《南華真經循本》Vol. 2

During the Warring States period, intellectual discourse had fallen into chaos with endless disputes over right and wrong, while worldly morality deteriorated. The Confucians advocated suppressing heterodox teachings and rectifying behavior to preserve the Way of sages, whereas the Lao-Zhuang school maintained that one should preserve natural spontaneity, refrain from debating right and wrong, and achieve harmonious unity by following the inherent nature of all things. This passage primarily engages with Gongsun Long (a representative figure of the School of Names) on propositions concerning "right and wrong, self and other," touching upon Gongsun Long's famous arguments such as "a white horse is not a horse" and "hardness and whiteness are separate yet identical."

Nan Guo Ziqi (a Daoist recluse) sat leaning against a low table. First, he bowed his head in repose, then suddenly looked up and exhaled toward the sky, before closing his mouth in silence. Within moments, his demeanor transformed three times, vividly captured like a painting. "Losing his counterpart" refers to the spirit transcending the constraints of the physical form, as if forgetting the ears, eyes, and body—becoming like a dead man.

His disciple Yan Cheng Ziyou (given name Yan, courtesy name Ziyou, posthumous title "Chengke"), who stood nearby attending to him, asked: "How can this be? Can a person's body truly become as still as withered wood, and the mind as lifeless as dead ashes? The master leaning against the table today seems entirely different from the one who leaned here before." He marveled at how a person's form and spirit could reach such a state, feeling that today's Ziqi compared to the Ziqi of the past was like a living man transformed into a dead one.

Ziqi replied: "Yan, you ask well indeed." Here, "wu" (吾) refers to the true self of the spirit, while "wo" (我) denotes the physical body. Though the three terms "wu," "wo," and "ji" (己) appear similar, "wo" and "ji" always carry selfish desires and distractions. Just as Confucius advocated "having no self" (无我) and instructed Yan Hui to "overcome the self" (克己, restrain selfish desires), Daoist cultivation similarly seeks to nurture the original spirit (Shen), treating the body as an external thing that can be relinquished. Ziqi's statement "wu sang wo" (吾丧我, "I have lost myself") precisely describes this transcendent state.

This passage describes a dialogue between Zhuangzi (Ziqi) and his disciple Ziyou concerning the "pipes of Heaven" (Tianlai). After entering a state of self-forgetfulness, Ziqi explains to Ziyou the different levels of "sound."

Ziqi says: You have heard the sound of human flutes (Renlai), but not the sound produced by the earth (Dilai); you have heard Dilai, but not the sound of nature itself (Tianlai). If one comprehends the principles of Dilai and Tianlai, they will understand why I can achieve this state of self-forgetfulness.

Ziyou inquires about the reasoning behind this. Ziqi explains: The breath exhaled by heaven and earth (the Great Clod) is the wind. When this wind does not rise, all is still, but once it begins to blow, countless hollows roar in response. Have you not heard the drawn-out sound of this wind? It sweeps through the mountain forests (the winding "Weicui" peaks), passing through the various hollows of hundred-span trees. These hollows take diverse forms: some resemble noses, mouths, or ears (shapes of human organs); others resemble wooden frames, rings, or stone mortars (shapes of vessels); still others resemble pools or ditches (features of terrain).

The sounds produced by these hollows also vary: some resemble rushing torrents, others whistling arrows; some sound like scolding, others like breathing; some wail like lamentations, others echo like deep chambers; some chirp like birdsong. The initial sounds resemble the playing of the yu (an ancient wind instrument), while the following sounds resemble the opening and closing of fish mouths in response.

When the breeze is light, the sounds are gentle; when the gale is fierce, the sounds become mighty. Yet when the storm ceases, all hollows return to silence. Have you not seen how grasses and trees continue swaying faintly after the wind has passed? Here, the phrase "singing in harmony" describes the natural sounds (lai) produced by these various hollows.

This passage discusses Zhuangzi's discourse on the "pipes of earth," "pipes of humans," and "pipes of heaven" from the "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" (Qiwulun), along with descriptions of human mental states.

Regarding the depiction of wind sounds: when wind passes through treetops, "diaodiao" describes harmonious wind sounds while "diaodiao" denotes subtle rustling. In folk expressions today, gentle breezes are called "diaodiao," and tea pickers refer to tender branches as "diaoduo," meaning the slender twigs can be easily plucked. These describe the "pipes of earth" (sounds emanating from the earth) - when wind arises creating various noises that suddenly return to silence, mirroring life's impermanence and leading to the subsequent discussion.

Ziyou asked: "The pipes of earth are the sounds from various hollows, the pipes of humans come from instruments like panpipes and flutes - but what are the pipes of heaven?" Ziqi replied: "The pipes of heaven are like wind blowing through all things producing different sounds, yet all emanate from the things themselves. All transformations occur spontaneously without external creators driving them." Here "rage" (nu) doesn't denote emotion but describes sudden transformations, like violent winds causing various hollows to abruptly sound out.

The text then describes different human states: the greatly wise remain unhurried (xianxian), while the petty clever are nitpicking (jianjian); elevated discourse appears majestic (yanyan), while trivial talk becomes garrulous (zhanzhan). When sleeping, the spirit turns inward (hun jiao), while waking brings physical activity (xing kai) - daily interactions with the world inevitably generate all manner of mental conflicts.

Finally, the character "man" (縵) originally meant unpatterned silk fabric, here metaphorically representing intricate yet concealed stratagems. Like the "Qingyun Song's" description "the rituals are intricately patterned (manman xi)," portraying ceremonial decorations of elaborate complexity.

This passage analyzes the various manifestations of human cunning and emotional fluctuations. It begins by describing how the human mind's machinations are as concealed as storing objects in an underground cellar—minor fears cause mental unease, while major fears lead to chaotic thoughts. Human speech and actions resemble the trigger mechanism of a crossbow, always aimed at specific targets; when stubbornly clinging to one's views, it's like making an unbreakable oath of alliance.

The text then employs seasonal metaphors to depict the mind's transformations: the waning of willpower resembles the withering austerity of autumn and winter, gradually declining—all consequences of being mired in material desires, making it difficult to turn back. A closed-off mind is like being bound by ropes, just as aging people become trapped in the ditches of desire; this death-approaching mentality cannot revive its vitality.

Next, it enumerates twelve emotional states—joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, worry, lament, change, fear, indulgence, frivolity, cleverness, and cunning (more detailed than Confucianism's "seven emotions"). The passage concludes with two metaphors: these emotions are like music emerging from emptiness or mushrooms forming from rising earth qi (vital energy)—all arising spontaneously and remaining elusive.

(Note: The "trigger mechanism" refers to ancient crossbow firing devices; "oath of alliance" denotes swearing rituals; "aging in desire's ditches" metaphorically describes elders trapped in craving; "frivolous indulgence" indicates a dissipated state; while "mushrooms from rising qi" uses fungal growth to symbolize emotions' natural emergence.)

This passage explores the philosophical concepts of "Heavenly Music" (the sounds of nature) and the "True Ruler" (the fundamental governor of life) from Zhuangzi's "Discourse on Making All Things Equal."

The text begins with a musical metaphor: Just as the Yellow Bell (the foundational note in ancient Chinese twelve-tone system) is created, the "One" emerges from emptiness, giving birth to "Three" and "Nine," evolving through the twelve earthly branches to ultimately form 177,147 variations. This mirrors how morning mushrooms that perish by dusk arise from the void—both manifestations of natural creation.

The alternation of day and night unfolds before our eyes, yet we cannot discern its origin. Though people experience this daily rhythm, none know whence life comes. Ziqi (the Daoist sage in Zhuangzi's writings) laments how ordinary people drift through life like those ephemeral mushrooms unaware of the lunar cycle, never comprehending life's true source.

The discourse then turns to the principle of the "True Ruler": Without external creation there would be no "self," yet without the "self" we couldn't perceive the myriad things. Like wind producing diverse sounds through different objects, all occurs spontaneously. Though invisible and intangible, this True Ruler (referring to primordial Qi) undeniably exists. It mysteriously harmonizes the two energies of Yin-Yang and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), forming life's foundation. Within the human body, this "True Ruler" drives the circulation of Qi and blood, generating myriad transformations while remaining silent and formless. Daoist practitioners can verify its presence through cultivation, yet never grasp its concrete form. This embodies Laozi's Great Dao and later became the theoretical basis for Neidan (internal alchemy) practice.

The terms "copulation of Kan and Li" represent Neidan terminology, symbolizing the harmonization of kidney water (Kan) and heart fire (Li); while "mother and child clinging together" metaphorically describes the cultivation state where Shen (spirit) and Qi become interdependent. The entire passage elucidates that formless yet profoundly real natural Dao underlying all existence.

This passage explores the relationship between the physical body and the spiritual consciousness, revealing that while our bodies consist of hundreds of bones (百骸), nine orifices (九窍 including eyes, ears, nostrils and mouth), and six visceral systems (六藏 referring to the five zang organs plus the kidneys), the true ruler of all these is the "True Sovereign" (真君) - our authentic self or original spirit (Shen).

The author employs a rhetorical questioning style: Are all these components equal? Do we favor some over others? Do they control each other like ministers and concubines? Ultimately, the text unveils that the true governing authority is the internal "True Sovereign."

It emphasizes that whether people recognize this "True Sovereign" or not, its existence remains constant - neither increasing nor decreasing from birth till death. Yet ordinary people often become entangled with external matters, harming themselves like clashing swords, spinning endlessly like an unstoppable wheel. They toil throughout life without finding their true home - what meaning does such an existence hold? When the physical form decays, the consciousness perishes with it - this constitutes life's greatest tragedy.

The passage concludes with a poignant lament: Are all humans born into such confusion? Or am I alone in my bewilderment while others remain clear-minded? This echoes Ziqi's discourse on the "Sounds of Nature" (天籁) from Zhuangzi's "On the Equality of Things" chapter, suggesting all humans originally possess true nature that becomes obscured by worldly conditioning. Through this progressive series of profound questions, the text warns humanity to return to fundamental authenticity and recognize the inner sovereign.

This passage explores the concept of the "true governor" (zhenzai) within the human mind—the innate master or original heart—and the futility of debates about right and wrong.

Every person harbors personal biases and subjective judgments. If we all take these as standards, then who doesn't have their own criteria? Why must one understand the principle of cyclical change in things? Even foolish people possess such subjective judgments. If one hasn't yet established true principles within but rushes to distinguish right from wrong, it's as absurd as claiming yesterday's arrival in Yue when one only departed today. This act of treating the nonexistent as existent would baffle even a sage like Yu the Great—how much more so ordinary people?

Those cultivating the Dao need not seek teachers externally; by turning inward to observe their original heart, they'll find guidance. This "true governor" exists in everyone, whether wise or foolish. If one hasn't discovered this inner master and debates right and wrong before settling their mind's intent, it's as unreliable as declaring the nonexistent to exist.

The discussion then turns to verbal debates: Human speech differs from the mindless wind's sound in nature, being laden with subjective intentions. Since words originate from human hearts, they inevitably carry personal biases, making their content uncertain and unfit as absolute standards. Given this inherent uncertainty, people may regard such statements as never spoken. Like the chirps of newly hatched birds—where magpie calls are deemed auspicious and crow caws ominous—these meanings are entirely human projections.

When ominous birds cry, it foretells rain; when cuckoos call, they urge the planting of crops—these natural phenomena can serve as reliable indicators. Yet if one hears the immature cries of fledgling birds, they cannot be taken as such. Similarly, human speech that remains unsettled follows the same principle.

The Great Dao (referring to the fundamental truth of the cosmos) originally has no distinction between true and false—so why does it become obscured, giving rise to such distinctions? Ultimate principles inherently involve no debate over right and wrong—so why are they concealed, spawning such disputes? Why does the Dao vanish from sight? Why do words exist yet prove unreliable? These are rhetorical questions. The answer lies in this: The Great Dao is obscured by the petty achievements of heterodox paths, and truth is buried beneath flashy but insubstantial rhetoric. Thus Confucians and Mohists argue endlessly about right and wrong—when Mohists deem Confucians wrong, they assert their own position as right; when Confucians consider themselves correct, they declare Mohist teachings mistaken. By negating what the other affirms and affirming what the other negates, they only plunge deeper into confusion.

Rather than engage in such endless contention, it would be better to first clarify one's "true sovereign" (referring to the authentic governing principle within, the heart-mind aligned with the Dao). This means: First attend to your own cultivation—why trouble yourself with idle debates over right and wrong? The previous section concluded that human life is inherently bewildered—am I alone in this confusion while others remain clear-eyed? Hence this section ends with "better to first understand"—those who understand know where the true sovereign resides, while the confused remain ignorant. The following two sections repeatedly emphasize this principle with profound intent.

All things have their opposites (that), and all things maintain their own positions (this). Viewed from the other's perspective, clarity is lost; only from one's own standpoint can understanding emerge. Thus we say opposites arise from established positions, while positions themselves depend on their opposites—this is the principle of "mutual arising of this and that." The previous section only discussed the terms "right and wrong," yet these distinctions actually stem from the relative relationship between "that and this." Therefore, this section employs "this and that" for discussion—to say "nothing exists that isn't that" means all things exist in relationship to their counterparts.

This passage expounds the Daoist perspective on the relativity of "self and other, right and wrong." The essential meaning is:

Every person habitually views things from their own standpoint, considering themselves correct ("this") while regarding the opposing view as wrong ("that"). The other party similarly perceives us in this manner. This state of mutual accusation and entrenched positions will never cease.

Just like the relationship between life and death, or the permissible and impermissible, these opposites are interdependent and cyclical. When we speak of "life," we inherently imply "death"; when we say "permissible," we already contain "impermissible." This unity of opposites perpetually transforms and flows.

Therefore, the sage (one who has attained the Dao) doesn't become entangled in such debates over right and wrong, but observes things from the perspective of heavenly Dao (natural law). They understand all judgments of right and wrong are relative, shifting with changing standpoints. The best approach is to follow nature's course, allowing right and wrong to reveal themselves spontaneously rather than stubbornly clinging to one's own views.

The text employs the metaphor "that and this grow together" (彼是方生), illustrating how opposing concepts flourish like ever-growing plants—waxing and waning in endless cycles. Only by transcending personal positions can one perceive the true nature of things.

The Nanhua Zhenjing Xunben passage primarily explores the path of transcending the duality of right and wrong. The essential meaning is that a truly wise person does not become entangled in debates over right and wrong, but rather rises above worldly judgments. Whether something is deemed right or wrong, they let the natural Dao (the Way) reveal the truth. What is called "following what is" (顺应自然之理) encompasses both affirmation and negation, though here it is briefly referred to simply as "following what is."

Right and wrong are ultimately relative—what you consider right, others may consider wrong; what others consider right, you may consider wrong. When each side clings to their own view, who can ultimately determine what is truly right or wrong? The sage understands this principle and thus does not fixate on opposition. This state of transcending duality is called the "pivot of Dao" (道枢, the axis of the great Way). Just as a door's hinge sits at the center of a ring, allowing it to turn freely without obstruction, the sage who grasps this pivot can respond to the endless variations of right and wrong.

The text then illustrates this with a metaphor: To argue that "a finger is not a finger" by using the finger itself is less effective than using "non-finger" things to demonstrate the point. Similarly, to argue that "a horse is not a horse" by using the horse itself is less effective than using "non-horse" things to clarify. Heaven and earth can be seen as one "finger," and the myriad things as one "horse." Inherently, things have no absolute right or wrong—what is deemed acceptable becomes acceptable, and what is deemed unacceptable becomes unacceptable. The Dao operates naturally to form all things, and whatever is said to be so, is so. Why is it this way? Because it is originally so. Why is it not that way? Because it is originally not so. All things have their own reason for existing—nothing is without its proper place.

Here, the text references the famous Warring States period debate about "a white horse not being a horse," using the analogy of a finger close at hand. Debaters often say "a finger is not a finger," but rather than using the finger itself to argue the point, it is more illuminating to use non-finger things to demonstrate. Similarly, when claiming "a horse is not a horse," it is clearer to explain using non-horse things.

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's philosophy of "equalizing all things" (齐物), conveying that all phenomena are fundamentally without distinction, and what we perceive as differences are merely subjective human impositions.

Take the example of "horses": If we consider heaven and earth as a single finger, then what people ordinarily call a finger is no longer truly a finger; if we regard all things as horses, then what people call horses are no longer real horses. When attached to superficial appearances, one insists that a finger is just a finger and a horse is just a horse; without such attachment, heaven and earth can be taken as a finger, and all things can be seen as horses. Therefore, one should not stubbornly cling to judgments of "right" or "wrong."

The Dao originally had no name—it was only through human practice that it came to be called "Dao." All things were originally nameless—it was humans who assigned them various names. Concepts of "correct" and "incorrect" are likewise artificial divisions imposed by people. From the perspective of things' essential nature, there is nothing absolutely right or wrong.

For instance, a roof beam (莛) and a pillar (楹), or an ugly woman (厉) and a beauty like Xi Shi (西施), may appear completely different, yet from the Dao's viewpoint they are identical. The division of things may lead to completion, while wholeness may result in destruction. Thus, all things are neither inherently complete nor destroyed—they are fundamentally interconnected.

Only those who have attained true understanding realize that all things are ultimately one. They do not act with deliberate effort but instead follow natural patterns (what is called "庸" refers to ordinary function). To be able to harmonize with nature in this way, merging with the Dao without conscious striving, represents the highest state of being.

Through numerous analogies, this passage illustrates that the distinctions and oppositions people habitually make are relative. From the perspective of the Dao, all things share the same essence, and differences are merely superficial. The truly wise do not cling to these apparent distinctions but instead accord with the natural state of things as they are.

This passage explores profound Daoist insights on "right and wrong" and the "discriminating mind." It illustrates with the story of a monkey trainer: When he gave the monkeys three chestnuts in the morning and four in the evening, they became angry; when he reversed it to four in the morning and three in the evening, they were pleased. The total remained unchanged—only the monkeys' delusion by appearances generated their emotional reactions.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) understands this principle and thus harmonizes disputes over right and wrong, maintaining unity with natural laws. This is called "liangxing" (twofold course)—allowing opposing sides to operate naturally without conflict. The ancient masters of profound realization held that the primordial world existed in a state of "weishi youwu" (not yet having things), a chaos where even the concept of matter was absent—this represents the highest realm of understanding. Those of lesser attainment recognized material existence but without boundaries or distinctions. Those further still perceived boundaries but without judgments of right and wrong. The emergence of such judgments marks the beginning of the Dao's diminishment.

The example of Zhaowen playing the zither follows: When he played, musical achievement was realized but simultaneously created lack (as only partial tones could be expressed); when he refrained, though seemingly unproductive, the music's wholeness was preserved. Zhaowen, the famous musician Shikuang, and the logician Hui Shi each possessed remarkable skills, yet their attachment to specialization limited their complete apprehension of the Dao. The true Dao transcends all dualities of success and failure—it is the absolute realm beyond such distinctions.

This passage recounts the story of Zhaowen, a renowned ancient zither master, to illustrate the principle that "obsessing over distinguishing achievement from deficiency leads to losing one's authentic nature."

Zhaowen was obsessed with zither artistry, spending his entire life trying to prove himself through his musical skill. Yet ordinary people couldn't comprehend the profundity in his music—just like the debates in the "Hard and White" theory (the School of Names' arguments about the "hardness" and "whiteness" attributes of stone), where the more one tries to explain, the more confusing it becomes. After Zhaowen's death, his son inherited his art but likewise never found a true appreciator throughout his life.

The author poses a rhetorical question: Had Zhaowen never learned the zither in the first place, where would there be any "achievement" or "deficiency" to speak of? It was precisely his excessive attachment to zither artistry that trapped him in such distinctions. If we consider Zhaowen's case as achievement, then anyone today could be considered accomplished; if we consider it not achievement, then neither all things nor ourselves could be said to have any achievement.

Thus, the wisdom of the sage (one who has realized the Dao) lies in not deliberately distinguishing between "achievement" and "non-achievement," but rather following the natural Dao (the term "yong" refers to an ordinary, natural state). Within those seemingly ambiguous and indistinguishable things actually lies true illumination. This is what the Zhuangzi calls "using clarity"—observing all things with wisdom that transcends dualistic oppositions of right and wrong.

The text mentions Shi Kuang, a famous musician of the Spring and Autumn period, and Hui Shi (Huizi), a representative figure of the School of Names—both men, along with Zhaowen, were renowned for their consummate skills. The author uses them as contrasts to show that even when one's skill reaches the pinnacle of perfection, being attached to self-expression ultimately leads to losing one's authentic nature.