《南華真經循本》Vol. 26

The Zhuangzi's "Chapter on Allegorical Expressions" primarily discusses three modes of discourse: allegory (yuyan), weighted words (zhongyan), and goblet words (zhiyan), along with their functions and significance.

Allegory (expressing ideas through others' voices) constitutes nine-tenths of the text. Just as a father would not act as his own son's matchmaker—since praise from an outsider carries more credibility than self-praise—this method arises not from the author's fault, but from human nature. People prefer hearing views that align with their own and reject differing opinions, making it necessary to convey ideas through borrowed voices.

Weighted words (solemn and authoritative statements) make up seven-tenths of the text, representing the speech of revered elders. However, true elders are not determined by age alone. If someone is old but speaks incoherently or without foundation, they cannot be considered genuine elders. To qualify as a true predecessor, one must understand the principles of human conduct; without this understanding, even a long life merely renders one a decaying and useless figure.

Goblet words (spontaneous speech, like wine naturally flowing from a cup) emerge daily, following the natural boundaries of things and unfolding freely. This mode of expression keeps the mind vibrant throughout one's life. By contrasting these three forms of discourse, the author reveals humanity's tendency toward selective hearing and the true standard of wisdom.

When one seeks to unify perspectives through speech, the very act of speaking creates division; when one attempts to maintain silence, silence itself becomes a form of expression. Thus, true "wordlessness" is speech that transcends words.

A person may speak throughout their lifetime, yet say nothing of substance; another may remain silent their entire life, yet that silence itself speaks volumes. All things possess both their reasons for being and their reasons for not being; they have their valid aspects and their invalid aspects. Why say something is valid? Because it is indeed valid; why say it is invalid? Because it is indeed invalid. All things inherently possess their own logic of existence—nothing is absolutely invalid or unworthy of being.

If speech does not flow like wine from a vessel (zhiyan), adapting effortlessly to circumstances and harmonizing with the natural order (tianni), how can it maintain lasting harmony? All things emerge from the same seed, transforming into different forms in an endless cycle—this is what we call the "Celestial Balance" (tianjun), the fundamental equilibrium of nature. The Celestial Balance is the primal, natural state of all things (tianni).

Zhuangzi said to Huizi: Confucius lived to sixty, and throughout those sixty years, his views continually transformed. What he initially believed to be right, he later recognized as wrong; what he now considers right—how can we know it won’t be revealed as wrong in the future?

Hui Shi (Master Hui) suggested that Confucius pursued knowledge through sheer diligence and willpower, to which Zhuangzi responded that Confucius had long transcended such a state. Confucius himself said: Humans receive their innate nature from the cosmic origin (the Great Root). If one can restore the luminous clarity of their original mind, then the sounds they produce will naturally harmonize with musical rhythm, and their words will spontaneously accord with proper measure. Placing the principles of benevolence and righteousness before them, they can clearly distinguish right from wrong, approval from disapproval—yet this only convinces others verbally. True wisdom lies in making others submit wholeheartedly without daring to oppose, for only then can the natural order of the world be established. Alas! Such a state—I fear even I have yet to attain it!

Here, "pursuing knowledge" (服知) refers to the quest for learning; "innate nature" (才) is akin to what Mencius called "heaven-endowed talent"; the "Great Root" (大本) denotes the primordial state of the cosmos; "restoring luminosity" (复灵) means recovering the original emptiness and clarity of the mind after it has been obscured by material desires; "opposition" (蘁) implies defiance; and "establishing the world's inherent order" (定天下之定) suggests that the world already possesses its natural laws—one need only align with them.

When Hui Shi heard Zhuangzi say that Confucius reached a state of transformation at sixty, he assumed Confucius had merely studied diligently. Zhuangzi refuted this, explaining that Confucius spoke of how humans receive their nature from the origin and can return to their innate emptiness and clarity, so that their expressions naturally align with rhythm and their speech conforms to principle. Discernment between profit and righteousness before one's eyes is merely the work of Confucian scholars—it only convinces others superficially. Only when one inspires heartfelt submission without resistance does one embody the realm of those who have attained the Dao. Confucius sighed: "Does the great Dao culminate here? I fear even I have yet to reach the state of the ultimate sage!"

Later, the text recounts how Zeng Shen (Master Zeng) held office twice with differing mindsets: The first time, his stipend was meager, yet he took joy in being able to support his parents. Later, when his stipend increased, he grieved because his parents were no longer alive. A disciple asked Confucius: "Can Zeng Shen be considered free from worldly attachments (无所县其罪)?" Confucius replied: "He still had attachments. Those who are truly liberated—how could sorrow stir their hearts? To them, three fu of grain (a small stipend) and three thousand zhong (a large stipend) are as indifferent as sparrows or mosquitoes flitting past their eyes."

Note: "Attachment" (县, interchangeable with 悬) refers to emotional entanglement; "free from attachments" (无所县其罪) suggests that Zeng Shen's filial devotion to his parents appeared flawless, as if no fault could be found. Yet Confucius pointed out that those truly liberated remain unmoved by external things, viewing gain and loss as fleeting as passing clouds.

The Nanhua Zhenjing Xunben passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first part presents a dialogue between Yan Chengziyou and Dongguo Ziqi, depicting a practitioner's nine-year progression in spiritual cultivation: In the first year, one returns to original simplicity; the second year brings understanding of the practice path; the third achieves unimpeded awareness; the fourth masters the ability to harmonize with all things; the fifth attains natural resonance; the sixth communicates with spiritual beings; the seventh unites with the Dao of Heaven; the eighth transcends concepts of life and death; and the ninth reaches the profound and unfathomable realm. These nine stages vividly illustrate the complete journey from beginner to supreme attainment.

The second part examines life, death, and celestial mandate (Tianming). It suggests human death often has specific causes (like illness or punishment), while life emerges naturally from Yang Qi. The discussion then probes whether destiny and spirits truly exist: worldly fortunes appear governed by fate, yet fate's origins remain untraceable. Similarly, while karmic retribution might prove spiritual existence, reality shows good people dying young while the wicked live long—creating doubt. These reflections reveal Daoism's dialectical approach to ultimate questions about destiny and the spiritual realm, cautioning against rigid conclusions about existence or non-existence.

The metaphor of "three fu measures versus three thousand zhong measures" (where three fu seem insignificant as mosquitoes, and three thousand zhong as trivial as sparrows) illustrates how worldly gains and losses appear utterly inconsequential to the awakened practitioner.

The text consists of two parts: the first is the famous "Shadow and Penumbra" fable from the Zhuangzi, while the latter recounts a dialogue between Yang Ziju and Laozi.

The first section describes the penumbra (wangliang) at the edge of a shadow questioning the shadow itself: "Why do you sometimes bow your head and sometimes raise it? Why do you tie your hair up at times and let it down at others? Why do you sit, then stand, walk and then stop?" The shadow replies: "Old friend, why bother asking these things? Though I exist, I don’t know why it is so. I’m like the shed skin of a cicada or the sloughed-off scales of a snake—seemingly connected yet fundamentally different. When sunlight appears, I emerge; in the darkness of night, I vanish. My existence depends entirely on the physical form (the object itself), let alone you, a penumbra attached to a shadow. When the form moves, I follow; when it departs, I depart; when it stirs restlessly, I stir restlessly. What’s the point of questioning this state of drifting along with the current?"

The second part tells of Yang Ziju (Yang Zhu) traveling south to Pei while Laozi journeyed west to the state of Qin. They arranged to meet in the outskirts, but encountered each other in Liang instead. Along the way, Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed: "At first, I thought you could be taught, but now I see it’s impossible." Yang Ziju offered no response. When they reached their lodging....

Here, "qiangyang" refers to abnormal, agitated Qi (vital energy), while "wangliang" denotes the faint penumbra surrounding a shadow. Through this allegorical dialogue between shadow and penumbra, the text vividly illustrates the principle of interdependence among all things—the penumbra relies on the shadow, the shadow depends on the physical form, and the form itself ultimately exists by virtue of the Dao (natural law).

Yang Ziju went to visit Laozi. At first, he meticulously straightened his robes and cap outside the gate, removed his shoes, and entered kneeling, explaining: "Earlier I wished to seek your instruction, Master, but seeing you occupied, I dared not disturb. Now finding you at leisure, I beg you to point out my faults."

Laozi directly exposed his problem: "You constantly assume an arrogant and overbearing manner—who would willingly associate with you? The truly pure appear humble instead, while those of profound virtue (De) often feel inadequate." Yang Ziju's countenance changed upon hearing this, and he respectfully acknowledged the teaching.

Later, people observed Yang Ziju's transformation: Initially when staying at inns, the host would personally greet him, arrange the seat of honor, the host's wife would bring towels and combs, and other guests would yield to him. But after returning from Laozi, travelers naturally competed with him for seating—this showed that by withdrawing his sharp edges, he genuinely blended into the community.

The passage also records scholar Su Shi's (Dongpo) textual analysis of the Zhuangzi: he considered the chapters "Abdicating Kings," "Robber Zhi," "Discoursing on Swords," and "The Old Fisherman" stylistically crude, likely later interpolations. It resembles when Lie Yukou, midway on his journey, encountered the Daoist cultivator Bohun Maoren, who asked why he seemed flustered. Lie Yukou explained that five out of ten beverage vendors had spontaneously offered him drinks. Bohun Maoren revealed the truth: "This stems from your mind lacking vacuous stillness—your outward radiance overawes others, ultimately inviting misfortune."

The phrase "inner sincerity unresolved" (nei cheng bu jie) refers to mental attachments obstructing spiritual emptiness, while "form manifesting as radiance" (xing die cheng guang) describes excessive outward brilliance. Such a condition makes one lose reverence for superiors, eventually causing distress. The entire narrative illustrates that Daoist practitioners should cultivate the wisdom of withdrawing external displays and maintaining receptive stillness in worldly engagement.

This passage explores Daoist reflections on natural disposition versus artificial contrivance.

The sage Bohun Maoren observed: "Those who deliberately display their brilliance are most easily seen through. Nowadays people venerate the elderly not because they possess true Dao, but merely due to their advanced age—like pickled vegetables that have lost their natural flavor. The greatest tragedy is when people abandon their innate nature to pursue superficial displays of respect."

The text then employs the metaphor of a congee seller: "Even a humble porridge vendor with meager profits and little influence understands the principles of proper management. How much more should the ruler of ten thousand chariots? When sovereigns exhaust themselves with state affairs and deplete their vitality in governance—when they seek to test me with tasks and evaluate me by achievements—this is what causes my distress."

When Bohun Maoren visited Liezi, he remarked: "You're trying too hard to make yourself conspicuous—soon people will flock to you." Indeed, before long, Liezi's doorstep was crowded with visitors' shoes (depicting a constant stream of guests). "This doesn't mean you can make others follow you, but rather that you cannot prevent them from doing so. What value is there in such artificial striving?"

"Those extraordinary abilities that anticipate events before they occur will inevitably disturb your natural disposition. Yet none who associate with you will caution you about this. Flowery speeches are nothing but poison for the human heart. How lamentable that no one awakens to this truth—why then bother inquiring of each other?"

The passage concludes by revealing its core message: "The skillful are perpetually toiling, the clever constantly worrying, while those who embody Wuwei (non-action)—those who follow nature—remain desireless, satiated and wandering in carefree ease."

The text reveals profound Daoist insights on artificial striving versus the natural Way (Dao) through several allegorical stories.

In the state of Zheng, there was a man named Huan who studied diligently in the Qiu region. After just three years, he became a Confucian scholar. Like a river nourishing both banks, he benefited his family, yet he made his younger brother study Mohist teachings, leading to disputes between Confucianism and Mohism within the household. Later, their father sided with the younger brother (a follower of Mozi’s school) for ten years, until Huan ultimately took his own life. After death, he appeared to his father in a dream, saying: "It was I who made your son study Mohism—did you ever recognize my true intentions? Now I have become the fruit of the autumn cypress on my grave."

Zhuangzi comments on this: The Creator (Zaowuzhe) repays people not for what they deliberately pursue, but for their natural essence. Huan clung to artificial achievements while neglecting his innate familial bonds—just like the men of Qi who fought over well water, pulling each other’s hair. The well’s water was a natural gift, yet they struggled for ownership. People today are all like Huan—even those with Virtue (De) fail to grasp the Creator’s true meaning, let alone those who cultivate the Dao. The ancients called such acts of defying nature "the punishment of fleeing Heaven’s principles" (duntian zhi xing).

Here, "the punishment of fleeing Heaven’s principles" refers to the consequences of violating natural law. Zhuangzi uses the "well-water dispute" as a metaphor for how people forcibly claim what is inherently natural—much like modern people absurdly trying to claim ownership over air or sunlight. The wisdom of Daoist practitioners lies in resting in the natural state, never imposing artificial standards on innate nature. Ordinary people, by contrast, constantly seek security within self-made anxieties.

(Note: "Mozi" refers to the founder of Mohism, who advocated universal love and non-aggression; "the fruit of the autumn cypress" symbolizes life returning to its natural state.)

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's profound insights on "knowledge" and "practice." Zhuangzi observes: Understanding principles is easy, but refraining from articulating them is difficult. To comprehend yet remain silent accords with the Dao of Heaven; to understand and speak out constitutes human artifice. The ancient sages all followed the natural Way without deliberate action.

Two illustrative examples are given: Zhuangzi recounts how Zhu Pingman exhausted his family fortune learning dragon-slaying arts, only to discover no dragons existed to slay (a supreme yet useless skill). The sage never insists on inevitabilities, thus avoids contention; ordinary people insist on impossibilities, hence endless disputes. Those who rely on brute force ultimately meet destruction.

Common folk exhaust themselves daily with trivial affairs (gift exchanges and letter writing), squandering vitality on superficial matters while absurdly aspiring to comprehend the Great Dao. They remain trapped by concrete phenomena, unable to perceive the cosmic origin (Taichu, the primordial undifferentiated state).

Those who attain the Dao (Zhiren, the perfected person) can return their Shen (spirit) to the root of emptiness, abiding peacefully in the Land of Nothingness (the realm of Dao). They flow naturally like water, penetrating the Supreme Purity (the highest state). Tragically, some obsess over minutiae while remaining ignorant of the Great Dao's serenity.

The passage concludes with a satirical anecdote about the mercenary Cao Shang: This Song state official boasted to Zhuangzi about receiving a hundred chariots from the King of Qin through flattery. Zhuangzi retorted: The king rewards physicians with chariots—the more repulsive the disease treated, the greater the reward. Surely you didn't lick his hemorrhoids? Begone!

(Note: "Guo" originally meant severed ears, here describing sallow complexion; "Cuo" refers to abscesses; "Land of Nothingness" is Zhuangzi's conceptual ideal realm.)

Duke Ai of Lu asked Yan He (a Daoist recluse): "If I appoint Confucius as the pillar of the state, will the country improve?" Yan He replied: "How perilous! Confucius is like using feathers to adorn a painting (metaphor for artificial embellishment), propping up fragmented doctrines with ornate rhetoric. He suppresses human nature to educate the people, unaware this violates their innate disposition. Human life is governed by its own divine spirit (Shen), yet Confucius seeks to forcibly control it—how can this properly govern the people?"

Yan He continued: "The people should live according to their natural spontaneity. You (Duke Ai) and I need only offer simple guidance—even occasional mistakes matter little. But now you'd have them abandon primal simplicity to study artificiality. This is not the proper way to govern. Considering future generations while employing Confucius, you'd do better to abandon the idea—states are inherently difficult to govern. Forced benevolence that demands remembrance is not the De (Virtue) of natural generosity."

He offered an analogy: "Just as merchants (traditionally low-status), even when circumstantially sharing seats with nobles, remain inwardly unequal in people's eyes—so too is my view of Confucius."

Yan He distinguished two kinds of punishment: external ones of metal instruments and wooden shackles (physical penalties), and internal ones of agitation and error (mental torment). Petty men suffer external punishments and the internal afflictions of imbalanced Yin-Yang. Only the Zhenren (Perfected Person, one who attains the Dao) avoids both—this stands diametrically opposed to Confucius' governance.

Finally, he quoted Confucius against himself: "The human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to know than Heaven itself. Heaven at least follows the cycles of seasons and daylight, but men appear honest while hiding depths. Some seem guileless yet covet profit; others resemble elders but lack virtue." (Using Confucius' own recognition of human complexity to reveal the limitations of his governance philosophy)

This scripture primarily addresses two key aspects: first, how to evaluate a person's character through nine methods, and second, the cultivation of De (Virtue/Power).

The text begins by discussing the relationship between talent and character. Some individuals may appear capable yet lack substance, making them seem less virtuous than true sages. Others may appear easygoing yet possess profound understanding. Human temperament varies—some combine strength with flexibility, while others blend slowness with impetuosity. Thus, when evaluating people, the noble person employs nine methods: sending them afar to observe loyalty, keeping them nearby to examine respectfulness, assigning frequent tasks to assess competence, posing sudden questions to test wisdom, setting urgent deadlines to gauge trustworthiness, entrusting wealth to measure benevolence, revealing dangers to evaluate integrity, observing conduct when intoxicated, and mixing them in groups to discern character. Through these methods, one can distinguish the virtuous from the unworthy.

The text then contrasts the example of Zheng Kaofu (a virtuous official of the Spring and Autumn period) with ordinary people: each time Zheng was promoted, he grew more humble, whereas worldly individuals become arrogant even with minor positions, even to the point of disrespectfully addressing elders by name. It also cites the ancient recluse Xu You, who declined rulership of the world—how much more would he disregard official titles and rewards?

Next, it explores the concept of De. The greatest harm arises from consciously striving for De while maintaining mental distinctions. Once distinctions are made, one falls into subjective judgments, which ultimately corrupt virtue. There are five types of harmful De, with "middle De" (self-righteous virtue) being the most severe. This refers to those who consider themselves correct while disparaging others for not following their ways.

Finally, the text identifies eight extremes that lead to human predicament and three essential conditions for true understanding. It lists eight exceptional qualities that paradoxically cause hardship: exceptional beauty, splendid beard, towering height, robust physique, striking appearance, extraordinary courage, unmatched archery, and masterful charioteering. These are all outstanding external attributes, yet excessive pursuit of them becomes a binding constraint.

This passage from Tracing the Origins of the Nanhua Zhenjing explores wisdom in human conduct through two parables. It first explains the concepts of "eight extremes" and "true attainment": when one's abilities surpass ordinary people, they paradoxically become more prone to predicaments (the "eight extremes"). Genuine attainment manifests in three ways: aligning with nature (缘循, yuanxun), being content in tranquility (偃佒, yangyang), and maintaining humility (困畏不若人, kunwei buruo ren). Flaunting intelligence invites resentment, while boasting of benevolence and righteousness draws criticism. Only those who follow the innate truth of life can achieve greatness. Those who comprehend principles may emulate the Dao of heaven, while those at peace with destiny can adapt to circumstances.

The text then presents two stories. The first tells of a man who boasted to Zhuangzi after receiving ten carriages as a reward from the King of Song. Zhuangzi responded with a fable: a poor family's son obtained a precious pearl from a deep abyss only because the black dragon was asleep—had the dragon been awake, the boy would have perished. The state of Song, he implied, was more perilous than the abyss, and its king fiercer than the dragon. Receiving such rewards was mere luck; should the king awaken to reality, it might cost the man his life.

The second story recounts an official coming to recruit Zhuangzi, who replied with an analogy of sacrificial oxen: though well-fed and adorned, they ultimately face slaughter. He hinted that wealth and honor often conceal mortal dangers, and it was better to remain a carefree calf. Both parables convey the same lesson: external glory and riches frequently carry grave risks, while true wisdom lies in preserving one's natural authenticity and resisting the temptations of power.

When Zhuangzi was nearing death, his disciples wished to give him an elaborate burial. But Zhuangzi said: "I take Heaven and Earth as my coffin, the sun and moon as paired jade ornaments accompanying me, the stars and constellations as precious jewels, and all things in creation as funeral offerings. Are not my burial provisions already complete? What could possibly surpass this?"

His disciples worried: "We fear the crows and kites will peck at our master's remains." Zhuangzi replied: "Above ground, my body would be eaten by birds; below ground, it would be consumed by ants. To snatch food from the beaks of birds only to give it to ants—isn't this showing undue partiality?"

(Expanding his teaching) He who seeks fairness through unfair means attains no true fairness; he who verifies things by unreliable standards achieves no real verification. Those who consider themselves clever constantly measure things by artificial human standards, while those who truly comprehend the Dao follow only nature's verification. Human cleverness can never match the profundity of the Dao—this truth has existed since ancient times. Yet foolish people persist in their stubborn views, exhausting their vitality in pursuit of external fame and achievement. Is this not truly lamentable?

(Note: The character "徵" here means verification or proof. Zhuangzi maintains that human standards are less reliable than the verification of the natural Dao.)