《南華真經新傳》Vol. 9

This passage comes from Wang Yuanze's Song Dynasty commentary New Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing, discussing the essence of Zhuangzi's "Deliberate Conduct" chapter. It analyzes six distinct life pursuits:

The first category comprises recluses who deliberately flaunt their purity, voicing cynical critiques of society. The second consists of scholars promoting ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness), devoted to educating the masses. The third includes court officials striving for meritorious achievements and upholding social order. The fourth encompasses leisurely individuals retreating to lakes and rivers, spending their days fishing and wandering. The fifth involves practitioners of daoyin (ancient health-preserving techniques), pursuing longevity like the legendary Pengzu.

Zhuangzi points out that all these people become constrained by their particular obsessions. The true sage who attains the Dao (the Way) is entirely different: they need not deliberately pursue purity yet are naturally noble, make no show of virtue yet are inherently cultivated, seek no fame yet govern the world effortlessly, require no retreat yet wander freely, practice no daoyin yet enjoy natural longevity. The sage reaches the state of "no-self" (wuwo) — their mind empty, tranquil and detached, yet embodying all virtues. This constitutes the sage's De (Virtue/Power) in harmony with the Dao of heaven and earth.

The text emphasizes that the first five types remain bound by "self"-consciousness, thus limited by their respective pursuits. For instance, hermits enter mountains but cannot return, officials join courts but cannot leave, scholars drown in preaching and lose flexibility, health cultivators cling to physical form and cannot transcend. Only the sage, having attained "no-self," surpasses bodily constraints, comprehends all things, and ultimately reaches the supreme state ("ascending to the ultimate" denotes achieving the highest realm).

The text describes the highest state revered in Daoism—the sagehood of natural non-action (Wuwei) and unity with the Dao (the Way).

A genuine Dao-realized person attains lofty realms without deliberate striving ("not striving yet reaching heights"), cultivates themselves without practicing benevolence and righteousness ("no benevolence yet refined"), governs the world without seeking fame or merit ("no merit yet orderly"), transcends worldly ties without retreating to rivers and lakes ("no seclusion yet free"), and achieves longevity without relying on breathing exercises ("no Daoyin yet long-lived"). They appear unattached to anything ("holding nothing"), yet possess everything ("lacking nothing"). This state of utmost serenity naturally gathers all the beauty of heaven and earth.

The life of a sage unfolds thus: in life, they follow the movement of nature ("heaven's movement"); in death, they transform along with all things ("the change of things"). In stillness, they harmonize with the virtue (De) of yin; in action, they synchronize with the rhythm of yang. They neither actively seek blessings nor invite misfortune, responding only when stirred by external forces and acting only when compelled by necessity. Discarding cleverness and preconceptions ("abandoning knowledge and artifice"), they wholly adhere to the natural order.

Those who attain this state: suffer no calamities from heaven, bear no burdens from things, face no human censure, and incur no blame from spirits. In life, they drift as freely as duckweed; in death, they rest as peacefully as in sleep. Without scheming or deliberation, they illuminate all things without dazzling; honest and trustworthy, they never strain for virtue. Their sleep is dreamless, their waking untroubled—their spirit (Shen) pure and brimming.

This state of emptiness and tranquility is the manifestation of unity with the heavenly Dao. The text clarifies: sorrow and joy are deviations of virtue (De); anger and delight are faults of the Dao; preferences and aversions are lacks in virtue. True "ease" means the mind is unobstructed; "serenity" means the heart is free of distractions. When neither grief nor joy can disturb, neither anger nor delight can sway, one attains spontaneous ease and spiritual abundance ("the spirit flourishes"). This is the state of perfect virtue (De) and the Dao, where the spirit suffers no depletion.

This passage expounds the supreme state of Daoist cultivation of mind and nature. The essential meaning is:

Those who have truly attained the Dao view life and death as mere temporary comings and goings. While alive, they follow the movement of heavenly Dao; after death, they merge with all things. Even such great matters as life and death are regarded as ordinary transitions—how then could minor affairs like fortune and misfortune disturb their hearts? Therefore, sages do not deliberately pursue blessings nor actively invite calamities. Like water, they respond only when stimulated by external things—this is the manifestation of De (Virtue) being so full that it naturally accords. They act only when compelled, respond only when situations arise, and rise only when necessary—this is the wisdom of making no prior plans.

Those who have attained the Dao do not act with cleverness, nor allow old habits to harm their innate nature, firmly upholding the principle of natural purity. Hence it is said: discard cleverness and preconceptions, follow the laws of nature. Such people suffer no heavenly disasters because they are in harmony with the Dao; are burdened by no external things because they accord with all creation; attract no human criticism because they transcend the mundane; incur no reproach from spirits because they share fortune and misfortune with them.

Those who reach this state have hearts free from joy and sorrow—this is the perfection of De; unwavering focus—this is the perfection of stillness; complete non-resistance—this is the perfection of emptiness; non-entanglement with external things—this is the perfection of detachment; and absolute non-opposition—this is the perfection of purity. Like water: undisturbed, it becomes clear; unstirred, it grows calm. Yet completely sealed without flow, it turns turbid—this symbolizes heavenly De.

Therefore, purity without mixture, stillness without change, detachment and wuwei (non-action), acting in accordance with nature—this is the method for nurturing Shen (spirit). Just as treasured swords must be carefully preserved and not lightly used, the most precious spirit can penetrate all directions, reaching up to heaven and down to earth, nurturing all things without leaving traces—this is the state of equality with the Celestial Emperor.

The principle of absolute purity lies in guarding the primordial Shen (original spiritual nature), preserving it without loss, uniting with it completely. This refined penetration accords with heavenly Dao. The sage's heart knows neither joy nor anger, resting in natural ease; maintains undivided purity undisturbed by external things; remains upright and unburdened while skillfully responding; though capable of employing external things, is never employed by them.

When the inner mind is clear and transparent, it does not become entangled with external matters—this represents the highest state of serenity. In complete harmony with the Dao, one attains the realm of pure subtlety, where nothing contradicts its flow—this is the pinnacle of purity. Such is the state of a sage's mind.

The sage's heart is the dwelling place of Shen (spirit). Only the sage can nurture Shen without dissipating it recklessly, just as one would store a sharp sword in its sheath, not daring to wield it carelessly. Thus, it is said that those who possess the famed swords of Wu and Yue treasure them cautiously, never drawing them lightly—this is the most precious attitude. The sage cherishes and preserves Shen in the same manner.

This unimpeded state of enlightenment extends everywhere, its profundity moving in sync with the workings of heaven and earth. It transforms and nurtures all things without leaving visible traces, simply by following the natural course of the Dao. Therefore, it is said that Shen flows with all things, reaching everywhere—ascending to heaven and descending to earth, silently nurturing creation without leaving marks. Such a state may be called "Tong Di" (sharing the merit of the Celestial Emperor).

There is a saying among the people: ordinary people value profit, the noble-minded value reputation, the virtuous uphold lofty aspirations, but the sage treasures the purity of Shen.

Profit is meant to harmonize with righteousness, yet ordinary people overvalue it; reputation is but an accessory to true De (Virtue), yet the noble-minded pursue it excessively; aspirations reflect the heart's grand ambitions, which the virtuous admire; but pure, unadulterated "Jing" (essence) is the very substance of the Dao, which the sage holds most sacred. Thus, it is said profit is inferior to reputation, reputation inferior to aspirations, and aspirations inferior to the purity of Shen—there is a clear hierarchy here.

What is called "Su" (plainness) means being free from adulteration; what is called "Chun" (purity) means the wholeness and integrity of Shen. Only those who embody the state of pure plainness may be called "Zhenren" (authentic person, one who has attained the Dao). Chun means being unadulterated; Su means being simple and unadorned. From Su one attains Chun, from Chun one attains Cui (refinement), from Cui one attains Jing, and from Jing one attains the wondrous state of Shen. Thus, the essential method of the pure and plain path lies in guarding Shen—those who can preserve it will naturally attain it and merge with the divine. "One" is the root of the Dao, ultimately returning to natural Wuwei (non-action). This describes the stages of cultivation for entering the divine state.

(As the "Cultivating Nature" chapter points out) Those deliberate and contrived actions that strive for novelty do not originate from humanity's innate nature.

In the "Mending Nature" chapter, Zhuangzi observes that people are often blinded by artificial posturing. When one acts from such falseness, they lose their original pure nature. More tragically, people remain unaware of this loss while attempting to mend it through further artifice—like treating illness with wrong remedies that only worsen the condition.

Those who seek to restore their nature through worldly learning or pursue wisdom through vulgar thinking are in fact deluded fools. Heaven endows humans with a nature that is inherently serene—serenity brings clarity, and clarity enables understanding of all things. Yet worldly people, having received this heavenly nature, should maintain serenity but instead stir restlessly; such "stillness" is not true goodness. Possessing innate luminosity yet failing to manifest it, such "illumination" cannot enlighten others. Thus people externally chase doctrines seeking stillness, while internally straining for brightness through forced contemplation—only to grow more agitated in their pursuit and more confused in their thinking.

Ancient Daoist practitioners nurtured wisdom through serenity (wuwei, non-action), living without forced pursuit of knowledge—this is called "using serenity to cultivate wisdom." They also used wisdom to nourish their serene state, allowing wisdom and serenity to mutually sustain each other. In this way, harmonious principles flowed naturally from their innate nature. Serenity generates true stillness, while wisdom produces beneficial movement. The stillness born of serenity is genuine stillness; the movement arising from wisdom is virtuous movement. In this cyclical interplay of movement and stillness, serenity-guarded stillness remains unperturbed by worldly things, while wisdom-guided action meets no obstruction. This is the sage's mastery of movement and stillness without violating heavenly principle—all flowing like the spontaneous expression of original nature.

De (Virtue/Power) is harmony; Dao (the Way) is heavenly principle. When De expands to embrace all, it becomes benevolence; when Dao's principles penetrate without obstruction, it becomes righteousness. Clear righteousness draws all things near—this is loyalty. When the inner heart remains simple, genuine, and aligned with original nature—this is joy. When words and deeds show sincerity, conduct demonstrates propriety, and all accord with ritual—this is li (ritual propriety). Yet excessive emphasis on li and music brings chaos to the world. Those who correct themselves while obscuring others' De find their virtue cannot universally cover (mao: to cover) all things, causing all beings to lose their original nature.

De is self-attainment—what is naturally obtained brings harmony without forced display. Dao is the practicable path—what can be walked must have its inherent principle. To attain this self-possession while embracing all things—this is universal love.

When humaneness (ren) and virtue (de) align with the principles of the Dao, they naturally achieve perfect propriety. Hence it is said, "The Dao never contradicts principle." When righteousness (yi) is properly manifested, it grasps the central harmony, and all things naturally draw near. Thus it states, "With righteousness clearly expressed, all beings become intimate." Loyalty (zhong) represents the pure and simple return to one's original nature, while joy (le) is the authentic happiness that springs from within. Trustworthiness (xin) manifests in words and deeds that conform to norms, and ritual (li) constitutes the external ceremonial expressions.

In truth, rituals and music are but the finer branches of virtue and the Dao. The sages never relied solely on these to govern the world. Zhuangzi believed excessive emphasis on ritual and music would actually bring chaos to the world, hence he did not value these doctrines.

In ancient times, people lived in a state of pristine simplicity and undifferentiated wholeness, free from worldly contention. Then yin and yang were harmoniously balanced, spirits caused no disturbances, the four seasons followed their proper sequence, all creatures remained unharmed, and every being could complete its natural lifespan. Though people possessed wisdom, they had no use for it—this was the state of "perfect unity" (zhiyi), where all things operated spontaneously through non-action (wuwei).

Gradually, virtue and the Dao declined: When Suiren and Fuxi began governing the world, they still followed natural patterns but had lost the primordial unity. By the era of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, though the world remained peaceful, complete alignment with nature had faded. When Yao and Shun appeared, they instituted moral teachings that damaged humanity's original simplicity—people turned from the Great Dao to pursue goodness, abandoning virtue to follow intellect. As minds competed with one another, wisdom proved insufficient to stabilize the world. Then came elaborate adornments and proliferating knowledge—ornamentation obscured essence, and learning drowned out the original mind, leaving people confused and chaotic, unable to return to their authentic nature.

Thus we see: When the world loses the Great Dao, the Dao withdraws from the world—the two turn away from each other. How then can those who cultivate the Dao arise in such an age? How can the world be revived through the Dao? Even if sages don't retreat to mountain forests, their virtue becomes submerged by worldly ways.

The age of Suiren and Fuxi might be called simple, but Zhuangzi considered it inferior to the original state of chaos. Shennong and the Yellow Emperor's era could be deemed peaceful, yet Zhuangzi saw it as lesser than the preceding age. Though Yao and Shun's time was hailed as great order, Zhuangzi observed the further decline of virtue and the Dao.

Zhuangzi revered the primordial state of nature when chaos first parted. In that era, people preserved their innate purity, acting in complete harmony with the natural order, utterly unaware of artificial moral constructs like benevolence, righteousness, or ritual music. They never deliberately adorned their innate nature to imitate so-called noble behaviors. Zhuangzi praised this state to critique the artificiality and pretentiousness of contemporary society—a perspective consistent with his earlier discourses on the "Age of Perfect Virtue" and the "Primal Nothingness."

The true recluses of antiquity didn't hide themselves deliberately, nor did they seal their lips or conceal their wisdom. Their withdrawal emerged from unfavorable circumstances. When fortune favored them, they could act in seamless accordance with nature without leaving traces; when times were adverse, they withdrew completely to preserve themselves—this constituted the proper way of self-preservation.

When scholars retreated to mountain forests, it wasn't truly to conceal themselves, silence their voices, or bury their talents, but rather a necessity forced upon them. Hence the saying "when fate runs counter." In success, they never became intoxicated with pride, maintaining instead a serene and undivided mind; in adversity, they never abandoned themselves to despair, but fortified their roots and awaited transformation. Only thus could they preserve their essential being.

The ancients skilled in self-preservation never used clever rhetoric to flaunt wisdom, never employed cunning schemes to manipulate the world, nor relied on petty cleverness to parade virtue. They dwelled peacefully within themselves, returning to their original nature without seeking anything beyond. True Dao needs no petty cleverness to manifest; true De (Virtue) requires no shallow knowledge to display. Excessive pursuit of trivial knowledge damages De, while forced displays of minor wit injure the great Dao. Thus it's said: simply rectify yourself, and that suffices.

What the ancients called "fulfillment" didn't mean obtaining high office or wealth, but rather reaching an inner joy that couldn't be increased. What modern people call "success" refers solely to official promotion and material gain. Yet titles and emoluments are external things never inherent to human nature—mere accidental lodgings that come unbidden and depart unhindered. Therefore, the truly wise never indulge in wealth and honor, nor do they drift with poverty and obscurity. Maintaining equanimity through both abundance and deprivation—this is how one remains free from care.

When a person places their happiness in external things, they will become unhappy upon losing them. From this perspective, even existing joy will ultimately be wasted. Thus, those who lose themselves in material pursuits and forsake their true nature in worldly affairs are like people who have turned things upside down.

Those who truly understand lasting joy are those who comprehend the Dao of Heaven, understand destiny, and do not harm their innate nature. To comprehend the Dao of Heaven is to follow what is natural; to understand destiny is to remain unmoved by external things. Only then can one preserve their pure original nature. When one's nature is preserved, they naturally attain joy, and with this natural joy, no aspiration remains unfulfilled. Therefore, lasting joy means achieving one's true purpose. Those who have achieved their purpose are not troubled by life and death, worry and calamity, wealth and honor, or poverty and hardship—how much less would they be concerned with official positions and salaries? Thus, true joy does not reside in official rank and emolument.

The "Autumn Floods" chapter discusses how people in the world cultivate their natures not through the proper way of sages, but through the vulgar learning of the various schools. Though this vulgar learning may be broad and varied, appearing impressive, how can we know it isn't rootless? Therefore, Zhuangzi wrote "Autumn Floods."

When the autumn floods came, hundreds of streams poured into the Yellow River, making its waters so wide that one could not distinguish oxen from horses on the opposite banks. The River Earl (god of the Yellow River) became quite pleased with himself, thinking all the beauty in the world belonged to him alone. Following the current eastward to the North Sea, he looked east but could not see where the waters ended. Then the River Earl changed his expression and, gazing at the ocean, said to Ruo of the North Sea (god of the sea), "There's a saying, 'He who has heard the Way a hundred times thinks no one can compare to himself'—that describes me! I once heard people belittle Confucius's learning and make light of Bo Yi's righteousness—at first I didn't believe it, but now seeing your boundlessness I understand. Had I not come to you, I would forever have been laughed at by those who have attained the Dao."

Ruo of the North Sea replied, "You can't discuss the ocean with a frog in a well—he's confined by the limits of his space. You can't talk of ice with a summer insect—it's restricted by its short lifespan. You can't speak of the Great Dao with a narrow-minded scholar—he's shackled by his learning. Now that you've emerged from your riverbanks and seen the great sea, realizing your own shallowness, I can discuss the great principles with you. Of all waters under heaven, none is greater than the sea. Countless streams flow into it yet it never fills; its waters drain away at the Weilu (legendary drain at the ocean's bottom) yet it never empties. Spring and autumn bring no change; flood and drought it never knows. Its capacity exceeds that of all rivers—impossible to measure."

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi), which explores the distinction between the Dao of sages and the doctrines of various schools through a dialogue between the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) and Ruo of the Northern Sea (deity of the North Sea).

Ruo of the Northern Sea says: I have never been complacent about the vastness of my waters, for I understand that my form originates from Heaven and Earth, and my Qi (vital energy) derives from Yin-Yang. Between Heaven and Earth, I am as insignificant as a small stone or tree on a great mountain. Aware of my limited knowledge, how could I possibly be arrogant?

The Dao of sages is an undivided whole—unfathomably profound and boundlessly vast. In its application, it never exhausts; in its accumulation, it never overflows. Its surplus can relieve all under Heaven, and its traces can govern states. It encompasses everything and reaches everywhere. This is the Dao of sages.

But when the Great Dao fragmented and could no longer revive the age, and when the world declined and could no longer uphold the Dao, the Hundred Schools of Thought arose in profusion, their ideas flooding like uncontained waters. This is why Zhuangzi uses the River Earl (symbolizing the various schools) as an example of self-satisfaction. Though these scholars rejoice in the prevalence of their doctrines, they remain unaware of the existence of the sages' Dao—just as the River Earl only realizes his own insignificance upon reaching the Northern Sea.

Yet the Dao of sages is revered by all things under Heaven and followed in all affairs. Empty and still, it never runs dry; employed, it remains unnoticed. Since ancient times, it has endured eternally, unchanged whether in times of order or chaos. Far surpassing the doctrines of the various schools, the sages never boast of its vastness and profundity—precisely why it remains indestructible.

Thus, among all waters under Heaven, none compare to the sea in greatness. Countless rivers flow into it, yet it never fills; its waters drain endlessly, yet it never empties. Unaffected by the shifting of seasons or the fluctuations of drought and flood, the sea's volume exceeds that of rivers beyond calculation. I do not pride myself on this immensity because I know my form comes from Heaven and Earth, and my Qi from Yin-Yang. Between Heaven and Earth, I am as tiny as a pebble on a mountain—how could I be arrogant when I feel my understanding is so limited?

Consider the four seas within Heaven and Earth—are they not like an anthill in a vast lake? And the Central Kingdom within the four seas—is it not like a grain of millet in a great granary? Among the myriad things in existence, humanity is but one.

This passage comes from the dialogue between the River Earl and the Spirit of the Northern Sea in the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), which explores the relativity of all things in the universe through comparative discussion.

The food humans rely on, the places where boats and carts travel—human beings are but one among the myriad things. Compared to the vastness of creation, humans are as insignificant as a single hair on a horse’s body. The legacy passed down by the Five Emperors (legendary sage rulers of antiquity), the struggles of the Three Kings (founders of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties), the concerns of benevolent scholars, and the toils of capable individuals—all are confined within this infinitesimal realm. Bo Yi (a recluse of the late Shang dynasty) gained fame through refusal, while Confucius displayed his erudition through teaching. Their self-aggrandizement is no different from your (the River Earl’s) earlier boasting before the river.

The Spirit of the Northern Sea (deity of the northern sea) continues to enlighten: The scale of all things is boundless, time never ceases, gain and loss have no fixed pattern, and life and death follow no constant rule. Those with true wisdom observe things from both near and far, so they neither feel lacking in small things nor overwhelmed by great ones. Understanding the infinity of time and space, they neither fret over the distant nor cling to the immediate. Perceiving the cycles of rise and fall, they neither rejoice excessively in gain nor grieve unduly in loss. Knowing the unpredictability of fate, they neither exult in life nor lament death as calamity.

The Spirit of the Northern Sea points out: To pursue infinite knowledge with finite life is to inevitably lose one’s way. The tip of a hair cannot represent the smallest of things, nor can heaven and earth encompass the vastest of realms. People often say, "The most refined things have no form; the grandest things cannot be contained"—this is true. Yet, viewing the macro from the micro yields incompleteness, while viewing the micro from the macro yields indistinctness. Just as focusing on the autumn down (the fine hair of birds and beasts in autumn) obscures the mountains, and staring at the mountains causes one to overlook the down. True wisdom lies in maintaining a mind of stillness and openness, through which all things become clear.

Finally, it is explained: Refinement and grandeur are relative concepts, both confined to the realm of form. That which is truly formless cannot be measured by quantity. This dialogue embodies Zhuangzi’s philosophy of the "equality of all things," emphasizing the dissolution of dualistic concepts like large and small, refined and coarse, and approaching the world with an open mind.

This passage elucidates the Daoist profound understanding of the essence of things and the realm of cognition. It first points out that the true Dao (the Way) cannot be fully described by words nor confined by concrete concepts. What language can discuss are merely superficial phenomena, while what consciousness comprehends are the subtle essences of things. Yet there exist realities beyond the reach of both consciousness and language—these transcend the distinctions between "refined" (jing) and "coarse."

The text explains: "Refined" represents the detailed manifestation of "coarse," while "coarse" serves as the external traces of "refined"—both still belong to the realm of form and substance. The truly formless and imageless Dao cannot be measured by the most precise calculations nor fathomed by the brightest wisdom. Only when the mind attains a state of profound stillness can one transcend the dichotomy of refined and coarse. This is what the Deity of the Northern Sea (a paragon of Dao-realization in Zhuangzi's allegory) describes as the ultimate expression of the Dao.

It then expounds the behavioral principles of Dao-realized individuals: They neither actively harm others nor deliberately bestow favors; they aren't driven by profit nor do they despise the humble; they neither contend for possessions nor affect false modesty; they sustain themselves without greed, behaving differently from worldly customs yet without ostentation; indifferent to worldly ranks and honors, they understand the relativity of right/wrong and great/small distinctions. Such a state embodies the ideal of "the perfected person has no self."

Finally, through the dialogue between the River Earl (representing unenlightened mortals) and the Deity of the Northern Sea, it demonstrates that from the Dao's perspective, all things are inherently without distinctions of nobility or baseness—such valuations are merely human-made relative concepts. Understanding that heaven and earth can be as small as a grain of rice while a hair's breadth can be as vast as a mountain reveals the relativity of all differences. The text critiques how various philosophical schools' attachment to notions of "self" creates artificial hierarchies that prevent realization of the unity of all things. Through the Deity's voice, Zhuangzi expresses the philosophical vision of dissolving dualities and equalizing all existence.

(Note: The "Deity of the Northern Sea" is an allegorical figure in Zhuangzi representing the wisdom of Dao-realization; the "River Earl" personifies the Yellow River deity symbolizing unenlightened mortals; "perfected person" refers to those who have attained the highest state of moral cultivation.)

All things in the world originate from the Dao (cosmic source), and their differences lie only in variations of form and essence. Heaven and earth are vaster than mountains, and mountains are larger than the tip of a hair. Yet from the perspective of the Dao, they exist as equals—who can claim that mountains aren't greater than heaven and earth, or that a hair's tip isn't larger than a mountain? Why cling to comparisons of size to distinguish one from another? Thus, it is said: To understand that heaven and earth can be as small as a grain of rice, and a hair's tip as vast as a mountain.

From the standpoint of function, if we acknowledge the inherent qualities of things, then all beings possess value; if we deny what they lack, then all appear insufficient. Just as east and west oppose each other yet cannot negate one another, their functions are distinct. From the perspective of values, if we affirm what is reasonable in things, then all have merit; if we reject what is unreasonable, then all invite criticism. Like Yao (the sage ruler) and Jie (the tyrant), each had their natural disposition yet opposed the other—thus the divergence in values becomes clear.

Historically, Yao and Shun abdicated their thrones to establish imperial virtue, while King Kuai of Yan lost his kingdom through abdication. Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou seized power to become kings, yet Lord Bai Sheng perished in his struggle for authority. This shows that the rituals of contention and abdication, the actions of Yao and Jie, and the standards of nobility and baseness all shift with the times. A massive beam can break open city gates yet cannot plug a small hole—this is a difference in function. A swift horse can travel a thousand miles in a day but cannot catch mice like a wildcat—this is a difference in skill. An owl can catch fleas at night and see the finest hairs, yet in daylight, even with eyes wide open, it cannot see a mountain—this is a difference in nature. Thus, how can one only emulate what is right and reject what is wrong, or only follow order and shun chaos? This reveals ignorance of the Dao's patterns in heaven and earth and the innate nature of all things. To imitate heaven while denying earth, or to follow yin while rejecting yang—this is clearly unworkable. To stubbornly cling to one's views and refuse to yield is either foolishness or deceit.

The methods of abdication varied among ancient emperors, and the succession systems of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties each differed. To oppose the current of the times is usurpation; to align with its momentum is righteousness. O River God, how can you grasp the boundaries of nobility and baseness, or the standards of great and small? The River God asked: Then what should I do? How should I choose? The North Sea God replied: View nobility and baseness through the lens of the Dao—they are relative and cyclical transformations. Do not constrain your mind. Abide with the Dao, and you will not be confused.

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi·Autumn Floods chapter features a conversation between the River Earl and Ruo of the Northern Sea (the deity of the Northern Sea), exploring the essence and function of the Dao. Ruo of the Northern Sea uses metaphors to explain: just as a state has a ruler who shows no favoritism, or as sacrificial rites have an Earth God who does not bestow blessings selectively, the Dao embraces all things without boundaries. The birth and death of all beings resemble the turning of the four seasons—without fixed form—and this is the operating principle of the Dao.

Those who truly understand the Dao comprehend the underlying patterns and master adaptability (responding flexibly to circumstances), thus remaining unharmed by external things. The "person of supreme De (Virtue/Power)" mentioned here—one with the highest moral cultivation—is not literally unafraid of fire or water, but rather perceives safety and danger clearly, aligns with nature, and carefully chooses when to advance or withdraw, making it difficult for calamity to harm them. It is akin to how the wisest individuals do not command fire and water to spare them but instead know how to avoid danger and follow the natural order.

The text emphasizes the relationship between the Dao and "quan" (expediency/adaptability): the Dao is the fundamental principle, while "quan" is its practical application—the two complement each other. Just as those who grasp the greater principles inevitably understand flexibility, those who truly master adaptability do not allow external things to become burdens.

This passage comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), employing allegorical dialogues between the Spirit of the Northern Sea and Confucius to expound the Daoist philosophy of aligning with nature.

The Spirit of the Northern Sea explains the distinction between "Heaven" (natural order) and "Human" (artificial constructs): that oxen and horses being born with four legs is nature (Heaven), while putting bridles on horses and nose rings on oxen is human interference. It emphasizes avoiding artificial disruptions to nature, warning against compromising one's innate nature for worldly gains, and advocates preserving one's original purity. Like the one-legged Kui envying the millipede's many legs, the millipede envying the legless snake, the snake envying formless wind, the wind envying eyesight, and eyes envying the mind—all creatures covet others' traits while overlooking their own innate value.

The millipede tells the snake: "With all my legs, I can't move as swiftly as your legless body." The snake replies: "This is simply how the Dao operates—why would I need legs?" The wind explains: though fingers can poke through me and feet can scatter me, only I can topple giant trees and overturn houses. To exchange numerous small defeats for ultimate victory—this is a capability unique to sages.

When Confucius was besieged in Song, he kept playing his zither and singing. He told Zilu: "I long sought to escape hardship yet couldn't avoid destiny; pursued success yet missed the right timing. In Yao and Shun's era, no one suffered—not because of their wisdom; under Jie and Zhou's rule, none prospered—not from lack of ability. Just as fishermen brave water-dragons without avoidance, hunters confront land-beasts without fear, martyrs face swords seeing death as homecoming—the sage's courage lies in recognizing hardship as destiny, success as timing, and danger without panic."

Ultimately, it stresses discerning safe/dangerous circumstances, accepting life/death and fortune/misfortune with equanimity, engaging with the world without violating cosmic principles, and carefully navigating choices. Internally harmonizing with heavenly nature, externally conforming to human affairs—true virtue (De) resides in following the Dao's natural flow.

This passage elucidates different levels of "courage" and varying realms of understanding. It first enumerates four types of bravery: the fisherman daring to cast nets in waters haunted by flood dragons, the hunter who doesn't flee from rhinos or tigers, the martyr facing swords with equanimity toward death, while the sage's courage lies in comprehending the vicissitudes of destiny and remaining fearless even before great calamities.

The text then presents a dialogue between Gongsun Long and Wei Mou, employing the allegory of "the frog at the bottom of a well" to illustrate cognitive limitations. Gongsun Long prides himself on mastering various schools of thought, yet becomes perplexed upon hearing Zhuangzi's teachings. Wei Mou satirizes this with a story: The frog boasts about its exclusive joy in occupying the well's waters and invites the giant sea turtle of the Eastern Ocean to visit, only for the turtle to find it cannot even fit its knees inside. When the turtle describes the Eastern Ocean's eternal state—unaffected by droughts or floods—the frog becomes utterly bewildered.

Finally, the passage observes that attempting to grasp Zhuangzi's profound philosophy without even discerning basic right from wrong is like asking a mosquito to carry mountains or expecting a marsh insect to cross rivers. Aren't those content with shallow understanding and self-satisfaction precisely such frogs at the bottom of wells? Through these contrasts, the text emphasizes differences in cognitive realms, pointing out that true wisdom lies in transcending one's inherent limitations.

This passage illustrates Zhuangzi's teachings on pursuing freedom and transcending worldly concerns through several allegorical stories.

First is the story of the frog at the bottom of a well. Zhuangzi criticizes those with narrow perspectives, comparing them to someone trying to view the sky through a bamboo tube or measure the earth with an awl—utterly ridiculous. He also mentions a man who went to Handan to imitate the elegant gait of the Zhao people but ended up forgetting his own way of walking and had to crawl home. This satirizes those who blindly copy others and lose themselves in the process.

Next is the tale of the King of Chu sending an envoy to invite Zhuangzi to serve as an official. Zhuangzi uses the metaphor of a sacred turtle: Would it rather be venerated in a temple after death or live freely, crawling in the mud? Zhuangzi chooses the latter, demonstrating his preference for a humble but free life over the constraints of fame and position.

Then there’s the story of Hui Shi worrying that Zhuangzi would usurp his position as prime minister. Zhuangzi compares himself to a phoenix (Yuanchu), which perches only on the parasol tree, eats only bamboo seeds, and drinks only from sweet springs. Meanwhile, an owl (Chi) clutches a dead rat, fearing the phoenix might steal it. Here, Zhuangzi makes it clear that he has no interest in the ministerial post of Liang.

Finally, there’s the famous debate by the Hao River about fish. Zhuangzi remarks, "How freely and joyfully the fish swim!" Hui Shi retorts, "You’re not a fish—how do you know they’re happy?" Zhuangzi cleverly replies, "You’re not me—how do you know I don’t know the fish are happy?" This exchange reveals Zhuangzi’s philosophical insight into the unity of self and things, illustrating how a true sage perceives the interconnected essence of all existence.

These stories all embody Zhuangzi’s pursuit of spiritual freedom and transcendence beyond worldly values. Through vivid metaphors, he teaches us not to be constrained by narrow-mindedness or burdened by fame and profit, but to maintain a liberated and expansive spirit.

Zhuangzi wrote this passage to satirize how worldly people habitually view things through dualistic lenses, while in truth he harbored the philosophy of "Qixie" (harmonizing differences and unifying all things). The conclusion's reference to "knowing the joy of fish" parallels the famous "Zhuang Zhou dreams of being a butterfly" parable at the end of his "Discussion on Making All Things Equal."

Readers of Zhuangzi should strive to grasp the essence of his philosophy rather than cling to surface interpretations. Just as he used the butterfly dream metaphor in "Discussion on Making All Things Equal" to illustrate the state of forgetting both self and objects, his "joy of fish" anecdote similarly expresses the philosophical vision of dissolving subject-object dichotomies to merge with all existence. Both employ vivid imagery to reveal the Daoist ideal of transcending artificial distinctions to attain cosmic unity.