《莊子注》Vol. 9

This commentary on the Zhuangzi elucidates the principle that external matters are beyond our control. Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty annotator) employs historical anecdotes to demonstrate how even a ruler's desire for loyal ministers or parents' hopes for filial children may not come to fruition.

The Shang Dynasty's loyal ministers—Long Feng was executed, Bi Gan had his heart ripped out, and Ji Zi feigned madness—while the wicked minister E Lai also met his demise. Both the tyrants Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang lost their kingdoms. This illustrates that karmic retribution is not inevitable, and clinging to external outcomes only breeds suffering. Similarly, Wu Zixu's loyalty earned him a corpse cast into the river, and Chang Hong, a Zhou official wrongfully executed in Shu, had his blood transform into jade after three years. Though their sincerity was absolute, calamity still befell them.

Parents universally wish for filial children, yet the devoted Prince Xiaoji of Shang died of melancholy, and even Confucius' disciple Zeng Shen endured hardship in upholding filial piety. These examples show that excessive attachment often backfires.

Natural phenomena follow the same pattern: friction generates fire from wood, fire melts metal, and imbalances in Yin-Yang produce thunder and lightning. The text mentions the strange phenomenon of a locust tree spontaneously combusting (ancients believed lightning was caused by "fire within water"), illustrating how the workings of heaven and earth defy human expectations.

When the human mind is consumed by worry and fear, it becomes torn between conflicting emotions (the commentary likens this to "the heart and gallbladder both splitting"), trapped in paralysis. The more one strives for perfection, the more one resembles the "indecisive chundun" (explained in the commentary as a state of hesitation), unable to accomplish anything. Thus, the sages advocate following nature's course rather than forcing outcomes through deliberate effort.

This passage contains two parables from commentaries on the Zhuangzi, illustrating Daoist wisdom for navigating life.

The first story recounts Zhuangzi's poverty when he approached the Marquis of Jianhe (Lord Wen of Wei) to borrow grain. The Marquis dismissively promised to lend him three hundred gold pieces after collecting taxes from his fiefdom. Zhuangzi immediately changed expression and told a fable: Yesterday on the road, he heard a crucian carp crying for help in a rut, claiming to be an official of the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea, begging just a gourd dipper of water to survive. Zhuangzi said he would persuade the kings of Wu and Yue to divert the West River to rescue it. The fish angrily retorted: "I only need a dipper of water to live! With talk like yours, you might as well go straight to the dried fish shop to find me!" This parable demonstrates that solutions must address actual needs—grandiose theories are useless.

The second story tells of Lord Ren who used fifty fat oxen as bait, fishing from Mount Kuaiji into the Eastern Sea for a full year without success. Eventually, an enormous fish took the bait, creating mountain-high waves that shook the sea for a thousand li. When Lord Ren cured the fish, people from east of the Zhe River to north of Mount Cangwu gorged themselves on it. Yet later generations of shallow scholars all criticized this fishing method as impractical. The parable satirizes how people often judge profound matters with limited understanding, suggesting that true accomplishment requires extraordinary patience and vision.

Both stories embody the Daoist principle of "following nature's course": the first emphasizes practical problem-solving, while the second shows how great achievements transcend conventional perspectives. The commentary mentions "chongrong" (inner agitation) describing mental unease, "suspended between heaven and earth" portraying expansive awareness, and "the masses burning harmony" referring to ordinary people whose natural equilibrium is disturbed by worldly gains and losses.

This passage employs two vivid analogies to reveal how differing aspirations fundamentally shape one's approach to life.

The first analogy depicts a man fishing in shallow ditches with a small bamboo rod, content to catch mere loaches and minnows all day—how could he ever land a great fish? This mirrors those who chase fame through empty rhetoric, remaining far from true enlightenment. Never having heard of the legendary fishing traditions of Ren Kingdom, they naturally fail to comprehend the greater principles of governing the world. (Here fishing symbolizes life aspirations, while shallow ditches and small fish represent petty gains.)

The second satirical tale cuts deeper: A group of Confucian scholars even observe "poetic propriety" while grave-robbing. As dawn approaches, the senior scholar outside calls down to ask about their progress. From within the tomb, the junior scholar replies: "We haven't undone the corpse's skirt yet—but there's a pearl in its mouth!" Quoting the Book of Songs: "Green wheat sprouts on the hill slope, / In life you gave no alms, / Why clutch pearls when dead?" They then pinch the corpse's jaw, pry open its cheeks with a bronze hammer, and carefully extract the pearl without damage. (This exposes scholars who outwardly honor poetry and rites while secretly plundering tombs—a scathing indictment of hypocrisy.)

The passage concludes with an anecdote about Lao Laizi's (a Daoist recluse) disciple encountering Confucius while gathering firewood, describing him as "long in the upper body but short in the lower"—impressing that despite Confucius' stature, his foundation was unstable. These stories collectively demonstrate that clinging to superficial forms (like poetic rituals) without awakening to the Dao is as futile as waiting for great fish in shallow ditches.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius (Zhongni) and the Daoist recluse Lao Laizi, revealing the Daoist critique of "deliberate action."

When Lao Laizi met Confucius, he directly pointed out: "Qiu Kong, relinquish your affected demeanor and deliberate displays of wisdom—only then can you be considered a true noble person." Confucius respectfully bowed and withdrew, his expression turning solemn as he inquired: "Can my cultivation progress further?"

Lao Laizi then articulated profound insights: People today always seek to resolve immediate suffering, yet they plant greater calamities for future generations (just as forcibly altering human nature through benevolence and righteousness teachings ultimately brings more chaos to the world). He followed with three piercing questions: Is this due to your shallow perspective? Or inadequate capability? Or have you simply failed to consider these consequences?

He further observed: Exchanging favors for gratitude is the most foolish approach (because ceasing such favors inevitably breeds resentment)—such tactics can only deceive ordinary people. The world constantly chases empty reputation, while in truth dragging each other down (superficially praising each other's fame, yet secretly creating troubles for one another).

Finally, he delivered this thunderous conclusion: Rather than exhausting yourself praising Yao and Shun or condemning Jie of Xia, it's better to maintain silence and follow natural spontaneity. This dialogue exemplifies the classic Daoist principle of "rejecting sageliness and discarding wisdom," opposing the Confucian approach of deliberately imposing human interventions like benevolence, righteousness, rites and intellect.

Zhuangzi here employs vivid metaphors to reveal the limitations of excessive reliance on intellectual cleverness.

First, he speaks of the state of "forgetting both" (两忘), which means letting go of attachment to praise and criticism. If one goes against the natural order ("反无"), harm will follow; deliberate action ("动无") easily leads one astray. The sage acts with ease and composure ("踌躇"), never violating the fundamental principles, and thus always succeeds. Yet even in success, the sage does not claim credit, for doing so would invite misfortune.

Next, the story of Lord Yuan of Song dreaming of a divine turtle illustrates this point: though the turtle could appear in the lord’s dream, it could not escape the fisherman’s net; though it could perform seventy-two flawless divinations, it could not avoid being gutted. This shows that even the highest wisdom has its limits ("知有所困，神有所不及").

Finally, the comparison between fish fearing not the net but the cormorant (a fishing bird) drives the lesson home: the net is an unintentional tool, while the cormorant is a purposeful predator. Zhuangzi advocates abandoning petty cleverness ("小知") and aligning with the natural way ("大知"), for only then can true wisdom be attained.

Note: The "cormorant" (淘河鸟) mentioned here is a large waterbird that preys on fish. Ancient thinkers often used it as a metaphor for the dangers of deliberate, forced action.

True goodness arises naturally. When one deliberately pursues the reputation of being good, the authentic essence of goodness is lost. Just as an infant doesn't require specialized teachers to learn speech—they naturally acquire it by living among speaking people. (Here, "stone-like teacher" metaphorically represents forced instruction.)

Hui Shi (a representative figure of the School of Names) once said to Zhuangzi, "Your words are of no practical use." Zhuangzi replied, "Only by understanding the principle of 'uselessness' can one truly grasp the meaning of 'usefulness.' The earth is vast, yet what humans actually use is merely the ground beneath their feet. If one were to dig away the earth beneath them all the way to the Yellow Springs (the underworld), would that patch of ground still be useful?" Hui Shi answered, "Then it would be useless." Zhuangzi said, "Thus, the value of 'uselessness' becomes quite evident, doesn't it?" (This illustrates how inner wisdom and outward expression must complement each other.)

Zhuangzi believed: If a person possesses the ability to roam freely between heaven and earth, they will naturally do so; if they lack this capacity, how could they force themselves to roam? (This reflects the principle of following one's innate nature.) Those who indulge in unrestrained ambitions and extreme behaviors are likely not acting in accordance with true wisdom and profound virtue (zhi zhi hou de, the highest level of wisdom and deep moral character).

People often cling stubbornly to certain things, refusing to turn back even in the face of danger—like moths drawn to flame, heedless of consequences. (This refers to how easily humans are driven by desire.) The hierarchical relationships between rulers and subjects, superiors and inferiors, may completely reverse in another era. (This shows that status is always temporary.) Thus, those who have attained the Dao (zhi ren, perfected individuals) do not cling to fixed views but instead adapt to change.

Blindly revering antiquity while disparaging the present is a common failing among scholars. ("Xiwei Shi" refers to legendary ancient rulers.) If one judges the present by the standards of remote antiquity, who wouldn't be confounded? Only those who have truly attained the Dao can remain transcendent yet not extreme in worldly affairs, able to harmonize with others without losing their innate nature. (This teaches us to adapt to changing times while preserving our fundamental essence.)

This passage explores Daoist reflections on natural disposition and artificial interference. The core idea conveys:

All things possess their inherent nature (彼性). True cultivation does not force change but harmonizes with this innate disposition. Just as clear eyes perceive accurately, unobstructed ears hear distinctly, an open nose discerns scents, an unblocked mouth tastes flavors, and a transparent mind attains genuine wisdom. This clarity of perception constitutes De (Virtue/Power).

The Dao's movement most fears obstruction—when blocked, it creates impediments (哽), and persistent obstructions lead to mutual trampling (跈), from which all misfortunes arise. Sentient beings rely on Qi (vital energy) for existence; when this energy flow stagnates, it stems not from heaven's fault but from human actions clogging nature's passages (窦). Like a fetus needing space in the womb (重阆), the mind requires open realms for unimpeded wandering (天游).

Illustrating through daily phenomena: a home without empty spaces invites quarrels between mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law (勃豀); a mind without inner freedom sees the six emotions (六凿) clash violently. The profound comfort found in deep mountains and ancient forests arises precisely from the unobstructed flow of natural Qi (神) there.

The text concludes by identifying excessive human tendencies: when virtue-seeking overflows, it becomes reputation-chasing (德溢乎名); when fame-seeking exceeds bounds, it turns into tyranny (名溢乎暴). Schemes emerge from urgency (誸), cleverness springs from contention, and stubbornness breeds stagnation (柴生乎守). All these manifestations violate the Dao's natural way.

This passage discusses how people of different cultivation levels engage with the world, and the problems arising from excessive pursuit of external fame.

When spring rains abundantly, plants grow luxuriantly, and farmers begin weeding with hoes (yaoru). More than half of the weeded plants grow back, yet people seldom ponder this phenomenon deeply. Similarly, quiet cultivation can regulate illness (though it doesn't prevent sickness entirely), closing one's eyes to nurture Shen (spirit) can delay aging (though it doesn't stop aging completely), and tranquility can calm restlessness (though it doesn't eliminate it entirely). These are concerns for those who labor, while those dwelling in transcendent ease pay them no mind.

People of different realms have distinct ways of engaging with the world: The sages (those of supreme Dao and De) influence all under heaven through detachment; the divine beings (those of supreme internal cultivation) don't concern themselves with worldly affairs. The worthy influence society, which sages don't interfere with; gentlemen influence states, which the worthy don't meddle in; petty people conform to circumstances, which gentlemen disdain to participate in. Just as walking has different gaits, so positions have different heights.

Several illustrative examples follow: At Yan Gate (a city gate), a man grew emaciated from excessive grief over his parents' death and was promoted to office. His townsmen competed to imitate him, with half dying from excessive mourning—this shows the harm of overvaluing reputation for virtue. When Yao offered his empire to Xu You, Xu fled; when Tang offered his throne to Wu Guang, Wu angrily refused; hearing this, Ji Ta took his disciples to seclusion by Kuanshui River, and when feudal lords came to console him, after three years Shentu Di drowned himself in protest. These examples all demonstrate how forced pursuit of fame contradicts natural authenticity.

[Notes: "Closing one's eyes to nurture Shen" refers to a meditative state; "yaoru" is an ancient weeding tool; "Yan Gate" is a city gate name; "Kuanshui" is an ancient river name. These stories embody the Daoist principle of following nature and opposing artificial striving.]

This commentary on the Zhuangzi primarily discusses the limitations of language and how to convey ideas through the words of others. It describes three modes of expression:

Fables (stories told through others' voices) are believed nine times out of ten. People often distrust direct preaching, so principles must be embedded in others' narratives. Characters like Jianwu and Lianshu are fictional personas Zhuangzi employs to express his thoughts.

Weighty words (sayings of venerable figures) are accepted seven times out of ten. The world prefers believing those spoken by authoritative individuals.

Goblet words (language as fluid as a wine vessel) flow forth daily in accordance with the Dao's patterns. Like a round wine cup (zhi) that tilts when full and rights itself when empty, these words perfectly adapt to circumstances without stubborn attachment. This language renews itself daily, wholly aligned with natural spontaneity.

Zhuangzi uses fishing metaphors to illustrate: The bamboo trap (quan) catches fish, but once caught, the trap can be forgotten; the rabbit snare (ti) captures hares, but once secured, the snare can be disregarded; words convey meaning, but once comprehended, the words can be released. He laments how rare it is to find kindred spirits who can "grasp the meaning and forget the words."

The text particularly notes: A father shouldn't act as matchmaker for his son, because paternal praise often meets skepticism, while outsiders' endorsements carry more weight. This isn't the speaker's fault, but stems from listeners' habitual distrust. When hearers share the speaker's standpoint, they agree; when they don't, they doubt.

Zhuangzi here examines the standards by which people judge right and wrong and the nature of language itself. He points out that people often adopt an egocentric perspective, considering views identical to their own as correct and differing opinions as mistaken (this is the meaning of "approving what agrees with oneself while condemning what differs"). In reality, such judgment leads to endless disputes.

Regarding language, Zhuangzi identifies three modes of expression: "weighty words" (quotations from venerable figures that people believe seventy percent), "elderly words" (sayings of the aged, though without true insight they merely reflect empty longevity), and "goblet words" (speech that flows as naturally as wine from a cup). He considers "goblet words" the most ideal—language that follows natural boundaries (heavenly divisions), develops spontaneously, and allows people to live out their natural lifespans in peace.

Zhuangzi further explores the relationship between "speaking" and "not speaking": in silence, all things remain naturally equal; once words are uttered, distinctions arise. But the truly wise speak as though saying nothing (because their words simply follow external phenomena), while their silence speaks volumes (because non-speech itself conveys meaning). All things inherently possess their own reasons for being and validity ("everything has its inherent 'so,' everything has its inherent 'right'"), making forced uniformity unnecessary. This perspective embodies the core of Zhuangzi's "On the Equality of Things"—respecting the natural essence of phenomena while transcending the limitations of binary oppositions.

This passage discusses the natural laws governing all transformations and the sage's attitude toward life. Through the dialogue between Confucius and Huizi, Zhuangzi illustrates the importance of following nature's course.

All things have their inherent reasons for existence, with no absolute right or wrong. Just as different species pass down their forms in diverse ways (chán), change may appear random, yet its essence lies in the circulation of Qi (vital energy), like an endless cycle (tiān jūn, the Heavenly Balance). Zhuangzi uses the concept of "tiān ní" (natural boundaries) to describe this innate equilibrium, showing that all differences among beings arise naturally.

Huizi believed Confucius gained wisdom through diligent study, but Zhuangzi points out that Confucius was actually aligning with natural transformations (xiè zhī yǐ). Confucius himself stated that human talent originates from the great root of the Dao (dà běn), and only by returning to spiritual purity can life flourish endlessly. Just as sound follows musical harmony and speech conforms to natural laws, these patterns emerge spontaneously—the sage merely follows their flow.

Finally, Zhuangzi emphasizes that worldly notions of profit, harm, right, and wrong are merely verbal disputes. True wisdom does not seek self-promotion; instead, like Confucius, it teaches "without speaking," allowing truth to manifest naturally through others. This embodies the Daoist essence of "governing through wuwei (non-action)."

This passage explores the state of "unfettered mind" through several stories, which I'll explain layer by layer:

First, we see Zhuangzi's understanding of persuasion: True principles need not be deliberately voiced. When your mind resonates with others, people naturally become convinced. It's like using collective voices to express shared sentiments—by aligning with people's hearts, trust arises spontaneously, and the world finds its natural equilibrium. Why force changes? Zhuangzi laments how even he struggles to fully attain this state, yet by following the Dao (the Way) of nature, one paradoxically reaches everywhere effortlessly.

Next, the story of Zeng Shen (Zengzi) illustrates this: When first appointed to office, his modest salary of three fu (about 19 dou of rice) brought him joy because it allowed him to support his parents. Later, when his salary increased to three thousand zhong (about 30,000 dou), he grieved because his parents had passed away. A disciple asked Confucius: "Doesn't Zengzi's attitude show detachment from salary concerns?" Confucius replied: "He remains fettered." A truly liberated person would view salary fluctuations like watching sparrows or mosquitoes pass by—incapable of stirring joy or sorrow.

Finally, Yan Chengziyou describes to Dongguo Ziqi his six stages of mental cultivation: The first year involved abandoning worldly desires ("wild"), the second learning compliance ("following"), the third achieving selfless clarity ("penetration"), the fourth merging with all things ("unity"), the fifth reaching effortless freedom ("arrival"), and the sixth perceiving even the transformations of spirits ("ghost"). These stages reveal the Daoist path of mental refinement—from relinquishment to perfect harmony.

Note: The "three fu" and "three thousand zhong" are ancient capacity units symbolizing salary scales; terms like "wild," "following," and "penetration" are Daoist technical terms denoting progressive stages of spiritual attainment.

When a practitioner reaches the seventh year of cultivation, their physical form fully merges with nature (external form dissolves), attaining unity with heaven and earth (heavenly completion). By the eighth year, they transcend all concepts of life and death (neither knowing death nor life), remaining perfectly composed in any circumstance (finding everything fitting).

In the ninth year, one enters the "Great Mystery" state (miao referring to the supreme state beyond distinctions of good and evil), where all dualistic notions of good and evil completely dissolve (good and evil become one), and every situation encountered is perfectly appropriate (nowhere inappropriate). This results from prolonged embodiment of the Dao (Way) and understanding nature's principles (the natural patterns of celestial harmony), until even self-awareness is naturally forgotten (suddenly forgetting oneself).

If life clings to forced action (youwei), it paradoxically loses life's true essence (losing its vitality). What appears as death—the end of personal self—is actually returning to the Dao's universal principle (commending the public nature of death). Life's yang energy (shengyang) doesn't originate from deliberate pursuit (having no origin), but emerges spontaneously in wuwei (non-action) states (suddenly appearing alone).

Upon reaching this realm, one no longer strives to determine what should or shouldn't be done (no preference yet nothing inappropriate). Heaven follows its celestial cycles (tian having its calendrical order), earth maintains its human foundations (di having its human references)—why force anything? Not knowing when life ends—isn't this precisely fate's nature (no predetermined fate)? Not knowing how life begins—how can we claim fate exists (having fate)?

What seems like ghosts and spirits secretly governing (ghosts existing) is actually natural patterns resonating (principles mutually responding); what appears absent of spirits (no ghosts) yet reveals all things profoundly interconnected. Like the shadow (ying) answering the penumbra's (wangliang) question: Why does the shadow sometimes bow, sometimes tie or loosen hair, sometimes sit or rise? The shadow replies these movements arise spontaneously (moving and operating of themselves), like cicadas shedding skins or snakes sloughing—existing yet unknowable in origin (existing without knowing why).

Through progressively advanced cultivation states and exquisite metaphors, this passage reveals Zhuangzi's philosophical cultivation concepts of "abiding in timeliness and following flow" and "sitting in forgetfulness," emphasizing wisdom through natural alignment and relinquishing attachments.

This passage contains two allegorical stories from the Zhuangzi, using dialogues to illustrate Daoist philosophy of living.

The first story explores the relationship between shadow and form. The shadow appears independent yet completely depends on the form, much like a cicada's discarded shell (tiao jia) that resembles but no longer is the cicada. The shadow emerges with sunlight and vanishes at night—its entire existence relies on external conditions. Through this metaphor, Zhuangzi reveals how worldly pursuits of fame and status are like shadows, existing in a state of "you dai" (conditional dependence). The highest state transcends such dependency, achieving "du hua" (independent self-transformation).

The second story recounts Yang Ziju's (given name Rong, styled Ziju) encounter with Laozi. Traveling west from Pei to the state of Qin, Yang meets Laozi in Liang. Initially, Laozi deems him unteachable due to his arrogant demeanor (described as "sui sui xu xu," depicting haughtiness). After Yang humbly seeks guidance, Laozi enlightens him with the teaching: "The purest white seems sullied, the highest virtue seems insufficient." Transformed by these words, Yang abandons his pretentiousness. The people's behavior shifts accordingly—where initially the host prepared mats, his wife offered towels, others yielded seats, and cooks vacated stoves out of deference, they later dared to sit alongside him as equals. This demonstrates his genuine release of self-importance.

The third segment recounts Emperor Yao's abdication. When Yao offers rulership to the recluse Xu You, he declines. Yao then offers it to Zizhou Zhifu, who replies: "I could accept emperorship, but I suffer from a hidden ailment (referring to his transcendent 'illness' of detachment) and have no time to govern." This embodies the Daoist principle of "not being burdened by things," valuing spiritual freedom above even the most coveted worldly power—treating imperial authority as less urgent than attending to one's inner cultivation.

Zhuangzi uses several parables to illustrate how those who have truly attained the Dao remain unburdened by worldly power. The first story tells of Emperor Shun offering the empire to the virtuous Zizhou Zhibo, who declines, explaining he is currently treating his "illness of profound melancholy" (referring to deep inner afflictions) and has no time to govern. This shows the Dao-realized prioritize life itself over ruling the world.

In the second story, Shun offers the throne to the recluse Shan Juan. Shan Juan describes his simple, carefree existence: wearing furs in winter, hemp in summer, plowing fields in spring, harvesting and resting in autumn, working at sunrise and retiring at dusk—contentedly wandering between heaven and earth. He sees no need to govern and actually pities Shun for failing to understand this. He retreats deep into the mountains instead.

The third parable involves Shun offering rulership to the Farmer of Stone Gate (a peasant from Shihu). This man considers Shun’s virtue still imperfect and flees with his family to the sea, never to return. Here, even a king’s abdication is refused by true hermits.

Finally, the tale of King Tai Danfu (grandfather of King Wen of Zhou) facing invasion by the Di people: When the Di demand land rather than wealth, King Tai reasons that fighting for territory would sacrifice lives, violating the principle of "never harming the nourished for the sake of nourishment" (never harming the people one sustains by clinging to resources). He voluntarily abandons Bin, and moved by his benevolence, the people follow him to establish a new kingdom beneath Mount Qi. These stories collectively reveal how true sages spurn power, valuing human life above dominion.

In ancient times, King Danfu of Zhou (grandfather of King Wen) exemplified true reverence for life. Those who genuinely cherish life will not harm their bodies for pleasure even in wealth and honor, nor burden their hearts for profit in poverty and lowliness. Yet today's high-ranking officials prize official titles excessively, risking their lives at the sight of gain—is this not profoundly misguided?

Three successive rulers of Yue were assassinated by their ministers, causing Prince Sou (recorded as Yi in the Huainanzi) such distress that he fled to hide in Mount Danxue. When the people of Yue could find no new ruler, they eventually tracked him there. Refusing to emerge, Prince Sou was smoked out with mugwort and welcomed with the royal carriage. As he grasped the carriage ropes to ascend, he cried to heaven: "O throne of state! Why must you relentlessly pursue me?" It wasn't that he despised rulership, but rather feared the calamities it brought. Such a man truly understood the principle of not harming life for state affairs. Precisely for this reason, the people of Yue insisted he become their king.

During a border dispute between Han and Wei, the Wei sage Zihuazi visited Marquis Zhao of Han and found him troubled. Zihuazi said: "Imagine a contract placed before you stating, 'Grasp it with your left hand and lose your right; grasp it with your right and lose your left—but the one who grasps it shall possess all under heaven.' Would you grasp it?" The Marquis replied: "I would not." Zihuazi continued: "Excellent. This shows your arms are dearer than the empire, yet your whole body is dearer still. Compared to the empire, Han itself is insignificant, and the disputed land is but dust beside Han. You should not torment yourself over this." The Marquis sighed: "Many have advised me, but never like this. Zihuazi truly understands priorities."

When Duke Ai of Lu heard that Yan He had attained the Dao (the Way), he sent envoys with gifts to pay respects. Yan He lived in a poor alley, wearing coarse hemp while personally tending oxen. When the Lu envoy found him feeding cattle (the subsequent dialogue remains incomplete in the original).

These stories illustrate Daoist wisdom for navigating worldly affairs. The first recounts how Yan He (a recluse of the Spring and Autumn period), when presented with gifts by an envoy, deliberately claimed it wasn't his house. Even after verification, he still refused. This shows true Daoist cultivators regard wealth and status as dung. Zhuangzi held that the essence of Dao (the Way) serves to cultivate one's inner being, its secondary aspects may govern a state, while its coarsest elements bring order to the world. Yet worldly people harm their very lives chasing external things - a truly pitiful state.

The second story employs a metaphor: If someone used the priceless Marquis Sui's pearl to shoot sparrows, all would laugh at his confused priorities. But isn't it equally foolish when people sacrifice their lives for material possessions? Isn't life far more precious than any jewel?

Next comes the story of Liezi (Lie Yukou, a prominent Daoist figure): Living in poverty in Zheng State, Prime Minister Ziyang sent him provisions. Liezi refused, explaining to his wife: "Ziyang doesn't truly know me - he acts merely on hearsay about my virtue. Should he later condemn me, he'd equally believe slander." Indeed, Ziyang was eventually killed by citizens for his tyranny.

Finally, when King Zhao of Chu, restored to his throne, sought to reward Butcher Yangshuo (a sheep slaughterer who followed him), the butcher declined gracefully: "When the king lost his state, I lost my slaughtering work; now the king is restored, so is my trade. My original station has been recovered." These narratives collectively demonstrate that true wisdom lies not in coveting wealth or power, but in preserving life and maintaining one's fundamental role with contentment.

This passage recounts two stories about wise men who embraced poverty while finding joy in the Dao (the Way), rejecting the temptations of power and wealth.

The first story tells of Butcher Sheep Explainer (a hermit who made his living slaughtering sheep). After the King of Chu regained his throne, he sought to reward the butcher. However, Butcher Sheep Explainer argued that he had neither remained loyal during Chu’s downfall nor contributed to its restoration, and thus did not deserve any reward. When the king insisted on summoning him as an exception, the butcher replied that this would undermine the state’s laws. The king then sent Sima Ziqi (a high-ranking minister of Chu) to offer him a position among the "Three Banners" (equivalent to the highest ministerial rank). Though Butcher Sheep Explainer knew this would bring him far greater wealth than slaughtering sheep, he refused, unwilling to let the king bear the reputation of reckless generosity. In the end, he returned to his humble butcher shop.

The second story features Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius), who lived in a dilapidated thatched hut with a mulberry branch for a door hinge and a broken jar serving as a window. When Zigong (another disciple of Confucius and a wealthy merchant) arrived in a grand carriage and saw Yuan Xian dressed in rags, he asked if he was ill. Yuan Xian replied: "Lacking wealth is called poverty, but learning the Dao yet failing to practice it is called illness. I am poor, not sick." He criticized Zigong for pandering to worldly trends and currying favor with the powerful, declaring that he would rather remain in honest poverty than chase after lavish carriages and hollow displays of righteousness.

Both stories exemplify the Daoist attitude toward life: rejecting material glory and wealth while finding contentment in the Dao, maintaining spiritual independence and nobility. These men chose to live in simplicity rather than compromise their principles for riches and status.

This passage recounts two stories illustrating Daoist attitudes toward life.

The first story tells of Zengzi (a disciple of Confucius) living in extreme simplicity in the State of Wei. He wore tattered hemp robes, his face was haggard, and his hands and feet were covered with calluses. He often went three days without lighting a cooking fire and ten years without new clothes. His hat strings were broken, his sleeves torn to expose his elbows, and his shoes worn through at the heels. Yet he dragged his heel-less shoes (xi) while singing the "Odes of Shang" with a voice as resonant as metal and stone instruments. The Son of Heaven couldn't make him a subject, nor could feudal lords befriend him. This shows that those who truly cultivate their minds forget their physical form, those who cultivate their bodies forget material gain, and those who pursue the Dao forget selfish concerns.

When Confucius saw Yan Hui living in poverty yet refusing official position, Yan Hui replied: His fifty acres outside the city provided enough for gruel (zhan), while ten acres inside provided clothing. Playing the zither for amusement and studying Confucius' teachings brought him joy, so he had no desire for office. Confucius praised him, saying: Those who know contentment aren't burdened by profit; those with inner fulfillment don't fear material loss; those who cultivate inner virtue (De) feel no shame without official rank.

The second story features Prince Mou of Wei (enfeoffed at Zhongshan) consulting the wise man Zhanzi: Though dwelling by rivers and lakes, his heart still longed for courtly splendor symbolized by the palace towers (Weique). Zhanzi said: Valuing life makes one disregard profit. The prince admitted knowing this principle yet being unable to practice it. Zhanzi advised: If you can't control yourself, follow nature's course. Forced suppression causes double harm—such people don't live long.

(Note: "Xi" refers to backless shoes; "zhan" means thick gruel; "Weique" symbolizes imperial splendor through palace gate towers)

Wei Mou, a prince from a state commanding ten thousand chariots, found it harder to practice asceticism than commoners while dwelling in mountain caves. Though he hadn't fully comprehended the Dao (the Way), he already demonstrated sincere aspiration toward it.

When Confucius was stranded between Chen and Cai states, he went seven days without cooked meals, surviving on wild herb soup. Though gaunt-faced, he kept playing the zither and singing in his hut. As Yan Hui gathered vegetables, Zilu and Zigong commented: "Our master was expelled from Lu, banned from teaching in Wei, had his lecturing tree felled in Song, became destitute in Shang-Zhou territories, and now is trapped here. Yet his persecutors go unpunished and his insulters unchecked. Still he plays on—can a gentleman be so shameless?"

Yan Hui, unable to respond, reported this to Confucius. Pushing aside his zither with a sigh, the sage said: "How narrow-minded Zilu (You) and Zigong (Ci) are! Summon them." When they entered, Zilu asked: "Aren't we at our wits' end?" Confucius replied: "What nonsense! A gentleman is 'at ease' when aligned with the Dao (the Way), and 'distressed' when straying from it. I uphold ren-yi (humaneness-righteousness) in this chaotic age—this isn't distress! Introspection reveals no Dao deviation; adversity cannot shake my De (Virtue). Only winter's frost reveals the pine's vitality. This ordeal is my blessing!" Resuming his zither, he sang vigorously while Zilu joyfully danced with a shield.

Zigong marveled: "Now I understand—the ancients who attained the Dao (the Way) rejoiced equally in hardship and prosperity. Their joy lay not in circumstance but in moral steadfastness. To them, fortune's shifts were as natural as seasonal turns. Thus Xu You found bliss north of Ying River, and Gong Bohe maintained integrity on Shouyang Mountain."

This passage recounts stories of ancient sages who rejected power and wealth, demonstrating their noble integrity.

During the Shang dynasty, King Li of Zhou ruled tyrannically. While the Duke of Shao supported King Xuan's ascension to the throne, Gong Bo (ruler of the state of Gong) withdrew to Mount Gong (west of present-day Huixian, Henan) to live in reclusion, enjoying a carefree and untroubled life.

The text then tells how Shun wished to abdicate the throne to his friend Beiren Wuze. But Beiren Wuze replied, "How strange Shun's behavior is! He was originally a farmer, yet he frequented Yao's court. Now he wants to taint me with his act of abdicating the throne—I am ashamed to even see him." He then threw himself into the Qingleng Abyss and drowned. Confucius remarked that those truly devoted to virtue would sacrifice their lives for righteousness rather than cling to survival at all costs.

When King Tang of Shang prepared to overthrow the tyrant Jie of Xia, he first sought counsel from Bian Sui and then from Wu Guang (also known as Muguang). Both declined, saying, "This is not my affair." When Tang asked who was fit for the task, they both claimed ignorance. Only when Yi Yin was mentioned did they acknowledge his ability to endure humiliation for a greater cause. After Tang succeeded in overthrowing Jie, he offered the throne to Bian Sui, who protested, "When you consulted me before attacking Jie, you must have taken me for a conspirator. Now you offer me the throne, surely thinking me greedy. Living in this chaotic age, where the unprincipled repeatedly defile me—I cannot bear such disgrace." He then drowned himself in the Chou River (some say the Dong River).

Tang next attempted to abdicate to Wu Guang, arguing that it was the ancient way for the wise to plan, the brave to act, and the benevolent to rule. But Wu Guang refused, saying, "To depose a ruler is unjust; to slaughter the people is inhumane; to profit from others' risks is dishonest. I have heard that wealth gained unrighteously should not be accepted, and in an age without the Dao (Way), one should not even tread upon its soil—how much less should I occupy its highest seat?" He then tied a stone to his back and drowned himself in the Lu River.

These sages all chose death to preserve their moral integrity.

This passage recounts the story of Boyi and Shuqi. Originally virtuous scholars from the state of Guzhu (in present-day western Liaoning), they heard of a seemingly enlightened figure in the west and traveled to Qiyang to seek him. When King Wu of Zhou learned of their arrival, he sent his brother Shudan to meet them, offering high-ranking positions and lavish privileges, even slaughtering animals to seal the covenant as a show of sincerity. Yet the two men exchanged glances and laughed, saying, "This is not the Dao we seek."

They recalled how the Divine Farmer (Shennong) governed the world—offering sincere sacrifices without seeking blessings, treating people with honesty and without self-interest. In contrast, the Zhou dynasty had seized power amid the chaos of the Shang, using bribery, military force, and oaths to secure support—essentially replacing one tyranny with another. Boyi and Shuqi believed that in an age of moral decline, it was better to maintain purity than to compromise. Thus, they retreated to Shouyang Mountain, choosing to starve rather than submit.

The text specifically critiques the perspective of recluses like Bian Sui and Wu Guang (legendary hermits who refused rulership from Yao and Shun), who saw the world as external to themselves. True transcendence does not require deliberate withdrawal but rather a state of serene detachment. Yet Boyi and Shuqi were different—they clung to their principles through extreme means. Though not entirely free from worldly concerns, they embodied an unwavering refusal of wealth and power, demonstrating the noble ideal of maintaining personal integrity.

This passage examines the conduct and influence of ancient recluses such as Boyi and Shuqi. Though they starved to death at the foot of Shouyang Mountain, the text clarifies that their "death" does not merely signify physical demise but rather highlights their unwavering integrity—their willingness to perish rather than compromise. The core message extols this noble ethos of purity and self-effacement, which distances itself from worldly pursuits, asserting that such virtue can transform others, moving even the greediest to sigh in admiration.

The text compares several historical figures: Boyi and Shuqi embody the recluse's spirit; Xu You (a hermit during Yao's reign) advocated yielding and humility; while Yi Yin and Lü Shang (renowned ministers of the Shang and Zhou dynasties) represent active engagement in governance. The author points out flaws in each approach: Xu You's humility risks breeding hypocrisy and self-promotion; Boyi's example might embolden tyrants to act without restraint; the deeds of Yi Yin and Lü Shang could foster usurpation. Only the true sage achieves "trace-less-ness" (wu ji), leaving no fixed pattern, allowing all things to unfold naturally.

Regarding the account in the Zhuangzi's "Yielding the Throne" chapter, where figures like Wu Guang drown themselves, the explanation emphasizes their advocacy for returning to primal simplicity and abandoning cunning. Such words and deeds—prizing life yet lightly embracing death—ultimately manifest the aspiration to discard glory and transcend worldly attachments, refusing to lower standards to accommodate vulgarity. Even if complete transcendence proves unattainable, one must preserve purity, preferring to plunge into icy waters rather than submit to worldly burdens.

Later, the text mentions Confucius's friendship with Liuxia Hui (a virtuous figure of the Spring and Autumn period), whose younger brother was the notorious bandit Zhi. This introduces the tale of Zhi, exploring themes of good and evil, name and substance.

This passage recounts a historical anecdote: At that time, nine thousand brigands were wreaking havoc across the land, harassing feudal lords, breaking into homes to plunder people's livestock and women. Their greed knew no bounds—they disregarded even their own parents and siblings, and neglected ancestral sacrifices. Wherever they went, people from larger states took refuge in walled cities while those from smaller states fled to fortresses, leaving the populace in unbearable suffering.

Confucius said to Liu Xiaji (also known as Liu Xiahui, styled Jiqin): "A father should be able to instruct his son, and an elder brother should be able to discipline his younger brother. If a father cannot guide his son nor a brother correct his sibling, then what value remains in familial bonds? You, sir, are a man of exceptional talent in our age, yet your younger brother Robber Zhi brings harm to the world while you fail to restrain him. I feel ashamed on your behalf. I wish to admonish him in your stead."

Liu Xiaji replied: "You speak of fathers instructing sons and elder brothers disciplining younger brothers. But if the son won't heed his father's words nor the younger brother accept his elder's correction, what could even your eloquence accomplish? Moreover, Robber Zhi's mind gushes like a spring, his thoughts whirl like a tempest. His martial prowess suffices to repel enemies, and his rhetoric to justify faults. He rejoices when indulged and rages when crossed, ever ready with abusive words. Do not go, I implore you."

Ignoring this advice, Confucius had Yan Hui drive his chariot with Zigong as attendant, proceeding to meet Robber Zhi. The brigand was then encamped at Mount Tai's southern foothills, resting his troops while slicing human livers for their midday meal. Confucius alighted and approached the herald, saying: "I am Kong Qiu of Lu, who has heard of the general's noble righteousness and comes to pay respects." When the message was delivered, Robber Zhi flew into a rage—his eyes blazing like morning stars, his hair standing erect and lifting his cap. He roared: "Isn't this that silver-tongued hypocrite Kong Qiu from Lu? Tell him: 'You fabricate fallacies in the names of Kings Wen and Wu, wearing a cap like tangled branches and a belt of dead oxhide. Your mouth spews heresies—you eat without plowing and dress without weaving, wagging your tongue to stir trouble, deluding rulers and leading scholars astray. Your prattle of filial piety merely masks your lust for fiefs and riches. Your crimes tower to heaven! Begone at once!'"

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius and Robber Zhi (a legendary bandit leader), showcasing a clash between two fundamentally opposed philosophies of life.

When Confucius met Robber Zhi, he displayed utmost reverence, first retreating to bow before praising him for possessing three virtues: his naturally majestic appearance that inspired admiration represented superior virtue (De); his wisdom to comprehend heaven, earth, and all things constituted middling virtue; while his courage and decisiveness in leading men counted as inferior virtue. Confucius lamented that one possessing all three virtues should be branded a thief, proposing instead that Robber Zhi accept official pardon. He promised to help establish cities, organize armies, and elevate him to equal status with feudal lords for ancestral worship.

Robber Zhi erupted in anger, piercing through Confucius' intentions: "Your method of persuasion through profit and admonishment through words only works on ignorant commoners! My appearance is my parents' gift—I need no praise from you. Moreover, I know those who flatter to your face are quickest to slander behind your back. Your offer of cities and subjects is but an attempt to buy me off and domesticate me like common livestock!"

Robber Zhi then articulated his philosophy: No city could surpass the entire world, yet Yao and Shun who possessed it left their descendants without land to stand; Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou reigned as Sons of Heaven, yet their lineages perished—wasn't this precisely because they coveted excessive gain? Finally, Robber Zhi evoked primordial times when beasts roamed plentiful and humans were few, when people gathered acorns by day and slept in trees by night—this, he declared, was existence most aligned with the natural Dao.

The dialogue vividly illustrates the profound opposition between Confucian "governing through virtue" and Daoist "rejecting sagely wisdom" approaches. Robber Zhi's rebuttal essentially reflects the Zhuangzi school's critique of Confucian morality, arguing that artificial rituals and norms corrupt humanity's innate nature. The bandit's vision of simple, unmediated existence echoes core Daoist values of Wuwei (non-action) and alignment with the spontaneous patterns of nature.

In ancient times, people lived like birds, building nests in trees. By day they gathered acorns and chestnuts, by night they perched on branches - thus they were called the "Nest-Dwelling People." They knew nothing of making clothes, piling up firewood in summer and burning it for warmth in winter, hence their name "People Who Knew Life." During the era of Shennong (the Divine Farmer), people slept peacefully and rose unhurried. Children knew their mothers but not their fathers, living alongside deer, tilling fields for food and weaving cloth for clothing, harboring no harmful thoughts toward one another. This was the golden age when Dao and De flourished most abundantly.

Yet the Yellow Emperor failed to maintain this virtue. His great battle with Chiyou (a feudal lord from Shennong's era who first created weapons) at Zhuolu (southwest of present-day Zhuolu County, Hebei) left blood flowing for a hundred li. Yao and Shun established numerous officials; Tang of Shang exiled Jie of Xia; King Wu of Zhou executed King Zhou of Shang. From then on, the strong bullied the weak, the many oppressed the few. All rulers since Tang and King Wu have brought chaos to the world.

Now you, Confucius, cultivate the ways of Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou, holding sway over all discourse, instructing later generations in your flowing robes and broad sashes. With hypocritical words and deeds, you delude feudal lords to seek wealth and status. There's no greater thief than you - why does the world call me "Robber Zhi" while not calling you "Robber Qiu"? With honeyed words you persuaded Zilu to follow you, making him abandon his warrior's pheasant-feather cap and lay aside his long sword to receive your teaching. People say Confucius can stop violence - but what was the result? When Zilu attempted to kill the ruler of Wei and failed, his body was minced at the eastern gate of the capital. Such was the fruit of your teaching! You call yourself a sage and talented scholar, yet you were twice expelled from Lu, banned from Wei, found no refuge in Qi, and were besieged between Chen and Cai - the whole world rejects you. Under your tutelage, Zilu met such an end: unable to preserve himself above or help others below. What value does your doctrine truly possess?

This passage exposes the problematic nature behind worldly notions of "noble" conduct through historical examples. While the Yellow Emperor is revered by the world, his Battle of Zhuolu caused bloodshed across a hundred miles. Sage-kings like Yao, Shun, Yu and Tang all had imperfections—Yao lacked benevolence, Shun was unfilial, Yu had physical disabilities, Tang exiled his ruler, King Wu attacked Zhou, and King Wen was once imprisoned. These six sages, though celebrated by the world, were all misled by profit into distorting their true nature, forcibly violating their innate dispositions, making their actions ultimately shameful.

The text then examines four so-called worthies: Bo Yi and Shu Qi abandoned their rulership of Guzhu only to starve to death on Shouyang Mountain, their corpses left unburied; Bao Jiao deliberately flaunted his unconventional conduct until he died clinging to a tree; Shentu Di drowned himself with stones tied to his back when his remonstrance was rejected; Jie Zitui cut flesh from his thigh to feed Duke Wen of Jin, yet when forgotten during rewards, he angrily withdrew and was burned alive beneath a tree. There's also Wei Sheng who drowned clinging to a bridge pillar during a flood rather than break his rendezvous with a woman. These individuals differ little from slaughtered dogs, stray pigs, or beggars holding gourds—all sacrificing life for empty reputation, failing to nourish their heavenly-endowed longevity.

In worldly terms, no loyal ministers surpass Bi Gan and Wu Zixu—one had his heart carved out, the other was sunk in a river. Though called loyal, they became laughingstocks. From a higher perspective, none of these behaviors merit admiration. The author concludes: "If you discuss ghosts and spirits with me, I cannot comprehend; if discussing human affairs—it's simply these matters, all of which I already understand."

(Note: The phrase "forsaking reputation and slighting death" refers to disregarding life for vain fame; "nourishing life-span" reflects the Daoist teaching of harmonizing with nature to preserve vitality.)

This passage, through dialogues between Zhuangzi and Confucius as well as Zizhang, reveals the fundamental opposition between worldly desires and the true essence of Daoist wisdom.

Human nature instinctively seeks beauty for the eyes, music for the ears, fine flavors for the mouth, and fulfillment for ambition. People pursue longevity, yet even if one lives a hundred years, after accounting for illness, death, and sorrow, truly joyful days amount to no more than four or five in a month. Heaven and earth are eternal, but human life is fleeting—to entrust our brief existence to the infinite cosmos is like a swift steed flashing past a door’s crack. Those who cannot settle their minds and nurture their natural lifespan are not those who truly understand the Dao (the Way).

Confucius’s doctrines of benevolence and righteousness, in Zhuangzi’s view, are artificial, hypocritical, and driven by short-term gain—they cannot preserve humanity’s innate nature. The text vividly describes Confucius’s disoriented state after hearing these words: when taking his leave, he dropped his horse’s reins three times, his gaze vacant like dead ashes, his breath so stifled it seemed labored. Later, encountering Liu Xiaji (a virtuous scholar of Lu), Confucius mocked himself, calling it "seeking illness where there is none"—like stroking a tiger’s head or tugging its whiskers, nearly getting devoured.

The debate deepens in the dialogue between Zizhang and Man Goude. Zizhang argues that without virtue (De), one cannot gain trust, and without trust, one cannot secure profit—thus, benevolence and righteousness must be promoted from the standpoint of fame and gain. Man Goude counters that in reality, it is often the shameless who grow wealthy and the cunningly persuasive who rise to prominence—fame and profit frequently belong to the unscrupulous and deceitful. If one discards worldly gains and returns to the original heart, a scholar’s conduct should align with natural instinct.

Finally, the contrast between tyrants Jie and Zhou and the servant Zang Ju illustrates a key truth: even the lowliest would refuse to imitate the actions of despots. This reveals a profound principle—acting in accordance with the will of the masses can topple even tyrants like Jie and Zhou, while stubborn self-will cannot control even a figure as unruly as the legendary bandit Zhi.

Though Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang held the exalted title of Son of Heaven, their faces bore shame and their hearts harbored resentment—even commoners looked down upon them. Confucius (Zhongni) and Mozi (Mo Di), though impoverished and mere commoners, would cause a prime minister today to change countenance in humility if told, "Your conduct resembles that of Confucius or Mozi"—demonstrating that true scholars command respect.

Thus, high status like that of the Son of Heaven does not guarantee nobility, while poverty like that of a commoner does not imply baseness. The distinction between noble and base lies in the quality of one’s actions. Man Goude (a Warring States debater) once said: Petty thieves are caught, while great bandits become feudal lords. At the gates of these lords, so-called "righteous men" gather. Duke Huan of Qi, Xiao Bai, murdered his elder brother and took his sister-in-law as his own, yet Guan Zhong served as his minister. Tian Chengzi Chang assassinated his ruler to seize the throne, yet Confucius accepted his gifts. These men verbally condemned wickedness but in action submitted to power—is it not absurd how their hearts were torn by contradiction?

Ancient texts say: Good and evil, beauty and ugliness have no absolute standards—the successful become leaders, the failures become followers. Zi Zhang (a disciple of Confucius) challenged this: If we disregard moral conduct, if closeness and distance lack distinction, if nobility and baseness have no principle, if elders and juniors observe no order—what meaning remains in the five relationships and six bonds (father-son, ruler-minister, husband-wife, elder-younger, friend-friend, etc.)? Man Goude retorted: Yao executed his eldest son, and Shun exiled his own younger brother—does this show proper distinction between close and distant? Tang of Shang exiled Jie of Xia, and King Wu of Zhou attacked Zhou of Shang—does this demonstrate noble and base aligned with righteousness? King Ji of Zhou favored his youngest son, and the Duke of Zhou executed his elder brother—does this reflect proper order between elder and younger? The hypocritical words of Confucians and the empty talk of Mohist universal love—can the five relationships and six bonds truly clarify these? You chase hollow reputation, while I pursue tangible gain—yet neither fame nor profit aligns with the natural principles of the Dao.

Rather than debate these matters with you daily, let us heed the wisdom of Wu Yue (a Daoist recluse): Petty men die for wealth, noble men perish for fame. Though their pursuits differ, both distort their innate nature. Even abandoning what one should do to chase what one should not—at their core, they are no different. Thus it is said: Do not imitate petty men in chasing external things—return to your inborn nature. Do not emulate noble men in forcing hollow reputations—follow the natural order. Crooked or straight, good or evil—all are part of nature’s patterns; yield to the changes of the four seasons. Right and wrong must be held with flexible wisdom; let your mind wander with the Dao. Do not act with forced intention, do not strain for artificial righteousness, do not chase wealth and status, do not martyr yourself for empty fame.

Bi Gan had his heart cut out; Wu Zixu had his eyes gouged—these were the disasters of loyalty and uprightness. Zhi Gong testified against his father; Wei Sheng drowned keeping a promise—these were the calamities of trustworthiness. Bao Jiao died clinging to a tree; Shen Sheng refused to defend himself—these were the harms of purity. Confucius wandered the states without achieving his aims—all these are warnings from history!

This passage primarily recounts stories of ancient recluses and sages, along with discussions on the choice between fame and virtue.

The opening mentions several classical anecdotes: Kuangzi (also named Zhang, from the state of Qi) was exiled for admonishing his father and subsequently refused to see him. There is also an unverified claim that Confucius once avoided seeing his mother. These stories illustrate how excessive emphasis on behavioral norms can lead to the breakdown of human relationships.

Next is the story of Bao Jiao, a recluse of the late Zhou dynasty: Disgusted by the rulers of his time, he refused to eat government grain or serve in office, surviving only on wild herbs. When Zigong encountered him, he questioned, "If you despise the ruler, why do you still live on his land and eat the herbs that grow here?" Upon hearing this, Bao Jiao abandoned the herbs and starved to death. This demonstrates how deliberate pursuit of moral purity can lead to extremes.

The discussion then shifts to a dialogue between Wuzu (Never Enough) and Zhihe (Know Harmony) on the topic of fame and wealth:

Wuzu asks Zhihe, "Everyone seeks fame and wealth—riches and status attract followers and secure respect. Isn’t this the path to lasting peace and happiness? Why don’t you pursue it? Is it because you lack the ability, or are you pretending to be noble?"

Zhihe replies: Nowadays, some believe they stand apart from the vulgar crowd, considering themselves transcendent sages of their age. Yet in truth, they lack independent judgment and merely drift with the current. They abandon what is most precious—life itself—and discard what is most noble—their innate nature—while deluding themselves into thinking they are pursuing longevity and happiness. Is this not absurd? True contentment lies not in outward displays but in inner realization. Many chase external achievements without understanding the inner principles, so even if they become emperors or amass vast wealth, they cannot escape suffering.

Wuzu counters: Wealth and status bring no harm—they allow one to enjoy all pleasures and reach the pinnacle of power, heights even sages struggle to attain...

(The latter part of the original text is missing, but from the context, it likely continues the debate on balancing material success with moral cultivation.)

This passage examines the relationship between human nature and desire. Zhuangzi, through contrasting different human behaviors, points out a common mistake people make: borrowing others' courage to flaunt their own might, using others' wisdom and strategies to embellish their own cleverness, and relying on others' virtue to claim moral superiority for themselves. In truth, sensual pleasures, power, and status are things humans naturally crave—they require no learning to become addicted.

Truly wise individuals act in accordance with people's needs without violating natural laws, thus achieving contentment without contention. They don't deliberately pursue anything because their hearts are already satisfied; only those who perpetually feel lacking continue to struggle. Even when possessing the entire world, they can relinquish it willingly without considering themselves particularly virtuous—for the essence of integrity or greed lies not in external pressures but in one's inner measure.

When sage-kings like Yao and Shun ruled the world, it wasn't to gain reputations for benevolence; when Shan Juan and Xu You declined imperial authority, it wasn't feigned humility—they simply understood how power damages one's true nature. They chose the path truly beneficial to themselves while avoiding harmful things, yet the world praised them as virtuous.

The "insatiable" (referring to those who never feel content) constantly torment themselves for empty fame, living ascetic lives like chronically ill patients who cannot die—truly pitiable. In reality, harmony brings blessings while excess invites disaster; this principle applies universally, particularly evident with wealth. Observe how the wealthy spend their days listening to music, indulging in delicacies, with minds fixated on pleasure while neglecting proper duties—this is chaotic enough. Troubled by pent-up frustrations, it's like climbing mountains with heavy burdens—genuinely agonizing.

The money-obsessed worry endlessly about wealth; the power-hungry exhaust themselves for authority. In leisure they drown in pleasure; in activity their Qi and blood surge violently—this is truly pathological. Chasing profit with desires thick as walls yet refusing to step aside, stubbornly clinging—how lamentable. Accumulating riches yet unable to use them, constantly anxious yet craving more—this is the root of sorrow.

This passage discusses how people are often plagued by dual fears—external and internal. Externally, one must guard against harm from thieves and bandits; internally, one erects layers of towers and latticed windows (symbolizing elaborate protective measures) to shield oneself, even fearing to step outside alone. Such a life is lived in constant trepidation. These six conditions (referring to various internal and external anxieties) represent the greatest misfortunes in life, yet people often neglect to reflect on them. When disaster strikes, even exhausting one's family fortune cannot buy back a single day of peace.

(Note: The character "殚" [dān] means "to exhaust," and some versions use "靳" [jìn], which carries a similar meaning.) Thus, from the perspective of reputation, there is no gain, and from the standpoint of material benefit, nothing is obtained. Yet people still exhaust their minds and neglect their bodies in pursuit of such things—is this not sheer folly? This chapter emphasizes that only those who understand contentment can maintain lasting fulfillment.

(Note: "缭" [liáo] means "to entangle," and "了理" [liǎo lǐ] means "to comprehend the principle.")