《南華真經註疏》Vol. 25

In the disciples of Laozi, there was one named Gengsang Chu who had especially grasped Laozi’s Dao.

Commentary: Gengsang is the surname and Chu the given name. Gengsang Chu was a disciple of Lord Lao (Laozi) and was probably also a recluse. “Yi” (servant) refers to those in a master’s household who run errands and do chores. In antiquity, people served their teachers and willingly took on hard work without shrinking from difficulty, hence they were called “servants.” Laozi had many disciples; among them Gengsang Chu stood out most, which is why the text says he “especially grasped” Laozi’s Dao.

Gengsang Chu lived on Mount Weilei in the north. Servants who fancied themselves clever and showed off their wit left him; those who fancied themselves benevolent and made a display of humaneness also kept their distance.

Guo Xiang’s note: “Hua ran” describes the manner of polishing and parading one’s cleverness; “jie ran” describes the manner of relying on one’s own virtue of benevolence.

Commentary: Weilei is a mountain name in the state of Lu. “Chen qie” means male and female attendants or household servants. Here it means that Gengsang Chu did not wish to win over servants or please gentlemen by means of humaneness, righteousness, and clever stratagems. He dwelt in the hills, his nature solid and plain, valuing substance and despising show. People nearby vied to become his servants and attendants; those who stretched out their talents and flaunted cleverness were rejected and sent away; those who prided themselves on benevolence and insisted on standing apart were also kept at a distance.

Gengsang Chu had those who were simple, honest, and at ease in their own skin live with him, and had those who kept to their place and handled affairs calmly act for him.

Guo Xiang’s note: “Yongzhong” means unadorned simplicity; “yangzhang” means free and content in oneself.

Commentary: Both “yongzhong” and “yangzhang” describe a plain, natural person who finds joy in himself. Gengsang Chu cast aside the forced display of humaneness, righteousness, and cleverness and calmly returned to what is real; therefore he let plain people dwell with him and also let those who followed their inborn nature attend to his affairs.

After Gengsang Chu had lived there three years, the region around Mount Weilei had a great harvest. The local people said to one another: “When Master Gengsang first came, we were all slightly astonished and felt he was quite unusual.”

Guo Xiang’s note: What astonished them was that Gengsangzi abandoned cleverness and let things develop on their own.

“Now, if we reckon his conduct day by day, we see no obvious benefit; yet when we look at a full year, we find the yield more than enough.”

Guo Xiang’s note: One who accords with the four seasons does not demand immediate results.

Commentary: “Da rang” means a great harvest; “sa ran” means a slight surprise. After Gengsang Chu had lived there three years, the crops in the mountains ripened abundantly. The people of Weilei spoke privately and said: When he first arrived we were somewhat surprised; now if we calculate his actions each day, we seem to see no gain, but over a whole year what is gained is more than sufficient. This is because the sage accords with the rhythm of the four seasons and does not seek an effect that shows at once; their virtue works over the long term, so reckoned by the day it seems insufficient, reckoned by the year it appears ample. Three years…

When the Dao of Heaven completes one cycle of movement, three years of accumulation produce a modest harvest; thus the region around Weilei Mountain enjoyed a great abundance.

“Shuji” means to hope for or approach something; “shi” refers to the person who presides over sacrificial rites. The commentary says: Gengsangzi is a person of lofty virtue who approaches the realm of the sage. Why should the people of Weilei not jointly honor him as their lord, let him direct affairs of state, and establish for him altars to the soil and grain and ancestral temples, worshipping him according to ritual? Would that not be good?

When Gengsangzi heard this, he sat facing south, but his expression showed no joy. His disciples found this strange.

The commentary says: Hearing that the people of Weilei wished to install Gengsangzi as lord, he felt this violated the way of Wuwei (non-action), hence his displeasure. The disciples did not understand the reason and therefore wondered at it.

Gengsangzi said: “Why do you disciples find me strange? When spring’s breath stirs, the hundred grasses grow; when autumn comes, the various fruits ripen. Do spring and autumn deliberately bring these results about? They merely follow the natural movement of the Dao of Heaven.”

The annotated explanation: Spring birth and autumn completion both accord with the natural Dao; there is no intentional effort. In spring all things sprout; in autumn they bear fruit—this is the constant pattern of Yin-Yang movement. Summer growth and winter storage are likewise the law of the ten thousand things. Spring and autumn do not set out to create the ten thousand things; as the Dao of Heaven operates, the ten thousand things change of themselves. One need not claim credit for growing or harvesting.

“I have heard that the perfected person dwells quietly in a small chamber enclosed by walls on all four sides, while the common people go their separate ways, not knowing themselves where they are headed.”

The annotated explanation: “Huandu” is a small room with one wall on each of the four sides—a dwelling about a single pace square. “Shiju” describes sitting as still and silent as a corpse; the people seem to move only of their own nature, not from deliberate planning.

“Now the ordinary folk of Weilei Mountain talk among themselves of listing me among the worthy and honoring me with ritual vessels and sacrifice. Am I to become a marker pole that everyone stares at?”

The annotated explanation: “Zu” is the chopping block for meat; “dou” is the vessel for dried meat and other offerings—both are implements of sacrifice. The ancients used “a host of dragons with no head” to show that no one person should stand at the fore; sages and worthies likewise took concealing their virtue and resting in stillness as their model. Now the people whisper that they will honor him with rites and make him master—that is putting him up where all eyes fix on him. How is that like one who withdraws to cultivate the Dao?

“Therefore I have never been able to forget what Old Long-ears (Laozi) once said.”

Laozi says: “When a task is accomplished yet one does not claim credit, the people all take it as something they did naturally.” The people of Weilei do the opposite, so things do not go smoothly.

Laozi means that after success one does not claim merit or act as master. The disciples in Chu respectfully accept their teacher’s teaching; the people of Weilei go against it, so they cannot be at ease.

The disciple said: “Not necessarily. In a ditch the size of a xun or a chang, large fish cannot stretch their bodies, yet small fish and loach can lord it over the place; on a hillock the size of a bu or a ren, large beasts have nowhere to hide, yet a small fox takes it as a blessed spot.”

The disciple’s point is that someone with great ability ought to receive ample salary and rank.

Eight chi make one xun; two xun make one chang; six chi make one bu; seven chi make one ren. Ni is a small fish with feet—not a great fish like the kun. In an ordinary ditch, how could kun or whales fit? Small fish instead treat it as a good place. On a hillock of bu or ren size, not enough for large beasts to hide—yet uncanny little foxes take it as auspicious ground. So the disciple holds that great beasts must dwell in deep mountains, and great men should enjoy generous emoluments.

Moreover, honoring the worthy and employing the capable—letting them receive good treatment and benefit first—has been the way since antiquity; Yao and Shun did so, all the more so for the people of Weilei. Master, please heed this advice as well.

Honor the virtuous, promote the able; those who act well are appointed first and given benefit and salary. Sages like Yao and Shun still acted thus—how could the people of Weilei go against the ancient sages? The master is a man of penetration; may you accept this persuasion.

Gengsangzi said: “Children, come here. A beast so huge it can swallow a cart in its mouth—if it leaves the mountains alone, it will hardly escape the net. A fish big enough to swallow a boat—if waves wash it onto dry ground, even ants can harm it. Therefore birds and beasts do not disdain high mountains; fish and turtles do not disdain deep water.”

The commentator explains: Staying far from the lure of profit and avoiding harm is how one preserves oneself.

Such a beast is enormous—it opens its mouth and can hold a cart. If it leaves the forest and travels alone, it cannot escape the net’s disaster. A fish that can swallow a boat is likewise huge; if waves cast it out of the water, ants can injure it. Birds and beasts choose heights, fish and turtles choose depths—not from love of being different, but to preserve themselves and keep clear of harm. Animals are thus; how much more so people?

Those who would preserve the body and nurture life, when they hide themselves, should also choose remote and secluded places—not merely seek outward security.

The commentator explains: If you throw yourself into fame, profit, and office, your situation becomes shallow and exposed—and dangerous.

“Miao” means remote and deep. One who withdraws from the world, preserves the bodily form, and nourishes life should…

Withdraw far from the strife of the human world and settle deep among mountains and springs; if the mind is still bound to profit and official rank, one’s attainment remains shallow.

Moreover, what in Yao and Shun is there truly to praise? Commentators hold that the sage-kings’ exemplary deeds can unsettle people’s hearts and are therefore not fit objects of reverence.

Such argument is like boring holes in a sound wall and sowing tumbleweed and weeds in thegaps. The gloss means that later ages rashly rework the teaching, invent new norms, and disturb the innate nature of things—as if smashing a whole wall and planting wild grass for a fence.

Combing hair into false locks, or counting grains of rice to cook a meal, is to pour effort into the smallest trifles. The commentary takes this as much cost for little gain. How can such finicky debate heal the age? Only by following the undivided innate nature and refraining from deliberate governance can the world be set right.

Elevate the worthy, and the people turn on one another—the gloss says this reverses human nature and drives everyone after honored names. Rule by wit alone, and the people cheat and steal; when the plain, sincere heart is no longer enough, craft fills the gap, hypocrisy spreads, and livelihood built on pretense cannot but end in fraud and theft.

“Turn on one another” means mutual harm. Honoring worthies and cleverness invites rivalry in deceit, insult, and trickery, opens the way to gain, and ends in injury.

These devices cannot restore the people’s simplicity. When the chase for profit runs strong, private grudges and rage breed killing of fathers and rulers and threaten the realm. Some rob in broad daylight, storm cities, break walls, and tunnel to steal before all eyes, without shame.

I tell you: the root of great disorder will surely arise in the time of Yao and Shun, and its fruit will last a thousand years and more—until, in the end, people devour one another.

Note: What Yao and Shun left behind was only the trace of their governance; later ages adorned and embellished those practices and spread them abroad, and so produced the kind of harm we see.

Commentary: The spirit of abdication in the eras of Tang Yao and Yu Shun later turned into the disaster of usurpation and rebellion. The root of disorder began with Yao and Shun; a thousand years on, the ill effects had not ceased. The mutual slaughter among the Yellow Turbans and Red Eyebrows (peasant rebel armies of old) was a manifestation of that same harm.

Nanrong Chu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) sat up straight in alarm and said: “Someone as old as I am—where can I even begin to learn, so as to grasp what you have just said?”

Commentary: Nanrong is the surname, Chu the given name. Curan means a startled, fearful manner. After hearing this teaching, Nanrong Chu felt admiration; he straightened his bearing in awe and asked sincerely: “I am advanced in years and my spirit is dim—by what path of learning can I catch up to the doctrine you speak of?”

Gengsang Chu said: “Preserve your bodily form.”

Note: Keep to your proper place and role.

“Guard your life.”

Note: Do not let your mind be tied to things outside life itself.

“Do not let your thoughts churn in busyness like this. Hold to this for three years, and you will be able to understand what I have just said.”

Commentary: Without chasing externals, one can preserve the bodily form; by keeping to one’s proper place, one can guard life. When what belongs within one’s role is upright, life is preserved, spirit can settle, and the body is at ease, no longer dragged about by crafty, restless thinking. Rushing after outer things is to enslave one’s life. With emptiness and stillness for three years, one can then grasp this teaching. This is Gengsang Chu’s instruction to Nanrong Chu.

Nanrong Chu said: “Eyes and bodily form—I see no difference between them, yet the blind cannot see for themselves; ears and bodily form—I see no difference between them, yet the deaf cannot hear for themselves; heart-mind and bodily form—I see no difference between them, yet the deranged cannot restore themselves to their normal state.”

Note: Eye to eye, ear to ear, heart to heart—they look alike in bodily form, yet their capacities differ. Where there is difference, one cannot force them to imitate one another.

Commentary: The blind and ordinary people share the same eyes, ears, and outward form, yet the blind do not see colors and the deaf do not hear sounds. The deranged and ordinary people look alike outwardly, yet the deranged lose their constant nature and cannot hold themselves steady. Nanrong Chu offers these three cases as analogies: someone who cannot take in words of the utmost Dao is no different from the blind and deaf. Hence the Inner Chapters say: “It is not only the body that can be deaf and blind—wisdom too can be deaf and blind.”

Can one bodily form and another be cut off from each other as if sealed apart? Is there some outer thing standing between them, so that they wish to draw near yet cannot communicate?

The blind and the sighted may both have their eye-openings open, yet the two cannot communicate with each other; in the end there is a difference between them.

“Pì” means to open; “jiān” means distinction. The blind and the sighted both have their eye-openings open, but one can see things and the other cannot, so there is a difference between them. The blind and the deaf may wish to overcome this difference and gain sight or hearing, but in the end they cannot; this is like Nanrong Chu wishing to attain understanding yet having no path to reach it.

Now I say to you: preserve your bodily form, guard your life, and do not let anxious thoughts scatter and rush about. Nanrong Chu barely heard this far when his ears had already opened to it.

Having heard these teachings too soon, the barrier between body and mind had already formed, so instruction was difficult.

The meaning of “preserve the bodily form and guard the life” has been explained above. Here Nanrong Chu’s situation is stated again to answer the earlier question.

Gengsangzi said: “What I can say, I have already said. The running wasp cannot transform the bean-leaf caterpillar; the Yue hen cannot hatch a swan’s egg, but the Lu hen can.”

The running wasp is the slender-waisted mud wasp; huo is the bean plant, and zhu is the large green caterpillar on bean leaves. The Yue hen is a chicken from the Jing region; the Lu hen is the Shu chicken. The running wasp can turn mulberry worms into its own larvae but cannot transform bean caterpillars; the Yue hen is small and cannot hatch a swan’s egg; the Shu hen is large and can hatch one. Gengsangzi uses this to say that his own talent is limited and he cannot instruct Nanrong Chu; what he can say in principle and circumstance, he has already said fully.

Chickens and chickens do not differ in nature, yet some can do what others cannot, because talent inherently has degrees of great and small. Now my talent is limited and insufficient to instruct you—why do you not go south and visit Laozi?

The chicken has five virtues: a comb on its head, symbolizing ritual (li); spurs on its feet, symbolizing righteousness (yi); when it finds food it calls its companions, symbolizing benevolence (ren); it crows at the proper hour, symbolizing wisdom (zhi); when it meets an enemy it dares to resist, symbolizing courage (yong). The Lu hen and the Yue hen share the same nature, but their capacities differ in size. I am like the Yue hen—my talent is limited and I cannot instruct you. Why do you not go south to visit the Old Master (Laozi) and seek instruction from him?

Nanrong Chu packed provisions and traveled seven days and seven nights without stopping until he reached Laozi’s dwelling.

“Yíng liáng” means to wrap and carry dry provisions. He revered the sage and was earnest in heart, traveling day and night without rest; after seven days he came before Laozi.

Laozi asked: “Did you come from Gengsangzi’s place in Chu?” Nanrong Chu answered: “Yes.”

“Zì” means “from.” Laozi asked whether he had come from Gengsangzi’s dwelling; Nanrong Chu replied with “wéi” in respectful assent, meaning “yes.”

Laozi asked again: “Why have you come with so many people?”

Nanrong Chu had brought the three phrases mentioned earlier to seek instruction together.

“Xie” (偕) means “together” or “coming along.” Laozi is like a clear mirror: he can reflect the shifts in people’s hearts, yet he does not on that account forget benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi). Here he deliberately says “coming together” to mock Nanrong Chu for bringing three statements along with him, and to press him with a question. The “three statements” are the three worries Nanrong Chu goes on to speak of.

Nanrong Chu looked alarmed and glanced behind him. He had not yet understood Laozi’s words; hearing something about “everyone coming together,” he took it to mean that many people were actually behind him, so he turned to look.

Laozi said, “Do you not understand what I meant by that?”

“Meaning” here is the intent behind the words. When Laozi said “coming together,” he was ridiculing Nanrong Chu for bringing those three statements; Nanrong Chu looked behind him instead, which shows he had not grasped Laozi’s point.

Nanrong Chu bowed his head in shame, then raised it with a sigh and said, “Just now I forgot what I was going to say in reply, and so I forgot what I had come to ask.”

“Fu” (俯) means to bow the head. Nanrong Chu felt himself foolish for failing to understand Laozi’s words; he bowed in shame, sighed looking upward, his mind scattered and his manner uneasy—not only losing composure outwardly, but forgetting the very question he had wished to raise.

Laozi asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Laozi was asking what Nanrong Chu intended by what he had just said.

Nanrong Chu said, “If I do not know the Way, people will call me foolish; if I know the Way, it instead makes me worry about myself.”

“Zhu yu” (朱愚) means utterly foolish and ignorant. If one mingles with the world and does not understand how things work, one is taken for stupid; if one applies cleverness in human affairs, one may invite disaster and harm oneself—hence “worry about myself.”

“If I do not practice benevolence, I harm others; if I practice benevolence, it instead fills me with grief. If I do not practice righteousness, I harm others; if I practice righteousness, it instead burdens me. How can I escape this predicament and handle it well? These three points are exactly what I worry about. I wish to take the matter of Sang Chu as a starting point and ask you about this.”

Benevolence and righteousness each have their role: benevolence appears as caring for all, righteousness as completing things. In this commentary, however, both are norms handed down by ancient sages—like temporary lodging—and cannot preserve the self or keep one clear of calamity. To neglect benevolence and righteousness harms others; to force oneself to practice them may violate one’s true nature and stray from the great Way (Dao). Nanrong Chu did not know how to settle his mind and free himself from these anxieties, so he used the affair of Sang Chu as a lead-in, hoping to hear Laozi’s answer.

Laozi said, “Earlier I had only to look at your brows and eyes to know what sort of person you are. Now that you have spoken these words, I am all the more certain.”

“You are restless and afraid, as if you had lost your parents, holding a pole and going to the sea to look for something. You are truly lost—dazed and at a loss what to do.”

Commentary: What is meant by “guigu” (fussy and petty) is a narrow, fragmented mind. When your heart is so finely divided and you harbor these three methods within it, you are like a small child who has lost its parents, or like carrying a pole and timber to the sea hoping to measure the depth of the ocean floor—how could such a thing be accomplished? You are one who has lost true nature and strayed from the Great Dao, also like a child drowned and scattered, homeless and adrift, dazed and dim, not knowing what to rely upon.

You wish to draw near to your own disposition and nature, yet cannot find the doorway in—this is truly pitiable.

Commentary: Nanrong Chu once followed in the footsteps of the sage, yet drowned himself in benevolence and righteousness. Even if he wished to return to the source and recover what is real, his genuine feelings had already hardened like a scar and could no longer be entered. The great sage, with a heart of compassion, deeply pitied him.

Nanrong Chu asked to enter and pay his respects to Laozi. Laozi told him to go home, cast off what he detested, and keep what he delighted in. Ten days later, Nanrong Chu, troubled in mind, came again to visit Laozi.

Commentary: Nanrong Chu had not grasped the meaning of Laozi’s questions; his mind was blank, so he went home and pondered for ten days, seeking the virtue he delighted in and removing the benevolence and righteousness he detested. Yet he still could not align with the Great Dao; therefore he harbored sorrow and wished to consult Laozi once more.

Laozi said: “You have already washed and put yourself in order—you look deeply serene and splendid. Yet within, vital stirrings still surge; it seems there is detestation you have not fully removed.”

Commentary: Nanrong Chu went home for ten days and tried to remove the five obscurations and wash away accumulated distracting thoughts. But in my view, though your breath appears deeply serene and splendid, it still leaks out without cease. From this it is clear that the detestation in your heart has not been completely eliminated.

One who is tethered by external things cannot hurry to seize and control them; one whose heart is tethered by inner desires likewise cannot simply force constraint upon them and then turn to controlling external things.

Note: “Jian” means to shut and lock. Ears and eyes belong to the outer senses; heart-method refers to inner activity. To preserve the bodily form and guard life, it is best to forget calculations in the heart and release the ears and eyes from chasing external things. If sound and beautiful forms hold one from outside, the inner heart becomes blocked; if desire and likes and dislikes hold one from within, ears and eyes lose their proper function. Inner and outer respond to each other—the situation is necessarily thus. Even if one deliberately uses the mind to suppress, hastily grasps tight, and diligently controls again and again, it cannot be done. Only when spirit is settled… (the original text ends here unfinished)

When the mind and spirit, along with the ears and eyes, rest quietly within, external things cannot disturb you—only then do you accord with the way of preserving life.

If both inner and outer are pulled about by external things, it is hard to sustain moral cultivation; how much more so for those who abandon the Great Dao and act arbitrarily?

Commentary: To cling to one side alone already strays from the right path of preserving life; if inner and outer are both bound and confused, the situation is worse still. When ears and eyes are dazzled by externals, the mind follows into dissipation. Even if you grip tight with both hands and bind yourself with ropes, you cannot stop this loss of control.

Nanrong Chu said: “Someone in the village fell ill, and a neighbor went to inquire. The sick person could describe his condition clearly—this shows that though he is ill, he is not yet gravely so.”

Commentary: When a neighbor is sick and others visit, if the patient can still explain his symptoms, the illness is not yet severe and there is still hope of recovery. It is like Nanrong Chu: though dull-witted, he can state his own faults, so he may still be teachable.

If someone like me, Nanrong Chu, hears the Dao and it is as if taking medicine only makes the illness worse.

Commentary: Medicine is meant to cure illness; when the illness is gone, the medicine need not be used. Teaching is meant to make people understand principle; once they understand, teaching can stop. If one was never ill yet medicine is not stopped, or if after instruction one still does not understand yet clings to clever stratagems—that is like medicine that worsens the disease.

Nanrong Chu said: “I only wish to hear the constant method of nurturing life.”

Commentary: “Constant method” (jing) means the enduring way; “stop” (yi) means to cease. The sage’s teaching has many forms, and the paths of learning are not one. What I ask now is how the mind should be settled when preserving life; I seek only this. If you instruct me, I will take it as the constant method and follow it.

Laozi said: “Does the constant method of nurturing life lie in being able to guard the undivided simplicity of one’s nature?”

Commentary: Not departing from one’s own nature.

Elaboration: Guard the true nature (zhenxing) and do not be of two minds.

“Can you avoid losing it?”

Commentary: Return to what you originally have.

Elaboration: Recover your own nature.

“Can you know fortune and misfortune without resorting to divination?”

Commentary: Act in accord with the right way and it is auspicious; err and it is inauspicious—no divination is needed.

Elaboration: Following the Dao brings good fortune; chasing external things brings misfortune. This is a matter of necessity—why use divination?

“Can you stop?”

Commentary: Be content in your proper station.

Elaboration: Do not pursue what lies outside your station.

“Can you bring things to completion and let go?”

Commentary: No longer chase the past.

Elaboration: What is past is past; do not regret or entangle yourself in it further.

“Can you refrain from seeking from others and turn to seek within yourself?”

Commentary: Preserve yourself; do not imitate others.

Turn your mind away from imitating others and chasing outward results, and instead seek your own Dao (the Way).

Can you be free and unobstructed, leaving no trace of lingering attachment?

Note: There is no mark of lingering.

Commentary: Coming and going, you are never constrained, and there is no fixed place where you stop.

Can you pass through without obstruction?

Note: There is no blocking or hindrance.

Commentary: You follow outer things and do not harbor a scheming mind.

Can you be like an infant?

Commentary: Like a newborn infant in pure simplicity.

An infant cries all day, yet its throat does not grow hoarse, because its harmonious qi (vital energy) has reached the utmost point.

Note: The sound issues of itself; it is not driven by the emotions of joy and anger.

Commentary: “Ai” means the throat; “sa” means hoarse or broken voice. When the throat is not blocked and the voice is not hoarse, it is because breath flows out naturally and joy and anger are absent from the heart. For this reason, though an infant cries all day, the voice does not grow hoarse and the throat does not become blocked. It preserves a state of pure harmony and can reach such a degree.

Though it holds something in its hand all day, the hand does not tire, because its De (Virtue/Power) accords with the Dao.

Note: The hand holds of itself; this is not deliberate force.

Commentary: “Nie” means constraint or fatigue. Here it says that the infant keeps pure harmony, unites with the profound Dao and ultimate De, so that even when the hand holds on all day, it does not weary.

Though it looks at things all day, the eyes scarcely blink, because the spirit-mind does not lean toward outer objects.

Note: The eyes look of themselves and are not pulled by outward colors.

Commentary: “Shun” means to blink or turn. The eyes look of themselves and do not shift or fixate because of the dusty realm outside.

When walking, it does not know where it is going.

Note: Let the feet walk naturally, without presetting a destination.

Commentary: “Zhi” means to go. It is like a small boat with no mooring line drifting with the water—though it moves, it has no particular goal.

When sitting at ease, it also does not know what it is doing.

Note: Relax body and mind and let them be natural.

Commentary: Be plain and practice wuwei (non-action), arriving at the utmost stillness.

In dealing with things outside, it goes along with their tendencies.

Note: This is compliance.

Commentary: In contact with things, there is no scheming mind; one responds flexibly as circumstances unfold.

And it flows in the same current with them.

Note: When outer things stir, one stirs with them.

Commentary: Draw in sharp edges and blend with the world, rising and falling together with things.

This is the constant way of nurturing life.

Commentary: This sums up what was said above.

Nanrong Chu said: “Then, is this the conduct of the perfected person (zhi ren, one who has reached the highest attainment)?”

Note: If one can transform oneself and adopt these practices, can that be called the conduct of the perfected person?

Commentary: If one follows the constant way of nurturing life described above, one accords with the profound Dao. But does the conduct of the perfected person stop here?

The reply was: “No. This is only what is called the stage when ice melts and frozen ground thaws.”

Note: This shows you have not yet reached the realm of spontaneity.

Commentary: Nanrong Chu was long bound by ideas of benevolence and righteousness. Now, hearing the sage’s teaching, he begins to understand the way of nurturing life—like winter ice meeting spring sun, the stubborn, obstructive thoughts in the heart also…

These perfected persons do not cling to fixed opinions in their hearts, and so they can dwell in harmony with all things: like everyone else they take food from the earth, and they share nature’s bounty with the myriad beings. What is meant here by “contentment with Heaven’s way” is yielding to nature and living at peace with heaven and earth and all things.

They do not let mutual profit and loss among people stir up disorder, do not treat one another’s differences as something strange, do not scheme against one another, and do not load affairs onto the heart as burdens. The commentary explains that “攖” (yíng) means to disturb or unsettle. The perfected person keeps an empty mind and follows the world; moving with the changes of the myriad things, they can quiet the alarm and strife among people and no longer wear themselves out plotting over worldly affairs. Since they do not treat external things as tasks that must be done, how could gain and loss disturb them?

They come and go at ease, without sharp divisions between self and other. This is the essential secret of nurturing life.

Nanrong Chu asked, “Does this count as attaining the Supreme Way?” Laozi replied, “Do you think that merely hearing these words means you have attained the Supreme Way?”

Nanrong Chu felt he still did not understand and asked Laozi again. Laozi said, “Not yet. What I just told you—can you be like an infant?”

Laozi was not denying that the words lack truth; he meant that to hear and study them is not the same as personally reaching the Supreme Way. If one has not truly arrived, even upon hearing supreme teaching one only holds it as a set of rules and still cannot be said to have attained the Way. The commentary uses the “fish trap and rabbit snare” (筌蹄) analogy: the bamboo fish trap and the rabbit net are only tools; they cannot replace the fish or the rabbit. The learner has not yet arrived; one who has truly arrived no longer clings to the tools of learning—hence Laozi’s answer, “Not yet.”

What is meant by “like an infant” is acting without knowing what one intends to do, moving without fixating on where one is going; the body like the branch of a withered tree, the mind like dead ashes. The commentary says this is a state of emptiness, stillness, indifference, and quiet freedom from emotional stirring; when body and mind no longer cling, what room is there for schemes of action? This is the gist of nurturing life.

One who reaches this state does not have calamity fall upon him, nor does good fortune come to him as something specially sought; when misfortune and blessing have no place to arise, how could there be human-made disasters? The commentary explains that misfortune and blessing come from gain and loss, and human-made disasters come from love and hate. When body and mind are like withered wood and dead ashes, feeling and fixation subside, love and hate and gain and loss have no way to arise.

Fortune and misfortune often arise from gain and loss; human troubles likewise spring from beauty and ugliness. When the body is like withered wood and the mind like dead ashes, gain and loss are wholly forgotten and beauty and ugliness are released together—there is no fault of dim confusion, so how could calamity be invited?

When the inner realm is broad and settled, the light of Heaven shows itself.

What is meant by the “realm of De” is a person’s inner domain of virtue. When that realm is broad and still, what truly appears is only the light of Heaven—not a display made by human effort. The body is the dwelling of spirit; hence the perfected person is seen as the vessel that bears Dao and De. When the realm of De is quiet and settled, the mind illumines things by relying on the light of wisdom that arises of itself.

The light of Heaven appears naturally: people see themselves, things see themselves; each illumines itself without fixating on seeing the other, and so can rest in self-settlement.

Ordinary people cannot measure the sage; they only see the sage mingled among the crowd and do not know that the light of Heaven is looking deeply into all things.

If people can cultivate themselves, they gain constancy.

“Cultivation” here means cultivating oneself. Those who can cultivate themselves gain understanding and therefore often dwell in peace and security. The Way cannot be mastered by rote learning, yet seeking the Way still requires sincere intent—so those who truly practice can grasp the Dao of settled constancy.

One who has constant De draws the multitude toward him, and Heaven also helps him.

Because he abides in peace and security, he can return to his authentic home and naturally receives support. One who embodies the Way and holds to constancy finds actions often aligned with good fortune, becomes someone the people rely on, and receives Heaven’s blessing—none of this is strange.

One whom the multitude relies on is called a “subject of Heaven” (tianmin); one whom Heaven helps is called a “Son of Heaven” (tianzi).

Going forth to govern is being Son of Heaven; withdrawing to dwell in stillness is being a subject of Heaven. Both roles come from ease and self-contentment—they are not won by deliberate striving. Serving as ruler or retiring as hermit both follow from drawing near the Great Way and embodying constancy.

What is called learning is learning what one originally did not know how to do; what is called acting is doing what one originally could not do; what is called disputation is clarifying what one originally could not clarify.

Whatever one already knew how to do—though there is action, it is not counted as deliberate doing; though there is practice, it is not counted as true learning; though there is speech, it is not counted as true disputation. Doing what belongs to one’s place: though one does it, one does not cling to “doing”; so though one learns, one does not cling to learning; though one acts, one does not cling to acting; though one disputes, one does not cling to disputing. Why force oneself, in matters outside one’s place, to learn what one cannot do?

To know where to stop at what one cannot know is to reach the utmost. What originally cannot be known must not be pursued by force; to be able to stop there is the highest wisdom.

One should act only within the range of what one’s abilities can reach; one should not strain to pursue knowledge of what lies beyond that range. In learning and self-cultivation, this is an exceedingly subtle principle.

If the mind steps outside its proper station and insists that what falls within one’s lot is not good enough, the balanced order of Heaven and nature is thrown off.

The annotator says: Even when one is fully bent on acting, whatever goes against the way things are will in the end fail. The sub-commentary adds: To set one’s heart on what lies outside one’s proper sphere and not treat what lies within it as right is to ruin one’s innate nature.

Comply with the conditions each thing already has, and let them take shape according to their own nature.

The annotator says: Follow what each thing is originally endowed with and let it form of itself. The sub-commentary explains that “jiang” means to comply. The great forge of creation is such that each thing has what it needs to come into being; when one follows how things are, they can take form.

Do not plan ahead or reckon in advance; let the mind arise along with things as they come.

The annotator says: When thoughts arise of themselves, they are not produced by prior guessing. “Yu” means to surmise or measure. The sub-commentary says: The person who has attained the utmost does not harbor partial intent; when moved by things outside, he responds as nature moves him. Though he holds sage clarity within, he does not beforehand plot how he will meet events, nor does he anticipate them by prior speculation.

Honor the wisdom within, and thereby penetrate what lies outside.

The annotator says: The way of things naturally opens the outer world; this is not slighting the inner and deliberately honoring the outer. The sub-commentary explains: “Zhong” refers to inner wisdom; “bi” refers to the outer realm. Honor the wondrous wisdom within and do not lightly let it be tainted by outer things; when wisdom settles in clarity and stillness, the state of the outer world naturally becomes open and bright.

Even so, if all sorts of misfortune befall one, that comes from the season of Heaven.

The annotator says: The course of Heaven has its own times of hardship and ease.

That is not a fault of the person.

The annotator says: Misfortune brought on by deliberate human contrivance is the person’s own doing. The sub-commentary cites King Wen of Zhou imprisoned in Youli and Confucius besieged in Kuang: they were not unwise or unsage; that they met such hardship was because the time and fate were what they were—how could they have caused it themselves?

Such misfortune is not enough to disturb the realm achieved through cultivation.

The annotator says: By calmly accepting a hard lot, what has been achieved is not thrown into disorder. The sub-commentary takes “hua” as “disturb.” To embody the great Dao, unite with what is real, rest in the time, and understand fate—even when heavy misfortune strikes, it cannot unsettle the inner realm that cultivation has won.

That misfortune cannot enter the heart.

The annotator says: “Lingtai” means the heart. When the heart is clear and at ease, care cannot enter. The sub-commentary likewise says the lingtai is the heart: the heart in its subtle emptiness and stillness, so that worldly things cannot break into its bright spirit.

Inwardly there seems to be something held fast.

The annotator says: “Having something held” means not being shaken by outer things; yet in truth there is nothing one deliberately holds. The sub-commentary says: What matters is the capacity to hold; in the end the heart does not even know what it is that it holds.

The heart does not know what it is holding.

The annotator says: If one knew what one was holding, that would already be intentional holding.

True holding is that which cannot be held on purpose.

The annotator says: Once one holds on purpose, one has lost true holding.

If you fix your mind on grasping the Dao and refuse to let go, you will only drift farther from it—so this should not be done.

Acting rashly without examining your own sincerity. Guo Xiang’s commentary says this is acting in delusion. The sub-commentary explains: the previous passage spoke of the person who has attained the Dao and whose wisdom is bright; here the text turns to those who have lost their true nature. Their thoughts are empty and they turn away from honesty; they never look back within, and they lack genuine wisdom, yet they constantly act in delusion. When the inner mind is not true, what they do will often go against reason and miss what is fitting.

When something arises, they take it upon themselves and will not put it down. Guo Xiang says this is doing things beyond one’s proper share. The sub-commentary explains: “affairs” (ye) means tasks and business. Worldly matters swirl in confusion and are often drawn into the heart; people do not know what should be followed and what should be avoided, and so they cannot stop and let go.

Each time they act, they become even more estranged from their true nature. Guo Xiang says action counts as correct only when it springs from one’s own sincerity. The sub-commentary explains: the deluded mind chases present circumstances, imagining it gains something, and in the end loses its true nature instead.

If one does wrong where others can see, people will punish him; if one does wrong where no one is present, spirits will still punish him. The sub-commentary explains: the realms of the human and the spirits, bright and dark, differ in form, yet if you extend sincerity and keep faith, the principle is not divided. If you leave your proper place and lose your true nature, retribution will come, grievances will be tied, and punishment will follow in the end. Figures in legend such as Caibo and Pengsheng are examples of this.

Only when one understands affairs in both the human and spirit realms can one act alone without fear. Guo Xiang says: when in the open and in secret one has nothing to reproach oneself for, one can walk alone without dread. The sub-commentary explains: understanding both the dark and the bright situations, knowing one has brought on no blame and violated no one, one may act on one’s own without fear.

Those who keep within their proper bounds do not act for the sake of reputation. Guo Xiang says “quan” means limit or allotment; those who rest in their share do not rely on fame in what they do. The sub-commentary explains: here “without name” (wuming) refers to the Dao. Those who follow the Dao and keep to their place may act, yet they leave no trace of chasing reputation or profit.

Those whose mind settles outside their proper share pursue only what will eventually be exhausted. Guo Xiang says such people always think of gaining something, even calculating to harm themselves in order to complete things outside themselves. The sub-commentary explains: they set their will on pretense and force, their mind wanders outside their allotment, they achieve nothing in the end, and can only suffer loss.

Those who walk the nameless Dao show their brightness precisely in ordinary use. Guo Xiang says people already possess this brightness; they need only employ it by following what is natural. The sub-commentary explains: “yong” means application. When the mind roams in the nameless Dao, wisdom grows daily brighter in the everyday exercise of wisdom.

Those whose will seeks only depletion are no more than peddlers. Guo Xiang says even when they have nothing of their own, they borrow others’ goods to sell.

To cling stubbornly to one’s own ambitions and, beyond one’s proper station, chase reputation and grasp at profit is to harm one’s spirit and wisdom. Such a person thinks only of fame and gain, like a merchant who bids recklessly high for goods. Others see him risking himself in the climb and judge his position dangerous, yet he still believes himself secure.

The commentary explains that “企” means standing on tiptoes to reach higher—venturing and grasping—and “魁” means a settled, secure appearance. When greed runs too strong and one pursues what lies outside one’s share, others perceive the danger while one feels safe; that is folly at its extreme.

One who can dwell in harmony with all things will find that things turn toward him.

The commentary says that “穷” here means beginning and end.

The exegesis adds that “穷” also carries the sense of finding one’s place and coming to rest. When person and things accord with each other, one can exhaust principle and fully express one’s nature, and becomes what outer things rely upon and return to.

If one only forces a shallow coexistence with things and clambers after what is not one’s due, one cannot even settle one’s own body and mind—how then could one make room for others?

The commentary says “且” means forcing or making do; one who climbs and grasps cannot stand firm, so how could one settle oneself? If one cannot settle oneself, how could one accommodate others? When others cannot be held, they naturally depart.

The exegesis says that if one merely mingles in vanity with others, covets profit and chases fame, the body still prides itself while the heart seethes with rivalry, one cannot even settle oneself—how could one embrace the outer world?

When one cannot accommodate others, there are no intimates; without intimates, everyone nearby becomes a stranger.

The commentary says that when one cannot settle oneself, one cannot even attend to oneself, let alone draw others close—so those around become outsiders.

The exegesis says that a narrow heart that cannot hold others breeds no affection; without those close at hand, everywhere one looks are strangers. Discord and conflict multiply, and enemies are never few. How then could one hope for peace and smooth passage?

Among weapons that wound the human heart, nothing surpasses the mind’s own intent; even the famed blade Moye counts as less terrible.

The commentary says that once the mind is stirred, it can make a person feel burned by fire or frozen by ice—so the harm it does outweighs sword and blade.

The exegesis says that weapons are spears, swords, and edged steel; Moye was a celebrated precious sword. What tortures and injures a person most is truly the heart. Emotions pulled by intent come swift and fierce; the damage exceeds Moye’s edge, while sword and knife seem light by comparison.

The greatest calamity is none other than the power of Yin-Yang—the clash of opposites such as cold and heat, winter and summer, acting on one another within. Between Heaven and Earth, there is nowhere to flee.

The exegesis says “寇” means enemy and harm. Gain and loss, joy and anger battle in the breast; cold feels like congealing water, heat like blazing fire—that is the inner harm wrought by Yin-Yang. One might escape a fierce foe or a great disaster, but when calamity rises from within, how could one hide?

It is not Yin-Yang that actively wounds people; it is the heart that drives them to do so.

The commentary says that once the heart drives Qi, Yin-Yang Qi gathers and falls out of balance in the five viscera—heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys—so every part of the body may suffer the shifts of Yin and Yang, and there is no escape.

Note: I used "five viscera" which is standard; the glossary doesn't list 五脏 but it's standard TCM. Good.

Let me double-check 鏌鎁 - Moye is the standard transliteration for this famous sword.

The user asked for ONLY English translation - I provided that. Good.

Flowing paragraphs - yes.

Academic yet accessible - yes.

To cling stubbornly to one’s own ambitions and, beyond one’s proper station, chase reputation and grasp at profit is to harm one’s spirit and wisdom. Such a person thinks only of fame and gain, like a merchant who bids recklessly high for goods. Others see him risking himself in the climb and judge his position dangerous, yet he still believes himself secure.

The commentary explains that “企” means standing on tiptoes to reach higher—venturing and grasping—and “魁” means a settled, secure appearance. When greed runs too strong and one pursues what lies outside one’s share, others perceive the danger while one feels safe; that is folly at its extreme.

One who can dwell in harmony with all things will find that things turn toward him.

The commentary says that “穷” here means beginning and end.

The exegesis adds that “穷” also carries the sense of finding one’s place and coming to rest. When person and things accord with each other, one can exhaust principle and fully express one’s nature, and becomes what outer things rely upon and return to.

If one only forces a shallow coexistence with things and clambers after what is not one’s due, one cannot even settle one’s own body and mind—how then could one make room for others?

The commentary says “且” means forcing or making do; one who climbs and grasps cannot stand firm, so how could one settle oneself? If one cannot settle oneself, how could one accommodate others? When others cannot be held, they naturally depart.

The exegesis says that if one merely mingles in vanity with others, covets profit and chases fame, the body still prides itself while the heart seethes with rivalry, one cannot even settle oneself—how could one embrace the outer world?

When one cannot accommodate others, there are no intimates; without intimates, everyone nearby becomes a stranger.

The commentary says that when one cannot settle oneself, one cannot even attend to oneself, let alone draw others close—so those around become outsiders.

The exegesis says that a narrow heart that cannot hold others breeds no affection; without those close at hand, everywhere one looks are strangers. Discord and conflict multiply, and enemies are never few. How then could one hope for peace and smooth passage?

Among weapons that wound the human heart, nothing surpasses the mind’s own intent; even the famed blade Moye counts as less terrible.

The commentary says that once the mind is stirred, it can make a person feel burned by fire or frozen by ice—so the harm it does outweighs sword and blade.

The exegesis says that weapons are spears, swords, and edged steel; Moye was a celebrated precious sword. What tortures and injures a person most is truly the heart. Emotions pulled by intent come swift and fierce; the damage exceeds Moye’s edge, while sword and knife seem light by comparison.

The greatest calamity is none other than the power of Yin-Yang—the clash of opposites such as cold and heat, winter and summer, acting on one another within. Between Heaven and Earth, there is nowhere to flee.

The exegesis says “寇” means enemy and harm. Gain and loss, joy and anger battle in the breast; cold feels like congealing water, heat like blazing fire—that is the inner harm wrought by Yin-Yang. One might escape a fierce foe or a great disaster, but when calamity rises from within, how could one hide?

It is not Yin-Yang that actively wounds people; it is the heart that drives them to do so.

The commentary says that once the heart drives Qi, Yin-Yang Qi gathers and falls out of balance in the five viscera—heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys—so every part of the body may suffer the shifts of Yin and Yang, and there is no escape.

This is not that yin-yang qi can harm people; it is only because there is agitation and contention in the heart that such a result comes about.

“Dao” pervades each thing’s allotted portion (binfen), and also pervades their formation and destruction.

Note: Formation and destruction have no fixed boundary; from the perspective of Dao, they can all connect and通.

Commentary: The qi each thing receives has its limits, hence distinctions of beautiful and ugly, good and evil, and each has its own allotted portion. This thing is called “formation,” that thing “destruction”; Dao pervades all things, so nothing is incomplete or lacking.

Why do people resent their allotted portion? Because they feel their portion is not complete enough.

Note: Not resting in one’s allotted portion but instead seeking completeness outward—this is why one resents one’s portion.

Commentary: Honor and disgrace, long life or early death, all arise from the portion heaven grants. If one does not turn back within and rest in what is already sufficient, but instead pursues what lies outside one’s portion and seeks completeness, the spirit will wander amid right and wrong, and one will come to resent the portion one has received.

Why do people resent “completeness”? Because they feel something is lacking and wish to seek completeness elsewhere.

Note: Only when the original portion is insufficient does one seek completeness by other means—hence resentment of completeness. If the original portion were already sufficient, how could one resent it?

Commentary: What creation endows is already sufficient, yet one still dislikes and resents it—this is not understanding that nature is already complete in itself.

Leaving one’s proper portion without returning shows a ghost-like countenance.

Note: Not returning within one’s proper portion and resting in it, one cannot long endure.

Commentary: Leaving the true root, confused and reckless, chasing right and wrong without being able to return to the source is the road toward death; hence it is said one shows a ghost-like appearance.

Leaving one’s portion yet gaining something—this is called “gaining death.”

Note: Not leaving one’s portion, there is no outward gain; only then is it gaining life.

Commentary: When the spirit leaves the self to chase external things and acts as desire dictates, thereby gaining something, this can be said to be gaining the root of death.

Though the original nature is already extinguished, if the form remains, one differs little from a ghost.

Note: The original nature is already extinguished; even if the body still lives, how is that different from a ghost?

Commentary: Losing and extinguishing the original nature means in substance one has already lost life; thus, though not truly dead, one is no different from a ghost.

A formed thing can display an unformed aspect, and the body is thereby settled.

Note: “Though there is this form,” if one can be broad and free of attachment, life can be preserved and the body can be settled.

Commentary: “Xiang” (象) means resemblance. Though there is bodily form, one can be as if formless, because the body is not taken as truly substantial. The heart is vast and self-forgotten, the mind can be peaceful and clear, and settle.

Life emerges from nothingness; it has no root.

Note: It suddenly arises on its own; there is no root.

Life returns to nothingness; there is no aperture to follow.

Note: It suddenly perishes on its own; there is no source.

Commentary: “Emerging” is birth; “entering” is death. Emerging from nothing to become something—the roots of being and non-being…

Sometimes one returns to nothingness (wu). Does this “nothingness” mean there are no orifices at all?

All things clearly exist, yet one cannot find where they come from; they extend far into the past, yet one cannot find their original source or their final end.

What is meant here by “piao” is the end point, or it can also refer to the origin. In some versions the character for “origin” (ben) is written as “biao”; here it is understood as “ben” (origin).

Heaven, earth, and all things seem to arise from nothingness. Since forms are plainly before us, when we ask where they come from, we find no definite place. From ancient times to the present, time stretches immensely far; yet when we trace things to the end, we still cannot find the root and tip of all things, nor where they emerge from. Therefore, although all things appear to be real, they have no visible orifice or point of emergence.

The commentary says: What is called “emerging” is only that something seems to have substantial existence; as for where it emerges from, there is no root or orifice through which it could pass.

The exegesis explains: From the ordinary person’s view, all things seem truly to exist; pursued carefully, there is in fact no fixed, unchanging substance.

All things seem to be real, yet one cannot find the root where they abide—this is “Yu” (cosmic space).

“Yu” refers to the four directions and above and below. The four directions and above and below seem vast and boundless, yet one cannot find a definite starting point or source. All things grow within Yu and seem quite real; yet when we ask where Yu itself comes from, there is ultimately no answer. Since Yu too has no definite source, how could all things have a fixed point of emergence?

All things extend far into the past, yet there is no findable beginning or end—this is “Zhou” (cosmic time).

“Zhou” refers to temporal continuity from ancient times to the present. Time seems long, with age after age from past to present; yet when we pursue its beginning and end, we still find no definite root and tip. Since Zhou has no findable beginning or end, how could all things have a fixed root?

All things are born and die, emerge and enter, as if constantly passing in and out, yet one does not see the form of their coming and going.

The commentary says: Birth, death, emergence, and entry all seem to happen naturally, with nothing behind them pulling the strings, so there is no definite form to be seen.

The exegesis explains: “Emerging and entering” is spoken in connection with birth and death. People call it “entering and exiting” because they see the changes of birth and death; if one pursues the nature of life itself, there is no actual place of entry or exit, and no form is seen passing through.

This is called the “Heaven’s Gate” (Tianmen).

“Heaven’s Gate” is the general name for all things in common; it can also be called the “gate of all subtleties” (zhongmiao zhi men)—the root of the wondrous transformations of all things.

The exegesis explains: “Heaven” means nature (ziran); nature means there is no external cause that can be traced. All things lack a clear source, and one cannot fathom why they are as they are; therefore this unfathomable nature is called the gate through which all things are transformed.

What is called “Heaven’s Gate” is “being and non-being” (you wu); all things arise from “being and non-being.”

The commentary says: Birth, death, emergence, and entry all seem to happen naturally, with nothing making them happen. All things aggregate and disperse, hide and appear, so people call it “entering and exiting.” These are only names; in reality there is no substantial gate for things to pass through. If so, where is the gate? Therefore it is said that “non-being” (wu) serves as the gate.

Taking non-action as the gateway means there is no gateway at all.

Commentary: The natural order of things is the gateway through which creation gives rise to the myriad things, yet this gateway has only a name and no substantial form; nevertheless, everything is born from it. Guo Xiang comments: “To take non-action as the gateway—once non-action is the gateway, there is no gateway.”

What exists cannot, by its own power, make itself exist.

Note: Before a thing has come to be, what makes it come to be? Therefore it must be so of itself; it is not that “being” makes it be.

Commentary: If something already exists, how can it make something else exist? Before a thing has come to be, who makes it exist? Probed to the end, what we call “being” ultimately has no substantial entity that could generate the myriad things.

It must arise from non-being.

Note: This explains that “being” cannot make itself be, but simply is naturally; it does not mean that “non-being” can produce “being.” If non-being could produce being, how could non-being still be called non-being?

Commentary: Whether things have already come to be or not yet come to be, no substantial entity can be found. Hence “being arises from non-being”—not that this “non-being” can give birth to “being.” If non-being could give birth to being, how could it still be called non-being?

And non-being is wholly without any “being.”

Note: Once there is absolutely nothing that exists, there is truly nothing at all. When non-being is utterly reduced to non-being, being will plainly and suddenly appear of itself.

Commentary: However one looks or however one puts it, in the end there is no substantial entity; hence “non-being is wholly without any being.”

The sage harbors himself in this.

Note: The sage lets the myriad things arise naturally and does not deliberately bring about their coming to be.

Commentary: The sage of profound mysterious virtue accords with what is truly real, concealing the spirit and gathering in wisdom—what is spoken of is precisely this state.

The ancients—at one time their understanding reached the utmost height.

Commentary: The sages and those who attained the Way in remote antiquity united their knowing with what was known; therefore we say their understanding reached the utmost.

What counts as reaching the utmost?

Commentary: What is the basis for “utmost”? What qualifies as utmost?

Some held that at the beginning there was fundamentally nothing at all; such understanding had reached the utmost and exhausted the principle, and could not be increased further.

Commentary: Here the state of “utmost” is explained. When knowing reaches its extreme, one sees that in essence the myriad things are all empty; therefore one can employ all manner of formed things yet not treat any single thing as a fixed, real existence. This may be called penetrating to the finest extreme, exhausting principle and nature, still and mysteriously subtle to a degree that cannot be added to.

Next, some held that things truly exist.

Commentary: A step lower—those who had not yet penetrated the principle of “true emptiness” took every realm of the world as really existent things.

They regarded birth as loss.

Note: This means treating the dispersal of life as return to aggregation.

They regarded death as return.

Note: This means returning to a state of melting and blending.

Commentary: “Loss” means losing. Ordinary people treat birth as gain and death as loss.

Those who wish to free themselves from deluded consciousness treat birth as a kind of loss and death as a return. Here, “non-being” (wu) means returning to empty stillness. Although this has not yet reached the most refined level of realization, it already treats life and death as on a par.

Note: The aim is to equalize life and death, yet birth and death are still distinguished from each other.

Commentary: Even when one says life and death are the same, the mind still perceives a difference between being born and dying. Hence one still proceeds from “non-being” and goes on to make distinctions.

At the next level, some hold that at first there was nothing; only later did life arise. As soon as life appears, it soon moves toward death. They take “non-being and being” (youwu) as the head, life as the body, and death as the tail. Who can understand that being and non-being, life and death, are ultimately one—and hold fast to that understanding? Zhuangzi says he would befriend such a person.

Commentary: At this somewhat lower level of understanding, people think that originally there was nothing, and that life later emerged from that non-being. In an instant, birth occurs on one side and perishing on the other. Therefore they treat “non-being” as the head, life as the body, and death as the tail. Who can see that being and non-being, life and death, are not two separate things, and cultivate and guard the Way accordingly? Zhuangzi wishes to draw near to and befriend such people—yet even they are hard to find.

These three accounts differ in wording, yet all belong to the same lineage.

Note: Some treat being as non-being; some treat being and non-being as one; some separate life and death and then view them as equal—hence “three.” Though these three differ in how deep or complete their grasp of the Dao is, each can keep disputes over right and wrong from lodging in the heart. That is why they are called one and the same clan.

Commentary: The three views are: non-being as head, life as body, death as tail. Within one whole, three different interpretations arise—like branches splitting off from one royal house in the state of Chu.

The Zhao, Jing, Dai, and Jia lines are not all alike.

Note: Though these four positions still belong to one clan, they are no longer entirely the same; the three views mentioned above are thereby further differentiated.

Commentary: Zhao, Qu, and Jing were surnames of the Chu royal house. In antiquity Qu Yuan served as Supervisor of the Three Clans (Sanlü dafu), overseeing the Zhao, Qu, and Jing families. The commentary here is rather brief; it goes on to mention the Zhao and Jing lines, and royal descendants such as wangsun and gongzi: after coming of age and receiving cap and gown, each had rank and office; some took clan names from their posts, others were enfeoffed for merit and formed branch lines—so the clan was no longer a single whole. This is like the Dao dividing into categories such as being and non-being, life and death, with names and realities diverging; hence the analogy to branching clans.

Once there is life, there are traces.

Note: This is merely the gathering of Qi (vital energy).

“Blemish” means a spot or flaw. People have no fixed form, yet are called “living beings.” In fact, this is simply Qi gathering to form a body, and there is nothing especially precious about such a body.

When forms disperse and change, this is called “shifting.” The commentary says: Once forms have differentiated, each comes to recognize its own “right.” But what is “right” is never fixed forever, which is why it is called “shifting.”

The subcommentary says: “Unfolding” means dispersing. The Dao of Heaven makes no distinctions between one thing and another, yet all things have their own “right” and “wrong.” Right and wrong are not fixed; they change as things differentiate and cannot remain constant. The examples below illustrate how “rightness shifts.”

Some say that “rightness shifts” means that right and wrong change. The commentary says: The change in what each one recognizes as “right” exists even before it is spoken. The subcommentary says: People distinguish right from wrong through circumstances and forms, and sometimes put those judgments into words. Yet words cannot fully explain how right and wrong change.

Even so, if this change is not spoken of, people cannot know about it, so we may as well try to explain it. The commentary says: If we do not discuss this change, people cannot know it, so we try to explain it. The subcommentary says: Although words do not bring about changes in right and wrong, right and wrong cannot be known without words, so we may as well discuss them. Only by setting aside the distinction between “right” and “wrong” as well, and not clinging to names expressed in words, can we understand that right and wrong have no fixed form in the first place.

At the year-end La sacrifice, the bì and hǎi among the offerings can sometimes be separated, and sometimes cannot. The commentary says: Each thing has its own use. The subcommentary says: “Bì” refers to the omasum of an ox; “hǎi” refers to its hoof, though some say “hǎi” refers broadly to the limbs of the sacrificial animal. At the La sacrifice, the offerings are laid out in full, including the limbs and internal organs. Only after the rite is over may the offerings be divided; at that point, dividing them is appropriate. Before the rite has ended, they should not be divided; doing so then is inappropriate. This shows that what is right and wrong changes with the circumstances and has no fixed, unchanging standard.

Those attending the sacrifice walk about in the sleeping hall and temple, then later go to a suitable place to rest. The commentary says: “Yǎn” refers to a screened privy, that is, a toilet. The subcommentary says: After the sacrifice, people drink and eat in the ritual lodge, where the remaining offerings are laid out. After eating and drinking for a while, they need to relieve themselves, so they go to the toilet. During the meal, the sleeping hall and temple are the appropriate places; when relieving themselves, the toilet is the appropriate place. What fixed standard could there be for right and wrong? The La sacrifice example shows that gathering and dispersal have no constant standard; the “temple and privy” example shows that the appropriate place also changes. Both demonstrate that right and wrong are never fixed.

Thus, these examples explain how “rightness shifts”: holding a feast in the sleeping hall and temple is appropriate, while resting and relieving oneself in the toilet is also appropriate. When it is time to relieve oneself, the sleeping hall and temple, previously considered appropriate, become inappropriate, and appropriateness shifts to the toilet. In this way, right and wrong shift as well…

At one moment it speaks of “that,” at another of “this”—who can fix them forever in place? Therefore the perfected person acts in accord with how things change, and thereby brings them to equality.

For the moment, consider “shifting the ‘this’”: shifting the view of “this” and taking life as the root.

Note: Things constantly change; there is never a moment that is not newly arising. Since generation is everywhere, any place can be taken as the root.

Commentary: One who can forget the distinction between life and death no longer clings to “is” and “is not.” People cling to “is” only because they are held back by life. If one can release attachment to life, upon what would one still lodge “is”? Therefore one must know how to shift the view of “is” and take life as the root.

Taking knowledge as teacher

Note: What each person knows differs, yet everyone treats his own understanding as the standard.

Riding along with right and wrong

Note: By going along with “is” and “is not,” one is no longer bound by disputes over right and wrong.

Commentary: People rely on their respective understandings and in the mind go along with the workings of “right and wrong,” unaware that taking knowledge as the standard and inverting right and wrong is precisely what traps them in confusion. Those who truly understand are not constrained by right and wrong.

Indeed there are name and reality

Note: People believe that things each truly have fixed names and real states.

Commentary: Affairs in the world are manifold and all are illusory and impermanent, like the straw dogs used in sacrifice. How could the names and realities of the myriad things stay fixed? Only those who invert and cling believe that name and reality must be thus.

Therefore taking oneself as the substance

Note: “Substance” means master. Each person thinks himself right and sufficient to be the arbiter of right and wrong.

Commentary: “Substance” means what rules. People vainly cling to name and reality and make themselves the masters who judge name and reality, arguing with one another over right and wrong.

Making others take one’s own integrity as theirs

Note: Everyone thinks himself right, so they cannot reach one another.

Commentary: “Integrity” means the conduct one holds to. Bewildered by name and reality and trapped in right and wrong, people lead the ignorant to grasp empty reputation and treat it as their own integrity.

Therefore dying to repay that integrity

Note: What they hold to is not the principle of true transcendence.

Commentary: They uphold right and wrong to fulfill their aims and integrity, refusing to change even to the point of willingly dying for it.

Such people take being useful as wisdom and not being used as stupidity; take penetration as fame and being blocked as disgrace.

Note: Such people cannot comply with circumstances and accept whatever comes with equanimity.

Commentary: They regard showing talent as intelligence and withdrawal as foolishness; regard prominence and penetration as honor and obstruction and poverty as shame. How could such people treat obstruction and penetration, shame and honor, as the same?

Shifting the “is”—that is the people of today

Note: People of profound antiquity had no division of “is” and “is not”; what need was there to shift anything?

Commentary: Clinging to name and reality and being trapped in right and wrong are the ways of people in this age of thin custom, falsity, and flashy display. How are such people like the simple, sincere people of high antiquity?

This is like the cicada and the wren agreeing in what they share

Note: This is like the cicada and the wren (small bird) each affirming what they have in common.

The cicada (tiao) and the little bird (xue) each take wormwood thickets as the place that suits them. What each sees is alike, yet neither has reached a broader understanding. People whose views are close often affirm one another: the cicada agrees with the turtledove, the turtledove with the cicada—this is what is called “sameness in sameness.”

If you step on a stranger’s foot, you explain that you were careless, proud, and unrestrained, that you stepped wrongly by mistake, and you apologize.

If you step on a brother’s foot, you comfort him affectionately and do not use words to make formal amends.

If a father steps on his son’s foot, the moment usually passes in silence, without further talk. From this one can see that in human dealings words are sometimes empty and not fully sincere.

Therefore the highest ritual propriety (li) does not treat others as outsiders. “Not treating as other” means seeing others as oneself; once one sees people as oneself, there is no need for mutual apology and refusal. That is the highest li.

The highest righteousness (yi) does not set the myriad things over against oneself as objects. Each thing finds its proper place; inside and outside are not divided, and there is nothing to judge or criticize.

The highest wisdom does not rely on plotting and calculation. Cleverness won by reckoning is not natural wisdom; discerning things by following one’s inherent nature is the highest wisdom.

The highest benevolence (ren) does not show partial love for those near at hand. The five viscera have no affection for one another yet work together; hands and feet do not help each other from deliberate fondness, yet they assist and complete tasks together.

The highest sincerity (xin) does not depend on tokens of gold and jade. Gold and jade are credentials of a shallower sincerity; when sincerity reaches its utmost, such credentials are no longer needed.

Remove disturbances to the will and intent, undo knots in the heart, cast off burdens on virtue, and clear blockages on the Great Way (Da Dao). These statements are first set out in summary; later passages will explain each in turn. “Che” means to demolish, “bo” means to disturb, and “miu” means to bind and tie.

Wealth, high rank, imposing authority, reputation, and profit—these six all disturb the human heart-mind (xin).

Splendor, wealth, abundance, high rank, dignity, fame, and profit—these six things disturb one’s emotional disposition. Appearance, bearing, facial expression, orderly speech, harmonized breath, and emotional intent—these six aspects confuse the mind. The appearance, bearing, changes of expression, speech, breath, and intent mentioned here are all things that bind and constrain the heart-mind. “Miu” (謬) appears in some editions as “谬” (miù), meaning that the mind is absurd and disordered.

Hatred, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—these six emotions become burdens on De (virtue/power). Rejection and pursuit, grasping and giving, deliberation and self-reliance on one’s abilities—these six modes of conduct obstruct the Great Way (Dao); that is, rejecting, following, grasping, bestowing, scheming, and trusting in one’s own capacity all obscure the true Dao.

When these four sets of six faults do not stir within the breast, the heart-mind is upright; when the heart-mind is upright, it is tranquil; when tranquil, it is clear-sighted; when clear-sighted, it is empty and penetrating; when empty and penetrating, it is plain and without forced action (wuwei), responding to the myriad things so that nothing is beyond one’s reach.

“Dang” (盪) means disturbance or agitation.

The phrase “these four sets of six faults do not stir in the breast” means that spirit and heart-mind are peaceful and upright; being upright brings tranquility, tranquility allows one to illumine things, clear-sightedness brings empty penetration, and empty penetration brings plainness without contrivance. Responding to the myriad things in a non-coercive (wuwei) way, there is no principle or affair that cannot be fully understood.

Dao is what De holds in reverence. Dao is the method on which cultivation relies; De is the standard manifested in one’s dealings with others. Because people value others and slight the norm, they therefore revere Dao.

Life is the radiance of De. The greatest De of Heaven and Earth is to give life to the myriad things; thus the vital force that nurtures and transforms the myriad things is the splendor of supreme De.

Xing (nature/character) is the essence of life. What is called essence is natural xing; natural xing is the root received with life.

When xing stirs of itself, it is called wei (acting). When disposition and xing activate on their own, it is called wei—this is genuine natural action, not deliberate artifice. Acting in accord with one’s nature and doing what belongs to one’s proper share: though there is action, there is no forced making.

Deliberate artifice is called shi (loss). Being moved by external things, giving rise to desire and false feeling, and doing what exceeds one’s proper role—this is called losing the Great Way.

Zhi (knowing) is interfacing with external things; zhi is also deliberation. Meeting and contacting present things, planning and deliberating over various affairs—hence it is called knowing.

What the knower does not know is like the eye merely looking askance. The eye can see, not because it first knows the act of “seeing” and then goes to see for itself; it does not know that it is seeing, yet naturally sees. Not knowing yet knowing is also natural. If one first consciously knows and then acts, that is deliberate, artificial knowing.

“䟿” means to look askance or to view something sideways. When the eyes are open and see things, they do not know why they can see; what they see also varies between light and dark. The heart can know things, yet it does not know why it can know; its knowing likewise has degrees of depth and shallowness. What the eyes cannot see, one cannot force them to see; what the heart cannot know, one cannot force it to know. Human capacities each have their limits, just as when one looks with sidelong glance.

Acting along with what circumstances make unavoidable—this is called De (Virtue).

Note: If one could clearly refrain from acting yet still insists on acting, that is forcing the matter—and that is precisely why De is lost.

Commentary: One acts only when circumstances compel action, follows harmony without deliberate training, and employs means only when use is required—this may be called the fullness of De.

Acting in a way that never strays from one’s own nature—this is called governance (zhi).

Note: If in acting one imitates others, disorder follows.

Commentary: Acting in accord with one’s nature, not abandoning oneself to imitate external things, aligns with the right pattern—hence there is no disorder.

In name they oppose each other; in reality they accord with each other.

Note: Because there are names that distinguish “this” and “that,” they oppose each other in name; each follows its real situation, so in fact they accord.

Commentary: Names such as “this and that,” “right and wrong” make the two sides appear opposed; in reality there is no such division of this/that or right/wrong—therefore in substance they accord.

Yi was skilled at hitting the finest targets, yet not skilled at keeping people from praising him.

Note: Shooting well naturally invites praise; the principle has always been so.

Commentary: Yi was an ancient master archer. Drawing the bow and releasing the arrow, he struck the mark with precision—his skill was consummate. With such ability, fame follows; to make oneself receive no praise is truly impossible.

The sage is skilled at complying with nature (ziran), yet not skilled at scheming in human affairs.

Note: Complying with and entrusting oneself to nature is aligning with Heaven (Tian); storing up intent to act and deliberately arranging things is human artifice (wei).

Commentary: The earlier examples set up the comparison; here the point is stated. The sage deeply accords with nature; his effect rivals the transforming work of Heaven and Earth, so that things are daily influenced yet do not know it, and his tracks do not show. This is genuinely hard—hence the earlier text says that making the world forget even “me” is difficult.

Only one who both complies with nature and is good at dealing with people can do this—only the “complete person” (quanren) can.

Note: Complying with nature is also being good at meeting human affairs; such a person is called quanren—the quanren is the sage.

Commentary: “俍” means “to be good at.” “Quanren” is the spirit-person (shenren). Cleverly fitting nature and also good at hiding one’s tracks, letting beneficence flow through ten thousand generations while people use it daily without knowing—this is the shenren. The shenren does not attribute merit to himself, and so can achieve this.

Only insects can be insects; only insects can accord with nature.

Note: Being able to return to and hold fast to the insect’s nature is being able to accord with nature.

Commentary: Birds flying and beasts running are their following the nature of their kind as creatures (chong); spiders weaving webs and dung beetles rolling balls are their following nature (ziran). … The original text breaks off here.

To receive one’s endowment from the Creator—the power of natural transformation—can that be gained by mere imitation?

Those whose virtue is whole do not despise the nature they have received, nor do they envy the nature others have received.

Explication: People of complete virtue have spiritual efficacy that is unfathomably deep. How could they resent their own lot or loathe the nature allotted to others? It is not so—they simply comply with the natural course.

Besides, why should I draw a line between Heaven and the human?

Note: To know nothing deliberately and only act in accord with nature—is that even a human artifice?

Explication: “Heaven” and “human” here mean not distinguishing innate nature from artificial effort, but letting both follow nature. Earlier, Heaven and human each had beauty and ugliness, so Heaven and human were still distinguished; here Heaven and human are fused into one, and no difference between them is seen. “I” (吾) is the author’s borrowed voice speaking as himself.

If a sparrow flies before Yi (the legendary archer), Yi will surely hit it, because his archery is superb.

Note: When you seize things by force and intimidation, they are sure to flee.

Explication: Suppose a sparrow flies before Yi: his skill is great and he will surely strike it—but that relies on fierceness, not on virtue and wisdom, so few are caught and many escape. Governing the world by intimidation follows the same logic.

If you take the world as a birdcage, sparrows have nowhere to flee.

Note: All things in the world have their own likes; if each can obtain what it seeks along its likes, where could they flee?

Explication: The great Dao is vast and boundless; it can embrace and harmonize all things. Therefore, regarding heaven and earth as a birdcage, sparrows have no escape. From this we see that taking things by force violates the way of creation (zaohua).

Thus Tang of Shang won Yin Yi over while he was still a kitchen servant, and Duke Mu of Qin won Baili Xi with five sheets of sheepskin.

Explication: Yin Yi was a dowry servant of the clan of Youxin and excelled at cooking. He carried a jade tripod to seek an audience with Tang of Shang. Tang knew his talent and, following his nature, made him a kitchen servant so that he would stay. Baili Xi once drifted among the Di people; the Di prized sheepskin, and Duke Mu of Qin ransomed him with five hides. Another account says Baili Xi liked to wear a five-colored sheepskin coat, hence the title “Lord of Five Skins” (Wugu dafu). Tang was sagely and Duke Mu worthy; both knew how to cherish talent and thus gained these two ministers. They kept these men because they complied with each man’s nature.

Therefore, unless you win someone over by following what he likes, no one can truly be held.

Explication: Follow what others like and nothing in the world is hard; go against their nature and try to keep them—success has never been known.

One who has suffered foot-amputation (yue punishment) will cast aside things used to adorn the face and will not take to heart praise or blame from outside.

Note: “Painting” (hua) means adornment of appearance. One whose body is already mutilated no longer cares about beauty and ugliness, so he drops the adornment.

Explication: (The passage continues the theme of release from external judgment when inner or bodily wholeness is redefined—those marked by punishment no longer perform the social cosmetics of reputation.)

The commentary says: “Shu” refers to the punishment of amputation of the feet (yue xing); “yi” means to take away or cast aside; “hua zhuang” means elaborate adornment and dress. Ornamental clothing was originally meant to refine one’s appearance. Those whose bodies are maimed and whose form is damaged no longer care about praise and blame, honor and shame, and so they discard such adornment and cease to value it.

A xu mi (one serving penal labor) does not fear climbing to a height, because he no longer takes life and death to heart. The note explains that he feels there is nothing in living to rely on, and therefore he does not fear death. The commentary further explains that xu mi denotes those performing penal service; the sons of wealthy houses cherish their bodies, whereas servants and the like do not hold their lives dear. Once life is not cherished, naturally there is no fear when ascending to a height.

“Heaven again speaks harshly yet does not offer thanks and forgets others.” The note says “kui” (餽) appears in some versions as “kui” (愧), glossed as thanks or apology; here it means not knowing what others cherish. The commentary holds that when one returns to original nature and accords with the natural order, without abandoning oneself to imitate others, one forgets thanking others and following the rites of human obligation. Hand and foot and garment each have their function and cooperate with one another—where is the need deliberately to thank or depend on the other?

Forgetting artificial human sentiment, one thereby becomes a “tian ren” (one who accords with the Way of nature). The note says that shedding worldly human feeling, one can naturally become a tian ren. The commentary explains that this means following the nature of the Dao of Heaven, forgetting worldly emotions, and bringing conduct back to the natural.

Therefore, to be honored yet not pleased, insulted yet not angry—only one who is united with “tian he” (harmony with nature) can do this. The note says that xu mi, though maimed in body, can still be united with tian he, how much more so one who is already in tian he. The commentary explains that union with tian he enables one to forget adversity and prosperity, so that when treated with respect one is not glad, and when treated with contempt one is not enraged.

Anger appearing from within non-anger shows that anger still has its root in non-anger; purposeful action appearing from within wuwei (non-action) shows that action still has its root in wuwei. The note says: this treats how non-being cannot leave being to produce being, and being cannot by itself be the source of what produces it. The commentary explains that those who can rage and act are generated from states of non-anger and wuwei. Thus action takes wuwei as its root, and anger takes non-anger as its root. Understanding this, one can remain unangered when insulted.

If you wish the mind to be quiet, make the breath (qi) even; if you wish the spirit (shen) to be at peace, make the intent smooth. When acting, one should follow what circumstance makes unavoidable; acting in accord with the unavoidable is precisely the sage’s way of walking the path. The note says: when breath is even, the principle of stillness is complete; when intent is smooth, the efficacy of spirit is attained. Acting according to what is unavoidable, what one does will be fitting. Therefore the sage takes this as the Way—not by going to some vague, remote realm to chase after wuwei on purpose.

“Shu” means to go along with things and attain unobstructed flow. To still the mind so it is no longer drawn off by external objects, one must harmonize one’s focused intent (zhi) and spirit (shen). In the transformations of sublime spiritual efficacy, nothing matters more than yielding to and trusting in nature (ziran): let the mind be calm, level, and thoroughly open, present where fitting action arises yet always in accord with how affairs actually run.

Doing this also means complying with what one cannot refuse. “Cannot be stopped” means that once something stirs a response, one responds—that is what falls within one’s proper share. The sage treats such conduct as the upright Way.

Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu (Commentary and Sub-commentary on the Zhuangzi), scroll 25.