《南華真經循本》Vol. 3

This passage from Nanhua Zhenjing Xunben discusses the "Qiwulun" (Equalizing All Things) chapter, exploring the relationship between language and truth.

The author Luo Miandao employs a dialogic format to expound: When someone voices an opinion today, we cannot determine whether it aligns with the standard of truth. Regardless of whether the opinion conforms to truth, it ultimately belongs to the same category—thus eliminating contention. Even when views oppose one another (you deem something right while I deem it wrong, or vice versa), they are merely different manifestations of the same underlying unity.

The text then probes the profound mystery of cosmic origins: In the primordial state of the universe, even the concept of a "beginning" did not exist, and prior to that, not even the notion of "having no beginning" was present. Similarly, the distinctions between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu) emerged only later. Can our present-day language truly express ultimate reality?

A counterintuitive Daoist perspective follows: From the viewpoint of the Dao (the Way), the tip of an autumn hair (the smallest thing) may be vaster than Mount Tai, and an infant who dies young may live longer than the long-lived Pengzu. Heaven, earth, and the myriad things are fundamentally one with me. Since we are already one, what need is there for words? Yet the moment we say "one," we have already resorted to language. Thus, "one" and the word expressing it become "two," and adding the original "one" makes "three." Proceeding in this manner, even the most skilled mathematician could not unravel the complexity—let alone ordinary people.

This passage reveals Daoist reflections on the limitations of language, asserting that truth transcends what words can convey. It advocates the "equalizing of all things" (qiwu), a state of consciousness that rises above dualistic distinctions of right and wrong.

Zhuangzi here discusses the fundamental unity of all things and the limitations of artificial distinctions. He employs vivid metaphors to illustrate this: the tip of a newborn animal's autumn hair may seem the finest detail, yet compared to even subtler things, it appears large; Mount Tai may seem enormous, yet placed within the vastness of heaven and earth, it becomes insignificant. A child who dies young (殇子) may have a brief lifespan, yet compared to ephemeral creatures that live only a morning and evening, it counts as longevity; Pengzu (the legendary figure said to have lived eight hundred years) may have lived long, yet compared to heaven and earth, his life seems fleeting.

He suggests that fundamentally, heaven, earth, and the myriad things are originally one, and within the human body lies a complete universe. Since all things share the same origin, forcibly distinguishing between concepts like size and longevity is merely human attachment. Once we begin defining the concept of "one" with language, we fall into endless disputes over right and wrong. Thus, we should return to the void of the original source and follow nature.

Next, he discusses how the Dao (the cosmic principle) originally has no boundaries, and language has no fixed standards. People create various distinctions for the sake of argument, such as the eight opposing concepts (八德): left and right, sequence, appropriateness, discrimination, mental contention (inner struggle), and physical contention (actual conflict).

The true sage (one who has attained the Dao) approaches different domains with different attitudes: regarding matters beyond the six directions (heaven, earth, and the four cardinal points), they remain silent; regarding matters within the six directions, they discuss but do not probe deeply; regarding historical records of ancient kings (such as the Spring and Autumn Annals), they comment but do not debate. Forcing distinctions only leads to greater misunderstanding, just as the harder one tries to prove oneself right, the less one sees the truth.

Finally, he points to the highest state: the true "Dao" is beyond description, the most profound argument requires no words, true benevolence does not deliberately display kindness, and true integrity does not consciously exhibit humility (嗛, meaning "modesty"). Just as holding something in the mouth makes speech difficult, those with attachments in their hearts struggle to grasp the true meaning.

This passage from the Nanhua Zhenjing (Classic of Southern Florescence) expounds on the wisdom of human conduct and Daoist cultivation through a series of contrasts, illustrating how true virtue (De) transcends superficial forms:

The truly incorruptible person never feels self-satisfied about their integrity ("great integrity makes no show of purity"); the genuinely courageous never harm others ("great courage does not bully or brawl"). Over-emphasizing the Dao ("the Way made obvious is not the Dao"); eloquence paradoxically falls short of true benevolence ("verbal brilliance fails to reach kindness"); while rigid adherence to conventional compassion limits the boundless nature of virtuous power ("constant kindness achieves no completion").

Five counterexamples follow: those who flaunt their moral superiority become untrustworthy ("purity paraded inspires no faith"); those who dominate through violence lack genuine courage ("courage that harms never succeeds"). These originally fluid Daoist principles—referring to the natural Way—become rigid dogmas when confined to fixed forms ("what was round becomes nearly square").

The highest wisdom lies in knowing where to stop ("knowing to stop at what one does not know"). Supreme understanding resembles nature's inexhaustible treasury ("Heaven's Storehouse")—never filled nor depleted. This inner radiance requires mindful nurturing ("cherishing the light"). Using the legendary rulers Yao and Shun as examples: when Yao grew restless about attacking three petty states (Zong, Kuai, and Xu'ao), Shun advised him their rulers were like men hiding in weeds—unworthy of attention. True cultivation means elevating one's virtue until its influence surpasses sunlight itself, just as ten suns illuminate all things without discrimination.

This scripture contains two main sections: first a discussion on the transformative power of virtue, followed by a philosophical dialogue between Wang Ni and Nie Que about the nature of knowledge.

The first part states that when ten suns shine simultaneously, all things receive illumination—how much more powerful then is the transformative influence of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), which far surpasses sunlight. Even the remote, uncivilized regions (referred to as the "three barbarian states") would voluntarily clear weeds and open roads to submit to this civilizing force—why resort to military conquest?

The second section presents Nie Que's inquiry to his teacher Wang Ni (a sage from Emperor Yao's era) about epistemology. Wang Ni responds with a series of rhetorical questions demonstrating the relativity of perception: humans develop backaches when sleeping in damp places, yet loaches thrive there; people fear living in trees, while monkeys feel perfectly at home; humans relish livestock meat, deer prefer grass, centipedes enjoy snakes, and owls delight in mice—who can determine which lifestyle or taste is "correct"? Just as people consider beauties like Mao Qiang and Li Ji stunning, fish and birds flee from them in terror, while deer bolt in panic at their sight.

From this, Wang Ni concludes that standards of benevolence and righteousness, boundaries of right and wrong, are all muddled and indistinguishable. When Nie Que presses—"If even a perfected person (zhiren) like you cannot discern profit and harm, then who could possibly know?"—Wang Ni replies that true perfected beings attain miraculous states: great fires cannot scorch them, bitter cold cannot freeze them, and thunderclaps or tidal waves cannot frighten them. Such beings ride clouds and moons across the four seas, untouched even by life and death—how much less would worldly concerns of gain and loss affect them?

This dialogue embodies the relativistic epistemology and transcendent spiritual attainment in Zhuangzi's philosophy. By contrasting different creatures' ways of living, it demonstrates how so-called "correct" standards are all relative, and true wisdom lies in rising above such mundane distinctions.

Qu Juezi asked Chang Wuzi, saying: "I once heard my teacher say that true sages do not entangle themselves in worldly affairs. They neither pursue profit nor avoid harm, neither deliberately seek anything nor consciously follow any path. Though they appear not to follow the Dao, they naturally align with it. Though they seem to speak nothing, they have already expressed everything; whereas ordinary people appear to speak much yet actually communicate nothing clearly."

Qu Juezi considered this the marvelous Way transcending worldly dust, yet his teacher thought such words too vague and abstract. Now he wished to hear Chang Wuzi's perspective.

Chang Wuzi replied: "These words would confuse even the Yellow Emperor. As an ordinary person, how could I truly comprehend such profound principles? Moreover, you're too impatient—like seeing an egg and immediately expecting the crowing rooster, or spotting a slingshot and already imagining roasted owl meat." This criticized Qu Juezi's eagerness for quick results without grasping the essence of the Great Dao.

Chang Wuzi continued: "Let me speak casually, and you listen casually. Those cultivating the Dao should be like leaning against the sun and moon while embracing the cosmos." Here he employed Daoist alchemical metaphors: treating celestial bodies as medicinal ingredients and the universe as the alchemical cauldron. Dao cultivation requires harmonizing one's Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang), while eliminating bewildering desires (huahun)—the greed of eyes, ears, nose, and tongue, as well as emotional disturbances like joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure. One must relinquish all such distractions to maintain inner purity and tranquility.

[Note: The terms "harmonizing" refer to the balanced state of Yin-Yang, while "bewildering desires" denote various cravings and emotions that disturb the heart-mind. These are crucial concepts in Daoist cultivation, emphasizing the regulation of body and mind to achieve unity with the Dao.]

This passage explores profound Daoist reflections on life and death, dreams and awakening. It describes how ordinary people are driven by desires in their busy lives, while sages (those who have attained the Dao) may appear dull but actually comprehend the principles governing all things, reaching a state of pure unity. Just as alchemy requires thirty-six thousand days of careful fire regulation, the sage can achieve this state of perfect integration—"becoming one with all"—in an instant.

The author questions people's attachment to life and death: How do we know that clinging to life isn't delusion? How do we know that fearing death isn't like a lost youth who doesn't know the way home? The story of Lady Li (a maiden from the state of Li) serves as a metaphor: When first captured and taken to Jin, she wept bitterly, but later enjoying wealth and status, she regretted her earlier tears. This leads to the thought—how do we know the dead don't regret their former desperate clinging to life?

Dreams provide another analogy: Those who drink wine in dreams may weep in the morning, while those who weep in dreams may go hunting by day. When dreaming, one doesn't know it's a dream, sometimes even interpreting dreams within the dream—only upon waking does one realize it was a dream. But the truly enlightened understand that all human existence is like one great dream, while fools believe themselves awake, busily distinguishing between noble and base. Such views are shallow indeed!

The passage culminates in paradox: Confucius (Qiu) and you are both dreaming, and even my saying "you are dreaming" is itself part of the dream. This seemingly contradictory expression is called in Daoism a "doubt-provoking saying" (diaogui)—apparently absurd yet profoundly meaningful. Through layered metaphors, the text reveals the transcendent Daoist wisdom of "equating life and death" and "leveling dreams and awakening."

This passage explores the dilemma of knowing truth and the Daoist wisdom of "harmonizing with the celestial pivot (天倪 Tianni)":

Understanding truth is truly a profound challenge. Even across ten thousand generations, encountering one great sage who genuinely comprehends its mysteries (referring to an enlightened Daoist) would be as rare as meeting someone at dawn and dusk. The saying "ten thousand generations are but a morning and evening" illustrates both the extreme rarity of such individuals and the sense that temporal distance collapses when such a meeting occurs. Without encountering such a person, truth remains unknowable.

The text then uses debate as an example to illustrate this cognitive dilemma: Suppose you and I debate—regardless of who prevails, neither outcome proves where truth actually resides. You might be right, I might be right, both could be correct or both mistaken, yet we fundamentally lack the means to judge. If we seek a third party's judgment, they too would be constrained by cognitive limitations—someone who agrees with you cannot be impartial, nor can someone who agrees with me. Someone who disagrees with both of us, holding entirely different views, would be equally unfit to judge. Even someone agreeing with both positions couldn't resolve the matter. Thus, in all scenarios, neither we nor any observer can truly apprehend truth.

So whom should we turn to for judgment? Perhaps we can only await that great sage who may appear ten thousand generations hence.

Qu Quezi (a Daoist figure) then asks: "What does it mean to harmonize cognition using the celestial pivot (Tianni, referring to the natural authentic state)?" Changwuzi replies: It means affirming what ordinary people don't affirm, validating what conventional wisdom rejects. If what we affirm is indeed correct, it naturally differs from incorrect matters without requiring debate; if the principles we validate are truly reasonable, they inherently distinguish themselves from unreasonable claims without needing contention.

This points to true cognition transcending dualistic debate and returning to the natural authentic state. Grasping truth doesn't lie in winning arguments but in realizing that realm of "celestial pivot" which surpasses all dichotomies of right and wrong.

This passage explores Daoist reflections on the relationship between nature and artifice, form and shadow.

The discussion on "transformative teachings" (huasheng) suggests there's no need to deliberately distinguish between different types of instruction to engage in debate. These teachings are like sounds naturally produced by wind passing through—the highest form of guidance influences people imperceptibly, leaving no trace of instruction behind.

"Harmonizing with the celestial pattern" (he zhi yi tian ni) speaks of aligning with the Dao of nature. Here "celestial" refers to the natural world, while "pattern" (ni) denotes the first stirrings of manifestation. Things conform to natural principles from their very inception, without waiting for full manifestation.

"Following the winding course" (yin zhi yi man yan) describes moving freely according to one's nature, thereby passing one's years in peace. By forgetting time and forgetting doctrines, one wanders freely in boundless realms, ultimately returning to the infinite.

The subsequent dialogue between a shadow (jing) and penumbra (wang liang) illustrates interdependence: The shadow explains it moves according to the form's movements, just as snakes rely on their ventral scales to crawl or cicadas depend on wings to fly. Without these supports, autonomous movement becomes impossible. This mirrors how humans can never truly understand why things are as they are or aren't.

The passage concludes with Zhuangzi's famous butterfly dream: Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly, fluttering freely and completely forgetting he was Zhuangzi. Upon waking, he became uncertain whether he was Zhuangzi who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly now dreaming it was Zhuangzi. This story reveals the illusory nature of boundaries between self and other, embodying the Daoist concept of "transformation of things" (wu hua).

In the "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" (Qiwulun), Zhuangzi observes: When one realizes that awakening itself may be another form of dreaming, it resembles Zhuang Zhou dreaming he was a butterfly. Though Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly are distinct, this distinction often eludes even the dreamer's perception. If self-awareness proves so elusive, how can we accurately delineate boundaries between right and wrong, self and other? This constitutes what is termed "the transformation of things" (wuhua) — the principle of mutual metamorphosis among all beings.

Comprehending this principle of universal transformation reveals that things need not be forcibly unified. Though this chapter bears the title "Discussion on Making All Things Equal," it ultimately returns to the fundamental concept of "things" (wu) as its concluding theme.

The second chapter of the Zhuangzi (also known as the Nanhua Zhenjing or True Scripture of Southern Florescence) has long been regarded as profoundly abstruse. We may divide its interpretation into three major sections:

The first section begins with Master Ziqi of Nanguo leaning on his armrest in quiet sitting and concludes with "day and night alternate, yet what causes this cycle of life?" This portion subdivides into three segments: opening with Ziqi's dialogue with his disciple; followed by descriptions of the "pipes of earth" (dilai, terrestrial harmonies); and culminating in exposition of the "pipes of heaven" (tianlai, celestial harmonies).

The second section spans from "Without that, there would be no I" to "This is called the Treasured Radiance" (baoguang), containing five subsections: initially extending Ziqi's discourse on celestial harmonies by noting how humans possess an innate true nature they unknowingly govern; then extensively employing the dialectical arguments of Gongsun Long to examine propositions about right/wrong, self/other, designation/objects, and white horses — ultimately concluding that excessive disputation proves inferior to maintaining silence.

The third section runs from "Yao questioned Shun" to the chapter's end, primarily deepening preceding arguments through paradigmatic examples across four subsections: first demonstrating how virtue transcends ordinary cognition; next describing how the Perfected Person (zhiren) transcends life/death and clings to no absolutes; then revealing the Dao's naturalness requiring no forced cultivation; finally employing two metaphors to show that since humans scarcely comprehend themselves, they should abandon rigid judgments and instead harmonize with the inherent differences among things to achieve unity.

(Note: "Treasured Radiance" signifies the inward luminosity of wisdom concealed by those who embody the Dao; the "Perfected Person" represents the Daoist ideal of one who has attained ultimate self-cultivation; "transformation of things" constitutes a key Zhuangzian concept denoting the fluid interchange and blurred boundaries among all phenomena.)