《莊子翼》Vol. 2

Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) went to pay respects to Confucius (Zhongni), requesting permission to travel abroad. When Confucius asked about his destination, Yan Hui said he planned to visit the state of Wei. Asked his purpose, Yan Hui replied: "I've heard the ruler of Wei is young and impetuous, governing autocratically while recklessly expending state resources without recognizing his errors. The people suffer innumerable casualties—corpses pile up like reeds in a marsh, leaving the populace with no way out."

Yan Hui continued: "I remember your teaching that well-governed states may be left behind, while troubled ones deserve our aid. Just as the sick naturally gather before a physician's door, I wish to apply the principles I've learned to contemplate governance methods that might restore this state."

But Confucius responded gravely: "Alas! Your journey would likely court disaster. The Dao (the Way) abhors fragmentation—fragmentation breeds complications, complications create chaos, chaos invites calamity, and once calamity strikes, recovery becomes impossible. Ancient sages who attained the Dao always cultivated themselves before influencing others. How can one who hasn't perfected self-cultivation presume to rectify a tyrant's conduct?"

Confucius elaborated: "Do you understand why virtue (De) decays and why wisdom invites misfortune? Virtue decays through pursuit of empty fame, while wisdom becomes a weapon for contention. Reputation makes men undermine each other; cleverness provides tools for conflict—both are dangerous instruments unfit for perfecting virtue."

"Even with impeccable character and unwavering integrity, you may fail to move others. Even eschewing fame and profit, you might not win hearts. Forcing moral admonitions upon a tyrant amounts to highlighting his faults to showcase your virtue—this we call 'harming others.' Harmers inevitably face retaliation—you'd merely bring disaster upon yourself."

Illustrating his point, Confucius cited historical examples: "Jie of Xia executed Guan Longfeng, Zhou of Shang killed Bi Gan—both sages who cultivated themselves yet offended tyrants. When Yao campaigned against Congzhi and Xu'ao, and Yu attacked Youhu, their targets became wastelands where people suffered through endless warfare—all consequences of pursuing reputation and material gain."

Here, through the dialogue between Confucius and Yan Hui, Zhuangzi explores three progressive realms of engaging with the world.

Yan Hui first proposes two approaches: maintaining dignified appearances while keeping the mind empty and still, or striving for single-minded concentration. Confucius considers these insufficient, pointing out that when one's inner Qi (vital energy) becomes agitated and emotional fluctuations become noticeable—so obvious that even ordinary people can detect them—such forced attempts to please others will gradually deplete one's De (Virtue), let alone cultivate great Virtue. How can one proceed by stubbornly clinging to personal views while inwardly resisting, or superficially agreeing while secretly opposing?

Yan Hui then presents a more refined threefold approach: First, "walking as a disciple of Heaven" (taking the Dao of Heaven as one's standard), maintaining inner integrity like an innocent child, understanding that both the emperor and oneself are equally Heaven's children—unshaken by others' judgments. Second, "walking as a disciple of men" (conforming to worldly rituals), performing bows and courtesies like ordinary people, observing ministerial etiquette so others find no fault. Third, "walking as a disciple of antiquity" (emulating ancient sages), though offering admonishments, drawing wisdom from ancient teachings so even blunt speech avoids misfortune.

Confucius ultimately observes that even this remains somewhat contrived—too many rules sacrifice adaptability. True sages never cling stubbornly to views, whereas ordinary rulers who wield power rashly may shed rivers of blood in anger or bestow reckless rewards in delight. Governing a state cannot be approached lightly; otherwise, the people become like grass cast into a swamp—countless perish without recourse. Just as curing illness requires the right remedy, governing requires the right person; otherwise, even numerous skilled physicians cannot heal the land. The perfected ones of antiquity (those who attained the Dao) first cultivated themselves before properly handling external affairs.

This dialogue reveals Daoist wisdom for engaging with the world: maintaining inner unity with the Dao of Heaven while outwardly conforming to worldly rituals, drawing on ancient wisdom yet remaining unattached—only when all three are harmonized without fixation does one attain true mastery.

This passage expounds on the wisdom of navigating worldly affairs and self-cultivation. Zhuangzi uses the example of Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) to illustrate that when one cannot respond to external matters with an open mind but instead becomes entangled in personal anxieties, it reveals insufficient stability in inner cultivation. Truly wise individuals do not deliberately pursue fame or talent, but rather set aside such external concerns to nurture their authentic nature.

The text points out that moral degeneration arises from people's craving for empty reputation, while the misuse of wisdom stems from contentiousness. Even notorious figures like the tyrant Jie of Xia or the bandit Zhi ultimately valued nothing more than fame and ability. Though reputation and intellect are prized by the world, pursuing them only provokes conflict. Only by relinquishing attachment to fame and wisdom can one fully manifest one's De (Virtue/Power).

Zhuangzi employs the metaphor of gifting a luminous pearl at night: the recipient might draw his sword in suspicion, misunderstanding your goodwill. Though Yan Hui possessed noble character and refrained from worldly competition, forcibly imposing ren-yi (benevolence-righteousness) standards on others could be misconstrued as self-aggrandizement through their denigration.

The truly enlightened never manipulate worldly affairs deliberately, but meet all things with serene emptiness. Their sincerity shines between heaven and earth; their Wuwei (non-action) virtue flows unimpeded through all creation. Thus all beings naturally follow them, and heaven itself offers no resistance. When their De issues a call, the world responds; when their noble conduct manifests, the six directions echo in harmony. Only such people can weather seasonal changes and political upheavals without offending others' "reverse scales" (metaphor for provoking hostility).

Those who harm others inevitably face retribution. If met with distrust, your well-intentioned advice may be perceived as competition for reputation, inviting harm instead. Drawing near to worthies while avoiding fools, embracing the Dao upon hearing it—this marks enlightened rulership. Such rulers never lack virtuous ministers. Venturing forth without these conditions guarantees misfortune. Therefore, deliberate intentions render one unfit anywhere, while Wuwei responsiveness naturally elicits proper reciprocation.

Best maintain silent stillness. Speaking inevitably invites rulers to wield authority oppressively, deploying sophistry to reject counsel while concealing faults. This dazzles your vision, pacifies your expression (eroding conviction), and exhausts your speech in self-justification—until mind and body assimilate to their influence. Far from remedying situations, this fuels their arrogance.

Initial compliance leads to endless concessions; stubborn adherence to old ways proves equally ineffective. Forcing advice when trust is absent courts disaster despite earnest words—as witnessed by Guan Longfeng (the loyal minister of Jie), who ultimately destroyed himself.

Bi Gan, though holding a lowly position in the Shang dynasty, concerned himself with matters that belonged to the ruler—affairs beyond his proper station. Thus his sovereign ostracized him, unwilling to let a minister outshine the throne. Tyrannical rulers like Congzhi, Xu'ao, and Youhu not only indulged their desires but also pursued fame, though their methods were utterly misguided. Such rulers, craving empty reputation while wallowing in excess, would prove impervious even to the moral influence of sage-kings like Yao, Shun, or Yu. When all unite to overthrow them, how could you expect to transform them through virtue (De) alone, arriving empty-handed?

The phrase "upright yet empty" describes maintaining external propriety while preserving inner stillness. "Diligent yet unified" means speaking with humility and flexibility. "Rejecting the unacceptable" declares "this will not do." The ruler of Wei embodies excessive Yang energy—his inner being seethes with violent Qi, while outwardly he displays extreme arrogance, his rigidity reaching its zenith. His moods shift unpredictably; his countenance changes in an instant. Confronting such obstinacy, attempts to sway him through pleasantries only provoke suppression, as he seeks solely to indulge his inflated selfish desires. This man, incapable of even minor virtue (De), clings stubbornly to his views without repentance. Your approach—outwardly proper yet inwardly dismissive—holds no power to transform him.

Yan Hui proposed three methods: "Inner alignment" means walking with the Dao, recognizing no hierarchy among the myriad things, viewing all life as equal. Thus one treats good and evil impartially, making no demands of others. This constitutes following heavenly principle—acting with the spontaneity of an infant. "Outward yielding" means moving with the world, displaying harmony while performing conventional duties. "Achieving through ancient models" means standing with the sages of old, measuring present actions against their standards. Though these teachings contain admonition, by couching integrity in ancient wisdom, they avoid provoking blame.

Confucius still deemed these insufficient, observing that while the Dao is singular, splitting it into three responses creates dissonance with reality. Though unlikely to incur serious reproach, they remain ineffective for transforming the Wei ruler. Carrying these three methods to Wei betrays no genuine concern for the people.

The Bi Cheng commentary explains the phrase "only by not memorializing the nobility" should be read as "issuing proclamations." Simply refrain from petitioning the lords—once you speak, contention becomes inevitable. These criticisms all address Yan Hui directly.

Yan Hui said: "I've exhausted my ideas. May I ask your guidance?" Confucius replied: "First observe the purification ritual (Zhaijiao), then I shall instruct you."

This passage recounts Yan Hui's inquiry to Confucius about the true meaning of "heart-mind fasting" (xinzai, spiritual purification). Confucius explains that genuine fasting isn't about external rituals like abstaining from wine or meat—those are merely ceremonial observances for sacrifices.

Confucius elaborates that heart-mind fasting requires three stages: First, focus intently—listen not with ears but with the heart. Progress further by listening not with the heart but with Qi (primordial energy). The ears perceive only sounds, the mind comprehends only phenomena, whereas Qi represents the state of emptiness that embraces all things. Only the Dao can gather within this emptiness—such voidness constitutes true heart-mind fasting.

Upon hearing this, Yan Hui experiences sudden enlightenment. He confesses his previous attachment to the notion of "self," now realizing heart-mind fasting means attaining selflessness. Confucius affirms his realization and further instructs: Move through worldly affairs unswayed by fame or gain; speak when appropriate, remain silent when not—be natural as if having no gate to guard or poison to fear. Not walking is easy, but walking without leaving traces is hard; being driven by others allows pretense, but aligning with Heaven's Dao resists falsity. Just as wings enable flight and knowledge enables understanding, contemplating an empty chamber generates illumination—this is an auspicious sign. When the heart-mind cannot settle, it becomes "sitting while galloping" (body still but mind racing).

Finally, Confucius reveals that when senses turn inward to transcend mental limitations, even spirits will submit—how much more so ordinary people? This constitutes the mystery of universal transformation, the principle grasped by sage-kings like Yu and Shun, the lifelong practice of ancient sages like Fuxi.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Deliberate effort often breeds superficiality. True concentration means eliminating distractions, relinquishing sensory and intellectual grasping, allowing primordial Qi to manifest spontaneously. Only an empty heart can contain the Great Dao. Before cultivating heart-mind fasting, one clings to self; after mastery, selflessness emerges. Like musical harmony responding naturally, effortless attunement perceives all phenomena.

The ears do not deliberately listen, allowing all things to exist naturally, as if there were no gateway; entrusting the world to its natural stability without forcibly governing it. What is called "toxicity" (referring to human intervention) is the inevitable principle that must be addressed only when absolutely necessary.

To realize the dwelling of the "utmost oneness" (the highest state of the Dao) and align with this inevitable principle is to come close to the Dao. The principle is right here—inaction is naturally easy, but to act without engaging with reality is impossible; wuwei (non-action) may seem simple, yet to act without harming one's innate nature is unattainable.

What the eyes and ears perceive are superficial appearances, easily deceived; whereas the laws of nature are subtle and profound, difficult to falsify. Those who lose little of their original truth have few flaws; those who lose much of it have many flaws. The retribution of gain and loss never fails to match its measure. To attempt deception by violating the natural order—isn’t that exceedingly difficult?

Using the metaphor "only with wings can one fly" illustrates that certain conditions must be met for success. Without a mind of utmost emptiness, it is impossible to truly resonate with all things. To regard substantial existence as emptiness is the clarity of an empty mind—when the inner void is pure, true wisdom arises. Where auspiciousness gathers must be the state of utmost stillness.

If the mind cannot settle in the present moment, cannot unite with the ultimate truth, it is like rushing about when one should be sitting in quiet cultivation—before external adversaries even arrive, the inner self is already exhausted. How, then, can one resonate with all things? In truth, closing off the senses of hearing and sight allows natural realization—this is the mind’s function surpassing the senses. Thus, following one’s nature to directly connect with the Dao leads to profound mystery wherever one goes; even the realm of the unseen is not worth valuing, let alone the burdens of human affairs.

All things inherently lack distinctions of nobility and baseness; people perceive the world through mind and senses. What the world calls "knowing"—can it truly be obtained merely by desiring to know? What it calls "seeing"—can it truly be achieved merely by wishing to see? If knowledge and insight could be acquired through desire, then wanting to be a sage would make one a sage, and aspiring to be a sage would make it so—yet clearly, this is impossible.

Yet people do not understand that "knowing" is naturally clear, yet they forcibly seek it; they do not see that "seeing" is naturally manifest, yet they forcibly pursue it; they do not realize that "life" is naturally occurring, yet they forcibly strive for it.

It is like seeing the eyes and demanding the vision of Li Lou (an ancient figure famed for keen sight), or observing the ears and reproaching them for lacking the hearing of Shi Kuang (a legendary master musician). As a result, the spirit is exhausted within, the ears and eyes are depleted without, and body and mind find no peace—unable to merge with all things. Without merging with the Dao, how can one hope to respond to the changes of human affairs and align with the rhythms of the times? It is simply impossible.

This passage elucidates the essential teachings of the Daoist state of "selflessness" (wuji). Through the practice of "heart-fasting" (xinzhaï, a method of purifying the mind and reducing desires), Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) suddenly realized: when one clings to the notion of "self," actions become constrained; whereas attaining a state of "selflessness" paradoxically brings freedom of movement.

Confucius praised Yan Hui for his profound insight and further instructed him: You must transcend worldly constraints and remain unmoved by empty reputation. Engage in conversation when others share your views, but remain silent when they differ. Cultivate a mind as open as a gateless courtyard and as pure as bland, non-toxic water. By following the natural course of events without forcing outcomes, you draw near to the state of "selflessness."

The text employs several metaphors to illustrate its point: stopping movement is easy, but moving without leaving traces is difficult; deliberately displaying the "self" is artificial contrivance, while aligning with spontaneity (ziran) is the Dao (the Way) of heaven. Just as the great roc flies without relying on footsteps and birds soar without conscious use of wings, these are manifestations of natural force. When the mind is empty, wisdom arises spontaneously; when the heart is clear, the Dao naturally gathers within. This is not the result of deliberate pursuit of auspiciousness—yet it is the greatest auspiciousness.

The latter part recounts the anxiety of Lord Ye Zigao before his diplomatic mission to Qi. Confucius cautioned him: Whether in great or small matters, forcing outcomes rarely leads to fulfillment. Failure invites real-world calamities, while success may conceal hidden imbalances of yin-yang. Only those who possess De (Virtue/Power) can remain unharmed in all circumstances. Here, the text reveals the Daoist wisdom of "governing through non-action" (wuwei), emphasizing a cultivated state of being that follows nature’s flow rather than striving artificially.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·Human World chapter, recounting how Confucius instructed his disciple Ye Gongzi Gao (Zhu Liang) on handling psychological dilemmas during diplomatic missions.

Ye Gongzi Gao, entrusted by the King of Chu with an important mission to Qi, was deeply troubled. Having received the mandate in the morning, he needed to drink ice water by evening to calm his inner agitation. His anxieties were twofold: failure would incur royal punishment (the calamity of human relations), while success might bring illness from emotional turbulence (the calamity of Yin-Yang imbalance).

Confucius revealed two fundamental principles of human existence: blood relations are ordained by Heaven's mandate, while a minister's service constitutes moral duty. A child's love for parents springs from innate nature, just as a vassal's service to his lord is inescapable responsibility. The truly filial can reassure their parents in any circumstance; the genuinely loyal can accept any assignment with equanimity. Those cultivating their inner nature should accept unchangeable situations as destiny—this represents supreme virtue (De). As an envoy, one must forget personal concerns upon receiving the mandate—how could there be leisure to ponder life or death?

Confucius further imparted diplomatic essentials: neighboring states require trust to maintain relations, while distant nations demand skillful communication. When conveying messages between rulers, extreme caution is necessary—during joy, words tend toward excessive praise; during anger, toward exaggerated condemnation. All hyperbolic statements lack reliability, and unreliable messages invite disaster. Hence the ancient saying: "Transmit only factual content, never embellished words"—this is how to preserve oneself.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: The King of Chu's exceptionally grand send-off (indicating supreme importance) and courteous yet unhurried demeanor (showing respect without pressure) reflected diplomatic prudence. Confucius had previously warned Ye Gongzi Gao: in state affairs, whether major or minor, the slightest misstep can undo all merits. Failure naturally provokes the ruler's wrath—an inevitable reaction; success, however, brings alternating chills and feverish excitement akin to harboring both ice and burning coals in one's chest. Yet since outcomes ultimately depend on the other party, excessive worry is unnecessary.

This passage expounds the wisdom of conducting oneself in society and facing destiny. Only those with true virtue (De) can maintain composure while inwardly anxious—like a chef who works by the stove without craving coolness, indicating the simplicity of his preparations. Those who eat plainly yet feel inner distress, needing ice water to soothe themselves, are actually worried about difficulties ahead rather than delicacies. Before completing a task, one fears failure; if failure occurs, the heart fills with dread while external punishment may follow. Such dual pressures form natural, inescapable knots within the mind, leaving no refuge between heaven and earth.

When people gather without leadership, chaos or dissolution ensues. Thus, even with many wise individuals, a ruler remains essential—this is the inevitable principle of heavenly Dao and human relations. If rulers could be avoided or familial bonds severed, such norms would cease to serve as guiding precepts. Recognizing certain inevitabilities as fate (ming) and accepting them calmly frees one from joy or sorrow—why force change? Therefore, one should peacefully accept all circumstances without artificial striving, harmonizing with the natural Dao, undisturbed by external matters. Even ordinary people can adapt everywhere this way—how much more so when serving rulers or parents?

Affairs follow inherent patterns. As ministers or children, fulfilling one’s duties ensures accomplishment. Those who succeed never fail to preserve themselves—why cling anxiously to self-preservation? If faith wavers, harboring preferences and aversions while resisting heaven’s Dao, obsessing over life and death daily, such individuals will struggle to achieve anything. In human interactions, closeness requires mutual influence through sincerity (cheng), while distance demands loyalty expressed through words. Exaggerated expressions of joy or anger, if distorted in transmission, should be reported neutrally—a difficult task. All hyperbolic speech risks falsification; reckless messengers invite listeners’ suspicion, and the bearer may incur blame for misjudged emphasis.

Quoting the sages as proof: Even upon hearing someone’s momentary extreme remarks, refrain from spreading them. By observing enduring principles and grasping authenticity, one approaches perfection.

Lord Ye of Chu (a high official during the Spring and Autumn period) only worried about worldly gains and losses, yet the greatest misfortune one could face is death. Confucius used the matter of life and death to awaken him: ordinary people may discuss the Dao of loyalty and filial piety, but those who truly cultivate their inner nature remain unmoved by sorrow or joy in any circumstance—this state is difficult to express in words. When one focuses on refining the heart-mind, the physical form is forgotten; once the form is forgotten, emotions like sorrow and joy find no foothold—how could external things still affect such a person? Thus it ultimately comes down to this: act according to your original nature while forgetting the self—where would there be room to cling to life and fear death? The very clinging to life and aversion to death are the roots of sorrow and joy. To understand the impermanence of life and death yet accept it peacefully—this is aligning with the Mandate of Heaven. Scholar Liu Chenweng (styled Xuxi) remarked that this single phrase alone reveals an enlightened and liberated attitude toward life.

The text then illustrates worldly patterns through metaphors: those who compete through skill begin with fair play but often end up resorting to underhanded tricks; drinking gatherings that commence with proper etiquette frequently descend into chaos. All affairs follow this pattern: initial sincerity gives way to mutual suspicion; what begins simply inevitably becomes complicated. Words are as changeable as wind and waves, while actions often bring tangible losses. Wind and waves easily stir situations, and tangible losses readily breed crises. Thus anger often arises without clear cause, and clever, extreme words resemble the death throes of beasts. When people's breathing becomes hurried and emotions agitated, wicked thoughts arise in their hearts. If one treats others with excessive harshness, it will inevitably provoke malicious retaliation—yet the perpetrator remains unaware of the reason. Being unaware of the cause, how could one foresee the outcome? Therefore the Fayan (Model Sayings) advises: "Do not arbitrarily alter commands; do not force success." Excess is like adding legs to a painted snake—both altering commands and forcing success ruin affairs. Good deeds require long accumulation, but once bad deeds take form, it's too late for correction—how could one not be cautious?

The supreme way of navigating life is to follow the natural course of things while maintaining inner freedom, using unavoidable circumstances to nurture the heart-mind. Rather than exhausting oneself calculating returns, it's better to fulfill one's fundamental duty—this is what's truly precious.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: those competing through skill originally seek amusement, but the desire to win drives them to covert tricks; drinking according to ritual establishes hierarchy, yet intoxication leads to license. Disturbances arise from simplicity; great matters begin with subtleties—this is the inevitable tendency. Words are like wind and waves—acting upon them brings actual loss, but refusing to act for fear of wind and waves also causes loss. Only by grasping the essence of affairs can crises be resolved.

When a person maintains inner tranquility, restless emotions naturally subside. The emergence of anger stems from nothing else but exaggerated words that distort truth or biased speech that violates reason. It resembles driving a wild beast into a corner—when it finds no escape, peaceful Qi dissipates, breathing becomes erratic, and sudden outbursts of rage only bring harm.

Treat others with generous tolerance, and they will naturally gravitate toward you. Excessive harshness breeds a miserly, unkind mentality without one's awareness. If even you remain oblivious to this mindset, how can you comprehend the principle that fortune and misfortune intertwine? Thus, those with profound cultivation always act with ease, allowing all things to find their proper place. They never demand what others cannot achieve nor exhaust others' joy—this is how they preserve harmonious relations with all under heaven.

Never arbitrarily alter others' genuine intentions, nor force outcomes against nature. Over-interference backfires; true accomplishment requires aligning with the tides of change. Just as crops cannot ripen in a single day, compelling others to accept what they detest swiftly invites failure and regret. Thus when harm takes form, it becomes too late for correction.

Let your mind wander freely with external phenomena while cultivating inner peace amidst unavoidable circumstances. Anchor your will in the natural patterns of development, surrendering completely to the inevitability of principle—this represents the highest realm of human conduct. Accept outcomes as they naturally unfold—why insist on artificial uniformity? Complete alignment with spontaneity proves most challenging, for people persistently interfere with their emotional biases.

Those who convey others' joys and angers without embellishment understand how rare it is to maintain integrity from start to finish, hence their necessary caution from the outset. Observe wrestlers beginning fiercely only to end exhausted, or drinkers commencing orderly but concluding in chaos, and you'll recognize how human interactions start with trust but decay into suspicion. Affairs invariably begin subtly before culminating in major upheavals—this is the inevitable pattern.

Doesn't a single improper word that provokes anger resemble stirring up waves? Once roused, humans must vent their fury—doesn't this create tangible loss? Thus anger never arises without cause; it frequently stems from clever, twisted words that exaggerate reality while disregarding proper principles, much like the death throes of a dying beast. When rage erupts suddenly, listeners instinctively resent it—thus anger takes form.

"Ke" (苛) means reproaching others too severely; "He" (核) implies scrutinizing too meticulously. Though one may intend others' improvement, they might respond with malice—this is when knowing when to stop becomes essential.

This passage expounds the Daoist principle of aligning with natural patterns and exercising prudence in conduct. When one fails to comprehend the Dao (the Way) of things yet insists on forcing outcomes, resentment accumulates into calamity, ultimately leading to irreparable consequences.

The text cites the example of Yan He, a virtuous scholar of the Spring and Autumn period preparing to tutor the crown prince of Duke Ling of Wei. Consulting the wise minister Qu Boyu, he expressed his dilemma: the prince's violent nature would endanger the state if left unchecked, yet strict discipline might jeopardize his own safety. Qu Boyu's profound advice was to maintain surface affability while preserving inner equilibrium, carefully balancing the measure. Excessive familiarity invites disaster, while undue candor courts trouble. One should adapt to the other's temperament like nurturing an infant—when they lack discipline, appear unrestrained with them; when they run wild, seem equally unfettered. Only through such subtle, traceless guidance can transformation occur.

Two vivid metaphors illustrate the perils of forcing outcomes: a mantis blocking a chariot wheel with its forelegs demonstrates laughable overreach, while tiger keepers avoid feeding live prey or whole carcasses lest they provoke the beast's ferocity. These exemplify the wisdom of assessing circumstances and exercising measured response. Ultimately, true wisdom lies in following natural patterns with a mind of Wuwei (non-action), neither straining for effect nor seeking reward.

Zhuangzi here employs vivid analogies to illustrate the principle of conforming to nature in human interactions. He observes that though tigers belong to a different species, their keepers can live harmoniously with them by understanding their nature, whereas defying their temperament may provoke injury.

Consider the horse lover who uses exquisite bamboo baskets to collect manure and precious shells to catch urine. Yet when mosquitoes suddenly bite the horse, if the owner hastily swats at the wrong moment, the startled animal may snap its bit, break its halter, and tear its breastband. This shows how even good intentions can backfire through improper methods.

Guo Xiang (the Jin Dynasty commentator on Zhuangzi) supplements this teaching: The temperament of difficult people resembles this—excessive control breeds resentment, while unchecked indulgence invites chaos. Like rulers who blame their people for faults rooted in their own governance, one must first rectify oneself before correcting others. Maintain external flexibility while preserving internal principles.

While physically proximate, avoid complete assimilation; though inwardly kind, refrain from ostentatious displays. Total accommodation resembles failing to warn of impending danger—a path to mutual destruction. Emulate heaven and earth in embracing all things without contrived novelty. Those who constantly parade their superiority invite envy instead. The truly wise resemble undifferentiated primal light—neither approachable nor distant, neither corruptible nor harmable.

Later passages use infants to symbolize keeping one's edge concealed, and the mantis blocking a chariot to represent overestimating one's capacity. Accumulating skills only to provoke others courts disaster—like recognizing a tiger's murderous intent yet needlessly provoking it. In resolving conflicts, one must follow natural momentum. Accord with cosmic principles, and even alien species grow close; defy universal patterns, and blood relatives turn hostile. Herein lies why tiger tamers can domesticate fierce beasts. Using precious vessels for horse waste demonstrates extreme devotion, yet mistimed swatting harms the beloved—proving that goodwill alone proves insufficient without proper method.

Zhuangzi here illustrates the profound principle of "the usefulness of the useless" through two parables.

The first story tells of a horse that, startled into a frenzied gallop, was patted and soothed by its loving master—only to be injured in the process. This shows that in human interactions, whether in favorable or adverse circumstances, one must act with caution.

The second story recounts how Carpenter Shi, while traveling through Quyuan in the state of Qi, came upon an enormous oak tree—a sacred "altar tree" worshipped as the embodiment of the earth god. Its canopy could shelter a thousand oxen, its trunk required a hundred men to encircle, its crown towered above the mountain peaks, and its branches could build over a dozen boats. A crowd gathered to marvel at it as if at a bustling market. Yet Carpenter Shi walked past without even glancing at it. His apprentice, catching up, asked, "Since I began learning from you, I've never seen such magnificent timber. Why didn't you even look at it?"

Carpenter Shi replied, "This is a 'useless tree'—good for nothing. Boats made from it would sink, coffins would rot swiftly, tools would break quickly, doors and windows would ooze resin, and pillars would be riddled with insects. Precisely because it's utterly useless, it has grown so vast and lived so long."

That night, the oak appeared to Carpenter Shi in a dream and said, "Do you compare me to those 'ornamental trees' prized for their usefulness? Fruit trees are plucked and beaten when ripe, their large branches snapped, their small ones torn away. All suffer for their utility, dying prematurely before reaching their natural lifespan. I've long sought uselessness—nearly being felled several times—until finally achieving this 'great usefulness' (preserving my life)."

Upon waking, Carpenter Shi told his apprentice of the dream. The apprentice asked, "If it strives to be useless, why does it serve as an altar tree?" Carpenter Shi explained, "It deliberately takes refuge in this role to avoid condemnation by those who misunderstand it. Even were it not an altar tree, it wouldn't escape the axe. Its way of preserving life is unconventional—judging it by ordinary standards misses the point."

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: So-called "useless trees" are those deemed unfit for use, while "ornamental trees" are valued for their utility. All things in the world bring harm upon themselves precisely because of their usefulness.

This passage from the Zhuangzi·Human World chapter illustrates the profound philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless" through several parables.

In the story of Carpenter Shi (a renowned ancient woodworker), a large tree with soft, worthless wood escapes being felled precisely because of its uselessness, thereby preserving its life. When disciples suggest the tree gained honor by becoming an Earth Altar's sacred symbol, the carpenter points out it was preserved through inherent uselessness rather than actively seeking divine status. The tree's "uselessness as usefulness" demonstrates how rejecting worldly validation leads to true preservation.

When Nanbo Ziqi encounters a bizarre tree in Shangqiu, he notes its twisted branches can't serve as beams, its split trunk makes poor coffin wood, and its poisonous leaves induce madness. Precisely because it's utterly useless, the tree grows to enormous size. Zhuangzi observes that perfected beings (shenren) preserve themselves through this very "unworthiness."

The text contrasts this with trees from the Jing region of Song: catalpas, cypresses and mulberries—valued for their timber—get felled for mansion construction when mature, or perish young under axes. Similarly, sacrificial animals with white foreheads, upturned snouts, or humans with hemorrhoids are deemed inauspicious by shamans and thus spared ritual slaughter.

Through these examples, Zhuangzi reveals how worldly usefulness invites disaster, while apparent uselessness ensures preservation. The way of perfected beings lies in "preservation through non-preservation"—achieving natural protection without striving for it, unlike ordinary people's forced attempts at self-preservation. True uselessness allows all things to fulfill their nature while remaining transcendentally detached—this constitutes the Dao of complete living.

Zhuangzi here elucidates the profound philosophy of "the usefulness of the useless" through several vivid parables.

The first story tells of a crooked, misshapen tree that escapes lumberjacks precisely because it's unfit for timber. Guo Xiang's commentary notes how seemingly useless branches actually provide shade for rulers of a thousand chariots. Like enlightened monarchs who don't flaunt abilities—letting officials perform their duties, the wise observe while the brave defend—the ruler maintains stillness. This very "uselessness" becomes the foundation for great achievements, which is why people willingly support such sovereigns.

Next comes the example of shamans selecting sacrificial animals: those with white foreheads, upturned snouts, or hemorrhoids were deemed inauspicious and rejected. But Zhuangzi points out these "unlucky" traits actually preserve the animals' lives, constituting true "great auspiciousness." The divine person (one who attains the Dao) doesn't interfere with things artificially but follows nature's course, thereby obtaining genuine good fortune.

Then we meet Zhi Li Shu, a severely deformed man—his chin buried in his navel, shoulders towering above his head, spine pointing skyward. Earning his living by mending clothes and sifting grain, he supports a household of ten. When conscription comes, he needn't hide; when corvée labor is demanded, he's exempt—even receiving government relief grain and firewood. Zhuangzi remarks: if a physically broken person can live out his natural lifespan, how much more so those who "fragment their De (virtue)" (conceal their moral excellence)? Guo Xiang explains such people avoid worldly calamities precisely through apparent uselessness, attaining true peace.

The chapter closes with the madman of Chu's song to Confucius: "Phoenix, phoenix! How has your De declined? The future can't be awaited, the past can't be pursued"—implying Confucius' worldly ambitions violate natural spontaneity. Throughout, the text demonstrates how seemingly useless, incomplete, or imperfect things often embody the wisdom of preserving life and harmonizing with heaven's Dao.

In an age when the world follows the Dao, sages can accomplish great deeds; in an age when the world turns away from the Dao, sages can only preserve their lives. In these times, avoiding punishment is already fortunate. Happiness is as light as a feather, yet people don't know how to carry it; calamity weighs heavier than the earth, yet people don't know how to avoid it. Enough, enough! To impose moral standards on others is perilous indeed! Perilous as drawing lines on the ground and demanding others walk them. Thorns grow thick, thick—don't obstruct my path; I tread winding trails—don't wound my feet.

Trees in the mountains are felled for their fine timber; fat is rendered because it burns. Cassia trees are cut for their edible bark; lacquer trees are tapped for their useful sap. The world knows the usefulness of the useful, but understands not the usefulness of the useless.

Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher) comments: "O phoenix, phoenix, how virtue has declined!" This speaks of adapting to circumstances, facing forward in complete harmony with the patterns of transformation. The subtle shifts between worldly prosperity and decline are hard to discern—thus the future cannot be awaited, the past cannot be pursued. The crux lies in seizing the present moment.

Achieving merit in orderly times and preserving life in chaotic times both stem from following nature's course. The generation and transformation of all things isn't dictated by human effort—how could their patterns change whether times are orderly or chaotic? In orderly times, merit naturally follows without deliberate pursuit; in chaotic times, life is naturally preserved without forced survival.

In this era, avoiding punishment is blessing enough. This means neither pining for the past nor longing for the future, but fully embracing the present opportunity to silently merge with the age—only thus can one preserve the subtle Dao and escape punishment. Happiness being feather-light yet people not knowing how to carry it means letting feet walk where they will, hands grasp what they may, ears hear what comes, eyes see what appears—knowing where to stop and where abilities end. Let the body function naturally, let all things follow their course, completely aligned with inherent nature without being burdened by external things—this is the highest realization of wuwei (non-action). Never has there been one who practiced wuwei yet failed to preserve life; nor does it accord with principle for life to be preserved yet happiness absent. What's called happiness here is precisely this "complete alignment with inherent nature"—not relying on external things, how could happiness be entrusted to something as light as a goose feather?

Following one's nature without overstepping inherent limits is the easiest thing under heaven; lifting what should be lifted, bearing what should be borne is the lightest burden in the world. Yet people constantly harm their innate nature through endless pursuits, letting desires and aversions disturb their authentic being. They abandon this supremely simple way of wuwei to chase after the most difficult paths of forced action; discard this supremely light method of self-sustenance to shoulder the heaviest burdens of external things—this is the common failing of worldly people.

This passage contains profound insights from the Zhuangzi regarding worldly philosophy and inner cultivation, presented through several allegorical stories.

The first part discusses the importance of inner cultivation. When one focuses on their intrinsic nature, even carrying a tremendous burden feels weightless; yet when overly concerned with external matters, the lightest things become unbearable. True blessings originate from within, hence they appear light, while misfortunes stem from external attachments, making them feel heavy. Most people fail to comprehend this principle—like drawing lines on the ground for others to follow, such efforts ultimately prove unsustainable. The truly cultivated person does not deliberately display themselves to influence others but allows all things to manifest their nature naturally. In this way, one merges with all existence, achieving harmony between inner and outer realms.

The second part uses the metaphor of "mi yang" (referring to ferns) to illustrate the importance of maintaining independence. Just as dense ferns block sunlight, excessive pursuit of external things obscures one's true nature. Only by preserving inner wholeness can one coexist harmoniously with all things. When useful, one contributes; when not, one preserves themselves. Forcing changes to conform to worldly expectations is far less natural than allowing people to find their rightful place.

The third section presents two annotations. The "Bi Cheng" commentary notes possible transcription errors in the text and explains that "mi yang" refers to ferns, named for their dense growth that blocks sunlight. The "Bi Cheng General Discussion" observes that "Yang Sheng Zhu" (The Fundamentals of Nurturing Life) addresses methods of withdrawal from the world, while "Ren Jian Shi" (The Human World) deals with engagement in worldly affairs—the two complement each other, echoing Laozi's teaching to "hold fast to the ancient Dao to govern present existence."

Finally, the opening of "De Chong Fu" (The Sign of Virtue Complete) recounts the story of Wang Tai of Lu, a man whose feet had been amputated yet whose disciples were as numerous as Confucius's. Chang Ji asked Confucius: "Wang Tai is physically impaired, yet he attracts so many followers. Without speaking or teaching, his students return fulfilled. Is this not the realm of 'teaching without words, achieving heart-mind transformation without form'? What manner of man is this?"

Confucius said of Master Wang Tai that he was a sage, and though I, Kong Qiu, have not yet been able to follow him, I intend to take him as my teacher—how much more should those less accomplished than I? Not just the state of Lu, I would lead all under heaven to follow him. Chang Ji asked: "He is a man who has lost a foot, yet Master Wang Tai transcends so completely—he is vastly different from ordinary people. How does such a man's inner workings function?"

Confucius replied: "Life and death are the greatest matters of human existence, yet they cannot alter him; even if heaven collapsed and earth split asunder, he would not perish with them. Having comprehended the eternal and unchanging truth, he does not shift with external things, but preserves the root while accommodating all transformations." Chang Ji pressed further, asking what this meant.

Confucius explained: "Viewed from the perspective of difference, the liver and gallbladder are as distant as the states of Chu and Yue; but seen from the perspective of unity, all things are one. One who attains this state pays no heed to the preferences of ears and eyes, but lets his spirit wander in the harmonious realm of Dao and De (Virtue). He perceives only the fundamental unity of all things, oblivious to their deficiencies—regarding his lost foot as casually as discarded earth."

Chang Ji continued: "By cultivating himself, he uses wisdom to grasp the original mind, and through this attains the constant mind. How can external things affect him?" Confucius said: "People do not mirror themselves in flowing water, but in still water. Only when one is still can one still the multitude. Just as pine and cypress, receiving earth's Qi (vital energy), alone remain verdant through winter and summer; just as Shun, receiving heaven's mandate, rectified himself and thereby rectified the people. Those who preserve their original mind possess true fearlessness. A brave warrior dares charge alone into an army of thousands—if even those who discipline themselves for fame can do this, how much more so one who governs heaven and earth, embraces all things, regards the body as a temporary lodging, treats ears and eyes as mere symbols, whose understanding penetrates all and whose spirit never dies? He will choose an auspicious day to transcend the mundane world, and people will naturally follow. How could such a man be concerned with worldly trivialities?"

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: "The empty-minded go forth yet return fulfilled, each obtaining what they seek. Without complete form yet accomplishing the mind, seemingly physically incomplete yet spiritually whole. Those with complete spirits forget physical form, transcend the constraints of the five viscera, and move freely beyond all things under heaven without deviation. Not just Lu—he would lead all under heaven to follow. Those whose essence-spirit (Jing-Shen) is complete unite with all things—how could such influence be limited to one state? The transformations of life and death follow nature's patterns—he moves with these changes, thus life and death cannot alter his fundamental nature; even heaven's collapse and earth's upheaval cannot affect him."

This passage conveys the Daoist wisdom of perceiving the world. Those who truly comprehend the Dao understand that all things in their natural state are inherently reasonable. They don't forcibly alter things, but allow them to transform spontaneously; they follow the evolutionary patterns of all beings, harmoniously coexisting with creation.

Those who maintain this fundamental awareness always grasp the most appropriate principles. Just as the liver and gallbladder, though both internal organs, have different functions; just as bitter and sweet tastes are entirely distinct; just as people's judgments of beauty and ugliness vary—yet if one understands that all things, though diverse in form, share the same essence, they'll discover: every phenomenon possesses its unique beauty, every perspective holds its validity. If we focus solely on differences, all things under heaven appear distinct; but viewed from the macrocosmic perspective, heaven and earth and the myriad things are fundamentally one, their differences insignificant.

Truly enlightened individuals aren't trapped by distinctions between right/wrong or beautiful/ugly. Ordinary people constantly affirm themselves while negating others—from wise men to insects, this tendency exists—but this represents partial understanding. The sage who truly comprehends the Dao understands the world through the world itself, neither affirming nor negating. They realize there's no absolute right or wrong, that all blends into oneness, thus they can follow transformations and face external phenomena without fear.

Such people aren't confined by sensory limitations—their spirits wander freely within the harmony of the Dao. Without distinctions between beauty and ugliness, nothing becomes inappropriate. Releasing all preconceptions allows complete inclusion. When the mind fully expands, stretching freely between heaven and earth, one feels at ease everywhere. They perceive the essential unity of all things, unconcerned with superficial gains and losses.

Having realized this ultimate wisdom, one becomes interconnected with all existence. Life and death transformations all become part of "me"—living represents my timely opportunity, dying my natural compliance; gathering is my convergence, parting my dispersion. Whether gathering or parting, living or dying, I remain fundamentally myself—birth doesn't bring gain, death doesn't entail loss.

The transformations of life and death are ultimately one—understanding this principle allows transcendence and liberation. When a person merges with the supreme Dao (xuántóng refers to the highest state of the Way), the distinction between self and external phenomena dissolves. They regard life and death as natural as the alternation of day and night, viewing their body as merely temporary lodging. Abandoning life becomes like discarding old shoes; severing a limb like shaking off mud—how could such a person remain entangled in worldly attachments?

Those who stubbornly rely on intellectual cleverness for self-cultivation resemble Wang Tai (the legendary sage with physical disabilities)—though advanced, they haven't yet reached the perfection of "forgetting wisdom." Those who deliberately cultivate the mind haven't attained the state of "attainment through no-mind." Those who have realized the eternal true heart remain unmoved by the myriad phenomena. Ordinary people seek Wang Tai precisely because they cannot maintain equanimity in interacting with all things.

Like still water that naturally reflects images without conscious intent, Wang Tai's attraction of multitudes wasn't through deliberate recruitment. Only by maintaining inner stillness can one become the axis others revolve around—conscious effort would instead repel the myriad things. Sages like Shun (who received zhèngqì from nature, indicating extraordinary endowment) are as rare as pine and cypress standing tallest among trees. That all things yearn for uprightness reveals their inherent incompleteness. Were all things perfect, pines wouldn't stand out; were everyone upright, sages wouldn't be followed.

Those who truly rectify their own lives naturally influence others without conscious intention. Fame-seekers cannot forget reputation, while those united with heaven, earth and the myriad things regard even their bodies as temporary lodgings. Using ears and eyes without being bound by them, their awareness renews with each transformation—such wisdom never rigidifies. A mind flowing with life and death ensures vitality never exhausts. So-called "auspicious days for ascension" mean nothing to Dao-realized beings—they already move with celestial patterns. This explains why figures like Wang Tai are most precious: their serene wúwéi (non-action) makes deliberate interference impossible.

(Note: The passage "Receiving earth's mandate, only pines and cypresses..." has textual variants suggesting possible scribal omissions. Zhang Junfang's annotated edition interprets both pines and sages as exceptional beings endowed with heaven-and-earth's zhèngqì.)

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·De Chong Fu (The Sign of Virtue Complete), depicting a dialogue between Zichan, the chief minister of Zheng State, and Shentu Jia, a man with amputated feet. It reveals Zhuangzi's contemplation on the relationship between De (Virtue/Power) and physical form.

Both Zichan and Shentu Jia were students of Bohun Wuren (a fictional Daoist sage created by Zhuangzi). As a high-ranking official, Zichan felt it beneath his dignity to associate with a disabled person. He told Shentu Jia: "If I go out first, you wait; if you go out first, I'll wait." The next day in class, Zichan repeated this demand and challenged: "As the chief minister, shouldn't you defer to me?"

Shentu Jia retorted: "At our master's school, how could there be someone who cares about official rank? Haven't you heard? A bright mirror gathers no dust; a dusty mirror isn't bright. Those who keep company with sages make no mistakes. Now you're studying with our master yet speak like this—isn't this going too far?"

An embarrassed Zichan snapped: "With your disability, how dare you compare your virtue to Emperor Yao's?" Calmly Shentu Jia responded: "Many justify their faults thinking they don't deserve punishment; few admit their faults accepting deserved punishment. Only those with true De can accept inevitable fate with equanimity. It's like standing within the target range of the divine archer Yi—not getting hit is pure luck. People often mocked my disability, but since studying with our master, I've completely forgotten it. For nineteen years, our master never treated me as disabled. Now you study alongside me yet judge by appearances—isn't this shallow?"

Hearing this, Zichan felt ashamed and changed his attitude. Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty commentator) notes that Zichan initially avoided walking with a disabled person, then deliberately questioned Shentu Jia the next day to assert superiority. His statement "I'm the chief minister" emphasized his official status. Through this contrast, the dialogue illustrates how true De transcends physical imperfections—those who attain the Dao value inner cultivation over outward appearance.

This passage expounds profound insights on how to perceive fate and personal imperfections. It states that those who become arrogant upon attaining official positions are merely flaunting status rather than true virtue (De). Genuine cultivators never measure worth by rank—those who constantly parade their titles to dominate others reveal their own shallowness.

Though prolonged association with sages may reduce faults, harboring contempt in one's heart remains the gravest transgression. Consider those with physical disabilities: if they scorn virtuous individuals instead of self-reflecting, such moral flaws prove far more crippling than bodily limitations. Most people rationalize their shortcomings; few quietly acknowledge their errors.

Like Hou Yi (the legendary archer) whose arrows never missed their mark, worldly people chasing profit and advantage live as if trapped on a target. Even recluses like Zhang Yi and Shan Bao couldn't escape destiny's arrangements. Humans pride themselves on avoiding misfortune through skill, yet lament when inevitable calamity strikes—this reveals their failure to comprehend fate's essence.

In truth, from birth to death, every word, deed, gain, or loss follows natural laws beyond complete human control. Forcing joy or sorrow upon these events violates nature's way. Those who mock my physical imperfections misunderstand destiny's truth. My initial anger showed my own lack of wisdom; its dissipation came through realizing the Daoist sage's insight—seeing through fate and transcending form.

Finally, though I've followed my master for nineteen years, I cannot tell whether his virtuous teachings cleansed me or I awakened myself. This very uncertainty marks the realm where physical form is forgotten and worldly burdens cast away.

In the state of Lu, there was a man named Shushan Wuzhi (Toeless) who had lost his toes. He walked on his heels to visit Confucius. Confucius said, "You were imprudent before and suffered this misfortune. What use is coming to me now?" Wuzhi replied, "It was precisely because I didn't understand the Dao of conduct and treated my body carelessly that I lost my toes. Now I come to you because there are things more precious than feet (referring to moral cultivation) that I strive to preserve. Heaven covers all things without exception, Earth bears all things without exception—I regarded you as Heaven and Earth, never imagining you'd be like this."

Hearing this, Confucius said, "I've been shallow. Won't you come in, sir? Please share your insights." After Wuzhi left, Confucius told his disciples, "Strive diligently! Wuzhi is physically impaired yet seeks learning to amend past faults—how much more should those with whole bodies?"

Later, Wuzhi said to Laozi (Lao Dan), "I fear Confucius hasn't yet attained the state of the Perfected Person (Zhiren). Why does he bustle about seeking to learn from you? He pursues strange and extraordinary reputation, not realizing the Perfected consider these as shackles binding oneself." Laozi replied, "Why not directly tell him: regard life and death as one, view the permissible and impermissible as interconnected—this would release his fetters." Wuzhi answered, "This is Heaven's punishment upon him—how could it be undone?"

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: The heels symbolize excessive striving. Human life should follow natural growth—avoid deliberate action (Wuwei) and let things develop spontaneously. This is how one values life and understands fundamentals. Forgetting life's natural disposition while being overly cautious actually leads to bodily neglect and fundamental ignorance. Thus internal organ conflicts manifest as external limb injuries. "Things more precious than feet" means losing a toe doesn't impair one's virtue (De). Understand the body as a temporary lodging—discard restraint and let nature take its course for true preservation. Heaven covers eternally precisely by not deliberately covering; Earth bears perpetually precisely by not deliberately bearing. If Heaven and Earth acted deliberately, there would be cessation. If boats deliberately sank and men deliberately floated, drowning would follow. Therefore, deliberate actions cannot endure.

Zhuangzi here explores the essence of learning and the constraints of reputation through several parables.

The man who reproaches himself for lacking caution and failing to match Heaven and Earth is like one who insists on walking despite severed toes. Those who truly comprehend the Dao maintain a state of natural Wuwei (non-action) - why deliberately imitate others? The unattached learner, even when following a teacher, preserves his authentic nature. The ancients studied to cultivate themselves, while modern people study for others' approval - this distortion turns people into reflections of others' expectations.

Those who follow teachers yet retain their true selves abide by nature's constant way; those who abandon themselves to mimic others and chase external things merely pursue empty fame. Such reputation is precisely what worldly conventions produce. Genuine learning isn't about seeking the extraordinary, yet extraordinary phenomena often stem from forced study; ritual wasn't meant for ostentation, yet pretentiousness frequently arises from it. This inevitable pattern even the sages couldn't alter, regarding such constraints as shackles.

Why not help people understand that life and death are ultimately one, that permissible and impermissible share no real distinction, thereby loosening these mental bonds? Though we might wish to awaken people directly with truth, how easily can inborn constraints be removed? Confucius wasn't ignorant of this principle - it's simply nature's way: walking creates shadows, speaking produces echoes. Accommodating external things leaves traces of reputation, yet true accommodation seeks no fame. The highest attainment is precisely not pursuing fame, yet ultimately one still acquires it - who can escape? Thus reputation becomes like shadows and echoes: fetters to our physical forms. Only by understanding this can we transcend reputation's constraints and preserve our heavenly nature.

Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius: "In Wei there's an ugly man named Aitai Tuo. Men who associate with him won't leave his company; women who meet him beg their parents, 'I'd rather be his concubine than another man's wife' - over a dozen such cases exist. He never initiates anything, merely responds harmoniously. Without a ruler's authority he saves people from distress; without ample salary he fills others' bellies; hideously ugly yet the world submits to him; gentle without self-display, his wisdom never exceeds the mundane, yet men and women alike feel drawn to him. This man must possess something extraordinary." After summoning him, I found him truly ugly, yet within a month discerned his remarkable qualities.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Duke Ai of Lu and Confucius regarding the concept of "perfect talent with invisible virtue (De)."

Duke Ai spoke of a man named Aitai Tuo who, within less than a year of acquaintance, had gained his complete trust—so much so that the duke considered entrusting him with the governance of the state. Yet this man suddenly departed, leaving the duke disconsolate. Confucius explained through several metaphors: Piglets flee in terror upon discovering their dead mother, for what they love is not the physical form but the vital essence (Jing); fallen soldiers need no ornate coffins, just as amputees require no shoes, since their fundamental substance is lost. These examples illustrate that true value lies in inner essence rather than external appearance.

Confucius pointed out that Aitai Tuo's ability to inspire voluntary entrustment of state affairs stemmed from his achievement of "perfect talent with invisible virtue"—complete capability that remains unmanifested. "Perfect talent" refers to maintaining equanimity toward life's vicissitudes—birth and death, poverty and wealth, praise and blame—while preserving inner tranquility. "Invisible virtue" resembles still water that perfectly reflects objects: profound inner cultivation that remains outwardly unassuming, yet naturally attracts all things to adhere to it.

Finally, Duke Ai told Minzi that after hearing these teachings, he realized his previous belief that governing people as a ruler constituted true understanding. Now he recognized that his relationship with Confucius had transcended the ruler-minister dynamic, becoming a friendship founded on shared virtue (De). This reveals the Daoist ideal of governance: true leadership does not rely on power or status but naturally transforms others through complete virtue that remains unforced—embodying the principle of Wuwei (non-action).

This passage employs multiple metaphors to discuss the relationship between "talent and virtue" (才能与德行) and external appearances, emphasizing that what truly matters is inner essence rather than outward form.

Guo Xiang's commentary points out: If someone without a ruler's authority can save the dying, it shows that good deeds don't depend on power or status. If one can satisfy others' hunger without relying on official salary, it proves that helping others isn't motivated by personal gain. Those with ugly appearances yet renowned throughout the world demonstrate that fame doesn't stem from physical beauty. Those who remain composed without actively promoting themselves reveal that their virtue (德, De) flows naturally rather than being forced. And those whose wisdom doesn't exceed ordinary affairs show they don't exhaust themselves with matters beyond their scope.

When inner talent and virtue are complete, a person harmonizes with all things—entering a herd of beasts without disturbing them, stepping among birds without disrupting their order. This is the true mark of the spirit (神, Shen) that connects all beings. A tranquil mind remains unshaken by honor, disgrace, gain, or loss. In interactions, such a person follows others' lead—drawing close when others do, withdrawing when they retreat. Just as piglets instinctively suckle from a dead sow, living beings naturally follow those with talent and virtue, abandoning them only when these qualities are lost.

Those deeply cultivated in the Dao and its virtue (道德) are like infants—cherished wherever they go, for nothing under heaven would harm them. When essence aligns, even differing forms coexist peacefully; when essence differs, not even mother-child bonds endure. What truly determines a form's worth is its inner talent and virtue.

A warrior's armor depends on his martial prowess—once fallen in battle, the armor loses meaning. People cherish shoes because they need feet—why would an amputee still value footwear? Preserving a body intact yet unused stems from fear of harming it. Consorts and newlyweds may be chosen for beauty, but lasting bonds rely on virtue. When virtue is complete, all things naturally offer devotion.

Life and death, survival and demise, hunger and thirst, heat and cold—these are the patterns of nature, inescapable. Human birth isn't a mistake, nor are life's encounters accidental. Though heaven and earth are vast, and all things numerous, we only meet what we're fated to meet. Even celestial spirits (神明), earthly deities, or sages of nations couldn't alter this inevitability with all their strength and wisdom. Thus, what hasn't been encountered can never be encountered, and what has been encountered cannot be avoided.

Zhuangzi here expounds the principle of following nature and accepting destiny. When something must be done, it cannot be avoided; when something should not be done, it cannot be forced. Entrusting everything to the natural order achieves perfect harmony. The movement of fate and the transformation of worldly affairs are like the ceaseless alternation of day and night—we can neither obstruct nor retain them. Thus, the truly wise accept all encounters with equanimity.

The beginning of destiny is not determined by human planning, nor is its outcome swayed by emotions. Understanding that destiny inevitably unfolds and worldly affairs inevitably change, one avoids clinging anxiously to the old or the new. Even the wisest cannot foresee the future. What can we do in the face of passing time? So long as we recognize that life and nature are simply thus, then even amid the myriad transformations of life and death, fortune and adversity, we can maintain inner peace, allowing the harmonious Dao to dwell within.

The "spiritual abode" (lingfu) refers to the dwelling place of the human spirit. Those who are truly content are not disturbed by worries, hence external things cannot invade their spiritual abode. Maintaining a tranquil heart and a serene spirit, even great upheavals will not unsettle their composure. Day and night, they move in harmony with nature, flourishing alongside all things. Adjusting their state of mind with the changing seasons, they remain as still as placid water. The water's surface is the fairest measure—thus the world takes it as its standard.

With inner clarity and outer steadfastness, unmoved by external things, they reflect all things like a mirror, harboring no selfish thoughts. Only thus can they achieve perfect stillness and emulate nature. When affairs succeed and all things harmonize, this is the manifestation of De (Virtue/Power). When virtue reaches such a subtle and traceless state, all under heaven will gladly revere it without weariness.

Like the full moon, they are complete and abundant—harmonious without forcing dominance. Their wisdom does not exceed the bounds of daily life, nor do they pursue lofty schemes. Though lacking rank, talent, or beauty, they naturally draw others to them. They do not deliberately seek to preserve all things—yet all things return to them of their own accord. Wherein lies such a person's charm? As Master Shi said: "The form is not worthy of admiration—what is truly precious is the spirit that governs it." A mother's love originates in life itself; warfare is rooted in preparedness; walking relies on one's feet as its foundation.

This passage explores Zhuangzi's philosophical reflections on virtue (De) and physical form. The hunchbacked Taitu was beloved precisely because he embodied the fundamental principle of inner virtue. Those who are truly accomplished ("perfect in talent") need not deliberately display themselves, for when inner virtue is abundant, external form becomes irrelevant.

Life and death, wealth and poverty, praise and blame—these seemingly chaotic external changes are ultimately beyond our control, belonging to the realm of "destiny." When one comprehends that all things fundamentally have no beginning ("never having begun"), such fluctuations cannot disturb the inner harmony ("Great Harmony"). Like Laozi's teaching to "block the openings" (closing off sensory desires), one maintains inner clarity without indulgence, harmonizing with all things without leaving traces—this is the state of "formlessness."

Still water becomes the measure for all things; when virtue achieves harmony, it stabilizes both internal and external realms. This cultivated harmony, called "the cultivation of perfected harmony," is indispensable to all existence. "Formlessness" represents unity with the Dao, transcending the vicissitudes of life and death.

The text then presents two examples: the hunchbacked Yinqi Zhili and the neckless Weng'ang Daying, whose exceptional virtue made rulers perceive ordinary people as defective instead. This illustrates how virtue makes physical imperfections forgotten. The sage maintains natural spontaneity, requiring none of the four artificial means—scheming, restraint, forced virtue, or transactional relationships—for Heaven provides nourishment ("nourished by Heaven"). Having human form yet remaining unentangled by worldly attachments enables transcendence beyond right and wrong. How sublime this state of being is!

Hui Shi asked Zhuangzi, "Can a person truly be without emotions?" Zhuangzi replied, "Yes." Hui Shi pressed further, "If a person lacks emotions, can they still be called human?"

Zhuangzi explained, "The Dao (the cosmic origin) endows humans with countenance, Heaven (natural law) bestows physical form—how could they not be called human?" Hui Shi continued, "Since they're human, how can they lack emotions?" Zhuangzi clarified, "What I mean by 'without emotions' isn't absence of feeling, but rather not allowing preferences and aversions to harm one's inner being, following natural principles without forced striving."

Hui Shi countered, "Without conscious self-cultivation, how can one preserve physical health?" Zhuangzi pointed out, "The Dao grants countenance, Heaven bestows form—the key lies in not letting preferences and aversions injure yourself. Yet you exhaust your spirit, leaning against trees reciting verses, dozing against withered parasol woods. Heaven gave you physical form, yet you obsess over debates like the 'Hard and White' arguments of the School of Names."

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Just as the lame and hunchbacked, by overemphasizing certain aspects, make their deformities more pronounced and their cunning more apparent, truly virtuous people who accord with all things forget their physical imperfections; those who defy nature forget their inherent beauty. Ordinary people often cherish things in life but discard them after death. Thus virtue endures eternally while physical forms ultimately fade.

Sages wander freely in boundless realms, thereby achieving complete virtue. Regarding cleverness as calamity, restraint as bondage, virtue as transaction, and skill as merchandise—these four all arise from natural principles. Sages need no deliberate action, for all is bestowed by nature. Just as Heaven nurtures all things through natural endowment. Since all follows natural arrangement, whether through careful avoidance of misfortune or enlightened self-preservation, all things operate according to celestial patterns. Some perils can be averted by forethought, others remain unavoidable despite contemplation; some dangers are escaped unwittingly, others encountered unexpectedly—none of this lies within human control, so better to follow nature's course.

Possessing human form, one appears human; freed from worldly emotional entanglements, the mind becomes serene as withered wood, transcendent and detached.

This passage explores the relationship between "emotional attachments" and the "natural Dao." Zhuangzi posits that all things naturally group according to their kind—this is the inherent pattern of the Dao's operation. Those who attain true transcendence remain unbound by worldly distinctions of right and wrong, having reached the state of "non-attachment" (wǔqíng). Here, "non-attachment" does not imply indifference, but rather freedom from personal preferences that distort one's innate nature.

The text illustrates this through examples: Li Zhu (renowned for extraordinary vision) and Shi Kuang (the legendary musician) could fully manifest their talents precisely because they did not force their abilities. Similarly, sages become sages through alignment with nature, not through deliberate striving. Conversely, ordinary people clinging to imitation—like a deaf person straining to hear music or a blind person attempting painting—invariably fail.

Infants naturally nurse and perceive the world without consciously using eyes to locate nipples or ears to discern direction, demonstrating how bodily functions follow inherent design. Zhuangzi emphasizes that human form already contains complete life mechanisms—forcing conscious control damages this innate nature. Just as shen (spirit) dissipates when not anchored in its natural domain, and jing (essence) depletes when exceeding natural limits.

Those entangled by desires lean against trees while walking and recline on parasol trees when sitting—all manifestations of self-constraint. Yet the "heaven-chosen form" (tiān xuǎn zhī xíng) possesses inherent wholeness; health emerges through spontaneous accord. Deliberate life-nurturing efforts may paradoxically harm vitality, for life's self-regulating mechanisms are complete unto themselves.

Zhuangzi here explores the realm of the "Authentic Person" (Zhenren) and true wisdom. He observes that ordinary people exhaust their Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) in daily struggles, leaning against trees to chant or doze—this is what the world calls "applying emotion and effort." But true wisdom (heaven's chosen path) cannot be attained through such deliberate striving. The transformations and choices of all things ultimately stem from the emotionless natural Dao—why force artificial sentiment upon them?

The greatest wisdom lies in understanding the workings of heaven and the actions of humans. To know heaven's workings is to follow nature's course in living; to know human actions is to use acquired knowledge to nurture what remains unknown, thereby attaining one's natural lifespan without premature demise. Yet even this understanding has limits, for human knowledge always depends on specific conditions that are themselves uncertain. Who can say for certain that what we call "heaven" isn't actually "human," or that what we term "human" isn't in fact "heaven"?

The state of the Authentic Person (one who has attained the Dao) is this: they do not oppose the minority, boast of achievements, or scheme in worldly affairs. Such a person feels no regret over mistakes nor pride in successes; unafraid when climbing heights, unwetted when entering water, unburned when passing through fire. This wisdom allows complete unity with the Dao.

Commentator Guo Xiang explains: Understanding that both heavenly and human actions are natural enables inner tranquility and outer harmony with all things. Heaven is nature itself—deliberate action obstructs true action, for real action is non-deliberate (Wuwei); forced knowing prevents true knowledge, for real knowing is unforced. Thus the Authentic Person forgets knowledge yet understands naturally, refrains from striving yet accomplishes effortlessly, attaining true wisdom through "sitting in forgetfulness" (Zuowang, the practice of transcending physical form).

Though the human body stands but seven feet tall, it contains all Five Phases (Wuxing); though physically small, it requires the entire cosmos for sustenance. Not a single thing in heaven and earth can be dispensed with—remove one element and life becomes unsustainable, neglect one principle and the natural lifespan cannot be preserved.

This passage explores the profound relationship between human cognition and nature. What humans can comprehend is actually quite limited, while the potential contained within the body is vast; what people can accomplish is meager, yet the principles governing cosmic operation are boundless. Even those in high positions cannot fully master all things—forcing completeness leads instead to losing authenticity.

People's knowledge varies, yet their actions dare not differ, for deliberate pursuit of uniqueness leads to artificiality and loss of true nature. Some exhaust their bodies with cunning intellect, obsessing over particular skills until both body and mind are depleted—this is using finite knowledge to harm infinite potential. Those with genuine wisdom understand that each person's capabilities have limits, thus they follow nature without forcing; they know human cognition has boundaries, thus they employ wisdom without indulgence.

By not tormenting oneself with infinite knowledge, the known and unknown can coexist harmoniously within the body. This is the principle of nurturing the unknown with the known. Some worry that no amount of wisdom compares to relinquishing it and following nature's flow for carefree living. True sages recognize that nothing is absolutely right or wrong, thus they always maintain restraint. Complete alignment with nature enables appropriate response to any situation.

The finitude of human life is natural law; the mind's desire to transcend limits is human striving. In truth, all things are manifestations of nature. If everyone followed nature spontaneously, then order and chaos, success and failure, opportunities gained and lost would all lie beyond human control. Only by attaining the state of "Zhenren" (True Person) can the world's cognition return to its authentic, unconfused origin.

The Zhenren neither opposes the minority to gain majority support, nor forces success yet naturally leads, nor deliberately schemes yet achieves effortlessly. This comes not through calculation, but through perfect alignment with nature that leaves no room for error. When walking, they don't avoid dampness; keeping distance from fire isn't to escape heat—their flawless conduct stems from perfect appropriateness. They don't perceive heat as heat, thus never consciously avoid fire; don't perceive dampness as dampness, thus never consciously shun water; don't perceive death as death, thus never truly lose life. Neither life nor accomplishment can be attained through deliberate pursuit.

Those who can follow nature without forcing things are the true attainers of the Dao (zhenren). They never harbor calculating minds toward their circumstances. Know that the path to reaching the great Dao through intellectual understanding is exceedingly distant.

The ancient Dao attainers lived remarkably: they dreamed not in sleep, worried not when awake, sought no delicacies in eating, and breathed with deep, sustained rhythms. Their breath reached down to their heels, while ordinary people's breath only reaches the throat. Those subservient to desires speak with hurried, uneven breath - the deeper one's desires, the shallower their innate spiritual capacity (tianji) becomes.

Genuine Dao masters neither cling to life nor dread death. They neither rejoice at birth nor resist departure, coming and going with effortless freedom. They neither forget their origins nor forcibly seek final destinations, receiving life with joyful acceptance and returning to essence when forgotten. This is what we call not deliberately opposing the Dao with intention, not interfering with nature through human effort - this is the mark of true attainment.

Guo Xiang (Jin Dynasty metaphysician) comments: Dreamless sleep comes from having no delusional thoughts; carefree wakefulness stems from accepting circumstances; simple eating follows nature's course. When the Dao attainer's breath reaches the heels, it emerges from life's root foundation. Gasping speech reveals unbalanced heart-energy. Only by deeply planting one's roots and maintaining utmost stillness can one return to pure unity. The deeper the desires, the shallower the innate spirituality. Those neither coveting life nor fearing death have merged with creation itself. Their equanimity comes from peacefully accepting all things. Their effortless movement flows from abiding in supreme truth, making life's transitions unburdensome.

Life's beginnings and endings, transformations and dissolutions all become transparent - why then deliberately avoid life or pursue death? Joyful acceptance means meeting all circumstances with peace; returning to essence after forgetting isn't achieved through forced knowing. Humans are originally pure and still - this is heavenly nature; desires arise through external influences - this is human manifestation. When endlessly tempted by external things without restraint, heavenly principle is lost. The Dao attainer understands: deliberate intention diverges from the Dao, human interference harms life - thus they avoid both.

The Bi Cheng commentary explains: Birth is "emergence" - life's beginning and reception; returning to creation is "entering" - death and conclusion. Understanding life has no true beginning, one doesn't cling to origins; knowing death has no real ending, one doesn't force destinations. Reaching this state, one moves freely within creation, transcending life-death constraints - where then could clinging or dread arise?

This passage primarily discusses the distinction between Daoist adepts (真人) and ordinary people, as well as how to align with the natural Dao (道).

Those whose hearts deviate from the Dao will stray from it as soon as their thoughts change. The Dao itself has no distinction between life and death, yet people often harbor divided minds—is this not willfully abandoning the Dao? Those who seek to assist Heaven are like the individuals criticized by Laozi—they constrict their own existence, despise their lives, yet strive to pursue something beyond life. True adepts of the Dao are not like this; they understand that fearing life and death or seeking transcendence are still secondary concerns.

Genuine adepts maintain focused minds and serene expressions, with broad foreheads. They are solemn like autumn yet warm like spring, their emotions resonating with the shifts of the seasons, harmonizing with all things while remaining unfathomable to others. Thus, when sages employ military force, even if they destroy a nation, they do not lose the people's hearts. Their benevolence flows through generations, yet it is not born of deliberate affection.

Those who cling to external things or show partiality are not sages; those who discriminate between closeness and distance are not truly virtuous; those who rigidly adhere to the timing of Heaven are not wise; those who cannot discern the interplay of benefit and harm do not truly understand ritual. The genuinely wise act in accordance with the times, and thus they encounter no obstacles. Just as high and low naturally follow one another in the flow of water, and large and small depend on each other as the natural order dictates, an expansive mind free of private biases is the wellspring of wisdom.

All things have their roots; in terms of innate nature, this is the source of their being. When each thing is complete in its own foundation, allowing all virtues (德) to operate naturally, one returns to the origin. Returning to the origin means fully comprehending the principle. All such achievements arise from aligning with what is natural, not from forced effort. Thus, even when managing countless affairs, one remains at ease, accomplishing things without conscious intention, and speaking as if words flow spontaneously.

People's greatest delusion is believing that adepts of the Dao achieve their state through deliberate striving. In truth, whether they like or dislike something, they maintain the same mind; whether in agreement or disagreement, they remain unified. When aligned with the Dao of Heaven, they belong to the same category as nature; when differing from others, they belong to the same category as ordinary people. Heaven and humanity are not in opposition—this is the mark of a true adept.

Life and death are fated, just as day and night follow natural cycles. There are things beyond human intervention—these are the constants of existence. People revere Heaven as a father—how much more should they revere the supreme Dao? People consider rulers nobler than themselves and are willing to die for them—how much more should they devote themselves to the highest truth?

When the springs dry up and fish are stranded on land, they moisten each other with their saliva to survive. Though such mutual aid in hardship seems touching, it would be far better for them to forget each other while swimming freely in rivers and lakes. Rather than praising the virtuous Emperor Yao and condemning the tyrant Jie, it's better to forget such value judgments and merge with the Dao.

Guo Xiang, the Neo-Daoist scholar of the Wei-Jin period, comments: Those who have truly attained the Dao maintain a state of wuwei (non-action), following nature without deliberate distinctions between good and bad. When humans unite with heaven and earth, they reach the state of "heavenly disciple" (natural harmony); when obsessed with distinctions, they become "human disciples" (artificial contrivances). The zhenren (perfected person) harmonizes heaven and humanity, dissolving all dualities. They neither negate differences in pursuit of unity, nor disrupt unity by emphasizing differences. Like heaven, they embrace all things, allowing natural development to achieve profound unity.

The alternation of day and night follows natural law; life and death are like this cyclical change—both inevitable processes of existence. The zhenren lives fully by day and rests peacefully at night, regarding life and death as naturally as the turning of day. How could they feel discomfort? Human suffering arises from attachment to external things—these are artificial fixations contrary to the Dao. "Zhuo" refers to independent transformation (self-sufficient change), for all fundamental transformations occur spontaneously. Humans rely on the Dao of Heaven, which generates this autonomous transformation. Regarding heaven as their father, people peacefully accept the alternation of day and night and the change of seasons—how much more should they embrace the profound mysteries of natural creation?

Those who truly embody the Dao depend on nothing, completely following spontaneity. The laws of nature cannot be defied—how much less should human commands be heeded? Like the fish moistening each other, forced affection in hardship pales beside mutual forgetting in freedom. Value judgments stem from insufficiency; the fully content forget good and evil, transcend life and death, unite with transformation, and attain adaptability—why would they care about distinctions between Yao and Jie?

The earth bears my physical form, life keeps me laboring, old age brings me ease, and death grants me rest. Thus those who cherish life must also find peace in death. Hiding a boat in mountain valleys or concealing mountains in lakes may seem secure, but divine power could remove them at midnight—fools remain unaware. However well things are hidden, all may eventually be lost; only by following nature's transformations can one find the eternal Dao.

When all things under heaven are seen as integral parts of the natural Dao (the Way), there remains nothing to escape from—this is the fundamental truth of eternal existence. We happen to acquire human form and become complacent, yet this physical body is but a minuscule link in the endless transformation of all things. How can such fleeting joy ever be fully accounted for? Thus, the sage dwells in the ultimate truth from which nothing can escape.

Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher) annotates: The birth, aging, and death of the human form are all aspects of the "true self." The body is my vessel, life my labor, aging my respite, and death my repose. Though these four states transform, they never depart from the essence of the "true self"—why should I cling to any? Life and death are both decreed by heaven. If life were not beautiful, neither would death be; since life is beautiful, death must be equally so. This illustrates how the transformations of life and death are inescapable—first pointing to the ultimate reality we cannot evade, then clarifying the inevitable laws of change, so we may harmonize with creation without attachment.

No force in this world surpasses the power of transformation. Heaven and earth renew themselves ceaselessly; it is as if mountains were carried forward while remaining unaware of their own metamorphosis. People assume familiar things remain unchanged, yet even boats and mountains are imperceptibly replaced. The "me" of a moment ago is no longer the present "me"—both self and the immediate moment are in flux. What constancy could possibly exist? Yet humans persistently grasp at ephemera—what folly!

To attempt hiding things from change, no matter how deeply or securely concealed, cannot halt their daily transformation. Rather than forcing preservation, let nature take its course. When you cease clinging to anything, you merge completely with all things and unite with change itself. Then distinctions between inner and outer, life and death dissolve; you become one with heaven and earth, synchronous with transformation, without even the notion of escape arising. This is the root truth of eternal existence—not some partial or narrow perspective.

The human form is merely one configuration in infinite transformation. In the boundless flow of creation, all encounters are as transient as this physical body—why cling exclusively to human existence for joy?

This passage expounds the profound Daoist philosophy regarding the essence of the Dao (the Way) and the transformations of all things.

The transformations of all beings follow natural laws. Humans evolved from other forms, yet this transformation has already departed from the original source. People delight in novelty, but such joy stems from accidental encounters. Change knows no bounds—who can predict all possible encounters? The true sage (one who has attained the Dao) follows the Dao of transformation like flowing water that renews itself daily. As the myriad things continuously transform, the sage transforms accordingly. Since transformation itself has no limits, neither does the sage—who can escape this universal principle?

Birth and death are manifestations of transformation: what appears as extinction is actually another form of existence; what seems like death marks a new beginning. If death signifies eternal existence, then when is existence ever absent? Ordinary people, confined by their hundred-year lifespans, cannot properly perceive the differences between youth and old age, let alone comprehend the essence of life-death transformations. Yet even the pure state of ordinary people is worthy of emulation—how much more so those who have merged with all things and made transformation their fundamental substance? Is it not perfectly reasonable that such Dao-attainers are revered by all under heaven?

The Dao (cosmic origin) possesses a genuine and trustworthy essence—it acts through wuwei (non-action) and is formless. It can be transmitted but not directly bestowed; it can be realized but not seen or heard. It takes itself as the source, existing eternally before heaven and earth. It makes ghosts and spirits manifest, gives birth to heaven and earth. Neither "high" above the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) nor "deep" below the six directions (universe), neither "ancient" before heaven and earth nor "aged" beyond high antiquity.

The text enumerates numerous Dao-attainers: The ancient sovereign Xiwei mastered it to govern heaven and earth; Fuxi (cultural progenitor) used it to harmonize primordial Qi; the Big Dipper attained it to remain eternally unwavering; the sun and moon obtained it to move without ceasing; the mountain deity Kanhuai employed it to rule Mount Kunlun; the river god Fengyi could thereby roam the waterways; the mountain god Jianwu dwelled securely on Mount Tai; the Yellow Emperor (progenitor of Chinese civilization) rode clouds to ascend the heavens; Zhuanxu (one of the Five Emperors) resided in the Mysterious Palace; the North Sea deity Yuqiang stood at the North Pole; the Queen Mother of the West (supreme female immortal) presided over Mount Shaoguang; Pengzu (longevity immortal) lived from Emperor Shun's era to the Spring and Autumn period's Five Hegemons; and the virtuous minister Fu Yue assisted King Wuding in governing, later transforming into a constellation astride the stars Ji and Wei.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: The Dao possesses qing (sentiment) beyond ordinary emotions—hence its wuwei; it maintains constant faithfulness in non-action—hence its formlessness. Though transmitted through ages, none can wholly possess it; all things exist through it yet none see its form. Its eternal existence before heaven and earth proves that "non-being" (the Dao) requires no dependence on "being" (concrete things). How could "non-being" possibly generate spiritual beings? (This refutes the shallow view of "creation from nothingness")

The text elucidates the essential characteristic of Dao (the Way, core concept in Daoism referring to the cosmic origin and operational principle) as transcending all dualities.

The supreme Dao is revered even by spirits and deities, yet it never deliberately displays its marvels. While it gives birth to heaven and earth, it does not consciously create—this very state of "non-deliberation" constitutes its true wonder. When humans realize they cannot forcibly pursue the miraculous, they may then approach genuine wonder. The Dao is neither lofty nor profound, neither ancient nor recent—it permeates all existence yet remains nowhere to be found.

Dao surpasses all oppositions: having no demarcation between above and below, it cannot be ranked as high or low; having no barrier between inner and outer, it cannot be distinguished as surface or depth; flowing with transformations, it knows no permanence; remaining ever constant, it knows no decay. From the legendary Xiwei (ancient sovereign who attained Dao) to the later Bigan (loyal minister of Shang dynasty), those who seemingly attained Dao merely aligned with the natural awakening of their inherent nature. The Dao never actively bestows itself upon anyone, nor can humans forcibly attain it.

True Dao attainers neither rely on external Dao nor deliberately pursue internal cultivation. Like all things growing naturally, they embody "independent transformation" (self-sufficient spontaneous change). Life itself is a rare miracle, as precious as natural growth. Having already received this life, why forcibly pursue longevity? Deliberate striving only harms life's authentic essence.

The Dao described in the "Great Ancestral Teacher" chapter has no form yet truly exists. The phrase "with feeling and fidelity" (from Laozi) means the Dao contains subtle movement within stillness and constant principles within flux. During the "Grand Undifferentiated" state (primordial chaos before cosmic differentiation), not even Qi (vital energy) existed; only during the "Grand Beginning" phase did Qi first emerge.

The text cites numerous mythological figures: the Northern Dipper governs celestial and terrestrial order; Kanhuai (Kunlun Mountain deity) has a human face and beastly form; Fengyi (River Earl) cultivated at Mount Hua's northern foothills to become a water immortal; Jianwu (mountain deity) attained immortality; the Yellow Emperor rode dragons to heaven upon attaining Dao; Yuqiang (North Sea deity) bears a human face and bird body. These allusions collectively demonstrate that true Dao attainers always follow nature's course—neither forcing nor contriving.

The Classic of Mountains and Seas records that Yu Qiang (the Northern Sea God) treads upon two blue serpents, while the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu, the foremost female immortal) stands atop two red serpents. Xiwangmu’s appearance resembles a human, with a dog’s tail, disheveled hair, and a jade hair ornament called sheng adorning her head. She excels in whistling and dwells by the Xun River. The Inner Biography of Emperor Wu of Han describes Xiwangmu descending before Emperor Wu accompanied by a female immortal, her beauty radiant like a divine being. "Shaoguang" is both the name of a mountain and a term referring to the void-like realm of the west. Legend holds that the constellation symbolizing Xiwangmu lies above the Tail constellation (Wei). It is said she rides upon the eastern celestial pillar (one of the four corners of the heavens), traversing between the Winnowing Basket (Ji) and Tail constellations, with the Winnowing Basket and Dipper (Dou) marking the annual cycle of the Milky Way.

Nanbo Zikui asked the female sage Nüyu: "You are advanced in years, yet your complexion resembles that of a child—how is this possible?" Nüyu replied: "Because I have comprehended the great Dao." Nanbo Zikui pressed further: "Can the Dao be learned?" Nüyu said: "It is hardly so simple! You are not one who can learn it. Just as Bu Liangyi possessed the disposition of a sage but lacked understanding of the sage’s Dao, I possess the sage’s Dao but lack the sage’s disposition. I attempted to teach him—perhaps to forge a true sage? Yet teaching the sage’s Dao to one with a sage’s disposition is inherently not difficult. I waited and instructed him thus: after three days, he could transcend worldly attachments; having transcended these, after seven more days, he could rise above material desires; beyond material desires, after nine more days, he finally shed the clinging to life and death. Reaching this state, he became as lucid as the morning sun, then perceived the singular, unparalleled Dao; perceiving the Dao, he surpassed temporal constraints, ultimately entering the eternity beyond birth and death. That which extinguishes life does not itself perish; that which generates life does not itself live. In such a state, all things are met—none are not sent off, none are not welcomed, none are not destroyed, none are not fulfilled. This is called 'yingning'—attaining tranquility through disturbance."

Nanbo Zikui asked: "From where did you hear this teaching?" Nüyu replied: "From written records, which came from oral transmission, which came from seeing with the eyes and understanding with the heart, which came from resonance with Qi (vital energy), which came from embodied practice, which came from spontaneous song, which came from profound mystery, which came from the vast emptiness, and ultimately from the undifferentiated chaos of the primordial beginning."

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains: Comprehending the Dao enables one to accord with nature, hence vitality fills one’s countenance. "Transcendence" here means going beyond. The necessities of daily life are hardest to relinquish, yet transcending life and death releases all attachments. Freed from the clinging to life, one no longer fears death; unafraid of death, one finds peace in any circumstance.

This passage primarily expounds Zhuangzi's philosophical views on life, death, and nature, along with a parable.

It first discusses the realm of those who have awakened to the Dao: when one thoroughly comprehends the essence of things, one can adapt flexibly without obstruction. By being content with present circumstances and forgetting temporal sequences, one may perceive the singular Dao (referring to the ultimate truth transcending time and space). Those who transcend past and present to wander with the Dao will not be bound by life and death. Clinging to life breeds fear of death, and vice versa; only by neither clinging nor rejecting can one transcend this duality. Letting all things follow their natural course without interference allows everything to fulfill its potential. Those united with all existence maintain inner peace even when entangled with external matters. Deliberately pursuing transcendence ironically creates new bonds, while accord with nature accomplishes all things.

The term "Profound Darkness" (Xuanming, denoting the mysterious state of the Dao) signifies "nothingness," yet not absolute void. Those who seek "nothingness" through names remain trapped in conceptualization. Even attaining the state of "Profound Darkness" proves insufficient—one must advance further to "Vast Emptiness" (Canliao, an even more formless realm), which represents true profundity. The Dao of nature must be comprehended progressively—from shallow to deep, coarse to refined. Only after passing through seven levels can one understand "nothingness," and nine levels to develop doubt about "nothingness," marking the true beginning of Dao cultivation.

The passage then recounts a parable: Four friends—Zisi, Ziyu, Zili, and Zilai—discuss who could regard "nothingness" as the head, life as the spine, and death as the tail. Recognizing life, death, existence, and perishing as one continuum, they become companions. Later, when Ziyu falls ill with a grotesquely deformed body, he remains cheerful. He declares that if the Creator turned his left arm into a rooster, he'd use it to herald dawn; if his right arm became a slingshot, he'd hunt birds to roast; if his buttocks transformed into wheels, he'd ride them with spirit as his steed—thus finding greater freedom. This illustrates how Dao-realized individuals embrace natural transformations with transcendent equanimity.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of harmonizing with nature and transcending life and death. Through the story of Zilai, Zhuangzi illustrates the philosophy of "being at peace with the times and following the natural course."

Human life and death are as natural as the alternation of day and night. If one can follow natural laws without resisting the transformations of life and death, one attains the state of "suspended liberation" (transcending bondage). Those who cannot free themselves often become shackled by external things. Since all beings in heaven and earth are subject to natural laws, why should we despise life and death?

When Zilai lay gravely ill approaching death, his family gathered weeping around him. Li (likely Zhuangzi's fictional character) came to visit and stood at the doorway saying: "Do not disturb this natural transformation!" He then said to Zilai: "How marvelous is the Creator! What will It transform you into next? Will you become a rat's liver or an insect's arm?" Zilai replied: "Children obey their parents' arrangements, but humans must follow the transformations of Yin-Yang even more. Now nature decrees my death—to resist would be to oppose heavenly principle. Heaven and earth gave me form, made me experience life's toils, used old age to grant me rest, and now use death to grant me repose. Therefore, those who cherish life should likewise cherish death."

Zhuangzi employs the metaphor of a blacksmith casting swords: If metal were to leap up declaring "I must become a precious sword," the smith would consider this ominous. Similarly, if humans stubbornly cling to maintaining human form, the Creator would deem them inauspicious. If we regard heaven and earth as a great furnace and creation as the supreme craftsman, then we can peacefully accept whatever form we assume. Death is like peaceful sleep—awakening brings new life.

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: Life and death are like the cycle of waking and sleeping—when sleep comes, do not resist. Since ancient times, some have disobeyed their parents' commands, but none can alter the laws of Yin-Yang or resist day and night's alternation. The Dao of life and death is actually quite near—as ordinary as the turning of day into night.

Death is not something forbidden, yet people stubbornly resist it. This attitude of defying natural principle only hastens one's demise. Death comes precisely because we resist it—there is nothing inherently wrong with death itself. People always treat death as life's opposite, when in fact life and death are two aspects of the same truth. O man, o man! You cling desperately to human form, like molten metal leaping in the furnace (ancient people considered the jumping of melting metal an ill omen). All know such unnatural metal movements portend misfortune, yet refuse to follow nature's transformations. The principle of universal transformation operates everywhere—that we temporarily assume human form now is hardly by conscious design. Life isn't deliberately created; it emerges when conditions ripen. To grow arrogant about this is utterly absurd. All recognize metal's unnatural restraint as ominous—realize you're no different from metal, and attachments may be released. Released from attachments, one follows nature effortlessly: sleeping peacefully, awakening naturally, undisturbed by life or death.

When Zisang Hu, Mengzi Fan, and Ziqin Zhang became friends, they said: "Who can associate without deliberate association? Act without conscious action? Who can roam beyond the heavens, pierce through mists and clouds, wandering carefree in the infinite while forgetting life's boundaries?" The three smiled at each other, hearts in accord, and thus became close companions. Soon Zisang Hu died. Before burial, Confucius sent Zigong to assist with funeral rites. There he found Mengzi Fan composing songs while Ziqin Zhang played the zither, singing together: "Ah, Zisang Hu! You've returned to your true origin while we remain trapped in human form!" Zigong approached asking: "Is singing before a corpse proper ritual conduct?" The two exchanged smiles: "What do you know of ritual's true meaning?" When Zigong reported this to Confucius, the sage said: "They dwell beyond worldly conventions while I remain within them. The inner and outer realms don't communicate—my sending you to mourn shows my shallowness. They companion with the Creator, wandering amidst heaven and earth's primordial Qi (vital energy), viewing life as an unnecessary growth and death as the bursting of a boil. Such people—how could they care about life's sequence? They simply lodge the same essence in different forms."

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's philosophy concerning transcending worldly concerns and attaining unity with the Dao (the Way).

It first describes a state of self-forgetfulness: one discards awareness of internal organs, abandons sensory perceptions, and loses track of beginnings and endings within cyclical transformations. Such a person rises above mundane existence, dwelling carefreely in the realm of wuwei (non-action). Why would such an individual toil anxiously like ordinary people or concern themselves with others' opinions?

When Zigong asked Confucius what path to follow, Confucius called himself "heaven's condemned one," yet expressed willingness to explore the question together. The fish-and-water analogy illustrates this: just as fish depend on water to survive, humans require the Dao to find peace. Like fish swimming freely in rivers and lakes, those immersed in Daoist practice achieve selfless transcendence.

The text explains the concept of the "ji-ren" (eccentric person): though differing from ordinary people, such individuals align with heavenly principles. Thus, those deemed gentlemen by worldly standards may be petty men in the Dao's eyes, and vice versa.

Guo Xiang's commentary further clarifies: those truly united with heaven and earth maintain harmonious integration while their bodily parts function independently. This harmony emerges spontaneously rather than through forced coordination—deliberate attempts create internal and external conflicts. The genuinely enlightened flow with transformations, unconstrained by limitations.

Finally, it discusses the essence of ritual propriety: true masters of etiquette balance inner authenticity with outer expression. Those obsessed with reputation and rigid forms turn familial bonds artificial. The supreme state unites inner and outer—sages manifest inner Dao-nature through outward conduct, responding to nature with wuxin (non-intentional) spontaneity.

Here Zhuangzi expounds a spiritual realm that transcends physical form. Those who are constantly occupied with worldly affairs, focusing solely on external appearances while neglecting inner spirit, will inevitably become entangled in mundane burdens. The truly enlightened, though living and moving among ordinary people, remain unbound by external things; while appearing to adapt to worldly changes, they actually attain the state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (a Daoist cultivation term referring to forgetting physical form and transcending the self-world dichotomy).

Using Confucius (Zhongni) as an example, Zhuangzi illustrates that if one directly claims sages have reached this state, people might deny it based on superficial observations. Therefore, he employs unconventional expressions, embedding the supreme truth within stories of those who dwell "beyond the square" (a realm transcending worldly conventions). Those whose hearts truly wander beyond conventional boundaries can better fulfill worldly responsibilities; those who seem aloof from the crowd actually harmonize perfectly with ordinary existence.

Life and death are like the gathering and dispersion of Qi. Life is merely the temporary coalescence of Qi—no need for excessive joy; death is simply Qi's natural dissipation—no cause for undue sorrow. The cycle of life and death has no end, and by aligning with this transformation, one becomes free from all discomfort. Even concrete organs like the liver, gallbladder, ears, and eyes aren't worth clinging to—one can forget even the five viscera (heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys). Only then can one roam freely along the path of transformation, merging completely with the great Dao.

True "Wuwei" (a core Daoist concept meaning non-coercive action in accordance with nature) isn't about doing nothing, and genuine transcendence doesn't require retreating to mountain forests. Zigong (Confucius's disciple), lacking understanding of inherent nature and heavenly Dao, could only perceive surface appearances. Those bound by worldly rituals see life "within the square" as shackles, revealing their latent appreciation for what lies beyond. The truly liberated actually dwell more comfortably in ordinary life—those who seem solitary are in fact in perfect harmony with the multitude.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "following what is natural" in human affairs. Mengsun Cai, a virtuous man of Lu, showed no tears or grief during his mother's funeral rites—an apparent breach of etiquette that actually revealed his higher spiritual attainment.

Zhuangzi, speaking through Confucius, explains: Mengsun Cai has transcended worldly understanding. He neither claims to comprehend life nor deliberately investigates death, simply following nature's transformations. Like our inability to distinguish dreams from reality—when you dream of being a bird soaring through skies or a fish swimming in waters, how can you be certain upon waking that this isn't another dream? The truly enlightened, like Mengsun Cai, maintain physical participation in funeral rites (startled form) while keeping their hearts undisturbed by sorrow (unharmed mind).

Three profound insights emerge: First, the highest way of living flows as naturally as fish through water—the less one forces things, the more one attains. Second, life and death alternate like day and night; clinging to grief resembles obsession with dreams. Finally, this principle applies to rulers governing states—letting all things develop spontaneously (allowing the natural course of myriad beings) constitutes governance aligned with the Dao (Heaven's Way).

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: While Lu's citizens saw only surface rituals, Yan Hui perceived the essence. Those truly penetrating life-death principles act according to natural patterns (Heaven's movement)—a state unattainable through deliberate study. Like Mengsun Cai, who followed mourning customs externally while maintaining inner detachment—this realm resembles dwelling in temporary lodging (dawn abode), never forming attachments to any circumstance.

Zhuangzi here explores the relationship between life and death, awakening and dreaming, considering them all as part of natural transformation.

Life and death are as natural as the alternation of day and night, requiring no deliberate distinction. The truly enlightened understand that life and death are merely changes in form ("transformation"), like a house being renovated daily ("daily renewal"), while the essence never perishes. Thus, there is no need for excessive grief in the face of death—just as one feels at ease when dreaming of becoming a bird or a fish.

The text mentions how Mengsunshi (a Daoist figure) wept at a funeral yet felt no sorrow, precisely because he had merged with the natural process of transformation ("journeying with transformation"). Ordinary people cling to the formalities of mourning, experiencing genuine grief or joy, while those who comprehend the Dao follow the flow of change—their tears are merely a response to the occasion, unburdened by inner attachment.

From Zisi (a fictional enlightened figure created by Zhuangzi) to Mengsunshi, these sages may express themselves differently (through song or weeping), but their understanding of life and death is the same—they recognize that life and death are merely different states within the natural cycle, as inevitable as the turning of the seasons. The truly awakened are never troubled by the question of life and death, for they have already become one with the transformations of heaven and earth ("united with Heaven").

Yi Erzi (a fictional character) went to visit Xu You (an ancient recluse), who asked him: "What did Yao (the sage king) teach you?" Yi Erzi replied: "Yao instructed me to personally practice benevolence and righteousness, and to clearly distinguish right from wrong."

Xu You disapprovingly said: "Then why have you come to see me? Yao has already tattooed your face with benevolence and righteousness (metaphor for forced indoctrination), and cut off your nose with concepts of right and wrong (metaphor for mental constraints). How can you possibly roam freely in the carefree, unconstrained realm now?" Yi Erzi responded: "Even so, I still wish to approach the fringes of such a state."

Xu You offered an analogy: "The blind cannot appreciate the beauty of brows and eyes, the deaf cannot perceive the splendor of colorful patterns." Yi Erzi countered: "The ancient beauty Wu Zhuang forgot her own loveliness, the mighty Ju Liang ceased boasting of his strength, and the Yellow Emperor (legendary ancestor of Chinese civilization) abandoned his cleverness—all achieved this state after being tempered in the furnace of transformation. Who can say the Creator won't restore my tattooed face and replace my severed nose, allowing me to follow you as my teacher?"

Xu You sighed: "Alas, that's hard to predict. Let me tell you the truth of the Dao: My great teacher! He harmonizes all things yet doesn't claim righteousness, bestows blessings for generations yet doesn't presume benevolence, predates antiquity yet shows no signs of aging, upholds heaven and earth while shaping all creatures yet displays no artifice. This is the true realm of perfect freedom."

Guo Xiang (commentator) explains: Here "tattooing" symbolizes how benevolence and righteousness constrain people, while "nose-cutting" represents how right/wrong distinctions harm them—both referring to how artificial teachings damage natural innocence. "Roaming the fringes" means not daring to hope for full attainment of the Dao, only seeking proximity. Like vessels requiring smelting and tempering, Wu Zhuang, Ju Liang and the Yellow Emperor all relinquished their original attachments after realizing the Dao. The entire passage emphasizes following natural disposition—preserving one's nature is natural, and correcting oneself after losing it is also natural. Xu You's final description of "harmonizing all things" etc. all manifest the Dao's spontaneous operation, needing no deliberate promotion of benevolence/righteousness, showing no aging because of daily renewal, displaying no artifice because it's inherently natural. This is true freedom—taking wuwei (non-action) as the ultimate state, and "no teacher" as the great teacher.

Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) said to Confucius: "I have progressed." Confucius asked: "How so?" Yan Hui replied: "I have forgotten humaneness and righteousness." Confucius said: "Good, but not enough." Several days later, Yan Hui again said: "I have progressed." Asked for explanation, he said: "I have forgotten ritual and music." Confucius said: "Better, but still insufficient." After more days, Yan Hui once more declared: "I have progressed," adding: "I have attained zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness)." Startled, Confucius asked: "What is zuowang?"

Yan Hui explained: "I relax my limbs, dismiss sensory perceptions, leave behind physical form, eliminate intellectual distinctions, and merge completely with the Great Dao (Da) - this is zuowang." Confucius marveled: "In unity with Dao there are no preferences; in accordance with transformation there is no rigidity. Truly you have reached the ultimate! I shall follow and learn from you."

Commentator Guo Xiang explains: Yan Hui's "progress" was achieved through progressive subtraction. Humaneness and righteousness are but manifestations of love and means for accomplishment - clinging to these forms remains superficial. Ritual and music are instruments for regulating conduct - forgetting the instruments themselves is inferior to forgetting the motivation behind their use. True zuowang means clinging to nothing, forgetting both external manifestations and their internal causes. Thus one merges with the transformations of heaven and earth, becoming omnipervasive. Identifying with the myriad things eliminates preferences; following transformations removes stubbornness.

Another story follows: Ziyu and Zisang were friends. After ten consecutive rainy days, Ziyu, worried Zisang might starve, packed food and went to see him. At Zisang's door, he heard what sounded like singing mixed with weeping, accompanied by agitated zither music. Zisang chanted: "Was it my parents? Was it heaven? Why have I come to such extremity?" His voice nearly lost its musicality. Entering, Ziyu asked: "Why such melancholy in your song?" Zisang replied: "I was pondering who brought me to this desperate state. Would parents wish their child impoverished? Heaven and earth impartially shelter all - would they single me out for poverty? Seeking the cause leads nowhere - it must simply be ming (destiny)."

Guo Xiang comments: Their friendship arose naturally. Ziyu's food delivery sprang from instinctive accord with heavenly principle, not deliberate intention.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's critique of rulers' governance methods through several allegorical stories that illustrate the principle of natural non-action (Wuwei).

Nie Que consulted Wang Ni but received no answers to his four questions, yet joyfully went to report this to Pu Yizi. Pu Yizi remarked: "Now you finally understand? Emperor Shun (the Youyu clan) was inferior to Fu Xi (the Tai clan). Shun still clung to benevolent concepts to win people's hearts—though he gained popular support, he never transcended artificial effort. Fu Xi slept in tranquil contentment and awoke in leisurely ease, letting others call him horse or ox as they pleased. His wisdom was genuinely trustworthy, his virtue (De) utterly natural, never entangled in artificial distinctions of right and wrong."

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Both Shun and Fu Xi's deeds represent human artifice—the true Dao leaves no traces. People habitually judge things as right or wrong, but only those surpassing such judgments can enter the realm beyond distinctions. Like accepting being called horse or ox without concern for external evaluations, following nature preserves one's authentic essence.

In another story, Jian Wu met the madman Jie Yu. Jian Wu said: "Zhong Shi told me that rulers need only establish laws and norms—who among the people would dare disobey such edification?" Jie Yu retorted: "This deceives people's virtue (De). Governing like this resembles trying to cross the sea by digging a river, or making mosquitoes carry mountains—utterly absurd. The sage governs by first rectifying himself before influencing others, only acting within his capacity. Observe how birds know to fly high avoiding arrows, and mice dig deep to escape smoke—are humans less intelligent than these small creatures?"

Guo Xiang's annotation clarifies: Imposing personal will upon all things makes them lose their inherent nature. Letting all beings fulfill their natural roles achieves completion without deliberate action. Attempting to control the world through individual power is as impossible as making mosquitoes carry mountains.

Zhuangzi here employs several parables to expound the political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." He argues that forcibly regulating society through rites and laws is as futile as making a mosquito carry a mountain or digging a river in the ocean.

The sage's governance follows the innate nature of all things. Just as birds and beasts instinctively know how to survive without human instruction, and rodents avoid harm by natural instinct—are the common people's wisdom inferior to these small creatures? Imposing countless rules and regulations only disrupts their spontaneous nature.

The text recounts how a man named Tian Gen sought advice on governing from Nameless Man. The latter criticized his utilitarian approach, revealing he was about to accompany the Creator astride an ethereal bird beyond the six directions, journeying to the Land of Nothingness (symbolizing the realm of Dao). This implies true governance requires transcendence beyond worldly calculations.

Nameless Man's essential advice is: "Keep your mind placid, your Qi (vital energy) empty and still. Follow the natural course of all things without selfish interference, and the world will govern itself." Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty commentator) elaborates that this means letting people live according to their innate nature—without artificial embellishments, maintaining emptiness and stillness, thus achieving impartiality through natural accord.

Key terms here include: "false virtue (Qi De)" denoting morality that violates innate nature; "Land of Nothingness" representing Dao's formless realm; and "six extremities" (Liu Ji) referring to the spatial dimensions. These concepts embody Zhuangzi's rejection of artificial interference and advocacy for natural non-action.

The text from Zhuangzi Yi expounds the philosophy of following nature and governing through non-action (Wuwei). The phrase "following the public leads to completeness" means that only by adhering to natural laws can one preserve wholeness. Just as preparation is key to success ("everything established through forethought"), true wisdom lies in grasping the patterns of the Dao's movement before taking action. Those who react only after events unfold are already lagging behind.

Those who have truly attained the Dao walk alongside the Creator ("Maker of Things"), moving in harmony with natural transformations—accommodating without interference. They transcend the confines of the six directions (up, down, and the four cardinal points), ride the void, command the mysterious, and rise above the duality of Yin-Yang. This state is like wandering in the boundless "Land of Nothingness" or dwelling in the luminous clarity of the "Realm of Emptiness." Such is the highest manifestation of "forethought" (yu)—anticipating and aligning with the Dao beforehand.

The text also describes meditative states like "letting the mind roam in tranquility" and "merging Qi with stillness," where the heart returns to utmost serenity and breath settles into profound emptiness. These embody the principle of following the natural state of all things without imposing personal will. The most sublime way of governance is precisely to rule effortlessly through non-action.

Later, the narrative recounts a dialogue between Yang Ziju (Yang Zhu) and Laozi (Lao Dan). Yang Zhu asks: "If someone is quick-witted, resolute, perceptive, and tirelessly studious, could such a person compare to an enlightened ruler?" Laozi replies: "To the sage, these are merely the toils of a technician." Just as tigers and leopards are hunted for their fur, monkeys captured for their agility, and hounds exploited for their skills—how can such talents rival a sage-king?

A true sage-king governs the world with achievements that cover all directions yet seem unrelated to himself. He nurtures all beings without the people feeling dependent, attains no fame yet lets all things find joy in themselves. He stands upon the unfathomable and wanders in the realm of nothingness.

The final episode tells of Ji Xian, a famed diviner from Zheng who could predict life, death, fortune, and misfortune with godlike precision. Liezi (Lie Yukou), awestruck after witnessing this, reports back to his teacher Huzi. Huzi points out: "You've only seen the surface craft, not the substance. Without the rooster's presence, how can the hen hatch eggs? Contending with the world through Daoist arts only exposes oneself." Later, Huzi demonstrates four distinct states of being, leaving Ji Xian utterly unable to discern his fate and fleeing in defeat. This story illustrates how those who embody the Dao are endlessly transformative, surpassing all ordinary measures.

This passage recounts the story of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studying under his teacher Master Huzi, illustrating four realms of Daoist cultivation:

Liezi was amazed when the physiognomist Jixian demonstrated the ability to predict life and death. Master Huzi then instructed Liezi to bring Jixian for a reading. During the first encounter, Huzi displayed the "Earthly Script" realm (a state of stillness like undisturbed earth), prompting Jixian to declare that Huzi looked like "damp ashes" and would soon die. In the second demonstration of the "Heavenly Soil" realm (sprouting vitality), Jixian noted improvement. When Huzi revealed the "Grand Equilibrium" (Taichong) realm (Qi in perfect Yin-Yang balance), the physiognomist became utterly perplexed. Finally, when Huzi manifested the supreme state of "Not Yet Emerged from My Origin" (complete unity with the Dao), Jixian fled in terror.

Master Huzi explained that he simply followed natural transformations—like grass bending with wind or water flowing with currents—making himself incomprehensible to Jixian. Through this, Liezi realized true Dao cannot be attained through deliberate study. He subsequently retreated from society for three years, tending his stove and feeding pigs with the same reverence as serving humans, returning to primal simplicity and merging with all existence.

The conclusion draws parallels to governance: Rulers should emulate the undifferentiated state of Hundun (Chaos), unconstrained by worldly conventions; follow Jieyu's advice to avoid harming the people; maintain the nameless sage's mental serenity; and root themselves in Laozi's "immeasurable Dao." Ultimately, this means abiding in the "Non-Being" (Wu You) realm—acting through non-action (Wuwei) and flowing with nature's course.

Zhuangzi here describes the realm of those who have attained the Dao. Those who truly comprehend the Great Way are like uncarved natural cavities (symbolizing the state of Wuwei, non-action), their joy arising from realizing this innate principle.

Practitioners who haven't yet reached the "non-human" realm remain confined by human limitations, unable to fully merge with the Heavenly Dao. But those truly united with Heaven need no deliberate effort to synchronize naturally with cosmic transformations. Their serene contentment stands in stark contrast to worldly people consumed by scheming—these troubled souls experience restless sleep filled with startling awakenings or dreams, then face waking hours burdened by anxieties, their spirits racing before their bodies even rise.

Dao-attained individuals are entirely different: they dream not in sleep and harbor no worries upon waking. Like responding "ox" when called an ox or "horse" when addressed as such, they conform to external designations while remaining inwardly unbound. This authentic state forms a vivid contrast with the illusory human world.

Their movements flow as naturally as Heaven's revolutions, their stillness resembles Earth's stability. In action, they're like smoothly running water; at rest, like silent abysses. This Wuwei naturalness constitutes perfect unity. When the physiognomist Ji Xian (from Zhuangzi's stories) observed practitioners in meditative self-forgetting, he mistook them for dying; witnessing their spirit-Heaven communion, he imagined them bursting with vitality.

True Dao masters need no deliberate mental effort to align with heavenly principles. Following cosmic transformations unrestrained by worldly standards, they become sovereigns of all things, responding endlessly to circumstance. This realm transcends superficial observation—it embodies the true meaning of "responding as emperors" (governing by conforming to nature).

When inner De (virtuous power) remains unmanifested, it's called "hidden pivot"—the profound mechanism of Dao's operation. Just as Heaven-Earth embrace all things, Dao-realized individuals preserve their natural essence, considering fame and ornamentation superfluous. True mystery originates from the heel (symbolizing fundamental emergence), dwelling in the ultimate Void, with minds vast and tranquil, unified with all existence—thus transcending competition.

Those peering at Heaven through bamboo tubes see not its entirety, hence deem it incomplete. The abyss's silence resembles water's effortless conformity—whether flowing or still, it maintains its original nature.

Zhuangzi here describes the state of being of the "Perfected Person" (one who has attained the highest level of Daoist cultivation). Like a dragon silently preserving its true nature while submerged in deep waters, the Perfected Person maintains inner tranquility and detachment regardless of circumstances. When facing worldly changes, they exhibit three distinctive qualities: first, like flowing water that remains pure at its source; second, adapting to external transformations without becoming entangled; third, seeing through worldly disturbances while preserving their authentic self.

The Perfected Person follows five fundamental principles: not pursuing empty reputation (Wuwei as the corpse of fame), not scheming (Wuwei as the storehouse of plots), not forcing actions (Wuwei as the burden of affairs), not flaunting cleverness (Wuwei as the master of knowledge). They align with the natural order like a mirror reflecting objects—showing things as they come and leaving no trace when they go. Thus they engage with all things without being harmed by external phenomena.

The phrase "eating pork as if eating human food" illustrates the Perfected Person's absence of hierarchical distinctions; "carving then returning to simplicity" refers to shedding ornamentation to regain authenticity; "standing like an uncarved block" describes their preservation of natural form. The text ultimately emphasizes the Perfected Person's mind being empty as a mirror—this emptiness is not vacuity, but a state capable of containing all things.

(Note: References to "Cui Ben" and "Liezi" represent textual variants from different editions, belonging to the field of textual criticism without affecting core philosophical understanding)

This passage from Zhuangzi Yi elucidates the principle of Wuwei (non-action). It begins with the phrase "去即止也" (when things depart, simply stop), meaning one should observe phenomena as they arise (like a mirror reflects), but refrain from imposing subjective interference. By maintaining this attitude, even when facing the vast complexities of the world, one remains free from exhaustion.

The text then recounts a fable: The ruler of the Southern Sea was named Shu Shu, the Northern Sea's ruler was Hu, while the Central region was governed by Hundun (Chaos). Shu and Hu often met in Hundun's territory, who treated them with exceptional kindness. Wishing to repay this kindness, they conspired: "All men have seven apertures (eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth) for seeing, hearing, eating, and breathing—only Hundun lacks them." Thus they attempted to bore seven holes into Hundun, carving one aperture each day. On the seventh day, Hundun died.

Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty commentator) annotates this with "为者败之" (those who act ruin things), illustrating how deliberate intervention backfires. This parable demonstrates that the natural, primordial state (symbolized by Chaos) holds supreme value, while artificial tampering (the boring of holes) destroys it. As the initial teaching suggests, only by observing phenomena with Wuwei's detached serenity can one avoid being burdened by external things.