《莊子注》Vol. 6

This passage presents Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi chapter "Deliberate Action," examining the hierarchical differences between various life attitudes.

The opening enumerates five approaches to life: The first are recluses who withdraw to mountain forests, cynical about the world, deliberately pursuing purity while criticizing secular society. The second are scholars who promote humaneness (Ren) and virtue (De), devoted to self-cultivation and moral instruction. The third are court officials who seek fame and uphold ritual laws. The fourth are those who retreat to lakes and rivers, fishing and wandering in idleness. The fifth are longevity practitioners who train in breathing techniques and mimic animal movements, like Peng Zu pursuing extended lifespan.

Guo Xiang observes that all these individuals cling to specific pursuits. While each attains a certain level of accomplishment, none reaches the highest state. The supreme state is one of "non-deliberation" (Wuwei) — achieving natural nobility without striving for purity, embodying self-cultivation without preaching humaneness, governing effectively without chasing fame, enjoying leisure without physical seclusion, and attaining longevity without practicing Daoyin exercises.

The true way of sages is "serenely boundless" — maintaining a mind of tranquil detachment, deliberately pursuing nothing yet naturally embodying all virtues. Just as heaven and earth don't deliberately create yet all things grow spontaneously, sages don't consciously cultivate virtue (De) yet their moral perfection arises naturally. This realm of "quietude and profound stillness" represents the highest state in harmony with the natural Dao of heaven and earth.

Emptiness and non-action (Wuwei) constitute the fundamental principle of heaven and earth's operation, and represent the essential nature of the Dao. (If one fails to maintain this state of empty tranquility and non-action, the natural balance will be disrupted, and the essence of Dao will be lost.) Therefore, when sages abide in emptiness and stillness, they attain a state of serene simplicity. (Dwelling in quietude and emptiness, resting in the realm of non-action, even when facing adversity and change, they maintain equanimity without perceiving difficulty.)

Serene simplicity naturally leads to detached contentment. (All worldly troubles stem from artificial striving, which in turn begets more troubles—thus simplicity and detachment are mutually reinforcing.) Maintaining this serene and detached state of mind prevents worries from penetrating and harmful energies (Qi) from invading. (One becomes completely unified with the true Dao.) In this way, one preserves their Virtue (De) and keeps their spirit (Shen) undiminished. (Those who fail to maintain this serenity and detachment not only harm their physical bodies but also lose their inner spirit and Virtue.)

Thus, sages in life follow nature's course (acting in complete accordance with natural laws), and in death merge with all things (like a cicada shedding its shell, utterly unburdened). In stillness, they harmonize with the virtue of Yin (existing in quiet resonance with yin energy), and in movement, they resonate with the waves of Yang (moving in synchrony with yang energy). They neither deliberately seek blessings nor invite misfortune, responding only when stimulated by external things (never initiating action arbitrarily), acting only when compelled (moving when the time is ripe), and rising only when absolutely necessary (acting in accordance with heavenly principles, not personal desires).

Abandoning cleverness and artificiality, they follow natural laws (the Dao operates spontaneously, requiring no human interference), and thus avoid natural disasters (calamities arise from defying cosmic order), remain unburdened by material things (suffering comes from resisting external reality), face no criticism from others (being of one mind with the multitude, they naturally gain acceptance), and incur no blame from spirits (aligned with their innate nature, they are beyond reproach). In life, they drift like duckweed on water (free from attachment), and in death, they rest like one retiring to sleep (serene and unburdened). They neither exhaust themselves with thought (entrusting all to cosmic principles) nor plan in advance (responding naturally when events arise). Radiant yet not dazzling (illuminating through the inherent light of all things, not self-display), trustworthy yet not contrived (earning trust through natural accord, not coercion). Dreamless in sleep, untroubled upon waking, their spirit (Shen) remains pure and untainted (utterly free from selfish desires), their soul never wearied (fatigue arises only from desire). This state of empty tranquility and detachment is the truest embodiment of the Dao's nature.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist mental cultivation. Only by maintaining a detached and tranquil state of mind can one harmonize with the Dao (the Way) of heaven and earth. Excessive sorrow or joy both violate natural authenticity—emotional fluctuations disrupt the movement of the great Dao, while personal preferences erode the purity of De (Virtue/Power).

The truly virtuous person never sinks into worry or delight within, abiding constantly in serene concentration—the highest realm of self-cultivation. The mind remains empty and unobstructed, free from forced entanglement with external matters, preserving absolute purity without distraction. Like water that stays clear when unmixed and calm when undisturbed, yet loses vitality if completely sealed from flow, this mirrors the operating principles of celestial Dao.

The purest state is a mind utterly unclouded by thoughts, abiding in stillness without change, detached and practicing Wuwei (non-action). In action, one follows natural rhythms rather than chasing desires. This constitutes the true art of nurturing Shen (spirit). Just as precious swords like Ganjiang and Moye must be carefully stored rather than recklessly used, so too must human spirit be treasured and cultivated.

When spirit permeates all directions without obstruction, it ascends to heaven and descends to earth, nurturing all things without leaving traces. This state is called "being one with the Sovereign"—identical to the Wuwei of the Celestial Emperor. The essence of pristine simplicity lies in safeguarding the primordial Shen (the innate authentic spirituality), preserving it without loss until achieving complete unity with it.

This passage from the Zhuangzi discusses how practitioners of the Dao maintain their authentic nature and return to a state of natural harmony. The concept of "being one" refers to sustaining a pure and simple state of mind, free from external disturbances, thereby achieving profound spiritual concentration. This purified mental state aligns with the patterns of nature (heavenly principles), because "Jing" (essence) represents the most authentic substance of all things.

There is a popular saying: Ordinary people value material gain, the refined esteem reputation, the virtuous admire aspirations, but sages treasure spiritual purity above all. The term "valuing Jing" here does not mean consciously maintaining a mental state, but rather not straying from one's innate nature. "Plainness" (su) means remaining untainted by external influences, while "purity" (chun) denotes preserving one's spiritual integrity without depletion. A person may appear as splendidly adorned as dragon scales or phoenix feathers, yet if their inner core remains uncontaminated, they can still be called "plain." Conversely, if one loses their natural disposition while chasing superficial embellishments—like dressing dogs or sheep in ornate furs—they cannot be considered truly pure. Those who attain this state of plain purity are called "authentic persons" (zhenren), or realized beings who have attained the Dao.

In Chapter 16, "Mending the Nature," Zhuangzi critiques conventional approaches to self-cultivation: attempting to repair one's innate nature (xing) through worldly learning in hopes of returning to one's original state is like trying to cleanse something by soiling it; seeking enlightenment through mundane reasoning to pacify desires only leads one further from the Dao the more one deliberates. Such people are called "the obscured and deluded masses." True wisdom arises only by distancing oneself from worldly concerns and desires.

Ancient Daoist practitioners nurtured wisdom through serenity (yi tian yang zhi), for only with inner stillness could genuine knowledge be attained without losing one's fundamental nature. Simultaneously, they used wisdom to nourish serenity (yi zhi yang tian), avoiding forced pursuit of knowledge and instead following natural spontaneity. Thus, even while comprehending all things, they maintained profound detachment. When wisdom and serenity mutually sustain each other, harmony and natural order spontaneously emerge from one's innate nature. What we call "De" (Virtue/Power) is this harmony, and the "Dao" (Way) is this inherent order. Those who reach this state embody virtue that embraces all things and benevolence that extends universally.

Here Zhuangzi expounds on the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and human-created moral codes. The true Dao embraces all things without deliberately pursuing benevolence, yet expressions of benevolence naturally manifest; the Dao itself governs without conscious effort, yet the effects of governance spontaneously appear. When people comprehend moral principles intellectually but not from their essential nature, they instead become estranged from all existence. Only when one's inner being is pure and authentic, returning to original nature, can true joy be attained.

External demonstrations of sincerity and ritual propriety should align with natural disposition. Forcing uniform standards of rites and music upon the world will paradoxically create disorder, as such measures may satisfy a few while violating the innate nature of the majority. The correct approach is to let all things maintain their inherent qualities rather than imposing one's own standards upon others.

In ancient times, people lived in primordial simplicity, free from worldly contention. Then, Yin and Yang were harmoniously balanced, spirits caused no disturbances, the seasons followed their natural order, and all beings coexisted peacefully. Though humans possessed wisdom, they had no need to use it—everything operated spontaneously in what is called the state of "perfect unity." Later, Dao and De (Virtue/Power) gradually declined. Beginning with Suiren and Fuxi's attempts to govern the world, they could only accommodate but not unify; by the time of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, they could pacify but not accommodate; until the Yao and Shun era, when the widespread promotion of moral instruction caused the dissipation of primal simplicity.

Zhuangzi maintains that ideal governance should emulate the ancient state of "perfect unity," allowing all things to develop naturally rather than constraining innate nature with artificial moral codes. This philosophy embodies the Daoist core principle of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)."

This passage examines the relationship between sages and worldly society. The true sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not deliberately strive to become a sage, but rather follows the natural patterns of all things in the world. The achievements of ancient sage-kings like Yao and Shun may change with the times, yet the Dao of sages remains complete and unchanging.

When people deviate from the great Dao to pursue so-called "goodness" (referring to excessive perfectionism), making virtue (De) artificially difficult and unnatural, they lose their innate nature and become enslaved by intellectual constructs. As people compete and vie for superiority through mental calculations, such activities ultimately fail to bring stability to the world.

Furthermore, when elaborate rituals, ornate decorations, and extensive knowledge are employed as embellishments, they obscure the original simplicity of nature and drown out the true heart-mind. Consequently, people become confused and disordered, unable to return to their primal state of purity. Thus we see how worldly society loses the Dao, and how the Dao withdraws from worldly society—the two become mutually estranged.

Those who truly attain the Dao never deliberately display themselves. Even while dwelling in the mundane world, they do not conspicuously manifest virtue (refraining from artificial demonstrations). The ancient so-called recluses (spiritual practitioners) did not necessarily retreat to mountain forests, remain silent, or conceal their wisdom. Rather, they returned to the source because the fortunes of their era had become disordered. They understood: the more one chases after external forms, the farther one strays from the true Dao.

(Note: In this text, "Dao" refers to natural law and ultimate truth; "De" denotes qualities aligned with the Dao; "mind" indicates the discriminating consciousness formed through conditioning; while "nature" refers to humanity's innate purity.)

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of self-cultivation. When one aligns with heavenly mandate and comprehends the world (a state of serene detachment), one should return to original simplicity without leaving traces, allowing all things to develop naturally without interference. When facing adversity and hardship (a state where serenity cannot be maintained), one should remain inwardly tranquil like a great tree deepening its roots, awaiting the natural arrival of opportunity (even amidst turmoil, sages maintain their serenity, thus preserving their foundation while awaiting change—this illustrates the indestructible principle of the Dao).

The essential method of self-preservation lies in this: the ancients who excelled at preserving themselves never used clever arguments to flaunt wisdom (maintaining innate wisdom suffices), never employed cunning to force worldly affairs (this is the realm of detachment), nor used intellectual knowledge to forcibly perfect virtue (simply safeguarding one's natural disposition). They dwell peacefully in themselves, returning to their original nature—why engage in deliberate action?

The Dao fundamentally isn't constrained by trivial behaviors (walking the broad path), and true De (Virtue) doesn't reside in petty cleverness (being wholly united with the Dao). Petty cleverness damages De, while rigid adherence to minor details injures the Dao. Thus, rectifying oneself is sufficient—complete preservation of one's joyful nature constitutes true fulfillment.

What the ancients called "fulfillment" didn't refer to high rank and wealth (xuānmiǎn denoting officials' carriages and regalia), but rather that state of perfect contentment where inner joy cannot be increased. Modern people's "fulfillment" exclusively means obtaining official positions. These external things aren't life's essence—they're merely temporary possessions that come by chance. Their arrival cannot be prevented, nor their departure detained (gain and loss belong to external things, unrelated to the true self).

Therefore, don't let official positions inflate your aspirations (maintain detachment, not feeling burdened by externals), nor conform to vulgar customs due to poverty (remain transcendentally content, not feeling oppressed by hardship). Maintaining equal joy whether in wealth or poverty brings freedom from care.

This passage recounts a parable from the "Autumn Floods" chapter of the Zhuangzi, where a dialogue between the River God and the Ocean God illustrates the Daoist philosophy regarding the limitations of human perception.

When autumn floods swelled the rivers, countless tributaries poured into the Yellow River, broadening its waters so immensely that one could no longer distinguish oxen from horses on opposite banks. The River God, Hebo (also known as Fengyi), swelled with pride, believing all the world's grandeur was concentrated within his domain. Yet when he followed the current eastward to the Northern Sea (north of the Eastern Sea) and gazed toward the horizon, he found no end to the waters. Only then did he realize his own insignificance. Looking up at the Ocean God Ruo, he sighed: "There’s a saying—'Those who hear a few truths think no one surpasses them'—and it describes me perfectly! I once heard of people who belittled Confucius’ learning and scorned Boyi’s integrity, and at first, I didn’t believe it. But now that I see your boundless vastness, I understand how close I came to being mocked by those who truly embody the Dao (the Way)."

The Ocean God Ruo replied: "You can’t discuss the sea with a frog trapped in a well—it’s confined by its narrow space. You can’t talk of ice and snow with a summer insect—it’s bound by its fleeting season. You can’t speak of the Dao (the Way) with a provincial scholar—he’s shackled by rigid teachings. Now that you’ve left the banks of the Yellow River and witnessed the ocean, you’ve begun to grasp your own limitations."

This dialogue reveals how perception is constrained by environment, time, and education—much like Hebo’s initial complacency. Only by transcending these confines can one recognize a vaster truth.

When you recognize your own limitations, you can comprehend the great truth of the Dao (the Way). For understanding proper measure allows one to speak of principles. Among all waters under heaven, none surpass the sea in magnitude. Countless rivers flow into it, yet though they pour endlessly, it never overflows. The mythical Weilu (a legendary underwater drain) at the ocean's bottom continuously discharges water, yet though it drains ceaselessly, the sea never runs dry. Unaffected by the turning of spring, summer, autumn and winter, undisturbed by droughts or floods, its volume far exceeds that of the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers combined—so vast it defies calculation. Yet I never grow arrogant because of this, for I understand I am but a form bestowed by heaven and earth, a being coalesced from the Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang. Between heaven and earth, I'm like a tiny pebble or sapling upon a great mountain—so insignificant that I feel my understanding is minuscule. How then could I possibly become conceited?

(All rivers combined cannot match the sea's volume, yet even this sea is but a finite existence within heaven and earth. Superficially, this passage seems to suggest observing the great to understand the small, but its true meaning runs deeper. Ordinary people torment themselves over inequality, believing the great represents perfection while the small signifies deficiency. Consequently, the great grow smug while the small feel ashamed, caught in endless comparison that makes them lose themselves—this is the common person's confusion. To resolve this confusion, the best method is first perceiving the essence of size differences: what we call "great" is already complete, so adding a single hair wouldn't make heaven-earth heavier; what we call "small" isn't deficient either, so heaven-earth holds no superiority over a hair. Only then can confused individuals return to authenticity, each understanding their proper measure as all things abide in their natural roles. Those who wander freely live according to their nature, roaming joyfully in their self-contented worlds. This is Zhuangzi's true message. If one persists like the confused—believing sizes must be comparatively measured—they'll sink into endless competition. Seeing greatness and feeling small breeds anxiety; seeing smallness and feeling superior breeds arrogance. Thus exhausted by gains and losses, they fuel worldly vanity—how could this possibly align with Zhuangzi's intent?)

Consider the four seas within heaven and earth—aren't they like an ant's nest beside a vast lake? The Central States within the four seas—aren't they like a grain of rice in a giant granary? We speak of ten thousand categories of things, and humanity is but one among them. Where grain grows and boats travel across the nine continents, human settlements exist—yet compared to all things, doesn't humanity resemble a single hair on a horse's tail?

This passage records a dialogue between Zhuangzi and the River Earl, where the North Sea Deity (Beihai Ruo) expounds the Daoist perspective on the relativity of all things.

The North Sea Deity begins by pointing out that all things have their inherent boundaries—just as the structure of a horse’s body has its natural hierarchy, they cannot be forcibly compared. The regimes passed down by the Five Emperors, the world contended for by the Three Kings, and the worldly affairs that benevolent scholars toil over—all are confined to the same limited domain. Bo Yi sought fame by renouncing the throne, Confucius pursued erudition through teaching, yet such self-aggrandizement is as laughable as your (River Earl’s) earlier boasting about the abundance of your waters.

He then presents four core insights:

1. The quantity of things is inexhaustible (物量无穷, wuliang wuqiong).

2. Time never ceases (时无止, shi wuzhi).

3. Gain and loss have no fixed pattern (分无常, fen wuchang).

4. The beginning and end of things renew themselves daily (终始无故, zhongshi wugu).

Those with true wisdom perceive these truths:

When observing the world, they neither consider things small as insufficient (小而不寡, xiao er bu gua) nor regard the vast as excessive (大而不多, da er bu duo), understanding that all things have their inherent measure. Comprehending the transformations of past and present (证曏今故, zhengxiang jingu), they remain untroubled by the passage of long ages (遥而不闷, yao er bu men) and do not grasp at fleeting moments (掇而不跂, duo er bu qi). Seeing the patterns of waxing and waning, they neither exult in gain nor grieve over loss. Recognizing that life and death are like the daily renewal of a smooth, open road (坦途, tantu), they neither rejoice excessively in life nor regard death as calamity.

Finally, he reveals: What humans know is far less than what they do not know. Through this layered discourse, the dialogue dismantles rigid attachments to concepts like size, gain and loss, life and death, embodying the Daoist philosophy of "equalizing all things" (齐物, qi wu). Concepts such as "daily renewal" (日新, rixin) and the "smooth path" (坦途, tantu) reflect essential Daoist mental frameworks for perceiving the natural flux of existence.

Our capacity to comprehend the true nature of things is inherently limited, for human cognition has its boundaries. The duration of any life's existence pales in comparison to the vast stretches of time before its birth and after its end (each being has its predetermined lifespan). To forcibly apply finite understanding in probing the infinite realm only leads to confusion and chaos, never attaining true knowledge (better to abide by one's natural station).

From this perspective, how can we be certain that the tip of a hair represents the smallest possible limit? Or that heaven and earth constitute the absolute boundary of largeness? (The pursuit of the infinite with finite means is ultimately futile—all things find fulfillment when each remains in its proper place. If a hair doesn't presumptuously seek the functions of heaven and earth, its own existence holds value; if heaven and earth don't disregard the autumn hair's tip but reflect on their own forms, they too find contentment—why must we rigidly determine absolute standards of large and small?)

The River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) asked: "People say the most subtle things have no form, and the grandest things cannot be measured—is this true?" The North Sea Ruo (deity of the Northern Sea) replied: "Observing the grand from the perspective of the minute always leaves aspects unseen; examining the minute from the perspective of the grand always leaves details unclear. (The eye's capacity is limited—when facing immense things there will always be unseen portions, when facing tiny things there will always be indiscernible features. This merely reflects visual limitations. Both the subtle and the grand truly exist—how can we declare formless things nonexistent?)"

The subtle represents the smallest within smallness, the grand the largest within largeness—thus each possesses distinct characteristics. (Differences in scale produce unique attributes. "Lie" signifies magnificence, "yin" abundance.) This is determined by the Dao's natural patterns. (If there truly existed formless, immeasurable things, such characteristic differences wouldn't exist.) What we call refined or coarse applies only to formed objects (only what has form can be judged refined or coarse). Truly formless things cannot be divided by quantity; immeasurable things cannot be exhausted by numbers.

What language can describe constitutes a thing's rough appearance; what the mind can grasp represents its subtle essence. But what neither words nor thought can reach has already transcended the categories of refined and coarse. (This is pure "nothingness"—how could distinctions of refinement or coarseness remain? Words and thoughts belong to the realm of "being," yet what they point toward is the state of "non-being." Only by surpassing language and thought, entering wordless awareness, can one truly comprehend the Dao.) Therefore, those who have attained the Dao (meaning enlightened beings)...

This passage describes the attitude and conduct of the "Great Person" (one of profound cultivation) in Daoist philosophy:

A truly cultivated person acts without harming others, moving in accordance with nature, with every gesture aligned with the Dao (the Way). Such a person would never take the path of causing harm. They don't deliberately flaunt their benevolence, for causing no harm to creatures is simply the natural order of things.

Their actions aren't driven by personal gain, but by following the principles of situations. They don't look down on gatekeepers or servants, understanding that each person fulfills their proper role and abilities - these jobs aren't performed because the workers are inherently lowly. They don't compete for material goods, recognizing all things have their proper share; they yield appropriately without ostentation, handling matters personally rather than delegating.

In eating and drinking, they seek only satisfaction, not excess; they don't despise greedy people, understanding that desire itself is part of nature. Their behavior differs from worldly customs, but not from deliberate eccentricity - their naturalness simply makes them stand apart. While outwardly following conventions, they maintain inner natural integrity, without contempt for flatterers.

Worldly ranks and salaries cannot move them; punishments and humiliations cannot shame them. For they understand that right and wrong have no absolute standards, and size is always relative. Thus those who attain the Dao don't pursue fame, the highest De (Virtue) doesn't strive for "gain," and the deeply cultivated forget themselves, achieving unity with the Dao.

The River God (He Bo) asked: How do we determine what's noble or base, large or small? The Sea God (Ruò of the Northern Sea) replied: From the Dao's perspective, all things are inherently equal in value, each complete in itself; from individual perspectives, everything considers itself noble and others base; from worldly views, standards of value come from external judgments; from the perspective of differences, if you focus on largeness then all things are large, if on smallness then all things are small.

From the perspective of size, nothing in the universe is absolutely large or small. Understanding that heaven and earth can be as small as a grain of rice, while the tip of a hair can be as vast as a mountain, reveals the relativity of size distinctions. What we call "large" refers to something being sufficiently big in itself, while "small" means having no superfluous parts. Thus, when we designate size according to an object's inherent nature, there is no essential difference between a hair and a mountain; when we designate smallness based on the absence of excess, heaven and earth are no different from a grain of rice. If one observes differences without following this principle, they will become lost in endless comparisons.

From the perspective of function, when viewed according to their inherent qualities, all things possess value; when viewed according to what they lack, all things appear insufficient. Just as east and west are opposite directions yet cannot negate each other's existence, this demonstrates the inherent boundaries of function. All things in the world exist as opposites, each striving to assert itself—much like the opposition between east and west. Yet opposing pairs are like lips and teeth: though separate, if the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold. Thus, the existence of one actually completes the other, showing that opposites cannot negate each other. If we deny the value of the other, all functionality in the world would cease to exist; if we acknowledge this interdependence, everything has its purpose. If we forget our own worth and blindly seek mutual benefit, we only grow more artificial, leading to chaos in the world and the loss of human nature.

From the perspective of value, accepting things as they are means all things have their own validity; rejecting their inherent nature makes everything seem invalid. Recognizing that Yao (the sage king) and Jie (the tyrant) are naturally formed opposing archetypes reveals the essence of value orientation. All things arise spontaneously, so none are invalid; yet all things also negate each other, so all can seem invalid. The true state—neither affirming nor denying—is the realm of Yao; clinging to affirmation or denial is the way of Jie. These two rulers each embodied their own nature and could not replace one another, allowing us to discern the value orientations of all people.

In ancient times, Yao and Shun became emperors through abdication, but this system of succession was only suited to their era.

This passage illustrates through multiple comparative examples that all things in the world possess their own inherent characteristics and cannot be forced into uniformity. Just as a massive ship or roof beam (Liangli) may be suitable for battering city walls but ineffective for plugging small holes, or how famed steeds like Qiji and Hualiu can travel a thousand miles in a day yet prove inferior to wildcats in catching mice, or how owls can catch fleas at night but cannot see mountains in daylight—all beings come with innate attributes and limitations.

The author criticizes those who stubbornly cling to singular perspectives: those who exclusively venerate "Heaven" while rejecting "Earth," or recognize only "Yin" while dismissing "Yang"—such extreme approaches are clearly unworkable. Historical examples like the peaceful abdication of Yao and Shun versus the revolutionary takeovers by Tang and Wu were all responses suited to their times, yet when Bai Gong (a noble of the Spring and Autumn period) blindly imitated such models, it led to his downfall. The worldly standards of nobility and baseness, or greatness and smallness, are all relative—even a deity like the River Earl (Hebe, god of the Yellow River) remains silent on such matters, so how can ordinary humans presume to judge right and wrong?

The crucial insight lies in recognizing that diversity among things reflects natural law. Just as craftsmen select tools according to different materials, governance too must adapt to circumstances and popular sentiment. Forcing everything under a single standard—like demanding all creatures possess identical abilities—ultimately violates the Dao (the natural order). True wisdom acknowledges differences and allows all things to fulfill their unique purposes.

The River God (deity of the Yellow River) asked the Sea God (deity of the Northern Sea): "Then what should I do and what should I avoid? How should I make choices?" The Sea God replied: From the perspective of the Dao (the Way), nobility and baseness inherently transform into each other (fanyan: the principle of status is cyclical) — do not stubbornly cling to personal views and thereby oppose the great Dao. Abundance and scarcity are likewise relative (xieshi: gain and loss change spontaneously); fixating on either extreme will lead one astray from the Dao.

Be like a ruler governing the state with impartial fairness, or like commoners making offerings to the Earth God without seeking personal benefit. The Dao resembles the boundless four directions, having no demarcated borders. It embraces all things yet shows no partiality (wufang: without fixed patterns), for all beings are fundamentally equal — how could there be distinctions of long or short? The Dao itself has neither beginning nor end, while all things undergo the transformations of life and death (which are but phenomena within infinite change). Do not cling to established conditions, as emptiness and fullness continuously alternate, and forms never remain fixed.

Time cannot be detained (years cannot be held back), transformation cannot be halted (the moment cannot be stopped). Ending and beginning, fullness and emptiness revolve in endless cycles (zhong ze you shi: change never ceases). This is the principle of the Dao, the truth of all things. The growth of all beings resembles galloping steeds — every movement brings change, every instant brings transition (bu ke zhi er shou: impossible to grasp and fix). Why labor over what to do or avoid? All things naturally transform of themselves (zihua: spontaneous evolution), and human interference only disrupts this natural process.

The River God (deity of the Yellow River) asked: "If this is so, then why should we revere the Dao?" The North Sea God (deity of the Northern Ocean) replied: Those who truly understand the Dao inevitably comprehend the principles underlying all things. Those who comprehend these principles naturally grasp the art of adaptive response, and those who master adaptation prevent external matters from harming themselves.

Those who know the Dao understand that all things arise without artificial contrivance (referring to the Dao's natural spontaneity). Since nothing is deliberately created, all phenomena emerge spontaneously. Just as our limbs, internal organs, and consciousness aren't deliberately manufactured, why cling to their manifested forms? Those who penetrate this truth necessarily relinquish excessive cleverness, abandon artificial enhancements, and flow with transformation as circumstances require. Thus they prevent external matters from injuring their innate nature, maintaining perfect integrity.

Those possessing supreme De (Virtue) cannot be burned by fire, drowned by water, harmed by extreme temperatures, or injured by wild beasts. This doesn't mean they deliberately confront dangers, but rather that when the mind is settled, external threats cannot truly endanger them; when awareness remains unperturbed, suffering cannot truly cause pain. They clearly perceive the essence of safety and danger (understanding that fortune and misfortune are unavoidable), serenely accepting what destiny brings while carefully navigating choices of advancement or withdrawal (discerning right from wrong). Therefore nothing can harm them.

Hence the saying: "Heaven's nature resides within, human artifice manifests without" (internally aligning with spontaneity, while external actions accord with natural patterns. Thus the Great Ancestral Teacher states: Those who understand the distinction between heaven and human reach the ultimate state). True De lies in following nature (indulging in artificial cleverness leads to losing one's original purity). Understanding heaven's operational patterns, they take spontaneity as foundation and De as root (this awareness itself being natural, their actions never exceed proper boundaries). Advancing or withdrawing as appropriate, bending or extending as needed (responding fluidly to circumstances), they ultimately return to fundamental truth (though their understanding encompasses heaven and earth, and their actions engage with all things, they never deviate from the essential Dao—thus completing the way of heaven and humanity).

The River God further asked: "What constitutes heaven? What constitutes human?" The North Sea God answered: "Oxen and horses being born with four legs—this is heaven. Putting bridles on horses and nose rings on oxen—this is human."

Zhuangzi here employs a series of vivid metaphors to reveal the principle of all things following their natural dispositions. He begins with the example of oxen and horses: people put nose rings on oxen and bits in horses' mouths—seemingly artificial interventions—yet the animals don't resist. This demonstrates that when things accord with their innate nature, even human involvement remains fundamentally aligned with the natural order. Thus Zhuangzi proposes three key principles: never use artificial means to disrupt nature (like overdriving oxen would violate their disposition), never forcibly alter destiny (by grasping for what isn't yours), and never sacrifice authenticity for empty reputation (all pursuits beyond one's proper role are excessive). Only by upholding these principles can one return to life's genuine state.

The chain reaction of "admiration" then illustrates how all creatures possess unique dispositions: the millipede envies the snake's footless movement, the snake envies the wind's formless motion, the wind envies the eye's ability to see distant places with a glance, while the eye admires the mind's capacity to perceive all things with a single thought. The millipede explains how its thousand legs coordinate like saliva naturally dividing into droplets during a sneeze—pure instinctual operation. Similarly, the snake clarifies its legless crawling as equally innate. Through this, Zhuangzi observes: all existence and movement require no deliberate effort, while human cleverness disrupts natural mechanisms. Those truly awakened to the Dao (zhiren) understand celestial workings cannot be altered; thus they discard artificial wisdom to follow nature's flow, enabling all beings to wander in carefree harmony.

The concluding reference to "Kui"—a mythical one-legged beast discovered in the East Sea during the Yellow Emperor's era—carries profound symbolism. Resembling a hornless blue ox, its movements stirred wind and rain, its gaze shone like sun and moon, its roar echoed thunder. The legend of the Yellow Emperor slaying Kui to make drums from its skin serves as a cautionary metaphor about the consequences of forcibly interfering with nature's design.

This passage contains two allegorical stories from the Zhuangzi, which elucidate the Daoist understanding of fate, circumstance, and courage through dialogic narratives.

The first story features a conversation between a centipede and the wind. The centipede says: "I move by twisting my spine and ribs, leaving at least visible traces. But you roar from the North Sea to sweep across the South Sea without showing any trace—why is this?" The wind replies: "Indeed. Though people can block me with a finger or stomp on me with a foot, I can snap great trees and topple houses. This is how seemingly weak forces accomplish great deeds. Only the sage understands this principle—not contending for petty victories but achieving ultimate triumph." Here, the wind's nature illustrates the Daoist concept of wuwei er wubuwei (non-action yet nothing left undone), demonstrating that true power lies not in superficial dominance.

The second story recounts how Confucius was besieged in Kuang after being mistaken for Yang Hu (a tyrant who oppressed locals). His disciple Zilu was puzzled to find Confucius calmly playing the zither and singing amid the siege. Confucius explains: "I've long understood that life alternates between adversity (qiong) and success—both shaped by circumstance. In the eras of Yao and Shun, no one suffered obscurity not because they were wise; under Jie and Zhou, none found prominence not because they were foolish—all was determined by circumstance." He then analogizes how fishermen don't fear flood dragons, hunters don't avoid fierce tigers, and martyrs disregard swords: each situation cultivates its own form of courage.

Together, these stories convey the Daoist perspective on fate: one must align with natural patterns, recognizing that adversity and success stem from circumstance rather than force. True wisdom resembles the wind—eschewing petty contention to accomplish greatness.

To face great peril without fear—this is the courage of a sage (the sage's heart is at peace, free from all fear). My life follows its own natural course (destiny is not within our control, so there is no need for excessive worry). Those who understand the true meaning of fate remain carefree wherever they may be. Thus, whether besieged in Kuang or imprisoned in Youli, it is no different from dwelling in the Purple Palace of the immortals.

Before long, the commanding officer came to apologize: "We mistook you for Yang Hu and surrounded this place in error. Now that we realize our mistake, we beg permission to withdraw our troops." At this moment, Gongsun Long sought advice from Wei Mou: "In my youth, I studied the ways of the ancient kings; in maturity, I mastered benevolence and righteousness. I could debate the similarities and differences of things, distinguish between hardness and whiteness, prove wrong as right and the impossible as possible, leaving scholars of the hundred schools speechless. I once believed I had reached the highest attainment. Yet now, hearing Zhuangzi's words, I find myself utterly bewildered. Is my reasoning inferior to his, or is my wisdom lacking? I can hardly open my mouth—what is the reason for this?"

Wei Mou leaned on his armrest, sighed deeply, then looked up to the sky and laughed: "Have you not heard the story of the frog in the shallow well? It boasted to the giant turtle of the Eastern Sea: 'How happy I am! I leap upon the well's railing and rest in the cracks of its broken bricks. When I enter the water, it buoys my arms and cheeks; when I tread the mud, it barely covers my feet. Looking back at the tadpoles and crabs, none can match my freedom! To possess this pit of water and reign over this single well—this is the greatest joy. Why don't you come visit more often?'" (Note: The "shallow well" refers to a dilapidated well; the "well railing" is its edge; the "bricks" form its walls; "red worms" are tiny creatures in the well; "tadpoles" are young frogs.)

"The giant turtle of the Eastern Sea could not even get its left foot through the well's opening before its right knee became stuck (showing how a massive being cannot move freely in a tiny space—not that it lacks happiness). Slowly withdrawing, it described the sea to the frog: 'A thousand miles cannot encompass its vastness; a thousand fathoms cannot measure its depth. In the time of Yu the Great, nine floods came in ten years, yet the sea did not rise. Under Tang of Shang, seven droughts struck in eight years, yet the shoreline did not recede. Unchanging through time, unaffected by rain or drought—this is the true joy of the Eastern Sea!'"

The frog living in a shallow well, upon hearing of the vastness of the ocean, was struck dumb with astonishment, flustered and at a loss (this illustrates how limited perspectives admire boundless realms). Those who cannot even distinguish basic boundaries of right and wrong yet attempt to comprehend Zhuangzi's teachings are like asking a mosquito to carry a mountain or a millipede to cross a river—utterly impossible (all beings have their inherent capacities that cannot be forcibly imitated. "Millipede" is what northern Yan people call a certain insect).

Aren't those who remain content with petty gains while ignorant of the supreme Dao just like frogs in shallow wells? Yet Zhuangzi could plunge to the Yellow Springs (the underworld) and soar to the Great Void (heavenly realms), unbound by north or south, transcending worldly distinctions to reach unfathomable depths; unconfined by east or west, he began from the Mysterious Darkness (profound obscurity) only to return to the Great Dao (signifying the all-encompassing realm). When you try to explore this with narrow vision and demand explanations through debate (those who roam infinite realms cannot be reached through analytical disputation), it's precisely like viewing the sky through a bamboo tube or measuring the earth with an awl—how pitifully limited! You should leave now (what's unsuitable should be abandoned).

Have you not heard the story of the young man from Shouling who went to Handan to learn walking? He failed to master the elegant gait of Zhao people while forgetting how to walk his own way, ultimately having to crawl home (blind imitation leads to double failure. Shouling is a place name; "young man" refers to an underage youth, while Handan was the capital of Zhao). If you don't depart now, you too will forget your roots and lose your original abilities. When Gongsun Long (representative of the School of Names) heard this, his jaw dropped in shock before he slunk away in defeat.

While fishing in the Pu River, Zhuangzi was approached by two Chu ministers sent by their king: "Our lord wishes to entrust you with state affairs." Without turning his head, Zhuangzi kept fishing and replied: "I hear Chu possesses a sacred turtle that died three thousand years ago, whose shell the king preserves in his ancestral temple wrapped in brocade. Tell me—would this turtle prefer being dead with venerated bones, or alive and wagging its tail in the mud?" The ministers answered: "Surely it would choose life and tail-wagging." Zhuangzi said: "Then begone—I too shall keep wagging my tail in the mud (all things belong to their intrinsic nature)."

When Hui Shi served as prime minister of Liang, Zhuangzi went to visit him. Someone warned Hui Shi: "Zhuangzi has come to usurp your position." Terrified, Hui Shi ordered a nationwide manhunt for Zhuangzi that lasted three days and nights.

Zhuangzi voluntarily appeared before Hui Shi and told him a parable: "In the south lives the Yuanchu (a mythical phoenix-like bird). When it flies from the Southern Sea to the Northern Sea, it perches only on parasol trees, eats only bamboo fruit, and drinks only from sweet springs. An owl that had caught a dead rat looked up as the Yuanchu passed overhead and screeched threateningly. Are you now screeching at me with your premiership of Liang?" (Implying their aspirations differed completely - what Hui Shi prized held no attraction for Zhuangzi.)

Later, the two were strolling across Hao Bridge. Watching the fish below, Zhuangzi remarked: "How leisurely these white fish swim - this is the happiness of fish." Hui Shi retorted: "You're not a fish - how could you know their happiness?" Zhuangzi countered: "You're not me - how could you know I don't know the fish's happiness?" (Turning Hui Shi's logic against him.)

Hui Shi said: "Since I'm not you, I truly don't know your thoughts; but you certainly aren't fish, so you can't possibly know whether fish are happy." (A sophistical evasion of the core issue.)

Zhuangzi replied: "Let's return to the original question. When you asked 'how do you know the fish are happy,' you already presupposed I knew their happiness. I perceived it here on Hao Bridge." (Demonstrating that understanding needn't be constrained by form - all beings share fundamental nature, and humans can intuitively perceive others' states.)

The earth cannot alter its position, and the forces of Yin-Yang cannot reverse their natural course. What land-dwelling creatures find comfortable may be wholly unsuitable for aquatic life—this hardly counts as profound mystery.

Does supreme joy truly exist in human life? Is there truly a way to preserve one's vital essence? In truth, only by forgetting the conscious pursuit of happiness can one attain genuine contentment; only through true inner fulfillment can life be preserved. Do you imagine that chasing pleasure leads to ultimate joy? The highest joy requires no deliberate pursuit. Do you suppose there's no joy to be found? Yet life can thereby be preserved without distress.

People perpetually agonize over: What to do? What to rely on? What to avoid? Where to settle? What to pursue? What to discard? What to love? What to hate? Ironically, fixating on these eight choices hinders the preservation of life. Only by relinquishing forced decisions and accepting circumstances with natural ease can wholeness be maintained.

What the world esteems amounts to wealth, rank, longevity, and fame; what it pursues as pleasure consists of bodily comfort, fine food, elegant attire, beautiful sights, and pleasing music. What it despises is poverty, low status, and early death; what it considers suffering includes physical discomfort, coarse fare, plain clothing, ugly sights, and discordant sounds. When deprived of these, people become deeply troubled—such excessive concern for the body is utter folly. In truth, lacking these things harms not the body, while obtaining them may damage one's essential nature.

The wealthy toil endlessly, amassing fortunes they cannot exhaust—this treatment of the body creates distance. The powerful calculate gains and losses day and night—this treatment of the body shows little regard. From birth, humans coexist with sorrow; those called long-lived muddle through years of anxious dread about death—this treatment of life contradicts its fundamental principle. Only by transcending life and death can sorrow be forgotten; only by forgetting sorrow can life be truly enjoyed; only by enjoying life can one achieve harmony with the body.

Those martyrs who sacrifice themselves for the world appear noble, yet fail to preserve their own lives. I cannot determine whether such "goodness" is genuine or false. If deemed good, it doesn't preserve life; if deemed evil, it benefits others.

This passage explores the relationship between "ultimate joy" (zhile) and "non-action" (wuwei). It points out that the pleasures pursued by worldly people—such as fame and profit—may not constitute true happiness, but can instead bring suffering. The example of Wu Zixu, who suffered for his forceful remonstrations, illustrates the consequences of excessive attachment.

True joy lies in wuwei—a state of non-forced action and natural spontaneity. This joy may appear plain, yet it represents the highest realm ("ultimate joy is joyless"). Just as heaven and earth operate through non-action yet accomplish everything ("heaven and earth act through non-action, yet nothing is left undone"). The sky remains clear through non-action, the earth maintains peace through non-action, and all things flourish naturally in this state of unforced harmony.

The author questions whether what the world calls happiness is truly joyful, suggesting people blindly chase after things that may bring danger. The highest honor is actually the absence of honor-seeking ("ultimate praise is praiseless"). Distinctions between right and wrong are difficult to determine absolutely, but adopting wuwei allows all things to reveal their natural state spontaneously. To reach this realm, one must learn the way of heaven and earth—refraining from forceful interference and allowing all beings to develop according to their nature.

The text repeatedly emphasizes that wuwei doesn't mean doing nothing, but rather avoiding artificial striving and conforming to natural patterns. In this state, all things can develop according to their inherent nature—this constitutes true joy and the authentic way of existence.

When Zhuangzi's wife passed away, Huizi (Hui Shi) came to offer condolences and found Zhuangzi sitting with his legs apart, beating on an earthen basin and singing. Huizi said, "You lived with your wife for many years, she bore your children and grew old with you. Not weeping is one thing, but drumming and singing—isn't this going too far?"

Zhuangzi replied: "Not so. When she first died, how could I not grieve? But upon reflection, I realized she originally had no life; not only no life, but no physical form; not even the primordial Qi (the fundamental energy that constitutes all things in Daoist thought) that forms the body. Life emerges from chaotic nothingness—first comes Qi, which condenses into form, and form then generates life. Now she has returned to death, as naturally as the cycling of the four seasons. At this moment she rests peacefully in the great chamber of Heaven and Earth, yet here I am weeping—wouldn't that show ignorance of life's true essence? So I ceased my mourning."

The recluses Zhili Shu and Hu Jie Shu were wandering on Mingbo Hill (a legendary place where the Yellow Emperor once rested) when a tumor suddenly grew on Hu Jie Shu's left elbow. Appearing disgusted by it, Zhili Shu asked, "Do you loathe it?" Hu Jie Shu answered: "No, why should I? Life is but a borrowed vessel—our existence is like dust temporarily settled. Birth and death alternate like day and night. We came to observe the transformations of all things—now that transformation manifests in me, why should I resent it?"

In the state of Chu, Zhuangzi saw a skull and, tapping it with his horsewhip, asked: "Did you die clinging to life against the Heavenly principle? Or was it from war and execution during your kingdom's fall? Did misdeeds shame you before your family? Did cold and hunger take you? Or was it natural longevity's end?" Then he used the skull as a pillow. At midnight, the skull appeared in his dream saying: "You speak like a sophist, but your words reflect living men's troubles. In death, none remain."

(These stories first present ordinary human emotions, then resolve them through philosophical insight. Had they directly stated "I am without emotion therefore without sorrow," ordinary people would have found it unattainable, remaining trapped in their afflictions.)

Would you like to hear a perspective on death? Zhuangzi said, "Certainly." The skull told him: After death, there are no rulers above to oppress you, no subjects below to trouble you, nor the toil of laboring through the four seasons. You roam freely, taking heaven and earth as your measure of time. Even the joy of being a king facing south cannot compare to such liberation. Skeptical, Zhuangzi replied, "What if I asked the Director of Fate (the god who governs life and death) to restore your body, revive your bones, flesh, and skin, and return you to your parents, wife, children, neighbors, and old friends—would you agree?" The skull frowned deeply and said, "How could I abandon kingly joy for the hardships of human life again?" (Old commentaries misunderstand Zhuangzi as glorifying death and despising life. His true teaching is to abide peacefully in the moment—living with ease, accepting death with equanimity. Life and death are ultimately no different; there’s no need to dread death while alive.)

When Yan Yuan prepared to journey east to Qi, Confucius wore a troubled expression. Zigong stepped forward and asked, "May I ask why you’re concerned about Yan Yuan’s trip to Qi?" Confucius replied, "A good question. Long ago, Guan Zhong once said something I deeply agree with—‘A small bag can’t hold large things; a short rope can’t reach deep well water.’ All things have their destined endowments and fitting forms; they cannot be forcibly altered. I fear Yan Yuan will speak to the Duke of Qi about the great Dao of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, adding the teachings of Suiren and Shennong. If the Duke fails to grasp it, he’ll grow perplexed, and perplexity may bring disaster. (Consider this:) Once, a seabird alighted in the outskirts of Lu. The Marquis of Lu welcomed it into the ancestral temple, performed the Nine Shao music, and offered the grand sacrifice of the Tai Lao. Yet the bird, dizzy and terrified, dared not eat a morsel or drink a drop. It died in three days. This was nurturing a bird as one nurtures a man, not as one nurtures a bird. To truly nurture a bird, let it perch in deep forests, wander sandy isles, float on rivers and lakes, feed on minnows and loaches, rest among its flock, and live with unhindered ease. Birds detest human clamor—why subject them to the raucous strains of the Xianchi or Nine Shao? Even if such music were played in the wilds of Dongting (the vast expanse of nature), what good would it do the bird?"

Wild birds take flight at the sound of voices, beasts flee when they hear noise, and fish dive deep upon hearing disturbances—only humans gather to observe. Fish survive in water, yet humans die in it, illustrating how all creatures have their distinct preferences and aversions. Therefore, the ancient sages never forced uniformity in talents or demanded identical pursuits (allowing all things to follow their inherent nature).

(Here, a bird called "Zaxian" is mentioned, which holds its head eight feet high. Fan Guang's commentary on Erya describes it as resembling a phoenix.) Names should correspond to reality, and meanings should be precisely fitting—this is called "orderly coherence with enduring blessings" (content that is substantial and appropriate ensures smooth reasoning; preserving one's inherent nature ensures lasting fortune).

Liezi, while eating by the roadside, saw a century-old skull. Brushing aside the weeds, he pointed at it and said: "Only you and I understand—there is truly no such thing as death, nor such a thing as life." (All things find joy in their own circumstances.) Are you truly sorrowful? Am I truly joyful? (The nature of joy and sorrow has no fixed standard.) How countless are the varieties of life (the transformations are beyond numbering).

When encountering water, it becomes fragmented silk-like strands ("Ji" is the ancient character for "severed"). At the boundary of water and earth, it transforms into moss. Growing on mounds, it becomes plantain; in decaying environments, plantain turns into crowfoot grass. The roots of crowfoot grass become scarab larvae, while its leaves become butterflies. Soon, the butterfly transforms again into a tiny insect that dwells beneath the stove, resembling a freshly molted larva, called the Quduo insect. After a thousand days, the Quduo becomes a bird named the Ganyugu. The saliva of the Ganyugu forms the Simi insect, which then becomes the vinegar insect. The Yilu insect emerges from vinegar, the Huangkuang insect arises from the Jiuyou insect, and the Maorui insect is born from the decayed Quan insect. The Yangxi grass, when combined with old bamboo that no longer sprouts, produces the Qingning insect. The Qingning gives birth to the Cheng insect, the Cheng to the horse, and the horse to humans—who ultimately return to the mechanism of creation. All things arise from this mechanism and, in the end, return to it (demonstrating that all things are transformations of a single Qi; though forms change, there is no true birth or death).

(Note: "Ji" is the ancient equivalent of the character for "severed," here pronounced "jue"—though many today read it as "ji." Though things display signs of transformation, they sustain life by receiving the Qi of water and earth. Some versions write it as "broken" or "continuous." Intermittently nourished by water and earth, they become moss, illustrating how all things are rooted in the natural process of creation.)

This passage vividly depicts the wondrous phenomena of mutual transformations among various life forms in nature, conveying in modern terms the Daoist principle of perpetual flux in all things. The plant lingxi (a type of plantain) growing by water transforms into wuzu grass when encountering yuqi (possibly certain insects or decaying matter). The roots of wuzu grass then metamorphose into qicao (grub larvae), while its leaves become butterflies. Conversely, butterflies can also revert to insects.

The text enumerates a series of remarkable biological transformations: The heat beneath a kitchen stove gives rise to insects that shed their skins like snakes; the simi insect transforms into vinegar flies found on fermented liquids; the yellow huangrang insect becomes the nine-tailed jiuyou insect; the maorui beetle turns into the melon-devouring fuquan pest; when the yangxi plant (with turnip-like roots) combines with aged bamboo, it produces the enigmatic qingning insect, which ultimately transforms into a horse—and the horse, in turn, may transform into a human.

These seemingly fantastical tales of metamorphosis illustrate the Daoist philosophical view of "the impermanence of material transformations" (wuhua wuchang): all things exist in eternal flux without fixed forms, as natural as the cycle of life and death. The commentary specifically notes that "popular versions often contain errors," indicating that divergent accounts of these biological transformations already existed at the time, further emphasizing the theme of ceaseless change.