《南華真經新傳》Vol. 7

This passage elucidates the Daoist concepts of "Heavenly Dao" and "Wuwei" (non-action). Through his commentary on Zhuangzi's "Chapter on the Heavenly Dao," Wang Yuanze expounds on the natural order of cosmic operations.

The movement of Heaven and Earth never stagnates, thus all things flourish; the operation of the imperial Dao never ceases, thus the world submits; the functioning of the sage's Dao never obstructs, thus all under heaven yields. Those who truly comprehend the Heavenly Dao and penetrate the sagely path appear obscure in their actions, yet all their deeds manifest perfect tranquility.

What we call "acting through non-action" means aligning with nature—this is the Heavenly Dao. Perceiving the finest details without forced intervention—this is the imperial Dao. Vast yet capable of transforming all beings—this is the sagely Dao. The Heavenly Dao, imperial Dao, and sagely Dao all originate from the fundamental "Dao." The Heavenly Dao operates effortlessly yet ceaselessly, nourishing all creation; the sagely Dao follows spontaneity yet governs people's hearts, eliciting genuine admiration.

The sage's tranquility isn't achieved through forced stillness, but because nothing in existence can disturb his inner being. Like still water that clearly reflects even beard and eyebrows—becoming the carpenter's standard. If mere water's stillness can illuminate so clearly, how much more the spirit of a sage? The sage's serene mind resembles Heaven and Earth's mirror, revealing the essence of all things.

Emptiness-quietude, blandness-detachment, solitude, and non-action—these constitute the fundamental norms of Heaven and Earth, the supreme realm of Dao and De (Virtue). When emperors and sages abide here, they attain true emptiness; emptiness brings fullness, fullness generates orderly patterns. Emptiness yields tranquility, from which movement naturally arises, and movement produces attainment. Tranquility is non-action, and non-action enables each performer to fulfill their responsibilities. Non-action brings leisurely contentment; leisure prevents anxiety, naturally leading to longevity.

Emptiness-quietude, blandness-detachment, solitude, and non-action—these represent the root of all things.

The passage describes the Daoist ideal state of "emptiness, stillness, simplicity and detachment, silent obscurity, and wuwei (non-action)." Using the legendary rulers Yao and Shun as examples: Emperor Yao understood this principle and ruled facing south as sovereign, while Shun comprehended it and served facing north as minister. When embodied by rulers, this becomes the heavenly virtue of emperors; when practiced by subjects, it forms the way of uncrowned sages.

Retiring from public life, one who maintains this state can wander freely by rivers and seas, earning the respect of mountain recluses. Engaging in governance, such a person can bring peace to the world and achieve lasting fame. At rest, they embody sageliness; in action, they manifest kingly virtue. Though appearing to practice wuwei, they receive universal reverence. Maintaining primordial simplicity, none in the world can match their excellence.

Sages don't deliberately seek stillness—they naturally return to the fundamental source where stillness reaches its ultimate state. This supreme stillness enables forgetting desires and profoundly comprehending heavenly principles, making them impervious to external disturbances. Just as calm water perfectly reflects the finest details, the sage's tranquil mind perceives all phenomena between heaven and earth. The empty, still heart mirrors everything like a polished bronze mirror.

"Emptiness" resembles a valley's vast openness; "stillness" manifests as deep, measured breathing; "simplicity and detachment" approach formless silence; "silent obscurity" means wordless darkness; "wuwei" follows nature's course. Together these constitute the supreme state of wondrous existence within true emptiness, encompassing even the Dao and De (Virtue) of heaven and earth. When emperors and sages abide here, their spirits find rest. Spiritual rest brings emptiness and stillness, which leads to wuwei, and through wuwei comes spontaneous fulfillment.

Within emptiness resides substance—the substance that exhaustively comprehends all principles under heaven. Within stillness exists movement—movement that never errs. Within wuwei lies youwei (action)—action perfectly attuned to circumstances. Thus what appears as non-action actually shoulders all responsibilities effortlessly.

When one truly comprehends the state of "spontaneous attainment," sorrow cannot assail them, nor will their body easily succumb to decay. Thus, maintaining the practice of wuwei (non-action, allowing things to follow their natural course) brings about effortless ease—where worries find no foothold, and longevity naturally follows.

Those who genuinely understand the workings of Heaven and Earth grasp the fundamental Dao, achieving harmony with nature. Such individuals can both govern worldly affairs and maintain accord with others. Harmony among people brings human joy, while harmony with Heaven yields the joy of the Dao. Zhuangzi praised such sages, saying: "My master! He harmonizes all things without appearing domineering, bestows blessings across generations without claiming benevolence, exists beyond antiquity without boasting longevity, upholds Heaven and Earth and shapes all beings without flaunting skill—this is the 'Heavenly Joy' (supreme bliss of cosmic unity)."

Those who know Heavenly Joy live in accordance with the Dao's movement and, upon death, transform naturally with all things. In stillness, they embody the virtue of yin; in action, they resonate with the dynamism of yang. Neither Heaven reproaches them, nor do people criticize them; neither external matters burden them, nor do spirits condemn them. Their movements mirror Heaven's course; their stillness reflects Earth's bearing. With tranquil hearts, they govern the world undisturbed by spirits, their essence never wearied. This inner serenity draws all things to submit, unifying Heaven and Earth through emptiness and stillness—this is Heavenly Joy. The sage's heart nurtures all under Heaven through this very joy.

In stillness, they return to the root, attaining spontaneity in silence; in motion, they grow ever clearer, flowing without obstruction. This is the supreme Heavenly Joy that merges with yin and resonates with yang. What Confucius and Mencius called "joy in Heaven" is precisely this state—where nothing in existence can bring worry, but instead becomes a wellspring of ultimate bliss.

The virtue proper to emperors and kings takes Heaven and Earth as its foundation, the Dao and De as its guide, and wuwei as its constant practice. Through wuwei, governing the world becomes effortless; through forced action, one is exhausted by worldly affairs. Thus, the ancients revered wuwei—when rulers practice non-action, ministers follow suit, creating unity above and below. But if ministers act willfully, rulers do likewise, hierarchy collapses. Allowing all things to unfold naturally provides inexhaustible sustenance—such is the marvel of wuwei.

This passage expounds the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The core principle states that rulers should follow the Dao's natural principle of non-interference, while ministers actively engage in concrete affairs.

The text observes that if a sovereign personally handles every matter (through action), it leads to insufficient strength—this is not the proper way of ruling for an emperor. The correct approach is: the ruler above maintains Wuwei, allowing the world to operate naturally; the ministers below practice active engagement, serving the realm. This is an eternal and unchanging truth.

The Dao of Heaven (natural law) is Wuwei, while the Dao of humanity (human effort) involves action. When rulers emulate Heaven's Wuwei, they paradoxically achieve better governance; when ministers practice human action, they naturally assume concrete responsibilities. Rulers following Wuwei often enjoy ease, while ministers engaged in action frequently endure toil—this is the immutable pattern since antiquity.

Even when ancient sage-kings possessed wisdom sufficient to comprehend heaven and earth, they didn't rely on personal deliberation; though their eloquence could adorn all things, they never boasted; with capability to govern the four seas, they refrained from direct intervention. Just as heaven produces nothing yet all things transform spontaneously, earth grows nothing yet all beings nurture themselves, emperors practice Wuwei and the world governs itself. Thus we say the virtue (De) of emperors matches heaven and earth—this constitutes the fundamental principle for mastering all things and administering the people.

The root of governance lies with the ruler, while concrete affairs belong to ministers. The text enumerates five secondary matters: military weapons, rewards and punishments, ritual systems, music and dance, and funeral rites. These all represent peripheral concerns requiring mental exertion and strategic manipulation. Though the ancients attended to these, they never prioritized them.

Through this essay, Zhuangzi first elucidates the Dao of celestial rulers and sages, then reveals the profundity of emptiness and tranquility, subsequently discussing heavenly joy and imperial virtue—all to illuminate the profound principle of Wuwei. True Wuwei ultimately accomplishes action naturally, while mere action leaves only superficial traces. Therefore, the subsequent discussion of five concrete matters—military affairs, punishments, rituals, music, and funerals—serves precisely to fully illustrate the dimension of action.

This scripture primarily explores the relationship between the natural Dao and human social order. The author observes that later rulers governing the world often focus only on the five superficial forms (wu shi) of "moral education, ritual music, mourning, and grief," while losing their true natural essence. In reality, these external norms all have their internal foundation—the principle of natural Wuwei (non-action). Those who truly understand and follow this principle will naturally implement these norms.

The text elaborates in detail the hierarchical order in human relationships: the ruler precedes and the minister follows, the father precedes and the son follows, the elder brother precedes and the younger brother follows, the senior precedes and the junior follows, the male precedes and the female follows, the husband precedes and the wife follows. This hierarchy of precedence mirrors the natural order of heaven above and earth below. The sages established human norms by emulating the patterns of heaven and earth's movement. If even celestial movements follow sequence, how much more should human society?

Citing Zhuangzi's philosophy, the author explains that the true "Great Dao" first requires understanding natural laws (tian), then moral norms; only after clarifying morality can one discuss humaneness and righteousness, and only after establishing these can one address divisions of responsibility—a progressive layering. Only then can reward and punishment systems be properly applied, allowing the foolish and wise to find their respective places, the noble and humble to occupy proper positions, and the worthy and unworthy to abide by their inherent roles. Serving rulers, governing people, and managing affairs according to these principles constitutes the complete way of statecraft.

The text specifically refutes Xunzi's criticism that Zhuangzi "understood heavenly principles but not human affairs," pointing out that Zhuangzi actually comprehended both natural laws (zhi tian) and human social order (zhi ren). True sages first grasp heavenly principles, then extend them to human affairs, ultimately achieving the state of unity between heaven and humanity.

This passage expounds the fundamental principles of governing the state and cultivating the self. It begins by pointing out that true peace and prosperity do not lie in employing schemes and tactics but in aligning with the natural Dao (the Way) of heaven. While ancient texts record "legal systems and norms of status" (xingming) as established tools of governance from antiquity, these are not the most essential methods for ruling a state.

The text emphasizes that discussions on governance must follow a gradual progression: one must pass through five stages of transformation before addressing legal systems, and nine stages before discussing rewards and punishments. To rush into talking about laws and penalties from the outset is to mistake the branch for the root. Those who invert the Dao and violate natural principles in their arguments are themselves constrained by others—how could they possibly govern anyone?

The true art of governance is this: all things rely on "heaven" (natural law) for their existence and follow the "Dao" (cosmic order) in their movement. When the Dao manifests in humans, it becomes "De" (inner virtue). To love others with De is "benevolence," and to love others appropriately is "righteousness." Benevolence has its proper sequence, and righteousness has its hierarchies—this is the "division of duties" (fenshou). Punishments serve to regulate affairs, while status and titles serve to define names.

To elaborate: objects have distinctions of nobility and baseness, and human relationships have degrees of closeness and distance—this is "distinguishing things" (wuci). Assigning appropriate names based on these differences is "determining designations" (mingci). Positions must be arranged according to closeness, nobility, and baseness—this is "employment according to ability" (yinren). Yet leaving things unchecked is also unacceptable; one must examine actual circumstances—this is "tracing to the source" (yuansheng). Only after understanding these can one distinguish right from wrong, and only after clarifying right and wrong can rewards and punishments be implemented.

Thus, the correct sequence of governance is as follows: first, one must comprehend the Dao of heaven; next, understand De and the Dao. Once De and the Dao are clear, then discuss benevolence and righteousness. Once benevolence and righteousness are clear, then address the division of duties. Once duties are defined, then consider legal systems. Once legal systems are established, deliberate on employing people according to ability. Once employment is properly arranged, examine actual conditions. Once conditions are thoroughly investigated, determine right and wrong. Only after right and wrong are clarified can rewards and punishments be applied. This is the complete art of governance.

This scripture, through the dialogue between Yao and Shun, reveals two distinct realms of governance:

Emperor Yao's approach involved not being arrogant toward the vulnerable, not abandoning the impoverished, showing compassion for the deceased, and caring for children and women. Though such benevolent governance with sincere intentions is admirable, Emperor Shun pointed out it still lacked grandeur. Shun believed the highest state should resemble the operation of nature: when the virtue of heaven (natural law) manifests, all things find peace—just as sunlight and moonlight shine universally, the four seasons rotate, day and night alternate, and clouds drift while rain falls, all occurring spontaneously. Upon hearing this, Yao sighed, realizing his governance had only achieved harmony in human affairs, while Shun had attained the unity of heaven and humanity.

The text critiques later rulers who strayed from Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue), abusing rewards and punishments, thus plunging the world into chaos. Those who merely preached morality yet divorced it from reality, or rigidly adhered to legalist doctrines, all suffered from insufficient wisdom while presuming themselves sage-like. The author emphasizes that the ancient sage-kings' secret to governing lay in emulating the natural Dao of heaven and earth.

The key distinction is this: Yao consciously implemented benevolent policies (intentional goodness)—though commendable, its scope remained limited. Shun advocated governance through accordance with nature, free from artificial interference (Wuwei, non-action), which alone could benefit all things universally. Just as heaven and earth nurture all beings without deliberate effort, yet allow everything to find its proper place.

Confucius wished to deposit his books in the Zhou royal archives. Zilu suggested: "I've heard that Lao Dan (Laozi), the Zhou archivist in charge of classical texts, has retired to his hometown. If you wish to store these works, Master, why not seek his assistance?" Confucius thought this a good idea and went to visit Laozi, but received no promise of help.

Confucius then began quoting classics to explain his purpose, only for Laozi to interrupt: "Too verbose. Speak plainly." Confucius replied: "The essence is benevolence and righteousness." Laozi countered: "Are these truly human nature?" Confucius affirmed: "Indeed. A noble man cannot establish himself without benevolence, nor conduct himself without righteousness. Benevolence and righteousness constitute the true nature of perfected individuals."

Laozi pressed further: "Then what exactly are benevolence and righteousness?" Confucius explained: "An upright heart, magnanimity toward others, impartial love without selfishness—this is their essence." Laozi dismissed this: "Such talk of impartial love is pedantic. What's called 'selflessness' is still selfishness. What would you have the world emulate? Heaven and earth follow their inherent patterns, sun and moon shine by their nature, stars move in orderly courses, beasts naturally flock together, trees grow without instruction. Simply follow the Dao's spontaneous way—why strain to hoist the banners of benevolence and righteousness? It's like beating drums to search for a runaway child—you'll only disturb people's true nature."

Later, a scholar named Shicheng Qi visited Laozi, saying: "Hearing you were a sage, I traveled a thousand li to meet you. Now I find you no sage. Your granaries hold surplus grain while the poor starve—this lacks benevolence. Your table overflows with uneaten food yet you keep accumulating—this is insatiable greed." Laozi remained silent.

The next day Shicheng Qi returned repentant: "Yesterday I offended you and feel uneasy." Laozi responded: "Those clever labels—'sage,' 'divine'—I long ceased valuing them. Call me ox yesterday, so I was ox; call me horse, so I was horse. To deny what's factually so invites misfortune. My conduct remains constant, not for show." Ashamed, Shicheng Qi withdrew respectfully, then approached to inquire about self-cultivation.

Laozi thus described the appearance of one who has attained the Dao: His countenance dignified yet unforced, eyes clear and luminous, forehead broad and full, speech natural and expansive—his entire bearing resembles a tethered thoroughbred: seemingly constrained yet perfectly at ease.

The passage expounds on the universality of the Dao (the Way, core Daoist concept referring to cosmic origin and natural order) and the realm of the "perfected person." The Dao permeates all existence—from vast entities like heaven and earth to the tiniest creatures like cicadas and birds—all are born of the Dao. In its grandeur, the Dao has no limits; in its minutiae, it omits nothing. All things manifest the Dao's function, for it embraces everything in unfathomable depth.

Concepts like "form, virtue, humaneness, and righteousness" mentioned here are merely superficial expressions of the Dao. Only the "perfected person" (one who has realized the Dao) can truly grasp its essence. Such a person possesses the world yet remains unburdened by material attachments. When ordinary people scramble for power, they remain aloof; while perceiving truth clearly, they remain unmoved by profit. By penetrating the nature of things and holding fast to the root, they transcend all constraints of heaven, earth, and the myriad phenomena, maintaining eternal spiritual freedom.

The perfected person comprehends the great Dao and aligns with natural virtue (De), rising above worldly constructs like humaneness, righteousness, rituals, and music. What most people prize as the "Dao" often remains confined to written words—yet words are merely vessels for language, and language's value lies in conveying meaning. The true essence ultimately transcends verbal expression.

The text concludes by emphasizing: the Dao cannot be exhausted in its vastness nor overlooked in its subtlety. All things embody its function—boundlessly inclusive, profoundly immeasurable. Only perfected persons truly experience and apply the Dao's mystery. Though possessing the expansive world, they remain unencumbered; amid power struggles, they maintain detachment; discerning truth from falsehood, they never lose their fundamental nature.

The true sage who understands how to preserve the fundamental essence of life cannot be constrained by Heaven and Earth, nor burdened by the myriad things. Such a person maintains their innate nature in serene contentment, wandering freely through the world. Thus it is said they transcend Heaven and Earth, forget the myriad things, yet their spirit has never been confined. They distance themselves from artificial constructs, comprehend their natural essence, remain unbound by humaneness and righteousness, and rise above the constraints of ritual and music. The true sovereign (one who has attained the Dao) is like an unfathomably still abyss—hence the need to withdraw and preserve the Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue), to set aside ritual and music, so the sage's mind may find peace.

People often revere discourse and value books, yet these things are not truly worthy of esteem. What people prize is not what is genuinely precious. The eyes perceive only form and color; the ears hear only names and words. Pitiful indeed! That people believe these superficial appearances can reveal the essence of things. If forms, colors, names, and sounds truly reflected essence, those who genuinely understand would not speak excessively, while those who chatter endlessly do not truly comprehend—how could ordinary people grasp this principle?

Consider the story of Duke Huan of Qi reading in his hall when the wheelwright Bian set down his tools and asked, "What are you reading?" The Duke replied, "The words of sages." Wheelwright Bian asked, "Are these sages still alive?" Learning they had long passed, he remarked, "Then what you're reading is merely the dregs left by the ancients." Enraged, the Duke demanded an explanation. Bian replied: "When I make wheels, if I work too slowly the joints are loose; too fast and they won't fit. The perfect rhythm—neither slow nor fast—is something I understand intuitively but cannot express, not even to my own son. What the ancients truly couldn't transmit died with them. What you read must be their dregs."

The great Dao (the Way) cannot be seen, heard, or touched. It cannot be fathomed through intellect or attained through emotion. Profound beyond measure and mysteriously divine, only sages can apprehend it through spiritual illumination. Precisely because the Dao is so mysteriously profound, later generations struggle to comprehend it. Thus what gets recorded in books are merely surface traces of the Dao—words can never be the Dao itself.

Duke Huan of Qi (the foremost of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period) merely imitated the superficial actions of sages without grasping the true essence of the Dao (the Way), thus drawing ridicule from Wheelwright Bian (a renowned ancient craftsman). Yet the wheelwright himself had limitations: though capable of criticizing the duke, his own wheel-making—despite being mastered to the point of intuitive skill—still carried inherent flaws.

Just as splitting a century-old tree to fashion it into a wheel strips the wood of its natural integrity, it would have been better left uncut and unshaped. Both actions (the duke’s imitation of sages and the wheelwright’s alteration of the wood) exemplify the pitfalls of artificial intervention. Thus, Zhuangzi concludes this chapter of the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi, revered as a Daoist scripture) by illuminating how deliberate effort (youwei) can undermine the innate nature (ziran) of things.

(Note: This passage uses the allegory of "Wheelwright Bian carving wheels" to expound the Zhuangzi school’s core philosophy of rejecting artificiality and advocating harmony with nature. The wheelwright represents craftsmanship that, however refined, remains contrived, while the ancient tree symbolizes primordial integrity—implying that Daoist cultivation should return to unadorned simplicity.)