《南華真經新傳》Vol. 18

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter in the New Commentary on the Zhuangzi (《南华真经新传》), recounting a dialogue between Confucius and the notorious bandit Robber Zhi.

Robber Zhi was the younger brother of Liu Xiaji (also known as Liu Xiahui). Leading a band of nine thousand followers, he rampaged across the land, plundering feudal lords, breaking into homes to steal livestock and women. His insatiable greed disregarded familial bonds, bringing immense suffering to the people. Confucius said to Liu Xiaji: "A father should be able to instruct his son, and an elder brother should discipline his younger brother. You are a man of talent in our age, yet cannot control your brother who harms the world. I feel ashamed for you. Let me go admonish him."

Liu Xiaji dissuaded him: "Robber Zhi's mind gushes like a spring, his thoughts whirl like a storm wind. His martial prowess can defy armies, and his eloquence can justify any wrongdoing. He rejoices when indulged and rages when contradicted, readily hurling abuse. You'd best not go."

Ignoring this advice, Confucius set out with Yan Hui driving his chariot and Zigong as his guard. At the time, Robber Zhi was resting his troops at the southern foot of Mount Tai, feasting on human livers. Confucius sent a messenger to announce: "Kong Qiu of Lu, having heard of the general's noble virtue, requests an audience." Upon hearing this, Robber Zhi flew into a rage—his eyes blazing like morning stars, his hair standing on end—and roared: "Isn't this that glib-tongued hypocrite Kong Qiu from Lu? Tell him: With your fabricated tales of King Wen and King Wu, wearing that branch-covered ceremonial cap and dead ox-hide belt, spouting nonsense all day without plowing or weaving..."

(Note: "Robber Zhi" is a legendary bandit from the Spring and Autumn period; "Liu Xiaji" refers to the virtuous Liu Xiahui; "King Wen and King Wu" are the founding rulers of Zhou dynasty; the "branch-covered cap" describes the ornate ceremonial headgear worn by Confucius)

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, depicting the dramatic dialogue between Confucius and the infamous bandit Robber Zhi. Let me reconstruct this highly theatrical encounter in modern language:

When Confucius went to meet Robber Zhi, the bandit was feasting on human liver. Furious, Robber Zhi berated Confucius as someone who confused rulers with sophistry, led scholars astray from their true nature, and pursued wealth under the guise of filial piety—even threatening to add Confucius's liver to his meal. Confucius responded with reverent bows before attempting to persuade Robber Zhi with flattery.

Confucius declared that humans possess three virtues: physical stature and beauty are the highest virtue; extraordinary wisdom is the middle virtue; and courage in battle is the lowest. He praised Robber Zhi for embodying all three, lamenting that such a man should be known merely as a bandit. Confucius then proposed to lobby various states on Robber Zhi's behalf, offering to make him a feudal lord with a hundred-mile fiefdom and hundreds of thousands of subjects—where he could cease warfare, honor his ancestors, and fulfill the sage's proper role.

Robber Zhi grew even angrier upon hearing this, recognizing Confucius's words as mere deception for ordinary people. He acknowledged his appearance as his parents' gift, needing no praise from Confucius. Seeing through the offer of cities and subjects as an attempt to domesticate him like common folk, Robber Zhi sharply retorted: Isn't the greatest city the entire world? Though Yao and Shun possessed the world, their descendants owned not even a speck of land; though Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou became Sons of Heaven, their lines were extinguished—proving such material persuasion utterly unreliable.

This scripture, through the dialogue between the robber Zhi and Confucius, critiques the Confucian veneration of sage-kings, exposing the violent essence behind these so-called paragons of virtue.

The text points out that sage-kings like the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) caused bloodshed spanning a hundred miles during the Battle of Zhuolu; Yao lacked paternal kindness, and Shun failed in filial piety toward his father; King Tang of Shang exiled his ruler, and King Wu of Zhou killed King Zhou. These revered sages, in truth, all deluded their innate nature with worldly gains, forcibly violating the natural disposition of life. Their actions were more disgraceful than those of common thieves.

The author, speaking through the robber Zhi, mocks Confucius: "You taught Zilu to abandon his martial spirit, only for him to die miserably in the coup of Wei. You yourself were expelled from Lu, rejected in Wei, left with no path in Qi, and trapped between Chen and Cai—nowhere to call home. What value does such a doctrine hold?"

The text also depicts an idealized ancient society: people lived in trees like the Nest-Builder (Youchao), coexisted peacefully with deer as in the era of the Divine Farmer (Shennong), knew only their mothers and not their fathers, tilled the land for food, wove cloth for clothing, and harbored no intent to harm one another. This was the age when De (Virtue) flourished most. But the sage-kings after the Yellow Emperor were nothing more than tyrants who bullied the weak with force and oppressed the few with numbers.

This passage embodies the Daoist critique of the Confucian "sage-king" ideal, arguing that so-called sagely teachings are hypocritical doctrines that violate natural human tendencies. The true era of supreme De (Virtue) existed in a simpler, more primitive social order.

Bo Yi and Shu Qi, those two virtuous men, abandoned their rightful claim to the throne of Guzhu Kingdom and chose to starve to death on Shouyang Mountain rather than eat the grain of Zhou. Bao Jiao, to demonstrate his purity, embraced a tree and starved himself to death. Shentu Di, after his remonstrations were rejected by his ruler, drowned himself with a stone tied to his back, his corpse devoured by fish and turtles. Jie Zitui, loyal to Duke Wen of Jin to the point of cutting flesh from his own leg to feed his lord, was later abandoned by him and died clinging to a tree as it burned. Wei Sheng waited under a bridge for his beloved who never came; when the floodwaters rose, he refused to leave and drowned clinging to the bridge pillar.

These four deaths are no different from dogs torn apart by chariots, drowned pigs, or beggars clutching broken bowls—all valuing empty reputation over life itself, failing to cherish their fundamental nature and nourish their allotted years. What the world calls loyal ministers—like Prince Bi Gan who had his heart ripped out, or Wu Zixu who threw himself into the river—though held up as paragons of loyalty, ultimately become laughingstocks. From a higher perspective, none of these actions are praiseworthy.

The principles you (Confucius) use to persuade me—if speaking of ghosts and spirits, I cannot comprehend them; if speaking of human affairs, they're just these stale platitudes. Now let me tell you of human nature: eyes desire beautiful sights, ears crave harmonious sounds, the mouth savors fine flavors, and the heart-mind seeks fulfillment. The upper limit of human life is a hundred years, the middle eighty, the lower sixty. Subtract time lost to illness, mourning, and worry—the days of genuine laughter in a month number barely four or five. Heaven and earth endure eternally while human life is fleeting; to lodge our brief existence within infinity is like a thoroughbred steed flashing past a crack in the wall. Those who cannot follow their heart's desires and nourish their allotted years are not truly those who comprehend the great Dao (the Way).

These doctrines you preach are precisely what I would cast aside. Be gone! Cease your prattling. Your teachings—impatient for gain, opportunistic, hypocritical and contrived—cannot preserve the genuine nature of humanity. What is there to discuss? Confucius bowed repeatedly and withdrew hastily, fumbling with the reins three times as he mounted his carriage, his eyes vacant and face ashen, head bowed and breath labored. Upon returning to the eastern gate of Lu, he encountered Liuxia Ji, who said: "Not seeing you these days, your carriage and horses bear signs of distant travel—could you have gone to meet Robber Zhi?" Confucius lifted his face to heaven and sighed deeply...

This passage explores the relationship between fame, wealth, and one's innate nature through a series of dialogues.

Confucius sighs, remarking that Liu Xiaji (a virtuous scholar of the Spring and Autumn period) must have considered the actions of Robber Zhi (a legendary bandit) contrary to his own principles. Confucius admits that he was like a man who moxibusts himself despite being healthy—needlessly inviting trouble, daring to stroke a tiger’s head and tug its whiskers, nearly getting devoured. The text points out that great cities, high offices, and wealth are merely external gains acquired by chance, and these things burden the body and harm life. How can one squander their limited lifespan chasing such fleeting things? In doing so, they lose the true essence of life.

Human existence between Heaven and Earth rarely spans a hundred years, most of which is spent in illness and worry, with only brief moments of peace and ease. Robber Zhi refused to become a feudal lord precisely to preserve his innate nature. Heaven and Earth are eternal, but human life is fleeting—a brief spark in the vastness, as swift as a thoroughbred horse flashing past a crack in the wall. This is a parable Zhuangzi puts into Robber Zhi’s mouth.

Zizhang asks Man Goude: "Why not cultivate virtue (De)? Without virtue, one is not trusted; without trust, one is not employed; without employment, there is no profit. From the perspective of fame and wealth, benevolence and righteousness are indeed important. But if we discard these external concerns and return to the heart, can a scholar not uphold virtue for even a single day?"

Man Goude replies: "The shameless grow rich; the trustworthy gain prominence. The greatest fame and fortune nearly always come from shamelessness or trustworthiness. From the perspective of profit, trustworthiness is indeed valuable. But if we abandon fame and wealth to return to our true nature, a scholar’s virtue should align with the natural Dao."

Zizhang offers an example: "Tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang were exalted as Sons of Heaven, possessing the wealth of the world. Yet if you told a servant, 'Your conduct is like Jie and Zhou,' they would flush with shame and protest—even lowly people despise them. Confucius and Mo Di were as poor as commoners, yet if you told a prime minister, 'Your conduct resembles Confucius and Mo Di,' they would humbly admit they fall short—for true scholars revere them. Thus, being an emperor does not guarantee honor, nor does poverty mean disgrace. Worth is measured by conduct."

Man Goude concludes: "Petty thieves get caught; great thieves become feudal lords, and at the gates of those lords, they preach benevolence and righteousness." This is a biting satire on the society of the time—the same actions bring punishment to the small but fame to the powerful.

This scripture exposes the hypocrisy and contradictions in worldly values through historical anecdotes. Duke Huan of Qi (Xiao Bai) during the Spring and Autumn period murdered his elder brother and took his sister-in-law as his own wife, yet employed virtuous ministers like Guan Zhong. Tian Chengzi assassinated his ruler to usurp the throne, yet Confucius accepted gifts from him. These examples reveal how people verbally condemn wicked deeds while submitting to power in practice, their hearts filled with contradiction.

The text poses piercing questions: What truly constitutes evil and good? Those who succeed are honored as leaders, while those who fail are trampled underfoot. Zi Zhang (a disciple of Confucius) argued that without moral principles, human relationships would descend into chaos. But Man Goude countered: Did Emperor Yao executing his eldest son or Emperor Shun exiling his younger brother demonstrate proper ethics? When Tang of Shang overthrew Jie of Xia or King Wu of Zhou killed King Zhou, was this maintaining proper hierarchy? Confucians and Mohists each cling to their own doctrines, proving so-called moral principles can never be unified.

The text further points out that chasing fame and profit fundamentally violates the Dao (the Way). Petty men covet wealth while noble men seek fame—though their expressions differ, both distort their true nature. What one should truly do is follow natural laws without artificially distinguishing right from wrong, remaining flexible like a circle that adapts effortlessly, allowing the mind to harmonize naturally with the Dao.

Finally, it lists disasters brought by loyalty and righteousness: Bi Gan had his heart ripped out, Wu Zixu his eyes gouged—these were the prices of devotion. Wei Sheng drowned while keeping a promise, and Bao Shuya starved despite his integrity—all tragedies caused by rigid adherence to morality. These examples demonstrate how stubbornly clinging to moral standards invites misfortune instead. The dialogue between Wuzu and Zhihe further reveals that people chase fame and wealth because possessions bring status and pleasure, but true sages understand these external pursuits cannot provide genuine peace.

This scripture explores the fundamental tension between human desires and moral cultivation through a dialogue between two sages: Wuzu (the Footless) and Zhihe (Knowing Harmony).

Wuzu argues that wealth and status bring nothing but benefits, claiming that material possessions and power can provide supreme enjoyment beyond what even sages attain. He asserts that humans naturally crave sensory pleasures and authority—these desires require no cultivation, being innate to human nature.

Zhihe counters this view. He explains that true wisdom manifests in considering the people's needs without overstepping boundaries, and that contentment prevents contention. The virtuous refuse power not for reputation, but from concern that external things may damage their essential nature. Like how Yao and Shun practiced benevolent governance not for fame, or how Shan Juan and Xu You declined imperial thrones not out of false humility, but to avoid harming their vital existence.

This exchange reveals two life philosophies: one viewing desire-chasing as natural instinct, the other advocating purity and simplicity to preserve true nature. Zhihe particularly emphasizes how sages consciously renounce power and wealth—this deliberate choice stems from profound foresight. Recognizing the potential harm of external attachments, they proactively reject them to safeguard life's essence. Such discernment demonstrates far greater wisdom than blindly pursuing longevity or pleasure.

The term "juesu guoshi zhi shi" refers to those who pride themselves as transcending worldly concerns. "Canda zhi ji tianyu zhi an" describes how suffering and comfort affect the body, while "jian" signifies conscious awareness. Zhihe ultimately clarifies that integrity and greed differ not in outward behavior, but in whether one's heart remains free from external coercion.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's critique of the excessive pursuit of material wealth and power. It describes six painful states of the wealthy:

The rich indulge daily in the music of bells, drums, pipes, and strings, covet the flavors of fine wine and delicacies, become so deluded by these desires that they neglect proper affairs—this is called "chaos." Drowned in the Qi (vital energy) of greed, they resemble someone climbing a mountain with a heavy burden—this is called "suffering." Obsessed with wealth, they create their own troubles; exhausting their energy in pursuit of power, they wallow in pleasure during idle moments—this is called "sickness." In their quest for profit, their desires swell like an insurmountable wall yet they fail to retreat—this is called "disgrace." Hoarding riches they cannot use, clinging tightly while refusing to let go, their hearts anxious yet constantly demanding more—this is called "worry." At home fearing robbery, abroad dreading thieves, fortifying their residences with layers of defenses, afraid to venture out alone—this is called "fear."

Zhuangzi identifies these six states as life's greatest calamities, yet people often remain unaware. When disaster strikes, even expending all one's wealth cannot buy back a single day of peace. To exhaust one's spirit chasing empty fame and material gain—is this not utter folly?

Through the fictional dialogue between "Mangoude" (Content with Petty Gains) and "Wuzu" (Never Satisfied), the text illustrates: Worthies like Zizhang advocate cultivating oneself and establishing reputation through the Dao of humaneness and righteousness, warning against harming life for external things. Zhihe (One Who Understands Harmony) maintains that inner peace should be preserved, refusing to be enslaved by wealth and power. Yet the greedy remain deaf to such wisdom, ultimately losing their innate nature.

Zhuangzi thereby demonstrates that excessive pursuit of external possessions erodes life's authenticity, while maintaining inner harmony constitutes the true path.

This passage comes from the "Discourse on Swords" chapter in the New Commentary on the Southern Florescence Scripture, using a parable to satirize how worldly people lose their original nature.

The story tells of King Wen of Zhao, who was obsessed with swordsmanship and kept over three thousand swordsmen constantly dueling day and night, resulting in hundreds of deaths and injuries each year. After three years of this, the state declined, and neighboring rulers eyed it covetously. The crown prince, Kui, grew deeply concerned and offered a thousand pieces of gold as a reward for anyone who could persuade the king. Someone recommended Zhuangzi, so the prince went with a lavish gift to seek his help.

Zhuangzi refused the payment but asked the prince to clarify his intent: to break the king’s obsession with swordsmanship. He admitted that if his persuasion failed, he might be executed, but if successful, the entire state of Zhao would benefit. Thus, Zhuangzi pretended to be a master swordsman, deliberately dressing in a swordsman’s attire to meet the king.

When he appeared before the king, Zhuangzi acted with deliberate arrogance, refusing to bow according to court etiquette. He boasted that his swordsmanship could "kill a man in ten steps and travel a thousand miles without stopping," which greatly pleased the king. In truth, Zhuangzi was using swordsmanship as a metaphor to advise the ruler: the true art of governance is like wielding a sword—one must understand the principle of "showing emptiness, opening with advantage, and striking only after the opponent has moved."

Through this exaggerated tale, the story satirizes rulers who indulge in personal obsessions while neglecting state affairs. By "discoursing on swords," Zhuangzi was actually admonishing the king to wield power wisely, mastering the art of governing by concealing one’s edge and embracing humility.

This passage explains how Zhuangzi uses the metaphor of "discussing swords" to illustrate the art of governance. Zhuangzi compares swordsmanship to the wisdom of a sage in ruling a state: a true sage does not flaunt or show off, but subtly transforms all things, controls heaven and earth without leaving traces, and commands the four seas without displaying military force.

Zhuangzi divides swordsmanship into three levels: first, "revealing emptiness," akin to a sage remaining hidden behind the scenes; second, "opening with benefit," referring to the sage's ability to transform all things; third, "acting after others," symbolizing the sage's power to reverse the course of events; and finally, "arriving before others," describing the sage's realm of commanding the four seas. The true art of governance lies in ensuring the people benefit daily without being aware of its source, nourishing all things without claiming credit, following natural laws to accomplish all tasks, and teaching the world through the profound Dao (the Way).

Zhuangzi particularly describes the "Sword of the Son of Heaven": its tip is the Yanxi Stone Wall, its blade the Dai Mountains of Qi, its spine the lands of Jin and Wei, its guard the territories of Zhou and Song, and its hilt the domains of Han and Wei. This sword encompasses the four directions and the four seasons, follows the mutual generation and restraint of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), aligns with the changes of Yin-Yang, and moves in harmony with the seasons. When drawn, it can cleave floating clouds above and sever the earth's veins below, compelling feudal lords to submit and uniting the world in allegiance.

When King Wen asks about the "Sword of the Feudal Lords," Zhuangzi explains that its tip is the wise and courageous, its blade the incorruptible, its spine the virtuous, its guard the loyal and trustworthy, and its hilt the heroic. This sword above emulates the round heavens in following the sun, moon, and stars, below emulates the square earth in obeying the four seasons, and in the middle observes the people's will to pacify the four directions. These metaphors all convey the same principle: true governance does not rely on military conquest but on aligning with the timing of heaven, the advantages of earth, and the harmony of people.

This passage uses Zhuangzi's dialogue with King Wen of Zhao to illustrate three levels of governance through the metaphor of swords:

The Sword of the Son of Heaven (symbolizing the method of ruling the world) operates like rolling thunder—when it resonates, the people within the four borders willingly submit to the sovereign's command. This supreme form of governance cannot be forced; it must follow the natural way of Wuwei (non-action), allowing the world to transform of its own accord.

The Sword of Feudal Lords (representing state governance) is an essential instrument of rule, yet it should never be wielded carelessly. Only by maintaining an attitude of Wuwei and cautious application can the four borders naturally stabilize and the people spontaneously pledge allegiance.

The Sword of Commoners (denoting ordinary conflict) resembles street brawls—disheveled men with wild hair and torn clothes glare fiercely while hacking at each other's necks and stabbing livers. Such combat differs little from cockfighting and serves no purpose to the state when lives are lost. Though occupying the position of Son of Heaven, King Wen indulged in these lowly contests, prompting Zhuangzi to subtly criticize his limited perspective.

Upon hearing this, King Wen experienced profound realization. He respectfully invited Zhuangzi to dine in the palace hall and personally circled him three times as a gesture of reverence. For three months thereafter, the king remained within his palace gates, and the swordsmen gradually dispersed on their own. Through this parable, Zhuangzi demonstrates that rulers must understand the distinction between Wuwei and forceful action—governing the world requires emulating the Wuwei approach of the "Sword of the Son of Heaven," not indulging in the crude methods of the "Sword of Commoners."

(Note: "Wuwei" is a core Daoist concept referring to governance through non-interference and alignment with natural patterns; "four borders" denotes territorial boundaries; "voluntary submission" indicates willing allegiance.)