《莊子注》Vol. 2

Human life has its limits (each person's innate endowments have their boundaries), while the pursuit of knowledge is endless (just as one's spirit and Qi naturally adjust when lifting heavy objects or carrying light ones—this reflects physical limitations; yet those who chase fame and compete for superiority exhaust their strength without satisfaction, demonstrating the mind's boundless craving). This relentless pursuit of knowledge stems from losing one's original authenticity, and only by returning to one's natural disposition can it cease (mingji refers to conforming to innate capacities without forcing what is beyond reach).

Consider someone capable of bearing immense weight—if they act within their means, they won't feel burdened; handling countless affairs becomes effortless when following the natural flow—this is the fundamental principle of nurturing life.

To chase infinite knowledge with finite life inevitably leads to exhaustion. Persisting in seeking wisdom despite recognizing this exhaustion only deepens the peril. Doing good need not court fame, and committing misdeeds should avoid inviting punishment (transcend notions of good and evil, maintain the Middle Way, let all things unfold naturally, and silently unite with the Dao—thus, punishment and reputation naturally fade while the complete heavenly principle endures within). Follow the Middle Way as the constant standard (yuan means to accord with; du refers to the central path)—this preserves the body, safeguards innate nature, honors one's parents (caring for them with just the right measure), and ultimately fulfills one's natural lifespan (by holding to the Middle Way and following nature, nothing remains unattainable. Nurturing life isn’t about excess but preserving heavenly principle and living out one’s years).

Take the example of Cook Ding butchering an ox for Lord Wenhui: his hand touches, shoulder leans, foot presses, and knee braces—every movement, along with the swishing sound of the blade, harmonizes perfectly, matching both the rhythm of the "Sanglin" dance and the melody of the "Jingshou" music (this shows how he applies skill according to circumstance, effortlessly dismantling the ox with natural precision).

The Zhuangzi records the story of Cook Ding (a butcher named Ding) dissecting an ox for King Hui of Liang (also known as King Hui of Wei). As Cook Ding worked, the sound of flesh separating from bone followed a rhythm like music, his movements were as graceful as the Sanglin dance (a ceremonial dance from King Tang's era of the Shang dynasty), and his knife flowed as smoothly as the Jingshou melody (a musical piece from Emperor Yao's time). King Hui exclaimed in admiration: "How marvelous! How is it that your skill has reached such perfection?"

Putting down his knife, Cook Ding replied: "What I follow is the Dao (the natural order), which goes beyond mere technique. When I first began cutting oxen, all I saw was the whole animal. After three years, I could discern the gaps and spaces in its structure. Now, I perceive with my spirit rather than my eyes—my senses become still while my spirit moves naturally. By following the ox's inherent grain, I guide the blade through the natural hollows between bones and sinews, never forcing it where it doesn't belong. My knife doesn't even touch the connective tissues, let alone the large bones."

He then compared his method to others: "A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts through flesh; an average cook changes his every month because he hacks at bones. But this knife of mine has lasted nineteen years, dissected thousands of oxen, and its edge remains as sharp as when it was new." Here, the butchering of the ox serves as a metaphor for cultivating the Dao, illustrating the importance of aligning with the natural order (Dao). When one fully comprehends the patterns of things, one can "move the blade with room to spare"—navigating the complexities of life effortlessly while preserving one's original nature unharmed.

This passage recounts the story of Cook Ding carving an ox, using the method of knife work as a metaphor for the way of nurturing life. Cook Ding's blade remained as sharp as newly honed even after nineteen years of use because he understood the principle of "using the edgeless to enter the gaps"—applying the thickness-less blade to the natural spaces between the ox's joints, allowing it to move effortlessly. Whenever he encountered complex areas where tendons and bones intertwined, he proceeded with special care, slowing his movements. With a gentle motion of the knife, the ox would naturally separate, as effortlessly as crumbling earth.

Lord Wenhui, upon hearing this story, exclaimed: "Wonderful! From Cook Ding's words, I have grasped the principle of nurturing life." Just as one maintains a knife, life must also follow the natural order.

Later, the text describes how Gongwen Xuan was startled upon meeting the Right Master (a title), who had only one leg. Gongwen Xuan pondered: Was this congenital or the result of human action? In the end, he realized it was the mandate of heaven. Just as having two legs is the norm for humans, the Right Master's single leg was also a unique state bestowed by nature—there was no need to forcibly conform to the common standard. This teaches us to follow nature and accept life as it is, without striving against inherent tendencies. Like Cook Ding's knife technique, by discerning the natural patterns of things, one can move through life with ease and freedom.

This passage uses several allegorical stories to illustrate Zhuangzi's philosophy of conforming to nature and transcending worldly concerns.

The metaphor of the pheasant states: A marsh pheasant takes ten steps to peck once at its food and a hundred steps to drink once from the water, yet it does not seek to be caged and fed by humans (the "fan" refers to a birdcage). To roam freely between heaven and earth, to be carefree in self-contentment—this is the true essence of nurturing life. Why must one be confined in a cage and fed by others? Even if one's spirit is vigorous (here, "wang" is interchangeable with "flourishing"), it may not necessarily be a good thing. A truly liberated person is at ease from the beginning, yet unaware of this ease—this is the state of forgetting ease itself.

Another story recounts how, when Laozi passed away, Qin Shi (a person's name) went to mourn him but only cried three times before leaving. A disciple asked, "Was he not your friend?" Qin Shi replied, "He was." The disciple did not understand why he cried only three times. Qin Shi explained: A truly enlightened person is free from worldly emotions, so crying a few times along with others is enough. He observed that some mourned as if they had lost a son, others as if they had lost a mother—these were excessive expressions of grief that violated natural disposition ("duntian" means to go against nature). The ancients called such excessive sorrow the "punishment of defying heaven"—though the body is unharmed, the spirit is already shackled by grief and joy.

The passage concludes by clarifying: Laozi's birth was a timely arrival ("shilai"), and his death was a natural departure ("shiqu"). To rest content with fate and adapt to change means that emotions of sorrow and joy will not disturb the heart. This is what the ancients called "release from hanging" ("xianjie" refers to liberation from bondage).

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of transcending worldly emotions and harmonizing with natural transformations.

First, it states that those who have truly attained the Dao are never troubled by joy or sorrow. All emotional fluctuations stem from attachments to gain and loss, while practitioners who comprehend the profound mysteries maintain inner peace regardless of circumstances, living in spontaneous harmony with the cosmic processes of Heaven and Earth. In this state, distinctions between gain/loss and life/death dissolve—one flows with destiny's arrangements, naturally free from emotional disturbances. The ancients called this state "the celestial emperor's liberation," meaning freedom from worldly entanglements and return to one's authentic life essence, which constitutes the essence of life cultivation.

The text then employs the metaphor of "passing the flame from torch to torch": just as when one bundle of firewood burns out, the flame transfers to the next, never extinguishing. Human life follows this same principle—through proper cultivation methods, the vital essence continues its transmission. Ordinary people focus only on the consumed firewood (the physical body) while overlooking the eternal transmission of life's flame (the spiritual essence).

The narrative shifts to Yan Hui's intention to visit the ruler of Wei. The young monarch acts with impulsive arrogance (disconnected from his people), wielding state power arbitrarily (where a single royal whim could fill streets with corpses or flood courts with sycophants), yet remains blind to his faults (as none dare admonish him). This concrete example illustrates how rulers who fail to align with natural principles and understand popular sentiment inevitably create severe consequences.

Throughout, the text emphasizes transcending personal attachments and conforming to natural law. Whether in personal cultivation or state governance, maintaining a mindset of Wuwei (non-action) and tranquil receptivity leads to genuine liberation and enduring harmony.

Zhuangzi here employs a dialogic format to expound profound principles of governing a state and cultivating the self.

The text states that those who casually send common people to their deaths view human lives as lightly as marshland weeds. Consequently, the people lose their foundation. Yan Hui once heard Confucius say: "A well-governed state may be left behind, but a chaotic state should be entered—just as a doctor’s door is always crowded with the sick." Yan Hui wished to use what he had learned to heal this troubled state. But Confucius warned him: "If you go like this, you will likely face execution." This is because the Dao (the Way) cannot be fragmented—fragmentation leads to confusion, confusion brings distress, and in the end, there will be no remedy. It is like seeking treatment from a hundred mediocre physicians, which only worsens the illness.

The perfected ones (zhiren) of ancient times first refined themselves before assisting others. If one has not yet cultivated oneself, how can one presume to correct the actions of a tyrant? The passage further points out: "The corruption of De (Virtue/Power) arises from the pursuit of fame, and the emergence of cunning stems from contention." Fame incites mutual destruction, and cunning becomes a tool for strife—both are instruments of harm and cannot be used to perfect one’s character.

Even if a person possesses profound De and is utterly trustworthy, yet fails to understand the nature of others; even if he does not compete for fame or profit, yet cannot grasp the thoughts of others—if he stubbornly tries to admonish a tyrant with moral doctrines like benevolence and righteousness, it amounts to flaunting his own virtues by highlighting others’ flaws. This is called "harming others." Those who harm others will inevitably be harmed in turn—your approach is far too dangerous!

(Note: The term "矼" refers to steadfast reliability; "绳墨," originally a carpenter’s straightedge, here symbolizes moral standards.)

Zhuangzi uses the story of Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) to illustrate how forcibly preaching benevolence and morality to others may instead invite disaster.

The text explains that when admonishing others while flaunting one's virtue (De) and reputation, if the listener misunderstands your intentions, they may perceive it as belittling them to elevate yourself. Therefore, those who have truly attained the Dao never deliberately use morality to change the world, but maintain a tranquil and receptive mind to accord with all things. Their sincerity naturally manifests between heaven and earth, while their non-contention spontaneously becomes evident through all phenomena. Only then will all beings naturally submit, and neither heaven nor earth will oppose them.

If one rigidly imposes moral standards on others ("zai ren"), they will inevitably retaliate with harm. It's like rulers who ostensibly admire the worthy and despise the incompetent—yet deliberately displaying your uniqueness will only invite calamity. For the moment you offer admonitions, those lords and nobles will suppress you with their authority, refute you with sophistry, leaving you dazzled and pale-faced, until you're forced to comply against your will.

This resembles using fire to extinguish fire or water to control water—only exacerbating the problem. Zhuangzi advocates maintaining an attitude of "no-mind" (wuxin) and practicing non-action (wuwei), through which ideal results can be naturally achieved.

This passage recounts the tragic stories of loyal ministers who remonstrated with tyrants only to be executed, along with Zhuangzi's profound reflections on such behavior.

The tyrant King Jie of Xia executed his virtuous minister Guan Longfeng, while King Zhou of Shang killed his uncle Bi Gan. Both ministers had cultivated their De (Virtue) and sought to protect the people in their ministerial roles, thereby challenging the ruler's authority. The tyrants persecuted them precisely because of their virtue - rulers feared their ministers' reputations might eclipse their own.

Historically, Emperor Yao waged war against the Congzhi and Xu'ao tribes, and Yu the Great attacked the Youhu clan, reducing these states to ruins. The people became vengeful spirits, and the rulers themselves suffered violent ends. These conflicts all stemmed from the pursuit of empty fame and material gain. Zhuangzi points out that tyrants not only indulge their desires but also chase after reputations that violate Daoist principles.

Even sages struggle to overcome desires for fame and profit - how much more difficult for ordinary people? When Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) asked whether presenting proper demeanor, maintaining humility, and being diligent might make remonstration effective, Zhuangzi categorically rejected this approach. The tyrant's heart brims with aggressive Qi (yang referring to hyperactive, agitated energy), his moods unpredictable - ordinary people simply cannot contend with such violent temperaments.

The text reveals several key insights: First, tyrants often persecute virtuous ministers out of jealousy. Second, wars and tyrannical governance frequently originate from greed for fame and profit. Third, mere moral cultivation cannot reform tyrants, whose twisted natures have become incomprehensible to ordinary people. Through these examples, Zhuangzi illustrates the difficulty of preserving both life and authentic nature in turbulent times.

This passage discusses three approaches to interacting with others: inner integrity, outward adaptability, and emulating the ancients.

Inner integrity means aligning with the natural Dao (following Heaven's way). Understanding that both rulers and commoners are born of nature, one neither seeks praise nor avoids criticism, maintaining an infant's pure heart. Others will call you childlike in your innocence—this is following heavenly principle.

Outward adaptability means conforming to societal norms (following human ways). When seeing others perform ceremonial bows, join them; when observing common practices, follow suit to avoid censure. This represents adapting externally to worldly etiquette.

Emulating the ancients means aligning with the wisdom of sages (following ancient ways). When speaking, quote classical teachings—though seemingly critical, these words carry no offense as they originate from the ancients. Thus even blunt speech avoids misfortune.

Yan Hui asked Confucius if this approach was viable. The Master replied: No! Such rigid adherence creates excessive rules without practicality (too many regulations lack adaptability). While each method has merit, mechanical application sacrifices necessary flexibility.

This dialogue recounts how Yan Hui sought Confucius' guidance on the practice of "heart-mind fasting" (xinzha), a method of inner purification. Yan Hui first mentioned he had abstained from wine and meat for months, asking if this constituted "fasting." Confucius replied that this was merely the external fasting for sacrificial rituals, not the true "heart-mind fasting."

Confucius explained the essence of heart-mind fasting: First, one must concentrate the spirit (yizhi, single-minded focus). Instead of listening with the ears, one should perceive with the heart-mind; going further, one should transcend even the heart-mind and perceive through qi (vital energy, a Daoist cultivation term referring to life force). This is because qi embodies the state of emptiness that can contain all things. When the inner self achieves complete emptiness and stillness, the Dao will naturally dwell within.

After comprehending this, Yan Hui remarked: Before mastering this method, he always felt the existence of "Yan Hui" as a real person; but upon truly entering this state, he no longer sensed "Yan Hui's" presence. Confucius praised this realization, affirming: Exactly! He then illustrated with a metaphor: Just as entering another's domain requires adapting to circumstances—engaging when there is resonance and withdrawing when there is none—all should follow natural flow without forcing anything.

The term "shixin" (obstinate mind) here refers to a state of rigid self-opinion, while "heart-mind fasting" represents the cultivation method of dissolving ego-attachment through emptiness and stillness. Through this teacher-disciple exchange, the dialogue vividly demonstrates the Daoist core philosophy of "emptying the self to respond to things."

This passage presents Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi, elucidating how spiritual practitioners should follow nature's course.

First, he explains the phrase "no gate, no governance" (wumen wudu): Practitioners should not establish artificial pathways (wumen) nor impose forceful control (wudu, where du means governance). Instead, they must allow all things to unfold naturally. One should dwell in the origin of the Dao (yizhai, "one abode") and comply with inevitable principles (bude yi), thus approaching truth.

Two analogies follow: Not walking at all is easy, but trying to walk without touching the ground is impossible. Similarly, wuwei (non-action) is easy, but attempting to act without harming one's innate nature is impossible. Being driven by others makes deception easy, but aligning with the Dao makes deception difficult, as natural laws are subtle and cannot be deceived.

Next, he states: Only with wings can one fly; only with wisdom can one perceive. Practitioners should be as pure as an empty room (symbolizing the mind)—"an empty chamber generates brightness" (xu shi sheng bai), and auspiciousness will naturally arrive. If the mind fails to maintain emptiness and stillness, it is like sitting yet running—the spirit (shen) will grow weary.

Finally, he concludes: When one closes off the senses (ermu nei tong, "ears and eyes turned inward") and abandons intellectual striving (wai yu xinzhi, "beyond heart-mind knowledge"), even spirits and deities will come to dwell within—how much more so will people? This is the mystery of all transformations and the realm attained by sages like Yu the Great.

The way of life followed by Emperor Shun was practiced throughout their lives even by sages like Fuxi and Ji Qu, let alone ordinary people like us. This passage teaches that all things are inherently equal in value - we perceive the world through the natural functions of mind and senses. True wisdom cannot be attained through forced striving, just as seeing with eyes and hearing with ears occur spontaneously. If sagehood could be achieved through deliberate effort, wouldn't everyone easily attain it? Sadly, most people misunderstand this principle.

People constantly strain to acquire Li Lou's legendary vision through forced "seeing," or seek to obtain Shi Kuang's musical discernment through artificial "listening." This creates inner agitation, exhausts the senses, causes physical discomfort, and alienates one from the natural world. In such a state, it becomes impossible to adapt to life's changes or respond to worldly uncertainties.

When Duke Ye Zigao of Chu was about to undertake a diplomatic mission to Qi, he consulted Confucius: "The King of Chu gives me this weighty responsibility, yet Qi may offer superficial courtesy while delaying substantive response. If commoners are hard to persuade, how much more so feudal lords? I'm deeply concerned." Confucius once advised him: "Few matters great or small reach satisfactory resolution without proper communication. Failure inevitably breeds interpersonal complications, while success brings emotional turmoil (Yin-Yang imbalance) from conflicting joy and anxiety. Only those of superior virtue (De) remain undisturbed by either outcome."

Regarding daily life, Confucius described himself as "eating plain food and drinking water" - illustrating how simple, unadorned living preserves mental tranquility (Shen). The core teaching here is to follow nature's flow (Dao), avoid forced striving (Wuwei), and maintain equanimity toward success or failure.

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's wisdom on navigating human existence. It begins by describing people who live with simplicity—they cook over fire yet do not crave cooling comforts, demonstrating their understanding of moderation. Like someone who receives a task in the morning and by evening drinks iced water to soothe anxiety, this actually reveals an excessively agitated mind.

Confucius spoke of two fundamental principles governing the world: the first is heavenly mandate (referring to innate natural relationships), such as a child's love for parents, which is engraved in one's bones; the second is moral duty, like a minister's service to the ruler, an inescapable responsibility woven into the fabric of existence. Just as a community requires leadership to maintain order, this reflects the natural way of things.

A truly filial person does not complain about circumstances but brings peace to their parents in any situation; a genuinely loyal official does not pick and choose tasks but fulfills duties in any position. Those who cultivate their inner nature maintain equanimity through joy and sorrow, accepting what cannot be changed—this represents the highest De (Virtue). To regard all experiences as manifestations of destiny, with a mind undisturbed like still water, merging with the Dao—this is the path beyond sorrow.

This passage elucidates principles for human conduct and verbal communication. For ministers and children, there are matters one cannot avoid undertaking, yet one should relinquish self-interested calculations. When acting in accordance with natural principles (Dao), affairs will be accomplished successfully without self-harm. Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not cling excessively to life or fear death.

In human interactions, close relationships should be cultivated through mutual influence with sincerity ("xiang mi yi xin" refers to building trust through genuine exchange), while distant communications require words to convey loyalty. Yet transmitting emotionally charged speech between parties is the most challenging task under heaven—words spoken in joy tend toward excessive praise, while words spoken in anger tend toward excessive disparagement. All exaggerated or untruthful words are unreliable, and those who transmit such speech invite misfortune. Thus the ancient teaching states: transmit only factual matters, not exaggerated words, for only thus can one preserve oneself.

Consider those who wrestle with technique: they begin with open fairness ("yang" denoting overt competition), but often end in covert trickery ("yin" denoting underhanded tactics). When carried to extremes, they employ every manner of artifice. Contrast this with those who drink ceremonially according to ritual: they begin observing proper hierarchy ("zhi" denoting protocol and decorum)... [Note: The parenthetical remarks contain Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi, explaining concepts like "yang" and "yin." This passage uses the contrasting examples of wrestling and ceremonial drinking to illustrate how human interactions should maintain sincere moderation, avoiding extremes.]

This passage elucidates the principle of knowing when to stop in human affairs. Just as every journey must reach its destination, excessive indulgence in pleasures ultimately leads to chaos (the phrase "泰至则多奇乐" refers to the over-pursuit of sensual enjoyment). All matters follow this pattern—what begins simply and purely often grows complex and uncontrollable by its conclusion ("其作始也简，其将毕也必巨").

Words are like wind and waves that easily stir up trouble ("言者风波也"), while actions may bring actual losses ("行者实丧也"). Anger often arises without particular cause, frequently triggered by honeyed words or extreme statements ("忿设无由，巧言偏辞"). Just as cornered beasts snarl desperately when facing death, humans too develop malicious thoughts in extreme circumstances ("兽死不择音").

Excessive harshness in demands ("克核太至") will instead provoke negative responses. The truly wise ("大人" denotes those of virtuous character) understand the importance of tolerant conduct—they refrain from forcing others beyond their capacities, thereby maintaining harmonious relationships. Those who fail to comprehend this principle will struggle to foresee outcomes.

Hence the ancient saying: Do not arbitrarily alter established commands ("无迁令"), nor forcibly push matters to completion ("无劝成"). Excessive interference ruins affairs, while genuine achievements require time to mature ("美成在久"). Rash actions produce regrettable consequences that allow no time for remedy ("恶成不及改"). The ideal state is to accommodate external circumstances while maintaining inner freedom ("乘物以游心").

This passage recounts how Yan He (a recluse from the state of Lu), upon being appointed as tutor to the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei, sought advice from Qu Boyu (a virtuous minister of Wei) on dealing with violent-tempered individuals.

Qu Boyu's counsel was: First rectify your own conduct ("正女身哉" - zheng nü shen zai), maintaining an outwardly approachable demeanor ("形莫若就" - xing mo ruo jiu) while preserving inner equanimity ("心莫若和" - xin mo ruo he). However, two principles must be observed: approachability shouldn't lead to moral compromise ("就不欲入" - jiu bu yu ru), and harmony shouldn't be ostentatiously displayed ("和不欲出" - he bu yu chu). If surface-level approachability overrides principles, one risks being dragged down; if inner harmony is conspicuously displayed, it invites jealousy and misfortune.

Qu Boyu described the crown prince Kuai Kui's violent temperament as "与天杀物" (yu tian sha wu - like heaven's destructive force), noting such people only perceive others' faults without understanding their root causes. When dealing with such difficult personalities, the optimal approach is responding naturally ("莫若为致命" - mo ruo wei zhi ming) without forcibly attempting to change them.

This passage illustrates the principles of aligning with nature and maintaining proper measure in human affairs through vivid analogies.

First is the example of an infant: If others are as innocent as a baby, respond with equal sincerity; if they act without rigid boundaries, adapt to their manner; if they are unrestrained, follow suit with informality. The key is to achieve a state of seamless harmony, like fish scales naturally overlapping without resistance (the infant here symbolizes a state of no-mind, though some interpret it as representing unfettered freedom).

Next comes the allusion to the mantis blocking a chariot: The mantis angrily raises its forelegs to stop the wheels, unaware of its utter incapacity. While its courage is admirable (the mantis' defiant posture isn't without dignity), insisting on undertaking what exceeds one's capacity is as perilous as the mantis' gesture. Beware! The more one relies on personal ability to force confrontations, the closer one approaches disaster (accumulated talents become your advantage, but using them to force outcomes is the way of danger).

Then follows the wisdom of tiger-keeping: Experienced handlers never feed live prey lest it awaken the beast's killing instinct, nor offer whole carcasses that might provoke rage during tearing. They master the rhythms of its hunger and appease its anger. Though tigers differ from humans, they grow fond of caretakers who follow their nature, while those harmed by tigers invariably violate their instincts (following natural patterns creates affection across species; opposing inherent nature turns even kin into foes).

Finally, the cautionary tale of the horse-lover: He collects manure in precious baskets and urine in mother-of-pearl vessels (such extravagant containers for filth reveal his devotion). Yet when swarms bother the horse, sudden swatting (though meant to help) startles it into breaking its bit and injuring itself (well-intentioned harm causing unintended damage). Can one afford carelessness? (Destroying what one cherishes through rash action betrays the original good intention).

This story tells of Artisan Shi (named Shi the Craftsman) traveling to the state of Qi. Passing through Quyuan, he encountered a sacred oak tree worshipped as the village altar deity. The tree's canopy could shelter thousands of oxen, its trunk required a hundred men to encircle, and its crown pierced the clouds with branches beginning only after rising several hundred feet—dozens of which were large enough to build ships. Crowds gathered to admire it like at a marketplace, yet the craftsman walked past without a glance.

His apprentice, after gazing his fill, caught up and said: "Since following your instruction in carpentry, I've never seen such magnificent timber. Why didn't you even look at it, Master?" Artisan Shi replied: "Enough—don't mention that tree. It's 'scattered wood' (useless timber). Boats made from it would sink, coffins would rot quickly, tools would break, doors would ooze resin, and beams would be worm-eaten. Precisely because it's utterly useless has it lived so long."

That night, the oak appeared to him in a dream: "By what standard do you measure me? Would you compare me to 'patterned wood' (useful trees)? Fruit trees like pears, oranges, and pomelos—their ripe fruits get plucked, their branches broken. Their usefulness becomes their undoing, preventing them from reaching natural lifespans, cut down prematurely by worldly forces. All creatures meet this fate!"

The oak continued: "Long have I sought 'uselessness,' nearly being felled many times before finally achieving this aim today. My very 'uselessness' constitutes my 'great usefulness' (enduring value). Had I been useful, could I have grown so vast? In truth, you and I are both natural beings—why judge each other by 'useful' or 'useless' standards? You, clinging to worldly measures—how could you understand the realm of 'scattered wood'?"

Through the oak's words, this parable illuminates the Daoist concept of "the usefulness of the useless"—that which seems worthless may preserve itself and realize greater value. Artisan Shi represents worldly utilitarian standards, while the oak embodies survival wisdom that transcends utility and follows nature's course.

Nanguo Ziqi (a fictional Daoist sage in the Zhuangzi) was wandering in Shangqiu (present-day Henan Province) when he came upon an extraordinary tree. Its canopy was so vast that a thousand chariots could find shade beneath it. Upon closer inspection, he noticed: its twisted branches were too crooked to serve as roof beams; its trunk's loose grain made it unsuitable for coffins; licking its leaves would blister one's mouth, and its scent could intoxicate a person for three days.

This tree's immense size resulted precisely from its "uselessness." The story parallels the earlier account of Carpenter Shi dreaming of a "worthless tree." When his disciples asked why such a useless tree became the sacred shrine tree for the Earth God, the carpenter replied, "Hush! It's merely by chance that the tree serves as the spirit's abode." The tree itself would consider such "honor" a disgrace, as it implies being exploited for utility. True self-preservation lies in emulating this tree's "purposelessness"—neither aspiring to be a pillar of state nor coveting the status of shrine tree, thereby avoiding the ax.

The perfected person (shenren) embodies this wisdom of "purposelessness." While ordinary people strive to demonstrate usefulness for survival, the Daoist sage preserves themselves through "having no utility." To judge this wisdom by worldly standards of usefulness would be as misguided as praising the great tree for its shrine tree status—a complete misunderstanding of its true value.

Zhuangzi employs vivid metaphors here to reveal the profound philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless." First, he depicts an ideal way of governance: those with sharp eyesight are assigned to observe, those with keen hearing to listen, the wise offer counsel, and the brave stand guard. The ruler need only maintain a state of emptiness and wuwei (non-action), allowing all talents to find their proper place—even those who appear useless can fulfill unique roles.

The text then illustrates how "usefulness" can invite misfortune through the fate of trees in the Jing clan's lands of Song: sturdy catalpas, cypresses, and mulberries are felled to make monkey posts, boat timber, or coffins, never living out their natural lifespans. Three more examples follow—a white-foreheaded ox, a high-nosed pig, and a man with hemorrhoids—all spared from sacrificial rites because shamans deemed them inauspicious. Precisely these "flaws" preserved their lives.

Finally, the deformed man Zhili Shu is described: his chin buried in his navel, shoulders towering above his head, topknot pointing skyward, internal organs visible through his skin, thighbones serving as ribs. Yet he supports himself by mending clothes and telling fortunes for ten family members, never conscripted into military service. These examples demonstrate that what the world views as defects and "uselessness" are, from the Daoist perspective, great wisdom for preserving life. The shenren (perfected beings) understand this truth, thus flowing with nature unperturbed by worldly concepts of fortune and misfortune.

This passage from the Zhuangzi uses the story of Zhili Shu (a fictional character with physical deformities) to illustrate the Daoist wisdom of appearing useless to preserve oneself. With his hunched back, retracted neck, and upward-pointing hair bun, Zhili Shu’s internal organs and acupoints were all exposed. Yet precisely because of his disabilities, he was exempted from forced labor and even received government relief grain and firewood. Zhuangzi thus demonstrates: if even a physically deformed person can live out his natural lifespan, how much more secure must those with "fractured De (Virtue/Power)"—meaning those who conceal their talents—be on the Daoist path?

The text then shifts to the allegory of Chu Kuang Jieyu (a recluse of Chu) satirizing Confucius, further elaborating Daoist philosophy of living. Using the "phoenix" as a metaphor for Confucius, Chu Kuang laments his moral decline (referring to Confucius’s travels promoting benevolence and righteousness). He reflects: the future cannot be anticipated, the past cannot be reclaimed—the sage harmonizes with circumstances. When the world follows the Dao, he accomplishes great deeds; when the world descends into chaos, he preserves his life. In these troubled times, merely avoiding punishment is fortunate enough. True blessings are light as feathers, yet no one knows how to bear them (referring to following nature); disasters weigh as heavy as the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid them (referring to resisting nature).

At its core, this passage embodies the Daoist concept of "the usefulness of the useless": seemingly flawed forms (like Zhili Shu) and seemingly passive attitudes (like Chu Kuang Jieyu) conceal profound wisdom for preserving life and aligning with the times. The phrase "fracturing one’s De" refers to deliberately obscuring virtue and ability, mirroring "fracturing one’s form"—both serve to avoid becoming tools for exploitation.

Let what the eyes see come naturally, knowing where to stop and stopping there; do not force what lies beyond one's capacity. Acting in accordance with one's innate nature, remaining inwardly at ease without being entangled by external trivialities—this is the highest state of Wuwei (non-action).

Those who truly embody Wuwei have no incomplete nature; and those whose nature is whole cannot fail to receive blessings. What we call blessings are simply the natural state of a fulfilled nature, requiring no external aid. Why insist on carrying something as light as a feather? To act in alignment with one's nature, never exceeding its bounds, is the easiest thing in the world; to let things manifest naturally is the most effortless state.

Yet people often harm their nature with endless intellectual pursuits, allowing greed to disturb their innate authenticity. They abandon the simplest method of Wuwei, instead chasing laborious, deliberate actions; they forsake the natural ease of "self-realization," shouldering the heavy burden of "carrying others"—this is the common mistake of the world.

Disaster is heavier than the earth, yet no one knows how to avoid it. Those who focus on inner cultivation bear ten thousand burdens without feeling their weight, while those entangled in external things collapse under even a feather's weight. Inner blessings are the lightest, yet worldly misfortunes are the heaviest. And still, people remain oblivious to the heaviest of calamities—what greater delusion could there be?

Enough! Enough! Those who impose moral standards on others—how perilous they are! It is like drawing lines on the ground and demanding others walk precisely upon them, the traces too obvious. To cling to one's own standards and impose them on the world is to stand in opposition to all things. Thus, the truly wise do not flaunt themselves to overshadow others but let each shine naturally; they do not bind others with morality but allow all to grow freely. Only then can they embrace all things, unite with heaven and earth, and attain true blessings both within and without.

Oh hidden light, do not obstruct my path. Concealing brilliance, maintaining independence, unmoved by external things—this is how my path remains whole. If all under heaven can be fully themselves, then every "I" will be complete. Trees on the mountain are felled for their usefulness; oil burns itself to provide light. The cassia is cut down for its edible bark, the lacquer tree wounded for its sap. People all know the usefulness of the "useful," but none understand the wonder of the "useless."

This passage discusses the story of Wang Tai, the footless man from the state of Lu in the Zhuangzi·De Chong Fu (The Sign of Virtue Complete), revealing the profound philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless."

What appears useless may in fact have great utility (while useful things serve others, the useless preserve themselves). Those who sacrifice themselves for the world earn people's praise, yet those who enable the masses to retain their instinct for self-preservation while allowing everyone to live comfortably and freely often go unnoticed in their subtle profundity.

"De Chong Fu" (The Sign of Virtue Complete) means that when inner virtue is fulfilled, one naturally resonates with all things externally. The mysterious correspondence between inner and outer realms fits as perfectly as matching tally tokens, making people forget even his physical deformities.

In the state of Lu, there was a footless man named Wang Tai whose followers were as numerous as Confucius's. Chang Ji (possibly a disciple of Confucius) asked Confucius: "Wang Tai is physically disabled, yet he shares Lu's disciples equally with you. He neither actively teaches nor sits discoursing on the Dao, yet his students come empty-handed and return fulfilled. Could there truly be teaching without words, spiritual growth achieved through formless means?" (This indicates that while Wang Tai's body was incomplete, his spirit was whole—this spiritual completeness made people forget physical forms and organs, suddenly transcending worldly attachments, becoming inseparable from all things under heaven.)

Confucius replied: "This gentleman is a sage! I merely haven't gone to follow him yet. I myself would take him as teacher, let alone those lesser than me. Not just Lu—I would lead all under heaven to follow him." (This shows that those with complete spiritual fulfillment merge body and all things mysteriously, naturally attracting people from everywhere, not just one state.)

Chang Ji further asked: "Though disabled, he surpasses you, Master, standing far above ordinary men. How does such a person employ his mind?" Confucius answered: "Life and death represent life's greatest transformation (though human existence is full of changes, none compare to life and death), yet they cannot affect him (because he has united with transformation itself—thus life and death hold no sway). Even if heaven collapsed and earth split, he would not perish with them (for he follows transformation—if even heaven and earth cannot change him, how much less life and death?)."

In this dialogue between Confucius and Chang Ji, Zhuangzi reveals two fundamental perspectives for viewing things. From the perspective of difference, the liver and gallbladder, though adjacent, may seem as distant as the states of Chu and Yue; yet from the perspective of sameness, all things are essentially one. Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not stubbornly cling to distinctions of right and wrong, but rather embrace all phenomena with an inclusive mind.

This state manifests in three levels: first recognizing that superficial differences among things are insignificant, then understanding that pursuing sameness is equally meaningless, and finally attaining the absolute realm that transcends judgments of right/wrong and beauty/ugliness. Those who reach this state naturally transcend sensory preferences (no longer obsessing over what ears should hear or eyes should see), allowing their spirit to roam freely in the harmonious embodiment of De (the manifestation of Dao).

When such people behold the world, they perceive only the unified essence of all things, blind to so-called deficiencies. To them, losing a foot would be as inconsequential as losing a clod of earth. This is because their minds have merged with the Great Dao, embracing all things with the subtlest wisdom—neither resisting change nor despising external objects, forever maintaining a state of transcendent freedom.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's profound insights on life and death, the self, and the relationship between all things.

First, it explains that the transformations of life and death are simply different states of the "self." Living is one mode of my existence, and death is my natural destination; gathering is my form, and dispersing is also my state. Though gathering and scattering differ, both are manifestations of the "self." Therefore, one need not rejoice in life nor grieve in death, for life and death are ultimately one. Understanding this principle allows one to transcend the constraints of life and death, attaining a state of unity between self and all things. Death becomes as effortless as removing shoes, and losing the body is as inconsequential as discarding dirt—neither troubles the mind.

Chang Ji (a fictional character in Zhuangzi) questions the enlightenment of Wang Tai (an accomplished Daoist), arguing that he has not yet fully forgotten knowledge and self. Confucius responds with an analogy: people do not use flowing water as a mirror but prefer still water. Wang Tai draws followers naturally, just as still water reflects all things effortlessly—it is not done deliberately. The pine and cypress remain evergreen through all seasons because they embody the essence of Heaven and Earth; Emperor Shun became a sage because he attained the natural, upright Qi (vital energy). These are all spontaneous achievements, not the result of forced striving.

Finally, it emphasizes that true courage does not seek fame but preserves one's original nature. Just as the pine and cypress stand tall naturally, inspiring emulation, the sage influences others simply by rectifying himself. Maintaining one's primal essence is the foundation of genuine fearlessness. A truly courageous warrior may charge alone into an army of thousands, but this bravery arises from inner cultivation, not external glory.

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning: first discussing the realm of Daoist cultivation, then presenting a parable.

The first part describes the state of accomplished Daoist practitioners: Those who have truly attained the Dao (the Way) remain detached even from important affairs (never forcing actions for fame). Such individuals maintain unwavering original intent (preserving their fundamental heart-mind from initial practice to ultimate realization). They perceive heaven and earth as a storehouse to manage, and regard all things as treasures in a repository (merging with all existence). They treat their bodies as temporary dwellings ("six skeletal parts" referring to head, torso and limbs), using eyes and ears without becoming enslaved by them (observing through senses yet remaining unbound by sensory limitations). Their wisdom flows with transformations (cognition synchronized with change), and their inner spirit (Shen) never perishes (the mind transcends life and death). Such practitioners can ascend to the supreme state at any moment ("ascending in transcendence" refers to reaching the realm of Dao), never preoccupied with worldly matters.

The second part recounts the story of Shentu Jia and Zichan: Shentu Jia, a man with amputated feet, studied under Bohun Wuren alongside Zichan, the prime minister of Zheng. Zichan disdainfully said, "If I go first, you stay behind; if you go first, I'll stay behind" (unwilling to walk alongside a disabled person). The next day during lessons, he repeated this and demanded, "Shouldn't you defer when meeting the chief administrator? Do you presume equality with the state minister?" Shentu Jia retorted, "What place has administrative rank in our master's presence? (This is a place for discussing Dao, not comparing official status) Your display of official prestige precisely reveals your lack of cultivation."

(Note: "Nine armies" is an ancient military term referring to comprehensive battlefield deployment; "ascending in transcendence" is a Daoist technical term denoting achieving the Dao and celestial ascension; "Bohun Wuren" is Zhuangzi's fictional name for an accomplished Daoist master)

This dialogue between Zichan and Shentu Jia reveals profound Daoist insights into fate and self-awareness.

A mirror that is clear does not accumulate dust; if dust gathers, it loses its clarity. Likewise, one who associates long with sages will be free from faults. Zichan reproached Shentu Jia, saying: "The teacher you now follow is a great sage, yet you still speak in this manner—is this not a fault?" Shentu Jia was physically disabled, and Zichan believed he should reflect on whether his own virtue (De) was sufficient.

Shentu Jia replied: "People always justify themselves—many claim they do not deserve misfortune, while few silently accept fate and acknowledge they deserve their lot. Only those with true virtue (De) can understand that some things cannot be changed and thus calmly accept destiny. It is like standing within the range of the legendary archer Yi’s bow: to be struck is expected, while avoiding it is mere luck."

He elaborated further: "We do not choose to be born, nor can we fully control the circumstances, actions, or temperament of our lives—these all follow the natural order (Dao). To insist on joy or sorrow over such things is to defy the principles of nature. Those who gloat over narrowly escaping calamity or resentfully lament misfortune have not truly grasped the essence of fate."

(Note: Yi was a mythical archer of ancient legend, and "within the range of his bow" refers to the area where his arrows could strike. This dialogue embodies the Zhuangzi school’s philosophy of "resting content in the time and following along with things" (安时处顺), advocating acceptance of nature’s arrangements and harmony with fate.)

This passage recounts Zhuangzi's use of a disabled man's story to expound the philosophy of "forgetting the physical form." There was a man named Shushan Wuzhi (Toeless) who lost his toes in youth due to neglecting his body, leaving him to walk on tiptoes. When he visited Confucius, the sage remarked, "Your earlier carelessness brought this misfortune—what use is seeking instruction now?"

Wuzhi replied, "I lost my toes precisely because I failed to value life properly and treated my body recklessly. Now I come because I understand there exists something more precious than toes (referring to human virtue/de [德])." He used heaven and earth as metaphors: Heaven doesn't deliberately cover all things yet shelters everything; Earth doesn't consciously bear all things yet supports them all. When one acts with deliberate intention, limitations arise.

The text also mentions how Zichan, a minister of Zheng, initially mocked the disabled man's appearance but later changed his attitude in shame after being enlightened. Through these dialogues, Zhuangzi illustrates that truly wise individuals (zhiren 至人) can see through fate and transcend physical limitations. People should release attachment to external form and cultivate inner virtue. The physical body is but a temporary lodging—not worth excessive concern—while maintaining life's authentic state (benxing 本真) remains essential.

This passage recounts the dialogue between Confucius and Wuzhi (a recluse who had his toes amputated), as well as Wuzhi's discussion with Lao Dan (Laozi), revealing the Daoist perspective on worldly learning versus the natural Dao.

Wuzhi criticizes Confucius for being overly constrained by conventional knowledge, likening it to a boat that can carry people but will eventually sink. He implies that Confucius's attachment to artificial learning prevents him from attaining the eternal naturalness of heaven and earth. Upon hearing this, Confucius humbly admits his own superficiality and invites Wuzhi inside for further discussion, but Wuzhi chooses to leave, maintaining his state of Wuwei (non-action).

Later, Confucius tells his disciples: "Even someone like Wuzhi, who suffers physical impairment, strives to learn and make amends for past mistakes—how much more should those with complete virtue?" Here, "those with complete virtue" refers to those who are naturally liberated from life and death, without deliberate pursuit.

Wuzhi says to Lao Dan: "Confucius has probably not yet attained the state of the Perfected Person. Why does he keep busily seeking instruction from you? He pursues these strange and empty reputations, unaware that they become shackles for the Perfected Person." Lao Dan suggests: "Why not directly tell him that life and death are one, that 'can' and 'cannot' are fundamentally indistinguishable, and thus free him from these bonds?" Wuzhi replies: "This is Heaven's punishment for him—it cannot be undone." The implication is that while Confucius understands the principles intellectually, his actions inevitably leave traces of reputation, just as form must cast a shadow and sound must produce an echo. These reputations become his fetters. Only by truly comprehending this truth can one break free from the shackles of fame.

Duke Ai of Lu once consulted Confucius, saying: "In the state of Wei there lives an extremely ugly man named Aitai Tuo. After spending time with him, men become so attached that they cannot bear to leave; women who meet him beg their parents saying 'Rather than being another man's principal wife, I'd prefer to be this man's concubine'—there are already dozens of such women. He never initiates anything, merely harmonizes with others in a natural way."

"This man holds no sovereign power to save people from mortal danger, nor does he possess vast wealth to feed the hungry. His appearance is shockingly ugly, yet crowds follow him. His wisdom doesn't exceed ordinary matters, yet even birds and beasts feel drawn to him. There must be something extraordinary about him."

When Duke Ai summoned him, he indeed found the man's appearance horrifying. But within a month of association, the Duke sensed his exceptional qualities; within a year, he placed complete trust in him, eventually entrusting him with state affairs. Aitai Tuo accepted this indifferently, as if under compulsion. When he later departed, Duke Ai felt profoundly bereft, as if the entire state had lost its flavor.

Confucius explained this phenomenon using the metaphor of piglets nursing: The piglets cluster around their mother while feeding, but scatter in terror upon discovering she's dead. This illustrates how all creatures are drawn by inner vitality (De/Virtue) rather than external form. Though Aitai Tuo was physically repulsive, the radiance of his inner De naturally attracted both people and creatures around him.

This passage discusses the relationship between "form" (形) and "De" (德 Virtue/Power). Zhuangzi argues that what people truly love is not external physical form, but inner De. Just as an infant (赤子), due to its pure and abundant De, remains unharmed wherever it goes.

Several examples illustrate this: warriors who die in battle need no burial with their weapons (翣, the fan-shaped ceremonial implements of ancient warriors); those who have lost their feet no longer cherish shoes—because these objects have lost their fundamental purpose. Similarly, when selecting imperial consorts, the emperor values physical wholeness, and husbands prevent their wives from overexerting to preserve bodily integrity.

Yet Zhuangzi points out that physical wholeness is merely superficial; what truly matters is "De complete" (德全)—the perfection of inner Virtue. He cites the example of Aitai Tuo (a fictional figure): this man gained trust without speaking and won affection without merit, so much so that a ruler wished to entrust him with the state. This exemplifies "talent complete yet De unmanifest" (才全而德不形).

Confucius explains "talent complete" thus: Life and death, survival and ruin; poverty and wealth, honor and baseness; worthiness and incompetence; slander and praise, hunger and thirst; heat and cold—these are all natural patterns of Heaven's movement. Those with true De understand these changes are fated, thus maintaining inner peace undisturbed by external things. Though heaven and earth are vast, humans need only abide in what they encounter—not even divine sages can contravene this principle.

This passage expounds the Daoist attitude of following nature's course and accepting one's destiny. The general meaning is:

All events encountered in human life are predestined—what is meant to come cannot be avoided, and what isn't meant to be cannot be forced. The alternation of day and night, the turning of fate, flows endlessly like running water. The truly wise do not obsess over tracing destiny's origins (as these lie beyond human power to alter), but instead maintain contentment wherever they find themselves.

Preserving inner peace is paramount. The so-called "spiritual abode" (referring to one's mental world) should remain as clear and undisturbed as still water. Even when facing major life changes involving life and death, poverty and prosperity, one maintains composure. With a peaceful and joyful heart undisturbed by external circumstances, one naturally harmonizes with all things, nourishing them as effortlessly as spring nurtures all beings.

Regarding the explanation of "complete talent" (fully developed capability): Just as still water provides the truest level surface that can serve as a standard, maintaining inner clarity (internal cultivation) while showing no outward fluctuations (external manifestation) constitutes perfect De (Virtue). Genuine De requires no deliberate display, yet all things naturally gravitate toward it, just as water naturally flows downward.

In this state of being, actions naturally succeed and harmony with all things arises spontaneously. This is the De that permeates everywhere without deliberate manifestation.

Duke Ai of Lu once said to Min Ziqian: "Initially, as ruler of the state, I governed the people believing I had mastered the principles of administration. I concerned myself with the people's life and death, thinking I thoroughly understood statecraft. But now, having heard the words of those who have attained the Dao, I fear I possess no true capability—that my reckless exercise of authority might lead the state to ruin. My relationship with Confucius (Kong Qiu) is not that of ruler and minister, but of friends united by De (Virtue)."

(Here the text mentions "hearing the formless wind of De"—when one comprehends that Virtue is like an intangible breeze, even a ruler like Duke Ai comes to disregard physical form and forget distinctions of nobility.) A hunchbacked, crippled man with a twisted body went to persuade Duke Ling of Wei, who so delighted in him that afterward, normal people seemed to have overly slender necks. Another man with a massive goiter went to advise Duke Huan of Qi, who likewise took such pleasure in him that ordinary necks afterward appeared too thin. (This illustrates how when preferences become fixated, people mistake ugliness for beauty and beauty for ugliness.)

Thus when a person's De is remarkable, others forget their physical flaws; conversely, when De is lacking, people overlook their physical advantages. Ordinary people persistently remember what should be forgotten (like clinging to form) while forgetting what should be remembered (like Virtue)—this is true forgetfulness. The sages wander freely in the realm of the attained Dao because they perfectly unite talent with Virtue.

Wisdom may become calamity, oaths may become shackles, humaneness may become barter, and skill may become merchandise (these four all emerge naturally). But the sage needs no schemes—what use has he for wisdom? He carves no vessels—what need for glue? He suffers no loss—what call for charity? He trades no goods—what use for commerce? These four capacities (no scheming, no carving, no loss, no trade) are all natural endowments from Heaven.

(Note: The terms "hunchbacked cripple" and "gourd-necked goiter" describe the disabled persuaders. "Heavenly nurture" refers to innate endowments bestowed by nature.)

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's philosophical perspective on "being without emotions." Tianyu (natural nurturing) means being nourished by Heaven—since humans already receive sustenance from nature, why deliberately pursue artificial things?

Zhuangzi maintains that although humans possess human form and appearance, they should maintain a state of "emotionlessness"—like withered branches devoid of emotional fluctuations. Precisely because we have human form, we can dwell among people; precisely because we are without emotions, we avoid becoming entangled in disputes of right and wrong. Outwardly, humans appear insignificant, but from the perspective of spiritual attainment, maintaining emotionlessness allows one to merge with Heaven and Earth, achieving a realm of incomparable vastness.

Huizi asked Zhuangzi: "Can a person truly be without emotions?" Zhuangzi replied that it was possible. Huizi objected: "Without emotions, how can one still be called human?" Zhuangzi explained: Human form is bestowed by the Dao, and our physical bodies are fashioned by nature—is this not sufficient to be called human? He further clarified that individuals like Li Zhu (the legendary sharp-eyed archer) and Shi Kuang (the legendary musician) did not acquire their talents through deliberate pursuit, just as sages did not become sages by harboring aspirations to be sages. Like the deaf and blind, or like roosters crowing and dogs barking, these phenomena do not arise from emotional prompting. Zhuangzi advocates following nature's course without forced striving.

This dialogue recounts a discussion between Zhuangzi and Huizi on the true meaning of "being without emotions" (无情). Huizi questions how a person could possibly lack emotions, to which Zhuangzi explains that his concept of "being without emotions" does not mean having no feelings at all, but rather not allowing personal likes and dislikes to harm one's inherent nature.

Zhuangzi argues that when infants are first born, their eyes do not consciously seek milk, their ears do not intentionally listen to sounds, and their hands and feet do not deliberately grasp objects—these instinctive actions are not controlled by emotions. The human form and life are bestowed by the Dao (the cosmic origin) and nature; one need only follow what is natural without adding artificial preferences that could damage one's innate being.

Huizi remains unconvinced and asks, if one does not consciously cultivate life, how can the body remain healthy? Zhuangzi replies that human form and life's essence are already complete; by following natural principles, the body will naturally thrive. Yet Huizi exhausts his spirit by reciting poetry while leaning against a tree trunk or dozing against a withered log—actions that stem from being troubled by worldly emotions.

In the end, Zhuangzi points out that Huizi's behaviors, though seemingly emotional, actually contradict innate nature. The transformations of all things follow natural laws—why impose artificial emotions? The so-called "heavenly chosen" (天选) form is disrupted by Huizi's use of concepts like "hardness and whiteness" (坚白, referring to Huizi's logical debates), which are mere human constructs.