《南華真經循本》Vol. 22

Among Laozi's disciples was one named Gengsang Chu, who had profoundly grasped the Master's teachings of the Dao. He moved to dwell in the Weilei Mountains in the north, where all his clever, self-important attendants departed, and those who conspicuously displayed humaneness and righteousness left as well—only simple folk and rough servants remained with him. After three years, the Weilei region experienced abundant harvests.

The local people began saying: "When Master Gengsang first arrived, we thought him peculiar. But now, calculating the results—though no immediate effects were visible, in the long run he's brought us such benefits—could he be a sage? Why don't we make offerings and sacrifices to him?" When Gengsang Chu heard this, he sat facing south with visible displeasure, puzzling his disciples.

Gengsang Chu explained: "Why your surprise? When spring's Yang Qi arises and grasses grow, when autumn comes and all things ripen—is this human doing? It's simply the Dao's natural movement. I've heard that those who truly attain the Dao dwell like corpses in humble huts of tamped earth, while the people remain free and unrestrained. Yet now these Weilei villagers privately wish to enshrine me among sages—have I not become a conspicuous target? This is why I feel uneasy about departing from Laozi's teachings."

[Note: Here "those who attain the Dao" (至人) refers to highly cultivated adepts; "dwell like corpses" (尸居) describes quiescent stillness; "huts of tamped earth" (环堵之室) means simple four-walled dwellings; and "free and unrestrained" (猖狂) indicates the people's natural spontaneity.]

His disciples objected: "In small ditches, great fish cannot turn about, yet loaches find perfect freedom; low hills cannot conceal fierce beasts, yet foxes reign supreme. Since ancient times, Yao and Shun honored the worthy and benefited the people—how much more should Weilei's people do so? Master, why not follow their natural inclination?"

[This dialogue illustrates the Daoist principle of "governing through non-action" (无为而治), showing how true sages avoid fame and act through natural accord rather than deliberate intervention.]

Gengsangzi (a Daoist figure) said to Nanrong Chu: Observe those giant beasts capable of swallowing chariots—once they leave the deep mountains, they inevitably fall into hunters' traps. Those massive fish that can devour boats—when stranded ashore, even ants can harm them. Therefore, birds and beasts always fly to high places, while fish and turtles dive into the depths. Those who wish to preserve their lives should likewise conceal themselves, the more deeply hidden, the better. As for sage-kings like Yao and Shun, what is truly praiseworthy about them? Their governance doctrines are as futile as randomly chiseling walls to plant weeds or counting grains of rice to cook a meal—how could such trivial methods truly save the world and benefit the people?

He then criticized the flaws of promoting the worthy and employing the wise: Honoring the virtuous leads people to scheme against one another, while appointing the clever incites deception among the populace. These superficial solutions cannot genuinely bring welfare to the people. Nowadays, people pursue profit by any means—sons kill fathers, ministers murder rulers, daylight robberies occur, and walls are breached at high noon. I tell you, the root of the world's chaos was planted during Yao and Shun's era, and its consequences will persist for millennia, ultimately leading to the horror of cannibalism.

Nanrong Chu straightened respectfully and asked: For someone my age, how should I cultivate to understand these truths? Gengsangzi replied: Preserve your body, safeguard your innate nature (xing), and refrain from idle thoughts all day. Persist in this for three years, and you will attain realization. Puzzled, Nanrong Chu said: Eyes share the same structure, yet the blind cannot see; ears are no different, yet the deaf cannot hear; hearts are alike, yet the mad lose their reason. Though bodies are fundamentally interconnected, why do these barriers exist? I seek the Great Dao (Da Dao) but cannot grasp its essence. When you tell me to "preserve the form and embrace life, neither thinking nor deliberating," these words barely enter my ears but fail to take root in understanding.

Gengsangzi said: The principle has been fully explained. It's like how small wasps cannot hatch bean insects, or how Yue hens cannot incubate swan eggs—only the great fowls of Lu can accomplish this. Though all are fowl, their innate capacities differ. My ability is limited; I cannot enlighten you. Why not journey south to meet Laozi?

This dialogue employs vivid metaphors to expound the Daoist wisdom of "remaining deeply concealed," critiques the shortcomings of Confucian governance ideals, and reveals that true cultivation lies in returning to simplicity. Nanrong Chu's confusion reflects common obstacles faced by ordinary seekers of the Dao, ultimately guiding him to seek instruction from a wiser teacher—Laozi himself.

From the perspective of physical constitution, human ears, eyes, and mind are originally the same organs without fundamental differences. Yet the blind cannot see, the deaf cannot hear, and the insane cannot control themselves—though born with these organic functions, their connections are severed by external influences, rendering mutual communication impossible even when desired. This demonstrates the inherent imperfection of physical form.

Though Nánróng Chú diligently listened to the teachings of Gēngsāngzǐ (a Daoist recluse), the principles merely reached his ears—his eyes still could not see, and his mind still could not comprehend. Gēngsāngzǐ explained with a metaphor: just as small wasps cannot hatch the large green caterpillars on bean leaves, and the short-legged chickens of Yue cannot incubate swan eggs—this was to say his own abilities were limited, unable to enlighten Nánróng Chú, so he directed him to seek Laozi’s guidance.

Carrying dry provisions, Nánróng Chú journeyed for seven days and nights to Laozi’s dwelling. At first sight, Laozi asked, "Have you come from Gēngsāng Chǔ?" As soon as Nánróng Chú answered "Yes," Laozi immediately followed with, "Why have you brought so many people with you?" Startled, Nánróng Chú turned to look behind him. Laozi explained, "Do you not understand my meaning?" Only then did Nánróng Chú awaken, lowering his head in shame before raising it again in delight: "Just now, I forgot how to respond—I even lost the question itself."

Nánróng Chú confided his confusion to Laozi: People call him "Zhū Yú" (as foolish as Dān Zhū, the unworthy son of Emperor Yao). He desires wisdom but fears harming himself. Lack of humaneness (rén) harms others, yet practicing it troubles himself; lack of righteousness (yì) injures others, yet upholding it torments himself—these threefold contradictions leave him at a loss.

Observing his expression, Laozi said, "Earlier, seeing your furrowed brow, I understood your state. Now, hearing these words, I am further convinced you are like one lost, holding a bamboo pole to search for a needle in the ocean. Pitiable! You wish to return to your original nature but cannot find the gate." Nánróng Chú stayed in seclusion for ten days before visiting Laozi again. This time, Laozi pointed out that while he had cleansed the surface impurities, knots remained in his heart—just as external bonds cannot be resolved by external force, internal shackles cannot be forcibly undone from without. Only by releasing both inner and outer constraints can one harmonize with the natural Dao (Dào).

(Note: The term "韄" (huò) refers to leather rope binding, and "犍" (jiān) signifies a door bolt—metaphors for artificial constraints. Laozi emphasizes that cultivation must avoid forced striving, upholding the Daoist principle of natural non-action (wúwéi).)

This passage discusses the internal and external constraints encountered in the cultivation of Dao. If one cannot even exercise self-control, how much harder is it to relinquish attachments and pursue the great Dao (the Way)?

The characters "熟" and "孰" share the same meaning, while "鬱鬱" describes a superficially splendid appearance. Though your external cultivation may appear refined and impressive, this is merely surface-level practice. Internally, your thoughts remain restless, still requiring correction. "韄" refers to binding something with leather, and "犍" signifies the act of bolting a door shut. If you only restrain external behavior—complex and difficult to grasp—you suppress problems within; if you only control the mind—chaotic and elusive—you push problems outward. Those bound both internally and externally suffer from such afflictions that even realized adepts struggle to maintain composure, let alone beginners in cultivation.

Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) said: When someone in the village falls ill, fellow villagers inquire about their condition. The sick person can describe their symptoms but not their root cause. Those who can articulate their symptoms are not severely afflicted; those who understand the cause, though seriously ill, are not yet at the worst stage.

Someone like me, who has heard of the great Dao, is like a patient whose condition worsens after taking medicine. I only wish to learn the essentials of nurturing life (yangsheng). Laozi replied: The key to nurturing life lies in these questions: Can you hold fast to the pure and undivided Dao? Can you avoid losing your innate nature? Can you discern fortune and misfortune without divination? Can you know when to stop? Can you relinquish attachments? Can you seek within rather than depend on others? Can you wander freely and without restraint? Can you preserve your natural simplicity? Can you be like an infant? An infant cries all day without growing hoarse—this is the pinnacle of harmony; it clenches its fists all day without cramping—this is the preservation of innate nature; it gazes all day without blinking, for its attention is not fixed on external things. When it moves, it does not know where it is going; when at rest, it does not know what it is doing. It flows along with the transformations of all things. These are the essentials of nurturing life.

Nanrong Chu asked: Is this the virtue (De) of the perfected person (zhiren)? Is this what is meant by the state where ice melts and frost thaws? Laozi said: The perfected person shares sustenance with the earth and joy with heaven. They do not let human affairs or personal gain disturb their mind, nor do they seek novelty, scheme, or force action. They come and go in carefree wandering—this is the essence of nurturing life. Nanrong Chu said: Now I understand.

This passage discusses the distinction between the "Perfected Being" (zhiren) and ordinary practitioners in Daoist cultivation. Laozi explains to Nanrong Chu that while the state of an ignorant, desireless infant—with body and mind like withered wood or dead ashes—may avoid misfortune, it does not represent the highest realm.

The true Perfected Being shares sustenance with the earth and breathes with the cosmos, arriving in complete accordance with nature. They require no deliberate cultivation; when their inner cosmos (yu) achieves supreme stability ("yu tai ding"), the celestial radiance (tian guang) naturally shines forth. This state cannot be attained through force—one must relinquish cleverness and knowledge to reach what appears as utter incapacity.

The text describes three types of practitioners:

1. Ordinary individuals require constant practice to maintain stability ("you heng"). Those who achieve this gain human acceptance and celestial assistance, becoming either "People of Heaven" (tian min) or "Sons of Heaven" (tian zi).

2. Yet the supreme state is that of "Heavenly Equilibrium" (tian jun), where even these titles become unnecessary.

3. Those who forcibly pursue unattainable realms will instead be eliminated by the natural order ("tian jun").

The concluding section outlines cultivation methods: preserve physical form, eliminate distracting thoughts, and maintain reverent mindfulness to penetrate external phenomena. All practice must follow nature's flow without coercion—only then can the spontaneous manifestation of "celestial radiance" be achieved.

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners of the Dao should maintain inner purity while dealing with external disturbances.

It begins by stating that when various calamities arise, they are ordained by heaven’s decree (天命) and not caused by human actions. Therefore, one should not allow these external disturbances to disrupt inner cultivation. Though our spiritual core (灵台, Lingtai) naturally maintains its integrity, this holding is effortless and should not be forced. Just as in nurturing the body and mind, externally we prepare resources to sustain the physical form, while internally we remain vigilant, guarding against unforeseen circumstances—using inner reverence to shape outward conduct.

Hong Rongzhai, in his essays, notes that this aligns with Confucian interpretation. If a person fails to be sincere with themselves, their actions will often go awry. For overt wrongdoing, humans will impose punishment; for hidden misdeeds, spirits (鬼神) will bring retribution. Only those who grasp this principle can truly cultivate themselves in solitude.

The text then criticizes those who lack self-honesty—knowing their faults yet unable to correct them, sinking deeper until they invite calamity, drawing condemnation from both humans and spirits.

Finally, it uses the metaphors of "券内" (focusing within one's bounds) and "券外" (reaching beyond them): Those who attend to their proper duties (券内) act humbly without seeking fame, while those who chase external pursuits (券外) become ambitious and restless. The former, though seemingly obscure, embody true clarity; the latter resemble merchants flaunting their wares or people standing on tiptoe—appearing tall but fundamentally unsteady. Those who cannot embrace others will ultimately face abandonment.

The passage emphasizes that Daoist cultivation requires focusing on inner refinement, maintaining sincerity, and avoiding forced external displays—only then can one truly unite with the Dao (道).

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners can transcend worldly constraints to attain unity with the Dao.

Cultivation practice manifests in two realms: those who chase external phenomena (the externally striving), though exerting tremendous effort, ultimately find their consciousness occupied by material things; while those who focus on inner refinement (the internally cultivating) can harmonize with all things without becoming entangled, even forgetting their own existence, let alone concerning themselves with others. This represents true transcendental independence.

The world's most formidable weapon isn't the legendary sword Moye, but rather the human will; the greatest adversary isn't other people, but the natural laws of Yin-Yang transformation. Daoist cultivation aims to transcend these dualistic distinctions. People cling to distinctions between "success" and "failure," yet fundamentally there is no difference. Excessive pursuit of perfection (bei) resembles someone who leaves home never to return - seemingly gaining something, yet actually moving toward death, like a ghost possessing only empty form.

Cosmic spacetime (yu denoting space, zhou denoting time) appears substantial yet has no fixed location, appears continuous yet has no beginning or end. The transformations of life and death, emergence and withdrawal exist, yet their concrete forms remain invisible - this is the "Heavenly Gate," the portal through which all things arise from emptiness. True sages understand this principle, abiding serenely in the realm of emptiness without attachment to the manifest world.

The core teaching instructs practitioners to transcend dualistic oppositions, relinquish fixation on success and failure, and return to the original emptiness of the Dao. Cultivators should emulate the sages by abiding in the formless, imageless state, unbound by worldly concepts.

This passage describes the characteristics of the Dao (the Way): When manifest, its origin cannot be seen; when concealed, no entrance can be found. Though truly existent, its precise location remains indeterminate. Like space (Yu) having no fixed boundaries or time (Zhou) having no definite beginning and end, the coming and going of life and death leave no discernible traces. This is the "Gate of Heaven" (Tianmen) — a state of empty non-being from which all things arise. True "being" cannot generate or sustain itself; it must originate from "non-being," yet even this "non-being" itself does not exist. The sage grasps this principle.

Ancient Dao-realized individuals understood reality through three levels of perception: The highest realization recognizes that originally nothing whatsoever existed in the world. The intermediate level acknowledges the existence of things but considers birth as losing one's true nature and death as returning to the source, thus creating opposition between life and death. The basic level believes that "being" arises from "non-being," with life briefly flourishing before perishing, taking "non-being" as the beginning, life as the main subject, and death as the conclusion. Whoever understands that being/non-being and life/death are fundamentally one — such a person I would take as my companion. These three perspectives resemble the three great aristocratic families of Chu — Zhao, Jing, and Jia — superficially different yet all belonging to the same ruling clan.

Life resembles soot at the bottom of a cauldron — seemingly erasable yet undeniably present. Standards of right and wrong flow and shift like water. Just as winter sacrifices require preparations of tripe and trotters (ritual offerings that seem dispensable yet remain essential), or when touring palaces one must examine both the main hall and resting chambers (adjusting standards for thoroughness), people persistently cling to their views like insisting on preparing all offerings or inspecting every room.

(Notes: "Yan" refers to cauldron soot; "piran" describes a scattered state; "yi shi" indicates shifting standards of judgment; "laji" denotes post-winter solstice sacrifices; "pihai" respectively mean tripe and trotters; "yan" refers to side chambers for rest.)

This passage primarily discusses the concept of "shifting standards" (the relativity of right and wrong) and the natural way (Dao) in human relationships.

Regarding "shifting standards": Just as sparks from a cooking fire scatter unpredictably, standards of right and wrong are constantly changing. For instance, during sacrificial meat distribution, the parts of the animal can be divided while the whole cannot be separated. Or how viewing a house requires walking around it completely, yet resting requires just one spot. This demonstrates there are no absolute standards of right and wrong in the world, hence the concept of "shifting standards."

People often take life as fundamental and cognition as their standard, thus forming judgments. Some value reputation so highly they'd sacrifice their lives to defend it. Such people consider employment as wisdom and unemployment as foolishness, viewing prominence as honor and hardship as shame. This "shifting standards" mentality is precisely the common failing of worldly people today - their understanding is as shallow as a cicada's or sparrow's.

On human relationships: If you step on a stranger's foot, you apologize for carelessness; stepping on a sibling's foot only requires comforting words; with parents, no words are needed at all. This illustrates: The highest ritual makes no distinction between self and other, the highest righteousness doesn't differentiate objects, the highest wisdom requires no calculation, the highest benevolence recognizes no degrees of intimacy, and the highest trust needs no collateral.

Finally, the essential method of cultivating the Dao is revealed: One must dissolve conflicts of will, release mental constraints, shed the burdens of virtue (De), and remove obstructions to the great Dao. External pursuits like wealth, fame and reputation are shackles to one's true nature - only by abandoning these can one return to original authenticity.

This passage expounds Daoist teachings on mental cultivation and the natural Way (Dao).

It first identifies six categories that disturb the mind: wealth, status, authority, fame, profit, and honor disrupt one's aspirations; appearance, demeanor, expression, logic, breath (Qi), and thoughts confuse the heart; hatred, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure burden one's virtue (De); choices, gains/losses, knowledge, and talents obstruct the Great Dao. Only by preventing these from agitating within can one attain uprightness, tranquility, clarity, and emptiness—ultimately achieving Wuwei (non-action) that accomplishes all.

Key concepts are then explained: Dao is the root of virtue ("qin" implies reverence and restraint), life manifests virtue, and innate nature is life's essence. Natural activity of one's nature is called "authentic action," while artificial striving constitutes "failure." Wisdom divides into two types: knowledge from external contact and knowledge from internal deliberation.

The text contrasts different levels of attainment: the legendary archer Yi excelled at hitting minute targets but couldn't prevent others from praising him, while sages excel at following nature but struggle with human relations. Only the "complete person" (quanren) masters both. Just as insects perfectly follow instinct, true completeness dislikes conscious displays of "following nature."

Metaphors illustrate these principles: when the whole world becomes a cage, no bird can escape. King Tang won Yi Yin through culinary arts, and Duke Mu of Qin obtained Baili Xi with five sheepskins—demonstrating the importance of aligning with others' nature. The amputee cares not for adornments, and the prisoner fears no heights when climbing, having transcended worldly judgments of praise/blame and life/death.

Emphasizing the rejection of external distractions to return to natural simplicity, this passage presents the "complete person" as embodying the Daoist ideal of unity between heaven and humanity.

This passage expounds the essential method of transcending worldly judgments to attain the state of union between Heaven and humanity. Prisoners in confinement do not fear when climbing heights because they have already made light of life and death. Similarly, those who are truly liberated are not bound by external concerns of honor and disgrace, gain and loss.

The term "repeated whispers" (fuxi) refers to interacting with others without deliberate flattery, thereby achieving the state of "forgetting people." Only by forgetting mundane human relationships can one approach the condition of being a "Heavenly person" (in harmony with the Dao). Those who have truly attained the Dao feel neither elated when respected nor angered when insulted, for they have already achieved unity with the natural order of Heaven and Earth.

When anger arises yet one maintains inner peace, such anger actually stems from a place of serenity. When acting while preserving a Wuwei (non-action) mindset, such action originates from the realm of non-action. To attain mental tranquility, one must regulate the Qi (vital energy); to achieve spiritual clarity, one must follow the original heart-mind. All actions should appear as if undertaken out of necessity—this state of "acting by necessity" constitutes the sage's way of being in the world.

A final explanatory note: "repeated whispers" simply means speaking softly. When interacting with others, one speaks in hushed tones as if compelled by necessity, never actively using words to curry favor. The highest attainment is complete "forgetting of people" (transcending mundane relationships)—this teaching should be understood through three progressive levels of realization.