《南華真經口義》Vol. 32
About this page. The original text of 《南華真經口義》 Vol. 32 (Dongshen 洞神部, 32 volumes) is shown in Classical Chinese as transmitted in the Kanripo (Kyoto University) edition. An English interpretation of the 25 passages on this page accompanies it: select a passage or press “Interpretation” to show it. All texts in English
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Source textInterpretation
This passage is from the Oral Commentary on the Southern Florescence True Scripture (Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi), a Song dynasty scholar Lin Xiyi's annotation on the Zhuangzi·Tianxia chapter. It primarily discusses the distinction between the ancient Daoist arts (daoshu) and later specialized techniques (fangshu), as well as the limitations of various schools of thought.
Many scholars in the world study specialized fields of knowledge, each believing their own learning has reached perfection. So where does the "Daoist art" spoken of by the ancients reside? In truth, the Daoist art is omnipresent. The descent of spiritual illumination (shenming), the manifestation of wisdom, and the achievements of sage-kings all originate from this fundamental Dao.
Those who attain the Dao can be categorized into several levels: those who never depart from the root are called "heavenly humans" (tianren, those united with the heavenly Dao); those who maintain purity are called "spiritual humans" (shenren, those who comprehend the mysterious); those who preserve their authentic nature are called "perfected humans" (zhiren, practitioners of the highest attainment). Those who take the heavenly Dao as their foundation, virtue (de) as their basis, and the great Dao as their gateway—who can foresee transformations—are called "sages" (shengren, beings of extraordinary wisdom). Those who emphasize humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi), whose conduct follows principles, who harmonize their nature through music, and who embody loving-kindness are called "noble persons" (junzi).
Conventional society has established its own norms: using laws to demarcate social hierarchy, using titles as markers, using moral conduct as criteria, and using examinations as decisive measures. Officials perform their duties according to this system, while common people focus on production and livelihood, caring for the elderly, weak, and orphaned—these constitute the principles for governing the populace.
The Daoist arts of ancient sages were most complete. They could align with spiritual forces, emulate heaven and earth, nurture the myriad things, harmonize the world, and bestow blessings upon the people. They comprehended both fundamental principles and concrete methods—whether dealing with matters great or small, refined or coarse, the patterns of their operation were omnipresent. These principles were sometimes recorded in historical texts, sometimes manifested in classics like the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Rites, and Music. Most scholars from the Zou-Lu region (Confucius's homeland) could elucidate them.
Later, when the world fell into great disorder, the Way of the sages became obscured, and moral standards ceased to be unified. Various schools of thought each clung to one aspect, just as ears, eyes, mouth, and nose each have their functions but cannot interchange. Though the hundred schools each had their strengths and could prove useful in certain situations, none were comprehensive—they were all partial perspectives. They fragmented the perfection of heaven and earth, dissected the principles of the myriad things, yet few could fully grasp what the ancients called "inner sagehood and outer kingship" (neisheng waiwang—the integration of inner cultivation and outer achievement). Consequently, the great Dao became obscured, and people throughout the world each pursued their own preferred doctrines.
Plain-Language Reading of Commentary on the True Scripture of Nanhua
Main Idea of the Passage
Each school clings to its own doctrine; what is lamentable is that they go their separate ways and never return, so they can never truly agree with one another. Later scholars, unlucky enough not to see the original wholeness of Heaven and Earth or the broad outline of the ancients’ learning, found that “the Way and its arts” were about to be split into countless schools, each grasping one corner.
Plain-Language Commentary
At the opening of the final chapter of the full book, Zhuangzi says: the situation of learning through the ages is like Mencius’s closing discussion of “views and knowledge” at the end of his book. Since the world has been well governed, those who speak of fangshu (the various schools’ learning and crafts) have already become very numerous; when he says “the Way and its arts will be split for the world,” he is clearly setting up the theme in one sweeping stroke. After that general preface is finished, he goes on to treat each school in turn—each school’s writings are placed under its own heading, while the learning of Zou and Lu (Confucianism) is laid out inside the general preface. From this we can see: the author in his heart also understood that much of what he wrote was sharp and one-sided talk, and he never failed to know that the sage’s gate is the orthodox learning. Read his general preface and you will see that the root of his scholarship is in fact quite sound. Su Dongpo said: Zhuangzi never mocked the Master (Confucius); that too can be seen from here.
Fangshu means the academic doctrines and crafts of the various schools; everyone feels his own doctrine cannot be improved upon, and everyone takes himself as right. The shu (art/method) in the ancients’ phrase “the Way and its arts” has the same sense as shu in “the art of benevolence” (renshu) and “the art of the mind” (xinshu).
“Where is it? In the ‘no-where’”—not being outside has something of the meaning of “timely centrality”: though the hundred schools’ learning differs, the Dao is nowhere absent from them.
“How does the divine descend? How does illumination issue forth?”—how can the way of spirit and brightness be made manifest?
The work of the sage in generating the myriad things, and the principle by which Heaven and Earth generate them, both rest on “the One.” “The One” is creation-and-transformation. Speaking of zong (ancestor/source), jing (essence), or zhen (truth) all points to the same as “the One”; only the wording in composition differs.
Taking Heaven as ancestor, taking De as root, taking the Dao as gate—all are wuwei (non-action) and naturalness. “Harbingers in change” likewise rest on “the One.”
The sage is the Heaven-person, the utmost person, the spirit-person. “Gently kind and benevolent” describes bearing and atmosphere.
“Law” involves distinction, hence “taking law as division”; “name” has a standard, hence “taking name as emblem”; “taking conduct as test, taking examination as decision”—what is tested and what is decided each has its basis.
“Their numbers one, two, three, four”—fine and clear, fully in place. “Like teeth in a row”—great and small, high and low, in order. “Taking affairs as constant”—each has its regular duty. “Taking clothing and food as primary”—taking clothing and food as the foundation.
When the common people devote themselves to farming and sericulture, multiplying offspring and building up stores, the kind of reserve meant by sayings such as “farm for three years, eat for one year” refers to exactly this sort of thing. Those who extend care to the old, the weak, the orphaned, and the widowed practice benevolent government: in acting humanely in office, they must first look after these four groups. Whether it is assigning officials to posts or governing and teaching the people, all of it belongs to the logic of nurturing the people. The ancients said that when sages can fully carry out all of this, they may be paired with the spirits in sacrifice, and may match heaven and earth in simplicity and harmony—nurturing the myriad things, bringing the world into accord, and spreading their grace among the people. That is how vast their efficacy is.
“Fundamental reckoning” and “terminal measure” are like what is refined versus coarse, root versus branch. “Series” means mutual belonging—that root and branch cannot be separated. “Six penetrations and four openings” means east, west, south, north, above, and below: there is nowhere it does not reach. “Movement” is the operation of the Dao; whether great or small, refined or coarse, all is Dao—hence the saying that it is nowhere absent. Read in this light, these lines do not fail to clarify the substance and function of the Dao. “Reckoning and measure” are norms that can be recorded; to say their norms are clear and can be written down is because older statutes and transmitted historical writings still survive in some number, and their words largely record these matters.
“Scholars of Zou and Lu” and “gentry masters” refer to the gate of the sages—plainly they mean Confucius’s Six Classics and the Spring and Autumn Annals. In the two words “articulate names and roles” (dao mingfen) there is already the sense of restraining rebellious ministers and unruly sons. When that teaching spread through the world, the saying was that Zou and Lu possessed it whole, while the learning might also scatter across the realm: schools were established in the central states and split into the hundred schools, and there were always those who spoke of these matters—but they could not equal the learning of Zou and Lu in completeness.
“The world fell into great disorder” refers to the time after the Spring and Autumn period. “The worthy and the sage were not illumined” means there was no King Wen or Duke of Zhou above, and no disciples such as Confucius and Yan Hui below. “The Dao and its virtue were not one” means they dispersed and became the hundred schools. “The world mostly gained one” means people in the world often grasped one facet and examined it closely; “they took pride in themselves” means that having seen only one facet, they favored it and boasted of it. Eyes, ears, nose, and mouth cannot interchange their functions—the ear cannot see, the eye cannot hear, the mouth cannot smell, the nose cannot taste; each follows what it is capable of—hence the saying that each has something it can clarify. This is used to compare the hundred schools and various crafts: each also has its strong point and can sometimes be put to use, yet they cannot exhaustively encompass the sage’s Dao in full roundness—therefore they are partial, one-sided scholars.
Yet the beauty of Heaven and Earth was thereby cut apart and no longer whole; the principles of the myriad things were analyzed piece by piece and no longer run through as one. Measured by the standard of wholeness in the learning of antiquity, one sees that the various masters each clung to one corner, and few could embody the beauty of Heaven and Earth or be worthy of the countenance of the spirits.
“Beauty” refers to the Dao inwardly—as substance; “countenance” refers to the Dao outwardly—as function. “Worthy of” means fitting and adequate. That few could be worthy of the spirits’ countenance means that on the side of outward application they often missed the mark. Inner sagehood is substance; outer kingliness is function. By this point the way of inner and outer could no longer be stated clearly; each person followed his own bent into techniques, and the learning of the hundred schools from then on wandered without return—it could never again be made one. Later scholars were deprived of sight of Heaven and Earth in their pure completeness and of the ancient Way in its entirety; that was the misfortune of later ages. The art of the Way in the world was henceforth split apart—hence the saying that “the art of the Way will be split under Heaven.” This closing line gathers force with exceptional power; it is also superb writing.
Among the ancient art of the Way was a current that did not indulge posterity, did not waste the myriad things, did not parade legal standards, and used inked lines and compasses to correct itself against the urgencies of the age—those on this path who heard the wind were Mozi and Qin Guli, and they rejoiced, yet they carried it too far: their own doctrine was too grand, and they practiced “condemnation of music,” ordering people to “frugality in expenditure”—no singing in life, no mourning dress in death. Mozi preached universal love and mutual benefit and opposed strife; his way was not wrathful, and he loved learning and transmission, but he differed and did not align with the former kings, tearing down the ritual and music of antiquity. The Yellow Emperor had the “Pool of Xian,” Yao the “Great Manifestation,” Shun the “Great Shao,” Yu the “Great Xia,” Tang the “Huo,” and King Wen the music of “Piyong”; King Wu and Duke of Zhou composed the “Military.” In ancient funeral rites, noble and base had their observances, high and low their ranks: the Son of Heaven’s inner and outer coffins were seven layers, a feudal lord’s five, a great officer’s three, a gentleman’s two. Now Mozi alone taught people not to sing in life and not to wear mourning in death, with a paulownia coffin three inches thick and no outer shell, taking this as the model law. Teaching others thus, one fears he did not love others; practicing it on himself, plainly he did not love himself. In the end Mozi’s way failed: even so, when it was song he condemned song, when it was weeping he condemned weeping, when it was joy he condemned joy—was this truly like his hardship in life and meagerness in burial? His way was severely harsh; it made people anxious and sorrowful.
For ritual practice: this passage may be recited to clarify the warning of “the splitting of the art of the Way,” or to contrast Mohist “frugality and condemnation of music” with ancient rites, for reflection.
This passage assesses the Mohist school: they studied the Way of the ancient sages, yet their practice went astray—neither aligned with the sages’ Way nor with the hearts of people under Heaven—so they could not establish true kingship.
At odds with the Way of the sages and with the hearts of the world
People could not endure living that way. Even if Mozi himself could bear it, the world could not. Once one parts from the world, one is far from the way of kingship.
Mozi often praised the story that in antiquity Yu tamed the floods, channeling rivers and linking the four directions and the nine provinces—three hundred major rivers, three thousand branches, and countless smaller streams. He personally shouldered baskets and wielded the hoe, traveling the waterways of the world for many years until there was no flesh on his calves and even the fine hair on his shins was worn away; through violent rain and fierce wind he traversed every state under Heaven. Yu was a great sage, yet he drove himself to such extremes. Later Mohists therefore often wore coarse hemp and short clothes, wooden clogs on their feet, working day and night without rest, taking self-affliction as the highest ideal, saying, “Unless we live like this we do not follow Yu’s Way and are unworthy to be called Mohists.”
The disciples of Xiang Li Qin and the line of the Five Lords, and southern Mohists such as Ku Huo, Ji Chi, and Deng Lingzi, all recited the Mo Jing, but their interpretations diverged; each called the others “Different Mohists” (bie mo), attacking one another with dialectic on “hard and white” and “sameness and difference,” answering back with paradoxes of “horn and even, match and not match,” taking the juzi (chief Mohist) as a sage and all willing to mourn for him and hoping to become his successor—disputes of this kind had still not ended when the author wrote.
As for the intent of Mozi and Qin Guli, it was among the most earnest devotion in the world; as for their methods, they were wrong. They would make later Mohists inevitably afflict themselves until their calves had no flesh and their shins no hair, each competing to see who could suffer more. This is disorder above and order only below.
Even so, Mozi was truly among the rare “good” in the world—one who rushed to meet the world’s urgencies—and hard to find another like him. Though withered and haggard he did not give up; he counts as a man of real capacity.
Several proper names and terms in the text (to help when reading the original)
- Mozi (墨子): Mozi, founder of Mohism.
- Yu (禹): the sage king of Xia who controlled floods; Mohists took “bodily toil for the world” as their model.
- Mo Jing (墨经): Mohist canonical texts, recited by later Mohists and split into factions.
- Bie mo (别墨): internal Mohist divisions, each holding to its own doctrine.
- Hard and white, sameness and difference (坚白、同异): Mohist dialectical topics (whether properties can be separated, sameness and difference of things, and the like).
- Horn and even, match and not match (觭偶不仵): paradox-style disputations pairing matched and mismatched terms.
- Juzi (巨子): title of the Mohist leader; disciples mourned him after death.
- Qin Guli (禽滑釐): traditionally said to be a disciple of Mozi.
- Calves without flesh, shins without hair (腓无胈、胫无毛): image of extreme labor until the body is worn down.
How this connects to surrounding argument (points often stressed in oral teaching)
The preceding section says Mohists “did not lavish the later age” (did not teach posterity luxury), “did not ornament with splendor” (did not take carved and adorned things as beauty), “did not display ritual and music in glory” (did not parade ritual, music, and measures), and “held to the line and square” (bound themselves by rule and measure to correct the age)—their aim was frugality enough for use, hence the praise that they could meet the world’s emergencies. Food and clothing are what people urgently need; strife brings disorder, and ancient learning also has this logic; Mozi and Qin Guli heard it and were pleased—but pleasure went too far and practice turned to harsh self-denial. Hence the Zhuangzi line of thought rates their intent as pitiable, their methods as not to be taken—a judgment that Mohist dedication is admirable while their ascetic path cannot carry true kingship or the hearts of all under Heaven.
In this passage, shen means to go along with something or follow it closely. Da xun qi shuo—to “greatly follow someone’s doctrine”—means clinging too tightly to one school’s teachings and pressing them too hard. That is why the text speaks of yi zhi da xun: here yi suggests restraining or holding something down.
Fei Yue (“Against Music”) and Jie Yong (“Economizing Expenditure”) are titles of chapters in the Mozi and also well-known Mohist slogans. Mozi wrote these pieces to urge that while people live they should neither sing nor use music (fei yue), and when they die they should not observe ordinary funeral rites—approaching bare burial—as a form of jie yong (economizing expenditure). He also taught jian ai (universal love): loving all without distinction, and therefore opposing strife, taking bu nu (non-anger) as the Way. Bo bu yi zhe shang tong means spreading one’s teaching very broadly while its core lies in shang tong (aligning with uniformity—seeking sameness throughout the realm).
Yet although Mohism also speaks of universal love, its teaching diverges from the way of the ancient kings. From the Yellow Emperor down to King Wu, music was never abandoned, whereas Mozi would abolish it. From antiquity, noble and common alike had mourning rites; Mozi would abolish those too, taking a three-inch coffin without an outer casing as the model. Jie yong was taught in a way so austere and harsh that the text says one might “fear it does not truly love others”—this is not the right path of loving people. “One who does not love himself” means tormenting oneself. Mo bai means that in the end Mohist doctrine cannot succeed.
Living in the world, people cannot do without song, yet Mohism treats song as wrong. Human feeling cannot do without weeping, yet Mohism treats weeping as wrong; cannot do without music, yet treats music as wrong. Its Way is altogether remote from human feeling, hence qi guo lei hu—“does it in truth resemble it?”—does it really accord with how people are? In life Mohists are toilsome; in death they are buried meagerly—too crude and bare (tai pu). Qi xing nan wei zhe means what they practice is hard for others to follow; fan tianxia zhi xin means it turns against the heart of everyone under heaven. The world cannot bear it; only Mozi himself could endure it. Though one man might endure, the world cannot follow. Once it departs from the human heart, it cannot serve as the Way of ruling all under heaven.
Ming chuan are the great rivers of heaven and earth; zhi chuan are branch streams opened and dredged in the work of Yu the Great. Nang is a vessel for holding earth; si is a tool for digging soil. Jiu yin (the nine tones) is tied to Yu’s achievements and the mixed governance of rivers and marshes throughout the realm. In Mohist argument, even a sage like Yu the Great personally toiled to this degree—how much more ordinary people?
Though figures such as Qi and Wei might muster the strength of a single body, they could not make the multitude go and rescue the famous rivers. This too extends the Mohist line of reasoning: however capable an individual, he lacks the power to turn the tide of human feeling and the great customs of ritual, music, and burial throughout the world by Mohist law.
Ji and jie are of the same kind: wooden soles are called ji, straw plaiting is called jue—both are worn on the feet. The Xiangli Qin mentioned here has the surname Xiangli and the given name Qin; he too followed the Mohist line of learning.
Teachers in the world often have disciples who are sons of feudal lords from various states, which shows how many people studied under them. Ku Huo, Ji Chi, and Deng Lingzi are three personal names. They all lived in the south and also read Mohist books, but their doctrines were even more eccentric and odd than Mozi’s own, and they differed among themselves as well, so they formed a separate label called “Bie Mo”—a Mohist offshoot that parted from orthodox Mohism.
They held “no conflict, no difference”: odd and even are originally opposed, yet they insisted they did not clash—this is forced argument. Answering one another with lines like “corner and mate do not contradict,” they called it “correspondence.”
Juzi means something like “the foremost disciple.” In Chan, fasu (dharma heir) carries the same idea. When many people transmit a teaching, they pick the one who received the true method and achieved the most, honor him as a sage, and install him as shizhu (the symbolic head of the school), hoping later generations will all take him as patriarch. Later ages also spoke of descendants, generation after generation in continuous succession, hence “neither cut off nor thin”—the transmission was not broken and still has lingering threads today.
Tracing it to the root, Mozi’s original intent was not bad; he only went too far in practice. So it is said “the intent was right but the conduct was wrong”—the mind was correct, the doing was not.
Xiangjin means mutual exaltation. Those who transmitted Mozi’s way touted one another for “taking self-affliction to the extreme”: wearing coarse cloth, eating chaff and husks—such asceticism, hoping by this to govern the world. Yet they did not see the world truly well governed; they first invited great disorder, hence “above disorder.”
Even so, Mozi’s sincerity was real after all; only today no such person can be found—you may seek but will not find one. If someone does not let go and does not stop—even to the point of withering the body yet keeps on—it may still count as haojie (heroic mettle). Caishi is the title for such heroes.
Mencius criticized Yang and Mo; when this book discusses the arts of the Way by school, it often mentions Yang and Mo together. This chapter classifies several schools by their arts of the Way yet does not list Yang Zhu—perhaps because Yang’s learning was not thought fit to stand beside the others.
The next school speaks of another ancient path of the arts of the Way:
Not burdened by custom—not dragged down by convention; not adorned by things—not decking oneself in externals; not harsh toward people—not severe with others; not resentful toward the multitude—not at odds with or jealous of the crowd.
Their wish was: the world at peace, the people alive; for one’s own support and that of others, stop when fully sufficient—enough is enough, without grasping for more. With this they clarified the heart-mind—made the inner mind clear and settled.
In the ancient arts of the Way there was indeed this current; its representatives were Song Xing and Yin Wen.
I. What the Song Xin and Yin Wen School Was About
Some who heard their teachings admired them and wore a cap called the “Huashan crown” to show they belonged to this school.
In dealing with people, they took bie you as their starting point—“bie” means keeping one’s place and not overstepping; “you” means ease and not being harsh. Together, this meant letting each person have what suits them and interfering as little as possible (what later came to be called zai you, “letting be”).
They spoke of “the inward scope of the heart” and also called it “the heart’s functioning”—first clarifying one’s own heart, then using that to counsel others. This is in the same spirit as the Buddhist idea that “great function appears before you”: however the heart works, that is how you apply it in the world.
They hoped to harmonize the realm through he (harmony) and yue (joy), and even wanted to honor Song Xin and Yin Wen as teachers of the age.
When the people loved fighting, they preached that “being insulted is nothing to be ashamed of,” hoping to stop quarrels; when the age was full of war, they preached “forbid attack and lay down arms,” hoping to stop warfare. So they traveled the states, persuading rulers above and teaching the people below.
But the world would not buy it, and they still pressed on. Hence a saying of the time: “High and low were sick of them, yet they still forced themselves forward.” The phrase “hence it is said” here quotes that old line to close the section.
II. This School’s Outlook on Life (as Explained in the Oral Tradition)
- Not burdened by custom: not dragged down by worldly ways.
- Not adorned by things: not relying on external goods to dress up or sustain oneself.
- Not at odds with the crowd: not competing with the multitude or going against common human feeling.
Their aspiration was that everyone could stay alive—treating others as oneself, only wishing that others could support themselves. With that heart, they still had to declare it openly to the world. This is the learning of Song Xin and Yin Wen.
The “Huashan crown” was their emblem; bie you is zai you; “the inward scope of the heart” refers to the heart’s substance; “the heart’s functioning” refers to how the heart is put to use.
III. The Author’s Critique: Too Much for Others, Too Little for Oneself
That said, Zhuangzi’s side still throws cold water:
This school schemed for others far too much and left too little for themselves.
It is said they were content with a fixed ration of five sheng of rice—the master still feared he might not eat his fill, the disciples went hungry yet could not forget the world, day and night repeating: “I must keep everyone alive!”
The satire asks: Do world-savers perhaps carry a bit of pride, a bit of excess?
Some say: each day there was only five sheng of rice, and the master ate it together with his disciples. The master could not even fill himself on those five sheng—how could the disciples not go hungry? The point is that master and disciples alike endured hunger to establish their teaching, yet claimed never to forget the world and to toil day and night—in fact meaning: I make myself suffer like this; is it to live on and on? It is only by such conduct that they corrected those who took the name of saving the world while actually seeking their own gain. Hence “图傲乎救世之士哉”—tu means to scheme or intend; ao means to posture or show off. It is like what Yu Rang said: what I do is extremely hard, precisely to shame those in the world who serve as ministers yet harbor divided loyalties—that is the sense. Li Hanlin (Li Bai) has in Duzhuo ji Wei Liu (“Drinking Alone, Sent to Wei Six”): “Thinking of you wandering in the dust of the world, / I show my pride and make you smile at yourself”—that is the same ao.
It is also said: the noble person does not engage in harsh scrutiny (does not nitpick or fault others over trifles), and does not use external things to complete himself; for what does no good to the world, though he knows he could do it, he does not do it—hence “to make it clear is not as good as keeping it to oneself.” The great aim of learning is that outwardly there is no strife of attack and war, and inwardly desires are few and shallow things are cut away. Learning has large and small, refined and coarse, but the great aim in practice amounts only to this. Shi here means “only.”
Impartial and not partisan, easy and without private ends, decisively without a fixed master, going with things without being of two minds, without anxious calculation or scheming knowledge, with no picking and choosing among things—going along with them all. Among the arts of the Way in antiquity there were those who held to this package: Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao heard their wind and were pleased. They took “equalizing all things” as foremost and said: Heaven can cover but cannot bear up; Earth can bear up but cannot cover; the great Dao can embrace but cannot discriminate; one knows that among the myriad things some may be affirmed and some may not.
This passage comes from the Zhuangzi-related survey of Daoist arts in the “Tianxia” chapter; it treats Zhuangzi’s teaching through self-denial and, on the Shen Dao side, “equalizing things,” “impartial and not partisan,” and the like. The five sheng of rice, Yu Rang, and Li Bai’s poem are all examples drawn from the tradition.
Plain-language interpretation:
The point is that when you do not take sides, when teaching does not leave anyone out, nothing of the Way is left out. So—
Shen Dao cast off cleverness and self-assertion, followed things only because he had no choice, and treated “how things work” as his only rule. He said that “knowing yet not knowing” is thin knowledge that then harms those nearby. He laughed at a world that honors the capable; he treated reckless non-action as if it were above the greatest sages. Push, pat, chop, and hack—turn with whatever comes—drop right and wrong; if you can get by, you act. Do not take wisdom and planning as your guide; do not care about before or after; just drift. Moved when pushed, dragged when pulled—like a gust returning, like a feather spinning, like a stone in a mill-rut—whole and without fault, in motion and rest never overstepping, never guilty. Why? Things without awareness have no trouble from “setting up a self,” no load from useless cleverness; motion and rest never leave the pattern of things, so for a whole life they win no praise. Hence the saying: be like things that do not know—that is enough; there is no need for worthies and sages. A clod does not lose the Way; heroes and men of renown laugh together and say: Shen Dao’s path is not how the living live, but only the logic of the dead—strange in just that way.
Tian Pian was much the same. He studied with Peng Meng and received his “doctrine of non-instruction.” Peng Meng’s teacher said that the ancient followers of the Way simply reached the point where there was neither “this is right” nor “this is wrong”—and stopped there. That spirit was bleak; little could be said of it. Always turning against people, not gathering crowds to watch, yet still not escaping mutilation and cutting off; what they called the Way was not the Way, and what they called correct still could not escape being wrong. Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao did not understand the Way—yet they had all, at some time, heard something of it.
Vernacular Interpretation of Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence)
Some say: to treat heaven and earth as one among the myriad things is to call it “the One,” and then all things are equal; what stands at the head of this is the Way of wuwei (non-action). Heaven can cover but cannot bear; earth can bear but cannot cover—each is partial in its own way.
The Great Dao is the learning of the Daoist school. To know only inclusiveness as oneness and not to argue distinctions and differences—that was one strand of the “disputation” learning of the time. Every school has what it approves and what it rejects; each doctrine leans to one side. If you pick and choose among the myriad things, you can never be thorough; if you teach in that way, you cannot exhaust the ultimate principle. If you return to the Dao, nothing remains to be said. Hence it is said: the Dao leaves nothing out; once you choose, there is what may be affirmed and what may not.
Cast off cleverness and the sense of self, and align with what cannot be avoided—wuwei. Lingtai means a free, open spirit: clear and unbound among things, without obstruction. What they take as principle is that when thing meets thing without barrier, that is the highest truth.
Their doctrine runs thus: if you sharply separate knowing from not-knowing, you are pressed by “knowing” and come close to harming yourself. Bo means pressed or near; xi’ke suggests something crooked and unsettled. Wu ren means not taking things to heart; ren is to take charge. Shang xian means esteeming those who take charge of affairs. Because they do not treat affairs as affairs, they mock those in the world who esteem worthies as followers of “the sage’s learning” who must uphold conduct; because they are loose and without conduct, they treat the world’s sage learning as wrong.
Tui, bai, gui, duan all convey being without sharp corners; turning with things without angles, neither affirming nor denying anything, their aim is to scrape by and escape worldly entanglement, not to take thought and planning as their teacher—they have no deliberation and do not reckon before or behind.
Wei means lofty, still, unmoving. They move only when pushed, go only when dragged, respond only when pressed, rise only when they must. The turning of wind, the whirl of feathers, the groove of a grindstone—all are images of turning with things without intent; sui means to turn, to revolve.
By not being seen as wrong by the world they preserve themselves; in movement and stillness they follow nature and do not go too far, so they do not offend people. Their learning is like this—why? In short: things, if wholly without knowing, have no urgent “this is me,” nor the burden of making room in the heart; movement and stillness all accord, so they never leave the Dao.
To seek validation from others was never necessary in the first place; even if someone went through life without praise, that would not count as fault—hence the claim that he was never guilty. “Things without knowing” (wuzhi zhi wu) means things like wood, stone, and broken tile that have no awareness. “Establishing oneself” (jian yi) means insisting on one’s own views and setting up one’s own doctrine. The Peng Meng (Peng Meng) line held that in human life there is no need to chase the fame of sages and worthies; if one could be as unaware as a clod of earth, one would not stray from the Dao (the Way)—hence “the clod does not lose the Dao.”
Reading this, it sounds like a forest ascetic cultivating in deep mountains and secluded valleys; heroes and outstanding men mocked them as no better than the dead. The Peng Meng line therefore struck the world as strange. “Meeting without teaching” (bu jiao er hui) means that at first they matched one another without going through instruction and could grasp the point on their own. Still, Peng Meng did have a teacher. The teacher said that in antiquity those who had the Dao took non-distinction between right and wrong as their root. “Rustling” (huo ran) describes wind passing fleetingly; their speech was likewise like wind, with no deliberate fixation on anything. Since there was no mind to cling to, what could there be to say when they opened their mouths? Hence: “What need is there to speak?”
Their views always ran counter to the world; they could not join and compare the various doctrines, so one-sided positions formed, and in the end they sought only that words and conduct had no sharp edges. “Bluntly severed” (wan duan) is the look of having no corners. Though their words were forceful in tone, the Dao they spoke was not the true Dao, so they could not escape the world’s blame and ridicule. “Wei” and “great” (wei) are the same in meaning. Zhuangzi asserts that Peng Meng, Tian Pian (Tian Pian), and Shen Dao (Shen Dao) did not understand the Dao; yet taken broadly, they too had heard of the Dao—they simply had not grasped the correct Way. This closing passage shows exactly the characteristic touch of Zhuangzi’s writing.
One ancient line of Daoist teaching held that the “root” (ben) is refined and “things” (wu) are coarse; amassing outer things still feels insufficient, and only in quiet calm does one dwell alone with the spirit (shen). Guan Yin (Guan Yin) and Old Laozi (Laozi) heard this teaching and delighted in it. They took “constant non-being” (chang wu) and “constant being” (chang you) as foundation, and the “Great One” (Taiyi)—the unified root—as their main theme; they made softness and humility their outward bearing, and emptiness that does not harm the myriad things their inner substance.
Guan Yin said: When the mind stores no preconceptions, the forms of outer things appear of themselves; in action one is like water, in stillness like a mirror, in response like an echo. Vague and unsettled, yet pure and clear. When one is the same as the myriad things, harmony follows; when one thinks one has gained something, one loses it instead. He never pressed ahead of others but always followed after them. Old Laozi’s discourse begins from “knowing it.”
Plain-Language Reading
On the Scripture Passage
To know what strength is yet hold to softness and yielding is to become the valley and stream of the world. To know what purity is yet hold to lowliness is to become the ravine of the world. When others rush ahead, you alone are content to follow—that is called bearing the world’s filth. When others seek fullness, you alone seek emptiness—that is called hiding deep and still having surplus. Thus, though hidden deep, there is surplus; he acts at ease without strain; governing through Wuwei (non-action), he laughs at those who rely on petty cleverness. When others chase blessing, you alone bend and yield—that is called barely escaping disaster. Taking depth as root and restraint as thread, it is said: what is hard breaks; what is sharp is blunted. Always able to embrace all things and not harm others—this may be called reaching the utmost. Guan Yin and Laodan—truly the vast, profound perfected persons of antiquity!
On the Commentary (Kouyi)
This is about the root of the Dao. In each thing, taking stored wealth as insufficiency means storing riches for the world. Dwelling with the spirits—this is one who keeps to the way of nature. Guan Yin studied under Laodan; to say “first the younger brother, then the teacher” is merely a slip of the pen in haste.
Taking “no-thing” as the ancestor and the beginning of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) as the master—“establish” here also means “to take as master.” Soft yielding and humility is the meaning of the tongue’s softness and long life. “As outward appearance” refers to how he meets the world and shows himself outwardly.
When empty, every thing is complete—hence taking emptiness that does not destroy things as the real. “Real” means the real principle. Yuexuan’s “when one thing is absent, the ten thousand things are whole” is exactly this.
“In oneself, no dwelling”—no private grasping; “forms and things show themselves”—following each thing’s form as it appears; both are natural. Water’s flow, the mirror’s reflection, the empty valley’s echo—all are acting without mind.
“Hazy as if lost”—in vagueness, as if there were something and yet nothing. “Silent and pure”—the name of purity is not seen. “Taking sameness with things as harmony, taking having nothing as gain”—once there is gain, there is loss.
“Never going before others, always following”—acting only when pressed, rising only when there is no choice. “Knowing the male, keeping the female”—hiding capacity within incapacity. “Knowing the white, keeping disgrace”—being high without making a show of height.
Valleys and streams lie below and can hold things; to be stream and valley is the sense that capacity makes greatness. “Others all take the lead; I alone take the rear”—never going before others, always following. “Receiving the world’s filth”—knowing the white, keeping disgrace. “Not taking the full as empty, taking the empty as full”—therefore it is said…
Everyone seeks fullness, yet I alone take emptiness and non-being as my substance. What is meant by “having no store” is not that one truly has no reserves, but that one does not treat reserves as something lacking—precisely because one takes the empty as real, though without storing, one seems always to have surplus; this is also the sense of “with one thing absent, all things are complete.”
To dwell in ease (anran zizu) costs nothing and loses nothing. Everyone takes craftiness as cleverness, but I take non-action (wuwei) as cleverness, and so am laughed at; everyone takes blessing as fortune, but I take freedom from calamity as fortune. “Qu quan” means bending to preserve oneself whole; “gou mian yu jiu” means barely escaping blame—and the greatest fortune is none other than having no disaster.
“Taking depth as root” means the root lies in the primordial Great Unity; “taking restraint as rule” means guarding the body through utmost simplicity and restraint. Ji here means standard or method. Whatever is hard and sharp gets broken and ruined—this is what is meant by “when teeth are rigid, they break.” Taking the capacity to embrace all things as one’s measure, others do not pare away at one. “Not pared by others” means preserving one’s life alone intact. “May be called utmost” means this is the utmost Way under heaven. “Called the vast and great True Person” is a title of respect.
Lonely and formless, changing without fixed pattern, death and life together with heaven and earth, going with the spirits—still and without shape, shifting without constancy, life and death on a par with heaven and earth, traveling with the divine.
Where does one go with the dim haze? Where does one hasten in a flash?—whither with obscurity, thither in suddenness?
All things are gathered in the net, yet none suffices as a home—the myriad things are all encompassed, yet not one can serve as ultimate refuge.
Among the arts of the Way in antiquity, there was this lineage; Zhuang Zhou heard its wind and was delighted—in ancient Daoist teaching there was this current; Zhuangzi (Zhuang Zhou) caught its breath and rejoiced.
With far-fetched discourse, extravagant words, and boundless phrasing, he often gave free rein without stiffness, and did not show himself in angular ways—using remote sayings, outrageous language, and limitless expression, at times unrestrained yet not flippant, not displaying himself through one-sided sharpness.
He regarded the world as sunken and turbid, unfit for grave talk—seeing all under heaven as mired and murky, not someone with whom to speak in earnest.
He used goblet-words to spread and unfold, weighty words for truth, and allegories for breadth—employing “goblet language” (zhiyan) for expansive unfolding, repeated solemn utterance for what is genuine, and instructive fables (yuyan) for wide reach.
Alone he communed with the spirit of heaven and earth, neither condescending to the myriad things nor harshly judging right and wrong, thus dwelling with the vulgar world—in solitary exchange with the animating spirit of cosmos, neither looking down on things nor condemning this and that, and so living among common society.
Though his book is ornate and sinuous, it does no harm; though his style is uneven and strange, it is worth viewing—the writing may be splendid and twisting, yet without injury; the diction may be irregular and uncanny, yet still admirable.
His fullness cannot be exhausted—the inner plenitude of his thought has no end.
Above, he wandered with the Maker of things; below, he befriended those who transcend outer death and life and know neither beginning nor end—on high, companion to the Creator; below, friend to those outside life-and-death who have no start or finish.
In regard to the root, he was vast and opening, deep and expansive; in regard to the ultimate, he may be said to have harmonized and ascended—on fundamental reality, grand and revelatory, profound and free; on the central aim, aptly attuned and upwardly penetrating.
Even so, in responding to transformation and releasing things, his principle never runs dry, and what he brings forth does not slough off—yet in meeting change and unraveling the world of objects, reason is inexhaustible and what arrives does not shed its source.
Dim and obscure—what is not yet exhausted—hazy and indistinct: what remains unspoken to the end.
Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Oral Interpretation of theNanhua True Scripture) — Plain-Language Reading
Scripture Text
Silent and empty, without fixed form or concrete things; change has no fixed pattern, taking “not-one” as “one.”
(Silent and empty, with no fixed shape or particular things; change has no set rule, treating “not-one” as “one.”)
Death and life mingle; one cannot tell death from life.
(Life and death are mixed together, so people cannot distinguish life from death.)
From this one line alone, you can see that the learning of the Shakya (Buddhist) tradition has been around for a long time.
(From this single sentence you can tell that Buddhist teaching actually existed long ago.)
Coexisting with Heaven and Earth, sharing one body with Heaven and Earth; going and coming with spirit and clarity, moving in the same current as creation and transformation.
(Existing together with Heaven and Earth, one body with Heaven and Earth; interacting with the divine and bright, sharing the same operation as zaohua [creation and transformation].)
Where to go, where to arrive—movement yet no trace.
(Where to go, where to reach—acting yet leaving no track.)
All things are fully arrayed; each exhausts the principle of all things.
(The myriad things are all set out; each fully realizes the reason of things.)
Nothing suffices as final refuge; people cannot say where they ultimately belong.
(Nothing is enough to serve as a home; people cannot say where they finally return.)
Remote, empty, and far-reaching; vast, extravagant, and without limit.
(The discourse is vague and distant, grand and unbounded.)
Without edges or banks; without head or tail.
(No boundary; no beginning and no end.)
At times free and unrestrained yet not partisan—the teaching is expansive and not tied to one faction.
(Sometimes unrestrained yet not partial; his teaching is open and not committed to one school.)
“Unrestrained” here means partisan.
(“Unrestrained” [tang] means taking sides.)
Not seeing through a one-sided angle—what is seen does not cling to one corner.
(Not viewing from a skewed standpoint; the view does not fix on one side.)
“Skewed” (qi) means eccentric and one-sided.
(“Qi” means biased and odd.)
Because the people of the world are foolish and sunk in turbidity, they cannot be instructed with plain honest speech; hence he uses solemn language to speak of what is real.
(The world’s people are dull and mired in murkiness, so they cannot be enlightened with straightforward words; therefore he uses dignified speech to talk about what is true.)
Endlessly unfolding—for what is “true,” he leans on the ancients, wanting people to take it as real.
(Expanding without end: when speaking of “truth,” he borrows weight from the past, so people will treat it as genuine.)
For what is “broad,” he lodges meaning in allegory—vast and not cramped.
(For what is “broad,” he puts it in yuyan [allegory], free and not constrained.)
Coming and going with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, taking creation and nature as friends.
(Moving with the spirit of Heaven and Earth, befriending zaohua and ziran [nature].)
“Not looking down on the myriad things” means not using this teaching to look down on the world.
(“Not despising the ten thousand things” means not using this doctrine to despise people of the age.)
Zhuangzi’s real intent is precisely to look down on this world—yet he deliberately says the opposite.
(Zhuangzi’s mind is exactly to be lofty above the present age, but he says the reverse on purpose.)
“Not condemning right and wrong” means not getting stuck in right and wrong.
(“Not blaming right and wrong” is not freezing right and wrong.)
Only when there is no fixed right and wrong can one live among ordinary people.
(Only without fixed right and wrong can one dwell with the mundane world.)
Ornate, lofty, and strong—“lianquan” is the sense of blending and harmonizing, not harming or mocking people.
(Lush and grand, “lianquan” is unity and fusion, without injury or ridicule toward others.)
Uneven—sometimes this, sometimes that, sometimes suppressed, sometimes raised—nothing is fixed.
(Uneven: now this, now that, now lowered, now raised—nothing is settled.)
Startling, grotesque, and jesting—all mean strange and uncanny.
(“Zhuogui” and “huaji” are all bizarre and fantastic.)
These two lines themselves expose the aim of his writing.
(These two sentences themselves break open the purpose of the book.)
In short: though his words are odd, they can still be savored; once you see through these two “break” lines, you can read Zhuangzi.
(That is: though his language is wild, it is still worth tasting; understand these two lines of “breaking,” and you can read Zhuangzi.)
“That fullness which cannot stop” means his book is packed with principle throughout—it is also a book the world cannot do without.
(“That repletion that cannot cease” means reason fills the work—it is also a book indispensable in the world.)
“Root” is the same as “main theme”: the root of the book is nothing but a great, deep, harmonizing Way.
(“Ben” is “zong” [main aim]: the book’s foundation is none other than a vast, profound, adjusting Dao.)
“Pi” is to open wide; “si” is to let go freely.
(“Pi” is expansive opening; “si” is free release.)
“Shang sui” means one can ascend to the principle of Heaven.
(“Shang sui” is reaching upward to Heaven’s principle.)
Though his words are all wuwei [non-action] and ziran [spontaneity], applied in the world they respond to teaching and transform and release people.
(His speech is all wuwei and natural, yet used in the world it answers to jiaohua [teaching and transformation] and liberates.)
Note: This is the Song-dynasty scholar Lin Xiyi’s “kouyi” (oral, lecture-style commentary) on Zhuangzi’s style and intent. Terms such as “reverse speech,” “breaking,” and the like point to Zhuangzi’s surface wildness versus inner disdain for the age, and to his method of “borrowing the ancients” and “allegory” in writing. Specialized terms such as Shakya (Buddhism), aoni, qi, huanwei, lianquan, and others are glossed in the text or parentheses as in the commentary tradition.
Explaining Physical Principles (evaluating whether various schools’ doctrines accord with the nature of things): This concerns whether a teaching can transform society and clarify principle. Its principle is inexhaustible—meaning such learning has no limit in application. Not shedding (“蛇” should read as “蜕,” to slough off): their discourse proceeds from the Dao and does not depart from it. Obscure and dim—describing how profound and remote that book is. What is not fully expressed—what is gained in the heart cannot be fully put into words.
From the opening of the chapter downward, the five schools are appraised in turn, while the author’s own teaching is placed last, immediately after Laozi, clearly showing that it derives from Laozi. The first three sections each begin with “although,” delivering firm judgments of each school’s right and wrong; only the passage on Laozi does not. Here “although” appears again, indicating that this teaching is not useless in the world—this is where the prose turns; the brushwork is at its strongest and must be read closely.
Hui Shi had many methods; his books filled five cartloads; his path was confused and contradictory, and his words did not hit the mark.
Hui Shi (a leading figure of the School of Names) had a miscellaneous profusion of doctrines; his writings were so voluminous they would fill five cartloads; yet the course he followed was tangled and inconsistent, and his statements were not to the point.
The gist of his “investigating things” runs thus: A survey of what he said about “things” is roughly as follows:
- The greatest has nothing outside it—call it the Great One; the smallest has nothing inside it—call it the Small One.
“Greatest with nothing outside” means the great void, the infinitely large; “smallest with nothing inside” means something as minute as an autumn down. These eight characters are close to Zhuangzi’s wording, but he renamed them “Great One” and “Small One,” and the edge of disputation appeared: if they are called “one,” they should not be split into large and small; to divide large and small within the one is to make “sameness within difference, difference within sameness.”
- Without thickness, it cannot be piled up; piled up, it reaches a thousand li.
Utmost thinness has no thickness and cannot be stacked; yet if stacked without end, it can extend to a thousand li.
- Heaven and earth are low; mountains and marshes are level.
(From a certain relative standpoint) heaven and earth are equally low and flat; mountains and marshes are equally level.
- The sun is at the center the moment it is at the center and already declining; a thing is dying the moment it is born.
The sun has barely reached noon when it already turns west; a thing is already heading toward death the moment it is born.
- The great same and the small same also differ—this is called small sameness-and-difference; all things are wholly same and wholly different—this is called great sameness-and-difference.
The large “same” and the small “same” also differ—this is “small sameness-and-difference”; all things are completely identical and completely distinct—this is “great sameness-and-difference.”
Background note: Mozi, Song and Yin, Peng Meng, Tian Pian, and Shen Dao still partially touched the Dao but did not fully attain it; Hui Shi leaned toward disputation, so he is not counted among those who “heard the Dao” and is discussed separately at the end of the chapter.
Five cartloads—enough writing to load five carts: although his books were many, his learning was not upright and his words were inappropriate, hence the criticism “confused and contradictory” and “did not hit the mark.” The gist of investigating things—item-by-item sorting of his various remarks about “things.”
On “Sameness” and Great and Small
To speak of “sameness” means that even a distance of a thousand li is built up layer by layer from countless “thicknessless” points (points without thickness). Though heaven is high and earth is low, weather sometimes sinks downward, and then heaven too seems low—so heaven and earth can appear equally low. Mountains rise above marshes, yet vapor from the marshes can rise onto the mountains; mountain and marsh are level in terms of qi.
“Ni” (a sidelong or oblique look): at high noon the sun is not in the middle if you view it from the side; what we call “dead center” can also be called “off to the side.” Hence “square in the center yet also squarely askance.” When things first sprout, the seed already existed—hence “just born yet also just dying.” Having large and small is “minor sameness and difference.” Taking all things together and viewing sameness and difference is “major sameness and difference.” Though we speak of “large,” it still does not go beyond accumulation of small parts; though we speak of “small,” gathered together it can become large—thus one reaches “no sameness and no difference.”
Hui Shi’s Disputations
The south is sea, originally without limit; if you forcibly mark it off as a “region,” it must have boundaries—the four directions are all like this. Here only the south is mentioned, not as a single example for illustration, but because three points appear: heaven tilts toward the northwest, and the sea lies apart from north and south, still farther—hence it is singled out.
“Today I set out for Yue yet I came yesterday”: the foot has not yet stepped on Yue soil, but one already knows the name “state of Yue”; when one looks back later, the day of setting out can also be called “came yesterday.” Two rings interlock; each ring is a circle in itself and cannot be glued into one body—without sticking together they are not true interlocking rings, so interlocking rings can be undone.
Yan is in the north and Yue in the south; neither is the center of the world, yet people of Yan take Yan as center and people of Yue take Yue as center. When heaven and earth were first divided, each side did not yet know the other, and each took the middle of its own land as the middle of heaven and earth. The myriad things and heaven and earth are originally one body; though heaven and earth are vast, they too are only one among the myriad things—why insist on large and small? This is the one body.
“Grand view” (daguan) means Hui Shi held that his own doctrine alone towered over the world; he used this kind of talk to instruct those who loved disputation, and debaters throughout the world were glad to follow his arguments.
Because the earlier arguments had grown ever broader, there followed this chain of paradoxes from “eggs have hair” onward.
Eggs have hair: Hair grows inside the egg; though you cannot see it for a time, a sparrow is a sparrow and a chicken is a chicken, and their feathers differ. It is as if a hen were set to hatch a duck’s eggs: what emerges is a duck, with duck down rather than chicken feathers—in that sense one may say the egg already “has hair.”
A chicken has three feet: A chicken naturally has two feet, but one foot is always moving, “operating” and stepping; count that foot too and you get “three feet.”
Ying possesses the realm: The capital of Chu was at Ying; its king styled himself king, so in name one could say he “held the realm”—on the level of naming, that can be set beside truly unifying the world.
A dog may be called a sheep: What dogs and sheep are called is fixed by people, not by the things themselves. Suppose at the very beginning of things people had named dogs “sheep”—later generations would call them sheep too; name sheep “dogs,” and people would call them dogs.
Horses lay eggs: Horses bear live young, unlike egg-layers, yet “womb-birth” and “egg-birth” are human distinctions; if one stubbornly called womb-birth “egg,” one could—and that is the same line of thought as swapping the names of dog and sheep.
The dingzi has a tail: Dingzi is what Chu people called the toad or frog. The adult frog has no tail, but it was once a tadpole, and tadpoles have tails—so one may also say the dingzi “has a tail.”
Fire is not hot: Cold, heat, and warmth are human sensation and naming; besides, there are legendary creatures and stuffs tied to fire, such as fire-rats and fire-washed cloth.
The mountain has an exit: What “walks through” the mountain are creatures like the mole cricket (said in lore to bore through hills)—not the mountain moving by itself.
The wheel does not tread the ground: The wheel cuts forward like a blade’s edge; it is not that the whole wheel sinks into the earth.
The eye does not see: The eye’s job is to look; it is not responsible for the result called “seeing” (treating “seeing” as something else again).
Pointing does not reach; reaching never ends: When the finger points somewhere, the act of pointing never “arrives” at the target; yet if you truly speak of arrival, you cannot finish (as with endless subdivision).
The tortoise is longer than the snake: The tortoise’s shell is “longer” than the snake’s body—in one way of measuring, that can be said.
The square is not square; the compass cannot draw a circle: The carpenter’s square and compass are tools for drawing square and circle; they are not themselves “being” square or “being” round.
The mortise does not embrace the tenon: Mortise and tenon are meant to fit together; from another angle one can also turn it into a paradox: “the mortise does not wrap around the tenon.”
The shadow of a flying bird has never moved: At one instant the bird’s shadow can be treated as unmoved (of the same family as “the flying arrow is at rest”).
An arrow’s swift flight still has moments when it is neither moving nor not moving: However fast the shaft flies, there is a debating point that it is “both not moving and not stopping” (the paradox of motion and rest).
A dog is not a hound: The words “dog” and “hound” differ; on the level of names one can stiffly argue “a dog is not a hound.”
Yellow horse, dark horse, three whites: Yellow horse and dark horse—if one argues only the attribute “white,” one can split the dispute into three “whites” (the School of Names’ game of splitting color and attribute).
The dog is black: In the same family as “a white horse is not a horse”—quibbling over name and color.
The orphaned colt never had a mother: An orphaned foal never had the aspect of “being a mother,” so one says it “never had a mother.”
A one-foot stick: take half each day, and it will never be exhausted in ten thousand generations: The famous paradox of infinite divisibility.
Debaters traded such propositions back and forth with Huizi and could argue for a lifetime without end. Figures like Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long could adorn people’s minds and shift their intent, winning battles of words yet never winning people’s hearts—that is the trap of the debater.
Huizi daily wielded his cleverness in debate and specialized in strange contests with debaters everywhere; that was his foundation. He even took himself for the greatest speaker under heaven, saying, “Are heaven and earth not magnificent? Yet I, Shi Cunxiong, have no real craft (shu)”—an immense swagger, but lacking practical technique.
A rat can dart in and out of fire, and fire can be used to wash cloth—if that were really so, fire would hardly deserve to be called something that “burns people.”
An empty valley carries sound: you shout once and an answer comes back. That hardly means the mountain has grown a mouth.
A wheel is a wheel because it rolls on the ground; yet in the very instant it meets the ground, you can also say it is not turning—so some will insist that “the wheel does not press the earth,” as if they had seen it themselves. A finger can point, but the eye cannot point; a finger cannot “see.” So what we call “reaching” cannot be split cleanly between eye and finger.
A turtle is longer than a snake: if you made a turtle as long as a snake, you ought not still to call it a turtle. Once it is called a turtle, its length should stop at what a turtle’s length ought to be; saying it is “longer than a snake” is only a relative remark.
A carpenter’s square is what we mean by “square,” and a compass is what we mean by “round.” Once something is named a square, you cannot go on positing another “square” beside it; once something is named a compass, you cannot go on positing another “round” beside it.
A tenon turns inside a mortise, and the mortise cannot hold it still—you may call that “not round,” or you may call it “round yet unable to stay put.”
When a bird flies, its shadow goes where the bird goes; you can only say “the bird is flying,” not that “the shadow is moving.”
An arrowhead flies swiftly once it is loosed; while it is still on the string you may say it “rests”; when it strikes the target you may say it “moves.” Between leaving the string and reaching or missing the target lies the moment that is neither moving nor resting.
“Dog” and “hound” are one and the same thing: if you call it a dog you cannot also call it a hound, and if you call it a hound you cannot also call it a dog—hence the claim that “a dog is not a hound.”
Horse and ox are two bodies; “yellow” and “black” are colors of fur. Put two bodies together with one color and you get “three.” Yellow and black are two color-names, horse and ox are two bodies; color appears on a body, and counted together they make “three.”
Names like “white dog, black,” “white,” and “black”—if they were not fixed from the very beginning of things, then in forced argument one can also make “white is black” seem to hold.
An orphan colt never had a mother; to be called “orphan” already means without mother—you cannot both call it orphan and say it “once had a mother.”
A pestle one foot long, broken into two pieces: use this half-foot today and that half-foot tomorrow—even if use cycles on for ten thousand ages, it is never used up. In a debater’s mouth, even that can pass for coherent talk.
Most of the above follows the line of Hui Shi: stretching his doctrines and answering him point for point, arguing without end for a lifetime—people like Huan Tuan and Gongsun Long are of that sort.
To “adorn” the heart is in truth to blind the heart; to “alter” someone’s intent is in truth to confuse that intent. To win a moment’s victory in tongue-fighting—the mouth may be sharp, yet…
One may outwardly yield, yet the other person never truly accepts defeat in heart—this is the snare of disputation; the debater is sunk in it without knowing.
Hence it is said: trapped within Hui Shi’s way. The meaning is that Hui Shi daily wielded his own wit in debate with others, believing himself the sharper. He leaned on cleverness and insisted on arguing to the end.
“Te” (特) means “alone.” He went his own way with a few disciples and was treated by others as an oddity. His ability amounted to no more than that. Hence “this is his root” (此其祇也)—“zhi” (祇) means root or foundation. He trusted in eloquence, took himself for mighty, and imagined he stood with heaven and earth; in truth he had no real learning.
In the south there was a man who stood apart, named Huang Liao. He asked Hui Shi: Why do heaven and earth not fall or collapse? What are wind, rain, thunder, and lightning? Hui Shi did not decline to answer; he replied without pausing to think. He offered explanations for the ten thousand things everywhere, talking without end, yet still feeling he had said too little, and heaped on yet stranger doctrines. He made a virtue of being contrary and novel, and a name of winning with words—so he harmonized with no one.
Inwardly his character was thin; outwardly he pressed hard on things in debate. The path he walked was dark and hard to see.
Seen from the Way of heaven and earth, Hui Shi’s small talent was no more useful to the ten thousand things than the futile hum of a gnat in flight.
“To fill out one point is barely acceptable” (充一尚可)—one might reluctantly grant that much; “the more he prized it, the further he was from the Dao” (愈贵道几矣)—yet he remained far from the true Dao.
Hui Shi could not use any of this to settle himself. He scattered himself among the ten thousand things and never knew contentment, and in the end became famous for skill in debate. Alas—Hui Shi’s talent ran wild without finding a home; he chased the ten thousand things and did not turn back. This is the pitiable end of exhausting oneself on sound and racing one’s shadow.
If this path is not understood clearly and pursued in an upright way, it becomes narrow and secluded instead. Measured against the upright Way of Heaven and Earth, Huizi’s abilities are as insignificant as a gnat or mosquito. What use is such skill for establishing oneself among people? So why insist on being “self-sufficient”? If one person clings stubbornly to his own view and thinks he has enough, that can still be tolerated; but if he uses that stance to overpower those who honor the great Dao, the danger is real—the more he strives to win, the closer he comes to ruin. Inability to rest in oneself is failure to keep one’s proper place. “Scattering oneself amid the myriad things” means letting the mind roam through everything, always hunting for reasons to fit one’s own claims, never satisfied, and in the end still not understanding the Dao—relying on winning debates for fame until the story simply ends there. Huizi was talented, but he indulged himself without finding a home, chased outer things without turning back—a real pity. Tai means to let oneself go unrestrained.
Echo arises from sound: sound is the root, echo is the tip; to spin only in echoes without knowing the root. Shadow arises from form: form is the root, shadow is the tip; to try to stop the shadow without seeing that when form stops the shadow stops by itself, and instead to run along with form, is likewise a metaphor for not knowing the root.
This chapter closes the inner chapters of the Zhuangzi, yet it ends with Huizi. Though he does not belong among those who heard the Way in advance, a debater’s words often “make something out of nothing,” and his language has its own style—hence his place at the end of the “Authentic” (Zhen) chapters. The book as a whole is not like ordinary composition; it has its own form: openings and closings show the author’s intent, as when the Spring and Autumn Annals ends with the capture of the qilin, or when the Doctrine of the Mean says of Heaven’s bearing, “It has no sound or smell.” Inner chapters such as piercing the seven openings of Hundun follow the same pattern—this must not be overlooked. Commentaries on the classics that stress literary form sometimes miss the meaning; those skilled in meaning often slight the words. Only Master Ai Xuan combined lofty understanding with exceptional prose, so his readings of the Six Classics could stand apart through the ages. Regrettably, after Wangshan and Lexuan his learning was not transmitted, and few today know him.
Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi, fascicle 32 (end)
Postface to the Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (section title)
The Nanhua (Zhuangzi) is a singular work in any age. Those who revere it sometimes drift into empty refinement; those who mock it sometimes doubt its strangeness. Though the brilliance of the writing is beyond question, if the full postface and main text are needed in plain language, paste the specific passages and they can be rendered separately.
This is the preface to Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nan Hua Zhen Jing Kou Yi), not the main scripture text. The author Lin Xiyi explains how he read Zhuangzi together with his friend “Zhuxi” (Bamboo Brook), and later obtained Zhuxi’s oral commentary and wrote this preface for it. The plain-language reading is as follows:
Scripture: Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Preface (plain-language reading)
Burying meaning in glosses and notes until the original intent is obscured has long been a major flaw in scholarly writing. In my youth I served Master Yuexuan (Happy Studio) Chen and heard his scattered lectures; I came to love Zhuangzi, but I could not yet thread every chapter and line into one whole. Later I studied with Zhuxi; we often read it together, and I was glad to see his clear analyses—yet the text’s separations and reunions shift without fixed pattern, and much of what we heard did not fully register; all the same, my fondness only deepened. After passing the civil examination and returning south, I had long leisure at home and could devote effort to the classics. The more I read this book, the more I liked it—and the more puzzled I became. It is hard to penetrate for three reasons: first, many word meanings differ from those in familiar texts; second, some arguments run against the core teachings of the ancient sages; third, the deeper aim is hard to pursue—like grasping at an elephant in empty air or wrestling a flood dragon bare-handed. Where it all converges is also hard to fix—like tracing the three rivers without knowing their branches, or following the nine streams upstream and losing the old course. So whenever I opened the scroll, I never failed to leap with joy—and never failed to feel dazed with doubt.
In the wuwu year I visited Zhuxi by the brook and spoke of this book. Zhuxi suddenly said to me: I once wished to wash clean for the Old Immortal of Southern Florescence (Zhuangzi) the shabbiness of Guo Xiang and Xiang Xiu’s commentaries, but I was dragged about for a living and had no days to shut my door and write. Since retreating under hardship, I have eased old age by composing this work—and now, happily, the book is finished. I rejoiced and asked him for a copy; home again I read it in haste. I saw how he sorted branch from branch and cut joint from joint, so no chapter held an empty sentence and no sentence held an empty word; opening and closing east and west, changing without end, seeming boundless—yet every word and every line had its landing place. It was like waking from drunkenness or loosening bonds. Then I knew this book stands as its own school and cannot be chained to the literal surface; though the mind roams the remote and subtle, it does not cut loose from human affairs; it is not that the sages are unknown as worthy of honor, but that to drift with the crowd is shameful; it is not that guile is unknown as fault, but that resisting vulgar habit is the main point. Present readers and past readers alike—though belief and recitation differ—are mostly only peeking over the fence, not entering the inner meaning.
Later I took a trial post as county magistrate. Though registers piled up and the day’s strength was tight, each dawn before clerks assembled I would light a lamp and chant through the text—sometimes one full chapter, sometimes a whole scroll—waving hands and stamping feet as if meeting the man himself. So I wrote in the preface: The aim of Southern Florescence…
Notes:
- Nan Hua Zhen Jing: The Zhuangzi.
- Kou yi: A book of oral explanation, line-by-line interpretation.
- Guo Xiang and Xiang Xiu: The Wei–Jin commentary tradition on the Zhuangzi, criticized here as “shabby.”
- Zhuxi: Lin Xiyi’s friend, author of the Kou Yi.
- Master Yuexuan Chen: Lin Xiyi’s early teacher.
This book is indispensable in our age; Mr. Zhuxi’s Kouyi commentary is likewise indispensable for the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi).
Mr. Zhuxi’s learning came from Lexuan; Lexuan from Wangshan; Wangshan from Lao Ai—a single line passed through three generations, with no sideline transmission. Having mastered his teacher’s learning in full, Zhuxi also read widely beyond the Six Classics, the masters, and histories, taking in Buddhist and Daoist works as well. Thus he could probe Zhuangzi’s hidden depths and exhaust every ingenious reading of his text. Had Zhuangzi still been able to speak, he would surely have recognized Zhuxi as a kindred spirit. From now on, readers of this book may be without regret.
Though our district is small, out of deep love for this work and a wish to spread it widely, we slightly abridged the original text and the commentary and compiled them into a book—and were fortunate to succeed. I therefore record the origin of this devotion, what was gained, and the joy of it, as above.
Mr. Lin of Zhuxi, named Xiyi, styled Sugong, once served as a literary official; he now holds the title of Baomo Direct and oversees the Yuju Guan (Jade Bureau Abbey). “Yanzhai” was the name of his study. His prose very much resembles Zhuangzi’s. This book is titled Kouyi because he did not write in the florid conventions of fashionable letters but stated the meaning directly.
On the Zhonghe festival in the first year of the Jingding reign (1260), Instructor Lin Jingde, Magistrate of Jianning County in Shaowu Prefecture, wrote this preface.
Zhuangzi is bold, vast, and unrestrained: his spirit ranges above the myriad things, his mind roams beyond the cosmos—such supreme joy; the ancients had no one like him. His language is oceanic and ever-changing, towering over sun and moon, cutting through clouds and rivers, subtle and flowing like scaled splendor and feathered brilliance, blazing across heaven and the distant sea. To the left it is dense without clutter; to the right it is vigorous without excess—again, a towering presence in the realm of letters within the universe.
Yan Weng wrote this commentary as if the great rivers and seas were soaking in, as if rich moisture were permeating: following its mood he ponders its “dark birds” (the dream of the butterfly and other parables), dreaming its dream and waking to its waking—so he can speak its words and point to its meaning; voice and expression seem to enact it in person, and the reader feels as if Zhuangzi were before them. Could that ever be achieved by luck, clever tricks, or strained effort?
Yan Weng’s learning is refined and his insight supreme; his sources run deep and his practice is mature. In the realm where insight breaks through and in the place of friction and polish, when lofty and open none can disturb him, when still and deep clarity rises upward. I see Yan Weng standing firm in his charge, body and function filling the space between heaven and earth, ample, bright, and grand—enough to assert himself, like the kun and peng; yet he also sinks deep into this book—if so, who but Yan Weng could fully unfold these words?
What a rare thing! Today Xian Weng (Lin Xiyi) has composed this work, standing apart in raising Zhuangzi from mere “dead bones” and unlocking a treasure sealed for a thousand years. Xian Weng himself is a heroic scholar in an unbroken line, bold and magnanimous. When I first obtained this book and finished reading it, I recorded this extraordinary encounter at the end of the scroll for my descendants; I dare not claim that I truly comprehend Xian Weng’s book. In the eleventh month of the year Jingding xinyou, Xu Lin, styled Jingshuo, postscript from Sanqu.
Modern interpretation of the second postscript (on Zhuangzi and the Xizhai commentary)
The Old Immortal of Qiyuan (Zhuangzi) wrote this book with insight into the Dao that runs deep and indignation at the world that runs just as deep. His reclusive, free-spirited life was enough to carry his teaching forward, and his writing was strange and towering enough to unfold it. Where the text turns obscure and boundless, hard to exhaust, or stirs and transforms beyond measure, one may largely trust what his eye reached and his brush could hold—and still find passages that go too far, almost to absurdity. Was that ever his original aim, to hand down a teaching for the ages? Or to exalt Laozi and diminish Confucian learning? Alas, readers do not look closely: if they do not take emptiness (xu) as the root, they treat him as heterodox. Words meant to leave the world behind also startle the world; again and again, before a sentence is parsed or a character’s sense is clear, they dismiss the text with talk of doubtful readings, missing words, or lost sections—as if that were how one could truly receive him from the past.
Master Xizhai, Lin Gong of the Jade Hall (Lin Xiyi), received the Way of the sages from Lexuan. Lexuan regarded the Master of Qiyuan as later generations regarded Yang Xiong (Ziyun); Xizhai toward Lexuan was like Hou Ba, Yang Xiong’s disciple, toward the Taixuan. On that basis he composed chapters, divided sections, analyzed sentences, and clarified characters, so that no chapter lacked explication, no sentence lacked explanation, no character lacked gloss. What had been empty became solid, what had seemed alien became one, what had been doubtful became trustworthy, what had been missing became whole—after a thousand years, the Nanhuajing at last became a complete book under heaven. Not only would the Old Immortal leap for joy above the ninety-thousand-li height; Lexuan too would surely look before and behind and dance with hands and feet. Some say: to add exegetical scholarship to a book of nature and life (xingming)—like what Master Zhu called gathering the great synthesis, from the Yi through lyric poetry, with commentary everywhere—yet to leave Zhuangzi’s book alone, would that not be unacceptable? (The postscript closes here, meaning to praise Xizhai for filling that gap.)
Notes:
- Xian Weng / Xizhai: Lin Xiyi of the Southern Song, styled Xizhai, author of Nanhuazhenjing Kouyi.
- Lexuan: Chen Zao, Lin Xiyi’s teacher.
- Old Immortal of Qiyuan: Zhuangzi (who once served as clerk in Qiyuan).
- Ziyun, Hou Ba, Taixuan: Yang Xiong wrote the Taixuan; Hou Ba transmitted that learning—the postscript uses this to parallel the line Zhuangzi–Lexuan–Xizhai and their commentary tradition.
- Jingding xinyou: the second year of Emperor Lizong’s Jingding reign (1261).
How fine! Someone said in approval: In the highest reach, one can take as model the classical exemplars of Yao and Si; in the lower stretch, one can thread together the literary splendor and subtle principle found in Zhuangzi and the Lisao—does that not sound exactly like something Han Yu would say? They also said: The understanding of people in the Jin and Song periods was still not enough to get to the real depths of Zhuangzi and Laozi—does that not again sound like something Zhu Xi would say?
If not, must we suppose that earlier generations still had something they had not fully said? Or that only when conditions later were ripe could it be put as it is now?
Yan Zhai’s attainments should be no less than Zhu Xi’s. Tong feared that students would forget how hard the ancients worked at inquiry and would only chase the ease of reading interpretations today, until in time they slighted the true meaning of Zhuangzi and Laozi; that is why these words are set down once more with such weight.
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