《莊子注》Vol. 4

This passage is Guo Xiang's commentary on the "Webbed Toes" chapter from the Outer Chapters of the Zhuangzi, discussing the distinction between innate nature and artificial conventions.

Webbed toes or forked fingers are naturally formed, yet appear superfluous when judged by moral standards; skin tags and hanging warts grow naturally on the body, yet seem burdensome to our innate nature. Guo Xiang points out that what is long is not excessive, nor is what is short deficient—these variations all emerge naturally, not imposed by external forces. To seek their removal because they seem redundant would violate the Dao's fundamental principle of embracing all things. Phenomena like webbed toes, sixth fingers, or skin tags, though deviating from common norms, are all integral parts of one's natural constitution.

The commentary then critiques the excessive pursuit of humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi): Treating these virtues as multiple regulations may create orderly arrangements like the five organs, but this contradicts authentic Virtue (De). Those who harmonize spontaneously with all things require few conventions, while those obsessed with ren-yi standards resemble people forcing all phenomena into rigid frameworks. Some, hearing that "the many" lack the refinement of "the few," wish to discard the majority to preserve the minority—this amounts to abandoning the entire world, a truly absurd notion.

The conclusion states: Artificially joined toes are merely useless flesh, and extra fingers mere ornamental redundancies. Similarly, overemphasizing ren-yi is like publicly displaying the five organs—it doesn't reflect the authentic state of Virtue. Through these metaphors, Guo Xiang illustrates how human-imposed standards often distort natural endowment.

Zhuangzi here criticizes how people excessively pursue external talents to the detriment of their natural essence. He provides several vivid examples:

Those born with webbed fingers (pianmu) possess this as a natural physical characteristic, not something deliberately cultivated for utility. Yet people often view such natural states as superfluous branches to be pruned.

In matters of humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi), excessive pursuit leads people astray. Just as the five viscera each have their natural functions, overemphasizing humaneness and righteousness is like forcing organs to perform beyond their inherent capacities. Overusing the eyes leads to obsession with dazzling colors (as with Li Zhu's exceptional color discernment), while overusing the ears creates fixation on musical tones (as with Shi Kuang's mastery of pitch) - both cases represent disturbances to natural sensory functions.

Some deliberately elevate their virtue (like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu) to gain fame, causing society to blindly follow unrealistic standards. This does greater harm than the tyranny of Jie and Zhou. Others like Yang Zhu and Mo Di become obsessed with sophistry, spending days analyzing logical paradoxes like "hardness and whiteness" or "sameness and difference," crafting elegant but useless arguments that only disrupt proper discourse.

Zhuangzi points out that true harm lies not in innate limitations or talents, but in people's constant envy of what they lack. Li Zhu's sharp vision and Shi Kuang's acute hearing were their natural endowments, yet ordinary people forcibly pursue such abilities, thereby shackling their own inherent nature. Preserving one's authentic state without deliberately chasing superfluities represents the wholeness of human nature.

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's understanding of "zheng" (the correct path) through vivid metaphors demonstrating how all things possess innate natures that suffer when forcibly altered.

Just as tying tiles with knotted ropes, straightening bent hooks, or dismantling intact vessels represent artificial human interventions contrary to the world's purest natural Dao, those who deliberately pursue novelty are actually imposing their partial standards upon all creation.

The true correct path lies in preserving each thing's inherent nature. Consider the wild duck (fu) whose legs are naturally short—lengthening them would cause suffering; or the crane whose legs are naturally long—shortening them would bring grief. Thus what is inherently long needs no shortening, and what is inherently short needs no lengthening—this way, no sorrow arises.

The text further observes that humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi) are originally natural human sentiments, yet excessive anxiety about whether they conform to human feelings becomes superfluous worry. Like someone with fused toes who would weep if forcibly separated, or extra fingers that would provoke cries if bitten off—whether in surplus or deficit, forced changes inflict equal suffering.

Zhuangzi maintains that only by letting all things abide in their innate natures, without forcibly altering their inborn forms, can everything achieve natural fulfillment without harm. This philosophy of following nature's course embodies the core Daoist principle of "governing through wuwei (non-action)."

These so-called benevolent men today go about with furrowed brows, perpetually worrying about the world's misfortunes (as if their vision were obscured by wormwood). They advocate universal love, yet only succeed in making everyone exhaust themselves in futile efforts. This use of seemingly noble conduct to stir people's anxieties is like first pushing someone into peril before rescuing them—yet contemporary society considers this to be righteousness.

As for those lacking benevolence, they violate their innate nature in pursuit of wealth and status (precisely because such things have been artificially exalted). Had no artificial standards of nobility been established, people would naturally remain content within their means. Why would they strain to emulate others in grasping for what was never meant to be theirs?

Thus, is not this "righteousness" fundamentally contrary to human nature? Since the Three Dynasties of antiquity, why has the world become so clamorous and disordered? (Though benevolence and righteousness are intrinsic to human feeling, post-Three Dynasties people clamor to abandon their true nature for superficial forms—is this not self-inflicted suffering?)

Consider further: Using compasses and squares to rectify objects actually injures their innate qualities; binding things with cords and glue violates their essential nature. Restraining people with elaborate rites and music, or pacifying them with artificial benevolence—these all defy the natural order of things.

All things under heaven follow their own natural patterns: The curved need no hooks to straighten, the straight need no strings to align, the round require no compass, the square no ruler. Things join without glue and bind without ropes. All beings grow spontaneously without knowing why, each finding its place without understanding how (for all things follow inherent principles—when left undisturbed, they achieve perfection unconsciously).

Thus, the fundamental nature of things remains unchanged from past to present (all existence shares one principle, undivided and eternally complete). If so, why must benevolence and righteousness intrude upon the natural Way like glue and ropes? (Following the Dao's spontaneity returns us to pristine simplicity—why force artificial morality upon it?) Such efforts only bewilder the world (imposing righteousness forcibly makes people lose their authenticity). Minor confusion misleads one's direction, while major confusion perverts one's very nature (like reversing east and west—superficially different, yet fundamentally unchanged).

Zhuangzi here critiques the Confucian emphasis on benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi). He argues that ever since Emperor Shun (the legendary sage ruler who governed through virtue) began promoting these concepts, people have become obsessed with pursuing them like madmen, thereby losing their original natural state.

Those who truly harmonize with all things don't consciously strive for "benevolence," yet benevolence naturally manifests through them. Those who allow all beings to fulfill their natural roles don't deliberately pursue "righteousness," yet righteous actions spontaneously arise. Yet people abandon their innate nature to blindly chase external standards of virtue, creating social disorder. The problem lies not in beauty or ugliness, good or evil themselves, but in how the excessive veneration of these virtues has become an instrument for disturbing the world.

Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), people have been altering their fundamental nature for external things. In ancient times, people followed natural non-action (wuwei), but later began esteeming the very concept of "non-action," which itself violates spontaneity. Even sages found themselves compelled to use elaborate rituals to transform people's simple, genuine nature—how much more so do ordinary people struggle?

People of all stations sacrifice their true selves for external things: petty men for profit, scholars for fame, officials for family honor, and sages for the world. Just as birds and beasts naturally perch and forage, humans should follow their innate spontaneity. Yet people constantly bind themselves with artificial standards.

Zhuangzi offers two illustrations: Two shepherds named Zang and Gu both lost their sheep—one because he was reading books, the other because he was gambling. Their methods differed but the outcome was the same. The noble Bo Yi died for reputation while the robber Zhi died for wealth. Though their pursuits differed, both sacrificed their lives for external things. This shows that any pursuit violating one's natural essence ultimately constitutes self-harm.

At the foot of Shouyang Mountain, Bo Yi starved to death, while on the eastern hills, the robber Zhi met his end. Though their deaths arose from different circumstances, both cases involved the destruction of life and injury to one's inherent nature. Why must we insist that Bo Yi was righteous and Zhi was wicked?

All people under heaven cherish life, yet when they become excessively attached to certain pursuits that harm life, the righteousness or wrongness of those pursuits becomes irrelevant. Everyone sacrifices themselves for something: those who sacrifice for benevolence and righteousness are called gentlemen by the world, while those who sacrifice for wealth are called petty men. Though what they sacrifice for differs, in essence they are all sacrificing. When life and nature are equally damaged, there's no difference between Zhi and Bo Yi—why then distinguish between gentlemen and petty men?

Those who bind their nature to benevolence and righteousness—even if as accomplished as Zeng Shen or Shi Yu in these virtues—are not what I consider truly good ("zang" meaning genuine goodness). Those who bind their nature to fine flavors—even if as discerning as Yu'er (the ancient gourmet)—are not what I consider truly good. Those who bind their nature to music—even if as skilled as the musician Shi Kuang—are not what I consider truly wise. Those who bind their nature to colors—even if as perceptive as Li Zhu who could spot an autumn hair—are not what I consider truly enlightened.

What I call "good" isn't conformity to external standards of benevolence and righteousness, but rather the state of ease achieved by following one's spontaneous nature. True goodness lies not in external moral codes, but in living naturally without forcing oneself to comply with artificial norms.

Zhuangzi here explores the relationship between human nature and external constraints. He argues that forcibly binding human nature with artificial concepts of benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), and virtue (De) ultimately harms our natural disposition. If one cannot even preserve their fundamental nature, how can they truly treat others well? Only by following natural spontaneity can one both assist others without self-harm, achieving mutual ease of being.

Regarding "intelligence," Zhuangzi states that true wisdom doesn't lie in listening to external sounds but in heeding one's inner voice; genuine clarity isn't about observing external phenomena but contemplating one's essential nature. When people abandon self-awareness to chase external standards, imitating others until they lose themselves, it's like the legendary bandit Zhi and the virtuous Boyi—though their actions were opposites, both violated natural spontaneity.

With characteristic humility, Zhuangzi confesses his inadequacy before the profound truth of the Dao, declaring he dares neither to flaunt artificial virtues nor indulge in depraved conduct. He advocates transcending such human-made constraints, aligning with nature's flow, forgetting fame and gain to reach the state where self and objects dissolve into unity.

In the "Horse's Hoof" chapter, Zhuangzi employs an equine metaphor: Hooves that tread frost and snow, coats that ward off wind and cold, grazing on grass and drinking from streams, galloping freely—this constitutes a horse's true nature. Even magnificent stables ("righteous terraces and roadside shelters") mean nothing to horses. But when the legendary horse-tamer Bole appears, "branding, shearing, hoof-trimming, and bridling" them, two or three out of ten perish. Through this, Zhuangzi demonstrates how human intervention often violates natural dispositions—what's called "good governance" frequently inflicts harm.

Sun Yang (known as Bole) excelled at taming horses, hence his fame. The so-called "branding," "grooming," "hoof-trimming," and "bridling" were all methods of horse training. Starving and thirsting the horses, driving them to gallop wildly, forcing them into orderly formations—with bits restraining their mouths ahead and whips threatening from behind—such methods had already killed over half the horses.

A true horse master should let horses follow their innate nature. Forcing them beyond their natural capacities leads to mass casualties. When conforming to equine nature—allowing both inferior and fine steeds to fulfill their respective potentials—every horse's essence remains intact even after traversing the farthest horizons. Yet some, upon hearing of following nature, assume complete non-intervention; hearing of Wuwei (non-action), claim walking inferior to lying down—such interpretations utterly miss Zhuangzi's original meaning.

The potter declares: "I excel at ceramics—round shapes match my compass, square ones align with my square." The carpenter boasts: "I master woodwork—curves fit the bending template, straight lines follow the ink marker." But do clay and wood's intrinsic natures truly wish to be constrained by compasses and ink lines? Yet people praise Bole's horse-taming and artisans' material-shaping skills—precisely reflecting the universal fault of those who govern the world. People equate natural spontaneity with poor management, believing only twisted transformations and forceful remolding—until things perish—qualify as "good governance." Isn't this profoundly absurd?

I maintain true world governance operates differently. People possess constant natures: weaving clothes from cloth, farming fields for food—this constitutes their shared heaven-endowed nature (with minor variations but major commonalities among people's natures). Clothing and food cannot be deprived; farming and weaving cannot be abolished—these represent universal principles under heaven.

The passage describes Zhuangzi's vision of the "Age of Perfect Virtue" (zhide zhi shi), where human conduct was naturally simple and unadorned, and how later artificial constructs of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual music disrupted this innate nature.

In that era of supreme De (Virtue), people walked with steady steps and their gaze remained focused without distraction—a reflection of inner contentment free from greed. Mountains needed no carved paths, nor did marshes require bridges, as people desired nothing beyond their natural lot and were perfectly satisfied with their lives. All beings flourished together, neighbors lived in harmony—each existed in simple ignorance yet found their proper place, while the whole world remained serene and free of contention. Why would anyone distinguish between states or households? Beasts moved in herds, plants grew in abundance—each fulfilled their innate nature without predatory desires, allowing all creatures to thrive unmolested. Thus, animals could be led by cords for amusement, and bird nests could be climbed to peer inside—for humans caused them no harm, leaving all creatures gentle and unafraid.

In this Age of Perfect Virtue, humans dwelt alongside animals and coexisted with all things—what need was there to separate "gentlemen" from "petty men"? Since no one harbored cunning intentions, De remained undiminished (for once cleverness arises, "goodness" becomes a tool that violates the natural Dao). Without covetous desires, this was called "unadorned simplicity" (su pu)—yet once desires emerge, artificial refinement destroys innate nature. Preserving this simplicity allowed people's true nature to remain whole (untroubled by cleverness or greed).

But when so-called "sages" appeared (referring here to models of emulation), they laboriously promoted benevolence and strained to implement righteousness—and the world began to harbor doubts. When they indulged in creating music and devised elaborate rituals, the world became divided (for once sages' deeds were glorified, benevolence and righteousness turned hypocritical, while ritual and music strayed from their roots, leaving only hollow forms).

Thus we say: If whole timber remains uncarved, how could there be ceremonial wine vessels? If unblemished jade stays unbroken, how could there be ritual gui and zhang tablets? If natural De remains undiscarded, what need is there for benevolence and righteousness? If genuine feelings stay untwisted, what use are ritual and music?

Zhuangzi here critiques how artificial rituals and music corrupt humanity's natural essence. He illustrates this truth through vivid metaphors:

When craftsmen carve pristine wood into exquisite vessels, they appear to create beauty but actually destroy the material's natural state. Similarly, when sages establish norms of benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi), they ostensibly educate the people while distorting humanity's innate purity. Just as horses freely galloping across plains begin bucking and scheming once saddled and bridled, these problems arise precisely because trainers like Bole forcibly alter the animals' true nature.

In the legendary era of Emperor Huxu (who ruled through wuwei), people happily wandered about after meals, living in simple joy. But when sages emerged with elaborate rituals to constrain behavior and moral standards to police hearts, society became filled with scheming and profit-chasing. These social disorders stem directly from the sages' misguided attempts at cultivation.

The text notably employs the metaphor of the "box thief" (quqie): ordinary people secure their valuables with ropes and locks, only to have robbers carry away the entire chest—the more elaborate the legal systems created, the more easily tyrants (rulers) exploit them. Zhuangzi suggests preserving primal simplicity rather than binding nature with artificial constructs.

These parables collectively demonstrate how excessive human ornamentation destroys authenticity, and how convoluted rituals distort innate character. True virtue (de) should flow naturally as it did among ancient people, not be enforced through external regulations.

The text explains how what the mundane world considers wisdom and the ways of sages often end up being exploited by great thieves. Just as tying things with ropes or securing them with locks may seem foolproof, they ultimately fail to stop robbers. The methods promoted by worldly sages and wise men—are they not precisely what helps thieves accumulate wealth and guard their spoils?

Take the state of Qi, for example. Its territories were interconnected, with the sounds of chickens and dogs heard across villages, and its fishing, hunting, and farming lands spanned over two thousand li. They established ancestral temples and altars to the gods of land and grain, and their methods of governing cities and countryside all followed the models set by sages. Yet Tian Chengzi (a powerful minister of Qi) murdered his ruler and stole the state of Qi. Not only did he seize the country, but he also appropriated the rites and laws established by the sages. Though Tian Chengzi bore the name of a thief, he ruled as securely as the legendary sage-kings Yao and Shun. Small states dared not condemn him, and great states dared not attack him. His descendants ruled Qi for twelve generations. Was this not a case of stealing the state and then using the sages’ rites to shield himself as a thief?

Consider also the four ancient worthies: Long Feng was beheaded, Bi Gan had his heart cut out, Chang Hong was torn apart by chariots, and Wu Zixu’s corpse was cast into the river. Despite their virtue and wisdom, they could not escape execution at the hands of tyrants. This shows how even the ways of sages can be twisted by cruel rulers for evil purposes. The methods of the sages are like footprints—traces of the past, unable to adapt to change. Clinging to these outdated ways in the face of life’s unpredictability only ensures that the state will fall under the control of others.

This passage reveals the dual nature of social norms through historical allusions and parables. It first points out that tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang could slaughter virtuous people without facing resistance precisely because they exploited the ritual systems established by sages. Just as the Zhou people brutally murdered the loyal minister Chang Hong (who was disemboweled) and King Fuchai of Wu threw Wu Zixu's corpse into the river, tyranny often cloaks itself in legality.

The story of Robber Zhi (a legendary bandit in ancient lore) then illustrates that even thieves have their own version of "Dao" — guessing house valuables demonstrates wisdom, leading the break-in shows courage, withdrawing last displays righteousness, judging opportune moments reveals discernment, and dividing loot fairly exhibits benevolence. These five virtues, originally meant to guard against theft, were instead co-opted by thieves. Thus we see that while good people need the sages' Dao to establish themselves, villains equally rely on it to run rampant.

The author profoundly observes: since there are fewer good people and more bad ones in the world, the sages' Dao brings fewer benefits and more harm to society. Yet abolishing it entirely isn't feasible, for people always pursue self-interest and require some framework to maintain order. Like teeth feeling cold without lips, or how Lu's weak wine unexpectedly caused Zhao's siege (alluding to unexpected connections between things), the sages emerged to govern but inadvertently enabled great banditry. This paradoxical phenomenon is an inevitable outcome of natural development — though sages never sought power deliberately, people inevitably emulate their methods, which tyrants and robbers ultimately exploit.

This passage recounts an anecdote from the Spring and Autumn period: When the State of Chu summoned feudal lords for an alliance meeting, both Lu and Zhao presented wine to the Chu king. Lu's wine was weak while Zhao's was rich and mellow. After the Chu wine steward's demand for Zhao's fine wine was refused, in anger he swapped the two states' wines and falsely reported to the king that Zhao had offered inferior wine. Consequently, the Chu king dispatched troops to besiege Zhao's capital Handan.

Through this historical anecdote, the text illustrates how excessive veneration of sages can actually empower thieves. When everyone in the world reveres the norms established by sages, cunning individuals will exploit these very standards for personal gain. It's like how when mountain streams dry up, the valleys appear empty; when hills are leveled, the lowlands naturally get filled. True governance doesn't lie in erecting more sage-like models, but in guiding people to return to their original simplicity.

The passage incisively points out: The measuring standards established by sages become tools for thieves to steal, the seals and tokens they create get counterfeited by robbers, and even the benevolence and righteousness they promote can be exploited by criminals. Just as petty thieves stealing hooks get executed while those usurping entire states become feudal lords - these very lords still hang banners of benevolence at their gates. This shows that when external rituals and norms fail to cultivate genuine virtue, they instead become tools for grand deceivers to exploit reputations.

The author advocates that rather than restraining people through harsh laws and sage models, we should guide them to reduce desires and return to authenticity. When people cease blindly worshipping rules established by sages, those "grand thieves" who exploit sagehood's name for deception will naturally lose their breeding ground.

Zhuangzi here offers a profound critique of the worldly veneration of Confucian virtues like humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi), as well as ritual systems. He exposes how those who outwardly champion virtue are actually committing theft in virtue's name, while feudal lords brazenly appropriate these moral codes for personal gain.

Even with the highest official rewards (carriages and ceremonial caps) and severest punishments (axes and execution blades), such grand theft cannot be prevented. These very systems of extreme rewards and punishments become tools for the great thieves to consolidate power. While ostensibly promoting virtue and employing standard measures (bushels and scales) and official seals (tallies and insignia), they in fact privatize these public instruments for personal rule.

The text notes that notorious thieves like Robber Zhi persist precisely because the sages' ritual systems create exploitable loopholes. Just as fish cannot survive out of water, a state's governing tools (its "sharp weapons") should not be carelessly displayed. The very methods (sharp weapons) devised by sages for governance become instruments for thieves.

Thus Zhuangzi advocates radical measures: Only by completely abandoning sagely wisdom and ritual laws (cutting off sageliness and discarding knowledge) will grand thieves disappear; by rejecting jades and pearls (casting away gems and destroying jewels) will petty theft cease; by burning tallies and breaking seals (burning credentials and smashing insignia) will people return to simplicity; by smashing measures and breaking scales (shattering bushels and snapping balances) will conflicts end. Only through the total dissolution of these artificial systems can true peace prevail.

[Terminology notes:

1. Carriages and ceremonial caps: symbols of high office and lavish rewards

2. Axes and execution blades: symbols of harsh punishments

3. Bushels and scales: standard measuring instruments

4. Tallies and insignia: official credentials and seals

5. Robber Zhi: legendary Spring-Autumn period bandit symbolizing state usurpers]

When rulers cease using the methods of sages to constrain the people, only then can the populace truly engage in open discussion (without external coercion to correct them, their inner purity remains intact, and they speak nothing contrary to their true nature). Disrupt the six musical scales, destroy the yu pipes and se zithers, and stop up the ears of Master Kuang (the legendary musician) — then all under heaven will preserve their natural hearing.

Destroy ornate patterns, scatter five-colored designs, and seal the eyes of Li Zhu (the legendary sharp-sighted man) — then all under heaven will retain their natural vision. (Though beautiful sights and sounds are sought by those with keen senses, excessive pursuit of external pleasures leads to the loss of one's innate nature. Only by abandoning such temptations and following spontaneity can people's congenital capacities for sight and hearing be truly preserved.)

Break the marking lines, discard compasses and squares, snap the fingers of Gong Chui (the ingenious craftsman of Emperor Yao's time) — then all under heaven will manifest genuine skill. Thus we say the highest skill appears clumsy. (Consider how spiders weave webs or dung beetles roll balls — these seemingly lowly creatures possess innate abilities. Forcing all things to learn the same techniques creates superficial dexterity that masks true clumsiness. Those skilled at employing others let square things perform square tasks and round things round tasks, each fulfilling its capacity. Not compelling people to match Gong Chui's artificial craftsmanship — this apparent clumsiness allows all things to function naturally, embodying the truth that "great skill seems clumsy.")

Eradicate the moral exemplars like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, silence the mouths of Yang Zhu and Mo Di, discard teachings of benevolence and righteousness — then all under heaven will return to natural virtue. (Only by removing these disruptive models can people return to their authentic state and unite with the profound Dao.) When people preserve natural vision, the world won't be dazzled by gaudy displays; preserving natural hearing, they won't be burdened by decadent music; preserving natural wisdom, they won't fall into confusion; preserving natural De (Virtue), they won't stray into depravity. Figures like Zeng Shen, Shi Qiu, Yang Zhu, Mo Di, Master Kuang, Gong Chui, and Li Zhu all outwardly flaunt particular virtues, thereby torching disorder across the land like flaming brands. (These exceptional individuals, each possessing extraordinary talents, incite the world to mindless imitation. Blind emulation causes loss of self — this delusion originates precisely from them. Thus we say the greatest calamity under heaven lies in these unconventional "models.")

This passage speaks of how excessive rules become useless when people lose their natural disposition. Truly effective governance should align with human capacities: let eyes see as far as they naturally can, so all may perceive clearly; let ears hear as far as they naturally can, so all may understand fully; let actions not exceed one's abilities, so all skills may be mastered; let knowledge not surpass comprehension, so all temperaments may adapt; let virtue not overstep its bounds, so all moral qualities find proper expression. Why establish rules that strain human nature, exhausting the world's people while preventing their return to authenticity?

Have you not heard of the era when Dao and De (Virtue) reached perfection? In that age, twelve sage-kings ruled—Rongcheng, Daiting, Bohuang, Zhongyang, Lilu, Lichu, Xuanyuan, Hexu, Zunlu, Zhurong, Fuxi, and Shennong (all legendary sovereigns of antiquity). People then found knotted cords sufficient for record-keeping, simple food delicious, and plain clothing beautiful (contentment brought constant sweetness; acceptance made all seem fair—whereas luxury breeds endless dissatisfaction). They dwelled peacefully within their customs, content in their livelihoods. Though neighboring states were within sight and cockcrows and dog barks within earshot, people lived and died without interaction (desireless and needless). Such was the age of perfect governance.

But now? People crane their necks and tiptoe eagerly when hearing of some worthy sage, packing provisions to follow him—abandoning family at home, forsaking rulers abroad, traversing feudal borders, their carriages covering thousands of miles (the remnants of perfect governance ironically produce such excesses). All this stems from rulers excessively esteeming cunning intelligence (referring to those lords who prize cleverness—for valuing cunning begets such faults). When rulers truly honor cleverness above following the Dao (the Way), the world falls into chaos.

How do we know this? Observe: when bows, crossbows, and bird traps grow too clever, birds scatter wildly through the skies; when fishhooks, bait, and nets become too ingenious, fish dart chaotically through waters; when snares, nets, and beast traps turn too artful, marsh creatures flee in disorder (the more intricate governance becomes, the more elaborate the evasion—if even beasts cannot be managed through cunning, how much less human beings? Thus to those who would govern the world...).

This passage discusses how excessive pursuit of cunning intelligence leads to chaos in the world. It enumerates various hunting tools (nets for fish, bamboo traps, bird-catching nets, and hare snares) as metaphors for the clever devices people use to exploit external things.

Cunning schemes and deceit act like slow-acting poison, while sophistry debating concepts like "the hardness and whiteness of stones" (philosophical propositions from Warring States logicians like Gongsun Long) only confuses ordinary people. When rulers pursue too much cleverness, the people can no longer remain content with their simple, genuine nature. People constantly chase after what they do not know, neglecting the wisdom they already possess; they criticize others' shortcomings while failing to recognize the flaws in their own so-called "virtuous deeds."

This state of affairs disrupts the natural order: the sun and moon lose their radiance, the vital Qi (energy) of mountains and rivers dissipates, and the cycles of the four seasons fall into disarray. Even the smallest insects and flying creatures lose their innate nature. Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), rulers have abandoned the simple and honest people in favor of cunning flatterers, forsaking the Daoist principles of serenity and Wuwei (non-action) in favor of moralistic lecturing. This endless, tedious preaching is the very root of the world's disorder.

Note: The text mentions "tranquility and Wuwei" as a core Daoist principle, advocating alignment with nature and minimal human interference. The "Three Dynasties" refer to the Xia, Shang, and Zhou periods, often viewed in Daoist thought as an era of gradual moral decline.

Here, Zhuangzi discusses the principles of governing the world. He suggests that truly enlightened rulers do not forcefully control the people but allow all things to develop naturally (this is the meaning of "zai you" — "you" signifying tolerance and natural ease). When rulers impose forceful interventions, they instead bring chaos to the world.

Human nature is originally simple and upright. If left undisturbed, it naturally maintains its wholesome state. But once rulers take deliberate action, the people will imitate them, giving rise to desires and causing their innate nature to become unrestrained. Thus, the value of sage-kings lies not in their skill at governance but in their ability to govern through Wuwei (non-action), allowing all things to unfold naturally.

When Yao governed the world, he made the people joyful and content—this may seem good, but in truth, it disturbed the natural tranquility of human nature. When Jie ruled, he brought suffering to the people, which was certainly worse. Both approaches deviate from the Dao of nature and fail to embody true De (Virtue/Power). Such governance cannot endure.

Zhuangzi further explains using Yin-Yang theory: excessive joy harms Yang Qi, while excessive anger harms Yin Qi. When Yin and Yang fall out of balance, the four seasons become disordered, and the natural cycles of cold and heat are disrupted, which in turn harms the human body. This causes people to become emotionally unstable, unsettled in life, and unable to grasp the essence of matters. These are the consequences brought about by rulers like Yao and Jie, who stir excessive emotional fluctuations in the people and disrupt the natural order.

Finally, Zhuangzi points out that precisely this kind of governance leads to extreme behaviors in society: some become arrogant and obstinate (like the "proud and willful"), others become lawless like the infamous robber Zhi, while still others, like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, deliberately pursue virtue. Even if all the wealth in the world were used to reward good deeds, it would not be enough, because such artificially cultivated virtue is itself unnatural.

A Commentary on the Zhuangzi

On Rewards and Punishments

Punishing evildoers cannot truly bring the world into submission. People stop doing wrong only because they fear punishment, so punishment alone cannot secure lasting success. Since the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, people have busied themselves with rewards and punishments as the foremost concern of governing. How could they find time to settle their natural life and inborn nature?

To forget rewards and punishments, cling to nothing, follow one’s nature, and care well for one’s life is to be truly self-sufficient. Rewards and punishments were originally means by which sage kings distinguished merit from fault and responded accordingly; their main purpose was not to make people afraid. When understanding reaches its utmost point, rewards and punishments should also be set aside, so that one may return to the Great Unity—the natural Way in which all is undivided. But after the Three Dynasties, people chased only the outward traces of rewards and punishments, struggling with them all day and treating the rules they embodied as matters of real importance. How, then, could their natural life and inborn nature find rest?

The Harm of Eight Kinds of “Biased Talk”

Moreover, biased talk about beauty gives free rein to the senses of sight; biased talk about cleverness gives free rein to the senses of hearing; biased talk about benevolence disrupts Virtue; biased talk about righteousness violates principle; biased talk about ritual leads people to outdo one another in displays of skill; biased talk about music leads them to indulge one another in excess and sensuality; biased talk about sagehood leads them to show off their talents to one another; and biased talk about wisdom leads them to pick fault with one another. If one accords with principle without becoming one-sided, there will be no excessive delight. Once delight goes too far, the calamities of excess and rebellion follow. Here, “one another” means that people spur each other on and compete.

If the world can settle its natural life and inborn nature, these eight kinds of biased talk may be present or absent; there is no need to cling to their survival or disappearance. Let each person follow the measure they have received, and life will be at rest. If the world cannot settle its natural life and inborn nature, insisting on preserving these eight kinds of biased talk will begin to cramp and constrain people, encouraging affectation and throwing the world into disorder. If they must be held onto, people cannot be left to follow their nature; they will twist themselves into shape, bind themselves up, and put on an act.

Worse still, people in the world honor and cherish these things. How deeply they are confused! It is already a mistake to be unable to let go of them; to honor them as treasures is more confusing still. Is this merely a matter of “passing by and throwing them away”? People must first fast before they speak of them, sit on their knees to present them, and beat drums and dance to perform them. If I, too, were to do this, what would become of me?

Thus, when a gentleman has no choice but to govern the world, it is better to do so through Wuwei (non-action). Wuwei does not mean folding one’s hands in silence and doing nothing at all. Only through Wuwei can one settle the natural life and inborn nature.

Here Zhuangzi expounds the political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)":

The text first establishes that a ruler who governs the world with the same care as cherishing his own life is worthy of entrusting with the world; one who administers with the same devotion as treasuring his own being deserves the mandate of heaven. But if one devalues oneself in pursuit of profit or sacrifices intrinsic nature to accommodate external things—unable even to maintain personal equilibrium—how could such a person properly govern the world?

The true noble person maintains an inner natural state: neither depleting the Qi of the five viscera (referring to preserving physical and mental harmony) nor flaunting intellectual cleverness (indicating avoidance of contrived action). Outwardly still as withered wood yet inwardly potent as a dragon's might, silent as deep abyss yet capable of thunderous resonance (depicting movement and stillness in natural accord). When spirit aligns with the Dao of heaven, all things move effortlessly like floating dust—why would deliberate governance be necessary?

When Cui Qu consulted Laozi about pacifying human hearts, the sage warned: never agitate people's minds. The human heart sinks when suppressed and soars when provoked (indicating susceptibility to external influences)—such violent fluctuations fetter and injure intrinsic nature. Only by maintaining softness can hardness be dissolved (illustrating overcoming rigidity through yielding). When sculpted by worldly conventions, the heart becomes as scorched by fire or frozen by ice (showing how artificial constraints create emotional extremes).

The transformations of human heart-mind occur with lightning speed—in moments spanning the four seas (demonstrating its vast influence). At rest, deep as abyss; in motion, lofty as the heavens (portraying perfect adaptability). Yet once inflamed by arrogance, it becomes as unbridled as wild horses (emphasizing the necessity of following nature). The passage concludes with the example of the Yellow Emperor (implying even ancient sage-kings governed through natural accord), proving the best governance requires no forced control of human hearts.

The Yellow Emperor did not deliberately promote benevolence and righteousness, but rather naturally merged with all things, allowing the signs of virtue to manifest spontaneously. Later generations observed these signs and strove to imitate them, but in doing so, they ended up constraining the natural world.

Yao and Shun exhausted themselves in promoting benevolence and righteousness—their thighs grew thin, their calves hairless. They drained their vital essence (Jing) and spirit (Shen) to uphold these virtues, pouring their hearts into establishing laws and regulations, yet still found themselves inadequate. Yao had no choice but to banish the mythical beast Huandou to Chong Mountain, expel the Sanmiao tribe to the Three Peaks, and drive the water god Gonggong to the Dark Capital—all because he could not fully govern the world. By the time of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, the world had descended into even greater chaos.

In truth, the titles of rulers like Yao and Shun were merely superficial labels. The essence of sages remains the same; it was only the changing times that gave rise to different names like Yao, Shun, Tang, and Wu. Superficial differences cannot capture the true nature of sages—how could Yao and Shun be as simple as history books depict them?

Later, tyrants like Jie of Xia and the bandit Zhi emerged, alongside virtuous figures like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu. The Confucians and Mohists rose in prominence, and people became suspicious and deceitful toward one another. Good and evil clashed, truth and falsehood mocked each other, and the world declined. This happened because people could not rest content in their innate nature; forcing uniformity only shattered the essence of life.

People pursued cleverness, and the desires of the common folk became insatiable. Axes and saws were used to enforce standards, ropes and ink lines to impose restrictions, chisels and awls to pass judgments—carving human nature into something unrecognizable. The root of the world’s chaos lies in disturbing the human heart.

As a result, the wise retreated to deep mountains, while rulers fretted in their courts. In truth, if one follows the natural order (Dao), allowing the wise and foolish to settle into their rightful places, the noble and humble to find their proper roles, and rulers and subjects to fulfill their inherent duties, the world would remain free from calamity. Deliberate displays of virtue only agitate the human heart, driving people to restless pursuit without peace. Those of middling intelligence and below invariably distort their true nature to chase empty fame.

The text critiques the social chaos of its time and exposes the hypocrisy of Confucian and Mohist doctrines, conveying this core message:

In today's world, corpses of the executed lie piled upon each other, prisoners in cangues crowd shoulder to shoulder, and the punished can be seen everywhere. Yet Confucian and Mohist scholars still wave their arms delivering lofty speeches amidst these shackles—what shamelessness! These pedantic Confucians stubbornly cling to outdated rules, not only failing to consider changing the status quo but actually exacerbating the chaos by applying obsolete methods. Their behavior reaches the height of disgrace.

Just as wooden restraints require mortise-and-tenon joints to function, and cangues depend on carved holes and pegs to fasten, so too do the so-called sagely wisdom and humaneness (Ren) appear to keep people from crime. Yet excessive veneration of these virtues breeds hypocrisy and cunning. The more the common people esteem them, the more sophisticated their methods of wrongdoing become. Only by abandoning such deliberate posturing will people cease their deceptions, rendering punishments and restraints naturally obsolete.

Who could have imagined that the virtues of Zeng Shen (Confucius' filial disciple) and Shi Yu (the loyal minister of Wei) might become tools for tyrants like Jie of Xia or bandits like Robber Zhi? Hence the saying: "Only by discarding so-called sagely wisdom can the world achieve true peace."

The passage then recounts the Yellow Emperor's story: In the nineteenth year of his reign, hearing that Guangchengzi (a legendary immortal) dwelled on Mount Kongtong, he went to seek advice: "I've heard you've mastered the supreme Dao (the Way). What is its essence? I wish to draw upon heaven and earth's vital essence (Jing) to nourish crops and feed the people, and to harmonize Yin-Yang to aid all things' growth. How should I proceed?"

The argument unfolds through three layers:

1. First depicting the harsh penal reality of the era

2. Then demonstrating how Confucian-Mohist doctrines of virtue ironically become instruments of hypocrisy

3. Finally proposing the solution—returning to the natural Wuwei (non-action) of the "ultimate Dao," illustrated by the Yellow Emperor's quest

Guangchengzi (a legendary Daoist immortal, sometimes identified as Laozi) said to the Yellow Emperor: "You inquire about the essence of the Dao (the Way), yet you seek to govern the trivialities of worldly affairs. Since you began ruling the empire, rain falls before clouds fully gather, plants wither before turning yellow, and the sun and moon grow dimmer each day. How could the narrow minds of flatterers ever comprehend the supreme Dao?"

Hearing this, the Yellow Emperor set aside his governance, built a quiet chamber with white rushes for a mat, and lived in solitude for three months before visiting again. Finding Guangchengzi reclining with his head to the south, the Emperor approached reverently on his knees, kowtowing to ask: "I've heard you understand the supreme Dao—how may one cultivate the body to attain longevity?" Guangchengzi suddenly sat up and exclaimed: "An excellent question!"

He imparted this teaching: "The supreme Dao is subtle and mysterious (referring to its formless nature), its ultimate state being one of primordial stillness. Practice not straining to see nor forcing yourself to hear; maintain mental serenity and your physical form will naturally align. Preserve purity within—neither exhausting your body nor dissipating your Jing (essence)—only thus can you achieve longevity. Let your eyes dwell not on sights, your ears cling not to sounds, nor your heart fixate on knowledge. When Shen (spirit) guards the form, the form endures."

"The essential method is to vigilantly protect your inner spirit (maintaining innate purity) while shutting out external disturbances (abiding in fundamental nature)—excessive cleverness brings only harm." Here the teaching emphasizes returning to primordial simplicity in cultivation, for forced wisdom and deliberate action contradict the Dao's natural flow.

This passage recounts the dialogue between Guangchengzi (a legendary Daoist immortal) and the Yellow Emperor, revealing Daoist understanding of the origins of Yin-Yang and the path to longevity.

Guangchengzi said: "I shall lead you to the pinnacle of radiance, the source of pure Yang; I shall also guide you into the profound gate of darkness, the root of ultimate Yin. The origin of Yin-Yang lies precisely in these extremes of light and shadow. Heaven and Earth follow their own natural order, Yin and Yang have their own dwelling places—you need only follow this natural flow, carefully guard your own being, and all things will flourish of themselves. I maintain the purity of the Dao in unity, abiding in the harmony of Yin-Yang, and thus through twelve hundred years of self-cultivation, my form has never aged." This explains the practice of attaining longevity by grasping the root of life.

Upon hearing this, the Yellow Emperor bowed respectfully, declaring that Guangchengzi had become one with the Dao of Heaven. Guangchengzi continued his teaching: "The transformations of all things are endless, yet people always assume there is an endpoint; the depths of all things are unfathomable, yet people always assume there is a limit. Those who attain the Dao may rise to become sage-emperors above or virtuous kings below; those who lose the Dao may see only fleeting illusions above or sink into the dust of mundanity below. All things are born from the earth and return to the earth, and so I shall soon depart from you." Here, the Daoist cosmology of "the cyclical nature of all things" is revealed.

Finally, Guangchengzi described his own state: "I shall enter the gate of the boundless and wander the wilderness of the infinite. My radiance shines with the sun and moon; my existence endures alongside Heaven and Earth. When I come, none perceive my approach; when I leave, none perceive my departure. All others march toward death, yet I alone remain in the world." This demonstrates the highest realm of a cultivator—transcending life and death, roaming in harmony with creation.

The later passage mentions Yun Jiang (the Cloud General) encountering Hong Meng (the primordial state of undifferentiated Qi), who was slapping his thighs and hopping about like a bird at play. This allegorical scene illustrates the natural and effortless state of the Dao (Wuwei). When Yun Jiang asked in astonishment, Hong Meng continued his carefree movements without reply, silently conveying the profound truth that the great Dao is supremely simple and beyond words.

The Cloud General (a deity of clouds) looked up at Hongmeng (the immortal embodiment of primordial chaos) and sighed: "The Qi of heaven and earth is out of harmony, the seasons' cycles are disordered. I wish to harmonize the essence of the Six Qi (Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness) to nurture all things—how should I proceed?" Hongmeng slapped his thigh and turned away merrily, repeating: "I don't know! I don't know!"

Three years later, while traveling east through the outskirts of Song, the Cloud General encountered Hongmeng again. Delighted, he hurried forward and said: "Have you forgotten me?" After bowing respectfully, he sought guidance. Hongmeng replied: "I wander freely without seeking (yet naturally obtain what is needed), drifting aimlessly without direction (yet naturally arrive where I should). True freedom lies in observing all things while preserving one's original state (those with inner fulfillment perceive all things as naturally harmonious). What more could I possibly know?"

The Cloud General said: "I intended to wander at will, yet the people followed me; compelled to govern them, now they all imitate my ways. I beg your counsel." Hongmeng responded: "Disrupting the Dao's natural patterns and violating the innate nature of beings—even heaven would not sanction this. Just as scattering herds makes birds cry at night (disturbing their peace), calamity spreads to plants and insects (all harmed by human interference). These are the faults of governance (deliberate rule breeds chaos)!"

The Cloud General asked: "What then should I do?" Hongmeng sighed: "You are deeply poisoned! (bound by notions of governance) Drift lightly back whence you came (return to natural spontaneity)." When the Cloud General persisted, Hongmeng finally said: "Nourish your original heart. (The mind suffers from forced action—the best nourishment is Wuwei) Simply dwell in stillness, acting through non-action..."

Zhuangzi here expounds the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). He states that when one relinquishes artificial striving, all things will evolve naturally. Forget your physical form, discard cleverness and knowledge, and merge completely with all existence ("united with things in forgetting"). In this way, one attains unity with the primordial vital energy (Qi) of nature ("the formless vastness"), where the spirit is liberated and free, as ethereal as if having no soul.

The myriad things, in all their complexity, ultimately return to their source. This return happens spontaneously—any deliberate pursuit of it would instead lead one astray from authenticity. Maintain a state of undifferentiated simplicity ("chaotic and indistinct"), and you will never depart from the root. If you constantly try to grasp it with intellect, you will lose your true nature. Do not chase after names and forms, do not probe into appearances—all things will grow according to their inherent nature.

Yun Jiang (a fictional figure) realizes: Heaven bestowed upon me Virtue (De) and taught me the wisdom of silence. Humbly practicing these principles, I have now finally attained understanding.

Worldly people crave approval and resent disagreement. Those who seek to stand out by being different ("taking uniqueness as their heart") are in fact unable to truly transcend the crowd. For when everyone strives to be unconventional, this very "unconventionality" becomes the new conformity. True transcendence lies in harmonizing with others without drifting with the current.

An individual’s insight is ultimately limited—it is better to gather collective wisdom. To govern a state relying solely on one’s own ability is like trying to oppose ten thousand people with a single person’s strength; it will inevitably lead to hardship. Here, the emphasis is on aligning with the wisdom of the many, rather than forcing one’s own views.

This passage elucidates the principles of governing a state. Those who only perceive the benefits of governance under the sage-kings of the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou) while overlooking their latent dangers are akin to rulers who seek to control a nation without heeding the will of the people, acting solely according to their own whims.

Such individuals covet the advantages of the ancient sage-kings' rule over all things but fail to recognize the perils of their own approach. In truth, the benefits brought by the Three Dynasties' sage-kings were never achieved through forceful action; rather, they arose from aligning with the natural order of the world. To govern a state with such a侥幸 (jiǎoxìng, reckless) mentality—how many could avoid collapse? The likelihood of truly preserving a state this way is less than one in ten thousand, while the probability of its downfall is absolute.

Governing the world requires mutual harmony with the people. If a ruler acts autocratically, the world becomes blocked and unresponsive. Not only does this jeopardize the ruler's own survival, but it also brings suffering to the people everywhere. How lamentable that those who possess land (the rulers) fail to grasp this truth. To possess territory is to hold what is called the "Great Thing" (the state as a vast entity), and those who can truly驾驭 (jiàyù, master) this "Great Thing" must remain unbound by specific matters.

Only by not being constrained by things can one truly govern all things. Those who understand this principle are capable not only of ruling the world but also of moving freely through the six directions of heaven and earth (上下四方, liùhé) and roaming the Nine Provinces. They come and go alone—this is the genuine "solitary possession" (独立超然, dúyǒu, transcendent independence). Such truly independent individuals are the most noble. They do not刻意 (kèyì, deliberately) pursue nobility, yet the people cannot help but revere them.

The truly great person (大人, dàrén) educates the people as naturally as a form casts its shadow or a sound produces its echo. The hearts of the people are like the form and the sound, while the sage's teachings are like the shadow and the echo. This is the most natural and sublime way of governance.

This passage elucidates the essence of the Daoist concept of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." The mind, like echoes and shadows, naturally responds to external phenomena. When questioned, one answers truthfully; by allowing all things to fully manifest their inherent nature, one attunes with heaven and earth.

The truly wise resemble silent, boundless space—their actions follow no fixed direction but flow with the transformations of all things. Guiding beings back to their original state (the highest expression of Wuwei) is like holding an object then releasing it, letting it move naturally. Thus one roams the realm without beginning or end, traversing limitless boundaries, eternally renewing like the sun and moon.

Though the human form is finite, the Shen (spirit) can unite with heaven and earth. Upon reaching this state of "great harmony," self-awareness dissolves. Without egoistic attachment, how could external things bind one? Ancient gentlemen clung to the realm of "having," gaining only reputation; those who realized "non-being" became heaven-earth's true companions.

What appears lowly should not be despised; humble people must not be neglected (governance succeeds by following their nature). Hidden matters still require handling (but through natural accord), and simple principles need clarification (for rules manifest profound mysteries). Seemingly distant Daoist principles should be upheld (their transcendence reveals loftiness), while proximate benevolence must be extended (yet excessive closeness breeds partiality). Elaborate rituals accumulate meaning (through concrete practice comes completeness), and measured restraint should be maintained (but never pushed to extremes).

This passage elucidates the intrinsic relationships between De (Virtue/Power), Dao (the Way), and Heaven in Daoist thought. It first clarifies that true De emerges without conscious pursuit of nobility (even seemingly moderate actions lack genuine De if not rooted in one's innate nature). Though the Dao is fundamentally unified, it requires adaptation to change (forced pursuit of unity paradoxically violates the Dao's essence). Heaven, though mysteriously unfathomable, never deliberately refrains from action (rigid inaction, however miraculous it may appear, contradicts the Heavenly Dao).

The sage emulates these principles: observing the Heavenly Dao without forceful intervention (following natural spontaneity), accomplishing virtuous deeds without being constrained by them (naturally attaining noble states), and adhering to the Dao without deliberate scheming (non-striving paradoxically achieves organic unity). In benevolence, they remain unattached (attachment creates limitations); in righteousness, they avoid forced accumulation (following innate nature naturally transcends utilitarianism); in ritual propriety, they remain unbound (responding spontaneously rather than avoiding taboos artificially); in handling affairs, they never evade (responding according to situational logic); in applying laws, they never cause chaos (mastering coarse matters with refined methods); in relying on the people, they never act rashly (respecting the people's autonomy); in harmonizing with all things, they never depart from their essence (accommodating all beings' nature without altering their fundamentals).

The passage concludes: those who fail to comprehend the natural Heavenly Dao cannot attain pure De; those who lack thorough understanding of the great Dao will falter in all endeavors. The Heavenly Dao is Wuwei (non-action), yet naturally revered (occupying the highest position while letting all things develop autonomously), whereas the human Dao involves deliberate action and self-imposed constraints (treating action as a burden prevents alignment with nature). The Heavenly Dao resembles a sovereign (like Heaven, it naturally occupies the supreme position by allowing spontaneous development), while the human Dao resembles a subordinate.

This passage illustrates the profound distinction between the Dao of Heaven (natural law) and the Dao of humanity (human affairs). The Dao of Heaven governs like a sovereign practicing Wuwei (non-action), where all officials fulfill their respective duties without the ruler's direct involvement in specific matters. While ministers remain busy with administration, the ruler maintains transcendent stillness.

The essential principle lies in this: the sovereign achieves natural harmony precisely through "non-interference," while ministers accomplish concrete affairs through "deliberate action." This division between repose and activity reflects fundamentally different natures, as distinct as heaven and earth. Failure to comprehend this principle leads to chaos in ruler-minister relations and disorder in hierarchical relationships.

(Note: This exemplifies the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action," where the ruler emulates the Way of nature, avoiding excessive interference to allow the system to function spontaneously)