《南華真經註疏》Vol. 2

Nan Guo Ziqi was leaning against a table, his head tilted toward the sky as he sighed. His expression was distant, as though he had lost his companion.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Ziqi regarded Heaven and humanity as one and no longer distinguished between self and other. So external things could not make him glad. He was so still that it seemed his body and mind had come undone, as though he had lost the companion matched to him.

The explanatory commentary says: Nan Guo Ziqi was the marshal of King Zhuang of Chu, and his personal name was Ziqi. People in ancient times were simple and often took the place where they lived as a title. Since he lived in the southern quarter of the city, he was called Nan Guo Ziqi. Here, “leaning on a table” means resting against one; “distant and still” describes a body and mind that have slackened into a trance; and “companion” means a partner or counterpart. Ziqi sat leaning on the table, gathered his attention in deep thought, and sighed toward the sky as he experienced the Dao of nature. He seemed to have forgotten both his body and his mind, as well as external things and himself. That is why he looked as though he had lost his companion.

Yan Cheng Ziyou stood before him in attendance and asked, “What is happening? Can a person’s body really be like a withered tree? Can a person’s mind really be like dead ashes?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: “Dead ashes” and “withered tree” are images of stillness and freedom from feeling. Those who follow their nature and forget right and wrong let their hearts follow their inborn nature alone, without clinging to anything else. Thus, when still, they are like withered trees; when they move, like dead branches; when seated, like dead ashes; and when walking, like drifting dust. What I cannot manage is, first, to be like this in both movement and stillness; and second, to be free of attachment and yet come naturally to understanding.

The explanatory commentary says: Yan Cheng Ziyou’s family name was Yan, his personal name was Yan, and his courtesy name was Ziyou. He saw that Ziqi looked calm and still, very different from his usual self. So he rose and stood in attendance, hoping to ask the reason. He asked whether Ziqi’s body had become like a withered tree and his mind like dead ashes. Surely he had mastered some mysterious method; he asked Ziqi to explain its principles.

Ziqi said, “The me leaning against this table now is no longer the me who used to lean against it.”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: Ziyou had seen people leaning against tables before, but he had never seen anyone like Ziqi.

Ziyou had heard of “sitting in forgetfulness” before, but had not yet fully grasped its deeper meaning. Now he saw Ziqi sitting quietly, leaning against a table. His expression was unlike anything he had seen before: still and detached, almost without feeling. Ziyou was astonished and perplexed.

Ziqi said, “Yan, isn’t it good that you ask this? I have now forgotten myself. Do you know what that means?”

The commentary says: “Forgetting myself” means forgetting the self. Once even oneself has been forgotten, what is there in the world left to distinguish? Only after both the inner self and external things have been forgotten can one be free and at ease, with neither held in bondage.

The subcommentary explains: Ziqi approves of Ziyou’s question because Ziyou has already forgotten himself. Ziqi has reached a state in which subject and object are both forgotten, and self and things are entirely dissolved into one another. Ziyou has not yet understood this, which is why he is astonished and perplexed. Ziqi therefore uses his quiet posture, leaning against the table, to explain the state, and asks Ziyou, “Do you perhaps know what the music of Heaven is? You have heard the music of humans, but not the music of Earth; you have heard the music of Earth, but not the music of Heaven.”

The commentary says: “Lai” refers to a musical instrument like the xiao, a panpipe. Its pipes vary in length and pitch, so they produce sounds of differing heights and many kinds of variation. Though the sounds are all different, each follows its own measure, and none is absolutely superior or inferior. By analogy, when wind passes through the myriad things, each gives voice to a different sound, yet all arise naturally in accordance with its own shape and circumstances. In this way, the music of Heaven and Earth is revealed.

The subcommentary explains: The music of humans refers to the xiao. The xiao has sixteen pipes of varying lengths, shaped like a phoenix’s wings, and is said to have been made by Shun. Each pipe produces its corresponding sound; likewise, all things follow their nature and each gives voice in its own way. Through the dialogue between Ziqi and Ziyou, Zhuangzi explains the meanings of the music of humans, Earth, and Heaven; these are discussed in detail below.

Ziyou said, “May I ask what this means?”

The subcommentary explains: “Fang” means principle or method. Although Ziyou had heard the name “the Three Sounds,” he did not yet understand what it meant, so he asks what the Three Sounds are.

Ziqi said, “The Great Earth exhales its breath, and this breath is called wind.”

The commentary says: “The Great Mass” refers to the Earth, and may also be understood as the natural process of transformation. “Exhaling breath” does not mean that some entity is breathing; rather, Qi surges forth spontaneously. The growth of all things also occurs naturally: no one knows how or why, yet it happens all the same. For this reason the Earth is called the “Great Mass.” The subcommentary says that the Great Mass is a name for creation and transformation, and also refers to nature. The patterns of nature run through all things and bring them forth without any need for human arrangement. When Qi surges forth across the Earth, it is called wind.

Ziqi continued, “Usually the wind does not stir. But once it begins to blow, the myriad openings roar and whistle with great force.”

The commentary says: When the wind is still, it makes no sound. When it begins to blow, the myriad openings vibrate with it and give rise to all kinds of sounds.

“Shi” refers here to the wind, and “zuo” means to rise. The idea is that this great wind makes no sound only when it is still. Once it begins to blow, the myriad apertures are set in motion and roar. Surely you have heard the long wind howl as it sweeps through the mountains and forests?

“Liuliu” is the sound of the long wind; “weijia” describes the way the mountains and forests sway when buffeted by a strong wind. The long wind blows with a clear, piercing sound, shaking the woods and setting trees and branches swaying. These sights are plain for everyone to see. Surely you alone have not failed to hear them?

The text goes on: “A tree a hundred spans around has apertures that resemble noses, mouths, and ears; some look like the bracket sets atop pillars, others like livestock pens or stone mortars. Some are hollowed out; others are sunken and uneven.” This is a brief survey of the different shapes of apertures. “Ji” is a wooden component at the top of a pillar, what is now called a bracket set; “juan” is an enclosure for livestock. The great tree has many apertures: some resemble human mouths and noses, others animal pens, ear holes, or the bracket sets of a house; some are curved and hollowed out, others sunken and uneven. Each has its own shape. Only eight examples are given here. The myriad things in the world, too, differ in kind, some beautiful and some ugly, all shaped by the transformations of nature.

“Ji, xiao, chi, xi, jiao, hao, yao, and jiao” are a general account of the sounds made by these various apertures. “Ji” resembles rushing water striking against something; “xiao” sounds like air whistling through the opening of an arrow; “chi” is like a scolding; “xi” like breathing; “jiao” like a shout; “hao” like weeping; “yao” describes a deep sound, as if rising from a ravine; and “jiao” is a mournful sound. When wind passes through the apertures in a tree, it produces these eight kinds of sounds. People, too, each have their own endowment and differ in countless ways. They act according to their nature, with none above or below the others. Even differences in size, early death, or longevity are no reason for one to prevail over another.

“The one in front sings ‘yu,’ and the one behind sings ‘yong’”: the sound in front gives voice to “yu,” and the sound behind answers with “yong.” “Ling wind” means a light breeze, and the answering sound it produces is gentle; “piao wind” means a strong wind, and its answering sound is loud. This describes the sounds made as wind blows through trees, one following another. Though the sounds vary in countless ways, their volume always matches the strength of the wind each aperture receives; each is fitting in its own way.

The fierce wind makes many different sounds, some high and some low. Each sounds according to its own circumstances; none is better or worse than another. This illustrates how all things receive their breath and follow their own nature.

When the great wind stops, the many openings fall silent.

Note: Here, “cease” means to stop. When the fierce wind blows, it makes the many openings sound; when the wind stops, they grow quiet. The openings may differ in whether they make a sound, but in each case they respond to their own circumstances. In this, they are the same.

Commentary: “Fierce” means violent and strong; “cease” means to stop. When the great wind stops, the many openings grow quiet; when the wind stirs them, they sound. Whether they make a sound or not, each responds to its own circumstances. In this, there is no difference.

The seasons wax and wane, and Heaven and Earth bring things to life and cause them to perish. Since they have no intention of nurturing the myriad things, how could they deliberately set out to destroy them?

Have you not seen how some things sway vigorously while others move gently?

Note: “Diao-diao” and “diao-diao” both describe swaying. The sounds made by the myriad things differ, as do the movements of their forms. Though their movements are different, each responds in the same way to its own circumstances. Is vigorous swaying right while gentle swaying is wrong?

Commentary: Here, “you” means “you.” “Diao-diao” and “diao-diao” both describe swaying. Things have different forms and different ways of moving; though some sway vigorously and others gently, there is ultimately no right or wrong. What is more, waxing and waning, gathering and dispersing, life and death, hardship and success are all natural changes in things. They cannot be otherwise. What right or wrong, good or bad, could there be in them?

Ziyou said, “The sounds of the earth are the sounds made by the many openings; the sounds of people are made by bamboo pipes arranged together. May I ask what the sounds of Heaven are?”

Commentary: The sounds of the earth come from openings, while the sounds of people come from instruments such as flutes and pipes. These are visible and easy to understand. Only the sounds of Heaven are profound and mysterious, difficult to grasp at once. With my limited knowledge, I venture to ask you and hope to resolve my doubts.

Ziqi said, “When the wind blows across the myriad things, each makes a different sound, yet each sound comes from the thing itself.”

Note: This is what is meant by the sounds of Heaven. Are they some separate thing that exists on its own? They are not produced by some other entity. Rather, the many openings, bamboo pipes, and living things come into contact with one another and together give rise to the sounds of nature. The formless cannot produce the formed; nor can formed things, before they have come into being, make themselves into the source of their own becoming. So who is it that keeps the myriad things coming into life? They simply arise naturally. To say that things “generate themselves” does not mean that “I” create them: I cannot create the myriad things, and they cannot create me. Thus all things arise naturally, each in relation to the others. What is so of itself is called “natural.” “Natural” does not mean acting with intention. It is therefore called “Heaven” to show that it comes about of itself, not to refer to the vast blue sky.

Some people think that “the pipes of Heaven” means Heaven drives all things and makes them obey it. In fact, Heaven cannot even possess itself, so how could it possess all things? “Heaven” is simply a collective name for all things. Nothing in particular serves as Heaven, and no one rules or drives all things. Thus each thing comes into being on its own, without an external source. This is the Dao of Heaven.

Commentary: “Heaven” is a collective name for all things, and another way of speaking of “nature.” Could it mean only the blue sky above? And are “the pipes of Heaven” some separate thing that makes sounds? In fact, they are the sounds made when the many openings in a bamboo grove meet living things.

Ask who rules over the ceaseless generation of all things. In fact, there is no such thing. Externally, things do not depend on anything else; internally, they do not rely on deliberate action of their own. They come into being naturally in this way, each changing independently. Guo Xiang’s commentary says, “That which is so of itself is called natural.” The term “natural” is used to show that all things are so from the beginning.

There is only one wind, but the openings it passes through differ in countless ways. Some are large and some small, and each makes a different sound. Yet each sounds according to its own conditions. Why would anything else need to arrange this? This is what is meant by the pipes of Heaven.

In spring, all things sprout; in summer, they grow. The eyes see and the ears hear. Whether people look closely at themselves or examine distant external things, they do not know why these changes are as they are, nor can they discern what makes them so. Each thing rests in its own place, is sufficient in itself, and acts in accordance with its nature; none is arranged by the mind. This is the meaning of “settling and nurturing them”—letting each thing settle and grow in its own way—and the general sense of the pipes of Heaven.

All things draw what they need from themselves. So who makes them stir and give voice?

Note: All things are so of themselves and find fulfillment in themselves. Who rules them and makes them spring into action? This restates the meaning of the pipes of Heaven.

Commentary: “Draw from themselves” means to attain for themselves. When wind passes through openings of different shapes, each makes a different sound. Yet all things find what they need in themselves and are never thereby left wanting. So who makes them rise up and sound as they do? This means that living beings are diverse and the myriad forms are distinct, each coming into being according to its own nature, none ever lacking. Some fly, some walk—who decreed that they must do so? We can see from this that something stirs all things into action, yet there is no ruler. This again explains the meaning of the pipes of Heaven.

The great wisdom is broad and at ease; petty cleverness is preoccupied with distinctions.

Note: This speaks of different kinds of wisdom.

Commentary: “At ease” describes a spacious, unhurried manner; “preoccupied with distinctions” describes making distinctions at every turn. Those whose wisdom is broad follow their nature, their minds empty, quiet, and detached, without clinging to judgments of right and wrong. Those with narrow, petty understanding are constrained in outlook and constantly make choices, so they repeatedly distinguish self from other and draw boundaries. The former do not cling to right and wrong, and so remain broad and at ease; the latter continually make distinctions, and so seem constrained.

“Great words blaze forth, while lesser words chatter on.” This describes different ways of speaking. The commentators explain that “blazing” means fierce and intense, while “chattering” means talkative and trivial. Words that illuminate the Great Dao are like a raging fire sweeping across a field: they clear away the weeds and leave no trace. The petty arguments of Confucians and Mohists, by contrast, merely waste breath and do nothing to improve people’s understanding.

“When they sleep, their spirits mingle; when they wake, their bodies open.” This describes the difference between dreaming and waking. The commentators say that ordinary people’s minds and spirits are restless, absorbed in what lies before them and never at peace, even for a moment. In sleep, their spirits recklessly reach out and mingle with things; on waking, their bodily awareness opens again, encounters external things, and is affected by them.

“They engage with things and become entangled; day by day, their minds struggle. Some are loose, some deep, some secret.” This describes what happens when people come into contact with the world around them. “Entangled” means joined and knotted together; “deep” means hidden away; “secret” means concealed. As people encounter the affairs of the world, their minds become tangled with external circumstances. Delusive thoughts grow ever deeper, and they always feel short of time. So they treasure every moment, as though their minds and spirits were battling time each day. When people fix their minds on pursuing external things, their feelings and dispositions shift in many ways, which can broadly be divided into several kinds.

“Minor fears make them tremble; great fears leave them dispirited.” This describes different degrees of fear. “Trembling” means being frightened and unsettled; “dispirited” means dejected and downcast. The circumstances of the world may go well or badly, and people’s minds are always worrying and calculating, afraid that things will not turn out as they wish. Thus minor fears make them anxious and uneasy, while great fears leave them languid, powerless, and low in spirits.

“Their thoughts spring forth like a crossbow trigger; they are devoted to judging right and wrong.” This describes thoughts arising as swiftly as an arrow released by a crossbow mechanism. The “trigger” is the mechanism that releases the crossbow, and the “nock” is the notch at the end of an arrow where the string catches. Once people set their minds on pursuing external things, their emotional responses become swift and intense, like a crossbow suddenly firing. Their minds focus solely on deciding what is right and wrong, as though they had no other aim.

“Their thoughts cling like a curse or an oath; they are intent on prevailing.” This describes thoughts that linger with the tenacity of a curse or an oath. A “curse” is a malediction, and an “oath” is a pledge. When people devote themselves to arguing over right and wrong and fix their attention on external things, they hold fast to their own views as though bound by an oath, determined to defeat others.

“They wither like autumn and winter, which is to say, they diminish day by day.” This describes life gradually waning, like all things withering in autumn and winter. In autumn, plants and trees shed their leaves; winter brings desolation, and the landscape changes swiftly, as though it had transformed in the blink of an eye. Yet the ignorant and deluded do not notice. They focus only on arguing over illusory right and wrong, never realizing that they are growing old and wasting away day by day. This, in essence, is how people decline.

When one becomes obsessed with something, one will do things that cannot make one change one’s mind.

[Commentary] This is what happens when one sinks into something and keeps pressing forward single-mindedly.

[Explanation] When the mind has long been held back and absorbed by external things, one’s actions turn away from the Great Dao and violate one’s true nature. It is already impossible to restore such a person’s nature and bring them back to their source.

Desire clouds one’s vision, as though one were bound with ropes. In old age, the desires in one’s heart grow even stronger.

[Commentary] This is what happens when one sinks into desire: the older one gets, the deeper one’s desires become.

[Explanation] “To sink” means to become submerged or absorbed. Those who are confused and turned around sink into desire, their passions gripping them as firmly as ropes. This does not happen only to people who indulge themselves in their prime; some find that their desires grow even stronger in old age.

The mind has come close to death and can no longer be brought back to life.

[Commentary] This is what happens when one prizes private gain and disregards danger, allowing one’s intentions to harden inwardly until one stubbornly follows a single course.

[Explanation] “Cannot” means it is impossible; “yang” refers to vitality. A mind sunk in attachment has come close to death. It is no longer possible to bring it back to the Way of life.

Joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, thought, sighing, change, fear, frivolity, abandon, openness, and affectation—these are the different states of feeling.

[Commentary] This describes the various differences in temperament.

[Explanation] Those who are foolish and confused often cling to favorable and unfavorable circumstances. When things go well, they feel joy and pleasure; when things go badly, they feel sorrow and anger. Of these emotions, sorrow and pleasure are stronger, while joy and anger are milder. Joy gives rise to delight in the heart; pleasure makes the body dance and wave its hands. Anger immediately shows itself as resentment; sorrow brings grief throughout the body and loud lamentation. Thought means speculating about the future; sighing means lamenting the past; change means altering what came before; fear means yielding and being unable to extend oneself; frivolity means restless agitation; abandon means extravagance without restraint; openness means desires spilling outward; affectation means coquettish and licentious behavior. The thoughts of living beings change without end, but they can be summed up in these twelve kinds. Look closely, and you can see the ways things and human feelings take shape.

Music issues from empty spaces; damp heat rises and gives birth to morning mushrooms.

[Commentary] This describes the different ways things change. The passages above briefly present the unfathomable changes of the “sounds of Heaven”—sounds that arise spontaneously in nature. The passages below explain that nature itself changes in unfathomable ways. All things follow their own nature, without knowing why they are as they are; they simply come to be that way. Their forms may differ greatly, yet the principle by which they arise naturally is the same.

[Explanation] The inside of a flute is hollow, and so it can produce refined music; damp heat rises, and so it can give birth to morning mushrooms—fungi that appear at dawn and wither by dusk. This is like the illusory emptiness of all things between Heaven and Earth, from which something comes forth out of nothing. If morning mushrooms and music are both fleeting illusions, then where do feelings of joy and anger come from? Day and night alternate, appearing before us again and again, yet people do not know where this all begins.

[Commentary] Day and night take turns: the old passes away, and the new follows. The myriad things between Heaven and Earth are in constant change…

Day gives way to night. The sun and moon turn in ceaseless cycles, taking turns to become what comes before and what follows. Yet when we search for the source of it all, we do not know what it is. What brings it forth? It simply happens of itself.

The ear.

Commentary: Day and night take turns, and the sun and moon circle around again and again, alternating as before and after. If we investigate where they come from, we cannot see their root.

Let it be, then; stop here. Where does the alternation of day and night begin? It may be best to stop trying to reason it out. Even if we repeatedly examine morning and evening and ask where night and day come from, we still cannot know. Since we do not know their beginning or source, we should understand that all things in the world are illusory and unreal. If we seek the root of life and death, we find that their underlying reality is still and without birth. That is why the Laozi says, “Face it, and you cannot see its beginning; follow it, and you cannot see its end.” This is precisely the point.

Note: “That” here means nature. Nature brings me forth, and I too am born from nature. Nature, then, is the natural character within me. How could it be far from me?

Commentary: “That” means nature, and “receive” means to accept or inherit. If not nature, what could have brought me forth? And without me, who would receive nature? I am nature, and nature is me. This truth is not far away; hence the words, “It is also close at hand.”

Yet we do not know what, exactly, is directing them.

Note: Each thing is as it is of itself; things do not intentionally drive one another. So let them run their natural course, and the principle will reveal itself.

Commentary: I inherit my nature from the natural order, and the principles that govern its workings are already present. The hand can grasp, the ear can hear, and the eye can see; each has its own function. No force behind the scenes directs them, and there is no need to arrange things with care. We need only let them follow their nature.

If there truly is a ruler, we cannot find any trace of it.

Note: The myriad things and their many forms each have different tendencies and preferences, as though a “True Ruler”—a genuine sovereign—were making them so. Yet when we search for traces of this True Ruler, we find none. This shows that all things are as they are of themselves, with no force making them so.

Commentary: The limbs of the body differ from one another, and each has its own function. It seems as though some true nature were ruling them, yet we can never find any trace of a ruler. Where, then, do these functions come from?

When walking, we trust that we can take a step and move forward.

Note: A person who is walking is confident that they can step forward.

Commentary: Trusting that we can walk, we act according to our intention. The body’s natural capacities set themselves in motion. Following our nature, we do this of our own accord. What need is there for some other force?

Yet we cannot see the form that enables us to walk.

All things function according to their own nature, yet there is no visible form that can be trusted to govern their functioning.

They have feeling, yet no form.

Note: All things have their own dispositions and natures, and these lie within the things themselves. Thus, no separate form can be seen.

Commentary: All things have dispositions and intelligence that allow them to function, yet they have no substantial form on which they can rely.

The hundred bones, nine orifices, and six viscera are all present and complete.

Note: Leave them to nature, and the hundred bones, nine orifices, and six viscera will all exist in full.

Commentary: The hundred bones are the joints throughout the body. The nine orifices are the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, mouth, and the two lower openings. The six viscera refer to the six bowels: the large intestine, small intestine, bladder, and triple burner; here, “viscera” also refers to the five organs: liver, heart, spleen, lungs, and kidneys. The term “complete” means fully equipped. The bones are on the outside, the organs and bowels within, and the orifices connect the inner and outer parts. Only when all three are present is the human body complete; hence the text says “exist.”

Which of them should I regard as closest to me?

Note: Each simply exists naturally in its own way.

Do you cherish them all? Then you must be partial!

Note: To favor everything equally is still to show partiality. Once there is partiality, the body cannot remain complete. So there is no need to favor anything: the body will continue to exist naturally, and all things will grow without deliberate effort.

Commentary: The six senses and nine orifices all belong to the same body. How could one distinguish among them as closer or more distant, or favor and protect one part over another? To favor something deliberately is to be partial. Each part of the body has its own function; only when each is left to act naturally can it settle into its proper place. The same is true of all things.

If so, are they all fit to be servants and maids?

Note: If everything is treated with partiality, the mind will exceed its proper bounds, and those above and below will encroach on one another. Then no one will willingly remain in the position of servant or maid. Servants and maids have their own abilities, but trouble arises when they refuse to accept their roles. Thus, distinctions between ruler and subject, higher and lower, hands and feet, and inner and outer are natural principles. How could they be merely arrangements imposed by people?

Commentary: Servants and maids are male and female attendants of lower rank. The human body, too, has distinctions between ruler and subject: when seeing colors, the eyes take the leading role and the ears assist; when walking, the feet take the leading role and the hands assist. These distinctions arise naturally. How could people have arranged them? The roles of ruler and subject do not arise because the parts are closer to or farther from one another. Guo Xiang’s commentary says that those regarded at the time as worthy took the position of ruler, while those whose abilities were unsuited to public use took the position of subject. The principles governing the state and caring for the self are the same, whether applied within or without.

Are the servants and maids unable to coordinate and govern one another?

Note: Servants and maids each fulfill their own roles; this does not mean they cannot coordinate with one another. Coordination and mutual governance means that the hands and feet, ears and eyes, and the limbs and the whole body each have their own…

Each carries out its own role, working with the others and interacting with them.

Commentary: Ministers, sons, and concubines each have their own duties. They know that the hands are for grasping things and the feet for walking; each need only do its own part. Is it because the hands are not enough that the feet are made to walk? This is the natural unfolding of Heaven’s workings: each fulfills its function. Nothing is deliberately arranged, yet together they bring about good order. From the example of hands and feet, we can understand other things as well.

Do they take turns being ruler and minister?

Note: Those regarded at the time as worthy and capable became rulers; those whose abilities were unsuited to meeting the needs of the age became ministers. But just as Heaven is naturally high and Earth naturally low, and the head is naturally above while the feet are below, do they take turns exchanging places? Even when each remains in its proper position, this is simply each resting in its place, as happens naturally.

Commentary: The head is naturally above and the feet below; the eyes can see colors and the ears can hear sounds. The use and setting aside of different abilities each have their time, and so distinctions of rank arise. Is this because someone deliberately arranged positions above and below, then had them take turns as ruler and minister? Things are simply left to unfold naturally, without deliberate arrangement, and each naturally finds its proper place.

Is there a true ruler within them?

Note: When things are allowed to be as they naturally are, they are not false.

Commentary: If one simply follows what is natural and does not labor to arrange things, then the subtle principle of the “True Ruler”—the real governing presence, that is, the Dao of nature—can be found within. Another interpretation holds that the “True Ruler” is the “True Governor” mentioned earlier: the natural Dao that governs all things. The mind’s choices and colors such as blue and yellow have no independent, unchanging nature of their own; they take shape through the gathering of causes and conditions. They arise neither independently from themselves nor solely from external things. Thus, they can be said to be neither wholly nonexistent nor truly existent. The text therefore poses a question to make clear that there is no “True Ruler” with a visible, tangible form or trace.

If one discovers the truth of things, or fails to discover it, does their true nature gain or lose anything?

Note: Anyone who has realized true nature and acts in accord with what is natural—even someone as lowly as a servant—will not worry about others’ praise or blame, but will rest content in their own proper place. So, whether or not others understand them, they can remain natural. But if one opens the way to seeking gain through chance, allowing those below to offend those above, things lose their original nature, and people forget their roots, becoming unsettled between praise and blame.

Commentary: When the mind and its surroundings respond to each other, desires and attachments arise. Ordinary people therefore think that getting what they wish for means gaining something, while failing to get it means losing something. This passage says that ordinary people are deluded by attachment to gain and loss, and so let gain and loss disturb their minds. From the wisdom of the Dao, such things neither add to nor diminish true nature.

Once one has received a bodily form, it does not change until life comes to an end.

Note: Every nature has its own limits. Thus, the wise hold to their wisdom throughout life, while the foolish cling to their folly until death. Who can completely change their nature?

Commentary: When people receive their bodily form and nature, each has a fixed limit; it is not possible to turn folly… (The original text ends here unfinished.)

How could even a wise person turn ugliness into beauty? Once a person’s physical form and nature have taken shape, they will not ultimately be lost midway through life. One need only keep to one’s proper place and wait for one’s natural lifespan to run its course.

People and external things clash with one another and accommodate one another; they act like galloping horses that cannot stop. Is this not also pitiable?

Commentary: Things jostle and entangle in confusion, with adversity and good fortune alternating. People each cling to their own biases and act as they please, without reflecting on themselves. Compared with this, the things that people grieve over are just as pitiable. Yet people never think of this as sorrowful, because this is simply their nature. Each thing has its own nature, so what is there to grieve over?

Explanatory note: “刃” means to oppose one another; “靡” means to accommodate one another. Things intermingle in confusion, while people pursue external circumstances single-mindedly. Those circumstances include both adversity and good fortune, so people become attached to judgments of right and wrong and keep acting without pause year after year, rushing along as if at a great distance. They know only how to crave external things, never stopping to weigh what is reasonable. This is truly saddening.

Busy all their lives, yet unable to see what they have accomplished.

Commentary: Human desires have no end, and few know how to be content. Having gained one thing, they do not stop, but go on pursuing another. Thus they toil throughout their lives, never satisfying their desires, until death finally brings them to a halt. Their achievements therefore never have a chance to become visible.

Explanatory note: People in the world are restless and competitive; few are content. They gain one thing and refuse to stop, then chase after another. So they are exhausted throughout their lives, even wearing out their lives in ceaseless craving. Like chasing shadows or trying to tie down the wind, when will they ever accomplish anything?

Worn out and exhausted, yet unaware of where they are ultimately headed—is this not sorrowful?

Commentary: Each thing puts its body to work in pursuit of what it likes, until it becomes weary and depleted. Even when they have reached this state of utter exhaustion, people still do not know where the things they cling to and pursue will ultimately lead them.

Explanatory note: “薾然” describes a state of weariness and depletion. People cling deeply to what they like, exhausting body and mind until both are weakened and worn down. They simply pursue and compete out of attachment, without even knowing where they are ultimately headed. This folly is truly lamentable.

People say this does not count as death. What good does that do?

Commentary: The point is that this state is, in practice, no different from being dead.

Explanatory note: “奚” means “what.” When people sink so deeply into attachment that their depletion continues without end, it damages their conduct and undertakings while bringing no benefit to their spiritual and vital energies. One might say that although they are still alive, they are already in the realm of death.

When the body changes, the mind follows suit. Can this not be called a profound sorrow?

Commentary: Mind and body pursue things together, growing exhausted but refusing to turn back. Compared with the sorrows ordinary people feel, this is the true great sorrow. Yet ordinary people never consider it a sorrow… (The original text ends here, unfinished.)

Sorrow is sorrowful because everything worth grieving over is constantly changing and cannot remain for long.

Commentary: From this we can see that thoughts shift one after another, while new things continually appear and disappear. Change makes people grow old, and their awareness grows dim; body and spirit change together. People can only grow old along with these changes. Nothing in the world is more sorrowful than this.

Is a person’s whole life simply this confused? Am I the only one who is confused, while everyone else is clear?

Note: People do not know why the things described above are as they are, but they see them happen naturally; that is why they are called “confused.” Even those now considered knowledgeable do not know why they are able to know, yet awareness arises naturally. The living do not know where life comes from, yet they live naturally. Though all things differ from one another, they are alike in that life is not arranged by awareness. Thus, no one under Heaven is free from confusion.

Commentary: “Mang” means dim or obscure. This passage says that ordinary people live in obscurity, and everyone in the world is confused. Could there be even one person who alone is clear? Zhuangzi understood the Dao and was truly enlightened, but he lowered himself to join the common world. That is why he says, “Am I the only one who is confused?” Guo Xiang’s commentary is somewhat unsound, so it is not followed here.

If people follow the thoughts they have already formed and take them as their standard, who among them does not have a standard of their own?

Note: The thoughts that guide a person’s actions are called a “formed mind.” Everyone takes their own formed mind as the standard, so each person has a standard of their own. Since everyone has such a standard, let each person follow it; naturally, each will think their own way is right.

Commentary: To cling to one’s own opinions and hold fast to a partial view is what is meant by a “formed mind.” People follow and preserve this way of thinking, taking it as their standard for judgment. Everyone in the world does this, so who among them does not have a standard of their own?

Why must one understand someone else’s reasoning and use it to correct oneself before one can be considered discerning? Even a foolish person can be convinced that they are right.

Note: Replacing what one has not yet recognized with the views one has already formed does not amount to genuine discernment. It is merely feeling pleased with oneself. Thus even a foolish person takes their own formed mind as a standard, refusing to give up what they believe is right or accept what they believe is lacking.

Commentary: The ignorant and confused cling to their own judgments of right and wrong. Why would they seek to understand what others do well or what they themselves lack? They only want to say that others are wrong and they are right. Such people are everywhere; the foolish are already included among them.

If no fixed view has yet formed in the mind, and one begins arguing about right and wrong, it is like setting out for Yue today and saying one arrived yesterday.

Note: If one sets out for Yue only today, how could one have arrived yesterday? If no view has yet formed in the mind, where could right and wrong come from? This shows that disputes over right and wrong are something everyone finds hard to avoid…

The distance between Wu and Yue was great; it took many weeks of travel to get there. How could someone who set out this morning already have arrived yesterday? This illustrates that right and wrong, self and other, all arise from the mind’s delusions. If there were no distinctions in the mind to begin with, where would right and wrong come from? First there is distinction; only then can there be right and wrong. First one sets out on the road; only afterward can one arrive in Wu and Yue.

To claim that what did not exist originally does exist—even the divine Yu, the legendary sage ruler Yu the Great, could not understand the reasoning behind it. What can I do?

Principle has no fixed right or wrong. Yet some people believe these are real and definite: this is to treat “nonbeing” as “being.” Once a deluded mind has taken shape, even a sage cannot unravel it for that person. So one can only let it be, without forcing oneself to understand.

“Speech” is not merely a sound produced like wind blowing; the speaker is expressing what they mean.

Each person has their own way of speaking, so speech differs from mere wind sounds. Names and speech both take the form of sounds, but speaking necessarily involves interpretation and distinction.

Yet spoken words have no fixed, unchanging meaning. What I consider right, the other person considers wrong; what they consider right, I consider wrong. The meaning is “undetermined” because each person’s mind is partial.

Although speech differs from the sound of wind, people all say that they are right and the other person is wrong. Because each person’s view is biased, the right and wrong expressed in speech cannot be settled.

Then can speech truly express a definite meaning? It seems insufficient as a basis for deciding right and wrong.

Then does speech not exist at all? That cannot be right either. Judging by the circumstances before us, speech plainly exists.

Here, “truly” means “definitely”: I consider this right, but the other person considers it wrong; I consider that wrong, but they consider it right. Since right and wrong have no settled conclusion, speech cannot be said to have a definite meaning. But each person clings to their own view and judges by their own account, so speech cannot be said to be entirely absent either.

Then, when people say that speech differs from the cries of nestlings (“kuyin,” the calls of young birds), does this difference truly exist, or is there no difference at all?

Note: Human speech and the cries of nestlings are essentially no different. It is hard to determine whether they are distinct or not. The feelings and thoughts of people everywhere may differ, yet the words they speak cannot therefore be entirely different. Thus disputes over right and wrong become confused, and people cannot reach a firm judgment.

Commentary: To discriminate is to distinguish. The cries made by a bird before it hatches are called “nestling sounds.” Speech, too, is as if enclosed in a shell, and so it is called “the shell of words.” People each cling to their own side, yet cannot settle what is right or wrong. How does this differ from the cries of nestlings? Though cries are made, they contain no clear distinctions. If we insist that human speech must differ from the cries of nestlings, we may still be unable to explain precisely where the difference lies.

Where is the Dao obscured, such that truth and falsehood come into being?

Commentary: “Where?” means “in what place?” The open and all-pervading Supreme Dao has neither truth nor falsehood. Where, then, could it be concealed so that truth and falsehood arise?

Where are words obscured, such that right and wrong come into being?

Note: Since the Dao is not contained in words, what is it that obscures it and causes such labels as truth and falsehood, right and wrong, to proliferate?

Commentary: The highest teaching and its words do not treat wrong as wrong or right as right. Where could they be obscured so that right and wrong arise?

Where could the Dao be absent?

Note: The Dao is everywhere.

Commentary: “Exist” means to be present. The Dao transforms and nurtures the myriad things, flowing and moving without pause; it is everywhere. Where could it be absent? Thus the Dao exists in what is false as well as in what is true, yet it is itself identical with neither truth nor falsehood.

Where can words be present, yet not be permitted?

Note: There is nowhere words cannot go.

Commentary: The mysterious Dao and truthful words change along with the growth and decline of the myriad things. Where could they fail to hold? How, then, could they be said to be obscured? Thus one may call something right or wrong, but one cannot treat wrong as absolutely wrong or right as absolutely right.

The Dao is obscured by partial, limited achievements.

Commentary: “Limited achievements” refers to lesser paths such as benevolence, righteousness, and the five virtues. When people achieve something only in these areas, it is called a “limited achievement.” As the age declines, people speak only of benevolence and righteousness but fail to practice the Great Dao. Hence it is said that the Great Dao is obscured by limited achievements—though the Dao itself is not truly obscured. Laozi says, “When the Great Dao is abandoned, benevolence and righteousness appear.”

Words are obscured by ornate rhetoric.

Note: Partial achievements and ornate words obscure people’s understanding of the Dao, though the Dao itself cannot be obscured. Disputes over truth and falsehood, right and wrong, flourish amid ornate rhetoric, but fall silent before plain, practical principles. People see only partial achievements and, as a result, fail to see the Great Dao in its entirety.

Commentary: “Splendor” refers to boastful arguments and elaborate wording. When people cling to fine phrases and debate, they obscure the highest principle. Thus the Laozi says, “Trustworthy words are not beautiful; beautiful words are not trustworthy.”

And so the Confucians and Mohists began arguing with one another over what was right and wrong.

The commentary says: Long ago, there was a man from the state of Zheng named Huan. He studied under Master Qiu for three years, then became a Confucian. Confucians honor and explain the teachings of Yao and Shun, take the institutions of Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou as their standard, follow the way of benevolence and righteousness, and clarify distinctions of rank and status. That is why they are called “Confucians.”

Huan’s younger brother was named Di. Influenced by Huan, Di later became a Mohist. Mohists follow Yu’s way of governing the world, promote the worthy and honor ritual, and advocate frugality and inclusive care—that is, caring for everyone equally. They are even willing to suffer harm from head to heel to save the people. This is what is called “Mohism.”

Huan and Di were brothers, yet each held firmly to a different doctrine and criticized the other. Huan came to resent his younger brother and died in bitterness. But disputes over right and wrong had a long history already, and the fierce conflicts between them began with these two worthy men. For this reason, Zhuangzi called them leaders who stirred up disorder among the people. From this we can see that when the Great Dao declined, discourse became obscure. People began to scrutinize and debate right and wrong, using what they considered right to condemn what others considered right, and using what they considered wrong to reject what others considered wrong.

Note: Confucians and Mohists debated right and wrong, while people throughout the world aligned themselves with one school or the other. Thus the Hundred Schools arose, each clinging to its own views, with none truly rising above its own standpoint.

The commentary says: There is no one in the world who does not consider themselves right and others wrong. If you believe yourself right, you take the other person to be wrong. The other person, in turn, considers you wrong and themselves right. So everyone judges who is right and who is wrong by their own standards.

To affirm what others reject and reject what others affirm, it is better to look at things with a clear mind.

Note: To say there is right and wrong is the position upheld by the Confucians and Mohists; to say there is neither right nor wrong is what they reject. If we now want to affirm what the Confucians and Mohists reject, and reject what they affirm, we are trying to understand the principle that there is no absolute right or wrong. The best way to understand this is to turn back and compare the claims of both sides again and again. After such repeated comparison, what they affirm may not truly be “right,” and what they reject may not truly be “wrong.” Once “wrong” is rejected, there is no fixed “wrong”; once “right” is affirmed, there is no fixed “right.”

The commentary says: People in the world all consider others wrong and themselves right. To turn what others consider wrong into right, and what we ourselves consider right into wrong, the best approach is to compare each side’s claims again and again. Through repeated comparison, what was originally rejected may not truly be wrong, so there is no fixed “wrong”; what was originally affirmed may not truly be right, so there is no fixed “right.” Since there is no fixed right, there is no fixed wrong either. We can therefore see that judgments of right and wrong are relative.

There is nothing that is not “that,” and nothing that is not “this.”

Note: Each thing takes itself as “this,” so there is nothing that is not “this.” In relation to other things, each thing also becomes “that,” so there is nothing that is not “that.” If nothing is not “that,” then there is no fixed “this” in the world. If nothing is not “this,” then the world…

When there is no “other” (the opposing side) and no “right” (the side that considers itself correct), this is “Mysterious Sameness” (Xuántóng): transcending distinctions between self and other, right and wrong, and returning to unity.

The commentary says: All things each consider themselves to be right, so nothing is absolutely right. And all things regard one another as the opposing side, so there is no absolute “other.” Without an absolute other, there can be no absolute self; without an absolute right, there can be no absolute wrong. To have neither other nor right is Mysterious Sameness. The meaning has been fully expressed here; there is no need to make further distinctions.

From the other’s standpoint, one cannot see oneself; only from one’s own standpoint does one know oneself. The commentary says: When others regard you as the “other,” you cannot see yourself. Once you know that you are regarded as “right,” you also understand the distinction involved. All things have their own biases, and this is generally how matters stand. If one can carefully see how others view oneself, and how one views others, one will not cling to absolute right and wrong.

Therefore it is said: “The other” arises from “the right,” and “the right” depends on “the other” to be established.

The note says: All things have their own biases and often cannot see what the other sees; they know only what they themselves know. Knowing only what one knows leads one to consider oneself right; considering oneself right leads one to think others are wrong. That is why it is said that “the other” arises from “the right,” and “the right” depends on “the other” to be established. Other and right depend on and generate one another.

The commentary says: “The other” is relative to “this,” and “right” is relative to “wrong”; this is the general meaning of the passage. The phrase “the other arises from the right” states this subtle principle briefly: “the other” is raised to explain “this,” and “right” is raised to explain “wrong.” Other and self, right and wrong, exist only in dependence on one another. If we continue to examine them, we find that their underlying nature is empty.

This is the claim that other and self arise in relation to one another. Even so, life is already turning toward death, and death is already turning toward life. What is considered workable may become unworkable, and what is considered unworkable may become workable. Thus “right” depends on one side, and “wrong” depends on another; “right” is established through “wrong,” and “wrong” through “right.”

The note says: The change between death and life is like the turning of the four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Although life and death are different states, each rests in the circumstances it encounters, and the principle is the same. The living regard life as life, while the dead regard death as life; seen this way, there is no fixed and unchanging “life.” The living regard death as death, while the dead regard life as death; seen this way, there is no fixed and unchanging “death.” Since life and death have no fixed, unchanging forms, neither do what is workable and unworkable. Thus, when the Confucians and Mohists dispute right and wrong, I cannot agree with either side. Yet to let each rest in its own circumstances is something I cannot say is any different.

The commentary says: “Fāng” means “about to.” Here, other and self, right and wrong, are said to have no fixed distinctions, just like life and death. Life and death alternate like cold and heat. The living regard life as life, while the dead regard life as death…

If “this” is treated as “that,” then “this” and “that” transform into one another: “that” arises from “this,” and “this” arises from “that.” Thus there is no absolute “this.” Since “that” arises from “this,” there is no absolute “that” either. If there is no absolute right and wrong, life and death, or what is acceptable and unacceptable, why argue over one another?

Therefore, the sage does not follow the path of disputing right and wrong. Instead, the sage views all things from the standpoint of “Heaven” (natural inherent qualities). This, too, means following things as they are.

Commentary: A person with an open mind goes along with the world’s judgments of right and wrong without fixing themselves on either side. They do not take the path of disputing right and wrong, and so are not troubled by them. They simply see clearly the natural state of things, without changing or appropriating them.

Explanatory note: “Heaven” means nature. The sage is awakened and understanding. Rather than recognizing things by judging who is right and who is wrong, the sage is empty and still, settled in composure, and views all things with the wisdom that accords with nature. Seeing through right and wrong to the absence of any absolute right or wrong does not mean denying the things that exist in reality and seeking some separate state of nothingness.

“This” is also “that.”

Commentary: The other person may regard me as “that”; from my point of view, the other person is “this.”

Commentary: The other person also considers themselves to be right.

Explanatory note: I consider myself right, but the other person may consider me wrong. I think the other person is wrong, while they consider themselves right.

The other person has their own judgments of right and wrong, and I have mine.

Commentary: I consider myself right and the other person wrong; the other person likewise considers themselves right and me wrong. Thus, each of us has our own judgments of right and wrong.

Explanatory note: I consider myself right, and the other person also considers themselves right. I think the other person is wrong, and they think I am wrong. So each side has its own “right” and “wrong.”

Then is there really a definite “that” that is right? Or is there no such “that” that is right at all?

Commentary: If we now say that “that” is simply that, the other person still considers themselves right. If we say that “this” is what is right, the other person will regard it as “that.” So whether there is or is not a right, and who counts as “this” or “that,” cannot be settled once and for all.

Explanatory note: “This” and “that,” and right and wrong, depend on one another for their existence. The more we pursue the question, the more their whole structure seems unsettled. If one side considers itself right, it cannot rule out being seen as wrong by the other. Thus, the existence or nonexistence of “this” and “that,” and who is which, cannot easily be determined.

When “this” and “that” no longer stand as opposing counterparts, this is called the “pivot of the Dao” (the hinge or key of the Way).

Commentary: “Counterpart” means the opposing side. Since “this” and “that” stand in relation to one another, the sage accords with both. With nothing fixed in the mind, the sage can join with all things and no longer sees the myriad things under Heaven as opposed to one another. The sage occupies this pivotal position, understands the hidden root, and responds to the myriad things whose transformations have no fixed pattern.

Explanatory note: “Counterpart” means the opposing side; “pivot” means the key. To realize that neither “this” nor “that” has a fixed, unchanging nature, and that neither side of right and wrong can be held fast…

With concentrated spirit and quiet reflection, one comprehends alone without setting oneself against external things—such a person can be said to have grasped the profound utmost of the world and to understand the “pivot of the Dao” (the hinge of the Great Way). Earlier, by discussing “being” and “non-being,” it was shown that the distinctions of mutual opposition are not fixed; here it is further explained that the opposites themselves can be resolved into emptiness. What comes first is shallower, what follows is deeper, so the exposition proceeds in that order.

“The pivot first attains the center of the ring, thereby responding to the infinite.”

Right and wrong chase and turn on each other without end, hence it is called a “ring.” “Center of the ring” means the ring’s center—empty and without partiality. Treat right and wrong as a ring; whoever can hold its center does not cling to “right” or “wrong.” Because one does not cling to right and wrong, one can meet every dispute about right and wrong; since right and wrong are endless, response too can be endless.

Commentary says: thoroughly transcending relative distinctions and transforming alone in practice is the root of the Dao and the gist of learning, hence it is called the “pivot.” The “ring” is a metaphor of two holes; the “center” is a single void. The ring’s center is empty—by this it is shown that there is no fixed right and wrong. Right and wrong are infinite, so response is also infinite.

“‘Right’ is also one infinity, and ‘wrong’ is also one infinity.”

Everyone in the world thinks themselves right and others wrong. Thus “right” and “wrong” can each extend without limit. Only one who can taste emptiness and hold the center can have an open mind, free of fixed views, and roam at ease along this principle.

Commentary says: things all take themselves as right, so “right” can be infinite; people criticize one another, so “wrong” can also be infinite. Only by forgetting self and other and simultaneously releasing right and wrong, and realizing the way of the “center of the ring,” can one follow living beings and act freely.

Therefore it is better to rely on clear discernment to analyze. Using one’s own finger (zhi) to compare with another’s finger, and saying the other’s finger is not a finger, is not as good as using what is not a finger to compare with a finger and show that a finger is not a fixed finger. Using one horse to compare with another horse, and saying the other horse is not a horse, is not as good as using what is not a horse to compare with a horse and show that a horse is not a fixed horse.

Commentary says: “finger” means the finger; “horse” refers to the tally used in horse-matching games; “yu” means comparison. People each hold one side and see differently—using one’s finger to compare with another’s turns the other’s finger into “not a finger”; conversely, using another’s finger to compare with one’s own makes one’s own finger “not a finger.” The logic of fingers is the same for horses. Fingers and horses are singled out because the finger is nearest the body and most immediate; the horse is an external thing, commonly used to decide victory or defeat in comparison. These two examples illustrate people’s disputes over right and wrong.

“Heaven and earth are one finger; the ten thousand things are one horse.”

Heaven and earth can be regarded as one finger; the ten thousand things can be regarded as one horse. Commentary adds that people always take themselves as right and others as wrong—this is the usual pattern between self and other.

When others use their fingers to show that “my finger is not the only finger,” their fingers become “fingers” to me, while my own finger becomes “not a finger.” This is using someone else’s finger to show that my finger is not a finger.

If I then use my finger to show what someone else’s finger is, my finger becomes “a finger” to them, while their finger becomes “not a finger.” This is using “not a finger” to show that “finger” is not fixed and unchanging.

To show that there is no absolute right and wrong in the world, it is best to compare the claims of both sides repeatedly, back and forth. Then I will think I am right and the other person is wrong, while they will think they are right and I am wrong. Yet in the mutual accusations of both sides, neither has any advantage over the other. Since each side says the other is wrong, there is no absolute “right” in the world; since each side is convinced it is right, there is no absolute “wrong” either.

Why can we say this? If something were truly and absolutely right, no one in the world should be able to call it wrong. If something were truly and absolutely wrong, no one should be able to call it right. Yet now there is no fixed judge to settle right and wrong, and their claims are tangled in confusion. This shows that those seemingly clear and subtle disputes are merely people believing in their own biases and mistaking their own judgments for a common principle. Look up and observe, look down and examine: it is so everywhere.

Thus, the perfected person, who has realized the Dao, understands that all things under Heaven can be regarded as a single “finger,” and all things can be regarded as a single “horse.” Their mind is therefore broad and at peace. They let the things of Heaven and Earth each keep their place and find their proper home, and no longer cling to absolute right and wrong.

Commentary: Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they can be summed up as “one finger”; though the myriad things are numerous, they can be gathered together as “one horse.” Why is this so? Compare the judgments of right and wrong made by “me” and by “others” again and again, and you will see that what one side calls “right” may not truly be right, and what one side calls “wrong” may not truly be wrong. We can therefore understand that right and wrong among the things of Heaven and Earth are not fixed and unchanging.

What is deemed acceptable is acceptable

Commentary: What you yourself consider acceptable, you call “acceptable.”

What is deemed unacceptable is unacceptable

Commentary: What you yourself consider unacceptable, you call “unacceptable.”

Commentary: Principles themselves have no fixed right or wrong, while things each have aspects that accord with us or do not accord with us. What suits our wishes, we call “acceptable”; what does not suit them, we call “unacceptable.” Since what accords with us and what does not have no fixed standard, “acceptable” and “unacceptable” are also relative judgments.

The Dao is made by walking it

Commentary: There is nothing the Dao cannot bring to completion.

Commentary: The Great Dao is boundless. It nurtures and embraces all living beings and moves through the myriad things, enabling each to come to completion. Thus, things can be brought to completion within what is “acceptable,” without treating “acceptable” as an absolute standard; they can also be brought to completion within what is “unacceptable,” without treating “unacceptable” as an absolute standard.

Things are so because they are called so

Commentary: There is nothing that cannot be called “so.”

Commentary: People’s understanding of reason and feeling is often turned upside down. They cannot truly grasp things, and rely only on their own likes and dislikes, and on what accords or conflicts with them, to make false distinctions between right and wrong. They then arbitrarily decide that something “is so.” Why do they think it is not so? Simply because they dislike it, they say it is not so. Why do they think it is not otherwise? Again, simply because they dislike that way of putting it, they say it is not so.

If both the mind and the external world are empty, and things and the self are both illusory, then where does “being so” come from? Yet people still cling to “being so” and ask what counts as “not being so.”

All things each have an aspect that is considered “so,” and an aspect that is considered “acceptable.”

Commentary: Every thing takes what it itself regards as “so” to be so, and what it itself regards as “acceptable” to be acceptable.

Exegesis: People cling to things and are easily confused when they encounter the external world. They insist that things must be a certain way and must be acceptable, without realizing that what is considered acceptable may also be unacceptable, and what is considered so may also be otherwise. There is nothing that cannot be called “so,” and nothing that cannot be called “acceptable.”

Each kind of thing has its own account and insists on its own view: it regards what it recognizes as “so” and what it approves of as “acceptable.”

That is why the text gives examples such as roof beams and house pillars, the ugly man Li and the beautiful Xi Shi, and spaciousness, fragility, deceit, and strangeness. It shows that from the perspective of the Dao, these things are interconnected and can be understood as one.

Commentary: Roof beams lie horizontally, while house pillars stand upright; Li is ugly, while Xi Shi is beautiful. Does “making them equal” really require making their shapes identical and subjecting them to the same standard? The horizontal and the upright, the beautiful and the ugly, as well as the spacious, the strangely changing, the deceitful, and the bizarre, each regard themselves as “so” and “acceptable.” Thus, although the principles of things differ in countless ways, the natures they embody are interconnected. This is why the text says, “The Dao connects them and makes them one.”

Exegesis: To illustrate this point, the text briefly lists eight kinds of things. Ting refers to a roof beam; ying, to a house pillar; Li, to an ugly and sick person; Xi Shi, to a beautiful concubine of the King of Wu. Hui means spacious or expansive; gui, strangely changing; jue, deceitful; and guai, something uncanny or bizarre. The horizontal and the upright, the beautiful and the ugly, appear different to the human eye. Spaciousness, deceit, and strangeness also seem to serve different purposes in the eyes of the common world, and so readily give rise to bias and one-sided judgments. People should not be confused by these distinctions or cling to one side of them. From the mysterious Great Dao, they are fundamentally no different: though the forms of beauty and ugliness vary, their natural natures are interconnected. This is why the text says, “The Dao connects them and makes them one.”

The boundaries between things are also what bring things into being.

Commentary: What appears here as a thing dispersing may, elsewhere, appear as a thing taking shape.

Exegesis: A thing may appear to disperse in one place and take shape in another. This shows that gathering and dispersal have no fixed, unchanging standard, so one should not cling to either side. The text then develops the argument further through the principle of nonduality.

What brings things into being may also destroy them.

Commentary: What I take to be coming into being, someone else may see as being destroyed.

Exegesis: The same thing may appear to be taking shape in one place and being destroyed in another. Things can differ in this way depending on their use and the point of view: wool can be pulled apart and woven into felt, and trees can be cut down and used to build a house.

The coming into being and destruction of all things can ultimately be understood as interconnected and returning to one.

Commentary: What we call coming into being and destruction both arise from looking at things only from one’s own perspective and failing to see the perspectives of others… 【The original text ends here】

There is no need to cling to either side of things’ success and failure, right and wrong. Success and failure, right and wrong, are distinctions that arise when the human mind becomes fixed on one side. Since success and failure have no unchanging boundaries, neither is there any absolute authority that determines right and wrong. We should therefore understand both sides and see them as one.

Only those who understand the Great Dao know that all things are connected and form a unity. They do not treat “rightness” as a rigid rule, but act in accord with the natural course of things.

“Entrusting” means placing something in another’s care; “ordinary use” means its everyday function. Those who understand the Great Dao can settle their spirit and regard all things with deep insight. They are therefore not bound by partial views of either side, but see things clearly as one. Though they achieve much, they do not claim the credit; though they can put many abilities to use, they do not cling to their own role, but allow everyone’s abilities to serve their proper purpose.

“Ordinary use” means function; function means unhindered understanding; unhindered understanding means attaining something. Those who understand are not confined to one aspect, and so can naturally forget themselves and entrust their function to things in a fitting way. Their actions are orderly and unobstructed, and everything finds its proper place.

Those who can accomplish great things yet give the credit to everyone, and who can govern the myriad affairs and things while allowing all kinds of talent to serve their purpose, are perhaps none other than the sage. The sage responds to external things without a fixed mind. Their spirit moves freely, without obstruction. This is like finding the Dark Pearl beside the Red River: it accords, without contrivance, with the true Dao.

“To attain just enough is to be near” means that once one has grasped something, one is close to the ultimate end of the Dao. “Near” means reaching the end: the highest principle has already reached its utmost in natural contentment.

True attainment relies inwardly on nothing in oneself and outwardly on nothing in things. It involves no thought or deliberate action, and depends neither on study nor on external supports; understanding comes naturally. Because there is no deliberate way of seeking attainment, one instead accords with the Dao and reaches a subtle state.

“To follow what is so” means acting in accord with the way things are, without imposing contrivance. Those who understand the Great Dao are free of intention and deliberate action. They can follow distinctions of right and wrong without clinging to them, and follow the distinction between self and other without clinging to that either. They simply act with the circumstances and do not impose their feelings on them.

“To act this way without knowing why one does so” is called the Dao. Those who understand follow things, but do not first decide that following is good and then deliberately do it. Without knowing how they follow, they follow naturally. This is the Dao.

“Then” links what came before to what follows. The Perfected One has no fixed mind and responds naturally when touched by things, like a clear mirror reflecting objects or an empty valley echoing a sound. They change along with the myriad things and respond to the world, without knowing why they do so or how they respond. They judge things without likes or dislikes and are not constrained by gain or loss. To respond in accordance with the circumstances of people and things may be called the natural Dao.

If one exhausts one’s ingenuity trying to bring the myriad things into unity, without knowing that they are already connected...

So, if one still clings to gathering all things into “one,” this only wears out the mind and spirit. Even if one argues by force of words in search of a unified account, one remains no different from those who cling to one side among the many things. Those who truly understand the highest principle see all things naturally blending into one. Why deliberately strain the mind to attain “nonduality”? This is called “Three in the Morning.”

Commentary: What follows uses an analogy to explain this.

What is meant by “Three in the Morning”? When a monkey keeper handed out acorns (xu, a kind of nut), he said, “I’ll give you three in the morning and four in the evening.” The monkeys all grew angry. He then said, “Then I’ll give you four in the morning and three in the evening.” Every monkey was delighted. The total number of acorns had not changed; the monkeys’ anger and joy differed only because of their likes and dislikes. This is precisely the result of being influenced by the way something is presented.

Note: The adept sees all things as one. Why would this require exhausting the mind and spirit? If one insists on straining the mind to attain “oneness,” this approach is not worth relying on. It is no different from failing to grasp the principle by which all things are interconnected—just as the monkeys were misled by the way the offer was phrased and, following their preferences, decided that one arrangement was better.

Commentary: “Monkey” means macaque; “handed out” means distributed; xu refers to acorns, which look like chestnuts but are smaller. The Liezi records that there was an old man in the state of Song who kept monkeys and understood their minds well. He teased them, saying, “I’ll give you acorns: three in the morning and four in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys all jumped up in anger. He then said, “Four in the morning and three in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys lay down, all pleased. Whether they received three in the morning and four in the evening, or four in the morning and three in the evening, the total was seven. Nothing was lost in the wording, and the actual quantity had not decreased. Yet the monkeys were angry at one moment and happy the next because they were misled by the phrasing and, following their preferences, took their own view to be right. Those who rack their brains and embellish their words in an effort to make all things one are no different from monkeys misled by the way something is said.

Therefore, the sage reconciles the various claims of right and wrong, clings to neither side, and rests in the natural balance.

Note: Taking neither side, the sage lets all things return of their own accord to the natural balance, and rests there in peace.

Commentary: “Heaven’s balance” refers to the principle of balance that arises naturally. The sage who understands the Great Dao is open-minded and free of attachment. Thus, where there is no absolute “right,” they reconcile what is called right; where there is no absolute “wrong,” they bring what is called wrong into accord. No longer constrained by clever distinctions, they abide in equanimity, and their mind and spirit rest in nature.

This is called “walking two paths.”

Note: Let the rights and wrongs of the world each appear in their own way.

Commentary: Without departing from right and wrong, yet transcending attachment to them—this is why it is called “walking two paths.”