《南華真經口義》Vol. 31

Confucius was traveling through woods dark as a curtain and resting at the Apricot Altar. His disciples were reading while Confucius played the zither and sang. Before the piece was finished, a fisherman stepped ashore and approached. His temples and brows were already gray; he wore his hair loose and had rolled up his sleeves. He walked along the bank to higher ground and stopped where the water was not far from the land. With his left hand on his knee and his right hand supporting his chin, he listened until the music ended, then called Zilu and Zigong over.

The fisherman pointed at Confucius and asked, “Who is that man?” Zilu answered, “He is a gentleman of Lu.” The fisherman asked again, “What is his surname?” Zilu said, “His surname is Kong.” The fisherman asked, “What does Master Kong take as his learning and calling?” Before Zilu could reply, Zigong said, “Master Kong holds fast to loyalty and trustworthiness, practices benevolence and righteousness, cultivates ritual and music, and clarifies the proper relations among people. Toward those above, he loyally assists the rulers of the age; toward those below, he guides the common people through teaching. He wishes to benefit the whole world—that is the work Master Kong is engaged in.”

The fisherman asked further, “Is he the lord of some gentleman?” Zigong said, “No.” The fisherman asked, “Then is he an aide to a feudal lord or king?” Zigong said, “Not that either.” The fisherman smiled, turned, and walked away, saying, “In speaking of benevolence, he truly counts as benevolent—but I fear he cannot preserve himself. He exhausts his mind and wears out his body, harming his true nature. He is too far from the Way; he has already gone against the portion each person should accord with Heaven’s order.”

Zigong went back and reported this to Confucius. Confucius set aside his zither, stood up, and said, “He must be a sage!” Then he came down from the high ground to look for the fisherman. When he reached the edge of the marsh, he saw the fisherman holding an oar, about to pull his boat away. The man looked back, saw Confucius, turned, and stood still. Confucius hurried forward and bowed twice. The fisherman asked, “What business brings you to seek me?” Confucius said, “Just now you left a few words and went away. My capacity is shallow and I did not understand their meaning, so I have waited here in the hope of hearing a word of instruction from you, that I might receive enlightenment.”

The fisherman said, “Ah—you are truly devoted to learning.” Confucius bowed again and said, “I began studying in my youth, and now, at sixty-nine, I have still not heard the true teaching of the utmost Way. How could I fail to seek it with an open heart?” The fisherman said, “Like seeks like, and kindred voices answer one another—such is the natural order. Let me set aside my own views and speak of your situation. What you are engaged in is the business of the human world. Son of Heaven, feudal lord, minister, and commoner—these four stations each keep their place and fulfill their duties; that is the well-governed state. When any of the four leave their proper roles, there is no greater disorder under Heaven. Officials administer what falls within their offices; the people mind the tasks they bear—then neither side trespasses on the other.”

Zhuangzi employs a progressive series of examples to illustrate the troubles plaguing different social classes, ultimately revealing the dangers of ordinary people excessively interfering with societal norms.

The common people's worries include: neglected fields, dilapidated homes, inadequate food and clothing, inability to pay taxes, discord among wives and concubines, and disorder in the hierarchy of elders and juniors. Officials fret over: incompetence in handling official duties, improper conduct, lax subordinates, lack of political achievements, and inability to retain their positions and salaries. The feudal lords' concerns involve: absence of loyal ministers at court, national chaos, unskilled artisans, subpar tribute offerings, and breaches of etiquette when paying homage to the Son of Heaven. The emperor's anxieties encompass: natural disasters caused by Yin-Yang imbalance, violent conflicts among rebellious lords, collapse of ritual and music systems, financial difficulties, ethical confusion, and the people's unrestrained behavior.

Zhuangzi then criticizes those without official positions who meddle excessively: "You are neither sovereign nor feudal lord, nor even a court official, yet you presumptuously establish rituals and music, regulate human relationships to educate the masses—isn't this overreaching?"

He proceeds to detail "eight faults" and "four calamities" in human conduct:

The eight faults are:

1) Managing affairs beyond one's purview is called meddling;

2) Forcing one's presence where unwelcome is called obsequiousness;

3) Speaking according to others' hidden desires is called flattery;

4) Speaking indiscriminately without distinguishing right from wrong is called sycophancy;

5) Delighting in slandering others is called defamation;

6) Sowing discord is called treachery;

7) Praising falsely to harm others is called wickedness;

8) Agreeing indiscriminately while secretly pursuing personal gain is called deceit.

The four calamities are:

1) Reaching beyond one's grasp for fame and achievement;

2) Acting arbitrarily with stubborn self-assurance;

3) Persisting in errors despite admonishment;

4) Accepting only one's own views while rejecting differing opinions.

Zhuangzi concludes that only by eliminating these eight faults and avoiding the four calamities can one become qualified to receive proper teaching. The text also explains special terms: "Zīwéi" refers to a grove name, "yú mèi" means to wave sleeves, and "xuǎn rénlún" denotes selecting proper human relations principles to educate others.

“Ying” (responding) means: this principle is something everyone can originally realize in themselves.

“Shi wu zhi you” (releasing what I possess) means: letting go of the “Dao” one clings to with a death grip.

From “zi zhi suo yi” onward, each point explains what people in the world ought to understand (nothing further is developed after “shi”). The classic lists them item by item: the four roles each stay upright and each keep their place—four kinds of proper station, each correct, each fulfilling its duty.

When the four leave their posts and encroach on one another, everything falls into chaos: offices that should each handle their own affairs start meddling in others’; only when everyone minds what they ought to mind is it you qi suo shi (“you” here means to devote oneself wholeheartedly, to keep one’s duty in mind). As the Book of Odes says, “in office, think of its burdens”—fulfill the charge entrusted to you. Then there is no overstepping (nai wu suo ling), and people do not seize or scramble for one another’s power. Levies and taxes do not fall to the right hands (zheng fu bu shu); succession breaks (bu ji)—what should continue does not; merit and praise are not hoarded (gong mei bu you)—one does not claim credit and fame for oneself; nothing can be monopolized (bu neng chi); the order of spring and autumn is lost, and audiences at court fall out of sequence (chun qiu hou lun, chao jin shi xu).

The Son of Heaven has his ministers (tian zi you si)—the high officials who serve him. To handle what is not one’s affair as if it were is called zong—total usurpation, grabbing everything. To force one’s way into what is not one’s business is private seizure of authority. To advance advice when no one has asked; to press one’s words when one ought not speak is flaunting eloquence. A ning is one who lives by clever talk. To split others’ close ties and harm them; to praise the fraudulent and wicked—praising what should not be praised and practicing fraud in secret. Bai e—to ruin and defame; to destroy what should not be destroyed. Praise and blame alike serve private ends—nothing but deceit.

To hide treachery behind one’s expression, pandering to what others like, is yan shi—with no standard of good and evil, only pleasing people, hence liang rong—reading what others want and secretly winning them over, feeding their vices. Such a person is a xian ren—a sinister type.

The ba ci are eight grave faults; a junzi does not befriend such people; a clear-sighted ruler does not employ them—otherwise the state will surely fall into disorder.

Loving to take charge of great affairs of state; churning up changes to replace standing law; wanting to hoist one’s own name and achievement high—gua gao is empty reputation hung up for show; dao is coveting and snatching. Relying only on private cleverness and monopolizing affairs; enjoying the power to encroach on others while insisting on one’s own way—that is tan (greed). Fierce, cruel, and refusing counsel; when others have strengths, if they differ from oneself, treating that as fault—that is self-conceit and boasting. These four are great afflictions of human conduct. Only when one can shed these faults is one fit to be taught (shi ke jiao yi)—then one may begin to learn the Dao.

All of this is what Zhuangzi teaches for conduct in the human world, hence zi zhi suo yi—“yi” here means what one uses to place and discipline oneself.

Vernacular Interpretation of the Nanhuajing Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Commentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence)

Main Sense of the Passage

“To examine and reckon” here means to reflect on oneself and weigh gain and loss.

Kongzi looked sorrowful, sighed deeply, bowed and then rose, and said: “Twice I was driven out of Lu; in Wei my reputation was ruined; in Song I suffered the humiliation of having a tree cut down over me; and between Chen and Cai I was besieged. I do not know what fault of mine brought on these fourfold slanders.”

The visitor’s face changed; he said sadly: “How hard you are to awaken! Someone who fears his shadow and hates his footprints runs for all he is worth—the more often he lifts his feet, the more footprints; the faster he runs, the less he can shake off the shadow. He thinks he simply has not run fast enough, so he never stops sprinting until he dies of exhaustion. He does not understand that only by standing in the shade can the shadow rest, and only by keeping still will footprints cease to multiply. That is deep folly. You minutely parse the boundaries of benevolence and righteousness, distinguish the limits of sameness and difference, observe the shifts between movement and stillness, measure the propriety of receiving and giving, tune the feelings of liking and disliking, and harmonize the rhythms of joy and anger—acting thus, you can hardly avoid calamity. You ought carefully to cultivate the person, prudently guard the authentic root, return outward things to people and to the world, and cease contending with others; then you will not be dragged down. Now you do not cultivate yourself yet demand this of others—is that not putting your effort on the outside?”

Kouyi (Expository Notes)

“Not knowing what one has lost”: not knowing what fault one has actually committed.

“The four slanders”: the insults and defamations suffered in Lu, Wei, Song, and between Chen and Cai.

“Standing in the shade” and “keeping still”: metaphors for the Dao—like hiding from one’s shadow or stopping restless motion, returning to quiet authenticity.

“Examining the space between benevolence and righteousness”: discerning how benevolence and righteousness apply in different situations.

“The juncture of sameness and difference”: the line between right and wrong, sameness and difference.

“The change of movement and stillness”: adapting in accord with the occasion.

“The measure of receiving and giving”: the proper bounds of acceptance and bestowal, of ritual decorum.

“The feelings of liking and disliking” and “the rhythms of joy and anger”: how disposition and emotion ought to be moderated.

The Fisher’s meaning is: what the Master has been doing serves others and reputation more than settling his own person, so he cannot escape the “four slanders.” If one cultivates the person, guards the authentic root, follows the natural way of the Dao, and no longer sets “self” against “things,” there is no entanglement. “Return things to people and the world”: give back attachment to outer things to the human world; once all reverts to nature, self and things no longer face off. Now he does not seek within himself yet is eager to act for people and for the world—that is attending to the outer and not the inner.

Kongzi said sorrowfully: “May I ask—what is meant by ‘the authentic’ (zhen)?”

The visitor said: “The authentic is sincerity and spirit brought to the utmost point. Without refinement and without sincerity, one cannot move others. Hence one who forces weeping may cry loudly yet not move others to grief; one who forces anger may look stern yet not inspire fear; one who forces intimacy may smile yet not draw others into harmony. Authentic grief is often wordless yet moves others to sorrow; authentic anger has not yet burst forth yet inspires fear; authentic intimacy has not yet smiled yet draws others into harmony. The authentic is within; spirit stirs outward—therefore it is prized. In dealing with people and things, the principle is the same.”

[On “Principle”]

In serving parents, what matters is loving kindness and filial devotion; in serving a ruler, loyalty and steadfast integrity; in drinking, joy; in facing bereavement, grief. Loyalty and steadfast integrity take “getting the task done” as their root; drinking takes “pleasure” as its root; mourning takes “sorrow” as its root; serving parents takes “fitting what the parents intend” as its root.

The beauty that comes when work is finished leaves no fixed “trace of having striven”; serving parents seeks only what is fitting, without arguing over which method counts as correct; drinking seeks only joy, without picking at vessels; mourning seeks only grief, without clinging to ritual minutiae.

Li (ritual) is what people in the world deliberately manufacture; zhen (authenticity) is what comes from one’s inborn nature—spontaneous, not to be forced. Therefore the sage models Heaven’s way and prizes the genuine, and is not bound by vulgar convention. The fool is the opposite: unable to model Heaven’s way, yet always worrying how others will see them; not knowing to prize the genuine, but rushing and scrambling after worldly profit, dragged along by custom—such a person is truly not worth praising. You (Confucius), in your early years you were sunk in artificial show, and only late did you hear the Great Dao.

[Comment on “Without refinement and sincerity, one cannot move others”]

This is the idea that “ utmost sincerity can move spirits and gods.”

Forced weeping, forced anger, forced closeness—set against true grief, true anger, true affection—the six lines paired in contrast are extremely sharp. Zhen is within the heart; then spirit will show on the outside—what is within must appear in form; “spirit stirring” means the spirit moves and manifests outward.

Serving parents by fitting (shi): matching the parents’ intent. The beauty of completed work, with not one trace of it: when the work is done, one does not claim it; no deed, no trace left behind. Not choosing the vessels: not fussing over wine cups or flavors. Not asking about the rites: not debating whether funeral rites are elaborate or simple (like Ning Qi [Ning Qi: a man of Qi in the Spring and Autumn period who mourned without clinging to ritual; Confucius praised him: “While alive he had nothing dearer than joy; in death he had nothing to use for grief”]). Li is outward ornament, hence “what the vulgar world does”; zhen is the natural principle Heaven bestows. Model Heaven and prize zhen, not bound by the vulgar: not restrained because it does not please worldly taste. Anxious about others: worried about failing to match others. Not knowing to prize zhen: not knowing the worth of Heaven’s way. Dully receiving change from the vulgar: plodding after worldly salary and willingly being reshaped by fashion. Such people feel only that something is lacking and are often ill at ease. Early steeped in human artifice: long drowned in “what people fake.”

[Confucius and the Old Fisherman]

Confucius bowed twice and rose, saying: Today I have met the Master—it is fortune sent from Heaven. If the Master does not disdain me, please treat me as one who serves; teach me in person. May I ask where you dwell? Allow me to follow and receive instruction, and to complete my study of the Great Dao.

The Old Fisherman replied: I have heard: those who can go together, go together; as for the subtle Dao, those who cannot go together will not understand it.

The fisherman said: “Be careful with the Dao—do not let it harm your body, and then you will be free of disaster. Do your best. I leave you; I leave you.” When he had finished, he poled his boat away and rowed along the reed-lined shore.

Yan Yuan returned to the carriage. Zilu handed him the reins, but Confucius did not look back. Only when the water was calm and the sound of poling could no longer be heard did Yan Yuan dare to get into the carriage.

Zilu leaned against the carriage and asked: “Zhong You has served you for a long time, yet I have never seen you treat anyone with such deference. When rulers of ten thousand chariots or a thousand chariots received you, you never lowered yourself to reciprocal courtesy—you often carried yourself with pride. Today this fisherman stood facing you, leaning on his pole, while you bowed like a sounding stone and repeatedly cupped your hands in greeting as you answered him. Was that not excessive? Your disciples are puzzled: what entitled this fisherman to make you act so?”

Confucius leaned on the front crossbar of the carriage and sighed: “You, Zilu, are hard to teach! You have steeped in ritual and righteousness for more than a day or two, yet coarse-heartedness has not left you. Come—I will tell you. Disrespect toward elders is breach of ritual; failure to honor the worthy when you meet them is lack of benevolence (buren). If he were not a perfected person (zhiren), he could not make others bow and defer to him so; if such deference is not sincere and thorough, one cannot receive his true teaching—therefore one would rather humble oneself and damage one’s dignity. Alas! ‘Lack of benevolence’ toward others is a great harm, and you alone cling to it. Moreover, the Dao is the path by which all things go—things that lose it die, those that gain it live; in affairs, going against it fails, going with it succeeds. Thus wherever the Dao dwells, the sage honors that person. Today this fisherman may be said to have attained something of the Dao—how could I fail to show respect?”

Notes on wording (oral commentary):

• Compared to menial service: “Serving you” here means being your disciple and attendant.
• Asked where he lived: Asked where the fisherman’s dwelling was.
• Rowed along the reed margin: Poled the boat along the bank among the reeds. (Oral commentary calls these four characters a daytime brushstroke—narrative fill-in.)
• The water stilled: The boat had gone far; the surface was calm again.
• Such awe: Such reverence toward the fisherman.
• Stood facing him: Face to face.
• Bowed and replied: Cupped hands in salutation and answered in speech.
• Long steeped in ritual and righteousness: You have long been immersed in the study of ritual and righteousness.
• If he were not a perfected person he could not make others defer: Only a perfected person could command such humble respect.
• Deferring without sincerity one does not get the truth: Sincere humility in seeking instruction is what makes true teaching possible—this is fundamental to learning.
• Therefore I would rather damage my dignity: Hence Confucius’s self-deprecating “damage one’s dignity” (referring to his own conduct).

First section

If one does not speak in this way, it does no good for oneself and may even cause harm. The birth and death of all things lie within a single Dao. The fisherman was one who had attained the Dao; I honored his Way, and therefore showed him respect.

Second passage (scholar’s note)

From “Rang Wang” through the following four chapters, the style does not resemble Zhuangzi’s own writing. “Rang Wang” still has one or two passages worth keeping, and “Yu Fu” (The Fisherman) has several good spots; yet “Dao Zhi” (Robber Zhi) is cruder and looser than “Shuo Jian” (Discourse on Swords). According to “Dao Zhi,” the text even uses the title “prime minister”—there was no such title as “prime minister” in the Warring States period, so it is quite clear that this was composed later in someone else’s name. The Former Han Bibliographic Treatise in the Book of Han lists Zhuangzi as fifty-two chapters, a different count from today’s edition; what Tang readers saw was only forty chapters, the version in circulation now. Whether those fifty-two chapters also included pieces like “Rang Wang” and “Shuo Jian,” or whether Zhuangzi wrote other material that no longer survives, is unknown.

“Miscellaneous Chapters: Lie Yukou”

Lie Yukou set out for Qi but turned back halfway and met Bo Hun Mao Ren. Bo Hun Mao asked, “Why have you returned?” Liezi replied, “I was frightened in my heart.” He asked again, “Why frightened?” Liezi answered, “I begged drink at ten roadside gruel-sellers; at five of them they gave me gruel before the others.” Bo Hun Mao said, “If that is so, why still be afraid? When inner sincerity is not thorough, the form leaks spirit-light (die cheng guang—the countenance betrays inner state), and with such outward color you overpower people’s hearts. They will slight you as an honored elder and instead bring disaster on you. Gruel-sellers care only for the small profit of a bowl of soup; their surplus gain is slight and their power light—yet even so. How much more the lord of ten thousand chariots? He toils at state affairs and exhausts his mind on business; he will entrust you with tasks and hold you to results—I was afraid for that reason.” Bo Hun Mao said, “Well said! You see clearly. Settle in your own person, and people will preserve you.” Before long Liezi went again; outside the door shoes were already lined up in rows. Bo Hun Mao stood facing north, leaning on his staff with furrowed brow pressing Liezi’s jaw, standing a moment without a word, then went out. A guest told Liezi; Liezi took his shoes, ran barefoot to the door: “The master came—why not leave a single word?” The answer: “Enough. I meant to tell you: people will preserve you—and they did preserve you. It is not that you could make people preserve you, but that you had not yet made people refrain from forcibly ‘preserving’ you. Why use attraction and display of strange powers? There must have been stirring and swaying within, while nature needlessly flaunted itself.” (The text continues with discussion of “being moved by anticipation and producing the extraordinary,” and so on—here Liezi’s lesson is a warning against performing sagacity.)

Note: Proper names such as Lie Yukou (Liezi), Bo Hun Mao Ren, die cheng guang (spirit leaking through the form), and gui lao (honored elder) are rendered according to usual scholarly understanding.

First section: The driver and “human poison”

If you travel, you need not pass these words to your driver. Should he hear your “small talk”—petty, clever remarks—he will exhaust human cunning: what is called “using up human poison,” deploying every scheme and trick.

Without awakening, who compares with whom? The clever toil, the wise worry; the incapable want nothing, eat and wander freely, like an unmoored boat, drifting in emptiness—meaning: do not force things; follow what is natural.

“Eating at ten gruel stalls, five serve you first”

Where are you going? Where are you returning? At ten gruel stalls you eat, and at five the bowl is set before you without your asking. Those who honor you do not wait for you to speak; harmony has gathered within, and splendor shows outward—what Confucians often say: when the heart is sincere, it naturally flows into conduct.

“Inner sincerity not yet dissolved”: there is sincerity within, but it is not yet cleared and penetrated. “Dissolve” means to transform. “Spy” is action; “bearing that spies” describes carriage and manner. “Formed radiance” is dignified bearing, majesty—the meaning of accumulation within bursting outward. Here that is taken as a teachable art: subduing hearts by outward manner. I say I have not yet been without trace, so people can see me, and therefore submit and honor me.

Master Zhaozhou said, “This old monk’s practice lacks strength; ghosts and spirits have seen through me.” That is the point. The noble and the aged are what people respect; I am neither old nor noble, yet that man lightly esteems them and honors me—his regard for me already surpasses honoring age and rank.

“Accumulate” means to gather and pile up. When such things accumulate long, they must become harm—the more name and trace show, the harder to escape the world’s troubles. “Surplus gain”: seeking profit only to have more, mere surplus. “Gain” is profit. In the world, the powerful can weigh people light or heavy. The gruel seller is lowly and at first has no power to weigh anyone, yet can honor me so—how much more when one is lord: the body already labors and wisdom is spent; he will surely seek me and employ me, making me serve his success—this is what is meant by “accumulating what becomes a bane.” “Serve” means to offer.

The blind man and “you may stop”

The blind man, hearing this, was pleased and said “Excellent,” and praised you for being able to “see”—that here you have the one eye. He also said, “You may stop”—no need to travel further; people will turn to you, keep to you, and take you as teacher.

“Dwelling in stopping”: “already” is a particle; to keep and guard. “Those who return are many and guard the gate”—this one word “guard” already hints at inadequacy. The blind man’s insight is, in fact, one level higher.

“Shoes outside the door are full”: disciples are many; shoes fill the threshold. “Planting the staff and furrowing the brow upon the cheek”: standing the staff firm and leaning on it, wrinkling the brow at the cheek—depicting solemn, imposing bearing.

On “yi” (the cheek and jaw)

This describes the face wrinkled up and the chin thrust forward (cu zhu)—a tense, ingratiating bearing.

“The guest is master; the guest is the one who comes visiting.”

“Guest” means the party who comes to pay calls, to cling, to socialize; when host and guest are reversed, it means treating yourself as the “guest” in others’ eyes and currying favor.

“Ti xi er zou” (grabbing one’s shoes and running)

One runs off still holding one’s shoes. In antiquity people sat on the floor and removed shoes before taking a seat; here someone is so eager to please that there is no time to put shoes on properly—they snatch them up and bolt—flustered and undignified.

“The one who dispenses medicine… is finished”

Earlier “dispensing medicine” and “medicine stone” stand for admonition and correction: words are exhausted, the dose given; further urging is useless.

The meaning of “rest your tongue”

In essence: I said long ago that people would come to “protect” you and watch over you; you could not make others stop managing and pestering you—the familiar “forgetting the self is easy; making others forget you is hard.”

You ended up here because you could not keep your odd, fawning manner inside; once moved or pleased, yu (anticipatory delight, pre-emptive compliance) shows in the face and body—hence “feeling yu, the strange comes outward.” That not only fails to deceive others but shakes your own nature, especially harmful to body and spirit. “Wu wei” here means “of no benefit” (“you you” = “especially”).

The “wanderers” who associate with you

They are your friends and companions. Their learning has not gone deep; their talk is shallow (xiao yan), and much of it is poison to people; moreover no one can set you straight, so you never wake up—who is left to ask you “what have you become?”

“Xiang shu,” “xiang shei he”: who can question or challenge you; “xiang jie wen” means mutual inquiry and concern.

Ordinary people in the world

The clever often wear themselves out; the sharp often suffer for it; only those who embody the Dao and follow nature without artifice want nothing from externals—they eat their fill and wander and that is all.

“Fan hu ruo bu xi zhi zhou”: the heart is like a small boat with no mooring line—unattached.

The passage closes on the word “xu” (emptiness): only in emptiness can one be one with the great void and roam at the beginning of things. “Wu neng” means Wuwei (non-action).

The story of Zheng man Huan (parable)

In Zheng there was a man named Huan, who studied in Yinshen and the lands of the Di clan and after three years became a Confucian; his fame spread like a river moistening nine li and a marsh reaching three clans. He had his younger brother study Mohism; Confucian and Mohist debated each other; the father sided with Mohism. After ten years Huan killed himself.

The father dreamed he said: Let your son be a Mohist.

He Hu often visited him and said: You have become the fruit of the autumn cypress—a metaphor for having borne fruit, taken fixed form, reached the end.

“The Creator’s recompense to people is not recompense to the person but recompense to that person’s Heaven-nature.”

When the Creator rewards or punishes a person, it is not the individual as such but his inborn disposition and orientation.

Hence one is made thus; when a person takes “I” as uniquely his own and set apart from others, he comes to this pass.

Degrading his own father—When people of Qi fought over drinking from a well, they grappled and pulled at one another. So it is said: people today are all as muddled as Huan.

Even a person of virtue suffers calamity for “not knowing Heaven”; how much more one who has attained the Dao? The ancients called this the penalty of turning against Heaven—punishment for violating the way of Heaven.

Moaning and chanting in song: Huan lamented for three years. Exactly three years: a full three years. The river moistens nine li: using river water to soak land within nine li, a metaphor for how widely his kindness spread. Using what remained of his resources, he had his younger brother follow a Mohist to study: with the leftover money he sent his brother to learn Mohism from a Mohist.

The brothers studied different paths, so they argued. The father favored the younger son and helped him; Huan resented his father and killed himself. After death he appeared to his father in a dream and said: “The money that supported your son’s Mohist studies came from the kindness I left behind. Now the brothers fight, and I killed myself—yet the pines and cypresses on your grave have already grown tall and borne fruit.”—showing he had been dead a long time.

Liang is sometimes written lang (埌), same sound as “lang,” meaning a grave. He hu chang shi qi liang: why not look at my grave? He and hu both mean “why.” Zhuangzi cites this old story and then judges:

Huan thought “it was I who made my brother study Mohism,” but he did not know that the Creator has its own principle of retribution toward people: retribution is not according to human effort, but according to what one receives from Heaven. That the younger brother could succeed at Mohism was the Creator rewarding his natural endowment—not something you could achieve by funding him with human effort. So it (the Creator) made him (the younger brother Di) succeed—the first “it” is the Creator, the second “him” is the younger brother Di.

This man is Huan: taking himself as capable and different from others, thinking that studying Confucianism brought kindness to three clans and surpassed ordinary people; degrading his own father means resenting his father. In truth Heaven had always enabled the younger brother to master Mohism, yet Huan took it as his own achievement and blamed his father—this is not knowing Heaven.

Well water springs from nature. The people of Qi drank natural water yet fought over it—was that water privately theirs? Their outlook matched Huan’s.

People today do not know Heaven and contend from private motives, so it is said “the people of this age are all like Huan.”

Read from “it therefore made him… drinking from the well” onward—that is Zhuangzi’s voice (the four chapters after “Letting Be, Kingly” would not use this tone). Even a person of virtue is still thus…

To regard creation (the transforming work of heaven and earth and nature) as unknowable is already a deep stance—how much more so for one who has attained the Dao? Zhuangzi often stacks layer upon layer in what he says. Hence he uses those who possess Dao and De to judge those who flee heavenly principle and go against nature. Punishment means having offended the creator. This line rebukes those who are slack and slow.

The sage rests where one ought to rest, and does not rest where one ought not; the multitude rest where they ought not, and do not rest where they ought. Zhuangzi says: knowing is easy; acting on it without speaking is hard. To know and not speak is to move toward nature; to know and still speak is to move toward artifice. The ancients were purely natural, wholly free of human contrivance.

What one ought to rest in is the pattern of nature; what one ought not is human affairs. “Not speaking is hard” means it is hard to forget words. When one knows the Way and reaches forgetting words, one is of a kind with nature. When one knows the Way but cannot escape speech, one has not left artifice behind—traces remain. The ancients were purely natural, wholly without human striving. “之” means “to go toward”; “之天” and “之人” mean returning to nature and returning to artifice.

Zhuo Zhu studied dragon-slaying under Zhi Li, exhausting a fortune of a thousand in gold. After three years the skill was complete, yet there was no dragon to slaughter. The point is roughly Zhuangzi speaking of himself: his Way is vast, but there is still no place to deploy it.

Because the sage sees what cannot be known, he does not raise disputes. The multitude treat what is not certain as if it were certain, and so breed much rivalry. Warfare is rivalry in the large—hence the large example. If one follows the heart of rivalry, then in worldly action one constantly seeks an opponent—meaning one cannot forget self and things. So: following rivalry, one acts with a mind that seeks enemies. To rely on stratagem and force in contention is to be self-assured—and that assuredness must end in the ruin of one’s person; hence: when arms rely on themselves, there is destruction.

The petty person’s cleverness never leaves ledgers and bamboo documents; spirit is spent on shallow, fragmented matters, yet they wish to save all under heaven and guide the ten thousand things. The Great One (Taiyi), the body of the Dao, is without form and without image—yet acting thus, one is lost amid the images of the cosmos.

People burdened by the physical body fail to grasp the principle of Taichu (the primordial state before all things had differentiated). The zhiren (person of supreme attainment) gathers spirit back into the beginningless realm—beyond any starting point in time—and rests at ease in the Land of Nothing-Whatever (the vast, unanchored expanse where nothing can be pinned down).

Chores like delivering firewood or gifts, and the shuffle of official documents and polite inquiries, are shallow, trivial matters beneath serious notice. Petty minds squander their spirit on such things, fancy themselves clever, and then dream of aiding the whole world and guiding all people so that everything accords with the origin of the Grand Unity (the undivided source) and the subtlety of the formless—how could that be possible? When form is hollowed out, there is no form: clinging to the visible body is precisely what blinds one to the formless source. If sight stops there, then up and down, the four directions, past and present—all become a maze they do not recognize, because they are chained to appearances and do not understand the natural order of Taichu. Only the perfected person turns spirit toward the beginning where there is no thing and dwells in the realm of wuwei (non-action). Ganming—blissful sleep—stands for a heart untroubled, with nothing left to cling to.

Water flows within formlessness, then disperses and returns to Taiqing (the same as Taixu, the broad, clear void). Pitiful! You know only matters as fine as a hair, and do not know Daning (great peace—the fundamental teaching of effortless naturalness). The crowd sees water only as something shaped; they do not see how it arises from nothing. When it scatters and goes, they do not see it returning to Taiqing. It is like the vulgar watching water: they see the surface, not the whole course from start to finish—hence “knowledge stops at a hair’s breadth”; what is seen is far too small. The three words “pitiful indeed” must be read on into the next line “you are…”—a sigh that such a person sees only the small end of things.

In Song there was a man named Cao Shang, sent by Song on a mission to Qin. He left with only a few carriages; the King of Qin was pleased and gave him a hundred more. Back in Song he called on Zhuangzi and said: Living in a poor alley, weaving my own sandals, with a withered neck and sallow face—that was my weakness. Knowing how to serve a lord of ten thousand chariots and having a hundred carriages follow me—that was my strength. Zhuangzi said: When the King of Qin was ill he summoned doctors: whoever lanced an abscess got one carriage; whoever sucked a hemorrhoid got five—the fouler the cure, the more carriages. Did you perhaps treat hemorrhoids? How did you get so many carriages? Be on your way.

First Section (The Bi Family and the Carriage)

This passage explains the figure in theparable of “licking hemorrhoids to win a carriage.”

He is described as old: his neck is withered and his body wasted, as if hollowed out inside; his hair has turned sallow and thin (huang'e), marking decline.

Yong and cuo are ailments of the same kind as yong and cuo that appear on the upper body, while hemorrhoids afflict the lower part. The physician rewards more generously for curing the lower ailment, so he earned a carriage by licking hemorrhoids. A vulgar saying has it: such degrading work was never worth envying or taking as honor.

Second Section (Duke Ai Questions Yan He)

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He: “I treat Kongzi (Confucius) as the zhengan—the steadfast pillar and worthy helper of governance. Can the country’s chronic ills be cured (you chou)?”

Yan He replied: “Dangerous—utterly dangerous! Kongzi means to trim with feathers and paint with ornament, to traffic in flowery rhetoric, to take branch tips as the main aim, to force down one’s nature in dealing with the people, all the while unaware that he is not sincere. Shou hu xin—the heart is possessed by this program; zai hu shen—spirit is mastered by it. How could such a person be fit to stand above the people? He refers to Kongzi; you refers to Duke Ai: the question is whether he truly benefits you. Hence: ‘Does he properly belong to you?’ If you nurture and employ (yi yu) him as a sage, that may not help you—and to mislead you is all too likely (wu ze ke yi).”

“If you now lead everyone in the state to abandon what is real and learn deceit, that is not the right way to show the people (shi min) how to live. If you are thinking only of later generations, you would do better to stop this yourself first.”

Third Section (Heaven’s Dispersion and Merchants)

(Continuing the prior thread.) What is hard is governing in earnest; to bestow favors on others yet never let go of the score is not tian bu—dispersal like Heaven’s, broad and without clinging to the mind.

Merchants do not rank together (shang gu bu chi)—they price goods by quality and do not mix categories. Even if one seeks a deity’s chi (to be counted alongside, to be matched), the spirits will not treat him as they would a merchant.

Punishment imposed through outward form and trace is metal punishment and wood punishment (jin xing, mu xing)—the corporal penalties of blade and cangue, external chastisement.

On External and Internal Punishment

Those who suffer external punishment—the body afflicted by blade, saw, cangue, and fetters—usually do so because their conduct has gone wrong. Those who suffer internal punishment—the heart uneasy, self-reproach like being on the rack—do so because the inner life is out of step with the Way of Heaven.

Petty folk (xiaoren, people of shallow vision) can dodge external punishment but not internal punishment. What inquiry and prosecution really pursue is internal punishment. Internal punishment is Yin-Yang—nature, the Way of Heaven—“eating” you: illness, reproof, the penalty of creation itself. The line about external punishment speaks of calamity that shows on the outside; internal punishment is motion and fault—every slip in how the body moves and acts is like bearing execution.

Only the true person (zhenren, one who has seen through the Great Dao and merged with it) can truly escape harm from both external and internal punishment.

On “Governing the People” and Governance with a Fixed Mind

The common people could originally be “governed without governing”; if the ruler keeps thinking “I must go govern them,” they become hard to govern. So when we say “hard to govern,” we mean this situation.

To apply (shi, carry out, spread) things among people yet never forget it in the heart—to govern and teach with deliberate intent—is not the Heavenly norm (tianjing, the principle of nature in the Way of Heaven, the constant course Heaven walks). It is like a merchant: a scholar will not willingly rank with him; even if chance throws them together in one place, the heart is not at ease. Likewise, those who chase fame, cleverness, and artifice—men of the Way do not willingly rank with them. Here the merchant stands for the whole line of learning that preaches benevolence and clever contrivance.

Confucius on Knowing People: The Nine Indicators

Confucius said: The human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to know than the heavens. Heaven at least has the pattern of spring, autumn, winter, summer, dawn and dusk; people wear thick faces and deep feelings (houmao shenqing—outward deference, inward depth no one can read).

Therefore: some look modest while inwardly greedy for gain; some seem to cling to one small skill while outwardly not looking capable; some are soft outside and urgent inside yet actually penetrate affairs; some are solid on the surface but twisted within; some look relaxed but are inwardly sharp and fierce (ran, here read as hard and cutting).

So in examining people:

• Send them far—dispatch them on distant business and see whether they are loyal
• Keep them near—keep them at hand for service and see whether they are respectful
• Burden them with trouble—give them tangled tasks and see whether they have ability
• Suddenly question them—spring questions on them and see whether they really understand
• Press them with tight deadlines—set urgent terms and see whether they keep faith
• Entrust them with property—hand them wealth and see whether they are humane and not grasping
• Tell them of danger—inform them of peril and see whether they hold integrity
• Make them drink—give them wine and see whether they lose composure when drunk (ze, here bearing and conduct)
• Mix them in company—place them where men and women mingle and see whether their bearing stays correct

When all these nine indicators (jiu zheng, nine tests) are applied, the unworthy—the unreliable, the unformed—can no longer hide.

Some things appear hard and strong on the surface but are actually soft and pliable—like the line in the Classic of Poetry: “Once it was steel tempered a hundred times, now it wraps around a finger.” “Wrapping around a finger” means that kind of softness; “釪急” also means urgent or hasty.

Some look broad, mild, and relaxed but are inwardly narrow and quick-tempered—all of this says that people are hard to see through.

“His pursuit of righteousness is like thirst” means he is eager when advancing; “his leaving righteousness is like fleeing heat” means he withdraws quickly—that is the idea of “sharp in advance, swift in retreat.” Read this way, the passage connects in a distinctive tone.

Those far apart easily deceive one another, so watch from a distance whether he is loyal; those close at hand easily grow careless, so watch up close whether he is respectful.

Those who handle tangled affairs easily exhaust their talent, so test with difficult tasks whether he can bear them; on matters not yet understood, answers are bound to be slow, so put sudden questions and see whether he has wisdom.

Deadlines pressed too hard invite broken faith, so in tight time limits see whether he keeps faith; faced with money, greed comes easily, so hand him wealth and see whether he is humane—“humane” here is close in sense to the Dao.

In hardship, people easily settle for mere survival, so tell him there is danger and see whether he has integrity; wine can cloud the mind, so when he is drunk see whether his bearing and decorum remain—“bearing and decorum” means manner and conduct.

Beauty can bewitch, so place him amid confusion and see whether he can hold himself. “徵” means to verify and test. With these nine tests, the worthy and unworthy can be distinguished.

The argument in this passage is sound in itself; it is only put in Kongzi’s mouth, from which we can see that Zhuangzi did not necessarily slight Kongzi.

Zheng Kaofu: when he received one appointment he bowed; with a second he bowed lower; with a third he prostrated himself and walked along the base of the wall—who would not take him as a model? But that “failed” sort of man: with one appointment he swelled with pride; with a second he danced on his carriage; with a third he called his uncles by name—who could say he was like Tang Yao or Xu You?

“傴” is a bent back; “偻” is a bent waist; “俯” is lying face down on the ground. The meaning is: the higher the rank, the lower the body. Walking along the wall, not daring to walk the middle of the road, is self-effacement. If there were such a worthy in the world, who would dare not act by the rule? “轨” means rule or standard.

That failed type: “吕鉅” is a haughty, arrogant look; “dancing on the carriage” means frivolous display; “naming the uncles” is arrogance toward the clan, calling uncles by name. “Tang” is Tang Yao; “Xu” is Xu You—Yao offered the realm to Xu You, and Xu You would not accept. How could such petty men compare with Tang and Xu?

To be just a little capable and yet so proud and self-important—how could one know the realm of Tang Kun (a worthy of Yao’s time) and Xu You (to whom Yao wished to yield the realm, and who steadfastly refused)?

“Xie” (协) means to align, match, or set side by side for comparison. Set me alongside Tang Kun and Xu You and look at us together, and you can see who is light and who is heavy, who truly accords with the Dao; as for speaking of others, who can view things in that same way?

For those who study the Dao, these lines hit the mark. In the Chan school this is what is called the “leaking mind”; it is also what is meant by the “second thought.” De is simply De—once you fancy that you have De and keep thinking “I am being virtuous,” that is “having a mind” (youxin), and for a Dao seeker there is no greater harm than this; hence “there is no thief greater than a mind in one’s De.” Within this “having a mind,” thoughts of looking ahead and calculating gain and loss arise again, as if the mind opened a second eye. That is leakage; that is the second thought. Use this “seeing” mind to look inward, and distinctions multiply, turmoil follows, and you no longer recognize the undivided suchness—then you have no chance to attain the Dao; hence “ruin” (bai): ruin means you cannot succeed.

There are five kinds of inauspicious De, and “central De” (zhongde) ranks first. What is central De? It is being pleased with yourself and thereby disparaging and ridiculing others.

“Pi” (吡) means to rival and oppose what others do not do—to take pride in one’s own abilities and mock others for what they cannot do. With such a mind, one cannot study the Dao. The Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment says, “Do not slight the long-practiced; do not slight the beginner,” and Chan master Dahui said, “Never for a moment think ‘I understand and he does not’”—all of this is the same teaching.

There are eight ultimate limits of destitution; three inevitabilities of going against the Way; and six repositories of the form (such as eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind). Beautiful beard, tall stature, robust strength, and handsome bravery—when these eight all surpass ordinary people, one may still be ruined precisely because of them. Hesitant compliance, bowing and yielding, timid shrinking, and “not matching others”—these three can yet lead to thorough penetration. Wisdom that runs outward breeds much resentment; courage breeds much enmity; benevolence and righteousness breed much demanding of others.

One who penetrates the truth of life appears dull and foolish (kui); one who penetrates clever knowing appears inadequate (xiao); one who penetrates the great mandate (daming) follows along; one who only penetrates the small mandate (xiaoming) meets chance and mishap at every turn.

This passage explains Zhuangzi’s discussion of the “eight extremes,” the “six storehouses,” and the story of the Song king’s gift of chariots. The following is a plain-language account of the main ideas.

On the “eight extremes”

“Rán” means beard; “yǒu xū” likewise refers to facial hair (as when Fang Xuanling said Li Wei was “like rán and xū”). Being tall, thick-waisted, robust, handsome, fierce, and bold—when all eight traits surpass ordinary people, one tends to pride oneself on them, yet often ends in poverty and hardship.

By contrast: xún means yielding in affairs and only coping when one must; yǎn yǎng means falling and rising with circumstances, easygoing; kùn wèi means being constrained everywhere and full of fear. These three are unremarkable compared with others, yet people who have them often get on smoothly, because they do not contend with the world and others are willing to accept them. Zhuangzi is deliberately turning common values upside down, using an “exaggerated contrary thesis” (kàng lùn) to break people’s fixation on strength, beauty, and courage.

On the “six storehouses”

“Form has six fǔ” means the human body has six “storehouses”—fǔ are places where things are gathered and stored.

The first is the storehouse of wisdom: using cleverness to chase outward things and seek success in the world.

The second is the storehouse of courage: those who rely on brute strength inevitably attract much resentment.

The third is the storehouse of benevolence and righteousness: using benevolence and righteousness to win a name brings much blame and worry.

The fourth is the storehouse of “mastering life”: kuǐ sounds like kuí; going against the principle of nurturing life while posing as lofty and proud.

The fifth is the storehouse of “mastering knowledge”: xiào sounds like xiāo; fancying oneself wiser than everyone and picking apart and debating every matter.

The sixth is the storehouse of “mastering fate”: what is great belongs to Heaven; what is small belongs to oneself—“mastering” the mandate of Heaven means following nature and entrusting oneself to creation; “mastering” one’s own lot means attributing all encounters to fate. To speak only of “meeting one’s fate” still leaves gain and loss in the mind; to speak of “submitting to fate” and “following along” is to need no further reckoning. These two layers were originally distinct. When the text speaks of the six storehouses, it splits the last word “fate” (mìng) into two lines—that too is a deliberate arrangement in the writing.

The Song king’s chariots and the pearl by the river

Someone went to see the king of Song and received ten chariots as a reward; he then grew arrogant and looked down on others, relying on those chariots. Zhuangzi said: By the river lived a poor family that made a living weaving reed mats. The son dove into a deep pool and brought up a pearl worth a thousand in gold. The father told his son: Bring a stone and smash it. A pearl worth a thousand in gold must lie in a pool nine layers deep, under the jaw of a black dragon (Lí); those who get such a pearl usually do so while the dragon sleeps. If the black dragon wakes, will you still have your life?

Today the depths and dangers of Song are more than a ninefold abyss; the fierceness of the king of Song is not only that of a black dragon. That you could safely receive chariots as a reward means you caught him while he “slept”; if the king of Song wakes, you will be ground to dust.

The above ties together the lessons that pride in the eight extremes leads to poverty, that the three “inferior” traits win acceptance through not contending, that each of the six storehouses hides its own flaw, and that one must not grow proud over chariots granted by the king of Song. Proper names such as the eight extremes, six storehouses, black dragon, and king of Song are kept as in the original, with brief contextual clarification where helpful.

To be proud and arrogant while still cherishing a childlike heart—that is Zhuangzi’s point. Wei (纬) means weaving; xiao (萧) is reed, homophonous with bianqu (编曲), “arranging melodies.” People live by this and trade in it. They take stone and work it, yet despise the pearl and smash it. The image stands for everyone who pursues wealth and rank by risky paths and deceives the ruler; once the ruler sees through it, execution follows—where is any mercy? Nothing is left of the feast.

Someone came to invite Zhuangzi; he answered the envoy: Have you seen the sacrificial ox? Dressed in brocade, fed on fodder and beans—when it is led into the great temple, could it still become a lone calf if it wished? The idea matches the turtle dragging its tail in the mud in an earlier chapter.

When Zhuangzi was dying, his disciples wanted a lavish burial. Zhuangzi said: I take heaven and earth as my coffin and casket, the sun and moon as linked jades, the stars as pearls, and the myriad things as funeral gifts—is my outfit for the grave not complete? Why add more? The disciples said: We fear birds and kites will eat you, master. Zhuangzi said: Eaten above by birds and kites, eaten below by ants—snatching from those to give to these, how one-sided! He is mocking people of his day who insist on rich burials: they rob the birds and kites to feed the ants, seeing only one side. The remark goes far, yet anyone who has not truly grasped the principle will find it hard to reach.

To level with what is not level is for the level not to be level; to verify with what is not verified is for the verification not to verify. The ming (明, clear-sighted) person only serves as an instrument; the shen (神, spirit) is what verifies. For long the clear has not matched the spirit, while the foolish trust what they see and impose it on others—their achievement is outward; is that not sad?

The pattern of the myriad things is level by nature; if I try to “level the level” with an unlevel heart, even what was level becomes unlevel. Each thing’s pattern can in principle be tested; if I “verify” with an unverified mind, even what could be verified ceases to verify. Hence: to level with the unlevel is for the level not to be level; to verify with the unverified is for the verification not to verify. Zheng (征) means to test or verify. “Only serves as instrument” means acting as if something were doing it when nothing is—if there is a “mover,” that is treating no-mind as mind. The clear-sighted often burden themselves in just this way; with spirit, one simply lets response happen of itself. “The clear does not match the spirit” means the human mind, however sharp, never outdoes the spirit’s own responsiveness.

This passage comes from Lin Xiyi's (Southern Song) oral exegesis Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi on the Zhuangzi (Nanhua Zhenjing). In plain terms:

Deliberate effort and pushing oneself forward can never in the end prevail over the natural way of wuwei (non-action). Foolish people trust only their own private, partial views; they plunge headlong into the tangle of human affairs and worldly feeling, chasing at every turn external fame, concrete results, and practical payoff—is that not lamentable?

For context: wuwei here is not idleness or doing nothing at all; it means aligning with what is inherently so and not imposing arbitrary interference—much as the Zhuangzi urges following nature rather than forcing things with clever contrivance. “Private views” are one-sided opinions and stubborn prejudice, akin to what Daoist critique calls being “blinded by a fixed mind.” “Seeking achievement outward” means spending one’s effort on what lies outside the self—reputation, worldly success, others’ judgment—instead of settling the heart-and-mind and holding to the center in unity.