《南華真經循本》Vol. 21

This chapter of "Zhi Bei You" recounts the story of Zhi (representing the seeker of knowledge) inquiring about the Dao from three different figures. First, Zhi arrives at Hidden Mound by the Mystic River and meets Wuweiwei (symbolizing natural non-action). He poses three questions: How should one think to comprehend the Dao? How should one act to abide in the Dao? What path should one take to attain the Dao? Wuweiwei offers no response—not out of refusal, but because he genuinely doesn't know how to answer.

Next, Zhi travels to Fox Gate Mountain south of the White River and encounters Kuangqu (symbolizing spontaneous nature). Kuangqu says, "I know the answers," but the moment he tries to speak, he forgets what he was going to say. Finally, Zhi returns to the celestial palace to consult the Yellow Emperor (symbolizing human artifice and education), who provides clear answers: True understanding comes from not thinking deliberately, abiding in the Dao requires releasing attachment to form, and the path to the Dao lies in not forcing one's way.

The Yellow Emperor reflects: Wuweiwei is the one who has truly attained the Dao, Kuangqu comes close, while both you and I remain far from it. The truly wise do not speak carelessly—those who talk much understand little. Thus, the sage practices "teaching without words." The Dao cannot be sought through deliberate effort, De (Virtue) cannot be achieved through striving, humaneness can be practiced artificially, righteousness will always have flaws, and ritual easily devolves into pretense.

The text reveals the degeneration of virtue: When the Dao is lost, people speak of De; when De is lost, they speak of humaneness; when humaneness is lost, they speak of righteousness; and when righteousness is lost, they turn to ritual. Ritual may appear refined, but it marks the beginning of chaos. Cultivating the Dao requires continually reducing artificial effort until reaching the state of Wuwei (non-action), where one can then accomplish all things effortlessly. Yet ordinary people chase external things, making it difficult to return to the source—only the enlightened "great person" can achieve this.

Finally, the text clarifies the nature of life and death: Life is the continuation of death, and death is the beginning of life—they form an endless cycle. Human existence is simply the gathering and dispersal of Qi (vital energy): when Qi gathers, there is life; when it scatters, there is death. Since life and death follow each other, why worry? All things are fundamentally one. People praise what is miraculous and despise what is foul, yet these constantly transform into each other—the foul and rotten can become miraculous again, just as the miraculous can return to decay.

What is foul and rotten can transform into the miraculous, and the miraculous can revert to foulness and decay. Thus we see that all under heaven is but the transformation of a single Qi (the fundamental energy constituting all things). For this reason, the sages particularly valued the principle of "Oneness."

The Yellow Emperor once said: "I questioned Wuweiwei (an enlightened master), but he gave me no answer—not because he wouldn't, but because he didn't know how. Then I asked Kuang Qu (another practitioner), who intended to explain but suddenly forgot what to say. Now I ask you—since you know this principle, why can't you truly comprehend it?" The Emperor concluded: "Wuweiwei was truly one with the Dao because he didn't even know what the 'Dao' was; Kuang Qu was close to enlightenment because he forgot his words; while you and I ultimately fail to understand precisely because we think we know."

Hearing this, Kuang Qu acknowledged the Yellow Emperor's wisdom. Between heaven and earth exists supreme beauty that never speaks; the four seasons follow clear rhythms yet offer no explanations; all things grow by fixed principles yet provide no clarifications. The sages observe heaven and earth's beauty to comprehend the patterns of all existence. Thus the perfected person (the highest adept) practices Wuwei (non-action), and the great sage never forces interference—this is the true method of observing heaven and earth.

Nowadays, though the human heart-mind (Shen, consciousness and spirit) is inherently subtle, it becomes entangled in myriad transformations, making people unable to grasp the fundamental reasons behind life and death, or the shifts between square and round. What passes is like a bird flying never to return, yet the principles governing all things have existed since antiquity—only people remain unaware. This Dao makes no distinction between inner and outer, great and small. All things under heaven rise and fall in ceaseless cycles, eternally renewed without growing stale. The four seasons revolve endlessly—vague yet real, formless yet mysteriously potent. All things grow within it unknowingly—this is the fundamental principle. Only by understanding this can one truly observe and comprehend heavenly Dao.

The human heart-mind can potentially reach the divine clarity of supreme essence, but ordinary people cannot emulate the sages' observation of heavenly Dao. Instead, they sink their Shen into endless transformations, thus failing to recognize the fundamental patterns governing all creation.

Nie Que (a Daoist figure) asked Bei Yi (another Daoist figure) about the methods of the Dao. Bei Yi replied: "Straighten your physical form, focus your gaze, and natural harmony will descend upon you. Restrain your intellectual cleverness, and your spirit will come to dwell within. De (Virtue) will become your radiance, and the Dao will become your abode. Be as innocent and guileless as a newborn calf, asking no questions about reasons." Before he could finish speaking, Nie Que had already fallen asleep. Delighted, Bei Yi departed singing: "A body like withered bones, a mind like cold ashes—this is the true state of comprehending the Dao. Not clinging to preconceptions, muddled and without cunning—how rare are such people!"

Emperor Shun asked Cheng (an ancient sage): "Can the Dao be obtained and possessed?" Cheng replied: "Even your own body does not belong to you—how could you possess the Dao?" Shun pressed further: "Then to whom does my body belong?" Cheng explained: "It is merely a form temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your life is not your own—it is the harmonious Qi bestowed by Heaven and Earth. Your nature and destiny are not your own—they are the patterns arranged by Heaven and Earth. Even your descendants are not your own—they are the continuance of Heaven and Earth's transformations. Thus, when you walk, you know not where you go; when you dwell, you know not what you hold; when you eat, you know not the flavors. All these are the flowing changes of Yin and Yang within Heaven and Earth—how could they be possessed by any individual?"

Confucius asked Laozi about the supreme Dao. Laozi said: "First purify yourself through fasting, unblock your spirit, and shatter your preconceptions. The Dao is profound and beyond words! I can only give you a general outline: Light is born from darkness, form arises from formlessness, spirit originates from the Dao, and the physical body is rooted in Jing (essence). All things give birth through forms: those with nine orifices (mammals) are born from wombs, those with eight orifices (oviparous creatures) are born from eggs. The Dao comes without shadow and departs without trace—it has no gate, no dwelling, yet extends everywhere in vast openness. Those who accord with the Dao have strong limbs, clear thinking, sharp hearing and vision, and use their minds effortlessly, responding to all things without rigidity. Heaven cannot but be high, Earth cannot but be broad, the sun and moon cannot but move, and all things cannot but flourish—this is the Dao! As for those who fight without needing knowledge, or debate without needing wisdom—the sages long ago saw through this truth. That which neither increases when added to nor diminishes when taken from—this is the treasure the sages cherish. Deep as the ocean, towering as mountains, cycling endlessly without cease—the Dao bears all things without exhaustion. This is the principle the noble person emulates."

The Dao (the Way), as the cosmic origin, exists beyond all things yet ceaselessly nourishes them without depletion. In the Central Plains, there exists a reality that transcends the dual energies of Yin-Yang, dwelling between heaven and earth—manifesting temporarily in human form but ultimately returning to its source (Taixu, the primordial void). From the perspective of ultimate origin, life resembles fermented plum mash (an ancient brewing agent): though some exist longer than others, all are ephemeral in essence. The world's endless debates over the righteousness of sage-king Yao versus tyrant Jie are but fleeting quarrels before eternity, utterly unworthy of contention.

The sages long ago established immutable truths—wisdom as vast as the ocean, as lofty as mountains, cycling endlessly without terminus. Those who deliberately seek to dominate all things are merely chasing external appearances. The true Dao nourishes effortlessly and spontaneously. Those beings who transcend Yin-Yang, temporarily dwelling in the human realm, will ultimately return to the realm of Taixu. From the cosmic view, life is like transient ferment; the difference between long and short lifespans is insignificant.

Even small melons and fruits (gualuo) follow their inherent patterns of growth, and human relations, however complex, have their natural order. The sage's approach to human relationships is this: to comply without resistance (as with father-son or ruler-subject bonds), to experience without attachment. Harmonious response is "De" (Virtue), and natural accord is "Dao." The principles by which emperors throughout history governed the world all stem from this.

Human life between heaven and earth is as brief as sunlight flashing through a crack. Note: "White steed" (baiju) symbolizes sunlight, and "crack" (xi) represents a wall's fissure—a metaphor for life's fleeting passage.

All things flourish and nothing fails to appear; they naturally decline and nothing fails to return. Life emerges from transformation, and in transformation it meets death. Creatures grieve this, and humans lament it. But casting off nature's bindings (天弢 refers to natural constraints) and shedding nature's fetters (天𧙍 refers to natural shackles), amidst the tangled twists of existence, the spirit prepares to depart as the body follows in dissolution—this is the ultimate homecoming. From formlessness to form, and from form back to formlessness—this is what ordinary people understand, yet it is not what Dao practitioners seek. Such matters are commonly discussed by the multitude, but those who have attained the Dao do not debate them, for those who debate have not attained it. Seeing clearly yet failing to encounter the true Dao—better silence than argument. The Dao cannot be heard with ears—better to close the senses than to listen, for this is genuine realization.

(Explanation: This passage describes the natural cycle of life and death, noting that attachment to form is ordinary understanding, while true Dao cultivators transcend debates over form to reach a state where self and objects are both forgotten.)

Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, "Where exactly is this Dao you speak of?" Zhuangzi replied, "There's nowhere it isn't." Pressed to be specific, Zhuangzi said, "It's in the ants." Dongguozi exclaimed, "How so lowly?" Zhuangzi continued, "It's in the weeds." Dongguozi grew more puzzled: "Even baser?" Zhuangzi added, "It's in tiles and bricks." Dongguozi protested, "This gets worse and worse!" Finally, Zhuangzi said, "It's in piss and dung." Dongguozi fell silent.

Zhuangzi explained: "Your question never touched the essence. Like the market inspector who steps on a pig to gauge its fatness (监市履狶 was an ancient method to estimate a pig's weight), the lower he presses, the truer his measure. The humbler the things I name, the more they reveal the Dao's omnipresence."

(Explanation: Using mundane examples to illustrate the Dao's universality—the more seemingly lowly the thing, the more it manifests the Dao's pervasive nature.)

You needn't cling to notions like "the Dao certainly isn't there"—the great Dao embraces all without exception. Terms like "all-encompassing," "pervasive," and "universal" differ in name but share the same substance: the Dao's boundlessness. Let us wander together in the palace of nothingness (无何有之宫 symbolizes the realm of Dao), discussing all things as one, and thus comprehend the Dao's inexhaustibility.

This passage elucidates the Daoist concept of "Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness." The core idea conveys that the true Dao (the Way, cosmic origin) exists in a state of empty stillness and non-interference, omnipresent yet formless.

To attain such a state, practitioners must cultivate inner emptiness and tranquility, undisturbed by external influences. Though appearing to engage in action, they remain as if acting without action; though coming and going, their ultimate destination remains unknowable. It resembles lingering before the gate of emptiness—even the wisest who enter cannot find its end.

The text mentions how the "creator of things" (the Dao that generates all beings) has no boundaries with concrete phenomena, yet distinctions exist among phenomena themselves. These so-called boundaries are artificially constructed, for the Dao fundamentally transcends such divisions. Concepts like fullness and emptiness, prosperity and decline, root and branch, gathering and dispersion—these apparent opposites are human-made distinctions, nonexistent within the Dao itself.

Using the metaphor of the "Palace of Nothingness" (a dwelling devoid of all things), the author illustrates that true wisdom lies in recognizing the inherent nondifferentiation of all phenomena, flowing with nature rather than forcing outcomes. Only then can one achieve the state of "universal inclusiveness," dissolving all disputes of right and wrong.

This passage recounts a dialogue between several Daoist practitioners, revealing the profound nature of the Dao (the Way).

Ehegan and Shennong studied the Dao together under the guidance of Old Dragon Ji. One noon, Ehegan pushed open the door and announced Old Dragon Ji's passing. Shennong, who had been resting with closed eyes while leaning on a table, rose with his staff upon hearing the news. Suddenly dropping the staff, he laughed and said: "Heaven knows my shallowness and arrogance, and thus has made my teacher abandon me. Now I can no longer find anyone to consult."

Yangang, upon hearing this, remarked: "Those who truly comprehend the Great Dao are revered by all noble-minded people. Shennong hasn't grasped even one ten-thousandth of the Dao, yet he knows to restrain his presumptuous words—how much more so for those who have truly attained the Dao! The Dao cannot be seen or heard. What people describe as 'the obscure and mysterious' (mingming) are merely attempts to characterize it, not the Dao itself."

Subsequently, Taiqing sought understanding of the Dao from both Wuqiong (the Boundless) and Wuwei (Non-action). Wuqiong replied that he didn't know what the Dao was, while Wuwei claimed he understood it. Wuwei explained: "I know the Dao can be noble or humble, can concentrate or disperse—this is my understanding of it." Taiqing then consulted Wushi (the Beginningless): "Between Wuqiong's 'not knowing' and Wuwei's 'knowing,' which is correct?"

This dialogue demonstrates the Daoist understanding of the Dao: the true Dao transcends verbal description—it cannot be said to be fully known, nor fully unknown. Practitioners must move beyond superficial cognition to attain higher levels of realization.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), primarily discussing the unknowable nature of the Dao and the limitations of human cognition. Here is a modern interpretation:

Taiqing (a fictional character) sighs and says: Not knowing is true knowledge, while believing one knows is shallow understanding. The true Dao cannot be perceived through the senses—listening with ears, seeing with eyes, or describing with words cannot grasp the Dao. Because the Dao has no concrete form, it transcends names and concepts. If someone claims to be able to explain the Dao, that very claim proves they do not understand it. The Dao itself neither requires questioning nor can it be answered. Forcing questions is like shouting into emptiness, and forced answers are nothing but hollow words. Such people neither perceive the external universe clearly nor comprehend the internal source of being, as if trapped on Mount Kunlun (a sacred Daoist mountain) and unable to roam the Great Void (cosmic origin).

The passage then uses a dialogue between Guangyao (personified light) and "Nothingness" to illustrate: Guangyao asks whether "Nothingness" exists, only to realize that it cannot be seen, heard, or touched. This leads to the understanding that the highest state transcends the distinction between "being" and "non-being." The story of the "Grand Marshal" (a high-ranking Chu official) tells of an old craftsman who, even at eighty, could make belt hooks with flawless precision. His secret lay in twenty years of unwavering focus on his craft, to the point where nothing else existed in his vision. This demonstrates that a state of total absorption and self-forgetfulness aligns with the Dao.

Finally, Ran Qiu and Confucius discuss the nature of time and space: Confucius states that "past and present are no different," as time itself has no beginning or end. Whether one feels clarity or confusion depends on whether one uses Shen (transcendent wisdom) or ordinary thinking to comprehend. The true Dao transcends past and present, beginning and end, just as an unborn child need not inquire about family history—such questions are ultimately superfluous.

This dialogue explores profound questions about life, death, and the origins of heaven and earth. Confucius (Zhongni) tells his student Ran Qiu during their discussion: Life arises naturally, not because some force deliberately creates it; death occurs spontaneously, not because some power intentionally terminates it. Life and death are inherently natural phenomena, requiring no dependence on external conditions. All things universally experience this cycle of life and death—how could anything exist prior to heaven and earth?

The very concept of "things" fundamentally didn't exist before the myriad creatures came into being. Asking "what existed before heaven and earth formed" is as illogical as asking "how could descendants exist before a person has children." Confucius advises Ran Qiu to cease such inquiries, for life continues naturally and death arrives spontaneously—this constitutes the eternal, unchanging principle. The sage's ceaseless compassion for humanity precisely emulates this inexhaustible cosmic law of perpetual generation.

Later, Yan Yuan (Hui) asks Confucius about the meaning of "having nothing to send forth, nothing to welcome." Confucius explains: Ancient sages outwardly adapted to transformations while maintaining inner constancy, whereas modern people harbor inner turmoil while clinging to external rigidity. Those who truly attain the Dao (the Way) can transform alongside all things while preserving their unchanging intrinsic nature. Like the gardens of ancient sage-kings such as Xiwei, the orchards of the Yellow Emperor, the palaces of Emperor Shun, or the dwellings of Tang and Wu of Zhou—the noble person should emulate Confucian and Mohist masters by using standards of right and wrong to refine themselves. The sage neither harms the myriad creatures nor is harmed by them; only those who completely refrain from harming others can reach this state.

The phrase "those who transform with things remain unified in their unchanging nature" describes a crucial cultivation state—while outwardly adapting to external changes, one perpetually maintains the constancy of inner true nature. "Mutual refinement" (xiangmi) refers to tempering one's mind through interaction with the external world.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "external transformation with internal non-transformation." It means one's outward appearance may conform to worldly conventions (external transformation), while maintaining inner detachment (internal non-transformation). If reversed—when the mind wavers yet feigns composure (internal transformation with external non-transformation)—one becomes enslaved by external things.

True masters achieve harmony with the transformations of all things (becoming one with transformations), while steadfastly preserving their fundamental core (the One that never transforms). The text rhetorically asks: What constitutes stability? What defines change? What represents perseverance? Those who constantly clash with external forces (grinding against them) will inevitably be worn down. From ancient sovereigns like Xiwei and the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi), through sage-kings like Shun, Tang, and Wu, down to Confucians and Mohists—all exhausted themselves in debates over right and wrong (mutual attrition). Modern people fare even worse.

The author employs metaphors: A garden appears narrower than imperial parks, an inner chamber seems deeper than a grand hall—the more forcefully one pursues something, the deeper one sinks. The character "wound" (shang) perfectly mirrors the attritional states of "grinding" and "mutual wearing."

The scenery of mountains and wilderness brings joy, yet before this joy concludes, sorrow follows unbidden. Human emotions come and go beyond our control—people are but transient guests dwelling in the material world (inns of things). Humans cling stubbornly to what they encounter, while neglecting the unseen; they flaunt their capabilities, yet evade their limitations. But isn't ignorance and incapacity the fundamental human condition? Isn't it tragic to forcibly avoid these unavoidable imperfections?

The highest discourse transcends language (ultimate discourse abandons words), the highest action is non-action (ultimate action abandons striving). Attempting to standardize all knowledge (equalizing wisdom) ironically leads to superficiality.