《莊子注》Vol. 8

This passage recounts the story of Gengsang Chu, a disciple of Laozi (Lao⬤). After thoroughly mastering Laozi's teachings, Gengsang Chu chose to retreat into seclusion at Mount Weilei in the north. He dismissed all attendants who deliberately displayed cleverness ("those who paint themselves as knowers") and concubines who boasted of their righteousness ("those who flaunt their benevolence"), keeping only simple, natural-minded people as companions.

After dwelling at Mount Weilei for three years, the local villagers noticed something remarkable: though Gengsang Chu's actions showed no immediate visible effects, over time the land became abundantly prosperous. The people discussed honoring him as they would a deity ("establishing a shrine to offer sacrifices as to the gods of soil and grain"). When Gengsang Chu heard this, he faced south (the position of honor in antiquity) with clear displeasure.

He explained to his disciples: Just as spring's growth and autumn's harvest follow the natural order (the Dao of Heaven), the true sage (the "perfect person") dwells in humble, confined quarters (a modest room barely ten feet square), allowing people to live freely without interference. Yet now the people of Weilei wished to worship him—this contradicted the Daoist principle of natural non-action (Wuwei).

The text uses the natural phenomenon of "spring Qi arising and a hundred grasses growing" to illustrate how true virtuous governance should be as effortless as the turning seasons. Gengsang Chu resisted deification, believing that deliberately pursuing fame for benevolence and wisdom would only disrupt the natural Dao.

Here Zhuangzi, through the dialogue between the recluse Gengsang Chu and his disciples, explores the Dao of engaging with the world. The disciples advocate emulating sage-kings like Yao and Shun by honoring the worthy and bestowing benefits upon the people, but Gengsang Chu counters this view with vivid metaphors.

He says: When a massive beast capable of swallowing whole chariots leaves the mountain forest, it cannot escape the calamity of hunting nets. When a giant fish that could devour boats is stranded on shore, even ants can harm it. Thus, birds and beasts understand to hide in high places, while fish and turtles know to dive into the depths. Those who truly preserve their lives (here "全其形生" refers to safeguarding both life and innate nature) act like them—knowing how to conceal themselves and avoid danger. Praising the worthy as Yao and Shun did is like recklessly chiseling holes in walls to plant weeds ("妄凿垣墙而殖蓬蒿"), which only sows chaos for later generations.

Gengsang Chu further criticizes: Counting individual hairs before combing ("简发而栉") or tallying grains of rice before cooking ("数米而炊")—such obsessive attention to trivial matters—how could it ever truly benefit the world? Elevating the worthy only makes the people scheme against one another ("民相轧"). His core idea is clear: Following nature and maintaining a state of undivided unity ("混然一之") is the true way to govern.

Here Zhuangzi, through the dialogue between Gengsang Chu and Nanrong Chu, reveals the social problems caused by excessive pursuit of cleverness. When people use cunning to compensate for deficiencies in their innate nature, hypocrisy arises. This false way of living is essentially a form of theft.

Consider how in today's society, sons murder fathers, ministers assassinate rulers, and people commit daylight robberies and burglaries without hesitation—all because moral restraints have completely eroded. Let me tell you, the roots of this great disorder were actually planted as early as the Yao-Shun era, and this poisonous legacy will persist for millennia. A thousand years from now, we may even witness the horrifying spectacle of humans eating each other.

Nanrong Chu (a fictional seeker of the Dao in Zhuangzi's text) sat up solemnly upon hearing this and asked: "For someone as advanced in years as myself, how should I practice to comprehend these truths?" Gengsang Chu (a disciple of Laozi) replied: "Preserve your physical form (referring to maintaining natural integrity), guard your fundamental nature; nurture your vital life force, and don't let external matters disturb your spirit; cease those chaotic thoughts. Cultivate this way for three years, and you'll come to understand these principles."

Nanrong Chu said in confusion: "Eyes may appear structurally identical, yet the blind cannot see; ears may seem alike in form, yet the deaf cannot hear; hearts may look similar, yet the insane cannot control themselves. Though human bodies appear interconnected, something always obstructs true communion—we desire mutual understanding but cannot achieve it. Now you tell me to preserve my form, nurture my life, and still my thoughts. Though I force myself to listen, it's like sound merely brushing the surface of my ears—I cannot truly grasp it."

This dialogue reveals the crux of Daoist cultivation: behind seemingly simple requirements lies the need to transcend cognitive barriers. Just as the blind cannot comprehend sight nor the deaf understand sound, ordinary people must surpass superficial similarities to realize the Dao, achieving an inner transformation.

This dialogue records the encounter between Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) and Laozi when seeking guidance. Carrying provisions, Nanrong Chu traveled seven days and nights to reach Laozi's dwelling. At their first meeting, Laozi immediately perceived his troubled state of mind. Nanrong Chu confessed his dilemma: he felt distressed when called foolish, yet equally troubled when appearing clever; practicing inhumanity harmed others, while practicing humaneness tormented himself; injustice injured others, yet upholding justice brought him suffering. These three predicaments left him utterly bewildered.

Laozi observed that Nanrong Chu resembled a man who had lost his Shen (spirit), pointlessly waving a bamboo pole to fish for needles in the ocean—a metaphor for futile effort—completely severed from his original nature. He advised Nanrong Chu to first settle down and purify his mind of distractions. When Nanrong Chu returned ten days later, Laozi noticed his surface calm still concealed inner attachments.

Using the metaphors of "external shackles" (sensory constraints) and "internal shackles" (mental constraints), Laozi explained how excessive external temptations disturb the heart-mind, while deep-seated inner fixations distort perception of reality—both must be transcended.

The text employs vivid analogies: "A darting wasp cannot transform into a soybean caterpillar" and "A Yue chicken cannot hatch a swan's egg" to illustrate how all beings possess inherent capacities, implying Nanrong Chu need not forcibly alter his fundamental nature. The core teaching emphasizes returning to one's natural essence, rising above the afflictions caused by worldly distinctions between right/wrong and good/evil.

[Note: Cultural references preserved:

1. "Yue chicken" refers to a small breed from the Yue region, contrasting with larger swans

2. The bamboo pole and needle fishing metaphor echoes Zhuangzi's imagery of futility

3. "Shackles" (韄) literally means leather bindings, here representing constraints]

This passage primarily discusses how to preserve one's innate nature through the methods of "forgetting the calculating mind and disregarding sensory perceptions," thereby attaining the state of "the fundamental principles of nurturing life" (weisheng zhi jing).

It first points out that the best way to preserve both body and life is to forget cunning thoughts and relinquish the pursuit of external sights and sounds. If one becomes entangled by sensory temptations, the inner mind will become obstructed; if the heart is filled with desires and aversions, one will lose the capacity for proper perception of the external world. Only by neither craving nor rejecting can one truly comprehend the Dao (the Way).

Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) offers an analogy: When a villager falls ill, if the patient can still describe their symptoms, it shows the illness has not yet reached a critical stage. Similarly, when he hears about the Dao, it feels like taking medicine that only worsens the condition. Thus, he seeks only to understand the basic principles of nurturing life.

Laozi (here referring to the figure in the Zhuangzi attributed to the sage) responds that the fundamental principles of nurturing life lie in the following questions: Can one "embrace unity" (bao yi, maintaining pure and undivided nature)? Can one avoid losing one's innate nature? Can one discern fortune and misfortune without divination (by simply following nature)? Can one know when to stop? Can one refrain from dwelling on the past? Can one cease blaming others and instead turn inward for self-reflection? Can one remain free and unconstrained? Can one attain unimpeded understanding?

Finally, the state of an infant is used as a metaphor: An infant cries all day without becoming hoarse—this is the result of natural harmony; it clenches its fists all day without stiffness—this is the work of innate nature; it gazes all day without eye strain—this comes from not straining the eyes deliberately. This illustrates that the ideal state is to be like an infant, acting purely according to nature without deliberate effort (wuwei, non-action).

This passage discusses the state and realm of the "Perfected Person" (zhiren, one who has attained the Dao) in Daoist cultivation. It begins by explaining the phrase "eyes not deliberately looking outward"—meaning one's vision naturally perceives without being constrained by external colors or forms. The character "瞚" (shun) can also mean "blink," referring to the movement of the eyes.

Next, it describes the behavior of a Perfected Person: when walking, they have no fixed destination, moving entirely spontaneously; when dwelling, they make no deliberate arrangements, their body naturally relaxed; in interacting with all things, they are supple as a snake, flowing with the currents. Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) considers this the highest state of nurturing life and asks whether this constitutes the De (Virtue/Power) of a Perfected Person.

The response clarifies that this is not yet the ultimate state—it is merely like the initial melting of ice. A true Perfected Person shares sustenance with the earth and joy with heaven, undisturbed by human affairs or worldly gains and losses. They do not engage in strange matters, do not scheme with others, and do not participate in mundane affairs, coming and going in complete freedom. This is the true essence of nurturing life.

Nanrong Chu then asks whether this is the highest realm, to which the reply states it is still insufficient, using an infant as a metaphor: an infant acts without purpose, their body as natural as withered branches, their mind as calm as dead ashes. In this state, neither misfortune nor fortune befalls them, as these arise from attachments to gain and loss. When one's spiritual world is tranquil and harmonious, it emits a natural radiance (tian guang, "heavenly light")—not a deliberate display of brilliance. Those with inner serenity naturally reveal their true essence.

When people perceive only the superficial appearances of things, all phenomena manifest separately without interconnection. Only by maintaining serene composure can one attain stability. Practitioners (referring to Dao cultivation) alone can access the constant Dao.

Those who cultivate naturally achieve inner tranquility. This enduring state of stability receives the assistance of heavenly Dao. When a person returns to their authentic state, they naturally dwell in the spiritual homeland and gain celestial support.

Those who live in accordance with natural laws are called "heavenly people" (Tianmin, those aligned with the Dao), while those who embody the Dao are called "sons of heaven" (Tianzi, manifestations of the Dao). Both attain their state through serene self-possession rather than deliberate striving.

True learning involves studying principles that seem beyond grasp, true practice entails undertaking what appears impossible, and true debate explores mysteries that defy articulation. If one remains confined to the known, even action does not constitute genuine practice, even repetition does not amount to real learning, and even speech does not qualify as true debate.

Understanding where to halt at the boundaries of knowledge represents the highest wisdom. Forcing pursuit of the unknowable is like disrupting the balance of nature’s scales (Tianjun, the celestial equilibrium). All things develop and take form according to their inherent patterns, just as thoughts arise naturally without forced speculation (Yu refers to excessive deliberation).

Maintaining reverent composure naturally allows one to comprehend the principles of all things. If calamity still befalls despite this, it is the mandate of heaven rather than human error. A tranquil mind preserves the fruits of cultivation (Huacheng refers to disrupting achievements), and no distress can penetrate the spiritual abode (Lingtai, the inner heart).

Genuine cultivation of the mind (Lingtai) appears to hold something yet actually involves no deliberate grasping. Clinging to the notion of "holding" paradoxically causes its loss. Acting without first examining one’s inner sincerity (Chengyi, the state of authentic being) leads each endeavor astray from the true path.

This passage presents Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi, primarily exploring the relationship between action and inner disposition. It observes that when actions don't spring from genuine sincerity within, it becomes difficult to act appropriately. If one commits misdeeds that are discovered, punishment follows; if done in secret, even ghosts and spirits will mete out retribution. Only those with hearts so bright and upright that they feel no shame before humans or spirits can act independently without fear.

Those devoted to inner cultivation never act for the sake of reputation, while those chasing external fame and profit remain fixated on personal gain. Those who maintain inner radiance naturally shine with brilliance, whereas profit-seekers resemble merchants peddling goods they don't even possess. Observing such insatiable greed, people can't help but laugh in derision.

Those who harmonize with the myriad things find all beings drawn to them, while those who oppose the natural order struggle to find their own footing—let alone accommodate others. Those incapable of embracing others will lack close companions, ultimately facing rejection from all. The most wounding blades aren't forged of metal, but of malicious intent; the greatest adversary isn't some external foe, but the internal disharmony of Yin-Yang (referring to emotional imbalance) within one's own heart.

When humans dwell between heaven and earth yet fail to comprehend the patterns of Yin-Yang transformation, they become driven by delusional thoughts (when the mind commands Jing and Qi, the dual energies of Yin-Yang become entangled within the five viscera). Wherever the five viscera reside, the Qi of Yin-Yang circulates—thus there exists no true escape for humans. The Dao permeates all distinctions—the moment things take form marks the beginning of their dissolution (though completion and destruction follow no fixed pattern, the Dao flows through them all).

People despise distinctions because they cling to them while chasing perfection (refusing to abide in their fundamental state yet forcibly pursuing wholeness—this is the root of despising distinctions). They loathe the pursuit of perfection because it stems from forced striving (seeking completeness where none inherently exists). If one's original nature were truly complete, why would aversion arise?

Therefore, when Shen gallops outward without returning to its authentic source, ghostly manifestations appear (failing to contemplate one's inner nature leads to swift dissolution of life). Outward pursuit of Shen appears gainful yet actually reaps death (not chasing externally preserves life—those who believe outward pursuit brings attainment are actually walking toward death). When original nature perishes leaving only physical form, no difference remains from ghosts (after losing one's fundamental nature, though physically alive, one becomes ghost-like).

Only by using the tangible body to emulate the formless Dao can life find stability (though possessing form, maintaining an expansive heart free from attachments preserves life and stabilizes the corporeal frame). Life's emergence follows no fixed origin (sudden spontaneous birth), nor does its departure observe set pathways (sudden natural death). Seemingly substantial yet having no abode, apparently enduring yet lacking beginning or end, possessing emergence yet no fixed passage—these all demonstrate how tangible forms are governed by the formless Dao.

This passage discusses the relationship between "being" (you, existence) and "non-being" (wu, emptiness). It begins by stating that "spoken words must have concrete basis," meaning all expressions originate from tangible foundations, yet when we trace these foundations to their source, we find they lack fixed origins. Like "holes" that appear to exist, upon closer examination of their essence, no definite substance can be found.

The concept of "space" (yu) truly exists yet has no fixed position to grasp. The ancients said, "The six directions (four cardinal points, up and down) constitute space"—while space is real, its exact location cannot be determined. "Time" (zhou) operates similarly: though it continuously extends and grows, neither its beginning nor end can be pinpointed. Time, as explained in the Shuowen Jiezi, resembles the tracks left by boats and carts, covering everything.

Phenomena like life and death, emergence and withdrawal arise spontaneously, with no visible form. This natural state of arising and ceasing is called the "Gate of Heaven" (Tianmen, the gateway of the Dao), akin to Laozi's "gateway of all mysteries." All things emerge from "non-being and being" (wu you); the transformations of life and death occur naturally, without any hidden controller. What we call "emergence and withdrawal" are merely surface appearances—in truth, even the gate through which things enter and exit cannot be located.

"Being" cannot produce itself; it must arise from "non-being and being." This explains that existence cannot create existence—it emerges spontaneously. This does not mean that "non-being" creates "being," for if "non-being" truly could create "being," then "non-being" would cease to be "non-being." Ultimately, even the concept of "non-being and being" must be relinquished to reach the genuine state of emptiness.

This passage elucidates the ancient sages' profound understanding of "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). The wisest realized that the primordial universe existed in a state of absolute emptiness—this "non-being" represents the most fundamental and ultimate realm, beyond which nothing higher exists.

Those of slightly lesser wisdom acknowledged the existence of all things yet viewed life as the beginning of dissipation (like Qi gathering only to scatter), and death as a return to the source (like melting ice). A still lower perspective holds that nothing existed originally, then life emerged briefly before marching toward death—treating "non-being" as the origin, life as the process, and death as the terminus.

Only those who truly comprehend the essential unity of "being" and "non-being," "life" and "death" can become companions of the Dao-realized. These three understandings, though differing in depth, all transcend attachment to right and wrong—much like the noble clans of Chu (the Zhao, Jing, Dai, and Jia families) who shared royal lineage despite their different surnames.

Life resembles soot at the bottom of a cauldron (yan)—a temporary coagulation of Qi. When people obsessively distinguish right from wrong (piran), they become entrenched in their own views (yishi). The Dao-realized understand these distinctions are but transient appearances.

Note: The term "piran" refers to the state of forced differentiation, while "yishi" denotes stubborn adherence to personal opinions. These concepts embody Zhuangzi's critique of artificial discrimination.

This passage explores the principle that "standards of right and wrong shift according to changing circumstances." The term "shift" (yi) is used because there are no fixed, unchanging criteria. Just as an oxhide remains whole when stretched but fragments when relaxed—the gathering and scattering, life and death of all things follow nature's transformations.

What people commonly call "right and wrong" is ultimately indefinable, because the criteria for judgment transform even before one speaks. Though this transformation eludes precise understanding, we may still contemplate it. Consider the tripe and hooves used in the year-end La sacrifice: they may be arranged separately during the ritual, yet as sacrificial offerings they remain indispensable (all things have their proper function).

Observe architectural layouts similarly: people meticulously arrange the ancestral temple (the central hall for rituals and living), yet must also properly situate the latrine. When you're in the latrine, the temple's significance shifts to the latrine—demonstrating how standards of right and wrong change with context, having no eternal fixity. Thus, the Perfected Person (zhiren) harmonizes with this flux.

Let us delve deeper: life itself is the root of transformation (all things are constantly changing). People invariably take their own understanding as the standard, hence disputes over right and wrong arise (though fundamentally, no absolute right or wrong exists). Though things have names and substance, people appoint themselves arbiters of judgment, demanding others conform to their measures—even willing to die upholding these standards (as when sacrificing life for empty reputation).

Such people often mistake "usefulness" for wisdom and "uselessness" for folly; they consider prominence honorable and hardship shameful (thus failing to flow with circumstances).

(Note: The "Perfected Person" [zhiren] in Zhuangzi's philosophy represents the highest attainment of self-cultivation, capable of aligning with nature's transformations; the "La sacrifice" [laji] was an ancient year-end ritual requiring comprehensive offerings.)

This passage presents Zhuangzi's profound insights on human nature and virtue (De). Modern readers may understand it as follows:

The realm of ancient sages transcended distinctions of right and wrong, while contemporary people constantly debate over judgments, much like cicadas and sparrows echoing shallow consensus. Stepping on a stranger's foot demands immediate apology, yet treading on one's sibling merely requires a casual "no worries" to convey intimacy. Thus, the highest ritual is boundary-less (treating others as oneself), the most fundamental righteousness is non-discriminatory (all things in their proper place), true wisdom requires no calculation (knowing naturally), purest benevolence recognizes no favoritism (like the harmonious five viscera), and most sincere trust needs no material pledge (transcending physical forms).

The text then identifies four major obstacles to cultivation: wealth and status disturb the mind, appearances and manners delude consciousness, emotions and desires burden virtue (De), while gain-loss calculations obstruct the Dao. Only by eliminating these twenty-four interferences (six in each category) can the mind return to tranquility, attaining the state of clarity and emptiness, ultimately realizing the natural condition of "non-action (Wuwei) that accomplishes all things."

Finally, it clarifies the essence of virtue: the Dao is virtue's root (qin meaning source), life is virtue's radiance, and innate nature is life's essence. Only actions arising spontaneously from one's nature are authentic; forced conduct signifies delusion. True knowing is direct perception (jie), not deliberate scheming (mo). Just as eyes see naturally without first knowing "to see," only those compelled actions emerging from innate nature accord with heavenly virtue (De). When every movement springs from the authentic self, that constitutes the most perfect state of cultivation.

This passage discusses the distinction between the natural Dao and artificial contrivance, employing a series of metaphors to illustrate the importance of following nature's course.

Though the skilled archer Hou Yi could hit his mark with precision, he could not prevent others from praising him. Similarly, the sage can align with the natural Dao of Heaven, yet struggles to navigate the artificial affairs of the human world. Only the "Perfected Person" (Quanren, one who has attained the Dao) can both follow nature and skillfully handle worldly matters. Just as insects instinctively preserve their innate nature, the Perfected Person despises deliberate striving for innate nature—and despises even more the artificial imitation of it.

The text uses the metaphor of catching sparrows to clarify: if one uses force to capture them, the sparrows will flee; but if one treats the entire world as a cage (following nature's course), the sparrows have nowhere to escape. King Tang of Shang attracted the wise minister Yi Yin by posing as a cook, and Duke Mu of Qin obtained the talented Baili Xi for five sheepskins—both examples of aligning with another's inherent nature.

The passage then turns to the example of a punished criminal: one who has lost a foot no longer cares about adornment (拸画), and a prisoner climbing heights feels no fear because they have transcended concerns of life and death (遗死生). Those who have truly attained the Dao (复謵) rely not on external gifts; they even forget the concept of "person," reaching a state where self and object are indistinct.

(Note: "Hou Yi" refers to the legendary archer; "Yi Yin" was a virtuous minister of the Shang dynasty; "Baili Xi" was a renowned statesman of Qin. "Perfected Person" denotes one whose virtue is complete and who has realized the Dao, while "复謵" describes those who have cultivated to profound spiritual attainment.)

This passage consists of two parts: an annotation on Zhuangzi's philosophy and a dialogue excerpt from the "Xu Wugui" chapter of the Zhuangzi.

The annotation explains several key concepts:

"Forgetting people" refers to transcending the constraints of human relationships. Those who attain this state become "heavenly humans" (tianren) in harmony with nature. Such individuals neither feel pleased when respected nor angered when insulted, having fully merged with the natural order.

The text points out that true anger arises from a state of non-anger, and true action emerges from wuwei (non-action). This embodies the Daoist philosophy of "creation from nothingness." To achieve inner tranquility, one must regulate qi (vital energy); to attain spiritual clarity, one must follow the original heart-mind. The sage acts only out of necessity (following nature's course), which constitutes the Way of the sage.

The dialogue from "Xu Wugui" recounts the story of hermit Xu Wugui (from Minshan in Wei) meeting Marquis Wu of Wei through an introduction by Nü Shang. The Marquis greeted Xu Wugui saying: "You have suffered, Master. Living in seclusion among mountains and forests must be arduous, hence your willingness to visit me." Xu Wugui surprisingly replied: "It is I who should console you. If you indulge desires and nurture preferences, you harm your essential nature; if you suppress desires and reject preferences, you torment your senses." The Marquis fell silent, visibly displeased. This exchange demonstrates Daoist criticism of rulers enslaved by desires.

This passage comes from the "Xu Wugui" chapter of the Zhuangzi, recounting how the hermit Xu Wugui used analogies of judging horses and dogs to enlighten Marquis Wu of Wei.

Xu Wugui explained to the Marquis that he evaluated dogs at three levels: inferior dogs stop eating once full, yet remain as greedy as foxes; middling dogs can gaze into the distance as if staring at the sun; superior dogs become so spiritually focused they forget their own existence. Similarly, judging horses also had its hierarchy: ordinary state horses must conform to rigid standards, but the finest horses in the world are innately perfect—running as swiftly as if startled, their spirit transcending physical form, surpassing the mundane. Upon hearing this, the Marquis laughed heartily.

The Wei minister Nü Shang was astonished, as his own admonitions using the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, and military classics like the Six Secret Teachings (Liutao) had been ineffective. Xu Wugui explained that just as an exile, once leaving the state of Yue, rejoices upon meeting a fellow countryman, he had simply used what the Marquis naturally enjoyed (judging horses and dogs) to guide him. It was like amusing a bird with bells and drums—seemingly simple yet subtly profound.

Annotations:

• Li De ("fox-like virtue"): Greed akin to that of a fox
• Ruo wang qi yi ("as if forgetting itself"): Describes intense spiritual concentration where one loses self-awareness
• Jinban liutao: Refers to ancient military texts like the Six Secret Teachings
• Liu ren: Exiled criminals

This dialogue illustrates Zhuangzi’s philosophy of "following nature’s course" (shun qi ziran). A true sage guides others according to their innate tendencies rather than preaching rigid doctrines. By using the Marquis’s interest in horse physiognomy as a metaphor, Xu Wugui achieved far more than blunt moralizing ever could.

In the "Xu Wugui" chapter of the Zhuangzi, a parable illustrates the principle of humanity's innate authenticity. When a person remains isolated from society for an extended period, even the sound of a stranger's footsteps brings joy—how much more so the voice of a close relative? This mirrors the case of Marquis Wu of Wei (a ruler during the Warring States period), who, despite his high position, lacked the Virtue (De) befitting a true sovereign. Constantly guarded and wary, he yearned instead for the sincere counsel of a Perfected Person (Zhenren, one who has attained the Dao).

When Xu Wugui (a hermit) visited Marquis Wu, the ruler asked him: "Master, having long dwelled in the mountains, subsisting on acorns and wild greens—now in your old age, do you crave fine wine and meat? Or do you wish to offer strategies for my state?" Xu Wugui replied: "Born into humble circumstances, I dare not covet the ruler's delicacies. I have come to console your spirit (Shen) and nourish your physical form." Here, Zhuangzi emphasizes that Heaven and Earth nurture all things impartially ("the nourishment of Heaven and Earth is one"). A ruler should not indulge in excess.

The parable employs the metaphor of "a person fleeing into an empty valley rejoicing at the sound of human voices" to convey three insights:

1. When people suppress their innate authenticity for too long, genuine encounters evoke profound delight.

2. If a ruler loses the Way (Dao) of governance, even while maintaining a stern facade ("qiao li" refers to feigned severity), the heart secretly craves sincere connection.

3. The words of a Perfected Person are precious because they resonate with the ruler's true nature—yet prolonged exposure risks taking them for granted ("initially meeting brings joy, but familiarity breeds neglect").

This passage discusses the essence of governance and the nature of humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi). Through the dialogue between Xu Wugui and Marquis Wu of Wei, Zhuangzi reveals a profound truth: deliberate pursuit of humaneness and righteousness often produces the opposite effect.

Marquis Wu of Wei declares his intention to care for the people, practice humaneness and righteousness, and cease warfare. Xu Wugui directly points out this approach is doomed to fail. Forced emphasis on "loving the people" becomes the very beginning of harming them ("loving the people marks the start of harming them"), as such superficial virtue fosters hypocrisy. Similarly, the conscious pursuit of "righteousness" and "disarmament" (yanbing) paradoxically plants the seeds of future conflicts.

Xu Wugui explains that when rulers promote humaneness and righteousness, their reputation grows conspicuous, which in turn stirs competitive desires in others and causes loss of authentic nature. Like the formal courtesy between father and son or ruler and minister that masks mutual deception, genuine disarmament becomes impossible under such conditions.

Zhuangzi further observes that all consciously cultivated virtues ("achieved beauties") inevitably become tools for wickedness ("vessels of evil"). Even when rulers sincerely practice humaneness and righteousness, the people will follow with affected virtue. Once humaneness and righteousness take concrete form ("shape"), corresponding false appearances ("artificial forms") necessarily emerge. Conspicuous success ("achieved glory") inevitably invites attack, while altering fundamental patterns ("changing what's constant") provokes external conflict.

The core teaching here is that conscious striving for virtue and morality backfires—the optimal way of governance follows natural patterns through wuwei (non-action).

This passage from Commentary on the Zhuangzi primarily discusses the principles of warfare and state governance. It begins by pointing out that a ruler should not display military might (the phrase "crane formation" refers to orderly troop arrangements, while "magnificent towers" denotes grand edifices) atop ornate towers, nor deploy infantry and chariots near sacrificial altars or palaces (the "Zitan" altar). The true art of governance lies in: not coveting what is beyond one's rightful portion ("storing no rebelliousness in gain"), and not relying on cunning, stratagems, or warfare to subdue others.

The text emphasizes that actions which slaughter common people and annex territories to satisfy selfish desires can never constitute true victory. The story of the Yellow Emperor (the legendary sage-king revered in Daoism) seeking out Dawei (symbolizing the supreme Dao) is cited as evidence: when seven sages reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng and lost their way, this illustrates how fixation on reputation leads people astray. Authentic governance requires cultivating inner sincerity and aligning with the natural Dao ("responding to Heaven-and-Earth's disposition"). When this is achieved, the people will naturally be free from mortal peril, making deliberate calls to "lay down arms" unnecessary.

Note: The term "Zitan" refers to a specific sacrificial altar, while "magnificent towers" indicates lofty, ornate structures. "Dawei" in Zhuangzi's allegory represents the supreme Dao. The anecdote about the Yellow Emperor and the seven sages losing their way demonstrates how excessive pursuit of external forms leads one astray from the Great Way.

The Yellow Emperor (legendary sage ruler of antiquity) was traveling by chariot when he encountered a child herding horses at Mount Jucí (modern-day Taiwei Mountain east of Mixian County in Xingyang, Henan). The Emperor asked the child: "Do you know where Mount Jucí is?" The child replied that he did. The Emperor then asked: "Then do you know where the Great Wei Deity (a revered Daoist divinity) resides?" Again the child claimed knowledge. Astonished, the Emperor recognized this was no ordinary child.

The child explained: "Governing the world is actually quite simple. When I wandered the world as a boy, I once suffered from vertigo. An elder taught me to ride the 'Sun Chariot' (using the sun as vehicle, traveling at dawn and resting at dusk) to wander the outskirts of Xiangcheng—and my illness was cured. Now I intend to journey beyond heaven and earth. Governing the world follows this same principle of natural flow—why force deliberate action?"

When pressed further about statecraft, the child responded: "Governing is like herding horses—you simply remove those that harm the herd." (Implying the elimination of elements detrimental to the whole) Profoundly enlightened, the Yellow Emperor bowed respectfully and honored the child as "Celestial Master" (Tianshi, teacher of natural wisdom).

This dialogue reveals: The intelligent find no joy without contemplating change, debaters no pleasure without discourse, the perceptive no satisfaction without subjects to critique—all manifestations of being bound by external things. True wisdom lies in following nature's course without excessive interference. Just as herding requires only removing disruptive horses, governing needs only to eliminate what harms the people, avoiding overactive intervention.

This passage discusses how individuals of different dispositions each have their own pursuits and limitations, emphasizing the importance of following one's inherent nature.

People of various talents focus on their respective domains: those adept at social interaction thrive in courtly circles, skilled administrators seek official positions, the physically strong take pride in overcoming obstacles, the courageous relish confronting calamities, soldiers delight in battle, recluses cling to fame, legal experts promote rule by law, ritual specialists emphasize proper decorum, and the benevolent prioritize human relationships. Just as farmers cannot plow without fields nor merchants trade without marketplaces, each person requires an environment suited to their nature.

When ordinary people have steady work, they become diligent; when craftsmen master their skills, they grow industrious. Insufficient wealth distresses the greedy, while inadequate power saddens the vainglorious. Those who crave influence welcome turbulent times, for only then can they exercise their abilities. All these individuals pursue their aims much like the seasons follow their natural course.

Yet Zhuangzi critiques this, saying that if an archer who doesn't aim yet accidentally hits the target were called divine, then everyone could claim to be Houyi (the legendary archer). This satirizes those who abandon their proper station to drift with the current, exhausting their vital essence in chasing external things until they ultimately lose themselves—a truly lamentable state. The core teaching warns against blindly pursuing what doesn't align with one's true nature, urging people to abide contentedly in their proper roles.

This dialogue recounts the debate between Zhuangzi and Huizi (Hui Shi) concerning the "standards of right and wrong." Huizi argues that everyone can consider themselves correct, just as an archer who happens to hit the target could claim to be as skilled as Yi (the legendary archer of antiquity). Zhuangzi counters that if this were true, then everyone in the world could declare themselves to be Yao (the sage ruler), which is clearly absurd.

Zhuangzi illustrates his point with the story of Lu Ju, an ancient musician. Lu Ju’s disciples claimed to have mastered the Dao (the Way) by demonstrating how they could boil a cauldron in winter and create ice in summer. However, Lu Ju points out that these are merely superficial phenomena of "summoning yang with yang and yin with yin." He then demonstrates tuning a se (a zither-like instrument), showing that plucking the gong note (one of the five tones) causes other gong strings to resonate, while plucking the jue note elicits a response from other jue strings. This reveals that the true Dao lies in the internal harmony and unity of natural principles.

Zhuangzi further argues that just as adjusting one string affects all twenty-five strings of the se, the seemingly contentious doctrines of Confucianism, Mohism, Yang Zhu, and Gongsun Long (Bing) are like Lu Ju’s disciples—each self-righteous yet failing to grasp the fundamental truth. Unconvinced, Huizi retorts, "Now the Confucians and Mohists debate with me, using words to overpower one another, yet none can prove me wrong. Doesn’t this mean I am right?"

Zhuangzi concludes with an allusion to a parable about a man from Qi (not fully quoted in the original text), implying that such self-assertive attitudes resemble the man in the fable who forcibly imposes his own standards as universal truth. This dialogue highlights the Daoist philosophy of the relativity of right and wrong, emphasizing that true wisdom lies in transcending subjective biases and realizing the natural Dao.

This passage reveals, through several allegorical stories, how people often persist in absurd behaviors while remaining utterly unaware of their folly.

The first tale tells of a man from Qi who sent his son to serve as a gatekeeper (閽者) in the state of Song, showing no concern for the boy's safety. Instead, he obsessively protected his xingzhong (a long-necked bell), binding it with ropes lest it be damaged. Later, when he lost his child (唐子), he searched only nearby, completely oblivious to the absurdity of prioritizing an object over his own flesh and blood.

The second story describes a man from Chu who, while lodging at another's home, berated the gatekeeper. Another man started quarreling with the boatman before their vessel had even left the shore at midnight. Both acted ridiculously yet never recognized their own faults.

Finally, Zhuangzi recounts the famous "Artisan Shi Chops Off the Mortar" parable: In the Chu capital Ying, a man had a speck of white mortar on his nose no larger than a fly's wing. He asked Artisan Shi (a craftsman named Shi) to remove it with an axe. Swinging the axe with a whoosh, the artisan cleanly sliced off the mortar without harming the nose, while the Ying man stood unflinching. When Duke Yuan of Song heard of this and wished to try it, Artisan Shi replied: "My partner (referring to that unshakable Ying man) has passed away—no one remains who can match my skill."

These stories collectively illustrate how people stubbornly cling to mistaken behaviors without self-awareness, like the Qi father valuing objects over his child. True mastery requires perfect synergy between partners, just as Artisan Shi needed his imperturbable counterpart to perform his extraordinary feat.

The master carpenter Shi said: "I was indeed once skilled in carving. But since my partner Zhi passed away, I can no longer find anyone who can truly match my work, nor anyone who genuinely understands my craft." (This carpenter's analogy illustrates that even the most exceptional skills require a suitable counterpart to be fully expressed.)

When Guan Zhong fell gravely ill, Duke Huan of Qi visited him and asked: "Your illness has become severe. If the worst should happen, to whom should I entrust the governance of our state?" The duke first suggested Bao Shuya, but Guan Zhong objected. He remarked that while Bao Shuya was upright and principled, he was too harsh toward those he considered inferior and held grudges—such a temperament would inevitably offend both ruler and commoners if entrusted with state affairs.

"Then who would be suitable?" asked the duke. Guan Zhong recommended Xi Peng, describing him as humble and harmonious (neither arrogant toward superiors nor dismissive of subordinates). Though Xi Peng felt himself unworthy to compare with the Yellow Emperor, he treated those less capable than himself with kindness. To influence others through virtue is called sagely wisdom; to assist others through material means is called worthy ability. Those who presume upon their worthiness to dominate others will never win hearts; but those who temper their worthiness with humility never fail to gain people's support. In governing major state affairs, he wouldn't meddle excessively; in handling minor household matters, he wouldn't interfere unnecessarily. If someone must be chosen, Xi Peng would be equal to the task.

Once the King of Wu sailed on the river and climbed Monkey Mountain. At his approach, all the monkeys fled in panic, hiding deep in the thickets—except one. This monkey swung nonchalantly from branch to branch, proudly displaying its dexterity before the king. When the king shot an arrow at it, the creature deftly caught the missile midair. The king then ordered his attendants to shoot simultaneously, and the monkey was finally struck down.

Turning to his friend Yan Buyi, the king said: "This monkey brought about its own destruction by flaunting its skill and presuming upon its agility to slight me. Let this be a warning!" (Through this parable of the showy monkey, the text cautions against the dangers of arrogance born of exceptional talent.)

This passage presents several stories and perspectives on Daoist cultivation. It first recounts how Yan Buyi (Yan Hui) studied under Dong Wu, a man of moral cultivation, learning to eliminate arrogance and complacency while abandoning pleasure-seeking and worldly success. After three years of self-cultivation, the entire state praised him for attaining a state of returning to primordial simplicity (返璞归真).

Next, it describes how Nanbo Ziqi, a Daoist practitioner, was meditating when his disciple Yan Chengzi asked: "Can a person’s body become like withered wood, and their mind like dead ashes?" Ziqi replied that when he once lived in seclusion in a mountain cave, Tian He, the ruler of Qi, visited him, and the entire state celebrated. This showed that fame arises only when one first seeks it, and others then come to know of it. He lamented how people become lost in the pursuit of fame and profit, forgetting their true selves, and even more so, how some grieve over others who have lost their way. Ziqi believed that deliberate striving only harms oneself—it is better to remain in a state of no-mind (无心), allowing the body to become naturally like withered wood.

Lastly, it mentions Confucius’ visit to the state of Chu, where the King of Chu held a banquet attended by Sunshu Ao, a virtuous minister, and Shi’nan Yiliao, a Chu recluse. Yiliao remarked, "In ancient times, people would offer words of wisdom on such occasions." Confucius responded that he had heard of the principle of "speaking without speaking" (不言而言)—that a true sage does not need words to express himself, for what he says is already the voice of the people. Through this dialogue between historical figures, the passage illustrates the Daoist teaching of "teaching without words" (不言而教).

This passage elucidates the wisdom of "non-speaking." Shi Nan Yiliao (a Chu state warrior) resolved a conflict between two families simply by juggling pellets, while Sunshu Ao (a famed Chu statesman) prevented war in the capital Ying by calmly holding a feather fan. These examples demonstrate that true wisdom often requires no words.

Zhuangzi employs these anecdotes to illustrate: When faced with Bai Gong Sheng's threats, Yiliao continued juggling pellets without taking sides, ultimately avoiding entanglement in rebellion. Sunshu Ao countered aggression with stillness, deterring enemy invasion without mobilizing troops. This is akin to how a bird's beak, no matter how long (three feet), is less effective than maintaining silence.

The author points out that this embodies the realm of "the Dao that is not spoken" (manifesting the Dao without deliberate explanation) and "debate without words" (clarifying truth without argument). True Virtue (De, the cultivated state in Daoist practice) is always rooted in the fundamental Dao, where words should halt where wisdom cannot reach. Forcing names and concepts—as Confucians and Mohists do—onto the ineffable only invites misfortune.

The key insight is this: The highest way of being lies in aligning with nature, without insisting on verbal explanations for everything. Just as Yiliao's pellet-juggling and Sunshu Ao's composed repose—seemingly Wuwei (non-action)—resolved major crises, this exemplifies the Daoist wisdom of "doing nothing yet leaving nothing undone."

The passage conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first layer describes the realm of the "Great Person" (one who has attained the Dao). A truly great person is like the ocean that embraces all things, nourishing the world without claiming merit. They live without official titles and die without posthumous honors, neither accumulating wealth nor pursuing fame. True greatness is not achieved through deliberate striving—just as heaven and earth operate naturally, accomplishing greatness without forced action. Those who understand this principle do not seek externally or worry about gains and losses, but return to their original mind and follow their innate nature.

The second layer uses the dialogue between Ziqi and Jiufang Yin to illustrate the difference between worldly perspectives and those who have attained the Dao. Jiufang Yin considers it auspicious that Ziqi's son Kun would enjoy royal feasts, but Ziqi weeps and says: "This is merely the pleasure of appetite—how could he know the true source of blessings? I never herded sheep, yet sheep appeared in my courtyard; I never hunted, yet quails came to my house. These unearned gains may well bring disaster." This shows that those who have attained the Dao see through the nature of worldly blessings, understanding that unmerited enjoyments may conceal hidden calamities.

Here, the "Great Person" refers to a Dao-realized being, "Jiufang Yin" is an ancient physiognomist, and "Ziqi" represents a Daoist figure. The text embodies Daoist principles of following nature and avoiding external pursuits, while critiquing the worldly chase for fame, profit, and status.

This passage illustrates Zhuangzi's Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei) through a peculiar allegory. The narrative begins with strange occurrences: though the master never hunts, a ewe mysteriously appears in his sheepfold, and quails spontaneously manifest in his house. Zhuangzi explains these phenomena as natural emergences, not products of human intervention.

He describes his relationship with disciples as mirroring heaven and earth's natural operations: delighting in heaven's rhythms and nourished by earth's bounty, they neither force actions nor contrive plans, nor pursue the extraordinary. They simply ride the sincerity of cosmic forces (Cheng of heaven and earth), avoiding conflict with external phenomena, flowing like undulating waves without coercion.

The tale then introduces a man named Kun who was captured by bandits. Finding him difficult to sell whole, the outlaws amputated his feet (the ancient penal mutilation called "yue") and sold him to the wealthy Lord Qu of Qi. Though Kun enjoyed lifelong meat provisions, he remained permanently maimed. This mirrors Emperor Yao's excessive enforcement of benevolence - seemingly virtuous policies that paradoxically risked triggering cannibalistic chaos. Zhuangzi weeps at this, recognizing how forced interventions breed calamity, advocating instead for natural spontaneity.

[Notes: "Yue" refers to the ancient punishment of foot amputation; "Lord Qu" was a wealthy Qi official overseeing urban districts; "undulating waves" (Weiyi) symbolizes natural compliance.]

This passage employs vivid metaphors to expose the hypocrisy and harm of Confucian benevolence and righteousness (Ren-Yi).

The text begins by observing how easily people gather—they draw near when shown care, flock to benefits, and strive when praised. But impose what they dislike, and they scatter. Superficially, love and benefit may stem from benevolence and righteousness, yet few truly practice them, while many exploit them for gain. Such acts of virtue are ultimately hypocritical, like providing tools to the greed-driven (the "bird-like greedy"), only to cause greater harm.

Three metaphors illustrate this critique:

First, "uniform cutting" (一刀切) represents enforcing a single standard upon all, inevitably causing harm. Emperor Yao knew only that the virtuous could benefit the world, unaware they might also harm it. Only those transcending notions of worthiness and foolishness grasp this truth.

Three types of people are then depicted:

1. The "self-satisfied" (暖姝者) are those smug with shallow learning—pleased with superficial knowledge yet blind to the essence of all things.

2. The "complacent" (濡需者) resemble lice on a pig, mistaking sparse bristles for grand palaces and hoof crevices for safe havens, oblivious to sharing the pig’s fate when the butcher strikes. This mocks those shortsighted and temporizing.

3. The "weary-bound" (卷娄者), like the sage-king Shun, are morally exemplary yet tethered by ritual propriety as sheep by ropes, their natural spontaneity lost.

These metaphors collectively critique Confucian virtues for distorting human nature—breeding hypocrisy, myopia, or exhausting self-loss. True wisdom lies beyond such superficial norms, returning to innate authenticity.

This passage uses the metaphor of mutton attracting ants to illustrate the relationship between sages and common people. Just as the strong smell of mutton naturally draws ants, the virtuous character of Emperor Shun naturally attracted people to follow him. Because of his outstanding virtue, people loved Shun so deeply that wherever he moved—three times in total—a thriving city would form around him. Ultimately, in the land of Deng, he gathered a population of 100,000 households. When Emperor Yao heard of Shun's wisdom and virtue, he assigned him to govern the barren and desolate land of Tongtu (a place where nothing grew), hoping that Shun's benevolent influence would bring prosperity even to such a harsh place.

However, after many years of governing Tongtu, Shun grew old—his hearing dulled, his vision weakened, yet he still found no rest. This is what is referred to as "Juan Lou" (a term describing how sages, despite their wisdom, age just like ordinary people). The spirit of a sage remains whole throughout life, but if they fail to achieve their purpose in youth, their vitality will inevitably decline in old age. Can the wisdom of a sage truly last only a single morning? Just as mutton does not actively seek to attract ants, a sage does not consciously draw followers.

Thus, the Divine Person (one who has attained the Dao) does not desire the masses to follow them, because when people gather in pursuit, comparisons arise—and comparisons inevitably lead to conflicts of interest. Therefore, the Divine Person neither favors closeness nor creates distance but maintains their cultivation of Dao and De (Virtue/Power), gently harmonizing with the world. This is the state of the True Person (one who has realized the Dao through self-cultivation).

The True Person interacts with all things as naturally as ants abandoning cleverness, fish delighting in their own joy, or sheep having no intention to attract ants. They see only what the eyes can see, hear only what the ears can hear, and understand only what the heart can perceive. Such a person is as straight as a plumb line in stillness and follows the natural order in transformation. The True Persons of ancient times treated all things in accordance with the Dao, never imposing human interference upon nature.

In ancient times, those who truly attained the Dao (the Way) would live by its possession and perish by its loss; yet paradoxically, one might also perish through gaining the Dao or survive through losing it. This resembles medicinal herbs like aconite (for treating wind-cold), platycodon root (for blood stasis in the chest), foxnut seeds (extending longevity when combined with lotus seeds), and polyporus (resembling pig dung, curing thirst). Each becomes the sovereign remedy (帝者) in different seasons, with no absolute good or evil.

When King Goujian of Yue retreated to Mount Kuaiji with three thousand soldiers, only Minister Wen Zhong understood how to revive a vanquished state. Yet Wen Zhong remained unaware of the impending disaster awaiting himself. Just as an owl's eyes excel in night vision while a crane's long legs suit wading—each possesses unique strengths and limitations. To remove these inherent traits would invite tragedy.

When wind blows over river water, it carries moisture away; when sunlight shines upon it, evaporation occurs. All formed things mutually influence one another—only what transcends form remains unworn. Yet as wind and sun continuously act upon the river, the water perceives no depletion, sustained by its inexhaustible source. Wen Zhong resembled this river: though actually diminishing, he remained oblivious, relying on his talent as the "source." (Note: This natural metaphor illustrates Wen Zhong's tragedy—his dependence on ability blinded him to danger, leading to his execution by Goujian.)

This passage expounds the Daoist core concept of "following what is natural." Just as a river's continuous flow depends on its source—remaining unexhausted even when facing wind and sun—so too can humans maintain their inherent nature (the innate qualities bestowed by the Dao) without losing themselves in worldly affairs.

Like water naturally following the contours of land or a shadow naturally accompanying a body, all things adhere to their intrinsic nature (this is the meaning of "审" [discernment]). Eyes strained for enhanced vision become impaired, ears forced to be oversensitive grow deaf, and a mind excessively chasing external things becomes exhausted. All artificial striving ("能" [forced ability]) burdens the body—by the time problems manifest, it's too late to correct them. Hence Daoism advocates "Wuwei" (non-action) in accordance with nature.

Disasters accumulate ("兹萃") precisely because people cannot relinquish cunning and calculation. Only by returning to one's original nature ("反" [reversion]) can things be accomplished effortlessly; genuine fruition ("果") requires time's maturation, whereas haste yields nothing. How lamentable that people treasure artificial cleverness as precious! History's tragedies of fallen states and extinct clans all stem from ignorance of this truth.

Consider walking: the feet touch very little ground at any moment, yet it's precisely the vast untouched earth that enables free movement. Human knowledge is limited, yet true understanding of heavenly principles ("天之所謂") arises from recognizing one's unknowing. To reach the highest state requires comprehending seven core principles:

"The Great One" (the Dao that permeates all existence), "The Great Yin" (yielding to things' inner rhythms), "The Great Vision" (observing phenomena's natural state), "The Great Equilibrium" (honoring all things' equal nature), "The Great Perspective" (appreciating each thing's uniqueness), "The Great Constancy" (verifying what is authentically real), and "The Great Stability" (maintaining serene stillness). These aren't attained through forced pursuit, but by relinquishing artificial effort—allowing all things to manifest according to their inherent nature.

This passage expounds the principle of following nature's course without forceful striving. Destiny has its own arrangements—there's no need for deliberate pursuit ("what fate ordains"). Maintain inner tranquility ("hold fast to great stillness"), for all things follow their natural patterns.

The text emphasizes aligning with things as they truly are ("follow what illuminates"), just as one finds the pivot in darkness ("darkness has its hinge"). When first perceiving phenomena ("beginnings have their counterparts"), understanding seems both present and absent—this state of apparent unknowing constitutes true wisdom ("not knowing, yet thereby knowing").

Though myriad things appear tangled and chaotic ("the knotted and slippery have substance"), each possesses its essential reality. Past and present cannot substitute for one another ("ancient and modern don't replace"), each maintaining its proper place. To perceive matters thus—is this not grasping the fundamental principle ("the great essential reckoning")?

The conclusion illustrates through parable: Zeyang sought audience with the King of Chu, and Yijie made recommendations that failed. When Pengyang asked Wang Guo why he wouldn't intercede, Wang replied "I'm no match for Gongyue Xiu." This implies that forced efforts pale beside natural flow—true wisdom never acts contrived.

Notes:

1. "Knotted and slippery" (jiehua): describes intricate, entangled phenomena

2. "Great essential reckoning" (dayangque): comprehending the fundamental principle

3. Gongyue Xiu: an archetypal wise figure mentioned in the text (details unknown)

The passage masterfully demonstrates Daoist Wuwei (non-action) philosophy through both abstract reasoning and concrete narrative, showing how apparent paradoxes ("not knowing yet knowing") reveal deeper harmony when one relinquishes artificial striving. The historical figures serve as contrasting examples—those who force outcomes versus those who embody natural ease.

This passage from Zhuangzi Commentary depicts the life attitudes of several recluses. Gong Yuexiu (name of a hermit) lived by catching turtles along the river in winter and resting in the mountains during summer. When passersby inquired about him, he would simply say, "This is my home" (using this attitude to contrast with Peng Yang's pursuit of fame and wealth).

The text mentions Yi Jie (a virtuous minister of Chu), who was clever but lacked De (Virtue). Relying on petty cunning, he associated with the powerful and became infatuated with wealth and status ("dianming" describes being deluded by material pursuits). The author reflects that he himself falls short even of Yi Jie, since Yi could at least navigate aristocratic circles—yet such interactions, far from being grounded in mutual cultivation of De, only erode one's moral character. This is likened to a freezing person seeking warmth from springtime or a heatstroke victim craving winter's chill (metaphors for misguided solutions).

The passage then describes the King of Chu as possessing an awe-inspiring temperament, showing no leniency toward faults—his severity resembles a tiger's. Unless one truly embodies De, who could possibly influence such a ruler?

Finally, it portrays the sage's realm: in poverty, they make their family forget hardship (through inner contentment); in prominence, they cause nobles to forget titles and salaries, becoming humble (by valuing Dao over glory). Toward external matters, they maintain harmonious engagement; toward others, they joyfully share the Dao while preserving self-cultivation.

(Notes: "Dianming" means being obsessed/deluded; "ye" refers to heatstroke; "ningren" denotes sycophants; "zhengde" indicates genuine Virtue.)

Zhuangzi here explores the wisdom of human interaction with nature and with one another. Preserving one's innate nature without losing oneself is like creating harmony without words ("drinking people with harmony"). This state requires no forced explanation—just as when each person attains fulfillment, harmony arises naturally.

The truly enlightened interact with others in a way that subtly transforms them ("making people transform"), like how grass bends naturally under the wind's touch. Between father and son, each maintains their proper place ("father as father, son as son")—seemingly independent yet fundamentally interconnected. This state mirrors the natural harmony of heaven and earth's operations ("the De of heaven and earth"). To reach this realm, one must cultivate inner stillness like Gong Yuexiu (Zhuangzi's fictional Daoist sage).

Those who embody the Dao comprehend the interconnectedness of all things ("intertwined" refers to intricate relationships), perceiving the whole without clinging to surface appearances. This ability flows naturally from one's innate nature. The growth and transformation of all things follow natural patterns ("returning to the source and moving spontaneously" refers to operations rooted in fundamental origins), while humans merely assign names to these phenomena. Relying constantly on cleverness leads to endless anxiety—like needing a mirror to know one's own beauty. Excessive dependence on external judgments ultimately obscures one's true nature.

The key lies in relinquishing forced striving. Just as those born beautiful need no confirmation from others to know their beauty, true wisdom lies in aligning with nature's flow rather than imposing one's will.

This passage employs the metaphor of a mirror to elucidate the sage's state of Wuwei (non-action) in harmony with the Dao.

The mirror harbors no personal intentions—it simply reflects reality as it is, yet people praise its function. In truth, the mirror remains unaware of its reflective capacity, possessing this nature innately. Were no one to inform it, it would never recognize its own worth. Such is the sage (referring to one who has attained the highest Daoist realization): though people confer upon him the title of "sage," he himself pursues nothing deliberately. Whether known or unknown, praised or unremarked, he remains constant in his natural way of being.

The mirror's value lies in its absence of subjective emotions—it reflects equally whether the viewer recognizes its existence or not. If the mirror required acknowledgment to function, it would eventually cease reflecting. Similarly, people's reverence for the sage arises from their inherent nature, not through forced effort.

The sage treats the common people like sacrificial straw dogs (ancient ritual objects discarded after ceremonies, symbolizing natural detachment)—seemingly emotionless yet perfectly aligned with the great Dao. This love is not contrived, thus it never exhausts itself. Any affection dependent on external validation must eventually wane. The people's contentment under the sage's governance likewise stems from their spontaneous nature.

Just as a wanderer feels heartfelt joy upon glimpsing his homeland—even when nine-tenths of it lies obscured by vegetation—how much more profound is the experience when directly witnessed and heard? A towering city wall appears ordinary once familiar to the crowd; how much more so when the sage inherently embodies no trace of peril?

The passage concludes with the ancient sage-king Ranxiang (legendary ruler of high antiquity who realized the Dao). He grasped the axis of the Dao (the "hub" symbolizing its essential pivot), following the natural development of all things, achieving harmony with creation without imposition. This exemplifies the supreme Daoist ideal of "governing through non-action."

This passage expounds the core Daoist principle of "following natural spontaneity." Zhuangzi believed that those truly attuned to the Dao (the Way) do not deliberately pursue anything, but allow all things to unfold naturally.

First regarding time and change: The great Dao itself has neither beginning nor end, transcending temporal limitations. While all things transform daily, the Dao that facilitates these transformations remains constant. By relinquishing ego-attachment, one may unite with the Dao and remain unmoved by external changes.

The text then critiques forced imitation of nature: Some attempt to emulate the Dao of Heaven, yet their very efforts create further deviation. Because they act with utilitarian motives, how can they truly comprehend the heavenly Dao? The sage (one who has attained the Dao) never deliberately distinguishes between concepts like Heaven, humanity, origins, or objects—they simply follow the natural movement of all things, neither resisting nor forcing.

The example of King Tang of Shang illustrates this: The ruler excelled at employing people. When appointing Deng Heng (a symbolic name representing constancy) as Grand Tutor through the Gatekeeper official, he never interfered with subordinates. He understood the principle of "following to completion" (suicheng)—allowing matters to develop naturally without claiming credit. Like two mirrors reflecting each other, reputation and reality manifest spontaneously.

The passage concludes with Confucius' words: A true sage harbors no anxiety or calculation. As Confucius said, "What thoughts or worries could there be under Heaven?" Only by completely relinquishing deliberation can one resonate with all things and assist their natural growth. This represents the Daoist ideal of "responding without conscious intent."

(Note: "Following to completion" [suicheng] is a Daoist technical term denoting non-interference that allows natural fulfillment; "Director of Chariots" and "Gatekeeper" are ancient official titles; "Deng Heng" is a symbolic name representing the eternal Dao.)

Cheng Xuanying (a Tang Dynasty Daoist master) explains in his commentary: If the concept of "day" were eliminated, the notion of "year" would cease to exist (our current understanding of years and days exists because of the cycle of birth and death. Without birth and death, the calculation of years and months would become meaningless). Rong Chengzi (Laozi's teacher) maintained that all things possess neither intrinsic essence nor external distinctions (eliminating the duality of "self" and "other" naturally dissolves the division between inner and outer).

The narrative recounts how King Hui of Wei (Wei Ying) formed a covenant with King Wei of Qi (Tian Houmou), only for the latter to break the agreement. Enraged, King Hui planned to send assassins. Gongsun Yan, Wei's general known as Rhinoceros Leader (a military title equivalent to Tiger-Tooth General), considered such action beneath royal dignity and proposed mobilizing 200,000 troops to attack Qi instead—capturing civilians, seizing livestock, provoking the Qi king's fury, and ultimately conquering the capital. But minister Ji Zi argued this would be like building a seventy-foot city wall only to tear it down, squandering seven years of peaceful development, declaring Gongsun Yan a danger to the state.

Minister Hua Zi offered sharper criticism: both advocates and opponents of attacking Qi were fundamentally creating chaos. He advised the king simply to follow the Dao of governance. At this point, Hui Shi (a Logician school representative) recommended the sage Dai Jinren.

Dai Jinren employed a snail allegory: though tiny, the snail possesses two antennae—on the left dwells the "Touch Kingdom," on the right the "Barbarian Kingdom." These nations frequently wage territorial wars, leaving tens of thousands dead. This fable reveals how feudal lords' power struggles resemble equally absurd battles on a snail's horns.

This passage reveals Zhuangzi's philosophy of exposing the triviality of worldly conflicts through dialogue, while showcasing the wisdom of sages who conceal themselves among common folk.

A visitor said to a ruler: "You pursued a retreating army for fifteen days before returning. Had you known the object of contention was so insignificant, there would be no conflicts in the world." When the ruler dismissed this as empty talk, the visitor offered an illustration. He asked: "Does the universe have boundaries in all directions?" The ruler admitted it didn't. The visitor continued: "Since the mind can roam the infinite, doesn't this accessible world of ours seem barely existent when you look back?" The ruler conceded this was true.

The visitor then drew a comparison: "Within this accessible world lies the state of Wei, within Wei lies the Liang territory, and within Liang resides a ruler. Is there any difference between this ruler and a tribal chieftain?" The ruler agreed there was none (for in the face of infinite cosmos, all finite things become equally insignificant regardless of size). After the visitor departed, the ruler felt profoundly unsettled, realizing how petty his concerns had been. When the philosopher Hui Shi (Hui Zi) later visited, he praised this visitor as a "great man" surpassing even the sages.

The text then employs a musical analogy: "While blowing through a flute produces sound, blowing through a sword's pommel hole yields only faint breath. Praising Yao and Shun before Dai Jinren (a legendary ancient recluse) would be as insignificant as that faint sound." The passage concludes with Confucius traveling to Chu and lodging at a humble inn near Mount Yiqiu, where all the neighbors climbed onto their roofs. When Zilu asked why these people gathered so closely, Confucius explained they were attendants of a sage who voluntarily lived in obscurity among common folk ("jiang" referring to tea-sellers and "ji" meaning roof beams). This illustrates how true sages often conceal themselves within ordinary communities.

This passage recounts two stories about hermits and governance. The first tells of Shi Nan Yiliao (a recluse), whom Confucius described as a "land-drowned man" — one who appears to live among people while inwardly remaining aloof from worldly affairs, as if submerged in waterless terrain. When Zilu wished to invite him, Confucius said: "He already knows I would seek him out and would consider me a sycophant. The very sound of my words would shame him, let alone meeting face to face." When Zilu went to visit, he found the hermit had indeed fled his dwelling.

The second story features a border guard named Feng from Changwu engaging in dialogue with Confucius' disciple Zilao. Feng used farming as a metaphor for governance: "When plowing is done carelessly (luman), the harvest will be coarse; when weeding is done haphazardly (mielie), the crops will repay you with sparsity." Later, after changing his methods to deep plowing and meticulous cultivation, his crops flourished abundantly. When Zhuangzi heard this, he sighed: "In nurturing their nature and cultivating their hearts, most people today resemble this farmer Feng — beginning with recklessness, only later understanding the need for careful attention."

The term "land-drowned man" refers to recluses who maintain spiritual transcendence while dwelling in the secular world; "luman" denotes careless, unrefined action; "mielie" implies sloppy negligence. Both stories illustrate that whether in reclusive self-cultivation or governing a state, one must apply sincere effort with unified inner and outer dedication, never settling for superficial practice.

This passage comes from Guo Xiang's commentary on the Zhuangzi, primarily discussing the loss of human nature and the path of cultivation. The main ideas are:

People often violate their natural disposition, deviate from their inherent nature, lose authentic feelings, dissipate their Shen (spirit), and blindly follow the behavior of the masses. In truth, if each person were to abide by their proper role, how could such troubles arise? Those who treat their nature harshly find their desires and evil thoughts growing like weeds that harm their inherent nature (just as reeds damage crops, desires and malevolent thoughts similarly injure the vital nature of life).

It is like using reeds to prop up the body (improper physical support harms both Shen and Qi). Indulging in desires that incessantly pull at one's nature leads to a leakage of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), akin to a breached dam. This manifests in various ailments: festering skin, scabies, abscesses, internal heat, and turbid urine (all consequences of violating one’s nature). Thus, how can one cultivate the heart-mind without holding fast to one’s proper role?

The passage then recounts the story of Bai Ju (a Daoist practitioner) seeking guidance from Laozi. Bai Ju asks to travel the world, but Laozi replies that all places under heaven are the same. Insistent, Bai Ju first arrives in the state of Qi, where he encounters an executed criminal. Pushing aside the guards, he removes his court robes to cover the corpse and cries out to the heavens: "You, oh you! When great calamity befalls the world, you are the first to suffer!" Superficially, society warns, "Do not steal, do not kill," but once notions of honor and disgrace take root (with such standards, people flaunt glory and cower from shame, trapped in a pathological pursuit), and wealth is hoarded (if contentment were seen as true abundance, would there even be contention?), how effective are such admonitions?

Through the metaphor of illness and social observation, this passage reveals the harm of violating natural disposition and emphasizes the importance of returning to simplicity and authenticity.

People are constantly troubled by various desires, engaging in endless competition that plunges them into distress and unrest. The key to escaping this state lies in the attitude of those in power.

The wise rulers of antiquity attributed achievements to the people while taking responsibility for failures (believing the people's prosperity resulted from their own faultlessness); they credited the people with uprightness while accepting personal blame for distortions (considering the people's integrity stemmed from their own impartiality). Thus when problems arose, the ruler would withdraw to examine themselves (the innate nature of all things never goes astray—it is only through the ruler's interference that problems emerge).

Modern rulers do precisely the opposite: they deliberately complicate matters to confuse the ignorant (when they should follow natural tendencies, they conceal them instead, displaying artificial contrivances); they establish impossible tasks to punish those who dare not attempt them (when simplicity would allow universal competence); they assign excessive responsibilities then penalize those incapable of bearing them (when lighter burdens would enable universal success); they set distant objectives then reprimand those who fall short (when goals aligned with actual abilities would ensure universal attainment). When the people exhaust their wisdom in coping, they resort to deception (to escape punishment). When deception becomes commonplace, how can social integrity remain uncorrupted?

Insufficient ability breeds falsification, inadequate wisdom fosters deceit, and material lack leads to theft. Whose fault are these evils really? (Clearly the rulers should be held accountable.)

Qu Boyu (a virtuous minister of the Spring and Autumn period), even at sixty, continued evolving with the times, transforming yearly. He would often begin by endorsing a view, only to reject it later (adjusting his understanding according to changing circumstances). What seems correct today might well be what he deemed wrong at fifty-nine (for transformation knows no end).

All things possess their roots of growth, yet none can see where these roots lie; all have their gateways of emergence, yet none can find where these gates stand (because growth and emergence occur spontaneously). People value the knowledge they already possess, yet fail to understand that true wisdom comes from relying on the unknown—is this not the greatest delusion of all?

This passage recounts how Confucius inquired with several court historians about the origin of Duke Ling of Wei's posthumous name "Ling" (灵), explaining this seemingly contradictory title from multiple perspectives.

Duke Ling's daily conduct was outrageous: he indulged in wine and women while neglecting state affairs, preferred hunting excursions over attending feudal lords' meetings, and even bathed together with his three wives (a grave breach of ritual propriety in ancient times). Yet paradoxically, he showed exceptional reverence whenever encountering the virtuous minister Shi Yu (史鰌), personally welcoming him and carefully supporting him with protective gestures. This unique courtesy toward worthy men became the basis for his posthumous name "Ling" (meaning "intelligent and enlightened").

More remarkably, after Duke Ling's death, divination for his burial site revealed inauspicious omens at the ancestral tomb. When relocated to Shaqiu, workers excavated a stone coffin inscribed with a prophecy: "Do not rely on your son—Duke Ling shall claim this place." The title "Duke Ling" had been preordained by heaven, suggesting that beneath his apparent folly lay a hidden alignment with the Dao.

Here we encounter a key Daoist insight: surface appearances may not reflect true essence. Though Duke Ling seemed dissolute, he honored the worthy; though he violated rituals, he unknowingly fulfilled celestial design. This demonstrates how worldly judgments cannot rely solely on outward behavior. The posthumous name "Ling" simultaneously conveys criticism (for unprincipled conduct) and praise (for enlightened perception), embodying the paradoxical unity inherent in all phenomena.

This passage explores the principle of all things following their inherent nature. Zhuangzi posits that all beings possess an innate, predetermined nature (命 ming), making the course of events fundamentally predictable. Humans can only act according to this inherent nature—attempting to force matters beyond it is futile. Yet ignorant people mistakenly believe they can alter reality through sheer willpower.

Several analogies illustrate this: Just as a horse is an integrated whole of its parts (no single feature constitutes "horseness"), hills form through the accumulation of low terrain, and mighty rivers arise from converging streams. Similarly, the virtuous "Great Person" (大人 daren, one who embodies the Dao) harmonizes all distinctions to achieve complete impartiality.

Nature operates likewise: The four seasons manifest distinct climatic characteristics without celestial intervention; officials fulfill diverse duties without ruler's partiality. Both civil governance and martial prowess emerge from innate human capacities—not external bestowal.

The text introduces the concept of "丘里 qiuli" (an ancient administrative unit where four wells formed a village, four villages a hill district), symbolizing how diverse clans coalesce into shared customs while preserving individual traits—achieving harmony without uniformity. The true Dao allows all things to abide in their nature, neither coercing change nor imposing interference, thereby realizing universal harmony.

All things in the world follow their own patterns, yet the Dao (the cosmic origin) shows no partiality to any. Precisely because the Dao has no specific name, it does not act with deliberate intention; precisely because it does not act deliberately, it accomplishes all things effortlessly.

Names correspond to specific objects, but the Dao itself has no fixed form, thus it functions by harmonizing with the innate nature of all things. Time has its beginning and end, worldly affairs are ever-changing—only by maintaining a non-discriminating mind can one accord with spontaneity. Fortune and misfortune cycle like flowing water—what appears contradictory here may prove perfectly fitting there.

People often cling stubbornly to their own perspectives ("自殉殊面" refers to how people insist on their views due to differing temperaments), just as various trees grow together in the same great marsh without any being rejected, or as wood and stone coexist peacefully on a high mountain where different things find harmonious accord. This illustrates the so-called "丘里之言" (the principle of seeing the great through the small).

Shaozhi (the questioner) asked: "Then is calling it 'Dao' sufficient?" Dagongdiao (the respondent) replied: "No. If we now count all things, their number far exceeds ten thousand, yet we collectively call them 'the myriad things'—using the largest possible number as designation. Heaven and Earth represent the greatest among formed objects; Yin-Yang constitutes the grandest among Qi (vital energy); while the Dao is the universal principle permeating all existence."

To reluctantly name it "the Great Dao" is like describing it with "the speakable Dao"—this already imposes limitations. If we insist on comparisons, such distinctions become as meaningless as debating whether dogs or horses run farther, completely missing the essence. The true Dao exists beyond names, beyond words.

Shaozhi continued: "Then within the four directions and six harmonies (the entire cosmic space), where does the origin of all things' growth lie..." (The original text breaks off here, presumably continuing the discussion about the source of all things)

This passage explores how the Dao (the cosmic origin and natural law) operates within all things. The fictional sage Dagongdiao explains: The mutual reflection and constraint of yin and yang, the cycle of seasons, and the birth and decay of all beings are spontaneous phenomena, not deliberately created by any ruler. Human preferences, choices, unions, and separations are ultimately natural manifestations of yin-yang interactions and seasonal cycles.

Safety and danger transform into each other, fortune and misfortune are interdependent, speed and slowness influence one another, and gathering and dispersal follow their own patterns. These are observable phenomena that can be recorded. But beyond these visible laws lies the natural essence of the Dao, which cannot be fully grasped by words or knowledge. Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not obsess over tracing the origins or ends of phenomena, for these are simply the self-so (ziran) state of nature.

The questioner, Shaozhi, asks about the debate between Jizhen, who advocated "the Dao acts through non-action (wuwei)," and Jiezi, who claimed "the Dao acts through deliberate action." Dagongdiao uses the example of roosters crowing and dogs barking to illustrate that even the wisest cannot fully explain the mechanisms behind such phenomena, much less predict their future changes. All things operate spontaneously, with intricacies beyond measurement and vastness beyond boundaries. Arguments about "action" or "non-action" remain at the level of phenomena, never touching the essence of the Dao.

Note: Here, "yin" and "yang" refer to the two fundamental forces composing all things; "bridge-like movement" (qiaoyun) describes the interactive dynamics between phenomena; Jizhen and Jiezi were names of two philosophers of that era.

This commentary on Zhuangzi discusses the fundamental principle underlying the operation of all things. He observes that while phenomena appear to interact with each other (mutual influence), they actually arise spontaneously (self-so), with no deliberate controller (non-action). If one insists on positing a governing force (hypothetical agency), this ruler proves illusory; yet to claim its absolute absence (non-agency) becomes equally reductive.

Concrete entities possess names and substance, yet these are merely surface appearances. The true governing principle of all things—the Dao—has neither name nor form. Empty and shapeless, it permeates everywhere. Our attempts to describe it through language only distance us further from it (words create separation), much like the phenomena of life and death that seem immediate yet conceal their underlying pattern (the principle remains unseen).

To investigate the origin of things (source) reveals its endlessness; to trace their destination (end) discloses its inexhaustibility. This quality of infinite continuity (boundless and ceaseless) manifests the Dao itself. Both "hypothetical agency" and "non-agency" merely interpret phenomena from partial perspectives (one-sided views of things), failing to encompass the Dao's wholeness (the comprehensive method).

Those who truly comprehend the Dao articulate it through all their words (exhausting the Dao in speech), while the unenlightened remain confined to discussing concrete matters (exhausting things in speech). The ultimate state of the Dao (the zenith of Dao and things) transcends both language and silence—neither speech nor its absence can convey it. Like the self-so nature of things, it requires no confirmation through debates about speech or silence.