《莊列十論》

Sixth Discourse from Ten Essays on Zhuangzi and Liezi

Author: Professor Li Yuanzhuo of the Imperial Academy

[First Discourse: Zhuang Zhou Dreams of a Butterfly]

All things share the same origin; distinctions of "this" and "that" are but manifestations of the same Qi (vital energy). What is Zhuang Zhou? What is a butterfly? To insist that Zhuang Zhou is not the butterfly reveals an attachment to the "self"; to claim that the butterfly is not Zhuang Zhou betrays a failure to transcend external objects. The dichotomy between subject and object, the multiplicity of phenomena—all these seemingly disparate appearances are illusory fixations.

In truth, external objects have no inherent reality (even the butterfly is illusory), and the self is not truly existent (even Zhuang Zhou is but a phantom). Where, then, lies the difference? When one transforms into a butterfly in a dream, there is only the butterfly, no Zhuang Zhou; upon awakening and returning to the form of Zhuang Zhou, there is only Zhuang Zhou, no butterfly. This is the insight that transcends appearances, the true knowledge that unifies all things.

People habitually regard their bodies as private possessions and view the myriad things as solid objects: clinging to reality while awake, lost in dreams while asleep. Yet they fail to realize that the alternation of sleep and wakefulness in a single night is merely the opening and closing of life’s forms, and that the opening and closing of life’s forms is but the cyclical movement of one’s inherent nature. To grieve when transformed into external things, to rejoice when returned to human form—why despise external things? Why cling to the human body? This is merely the endless flow of creation’s transformations.

To claim any form as one’s own is sheer delusion! Only the greatly awakened understand that this is all a grand dream; only those who have attained the Dao (the Way) possess true knowledge. In a dream, one does not know it is a dream, so the dream is not perceived as false; upon waking, one does not recognize the dream, so waking is not perceived as real. Zhuang Zhou does not know the butterfly, so he does not deny it; the butterfly does not know Zhuang Zhou, so it does not affirm him.

The original source (the spiritual root) is inherently pure and tranquil, capable of manifesting true knowledge anywhere; though phenomena ceaselessly transform, there is no need for deliberate choice—because the true mind is originally free of knowledge and perception. Thus, the Discourse on the Equality of Things begins with the story of Nan Guo Ziqi "losing the self" to clarify its central theme and concludes with the parable of Zhuang Zhou dreaming of a butterfly to reveal its ultimate truth.

Alas! The whole world is asleep; all under heaven is but a grand dream. The oak tree, in a dream, refuses to become timber; the sacred turtle, in a dream, escapes its execution; the servant of the Yin family dreams of becoming a king; the man of Zheng finds a deer in a dream and later disputes it in another dream; the Yellow Emperor wanders the land of Hua Xu in a dream and attains enlightenment... These stories all illustrate that those who accept things as they come understand that everything is illusion, not reality. How could practitioners of the Dao be any different? They achieve awakening by dissolving obstructions, nurturing emptiness and spirit, sincerely cultivating the Shen (spirit), and silently illuminating the original source.

The story of "Cook Ding Carving an Ox" from the Zhuangzi uses a butcher's technique to illustrate the Daoist philosophy of "following nature's course." Here's a modern interpretation:

When Cook Ding carved the ox, he didn't perceive it as a concrete object, allowing his blade to move with effortless precision. His knife remained as sharp as newly honed after nineteen years and thousands of oxen—because he grasped the fundamental principle: rather than fixating on superficial forms ("clinging to traces"), he mastered the eternal Dao ("holding the root").

The true marvel lies in this: though his body moved, it remained undisturbed ("active yet unshaken"); though his mind engaged the mundane world, it stayed untainted ("entering dust yet unsoiled"). When the boundary between self and object dissolved ("self and object merged"), he could freely wander the origin of all things ("float through the ancestors of creation"), encountering no obstruction whatsoever.

The wonder of Cook Ding's technique manifests in four ways:

1. No forceful chopping—joints separate naturally

2. No artificial prying—bone seams open spontaneously

3. No opposition to the ox—instead flowing with its inherent patterns

4. Seeming inaction—yet the blade naturally avoids tendons and bones

The passage culminates in describing the highest state: The supreme Dao exists everywhere yet leaves no trace ("ultimate Dao is nowhere yet everywhere"), its true marvel being uncontrived responsiveness ("responding without deliberate response"). Like the body's instinctive coordination: hands react naturally to touch, shoulders lean when they should, feet step where needed, knees bend as required—all operating through nature's innate mechanism, without conscious thought.

This butcher's parable ultimately symbolizes spiritual cultivation—when humans fully align with natural principles, they achieve the realm of "non-action yet nothing left undone" (Wuwei er wubuwei).

This passage comes from Ten Discourses on Zhuangzi and Liezi, using the famous parable of Cook Ding carving an ox to expound Daoist philosophy of life cultivation. Here's my modern interpretation:

Cook Ding (the legendary master butcher) achieved effortless skill because his blade always followed the ox's natural structure. The moment one consciously thinks about "carving," one becomes trapped by technique itself. Ordinary butchers change knives monthly from hacking bones, good butchers yearly from cutting tendons, yet Ding's blade remained as new after nineteen years—this knife transcended dualities of past/present, long/short, old/new. Its essential sharpness required no forging, its natural function no polishing.

The three butchers represent different levels of life cultivation: ordinary people exhaust themselves by forcing longevity (monthly knife change), intermediate practitioners still act with deliberate effort (yearly change), while those who attain the Dao resemble Cook Ding in following nature's flow (unworn blade). True butchering lies in neither clinging to "carving" nor being obstructed by "barriers"—releasing both leads to the realm of emptiness.

Zhuangzi's parable reveals: only by transcending physical constraints (free-and-easy wandering/Xiaoyao) and dissolving distinctions of big/small (equalizing things/Qiwu) can one move freely through all existence. Inner absence of "self" brings liberation; outer absence of "objects" brings unity. Like hiding a boat in mountain valleys ("hiding the boat in the ravine" metaphor from Zhuangzi·Great Ancestral Teacher), apparent movement ultimately returns to permanence—recognizing the unchanging essence within all transformations lets dust merge into cosmic space and autumn-down encompass heaven-earth. Conversely, clinging to the notion that finite life must perish is like guarding a candle doomed to extinguish.

(Note: "Equalizing things/Qiwu" and "free-and-easy wandering/Xiaoyao" are core Zhuangzian concepts denoting the dissolution of distinctions and transcendence of constraints. "Hiding the boat in the ravine" illustrates returning transient phenomena to the eternal Dao.)

The flame is not the same as the flame from before, nor is the present me identical to my past self. Even if one tries to grasp them, they ultimately vanish into the vast unknown. This is the truth Zhuangzi illustrates with his metaphor of "hiding a boat in the valley."

The valley and lake represent the luminous emptiness that embodies the natural, effortless (Wuwei) state of the Creator. The boat and mountain symbolize concrete forms, representing the tangible entities of the material world. The Dao is singular—it has no fixed form (wufang), while valleys and lakes possess definite shapes; it has no substance (wuti), while boats and mountains have physical bodies.

When the Dao moves through the world of form, shifting between activity and stillness, or becomes confined by physical shapes while immersed in luminous emptiness, duality arises: prosperity contrasts with decline, the new opposes the old, and life stands against death. The true Dao transcends time and space as the absolute One, while dualistic counterparts depend on each other in ceaseless cycles of generation and dissolution. Just as fire preserved within fire endures but extinguishes when hidden in water, or water remains when stored in water but seeps away when buried in earth—how much more transient are boats and mountains as physical objects, or valleys and lakes as concrete locations? The very act of deliberately concealing them already involves intentional effort.

The Creator originally held no specific forms, thus effortlessly transforms all without conscious design. Only what remains unbound by matter can govern matter; only what remains undisturbed by change can master change. The myriad things shift instantaneously, making transformation inconstant. I've come to understand this is merely the Creator's way of awakening beings, yet those who cling to intention vainly calculate survival and demise. Where thought exists, phenomena appear; where thought dissolves, phenomena vanish.

When people hide boats in valleys, they presume security, unaware that not even a moment's stability is achieved before disappearance comes. When they believe things have perished, those things have never truly altered. Only those who comprehend the "Great Stillness" (the eternal, unchanging truth) can move freely through the realm from which nothing escapes—the fundamental home of all things and the basis of all transformation.

The ancients spoke of "hiding All-under-Heaven within All-under-Heaven"—this is the principle. All-under-Heaven is the unity of the myriad things, while humans are but one among them. To truly grasp the completeness of the Dao is to understand the patterns of transformation in all phenomena.

Interpretation of "Liezi's Ten Discourses" from the Zhuangzi:

On the state of "Beginningless Infinity":

When all movement and transformation remain inseparable from one's original true self, one becomes like Tianlao (the legendary Daoist immortal of longevity), harmonizing with nature whether at the beginning or end. Compared to ordinary people who delight in accidentally acquiring human form, how can the joy of this state be measured? The ancients said: All things are complete within themselves; turning inward to attain sincerity is the greatest joy. Sadly, the ignorant employ this joy daily without realizing it, like mistaking a temporary dwelling for an eternal home. You mundane people, flowing through creation's inn alongside all things—how could you speak like Zhuangzi of "storing the world within the world" (merging with the Dao)?

"Yan Hui's Discourse on Sitting in Forgetfulness" (Chapter 4):

Your mind does not truly belong to you—it's but a provisional name formed by accumulated causes. Your body isn't truly yours either—it's merely an illusion of temporarily assembled bones. Understanding that mind is originally mindless (wuxin), that all things are my mind—then why deliberately discard intelligence? Knowing the body is originally bodiless (wushen), that all phenomena are my form—then why forcibly abandon limbs? How much less should one cling to external norms like humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music? Attaining this, every movement and stillness becomes wondrous freedom; all directions and circumstances become natural wandering—who would then deliberately pursue "forgetfulness"?

Those who seek stillness because they detest disturbance, or cling to emptiness because they fear substantiality—their so-called "forgetfulness" is like piling up clods of earth while calling it oblivion. Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) approached sagehood yet remained incomplete, transcending ordinary people yet still lacking. Those who follow creation's transformations to naturally resolve subject-object distinctions are sages; those dragged by external objects while clinging to substantiality are ordinary people. Truly comprehending all things as empty, nothing requires deliberate forgetting; fixating on substantial existence means never truly forgetting. This is the true meaning of Yan Hui's "sitting in forgetfulness."

Contemplate the phenomena of all things changing; observe the unchanging truth of original nature. Seeing through worldly humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music as empty names, the silent illumination of luminous origin reveals limbs and intelligence as illusory cognition. Forgetting external objects makes delusions vanish naturally; forgetting self makes illusory cognition dissolve completely. Humaneness and righteousness never proclaim themselves as names—these are labels imposed by the attached; limbs and intelligence never claim their own existence—these are cognitions asserted by the confused. Knowing the body originates in emptiness, limbs release themselves naturally—if one still deliberately seeks "release," attachment to body remains. Knowing thoughts are originally unarisen and unceasing, intelligence dissolves naturally—if one still deliberately "dissolves," discriminating mind persists.

Plain Interpretation of "Zhuangzi: Ten Discourses on Liezi"

On "Abandoning Attachments":

People seek to free themselves from external constraints yet remain trapped by internal preconceptions. If one does not cling even to bodily senses, how could they be bound by artificial constructs like benevolence, righteousness, or ritual? In the past, I deliberately cultivated virtue (De) within my organs, believing all things could be known. Now I realize this so-called "knowledge" never truly existed. Once, I strained to observe minute details, thinking I could perceive all things; today, I understand this "seeing" was equally illusory. This is the state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (zuowang), a meditative practice of self-effacement.

Yet since it is called "forgetting," Confucius would not press the question, and Yan Hui need not answer. Why fuss over trivial gains or losses? Why distinguish whether forgetting benevolence and righteousness is secondary or letting go of sensory attachments is primary? From the profound perspective, the drowning forget their carriages, divers forget the water’s nature, humans forget the Dao’s arts, and fish forget rivers and lakes—all are forms of "forgetting." From the mundane view, the profit-obsessed forget their form, the greedy forget their true nature, the mantis blocking a chariot forgets danger, the gold-snatcher in broad daylight forgets onlookers—these too are "forgetting." Must we judge right or wrong? The great Dao (Dao) knows no such distinctions. Must we discern truth or falsehood? The Dao transcends falsity and authenticity. A sage like Yan Hui, who renounces the worldly to return to the mysterious and diminishes substance to pursue emptiness—I know his "forgetting" remains incomplete. If one could advance further, even forgetting the notion of "not forgetting," like Confucius renewing his understanding yearly at sixty—why then deliberately chase "forgetting"?

Discourse V: Ji Xian Reads Huzi

The divine force that creates and transforms never reveals itself, and the myriad things bearing this mystery remain unaware. This is true "spirit" (Shen). Those shamans who feign divine connection, predicting life and death, fortune and misfortune, longevity or early demise—even if their prophecies align to the exact day or month—merely skim the surface of wonder. At best, this is a shallow "communion with spirits." This Ji Xian was merely borrowing external marvels to resonate with others. But where there is "resonance," attachment lingers. Using subjective measures to gauge others, preconceptions to judge phenomena—thus arise illusory concepts like life, death, fortune, and calamity. Names and forms are inherently empty; observing them through deluded eyes and spreading them with false words, the world grows addicted to physiognomy, mistaking it for truth. That is why Huzi exposed Ji Xian, shaming him into flight.

(*Note: "Sitting in forgetfulness" (zuowang) is a key Daoist practice, referring to meditative absorption where self and objects dissolve. The story of "Ji Xian Reads Huzi" originates in the Zhuangzi, where the adept Huzi demonstrates four transformative states of being to dismantle the diviner Ji Xian’s predictions, illustrating how the true Dao surpasses superficial changes.*)

This passage from the Zhuangzi·Lie Yukou recounts the story between Liezi (a representative Daoist figure) and the spirit-diviner Ji Xian, using the four manifestations of Master Hu (an enlightened sage) to illustrate stages of Daoist cultivation:

Though Liezi had met Master Hu, he was still deceived by Ji Xian because he hadn't attained the state of "hollowed heart" (emptied of worldly attachments). Master Hu's realm was like an empty gourd—taking formless emptiness as its essence and unfathomable depth as its wondrous function. The "Master" (Hu) had grasped the "Dao that gives birth to all mothers" (the state transcending dualities), freely transforming between form and formlessness.

Ji Xian persistently tried to predict people through divination. Each time he saw Master Hu, he'd declare, "I've discerned your fate!" Yet Master Hu responded with no-mind, merely revealing four natural "manifestations":

1. First displaying "Earth's Pattern" (quiescent as the earth), Ji Xian said he resembled a corpse;

2. Then manifesting "Heaven's Womb" (vital as primal creation), Ji Xian rejoiced at his revival;

3. Next showing "Grand Harmony" (Yin-Yang equilibrium), leaving Ji Xian bewildered;

4. Finally revealing "Never Having Left My Source" (returning to Dao's origin), terrifying Ji Xian into fleeing.

The essence lies in: life and death are mere appearances—the arising and ceasing of mind is what truly matters. Those who attain the Dao:

• In stillness, unite with Yin's Virtue (merging with silence), only showing "Earth's Pattern" (chaos of all things);
• In movement, ride Yang's waves (following vitality), only manifesting "Heaven's Womb" (sprouting of all things);
• In balance, reveal "Grand Harmony" (Yin-Yang attunement).

Ji Xian tried measuring infinite Dao with finite mind—like ladling endless water with a limited vessel—doomed to fail and flee. This story teaches that cultivation must transcend limitations of form and divination to reach the no-mind responsiveness of Dao.

Master Huzi (a Daoist figure) said to Liezi: "What you saw earlier was my state of having sealed the mechanism of De (Virtue/Power) - a manifestation of withdrawn inner cultivation. Later you witnessed me displaying the mechanism of benevolent virtue, and subsequently observed my state of harmonized Qi (vital energy). These were all temporary manifestations of 'me'. When I enter the state of following emptiness in wuwei (non-action), even I forget who I am. Since what was shown wasn't the true self, and the observer wasn't the true you, Liezi ultimately chose to flee. Master Huzi's mind was like vast emptiness - this empty essence was clear and profoundly mysterious, encompassing all things. Neither wealth nor honor could linger upon it; swords couldn't harm it, water couldn't moisten it, fire couldn't burn it. Precisely because of this, Huzi neither resented death threats nor delighted in good fortune, contending neither for fame nor infamy. He eventually disappeared of his own accord, neither considering it defeat nor victory - all due to this state of emptiness. Zhuangzi explains this principle in the chapter 'Responding to Emperors': When rulers respond to worldly affairs, only through profound stillness can they resonate with all things; only through deep concealment can they share weal and woe with the people. If one flaunts personal views and treats the world as a burden, being driven by things rather than mastering them, how could anyone truly perceive you? The greatness of ancient sage-kings lay precisely in this traceless governance."

Chapter Six: Xiangwang Finds the Mystic Pearl (Parable)

The source north of Red River contains yang energy yet doesn't flow; Mount Kunlun stands tranquil and unmoving - these symbolize the natural stillness of original nature. Looking southward connects with all things to generate cognition, while returning to the source follows cyclical movement - this represents the process of returning to original nature. When heavenly nature awakens, worldly phenomena appear; when human hearts drown in artifice, they lose the Dao, like misplacing the Mystic Pearl (symbolizing the Dao's true essence). Yet original nature cannot be understood through others' explanations - who then can make you understand? It cannot be obtained through deliberate seeking - who then can truly find it? Forced seeking isn't emptiness; strained comprehension isn't silent communion. Those three clever men (in the parable) exhausted their wisdom trying to see through it, strained their vision attempting to see clearly, and spent all words striving to explain - yet never attained the Dao. Why? Because floating dust and piled earth both contain wondrous Dao; broken tiles and coarse chaff alike hold ultimate truth. The Dao is so near it's right before your eyes, yet so vast it never transcends all phenomena.

This passage from the Zhuangzi expounds profound insights about the nature of Dao (the Way) and the methods of true understanding:

Human nature originally possesses no fixed knowledge (zhi), no fixed views (jian), nor fixed language (yan). When one deliberately uses knowledge to pursue knowledge, they become bewildered by knowledge; when one uses views to seek views, they become obstructed by views; when one employs language to chase language, they become bound by words. This resembles something that appears to exist yet doesn't (xiang si you er fei you), or seems void yet isn't truly empty (wang si wu er fei wu).

The authentic method of awakening is this: relinquishing deliberate knowing allows spiritual clarity (ling) to emerge; releasing rigid views brings penetrating understanding; abandoning linguistic constraints leads to liberation. This explains why the state of "Xiangwang" (mindless and formless awareness) can apprehend the true Dao. Even the Yellow Emperor, a sage who sought it deliberately, lost it, while Xiangwang attained it through natural non-striving.

In the famous "Hao Liang Observing Fish" anecdote, Zhuangzi reveals: the common origin of all things is "One," and the source of "One" is Dao. Life arises spontaneously, forms manifest naturally, and all phenomena inherently embody the Dao. When we relinquish subjective distinctions, we experience the unity of self and things. Zhuangzi could perceive the fish's joy precisely because he had achieved communion with all existence—the fish swimming freely without thirst's anxiety or nets' threat embodies the very happiness of uncontrived ease.

This passage unveils the Daoist approach to knowing the world: not through rational analysis, but through intuitive realization by releasing attachments and returning to original nature.

This passage discusses the famous debate between Zhuangzi and Huizi about "the joy of fish" while observing them at the Hao River bridge, which embodies the Daoist concept of "the unity of self and things."

The fish's joy lies in the natural Dao rather than the water, just as Zhuangzi's (Zhou) wisdom lies in comprehending joy itself rather than the fish. Only when fish forget the existence of water can they attain complete joy; only when Zhuangzi forgets that his object of observation is a fish can his perception achieve true unity. The highest joy is not deliberately pursued—just as fish unaware of their own joy experience true joy; the highest wisdom is not deliberately sought—just as Zhuangzi naturally attains understanding without consciously pursuing knowledge.

Through this dialogue, Zhuangzi reveals a state transcending the opposition between self and things. In truth, Zhuangzi could have remained silent, and Huizi could have grasped the meaning, but their exchange was meant to demonstrate the profundity of the Dao through question and answer. Those who cling to distinguishing "self" from "things" fall into cognitive limitations—if one sees only the level of things, then of course Zhuangzi isn't a fish; if one sees only the level of self, how can one be certain I don't know the fish's joy?

Whether one knows or not are mere branches of the Dao, so we must return to the root. This root is the state of "equalizing all things" (Qi Wu): eyes become like ears, ears like noses; life and death, poverty and wealth, humans and pigs, self and others—all are fundamentally without distinction. Attaining this state means all things exist in wondrous freedom, not limited to the Hao River bridge; all things contain true joy, not limited to the joy of fish. Zhuangzi and the fish are ultimately no different in essence.

The "Autumn Floods" chapter, through dialogues between the River Earl and the Lord of the North Sea, as well as comparisons between insects, the one-legged Kui, snakes, and the wind, ultimately reveals the principle that all things share the same essence. Zhuangzi uses the fish-joy debate to illuminate the profound meaning of "ultimate joy being joyless," as the ancients said: "What is joy? What is aversion?"

The eighth chapter, "On the Drunk Man Falling from a Cart," further explains: clinging to specific things creates limitations (like an awake person getting injured when falling from a cart), while maintaining a "selfless" state (like a drunkard) avoids harm instead. These all expound the wisdom of transcending discriminating mind.

This passage from Zhuangzi: Liezi's Ten Discourses speaks of the state of "unity between heaven and humanity." In modern terms:

Those who consider themselves clever are actually trapped by their own knowledge and views. Like a drunkard who, in his intoxication, forgets himself entirely—unaware that he is in a carriage, unaware of falling, and even oblivious to pain. This state of undifferentiated unity, temporarily achieved through wine, can already free one from the fear of life and death—how much more so for those who are naturally united with the Dao (the Way)?

The world is like a great carriage. People ride upon it, their minds troubled by all manner of knowledge and thoughts, their exteriors entangled in illusory changes, until they ultimately stumble and are injured in delusion. This is not merely physical harm but also the invasion of fear into the spirit. Only by preserving one's innate nature can such harm be avoided.

At its core, heaven, earth, and the myriad things are fundamentally one. Why distinguish between carriage and person, between falling and injury? When the human mind sets itself in opposition to the external world, it deviates from the Dao; when the spirit merges with all things, it returns to nature. Shed artificial striving and follow natural laws; eliminate distinctions of right and wrong and abide in innate balance. Such a state is called "heavenly wandering" (natural roaming), "heavenly mechanism" (natural operation), where one neither worries nor deliberately pursues perfection. This is "heavenly joy" (natural bliss) and "heavenly harmony" (natural unity).

Approach the Dao with this attitude—neither forcibly aiding nor straining to act. Those who attain this state regard gain and loss, sorrow and joy, life and death, poverty and prosperity as indifferently as a drunkard regards falling from a carriage. As Zhuangzi says in Mastering Life: "Only by recognizing that the essence of life is emptiness can one inwardly observe without seeing thoughts, outwardly observe without seeing the body, and broadly observe without seeing external things." Only then can one preserve the purity of one's nature, nurture Qi (vital energy) without dissipation, unite with De (Virtue) without separation, and penetrate the source of all things without forcing. Wherever such a person goes, they are in harmony with the Dao.

When the body fully follows nature, the ears hear sounds without grasping, the eyes see colors without discriminating, and the mouth tastes flavors without craving. This is the true and complete unity with the Dao.

This classic employs vivid metaphors to illustrate the state of "forgetting both self and objects": a drunken man falling from a carriage remains unharmed, an avenger never breaks his sword, and one struck by a tile bears no resentment. Why is this so? Because all things inherently lack substantial form (objects are naturally objectless), thus there's no attachment to "self"; the "self" fundamentally doesn't exist (I am naturally selfless), so there's no clinging to external things. The boundary between object and self was never real to begin with.

The text introduces the concept of "heaven": it's only called "heaven" as a forced distinction from "human"; in truth, its nature is empty, not even "heaven" exists (when nature is nature-less, how could heaven exist?). Similarly, "concealment" is named in opposition to "openness"—in reality, not even "concealment" exists (if even heaven isn't heaven, how could concealment exist?). Only by realizing this can one grasp the profound meaning of the chapter "Mastering Life."

Ancient Dao cultivators debated "where the Dao resides": some said it permeates everything, but if one clings to its "existence," the ancients already warned—the Dao belongs neither to antiquity nor the present, is neither Yin nor Yang, seems distant yet is immediately present, appears near yet transcends form. It coalesces to create all things, then disperses to return to the source. Is it found in "nothingness"? The ancients said it fills heaven and earth, existing even in ants and tiles. True "nothingness" isn't mere void (true nothing isn't nothing), and true "being" isn't concrete existence (true being isn't being). Those who awaken to the Dao dare not describe it with forms, reluctantly calling it "the great body of the ancients"—like countless waters reflecting the same moon, myriad holes sounding the same wind, all phenomena arising from the same primal Qi (vital energy), and the manifold world emerging from the single great Dao.

Those who attain the Dao at different levels: spirits and deities use it to descend to our world, emperors employ it to govern the realm, celestial beings preserve its root, spiritual beings guard its essence, and perfected individuals maintain its true nature. Sages manifest infinite transformations through it, noblemen practice benevolent governance by it—all these are manifestations of emulating the great Dao.

The passage discusses how ancient schools of thought understood and limited the concept of "Daoist arts" (daoshu). The main ideas are as follows:

The ancients explored Daoist arts through observing celestial phenomena and calendars (caoji zhi shu) as well as studying poetry, history, rites, and music. However, these arts were not achieved through mental calculation (xin shu), cleverness (zhi shu), scheming (ji shu), or mere technical skill (ji shu). The true Daoist arts encompassed everything, yet regrettably, the complete Dao later became fragmented.

Different schools each grasped only one aspect: Mozi and Qin Guli advocated excessive altruism while neglecting the self; Song Jian and Yin Wenzi promoted unrestrained wuwei (non-action) and mocked the worthy; Tian Pian and Shen Dao exalted humility and emptiness; while Guan Yin and Laozi (Lao Dan) each had their own partial perspectives. Their doctrines were like a small mound in a vast marsh, a single grain in a great granary, a tiny stone on Mount Tai, or a single hair on a horse's body—when viewed individually they appear different, but from the holistic perspective, they all manifest the Dao.

The author laments: Though the Hundred Schools fragmented the complete Dao, they never truly departed from the Great Dao in essence. Just as both a stone and Mount Tai are part of the mountain, and both a grain and the entire granary belong to the same storehouse. Ordinary people use the Dao daily without recognizing its "complete wholeness" (da quan); worthy men pursue it but never reach its ultimate state; only sages fully merge with the Great Dao. What Yao and Shun transmitted through abdication, and what Yu and Tang passed down, was precisely this complete Dao.

The core viewpoint is: Though various doctrines appear different, they are all partial understandings of the same Great Dao. True sages are those who grasp the whole without clinging to fragments.

This passage explores the state of "forgetting" (忘) as a pathway to the Dao, illustrating through historical figures and allegorical stories how this concept leads to profound realization.

The text mentions:

• Sage-kings like the Duke of Zhou, Confucius, Mencius, and Yi Yin all sought the Dao through different approaches
• Zhuangzi's teachings, though seemingly absurd, contain the fundamental truth of the Great Dao

Regarding the case of "Song Huazi's illness of forgetting":

Song Huazi's so-called "amnesia" wasn't actually pathological, but rather a return to original nature. Several metaphors clarify this:

1. Fish swim freely precisely because they forget about the water's existence

2. People feel comfortable in shoes when they forget about their feet

3. A drunkard falls from a carriage unharmed because he forgets the vehicle's presence

4. A lame man moves naturally because he forgets his leg's condition

The author argues:

• True "forgetting" represents union with the Dao
• Song Huazi's state—forgetting gain/loss, forgetting movement/stillness, forgetting past/future—embodies perfect harmony with the Dao
• Ordinary people mistakenly regard this return to primordial simplicity as illness

The passage concludes with a rhetorical question: If this is called illness, then what constitutes true health? Implicitly suggesting that alignment with the Dao represents authentic wellbeing.

(Note: The term "absurdly vast" [謬悠] describes seemingly preposterous discourse, "shoreless" [無津涯] denotes boundlessness, "square-inch" [方寸] refers to the heart-mind, and "amputee" [兀者] indicates a lame person.)

This passage explores the nature of "forgetting" and the futility of human intervention. The main idea is as follows:

If someone suffers from amnesia, others may try to cure them, but methods like divination, prayer, or medicine prove useless—because this isn’t an issue of fortune/misfortune, spirits, or Yin-Yang imbalance. Confucian scholars may offer advice to treat it, but if the patient themselves feels no problem, what use are divinations or prayers? It’s like not seeking clothes when one feels no cold, or not searching for food when one feels no hunger.

The text uses a parable: when Hundun (Chaos) was carved with seven orifices, it died, yet the world thereby came to perceive all things. Similarly, if a person suddenly regains memory, they might angrily scold their spouse and drive away Confucian scholars, because they once again feel the burdens of familial bonds and the pressures of others’ demands. Decades of life’s circumstances flood back in an instant—how could such fleeting forgetfulness last?

The author points out: the sensations of survival and loss, joy and sorrow, preferences and aversions—these are imperceptible when forgotten, yet entangle us relentlessly upon awakening. In truth, absence of mind brings forgetfulness, while presence of mind breeds fear. Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) failed to grasp this principle, lost in debate; while Yan Hui (Confucius’ most accomplished disciple) attained the state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (Zuowang, a Daoist cultivation state transcending form and self).

The conclusion clarifies: so-called amnesia is not true forgetting—disturbances persist even in oblivion, yet profound insight lies close upon awakening. The mind is originally clear and empty; it is only stirred by external things that myriad troubles arise. This passage embodies the Daoist cultivation ideals of "no-mind" (Wuxin) and "sitting in forgetfulness," opposing deliberate human interference.

This passage discusses the state of "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang) in Daoist cultivation. The core idea is that the original mind is inherently clear and empty (the character for "forgetting" [忘] combines "heart/mind" [心] and "nonexistence" [亡]). True wisdom (zhi) fundamentally doesn't exist—it only appears as a concept when cognitive activities (zhi, knowing) arise. When wisdom becomes completely transparent (zhi che), even the notion of "forgetting" is forgotten (de che ze bu zhi wang zhi wei wang), reaching a higher state where oblivion itself is forgotten (er wang yi wang yi). Ancient Daoist practitioners most valued this practice of "sitting in oblivion" (a profound meditative state) and "transcendent illumination" (yizhao, surpassing subjective observation).

Simply put, it describes achieving through cultivation a state of pure awareness beyond conceptual thinking, where even the thought "I am cultivating" must be released. Like a mirror reflecting objects without retaining traces, the mind becomes lucid yet unattached to appearances.