《南華真經新傳》Vol. 10

In his Commentary on the Zhuangzi, Wang Yuanze interprets the chapter "Perfect Happiness" by noting: Those who attain true happiness are those who can discard heterodox doctrines, maintain pure innate nature, forget themselves and harmonize with all things. Such individuals remain unperturbed by worldly concerns like life and death, wealth and poverty, success and failure, or longevity and premature death—dwelling freely between heaven and earth. It was from this elevated perspective that Zhuangzi composed "Perfect Happiness."

Does ultimate happiness truly exist in this world? Is there genuinely a way to nurture life? What do people pursue nowadays, and upon what do they base their actions? What do they avoid, what do they settle for, what do they flock toward, what do they abandon, what brings them joy, and what do they detest? The world esteems wealth, status, longevity, and fame; people delight in comfort, fine food, elegant clothing, beautiful sights, and music; they despise poverty, lowliness, and short lifespans; they suffer when their bodies lack ease, their tongues miss delicacies, their backs go without fine robes, their eyes see no beauty, and their ears hear no music—when deprived of these, they fret endlessly. Such an approach to life is profoundly misguided.

The wealthy exhaust their bodies in relentless labor, amassing fortunes they cannot possibly use up—this inverts life's proper order. The powerful scheme day and night over political gains and losses—this betrays life's true essence. Humans enter this world accompanied by sorrow; the long-lived wander in confusion, perpetually fearing death—this strays farthest from life's truth. Martyrs praised by all still cannot preserve their own lives—is such "goodness" genuine or false? If it counts as goodness yet fails to protect oneself, while counting as badness yet saves others, then when loyal counsel goes unheeded, one should withdraw rather than contend. Wu Zixu died for his forceful remonstrations—had he not persisted, he would have left no name behind. Does the so-called goodness of this world truly exist?

As for the happiness pursued by worldly people, I cannot say whether it constitutes real joy. Observing how crowds rush headlong after what they deem happiness, I feel neither joy nor sorrow about it. Does perfect happiness actually exist? I consider wuwei (non-action) to be true happiness, yet this is precisely what the world most despises.

Perfect happiness transcends the vexations brought by all things. This joy is not obtained from external sources, nor is it produced by sensory stimulation—it arises from the state of self-forgetting.

(Note: Wuwei is a core Daoist concept referring to a life attitude of following nature's flow without forced action; Wu Zixu was a loyal minister of the Spring and Autumn period who was executed for his blunt admonishments to the King of Wu.)

True happiness requires no deliberate pursuit, yet few in the world understand this. Thus we ask: does ultimate joy truly exist? In truth, when one can relinquish the self and accord with spontaneity, supreme happiness naturally manifests. Reaching this state preserves one's vital life force, and when life is preserved, how can we say there is no joy?

Worldly people misunderstand the source of genuine happiness, mistakenly equating it with wealth, longevity, fine clothes, sumptuous food, and sensual pleasures. In obtaining these, they exhaust their bodies and lose their true nature, becoming so immersed they cannot awaken; in losing them, they exhaust their minds and harm their lives in endless pursuit. This is indeed the greatest delusion! How could they know that ultimate joy arises from inner fulfillment, not external gratification? This illustrates Zhuangzi's teaching: "To be trapped by physical form is foolishness; to cling to external things is estrangement."

Therefore we say: the highest joy appears joyless, the greatest honor seems honorless. The world's distinctions between right and wrong have no fixed standard - only by following nature can one discern clearly. The essence of supreme happiness and nurturing life lies in accordance with spontaneity. Observe how heaven acts without acting yet remains clear, how earth acts without acting yet remains tranquil. Heaven and earth operate naturally, and the ten thousand things transform spontaneously. Vaguely, indistinctly, their origins remain unknown; dimly, obscurely, they show no concrete form. All flourishing growth emerges from following nature's course. Thus while heaven and earth seem to do nothing, there's nothing they don't accomplish. Yet who among worldly people can truly practice this natural accord?

Supreme joy arises from Wuwei (non-action), yet Wuwei isn't the deliberate pursuit of happiness - hence "ultimate joy is joyless." Highest honor comes from ineffable realms, and the ineffable isn't the deliberate pursuit of fame - hence "ultimate honor is honorless." Following nature aligns with the Dao of heaven and earth. Though heaven and earth act without acting, they perfect all things' growth - where then is hardship or exhaustion? This is happiness at its pinnacle. When humans accord with spontaneity, they too can attain this supreme joy.

When Zhuangzi's wife died, his friend Huizi came to offer condolences and found Zhuangzi squatting while drumming on a bowl and singing. Huizi said: "You lived with your wife for years, raised children together until her old age - now she's gone and you don't weep? Isn't this excessive?" (This story illustrates Zhuangzi's realization of life and death as natural processes, unattached to conventional mourning rituals.)

When Zhuangzi's wife passed away, instead of wailing in grief, he beat on an earthen pot and sang. Those around him thought this behavior outrageous, but Zhuangzi explained: For her, death was merely a return to the original state. All things were originally without life—not only without life, but without form, and even without the Qi (the fundamental Daoist element) that constitutes form. Life emerges from primordial chaos—first comes Qi, which condenses into form, and form then gives birth to life. Now she has returned to death, as natural as the turning of the four seasons. While others sleep peacefully in the great chamber of heaven and earth, my weeping would show ignorance of nature's ways.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao regard life and death as ordinary comings and goings—they neither rejoice at birth nor grieve at death. Zhuangzi's pot-beating without mourning demonstrates his penetrating insight into the naturalness of mortality, mirroring Mencius' description of "playing the zither calmly during mourning"—maintaining equanimity even in bereavement.

The Crippled Scholar (whose body was incomplete) and Simpleton (whose mind was uncomplicated) wandered together through the Hills of Obscurity (symbolizing emptiness) and the Wastes of Kunlun (a sacred site where the Yellow Emperor once rested). Suddenly, a tumor grew on Simpleton's left elbow, which initially disgusted him. The Crippled Scholar asked, "Do you loathe it?" Simpleton awakened to realization: "Why should I? Life is but a temporary lodging for this body—birth and death are like day and night's alternation. We came to observe the transformations of all things, and now transformation occurs within me—what's there to loathe?"

"Crippled" signifies physical incompleteness, while "Simpleton" represents mental non-attachment. Through these fictional characters, Zhuangzi illustrates how physically impaired individuals transcend bodily constraints, and those with uncomplicated minds surpass intellectual distinctions. Only such people truly penetrate life and death's essence. Their pilgrimage to sacred sites symbolizing emptiness aims precisely to contemplate creation's mysteries. When one sees through life's transformations, how can external things disturb the mind? Thus Simpleton felt no disgust at his tumor. To such people, nothing in the world can bring sorrow—their hearts preserve genuine joy.

In Chu, Zhuangzi saw a dried skull and tapped it with his horsewhip, asking: "How did you come to die?" (The subsequent dialogue reveals Zhuangzi's transcendent attitude toward death—that dying might be happier than living.)

This passage recounts Zhuangzi's allegorical dialogue with a skull, followed by Confucius' concerns about Yan Hui's journey to Qi.

Zhuangzi encounters a skull by the roadside and questions it: "Did you die because you feared death and defied the natural order? Were you executed after your state's collapse? Did you perish from shame over misdeeds against family? Or from cold and hunger? Perhaps you completed your natural lifespan?" Using the skull as a pillow, he dreams it appears at midnight saying: "These worries belong to the living. In death, such burdens vanish. Shall I describe death's joys?" The skull explains how death abolishes social hierarchies and seasonal toil, granting freedom where heaven and earth mark the passage of time—even surpassing a king's pleasures. When Zhuangzi offers to petition the Director of Destinies (Si Ming) to restore its body and reunite it with family and community, the skull frowns: "Why abandon this regal bliss for mortal hardships?"

The commentary reveals life's essence: existence is but Qi's temporary coalescence, death its dispersion. Life doesn't guarantee freedom, nor death suffering. The skull's refusal to revive suggests death may offer greater liberation. Our forms are fleeting Qi condensations—their gathering and scattering beyond our control. Why cling to "self"? Attachment to form breeds friction with external phenomena, obstructing inner serenity.

The narrative shifts to Confucius appearing troubled as Yan Hui departs for Qi. When Zigong inquires, Confucius quotes Guanzi: "Small bags won't hold large objects; short ropes can't reach deep wells"—illustrating how all beings have destined capacities and forms find fitting environments. This implies Yan Hui may be ill-suited for Qi's circumstances.

The passage recounts Confucius' concern that when Yan Hui discusses the Way of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor with the Duke of Qi, it might backfire just as the Duke of Lu's attempt to nurture a seabird did.

The Duke of Lu once welcomed a seabird into his ancestral temple, entertaining it with the most solemn music of the Nine Shao and offering a grand feast of oxen, sheep, and pigs. Yet the bird, terrified, refused to eat or drink and died within three days. This was an example of raising a bird according to human customs rather than its innate nature. To truly nurture a bird, one should let it perch in the forests, roam the sandbanks, drift along rivers and lakes, feed on small fish and loaches, and move freely among its flock.

The same principle applies elsewhere. When the exquisite music of "Xianchi" or "Nine Shao" is played in the wilderness, birds, beasts, fish, and insects flee in fright—only humans gather to admire it. Fish thrive in water, yet humans drown, for all beings have different natures. Thus, the ancient sages never imposed uniformity but allowed all things to follow their own ways.

The teachings of sage-kings like Suiren, Shennong, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun can only be grasped by sages. The Duke of Qi, however, is a ruler of middling capacity. If Yan Hui forcibly expounds these profound principles to him, he will only grow confused and unsettled. Once confused, a man will obsessively overthink, ultimately harming his body and life. It would be better to tailor one's teachings to the listener's capacity, imparting the moderate Way suited to them—only then can life be preserved and true joy attained.

The subsequent parable of Liezi encountering a century-old skull further illustrates this point: life and death are part of nature's cycle, like seeds turning into water plants when submerged, transforming into moss between water and earth, or becoming plantains on hills. All things undergo natural transformations—there is no need to force anything.

This passage comes from the "Mastering Life" chapter of the Zhuangzi (also known as Nanhua Zhenjing), which explores the philosophy of life and death cycles and the realm of spiritual cultivation.

All beings follow nature's rhythms in their transformations: The roots of crowfoot grass become scarab larvae, while its leaves transform into butterflies. These butterflies hatch into insects that live beneath stoves, later molting into quduo insects. After a thousand days, the quduo transforms into a qianyu bone bird, whose saliva gives birth to simi insects. From these emerge shixi yilu insects, which then evolve into various creatures like huangkuang and maorui, ultimately returning to the primordial source (ji). All things emerge from this "ji" (the mysterious origin of natural creation) and eventually return to it.

Those who attain the highest state of cultivation (zhiren, perfected persons) perceive the essence of life and death. They understand that what we call life isn't true birth, nor is death true extinction. Precisely because they don't cling to life, they truly live; because they don't fear death, they achieve eternal existence. Like when Liezi beheld a skull and declared: "You and I have never truly lived or died." Such individuals flow with nature, participating in the endless transformations of existence.

The core teaching of "Mastering Life" is this: Those who truly comprehend life's essence don't forcibly pursue what life cannot obtain; those who understand destiny's truth don't seek what intellect cannot grasp. While nurturing the body requires material means, many with abundant resources fail to properly care for their form. Though life depends on physical form, countless people maintain sound bodies yet lose their vitality. Life comes unbidden and departs unhindered. The tragedy lies in humanity's delusion that preserving the body preserves life—this cannot be done. Though impossible, we must still attempt it—such is life's unavoidable paradox. To transcend physical limitations, the best method is "abandoning the world"—freeing oneself from worldly entanglements, thereby attaining mental tranquility and unity with nature.

The key to cultivation lies in maintaining inner purity and harmony while following natural laws. Though the body may age and perish, the spirit can eternally abide with the Dao. This is what Zhuangzi calls "supreme joy"—the highest state that transcends worldly pleasures.

Life is but a fleeting pause in the passage of time, and what we can possess has its limits. Fate is bestowed by heaven, continuous and unbroken. To understand that life is merely temporary existence is to comprehend the true essence of life; to recognize that fate is heaven's gift is to grasp the fundamental nature of destiny. When one realizes the finitude of life, one becomes invulnerable to external harms—this means not pursuing what life cannot obtain. When one knows fate's unbroken continuity, one refrains from forcing things through cleverness—this means not striving for what wisdom cannot alter.

Life necessarily manifests through physical form, and this form requires nourishment. Yet if one chooses inappropriate methods to nourish the body (such as excessive pursuit of material comforts), one may instead damage it. Thus there exist cases where material abundance fails to properly nurture the form. The physical body is merely the vessel of life, not truly belonging to oneself. If one clings to the notion of "possessing a body," the form will gradually deteriorate, ultimately leading to the loss of life. Therefore, situations occur where the body remains while life departs.

Only by both seeing through life's illusions and transcending attachment to form can one calmly accept life when it comes and let it go when it departs. In Zhuangzi's works, "Essentials for Nurturing Life" discusses inner cultivation, while "The Full Understanding of Life" addresses external manifestations. Inner cultivation is fundamental, hence classified as "Inner Chapters"; external manifestations are extensions, thus categorized as "Outer Chapters." This reflects Zhuangzi's compositional intent.

Worldly affairs are boundless, yet life has its limits. Using finite life to address infinite matters leads to exhaustion that endangers one's vital existence. Only by relinquishing mundane concerns to follow nature's flow, forgetting life and death while abiding in wuwei (non-action), can one roam freely with vibrant spirit. Therefore it is said: relinquishing worldly burdens keeps the body unweary; transcending life and death prevents spiritual depletion. Those whose forms remain unweary and spirits undepleted may unite with the Dao of nature. Heaven and earth are the parents of all things—when yin and yang qi combine, life forms; when they disperse, all returns to the source. Maintaining the integrity of both form and spirit allows one to transform along with nature's changes. When spiritual cultivation reaches its ultimate state, one may even assist nature's creative transformations.

This scripture primarily discusses how practitioners of the Dao can achieve unity with nature through nurturing Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit).

The text first explains the concept of "complete form and restored essence": when the physical body remains intact and the essence is not depleted, the essence will naturally regenerate. Maintaining wholeness allows one to return to the original state, and returning to this state leads to tranquility, ultimately aligning with the Dao. Thus, those with complete form and restored essence can merge with heaven and earth, which serve as the parents of all things—capable of both gathering to form all beings and dispersing to return to the source. This process of creation requires no effort, does not deplete the body's essence, and follows the subtle transformations of natural creation. This represents the highest state of essence, fully in accordance with the laws of nature.

Next, through a dialogue between Liezi and Guan Yin, the text illustrates the realm of the "perfected person" (one who has attained the Dao): such individuals can dive underwater without drowning, tread on fire without burning, and walk among all things without fear. Guan Yin explains that this is because perfected persons preserve the purity of their Qi (vital energy), relying not on cleverness or courage. All things with form and sound belong to the category of "objects," while perfected persons reach a state beyond form and appearance. They respond to all things with a mind of emptiness and stillness, treating external phenomena with sincerity, and thus nothing can harm them.

Finally, the text outlines the method of cultivation: one must unify their innate nature, nurture the primordial Qi, and preserve De (virtue/power) to connect with the source of all things. Unifying the innate nature means not straying from the root; nurturing Qi means maintaining harmony; preserving De means upholding one's natural disposition. By not straying from the root, one becomes upright; by maintaining harmony, one preserves purity; by upholding natural disposition, one connects with all things. Such individuals possess a complete nature, with no gaps in their spirit, and external influences cannot penetrate them.

(Note: The term "perfected person" refers to those who have reached the highest level of moral cultivation; "pure Qi" refers to the pristine primordial energy; "unifying one's nature" means maintaining a mind free from distractions.)

This passage elucidates the Daoist cultivation of mental states and the power of focused awareness.

First, it describes how those who have truly attained the Dao (the Way) possess a mind that is empty, tranquil, and clear, capable of perceiving the essence of all things. Their actions are harmonious and unobstructed, profound and unfathomable—external distractions cannot unsettle them. The text uses the metaphor of a drunkard falling from a cart yet remaining unharmed because, in his intoxicated state, his spirit (Shen) is concentrated, and fears of life and death cannot penetrate his awareness. If even drunkenness can provide such protection, how much more so for one who is truly united with the Dao? The sage follows the natural order of heaven, and thus nothing can harm him.

Further analogies illustrate this principle: a vengeful person will not break his enemy’s sword, nor will an aggrieved man blame the tile that happens to strike him. The key to harmony in the world lies in aligning with nature rather than creating artificial conflicts. Opening one’s innate nature nurtures Virtue (De), while indulging artificial desires breeds calamity.

The passage then recounts two stories: The first tells of Confucius encountering an elderly hunchback in Chu who caught cicadas with a bamboo pole as effortlessly as picking them up by hand. The old man explained that he practiced with total concentration, forgetting all else—even heaven and earth—focusing only on the cicada’s wings. Confucius marveled at this as the state of "single-minded focus and gathered spirit." The second story involves Confucius’ disciple Yan Hui asking why skilled swimmers quickly learn to row boats, while expert divers—who have never seen a boat—can row naturally. Confucius explained that swimmers understand water’s nature, and divers are so immersed in it that they instinctively master rowing.

These examples demonstrate that when one fully merges with their environment, reaching a state where self and object are forgotten, extraordinary abilities emerge. The key lies in letting go of distractions, maintaining unwavering focus, and harmonizing with the natural Dao.

This passage elucidates the principles of nurturing life (yangsheng). Through two parables, Zhuangzi demonstrates the importance of balancing internal and external cultivation in life-nourishing practices.

The first parable illustrates that although cicada-catching and boat-steering are minor skills, complete devotion and refined mastery can lead to miraculous attainment. How much more so for the great matter of life cultivation—it requires wholehearted dedication to achieve perfection.

The second parable presents two failed cases of extreme approaches: Shan Bao secluded himself in mountain forests, focusing solely on inner cultivation while avoiding external contact. Though maintaining a youthful complexion at seventy, he was devoured by a tiger. Zhang Yi constantly socialized with nobility, concentrating only on external connections, yet died at forty from internal heat disease. Both exemplify the error of clinging to one extreme.

True life cultivation must harmonize both physical form and spiritual essence. The body serves as the vessel distinguishing inner and outer dimensions—authentic nourishment requires balanced development. Those who neglect external circumstances while overemphasizing inner refinement, like Shan Bao, invite external calamities; those who chase social connections while disregarding internal regulation, like Zhang Yi, succumb to internal disorders.

Zhuangzi employs these examples to reveal that the Dao of life cultivation lies in maintaining equilibrium. Just as shepherds tend their straggling sheep, nourishing life requires addressing one's deficiencies without fixating on extremes. This embodies Tian Kaizhi's teaching: "Those skilled in nurturing life are like shepherds—they observe the lagging ones and urge them forward."

Confucius used the analogy of herding sheep to illustrate the art of worldly conduct: one should neither completely conceal oneself nor excessively reveal oneself, but maintain a middle position like firewood standing upright. When these three states are properly balanced, one can avoid the most perilous paths. For instance, on a dangerous road where one in ten travelers perishes, fathers and sons, brothers would warn each other and only dare pass through when traveling together—isn't this truly wise?

What people should most guard against are actually the dangers in daily life—the indulgence in sensual pleasures upon the couch and excesses at the dining table. Yet these hidden perils are often overlooked. It's like when a sacrificial priest in ceremonial robes addresses a pig: "Why fear death? I'll feed you refined fodder for three months, observe purification rituals for ten days, then place you upon carved vessels cushioned with white reeds." From the pig's perspective, it would surely prefer eating husks while alive in its pen. Yet humans themselves pursue riding in fine carriages and wearing official caps in life, then thick coffins and lavish burials in death. Why apply completely different standards to pigs and ourselves?

When Duke Huan of Qi was hunting in the marshes, Guan Zhong drove his chariot. The duke claimed to have seen a ghost and returned home frightened into illness. The Qi sage Huangzi Gao'ao said: "This fear came from within yourself. When stagnant Qi (vital energy) congeals in the body's center, illness arises." The duke asked whether ghosts truly existed. Gao'ao enumerated various spirits: the kitchen god resembling a maiden, the thunder god dwelling in dusty doorways, the marsh-dwelling Wei Snake (a type of specter), etc. When describing the Wei Snake—shaped like a chariot pole, clad in purple with a Song-style crown, fearful of thunder—the duke laughed heartily, recognizing it as what he'd seen, and his illness vanished immediately.

Ji Xuzi trained fighting cocks for the king. After ten days the king inquired about progress—this illustrates how cultivation requires gradual progression (the original text breaks off here, but the continuation likely describes how training fighting cocks involves eliminating their combative Qi until reaching the highest state of appearing "dumb as a wooden chicken").

This passage illustrates the Daoist philosophy of "following nature's course" through several allegorical stories.

The first story describes Ji Shengzi training fighting cocks. Initially the rooster still bluffs aggressively; after ten days it still reacts to external movements; after another ten days it retains an intimidating demeanor. Only when the bird becomes completely still like wood is its De (Virtue) considered perfected. At this stage, other roosters dare not challenge it and flee instead. This demonstrates that true cultivation means returning to original simplicity, achieving complete naturalness.

The second story tells of craftsman Zi Qing making wooden musical instruments. By preserving his pure innate nature and following natural principles, his instruments became so exquisite people thought them made by spirits. When the Duke of Lu asked his secret, Zi Qing explained his preparatory purification: after three days he forgot fame and profit; after five days he stopped caring about others' opinions; after seven days he even forgot his physical form. Only then could he enter the mountains to select wood, allowing the material's natural qualities to harmonize with his skill.

The third story recounts Confucius observing a master swimmer at Lüliang Falls. The man swam effortlessly through torrents where even fish couldn't navigate. He claimed no special method—since childhood he'd lived by water, following its nature, letting currents carry him without forcing anything. This embodies the principle: "Begin with habit, grow through nature, perfect through destiny"—starting from familiarity, developing through innate qualities, and achieving mastery through natural accord.

These stories collectively show that whether raising fowl, crafting objects, or swimming, the highest attainment lies in eliminating artificial effort to completely follow things' natural tendencies. When human cultivation achieves perfect harmony with nature, miraculous effects emerge. This is what Daoism calls "using heaven to match heaven"—employing natural qualities to align with natural laws.

This passage presents two contrasting stories that illustrate the Daoist principle of "Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness."

The first story tells of Duke Zhuang of Lu training horses: The duke forced his horses to run in endless circles until Yan He predicted their collapse from exhaustion. When the horses soon fell, Yan He explained that demanding more from already spent creatures inevitably leads to ruin. He compared this to the ancient craftsman Chui, whose fingers moved in perfect harmony with his materials without conscious thought, leaving his mind unburdened and pure. True mastery means forgetting even the comfort of shoes around one's feet or a belt around one's waist, ultimately transcending distinctions between right and wrong to achieve natural inner peace.

The second story features Sun Xiu lamenting his fate: Visiting Bian Qingzi to complain about his unrecognized virtue, Sun received a lesson about the perfected person's (zhiren) state. Such beings forget their physical form, rise above worldly affairs, and follow Wuwei without forcing outcomes. Bian pointed out how Sun's deliberate displays of wisdom and virtue were like parading through markets holding up the sun and moon—merely surviving such behavior was fortunate enough, let alone complaining about destiny.

Bian Qingzi concluded with Duke Lu's bird-keeping parable: When the duke entertained a seabird with lavish royal ceremonies, the terrified creature refused to eat or drink. Forcing worldly customs upon natural beings only brings harm. This subtly revealed how Sun Xiu's suffering stemmed from his artificial pursuit of social recognition—a fundamental violation of the Dao's natural order.

This passage explores Zhuangzi's philosophy of "the way of preserving life in its authentic state" (quan sheng zhi dao).

The text begins with an analogy about raising birds: using human methods—such as offering lavish sacrifices like the Grand Sacrifice (Tailao) and the Nine Shao music—only frightens the bird. True care for a bird means letting it dwell in deep forests or vast rivers, feeding it what it naturally eats. Similarly, explaining the realm of the "perfect person" (zhiren, one who has attained the Dao) to those with shallow understanding is like using carriages to transport mice or entertaining small birds with bells and drums—it only bewilders them.

Bianzi (a wise figure in Zhuangzi’s writings) laments that discussing the way of preserving life with those who are not yet perfected is as futile as raising a bird the wrong way. Zhuangzi wrote this text to awaken people to this truth, but worldly individuals cannot grasp it immediately—hence, he conveys deeper meaning through Bianzi’s sigh.

The "Mountain Tree" chapter (Shan Mu Pian) illustrates the art of navigating life through two stories:

The first tells of a great tree in the mountains that escapes being cut down precisely because it is "useless" (bu cai), thus living out its natural lifespan. Yet, a goose in a household is slaughtered for "not cackling" (also bu cai). When a disciple expresses confusion, Zhuangzi suggests the middle path of being "between usefulness and uselessness"—though this is not the highest state.

The true way of living is to "float and wander by riding the Dao and De (Virtue/Power)"—neither chasing fame nor fearing slander, soaring like a dragon one moment and coiling like a snake the next, adapting to circumstances without fixating on any single approach. In this way, one harmonizes with all things and returns to the authentic state of life.

This scripture expounds the Daoist wisdom of "the usefulness of the useless" and how to attain spiritual freedom by eliminating desires.

The teachings of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor reveal that clinging to external things will inevitably lead to being burdened by them. Yet the laws of the world and human relationships operate differently—what gathers will scatter, what succeeds will decay, what is pure will be undermined, what is noble will invite slander, what is active will suffer loss, what is virtuous will be plotted against, and what is unworthy will be deceived. How can any of these be forced? Therefore, disciples must remember that only by returning to the realm of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) can one follow the true path.

A person’s innate nature is the root, while talent is its outward expression. Talent determines one’s capacity, but its application determines whether it bears fruit. The sage possesses great talent, yet precisely because it is all-encompassing, they take "uselessness" as their use—only then can life be preserved. It is like the trees in the mountains that, precisely because they are not useful timber, live out their full natural lifespan. Ordinary people, however, have limited and flawed talents—if they also imitate the "useless" path, they will instead perish, like the goose that was slaughtered because it could not honk. The goose’s inability to honk may seem similar to the tree’s uselessness, but their natures are fundamentally different, so disaster still befalls them. Thus, dwelling in the space between "being useful and useless" may appear similar, but the difference remains, and one will still be burdened.

When Shi Nan Yiliao met the Duke of Lu, who wore a troubled expression, he asked why he was distressed. The Duke replied, "I study the ways of the ancient kings, inherit the legacy of my ancestors, revere the spirits, honor the virtuous, and practice these principles constantly—yet I still cannot escape misfortune." Shi Nanzi said, "Your method for dispelling misfortune is too superficial. The fox and the leopard, with their splendid fur, dwell in the mountains, hiding by day and moving cautiously by night. Though hungry and thirsty, they must venture far from danger to seek food, yet still they cannot escape traps and snares—it is their fur that brings them calamity. Is not the state of Lu now your 'fur'? I urge you to cast aside your form, eliminate desires, and wander freely in the boundless wilderness. In the south, there is a land called the Country of Jian De. Its people are simple and free of selfish desires. They know only labor, not hoarding; they delight in giving without seeking reward, understanding nothing of ritual propriety or formal rules."

Through these metaphors, the text illustrates that excessive pursuit of usefulness invites disaster—true wisdom lies in grasping the subtle function of "uselessness." External achievements, fame, and wealth are like the splendid fur of animals, becoming burdens. Only by shedding desires and returning to simplicity can one attain true freedom.

This dialogue recounts how Shinanzi (a Daoist recluse) advised the Duke of Lu to relinquish worldly burdens and wander with the Dao. Shinanzi said: "Those who indulge in reckless actions may appear free, yet they have already strayed from the great Dao. To live joyfully and be buried peacefully in death—I urge you to abandon your state, cast aside mundane affairs, and journey with the Dao."

The Duke of Lu worried: "The path is long and treacherous—without carriage or boat, how shall I proceed?" Shinanzi replied: "Do not cling to form or dwell on residence—this shall be your carriage." The Duke pressed further: "The road is desolate and uninhabited—without provisions, how can I travel?" Shinanzi explained: "Reduce expenditure and diminish desires—even without provisions, you will have enough. When crossing rivers or sailing seas, as the shore vanishes from sight and you venture into boundlessness, those who bid you farewell will return to land, while you depart forever from the dusty world."

He then elucidated the principle: "To govern others is a burden; to be relied upon brings sorrow. Emperor Yao neither controlled others nor was entangled by them." Shinanzi sought to relieve the Duke of these burdens, urging him to wander alone with the Dao through vast, empty realms. He illustrated this with an example: "An empty boat drifting toward you provokes no anger, but if a person stands aboard, curses will follow—if one can empty oneself (relinquish ego) in navigating the world, who could harm them?"

Further, he clarified: "Those with wholehearted nature understand heavenly decree (Tianming) and remain free of sorrow. The Duke, burdened by an incomplete nature, is weighed down by the material desires of rulership—like the elegant fox and leopard hunted for their fur." To prevent the state from becoming a burden, one must maintain no-mind toward all things, allowing them to unfold naturally, letting the people transform themselves, and abiding serenely in the realm of emptiness. Only then can original nature be preserved—seemingly useless yet aligned with heavenly Dao, attaining the state of "Liaotianyi" (merging with the celestial Dao).

In conclusion, the passage highlights Shinanzi’s teaching of the Daoist essentials: "deep roots and firm foundation" (stabilizing the core) and the practice of Wuwei (non-action), emphasizing the wisdom of "emptying oneself to wander the world."

Beigong She was raising funds for Duke Ling of Wei to cast a great bell. He built an altar outside the city gates and completed the bell's hanging frame in just three months. Prince Qingji saw this and asked, "What special method did you employ?" Beigong She replied, "I employed no method at all. I've heard that what is carved and polished must ultimately return to simplicity. I simply maintained a state of unknowing and unthinking, drifting in a daze, neither obstructing nor forcing anything. Those who came I did not refuse; those who left I did not detain. I followed each person's capacity and adapted to different circumstances, letting them contribute according to their means. Thus, though I collected donations morning and night, I didn't harm even a single hair—how much less would this trouble one who comprehends the Dao!"

The great Dao is singular, yet it must follow transformation. After transforming, it returns again to its original truth. It gives birth to the myriad things yet lets them grow naturally; it completes the myriad things yet lets them fulfill themselves. It neither increases nor decreases, and does not contend with the myriad things. Seemingly without action and without use, none can fathom its ultimate extent. These are the most profound mysteries of the supreme Dao—those who grasp them can preserve their lives. Beigong She applied these principles in the process of casting the bell and building the altar, hence his remark, "how much less would this trouble one who comprehends the Dao!"

When Confucius was besieged between the states of Chen and Cai, he went seven days without lighting a cooking fire. Taigong Ren came to console him, saying, "You nearly died, didn't you?" Confucius replied, "Indeed." Taigong Ren asked, "Do you detest death?" Confucius said, "Of course." Taigong Ren said, "Let me speak to you about the way of long life. In the Eastern Sea there is a bird called the 'sluggard.' It flies slowly and clumsily, as if inept, and must flock together to fly, huddling close to roost. When advancing, it dares not take the lead; when retreating, it dares not lag behind. It dares not eat first but always takes the leftovers. Thus, it is not ostracized by the flock, and outsiders ultimately cannot harm it—this is how it avoids calamity. Straight trees are felled first; sweet wells are drained first. Do you always strive to display your wisdom to awaken the foolish, cultivating yourself to highlight others' impurity? Such dazzling brilliance is like carrying the sun and moon as you walk—of course it invites disaster."

"I once heard a man who had attained the Dao say: 'Those who boast of themselves achieve no merit; when merit is achieved, it brings ruin; when fame is displayed, it invites loss.' Who can abandon fame and return to the common multitude? The Dao flows everywhere yet does not shine; virtue spreads widely yet leaves no trace. Remain simple and ordinary, appearing foolish and mad. Eliminate your tracks, diminish your authority, and do not pursue merit or fame—then none will blame you, and others will have nothing to blame. Those who attain the Dao do not seek renown—why must you cling to it?" When Confucius heard this, he exclaimed, "Excellent!" Thereupon, he took leave of his friends, dismissed his disciples, and retired to live in the wilds.

This passage presents several allegorical stories about the art of living. It first depicts the life of a recluse: wearing coarse hemp garments, eating wild fruits, and living in harmony with birds and beasts—even animals do not dislike him, let alone humans.

Confucius complained to Zisang Hu (a Daoist hermit) about his repeated misfortunes: being expelled from Lu, humiliated by having trees cut down in Song, barred from entering Wei, impoverished in the lands of Shang and Zhou, and besieged between Chen and Cai. These ordeals caused relatives and friends to distance themselves and disciples to scatter. Zisang Hu then enlightened him with the story of "Lin Hui Abandoning the Jade": A man named Lin Hui, while fleeing, discarded a priceless jade disk but carried an infant on his back. When asked why, Lin Hui explained that the jade represented a bond of profit, while the child embodied a natural kinship. Relationships based on profit dissolve when calamity strikes, whereas those rooted in innate nature grow stronger in adversity. The friendship of noblemen is as mild as water yet enduring, while that of petty men is as sweet as wine yet easily broken. Connections formed without reason will dissolve just as arbitrarily. Confucius was deeply inspired upon hearing this.

Later, the narrative recounts how Emperor Shun, on his deathbed, advised Yu the Great: "Let your physical form follow nature, and let your emotions remain genuine and unadorned. Thus you will neither stray from your true nature nor grow weary. Without contrived external adornments, you won't depend on material things."

Finally, Zhuangzi visited the King of Wei wearing patched, coarse clothing. When the king remarked that he appeared destitute, Zhuangzi clarified: "This is poverty, not destitution. A scholar who possesses virtue but cannot practice it—that is true destitution. Like a gibbon leaping effortlessly among nanmu trees where even divine archers cannot touch it, yet trembling when trapped in thorny bushes—this isn't due to stiffened sinews, but unfavorable circumstances. In this age of foolish rulers and chaotic ministers, how could one avoid being trapped?"

These stories collectively illustrate that true wisdom lies in following nature and preserving authenticity. Maintaining spiritual independence in turbulent times surpasses the pursuit of external wealth and status. Human relationships should be founded on sincere natural bonds rather than calculated interests.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius and his disciple Yan Hui, using vivid parables to explore the relationship between humans and nature. At the time, Confucius found himself stranded between the states of Chen and Cai, going seven days without hot meals, yet still singing while tapping rhythms on a withered tree. As Yan Hui stood respectfully observing, Confucius, concerned his disciple might overly revere him, offered profound remarks.

Confucius first presented three insights: it is easier to avoid harm from nature than to resist the temptations of human profit; all things lack true beginnings or endings; and humans and heaven (tian) are fundamentally one. Using birds as metaphor, he noted how intelligent sparrows avoid dangerous places, even abandoning food when sensing human presence—just as virtuous men should not covet unearned gains, lest they become like thieves.

He then illustrated the principle of "greed blinds awareness" through the tale of a cicada, mantis, and strange magpie: while the cicada enjoys cool shade, it forgets its vulnerability; the mantis raising its leaf-like arms to seize the cicada overlooks its own peril; and the southern magpie fixates on catching the mantis. Observing this, Confucius suddenly realized his own intent to shoot the magpie with a slingshot mirrored this very cycle of "seeing profit but forgetting truth."

Finally, Confucius explained the unity of heaven and humanity: humans belong to nature, which in turn belongs to the greater Dao (the Way). One cannot possess nature’s essence—the sage simply follows its transformations peacefully until life’s end. These parables collectively teach that humans should align with natural laws, never allowing immediate gains to obscure fundamental truths.

Zhuangzi was suddenly struck with profound realization and sighed: "All things in the world are indeed interconnected, and like attracts like!" He threw down his slingshot and fled, while the forest keeper (yuren) chased after him with angry shouts. Returning home, Zhuangzi remained indoors for three months without stepping outside. His disciple Lin Ju came to inquire: "Master, why have you secluded yourself these days?"

Zhuangzi explained: "I became obsessed with external forms while forgetting my own safety—like staring at turbid waters and thereby failing to see the clear depths beneath. I once heard my teacher say: 'When entering any place, observe its customs.' Yet while wandering in Diaoling, I forgot my true identity. When that extraordinary bird brushed past my forehead, I became so fixated on the birds among the chestnut trees that I completely forgot this grove was forbidden ground. The keeper's punishment was justified—this is why I remain in contemplation."

The human body is nature's vessel, yet also life's burden. Only by forgetting physical form can one transcend external things; only by transcending externals can life be preserved whole; only with whole life can one live completely. Conversely, obsession with form enslaves one to externals, making life's preservation impossible and natural longevity unattainable. This is the lesson behind Zhuangzi's parables—the man aiming his slingshot at birds while forgetting the grove's prohibition becomes enslaved by externals; the mantis fixated on cicadas ignores the bird behind it, endangering life for immediate gain. Those who cannot forget form to preserve life remain trapped in sorrow—how then can true peace be found? Thus Zhuangzi's awakening and self-seclusion.

Another tale: Yang Zhu traveled to Song and lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines—one beautiful, one plain—yet the plain one was honored while the beautiful one despised. When Yang Zhu asked why, a young servant replied: "The beautiful one flaunts her beauty, so I see no beauty; the plain one owns her plainness, so I see no plainness." Yang Zhu told his disciples: "Remember this truth: The virtuous who claim no virtue will be cherished wherever they go."

For those seeking to preserve life and attain natural longevity, the supreme method is forgetting external appearance. Forget form, and contentment follows—one dwells at ease in any place. This is the deeper meaning Yang Zhu recognized in the innkeeper's words. "The beautiful flaunting beauty appears unbeautiful; the plain owning plainness appears unplain"—this transcends physical form, dissolving distinctions between beauty and ugliness.

In this passage, Zhuangzi raises a fundamental question: Is it not all about preserving the authentic state of life? This precisely captures the key idea he conveys at the conclusion of his entire work.

The term "the true nature of life and destiny" (xingming zhi qing) refers to humanity's innate natural disposition and essential life force. Zhuangzi observes that people often become deluded by worldly notions and external desires, thereby losing touch with the most precious, genuine state of existence. This point is particularly emphasized in the closing section of the Nanhua Zhenjing (i.e., the Zhuangzi), where he reminds readers to return to the natural Dao of life.

This passage appears at the end of the tenth volume of A New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing and can be regarded as the summarizing viewpoint of the entire text. Through this rhetorical question, Zhuangzi guides readers to reflect on what truly matters in the pursuit of life.