《南華真經註疏》Vol. 4

My life is finite, but knowledge has no end.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: The capacities each person is born with have their own limits.

Cheng Xuanying’s Subcommentary: “Limit” means a boundary. People are embodied and endowed by nature in different ways; whether dull or clever, each has a fixed limit to their lifespan. Knowing when enough is enough and keeping to one’s proper place, without letting the mind and spirit be pulled along by external things, is the key to nourishing life. Yet the life people refer to when they say “I” also has an end.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: For example, when lifting a heavy object or carrying a light one, the vital energy remains at ease. This is the limit of one’s strength. But those who seek fame and compete for victory cannot satisfy their desires, however great their strength may be. This is what it means for the desire for knowledge to have no end. The pursuit of knowledge arises from going beyond what is appropriate; if one can rest content with one’s own limits, that pursuit will fade. To rest content with one’s limits is to follow the extent of one’s own abilities without adding the slightest extra effort. Thus, even carrying a weight of ten thousand jun, if it is just within one’s capacity, one will be entirely unaware of its weight. Even handling countless affairs, one will not feel burdened by them. This is the key to nourishing life.

Cheng Xuanying’s Subcommentary: The body and innate nature with which people are born each have their limits, while the cleverness used to distinguish among things follows external objects without end. As a result, the mind and spirit are burdened by the body, desires are never satisfied, and one cannot keep to one’s proper place. This is not the way to nourish life.

To pursue boundless knowledge with a finite life is perilous!

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: How could one avoid becoming exhausted by using one’s finite nature to pursue boundless knowledge?

Cheng Xuanying’s Subcommentary: Life is finite, but cleverness has no end. So pursuing boundless cleverness with a finite life exhausts the body and wears out the spirit, leading into danger.

Once trapped by cleverness, to keep pursuing it without stopping is even more dangerous.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: Having already been exhausted by the pursuit of knowledge, one does not know when to stop and instead hopes to remedy matters with still more cleverness. This is truly a case of trying to nourish life only to harm it—and it is extremely dangerous.

Cheng Xuanying’s Subcommentary: Boundless cleverness has already brought about a predicament; how could it be anything but dangerous to try to remedy it through deliberate learning acquired later?

Do good without coveting a reputation; do wrong without incurring punishment.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: Forget the distinctions between good and evil, remain in the fitting middle, and let the myriad things follow their own course, dwelling at ease with … (The original text ends here.)

At the utmost point of what is fitting, things return to unity. Thus punishment and reputation fall away from oneself, and the whole truth can be preserved in body and mind.

Commentary: People who pursue worldly learning often strive to accomplish things, seeking results and renown. Those who do good invariably draw near to reputation; those who do wrong invariably incur punishment. This shows that worldly knowledge and learning are not enough to save people. They only make people chase external things and exhaust their minds, increasing their danger instead.

Follow the fitting, centered way of things and take it as your constant rule.

Note: Follow the centered way and take it as a lasting standard.

Commentary: “Follow” means to go along with; “center” means what is properly balanced; “constant rule” means a lasting standard. Only by clinging neither to good nor to evil, and keeping neither punishment nor reputation in mind, can one follow the unified, centered Dao and dwell in true, lasting De. With a mind that is empty, still, and calm, one lets things change naturally and responds as the world moves on. This is the subtle art of nourishing life.

In this way, one can preserve the body and life, and also provide for one’s parents.

Note: When providing for one’s parents, act within your means and keep yourself at ease.

One can also enjoy the full span of one’s natural life.

Note: As long as you hold to what is centered and follow nature, you can respond appropriately to whatever arises. Nourishing life is not about pursuing anything beyond one’s proper limits; it is simply about preserving what Heaven has endowed and living out your natural lifespan.

Commentary: Only by skillfully letting go of attachment to either extreme and dwelling in the centered, unified Dao can one preserve the body and keep to the way of life. Outwardly, one can honor one’s parents and fulfill human relationships; inwardly, one can care for body and mind and enjoy the lifespan bestowed by nature.

Cook Ding—whose family name is unknown and who was either named or known as Ding—was slaughtering an ox for Lord Wenhui, that is, King Hui of Liang. His hand touched the ox, his shoulder leaned against it, his foot braced on the ground, and his knee pressed against it. His movements made a “whoosh” sound, and as the knife went in, it made a “swish.”

Commentary: Cook Ding was a kitchen servant in charge of cooking; some say Ding was his personal name. Lord Wenhui was King Hui of Liang. “Taking apart an ox” means cutting up its carcass. Knowing the ox’s structure and the spaces between its parts, Cook Ding touched it with his hand, leaned against it with his shoulder, braced it with his foot, and pressed it with his knee, separating hide and flesh. His knife moved swiftly, and the ox came apart at once. This story of Cook Ding is used here to explain the way of nourishing life.

Every movement of his was in perfect harmony with the music, as though he were performing the “Mulberry Grove” dance and keeping time with the “Head of the Warp” rhythm.

Note: Working in accord with the ox’s structure, Cook Ding performed each movement with complete skill, following its natural lines throughout. His movements followed both the ox’s form and the rhythm of the music.

Commentary: “Mulberry Grove” was the name of a musical dance associated with King Tang of the Shang; “Head of the Warp” was the name of a section of the “Xianchi” music, which tradition says was composed by Yao. Cook Ding was composed and his movements were exquisite, following the ox’s natural lines at every turn. Then—

King Hui of Liang, referred to in the text as Lord Hui, said, “Ah, excellent! How can your skill be so extraordinary?”

Cook Ding set down his knife and replied, “What I pursue is the Dao (the Way); it has gone beyond ordinary skill.” He was not merely talking about the technique of carving an ox. He was using the task to explain the way of nourishing life: what mattered to him was a principle deeper than the skill itself.

When he first began carving oxen, all he saw was a whole ox. Commentators explain that he did not yet understand the spaces between the ox’s sinews and bones. In the same way, someone just beginning to learn how to nourish life has not yet grasped its principles and is likely to meet obstacles in everything they do.

After three years, he no longer saw the ox as a single, whole body. He had become familiar with the spaces between its sinews and bones, and when he looked at an ox, he knew where his knife could pass. Commentators use this as a metaphor: after long practice of the Dao, one’s understanding gradually becomes clear, and the sights of the everyday world no longer seem solid or real.

Now he apprehends the structure of the ox with his spirit, rather than observing it with his eyes. Commentators explain that “spirit meets” means joining with the principles of things. After nineteen years of carving oxen, Cook Ding had grasped the subtle workings of Yin-Yang, so he could act in accord with those principles through his spirit, without relying only on sight. This also serves as a metaphor for the practitioner whose mind is attuned to ultimate principle and need not cling to outward forms.

The senses fall silent, and the mind and spirit can act in accord with the principles of things. “Sense perception” refers to the perceiving functions of the eyes, ears, and other senses. When Cook Ding no longer relies on sight, the senses no longer direct his actions; instead, his mind and spirit follow the natural principles. Commentators say that those skilled in nourishing life do the same.

He guides his knife along the ox’s natural grain rather than forcing it through. Commentators use this to explain the way of nourishing life: follow the natural divisions, do not pursue excess, and so do not wear down one’s life.

“Striking the great gaps” is the phrase that follows in the classic. It means guiding the knife through the wide spaces between the bones.

Where the sinews and bones join and cross, I guide the knife along the gaps and give it a gentle turn, and they separate.

There are spaces between the joints, so I guide the knife through them and the joints come apart. This is like a person who studies the Dao (the Way): by attentive reflection at the turning points between life and death, hardship and ease, they find release.

Guide the knife according to the way things are naturally structured.

The blade does not hack blindly.

Only when the knife reaches a gap between the joints do I begin to move it. I respond to what my eyes see and my ears hear according to the actual circumstances, never acting rashly.

A highly skilled cook’s blade has never touched the fine, difficult places where sinew and flesh meet bone.

A masterful cook lets the blade travel through the gaps, never meeting even the slightest obstruction.

How much less, then, would it encounter a large bone?

“Gu” refers to a hard, large bone; if the blade strikes one, it is easily damaged.

“Kenqing” means the places where sinew and flesh attach to bone, while “gu” means a large bone. A masterful cook lets the blade travel through the gaps and never meets even the slightest obstruction, so of course it does not encounter a large bone. A person who cultivates life uses wisdom to perceive the true principle of emptiness. If even subtle delusions cannot touch the mind, how could coarse worldly concerns harm their De (Virtue/Power)?

A good cook replaces a knife each year because he cuts meat.

He does not guide the blade along the natural grain of flesh and bone, so it wears down quickly.

An ordinary cook replaces a knife each month because he hacks at bone and breaks the blade.

When ordinary people’s minds are clouded, they meet obstacles at every turn. Inevitably, this damages their wisdom and exhausts their spirit.

My knife, by contrast, has been in use for nineteen years. I have taken apart several thousand oxen, yet its edge is still as if it had just been sharpened on a whetstone.

“Xing” means a whetstone.

A xing is a stone for sharpening knives. Ten is an even number associated with Yin, while nine is an odd number associated with Yang, so “nineteen years” contains the subtle principle of Yin-Yang transformation. Over the years, I have taken apart several thousand oxen, and the blade has always traveled through the gaps and passed through empty spaces without damaging its edge; it is therefore still as if freshly sharpened. Those who are skilled at cultivating life should be the same: they understand emptiness and substance thoroughly, move through the world with ease, and understand the transformations of Yin-Yang. Even amid countless changes, they continually renew their De, meeting every circumstance while remaining clear and still.

The joints between an ox’s muscles and bones naturally have gaps, while the blade is thin and sharp. When the thin blade is inserted into the spaces between the joints, it can move freely through them, with room to spare at every turn.

The commentary says this can also illustrate the art of nourishing life. Those who understand how to follow the Dao act with a wisdom that has forgotten the self, in a realm as open and empty as space. They can therefore remain at ease and move with composure, always with room to spare. Their state of mind accords with the circumstances they encounter, neither becoming entangled with them nor separating from them.

And so, after nineteen years, the blade was still as if freshly honed on a whetstone.

The commentary says this passage carries forward what came before and sums up its meaning.

Even so, whenever I come upon a place where the muscles and bones intersect and bunch together, I still find it difficult to handle.

The note says that a place where muscles and bones intersect and bunch together is called a “cluster.”

I become alert and cautious. I focus my gaze and look nowhere else; I also slow my movements.

The commentary says that a place where muscles and bones cross and knot together is called a “cluster.” Even when one can usually guide the blade freely through the gaps, one must still be attentive and cautious when encountering such a place: observe closely and slow one’s movements. The commentary uses this to remind those who cultivate the Dao and nourish life that even when they understand the illusory nature of experience, they must remain careful as their mind meets the external world. They must not carelessly let outside things pull them along, lest the stillness within be disturbed.

With just a little force, the bones and flesh fall apart with a sudden sound, like earth crumbling to the ground.

The note says that when one has mastered the right method, very little force is needed.

The commentary says that “huoran” describes the sound made as the bones and flesh separate. By guiding the blade along the natural grain with refined skill, one works without much effort; once divided, the pieces fall away like crumbling earth, leaving no visible trace. The commentary further takes this as a metaphor: when clear and subtle awareness meets the external world, if mind and surroundings accord with each other, there is no obstruction and no attachment either to the perceiving mind or to the object perceived.

I raise my knife and stand, look all around, and feel quietly pleased and at ease.

The note says this describes an unhurried, composed manner and a sense of inner satisfaction.

The commentary says that, once the ox has been butchered, one moves at ease and with composure, carrying the knife while looking around. One’s manner is refined and untroubled, and one’s spirit is full because the task has gone well. The art of nourishing life follows the same principle.

I wipe the knife clean and put it away.

The note says that after wiping the knife, one places it in its scabbard.

They were adept at preserving and caring for their tools, so after wiping the knife clean, they put it back in its sheath. How much more, then, should those who are adept at nurturing life keep their spirit vigorous yet conceal its edge?

Lord Wenhui said, “Wonderful! From Cook Ding’s words, I have understood the principle of nurturing life.”

Note: A knife can be cared for; from this we know that life, too, can be nurtured.

Commentary: After hearing Cook Ding, Lord Wenhui of Wei grasped the Dao of nurturing life. He praised the subtlety of Cook Ding’s insight, which is why he said, “Wonderful!”

Gongwen Xuan saw the Right Minister and asked in surprise, “Who is this man? Why does he have only one foot?”

Note: “Jie” refers to someone with a shortened foot, whose other foot has been cut off as punishment. “Right Minister” is an official title.

Commentary: Gongwen Xuan, whose surname was Gongwen and given name was Xuan, was from the state of Song. The Right Minister was an official. “Jie” means to have suffered the punishment of having one foot cut off. Seeing that the Right Minister had lost one foot, Gongwen Xuan asked in surprise: What had he done to deserve having his right foot mutilated?

The Right Minister replied, “Was this how you were born, or was it caused by human action?”

Note: What human intelligence cannot change is due to Heaven’s decree; what results from breaking human laws is due to human action.

Commentary: The question is whether having only one foot was something one was born with, or the result of punishment for offending against human affairs. The Right Minister was answering Gongwen Xuan’s question.

The Right Minister said, “I was born this way; it was not caused by human action. Heaven gave me this form so that I would be a one-footed person.”

Note: Someone with a shortened foot, with only one foot, is called “one-footed.” Although the Right Minister had the wisdom of an entire household, he could not keep both feet intact. If he had stubbornly pursued having both feet, his spirit would have grown weary and his body would have been harmed. Would he have lost only one foot?

Commentary: Wisdom may be keen or dull, and the body may be whole or incomplete; both are bestowed by Heaven and are not entirely caused by human affairs. Even when someone breaks the king’s laws, is punished, and suffers bodily injury, this may be said to stem from an inborn lack of wisdom and an inability to protect oneself. People know that bodily injury can result from human action, but do not know that dullness of wisdom may also be inborn. Whether one is born with two feet or one, it is determined by one’s allotted fate.

Some people are born with both feet intact.

Note: Having two feet that move together is called “having both.” People do not doubt that the state of having both feet intact is determined by fate.

From this we can see that having only one foot is also ordained by Heaven, not caused by human action.

Note: If having both feet intact is determined by fate, then having only one foot is not something one brings upon oneself. Those who understand the reality of life do not force themselves to seek what life was never given them; those who understand the reality of fate do not insist on changing what fate cannot alter. They simply preserve their natural nature.

Commentary: “Both” means accompanying one another, or being together. People normally have two feet that move together; this is bestowed by the Creator. So even if my body is incomplete and I have only one foot left, this too is how fate has ordained it.

A marsh pheasant takes ten steps before pecking at food and a hundred steps before drinking water, yet it does not seek to be kept in a cage. The commentary explains that “qi” means to seek, while “fan” is a cage for confining pheasants. The pheasant moves freely between Heaven and Earth, living at ease in its natural surroundings. This is the very art of nourishing life. Why, then, would it enter a cage and depend on people to feed it?

The subcommentary explains that the marsh pheasant follows its nature in the wild, eating and drinking as it pleases, free and unrestrained. How could it want to enter a cage in search of food? This is like a person who nourishes life by living simply and withdrawing from the world, content in the mountains and forests. How could such a person envy riches and honors? Another interpretation holds that the “marsh pheasant” resembles a pheasant but is not one: its tail is long, whereas a pheasant’s is short. The term refers to this kind of bird.

Though its spirit is vigorous, it does not regard itself as flourishing.

The commentary explains that someone truly at ease initially feels comfortable, but later ceases to notice that comfort. This is because they have forgotten the very idea of “comfort.” The pheasant is full of spirit and vitality; living freely in open, spacious surroundings, it is wholly unaware that it is enjoying something pleasant.

The subcommentary explains that the pheasant freely feeds and drinks among the mountains and marshes, full of spirit and vitality. In this state, it does not deliberately think of its life as “pleasant.” Once it is shut in a cage and its nature can no longer unfold, only then does it yearn for its former freedom and ease. Birds are like this, and people should be too. The passage means that those who are truly at ease forget their ease, and those who are truly good do not cling to the name “good.”

When Lao Dan died, Qin Shi went to mourn him, cried out three times, and left.

The commentary explains that Qin Shi went to pay his respects and joined in the mourning with a few cries before leaving.

The subcommentary explains that Lao Dan was Laozi, whose surname was Li, personal name Er, and courtesy name Boyang; “Lao Dan” was another name for him. The subcommentary calls him a sage and says that he was born in Ku County in the state of Chen. During the reign of King Ping of Zhou, he left Zhou, traveled west across the shifting sands, and went to Jibin. However, the relevant scriptures do not preserve a complete account. When the Zhuangzi says here that Laozi died, it uses a parable to explain the nature of life and death: ordinary people and sages, life and death, can all be understood on the same plane. Laozi is honored as the ancestor of the Great Dao and the source of Heaven, Earth, and all things. This passage therefore does not assert that he truly underwent life and death; rather, it uses the claim that “even a sage has life and death” to illuminate their nature. Qin Shi’s surname was Qin and his given name was Shi; he was a man devoted to the Dao.

Qinshi’s origins are unknown. After Laozi had died, he came to mourn him. He cried three times, then bowed.

His conduct looked much like that of an ordinary person attending a funeral. When he had finished paying his respects, he left.

A disciple asked, “Wasn’t he your teacher’s friend?”

[Note] The disciple found this strange: Qinshi had not leaned against the door to watch Laozi die, so why had he cried three times?

[Commentary] Qinshi and Laozi were both people who had risen above the mundane world and traveled together beyond it. Now Qinshi was crying and mourning him. How could this be called lofty detachment? Laozi’s disciples were therefore puzzled and asked whether Qinshi had been Laozi’s friend.

Qinshi said, “Yes.”

[Commentary] “Yes” means “That’s right.” Qinshi replied to the disciple, “Laozi was my friend in rising above the mundane world.”

The disciple asked again, “If so, was it proper to mourn him like this?”

[Commentary] If someone has risen above the mundane world yet follows its funeral rites, is it reasonable to mourn and weep this way? The disciple still did not understand how Qinshi could engage with the mundane world without being bound by it, so he asked again.

Qinshi said, “It was proper.”

[Note] A Perfected Person, whose cultivation has reached an exceptionally high level, has no fixed emotional attachments. He simply weeps along with everyone else, so this was proper.

[Commentary] “It was proper” means that acting this way was also acceptable. Stillness and Wuwei (non-action) depend on responding to the myriad things, and the inner and outer realms do not conflict. So this, too, was acceptable.

Qinshi said, “At first, I thought those people shared Laozi’s path. Now I see that they do not.”

[Commentary] When Qinshi first arrived to mourn, he thought the people who were crying were fellow travelers who had risen above the mundane world. But when he saw them overcome with grief, he realized they were not Laozi’s disciples.

“Just now, when I went in to mourn, I saw old people crying as if they had lost a son, and young people crying as if they had lost a mother. They must have gathered because someone spoke without intending to speak, and began to cry without intending to cry.”

[Note] Qinshi believed that, during his life, Laozi had shown people excessive kindness without keeping to the proper measure, and so they had come to love him deeply.

[Commentary] “Seek” means “ask for.” “Those people” means the crowd. The sage’s mind is empty and still, yet he responds when moved by things outside him. Out of compassion for the people and concern for all living beings, he explains the Way to them without waiting for them to ask earnestly. So after his death, people gathered and wept as if they had lost a mother or a son. This shows how ordinary people cling to emotion and become confined by life and death. Remembering the sage’s kindness, they grieve and mourn him in this way. From this, we can see that they did not share Laozi’s path.

“This is to flee one’s nature and intensify one’s emotions, forgetting the endowment one originally received.”

[Note] Nature is the proper share each person receives at birth. It cannot be escaped, nor should anything be added to it.

[Commentary] “This” refers to those who were crying. “Double” means to increase. Qinshi says that they had fled their natural endowment and added worldly emotions, mistakenly believing that death deserved grief. In doing so, they forgot the proper share they had originally received.

The ancients called this “the punishment of fleeing one’s nature.”

[Note] When one responds too deeply to things outside oneself, one does more than flee one’s nature in a measured way; one even chases after them at a frenzied gallop…

Even when sorrow and joy have not yet reached the point of suffering whippings or execution, a person’s nature has already been troubled. Does this not count as punishment?

Commentary: To go against the natural order and cling even more strongly to worldly emotions, letting sorrow and joy linger in the heart and burden the spirit, is like suffering a whipping. Does this not count as punishment? The wise people of ancient times spoke in this way.

“He came at the right time: the Master was in season.”

Note: “He came at the right time” means that he was born in response to the proper season.

“He departed at the right time: the Master followed the natural course.”

Note: “He departed at the right time” means that his death accorded with what was fitting.

Commentary: Here, “the Master” refers to the Old Lord, Laozi. Qin Shi was admiring Laozi as a great sage, subtle and perceptive about the source of things. Laozi happened to be born in response to the right time; his peaceful death likewise followed the natural course and was a return to his original state.

“At ease with the time and following the natural course, sorrow and joy cannot enter.”

Note: Sorrow and joy arise from gain and loss. Those who are subtle and perceptive, and can follow change, accept whatever circumstances they find themselves in with equanimity and adapt to whatever changes occur. They merge completely with the transformations of nature, so that wherever they go, nothing is separate from themselves. What, then, is there to gain or lose? Who can be said to die, and who to live? When they let whatever comes to them unfold naturally, sorrow and joy have no way to enter.

Commentary: At ease with life while alive, they do not reject life; when faced with death, they follow its course. Of the myriad transformations, none is not a place to which they belong. So sorrow and joy have no place to settle in the heart.

“The ancients called this the Emperor’s release from suspension.”

Note: To be attached to something is to be “suspended”—hung up or bound. To be free of attachment is to be “released from suspension,” freed from that bond. Once free, the true state of nature and life can emerge. This is the essential principle of nourishing life.

Commentary: “The Emperor” means Heaven. To be bound by life and death is like being hung up and restrained; to be no longer bound by life and death is to be released. The sages of ancient times called this natural liberation: not being constrained by life and death, and not letting sorrow and joy enter the heart.

Moreover, Laozi was a great sage who could regard life and death as one. Why, then, would he need to escape Heaven’s punishment or pursue sorrow and joy? Zixuan’s commentary is far off the mark here. If that were the case, why say that “being at ease with the time and following the natural course” is the “Emperor’s release from suspension”? The meaning of the surrounding passages would contradict itself. We can see from this that “escaping Heaven’s punishment” refers to those sunk in sorrow, not to Laozi.

“When the finger is spent in serving as fuel, the fire passes on.”

Note: “Spent” means exhausted. “Serving as fuel” is like being the previous piece of firewood. When that piece of firewood has been used up, the fire passes to the next piece without going out. The human spirit, when nourished, is likewise like this continuing fire.

Life continues without interruption; this shows that nourishing life is the principle by which life endures.

“Explanatory note”: “Exhausted” means used up; “fuel” means firewood. “The earlier fuel” refers to the wood that came before. The meaning is this: when people tend a fire, they know the wood will burn away, so they add more wood to carry on from what came before. As one batch follows another, the fire does not go out. This is like someone skilled in nourishing life: they follow change naturally and move and transform along with all things. Thus, the new self and the self one once was may be different, yet neither need be clung to or mourned. Life endures precisely by continuing to change.

“Note”: Time never returns, and the present never stands still. At every moment, human life is renewed with each breath: the breath just taken has passed, and the breath now taken is not the same one. Through cultivation, life continues, just as an earlier flame has passed, yet the fire is carried on by the fuel that follows. The fire is passed on, and life endures in the same way; this comes from nourishing life to the proper degree. How could ordinary people know that life has endings and beginnings amid change, and is constantly renewed?

“Explanatory note”: The confused and forgetful cling to their feelings and fixed ideas. How could they understand that everything is constantly renewed, without a moment’s pause? Thoughts follow one another, yet each is always changing. The self of yesterday has already passed; the self of today will in turn be renewed later. Earlier interpretations divided this chapter into seven sections, but the flow of the text suggests that this division is overly elaborate. Here, “doing good” is included in the first section, and “when the flame is exhausted” is assigned to the “Old Lord” section, bringing the whole text to five sections. There is no reason to doubt this arrangement.