《南華真經口義》Vol. 4

A Colloquial Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, Volume Four, “The Master Who Nourishes Life” (excerpt): A Plain-Language Interpretation

Lin Xiyi of Yanzhai (a Daoist of the Southern Song, also known as Yanzhai, who wrote a colloquial commentary on the Zhuangzi)

Introduction to the Inner Chapter “The Master Who Nourishes Life”

“Master” is like the Chan Buddhist expression “the true master”—the master of one’s mind and nature, the true self. Caring for this “master” is the central purpose of “nourishing life” in this chapter, understood through Daoist principles.

The earlier chapters, “Wandering Far and Free” and “Discussion on Making All Things Equal,” speak of the joy of freedom and of there being neither right nor wrong. Here, at last, is where one must do the work for oneself. The first three chapters seem to follow a sequence, but the later chapters do not adhere fully to that order.

Classic passage: “My life has a limit, but knowledge has none…”

General meaning of the original:

My life has its bounds, while knowledge has none. To pursue limitless knowledge with a bounded life is perilous! And already in this perilous situation, to show off one’s “knowledge” and insist on playing the clever person is more perilous still!

Colloquial commentary:

“Bounds” means limits and borders. Each person’s life has an end; this is what it means to say life is finite.

“Knowledge” refers to thoughts and mental activity, which have no end. To use a finite body to chase endless thoughts is to be caught up in confusion and turmoil. When will it ever stop? “Perilous indeed!” Here, “indeed” is a particle that adds emphasis.

The several instances of “indeed” that follow all echo this first one, just as the word is used in “Discussion on Making All Things Equal.”

When a person is already in danger yet keeps calculating and scheming, believing they are wise and capable, I think they will still end in peril. The text uses “peril” again to drive home the warning to later generations; its intent is profound.

The “peril” here is the same kind of danger as the “danger” in the Book of Documents, where it says, “Only danger lies ahead.” “And yet, to make a show of knowing” is like the common saying: someone who is already clever still deliberately puts on an act, deliberately schemes, and insists on being called a “knower.”

Classic passage: “Do good without seeking fame; do evil without approaching punishment…”

General meaning of the original:

Do good without seeking fame; do evil without bringing punishment near. Take following the Du as your constant rule, and you can preserve your body, complete your life, care for your parents, and live out your allotted years.

Colloquial commentary:

These lines express Zhuangzi’s teaching on nourishing life, and they also describe a way of living that he himself found useful.

“To do good without seeking fame” means that even if you wish to do good, there is no deed that will immediately win you a good name.

“To do evil without approaching punishment” means that even if you wish to do evil, there is no particular act that will immediately bring down punishment.

This is the same idea found in the “Pien Mu” chapter: those above should not dare to parade their benevolence and righteousness, and those below should not dare to indulge in licentious or depraved conduct.

“Du” means pressing or drawing near; here it refers to responding only when compelled.

“Take following the Du as your constant rule” means to follow the principle of “respond when pressed, act only when compelled” as one’s regular way of conduct.

Move through the world with an untroubled mind, leaving no trace of good or evil that others can point to. Simply follow the natural order of Heaven. Respond only when compelled; when responding, do so without intention or attachment. Make this your constant practice.

“Follow” means to go along with.

“Constant rule” means an enduring principle or way.

Only then can you preserve your body, complete your life, care for your parents, and live out your allotted years.

Note:

Over the centuries, “following the Du” has been interpreted in different ways, including “following the middle way” and “following the Du meridian.” In this passage, Lin Xiyi takes it to mean “respond when pressed, act only when compelled.” He connects this with the earlier instruction to avoid leaving traces of good or evil that could bring fame or punishment. This approach to conduct and cultivating the mind was common in Song dynasty colloquial commentaries. It is not the later Neidan practice concerned solely with the body’s meridians. For comparison with the original Zhuangzi, one can also consult the interpretations of Guo Xiang, Cheng Xuanying, and others, which offer a broader range of meanings.

I. On “constancy” and self-cultivation

If one can constantly live in this way, one can preserve the body, complete one’s life, and in accord with the principle of life care for parents with filial devotion and fulfill one’s natural span of years. This is what Mencius meant by: whether life is long or short is not a second concern; cultivate the person and wait (shou yao bu er, xiu shen yi si)—do not fixate on length of life; refine yourself and abide heaven’s decree.

Mencius speaks from heart-and-mind (xinxing) and sounds grave and upright; this passage in Zhuangzi speaks from nature (ziran) and sounds lively and free. The wording differs, but the way of teaching converges.

When Zhu Xi (Hui’an) glossed “du xun” (supervise and instruct), he felt the threads of “jin ming” (near to reputation) and “jin xing” (near to punishment) were not fully carried through, so he said: if one fears the drag of reputation and dare not devote oneself fully to learning, one edges toward “evil”; and he took “wei e wu jin xing” (in doing evil, do not come near punishment) to mean picking deeds that stop short of the penal code and doing them in secret, while cleverly avoiding where punishment falls—thus treating Zhuangzi as a man without restraint.

Read against the whole book’s tone and with Pian Mu (Thigh and Toe) in view, that is not so. Though “du” can mean “instruct,” it fits better as “urge” or “press” (cui)—to press and compel—given the internal evidence of the text.

II. Cook Ding butchers an ox (outline of the classic passage)

Cook Ding butchered an ox for Lord Wenhui: wherever the hand touched, the shoulder leaned, the foot trod, and the knee bent slightly, the blade’s sound—huo, xiang, huo—never missed the tone, matching the dance of Sanglin and the beat of Jingshou.

Lord Wenhui said: Excellent! That skill can reach such a point!

III. Notes in plain language (key glosses)

• Touch (chu): as soon as the hand moves, it meets the ox’s body.
• Lean (yi): when the hand exerts force, the shoulder angles—hence “lean.”
• Tread (lv): when exerting force, the feet plant—hence a stance.
• Bend (qi): knee slightly flexed; butchering, the body leans forward and the knee is often slightly bent.

These four lines sketch the butcher.

Huo, xiang, huo are all sounds of the blade; the author inserts “zou dao” (presenting the knife) in the middle—classical syntax. It is like the Seventh Month line: “In the eighth month in the fields, in the ninth under the eaves, in the tenth the cricket comes under my bed”—with “cricket” inserted mid-line.

Zou dao: advancing the blade, wielding the knife.

Mo bu zhong yin: every sound hits the pitch of the scale.

Sanglin, Jingshou: ancient music titles; dance has music; “hui” (meeting) means dance and music align.

Note: The first half above is Ruist (Mencius, Zhu Xi) commentary on reading Zhuangzi; the second half is line-by-line explanation of the opening of Nourishing Life (Cook Ding), without changing the plot of the original.

Cook Ding set down his knife and replied: “What I care for is the Dao, and I have already gone beyond mere technique. When I first began butchering oxen, all I saw was the ox as a whole beast; after three years, I no longer saw the ox as a whole.

“Nowadays I meet it with my spirit and do not look with my eyes; my sense organs stop their knowing and my spirit moves as it will. I follow the natural pattern of the body, strike into the great gaps, guide through the great hollows, and work along what is inherently so. I never touch the ligaments and fine joints where skill would be needed—how much less the large bones!

“‘Meeting with the spirit and not looking with the eyes’ means the mind joins with the ox’s body; ‘meeting’ is joining. ‘Official’ refers to eyes, ears, nose, and mouth; ‘the sense organs stop their knowing’ means that when one concentrates the spirit and stands still, eyes and ears have nothing to see or hear. What eyes and ears know all stops without being spoken of, and the spirit moves on its own—that is acting spontaneously. ‘Natural pattern’ is the ox’s innate texture of flesh; ‘following’ means cutting along that natural texture. The great gap is where flesh and bone meet; ‘strike’ is to hit; ‘hollow’ is empty space—the large voids between the joints. ‘Guide’ is to open along the natural line; where flesh meets flesh and where joints are hollow are all inherently so, and I only work along them. As technique with a knife, one never goes through the ligaments and fine joints—qing for 綮, the places where flesh adheres to flesh. If one does not use the knife even at ligaments and fine joints, how much less at the large bones? Gu for 軱—the large bones.

“A good cook changes his knife once a year because he hacks; an ordinary cook changes his once a month because he chops. My knife is now nineteen years old; I have butchered thousands of oxen, yet the edge is like a new blade just taken from the whetstone.

“A good cook is the skilled butcher; the ‘clan’ cook is the common butcher among the crowd—the inferior sort. The inferior butcher changes his knife every month because he chops and breaks.

This passage from Nanhua Zhenjing Kouyi (Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence) explains Zhuangzi’s story of Butcher Ding dissecting an ox and, through talk of the knife, discusses nurturing life and conducting oneself in the world.

If you only chop at large bones, the knife wears out quickly; sometimes it even snaps. A skilled cook replaces his knife once a year, because he often cuts through muscle and sinew and inevitably strikes joints and tendons, so the edge dulls. My knife has been in use for nineteen years; I have dissected many oxen, yet the edge is as if freshly honed—that is to say, the blade has hardly been “worn down” in the ordinary sense. (Xing: whetstone.)

“Between those joints there is space, yet the blade has no thickness”—between the ox’s joints there is naturally a gap, and the cutting edge is extremely thin. With that thin edge one enters along the openings; the blade moves inside with room to spare, so that after nineteen years it still seems just off the whetstone.

Even so, the turn introduced by “although” here is deeply intentional: no one can live entirely in smooth circumstances; when you meet adversity, you must be able to yield and adapt to the situation. Easy going is simple; in hard passages people often panic and lose their composure—keeping the heart unmoved and the mind settled is the real accomplishment. Hence the author deliberately adds this remark.

“Zu” (族) refers to places where sinew and bone knot together in a dense mass. Though Ding says he no longer sees the whole ox and his knife mostly follows large bone seams and open spaces, whenever sinew and bone are tangled he still finds it difficult and treats it as a genuine challenge: “churan” (怵然) is alertness, a tightening in the mind; “jie” (戒) is extra caution; “shi wei zhi” (视为止) is letting the gaze pause first; then he moves in slowly—“dong dao ji wei” (动刀甚微), the knife moves very slightly—and “huoran yi jie” (謋然已解): with a sound flesh and bone come apart, like clods of earth falling. Then he stands holding the knife, looks around, satisfied, wipes the blade clean, and puts it away.

Lord Wénhui says: Excellent! Having heard Butcher Ding’s words, I understand how to nurture life.

Note: “Lord Wénhui” is King Huì of Liang (Huì Wáng) in the Warring States period, who converses with Butcher Ding in the Zhuangzi; “nurturing life” (yǎngshēng, 养生) here is not limited to diet and daily habits but, through the logic of dissecting the ox, concerns how to keep body and spirit from being worn down by external things and how to remain at ease whether circumstances run with you or against you.

Conclusion of the Butcher Ding Passage (continued)

Here, “this” only spells out further what “with extra care” means: since I am exceptionally careful and attentive in what I do, each movement of the knife is very fine—“fine” means light—and I dare not use much force. “Huoran” (sounds like “te” and “xie”) means suddenly coming apart: with very little force, flesh and bone suddenly separate on their own, like earth falling to the ground—meaning it happens often and easily. When the ox is done, I stand holding the knife, look around at ease, and am fully satisfied—“at ease” is self-possession; “full of heart” means things match one’s wish, not boastful pride, but that the task fits one’s mind. Why satisfied? Because the ox was taken apart without brute strength and the knife was not harmed. “Good knife” means putting the knife away properly and storing it.

The point of this passage is like a person in adversity who responds along with circumstances while the mind stays unmoved; when the matter is over the heart dissolves, the body rests in the realm of wuwei (non-action), as if nothing had happened at all.

From “In doing good, do not seek fame” onward is the direct teaching on nurturing life; the butcher Ding passage is only a parable, and at the end it lightly lands on the four words “thereby nurturing life,” so the literary momentum is eased—read the Xuan (mysterious) chapters with care.

Duke Gong Wen Sees the Right Minister

Duke Gong Wen (Gong is the surname, Xuan the given name) saw the Right Minister (a man who had suffered foot amputation and had only one foot, yet held the office of Right Minister) and asked in surprise: Who is this? Why has he only one foot? Was he born so, or was it done by people?

The answer was: Heaven, not people. Heaven made him to be “alone”—with only this one foot. How do we know? Human form normally has two feet walking side by side; that he alone among the crowd is like this is Heaven’s doing, not people making him so. “You yu” means two feet paired and walking abreast.

This layer of meaning is that surplus and lack in the world are all the arrangement of zaohua (creation and transformation of Heaven and Earth); though it appears as human affairs, in the end it is still creation thus.

The passage illustrates the principle of following nature's course when facing adversity, using the metaphor of a wild pheasant. In the wilderness, the pheasant must walk ten steps to find a single peck of food and a hundred steps to drink, living a difficult life. Yet it refuses to be caged, for though confinement provides abundant food and drink—making its spirit appear vigorous (Shen [spirit] is strong)—it is ultimately unhappy. This shows that by preserving one's innate authenticity and resisting conformity, one may live more fully.

The second part recounts how when Laozi (Lao Dan) passed away, Qin Shi came to mourn but only wept three times before leaving. Puzzled, the disciples questioned him. Qin Shi explained: Laozi had taught people to follow nature's way in life, yet now his disciples grieve excessively—the elderly wailing as if they'd lost a son, the young as if they'd lost a mother. This forced sorrow ("fleeing from Heaven and doubling emotions") violates natural disposition, becoming instead a "punishment for abandoning Heaven's principles." Through this, Zhuangzi conveys that true wisdom transcends worldly emotional attachments.

Both segments emphasize aligning with nature and preserving authenticity. The pheasant chooses harsh freedom over comfortable captivity, while the disciples' exaggerated mourning contradicts Laozi's teachings—both serving as expressions of the "natural Dao (Way)."

All mourned so deeply—this must be because Laozi had not entirely shed worldly traces, and thus moved his disciples’ hearts; hence his words, his weeping and grief, and the admiration they felt all arose as if unbidden. What Heaven bestows has no fixed form to begin with; if one still responds with passionate attachment, one forgets what one originally received from the Source, flees the pattern of Heaven, and betrays one’s true feelings—such conduct offends Heaven, which is why it is called “the penalty of defying Heaven” (dun tian zhi xing). “Bei” (to turn against) here is the same as “bei” (to betray).

“When he came, it was the Master’s hour; when he went, it was the Master’s compliance.” To arrive at the right moment is timing; to depart in accord is following the natural course. Settle into the times and rest in what fits, and neither joy nor sorrow can enter the heart. The ancients called this “the Celestial release from suspension” (di zhi xuan jie).

Having already discussed the passage on Su’s loss, the text now unfolds the full logic of life and death to close the chapter—so that people may know: regarding what happens of itself, if the heart is unmoved by birth and death, one may then truly “nourish life” (yangsheng). “Fuzi” (Master) is an honorific for one who has attained the Way. In the space between Heaven and Earth, the person of the Way comes when it is fitting to come and goes when it is fitting to go; one need only follow the season. Once one knows that coming and going are inherently thus, arrival is not worth rejoicing over and departure is not worth grieving. “Cannot enter” means joy and sorrow cannot stir the heart. “Xuan” (suspended) means the heart is tied and bound; “di” (the Sovereign) means Heaven. Knowing the naturalness of Heaven’s pattern, the Celestial Sovereign cannot bind one with birth and death—even Heaven has no hold over one; hence it is called the Celestial release from suspension.

“Pointing to the end of the fuel in tending the fire—the fire is transmitted on, and one does not know that it is exhausted.”

This is a parable for birth and death. It is like feeding a fire with fuel: if you fix your finger on the fuel and watch only that, the fuel has a time when it is used up; yet the fire in the world has been handed on from antiquity to the present without cease, and we never see it exhausted. These three lines are marvelously pointed with “again” (you). The principle of birth and death truly cannot be exhausted in words—and speaking of that “again”: the discussion of doctrine above ends here with a parable; is that not where the word “again” shows its finest touch?