《南華真經循本》Vol. 5

Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius) went to see Confucius (Zhongni) to bid farewell before a long journey. When Confucius asked his destination, Yan Hui replied he was going to Wei. Asked about his purpose, Yan explained: "I hear the ruler of Wei (Duke Chu Zhe) is in his prime yet governs autocratically, recklessly expending state resources without recognizing his faults. He casually sends commoners to their deaths—the corpses pile up like mountains, thick as reeds in marshlands, leaving the people utterly desperate."

Here "measure" refers to evaluation, "marsh" indicates vast wetlands like Yunmeng Marsh, and "reeds" means wild grass. The metaphor conveys that casualties are so numerous they resemble marsh reeds when measured against Wei's entire population. As Chen Fenghua once lamented: "Daily we suffer war's devastation—exposed bones proliferate like weeds, leaving commoners truly nowhere to flee."

Yan Hui continued: "I recall your teaching: 'Well-governed states may be left behind, while chaotic ones demand intervention—just as doctors' doorways crowd with the ill.' Physicians desire patients to practice healing arts; troubled states provide arenas to implement governance. I wish to apply your teachings, devise remedies for Wei's ailments—might this not help restore the state?"

Confucius sighed deeply: "Alas! You risk execution with this venture! The Dao abhors fragmentation—fragmentation breeds complications, complications disturb the spirit, spiritual disturbance spawns calamity, and calamity becomes irreparable. Ancient Dao-realized individuals first established correctness within themselves before influencing others. Your inner cultivation remains unsteady—how could you rectify a tyrant's conduct?"

"Moreover, do you understand why virtue decays and wisdom invites disaster? Virtue decays through reputation-seeking; wisdom invites disaster by provoking contention. Reputation makes men undermine each other; wisdom becomes a tool for strife. Both are perilous instruments unfit for self-cultivation. Even with profound virtue and unshakable integrity (矼 denotes solidity), you may fail to transform others; even avoiding fame and profit, you may not move hearts."

"If you forcibly impose the carpenter's square and line (绳墨 originally marking tools, here symbolizing rigid moral standards) to lecture a tyrant on benevolence and righteousness..." (The original text breaks off here, implying the dangers of such an approach)

This passage explains how conflicts and calamities among people often stem from self-promotion and the pursuit of fame and profit. When a person constantly flaunts their virtues, it is like inviting disaster upon themselves (菑人), and others will inevitably retaliate with harm. For instance, if you try to win over the virtuous by disparaging the unworthy, this very act sets you apart and invites misfortune.

When facing those in power, if you speak bluntly to admonish them, they may use your words as fuel for contention. Your eyes may become dazzled by their authority, your expression unconsciously deferential, your words preoccupied with self-justification, your body adopting submissive postures, and your mind even gradually swayed to accept their wrongdoings. This is akin to using fire to extinguish fire or water to stop water—it only exacerbates the problem (益多). If you blindly indulge their misdeeds without remonstrating, you may ultimately perish at the hands of a tyrant for speaking too frankly.

History offers grim examples: the tyrant Jie of Xia executed his loyal minister Guan Longfeng, and King Zhou of Shang killed Prince Bi Gan—both victims of their own self-cultivation and care for the people, which provoked their rulers’ wrath. Their sovereigns, resentful of their virtuous reputations, murdered them out of jealousy. Similarly, Emperor Yao waged war against Congzhi and Xu’ao, while Yu attacked Youhu, reducing these states to ruins (虚厉) and their people to extinction. These conflicts arose from struggles over reputation and gain (名实)—even sages could not avoid such contention, let alone ordinary people.

Finally, Yan Hui asked Confucius: If a person remains upright, humble, diligent, and single-minded, can they evade such calamities? Confucius replied: That alone is insufficient. If one’s heart brims with excessive yang energy (阳为充), their outward demeanor radiates brilliance, and their emotions fluctuate unpredictably, even common folk would find it hard to resist, much less influence others. Such superficial virtue (渐之德) cannot accomplish even small things—how much less great ones?

This passage discusses how practitioners should properly balance inner cultivation with outward conduct.

First, it points out that if someone appears upright and humble on the surface (端正而谦虚) yet remains stubborn in their views inwardly (执而不化), or seems harmonious with others externally (外合) while constantly criticizing them in their heart (内不訾), such a state is unacceptable. It is like how excessive sunlight can lead to arrogance (阳为充孔扬), exemplified by the temperament of the Duke of Wei (卫君), whose moods were unpredictable (采色不定), and whom no one dared to oppose. This approach of suppressing others to indulge one’s own desires (因按抑人之触己以求纵肆其心) makes it difficult to cultivate even minor virtues (日渐之德不成), let alone great Virtue (De).

The text then illustrates the correct approach through three principles proposed by Yan Hui (颜回), a disciple of Confucius:

The first is "inner integrity with outward flexibility" (内直而外曲)—maintaining inner righteousness while adapting one’s external behavior appropriately. Inner integrity means aligning with the Dao (与天为徒), recognizing that both oneself and the ruler are children of Heaven (皆天之所子), and not forcing others to agree with one’s views (不以己言求人之从). Preserving this pure state is like the innocence of a child (童子), free from distinctions—this is called "walking with Heaven" (与天为徒).

The second principle, "outward flexibility," refers to being adaptable in social interactions (与人之为徒), such as observing proper rituals like kneeling and bowing (擎跽曲拳), which are fundamental courtesies.

The third principle, "forming views by drawing from the past" (成而上比), means grounding one’s arguments in classical texts (举其成说) and ensuring they align with the teachings of ancient sages (上合于古人).

This passage emphasizes the need for Daoist practitioners to cultivate both inner and outer refinement: maintaining inner purity and spontaneity while skillfully conforming to worldly etiquette; upholding personal principles while wisely absorbing the wisdom of predecessors.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's teachings on human conduct and spiritual cultivation through a dialogue between Confucius and Yan Hui.

The discussion begins with two approaches to worldly interactions: The first is "walking with the crowd" (与人为徒), conforming to societal norms by following what others do, thereby avoiding criticism. The second is "walking with the ancients" (与古为徒), quoting the words of sages to guide others—though straightforward, this method avoids blame since the words belong to the ancients, not oneself.

Confucius considers both approaches insufficient because they remain attached to personal views. When Yan Hui asks for a higher method, Confucius introduces the practice of "fasting of the heart-mind" (心斋).

This "fasting" is not an external abstention from meat but an inner cultivation. It involves three stages: First, focus—listening not with the ears but with the heart-mind. Second, transcending even the heart-mind to perceive through Qi (气), the vital energy. Third, attaining a state of emptiness, where the mind becomes utterly clear and receptive. Qi here refers to the capacity of emptiness to contain all things.

In the end, Yan Hui realizes: Before attaining the Dao (道), he perceived himself as a solid, separate being; after realization, he enters a state of emptiness where even the concept of "self" dissolves. This is likened to a tally (符契)—only when the two halves perfectly align can resonance occur. Spiritual cultivation, then, is about refining the mind to this absolute emptiness, merging with the Dao.

This passage presents Zhuangzi instructing his disciple Yan Hui on maintaining a mind of emptiness and stillness when engaging with the world. Using a birdcage as a metaphor for the state of Wei, Yan Hui wishes to enter Wei to admonish its ruler—much like a bird entering a cage. Zhuangzi advises him: once inside, preserve a detached state of mind, unmoved by empty reputation. Offer counsel when possible, but cease when ineffective, without forcing the matter. Reside in Wei as if temporarily lodging there, free from attachment—only then might one influence the ruler of Wei.

Several metaphors then illustrate principles for worldly engagement: erasing footprints is easy, but walking without leaving traces is difficult (referring to the near-impossibility of completely concealing one's presence); people may deceive others through pretense, but cannot deceive the principles of heaven (emphasizing sincerity); only birds with wings can fly—none without wings do so (highlighting the need for genuine capability); we observe those who understand through knowledge, but never those who comprehend without it (underscoring how true wisdom transcends superficial learning).

The passage concludes with the metaphor "an empty room generates brightness" (虚室生白): just as an uncluttered space naturally fills with light, a mind maintained in serene emptiness—free from distracting thoughts—naturally manifests wisdom and gathers auspicious energy. The phrase "止止" (zhi zhi) denotes the continuous preservation of this empty stillness. Ancient Yin-Yang practitioners regarded the white color of the central palace (中宫) as symbolizing good fortune, also drawing from this concept of unimpeded emptiness.

The core teaching emphasizes embodying emptiness and wuwei (non-action), relinquishing attachments and contrivances to engage the world with one's natural, authentic mind.

This passage conveys two key teachings:

The first explains the concept of "sitting in motion" (坐驰). It means that when the mind runs wild without restraint, though the body remains seated, the thoughts race uncontrollably like galloping horses. The true elevated state requires turning the external senses (eyes and ears) inward while expelling mental distractions outward, maintaining a state of empty stillness. In such a state, even spirits and deities would dwell with you, let alone ordinary people.

The second teaching uses the story of Lord Ye's mission to Qi to illustrate principles of conduct. Anxious about his diplomatic assignment, Lord Ye received Confucius' advice: Whether handling major or minor affairs, one should approach them with joyful equanimity. Failure invites criticism, while success might bring illness from overthinking. Only those with virtuous character (De) remain unaffected by either outcome. Lord Ye confessed that while normally content with simple fare, his current anxiety over the mission required drinking ice water to cool his agitation - showing how mental distress manifests physically.

The text references ancient sage-kings like Yu, Shun, Fuxi and Ji Qu who practiced this way of empty stillness throughout their lives. Ordinary rulers like the Duke of Wei should particularly emulate such self-cultivation methods.

This passage discusses the two fundamental principles one must face in life: Heavenly Mandate (天命) and Daoist Righteousness (道义). Confucius said that loving one's parents is a Heavenly Mandate—this innate familial bond cannot be erased from the heart. Serving one's ruler, however, belongs to Daoist Righteousness, for all under heaven is the sovereign's domain, leaving us nowhere to escape. These two matters represent life's greatest constraints.

A truly filial person does not pick and choose circumstances but can put their parents at ease in any situation. A genuinely loyal official does not select tasks but fulfills their duty in any position. Those who cultivate their inner nature (性) remain composed through all emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—and achieve the highest virtue (德) by peacefully accepting what cannot be changed. As subjects, we inherently have unavoidable responsibilities; we should immerse ourselves completely, forgetting personal safety—how could there be time for clinging to life and fearing death?

In human interactions, close relationships are maintained through sincerity (信), requiring few words. Distant relationships, however, demand verbal expressions of loyalty, though conveying messages accurately proves particularly difficult. When both parties are joyful, messages tend toward exaggerated praise; when both are angry, they lean toward amplified slander. All exaggerated words lack reliability, and unreliable words bring calamity upon the messenger. Thus ancient texts advise: "Convey the truth, not embellished words, for only then can you preserve yourself."

Consider those who wrestle with technique: they begin with open fairness but often end in covert deceit. When skill is pursued excessively, it gives birth to countless cunning artifices.

This scripture teaches the importance of prudence in human affairs, warning against the dangers of clever words and excessive demands.

When one acts with excessive cunning, they easily fall into overt scheming (yang strategies), yet may ultimately lose control of the situation, leading to mutual harm; while covert scheming (yin strategies) belongs to the realm of treachery. Like drinking wine that begins with proper etiquette but often ends in chaos, excessive indulgence gives rise to all manner of strange occurrences. All affairs follow this pattern—what begins with trustworthiness and reliability ultimately degenerates into crudeness. What starts simply must inevitably conclude in complexity.

Words are like ripples swaying with the wind, easily unsettled and unstable; while concrete actions often carry the fear of failure, easily leading to peril. When anger arises without cause, one utters honeyed words or extreme statements, much like a dying beast that cannot choose its cries and can only produce desperate gasps. At such moments, the heart simultaneously generates the calamity of yin-yang imbalance and spiritual sickness.

When demands upon others become too harsh, they inevitably develop wicked thoughts in response, while the demander remains unaware of the reason. Without understanding the origins of a matter, how can one foresee its outcome? Thus the ancient saying: "Do not arbitrarily alter commands, do not force matters to completion—excess becomes chaos." Both changing commands and forcing outcomes render affairs precarious.

Beautiful accomplishments require long accumulation, while evil consequences, once formed, leave no time for correction. How can one not be cautious? The supreme way of conducting oneself is to follow nature's course, allowing the spirit to wander freely, while cultivating the inner self when compelled by circumstances. Why employ clever tricks in response? Better to honestly fulfill one's mission—this is truly the most difficult achievement.

The passage concludes with the story of Yan He (a recluse of Lu) consulting Qu Boyu: When appointed as tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, Yan He asked Qu Boyu, "There is a man with a cruel, murderous nature..." (introducing a parable about educational challenges).

The scripture employs vivid analogies to illustrate the principle of adapting to the inherent nature of things in human conduct.

Qu Boyu (a virtuous minister of the Wei state during the Spring and Autumn period) replied: One must rectify personal conduct—maintain a harmonious exterior without excessive compliance, and cultivate inner tranquility without deliberate display. Overly familiar exteriors lead to loss of principle, while excessive inner expression invites misfortune. One should accommodate others as one would an infant: when they lack rules, you follow suit; when they disregard boundaries, you do the same—only then can one reach the state of flawlessness (wu ci).

Three animal metaphors further clarify this principle: The mantis, believing its arms strong enough to stop a chariot, fails to recognize its incapacity; tiger handlers dare not feed live prey lest they provoke the beast's ferocity, instead timing its hunger and appeasing its rage; horse lovers who collect manure in fine vessels or hastily swat at biting flies end up kicked by the very steed they cherish. These examples demonstrate that forced action—even with good intentions—backfires when ignorant of a thing's true nature.

The core teaching emphasizes "attaining perfection through flawless adaptation" (da zhi ru yu wu ci). When dealing with violent individuals like the Crown Prince of Wei, this wisdom of yielding to inherent nature becomes especially vital.

This passage recounts the story of Artisan Shi (a carpenter named Shi) encountering a massive oak tree by the village shrine in Quyuan of the Qi state.

The tree was so enormous it could shade over a thousand oxen, and its trunk was so thick it would take a hundred men holding hands to encircle it (in ancient times, the unit "wei" could mean either one chi or eight chi—here it refers to the one-chi measurement). The tree reached nearly to the mountaintop, with branches only beginning to grow at eighty feet high. Among them were over a dozen limbs large enough to build boats, and the crowd of onlookers was as dense as a marketplace. Yet Artisan Shi walked past without a glance. His apprentice, however, was mesmerized and ran after his master, asking, "I’ve trained under you for years and never seen such fine timber. Why didn’t you even stop to look?"

Shi replied, "Don’t mention it—this is a 'useless tree' (sanmu, a tree unfit for lumber). If you make a boat from it, it’ll sink; a coffin, it’ll rot quickly; tools, they’ll break; a doorframe, it’ll ooze resin; a pillar, it’ll be riddled with insects. Precisely because it’s utterly useless, it’s grown this large and lived this long."

That night, Shi dreamed the oak spoke to him: "What are you comparing me to? Those 'ornamental trees' with fine-grained wood? Fruit trees like pears, oranges, and pomelos—once their fruit ripens, they’re plundered, their branches broken. Their usefulness is their undoing—they never reach their natural lifespan. I’ve long sought 'uselessness,' and though ignorant men nearly felled me several times, now that you’ve declared me useless, you’ve revealed my greatest use!"

The oak continued, "You and I are both things of nature—why judge one another? You nearly doomed me, this 'useless tree,' so how could you truly understand its way?" When Shi awoke, his apprentice asked why he was bowing to the tree’s roots. Shi replied, "This tree is beyond my judgment—it preserves itself precisely by being unfit for lumber."

(Note: The term "useless tree" (sanmu) is a key Daoist concept, representing a seemingly worthless existence that embodies profound wisdom—an idea aligned with Zhuangzi’s philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless.")

You are but one existence among heaven and earth—why cling to distinctions between self and other? If you claim humans are people while trees are mere objects, how can beings of fundamentally different natures ever truly understand each other? You're merely a mortal destined to vanish—how could you comprehend that tree destined to decay?

After the carpenter Shi awoke from his dream, his disciples questioned: "If pursuing uselessness is the goal, why become a sacred tree for village altars? Doesn't that make it useful again?" The carpenter replied with silence. He made his disciples hold their tongues, as if fearing the sacred tree might truly hear them. That tree merely dwelled temporarily in the crook of a riverbank, forcibly worshipped by ignorant people as a village shrine—a fate that ultimately harmed it. Had it not become a sacred tree, it likely would have been felled long ago.

Moreover, this tree preserved its life in extraordinary ways. To judge it by worldly standards would be to fundamentally misunderstand its nature. Earlier claims of its worthlessness were wrong, but now deliberate praise would be equally meaningless.

When Nanguo Ziqi (honored as "Bo" for dwelling in the south) traveled through Shangqiu, he encountered a marvelously huge tree—so vast it could shade a thousand chariots, its canopy sheltering multitudes. Ziqi marveled: "What tree is this? It must possess extraordinary material!" Yet looking up, he saw its twisted branches couldn't serve as beams; looking down, its split trunk couldn't make coffins. Licking its leaves blistered mouths, while its scent drove men to drunken madness for three days. Ziqi finally concluded: "This is indeed a useless tree—precisely why it's grown so immense."

This passage employs vivid analogies to reveal the Daoist wisdom of "the usefulness of the useless":

Master Ziqi of Nanguo (a Daoist figure) lamented that those who attain the Dao preserve themselves precisely through apparent uselessness. Consider the catalpa, cypress and mulberry trees thriving in the Jing region of Song state - when they grow to the thickness of two hands clasped together or one hand's grip, they're felled to make stakes for monkeys; at three to four arm spans' girth, wealthy families cut them for roof beams; at seven to eight spans, aristocrats fashion them into half-coffins. These trees all meet premature destruction due to their usefulness.

The text then illustrates through sacrificial taboos: During ancient spring sacrifices, white-foreheaded oxen, upturned-snouted pigs, and hemorrhoid-sufferers were deemed inauspicious for river deity offerings by shamans. Yet these very "ill-omened" beings were considered supremely auspicious by sages, for they thereby preserved their lives.

Finally, the deformed Shu the Disjointed is described: his chin buried in his navel, shoulders towering above his head, topknot pointing skyward, with all five viscera's pressure points facing upward, using thighs as ribs. Earning meager living through mending clothes and divination (shaking bamboo tubes to scatter ritual rice), this incomplete man avoided conscription and corvée labor while receiving government grain rations - ultimately faring better than normal-bodied people.

These examples collectively demonstrate how worldly defects and uselessness often prove key to preserving life and attaining true auspiciousness. Through this counterintuitive perspective, Daoism reveals the dialectical relationship between superficial value and essential survival wisdom.

This passage expounds the Daoist concept of "the usefulness of the useless," illustrating through vivid examples how seemingly worthless things can actually preserve themselves.

The text first mentions the use of refined rice (jiao xu) in sacrificial offerings to deities, enough to feed ten people. Using ritual offerings as a metaphor, it shows how seemingly useless sacrificial items actually serve great purposes.

Next comes the story of Zhili Shu, a physically deformed man: When conscription occurred, his disability exempted him from military service; when corvée labor was demanded, his chronic illness spared him from work; yet during famine relief, he received three zhong of grain and ten bundles of firewood. This demonstrates how physical deformity allowed him to live out his natural lifespan—how much more so for those with seemingly "defective virtue"?

When Confucius visited Chu, the madman Jieyu (a Chu hermit) sang: "Phoenix, phoenix! How your virtue has declined! The future cannot be awaited, the past cannot be pursued. When the world follows the Dao, sages accomplish their work; when the world lacks the Dao, sages preserve their lives. In these times, escaping punishment is fortune enough." This satirizes Confucius's activist approach to worldly affairs.

The song continues: "Blessings light as feathers go unappreciated, disasters heavy as earth go unheeded," advising against deliberate virtue cultivation, just as drawing lines on the ground to hasten people's steps only exhausts them. Mentioning the "mi yang" fern (a metaphor for resilience) and winding paths, it suggests the need for indirect approaches in life.

The conclusion states: Mountain trees are felled for their usefulness, fat is rendered for its flammability, cinnamon trees cut for edibility, lacquer trees tapped for utility. People know the uses of useful things, but not the uses of useless things. This connects with earlier discussions about oak trees and Shangqiu timber, demonstrating how seemingly worthless things endure.

Through multiple parables, this passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "the usefulness of the useless," advocating that in chaotic times, one should adopt seemingly worthless postures to preserve life.