《南華真經新傳》Vol. 2

The New Commentary on the Southern Florescence Scripture (Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan), Volume 2, annotated by Wang Yuanze of the Song Dynasty, explores the core ideas of the Zhuangzi's "Discourse on the Equalizing of Things." All things in the world are generated from the interaction of Yin and Yang Qi (vital energy), and humans are no exception. Though their outward forms may differ, they share the same fundamental origin. Recognizing this underlying unity allows one to transcend the distinction between self and external objects, reaching a state of complete detachment—precisely the intention behind Zhuangzi's "Discourse on the Equalizing of Things."

Nan Guozi Qi (a Daoist practitioner) leans against a low table in quiet meditation, exhaling slowly toward the sky, his expression appearing to lose all awareness of external correspondence. His disciple Yan Chengzi You asks, "Can a person's body truly become as still as withered wood, and the mind as silent as dead ashes?" This reveals that those who attain the Dao (the Way) transcend the duality of self and object by dissolving the attachment to "self." The term "coupling" refers to paired relationships—all things have their counterparts, yet only the Dao exists beyond such oppositions. When the distinction between subject and object vanishes, the body naturally becomes as motionless as withered wood, and the mind as unignited as cold ashes.

The passage states, "The self leaning against the table today is no longer the self of yesterday," echoing the Buddhist monk Fan Zhi's saying, "The self of the past is not the self of today." This emphasizes the constant flux of life at every moment. Nan Guozi Qi's response, "I have lost myself" (the true self transcends the physical form), demonstrates his insight that life is merely a temporary convergence of Heaven and Earth's Yin and Yang. Ordinary people, attached to the differences in physical appearance, create distinctions of size, nobility, and baseness, thus becoming burdened by material desires.

Regarding the discussion of the "Three Sounds": human-made sounds are renlai (human sounds), the sounds of wind blowing through hollows are dilai (earth sounds), and the spontaneous sounds of all things are tianlai (heavenly sounds). Zi Qi describes the hollows in ancient trees of the mountain forests, which, under the wind, produce a myriad of distinct sounds—some like rushing torrents or flying arrows, others like scolding or breathing, and still others like weeping or laughter. These naturally arising variations in sound are precisely the spontaneous manifestations of the Dao in different forms.

This passage explores Zhuangzi's philosophical reflections on the "heavenly pipes (天籁), earthly pipes (地籁), and human pipes (人籁)." The wind passing through various hollows produces different sounds, just as all things in their diverse forms are governed by natural laws. The sounds of earth (地籁) emerge from its myriad hollows, human-made sounds (人籁) arise from bamboo flutes, while spontaneous sounds (天籁) manifest naturally from all things.

The core teaching reveals that regardless of their source, all sounds fundamentally express the workings of natural principles. Just as wind requires hollow spaces to produce sound, all things must rely on physical forms to exist. Yet when humans transcend attachment to form and relinquish deluded thoughts, they may attain a wondrous state beyond natural constraints.

The text then examines states of human consciousness: those with great wisdom move through life with ease, while petty intellects obsess over trivialities; profound discourse flows with majestic breadth, whereas petty talk becomes mired in minutiae. In sleep, our spirits wander freely, but upon waking, our bodies toil restlessly. Daily interactions fill the mind with contention—alternating between anxious fear and arrogant elation. These emotional fluctuations resemble autumn and winter's withering cycles, gradually draining one's vitality.

All these mental activities and emotional disturbances stem from being shackled to physical form. As long as form persists, one remains subject to nature's dictates. Only by attaining the "formless" state can one transcend these limitations—a realm beyond ordinary human experience, accessible only to those who have realized the Shen (spirit) state.

The passage concludes with the metaphors "music emerges from emptiness, mushrooms form from vapor": just as music arises from void and fungi condense from mist, both sound and form manifest from the formless. This illustrates nature's creative principle—sound must resonate to be heard, form must coalesce to be seen. All phenomena emerge from the formless through the mysterious workings of the Dao.

Day and night alternate before our eyes, yet none know how this transformation first began. When day ends, night takes its place; when night recedes, day returns—this cyclical change has no end. This is the wondrous operation of the Dao (the fundamental law of the cosmos), yet none in the world understand its origin.

Thus we say day and night revolve without cease, yet we cannot fathom their source. Enough, enough! The daily alternation we experience—is this not the fundamental rhythm of existence itself? Without this alternation, there would be no "me"; without "me," there would be no perception of this cycle. This truth is very close to reality, yet people still fail to grasp what truly governs it all.

The shift between day and night happens naturally, the True Governor (Zhenzai, the essence of the Dao) is also natural, and my existence is likewise natural. Yet without the True Governor, I would not have been born; without me, the creative work of the True Governor could not be manifested. We live each day under its influence, yet remain unaware—why then should we distinguish between self and other? This embodies Zhuangzi's philosophy of "equalizing all things."

It seems there truly is a Governor of Creation, yet we find no trace of it. This True Governor is the supreme Dao, subtly directing the transformation of all things. Because it acts through Wuwei (non-action), it is called "true"; because it gives birth to all things, it is called "governor." It neither resides within the shifts of Yin-Yang nor exists outside them—it can only be grasped with the spirit, never captured in form.

The function of the True Governor is real and trustworthy yet formless and imageless. It contains the vital impulse yet has no concrete shape. Though it seems slow, it swiftly brings forth all things; though we see no sign of it, we can be certain of its presence. All the bones, nine orifices (eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and the two lower passages), and six viscera (heart, liver, spleen, lungs, kidneys, and pericardium) within us are perfectly arranged—but which among them should I favor most? Do you hold some organs in higher regard than others?

Hands and feet, ears and eyes, heart and lungs, stomach and intestines—their functions differ vastly, yet together they form the complete "self." To cling to preference for one part is to lose the truth of the whole. Just as favoring one organ disrupts the harmony of the others, such partiality ultimately severs us from the genuineness of life itself.

This passage explores the relationship between the "True Lord" (referring to one's innate authentic nature or sovereign self) and external actions. The author observes that people often act like servants or concubines driven by external things, competing for power and profit while forgetting the true sovereign within. Whether people recognize this truth or not, the "True Lord" itself neither increases nor diminishes.

Bound by physical form throughout life, humans constantly clash and rub against external things, like a galloping carriage that cannot stop—this is lamentable. The Creator fashions endless transformations of all things, and humans merely happen to take the form of "me." If one clings to the concept of "me," they become enslaved by external things, toiling without rest or peace—this is the state of losing the "True Lord."

To labor ceaselessly with no visible achievement, to exhaust oneself without knowing one's true destination—what meaning does such a life hold? When the physical form changes, the mind follows—this is the greatest tragedy. People fail to recognize that all things share the same origin; externally, they are enslaved by material things, and internally, they lose their true nature. Though their bodies exist, their spirit is already dead, yet they still do not know to stop—this is even more pitiable.

Zhuangzi's deliberate use of "lamentable" before "pitiable" carries deep meaning—"lamentable" is not yet the extreme, while "pitiable" is more severe. The physical form is merely a temporary gathering of Qi (vital energy) bestowed by nature, while the mind is the true sovereign of a person. The mind resides within, while the form exists externally; the form undergoes endless transformations, but the true mind remains eternal. Those who understand this principle are the enlightened, while ordinary people often allow their forms to enslave their minds, losing their authentic nature in the process.

Is human existence inherently bewildered like this? Or is it only I who am bewildered, while others remain clear-headed?

Here, "bewilderment" refers to muddled incomprehension. When humans receive their form from the Creator (True Governor), how can they be said to lack knowledge? It's simply that people often fail to awaken to themselves, sinking deeper into confusion until they ultimately fall into a state of ignorance. But is everyone in the world truly like this? In reality, there are also those who comprehend the principles of things. Thus we ask: Are humans destined to be bewildered from birth? Or is it only I who am bewildered while others remain clear?

If every person acts according to their inherent mind (chengxin, "formed mind"), who could be without their own perspective? Why must one necessarily understand the principles of cosmic transformation? Both the wise and the foolish possess their own viewpoints. The mind is humanity's True Governor (zhenjun)—as long as one doesn't lose this true master, they can form their own understanding. Maintaining this understanding and following it allows one to silently accord with the Great Dao and mysteriously resonate with the divine, without needing to comprehend the patterns of yin-yang transformation to attain the Dao. Foolish people, unaware of their True Governor, merely drive their physical forms in pursuit of the Dao—this is precisely why they confuse themselves, spending their lives seeking yet never understanding.

To pass judgment before establishing one's fundamental mind is as absurd as claiming to have arrived in Yue yesterday when setting out today. The sage maintains their established mind without distinguishing right from wrong—this is what later passages call "viewing distinctions as a circle and dwelling within it." Ordinary people lose their established mind and cling to distinctions—this is the so-called absurdity of "setting out today yet claiming to have arrived yesterday."

To take "non-being" as "being," or "what is not" as "what is"—even a sage like Yu the Great couldn't comprehend this, so what could I possibly do about it?

Yu the Great's wisdom in flood control lay in following nature's course (wuwei, "non-action"). Those who follow nature's course harbor no confusion in their hearts. Modern people fail to maintain their established minds, becoming bewildered by distinctions—even Yu couldn't understand them, so why should I force myself to? Thus we say: Even a divine sage like Yu couldn't comprehend this, so what could I do?

Speech isn't mere wind—speakers do express something, yet what's said remains indeterminate. Is there really speech occurring? Or is there actually none? To consider one's words different from a fledgling's chirping—is there a distinction? Or isn't there? How could the Great Dao be obscured to create true and false divisions?

Why do hidden disputes of right and wrong exist? The Dao permeates all things—how could words ever fully express it? The Dao becomes obscured by partial understanding, just as language gets concealed beneath ornate rhetoric. This is why Confucians and Mohists attack each other, each affirming what the other denies and denying what the other affirms. To transcend such disputes, one must illuminate the mind with clarity.

All things lack absolute opposites. When viewing from another’s perspective, one cannot see oneself; only by turning inward can understanding arise. Thus, the "other" emerges from the "self," and the "self" depends on the "other"—they are mutually dependent. Just as life begins its journey toward death the moment it is born, and death in turn gives rise to new life; affirmation already contains negation, and negation harbors affirmation.

The true Dao does not deliberately seek novelty, and genuine words need no embellishment. The reason disputes over truth and falsehood arise is because the Dao is obscured by narrow understanding, and language is masked by superficial ornamentation. When the Dao is limited, it becomes incomplete; when words are adorned, they lose authenticity. Hence, Confucians and Mohists argue endlessly, each clinging to their own views.

Therefore, the sage does not walk the path of opposition but observes all things with the clarity of natural perception. The sage’s mind is lucid, unentangled in disputes, following the natural course—thus transcending right and wrong. It can be said that the sage is not confined by duality but perceives through the lens of the heavenly Dao. This is what it means to accord with spontaneity (Wuwei).

The "self" is the "other," and the "other" is the "self." The "other" has its own standards of right and wrong, just as the "self" has its own. Does a true distinction between them really exist? Perhaps there is no absolute opposition between them at all? To transcend this state of duality is to grasp the pivot of the Dao.

The Dao shares a single origin; right and wrong stem from the same Qi (vital energy). By forgetting the distinctions between self and other, all opposition dissolves, allowing one to operate in endless cycles. Thus, transcending duality means holding the key to the Dao.

Once this pivot is grasped, one stands at the center of the circle, responding to infinite transformations. Affirmation has endless possibilities; so too does negation. Therefore, it is better to illuminate the mind with clarity: using a finger to explain that a finger is not a finger is not as effective as using a non-finger to explain it; using a horse to prove that a horse is not a horse is not as effective as using a non-horse to prove it. Heaven and earth are like a single finger; the myriad things are like a single horse.

That finger and this finger, that horse and this horse—though their forms differ, their essence is interconnected. What cannot be unified? Though heaven and earth vary in appearance, their root is the same.

All things, though infinitely diverse, originate from the same Dao. While heaven and earth differ in height and all beings vary in size, they share the same fundamental source—there is no essential distinction between them. Thus Zhuangzi said, "Heaven and earth are like a single finger; the myriad things are like one horse"—using heaven and earth to represent a finger and all creatures to symbolize a horse, because the stillness of heaven and earth manifests the essence of Dao, while the movement of all things demonstrates its function.

The Dao itself makes no distinction between "acceptable" and "unacceptable," nor between "this" and "not this." Paths are formed by being walked upon; things are named by being designated. Why say "it is so"? Because it is inherently so. Why say "it is not so"? Because it is inherently not so. All things have their own reason for existence—nothing is inherently unworthy of being. Thus the slender blade of grass and the massive roof beam, the repulsively scarred leper and the beautiful Xi Shi—these seemingly extreme opposites are interconnected and unified within the Dao.

The Dao exists as an undifferentiated whole, making no divisions between acceptable and unacceptable, affirmation and negation, completion and destruction, beauty and ugliness. But people, failing to understand this principle, create distinctions and oppositions through subjective preferences, thereby bringing confusion and suffering upon themselves. Those who truly comprehend know all things are fundamentally one.

The separation of things implies new formations, just as the formation of things implies previous dissolutions. In truth, there is neither creation nor destruction—ultimately all is interconnected. The enlightened person does not cling to any particular function, but follows the natural utility (yong) of things. This following is application; through application comes penetration; penetration is attainment of Dao. Reaching this state brings one near to the Dao. To proceed according to nature without knowing why—this is the Dao.

The truly enlightened hold no stubborn opinions and are not deluded by appearances, comprehending instead the deepest truths. They do not deny the transformations of creation and destruction among things, but follow their ordinary functions without coercion. This attitude of compliance can meet all worldly needs, penetrating everywhere without obstruction. The state of unimpeded penetration is attainment of Dao—already very close to the Dao, though not yet full realization.

Those who exhaust their minds forcing unity while failing to understand things' fundamental sameness are like the monkey trainer distributing acorns: saying "three in the morning and four at night" angers the monkeys, while "four in the morning and three at night" pleases them. The total remains unchanged—only the phrasing differs.

This passage illustrates how Zhuangzi uses the fable of "three in the morning and four at night" to reveal humanity's tendency to be misled by superficial appearances. When the monkey keeper gives four chestnuts in the morning and three at night, the monkeys are delighted; reverse the order to three in the morning and four at night, and the monkeys become angry. The total remains unchanged—only the sequence differs—yet this triggers emotional fluctuations. Zhuangzi observes that ordinary people resemble these monkeys, becoming trapped in emotional turbulence by fixating on surface phenomena.

The wisdom of sages (those who have attained the Dao) lies in their ability to transcend the apparent duality of right and wrong, maintaining their natural, authentic state. They understand all things share the same fundamental nature without hierarchy or intrinsic value—this is the realm of "equalizing all things" (qiwu). Zhuangzi describes this harmonious state as the "heavenly balance" (tianjun), calling it "letting both alternatives proceed" (liangxing)—allowing opposing views to coexist naturally without attachment.

The examples of Zhao Wen playing the zither, Shi Kuang beating time, and Hui Shi debating demonstrate that while these skills may be exquisite, fixation on concrete forms and phenomena distances one from the truth that "the Great Dao has no form, the Great Sound is soundless." When Zhao Wen plays, the music becomes perceptible (with completion and deficiency), yet when he stops, the wonder of soundlessness manifests (without completion or deficiency). Zhuangzi suggests that excessive pursuit of tangible achievements obstructs comprehension of the Dao.

Ultimately, the sage seeks the "dazzle of chaotic doubt"—a light that seems both present and absent, illuminating all things effortlessly through non-action (wuwei). This wisdom emerges not through exhausting mental effort in pursuit of external accomplishments, but through releasing attachments to reveal what is naturally evident.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "equalizing all things" (qi wu). The concept of "lodging truth in the ordinary" (yu zhu yong) teaches us to find profound truths hidden within everyday phenomena. Those who are inwardly confused yet pretend to understand only flaunt superficial cleverness—such people have not truly comprehended the nature of things. The sage, by contrast, never discards anything, but attains great wisdom through ordinary application.

The discussion then turns to the relationship between "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu): If we say things have a beginning, what existed before that beginning? What state preceded both "being" and "non-being"? In truth, it is difficult to definitively say what truly constitutes "being" or "non-being." An autumn hair (the finest down of birds and beasts) may be considered vast, while Mount Tai may seem small; a child who dies young may be deemed long-lived, while Pengzu, who lived eight hundred years, may be called short-lived. Since all things in heaven and earth are fundamentally one, why say more when they are already unified?

Those who understand this principle (the knowers, zhi zhe) transcend the boundaries of life and death, thus sharing existence with heaven and earth. Unconstrained by form, they merge with the myriad things. Once merged, words become unnecessary. Yet the moment we speak of "oneness," we create both the concept of "one" and the act of speaking, and their relationship makes three. If we continue this reasoning, even the most skilled mathematician could not unravel it—how much less an ordinary person?

The Dao (the Way) is originally undifferentiated; speech gives rise to distinctions. From "non-being" to "being," we already generate three concepts—how much more endless are the derivations from "being" to "being"? Therefore, the best approach is to follow nature's course without imposing artificial boundaries.

The Dao (the Way, cosmic origin) originally knew no boundaries, just as language had no fixed standards. It was only through human debates over right and wrong that artificial distinctions emerged.

These boundaries include eight opposing concepts: left and right, ethical norms, hierarchical differences, disputes over truth and falsehood, competition and rivalry, among others. Regarding the profound mysteries beyond the six directions of the universe (outside the "six harmonies"), the sage (one who has attained the Dao) remains silent and refrains from discussion. As for phenomena within the mundane world (within the "six harmonies"), the sage merely observes and describes without passing judgment. When it comes to the governance principles of ancient kings recorded in historical texts (such as the Spring and Autumn Annals), the sage comments without engaging in argument.

This is because every distinction contains aspects that remain undifferentiated, and every debate leaves truths unspoken. The sage holds these mysteries deep within the heart, while ordinary people eagerly argue and show off. Thus, those who cling to debate often fail to see the truth.

The great Dao (ultimate truth) is an undivided whole without boundaries, and the highest wisdom remains wordless, needing no debate. Only when the Dao is fragmented do boundaries appear; only when words arise do disputes emerge. The sage alone understands the natural distinctions of all things—neither imposing arbitrary judgments nor engaging in futile arguments—and thus attains unity with the Dao.

The true Dao needs no proclamation, true eloquence requires no words, true benevolence shows no partiality, true integrity does not flaunt itself, and true courage carries no aggression. A Dao deliberately displayed is not the true Dao; argumentative speech will always have gaps; rigid benevolence remains incomplete; self-proclaimed purity appears hypocritical; and combative courage harms virtue. To temper the sharpness of these five qualities is to draw near the realm of the Dao.

Who can comprehend wordless eloquence or the ineffable Dao? One who understands this principle is a wise one (the "Celestial Storehouse") in harmony with the heavenly Dao.

The highest form of debate is one without words (Great Debate), and the truest Dao (the Way) is that which makes no deliberate display. The Great Debate embraces all things, while the true Dao governs the movement of all things—this is why it is called the "Celestial Storehouse" (referring to the Dao's all-encompassing nature). Like a repository for all things, it never overflows no matter how much is poured in, nor does it deplete no matter how much is drawn out. Yet its source remains unknown—this is what is called "Preserved Radiance" (the state of maintaining innate wisdom).

This inexhaustible and unfillable nature is akin to what Mencius described as "neither increasing nor decreasing" and what Buddhism calls "neither arising nor ceasing." Zhuangzi speaks of both "Preserved Radiance" and "Celestial Radiance" because the mind of one who attains the Dao is boundless, growing brighter with time—hence "Preserved Radiance." Meanwhile, the virtue of such a person is tranquil and spontaneous, radiating light naturally—hence "Celestial Radiance." "Preserved" emphasizes enduring renewal, while "Celestial" highlights innate nature.

Long ago, Emperor Yao asked Shun: "I wish to conquer the three petty states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu'ao. Though I sit on the throne, my mind is unsettled—why is this?" Shun replied: "The rulers of these states are like men dwelling in thickets of weeds. Why should their existence trouble you? When ten suns once shone simultaneously, all things endured their light—how much more should they endure your virtue, which surpasses even the sun?" The sage is selfless and impartial; all things submit naturally. Only when there is defiance must punitive action be taken. This is why Laozi speaks of "words on the use of arms" and Zhuangzi recounts Yao's conquest of the three states. The selfless one coexists equally with all things. If things cannot harmonize with oneself, how can the sage's mind remain at peace? This is why Emperor Yao, though seated in power, found no tranquility.

Nie Que (symbolizing the incompleteness of the Dao) asked Wang Ni (symbolizing its origin): "Do you know the common standard of all things?" Wang Ni replied: "How could I know?" Nie Que pressed: "Do you know what you do not know?" Again, Wang Ni said: "How could I know?" Nie Que asked once more: "Then are all things unknowable?" Wang Ni answered: "How could I know? But let me try to explain: How do I know that what I call knowing is not ignorance? How do I know that what I call ignorance is not true knowledge?" Zhuangzi employs this dialogue between fictional characters to illustrate the Dao's wholeness and incompleteness, its roots and branches. The question about the "common standard of all things" seeks to clarify the principle of the unity of all things, serving as the entry point for discussion.

This passage expounds the Daoist perspective on the relativity of cognition and truth. It begins by noting that using language to articulate the Dao (the Way) is merely a reluctant compromise—all things share the same origin, and true wisdom lies not in the deliberate pursuit of knowledge but in preserving one's natural and authentic state. The text cites the example of Nie Que (a legendary sage from Emperor Yao's era) questioning a wise man, illustrating how forced intellectual inquiry may obscure genuine understanding.

Three vivid analogies then demonstrate the relativity of truth: Humans develop backaches from sleeping in damp places, yet loaches thrive there; people fear living in trees, while gibbons feel perfectly at home; humans relish the taste of beef, mutton, and pork, whereas elk prefer grass, centipedes enjoy snakes, and owls delight in mice. These examples reveal how different creatures hold entirely distinct standards for "ideal habitats" and "true delicacies." Similarly, gibbons find female gibbons beautiful, elk are attracted to their own kind, fish dive deep at the sight of human beauties, birds soar away, and deer flee—proving there exists no universal standard for "true beauty."

Authentic "suitability" requires no forced pursuit, genuine "flavor" needs no deliberate tasting, and real "beauty" demands no artificial judgment—all should follow natural spontaneity. From the perspective of the Dao, the standards of benevolence and righteousness, the boundaries between right and wrong, all become indistinct and chaotic. When the great Dao remains whole, there's no need for benevolence and righteousness; only when great wisdom fades do debates over right and wrong emerge.

Nie Que asks: "You show no concern for gain and loss—do those who have attained the Dao truly disregard such matters?" Wang Ni replies: Those who embody the Dao reach such sublime spiritual heights that great fires cannot burn them, frozen rivers cannot chill them, and thunderclaps cannot startle them. Such beings ride clouds and harness the moon, roaming beyond the Four Seas—even life and death cannot affect them, let alone trivial gains and losses.

True Dao adepts dissolve their ego to merge completely with all existence. Thus, neither water nor fire can harm them; neither cold nor heat can influence them; neither wind nor thunder can shake them. Transcending the limitations of physical form, they navigate the transformations of Yin-Yang while steadfastly maintaining their original mind—no joy or sorrow can disturb their equanimity. Hence the saying "great fires cannot burn them, frozen rivers cannot chill them" precisely describes their supreme state of unity with the Dao.

This passage elucidates the realm and worldly attitude of Daoist sages.

It first describes the transcendent state of sages: unaffected by heat or cold, unshaken by thunder or tempests. Such individuals can ride clouds and harness the moon, wandering beyond the four seas. Neither life nor death can alter their mental state—how much less could worldly gains and losses disturb them?

Qu Quezi consulted Chang Wuzi, recounting Confucius' description of sages: Sages neither entangle themselves in mundane affairs nor chase after profit; they neither avoid calamity nor deliberately pursue anything, nor are they constrained by the Dao (the Way). Their speech seems to say nothing yet conveys meaning; their silence appears empty yet communicates. They transcend the dusty world. Chang Wuzi considered this realm so profound that even the Yellow Emperor would find it hard to comprehend—how could Confucius fully grasp it? He illustrated this with metaphors: It's like seeing an egg and immediately expecting a rooster to crow at dawn, or spotting a slingshot and already imagining roasted fowl—such expectations are premature.

The text then elaborates on the sage's characteristics: united with the Dao, serene and practicing wuwei (non-action), their actions don't enslave external things, their dwelling doesn't avoid misfortune. All things exist within their hearts, requiring no external seeking. They can transform "nothingness" into "being" and "being" into "nothingness," abiding in utmost purity and clarity, untainted by defilement.

"Beside the sun and moon" signifies transcending temporal concepts, while "embracing the universe" means breaking spatial boundaries. Ordinary people are driven busily by external things (yiyi), whereas sages forget themselves completely, merging with all creation (yuchun).

Finally, the story of Lady Li illustrates the perspective on life and death: When first captured, she wept bitterly, but later enjoying wealth and honor, she regretted her initial tears. The author rhetorically asks: How do we know clinging to life isn't delusion? How do we know fearing death isn't like a lost child who doesn't know the way home? This implies life and death are natural processes not worth excessive attachment.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·Discussion on Making All Things Equal, exploring philosophical reflections on dreams and reality. Zhuangzi uses dreams as a metaphor to illustrate how people often struggle to distinguish between the real and the illusory.

When one drinks wine in a dream, they may wake up weeping; when one weeps in a dream, they may wake up and go hunting. While dreaming, one does not know they are dreaming—they may even interpret the dream within the dream, only realizing it was a dream upon waking. Only those who are truly and thoroughly awakened understand that life itself is like a grand dream. Yet foolish people always believe themselves to be awake, privately convinced of their own clarity. In truth, so-called noble men, common folk (the "herdsmen"), Confucius (Qiu), you, and I—we are all living in a dream. When I say you are dreaming, I too am dreaming.

This passage is called a "paradox" (seemingly contradictory yet profoundly meaningful). If, ten thousand generations from now, one encounters a true sage who comprehends its essence, it would be as if meeting them in the morning or evening. Suppose you and I debate—if you win, it does not necessarily mean you are right; if I win, it does not necessarily mean I am right. Neither of us can truly understand the other, for all people dwell in obscurity—who, then, should judge right and wrong? Should it be someone who agrees with you? But if they already agree with you, how can they judge fairly? Should it be someone who agrees with me? But if they already agree with me, how can they judge fairly?

What is called the "Heavenly Equality" (Tian Ni, the natural balance) transcends distinctions of right and wrong. If what is "right" is truly right, then it naturally differs from what is "not right," and there is no need for debate. If what is "so" is truly so, then it naturally differs from what is "not so," and there is no need for debate. The transformations of sound depend on one another, yet seem not to—they must be harmonized by the Heavenly Equality, following their natural course. Only then can one live out their days in peace.

Finally, Zhuangzi employs the fable of "Penumbra questioning the Shadow": Why do you sometimes move and sometimes stop, sometimes sit and sometimes rise—so lacking in independence? The shadow replies: I am this way because I depend on something else, and what I depend on in turn depends on something else. I am like the shed skin of a snake’s belly or the wings of a cicada—how can I know why it is this way? How can I know why it is not? This is like when Zhuang Zhou once dreamed he was a butterfly—upon waking, he did not know whether it was Zhuang Zhou dreaming of the butterfly or the butterfly dreaming of Zhuang Zhou.

In the "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" (Qiwulun), Zhuangzi recounts his famous butterfly dream: he dreamed of transforming into a butterfly, fluttering joyfully without any awareness of being Zhuang Zhou. Upon waking, he became uncertain whether he was Zhuang Zhou dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuang Zhou. This illustrates how all things fundamentally lack absolute boundaries—a state called "transformation of things" (wuhua), where all beings interconvert.

The core philosophy of the entire "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" lies in dissolving dualities: initially addressing distinctions between self/other, right/wrong, success/failure, more/less, and big/small; then at its highest level, equating temporal duration, the boundary between life and death, and the divide between dream and reality as one integrated whole. This represents truly unobstructed wisdom.

While the natural world manifests endless diversity, Zhuangzi penetrates to the essential unity beneath appearances—an awakening most cannot attain. Recognizing the unity of objective phenomena is relatively easier, but equating dream and reality proves far more challenging. Though daytime wakefulness and nighttime dreams seem distinct, prolonged contemplation reveals their fundamental indistinguishability. Zhuangzi grasps this essential sameness, repeatedly employing metaphors of dreaming, dream interpretation, great awakening, and the grand dream to elucidate it.

Ultimately, fearing ordinary people might struggle to comprehend, he uses his butterfly parable for clarification: the inability to distinguish whether Zhuang Zhou dreamed the butterfly or vice versa serves to thoroughly express the doctrine of "the equality of all things" (qi wu). Such transcendent understanding can only be fully appreciated by those who have attained true panoramic vision.