《南華真經循本》Vol. 15

The fifteenth volume, seventh chapter of Nanhua Zhenjing Xunben titled "The Movement of Heaven" primarily explores the philosophical principles governing the natural operation of heaven and earth, as well as the concept of "supreme benevolence."

Regarding the movement of heaven and earth, the text employs a series of rhetorical questions to provoke contemplation: Is heaven truly revolving? Is earth truly still? Why do the sun and moon perpetually contend along the ecliptic (the path ancients believed the sun traveled)? Who governs these movements? Is there some mechanism compelling them to move, or are they simply unable to cease? When clouds transform into rain and rain back into clouds, who orchestrates this transformation? When winds blow from the north, then shift east and west, rising and falling unpredictably, whose breath propels them? These questions all express the profound and inscrutable nature of cosmic operation.

The shaman Xianzhao (an ancient spirit medium) responds: Heaven possesses the six directions (up, down, and the four cardinal points) and the five constants (the laws of the Five Phases). When rulers align with these, they govern effectively; when they defy them, calamity ensues. If the affairs of the people across the nine provinces are properly managed and Virtue (De) is perfected, blessings will extend throughout the world—this represents the highest ideal of governance.

Later, through a dialogue between Tai Zaidang of the Shang state and Zhuangzi, the essence of "benevolence" is examined. Zhuangzi proposes a startling view: even tigers and wolves exhibit benevolence, as seen in the affection between parent and offspring. When pressed on what constitutes the highest form of benevolence, Zhuangzi states, "Supreme benevolence recognizes no kinship"—the most elevated form of love transcends distinctions of closeness or distance. Tai Zaidang challenges this, asking if it negates filial piety. Zhuangzi explains that supreme benevolence is a realm beyond filial duty, just as traveling south to Ying (the capital of Chu) makes the northern Mount Ming disappear from view. This isn’t a rejection of filial piety but an ascent to a broader perspective.

This passage exemplifies Zhuangzi’s worldview of natural spontaneity (Wuwei) and his philosophy of transcending conventional morality. Through metaphors of celestial motion and distant journeys obscuring mountains, it illustrates how "supreme benevolence" represents a higher state of being that surpasses worldly notions of kinship and separation.

To show filial piety through reverence is easy, but to do so with genuine love from the heart is difficult. To be filial with love is easy, but to completely forget the very concept of "filial piety" is harder still. It is simple to let one’s parents forget that we are fulfilling our duties, but to make the whole world forget that we are accumulating virtue through good deeds is truly challenging.

True virtue does not deliberately display itself, even if it surpasses the sages Yao and Shun. Its blessings extend across generations, yet it leaves no trace of fame. How could such a person spend their days sighing and boasting of their benevolence and filial devotion? Those who rigidly uphold filial piety, brotherly respect, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, chastity, and integrity are merely forcing themselves into moral constraints—such behavior is not worthy of excessive praise. Thus, the noblest ruler discards rank, the wealthiest sovereign disregards riches, and the most transcendent individual remains indifferent to fame—only then can the purity of the Dao (the Way) be preserved.

Beimen Cheng, a minister of the Yellow Emperor, once asked him: "When Your Majesty performed the Xianchi music by Lake Dongting, at first I felt fear, then I grew relaxed, and in the end, I became so entranced that I could no longer speak." The Yellow Emperor explained: "Your reaction is natural. This music of mine is grounded in human affairs, follows the rhythm of Heaven’s principles, expresses itself through ritual and righteousness, and is rooted in the Great Purity (the origin of the cosmos). The most sublime music must first resonate with human sentiment, align with the patterns of Heaven, embody the Five Virtues (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness), and harmonize with nature. It blends the cycles of the four seasons, allowing all things to flourish in unity."

This passage describes the profound mystery of music: the turning of the seasons, the growth and decline of all things, the interplay of vigor and restraint (reflecting rhythmic variation), the balance of clarity and depth, and the harmony of Yin and Yang. The notes flow like crystalline water, awakening hibernating insects at the sound of thunder. This music comes without trace and departs without shadow, suddenly arising and vanishing, endlessly transforming yet impossible to predict—hence your initial fear. Like the workings of Heaven and Earth, its rhythm may be strong or soft, clear or deep, with Yin and Yang complementing each other, the melody shimmering as it unfolds. At times, it bursts forth like sudden thunder, without beginning or end, cycling endlessly between life and death, rise and fall—forever elusive.

This passage describes a realm of music that transcends ordinary human perception. The power of thunder is unpredictable, with life and death rising and falling in endless cycles—these transformations cannot be forced nor awaited. When Beimen Cheng heard this music, he was struck with awe, for it revealed the profound mysteries of cosmic movement.

The extraordinary nature of this music is further depicted: it harmonizes the two energies of Yin and Yang, illuminating the world like the sun and moon. At times brief, at times lingering, now gentle, now forceful, it shifts endlessly yet remains perfectly unified, never confined to any fixed pattern. This music fills mountain valleys and ravines, even mending the hollows of the mind ("涂却" refers to blocked apertures). The performer need only maintain focused awareness and align with the natural order, and the music will spontaneously unfold its majestic resonance.

So sublime is this music that ghosts and spirits remain peacefully in their hidden realms, while the sun, moon, and stars move in perfect rhythm. It pauses at times, flows at others, ever elusive and unpredictable. Ordinary people may seek to comprehend it but fail to grasp its depths, attempt to see it clearly but find it impossible to capture, or strive to follow it yet always fall behind. The listener can only stand bewildered in emptiness, leaning against a withered wutong tree in lamentation. Vision exhausts itself in pursuit, strength is spent in chasing, until finally one must relinquish all striving, allowing body and mind to fully relax and surrender to the music’s natural flow.

Through the metaphor of music, this passage illustrates the Daoist principle of following nature’s way (Dao), emphasizing the cosmic law of Yin-Yang harmony and ceaseless transformation. It conveys the cultivation attitude of letting go of attachments and aligning with spontaneity (Wuwei).

This passage describes a supreme realm of music that transcends sensory perception. When leaning against a withered parasol tree and chanting, one feels their vision exhausted and vitality depleted—though wishing to follow, there is no path to grasp. Since it cannot be attained, one only perceives its form filling the void, and the mind grows lax and indolent.

Thus, I play again the "Sound of No Slackness," harmonizing it with the natural Mandate of Heaven (Tianming). This music is like all things mingling and chasing one another, flourishing together yet without concrete form, scattering and spreading yet leaving no trace, deep and obscure without audible sound. It moves without fixed direction, dwelling in profound and hidden places—some call it death, others life; some say it is fruit, others flourishing. This music flows and transforms, unbound by fixed tones, leaving worldly people perplexed, who then seek answers from sages. The so-called sage is one who comprehends human nature and aligns with the Mandate of Heaven.

This Heavenly Music (Tianle) does not need deliberate artifice, yet it embodies all qualities of sound. It cannot be described in words, yet it brings natural joy to the heart. In ancient times, the legendary musician Yanshi once praised it thus: "You listen but hear no sound, you look but see no form—it fills Heaven and Earth, embraces the cosmos. You long to hear it but cannot grasp it, and so you are bewildered."

Here, the "Sound of No Slackness" is explained: it is harmonized with the natural Mandate of Heaven, just as the Mandate operates spontaneously. This music is like all things mingling and chasing, flourishing without form, scattering fully without lingering resonance, silent in its depths. It moves without fixed direction, dwelling in unfathomable obscurity—some call it death, others life; some say it is fruit, others flourishing. One only sees it flowing and transforming, never clinging to conventional tones. This Heavenly Music does not need deliberate artifice (Tianji bu zhang), yet it possesses all qualities of sound (wuguan jie bei). It is the embodiment of the natural Mandate of Heaven, ineffable yet inwardly understood.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first part explores the relationship between music and enlightenment. The profound beauty of music cannot be directly grasped, thus generating perplexity. Initially, music evokes awe ("惧"), which elevates the spirit as if sensing divine presence; then it induces fatigue ("怠"), making one wish to abandon it; finally it leads to bewilderment ("惑"), where rational judgment becomes obscured, ultimately reaching a state of "愚" (simplicity). This "simplicity" isn't foolishness, but rather the state of relinquishing attachments to achieve unity with the Dao. Zhuangzi uses these three stages of musical appreciation as a metaphor for the path to enlightenment.

The second part presents Shi Jin's allegory to Yan Yuan: straw dogs (刍狗) used in rituals are meticulously adorned before ceremonies, only to be trampled or burned afterward. If one reverently preserves these used ritual objects, not only would they fail to bring auspicious dreams, but might even induce visions of monsters (hallucinations). Shi Jin employs this metaphor to critique Confucius' adherence to outdated royal rituals—like clinging to used straw dogs—which led to his misfortunes: being driven away in Song by tree-cutters, besieged in Wei, frustrated in Zhou territories, all resembling nightmares. His subsequent seven-day starvation between Chen and Cai, nearly fatal, parallels being deluded by malignant visions.

(Note: "Shi Jin" was a Lu state official overseeing music; "straw dogs" were ritual objects discarded after ceremonies; "眯" refers to visions caused by foreign matter in the eye)

This passage vividly illustrates the Daoist core principle of "acting according to circumstances" through metaphorical language. The opening analogy compares boats and carriages: while boats function well in water, forcing them onto land renders them useless—just as imposing Zhou dynasty rituals on the state of Lu would be not only futile but disastrous. True wisdom resembles the ancient well-sweep (jié gāo) that naturally rises and falls with external forces, neither resisting nor forcing outcomes.

The fruit metaphor follows: the rites of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors are like pears, oranges, and pomelos—each distinct in flavor yet equally delicious, showing institutions must adapt to their times. Forcing a monkey to wear the ornate robes of the Duke of Zhou would only make it tear them off—highlighting how past and present differ. When the beauty Xizi frowned from heartache, it charmed; when an ugly woman copied the gesture, she frightened neighbors away. This reveals the folly of mimicking forms without grasping essence.

The latter section records 51-year-old Confucius seeking wisdom from Laozi (Li Er, founder of Daoism during the Spring and Autumn period). Laozi responds with four rhetorical questions: if the Dao (the Way) could be offered to rulers, presented to parents, shared with siblings, or taught to descendants, people would have done so long ago. This implies the Dao transcends verbal transmission, requiring personal realization. Confucius' five years studying institutions and twelve years researching yin-yang (阴阳) yielded no enlightenment precisely because he clung to methods rather than aligning with nature (zìrán). This dialogue starkly contrasts Daoist "following nature's way" (dào fǎ zìrán) with Confucian "restraining self to revive rites" (kèjǐ fùlǐ), showcasing their philosophical divergence.

This passage explains that the key to cultivating the Dao lies in the correspondence between inner and outer realms. If one lacks firm conviction within (zhong wu zhu), they cannot stabilize their fundamental mind; if they lack proper guidance externally (wai wu zheng), they won't know how to practice. Those who are self-righteous and refuse external teachings cannot comprehend the great Dao even when instructed by sages. Likewise, those who receive guidance but remain inwardly indolent cannot retain the Dao's teachings in their hearts.

Fame and wealth are communal possessions that should not be coveted excessively. Benevolence and righteousness (renyi) are like temporary lodgings of ancient emperors—places to stay briefly but not dwell permanently. Excessive attachment to them invites reproach. The perfected beings (zhiren) of antiquity used benevolence and righteousness merely as tools, ultimately returning to carefree spontaneity, living simple and unadorned lives. Those obsessed with riches cling to material gains, fame-seekers cannot relinquish vanity, and power-hungry individuals waver in anxiety—all are pitiable souls blinded by desire (tian zhi lu min).

Resentment, favor, taking, giving, admonishment, teaching, nurturing, and killing—these eight methods are instruments for governing the world. Only those who follow the great transformations of the Dao (dahua), expressing resentment or favor as circumstances require without selfish bias, can wield them correctly. If one harbors partiality, the celestial gate (tianmen) to the Dao will not open.

This passage recounts dialogues between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan) regarding the path of humaneness and righteousness, followed by further exchanges between Zigong and Laozi.

Laozi said to Confucius: "Just as chaff in the eye distorts one's vision, and mosquito bites keep one awake all night, excessive emphasis on humaneness and righteousness only confuses people's minds. Rather than this, why not let people maintain their natural simplicity? Move freely like the wind, establish yourself by following the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue). Why must you beat drums to announce your virtues like searching for a lost child? Promoting humaneness and righteousness is as futile as beating drums in such a search."

Using metaphors, Laozi continued: "The swan needs no daily washing to stay white, nor the crow daily dyeing to remain black—their true nature requires no artificial proof. Fame and honor cannot truly broaden one's being. When the spring dries up, fish spit moisture on each other on land—how much better to swim freely in rivers and lakes, unknown to one another."

After meeting Laozi, Confucius remained silent for three days. When disciples asked what admonitions he had given Laozi, Confucius sighed: "Now I have seen the true dragon! Gathering, it forms splendid patterns; scattering, it creates orderly designs. Riding clouds and mist, it nourishes both yin and yang. My jaw hangs open in awe—how could I presume to admonish him?" Hearing this, Zigong sought to meet this remarkable sage, presenting himself under Confucius's name.

As Laozi sat quietly in his hall, he asked mildly: "I am old—what admonitions do you bring me?" Zigong inquired: "The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed differently yet all achieved sagehood—why do you deny them this title?" Laozi countered by asking how their methods differed, prompting Zigong to cite examples like Yao passing power to Shun, and Shun to Yu. This dialogue exemplifies the Daoist reverence for natural spontaneity and rejection of artificial contrivance.

Laozi (Lao Dan) was instructing his disciples when he said: Young one, come closer, and I shall reveal to you the truth about how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world. When the Yellow Emperor ruled, he kept the people's hearts simple and guileless—when relatives passed away, no one wept nor was anyone criticized for not weeping. During Emperor Yao's reign, he encouraged kinship bonds, yet when some shortened mourning periods (the phrase "reducing the mourning rites" refers to simplified funeral customs), no one condemned them.

But when Emperor Shun governed, he inadvertently fostered competitiveness among the people. A child born after ten months in the womb could speak at five months old, and before reaching maturity, distinctions between close and distant relatives emerged—human nature began developing cunning artifice. By Emperor Yu's time, hearts had grown even more volatile; people became self-interested, treating warfare as routine. Killing bandits wasn't considered murder, factions formed, and the world descended into chaos. Schools of thought like Confucianism and Mohism then arose.

Originally, ritual systems were established to create ethical order (the term "establishing relationships" refers to social hierarchy), but they degenerated into treating daughters as bargaining chips (the phrase "exchanging women" refers to marital transactions for gain). Though the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors claimed to govern the world, in truth they sowed the greatest disorder. Their decrees violated the radiance of sun and moon above, disrupted the Qi (vital energy) of mountains and rivers below, and threw the four seasons into disarray between heaven and earth. Their cunning was more venomous than a scorpion's sting—even wild beasts couldn't follow their innate nature, yet these rulers presumed themselves sages. Such shamelessness!

Hearing this, Zigong (Confucius's disciple) stood frozen in discomfort. Later, Confucius told Laozi: "I've studied the Six Classics—the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, Book of Music, Book of Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals—for decades..."

This passage contrasts the governance of sage-kings to demonstrate how "benevolence, righteousness, and ritual laws" progressively corrupted humanity's original purity. The phrase "reducing the mourning rites" critiques simplified funeral customs, while "five grades of mourning attire" refers to ancient hierarchical grief rituals. "Tamed beasts" metaphorically describes people constrained by artificial norms. Laozi argues that human-devised morality ironically plunges the world into chaos.

This passage reveals the profound philosophy of "Dao follows nature" through a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi. Confucius had visited seventy-two rulers to expound the governing principles of ancient kings, yet none adopted his teachings. Laozi pointed out this was fortunate, as those rulers were not true enlightened sovereigns who understood the Dao.

Laozi illustrated the natural Dao with vivid analogies: white cranes conceive simply by gazing at each other, insects mate through their calls, and different species each have their unique reproductive methods. This mirrors the Dao (cosmic principle) itself—innate nature cannot be altered, heavenly mandate cannot be defied, timing cannot be forced, and the great Dao cannot be obstructed. Those who attain the Dao find smooth passage everywhere, while those who lose it encounter obstacles at every turn.

Three months later, Confucius realized: while crows feeding their young is commonplace, fish hatch eggs through mouth bubbles, and parasitic wasps rely on other insects to raise their offspring—each method differs. From the perspective of transformation, how can we speak of true or false? Humans obsess over blood relations, yet brothers grow jealous of each other, behaving worse than animals. "Not transforming with them as humans" refers to those who resist natural change—if one cannot adapt to transformation, how can they hope to transform others?

Finally, Laozi affirmed Confucius' understanding—true teaching isn't about forcing change, but naturally influencing through alignment with all things' inherent nature. This dialogue exemplifies the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," emphasizing the vital importance of respecting the natural patterns of existence.