《莊子翼》Vol. 1

A Modern Interpretation of Zhuangzi’s Wings, Inner Chapters: “Wandering Far and Free”

The Classic Text

In the northern sea there was a fish named Kun, said to be enormous. Kun transformed into a bird named Peng. No one knew how many thousands of miles spanned Peng’s back. When it rose to fly, its wings were like clouds hanging at the edge of the sky. Whenever the sea stirred into motion, this bird would migrate to the southern sea. The southern sea was the Heavenly Pool, a natural great lake.

The Qixie was a record of marvels. It says that when Peng flew south, its wings beat the water for three thousand miles. It rode a whirlwind, rising straight up ninety thousand miles, and did not pause for six months.

“Wild horses”—drifting mists—and dust are all stirred into motion by the breath of living things. That blue expanse of sky: is it the sky’s true color, or does it appear boundless because it is so far away? When Peng looks down from the heights, the view is no different.

Guo Xiang’s Commentary

I have not been able to examine in detail whether Kun and Peng truly exist as such beings. Zhuangzi’s main point is free and easy wandering: to let things follow their course through Wuwei (non-action) and find joy in oneself. He therefore contrasts the very large with the very small to show that each is suited to its own nature and allotted place. A person of broad understanding should grasp this as the point, without becoming attached to the literal images used to express it.

For Kun to become Peng, nothing less than the great sea could bear its body, and nothing less than a height of ninety thousand miles could support its wings. This is not an attempt to astonish with strange sights. Great beings necessarily arise in vast realms, and vast realms necessarily give rise to such great beings: this is simply how things are. Great wings are difficult to lift, so Peng must gather the whirlwind before it can rise ninety thousand miles. It travels for half a year before reaching the Heavenly Pool and resting.

“Wild horses” are drifting currents of Qi (vital energy). Both the drifting mist and the dust are things on which Peng relies in flight. That the sky appears blue: is this truly the sky’s proper color, or does the sky seem endless because it is so distant? When Peng looks down at the earth from above, it is just as when people on earth look up at the sky. Having reached this point, Peng sets out for the south. The point is that Peng need not calculate the distance of its journey; its purpose is strong enough to carry it onward.

Consider also: if water does not accumulate deeply, it cannot bear a large ship. Pour a cup of water into a hollow in the floor, and a mustard seed can float on it like a boat. But put the cup in the hollow and it sticks fast: the water is too shallow for the vessel. If the wind does not gather in sufficient strength, it cannot support great wings. Only after reaching a height of ninety thousand miles does the wind lie beneath Peng’s wings; then it can fly by relying on the wind.

This passage illustrates the different realms of the great Peng bird and small creatures. The Peng spreads its mighty wings and soars high into the azure sky without obstruction, for it is destined to journey to the Southern Sea. Yet the cicada and little dove laugh at it, saying: "When we flutter upward with all our might, we rest upon elm or sandalwood branches. If we can't reach them, we simply alight upon the ground. Why must one fly ninety thousand li to reach the Southern Sea?"

Three analogies then demonstrate these differences in capacity: A traveler to the suburbs needs only provisions for three meals to come and go with stomachs full; one journeying a hundred li must prepare overnight rations; while a voyager of a thousand li requires three months' provisions. How could these two small insects (the cicada and dove) possibly comprehend the Peng's lofty aspirations?

Temporal metaphors further illuminate this: Morning-fungi that perish by dusk know nothing of monthly cycles; summer cicadas remain ignorant of spring and autumn transitions—these represent small lifespans. South of Chu grows the legendary Mingling tree that counts five hundred years as its spring, another five hundred as autumn. In antiquity stood the great Chun tree that measured eight thousand years as spring, another eight thousand as autumn. Yet Pengzu (the legendary figure who lived eight hundred years) remains famous for longevity—how pitiful that ordinary people try comparing themselves to him!

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: The Peng can fly high because of its vast wings, just as small creatures don't require large wings, nor can large beings use small ones. All things have their predetermined measure—when each abides in its proper place, purpose is fulfilled. To violate one's inherent nature or exceed one's capacity means even sky-draping wings would exhaust their strength, and strenuous flight would end in exhaustion. The Peng's southern journey isn't vain ambition—without accumulating sufficient wind forces, it couldn't soar at all. The farther one travels, the more preparation required; the vaster the wings, the greater the wind needed for support.

The cicada and dove represent limited perspectives, forming natural contrasts with the Peng. These differences aren't contrived but emerge spontaneously—this is the essence of carefree wandering (xiaoyao). When lifespans and wisdom differ so vastly, ordinary people grieve over it, yet the ordinary themselves feel no grief, for all things have inherent limits. Understanding this principle, one wouldn't force comparisons, leaving nothing in the world to lament over. Things neither envy greatness because they're small, nor despise smallness because they're great—each follows its nature.

All things, great and small, follow their own natural patterns—these cannot be altered through envy or desire. Understanding this frees one from the distress caused by such attachments. Sorrow often arises from stubborn comparisons; relinquish the habit of measuring, and grief naturally dissolves. When a person neither grieves nor rejoices excessively, their life attains stability and harmony.

From Zhuangzi to Liezi (eminent Daoist figures), sages throughout history have recognized that all forms of life have their inherent limitations—none can wholly transcend them. The truly liberated forget distinctions between self and object, perceiving unity within diversity. Such individuals remain unburdened by fame and achievement, having surpassed concepts of greatness and smallness. Those still fixated on such distinctions—whether comparing the roc and the sparrow, or the official and the commoner—remain bound by them.

Similarly, those who see through life and death do not rigidly separate the two. If one still dwells on longevity, even Pengzu (who lived eight hundred years) and the mushroom that sprouts at dawn only to wither by dusk are equally fleeting. Only by abandoning dualistic notions of size, life, and death can one reach the realm of boundless freedom (xiaoyao). If freedom depends on conditions, it is not true liberation.

King Tang of Shang once questioned his minister Ji about legends of the Northern Sea: In the barren far north lies a fathomless ocean called the Celestial Pool, where a fish named Kun spans thousands of miles. There also dwells a bird called Peng, its back like Mount Tai, its wings like clouds draping the sky. Riding a whirlwind, it ascends ninety thousand miles, piercing the clouds to bear the azure heavens on its back before journeying south. A sparrow, mocking, says, "Where does it think it's going? I leap but a few yards—flitting through brushwood is my limit." Such is the difference between small and great.

Those content with minor official posts, courting favor from villagers or rulers, share the sparrow's narrow vision. Song Rongzi (a Daoist recluse) scoffed at such people: "If the whole world praised them, they would grow no more zealous; if the whole world condemned them, they would grow no more despondent." He discerned the boundary between inner and outer, seeing through the nature of honor and disgrace—a rare attainment. Yet even he had not reached the ultimate state. Liezi (a Daoist perfected being) could ride the wind, weightless and serene...

Zhuangzi here discusses the varying levels of attainment among Daoist practitioners. Those who accumulate merit through good deeds may see results within fifteen days, but for those pursuing true spiritual fulfillment, this remains far from sufficient. Such people may be spared from walking, yet still rely on external aids like carriages and horses.

The genuine Dao-realized person harmonizes with the innate nature of heaven, earth, and the myriad things, masters the transformations of the six atmospheric conditions (yin, yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light), and freely roams the boundless cosmos—what could such a one possibly depend on? Thus it is said: The Perfected Person (the highest level of cultivation) has no self, the Spirit Person (one with divine abilities) seeks no achievements, and the Sage (one of consummate virtue) desires no fame.

Guo Xiang, in his commentary, references the story of Tang of Shang consulting Ji, illustrating that all things have their own intrinsic nature—following this nature ensures smooth development. Zhuangzi compares beings to birds: some soar over the Celestial Lake (the Northern Sea), while others merely hop between elms and sandalwoods. All follow their inborn tendencies, and none should be forced into uniformity.

The reason Rongzi of Song (a Warring States philosopher) mocked others was his failure to reach the state of "equalizing all things." A true Dao-realized person remains unmoved whether the world praises or slanders them, for their conviction comes from within. They discern the distinction between inner cultivation and external reputation, understanding what constitutes true honor and disgrace.

Even those who ride the wind (like Liezi), though appearing weightless and wondrous, must return after fifteen days—proof that they still rely on something. Only those who align with the nature of all things and command the myriad transformations are truly free of dependence. Heaven and earth encompass the totality of existence, and all things take spontaneity as their nature. The roc soars high, the small bird flits low; the ancient cedrela lives long, while morning-born fungi perish by dusk—these are decreed by natural law, beyond human alteration. To follow this principle is to "ride the correctness of heaven and earth"; to master these transformations is to "harness the distinctions of the six qi."

This passage elucidates the Zhuangzian concepts of "non-dependence" (wudai) and "carefree wandering" (xiaoyao), along with the Daoist sage's approach to governance.

It begins by clarifying that true spiritual freedom can only be attained by those who have achieved "supreme De (Virtue)"—those capable of merging completely with all things. Even Liezi, who could ride the wind, still relied on external forces, not to mention the giant roc bird. Only those who unite with all existence and follow nature's transformations can maintain constant liberation without external dependencies. The authentic sage not only achieves this freedom personally but also helps others preserve their necessary conditions.

The text contrasts "non-dependence" with "conditional dependence," yet notes that fundamentally there's no difference when each being abides by its inherent nature and follows natural patterns. What makes sages extraordinary is their ability to accord with all things' essential qualities, practicing wuwei (non-action) while uniting with nature's principles.

The subsequent anecdote about Emperor Yao offering his throne to Xu You illustrates this: Yao felt governing the empire was as superfluous as lighting torches under the sun and moon, or irrigating fields after heavy rain. But Xu You declined, recognizing the empire was already well-governed and seeing no need to replace Yao for empty prestige. His metaphors—"a small bird needs but one twig, a field mouse drinks only till satisfied"—demonstrate how little one truly requires, making imperial power unnecessary. Like priests wouldn't presume to cook when chefs abstain, Xu You refused to overstep his role.

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: Those who truly bring order to the world don't govern through deliberate action. Yao achieved governance through "not governing," while Xu You understood this Daoist principle of "governing through wuwei (non-action)," hence his refusal to usurp Yao's position. This embodies the core political philosophy of Daoism.

This passage explores the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," using the contrasting examples of Emperor Yao and the hermit Xu You to illustrate the true art of governance.

The highest form of governance appears as non-governance yet achieves order, seeming inaction yet accomplishing everything. Emperor Yao's rule appeared active, yet stemmed from a state of Wuwei. Some believe only recluses like Xu You—who withdrew to mountain forests—embody true non-action, which explains why Lao-Zhuang thought was often rejected by rulers—those in power tend to cling to active governance rather than returning to simplicity.

Those who attain the Dao merge with all things, acting without deliberate effort yet harmonizing with all. When Emperor Yao governed, he shared an unbroken connection with the people, like an untethered boat drifting with the currents. Though appearing to take no deliberate action, he shared both joy and hardship with his subjects. This is the true virtue of a ruler—as natural as the sky's vastness or the earth's solidity. In contrast, someone like Xu You, dwelling alone on mountain peaks and clinging to personal eccentricities, remains merely another worldly figure—at best, one of Emperor Yao's "outer ministers" (referring to recluses uninvolved in state affairs).

Just as the wren needs but one branch or the mole only seeks a full belly, all things have inherent limits to their nature. Emperor Yao understood this, thus embracing all things and winning universal admiration. As cooks and priests fulfill their roles, and birds and beasts follow their ways, both Yao and Xu You found contentment in their respective paths—this is the ultimate principle of the world. When each attains genuine fulfillment, why demand anything more? Thus, though their lifestyles differed, Emperor Yao and Xu You shared the same carefree spiritual freedom.

The subsequent dialogue between Jian Wu and Lian Shu describes a divine being dwelling on Mount Guye: skin white as snow, graceful as a maiden, neither eating earthly food nor drinking earthly water, subsisting on wind and dew while riding clouds and mist. This exaggerated imagery symbolizes the transcendent purity of those who have attained the Dao.

This passage describes the Daoist ideal of the "divine person" (shenren) realm. Through allegorical dialogue, Zhuangzi illustrates how a true sage (divine person) can ride flying dragons to roam beyond the four seas, and through concentrated spirit (Shen), ensure protection from disasters and abundant harvests. Yet ordinary people would find such claims absurd and unbelievable.

Lianshu employs metaphors of the blind unable to see patterns and the deaf unable to hear bells to demonstrate that limitations exist not only in physical disabilities but also in mental capacities. The virtue (De) of divine persons is boundless, merging completely with all things, making them utterly indifferent to worldly trivialities. Floods reaching the heavens cannot drown them; droughts melting metal and stone cannot scorch them. Even the dust falling from their bodies could create sage-kings like Yao and Shun.

The subsequent analogy of a Song merchant selling hats in Yue (where Yue people cut their hair short and tattooed bodies, having no use for hats) illustrates how Emperor Yao, despite governing the world, forgot his empire upon encountering the divine persons of Mount Guye. Guo Xiang's commentary explains this allegory: true sages maintain mountain-hermit tranquility even while serving at court. Ordinary observers see only their royal crowns and jade seals, assuming these trappings constrain their minds; witness their administrative duties, imagining these exhaust their spirit (Shen). Yet those who attain the highest realm remain undiminished. Divine persons inhale wind and drink dew instead of eating grains, embodying nature's wondrous Qi. In stillness, their spirit communicates across the four seas; they harness Yin-Yang and the six vital energies (liuqi), harmonizing with all creation. Thus they ride clouds and dragons, moving with effortless freedom—even dragging dead wood becomes weightless action.

This passage expounds the Daoist realm of cultivating mind and nature. Through the words of Jieyu (an ancient hermit), Zhuangzi illustrates that the mental state of one who has truly attained the Dao resembles still ashes—utterly composed and undisturbed by external phenomena. Ordinary people habitually judge things through their limited understanding, unaware that the most profound truths often appear as madness to the unenlightened.

The sage's mind can perceive the mysteries of heaven, earth, and all things, harmonizing with natural transformations. Thus they remain serene regardless of circumstances. In governing the world, they achieve the orderly rule of legendary sage-kings like Yao and Shun not through deliberate action, but through natural accord. True adepts don't actively avoid calamity; their imperturbable inner peace renders them invulnerable to harm. Even life and death cannot disturb their equanimity, let alone mundane troubles.

The text particularly examines the essence of Yao and Shun's governance: what people praise are merely superficial reputations, while true sagely virtue lies in the inner spiritual realm. Yao's governance appears effortless, as natural as the Yue people having no need for Central Plains ceremonial caps. Though occupying the highest position, his mind constantly roams transcendent realms. The "Four Masters" mentioned symbolize this detached aspect of Yao's consciousness.

Finally, it cautions that seeking sages through external forms—like searching overseas for the Four Masters—only leads one further from understanding true liberation. Authentic transcendence lies in uniting one's inner being with the Dao, not in outward manifestations.

This passage recounts the debate between Zhuangzi and Huizi on the concept of "usefulness and uselessness," illustrating through vivid anecdotes how an object's value depends on its application.

Huizi told Zhuangzi that the King of Wei had given him seeds of giant gourds, which grew fruits capable of holding five dan of water. Yet they were too fragile for water containers and too unwieldy to make ladles, so he smashed them as useless. Zhuangzi criticized his inability to utilize large objects: A Song dynasty family had for generations made anti-chapping ointment for silk-washers, until a visitor bought the recipe for a hundred gold pieces and presented it to the King of Wu. During winter naval battles, it helped defeat the Yue army, earning the man a fiefdom. The same medicine that brought some mere silk-washing wages brought others noble titles—the difference lay in its application. Those giant gourds could have been tied as life buoys for swimming across rivers, Zhuangzi remarked; Huizi's failure to see their use revealed a mind "as narrow as knotweed."

Huizi then cited a twisted, knobby tree (ailanthus) that carpenters ignored, comparing it to Zhuangzi's "grand but impractical" philosophy. Zhuangzi countered with a weasel that darts about hunting only to die in traps, contrasting it with the yak—useless for catching mice yet magnificently powerful. Such a tree, he said, should be planted in open spaces where people could wander freely beneath its shade. Things deemed useless escape exploitation; isn't this, he implied, the greatest usefulness of all?

(Notes: "Pingpikuang" refers to silk-washing; "anti-chapping ointment" prevents frostbite cracks; "Chu" is the ailanthus tree; "Lixing" means weasel; "Maoniu" is the yak.)

This passage primarily discusses Zhuangzi's philosophy of "free and unfettered wandering" (xiaoyao) and "forgetting both self and things" (wuwo liangwang).

Guo Xiang, in his commentary, explains that this "medicine" (referring to Daoist cultivation methods) enables one's hands to move unconstrained, as naturally as rinsing silk threads in water. Though the tumbleweed may be small, it is not incapable of comprehending the great Dao. This illustrates that all things, regardless of size, become entangled in calculations of gain and loss once they lose their innate authenticity. But if each abides in its proper place, one may attain the state of carefree wandering.

Another commentator (possibly "Bi Cheng") suggests that Confucius was not truly adept at applying the great Dao. The key lies in how one employs their innate nature: when used skillfully, it leads to liberation; when used clumsily, it results in bondage. This is the meaning behind Confucius' saying, "By nature, we are close; by habit, we grow apart." The "land of nothingness, the vast and barren wilds" refers to a seemingly useless yet profoundly useful realm—precisely the destination of the Dao.

In the section on "The Equality of Things," Nan Guo Ziqi sits leaning on his armrest in quiet meditation, sighing as he gazes at the sky, as if having forgotten himself. His disciple Yan Chengzi You asks why his body appears like withered wood and his mind like dead ashes. Ziqi replies that his state today differs from the past because he has reached the stage of "losing the self" (sangwo). He explains three kinds of sound: the pipes of man (human-made music), the pipes of earth (the sounds of wind through natural hollows), and the pipes of heaven (the spontaneous sounds of the Dao). The pipes of earth arise when wind passes through various apertures, producing different tones, while the pipes of heaven are the natural sounds of all things, without any external orchestrator.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes that this state represents the unity of heaven and humanity and the forgetting of both self and things, which is why the outward appearance resembles a loss of joy (taran).

This passage elucidates the Daoist philosophical state of "natural non-action" (Wuwei). When one fully aligns with nature and transcends distinctions between right and wrong, only pure innate nature remains within, free from attachment to external matters. In this state, stillness resembles withered wood while movement resembles floating dust—both transformations occur without deliberate effort. Upon reaching the realm of "uncontrived attainment," even self-awareness dissolves as internal and external distinctions fade, enabling true transcendent freedom.

The text employs the metaphor of wind passing through hollows to produce varied sounds: just as bamboo flutes of differing lengths naturally produce distinct pitches, when gales sweep through diverse apertures, the resulting symphony—whether high or low, strong or faint—emerges spontaneously according to each object's inherent conditions. This mirrors the "celestial music" (Tianlai) of the cosmos: not orchestrated by any deliberate conductor, but arising from the spontaneous harmony of all things.

The "Great Mass" (referring to Dao or nature) represents the source from which all phenomena spontaneously arise. The growth of all beings occurs naturally—neither created by any agent nor capable of being manufactured. Since "non-being" cannot generate "being," nor can "being" create itself, whence comes this ceaseless generative power? It is simply the spontaneous self-generation of all things. This state of self-becoming constitutes "heavenly naturalness"—not referring to a celestial deity, but to the thusness of existence itself.

This passage explores the relationship between the "Heavenly Music" (natural sounds or principles) and the autonomy of all things, as well as the various states of the human mind.

Regarding Heavenly Music and all things: Some believe the Heavenly Music can compel all things to obey it. But Heaven (nature) cannot even fully control itself, let alone govern all things. "Heaven" is merely a collective term for all things—there exists no sovereign ruler commanding them. All things grow naturally without an external creator; this is the Dao of Heaven. Everything develops autonomously, and what we call the "roaring" (various phenomena) arises from their own nature without any external instigator.

Concerning the states of the human mind: Those with great wisdom are composed and expansive, while the petty-minded nitpick over trifles. Grand speech flows with majestic momentum, whereas trivial talk drones on endlessly. When asleep, the spirit (Shen) intertwines within; upon waking, the body becomes active. Daily interactions with external things entangle the mind, breeding constant inner conflict. Some harbor cunning schemes, others tread cautiously. Minor fears bring unease, while great terrors shatter the soul.

The shifting human mind is like an arrow nocked on a bowstring, ever ready to judge right and wrong. When clinging stubbornly to views, it swears oaths to defeat opponents. This state gradually withers a person like autumn's killing frost—indulging in it makes recovery impossible. A closed-off heart resembles ropes binding it, marking the decline of age. A mind nearing death struggles to revive its vitality.

Joy, anger, sorrow, delight, worry, lamentation, fickleness, frivolity, indulgence—these emotional states alternate day and night while their origins remain obscure. Perhaps they are the very wellspring of life? Without them, there would be no "me"; without the "me," they couldn't manifest. This truth lies close at hand, yet people still don't grasp its workings.

It seems there exists a "True Ruler," yet no trace of it can be found. It truly functions, yet remains formless. Our hundred limbs, nine orifices, and six organs all exist complete—but which part is truly closer to you? Do you cherish them equally, or favor some? Do they govern each other like ministers and concubines, or take turns as ruler and subject? Perhaps there is a "True Sovereign"? Whether discovered or not, its reality remains unaffected.

Once a human form is acquired, it inevitably marches toward dissolution, clashing and grinding against external things. Life races toward its end like a galloping steed that cannot be halted—is this not pitiable? To toil lifelong without seeing achievement, exhausted yet ignorant of one's destination—how can this not bring sorrow? When people say this doesn't constitute death, what meaning does it hold? As the body transforms, the mind follows—is this not the greatest tragedy of all?

This passage elucidates the principle of all things operating naturally and finding their proper place. In his commentary on the Zhuangzi, Guo Xiang points out that human cognition manifests in distinct modes—the unhurried "leisurely contemplation" (xianxian) versus the meticulous "detailed scrutiny" (jianjian), while speech ranges from "blazing rhetoric" (yanyan) to "trifling chatter" (zhanzhan). Our spiritual states likewise alternate between "soul communion" (hun jiao) during dream-filled sleep and "bodily activation" (xing kai) in waking consciousness.

Human interactions unfold diversely—some tense and anxious (zhuizhui), others relaxed and effortless (manman). Those obsessed with right and wrong exhaust themselves daily in competitive struggles, gradually depleting their vital energy. When trapped in such attachments, one sinks like quicksand, the condition worsening with age until, nearing death's door yet still coveting gain and ignoring peril, all capacity for renewal is lost.

From emotions like joy and anger to phenomena such as "music emerging from emptiness" (le chu xu) or "fungi sprouting from dampness" (zheng cheng jun), everything follows its inherent natural patterns. The ceaseless day-night alternation of heaven and earth, the perpetual renewal—all occur spontaneously without external compulsion.

The text mentions the "True Governor" (zhen zai), yet even seeking its traces proves futile, demonstrating all things exist through self-so-ness (ziran), not by any coercive force. Just as the body's hundred bones and nine orifices function harmoniously when left to their natural roles, interference creates imbalance. Ruler-subject relationships mirror this: as heaven and earth maintain their respective positions, the true sovereign (zhen jun) understands letting all beings develop according to their innate nature.

Ultimately, whether wise or foolish, all cling stubbornly to their cognitive habits until life's end. Humans persist in prejudices, indulging unreflective actions—this constitutes the profound tragedy. The entire passage emphasizes aligning with nature's flow and honoring each thing's proper function, rejecting forced intervention and rigid dogmatism.

Zhuangzi here explores the fundamental questions of human existence and cognition. He suggests all things follow their inherent nature, and there's no need to grieve over this. People exhaust themselves in lifelong busyness, weary yet unaware that this very state of being alive yet deadened is the true tragedy worth lamenting.

Is human life inherently perplexing? Or is it only I who feel confused while others remain clear-headed? In truth, everyone judges matters according to their preconceptions—who can claim to lack personal standards? Why must one understand the laws of transformation to form opinions? Even fools hold their own views. To judge right and wrong without established principles is as absurd as saying "I departed for Yue today but arrived there yesterday."

Human speech differs from the wind's natural sounds—people speak with intent, yet the substance of these words remains indeterminate. Do they truly express anything? Or nothing at all? People consider their speech distinct from fledgling birds' chirping, but is there really any difference? Or none whatsoever?

How could the Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) generate distinctions between truth and falsehood? How could words conceal judgments of right and wrong? How could the Dao vanish into nothingness? How could words exist yet prove unreliable? The Dao becomes obscured by partial understandings, just as speech gets buried beneath ornate rhetoric. This is why Confucians and Mohists (two major pre-Qin philosophical schools) mutually refute each other's views.

Rather than disputing right and wrong, better to observe with clarified awareness. All things simultaneously embody "that" and "this." From the other's perspective, one cannot see one's own position; from one's own standpoint, understanding comes. Thus "that" arises from "this," and "this" depends on "that"—this is the principle of "mutual arising."

Yet no sooner does something emerge than it begins fading; no sooner is something negated than it starts reemerging. The sage (one who embodies the Dao) therefore transcends these dichotomies, observing instead through the natural Dao. This is following nature's way. "This" is "that," and "that" is "this." That side has its standards of right and wrong; this side has its own. Do such distinctions truly exist? Or are they ultimately illusory? Only by transcending this binary can one grasp the pivot of the Dao. Holding this pivot is like standing at a circle's center, responding to infinite transformations. Judgments of right and wrong are endless—thus better to observe with clarified awareness.

Guo Xiang's (Jin dynasty commentator) annotation observes: Those today who consider themselves wise don't understand why they know what they know—it simply emerges spontaneously. The living don't comprehend why they live—they simply live naturally. Though the myriad things differ...

Here Zhuangzi examines the preconceptions and notions of right and wrong in the human mind. He points out that while all people possess innate cognitive capacity, they often cling stubbornly to their prejudices (chengxin), treating these subjective views as absolute truth. Each person takes their own established standards as master, thus filling the world with countless contradictory viewpoints.

The ignorant persist in their biases, failing to learn from others' strengths. It's like trying to reach the state of Yue today—how could one have arrived yesterday? Similarly, concepts of right and wrong arise from subjective judgments of the human mind. In truth, the sage of highest attainment (zhiren) understands that right and wrong are inherently relative, capable of embracing diverse perspectives. Yet confused people treat nonexistent distinctions as real—once such attachments form, even sages find them difficult to resolve.

Verbal disputes are like wind blowing past—when I say "right" you say "wrong," when you say "right" I say "wrong," never reaching definitive conclusions. This indeterminacy stems from people's subjective standpoints. If Daoist teaching permeates all existence, why use concepts of true/false and right/wrong to create divisions? These discriminating thoughts are like flowers obscuring the Dao—yet the Dao itself cannot ultimately be obscured. Notions of right/wrong appear significant in minor matters but vanish when viewed holistically.

Confucians and Mohists mutually condemn each other, each convinced of their own correctness. In reality, to understand that there is neither absolute right nor wrong, it's better to let various viewpoints illuminate one another. Through such mutual reflection, we discover that what's called "right" may not be truly right, and what's called "wrong" may not be truly wrong. All things consider themselves correct, therefore nothing is absolutely right or wrong; all things depend upon one another, therefore nothing is absolutely other. Comprehending this principle allows us to see through the world's so-called rights and wrongs as fundamentally relative.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "equalizing all things" (齐物), whose core teaching reveals the absence of absolute right/wrong distinctions in the world. When people cease clinging to "that" (彼) position, the very notion of "this" (此) position dissolves, allowing one to attain the wondrous state of mystical unity.

All beings perceive only their own limited understanding, never seeing the world through others' eyes. People invariably consider their own views as truth while dismissing others' as fallacy. In reality, "that" and "this" are mutually dependent—just as the transformations between life and death follow the natural rhythm of spring, summer, autumn and winter. The living regard life as existence, while the dead might consider life to be death; the living view death as termination, while the departed may perceive it as rebirth. Thus life and death fundamentally lack absolute distinction.

The sage does not participate in Confucian-Mohist debates about right and wrong. While accommodating worldly people's judgments, the sage transcends all such distinctions. Without treading the path of binary opposition, the sage appropriately perceives all things, simply comprehending nature's principles without imposing personal views. "This" could equally be called "that," and "I" might be someone else's "that." Right/wrong and being/nonbeing aren't absolute—they're merely contingent correspondences.

The sage resembles a door pivot at the crucial juncture, holding the mystical root to respond to endless changes. Right and wrong form an empty circle ceaselessly revolving—only by penetrating this ring's center (neither clinging to "right" nor "wrong") can one respond to infinite disputes. Ordinary people constantly assert themselves while negating others, whereas the awakened maintain empty-mindedness, roaming beyond such entanglements.

"That" cannot arise alone—it manifests through contrast with "this"; "this" cannot exist independently—it appears through opposition to "that." Thus both mutually generate and depend on each other, both emerging from emptiness. Wherever the concept of "affirmation" arises, "negation" necessarily follows; wherever "possible" appears, "impossible" must correspond.

Zhuangzi here discusses the wisdom that transcends worldly distinctions between right and wrong. Ordinary people are constantly attached to the dualistic opposition of "this is right, that is wrong"—these are artificial distinctions, not the natural state of the Dao (the Way). The sage (one who has attained the Dao) does not fall into such oppositions but observes all things from the perspective of the Dao's natural spontaneity, rising above right and wrong to wander with the Creator (the Dao).

The text points out that even sages do not completely deny concepts of right and wrong. They simply follow what people consider "right" by calling it right and what people consider "wrong" by calling it wrong—that is all. The character "因" (to follow, to accord with) lies at the core of Laozi's and Zhuangzi's philosophy. Understanding this reveals that this is that, and that is this; their distinctions of right and wrong are ultimately interconnected. Do such distinctions truly exist? When traced to their source, these oppositions and divisions have no substantial basis—and this is precisely where the pivot of the Dao lies.

To illustrate with an analogy: odd numbers correspond to the circle, even numbers to the square. A ring has neither beginning nor end; its center is empty. Those who attain the Dao are like grasping the center of this ring, able to respond to infinite transformations. Though walking the worldly path of right and wrong, they maintain an inner state beyond distinctions—only those who observe through the lens of the Dao's natural spontaneity can achieve this. This is the meaning of "莫若以明" (nothing compares to illuminating clarity).

The text then uses the metaphors of "finger" (concept) and "horse" (name) to explain: using concepts to explain concepts is inferior to using non-concepts; using names to clarify names is inferior to using non-names. Heaven and earth can be seen as a "finger," and the myriad things as a "horse." Right and wrong are relative: the Dao in its movement gives rise to the myriad things, and things exist because they are named. Why is it so? Because it is so. Why is it not otherwise? Because it is not otherwise. The myriad things are simply as they are, without absolute right or wrong.

Thus, the tiny grass stalk and the great pillar, the ugly woman and the beautiful Xi Shi, all seemingly strange and disparate things—on the level of the Dao, they are interconnected as one. The division of things implies new formations, and formation implies destruction. In truth, the myriad things have no inherent division into completion or destruction—ultimately, they return to oneness. Only those who have penetrated this principle understand the "interconnection as one" and thus do not cling to distinctions but entrust themselves to ordinary function. "Function" is penetration, and penetration is attainment of the Dao. Reaching this state brings one close to the Dao.

To follow spontaneity without knowing why—this is the Dao. To exhaust one's mind pursuing unity without understanding inherent sameness is like the story of "three in the morning and four at night": the monkey-keeper giving three acorns in the morning and four in the evening angered the monkeys, but switching to four in the morning and three in the evening pleased them—the total remained unchanged, only the appearance deceived them.

Zhuangzi employs the parable of "three in the morning and four at night" to illustrate: When the monkey keeper gives four acorns in the morning and three in the evening, the monkeys rejoice. Though the total remains unchanged, merely altering the sequence stirs their emotions. The sage understands this principle, thus harmonizing disputes between right and wrong by allowing them to find natural equilibrium. This is called "walking both paths" (letting opposing sides coexist without conflict).

Guo Xiang (the commentator) explains: People habitually consider themselves correct and others mistaken—this is human nature. Like using fingers as an analogy: if I use my finger to represent yours, yours seems unlike a finger; reverse the comparison, and mine appears equally un-fingerlike. Through such reciprocal observations, we realize no absolute right or wrong exists in the world.

Contemporary standards of right and wrong have become chaotic. Each person stubbornly clings to personal views, creating polarized extremes. But the enlightened understand heaven and earth as a single finger, and all things as one horse (symbolizing shared essence). The truly wise attain inner stillness, letting all things find their proper place—neither affirming nor denying. What suits them they deem acceptable; what doesn’t, they reject. The Dao (cosmic principle) leaves nothing unfulfilled; nothing under heaven lacks inherent reason.

A slender grass stalk lies horizontally; a massive pillar stands vertically. The hideous Li and the beautiful Xishi each occupy their rightful place. "Equalizing all things" doesn’t mean uniformity of form, but allowing distinct natures to flourish. Vertical or horizontal, beautiful or ugly, strange or bizarre—whatever aligns with intrinsic nature is justified. Though appearances vary infinitely, their fundamental nature interconnects. Hence the saying: "The Dao penetrates and unifies all."

The same event may seem fragmentation to some, completion to others. What I deem success, another may consider ruin—perspective alone creates this divergence. Only the enlightened transcend singular viewpoints, releasing preconceptions to perceive things spontaneously. Thus they navigate affairs with unimpeded ease. Supreme truth lies in letting all things follow their natural course. The wise comply with nature rather than force outcomes, hence the principle of "following what is so."

This passage expounds the core Daoist concept of "following natural spontaneity" (因循自然). Zhuangzi teaches that true wisdom lies in understanding the Dao (the Way) as complete acceptance of all things in their natural state (道即一也). The enlightened person never exhausts their spirit (Shen) in forced pursuit of unity, because striving artificially for "oneness" actually betrays the Dao's essence—such effort differs little from those obsessed with distinctions, like monkeys judging right and wrong by personal preference alone.

The sage clings to neither extreme, instead allowing all things to find their natural equilibrium (付之自均). Though heaven and earth are vast, they're no larger than a single finger; though the myriad things are numerous, they're no more than a single horse—humans are but one part within this cosmic tapestry. Understanding this principle allows transcendence beyond dualistic judgments while preserving one's innate nature. The sage's mind holds no preconceptions of right/wrong, yet doesn't deny worldly standards—this is "following" (因): affirming what others find acceptable without imposing what they reject.

The Dao accomplishes through accommodation; all things have their inherent reason for being. I neither actively affirm nor deny anything, simply following each thing's natural condition. The slender grass stalk and massive roof beam, the hideous demon and beautiful Xishi, separation and wholeness, success and ruin—all opposites interpenetrate at the Dao's level. Only those who penetrate ultimate truth comprehend this, attaining what Zhuangzi calls "thorough understanding" (达).

True wisdom resides not in personal opinions but in aligning with universal patterns (寓诸庸). "Universal patterns" (庸) means the constant principles underlying daily life—things stagnate when unused, yet flourish through accordance. The Dao reaches perfection through unimpeded flow, ultimately reducible to this single character: "follow" (因). Like the monkey-keeper distributing acorns—not adding or subtracting by personal whim, but adjusting according to the monkeys' reactions—we see "following" perfectly embodied.

Thus the sage externally harmonizes with worldly judgments while internally abiding in the natural balance beyond distinctions (休乎无是非之天钧). Unperturbed by superficial rights and wrongs that might disturb inner transcendence, this is the realm of "twofold practice" (两行)—simultaneously accommodating conventional dualities while maintaining the nondual Dao-mind.

Zhuangzi here explores the different realms of human understanding. The ancient masters who attained the Dao (the Way) reached the highest state of cognition—they perceived the primordial void from which the universe emerged, representing the ultimate realization. Those at the next level acknowledged the existence of material forms but did not yet distinguish boundaries between things. At a still lower level, people recognized distinctions between objects but had not yet formed judgments of right and wrong.

Once distinctions between right and wrong arise, the Dao becomes fragmented. When the Dao is impaired, personal biases take shape. When the ancient musician Zhao Wen played the zither, his emphasis on certain notes inevitably caused others to be neglected; only by not playing at all could the complete harmony of music be preserved. Similarly, Zhao Wen's zither playing, Music Master Shi Kuang's rhythm-keeping, and the logician Hui Shi's debates under the phoenix tree—though all three men possessed remarkable talents—they were each confined by their attachment to specialized skills.

Hui Shi attempted to prove his views through the "Hard and White" paradox (a famous logical proposition of the School of Names), only to become entangled in confusion. His son, inheriting his doctrines, achieved nothing in his lifetime. Such obsessive demonstrations may appear as accomplishments, but they are not true fulfillment.

Therefore, the sage rejects all displays of cleverness, instead embodying wisdom in ordinary matters. As Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Those who recognize the primordial void can forget both heaven and earth, externally unattached to the cosmos and internally unattached to themselves—thus transcending all limitations. Only understanding free from judgments of right and wrong is complete. Once such judgments emerge, the Dao is impaired, and partiality arises. Just as music cannot be fully expressed—for any performance inevitably omits certain notes—the more one strives to manifest it, the more incomplete it becomes.

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's critique of "forcing enlightenment upon others" and the wisdom of "following natural spontaneity (Wuwei)."

When one forcibly imposes their own understanding to instruct others, it only exhausts the spirit and wearies the heart. Some doze while leaning on their canes, others rest with eyes closed beneath parasol trees—these are but superficial efforts to maintain appearances that allow temporary endurance, for without such pretense, they would collapse from exhaustion. Those who presume to be teachers constantly seek others' approval of their views, like playing the lute to oxen—a futile endeavor. When the audience fundamentally cannot comprehend, one's teachings ultimately vanish without trace.

The sage never flaunts their understanding to belittle others, nor abandons their true nature to chase external things. They follow the natural course, allowing all things to manifest their innate capacities, thus achieving universal fulfillment without omission. How absurd are those who insist on imposing their personal preferences upon others! The sage, free from "self-attachment," can incorporate seemingly dubious points of brilliance into contemplation and perceive all anomalies as unified. Let different things occupy their proper places, let all people settle in their natural positions. Thus without deliberate action (Wuwei), the ten thousand things spontaneously fulfill their functions. Since all things can naturally realize their potential, what need is there to debate right and wrong?

The discourse then explores the dialectical relationship between "being" and "non-being": When speaking, one cannot know whether words conform to conventional logic. In truth, conformity is relative—fundamentally there is no distinction. Tracing back, the cosmos had its beginning, and before that beginning was a prior state, and before that "prior state" existed yet another antecedent. There is "being" and "non-being," but more fundamentally there exists the undifferentiated state of "before being-and-non-being," and even the state preceding that undifferentiated condition. Suddenly "being" and "non-being" emerge—but who can discern which is truly "being" and which is truly "non-being"? Just as I cannot determine whether these words I speak constitute actual "speech" or its absence.

Finally, relativity shatters conventional perceptions: The universe's largest entity may become small as an autumn hair's tip, while Mount Tai appears minuscule; the shortest-lived child who dies in infancy may be considered long-lived, while Pengzu who lived eight hundred years becomes short-lived. This subversive epistemology embodies the essence of Zhuangzi's philosophy of equalizing all things (Qiwu).

Heaven and earth coexist with me, and all things are united with me as one. Since we are already united as one, is there still need for words to express it? And since we have already spoken of the concept of "one," how can we say there are no words? The concept of "one" and the words expressing it become "two," and "two" added to the original "one" makes "three." Continuing this progression, even the most skilled mathematician could not keep count, let alone ordinary people. Thus, from "non-being" to "being," we have already derived "three"—how much more if we continue from "being"? It is better to stop here and follow what is natural.

Guo Xiang (the Jin dynasty commentator) explains: Now we say there is no right or wrong, but we do not know whether this statement itself falls within the realm of speech. If it does, then when I say "non-being" is right, others may say "non-being" is wrong—this creates division. Though this view of right and wrong differs, it ultimately still falls into the realm of judgment, no different in essence from those who cling to distinctions. Thus, "similarity and dissimilarity are ultimately similar"—there is no difference from those who cling to right and wrong. The most thorough transcendence, then, is to let go even of the concept of "no-mind." First relinquish notions of right and wrong, then relinquish the very act of relinquishing, continuing until there is nothing left to relinquish. At this point, there is no need to deliberately exclude anything—right and wrong naturally dissolve.

Consider this explanation: The highest truth originally requires no words. Once words are used, distinctions arise. Thus, we reluctantly use language to explain. To speak of a beginning necessarily implies an end, while to say "there has never been a beginning" transcends the distinctions of beginning and end, life and death. To speak of "one" is inferior to not clinging to "one" and letting it be natural, thereby forgetting even the concept of "one." Clinging to "being" gives rise to distinctions of beauty and ugliness, right and wrong; clinging to "non-being" still does not transcend the cognition of "non-being." Reaching the state of "never having been or not been," though one knows "non-non-being," still does not fully transcend cognition. Only upon arriving at the state of "never having 'never been or not been'" does one suddenly realize that "being" and "non-being" are ultimately undifferentiated—only then are all cognitions fully relinquished. In a sudden awakening to true "non-being," heaven and earth, all things, and all distinctions between self and other become clear.

When I say "there is no right or wrong," this statement itself forms a judgment, and it is unclear whether this judgment is right or wrong. Only when the mind holds not the slightest obstruction can one truly transcend. In terms of form, Mount Tai is far larger than an autumn hair, yet if all things abide in their nature and reach their ultimate state, then largeness is not excessive and smallness is not insufficient. Each satisfied in its own nature, the autumn hair does not consider itself tiny, nor does Mount Tai consider itself vast.

Mount Tai does not consider itself particularly remarkable due to its massive size. If we take innate sufficiency as the standard for "greatness," then the most abundant things in the world may be smaller than an autumn hair. If innate sufficiency doesn't qualify as "great," then even Mount Tai could be considered small. If Mount Tai is deemed small, then nothing in the world can truly be called "great"; if an autumn hair is considered great, then nothing can be called "small."

There is no distinction between great and small, nor between long and short life. Thus, the cicada does not envy the great toon tree that lives for eight thousand years, content in its own joyful existence; the bird in the small pond does not covet the vastness of the Heavenly Lake, finding its own little world perfectly sufficient. As long as one rests in their natural disposition and is satisfied with their inherent role, then even the lifespan of heaven and earth cannot be considered long, for they exist simultaneously with me; the myriad things are not extraordinary, for they, like me, are all products of natural creation.

Though the myriad things differ in form, as long as each abides in its innate nature, they are fundamentally unified. This unity needs no words. Some things fail to understand this truth and constantly chase after others, so the concept of "One" is used to correct them. Yet the moment we utter the word "One," we've already resorted to language. Using words to describe "One"—when "One" itself transcends language—makes "One" and the words describing it two separate things. The original "One" is singular, but adding descriptive language makes it two, and one plus two becomes three. Explaining "One" through words only complicates matters further—how much more so when each thing in the world has its own name? How could we ever finish describing them all?

Those who truly comprehend "One" make no distinction between themselves and the myriad things, while those who forget "One" need not speak to naturally unite with it. Those who follow their innate nature rest content in what they can attain—this is the most correct way.

The Great Dao (Dao) originally has no boundaries, and words originally have no fixed standards. It is people who create divisions through argumentation: left and right, ethics and virtue (De), distinctions and debates, competition and contention—these eight divisions are artificial boundaries. Regarding things beyond the four directions of heaven and earth, the sage remains silent and does not discuss them; regarding things within the four directions, the sage discusses but does not pass judgment; regarding the ancient sage-kings' methods of governing the world, the sage comments but does not argue. Thus, where there is division, there must also be that which is undivided; where there is debate, there must also be that which transcends debate.

Zhuangzi here discusses the philosophy that "the Great Dao does not speak." The true Dao needs no argument or explanation, just as the most profound debate requires no words, the purest benevolence makes no show of kindness, the most incorruptible person never flaunts humility, and the truly brave never resort to aggression.

When the Dao is explained too explicitly, it strays from its essence; excessive argumentation reveals inadequacy; performative benevolence lacks authenticity; self-proclaimed integrity becomes suspect; and belligerence is not true courage. These five situations are as futile as trying to force a circle into a square.

Those who have attained true understanding know when to stop and remain silent in the face of the unknown. Who can comprehend wordless debate or the Dao that needs no explanation? Such people possess minds like natural treasuries—never filled to capacity nor exhausted of resources. This state is called "preserving the inner light" (baoguang).

The text then illustrates this with a dialogue between the sage-kings Yao and Shun: Yao felt uneasy about conquering three small states, to which Shun responded that these states were like creatures living among weeds—why trouble about them? Just as ten suns could shine simultaneously upon all things without conflict, how much more should virtuous rulers, whose De (Virtue) surpasses the sun's radiance, embrace all existence?

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: The Dao inherently knows no boundaries—it permeates everything. Speech likewise has no fixed standards; judgments of right and wrong are all relative. All things follow their own patterns of existence. Imposing artificial distinctions only obscures their true nature. The sage never clings to personal views but follows what is natural, allowing all things to exist and develop according to their inherent nature.

Zhuangzi's passage speaks of how spiritual cultivators should transcend worldly value judgments and align with natural spontaneity. Those who delight in debate constantly seek to convince others with their limited knowledge, while truly enlightened individuals never deliberately flaunt their understanding, for the great Dao (the Way) fundamentally requires no words.

Those who don't ostentatiously display humaneness (ren) have already transcended partial affections; those who don't affect humility already possess inner fulfillment, untouched by external gains or losses; those free from jealousy flow with nature's course, finding ease wherever they dwell. Over-explaining the Dao risks losing its essence; excessive debate strays from the original heart; clinging to the reputation of benevolence prevents true wholeness; deliberate displays of purity often mask inauthentic integrity; while brute-force valor merely invites universal disdain.

These five forced behaviors all injure one's natural virtue (De). To abandon inner nature in pursuit of external things is like demanding compasses to draw squares or fish to envy birds—the harder one strives, the farther one drifts from the Dao. True wisdom understands the fundamental unity of all things; releasing attachments brings liberation. Those who fail to grasp this remain shackled by concerns beyond their essential nature.

The mind of a Dao-realized person mirrors all phenomena without retaining traces, eternally full yet never self-satisfied. The profoundest truth comes and goes without tracks, like inner illumination that shines naturally unobscured. Forcing others to change resembles the futility of trying to replace rulers during the Three Kingdoms period—the great Dao embraces all existence, even mugwort and weeds having their rightful place. Though sun and moon illuminate universally, their light still misses corners, while great Virtue (De) encompasses everything without exception. To uproot mugwort's natural growth and impose artificial will hardly constitutes propagating the Dao. Thus truly awakened beings allow all things to express their innate nature, each finding its proper place.

All things, whether near or far, hidden or profound, follow their natural course and each attains its ultimate state. Thus, there is nothing inappropriate in others, nor any displeasure in myself.

The Bi Cheng states: The Dao has no boundaries, and words have no fixed norms. Why then do sages detest boundaries and norms? Because once distinctions between right and wrong are established, eight divisions arise—left and right, ethical relations, moral principles, discrimination, and contention. The sage harbors these in the heart but does not discuss them; discusses but does not dispute; disputes but does not judge. Thus, they transcend the realm of right and wrong—how could they ever be confined by boundaries? Yet the sage is not called "boundless" merely because they refrain from discussion, dispute, or judgment. Even when they do discuss or dispute, it cannot be called a boundary. For the sage's mind is free from division—what is called division is non-division, and what is called dispute is non-dispute. The sage does not use outward display as argument, while ordinary people take mutual exhibition as contention—this is the difference between them.

Not praising, not speaking, not flaunting benevolence, not feigning humility, not envying—these five are illustrated by ancient sayings: Supreme virtue is undivided and unmarked by names—this is what is called "perfect roundness." When the Dao is displayed, words contend, benevolence is constantly shown, integrity is flaunted, and courage is envied, the edges are too sharp, approaching "squareness"—and squareness means boundaries.

Alas! The world knows that "not knowing" is the highest state, yet fails to realize that "knowing yet not knowing" is even higher. This is the unspoken debate, the unproclaimed Dao. It is like saying "being is non-being" and "form is emptiness." Is this not akin to the mysterious treasure-house that fills without overflowing, pours without emptying, and whose source remains unknown? "Preserving inner light" (Baoguang) means knowing yet not knowing.

Nie Que asked Wang Ni, "Do you know what all things agree upon?" Wang Ni replied, "How could I know!" Nie Que pressed, "Do you know what you do not know?" Again, Wang Ni said, "How could I know!" Nie Que asked further, "Then are all things unknowable?" Wang Ni answered, "How could I know! But let me try to speak: How do I know that what I call 'knowing' is not 'not knowing'? How do I know that what I call 'not knowing' is not 'knowing'?"

Let me ask you this: Humans sleeping in damp places suffer back pain or even paralysis—would a loach? Humans perched in trees tremble with fear—would a monkey? Among these three, who knows the true comfortable dwelling? Humans eat livestock, deer graze on grass, centipedes devour snakes, owls prey on mice—among these four, who knows true flavor? Monkeys pair with gibbons, deer mate with elk, loaches swim with fish.

This passage employs vivid analogies to discuss the relativity of perception and the realm of the "perfected person" (one who has attained the Dao). Zhuangzi uses the different reactions of fish, birds, and deer to the beauty of Maoqiang and Liji to illustrate how standards of beauty and ugliness are relative—each creature has its own criteria for judgment. Similarly, human concepts of benevolence, righteousness, and moral judgments are chaotic and unclear, making it difficult to discern any absolute standard.

Nie Que asked: "If even benefits and harms remain unknown, wouldn't that mean the perfected person doesn't understand them either?" Wang Ni replied: "The perfected person has reached such divine subtlety that great fires cannot make them feel heat, frozen rivers cannot make them feel cold, and neither thunder splitting mountains nor storms churning seas can startle them. Such a person rides clouds and mist, harnesses the sun and moon, and roams beyond the four seas. Not even life and death can affect them—how much less would worldly gains and losses?"

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: All things have their own modes of perception—what fish know as swimming in water, birds regard as not knowing at all. Creatures like apes, deer, fish, and shrimp each have distinct preferences and standards. Precisely because these standards differ, we cannot establish any absolute correctness. The confusion surrounding benevolence, righteousness, and moral judgments arises because what benefits one may harm another. Only by refraining from forced distinctions and following nature can one attain true freedom.

The perfected person's miraculous quality lies in maintaining complete spiritual integrity and physical wholeness, becoming one with all things. Even undergoing tremendous transformations cannot alter their fundamental nature. Their cloud-riding signifies harmony with external phenomena, while their mastery over the sun and moon represents transcending the boundaries of life and death (though day and night alternate, they remain unbound by mortality). This realm transcends ordinary understanding—Nie Que's questioning precisely reveals his failure to grasp the profound mystery of "not knowing."

This passage explores Zhuangzi's understanding of life's ultimate state. When Qu Quezi asked Chang Wuzi about the realm of sages, Chang Wuzi employed a series of metaphors to illustrate: truly liberated individuals neither deliberately pursue benefits nor avoid harm, remain unattached to worldly affairs, and ultimately transcend even the conceptual distinctions between "being" and "non-being," achieving complete unity with heaven, earth, and all things.

Chang Wuzi criticizes ordinary people for rushing to judgments—like expecting a rooster at the sight of an egg or imagining roasted pheasant when seeing a slingshot. Through the story of Li Ji (a famed beauty of Jin), he demonstrates how people often rejoice or grieve over immediate gains and losses, unaware that the future may bring entirely different circumstances. Just as those who dream of feasting wake to weep, while those who dream of weeping wake to go hunting, people in dreams don't realize they're dreaming.

Most profound is the metaphor of "great awakening" (ultimate enlightenment) versus "great dream": the ignorant believe themselves awake while actually immersed in dreams. Even sages like Confucius remain dreaming, and Chang Wuzi admits his very words are part of the dream. This paradoxical expression is called "diaogui" (provocative wonder)—only after ten thousand generations might a great sage comprehend it, just as one eventually meets someone who understands this state.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: those who don't force affairs find things arriving naturally; those who neither chase profit nor shun harm directly face reality without evasion; those without deliberate cravings neither rejoice excessively in gain nor rage at loss. These descriptions embody the Daoist advocacy for natural wuwei (non-action) and a transcendent attitude toward life.

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's understanding of the Dao and his approach to life. The essence is:

The true Dao cannot be fully expressed through language. All names humans give to things are not the essence of the Dao, merely artificial labels. Clinging to these names and concepts distances one from reality. All things follow their natural patterns - aligning with them brings harmony with the Dao, while forced explanations appear frivolous.

Even a sage like the Yellow Emperor couldn't make all things conform to human will. Therefore, genuine sages transcend worldly disturbances, observing all phenomena with natural acceptance, neither forcing outcomes nor offering contrived interpretations. Some people today mistake superficial knowledge for the great Dao, like expecting a chicken egg to crow immediately or anticipating roast fowl when seeing a slingshot - equally absurd.

Being unable to abide in the present and follow nature's course while constantly seeking to alter circumstances; fearing death while alive; clinging to rigid distinctions of right and wrong - these all violate natural principles. Merely discussing such topics is itself frivolous, so let's speak casually of them. Life and death alternate like day and night, as all things fundamentally share one origin. The chaos arises from imposing hierarchies of value, with everyone stubbornly holding their partial views.

Those truly aligned with the Dao appear as if they've set everything aside without explanation, letting matters follow their natural course. Their minds remain undisturbed, unlike ordinary people who exhaust themselves pursuing rights and wrongs. Though seeming dull and ignorant, they embody pure simplicity. While commoners perceive the world as complex and laboriously chase gains while avoiding losses, sages remain unattached, purely flowing with transformation.

Even across hundreds of millions of years and countless changes, the Dao remains constant. Though myriad things manifest differently, all follow the same Dao. Nothing exists outside the Dao; no moment occurs beyond it - this constitutes true purity. Accumulate this truth for ten thousand years, and it remains truth throughout; apply it to all phenomena, and all phenomena manifest it.

This passage explores philosophical questions concerning life and death, dreams and awakening. Zhuangzi posits that people often cling to life while fearing death, yet in truth, these are merely part of nature's transformations—just as the legendary beauty Li Ji initially wept when sent to a distant marriage, only to later revel in luxury, human emotions shift with circumstances.

Those who lose their homeland in childhood (termed "weak exiles") grow accustomed to new surroundings and forget their origins. Life and death follow the same principle: how can we know that living isn't another form of exile, while death might be a return to our true home? When dreaming, one doesn’t realize it’s a dream; so too in death, one may pass through natural change without awareness. The truly awakened (sages) understand that ordinary people’s so-called wakefulness remains part of a grand dream—they stubbornly uphold personal views, enshrining preferences like sovereigns while banishing dislikes as servants.

On the truth of debate: If I argue with you and you prevail, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re right and I’m wrong—or vice versa. Perhaps we’re both correct, or both mistaken. Who can truly judge? Rare are the wise ones ("those encountered between dawn and dusk") who transcend the binds of life and death to unite with the Dao. "Suspended liberation" (xuanjie) refers to a state of unshackled awareness—this extraordinary insight lies beyond ordinary comprehension.

Note: "Weak exile" (ruosang) denotes those who lose their homeland young; "Li Ji" alludes to an ancient beauty’s parable; "suspended liberation" is Zhuangzi’s term for awakening beyond life’s constraints; "encountered between dawn and dusk" illustrates the rarity of meeting true wisdom, akin to sages appearing once in millennia.

This passage discusses the relativity of right and wrong. Through dialogue, Zhuangzi reveals a profound truth: when two people hold opposing views, no arbiter can truly resolve the dispute. If the judge agrees with one side, objectivity is lost; if the judge holds a third perspective, new disagreements arise.

The text mentions "heavenly demarcations" (tianni, natural boundaries), pointing out that all things inherently possess their natural distinctions. Rather than clinging to debates about right and wrong, it's better to accord with the natural state of things. Like echoes (huasheng) responding to each other without determining who's right or wrong, worldly disputes over truth and falsehood are fundamentally relative.

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: people argue endlessly due to ignorance, yet the more they debate, the harder consensus becomes. True wisdom lies in relinquishing attachments and allowing things to develop according to their inherent nature (fu zhi zi zheng). When artificial distinctions cease, one attains the realm of "heavenly equilibrium" (tianjun, natural balance), transcending the constraints of binary oppositions.

Finally, the passage concludes that only by forgetting temporal concepts (wangnian, forgetting years) and transcending worldly standards (wangyi, forgetting righteousness) can one merge into the boundless realm of the Dao (wujing, inexhaustible). This state isn't achieved through contention, but emerges naturally through accord with nature.

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's profound reflections on the nature of life and the interconnectedness of all things. It begins by pointing out that when one transcends distinctions between life and death, right and wrong, one can attain unity with the Dao (the Way). This supreme truth is infinitely vast and cannot be fully expressed through finite language.

The text employs the parable of "The Penumbra Asking the Shadow" to illustrate the interdependence of all things: the faint glow at the shadow's edge asks why the shadow lacks independent will, to which the shadow replies that it too relies on something else. Just as snakes move with their belly scales and cicadas fly with their wings, all things depend on one another. Yet this interdependence is not mere causality but a spontaneous process of "self-transformation" (duhua).

Next, through the famous "Zhuangzi Dreams of a Butterfly" story, the text explores the blurred boundaries between self and other. Zhuangzi dreams he is a butterfly, and upon waking, cannot tell whether he was Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi. This demonstrates that while distinctions exist between things, they are ultimately different manifestations of the Dao—a principle known as "transformation of things" (wuhua).

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: though things appear interdependent, they are in fact self-generated. The shadow does not depend on the body, nor does the body depend on a creator. Questioning whether a creator exists is meaningless, for all things arise and transform spontaneously. This natural spontaneity is the true principle of heaven and earth.

Ultimately, the passage concludes that rather than seeking the causes behind all things, one should simply follow nature. Maintaining this attitude dissolves the opposition between subject and object, leading to a state where both self and things are forgotten. Clinging to external causes only obscures the grasp of essential truth.

This passage explores the philosophical relationship between dreams and reality. Through the famous parable of "Zhuangzi Dreaming of a Butterfly," Zhuangzi illustrates that when a person dreams of becoming a butterfly, they completely forget they are Zhuang Zhou—this is no different from death. Upon awakening, they realize they are Zhuang Zhou, but who is to say this "awakening" is not yet another dream?

People today do not know the state of the butterfly, just as one in a dream does not know Zhuang Zhou. Every living being merely follows the conditions of the moment, unable to prove that the butterfly is not dreaming of becoming Zhuang Zhou. In this world, some doze briefly yet dream of a hundred years—who can prove that our current hundred-year lifespan is not just a fleeting dream? The distinction between waking and dreaming is, in essence, no different from that between life and death.

The reason people find their present state comfortable and natural is because they have adapted to it, not because this state is absolutely real. Time does not stand still, and the present is not eternal. Yesterday’s dream has already changed by today—how is the transformation of life and death any different? Why exhaust the mind over it? Just as one does not know Zhuang Zhou while dreaming of being a butterfly, in life, one cannot foresee future changes—like the rise and fall of the ancient beauty Li Ji.

Foolish people assume they understand the joy of life and the suffering of death, yet they fundamentally fail to grasp the principle of mutual transformation among all things (物化, wuhua). The "Discussion on the Equality of Things" (齐物论, Qiwulun) begins by proposing the elimination of distinctions between self and other, unifying standards of right and wrong, merging the boundaries of success and failure, and balancing the many and the few. Ultimately, it aims to penetrate past and present, equalize life and death, and blend waking and dreaming—this is true unimpeded understanding.

Yet while the equality of things may be comprehensible, how can dreaming and waking be equated? What one does by day and dreams by night may seem similar, but there remains a subtle difference between waking and sleeping. Over time, however, daytime actions and nighttime dreams become indistinguishable. Jiang Yu once remarked: While awake, one can know dreams, but in dreams, one does not know waking—thus waking seems more real. Yet daytime actions exist only within thought, while dreams can foresee beyond thought—in this way, dreams are more wondrous than waking. Each day’s waking state follows a coherent logic, while nightly dreams are fragmented and chaotic. The shift between dream and wakefulness may seem instantaneous, yet the difference is immense—how much more so the greater transitions of life and death?

Zhuangzi here expounds on the paradox between finite life and infinite knowledge. Human existence has its limits, while knowledge remains boundless. Using our limited lifespan to chase after limitless knowledge only leads to exhaustion. Those who consider themselves clever and obsessively pursue knowledge ultimately wear themselves out.

He proposes a way of being in the world: When doing good, don't seek fame; when committing misdeeds, avoid breaking laws. Maintain the Middle Way (what he calls "following the central axis as one's constant principle"), aligning with natural patterns. Only then can we preserve our bodies, nurture life, and peacefully fulfill our natural lifespan. Guo Xiang's commentary explains that human capacities have inherent limits—just as lifting excessive weight causes injury. Those who chase empty fame or force themselves beyond their capabilities will exhaust their Qi (vital energy) without ever satisfying their desires.

The famous "Cook Ding carving an ox" story illustrates this: When preparing an ox for Lord Wenhui, the cook's movements flowed like clouds and water, graceful as a dance. Though the lord praised his technical skill, Cook Ding replied: "What I pursue is the Dao, which transcends mere technique. When I first began carving oxen, I saw only the whole animal. After three years, I no longer saw complete oxen—only their structural patterns." This shows how understanding the inherent patterns of things allows effortless mastery.

Zhuangzi's message is clear: Don't force what exceeds your capacity. By harmonizing with nature's rhythms, we nurture life and fulfill our destined years. Nurturing life doesn't mean pursuing excess, but knowing when to stop—preserving our innate nature and peacefully completing our heavenly allotted span is enough.

This passage recounts the story of Cook Ding (Paoding) dissecting an ox, using his extraordinary skill as a metaphor for the principles of nurturing life.

Cook Ding explains that when butchering an ox now, he no longer relies on his eyes but perceives through his spirit (Shen). Though his senses become inactive, his spirit moves freely. He follows the ox's natural structure, inserting his blade between the bone joints, avoiding the tangled tendons and never striking large bones. An average cook changes his knife yearly (because he only cuts meat), a mediocre cook monthly (because he frequently chops bones), yet his own blade—used for nineteen years to slaughter thousands of oxen—remains as sharp as if freshly honed. This is because the spaces between the ox's bones have gaps, while the blade's edge is almost without thickness. Using this extremely thin edge within the spacious joints allows it to move with effortless freedom.

Nevertheless, whenever encountering complex tangles of muscle and bone, he still proceeds with caution, slowing his movements and applying the blade gently. The ox then falls apart with a sound like crumbling earth. Standing with his blade raised, he looks around with deep satisfaction before wiping and sheathing it.

Upon hearing this, King Hui of Wei exclaims: "Listening to Cook Ding's words, I've learned the Dao of nurturing life."

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Cook Ding adapts his blade to the ox's natural structure, aligning with its physiology as if moving to musical rhythm. His skill transcends mere technique, reaching the realm of Dao (the Way). Perceiving through spirit rather than sight means he has silently harmonized with nature's patterns. Following natural grain, he never forces cuts; maneuvering within joint spaces, he avoids obstructions. His blade never strikes randomly—it glides through openings without encountering the slightest resistance. When meeting tangled sinews, he slows until a gentle touch makes them unravel naturally, like earth crumbling away. Finally, wiping and storing the blade mirrors how one who understands maintaining a knife also understands nurturing life.

(Note: Here, "dissecting an ox" symbolizes nurturing life, emphasizing alignment with natural laws, avoiding obstacles, and preserving inner spirit. Cook Ding's blade represents human spirit or vitality—proper care maintains its enduring sharpness.)

When Gongwen Xuan saw the Right Minister, he asked in astonishment: "What kind of person is this? Why does he have only one leg? Was he born this way, or was it caused by human intervention?" The Right Minister replied: "This is Heaven's decree, not man's doing. When Heaven formed me, it made me with a single leg. Human forms naturally come with completeness and incompleteness—from this you may know it's fate's work, not human effort."

Like the pheasant in the marsh that must take ten steps to peck one mouthful of food and a hundred steps to drink one sip of water, yet refuses to be caged and hand-fed. Though its spirit may flourish ("wang" meaning "vigorous") in captivity, that isn't genuine ease and freedom.

Guo Xiang (the Jin dynasty commentator) explains: "Jie" refers to mutilation or severed limbs. Some things cannot be changed by human effort—this is Heaven's mandate. What humans inflict upon themselves constitutes man-made misfortune. The Right Minister understood this truth, hence he didn't cling to preserving both legs. Forcing physical completeness would only distress the mind and damage the body—is the problem merely lacking a limb? When people walk on two feet, we call it "having correspondence" (complete coordination); no one doubts that wholeness comes from Heaven. Precisely because completeness is Heaven's decree, so too is incompleteness.

Those who penetrate life's truth don't demand what lies beyond life; those who understand fate's nature don't obsess over the unchangeable. Simply follow what's natural. "Qi" means "to seek"; "fan" is the pheasant's cage. To move freely between heaven and earth, wandering in self-contentment—this is the subtle art of nurturing life. Why must one enter a cage to be hand-fed? Initial comfort that later makes one forget what comfort means—that's true ease. When spirit remains perpetually full and flourishing, it naturally expands into clear vastness, forgetting even the concept of "goodness."

The Bi Cheng (Ming scholar Jiao Hong's work) explains: "Jie" means solitary. The Right Minister had forgotten all conceptual knowledge, serenely roaming the realm of singularity—hence Gongwen Xuan's astonished questioning about whether this was Heaven's work or man's. Heaven creates humans with innate knowing; we shouldn't forcibly pair completeness. If one doesn't understand that "knowing" is inherently sufficient and "seeing" is self-contained, but instead tries to augment them with acquired knowledge, one falls into the artificial state of "having correspondence"—this is what Laozi meant by "why must you lead the multitude here?" The marsh pheasant, though struggling for sustenance, still considers captivity bitter, always seeking others' kindness. Aren't conceptual cages just as confining? Without attaining the Dao, how could one transcend such bondage?

When Laozi (Lao Dan) passed away, his friend Qin Shi went to offer condolences, weeping only three times before leaving. A disciple asked, "Were you not the Master's friend?" Qin Shi replied, "Indeed I was." The disciple pressed further, "Then is this manner of mourning appropriate?" Qin Shi explained: "At first I too thought one should grieve as ordinary people do, but now I understand it should not be so. When I entered to pay respects, I saw elders wailing as if they had lost a son, and young people weeping as if bereft of a mother. That these people gathered here to lament so intensely must stem from expressing emotions contrary to their natural disposition—speaking endlessly when silence would suffice, crying uncontrollably when restraint would be proper. This violates innate nature and betrays genuine feeling, forgetting that life itself is a gift of natural spontaneity. The ancients called such behavior 'evading the punishment of heavenly principle.'"

Qin Shi continued: "The Master came into being in accordance with his time, and departed in harmony with the seasons. Those who dwell serenely within their destiny and follow nature's course cannot be penetrated by sorrow or joy. The ancients termed this 'the Heavenly Emperor releasing one from the torment of being hung upside down.' It is like firewood being consumed while the flame endures—the form of life may appear to end, but the spirit (Shen) remains eternal."

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: As a mourner, Qin Shi wept when appropriate, but only three times. The disciple wondered why he did not display excessive grief, not realizing that those who have attained the Dao (the Way) do not drown in emotion. The elders weeping like bereaved parents and the youths mourning like orphaned children all transgress heavenly principle through excessive emotional attachment. Human nature has its inherent measure—one should neither evade it nor force it. Excessive sorrow violates spontaneity; those mired in grief or joy may escape external punishment, but their spirit (Shen) remains shackled. Life's coming and going follow natural law. Those who comprehend the great Dao (the Way) find serenity in every moment and harmony in all circumstances, merging with the creative transformations of existence. Thus they neither calculate gains and losses nor fixate on life and death, accepting nature's arrangements undisturbed by sorrow or delight. The so-called "hanging upside down" represents bondage by external things—liberation from these constraints returns one to the authentic state of innate nature and life. This is the essence of nurturing vitality. Just as flames pass from spent firewood to fresh logs, life continues through cultivation. Understand that the art of nurturing life lies in grasping its fundamental essence: though time flows unceasingly, existence persists between each breath.

This passage explores the profound principles of life's continuation and the essence of birth and death. Using the metaphor of fire and firewood: the present flame is not the same as the past flame, yet the burning persists through continuous addition of new wood. Similarly, life continues through nourishment—the life of one moment is not identical to the next, yet through perfect cultivation, it endures.

Most people fail to understand that life is a process of constant renewal. Buddhist scriptures offer a similar explanation: just as flames pass between different pieces of wood, so too does consciousness (Shen) transfer between different bodies. The preceding log is not the same as the subsequent one, revealing the mystery of life's transmission; the former body differs from the latter, illuminating the profound connection of emotions and awareness.

Those who are confused observe the body aging throughout a lifetime and assume the spirit (Shen) perishes with it—like seeing a single log burn out and declaring the flame eternally extinguished. Is this view correct? Though this explanation is subtle, those who cling to the notion of transfer from one life to another still lack complete understanding.

Consider counting logs with your fingers—no matter how many logs there are, your fingers will eventually tally them all. Yet when flames pass from one to another in continuous burning, we cannot know when they will truly vanish. Just as molten metal cannot leave its furnace, and bubbles must return to the ocean, this reveals the fundamental unity of birth and death.

Earlier, we spoke of life requiring nourishment; here, we speak of birth and death sharing the same essence. These may seem contradictory, but they are not. Only those who truly comprehend the oneness of birth and death genuinely understand the Dao of nurturing life. The mystery of life lies not in clinging to the survival or demise of form, but in realizing the eternally transmitted flame of existence.