《莊子注》Vol. 5

Heaven and Earth may be vast, but their transformations are balanced (this balance manifests in spontaneous change without deliberate action). Though the myriad things are numerous, the fundamental principle governing them is singular (this principle allows each being to realize its inherent nature). Though the people are multitudinous, the core of their governance lies with the sovereign (while human hearts differ, only the sovereign without personal bias can truly rule). The sovereign's foundation stems from De (Virtue), ultimately achieving natural harmony (with Virtue as root, all things find their proper place—this attainment requires no gratitude, thus perfecting spontaneity).

Thus we say the ancient sovereigns governed All-under-Heaven simply by following natural non-action (Wuwei), preserving Heavenly Virtue (letting natural patterns operate freely). Viewed through the Dao, titles and positions reveal the true legitimacy of rulership (the non-acting sovereign naturally becomes ruler—this is no improper claim). Viewed through the Dao, the division of duties clarifies the proper relationship between ruler and minister (each keeping to their station—the non-acting presides above, the active serve below). Viewed through the Dao, talents find their proper application, and all officials govern effectively (when each official fulfills their capacity, governance becomes complete). Viewed comprehensively through the Dao, the responses of the myriad things naturally achieve perfection (the sovereign's non-action elicits corresponding non-action throughout creation).

Therefore, what connects Heaven and Earth is Virtue (when all things attain their proper place, Heaven and Earth are united). What operates through the myriad things is the Dao (the Dao obstructs no being's path, so all spontaneously find fulfillment). Those governing the people from above need only let each attend to their proper affairs (enabling everyone to fulfill their function). Mastery of specialized knowledge is called skill (skills represent the peripheral applications of things). Skills serve affairs; affairs serve righteousness; righteousness serves Virtue; Virtue serves the Great Dao; the Great Dao serves what is spontaneously so (root and branch depend on each other like interconnected limbs—when the body is harmonious, all joints move freely; when Heavenly patterns flow unimpeded, both essence and manifestation remain unobstructed).

Thus we say the ancients who nurtured All-under-Heaven: without covetousness yet the world was abundant; through non-action yet all things transformed naturally; through profound stillness yet the people were at peace. The Record states: "Penetrate the root 'One' and all affairs are accomplished; harbor no intentions and even spirits submit" (this "One" is non-action, containing all principles within. The Record is a text traditionally attributed to Laozi). Confucius said: "The Dao bears up and covers the myriad things—how vast and boundless! The noble person cannot but..." (the text breaks off here, suggesting the noble person cannot but embody the Great Dao).

Zhuangzi here expounds the core principles of Daoist mind cultivation. He first discusses "hollowing the mind" (removing attachments), meaning that clinging thoughts violate our natural essence and should be cleared away like hollowing out a piece of wood (Note: the "Master" mentioned may refer to Zhuangzi or Laozi).

Several essential states are then explained: "acting through Wuwei (non-action)" is the way of heaven, achieving naturally without forced effort; "speaking through Wuwei" represents true De (Virtue), expressing spontaneously without didactic intent; loving all things and following their nature constitutes "humaneness"; embracing differences while maintaining harmony is called "greatness"; behavior that avoids novelty-seeking is termed "broad-mindedness"; only by accommodating all things' diversity can one achieve true "wealth."

Those cultivating De should uphold these principles: taking De as guiding principle is called "discipline," perfecting one's virtue is called "establishment," following the Dao is called "completion," and maintaining undisturbed composure is called "perfection." Those who understand these ten points develop minds encompassing all existence, with virtue nourishing all things like rivers.

Those attaining this state become like gold hidden in deep mountains or pearls sunk in ocean depths—they neither covet treasures nor chase wealth, neither fawn on the privileged nor rejoice at longevity or grieve early death, neither take pride in prominence nor shame in hardship. They monopolize no worldly benefits nor glorify ruling the world. Prominent, they shine with integrity; reclusive, they remain silent and self-contained. Viewing all existence as one, they perceive no distinction between life and death.

Finally quoting the Master (Zhuangzi or Laozi): "The Dao is fathomless as deep pools, clear and bright as still water." This state transcends worldly value judgments, achieving perfect unity with the Dao.

Metal and stone do not produce sound on their own (sound manifests only when struck). Thus, while these materials possess the potential for resonance, they remain silent without external activation (this illustrates the existence of the fundamental essence).

The Dao's response to all things occurs spontaneously, without fixed patterns. Those of true Virtue (De) (the sovereigns of Virtue) follow their innate nature, never priding themselves on deliberately mastering affairs. By grounding themselves in the root, their wisdom penetrates the divine (when the foundation is established, perception cannot contradict the Heavenly Dao). Thus, their Virtue expands boundlessly (aligning with nature to commune with the divine, their Virtue naturally becomes vast), and their intentions arise only when stirred by external phenomena (prompted by circumstance, never forced).

Form cannot exist without the Dao; life cannot manifest without Virtue. To preserve the body, fulfill one's lifespan, establish Virtue, and comprehend the Dao—is this not the very work of those with Virtue? They move with uncontrived ease, appearing suddenly and acting spontaneously, with all things naturally following (these actions are effortless responses). Such is the realm of the virtuous.

Observe in the depths of seeming darkness; listen within absolute silence—it is in the profoundest obscurity that light becomes visible, and in perfect stillness that harmony is heard (if observation and listening lack emptiness and stillness, one falls into confusion and disharmony). Thus, by plumbing the depths, one grasps the essence of all things (only by exhausting the source can one master the myriad beings); by refining the numinous, one apprehends the marrow (only by reaching utmost harmony can one fully grasp the mysteries).

Such individuals dwell among the ten thousand things: seemingly empty, yet fulfilling all needs (by maintaining inner stillness, all things naturally find their place). However time flows, they hold to the ultimate return; whether matters are great or small, long or short, near or far (they let all follow their natural course, each returning to its own limit).

The Yellow Emperor wandered by the northern bank of the Red River, ascended Mount Kunlun, and gazed southward. Upon returning, he lost the Mysterious Pearl (this parable reveals the path to the Dao's truth. The Red River flows beneath Kunlun). He sent Knowledge (Zhi) to seek it, but it could not be found (showing that cleverness cannot attain the true Dao). He sent Li Zhu, whose vision surpassed all, yet still it eluded him. He sent Chi Gou, whose strength was unmatched, but again to no avail. Finally, he sent Xiang Wang (the one without intent)—and thus it was recovered.

This passage from the Commentary on Zhuangzi recounts stories of enlightened sages during the reigns of the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Emperor Yao, offering profound insights on governing the world.

The Yellow Emperor marveled: "How wondrous! It is through the 'formless net' (xiangwang)—a state of no-mind and no-form—that one truly apprehends the Dao (the Way)." This reveals that genuine realization of the Dao does not come from deliberate pursuit. Emperor Yao's teacher was Xu You, who studied under Nie Que, who in turn learned from Wang Ni, whose master was Bei Yi. Yao once asked Xu You: "Is Nie Que worthy of the throne? I wish to invite him through Wang Ni."

Xu You replied: "That would be perilous! Though Nie Que is wise, discerning, and remarkably astute, his nature compulsively seeks artificiality (using cleverness to forcibly restore spontaneity). He knows only how to prohibit faults but fails to grasp their root cause (attempting to suppress errors through intellect only exacerbates them). Were he to rule the world, he would rely on contrivance and lose the natural Dao."

Xu You then elaborated on why Nie Que was unfit to govern: He would impose his own standards onto all things (forcing later generations to subjugate the myriad beings to the ruler's will, stripping them of their innate nature); he would exalt cunning and stir competition (driving people to scramble for fame and profit); he would pioneer the exploitation of the masses; he would become ensnared by external things; he would issue commands everywhere demanding obedience; he would insist on perfect propriety in all matters (compelling later generations to obsessively pursue benevolence rather than forgetting it naturally); and he would chase after material transformations (binding posterity to worldly pursuits). All these actions would betray the great Dao of natural non-action (wuwei).

This passage expounds the Daoist profound insight of "natural non-action (Wuwei)." Through several parables, Zhuangzi demonstrates how deliberate striving often brings misfortune.

First, it points out that those who fail to truly comprehend the Dao in their hearts, even if temporarily appearing appropriate in their actions, ultimately cannot sustain it. Just as one may gain benefits today but suffer consequences tomorrow—how can this align with the Heavenly Dao? Though one might imitate ancestral ways to become a model for others (the "father of multitudes"), clinging to these superficial practices (the "father of the father of multitudes") instead becomes the root of disorder.

Historical lessons then illustrate this: Tyrant Jie of Xia and King Zhou of Shang murdered virtuous ministers precisely by relying on so-called sagely standards; Tian Heng's regicide was committed under the pretense of benevolence and righteousness. These disasters all arose from superficial criteria.

The narrative continues with Emperor Yao's encounter at Hua territory (modern Huaxian, Shaanxi). When the border guardian wished him longevity, wealth, and numerous sons, Yao declined each blessing. He reasoned: more sons bring more worries, greater wealth invites more troubles, and extended longevity accumulates more humiliations. Only then did the guardian realize Yao wasn't a perfection-seeking sage, but a nobleman who understood true principles. If all things find their proper place, numerous sons assigned responsibilities wouldn't cause concern; wealth distributed among people wouldn't create problems.

Finally, it describes the lifestyle of Dao-realized beings: dwelling like quails without fixed abodes (chunju), feeding like nestlings content with what comes (koushi), moving like birds leaving no traces in flight (niaoxing wuzhang). When the world follows Dao, they prosper with all beings; when Dao is absent, they cultivate virtue in reclusion. This reveals true sages harmonize with nature without artificial display.

(Note: "Chunju" describes quail-like rootless dwelling; "koushi" means nestling-like acceptance of available nourishment; "niaoxing wuzhang" metaphorically depicts natural movement leaving no human traces.)

This passage expounds the Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The perfected individuals (those who have attained the highest moral cultivation) enjoy extraordinary longevity by living in accordance with natural laws. During life, they move with celestial rhythms; after death, they merge with all existence. When weary of worldly affairs, such beings ascend as immortals, riding white clouds to the dwelling of the Heavenly Emperor. Since their vital essence (Jing) and energy (Qi) dissipate without encountering calamity, they remain free from all indignities.

The narrative then illustrates this principle through the story of Bo Chengzi Gao: During Yao's reign, he served as a feudal lord. When Yao abdicated to Shun, and Shun later to Yu, Bo Chengzi Gao resigned his position to farm. When Yu visited him in the fields and respectfully inquired about his decision, Bo Chengzi Gao replied: "Under Yao's rule, rewards were unnecessary as people naturally cultivated virtue; punishments were superfluous as they maintained reverence spontaneously. Now, with the implementation of rewards and penalties, people have grown unvirtuous. Moral power (De) has since declined, punishments have been established, and the chaos of future generations originates here." Having spoken, he resumed his plowing without further engaging Yu.

Through contrasting Yao's and Yu's governing methods, the text demonstrates how deliberate intervention (youwei) disrupts natural harmony. Zhuangzi uses this parable to reveal that the seeds of decline were already sown in Yao's era, became more evident under Yu, and would worsen in later ages without sages. Bo Chengzi Gao's abandonment of governance serves to sever future generations' emulation of sage-kings, advocating instead a return to natural non-action.

This commentary elucidates Zhuangzi's foundational thought regarding the origin of the Dao. The primordial state is "non-being" (the Dao's most original condition), where even the concept of "being" does not yet exist, making it impossible to name. This "One" (referring to the initial manifestation of the Dao) begins to emerge without any concrete form. The text emphasizes that this "One" arises from the purest state of "Supreme Oneness," rather than emerging from absolute "non-being."

The process by which all things receive their vital force is called "De" (the inherent nature of things as they partake in the Dao). Before taking concrete form, things already possess an internal differentiation yet remain undivided as a whole—this is called "ming" (natural endowment). As the Dao moves, it generates the myriad things, and when these things form their own patterns of life, this is called "xing" (physical structure). The physical form carries the spirit, each with its own operational principles—this is "xing" (inherent nature).

Cultivation involves returning to the authentic state of De. When De reaches its utmost refinement, one returns to the original state of unity with the Dao. This unity is the realm of emptiness, for only emptiness can encompass vastness. Deliberately striving for unity with the Dao, however, will instead confine one to specific things. It should be as natural as a bird's song (beak-chirping), seamlessly harmonizing with the workings of heaven and earth. This fusion occurs spontaneously, like the unselfconscious state of seeming dull-witted (the state of "sitting in forgetfulness"), not achieved through deliberate observation.

The commentary also mentions that Bo Chengzi Gao (a legendary immortal who attained the Dao) underwent 1,300 transformations before achieving the Dao, illustrating that cultivation requires a prolonged process of natural evolution. The deeds of the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun are merely surface phenomena; Zhuangzi does not deliberately praise or criticize any particular sage but instead emphasizes transcending specific examples to grasp the true meaning of "rejecting sageliness and discarding wisdom" (rising above worldly knowledge).

This passage elucidates the Daoist concepts of "profound virtue" (Xuande) and the principle of following nature's course.

When Confucius asked Laozi about cultivation, he inquired: "If someone merely imitates the external forms of Dao practice—forcibly declaring wrong as right and false as true—can they be considered a sage?" Laozi replied that such a person is like a petty official shackled by technical skills, exhausting both mind and body. Just as a tethered dog grows melancholy and a captured monkey loses its innate nature.

Laozi instructed Confucius: "There are truths you cannot hear with ears nor express with words. Among all things in the world, forms with shape will perish—only the formless Dao endures forever. The movement and stillness of all beings, their life and death, flourishing and decline, all follow nature's course without human interference." True governance lies in aligning with people's hearts, forgetting external matters, forgetting heavenly principles, and ultimately forgetting oneself. Only those who achieve this "self-forgetting" can merge completely with nature.

The subsequent narrative describes Jiang Lümian paying respects to Ji Che. Jiang recounted how the ruler of Lu sought his counsel on statecraft, and though reluctant, he advised: "To govern well, one must practice reverence and frugality while selecting officials for their impartiality and loyalty." This reflects the Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), advocating that rulers should embody humility and restraint while employing virtuous talent.

Note: The "⬤" symbol represents missing characters in the original text. Through dialogues and metaphors, this passage articulates the core Daoist teachings of following nature's course and governing through non-action, emphasizing that true virtue aligns with the Dao rather than arising from forced artifice.

This dialogue reveals the Daoist perspective on governing the world. Ji Che smiled at Jiang Lü Mian and said: "Your proposed methods of statecraft are like a mantis trying to stop a chariot by raising its forelegs—utterly incapable of succeeding. Even if one achieves reverence, frugality, and impartiality, these virtues would still prove inadequate against the world's deceit and cunning."

Jiang Lü Mian, surprised, admitted he didn't fully understand but wished to hear Ji Che's view. Ji Che explained: "The truly sagely way of governance allows the people's hearts to develop naturally, guiding them to abandon harmful customs and eliminate malicious intentions, so each person may fulfill their own aspirations. Such transformation should flow as effortlessly as one's innate nature, with the people scarcely aware they are being guided."

Ji Che emphasized: "In this kind of governance, why would we need to revere the teachings of Yao and Shun as elder brothers?" (The term "mingxing" implies the highest reverence). "Simply by abiding peacefully in the Dao within, one naturally unites with Dao and De (Virtue)."

The passage then shifts to a story about Zigong: After traveling in Chu, Zigong was returning to Jin when, south of the Han River, he saw an old man working in his vegetable garden. The man had dug a tunnel to a well and was laboriously carrying water in earthen jars to irrigate his crops—an exhausting and inefficient method. Zigong suggested using mechanical tools could achieve twice the result with half the effort. The old man looked up and asked, "How?" Zigong described constructing a wooden well-sweep (jiegao, a counterbalanced lever device for drawing water). This contrast between natural toil and mechanical efficiency subtly conveys the Daoist preference for naturalness (ziran) and aversion to artificial contrivance.

This passage records a dialogue between Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) and an elderly vegetable farmer, revealing the Daoist critique of mechanical-mindedness. The old man said: "I've heard my master [referring to Laozi] teach that those who use mechanical tools inevitably develop a crafty heart. With a crafty heart, one's inner purity becomes damaged. When the heart isn't pure, the spirit (Shen) becomes unsettled—such people cannot bear the weight of the Dao (the Way). It's not that I don't know how to use labor-saving tools, but I deliberately refrain."

Zigong hung his head in shame, speechless. After a while, the old man asked Zigong who he was. Upon learning he was Confucius's disciple, the elder criticized: "Aren't you people just using extensive learning to imitate sages and exaggerated words to seek fame? You can't even properly care for your own spirit, mind, and body—what business do you have governing the world? Be on your way now, don't interfere with my work."

Profoundly shaken, Zigong wandered off in a daze and walked thirty li before regaining his composure. When his disciples asked why he seemed so disturbed, Zigong sighed: "I used to believe only my teacher [Confucius] was a sage in this world, but now I see there are others of such profound attainment. I've heard the way of sages should achieve double results with half effort, yet this elder holds an entirely different principle—those who preserve their natural essence (Xing) attain complete virtue (De). With complete virtue comes physical wholeness, and with physical wholeness comes spiritual fullness. This is the true way of sages. They follow nature's course without forced pursuit of gain—how could those obsessed with utility and cleverness ever understand such perfect simplicity?"

Through contrasting Confucian pragmatism with Daoist Wuwei (non-action), this dialogue presents two fundamentally different philosophies of life. The old man embodies the Daoist ideals of "pure whiteness" (mental purity) and "spiritual completeness" (Shen Quan), opposing the destruction of natural essence through artificial cleverness.

This passage explores different levels of life attainment and governance philosophy through several dialogue scenarios.

Those who possess true De (Virtue/Power) do not alter their fundamental nature whether praised or criticized by the world. When all under heaven applaud them, they feel no elation; when all under heaven condemn them, they feel no dismay. Such individuals remain unaffected by external judgments, maintaining complete integrity of character—they may be called "people of whole virtue." Those easily swayed by others' opinions resemble "people of wind and waves" drifting with the currents.

The text recounts Confucius' evaluation of a certain practitioner, noting he merely imitated the cultivation methods of ancient "Hundun practitioners" (the Daoist ideal of returning to primordial simplicity) without truly understanding the Dao of Hundun. Authentic Hundun attainment involves both internal cultivation and external integration—preserving one's simple inner nature while naturally engaging with worldly affairs without losing oneself. Ordinary people struggle to comprehend this state, as the Dao of Hundun transcends superficial appearances.

Another story presents a dialogue between Chunmang (representing the Daoist ideal sage) and Yuanfeng (symbolizing worldly influences). Chunmang speaks of journeying to the great abyss of the Eastern Sea (symbolizing the profound realm of Dao), describing how this abyss neither fills when water pours in nor empties when water is drawn out. When Yuanfeng asks whether he cares for ordinary people and requests to hear about "sagely governance" (ideal statecraft), Chunmang responds:

Sagely governance requires: appointing officials appropriately, selecting talents who can fully manifest their abilities, and taking measured action after thorough understanding. It means letting people act spontaneously so the world becomes naturally transformed (emphasizing the Wuwei [non-action] principle), for forced direction will never achieve true transformation.

This passage describes several levels of Daoist practitioners and their approaches to life:

The first discusses "sagely governance" - when a sage governs the world, just a glance or gesture is enough for people to find their proper places and live in spontaneous harmony. It's like a conductor whose slight movement brings the entire orchestra into perfect unison.

Next is the realm of the "virtuous person" (Deren): they dwell without deliberate thought and act without calculated plans, completely following natural spontaneity. Their minds make no distinctions between right/wrong or beautiful/ugly. They find joy in sharing benefits with all and peace in providing for others. Their purity resembles a motherless infant, their simplicity like a lost traveler. Though surrounded by abundance, they neither question its origins nor seek its sources - this is the demeanor of the virtuous person.

Higher still is the "divine person" (Shenren): they harness illumination while their physical form dissolves, called "radiant emptiness" - luminous as sunlight pervading space. They fully release their innate nature, rejoicing in unity with heaven and earth, allowing all affairs to dissolve. When all things return to their original state, this is called "chaotic obscurity" - the trackless realm of primordial chaos.

The text then illustrates governance principles through a historical anecdote: When Men Wugui and Chi Zhang Manji observed King Wu of Zhou's army, they discussed the governance of Emperor Shun's era. They reasoned that universal peace is humanity's shared aspiration - why must we specifically venerate sage-kings like Shun? It's like treating head sores (yang) - one only wears a wig (di) after going bald, seeks medicine only after falling ill. The metaphor suggests ideal governance prevents problems rather than remedying them after they arise.

(Note: "Di" refers to a wig; "yang" means head sores, here symbolizing social disorder)

The passage expounds the Daoist philosophy of embracing natural authenticity in human conduct. It states that when a filial son wears a sorrowful expression while preparing medicine for his ailing father, the sage would consider this shameworthy—for true filial piety should arise from innate nature rather than deliberate display.

In the age of perfect virtue (Zhide zhishi), people neither deliberately exalt the worthy (as worthy men naturally assume their proper positions) nor consciously drive the capable (as competent individuals act spontaneously). The ruler resembles treetops (elevated yet unassuming), while the common people move freely like wild deer (with unconstrained freedom being their innate state). People behave uprightly without perceiving it as righteousness, care for one another without considering it benevolence, remain honest without labeling it loyalty, and keep promises without viewing it as trustworthiness (all being natural expressions of innate character). Mutual assistance occurs without any sense of bestowing favors (as all actions arise spontaneously). Thus deeds leave no traces (following nature precludes affectation), and actions carry no conscious instruction (each person abides in their inherent role).

A truly filial son never flatters his parents, nor does a loyal minister fawn upon his ruler—this constitutes the perfect way of service. If one echoes every parental word and applauds every parental action, conventional society would ironically deem such a person unfilial; the same applies to serving rulers. Yet those who mechanically approve what the crowd approves escape being called sycophants. Does conventional opinion hold greater authority than parents and rulers? In truth, the sage never deliberately opposes convention, but harmonizes with changing circumstances—fulfilling the ruler's role during imperial times. Why would they defy convention to stand apart? This serves as a warning against conscious self-promotion.

(Note: "Age of perfect virtue" refers to an ideal society of consummate morality; "treetops" metaphorically represent rulers; "wild deer" symbolize unrestrained freedom)

When those who cultivate the Dao (xiudao zhi ren, practitioners of the Way) are accused of being sycophants, they become furious; while worldly people grow displeased when labeled as Dao cultivators. This stems from society's tendency to equate conformity with righteousness—mistaking genuine cultivation for flattery, and flattery for spiritual practice. Consequently, such individuals oscillate between these extremes throughout life, never probing the true principles, concerned only with superficial harmony.

Like using honeyed words to gather followers, this approach lacks foundation from start to finish, from root to branch. Glib speech meant to curry favor should be condemned, yet the world rewards it with admiration and followers. Those who pander to vulgar tastes—dressing extravagantly, powdering their faces, and putting on airs to please the crowd—refuse to admit their sycophancy. They wallow in worldly mire, confounding right and wrong while denying their mediocrity—the height of folly.

When all under heaven are benighted, one has no choice but to follow the tide. Those aware of their ignorance aren't wholly foolish; those conscious of their confusion aren't entirely lost. But the truly deluded never awaken in their lifetime, just as the genuinely stupid remain unenlightened till death. Though sages and emperors share the same essence, their manifestations differ precisely because universal delusion forces adaptation to reality.

Consider three travelers: with one confused companion, they may still reach their destination; with two lost, the journey becomes futile. Now the entire world drowns in confusion—even if I wished to guide them back to the Dao, how could I succeed? Is this not tragic? The common folk cannot appreciate sublime music like "Xianchi" or "Liuying," yet burst into laughter at vulgar tunes like "Zheyang" or "Huanghua." Thus profound truths find no entry into vulgar hearts, and ultimate teachings cannot compete with popular platitudes. Like a man dangling midair without footing, humanity clings to partial views, forever missing the proper orientation.

Nowadays, all people under heaven are lost in confusion. Even if I sincerely seek guidance, how could I obtain the true direction? To persist in seeking what one knows is unattainable is itself another form of delusion. It would be better to relinquish attachments and follow the natural course. It's like when a seriously ill person gives birth at midnight and anxiously lights a lamp to examine the child, fearing it might inherit their ailment. In truth, no one in the world wishes to commit evil—those who do are either compelled by oppressive governance or have lost their original nature.

When a hundred-year-old great tree is felled, one part may be carved into ornate wine vessels (xi zun) adorned with colorful paintings, while another part is discarded in ditches. Though their beauty and ugliness differ, both have equally lost the tree's original nature. The legendary robber Zhi, Confucius' filial disciple Zeng Shen, and the virtuous minister Shi Qiu may differ in their virtuous and wicked deeds, yet fundamentally they all deviate from their innate nature.

There are five conditions that cause people to lose their original nature: dazzling colors that blind the eyes, cacophonous sounds that deafen the ears, pungent odors that befuddle the mind, rich flavors that corrupt the palate, and anxious gains and losses that disturb the spirit. These five are all calamities to life. Yet thinkers like Yang Zhu and Mo Di presume they've grasped the truth—how can this be considered true attainment? If confinement counts as attainment, then wouldn't caged turtledoves and owls be the most content?

People's hearts are stuffed with desires while their exteriors are bound by rituals. Their inner selves resemble firewood-packed cages, their outer forms entangled in layer upon layer of ropes, yet they still find pleasure in this state. It's like criminals with bound hands and squeezed fingers, or tigers and leopards confined in cages, mistakenly believing they've found their rightful place.

The Dao of Heaven operates without cease, thus it can accomplish all things; the Dao of emperors flows unhindered, thus it can govern all under heaven. (Here "Dao of Heaven" refers to natural law, "Dao of emperors" to governance principles.) The laws of nature never accumulate obstructions—just as flowing water never stagnates, it can nourish the growth of all things.

This passage elucidates the core Daoist concept of "emptiness, stillness, and non-action (Wuwei)." It explains that true sages (those who have attained the Dao) follow natural laws without deliberate striving, much like the ocean receives all rivers yet never consciously accumulates them. They comprehend the Dao of Heaven and the Way of Sages—though capable of perceiving all directions (the "six penetrations" refer to the six natural phenomena of Yin-Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light; "four openings" signify the cardinal directions)—their inner being remains perpetually tranquil.

Just as still water perfectly reflects beard and eyebrows, becoming the carpenter's standard measure, so too does the sage's empty-still mind mirror all things between heaven and earth like a flawless mirror. These four states—emptiness-stillness, serenity-indifference, silent-solitude, and non-action—constitute the fundamental principles of cosmic operation and the ultimate expression of Virtue (De). When emperors and sages abide in this state, their apparent stillness brims with vitality: emptiness-stillness generates fullness, and this fullness aligns with heavenly order; extreme stillness begets movement, and such movement naturally achieves appropriateness.

The text cites Yao and Shun as exemplars: understanding this principle, facing south as ruler makes one Yao, facing north as minister makes one Shun. This state of non-action allows all beings to fulfill their proper roles ("myriad talents and countless things each performing their functions"), just as Shun and Yu governed the world with seeming non-interference yet perfect order. Maintaining this relaxed, self-possessed (yuyu) state keeps worries at bay, naturally extending longevity. Emptiness-stillness and non-action form the fundamental law underlying all existence—whether one rules facing south or serves facing north, all derives from this root.

This passage expounds the Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The so-called "Uncrowned King" (referring to one who possesses royal virtue without holding royal office) attains the highest state through Wuwei. Such a person can win the hearts of all under heaven even without official titles.

When such a person retreats into seclusion, even hermits dwelling by rivers, seas, and mountains admire him. When he emerges to govern the world, he achieves great accomplishments, spreads his renown, and unifies the realm. In retirement, he embodies the lofty purity of ancient recluses like Chao Fu and Xu You; in service, he demonstrates the efficacy of virtuous ministers like Yi Yin and Lü Wang.

The true state of Wuwei is profoundly vast: when the Son of Heaven refrains from overstepping into his ministers' duties, the ministers can fulfill their responsibilities; when ministers do not interfere with officials' affairs, the officials can manage their tasks; when officials do not disrupt the lives of commoners, the people can live in peace. Thus, from the highest to the lowest, including ordinary folk and small creatures, all find their rightful place without deliberate effort. The more one practices Wuwei, the more revered one becomes.

The sage, while remaining still, comprehends the Dao of Heaven; while acting, achieves kingly accomplishments. Though appearing to do nothing, he is naturally revered by all things. Preserving the purest innate nature, nothing in the world can rival his beauty. One who understands the workings of Heaven and Earth grasps the fundamental Dao and harmonizes with nature. Such a person, in governing the world, also coexists harmoniously with the people.

Harmony with others is called "human joy"; harmony with Heaven is called "heavenly joy." Zhuangzi exclaims: "O my master! You blend all things without appearing tyrannical, your blessings extend for generations without claiming benevolence." (Note: The symbol □ indicates illegible or missing characters in the original text.)

Zhuangzi here expounds the realm of "Heavenly Joy" (tianle), the happiness that comes from aligning with nature's flow. He suggests that genuine benevolence needs no deliberate display of "humaneness," just as the wisdom of antiquity never sought fame for longevity. Heaven and Earth give birth to all things without flaunting their craftsmanship—this spontaneous naturalness is the essence of Heavenly Joy.

Those who understand Heavenly Joy live in harmony with the Dao's movement while alive and merge with all things upon death. In stillness, they share the profound virtue of yin's hidden depths; in motion, they resonate with yang's surging energy. Those who attain this state neither resent Heaven nor attract human censure, are neither burdened by external things nor chastised by spirits. Their actions and stillness mirror the natural rhythms of cosmic movement.

When the mind achieves perfect serenity, it becomes the sovereign ruler of all under Heaven—spirits cause no disturbances, and the vital spirit (shen) never wearies. This empty stillness connects with all things between Heaven and Earth, drawing the myriad beings to naturally submit. It is with this heart of Heavenly Joy that sages nurture the world.

A ruler's virtue (de) should take Heaven and Earth as its foundation, the Dao and its power as its guiding principle, and non-action (wuwei) as its constant practice. Through wuwei, governing the world becomes effortless; through forced action, one becomes exhausted by worldly affairs. Thus, the ancients revered the Dao of non-action—when rulers practice wuwei and subjects follow suit, superior and inferior share the same virtue. But if both actively intervene, the proper distinction between ruler and minister collapses. Like a carpenter who doesn't force his carving but follows the natural use of his axe...

Here Zhuangzi expounds the political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The ruler (sovereign) should maintain an attitude of non-interference, allowing ministers to fulfill their respective duties. Just as an axe carves wood and the craftsman wields the axe, each person exercises their specialized skills—this is the principle of following nature's course.

If a sovereign oversteps to perform ministers' tasks, they cease to behave as a sovereign; if ministers usurp the ruler's authority, they no longer act as ministers. When superiors and subordinates each remain in their proper positions and fulfill their responsibilities, this constitutes the highest form of non-action. The sovereign appears to do nothing yet actually governs the world by appointing the worthy; ministers must actively serve the realm. This is an eternal, unchanging principle.

When ancient sage-kings governed the world, though their wisdom could encompass heaven and earth, they didn't exhaust their spirits in personal deliberation; though their eloquence could adorn all things, they didn't indulge in empty rhetoric; though their abilities could order the four seas, they didn't personally handle every affair. If those in high positions fail to practice non-action but instead interfere with ministers' duties—like preventing judges from rendering clear verdicts or agricultural officers from focusing on farming—then talented individuals become useless, and the sovereign becomes burdened with trivial matters.

Thus, enlightened rulers govern with sleeves folded (symbolizing non-interference), enabling all under heaven to exercise their abilities—this is the state of "doing nothing yet leaving nothing undone." Heaven produces nothing intentionally yet all things spontaneously transform; earth cultivates nothing deliberately yet all beings naturally grow; emperors practice non-action yet the world becomes orderly of itself. Therefore, nothing is more miraculous than heaven, more abundant than earth, or more majestic than the sovereign. The virtue of emperors matches heaven and earth—all follow the natural way of non-action. This is the fundamental principle for mastering creation and governing the people: sovereigns uphold the great guidelines while ministers handle concrete affairs.

Zhuangzi here expounds the philosophical concept of "root and branch" relationships. He considers five categories—military weapons, reward-punishment systems, legal statutes, ritual music ceremonies, and mourning garments—as mere "branches" that rely on human mental activities and cognitive functions to be effective (spirit and mind are the root of these five matters; by acting in accordance with natural laws, these secondary matters naturally find their proper place).

Although ancient sages also employed these "branches," they never prioritized them. Just as there exists a natural hierarchy between ruler and subject, father and son, elder and younger brother, senior and junior, male and female, and husband and wife—this order mirrors the patterns of heaven and earth (the loftiness of heaven and the lowliness of earth reflect the arrangement of divine forces, just as spring and summer precede autumn and winter in the sequence of seasons). If even heaven and earth follow this inherent order of precedence, how much more should human society?

In practice, ancestral temple rites emphasize kinship, the court upholds distinctions of rank, villages observe seniority, and tasks are assigned based on competence—all these reflect the natural order of the Dao. To speak of the Dao while disregarding this order is to misunderstand the true Dao; and if one misunderstands the true Dao, how can one ever attain it?

Thus, those in ancient times who comprehended the Dao first understood natural laws ("heaven" here refers to nature; understanding nature allows one to grasp the patterns of things). Next, they understood De (Virtue/Power) (mastering these patterns leads to natural harmony among all things). Then came an understanding of humaneness and righteousness (harmony without losing one’s fundamental role), followed by the division of responsibilities (each fulfilling their proper function), and finally, the establishment of formal titles and institutions (defining roles based on reality).

Zhuangzi here examines the hierarchical sequence of governing the world. The first principle is to follow the intrinsic nature of things (因任), allowing all beings to develop spontaneously. Next comes investigating the fundamental origin of phenomena (原省), which dispels artificial judgments of guilt. Only when this origin is clarified can one properly discuss right and wrong (是非), with the criterion being whether actions align with the innate nature of things.

Once distinctions between right and wrong are established, rewards and punishments (赏罚) may be implemented, as these respond to gains and losses. Yet it must be understood that the most perfect governance ultimately resides in the Dao of Heaven, while rewards and punishments are merely peripheral. Properly administered, they allow the foolish and wise to find their appropriate places (愚知处宜), the noble and humble to occupy their rightful positions (贵贱履位), and both the virtuous and unworthy to act according to their inherent dispositions (仁贤不肖袭情).

Each individual should fully employ their capabilities (必分其能), with names matching realities (必由其名). Applying this method to serving rulers, governing people, handling affairs, and cultivating oneself—without resorting to scheming or calculation, but instead following natural spontaneity—this represents the highest ideal of a flourishing age.

When the ancients discussed the Great Dao, they progressed through five stages of transformation before addressing forms and names (形名), and nine stages before deliberating rewards and punishments. To abruptly speak of forms, names, and punishments without this progression reveals ignorance of the root. Those who invert the Dao and violate its principles can only be governed by others, never governing themselves.

Those who hastily discuss forms, names, and punishments understand only the instruments of governance, not its fundamental principles. Ritual laws, penal codes, and bureaucratic evaluations—though employed by the ancients—were tools for ministers serving rulers, not the essence by which rulers nurture the people. When Shun asked Yao how to govern the world with an attentive heart, Yao replied that he never scorned those deemed ignorant or destitute (不敖无告). This embodies the inclusive mindset befitting a true ruler.

During Emperor Yao's reign, he consistently cared for the impoverished, mourned the deceased, cherished children, and showed compassion for women. Emperor Shun remarked, "This governance is commendable, yet not truly magnificent." When Yao inquired how to improve, Shun replied, "One should emulate the virtue of Heaven (aligning with the Dao), governing through Wuwei (non-action) like the sun and moon's natural radiance or the seasons' effortless transition, as spontaneous as clouds bringing rain." Yao suddenly realized, "So my previous efforts were overly strenuous!"

The narrative continues with Confucius wishing to deposit his works in the Zhou royal archives. His disciple Zilu suggested, "I hear Lao Dan (Laozi), the former Archivist of Zhou, has retired to seclusion. Master might seek his assistance." Confucius visited but met refusal. Undeterred, he cited classical texts (the "Twelve Classics" possibly referring to the Six Classics plus Six Wei, or the I Ching's core texts with its Ten Wings) to persuade. Laozi interrupted, "Too verbose—state the essence." Confucius responded, "It lies in benevolence and righteousness." Laozi countered, "Are these humanity's innate nature?" Confucius affirmed, "A noble person cannot exist without them—this constitutes the true human nature." Pressed to define them, Confucius explained, "An upright heart with universal love and impartiality—this embodies benevolence and righteousness."

(Note: Lao Dan refers to Laozi, with "Archivist" being his Zhou dynasty position. This passage contrasts Daoist governance through Wuwei with Confucian ethics, highlighting their philosophical differences through Yao-Shun and Confucius-Laozi dialogues.)

This passage presents Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi, exploring the relationship between humaneness and the natural Dao. The original text conveys that:

Genuine great love doesn't require deliberate displays of humaneness. Those who proclaim their selflessness while ostensibly abandoning personal gain to care for others—yet still expect reciprocation—actually harbor greater selfishness. Like the sun and moon following their natural courses, or birds and trees each occupying their proper places, all things inherently follow their own patterns.

Zhuangzi suggests that rather than consciously waving the banner of humaneness and righteousness everywhere (as futile as beating a drum while searching for a lost child), one should act in accordance with natural dispositions. True humaneness manifests spontaneously when situations arise and ceases naturally when appropriate. Excessive attachment to concepts of humaneness and righteousness only disrupts people's innate nature.

The commentary then recounts how a man named Shicheng Qi traveled a great distance to visit Laozi, only to find the sage didn't match his expectations: leftover food in the granary (suggesting no excessive thrift), insufficient kindness toward close associates, and no distinction in handling cooked and raw foods. Guo Xiang's annotation explains this reveals Laozi's state of "perfect sufficiency that naturally overflows"—authentic sages don't deliberately exhibit frugality or humaneness, but manifest these qualities spontaneously.

The core idea of this commentary is: The highest form of humaneness transcends formal expressions and aligns with natural spontaneity. Conscious pursuit of moral virtues like humaneness and righteousness risks losing one's authentic nature. Just as heaven and earth operate without proclaiming their principles, genuine virtue (De) should flow effortlessly without artificiality or contrivance.

This passage records the dialogue between Shicheng Qi and Laozi, illustrating the Daoist attitude toward life. Initially approaching Laozi with a critical mindset, Shicheng Qi found his inner aggression inexplicably dissolved the next day, leaving him perplexed.

Laozi explained: Those who consider themselves wise and saintly—I long ago transcended such notions. When you called me an ox yesterday, I responded as an ox; when you called me a horse, I complied as a horse (referring to effortless adaptation to external labels). If one possesses true substance, others' labels matter not. Clinging to praise or blame brings dual harm (both from external judgment and the loss of inner peace). I abide in constant naturalness ("恒服" denotes consistent speech and conduct)—this isn't forced behavior.

The narrative then depicts Shicheng Qi stepping back respectfully to inquire about self-cultivation. Laozi pointed out ten unnatural traits in him: tense expression, piercing gaze, protruding forehead, gaping mouth, contrived posture (like a tethered horse—restless yet forcibly restrained), rigid movements, mechanical reactions, excessive discernment of right/wrong, and outward display of cleverness that obscures innate simplicity. Laozi identified these as manifestations of distrust toward one's natural essence.

(Note: "郤" functions as "隙," indicating dissolved barriers; "頯然" describes a bulging forehead; "闞然" refers to a wide-open mouth; "泰" signifies behavior exceeding natural disposition)

In remote regions there exists a type of person called "thieves of wisdom" - those who occasionally quote from classical texts but have merely stolen superficial knowledge without comprehending the true principles. Laozi said: The great Dao encompasses all things without exception, whether large or small. It is so vast that nothing lies beyond it, so profound that its depths cannot be measured. What people call surface-level morality and righteousness are but the smallest branches of spiritual cultivation - who but those who have attained the Dao can truly grasp its essence?

Those who have genuinely attained the Dao could possess the entire world without feeling burdened, for they remain untethered by worldly power. They penetrate to the core of things without being seduced by profit, grasp the true nature of phenomena while maintaining their foundation. Thus they transcend heaven, earth and the myriad things, their spirits forever free. They embody the Dao completely and align with De (Virtue), treating conventional morality and rituals as secondary to natural spontaneity. The mindset of Dao attainers is firmly established - anchored in the realm of Wuwei (non-action).

What worldly people treasure as the "Dao" often exists merely in written records, yet books are but vessels for words. The value of words lies in the profound meaning they convey, and behind this meaning lies something more fundamental that cannot be expressed in language. Sadly, people prize and transcribe books because they value words, yet what they revere is not the truly valuable essence (which always lies beyond language).

Eyes can only perceive forms and colors, ears can only register names and sounds. How lamentable that people think these can reveal the essence of things! In truth, appearances and names cannot reflect reality (to understand essence one must transcend words and texts). Therefore, those who truly understand do not speak, while those who chatter all day comprehend nothing - how could ordinary people grasp this principle? (This reveals the true meaning of abandoning superficial learning.)

When Duke Huan of Qi was reading in his hall, the wheelwright Bian put down his tools and asked: "May I ask what words my lord is reading?" (implying that written records do not contain true knowledge)

This passage comes from the "Heavenly Movement" chapter of the Zhuangzi, using two vivid dialogues to explore the philosophical concept that "the Dao cannot be conveyed through words."

Duke Huan of Qi was reading in his hall when the wheelwright Bian bluntly remarked, "What you're reading is merely the dregs left behind by the ancients." He used his own experience crafting wheels as a metaphor: when carving a wheel, moving too slowly makes the wood loose and unstable, while moving too fast makes it stiff and hard to work. Only by finding the perfect rhythm does the work flow naturally. This subtle mastery cannot be taught even to one's own son—which is why at seventy years old, he still personally crafts wheels. This illustrates that true essence cannot be transmitted; the ancients took with them the ineffable, leaving behind only superficial words.

The subsequent passage employs a series of rhetorical questions to probe the nature of heaven and earth's movement: Does heaven turn by itself? Is earth truly still? Do the sun and moon jostle for position? In truth, they simply are as they are, with no ruler driving them. Do clouds become rain, or rain become clouds? Who orchestrates these transformations? When the wind whirls east and west, who breathes to control it? These questions reveal a core idea—that all things operate spontaneously ("of themselves"), not propelled by external forces.

Through these examples, Zhuangzi demonstrates that just as the true art of wheel-making cannot be put into words, the operating principles of heaven, earth, and the myriad things (the Dao) likewise transcend linguistic description. True wisdom lies not in rigidly studying ancient texts but in harmonizing with nature and moving with the times.

This passage contains two main sections: one discussing the principle of conforming to natural laws, and the other exploring the concept of "supreme benevolence" (至仁).

The first section, through the words of Wu Xian (a prime minister of the Shang dynasty), explains that the operation of heaven and earth follows inherent natural patterns (the "six directions" refer to the four cardinal directions plus up and down, while the "five constants" represent the laws of the Five Phases). If rulers can align themselves with these patterns, they will govern effectively; violating them invites disaster. The truly enlightened sovereign (上皇) achieves peace and popular support precisely by harmonizing with nature.

The second section presents a dialogue between Dang, the Grand Steward of the Shang state, and Zhuangzi on the essence of "benevolence." Zhuangzi offers a startling perspective: even tigers and wolves possess benevolence, as seen in their parental care. When asked about the highest form of benevolence, Zhuangzi argues that "supreme benevolence" transcends ordinary affectionate relationships—just as the organs of the body naturally perform their functions without consciously displaying affection. Challenged whether this might undermine filial piety, Zhuangzi explains that supreme benevolence operates on a plane far beyond conventional morality, likening it to how travelers heading south to Ying cannot see the northern Mount Ming—the disparity in perspective is simply too great.

Through these analogies, Zhuangzi illustrates that the highest virtue manifests spontaneously without conscious effort, and that true benevolence surpasses formal expressions of closeness, much like the effortless workings of heaven and earth.

Zhuangzi here expounds the profound meaning of "ultimate benevolence" (zhiren). True benevolence does not lie in deliberate displays of familial piety, just as the capital of Chu may be physically close yet feel distant, or the famed benevolence of the mythical Mount Ming may be illustrious yet deviate from ultimate truth. Performing filial piety through deference is easy, but doing so through genuine love is difficult; acting with love is easier still, yet forgetting that one is performing filial piety is harder still. The most difficult is for parents to forget their child's filial acts, and even more so for the world to forget the existence of sages altogether.

The person of ultimate virtue (De) moves through life with ease yet remains unaware of it. The sage governs the world not through deliberate action (wuwei), but by letting all things follow their natural course. When each person finds contentment within themselves, the world naturally achieves peace, and all forget the presence of sages. This state of "complete forgetting" (jianwang) represents the highest attainment.

True virtue surpasses the achievements of Yao and Shun yet claims no credit (only by forgetting their names can their virtue be preserved); its blessings extend across generations, yet none recognize its source. Why then insist on proclaiming benevolence and filial piety? It is like fish missing the moisture of their own saliva only when removed from rivers and lakes. Filial piety, brotherly duty, benevolence, and righteousness—these moral constructs, when forced, only bind our natural spontaneity and are not worth excessive praise.

The most precious thing is the ability to relinquish titles and rank; the greatest wealth lies in holding the riches of the world lightly; the highest aspiration is to release the pursuit of fame. Only then can the purity of the Dao (the Way) remain unaltered.

Later, in the dialogue between Beimen Cheng and the Yellow Emperor, Beimen Cheng listens as the Emperor performs the "Xianchi" music by Lake Dongting. At first, he feels fear; then, he grows relaxed; finally, he enters a trance, losing all distinction between self and other. The Emperor explains that this is precisely the effect of music that leads to "sitting in forgetfulness" (zuowang)—a meditative state of self-oblivion.

Here Zhuangzi discusses the highest form of music (zhile, "supreme joy"), which transcends ordinary melodies. True supreme joy must first align with human affairs, follow natural patterns, operate according to the five virtues (wude, corresponding to the Five Phases of Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and resonate with cosmic principles. Only then can it regulate the seasonal transitions and harmonize the growth of all things. As the seasons cycle endlessly, beings emerge in proper sequence—flourishing and declining, exhibiting both refinement and vigor, clarity and turbidity, with perfect Yin-Yang balance—the music flows naturally between heaven and earth.

Like hibernating insects startled by spring thunder, this music has neither beginning nor end, pulsing eternally like the rhythm of life and death. When first hearing its infinite variations, people feel awe. Then, when played with harmonized Yin-Yang tones and illuminated with sunlight-moonlight brilliance, this music stretches and contracts, softens and strengthens, maintaining unity within transformation, unbound by fixed patterns. It fills mountain valleys and levels hollows (keng, depressions), permeating all existence.

To perform it, one must close ordinary perception (tuque, "blocking sensory channels"), focus the spirit (shen), and adapt to external changes. This music expands majestically (huichuo, "resonating expansively"), its name matching its essence with sublime clarity. Thus spirits dwell peacefully in their dark realms while sun, moon and stars follow their courses. The music seems to pause yet flows continuously; appears in motion yet contains stillness. This supreme joy surpasses worldly understanding—even sages cannot fully describe it, for it attains the Dao's realm: appearing foolish yet wise, dim yet radiant, yielding yet expansive. This state is called "heavenly music" (tianle, "celestial joy"). Soundless yet responding to all things, heavenly music resembles the Dao that nurtures creation without speaking.

This passage describes the supreme state attained through Daoist cultivation. When practitioners enter the realm of thoughtless spontaneity, where attempts to comprehend through intellect prove futile, efforts to observe reveal no concrete form, and pursuits remain forever beyond grasp, they stand as if at the crossroads of the vast void, leaning against a withered parasol tree in effortless recitation, having transcended deliberate action.

When the eyes have exhausted all there is to see, and strength is spent on unattainable pursuits, one realizes these goals can never truly be reached. Only when the physical form becomes completely empty can one move with the serpent's natural undulations, free from fear or tension. The music played in this state bears no trace of artifice, flowing solely with nature's rhythm.

True joy arises like the effortless growth of intermingled plants—so profoundly joyful that its form becomes invisible. This realm's movement has no fixed direction; it dwells in profound mystery. It may be called death or rebirth, fruit or blossom, transforming with all things without clinging to fixed states. Ordinary people often find this perplexing, but only sages truly understand.

Sages penetrate the nature of all things and accord with natural patterns. Without deliberately activating the celestial mechanism (the wondrous workings of natural creation), their sensory faculties remain perfectly complete—this is called "heavenly joy," where one forgets joy itself yet naturally rejoices. Without verbal expression, the heart finds spontaneous delight. The ancient sage Yanshi (legendary knower of heavenly joy) praised it thus: "Listen—yet no sound is heard; look—yet no form is seen. It fills heaven and earth, embraces the six directions of the universe."

This passage discusses the Daoist concept of spiritual joy (here referring to a state of consciousness) through three progressive stages, followed by a parable about Confucius' hardships during his travels between states.

The realm of "joy" unfolds in three phases: initial fear (which disturbs the mind), followed by slackening (gradual dissipation), culminating in bewilderment (appearing foolish). This seemingly foolish state actually approaches closest to the Dao (the Way), for here one transcends attachments and achieves unity with the Dao. As the Zhongyong (Doctrine of the Mean) states: "The ghosts and spirits cannot be seen or heard," and the Daxue (Great Learning) observes how the distracted mind becomes blind and deaf to its surroundings.

The subsequent allegory uses Confucius' travels: Shijin tells Yan Hui that Confucius resembles someone revering used straw-dogs (sacrificial offerings)—initially enshrined in ornate boxes draped with embroidered cloths, only to be trampled or burned afterward. To continue worshiping them would invite nightmares. Confucius' veneration of ancient kings' rituals resembles these obsolete straw-dogs, explaining his misfortunes: trees felled in Song, expulsion from Wei, confinement in Zhou territories, starvation between Chen and Cai—all stemming from clinging to outdated ways.

The boat-cart metaphor concludes: boats belong on water—forcing them onto land renders them useless. Ancient rites resemble waterborne vessels; mechanically applying them to new eras (dry land) proves futile, implying governance must adapt to changing times.

This passage discusses Zhuangzi's perspective on ritual systems, arguing that rites and laws should adapt with the times. Just as the shadoof (an ancient water-lifting device) moves up and down when pulled by humans yet never offends anyone, the ritual systems of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors differed yet all suited their respective eras. Rites are like fruits—pears, tangerines, and pomelos—each with distinct flavors but equally delicious. Thus, ritual systems should evolve with the times.

Forcing a monkey to wear the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou would only make it tear them apart. The gap between ancient and modern times is as vast as that between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou. When the beauty Xishi frowned from heartache, her expression was captivating, but when an ugly village girl imitated her, the effect was grotesque—she knew the frown was beautiful but not why. Ritual propriety is the same: timely adaptation makes it Xishi-like, while stubborn adherence to outdated forms turns it into the ugly girl.

The passage concludes with Confucius, at fifty-one, still not having attained the Dao (the Way), traveling to Pei to meet Laozi. Confucius laments that after five years of seeking the Dao through ritual systems, he has failed—implying that rigid adherence to old rites obstructs enlightenment. Laozi responds with the term "rules and measures" (shudu), subtly suggesting that the Dao cannot be found in rigid formalism. The core critique here targets inflexible traditionalism, emphasizing the importance of adapting to changing circumstances.

This passage uses the story of Confucius and Laozi (the founder of Daoism) to illustrate that the true Dao cannot be transmitted through external forms. Laozi says: If the Dao could be offered to others like a gift, people would have long presented it to their rulers; if it could be given as tribute, they would have offered it to their parents; if it could be conveyed through words, they would have told their brothers; if it could be transferred like property, they would have passed it down to their descendants. Yet the fundamental reason the Dao cannot be transmitted in these ways is that—without an inner foundation of realization, external teachings cannot take root (if the heart lacks the essence to receive the Dao, even hearing it will be forgotten); and without the proper external guide, the inner understanding cannot truly flourish.

When the true Dao arises from within, it does not rely on external validation—thus the sage does not deliberately promote it (the sage’s Dao emerges from within, revealing itself only to those who can comprehend it). As for knowledge acquired externally, if there is no genuine foundation of inner realization, the sage does not conceal this fact (what is learned through imitation remains superficial; without true innate wisdom, one cannot bear the weight of the sacred Dao).

Fame is a shared resource of the world—one must not claim it excessively (deliberately seeking undeserved renown invites chaos). Humaneness and righteousness are like the temporary lodgings of ancient rulers (akin to roadside inns)—one may pause briefly but cannot dwell there indefinitely (humaneness and righteousness stem from human nature, yet nature shifts across eras. Clinging to their outward forms breeds hypocrisy, and excessive hypocrisy invites censure).

The perfected ones of antiquity who attained the Dao merely borrowed the forms of humaneness and righteousness (adapting to their times without fixating on any structure), ultimately roaming in the carefree realm of effortless harmony, dwelling in simplicity and plainness, grounded in a garden free from external dependencies. To roam carefree is to follow nature without forced action (forced action is not true humaneness or righteousness); simplicity and plainness make self-cultivation effortless (abiding in daily austerity).

Zhuangzi here employs vivid metaphors to reveal the dangers of excessive pursuit of external fame and fortune as well as rigid adherence to dogma.

First, explaining "no giving, no taking" (不贷无出): true cultivation neither seeks from the outside nor depletes oneself. The ancients called this "the wandering of gathering truth" (采真之游)—living in accordance with one's natural disposition, so that the resulting state is genuine and free from artifice. Those obsessed with wealth cannot bear to part with profit, those chasing prestige cannot let go of reputation, and those craving power refuse to share authority. People are often bound by their own notions of what is "right," unaware that this very fixation violates the natural Dao.

Next, three vivid analogies: clutching something breeds fear of losing it, while letting go brings sorrow—this anxious, vacillating mentality is like being punished by heaven. Zhuangzi lists eight governance methods—resentment and gratitude, taking and giving, admonishing and teaching, life and death—pointing out that only those who follow natural transformations and refuse to cling to old rules can apply them correctly. Those who stubbornly insist on their own views close the gates of their minds.

Finally, through a parable of Confucius and Laozi: just as chaff in the eye disorients, and mosquito bites keep one awake all night, forcibly imposing benevolence and righteousness is like a great chaos disturbing people's hearts. Laozi advises: better to let people preserve their simple nature, living naturally like grass bending with the wind or standing firm by virtue (依德而立). Why must morality be demanded with such urgency, as if beating a great drum to hunt down a fugitive? (Note: the "great drum" [建鼓] was used in ancient times to summon crowds.)

The core of this passage opposes deliberate striving and advocates a way of life in harmony with nature. Concepts like "the wandering of gathering truth" (采真之游), "those punished by heaven" (天之戮民), and "moving with the wind" (放风而动) are distinctive to Zhuangzi's philosophy, representing different states of being.

The swan needs no daily bath to remain pure white, nor does the crow require daily dyeing to stay naturally black (such is their innate nature). The essential difference between black and white merits no debate (both emerge spontaneously, neither superior nor inferior), just as the superficial trappings of fame and honor cannot truly expand one's spiritual horizon (the truly perfected person forgets reputation, and it is precisely this forgetting that opens the genuine vastness of being).

When the spring dries up, fish stranded on land moisten each other with their spit (this metaphor illustrates how the reputation for benevolence and righteousness arises only in times of deprivation) — how inferior this is to forgetting each other while swimming freely in rivers and lakes (the higher state achieved through genuine transcendence of conscious virtue). After Confucius visited Laozi, he remained silent for three full days. His disciples asked: "Master, having met Laozi, did you offer him any admonitions?" Confucius replied: "Now I have truly seen the dragon! Coiled, it forms a perfect unity; unfurled, it displays sublime patterns (describing Laozi's effortless transformations), riding cloud-breaths in boundless wandering, nourished by yin and yang (showing he guides all things without fixed methods, in natural perfection). My jaw hung slack in awe — what admonitions could I possibly offer?"

Zigong asked: "Can such a man truly exist? Appearing still as a corpse yet manifesting a dragon's majesty, silent as the abyss yet thundering like lightning, his movements and stillness mirroring heaven and earth's revolutions? I too wish to meet him." Thereupon he visited Laozi under Confucius' name. Laozi sat quietly in his hall and said mildly: "My years have grown long — what counsel would you give me?" Zigong inquired: "Though the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed differently, all left noble reputations. Why does the master alone consider them unworthy of sagehood?"

Laozi motioned him closer: "Tell me of these differences." Zigong answered: "Yao passed rulership to Shun, Shun to Yu; Yu governed through laborious toil, Tang through military force, King Wen by submitting to Zhou, King Wu by rebelling against him." Drawing him nearer still, Laozi said: "I tell you this — when the Yellow Emperor governed, people's hearts were undivided; when kin died, none wept yet none blamed (forced weeping would have seemed artificial). Under Yao's rule, people began distinguishing closeness; graded mourning rituals arose yet none objected ('diminishment' refers to mourning protocol reductions)."

When Emperor Shun ruled the world, he filled the people's hearts with competition. A mother carried her child for ten months, yet the infant could speak at five months old (this shows premature cultivation). Before reaching the age of laughter, the child could already recognize others ("who" refers to distinguishing between people, indicating the early imposition of competitive education). Such artificial intervention caused people to lose their innate nature (failure to dissolve the distinction between self and others leads to competition based on personal relationships, preventing them from living out their natural lifespan).

When Emperor Yu governed the world, he made people's hearts crafty. Everyone harbored scheming minds, and even warfare was justified as "acting in accordance with the situation" (mentioning the use of military force in this way reveals the world had already lost order). Killing a thief was not considered murder (since thieves deserved death, killing them was seen as following the natural course). People formed factions and cliques (unable to treat all things equally, each person drew boundaries, passing these habits down through generations). These accumulated flaws have reached the present day, with Confucians, Mohists, and other schools all rising (this is the result of long-standing corruption). At first, there was still some order, but now it's as chaotic as treating a daughter as a wife (it's not that the original principles were flawed, but their excessive application led to this state). What more is there to say? (The corruption stems precisely from overemphasizing "principle.")

Let me tell you, the so-called governance of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors was in name only—in reality, it was utter chaos (inevitably producing corruption). The wisdom of the Three Sovereigns violated the radiance of the sun and moon above, disrupted the essence of mountains and rivers below, and ruined the harmony of the four seasons in between. Their cunning was more poisonous than a scorpion's sting, preventing even young animals from enjoying their natural instincts. Yet they still called themselves sages—isn't that shameful? Truly, they knew no shame! When Zigong heard this, he stood frozen in shock (he had assumed Laozi only rejected the Three Kings and sought to align them with the Five Emperors. Now he realized Laozi rejected even the Five Emperors and Three Sovereigns, completely overturning his understanding).

Confucius said to Laozi: "I have studied the Six Classics—the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, Book of Music, Book of Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals—for a long time and believe I have fully grasped their principles. I have advised seventy-two rulers, expounding the governance methods of ancient kings and elucidating the administrative strategies of the Duke of Zhou and Duke of Shao. Yet not a single ruler has heeded my words. Human minds are so hard to persuade, and the great Dao is so difficult to clarify!"

Laozi replied: "It is actually fortunate that you have not encountered a sage ruler. The Six Classics are merely the stale footprints left by ancient kings—how could they be the source that produced those footprints?" (The source refers to humanity's innate nature. Only by following the true manifestations of all things' inherent nature do classics like the Six Classics emerge.) "What you speak of now is like discussing footprints. Footprints are made by shoes, but how can the footprints themselves replace the shoes?"

Laozi then used natural phenomena as metaphors: "White egrets can conceive simply by gazing at each other (egrets reproduce through visual communion, insects through resonant calls—both require no physical contact). Beings of the same kind naturally resonate between male and female (different species have vastly varied ways of resonance, but as long as they belong to the same category, transformation is not difficult. Thus, there are even cases of conception through distant resonance)."

Finally, Laozi summarized the essence of the Dao: "Human nature cannot be altered, destiny cannot be reversed, the flow of time cannot be halted, and the Dao cannot be obstructed (thus those who attain the Dao follow these principles). Those who grasp the Dao encounter no obstacles (though all things are ever-changing, they can adapt accordingly). Those who lose the Dao find obstruction everywhere."

This passage presents Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi, exploring the principle of all things' spontaneous nature. After three months of secluded contemplation, Confucius realized: birds and magpies incubate eggs, fish reproduce through mouth-brooding, and the slender-waisted wasp (a type of ichneumon wasp) captures mulberry caterpillars to raise as offspring (as described in the Book of Songs: "The mulberry caterpillar has young, carried by the solitary wasp")—all these manifest the spontaneous nature of all beings. Just as when a younger brother is born, the elder brother naturally cries—this reflects humanity's innate disposition.

Guo Xiang observes: Confucius ultimately understood that unless one aligns with the Dao of natural transformation ("not becoming companion to transformation"), how could one possibly influence others? The phrase "not becoming companion to transformation" means allowing things to follow their natural course. Forcing Confucian Six Classics doctrines to explain such phenomena would instead deviate from their essence. In the end, Laozi acknowledged Confucius's realization.

The commentary's reference to "the slender-waisted transforming" describes parasitic behavior among wasps (ancient people mistakenly believed solitary wasps adopted mulberry caterpillars as offspring), an allusion from the Book of Songs·Minor Odes·Little Cup. Through this example, Guo Xiang illustrates how all things possess their spontaneous nature, and human interference would violate the Heavenly Dao (Tiandao).