《南華真經註疏》Vol. 3

Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, Scroll Three

Commentary by Guo Xiang of Henan

Subcommentary by Master Cheng Xuanying of Xihua, Tang dynasty

The understanding of the people of antiquity reached its utmost point

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: “Utmost” means reaching the furthest limit. The sages of antiquity exercised their wisdom in stillness, emptiness, and mystery. Though they could blend with the world and fit in with ordinary life, their understanding also reached the state of “not-knowing.” In their actions, they did not depart from stillness, and they always held to the root of what is true and mysterious. The meaning of “utmost” will be explained point by point below.

What did it reach?

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: This is a question: what realm, exactly, did the understanding of the ancients reach?

Some held that there had never been anything at all. This was the utmost, the absolute limit; nothing could be added to it.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: In this state, one forgets Heaven and Earth and leaves all things behind, perceiving neither the universe outwardly nor oneself inwardly. Thus the mind can be open and unburdened, moving along with all things and responding to nothing in a way that does not accord with them.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: “Never” means that there has never been anything. Nothing in the world truly exists; all things and oneself, both within and without, are likewise empty. The four things named here—Heaven and Earth, all things, the universe, and oneself—are all dissolved into emptiness and stillness. The principle has now been carried to its furthest limit; nothing can be added. This answers the question above and explains the state in which understanding reaches its utmost.

Next came those who held that things existed, but that there had never been any boundaries.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Though they had not yet forgotten everything, they were already able to forget the distinctions between one thing and another.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: These are great worthies who have just begun their cultivation, their state close to that of sages. Though they can discern the difference between emptiness and existence, they are not bound by these distinctions.

Next came those who held that there were boundaries, but that there had never been right and wrong.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Though they could not yet forget the distinctions between one thing and another, they could forget judgments about what was right or wrong between them.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: Ordinary people find it hard to rid themselves of their attachment to external things. Those who have already made distinctions, however, find it easier to let go of judgments about right and wrong, and so can still forget them.

When right and wrong become apparent, the Dao is diminished.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Wholeness lies in the absence of right and wrong.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: Deciding who is right and who is wrong is a shallow, worldly judgment. Not clinging to right and wrong is the insight of those who have attained understanding. When distinctions between one and another become clear, the utmost Dao is obscured; only when right and wrong fall silent can the mysterious principle remain whole.

Where the Dao is diminished, love is formed.

Guo Xiang’s commentary: When the Dao is diminished, feelings become partial, and private attachments arise. This happens because one cannot forget private attachments or set aside self-interest, and so cannot become one with what is other.

Cheng Xuanying’s subcommentary: Once the empty and mysterious Dao is diminished, feelings that cling to external things take shape and become fixed.

Are there, after all, formation and diminution? Or are there, after all, no formation and no diminution?

Guo Xiang’s commentary: Whether there are formation and diminution, or whether there are not, is ultimately beyond human knowledge, even to the point that…

The Dao itself neither increases nor decreases, yet things suffer losses and attain accomplishments. When things become attached to what they have already accomplished, they think the Dao has suffered a loss. In fact, the Dao has lost nothing. This claim is made here to explain the principle involved: being and nonbeing are not fixed, and loss and accomplishment are not unchanging realities.

Whatever things accomplish, they also lose something. Thus, when Zhaowen played the zither, some notes were brought forth and others left out; when he did not play, the notes were no longer divided into those brought forth and those left out.

Commentary: There are more sounds than can be counted. When playing pipes or plucking strings, even a performer with elaborate skill leaves out many sounds. Picking up a wind instrument or plucking the strings is an attempt to bring sounds forth. But bringing some sounds forth means leaving others out; when one makes no deliberate attempt to bring them forth, the sounds are complete. Thus Zhaowen’s playing brought about both accomplishment and loss, while when he did not play, there was no loss.

Zhaowen was a man surnamed Zhao, famed in ancient times for his skill at the zither. Though his technique was exquisite, when he played the Shang note, he lost the Jue note; when he plucked the Gong note, he lost the Zhi note. When he did not play, all five notes were complete. This is like becoming attached to accomplishment or loss and thereby departing from the Dao. To accord with the true Dao, one must not cling to success or failure, but let go of contrived cleverness.

While Zhaowen played the zither, Shi Kuang kept time with a bamboo stick, and Hui Shi leaned against a wu-wood table as he talked. The abilities of all three were brought to their utmost.

Commentary: “Utmost” means the limit. Each of the three tried to use his particular skill to distinguish and explain what others did not understand, exhausting his mind and tiring his body and spirit. One kept time with a bamboo stick; another leaned against a table with his eyes closed to rest.

Further explanation: Shi Kuang, whose courtesy name was Ziye, was a musician at the court of Duke Ping of Jin, skilled in music and pitch. “Holding a stick” means using a bamboo stick to beat a drum or keep time. “Leaning against the wu” means resting against a table made of wu wood; it does not mean playing a zither. Zhaowen was skilled at the zither, Shi Kuang was an expert in music, and Hui Shi delighted in discussing names and principles. Each displayed his abilities according to his natural gifts, but the people of the time did not understand them. The three grew tired: some paused to rest, while others leaned against a table with their eyes closed. Their abilities were fully expressed in these performances. This describes them in the prime of their lives, which is why the account appears at the end of the chapter.

Note: They relied on the abundant energy of their youth, which allowed them to persevere for a long time. Otherwise, they would have been exhausted long ago.

Commentary: Hui Shi and the others were young and strong, so they could put their bodies and intelligence to work. When they grew old and frail, their debates over right and wrong lost their force. If they kept arguing for long, they would eventually be worn down.

Note: The only reason these three thought themselves different from everyone else was that they liked the doctrines they understood.

Commentary: Each of the three became absorbed in a doctrine he favored and took pride in it, hoping to display his skill and prove that he was different from others.

Note: They wanted to make their doctrines clear.

Commentary: They wanted to explain their Daoist teachings—their doctrines and methods—to everyone, and persuade others to share their preferences. They exhausted themselves in body and mind and still refused to stop because they wanted to display their teachings to everyone with perfect clarity.

They tried to force their explanations on those who did not agree with them. In the end, they were like people who spent their whole lives defending the doctrine of “hardness and whiteness”—the debate over whether properties such as an object’s hardness and whiteness can be separated—and remained lost in confusion.

Note: This is like playing music to a cow. Those people never understood, so their teachings ultimately came to nothing but obscurity and ignorance.

Commentary: “They” refers to everyone else, while “what they made clear” refers to the teachings the three men explained. “Whiteness” refers to Gongsun Long’s “White Horse” thesis. Gongsun Long, whose surname was Gongsun and whose given name was Long, was from the state of Zhao during the Warring States period. His disciples, including Kong Chuan, clung to this thesis and preached it everywhere. Though they could persuade people in argument, they could not make them truly believe it in their hearts. Gongsun Long held that all things have different natures and that people’s preferences differ as well. The teachings of the three men were beyond the understanding of everyone else, yet they tried to force those teachings on them. As a result, both sides were left confused. How is this any different from clinging to the “White Horse” thesis and misleading the world? However eloquent their arguments, in the end they had words but no reason behind them.

Zhaowen’s son also carried on his father’s mastery of the qin, but never achieved anything in his lifetime.

Note: Zhaowen’s son continued his father’s qin playing, but ultimately achieved nothing.

Commentary: “Strings” refers to the qin strings, and “continuation” refers to carrying on an undertaking. Zhaowen’s son took up his father’s work and continued his qin playing, yet reached the end of his life without accomplishing anything. How, then, could anyone else hope to learn it well?

If this can count as an achievement, then I too can count as having achieved something.

Note: The three men wanted others to understand their doctrines, but others never did, so the three accomplished nothing in their lifetimes. If that can still be called an achievement, then I, who have achieved nothing, can also be said to have achieved something.

Commentary: “I” refers to everyone else. The three men thought they were different from everyone else and therefore believed they had achieved something. But since everyone else is different from the three men, they too can be said to have achieved something.

If doing this cannot be called bringing all things to completion, then neither I nor anything else has brought anything to completion.

Commentary: Each thing reveals itself, but cannot reveal another in its place. If we say that something has not been brought to completion simply because another has not revealed it, then none of the myriad things could be said to bring one another to completion. Thus the sage does not display himself to shine light on others, nor abandon himself to pursue external things. Instead, he follows the course of all things, letting each do what it can, so that every thing may be brought to completion and none is left out. Now the three men want to make the principles they favor plain to others. Is this not also a form of misguided action?

Explanatory note: The three men live among the myriad things, yet cannot be said to have brought them to completion. From this we can see that neither ordinary people nor the three men can be said to bring one another to completion.

What the sage seeks, then, is to embrace changes that are puzzling and hard to understand, while keeping his radiance hidden and resting in the ordinary. This is called “acting through clarity”—acting by means of insight.

Commentary: The sage has no fixed position of his own. So he makes room for puzzling changes and accommodates them; he can also regard strange and uncanny things with understanding, seeing them as one. He lets every kind of thing rest in its own state, so that people do not lose sight of the principles they each hold to. In this way, the sage does not control the myriad things, yet their functions can all be fulfilled. When each thing fulfills its function, who can decide which is right and which is wrong? Even when things change without end and take on different forms, the sage follows their course and lets each fulfill its function. Thus, though their functions differ greatly, they are all clearly revealed.

Explanatory note: The sage’s virtue accords with that of Heaven and Earth, and his discernment is as clear as the sun and moon. He therefore restrains his presence and conceals his radiance, following the myriad things. He does not disturb the multitude with dazzling words or deeds, nor praise himself and demand that others imitate him. He lets every thing remain within its own bounds, setting aside fixed judgments and following the great Dao of all things. He also leaves the opportunity to bring things to completion to the various kinds of ability. To attend to things in this way is true sagacity and wisdom.

Suppose someone now puts forward a view. We do not know whether it belongs to the same category as “this” or to a different one. If sameness and difference are also grouped together, then this view is no different from what was said earlier.

Commentary: Someone now says that there is no right or wrong. We do not know whether this view is the same as or different from the view that there is right and wrong. If we say they are the same, then I regard “there is no right or wrong” as correct, while the other person regards it as wrong; in that respect, the two views differ. Yet even with different positions on right and wrong, we cannot avoid arguing about right and wrong, so in that respect we are once again the same as the other person. In the end, sameness and difference are grouped together, leaving us no different from the other person. Since that is so, to achieve a truly great difference, it is better to cling to no position at all: first set aside right and wrong, then set aside even the thought of setting right and wrong aside.

One must set aside one’s various ideas layer by layer, until there is nothing left to set aside. At that point, one no longer clings even to the act of “letting go.” In this way, disputes over right and wrong naturally dissolve.

Note: The highest principle cannot be expressed in words. Once one begins to speak, it is easy to fall into all kinds of categories and distinctions. So here we have no choice but to use language to try to convey its general meaning.

Commentary: “Categories” are groups of things that resemble one another. Living beings are ignorant and confused, clinging to “right” and “wrong.” Here, ordinary views are to be turned around and this attachment broken. So, for the moment, we say “there is neither right nor wrong,” and treat this as the true Dao. Next, we say “they belong to the same category”—that is, they are all of one kind—in order to set aside the view that “there is neither right nor wrong.” We must then continue setting things aside to reach “layered mystery”: surpassing things layer by layer, without clinging even to the act of surpassing.

Even so, let us try to say something.

Note: “The highest principle” is difficult to express in words. Yet if we say nothing at all, we cannot explain it, so we have no choice but to use language to sketch its meaning.

Commentary: “Try” means to attempt to speak. The highest principle is difficult to put into words, but without words it cannot be explained. So we provisionally use language to express its image.

“There is a beginning.”

Note: If there is a beginning, there is an end.

Commentary: This supposes a question in order to show that the Great Dao has neither beginning nor end. It first sets aside the distinction between “beginning” and “end.”

“There is what has never had a beginning.”

Note: This means there is no beginning or end, and regards birth and death as one.

Commentary: “Never” means “never before.” Here another statement is proposed: there has never been a beginning or an end. This further sets aside the view that there is no beginning or end.

“There is what has never had even that which has never had a beginning.”

Note: Seeing all things as one is still not as good as setting aside even the idea of “oneness” and letting all things be equal of themselves. Only then can one further forget the idea that they are all equal.

Commentary: Here another statement is proposed: there has never been even what has never had a beginning. This further sets aside attachment to the idea of having no beginning or end.

“There is.”

Note: As soon as one holds that something “is,” beauty and ugliness, right and wrong all arise with it.

Commentary: Though the myriad forms are many, they are all illusory. “There is” is introduced here to make “emptiness” clear by means of “being”; that is, to set aside attachment to what “is.”

“There is not.”

Note: If one clings to “nonbeing” without knowing that even “nonbeing” does not exist, right and wrong, liking and disliking still cannot leave the mind.

Commentary: Here the idea of “nonbeing” is proposed. The point now is to show that not only is “being” not truly real, but “nonbeing” is not truly absent either. This sets aside attachment to “nonbeing.”

“There is what has never had nonbeing.”

Note: Although one knows that “nonbeing” does not exist either, one has not yet let go of attachment to that very understanding.

Commentary: Here another statement is proposed: there has never been “nonbeing.” This sets aside attachment to “not being.”

“There is what has never had even that which has never had nonbeing.”

Commentary: Here another statement is proposed: there has never been even what has never had nonbeing. This sets aside attachment to “not not-being.”

Moving from the shallow to the deep, from the rough to the refined: first one speaks of “being,” and in the end…

What seems to be a clear distinction between right and wrong is, in fact, a perspective that goes beyond every “right” and “wrong” and beyond the four forms of one-sided assertion. The earlier discussion concerned beginnings and endings; this one concerns time. The present discussion of being and nonbeing, meanwhile, clarifies the underlying principle. Both time and principle return to emptiness and stillness.

Before long, distinctions between “being” and “nonbeing” arose again in the mind, though I still did not know which was being and which was nonbeing.

[Commentary] This means forgetting even the mind that distinguishes being from nonbeing. Then, suddenly, one apprehends “nonbeing.” Once nonbeing is apprehended, the distinctions among Heaven and Earth and the myriad things, and between self and other, right and wrong, all become suddenly clear.

[Exegesis] The earlier passage traced the signs of being and nonbeing back to the root of “neither being nor nonbeing.” Here, by contrast, the functioning of being and nonbeing emerges from the substance of “neither being nor nonbeing.” The word “suddenly” shows that substance and function are immediately joined, not far apart. The mysterious Dao is deep and unfathomable, and its true purpose is subtle and hard to grasp. Seen in terms of its functioning, it is neither being nor nonbeing, yet it appears as both; seen in terms of its substance, being and nonbeing are each not being and not nonbeing. Thus, being and nonbeing have no fixed, unchanging substance or function. Who can declare that it must be nonbeing? And who can declare that it must be being? Here, the functioning of being and nonbeing is used to show that their substance is neither being nor nonbeing.

Now I, too, have something to say.

[Commentary] To say “there is neither right nor wrong” is itself to put forward a view. Yet it remains unclear whether this view counts as having something to say or as having nothing to say.

[Commentary] It is also unclear whether to call it having something to say or having nothing to say. In this way, the mind can become utterly open and unimpeded, without retaining even the slightest attachment.

[Exegesis] “To say” means to put something into words. Zhuangzi is again about to discuss what cannot be expressed in words. A principle can be conveyed through speech; the earlier phrase “let me try to speak of it” is an example. Since the principle is explained through words, it remains unclear whether these words count as speech or as no speech. Zhuangzi means to show that one who speaks of the principle is neither wholly silent nor relies only on words; likewise, teaching is neither entirely absent nor something that truly exists. He fears that readers will become attached to the word “again,” so he poses the question in this way.

Nothing in the world is greater than the tip of an autumn hair, yet Mount Tai seems small; nothing lives longer than a child who dies young, yet Pengzu seems short-lived. Heaven and Earth came into being together with me, and the myriad things form one with me.

[Commentary] If we compare physical forms, Mount Tai is of course larger than an autumn hair. But if each thing follows its own nature and endowment, fulfilling the utmost it can attain, then a large form is not excessive, and a small form is not deficient. From the standpoint of nature, the autumn hair is not small merely because it is small, nor is Mount Tai large merely because it is large. If “great” means being fulfilled in one’s own nature, then every thing in the world is complete in itself: nothing is more deficient than an autumn hair, and nothing can surpass it. If what is fulfilled in its own nature is not …

Whether something is large or small depends on the standpoint from which it is measured. From the perspective of the extremely minute, even the tip of a fine hair newly grown by an animal in autumn can be called the largest thing. From the perspective of the immeasurably vast, even Mount Tai can be called small. Thus, one may say that nothing in the world is larger than the tip of an autumn hair, while Mount Tai appears small by comparison. If Mount Tai counts as small, then there is nothing “large” in the world; if the tip of an autumn hair counts as large, then there is nothing “small.”

Since size has no fixed boundary, so too with the length of life. The huigu (a short-lived insect, like a cicada) does not envy the great chun tree (a legendary tree of immense longevity), and is content in its own freedom. The chiyan (a small bird) does not prize the Heavenly Lake (a legendary expanse of water), but is at ease with its own life. If each is content with its natural endowment and keeps to its own nature and life, then even Heaven and Earth cannot be said to live longer than we do, and the myriad things cannot be said to be different from us. Why should the life of Heaven and Earth not be counted alongside ours? And why should the endowments each thing receives not be regarded as one and the same?

[Commentary] The fine hairs that grow on animals in autumn are so tiny that their tips are called “the tip of an autumn hair.” A child who dies in infancy, still in swaddling clothes, is called a “premature death.” “Large” and “small” are inherently relative. The forms and dispositions of the myriad things differ: some are small in form, some large; some live briefly, others for a long time. Yet, when viewed in terms of the nature each receives, none is not self-sufficient. By the measure of each thing’s own nature, then, nothing in the world is larger than the tip of a hair, and nothing is smaller than Mount Tai. Since Mount Tai can count as small, there is no absolute “large” in the world; since the tip of a hair can count as large, there is no absolute “small.” The same holds for premature death and longevity. Heaven and Earth may be vast, but the nature each receives is equally self-sufficient; the myriad things may be many, but they are alike in being at ease with what they have received. The earlier passage spoke of there being no end or beginning, no existence or nonexistence. This passage speaks of there being no absolute small or large, and no absolute premature death or longevity.

Since the myriad things have already been brought together as “one,” what more can be said?

[Note] The myriad things take different forms, yet each is at ease with what it has received. The principle they receive belongs to the One, and they themselves are also a single whole. From this perspective, there is nothing more to say.

Since it has already been called “one,” can one really say that nothing has been said?

[Note] Names and explanations arise when the principle is not yet clear. At times, things cannot make their oneness clear by themselves, so people compare this with that and use “one” to explain and correct the distinction. But as soon as “one” has been spoken, something has been said.

[Commentary] The mysterious Dao is deep and still, and its principle transcends form and sound. Names and explanations arose to guide those who had lost their way. Although “one” encompasses the myriad things, it is still a verbal teaching. Once it is called “one,” how can one say that nothing has been said?

Add “one” to speech, and it becomes “two”; add “one” to “two,” and it becomes “three.” If one keeps extending this process, even a skilled calculator could not reach its end—how much less an ordinary person?

Commentary: To explain “the One” through language: this “One” is not language itself. The One was originally one, but as soon as language speaks of it, it becomes two: the One and the words that speak of it. With both “one” and “two,” does that not make three? What is more, if we keep tracing the branching streams, the names of the myriad things all differ. Even someone skilled at counting could not count them all. So one who gathers the myriad things into the One is no different from the myriad things; one who forgets this “One” needs no words and naturally becomes one with the Dao.

Commentary: “Wondrous Oneness” is the mysterious principle of unity, which cannot be expressed in language. So when language speaks of “the One,” that “One” is not language itself. The One is already one; to speak of it in words adds another name: “the One” and “speech”—two designations. If we then combine these two designations, which have appeared later, with the earlier, wordless Wondrous Oneness, we have one, two, and three. From three, the count continues to unfold. Even someone skilled at calculation could not work out the full number—let alone an ordinary person.

Commentary: Only by moving from nothing to something do we arrive at three. How much more so if we add something to what already exists?

Commentary: “Go toward” means to proceed. The highest principle is originally wordless; once it is spoken, names arise. Thus, moving from silence to speech, one reaches “three” as soon as one begins to speak. How much more so if one continues speaking from what has already been said: branches and divisions multiply endlessly. How could they ever be counted? This explains that in the beginning, no method had a name. From nothing to something, names and distinctions gradually developed into what they are today.

Commentary: Do not deliberately head toward any particular place; simply follow things as they are.

Commentary: All things are illusory, and names and words are no exception. Therefore, “nothing” is not absolute nothingness, and “something” is not substantial existence. The names and numbers “something” and “nothing” themselves all return to stillness. Since there is no need to move from nothing to something, why move from something that already exists toward yet another thing? There is no need to labor over imagined comings, goings, and changes; simply accord with the nature of things.

Commentary: The Dao has never had boundaries. It is deep and formless, and present everywhere.

Commentary: The Dao is everywhere, and nowhere does it have fixed boundaries. It is vast without limit—what territory could it have?

Commentary: Speech has never had a fixed, unchanging standard. People speak from differing points of view, so “right” and “wrong” have no settled, fixed conclusions.

Commentary: The principle is empty and open; it has no boundaries, and teachings, too, change with things. They have no fixed, unchanging standard.

Commentary: Once a particular account is judged correct, boundaries are drawn.

“Boundaries” refers to the limits of fields. The Dao itself has no boundaries, but teachings change in response to the differences among things. This is what “boundaries” means here.

Thus, the various boundaries and distinctions are not all the same. Let us discuss them.

Here, someone is imagined to be asking a question, which introduces what follows.

There is left and right. Note: Each thing has its own advantages and appropriate uses. Commentary: The left belongs to Yang, and the right to Yin. Though the Dao is settled and still, teachings must respond to differing circumstances, and boundaries therefore vary, with rises and falls each having their own distinctions. Thus there are east and west, left and right, as well as the growth of spring and the killing force of autumn.

There are social relations and moral principles. Note: Each thing has its own inherent order, and each matter has an appropriate way of being handled. Commentary: Social relations are the patterns of things; moral principles are what is fitting. The myriad things are diverse, and each has its own order. Matters differ in countless ways, and each has its own suitable means of handling.

There are distinctions and classifications. Note: Things each belong to their own categories. Commentary: To classify is to set things apart. Birds and beasts, though numerous in kind, each belong to their own groups. The natures of the myriad things differ, and so they naturally fall into different categories.

There is competition and dispute. Note: Pursuing victory and defeat together is called “competition”; arguing with one another is called “dispute.” Commentary: The nature of things is clouded and dull. Attached to distinctions between self and other, they pursue one another, vie for victory and defeat, and argue over right and wrong.

These are what are called the “Eight Functions.” Note: In brief, there are these eight kinds of function. Commentary: Here, “De” means function. The functions of the various things are constantly changing and without end; in summary, there are these eight. This explains the “boundaries” mentioned earlier.

Beyond Heaven and Earth and the four directions, the sage acknowledges that it exists but does not discuss it. Note: “Beyond the Six Directions” refers to a realm outside the scope of the inherent nature of things. The things there may also have their own order, but since they lie beyond the scope of the nature of the myriad things, they do not respond to the sage. Therefore, the sage does not discuss them, so as not to lead the myriad things to imitate what they cannot do. Because the sage does not discuss what lies beyond the Six Directions, the eight kinds of boundaries can each remain true to their own nature. Commentary: The Six Directions are Heaven and Earth and the four cardinal directions. Beyond them lies what is outside the scope of the inherent nature of living beings—that is, the ultimate Dao of layered mystery and transcendence, beyond distinctions. The mysterious Dao has no form or image and lies beyond all kinds of speech, as well as beyond the Six Directions. It is subtle and difficult to perceive, and cannot be expressed in words; therefore, one can only acknowledge that it exists without discussing it.

Within Heaven and Earth and the four directions, the sage discusses things but does not judge them. Note: The sage simply describes the nature of things, allowing each to remain true to its own nature. Commentary: Within the Six Directions lies the scope of the nature with which living beings are endowed. All manner of choices and rejections arise from deluded feelings; if one traces them to their source, they are in fact like illusions…

Responding in keeping with the particular circumstances and resonances of things, one states the fitting words. Since what is being discussed arises from nothing, there is nothing to explain in detail. Hence the text later says, “I was only speaking casually.”

The Spring and Autumn Annals records events of the world and embodies the intentions of the former kings. The sage offers judgments but does not argue.

Commentary: The sage acts in response to events that have already taken shape and rests inwardly in what is most fitting. Because the sage does not cling to personal views, they differ from ordinary people.

Explanatory note: “Spring and Autumn” refers to the era, while “Jing” means a classic or a record of instructions. The former kings are the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors; “intentions” here means their recorded accounts. The ancients carried on the traditions of the Yellow Emperor and Zhuanxu, took Yao and Shun as models, and recorded the events of each age as guiding principles and standards of governance, passing them down to later generations. The sage assesses how these events benefited or harmed people at the time, but does not stubbornly decide who was right or wrong, nor become trapped in past events.

Thus it is said: Some things cannot be divided; some arguments need not be made.

Commentary: Things each have their own distinctions, and circumstances each have their own differences. To divide them according to one’s own views is to fail to see the differences things already possess in themselves.

Explanatory note: The Dao itself has no distinctions, yet right and wrong do exist among things. To insist on forming distinctions and arguments where there were originally no boundaries is merely the work of those with limited understanding, who cling to one side. How could they truly probe subtle principles and discern things clearly?

Someone asks, “Why is this so?”

Explanatory note: The question is posed here to express and draw out the meaning.

The sage keeps these principles within.

Commentary: The sage makes non-argument their way of being. In truth, however, the sage has nothing deliberately hidden within.

Explanatory note: The sage who understands the principles has a spirit in accord with the Dao. Thus the sage can embrace all things and the self, and accommodate every kind of right and wrong. The sage’s mind is like withered wood and dead ashes, no longer attached to distinctions.

People argue in order to display their views to others. Thus it is said that those who argue have something they cannot see.

Commentary: They fail to see that things each have their own distinctions. So they argue over what they know and display it to others.

Explanatory note: “People” is another term for living beings. Ordinary people are deluded and attached; they cannot see the differences things possess in themselves, nor have they understood the subtle principle within themselves. That is why it is said that they fail to see something.

The Great Dao cannot be expressed in words.

Commentary: When it is allowed to manifest on its own, no name can be attached to it.

Explanatory note: The Great Dao is vast and still, so subtle that it transcends form and name. It is neither color nor sound, and therefore cannot be expressed in words. Those who realize the Great Dao also let go of distinctions made through words and names.

The highest form of debate does not rely on words.

Commentary: Things each have their own distinctions.

Explanatory note: Once one truly understands the fundamental principle, there is nothing to be said. It allows all things to manifest their own distinctions, yet requires no words.

The greatest virtue of benevolence does not take the form of deliberate acts of kindness.

Commentary: It loves without favoritism, yet naturally enables all things to endure.

Nurture all things and care for them broadly, without favoring one over another. This is like spring, which brings all things to life, not because it intends to practice benevolence.

A truly noble and upright person does not feel that anything is lacking, nor rely on yielding to others to make a show of virtue.

Note: One who is truly fulfilled understands that the coming and going of all things is not under one’s control. The heart, therefore, has no gains or losses that it needs to accept or reject.

Commentary: One who understands the profound principles sees through “emptiness” and “being,” and knows that the forms of all things are illusory, with nothing worth coveting. Both things and self are empty—what need is there for either to yield to the other?

A truly brave person does not harm others.

Note: Wherever he goes, he can adapt; there is no dangerous place he would absolutely refuse to enter.

Commentary: “Harming” means injuring or going against others. With a compassionate heart, he welcomes people broadly and so can adapt to the ways of the world and help living beings. He responds with humility to all kinds of circumstances and never sets himself against others.

The Dao that displays itself is not the true Dao.

Note: When one thing is used to display another, in the end both are lost.

Commentary: Boasting of one’s achievements so that others will notice is mere vanity and pretense, not the true Dao.

Rhetorical argument cannot reach the Dao.

Note: Words cannot reach the state that the Dao itself can reach.

Commentary: One who cannot maintain profound stillness and silence remains caught in names and words. Ornate language and empty argument cannot lead to a deep understanding of the Dao.

Insisting on benevolence prevents things from being accomplished.

Note: If one’s love for all things is partial, it cannot extend everywhere. And if one insists on loving, one cannot care for all things completely.

Commentary: One who cannot forget partiality or set aside distinctions, and cannot merge self and other in the understanding of profound principles, remains attached to favors and concerned with degrees of closeness. Seeking to accomplish great things this way will ultimately come to nothing.

Deliberately cultivating a reputation for purity and integrity makes one untrustworthy.

Note: One who makes a show of being especially upright is merely seeking fame, not truly practicing integrity.

Commentary: Deliberately appearing different from ordinary people and standing apart from them, while caring about one’s reputation, is not true integrity.

Bragging of strength and harming others in the name of courage cannot lead to success.

Note: “Harming” means going against others and injuring them. The world despises this kind of courage, and such a person has nowhere to stand.

Commentary: Abandoning compassion, this person flaunts his strength and acts against human feeling. Everyone will despise him, and he will surely fail.

These five ways of acting may seem harmonious, but in truth they come close to turning everything in the opposite direction.

Note: All five ways of acting harm the Dao as it is by nature because they are deliberate efforts. Instead of abiding in one’s nature, one pursues external things without end. What is outside cannot be obtained in the first place; trying to force it is like using a circle to learn how to make a square, or like a fish envying a bird. One may long to be a phoenix or aspire to be like the sun and moon, but the closer one tries to get to those goals, the farther away one moves from them. The more one accumulates practical learning, the more one loses one’s nature. Once all things are seen as equal, the burden of fixating on one side or another disappears.

Commentary: “Round” means circular, and “close” means approaching. The five ways of acting here are displaying the Dao to show oneself off, rhetorical argument, attachment to benevolence, deliberately cultivating a reputation for integrity, and flaunting strength to harm others. Those who study the Dao should restrain their brilliance, yet instead they boast of their abilities…

Displaying one’s brilliance in external things—is this not, from the perspective of the Dao, far removed from it? It is like yearning for what is square while learning to turn in circles, or loving to fly while insisting on learning to swim. Even if one admires the luan and feng, legendary divine birds, one still lacks the ability to soar high. And if one wishes to rival the sun and moon, how could one ever gain their power?

Thus, knowing where to stop at the limits of what one does not know is the highest attainment.

Commentary: What is called “not knowing” refers to matters beyond one’s nature and abilities. So stopping within the bounds of what one can know is what it means to be fully attuned.

Exegesis: Things differ in size, and human wisdom varies in clarity and depth. There is no need to force oneself to know what lies beyond one’s wisdom. Knowing to stop within the bounds of one’s proper capacity is to have brought learning to its highest point.

Who understands the kind of debate that needs no words, or the Dao that cannot be spoken? Whoever can understand this may be called a “Heavenly Treasury”—a natural storehouse, meaning a state that accords with nature.

Commentary: The mind is vast and open, allowing things to follow their natural course.

Exegesis: “Who” means “which person,” and “Heaven” means nature. Whoever understands wordless speech and the unspeakable Dao, and through this accumulates discernment and understands the myriad things, can be said to be in accord with nature’s storehouse.

Pour into it, and it will not fill; draw from it, and it will not run dry.

Commentary: The mind of the Perfected Person is like a mirror: it responds to things without storing them within. It is therefore open and clear, unchanged by fullness or emptiness.

Yet one does not know where it comes from.

Commentary: The highest principle appears of itself, without a trace to follow.

Exegesis: The sea is deep and vast, with boundaries that cannot be measured. The hundred rivers flow into it without filling it, while the Tail-Gate, the legendary place where seawater drains away, cannot empty it. The sage who embodies the Great Dao is the same: the rise of countless affairs does not disturb his spirit, and the need to respond to every kind of difficulty does not disrupt his thoughts. Thus he can contain the myriad things and shelter all living beings. He is also like a mirror hung in a high hall: when things arrive, it reflects them. Yet the wisdom that reflects all things does not know where it comes from. This may be called reflecting without clinging to reflection, and forgetting while still able to reflect.

This is called “Concealed Radiance”—light kept within and not displayed.

Commentary: The light is allowed to appear naturally, so its brilliance does not fade.

Exegesis: One forgets completely yet can still reflect; after reflecting, one does not cling to the act of reflection. In this way, one gathers in one’s radiance, and the light becomes brighter still. This sums up the earlier meaning of the “Heavenly Treasury.”

Long ago, Yao asked Shun, “I want to attack the small states of Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao. Yet when I face south and preside over the court, my heart is not at ease. Why is this?”

Commentary: Yao had not yet fully attained the state of calmly following the Dao, and so he could not remain at ease while attending to affairs of state. He wanted to entrust to the great sage the Dao of discerning the myriad things while regarding them as equal. He therefore posed the question that troubled him, prompting Shun’s reply.

Exegesis: “At ease” describes a state of joyful calm. Zong, Kuai, and Xu’ao were small states in Yao’s time.

This commentary first sets out the background of the "three states" and "facing south." The "three states" refer to the three small states mentioned earlier: Zong, Kuai, and Xu'ao. "Facing south" refers to the ruler's seat, since a sovereign sits facing south when he gives audience. Shun (a sage-king of high antiquity) was a sixth-generation descendant of Zhuanxu (an ancient emperor). His father was called Gusou and his mother Wodeng, who is said to have conceived Shun after sensing a great rainbow. Shun was born at Yaoxu, and so took the surname Yao; he lived by the Gui River and was therefore also called of the Gui clan. His eyes had double pupils, hence his courtesy name Chonghua. Shun was known in his village for his benevolence and filial piety. When Yao heard of his worth, he gave him his two daughters in marriage and enfeoffed him with the land of Yu as his fief. At thirty, Shun took charge of the hundred officials; at thirty-three, he received Yao's abdication and ascended the throne, establishing his capital at Puban. He reigned for forty years, then yielded the throne to Yu, and after his death was buried in the wilds of Cangwu. The commentary goes on to say that the three states had fallen behind in their tribute and taxes, and by rights a punitive army should have been sent, but Yao had not yet made up his mind, so he was displeased at court. Zhuangzi wished to use this occasion to illuminate the principle that all things are one, and so framed it as an exchange between the two sages, Yao and Shun.

Shun said: those three rulers are merely people living among the mugwort and the wormwood; why can you not let it go? Guo Xiang's note says: when things are each content with where they dwell, they do not feel it to be crude, and so the land of mugwort and wormwood is precisely where the three rulers find their peace and joy. Cheng Xuanying's commentary says: the "three" are the rulers of the three states. Mugwort and wormwood are lowly little plants, and even the tiny quail can roam free and at ease among them; how much more, then, can the rulers of these small vassal states find in them enough room to settle and nourish their natures. Why, then, can your heart not set the matter down?

The text continues: in the past, ten suns rose together and all things were illuminated; how much more so for one whose virtue surpasses the sun? Guo Xiang's note says: the sun's light was layered as it climbed the sky, and the whole world in every direction was lit, so that not even the places of mugwort and wormwood went unlit. Although the sun and moon shine without partiality, there are still places they do not reach, whereas sagely virtue has nowhere it fails to extend. Yet now one would wish to strip these rulers of their contentment among the mugwort and wormwood, to attack them and make them submit, and how could that be called the great Dao? This is why Yao could not set the matter down, and only grasped it in his heart. If one can let all things unfold their natures, each content with what suits it, leaving the far and near, the hidden and deep, to their own course, each reaching its own fulfillment, then nothing on their side is amiss, and nothing on mine is displeasing.

The commentary explains: "surpass" here means "exceed." The Huainanzi records that in Yao's time ten suns appeared at once, scorching the crops and withering the grass and trees, while monsters such as Yayu, Fengxi, and the long serpent preyed upon the people. Yao therefore sent Yi to shoot the ten suns above, and he brought down nine of them, and below he killed the long serpent, ridding the people of the scourge. When the ten suns rose, the whole world in every direction was lit, yet hidden places, such as beneath an overturned basin, still went unlit; but wherever the virtue of a sage reaches, however dark the place, nothing is left unilluminated. Setting these two kinds of brightness side by side, it is plain that the radiance of sagely virtue far exceeds the light of the sun.

The preceding passage says that if one raises troops and wages war to subdue other states and make them submit, one has departed from the Dao (the Way), which rests in naturalness and lets each thing act of itself. How could that be called promoting a Way that reaches everywhere?

Next comes the exchange in the "Discourse on Making All Things Equal" (Qiwu lun). Nie Que (said to have been the teacher of Xu You) asks Wang Ni (Nie Que's own teacher; both were worthies in the time of Yao): "Do you know what all things commonly agree is right?" The subcommentary explains that Zhuangzi uses these two figures to show how people's views are turned upside down. Each clings to their own opinion, taking themselves to be right and others to be wrong, so the question asks how matters really stand.

Wang Ni answers: "How would I know?" Guo Xiang's commentary says that what is commonly agreed upon is not necessarily correct, and what differs is not necessarily mistaken. Neither side can correct the other, so knowledge has no use here. The subcommentary adds that each side has its own right and wrong and no final verdict is ever reached. If Wang Ni used "knowing" to judge, they would still fall into right and wrong, so they say "How would I know?", meaning that knowledge is useless in this matter.

Nie Que asks again: "Then do you know what it is that you do not know?" The subcommentary says that since Wang Ni does not know what all things agree is right, perhaps they at least know that they do not know. The questioning moves from the coarse to the subtle, going deeper step by step, and the dialogue between teacher and student is used to bring out a profound point.

Wang Ni again answers: "How would I know?" The commentary says that to presume one knows what one does not know is still to "have knowledge," and with knowledge one cannot let the abilities of all people follow their own natures. The subcommentary says that using knowledge to know "not knowing" is still knowing, so Wang Ni answers "I do not know" once more.

Nie Que asks yet again: "Then do all things have no knowledge?" The subcommentary reads this as: since you do not know yourself, can it be that all things are also without knowledge?

Wang Ni still answers: "How would I know?" The commentary says that only by not knowing at all can the mind become open and empty and able to bear everything. The subcommentary says that Wang Ni knows neither themselves nor the myriad things. Self and thing, inner and outer, are all forgotten, so there is nowhere left to place "knowing."

Wang Ni then says: "Even so, let me try to say something." The commentary says that because Wang Ni does not know, they dare not state a firm conclusion and only try speaking. The subcommentary says that "even so" (ran hu) is like "although it is so." Since there is no knowing, the principle cannot properly be put into words and cannot be stated with exactness, so Wang Ni only makes an attempt.

"How do you know that what I call 'knowing' is not 'not knowing'?" Guo Xiang's commentary gives an example. A fish swims in the water, and the creatures of the water all consider this knowing, but from the standpoint of a bird, what the fish takes to be knowing becomes not knowing. The dung beetle (the beetle that rolls balls of dung) takes rolling its dung ball as its skill, while those who laugh at it prize storax (suhe fragrance, a costly aromatic). Therefore even a "knowing" that everyone commonly accepts cannot be taken as a reliable standard.

The circumstances of all things differ. Some understand one side but not the other; some understand the other side but not this one. Fish and birds, one suited to life in water and the other to life on land and in the sky, show precisely this principle. Thus, what is called “knowing” may also be “not knowing,” and what is called “not knowing” may in fact be a kind of “knowing.” How could ordinary people understand this? How could they know that when I speak of “not knowing,” I do not mean knowing nothing at all?

Here, “not knowing” refers only to the different things each knows; each has its own way of understanding.

“Not knowing” means that people’s understandings cannot be reconciled with one another; it does not mean that they know absolutely nothing.

Let me try asking you this:

Since you yourself cannot be certain what is correct, try asking me.

Since the principle is difficult to put into words, I dare not make a firm judgment and can only turn the question back to you.

If a person sleeps in a damp place, their back will ache, and they may even become paralyzed on one side and die. Is this true of loaches as well? If a person lives in a tree, they become frightened and unsettled. Is this true of monkeys too? Of these three, which knows the most suitable place to live?

Here three examples show that what suits one thing may not suit another.

A person becomes ill from sleeping on wet ground, while a loach can live in water. A person living in a tree would be frightened and uneasy, while monkeys leap among the branches without fear. Different creatures have different dispositions, and different environments suit them. So who can declare that there is only one proper place to live in all the world? From this we can see: how are we to judge what counts as honor or disgrace, whether it is a humble hut with a reed door or a splendid mansion shining with gold?

People eat the meat of livestock; elk and deer eat grass. Centipedes like to eat snakes, and owls and similar birds like to eat mice. Of these four kinds of creatures, which knows what counts as the finest delicacy?

“Chu” means grass: cattle and sheep, for instance, feed on it. “Huan” refers to domesticated livestock, such as dogs and pigs, which eat meat. Elk and deer eat lush grass, owls like to eat dead mice, and centipedes eat snakes. Since different creatures each have their own tastes, which food can truly be called delicious? From this we can see that rich meat dishes and simple vegetable fare each satisfy those who eat them; ultimately, neither is superior.

Gibbons and yuanhou, a kind of monkey, take one another as mates; elk and deer mate with each other, and fish swim together in the water. Maoqiang and Liji are considered beautiful women. When fish see them, they dive to the bottom; when birds see them, they fly high into the sky; when elk and deer see them, they flee at speed. Of these four kinds of creatures, which knows the true standard of beauty in the world?

Here, different creatures are shown to have different preferences, demonstrating that there is no universal standard of beauty.

Different things negate one another, so we cannot know whether what they jointly approve of is necessarily correct.

Apes, monkeys, and gibbons each keep to their own kind. Elk and deer draw close to one another, while loaches and fish swim together. Mao Qiang and Li Ji were the Yue king’s favored concubine and a cherished consort of Jin; both were peerlessly beautiful, and people called them beauties. Yet when fish saw them, they plunged in alarm into the deep; birds, frightened by them, flew high into the sky; and elk and deer ran away without looking back. Put these four perspectives together: who can decide what, in all under Heaven, truly counts as beauty? From this we can see that ordinary people, foolish and deluded, arbitrarily give rise to aversion and affection. Examined in principle, which side is right or wrong? “Juezu” describes something moving with great speed.

From where I stand, the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness, and the paths of right and wrong, are tangled together in disorder. How could I distinguish among them?

Note: What benefits one side may harm the other. The relationships among things under Heaven are endless, so the boundary between right and wrong is not fixed. Thus, only by refraining from forcing distinctions, and allowing each thing to regard itself as right, can all things eventually be free and at ease.

Commentary: There are many things, yet none is unrelated to me. The gains and losses that come with practicing benevolence and righteousness therefore differ: sometimes something benefits me but harms another; sometimes what seems right to another seems wrong to me. Viewed from these differing standpoints, the paths of right and wrong and the beginnings of benevolence and righteousness become tangled and confused, like many different dishes mixed together. Since there is no fixed rule, how could I know how to distinguish them?

Nie Que (a personal name) said, “You do not know what is beneficial or harmful. Does the Perfected Person, who has reached the highest state, not know either?”

Note: He has not yet grasped the profound meaning of “knowing nothing,” so he still suspects that the Perfected Person ought to know what is beneficial and harmful. This shows that his doubts have not yet been resolved.

Commentary: Nie Que has not understood that neither side’s standpoint can be fixed, and so he raises the question of benefit and harm once more. He asks, “You are a Perfected Person, so you ought to know what is beneficial and harmful. If you cannot even distinguish right from wrong, would that not leave you as lost as someone walking at night?” He poses the difficulty again, hoping Wang Ni will answer.

Wang Ni said, “The Perfected Person is wondrous and unfathomable.”

Note: The Perfected Person has no fixed views, yet responds in accord with all things.

Commentary: “Perfected” means having reached the utmost subtle state; “wondrous” describes an activity that cannot be fathomed. The sage responds to all things with an open mind and no fixed method. Though he knows, he does not cling to knowledge; though he can make distinctions, he does not cling to them. How could names, words, thought, or speculation be used to measure the Perfected Person?

Even when a great marsh burns, he does not feel the heat; when the Yellow River and the Han freeze, he does not feel the cold; when peals of thunder split mountains and violent winds churn the sea, he is not alarmed.

Note: This means that one whose spirit is whole, whose body is sound, and whose mind and body are at one with external things can undergo even the greatest changes…

Nothing is not “me” to begin with, so the heart is open and at ease, without the slightest trace of resentment.

Commentary: “Frozen” means congealed. The plains and lakes are scorched by fire, and the waters of the Milky Way and the rivers freeze solid; thunderclaps burst forth, splitting mountains; wild winds raise towering waves and shake the sea. Yet the realized person (one who has attained the Dao) keeps the spirit settled. Before changes have even appeared, body and mind are already merged with the myriad things. How could water and fire bring him harm? How could wind and thunder make him afraid? Such is the realized person: empty, still, and indifferent, with no deliberate concern, like clouds shading all things, moving along with their transformations.

Such a person rides the clouds,

Note: He acts by entrusting himself to external things, not by forcing them through his own deliberate will.

and harnesses the sun and moon,

Note: He passes through the alternation of day and night without distinguishing death from life.

Commentary: Darkness and light alternate in turn, giving rise to the division between day and night. But one who calmly accords with the times does not regard death and life as fundamentally different. He harnesses the myriad things and carries all living beings; hence the language of “riding” and “mounting.”

and wanders beyond the Four Seas.

Note: Because he does not impose his own will, but lets all things under Heaven unfold naturally, he can harness the myriad things without ever being exhausted by them.

Commentary: Movement and stillness are mutually joined, and reality and responsiveness are present together. Though a person sits upright between Heaven and Earth, the spirit can wander beyond the Four Seas.

Neither death nor life can change him,

Note: Since he takes transformation as his constant state, he regards death and life as one and the same.

so how much less could matters such as gain and loss affect him?

Note: Compared with death and life, gain and loss are even less worthy of concern.

Commentary: Gain and loss are merely changes in one’s circumstances in life. If one regards death and life as the alternation of day and night and wanders with transformation, then what concern could gain and loss deserve beside death and life?

Qu Quezi asked Master Changwu, “I once heard you say that the sage does not set out specifically to manage affairs,

Note: Affairs come of themselves, and their underlying principles are met with an appropriate response. The sage does not deliberately pursue affairs in order to deal with them.

Commentary: “Affairs” means matters of business. “Zhu” means “in relation to.” Qu Quezi was Changwuzi’s disciple, so he called his teacher “Master.” The sage who has realized the Great Dao forgets fixed views and merges with the myriad things. Even amid affairs, he does not let them weigh on his heart. Mingling with the world, he remains detached and free of attachment; how could he deliberately keep watch for or pursue external things? Qu Quezi wished to ask for guidance, so he began by repeating what he had heard before.

does not seek gain or avoid misfortune,

Note: He lets things unfold naturally and meets them directly, without deliberately shunning or pursuing them.

Commentary: “Avoid” means to keep away from. The sage realizes that adversity and success each have their own logic, and understands that gain and harm each have their time. So he follows the course of things without deliberately avoiding or pursuing either.

and does not rejoice in pursuit…”

I seek it, but do not rejoice on that account; I take it directly, but do not grow angry on that account.

[Commentary] This means that a person of subtle insight can grasp the principle from its depths. So even when they seek something, they do not become pleased.

One does not seek the Dao through external conditions.

[Note] This refers to one who has attained the state of the Dao on their own.

[Commentary] The sage’s wisdom is settled and clear. They observe all things without bias, neither deliberately accommodating them nor deliberately rejecting them. They understand that things have no true birth and no true extinction, and so they do not seek the supreme Dao of empty openness through a mind that clings to external conditions.

There is no speaking, yet there is speaking; there is speaking, yet it is as though there were none.

[Note] Whatever is spoken is not the kind of “speaking” I mean; it is merely each person speaking according to their own understanding. So while others speak, I am as though I have not spoken.

[Commentary] Here, “say” means to speak or teach. The perfected person who embodies the Dao has a quiet, empty, and peaceful mind, transcending all things in stillness. Manifesting from the Dao’s very source, they respond to things and resonate with them, and so can govern and teach the world. They have no intention of speaking, yet they speak; after speaking, they can return to silence.

Thus one can roam beyond the dust and grime.

[Note] Whatever does not accord with one’s true nature is like dust and grime.

[Commentary] The sage blends their light with the dust, keeping their radiance subdued as they join the common world. They dwell amid defilement without being defiled. Thus, though they live amid the clamor of the world, their minds can roam beyond the dust and grime.

You, sir, consider these words careless and frivolous, while I consider them the practice of the wondrous Dao. What do you think?

[Commentary] “Careless and frivolous” means rash and crude. “What” means “which,” and “how” means “in what way.” The question is whether words such as “not seeking the Dao through external conditions” probe the principles of things and exhaust the nature, or are merely careless and frivolous talk. Qu Quezi regards them as the practice of the wondrous Dao, while Chang Wuzi considers them rash words. What, then, is the truth of these words, and how should we judge them?

Chang Wuzi said, “This is a principle that even the Yellow Emperor heard and found perplexing. How could Confucius possibly understand it?”

[Commentary] “Heard and found perplexing” describes hearing something and being confused about it. The ultimate Dao is profound and mysterious; it cannot be fully explored through names and words. Even a sage such as the Yellow Emperor could not exhaust the subtleties of ultimate truth through explanation and debate, and in the end remained perplexed. What am I, then, that I could fully understand it? Some versions write “Yellow Character” instead of “Yellow Emperor,” but the reference here is still to the Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan.

Besides, you are expecting things far too soon: seeing an egg, you hope it will crow at once; seeing a slingshot, you hope to roast an owl for dinner right away.

[Note] All things have their own natural order and their own ultimate destination. Follow the course that things naturally take, and you will accord with the Dao without realizing it. This cannot be explained in words. So the speaker speaks carelessly, and the listener has difficulty understanding; even the Yellow Emperor could not dispel all perplexity about things, and found them difficult to understand after hearing these words. Therefore, the sage entrusts themself to a place beyond the dust and grime, where the mysterious principle…【The original text is incomplete here】

Look beyond what the ears and eyes can perceive. Observe everything through the way of nature, without relying on subjective speculation or prior judgments. Let things unfold as they will; do not probe deliberately or force explanations upon them.

Now Qu Quezi has only just heard the likes of Menglang—the unrestrained, seemingly absurd sort of talk—and already takes it as the practice of the wondrous Dao. This is like seeing an egg and demanding that it crow at once, or seeing a slingshot and expecting to get roasted osprey meat immediately. If people cannot accept the course of time and adapt to change, but instead seek out change and insist on novelty; if they worry about death while events are still unfolding, or cling to their own views and argue over right and wrong, they are all making rash judgments in advance.

The commentary says: “Osprey” here refers to the fú bird, which Jia Yi once described in a rhapsody. It is about the size of a hen and resembles a dove. Its feathers are blue-green, and its meat is delicious, suitable for soup or roasting. It is found south of the Yangtze. An egg may hatch into a chicken in time, but it cannot yet crow; a slingshot may eventually bring down an osprey, but while holding the slingshot, one has no roasted meat to eat. In the same way, words that teach people to understand wondrous principles are not themselves those principles. Qu Quezi has only just heard such words and already concludes that they are the wondrous Dao: he is judging their effect too soon.

Let me try saying something that does not follow ordinary conventions.

Note: As soon as these words are spoken, they sound Menglang, so I will simply try saying something offhand.

You may also listen to them casually for now. How does that sound?

Note: To listen seriously to this Menglang talk would still be to judge too soon, so for now, just listen casually.

The commentary says: “Yu” means “I,” and “xi” means “what.” The highest principle cannot be expressed in words; as soon as it is spoken, it sounds Menglang. I will try speaking to you casually. You may listen casually too. How does that sound? “Xi” is another way of saying “what.”

Take the sun and moon as your companions, and hold the universe within yourself.

Note: To regard death and life as day and night is a metaphor that takes the sun and moon as its companions. To see all things as one is a metaphor for holding the universe within yourself.

The commentary says: “Pang” means to take as a companion; “xie” means to hold within. The four directions above and below are called “yu,” and all time, past and present, is called “zhou.” Sages who accord with the principle forget both external things and themselves, then embrace all things and regard life and death as one. Guo Xiang’s commentary says: To regard death and life as day and night is a metaphor for taking the sun and moon as companions; to see all things as one is a metaphor for holding the universe within oneself.

Let things blend together completely. Set aside contention and confusion, and let different things each find their own peace, without ranking one above another.

Note: Once there is contempt, distinctions of high and low arise. Disorder follows, with no one able to decide between competing claims, as each side believes only its own position to be right. The way to bring all things into harmony, then, is to set aside speech and refrain from interference, letting things follow their own course. “Wuran” refers to a state of complete harmony, with no clear boundaries.

“Wen” describes a state in which distinctions have fallen away and things fit together. “Zhi” means to let things be; “hua” means to disturb; “hun” means dim or obscure. “Li” is a term for a servant or slave, carrying a sense of contempt. People turn reason upside down and stubbornly cling to distinctions of rank and status. To dispel this confusion and bring all things into harmony, the sage’s best course is to make no distinctions and let things follow their own nature: let mixture and obscurity remain as they are, and treat high and low as one would treat servants, so that status and rank become one.

People are busy and restless.

Note: People rush about in pursuit of things, racing through disputes over right and wrong.

The sage is dull and unknowing.

Note: “Tun” describes a state of utter unknowing, moving straight ahead without hesitation.

Commentary: “Busy and restless” means ceaselessly rushing about; “dull and unknowing” means remaining in an undifferentiated state. Ordinary people chase after what lies before them and toil without rest. Those who embody the Dao, by contrast, forget knowledge and deliberate scrutiny, seeming utterly simple and foolish.

Surveying ten thousand years, one becomes whole and pure.

Note: “Pure” means free from admixture. Surveying all the changes across ten thousand years, people see them as a tangled multiplicity. So they wear themselves out in frantic pursuit, distressing their hearts with worry and fear, abandoning one side to seek the other. Only the great sage clings to nothing. Moving forward in an undifferentiated way, the sage becomes one with change; though dwelling amid change, the sage remains at ease. Thus, even across countless ages and changes of every kind, if one follows the Dao, past and present return to the same unity. Whatever things are called, so they are; nothing is otherwise, and no age is incapable of fulfillment. This is called “pure.”

Commentary: The sage shares the De of Heaven and Earth and is of one body with the myriad things. The sage can therefore respond to change, let things follow their nature, and live in accord with the world. Through the passage from ancient to present times, in periods both peaceful and perilous, the sage remains calm amid the dust of ordinary life and the countless differences among things, keeping no concern in the heart. By holding to the pure Dao, the sage dwells continually in the mysterious realm.

All things are thus.

Note: There is nothing that is not so.

And by this, they are gathered together.

Note: “Yun” means to accumulate. Gather “this” across ten thousand years, and ten thousand years return to a single “this.” Gather “thus” among the myriad things, and all things are thus. In this way, one no longer knows where the boundaries lie between life and death, or before and after, nor where distinctions between self and other, victory and defeat, will lead.

Commentary: “Yun” means to accumulate. People’s feelings and discriminating consciousness have been attached to things for a long time. So when they discuss the myriad things, they always believe they are right and others are wrong; when they discuss past and present, they likewise claim correctness for themselves and error for others. Though the things are many and the ages far apart, disputes over right and wrong accumulate without end. The sage responds to the world’s cycles of rise and decline, and in every action remains… (The original text ends here.)

The Great Dao, like a furnace and the tools of a smith, brings forth the myriad things. Since ancient times, it has never favored one thing over another. At root, transformation and the changes between life and death follow the same principle. If so, is it not delusion to cherish life alone and loathe death?

How do I know that our aversion to death is not like the case of someone who “lost their home in youth”—leaving their native place, lingering elsewhere, and gradually settling in until they forgot to return?

“Lost their home in youth” refers to someone who, as a young person, suffered a misfortune and lost their home. They later settled somewhere else and no longer knew how to return. If we take the passage from nonbeing to being as birth, and from being to nonbeing as death, then is clinging to life and loathing death not like losing one’s home and forgetting the way back?

Li Ji was the daughter of the lord of Ai. When she was first taken by the state of Jin, she wept until her tears soaked her robe. But after she came to live with Duke Xian of Jin, sharing his couch and enjoying rich meats, she regretted having wept at first.

Over the course of a person’s life, feelings and circumstances can change in this way. Even while we are in the midst of things, we do not know what will come later. How much less can we know what lies in the transformations between death and life?

How do I know that the dead do not look back and regret that, while alive, they had sought life so single-mindedly?

Here, qi means “to seek.” After Li Ji arrived in Jin, she regretted weeping at their parting. How, then, can we know that the dead do not look back and regret that, while alive, they sought life so single-mindedly?

Those who dream of drinking wine may wake at dawn in tears; those who dream of weeping may wake at dawn and go hunting.

Commentary: This describes the changes that occur between sleep and wakefulness. Since things change, people’s feelings also differ, and so their wishes about life and death need not be the same. Thus, one may be glad to live while alive and glad to die when death comes. Life and death are distinct, yet in each state one may follow one’s own wishes. In this respect they are alike, so what is there to worry about?

Explanation: The change from death to life is like the difference between waking and dreaming. Since waking and dreams differ, people’s feelings about life and death can differ too. Some people in this world feel that waking life is perilous, while their dreams seem auspicious. Then why should it be unacceptable to feel at ease in death and troubled while alive? This shows that the distinction between waking and dreaming is not worth clinging to.

When people are dreaming, they do not know that they are dreaming.

Commentary: From this, we can see that a person nearing death may not know that they are dying, but may instead be content, following their own wishes.

Explanation: As people are about to fall asleep, they do not know that a dream is a dream. Likewise, when they are about to die, they may not know that death is death. If each can follow their own wishes, what is there to mourn?

In dreams, people even interpret what they have dreamed.

Commentary: People may even interpret dreams while dreaming; in this, they are no different from when they are awake.

Only after waking do they realize they have been dreaming.

Commentary: So long as one is in the present and feels nothing is lacking, why worry about death while still alive?

Explanation: While dreaming, people take their dreams to be real, interpret them, and ponder whether they are auspicious or inauspicious. Only after waking do they realize that they were dreams. So why worry about death while alive, when one may be glad to live while living and glad to die when death comes?

Moreover, only after experiencing a greater awakening can one know that all this is no more than a great dream.

Commentary: Those called awakened are sages; the great awakening means understanding that people who harbor worries and anxieties have not yet awakened.

Explanation: The people of the world bustle about, and all beings pursue their own projects, as though lost in a great dream. Only the sages who have realized the Dao stand awake and clear, knowing that those who keep worries and anxieties in their hearts have not yet awakened.

Yet foolish people think themselves awake and quietly claim to have insight: Who is ruler, and who is subject? How stubborn they are!

Commentary: Foolish people are caught in a great dream, yet think they have already awakened. They regard what they like as the ruler and what they dislike as a subject or servant. Happily trusting in the bias of their own school, they are truly narrow-minded.

Explanation: Human feelings and understanding are foolish and confused, like walking in darkness. People remain muddled in a dream, thinking themselves…【The original text ends here】

Some people think they know a great deal and speak about others with a self-satisfied air. They like words that please the ruler and dislike the status and life of herdsmen and stable hands, treating these likes and dislikes as their true feelings. Such a view is both stubborn and shallow.

A “herdsman” tends cattle; a “stable hand” looks after horses.

Changwuzi, whose name means “Master of the Long Catalpa,” said, “You and I are both still dreaming.”

[Commentary] If you cannot forget the words and grasp the spirit behind them, you have not yet attained true great awakening.

[Exposition] Changwuzi points out that even someone who has penetrated the truth regards what lies before them as a dream. How much less can shallow people, who merely gossip in private, be called awakened?

I say that your claim that “you are dreaming” may itself still be a dream.

[Commentary] This is like consulting an oracle about a dream while still dreaming. You may think you are in a dream, but you have not yet awakened. How much less so those who think themselves already awakened and continue to argue endlessly?

[Exposition] The deluded have not truly awakened; when they discuss dreams, they are still dreaming. Arguments expressed in words are not the subtle truth, and even ingenious debate remains constrained by language. Thus, consulting an oracle about a dream while dreaming is empty talk, and discussing words through words is ultimately false. Using “consulting an oracle about a dream while dreaming” to express this point is itself only a strange way of making an argument.

This is called “paradoxical discourse”: speech that is unusual and difficult to understand.

[Commentary] Because it departs from ordinary reasoning and is hard for ordinary people to understand, it is called “paradoxical discourse.” Its profound meaning is not easy to see.

[Exposition] To say that the whole world is dreaming is a profound claim that differs from common opinion. Without a clear-minded person of understanding, it is difficult to grasp its deeper meaning.

Even if we had to wait ten thousand generations to meet a great sage who could understand these words, meeting such a person would be like meeting them between morning and evening.

[Commentary] Those who can escape every bond and regard life and death as one are exceedingly rare.

[Exposition] Someone who can understand that the three realms are empty, that living beings have no fixed substance, and that people and their words are all like dreams would be very rare. Though one might say we would have to wait ten thousand generations to meet such a person, on the scale of a long span of time, it would be like meeting them between morning and evening. According to the commentaries, one “generation” here means thirty years.

Suppose you and I argue. You prevail over me, and I am no match for you. Does that prove that you must be right and I must be wrong?

[Exposition] “You” here means “you,” and “not your equal” means “not as good as you.” The final particle marks a question. Right and wrong, self and other, are themselves unreliable, yet the deluded presume to judge which is superior. Even if you defeat me in an argument face to face, that does not prove that you must be right and I must be wrong.

If I prevail over you and you cannot defeat me, does that mean I must be right and you must be wrong?

If I prevail over you and you are inferior to me, does that mean what I say must be right and what you say must be wrong? You and I each hold to a partial view, and that alone cannot establish who is right or wrong.

What if sometimes I am right and sometimes you are? Then what? “Right” and “wrong” have no fixed owners. When you and I argue over who wins and who loses, we may never reach a final verdict. What seems right may not truly be right; what seems wrong may not truly be wrong.

What if you and I are both right, or both wrong? If we are both right, then nothing is wrong; if we are both wrong, then nothing is right. This shows that distinctions between “right” and “wrong,” and between “self” and “other,” often arise from people’s subjective attachments.

Since you and I cannot truly understand one another, people are bound to be confused. Who, then, could I ask to decide what is right and wrong?

Note: People make judgments when they do not understand, and argue when they cannot see clearly. Even after arguing, they may still fail to convince themselves, because they insist on judging in opposition to external things and other people. They argue all day and remain trapped in confusion, unable in the end to determine who is right or wrong. So this matter can only be left to each person to examine for themselves.

Commentary: You and your opponent each cling to one side, both believing yourselves to be right, and so you cannot understand one another. To truly understand each other, you would have to see that what you consider wrong may be precisely what the other person considers right. If you find another person to decide what is right and wrong, that person, too, remains caught in the opposition between the two sides and cannot escape the dispute. Each person judges according to their own bias, and taken together these judgments remain confused. The human mind favors its own views, and so cannot distinguish clearly. If three people each hold to their own view, who could decide among them? This is what it means to be “confused”: to remain unclear and uncertain.

If you ask someone who agrees with you to decide, since their view is the same as yours, how could they judge whether you are right or wrong?

Commentary: Since this person agrees with you, they have no view that differs from yours. Without a difference of view, how could they make an impartial judgment? This further explains the first case mentioned above.

If you ask someone who agrees with me to decide, since their view is the same as mine, how could they judge whether I am right or wrong?

Note: They consider me right only because they agree with me. Such a judgment is not convincing.

Commentary: As the note says, this person judges me right only because their view matches mine, and that is not something worth trusting. This further explains the second case.

If you ask someone who agrees with neither you nor me to decide, since their view differs from both of ours, how could they judge whether we are right or wrong?

Note: They point out that we are wrong only because they disagree with us. That, too, is no sound basis for a judgment.

Commentary: Since this person differs from both you and me, they have their own way of judging right and wrong. But what makes this separate set of judgments reliable? This further explains the third case.

If you ask someone who agrees with both you and me to decide, since their view is the same as ours, how could they judge whether we are right or wrong?

If “yes” really were simply “yes,” then no one under heaven would ever think that it was “no.” If “no” really were simply “no,” then no one would ever think that it was “yes.” As things are, people regard what is alike as “yes” and what differs as “no.” Since both likeness and difference exist, there is no fixed standard for “yes” and “no.” Disputes over right and wrong therefore often begin with contentious argument. To bring them to an end, one should follow the evenness of the Dao of Heaven, let both sides proceed in their own way, and return to natural authenticity.

[Commentary] Each side follows its own view and considers itself different from the other. How, then, can we decide who is right and who is wrong? This explains the fourth sentence above.

So, if I, you, and other people cannot understand one another, are we still supposed to wait for someone else to decide?

[Note] Each side simply takes itself to be right. Expecting someone else to judge one side cannot truly set it straight. In this way, there is no one under heaven who can decide right and wrong on another’s behalf. Each side should therefore return to nature and correct itself.

[Commentary] I, you, and other people are all people whose understanding is clouded. There are three parties, each holding to its own view and each claiming to be right, so they cannot understand one another. Since these three parties cannot decide right and wrong, are they supposed to wait for a fourth? And if they wait for another person, how is that person any different from the first three? The point is that there is no need to wait for someone else to decide.

What does it mean to “use the Heavenly Equalizer to harmonize” things?

[Note] The “Heavenly Equalizer” is the natural boundary between things.

[Commentary] “Heaven” means nature, and “boundary” means the distinctions that arise within it. Each side clings to its own view and disputes right and wrong without any shared standard, so neither three nor four parties can decide the matter. The question here introduces the answer: use nature’s boundaries to harmonize things, so that people no longer cling to absolute “yes” or “no.” The meaning of the “Heavenly Equalizer” will be explained further below.

The answer is: Is “yes” also “no,” and is “no” also “no”? If “yes” were truly “yes,” it would differ from “no,” leaving nothing to dispute. If “so” were truly “so,” it would differ from “not so,” leaving nothing to dispute.

[Note] “Yes and no,” and “so and not so,” are opposing positions established in relation to one another. Since disputes have no final resolution, one should use the “Heavenly Equalizer” to harmonize them, rest within nature’s boundaries, and avoid relying on others to decide who is right and who is wrong.

[Commentary] “Disputation” means distinguishing and discerning. “Yes and no,” and “so and not so,” arise from people’s subjective attachments; when examined in principle, they are, as a whole, illusory and unreal. What people take to be “yes” may not truly be yes; what they take to be “so” may not truly be so. What basis is there for deciding that it must be this way? If “yes” were fixed as “yes,” it would of course differ from “no”; if “so” were fixed as “so,” it would of course differ from “not so.” Yet now I call something “yes,” while you call it “no”; you call it “so,” while I call it “not so.” This shows that, in principle, “yes and no” and “so and not so” have no fixed distinction.

“‘That’ and ‘I’ take shape as distinctions through their relation to each other. But these distinctions are illusory, so they have no real, fixed boundaries.

“Words that change and shift stand in relation to one another. What would happen if they did not depend on one another?

“[Note] Debates over right and wrong are words that change and shift. Such words depend on one another and cannot be used to prove one another correct. So if they did not stand in relation to each other, they would have no mutual dependence.

“[Commentary] Right and wrong, ‘that’ and ‘I,’ take shape only in relation to one another. Reasoning from principle, this mutual relation is not itself real or unchanging. The name ‘mutual relation’ appears among words that change and shift; but since the name is not real, the relation it describes is illusory too. Since this relation is not a real one, we can see that they are not necessarily bound to depend on each other.

“Use the natural distinctions to bring the myriad things into harmony, and let the endless transformations unfold as they will. In this way, you can pass through life at ease.

“[Note] Bring the myriad things into harmony in accordance with their natural distinctions, and let endless transformations unfold. Follow this principle in your reasoning, and the boundaries between right and wrong will naturally dissolve; the principles of nature and life can then be fully understood.

“[Commentary] ‘Unfolding’ means transformation; ‘follow’ means to let things proceed as they will; ‘exhaust’ means to reach the end. Bringing the myriad things into harmony in accordance with their natural distinctions means there is no fixed right and wrong. Letting endless transformations proceed as they will means there is no stagnation or clinging. Then, by settling into accord with the times, one can enjoy the full span of one’s allotted life.

“Forget the tally of years; forget distinctions of principle and right and wrong. Let the mind and spirit roam freely through the boundless, and so find a dwelling in what has no limit.

“[Note] Forget the tally of years, and you can regard life and death as one at their root. Forget distinctions of principle, and you can see right and wrong as connected. Let right and wrong, life and death, all dissolve into one: this is the highest principle. The highest principle flows freely through the realm beyond limits. Dwell in it, and there is no end.

“[Commentary] ‘Roam’ means to move freely; ‘end’ means to reach the limit; ‘dwell’ means to lodge. The tally of years marks the limit that life must bear. Once life and death are regarded as one, the tally of years can be forgotten. Principles are used to judge right and wrong. Once right and wrong are regarded as one, distinctions of principle can be forgotten. This further dissolves the earlier claim that right and wrong are boundless. Once life and death, and right and wrong, have all dissolved into one, one can grasp the wondrous principle and see what has no limit. To place one’s words in what ‘has no limit’ does not mean that there truly is a boundless realm through which one can roam freely; this, too, dissolves the idea of the limitless.

“Wangliang asked the shadow, ‘A moment ago you were walking, but now you have stopped; a moment ago you were sitting, but now you have stood up. Why do you have no independent, unchanging master?’

“[Note] Wangliang is the faint outer shadow surrounding a shadow.

“[Commentary] Wangliang is the faint outer shadow surrounding a shadow; ‘a moment ago’ means just now, and ‘independent’ means by oneself. Zhuangzi uses a parable to explain profound principles, drawing on a shadow and Wangliang to show how the myriad things transform of themselves. Wangliang asked the shadow, ‘A moment ago you were walking, but now you have stopped…’”

Penumbra (Wangliang, the faint shadow at the edge of a shadow) asked the Shadow: "A moment ago you were sitting, and now you have stood up. Clearly your movement and stillness, your sitting and rising, are all determined by the body. You merely follow another's turning and have no independent principle of your own. Why is this?"

The Shadow replied: "Do I act this way because I depend on something?"

Guo Xiang's commentary says: The natural pattern (liyi) of things is simply so. Whether sitting or rising, there is no need to depend on anything. When something comes into being on its own, without dependence, who can know why it is so, and how could one press further to ask its cause?

Cheng Xuanying's subcommentary says: The form and substance of the myriad things are all received from Nature. Events seem to have causes, yet their principle lies in having nothing to depend upon. Body and shadow are not far apart, and yet each has its own natural pattern. Thus it is said that the myriad kinds, however uneven and varied, are each transformed and completed independently.

The Shadow continued: "What I depend on, the body, does it too act as it does because it depends on something else?"

Guo Xiang's commentary says: If one asks what a thing depends on, and then searches for the origin of that, the questioning will never reach an end. In the end it can only return to the principle of non-dependence and self-transformation, which is then perfectly clear.

Cheng Xuanying's subcommentary says: What the shadow depends on is the body. Suppose the shadow depends on the body, and the body depends on the Creator. Then what, we may ask, does the Creator depend on? Dependence upon dependence goes on without end, and in the final reckoning it can only return to non-dependence.

The Shadow went on: "Do I depend on the scales of a snake's belly or the wings of a cicada?"

Guo Xiang's commentary says: If one truly depended on snake scales or cicada wings, then the reason for lacking an independent principle would not be hard to grasp. The reason it is not understood now is precisely that things do not depend on such things, but transform on their own.

Cheng Xuanying's subcommentary says: Many earlier lecturers on the text, and Guo Xiang's commentary as well, say that the "scales" (fu) are the transverse scales beneath a snake's belly and the "wings" are the cicada's wings. They take this to mean that the snake moves by means of its scales, the cicada flies by means of its wings, and the shadow exists by means of the body. Yet this is not necessarily so. If one says that creatures fly by wings and walk by feet, then birds and beasts are of endless kinds, so why single out snake scales, and use them again and again as a comparison? The present interpretation is this: the fu is the old skin a snake sheds, and the cicada's "wings" are the husk a cicada leaves behind. The snake sloughs its old skin and the cicada emerges from its shell, yet neither knows why it is so, nor can it explain the cause. They arise through self-transformation and from the start depend on nothing. Because the snake and the cicada shed their skin and shell, unlike other creatures, they are borrowed here as analogies. Hence the Outer Chapters say, "Do I depend on the skin a snake sheds or the shell a cicada leaves?" From this we know that the relation of body and shadow is no different in principle from the shedding of skin and shell.

"How could I know why things are so, and how could I know why they are not so?"

Guo Xiang's commentary says: Some people say that the Penumbra depends on the shadow, the shadow on the body, and the body on the Creator. But let us ask: is the Creator something that exists, or nothing? If nothing, how could it create the myriad things? If something, then it is still not sufficient to make the many forms each take its shape. Thus it is clear that the forms of all things come into being each of themselves, naturally so.

Only by starting from concrete things can we speak of the principle that brings forth all things. Thus, even within the realm of visible forms, every thing comes into being on its own, through a process deep and mysterious.

The power that brings forth all things has no ruler: each thing arises of itself, without depending on anything else. This is the ordinary way Heaven and Earth operate. The same is true of things that arise in relation to one another. Form and shadow appear together. Though closely connected, neither depends on the other in order to exist.

Understand this, and all things can return to their roots and stand on their own, without relying on anything outside themselves. They need neither to reject anything outwardly nor to praise themselves inwardly. All things grow naturally, without knowing why they are born; they share in life, each in its own way, without knowing how they have received it.

Now the wangliang—the faint shadow at the edge of a shadow—appears alongside the shadow. We can still say they come into being together, rather than depend on one another. Though the myriad things are many, they all receive the transformation of Heaven and Earth and each appears distinctly. Not one fails to manifest independently. Thus the wangliang is not ruled by the shadow, the shadow is not driven by form, and form does not arise through a transformation of nothingness. Whether things change or do not change, are this way or are not this way, are determined by something else or arise from themselves, each is as it is. How could I know why?

So, if we let all things follow their own course without interference, root and branch, inner and outer, can all flow freely and stand on their own, leaving no trace. If we investigate only the immediate cause before us and forget that things are as they are from the beginning, or trace their source to something outside them and thereby lose their own sovereignty, then preference and veneration arise. Even if we wish to make all things equal, the standard we favor has already taken root in our minds. How could we ever achieve true equality?

Commentary: Whether things depend on one another, and whether they are this way or not, are all the natural unfolding of Heaven’s workings. No one knows what governs them. Why cling to the search for causes or labor over distinctions?

Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed he had become a butterfly. He fluttered lightly and freely, as though he truly were a butterfly, content and at ease.

Note: “At ease, pleased with himself, and moving about joyfully” means that he felt happy and satisfied, acting with carefree delight.

Commentary: “Xuxu” describes a state of cheerful ease. “Yu” means to understand or know. The alternation of life and death, like the turning of cold and heat, is the constant way of Heaven and Earth and the pattern of all things. With a mind clear as a mirror, Zhuangzi perceived all things; with a spirit attuned to nature, he roamed freely. In this way, he entrusted waking and dreaming, death and life, to the transformations of all things. When he dreamed he had become a butterfly, he was joyfully content; on waking as Zhuang Zhou, he could still let his mind roam freely.

In the dream, he did not know he was Zhuang Zhou.

Differences exist in the world. Yet if one can be at ease wherever one finds oneself, then one will cherish life while living and cherish death when the time comes to die. From this, we can see that those who lament death while alive have misunderstood.

When Zhuang Zhou dreamed that he had become a butterfly, his mind was clear and his spirits were high; he felt entirely content and joyful. He knew only that he was a butterfly, not that he was Zhuang Zhou. When he awoke, he did not know that he had once been a butterfly. That is precisely the point.

He suddenly awoke and, startled and unsettled, discovered that he was Zhuang Zhou.

This is speaking from Zhuang Zhou’s own perspective, which is why it is called “awakening.” But we cannot be certain that, after waking, he was not still in a dream.

“Qúqú” describes a startled state. In an instant, the dream ended. Zhuang Zhou wondered in surprise, then realized that he was Zhuang Zhou. Thus the note says that “awakening” is the term used from Zhuang Zhou’s own perspective, though it may still have been a dream.

He did not know whether Zhuang Zhou had dreamed of becoming a butterfly, or whether a butterfly had dreamed of becoming Zhuang Zhou.

Zhuang Zhou today does not know whether he is a butterfly, just as Zhuang Zhou in the dream did not know that he was Zhuang Zhou. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly each followed the inclinations of the moment, so there is no way to prove that the butterfly did not dream of being Zhuang Zhou. Some people doze off and dream as if a hundred years have passed. So there is no way to prove that the hundred years we are living through now are not a dream in a brief nap.

In the past, he dreamed he was a butterfly and felt entirely at ease; now, as Zhuang Zhou, he also feels content. Since there is no fixed standard distinguishing waking from dreaming, how could Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly tell which of them is real and which is not?

There must still be a difference between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly.

The difference between waking and dreaming is like the distinction between life and death. Zhuang Zhou can find contentment in himself because each state has its own bounds, not because the two are indistinguishable.

There is waking, and there is dreaming; there is the butterfly, and there is Zhuang Zhou. So to say that things are fleeting and changeable does not mean that they have no boundaries between them.

This is called “the transformation of things” (the ceaseless change of all things).

Time never stands still, and the present moment does not last forever. Yesterday’s dream has already changed and vanished by today. How could the changes between life and death be any different? Why let them trouble and exhaust the mind? While dreaming of becoming a butterfly, one does not know that one was originally Zhuang Zhou. The same is true over the course of a human life: in the present, we do not know what we will become in the future. Yet the foolish imagine they understand, believing that life is worth rejoicing in and death is painful. They have never heard of the principle of “the transformation of things.”

All things are renewed at every moment, continually changing into one another, like a finger passing in an instant or arms parting in a moment. Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly, waking and dreaming, too, transform into one another in the blink of an eye; afterward, one no longer knows what came before.

It is because people do not understand the relationship between life and death that they worry about death while they are alive, giving rise to sorrow and grief in vain. They should understand that the cycle of life and death is simply a change in the natural order of things.