《南華真經註疏》Vol. 1

The Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence, Volume One

Commentary by Guo Xiang of Henan; subcommentary by the Tang dynasty Master of the Western Florescence, Cheng Xuanying.

Inner Chapter: “Free and Easy Wandering,” Part One

Guo Xiang’s commentary: The small and the great may differ, but as long as each rests content in the realm suited to it, then…

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: All things follow their own natures, and each task accords with the abilities suited to it. When each is content with its own place, all are free and easy. How could one rank them as higher or lower, or as winners or losers?

In the northern sea there is a fish called Kun. No one knows how many thousand li its body measures.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: “Ming” means the sea. Because its waters are deep, vast, and without bounds, it is called the “Ming.” Dongfang Shuo’s Record of the Ten Isles says that no wind blows over the Ming Sea, yet it can raise enormous waves a hundred zhang high; such a great fish lives in the sea. The chapter begins with a great fish to show that each thing’s nature is simply what it is by nature. The Record of the Mysterious Within says that in the east there is a great fish whose head takes a traveler a whole day to cross and whose tail takes seven days. Three days after it was born, the azure sea turned red. From this we can see that great beings are born in vast places. Why should they exist only in the northern sea?

The Kun transforms into a bird called Peng.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: I do not know what the Peng and Kun look like. The purport of the Zhuangzi lies in freedom and ease, and in following Wuwei (non-action) to find contentment. It therefore carries the difference between the great and the small to its utmost, showing that each thing has its own proper place. Those who understand should grasp its purport. They need not cling to the particular images used to convey its meaning, nor investigate every detail literally and invent explanations for it. Doing so does not hinder understanding its grand intent.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: The seasons change as swiftly as gusting winds, while the sun, moon, and stars race across the sky. Thus all things cast off their old forms, bearing mountains on their backs, and leap through deep valleys toward new forms. The Kun’s transformation into the Peng illustrates the vast principle of transformation.

The Peng’s back is so large that no one knows how many thousand li it measures. When it rises into flight, its wings seem like clouds covering the sky.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: The fish is described through its immense size to show that its head and tail cannot be measured. The bird is described by its back for the same reason: its length cannot be determined. That is why the text later says no one knows how long it is. It raises its wings and drives them powerfully, preparing to rise with the wind and then beat the surface of the water. Afterward it pierces the clouds, bears the blue sky on its back, and soars high into the heavens. Its shadow spreads beneath it as it flies; from below, it looks like a flowing cloud descending from the edge of the sky.

Whenever the sea wind rises and the air currents move, this bird sets off for the southern sea. The southern sea is the Celestial Pool.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Without a great sea, there would not be enough room to support its body; without ninety thousand li of open sky, there would not be enough…

Its wings bear the weight of its body. Does this mean it delights in the extraordinary? It is simply that, being so large, it must rely on its own natural endowments to take flight. Great beings arise in great places, and great places naturally give rise to great beings. This is the nature of things; it is how they have always been. It does not worry about losing anything, so why should it trouble itself over this?

The commentary says: This passage also describes the great Peng’s movements, using them to illustrate a principle. The Peng is heavy. Unless it gathers strength in the sea and uses the water to set itself in motion, it cannot rise into the sky. It has no choice; it does not do this because it likes to. Once its form has changed, its condition changes with it: before, it was a fish swimming in the Northern Sea; now, transformed into a bird, it flies above the Southern Sea. Though one sinks and the other rises, and their natures differ, each follows its own circumstances and is at ease. It is like life and death, coming together and parting: whatever condition one encounters, one adapts to it peacefully. Amid countless transformations, every one is a way of changing in accordance with one’s own nature. The fish becoming a bird and flying from north to south is just such a transformation.

The bird is a creature that flies through the open sky, while the south is the direction of the rising brightness, a symbol of light. The fish is a creature that sinks beneath the water, while the north is associated with the land of darkness. By invoking the south and north, the bird and the fish, the passage expresses turning toward light and away from darkness, leaving stagnation behind and seeking progress. In this way, it describes a path leading to the Dao. The sea and the great river both arise through the transformations of nature; neither is made by human hands. That is why they are called the “Heavenly Pool,” a vast body of water formed naturally.

The Qixie (a book recording strange tales) says: “When the great Peng migrates to the Southern Sea, it beats the water, raising waves three thousand li high. It rides a whirlwind, spiraling upward, and flies to a height of ninety thousand li.”

The commentary says: The larger the wings, the harder they are to lift. That is why the great Peng must ride a whirlwind, spiraling upward until it reaches a height of ninety thousand li—high enough to support its own weight. With wings so immense, how could it suddenly take flight, rise only a few feet, and stop? It has no choice; it does not do this because it likes to. The great Peng must wait for the great wind of the sixth month before it can set out.

The commentary says: Once the great bird takes flight, it travels for half a year before reaching the Heavenly Pool to rest. A small bird flies for a while, taking off in the morning and settling by midday on an elm or sandalwood tree. Their abilities differ greatly, but in each case, being at ease in accordance with one’s own nature is the same.

The commentary says: “Qixie” may be understood as the name of a person, with Qi as the surname and Xie as the given name; it may also be the title of a book. The state of Qi had a book of strange and humorous tales. “Record” means to set something down; “beat” means to strike; “spiral” means to wheel and surge; and “whirlwind” refers to a rising gale. The Qixie records many extraordinary things, and Zhuangzi cites it to show that his account is not invented. The great Peng cannot suddenly take flight when bound for the Southern Sea. It must beat its wings and raise waves three thousand li high, lurching forward to gain momentum and leave the water, then spiral upward.

The Peng bird circles and beats its wings, rising with the wind. The currents of air swirl around it and help it along, so that it climbs unsteadily into the high sky, passing through layer upon layer of resistance as it flies.

After reaching an altitude of ninety thousand li, it takes half a year before it finally comes to rest at its ease. Its purpose has been fulfilled; all it does is pause and rest. How could this be because it is reluctant to part with some attachment?

The drifting currents of air, the dust and motes, and the breaths stirred by living creatures as they breathe upon one another are all conditions on which the Peng bird depends in flight.

Note: These are all conditions on which the Peng bird relies to fly. The expression “wild horses” refers to the drifting currents of air in the sky.

Commentary: The Erya says that the area outside a city is called the “suburbs,” the land beyond the suburbs is called the “pasture,” and the land beyond the pasture is called the “wilds.” Here, the passage describes the Yang energy stirring in spring. Seen from afar, the air above the marshes seems to gallop like horses, hence the term “wild horses.” Dust that rises is called “dust,” and the finer particles within it are called “motes.” Between Heaven and Earth, the breaths of all kinds of creatures stir one another and help the Peng bird rise into the sky.

Living beings mingle together in great variety. The forms of the myriad things differ, as do their natures, so the conditions on which they depend naturally differ as well. The Peng bird beats its vast wings, which accord with Heaven, and soars freely by relying on the currents of air. The cicada spreads its wings and leaps with all its might; once it reaches an elm or a catalpa tree, it is content. Each acts in accordance with its own nature, receiving the inborn disposition bestowed by the transformations of nature. Neither deliberately values distant or near places nor makes a show of pride or satisfaction. Once this is understood, what is there left to boast of or strive for?

Is the sky’s deep blue its original color? Or does it appear blue because it stretches so far without end? When the Peng bird looks down from high above, its view is no different from a person gazing up at the sky from the ground.

Note: When we look up now, the sky appears vast and blue, but we still do not know whether this is its original color or whether it looks this way because it stretches so far without end. When the Peng bird looks down at the earth from on high, its view is much like ours when we look up at the sky from here. The Peng bird does not know just how far the journey extends. It flies as far as it can, then turns south.

Commentary: When we look up at the round sky, it seems high and spacious, as if it had no end. Is this vast blue scene truly the sky’s original color? The Peng bird is high in the sky, while people are on the ground; when the bird looks down at the earth, its view is no different from ours when we look up at the sky. Since people cannot distinguish the sky’s original color, how could the Peng bird know how far the earth extends? It need only fly as far as it can and reach the southern sea. That is about as far as the Peng bird’s calculations go.

Moreover, if there is not enough water, it cannot support a large boat. Pour a cupful of water into a hollow in the floor of a hall and place a blade of grass in it: the grass will be like a little boat. But if you put a cup in the water, it will sink and stay stuck. This is because the water is too shallow and the boat too large.

Note: These words explain that the Peng bird can soar high because its wings are enormous.

For those with limited natural abilities, the conditions they rely on need not be great; those with greater abilities require conditions that are not too meager. Each thing, then, has a range suited to it and is fulfilled by what it does, though the function is essentially the same. If one forgets what life fundamentally requires and instead struggles to make a living through pursuits beyond one’s means, acting at the wrong time and with abilities unequal to the task, then even with wings bestowed by nature one cannot fly endlessly. However hard one tries to take off, hardship is unavoidable.

“且” expresses a tentative or passing remark, while “夫” opens a topic. “积” means to gather, and “厚” means deep or substantial. “杯” is a small vessel, “坳污” a hollow in the ground, “芥” a blade of grass, and “胶” to stick fast. This passage first uses an analogy: pour a cupful of water into a hollow in the courtyard and use a blade of grass as a boat; the grass can float. But try using a cup as the boat, and it will not work. The water is shallow and the boat too large: the cup sticks to the ground and cannot move. A large boat therefore needs deep water to carry it, while a small blade of grass needs no great river or sea. When size and conditions are matched, all things can move freely in their own way.

If the wind has not gathered enough strength, it cannot bear enormous wings. Thus, when the bird flies ninety thousand li into the sky, the wind lies beneath it.

This compares wind with water. If the water is not deep enough, it cannot float a large boat; if the wind does not reach high enough, enormous wings cannot fly across the sky. A small bird that takes off at dawn can fly only as far as the elm and sandalwood trees. The great Peng, by contrast, beats its wings with the aid of the powerful wind high in the sky.

Only then does it rely on the great wind, carry the blue sky on its back, and meet no obstacle. Only then does it begin to plan its flight south.

The great Peng begins to plan its journey south only at this point. It is not that it delights in lofty heights or seeks distant places; rather, before the wind has gathered, its flight would be impeded. This is the great Peng’s freedom.

“培” means to rely on or draw support from, and “夭阏” means to break or obstruct. At first, the great Peng relies on a whirlwind to rise. Once the wind has gathered enough strength, it can fly. It then carries the blue sky on its back and rides the wind high into the clouds, coming to rest only after six months. At that point, no net can catch it and no arrow can harm it. What danger of being broken or obstructed could it face? Its conditions are well suited to it, and it has reached the place appropriate to it; that is why it can fly freely toward the South Sea.

The cicada and the little dove laughed at it, saying, “We flap our wings and fly up to the elm and sandalwood trees…”

The young turtledove mocked the great Peng bird: “Where can it possibly fly? I can leap into the air and fly to an elm or sandalwood tree. I don’t get very high before I stop. Sometimes I fall to the ground for a rest before reaching the grove ahead, then I can simply take off again. Following my own nature this way, I’m already carefree and happy. Why fly ninety thousand li, endure countless hardships, and head south?”

The commentary says that when each creature fulfills its own nature, even the great Peng need not consider itself nobler than a small bird, and the small bird need not envy the distant Celestial Lake. Each can be content with what it is capable of and enjoy its own way; that is enough. Thus, although great and small differ, they are equally free and at ease.

The explanatory commentary says: “Tiao” means cicada. It usually appears in the seventh or eighth lunar month, is purplish blue, and is also called “zhaoliao.” “Jiu” means turtledove. “Jue” describes rapid movement; “qiang” means gathering, and can also suggest darting suddenly upward; “fang” refers to sandalwood; “kong” can mean to cast down, extend, or reach the limit; “xi” means “why,” and “zhi” means “to go.” Hearing that the great Peng rises high by relying on the wind, the cicada and turtledove mock it: although it is large, they say, it has to labor hard to fly. They think that because they are small, they can fly with ease and freedom. But they do not know that the great Peng has somewhere of its own to go, nor do they understand that their own ease suits only the activities at hand. Their understanding is limited, so they use their own measure to mock the great Peng. This does not mean that they truly understand carefree freedom.

Someone traveling to the nearby outskirts takes enough food for three meals and returns with a full belly. To travel a hundred li, one must prepare provisions for a night; to travel a thousand li, one must gather provisions for three months.

The commentary says that the farther one travels, the more provisions one must prepare. The greater the Peng’s wings, the more Qi it must draw upon in flight.

The explanatory commentary says: “Shi” means to go to; “mangcang” refers to the hazy appearance of the countryside seen in the distance; “guoran” describes being full and satisfied. The journey to the nearby outskirts is short, so enough food for three meals will do for the round trip, and one returns still full. To travel a hundred li, one must prepare a night’s provisions. A thousand li is a long journey, so one must gather three months’ provisions to have enough for the round trip. This shows that the farther the journey, the more one must prepare. The great Peng’s flight is the same: to travel far, it must accumulate a deeper reserve of energy.

What, then, do these two kinds of creatures—the great Peng, and the cicada and turtledove—understand?

The commentary says that “the two creatures” refers to the great Peng and the cicada and turtledove. Setting the great alongside the small shows that they follow different paths. Why do their aims differ? It is not that they first understood their differences and then deliberately chose separate paths. Each simply follows its own nature, without contrivance. This is the broad meaning of carefree freedom.

Their aims and inclinations differ. The great Peng rides the wind and flies up ninety thousand li, while the little bird darts into the air and lands among the elm and sandalwood trees. Though they travel different distances, each follows its own nature and is content with its circumstances, unaware that journeys can be long or short. Each finds contentment and fulfills its own nature. Its nature unfolds of itself, though it does not know why. If they have no intention of ranking heights and depths, why would they care which is superior or inferior? Perhaps this is where carefree ease is found. As for calling the great Peng a “creature,” the Book of Rites of the Elder Dai says: in the East, there are three hundred and sixty kinds of scaled creatures, led by the Yinglong; in the South, three hundred and sixty kinds of feathered creatures, led by the phoenix; in the West, three hundred and sixty kinds of furry creatures, led by the qilin; in the North, three hundred and sixty kinds of shelled creatures, led by the numinous tortoise; and in the center, three hundred and sixty kinds of naked creatures, led by the sage. Since these beings are spoken of collectively, the great Peng too is called a “creature.”

Small cleverness is no match for great wisdom; a short life is no match for a long one.

Note: All things have their own natures, and each nature has its limits. The same is true of lifespan and wisdom. Can these be attained simply by striving after them? From here through the story of Liezi, the text gives examples of beings with different degrees of longevity and wisdom. Each is at home in its own sphere; none can overpower the others.

The text then takes “the person who depends on nothing” as its central theme: such a person forgets distinctions between self and other and mingles with these differences. Though circumstances vary, each being gains something from its own situation without seeking fame for it. Thus, the one who can encompass differences of size is the one who does not cling to size. If one clings to size, then the great Peng and the quail, as well as the official who drives a carriage and Liezi who rides the wind, are all ultimately bound by what they depend on. The one who can take death and life lightly is the one who does not cling to either. If one clings to life and death, then the great Chun tree and the cicada, Pengzu and the morning mushroom—which lives from dawn to dusk—all remain equally constrained by the brevity of their lives. Therefore, roaming in a realm where great and small are not distinguished has no end; joining with a realm beyond life and death has no bounds. If carefree ease still depends on some condition, then even roaming freely must eventually come to an end. One has yet to achieve dependence on nothing.

Commentary: The Qi that beings receive differs, and their endowments are not the same. Their wisdom may be clear or clouded, and their lives short or long. The text therefore gives examples such as the morning mushroom, the darkling spirit, the carriage driver, and Rongzi to show that lifespan and wisdom vary, and cannot be gained by admiring and trying to catch up. From this we can see that the natures of all things differ, and they cannot be forced to imitate one another.

How do we know this is really so?

Commentary: “Xi” means “what,” and “ran” means “so.” In other words: how can we know that lifespans and degrees of wisdom cannot be compared with one another?

Is it really possible to free oneself from constraint in this way? The text imagines someone raising this question in order to introduce the answer that follows.

The morning mushroom knows nothing of the dark and new moons—the end and beginning of the lunar month. The winter cicada knows nothing of spring and autumn. This shows how limited the world appears to creatures with short lives.

Commentary: This answers the question raised above. The morning mushroom is a fungus that grows where rainwater collects on dung and soil, brought forth by the heat and moisture. It appears in damp weather and dies as soon as it sees the sun. It is also called “dog fungus.” It sprouts in the morning and dies by evening, hence the name “morning mushroom.” The end of the month is called “dark moon,” and the beginning “new moon.” Even if it happens to have several cool, overcast days, it will wither before living out a month; therefore, it knows nothing of the dark and new moons. The huigu, or winter cicada, is a summer cicada that lives on wheat stalks and is also called the “wheat joint.” It is born in summer and dies in autumn, so it knows nothing of spring and autumn. The fungus lives from morning to evening, while the cicada grows in summer and dies in autumn. The point is that their lives are short; this is called a “small lifespan.”

In the south of Chu there is a tree called mingling, for which five hundred years count as one spring and five hundred years as one autumn. In ancient times there was a great chun tree, for which eight thousand years counted as one spring and eight thousand years as one autumn.

Commentary: Mingling and great chun are both names of trees. The emergence of leaves marks spring, and their falling marks autumn. Mingling grows in the south of Chu, and two thousand years make up one of its years. The text’s reference to “ancient times” means the age of Fuxi. The great chun grew in those ancient times, and thirty-two thousand years made up one of its years. Mingling flowers once every five hundred years, while the great chun sheds its leaves once every eight thousand years. Their springs and autumns are extraordinarily long, so they are said to have a “great lifespan.”

Pengzu is now especially renowned for his longevity, yet people compare themselves with him. Is that not deeply sad?

Note: Human lifespans differ so enormously. Compared with Pengzu’s, one’s own lifespan may indeed seem cause for sorrow. But ordinary people do not generally grieve over this, because each thing has its own limits. Once those limits are understood, even the slightest differences cannot be compared against one another. What, then, is there in the world to lament? Things do not necessarily envy what is small simply because they themselves are great; people, however, are always envying what is great because they themselves are small. The different sizes are cited to show that each has its own fixed limits, which envy and desire cannot change. In this way, the burden brought by envy and desire can be cut off. Sorrow arises from that burden; when the burden is gone, sorrow fades as well. Once sorrow has faded, there has never been a case in which one still could not settle one’s nature and life.

Commentary: Pengzu, surnamed Qian and given the name Keng, was a great-grandson of Emperor Zhuanxu and was skilled in …

Peng Zu was skilled in nourishing life and nature. He once prepared pheasant soup for Yao, who granted him Pengcheng. Peng Zu’s knowledge of the Dao was worthy of emulation, so people called him “Peng Zu.” He lived through the Xia and Shang dynasties and into the Zhou dynasty, reaching the age of eight hundred.

“Distinct” means set apart from others. Because Peng Zu lived so long, his fame alone spread throughout the world. People often compare themselves with Peng Zu, which is truly lamentable. If someone feels no sorrow about this, it is because they believe Peng Zu was born with the gift of longevity and was unlike themselves. They therefore regard him as having nothing to do with them and dare not lament their own fate.

From this we can see that every person’s life has its own limits. Is Peng Zu really the only one who far surpassed ordinary people and was beyond anyone’s reach? We should therefore regard the Great Chun and the fungi that live from dawn to dusk as alike, and Peng Zu and those who die young as alike. When each rests content with the limits of their endowment, their nature and life can be at peace.

The story of Tang’s question to Ji makes the same point.

Note: Tang’s question to Ji also shows that all things have their own limits. When each follows its own nature, it can unfold freely and fully. Zhuangzi therefore considered Tang’s question a good one.

Commentary: Tang was a descendant of Emperor Ku and a descendant of Xie. His surname was Zi, his personal name Lü, and his courtesy name Tianyi. His mother, Fudu, saw a white light pass through the moon; after this portent, she conceived and gave birth to him. Tang had a broad upper body, long legs, and stood nine feet tall. At first he served as a feudal lord under the Xia dynasty and won the support of the other lords through his sagely virtue. Later, when the tyrannical Jie of Xia ruled without virtue, Tang was imprisoned at Xiatai. After his release, he formed an alliance with the lords at Jingbo, then met Jie at the ruins of Kunwu, and finally fought him on the plains of Mingtiao. Jie fled to Nanchao. After defeating Jie, Tang offered the realm to Wuguang. When Wuguang refused, Tang took the throne, made Bo his capital, and later founded the Shang dynasty, becoming the first ruler of Shang, also known as Yin.

Ji was a worthy man in Tang’s time; some say he was Tang’s scholar. In the Liezi, he is called “Xiage.” The characters “ge” and “ji” have similar sounds, so one may be a scribal error for the other. Since Ji was a worthy man, Tang took him as his teacher and asked him about the highest truth. The natures of things differ, and each has its own inborn limits. One need only follow one’s nature and be content with one’s endowment. Tang’s question was profound, which is why Zhuangzi approved of it by saying, “Yes.”

At the farthest reaches of the north lies a dark sea, the northern ocean, also called the Celestial Lake. In it lives a fish thousands of li across; no one knows how long it is. Its name is Kun.

Commentary: “Xiu” means long. Plants and trees on land are like the earth’s hair. In the freezing north, plants and trees do not grow, so it is called “the barren reaches,” meaning a place where vegetation does not grow. The Kun fish is thousands of li across, and no one knows how long it is. This is meant to show how enormous it is. However, the dark sea…

The Kunpeng of the sea has already been discussed above. It is mentioned again here to clarify the account quoted earlier.

The Qixie is a sufficient source, so the Liezi is cited once more as supporting evidence, showing that this creature is not imaginary. This earnest and detailed account is meant to make the point clear.

There is a bird called the Peng. Its back is as broad as Mount Tai, and its wings are like clouds hanging at the edge of the sky. Riding a whirlwind that spirals upward, it twists and turns like a ram’s horn, soaring to a height of ninety thousand li. It passes through the clouds, bears the blue sky on its back, and then prepares to fly south.

Commentary: The Peng’s back is immensely broad, shaped like Mount Song or Mount Hua. A whirlwind coils and circles like a ram’s horn. The Peng then rises high into the air, straight toward the heavens, passes through the clouds, and stretches out its body with all its strength, planning to fly to the Southern Sea. Thus the Questions of Tang chapter of the Liezi says: “Who in the world could know that such a creature exists? Yu the Great saw it on his travels, Boyi knew of it and gave it a name, and Yijian heard of it and wrote it down.” This is what the passage refers to.

When the Peng is about to fly to the Southern Sea, a small sparrow mocks it, saying: “Where does it think it’s going? I leap into the air and, after rising only a few yards, come back down. I can circle freely among the mugwort and reeds; that is flying as far as I need to go. Why must it travel so far?” This is the difference between the small and the great.

Note: All things are content when they follow their own nature, and each reaches its limit by fully exercising its own capacities. Earlier, the text said that the two birds have different wings and so can reach different places: one flies to the Celestial Lake, while the other sets its sights only on the elm and sandalwood trees. Each is suited to its own form and nature, though it may not understand why. Here the text again discusses the difference between the small and the great. All things have innate endowments; no amount of forced striving can bring one to the realm of another. Each is also at ease with its own nature and feels no distress at being different from others. That is why the matter is explained again.

Commentary: “About to” means that something is imminent, though the word can also serve as a particle. “Chi” refers to a small marsh, and “yan” is a kind of sparrow. A ren is an ancient unit of length, equal to eight chi. “Soaring” means flying freely and playing in the air. The small yan bird leaps and flies freely in its little marsh, delighting in the mugwort thicket. It therefore mocks the Peng for intending to fly ninety thousand li, content as it is with flying only a few yards. This shows that the small and the great have different natures, and that all things have their own proper place, with none superior or inferior to another.

Thus, those whose talents qualify them for a single office, whose conduct wins the approval of everyone in a community, whose virtue suits the wishes of one ruler, or whose abilities earn the trust of an entire state regard themselves in much the same way as this small bird.

Note: This is likewise like a bird content with its own little corner of the world.

Commentary: “Thus” connects with what came before, while “fu” introduces what follows. “State” refers to a feudal state under the five ranks of nobility; a “community” comprised twelve thousand five hundred households. Some people have the intelligence and administrative ability to manage a single office; others are praised by people in their community for their reputation…

Some people possess broad and profound Virtue (De), and can govern a state and bring peace to its people; others cannot. This is because people are endowed differently, with varying strengths and weaknesses. Yet in terms of the circumstances each can attain, there is no absolute hierarchy. Everyone lives according to their own abilities, just as each bird settles in a place suited to it.

Song Rongzi—the man surnamed Rong from the state of Song—would still laugh at them.

Commentary: He laughed because he had not yet reached the state of truly seeing all things as equal.

Explanatory note: Although Song Rongzi could forget tangible rank and reputation, he could not completely free himself from attachment to “nothingness.” So he laughed at those engrossed in official rank and salary, while still looking down on those who sought quiet and detachment. This shows that he continued to distinguish among different kinds of people and had not attained true equality. Earlier, the small mocked the great, showing that the truly great do not boast of themselves. Here, the great mock the small, showing that the small need not look up to the great. Song Rongzi had not yet heard the principle by which one’s nature and life can be brought to rest.

Even if everyone under Heaven praised him, he would not become more zealous; even if everyone under Heaven criticized him, he would not become disheartened.

Commentary: This was because he clearly understood the limits of his own role.

Explanatory note: “All” means everyone; “zealous” means to spur oneself on and press forward; and “disheartened” means to lose heart. Song Rongzi followed his nature and held to the Dao (the Way), standing apart from worldly concerns. Praise from everyone under Heaven would not make him urge himself on more, and blame from everyone under Heaven would not dishearten him. He knew what he was capable of, and so could remain at ease.

He could bring the distinction between inner and outer to rest.

Commentary: He regarded himself as inward and external things as outward.

Explanatory note: Song Rongzi understood that the inner self is not fixed, and that one should not become attached to external things. He could let go of the distinctions between inner and outer, self and things, and so remain settled, unmoved by them.

He could discern the boundary between honor and shame.

Commentary: He claimed honor for himself and assigned shame to others.

Explanatory note: He was not changed by praise or criticism, nor did he place too much importance on adversity and success, honor and shame. Thus he could reflect inwardly and see things clearly, without continually elevating himself and diminishing others.

That was all.

Commentary: His state could go no further.

Explanatory note: “This” means this much; “all” means to stop. This was the limit of Song Rongzi’s wisdom and Virtue.

He did not anxiously pursue anything in the world.

Commentary: He was content with himself and so was not eager to involve himself in worldly affairs.

Explanatory note: “Anxiously” describes a hurried, restless manner. Song Rongzi followed his nature and remained detached, acting in accordance with the principles of things. He did not deliberately use his mind to pursue anything, nor exhaust his spirit in cultivating the Dao. At ease and apart from worldly concerns, he did not busy himself with them.

Even so, there remained a state he had not established and had not reached.

Commentary: He was merely convinced that his own views were right; he had not yet learned to accept everything with equanimity.

“Establishing” means bringing something into being. Song Rongzi gave up attachment to what exists, but remained attached to nothingness. He stayed fixed at one extreme, and so had not yet established a state of mind that relies on nothing. His freedom of wandering was still incomplete, and his wisdom still had limitations.

Liezi rode the wind, moving with lightness and grace. His feat was certainly admirable.

“Lingran” describes a light and graceful manner. Lie was his surname and Yugu was his personal name. He was from the state of Zheng and lived at the same time as Duke Xi of Zheng. He studied under Huqiu Zilin and wrote a book in eight volumes. He attained the immortal art of riding the wind. He traveled through the air on the wind, flying with ease; hence his performance is called admirable.

After fifteen days, he returned.

If someone still needs to rely on something, then even riding the wind cannot let them travel everywhere in an instant. A xun is ten days. Lie Yugu mastered the art of riding the wind and traveled throughout the world, returning home only every fifteen days. He still could not ride the wind whenever and wherever he wished, and so could not rely on it at every moment.

The blessing Lie Yugu gained from mastering the art of riding the wind did not come from urgently pursuing it again and again. He simply followed the natural course and rode the wind; he did not deliberately seek it out.

Although this spared him from walking, he still relied on something. Without wind, he could not move forward. Only someone who needs to rely on nothing is truly without dependence.

Riding the wind and traveling lightly spared him from walking, but without wind he could not advance, so he still depended on something. The text presents, in order, people of varying degrees of wisdom and virtue, from officials down to Song Rongzi and Lie Yugu. None of them has completely forgotten distinctions and attachments, so each still depends on something. Only by following the nature of all things and roaming amid change can one accomplish everything and reach the wondrous state of free and easy wandering.

As for someone who rides the natural principles of Heaven and Earth, harnesses the changes of the six energies, and roams through the boundless—what could such a person still need to rely on?

Heaven and Earth are the collective name for all things. All things give concrete expression to Heaven and Earth, and all things must take nature as their guiding principle. What is called nature is what happens spontaneously, without force. The great roc can fly high, while the quail can fly low; the chun tree lives long, while the fungus that appears at dawn and is gone by dusk lives briefly. All of this follows nature’s ordering …

“Ability” is not something gained through deliberate action. To be able to do things naturally, without deliberate effort—that is the true Way.

To ride in accord with the proper principles of Heaven and Earth is to follow the nature of all things. To harness the changes of the Six Energies—the changing energies between Heaven and Earth, such as Yin and Yang, wind and rain—is to roam along the path of transformation. Where could such a journey ever reach its end? Whatever you encounter, you go along with it and ride upon it. Why wait for anything? This is the freedom of a person of utmost De, whose distinctions between self and other have fallen away and who has merged completely with all things.

If one depends on something, then even someone as light-footed and skilled in movement as Liezi still cannot travel without wind. He must therefore wait until he has something to rely on before he can roam freely. How much more so the great Peng bird! Only by merging with all things and following the vast transformations can one remain unobstructed without relying on anything. This unobstructedness is not only one’s own: one can also accommodate things that depend on something, allowing them to keep what they rely on. When they do not lose their support, they can accord with the state of universal unobstructedness.

Thus I cannot regard dependence and nondependence as entirely the same. Yet if all things rest in their own natures, their natural workings emerge of themselves, and they undergo change without knowing it, then I cannot distinguish among them either. If nondependence need not be distinguished from things that depend on something, how much less need we distinguish among those who depend on something according to their relative size?

Commentary: “Heaven and Earth” is a general name for all things, while “all things” is another way of referring to the varied things of nature. On the Six Energies, Ji Yi says: in the morning they are the rosy clouds; at noon, the pure Yang; at sunset, the flying springs; and at midnight, the dew of the night. The two energies of Heaven and Earth together divide into six. Du Yu says that the Six Energies are Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness. Zhi Daolin says they are Heaven and Earth and the four seasons. “Transformation” means change; “What would one depend on?” asks what one should rely on.

This means that the sage who depends on nothing has a quiet, empty heart and embodies the Dao. Thus the sage rides in accord with the proper principles of the two forces of Heaven and Earth—Yin and Yang—follows the natural dispositions of all things, and harnesses the Six Energies to roam freely, blending with the spirits of the world and moving along with change. If there is nothing one cannot accommodate, what place could remain beyond reach? The sage’s understanding is clear and open, extending to the boundless. What could such a person still need to depend on?

Thus it is said:

“The Perfected Person has no self.”

Commentary: The Perfected Person has no fixed view of self and can therefore follow all things. To follow all things is to attain the state of the Perfected Person.

“The Spirit Person has no achievements.”

Commentary: The growth and transformation of things happen naturally, yet people often think they depend on needles and stones—acupuncture and other medical treatments—to take place. When the principle is truly understood, the traces of human contrivance disappear. Now, by following things without trying to help them along, one becomes one with the highest principle. Hence it is said, “has no achievements.”

“The Sage has no name.”

Commentary: “Sage” is merely a title for one through whom all things realize their natures; it is still not enough to name what the Sage…

In the commentary, “Ultimate” describes the fundamental nature, “Spirit” describes its functioning, and “Sage” describes its title. When speaking of its fundamental nature, it is called “Ultimate”; when speaking of its functioning, “Spirit”; and when speaking of its title, “Sage.” In fact, all three refer to the same state: having reached the utmost subtlety, it is called “Ultimate”; because the transformations of Yin and Yang are unfathomable, it is called “Spirit”; and because it can establish the proper distinctions among all things, it is called “Sage.”

These three titles describe three aspects embodied in one person. They are distinguished by three names to clarify their functions and set their designations apart. Such a person is the one mentioned earlier, who can follow the natural order of Heaven and Earth and command the transformations of the six Qi. To sum up this person’s virtue of not depending on external things, and to bring out both its fundamental nature and its function, the passage ends by using “only” to conclude its full meaning.

Yao yields the empire to Xu You

The commentary introduces Yao as the son of Emperor Ku, with the surname Yiqi and the courtesy name Fangxun. His mother was named Qingdu. According to tradition, Emperor Ku was moved by a red dragon and Yao was born. Yao was tall, had eight-colored markings in his eyebrows, and winged-star patterns on the soles of his feet. He possessed the virtue of a Sage. At fifteen, he assisted the ruler of Tang; at twenty-one, he succeeded his elder brother and became emperor. He established his capital at Pingyang and was known as Tao Tang. After seventy-two years on the throne, he handed it over to Shun. He lived to the age of one hundred and twenty-eight, and after his death was buried at Yangcheng. His posthumous title was “Yao.” According to the rules for posthumous titles, one who “passes on sagehood through virtuous conduct” is called “Yao”—a reference to his merit in transferring the throne to Shun.

Xu You was a recluse. His surname was Xu, his given name You, and his courtesy name Zhongwu. He was from Yangcheng in Yingchuan. He lived in seclusion on Mount Ji, studied under Nie Que, and made his home in the mountains, drinking from the river. Knowing that Xu You was virtuous and capable, Yao wanted to yield the throne to him. When Xu You heard of this, he went to the river and washed his ears. Chao Fu was leading an ox to drink there. Seeing what Xu You was doing, he turned the ox away and said, “Don’t let your filth pollute my water.” After Xu You died, Yao granted his burial place an honorific title and posthumously named him “Lord of Ji.” The commentary says that Chao Fu was Yao’s teacher.

The sun and moon have already risen, yet the torch is still burning; timely rain has already fallen, yet one labors to irrigate

The commentary explains that “torch” refers to a torch, or a faint little flame. It is said that in the time of Shennong, rain fell once every fifteen days; such rain was called “timely rain.” With the sun and moon already shining over the earth, what need is there for a torch to add more light? With timely rain already abundant, why labor to irrigate and add more water? Yao was humble and yielding, putting himself last and promoting others, so these words greatly praise Xu You.

“If you, sir, were to ascend the throne, the empire could be governed. While I still occupy this position, I feel it is unworthy of me. Please allow me to hand the empire over to you.”

The commentary explains that “govern” means to bring peace to the empire; “occupy” means to preside over or hold a position; and “hand over” means to entrust. Continuing from the preceding passage, it says that since Yao regarded Xu You as his teacher, he wanted to hand the empire over to him.

That is why he was called “Master,” an honorific for a virtuous person. If Zhongwu (Xu You’s courtesy name) were installed as Son of Heaven, the realm would surely be at peace. Yet I still regard myself as master of all things, and feel instead that I fall short and am unworthy of the position. Please allow me to yield the throne to a worthy person.

Xu You said, “You have governed the realm, and the realm is already well governed.”

Commentary: The one who can bring peace to the realm is precisely the one who does not set out to govern it. Thus Yao governed the realm through “non-governing”: because he did not govern deliberately, the realm became peaceful. Xu You is explaining that since the realm is already at peace, there is nothing for him to take over from Yao and govern. In truth, the realm’s peace is Yao’s achievement. Therefore, when Xu You says, “You have governed the realm,” the meaning should be understood rather than taken rigidly at face value. Some have claimed that Yao brought peace by deliberately governing the realm, while Xu You, by not governing, enabled Yao to govern. This interpretation is far off the mark.

The root of peace in the realm lies in “non-governing”; purposeful action, too, should arise naturally from Wuwei (non-action). Yao’s governance was already sufficient; why would it need Xu You’s help? If one thinks that only withdrawing to the mountains and remaining silent counts as Wuwei, then this is precisely why the teachings of Zhuangzi and Laozi were rejected by those in power: people cling to the realm of purposeful action and refuse to return to Wuwei.

Explanatory note: Here, “govern” means to rule, and “already” means that something has taken place. The point is that Yao had governed the realm for a long time, and the four quarters were already peaceful and settled. Why spend more words yielding the throne to me? Yet if we read the original text of the Zhuangzi, we find that it disparages Yao and honors Xu You; if we read Guo Xiang’s commentary, we find that he exalts Yao and looks down on Xu You. Why? This is meant to show that Yao was a great sage, while Zhongwu was a great worthy: the realms of sages and worthies differ, and the distance between them is considerable. Yao abdicated on the northern bank of the Fen River, yet still lost the realm; Xu You, by contrast, kept to his way of life, standing alone on a high mountain, beholding all things without becoming trapped in partiality. Their relative standing is clear from this.

Thus Zhuangzi borrowed the story of abdication and used the image of a “tiny flame.” Having grasped the state of “no dependence,” Guo Xiang also introduced the idea of “non-governing.” One might say that he probed the subtle meaning, bringing his commentary into accord with the text. As long as one follows its intent and context, there is nothing amiss.

“If I continued to govern the realm for you, would I be seeking fame? Fame is merely an appendage of substance. Would I want to become that appendage?”

Commentary: One who takes responsibility for governing stands in opposition to external things; one who follows along with all things does not stand opposed to them. Thus Yao, in facing the realm, harbored no sense of opposition, whereas Xu You was placed alongside Ji and Qi (legendary worthy ministers who assisted Yao and Shun) for comparison. Why say this? Because one who becomes one with all things is someone from whom all things cannot separate. Therefore, he has no selfish desires and can respond to subtle transformations, acting only as things call forth a response. He is open and at ease, as though…

Even if a cook does not prepare the food himself, the official in charge of the sacrifices must not step over the wine vessels and offerings to take over the cooking. This means that each person should keep to their own duties and not overstep their role to do someone else’s work.

[Commentary] The wren builds its nest in a deep forest, needing no more than a single branch. The legendary water rat goes to the river to drink, but needs only enough to fill its belly. All things have their own limits. Once their natural needs are met, the world’s surplus wealth has nothing to do with them. So why would Xu You, content with a humble dwelling and indifferent to grand palace gates, fond of coarse tea and simple food, pursue the delicacies of an emperor?

“Please go back, my lord! The world is of no use to me.”

[Note] Xu You believed that neither he nor Yao needed the throne. Yet because Yao possessed all under Heaven, he could show himself to be broad-minded, selfless, and free of fixation; this was why the people were glad to support him.

[Commentary] “Yu” means “I.” Xu You was pure-hearted, desired little, and kept himself incorruptible. He refused Yao’s offer to yield the throne to him, and said to Yao: “My lord, please hurry back to your throne. The supreme position you hold over all under Heaven is of no use to me. Why would I want to become the Son of Heaven?”

Earlier, the text says that if Yao could be as naturally lofty and far-reaching as Heaven, he would embody a ruler’s De (Virtue). But if he merely stood alone atop a mountain, clinging to his own prejudices, he could not truly become the ruler of all under Heaven. If Xu You were to serve a ruler in the inner court as a subject, he would have the title of a subject without taking on the actual duties of a ruler. A title is external; substance is fundamental. Giving up what is fundamental to pursue a title was precisely what Xu You refused to do. That is why he said, “I will become a guest”—one who neither holds the throne nor takes on a ruler’s duties.

Emperor Yao and Xu You each found contentment in the circumstances they encountered. This is the truest principle under Heaven. Each was able to remain within his proper role and find what was true for him. What more was there to do? They simply followed things as they naturally unfolded and took pleasure in what they had. Thus, though Emperor Yao and Xu You acted differently, they were alike in their freedom and ease.

The commentary explains: “Cook” refers to the person in charge of the kitchen, like an official today who oversees the provision of meals. “Corpse” refers to the spirit tablet in the ancestral temple. “祝” refers to the person who presides over the sacrifice, holding a ritual tablet and addressing the spirit tablet with prayers. The vessel for wine is called a zun, and the vessel for meat a zu. The kitchen steward and the person who presides over the sacrifice each have their own duties. If the steward neglected his work and refused to manage the kitchen, the officiant would not overstep his authority, set aside the wine and meat vessels, and cook in his place. After Emperor Yao abdicated the throne, he no longer governed the realm; Xu You, for his part, did not leave the mountains and forests to accept the throne. Each remained content in his own place.

Shoulder-Wu asked Lianshu, “I once heard Jieyu say some things.”

The commentary explains: Shoulder-Wu and Lianshu were both ancient men of the Dao. Jieyu, surnamed Lu and given the name Tong, was a worthy recluse from the state of Chu who lived at the same time as Confucius. He feigned madness and refused to serve in office, making his living by farming. The King of Chu knew of his abilities and once offered him a great quantity of gold and two chariots with horses, but Jieyu declined. He later traveled through mountains and seas with his wife, and no one knew what became of him. After hearing Jieyu’s words, Shoulder-Wu found their underlying principle hard to grasp, so he sought Lianshu’s advice. Through the dialogue among these three men, Zhuangzi illustrates how people might react when they hear the words of a sage like Yao. The details follow below.

“Those words are grand, but have no firm basis. They press forward without ever turning back to examine themselves. When I heard them, I was both astonished and afraid. They seemed like the Milky Way in the sky, so vast that they had no end.”

The commentary explains: The words of Jieyu that Shoulder-Wu heard were sweeping in tone but had no clear point of grounding. They simply unfolded their general meaning without turning back to explain it again and again, leaving no way to follow them. After hearing them, I felt perplexed and afraid. The words seemed like the distant, lofty Milky Way: if one tried to trace their source and course, they appeared endless.

“Those words are far removed from common sense and do not accord with ordinary human feeling.”

The commentary explains: “Jingting” refers to an excessive gap; it can also suggest pressing straight ahead without regard for anything else. Here it means that Jieyu’s words did not accord with familiar, conventional views and seemed far removed from ordinary human feeling.

That is why grandiose claims seem exaggerated: they do not accord with what is reasonable.

Lianshu asked, “What did he say?”

Commentary: What, exactly, were the words spoken by Lu Tong, also known as Jieyu? Here Lianshu is asking rhetorically what Shuwu had heard earlier.

Shuwu replied, “He said that on Mount Miaogushe lives a spiritlike person, with skin as white as ice and snow and a graceful bearing like an unmarried maiden.”

Note: These are all figurative expressions. The “spiritlike person” is what we today would call a sage. Even when a sage is in court, there is no difference in his inner state from when he is living in the mountains and forests. How could ordinary people understand this? They see the sage wearing an emperor’s crown and carrying a jade seal, and assume these are enough to bind his heart. They see him traveling through mountains and rivers and attending to the affairs of the people, and assume these are enough to exhaust his spirit. How could they know that one who has truly reached the highest state is not inwardly harmed by any of this?

Here, the virtue of a ruler is attributed to the spiritlike person on Mount Miaogushe to show that ordinary people cannot recognize such virtue. So it is placed in a faraway land and said to lie beyond the reach of sight and hearing. “Maiden” means that she is not inwardly harmed by external things.

Commentary: “Miao” means distant. The Classic of Mountains and Seas says that Mount Gushe lies beyond the great sea, where sacred beings dwell. They respond to all things in keeping with the times: when yielding is called for, they are like Yao and Shun; when force is needed, they are like Tang and Wu. “Graceful” describes a delicate, gentle bearing; “maiden” means an unmarried woman. The passage says that whether active or at rest, the sage acts in harmony with the moment. He can perceive emptiness and also see clearly what is real. Even in court, he is no different from when he is in the mountains and forests: he can live among ordinary people without being tainted by worldly ways. “Ice and snow” are metaphors for purity; “graceful” evokes gentleness of bearing; and “maiden” represents freedom from harm by external things. The name “Gushe” conveys a state far beyond the ordinary. Yao’s profound, mysterious virtue is therefore placed in a distant land and described as lying beyond the reach of sight and hearing. These are all fables; Mount Gushe and its spiritlike person may not really exist. Readers should grasp the metaphors without clinging to the literal wording. This passage is Shuwu recounting what he once heard, in reply to Lianshu.

The spiritlike person eats no grain, but breathes the wind and drinks the dew.

Note: Everyone eats grain, but the spiritlike person is said to live in this way to show that he was not formed by grain, but endowed with the subtle, wondrous Qi of Nature.

Commentary: The five grains are millet, broomcorn millet, hemp, beans, and wheat. The passage says that sacred beings are born with pure, subtle, wondrous Qi and embody the finest essence of Yin-Yang as they respond to all things. Although they, too, adapt to worldly circumstances and rely on external things to live, they were not formed by grain. Their sustenance from wind and dew is a figurative way of expressing their purity and detachment, and their freedom from change with the seasons.

To command the clouds and ride the flying dragon, roaming beyond the four seas.

Commentary: The sage’s wisdom is lucid, subtle, and far-reaching. He responds to all things without selfish intent; hence the phrase “to command the clouds.” His actions are not bound by speed or slowness, and his transformations have no fixed form; hence “to ride the flying dragon.” He takes his place above the myriad things, while his spirit ranges beyond the four quarters of Heaven and Earth; hence “roaming beyond the four seas.”

When his spirit is settled, he can keep the myriad things free from illness and calamity, and bring the crops to ripeness and abundance. Shoulder-Wu therefore found this absurd and could not believe it.

Note: One who truly understands the spirit, dwells at ease in a realm of illumination, probes the principles of things, and comprehends their subtle workings can connect in spirit with all that lies beyond the four seas, even while sitting quietly in an empty room. Thus he follows the Yin-Yang of Heaven and Earth and commands the six energies—Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, brightness, and other forces of nature. He can live among people and also command the myriad things. If there is nothing he cannot follow, he is like one riding drifting clouds; if there is no form he cannot bear, he is like one commanding a flying dragon.

He forgets himself and finds joy in this. Though detached and practicing Wuwei (non-action), he does not have to deliberately train in “sitting in oblivion”—forgetting body, mind, and external things while seated—or “walking in oblivion”—acting without clinging to a self. He naturally forgets himself as he goes about his life. In action he is like a withered tree; at rest he is like gathered ashes. That is why his spirit is settled. Once his spirit is settled, even things that cannot settle become at ease in their own way. People always judge everything by what they themselves have seen. How, then, could they believe this teaching?

Commentary: “Settled” means tranquil and composed. “Afflictions and maladies” refers to illness; “the Five Grains ripen” means that the harvest is good and the crops plentiful.

The sage’s body is like a withered tree, and his mind like dead ashes. His inner nature and outward appearance are one, and both movement and stillness are perfectly attuned. Settled and luminous, he silently connects with the myriad things and benefits them through an open, tranquil mind. Thus the seasons follow their proper course, the Five Grains flourish, the people suffer no calamities, and the myriad things are neither cut short nor wronged. The sage lives in the world and can have this effect. Shoulder-Wu had not grasped these ultimate and subtle words, so he thought them absurd and did not believe them.

Uncle Lian said, “A blind person cannot appreciate the beauty of colors and patterns; a deaf person cannot hear the sound of bells and drums. Could blindness and deafness belong only to the body? A person’s understanding, too, can be deaf and blind.”

Note: To fail to understand the utmost subtlety of ultimate principles, and then to call them absurd and disbelieve them, is to be deaf and blind in one’s understanding.

Commentary: “Blind” refers to a person whose eyes have no perception, dark as if covered with drum skin. “Deaf” refers to an affliction of the ears; “blind” refers to damage to the eye faculty—the ability to see. Seeing with the eyes and hearing with the ears are ordinary human capacities. Once these are lost, one cannot show a person the beauty of sounds and colors. The same is true of the wondrous Way of ultimate principle: only those able to free themselves from inner constraints can understand it. The ignorant and deluded cannot grasp it throughout their lives. The root cause is that their wisdom is obstructed and their minds clouded, leaving them unable to see clearly…

Is it only the physical body that can undergo such a state? So, when I heard Jieyu’s words, I thought he was mad and did not believe what he said.” From this point onward, Lianshu is replying to Jianwu.

What Jieyu says is like a young woman.

Note: What Jieyu says is something people would naturally seek. Yet those whose minds are deaf and blind think that no such principle exists in the world.

Commentary: Here, “is” is a particle expressing reproach or judgment. “Young woman” refers to a girl. The passage says that Jieyu’s words are like a beautiful, gentle, and pure young woman, worthy of a gentleman’s pursuit. Yet those whose minds are deaf and blind say that no such principle exists in the world.

A person like this has a De that embraces all things and becomes one with them. Everyone hopes the world will be well governed. Would he really wear himself out, making the governance of the world his personal concern?

Note: The sage’s mind reaches the utmost limits of Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang, and understands the mysteries of the transformations of all things. Thus he can perceive change and respond to things, meeting whatever comes his way. He embraces all things, recognizing that each has its own natural principle. When the age is in disorder, people hope a sage will come to govern. The sage has no fixed intention of his own; if he has no fixed intention, why would he not respond to the affairs of the world? Yet those who grasp the mysterious and understand the highest principle can bring together the natures of all things, shape the transformations of the world, and earn a reputation like that of Yao and Shun precisely because they accomplish things without deliberate action. If they instead exhaust their minds in anxious thought and busyness, making the conduct of affairs an end in itself, can they be sure to govern the world well?

Commentary: “Zhi” is a grammatical particle that also conveys praise here. “Vastly encompassing” means to merge with and embrace all things. “Seek” means to hope for, and “who” means “who would.” “A person like this” praises Yao as a sage, while “his De” praises Yao’s abundant De. The meaning is that the sage’s De accords with Heaven and Earth, and his Dao is at one with all things; he can embrace all things and govern the myriad beings. When the age is chaotic and the people suffer, they hope a sage will rule the world and comfort them. The sage is like an empty boat or a clear mirror: he responds to things as they come, without private intentions. Why would he spend his energy and wear out his body, deliberately managing the affairs of the world and making the conduct of affairs an end in itself? Laozi says, “Act through Wuwei, and treat things as matters of no concern.” He also says, “In governing the world, one always does so through inaction; with too much activity, the world cannot be governed.”

A person like this cannot be harmed by external things.

Note: If one can calmly face the possibility of being harmed, harm cannot injure them. If harm cannot injure them, then external things cannot harm them either.

When floods cover the sky, he will not drown. In a great drought, when metal and stone melt and the mountains burn to ash, he feels no heat.

Note: A person who can truly remain at ease wherever he is will feel free wherever he goes. Neither death nor life can alter his state of mind, so how could drowning or being scorched by heat do so? Thus, the Perfected Person (one who has attained the highest spiritual state) is not burdened by calamities and hardship. This is not because he deliberately avoids them, but because he proceeds calmly in accord with how things are; good fortune then comes to him naturally.

Commentary: Those who understand life and death are not troubled by them. Those who adapt to water and fire are not afraid of drowning or being scorched. Even in a great drought, amid heat so intense that metal and stone seem to melt, or in a flood that surges to the heavens, what effect can all the turmoil in the world around them have on them? Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Neither death nor life can alter one’s state of mind, so how much less could drowning or being scorched by heat do so?”

In the eyes of the Perfected Person, worldly things are like dust, grime, chaff, and husks. He could even use such things to mold and cast Yao and Shun. Who, then, would regard external things as important?

Note: Yao and Shun are merely names by which the world knows them. What a name refers to is not the same as the underlying reality. So are the so-called Yao and Shun merely the historical Yao and Shun? Surely they also had an inner spirit that transcended their names. In the eyes of the Perfected Person, the people now called “Yao” and “Shun” are no more than dust, grime, chaff, and husks.

Commentary: Fine, scattered earth is called “dust”; dirt that clings is called “grime.” Immature grains are called “chaff,” and the outer coverings of grain are called “husks.” All these things are lowly and useless. The word for “casting” refers to smelting metal; “molding” refers to shaping pottery in a mold. According to the rules for posthumous titles, one who supports good government and carries on the sacred Way is called “Yao,” while one who is benevolent, wise, and sage-like is called “Shun.”

Yao and Shun originally possessed a subtle state that transcended bodily form and names. They moved among the world and lived alongside all things. Because of their Virtue, people gave them names and posthumous titles to make their sage-like Virtue known. Yet names are ultimately only rough descriptions, no more real than chaff; posthumous titles are merely worldly affairs, no loftier than dust. Later generations, through affectation, flattery, and falsehood, forged dust and grime into “Yao” and kneaded chaff and husks into “Shun.” How could they understand that subtle reality, or explain it in words? Who, then, would regard these external labels as important?

People of the state of Song took Zhangfu hats, an ancient style of headwear, to the state of Yue to sell. The people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, so the hats were of no use to them.

Commentary: This is an analogy that illustrates the preceding point. “Goods” means merchandise. Yue lay near rivers and lakes, and its people cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies. It is said that they did so to protect themselves from harm by flood dragons. A Zhangfu is a kind of hat. Confucius was born in Lu and later grew up in Song; he wore a Zhangfu. Song was founded by descendants of Weizi, while Yue was founded by descendants of Taibo. The two states traded with one another, so people from Song took Zhangfu hats to Yue as merchandise. But a Zhangfu is a head ornament that needs a topknot to support it. Since the people of Yue cut their hair short and tattooed their bodies, they naturally had no use for it.

This is like people’s attachment to splendor and wealth: splendor can easily make them stuck and resistant to change, while wealth can easily make them proud. Once Yao had realized…

The Dao’s substance is profound and far-reaching. It can make people forget everything, and so it can also keep them from regarding the world as their concern. Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Yao did not treat the world as something for his own use, just as the people of Yue had no use for the ceremonial cap of the Central Plains, the zhangfu.”

Yao governed the world and brought peace throughout the land. Later, he went to Mount Gushe and the northern bank of the Fen River to visit four sages. His mind and spirit were utterly still, as though he had already forgotten the world.

Note: Yao did not claim the world as his own, just as the people of Yue had no use for the zhangfu. Yet precisely because Yao could let go of the world, the people of the world revered him. Although they revered him, Yao never regarded the world as his own. Thus he could quietly forget the world, while his spirit continually roamed in a deep and traceless realm. Even though he stood above all things, he remained free and at ease.

The “four sages” were likely introduced to show that Yao was not confined to the image of Yao known to ordinary people. Inwardly, Yao had already merged with the Dao; what people saw was only his outward conduct. The inner and outer belong to different levels, and there is nothing strange about that. People saw only Yao acting as Yao, without understanding the state of his inner mind. So if one thinks only of searching overseas for the four sages, and judges Yao solely by what is visible before one’s eyes, one may mistakenly conclude that engaging with worldly affairs means losing one’s freedom. In truth, they do not know that those who truly travel far can follow the course of things and thereby seem closer; those who truly reach the heights can also remain connected with the lowly. If one takes aloofness and self-regard as the highest state, and cannot face worldly entanglements with equanimity, one has attained no more than the state of a hermit in the mountains. Such a person still depends on something. How could this suffice to speak of the ultimate Dao and boundless freedom?

Commentary: “Govern” means to put things in order and administer them; “government” refers to commands and instruction. Here these terms are used as metaphors for governing the world. The Fen River rises in Taiyuan and flows west into the Yellow River. The north bank of a river is called its “sunny side,” so the northern bank of the Fen refers to the area around present-day Pingyang County in Jinzhou, traditionally said to have been Yao’s capital. “Profoundly still” describes a state of quiet depth; “forget” means to let go.

The “four sages” refer to four states of virtue: first, the substance itself; second, outward conduct; third, what is neither substance nor outward conduct; and fourth, what is neither “neither substance” nor “neither outward conduct.” The point is that Yao turned inward to his source and saw through to the realm of the Dao, transcending these four distinctions. That is why the text says he went to visit the four sages.

The sage’s mind is free of attachment. When something calls for a response, he can respond; thus he can govern the many states and bring peace to the world. Though he gathered his spirit in the realm of the four sages and sat motionless, he could at the same time administer all affairs on the northern bank of the Fen. He quietly forgot the world and yet still governed it. This is the coexistence of substance and outward conduct, the union of essence and function, the ability to contemplate both emptiness and being, and the fullness of both action and stillness. Thus Mount Gushe is no different from the northern bank of the Fen, and the mountain forest is no more exceptional than the court.

People cling to what they have seen with their own eyes. How could they be willing to believe these words? Ma Biao took “the Four” to mean Nie Que, but he still failed to grasp the profound principle. Liu Zhang took “the Fen River” to mean “She Mountain,” and was even more misled by what lay before his eyes. The interpretation given here differs somewhat from theirs. Guo Xiang’s commentary says, “‘The Four’ is a borrowed expression, used to show that Yao was not merely one Yao. People see only Yao’s deeds; how could they know his true nature?”

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, “The King of Wei gave me a seed from a large gourd.”

Huizi, whose given name was Shi, was from the state of Song and once served as chancellor of Liang. “Give” means to present as a gift, and “gourd” refers to a plant of the gourd family. The King of Wei was King Hui of Liang. He had originally lived in Anyi, when his state was called Wei. Later, under pressure from the powerful state of Qin, he moved to Daliang, changed the state’s name to Liang, and called himself king. Huizi brings up the large gourd to mock Zhuangzi’s writings: their language and ideas may be grand, he suggests, but they have no practical application. The two use the example to spur each other into debate.

“I planted the seed, and when it grew, the gourds it produced were as large as five shi. I tried using one to hold water or broth, but its walls were not sturdy enough to support even its own weight.”

Here, “plant” means to cultivate, and “fruit” means the produce of the plant. Huishi received a gourd seed, planted it, and grew gourds large enough to hold five shi of liquid. But the gourd was hollow and fragile, and could not bear the weight when used as a container.

“I split one open to make a dipper, but the gourd shell was so flat and shallow that it could hold very little. It was certainly large enough; it was just hollow and useless. I thought it had no use, so I smashed it.”

“Split” means to cut open, and a “dipper” is a scoop used for lifting things. “Flat and shallow” describes something that is broad and thin, while “hollow and vast” describes something empty and large. “Smash” means to break into pieces. The gourd was too fragile to hold water, and when cut open as a dipper, it was too shallow to hold much. People thought it useless, so they smashed it and threw it away. Huizi uses this example to mock Zhuangzi’s ideas as incapable of solving practical problems of the time, and argues that they too should be discarded.

Zhuangzi said, “You really don’t know how to make use of large things! In the state of Song, there was a man skilled at making a salve that kept hands from cracking in the cold. For generations, his family had made its living washing cotton wadding in water.”

The salve kept the hands from cracking, so the family regularly went into the water to wash cotton wadding.

“Float-washing” means washing by floating the material in water; “rinsing” means washing it through. “Cotton wadding” means loose cotton fibers. “For generations” means passed down from one generation to the next. In the depths of winter, the family from Song went into the water to wash cotton wadding, and their fingers were therefore prone to sores and cracking.

A man from Song treated the recipe as a family treasure. From generation to generation, he passed it down to his family and taught them to use the medicine to protect their hands, so they could rinse silk floss in water without their hands cracking in the cold. In this way, the craft could be passed down for a long time.

“Pi” means to rinse; “pi” means to beat the floss apart; “kuang” refers to silk floss. “Shi” is the process of putting floss in water and beating it apart.

A traveler from another state heard about the recipe and offered a hundred gold pieces for it. In ancient times, one piece of gold was a lump of gold an inch across and weighing one jin. The traveler happened to hear of a medicine for cracked hands and was willing to pay a hundred pieces of gold to buy it.

The man from Song gathered his whole family to discuss the offer. “For generations, we have made our living by rinsing silk floss, earning no more than a few pieces of gold. Now we can get a hundred pieces at once by selling this technique. We should sell it to him.” Everyone agreed.

After buying the recipe, the traveler used it to persuade the king of Wu. When Yue invaded, the king sent him to lead the army into battle. In winter, the armies of Wu and Yue fought on the water, and the army of Wu routed Yue. The king of Wu then awarded the traveler land and a title.

The commentary explains: Wu and Yue were neighboring states, crisscrossed by rivers and sea, so their armies often had to travel by boat. In the bitter cold, soldiers’ hands were prone to cracking. After obtaining the recipe, the traveler used it to win the king of Wu’s confidence and later became a commander. The soldiers of Wu used the medicine, their hands no longer cracked, and they won the naval battle. After the fighting ended, the king of Wu granted the traveler land.

There was only one recipe for preventing hands from cracking in the cold. Yet one man was awarded a fief because of it, while another continued to make a living rinsing silk floss. The difference lay in how the recipe was used.

The commentary explains: “Some” can mean that different people used the recipe in different ways. The recipe itself did not change, but its users put it to different uses. Thus the traveler was granted a fief because of it, while the man from Song continued to use it to rinse silk floss. This shows that the same thing can produce very different results depending on whether it is used skillfully or clumsily.

Now you have a gourd large enough to hold five shi. Why not tie it with ropes and use it as a great float, drifting across rivers and lakes? Instead, you worry that the gourd is too large and that there is nowhere suitable to put it. It seems your mind is still as confined as a patch of mugwort.

The annotation explains: “Peng” refers to mugwort and, by extension, a mind that cannot range freely. The point is that everything has a use suited to it. If you use things appropriately, where could you not roam at ease?

The commentary explains: “Shu” means to tie with a rope. “Zun” means to lacquer something like a wine vessel to make it waterproof, then bind it with ropes to use as a float for crossing rivers and lakes. People in the south call this kind of float a “waist boat.”

“‘Curved and not straight’ means bent rather than straight; ‘alas’ is an expression of lament. Here, a great gourd drifts upon the rivers and lakes and could serve as a boat, yet people have sunk it. The teaching of the Dao arose and spread through the world and could have helped living beings escape delusion and receive its benefits. But Huizi’s mind was closed: he could not directly grasp the subtle principles of the Dao, so he rashly offered the image of striking a gourd to mock Zhuangzi’s writings as useless. This is truly lamentable.

Huizi said to Zhuangzi, ‘I have a great tree that people call the chu (a tree with poor-quality wood).’

The commentary says: The chu is related to trees such as the kao and the lacquer tree. It has a very unpleasant smell and is considered a bad tree by ordinary people. Names in the world are often merely empty labels. Even if everyone smells it, they may not be able to determine exactly what it is. That is why it says, ‘people call it the chu.’

‘Its trunk is gnarled and swollen, so it does not meet the standard of the ink line; its branches twist and bend, so they do not meet the requirements of the compass and square. It grows beside the road, and carpenters do not even look at it.’

The commentary says: ‘Swollen’ means that the trunk is knotted and covered with bulges; ‘twisting’ means it is not straight. The compass draws circles, and the square draws right angles. ‘Roadside’ means beside a road. Trees such as the chu are poor timber: their trunks are knotted and their branches crooked, so they cannot be straightened to the ink line or made into objects with proper circular or square forms. Though it grows by the road, carpenters do not even look at it.

‘Now your words are grand but useless, and no one wants to pay them any attention.’

The commentary says: The tree is knotted and crooked, unfit for use, so carpenters ignore it. The tree is used as a metaphor for Zhuangzi’s words, which are convoluted and absurd, and of no use; therefore, people refuse to accept them.

Zhuangzi said, ‘Have you never seen a wildcat? It crouches low, waiting for a careless, unsuspecting mouse. It darts east and leaps west, paying no heed to high or low, yet it falls into a trap, is caught in a net, and dies.’

The commentary says: ‘Wildcat’ means a wild cat; ‘darting about’ means leaping and running; ‘trap’ refers to devices of that kind; ‘nets’ are gear for catching animals. When a wildcat hunts mice, it crouches low and waits for a careless mouse, then runs and leaps in every direction, heedless of high or low. In the end it falls into a trap and dies in a net. This happens because it covets a small gain close at hand without considering the greater consequences.

This is also like someone who kneels in submission and flatters others, outwardly honoring the words and conduct of sages but inwardly acting insincerely and distorting their own nature in pursuit of immediate advantage and opportunity. Even if such a person prospers for a time, they will eventually fall into danger and ruin. Shang Yang, Su Qin, and Zhang Yi were examples of this. How is this any different from the wildcat hunting mice and finally dying in a net?

‘Now consider the yak. It is as huge as a cloud hanging at the edge of the sky. It is indeed immense, but it cannot be used to catch mice.’

The commentary says: The yak is also called the maoniu. It is native to the southwestern frontier regions and is extremely large.

Seen from afar, it looks like a cloud on the horizon. Amid lakes and marshes, one can freely nurture one’s nature.

A cat that leaps to pounce on a mouse cannot compare with a wildcat. This is just as Zhuangzi says: by keeping clear of worldly conventions, one can govern the state and cultivate oneself in accord with principle, and live a long life.

Now suppose you have a great tree and worry that it is useless. Why not plant it where nothing is—on the vast, open wilderness?

“Nowhere at all” means “where nothing exists”; “nothing” means “absence.” Here it refers to a broad, open place without people. Since nothing of any kind is there, it is called the “realm of nowhere at all.”

You can stroll freely beside it and lie at ease beneath it.

“Wander freely” means to stroll as one pleases; “at ease” means to feel content and unconstrained. The two expressions convey the same idea in different words. Though this tree is not fit for timber, its branches and leaves grow thickly, their shadows swaying as they screen the sun and block the wind. Passersby can linger beneath it, rest, lean against it, or lie down. As Zhuangzi says, through Wuwei (non-action), emptiness, stillness, and detachment, one can live freely and at ease. The tree’s shade, too, shelters all living things.

It will not be felled by an axe or harmed by external forces. Since it has no use, what hardship could it face?

【Note】Whether great or small, when things lose their own nature, benefit and harm become indistinguishable. When each thing finds its proper place, all things can live freely and at ease.

The tree’s trunk is swollen and its branches crooked, so it does not meet a carpenter’s standards for timber. The carpenter therefore pays it no heed, and no one will fell it with an axe. How, then, could it suffer the calamity of being cut down before its time? Thus it can enjoy its full lifespan and complete the course of its life. There is use within uselessness; what hardship could it face? This is just as Zhuangzi says: going against worldly opinions while accord­ing with the Great Dao can preserve body and mind and safeguard one’s nature. Since it will not suffer disaster among people, how could it be troubled by its allotted fate?

Annotations and Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, volume one.