《南華真經循本》Vol. 12

The "Zai You" chapter of the Nanhua Zhenjing (Zhuangzi) expounds on the principles of governing the world. The term "Zai You" was a special expression of that era, meaning to let all things exist naturally ("Zai" implies allowing natural existence, while "You" signifies tolerant treatment). Those who truly understand governance do not rule the world through coercive means, but rather allow people to maintain their natural dispositions.

When Yao governed the world, he made the people excessively joyful, causing them to lose inner tranquility. When Jie ruled, he made the people excessively miserable, depriving them of happiness. Both extremes represent a departure from true Virtue (De) and cannot be sustained long-term. Just as the human body requires a balance of Yin and Yang—excessive joy fuels Yang Qi, while excessive anger fuels Yin Qi, both disrupting health—so too does imbalance in the seasonal climates, with erratic cold and heat, harm the physical form.

When rulers cause the people's emotions to become disordered—rendering their lives unstable, thoughts chaotic, and actions fragmented without coherence—the world descends into ungovernable turmoil. In such circumstances, even if all the wealth under heaven were used to reward good deeds, it would prove insufficient; even if all the punishments under heaven were employed to chastise evil, they would be inadequate. Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), rulers have been preoccupied with maintaining order through rewards and punishments—how could they still attend to enabling the people to live in peaceful contentment?

(Note: The text mentions "Robber Zhi," a legendary bandit from antiquity, and "Zeng [Shen] and Shi [Yu]," ancient sages—used here to contrast two extremes of conduct, good and evil.)

This passage explores how to preserve humanity's authentic nature (the original disposition of one's xing and ming), critiquing how excessive pursuit of external matters disturbs our fundamental character. When people become obsessed with sensory pleasures (beautiful sights and music), moral conventions (humaneness, righteousness, rites and music), or intellectual pursuits (sages and knowledge), these very pursuits end up distorting their natural essence. Should all people under heaven become fixated on these eight pursuits, society would descend into chaos and conflict. People even elevate these pursuits to supreme principles, honoring them through fasting rituals, prostrations, and ceremonial dances—a clear departure from authentic nature.

A truly wise ruler governs the world through Wuwei (non-action), meaning refraining from forceful interference and allowing all things to develop naturally. Such a ruler values preserving their intrinsic nature more than wielding political power, yet paradoxically becomes capable of bearing the world's burdens. The ideal state resembles this: maintaining harmony among the five viscera (the five zang organs representing internal cultivation) without flaunting intelligence—appearing still as a ritual effigy (shiju) yet containing a dragon's transformative power, silent as deep abyss yet capable of producing thunderous resonance. When one's Shen (spirit) aligns with the Dao's natural rhythms, all things flourish as effortlessly as rising smoke from a hearth. Having attained this realm, what need is there for deliberate governance?

Note: The concept of "Wuwei" represents a core Daoist principle denoting alignment with natural patterns rather than forced action; "the original disposition of xing and ming" refers to humanity's innate purity; metaphorical expressions like "still as effigy yet manifesting dragon's power" and "silent as abyss yet thundering" depict the supreme state of dynamic stillness where non-action accomplishes all.

Cui Qu asked Laozi (Lao Dan): "If we don't govern the world, what will happen to people's hearts?" Laozi replied: "You must be careful not to disturb people's hearts. When suppressed, the human heart becomes despondent and withdrawn; when stimulated, it becomes agitated and restless. Both suppression and stimulation are like imprisoning the heart - equally dangerous."

Laozi elaborated on the nature of the human heart: when oppressed, it may appear temporarily subdued but harbors lingering discontent; when excited, if allowed to develop unchecked, its anger can accumulate to murderous intensity. The human heart can be as yielding as water yet harder than steel, as sharp as a blade yet capable of being polished and refined. It changes with lightning speed - one moment burning like fierce flames, the next freezing like ice, capable of traversing the four seas in an instant. At rest it's unfathomably deep, in motion it hangs precariously like something suspended in air. Such is the wild, untamable nature of the human heart.

The Yellow Emperor first attempted to restrain hearts through benevolence and righteousness (renyi), while Yao and Shun exhausted themselves in these efforts - their leg hair worn away from constant travel, their vitality drained from establishing moral codes, yet still failing to fully control hearts. Yao had to exile Huandou to Chong Mountain, execute the leader of Sanmiao at Sanwei Mountain, and banish Gonggong to Youzhou. By the time of the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), matters worsened further - below were tyrants like Jie of Xia and the robber Zhi, above were sages like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu. With Confucians and Mohists rising in prominence, people grew suspicious of each other, engaging in deception and mutual condemnation as social morality deteriorated. Everyone pursued cleverness, common people exhausted themselves in struggles, and increasingly severe punishments emerged, plunging society into chaos.

Laozi believed the root of all these calamities lay precisely in attempts to restrain human hearts. Therefore, today's wise men withdraw to remote mountains, while rulers tremble with anxiety in their courts. In our current age, the corpses of the executed pile up like mountains, prisoners in cangues form endless processions, and the screams of the tortured never cease. This situation arises precisely because the Confucian and Mohist doctrines of benevolence and righteousness have disturbed people's hearts.

The text paints a chaotic social landscape: people sleep pillowed on corpses, instruments of punishment pile up like mountains, and the executed lie everywhere. Yet Confucian and Mohist scholars loudly debate in such an environment, gesticulating wildly as they argue. They stand on tiptoe (liqi), stretch their arms (rangbi), and pontificate between shackles, hands and feet all moving in animated display. How pitiful! These men show neither shame nor remorse to the extreme!

I truly cannot comprehend why the wisdom of sages has become wedges for torture devices (jiexi), while benevolence and righteousness serve as mortises for shackles (zaorui). Who knows if virtuous men like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu might unwittingly aid tyrants like Jie of Xia or the robber Zhi? Just as arrows—originally useful tools—can be wielded by despots for evil. Thus only by discarding so-called sagely wisdom can true peace reign under heaven.

The narrative then shifts to the Yellow Emperor: Having ruled for nineteen years with decrees obeyed empire-wide, he heard of Guangchengzi (legendary immortal) dwelling on Mount Kongtong (the Erya records it lies below the Big Dipper; another tradition places it thirty li east of Yucheng in Liang). Seeking wisdom, the Emperor inquired: "I’ve heard you comprehend the supreme Dao—what is its essence? I wish to draw heaven-earth’s vital essence (jing) to nourish crops and feed the people, and harmonize yin-yang (cosmic complementary forces) to benefit all growth. How might this be done?"

Guangchengzi replied: "You ask of superficial phenomena and grasp at Dao’s fragments. Since your reign began, rain falls before clouds gather, plants wither before yellowing, sun-moon’s radiance dims daily. One so narrow-minded cannot discuss the supreme Dao." The Emperor abdicated, retreating to a quiet chamber with white-matted floor. After three months’ seclusion, he returned humbly.

Kneeling forward in prostration, he asked: "They say you know the supreme Dao—how may one cultivate longevity?" Suddenly sitting upright, Guangchengzi exclaimed: "An excellent question! Come, I’ll tell you: The supreme Dao’s essence lies in profound mystery (yaoyao mingming)..."

This scripture expounds the highest realm of Daoist cultivation. To attain the state of "utmost obscurity and silence," one must neither look outward nor listen to external sounds, maintaining mental tranquility so the body naturally stabilizes. The practitioner must preserve inner purity, avoiding physical exhaustion and preventing disturbance to Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), thereby achieving longevity. When eyes refrain from seeing, ears from hearing, and the mind from thinking, the Shen (spirit) guards the physical form, enabling its enduring existence.

One must carefully shut the gates of internal desires and sever external distractions, for excessive knowledge damages cultivation. I (Guangchengzi) shall guide you to the brightest realm—the source of supreme Yang—and lead you through the darkest gateway—the origin of supreme Yin. "Following through" means proceeding to the ultimate end, where the origins of Yin-Yang constitute the primordial Taiji (Supreme Ultimate).

Heaven and Earth follow their laws; Yin-Yang have their destinations. By vigilantly guarding your body, the myriad things will naturally flourish. "Officials" resemble government offices, "storehouses" function as repositories, and "objects" are like items stored within them. I guard this fundamental principle while abiding in harmony—thus cultivating for twelve hundred years without bodily decay. Hearing this, the Yellow Emperor bowed again, exclaiming: "Guangchengzi is truly one with Heaven!"

Guangchengzi continued: The transformations of the Dao are boundless, yet people presume limits; its depths are unfathomable, yet humans believe in boundaries. Those who attain my Dao may become emperors above or lords below; those who lose it may witness sunlight while alive but return to dust upon death. Now all things sprout from earth and ultimately return to it.

Therefore, I shall depart from you, entering the gate of infinity to wander the limitless wilderness. I shall shine with the sun and moon, coexisting with Heaven and Earth. Merging with this realm, the mundane world appears distant and indistinct. All men must die, yet I alone endure. Here, "intertwining" signifies threads joining, while "obscurity" denotes profound inscrutability—expressing the cultivator's transcendence beyond worldly dust to dwell uniquely between Heaven and Earth, while implicitly lamenting humanity's failure to attain the Dao.

As the Cloud General (a legendary deity governing clouds and mists) journeyed eastward, he passed by the divine Fusao Tree near the Eastern Sea, where he unexpectedly encountered Hongmeng (the embodiment of primordial Qi). At that moment, Hongmeng was slapping his thighs and hopping about like a sparrow in joyful play. Stunned by the sight, the Cloud General stood respectfully and bowed, asking, "Venerable elder, who might you be? Why do you amuse yourself in this manner?" Still bouncing, Hongmeng replied, "I'm just wandering freely!"

The Cloud General sought advice: "Nowadays, the Qi of heaven and earth is disharmonious, and the seasons have lost their proper sequence. I wish to regulate the essence of the six climatic energies to nurture all living things—how should I proceed?" Shaking his head and continuing to hop, Hongmeng answered, "I don't know! I don't know!" Three years later, when the Cloud General met Hongmeng again in the wilderness of Song, he rushed forward and knelt in excitement: "Heaven has not forgotten me!"

Hongmeng instructed him: "To wander freely is to have no destination; to act spontaneously is to ask no direction. I merely observe the true nature of all things—what more could I possibly know?" The Cloud General confessed that though he desired carefree wandering, the common people always followed him. Hongmeng warned, "Disrupting the natural order and violating the innate nature of beings—not even heaven and earth can achieve perfection this way. Beasts scatter, birds cry at night, calamities spread to plants and insects—all these stem from human attempts at governance!"

When pressed for solutions, Hongmeng sighed, "The harm runs too deep! You'd do better to drift away and return to simplicity." Finally, he imparted this essential teaching: "To cultivate the Shen (spirit), prioritize Wuwei (non-action). Simply abide in non-action, and all things will transform and flourish naturally. Let go of attachment to form, abandon cleverness and contrivance, and merge completely with the myriad beings." (Note: Here, "Wuwei" represents a core Daoist principle—an attitude of aligning with nature's flow without forced interference.)

This passage expounds on the Daoist pursuit of unity with the natural Dao. It first describes a state of complete self-forgetfulness where one's Shen (spirit) merges with primordial chaos (涬溟 refers to undifferentiated primordial Qi), returning to the original state of natural growth like all things in nature. This realm transcends verbal expression, as mysteriously profound as how every being contains the cosmic origin (Taiji, the Supreme Ultimate).

It then reveals that the true Dao has always resided within humans, though ordinary people remain unaware. Paradoxically, deliberate pursuit of the Dao leads to separation from it. Just as all things naturally transform through Yin-Yang interaction (the "male-female essence union" metaphor), there's no need to question names or causes. The allegorical figure Yun Jiang realizes: Heaven's Dao manifests through silent observation - true understanding comes from self-reflection, which constitutes the essence of Lao-Zhuang philosophy's transcendence beyond worldly concerns. Yet later scholars often indulge in empty theories without grasping this truth.

The text critiques a common human failing: craving approval while resenting dissent. This desire to "stand out" ironically reveals one's inferiority to the collective. Like those who covet rulership by emulating ancient sage-kings' benefits while ignoring hidden dangers - such governance has less than one-in-ten-thousand chance of preserving a state, while carrying immense collapse risks. A truly lamentable situation.

The core teaching emphasizes: genuine wisdom lies in returning to natural authenticity rather than enforcing conformity; governing the world requires aligning with the Great Dao, not clinging to power and desire.

This passage discusses the realm of governing a nation and the state of cultivated Daoists. Those who possess land and govern often seek to distinguish themselves as extraordinary. In truth, governing the world is like facing a complete, vast entity—the truly wise do not fragment it into trivial matters to manage. Only those unbound by particular things can master all phenomena. Those who comprehend the essence of all things—how could they merely govern the world? They freely traverse between heaven and earth, coming and going alone—this is the most noble state of being.

The teachings of genuine Dao-realized individuals are as natural as shadows following forms or echoes responding to sounds. They accord with the patterns of all phenomena, abiding in soundless stillness, acting without fixed direction, guiding the multitudes through infinite transformations. Merged with heaven and earth, they cling to no separate self. The noble ones of old could perceive the realm of "non-being" (wu), becoming companions of the cosmos.

The text enumerates principles for governing the world: though all things may seem lowly, none can be left unused; though the common people appear humble, none can be disregarded; though affairs seem obscure, none can be neglected; though laws appear crude, none can be abandoned; though righteousness stands lofty, none can forsake its upholding; though humaneness feels intimate, none can cease its extension; though rituals demand restraint, none can omit their accumulation; though virtue (De) maintains equilibrium, none can deny its elevation; though the Dao remains unified, none can reject its adaptability; though celestial law operates inevitably, none can resist its compliance.

Sages observe heavenly patterns without forceful interference, accomplish virtue (De) without becoming bound, follow the great Dao without deliberate scheming, practice humaneness without self-importance, fulfill righteousness without hoarding, respond to rituals without avoidance, handle affairs without refusal, enforce laws without confusion, and rely on the people without contempt. They attain the supreme state of complete unity with the Dao.

This passage discusses the distinction between the Dao of Heaven (天道) and the Dao of humanity (人道). When a person becomes bound by external things yet cannot detach from them, they accomplish nothing—yet complete inaction is also impossible. Those who don't comprehend the Dao of Heaven (natural laws) cannot attain purity in their De (Virtue/Power); those unacquainted with the Great Dao labor in vain. Most pitiable are those who remain utterly ignorant of the Dao.

What then is the Dao? It divides into the Dao of Heaven and the Dao of humanity. That which acts through Wuwei (non-action) and maintains natural nobility is the Dao of Heaven; that which toils through forced action is the Dao of humanity. The Dao of Heaven moves with the ease of a sovereign, while the Dao of humanity toils like a minister. The gulf between them is vast—this distinction must be clearly perceived.

The final remark, added by later commentators, observes that while this chapter's principles are elementary, their expression becomes unnecessarily verbose—like attaching a dog's tail to sable fur (a metaphor for superfluous elaboration that mars simplicity).