《南華真經循本》Vol. 25

In the twenty-fifth volume of Following the Original Meaning of the Zhuangzi, the chapter "External Things" expounds on the unpredictable and uncontrollable nature of worldly matters. The author, Luo Miandao, illustrates this through historical anecdotes: rulers always desire loyalty from their ministers, yet loyalty does not necessarily earn trust—as seen in the executions of Long Feng, the heart-carving of Bi Gan, and Jizi's feigned madness. Parents always wish for filial devotion from their children, yet filial piety does not always secure affection—witness the sorrow of Xiao Ji and the grief of Zeng Shen.

The text employs natural phenomena as metaphors: friction between pieces of wood generates fire, metal melts when exposed to flames, and imbalance between Yin-Yang triggers violent upheavals in heaven and earth, manifesting as thunder and lightning. Even water can produce fire capable of burning down a locust tree (the specific mention of locust wood alludes to its ancient use in fire-making). All these examples highlight the uncontrollable interactions between things.

The human mind is no exception: excessive worry traps people in dilemmas, leaving them as disoriented as insects just awakening from hibernation. When one cannot let go of gains and losses, the heart becomes suspended between heaven and earth, weighed down by depression and agitation. The accumulation of such emotions leads to an overabundance of "heart-fire," to the point where even the moon (a Yin symbol) appears to turn into fire (an unnatural phenomenon). In the end, the weakened principles of heaven prove no match for the blazing desires of humanity, resulting in the collapse of moral virtue (De).

Note: The term chundun describes a state of confusion akin to insects rousing from hibernation, while weimin chentun refers to four psychological states—depression, irritation, obsession, and stagnation. These illustrate the mental distress caused by attachment to external things.

Zhuangzi was in dire straits and went to borrow grain from the Marquis of Jianhe. The Marquis gave him an evasive reply: "Certainly! After I collect the taxes from my fiefdom, I'll lend you three hundred pieces of gold. Will that do?" Zhuangzi's face darkened with anger and he told a story: "Yesterday, on the road, I heard a crucian carp calling out to me from a rut. It said it was a denizen of the Eastern Sea and begged me to fetch some water to save it. I promised to persuade the kings of Wu and Yue to divert the waters of the Western River to its rescue. The carp retorted angrily: 'I cannot live without water—just a single ladle would save me now. With talk like yours, you might as well go straight to the dried-fish shop to find me!'"

Ren Gongzi fashioned an enormous fishhook with fifty oxen as bait. Perched atop Mount Kuaiji, he cast his line into the Eastern Sea. Day after day he fished, yet for a whole year he caught nothing. Then at last a giant fish took the hook, dragging it into the ocean depths before suddenly leaping up, churning waves as tall as mountains. The roar of the waters shook the heavens like the howling of ghosts and gods, audible a thousand miles away. Ren Gongzi cured the fish, and from the lands east of the Zhe River to north of Cangwu, all were sated. Later, petty men of shallow cunning heard of this feat and rushed to imitate his fishing. But with their flimsy bamboo rods in narrow streams, angling for minnows—how could they ever land a giant fish? Such men employ trivial tricks to chase fame, far removed from true mastery. Thus, those unacquainted with Ren's art of fishing know nothing of governing the world.

Confucian scholars recited the Book of Songs while robbing graves. The senior scholar called down from above: "Dawn approaches—how goes the work?" The junior scholar replied: "We haven't yet loosened the corpse's robes, but there's a pearl in its mouth. Doesn't the Book of Songs say: 'Lush green wheat on the hill slopes—in life he hoarded without giving, so why clutch pearls in death?'" So saying, he yanked the corpse's hair, pressed its jaw, and pried open its cheeks with a hammer to slowly extract the pearl. Truly, these scholars perverted the classics to crooked ends.

This passage is from Nanhua Zhenjing Xunben (Tracing the Origins of the True Scripture of Southern Florescence) and recounts a dialogue between Confucius (Zhongni) and Lao Laizi, using allegory to expound Daoist philosophy.

The text describes how Lao Laizi’s disciple, while out gathering firewood, encounters Confucius and later reports seeing a man with a long upper body, a short lower body, a slightly hunched back, ears set far back, and piercingly bright eyes. Recognizing this as Confucius, Lao Laizi summons him. He admonishes Confucius: "You must shed your self-importance and the artifice of outward refinement—only then can you become a true nobleman." Confucius withdraws respectfully, his expression troubled, and seeks further guidance.

Lao Laizi then criticizes him: "Those who cannot bear to see a single generation suffer may bring calamity upon ten thousand ages. Is this because their vision is shallow? Or their wisdom insufficient? To please others by yielding to them will ultimately lead to grave error. Ordinary people chase fame and collude with one another. Rather than praising Emperor Yao and condemning Jie of Xia, it is better to forget both." The sage acts only after careful deliberation, and thus succeeds.

The passage explains certain terms: "long upper body" refers to Confucius’s torso, while "short lower body" alludes to the legend that Yu the Great’s lower body was three inches shorter than average. "Slightly hunched back" describes his posture, and "ears set far back" means they were barely visible from the front. "Self-importance" denotes personal pride, and "outward refinement" implies using appearances to feign wisdom. "Recklessness" conveys arrogance that disregards consequences.

This dialogue embodies the Daoist critique of Confucian striving for reputation and its advocacy of natural non-action (Wuwei). Lao Laizi reproaches Confucius: though well-intentioned, his methods risk long-term harm. It would be better to relinquish attachment and accord with spontaneity.

This passage illustrates the limitations of human wisdom through several parables, emphasizing the importance of relinquishing attachments and following the natural course of things.

The tyrant Jie of Xia taught people: Rather than praising Emperor Yao while condemning King Jie, it's better to forget both praise and blame altogether. Going against this principle brings harm; acting rashly leads one astray. The sage approaches affairs with careful consideration—what appears as passive response often leads to success. Just as in walking, why maintain rigid postures? This admonishes against stubborn attachments to personal views.

Duke Yuan of Song dreamed at midnight of a disheveled man peering through a side gate, who claimed to come from the abyss of Zailu—a messenger of the Clear River en route to the River Earl, yet caught by the fisherman Yu Ju. Upon waking, the duke consulted divination and learned this was a spirit turtle's plea. Summoning Yu Ju, he indeed obtained a five-foot white turtle. Hesitating whether to kill it for divination, he ultimately used its shell for seventy-two remarkably accurate readings. Confucius remarked: "This divine turtle could appear in Duke Yuan's dream, yet couldn't escape the fishing net; knew seventy-two divinations would succeed, but couldn't avoid being gutted." This shows even supreme wisdom has limits, and divine powers meet their boundaries.

Fish fear cormorants more than nets—aware of minor threats but blind to greater dangers. When humans relinquish petty cleverness, great wisdom manifests naturally; when not deliberately flaunting virtue, true goodness is attained. Like infants learning speech without teachers simply by living among speaking people. Thus even the wisest individual should heed collective wisdom.

Through metaphors of the divine turtle and fish, this text demonstrates how overreliance on personal intelligence creates predicaments, advocating instead for harmonizing with nature's flow and embracing collective wisdom. The turtle's supreme divination powers couldn't prevent its demise, just as fish recognize nets but miss greater predators—revealing how partial knowledge creates blind spots. True understanding comes through releasing attachments to limited perspectives and merging with the Dao's boundless wisdom.

Hui Shi said to Zhuangzi: "Your words are of no practical use." Zhuangzi replied: "Only by understanding what is 'useless' can we discuss what is 'useful.' The earth is vast beyond measure, yet what humans actually use is just the ground beneath their feet. If we were to dig away all the surrounding earth down to the Yellow Springs, would that small patch of ground still be useful?" Hui Shi admitted: "Then it would be useless." Zhuangzi said: "Thus we see that what appears useless actually supports what is useful—this principle is perfectly clear."

(Note: "Standing ground" refers to the space where one plants one's feet; "dig away" means to excavate downward.)

Zhuangzi continued his discourse: How could those capable of living freely not do so? And how could those without this ability force themselves to live freely? Those who indulge their desires and cling stubbornly to their views—alas!—this is certainly not the way of those with great wisdom and abundant Virtue (De). Such people are like those who fall off a cliff without turning back, or like wildfire spreading without regard for consequences. Even if others temporarily submit to them, when circumstances change, distinctions of nobility and baseness vanish. Therefore, those who have attained the Dao (the Way) do not rigidly adhere to any single mode of conduct.

Blindly venerating antiquity while disparaging the present is the common failing of shallow scholars. If we judge the present by the standards of the legendary ancient Emperor Xiwei's era, who could avoid drifting with the current? Only those who have attained the Dao can live freely in the world without extremism, accommodating others without losing themselves. True teaching is not about imitating outward forms—those who grasp the true meaning will not lose their way.

(Note: "Living freely" refers to a spiritual attitude of ease and non-contention with the world; "indulging desires" means giving free rein to cravings; "clinging stubbornly" denotes rigid adherence to personal views.)

This passage expounds Daoist philosophy regarding the unimpeded flow between body-mind and the natural Dao.

When human eyes are unobstructed, there is clarity; when ears are unobstructed, there is acuity; when nostrils are unobstructed, the breath flows freely causing subtle tremors; when the heart-mind is unobstructed, one attains true wisdom. Genuine wisdom arises from complete penetration that reaches the realm of De (Virtue). The great Dao fundamentally abhors obstruction—where there is blockage, hindrance emerges, and persistent hindrances multiply troubles like stumbling feet. All sentient beings depend on the circulation of Qi (vital energy); when this flow stagnates, it is no fault of heaven. Heaven endowed humans with open orifices through which Qi flows ceaselessly day and night—it is people themselves who clog these passages. Qi naturally rises from below within the human body; if it only descends without ascending, death ensues. This serves as a metaphor for the state of consciousness.

Just as dwellings require empty spaces (the "multiple gates" signify layered openings), the mind too needs room for unimpeded wandering. Rooms without space make mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law quarrel; minds without freedom set the six senses (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and thought) in mutual conflict. Mountains and forests benefit humans precisely by nurturing their Shen (spirit). Excessive reputation invites misfortune, schemes stem from deception, cleverness arises from contention, obstinacy kindles conflict, while accomplishments rely on collective harmony. When spring rains come timely, plants flourish exuberantly and farming tools are prepared—yet when half the vegetation lies flattened, none discern the cause.

(Note: "Six senses" refers to the traditional six perceptual faculties; "De overflowing into fame" warns of virtue corrupted by reputation-seeking; "kindling born of stubbornness" metaphorizes how rigidity sparks conflict like piled firewood)

This passage expounds Daoist philosophy regarding natural spontaneity. Using architectural metaphors for the human body: the womb resembles an empty chamber with multiple thresholds, just as the mind requires open space for free movement. Without such emptiness, mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law would crowd together quarreling; similarly, without mental freedom, the internal organs would contend with each other.

Finding forests and hills profoundly beautiful actually reveals one's habitual narrow-mindedness and deficient spiritual energy (Qi). Those with truly abundant Shen (spirit) feel no particular longing for such scenery. Virtue (De) naturally resides within, yet spills outward through reputation-seeking; strategies needn't be complex, yet become convoluted when manipulating others. Like government offices barricading with wooden fences, affairs that inherently lack fixed rules become forcibly determined by popular opinion—all contravening the Dao of nature.

During spring rains, vegetation grows spontaneously—forced intervention with hoes would only harm it. "Stillness" can regulate illness, "closed eyes" may slow aging, and "tranquility" can calm agitation, but these remain methods for the toiling masses, utterly unnecessary for those wandering in carefree ease.

While sages startle the world, spirit-people remain indifferent; while gentlemen alarm nations, worthies pay no heed. In Yanmen, a man's excessive grief over his parent's death made him emaciated, earning him official appointment—whereupon half the locals imitated him to death.

When Yao sought to abdicate to Xu You, Xu fled; when Tang wished to yield to Wu Guang, Wu grew furious. Ji Ta, hearing of this, led disciples to seclude themselves by Kuanshui's banks. After nobles came offering condolences for three years, Shentu Di drowned himself in protest.

The passage concludes with fishing and rabbit-hunting metaphors: the fish trap (Quan) exists for catching fish—once caught, forget the trap; the rabbit snare (Ti) serves to capture rabbits—once caught, forget the snare; words exist to convey meaning—once grasped, forget the words. This embodies the Daoist principle of "attaining the fish and forgetting the trap" (deyu wangquan), illustrating transcendence of form to reach essence.

Only when you find someone who can truly "forget words" (transcend the limitations of language) can you engage in a heart-to-heart dialogue with them.

This speaks to the Zhuangzian philosophical realm of "grasping the meaning and forgetting the words." "Forgetting words" does not mean literally forgetting how to speak, but rather transcending the superficial constraints of language to directly apprehend the essence of things. It is like the common saying, "It can only be understood intuitively, not conveyed in words." Profound truths often cannot be fully expressed through language—they require a meeting of minds to be truly grasped.

The Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., the Zhuangzi) conveys its philosophy through many allegorical stories precisely because didactic language alone is rarely enough to bring genuine understanding. Thus, Zhuangzi laments that only when encountering someone who can look beyond the surface of words and grasp what lies beyond language can meaningful dialogue take place.