《南華真經新傳》Vol. 14

This passage explores the Daoist approach to life through the story of Zeyang.

Zeyang sought to meet the King of Chu through Yijie’s recommendation, but Yijie failed to arrange it. He then turned to Wangguo for help, who admitted he was not as virtuous as Gongyuexiu and described the latter’s way of living: catching turtles by the river in winter and resting in the mountain forests in summer—a life in harmony with nature. Wangguo observed that while Yijie was clever, he lacked De (Virtue/Power) and was obsessed with wealth and status. The King of Chu, being severe in temperament, would not be easily moved unless approached by someone of true virtue.

A genuine Daoist sage (zhiren, or "perfect person") remains content in the authentic state of their nature, untouched by gain or loss. They are unmoved by wealth, fame, or power. Gongyuexiu exemplifies this ideal—living in accordance with natural rhythms, maintaining inner joy, and undisturbed by external distractions. Whether in prosperity or adversity, a sage enables their family to forget poverty, makes the powerful disregard rank and privilege, and harmonizes effortlessly with all things. Without uttering a word, they bring peace to others, influencing those around them as naturally as the bond between father and son.

By contrasting Zeyang’s pursuit of political advancement with Gongyuexiu’s natural way of life, the text illustrates the Daoist philosophy of "resting content in the truth of one’s nature" and "finding joy in all things." It emphasizes that true sages remain unburdened by external concerns, preserving inner tranquility and freedom.

This passage describes the realm and way of being of sages (those who have attained the Dao). Sages can exhaustively investigate cosmic principles, penetrate the nature of existence, follow natural patterns, and comprehend heavenly destiny. When unrecognized by the world, they find contentment in self-sufficient spiritual fulfillment—like cultivating fields without borrowing, bringing family joy that makes them forget poverty. When achieving prominence, though occupying supreme positions of honor and advantage, they can make nobility willingly relinquish their arrogance.

Sages harmonize with all things, thus preserving perfect joy; they maintain intimate connections with others, thus safeguarding their authentic nature. Without words, they radiate peace; without self-display, they naturally transform others. Like fathers and sons each fulfilling their roles, when sages withdraw into seclusion, their physical forms rest at ease while impartially extending benevolent love.

Sages who reach this state have thoughts already merged with the vast heavenly Dao, appearing lofty and unattainable to ordinary people. Only legendary Daoist masters like Gong Yuexiu could achieve this.

The text mentions "penetrating subtle mysteries" (da choumou) as comprehending profound principles, and "pervading all as one body" (zhou jin yiti) as becoming one with all things without deliberate effort—this is the manifestation of following innate nature. "Returning to the origin" (fu ming) means reverting to a state of empty stillness, while "movement and stillness" (yao zuo) refers to following natural cycles of action and quiescence. Sages take the heavenly Dao as their teacher, hence people honor them with extraordinary titles.

Ultimately, the sage's benevolence flows from innate nature, inspiring spontaneous praise. Yet they never perform virtue consciously, just as naturally beautiful people need no mirror to know their beauty. Their attitude toward praise resembles knowing-yet-not-knowing, hearing-yet-not-hearing—this sublime quality remains eternally unchanged, earning everlasting reverence.

This passage elucidates the attitude of sages (Daoist ideal of realized beings) toward people and affairs, and their distinctive way of interacting with the world.

The sage's care for others arises as naturally as one's affection for the city walls and vegetation of their hometown. This love leaves no deliberate traces—people sense it yet cannot fully articulate it. Like a towering platform standing before a crowd that naturally draws their gaze, the sage's love isn't deliberately displayed. Thus people may sometimes perceive it and sometimes not, yet this love never ceases.

Sages emulate nature without forced imitation, transforming alongside all things while preserving their fundamental authenticity. They don't proclaim benevolence or righteousness, yet invisibly nurture all existence. This love exists between "being" and "non-being," without beginning or end. Like Ran Xiangshi (a legendary ancient sage) who grasped the Dao's essence, they flow with the transformations of all things without becoming confined.

In the sage's mind, there's no distinction between heaven and humanity, no concepts of beginning or ending, nor attachment to specific matters. They journey with the world without altering their intrinsic nature, handling affairs completely without becoming entangled. Like Emperor Tang of Shang who received wise ministers' counsel without being constrained, or Confucius who contemplated comprehensively without rigid adherence.

The passage concludes with words attributed to Rong Chengshi (a Daoist legendary figure): "Discard daily calculations and yearly troubles vanish; dissolve inner/outer distinctions to reach higher realms." Sages follow nature's course without forceful alteration, thus achieving harmonious coexistence with the world.

This passage recounts how King Hui of Wei (Wei Ying), after forming an alliance with the ruler of Qi (Tian Hou Mou), was betrayed, sparking a series of reflections on warfare and the principles of governance.

King Hui of Wei was enraged by Qi's breach of trust and planned to send an assassin to kill the Qi ruler. His general, Xishou (Gongsun Yan), considered this method of revenge too undignified and instead proposed mobilizing an army of 200,000 to attack Qi, capture its people, seize its livestock, and drive the Qi ruler to such distress that he would "grow sores on his back," before ultimately annihilating Qi altogether. However, the minister Jizi objected, arguing that this would be like building a city wall ten zhang high only to tear it down oneself. War would destroy the foundations of peace accumulated over seven years, and Gongsun Yan was nothing but a troublemaker.

Then, Huazi offered an even sharper critique: those advocating war were troublemakers, those opposing war were also troublemakers, and even those debating whether to fight or not were still troublemakers. King Hui of Wei asked, "Then what should I do?" Huazi replied, "You need only seek the Dao (the natural law)."

Hui Shi (Master Hui) understood this principle and introduced Dai Jinren to the king. Dai Jinren told a fable: on the left horn of a snail lived the kingdom of Chushi, and on the right horn lived the kingdom of Man. The two nations fought over territory, resulting in tens of thousands of casualties, and it took fifteen days for the victors to pursue the defeated army back home. The king exclaimed that this was absurd, to which Dai Jinren explained: the cosmos is boundless, and within this infinity, the state of Wei is as insignificant as the tiny kingdoms on the snail's horns. What difference is there between King Hui and the ruler of Man?

After Dai Jinren left, King Hui was left in a state of melancholy. Hui Shi remarked that this man was a true sage, surpassing even Yao and Shun. The passage concludes with a musical analogy: playing a flute can produce harmonious tones, but blowing on a sword hilt only yields a faint "whoosh." People praise Yao and Shun, but in the presence of someone like Dai Jinren—who has attained the Dao—speaking of them is as insignificant as the sound of a sword hilt.

When Confucius traveled to the state of Chu, he stayed near the home of a fermented drink seller at Ant Hill. The neighbors—a couple with their servants—climbed onto their roof to gawk. Zilu asked, "What are these people crowding together for?" Confucius replied, "They are followers of a sage. Such men live in seclusion among the common folk, hiding in the fields, their names obscure yet their aspirations lofty. Though they may speak, their hearts remain silent, deliberately opposing worldly customs, disdaining to conform with the vulgar. This must be Shi Nan Yiliao [a Chu recluse]."

Zilu wanted to invite him for an audience, but Confucius stopped him: "Let it be. He knows I understand him and suspects my visit to Chu will surely lead the king to summon him. He would consider me a smooth-talking flatterer. For men like him, even hearing cunning words brings shame—how much more meeting face-to-face?" When Zilu went to look, the man had indeed already moved away.

The sage who comprehends the Dao (the Way) abides in wuwei (non-action), his mind empty yet responsive to all things. Thus, true sincerity requires no display of sincerity; genuine authority needs no show of anger. The myriad things of the world cannot burden him; the chaos of affairs cannot disturb his spirit. What value is there in campaigns of conquest and strife? Simply follow the natural course.

King Hui of Wei, ignorant of the Dao, impulsively formed an alliance. Believing sincerity shown would be reciprocated, he was instead betrayed by Marquis Tian Mou of Qi. The marquis’s betrayal stemmed precisely from King Hui’s excessive emphasis on the formality of "trust." Failing to reflect inwardly, the king erupted in superficial rage—ineffectual bluster. When Minister Xishou then urged military retaliation, he plunged the state into the quagmire of war. All things find their place without confusion; thus, Hua Zi [a Daoist figure] wisely advised King Hui to seek the Dao.

To seek the Dao is to understand it; to understand it is to merge with it; to merge with it is to embody wuwei. In this state, even the entire world seems insignificant—how could a petty kingdom become a burden? This is why Hui Shi [a Logician] used the metaphor of "fighting over territory on a snail’s horn."

The border warden of Changwu cautioned Zilao [a disciple of Confucius]: "Governance must not be careless; ruling people must not be crude. When I farmed, haphazard plowing yielded poor harvests; sloppy weeding produced shriveled grain. All things respond in kind."

A farmer once said, "Next year I'll improve my farming methods—plow deeper and tend more carefully. Then my crops will flourish, and I'll have enough to eat all year." When Zhuangzi heard this, he remarked: "Most people today who try to cultivate their bodies and nurture their minds are just like this farmer—they violate the natural order, stray from their inherent nature, extinguish genuine feelings, lose their vital spirit (Shen), and blindly follow worldly customs. They treat their fundamental nature recklessly, allowing harmful desires and aversions to dominate it, like trying to prop up one's body with newly sprouted reeds—only to end up damaging their nature instead. This leads to festering sores, toxic heat, abscesses, internal fever, and turbid urine."

Bai Ju went to study under Laozi (Lao Dan) and asked permission to travel the world. Laozi said, "Don't bother—everywhere under heaven is the same." When Bai Ju insisted, Laozi asked, "Where will you begin?" "In Qi," Bai Ju replied. Upon arriving in Qi, he saw an executed criminal displayed as a warning. Bai Ju took the body down, covered it with his own court robes, and wept to the heavens: "You! You! When great calamity befalls the world, you suffer first! People always say 'Don't steal, don't kill'—but how can rulers demand uprightness from the people when they themselves are crooked? Governance takes the people as its root; the people take governance as their foundation. Managing affairs cannot be careless; governing people cannot be reckless. This is why that border official of Changwu said: 'Never act hastily or superficially.'"

Governing people and farming land share the same principle—both stem from the Dao (the Way), differing only in method. That border official used farming as a metaphor for governance, but isn't this similarity more profound? Nurturing the body and cultivating the mind follow the same pattern. Those who properly nurture their bodies preserve their physical form; those who cultivate their minds maintain mental stillness. A sound body fosters vigorous spirit (Shen); a tranquil mind generates harmonious Qi (vital energy). Thus the foundation of one's nature and life remains secure.

Yet worldly people do otherwise—they flee from their innate nature, abandon their original purity, indulge their impulses, lose their governing spirit (Shen), and act recklessly while driven by external things. How is this different from careless farming? This is why their bodies and minds become unsound. Truly, they violate the Dao (the Way), stray from their nature, extinguish genuine feelings, lose their spirit (Shen), and drift with the current.

Once people established concepts of honor and disgrace, all manner of ills became visible. After amassing wealth and goods, struggles over them emerged.

This passage primarily discusses the distinction between ancient sage rulers and later rulers, along with the resulting social problems.

Ancient rulers attributed achievements to the people and faults to themselves, believing righteousness lay with the people and errors with themselves. When problems arose, they engaged in self-reflection. Modern rulers, however, do the opposite: they deliberately complicate matters to deceive the ignorant, impose difficult tasks to punish those who cannot accomplish them, and set distant goals to blame those who fail to meet them. When the people exhaust their strength, they resort to deception, leading to an increase in hypocrisy in society. When people lack strength, they fake it; when they lack wisdom, they deceive; when they lack resources, they steal. How can such a society avoid chaos?

Qu Boyu (a virtuous minister of the State of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period) continued to revise his understanding even at the age of sixty, often realizing that what he initially believed to be right was later proven wrong—demonstrating that knowledge is ever-evolving.

In the morally perfect ancient era, those in high positions were like the tips of tree branches (natural and non-interfering), while those below were like wild deer (free and unrestrained). They did not exalt the worthy or prize rare goods, so there were no distinctions between the wise and foolish, nor ranks of nobility. People discarded gold in the mountains and cast pearls into the deep, for the world knew nothing of wealth and glory. But in later ages, as virtue declined, people began to revere the worthy and chase treasures, obsessing over honor and disgrace, nobility and baseness. In their struggle for these, they lost their innate nature—even their lives. This is why Bo Ju (a fictional character in Zhuangzi) wept upon seeing an executed criminal in Qi—once concepts of honor and disgrace were established, people became anxious over gains and losses; once wealth was accumulated, they began to fight over it.

All things have their origins, yet people fail to see them; they have their paths of manifestation, yet people cannot find them. People value the knowledge they already possess but do not understand that true wisdom comes from relying on the unknown. Is this not the greatest delusion?

Finally, through a dialogue between Confucius and three historians (Da Tao, Bo Changjian, and Xi Wei), the example of Duke Ling of Wei illustrates the irony of posthumous titles: this ruler indulged in wine and women, neglected governance, obsessed over hunting, and refused to attend meetings with other feudal lords—yet he was given the posthumous title "Ling" (originally meaning "wise"), highlighting the disconnect between name and reality in society.

This passage recounts several allegorical stories and philosophical discussions about the Dao (the Way).

First is the story of Duke Ling of Wei: The Duke had three wives who once bathed together in the same pool. When Shi Qiu (a minister of Wei) came for an audience, the Duke not only showed no discretion but deliberately flaunted the scene. Yet when meeting virtuous men, he behaved with utmost reverence. Xiwei (an ancient sage) remarked that after the Duke's death, divination showed his original burial site inauspicious, and only when moved to Shaqiu was it deemed favorable. Upon digging several zhang deep, they discovered a stone coffin inscribed with the words "not dependent on descendants." This reveals the Duke's innate "ling" (wisdom) had long existed, beyond ordinary comprehension.

Next comes the discussion of the Dao's profundity: All things emerge from and return to the "ji" (the mysterious origin of the Dao). The Dao is like an invisible gate—though all things arise from it, none can trace its source. Shaozhi (the knowledge-seeker) asked Taigong Diao (the wise man) about "village consensus." Taigong Diao explained it's like gathering people of different surnames to form customs—unifying differences while also differentiating unified things. Just as a horse's individual parts can't be called a horse, only their combination makes the whole. Thus mountains accumulate from low places to form heights, and rivers become great by converging smaller streams. Great men achieve impartial justice by embracing all inclusively.

Taigong Diao's discourse progresses from concrete to abstract: First discussing the transformation of sameness and difference, the formation of mountains and rivers, the inclusiveness of great men, the varying climates of four seasons, the distinct duties of officials, the different functions of civil and military arts, and the unique characteristics of all things—ultimately concluding with the realm of "wuwei er wubuwei" (non-action that accomplishes everything). Great men unify customs without partiality—this harmonizing Dao influences people externally, guiding without constraining. Thus what enters from without provides direction without rigidity; what emerges from within has principles without resistance. Different seasonal climates naturally form the year, officials fulfilling their duties bring state stability, civil and military arts perfected manifest complete virtue, and all things following their patterns show the Dao's impartiality. Therefore the Dao has no name. Having no name, it practices non-action; through non-action, it accomplishes all.

This dialogue explores the nature of Dao (the Way) and the principles governing all things. The core idea conveys that true Dao originates from inner realization, maintaining authenticity without violating natural laws. The four seasons each possess distinct characteristics, yet these aren't deliberately arranged by heaven; just as officials perform their duties while the ruler remains impartial, only then can a state be well-governed. The manifestations of civil and martial principles reveal their majesty, yet no sage forcibly established them.

All beings grow according to their inherent patterns, yet Dao treats all things equally. "Namelessness" represents the primordial state of heaven and earth—this Wuwei (non-action) doesn't mean doing nothing, but accomplishing without leaving traces. Like seasonal transitions and worldly changes, fortune and misfortune intertwine, appearing contradictory yet containing their own inherent logic. Consider how diverse trees in vast marshes each find their place, or how mountains accommodate both timber and rocks—such is the inclusiveness of Dao.

The discussion then examines whether Dao sufficiently explains all phenomena. In truth, the term "all things" merely serves as a collective designation for countless entities. Heaven and earth constitute the grandest forms; Yin-Yang represents the most fundamental Qi (vital energy), while Dao functions as the universal principle governing them all. Attempting to compare Dao with concrete objects resembles comparing dogs to horses—the disparity proves far too great.

Finally, the text explains the generative principles: Yin and Yang energies interact and constrain each other, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) cycle through mutual production and conquest, giving rise to preferences and aversions. The union of male and female, transformation between safety and danger, the interdependence of fortune and misfortune—these dialectical relationships constitute the knowable patterns of existence. When things reach their extremes, they return to their origins—this constitutes Dao's mode of operation. Those who truly comprehend Dao don't cling to superficial appearances of particular phenomena.

This passage discusses the ontological question of the Dao (道) in Daoist philosophy. Ji Zhen advocated for "non-interference" (莫为, natural non-action), while Jiezi promoted "intentional action" (或使, purposeful engagement). When Tai Gong Diao evaluated these two perspectives, he pointed out:

Common phenomena like roosters crowing and dogs barking, though familiar to all, remain beyond complete verbal explanation even for the wisest minds. Any forced analysis either descends into indescribable minutiae or expands beyond measurable magnitude. The "intentional action" theory is overly concrete, while the "non-interference" view is excessively abstract—both remain confined to the level of particular phenomena.

The cosmic forces of Heaven-Earth and Yin-Yang (阴阳) all originate from the Dao, which exists prior to these manifestations. Using Heaven-Earth to symbolize the Dao only captures the largest of tangible forms; employing Yin-Yang merely represents the most fundamental of Qi (气) expressions. The Dao transcends both form and vital energy, treating all things equally—its vastness defies comparison with any concrete object. We can only reluctantly name it "Dao" for convenience.

Examining the Dao's origin reveals an endless backward extension through time; exploring its future development shows infinite forward progression. This boundless characteristic aligns perfectly with the patterns governing all existence. Both "intentional action" and "non-interference" theories merely describe partial aspects of the Dao, which can neither be called "existent" nor "non-existent."

The Dao's essence is profoundly mysterious—the more it moves and transforms, the more it manifests. Its marvelous function is complete and sufficient, continuous yet seemingly insubstantial. Attempting to describe it verbally: exhaustive discourse throughout the day still fails to capture its truth, while insufficient explanation confines discussion to superficial phenomena. The ultimate state of Dao and phenomena transcends both speech and silence.

This passage explores the fundamental nature of the Dao. Laozi (venerated in Daoism as "the Perfected of Southern Florescence") maintains that the Dao cannot be fully expressed through language nor completely apprehended through silence. As the origin of all things, the Dao is neither "being" nor "non-being"—if we call it "being," it has no tangible form ("look but it cannot be seen"); if we call it "non-being," it gives birth to the myriad things with their unfathomable transformations.

The very name "Dao" is but a provisional designation we reluctantly employ for convenience. The essence of Dao is profoundly mysterious, incapable of being fully contained either through verbal expression or silent contemplation. Only by transcending this binary opposition between speech and silence, through direct inner realization, can one truly penetrate the fundamental mystery of Dao. Therefore, when discussing the Dao, one must neither cling to speech nor cling to silence—it is in the realm beyond both that the ultimate truth of Dao may be glimpsed.

(Note: Here "speech-silence" represents two cognitive modes—verbal expression and silent contemplation; "mysterious essence" refers to the fundamental mystery of Dao)