《南華真經新傳》Vol. 19

In Volume 19 of the New Commentary on the Southern Florescence Scripture (Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan), the "Fisherman" chapter records a dialogue between Confucius and a reclusive fisherman. This encounter vividly illustrates the contrast between the Daoist pursuit of natural authenticity and Confucian worldly engagement.

While Confucius was playing the zither and reading with his disciples beneath an apricot altar in the Zither Grove, a white-haired fisherman with loose sleeves and unbound hair came ashore from his boat. Leaning on his left knee and resting his chin on his right hand, he listened to the music before summoning Zigong and Zilu to inquire about Confucius' identity. Zigong replied that Confucius was a nobleman of Lu who upheld loyalty, trustworthiness, benevolence, and righteousness, instructing the people through ritual and music—serving his ruler above and educating the masses below, all with the ambition of benefiting the world.

Upon hearing this, the fisherman laughed and departed, remarking, "Though he is benevolent, he will likely exhaust himself and endanger his true nature. Alas, he strays too far from the Dao (the Way)!" Confucius, upon learning of this, hurried to the riverbank. The fisherman was about to pole his boat away but paused when he saw Confucius approaching. Confucius bowed respectfully and expressed his desire to understand the deeper meaning behind the fisherman's words.

The fisherman, sighing, praised Confucius' eagerness to learn. Confucius admitted that despite studying since youth, now at sixty-nine, he still had not grasped the highest truth. The fisherman then said, "Like attracts like; sound responds to sound—this is the principle of nature." He agreed to share his insights. This exchange vividly captures the Daoist recluse's transcendent attitude toward worldly affairs, standing in stark contrast to Confucian activism. The fisherman embodies the Daoist ideal—carefree, preserving one's true nature, and wandering in unfettered freedom.

The relationships that define us as children and parents, rulers and ministers exist because of the fundamental bonds of human society. When the four roles of Son of Heaven, feudal lords, high officials, and common people each maintain their proper stations, this represents the ideal state of governance. Should these roles become disordered and confused, great chaos will ensue.

When officials perform their duties and commoners attend to their livelihoods, society remains free from turmoil. The worries of ordinary people include: fields lying fallow, houses in disrepair, inadequate food and clothing, unpaid taxes, discord among wives and concubines, and disorder in the hierarchy of elders and juniors. The concerns of high officials involve: lacking the ability to fulfill official responsibilities, neglecting government affairs, improper conduct, lazy subordinates, failure to achieve administrative results, and losing noble rank and stipends. The anxieties of feudal lords consist of: lacking loyal ministers at court, state disorder, poor craftsmanship, inferior tribute goods, and improper timing of sacrificial ceremonies. The Son of Heaven's troubles include: disharmony of yin and yang, irregularity of seasonal changes, damage to all living things; violent rebellions among feudal lords who attack each other and harm the people; collapse of ritual and music systems, depleted state finances, corrupted human relationships, and unrestrained behavior among the populace.

Now you possess neither the authority of rulers and lords nor the position of high officials, yet you presume to establish rituals and music, regulate human relationships to educate the people—is this not meddling in affairs beyond your station? Moreover, there are eight human faults and four dangers that cannot be ignored: interfering in matters one shouldn't is called "meddling" (zong); persisting in offering advice when ignored is called "obsequiousness" (ning); guessing others' thoughts to flatter is called "fawning" (tao); speaking indiscriminately without distinguishing right from wrong is called "sycophancy" (yu); enjoying speaking ill of others is called "slander" (chan); sowing discord is called "harming" (zei); false praise that actually harms is called "treachery" (te); currying favor with all sides while secretly pursuing selfish gains is called "duplicity" (xian). These eight faults externally disturb others and internally harm oneself—the noble person won't befriend such people, and enlightened rulers won't employ them as ministers.

The four dangers are: delighting in grand schemes and changing norms to seek fame, called "coveting merit" (dao); acting autocratically and usurping others' authority, called "greed" (tan); persisting in mistakes despite knowing better and intensifying errors when advised, called "obstinacy" (hen); approving only views identical to one's own while rejecting differing opinions even when correct, called "arrogance" (jin). Only by eliminating these eight faults and avoiding the four dangers can one begin to teach others.

Hearing this, Confucius looked solemn, sighed deeply, and bowed again, saying: "Twice I was expelled from Lu, barred from entering Wei, had the tree where I taught cut down in Song, and was besieged between Chen and Cai. I don't know what faults I committed, yet suffered these four slanders."

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's core philosophy of self-cultivation through a parable and dialogue.

The story tells of a man who feared his shadow and loathed his footprints. He ran desperately to escape them, only to leave more footprints the faster he ran, while his shadow persistently followed. Eventually, he collapsed and died from exhaustion. Zhuangzi uses this metaphor to illustrate how futile it is to evade problems—better to rest quietly in the shade where shadows disappear, or remain still where footprints cease. This mirrors how people become trapped by their relentless external pursuits.

The text critiques excessive fixation on external standards like benevolence and righteousness, judgments of right and wrong, or calculations of gain and loss, arguing these entangle people further in distress. The true solution lies in cultivating one's inner self and preserving original authenticity (what Daoism calls "zhen" 真), aligning with nature's flow. To demand perfection from others while neglecting self-cultivation is putting the cart before the horse.

It explains how the "Creator of Things" endows all beings with their inherent nature, and how rigid cognitive patterns breed anxiety. Listing "four worries, eight flaws, and four afflictions" (representing various mental vexations), the text identifies these as products of ego-attachment that prevent reaching "mingji" (冥极)—the state of unity with the Dao. Whether commoner or noble, transcending the self renders external concerns like clothing, food, or salary nonburdensome.

Finally, through a dialogue between Confucius and a guest, it emphasizes that "zhen" (authenticity) is ultimate sincerity. Feigned weeping may appear sorrowful but lacks true grief; pretended anger seems stern but carries no authority; forced warmth smiles without harmony. Genuine sorrow, indignation, or kindness flows spontaneously from within. This resonates with the Daoist ideal of returning to primal authenticity and abandoning artificiality.

This passage comes from New Commentary on the Authentic Scripture of Southern Florescence, exploring the fundamental distinction between "authenticity" (真) and "ritual propriety" (礼) through a dialogue between Confucius and an old fisherman.

The text first points out that genuine emotions need no deliberate display—what is truly valuable is the natural expression of sincere feelings. Serving one’s parents should come from heartfelt filial piety, serving one’s ruler should arise from genuine loyalty, joy in drinking should be spontaneous, and grief in mourning should be deeply felt. These emotions emerge naturally and should not be constrained by external forms.

"Ritual propriety" (礼) is merely a convention established by human society, while "authenticity" (真) is the innate nature bestowed by heaven—unforced and unchangeable. Thus, the sage emulates the Dao of heaven and treasures this innate authenticity, refusing to be bound by worldly rituals. The ignorant, in contrast, fail to follow nature and instead become trapped by social conventions—a lamentable state.

Later, the passage describes Confucius encountering the fisherman: After the fisherman rows away, Confucius remains standing respectfully on the shore, not daring to board his carriage until the ripples fade and the sound of oars can no longer be heard. His disciple Zilu is puzzled, finding Confucius overly deferential. Confucius explains: To lack reverence in the presence of an elder is a breach of propriety (礼), and to withhold respect from a worthy is a failure of humaneness (仁). The fisherman, as a sage who comprehends the great Dao, deserves the deference of a disciple.

This dialogue reveals the Daoist emphasis on "valuing authenticity" (贵真): True virtue lies not in external rituals but in the inner recognition of the Dao and the natural expression of one’s innate nature. Confucius’ humble attitude in seeking the fisherman’s guidance also demonstrates reverence for the "great Dao" (大道).

The passage conveys two key teachings through allegorical stories. The first layer, illustrated by the Fisherman's tale, reveals that true virtue requires utmost benevolence. Those who lack humility cannot attain the true essence of the Dao, ultimately harming themselves. The greatest misfortune stems from inhumanity, while the Dao constitutes the foundation of all existence—going against it leads to failure whereas alignment brings success, hence sages universally revere it. The Fisherman embodies genuine attainment of the Dao and commands profound respect.

The second layer employs the story of Lie Yukou (a Daoist figure) to demonstrate that inner integrity independent of external validation reflects authentic nature. Such integrity springs from refined cultivation (Jing), while non-reliance on externals arises from absolute sincerity (Cheng). Achieving purity enables union with heaven and earth; perfect sincerity moves the cosmos and naturally influences others. Without this refinement and sincerity, one neither connects with cosmic forces nor touches human hearts.

When Lie Yukou turned back midway to Qi and encountered the Daoist sage Bohun Maoren, he confessed being frightened—out of ten beverage vendors, five had spontaneously offered him drinks. Bohun pointed out that inner attachments manifest externally, and using such outward displays to awe others ultimately invites misfortune. If petty vendors flatter for trivial gains, how much more would rulers of ten thousand chariots? Monarchs burdened with state affairs inevitably demand officials' service, hence Lie's apprehension. Bohun predicted followers would flock to Lie, and indeed visitors' shoes soon piled outside his gate. When Bohun later visited leaning on his staff, standing silently before departing, Lie ran after him barefoot—revealing Lie had yet to attain true detachment from worldly concerns.

This passage discusses the distinction between the Daoist "Perfected Being" (zhiren) and ordinary people:

The Perfected Being maintains inner authenticity while harmonizing outwardly with all things. They conceal their true nature to transcend physical limitations, blending with the mundane world to avoid standing apart. Thus, wherever they go, people don't particularly revere them; whatever they do, others cannot fathom their depth. Though appearing to mingle with worldly affairs, they preserve their own spiritual realm within. This is the true Way of the Perfected.

Lie Yukou (Liezi) failed to achieve this state. Though he could ride the wind in accordance with his nature, he never reached the realm of forgetting physical form and equalizing with all things—his outward demeanor still carried traces of affectation. Consider how he accepted wine offered to him first—such deferential treatment inevitably inspired admiration and followers, ultimately binding him to external things. How could this be the Way of the Perfected? This is why Bohun Maoren (a Daoist sage) predicted, "People will come to follow you."

Those who associate with you won't point this out either. Seemingly trivial words can carry subtle poison, yet people remain unaware. The skillful exhaust themselves; the clever worry incessantly. Only those without ability or desire remain free—like an untethered boat drifting contentedly after a meal.

The more skillful one becomes, the more one pursues skill, inevitably exhausting the body. The more clever one grows, the more one fears mistakes, inevitably burdening the mind—these are the shackles of clinging to ability and manipulating external things. Only sages preserve pristine simplicity, never displaying talent, maintaining empty stillness without seeking. Like a hollow vessel, they float freely between heaven and earth.

The passage concludes with the story of Huan of Zheng, who studied arduously for three years in Qiu territory to become a Confucian scholar. His learning spread like river water nourishing nine leagues, benefiting three generations of relatives. Yet this very achievement turned his younger brother into a Mohist, sparking debates between Confucian and Mohist schools—revealing how excessive pursuit of knowledge breeds conflict and opposition.

Zheng Huan's father supported his younger brother Zheng Zhai for ten years, yet Zheng Huan ultimately took his own life. In a dream, the father heard Zheng Huan say: "It was I who made your son a follower of the Mohist school!" (The Mohists advocated frugality and universal love.) Why not examine his true nature? It was as natural as the fruit borne by autumn cypresses. The Creator rewards people not for their deliberate choices, but for their innate nature. Zheng Huan deliberately sought to be different, belittling his own kin—like the men of Qi who fought over well water. Thus, it is said that people today are all like Zheng Huan, believing themselves virtuous yet blind to the truth—how much more so those who claim to have attained the Dao? The ancients called such behavior a punishment for defying the natural order.

Zheng Huan became a Confucian scholar, while his brother Zheng Zhai became a Mohist—both followed their inherent natures. Nature is bestowed by Heaven, and each person's talents have their own natural inclinations. To study and practice in accordance with one's nature is to align with the natural way. Thus, Zheng Huan's disposition suited Confucianism, making him a scholar, while Zheng Zhai's nature inclined toward frugality, making him a Mohist. The Creator rewards innate nature, not deliberate choices, guiding people to return to their natural state through habit. Zheng Huan failed to understand this, believing his brother had surpassed him through his influence, and so he died in resentment—the greatest delusion. Zhuangzi mocked precisely this kind of stubborn ignorance.

The sage is content with what is natural, not with what violates nature; ordinary people, however, are content with what violates nature and uneasy with what is natural. The sage preserves pure innate nature and discards unnatural habits; ordinary people retain unnatural habits and lose their genuine nature. To preserve purity is to be a sage; to cling to bias is to remain ordinary.

Zhuangzi said: To understand the Dao is easy, but to refrain from speaking of it is difficult. To know yet not speak is to follow nature; to know and speak is to conform to worldly ways. The ancients followed nature without conforming to the world. Song Pingman studied dragon-slaying under Zhi Liyi, exhausting his family's fortune of a thousand gold pieces. After three years, he mastered the skill but found no occasion to use it. The Great Dao is like a broad highway—understanding it is no great difficulty.

The New Commentary on the Southern Florescence Scripture (Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan) primarily discusses the distinction between "the way of Wuwei (non-action)" and "the striving of ordinary people," as well as how sages conform to nature and transcend worldly concerns.

Those who comprehend the great Dao often remain silent, for true understanding requires no deliberate expression. Sages internally realize the Dao and thus maintain a state of natural Wuwei; ordinary people, however, constantly seek to prove their understanding through words, thereby falling into artificial affectation. The ancients pursued unity with heavenly principles rather than deliberate displays of human effort.

Sages approach matters with an attitude of "non-forcing," thus avoiding contention; ordinary people persistently strive for what need not be striven for, hence endless disputes. Weapons belong to the realm of deliberate action, while the Dao is the root of non-action. Sages follow the inherent nature of all things and never initiate conflict; ordinary people violate the Dao of nature and thus frequently resort to force. Yet weapons remain tools of last resort—those who rely on military power will ultimately meet destruction.

Ordinary people's wisdom is confined to trivial matters like gift-giving and social niceties, exhausting their Shen (spirit) while grasping only superficial truths, yet still presuming to comprehend the great Dao and unify all existence. Such individuals remain trapped by material forms, unable to perceive the origin of the universe. The perfected person (zhiren, one who has attained the Dao) can return their Shen to the beginningless origin, abiding peacefully in the realm of emptiness. Their wisdom flows like formless water, naturally reaching the supreme clarity (taiqing, highest state of purity). Tragically, worldly people focus on minutiae while missing true tranquility.

Worldly individuals mistake social interaction for proper conduct and shallow opinions for wisdom, laboring their spirits to "enlighten" others. This is actually being lost in the world of appearances, straying from the truth of the primordial origin (taichu). The perfected person, however, penetrates the profound mysteries of the Dao, their mind wandering freely in the primordial realm, their actions unimpeded, nourishing all things without leaving traces—so subtly that the world remains unaware of their deeds.

(Note: "Taiyi" refers to the cosmic origin; "taichu" denotes the primordial state before heaven and earth separated; "zhiren" is the Daoist ideal of a realized person; "taiqing" signifies the supreme state of clarity and Wuwei)

This passage describes the distinction between the realm of those who have attained the Dao and ordinary worldly people.

The perfected person who has truly realized the Dao can return their spirit to the primordial state of the universe, abiding in a realm of emptiness and ethereal purity. Their actions flow naturally like water—without fixed form—completely in harmony with the Way of Heaven.

Following this is an ironic anecdote: A man named Cao Shang from the state of Song was sent by the King of Song as an envoy to Qin. He set out with a few carriages but returned with over a hundred, gifted by the King of Qin. Proudly boasting to Zhuangzi, he claimed to excel at winning over rulers. Zhuangzi retorted mockingly: "When the King of Qin falls ill, those who can treat his sores are rewarded with one carriage, and those who lick his hemorrhoids get five. The more degrading the ailment treated, the more carriages given. Did you lick the King of Qin’s hemorrhoids? How else did you earn so many carriages?"

Next is a dialogue between Duke Ai of Lu and Yan He. The Duke wished to appoint Confucius to govern the state, but Yan He warned that this would be perilous. Confucius, he said, favored elaborate appearances and ornate rhetoric, suppressing innate nature to instruct the people—this would strip them of their purity and teach them artifice. A true sage, in contrast, embodies the Virtue (De) of Heaven and Earth, aligns with the workings of Yin-Yang, and neither displays supernatural abilities nor forces transformation, yet all things flourish naturally under their influence. They leave no trace yet inspire reverence effortlessly. Profoundly practicing non-action (Wuwei), they return to simplicity. If a worthy like Confucius were put in office, people would imitate his outward displays, leading the world to lose its genuine nature.

The core teaching is this: The highest art of governance lies in following nature, not in artificial refinement and instruction. Forcing ritual and music as tools of education only makes people hypocritical.

This passage explores the inscrutability of the human heart and the dual afflictions of internal and external punishments.

Through the example of Yan He (a Daoist figure), Zhuangzi illustrates how sages recognize the true value of things that appear useless. External punishments consist of metal shackles and wooden cangues, while internal punishments arise from inner restlessness and transgressions. Ordinary people struggle to avoid these dual afflictions—only the Zhenren (perfected person who has attained the Dao) can transcend them.

The ignorant suffer punishments because they cling to selfhood and selfishness. Having a sense of self leads to disharmony with all things, while harboring schemes creates conflict with the world. Disharmony binds and injures life, hence the need for metal and wooden restraints as punishment. Conflict scorches and damages the vital Qi (energy), causing the Yin-Yang forces to consume them.

Confucius remarked that the human heart is more treacherous than mountains and rivers, harder to fathom than celestial phenomena. The heavens follow the patterns of seasons, day, and night, yet humans wear masks of loyalty while concealing profound depths. Some appear humble yet harbor arrogance, seem compliant while remaining astute, project strength while inwardly weak, or feign slowness while burning with impatience.

The human heart dwells in a state of emptiness and stillness, defying conventional judgment. Celestial movements can be predicted, but the fluctuations of the heart remain elusive. Confucius lamented how some pursue righteousness with hunger and thirst, only to abandon it as if fleeing the heat. Such duplicity can only be overcome by those who have truly attained the Dao.

The "Zhenren" mentioned here refers to those who have reached the highest state of Daoist cultivation—selfless and free from worldly attachments, they transcend the harm of both internal and external punishments. "Yin-Yang consumes them" describes the damage caused by imbalances in the body's Yin-Yang energies. These concepts reflect the Daoist perspective on the cultivation of body and mind.

This passage explains how to assess a person's moral character through nine methods, as well as the fundamental differences between noble individuals (junzi) and petty people (xiaoren).

It first enumerates nine approaches for evaluating talent: sending someone on distant assignments to observe their loyalty; assigning close-range tasks to assess their respectfulness; entrusting complex affairs to test their competence; posing unexpected questions to gauge their wisdom; setting urgent deadlines to verify their reliability; delegating financial management to examine their benevolence; revealing dangerous situations to evaluate their integrity; observing their demeanor when intoxicated; and mingling them in diverse company to scrutinize their composure. Through these methods, one can distinguish superior from inferior character.

True junzi embody these qualities: they maintain upright conduct while remaining inwardly humble, devote themselves earnestly with consistent inner and outer alignment, and uphold personal integrity without being swayed by external temptations. Thus, their loyalty suffices to serve rulers, their respect properly honors superiors, their competence capably handles complex affairs, their wisdom adequately responds to contingencies, their reliability requires no enforcement, their benevolence broadly benefits others, and their integrity reliably delivers people from crises. Neither alcohol nor sensual pleasures can disrupt their spiritual equilibrium, nor can beauty shake their resolve. The junzi can sheath their brilliance, resolve conflicts, and harmonize with all things—a state unattainable by petty people.

The text provides two contrasting examples: Zheng Kaofu (a virtuous official of the Spring and Autumn period) grew increasingly humble with each promotion—bowing slightly at his first advancement, bending deeper at the second, and proceeding along walls with lowered posture at the third, never presuming arrogance. Conversely, another type of person becomes inflated with promotions—swaggering at the first advancement, dancing on chariots at the second, and addressing elders disrespectfully by name at the third. While Confucius' disciple Zengzi altered his mindset during two official appointments, Zheng Kaofu demonstrated growing reverence through three appointments, illustrating their understanding that rank and stipends are external possessions unworthy of pride. Zengzi embodied internal realization, while Zheng Kaofu manifested it through conduct—hence Zhuangzi particularly revered them.

The core message emphasizes that these nine tests reveal true character: genuine junzi possess complete virtues—loyalty, respect, competence, wisdom, reliability, benevolence, integrity, discipline, and composure—qualities that petty people cannot authentically emulate.

This passage primarily discusses the essence of "De" (Virtue/Power) and the stages of spiritual cultivation, which can be understood through several layers:

The discourse on "De" reveals that the greatest harm lies in the deliberate pursuit of virtue (De you xin). When one consciously seeks virtue, the mind develops discriminatory perceptions (xin you yan). Once such discrimination arises, one becomes attached to self-inspection and loses their original authenticity. True virtue should flow naturally without contrived thought (De zhi wu xin). Artificial virtue damages human nature, trapping people in external displays and preventing inward contemplation.

The text further analyzes five harmful forms of virtue, with "middle virtue" (self-righteous morality) being the most primary. It enumerates eight exceptional qualities (such as beauty, height, or courage) that paradoxically bring misfortune, and three conditions for true liberation: wisdom that shines outwardly, courage that provokes resentment, and benevolence that invites criticism. However, the perfected person (zhiren) transcends these limitations to attain the state of "no-self" (wuwo).

The discussion on life wisdom unfolds through progressive stages: those who comprehend life's essence transcend worldly concerns (appearing majestic like gui); those who master cleverness seem insignificant (appearing small like xiao); those who understand heavenly mandate follow nature's flow (sui); those who grasp human affairs accept their circumstances (zao). Genuine understanding means not clinging to life or death regarding longevity, not obsessing over thoughts regarding wisdom, and accepting life's span regarding destiny.

The passage concludes with Zhuangzi's critique of King Song's rewards through a parable: like a poor family finding pearls in a deep abyss, true treasures (symbolizing the Dao) are hidden in the most perilous places (under the black dragon's chin in the ninth-layer abyss). Deliberate pursuit becomes dangerous—implying that forced virtue resembles risky pearl-diving, while maintaining authenticity in humble circumstances proves wiser.

This passage illustrates Zhuangzi's (a central figure in Daoism) transcendent attitude toward wealth, status, and life and death.

It begins with a parable: Those who seek to pluck the precious pearl from the black dragon's jaws must act while the dragon sleeps. If the dragon is awake, they stand no chance. The state of Song is like a nine-layered abyss, and its king is fiercer than the black dragon. Those who receive rewards from him are merely fortunate to catch him in a moment of "slumber." Had the king been fully alert, they would have been crushed to dust.

When someone offered Zhuangzi an official position, he responded with the analogy of a sacrificial ox: The ox is draped in embroidered silks and fed the finest fodder, but once led into the grand temple for sacrifice, can it ever return to being an ordinary calf? Through this metaphor, Zhuangzi expressed his refusal to be bound by wealth and status.

When summoned by the king of Chu, Zhuangzi once declined by saying he would rather be a sacred turtle dragging its tail in the mud than enshrined in a temple. Now, he again rejects an appointment with the sacrificial ox analogy. Neither wealth nor status could sway his heart, nor could life and death unsettle him.

On his deathbed, Zhuangzi's disciples wished to bury him with lavish rites. But he said: Heaven and earth are my coffin, the sun and moon my jade ornaments, the stars my jewels, and all things my funeral procession—is this not enough? When his disciples worried that crows might peck at his body, he replied: Above ground, the crows will eat me; below, the ants will. Why show favoritism? Seeking fairness through unfair means only leads to greater unfairness.

Zhuangzi saw death as merely life’s temporary return to nature, a dispersal of Qi (vital energy) for a time. Where there is departure, there must be return; where there is scattering, there must be reunion. Those who comprehend the Dao understand this—how could they cling to concerns over burial? Thus, he declared that using heaven and earth as his coffin and all things as his mourners was the truest form of "burial without burial," a return to simplicity. His disciples’ fear of the crows only showed they failed to grasp his enlightened perspective.

The passage concludes: The clever are forever driven by external things, while those who commune with the divine and embody the Dao see the essence. Fools rely on shallow understanding, chasing fame and achievement—truly pitiable. This text reveals Zhuangzi’s transcendent state of equanimity, where all things are equalized and life and death are one.

This passage discusses the concept of "spirit illumination" (Shenming). In Buddhism, the "Great Spirit" (referring to the formless Buddha-nature) has no fixed form, while the "Great Illumination" (referring to the light of wisdom) manifests concretely. The light of wisdom cannot match the wondrous function of the Great Spirit—there is a hierarchical distinction between the two. Hence, it is said that illumination falls short of spirit illumination.

The function of spirit illumination lies in realizing the "Solitary" (the noumenon of the Dao, the unique and ultimate reality), while the function of illumination lies in recognizing "phenomenal existence" (the concrete things of the manifest world). Realizing the "Solitary" enables communion with the heavenly Dao, whereas recognizing "phenomenal existence" remains confined to the human realm. Remaining at the human level inevitably leads to delusion. Thus, it is said that foolish people cling to the phenomena they perceive, becoming mired in worldly affairs. Such cultivation seeks outwardly—is this not truly lamentable?

(Note: By contrasting the concepts of "spirit" [Shen] and "illumination" [Ming], this passage emphasizes that Daoist practice should transcend the phenomenal world to directly realize the noumenon of the Dao. "Seeing the Solitary" [Jian Du] is a crucial stage of cultivation in Zhuangzi's thought, referring to transcending relative cognition to directly apprehend absolute truth.)