《南華真經新傳》Vol. 1

In the first volume of the New Commentary on the Zhuangzi, the Song Dynasty scholar Wang Yuanze provides an interpretation of the "Free and Easy Wandering" chapter from the Zhuangzi.

The opening passage describes a giant fish named "Kun" in the northern sea, its body spanning thousands of miles unknown. It can transform into a colossal bird called "Peng," whose back is equally immeasurable in breadth. When Peng spreads its wings to soar, they resemble clouds hanging from the heavens. This divine bird migrates with ocean currents to the southern sea, a natural vast basin formed by heaven and earth.

This reveals the essence of the Dao: it has no fixed form, transcends concrete things, and operates silently without being constrained by physical shapes. Only those who have cultivated themselves to the highest level (the perfected person) can comprehend the Dao and attain the state of "no-self." No-self leads to no-mind, and no-mind prevents external things from exerting control, allowing one to roam freely in the mysterious chaos of heaven and earth—this is true free and easy wandering. In contrast, Kun diving in the north and Peng flying south, soaring ninety thousand miles high and resting for six months; or the cicada and dove that can only fly as high as elm and sandalwood trees before returning to the ground—all these are limited by specific forms and spaces, bound by natural laws (creation) and the transformations of Yin-Yang, unable to achieve genuine freedom. Guo Xiang, the Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist scholar, believed that all things find freedom by following their inherent nature and fulfilling their capacities, but this interpretation remains confined to the material level and fails to grasp Zhuangzi's true meaning of free wandering.

"Qi Xie" is a book recording strange phenomena. Zhuangzi advocates eliminating the distinctions between self and things and harmonizing the boundaries between big and small. "Qi" means erasing differences, while "Xie" means reconciling contradictions. Kun and Peng consider themselves large and look down on small birds, while small birds envy Peng and feel inferior—this is neither "Qi" nor "Xie." If one can see through appearances and understand that all things are fundamentally equal, where then lies the distinction between big and small, self and other? This is the ultimate realm of "Qi Xie." Since Kun and Peng are not real but merely allegorical figures, they are called "records of the strange" (zhi guai).

The text records: when Peng flies toward the southern sea, its wings strike the water, churning waves three thousand miles high. Riding a whirlwind, it ascends ninety thousand miles into the sky, relying on the great winds of June to complete its migration.

The giant Peng bird, though enormous in size, cannot fly higher than ninety thousand miles and must rely on the great winds of June to take flight. This shows it is bound by natural laws and has not truly attained the realm of absolute freedom.

The mist (wild horses) and dust between heaven and earth are all set in motion by the breath of living things. For the Peng to take flight, it must depend on these currents of Qi (vital energy) to lift it. Without these currents, even the largest wings cannot soar. This teaches us that no matter how powerful a thing may be, it still relies on external conditions to act—complete independence is impossible.

The sky appears blue, but is this truly its original color? Or is it because the distance is too great to see clearly? Looking down from high above, the same principle applies to the earth. Just as shallow water cannot float a large boat, pouring a cup of water into a depression in front of a hall can only support a blade of grass as a boat—placing a cup there would cause it to run aground. Similarly, if the wind is not strong enough, it cannot lift the Peng’s massive wings. Thus, for the Peng to fly ninety thousand miles high, it must wait until the winds below have gathered sufficient force to bear the weight of the heavens before it can soar freely southward.

The cicada and the little dove mock the Peng, saying: "We dart upward and stop when we reach an elm tree; sometimes we don’t even make it that far and just fall back to the ground. Why bother flying ninety thousand miles to the south?" Those going to the nearby countryside need only carry three meals’ worth of food and return with their stomachs still full. Those traveling a hundred miles must prepare overnight provisions, while those journeying a thousand miles must gather supplies three months in advance. This is like how the Peng must accumulate great winds for its long flight, while tiny insects need only a faint current of Qi for their short hops—both follow natural laws. Once one understands this principle and does not fret over differences in ability, one attains ease and contentment.

How could these two small insects comprehend such vast realms? Limited wisdom cannot grasp profound wisdom, and a short lifespan cannot fathom longevity. Mushrooms that sprout at dawn and wither by dusk know nothing of the moon’s phases; summer cicadas that do not live past autumn cannot understand the cycle of seasons. In the south of Chu, there is the Mingling tree, which counts five hundred years as a single spring. In ancient times, there was the Great Chun tree, which measured eight thousand years as one season. Yet ordinary people regard Pengzu, who lived only eight hundred years, as the standard of longevity—is this not pitiful? All things under heaven are such that small wisdom cannot match great wisdom, nor short lifespans compare to long ones.

This passage explores the inherent differences among all beings and the true meaning of spiritual liberation (xiaoyao) through vivid analogies.

First, consider the span of life: the mushroom that sprouts at dawn and withers by dusk cannot compare to the cicada that lives a single summer; the short-lived Mingling tree pales before the great Chun tree, whose spring season lasts eight thousand years; the child who dies young is no match for Pengzu, who lived eight hundred years. Yet from the perspective of cosmic truth—where there is neither small nor great, neither birth nor death—all physical forms are bound by limitations, and in essence, there is no hierarchy among them. Unless one is truly transcendent, how could they grasp this truth?

In the fable of Tang of Shang questioning Ji, we learn of a vast, fathomless northern sea called the Celestial Pool, where a fish named Kun spans thousands of miles. Transforming into a bird called Peng, its back is like Mount Tai, its wings like clouds draping from the heavens. Riding a whirlwind, it ascends ninety thousand li, piercing the clouds and bearing the azure sky as it flies south. Yet the little sparrow (chiyan) mocks it: "I hop a few yards high, flitting among the grass—that’s enough for me. Why bother flying so far?" This illustrates the distinction between small and great.

However, the text points out that whether Peng soars across vast distances or the sparrow flits about, both are still confined by their physical forms—neither has attained true liberation. True xiaoyao is not about transcending one’s nature but fully realizing it. If one remains attached to physical limitations, suffering arises regardless of size. The difference between liberation and bondage lies solely in whether one sees through this truth.

The discussion then turns to human society: those who hold minor official posts, govern a village, or win a ruler’s trust are like the self-satisfied sparrow. The philosopher Song Rongzi (a Daoist figure from the Warring States period) laughs at them—but in doing so, he too is still distinguishing between great and small. A truly enlightened person remains unmoved whether the world praises or criticizes them, clearly discerning the boundary between inner and outer, honor and disgrace. Yet even Song Rongzi’s attainment falls short—because he still deliberately separates "inner and outer, honor and disgrace," not yet reaching the ultimate state where self and object are forgotten.

(Note: "Xiaoyao" is a core concept in Zhuangzi’s philosophy, referring to a state of freedom beyond material constraints, in unity with the Dao. "Mingling" and "great Chun" are mythical trees. "Sheep’s horn" describes the spiral shape of a whirlwind.)

The whole world may praise him, yet he will not strive harder; the entire society may criticize him, yet he will not feel disheartened. This is what the Huainanzi refers to as "a self-assured person remains unmoved by slander or praise." A truly confident individual values inner cultivation over external judgments, maintains self-dignity while disregarding worldly glory or disgrace, and attains a state of carefree ease by never losing their original nature. Thus it is said: "Distinguish between inner and outer, clarify the boundaries of honor and disgrace—this is enough." The phrase "this is enough" speaks of fully realizing one's inherent nature. Yet exhausting one's nature only completes human cultivation—it does not reach the realm of heavenly destiny, hence there remains an unattained height.

Liezi (a Daoist sage) could ride the wind in flight, ethereal and sublime, returning only after fifteen days. He did not anxiously pursue blessings, and though spared the toil of walking, he still relied on external conditions (the wind). Just as the Kun fish transforming into the Peng bird required the aid of mist and dust, Liezi's attainment of the perfected person's state still depended on wind—both cases reveal lingering dependence. Where there is dependence, one cannot fully reach the ultimate state of xiaoyao (unfettered freedom).

But if one aligns with heaven and earth's nature, masters the transformations of the six qi (yin, yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light), and roams the boundless realm—what need is there for dependence? Only the sage attains this. The sage fully comprehends the Dao's emptiness, enters the wondrous spiritual state, harmonizes with all things, and responds effortlessly to change. Where he goes, he arrives swiftly without haste; where he returns, he is present instantly without walking—perfectly unobstructed in seamless flow. This is true xiaoyao—why would it require external reliance? This is what Zhuangzi calls "free and easy wandering," akin to Buddhism's "the Dharma-body pervading the cosmos." Without the sage's wisdom, who could reach such a state?

Thus it is said: The zhiren (perfected person) has no self-attachment, the shenren (spiritual person) claims no merit, and the shengren (sage) seeks no fame. The zhiren, upon realizing the Dao, attains inner clarity and serene contentment, unburdened by external things; the shenren fully follows the Dao's nature, accomplishing all things while concealing their function; the shengren embodies the Dao's essence, quiescent in wuwei, their divine transformations beyond measure.

When Yao sought to abdicate the throne to Xu You (a recluse), Laozi said, "Withdrawing after success is the Dao's natural way." Yao's yielding of rule after bringing peace to the world aligned with heavenly principle. Those who follow heaven's Dao merge with nature as one.

When the sun and moon shine brightly, should a small torch refuse to extinguish—wouldn't it be futile to compete with their radiance? When the seasonal rains have already fallen, yet one still insists on watering—wouldn't such efforts to moisten the earth be in vain? When Emperor Yao (the ancient sage ruler) governed the world, peace prevailed under heaven, yet here I remain occupying this position.

To widely propagate the Dao (the Way) is called "sageliness," and when sagely virtue (De) reaches an unfathomable depth, it is called "divine." A sage shares both joys and sorrows with the people, while the divine does not concern itself with such worries as a sage does. When Emperor Yao first ruled the world, he emulated the Dao of heaven to educate the people, sharing their joys and sorrows—this was the stage of "action" (youwei). But when his teachings reached perfection, he could naturally guide all things without leaving traces—this is the state of "non-action" (wuwei). Non-action arises from action, and when non-action reaches its peak, one enters the realm of the divine. The achievements of a sage must rely on this divine state to be established, and when those achievements reach their zenith, the divine must remain whole. This is why Emperor Yao wished to relinquish the throne—if one attains divine accomplishment yet fails to return to the original truth, it harms the divine. Thus, Emperor Yao used the metaphors of the "small torch" and "artificial watering" to illustrate this, saying he still felt lacking and sought to withdraw from ruling.

Laozi said, "What is most perfect seems incomplete." Those who achieve true greatness do not claim their accomplishments, and thus appear as if lacking. When Emperor Yao spoke of his "incompleteness," it was precisely this refusal to claim merit.

Xu You (a legendary recluse) said, "You have governed the world, and peace already prevails—yet you ask me to replace you. Am I to seek fame? Fame is but the shadow of substance. Should I pursue this shadow?" Xu You was a true practitioner of non-action in ancient times—since he embodied non-action, why would he cling to ruling the world? This is why he refused Emperor Yao. Both action and non-action are supreme states without distinction. To insist that action is inferior and non-action superior is to lose the true meaning of non-action, inviting disputes over name and substance, distinctions between host and guest—thus deviating from the Dao. Hence, Xu You declined with his discourse on "host and guest."

The wren builds its nest in the deep forest, needing but a single branch; the mole drinks from the river, only until its belly is full. This shows that even in action, if it does not burden the heart, one can still reach the most wondrous state under heaven, without craving more. When all things abide in their nature and find their proper place, this is the most fitting condition.

This passage explores Daoist concepts of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and "carefree freedom" through two parables.

The first story recounts Xu You's refusal of Emperor Yao's offer to abdicate the throne. Xu You responds, "Return to your duties, the empire is of no use to me," illustrating how just as a chef doesn't interfere with ritual officiants during sacrifices, all things have their proper roles. The sage (Yao here) attains spiritual perfection without worldly anxieties. Should Xu You overstep his bounds, he would lose his state of untrammeled freedom. The metaphor of "the cook" (paoren) and "the ritual master" (shizhu) demonstrates the Daoist principle of each fulfilling their innate function.

The second parable features a dialogue between Jianwu and Lianshu. Jianwu recounts Jieyu's description of divine beings dwelling on Mount Guye—their snow-white skin untouched by mortal food, riding clouds and dragons. When these perfected beings concentrate their spirit (Shen), crops flourish and disasters cease. While Jianwu dismisses this as madness, Lianshu responds that such skepticism resembles the blind unable to see patterns or the deaf missing chime music—the mind too has its "deafness and blindness." Those with true Virtue (De) merge completely with the myriad things: neither floods drown them nor droughts scorch them. The very dust from their forms could produce sages like Yao and Shun—why would they trouble with worldly affairs?

The name "Lianshu" (literally "Connected Uncle") symbolizes transcendent detachment, while "Jianwu" ("Shouldering Self") represents ego-bound perception. Through these stories, the text elucidates core Daoist ideals of spiritual transcendence and harmonious alignment with nature's spontaneous flow.

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's philosophical concepts of the supreme state of the Dao (the Way) and the "usefulness of the useless" through several allegorical stories.

The recluse Jieyu appears ethereal yet embraces all things. Through these three characters, Zhuangzi illustrates the highest realm of the Dao. When the Dao reaches its ultimate state, it cannot be described in words, comprehended through conventional wisdom, or understood by worldly people. The mythical Mount Guye in the North Sea symbolizes returning to the origin, while the Fen River in the northeast represents recovering one's true nature. Riding clouds signifies emptiness, harnessing flying dragons denotes transformation, and wandering beyond the four seas demonstrates freedom from physical constraints—all manifestations of the Dao's supreme state.

The pinnacle of the Dao is profound mystery; this mystery connects with the divine (Shen), and divine connection manifests as wuwei (non-action). Emperor Yao, having attained wuwei, forgot about ruling the world and thus abdicated to Xu You. This exemplifies Zhuangzi's statement: "After meeting the four sages, one becomes absent-minded and forgets the world"—the ultimate expression of the Dao, incomprehensible to those with limited vision.

Two subsequent stories demonstrate the "usefulness of the useless": A Song man tried selling ceremonial hats in Yue, where people cropped their hair and tattooed bodies, making them useless; Huizi obtained giant gourd seeds yielding vessels holding five stones, yet complained they were too fragile for water and too large for ladles, eventually smashing them. Zhuangzi criticized Huizi's failure to utilize objects according to their unique properties.

All things possess distinct forms, and each form has its proper function—when applied appropriately, this becomes wondrous utility. Huizi deemed the giant gourds useless because he couldn't perceive their inherent qualities. Such failure stems from mental inflexibility, like the Song family who for generations used their frostbite remedy only for silk-washing until a visitor bought it for military use, helping Wu win a naval battle. The same prescription, differently employed, produced vastly different value.

A family that had been washing silk floss for generations developed a medicinal salve to prevent chapped hands, which they sold for mere pennies. A traveler purchased the recipe for a hundred pieces of gold and presented it to the King of Wu. Later, when the state of Yue attacked, the king put this man in command of troops. During winter water battles, his soldiers' hands remained protected from chapping, leading to a great victory that earned the man a fiefdom. The same formula brought one man a noble title while others used it only for washing silk—the difference lay in how it was employed.

You, Master Hui, possess a massive gourd capable of holding five stone-measures of water—why not fashion it into a floating vessel to roam rivers and lakes? Instead, you worry about its size making it unwieldy. This reveals your mind remains as narrow as overgrown weeds. Whether the salve serves laundry or warfare demonstrates that while objects remain unchanged, aligning with their inherent qualities unlocks their potential. Herein lies the principle of discerning things' true nature to fully realize their function.

Master Hui told Zhuangzi: "I have a huge tree people call a foul-smelling ailanthus. Its trunk is too gnarled for carpenters' lines, its branches too crooked for compasses or squares—even roadside carpenters won't glance at it. Your teachings resemble this tree: grand yet useless." Zhuangzi replied: "Have you not seen wildcats? They crouch low awaiting prey, yet often die in traps despite their leaps. Consider yaks—massive as clouds, they bear heavy loads but can't catch mice. You fret over your tree's uselessness—why not plant it in the realm of Nothingness, the vast wilds? Let it grow freely while you wander beneath it. Unharmed by axes, untouched by harm—what hardship exists in apparent uselessness?"

The Dao transcends size distinctions yet originates all dimensions; seeming uselessness forms the foundation of universal function. Sages preserve life's essence, embodying the Dao through application. Like the ailanthus—deep roots yield lush foliage; so too with life—secure foundations enable all endeavors. By anchoring deeply beyond concerns of scale, one attains liberation. The "realm of Nothingness" signifies the void's ideal state; "vast wilds" represent boundless space. Wildcats and yaks illustrate how different utilities may both lead to entrapment. Wandering symbolizes movement; reclining embodies stillness. Axes cannot harm what appears useless—such immunity constitutes its greatest utility.

(Notes: "Washing silk floss" refers to textile processing; "anti-chapping salve" prevents hand cracks; "gourd's unwieldiness" describes oversized vessels; "weed-choked mind" denotes narrow thinking; "ailanthus" is the tree of heaven; "wildcats" are small predators; "yaks" are Tibetan oxen; "realm of Nothingness" represents Zhuangzi's philosophical void-state)

Zhuangzi’s concept of "no harm" (wuhai) here refers to avoiding conflict with the myriad things, so that they, in turn, cannot harm you. This represents Zhuangzi’s ultimate exposition of the state of "free and unfettered wandering" (xiaoyao), deliberately placed at the end of the chapter as a concluding statement.

The New Commentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence explains in this first volume that Zhuangzi believed true freedom does not come from forcibly altering external things, but from adjusting one’s own attitude toward life. When a person ceases to oppose the myriad things and instead aligns with the natural Dao, they attain the state where "nothing can harm them" (wu mo neng shang)—external disturbances lose their power to truly wound them. This realm transcends ordinary self-preservation; it is an inner tranquility achieved through spiritual cultivation.