《南華真經新傳》Vol. 3

This passage explores the core philosophy of the Zhuangzi chapter "Essentials for Nurturing Life" through Wang Yuanze's commentary, elucidating the proper way to cultivate vitality. The central tenet is that those who truly understand life-nurturing do not obsess over external matters, but instead harmonize with nature while maintaining inner tranquility.

The text begins by noting that to achieve the state of "equalizing all things" (eliminating discriminatory perceptions), one must relinquish ego-attachment. By releasing the self, one ceases to cling to life itself. Paradoxically, it is precisely this non-attachment to life that enables genuine life cultivation. Zhuangzi placed "Essentials for Nurturing Life" after the chapter "On the Equality of Things" precisely to illustrate this principle.

The commentary then explains the famous line "Our life has limits, but knowledge is limitless": Human existence is finite, yet desires and intellectual pursuits are boundless. When limited lifespan chases infinite knowledge and cravings, suffering inevitably follows. Life itself is bestowed by heaven and earth as harmonious Qi (vital energy), possessing natural boundaries—transgressing these through excessive striving harms vitality.

Regarding the life-nurturing principle of "doing good without approaching fame, doing bad without approaching punishment": Those truly skilled in cultivation attain ultimate inner equilibrium, following nature's flow without artificially distinguishing good from evil, thus remaining free from the burdens of reputation or penalty. The unskillful, by contrast, become entangled in overthinking and rigid moral dichotomies, trapped by concerns of praise and blame. "Following the central axis as one's constant" means maintaining the Middle Way. The perfected person's life-nurturing involves four negations: not being driven by external things, not losing innate nature, not being fastidious about circumstances, and not harming heavenly endowment—only thus can one preserve life, serve parents, and fulfill one's natural lifespan.

Finally, the butcher Ding parable illustrates: His blade moves with cloudlike fluidity, matching musical rhythms and dance steps, because he pursues the Dao rather than mere technique. Initially he saw whole oxen; after three years he perceived skeletal structures; now his spirit comprehends beyond visual perception. This metaphor shows that life-nurturing too must follow natural patterns, grasping the inner workings of phenomena to achieve effortless mastery.

This passage uses the story of Cook Ding carving an ox to illustrate the core principles of Daoist health cultivation. When Cook Ding first began butchering oxen, he saw the whole animal before him. After three years, he no longer saw the complete ox but instead perceived its anatomical structure through his spirit (Shen). Now when he carves, his blade follows the ox's natural grain, gliding through the spaces between bones and tendons without touching tangled sinews, let alone major bones.

A good cook changes his knife yearly, an average cook monthly—yet Cook Ding's blade has served nineteen years, carving thousands of oxen while remaining as sharp as newly honed. This is because the blade's edge is exquisitely thin, and there's always space between joints, allowing it to move with effortless ease. Still, whenever encountering complex bone structures, he proceeds with special caution, slowing his movements and applying gentle pressure until the ox naturally separates. When finished, he stands with knife in hand, surveys his work with deep satisfaction, then cleans and stores the blade properly.

Lord Wenhui, upon hearing this, realized: The Dao of health cultivation resembles Cook Ding's knife-work—one must follow natural patterns. Life possesses inherent principles rooted in the foundation of our innate nature (Xing) and vital force (Ming). By aligning with these principles, one comprehends the mystery of preserving life. Cook Ding spent three years reaching the state of "not seeing the whole ox," then nineteen more maintaining his blade's sharpness—demonstrating that though Yin-Yang transformations never cease, harmonizing with their rhythms makes life more complete. The phrase "skillfully maintaining and storing the knife" suggests we should nurture life as carefully as maintaining tools, avoiding unnecessary depletion.

The subsequent dialogue between Gongwen Xuan and the one-legged Right Master (who suffered penal amputation) further illustrates how physical form is Heaven-given—we must accept our natural, authentic state. Though the Right Master lost a limb, this was Heaven's decree rather than human fault. This example reinforces that health cultivation means following one's inherent nature and preserving life's wholeness, as Laozi's saying "return whole to the source" suggests. Through Cook Ding's ox-carving, Lord Wenhui grasped this profound health wisdom that approaches the Great Dao itself.

Life is the root, while the physical form is merely branches and leaves. When the root is firm yet the branches are damaged, it can still be considered whole. Just as the Right Minister (a title) lived on despite having only one foot, this demonstrates the preservation of innate nature. When Gongwen Xuan (a person) first saw him and was shocked by his physical deformity, it showed his lack of understanding of life's essence.

The pheasant in the wild marsh takes ten steps to peck once for food and a hundred steps to drink once—it does not seek to be caged. Though captivity may appear comfortable, it harms one's innate nature. The pheasant foraging freely in nature forgets its physical form and enjoys life; when confined in a cage, though its body may thrive, it loses the authenticity of life. Losing this authenticity inevitably leads to distress—thus, captivity is not beneficial.

When Laozi (Lao Dan) passed away, Qin Shi (a person) went to mourn him but only wept three times before leaving. A disciple asked, "Was he not your friend?" Qin Shi replied, "He was." "Then is this manner of mourning appropriate?" Qin Shi answered, "I originally thought he was a man who had attained the Dao (the Way), but now I see he was not. Earlier, I saw elders weeping as if they had lost a son and youths crying as if they had lost a mother. These people must have gone against nature, forcing their grief and forgetting life's inherent principles. The ancients called such behavior 'punishment for defying heavenly order.'"

Those who attain the Dao regard life as a temporary stay and death as a temporary departure. They neither rejoice at birth nor grieve at death. Qin Shi wept only three times for Laozi's passing—not to mourn his departure but because he could not entirely stand apart from convention.

Life's arrival follows the timing of heaven, and its departure follows natural law. Those who truly attain the Dao forget worldly emotions, preserve their true nature, and remain transcendent, untouched by life and death, gain and loss. Thus, when life comes, they accept it in accordance with heaven's timing; when it departs, they let it go with ease. Neither delighting in life nor sorrowing over death, they ensure life continues unbroken without losing its essence.

Those at peace with heaven's timing and in harmony with nature remain undisturbed by joy or sorrow. The ancients called this state "release from heaven's bonds." Heavenly decree cannot be escaped by human effort—defying it brings suffering to life, which is "punishment for defying heavenly order." But those freed from fate's constraints remain unburdened by sorrow—this is "release from heaven's bonds." Those who understand the art of nurturing life must grasp the profundity of these two truths.

Just as firewood burns away while the flame passes on eternally, so too does life: the physical form perishes, but the true nature of life endures forever.

This passage explores Zhuangzi's wisdom on nurturing life (yangsheng), illustrated through the dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius regarding worldly engagement.

Just as a fire persists when continuously fed with firewood, life endures when one understands the Dao of nurturing it. The flame doesn't extinguish because of sustained transmission; longevity arises from proper cultivation. Hence, life knows no true ending. Zhuangzi's discourse on life-nurturing begins with finite existence yet ultimately attains infinity—this occurs when one comprehends the predetermined nature of xing (inner nature) and ming (life destiny), remaining unswayed by honor, disgrace, profit, or harm. Thus life isn't lost but achieves permanence—a realm beyond ordinary understanding.

Those truly skilled in nurturing life find spontaneous joy in matters of xingming, practicing wuwei (non-action) and thought-free awareness. Such practitioners respond serenely to worldly changes, undisturbed by worries. This explains why Zhuangzi transitions to discussing life-nurturing in his chapter "The Human World."

When Yan Hui bid farewell to Confucius to visit the state of Wei, Confucius inquired about his motive. Yan Hui described the young Wei ruler as arrogant and autocratic, recklessly exhausting state resources while remaining oblivious—his people perished like withered grass across the land. Hoping to heal Wei with his teacher's teachings, Yan Hui received Confucius' warning that such direct approach might lead to punishment.

Worldly affairs transform unpredictably; only those thoroughly understanding human affairs can navigate them. Such enlightened individuals inherently embody "no-self"—without ego, they become thought-free and actionless, remaining untouched by misfortune. Confucius exemplified this no-self state, facing the world's gravest upheavals with unshaken composure. Yan Hui, still at the stage of restraining self (keji, Confucian self-discipline), couldn't resist admonishing the tyrant—nearly falling into peril. Confucius' no-self enabled wuwei; Yan Hui's self-restraint prompted conscious action. The progression from deliberate thought to thoughtlessness, from purposeful action to non-action, represents Yan Hui's ultimate attainment of "never having existed as Hui"—the state of self-forgetting. To forget self is to realize no-self.

(Note: "No-self" (wuwo) is a key Daoist concept denoting transcendence of personal attachments and discriminative mind; "self-restraint" (keji) refers to Confucian self-cultivation; "never having existed as Hui" describes the state of self-oblivion.)

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "embracing unity and maintaining centeredness" (抱一守中). Zhuangzi teaches that the Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe) abhors fragmentation - when things become scattered, they create disturbances that ultimately lead to inescapable anxieties. Those who truly comprehend the Dao should maintain inner emptiness and stillness, focusing single-mindedly on the fundamental "One," thereby becoming exemplars for all under heaven.

Failure to maintain this focused unity results in fragmented thoughts and various delusions. A disordered mind cannot achieve tranquility, inevitably sinking into worry. If one cannot free themselves from afflictions, how could they possibly help others? These troubles all stem from excessive deliberation and forced action.

The perfected beings (至人) of ancient times who attained the Dao always cultivated themselves first before influencing others. If one hasn't perfected their own cultivation, how could they have the capacity to correct the behavior of tyrants? It's crucial to understand that moral corruption often originates from the pursuit of fame, while the misuse of wisdom frequently provokes contention. Reputation makes people undermine each other, and cleverness becomes a tool for conflict - both are dangerous instruments.

The reason sages transcend worldly concerns is precisely because they don't chase fame, thus governing through wuwei (non-action); they don't flaunt cleverness, thus avoiding contention. Through non-action, all things naturally align; through non-contention, no one can contend with them. Ordinary people, obsessed with fame and profit while playing with schemes, only invite more opposition.

The text further warns that attempting to admonish a tyrant with rigid standards of benevolence and righteousness before truly understanding human affairs is like flaunting one's virtues before others - it invites disaster. Such behavior resembles pouring oil on flames, only intensifying conflict. Ultimately, one might meet a tragic end before the tyrant due to lack of trust.

This scripture primarily discusses the perils of pursuing fame and material gain, as well as how sages transcend these worldly attachments.

Those whose vision is obscured are people with clouded sight; those whose countenance is disturbed wear expressions of agitation; those whose mouths are busy justifying themselves are skilled in sophistry; those who deliberately adorn their appearance seek to please others through looks; those whose hearts are driven by external things are enslaved by material desires. All these stem from failing to maintain one's original mind.

In ancient times, the tyrant Jie executed Guan Longfeng, and King Zhou killed Bi Gan—both instances where virtuous ministers who cultivated themselves offended despotic rulers. The rulers then persecuted them under the pretext of their self-cultivation, all calamities arising from the pursuit of fame. Emperor Yao attacked the states of Congzhi and Xuao, while Yu waged war against Youhu, leading to their destruction and the slaughter of their people. Their incessant military campaigns and insatiable greed were all driven by the pursuit of fame and profit.

Fame and material gain are illusory—why would sages deliberately seek them? Therefore, sages maintain stillness and wuwei (non-action), leaving no trace of their deeds or reputation, so misfortune cannot find them. This is how Yao and Yu were able to govern the world. Ignorant people fail to understand this principle, obsessively chasing fame and profit. Though they may attain them, calamity follows closely. This is why states like Congzhi, Xuao, and Youhu brought about their own destruction.

The reason sages can forget fame and profit is that they have reached the state of "no-self," where nothing in the world can burden them. If sages became attached to fame and profit, they would fall into the realm of "selfhood" and be weighed down by worldly things. Thus, even sages find it difficult to completely transcend fame and profit—how much more so ordinary people?

Yan Hui asked: "What if one maintains uprightness and emptiness, striving with single-minded focus—would this suffice?" The answer was: "No!" Because this forced attempt at rectitude, though outwardly solemn and dignified, still involves the mind calculating gains and losses. It creates a division between inner and outer, failing to achieve true unity. Such superficial cultivation doesn't even qualify as minor De (Virtue), let alone great De. Clinging stubbornly to one's views without understanding flexibility, outwardly complying while inwardly resisting—how could this possibly work?

This passage explores the philosophical tension between "having a body" and "selflessness." Laozi once said, "My greatest suffering comes from having a body," while Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) had not yet reached the state of forgetting the self. Confucius advised him: "Being inwardly upright and walking with Heaven's Dao (neizhi), outwardly compliant while interacting with people (waiqu), and emulating the ancients to elevate oneself (cheng er shangbi)"—yet these three approaches still fell short.

An inwardly upright person regards both themselves and the Son of Heaven as children of Heaven, indifferent to others' praise, maintaining childlike purity. An outwardly compliant person follows worldly rituals, mirroring others' actions to avoid criticism. One who emulates the ancients cites classical teachings to admonish, recognizing these truths as timeless rather than self-invented, so even mistaken words bear no blame.

Yet Confucius pointed out these methods remain deliberate efforts ("shixin")—like teaching others with preconceptions. A perfected person (zhiren) has attained the state of "no self outwardly and no mind inwardly," merging body and spirit with the Great Void (cosmic origin), free from attachment, thus naturally transforming all things. Yan Hui sought to use these methods to influence the ruler of Wei, revealing his lingering attachments, prompting Confucius to call him "one who still clings to preconceptions."

Finally, Yan Hui confessed he could conceive no better approach. Confucius instructed him to first undertake fasting (a Daoist purification ritual preceding cultivation, abstaining from alcohol and meat), for acting with preconceptions guarantees failure. Yan Hui replied that his family's poverty had already kept him from wine and meat for months, implying he was already in a fasting-like state.

This dialogue recounts how Yan Hui sought Confucius' guidance on the practice of "heart-mind fasting" (xinzai, spiritual purification). Confucius explained that ordinary fasting is merely a ritual form for sacrifices, while true heart-mind fasting requires achieving a state of spiritual purity.

First, one must concentrate their awareness—not listening with the ears, but perceiving with the heart-mind. Going further, one must transcend even the heart-mind and perceive through Qi (vital energy). The hearing of the ears is limited, and the perception of the heart-mind is only superficial. When awareness becomes unified, the heart-mind becomes as clear as a mirror, thoughts settle into stillness, and one naturally comprehends the Dao. This understanding is not knowledge acquired from the external world but an inner awakening.

When this state of emptiness is attained, the Dao naturally gathers within the heart-mind. At this stage, one not only grasps the truth themselves but can also transmit this realization to others. However, to reach this state, one must not pursue it through emotional striving; first, hearing and perception must be purified.

After hearing this, Yan Hui admitted he had not yet truly attained such a state. Confucius told him that the essence of heart-mind fasting lies in "emptiness" (xu). By maintaining a state of unified stillness, one can respond to all changes; by preserving tranquility, one can master all transformations. The foundation of heart-mind fasting is "no-self" (transcending self-awareness), and after Yan Hui grasped this, he even forgot his own existence. This selfless state is precisely the condition necessary for governing worldly affairs.

Finally, Confucius said that those who reach this supreme state of emptiness can transcend fame and profit even while living in the world. Like a bell, they resonate when struck but remain silent when untouched. This serene and detached state is true transcendence.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist mental cultivation and self-nurturing.

Just as a flute (human pipes) requires breath to produce sound—ceasing when the breath stops—so too does the human mind: it responds to external stimuli but remains tranquil in their absence. True cultivation requires achieving "no gateway, no poison": the "no gateway" refers to skillfully closing the senses (excellent closure), while "no poison" means not deliberately controlling (non-governance). Skillful closure allows concealment of function, and non-governance reveals benevolent De (Virtue)—both manifestations of following nature's course.

When one achieves complete emptiness and stillness, maintaining a state of pure unity without actively pursuing external things—responding only when necessary—one approaches the Dao. This is the realm of "dwelling in unity while abiding in inevitability."

The text contrasts several concepts: complete withdrawal from society (vanishing all traces) is easy, but moving through the world without leaving traces (walking without treading ground) is difficult; being driven by others allows for pretense, but being driven by innate nature makes pretense impossible. It's like having seen birds that fly with wings but never those that fly wingless; having encountered knowledgeable people but never those who know without knowledge.

When the mind becomes as empty and still as an unoccupied room (empty chamber generates brightness), illumination naturally arises, and auspiciousness comes to rest (auspiciousness settles upon settling). If the mind cannot achieve this emptiness, even while sitting motionless, thoughts race about (sitting while racing). Only by transcending sensory perceptions and mental discriminations, reaching the state where self and objects are both forgotten, can one merge with the Dao—then even ghosts and spirits will come to dwell, let alone humans.

All this illustrates that the key to cultivating the Dao lies in maintaining emptiness and naturalness, avoiding deliberate action, and allowing everything to unfold according to innate nature.

This scripture conveys two main teachings: the realm of Dao cultivation and the wisdom for worldly engagement.

First, it discusses the realm of Dao cultivation: When one withdraws the outward pursuit of sensory perceptions through eyes and ears, turning inward for contemplation while relinquishing intellectual discrimination and attachment, even spirits and deities will come to abide with them—how much more so ordinary people? This reveals the fundamental principle of all things' transformation and growth, the governing secret employed by Emperor Yu and Emperor Shun, and the lifelong practice followed by ancient sage-kings like Fuxi. When human body and mind unite with the supremely empty and quiescent Dao, one naturally aligns with the spontaneous changes of all things. Yu and Shun represent the governance through purposeful action (youwei), while Fuxi and Ji Qu (an ancient worthy) embody the supreme state of non-action (wuwei)—both being wondrous manifestations of the Dao's function.

Next, it illustrates worldly wisdom through the story of Duke Ye Zigao's diplomatic mission to Qi: Troubled by the mission's heavy responsibility, Duke Ye consulted Confucius, who advised that all matters—great or small—require following their natural course for fulfillment. Forcing outcomes leads either to physical and mental depletion (the hazard of Yin-Yang imbalance upon success) or social condemnation (the hazard of human censure upon failure). Only those with profound virtue (De) can transcend success and failure. Confucius confessed that while he normally maintained simple meals and a cool mind, accepting this mission made him feel as agitated as someone needing ice water to cool down—demonstrating how striving for achievement disrupts mind-body harmony.

The conclusion presents the way of worldly engagement: First relinquish personal gain and loss (forgetting the self), then trust heaven's arrangement (believing in destiny). Upon reaching selflessness, one naturally flows with spontaneity, unperturbed by worries. In the "Human World" chapter, Zhuangzi first recounts Yan Hui's story about transforming the ruler of Wei, then presents Duke Ye's mission—using the worthy's example (Duke Ye) to illustrate worldly wisdom one level below the sage's (Yan Hui) attainment.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principles governing human society. Confucius stated there are two supreme guidelines in the world: one is heavenly mandate (predestined relationships), the other is moral duty (social norms). A child's love for parents belongs to heavenly mandate—this innate affection rooted in one's heart cannot be severed; a subject's responsibility toward the ruler constitutes moral duty, an obligation from which nowhere under heaven offers escape. These are what we call the "Great Precepts."

After heaven and earth took form, the parent-child relationship emerged, and from this relationship derived the ruler-subject dynamic. The way of parents and children pertains to intrinsic blood ties, sustained by heavenly mandate; the way of rulers and ministers belongs to external ethical bonds, upheld by moral duty. Heavenly mandate eternally connects us with our parents, while moral duty establishes our position in society. Parental affection cannot be defied—hence it's said "cannot be unraveled from the heart"; sovereign authority cannot be evaded—thus we say "nowhere exists without one's lord."

The truly filial can put their parents at ease in any circumstance—this represents the highest realm of filial piety. The genuinely loyal can face all governmental affairs with equanimity—this embodies the ultimate expression of loyalty. Not being particular about circumstances while maintaining one's duty is called "being at peace with the land"; not shirking difficult tasks is termed "not refusing hardship." Achieving these naturally manifests sincere filial devotion and loyal righteousness.

Those who cultivate inner refinement never let emotions like joy or anger cloud their judgment. When recognizing certain matters cannot be changed, they accept them serenely as they would heavenly mandate—this constitutes the highest virtue. Whether serving parents as children or rulers as subjects, one must comprehend the heavenly mandate and moral duty therein, preserving inner steadfastness while acting in accordance with natural flow. Thus one remains unperturbed by fluctuating emotions.

(Note: Figures mentioned like Yan He, Carpenter Shi, and Ziqi are allegorical characters from the Zhuangzi illustrating worldly principles. The "Great Precepts" refer to life's fundamental rules as binding as religious commandments.)

This scripture primarily discusses the cultivation of inner virtue, perspectives on life and death, and principles of human interaction.

Regarding inner cultivation: Those who truly understand self-cultivation are not easily swayed by external joys and angers. Human emotions are not inherently part of one's inner being—they arise only through external influences. By maintaining one's fundamental heart-mind and remaining undisturbed by these emotions, one can reach the highest state of "righteous destiny" (the harmony of virtue and fate), facing life and death with equanimity. This represents the pinnacle of De (Virtue/Power).

On the way of ruler and subject: As ministers or children, there are matters one cannot avoid undertaking. By accepting Heaven's decree with composure, one forgets personal safety, and matters of life and death cease to burden the heart. How then could there be leisure for clinging to life and fearing death?

Concerning human relationships: In interactions, deal with those nearby through sincerity, and communicate with those afar through words. Yet conveying messages about joy and anger proves most difficult because:

• Spontaneous expressions of joy and anger often remain sincere and measured
• Deliberate displays of emotion frequently become exaggerated and false
• Transmitting exaggerated words easily invites misfortune

Thus the ancient teaching says: convey only the truth of matters, never their exaggerations.

The text provides two examples illustrating how excess distorts all things:

1. Contests of cleverness and strength begin honorably but often degenerate into covert schemes

2. Ritual drinking starts orderly but commonly descends into chaos

These represent the consequences of overdevelopment, which sages consciously avoid.

The conclusion observes: All matters follow this pattern—beginning in simplicity and honesty, ending in coarseness. Words resemble wind and waves that easily unsettle hearts, while actions readily create actual harm. Hence Confucius said, "I wish to remain silent"—could the sage have desired forced speech? Truly, he sought to preserve stillness.

When speaking, if the mind remains undisturbed by external things, words will naturally respond to circumstances. But once there is response, the mind loses its tranquility. Thus speech is like wind and waves - when still, no traces appear; when moving, traces become visible. The more pronounced these external traces grow, the more the inner true nature diminishes. Therefore action leads to the loss of authenticity.

When the mind lacks tranquility, agitation arises; when true nature is lost, stability becomes difficult. Thus wind and waves easily stir restlessness, and the loss of authenticity brings danger.

When people become angry, it often happens without clear reason. Flowery words and biased arguments resemble the chaotic cries of a dying beast - when Qi becomes disordered, malicious thoughts arise in the heart. Maintaining inner stillness and non-interference allows harmonious Qi to accumulate within, naturally preserving clear Shen (spirit) at night, comprehending the principles of nature and life, with every movement and stillness following the proper path. But when entangled in troubles and worries, one's innate nature becomes disordered, unable to preserve clear Shen at night, violating the principles of life, leading to erratic behavior. Thus when a beast nears death, its cries become chaotic, Qi becomes disordered, and malicious thoughts emerge.

Excessive demands create harmful mental states, yet people often don't understand why. If the cause remains unknown, how can one foresee the consequences? Those who attain the Dao conceal their nature, restrain their cleverness, practicing Wuwei (non-action) yet accomplishing naturally, not forcing responses yet responding appropriately. In stillness, they unite with all things; in motion, they meet with good fortune. Those who flaunt intelligence, scrutinize excessively, and overexert their minds will find their actions adversely affected - misfortune arrives without warning, its final outcome unknowable. Thus excessive demands create harmful mental states without apparent cause, and without knowing the cause, how can one predict the result?

Therefore the ancients said: Do not alter commands, do not force success - excess brings harm. The way of ministers lies in contemplating righteousness. When fulfilling a ruler's command, do not change it arbitrarily; when correcting a ruler's faults, do not insist on success. Neither altering commands nor forcing success, yet violating natural principles to please superiors is like pulling up seedlings to help them grow - harmful indeed. Thus excess brings harm.

Altering commands and forcing success ruin affairs. Beautiful achievements require long accumulation, but once harm manifests, it's too late to change - how can one not be cautious? Beauty springs from inner fulfillment; harm arises from self-injury. Whether fulfillment or injury, both follow their own natural course.

This passage from the New Commentary on the Nanhua True Scripture conveys two main teachings:

The first section discusses the state of Dao cultivation. Those who have truly attained the Dao (zhiren, perfected persons) possess no clinging mind, instead harmonizing with the natural flow of all things. They roam freely as if riding upon the transformations of phenomena, their inner selves unshackled by external attachments. When encountering situations requiring response, they maintain the balanced Dao of centrality—neither forcing outcomes nor deliberately avoiding engagement. This state of "riding phenomena while wandering with the heart-mind" (chengwu youxin) represents the highest spiritual attainment. As Confucius instructed Zigao, when ministers achieve this state, they fully embody the Heavenly Dao.

The second section recounts the story of Yan He consulting Qu Boyu about educating the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei. The prince possessed a violent nature—allowing his misconduct would endanger the state, yet restraining him too severely would risk the advisor's safety. Qu Boyu's advice emphasized first rectifying oneself (zheng rushen), for only through upright conduct can one influence others. Practically, he recommended outwardly drawing close to the prince (xing mo ruo jiu) while inwardly maintaining equanimity (xin mo ruo he). However, both approaches carried risks: proximity must avoid complicity in wrongdoing, and harmony must conceal no ulterior motives.

The concept of "nourishing centrality" (yang zhong) mentioned here represents essential Daoist cultivation—maintaining inner equilibrium. "Riding phenomena while wandering with the heart-mind" describes the transcendent freedom of Dao-realized beings. Qu Boyu's wisdom exemplifies the Daoist principle of "square within, round without"—holding firm to the Dao internally while adapting flexibly in external expression.

Our physical form is the material vessel bestowed by heaven, while the mind is the true sovereign of a person. Since the body is a gift from heaven, it must be kept whole and unharmed; as the ruler of our being, the mind must be maintained in harmonious tranquility. Those with intact bodies will not be distorted by external things, and those with harmonious minds will not casually express their emotions. Therefore, in dealing with others, maintain an appropriate distance—keep the heart peaceful yet not easily revealed.

If the body excessively conforms to external things, it will lead to collapse and ruin; if inner emotions are recklessly vented, it will invite disgrace and calamity. When encountering someone as pure as an infant, interact with them as you would with a child; when facing those without restraint, adapt to their free-spiritedness; when meeting the unrestrained, respond in kind. Only then can one reach a state of perfect harmony. True gentlemen appear easygoing on the outside but uphold inner integrity, never deliberately seeking novelty. They adapt to the changes of circumstance, harmonizing with all things, embodying the Dao without being bogged down by trivialities, and regard flawlessness as the highest pursuit.

Have you not seen the praying mantis? It angrily raises its forearms to block a chariot wheel, unaware of its own limitations. This is because it overestimates its own ability. Beware! When a person grows overly self-confident, they risk danger just like the mantis. Do you know how tiger keepers operate? They dare not feed live prey to tigers, fearing it would awaken their killing instinct; nor do they offer whole animals, lest it provoke their savage urge to tear and bite. They carefully time the tiger’s hunger and fullness, guiding its ferocity. Though tigers are of a different kind from humans, they will still fawn on their keepers—because the keepers understand how to follow their nature. Those harmed by tigers are always those who defy their innate tendencies.

The mantis blocking the chariot, though talented, cannot overcome a stronger opponent; the tiger refrains from harming its keeper—though fierce by nature, it does not defy those who treat it well. When Yan He was instructing the crown prince of Wei, was not the prince’s behavior just like the mantis and the tiger? This is the lesson Qu Boyu sought to impart.

Horse lovers use bamboo baskets to collect manure and seashells to hold urine. But if a gadfly happens to bite and the groom suddenly slaps it, the startled horse may snap its bit or break its head against the yoke. Such well-intentioned actions can backfire—how can one not be cautious? The benevolent cherish all things but never lose measure in their affection. When things deviate from their natural course, guide them back to the right path—yet never forget the original heart of care.

This passage recounts a parable from Zhuangzi illustrating the concept of "the usefulness of the useless."

The story tells of a master carpenter named Shi who traveled to the state of Qi. In the region of Quyuan, he came across a massive oak tree worshipped as the shrine of the earth god. The tree was enormous—its shade could shelter a thousand oxen, its trunk required a hundred men to encircle, its crown towered above the mountain peaks, and its branches were thick enough to build over a dozen boats. Crowds gathered around it as if at a marketplace. Yet, the carpenter walked past without a glance. His apprentices, however, marveled at the tree before catching up to ask, "We’ve followed you with our axes for years, yet we’ve never seen timber this magnificent. Why did you ignore it?"

The carpenter replied, "Don’t mention it—this is a worthless tree. A boat made from it would sink, a coffin would rot quickly, tools would break, doorframes would ooze sap, and pillars would be riddled with insects. Precisely because it’s useless, it has lived so long."

That night, the oak appeared to the carpenter in a dream and said, "What are you comparing me to? If you pit me against 'useful' trees—hawthorns, pears, oranges, pomelos—their fruits are plucked and beaten, their large branches snapped, their small ones twisted. Their usefulness brings them suffering, cutting their lives short before their time. This is the cruelty of the world. Everything follows this pattern. I’ve long sought uselessness, narrowly escaping death several times, and now I’ve preserved myself—this is my greatest use. Had I been useful, could I have grown so vast?"

Upon waking, the carpenter shared the dream with his apprentices. One asked, "If it pursued uselessness, why serve as a shrine tree?" The carpenter said, "Hush! It merely borrows the shrine’s status to protect itself, enduring the scorn of those who don’t understand. Without this role, it would’ve been felled long ago. Its way of preserving life is unconventional—judging it by ordinary standards misses the mark entirely."

Zhuangzi concludes: All things flourish by following their nature and perish by opposing it. To follow nature is honor; to defy it is disgrace. Would that great oak of Qi seek honor by betraying its nature? This is why it disdained being a shrine tree.

This passage illustrates the Daoist wisdom of "the usefulness of the useless" through two allegorical stories.

Nanbo Ziqi observed a peculiar great tree in Shangqiu whose twisted branches couldn't serve as beams and whose split trunk was unfit for coffins, while its poisonous leaves could drive people mad. Ziqi marveled that precisely because it was "useless timber," the tree could grow so magnificently. This resembles the Daoist "divine person" (shenren) who preserves life precisely by appearing useless.

The text then contrasts this with trees from the Jing family's land in Song state: catalpas, cypresses and mulberries—valued for making monkey stakes, roof beams and coffins—were felled before reaching maturity. This demonstrates the calamity of being "useful timber."

True Daoist adepts (zhiren, perfected persons) preserve themselves without pursuing utility. Precisely by not seeking functionality, they safeguard their lives and manifest greater efficacy. Like the great tree that would suffer root damage if utilized, its very lack of usefulness allows luxuriant growth. This echoes Laozi's principle of "deep roots and firm foundation" concerning life preservation.

The passage concludes with three striking metaphors: the white-foreheaded ox, the high-nosed pig, and the hemorrhoid-afflicted man—all seemingly defective traits that ironically spared them from sacrificial slaughter. These demonstrate how apparently useless characteristics sometimes become the key to preserving life.

This passage illustrates the Daoist wisdom of "the usefulness of the useless" through vivid analogies and stories.

A man with hemorrhoids was forbidden from participating in riverside sacrifices, as priests deemed it inauspicious. Yet Zhuangzi observed that such seemingly unlucky traits might be the greatest blessing from the spirits. Just as white-foreheaded oxen and high-snouted pigs - seemingly defective animals - were spared from slaughter, so too might hemorrhoids, though appearing as flaws, actually preserve one's life and allow peaceful longevity, becoming the greatest fortune.

The story of Zhili Shu (a severely deformed man) demonstrates this principle even more vividly. With his chin buried in his navel and shoulders towering above his head, he nevertheless made a living mending clothes and supporting ten family members through divination. When conscription came, his deformity exempted him from military service, yet he received three measures of grain and ten bundles of firewood during relief distributions. Physical imperfection became his means of preserving life.

Zhuangzi further suggests that if bodily defects can bring such fortune, then "defective De (Virtue)" - meaning concealed talents - offers even greater security. Truly wise individuals hide their abilities, neither boasting nor competing for merit, thereby safeguarding their lives while avoiding worldly entanglements.

The song of Chu Kuang Jieyu (a Chu State hermit) to Confucius encapsulates the core message: "Phoenix, oh phoenix, why appear in this age of moral decline? The future offers no hope, the past cannot be reclaimed. When the Dao prevails in the world, sages accomplish great deeds; when the Dao is lost, sages can only preserve their lives. In times like these, avoiding punishment is fortune enough." This serves as a profound admonition to conceal one's talents and flow with the circumstances of the age.

The true sage advances with the times yet remains unbound by external things, thus nothing can harm him. Confucius never deliberately sought to govern worldly affairs—his propagation of doctrines was simply in accordance with the currents of his era. When circumstances were favorable, he achieved merit; when times were adverse, he preserved his life essence, living with unhindered freedom, neither consciously perceiving nor affected by the rise and fall of worldly fortunes—this is the mind of a sage.

The madman of Chu, Jieyu, sang verses embodying the sage's philosophy. Zhuangzi quoted them to summarize the art of navigating life while lamenting his own untimely birth. He observed that in this present age, merely escaping punishment could be considered fortunate. Happiness is light as a feather, yet none know how to bear it; calamity weighs heavy as the earth, yet none know how to avoid it. Zhuangzi's conception of fortune and misfortune differs from worldly understanding: preserving one's life essence constitutes fortune, while losing it means calamity. The method of preserving life is exceedingly subtle—hence "happiness light as a feather"—yet people fail to consciously practice even this most refined principle, hence "none know how to bear it." The principle of losing life is glaringly obvious—hence "calamity heavy as the earth"—yet people facing such evident danger remain oblivious, hence "none know how to avoid it." This is Zhuangzi mourning humanity's failure to comprehend the Dao of preserving life.

Alas! How perilous are those who impose moral standards upon others! It's like drawing lines on the ground demanding people tread precisely. Brambles and thorns, block not my path; I walk the winding deer trail, harm not my feet. Mountain trees invite the axe through their usefulness as timber; grease invites the flame through its combustibility; cassia trees are felled for their edible bark, lacquer trees tapped for their utility. All men know the usefulness of the useful, but none understand the marvel of the useless.

The cassia is edible and thus felled, the lacquer useful and thus tapped—this illustrates how minor talents cannot ensure self-preservation. As craftsmen say: "The calamity of material value." Who could know that sages regard "lack of talent" as divine and "uselessness" as profound mystery? To understand the principle of untapped potential and comprehend the wonder of uselessness—this represents the highest realization of life's art. Herein lies the meaning of Zhuangzi's concluding words.