《南華真經新傳》Vol. 16

The "Chapter on Allegorical Sayings" in Volume 16 of the New Commentary on the Zhuangzi explains why Zhuangzi employed three distinctive rhetorical methods. In an era when people were often misled by heterodox teachings and failed to grasp the fundamental principles of sages, Zhuangzi had no choice but to use language as his instrument of clarification.

Zhuangzi's discourse manifests through three modes: allegorical sayings (yuyan) constituting nine-tenths, weighty sayings (chongyan) making up seven-tenths, and spontaneous sayings (zhiyan) that flow forth naturally each day. Allegorical sayings borrow others' voices to convey truth—just as a father wouldn't personally arrange his son's marriage, since praise carries more credibility when coming from outsiders. People invariably endorse views matching their own while opposing differing perspectives.

Weighty sayings invoke the authority of venerable elders, though mere seniority without true wisdom renders such citations meaningless. Such individuals are termed "relics of bygone days" (chenren). Spontaneous sayings resemble wine vessels (zhi) that reveal different aspects as they tilt—they follow no fixed form, perpetually harmonizing with the natural patterns of heaven (tianni), thereby exhausting the full measure of one's allotted years.

Confucius once said, "I wish to remain silent," while Mencius lamented, "Do I delight in argumentation?" The sages originally disdained excessive speech, yet spoke out of necessity to illuminate truth. Similarly, Zhuangzi reluctantly adopted these three methods: allegorical sayings make profound Daoist truths accessible—when stated directly, the world finds them absurd, but through borrowed voices, nine in ten may believe; weighty sayings leverage ancient authority to render teachings more palatable, convincing seven in ten; spontaneous sayings, like tilting wine vessels without fixed form, reflect the ineffable mystery of the Dao's essence, requiring expression through natural responsiveness. These three modes constitute the foundational methodology of Zhuangzi's literary art.

Zhuangzi here explores the relationship between language and truth. He suggests that in silence, all things and the self exist in perfect unity ("oneness"), but the moment speech begins, this unity is fractured. True wisdom lies not in volubility, but in comprehending the natural equilibrium of all existence ("heavenly balance"). All phenomena follow their inherent principles—there are no absolute rights or wrongs, just as the sun rises and sets in natural cycles ("heavenly pivot"). This constitutes the Dao's fundamental movement.

In the second dialogue, Zhuangzi uses Confucius as an example—still revising his views at sixty—to illustrate how sage wisdom evolves with the times. That Confucius transformed his understanding year after year for six decades shows true sages don't cling to fixed opinions but adjust according to the Dao's transformations. Like trees growing from their fundamental roots ("great origin"), one should speak in harmony with natural patterns—not to persuade through words, but to inspire genuine conviction. Sages merge with the Dao's profundity, synchronizing with change—how could they be constrained by rigid concepts? This reveals the deeper meaning behind Zhuangzi's remark that Confucius "changed sixty times in sixty years"—authentic wisdom means transforming with the times while walking the Dao's path.

(Note: "Heavenly balance" denotes nature's equilibrium; "heavenly pivot" refers to the Dao's cyclical patterns; "great origin" indicates the fundamental source of all things—all core concepts in Zhuangzi's philosophy.)

This passage explores two core concepts: the wisdom of sages in navigating worldly affairs, and Zengzi's (Confucius' disciple) attitude toward official service and familial bonds.

Regarding the wisdom of sages, the text explains that true sages understand the ever-changing nature of things—what was considered right in the past may not hold true now, and what is deemed correct today might not have been so before. Sages fully realize their innate potential, comprehend the essence of life, and maintain a state of mental stillness (a lucid, undisturbed clarity of mind). Like musical instruments, they respond naturally—sounding when Qi (vital energy) moves them and falling silent when it ceases. Their words align with the Dao (the Way), and without deliberate persuasion, they command universal respect. Hui Shi (a representative of the School of Names) misunderstood this natural state, mistakenly believing sages achieved their wisdom through sheer effort.

The story of Zengzi illustrates that a nobleman does not take office for wealth or status. When he first served, his salary was meager (three fu), yet he was content because he could support his parents. Later, though his salary grew substantial (three thousand zhong), he grieved because his parents were no longer alive. Confucius used the metaphor of "watching mosquitoes fly past" to show that a truly detached person remains unaffected by external circumstances—Zengzi, still bound by familial ties, experienced shifting emotions. This reveals a deeper truth: the joy or sorrow brought by external conditions often depends on what we hold dear in our hearts.

Yancheng Ziyou (a Daoist figure) said to Master Dongguo Ziqi (a Daoist sage): "Since receiving your teachings, in the first year I became simple and natural, in the second year I learned to conform to worldly customs, in the third year I attained understanding of principles, in the fourth year I became one with all things, in the fifth year I reached a state of effortless freedom, in the sixth year I could commune with the mysterious and hidden, in the seventh year I became completely attuned to nature, in the eighth year I transcended concepts of life and death, and in the ninth year I arrived at the profound and wondrous state."

The actions of life and the destination of death all follow natural law. From where does life originate? To where does death return? Heaven and earth operate according to their patterns, and human affairs have their foundations. How can we seek these mysteries? Since we don't know where the endpoint lies, how can we say there is no heavenly mandate? Nor do we know where the beginning is—how then can we claim such a mandate exists? If things respond to each other, how can we say there are no spirits? If there's no mutual response, how can we affirm their existence?

The wisdom of sages is profound and mysterious, not immediately comprehensible—it requires prolonged cultivation to realize. Yancheng Ziyou spent nine years to reach the highest state: returning to simplicity in the first year, conforming to customs in the second, understanding transformation in the third, dissolving distinctions between self and things in the fourth, achieving effortless freedom everywhere in the fifth, comprehending the hidden mysteries in the sixth, fully harmonizing with nature in the seventh, transcending life-and-death concepts in the eighth, and attaining the supreme state of wondrous emptiness in the ninth. If one's cultivation hasn't reached this level, it cannot be considered true realization. That Yancheng Ziyou achieved this in nine years indeed shows his understanding. Yet compared to sages—who know these truths innately without gradual accumulation—we see why they are called sages.

The myriad penumbral shades (faint shadows at the edges) asked the shadow: "Earlier you bowed your head, now you raise it; earlier your hair was tied, now it's loose; earlier you sat, now you stand; earlier you walked, now you stop—why is this?" The shadow replied: "This is simply spontaneous transformation—why ask further? I merely move in accordance with external things."

This passage explores the relationship between shadow and form, external objects and the self, through the story of Laozi teaching Yang Ziju, embodying the Daoist philosophy of "dual forgetting" (两忘).

The shadow-form metaphor comes first: Though shadows are produced by physical forms, their existence actually depends on sunlight (fire and sun). While our bodies are inherent to us, what truly sustains them is natural authenticity (朴素, pusu). Just as shadows naturally appear when sunlight shines during daytime, our physical forms cease to be objects of forced attention when we preserve our natural essence. Zhuangzi illustrates this principle through the fable of "the penumbra questioning the shadow" (罔两问影), where the faint outer shadow challenges the main shadow about its erratic movements.

The narrative then shifts to Yang Ziju's lesson: When Yang traveled to Pei to seek Laozi (also known as Lao Dan) who was journeying west, their encounter began with Laozi sighing toward heaven, declaring Yang initially teachable but now unworthy. Yang first dared not inquire, then humbly approached on his knees to seek guidance. Laozi exposed his arrogant demeanor ("睢睢盱盱" describing haughty, wide-eyed superiority) using the paradox that "the purest white appears sullied, the highest De (德, Virtue) seems insufficient." Yang immediately repented, transforming his conduct—where innkeepers initially served him obsequiously, people later interacted with him as an equal.

The conclusion reveals the core teaching: The penumbra (罔两) belongs to Yin, Yang Ziju to Yang. In darkness, one needn't question shadows' transformations; in light, physical appearances require no embellishment. The true practice is "dual forgetting"—transcending distinctions between self and objects to merge with the Dao. This constitutes the profound message Zhuangzi conveys at the end of his allegory.