to finish is one continuous piece of writing; if you trace how the words connect, you can feel it.

It is said again: suppose someone utters a discourse here—do we know whether it belongs with the “this” side or the “not-this” side? If “kind” and “not-kind” in turn form a kind, then it is no different from the other party.

This passage again grows the character “shi” out of the line about “not using” [fixed standards], which is why we get “does it belong with ‘this’?” and “does it not belong with ‘this’?”—that is his method of threading front and back together. Earlier it said “words are not [mere] breath-blown sounds”; here it again picks up the thread with “suppose there are words uttered here”—the same vein of argument. Take what was “kind” and treat it as “not-kind,” shift your standpoint, and you will see that “kind” and “not-kind” both become one kind. The point is: regard him as me and me as him, and you will see that he and I are not different—this is also the meaning of “using a finger to point to a finger, using a horse to speak of a horse.”

Be that as it may, allow me to continue: there is “a beginning,” there is “a beginning that has not yet begun,” there is “what has not yet reached the ‘beginning that has not yet begun’”; there is “being” (you), there is “non-being” (wu), there is “what has not yet reached non-being,” there is “what has not yet reached what has not yet reached non-being.” Suddenly both “being” and “non-being” appear, yet one still does not know which of “being” and “non-being” counts as being and which as non-being. Now I have already spoken these words—do we know whether what I have said counts as “having spoken” or as “not having spoken”?

The gist here is that although one might avoid discussing “right and wrong,” once you open your mouth to speak you still have to put forward some account. So Zhuangzi asks someone to “try saying something.”

Taichu and Taiji: Before there was any “beginning,” there was already a state of “no ultimate limit”—this is what is commonly called Wuji (the limitless). Before there was even “that which had not yet begun,” there was still another layer above Wuji. What Liezi calls Taizhi, Taisu, and Taichu means the same thing: at first there was originally nothing at all; not only was there no “being,” even “non-being” had not yet appeared. Suddenly there was a “non-being”—that must mean a bit of “being” arose from within non-being. Carrying the reasoning forward layer by layer, the point is: at first there was originally no thing; only because there was “I” did things come to be; only because there were things and “I” did right and wrong arise. The main idea is no more than this, yet it is unfolded in this way—truly subtle and lofty.

Along this line of thought, other texts write “suddenly there was being,” but here it does not say “suddenly there was being”; it says “suddenly there was non-being”—both are masterstrokes of the brush. Although this word “non-being” is already set against “being,” can we after all simply call it “non-being”? Hence it also says: one does not know whether “being” and “non-being” count as which is being and which is non-being. Though this “non-being” still cannot be fully clarified, once it is already called “non-being,” it is already the name of “being and non-being.” So it says, “now I already have what I call it.” Though I have this “what I call it,” I do not know whether this speech counts as something that can be said as “being” or as something that can be said as “non-being”—the same line of questioning as the passage about the nestling bird in the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

Nothing under heaven is greater than the tip of an autumn down, and nothing is smaller than Mount Tai; no one lives longer than a child who dies young, and no one is shorter-lived than Peng Zu. Heaven and earth were born together with me, and the ten thousand things and I are one. Since we are already one, can one still speak? Since one has already said it is “one,” can one still not speak? “One” plus “speech” makes two; two joined with one makes three. From here on, even a skilled reckoner cannot count it all—how much less an ordinary person? So from “non-being” to “being,” pushed as far as “three,” it is already like this; how much more when one pushes from “what is already being” further into “being”? Better to rest in this yinshi (following each person’s “this is right”) and stop.

Note: This passage belongs to the oral commentary on the Nanhua zhenjing (Zhuangzi) on sections of “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” concerning “being and non-being” and “one together with speech makes two,” cross-reading Taiji, Wuji, and Taichu with Liezi cosmology, and noting the difference in wording between “suddenly there was non-being” and the common reading “suddenly there was being.” Technical terms are glossed in parentheses at first occurrence.

Before Zhuangzi, probably no one had put things quite this way—it counts as a distinctive line of thought across many centuries.

The tip of an autumn down is extremely small, yet the text says it is “nothing greater”; Mount Tai is enormous, yet the text says it is “small.” The point is: once something is called an autumn down, if it were any larger it would no longer deserve that name; if Mount Tai were any smaller it would no longer deserve to be called Mount Tai. If you treat Mount Tai as large, heaven and earth are larger still, so Mount Tai can also be called small. If you take the shangzi (a child who died young) as a fixed “name,” you have pushed the category to its limit—one more would no longer count as a shangzi. Although Peng Zu is said to have lived longest, compared with heaven and earth even Peng Zu counts as short-lived. These two lines need to be read closely to see the inference: if “completion” (cheng) can be spoken of in this way, then I too count as “complete”; if it cannot be spoken of this way, then things and I have no separate “completion.”

If one can see in this way, then heaven and earth, vast as they are, arise together with me in the Great Void (taixu)—heaven and earth cannot claim greatness for themselves alone. The ten thousand things likewise arise together with me between heaven and earth; even a blade of grass, a tree, a bird, or an insect is of the same kind as me. Hence the saying: “Heaven and earth are born together with me, and the ten thousand things and I are one.” Having said this word “one,” the discussion continues from that “one”: since there is already oneness, can there still be “speech”? The meaning is: in undifferentiated oneness, even this single word “one” ought not to remain; yet now that the word “one” exists, how can one say there is none? Fused oneness and the “one” that is named in speech are originally two, hence “one and speech make two.” Once there is this two, and again the sentence “one and speech make two,” it becomes three. From this “three” it simply keeps generating—from a thousand to ten thousand, from ten thousand to countless myriads—until even those skilled in reckoning cannot number it, to say nothing of ordinary people.

Seen this way, at first a single word “non-being” (wu) was raised, and that led to being; from being to one, from one to two, from two to three—it is already so; if speech does not stop, how much more when there is further “being giving rise to being”? From this perspective, only “without fixed adherence” (wushi) is right. What is “without fixed adherence”? Simply “following the thus” (yinshi)—that is all. From that word “thus/is” (shi) the discussion arrives here, and then draws itself together again.

Plain-language sense of the passage

Main idea of the original:

The Way originally has no boundary; words originally have no fixed standard. Once people cling to “only this is right,” boundaries appear.

“Please speak of these boundaries”:

There is left and right, pattern (lun) and fittingness (yi), cutting apart (fen) and distinguishing (bian), rivalry (jing) and dispute (zheng)—Zhuangzi groups these paired labels under the “eight de (virtues/powers).”

Here “eight de” does not mean eight moral virtues in the usual sense, but eight kinds of distinction that naturally arise in the mind once self and other, this and that, are set up in pairs: left and right, pattern and fittingness, division and discrimination, competition and contention. The utmost Dao and utmost speech originally have no “you” and “me”; once the heart fixes on “this is it,” a border is drawn, and from there people must split principles, split affairs, each holding one end—great contests and petty quarrels all follow. In reading Zhuangzi, you need to see this layer of “standing only in opposition” alive on the page; do not forcibly treat lun, yi, fen, bian, zheng, and jing as six unrelated doctrines, or you will miss Zhuangzi’s point.

Beyond the six directions, the sage keeps it in mind but does not discuss it; within the six directions, the sage discusses but does not debate; in the rise and fall of ages and the intentions of former kings, the sage deliberates but does not argue.

• Six directions (liuhe): Above, below, and the four quarters—generally the scope of heaven and earth and what human affairs can reach.
• Beyond the six directions: What lies outside ordinary experience and cannot be verified in the usual way (such as the root of the Great Dao, the limit of being and non-being). The sage may inwardly grasp and hold it, but does not casually lecture on it.
• Within the six directions: Matters of heaven, earth, and the human world—what can be seen and heard. The sage may explain and clarify, but does not lightly pass final judgment or cut off debate with a ruling.
• The intentions of former kings as recorded through the ages in rise and fall: The causes of dynastic flourishing and decline and the aims behind ancient kings’ governance. At this level the sage may reflect and comment, but does not wrangle with others for show or victory.

So: where there is “dividing,” there is also “not dividing”; where there is “debating,” there is also “not debating.” Why? The sage holds the principle within; ordinary people display themselves to one another through disputation. Hence the saying: in debate there is always something the eye cannot see and the mouth cannot tell.

Summary of the oral meaning (tying the sections together):

After the discussion of other-and-self, right-and-wrong, another layer of wording drives the point home: the sage deepens response step by step—keeping, discussing, deliberating—yet stops short of arguing. It is not that he cannot speak, but that he does not turn the Dao into a fighting ring. To read Zhuangzi well, you must see through the stir created in the text by “left and right, pattern and fittingness, division and discrimination, competition and contention,” and not be led by the nouns; only then can you be said to read the Nanhua with “one true eye.”

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

First Section

What Buddhists call “the four dimensions and above and below” refers to matters within the six directions and the cosmos that cannot be fully grasped by thought. The space between heaven and earth has always held many truths; how could the sages fail to speak of them? They simply did not set up a separate scheme of “four dimensions and above and below” and force it into everyone’s minds.

Here 知 (zhi) means the title of a category of historical works, such as the Spring and Autumn Annals. The line is saying again: once there are ruler and subject, superior and inferior, whatever appears in the historical record embodies the former kings’ purpose of ordering the world and leaving a model for posterity (jingshi); how could the sages not establish such an order? Yet the sages did not contend with the world over who was right or wrong. Truth in the world is often closest to “ultimate speech” when it is not stated to the full and not argued to a finish; once you split hairs and debate, it usually means you have not yet seen through the matter. Hence: there is “distinction” because behind it there is “non-distinction”; there is “discrimination” because behind it there is “non-discrimination.”

Here the author again asks “why?” “怀之” (holding it within) suggests retreating and storing in secrecy—the sage keeps the Way in the heart and does not show off; ordinary people insist on clarifying and displaying; once there is dispute, insight is lacking, hence “there is what is not seen” (you still miss what you do not perceive).

Second Section (Classic Text and Commentary)

Sense of the classic passage:

The great Dao cannot be named; great disputation does not lie in words; great benevolence shows no trace of benevolence; great integrity does not look self-satisfied (does not “嗛” [qian]); great courage does not delight in aggressive strife (does not “忮” [zhi]). If the Dao is pointed out as if obvious, it is no longer the Dao; if speech is argued to the end, it falls short; if benevolence is always on the lips, it fails; if integrity is only fastidiousness, it is not trustworthy; if courage loves fighting, it fails. When these five lean to one side and approach “squareness” (bias), they are spoiled. Therefore to know where to stop at what one does not know is to reach the utmost. Who can know “disputation that does not speak” and “a Dao that is not spoken”? Whoever knows this is called the Celestial Treasury (tianfu): pour in and it does not fill; draw out and it is never exhausted—and one does not know where it comes from. This is called preserving the inner light (baoguang)—keeping inner brilliance without displaying it outwardly.

Commentary:

The opposite of naming is “calling”; once you call it “the great Dao,” you have fallen into opposition, so the great Dao cannot be named. Within non-speech there is ultimate speech; hence great disputation is without words. With no mark of benevolence, that is great benevolence. 嗛 (qian): full, hoarding—taking integrity as integrity easily becomes self-satisfaction. The Guoyu says, “Integrity that is merely ‘qian qian’ is not worth relying on”—self-satisfaction and small-mindedness hinge on this 嗛. Integrity pursued only as purity, fearing that others know or fearing that they do not know, is not great integrity. 忮 (zhi): fond of fighting and flaunting courage; when no trace of courage is visible, that is true courage.

After these five lines, the text turns again: 昭 (zhao) is clarity—the Dao cannot be designated; once you point to it as if bright and obvious, it is not the Dao; if disputation is exhausted, you still do not reach it; when benevolence, integrity, and courage leave too sharp a trace, none of them succeeds.

Once there is “name,” it is already no longer the Dao; so to put on the air of debate while not relying on words is to fall to an inferior path. Whenever one holds a fixed opinion, there is always something one cannot see through.

When “constancy” becomes a trace that others can see, it is no longer the full fruition of benevolence (ren). When integrity still carries the sense of self-displayed “purity,” it is not yet honest sincerity—here “qing” means parading one’s own cleanness, and “xin” means solid genuineness.

When courage shows itself as envy and contention for victory, one in fact loses true courage. The five qualities spoken of above (the Dao, words, disputation, constancy, benevolence, integrity, courage, and the like) were originally like one blended, round whole: at root they are mixed and unified. Let the slightest trace appear, and one is already close to something square with corners and edges. “Ji” means “to approach”; “xiang” and “yu” are close in meaning.

Those in the world who truly understand must go as far as “knowing by not-knowing”—only then do they stop, and that is the utmost of knowing. This “knowing that is not-knowing” is disputation without relying on words, and the Dao without relying on names and forms. Whoever can awaken to this can see where the principle of Heaven gathers; hence it is called the “Treasury of Heaven” (tianfu)—the place where Heavenly principle converges. Try to pour more in and it will not fill up, so it is said “pour into it and it is never full”; try to ladle out and it will never be exhausted, so it is said “ladle from it and it never runs dry.” The subtlety of ultimate principle has no end and no beginning, so it is said “one does not know where it comes from.”

“Preserving the light” (baoguang) is the gleam of “slippery doubt”: one keeps that faint, elusive radiance hidden and does not display it casually—hence the name preserving the light.

In former times Emperor Yao asked Emperor Shun: “I wish to attack the states of Zong, Kuai, Xu, and Ao, yet when I face south I feel uneasy in my heart—why is that?” Shun said: “The people of those three small states still live as if among mugwort and weeds” (a metaphor for being blocked by material desires and unable to see the great Dao of Heaven and earth). “If they cannot be transformed and brought to accord, and on your side you still cannot let go, then things and self remain opposed.”

The word “therefore” (gu) added before “in former times” (xizhe) continues the prior discussion with a further citation. The affairs of Zong, Kuai, Xu, and Ao cannot be verified in the classics; they too are parables. “Not letting go” (bu shiran) means not being at ease, unable to release the matter.

The preceding passage (continuing the ideas of “illumination” and De)

The “illumination” spoken of here is not using one’s own virtue to press down on others or to show off—even if such “illumination” outshone the sun, it still could not accommodate those three figures (the characters in the text who wrangle over “right and wrong” and “knowing and not knowing”). This layer of meaning is metaphorical: clinging to opposition between self and things and to mutual judgments of right and wrong, the sage therefore places such disputes where they need not be argued, and illumines them only with Heaven—that is, with the natural and as-it-is, without holding to one fixed side. What is said in the tenth section is precisely an extension of the image behind “why not use clarity?”

Nie Que Questions Wang Ni

Nie Que asked Wang Ni: Do you know the principle that all things are “the same”?

Wang Ni said: How could I know?

He asked again: Then do you know that you do not know?

He answered: How could I know?

He asked again: In that case, is there no “knowing” in the world at all?

He answered: How could I know!

Even so, let me try to put it this way: How dare I insist that what I call “knowing” is not really “not knowing”? And how dare I insist that what I call “not knowing” is not really “knowing”?

This passage again grows from “knowing stops at what one does not know”; the thread pulled by the earlier word “this” shows that the whole of the “Discussion on Equalizing All Things” is one continuous argument. Nie Que asks about “sameness”; Wang Ni answers with a string of “how could I know?”—which is itself practicing “knowing stops at what one does not know.” Zhuangzi deliberately invents names and lays out parallel phrasing to enact the doctrine—that is the Zhuangzi’s method.

Having said “how could I know,” he then says “even so, let me try to speak”—that is the subtlety of the turn. The two lines “what is called knowing is not not-knowing” and “what is called not-knowing is not knowing” push “knowing stops at what one does not know” one step deeper: in essence, genuine “knowing” often shows itself as not claiming to know rashly and as admitting one does not know; while the openness of thinking oneself “does not know” may in fact come closer to real knowing.

“Let Me Try Asking You” (Each Rests in Its Own Ease—Where Is the “Correct”?

The phrase “let me try asking you” opens yet another layer.

If people sleep in damp places, their backs ache and they become half-paralyzed—would mudfish be like that? If people live high in trees, they are uneasy and fearful—would monkeys be like that? Among these three, who knows what counts as the “right” place to dwell?

People eat polished grain and domestic meat; elk love fresh grass; centipedes find millipedes sweet; owls and crows love rats—among these four, who knows what counts as the “right” taste?

Apes mate with female apes, deer with deer, mudfish roam with fish; Maoqiang and Lady Li are beauties in human eyes—yet fish dive deep at the sight of them, birds fly far away, and elk bolt in all directions—among these four, who knows what the world calls the “correct” beauty?

From my side, the strands of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of right and wrong are tangled like hemp—how could I truly sort out what is to be argued and what is not?

What This Passage Is Getting At (for easier reading)

Through Wang Ni’s mouth, Zhuangzi brings “sameness” and “knowing / not knowing” down to concrete experience:

Each kind of life has what it finds ease in, what it likes, what it finds beautiful; humans cannot take human standards as the standard for the whole world. Once one clings to “I know” and “I am right,” benevolence, righteousness, and judgments of right and wrong become fences that disturb the natural. This is of one piece with the sage’s attitude of “illumining with Heaven” and not competing with others over “clarity”—not that one must say nothing at all, but that one does not treat one’s private knowing as the universal norm.

Plain-Language Reading of Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi (Oral Meaning of the Southern Florescence True Classic)

I. Taste and the Problem of “What Is Correct”

What humans eat, what apes eat, what fish eat, and what elk eat are not the same kind of “correct standard” to begin with.

How can we, just because “I am human,” use human standards to judge apes and fish?

• Chu, caomu: Fodder and plants—foods of that sort.
• Quan: Here, meat on the bone.
• Jiancao: Grass that elk eat.
• Dai she: Creatures like vipers that eat snakes.
• Chi, ya: Birds that eat rats.

Humans eat chu huan (domestic livestock); what each kind finds sweet and good is not the same. So among ape, fish, elk, and human—which flavor counts as “correct”?

There is no single answer.

Biaoju: Male apes; shanzhang: female apes.

Male apes take female apes as mates—that means pairing within a kind, not random cross-species pairing.

Elk are one kind; nian and fish in this passage are treated as one kind for the argument (commentators also say we need not split them into two species).

What follows uses male and female, mates as a parallel, then moves to Maoqiang and Liji—celebrated beauties in the human world.

The three lines together ask: How great is the gap between humans who lust after beauty and birds and fish in their own “lust”?

I look at ape and elk; ape and elk look at me; standards of beauty differ in every direction—whose standard is “correct”?

Jue: Swift; zou: galloping at full speed.

These three sections all say: right and wrong, self and thing cannot each cling to one extreme.

So they close with: From where I stand, the split between benevolence and righteousness and the wrangling over right and wrong are a tangled mess—like taste and beauty, each different; you cannot fight your way to one absolute standard.

Fanran: Chaotic; xiao: mixed together.

II. Does the Perfect Person Not Know Benefit and Harm?

Nieque asked Wang Ni:

If you cannot even tell benefit from harm, can the Perfect Person tell benefit from harm?

Wang Ni answered:

The Perfect Person is already spiritually subtle—when a great marsh catches fire, it does not burn him; when the Yellow River and Han freeze, they do not chill him; when thunder splits mountains and gales shake the sea, they do not startle him.

Such a one rides cloud-qi, mounts sun and moon, and wanders beyond the four seas; birth and death cannot shake him—how much less petty ends like benefit and harm?

Commentators say Wang Ni is portraying the Perfect Person; “spirit” (shen) means responding subtly to all things without leaving a trace.

Not clinging to “hot, cold, startled” is the mind roaming at the beginning before things.

If even the vast matter of life and death does not stir the heart, how much less benefit, harm, right, and wrong?

The last line is a plain closing point that seals the argument above.

III. Who Truly Understands the Sage’s Words?

Qu Quezi asked Changwuzi:

I heard the Master (Confucius) say: The sage does not act with forced intent, does not chase benefit, does not flee harm, does not seek joy, does not lean on the Dao;

speech that seems like no speech, no speech that seems like speech, yet roams beyond the dust and grime of the world.

The Master thought it menglang (empty and reckless) talk, but I took it for the conduct of subtle Dao.

What do you think?

Changwuzi said:

That is talk even the Yellow Emperor heard in a daze—how could Kong Qiu be fit to say he truly understood it?

Main Points (What This Passage Is Getting At)

1. There is no single “correct taste” or “correct beauty” → extended: if benevolence, righteousness, and right-and-wrong are held at one extreme, the dispute never ends—like arguing over flavor.

2. Perfect Person: not someone who “cannot calculate benefit and harm,” but someone whose heart’s scope does not keep spinning inside the circle of benefit-harm and right-wrong.

3. Sage-talk of “beyond the dust and grime”: even the Yellow Emperor was left unclear; ordinary people (including the Master) should not lightly claim they have fully penetrated it—a humble, anti-dogmatic tone common in Kouyi readings.

Plain-language commentary (continued)

Huanghuang means the mind is in extreme unrest and confusion. Yi jin yi tui is advancing one moment and pulling back the next—unable to settle on a course.

Gai ming, wei ke wei shi: here gai means something like “only” or “merely.” A ming (name, label) is just what people attach to things; it still cannot be treated as something solid and real—in line with the earlier “do not take it as real”: do not mistake these names and roles for the truth.

Qing here means inner feelings and fixations.

Yu chang shi zhi: zhong er wei zhi nan, bing zhe you yu zi yi wei yu ta le. Jin qi suo huai zhe, ran er sheng bi yi yi, wei sheng qi yi.

I have tried this myself: to stand in the middle and judge fairly is genuinely hard. Those who “bring both sides together” (bing zhe) often flatter themselves that they are better than everyone else. Each side fills the conversation with what they already believe, yet they beat the other with principle (yi)—without having first overcome their own side.

Ge sui qi suo an

Each person settles into whatever they already feel is right—everyone treats their own situation and reasoning as the most comfortable, so each clings to one extreme.

People themselves draw distinctions between high and low rank, and the world is caught up in mundane affairs, toiling all day long. The sage uses the method of “taking not-knowing as knowing”: the whole person seems muddled and dull, as if quite stupid. Yuzhi (愚芚) is that look of seeming ignorant and slow-witted. Can (参) means to merge and penetrate. Looking across all ages, there is only this one principle, with nothing else mixed in—hence it is called “one formation, pure” (yicheng chun, 一成纯). “All things are thus” (wanwu jinran, 万物尽然) means each thing simply is what it originally is; yet each person also clings to private motives. So from the opening of heaven and earth until today, “this” and “that,” right and wrong, have been piled layer upon layer, beyond counting—this is called “thus mutually heaped” (yishi xiangyun, 以是相蕴). Xiangyun means pressing on one another, piling one atop another.

Having spoken from “rank high and low” to “thus mutually heaped,” the text now continues from “life and death do not change for oneself”: long absence from home is like ruosang (弱丧)—leaving one’s homeland young, dwelling long in another land, until one even forgets the old country. Perhaps “delighting in life and loathing death” is the same kind of confusion.

Lizhiji (丽之姬) was a consort of Duke Xian of Jin; because she came from the Li Rong, she was also called Lizhi. Ai was a place name in the Li Rong region. A fengren (封人) is a border guard. When she had just come from the Rong lands to Jin, she wept until her collar was soaked; once she entered the palace, shared the king’s bed, and ate fine food, she regretted having cried at all. This illustrates life and death: people may not truly understand birth and death, just as she did not know she would later enjoy such fortune.

“One who dreams of drinking may weep at dawn; one who dreams of weeping may go hunting at dawn”—the dreamer of wine may wake in tears; the dreamer of tears may wake to the hunt. While still inside the dream, one does not know it is a dream; within the dream one may dream again. Only on waking does one see it was all dream. One needs great awakening (da jue, 大觉) to grasp that human life too is a great dream. The foolish, however, think themselves awake and smugly believe they understand—are you a lord or a herdsman? How narrow—Confucius! You and I are both in a dream. When I say you are dreaming, that saying is also a dream. Such words are called diaogui (吊诡), “mourning the strange.” After ten thousand generations, if one meets a great sage (dasheng, 大圣) who can unravel this meaning, it will be as sure as meeting morning or evening.

Dream manuals often put it this way: someone who weeps in a dream goes hunting the next morning. Between dreaming and waking, change is just like that. While dreaming, you do not know you are dreaming; sometimes you even dream that you are divining dreams and interpreting them; only after waking do you realize that what you dreamed and what you divined were still all part of the dream. Passages of this kind capture human feeling with extraordinary finesse. If you penetrate this layer, you see that when Wei Jie asked Yue Guang and Yue Guang answered, they had not yet reached the deepest point; this too is a major matter in learning. If you reason along Yue Guang’s line, what then of King Gaozong’s dream of Fu Yue, or Confucius’s dream of the Duke of Zhou? That is the realm in which a person of great awakening sees the Dao—what the Chan school calls “great enlightenment.” The throne is honored and the herdsman who tends sheep and cattle is lowly; fools live their lives still inside a dream, yet fuss over who is high and who is low—is that not stubborn blindness? “Sneaking and petty” describes small-minded calculation. What you and I are saying is all within a dream; when I speak like this now, calling you a dreamer, these words themselves are speech inside a dream. The point is that human affairs are all like an empty dream, only transformed in odd ways, even bizarre ones. What I say here may seem utterly strange; yet within the strangest lies the subtlest truth. Ten thousand generations hence, if a great sage appears who understands views like mine and meets me, it will be as close as morning and evening. This also means that later ages will have someone like Yang Ziyun who can grasp my intent and my reading.

Suppose it were granted that you and I had debated: if you defeated me and I fell short of you, would you truly be right and I truly wrong? If I defeated you and you fell short of me, would I truly be right and you truly wrong? Or are you right and I wrong? Or is one of us right and the other wrong? Or are we both right, or both wrong? You and I cannot know which of us is right or wrong, so people are already sunk in obscurity—whom should we call on to decide? Call on someone who agrees with you? If he agrees with you, how can he correct you? Call on someone who agrees with me? If he agrees with me, how can he correct me? Call on someone who differs from both you and me? If he differs from both of us, how can he settle our disagreement? Call on someone who agrees with both you and me? If he agrees with both of us, how can he settle our disagreement? Given all this, you, I, and everyone else cannot know one another; whom can we wait for to be the judge?

The root of benefit and harm is also the strife of victory and defeat. When victory and defeat cannot settle right and wrong, you and the other are both arguing—neither can truly understand the other.

“Dim obscurity” means that one’s views are clouded. When both sides’ views are clouded, who is to decide? It will not do if the discussion agrees with the other; it will not do if it agrees with me; it will not do if it differs from both of us; it will not do if it agrees with both of us. I am one “if-so,” the other is also one “if-so”—that already makes three, and none can understand one another. There must be yet another third to rely on, hence “waiting for that other” (dai bi): here, “that other” is creation-transformation (zaohua), is Tian Ni (Heaven’s pivot); Tian Ni is what was called earlier Tian Jun (Heaven’s balance).

What does “using Tian Ni to harmonize” mean? “Is” and “is not,” “so” and “not so”—if “is” were truly established, the gap between “is” and “is not” would not need further debate; if “so” were truly established, the gap between “so” and “not so” would not need further debate. Transformative voices (hua sheng)—mutual influence through speech—are by nature relative and set against each other. When they are not set against each other, use Tian Ni to harmonize and follow it in free unfolding (manyan); only then can one exhaust the years. Forget the years, forget right principle (yi), and be roused where there is no ultimate end—therefore one lodges one’s trust in what has no ultimate end.

“Ni” means a dividing line. Tian Ni can harmonize only through yin shi (“following each’s ‘so’”)—“is” and “is not,” “so” and “not so,” are both kept side by side; this is the earlier “two courses” (liang xing). As soon as one affirms “is” or “so,” “is not” and “not so” at once appear, and the fight over right and wrong begins. “Sheng” means speech; “hua sheng” means using speech to influence and win each other over. “Xiangdai” means to be relative and antagonistic. If one forces speech into mutual opposition and enmity through the fight over right and wrong, yet still hopes to influence and win by speech, how can one follow each person’s “so” without antagonism? Hence “if they are not set against each other”—these two words are placed with peculiar force. “Ruo qi” is like “how could it be”: not opposed yet still aligned, one may use Tian Ni to harmonize, roam and unfold at will, and exhaust the years—hence “following it in unfolding, thereby exhausting the years.” “Yin zhi” means following it; “manyan” means roaming unfoldment; “exhausting the years” is like Du Fu’s line on sending off sun and moon with ease. To do this is not only to exhaust the years but to forget the years altogether.

I. Forgetting Years and Forgetting Principle

At this stage, one forgets both the passage of years and the rules of right and wrong. When both calendar time and moral principle are forgotten, a person is stirred and uplifted in a realm of “no-thing”—here, “stirred” (zhen) means the kind of ease Zhuangzi calls xiaoyao (carefree wandering). Once one is at ease in the realm of no-thing, one’s whole life is entrusted to that state.

II. Wangliang Questions Ying (Shadow Questions Form)

Main sense of the passage:

Wangliang (the faint edge of a shadow) asks Ying (the shadow): “Just now you walked, now you stop; just now you sat, now you stand—why are you so without a fixed standard?”

Ying answers: “Is it because I depend on something that I am like this? What I depend on also depends on something else—is that so? Do I depend on a snake’s slough or a cicada’s wings? How could I know why it is thus, or why it is not thus?”

Oral commentary:

This passage again grows from the word “dai” (to depend, to wait upon). Wangliang is the thin shadow at the margin of a shadow; “without a special constancy” means having no fixed norm or steady rule.

“My having to depend before I am thus” means: when the shadow moves, what it depends on is the form (the body). Though I depend on form, form in turn depends on something else—the Creator, or a yet higher existence. That form is as form is no more than a snake’s cast skin or a cicada’s wing. Am I merely passively hanging on them? After snake and cicada have transformed, the slough and wings remain; they are shed shells—how could they move on their own?

Since I depend on form and form depends again on something else, there is no footing from which to settle “why thus” or “why not thus”—exactly the line of imagery opened earlier by “one need not depend exclusively on that other thing.”

III. Zhuang Zhou Dreams He Is a Butterfly

Long ago Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly—a fluttering butterfly, pleased with itself, delighting in its aim, wholly unaware that there had ever been a Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke; stiff and solid again, he was Zhuang Zhou—but he could not tell whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed the butterfly, or the butterfly dreamed Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be a distinction. This is what is called wuhua (the mutual transformation of things).

Oral commentary:

This passage again springs from the earlier discussion of dreams. “Xuxu” describes the light lift of a butterfly in flight; “ziyu” is being pleased with oneself, “shizhi” is satisfying one’s intent. Dreaming as a butterfly, utterly happy, one no longer feels there is a “me” called Zhuang Zhou—hence “not knowing Zhou.”

“Juju” is a stiff, straight posture, the bodily feel of just waking and still lying in bed—such writing makes the scene vivid on the page.

From Zhuang Zhou’s side, turning into a butterfly at night counts as a dream; but perhaps from the butterfly’s side, our present wakefulness would count as a dream. So we cannot tell whether Zhuang Zhou dreamed the butterfly or the butterfly dreamed Zhuang Zhou. Between dream and waking there is always some distinction—hence “between Zhou and the butterfly there must be a distinction.”

The line connects tightly and names wuhua: person and thing, dream and wakefulness, can convert into one another, yet in the moment we still acknowledge distinction.

Brief notes on terms:

• Wangliang: the paler layer of shadow outside the main shadow.
• Ying: literally “brightness”; here shadow (form moves, shadow follows).
• Wuhua: mutual transformation among things; one of the central ideas of the Zhuangzi.

This passage comes from volume three of Kouwuyi on the Nanhua Jingzhen (oral exegesis on the Zhuangzi). It explains how to read and how to awaken to the “transformation of things” (wuhua) passage at the end of the “Discourse on Equalizing Things” (Qiwulun).

“To tie up or not to tie up—and still not spell it out”: the author does not nail the meaning down in one go or say everything plainly. He deliberately leaves gaps so that readers can pause over the text, investigate for themselves, and turn it over in their own minds. That is what he intends. The approach is close to Chan practice of taking a single line as the point you press on and do not let go (huatou—the phrase you fix in mind during meditation).

“Transformation of things” (wuhua) means that the myriad things transform into one another and ceaselessly change.

Although this chapter is titled on equalizing things (qiwu), at the end it sets out two parables (commonly taken as Zhuang Zhou dreaming he is a butterfly). The literary turn is bold and the meaning is deep. If one can penetrate it here, what is left to dispute over right and wrong? It is the sense of “death and life do not alter the self—how much less the beginnings of benefit and harm.” Head and tail answer each other: at first it seems to break off, yet it continues; it seems like cause and effect linking up, yet it is not a single straight narrative line—everything rides on one rise and fall of the brush. Read this chapter through to the end and the aftertaste is long.