《莊子翼》Vol. 3

In the third volume of Zhuangzi Yi, the outer chapter "Webbed Toes" discusses the relationship between natural disposition and artificial constructs.

Having six fingers or webbed toes may appear superfluous, yet these are innate natural conditions. In contrast, artificially promoted virtues like humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi), though elevated to the importance of internal organs, actually contradict the natural Dao (the Way). Just as extra toes are merely useless flesh and additional fingers are redundant appendages, overemphasizing humaneness and righteousness is like forcibly adding superfluous elements beyond the five organs—this only leads people astray from their true nature.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: What is long is not excessive, and what is short is not deficient. These seemingly superfluous body parts are innate, not external additions. Whether normal or abnormal, each has its own complete nature. Some consider these extra parts irrational and seek to amputate them, but such actions violate the Great Dao (the Way) and harm Virtue (De). It is akin to discarding useful materials or wasting serviceable goods—how could this be the proper way to govern the world?

All things have their own scale and varying capacities. What is called "superfluous" is merely relative. To reject these differences is to deny the inherent nature of all beings. Those truly unified with the myriad things do not deliberately pursue abundance. Those who excessively exalt humaneness and righteousness may elevate them to the status of internal organs, but this is merely one perspective—it cannot allow all things to fulfill their own roles. The world's measure of abundance or scarcity is not fixed, yet each thing has its ordained portion. Just as a hair cannot be compared to a wheat awn, as long as each abides by its own nature, all can find contentment in their measure.

Some, hearing that more is not necessarily better, go to the extreme of discarding abundance and retaining only scarcity—this is as absurd as rejecting the entire world. The extra parts on hands and feet are formed naturally by life itself; they do not exist because they are useful. The functions of the five organs are inherently diverse, yet some insist on valuing only a few, leading to physical and mental imbalance. Human intelligence and talents are endowed differently—more is not surplus, and less is not insufficiency. But when deluded by desires, people invariably belittle what is scarce and chase after abundance, imitating whatever seems worthy of admiration.

This passage discusses how excessive pursuit of particular talents can lead one astray from natural authenticity. Take Li Zhu, whose exceptionally sharp eyes became fixated on dazzling colors, or Shi Kuang, whose extraordinarily keen ears grew addicted to intricate melodies. Figures like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu exaggerated their virtues to cultivate reputations, while debaters like Yang Zhu and Mo Di entangled themselves in sophistry. These are all deviations from one's innate nature—side paths that miss the Dao.

Those truly aligned with the Dao never violate life's natural state. What should unite isn't forcibly divided; what should separate isn't artificially joined. Consider the wild duck's legs—though short, lengthening them would cause pain; or the crane's legs—though long, shortening them would bring sorrow. Every being possesses its inherent proportions: neither truncating nor elongating preserves it from distress.

Guo Xiang's commentary elaborates: those with normal sight and hearing don't torment themselves envying the blind or deaf. Real suffering arises from striving to surpass Li Zhu's vision or Shi Kuang's hearing. While Zeng Shen and Shi Yu possessed natural benevolence, others forcing imitation of such virtue renders it artificial. People wouldn't emulate tyrants like Jie or bandits like Zhi, yet they compete to copy Zeng and Shi—this erodes true character more severely than any despot could. Those flaunting eccentric arguments swirl in Yang Zhu and Mo Di's rhetorical eddies, ironically making Yang-Mo doctrines sources of mental chaos.

These distinctive individuals simply followed their innate tendencies, each developing unique perspectives. But imposing a single standard on all things leaves nothing adequate. Thus the truest approach isn't rectifying the world by personal criteria, but letting all beings unfold according to their nature. Everything following its spontaneous course—this is the genuine Dao.

This passage explores the relationship between human virtues (renyi) and natural human disposition, arguing that the forced imposition of virtues actually disrupts one's innate nature.

The text employs vivid analogies: just as forcibly separating conjoined toes would make one cry, or amputating extra fingers would cause weeping, both excess and deficiency bring equal suffering. Contemporary moralists anxiously lament worldly suffering while the immoral indulge their desires chasing wealth. The author questions: Do these virtues truly align with human nature?

Since the Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties, why has the world been in constant turmoil? Using tools like compasses and rulers to rectify objects actually damages their inherent nature; binding things with ropes and glue violates their natural state. Attempting to pacify people's hearts through ritual-music indoctrination or virtue preaching already contradicts the natural order of things.

Heaven and earth operate by their own principles: the curved needs no hook to straighten, the straight needs no string to measure, the round needs no compass, the square needs no ruler. All things grow spontaneously without knowing why, attain without understanding how. This truth has remained unchanged since antiquity.

Why then should virtues be imposed like glue and ropes, forcibly confining people within moral frameworks? This only bewilders the world. Minor confusion makes people lose their way, while major confusion alters human nature. Since Emperor Shun promoted virtues to govern the world, people have exhausted themselves pursuing them—has this not used virtues to distort human nature?

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: Virtues originally belong to human disposition and should follow their natural course. Worrying about virtue deficiency and deliberately pursuing it only creates greater loss. Like how conjoined toes aren't excessive nor separated fingers deficient, all things possess their natural states that shouldn't be forcibly altered. Understanding this principle and following one's nature naturally eliminates sorrow.

Zhuangzi believed that excessive emphasis on benevolence (ren) and righteousness (yi) causes people to lose their innate nature. These virtues are not natural human emotions, yet people agonize over them—just as one might view an extra finger (a congenital condition) as superfluous and seek to amputate it, or weep at the sight of a missing finger as though it were a deficiency. In truth, all things have their own inherent nature. If we simply follow what is natural, no harm will come. Why force uniformity?

Promoting universal love (jian'ai, indiscriminate affection) as a superficial practice only leads the world astray. It is like deliberately creating difficulties only to then rescue people from them—yet the world today considers this true virtue. Wealth and status stir greed precisely because some go out of their way to glorify them. If everyone remained content with their lot and acted within their means, who would "cut their feet to fit their shoes" in pursuit of unrealistic desires?

Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), people have clamored after the outward show of benevolence and righteousness, abandoning their natural emotions—is this not self-inflicted suffering? All things have their own inherent patterns; by following them, one finds quiet contentment. To merge with all things, preserving one’s simple and genuine nature without seeking external validation—this is the true path. But exalting benevolence and righteousness only confuses the mind, causing people to lose their authentic selves. Just as reversing east and west does not violate natural order, fixating on these virtues violates innate nature, leading people down a dead end.

Those who truly do no harm to all things do not consciously act with benevolence—its effect arises naturally. Those who ensure all principles are properly aligned do not deliberately enforce righteousness—its efficacy manifests spontaneously. Thus, perfectly measured actions are not the result of pursuing benevolence and righteousness, yet the world exhausts itself chasing appearances, forsaking its true self.

What disturbs the human heart is not always ugliness—often, it is beauty. What disrupts the world is not necessarily violence—frequently, it is benevolence and righteousness. These virtues have become tools for throwing the world into chaos. Even if the sage-king Shun had no intention of altering human nature, the nature of the people had already been transformed.

Since the Three Dynasties, all under heaven have had their innate nature altered by external things: petty men sacrifice their lives for profit, scholars for fame, officials for their clans, and sages for the world. Though their pursuits may seem different, in essence, they all injure their nature and throw away their lives.

This passage vividly illustrates the Zhuangzi school's profound insights on "harming one's nature and sacrificing one's life" through several poignant examples.

The text first presents three comparative cases: Two shepherds—one devoted to study, the other to gambling—both lost their sheep; Bo Yi starved to death at Shouyang Mountain for fame and integrity, while the robber Zhi died at Dongling for wealth and profit. Though their pursuits differed, both damaged their innate nature. Zhuangzi observes how people invariably sacrifice their true selves chasing external things—whether gentlemen pursuing benevolence and righteousness or petty men chasing wealth and goods—the underlying harm remains identical.

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: While the Three Dynasties of antiquity embodied genuine naturalness and Wuwei (non-action), later generations began consciously venerating the concept of "non-action," thereby losing authentic spontaneity. Even sages sometimes unavoidably compromise their nature—how much more so ordinary people? Pheasants forage freely and birds fly without constraint—do they deliberately pursue anything? Those who truly comprehend the Dao may dwell in worldly society, yet remain inwardly undisturbed. People's excessive valuation of life ironically leads them to destroy it through relentless external pursuits. Understanding the true meaning of Wuwei allows transcendence beyond superficial distinctions between sage-kings like Yao/Shun and tyrants like Jie/Zhou, or between gentlemen and petty men.

The passage concludes emphatically: Binding one's nature to benevolence and righteousness—even mastering them like Zeng Shen or Shi Yu—doesn't constitute true perfection; constraining one's nature to culinary delights—even attaining the discernment of Yu'er—doesn't signify genuine understanding. Authentic cultivation means returning to one's spontaneous nature, not compulsively pursuing external standards.

This discussion concerns the relationship between human nature and sensory perception. Zhuangzi illustrates through comparison that true wisdom does not lie in pursuing external standards.

What we call "acute hearing" (cong), if it merely means being like Music Master Kuang (the legendary musician) who mastered the five tones, is not true wisdom. What we call "keen sight" (ming), if it merely means being like Li Zhu (the mythical figure with extraordinary vision) who discerned the five colors, is not true understanding. The "acute hearing" I speak of does not refer to perceiving external sounds, but to listening to one's inner voice; the "keen sight" I speak of does not mean seeing external objects, but perceiving one's true nature.

If a person cannot know themselves but only pursues external standards; cannot abide in their own nature but only envies what others have obtained, they are chasing success in others' eyes rather than their authentic attainment. Whether such a person acts wickedly like the infamous robber Zhi or virtuously like the ancient sage Bo Yi, both are essentially deviations from true nature. I am ashamed of my insufficient cultivation in Dao and De (Virtue), thus I dare neither flaunt the noble conduct of humaneness and righteousness, nor indulge in wickedness.

Guo Xiang (the Zhuangzi commentator) notes: To subordinate one's nature to standards of humaneness and righteousness, deliberately pursuing these virtues, is itself unwholesome. Aligning with one's nature to comprehend all things is true goodness—to surrender oneself to external standards, even achieving mastery like Music Master Kuang or Li Zhu, means losing one's authentic self. Therefore, the wise use of ears and eyes without being enslaved by external standards constitutes true acuity. Those who truly understand self-realization appear to forget humaneness and righteousness yet naturally embody them. Treating these virtues as deliberate goals harms one's nature—this is actually inhumaneness toward life itself. If one cannot preserve their own being, how can they truly benefit others? Only by following one's nature can one naturally benefit others while remaining unburdened by external things.

To abandon one's own capacities for seeing and hearing, blindly imitating others—no matter how skillfully done—is to lose oneself. If we consider all loss of original nature as deviation from the Dao, then regardless of the specific manner of deviation, it is fundamentally the same confusion. Ashamed of my inadequate moral cultivation, I therefore relinquish forced striving, forget gains and losses of fame and fortune, living with unhurried ease to reach the state where self and objects are both forgotten.

(From "Horse's Hooves," Section 9) A horse's hooves can tread frost and snow, its hair withstand wind and cold; it eats grass and drinks water (all these being its natural attributes requiring no human intervention). This passage uses the horse's innate characteristics to illustrate that all things should live according to their spontaneous nature.

This passage uses the examples of horses and pottery-making to reveal how human interference damages natural dispositions, extending into philosophical reflections on social governance.

Zhuangzi employs the metaphor of horses: by nature, horses love to run freely—even a luxurious stable means nothing to them. Bole (an ancient horse expert) claimed to excel at taming horses, using branding irons, shears, and harnesses to domesticate them, yet this resulted in the death of two or three out of every ten horses. When further training methods like starvation and whipping were applied, over half the horses perished. Similarly, potters and carpenters boast of their ability to shape clay and wood according to set rules, but where is the natural disposition of clay and trees that would willingly submit to being constrained into squares and circles?

Guo Xiang’s commentary notes: inferior and superior horses each have their own innate nature. A horse’s natural disposition is not to despise saddles and bridles but rather to have no desire for wealth and luxury. Deliberate attempts at "governing" only destroy their inherent nature. A truly skilled horseman should allow horses to express their natural abilities; forcing them beyond their innate capacities leads to death. If horses are left to act according to their nature, even if they roam the world, their true disposition remains intact.

Zhuangzi argues that those who claim to govern the world well should not act this way. The people possess their own natural tendencies: weaving cloth for clothing, tilling fields for food—this is called "shared virtue" (同德, Tong De). In the most ideal society, people behave with simple honesty, their gazes steady and focused. In such times, there are no paths cut through mountains, no bridges spanning waters; all beings live together, beasts move in herds, and plants flourish abundantly. People may walk hand-in-hand with animals or climb to peer into birds’ nests. In this world, humans dwell alongside beasts and coexist with all things—where then is the distinction between noble and common? All are free of cunning minds, preserving their natural dispositions; all are without greed—this is called "unadorned simplicity" (素朴, Su Pu). By maintaining this simplicity, the people can fully realize their innate nature.

This passage critiques the harm of human intervention upon natural dispositions, advocating instead for governance that follows the natural order. It paints a vision of the Daoist ideal—a "world of perfect virtue" (至德之世, Zhi De Zhi Shi)—where humanity and nature exist in harmonious unity.

Zhuangzi here criticizes how the sages' promotion of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual music damages humanity's natural essence. He observes: Human nature was originally pure and whole, but ever since sages began deliberately extolling ren (benevolence) and yi (righteousness), establishing elaborate yue (music) and li (rituals), the world has become filled with suspicion and division. Just as uncarved wood remains whole—how could there be ceremonial wine vessels without carving? Just as unworked jade retains its integrity—how could ritual gui and zhang tablets emerge?

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: The best governance follows nature's course. The people's fundamental needs are universal—none can do without clothing and food, none can dispense with farming and weaving. By preserving this foundation, rulers need not impose forceful interventions, and the people naturally achieve harmony and unity. In ancient times, people lived with simple contentment, free from excessive desires, coexisting peacefully with all things. But once intellectual cleverness arose, humans strayed from the Dao (the Way) in pursuit of distinctions; once desires sprouted, they deviated from their true nature to ornament superficial appearances.

The norms established by sages are merely surface manifestations (traces) of human development, not their fundamental source. These superficial standards cause ren and yi to lose their authentic meaning, making li and yue diverge from innate nature. Just as artisans' carving damages raw timber, so do sages' ritual laws disrupt natural simplicity. Though the world reveres these ritual objects and norms, their value isn't inherently present. Artisans follow concrete crafting rules, while sages leave behind behavioral models for imitation.

The text concludes with philological analysis of "xi zun" pronunciation: The traditional reading as "suo" may be inaccurate—these wine vessels were actually ritual objects carved with phoenix patterns. Liang Dynasty scholar Liu Yao noted that ancient drinking vessels were all shaped like birds and beasts, with openings at the top and back for pouring, as confirmed by artifacts unearthed in Lu Commandery of Wei.

(Note: This passage reflects the Zhuangzi school's philosophy of "abolishing sageliness and discarding wisdom," arguing that artificial moral norms destroy humanity's innate purity. The mentioned "gui and zhang" were important ancient ritual objects, while "xi zun" refers to animal-shaped ceremonial wine vessels—all symbolizing the artificial regulations of civilization.)

This passage from Zhuangzi Yi discusses two core ideas: first, that human interference disrupts the natural essence of things, and second, that the worldly veneration of cleverness and the so-called "Way of the Sages" may ultimately serve the purposes of great thieves.

The text begins with the example of horses, illustrating how they naturally graze, drink, nuzzle when content, and kick when angered. Yet when humans impose bridles, harnesses, and training methods, horses learn to resist—biting at bits or breaking free. Zhuangzi argues this is not the fault of the horses, but of trainers like Bo Le, who violate their innate nature.

Next, it describes the simplicity of life in the ancient era of the Sovereign He Xu, where people wandered joyfully after eating their fill. But when sages instituted rituals, music, and moral doctrines like ren (humaneness) and yi (righteousness), people began pursuing cunning and competing for profit. Here, Zhuangzi places the blame squarely on the sages. Guo Xiang’s commentary adds that only by following natural tendencies can one go far; enforcing uniform standards exhausts the people’s vitality.

Finally, a satirical analogy about theft exposes the folly of worldly wisdom: people reinforce boxes and chests to thwart petty thieves, yet grand thieves simply carry off the entire container. Similarly, the state of Qi modeled its institutions on the sages’ teachings—only for Tian Chengzi (the usurper of Qi) to steal the entire kingdom. This demonstrates how the so-called "laws of the sages" become tools for tyrants. As the saying goes, "The petty thief of a hook is executed; the grand thief of a state becomes a lord." Benevolence and righteousness, in the end, are co-opted by rulers to consolidate power.

(Note: Terms like ren (仁) and yi (义) are left in pinyin as they are central Confucian concepts critiqued here. "Sovereign He Xu" (赫胥氏) follows convention for mythological rulers.)

This passage uses the example of Tian Chengzi usurping the state of Qi to reveal how one may outwardly emulate the sages while actually engaging in banditry. Tian Chengzi not only stole the state of Qi but also appropriated the governance methods of the sages to consolidate his rule, ensuring that smaller states dared not criticize him and larger states dared not attack him—ultimately maintaining his lineage's rule for twelve generations. This demonstrates that even the so-called "laws of the sage's wisdom" can be exploited by great thieves to secure their power.

Guo Xiang's commentary points out that such imitation of the sages merely copies their superficial actions, while the sages' deeds belong to the past and cannot adapt to changing circumstances. Clinging to these outdated traces to respond to the unpredictability of worldly affairs only leads to rigidity. If methods for safeguarding a state fall into the hands of great thieves, they will instead be used to uphold their rule. Without appropriating the sages' laws, great thieves could never seize a state. Thus, the laws of the sages can be wielded by anyone and do not necessarily ensure the preservation of a state.

Extending this discussion, is not what the world calls "supreme wisdom" merely accumulating wealth for great thieves? Are not the so-called "most sagely" figures merely guarding the interests of thieves? Throughout history, virtuous men like Long Feng, Bi Gan, Chang Hong, and Wu Zixu could not escape execution. When the disciples of the infamous robber Zhi asked him whether banditry also had its principles, he replied that of course it did: "Guessing what valuables are inside a house is wisdom; leading the way in is courage; being the last to withdraw is righteousness; judging the right moment is discernment; and dividing the spoils fairly is benevolence. Without these five qualities, one cannot become a great robber." From this, we see that good men cannot establish themselves without the Way of the sages—yet neither can Robber Zhi operate without it.

In the world, good men are few while the wicked are many. Thus, the Way of the sages benefits the world little and harms it much. It is like the teeth growing cold when the lips are gone, or how the weak wine of Lu led to the siege of Handan. The emergence of sages, in fact, gives rise to great thieves. Only by rejecting the sages and tolerating bandits can the world find peace. When rivers dry up, valleys become empty; when hills are leveled, abysses are filled. Only after the death of the sages will great thieves cease to arise, and the world naturally settle into order. As long as sages exist, great thieves will not stop. Even honoring the sages cannot cure this disorder.

This passage uses the metaphor of the legendary robber Zhi to critique how rulers' attempts to establish systems and norms often backfire, creating greater problems. Just as creating measuring vessels (斗斛) to standardize grain led to the vessels themselves being stolen, establishing scales (权衡) for fair trade resulted in the scales being taken, and crafting official seals (符玺) to build trust turned the seals into tools for theft—so too does promoting benevolence and righteousness (仁义) to rectify human hearts end with these very virtues being appropriated for selfish ends.

Why is this so? Petty thieves face execution, yet those who steal entire states become feudal lords. These lords fill their mouths with talk of virtue (德) and morality—have they not stolen the sages' wisdom as well? Thus those who pursue grand larceny and usurp feudal positions appropriate not only material goods but also the institutional tools of measurement, scales, and seals. Against such acts, neither high-ranking positions nor severe punishments prove effective. That robber Zhi could reap enormous benefits without restraint precisely reveals the fault of the sages (the system-makers).

Hence fish cannot leave deep waters, just as a state's stratagems should not be casually displayed. The governing principles (道) established by sages resemble sharp weapons of the world—they should never be publicly revealed. As the commentator Guo Xiang noted, tyrannical rulers rely precisely on these sagely systems to execute virtuous ministers with imperial authority unchallenged. Without such sagely laws, how could tyrants like Jie of Xia or Zhou of Shang have maintained their thrones while poisoning the world?

The five virtues of sagely wisdom, courage, and benevolence—originally meant to prevent theft—ironically become the robber's tools. Sages bring fewer benefits than harms to the world. Though this critique seems harsh, we cannot wholly deny the sages' role, for humanity cannot completely abandon the pursuit of wisdom—thus we still need the sages' way (道) to maintain order. Yet abolishing only sagely wisdom while retaining other forms of cleverness may cause greater harm. Still, preserving sages remains slightly better than complete chaos without them, though neither compares to eliminating all artificial constraints entirely.

All people chase profit yet cannot relinquish their attachment to wisdom—what profound delusion! Just as chapped lips aren't meant to make teeth cold, yet the teeth freeze regardless; just as Lu's weak wine didn't intend Handan's siege, yet the city suffered—so too did sages' emergence not aim to spawn great robbers, yet the robbers arose inevitably through natural mutual generation (相生). Though sages don't promote external things, they cannot stop the world's pursuit of them.

People, whether noble or humble, and affairs, whether true or false—as long as they uphold the laws of the sages, the world will silently submit. This is precisely the fertile ground on which great thieves like Jie of Xia and Robber Zhi thrive. If we discard these artificial norms and return to our simple, innate nature, reducing desires, we can instead preserve our natural integrity. Even if we relax control over thieves and bandits, deceit and evil will naturally vanish.

As the ancients wisely said: Preventing wickedness lies in maintaining sincerity, not in strict surveillance; eliminating extravagance lies in inner purity, not in harsh laws. Just as draining a river will not empty a valley—for the valley is inherently empty—and leveling a hill will not fill an abyss—for the abyss is naturally deep—so too, abolishing the laws of the sages is not meant to stop thieves, yet thieves will disappear. The root of controlling theft lies in eliminating greed, not in glorifying sagely wisdom.

If we uphold sages to govern the world, great thieves like Jie of Xia and Robber Zhi will instead exploit these very laws. The more significant the rules they appropriate, the greater the benefits they reap. Petty thieves rely on the same tools that great thieves use to seize profit. The carriages, crowns, axes, and punishments meant to prohibit theft are precisely what great thieves steal and wield for themselves. True great thieves invariably cloak themselves in benevolence and righteousness, using the scales of power to whitewash their rule, relying on seals to establish authority, tempting people with official ranks, and enforcing their rule through punishments. Once they steal these public powers, they can openly command the feudal lords.

Thus, methods like benevolence, righteousness, rewards, and punishments may at best punish petty thieves who steal hooks, but they are powerless against great thieves like Robber Zhi. Great thieves are hard to stop precisely because what they steal is too significant—and this significance stems from the authority of the sages’ laws. Therefore, the key to controlling theft lies in devaluing material things, not in exalting sages. Just as fish that leave the deep pool will be caught, and weapons displayed will become tools for thieves, the sage does not lightly reveal these instruments of governance.

A true sage should cast aside cleverness and return to a state of primal simplicity. When all things return to their roots and settle into their natural state, the artificial traces of governance—like rites and laws—become burdens. These tools of rule are like footprints: to display the instruments of power openly is to provide thieves with the very means of their crimes.

Consider the historical anecdote of "thin Lu wine and the siege of Handan": When Chu hosted an alliance meeting, Lu presented weak wine while Zhao offered rich wine. The official in charge of wine demanded the good wine from Zhao but was refused. In anger, he switched the wine jars, leading the king of Chu to mistakenly believe Zhao had presented inferior wine, thus launching a siege on Handan. This shows that seemingly solemn institutions can instead be exploited by petty men, leading to great calamity.

This passage discusses Zhuangzi's critique of artificial contrivances and his advocacy for returning to natural authenticity. The meaning is as follows:

When people discard so-called sage wisdom, great thieves will vanish; destroy precious jades and jewels, and petty thieves will disappear. Burn talismans and seals, and the common people will return to simplicity; break measuring tools and steelyards, and people will cease to quarrel. Only by completely abolishing these artificially established sage laws can we discuss the true Dao with the people.

Disrupt musical standards, destroy instruments, and plug the ears of the famous musician Shi Kuang—only then can all under heaven preserve their natural hearing. Eliminate ornate patterns, confuse the five colors, and glue shut the eyes of the sharp-sighted Li Zhu—only then can all under heaven maintain their natural vision. Destroy measuring tools, discard compasses and rulers, and break the fingers of the skillful craftsman Gong Chui—only then can all under heaven display their natural dexterity. Thus, true skill appears clumsy.

Exemplary moralists like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, or eloquent debaters like Yang Zhu and Mo Di—their words and actions actually disrupt the world. Only by abandoning these artificial standards of benevolence and righteousness can the virtue (De) of the world return to its natural unity.

Guo Xiang (the Jin Dynasty commentator) explains: Remove what people rely on, and without prohibition, things will naturally cease; devalue what people treasure, and without punishment, things will naturally disappear. Eliminate the tools of deceit and dependence, and craftiness will have no means to operate. Those seemingly minor imbalances are precisely the roots of major disharmony. Without external affectation, the inner mind can preserve its pure original nature.

Things like music and beautiful colors, or figures like Shi Kuang and Li Zhu—these are what people excessively pursue with their ears and eyes. Life has its inherent limits; over-pursuit of external things leads to the loss of one's true nature. If we destroy these artificially exalted things and follow spontaneity, each person's innate abilities can be fully preserved.

Just as spiders spin webs and dung beetles roll balls without being taught by craftsmen, all things have their natural instincts. Though abilities differ, there is no need to force uniformity—what appears clumsy is actually skillful. Thus, those skilled at employing people let the square handle square tasks and the round handle round tasks, each fulfilling their capacities. Not demanding that all people attain Gong Chui's level of skill may seem clumsy, yet it allows the world to operate naturally—this is true great skill. By following natural abilities, even compasses and rulers can be discarded, and the fingers of skilled artisans become unnecessary.

This passage presents Zhuangzi's vision of an ideal society. He believed that by eliminating leaders who disturb people's minds, humanity could return to its original pure nature and attain harmony with "profound De (Virtue/Power)"—the supreme virtue of natural non-action (Wuwei).

The text mentions representatives of various schools of thought like Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, Yang Zhu, and Mo Di, noting how their differing doctrines led people to imitate them competitively. Such imitation causes individuals to lose their authentic selves, turning these philosophies into sources of mental disturbance.

Zhuangzi proposes the true principle should be: Let eyes see only what they can perceive, so all may discern clearly; let ears hear only what they can detect, so all may listen wisely; let hands do only what they're capable of, so each may develop expertise; let knowledge not exceed one's understanding, so everyone finds their proper place; let virtue (De) not surpass one's inherent capacity, so all may live in abundance. Why chase after things beyond our innate nature, exhausting the world's people in futile pursuits that prevent their return to authenticity?

Zhuangzi then depicts the golden age of supreme virtue, naming twelve legendary rulers like Rongcheng Shi and Dating Shi. In that era, people kept records with knotted ropes, found contentment in simple food and clothing, lived peacefully according to custom, and though neighboring states were within sight, their inhabitants never visited each other—this represented the best governance. Nowadays, people crane their necks and stand on tiptoes to follow so-called sages, abandoning their homes to wander everywhere—all due to rulers' misguided emphasis on cleverness.

Finally, Zhuangzi uses three metaphors to illustrate the harm of excessive cleverness: With too many bird traps, birds find no peace; with too many fishing devices, fish find no rest; with too many animal snares, beasts find no tranquility. Similarly, when sophistry and doctrines proliferate, they confuse people's minds. The great disorder of the world stems precisely from this glorification of cleverness. People pursue what they don't know while neglecting what they do; they criticize others' faults while failing to examine their own.

This passage primarily discusses the dangers of excessive pursuit of cleverness and artificial governance, advocating instead for ruling in accordance with nature.

Those who consider themselves clever are precisely the root cause of the world's great disorder. Their actions obscure the light of the sun and moon above, disrupt the Qi (vital energy) of mountains and rivers below, and disturb the orderly progression of the four seasons in between. Even the smallest insects and most delicate birds lose their natural dispositions. The excessive veneration of cleverness has thrown the world into chaos, and this has been so since the three dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou. Rulers abandon simple, honest people while favoring smooth-talking flatterers; they relinquish the principle of Wuwei (non-action) in favor of incessant lecturing. This endless preaching has already thrown the world into complete disarray.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: In ancient times, people using knotted ropes for record-keeping were perfectly capable of handling daily affairs, content with their circumstances. But once the pursuit of extravagant pleasures begins, satisfaction becomes forever elusive. When people don't interact with each other, that is true desirelessness. When people pack provisions to follow so-called sages, abandoning their families and leaving their homeland, even a golden age would develop such flaws. The more rulers venerate cleverness, the more prone they are to error. When governing through cleverness, the more stringent the controls, the more ingenious the methods of evasion become. Not even birds and beasts can be tamed through cleverness—how much less human beings? Therefore, one cannot govern the world by relying on cleverness, for reliance on cleverness prevents attainment of true subtlety. When those above crave too much, those below cannot even meet basic needs. When a naturally modest disposition chases after excess, one loses one's way. Pursuing what one shouldn't know while neglecting what one should—this is abandoning oneself to imitate others. When everyone promotes what they personally consider good, competitive strife arises. Fortune and misfortune, good and bad luck all stem from reckless action, and the reckless action induced by cleverness can indeed shake heaven and earth and affect all living things. As rulers, how can they not forget such cleverness? Endless lecturing means using oneself to instruct others.

Chapter 11 of "Letting Be and Exercising Forbearance" states: We've only heard of letting the world be at ease, never of governing it. "Letting be" means worrying that people might indulge their innate nature; "exercising forbearance" means worrying they might alter their De (Virtue). If people neither indulge their nature nor alter their Virtue, what need is there to govern the world? In ancient times, when Yao governed, he made everyone ecstatic with joy—this disturbed people's innate peace. When Jie governed, he made everyone anxious and worried—this caused people's innate nature to suffer. Neither peaceful nor happy—this cannot be called Virtue. Nothing in this world that goes against Virtue can endure. Excessive joy in humans damages Yang Qi, while excessive anger damages Yin Qi. When these two energies become imbalanced, the four seasons fail to progress properly, and the cycles of cold and heat lose their regularity.

This passage discusses how excessive emphasis on reward and punishment systems ultimately harms human nature. When people's emotions fluctuate unpredictably and their actions lose proper measure, it leads to great disorder in the world. Extreme behaviors emerge—from the legendary bandit Zhi to virtuous figures like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu.

Even mobilizing the entire world's resources wouldn't suffice to reward all good deeds, nor would it be enough to punish all wrongdoing. Since the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), people have clamorously treated rewards and punishments as supreme priorities—when would they ever find time to settle their fundamental nature and authentic feelings?

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: When people develop freely, the world naturally achieves peace; deliberate governance instead creates chaos. Human nature is inherently upright—undisturbed, it never strays from its essence. If rulers cannot practice wuwei (non-action) governance, the people will follow their example, resulting in rampant greed. We revere sage-kings not for their governance skills, but for their wuwei approach that allows all things to develop naturally.

Though Emperor Yao allowed the world freedom, his governance methods still left traces. While orderly and chaotic eras differ, both cause later generations to lose their tranquil, joyful nature, making people compete for fame and profit while despising each other. Rather than praising Yao and condemning Jie, it's better to forget both. Only by maintaining inner serenity can one endure.

Emotional instability and behavioral excess stem from rulers like Yao and Jie. They make all things oscillate between extreme emotions, creating disasters. Among heaven and earth's creatures, humans are most easily disturbed by emotions, affecting all beings and disrupting yin-yang balance. When the mind obsesses over gain and loss, filling people with volatile emotions, it disrupts the seasons' rhythm and causes all things to wither.

People who do good for rewards will never find sufficient incentives; those restrained by punishment will never be adequately deterred. Only by forgetting rewards and punishments can nature fully develop. These were originally sage-kings' tools for handling merits and faults—not for encouragement or intimidation. Only by abandoning such methods can we return to authenticity.

Yet post-Three Dynasties rulers clung to these techniques, busily chasing external forms—when would they ever settle fundamental nature and authentic feelings? Excessive visual indulgence becomes obsession with beauty; excessive auditory indulgence becomes obsession with music.

Here Zhuangzi critiques the Confucian emphasis on virtues like humaneness (ren), righteousness (yi), ritual (li), and music (yue). He argues that excessive focus on humaneness disrupts people's natural disposition, insistence on righteousness violates the patterns of the Dao, preoccupation with ritual reduces it to empty formalism, promotion of music leads to indulgence, veneration of sages turns them into performers, and pursuit of knowledge breeds fault-finding.

If all people could abide by their innate nature, these moral constructs would be unnecessary. But when humans lose their original nature, such norms become like "binding ropes" and "swollen sacks" that disturb the world. Tragically, people revere these constraints, even observing fasts, performing prostrations, and celebrating them with song and dance.

Thus the true gentleman governs the world best through wuwei (non-action)—avoiding forceful interference. Only through non-interference can people return to their natural state. Those who cultivate themselves can be entrusted with the world; those who cherish themselves can become its stewards. When gentlemen neither deplete their five viscera's jingqi (vital essence) nor overuse their intellect, they appear still as corpses yet manifest like dragons, silent as deep pools yet thunderous when moved. Their shen (spirit) resonates with heavenly intent through effortless action, allowing all things to follow their course naturally. Why then would deliberate governance be needed?

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: What accords with heavenly principle needs no forced approval—insistence breeds chaos. Letting beings follow their nature brings natural tranquility. Clinging to these eight moral constructs prevents such spontaneity. That people treasure these shackles rather than discard them shows profound delusion. Wuwei isn't passive silence but letting things unfold naturally; "acting by necessity" means yielding to the Dao's flow. Those who recklessly sacrifice themselves to external things cannot even preserve their own being, let alone stabilize the world. Without depletion or artificial elevation, following nature unites one's spirit with all existence, free as floating dust.

This passage, through the dialogue between Cui Qu and Lao Dan (Laozi), reveals the dangers of artificially interfering with the human heart-mind. Laozi believed the human heart-mind is inherently difficult to control—restless like water, sometimes ebbing and sometimes surging. When soft, it can contain what is hard; when sharp, it can carve all things. Heated, it burns like fierce flames; chilled, it freezes like bitter ice. In the blink of an eye, it can influence matters beyond the Four Seas. When calm, it is as still as an abyss, yet when agitated, it becomes as uncontainable as something suspended in the heavens.

The Yellow Emperor first attempted to regulate the heart-mind through humaneness (ren) and righteousness (yi). Yao and Shun toiled tirelessly, their thighs grown thin and calves hairless from exhaustion, pouring their hearts into promoting these virtues and establishing laws. Yet they still failed to fully master it. Yao had no choice but to exile the unruly like Gonggong and Huandou. By the time of the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), the problem had worsened. Figures like the tyrant Jie of Xia and the infamous robber Zhi emerged, alongside sages like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu. Competing schools of thought led to mutual suspicion, deception, and conflict, causing the decline of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) in the world and exhausting the common people. Rulers then resorted to harsh punishments—axes, saws, ink lines, chisels—to enforce control, only to plunge the world into chaos. The root of this disorder lay in forcibly trying to restrain the heart-mind.

Today, those executed by punishment pile up like mountains; those in cangues crowd in lines; the mutilated are seen everywhere. Yet Confucians and Mohists still raise their voices between these shackles, proclaiming their doctrines—truly shameless! Laozi laments: Who can guarantee that sagely wisdom won’t become the tenon and mortise of shackles? That humaneness and righteousness won’t become parts of torture devices? That worthies like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu won’t pave the way for tyrants like Jie and Zhi? Thus, only by discarding sagely wisdom and humaneness-righteousness can the world find peace.

Guo Xiang’s commentary observes: Interfering with the heart-mind damages its natural disposition. Suppressed, it sinks; exalted, it rises—proof of its volatility. Only by neither suppressing nor exalting it can harm be avoided.

This passage explores the relationship between social norms and natural essence from a Daoist perspective. The general meaning is:

When hard things maintain a soft state, rigidity transforms into gentleness. Just as scorching flames can burn people and solid ice can freeze them, these harms arise from excessive accumulation of emotions. If things could preserve their original unadorned state, free from artificial carving and alteration, where would such injuries exist?

The human mind is ever-changing—calm as a deep abyss in stillness, yet agitated as if soaring to the heavens when in motion. Following one's innate nature brings clarity and ease, while forced constraints only provoke anger and arrogance. Once such emotions erupt, they become uncontrollable. The Yellow Emperor (the ancient sage-king revered in Daoism) did not deliberately promote benevolence and righteousness; he simply coexisted naturally with all things, and these virtues manifested spontaneously. Later generations observed these manifestations and rushed to imitate them, but in truth, they only copied superficial forms.

The reputations of sage-kings like Yao and Shun are merely labels bestowed by later generations. The more people marvel at these sagely traces, the further they stray from the essence. Just as travelers do not alter their steps based on whether the road is smooth or treacherous, the essence of sages remains the same—only their expressions differ across eras, appearing as Yao, Shun, Tang of Shang, or King Wu of Zhou. The true Dao of sages transcends such specific titles.

Today, people cling to superficial norms of benevolence and righteousness, suspecting and accusing one another, unable to return to their authentic nature. Those of great De (Virtue) can embrace differences, while ordinary people quarrel over minor disagreements. Endlessly pursuing knowledge and desires, people carve their innate nature with countless rules, leading to social chaos. If they could follow the natural order, letting the wise and foolish each find their place, and the noble and humble each settle into their roles, the world would naturally attain peace.

Yet these superficial norms only disturb the human heart, exhausting people as they chase after them. Those of mediocre intelligence and below habitually disguise their true nature to deceive others and reject the upright. Those who preserve their genuine essence lose their footing, while those who glorify falsehoods seize power—resulting in anxious rulers and suffering commoners. All this stems from the disasters caused by pedantic Confucians rigidly clinging to surface-level norms. Instead of abandoning form to return to essence, they intensify their efforts to govern norms with norms—utterly shameless. It's like using shackles to correct criminals; the result is only the opposite of what's intended.

Here Zhuangzi critiques artificial social constructs. Using a carpenter's tools as metaphor: intricate joinery techniques like mortise-and-tenon joints resemble the sages' promotion of benevolence and righteousness—while appearing to prevent wrongdoing, they actually compel people to affect moral behavior, breeding hypocrisy and cunning. When everyone masters pretense, harsher punishments become necessary to restrain them, creating a vicious cycle. Better to abandon these human-made standards altogether—then even shackles and cangues would naturally fall into disuse, rendering joinery techniques superfluous. Just as powerful bows and sharp arrows can be misused by thieves, moral exemplars like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu could be exploited by tyrants like Jie or bandits like Zhi. To truly eliminate calamity, one must sever the root of sagely wisdom and artificial cunning.

The passage then recounts the Yellow Emperor's quest for the Dao. After ruling for nineteen years, hearing the immortal Guangchengzi dwelled on Mount Kongtong, he sought counsel: "I wish to harness heaven-earth's essence to nourish the people, harmonize yin-yang to sustain all beings—how should I proceed?" Guangchengzi rebuked him for focusing on material phenomena and natural byproducts, pointing out that since the emperor began governing, rain fell before clouds fully gathered, plants withered before turning yellow, even sun and moon dimmed—all consequences of forcibly interfering with nature's rhythms.

The emperor withdrew for three months of introspection, then returned humbly to inquire: "How may I cultivate my person to attain longevity?" Only then did Guangchengzi reveal the truth: The supreme Dao is profoundly mysterious—close sensory gates, maintain mental serenity, and the body will naturally attune. Practice wuwei (non-action), neither straining the body nor depleting jing (essence), to achieve enduring life. Let eyes see nothing, ears hear nothing, heart make no distinctions—allow shen (spirit) to guard the form. Preserve inner vitality while shutting out external disturbances, for excessive cleverness invites misfortune. He then describes the Dao's ultimate state: simultaneously reaching luminous pure-yang origins and penetrating obscure pure-yin roots. Heaven-earth governs itself, yin-yang follows its own patterns—simply guard your own being carefully, and the myriad things will transform naturally.

I (Guangchengzi) focus on maintaining the pure unity of the Dao within, harmonizing body and mind. Thus after cultivating myself for twelve hundred years, my form has never aged. The Yellow Emperor bowed reverently and said: "Master Guangchengzi has truly attained the state of unity between heaven and humanity!"

Guangchengzi continued: "Come closer, and I shall instruct you. The myriad things between heaven and earth are boundless, yet people insist on perceiving limits; the great Dao is unfathomably profound, yet men seek to grasp its boundaries. Those who comprehend my Dao may become sage-emperors above or enlightened rulers below; those who lose my Dao see only fleeting reflections above and become mere dust below. Observe how all things sprout from earth, only to return to earth in the end. Therefore I shall leave you now to enter the Gate of Eternity, wandering the realm of infinity. I shall shine with the sun and moon, enduring alongside heaven and earth. When I merge with the great Dao I appear distant; when I withdraw I seem obscure. All men must eventually die, yet I remain forever."

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: To seek the essence of the ultimate Dao is to return to one's original truth. Forcing artificial constraints upon natural disposition only causes harm. If all people cultivated themselves without deliberately governing the world, peace would naturally prevail. The reason Laozi and Zhuangzi repeatedly emphasized the concept of "non-being" (wu) was to demonstrate that the source which transforms all things is itself no particular thing—the myriad beings arise spontaneously. Since all things emerge naturally, why cling to what has already formed?

When you refrain from straining to see, vision becomes clear; when you cease straining to hear, hearing becomes acute. Thus your spirit remains undisturbed and your form never strays from the proper path. Do not exhaust your body, do not agitate your vital essence (jingqi), and by following nature you'll maintain tranquility without premature decline. These principles stem from acting according to innate disposition, hence enabling longevity.

Guard carefully the true nature within, closing the gates to external desires. Forcing comprehension of the infinite leads only to failure. Only by exhausting the origin of yin and yang can one enter the supreme radiance and penetrate the profoundly mysterious domain. All things have their proper functions and resting places—simply follow their natural course. Seek the fundamental truth of innate nature and life (xingming), attain the realm of enduring life, and only with an undecayed body can you benefit all beings.

The great Dao is inherently boundless, yet people imagine ultimate limits—they perceive but one transformation. Titles like "sage-emperor" or "enlightened ruler" are merely designations that shift with the times; what matters is comprehending the Dao of transformation to respond to endless changes, for the essence remains constant. Losing hold of the Dao's infinity confines one to partial views, unable to connect above and below. Though earth has no conscious intent, it nurtures all things—thus we should return to this state of no-mind, walking alone with the great Dao into eternal boundlessness.

Here, through the dialogue between Cloud General and Primordial Chaos, Zhuangzi elucidates the core Daoist concept of "non-action in accordance with nature."

Cloud General (symbolizing purposeful action) encounters Primordial Chaos (symbolizing the natural Dao) twice during his eastern travels. At their first meeting, the anxious Cloud General asks how to harmonize Heaven-and-Earth's Qi to nourish all beings, to which Primordial Chaos simply claps his thighs and exclaims "I don't know!" Three years later when they meet again, Cloud General respectfully inquires about governing principles. Primordial Chaos points out that forcibly altering natural laws (the constants of Heaven) and violating the innate nature of things (the dispositions of creatures) leads to ecological imbalance—nocturnal cries of birds and beasts, blighted vegetation—all consequences of human interference.

The solution Primordial Chaos offers begins with inner cultivation: resting content in Wuwei (non-action), allowing all things to evolve naturally. One must relinquish attachment to physical form, abandon cleverness and artifice, merging completely with the myriad beings. Liberate your Shen (spirit) to attain a state beyond thought and worry. When all things grow naturally, each returns to its origin (root), maintaining primordial simplicity. The deliberate pursuit of knowledge or forced action would only disrupt this natural harmony.

This dialogue vividly illustrates the Daoist philosophy of "following natural spontaneity"—opposing artificial interference with natural laws while advocating a return to authenticity and governance through non-action. The state of "undifferentiated chaos" described here represents the supreme realm of unity with the Dao that Daoism reveres.

This passage from The Wings of Zhuangzi elucidates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The fictional character Yun Jiang realizes that the Dao of heaven manifests through wordless means—true virtue (De) requires no deliberate pursuit but emerges spontaneously.

The text emphasizes that genuine governance doesn't rely on human interference. When rulers are inwardly fulfilled, they need no contrived actions, and the people will naturally follow their example. Just as beasts form herds and birds chorus at dusk—phenomena arising spontaneously—forced intervention disrupts inherent harmony. Grasses, trees, and insects flourish by their own rhythms; human attempts to "govern" them often sow disorder instead.

The passage critiques those who constantly seek validation while rejecting differing views. Such individuals may appear unconventional yet remain inwardly dependent on public approval. Like rulers who employ popular techniques to administer states, they fixate on the perceived benefits of the Three Sage-Kings' governance while ignoring its latent perils. States governed this way have less than one in ten thousand chances of survival—while courting near-certain collapse.

The crux of Daoist cultivation lies in "sitting in oblivion" (transcending worldly knowledge) and "following spontaneity." True return to one's original nature isn't achieved through deliberate cognition but through a primal, unknowing state akin to primordial chaos (hundun), allowing all things to revert to their authentic selves. Forced comprehension backfires—probing and prying disrupts natural growth.

Ultimately, the essence of nurturing the heart-mind lies in relinquishing calculation. By neither fixating on doctrines nor external objects, one silently aligns with the Dao's spontaneity. This attunement achieves the Wuwei state of effortless transformation, merging with the undifferentiated primordial Qi (yuanqi) and dissolving all boundaries with the myriad things. Herein lies the authentic return to original nature.

The passage elucidates the essence of the Daoist concept of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). Zhuangzi posits that those who truly possess the world (the "landowners") remain unbound by external things, for they understand that the true master of all things (the "thinger of things") is itself no concrete object. This state transcends mere governance—it represents a transcendent mode of being.

The Dao-realized individual moves freely between heaven and earth ("passing beyond the six directions, wandering the nine continents"), maintaining sovereign detachment ("going alone, coming alone"). Such "solitary possession" constitutes the noblest state. The sage's teachings follow as naturally as shadows conform to shapes or echoes respond to sounds, harmonizing with the innate nature of all things while serving as the world's complementary force.

Guo Xiang's commentary expands this view: when all strive for distinction, they paradoxically become indistinguishable from the crowd. True excellence lies not in forced uniqueness but in natural distinction. Governance cannot rely on imposing personal will; it must follow the people's spontaneous nature ("according to what the world does of itself"). Attempting to forcibly control the world backfires—only by utilizing things without being used by them can all beings find their proper place.

Ultimately, when one transcends herd mentality ("while others insist on their uniqueness, one alone wanders with the multitude") and merges with all existence in "great unity," the state of "no-self" is realized. The ancient nobles attained friendship with heaven and earth precisely by contemplating the realm of "non-being."

This passage from Zhuangzi elucidates the principle of "Mysterious Unity" (xuantong) - the supreme state transcending all dualities. Those who are truly united with the Dao (the Way) need not deliberately pursue nobility, yet people naturally revere them. Those who stubbornly cling to personal views and affect eccentricity may appear distinctive, but remain ordinary at heart, never attaining genuine transcendence.

Such individuals who scheme for high positions and covet what isn't rightfully theirs - how could people possibly follow them? Therefore, this isn't true nobility. The common people are like forms and echoes, while the sage's teachings follow as shadows follow forms and echoes respond to sounds. The sage harbors no selfish intentions toward the world, simply following the inherent nature of all things and allowing them to develop spontaneously. The questioner plays the leading role, the respondent follows accordingly; only through soundless resonance can one perceive all things, and only through methodless flexibility can one adapt to circumstances. Guiding all things back to their original nature represents the highest form of Wuwei (non-action).

Those who wander with creation know no end; those united with mysterious oneness know no boundaries; those progressing with daily renewal know no beginning. When one's physical form merges with heaven and earth, one's appearance becomes indistinguishable from nature; but if self-consciousness remains, true unity with heaven and earth cannot be achieved. The hardest thing to eliminate in this world is the "self" - when even self is dissolved, other existences become insignificant. Those attached to "being" can only polish their reputation, while those who comprehend "non-being" can dwell alone with the Dao.

Even the lowliest thing has its function; even the humblest person deserves reliance; even the most obscure matter requires handling; even the crudest laws need implementation; even the most distant principles demand upholding; even the closest kindness should be extended; even the most elaborate rites must be accumulated; even the most common virtues warrant respect; even the most constant Dao requires flexibility; even the most mysterious heavenly principles need practicing. Therefore, the sage observes heavenly principles without interference, accomplishes virtue without attachment, follows the great Dao without calculation, practices benevolence without dependence, upholds righteousness without accumulation, conforms to rites without avoidance, handles affairs without refusal, observes laws without confusion, relies on people without contempt, and utilizes things without abandonment.

All things fundamentally require no human intervention, yet we cannot avoid appropriate action. Those who don't understand heavenly principles lack pure virtue; those ignorant of the great Dao cannot take a single step. How lamentable! What is the Dao? The Dao divides into heavenly Dao and human Dao. What is natural, non-active yet supremely noble - this is the heavenly Dao.

Here we explore the distinction between the Dao of Heaven (natural law) and the Dao of Humanity (human artifice). The Dao of Heaven governs like a sovereign through wuwei (non-action), while the Dao of Humanity toils like a minister—their fundamental difference must be clearly recognized.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Harmony arises when following the innate nature of things, while interference against their nature brings chaos. All beings appear lowly precisely because people fail to accord with their inherent tendencies. Thus, true nobility lies in yielding to what seems humble; genuine elevation comes from embracing what appears base—this is inevitable principle.

The highest governance remains concealed, just as Heaven's Dao lets all things operate without interference. Laws merely represent governance's surface form—how can we focus solely on coarse appearances while neglecting subtle essence? Forced intimacy breeds suffering, while universal benevolence forms the root. Those rigidly adhering to ritual standards often become constrained by singular measures, whereas accommodating all things' natures brings completeness.

Handling simple matters correctly doesn't constitute De (Virtue); solving difficult problems successfully doesn't mean attaining Dao—how much less when consistency remains unachieved? Stubborn inaction, even with spiritual powers, still fails to accord with Heaven's Dao. Observing Heaven's Dao reveals no partiality—its natural operation accomplishes everything effortlessly. True Dao requires no scheming; unscheming yet unifying all things, thus simple. True benevolence needs no bestowal; requiring bestowal lacks universality.

Following innate nature reaches sublime heights—no deliberate accumulation needed. Natural ritual compliance requires no forced avoidance. Handling affairs according to principle, acting within capacity without refusal when movement is proper. Governing coarse matters with subtle methods prevents chaos; letting people act autonomously without undue interference. Employing things according to their nature without abandoning fundamentals. Where is true action in action-for-action's-sake? It arises from innate nature's spontaneous expression, thus unavoidable.

Failing to comprehend the Dao of Nature leads to forced action, corrupting De's purity. Inability to abide in fundamental nature when dealing with external things makes every affair lose proper measure—this marks the pitiable state of those ignorant of Dao. Heaven's Dao above lets all things operate spontaneously; Humanity's Dao burdens itself with action, unable to follow innate nature. The sovereign emulates Heaven's Dao, reigning effortlessly like Heaven while all things self-govern; ministers practice Humanity's Dao, each fulfilling specific duties. The sovereign governs through wuwei, delegating to officials; officials perform their roles without sovereign interference. Both attain their proper places through non-doing—resulting in the sovereign's ease and the ministers' labor.

In the "Heaven and Earth" chapter of the Zhuangzi, the contrast between labor and rest reveals the fundamental principles of governance. If a ruler fails to understand the distinction between exertion and repose, it will lead to confusion in the roles of ruler and subject.

Though Heaven and Earth are vast, their operations follow balanced patterns; though the myriad things are numerous, their governance adheres to a unified principle. No matter how numerous the people, they require a ruler to guide them. The foundation of rulership lies in De (Virtue/Power, the inner cultivation), and ultimately, it must align with the natural order. The ancient rulers governed the world through Wuwei (non-action), simply following the De inherent in the Dao's spontaneous movement.

From the perspective of the Dao:

Judging words by the standard of the Dao establishes proper rulership;

Distinguishing duties by the Dao clarifies the natural relationship between ruler and subject;

Assessing talents by the Dao ensures officials fulfill their roles;

Observing through the universal lens of the Dao allows all things to find their rightful place.

Thus it is said:

What permeates Heaven and Earth is De;

What operates through the myriad things is the Dao.

The key to governing people lies in letting each attend to their own affairs, while those with special abilities master their skills. Skills serve specific tasks, tasks conform to righteousness, righteousness stems from De, De aligns with the Dao, and the Dao ultimately follows nature. Therefore, those in antiquity who excelled at governing desired nothing for themselves yet enriched the world, practiced Wuwei yet allowed all things to evolve naturally, remained serene and detached yet brought stability to the people. As the ancient texts state: "Comprehend the oneness of the Dao, and all affairs will be properly ordered; harbor no selfish desires, and even spirits will submit."

Guo Xiang's commentary explains:

Heaven and Earth and the myriad things all evolve spontaneously through Wuwei; order emerges when each attains its natural place. Governing the world requires eliminating selfish thoughts and taking Wuwei-De as the foundation. True attainment is spontaneous attainment—thus one receives without gratitude, thereby fulfilling innate nature. Wuwei means moving in accordance with natural patterns, letting nature be the true ruler.

When each person occupies their proper position—

Those above practice Wuwei, those below take action;

Officials fulfill their capacities, and the world naturally achieves great order.

If the ruler practices Wuwei, all under Heaven will respond with Wuwei.

The De that permeates Heaven and Earth means all things attain their rightful place;

The Dao that operates through the myriad things means the great Way never obstructs innate nature.

The essence of governing people lies in letting each find joy in their natural state.

Skills are but minor applications—like branches joined to a trunk, or limbs connected to the body:

When the whole body is harmonious, all joints move comfortably;

When the Heavenly Dao flows smoothly, root and tip remain unobstructed.

Thus, a single act of Wuwei by the ruler allows all principles to unfold naturally.

Confucius said:

"The great Dao covers and carries all things—how vast and boundless it is!

The noble person must purge the mind of impurities.

To act with the attitude of Wuwei—this is called following nature."

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of "De" (Virtue/Power) and the Dao (the Way). Zhuangzi posits that what can be expressed in words is called "De"; caring for others and benefiting all things is called "humaneness"; viewing different things as unified is called "greatness"; behavior that avoids eccentricity is called "broad-mindedness"; and embracing the diversity of all things is called "abundance."

The truly virtuous person should: uphold De as their guiding principle, consider their cultivation complete only when De is perfected, regard themselves as whole only when following the Dao, and maintain inner integrity by not being disturbed by external matters. A noble person who comprehends these ten principles will possess a mind as vast as the ocean, capable of embracing all creation. Such individuals are like gold hidden deep in mountains or pearls sunk in ocean depths—they neither covet wealth nor chase riches, neither rejoice in longevity nor grieve early death, neither take pride in prominence nor feel shame in poverty.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Forced pursuit violates natural spontaneity; one should eliminate artificial striving. True De means following the inherent nature of all things without imposing uniformity. Only by embracing diversity can one achieve greatness; only by avoiding eccentricity can one harmonize with all existence. When one doesn't crave rare objects, even forgetting oneself, how much less would they care for material wealth? Freedom from wealth and status allows spiritual transcendence. Forgetting life's length, poverty or success, and entrusting worldly benefits to all things—not considering ruling the world as glory. Prominence brings understanding of principles; reclusion maintains serene composure; viewing life and death as naturally as a cicada shedding its skin.

Finally, the Master (Zhuangzi) says: The Dao is unfathomably deep yet crystal clear. Just as metal and stone produce no sound without being struck, all things follow their inherent nature. Using metal and stone as metaphors illustrates how all existence must follow the natural Dao to manifest its true essence.

The one who truly possesses supreme De (Virtue/Power) maintains a nature of pristine simplicity, remaining aloof from worldly entanglements. Rooted in the origin of all things, their wisdom penetrates the divine, thus their Virtue becomes vast and boundless. When their thoughts arise, the ten thousand things respond spontaneously, for forms cannot exist without Dao, nor can life manifest without De. To preserve one's form, exhaust life's potential, establish Virtue, and illuminate the Great Dao—is this not the embodiment of supreme De?

Such individuals appear formless yet suddenly manifest; seemingly quiescent yet dynamically active, with all things following them naturally. They observe the dark and fathomless depths, listen to the soundless void, yet uniquely perceive radiance within obscurity and hear celestial harmonies within silence. The deeper they penetrate the source, the more completely they grasp the essence of things; the more their wisdom connects with the numinous, the more profoundly they comprehend subtle mysteries. Thus in their interactions with all existence, though appearing empty, they fulfill every need—responding to the timing of things while holding their ultimate destination, effortlessly accommodating all matters great or small, long or short, near or far.

(Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Sound becomes manifest through silence—just as those who embody Dao respond only after external things stir them. Those with supreme De follow their innate nature without deliberately seeking worldly knowledge. Only by abiding in the origin can wisdom penetrate the divine and Virtue become vast. Thoughts arise in response to external stimuli, not through forced direction. Seemingly sudden actions are all wuwei (non-action), hence all things follow spontaneously. Only by maintaining this state can one preserve life, perfect Virtue, and illuminate Dao. To perceive celestial secrets within darkness and silence—if seeing and hearing don't rest in stillness, they become obscured. Continuous deepening into the source allows complete mastery over things; exhausting the numinous reveals all mysteries. When I relinquish subjective judgments and completely follow the natural course, external things each find their proper place.)

(The Yellow Emperor traveled north of the Red River, ascended Mount Kunlun and gazed southward. Upon returning, he lost the Mysterious Pearl [symbolizing Dao's essential truth]. He sent the Wise Seeker but it couldn't be found; dispatched Li Zhu with his keenest vision—still unfound; commanded Eloquent Debater with his silver tongue—yet unsuccessful. Finally, he sent Xiang Wang [symbolizing no-mind], who without thought or effort retrieved it. The Emperor marveled: "How extraordinary! Only through no-mind can Dao be found?")

(Guo Xiang's note: This parable illustrates the path to obtaining truth—cleverness cannot attain Dao.)

The passage discusses the relationship between "true wisdom" and "the true Dao (the Way)." Genuine wisdom is not attained through deliberate pursuit; those who appear clever on the surface are actually farther from the Dao, while the seemingly dull and simple state of "Xiangwang" (a mind free of intention and form) can attain it. True enlightenment is not achieved through forceful mental striving—being free of intention and form is itself the Dao.

The text then recounts a dialogue between Emperor Yao and his teacher Xu You. Yao asked Xu You, "Can my grand-teacher Nie Que be worthy of the position of the Son of Heaven? I intend to invite him through Wang Ni (Nie Que's teacher)." Xu You replied, "That would be far too dangerous! Nie Que is indeed exceptionally intelligent, but it is precisely this intelligence that will harm him. He constantly seeks to use human cleverness to interfere with the Heavenly Dao (the Way of Heaven). Though he knows how to prevent mistakes, he does not understand the root cause of those mistakes. If he were made the Son of Heaven, people would only rely more on intellect and lose their innate authenticity. He would impose human standards to alter the myriad things, exalt cunning and quick results, and become the source of future contention, binding the natural development of all things. How could such a person be worthy of the position of the Son of Heaven?"

Guo Xiang (the commentator) explains: "To be 'worthy of Heaven' means to become the Son of Heaven." Excessive cleverness breeds competition and harm. Using human wisdom to pursue a return to nature is itself a mistake. True freedom from error lies in abandoning cunning, not in forcibly prohibiting mistakes. If such a person were to govern the world, future generations would only trust intellect and lose their original nature.

The true approach should be to take the natural state of all things as fundamental, allowing transformations to unify and diverse forms to harmonize. If future generations imitate this method of imposing personal will to control the myriad things, all beings will lose their natural essence. Exalting cunning will lead people to compete in imitation, opening the floodgates of forced labor in later ages and shackling the free development of all things. Governing a nation in this way would ultimately become a source of chaos and disaster—whether as a minister (facing north) or a ruler (facing south), it would bring calamity.

Zhuangzi here illustrates the principle of "following nature's course" through several parables. He begins by noting the impermanence of things—what appears beneficial today may become calamitous tomorrow. Tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang didn't directly murder virtuous ministers, but perverted sage-king governance methods to harm people; Tian Heng (a Qi state usurper) likewise committed regicide under the guise of benevolence and righteousness. Thus, some apparent blessings are actually curses.

The narrative then recounts Emperor Yao's encounter with a border guard (Huafeng man) at Hua territory. The guard offered three blessings: longevity, wealth, and numerous sons. Yao declined all three, explaining: "More sons mean more worries, riches breed troubles, and long life accumulates disgrace." The guard retorted: "Assign each child suitable work—why worry? Share wealth with all—what troubles remain? A true sage dwells contentedly like a quail nesting anywhere, feeds like a fledgling taking what comes. In peaceful times, flourish with all beings; in chaos, cultivate virtue in seclusion. When life's fullness comes, ascend as an immortal—riding white clouds to the Celestial Emperor's abode. Where's the disgrace?"

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: Distributing responsibilities among children brings stability as all find their place; sharing wealth prevents strife. The quail's unforced nesting and fledgling's undemanding feeding embody natural accord—not forced imitation of ancients. Even achievements like Tang of Shang or Wu of Zhou, if aligned with heaven's will and popular sentiment, don't violate eremitic Dao. The realized person, whether long-lived or brief, prosperous or poor, lives spontaneously and dissolves into the cosmic flow after death. Weary of dust? Then ascend immortal, cloud-borne to the divine realm.

As the guard turned to leave, Yao pursued him for further instruction—only to hear: "Go back." The implication was clear: the teaching stood complete, needing no further words.

This passage recounts the story of Bo Chengzi Gao relinquishing his feudal lordship to retire to farming, along with Zhuangzi's evaluation of the governance during the reigns of Yao, Shun, and Yu.

Bo Chengzi Gao originally served as a feudal lord under Emperor Yao's rule. After Yao abdicated in favor of Shun, and Shun later passed the throne to Yu, Bo Chengzi Gao resigned his official position to till the land. When Yu visited him, he found the former lord working in the fields. Standing respectfully downwind, Yu inquired: "Under Yao's rule you served as a feudal lord. Why have you now abandoned office to farm?"

Bo Chengzi Gao replied: "During Yao's reign, people naturally cultivated virtue without rewards and maintained reverence without punishments. Now you govern through rewards and punishments, yet the people have grown unvirtuous. The Dao's virtue (De) has since declined, punishments have been established, and future chaos originates here. Please leave now—don't disturb my plowing." With this, he resumed working without further engaging Yu.

Guo Xiang's commentary observes that while Yu's era inherited the sagely traditions of Yao and Shun, the efficacy of governance had already diminished. Thus historical records are sparse—even Confucius found little to remark upon. Though Yu possessed the empire, he no longer embodied the Dao as Yao and Shun had. For his time, Yu remained the finest ruler, yet still inferior to his predecessors.

Through this narrative, Zhuangzi illustrates how governance flaws first emerged under Yao and became pronounced under Yu—how much worse must later non-sage rulers fare! Bo Chengzi Gao's retreat embodies the philosophy of "abolishing sageliness and discarding wisdom" to return to primal simplicity. Yet Zhuangzi doesn't truly reject Yao-Shun-Yu, but cautions against fixating on external forms while missing the transcendent wisdom within.

The concluding section describes cosmic origins: The primordial state was "non-being" (wu)—before even the concept of "non-being" existed. From "One" emergence began, though form remained undifferentiated. All beings derive their vital force from this—called "virtue/power" (De). Before taking shape, they contain undivided tendencies—called "destiny" (ming). Movement settling produces concrete things; formed entities develop distinct characteristics—called "form" (xing). Forms housing spirit with particular normative patterns are called "nature" (xing).

This passage elucidates the Daoist core philosophy regarding the relationship between "nature" (性), "virtue" (德 De), and the "Dao" (道).

The opening statement "神各有仪则谓之性" (Each spirit manifests with its own inherent pattern, which we call nature) reveals that every being possesses unique essential characteristics constituting its "nature." Through cultivating this innate nature, one may return to the state of "virtue" (德 De). When virtue reaches its ultimate expression, it merges with the primordial chaos ("同于初" - becoming one with the origin). This return constitutes "emptiness" (虚), and only through emptiness can true vast containment be achieved.

The metaphorical reference to "the cries of birds and beasts" (喙鸣) symbolizes the state of natural non-action (无为 Wuwei). When human speech and action perfectly align with nature, complete unity with heaven and earth is attained. This fusion occurs spontaneously—while appearing foolish or dim, it actually represents the highest "mysterious virtue" (玄德), being in perfect accord with the great Dao.

Guo Xiang's commentary further clarifies: All things originate from the "supreme unity" (至一) rather than absolute nothingness. When Zhuangzi emphasizes "nothingness," he illustrates the natural process of life's spontaneous attainment—neither dependent on void nor cognition, but arising naturally. Paradoxically, deliberate pursuit of existence may cause loss of authentic life-state.

True virtue allows all things to develop naturally. By refining one's nature to return to virtue, one achieves the realm of non-action yet spontaneous attainment (无为自得). Any forced intervention creates attachment. The highest virtue manifests as the "no-mind" (无心) state, mirroring heaven and earth's natural operations.

The subsequent dialogue between Laozi and Confucius critiques those debating "hardness and whiteness" (名家学派's logical debates about object attributes) as being trapped by technique, exhausting both mind and body—like leashed dogs or apes displaced from forests. True Dao cultivators must forget external objects, forget heaven and earth, even forget themselves, thereby truly merging with nature ("入于天" - entering celestial harmony).

The entire passage emphasizes returning to natural essence through cultivation, achieving non-action and no-mind states to unite with cosmic nature. It criticizes attachment to debate and technique, advocating "sitting in forgetfulness" (坐忘) as the practice for Dao-realization—where through meditative absorption, all distinctions dissolve into perfect unity with the Way.

This passage discusses the core Daoist concept of "following nature's course." Guo Xiang (a Xuanxue philosopher of the Western Jin Dynasty) notes in his commentary that forcibly imitating others—declaring the impossible as possible or the wrong as right—distorts human nature. It's like training dogs to hunt foxes or domesticating monkeys for entertainment; both rob creatures of their natural essence.

The human body has a head and feet just as all things have beginnings and ends. Those truly awakened to the Dao need not deliberately listen with ears or ponder with mind, for all things transform naturally. Physical forms easily change and cannot coexist with the formless Dao. Thus, skilled Dao practitioners don't cling to fixed views but adapt to daily renewal. Movement and stillness, life and death, prosperity and decline—none follow set patterns, all emerge spontaneously, never artificially imposed.

The key lies in relinquishing control, letting all beings follow their natural course. True governance means aligning with the people's flow, not rulers' arbitrary decrees. When reaching the state of "forgetting all celestial things," one must forget not only the self but even the concept of forgetting itself. The hardest attachment to release is self-awareness; transcending this achieves complete unity with nature.

Later, the text recounts Confucius consulting Laozi (Lao Dan): Some appear saintly by approving what others reject and rejecting what others approve—like debaters of the "Hard and White" paradox (a School of Names philosophical proposition) who argue with crystalline logic. Laozi counters: You cannot hear inaudible sounds or speak unspeakable truths. People know the Dao—being mindless, earless, formless, shapeless—as emptiness. But if you declare head-and-footed humans equally empty, what meaning remains in your hearing and speech? True "emptiness" isn't about differing from ordinary people, but moving through life and death like them while maintaining transcendence. Forget external things, then forget Heaven (natural laws), ultimately reaching "self-forgetting." What separates humans from Heaven is self-awareness; transcending this achieves unity with nature. Only sages attain this state.

Jiang Lümiao paid a visit to Ji Che and said, "The ruler of Lu has sent me to seek your counsel." Unable to decline, Ji Che offered his advice, though uncertain of its appropriateness, and asked Jiang Lümiao to convey it on his behalf.

Jiang Lümiao reported to Ji Che: "I told the Duke of Lu that governing a state requires reverence and frugality, selecting officials with impartial loyalty while eliminating favoritism, so that the people will naturally submit." Upon hearing this, Ji Che smiled and said, "Your words regarding the way of imperial governance are like a mantis trying to block a chariot with its forelegs—utterly inadequate. Following such advice would only bring danger upon oneself, akin to building a high tower to attract crowds, which ultimately invites disaster." Startled, Jiang Lümiao replied, "I'm bewildered by your words, yet wish to comprehend their profound meaning."

Ji Che explained: "The truly sage ruler governs the world by allowing the people's hearts to be naturally transformed, changing customs, eliminating harmful intentions, and enabling all to fulfill their aspirations. It's like the spontaneous growth of all things, where the people feel no deliberate guidance. How could this be achieved by imitating Yao and Shun's methods of instructing the people? Simply uniting one's heart with Dao and De (Virtue) is sufficient."

Another story tells of Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) returning from his southern travels in Chu to Jin. By the southern bank of the Han River, he encountered an old man working in his vegetable garden. The man dug tunnels to a well, carrying earthen jars to water his fields—laborious yet inefficient. Zigong said, "There exists a mechanical device that can irrigate a hundred plots in one day, saving effort while being highly effective. Why don't you use it?" Raising his head, the old man asked, "What device?" Zigong described a wooden lever contraption that draws water like suction, swift as boiling liquid overflowing—called a well-sweep.

Suddenly darkening his expression, the old man scoffed: "I've heard my teacher say that using machinery leads to cunning affairs, and cunning breeds opportunistic minds. When the heart harbors cunning, one's pure original nature becomes incomplete; with incomplete nature, the Shen (spirit) grows unsettled; and those with unsettled spirits are rejected by the Dao. It's not that I don't know of such devices—I'm ashamed to use them." Zigong hung his head in silent shame. After a pause, the old man asked, "Who are you?" Zigong replied, "A disciple of Kong Qiu [Confucius]." The old man said...

Aren't you the kind of person who uses broad learning to imitate sages, employs eccentric behavior to overwhelm the crowd, playing mournful tunes alone and singing sorrowful songs to fish for fame throughout the world? Your vital essence (Jing) and spiritual energy (Shen Qi) are nearly exhausted, your body on the verge of collapse. When you can't even take care of yourself, how could you have time to govern the world? Be gone now, don't delay my affairs. Zigong's countenance changed dramatically upon hearing this; he left in a daze and walked thirty li before regaining his composure.

His disciples asked: "Who was that person just now? Why did Master become so visibly shaken after meeting him, unable to recover all day?" Zigong replied: "I used to think Confucius was the only sage in the world, never imagining there could be someone like this. I've heard our Master say that actions should seek feasibility, achievements should pursue effectiveness - using minimal effort for maximum results is the way of sages. But this man is completely different - those who embody the Dao (the Way) possess complete Virtue (De); those with complete Virtue have perfected their form; those with perfected form are spiritually whole. This spiritual wholeness is the true way of sages. They dwell among ordinary people without knowing where they're heading, embodying perfect simplicity and primal purity! Fame, profit and clever calculations never enter their minds. Such people won't act against their inner nature nor go against their fundamental heart. Even if the whole world praised him, saying his words and deeds conform to worldly ways, he wouldn't care; even if the whole world condemned him, depriving him of conventional recognition, he'd remain unperturbed. The world's praise or blame cannot affect him - this is what complete Virtue means! Compared to him, we're like water plants swaying with the wind."

When Zigong returned to Lu and told Confucius, the sage said: "That man practices the Daoist arts of Hundunshi (the legendary primal chaos sage of antiquity). He understands only the fundamental Dao, not worldly details; cultivates only inner nature, disregarding external forms. Maintaining his original truth while forgetting external things, returning to pure simplicity, his spirit concentrated yet wandering freely with the mundane world. Of course you were astonished. How could you and I ever fully comprehend such Daoist arts?"

At this time, Chunmang (a Daoist figure) was preparing to journey to the great abyss in the Eastern Sea when he encountered Yuanfeng on the eastern shore. Yuanfeng asked: "Where are you going?" Chunmang replied: "To the great abyss." "What will you do there?" "That abyss neither fills no matter how much water pours in, nor empties no matter how much is taken out - I shall wander there." Yuanfeng said: "Don't you care about these 'horizontal-eyed' (human) commoners? I'd like to hear about the sage's way of governance." Chunmang answered: "The sage's way of governance? Establishing offices without losing their proper functions, selecting talents without neglecting their abilities..."

This passage explores the model of an ideal society through a dialogue format. Zhuangzi, through the conversation between Men Wugui and Chi Zhang Manji, presents two contrasting approaches to governance:

Chi Zhang Manji argues that Emperor Shun's (of the Youyu clan) governing methods fall short of the golden age of antiquity. Just as one only wears a wig after going bald or seeks treatment only after falling ill, such remedial governance has already deviated from the natural Dao (the Way). In the truly perfect society of "ultimate virtue" (至德之世), there's no need to promote worthiness—the ruler remains as naturally wuwei (non-action) as treetop branches, while the people roam free like wild deer. People behave uprightly without conscious righteousness, show affection without labeling it as benevolence, remain honest without considering it loyalty, and help each other without viewing it as charity. In such a society, actions leave no traces and deeds require no commemoration.

The text particularly notes how, by conventional standards, children who blindly agree with their parents or ministers who unquestioningly obey their rulers are paradoxically deemed unfilial and disloyal. This demonstrates how true virtue should transcend worldly judgments. Through these comparisons, Zhuangzi critiques the Confucian moral framework of benevolence, righteousness, and propriety, arguing that such artificial standards corrupt humanity's natural simplicity.

The passage culminates in describing the state of "illuminating vastness" (照旷)—where the sages' shen (spirit) merges with primordial light. When their physical forms perish, their spirit shines eternally with the sun and moon, returning to the source of heaven and earth. This state of "chaotic profundity" (混溟) represents the highest spiritual attainment.

This passage discusses humanity's contradictory attitudes toward flattery and admonition, as well as the limitations of conventional understanding.

When accused of lecturing others, people become furious; when called sycophants, their expressions darken instantly. Yet in truth, such individuals spend their entire lives both lecturing and flattering. They gather followers through embellished metaphors and ornate speech, though their words contradict themselves like mismatched decorative frills on a garment. They primp their attire and refine their appearance to please the world, all while denying they flatter. Mingling with such company, drifting with the current to judge right and wrong, they remain oblivious to being the most foolish among the foolish.

Those aware of their foolishness are not the most foolish; those conscious of their delusion are not the most deluded. The truly deluded never awaken in their lifetime; the truly foolish never gain insight. If three travel together and only one is confused, they may still reach their destination—for the confused are few. But if two are lost, their journey becomes futile—for confusion holds sway. Today, the whole world is lost in delusion. Though I may wish to point the way, what can be done? Is this not lamentable?

Elegant music escapes common ears, yet vulgar tunes like Zhe Yang and Huang Hua make them laugh heartily. Thus, profound discourse cannot enter ordinary minds, and supreme truths cannot withstand worldly chatter. Like the dissonance of two earthen jars drowning out direction, now that all under heaven is lost in confusion, what use is my guidance? To insist where no possibility exists is itself delusion. Better to relinquish attachment and follow nature’s course—only then will vexations cease.

Guo Xiang (commentator on the Zhuangzi) notes: People assume the words and deeds of rulers and elders are always right—this is blind obedience to authority against reason, hence the world calls them "unworthy." But what truly defines correctness? The masses do not revere a ruler’s majesty but drift with the current. Thus, majesty cannot command faith; only conformity wins hearts. Therefore, sages never stand apart but move with the times—acting as Yao and Shun in their era, as the Zhou kings in theirs. Why defy convention to flaunt individuality?

Convention mistakes majority consensus for truth. Thus, when called "sycophants," people bristle in denial—yet they flatter all their lives, indifferent to principle, seeking only camaraderie. Those who rally crowds with honeyed words deserve censure, yet the world esteems and follows them. This is why drifters avoid blame—for they judge right and wrong just like the crowd.

Zhuangzi here employs vivid metaphors to illustrate the confused state of worldly people. He explains that while the principles of sages (those who have attained the Dao) are universally connected, emperors manifest them differently—this is because worldly delusions are truly difficult to dissolve, and one can only follow their natural course. All under heaven dwell in confusion; even if I seek the path to the Great Dao, ultimately it remains unattainable. Thus sage-kings like Yao, Shun, Tang of Shang, and Wu of Zhou merely adapted to their times. Just as the residents of narrow alleys don't revere grand music, when ordinary people hear strange theories they echo them thoughtlessly and mock each other—this is why the world rejects the Dao of sages and always clings to self-righteousness.

He uses the metaphor of "two earthen pots and a bell": people each trust their own judgments, resulting in collective disorientation about where to go. It's better to temporarily go with the flow. Abandon preconceptions without forcing things, refrain from demanding explanations—this way people can coexist without worries.

Next comes a parable: An ugly man's wife gave birth at midnight. In haste, he lit a lamp to examine the baby, terrified it might resemble him. Guo Xiang (the commentator) explains that no one is born wishing to be evil—people commit wrongs either under oppressive governance or through losing their innate nature. Yet those who stray may still self-reflect, and even the vicious desire reform. Therefore, when sages govern through wuwei (non-action), the world naturally transforms.

The timber metaphor follows: A hundred-year-old tree is split—its finest portion carved into elegant wine vessels, the leftover scraps discarded in ditches. Though their beauty and ugliness differ, both have lost the tree's original nature. Similarly, while the legendary robber Zhi differs in virtue from exemplars like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, all have strayed from their innate nature.

Zhuangzi lists five conditions that make people lose their original nature: dazzling colors blind the eyes; cacophonous sounds deafen the ears; pungent odors overwhelm the nose; rich flavors corrupt the palate; and anxious calculations unsettle the mind. These five are all calamities to one's essential nature. Yet thinkers like Yang Zhu and Mo Di flaunt eccentric ideas, believing they've attained the Dao—this is far from true realization. If being trapped counts as attaining the Dao, then caged turtledoves and owls could claim enlightenment too.

Finally, he describes those bound by external things: their inner selves barricaded like firewood stacks by sensory obsessions; their outer forms constrained by lofty hats and broad sashes—trussed inside and out with rope-like restrictions, yet still smugly self-satisfied. This resembles criminals tied to pillories or tigers and leopards caged in zoos—how could this possibly constitute attaining the Dao?

Zhuangzi employs metaphorical language here to critique those who presume to have attained the Dao. He observes that just as sacrificial vessels (xi zun) adorned with azure and golden hues appear magnificent yet lose their original nature, so too do trees severed and discarded in ditches seem defiled yet retain their natural state. True cultivation should return to one's fundamental nature and revert to the Dao and De (Virtue), attaining a state identical to primordial authenticity. Those who deliberately pursue the reputation of sages like Zeng Shen or Shi Yu, or the notoriety of bandits like Zhi the Robber, have all deviated from their innate nature.

He further explains: The eyes that perceive colors are not themselves luminous—true luminosity lies in the capacity to discern various hues. When dazzled by multicolored displays, vision becomes impaired. The ears that hear sounds are not themselves acute—true acuity resides in the ability to distinguish various tones. When disturbed by cacophonous noise, hearing becomes unclear. This principle applies equally to olfactory, gustatory, and mental discernment.

Talented individuals like Yang Zhu and Mo Di, though gifted, fail to comprehend the true Dao. Their understanding remains confined within the realm of sensory perception, yet they stand on tiptoe imagining themselves enlightened. They resemble caged turtledoves and owls who mistake confinement for freedom. Their inner selves become as obstructed as piles of firewood, preventing the Dao from gathering; their external forms remain bound, leaving their spirits unable to attain liberation. From the perspective of those who have realized the Dao, such people—clearly fettered with ropes—absurdly consider themselves free. They are no different from prisoners with bound hands or caged tigers and leopards who foolishly imagine themselves at ease.