《莊子內篇訂正》

In the fathomless northern sea dwells an enormous fish named Kun, whose length spans thousands of miles beyond measure. This Kun can transform into a colossal bird called Peng, whose back stretches as vast as the horizon. When Peng spreads its wings to soar, they resemble clouds draping the edges of the sky.

This divine bird rides the seasonal winds to journey southward to the Celestial Pool (a natural giant reservoir). The ancient text Qi Xie (Records of Marvels) states: As Peng flies toward the Southern Sea, its wings churn waves across three thousand miles, riding whirlwinds to ascend ninety thousand miles high—only with the great gales of midsummer can it complete this migration.

The drifting mists and dancing dust particles between heaven and earth are formed by the mutual stirring of living creatures' breath. When we gaze at the azure sky, is this its true color? Or does it appear so due to infinite depth? From Peng's vantage in the heights, the view below likely appears just the same.

Moreover, shallow water cannot float large vessels. Pour a cup of water into a depression, and a leaf may sail upon it, but a cup would ground—such is the consequence of shallow depth bearing oversized "vessels." Similarly, thin winds cannot support massive wings. Thus Peng must ascend ninety thousand miles to accumulate sufficient wind beneath it, enabling unimpeded flight southward while shouldering the blue heavens.

Yet the cicada and dove mock this: "We dart upward, resting on elm or sandalwood branches—sometimes falling short and landing on the ground. Why strive for ninety thousand miles to reach the Southern Sea?" A day-tripper needs only three meals; a hundred-mile traveler prepares overnight provisions; a thousand-mile voyager stores three months' supplies. How could these insects comprehend Peng's aspiration?

Petty cleverness cannot match great wisdom, nor short life fathom longevity. How do we know this? The dawn-to-dusk mushroom knows neither lunar phases nor seasons; the summer cicada understands no spring or autumn—such are the limits of brief existence. In southern Chu dwells a sacred tortoise for whom five centuries mark a single spring, another five a fall. Ancient times had a great toon tree that measured eight millennia as one spring, eight more as autumn. Yet Pengzu (the legendary 800-year-old sage) remains famed for longevity—compared to him, aren't ordinary lives pitiful? When Emperor Tang consulted the sage Ji, he spoke of a barren northern land with a lightless sea—that natural Celestial Pool harboring fish spanning thousands of miles.

(Note: This passage contrasts Kun-Peng with cicada-dove to expound the philosophical "debate between great and small," illustrating how perception is constrained by one's existential scope. "Sea movement" refers to monsoon winds from oceanic currents, while "whirlwind ascent" denotes spiraling updrafts—both natural forces Peng harnesses for its celestial journey.)

This passage recounts a series of allegorical stories from the Zhuangzi illustrating the contrast between limited and expansive perspectives. In the first parable, a giant fish called Kun in the northern sea transforms into an enormous bird named Peng, with a back like Mount Tai and wings like clouds spanning the sky. Riding whirlwinds, it ascends ninety thousand miles, piercing through clouds to soar across the heavens toward the southern sea. A small sparrow mocks this grand journey: "Where does it think it's going? I leap and flutter just a few yards high, darting between grass blades—that's true flying at its finest!"

Zhuangzi uses this metaphor to critique those whose talents barely qualify them for minor official posts, whose influence extends only to a single village, or whose virtue merely pleases one ruler. Their vision is as limited as the sparrow's. A Daoist figure like Song Rongzi sees through such pettiness—neither elated by universal praise nor discouraged by universal criticism, for he distinguishes between inner self and external judgment, understanding the boundaries of honor and disgrace.

Another Daoist sage, Liezi, could ride the wind with marvelous lightness, traveling for fifteen days before returning, yet even he remained dependent on external forces. Only those who align with the natural patterns of heaven and earth, harnessing the transformations of Yin-Yang and the six atmospheric energies (wind, rain, darkness, light, etc.), roaming the boundless realms—they alone transcend dependence. Thus, the perfected person (zhiren) is selfless, the spiritual person (shenren) seeks no merit, and the sage (shengren) desires no fame.

In the second chapter, Emperor Yao offers to abdicate to the recluse Xu You, saying: "When sun and moon shine brightly, why keep a torch burning? When seasonal rains fall, why keep irrigating? With you as ruler, the world would naturally be at peace—my clinging to power is shameful." Xu You replies: "Your governance is already excellent. Should I replace you for empty prestige? Fame is but the shadow of substance. A bird needs but one branch to nest; a mole drinks its fill from the river and wants no more. Dismiss this thought—the empire is useless to me. Just as the chef doesn't cook, the priest won't meddle with sacrificial vessels!"

The third chapter features Jianwu recounting to Lianshu the words of the Chu recluse Jieyu: "I heard Jieyu speak grand, impractical words—unbounded as the Milky Way..." [The passage continues with Jieyu's mystical discourse on the limitless Dao].

This passage recounts dialogues between Zhuangzi, Lian Shu, and Huizi, illustrating the philosophical concept of "the usefulness of the useless" through several parables.

Lian Shu speaks of a divine being dwelling on Mount Gushe, whose skin is as pure as ice and snow, with the graceful bearing of a maiden. This sage consumes neither grain nor ordinary food, sustaining himself solely on wind and dew, riding clouds and dragons to roam beyond the four seas. When this perfected being concentrates his spirit (Shen), all things are preserved from calamity, and crops flourish naturally. When someone dismisses this account as absurd, Lian Shu responds: The blind cannot appreciate patterned beauty, nor the deaf hear bells and drums—but mental deafness and blindness are far worse than physical impairment. Those who have truly attained the Dao (Dao) merge their spirit with all creation—why would they trouble themselves with worldly affairs? Floods reaching the heavens cannot drown them; droughts melting metal and stone cannot scorch them. Even the dust from their person could produce sage-kings like Yao and Shun—how could they concern themselves with mundane matters? This is like the man of Song who brought ceremonial caps to sell in Yue, forgetting the Yue people cut their hair and tattooed their bodies, having no use for such things.

Zhuangzi then tells the parable of the giant gourd: Huizi complains that the gourd seeds gifted by the King of Wei grew fruits large enough to hold five dan of water, yet their shells were too fragile for practical use, forcing him to smash them. Zhuangzi chides him for missing "great usefulness": A Song family had for generations made anti-chilblain salve, yet only used it to protect their hands while silk-washing. Another man bought the recipe for a hundred pieces of gold and presented it to the King of Wu, whose troops used it in winter naval warfare to crush Yue, earning the man a fiefdom. The same hand-salve brought one man nobility while others remained washermen. Why not tie your five-dan gourd as a buoy to float freely upon rivers and lakes, rather than lament its inability to hold water?

Huizi said to Zhuangzi: "I have a large tree people call the 'Ailanthus.' Its trunk is so gnarled it won't align with the carpenter's ink line, its branches so twisted they defy compass and square. Growing by the roadside, carpenters won't even glance at it. Now these doctrines of yours are just like this tree—grand but useless, which is why everyone rejects them."

Zhuangzi replied: "Have you never observed the wildcat or the weasel? They crouch low, waiting to pounce on small creatures, leaping east and west without regard for height or depth—only to end up caught in traps, dying in nets. Then consider the mighty yak, its massive body like clouds hanging from heaven. Capable of great things, yet it cannot catch mice. You have this large tree and fret over its uselessness—why not plant it in the realm of Nothingness, in the wilds of Boundless Openness? There you could wander carefree, napping beneath its branches. It would never be felled by axes, nor harmed by external things. What seems useless is precisely what preserves it from suffering."

Master Nanguo Ziqi sat leaning on his armrest, gazing skyward as he exhaled, his spirit seemingly departed from his body. His disciple Yancheng Ziyou, standing nearby, asked: "What has become of you, Master? Can the body truly become like withered wood, the mind like dead ashes? The Master leaning here today seems unlike his usual self."

Ziqi answered: "An excellent question. Today I've attained the state of 'losing myself.' You've heard the 'pipes of men' (human music), but not the 'pipes of earth' (earth's sounds); even if you've heard the pipes of earth, you've likely not heard the 'pipes of heaven' (nature's mysterious music)."

When Ziyou asked to understand, Ziqi explained: "The earth exhales its breath—this we call wind. When still, nothing happens, but when it stirs, ten thousand hollows cry out angrily. Have you never heard the howling of a gale? In mountain forests, giant trees with trunks a hundred spans around have hollows of every shape—some like noses, mouths, or ears; others like mortars or deep pools. When wind passes through, some sound shrill, some roar, some hiss, some wail. A gentle breeze creates a small chorus; a fierce storm a mighty symphony. When the violent wind ceases, all hollows return to silence. Have you not seen how grasses and trees sway when wind moves them?"

Ziyou said: "The pipes of earth are these various hollows' sounds; the pipes of men are bamboo flutes' music. But what are the pipes of heaven?" (The original text continues...)

Master Nan Guo Ziqi said: When the wind blows through countless hollows and apertures, each produces its own distinct sound, yet these sounds arise from the apertures themselves—who then is the master orchestrating them? In truth, they emerge spontaneously from their own nature.

Those with great wisdom remain composed and open-minded, while petty intellects obsess over trivialities. Profound principles flow with majestic breadth, whereas petty arguments become entangled in minutiae. When people sleep, their Shen (spirit) intermingles freely; upon waking, their physical forms engage in activity. Daily interactions with external things give rise to endless mental conflicts—some hesitate cautiously, others scheme deviously, while certain minds remain meticulously guarded. Minor fears unsettle the heart-mind, while great terrors scatter the Hun (ethereal soul) like leaves in the wind. Their speech darts forth like arrows, ever judging right and wrong; their stubborn opinions cling like sworn vows, perpetually striving to dominate others. Their vital spirit withers like autumn foliage, declining day by day; drowning in their own pursuits, they cannot turn back. The heart-mind grows obstructed as if bound by ropes, revealing the rigidity of aging; a mind nearing death finds its vitality nearly impossible to restore.

Emotional states—joy and anger, sorrow and delight, worry and regret, fickleness and indulgence—emerge like music from emptiness, or like mushrooms condensing from morning mist. They appear day and night without revealing their source. Enough! Whether we eventually understand their origins or not, without these emotions there would be no "me," and without this "me" there would be nothing to manifest them. This truth lies very near, yet we cannot discern what controls it. It seems as though there exists a "true self," yet no trace of it can be found. We may trust in its existence, though it has no visible form.

The human body exists complete with its hundred bones, nine orifices, and six internal organs—which part should I favor? Do you cherish them all equally, or do you show preference? If we regard them as ministers and concubines, can they govern each other? Or must they take turns ruling? Perhaps there exists a "true sovereign" presiding over all? Whether we can locate this ruler or not, it neither adds to nor diminishes the "true self." Once a person acquires physical form, they await only the exhaustion of their lifespan—clashing and grinding against external things, their life galloping like a swift horse that cannot be stopped. Is this not profoundly lamentable? To labor ceaselessly without seeing achievement, to exhaust oneself without knowing the destination—can anything be more sorrowful? What meaning has such an existence, even if one doesn't perish? As the body decays, so too does the heart-mind—is this not the greatest tragedy of all?

Is human life inherently this bewildering? Or am I alone in my confusion while others remain clear? If we take our personal convictions as teachers, then who lacks a teacher? Why must one comprehend principles to hold opinions? Even fools possess their own convictions. To judge right and wrong before forming genuine understanding is like claiming to arrive in Yue yesterday when departing today—this is treating the nonexistent as existent.

Here Zhuangzi discusses the relativity of "right and wrong" and the unity of the Dao. He says: Even the great Yu (the legendary sage king who controlled floods) couldn't fully comprehend matters of antiquity—what could I possibly do? Speech isn't as natural as the blowing wind; when people speak they always refer to something, yet these references lack certainty.

Zhuangzi poses a series of questions: Should we consider this "having spoken" or "never having spoken"? Is human speech any different from the chirping of newborn birds? Why does the Dao become obscured, giving rise to distinctions between truth and falsehood? Why does speech become clouded, leading to debates over right and wrong? The Dao permeates everything, and speech should likewise be universally valid. The Dao becomes obscured by partial understanding, while speech gets concealed beneath ornate rhetoric—hence Confucians and Mohists each cling to their own views, affirming what the other denies and denying what the other affirms.

To resolve such debates over right and wrong, it's better to observe with clear awareness. All things lack absolute opposites—from another's perspective you can't see yourself, only from your own can you gain understanding. Thus we say that opposites depend on each other, illustrating the dialectical relationship of "simultaneous birth and death"—as things come into being they begin to perish, and as they perish they signify new birth. Therefore, the sage doesn't engage in debates over right and wrong, but instead follows nature's course.

Right and wrong, this and that are all relative. If one can transcend such dualities, one grasps the "pivot of the Dao" (daoshu), like standing at the center of a circle to respond to infinite changes. Debates over right and wrong are endless, so it's better to maintain clarity. Using "finger" to explain how "a finger is not a finger" isn't as good as using "non-finger"; using "horse" to explain how "a horse is not a horse" isn't as good as using "non-horse." Heaven and earth may be regarded as one "finger," and the myriad things as one "horse."

Things become what they are through the Dao's operation. Calling something "right" means it meets the standard of "right," while calling it "wrong" means it doesn't. All things inherently possess their own reason for being—nothing should fail to exist. Thus the slender grass stalk and the massive pillar, the ugly woman and the beautiful Xishi, all strange phenomena—these are unified in the Dao. The decomposition of things implies new formations, and formation implies the destruction of the old. In truth, there's no such thing as creation or destruction—ultimately all returns to unity. Only those who comprehend this principle understand it clearly, therefore they don't cling to fixed views but follow the constant pattern of things.

This passage explores Zhuangzi's dialectical reflections on "usefulness" and "uselessness," as well as "gain" and "loss." Zhuangzi posits that what we call "usefulness" is essentially adaptability—being adaptable leads to attainment, and when attainment reaches its perfect balance, one approaches the Dao. People often cling to superficial differences while failing to perceive the fundamental unity beneath them. Like the monkey keeper distributing chestnuts—three in the morning and four in the evening angered the monkeys, while four in the morning and three in the evening pleased them, though the total remained unchanged. This illustrates how easily we're deceived by appearances.

The sage harmonizes judgments of right and wrong, aligning with nature's equilibrium (tianjun 天钧), allowing opposing forces to coexist without conflict (liangxing 两行). Ancient Daoist adepts recognized three levels of understanding: the highest realization sees no distinctions in the world; the intermediate acknowledges existence without boundaries; the basic perceives boundaries without judgments. The emergence of rigid distinctions between right and wrong marks the obscuration of the Dao. Like when Zhaowen played the zither—the beauty and imperfection of the music coexisted; when he stopped playing, there was neither achievement nor lack.

Thinkers like Hui Shi became entangled in debates over concepts like "hardness" and "whiteness," striving to prove their viewpoints, only to descend into confusion. True wisdom lies not in arguing right versus wrong, but in maintaining clarity within chaos (huayi zhi yao 滑疑之耀). The sage chooses wuwei (non-action), abiding in nature's constant patterns (yu zhu yong 寓诸庸). Zhuangzi concludes with profound reflections on beginnings: there exists a state of having beginnings, a state before beginnings, and an even more primordial state before that pre-beginning—this inquiry can extend infinitely. This fundamentally dismantles conventional frameworks of understanding time and existence.

(Section 2 of the Zhuangzi's Inner Chapters in modern interpretation)

Suddenly the concepts of "being" and "non-being" emerged, yet we cannot truly define what constitutes real "being" or real "non-being." Like these very words I'm speaking now, who can determine whether they truly convey meaning? Among all things under heaven, Mount Tai that appears enormous may in fact be tiny, while the tip of an autumn hair that seems minuscule could be vast; an infant who dies young might have lived longer than Pengzu who reached eight hundred years. Heaven and earth coexist with me, and all things unite with me as one. Since we've already become one, what need is there for words? And having said "one," how can we claim nothing has been expressed?

When we add description to "one" it becomes "two," and adding "one" to this "two" creates "three"—continue this progression and even the most skilled calculators couldn't keep count, let alone ordinary people. Thus from "non-being" to "being" we've already generated three concepts—how much more endless would the progression be from "being" to "being"? Better to stop here. The Dao originally knows no boundaries, just as speech has no fixed standards. People create divisions for argument's sake: left and right, ethical relations, moral principles, distinctions, debates, competitions, and contentions—these form the so-called "eight boundaries."

The sage's approach differs: regarding things beyond the six directions (heaven-earth and four cardinal points), they acknowledge existence without discussion; concerning matters within the six directions, they discourse without contention; toward the Spring and Autumn Annals recording ancient kings' governance, they comment without debate. For where there's division, there must be indivisibility; where there's argument, there must be inarguability. The sage embraces all, while ordinary people argue to show off. Thus it's said: those who debate intensely often fail to see clearly. The true Dao cannot be named, true eloquence requires no words, perfect benevolence isn't consciously "benevolent," great integrity doesn't flaunt humility, and genuine courage doesn't bully. These five qualities—forcing speech, contentiousness, affected benevolence, virtue-signaling, and belligerence—are like fitting round pegs into square holes.

Understanding where to stop within one's cognitive limits constitutes supreme wisdom. Who comprehends wordless eloquence or the Dao beyond description? Those who grasp this are like nature's storehouse—pouring in never fills it, drawing out never empties it, yet none know its source. This is called "hidden radiance." When Emperor Yao asked Shun: "I wish to conquer three petty states—Zong, Kuai, and Xu'ao—yet feel uneasy during court. Why?" Shun replied: "These states are like weeds growing among mugwort—why trouble your mind? When ten suns shone simultaneously upon all creation, how much more should virtue illuminate brighter than the sun?"

[This passage elucidates the limitations of cognition through relativism and the philosophy of equalizing things, showing how attachment to distinctions and arguments deviates from the Dao. The Yao-Shun dialogue illustrates that sages shouldn't dwell on trivial differences but embrace all things like the sun shining universally.]

This dialogue explores the limitations of human cognition and the relativity of truth. Wang Ni illustrates through a series of comparisons how different creatures have entirely different standards for judging comfortable dwellings, delicious food, and beautiful things: humans develop back pain when sleeping in damp places, yet loaches find it ideal; people enjoy the taste of livestock meat, while deer prefer grass, centipedes relish snakes, and owls delight in mice. Monkeys choose gibbons as mates, elk mate with deer, and loaches swim with fish. While humans consider Mao Qiang and Li Ji to be great beauties, fish dive and birds flee at their sight, and deer bolt in panic. This demonstrates how vastly different all creatures' standards are for "proper dwelling," "proper taste," and "proper appearance."

From this, Wang Ni concludes: "From my perspective, the threads of humaneness and righteousness, the paths of right and wrong, are all tangled in confusion—how could I possibly distinguish between them?" Nie Que presses further: "If you don't understand profit and harm, does that mean the perfected person (one who has attained the Dao) also doesn't know?" Wang Ni replies: "The perfected person is utterly miraculous. Vast marshes could burn without making him feel hot, the Yellow River and Han River could freeze without making him cold. Violent thunder splitting mountains and fierce winds churning seas wouldn't startle him. Such a person can ride clouds and mist, mount the sun and moon, and wander beyond the four seas. Neither life nor death can change him—how much less could trivial matters like profit and harm?"

The subsequent dialogue between Qu Quezi and Changwuzi further discusses the realm of sages. Changwuzi describes how sages transcend worldly concerns: "They don't involve themselves in mundane affairs, don't chase profit, don't avoid harm, don't deliberately seek anything, and aren't constrained by the Dao. What they say seems like not speaking, and their silence seems like speaking—they wander beyond the dusty world." He adds that even the Yellow Emperor would be perplexed by such talk—how could Confucius possibly understand? "It's like seeing an egg and immediately expecting a rooster to crow, or seeing a slingshot and already anticipating roasted fowl—that's thinking too far ahead."

Finally, the text advocates transcending conventional perspectives: "Stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the sun and moon, embrace the cosmos, and merge into oneness with all things. While ordinary people rush about busily, sages appear dull and unknowing—yet they comprehend the eternal truth that ten thousand years are but an instant. All things are mutually contained within each other—how do I know that clinging to life isn't actually delusion?" This passage vividly demonstrates Zhuangzi's relativistic epistemology and his ideal of transcending worldly attachments.

This passage explores philosophical reflections on life and death, dreams and reality. Zhuangzi employs vivid analogies to illustrate the limitations of human understanding regarding these fundamental states.

He recounts the story of Lady Li, a beautiful woman of Jin who wept bitterly when first captured, but later enjoying royal luxuries regretted her initial sorrow. How can we know that the dead don't similarly regret their former clinging to life? Like those who dream of feasting yet wake to mourn, or dream of mourning yet rise to hunt - people in dreams don't realize they're dreaming, sometimes even interpreting dreams within dreams, only recognizing the illusion upon awakening. The truly enlightened understand life as but a grand dream, while fools presume themselves awake.

Zhuangzi further examines the relativity of right and wrong: When you and I debate, neither victory nor defeat necessarily reveals truth. For how can an arbiter who agrees with you be impartial? Or one who sides with me remain objective? Even a third perspective offers no fair judgment. Thus distinctions between right and wrong remain ultimately indeterminate.

Finally, he introduces the concept of "Heavenly Equality" (tianni) - the natural balance where right/wrong distinctions require no debate, like echoes responding spontaneously. Only by harmonizing with nature's transformations, transcending temporal and conceptual constraints, can one reach the realm of "boundlessness" (wujing). The parable of the shadow questioning its shadow subtly reveals this wisdom beyond relativities.

This passage contains two famous parables from the Zhuangzi, illustrating the Daoist core principle of "following nature's course."

The first story features a dialogue between a shadow and its object. The shadow explains that its movements entirely depend on the object, just as snakes rely on their belly scales to crawl and cicadas depend on wings to fly—it has no autonomy. Zhuangzi then recounts dreaming of becoming a butterfly, awakening to wonder whether he was Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi. This reveals the fundamental unity of all things, where changes in form are merely superficial manifestations (this is the concept of "transformation of things" [wuhua]).

The second story, "Cook Ding Butchers an Ox," is even more vivid. When butcher Ding prepares an ox for King Hui of Liang, his movements flow like an elegant dance, and his knife remains as sharp as new after nineteen years. He explains: initially he saw only the whole ox, but after three years he no longer perceived complete forms—now he connects with the ox through spirit (shen), following the natural grain without touching tangled tendons, let alone major bones. Mediocre butchers change knives monthly (from hacking), good butchers yearly (from slicing), while his blade stays sharp by finding the gaps between joints and letting the thin edge glide through. Still, he remains cautious at complex junctures.

Through these stories, Zhuangzi demonstrates that human life is finite while knowledge is infinite—forcing understanding brings danger. Good deeds needn't seek fame; misdeeds shouldn't violate laws. By following nature's patterns ("taking the central axis as one's constant guide" [yuan du yi wei jing]), we preserve life and fulfill our years. Like Cook Ding's mastery, discerning the inherent patterns of existence allows us to move through life with effortless skill.

After butchering the ox, the cook wiped his knife with satisfaction and put it away. King Hui of Liang exclaimed, "Marvelous! Hearing your words, I've come to understand the Dao of nurturing life." (Chapter 1)

When Gongwen Xuan saw the Right Minister, he asked in astonishment, "Why does this man have only one leg? Was it by nature or human action?" Then he answered himself: "It's the decree of Heaven, not man's doing. Human form should be complete by nature, so I know this is Heaven's will. Like the pheasant in the marshlands—it takes ten steps to peck once, a hundred steps to drink once—yet it refuses to be caged. What seems hardship is actually perfect freedom." (Chapter 2)

When Laozi (Lao Dan) passed away, his friend Qin Shi wept only three times before leaving. Disciples questioned: "Were you not the Master's friend?" Qin Shi replied: "I originally thought him ordinary, but now I see otherwise. During the mourning, elders wailed as for lost children, youths wept as for lost mothers. Such excessive grief violates nature—'evading Heaven's principles, betraying true feelings.' Life and death are like firewood consumed by flames: the Master came when it was time, departed when destined. Being at peace with circumstance and following nature's course, one remains unshackled by sorrow or joy—this is true liberation." (Chapter 3)

Yan Hui bid Confucius farewell, saying he would go to Wei. Asked why, Yan Hui replied: "The young ruler of Wei acts recklessly, exhausting his people without recognizing his faults—countless have died. I remember your teaching: 'Leave states that lack the Dao, but enter chaotic ones—like physicians finding patients at their door.' I wish to try." Confucius warned: "You go to your death! The Great Dao values singleness; complexity breeds trouble. Ancient sages perfected themselves before teaching others. Your own De (Virtue) remains unsteady—how correct a tyrant? Know this: virtue fades through fame-seeking, wisdom arises through contention."

This passage discusses the perils of pursuing fame and profit while flaunting one's strength. Striving for reputation leads to mutual antagonism, while cunning intelligence becomes a tool for contention—both are dangerous paths. Cleverness cannot bring one's De (Virtue/Power) to fulfillment. Even if you possess profound morality and unwavering sincerity, forcibly imposing standards of benevolence and righteousness upon others or displaying them before tyrants will only invite disaster.

History offers cautionary tales: the Xia dynasty's Jie executed Guan Longfeng, and the Shang dynasty's Zhou killed Bi Gan precisely because these ministers positioned themselves as paragons of virtue, using morality to constrain their rulers. Emperor Yao's campaigns against Congzhi and Xu'ao, and Yu the Great's conquest of the Youhu—though ostensibly waged for justice—were ultimately driven by the pursuit of empty fame. If even sages struggled to break free from the shackles of reputation and gain, how much more so ordinary people?

Yan Hui once asked Confucius: "If one maintains upright humility and diligent focus, would this suffice?" Confucius replied: "No. Those who appear outwardly rigid and self-satisfied, with volatile emotions, are unbearable even to common folk. To suppress one's innate nature to please others means failing even in cultivating minor De—how then could one achieve great De? Outward compliance masking inner obstinacy—how could this possibly work?"

The true practice should be this: inwardly upright as the Dao of heaven (what Daoism calls "walking with heaven as your companion"), recognizing that both rulers and oneself are children of heaven—without deliberately seeking others' praise; while outwardly mastering the rituals of human interaction ("walking with people as your companion"). This approach preserves one's authentic nature while allowing harmonious engagement with the world.

This dialogue recounts Yan Hui's inquiry to Confucius about cultivating one's inner nature. Confucius first points out that merely observing rituals outwardly is but superficial form ("walking with others"), and emulating the words and deeds of the ancients is mere imitation ("walking with antiquity")—neither approach suffices.

When Yan Hui asks what to do instead, Confucius advises beginning with "heart-fasting" (xinzhai, mental purification). Here's the explanation: Heart-fasting doesn't mean abstaining from meat in external observance, but achieving three things: first, concentrating one's spirit ("single-minded focus"); second, listening not with ears but with the heart's understanding; third, comprehending not through mental reasoning but through qi perception. When the mind attains this state of emptiness, it becomes capable of containing the Dao.

Confucius elaborates further: Upon entering this state, one's awareness should transcend ordinary thinking as effortlessly as a bird flies without conscious use of wings. When the inner chamber becomes completely empty and luminous ("an empty room generates brightness"), auspiciousness will arrive spontaneously. In this condition, even spirits and deities would come to dwell there—how much more so would people? This constitutes the essential method by which sage-kings like Shun and Yu apprehended all things.

Finally, Yan Hui reports his progress, realizing that true cultivation lies in forgetting worldly knowledge ("as if Yan Hui had never existed") and maintaining mental emptiness. This exchange reveals the Daoist practice essentials of "emptiness and stillness" and "sitting in forgetfulness," emphasizing cultivation that transcends form and returns to original authenticity.

Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) said to Confucius: "I have forgotten about benevolence and righteousness." Confucius replied: "Good, but not enough." Several days later, Yan Hui met Confucius again and said: "I've made progress." Confucius asked: "How so?" Yan Hui answered: "I've forgotten about rituals and music." Confucius said: "Good, but not enough." After a few more days, Yan Hui said: "I've progressed further." When asked to explain, he responded: "I've attained the state of 'sitting in forgetfulness' (zuowang)." Startled, Confucius inquired: "What is sitting in forgetfulness?" Yan Hui elaborated: "Relaxing the physical senses, abandoning cleverness and wisdom, transcending form and intellect to merge completely with the great Dao—this is called sitting in forgetfulness." Confucius marveled: "When united with the Dao, one has no preferences; when following transformation, one becomes free from rigidity. Truly you've reached the realm of the worthy! I too should learn from you."

Lord Ye Zigao of Chu, about to embark on a diplomatic mission to Qi, sought Confucius' advice: "The King of Chu has entrusted me with this grave responsibility, yet Qi will likely show surface courtesy without genuine cooperation. If ordinary men are hard to persuade, how much more so feudal lords? I'm deeply anxious. You once taught me: 'In matters great or small, success mostly depends on mutual harmony. Failure brings human-made disasters, while success may cause imbalance of yin-yang. Only the virtuous can avoid calamity in either outcome.' Though I normally eat simply without craving delicacies, now I'm drinking iced water morning and night from inner turmoil. Before beginning my mission, my yin-yang is already disturbed. If I fail, there'll be political consequences—this burden is too heavy for a minister. Please advise me."

Confucius responded: "There are two fundamental principles in the world: heavenly mandate (tianming) and moral duty. A child's love for parents is heavenly mandate—an inescapable bond from the heart. A minister's service to his ruler is moral duty—under heaven there's no land without its lord, an inescapable cosmic responsibility. Therefore in serving parents, bring them peace regardless of circumstances—this is perfect filial piety. In serving a ruler, exhaust your efforts in any task—this is perfect loyalty. Those who cultivate their inner nature don't let sorrow or joy disturb them, recognizing unavoidable situations and accepting them calmly—this is perfect virtue (de). Ministers inevitably face situations beyond their control—act according to reality while forgetting personal safety. Why cling to life or fear death? Proceed with confidence."

Please tell me once more what I have heard about this principle: when dealing with those close to us, we must treat each other with sincerity and good faith; when dealing with those who are distant, we must also affirm our loyalty to them in words. Yet words, once spoken, are often relayed by others. Carrying messages that please both sides, or enrage both sides, is among the hardest tasks under heaven. When both sides are pleased, the messenger tends to exaggerate the praise; when both sides are angered, the messenger tends to sharpen the reproach. Whatever is exaggerated and untrue is reckless speech. Once words lose their truth, the listener will not believe them, and the messenger will bring disaster upon himself. Hence the old saying: "Convey the facts as they are; do not relay inflated words." Only in this way, perhaps, can one keep oneself intact.

Those who contest with skill begin by playing openly and fairly, but end by turning to underhanded means; in the extreme, they resort to all manner of trickery. Those who drink according to proper etiquette begin in good order, but end in disorder; in the extreme, they give themselves to all manner of wild revelry. All affairs are like this: they begin in sincerity and may end in baseness. What is simple at the start grows complicated and enormous near the end.

Words are like wind and waves, while actions may damage the true state of things. Wind and waves easily stir the heart, and damage to the truth easily brings danger. Thus anger, once it arises, often has no cause that can be traced; clever words and one-sided speech can also send a situation out of control. A dying beast does not pick its cry, and when the breath turns hurried and disordered, all manner of thoughts surge up together. Once resentment, harshness, and calculation take root in the heart, then in the extreme, ill-intentioned thoughts are bound to arise in response, without anyone knowing how this change came about. If even one's own self does not know where a thought comes from, who can know where it will finally lead?

Hence the old saying: "Do not alter your orders, and do not press for completion." To add anything beyond measure is a fault; to alter orders or press for completion places the matter in danger. A good deed pursued too long may turn bad, and a bad deed not corrected in time will bring consequences beyond repair. How can one fail to be careful?

To ride along with the changes of things and let the Shen (spirit) roam freely, to entrust oneself to circumstances one cannot avoid and thereby nourish the inner heart: this is the highest attainment. What need is there for deliberate action or for scheming a response? It is better to follow the arrangement of fate. This is very hard to achieve.

This concludes the second chapter.

Yan He was about to become tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, and he asked Qu Boyu (a worthy of the state of Wei) for advice: "There is a man whose De (Virtue) seems naturally savage. If I indulge his unreasonable demands, the state will be endangered; if I act by the rules, the state may be safe but I myself will suffer. His intelligence is enough to see the faults of others, but he cannot see why he himself errs. What should I do with such a person?"

Qu Boyu said: "A good question! Be on your guard and careful, and first set yourself upright. In outward conduct, it is best to go along with him; in inner attitude, it is best to harmonize with him. Yet both approaches carry hidden risks: in going along, do not be drawn all the way in; in harmonizing, do not let it show too much. If you go along outwardly and are drawn in, you will invite overthrow, ruin, collapse, and defeat; if you harmonize inwardly and let it show, you will attract fame, and perhaps invite disaster as well.

"If he behaves like an infant, then be an infant with him; if he disregards rules and boundaries, then go along with him and do not restrain him with rules and boundaries."

Zhuangzi here reveals the profound philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless" through several vivid parables.

First is the mantis story: Observe how the mantis angrily raises its forearms to block a chariot wheel, unaware of its utter inability to do so. This happens because it overestimates its own capabilities. Beware! Those who frequently flaunt their strengths often invite misfortune.

Consider the secret to taming tigers: Never feed them live prey, lest it awaken their ferocity; nor give them whole animals, fearing their rage during tearing. One must understand their hunger cycles and channel their aggression. Though tigers are of a different species, they can become docile to caretakers by following their nature. Conversely, going against their nature brings disaster.

A horse lover might use bamboo baskets to collect manure and giant clam shells for urine. But if he suddenly swats at biting flies, his abrupt movement may startle the horse, resulting in dangerous kicks. This shows excessive devotion can sometimes backfire.

When Carpenter Shi traveled to Qi, he encountered a sacred oak at Quyuan worshipped as the village altar. The colossal tree could shelter a thousand oxen, its trunk requiring a hundred men to encircle, towering above mountain peaks with branches beginning only after several zhang. Though crowds marveled at it, Carpenter Shi walked past without a glance. His apprentice asked why he ignored such magnificent timber, to which Shi replied: "This is 'scattered wood'—useless for boats (they'd sink), coffins (they'd rot), tools (they'd break), doors (they'd ooze resin), or pillars (they'd attract insects). Precisely because it's useless has it grown so immense."

That night, the oak appeared in his dream: "Would you compare me to 'patterned wood' (useful trees)? Pear and orange trees bear fruit only to be plucked, their branches broken and twigs torn. Their usefulness brings suffering, preventing natural lifespans. I've long pursued uselessness, nearly dying before understanding—this is my greatest use. Had I been truly useful, could I have grown so grand? We're both part of nature's tapestry—why judge by standards of utility?"

This passage illustrates Zhuangzi's profound philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless" through two allegorical tales.

The first story tells of Carpenter Shi dreaming of a giant tree called "the Useless Tree," which sparks a discussion with his disciple upon waking. The disciple asks, "If it pursues uselessness, why does it serve as a sacred tree for rituals?" The carpenter replies, "It preserves itself precisely by serving this purpose. Without this role, it would have been felled long ago. Its method of self-preservation is unconventional, beyond ordinary understanding."

The second narrative describes Nanbo Ziqi encountering an extraordinary giant tree in Shangqiu. Though massive, its twisted branches make useless beams, its split trunk unfit for coffins, and its poisonous leaves induce madness. Ziqi marvels, "This tree's very uselessness accounts for its immense growth. The perfected person (神人 Shenren) likewise preserves themselves through such 'unworthiness'." He contrasts this with the prized catalpas, cypresses, and mulberries of Jing Village—trees valued for timber are felled prematurely for tools, never reaching natural lifespans. Just as sacrificial rites spare oxen with white foreheads, pigs with upturned snouts, or men with hemorrhoids (deemed inauspicious), such "ill omens" become great blessings for the enlightened.

The third account features Zhi Li Shu, a severely deformed man whose chin nestles at his navel and shoulders tower above his head. Yet he supports himself through tailoring and divination, sustaining ten family members. Exempt from conscription and corvée labor due to his disabilities, he even receives government relief grain. Zhuangzi suggests: if physical deformity can ensure preservation, how much more so for those whose virtue (德 De) appears "defective" (yet embodies supreme wisdom)?

The passage concludes with Confucius encountering the madman Jieyu in Chu, who sings of the sage as a phoenix—a metaphor for Confucius's noble yet unappreciated virtue, another expression of how usefulness invites harm.

These parables collectively expound Zhuangzi's worldview where apparent uselessness becomes supreme utility. By avoiding conventional value, one escapes worldly traps—this unconventional preservation constitutes true wisdom.

Why lament the decline of Dao and De (Virtue)? The future cannot be anticipated, nor can the past be reclaimed. When the world is at peace, sages accomplish great deeds; when chaos reigns, sages preserve their lives. In these times, merely avoiding punishment is fortune enough. Happiness is light as a feather, yet none know how to grasp it; calamity weighs heavy as the earth, yet none know how to avoid it. Enough, enough! To impose Dao and De upon others is perilous indeed. Beware, beware! It's as absurd as drawing lines on the ground and expecting others to follow.

Those seemingly lush brambles (miyang refers to thorny plants) cannot obstruct my path forward; this winding trail I tread won't harm my feet. Mountain trees invite the ax for being useful timber; fat burns itself by being combustible. Cassia trees are felled for their edible bark, lacquer trees wounded for their useful sap. All the world knows the value of usefulness, but none understand the true worth of the useless.

This constitutes the content of Chapter Six.

In the state of Lu there was a man named Wang Tai who had suffered the amputation of one foot ("the mutilated one" refers to those punished by the ancient penal amputation), yet the number of disciples following him rivaled that of Confucius. A man named Chang Ji asked Confucius: "Wang Tai is physically impaired, yet his followers divide Lu's scholarly community with you. He neither initiates instruction nor holds seated lectures, yet students come with empty minds and return fulfilled. Could there truly be wordless teaching that enlightens hearts without form? What manner of man is this?"

Confucius replied: "This master is a sage! Even I, Kong Qiu, have lagged behind in seeking his wisdom. I would become his disciple—how much more should those beneath me? Not just Lu—I would lead all under heaven to follow him." Chang Ji marveled: "A disabled man surpassing ordinary men so profoundly? What distinguishes the mind of such a person?"

Confucius explained: "Life and death are surely great matters, yet they don't affect him; were heaven to collapse and earth cave in, he wouldn't perish with them. He perceives all things' essence without being swayed by external changes, accommodating transformation while preserving the root." Chang Ji pressed: "What does this mean?"

Confusing offered a metaphor: "Viewed through difference, liver and gall seem as distant as Chu and Yue; yet through sameness, all things form one body. Such a man disregards what ears and eyes should perceive, letting his spirit roam the harmonious realm of De (Virtue). Seeing all things' unity, he notices no lack—observing his lost foot like a clod of fallen earth."

Chang Ji continued: "He cultivates himself through wisdom, realizes his original mind through spirit, ultimately attaining constancy. Can external things still move him?" Confucius said: "One never mirrors reflections in flowing water, only in stillness. Just as pines and cypresses alone stay evergreen through seasons, only Emperor Shun could rectify himself to transform multitudes. Those preserving original mind are like warriors charging single-handed into armies. Even fame-seekers who discipline themselves achieve this—how much more one who governs heaven-earth, embraces all things, treats the body as temporary lodging and senses as symbolic signs, whose spirit never perishes? Such a man may ascend to immortality at will (the phrase 'ascend in transcendence' describes Daoist adepts transcending physical form), drawing followers naturally—why would trivial worldly matters concern him?"

Shen Tu Jia was a man who had lost one foot. He studied under the Daoist master Bohun Wuren alongside Zichan, the prime minister of Zheng. Zichan said to Shen Tu Jia: "When I leave first, you stay behind. When you leave first, I'll stay." The next day, as they sat together again, Zichan repeated: "Today when I leave, don't follow me. You don't even avoid the prime minister—do you presume to equal a ruler's minister?"

Shen Tu Jia replied: "In our master's school, do distinctions like 'prime minister' exist? You flaunt your official status to belittle others. I've heard that a bright mirror gathers no dust, and a dusty mirror isn't bright. Those who long keep company with sages make no mistakes. Yet you follow such a great master and speak this way—isn't this gravely wrong?"

Zichan retorted: "Crippled as you are, how dare you compare yourself to Yao's virtue? Isn't your own virtue insufficient for self-reflection?" Shen Tu Jia responded: "Most men defend their faults, claiming their punishment unjust. Few accept blame without excuse. Only the virtuous can accept inevitable fate with equanimity. Standing within the target range of the divine archer Yi, escaping unharmed is mere luck. People often mock my disability—I used to rage, but coming to our master brought peace. For nineteen years he's cleansed me with the Dao's goodness, making me forget my condition. Now you engage my spirit yet judge my form—isn't this absurd?" Hearing this, Zichan hung his head in shame.

Another tale: In Lu, a toe-less man named Shushan Wuzhi walked on his heels to see Confucius. The sage said: "Your past carelessness brought this misfortune—isn't coming to learn now too late?" Wuzhi replied: "I lost my toes through youthful recklessness, but I come seeking to preserve what's more precious than feet. Heaven covers all, Earth bears all—I took you for like them, yet find you this narrow." Confucius said: "My shallowness shows. Please enter and teach me."

This passage contains two stories from the Inner Chapters of the Zhuangzi, both exploring the relationship between De (Virtue/Power) and physical form through dialogic narratives.

The first story features a dialogue between Toeless (a man whose toes had been amputated) and Confucius. Despite his physical mutilation, Toeless diligently pursued learning to amend past wrongdoings. Later, he remarked to Laozi: "Confucius busies himself all day chasing after peculiar fame and reputation, unaware that true Dao attainers consider such pursuits as shackles binding one's spirit." Laozi suggested enlightening Confucius about how life and death are fundamentally one, and how approval and disapproval ultimately merge, but Toeless deemed this an inescapable heavenly punishment upon Confucius.

The second story involves Duke Ai of Lu recounting to Confucius an extraordinarily ugly man named Aitai Tuo from Wei. Despite his repulsive appearance, men found his company so compelling they'd refuse to leave, while women preferred being his concubine to becoming another man's principal wife. Without power or status, he radiated such comforting presence that people felt at ease around him. Never imposing his views, he simply responded harmoniously to others. Within a year of acquaintance, Duke Ai trusted him completely—even considering entrusting him with state governance. After Aitai Tuo departed, the Duke felt profoundly bereft.

Confucius explained this phenomenon through three metaphors: Piglets flee in panic upon discovering their dead mother, showing their love was for her life-force rather than form; fallen soldiers' coffins need no adornment, just as amputees' shoes become worthless—the foundation being lost; imperial maids keep uncut nails and unpierced ears to preserve bodily integrity. These illustrate how intrinsic De outweighs external form. Aitai Tuo, though physically grotesque, possessed complete inner De that magnetically attracted others.

The man who takes a wife may have his external conduct constrained, yet it suffices if he preserves the wholeness of his form. How much more so for one whose virtue (De) is complete! Take the example of Ai Tai Tuo—he gained trust without speaking and inspired closeness without achievements, to the extent that rulers would entrust him with their states, fearing only his refusal. Such a man must possess complete capability while keeping his virtue hidden.

Duke Ai of Lu asked, "What is meant by 'complete capability'?" Confucius replied: "Life and death, prosperity and adversity, wealth and poverty, worthiness and unworthiness, praise and blame, hunger and thirst, the alternations of cold and heat—these are the transformations of things, the flow of destiny. They appear before us day and night, yet wisdom cannot foresee their beginnings. Therefore, they should not disturb the harmony within, nor be allowed to penetrate the depths of the heart. Maintain a joyful and unobstructed mind without losing equilibrium, abiding day and night in springlike harmony with all things, responding to seasonal changes while preserving inner tranquility. This is called 'complete capability.'"

The Duke asked further, "What is meant by 'hidden virtue'?" Confucius said: "Stillness resembles water at its utmost calm, serving as the standard to emulate. The inner remains serene while the outer shows no agitation. Virtue is the essential cultivation that achieves harmony; when virtue is hidden, the myriad things cannot be separated from it."

Later, Duke Ai said to Minzi: "At first, I thought that as a ruler governing the world, holding the reins of the people's order, concerned for their life and death, I had attained true understanding. But now, having heard the words of the ultimate man, I fear I possess no real virtue—recklessly expending my body and nearly bringing ruin to the state. My relationship with Confucius is not that of ruler and minister, but of friends united by virtue."

Chapter 4

A man with a lame leg, hunched back, and a cleft lip went to persuade Duke Ling of Wei. The Duke so delighted in him that when looking at men of whole form afterward, he found their necks too slender. Another man with an enormous goiter went to persuade Duke Huan of Qi. The Duke so favored him that afterward, men with ordinary necks seemed too thin. Thus it is said: When a man's virtue stands out, others forget his physical flaws. When people forget not what should be forgotten (physical defects) but forget what should not be forgotten (virtue's cultivation), this is true forgetfulness.

Therefore, the sage wanders in the Great Dao (Da Dao), regarding cleverness as the root of calamity, constraints as bondage, favors as tools, and skill as trade. The sage does not scheme—what use has he for cleverness? He does not carve—what need for glue? He loses nothing—what use for favors? He does not trade—what need for exchange? These four endowments are nurtured by Heaven's providence. To be nurtured by Heaven is to receive Heaven's sustenance. Having received Heaven's sustenance, why employ human contrivances?

Chapter 5

He has human form but lacks human emotions. Having human form, he dwells among men; lacking human emotions, judgments of right and wrong cannot touch him. How insignificant—this belonging to humankind! How vast—this solitary communion with the spirit of Heaven and Earth!

This dialogue between Zhuangzi and Huizi explores the question of whether humans should have emotions. Zhuangzi clarifies that his concept of "being without emotions" (无情) doesn't mean complete absence of feelings, but rather that one shouldn't harm their intrinsic nature through personal preferences, instead living in accordance with natural laws. Huizi challenges this, asking how one could sustain life without pursuing external nourishment. Zhuangzi responds that human form is bestowed by the Dao of Heaven, and one shouldn't deplete their internal Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) through attachments—unlike Huizi who exhausts his spirit through constant debate, leaning against trees while reciting, actions that violate natural harmony.

The subsequent "Great Ancestral Teacher" chapter presents the ideal of the "Perfected Person" (真人), one who has attained the Dao. Such individuals understand the distinction between heavenly Dao and human affairs, using acquired knowledge to nurture the unknown, thus living out their natural lifespan without premature demise. Yet knowledge itself has limitations, as cognition depends on specific conditions. The Perfected Person exhibits these traits: never bullying the weak, never flaunting achievements, never scheming deliberately; fearless when ascending heights, remaining dry when entering water, unburned when walking through fire (symbolizing transcendent spiritual states); dreamless sleep, carefree awakening, eating without craving delicacies, breathing so deeply it reaches the heels (a Daoist cultivation term describing embryonic respiration). They regard life and death with equanimity, coming and going freely, unattached to origins or destinations, maintaining perfect unity between mind and heavenly Dao. This stands in stark contrast to ordinary people who breathe shallowly through their throats and remain bound by desires.

Such a person can truly be called a "Zhenren" (Perfected Person, one who has attained the Dao). Their mind is tranquil, their countenance serene, their forehead broad. They are as solemn and clear as autumn, yet as warm and harmonious as spring. Their joys and sorrows resonate with the changing seasons, existing in perfect harmony with all things without revealing any extremes.

Thus when sages wage war, even if they destroy enemy states, they never lose the people's hearts. Their blessings extend for generations, yet they never strive for the reputation of benevolence. True joy lies in communion with all things, not in personal emotions; acting in accordance with celestial timing isn't about pursuing fame for wisdom. Only those who disregard profit and loss can be called gentlemen. Those who chase reputation and lose themselves aren't true scholars, and those who sacrifice their lives contrary to the Dao's way cannot be considered masters of others.

Figures like Hu Buxie, Wu Guang, Bo Yi, Shu Qi, Ji Zi, Xu Yu, Ji Ta, and Shentu Di were all running about serving others, conforming to worldly standards while losing their authentic selves. The Perfected Persons of ancient times stood upright without forming factions, appearing deficient yet never forcing completion. They had sharp edges but weren't stubborn, expansive minds yet not ostentatious. Their joyful demeanor seemed to spring from inner contentment, their movements appeared as natural responses. Their gentle expressions revealed inner Virtue (De), while their solemnity conformed to worldly principles. They soared beyond constraints, so carefree as to seem idle, even forgetting their own words.

They took law as foundation, ritual as support, wisdom to respond to circumstances, and Virtue as guiding principle. Taking law as foundation meant administering punishment with balanced severity; ritual as support provided worldly standards; using wisdom was the last resort for handling affairs; following Virtue was as natural as climbing hills with those who have feet. Yet ordinary people mistake this for deliberate cultivation.

Therefore, whether people approve or disapprove, the Perfected maintain unified nature. This unity aligns with the Dao of Heaven, while disunity aligns with worldly ways. When heavenly nature and human effort don't conflict, one becomes a true "Perfected Person."

When springs dry up, fish stranded on land moisten each other with spit—better to forget each other in rivers and lakes. Rather than praising Yao and condemning Jie, better to forget both and merge with the Great Dao. Heaven gives us form, makes us toil in life, rest in old age, and finds peace in death. Thus those who cherish life also accept death calmly. Life and death are like day and night—natural patterns beyond human interference, inherent conditions of all things. We need only revere Heaven as our father.

If people cherish even their own physical bodies so dearly, how much more should they value those things which are truly extraordinary? The world considers rulers to be more noble than themselves, yet they would willingly die for such rulers—how much more should they devote themselves to the true Dao (the Way)?

Hiding a boat in a mountain valley or concealing a mountain within a lake may seem secure. But in the dead of night, a mighty force could carry them away, and the ignorant would remain unaware. Whether hiding something large or small, there is always a suitable place, yet it will eventually be discovered. Only by entrusting the world to the world itself can it never be lost—this is the fundamental nature of that which is eternal.

When a person happens to acquire a human form, they rejoice in it, yet this human form is but a fleeting link in the endless transformations of all things. How can such joy ever be complete? Therefore, the sage roams freely in the realm of eternity, from which nothing can escape. Whether short-lived or long-lived, joyful or sorrowful, people follow the patterns of nature—how much more should they revere the great Dao (the Way), which sustains all things and governs every transformation?

The Dao is truly real yet formless, comprehensible yet untransmittable, attainable yet invisible. It generates itself and is rooted in itself, existing eternally before heaven and earth. It makes ghosts and spirits manifest, gives birth to heaven and earth, yet it is not lofty above the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji), nor deep beneath the six directions (heaven, earth, and the four cardinal points). It existed before heaven and earth yet is not ancient, predating antiquity yet not old.

All who attained the Dao throughout the ages achieved greatness through it: Xiwei (an ancient sage-king) used it to separate heaven and earth; Fuxi employed it to harmonize primordial Qi (vital energy); the Big Dipper revolves eternally because of it; the sun and moon never extinguish due to it. Kanhuai (mountain deity) governs Kunlun through it; Fengyi (river god) roams the rivers with it; Jianwu (another mountain deity) guards Mount Tai by its power; the Yellow Emperor ascended to the heavens with it; Zhuanxu (one of the Five Emperors) dwelled in the Mysterious Palace through it; Yuqiang (god of the North Sea) established the North Pole by it; and the Queen Mother of the West presides over Mount Shaoguang because of it. None know the Dao's beginning or end—Peng Zu attained it and lived from the time of Emperor Shun to the era of the Five Hegemons; Fu Yue mastered it and assisted King Wu Ding in ruling the realm, and after death, his spirit rode the stars of the eastern sky, joining the constellations.

Nanbo Zikui asked the woman Yu: "You are advanced in years, yet your complexion is like a child's—why is this?" Yu replied: "I have attained the Dao." Zikui asked: "Can the Dao be learned?" Yu answered: "No, you are not one who can learn it. Just as Bu Liangyi possessed the talent of a sage but lacked the Dao of a sage, I possess the Dao of a sage but lack the talent of a sage."

The passage recounts two cultivation stories that exemplify the core Daoist principles of "equanimity toward life and death" and "harmony with nature."

The first story describes a cultivator's progressive journey toward supreme enlightenment. The practitioner states: "I wish to teach the Dao of sages to those with sage potential." Yet even for qualified individuals, the path must be followed step by step. First, three days are needed to transcend worldly attachments (externalizing the world), then seven days to overcome material desires (externalizing things), and finally nine days to surpass the fixation on life and death (externalizing life). Upon reaching this state, one becomes as lucid as the morning sun (dawn clarity), perceives absolute truth (seeing the solitary), transcends temporal limitations (without past or present), and ultimately enters the deathless, birthless realm of eternity. This state embraces all transformations of existence while maintaining serenity amid disturbances—termed "tranquility amidst commotion." When Nanbo Zikui inquires about the transmission of this state, the response reveals truth's lineage through various forms: "secondary ink" (written texts), "Luo recitation" (oral transmission), "clear vision" (observation), "whispered assent" (listening), "necessary practice" (application), "spontaneous songs" (chanting), "profound darkness" (mystical contemplation), and "partaking emptiness" (void), ultimately tracing back to cosmic origins (questioning beginnings).

The second story depicts the friendship between four practitioners—Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai—who make a pact: "Whoever can regard 'nothingness' as the head, 'life' as the spine, and 'death' as the tailbone, understanding life and death as one continuum, shall be our companion." When Ziyu later develops a hunched back with organs protruding upward, his chin buried near his navel and shoulders towering above his head, he remains composed. Gazing at his distorted reflection in a well, he remarks: "The Creator has shaped me thus!" Asked if he resents this, Ziyu replies: "Why should I resent it? Were the Creator to transform my left arm into a rooster, I'd use it to herald dawn; my right arm into a slingshot, I'd hunt birds; my buttocks into wheels and my spirit (shen) into a horse, I'd ride them forth." This exemplifies the Daoist attitude of "peaceful acceptance of circumstance."

Both stories embody the Daoist pursuit of transcending physical form and harmonizing with nature's transformations, emphasizing cultivation that leads to the state where self and objects are forgotten, and life and death become one.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's profound insights on life, death, and the transformations of nature, illustrating the Daoist philosophy of transcending life-and-death concerns and harmonizing with natural processes through two parables.

The first story tells of Zilai who lay gravely ill at death's door, surrounded by weeping family members. When his friend Li came to visit, he scolded the mourners for disturbing nature's course. Leaning against the doorframe, he asked Zilai: "How magnificent is the Creator! What will He make of you next? Perhaps a rat's liver or an insect's leg?" Zilai replied: "If children must obey their parents, how much more should we yield to the transformations of Yin-Yang. When the Creator brings me to death's door, to resist would be to oppose the Dao itself—what fault lies with Him? Heaven and Earth gave me form, animated me with life, eased me through old age, and now grant me rest through death. Therefore, those who cherish life should equally cherish death."

Zhuangzi employs the metaphor of a blacksmith casting metal: just as molten metal cannot demand to become a sword, humans shouldn't cling to human form. If we consider Heaven and Earth as the furnace and the Creator as the smith, any transformation becomes acceptable. Birth and death are as natural as waking and sleeping.

The second story describes three Daoist practitioners—Zisanghu, Mengzifan, and Ziqinzhang—who formed a spiritual fellowship pursuing "the friendship of Wuwei (non-action)." When Zisanghu died, the other two composed songs and played the zither before his corpse. Confucius's disciple Zigong protested this breach of ritual propriety, to which they laughed, saying he misunderstood the true meaning of "Li" (ritual). When Confucius heard of this, he remarked that these men had transcended physical form, becoming companions of creation who attained the realm of "Xiaoyao" (carefree wandering).

Both stories express core Zhuangzian philosophy: life and death are natural transformations within the great process of Dao. Practitioners should transcend attachment to physical form and surrender to the Creator's arrangements. Through cultivation methods like "Zuowang" (sitting in forgetfulness), one reaches the state where "self and objects are both forgotten"—a serenity unshaken even by mortality. This detached perspective on life and death embodies what Daoists call "Xuanjie" (release from bondage).

This passage records a profound dialogue between Confucius and his disciples concerning life, death, and the distinction between inner and outer realms. Through Confucius's voice, Zhuangzi presents two diametrically opposed attitudes toward life.

Confucius declares himself fundamentally different from those who "wander beyond the square" (referring to Daoist perfected beings transcending worldly conventions). These true humans regard life as an unnecessary appendage and death as the bursting of an abscess, utterly indifferent to the sequence of life and death. They forget the existence of their physical organs, roaming freely beyond the dust of the world—how could they be constrained by mundane rituals? When Zigong asks which attitude Confucius truly identifies with, the sage replies: "I am but a mortal punished by Heaven, yet I willingly explore these matters with you."

The discussion then employs the metaphor of fish and water to illustrate profound truths: fish need water to survive just as humans need the Dao to find peace. Just as fish swimming contentedly in rivers and lakes forget about the water's existence, so too do people immersed in the arts of the Dao forget about the Dao itself. The so-called "eccentric person" (畸人) is precisely one who differs from ordinary people yet aligns with Heavenly Dao—what the worldly consider a gentleman might appear as a petty person in the eyes of the Dao, and vice versa.

Yan Hui inquires about Mengsun Cai, a man from Lu who became famous for properly observing mourning rites despite neither weeping nor grieving at his mother's death. Confucius explains that Mengsun has reached the highest realm—he knows neither whence life comes nor whither death goes, simply following nature's transformations. While we all remain in an unawakened dream, Mengsun has already awakened. Outwardly he conforms to customary mourning, yet inwardly remains unaffected, treating his body as a temporary dwelling and his emotions undisturbed by death.

This dialogue reveals the Daoist transcendent attitude toward life and death: truly awakened individuals can see through the illusions of mortality, maintaining inner freedom while outwardly conforming to worldly customs. Through contrasting conventional rituals with the natural Dao, it manifests the supreme state of "harmony between Heaven and humanity."

Here, Zhuangzi uses several allegorical stories to expound on the concepts of "forgetting the self" and "following natural spontaneity."

Chapter Five suggests that people often cling to the notion of "I," but how can we be certain this so-called "I" is the true self? It's like dreaming of being a bird soaring through the sky or a fish swimming in water—upon waking, one cannot distinguish whether the speaker was awake or still dreaming. True joy requires no deliberate pursuit; the natural arrangement of things represents the optimal state, through which one may merge with the great Dao of heaven and earth.

Chapter Six recounts the story of Yi'erzi visiting the recluse Xu You. Emperor Yao had instructed Yi'erzi to practice benevolence and righteousness while distinguishing right from wrong, but Xu You countered that this was like putting shackles on the mind. Just as the blind cannot perceive colors nor the deaf hear music, those bound by worldly concepts cannot experience the realm of carefree wandering. Xu You maintained that those who truly attain the Dao nurture all things without claiming merit, bestow blessings across generations without seeking recognition, share the longevity of heaven and earth without showing age, and shape all creation without flaunting skill.

Chapter Seven describes Ziyu visiting his ailing friend Zisang. After ten consecutive days of rain, Ziyu brought food and heard Zisang singing and weeping inside his hut while playing the zither and lamenting, "Is this my parents' fault? Heaven and earth's fault?" Eventually realizing that poverty and hardship stem not from anyone's intention but from natural destiny, this episode embodies Zhuangzi's philosophy of "remaining content in one's circumstances and following the natural flow."

These chapters collectively demonstrate that humans should transcend the constraints of worldly concepts, relinquish self-attachment, and accord with nature's transformations to achieve unity with the Dao. Through these stories, Zhuangzi teaches us that deliberate pursuit of benevolence and righteousness or forced distinctions between right and wrong only distance us from our authentic nature—it's better to release attachments and follow natural spontaneity.

Nie Que asked Wang Ni four questions, and to each Wang Ni replied, "I don't know." Delighted, Nie Que jumped up and ran to tell Pu Yizi. Pu Yizi remarked, "Now you finally understand? Emperor Shun was no match for Fu Xi. Shun tried to win people's hearts with benevolence and righteousness—though he gained their support, he never transcended artificial constraints. Fu Xi slept in peaceful contentment and awoke in carefree ease, letting others call him ox or horse as they pleased. His wisdom was genuine and trustworthy, his virtue pure and spontaneous, never entangled in human contrivances."

Jian Wu met the madman Jie Yu, who asked, "What did Ri Zhongshi tell you?" Jian Wu replied, "He said rulers should establish laws to govern the people—who would dare disobey such edification?" Jie Yu retorted, "This is deceitful. Governing the world this way is like digging a canal to cross the ocean or asking mosquitoes to carry mountains. The sage rules by first rectifying himself, then acting in accordance with nature, doing only what is within his capacity. Observe how birds know to fly high to evade arrows, and mice hide deep beneath temple floors to avoid smoke—are humans less discerning than these creatures?"

Tian Gen wandered in the lands of Yin Yang and came upon the Liao River, where he met the Nameless Man. "How should one govern the world?" he asked. The Nameless Man snapped, "Begone, you shallow fellow! Why ask such a tiresome question? I'm about to wander with the Creator—when weary, I'll ride the nebulous great bird beyond the four corners of heaven and earth, roaming the Land of Nothingness, resting in the boundless wilds. Why trouble my mind with thoughts of governance?" When Tian Gen persisted, the Nameless Man said, "Let your heart remain placid, your Qi merge with emptiness, follow the natural course of things without selfish interference, and the world will settle into peace of its own accord."

Yang Ziju visited Laozi (Lao Dan) and asked, "If a man is quick-witted, resolute, perceptive, and tirelessly studies the Dao—could he compare to an enlightened ruler?" Laozi replied, "To the sage, such a man is but a petty functionary shackled by skills, toiling his body and disturbing his spirit. Tigers and leopards are hunted for their pelts, monkeys captured for their agility, hounds exploited for their speed—how could such a man resemble an enlightened ruler?" Ashamed, Yang Ziju asked, "Then how should an enlightened ruler govern?"

Laozi said that a truly enlightened ruler governs the world in such a way that his achievements extend throughout the land yet seem unrelated to himself. He transforms all beings without claiming credit, and the people feel his presence without being aware of his existence, never praising his name. Such a ruler abides in unfathomable depths, wandering freely in the realm of emptiness. This is the content of Chapter 4.

In the state of Zheng, there was a spirit medium named Ji Xian who could predict life and death, fortune and misfortune, even specifying the exact year, month and day with uncanny accuracy. The people of Zheng would flee at the sight of him. Yet when the Daoist philosopher Liezi encountered him, he became utterly fascinated. Returning to his master Huzi (a Daoist adept), Liezi said: "I originally thought my teacher's Dao was the most profound, but now I see there are even greater powers." Huzi replied: "What I've shown you are merely surface manifestations, not the fundamental essence. Bring him to see me."

The next day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Huzi. The moment the medium stood before him, he fled in terror. Huzi said: "Go after him!" But Liezi couldn't catch up and reported back: "He's vanished without a trace." Huzi explained: "What I displayed was the state of 'not yet emerging from my ancestral source' (the original condition of Dao). I met his illusions with emptiness—he couldn't fathom my depths and thought he'd encountered something beyond his comprehension, hence his flight." From then on, Liezi realized he hadn't yet grasped the true teaching. He returned home and remained secluded for three years. He tended the cooking fire for his wife as if serving nobility, fed the pigs as if caring for people, became indifferent to worldly affairs, returned to primal simplicity, his form like withered wood, until finally merging completely with Dao. This is Chapter 5's content.

(On essential cultivation methods) Don't chase empty fame, don't indulge in scheming, don't force yourself into affairs, don't flaunt cleverness. Let your spirit wander in boundless realms, content with innate nature without craving gains. Liezi again told Huzi: "I thought my teacher's Dao was supreme, but now see there are higher states." Huzi replied: "What I've taught you is merely superficial, not the substance. Dao is like having only a hen without a rooster—how can eggs be hatched? Using Dao arts to compete with the mundane world will inevitably reveal flaws. Bring him to see me again tomorrow."

The next day when Liezi brought Ji Xian, Huzi displayed the "Earth Pattern" state (quiescent as the earth). Emerging, Ji Xian told Liezi: "Alas! Your master is dying—he won't last ten days! I saw his complexion like damp ashes (deathly pallor)." Weeping, Liezi reported this. Huzi said: "What I showed was the earth's quiescent aspect, with vitality concealed and motionless..." (to be continued)

This passage recounts the story between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), his teacher Huzi (an accomplished Daoist master), and a physiognomist (face reader). The physiognomist visited Huzi three times, each time encountering a different state of being.

After the first meeting, the physiognomist excitedly told Liezi: "Your teacher is truly fortunate to meet me! His illness can be cured—I observed his stagnant vital Qi (life energy) beginning to circulate again." Huzi explained that he had manifested the "realm of Heaven and Earth" (referring to the natural state of the cosmos), allowing vitality to surge from the soles of his feet. What the physiognomist witnessed was the "mechanism of goodness" (auspicious life force).

Following the second encounter, the physiognomist said in confusion: "Your teacher's spirit is unsettled—I cannot read his features. I'll return when his mind becomes calmer." Huzi revealed that this time he had displayed a state of empty stillness, like a mirror reflecting all things without retaining traces. Thus he could transcend external phenomena without suffering harm.

The narrative concludes with the allegory of "Chaos": The Emperor of the Southern Sea ("Swift") and the Emperor of the Northern Sea ("Sudden") wished to repay the kindness of the Central Emperor ("Chaos"). Reasoning that all humans possess seven orifices (eyes, ears, mouth, nose) for seeing, hearing, eating and breathing, they drilled one orifice into Chaos each day. On the seventh day, Chaos died. This parable warns against forcibly altering natural dispositions according to worldly standards.

Through these three episodes, the text illustrates how realized Daoists harmonize with nature through emptiness and non-action (Wuwei), opposing the destruction of innate nature through artificial human standards.