《南華真經循本》Vol. 14

The movement of the Heavenly Dao never stagnates, thus all things can grow; the operation of the imperial Dao flows unimpeded, thus the world submits; the way of sages encounters no obstructions, thus all under heaven pay allegiance. What is called "accumulating nothing" here means the absence of any blockage or stagnation.

Those who truly comprehend the Heavenly Dao and penetrate the sagely way, who can extend the imperial virtue through all six directions (up, down, and the four cardinal points), act spontaneously—appearing muddled yet able to bring all things to stillness. This "muddled state" refers to complete relinquishment of cleverness, while "mastering all directions" signifies perfect understanding of heaven, earth and the four quarters.

The sage's stillness is not achieved through forced restraint in pursuit of quietude. Rather, it arises because nothing in creation can disturb his heart-mind, thus stillness comes naturally. Just as calm water perfectly reflects facial hair and the water level becomes the carpenter's standard (as recorded in the Rites of Zhou where craftsmen use water levels to measure surfaces), if water's stillness can produce such clarity, how much more so the spiritual state of sages? The sage's tranquil mind resembles a mirror reflecting heaven and earth, a polished surface showing all things.

Emptiness, stillness, blandness, and wuwei (non-action)—these represent the balancing point of cosmic operation and the highest realm of Dao and De (virtue). Therefore emperors and sages abide here. "Abiding" means dwelling, and dwelling leads to emptiness; within emptiness emerges substance, and within substance appears order. Emptiness brings stillness; within stillness stirs movement; movement yields attainment. In stillness there is wuwei, and wuwei allows each performer to fulfill their responsibilities. Wuwei brings ease, and those at ease remain untroubled by worries, thus attaining longevity.

Emptiness, stillness, blandness, and wuwei—these form the root of all things. Understanding this principle, Yao facing south became an enlightened ruler, while Shun facing north became a worthy minister. Applied to high position, it manifests as the virtue of the Son of Heaven; in low position, it becomes the way of hidden sages and uncrowned kings. Retiring to rivers and lakes, it wins the admiration of mountain recluses; entering court service, it achieves greatness and fame throughout the land. In stillness one becomes a sage; in motion, an enlightened ruler. Through wuwei one attains greater nobility; preserving original simplicity, no virtue in the world can compare.

Those who truly comprehend the laws of heaven and earth can grasp the fundamental Dao (the Way) and live in harmony with nature. Such individuals can both manage worldly affairs and maintain harmonious relationships with others. Harmony with people is called "human joy," while harmony with nature is called "celestial joy."

Zhuangzi said: "My teacher! My teacher!" (referring to the Dao) It shatters all things yet appears unviolent, bestows blessings for generations without claiming benevolence, predates antiquity yet does not boast of longevity, upholds heaven and earth and shapes all things without flaunting skill—this is the realm of celestial joy. Those who understand celestial joy live in accordance with nature's movements and, in death, transform along with all things. In stillness, they share the virtue (De) of yin; in action, they resonate with yang. Thus, those who grasp celestial joy do not resent heaven, are not blamed by others, are not burdened by external things, and are not reproached by spirits. Their movements mirror heaven's course; their stillness resembles earth's bearing. With a tranquil mind, they govern the world, and even spirits do not trouble them—their spirit (Shen) remains unwearied. Inner tranquility brings all things into submission. Extending this emptiness and stillness to heaven and earth, they penetrate all things—this is celestial joy. Celestial joy is the mind of sages, used to nurture the world.

The virtue of emperors and kings must take heaven and earth as its foundation, Dao and De as its guide, and wuwei (non-action) as its principle. Practicing wuwei, governing the world becomes effortless; deliberate action, however, exhausts one in worldly affairs. Thus, the ancients revered the Dao of wuwei. If rulers practice wuwei and subjects also practice wuwei, the distinction between high and low is lost. If subjects act and rulers also act, the hierarchy of master and servant becomes confused. Rulers must maintain wuwei to govern the world, while subjects must act to serve it—this is the eternal, unchanging law.

The ancient rulers of the world possessed wisdom encompassing heaven and earth yet did not rely on schemes, eloquence capable of adorning all things yet did not seek personal delight, and abilities reaching to the four seas yet did not labor personally. Just as heaven produces nothing yet all things transform of themselves, earth cultivates nothing yet all things grow of themselves, the emperor's wuwei allows the world to complete itself. Thus it is said: Nothing is more divine than heaven, nothing more abundant than earth, nothing greater than the emperor. The virtue of emperors matches heaven and earth—this is the great Dao that harnesses heaven and earth, commands all things, and leads the masses.

This passage expounds the Daoist philosophy regarding the fundamental order of things and natural laws.

The root stands above, while the branches lie below; the sovereign represents the essence, and the ministers attend to details. Deploying armies and weapons already belongs to the lowest manifestation of Dao and De (Virtue/Power). Establishing reward-punishment systems and formulating penal codes represent the baser aspects of education. Emphasizing ritual protocols and comparing status distinctions constitute the lesser aspects of governance. Bell-and-drum music and feathered adornments are but superficial elements of ceremonial rites. Wearing mourning garments with lamentations forms the outermost layer of funeral customs. These five lesser practices all require expenditure of Shen (spirit) and mental exertion to implement. Though such lesser teachings existed in antiquity, they were never paramount.

The sovereign precedes while ministers follow, fathers lead while sons comply, elder brothers go first while younger brothers yield, seniors take precedence over juniors, men walk ahead of women, husbands guide while wives accompany. This hierarchy of precedence mirrors the operating principles of heaven and earth. Thus the sages emulate this pattern: heaven's nobility and earth's humility reflect the positions of divine luminaries; spring and summer precede autumn and winter in the sequence of seasons. All things in their growth and transformation undergo stages of sprouting, forming, flourishing and declining—this constitutes the pattern of change. If even the sacred cosmos maintains such order of precedence, how much more should human affairs?

In ancestral temples, kinship proximity matters; at court, noble and humble distinctions prevail; in villages, seniority governs; in undertakings, competence determines—all these follow the great Dao's sequence. To discuss Dao while neglecting this sequence is not authentic Dao; how can one attain Dao while speaking of inauthentic Dao?

Therefore, the ancient knowers of great Dao first comprehended heavenly principles, then Dao and De (Virtue/Power); after understanding Dao and De, they apprehended humaneness and righteousness; following this came awareness of duties; after duties came recognition of status; after status came appointment; after appointment came evaluation; after evaluation came discernment of right and wrong; after this came reward and punishment. With clear rewards and punishments, the dull and clever each find their place, noble and humble rest content, the worthy and unworthy are distinguished by their nature, all exercising their capacities according to their names. Applying this principle to serve rulers, govern people, order all things, and cultivate oneself—without resorting to cunning schemes, everything returns to spontaneity—this represents the pinnacle of peaceful governance.

Thus ancient texts state: "Where there is form, there is name." Though the ancients acknowledged form and name, these were never primary. Those who discussed great Dao in antiquity passed through five stages before addressing form and name, nine levels before mentioning rewards and punishments. To speak immediately of rewards and punishments reveals ignorance of Dao's root.

The Dao (cosmic principle) undergoes five transformations before establishing the forms and names of things, and nine transformations before instituting systems of reward and punishment. From initial "clarity" to "form-naming" constitutes five stages, and progressing to "reward-punishment" completes nine stages.

Those who abruptly discuss systems of form-naming show ignorance of their foundation; those who suddenly debate reward-punishment measures fail to understand their origin. Those who invert Daoist principles in speech and contradict natural laws in argument can only be governed by others—how could they possibly govern others themselves? Those who hastily discuss form-naming and reward-punishment merely understand the tools of governance without comprehending its fundamental principles. Such individuals may be employed by the world, but cannot truly govern it—these are so-called "sophists," people with partial understanding. Ritual systems, form-name examinations—these things existed since ancient times, but they are instruments for subordinates serving superiors, not the fundamental methods by which superiors nurture subordinates.

Long ago, Shun asked Yao: "As Son of Heaven, how do you apply your mind to governance?" Yao replied: "I don't slight the orphaned and helpless, nor abandon the impoverished. I mourn the dead, cherish children, and sympathize with women. This is how I apply my mind." Shun said: "This is good, but not yet magnificent." Yao asked: "Then what should be done?" Shun responded: "Emulate Heaven's virtue (natural law) and all things will find peace—like the sun and moon shining, the seasons progressing, as regular as day and night alternating, as natural as clouds moving and rain falling." Yao sighed: "Then I've been troubling myself needlessly! You harmonize with the Dao of Heaven, while I've only matched the Dao of humanity." The Way of Heaven and Earth has been the most magnificent since antiquity, praised alike by the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun. Thus ancient rulers of the world simply emulated Heaven and Earth.

When Confucius wished to deposit his books in the Zhou royal library, Zilu advised: "I've heard that Lao Dan (Laozi), the Zhou archivist, has retired to his home. If you wish to deposit these texts, you might seek his assistance." Confucius agreed and visited Laozi, who initially refused. Confucius then enumerated twelve classics (Note: Three interpretations exist regarding "twelve classics": 1) the Six Classics plus Six Weft texts; 2) the Book of Changes' upper and lower texts plus the Ten Wings; 3) the twelve ducal chronicles of the Spring and Autumn Annals) to persuade him. Laozi interrupted: "Too verbose—give me the essence." Confucius then presented the essential points.

This dialogue records the debate between Laozi (Lao Dan) and Confucius on humaneness and righteousness, as well as Shicheng Qi's misunderstanding and subsequent realization about Laozi.

When Confucius asked Laozi whether humaneness and righteousness were inherent to human nature, Laozi countered by questioning their essence. Confucius explained that embracing all things with impartial, universal love constituted their core. Laozi, however, considered this "universal love" concept overly pedantic—seemingly selfless yet secretly self-serving. Using natural laws as metaphor, he observed that celestial movements, the sun and moon, stars, birds, beasts, and plants all follow natural principles. Humans need only follow their innate nature—why deliberately promote humaneness and righteousness? It's like beating gongs and drums to search for a lost child, which only disrupts people's natural dispositions.

Later, Shicheng Qi visited Laozi with great admiration, only to find this so-called "sage" living in modest conditions—with leftover vegetables nibbled by mice, seemingly not supporting his own sister, yet continuously accumulating goods. He accused Laozi of lacking humaneness. Laozi remained silent. The next day, Shicheng Qi realized his error and apologized. Laozi responded: "The truly wise transcend names and labels. Call me ox and I'll be ox; call me horse and I'll be horse. If one merits a title yet refuses it, calamity follows. I've always followed nature spontaneously, without deliberate effort."

This exchange embodies the Daoist core principle of Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness: opposing forced moral posturing while advocating the elimination of artificiality to return to authentic being. Laozi's "ox-horse metaphor" illustrates how Dao cultivators should transcend external judgments while maintaining inner constancy. Shicheng Qi's story warns against misjudging realized beings through conventional moral standards.

This passage recounts the dialogue between Laozi and Shicheng Qi regarding self-cultivation, along with Laozi's exposition on the Dao (the Way).

Shicheng Qi approached respectfully to inquire about the path of self-cultivation. Laozi described his demeanor thus: his expression was haughty, his gaze piercing, his forehead broad, and his voice resonant—outwardly imposing, yet inwardly restless like a tethered horse. Laozi pointed out that while such a person may appear restrained on the surface, their outbursts are like arrows loosed from a bow; though observant in detail, they often fixate excessively on trivialities. Such individuals cannot be trusted, akin to bandits lurking at the borders.

Laozi said that the Great Dao (the supreme truth of the Way) neither neglects the grand nor overlooks the minute, thus embracing all things. It is vast and boundless, unfathomably deep. Superficial virtues like benevolence and righteousness are but the outermost branches of the spirit—only those who have truly attained the Dao (Zhiren, the perfected person) can grasp its essence. The perfected possess all things in the world yet remain unburdened; they do not engage in the world's conflicts, preserving their innate purity untempted by profit. They perceive the true nature of things and hold fast to the root, thereby transcending the myriad phenomena of heaven and earth, their spirits eternally free. They comprehend the Great Dao, aligning with their natural disposition, relegating benevolence, righteousness, rites, and music to secondary status while maintaining unshaken inner tranquility.

The final passage observes that people often value recorded words in books, yet what is truly precious in speech lies in its profound meaning. The ultimate truth behind these meanings cannot be conveyed through words. People cling to visible forms and colors, audible names and titles, unaware that such superficial phenomena can never capture the true essence of things.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Duke Huan of Qi and the wheelwright Bian, revealing the truth that "true wisdom cannot be fully conveyed through words."

While Duke Huan was reading in his hall, the wheelwright Bian set down his tools and inquired, "What book is Your Highness reading?" The Duke replied it contained the sayings of sages. When Bian asked whether these sages were still alive and learned they had passed away, he bluntly remarked, "Then what you're reading is merely the dregs left by ancient people."

Enraged, the Duke threatened to execute Bian unless he could justify his statement. The wheelwright then explained through his craft: When making wheels, working too slowly produces loose and unstable wheels, while working too fast makes them too tight to assemble properly. Only through the perfect rhythm—neither too fast nor too slow—can one achieve mastery. Yet this intuitive skill cannot be transmitted through words; even his own son cannot learn it this way. That's why at seventy, he still must make wheels himself.

Bian used this analogy to illustrate how the true wisdom of the ancients resembles his wheelmaking craft—its essence cannot be fully captured in writing. The written records left by deceased sages are but remnants of their thought. Authentic wisdom requires personal practice to comprehend; it cannot be attained through book learning alone.