《南華真經新傳》Vol. 8

In the eighth volume of the New Commentary on the Zhuangzi (Nanhua Zhenjing Xinzhuan), Wang Yuanze elucidates Zhuangzi's philosophy concerning the movement of the celestial Dao.

The most profound principle of the celestial Dao is "Wuwei" (non-action). Precisely because the Dao maintains this state of non-action, it can operate perpetually without exhaustion. Only by appearing to do nothing while accomplishing everything can one truly manifest the mystery and wonder of the Dao. It was for this reason that Zhuangzi composed the "Movement of Heaven" chapter to explore this truth.

The text begins with a series of rhetorical questions to provoke contemplation: Does heaven truly rotate? Is earth absolutely still? Do the sun and moon compete for position? Who governs these phenomena? Is there some mechanism compelling their motion, or do they move spontaneously without cessation? When clouds become rain and rain transforms back into clouds, what force drives this cycle? When northern winds blow, sometimes westward and sometimes eastward, swirling through the sky, whose exhalations create these patterns? These natural phenomena appear to lack any ruler, yet maintain perfect order in their operations.

The shaman Xianzhao (an ancient spirit medium) responds: The movement of heaven and earth follows the "six extremities" (up, down, and the four directions) and the "five constants" (the laws of the Five Phases). When rulers align with these natural principles, the world achieves peace; when they oppose them, calamity ensues. When governance across the nine regions (jiuzhou) becomes enlightened and virtue is perfected, rulers shine upon the land like sun and moon, receiving universal support from the people—this represents the highest state of governance.

The sun, moon, clouds, rain, wind, and qi all manifest the natural functioning of the celestial Dao. Though the Dao appears to do nothing, it continuously operates through these phenomena. Sages emulate the Dao in governing with expansive hearts, achieving merit without damaging fundamentals, thereby preserving the Dao in its wholeness. Their wisdom penetrates the most subtle mysteries, earning genuine devotion from the people. This illustrates the principle that "rulers who follow the celestial Dao bring order, while those who oppose it invite misfortune."

The chapter also records a dialogue between Prime Minister Dang of Shang and Zhuangzi about "humaneness" (ren). Zhuangzi observes that even tigers and wolves possess humaneness, as evidenced by parental care. When asked about "supreme humaneness," Zhuangzi identifies it as "absence of partiality" (wuqin). Challenged that this might negate filial piety, Zhuangzi explains that supreme humaneness transcends conventional filial duty, just as travelers heading south to Ying cannot see the northern Mount Ming—not because it doesn't exist, but because their orientation differs. True humaneness is universal and impartial, not confined by specific virtues like filial piety.

This passage explores the relationship between "supreme benevolence" (zhiren) and filial piety, as well as how to attain the state of "complete transcendence" (jianwang) beyond worldly attachments.

It begins by stating: Showing filial piety through respectful conduct is easy, but doing so with genuine love is difficult; loving one's parents is easier than completely forgetting their existence. While it's relatively simple to let parents forget my presence, simultaneously forgetting the entire world is far more challenging. The most perfect benevolence (zhiren) hasn't yet reached the state of "great benevolence" (daren) - it merely represents the absence of forced displays of affection. Thus, the highest form of benevolence requires no deliberate show of closeness, allowing natural harmony among family members.

The explanation continues: Forgetting one's parents becomes relatively easy when I've already released my attachments to them. But achieving such detachment toward the entire world is far more difficult. All things under heaven are ultimately external to our true selves and need not be excessively concerned with, so forgetting the world shouldn't be hard in principle. Yet though the world is external, all things depend on me for their existence, making it profoundly challenging for the world to forget me. This explains why "supreme benevolence" hasn't yet attained the state of "great benevolence." True "great benevolence" follows the natural course, allowing all things to develop spontaneously, thereby achieving complete transcendence (jianwang).

Later passages mention: Those of supreme virtue (De) don't even value the saintly reputation of Yao and Shun - their blessings extend through generations without seeking recognition. Virtues like filial piety, fraternal duty, and righteousness actually represent forced behaviors that constrain our true nature, unworthy of excessive praise. The most precious thing transcends official ranks, true wealth surpasses material possessions, and the highest aspiration goes beyond reputation - only then can the Dao remain unchanging.

The text concludes with the allegory of the Yellow Emperor's music: The Great Dao resembles the Yellow Emperor playing the "Xianchi" melody by Dongting Lake - initially awe-inspiring, then gradually relaxing, until listeners become completely lost in transcendence. The Emperor explained this effect came from playing through human affairs, harmonizing with heavenly principles, implementing through ritual propriety, and establishing through supreme purity (taiqing). Like the seasonal cycles where all things flourish and fade, with patterns of civility and martiality, clarity and turbidity - this represents the true manifestation of the Great Dao.

This passage embodies the Daoist pursuit of natural non-action (wuwei) and transcendence beyond worldly fame and gain, suggesting true benevolence isn't about forced displays but achieving a state where self and others are forgotten, following the natural course of things.

This passage describes the wondrous state of Yin-Yang harmony in heaven and earth and the transformations of all things, as well as how music (here referring to "heavenly music," the sonic manifestation of the natural Dao) embodies this profound principle.

Initially, when the two energies of Yin and Yang intermingled, they emitted flowing radiance and sound, startling even hibernating insects. This sound appears like thunder—suddenly emerging and vanishing without beginning or end, with life and death rising and falling in endless cycles. Precisely because this transformation is boundless and elusive, it inspires awe in those who perceive it.

Next comes music harmonized with the tones of Yin and Yang, illuminated by the light of sun and moon. This sound can be long or short, soft or strong, infinitely varied yet always unified. It fills mountain valleys and depressions, existing everywhere. One should eliminate distracting thoughts, maintain mental serenity, and accord with the original state of all things. This sound is so vast and far-reaching that even spirits dwell peacefully in its darkness, while sun, moon and stars move according to its rhythms.

This music has both boundaries and infinite extension—when you try to contemplate it, it cannot be understood; when you try to see it, it cannot be perceived; when you try to pursue it, it can never be caught. One can only stand bewildered at the crossroads, leaning against a withered parasol tree while chanting. Eyes weary from seeking visions, strength exhausted from chasing goals—since it cannot be caught, it's better to relax the body and follow nature's course.

Then comes music that knows no weariness, attuned to the cadence of natural law. It resembles all things mingling and chasing each other, growing together in profusion—like forest revelry without visible form, spreading everywhere without lingering, dark and obscure yet never silent. Its movements have no fixed direction, its pauses no determined place. You might call it death, or call it life; call it fruit, or call it flower. Flowing and transforming without set patterns, when people become confused they consult the sages. The so-called sages are those who comprehend the nature of all things and follow the principles of spontaneity.

This heavenly music needs no deliberate expression yet contains all sensory experience. Without words, it brings joy to the human heart. The ancient ruler Yanshi praised it thus: "You listen but hear no sound, look but see no form—it fills the space between heaven and earth, enveloping all within the six directions." When you try to hear it but cannot grasp it, confusion arises. The Dao of music begins with awe—awe inspires reverence; then brings relaxation—relaxation leads to transcendence; finally ending in confusion—confusion leads to simplicity. This simplicity is the realm of Dao, where one may merge completely with it.

The world's most profound principle, in its undifferentiated state, makes no distinction between heaven, humanity, Yin-Yang or the myriad things. When dispersed, heaven and earth each find their place, Yin and Yang their characteristics, all things their forms—yet all follow this same principle. Thus the Yellow Emperor comprehended this truth and could enjoy heavenly music, while Zhuangzi used the Yellow Emperor's story to illustrate this abstruse philosophy.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist philosophy through two distinct sections.

The first section employs the metaphor of "Xianchi" (symbolizing the undifferentiated Dao in its primordial chaos) to illustrate the Dao's dual states. When the Dao remains in chaotic formlessness, it manifests its essential nature; when it disperses, its functional aspects become apparent. All things come into being through the Dao's functioning, yet this creation occurs without specific sounds or forms. As the Zhuangzi states, "Looked at but not seen" refers to the Dao's formlessness, while "Listened for but not heard" denotes its soundlessness. This reveals the path from conscious action (youwei) ultimately returning to non-action (wuwei), for only through wuwei can one return to original simplicity and unite with the Dao.

The second section uses Confucius's travels among various states to demonstrate the perils of rigid adherence to tradition. Master Jin employs the analogy of "straw dogs" (ritual offerings made of bundled grass): newly crafted straw dogs receive reverent offerings, yet after use are trampled underfoot or burned as fuel. To reuse old straw dogs as new offerings would invite misfortune. Just as boats belong on water and carts on land, pushing a boat across dry land proves utterly futile. The value of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors' ritual systems lies not in identical forms, but in their timely adaptation to govern the world. Like the ancient well-sweep (a counterbalanced drawing device) that follows human guidance yet never violates natural principles, this illustrates the wisdom of "responding to things without exhaustion." It emphasizes adapting to changing circumstances rather than clinging obstinately to outdated conventions.

This passage employs vivid analogies to illustrate how ritual systems should evolve with the times. The rites and laws of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors era were like hawthorns, pears, tangerines, and pomelos—each fruit distinct in flavor yet equally delicious. Ritual systems too must adapt to different epochs. It’s like dressing a monkey in the ornate robes of the Duke of Zhou (Zhougong): the creature would inevitably gnaw and tear at the garments until stripping them off completely to feel at ease. The gap between ancient and modern times is as stark as the difference between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou.

The text then cites the parable of "Dongshi copying Xishi’s frown" to expose the absurdity of blind imitation: When the beauty Xishi knitted her brows from heartache, her pained expression was captivating. A village crone imitated the gesture, only to frighten the wealthy into bolting their doors and the poor into fleeing with their families. People saw the beauty in the furrowed brow but failed to grasp its true essence.

Next comes the story of Confucius (Kongzi), at fifty-one, seeking the Dao (the Way) from Laozi (Lao Dan). Confucius confesses having spent five years studying ritual systems and twelve years delving into Yin-Yang theory without attaining the Dao. Laozi responds: If the Dao could be offered as tribute, people would have long presented it to their rulers; if it could be taught, it would have been passed down to siblings and descendants. But the Dao cannot be seized—it demands an inner foundation (中无主而不止, "no inner mastery means no abiding") and an external method aligned with its principles (外无正而不行, "no outer correctness means no progress").

The passage concludes: Fame belongs to the public realm and should not be hoarded; humaneness and righteousness (Ren-Yi) are like waystations of ancient kings (蘧廬, "temporary lodgings"), meant for brief stays, not permanent residence. The perfected ones (至人, "ultimate persons") of antiquity merely borrowed the names of Ren-Yi while living simply and freely—eating plain fare (苟简之田, "fields of austerity") and dwelling in self-sufficient gardens (不贷之圃, "orchards of non-indebtedness"). This carefree state of Wuwei (non-action) is called the "wandering of gathering truth" (采真之游). Those craving wealth cling to their stipends; those chasing fame cannot relinquish renown.

Those who chase fame and fortune, clinging to power and status, dare not relinquish control (for fear of losing it), yet suffer when forced to abandon it. Such individuals are like sinners punished by heaven, forever blinded by their insatiable desires.

Resentment and gratitude, taking and giving, admonishment and instruction, life and death—these eight methods are tools to rectify the world. Yet only those who align with the natural flow of the Dao (the Way) and remain unclouded by selfish desires can wield them effectively. Thus, true "rectification" lies in rectifying the heart. If the mind does not embrace this principle, the gate to the Dao remains closed.

Zhuangzi first describes the Yellow Emperor establishing music (demonstrating governance through action), then Confucius traveling west (seeking governance strategies)—both deliberate acts. When Confucius sought wisdom in the west, Shi Jin compared his teachings to "straw dogs" (sacrificial grass effigies discarded after use), deeming them inferior to the Yellow Emperor's methods. Yet Shi Jin saw only the apparent uselessness of Confucius's teachings, unaware of the profound utility hidden within "uselessness."

The Yellow Emperor's governance appears active but achieves the highest form of action—ultimately returning to wuwei (non-action). Hence, Zhuangzi next depicts Confucius consulting Laozi about the Dao. The great Dao gathers in a tranquil heart; only emptiness can contain it. When the mind is empty, it becomes focused, and actions flow unimpeded. Without an inner anchor (the Dao), external things find no lodging; without focus, principles remain fragmented.

Inner cultivation inevitably manifests outwardly—this is "emerging from within." What the sage upholds is this Dao-born authenticity, not externally imposed norms. Likewise, outer practice must be internalized—this is "internalizing from without." The sage never conceals this unity of inner and outer. This is Laozi's complete teaching on cultivating and applying the Dao.

Later, Confucius discussed ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness) with Laozi, who replied: "Chaff blown into your eyes obscures the directions of heaven and earth; mosquito bites keep you awake all night. But ren and yi poison people more deeply, utterly disturbing their hearts. Better to let people preserve their natural simplicity, moving like the wind and standing firm by De (Virtue). Why trumpet ren and yi like beating drums to hunt fugitives?"

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius and Lao Dan (Laozi), revealing the Daoist profound understanding of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)."

When Confucius met Laozi, he remained completely silent for three days. His disciples asked why he behaved this way, and Confucius sighed: "Today I have seen a true dragon! The dragon gathers to take form and scatters to become patterns, riding the clouds and Qi to wander between Yin and Yang. I was so awestruck I couldn't close my mouth—what advice could I possibly give Laozi?" Hearing this, Zigong felt unconvinced and went to visit Laozi under Confucius' name.

Laozi was sitting calmly in his hall when he remarked mildly: "Time flies—what admonitions do you bring me?" Zigong challenged him: "Though the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed differently, all achieved sagehood. Why do you claim they weren't sages?" Laozi invited him closer and explained in detail:

"Under the Yellow Emperor's rule, people's hearts were pure and simple—when relatives died, no one wept yet none criticized this. Under Yao's rule, hearts turned affectionate—avenging relatives drew no blame. Under Shun's rule, hearts became competitive—infants could speak at five months. Under Yu's rule, hearts grew cunning—people excused murder with arguments like 'killing thieves isn't killing people.' What seemed like governance actually plunged the world into chaos, spawning Confucianism, Mohism and other schools until even basic human relations were disordered."

Laozi concluded: "What the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors called governance brought order in name but created the worst disorder in reality. Their wisdom defied the radiance of sun and moon above, violated the essence of mountains and rivers below, and disrupted the flow of four seasons between—more venomous than a scorpion's tail, more dangerous than a wild beast's claws."

This passage records a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan), revealing the Daoist perspective on Confucian classics.

Laozi criticizes Confucius for being overly attached to the Six Classics (Poetry, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals), considering them merely as outdated traces left by ancient kings. Just as footprints are made by shoes but are not the shoes themselves, Laozi employs natural metaphors: white egrets can mate simply by gazing without moving their eyes, and insects reproduce through mutual resonance of their chirping. These examples illustrate that all things follow the natural patterns of transformation (feng hua, "wind transformation"), where innate nature cannot be altered, celestial mandate cannot be defied, and the great Dao cannot be obstructed.

After three months of secluded contemplation, Confucius finally attains realization. Using examples like crows feeding their young, fish blowing bubbles, and wasps transforming their prey, he demonstrates the principle of "not interfering with the transformations of creation." Only then does Laozi acknowledge his genuine understanding.

The passage culminates in its essential teaching: deliberate action leaves traces. While the Six Classics bear the Dao, they are but crude manifestations of it. True Dao-realized individuals should accord with natural transformations (zi hua, "self-transformation") without forceful intervention. As Confucius ultimately realizes: "How can one who does not participate in nature's transformations presume to teach others?" This encapsulates the essence of the Daoist doctrine of "governing through non-action" (wuwei).

The terms feng hua (referring to nature's generative power) and zi hua (denoting the spontaneous process of transformation) are key Daoist concepts. This dialogue vividly demonstrates Daoism's transcendent critique of Confucian pragmatic philosophy.